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“Jesus Christ, just sit down behind the counter and let me do this. It hurts just lookin’ at you,” Mickey said, pushing Ian aside and moving the box of lettuce on his own. Ian looked at a loss for a moment and tried to pick up another box but he just dissolved into a coughing fit (all over the apples, oops) and Mickey shoved him towards the register.
“What’d I tell ya? Get behind the fuckin’ counter now and let do this or I’ll knock ya out flat,” he tried to look threatening but even on his worst day Mickey had stopped scaring him a long time ago. Still, he did as he was told and slumped onto the stool behind the counter, sniffling and leaning his face in his hands.
After he was done moving the new boxes of produce onto their stand, Mickey dug through the cans on one of the shelves until he found a dented can of chicken soup and brought it to Ian at the counter. Ian just looked at it and tried to hand it back to Mickey but he scoffed. “Heat it up and eat it, Gallagher. Ain’t that what you’re supposed to eat when you’re sick? Soup or some shit?”
“Canned soup is full of salt and it’s really bad for you,” Ian said, though he was looking around behind the counter for a can opener.
“Well it’s what we got so fuckin’ eat it,” Mickey said, and the next thing Ian knew he slid a box of soda crackers across the counter. “These too. And I know they’re fuckin’ covered in salt so don’t start bitchin’.”
Ian looked down at the soup and the crackers and frowned. “I’m gonna be fine, Mick. I’ll sweat it out in a couple days.”
“Can’t fuck when you’re sick,” Mickey said but Ian could tell he was trying to play his concern down. “This is just what my mom used to do. Mandy used to pick up colds every other week so I got pretty used to helping her, especially after mom croaked.”
Ian listened, carefully because Mickey didn’t talk about his mom often. He didn’t know how long ago she’d died or what kind of a guardian she’d been because Mickey and Mandy didn’t talk about it, but he liked to think she had been alright. Better than Terry, at any rate.
“You’re taking care of me,” Ian said, in awe, after he’d heated up the soup and munched on a few crackers. Mickey had just brought him a paper cup of strong lemon tea; it cleared his sinuses before he’d even taken a sip. He watched as Mickey bustled around and did what essentially was Ian’s job. He didn’t even pause in what he was doing when Ian commented, though Ian knew he had heard and was listening. “I’m sick and you’re taking care of me.”
“Just don’t wanna have to go without dick. Be a pain to have to find a new guy now that you know how I like it,” Mickey said, without looking up but Ian had a feeling there was more to it than that.
Later on when their shift had ended and they were on the way out the back door, Mickey paused while putting on his scarf as if he’d just remembered something important and strode back into the front of the store. He came back into the back room after a second and finished getting dressed to leave.
“Ay, heads up,” he said to Ian, tossing something at him from across the room. Ian just caught it, and inspected it. It was a plastic jar of menthol salve and Ian just smiled down at it.
“Rub it on your chest before you go to sleep,” Mickey said, pushing past Ian and walking out into the alley behind the store. He lit a smoke and waited for Ian to join him. Ian only hesitated for a moment, then he grinned and shoved the jar in his bag, swinging it onto his shoulder and leaving the store in favour of walking home with Mickey.