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“Jesus fucking christ!”
“I'm telling my mum that you swore!”
“Yeah? Well maybe I'll tell your mum you snuck out of bed and ate an entire carton of ice cream if you don't be quiet and go to sleep!”
Silence.
“I'm still telling mum you swore.” A beat. “And that you ate all of our ice cream and tried to blame it on me.”
“Go to sleep!”
This time the silence lasted. Ian rubbed his hands over his face, his palms finding his tired eyes and squishing them slightly – he was fucked. Mentally and physically. This kid was only seven years old but had worked Ian's last nerve to the point where he was considering straight up walking out and leaving her to fend for herself. The only thing stopping him was Debbie. She'd called him frantically that afternoon and had begged him to cover for her after she'd eaten something weird – Ian had thought she was messing him at first, till Fiona took over the phone and confirmed that yes, Debbie was chucking her guts up. He'd had no choice; it was an overnight job, and Debbie had been insistent that the mum, Cyndi, wouldn't be able to find anyone else on short notice and wouldn't use Debbie again if she cancelled. Ian had begrudgingly said yes; he had only been planning on watching TV all night anyway.
But Debbie, dear sister of his, had neglected to mention that Cyndi's kid was the walking definition of a nightmare. He should have known; Candace had caused problems when she'd attended the daycare program Debbie and Fiona would run. He should have remembered the name and bolted, but it was much too fucking late now. After Cyndi had left, Candace had switched from innocent little angel to the child from hell; she refused to eat her dinner, refused to get into her pyjamas, refused to do anything Ian would say. It was well after midnight before she was in bed, and he was stomping up the stairs every ten minutes to tell her to stop playing the fucking keyboard she had in her room and go to fucking sleep.
Ian had just slumped back down onto the couch, glancing at his phone to see that it was fucking one in the morning, when he heard the keys of the instrument being slammed again. Wasn't there some technique about ignoring kids and getting them to stop? He sat still, his fingers hovering over the remote keys as he waited to play his DVD. The keyboard got louder then abruptly stopped and Ian smiled to himself. He could totally do this.
In the next moment, there was a repeated thumping sound and Ian growled in frustration; now she was jumping on her fucking bed. He'd reached his wit's end; he picked up his phone and dialled his boyfriend's number.
“Get the fuck over here.”
“What the fuck?!” Mickey's sleepy voice almost made Ian smile before he remembered the shit of a kid upstairs trying her hardest to send Ian to an early grave. “Ian – it's like four in the morning!”
“It's only one, actually. I thought you'd be awake.” He felt a little bad. Maybe. Not really. With each thump upstairs, he felt a thump to match in his head. “You have to come over.”
“Babysitting? Fuck no. I'm sleepin'.”
How Ian wished he was lying right there next to him, not stuck here till god knows what hour. “This kid is driving me insane, Mick. Actually insane.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do about that, Gallagher?” Ian heard sounds in the background and realised Mickey was sitting up in the bed. The click of a lighter and Ian could see Mickey in his head, the cigarette lighting up his face slightly.
“You're a parent.”
“No shit.” Mickey snorted. “But in case you'd forgotten, you look after Yevgeny, too. You're just as much a parent as I am.”
“Yevgeny doesn't stay up after midnight testing me by playing the fucking keyboard!” Ian exploded in an angry whisper; there was silence upstairs and Ian crept to the bottom of the stairs, listening carefully. A moment later, there was the sound of strumming. How many fucking instruments did this kid have?! “Mick. Please.”
“Ay, man. Give me a minute to wake up, okay?”
“You'll come? Thank fuck.” Ian breathed a sigh of relief and collapsed back on the couch. “You know I love you, right?”
“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher. Text me the address.” There was a moment of silence before Mickey muttered, “I love you, too, dickhead.”
Ian grinned into his phone as he sent Mickey the text and slumped further into the couch, playing his movie and watching as the two characters were doing the same thing he was. Hot Fuzz was one of his favourite movies, managing to be funny and full of action at the same time. He'd yet to convince Mickey to watch it – “those fucking Brits wouldn't know humour if it danced in front of them naked,” – but it was one Ian had watched several times. He smiled as he thought of Mickey, half asleep and no doubt dressed in boxers, who was now probably grumping around the room trying to find clothes, cursing Ian. His eyes slowly drooped; the movie drowned out the sounds from upstairs and with a jolt, he sat up. His phone was ringing.
“Open the fuckin' door, it's freezing out here and people are gonna think I'm robbing the place.”
Ian moved quickly into the entranceway and pulled the door open, letting Mickey – and the freezing air – inside the house. “You got here quickly!”
“What? It's been like thirty minutes since I called you, man.” Mickey shook out of his jacket; the house was warm, thank fuck.
“Ah. I think I fell asleep.”
Mickey looked around at the state the house was in – toys everywhere, random clothes strewn across the floor. His eyes turned to Ian with a slight smirk on his face; Ian no doubt looked like a wreck. “The fuck is goin' on here?”
As Ian opened his mouth to answer, the keyboard started up again and Mickey's eyebrows knitted together as he looked up towards the bedroom. There was no actual music coming from the bedroom, only noise; she was clearly smashing the keys with no real plan in mind except to be as shitty as she possibly could. Ian stared helplessly at Mickey, a hand running through his hair so that it stuck up on end, only adding to the look of total desperation. His voice was barely a whisper, “It's been like this all night.”
“Fuck this.”
Mickey made no attempt to be quiet as he stomped up the stairs, Ian trailing behind him. He gestured to Mickey which door was Candace's. The keyboard was still being abused; Mickey shook his head roughly before pushing the door open with force. Ian stood behind him and watched.
“What the fuck is going on in here?”
Candace jumped away from the keyboard as they entered; she was silent for a moment before her face twisted into one of childish defiance. “I'm telling my mum that you -”
“You can tell your mum that you're a little shit who doesn't do as she's told. You think it's funny to stay up when Ian has told you to go to bed?”
“No, I -”
“You're gonna listen to me, right now.” Mickey swiftly moved forward until he was right in front of Candace. “You need to climb in to your bed, pull the covers up, and go the fuck to sleep. Do you understand?”
Candace nodded slowly before she got into bed. Ian's mouth was hanging open as Mickey smiled. Smiled.
“What a good girl! Ian, isn't she being such a great listener? I'm sure we can tell her mum how good she's been tonight.” The sarcasm was dripping from Mickey's voice and Candace was staring up at him from bed, eyes wide. “If I hear another peep out of you, I will personally make sure that Santa knows just how naughty you've been this year.”
Ian saw Candace's shocked look and she nodded her head quickly, looking past Mickey to where Ian was standing in the doorway. “Goodnight, Ian.”
“Goodnight.” Ian said firmly, trying to hide his surprise. Mickey stepped backwards out of the room.
“Now go the fuck to sleep.”
Mickey shut the door behind them and they both paused, waiting for the inevitable sound of the keyboard or trumpet or whatever the fuck else she had in that room. Nothing.
“How the fuck did you do that?” Ian demanded once they'd made it back downstairs and were slumped back on the couch together. The movie was still playing quietly on the TV in front of him. Mickey's hand traced shapes on Ian's legs and Ian rested his head down on Mickey's shoulder, feeling the exhaustion take over his body.
Mickey shrugged slightly. “Just comes naturally, I guess. Yev was never like that, though – well, not yet anyway.”
“Jesus. Well you're prepared if he ever turns into the world's worst kid. Although nothing could top that.” Ian yawned loudly, moving his body closer to Mickey's and enjoying the warmth between them. “What if she tells her mum about you swearing?”
“She won't; the threat of Santa finding out she's a little shit will keep her quiet.” Ian burst out laughing at Mickey's words, putting his hand over his mouth in an effort to keep the noise down. “You happy now that I handled your shit for you?”
“I'd rather you didn't handle my shit.”
“Come on, man. Why you gotta turn it to somethin' sick like that?” Mickey groaned, leaning his head back on the back of the couch. “Such a dick.”
“Seriously, though. Thank you.”
“You owe me.” Mickey said, his voice low as his hand slowly moved up Ian's thigh.
“If you think I'm about to fuck you on this couch with a kid upstairs when I am seconds away from collapsing, you are dead wrong.” Mickey groaned again, though this time it sounded different. Ian grinned, moving – if possible – even closer to Mickey. “But you can stay with me and I'll make it up to you tomorrow night?”
“You fuckin' better.”
“As if I wouldn't want to.”
“Go to sleep, dick.” Mickey said insistently, moving his arm around Ian, whose eyes were slowly closing.
“I'll go to sleep on your dick.”
“You're a fuckin' idiot.”
“I'm half asleep. My comebacks are shit.” Ian protested lightly, the warmth and comfort of having Mickey next to him slowly taking him over.
“They're always shit. Sleep. Now.”
The next thing Ian knew, he was waking up on his own, a key turning in the lock of the front door; he had a blanket over his shoulders and his phone was indicating he had a notification. A quick look showed a text from Mickey. I watched your movie. Pretty good. Took off to buy us breakfast. Meet you at home. Ian smiled happily to himself; the shitty night had been well worth it in the end. It was now 5am and he was desperate for breakfast, his own bed, Mickey and sleep.
“Sorry – sorry I'm home so late!” Cyndi slurred when she entered the house, smiling drunkenly down at Ian and leaning against the doorway for support. “Was she okay?”
“She was an angel.”