Work Text:
Ian didn’t recognize the phone number, and yet he answered the call anyway. “Hello?” He sounded hesitant and suspicious, wondering if it was the insurance salesman who wouldn’t take a hint. Who got possessive and handsy until Ian clocked him in the mouth in front of a swanky Italian bistro. That seemed to end things definitively. South Side rules applied everywhere even if those North Side douches didn’t know them. For all Ian knew, the man got a new cell number just to stalk him. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“Is this Ian?”
Except, the person who’d called now wasn’t a man. Ian heard the distinct, melodic voice of a woman with a soft Spanish-sounding lilt. Ian pulled the cell phone away from his ear and examined the number, certain this woman had misdialed, except she specifically uttered his name.
He stood awkwardly on the sidewalk that ran alongside Wallace Avenue. He was on his way to work, hurrying to the L when his pocket vibrated. The sun blazed overhead, a gorgeous spring day, made more vibrant by the cloudless sky. Ian had been feeling good -- not great -- but better than he had in winter. He even dreamed of Mickey last night, and woke up with a smile on his face.
“Yes,” Ian said finally.
“I’m Maria Flores. Please don’t hang up.”
Why would he hang up?
“Flores, you said.” The accent. The Spanish last name. The unfamiliar number. The immediate directive not to disconnect. It had been two years. Fuck.
“Is he okay?”
The woman inhaled deeply. Ian wondered if she was smoking a cigarette or preparing herself to deliver bad news. Finally, she said, “No.”
Ian fell against a mailbox, using the sturdy metal structure to support his weight and anxiety. “Is he alive?”
A long pause. “Yes.”
Ian sighed. He ran his hand over his stubbly face. He hadn’t time to shave this morning. “What happened?” He could hear the train cars rumbling in the distance. He was going to be late for work, but it didn’t matter. Not now. “Was he shot? Stabbed? Beaten up?” Ian imagined Mickey working for a vicious drug cartel or an unscrupulous pimp. Mickey had always been resourceful, but Ian worried that Mickey had hitched his stolen wagon to a crime boss. Mickey wouldn’t survive another five years in that life. It was the reason Ian left him at the border -- he couldn’t stomach watching Mickey fall down the same rabbit hole as every other Milkovich.
“Como?” Maria sounded surprised by Ian’s line of questioning. “No, none of those things. He was hit by a car.”
“Oh.” That was unexpected.
“He asked for you before he went into surgery.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“He’s not conscious.”
Ian fished around his jacket pocket for a cigarette and lit it up, inhaling the sweet nicotine to steady his nerves. “Who are you?”
“I work for Mickey. I’m one of his girls.”
Ian deflated. So, Mickey hadn’t quite changed. “Oh, a hooker.” The words were out his mouth before Ian could stop himself. But it was a fair assumption. Except Maria sounded insulted.
“I’m not a prostitute! I’m a waitress. At the bar. He was hit by a car on the way to work.”
Ian took a drag off the cigarette, and then dropped it under his boot, gnashing it under the sole the way he wanted to gnash his feelings. “You said, ‘one of his girls’ so...I thought--”
“That’s not important. I’m going to text you instructions. If you can fly down here, I know he’d love to see you…” Her voice trailed off, not saying what she probably meant to say -- “you may not get another chance.”
“Okay,” he said, quickly. “I’m coming.”
***
Ian entered a quiet Alibi to find Svetlana wiping glasses behind the bar. She gave Ian a tight smile as his green eyes darted to the ceiling.
She tapped the bar top, and said to Tommy, “I’ll be right back. You touch nothing. Yes?”
Tommy smirked as he swallowed his beer. Svetlana smacked the space in front of him, knocking over a bowl of peanuts in the process. “Yes?”
“Yes. Jesus Christ.” He held up his hands in a placating manner, and then turned his attention back to the basketball game on the television.
Svetlana waved Ian upstairs to the rundown apartment she’d been living in since she stole the bar out from V and Kev. Ian didn’t have the time nor luxury to debate the disloyalty of asking Svetlana for help. All he said to her was, “This doesn’t go beyond us. You got it?”
She smiled conspiratorially. “What do you need?”
Ian jerked his chin toward the photography equipment. “A passport.” He held out a wad of cash, which to his surprise, she pushed away.
“I do it for nothing if you agree to give him something for me.” She walked over to a tall wooden dresser, and removed a set of photos from the drawer, which she passed to Ian. They were recent pictures of Yevgeny taken at his last birthday party. He was a boy, no longer the baby his father would remember. The sentiment burned a hole in Ian’s chest.
“He sends money,” she said with a shrug. “He gives shit.”
“He sends money?” Ian wasn’t sure what surprised him more -- that Mickey sent Svetlana cash to help raise their son, or that he never sent Ian a dime to repay him for cleaning out his bank account.
“He’s not such a shithead after all.” Svetlana steered Ian in front of a white screen and pushed him hard onto the barstool. “Okay, Ron Weasley. Let’s get you out of the country.” She went behind the camera and grinned.
Ian stared straight ahead. “Just don’t put Ron Weasley on the passport, okay?”
“I make no promises.” The flash went off.
***
The flight to Cancun felt interminable. Not only had Ian been obsessively worrying about Mickey’s well-being, but Ian had never flown before. Take-off made his stomach drop, and not in a good way. Luckily, he’d managed to swipe a few mini vodka bottles from the beverage cart when the flight attendant wasn’t looking. It was a juvenile thing to do, but Ian had to pinch his pennies. Also, in some twisted way, it made him feel closer to Mickey.
When the plane landed, and Ian had cleared Customs, he found a pretty dark-haired woman waiting for him. She spotted him immediately and held out her hand. “I’m Maria.”
He pumped her hand. “How’d you know --?”
“You’re the only redhead on the flight from Chicago,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Are you hungry? We can stop on the way to the hospital.”
Any hunger pains he might’ve had quickly diminished. He only wanted to see Mickey. “No,” he said. “Not hungry.”
Maria gestured for him to follow as she zigzagged through a throng tourists and headed outside. Ian recoiled from the blast of humidity. It was spring in Chicago, but hell in Cancun. Maria led Ian to a beat-up red sedan with a dented front bumper. She dug her keys out of her purse and unlocked the car.
Everything about Maria, Ian noted, seemed efficient. Minimal chitchat. Specific instructions. She even walked quickly. Ian dumped his bag in the backseat of her car and wiped a line of sweat from his brow. His heart pounded in his chest. He wondered if Maria could hear it. He got into the passenger side and tugged on the seatbelt three times before it finally gave way and he was able to safely secure himself inside the car.
Maria still said nothing. Ian couldn’t make his tongue form words either, specifically to ask, “Is he still alive?”
But Maria must’ve read his mind. She said, “He had surgery two days ago. He’s been in and out of consciousness.”
Ian nodded. “He’s expecting me?”
“No.”
Twenty minutes later, Maria pulled her car up alongside the curb of a hospital, or what Ian assumed was a hospital. It was a large white building with light blue windows that looked like a hotel. Ian immediately felt relief. He initially imagined Mickey in a substandard adobe structure in the middle of the Mexican desert, lucky to get a little morphine, let alone adequate treatment. But this place appeared far more modern than the shitty medical centers in South Side Chicago.
“I’ll park the car,” said Maria. “You go inside and wait by the check-in desk. Say nothing until I get there.”
“Okay.” Ian got out of the car, slamming the door so hard, even he winced.
Maria drove away and Ian hovered on the sidewalk until the heat became so unbearable, he went inside. He did as she instructed. A man with dark, slicked back hair wearing a security uniform peered at him, but Ian glanced away.
Maria appeared a few minutes later and spoke Spanish to the guard. He grunted, then jotted their names down on labels. Maria affixed hers to her shirt and handed Ian his. She pressed the elevator button several times before the doors opened as if they’d arrived solely because of her insistence. They rode to the third floor in silence.
Ian wasn’t sure he could take another moment of this. He needed to see Mickey with his own eyes, see he was breathing, he was alive. Then, maybe, he could allow himself to feel something other than pure anxiety.
Maria exited the elevator first and headed down the hallway. She stopped in front of a room, but did not go in. Ian halted at the door, suddenly feeling like a chickenshit. He’d seen some pretty awful accidents as an EMT, but none of that training would desensitize him to seeing Mickey as a mangled mess in a hospital bed. Ian couldn’t bring himself to go in.
Maria wouldn’t have it. She pushed him inside the room.
Ian tripped as he stumbled inside. For a moment, his heart stopped, only to regain blood flow as Ian took in the sight of Mickey sitting up in bed, maniacally pressing the buttons on a television remote and grumbling ‘where’s fucking English?’ He had two black eyes, a bandage over the bridge of his nose, and a cut above his lip. It wasn’t the worst Mickey had ever looked.
Mickey lifted his eyes. His breath hitched and he clutched his side, wincing in pain. “Holy fuck, what are you doing here?”
By way of response, Ian fell into the plastic chair next to Mickey’s bed. He leaned over, rested his cheek against the blankets covering Mickey’s legs, and wept. Mickey’s hand ghosted over Ian’s head before his fingers combed through his hair. Then Mickey’s lips brushed against Ian’s scalp.
“Hey, Ian. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
Ian lifted his head and swiped at the tears under his nose and eyes. “I’ve imagined a million scenarios, Mick, and none of them ended like this. I pictured you --” He choked back a sob.
Mickey carefully slid over to make room on the hospital bed. He patted the space next to him. “Get in here.”
Ian climbed in beside Mickey and pressed his head against Mickey’s shoulder.
“How did you know where to find me?” Mickey asked again.
“Maria called me.” Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand. “She said she’s a waitress at the bar. Is that code for something?”
Mickey scoffed. “No, asswipe. I manage a fucking bar.”
A nurse entered the room, pushing a blood pressure machine. “Senor Gallagher,” she said.
Ian lifted his head. “Yeah?”
“She doesn’t mean you,” Mickey whispered. He arched his brows in that signature Milkovich way. “Si.”
Ian rose from the bed to give the nurse room to work. She checked Mickey’s blood pressure and temperature before leaving the room with a promise to return in an hour.
Ian narrowed his eyes at Mickey. “Mr. Gallagher?”
“I couldn’t exactly create a new life down here with the Milkovich name. So, I took yours.”
Ian laughed. “You took my last name?”
He grinned, and then shrugged. “I’m Mickey Gallagher if anyone asks.”
****
A week later, Mickey was released from the hospital. Ian hadn’t left Mickey’s bedside, except for the few times he went home with Maria to shower and nap.
“Maria seems to care for you,” Ian said to Mickey after she dropped them off in front of a white casita with pink shutters.
Ian helped ease Mickey up the few cement steps to the wooden door. “She’s loyal.”
“She reminds me of Mandy,” Ian said.
“Yeah, that too.” Mickey jerked his chin toward the potted cactus. “Key’s in there.”
“Seriously?” asked Ian.
“No one is sticking their hand into that.”
“Except me, apparently.” Ian carefully dug out a brass key from inside the pot. He unlocked the door.
Mickey hobbled inside, flicking on lights as he did. “Hogar, dulce, hogar.”
Ian dropped his bag onto the terracotta floor and took inventory of the space. It wasn’t much. A small living room with a floral couch and loveseat. A galley kitchen on the far side of the room. No dishwasher. A bedroom off to the side, the door slightly ajar, revealing a queen-size bed and dresser. Sliding doors leading out to a tiled patio that fed into beach sand. Ian thought he could hear the ocean. No, it wasn’t much, but it was Mickey’s all the same.
“Do you own this?” Ian asked.
“I motherfucking do.” Mickey limped to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of water from the filtration system. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Maybe you should rest.”
“I’ve spent a fucking week in a hospital bed. I don’t want to rest. I want to move.” Mickey opened up the sliding doors and headed outside. Ian sighed. Mickey may not want to sleep, but Ian did. The exhaustion finally seeped into his every orifice and his body was begging for that bed. “Fuck.” Ian sighed and went outside.
Mickey walked close to the water’s edge, his bare feet leaving slight indentations in the wet sand. Ian offered to carry his sneakers.
“I’m not a fucking baby,” said Mickey.
“No one said you are.” Ian didn’t try to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
“It’s just...this is not how I wanted you to see me."
Ian had wondered if Mickey was ever going to contact him. Had he not been hit by a car, had Maria not thought to call him, would Ian have ever ended up here? Mickey hadn’t even planned on sending back the money Ian lent him -- not that it was truly necessary. Ian managed to replenish his savings account, but still...it was like Mickey forgot about him.
Ian squinted into the dying sunlight and kicked up warm ocean water as he walked. “Are you sure you’re up for this? You were hit by a car.”
Mickey stopped, his silhouette backlit by the setting sun. “I told you. I’m okay. Who the fuck needs a spleen anyway?” He turned to continue but Ian gently wrapped his arms around Mickey’s torso.
Mickey patted Ian’s shoulder and then dislodged himself from his grasp, abandoning Ian to the warm breezes. Ian stood there, stunned, and a little hurt. Hadn’t Mickey wanted him here? Ian was beginning to feel like maybe Mickey’s new life in Mexico left little room for the man from Chicago.
Mickey continued to lumber down the beach. Ian hesitated, but then Mickey said, “Come on, man.”
Ian sprinted to catch up. “Listen, Mick, if you want --” But he couldn’t finish the thought. He glanced up at the little bar on the beach. Two girls in aprons delivered drinks on black trays. A thin man mixed drinks behind the bartop, laughing, chatting animatedly in both English and Spanish. The place didn’t lack for customers. Tourists in shorts and bathing suits laughed, chugged beer, noshed on chips and salsa. Some stood, others gathered around the plastic tables and chairs. English music blasted from speakers. The bartender’s eyes lit up when he saw Mickey. “El Jefe!”
Mickey watched Ian take in the scene. This wasn’t some two-bit Rub n’ Tug operation. This appeared like a legitimate business. Ian’s eyes finally reached the large blue sign above the bar that read, Gallaghers.’ Was the apostrophe in the right place?
“Wait, do you own this bar?”
“The only way I was able to do this was because of the seed money you gave me,” Mickey said. “Half of this place is yours if you want it.”
“Fuck, Mickey.”
“Or, if not, I’ll return the money you lent me. Send you back to Chicago with it. Give you a cushion.”
Ian stared at the sign. Gallaghers’. Never in a million years did he imagine he and Mickey would own something together, let alone a beach bar in Mexico. The entire situation felt surreal, bordering on imaginary. Was this his life now? Could this be his life now? Tequilas and sandals from here on out?
“It’s not a fucking cake walk,” Mickey said. “I work hard. Harder than I ever had in my life, but it’s honest. You know? It’s the life you deserve.”
Ian looped his arm over Mickey’s shoulder and then nuzzled his shoulder. “It’s what you deserve, Mick.” The humidity no longer felt suffocating. In fact, Ian could barely feel it. An ocean breeze meandered over his skin, cooling him down. Ian had always felt content in Chicago, but right now, right this minute, he felt happy. Happier than he’d ever felt before. “Half of this mine, huh, Mr. Gallagher?” He said that last word with a hint of amusement. He couldn’t believe Mickey adopted his last name. Granted, it was to avoid the feds, but still...Even without going to the courthouse, Mickey and Ian had become a family.
Mickey laughed. “Yes, if you want. If you want to stay here with me."
Ian kissed Mickey’s temple and whispered, “There's no place else I want to be.”