Chapter Thirteen: Its Only Paranoia

Two days later, Mickey spilled a cooking pot of coffee on his arm. Burned the piss out of himself. Usually, Mickey handled all of his own injuries, but this particular burn required medical attention; even Mickey could see that. So he went to the emergency room and sat in the waiting room for at least an hour before his name was called. And then sat in his room, in immense pain, for another hour before someone came in to address his burn. By the time he was finished, Mickey saw that it was nearly five in the afternoon. He seethed to himself after bitching at a nurse for his too long wait, and then grabbed the discharge papers from the cunt's hand harshly. To make his point more clear, Mickey stomped by the billing office in the first floor hallway, where he had to turn in the paperwork, only to tell the large old man behind the window that this hospital could suck Mickey's dick. They wouldn't see a dime. He leaned over the counter as he hissed this in the man's face. Arm stinging horribly, despite the numbing agent.

"Do as you please," the walrus looking asshole blubbered. "A collection agency will be in touch," he added.

Fat chance. Mickey had given fake everything to this place. Mickey began spinning around, the laughing words "Fuck you" falling from his lips, papers falling to the floor where he planned on leaving them. And came face to face with a familiar freckled boy. The smile dropped from Mickey's lips, replaced with raised brows sand slightly opened mouth, revealing his two front teeth. Ian's expression almost mirrored Mickey's, only with amusement his joker's grin.

"Hey," Ian Chuckled.

"'Sup," Mickey greeted, looking down at the papers floating between them. The while that he had stared at Ian, Mickey had a great look at the damage Rodney had done. The kid's nose had been broken. He wore a bandage across it, and had bruises under his eyes and across the tops of his cheeks. Had stitches on the bottom corner of his mouth. Was wearing long sleeves, despite the weather, likely to cover all the bruises. He walked on crutches and had a cast up to his left knee. Had a brace around his midriff. Probably due to a back injury that wasn't too major, but must be a pain in the ass. Poor fucking kid. But Ian's hands were bruises and scabbed. So at least he had fought back. Of course, Mickey didn't remember seeing bruises on Rodney. In fact, Ian was built buffer than Rodney, and honestly the teen looked like he might have a hell of a punch. So Rodney had most likely surprised Ian. Had ganged up on the boy with someone else. It made sense.

"Can I help you, sir?" the clerk called loudly over Mickey's shoulder, to Ian.

Ian knitted his brow, rolled his eyes a little at Mickey in regards to the clerk, a smirk on his childish face, and stepped up to the window. Mickey stood back, watching as Ian paid a bill under the name Fiona Gallagher. Then paid a lesser amount under his own name. Ian was then berated for not giving the full amount due.

Mickey found himself biting his tongue.

"At least you are paying, though," the clerk grumbled, peeking up at Mickey from the corner of his eye.

And there it went; Mickey's tongue leaped from its hiding place. As Ian turned to walk away with his receipt, the clerk looking smug, Mickey sneered and let off his mouth. The clerk sat taken aback, and Mickey then turned to leave.

Mickey's father had always told Mickey that he took after his mother's sassy mouth. When Mickey had been younger and had been slapped around for it, he held back. Now he simply let it rip. Quick wit made for a strong mind. He'd heard that somewhere.

As he walked out of the building, Mickey came to realize he had unconsciously walked slow enough for Ian to follow beside, clumsily. Had in fact, held the fucking door open without thinking. Mickey stopped in front of the smoke free campus sign and began digging through his pocket for the half empty pack of Camels and his lighter. Ian found this amusing, and it wasn't until Mickey heard the teen snickering that he looked behind and saw the huge sign. He side smiled, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he lit up, cocked a brow, and said, "Fuck 'em."

Grinning at Mickey, Ian wrinkled his eyes and shook his head. After Mickey took a couple drags, feeling Ian's eyes on him, Ian finally shifted his crutches and nodded toward Mickey's bandaged arm, asking what happened.

Mickey glanced down at his arm, then shrugged. "Burned the shit out of myself trying to pour fucking coffee," he said, disgruntled at the mere memory.

Ian, eying Mickey's cigarette, remarked, "You take it hot now?"

A few seconds passed before Mickey registered Ian's remark properly. He felt his face heat up and wanted to bolt. He blamed his misunderstanding on the news of Ian's homosexuality and nothing more. Clearing his throat, he said, "Desperate times." Because fuck, he really was strapped for cash. Was actually budgeting for once. Which came to mind especially, as Mickey dug back out his smokes and handed one to Ian.

Ian thanked Mickey and lit his offered cigarette awkwardly because of his crutches.

Mickey stood there quietly, smoking his entire cigarette and looking at Ian's face. Finally he said, "You look like hell. How's the other guy?" Mickey usually wasn't one for small talk, but since seeing Ian's hands, he wondered what had actually gone on. He hoped to probe it out of Ian, without seeming obvious.

Looking slightly self-conscious, Ian squirmed in place, placing a hand over his right cheek, thoughtful, clearly thinking about how fucked up his face was. He sighed and a piece of hair flapped above his eye. "Fine," he admitted, admirably. He looked down at one of his discolored hands, clenching and unclenching his fist. "I barely even made a scratch back," he said and shrugged awkwardly around the crutches. "I might have been able to fight them off, but I honestly didn't see them until I took a hit to the temple," Ian explained, downtrodden. "And by then it was useless," he sighed.

And even though Mickey had already eavesdropped on at least part of the guilty party, and knew the reason behind Ian's attack. Even though it wasn't his business, he asked if Ian had seen the fuckers' faces.

Ian stared for a second, sucking his busted bottom lip, uncertain looking. "No," he eventually said, but then added, "not that I needed to. I pissed off the wrong person. You were there when it happened. As I recall, you literally helped fuel the fire, then bounced."

Mickey nodded, flicked the cigarette butt he'd been holding idly, and licked his teeth slowly. "You need to stop taking shit from that guy," he commented, stuffing his hands into his pockets and trying not to look as if he felt a little guilty.

Snorting, Ian dropped his finished cigarette to the ground near Mickey's. Watched it burn out. "Right," he dragged, bitter. "Kind of hard to do, since Rodney has his thumb on the trigger to my sister's—'' he cut himself off, eyes widening for a second at his almost slip. "Rodney's like a fucking dirty penny that I can't get rid of," he hurried to say.

"Sure you can," Mickey said casually. "Fucking toss the penny, man. It ain't hard." he wished Ian would finish his earlier sentence. Mickey's interest was peeked.

"Easier said than done," Ian mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Mickey decided to drop the chit-chat. He shrugged. "Whatever you say," he said, trying not to stare at Ian too intently. He was now paranoid that he was doing so. However, he could feel the redhead's eyes on him, and knew that it wasn't paranoia. Couldn't be. Ian looked curious, and likely it was because of Mickey's behavior. Mickey wanted to drop this fast. His cleared his throat and nodded toward Ian's legs, toward the crutches. "Those are a bitch," he said, stalling and unsure why. Mickey thought he'd settled this situation with himself. Apparently his tongue and feet hadn't caught up with his thought process. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, the other still in his pocket, and said,"Look, people make situations out to be a lot more complicated than they actually are." His eyes darted around. Fully aware that the advice he gave was hypocritical. Mandy had once told Mickey that he was the the worst for making everything out to be more complicated than it actually was. And she wasn't wrong.

"Well," Ian sighed, "trust me when I say if anything, I'm under-exaggerating."

Finally Mickey looked back at Ian, chewing the dead skin on the back of his gnawed lip. He maintained eye contact for a few silent moments. Ian's eyes looked conflicted, like he wanted to ask something dire but couldn't bring himself to spit it out. The redhead opened and closed his mouth a few times, then rolled his eyes at himself and grinned.

Mickey knitted his brow, frowning. "What?" He asked gruffly.

"Forget it," Ian said, still grinning.

After shrugging, Mickey tried to swallow down his once again grumbling stomach.

Ian sighed, this time clearly hearing Mickey's hunger. And probably had the last time. Mickey was fast to assume Ian's earlier struggle for words had to do with the next words that left his mouth. "I'm going for dinner. If you're hungry, I could use a designated guide," Ian joked, wiggling his crutch and smirking.

Mickey's stomach flipped. His face ached with need to decide on a suitable expression. Part of Mickey blanched at the idea of going for breakfast with Ian, mainly because of the stigma Mickey was now placing with being alone in public with a kid who everyone in this neighborhood apparently knew was a queer. Another part of Mickey was starving and found Ian's company pleasant. Easy to relax around.

He cleared his throat and buried his hand deeper in his pocket, the other swinging by his hip awkwardly. Scrunching his nose, he pushed his shoulders back, licked his bottom lip, and said nonchalant, "Sure, why not." Then snorted, a smirk gracing his face, and added, chidingly, "You paying?"

Ian laughed lightly, "Doubtful," he said as they turned to walk across the street. "Something tells me you make enough money," Ian added casually, then stepped onto the crosswalk, hobbling and looked back over his shoulder when Mickey wasn't beside of him any longer. His brow creased and he grinned back at Mickey, standing beside the stop sign still. "Are you coming?" He asked loudly, over the sound of traffic.

Mickey removed his hand from his pocket and chewed the side of his thumb, frowning. His cheeks burned once again, his chest flipped, sunk, and stung nervously. He hated that every comment Ian made fell to the gutter side of Mickey's mind now. That hadn't been so before. Not really. Huffing, Mickey caught back up with Ian. He had a feeling that the punk knew exactly what he was doing with those comments. Or maybe Mickey was just being paranoid again. Just like maybe he was being paranoid about Ian's knowledge over Mickey's career field.