AN: Okay, so, I've recently joined the Shameless US fandom and the Ian/Mickey, Gallovitch ship. I was at work yesterday and the first line of this kept running through my head and I had to write it. Not sure how good it came out, because aside from a generous use of the f-word, I'm not sure I got either character quite right. But it's my first Shameless, so oh well.

This is a one-shot, by the way.

Go on. Go.

"The fuck happened to your face?"

Ian turned away quickly, hiding the bruises, even though it was obviously too late.

"Nothing," he mumbled out, crouching down to restock the cans of beans on the bottom shelf. He kept his face out of Mickey's line of sight, determined to not let the older boy see the extent of the damage. Determined not to be seen as weak, and a pussy.

They both went silent, the rhythmic sounds of cans hitting shelves mixing with the hum of the AC, Mickey still standing over Ian, leaning against the shelf with Snickers bar in one hand.

He kept his head down until he couldn't feel Mickey's heat against his anymore, jumping a little when her the lock on the front door click. The Mickey was in front of him, yanking his head up and over by the chin, inspecting his face.

"Seriously, Gallagher, what the fuck?"

"It's nothing, Mickey. Leave it." He wrenched his chin from Mickey's dirty grip, moving to the register and sitting down heavily, ignoring the brunet boy's hard eyes on his face.

Ian knew it looked bad. It felt worse. The entire left side of his face was black and blue, the left eye swollen shut, and his bottom lip split open in a couple of different places. Yeah, Frank had really fucked him up this time, but he sure as hell wasn't going to tell Mickey that.

Because while the other boy denied having any emotional attachment to Ian, he still tended to overreact on the boys behalf, and overreact with extreme violence.

Ian was secretly considering tricking him into an anger management class, but it would have to wait until he healed a bit. His bruises did not need bruises.

Mickey Milkovitch was simple. He lived by simple rules.

Don't fuck with him and he might not fuck with you.

Don't fuck with his sister, his Snickers, or his fucking Jell-O, or you're fucking dead.

That was it.

Until Firecrotch wandered into his fucking room with a tire iron and Mickey realized the red-head had a dick to fucking kill for—and knew how to use it. And, like his Jell-O, Mickey didn't like it when someone fucked with the kid, if only because he didn't want to deal with the whining and being gentle when they fucked because it fucking hurt or some shit. He liked it rough.

But Gallagher's fucking face looks like shit and Mickey's fucking pissed. He figures Firecrotch is gonna go on and on and on about it, that it hurts and blah blah woof woof. But instead, he shrugs it off with a fucking "nothing," and hiding and shit and Mickey know that there's not going to be any sex in the storeroom today, probably not even a blowjob to get him off, and he wants to fucking punch something for it.

You don't fuck with Mickey Milkovitch and you sure as hell don't fuck with his fucking.

And, yeah, okay, maybe he partly pissed that someone had fucking beat Gallagher, and that the younger boy wouldn't tell him who did it so he could go fucking kill them.

Mickey stood and stared as Gallagher pretended to work; smirking because the redhead obviously forgot that Mickey had locked the door and no one would be coming the fuck in.

The key, Mickey discovered once, to getting Firecrotch to talk was to make him relaxed. So he stomped up to the counter, grabbed the younger boy by the waistband of his pants and yanked him up out of his seat and into the back storeroom.

He pressed him up against the shelves, one arm holding him in place while his free hand went to work opening those fucking camouflage pants that hid the curve of Firecrotch's ass, pulling them, and the boxers underneath, off in one move.

He sunk to his knees and took Gallagher's dick in his mouth, smirking around it when Firecrotch groaned from somewhere above him.

Yeah, he'd be talkin' soon.

It was unexpected, which is why Ian didn't block it. Not even Fiona or Lip could figure out with cocktail mix of alcohol and drugs Frank was on when he came storming into the kitchen, bellowing about being underappreciated and deserving money for all the fucking "help" he gives them, like he does anything but steal their money and ask for alibis.

Normally Ian would've just let him blunder around the kitchen until her ran into something that knocked him out, or he passed out from whatever the fuck he was on. He would've done the same this time except that Frank had gone for Debbie's field trip money, the money we'd all been pitching in to save so she could finally go to the zoo for the first time.

And nobody fucking crushed Debs dreams. So Ian stepped in front of Franks grabby hands and told him to get the fuck out and leave them alone, and Frank, in a delirious, drugged out and drunken haze, head butted Ian, again, shouting that he couldn't tell him what the fuck to do because he wasn't his fucking kid.

Fists went flying at his head, more of them missing then connecting, and by the time Lip dragged Frank off of him, he had a half bruised and bloody face he knew would be fucking impossible to hide.

Ian explained all of this to Mickey, staring at the other boy's left shoulder, after Mick had refused to let him out of the stockroom until he "fucking told him who the fuck fucked up his fucking face."

When he was done, they were both quiet, long enough that Ian was seriously considering turning Mickey around and fucking him just to make the silence less…heavy.

"Why the fuck didn't you fight back?"

Ian just shrugged. "He's Frank. It's like hitting a little girl."

"Fuck that," Mick growled out, getting in Ian's face. "The fuck are you spending all that fucking time training for if you ain't gonna use it?"

"Fuck off, Mick,"

Mickey, tugged Ian to him for a quick, harsh kiss, and pulled away muttering, "I'm gonna fucking kill him."

He walked off, unlocking the stockroom door, and Ian followed him to the front of the store.

"No, you're not," Ian countered.

Mickey had the door half opened, and he paused.

"Nah. But I'm gonna fuck him up real good. I like blow jobs better when you're not whining about your face hurting or wincing while I fuck your mouth. Kills the fucking mood."

And he stormed out, leaving Ian standing there with a small smile on his face, wondering why the hell Mickey couldn't just fucking admit it already.

Oh well.

It could wait. Ian could wait.

With a sigh he wandered back to the register, wondering how long it was going to take Mickey to beat the shit out of Frank. He still wanted to fuck that pasty Milkovitch ass.