When Ian came to in the back of a moving van with a bag over his head and his wrists cuffed together, he knew he was fucked. He could feel warmth trickling down the side of his face and the scratchy material rubbing against what felt like a gnarly head wound. He kept quiet and still for a moment until someone had reached down to grab him and he reacted, kicking out and struggling instinctively. "Get the fuck away from me" he'd snarled, earning a sharp kick to the stomach that winded him. 

That had been the start of the nightmare. 

Ian had overheard them talking. Cartel members, if the way they talked about the trade, their people and one singular goal: to make Milkovich pay. Mickey. They meant Mickey. Obviously they caught onto who had sold them out all of those years ago and was able to track them down, figure out his life, his routine and the people in it. His husband, for one thing. The man he'd sold them out for. 

Making him pay could mean anything. He could be sent back to his husband in pieces as revenge, or they could be trying to lure him to where Ian was so they could take it out of his flesh. 

It was hard not to let his imagination simply run with it as they drove further. Ian had always enjoyed movies, he'd seen a few mob movies -- enough to know that they don't take things like betrayal lightly. Only this was real, and Ian was fucked. He either is killed by these people or they kill Mickey. Because he's not stupid enough to believe that he won't come flying in to rescue him, but in doing so he'd be walking right into the trap that'd been set. 

So as terrified as he is, he hopes... that he doesn't do that, that he uses those smarts of his to formulate some kinda plan. He knows that he's not giving up or giving in easily. 

That was several hours ago. Ian doesn't know. He'd been dragged inside some kinda warehouse that smells like rot and cuffed to a chair and just left there. He yells and pulls at his cuffs, demanding answers or that they let him go, cursing everyone and everything, pulling out every name he can think of in the book until he finally lapses into uneasy silence. Finally, footsteps fill the room. The bag is ripped off his head and he's looking at one ugly sonofabitch. There's a metal table behind him as well as a guy with a camera and after that everything is a haze of blood and pain. He can recognize what broken bones and concussions look like on other people, but it's a little harder to keep track of what's what when everything hurts and when his head feels like his currently does. 

"----as we say, unless you want your dear husband returned to you in pieces." The leader's voice fades in and out as Ian struggles to stay conscious. As if to prove he means business, the man picks up a knife from the table and without preamble, jams it into Ian's right hand. He howls, thrashing in pain before falling unconscious. 

More time passes. He might actually die here. 

Ian hates it, he doesn't want to die -- he wants to see his husband again and his family and not die in a disgusting warehouse surrounded by gang members, sitting in his own blood. And what's worse is that he might blame himself for this. Without even thinking of all the times that he did save him. 

Of course, he was wrong to doubt -- rescue was here, just as he'd been losing hope. 

 --

The combination of spiked booze and his meds which already made him a lightweight had Ian out like a light before he could drag his sorry ass up the stairs, collapsed into the recliner, squeezed in next to Mickey. The impromptu party that Frank and Monica had thrown to celebrate their -- third? Fourth? Wedding had been surprisingly fun and free of drama which was a rarity when it came to the Gallaghers these days. Usually whenever Frank or Monica were involved things would get especially volatile (lover's spat aside).

Especially when they were involved. 

So things go off without a hitch. Everyone dances with everyone, he hugs his mom and means it when he smiles at her and says he's happy to see her happy. She kisses him, tells him how proud of him she is and he can't help the warmth that brings him. She even hugs Mickey and tells him to look out for her boy because she'd know if he wasn't, and she likes him so it would be unfortunate to have to kill him which has Ian cackling with laughter at his boyfriend's face.

When three am hits, Ian is swaying so much on his feet from exhaustion and everything else that Mickey is yanking him to his feet but he really doesn't think he's gonna manage the stairs unless he wants to carry him up and as funny as that would be, he takes pity on him. Ian drags him over to the recliner and squeezes them both onto it, falling asleep in a matter of minutes. 

Waking up the next morning and the night before feels hazy and distorted and there's a crick in his neck from the god fucking awful angle he'd slept in, Mickey sprawled out over his body, head heavy on his chest. Despite everything there's a bubble of happiness in his chest that he can't quite shake as he looks over at the mess of the living room and kitchen. Bottles and glasses and food, a box of pizza left open on the dining room table. Debs and her boyfriend (fiance? he's not sure what to consider Neil) are sleeping on the sofa, Liam on a pile of blankets in front of the TV. Further in are Frank and Monica bundled under blankets. Lip and Fiona were the only ones to make it up the stairs from the looks of it. 

Everything is calm. Quiet in a way that the house normally isn't -- yelling and coming and going, people throwing things or slamming things. Ian sighs, closing his eyes and playing with Mick's hair as he feels himself drifting back into slumber.

Like all things though, the quiet doesn't last. 

Frank's voice cuts through the quiet, rising in intensity that has him finally blinking the sleep out of his eyes to look up towards the kitchen where Lip is stood frozen in shock at the scene before him. Ian blinks again and the sound kicks in -- and Frank has that tone. He's heard it a few times in the short period he's been working as an EMT, that's fear and desperation. Around them the others are beginning to wake. "Mickey, Mick. Get up -- get -- sorry -- " Ian says trying to wriggle out from underneath him because he's not yet awake before none too gently pushing him off of him so he can lurch to his feet and pad to his parents and brother. 

"Is she breathing - ?" He asks his brother who seems as lost in the whole thing as he feels. His heart is pounding in his throat and he thinks he might throw up. Instead, he kneels down on the side opposite Frank and reaches for the pulse point in his mo -- no, another patient. If he thinks of her as his mother he's not sure he'll be able to do it. No pulse. Unresponsive pupils. "Someone call an ambulance, now!" 

Doing CPR is like second nature to him, compressions to the chest, then breathe -- compressions, then breathe. Ian focuses on the counting and lack of response as he works, rather than who he's doing it on or the reactions of everyone who's woken up at this point to the scene in the living room. Stopping to check for any improvement and finding none before starting again. Actions becoming sharper, a little more desperate as they don't wield any results. He barely even notices the tears pouring down his face.