Chapter Text
“You’re a natural at this. You have such a gentle touch.”
Ian can still hear Garrett—or Dr. Davidson, as he called him back then—saying the words in his head even now, as he stitches up a cat’s surgical incision. He can practically feel the warm breath on the back of his neck, the same warmth he felt all those years ago as Garrett leaned over his shoulder, eyeing Ian’s sutures and checking for precision.
Garrett always leaned in close—right from the day Ian started his veterinary internship at the animal hospital under the doctor’s guidance. The closeness never let up.
Ian told himself it wasn’t the same as Kash. Garrett was nothing like Ian’s boss at the convenience store he worked at as a teenager. The one with whom Ian entered into a sexual relationship when he wasn’t old enough to consent, wasn’t old enough to understand the consequences of it. He was just a kid.
He told himself that Garrett was nothing like the older men who stuffed dollar bills into his skimpy, gold shorts and placed party favors onto his tongue when he was giving lap dances at the club.
Garrett certainly wasn’t anything like Ned, the father of his sister’s boyfriend, the one who used Ian like a plaything just for fun.
That’s what Ian told himself at the time.
Garrett was a successful veterinarian, and Ian had considered it an honor to have him as a mentor, to do his internship at one of the busiest animal hospitals in downtown Chicago. The man flirted with Ian, sure. But he didn’t push. Not really. He was a gentleman. Or so Ian thought.
He asked Ian out on a date. Took him out to dinner, at a fancy restaurant no less. Then they went on more dates. And they got closer and closer.
Garrett told Ian he loved him. Ian said it back, though he’s not sure if it was really true. He thinks it probably wasn’t. But he certainly believed it at the time.
Afterwards, Ian could’ve kicked himself for not seeing it sooner. Garrett never held his hand, never showed any signs of affection in public. Told him, “I just don’t like PDA. You know I love you, but let’s save it for when we’re alone. When it’s just us.” And they never hung out at Garrett’s place. It was always at Ian’s tiny apartment.
Ian really should’ve known. Now, it all seems so fucking obvious.
In public, Ian was just a business associate—no matter how much affection he thought he saw on Garrett’s face every time they were together. Now, Ian thinks he was just seeing what he wanted to see.
It wasn’t until Ian joined Lip on an outing to the children’s museum with Freddie, where he saw Garrett with his wife and kids—one big happy family—that he realized what an absolute fool he’d been. He couldn’t believe how spectacularly he’d fallen for it.
He remembers running out of the museum as fast as he could, the whooshing in his ears all but drowning out the sound of Lip calling after him. His brother’s voice sounded like it was underwater. And Ian felt like he was underwater. He felt like he was drowning.
Now, it seems like so long ago. But he remembers it at the most inopportune times. Like right now, as he’s knotting the cat’s final suture. And even though he could do what he’s doing in his sleep, he shakes his head to bring himself back to the present.
He finishes up with his feline patient, and after sending him and his owner on their way, along with detailed aftercare instructions, he lets out a heavy exhale and plops down into the chair behind the reception desk, right next to where Kirk and Spock are sitting guard on their climbing trees.
As he takes a few seconds to breathe, to let his body take a break, he internally curses himself for even allowing Garrett, that lying fuck, to enter his mind.
Because really, there’s someone else he should be thinking about. Someone else he wants to think about. He wants to let his mind wander to blue eyes and teeth peeking out to nervously bite plump lips. He wants to think about fingers that are tattooed with threatening words but are so gentle with the animal who trusts him implicitly.
“What the hell is wrong with me, huh?” he says to Kirk, who tilts his head in question. “I don’t even know this guy. Not really. This is crazy, right?”
Spock meows, yawns, and stretches, as if he’s heard this all before. To Ian, it feels like a “yes.” And Spock is probably right. Maybe it is crazy, the way he can’t stop thinking about Mick. But Ian can’t find it in himself to care, can’t bring himself to stop.
Yesterday certainly hadn’t helped matters in the slightest. He thinks he might’ve started to break down the other man’s walls—walls that clearly guard him like a fortress.
Something about the man’s cabin had screamed survival, temporary. It looked exactly like Ian expected and somehow nothing like he expected at all.
It was small, functional, and almost too quiet. The way places got when someone lived alone for too long.
There wasn’t much in it—a wood fireplace, an old couch, and an even older armchair. A coffee table and a kitchen table scarred with scratches. A few tools lined up neatly near the door. Nothing decorative except a half-dead plant on the windowsill that looked like it had lost the will to live months ago and a few small wooden sculptures that looked like they’d been carved by hand—a beginner’s hand, quite possibly.
No photos, no clutter. No evidence of a person beyond survival.
Survival evidenced by the fact that Mick’s first instinct when he heard Ian outside was to grab a gun.
But something about the way the other man laughed at an old 80’s sitcom, how he’d shown concern over Ian’s ankle, made Ian want to press for more.
And maybe it hadn’t gone over well at first.
But when Mick sent that text, giving Ian the smallest nugget of information about himself, it felt huge. Because Ian knows there’s so much more there. So many more layers to peel away. And he thinks he might just wait as long as it takes to get to that innermost core.
And as if Ian’s mind wasn’t already filled with thoughts of this intriguing man, the voicemail he received while busy at the clinic several hours later only intensified those thoughts, turning them into feelings of undeniable fondness.
It was an apparent pocket dial, and when Ian finally had a free moment, he listened to Mick’s three-minute, unintentional voice message all the way through. He listened to every single second of it.
It started with shuffling sounds, the phone clearly in Mick’s pocket—Ian tried not to think about what part of the man’s body the phone was rubbing up against, there in the back pocket of those jeans—followed by talking.
The voice was muffled, but Ian could tell that Mick was talking to Bruiser. He couldn’t make out a lot of what the man was saying, but he was able to pick up bits and pieces.
“You like that fuckin’ nosy ginger, huh?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“You’re just a kiss-ass, aren’t you?”
“Don’t know why the guy wants to know shit about me.”
“Just doesn’t know when to stop pushin’.”
“Of course the asshole has to be hot. Fuck.”
That last one had made Ian’s heart practically stop beating in his chest. And if he replayed that part of the message over and over again, just to be sure he heard what he thought he heard—well, no he didn’t.
He truly doesn’t think he can be blamed—if he did, in fact, listen to that one statement at least ten times… which he absolutely didn’t. It’s not as if small, rural towns are necessarily known for their “out and proud” residents or their general acceptance. So to have his suspicions confirmed—because he’d definitely noticed the way the other man had been looking at him—feels good. It feels maybe even a little bit hopeful.
What followed the heart-stopping admission was what can only be described as a profanity-laced rant as Bruiser apparently tried to eat a pair of Mick’s boxer shorts. At least that’s what seemed to be happening, based on what Ian was able to piece together through his own fits of laughter.
At the end of the message, a clear, “Oh, shit,” was heard before it abruptly ended.
The text message that promptly followed simply read, Sorry bout that. Musta pocket dialed you.
And that was that.
But it’s not to say Ian didn’t listen to the entire voice message once more all the way through, smiling like an idiot the entire time.
Now, just as he’s recalling yesterday’s accidental message, Ian’s phone buzzes with another incoming text. He expects it to be Lip or another one of his siblings. But it’s Mick.
Hey. Think I need to make another appt for Bruiser
Ian smiles and replies, Morning, Mick. What did you need scheduled?
The response comes swiftly:
Think he probably needs his balls snipped
A laugh escapes without warning as Ian types back, So you want to make an appointment to get him neutered?
Yeah. Especially with the way this fucker likes to run off. Don’t need any little Bruisers runnin around the fuckin town.
And well, the guy certainly has a point. Bruiser does, in fact, need to be neutered. Ian texts back, letting Mick know that he can come by the clinic the day after tomorrow for a pre-op appointment, so that he can make sure Bruiser’s in good overall health—especially considering the state he’d been in only a couple of weeks ago—and check his immunity levels to determine whether or not he needs to be vaccinated.
It might very well be too soon for the dog to undergo even a minor surgical procedure. But he’s certainly not going to pass up an opportunity to see Mick—fine, and Bruiser—again.
It isn’t until one more text comes through, this one simply reading, Hope the ankle’s treatin you alright, that Ian lets himself feel a little twinge of excitement at the prospect. No harm in that, right?
This. This is exactly why Mickey needs a hobby. Why he’s tried journaling, with varying degrees of success. Why he’s started using a pocket knife to whittle pieces of wood into small sculptures, from hearts to mushrooms to a little bird he’s pretty damn proud of.
It started out as needing something to break him out of the boredom and monotony of his bullshit life in these damn woods. Now, though, he needs something to distract himself, to curb the nervousness and anxiety he feels every single time he thinks of Ian Gallagher.
Because now, two days after sending Ian a text letting him know he needed to get Bruiser’s balls removed—the fucker had humped his leg one too many times and had developed an alarming amount of confidence in his quest to chase after squirrels—he feels like he’s about to crawl out of his skin with nerves.
He tried writing in his journal, but the words wouldn’t come. He tried whittling away at the tiny garden gnome sculpture he’s been working on, but his hands were too unsteady. Then he smoked two cigarettes in quick succession, one after the other.
All because he’s about to see Ian at the clinic. Because he knows Ian’s going to ask him more questions. And it’s Mickey’s fault, because he’d opened the door for it. Granted, he only opened it a tiny crack, but he opened it nevertheless.
And the scariest thing of all is that Mickey thinks he might answer those questions willingly, knowing full well he absolutely shouldn’t.
Of course, because the universe hates his fucking guts, it starts to rain the second it’s time to head to his truck and drive to the clinic. It hadn’t rained a single drop while Mickey was at work today, stuck inside the damn grain processing plant, doing mind-numbing menial tasks. Nope, it has to start this very second, right on cue. Fucking hell.
Mickey drives more slowly than usual. Last time he made this very same drive in the pouring rain, it had been an emergency. This time, he’s more careful. The roads are wet and muddy, and visibility is low.
Bruiser, however, doesn't seem to mind the rain in the slightest. In fact, as soon as they arrive at the clinic, he jumps out of the parked truck and trots happily through the front door of the building like he owns the place. Or at least pays rent there.
And of course, the second the dog sees Ian, his tail whips back and forth so hard Mickey thinks it might cause a wind storm to rival the ever-growing storm outside.
“Well, there’s my favorite patient,” Ian immediately greets from behind the desk. He smiles at the dog, and Mickey really tries not to stare at the stupid rolled up sleeves and the dumb freckled forearms and everything else. But then Ian’s eyes move away from Bruiser and land on Mickey, and they stay there for much longer than they should. Maybe it’s because Mickey once again looks like a wet rat. Or maybe it’s something else. Mickey swallows what feels like sandpaper in his throat at the thought of it.
“Shit, it’s really coming down out there. You’re soaked,” Ian remarks.
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Mickey deadpans.
Ian smiles sympathetically. “Come on back and I’ll get you a blanket,” he says as he starts to walk towards the exam room, a slight limp now just barely noticeable. “Feels like deja vu, huh?”
Mickey rolls his eyes, a hint of a smirk making its way onto his face. “Yeah. Just the moment I wanted to relive.”
“Turned out okay though, right?” Ian says hopefully. Mickey shrugs as Bruiser follows the both of them. Because what the hell is he supposed to say to that?
Once they’re in the back room, Mickey sitting on the chair with that same damn blanket slung over his shoulders, Bruiser’s exam ends up being totally routine.
Ian tests for antibodies and determines that Bruiser needs some vaccines, which he administers. He also determines that Bruiser is still slightly underweight and advises that they hold off on surgery for a couple more weeks to give him time to catch up. Mickey’s fine with that. He just wants the little fucker to be healthy.
When it’s time to go, Mickey hands the blanket back to Ian and looks down only to find that his blue henley is still really fucking wet and practically stuck to his skin. He feels Ian’s eyes on him as he grabs his soaked jacket from the nearby hook and clips on Bruiser’s leash before glancing out the window to see the rain still coming down, heavy and mean.
It’s the kind of rain that swallows gravel roads whole. In fact, it’s hammering the windows so hard that everything outside looks blurry, including his truck, which he can barely see.
“You, uh, sure you don’t want to hang out here until the rain dies down? It’s coming down like crazy out there,” Ian says, a glimmer of hope in his voice.
Mickey wants to give in, but he knows he shouldn’t. It’s probably a terrible idea. It’s only going to push that door further open. Further and further, until the door all but disappears—right along with the walls Mickey’s so carefully built.
“Nah, I should probably get back. We’ll be fine.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay.” Mickey doesn’t miss the clear disappointment in the other man’s words.
But best laid plans and all that, right?
Because as soon as Mickey opens the door and manages to spot his car through the pouring rain, he sees that its tires are sunken deep into the mud, where runoff has carved through the gravel.
“Ah,” he hears Ian utter behind him.
“What ‘ah’?” Mickey snarks, turning back around to face the redhead.
“That spot floods,” Ian states, matter-of-fact.
“You couldn’t’ve mentioned that?” Mickey asks incredulously. “It’s the same place I parked before, and it was fine.”
“You parked there before I could say anything. And last time you got lucky, I guess.”
Mickey lets out a frustrated breath, muttering several things not suitable for polite society, and powers through to the truck anyway.
He opens the passenger door for Bruiser and climbs into the driver’s seat. Turns the key in the ignition, and puts his foot on the accelerator.
The wheels spin uselessly as mud sprays everywhere. The truck doesn’t move an inch.
“Fantastic,” Mickey grumbles as he slams his hands against the steering wheel.
He tries again, this time in reverse.
Nothing. More mud. Somehow even worse than before.
He looks over at Ian, who’s leaning against the clinic’s doorframe, his face etched with concern and maybe the slightest hint of amusement. Now even more determined, Mickey tries to move forward yet again—and again to no avail.
Then Ian has the audacity to approach the side of the car, an umbrella suddenly in his hand—because of course the guy has an umbrella. Mickey rolls down the window, rain instantly pouring into the car. “What?” Mickey snaps.
“You wanna stop before you bury it to the axle?” the redheaded asshole retorts.
Mickey shoots him a death glare. Unfortunately, though, Ian’s right. This truck isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
He heaves a sigh. “There a tow truck around here I can call?”
“Closest one’s about an hour away, give or take. And no telling how long it’ll take in this weather.”
The rain starts to come down harder, and Mickey glances down to see that Ian’s also completely soaked, his shoes covered in mud. “Come inside,” Ian implores, leaving no room for argument.
And Mickey does. He gets out of the car and picks up Bruiser, and they both take cover under Ian’s umbrella as they head back inside the clinic.
“My apartment’s right upstairs,” Ian says. “Come up and hang out for a while. I’ve gotta go up there and change my clothes anyway. Once the rain lets up we can figure out what to do about your car. Got another hour or so before one of my techs comes in to relieve me, but I’ll lend you some dry clothes and you can hang out as long as you want. Plus, I owe you a cup of coffee.” The words are spoken with such sincerity that Mickey can’t find it in himself to say no.
When his answer doesn’t come right away, Ian adds, “Maybe we could have some dinner, too? Once Delaney gets here to take over?” It’s hopeful, and it sure as hell feels like the guy’s asking him on a date.
Mickey’s heart starts to race, a mixture of fear and excitement swirling in his chest. Ultimately, he doesn’t have much of a choice, does he? He’s pretty much stuck; the road back to his cabin is most likely sludge by now anyway. And maybe he wants to have dinner with Ian. Maybe, for once, he should give in and do something he wants.
“Fine,” Mickey eventually concedes, noting the glowing smile on Ian’s face. And maybe that’s what gives him the confidence to say what he says next. To—dare he say it—flirt a little bit. “This ain’t gonna be one of those ‘stuck in a storm, only one bed’ things, right?”
Ian’s smile widens. “I didn’t clock you as a fan of romance novels, Mick. Or romcoms, for that matter.” He pauses. “But maybe I should’ve.”
Mickey feels his cheeks burning up despite the rest of his body shivering from being soaked to the bone.
“Let’s go upstairs and warm up,” Ian finally says. Mickey tries to ignore the fact that on the inside, he already feels a strange sort of warmth.
He’s not quite sure what that means, although he thinks he might have an idea.