Chapter Text
Mickey wandered down the forest trail, flip-flops slapping against his heels, dusty rocks hitting his calves. He pushed his sunglasses up when they started to fall down his sweaty nose and smacked irritably at a hovering mosquito that must’ve been attracted to his unwashed musk.
He’d gotten lost the first five times he’d tried to find the lake due to a lack of signage—and a deeply embedded stubbornness that didn’t allow him to ask anyone, but it was fine. He’d figured it out.
Almost a week now since he’d gone off the grid. No car, no phone, no identification. Everything had been a casualty when he’d run, but at least he had nothing that could track him. Just a crappy tent he’d bought off another camper, a backpack with some rapidly dwindling supplies, and enough cash to cover his campsite for the rest of the month.
Staying at the park had been a split-second decision. He’d hitchhiked down the highway and managed to catch a ride with a crazy fuck named Jesus, who’d helpfully suggested it. Mickey never thought he’d be so happy to find Jesus. Hadn’t even been mad at Mickey for bleeding all over his seats. Really lived up to his name.
Terry would never think to find him in the middle of the fuckin’ bush. Neither would the rest of his fag bashing buddies. It would be safe. Probably.
Mickey had barely escaped the ambush. It was touch and go the first couple nights. He’d spent all his energy setting up the tent (it’d collapsed three times before he’d managed to get the flimsy fucker settled) and then passed out in it long enough for the sun to set twice. He’d only briefly woken up to throw back some vodka from his flask and a handful of painkillers. Since then, he’d slowly started healing.
He had about as much outdoor skills as a domesticated house cat, but it wasn’t fucking rocket science. Figuring out how to survive the wilderness was also consuming most of his thoughts and left little time for other shit.
He’d only glanced at himself in the mirrors once. Four days ago, when he’d managed to drag himself to the showers. He’d only taken one after finding out there was a fuckin’ fee to use them. The black eye and huge, mottled bruises had made the other campers visibly recoil from him, but at least he wasn’t limping around like a cripple anymore.
When rocks turned to sand, Mickey made his way to the fishing docks. He couldn’t give a flying fuck about fishing—though it’d maybe be a good idea to learn if he wanted to keep his belly full—but there were some wooden loungers there that were kinda nice to sit in and look out over the water. They were nailed to the planks to prevent people from taking them. Mickey probably would have grabbed one for his campsite if not.
All were occupied except for one. A green towel was folded at the foot of the lounger, but it could’ve been there since the day before. Mickey shrugged and dropped his backpack. He removed his shirt, revealing another patchwork of bruises and a farmer’s tan, and made himself comfortable.
A lady and her pipsqueak kid gawked at him unabashedly from the loungers beside him. “Take a picture. It’ll last fuckin’ longer,” Mickey snarked.
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Ian hadn’t always been an outdoorsman, but one summer after getting diagnosed bipolar, he got sent to a camp for crazies. He still referred to it as that—lovingly, of course—because the troubled teens camp had saved his life and changed it for the better.
He was the only one of his siblings that had been dealt the mental illness from their mother, but unlike her, he’d come out on the other side of it. He was still alive and better off because he’d found nature. The camp had been a bit of a last resort, but it had been there that he discovered the true power of the wilderness.
Ian had found peace and relief from his troubled mind for the very first time. The fresh air, meds, quietness and sunshine had helped him get his life back on track. Ian had loved it so much by his second summer that he’d gotten a job at a park as soon as he’d turned eighteen and had worked his way up to what he was now: a senior park ranger.
Finally, Ian had a break after a long week of enforcing rules and taking care of the massive campsite. It was tiring being a narc, keeping people safe and making sure the shared facilities were well maintained, but the hard work was well worth the many amenities he got to enjoy on his days off.
One of his favorite things to do was fish, so that was his plan for the morning. Knowing the campsite was packed due to the holiday weekend, he got up bright and early and drove down to the dock from his on-site accommodations to scope out the situation.
All but one of the Adirondack chairs were free. Luckily, Ian had brought his towel with him. He folded it neatly on the chair's footstool as a placeholder while he went to get his tackle box, cooler, and fishing poles.
He was sweating by the time he made it back. Ian narrowed his eyes when he walked by filled chairs and noticed the chair at the end that he’d claimed was also occupied. He rolled his eyes hard. Great, he thought.
Ian walked slower. When he got to his chair, he dropped his stuff loudly because he was fucking pissed. He needed his towel.
“That’s my towel, man,” he mumbled quietly enough so the guy wouldn’t hear it. “And my fucking chair.” Ian gently tugged the towel out from underneath the random ass… pretty but completely beat-up man’s flip-flop-clad feet.
Mickey was dozing lightly when something woke him. He didn’t usually fall asleep around anyone, let alone in public, but too many rough nights in his tent had taken their fucking toll.
The sun's warmth had disappeared, and in its place loomed a nearly six-foot ginger with a pissy expression and long dandelion stalk legs. Too bad they were covered up in the ugliest pair of khakis Mickey had ever fuckin’ seen.
And the towel… ah. So, this was its owner.
“Are you good?” Ian asked. Not wanting to stare, since he saw the various cuts, scrapes, and bruises all over the guy, he discreetly dabbed his sweaty brow with the towel.
Mickey’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Was he good? Well, he had been before this Boy Scout leader decided he needed to do his good deed for the day. Mickey didn't need any help or any pity.
“I always carry a… uh… a first aid kit in my tackle box.” Ian crouched beside it and opened it to show the mystery man. “I’m trained in first aid if you need it. Kinda looks like you do. Did you fall or something?”
Ian couldn’t turn off the park ranger in him, even though it was his fucking day off.
“Sure, from heaven,” Mickey said with a mean smirk. Hidden behind his sunglasses, he checked Red out. “You use that line on all the dock guys, huh?”
That would either scare the cute freckled fuck away, or Mickey would get a few new bruises to add to his collection. Either result was fine with him.
It was a reflex for Ian to roll his eyes again despite walking right into that. “You’d know if I was hitting on you. I wouldn’t use a cheesy ass line like that, especially when it’s blatantly obvious that you didn’t fall from heaven. You don’t look that angelic. You certainly don’t act like it either, stealing people’s chairs.”
So… Ian wasn’t ready to let that go.
Mickey made a noise, amused. Being insulted felt like he was right at home again. “Oh-ho. Blatantly.”
The insinuation of being a fag hadn’t triggered the response Mickey had been expecting, either. There had been no violent denial of anything. You’d know if I was hitting on you.
Uh-huh, right. So, did that mean…?
Nah, couldn’t be.
“Ay, Bear Grylls, can ya move a little to the left? You’re blockin’ my sunlight.”
Even squatting down, he was managing to do that. Kinda impressive.
Ian huffed and slammed his tackle box shut. “Alright, fine with me. I’m off today. I don’t have to help you.” That was true. While the camper looked banged up, the blood that was on him was dry. Mostly, he just looked dirty—not actively in pain. “You’re as pale as a vampire. Are you sure the sun isn’t gonna make you melt?”
Rude as hell was what he was. Ian stood up and took his stuff to the end of the doc. If this guy hadn’t fallen, someone had probably pushed him.
“Well, ain’t you all in a snit.” Mickey sucked his lower lip into his mouth to stem a grin. Seemed he’d riled Khakis up quite a fuckin’ bit. Why was his little tantrum kinda funny and charming?
…Wait, forget that last part.
“You could go back to hell for all I care,” Ian mumbled. He sat down on his towel and started prepping his fishing pole.
The lounger beside Mickey vacated as the lady bundled her brat up in a towel and grabbed her beach bag, not without glaring daggers at them. Mickey threw her the finger and waved. She gasped, carting him away.
Mickey turned his attention back to more entertaining things. He eyed the broad planes of a back, of tense muscled shoulders, of a square-cut jaw that was sharp enough to slice cheese.
Steve Irwin over there was right on the money. Mickey hadn’t fallen from anywhere heavenly. He’d clawed his way up from the depths of hell and, luckily, lived not to tell the tale. “By the way, if I’m from hell, you’d know it takes a fuckin’ lot to make me melt. Kinda hot down there.”
Khakis’ shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn around.
Despite his words, Mickey quickly turned as pink as a fuckin’ shrimp, his mouth drying out. He reached for his backpack and unzipped it, pulling out the nearly empty water bottle. He drained it, the plastic crunching as he squeezed out every last drop. He stuffed it back into his pack, barely slaked. He’d have to remember to refill at the tap on his way back to camp.
He’d never drank so much water in his whole damn life—none that wasn’t fermented or carbonated—but he’d learned fast that it was a necessity when you were living in the heat twenty-four-seven if you didn’t want to pass the fuck out.
It didn’t take long for someone else to swoop in to try and claim the empty spot, but Mickey stopped them before they could sit down. “That’s taken.” He gestured at Red’s back when the dumbass just blinked stupidly at him. “Fuck off.”
“Sorry,” the guy muttered, quickly turning tail.
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Admittedly, while Ian was off work, telling a camper to go to hell was a bit much. But the guy had stolen his chair and then had the gall to ask him to move. Now, Ian had no other option but to sit on the dock. He rarely got blatantly disrespected when he was just trying to be helpful. He had no patience for anyone who didn’t respect him or the park.
And the audacity to be cute and accuse Ian of hitting on him, too? Ian took a few deep breaths. It was okay to be mad and have that reaction. He had to remind himself that it was okay to feel your feelings, then you could move on from them.
Ian was there to relax and catch some fish, and that was exactly what he would do.
After baiting the hook, he extended his telescopic rod and cast the reel, letting it fly. Ian felt relief once the process was started and the hook sank into the water. All he had to do now was wait.
Even though it was still early, the temperature was rapidly rising. Ian could feel his shirt starting to stick to his skin—and no, absolutely not. He couldn’t stand that feeling. Ian stuck the pole between his thighs for a moment.
Of course, as soon as he pulled his shirt up, he got a bite, making him squeeze his thighs together to keep the pole steady while the line spun rapidly, unwinding. Ian quickly threw the shirt behind him so he could take hold of the rod.
Didn’t look like any more banter was forthcoming from Kahkis. Mickey was almost disappointed, if only because he was bored out of his fucking skull. Red actually looked like he was enjoying himself fishing, too. Mickey watched his arms flex and relax as he worked his rod, and then…
A sweaty t-shirt landed directly on his face. Khakis had hucked it behind him. Mickey grumbled and tossed it off, his nose twitching in the aftermath.
Ian laughed at the noise the guy behind him made. He must’ve hit him with it. Oops. “Sorry, I got a live one!” Ian shouted. He started swiftly reeling in whatever was on the hook.
Getting the fish out of the water was more of a struggle than Ian had thought. He got to the point where he couldn’t reel the line in any further. Ian groaned lowly and tugged roughly a few times to fight the fish’s resistance. His muscles were straining, so he stood on his knees and arched his back for more leverage.
Mickey stared. From the back, it looked like Khakis was in the middle of… well. Mickey’s imagination filled that in a little too fuckin’ quickly.
Mickey probably could have fuckin’ recorded this and posted it to PornHub. Make himself a few bucks. Too bad he didn’t have his phone anymore.
Ian held steady and finally brought the fish to the surface. Upon seeing how big the pike was, Ian knew he couldn’t reel it in the rest of the way. He shakily reached for his net and scooped it out with a triumphant noise.
Once it was safely in the net and on the dock with him, he pulled the fish out and held it by the hook in its mouth. He took his phone out and snapped a selfie, then sent the picture to his brother with the message: This thing is about as tall and ugly as you are.
The size of the fish, when it appeared, was enormous. Red hadn’t even been sitting there that long. Was that normal?
Who was he texting? Maybe a buddy, but more likely a wife. Mickey bet he had a bunch of little redheaded fuckers running around at home who were gonna be excited to see him. The wife would probably kiss his cheek and cook that fish for them while they all sat around a table like a big, happy, normal family and…
Why was he thinking about this? The fuck did it matter.
Mickey would leave Khakis to jerk off to his trout, but he grabbed that sweaty shirt and stuffed it in his pack first. Payback for being hit with it. He smirked, picturing Red having another fit when he realized it was gone. Mickey doubted he’d ever see the guy again, anyway.
Slinging his bag onto a burnt shoulder, Mickey got up and headed down the docks.
He refilled his water by the taps, waiting in line behind a few other campers before making the long trek to the general store to get a budget-friendly beef jerky and bag of chips for dinner. He could've looted something more substantial but was trying to lay low. Also, the owner had given him a free coffee the day before, which was suspiciously nice.
When he returned to his tent, Mickey laid down, head cushioned on his lumpy pack. He stared up at the growing hole in the roof where bugs were coming through. Somehow, he was exhausted, but one part of him wasn’t.
After ignoring the urge for ten minutes, Mickey sighed and shoved his hand down his boxers. And if he pictured Khakis out of his khakis in his head while he did it, handling his real rod, well, nobody would ever know.
