Chapter Text
Mickey’s hoarse scream rings out through the Gallagher house, the daycare kids pausing briefly to look around at the source of the shouting, and carrying on when they realize the yelling isn't aimed at them.
He’s gripping the edges of the kitchen counter, pants pulled down to his knees as Ian applies a damp tea towel to his punctured ass cheek. He clenches his teeth and rapidly breathes through his nostrils as the pain in his ass fires up even further, as Ian clumsily fumbles around trying to move a desk lamp over closer to him.
“Calm down, Mick. It's gonna be ok. I need you to stay still so I can make sure I got all the glass out.”
“Calm down, he says. This is your fault, motherfucker!” Mickey hisses. “If it wasn't for your dumb idea to break into the drunk old racist’s shop, I wouldn't have had to climb through that fucking window and land on fucking broken glass. Don’t tell me to calm down, Asshole!”
Unable to respond with anything that won't inflame Mickey’s ire, Ian clenches his jaw shut, pointing his chin at the back of Mickey’s head and willing himself to not mention the fact that Mickey was the one who had broken the window in the first place, and Mickey was the one who had threatened to set fire to the old drunk’s pawn shop in retaliation for his comments about Liam, leading Ian to suggest robbing him instead, as a lesser evil. Finally, it was Mickey who had knocked the tall wooden clock off its shelf in his haste to collect as many trinkets as he could fit in his pockets, creating a horrendous din that woke the old drunk in the back room and caused them to require a speedy exit.
Fiona bursts through the back door, sweaty, covered in dirt and brandishing what looks like a tibia and fibula with a dirty old shoe still fitted to the foot.
“Ian! What the fuck!?” She shouts, causing both Ian and Mickey to freeze and look up.
Fiona scans the situation in the house, with children screaming and crying, hitting each other with rubber bats, children tied to the stairway banister with Caution tape, a strange, smartly dressed woman with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail standing timidly in the doorway clutching a folder to her chest, a young child in pigtails and a pink bikini dancing on the coffee table wearing garish makeup, and then to Mickey, who is still laying bare assed on the counter, huffing in pain, blood trickling down his buttock.
Ian locks eyes with her, then lowers his gaze to the body part in her hands.
They both exclaim in unison: “I can explain this!”