The house is empty and quiet, Mandy fucked off somewhere when she heard that Terry was coming home, and Ian really hopes it isn’t with Kenyatta. Mickey leads him into the small bathroom and tells Ian to sit on the toilet lid. He grabs a shit-ton of washcloths and flicks on the hot water tap.

“How the ribs doin’?” Mickey asks, quietly, as he runs a few towels under the hot water.

Ian splays a hand against his ribs and presses down, and they twinge for a few seconds, but it’s nothing horrible. If anything, the pain that collected in his chest after watching Mickey and his father and the baby is gone. His heart was pretty wrecked, before.

“They’re fine,” he answers, but the worried look he catches in Mickey’s eyes doesn’t seem to fade. “Promise.”

Mickey nods and he leans down with one of the towels. He starts on Ian’s forehead and works his way down his face, wiping away blood and sweat, and it feels good, the warm cloth and Mickey’s gentle fingers brushing against his skin. Ian doesn’t want to think about why Mickey’s so good at taking care of injuries, doesn’t want to think about the way he and Mandy learned to clean up their wounds, two bruised kids that didn’t deserve any of it, and the pain in Ian’s ribs comes back.

Mickey keeps his touches brief.

Please touch me, Ian wants to say, you can do that now, it’s okay. We won.

Mickey can’t hear the words battering inside Ian’s head.

He finishes cleaning up Ian’s face, but not before Ian reaches up and clasps a few of Mickey’s fingers against his face, tangling them together. Mickey’s fingers still against Ian’s skin.

“Fuck off,” Mickey mumbles softly, his eyes fixed on the cold tile floor of the bathroom. Ian doesn’t listen immediately, he keeps their fingers together for a few more moments, before letting go.

“Your turn,” Ian says, as he stands up. “Switch with me.”

They bump into each other a few times as they shuffle around the small bathroom, until Ian is standing at the sink with the washcloths and Mickey is sitting down. Ian reaches over with a wet cloth and wraps his hand around Mickey’s chin, tilting it upwards. Mickey is pliant in his hands, he lets Ian run the washcloth over his face, and he’d probably never admit it out loud, but he sighs gently at Ian’s touch.

Ian winds a few fingers into Mickey’s dark hair, brushing it off his forehead as he cleans up his face, and Mickey is quiet until his eyes catch on something behind Ian.

“Shit,” he breathes out, his face turning whiter than usual, and something in his voice makes Ian’s blood run cold. “Shit.”

Ian whips around, but he doesn’t see anything behind them, just a pile of guns on the kitchen table and the messy interior of the Milkovich house.

“The fuck’s wrong, Mickey?”

“My dad’s got friends. Buddies,” Mickey says, his voice wobbly and his face pale as a ghost. Ian watches Mickey’s hands shake in his lap as he finishes cleaning the last spot of blood of his face. “He’ll send them after us. We’re not safe, Ian. Fuck.”

Ian drops the washcloth after he finishes. “Hey,” he whispers, and he can hear Mickey’s breath speed up dangerously. “Hey.”

“I’m serious, Ian. I’m so fucking stupid. My dad’s never - he’s never gonna.” Mickey stops for a moment. “He’ll kill us.”

Ian’s throat tightens as he frames the edges of Mickey’s face with his hands. He thumbs at the wrinkles on Mickey’s brow, smoothing them over. Mickey lets him. “Look at me - just breath, okay?”

He holds Mickey’s head and he watches Mickey’s breathing slow and he pushes all the warmth and calm he can against Mickey’s skin.

“We’re safe,” Ian repeats, over and over. “We’re safe,” until the color returns to Mickey’s cheeks.

“Okay,” Mickey agrees, softly. Ian pulls his hands off Mickey’s face and leads him towards the bedroom.

—-

Ian waits until he’s pretty sure Mickey is asleep, their legs tangled under the sheets and his arm slung over Mickey’s shoulder. He pulls Mickey closer and grazes a quick kiss against the top of Mickey’s head.

“It’ll be okay,” he promises, his mouth pressing into Mickey’s hair, and his eyes sliding shut as Mickey sighs quietly against his chest.

—-

When Ian wakes up, it’s not okay. His whole body hurts, his mind is foggy, he’s so fucking tired and he doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t register much.

He thinks Mickey is talking to him, he thinks Fiona’s hand might be in his hair, he thinks the bed is cold. Ian’s stuck in a whirlpool and he keeps sinking lower and he doesn’t know how to pull himself out.

He doesn’t register much until the third day (at least he thinks it’s the third day - time moves slowly and way too fast, all at the same time, and sometimes the room is bright and sometimes it’s dark and he can’t make himself move), when he realizes that Mickey is lying next to him on the bed, on top of the covers, because Ian wrapped them tight around his body, like that would protect him, like that would keep him from drowning

Ian’s breath catches in his throat as Mickey rolls over and presses his mouth to Ian’s hair, his breath hot against Ian’s temple.