Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ian isn’t really sure what he expected the northern Californian town of Charming to be like, but he definitely hadn’t pictured this. Sure, Lip had told him it was a small ass town but they’re from Chicago, anything’s small compared to that. 

No way in hell had he been prepared to drive in past the “Welcome to Charming, Population 14,679” sign, with the last digit hung up there like someone actually came out to update it every time a baby was born or someone died. He idly wonders at what point the town will consider him an official resident and send out some poor city worker to roll the sign up to 14,680.

This was certainly going to be a change. He’d never lived anywhere besides the rough neighborhoods of Chicago’s South Side and now he was moving halfway across the country to fucking Pleasantville, USA.

But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Change. A fresh start. Everyone had agreed it would be good for him, so here he was.

Ian pulls his twenty-year-old, silver Honda Civic -- that he’s frankly surprised is still kicking after the two thousand mile road trip -- into a large parking lot with ample empty spaces. He checks the address on his phone and confirms he’s in the right place, 28754 Willow Road, unit #211 presumably somewhere on the second floor of the modest office building in front of him.

He hasn’t even been here two full days. Hasn’t even had time to do more than unpack his two suitcases full of clothes and a handful of personal belongings in his new bedroom at Lip’s house. And now his first adventure into his new town gets to be a visit to his fucking court-appointed therapist’s office. Joy.

Regular check-ins with a therapist had been a condition of his parole after his early release from his eight-month stint in prison following his latest bipolar meltdown that ended in an exploded van and a cult following of gay teens.

Parolees are apparently not supposed to move across state lines, but his PO was a surprisingly decent dude and had pulled some strings to get Ian’s relocation approved with the requirement that he resume his mandated counseling sessions immediately upon his arrival to “ease the transition”. His PO set the appointment for him before he’d even left Chicago.

Ian thinks it’s stupid. He’s fine. On his meds. This is all a waste of time, but he’ll do it, put in whatever hours this shrink thinks he needs if it keeps him in the justice system’s good graces. He’d surely rather be here than back in a cell.

He checks the time on his phone as he climbs out of his car, locking it behind him. 12:03 pm. Dr. Freud in there will probably have a field day dissecting what childhood trauma caused him to be three minutes late. 

----

Ian climbs the stairs and follows the second-floor hallway, skimming the signs by each door in search of suite 211. 

A lawyer's office. Personal accountant. Realtor. Interior decorator.

Generic office space filled with all sorts of mundane businesses. Nothing like the massive healthcare clinics in Chicago.

Unit 211 is at the end of the hall. The sign reads “Janelle Howells, LPCC, MC”.

Ian opens the heavy door and enters into a cozy-looking lobby. It’s small. Just a handful of chairs surrounding a low coffee table covered in magazines lined up neatly in rows.

The room is empty, Thursday afternoons clearly not peak hours. There’s no receptionist’s desk to be found, no bank of iPads to check in on, so he takes a seat and waits.

He fishes his phone from his front pocket, but before he’s even unlocked it, he hears the only other door into the room creak open.

“Ian Gallagher?”

The woman who appears from behind the door looks nothing like the other therapists Ian’s encountered. He’s used to overworked, underpaid clinic docs in uniform scrubs who seem two steps away from their own mental breakdown. 

Janelle Howells, who Ian guesses is in her mid-sixties, looks like a kindergarten teacher on her way back from Woodstock.

Her gray, stick-straight hair flows all the way down her back. She’s wearing a long, flowing skirt full of color and clunky, beaded necklaces to match. Styles she’s probably worn since she was a flower-power teenager in the height of the hippie era. But something about her fine smile lines and crow's feet look kind and comforting, like she’s the type of person who greets everyone with a soft hug and a pat on the shoulder.

She smiles at him in a way that seems oddly genuine, the way you’d smile at an old friend, not a stranger. Is everyone in this town just fucking weird? He nods politely as he stands and walks through the open door.

Like everything else so far, the office is the complete opposite of what Ian’s familiar with. Less a sterile healthcare setting, more a set from a mid-budget television show. The walls are lined with shelves covered in fancy-looking, leather-bound books and knick-knacks Ian would bet money are mementos gifted by past patients. There’s a fairly organized desk in the corner but most of the space is occupied by a clean, simple couch facing a comfy-looking armchair covered in large, bright-colored flower fabric. The whole space is professional yet cozy with a touch of personality.

“Have a seat,” Janelle -- Dr. Howells? -- tells him, gesturing toward the couch as she settles into her flower chair.

She picks up a manilla file folder from the small table beside her and lays it open across her lap without looking at its contents.

“How are you today, Ian? Hope our little town’s been treating you well.”

“I’m good. Thanks,” he replies. “Just got here on Tuesday night so haven’t really seen much yet, but yeah, so far so good.”

“I’m sure it’s not as thrilling as Chicago, but we have our own kind of charm.” 

She smiles fondly.

“So,” she says, picking up the papers that have been resting in her lap, “your PO sent over your file and medical history. Just want to review everything real quick. You let me know if anything here is incorrect or if anything is missing, alright?”

Ian nods.

“Diagnosed bipolar 1 at seventeen. Likely hereditary. Mother also bipolar. Current medications: 1200 mg lithium and 600 mg quetiapine. Stable with no major episodes since the events that led to incarceration.”

A small laugh escapes under Ian’s breath. He can’t help it, hearing it all summed up like that. So concise. So simple. Like someone’s grocery list scribbled on the back of an old receipt. Not the things that loom heavy over his head, fucking up every plan he’s ever made for his life.

“That’s me.” Ian nods with a wave of his hand.

She puts the papers back into the folder and returns it to the side table. She leans back into her chair, toes off her shoes, and folds her legs underneath her like someone who’s settling in for a chat with an old friend, not a paid session of picking apart of a stranger’s brain.

“I have to tell you, I was pretty surprised to see your file come across my desk. My wife” -- she gestures behind her toward a photo on the shelf of herself and another similarly aged woman posed with their arms wrapped around each other in front of the Golden Gate Bridge -- “is a social worker for at-risk youth. She followed the Gay Jesus movement pretty closely. Between you and me, those conversion camps deserve a whole lot worse.” A pause. “But that’s not why we’re here.”

There’s something about her, her own openness maybe, the way she seems like an actual human being, that makes Ian feel a little more at ease. He kicks his feet up onto the coffee table between them and stretches out a bit on the couch.

“So, you’d only been out on parole in Chicago for one month before you requested to transfer out here. What’s the story behind that?”

Ian knew he wasn’t going to get away without talking for long. It’s not that he doesn’t want to participate. He’s not anti-therapy or whatever. He just doesn’t really see the point right now, when his meds are stable and there is literally nothing exciting going on in his life.

At least she’s throwing him a soft ball question to start with.

“Well,” he starts, “my brother, Lip, just had a kid. His girlfriend -- the baby’s mom, Tami -- her family gave her a house. Guess her great-aunt had to be put into an old folks’ home or whatever, so they just gave it to her. Better place to raise a family or some sh--stuff. They moved ‘bout six months ago.”

He resists the urge to go off on a tangent about his adorable four-month-old nephew.

“When I got out, Lip offered me their extra room. We come from a…a big family. Bunch of us still living in the house we grew up in. He thought, well him and my sister thought, it’d be good for me to get out of there. Away from my old triggers or whatever.”

“I see,” she says, reaction unreadable, and grabs the small pad of paper and pen from the table.

Shit. Note taking time. He’s hardly opened his mouth and already he’s warranted notes.

“Well, your siblings, Lip and…?”

“Fiona.”“Lip and Fiona” -- she jots down his sister’s name like it’s some relevant detail -- “have a point. Change can be good. Change can also be hard.”

She places the notepad and pen in her lap, rests her linked hands over them, and Ian knows she’s prepping to move on to the harder hitting shit.

“And how about you? How do you feel about such a drastic move?”

And there it is. How do you feel. A therapist’s bread and butter.

Problem is, Ian doesn’t really feel much of anything these days. Not in that numb, need to adjust his meds kind of way. Just kind of lost. Floating through the days on autopilot.

As a kid, he’d always had a plan, a goal: the Army. Join JROTC. Graduate high school. Eventually be the one to get themselves out of that South Side hustle.

Then his shitty genetics kicked in, sending his fucking brain for a loop and throwing all that out the window.

Spent a few fuzzy years living in a manic haze. A few more feeling sorry for himself after his diagnosis before discovering the whole EMT thing. That felt good. Gave him a purpose again.

But right on cue, his stupid disease had to rear its ugly head, landing him in prison this time. Thankfully he’s been back on the rails since then, but -- despite all the meds and the fucking therapy -- it’s only a matter of time until his next episode. The next time his brain betrays him.

So what’s really the point?

His record is a joke. High school dropout. Dishonorable discharge. Mental illness. Felony arson. Not like he has a whole lot of options for a bright and shiny future anyway.

So, he’s resigned himself to grinding out the rest of his days, just like the Gallagher’s have always done. Scraping by. But at least they do it together.

It’s not the end of the world. Not like he’s depressed about it or whatever. He’s moved past that and is well into the acceptance phase. He may have physically left the South Side, but the South Side will never really leave him. And that’s okay. Not like he honestly ever expected things to work out anyway.

But instead of rambling off all these thoughts to this relative stranger -- even though he knows it would thrill her -- he just shrugs. “Feel fine. Nothing really left for me back there, so why not?”

He expects her to dig, pry until he spills whatever it is she thinks he’s hiding. But she doesn’t. Just nods, accepting his answer at face value. For now at least.

He’s relieved and starting to think maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe these sessions won’t be as soul crushing as he expected. Fuck, maybe eventually this seemingly accepting, warm-hearted woman will actually help heal even some teeny tiny part of his broken mind.

“Tell me more about your brother you’ll be living with. Lip. Are you two close?”

Close. That’s an understatement.

“Yeah” -- he can’t help but smile -- “we’re close. Us kids were kind of on our own growing up, so yeah, we’re all pretty damn close.”

Fuck. Now she’s definitely going to ask questions about his “on our own” childhood. He stepped right into that shit. 

Except again, she doesn’t. She scribbles something into her notepad and changes the subject.

“Says in your file your PO has arranged a job interview for you. EMT? That something you have experience with?”

“Yeah, was an EMT before…”

He lets the sentence hang in the air, unfinished.

Janelle gives him the smallest of understanding smiles and asks, “And did you find that fulfilling?”

He takes a moment to think about the question, fingers picking idly at the seam on the arm of the couch, and she gives him the space to do so.

“I guess, sure. I loved it.” He pauses. Shrugs. “But not like it really matters. Not gonna get the job anyways. Bipolar, parolee felon? Probably just gave me the interview to make them look good.”

He remembers how hard he had to fight for his first EMT job just for them to look past the whole bipolar thing. Add his more recent transgressions to the mix and what’s even the point of trying?

Her eyes go all soft on him again -- almost like Ian imagines a mother’s eyes would go as they dust off their child -- and jots something else into her notepad.

“Wouldn’t count yourself out so fast. You never know.”

There’s something genuine about this woman that almost makes Ian believe her. Almost makes him think he’s got a shot.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Ian glances at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes left in their session. He expects her to start in on some new line of questioning. 

So tell me about your relationship with your parents?

How are you coping with a lifelong diagnosis of mental illness?

You know, the kind of stuff these people live to talk about.

But she doesn’t. She lets them sit. One minute. Two minutes. Three. It’s not a pressing silence. Not an I’m waiting for you to make the first move silence. Just sitting. Thinking. Kind of nice to have a moment to just do nothing.

With five minutes left on the clock, Janelle returns her notepad to the table, shifts in her seat, and speaks, “I’d like to see you again in a month. We’ll see how you’re adjusting and play it by ear from there.”

Ian takes his feet from the table. Places them back on the ground, elbows on his knees.

“I really don’t need this to be a regular thing,” he says. “I can just, like, call you if I start feeling my meds aren’t working or--”

She cuts him off.

“Ian,” she starts, more firmness in her voice than he’s heard yet, “as you are well aware, major life changes -- like uprooting your life and moving away from the only place you’ve ever known -- can be triggers. We need to keep an eye on those things. And need I remind you, these sessions are also a mandatory condition of your parole.”

Nope. Certainly don’t need to remind him about that. Ian is well aware of what got him here.

He nods his head, resigned to the fact that he doesn’t have a whole lot of say in this matter.

Janelle stands and makes her way toward the exit. Ian follows, leaving through the door she holds open for him.

“Good luck at your interview,” she calls as he reaches the second door to the hallway.

He gives her a polite smile and a “thanks” and like that, he’s completed the first of god knows how many hours of court-mandated therapy. Though he has to admit, it wasn’t that bad.

----

----

Ian crosses his fingers when he turns the key in the ignition, praying his car will start at least one last time. 

It does.

He’d bought the old beater from some sketchy ass dude off Craigslist for two grand -- all the money he’d had leftover in his savings from before he got locked up -- right before he’d left Chicago. All he needed was for it to make the trip to California and then he could have Lip fix her up. Which it did. Thank fuck.

He pulls out his phone, opens up the maps app, and searches for Teller-Morrow -- the mechanic shop where Lip works. Lip had told him to drop his car off after his appointment and he’d drive him to his interview after. It’s only ten minutes away, so the timing should work out perfectly.

Ian never had much need for a car in Chicago but Charming doesn’t appear to be the poster city for efficient public transportation. So hopefully Lip can get the car back into a reliable condition for cheap.

He turns up the volume on his phone, drops it into the cupholder, and heads out following the directions of the robotic woman’s voice.

----

----

You have arrived at your destination.

Ian pulls into the driveway of Teller-Morrow. It’s on a decent-sized lot. A blue building with a yellow and red TELLER-MORROW sign and open garage bay doors is situated in the back right corner. 

He pulls up next to a handful of other cars parked along a chain-link fence off to the side.

In front of him hangs a large black sign that reads “Sons of Anarchy” and “California” with two white skulls behind it. He’s not really sure what that’s all about, but whatever. As he walks across the lot toward a red door that appears to be the entrance to the auto shop, he notices other similar signs hanging around the lot.

There’s another industrial-looking building behind him toward the front of the lot with a massive “Sons of Anarchy M/C” sign above the door and an image of a grim reaper on the wall that seems to be plastered everywhere on the property. He makes a mental note to ask Lip what it’s all for.

In front of that building is a row of black motorcycles. Maybe the shop specializes in bike repair? Lip’s mentioned working on bikes before, practically creaming himself over mufflers and whatever the fuck else Ian couldn’t give a shit about.

“Yo!” Ian hears Lip’s voice call out. 

He looks up and finds Lip working on a motorcycle in the open bay closest to the office, the sleeves of his gray work shirt rolled up to his elbows, though not high enough to escape the grease covering nearly Lip’s entire arms. He can practically hear Tami bitching about the laundry already.

“Hey,” Ian answers, coming up next to him, checking out what he’s working on like he has any clue what he’s looking at. “Parked over there.” He nods toward the line of cars. “That work?”

“Yeah, perfect.” Lip keeps working, obviously distracted. “Just, uh, give your keys to the gal inside.” He tilts his head toward a door behind them.

“Will do, big bro.” Ian gives him a slap on the back and heads for the door that presumably leads to the office.

He pushes open the door and steps into the small room. The walls are covered in posters -- mostly half-naked women sprawled across various types of vehicles -- and keys hanging from numbered pegs. There’s a framed dollar bill hanging beside the desk in a crooked black frame.

Behind a cluttered desk sits a woman rifling through a mountain of papers, apparently laser-focused since she doesn’t even look up when Ian enters the room so all he can see is black hair on the top of her head.

He clears his throat, trying not to startle the poor girl.

“Hi. Uh, Lip told me to bring you my keys?”

The woman finally looks up at him. She’s younger, probably about his age. Thick black bangs framing her icy blue eyes. A small black hoop in her nose. 

Something about her seems familiar but he struggles to place it until he hears her voice.

“Ian?”

“Holy shit, Mandy?”

It’s been what, maybe seven, eight years since they last talked, but now he can see it. Can see the sixteen-year-old girl he used to know morphed into this new, grown-up version. She’s got on jeans with rips all the way down the front and a skin-tight black tank top with her boobs nearly spilling out the top. Not much has changed.

She rounds the desk and throws her arms around him in a friendly hug which he happily returns.

“The fuck you doin’ here?” she asks, shoving him back playfully as she returns to her paper hunt.

“Just moved here like two days ago,” he tells her. “Living with Lip. My brother.”

“No shit. Aha!” She pulls out a single sheet of paper, plops down into the rickety office chair -- black leather cracked and peeling at the edges -- and refocuses her attention on Ian. “Small fucking world, huh?”

“And what about you?” He leans his shoulder against the still open door frame and crosses his arms. “How’d the fuck you end up here?”

“Brother and I moved out here ‘bout…” -- her eyes drift toward the ceiling as she calculates the math in her head -- “seven years ago.”

“Speak of the fucking devil.” She spins in her chair to face the other door just as her brother, Ian assumes, walks in.

“Gemma said you got a repo needs to be picked up?” the man says, all business, seemingly unfazed by Mandy’s comment. Probably immune to her sass after a lifetime of it.

Mandy’s brother is wearing the same gray Teller-Morrow button-down as Lip, but he’s cut the sleeves off, exposing what Ian can’t deny are some pretty nice-looking arms. Toned but not too bulky. 

Over top of the work shirt, he has a black leather vest, open in the front, with white patches over each pocket reading “Men of Mayhem” and “Redwood Original” in the same font Ian’s seen around the lot. He’s got on dark-washed jeans, slim cut but not too tight, and black boots.

The Milkovich genes must run strong. The same jet black hair -- cut short on the sides with some longer bits on top. The same milky white skin. They both have blue eyes, but where Mandy’s are light like an iceberg, her brother’s are darker like a tropical ocean.

Ian can tell from his posture and the way he carries himself, their physical appearance isn’t where the similarities end. That take-no-shit Milkovich attitude apparently genetic.

He’s fucking hot, and Ian has to concentrate not to let his gaze linger too long on the man.

“Mickey, this is Ian,” Mandy introduces them. “Ian, my brother Mickey.”

A quick glance and a curt nod are the extent of Mickey’s greeting so Ian just raises one hand in an awkward wave back.

“Ian’s South Side,” Mandy goes on. “Went to school together. He tripped that fucking perv Mr. Bancroft for rubbing his chode all over my desk. Then I was his beard for a couple months till I dropped out.”

“Fascinating,” Mickey deadpans. “The repo?”

Clearly Mandy’s chattiness isn’t a family trait.

Lip comes through the door behind Ian before Mandy can respond.

“Yo,” he says to Ian, uselessly scrubbing at the grease on his hands with a dirty rag. “Owner of that bike called. Says it’s gotta be done by tonight. Need like another hour before I can take off. You cool hanging around here for a bit?”

“Dickhead,” Mandy interrupts, “you never told me you were Lip Gallagher, as in South Side Gallagher’s.”

“Uh, no. What’s it matter?” He leans back through the door frame and tosses the dirty rag somewhere in the garage.

“Would have given you way more shit had I known you were Ian’s big brother.” She smiles at him, that flirty smile Mandy’s always used when talking to anything with a dick.

“You know Ian?”

“Lip,” Ian interrupts, his own shit taking priority over what is apparently the first real conversation Lip and Mandy have ever had, “I’ve got that interview at the hospital in like half an hour. You said you’d drive me.”

“Fuck. Totally forgot about that. Uh…” Lip looks up at the ceiling, tapping his fingers together, wracking his brain for a way to make it work.

“Mickey can take you in the tow,” Mandy chimes in. “Pick up’s near there anyway.”

“Oh, great. Thanks, Mickey. I’ll pick you up after, ‘kay? Cool.” Lip squeezes his shoulder and is gone before Ian has a chance to argue.

“That’s fine right, Mickey?” Mandy asks -- though they both know it’s really not up for debate -- finally turning her attention back to her brother who’s still standing impatiently next to her desk.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever,” he brushes her off. “Can I just get the fucking repo papers so we can get going already?”

“Oh, shit. Paperwork.” She hands Mickey the paper she’d been digging for when Ian’d arrived before opening the drawer and pulling out a clipboard she shoves towards Ian. “Need you to fill this out or Gemma will cut my tits off. Just do that top part and don’t worry about the payment shit at the bottom.”

Mickey snatches the repo form out of Mandy’s hands, eyes scanning over it as he tells them, “I’ll be waitin’ in the tow. Be quick.”

“Thanks, asswipe!” Mandy calls after her brother as he heads out, a victorious smile across her face.

When Mickey turns to leave, Ian gets his first view of the back of his leather vest. It’s that reaper again, but this time Ian’s close enough to see its details. 

The handle of its scythe is actually a rifle -- an M16 Ian’s pretty sure -- blood dripping from its blade. In its hand is a crystal ball with the anarchy symbols. And surrounding the full-sized reaper are once again the words “Son of Anarchy” and “California” in that distinctive font.

Ian’s seen jackets and vests like that before, mainly on television, but still. 

The pieces are all starting to come together in his brain. The bikes lined up outside. The iconography plastered everywhere. 

He’s ninety percent sure this is some kind of outlaw motorcycle gang headquarters. Probably using the auto shop as some kind of front? Maybe money laundry? And from what he remembers of the Milkovich family, it wouldn’t be at all surprising for Mandy’s brother to end up involved in something of that nature.

He fills out the form quickly, not putting it past Mickey to leave without him if he takes too long.  He scribbles down his basic contact information and hands it back over to Mandy along with his keys.

“Good to see ya again.” Mandy comes around and gives him another hug before he can take off. “See ya around.”

“Yeah, see ya around.” He smiles back at her.

They hadn’t been all that close as teenagers, only hanging out at school for a couple months. Mandy had pretended to be his girlfriend so he could hide that he was gay, and he’d pretended to be her boyfriend to keep some of the creeps at a distance. 

And even though she’d seemed like a cool enough girl, it’s not like they ever hung out outside of school or anything. Just ran in different circles. Had their own shit going on. He hadn’t even known why she’d up and disappeared one day, but now he knows she’d dropped out of school -- like most South Side kids do.

Still, it feels good that she’s here. Nice to have some sort of connection to someone in this town that isn’t his family. Makes the whole thing feel a little less daunting, a little less lonely.

----

Ian finds Mickey waiting in a brown and white Teller-Morrow tow truck in the parking lot. He didn’t really think Mickey would leave without him but he also wouldn’t have been too surprised.

The heavy door creaks as Ian opens it and climbs into the passenger seat. 

“Uh, thanks for this,” Ian says awkwardly, trying to break the ice with this complete stranger doing him a favor. “You didn’t have to--”

“Wouldn’t hear the end of it from Mandy if I didn’t,” Mickey interrupts as the truck starts with a loud rumble and a shake. “She bitches at me enough as it is.”

On their way off the lot, Ian sees a handful of men in matching leather reaper vests congregating around a picnic bench outside the warehouse-looking building. Yup, he definitely just got in the car with some kind of gang member.

He should probably be more concerned about that than he is, but that’s what growing up South Side will do to you. When you’re related to the bad people in your bad neighborhood, you learn not to give a shit what anyone does for a living as long as it’s not actively fucking you over. 

“So, uh,” Ian stammers, “guess the ambulance company is attached to a hospital. St. Thomas? That’s where my interview is.”

“Know where it is,” Mickey answers, eyes fixed on the road.

Ian chances a glance over at him for the first time since he got in the truck.

Mickey’s still looking forward and without those blue eyes to distract him, Ian’s able to get a better look at the rest of him.

The first things that stand out are the man’s tattoos.

On his right bicep is that reaper again, all black and gray except for the red blood dripping off the scythe. 

On the inside of his right forearm, Ian recognizes the four red stars of the Chicago flag beneath an outline of the cityscape. You can take the boy out of the South Side, but you can’t take the South Side out of the boy, Ian thinks. Kindred spirits.

Mickey has both hands on the wheel, and Ian can read FUCK U-UP inked crudely across his knuckles. They look older and more faded than the others, and Ian bets if you inspected them up close they’d be dotted with scars.

Ian’s well aware this should all only add to his reservations about sharing oxygen with this man. Sure, the guy is mildly intimidating, but he’s also hot as fuck. 

And it’s not just that classic bad boy appeal. That’s never even been Ian’s type. Mickey is an objectively attractive man. Gay or straight, he’s the kind of guy anyone would enjoy looking at.

Doesn’t help that it’s been ages since Ian’s gotten laid. Just been him and his trusty right hand for far too long.

Prison’s an interesting place for a gay man. Straight dudes fucking each other left and right but no one wants to touch the fag because that’s too gay. Logic’s a little fuzzy, but whatever. 

Besides, from what Ian could tell, prison relationships lead to nothing but drama, and all he wanted to do was keep his head down and get out of there as fast as possible. When he made parole after eight months, there wasn’t a single soul he was sad to leave behind.

Back in Chicago, he’d been this close to setting up a Grindr profile. But when his ten-year-old brother caught him mid profile pic photoshoot and even he wrote Ian off as hopelessly awkward, Ian deleted the app.

Now he’s in Charming, knows next to no one, and his senses are telling him the gay dating pool of this sleepy little town is going to be limited at best. All signs point toward the continuation of his carpal tunnel inducing dry spell for the foreseeable future.

Still, despite his attraction to the man and his seventeen-year-old boy level of horniness, Ian does his best not to stare at the way Mickey’s strong thigh bounces up and down restlessly or the way his tongue keeps darting out to lick the corner of his mouth.

Mickey very much looks like the kind of guy who’d fuck you up just for looking at him the wrong way. And being eye fucked by another man is probably very much the wrong way in Mickey’s world.

Ian’s shitty at small talk, but he’s gotta occupy himself somehow before he does something stupid like brush back the stray hairs across Mickey’s forehead, or fixate on the zipper of his jeans, imagining what might lie underneath.

“So,” he starts, his voice shakier than it should be, “fellow South Sider, huh?”

“Mhmm.” Mickey’s eyes never leave the road.

“Just moved here two days ago,” Ian rambles on. He props his elbow up on the door and taps his fingers against the roof. “Living with my brother. And his girlfriend. And their four-month-old.”

He keeps it short and sweet. Leaves out the whole because I just got out of prison and they thought it would help me not lose my shit again part.

He probably could tell the guy and he wouldn’t bat an eye. Hell, from the looks of him and his buddies, he’s probably been locked up a time or two himself. Hundred percent knows people who have.

But still, Ian doesn’t. He’s ashamed of that period of his life and it’s fucking embarrassing. Not something he wants to be sharing with a stranger. Especially a sexy as fuck stranger.

“Full house.”

Again, those blue eyes don’t even glance in Ian’s direction. 

On the surface, Mickey comes off uninterested, a little rude perhaps, but for some reason, Ian gets the feeling that’s not it. That hiding behind the tough biker exterior, Mickey -- like Ian -- is just a guy outside his comfort zone trying not to make a fool of himself. A guy who maybe isn’t so good with people. Who maybe lives on the fringes of society, where social norms don’t apply, for exactly that purpose.

Great, now not only is he sexually attracted to this man but he’s building up an entire adorable persona for him.

Get a fucking grip, Gallagher.

They ride in silence for a bit, Mickey flipping the radio presets, finding nothing but commercials, and ultimately turning it off altogether.

“So, uh, you friends with my sister?” Mickey’s thumbs drum on the steering wheel. He sounds just as terrible at this chit-chat thing as Ian. 

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, we weren’t super close or anything, but she’s cool.”

“Psh,” he scoffs, “must not know her too well then.”

Mickey still doesn’t look at him, but even from the side, Ian gets his first glimpse of Mickey’s smile. His eyes get a little crinkly in the corners and his front teeth peek out just the slightest and it’s fucking beautiful.

Shit.

“Interview at the hospital. You a whiz kid doctor or some shit?”

Ian’s grateful for the change in topic that gives him something to think about besides those lips and what he’d like them to do to him.

“Fuck no,” Ian huffs out a breath of a laugh at the idea that someone could think he has his shit together enough to be a fucking twenty-four-year-old doctor. “High school dropout turned EMT.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, just shrugs in a same difference kind of way.

“Pretty fucking nervous,” Ian prattles on. “Been a while since I’ve done this shit.”

He’s not really sure why he’s still talking, telling Mickey things. But it feels good to get it off his chest to anyone who will listen.

“Small town, man.” Mickey looks over at him for the first time, his eyes scanning Ian’s body like he’s sizing him up for the job. “If you can slap on a bandaid, they'll probably hire you on the spot.”

The reassurance makes Ian smile even if it is complete bullshit.

The hospital isn’t far from Teller-Morrow -- fuck, nothing in this place is far from anything -- and Mickey’s pulling up at the front entrance just a few moments later.

“Thanks for the ride,” Ian says as he unbuckles his seat belt.

“Mhmm.” Mickey nods.

Ian attempts to open the door, but it’s locked. He pulls the lock up and tries again, but the thing still won’t fucking open. Pushes the lock back down, pulls it up again. Still nothing. He looks like a damn fool fighting with the fucking door.

As he’s fumbling with the stupid thing -- his rising embarrassment only making his attempts even worse -- he feels the warmth of Mickey’s body leaning over his. Mickey yanks the lock up hard, pulls the handle, and the door pops open.

He’s so fucking close. Ian’s nose just inches from Mickey’s temple. He can smell his hair, the faint scent of that morning’s shampoo mixed with that unique natural smell of a man.

Mickey’s arm brushes against Ian’s as he leans back into his seat. It’s like fucking electricity jolting through Ian’s body.

Jesus fuck, has it really been that long since he’s been touched by another man that he’s practically jumping out of his skin at this? From an accidental bump of an arm? A straight man’s arm?

“So, uh, see ya ‘round or whatever.”

Ian looks over at the sound of Mickey’s voice to find him staring straight at him this time. And he swears he sees the faintest flush of pink in Mickey’s cheeks and is pretty damn sure his eyes are lingering on Ian’s lips.

It’s nothing too overt. Light years away from any kind of outright flirting. But it’s something, right? Some kind of subtle signal?

Or maybe Ian’s completely making it up in his head, all too desperate to validate his own mild obsession with this man he’s just met. 

Probably that.

“Yeah, uh, see ya ‘round,” Ian manages to stammer as he climbs out of the truck. “Thanks again.” 

He closes the door, turning around to offer a quick wave before walking away from the truck and attempting to push any and all thoughts of dark hair, blue eyes, and tattooed skin from his mind.

----

----

Ian looks up at the huge brick building in front of him, St. Thomas Hospital in big silver letters above the door.

He pulls out his phone and checks the time. 1:45. His interview isn’t scheduled until 2:00, so he has plenty of time.

He taps the mail app and opens the saved message from a Gita at St. Thomas Ambulance Services. He rereads the directions she’d emailed him the day before instructing him to enter the ambulance bay through the back of the hospital.

In Chicago, the ambulance companies had been scattered across the city partnering with the dozens of local hospitals. But the structure here is different. The only ambulance company is physically located in the only hospital. Yet another big city versus small town adjustment Ian’ll have to get over.

He rounds the back of the building and sees the open garage bay with a rig inside being cleaned out by a couple EMTs in navy blue uniforms. 

Ian checks his phone one last time -- 1:50 -- making sure it’s silenced and stashing it back into his pocket. He shakes out his shoulders, his arms, down to his fingertips, knocking off some of his nervous energy.

Hesitantly, he wanders into the bay, nodding and smiling at the handful of people milling about, hoping one of them will magically reveal themselves as Gita to the lost looking man.

A youngish woman -- early to mid-thirties maybe -- hops down from the back of the rig. She’s got gorgeous thick, dark hair tied back in a braid that goes nearly all the way down her back. She’s a tiny little thing, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, and Ian’d be shocked if she was over five foot. But the way she carries herself and the way everyone else looks at her leaves no question in Ian’s mind that he’s looking at the boss.

“Gita?” He approaches her, hand outstretched. “I’m Ian. For the interview.”

“Nice to meet you, Ian.” She shakes his hand and smiles in a welcoming way. “Follow me on back to my office.” She waves a hand toward a door beside a row of lockers along the back wall. “You guys good with this?” she confirms with her crew before walking away with Ian following close behind.

Her office isn’t much, hardly more than a large closet with a messy desk and one chair, but there are a handful of photos and personal effects strewn about and a small plant perched in the narrow window that all gives it a homey feel.

Gita gestures toward the chair, and Ian takes a seat as she makes herself comfortable across from him at her desk.

She shuffles through some papers and pulls out a manilla folder -- much like the one Ian’s therapist had this morning -- opens it across her desk, and scans it quickly.

Ian presses his palms firmly into his thighs in a feeble attempt to keep them from shaking.

“So, Ian, tell me about yourself,” she asks, folding her hands over top of the open folder.

Ian knows damn well she’s got a full debriefing from his PO in front of her listing in black and white every mistake he’s ever made, every red flag why she should keep her company clear of him.

“I’m sure it says it all right there...” Ian begins, somewhat dejected that they’ve hit this point already.

“I know what your record says about you, but I want to hear what you have to say about you.”

Ian’s a little taken aback, surprised that she sounds like she may be genuinely interested in hearing him out.

Before he can come up with anything to say, she continues.

“I know a lot of companies sign up for these parolee programs for the PR, to help them sleep at night, but not here. These programs mean something to me and I treat your interview just as seriously as anyone else's.”

“Well, uh.” He hadn’t really prepared for this much -- at all.  “From Chicago. Grew up there. Lived there my whole life. So this” -- he waves his hand in front of him -- “is all a whole new thing for me.”

“And you were an EMT back in Chicago?” she asks. “How’d you like it?”

She grabs a pen from a white porcelain cup with an ornate gold pattern around the lip and scribbles something inside his file.

“I loved it,” Ian begins. “I didn’t get to do it for long, but it was great.”

Talking about everything he loved about being an EMT loosens him up. How he’d always had a desire to serve people. How his favorite runs were the ones where they were able to help someone who didn’t even know they needed it. Things he hadn’t really thought much about this past year.

It’s easy and comfortable and he finds himself going on and on longer than is probably appropriate for a job interview.

At some point during his diatribe, Gita stops taking notes, puts her pen down, and just listens.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, “that was a lot. Didn’t mean to... I just, yeah, I really loved it.”

She smiles warmly at him.

“And your mental health,” she starts, smile fading back into seriousness, “it’s under control?”

“Yes,” he assures as confidently as he can.

“And you will continue to meet all the conditions of your parole?”

“Of course.”

“Great.” Her smile is back. “Then we’ll see you Monday, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Wait. What?” Ian says in shocked confusion. “I got the job?”

Gita laughs a comforting low rumble. “Yes, Ian, you got the job.”

He can’t fucking believe it. 

He took the interview because it’s what his PO told him to do, but he never imagined for a single second that he’d actually get the job. That he wouldn’t wind up flipping burgers or chipping wood all day with the rest of the uneducated fuck ups.

“Your therapist’s notes say it’d be best if you maintain regular hours, so I’ll put you on the board for the six to six shift. Can’t promise what days of the week though.”

“That’s okay. That’s fine.” He’s so excited he’s tripping over his words. “It’s perfect.”

Gita stands and Ian follows.

She extends her right hand and Ian shakes it enthusiastically. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ian. Look forward to working with you.”

If you’d asked Ian how he’d expected this day to go, he never would have predicted any of it. A new therapist he didn’t hate. Reconnecting with an old friend and maybe, possibly, in some capacity, making a new one. Landing an amazing job.

He hadn’t felt this hopeful in a long, long time.

Maybe everyone was right. Maybe this change is exactly what he needed.

----

----

Ian spends the next few days settling in.

He finishes unpacking his meager belongings. Makes a Target trip to fill in the gaps. Pokes around the walkable areas of town a bit. And spends an unhealthy amount of time snuggling up with his new nephew.

On Saturday night, Lip tells him his car’s ready to be picked up from the shop. He replaced the whatever and cleaned the who-knows-what and it should be good to go now.

Ian rides to the shop with Lip on Sunday afternoon. 

“Mandy’s got your keys,” Lip tells him over his shoulder as he heads off into the garage leaving Ian behind.

The door to the office is propped open with a brick, a large box fan whirring just inside the threshold, rustling the corners of the trashy posters on the walls. It’s only May but the summer heat has already descended upon them.

“Hey!” Mandy greets him, immediately coming around the desk to give him a friendly hug which Ian warmly returns.

Today she’s got on a tiny denim skirt with black fishnets underneath, her boobs once again on full display in a black tank top with metal studs along the seams. Above her cleavage rests a tiny, silver crow on a delicate chain. 

It’s a similar look to the Mandy he remembers just with a trashier, biker-girl twist to it. She seems to have slid comfortably into this world, and Ian’s glad she’s found a home. 

He doesn’t know details, but from what he heard around the neighborhood growing up, the Milkovich home was a shitshow, some Nazi shithead named Terry raising up a pack of delinquents. Ian can only imagine any other life is a step up. For both her and her brother.

“Keys are on the board,” she says, waving a hand in the direction of a large pegboard of keyrings hanging on the wall adjoining the garage.

Ian scans the wall for his keys and pockets them. 

Back at her desk, Mandy slides a clipboard toward him. It’s the paper he’d filled out a few days ago, the middle section now itemizing the work done to his car. The labor is listed at zero dollars -- thanks Lip -- but the parts still come out to almost five hundred bucks.

“Just sign the bottom. Don’t worry about the payment shit,” she tells him. “I’ll just stick the inventory on some other guy's work order.”

“You sure?” Ian protests just enough to be polite but not too hard he actually talks himself out of saving five big ones. “Isn’t that kind of…”

“Next prick that comes in here and stares at my tits is gettin’ an extra timing belt.”

“See you haven’t changed much,” Ian laughs as he signs the invoice and slides it back to Mandy who sets it off to the side in a different stack.

“We should get dinner or somethin’ one day,” she says, spinning back and forth in her chair. “Catch up and shit.”

“Yeah, totally. For sure.” Ian’s well aware he sounds like an eager puppy but he’s been dying for some social interaction outside his own family. “That sounds great.”

“Cool.” A pause. “Well, your car’s out front.”

“Right. I’ll let you get back to work,” Ian says as he heads for the door. “See ya later.”

As his eyes adjust to the bright afternoon sunlight, Ian finds that same white and brown tow truck pulled up in the front of the garage, a green, late-model minivan hooked up behind it.

He watches as Mickey exits the driver’s seat, looking much the same in his slim jeans, cut-off work shirt, and leather vest.

Another man in a matching vest emerges from the passenger side. He’s a big dude, taller than Ian for sure. He pulls off his black beanie, stashing it in the back pocket of his baggy jeans, and reveals a head full of long red hair that matches his full beard and reminds Ian of a lion’s mane.

His size coupled with the way he walks and the serious look on his face makes him look like someone you definitely don’t want to fuck with.

The two men take their spots on opposite sides of the minivan and begin unhooking chains and straps.

Ian should probably leave the guy to his work, but he can’t help himself.

“Hey,” he calls out as he approaches, leaning his shoulder up against the door frame of the truck near where Mickey’s unwrapping a chain from around the van’s tire.

Mickey looks up at the sound, surprise evident on his face for about half a second before his cool demeanor returns. 

“Hey,” he returns, turning his attention back to the van.

“Thanks again for the ride the other day.”

Ian’s not sure why he keeps babbling. It’s obvious Mickey’s not interested in having a conversation, but he can’t help himself. He likes being around the guy and having an excuse to watch the way his body moves as he works.

“I got the job.”

“Congrats,” Mickey answers half-heartedly, never pausing so much as to look in Ian’s direction.

“Start tomorrow. Sure it’ll be a lot different than back home -- half my calls won’t be ‘bout picking up my own drunk ass father,'' Ian chuckles to himself, “but I’m excited.”

Ian waits, watching as Mickey and lion-man remove the last of the straps. 

When Mickey still doesn’t pay him any attention, he takes the hint. 

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around.” Ian slaps a hand against the roof of the truck before walking away. “Thanks again for the ride.”

So maybe Mickey isn’t going to be his new drinking buddy. Whatever. He tried. At least he knows where to come when he’s in need of some eye candy.

----

----

Ian starts his first twelve-hour shift bright and early the next morning.

In high school, he was up at 5:00 am every day, running six miles and doing two hundred push-ups before school. His JROTC training regimen. He’d picked back up his early morning routine in prison, intentionally waking an hour or so before lights up so he could enjoy some quiet alone time in his bunk just to think or daydream.

So when his alarm rings at 5:15 am on Monday morning, Ian has no problem jumping out of bed. He’d already been lying awake the past twenty minutes, the nervous first-day jitters coursing through his veins making it impossible to fall back asleep.

He even has time to get Freddie from his crib and make him a quick bottle, sparing Lip and Tami a few extra minutes of sleep before he heads off to the hospital.

He walks into the ambulance bay at ten to six, and Gita greets him immediately. She takes him on a tour. Shows him the rig. The breakroom. Supply closet. His locker.

Three brand new, starchy-stiff, navy blue uniforms are already hung up inside. She tells him to get suited up and wait for their first call.

Once he’s dressed, he wanders into the breakroom. It’s minimal but comfy enough. A few mismatched couches, a six-seater oak dining table and chairs, a basic kitchen set up in the back corner with a full-sized fridge, microwave, and toaster oven.

Two coworkers are already sitting across from each other at the table playing cards, and Ian recognizes them as the pair that were cleaning the rig during his interview. He slides into a seat at the end of the table and introduces himself.

They chit-chat for a while, getting to know one another.

Warren is a fifty-something-year-old man who’s been working in emergency medicine for over thirty years. He’s a divorcee with shared custody of his two teenage daughters who he spends at least fifteen minutes gushing about -- Abby’s student council president and Sarah’s soccer team is going to nationals.

Mae is young. She just graduated high school last year and is going to school part-time to become a paramedic. Warren seems to have taken her under his wing and she talks about the man like he’s been a great mentor to work with.

He tells them a little bit about his past. How he used to be an EMT in Chicago but it’s been a couple years since he’s been on the job. He doesn’t know if his parolee status is public knowledge or not, but he doesn’t say anything about it and neither do they.

They warn him that his days probably won’t be as exciting as they were back in Chicago. Their company only services the local area of Charming and the surrounding farmland. Everything outside the city limits is in the jurisdiction of San Joaquin County services. Their call volume isn’t too high.

They weren’t exaggerating.

They spend most of their morning playing Uno and Yahtzee until they get their first call. An older woman who pushed her panic button after slicing her hand on a can of cat food. She’s easily patched up and transferred to the ER for stitches. Ian’s instructed to hang back and observe while he learns the ropes and how the team works together.

Their afternoon is spent transferring a stable patient from St. Thomas back to his long-term nursing facility.

Toward the end of his shift, they receive a call about a man having an allergic reaction in an ice cream shop. Warren lets Ian administer the EpiPen, and it feels good to finally have done something.

Even though it was a slow day, he’s exhausted by seven o’clock. It’s going to take his body a little while to adjust back to twelve-hour shifts.

He picks up a burger on the way home, eats a quick dinner, takes a shower, kisses Freddie goodnight, takes his meds, and passes out before ten.

----

----

Tuesday runs much the same. 

It’s Mae’s day off. He meets Kendra, another fellow EMT. She’s roughly his age but seems decades more mature. She’s a single parent to her five-year-old son and usually works night shifts while he stays with her mom.

They do their thing all day, just a handful of calls again, but Ian’s able to be more involved today.

When he gets home, Tami’s made spaghetti and the three of them sit around the table eating and giving each other shit. It’s nice but makes him miss the chaos of the Gallagher dinner table growing up.

After dinner he showers -- redressing in nothing but his boxers -- and collapses onto his bed. It’s only eight o’clock, too early to sleep, so he dicks around on his phone, scrolling social media and watching TikToks.

He’s watching a video of a pair of kittens -- the feisty orange tabby annoying the shit out of the black one -- when he nearly jumps out of his skin as his phone buzzes in his hand.

The green text banner floats at the top of the screen from an unknown number. He taps it.

(209) 555-7432 (8:33 pm): Yo. You free right now?

Three more buzzes in quick succession. 

(209) 555-7432 (8:34 pm): It’s mickey btw

(209) 555-7432 (8:34 pm): Guy from the clubhouse

(209) 555-7432 (8:34 pm): From TM

Of course Ian fucking remembers Mickey. He hasn’t stopped fantasizing about the guy for days.

But what the fuck does Mickey want with him? The guy hardly even looked at him when Ian tried to strike up a conversation on Sunday. Not like he’s going to suddenly reach out to grab an impromptu beer.

But, well, Ian is currently spending his evening alone in his bedroom melting his brain with screen time. The thought of wasting a few hours with the sexy, mysterious biker boy doesn’t sound all too unappealing.

Ian (8:36 pm): Uh...yeah. Why?

He taps his index finger against the back of his phone impatiently as he waits.

(209) 555-7432 (8:37 pm): Meet me here

Ian’s phone buzzes as Mickey shares his location, a thumbnail of a map appearing in their conversation thread with a red pin dropped in a sea of green that looks like the middle of nowhere.

(209) 555-7432 (8:37 pm): And bring the shit

Bring the shit.

Holy fuck, is Mickey saying what Ian thinks he’s saying?

You free right now? Meet me at this secluded-ass location. And bring the shit.

Ian knows he’s been out of the game for a while. Also knows he’s been getting pretty fucking desperate and it may be causing him to read too much into things. 

But this is a blatant booty call, right? And by “shit” Mickey clearly means sex supplies. Right? 

Ian’s like eighty-five percent sure he’s interpreting this all correctly.

For a moment he considers wandering out to find Lip, showing him the texts, and asking his opinion. Definitely a thing he would have done back home.

But Mickey’s Lip’s coworker, and if Ian is wrong, Lip will absolutely tell Mickey about the whole ordeal and Ian will quite literally die from embarrassment.

His phone buzzes again and he nearly kicks a hole through the wall as his entire body jerks in surprise.

(209) 555-7432 (8:41 pm): You comin or not

Fuck. Moment of truth. 

Ian (8:42 pm): Omw.

He rolls off the bed, tripping over his own feet as he stumbles to his dresser.

He’d put on clean underwear after his shower, but he changes them anyway, swapping the worn, faded, plaid boxers for a newer, crisper pair of navy boxer briefs.

He shimmies into a pair of dark wash, slim-cut jeans and pulls on a hunter green v-neck t-shirt. 

Nothing fancy. Nothing that screams I’m here to bone. But still clothes he knows he looks good in should the evening go the way he’s expecting.

In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth and puts on a second layer of deodorant. His fingers brush against his orange prescription bottles as he puts away the deodorant. He stands still, hand hovering over the shelf as he debates if he needs to bring his nighttime meds with him or not.

He checks the time. 8:45. He doesn’t normally take them until around 11:00.

He assumes the casual nature of this hook-up means he’ll be out of there as soon as the deed is done. Not lingering around like a fucking date. No reason he shouldn’t be home by eleven, midnight at the latest.

He closes the medicine cabinet.

Back in his room, he grabs his keys and wallet from the top of his dresser. His wallet that is painfully lacking in both cash and condoms. He’s going to need to make a pit stop on the way.

He pats himself down, feeling through his pockets as he goes through his mental checklist -- phone, keys, wallet -- which is nothing but a nervous stall tactic considering he literally just put everything in there.

On his way out, he passes Lip sitting on the couch folding laundry at the coffee table.

“Where ‘ya goin’?”

“Out.”

Ian’s hand is on the doorknob when he hears Lip call back “Don’t rub your dick raw.”

Ian lifts his middle finger in the air behind him as he heads out the door.

----

He turns the key in the ignition of his car and it starts without a single clunk or sputter, Lip having fixed it up real well. He idles along the curb while he enters “drug store” into the search bar of his maps app and begins navigation to a CVS that’s semi on his path to the mysterious pinned location.

His left leg bounces restlessly and his hands feel sweaty against the steering wheel the entire five-minute drive. He feels like a fucking teenager on the way to pick up his prom date and he hates himself for it.

----

Under the glaring fluorescent lights of CVS, he makes his way directly to the family planning aisle. He quickly locates the condom section and grabs a box of his favorite magnums.

The lube section gives him more trouble. He’s usually all for the biggest, cheapest bottle on the shelf. But then that doubt creeps in that he’s misread this entire situation and he imagines himself showing up to a poker game or some shit carrying a fucking vat of lube and thinks better of it. 

He opts for a teeny, travel-sized bottle -- that costs nearly the same as a bottle twice the size -- that he can stash discreetly in his pocket just in case.

There’s no line so he walks straight up to the counter and checks out, avoiding eye contact with the teenage girl behind the register because it doesn’t matter that he’s a grown-ass adult, he still gets all kinds of awkward about this shit.

Back in the privacy of his car, he removes the packaging from the lube and pockets it. He opens the box of condoms, slides one into his pocket and another in his wallet -- because you never can be too prepared -- and tosses the rest into the glove box. 

Then it dawns on him that he’s just been assuming he’ll be the one wearing the condoms he’s just purchased. But he knows nothing about Mickey. Didn’t even know the guy was gay until less than half an hour ago. Fuck, he’s still not even totally sure about that.

Shit, what if the guy wants to fuck him? Ian’s horny -- that deep kind of long-brewing horniness -- but he’s still not sure if he’s that needy yet.

On the flip side, this guy is pretty damn intimidating. He’s a fucking gang member -- probably? -- for Christ’s sake. Ian’s not really sure he wants to find out what would happen if Mickey wants to fuck him and he turns him down.

Ian crosses his fingers and hopes for the best.

He gathers all the trash into the bag, wads it up, and shoves it under the passenger seat before setting up his navigation to take him to Mickey’s location.

----

The closer Ian gets, the denser the woods around him become. Within ten minutes, he finds himself on a narrow, two-lane road surrounded by trees, some growing large enough to arch clear over the street.

It’s strange to him how quickly the suburbs drop off into wilderness. Illustrates to him just how small his new town really is. Back in Chicago, he would have had to travel hours to see nature like this.

You have arrived at your destination.

His navigation app gives up where the paved road turns to dirt.

There’s an ominous “Private Property, No Trespassing” sign posted beside an open yellow security gate that’s so rusted out it wouldn’t be effective even if it was closed.

Checking the map on his phone, he sees the red pin floating in a sea of green not too far away from his blue and white dot, maybe another quarter mile.

He rolls the vehicle slowly down the dirt path, his visibility limited to the beams of his headlights, the dense trees overhead blocking out even the majority of the moonlight.

Blindly, he follows the only path available, hoping like fuck it’s leading him in the right direction, well aware that this absolutely feels like a scene from some B-level horror movie. Receiving a strange text from a handsome stranger summoning him out into the woods, alone, late at night. 

His eighty-five percent certainty this is about sex dwindles as he becomes more and more convinced he’s about to have his skin turned into a suit.

His sweaty palms slip along the leather of the steering wheel as he continues deeper into the probably fucking haunted woods. He must be way too fucking horny since he doesn’t turn around. 

His dick’s going to get him fucking murdered. 

----

When Ian’s just about reached the spot marked on his map, the dirt road opens up into a large clearing, a perfect oval of dirt and gravel surrounded on all sides by forest as far as the eye can see. There’s a worn wooden building, almost like a small cabin except that there are no windows. Some kind of extra large shed or storehouse maybe? The oak boards are distressed and riddled with dry rot like this place was long forgotten decades ago.

As he pulls the car to a stop in the middle of the clearing, the heavy-looking barn-style door slides open, and Mickey -- or he assumes it’s Mickey but it’s seriously fucking dark out here -- steps out.

Ian turns off the car and opens his door, praying his nervous legs don’t give out on him when he steps out.

“Took you fucking long enough,” Mickey calls from just outside the building before Ian’s even closed the car door behind him.

“Inside,” Mickey says, nodding his head ever so slightly before he turns around and heads back inside.

Ian scrambles across the gravel, the sounds of his boots crunching tiny rocks and dirt underfoot loud in the quiet night. 

As soon as Ian’s inside, Mickey slides the heavy door closed behind them and locks it with a metal latch that looks decades newer than everything else.

Ian looks around the large room. There’s no floor, just some straw thrown on top of the dirt. It’s definitely not a cabin, more like a warehouse of some sort. 

Huge wooden crates stamped HEAVY and AUTOMOTIVE PARTS are everywhere, stacked three and four high in places. Ian has a sneaky suspicion if he were to open one of them up, car parts are the last thing he’d find. He doesn’t stop to try and imagine what they might contain instead.

A couple bare fluorescent lights hang from the ceiling, thick orange extension cords snaking their way down the walls like they were jury-rigged there after the fact. It’s not a lot of light, but enough that Ian can finally get a good look at Mickey.

And he looks good. He’s wearing much the same uniform Ian’s come to expect him in. Those slim-fit jeans that hug his sturdy thighs just right. The black leather vest bearing the emblem of his...whatever the fuck. Except tonight the Teller-Morrow work shirt has been replaced by a black t-shirt with some kind of block lettering on the front, only an M and a C visible behind the vest. Immediately Ian misses those cut-off sleeves that show off Mickey’s toned arms.

He aches to touch him. To reach out and run his fingers through that dark hair. To feel the warmth of his neck under his palm.

Ian hasn’t been murdered yet, so odds are getting better this is what he thinks it is -- the two of them alone, at night, out in the woods. And if it is, then maybe he can. Maybe it would be perfectly acceptable for Ian to do all the things that are running through his mind at the sight of Mickey.

But Ian’s never really been all that great at reading social situations and what if he reaches out to run the back of his hand across Mickey’s smooth cheek and the man recoils before giving him the fag bashing of a lifetime with those tattooed knuckles. 

Before he can agonize about it much longer, Mickey’s on the move again, heading toward the only other door in the back of the warehouse.

“In here,” Mickey says, his back to Ian as he walks away. 

Ian’s eyes are transfixed on his ass while he follows.

The next room is smaller, a few more crates stacked up along two walls and a huge wood-topped workbench taking up the center of the space. It’s scattered in tools -- saws, hammers, screwdrivers, power drills -- most of them dusty like they were long forgotten along with the rest of this place.

He watches as Mickey shuts the door behind them and secures it with not one, but three heavy-duty locks. The kidnap-murder scenarios flash through Ian’s brain again.

Then they’re alone, locked in this room, standing a few feet apart, staring at each other.

Mickey’s eyes scan up and down Ian’s body, darting from his lips to his arms to his crotch and back up again. 

Ian’s sweating under his scrutiny, can feel the pit rings forming. His heart’s beating a million miles a second in anticipation. 

He’s awkwardly shifting from foot to foot when he realizes he’s not said a single damn word since he arrived. He’s wracking his brain for something to say, something to break the ice and move them past this weirdness and onto the inevitable -- Ian hopes -- fucking.

But Mickey beats him to it.

“You bring the shit?”

He’s direct and to the point. Impatient sounding.

“Uh…yeah,” Ian stammers back, the complete opposite of Mickey’s coolness. A fumbling idiot.

Ian reaches into his pocket and lays the single condom and lube on the workbench.

He doesn’t miss the way Mickey’s gaze lingers on the black and gold package or the way his breath hitches at the sight.

Knowing he’s thrown Mickey off his axis, even if only slightly, steadies Ian a bit. Makes him feel like they aren’t on completely different playing fields here.

Without further fanfare, Mickey’s hands drop and get to work on his belt buckle as he turns to face the table, which comes up roughly to his waist. In one inelegant motion, he shoves his jeans and underwear halfway down his thighs and bends himself over the worktop, his head resting on his forearms crossed on the surface, his beautiful pale ass on full display.

“Thank fuck.”

It’s out of Ian’s mouth before he can stop it. Quiet, barely a whisper, but still enough to be heard in the silence of the warehouse.

“What?” Mickey snaps, turning his head to look back at Ian.

“Uh…nothing. I just, I didn’t know if you were a…but cool. This is good.”

Fuck. Could he embarrass himself any worse? He’d crawl into a hole and die if he wasn’t crazy horny with a perfect ass staring him in the face. Maybe he still will later.

“You gonna ramble all night or you gonna fuck me?”

Even muffled through his arms, Mickey’s voice is sharp and demanding. A man who’s used to getting what he wants, probably by force.

It all seems a little rushed to Ian, a little detached and impersonal. But this is what he came here for after all. To fuck. Not dinner and a movie.

Ian positions himself behind Mickey and slides his own jeans and underwear down to his knees. He takes his cock in his hand and gives it a few good strokes, plumping himself up.

He leans over Mickey’s body to reach the lube, the fronts of Ian’s bare thighs pressing against the backs of Mickey’s, sizzle sparks radiating through Ian’s where they meet. He pops the lid and squirts the cool gel onto two fingertips.

Ian’s had plenty of sex. Fuck tons of sex both in and out of his right mind. He’s a gold star top and prides himself on being damn good at it. He knows a good prepping is essential to the process.

But he’s never done it like this before. So cold and clinical. Not a moment of foreplay to be had. Fuck, they’ve hardly even touched each other. But he’s not gonna hurt the guy just because this is fucking weird.

He circles Mickey’s hole with one slicked-up finger and he can see the reaper staring up at him from Mickey’s back rise and fall with deep breaths. He slides in one finger easily, then a second, and hears Mickey’s shaky exhale in the stillness of the room.

Ian spends a few moments scissoring his fingers, stretching Mickey in preparation for a third, but before he gets there, Mickey’s hurrying him on.

“Alright already. I’m good,” he huffs. “Let’s go.”

Mickey’s either even more needy than Ian or he’s finding this just as fucking weird and wants it to be over with.

Either way, Ian reaches around to grab the condom, more careful this time to avoid brushing against Mickey’s skin, which is ridiculous considering what they’re about to do, but whatever. He holds the foil in his left hand and tears it open with his teeth. He rolls it onto his cock and squeezes a little more lube into his right palm, spending a few seconds stroking himself to full hardness.

He wipes his lube-covered right hand onto his own pants figuring it’s only polite considering Mickey’s almost fully dressed and he’d feel like a dick fucking up someone else’s clothes.

He rests one hand on Mickey’s lower back -- the feeling of thick leather and rough, fabric patches foreign under his palm -- and uses the other to guide himself to Mickey’s hole.

He pushes inside and holy fuck it’s overwhelmingly fucking amazing. He’s only an inch deep when he has to pause, take a moment to breathe, to focus on something other than the intense heat and unbelievable tightness surrounding him.

Once he’s sure he’s not going to blow his load in point two seconds like a goddamn teenager, he sinks in further, slowly, all the way, the fronts of his thighs pressed up firmly against Mickey’s ass. 

His right hand gravitates to Mickey of its own volition, finding the side of his exposed leg and sliding up under the hem of his shirt to grip his hip. It’s the perfect combination of soft flesh covering solid bone that Ian can’t help but squeeze, to dig his fingertips into.

Mickey squirms under him, pushing his ass back into Ian, urging him to pick up the pace.

Alright, alright.

Ian settles into a steady rhythm, respectable at first, but when he hears Mickey start muttering curse words and groaning into the table he loses his reserve.

He slides the hand on Mickey’s lower back over the leather up to his shoulder. He uses his grips on his shoulder and hip as leverage to fuck him hard, deep, their bodies slapping together obscenely in the quiet night.

Rivulets of sweat are dripping down his temples and his leg muscles are burning but he can’t stop. Can’t let go of the sweet, sweet feeling of Mickey’s hole hugging his cock in a way he swears he’s never experienced before.

He has no idea if Mickey’s been blessed with a magical asshole or if anything would have been mind-altering after such a dry spell, but he tells himself it’s Mickey because that means there’s at least some chance in hell he may get to experience this again.

“Fuck, man,” Mickey groans as he shifts around and reaches his own hand down to stroke himself.

He must be close, ready to push himself over the edge.

And thank fuck because Ian’s not sure how much longer he was going to be able to hold out and gold star tops don’t finish first.

When Mickey comes two minutes later, Ian feels like every one of his nerves is on fire as Mickey’s ass contracts around his dick in rhythmic pulses.

“Fuck,” he nearly yells from somewhere deep in his chest as he follows Mickey right over the edge, collapsing onto his back in exhaustion and elation.

Ian’s face rests in the crook of Mickey’s neck and he can smell him, that same smell from the truck last week but now mixed with that distinct smell of sweat and pleasure mingling in the best way. He inhales deeply and tries to commit the smell to memory.

He feels a slick hand reach around and rest on his ass, not rubbing, not squeezing, just resting like Mickey’s not exactly sure what to do with it.

After a few seconds, Mickey’s wriggling underneath him so Ian stands up and carefully pulls out. His legs feel like jell-o and his fingertips tingle as the blood flow returns to his extremities.

Mickey stands and immediately pulls his pants back up, not even bothering to wipe himself down first. Ian pulls off the condom, and, not seeing anywhere to dispose of it, ties it off and pockets it as he tucks himself back into his own jeans. It’s disgusting but what else is he gonna do? He gathers the lube and the wrapper and adds them to the disaster in his pocket that he knows is gonna be a bitch to wash.

Without a word, Mickey unlocks the inner door and leaves the room. Ian follows as Mickey then unlocks the outer door and slides it open, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, making it pretty damn clear this is Ian’s cue to leave.

Whatever. He gets it. Not the first bed he’s been kicked out of as soon as the deed was done.

Ian pauses at the threshold feeling like he should say something -- a thank you, a that was fucking fantastic, let’s do this again sometime, something -- but everything that comes to mind sounds terrible even in his own head.

So he says nothing and is taking the first steps toward his car when he hears Mickey speak from behind him.

“You tell anyone ‘bout this, I’ll cut your fuckin’ tongue out.”

It’s harsh and threatening, but there’s an undertone of practiced malice that doesn’t seem quite genuine. Something about the way Mickey laid his hand on Ian’s skin after he came makes him think the man isn’t as tough and calloused as he lets on.

Then again, Ian’s not an idiot. Whatever these biker guys with the patches are involved with that requires a makeshift warehouse in the woods full of “car parts” has nothing to do with automotive repair. They are criminals, likely violent ones, and anything’s on the table.

It’s very possible these are legitimately dangerous people. That Mickey is a legitimately dangerous man. Maybe he would do it and never lose a moment’s sleep over it.

It doesn’t matter either way. Ian has no intention of telling anyone, just as happy to keep this little something private. Something that’s his own. That he doesn’t have to pick apart during court-mandated therapy or report back to his protective older siblings.

Ian doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking and gets in his car.

He needs to flip a u-turn to get back to the road, so he turns toward the building. When he’s lined up just right, he flashes his brights in Mickey’s face who’s still leaning against the door where Ian left him.

Mickey flips him off and Ian can’t help but laugh to himself at the obviously put-upon scowl on his face. 

As Ian drives away, he swears he can see Mickey smiling in his rearview mirror until he fades away into the darkness.