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The second Mickey left the apartment to do some deliveries by himself, he knew some shit was going to go wrong.
Like that feeling that comes when a tradition is broken, a habit is ignored, a routine is disturbed, the kind that just goes: that was a mistake.
He wasn't supposed to go to work alone. Neither of them ever really do deliveries alone, because they're a team and they work better together. Ian's better with the customer side of things, keeping clients happy and relations good. Mickey's better with the deals, the money, the making sure they aren't getting scammed or getting more work for less cash. They work, it works, when they do it together. It also helps that they both love spending time together, probably. Riding along all day with his husband delivering weed is a pretty sweet job, all things considered.
But sometimes, life gets in the way. A meds adjustement, a doctor's appointment, a big family drama (can the Gallaghers ever go more than a month without some fight breaking out? Just once, he's begging), or whatever else comes their way. Still, doing deliveries alone is on the rarer side. Most of the time, when shit gets disturbed and it's clear it ain't going away quickly, they decide to do a half-day, or even decide to take the day off all-together.
This time, it's another family emergency. Not any big drama, thank fuck, but big enough that Ian and Mickey are both handed all of the nephews and nieces. Mickey didn't get all of the details, something about Lip and Tami's house being fumigated or something and Debbie getting an all-day, out-of-town job that she desperately needed. So at ass o'clock in the morning, all three kids were in their small, West Side apartment. They weren't staying the night or anything. Lip and Tami were just trying to figure out where to stay for the evening and Debbie said she was going to be home before supper, which Mickey is thankful for.
He's gotten used to having a place for himself and Ian, and he hates when their space is getting overrun by other family members. He loves their nephews and their niece, but all three of them staying overnight? No, thank you.
Unfortunately, Ian and Mickey had a big day too. Four big deliveries had to be done over the course of the day to their highest-paying customers, and they couldn't take the day off even if they wanted to. The deliveries were too important for their still-growing business, with one of the customers being brand new and highly profitable if everything works out, so they couldn't back out of them now.
After some back and forth, the two decided that Ian would stay home with the kids while Mickey would go out and do the deliveries by himself. Not the best of situations to be in, but the decision made sense. Ian had way more patience when it came to wrangling kids, and Mickey was way quicker at getting deliveries done without getting caught up in annoying small-talk (he also tended to have a lead foot, which has led to a few crumpled speeding tickets getting stashed in the glove compartment, away from view).
With a kiss from Ian and a multitude of hugs from the kids, Mickey left right after breakfast and headed out to get the deliveries done as fast as humanly possible.
Shit started feeling off as soon as he got in the truck. Nothing he could really place his finger on, so he just waved it off as it being weird that Ian wasn't sitting next to him.
The first three deliveries went off without a hitch, thankfully. The usual routine with well-known clients made everything go by surprisingly smooth, and he managed to head off towards their last client of the day right after four o'clock. Pretty good after driving all over the city. He even got a few freebies for a new brand of gummies from their second client. Once the kids were gone, he was definitely going to take some with Ian, see if they were as good as the others they've tried out.
It was, of course, the last delivery where things went to shit. With the new client, obviously. Why would it ever be simple?
Well, things going to shit is a bit of an overexaggeration. Honestly, things were going fine right up until the very end. The clients were polite but not too eager to chit-chat, which Mickey appreciated 'cause he really wanted to head home as soon as possible. It's mostly a business talk after he handed over the shipment, talking numbers and making a schedule that works for both of them. The guy he talked to, the owner, was pretty chill. Not too stuck-up like some of their other clients, had a good backup plan when his initial schedule pitch didn't work out with their other weekly deliveries. Mickey appreciated that.
It's when the guy's employees started taking the shit out of the truck where things got a bit messy. Clearly, one of the employees was new. A young kid, still nervous-looking in his slightly too-big uniform was walking with a package and for some reason, was carrying some kind of exacto-knife with the blade pulled out. Maybe he wanted to be efficient. Maybe he was just plain stupid. Mickey's kind of leaning towards the latter of the two.
Anyways. The kid goes right by him and manages to slice the hell out of his right forearm. Don't ask him how, don't ask him why. Maybe he should've worn the full camo outfit today, give himself a little more protection, but it's the middle of summer in Chicago and it's hot as balls outside. He was only wearing a plain black t-shirt with the camo pants, he couldn't manage another layer on top of that. So it isn't really surprising that it didn't take much for the blade to cut pretty deep.
Nothing major, thankfully, but painful as hell. He made that plenty clear by the amount of colourful swears he let out as blood started pouring down his arm.
The kid looked pale as a sheet and kept apologizing with an incredibly shaky voice, but since Mickey's a professional, he gritted down the insults as he put pressure on his arm and told the kid to "put your stupid fuckin' knife away next time, man. Jesus."
The boss stayed relatively calm, also apologizing profusely, and quickly got a clean rag from somewhere in the store and handed it over for Mickey to stop the bleeding. He also gave Mickey a pretty decent tip and promised to compensate them well, with extra pay and a few freebies throughout the next few deliveries as an apology, so all's well that ends well, he supposes. Mickey thinks the extra niceties are mostly just to cover the company's ass, and avoid them having to go through the lengthy process of filing an incident report, but he can't really judge on that end. Not the worst injury he's gotten, in any case. Doesn't mean that his arm doesn't hurt like hell though.
He excused himself shortly after, refusing any first aid from the employees there. He didn't want any strangers touching him, and he didn't need them to do any more than they already have.
Which brings him to now, where he sits in the driver's seat while trying to bandage his arm with one, non-dominant hand. Thankfully, Ian keeps a stocked first aid kit in the truck for potential injuries such as these. While he isn't as good as his husband in dressing wounds (the man will not let him forget that he was an EMT, once upon a time), he manages to wrap his forearm well-enough to get him home. Right now, he doesn't really care about using any sort of finesse. He just wants to go home and have a beer.
He gets home an hour later (screw this place for being so far and for forcing him to drive home in rush-hour traffic), tired and trying to ignore the throbbing ache of the cut. He sits in the truck for a second, just to breathe and finally let himself relax, work finally done for the day, before making his way inside the apartment building. He had checked his phone right before he left the last client, seeing a few unanswered texts from Ian telling him that the kids have all been picked up. Lip and Tami had found a place to stay (apparently Tami had a cousin with one of those guest houses in the backyard, which, wow, okay Mister Moneybanks) and Debbie had finished her project much earlier than expected.
Mickey tries not to feel too guilty about being relieved that he doesn't have to babysit tonight. Look, he loves the kids, loves babysitting them. But after today, he just wants to sit on the couch and chill. Without three screaming kids demanding to play.
He drags his feet to the elevator and then drags them down the hall towards their apartment, the stress of the day slowly fading away and leaving fatigue in its wake. A shower, some comfy clothes, a beer or two, and the couch. That's all he can think about as he unlocks the door and lets himself in.
He's immediately hit with the wonderful smell of something cooking in the kitchen. Okay, scratch his previous plan. Food, shower, comfy clothes, a beer, and then the couch. Maybe a kiss from his husband too.
"Welcome back!"
The last remaining weight of the day fades completely when he hears Ian call out from somewhere in the kitchen. The stress of having four important deliveries, the need to talk to every single client, the traffic, the payments, everything, all of it melts away as Ian comes out of the kitchen and walks towards him with a smile, while wearing that stupid fucking apron that Mickey hates (a gag gift Mickey had gotten from Carl. It has "May I suggest the sausage?" written on it with an arrow pointing down. Mickey absolutely despises it, never wears the thing, which is why Ian wears it at any given opportunity, even if it's too small for him).
He even forgets about the cut on his arm, the pain disappearing as he returns his husbands smile and goes to set the truck keys into a little clay bowl Franny had made for them in her art class (two poorly drawn stick men are painted onto the side, one blue and comically short, while the other is green and scarily tall. Nothing else is painted, so the rest of the bowl is entirely white, and both of them had laughed so hard when they had gotten it that they couldn't not make it the first thing someone sees as they walk in).
It doesn't even cross his mind to mention the injury as he sets down the dinky little camo hat he had refused to wear as soon as he had sat down in the truck that morning. For some reason, he doesn't really expect Ian to make a big deal out of the entire thing.
"Hey," he smiles, "how were the-"
He doesn't even get a chance to finish his question, as Ian's eyes snap to the half-hearted bandages along his forearm, and his expression flits from happy, to confused, to concerned at such a fast rate Mickey is surprised he even caught them all.
"What the fuck happened to your arm?" Ian asks, crossing the remaining distance between them lightning quick, his voice hard in the way it gets when he's upset.
He looks down at his arm, notices how blood has seeped through the initial bandages, which makes it looks way worse than it actually is. Mickey shrugs.
"Some stupid kid at the new— hey, watch it!" he yells out as Ian grabs his bicep, pulling his arm towards him. It doesn't hurt or anything, Ian doesn't even graze the injury, but still. A warning would've been nice.
"Who the hell bandaged this? It's horrible," Ian says, brows furrowed.
"Me, dipshit," Mickey replies dryly, but Ian doesn't seem to be listening. This is not how he wanted his night to go. Worrying Ian and getting insulted for his first aid skills weren't on his to-do list at all. He should be eating food and drinking a beer right now.
"Why're you bleeding so much? How did it happen? Did someone try to mug you? Jesus, Mick-"
"Holy shit," Mickey says, puts his free hand on Ian's shoulder. "It was just an accident with the last delivery, man. It barely even hurts."
"C'mon," Ian tugs him forward, pulls him towards their bathroom with a determined look. "Let me take a look at it."
"Ian," he sighs, "it's fuckin' nothin', really, just leave it-"
"Mickey."
The room seems to drop ten degrees and yeah, okay, sure, he'll go to the bathroom. He'll let Ian do whatever he wants, so long as he never uses that tone of voice ever again. Holy fuck, Ian can be a scary motherfucker when he wants to be.
"Christ, alright," Mickey mutters, and lets himself be dragged.
Ian forces him to sit on the edge of the bathtub while he takes out the first aid kit from under the sink. He has this steely gaze that would usually send a thrill down Mickey's spine, but right now it's really only filling him with a bit of fond exasperation. And maybe a bit of fear, because damn does he looks upset.
"How did it happen?" Ian repeats the question, taking out all of his wound-treating materials (Mickey doesn't pay attention to all the little gadgets he takes out. If it were up to him, he'd just run some water over the cut and call it a day. It's a miracle that he went so far as to put some bandages on it at all earlier today), before washing his hands.
"I was dealin' with the new client," Mickey says, offering his arm when Ian impatiently gestures at him. "One of the employees had a knife-"
"He fuckin' stabbed you?!" Ian yells out, hand tightening as he grips Mickey's wrist, jaw clenching with both anger and concern.
"Why're you mad at me?!" Mickey yells back. "He was carrying an exacto-knife, you fuckin' idiot! And stop interrupting me!"
"'M not mad at you," Ian gets out between clenched teeth.
"Ya sure sound like it," Mickey says pettily. Sue him, he's injured and his husband's yelling at him. Make it make sense.
Ian doesn't answer as he removes the blood-stained bandages from Mickey's arm. His jaw's still tightly shut, and if Mickey really listened for it, he might be able to hear his teeth grinding themselves into a fine powder as he takes in the long cut going down Mickey's forearm. He resists the urge to sigh, but can't help the small quirk of his lips. He knows Ian's concerned, but he really has no need to be. It isn't even that a bad of a cut, it only looks bad because the area around it has dried, crusted blood and there's still a small amount of blood still oozing out. Probably because he hasn't been leaving it alone, or because Ian's been dragging him around the entire apartment.
Whatever. The point is that Ian's worrying over nothing, and he needs to take a chill pill. Not that Mickey'll say that, because he's pretty sure if he even utters the word "calm," Ian's going to kill him.
"Must've been a fuckin' idiot," Ian mutters after a moment, reaching back and getting a damp washcloth, before bringing it back over and gently starting to clean around the cut, "stabbin' you like that."
"He was a kid," Mickey says, tries not to wince when Ian presses a bit too hard to get a dried flake of blood off, but Ian still apologizes softly before going back to cleaning, "probably didn't realize the blade was even out."
"Still," Ian says, and Mickey sees the way his chin juts out, the way his eyebrows are still furrowed, "gunna fuckin' talk to the boss."
Mickey lets out a small laugh. "No need for that, man. I already dealt with it all."
"He stabbed you, Mick. I'm not letting that slide," Ian argues as he urges Mickey to stand, forcing his arm under running water.
"Ian," Mickey does sigh this time, because really, he can take care of himself. "It's fine. I'm okay."
"It's not fine, are you insane?" Ian says forcefully, washing around the cut with soap. "He hurt you!"
"He grazed me with an exacto-knife. A box cutter. Very lightly." Mickey raises an eyebrow. "It's barely even a scratch."
"This is not just a scratch," Ian stresses, "It's long, and deep enough to cause a decent amount of bleeding, enough to get through the shitty gauze you put on it," he glares at Mickey at that, which, rude, "and it clearly stings."
Mickey doesn't flinch at the glare, just lightly rolls his eyes as Ian goes back to focusing on the cut. "Trust me, I've had worse."
Ian, impossibly, frowns even further as he grabs some petroleum jelly to plaster over the wound.
"What? What'd I say?" Mickey asks when he's met with silence. Jesus, if Ian's mad at him for this he's going to go ballistic—
"That's the point," Ian says, grabbing some gauze and scissors, not meeting Mickey's gaze as he measures the proper amount.
Mickey's lost. "What's the point?"
"It's just—" Ian lets out a huff of frustration. "You have been through worse. You used to get hurt every fuckin' day. But it's been so long since that's been the norm, and— just—"
He gently pulls Mickey closer, face softening into an expression that almost looks saddened as he wraps the gauze around his arm like it's something precious. "I hate seeing you get hurt. Especially when it doesn't really happen anymore. Or because it could've been avoided if I had been there."
Mickey doesn't say anything, can't really think of anything to say to that. He gets it, because he also hates seeing Ian get hurt. He's thankful that they're at a point in their relationship where they aren't constantly being hurt or hurting each other, thankful that injuries now usually consist of stubbing toes on furniture and that arguments are usually about menial things like what kind of cereal to get.
He's sure he's making a sappy as hell expression, his eyes going all soft and a small smile spreading on his face, as he takes in his husband cutting little pieces of medical tape to keep the gauze properly placed over his cut, his thumb gently stroking the skin at the base of his palm as he double-checks his work.
"You big baby," is what he settles on saying, voice fond, which isn't exactly the most romantic of things to say, but who cares? He moves his hands up to cradle Ian's face, forcing him to lock eyes and laughing softly when he sees the concern practically radiating off of him.
"I don't like seeing you hurt either," he says, kisses him gently. "But I swear, it's just a cut, it'll heal. I'm fine."
"I know," Ian says, puts a hand on the back of Mickey's neck, "but still."
"Lucky as hell though, aren't I?" Mickey smiles. "Got a hot as fuck ex-EMT to kiss all my injuries better, hm?"
Ian laughs, seemingly for the first time since Mickey's gotten home. "Definitely."
They move back into the kitchen, injury properly taken care of, Mickey half-listening to Ian's instructions on taking care of the bandaging while grabbing plates and utensils to bring to the kitchen table, while Ian prepares the last of the food. It's only as he's placing the knives down that he pauses.
"Ian," he calls out.
"Yeah?"
"You aren't gunna kill the kid when we do the next delivery there, right?"
Silence.
"Ian."
"I promise not to kill the kid."
"Or injure, hurt, or maim him?"
"…I promise not to kill the kid."
"Ian!"
Ian doesn't end up killing or hurting the kid the next time they end up doing a delivery for the company.
He does, however, spend a decent amount of time yelling at him though, enough that Mickey's scared that the poor guy's about to piss himself, and then Mickey has to practically drag him out the door while apologizing when he goes to chastise the boss as well. They get some extra freebies out of it, though, so at least they weren't immediately fired for the, frankly, unnecessary display of protection.
Mickey isn't complaining, though.
He knows he'll always have Ian to look out for him, now. Because they're a team, and they work better together.