Okay, okay. I know it's been three months since I last updated this fic. I've been busy writing papers and doing research. (Hope that's a legit excuse.) Anyway, here is part II of when Mickey got sick. I intended for it to contain a sickening amount of fluff but somehow I got off track.

Thanks for your patience. (Oh, and some comments would be nice.)

16. With you around

Ian was humming happily in the kitchen after the last series of loud bangs had finally subsided about an hour ago. Mickey must be hungry already, he thought to himself as he started walking up the stairs. With a tray balancing on one arm, the red-headed Gallagher carefully unlocked the door and walked into his room. He was greeted by a low groan from under a thick pile of blankets.

"Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead." He said back, nudging at the lump on his bed with his sock-clad foot.

"The fuck do you want now?" A gruff voice inquired politely.

"You need to eat." Ian stated in a sing-a-song manner.

A brief moment of silence.

"And you need to fuck off." The lump replied.

A longer moment of silence.

Ian let out a sigh as he saw no better options but to put his foot into action again. . .

And again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

The molestation continued until the lump made a sudden move towards him. Having trained in ROTC, Ian was quick to take a step back and then watched in perplexity as said lump fell short on the floor in a tangling mess of blankets with a heavy thud.

Seeing no sign of other forthcoming movement, Ian crouched down and yanked off the layers of blankets, revealing an aggravated, inverted (and also incredibly cute don't-ever-tell-Mickey-he-thought-that) face underneath. "Don't be such a lazy ass. Get up! I made chicken soup." He chirped, holding out his masterpiece to his prisoner.

Two icy blue eyes sort of just glared at him.

"Well?" Ian smiled his shit-eating grin™, causing said prisoner to growl.

The glaring continued. "Go fuck yourself, firecrotch."

"I was saving that for later, but okay." He purred, setting the tray in a safe location. Fear spilled over Mickey's face after he saw Ian's eyes lighting with mischief. The dark-haired teen knew exactly what kind of sickening thoughts was going on in his fuckbuddy's mind.

.oOo.

"Well, that stopped the bitching." Ian said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fuck. . . you." Mickey managed to pant the words out.

"Not in this condition." Ian said with a humored smile. "Now eat." Dopey Blue eyes opened to look at him. But there was no further resistance on Mickey's part as Ian's earlier ministration made Mickey's dick short-circuit his brain. So Mickey sat up, took the bowl and began eating its content unceremoniously.

"Want me to give you a bath after this?" Ian asked when Mickey almost finished inhaling the soup.

"You just sucked me off without asking any permission." Mickey deadpanned.

"Was that a yes?" The hopefulness in Ian's eyes was enough to power a small city.

"No." The response made Ian's face fall.

"Come onnnnn. I haven't gotten off alllll daaayyyy." The whininess in Ian's voice was absurdly high.

"No shit." Mickey tried to stay cool. "But what does that have to do with giving me a bath?"

"I know actual sex is still out of the question but I was hoping maybe you'd give me a handjob if I groped you enough." There was the hopefulness again.

"You don't need a bath to do that." Mickey couldn't believe what he had just said.

"But I want you to be naked." If anyone asked, Ian didn't in anyway pout.

"I'm naked right now." The degree of exasperation got higher.

"Yeah, but right now you are covered in sweat and sticky blankets." Ian pleaded his case. "I want you wet and slippery in a soothing water while your skillful hands palm my throbbing-"

"Stop it before you jizz your pants, firecrotch." Mickey's smirk came out in its normal bastardly sexy fashion.

Ian tried his hardest not to shoot right then. "S-so?"

This was getting ridiculous, Mickey thought. "Fine. But only if I get something in return."

"Yes!" Ian fist-pumped. "Anything you want! Let's go!"

.oOo.

"We need to take more baths together." Ian said, drying Mickey's hair with a towel.

"Not if you're gonna be that quick."

"Hey, I was pre-excited. And you didn't make it easy for me to last long, Mick. Also, you were pretty quick, too."

"Whatever. I like shower fucks better." Mickey sat down on the bed.

"We'll see about that." Ian grumbled. "Now say ah so I can take your temperature."

"It doesn't matter how many times you stick the damn thermometer in my mouth, I'm still fucking sick!"

"Are you saying I should stick it some place else?" Ian teased suggestively.

A figuratively light bulb appeared over Mickey's head.

"Don't tell me you actually just considered that." Ian wrinkled his nose.

"No. But you just gave me a million-dollar idea!" Mickey nearly yelled.

"What idea?" Ian frowned.

"A cock-shaped thermometer! Fun for both your mouth and your ass!"

"Yeah, sure. Taking temperature can't get any more fun than that." Laughing, Ian shook his head.

"I'm being seriously serious, Gallagher. We could make a fortune!"

"I doubt it will ever give accurate results, Mick." Seriously serious?

"Who cares? It's still fun. Fucking fun!"

"Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep. We'll talk about it later." They settled down after that.

"You know what, Gallagher?"

"What?"

"Getting sick doesn't suck too bad with you around." Mickey was so going to blame the painmeds Ian ground into the soup when he woke up later.

That sentence literally rendered Ian speechless ("Emotional responses originate from the primitive portion of the brain known as the Amygdala, while speech is centered in the much more recently developed Neocortex. The former can easily overpower the latter giving scientific credence to the notion of being rendered speechless." - Sheldon Cooper). So he did the only instinctive thing that came to mind at the moment and snuggled impossibly close to the love of his life.

"Another fucking thing, who said you could be the big spoon?"