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Relaxing is important to Mickey these days. When he was younger, what he considered 'relaxed' would have been anyone else's tense wariness. Relaxation wasn't exactly an easy state to come by in prison or in Mexico, either. He still doesn't loosen up easy in public, even though being a mechanic is way less stressful than security detail, and he doesn't really have to interact with people very much except to tell them what he fixed and how much it'll cost. But at home, relaxing is easy, and he loves it in all its forms.
Mickey's favorite thing to do when Ian isn't home is to sit on the couch watching television and eat a massive, greasy dinner. Once he's gotten home from work and showered all the engine grease off, he'll lie around and pig out in a probably futile attempt to counteract all of Ian's efforts to keep the two of them healthy. He knows Ian knows about it and doesn't really care. Probably Ian realizes that a mountain of carbs and red meat and shit every week or two isn't really going to make a dent in things. Still, Mickey's going try, if nothing else because he enjoys shoveling large portions of beef and spicy mayo and grease into his mouth.
He's almost three and a half hours into the late night Jason Bourne marathon that's airing on tv, and most of the way through the jim shoe sandwich from Sunny's he'd ordered fifteen minutes into The Bourne Supremacy, eyeing his side of fries and waging an internal war between finishing them off because they're fucking good, or saving them for Ian to eat later because they're fucking good. He glances at the clock. Eight hours before Ian gets off his twenty-four hour paramedic shift, which doesn't help his mental battle. That's just long enough for the fries to keep in the fridge and still taste pretty fresh.
Delicious fries for himself, or a surprised and happy Ian? It's an important decision.
When he first catches a whiff of smoke, he doesn't really notice. Cities have smells, apartment buildings have smells just as much as they have noises. This building's walls are pretty thin; he can always tell when someone's cooking salmon somewhere in the apartment. So he ignores it.
But then he smells smoke again, like it's somewhere close.
With a sigh, he heaves himself off the couch. Better safe than sorry or whatever. Ian would kill him if he accidentally burned down their apartment because he forgot to put out a cigarette or something.
All the knobs on the stove are fully off, and they haven't cooked anything in the oven in weeks. The ashtray on the balcony is still balanced on the railing, the ashes all cold and dead. He can even see frost sparkling on the edges of the glass, so it sure as hell isn't that. He checks the secret ashtray they're not supposed to have in the bedroom because the lease said no smoking inside, but that one's fine too. Probably a neighbor just seriously burned their midnight snack.
Since he's already standing, he goes back into the kitchen, cracks another beer, flops down again on the couch to watch Matt Damon continue to kick ass.
A minute later the smell is there again, stronger. Less of an occasional whiff and more like an actual problem. He can't hear any distant sirens outside, so it's not coming in from somewhere else in the neighborhood. No one's walking around upstairs, but that's par for the course; it's past midnight on a cold as shit Tuesday in March. Whatever it is, it doesn't smell like a burnt dinner. Mickey gets up off the couch and unlocks his front door.
The stairwell is hazy with smoke, but no alarms are going off.
“Ah, fuck. What the fuck.”
Back into the apartment, shoes, coat, phone, keys, wallet. He knew this place was a shithole when they signed the lease; it was the cheapest apartment in the area. But he sort of figured it was in the best interest of even slumlords to follow the laws about functioning smoke alarms and all that shit. He leaves his door unlocked and hurries across the hall to knock on his neighbor's door.
“Yo! Get up! There's a fire!” He bangs the door with his fist.
A man answers, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, his stained wifebeater rumpled. “Qué quieres?” He grumbles.
“Fuego, man.” Mickey gestures behind him at the hall, a mounting feeling of urgency suddenly flooding his body as he realizes he's the only one awake in the building. “Fuego! We gotta get out. Uh, um—necesitamos salir de aqui.”
The drowsiness leaves the man's eyes as he takes in the haze drifting through the hall. He rushes back into the apartment, speaking Spanish too rapidly for Mickey to understand. It doesn't matter anyway, Mickey's already running up the stairs, banging on doors, shouting “Fire! Fuego! Fire!” and hoping everyone gets the message.
He fishes his phone out of his pocket, punches in 9-1-1 with one hand while the other bangs on the door to the apartment directly above his own.
“Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?”
“My apartment building's on fire. I don't know which unit, but the stairs are full of smoke. And not just, like, burned pizza smoke. It's real bad.” He rattles off his address when she asks, then realizes the smoke is thicker up here than it was on the first two floors. “Lady, I gotta go. Are you sending someone?”
“Yes, sir. A unit has been dispatched. I would ask that you stay on the—”
He hangs up.
Grey-black smoke is seeping from the cracks in the door on the third floor. Mickey thumps on it with both fists. “Fire! Wake up in there! Fuego, fire!” He hears a thud, a crash. He knocks again, puts his mouth against the wood. “Hey! You better open this door or get out the back way—”
The door wrenches open. Wild-eyed, disheveled, a young man who looks fresh out of college stands coughing and blinking on the threshold. His gaze swivels back to his apartment, then to Mickey, frantic and confused, his mouth open in shock as though he's lost the ability to speak. Mickey hasn't seen this guy around very much, but he remembers that he only moved in last month and most people aren't interested in hanging out on their porch in February. Mickey grabs him by the arm and yanks him out into the hall, slamming the door before more smoke can billow out. He can't see any fire, which is maybe good, he thinks.
“Yo, you gotta get out of here! Let's fucking go!”
The man's hands fly to the sides of his head. He's just in sweatpants and has one shoe on. The other dangles from his left hand. “Oh my god! Oh god—my—my space heater, it just—I fell asleep—there's a fire, I—”
“Listen, we don't have time.” Mickey shoves him forward, one foot already on the stairs to the next floor up. “Get down the stairs, go!”
“I gotta—I gotta call—”
“Already done. Fire truck's on its way. Now fucking move it!”
The guy blinks rapidly at Mickey, slack-faced, but the command finally seems to seep through the shock and he stumbles almost blindly down the stairs. Mickey hears the sound of the entry door slamming through his own pounding footsteps. He yells “Fuego! Fire!” as loud as he can, straining to hear back doors slam or the sounds of feet running down the back stairs.
Instead he hears a thud in the hall. He really hopes no one's passed out up there. That would really ruin his night.
“The hell?”
Maybe some poor unconscious fuck would actually be something he could reasonably deal with. Instead, an old guy is dragging a big leather suitcase out into the corridor.
“What are you doing? There's a fire, not a garage sale.”
The man shrugs, drags the suitcase a few more inches along the scratched and dented wood flooring. “Family heirlooms. Everything else can go up in flames, but not these.”
Mickey grits his teeth. “Fine, give that suitcase to me.” He grabs the leather handle, waving the guy forward with the back of his hand. “Go first, go first, I'll carry it down behind you. Jesus. The fuck's in this thing?”
“Eh, silver set from my wedding, a quilt made by my tatarabuela that's been passed down in the family for years, very old family documents.” Another shrug, a nod. “Like that. Important.”
“Better be a fucking life-changing quilt. This shit's fucking heavy.”
Together they drag the ancient suitcase outside. The blast of clear, cold air makes Mickey's nose sting; he's glad now that he had the foresight to put on a coat. Most everyone else seems to have rushed out in whatever they were asleep in. Mickey lets the old man take over and surveys the small crowd clustered together outside. He starts to do a quick headcount of people he recognizes. There's Juanita and her two kids; they sometimes chat in the basement laundry room while she folds shirts and Mickey lets the youngest brat climb up his leg. There's Patrick and his wife Claire who live above him and Ian. Patrick has a go-bag at his side and Claire's got their cat in a carrier; Mickey is kind of impressed. There's the guy from across the hall, the one who doesn't live there officially but is always around. His girlfriend or whatever who actually lives there is next to him looking freezing cold in a nightie and slippers. A short distance away, two young women from upstairs are standing on the sidewalk, off to the side. Both are wearing pajama pants and no coats. One has her hands on her knees, her long hair falling over her face. Her friend has a hand on her shoulder. Something seems wrong.
Mickey strides up to them, frowning. “Hey, you good?”
The friend glances at him. Her short hair is flat on one side like she'd been sleeping; a hoodie is tied around her waist. “She's having an asthma attack.”
“Shit. She need like an epipen thing or something?”
“No, just her inhaler.” The girl waves a little grey thing in the air. “It's not like an allergy. It's the smoke. Now that we're outside she'll be fine.”
“Alright. You know if the guy with the dogs got out?”
“Yeah, I saw him around the back with them. Not sure where he went, though.” She gestures towards the alley, then turns back to her friend. “Maddie? You doing okay?”
Maddie nods, her wheezing starting to taper into more natural breaths. Mickey doesn't stick around for the rest of the conversation because his headcount feels off. On the other side of the little crowd he sees the one neighbor he actually spends a good amount of time with, her eyes roaming back and forth as if she's scanning the little group as well. Rachel lives on the ground floor and sometimes she comes up to their first floor balcony to smoke weed and shoot the shit. Recently she's been teaching him how to play chess. She thinks he's smart; it makes Ian grin happily at her and baffles Mickey completely.
He hurries toward her now, still scowling. She looks relieved to see him. Mickey's glad to see her, too, but he can't stop and feel it until that gut feeling that something's off gets settled. Quick head count again as they approach each other.
“Rachel? Where's Bianca?”
She shakes her head, the worried pinch between her eyes mirroring Mickey's. “I think she had a date tonight. Yesterday she said something about getting dressed up and going out.”
“What about Mateo? He at a sitter's?”
Rachel gives him a panicked look. “No, she usually just puts him to bed. He knows her number if something happens.”
“Shit!” He flails his hands in front of him in disbelief. “What the fuck? Okay. I'm going back in there. If the fire people come before I get out, let them know I'm in there with the kid.”
“Mickey, you should wait. It could be dangerous.”
He's already moving towards the building. “Fuck that shit. There's a kid in there.”
Back in the stairwell, he covers his mouth and nose with the hood of his coat. The smoke is already thicker. He hopes to hell the fucking fire truck gets here soon. His eyes water from the irritation and he blinks the tears back, clamps down on the threat of a cough spasming at the back of his throat. The second floor landing is full of smoke and warmer than it was before. Mickey has a momentary thought: fuck this apartment. He doesn't care if the whole building burns, if everything goes up in a goddamn inferno, so long as everyone gets out safe and he gets back to Ian.
He tries the knob to apartment 2B. It's locked. “Fucking stupid,” he mutters at himself. Of course it's locked. Only a total dumbass would leave their apartment unlocked. He pounds on the door. “Mateo!” There's no answer. Shit.
At a glance, he's pretty sure the deadbolt isn't set and it's just the knob lock, and he really doesn't want to waste time getting out his phone light to check if he can see the deadbolt in the crack. Fuck it. Better to just chance a busted ankle. If he breaks something, at least it's for a good reason. He gets a solid stance to the side, eyeballs the target area under the doorknob. Two short, quick breaths and he's throwing his weight in a kick at the door. He hears wood crunch and start to give way. Inside, the muffled sound of Mateo shrieking in fright. Shit. He hates scaring kids. He squares up to the door again and gives another heavy blow with his heel. The doorjamb splinters.
The smoke behind him is getting worse; he shuts the door, hoping it'll hold some of it at bay for a minute. Inside the apartment, he can see a light on in one of the bedrooms. Trying to keep his footsteps light and not so scary, he hurries down the hall. A lamp on the bedside table is switched on, the little bed with its blue and green dino pattern sheets is rumpled but empty. Mickey crouches down to peer under the bed.
A little boy in fleece Spider-Man pajamas is curled under the bed. His cheeks are wet with tears and snot and he flinches back when Mickey shuffles forward.
“Hey, hey, it's okay, Mateo.” He shuffles back a few inches, but reaches a hand palm-up instead. God, he really hates scaring kids. “Mateo? It's Mickey. Remember me, from downstairs?”
The crying tapers off as the little boy peers at him from the little space and recognition dawns. “Yeah. I remember you. You live with Ian who gave me a Lightning McQueen bandaid.”
“Yeah, buddy, I do. I'm real sorry for scaring you. Your mom's not home yet, but there's an emergency and we need to leave, okay? Can you come out of there?” Mateo crawls on his belly out from under the bed. When he stands, the shirt is rucked up under his armpits. Mickey tugs it down for him, wipes his damp face with a corner of the bedsheet. “Do you know where your shoes are?”
“By the door. Mama always makes me put them in the basket.”
“Cool, cool.” He finds the shoes in the basket. Then he remembers how long it takes little kids to get their shoes on. The smoke is making the apartment pretty hazy already. Fuck. “Alright, there's no time. Come here, I'll give you a piggy back ride down the stairs, does that sound good?”
“Yeah. Can I take my bear?”
Mickey's already got one knee down on the carpet. He glances behind him at the teddy bear clutched in the boy's arms. “Of course, little man. I'll carry your shoes and you carry the bear. Let's go. One, two, three, up!” Mateo is barely heavier than then duffle bags loaded with guns he and his brothers used to cart around, but his little knees still slip a bit on Mickey's ribs. Mickey hikes him up a little higher. “Can you do something for me, Mateo? Can you put your shirt over your nose like you're trying not to smell a fart? Okay, good. Now you gotta stay like that til we get outside. We don't want to smell any farts right now, okay?”
He pulls the hood of his coat around to cover his own face. “Hold on tight to me, Mateo, I'm about to run really fast.”
There's smoke billowing down the stairs now, and Mickey squints to keep his eyes from watering as he all but flings himself down the stairs. He thinks, a little crazily, Ian would be doing this if he were here. Mateo is squeezing him harder and harder with his knees, and he nearly stumbles down the last flight of steps, but soon they're outside in the biting cold. Mickey swings Mateo around to hold him better with one arm under his butt as he grins reassuringly at the little boy.
“You did great, buddy.” He tugs the shirt away from Mateo's face. “Let's go hang out with Rachel, okay? We gotta get your shoes on, too.”
Rachel smiles at them when they join her, ruffling the little boy's hair as Mickey lets him slide down to the ground. Mickey can tell she's trying her best to seem as calm as possible, but really she's freaking out. He feels pretty calm, for some reason. Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe he's just too fucking used to stressful situations. He watches Rachel help Mateo with his shoes, patiently guiding him through tying the laces in order to distract them both. Just making one loop of the bow seems to take forever. Mickey is so fucking glad he didn't try to get the kid's shoes on before they got out.
Suddenly, Mateo looks up at him, his little forehead wrinkled. “What about my mommy?”
Ah, fuck. He's gotta call Bianca, let her know what's going on. “You know her number, right?”
The little boy nods, all serious now. “Uh huh.”
“Alright, come here. Type it into my phone, okay?” Mateo types the number with one stubby little finger. He looks back up at Mickey as if for reassurance, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. “I'll call her and tell her to come home. Go sit with Rachel for a minute. I gotta talk to your mom first, then you can talk to her.”
Rachel sits down on the curb, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Come here, Mateo, let's play a game on my phone while we wait for Mickey. That sound good?”
“Yeah. I like the games on your phone.”
“I know you do. Do you want to sit on the ground or in my lap? Ground's a little cold, is all.”
“Umm,” He chews his lip for a moment, then shivers. “Lap. I'm cold, Rachel.”
Mickey kicks himself inwardly for not grabbing the boy's jacket on the way out. The sound of sirens drifts towards them in the dark, and Mickey is glad for serendipitous timing. He'll be happy to let the people who know what the fuck they're doing take over. He glances over his shoulder towards the approaching lights. “We'll get you a blanket real soon, buddy.”
The little cluster of neighbors watch with a sort of transfixed helplessness as the fire truck pulls up, men jumping out and throwing one and then two hoses down, getting themselves into position, calling back and forth as they assess what they need to do. Everyone is staring at the flames that have started to dart little tongues out the window, sinister and hypnotic in the dark. Someone asks if all residents are safe, someone else is calling out instructions. Other neighbors are starting to peer out their windows or come out to stand on their balconies wrapped in blankets. Mickey is distracted from all the onlookers as an ambulance pulls up; he hurries over as the paramedics climb out.
“Hey, we got a little kid over here without a jacket. Can we get one of those, uh, like special fucking blankets for him or something?”
“Yes, sir. Does the child need medical assistance?”
Mickey shakes his head. “He's fine, just cold. Didn't have time to find his coat.”
The man rummages around in the back of the ambulance, then hands Mickey an emergency blanket folded into a tiny silver square. “Did everyone evacuate safely? Any injuries, burns?”
“Everyone's out. Don't know if anybody's hurt, but everyone who lives here is standing right over there, so you can just ask. Oh, there was a girl having an asthma attack or something, but she had one of those inhaler things.” He takes a few steps backward, waving the blanket. “Thanks for this.”
Mateo is burrowed as far as possible into Rachel's coat, which she's wrapped around the both of them, her arms around his shoulders to try and trap in the warmth. When Mickey returns, he holds up the little silver square with a quick grin.
“Ask and you shall get it, or however the fuck it goes.” He shakes the blanket out to its full size. “Little man, you're about to become a nice warm Chipotle dinner.”
Rachel's shoulders visibly relax. “Mickey, you're the greatest. Up, up, Mateo, let's get you warm.” She shifts the boy off her lap and stands.
“Hey, I could stand to hear that a little more often,” Mickey jokes, keeping the tone light. Feels like the right thing to do when he can see the panic still thrumming in the set of her jaw. No need to get her or the kid worked up now that everything's under control.
Rachel rolls her eyes at Mickey, taking the blanket from him and wrapping Mateo in it. Mickey watches her tucking and folding the blanket to cover the kid as much as possible. With the two of them distracted, he moves away out of earshot and finally hits Call on the number Mateo had put in his phone. It rings and rings and switches to voicemail. He hangs up and immediately dials again. The line rings for longer than he'd like, and he paces out into the middle of the dark street, barely quelling the urge to mumble pick up, pick up, pick up under his breath. Abruptly, the ringing stops and he can hear a murmur on the other end of the line like a distant crowd.
“Hola, quién habla?”
“Bianca? This is Mickey, your neighbor from 1A.”
“Mickey? How did you get my number? Is everything okay?”
He kicks awkwardly at the loose edge of a pothole, looks up at the smoke drifting across the grey-black sky. “Yeah, about that. There's a fire at the building.”
“Que chingados, a fire?” Her speech gets faster with every question. “Is Mateo okay? What's going on? What happened?”
“I called the fire department and they're here. Mateo's fine, I got him out. He's sitting with Rachel right now. He's the one who gave me your number. Smart kid.”
“Thank god. Can— Sorry Mickey, hang on.” Mickey listens to the muffled Spanish on the other end as Bianca tells her date what's going on. “Can I talk to Mateo?”
“Yeah, he's right here. I gotta call the landlord, though.”
“I'll be quick. I just want to tell him not to worry and that I'm coming home. I'll call an Uber as soon as I hang up.”
“All right, let me hand him the phone.”
“Wait, Mickey? Thank you so much. I just—I can't thank you enough for taking care of mi cariño.”
Mickey shrugs away the praise even though she can't see him. “Hey, it was nothing. Just making sure everyone's okay.” He rejoins Rachel and Mateo. Rachel has the little boy on her lap, wrapped up like a burrito in the emergency blanket. “Here he is,” Mickey says into the phone, then hands it off to Mateo. “Your mom's on the other end, little man. She wants to talk to you.”
Mickey's phone dwarfs Mateo's small hands as he holds it up to his ear and listens intently to his mom on the other end of the line. Mickey looks the kid over, though he's mostly covered in the silvery emergency blanket. He looks a little rumpled and pretty sleepy, but otherwise fine. The dark eyes set in a round face give him an overly serious expression as he concentrates on Bianca's voice. Mickey feels a sort of unexpected relief bloom in his chest as he thinks for a moment what if he hadn't been awake, what if he hadn't looked out in the hall. But the kid's fine, everyone's fine, no one's hurt and they're putting the fire out.
Mateo is nodding, the thumb of his left hand creeping towards his mouth. “Sí, sí, lo haré. Te amo, Mama. Te amo.”
He hangs up the phone and holds it out towards Mickey, shoving that thumb in his mouth.
“Thanks, buddy. Your mom'll be here real soon, alright?” He pockets the phone. Rachel readjusts the kid a little on her lap. Mickey kneels for a minute in front of them. “Feeling warmer?”
“Yeah,” Mateo mumbles around his hand. “'M sleepy.”
“You can take a nap on my shoulder if you want,” Rachel says. “We'll keep each other warm. I promise I'll wake you up when your mom gets here.”
“Okay,” Mateo's agreement is emphasized by a massive yawn. Mickey stands up again, watching Rachel get herself and Mateo situated in a more comfortable position on the uncomfortable curb.
He finds 'Daniel – Landlord' in his contacts and presses Call, wandering away from Rachel and Mateo again as he puts the phone to his ear. It's moments like this that he finds himself wondering how the fuck he ended up being the responsible one.
Mickey swears under his breath as the line rings and rings. He glances up again at the smoke rising a little less thick from the building, at the firefighters in their yellow uniforms gesturing and pacing, then back at the little group huddled on the sidewalk in front of their apartment. The ringing clicks over into voicemail. Mickey growls and kicks at a bottle in the gutter, sending it spinning away down the street as if startled.
“Daniel, this is Mickey Milkovich, one of your tenants. There's a fire on the third floor. I called the fire department and everyone's out of the building and all that shit. I dunno what you want us to do next, but at least one of the units is probably fucked. Anyway, I'll call again in like fifteen if you don't call back.”
Fuck landlords, this shit sucks. No smoke alarms, no fire extinguishers, won't even answer an important call in the middle of the night. What a goddamn slumlord. Mickey shoves his phone back in his pocket in disgust.
Everything is calmer now; he can't see any more flames, just smoke, and the firefighters are moving at a more casual pace. One guy is at the fire truck, leaning into the passenger seat and typing something into a laptop on the dashboard. Mickey approaches, scuffing his feet a little on the pavement so he doesn't startle the guy.
“Hey, uh, are we gonna be able to go back in there tonight?”
The fireman turns around, eyes the outer wall of the apartment building with an apologetic shake of his head. “I doubt it. The building will still be affected by the smoke, even if the fire itself didn't reach other units. We'll need to wait until daylight to properly assess the damage and make sure it's safe to return. Are you the resident who called in the fire?”
“Yeah, that was me. Why, do I gotta sign something?”
“No, but I'd like to get your name down. Are you the owner of this building, or just a renter?”
“Fuck no, I just live here. I tried to call the landlord but he ain't picking up. Probably sleeps with his phone on silent or some shit.”
“Would you mind writing down his name and number for me? We'll try to get a hold of him. We need to alert him of the incident and inform him about next steps.”
“Right. Got it.” He scribbles the landlord's name and number on the little pad the fireman hands him, then writes his own name, making sure to clearly spell out the word 'resident' underneath so there's no mistake. “So we're gonna have to get like a hotel or something, huh?”
“Unfortunately, yes. We should be able to let you know the extent of the damage in the next few days.”
Mickey clicks the pen and hands it back over. “Okay, thanks. I'll just let everyone else know what's up.”
He's not really sure what to do with himself now that the emergency is over and he's solved all the little problems he can. At this point in the night he'd normally be catching himself dozing off in front of the television and dragging himself into bed. On nights when Ian isn't working, they'd be lying in bed with their feet tangled together and Ian would be reading and Mickey would be playing chess on his phone because Rachel has gotten him addicted. He really wishes Ian was here right now.
The part of him still caught up in the adrenaline and strangeness of the fire desperately wants to call Ian, to hear his voice all comforting and familiar in his ear, wants to crawl into a bed – his own or a hotel's, whatever, doesn't matter – and have Ian curling around his back, wants the comforting weight of Ian's arms around him in the night. The part of him that's standing out here in the middle of the street in the cold knows that Ian is working and is probably busy dealing with emergencies of his own. He's fine, he's not hurt or panicking, he doesn't have to call Ian yet. He just really wants to.
It's just that he's gotten used to having something a lot closer to a comfortable, normal life these days, one without so much upheaval or stress all the time, stable and happy and unafraid of the danger of his dad or the cartel or cops or whatever. He doesn't need to be looking over his shoulder anymore. It's still an instinct, the hyperalert tension, and he doesn't think it ever won't be, but he's been relaxing more. No one could ever describe him as 'laid back', but he's getting better. He takes chilling out seriously these days, now that he doesn't have to be watching his back all the time. He wonders for a moment if maybe that's why he felt so calm with all this shit. Fire's different from his dad or gang members or CPD or whatever. A fire isn't targeting him, doesn't have anything against him, isn't actively going after him or the people he loves. He can't really predict what a fire's going to do any more than he can predict what the cartel's going to do, but at least the fire isn't out to get him personally. It makes it easier to think about how to react, somehow. Makes it easier to keep the panic at bay.
If Ian were here, he'd be checking up on everyone, but Mickey's not gonna do that. Instead he's going to stand there in the cold and the newly calm and quiet, thinking about how little he cares about all the stuff up there in the building, how everything he's ever given a shit about was a person, someone living and breathing with blood in their veins. He's never really cared about possessions, and he's not about to start now. Ian cares, though, because he cares about objects that make home, home, and he's sentimental about shit like drawings and beds and old clothes and souvenirs.
All Mickey's ever really cared about is having Ian within arm's reach.
He's really starting to change his mind about calling Ian. It would at least give him something to do. Besides, he's going to have to let him know about all the shit that's gone down tonight at some point before his shift is up and he's headed home. More than anything, though, he just wants to hear Ian's voice in his ear, something comfortable and familiar in the midst of the twisted rush of this fucked up night.
As he pulls his phone back out of his pocket, a white news van rounds the corner and double parks a few houses down from the building. Mickey watches two guys climb out. One hefts a camera onto his shoulder. They're looking around, taking in the scene, sizing up the congregation of cold, displaced residents huddled together for comfort. Then they step into the group, clearly asking questions, angling for emotion or information, Mickey can't tell. The reporter is far too friendly and put-together for one-thirty-something in the morning. Mickey is really glad he decided to walk away when he did.
From the cluster of his neighbors he sees a hand point right at him. The reporter guy's head swivels to look, and they lock eyes. The cameraman has already taken a few steps forward, shifting to train his camera lens across the smoldering building and down towards the crowd. The news anchor beckons his colleague to follow and strides determinedly in Mickey's direction, a practiced look of friendly interest on his face. Mickey sighs, swears under his breath, puts his phone away.
Ian's had a song by The Cranberries stuck in his head for hours, ever since they took a call at a Jewel Osco this evening. The song was playing on the radio in the store as they loaded the patient onto a gurney, and now it's lodged itself in his brain. He hums it mostly off-key to himself as he disinfects the inside of the ambulance, voice cracking embarrassingly on the high notes, but he's alone in the rig so he doesn't care.
The garage is fucking freezing and he's trying not to rush through the cleaning routine so he can warm up his fingers, reminding himself that this shit's important, that cleaning is just as vital to saving lives as responding to actual emergencies. He's heard Alicia drill that into the heads of newbies so many times, he can recite her little spiel word-for-word. He slams the back doors shut and wipes the outside handles down, then does the cab of the ambulance, feeling a little like he's going to pull off his latex gloves to find ten icicles instead of fingers.
He hums to himself as he finishes up, sealing all the soiled items away in their proper bags and disposing of each one, going through his mental checklist to make sure the task is fully complete.
Inside the station it's warm and smells like recently microwaved dinner. Ben's on the couch, a bowl of soup cupped in his hands, his eyes trained on the local news station in a sort of half-interested, half-zoned out way.
Ian gives a wave, moves to the clipboard by the door and records what time the rig was cleaned. He ate dinner a couple hours ago, a boring grab-and-go salad from Jewel, but the sharp chemicals of the cleaning agents always make him paradoxically hungry for salt. Maybe it's just the moving around while cleaning, he doesn't really know. Mickey always makes fun of him for cooking frozen onion rings any time they clean the apartment. He still steals them off Ian's plate, though.
Ian listens with half an ear to the television on the wall behind him as he washes his hands and roots through the cabinet for a bag of chips.
“—fire in the West Humboldt Park neighborhood has been contained.”
“Everyone okay? Who took that call?”
“Looks like it. Scottie's team took it. You were cleaning the rig when it came in.”
Ian stuffs a handful of BBQ Lays in his mouth, the crunching in his head drowning out any other sound as he steals one of Lori's fancy healthy sodas from the fridge and cracks it open. The healthy drink counteracts the unhealthy chips, right?
“Hey, isn't that your husband?”
Ian's head whips around to stare at the TV. Sure enough, on the screen is Mickey, standing there on the sidewalk outside their apartment, the lights of a fire truck blinking red and white behind him.
“Oh fuck.” Ian feels worry rising irrationally in his chest. Mickey is standing there, perfectly fine, the flashing lights behind him mean everything is in competent hands, and anyway there's not much Ian can do about anything from here at the station. He stares at Mickey onscreen, taking in how calm and normal his husband looks. He's squinting irritably against the television crew's spotlight, scowling as he shakes his head in response to whatever the reporter has just said to him.
“I'm not a hero, jesus, no way. My apartment was on fire, what the fuck was I supposed to do, walk outside and watch it burn?”
The reporter ignores the comment. “Any idea why nobody noticed the fire except you?”
“I don't fuckin' know, man,” Mickey shrugs, lips twisting in that 'how the fuck should I know?' expression Ian's so familiar with. “It's late as shit, for one thing. And people take the batteries out of their smoke alarms all the time, or forget to fucking replace 'em or whatever. I just know I smelled smoke, and everyone else in the building was already asleep, so I had to get 'em up.”
Suddenly, Mickey's gaze flicks downwards. The cameraman pulls back enough to show a little boy, no older than five, tugging at the hem of Mickey's coat, a silvery blanket round his shoulders and a teddy bear clutched under one arm. His voice is thick with sleep when he speaks.
“Mickey, I want to see my mommy.”
“I know you do, little man. I called her and she's on her way, remember?” He fixes the emergency blanket more tightly around the child's shoulders, then with a twitch seems to realize he's still being filmed. He glares at the reporter, whose profile has been an unobtrusive resident at the bottom edge of the screen. “Can we wrap this up? I've had a hell of a fu—” He shoots a look at the little boy. “A hell of a night, and I still need to call my family.”
“Oh! Yes, uh, thank you for your time, Mr. Milkovich.”
Mickey gives a tight-lipped smile and takes Mateo's hand. “Uh, sure, I guess.”
He turns away, the annoyed scowl still in place, and walks back towards the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. The camera shifts so the reporter fills the frame again, and Ian strains to look past the man's shoulder to see Mickey walking away, but it's too dark and the focus is too blurry. The news chatter filters in, but it doesn't really matter to him now.
“The fire department is not yet certain what caused the blaze. However, due to the actions of one of the residents, there were no injuries and all occupants were able to safely evacuate. Live at the 4300 block of West Thomas in Humboldt Park, Paul Orszulak for WGN news.”
The screen switches back over to the studio; Ben stabs at the mute button with a determined finger before the talking head can get a word in. In the quiet, Ian can hear the raggedness of his breathing, can feel the sudden rush of adrenaline in his blood. He takes a big breath in to calm himself. The emergency was over before he even knew it was happening, Mickey's okay, he doesn't need to be freaking out. It's just surprise, is all. He takes a couple more deep breaths. Ben turns all the way around on the couch to look at him, but Ian barely notices; he's digging in his coat pocket for his phone. It starts vibrating before he's even pulled it all the way out. He swipes to answer the call, uncaring that Ben is steps away and probably listening.
“Hey Mick, I saw you on tv. You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. You saw that? Sorry for not calling you sooner. The fire truck showed up and I had to call the landlord, and those dumbass news people got here so fucking fast.”
Just hearing Mickey's voice is doing wonders to calm him down. “It's okay, I'm just glad you're safe. I'm glad everyone's safe. Just scared the shit out of me, is all. I saw you with Mateo, how's he doing?”
“Taking it pretty well, considering he was asleep like thirty minutes ago or whatever. I freaked him out busting into the apartment to get him.”
“I take it you called Bianca?”
“Yeah, she just texted me a minute ago, she's like five minutes out now. On a date or some shit down in the loop, I dunno. You know, she puts the kid to bed first before she goes out. Should at least give one of us neighbors a key in case shit like this happens. I kinda fucked up her front door.”
“I'm sure she'll forgive you. She'll just be glad Mateo's okay.” Ian leans his head back against the cabinet. “Like I'm just glad you're okay.”
“I'm fuckin' fine, everyone's fine.”
“Thanks to the big hero.”
“Ah, not you too, cut that shit out,” Mickey grouses, but there's a smile in his voice. “Think we're gonna have to shell out for a hotel tonight. Fireman said it's still too smoky and shit to go back inside and they have to wait til daylight to assess the damage. I think our stuff's okay, though, so we don't need to worry about it.”
A sort of retroactive panic flashes through Ian. The concept of being concerned about their possessions when in some other version of events Mickey might not have gotten out of the building makes him feel offended that their belongings are even a consideration. “Mickey, I don't give a shit about our stuff. That doesn't fucking matter. I'm worried about you, not our things. I wouldn't care if we lost everything we own and had to sleep in a doorway, just so long as you're alive and okay.”
“Alright, Red, calm down, I'm standing right here talking to you, aren't I?” He quietens, his voice going all soft like it does when he says things only Ian will ever hear. “But yeah, I was thinking the same thing, running up and down those stairs. I didn't give a shit if the place burned down, so long as I got out and got back to you.”
Ian suddenly feels fiercely the desire to touch Mickey, to hold him close, to feel the warm callouses on Mickey's fingers, to kiss him, to watch him move. He wants to be able to reassure himself that Mickey is okay, to confirm with all his senses that Mickey is alive and well and not going anywhere. He wants to be curled up with Mickey, wants to put his hands in Mickey's hair, wants try and synchronize their breathing like he sometimes secretly does at night. He wants it right now; he's almost shocked at the strength of that desire.
“Listen, let me—let me talk to my supervisor, tell her what happened. I still have another six hours of work, but she'll probably let me leave early. She's gotta.”
“You don't need to do that, man. I mean, I won't say no to you being home, but I don't want to fuck up your work hours. You can stay there. I'll still be here in the morning. Like I said, I'm fuckin' fine.” A sigh crackles through the phone speakers. “Anyway, I'll probably just go find a cheap hotel, text you the address and pass right the fuck out. I'm beat.”
“Mickey, I'm a paramedic. I've worked fires. You could have gotten seriously hurt. You could have died! You gotta at least let someone check you out for smoke inhalation before you go anywhere. Please. I just gotta know you're okay.”
“Your EMT buddies are still here, I'll go talk to them.”
Ian sighs in relief. “Thank you, Mick. I'll talk to Alicia, see if she'll let me take the rest of the night off.”
Mickey doesn't argue this time. “Let me know what she says. I'll try and find us a hotel, alright? I know what you're gonna say, and I refuse to stay with Carl. I don't want to have to deal with your fucking siblings. If we're gonna have to sleep somewhere that's not home, I want to wake up with just you, okay?”
“Yeah,” Ian breathes, feeling overwhelmed by how much he loves Mickey.
“Right, okay. I'm gonna see if I can book us a cheap place somewhere nearby and not out in fuckin' Niles or whatever. Maybe there's some place in Garfield Park that's still got rooms.” Another sigh rushes past Ian's ear, and he can tell Mickey really is tired. When he speaks again, his voice is low and slow and Ian can hear the intense emotions starting to bleed through from exhaustion. “I'll see you soon, yeah? I love you.”
“Real soon, Mick, okay? I'm so glad you're all right. I love you.”
He's going to call Alicia and explain everything to her. She's going to let him take the rest of the night off, she has to. Even if she doesn't, he's going to do it anyway. He's going to take an Uber to wherever the hotel is that Mickey will find, and he's going to pick up the room key, and get inside, and drop his stuff on the floor. He's going to take off his uniform and he's not even going to bother to shower. He's going to climb into bed with his husband and kiss him slowly, tasting his aliveness. He's going to hold Mickey to him as tight as he possibly can, tighter even. And Mickey is going to hold tight, too. And they're going to cling to each other, desperate, clutching, relieved. They're going to lie together in the dark and synchronize their breathing, fingers pressing into each other's skin like they might meld together if they lined up right. And eventually, they'll relax towards sleep, their grip on each other going soft and comfortable. And the cold outside doesn't matter, the smoky apartment doesn't matter, the shitty hotel doesn't matter. The most important thing is that they're both alive and together and holding each other. In the dark, in the warmth and comfort of each other's skin, Ian and Mickey are thinking the exact same thing: this is all that matters.