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When Ian Gallagher had gotten his leg blown off in one of his tours — too close when a roadside bomb went off; it was a homemade bomb as well so when it exploded, shrapnel went everywhere — he had had a lot to worry about.
They had replaced his missing leg with a prosthetic. It went from mid-way up his thigh, so he had to figure out how to use it and bend the knee of it right. He had to go through extensive tests to screen his impairment. He was more lucky than others in the same explosion — he could still hear, see, and, with physical therapy, he could continue to live his life the same. Only, he never expected the one thing he had to worry about to be his sex life.
He had always been a good-looking guy — confident, charismatic, never had a problem picking up guys — but now he was too self-conscious that as soon as he started talking to a guy, all he could imagine was the look on their face when they saw his leg. That majorly hindered his ability to speak and he ended up just walking away, not even bothering.
Still, as he wandered into his usual bar, he was horny and he was determined. He was going to get fucking laid tonight; he wouldn’t wuss out this time.
*
Mickey Milkovich had seen a lot of drunks in his time as the bartender at a gay club. He’d seen a guy who had jumped up on stage with the dancers and tried to strip, much to everyone’s disgust. He’d seen a guy weeping over his long-lost love of two weeks. He’d seen one guy who was grinning lazily at the dancers before he’d tried to start jacking off right there in the middle of the club. When the bouncer had come over to toss him out, he had tried to kiss him. And that is why Mickey was no longer a bouncer.
Actually, it turned out that he wasn’t too bad at this bartender gig. He could make a decent drink and was able to knock the sense back into some drunks. He also could tell when to cut someone off, just by glancing at them. This was probably because of how many drunks he had put up with in his lifetime. Still, even after knowing almost all of the drunks in Chicago, he had never known one like Ian Gallagher.
If you could even call Gallagher a drunk, that is. He didn’t seem to come in there with the specific idea of getting drunk, but that’s how it always ended up. Usually, he seemed like he was trying to pick up and failing miserably. The dude had absolutely no game from what Mickey could see, which was ridiculous because with a face like that, all he should have to do is smile and they should drop to their knees for him. Mickey found it almost impossible that anyone wouldn’t try their best to get into his pants. Despite all of this, though, Ian still ended up at the bar talking to Mickey by the end of the night.
Not that Mickey was complaining.
*
After striking out for the fifth time, Ian wandered over to the bar and slumped down on a stool. He had tried to talk to this guy — he was really cute, really nice, and Ian could tell he was a total bottom — but he had immediately thought of the expression the guy would have when he saw his leg. His eyebrows would probably raise and his jaw would drop in shock, then he would probably just look at him with pity in his eyes and then let Ian fuck him…or he would be too grossed out to fuck him. Ian wasn’t sure which was worse.
‘Strike out again, Gallagher?’
Ian looked up to see Mickey placing a beer in front of him and smiled slightly. He liked Mickey. Mickey was cute as fuck and always actually seemed to listen to Ian. He also made time for him, despite having so many customers to attend to. Luckily for Ian, tonight seemed to be a slow night.
‘What are you tellin’ these guys, man?’ Mickey smirked. ‘If they’re runnin’ away from your ass, you must be confessin’ that you’re a serial killer or some shit.’
Ian rolled his eyes, downing his beer as fast as he could before croaking out, ‘Shots, please.’
‘Boy scout,’ Mickey taunted before filling two shot glasses and placing it in front of him, watching Ian get slowly, but steadily, trashed. When Ian tapped the bar for another, Mickey rolled his eyes but refilled the glass.
‘And it’s not me,’ Ian said, already slurring slightly after downing his third shot. ‘They’re the ones who are shitty people.’
Mickey arched an eyebrow. ‘I’ve seen you talk to each of them for a grand total of thirty seconds; how the fuck do you know if they’re shitty?’
Ian sighed. ‘Maybe they’re not shitty. Maybe I am. Ugh, everything sucks.’
Before Mickey could ask Ian to elaborate, like he usually did, he was called over to the other side of the bar. Ian could tell Mickey didn’t want to leave him when he was clearly getting trashed with purpose, but Ian just waved him away. The guy did have a job he needed to do. Mickey sighed before wandering over to the other side of the bar, where a hot guy was waiting. Ian could hear Mickey greet him with mock cheerfulness, laughing at the guy’s come-on before getting him his drink. Ian frowned to himself, realising that Mickey was so much more charming than he was anymore. With that thought, he finished his beer. He was starting to feel a little drunk now, and also a little sick with how quickly he was drinking all of this.
By the time Mickey was able to return to him, with how late Ian had turned up in the first place, they were already starting to shut down. Ian knew he could stay for a little while longer after they closed — Mickey always let him, even if he couldn’t legally serve him anymore, they always chatted for a while. Ian sighed, resting his head on the bar.
‘Hittin’ it hard tonight, huh, Gallagher?’ Mickey asked as he returned, placing another beer down when Ian gestured for it. ‘Somethin’ happen? You’re acting a little more miserable than usual.’
‘I was wrong. It’s them. Them, with their…their stupid faces.’ Ian turned his eyes up to look into Mickey’s. ‘You don’t have a stupid face, Mick. You have a nice face.’
Mickey immediately grabbed the beer he had put down, putting it away. ‘Alright, you’re cut off.’
Ian whined. ‘No, why?’
‘You’re talkin’ shit now, that’s why.’
‘I’m talkin’ the truth, is what I’m talkin’,’ Ian said in a shit imitation of Mickey’s voice. Instead of arguing anymore than that, though, Ian sighed and rested his head on the bar again. ‘I can’t do this anymore. The fuckin’…pickin’ up dudes anymore.’
‘What, you gonna try chicks now?’ Mickey teased as he cleaned the leftover glasses.
Ian pulled a disgusted face. ‘Fuck no. I’m not doin’ this anymore, though. My dating days are over. Gonna die alone.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t really call this datin’, Gallagher. Random hook-ups, more like. If you’re lookin’ to date, why don’t you just join a site or some shit? That’s what you romantic-types do, ain’t it?’ Mickey grinned at him, leaning on the bar. ‘You’re too young to give up now, man. Maybe you’re just outta practice from bein’ busy runnin’ around Iraq or wherever it was you were.’
‘Afghanistan,’ Ian sighed, lifting his head and running a finger along the bartop. ‘Two years before I got discharged.’
‘Discharged?’ Mickey frowned. ‘I thought you just didn’t sign up again.’
‘You sign up for four years minimum, Mickey.’ Ian laughed a little.
‘What’d you get discharged for?’
*
As soon as it was out of Mickey’s mouth, he realised he probably shouldn’t have asked. It was probably too invasive or some shit. Before he could apologise or anything, Ian turned a sickly pale and slapped a hand over his mouth.
‘Do not fuckin’ puke on my bar!’ Mickey shouted, racing around the bar to guide Ian into the bathroom.
Ian stumbled through the door and collapsed to his knees. The door swung shut behind him and he could hear Ian vomiting into the toilet. He was about to go in there, make sure the idiot didn’t choke on his own puke, but before he could, Ian was swaggering back out. He looked a little better, except for the puke on his jeans.
Mickey scrunched his nose up. ‘Jesus Christ, Ian.’
Ian then got this dopey smile on his face. ‘You called me Ian.’
‘Well, that’s your name, ain’t—?’ Mickey was stopped short by Ian pretty much slumping against him. Heaving out a sigh, he checked to make sure Ian wasn’t somehow dying before picking him up, over his shoulder, and heading to tell his manager he was out. When his manager eyed Ian hanging from his shoulder, Mickey just said, ‘I’m making sure he gets home okay.’
Mickey had to awkwardly search through Ian’s pockets to find his license, trying to figure out where he lived. Once he did, he called an Uber and carried Ian in, giving Ian’s address. The Uber driver stared at him in shock and wariness, probably thinking he was talking advantage of Ian or some shit. Mickey just scowled in response, not too pleased when the guy just averted his eyes and drove on. What if he was a fuckin’ rapist?
Finally, they reached Ian’s building and Mickey had the unfortunate job of carrying the dickhead up the stairs to his apartment. After accidentally bumping his head against the walls probably one too many times, they got to his door and Mickey had to search for the key. He had his hand in Ian’s front pocket, Ian leaning up against the wall, when Ian moaned slightly, opening his eyes.
‘Mmm, Mick,’ he breathed. ‘Are we finally doin’ this?’
Mickey snorted. ‘Yeah, right, Romeo. Just tryna find your keys, man. Where are they?’
‘You tryna take me home, Mickey?’ Ian had shut his eyes again, but he was grinning lazily.
Mickey huffed, finally finding the keys and opening Ian’s door. He shoved the redhead in, locking the door behind him. Ian, managing to find his balance, immediately stumbled into what Mickey assumed was his room. Mickey followed him, wanting to make sure he didn’t break his neck. When he came into the room, Ian was screwing his nose up at the vomit on his jeans before pulling them down. Mickey was about to avert his eyes when he saw…Ian had a prosthetic leg.
It made sense, he’d supposed. The guy’d been discharged from the army, after all, but still. It wasn’t something you expect. When he finally looked up to Ian’s face, he saw Ian staring at him intently, seemingly waiting for a reaction.
Mickey just cracked a grin. ‘Don’t think that this strip-tease is goin’ to seduce me, Gallagher. I’m a strong-willed man, and you’re too drunk for my liking.’
‘Or maybe it’s just my fucking leg is the reason you won’t fuck me,’ Ian said bitterly, collapsing back onto his bed.
Mickey bit his lip, realising that this is probably the reason Ian was striking out all the time. He was too self-conscious of his leg. Without thinking much about it, Mickey crawled up on the bed beside Ian, lying parallel to him. He looked into his eyes, hoping Ian got the message he was trying to put through. ‘If I’m turnin’ you down for anything, it’s your bad fuckin’ puns and jokes, man. That shit is painful.’
The corners of Ian’s lips turned up into a soft smile. ‘Maybe you just need more fiber in your diet.’
Mickey groaned, shoving at Ian’s shoulder and making him laugh uncontrollably. ‘This is the kind of bullshit I’m talkin’ about, man. You’re awful.’
Ian snickered before saying softly, ‘So…you’re not…grossed out or anything?’
Mickey was never really any good with words, and he’d always accepted that about himself. Now, though, he’d give anything to be able to tell Ian how he felt and have it actually sound good. Seeing as that wasn’t really an option, he just placed a hand on Ian’s bare hip, pulling him a little into his chest before kissing his cheek. He didn’t really want to kiss him properly just yet, not when he was so drunk.
Ian didn’t look at Mickey. His eyes were on the ceiling, looking up in amazement. Mickey just smiled slightly, cupping his cheek and nuzzling into the side of his head — the only comfort he ever knew how to give.
They both drifted slowly off to sleep.
*
Ian blinked his eyes open, head hammering as it usually did on Sunday mornings from the habitual drinking he did the night before. Only, this time, when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t alone. He frowned, looking down at the arm around his waist and his pants around his ankles. He still had his underwear on and he was sure he didn’t have sex last night, but he was unclear about why his pants were off. He sniffed the air a little, scrunching up his nose at the puke smell. Clearly he had upchucked on his pants.
He turned his head to check out the guy next to him and his eyes widened when he saw Mickey. That’s when everything came back and he almost groaned in embarrassment. After a second of mortification, he did appreciate how sweet Mickey had been. Still, things said at night weren’t always meant in the light of day so he opted to get Mickey out as soon as possible — before his feelings started getting more intense than they should be allowed.
Ian gently shifted Mickey away, admiring how cute he looked in the morning, before sitting up. He kicked his pants off, getting up to get some sweats to put on or something, but his wrist was grabbed before he could.
‘Gallagher, it’s too early when we only went to sleep at four am. Get back in bed, man,’ Mickey groaned, tugging him so he collapsed down next to him.
‘Mick, I don’t have pants on,’ Ian said, desperately trying to keep his prosthetic leg away from Mickey.
‘Good, maybe we can take mine off later, too,’ Mickey mumbled, shoving his head into the pillow under his head. ‘Put the covers on us; it’s cold.’
‘Mickey, my leg,’ Ian tried to stress, but stopped short when Mickey snapped his eyes open and stared up at him with those gorgeous blue eyes.
‘Gallagher, I’m tryin’ real hard to sleep here, and it’s not working without you wrapped around me. So could you do me a favour and fuckin’ cuddle me?’
Ian’s heart pounded as he finally allowed himself to rest back, pulling the covers over them. He almost had a heart attack when Mickey trapped his prosthetic leg in between his own, cuddling up into Ian’s side. Ian gulped sharply, unable to move.
Mickey peered up at him questioningly, seeming a little unsure of himself now. ‘What, is it uncomfortable?’
‘I…just—I normally sleep with it off,’ Ian murmured, cheeks burning red as he was sure Mickey would oppose to that. Maybe Mickey could handle a prosthetic leg, but he wasn’t so sure he could handle a missing leg all together.
Mickey rolled his eyes. ‘Then take it off and get back to it. I’m missin’ my beauty sleep, Gallagher.’
Ian smiled slightly before sitting up and removing his leg. He put it down next to his bedside table so he could easily reach for it when need be. When he turned back to face Mickey, his heart started pounding in his chest again before Mickey just pulled him back into his arms, nuzzling up into Ian’s neck.
‘When I wake up, we should get breakfast,’ Mickey suggested sleepily.
Ian hummed in agreement, not trusting himself not to say something stupid.
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot,’ Mickey said suddenly before sitting up slightly and planting one on Ian’s unsuspecting lips. Ian could enjoy it for a nano-second before it was over, Mickey grinning and going right back into cuddling. ‘You better not fuckin’ snore. That’s a deal-breaker for me.’
Ian just laughed before settling into Mickey’s warmth, slowly drifting off into sleep and only dreaming of good things.