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Ian had been standing outside of the Alibi Room for over ten minutes before he worked up the nerve to go in. Normally, it wasn’t an issue—he’d go in and out whenever he wanted. Kev didn’t have any problems with the older Gallagher siblings coming into the bar once it got late, probably because he wouldn’t have to worry about Fiona’s reaction if they saw something she deemed “inappropriate.” Not that Debs and Carl didn’t see plenty of shit on a normal day, but Ian could understand Kev’s reasoning. Fi was not someone you wanted to piss off.
Honestly, the reason he didn’t want to go in was because of Mickey. They hadn’t really talked since the other had shown up at school the day before and before that, the thing under the bleachers. He couldn’t get what Mandy had said out of his head, an issue, definitely. To make matters worse, the younger Milkovitch wasn’t in the bar alone—he was with one of his brothers, Mandy, and Terry. With his luck, Ian would probably get beat up just for glancing their way.
Still, he hadn’t come all this way for nothing. Frank was here, which meant, so was some of the money he’d managed to scrounge up. Most of the time, Ian couldn’t be bothered with Frank, but after the debacle with Debbie, if that asshole had money, it was going towards the family he’d worked so hard to forget.
Ian sighed and headed in. He tried not to spare the Milkovitch’s a glance, instead sitting down on the barstool next to Frank, right in front of Jess. The woman had been cleaning glasses for most of the time Ian had been outside, so it seemed like a good enough spot.
“Hey,” he said with a small wave.
“I’m not serving you anything tonight,” was all Jess had to say. Ian nodded with a small grin. He hadn’t really expected anything less. “But I got something to tell you.”
He paused, looking at her in confusion. That was definitely not what he’d expected her to say. Actually, he hadn’t expected her to say anything, after the first sentence. Jess hesitated for a second, fiddling with the glass in her hand before putting it down and leaning forward.
“Frank called Child Services yesterday. Reported you all.” She gestured to the man next to Ian as she said it.
Ian gaped at her blankly for a moment and then felt the blood drain from his face. Fuck. He was going to kill Frank, money be damned. There was no way the Gallaghers would pass an inspection, not with the way their family worked, and he would rather die than get split up again. Reality hit; while they functioned fine for their own ideas, a social worker would most certainly think different—never mind the fact that both Fiona and Lip were adults, with Jimmy living with them and Ian only 10 months away. Fuck, he thought again.
He clenched his fists tightly, feeling his nails digging into his palms. The muscle in his jaw twitched as he turned in the bar stool to face his father. Jess opened her mouth, looking ready to say something, maybe to calm him down, but Ian ignored her. Instead, he grabbed Frank’s shirt and dragged him off of the seat.
“Hey!” the man protested angrily. Ian paid him no mind, pulling him towards the back exit, shouldering the door open, and then throwing the man up against the wall.
“What the fuck, Frank?”
“You’re violating my constitutional rights. How dare you deny a honest man his drink?”
Ian snorted and then pushed the patriarch of the Gallagher family up against the brick, forearm at his throat. Not wanting to let the man yell anymore, Ian punched him sharply in the face, relishing at the somewhat painful impact. He relaxed his arm for a second.
He shouldn’t have surprised, should have seen it coming as Frank was quite fond of it, but he couldn’t help but yelp when the man head-butted him, forehead connecting to Ian’s nose. In the back of his mind, Ian wanted to laugh at how Frank always did that when he was trying to fight. On the surface, though, Ian saw red and not because of the blood that was now steadily flowing from his broken nose.
The boy wiped at his nose with the back of his hand and then lunged at Frank. Within seconds, he was punching him as hard as he could, enjoying the feeling of his fists almost cracking with each punch. He wanted the man to realize that he’d put the family at risk, wanted him to feel it.
“You fucking reported us?” Ian asked incredulously, voice laced with anger as he accented each word with a hard punch. Some went to his father’s gut, others to his face—Ian was starting to lose track of where they were all going. “You fucker!”
Ian paused in his punches to push Frank up against the building again, making sure to hit the man’s head up against the stone as hard as possible. Frank only groaned in response, which urged the younger on. Ian moved closer, all but growling in his fathers’ face, raising a fist to punch him again.
He moved to swing his arm forward again, wanting to—needing to—hit him, but something stopped his arm from moving. He pulled again, confused. Belatedly, Ian realized that something held his arm tightly, a harsh grip that could only be another person. He turned, ready to attack the man holding him back, only to be met with Mickey’s angry face.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Mickey hissed, putting his face mere inches away from Ian’s. For a moment, Ian was ready to fight back, thoughts only on beating Frank to a pulp, but then realization hit him. The tension drained out of him, both arms slacking. Frank slumped down onto the ground with a small grunt. Mickey slowly let go of Ian’s arm, as if letting go of an animal that looked ready to attack him. That probably wasn’t far off from the truth, Ian realized slowly.
“Fuck, Firecrotch,” Mickey said, eyes now on Frank’s still body. Ian couldn’t look now; he felt as if he’d throw up the second he did. Maybe Mickey sensed that, because he pulled his eyes away and grabbed Ian’s shoulders for a moment, giving the boy a small shake. “We gotta get out of here.”
Ian nodded minutely, still staring at Mickey. When he didn’t move, the elder gave him a small shake before sighing with frustration. He pulled the red-head out of the alley and carefully down the street. Ian moved away after a few moments, but continued to follow the Milkovitch until they were at the Gallagher house.
Mickey felt a small stirring of surprise when he realized the house was empty, considering how many Gallaghers there were, but it was nothing to what he’d felt less than ten minutes ago, upon finding his sometimes fuck-buddy beating on his father. He knew there was no lost love between the two, but Ian had never really been one to lose control, not like that. Even at his most angry, Ian had never really attacked someone so viciously; not that Mickey had seen or heard of at least.
Ian headed up the stairs and into his bedroom, where he flopped back onto his bed, paying no attention to the blood still seeping from his nose or to his raw and bruised knuckles. Mickey followed silently, staring at the younger man. Eventually, the silence began to get to him.
“The fuck was that about?” Mickey asked, looking like he regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. He seemed crossed between curiosity and wanting to bolt.
“Someone had to do it,” Ian said quietly. He shrugged.
“Gallagher.” Mickey’s voice was sharp, hints of anger coming through. Ian turned his head to the side to give him a blank, sad look.
“I don’t know. He—I—I just needed to do something.”
Mickey froze, hearing the desperation in Ian’s voice, the vulnerability. This wasn’t his shit to deal with. He’d told the boy, they were done. The quick fuck beneath the bleachers meant nothing—he’d meant what he said before getting sent back to Juvie. Except, no, he really hadn’t and he knew it. That scared him. Even worse, the fact that Ian had barely reacted beyond a sad look to Mickey’s words but was now ready to kill Frank for something, frightened him to no end. Firecrotch didn’t pull that shit. Never.
“You coulda killed ‘im,” was all he said. Ian froze.
“I didn’t, right?” Now he sounded panicked. Mickey sighed.
“Nah. Probably scrambled his brains, but he wasn’t dead when we left.” Mickey shrugged. For a while, Ian was quiet and to keep busy, Mickey pulled out a cigarette. He lit it swiftly and then took a drag. He offered it to Ian, who took it gratefully, taking a few before handing it back.
Ian was refusing to look at the older man now, choosing to stare at his knuckles, prodding them every once in a while. Mickey’s gaze followed the movement.
“Ya really did a number on him.”
“Yeah, seems like.” Ian lifted his hand to examine it better and then frowned. It looked like he’d broken a few knuckles—not really a surprise, now that he thought about it.
“Want to get those checked out?” Mickey didn’t even know what he was saying at this point, mind too clouded, relaying the events of the past hour. Ian shook his head.
“I’d be up for something else, though,” he added after a few moments, a small smirk playing at his lips. Mickey grinned back and moved forward. His hands deftly undid his belt and he gave the red-head a lewd look.
He pushed back the thoughts about what had happened outside the Alibi Room. Mickey might find out what had happened, what had caused the young man currently beneath him to snap, but for now, all that mattered was having a bit of fun. Compared to the rest of the shit—this was what he was good at.