Work Text:
The ringing of the phone is tinny and sharp in the stillness of the desert night. Mick waits just a few seconds before picking up, prickling anxiety outweighing not wanting to appear desperate, in case it's who he thinks it is.
"Hello?"
"Mickey? Oh, God, I'm so glad it's you…" The voice on the line is thick and slurry, and Mick sighs heavily, only part relieved.
At least he's awake. At least he's alive.
"I mean, what are the chances? That I call this late at night, and out of everyone who could answer… it's the one I want to hear from the most." Mick's heart jumps despite himself, and he's bitter at how easily Tavish can get this reaction out of him, even like this. He doesn't have the heart to say that he was waiting by the phone all night.
Tavish is still rambling, barely coherent, but Mick interjects. "I'll come get you. Hang tight."
–
Mick idles at a red light, although the road is empty and he could probably run it. Tavish would probably encourage him to run it. He wishes Tavish would tell him to run it.
Tavish is in the passenger seat, awake, but just barely. He's slumped forward, his head resting on the dashboard. His cheek is squished against the glove box, his eyelid flickering open and closed, the soft light from a lone streetlamp filtering in through the window and haloing his curly hair. An ache builds up fast in Mick's chest, threatening to choke him.
Mick reaches his hand out over the dashboard, brushing his fingers against Tavish's. The other man blinks and tilts his head at the touch, looking up at Mick with a bleary, unfocused eye.
He laces their fingers together and shifts a little closer.
"Light's green," he mumbles, barely there, but the warmth of his hand in Mick's keeps the van from moving.
"You want me to take you home, or…?" Mick lets the question hang in the air, hoping, begging the universe, pleading with the powers that be, that he'll-
"I want to stay with you." Tavish sits up a little bit, the most lucid he's been all night. He squeezes Mick's hand, gently but still enough to send thrills up Mick's spine. "If that's all right," Tavish adds, seeming to notice how Mick hesitated.
A flush rages up the back of Mick's neck, and he hopes the darkness outside is enough to hide it. "Yeah. Of course you can stay." Mick coughs a little. "With me. Yeah."
Mick squeezes Tavish's hand back and presses down on the gas.
–
Mick docks the van in its usual place, close enough to the main compound to qualify as sleeping "on the grounds", but far enough away to give himself a little much-needed privacy.
Tavish has drifted off again, but the jolt of the van as it stops is enough to pull him back to the surface.
Mick is already out of the van and at the passenger-side door when Tavish starts to groggily lift his head. He suspects Tavish won't be able to easily make the walk, and he offers his hands and shoulders for him to grab onto.
The contact with Tavish's body is warm and comforting even as he stumbles, and Mick's sorry to let him go when they get inside. Tavish slumps into one of the chairs in the little dining area, and his head drops against the table once again.
"You all right?" Mick asks carefully, standing about a foot away, trying to give Tavish space even in the cramped interior. "You need water or anything?"
Tavish groans noncommittally.
"Crikey, you ain't gonna throw up, are you?" Mick is suddenly pricked with panic.
Tavish shakes his head and buries his face in his crossed arms on the table. Mick goes to get him some water from the sink. When he gets back, he notices that Tavish is shaking. He lifts his head up to accept the glass of water, and a tear rolls off his chin.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" Mick tries to sound as gentle as possible, but he knows it just sounds like he's trying to calm a spooked animal. He crouches down next to Tavish and takes both his wrists in his hands, his worry eclipsing the paralyzing shyness he'd felt just moments before.
Tavish sniffs loudly and turns away, trying to pull his hands from Mick's grip so he can cover his face. "Don't look at me," he slurs, hunching over in the corner of the chair to make himself smaller.
"Tav, mate, if it's something I said, I-"
"You deserve so much better than me."
The statement, said with the kind of simple clarity only achievable through a night of excessive drink, makes Mick stop cold.
"That's not true," he blurts, quick and instinctive. He circles around the table and crouches to look at Tavish again. "Hey, hey, that's not true." The scared-sheep-calming voice returns, but it seems to work a little bit on Tavish when he's like this.
Tavish turns away from Mick's attention again. "You shouldn't have to see me like this. You shouldn't… you should never have to see anyone like this." He wipes another tear off his cheek. "You don't deserve it. You're too good."
"No, no, don't say that." Mick reaches his arms out around Tavish, and this time, he doesn't push them away.
"I don't know how you stand to look at me," Tavish mumbles through his tears. "How you can stand to sit there and watch me. I don't know how I don't completely bloody disgust you." He chokes out a sob and collapses into Mick's chest, clinging onto his shirt.
"Ssh, love, don't say that." Mick's voice takes on a softness that he didn't know he had in him. "That's why I came for you. I want to be here for you when you're like this." I want it more than anything, he thinks to himself, the ache in his chest returning. I want to be here to show that I'm good enough for you.
Tavish sniffles and presses deeper against Mick's chest, still blubbering about being a one-eyed bloody monster who doesn't deserve someone like Mick. Mick keeps stroking his hair and promising him that none of that is true. "You're so beautiful," he tells him, his soft voice not betraying the need that threatens to strangle him. "I know I've told you before, but I mean it, even now."
And it's true. Even with his red, puffy eye and his tear-streaked cheek and his streaming, stuffy nose, Tavish is more beautiful than anyone Mick has ever known. He puts his hand under Tavish's chin and tilts his head back, making the other man look up at him.
It's far from the first time they've kissed, but Mick is as careful with it as if it was. Tavish's lips are swollen and tender from crying, and Mick is easy on them, stroking Tavish's bottom lip with his thumb when they're not kissing. Tavish's mouth still tastes like cheap whiskey, and Mick lets himself savor it as he runs his tongue over Tavish's soft, inviting lips.
"C'mon, love," Mick croons when he pulls away, still cradling Tavish in his arms. "Drink that water so we can clean you up and get to bed."
Tavish complies, gulping down the glass of water on the table and the second one Mick provides for him soon after. He welcomes Mick's attention when the rifleman comes back over to lift him up into the van's one narrow bunk. Tavish is heavy, almost entirely dead weight, but Mick manages to do it without hurting either of them in the process and climbs into the tight space next to Tavish.
The two men kick off their outer clothes and throw them over the edge of the bed, cuddling close in the desert chill. Mick leans in close and kisses the tear stains up off of Tavish's cheek, wrapping his arms around him as he does. He can still smell the liquor on Tavish's breath when they're this close, but it's fainter, promising to be gone in the morning.
Tavish nuzzles into Mick's chest, feeling warm and safe in his arms. He's asleep fast, his breathing slow and heavy, his soft weight pressing comfortably against Mick's ribs. Even in the dark he's gorgeous, hard for Mick to look away from as he wraps the blankets around them both.
Mick double checks the curtains, making sure the sun won't come in and trigger the worst part of Tavish's hangover in the morning, before putting his worrying to the side and letting himself pull Tavish closer on top of him, snuggling against his sleeping partner. Mick scratches his fingers against the soft curls on the back of Tavish's head, soothing them both into deep, much-needed sleep.