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“You okay just leaving the kids there?” Mickey asks as they walk towards the el, moving fast and huddled down against the frigid winter air. On every third step Ian’s shoulder bumps his and he fidgets under Ian’s unwavering gaze.
Ian hasn’t stop staring since Frank got carted away for a new liver and the crowd gathered in the hospital room for the sham of a wedding disbanded. Mickey isn’t sure it can really be called a wedding, sham or otherwise, with Frank on the brink of death and completely passed out. At least Sheila was in a wedding dress.
The staring makes Mickey twitchy, like someone – Terry – is going to jump out of every alley to bash them, but Ian is back and Mickey has yet to be forgiven, so he keeps that shit to himself.
Ian can stare and smirk and bump Mickey’s shoulder every third step all he fucking wants.
“Debbie and Carl and Liam?” Ian replies as Mickey fumbles for a cigarette. “They’ll be fine with Sheila.”
“You mean their new mommy?”
Ian barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Ain’t your parents still married?”
“Who the fuck knows? Still, not the worst wedding I’ve been to.” In a breath Ian’s tone sours and Mickey nearly chokes on the smoke in his throat when he is reminded of his own sham of a wedding.
They haven’t talked about it. If Mickey has his way, they’re never going to fucking talk about it.
Mickey wants the mood of the moment before back, with the teasing and the joking, but Ian’s shoulder isn’t bumping his on every third step any more. There is a foot of space between them.
He doesn’t like Ian’s sudden sullen silence and there is no one around, no monsters lurking in any alleys. He has kissed Ian in public and told strangers they are together, so maybe crossing the space between them shouldn’t be so difficult but it is.
Puffing on his cigarette barely calms his nerves, and with his free hand he reaches out for Ian, wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging him close so their shoulders bump with every step.
Mickey can’t bring himself to look up at his stupid grinning face but he keeps his arm around Ian for a full ten seconds, until they’re turning a corner on to a busier street.
“You know,” says Ian, still close. “With the kids at the hospital and Lip dealing with Fiona, we’ll have the house all to ourselves.”
Mickey stumbles slightly but recovers smoothly.
After weeks of getting off as quickly as possible behind barely locked doors with extraneous Gallaghers constantly lurking on the other side – and also the dark months before that with Ian fucking gone – a whole house to themselves for a few hours is a goddamn miracle.
Before Mickey can really get his head around the unexpectedly awesome turn their night has taken Ian is off on a new tangent, babbling about the health risks of smoking, detailing why he quit and telling Mickey he should too.
“Fuck off, Gallagher,” Mickey says, unable to contain his grin. He flicks the bud of his cigarette at Ian’s feet and lets himself get dragged up to the platform.
It’s not what Mickey expected.
They got home twenty minutes ago, but he is only half naked. Shoes kicked off downstairs somewhere, jackets dumped on the stairs, shirts tossed on the floor, but dicks are still firmly ensconced in layers of cotton and denim. There seems to have been some sort of silent, mutually agreed upon decision to linger.
Ian appears determined to not only make up for all the kissing they missed when he was gone, but also all the kissing they didn’t do in the years before that, when Mickey was determined keep them in a strictly fucking zone.
Mickey is surprising cool with the whole thing, thrilled even.
He opens his legs a little, encouraging Ian to settle between them, to lie completely on top of him. Ian’s weight is heavy and familiar and so fucking safe. They never got to do this, never got to slow down and just enjoy without the fear of getting caught driving them to rush.
It’s just a goddamn relief, to have Ian here, within touching distance. He wraps his legs around Ian’s waist, his arms around his neck, as if keeping him will be that easy.
Ian groans into his mouth, his fingers digging into Mickey’s back. He does a slow roll with his hips and Mickey whimpers.
And then, of fucking course, Ian’s fucking phone fucking vibrates on the fucking bedside table, right in Mickey’s fucking ear.
Ian doesn’t seem to notice, his teeth grazing Mickey’s neck and his hands working Mickey’s belt.
“Ian—“
“Fuck, Mick,” Ian says, sucking at his collarbone and not even letting Mickey mention the phone.
He lets it go, distracted by Ian’s hands and teeth, but then the goddamn thing goes off again, right in his ear, and Mickey remembers past fucks, when Ian would reach for his phone while balls deep in Mickey, all to keep up with whatever Gallagher family drama was undoubtedly unfolding.
And with Frank getting a new liver and Lip off retrieving Fiona from Whereverthefuck, there is a lot of Gallagher drama currently unfolding.
“Gallagher,” Mickey says. “Get the fuck off me and check your phone.”
Ian bites Mickey’s shoulder, making him yelp. “No,” he says.
Maybe if Ian hadn’t nearly committed murder in some sort of blind rage this morning, holding that knife to Kenyatta’s throat, and he hadn’t dragged Mickey out of the hospital without stopping to check that the little Gallaghers were all right with waiting out the transplant tonight, Mickey would let it go.
Instead he punches Ian in the shoulder.
“What the fuck, Mickey!” Ian rears back, propping himself up with hands on either side of Mickey’s head, so he can properly glare down at him.
“Your phone, fuckhead.”
Ian sighs and presses one more hard, smacking kiss to Mickey’s lips before finally reaching for the fucking phone.
Mickey closes his eyes and catches his breath, deeply unsettled by Ian distracted from the shit going on with his family, Ian fucking passed out in the snow, Ian with that look in his eye as he held a knife to Kenyatta’s throat.
“Fuck,” mutters Ian, scowling at his phone.
“What?” Mickey braces himself for the worst, unable to even guess what the fuck that could be when it comes to the Gallaghers.
“Fiona’s probably gonna do ninety days.”
“Fuck,” Mickey conquers. “Where?”
“Decatur Correctional. Where the hell is that?”
“Three hours out of the city,” Mickey mutters, sitting up abruptly. Ian scowls at him now, obviously less than thrilled that Mickey is no longer laid out under him.
Mickey sits with his back to the wall, legs dangling over the side of the bed. Lighting a cigarette would only earn him another lecture, so he slicks back his hair just for something to do with his hands.
“How’d you know that?” Ian asks, smelling chum in the water, the observant little fuck. “Not like your brothers are getting sent to lady prison all that often.”
Mickey thumbs at his lip, trying to find a way out of this conversation. It probably wouldn’t be too hard to distract Ian just by taking of his pants, but he is trying this new thing where he actually tells Ian what’s going on in his head.
“No.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “It’s my mom.”
“Your mom?” Ian is deeply skeptical.
Mickey shrugs. “We visited her a couple times when I was a kid. Before her and Terry got into some huge blow out and he wouldn’t take us back. Think she’s still at Decatur, though.”
Ian sits up on his knees, reaching over to turn on a light so he can better frown at Mickey.
“Hold up,” says Ian. “You’re talking like your mom is alive.”
“She is,” Mickey says, glad at least that this is one thing that he didn’t lie to Ian about. They’ve never discussed Mary Milkovich, so this one’s got to be on Mandy. “Last I heard, anyway. Aunt Rande would let us know if she fucking died. I think.”
“How could you not tell me this?”
And Mickey hates that look on Ian’s face, way too similar to the one he wore when he begged Mickey not to get married, when Mickey couldn’t finish one fucking sentence past don’t to get him to stay.
“You never asked,” Mickey murmurs, studying his hands in his lap.
Apparently Ian can forgive him for this at least, because after a few seconds of silence he is scooting closer, laying his cheek on Mickey’s shoulder.
“Mandy told me she died.”
Mickey snorts. “Yeah, that is the standard line around Terry. Last time he took us to see her, I was like ten, and after he told us never to talk about her again. Said that she was dead to us.”
“Huh,” Ian replies. He doesn’t sound nearly as interested as he was a minute ago and his lips are hot at Mickey’s neck, his hands on Mickey’s thighs. “I take it you don’t keep in touch?”
“Bitch took the fall for Terry,” Mickey mutters, wiggling in his seat. It’s weird as fuck, talking about this for the first time in years with Ian’s hands all over him. “Left Mandy and me with him. Why would I fucking keep in touch?”
Ian hums in understanding and Mickey braces himself, waiting for Ian to ask him to contact his mother for the first time in eight years to see if she’ll keep an eye on Fiona.
And he’ll do it. As sick as the thought makes him, he won’t even fucking hesitate if Ian asks.
“Take your pants off,” says Ian instead.
Ian doesn't see him, doesn't seem to see anything, and Mickey spends the whole visit holding a hand that doesn't hold back, murmuring in an ear without a response, and trying to find Ian in here somewhere.
He's getting worse, not better, and Mickey tells the staff this in colorful language. They assure him it happens, that they are trying to level him out and it is going to take some adjusting. There are demons in Ian’s head – psychosis, in fancy doctors speak – that make him see scary things and hear unspoken words.
There ain’t no magic bullet for demons.
Mickey barely restrains the violent rage that demands he hit something, that he punch and punch until he feels better.
Instead he kisses Ian's head and promises to come back tomorrow.
He walks past the el stop that will take him home and keeps going until he is somehow at the bus station. As he waits in line he texts his fucking wife, telling her that she'll need to figure out kid care and running the Rub & Tug because suddenly the rest of Mickey's day is full.
Last time he bought this ticket and went on this bus ride, he was ten and Mandy was eight. Terry had Aunt Rande dress them up, scrub them clean, and Mickey doesn't remember the details but there was a fight and that was that. No more visiting.
She's been locked up in Decatur since Mickey was eight. Got caught with a shit load of drugs, they say, and instead of flipping on her husband and dealing down her sentence, Mary Milkovich kept her mouth shut. In not ratting she abandoned her kids to a life with just Terry and his fists and his endless anger. Sometimes Mickey hates her more than Terry and on a couple drunken occasions he and Mandy have spun elaborate tales, imagining their life if Mary didn't get locked up.
He's not sure what inspires him to buy this bus ticket now, but he doesn't question the impulse.
When he actually gets to Decatur, he changes his mind.
This day, his life, is shitty enough without dragging up his mommy issues. Mary's name is forbidden in the Milkovich house, a rule that is only broken when Mandy is that specific combination of drunk and high and Mickey is feeling particularly indulgent of his baby sister. There is no fucking reason for Mickey to be here.
But his return trip to Chicago isn't for hours so he goes in.
He expects little cubbies with no doors, a sheet of glass separating prisoner and visitor. He expects all those times that Ian visited him in juvie, smiling and adoring even when Mickey was doing his damnedest to feign apathy.
Instead it is a room and tables. The space is sterile and depressing, like fucking Cedar Springs, the hospital where he will be visiting Ian every day for who the fuck knows how long.
He files in with other visitors, and they all seem to know what they are doing, sitting at their own little tables and facing the thick metal doors at the opposite side of the room where the inmates are sure come through at any moment.
Mickey is the last to choose a table, sitting in the corner and running his sweaty palms down his jeans. He jiggles his leg and he's been queasy since he shipped Ian off to Cedars, but somehow now his stomach is worse.
It was a fucking stupid idea, running to fucking mommy when life gets uncomfortable. Mary's never been much of a mother, even when she was around, despite her ability to calm Terry down and keep him away from his kids. He hates her, hasn't seen her in eight years and likes it that way.
This was a mistake and he's fucking outta here, but the buzzer goes off and the heavy door swings open, letting lose a stream of inmates, all smiling and happy and greeting loved ones.
"It's a fucking joke, Joe," says one inmate to the guard. Her voice familiar and also not. Mickey stares intently at her back, shoulders slightly hunched and rounded, her posture bad like Mandy. "I don't get visitors. You know I don't get visitors. Can I go back now? I'm trying to scam a Snickers bar outta the new girl."
Mickey swallows as the guard, Joe, makes eye contact with him and nods. The inmate straightens up, suddenly tense, and turns slowly on her heel. For a few long moments they simply gape at each other because Mary Milkovich is an older version of Mandy with a haircut nearly identical to Mickey's. Her eyes are bright and blue. Her mouth is open in shock. She is too skinny and all elbows and also, bizarrely, his mother.
In his mind, Mary is such a grown up, but she was only twenty-two when she went in, only thirteen when Terry knocked her up, so now she’s got to be what? Thirty-two? Thirty-thirty?
Fuck, he never really thought about it before, but she was just a fucking kid herself, raising two babies by the time she was fucking fifteen. It hits him all at once, that Terry ruined her as thoroughly as the rest of them.
He fucking ruined her and then taught her own kids to blame her for it.
Even knowing that the anger that bubbles through him at the sight of his mother is Terry’s doing, he can’t manage to let it the fuck go.
"Mickey?" she whispers and no sound reaches his ears but he can read her lips well enough. Tears come to her eyes and Mickey's too, but unlike her he will not allow them to fall. She covers her mouth with both hands, her shoulders shaking, before she moves across the room with the same angry, determined stride that Mandy uses to stalk the streets of their neighborhood.
He doesn't remember standing up, but he is, and Mary hugs him, arms wrapped around his neck and crying into his coat. She is shorter then him, which is refreshing because he is used to only hugging giants (okay, one giant in particular) and Mickey is too shocked to return the embrace. Milkoviches ain't huggers.
Or is Terry not a hugger?
Was there hugging when Mary was around? Would there have been more hugging if she's ratted on her husband and stayed with her kids?
He awkwardly lifts his hand to pat her back.
"Okay," says Joe. 'That's enough."
Mary gives Mickey a final hard squeeze and they take their seats at the rickety little table with the chipping faux wood finish.
"Oh my God," Mary says. Her eyes dart all over his face, as if she is attempting to memorize every detail. "Mickey. You're really here."
Her attention is too much, so he looks at the stupid faux wood tabletop. "No shit."
"This isn't a dream, right?" She smacks her cheeks, first one then the other.
"Maybe a nightmare," Mickey mumbles.
"No," Mary says, shaking her head. "No, a dream come true. My son. My boy. You’re really here. Oh, you’re all grown up and just perfect. I missed you so much. I love you so much."
His head snaps up and he glare at her. "Not enough, bitch. You sure as shit didn't love me enough when you signed up for twenty years of this shit."
"Mickey," she says, eyes wide and sad. "You know they fucked me over, gave me the maximum—“
"Because you wouldn't fucking rat on Terry. Yes, I fucking know. So you went in and he stayed out, right there all the fucking time to beat on me and scream at Mandy. Well fucking done."
It’s not fair. He knows it’s not fair, but he can’t seem to stop.
"Mickey, your father—“
"Is a evil, psychotic prick!" Ian's voice echoes in his head, his words coming out of Mickey’s mouth, and somehow this whole fucking thing is her fault. She left them with Terry. She wasn't there to make sure Mickey knew how to love, knew that it was okay to be gentle, knew not to ruin good things in life because they are few and fucking far between. It’s her fault that Terry got anywhere near Ian. And if Mickey could have loved Ian back when it really mattered, maybe he would be locked up in fucking Cedars.
"He—“ Mary opens her mouth but Mickey won't hear it.
"Don't you fucking defend him to me."
Mary sighs heavily, slumping back against her chair. She rubs her thumb against her lip, glancing every few seconds at Mickey.
"Wasn't going to. This is why you stopped coming to see me? Cuz you hate me for leaving you with him."
"Pretty much," he mutters, even though it’s not totally true. Terry banned them when they were kids and when they got older Mickey couldn’t be fucked to care about his incarcerated mother.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I am so sorry. But you’re here now. Missed me maybe?”
Mickey scowls and tries not to think about how much this place has the same feel as Cedars.
“What happened?" Mary is gentle now, as if she can just fucking tell that Mickey is about to crumble.
He stares at her, young and beautiful like Mandy, looking ridiculous with her hair cut short on the sides and left longer on top. Slicked back.
She says sorry like she means it and asks what happened like just speaking the words will fix everything.
What happened?
What did happen?
"There's a guy," says Mickey, his heart seizing up. The old fear is a physical thing, a reaction to danger and an instinct to hide. Fear of being gay is so fucking stupid when compared to fear of losing Ian, but it's back now because this woman is his mother and he still wants to believe that it would’ve been different if she stayed.
Mary nods in encouragement. Her face is too much like Mandy's aged up a few years so Mickey looks at the tiny dark mole barely visible above her right eyebrow so he won’t have to look at her eyes.
"There's a guy," Mickey says again although it's fucking stupid, referring to Ian as merely a guy. "Ian. There is Ian and…" He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and gets his shit together because there is no way he is going to be fucking weeping in a fucking prison in front of the woman who left them alone to life with Terry. "What would you have done? If you'd been around and I'd brought home a guy."
Mary blinks. "Brought home Ian?"
"Yeah."
"Like for dinner?"
Her confusion does not bode well.
"Like for fucking. Like as my fucking boyfriend. Fuck!"
She jumps in surprise and clenches her jaw. Since she first saw him, all grown up, she hasn't really stopped crying but the tears fall a lot quicker as her shuts her eyes now, shoulders shaking. No matter her reaction, it's guaranteed to be better then Terry's but he still feels pretty sick about it.
"What would I have done if you brought home a guy?" she whispers, undeniably angry. Mickey flinches and tells himself again that this whole thing is the fucking stupidest of all his fucking stupid ideas. "I'd have told you to pack a bag. I'd have told your sister to pack a bag. This Ian person could've helped. I'd have packed a bag and we'd have gotten the fuck out of there."
Now Mickey can do nothing but blink.
It seems impossible, but Mary fucking Milkovich, the terrible mother who took the rap for her even worse husband's drug dealing and abandoned her kids, might not be a total disappointment.
"He really is an evil, psychotic prick, huh?" she says.
"He's back in the can, anyway," Mickey replies, shrugging.
"Good." She nods solemnly and leans forward, arms resting on the tabletop. "So tell me about Ian."
He doesn't know where to fucking begin.
"Maybe start from the beginning?" says his mother as if she can read his fucking mind.
He really wants a cigarette.
So he starts at the beginning. Ian with his floppy red hair and freckles and fucking tire iron, and with each word the pressure in his chest deflates slightly. Looking at his mother and her stupid Mandy face isn't an option so he stares at the tabletop. His voice sounds robotic, but he keeps talking, sharing every detail as they come to him. Each fuck up and each time Ian seemed like the only good thing in his life and how hard he fought to not be a boy in love with a boy.
Mickey doesn't talk this much ever, not even to Ian, and suddenly he understands the appeal of Catholics and their confessionals. Instead of a priest he's got an incarcerated mother hanging on his every word, nodding and smiling when appropriate, frowning and crying too, and Mickey feels better. He's been alone with these thoughts, with the saga that is him and Ian, since he was sixteen, and it feels so fucking good to verbalize this shit.
He tells Mary Milkovich, the woman he hasn't seen since he was ten, about Ian needing to see him and Kash with a gun in his hands and juvie the first time.
He tells her about calling Ian just another warm mouth and being so terrified he couldn't breathe and juvie the second time.
He stares at the tabletop and talks about last summer when he let himself call Ian his boyfriend, but only in his own head, with Ian fucking other people and Mickey pretending to fuck other people and their first kiss.
He hates her all over again as he whispers, "Terry beat the shit out of Ian and pistol whipped me and held a gun to Ian's head, making him watch as he hired someone to fuck me straight."
A thump on the table makes Mickey jump. Mary pounds her fist on the surface so hard that the whole thing shakes. For the first time since he started talking he glances up at Mary. Her jaw is clenched, there are tears in her eyes, and Mickey didn’t know it was possible to look so completely furious and so fucking sad at the same time.
When she stretches her hand towards him something compels him to take it and squeeze back.
He continues with the wedding and Ian's heartbreak and Mickey's need for him to just understand that there was no choice, not if he wanted to stay alive, not if he wanted Ian to stay alive, and his own inability to finish a sentence past don’t to keep Ian from leaving.
And then finding Ian again and knowing that it wasn't the same, but being too relived to do anything about it.
She interrupts once when he talks about Svetlana giving birth, crying some more and demanding a picture of Yev that Mickey promises to bring next time, just realizing in this moment that he wants there to be a next time.
Maybe he’s been thinking about Mary since Fiona got locked up. Maybe he just really needed to speak these words. But it’s helping.
He talks about coming out and almost getting killed again and Terry back in the can.
He winces, sharing those few days when he finally had Ian and he was finally himself, understanding what it meant to be happy for the first time in his whole life.
He nearly cries when he recounts that first day Ian wouldn't get up, the terrifying weeks that followed, Ian's refusal to see a doctor, bickering with the older Gallagher siblings, and sitting in his living room with Carl and Debbie, keeping a near constant vigil. Doing what they could. Thinking that Ian eating something was a great fucking success, even when he muttered nonsense about shadows and bones.
"And then two days ago," Mickey whispers, sounding less like a robot and more like a pathetic fucking kid, "I found Ian on the bathroom floor with a shard of glass in his hand, his palms already all cut up, saying dead things don’t bleed. So I took him in, got him fucking institutionalized."
Expelling a great breath, Mickey slouches low in his seat. His chest is no longer so tight and all that fucking talk leaves him exhausted but also better somehow. A great motherfucking catharsis that makes the current situation with Ian seem a tiny bit less dire.
“Oh, Mykhailo,” Mary whispers. She won’t stop looking at him and he thinks he should probably yell at her because he doesn’t need her goddamn pity, but he can’t manage any more words. “I am so sorry all this has happened to you, but you’ve been so brave.”
“Brave?”
“You got him help even though it must be so hard and so scary. It’s brave and I’m so proud of who you grew up to be. God, and coming out the way you did to your dad. That was brave, too. I know Terry is so fucking terrifying,” she says. “Ian is lucky to have you.”
Mickey laughs, feeling hysterical and on the verge of fucking tears again. “Too fucking bad I’m the reason he’s in there. Too bad I broke him.”
“Mickey, it’s not your fault,” Mary insists. “You gotta know that.”
Mickey shrugs because he absolutely does not know that. He kicked Ian in the jaw and called him just another warm mouth. He brought the wrath of Terry upon Ian and then made him watch while he married someone else, after Ian had to watch other worse things.
How much trauma can one mind take?
“That’s not how these things work, Mickey,” says Mary. She’s not crying any more. Instead she is sitting tall and straight, her tone gently scolding. She sounds like a real mom. “It was always there. And sure, you fucked up a lot, but that doesn’t make what’s happening to Ian your fault. Sometimes shit just happens and there is no one to blame.”
And Mickey doesn’t really believe her, but it sure is nice to hear.
“You bring my grandbaby with you next time, okay? And maybe your sister? How’s Mandy?” Mary asks.
Talking about his sister is considerably easier so they stick to this subject until it’s time to get back on a bus and back to Chicago.
Stability.
The concept means nothing to Mickey. Sure, in the dictionary sense he knows the word. He gets it in principal but in practice he’s completely lacking. There’s no stability in his life, never has been, not when Terry could flip out and kick the shit out of him at any moment, not when his Mom was only a Mom when she didn’t have a needle in her arm before she disappeared completely, not when his job is making collections and breaking knee caps and fucking pimping for fucks sake.
Mickey doesn't know how to be stable.
He glances at Lip and Fiona, not at all relieved to see that they are equally lost on the concept of a stable fucking home life. Fiona's struggling along, waitressing, learning to live as a convicted felon. Lip's running all over town, feeding the family with what he can steal from his job on campus and generally hating Mickey’s involvement in this whole thing. Growing up with fucking Frank, they’ve got no more direct experience with stable than Mickey.
"You are going to need to establish a workable routine for Ian, eliminating as many possible sources of stress as you can," says the doc. They’re crammed into her office on folding chairs, the space depressing with its peeling paint and lack of windows. Ian's supposed to come home in three days and this therapy session is for them, Mickey and Lip and Fiona. "And yes, stress is part of life, but the foundation, the day to day routines need to be as steady as possible."
Mickey laughs, the sound hysterical. The doc looks alarmed, but at least Lip and Fiona seem to understand.
He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and tries not to lose it. He wants Ian home, wants to be able to touch him, wants to cook him pancakes, and wants to just be near him.
He shouldn't be this scared of Ian coming home, but at least in this fucking hospital Mickey spends everyday knowing that Ian's safe. Now they are going to take him home to a completely unstable life with no fucking routines, each day different based on what's necessary in that moment to survive.
They make money scamming and scraping by. It's the very fucking opposite of stability and that's what he's bringing Ian home to.
"Mr. Milkovich, I know this is hard, but I am just trying to give you an idea of what to expect when Ian comes home and outline the ideal environment that will help him continue to make progress, along with the medication we currently have him on."
"Yeah," he says, getting to his feet. "I fucking get it. Can I go see him now?"
"We still have more to discuss."
"We're got it," says Fiona, flashing Mickey a quick smile. "I don't like the idea of all of us being late for the visiting hour."
The doc nods and Mickey contains the completely irrational urge to flip her off.
Mickey finds Ian engaged in a very serious game of Scrabble with Lois, a lady in her fifties that's bipolar too, but a different kind. Not bipolar one like Ian (the kind that comes with the goddamn psychosis that had Ian seeing people as skeletons) but something slightly different.
In the beginning, when they pumped Ian full of something that completely fucked him up, Lois talked to Mickey. She compared being bipolar to those giant fucking rollercoasters that make you sign a waver just to ride.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “On the meds, it’s more like those kiddie coasters, yah know? Completely manageable. Unless the meds you’ve been on for years suddenly stop working and without even realizing it you decide it’s a good idea to plan your daughter’s entire wedding on your own and end up catatonic under the table at the rehearsal dinner.”
“Shit,” said Mickey.
Lois just shrugged and assured him that Ian would be fine. Eventually.
Now Lois is fucking demolishing Ian, whose focus is not helped by Mickey sitting next to him, leaning forward to check out the letters Ian’s working with.
He ain’t got shit.
"Hey," says Ian, his smile a little bit bashful, a little bit smug. It's the smile of before, back when Mickey wasn't married and Ian hadn’t illegally enlisted in the Army. There are flashes of Ian now, although he’s still kinda shaky.
Mickey is still kinda shaky too, and it wasn’t him who would look at his hands and only see bones just a couple weeks ago.
"You suck at Scrabble."
Ian snorts. "Yeah, tell me something I don't know, Mick."
I'm going figure out what stable means, Mickey thinks. He'll tell Ian this thing he doesn't know later or maybe never. Instead he leans close to Ian's ear. "Love ya," he whispers.
Ian grins even harder and rolls his eyes. "I already knew that."
"Oh yeah, tough guy? How?"
"’Cuz you tell me all the time."
And that's a real difference between Before Ian and After Ian. Before Ian could go it on faith alone, sure that Mickey loved him even when Mickey would call him a warm mouth and refuse to kiss him. After Ian had to live through Mickey kicking in his jaw and watching Mickey marry Svetlana. After Ian needs verbal confirmation of what Before Ian was so sure of.
Before Mickey was terrified of this but After Mickey is not. After Mickey can give all the words Ian needs, and then some.
Lois lays out a final word with a flourish, getting the triple word score, and then fucks off to hug her own visitors. She gets out tomorrow and Mickey will miss her in a weird, she's-good-at-metaphors-and-explaining-the-bipolar-thing way.
"I fucking suck at Scrabble," says Ian.
Mickey snorts. "You could still kick my ass."
"That's because you only know curse words."
"Fuck you that’s what I know."
Ian laughs and pulls Mickey into his side. Mickey tucks his face into Ian's neck, wanting Ian to go back to smelling like himself rather than this fucking hospital.
It’s not Ian’s laugh that follows him home, but the doctor’s words.
Stability. Stress free environment. Day to day routine. Plenty of goddamn sleep.
There are Russian hookers lounging around his living room with Iggy, even though none of them even live here anymore. Lines of coke and beer cans decorate the coffee table, along with a stray gun or two. Apparently the locked gun cabinet Mickey set up when Ian got low is a thing of the past.
Iggy tries to pass Mickey a joint as he walks by but he just punches his brother in the arm – hard – without slowing down.
In the kitchen Mandy is running around, tearing the place apart in search of some missing piece of her uniform. She is frantic, but bruise free, and at least she wised up about her fuckhead boyfriend when he said something shitty about Ian’s inability to get out of bed. She kicks him lightly in the shin, her own little goodbye as she fucks off to the diner.
At the table sits Svetlana’s scary girlfriend, picking her teeth with a knife while she holds his son in her lap.
“Give me that, bitch,” says Mickey, heart racing as he pulls the kid away from the fucking dagger. Maybe Ian isn’t the only one who could use a stable fucking home life. “Don’t fucking touch him, Jim Bowie.”
“It’s perfectly safe.”
“Fuck you!” shrieks Mickey, holding Yev a little closer to his chest as he whimpers.
“Whoa, everything cool in there, Mickey?” Iggy calls from the living room.
“Fuck you too, Iggy!”
“Dude,” replies his dumbass, coked-out brother. “You need to chill. Really shoulda taken a puff on this joint.”
“Yes, chill, Piece of Shit,” says one of the fucking hookers.
For once he is so fucking angry he can’t even speak, so he just stomps to his room, taking the kid with him, slamming the door and trying to shut out all things instable.
Next time, says Mandy when he asks if she wants to head up to Decatur with him.
It’s a way calmer conversation than the one where Mickey admitted to his sister that he went to see Mary. She raged at him for nearly an hour – that bitch left us with Terry how could you, she is dead to us, Mick, how could you, you did this without telling me how could you – and then cried for another after that.
He wants to believe her when she says she'll come with next time. Now it’s just him and Yev on the bus.
The kid smiles now, in his carrier on the bus seat next to Mickey’s. He rests his palm on the kid’s tiny chest and tiny hands wrapped around the FUCK written on his knuckles.
Instead of calming him down, Yev warm and smiling beneath his palm just makes him angrier and angrier, all that rage from last night returning. Tables lined with coke and knives near his tiny little face.
For the whole two hour and fifty-four minute bus ride, Mickey stews in his anger, thinking in circles, wondering what stable even looks like.
By the time he is buzzed into the visiting room to find Mary already seated at the same table as last time, Mickey can barely see through the fog of his fury and he knows exactly who to blame.
He manages to refrain from slamming Yev’s carrier on the tabletop and Mary lights up for a moment, eyes bright, smile wide.
“Fuck you,” Mickey snarls, getting all up in her face.
The lady doesn’t even flinch or pull away – begrudgingly Mickey is impressed – although she does look pretty fucking surprised.
“Fuck you and your shitty parenting and your fucking instability!” He is getting progressively more hysterical. “And fuck your coke habit and your shitty taste in men! And your stupid fucking hair cut.”
Everyone is staring now, including a particularly large prison guard. The last thing Mickey needs is to end up in a metal motel himself so he sits the fuck down, slouched low and arms crossed over his chest.
He’s still pissed, but now he is also embarrassed and feeling like a petulant little fuck.
“We have the same hair cut,” Mary says, voice calm although faintly puzzled.
“That’s kinda the fucking problem. You know what? Fuck you for getting me off topic,” Mickey mutters.
Mary blinks at him, head cocked to the side. He shuffles a little under her gaze.
“Okay, we’ll deal with whatever the hell that was in a minute, but can’t I please meet my fucking grandson now?”
After a moment of hesitation, Mickey nods.
"Oh, Mykhailo," murmurs Mary, staring down at the kid in her arms with unadulterated awe. Mickey is a parent. He should feel that awe, too, but he's only been able to look at Yev without reliving that morning with Terry – the terror, a gun pointed at Ian's head, that look on Ian's face – for the last month. Awe is not going to happen. "I know his conception was utterly fucked and all this must be so complicated for you, but your son is just perfect."
The tips of his ears burn red and he thumbs at his lip, wondering where this fresh wave of pleased embarrassment is coming from.
"Hello, Yevgeny," says Mary, rocking the baby as his hand wraps around her forefinger. "Hello, precious little boy. Fuck, Mickey, your son is so smiley. What a little flirt. Is he always this happy?"
Mickey shrugs. "Pretty much. Doesn't know how completely fucked he is. Fucked for life. Right from the get go."
Mary stares at him again. It’s weird, because she looks so much like Mandy but Mandy would never quietly study him like this. Mandy doesn't do anything quietly.
"That's not true," she says.
"Sure it is. I am."
Mary does not appear the slightest bit ashamed when tears gather in her eyes, but she does hold Yev a little closer. "That’s mostly my fault."
Somehow Mickey’s perfectly okay blaming her for all his shit, but when she takes responsibility herself he wants to argue.
"What happened, Mickey?"
He sits up in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, running his hands through his hair. "Ian's coming home. In two days."
"That seems like good news," Mary says, "Do you think he’s not ready or something?"
"No, he's good. Way better. Almost himself."
"So what's the issue?"
"Talked to his doctor. Heard all about how Ian needs stability and routines and to avoid stress. And then I go the fuck home, and there was Iggy with coke and hookers and guns."
"Iggy." Mary snorts. "What a fuckhead. Although the least terrible of my stepsons."
"Then there was Svetlana's scary girlfriend—“
"Your wife has a girlfriend?"
Mickey smirks. "Her husband has a boyfriend."
"Good point. Continue."
"Yeah, there was Svetlana's scary girlfriend sitting at the kitchen table with Yev in her lap. Brandishing a fucking knife."
"Shit."
"Maybe Ian ain't the only one who could use a little stability."
"You deserve that, Mickey."
He frowns at his mother. "I meant the kid."
"Well, it applies to you too."
"Fuck." He runs his hands through his hair again.
"It's nice," Mary muses. "Stability. Didn't have any of it, till I came here. And maybe those first few years were rough, but I got myself established and now it is nice and stable. Prison is all about routine and I like it. It's like... peace."
"Peace?" Mickey asks. "You are really calling prison peaceful?"
Mary shrugs. "Sad ain't it?"
"Pretty fucked up, yeah."
They sit quietly for a few minutes, Mary smiling down at Yev and the baby grabbing at her shirt.
"A job," says Mary.
"What?"
"That's where you start. A job. A real job. You gotta cut out the illegal shit, Mickey. I know that’s the only way Terry ever taught you to live, but eventually you will get caught. It’s not a maybe thing. You’ll get caught and then you’ll end up in prison for real."
Mickey swallows and shuffles in his seat, knowing she’s right. He can’t leave Ian again, can’t get thrown in jail.
“A legal job,” Mary says.
Mickey snorts. "Too bad I've got zero skills. You want me to put pimping and dealing on my résumé? Fuck off."
"You were always good with numbers," says Mary.
Mickey shrugs.
"And you used to love working on cars with Uncle Ronnie."
Mickey shrugs again. He hasn't done any work – car repair or otherwise – for Ronnie since he came out. "And the Rub & Tug?"
"Give it to you wife. She seems better acquainted with sex work than you anyway."
"Any job I could get ain't gonna pay as much as what I do now," Mickey says.
"Maybe I can help out. Ease the burden."
"You got money?"
Now it’s Mary shrugging.
"The Gallagher's want Ian to move back to their place," Mickey blurts out. And the worst part is Mickey can't even disagree. It might be chaotic over there, but at least there’re no hookers wandering around. With Fiona on probation, the Gallagher place is a drug free, gun free sanctuary.
"And you want him to come home with you."
"Yeah. But he fucking shouldn't."
"Look.” Mary rests her elbows on the edge of the table and leans forward. “This is doable, okay? There is no one to stop you from making the house the way you want it to be. And I remember what a fucking slob your father was, so I imagine the house got disgusting again after I got locked up, but when you were little it was clean. Still a falling down piece of shit, but clean. The guns were locked up and the drugs were locked up and it was clean. Do you remember?”
Usually when he can’t help but think about his mom, it’s all memories of Mary scrambling to hide the drugs when Mickey pushed through her bedroom door because Mandy was hungry, of Mary half passed out on the couch, murmuring “I’m sorry” over and over on a constant loop.
But now he remembers better things too, Mary mopping the kitchen floor, indulging Mickey when he wanted to help, and smiling as Mickey ineffectually pushed around water. Mary holding Mickey up on her shoulder so he could spray the very tops of the windows with Windex, cheering as he wiped them down with a rag. Mary, telling Mickey to lock the door and stay with Mandy when Terry brought around his junkie friends for the night. That was the one time Mary wouldn’t let him help clean, when it involved needles and spoons and lighters.
“I remember,” Mickey murmurs, feeling very small.
“So clean it up,” Mary says as if Mickey’s problems have a solution. And maybe they do. It’s been a long time since Mickey’s actually been able to do anything about his shit show of a life, except getting Ian locked up, and to think that he can clean up the house is somewhat amazing. “Lock up all that dangerous shit or get rid of it. And while you are at it, change the locks on the house too. No more random ass people wandering in. Tell those asshole brothers of yours that if they want to come over, they best be following the rules.”
“Just like that?”
Mary beams. “Just like that.”
"Cookie?" Debbie's got flour in her hair and a smile on her face when he comes in through the back door, setting down the carrier on the kitchen table. "Made them from scratch."
"Chocolate?"
"Peanut butter."
Mickey grunts and steals one off a plate on the counter. He is still not used to any non-Ian Gallaghers smiling at him, but Debbie does. Carl does too. Fiona on occasion. Lip never, unless it is a mocking smirk. It is very easy to get a smile outta Liam, so the kid does not count.
"Where were you today?" Debbie asks, pulling another batch out of the oven. "Didn’t see you at the Alibi."
"Why the fuck were you at the Alibi?"
"I was picking up the twins and thought I might get Yev, too. I'm watching them."
"Don't look like you’re watching them."
Debbie rolls her eyes. "They're asleep in the family room."
Mickey nods and steals another cookie. "Quality baking here, kid."
"Thanks!" she says, beaming. "So where were you?"
"Prison."
"You were in prison today?" Debbie asks, disbelieving rather than concerned. "With a baby?"
"Just visiting.”
"Who?"
Mickey bites back a string of curses, reminding himself that questions are part of the fucking Gallagher experience. "My ma."
"Your what?" Debbie shrieks with dramatics unique to preteens everywhere. "I thought she was dead."
"Isn't."
"How often do you go see her?"
Mickey shrugs and wonders if braving this interrogation will earn him another cookie.
"Can I go with next time?"
“Why in the fuck would you wanna do that?”
Debbie shrugs. “Curiosity. I just can’t imagine the lady that spawned you and Mandy.”
Mickey gapes at her for a moment, totally baffled by this kid's enthusiasm to meet her brother's boyfriend's mother, but he is saved from the need to reply by Fiona stomping down the stairs. He can't see her face behind the laundry piled high in the basket she carries. The tower wobbles precariously, and Mickey reaches out to steady it, keeping the whole thing contained until Fiona dumps the basket by the washing machine.
"Hey," she says, pushing her hair out of her face.
"Hey. Who all's around?"
"Just me," says Fiona, shrugging. "Debs. Liam. The twins."
Mickey nods, glad it'll just be Fiona and no Lip. She is infinitely more reasonable and less irritating. And, unlike her asshole brother, she doesn't blame Mickey for breaking Ian. Mickey's got enough guilt on that front without Lip scowling at him, blowing smoke in his eyes.
"What else did the doc say?" Mickey asks, "After I left?"
Fiona sighs and starts stuffing clothes into the machine. “Nothing all that helpful. She has no idea what it's like down here. Talking about healthy eating and exercise and full nights sleep when we’re barely scrapping by on my fucking tips."
Mickey nods.
“And Lip’s off talking to our Uncle Clayton. He is—“
“I know who he is,” Mickey snaps. Fiona is obviously surprised that Mickey has this inside Gallagher information and he tries not to be offended. Does she really think that he doesn’t know all about his own boyfriend’s real dad? Like Ian didn’t give him every painful fucking detail through a phone with glass separating them, right after Lip tried to ship Ian off to live with those rich assholes.
“Well,” says Fiona, fidgeting slightly. “Lip’s trying to get him to help pay for everything. Maybe ease the financial burden on us, you know?”
Mickey forgives her for the Clayton thing because she is including him in that us.
“Shit,” says Mickey.
“Yeah, Lip’s got this whole complicated legal plan about getting Ian on Clayton’s health insurance, but any little bit helps, right?”
Mickey nods and sticks out a hand to steal another cookie, but Debbie has some sixth sense, whirling around at the sink and glaring at Mickey until he retracts his hand.
“So you two got plans tonight? And maybe tomorrow?” Mickey asks.
Fiona and Debbie exchange a wary look. They silently communicate for a moment, the whole thing involving a lot of grimacing and eyebrow movement, before they turn back to Mickey and shrug.
They fill four trash bags of shit – assorted magazines, beer bottles, random ass trinkets, Terry’s clothes – to be tossed the first night and add two more in the morning. The rest is organized into piles, pawn it or keep it.
It’s pretty fucking embarrassing at first, to basically welcome the Gallaghers to wade through Milkovich trash when their house is clean and cozy, but Fiona coordinates the whole clean up, even roping in Mandy and Carl. Svetlana looks on like she thinks they are all prissy American fools, but she watches Yev and keeps Liam entertained at least.
Fiona leaves for work around noon on the second day, promising that Kev will be by in a few hours to change the locks on the front and back doors. The look she gives Mickey makes him uncomfortable, like she is just now seeing him, and she pats his shoulder once before leaving.
“Don’t let Carl steal any guns!” she shouts before the front door slams.
Mickey sticks out a hand towards Carl and the kid rolls his eyes, sighing dramatically as he hands over the pistol he’d tucked in the waistband of his jeans. Mickey puts it in the cabinet with all the others. Carl mutters under his breath as Mickey locks it up and sticks the key in his pocket.
“You can take your pick of the knives if you keep at it for a few more hours,” Mickey says. That’s all it takes to turn Carl into a tornado of floor scrubbing and dish doing.
By the end of the day they’re all exhausted and Mickey shells out for pizza.
“Did you know there was a rug under that table?” Mandy asks, gesturing towards the coffee table with her beer bottle.
“Fuck no,” replies Mickey, watching Carl clean his new knife. It’s difficult to eat pizza with Yev on his lap, playing grabby hands at everything, but somehow he manages. Svetlana’s got her own lap full, repairing the curtains with a needle and thread.
“I mean, the place looks, like, good,” says Mandy. It’s been a long time since he’s seen his sister enthusiastic about anything. “Like a house not a fucking garbage dump. Maybe we could get some throw pillows? Slap on a fresh coat of paint? Did you know this room was so big? Because it’s really fucking big.”
Mickey snorts, reaching around Yev for his beer. “Throw pillows.”
Mandy kicks him in the thigh.
“I like throw pillows,” says Svetlana. “Add color. Maybe new drapes, too. These are grey. Terrible color for drapes.”
“Jesus Christ,” mutters Mickey.
“But seriously, Mick,” says Mandy. “The place looks really fucking nice. This was a good idea.”
“Not mine,” Mickey says. “Mary’s.”
Mandy opens her mouth, but appears too shocked to find the correct words. He hopes that she means it when she says she’ll come with him next time.
Debbie plops down on the couch next to Mickey, sighing heavily.
“The fuck have you been?” he asks.
“No where,” she says.
“Were you in my room? Why the fuck were you in my room?”
“Just framing something. Chill out.”
He glares at her, but asks no more questions as she hands him another slice of pizza, taking one for herself too.
There is that picture of Ian, slightly wrinkled and framed, sitting on Mickey’s dresser. Debbie (fucking mini Ian) must have found and saved it from the great purge, and Mickey’s thankful because it’s the only one he’s got, his tiny rectangle of solace when Ian was gone.
He’s also thankful that all of Svetlana’s shit is finally outta here, moved into Terry’s room. Ian’s clothes have been sitting in a pile by the bed for months, so Mickey goes through them now, smelling each garment, tossing the rank ones in the laundry basket and neatly folding the clean ones. He tucks Ian’s clothes into the newly cleared dresser drawers, feeling a little bit less terrified of Ian’s homecoming tomorrow.
“Where the fuck are we?”
Ian gazes around at the clean, clutter free living room, and Mickey looks at his feet, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Seriously, did we just walk through the wardrobe into Narnia? Are the real owners of this house tied up in the closest?” Ian jumps slightly and blinks as if he is not totally sure what just came out of his mouth. It has been awhile since there’s been an appearance of Ian’s lame sense of humor, and Mickey grins. Hard.
“Fuck, you’re such a dork.”
Ian’s smile is blinding for a moment, until it’s more like a grimace.
“What?” Mickey asks. He wonders if there will ever be a time when he stops overanalyzing every little facial expression, thinking that frown might mean the meds aren’t working, might mean Ian’s getting lost again.
There is still adjusting to do, now that Ian’s leveled out and not hallucinating. The doctors at Cedars unfucked Ian’s brain chemistry, but getting used to the new meds is going to take time, tweaking doses and experimenting. There is an alarming laundry list of possible side effects from all this and the doctors said that Ian is probably going to sleep a lot while his brain recovers from the trauma of psychosis, but Ian is still Ian, talking and joking and right here with Mickey.
“I just… You did this for me right?” Ian asks like that’s a bad thing. He frowns at the clutter-free floor. “This probably took you days. I’m such a fucking burden. You just did this to get Fiona and Lip off your back about me living here, huh?”
Mickey snorts and dumps Ian’s bag by their closed bedroom door, Stay the Fuck Out sign still firmly in place despite Debbie’s and Mandy’s and Fiona’s attempts to tear it down. “You think I wanted to live in that squalor? Fuck, Mandy’s all a flutter with dreams of throw pillows and new paint and fucking colorful curtains.”
Ian still looks pretty fucking unsure. That’s how he’s been for weeks now. Unsure.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Just because we’re poor don’t mean we can’t have a little pride in our fucking home. Plus, Yev is like this close to crawling and that was just a disaster in the making, with all the weird, dangerous shit lying around. And I got a lot of satisfaction throwing Terry’s crap straight in the trash were it belongs,” Mickey says, rattling off reasons like it’s no big deal.
Ian silently surveys the room, slight furrow between his brows.
“Look,” Mickey says, closing the space between them to rub circles at the small of Ian’s back. “There were a lot of reasons to clean out this house. Your homecoming was a good excuse, but it wasn’t just about you.”
“Did you know there was a rug under this table?” Ian asks, kicking at the rug in question to hide his smile.
“Who’d of fucking thought it?” Mickey replies, pushing Ian firmly in the direction of their bedroom.
Ian kicks open the door and gapes. “Where are the hot chick posters? Did you give them to Svetlana?”
“Laugh it up, tough guy,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. “Why don’t you check out those bottom two drawers?”
Ian kneels in front of the bottom two drawers, staring at all his clothes. He blinks over his shoulder, up at Mickey, slightest of smiles playing around his lips. “You sure know how to welcome a guy home from the loony bin, Mick.”
"I really fucking missed you, alright?" Mickey reaches out, messing with Ian’s hair. It’s longer than it’s ever been and totally ridiculous, parted on the side and tucked behind his ears. "I don't... I can't even fucking sleep alone."
"Because you love me?" Ian whispers. "Even outside Cedars."
"Yeah," he replies. "Anywhere. Everywhere."
It doesn't feel so much like disgusting romantic bullshit when he's really just speaking the truth to make Ian feel better.
"Mick! Hey, Mickey!"
"Motherfucking—“ Seated on the floor of the Gallagher living room, Mickey struggles to secure Yev's diaper with him wiggling around all over the goddamn place. He certainly does not need Ian yelling at him from the kitchen where he’s been looking at job listings online. Now that Ian’s feeling more like himself and summer is upon them, spending his days sleeping and hanging out with Yev and Liam just ain’t gonna cut it. "What?"
"Your phone's ringing."
"Well answer it then, asshole!" He’s nearly there with Yev, who seems to think this whole fucking thing is hilarious. This is far from the first diaper change he's participated in, but the kid’s being particularly difficult today and he still thinks Yev is going to shatter under his hands, even if he’s just trying to restrain these kicking legs to get on his fucking diaper. He’s still learning to be gentle, touching his fragile, tiny kid with tattooed knuckles, the same hands that punched Ian in the stomach and fucked up countless others, too.
"You sure you want me answering your phone?" Ian sounds closer now, but Mickey won't look up from the task at hand for fear of losing more ground to a giggling Yevgeny.
"Jesus Christ, Gallagher! Yes, I'm fucking sure."
Ian finally follows his instructions as he gets the first sticky flap connected, the diaper half way secure. He fist pumps silently before attacking the other side.
"Yeah, I accept I guess," says Ian in one of the stranger greetings Mickey's ever heard but he has a diaper to change so he stays focused.
"Oh, um, no," says Ian to whoever is on the phone. Mickey can feel him looming at his back, peaking down at Yev as he stutters awkwardly into Mickey's phone. "This is actually... I'm, um, Mickey's uh... This is Ian."
Diaper finally secure, Mickey looks up at Ian to see exactly what his problem is because that was some utterly nonsensical bumbling. Ian stares intently at his feet, red faced and nervous. Mickey stands and wonders who the fuck is on the phone to turn Ian into such a weirdo.
"Oh!" says Ian, pleasantly surprised with whoever's answer. "Yeah, Mickey's boyfriend. He's told you about us?"
Mickey crosses his arms over his chest, scowling even as Ian lifts his gaze to flash that dopey grin.
"Who the fuck?" he asks. Sure, he doesn't go around handing out fucking fliers, but even the asshole regulars at the Alibi know at this point. He’s done hiding and Ian's surprise that he told whoever’s on the phone is irritating.
"Oh, really?" says Ian, grinning even wider. He reaches out to touch Mickey, rubbing the back of his neck and Mickey makes a grab for the phone, only to miss spectacularly. "That's good to hear, Mrs. Milkovich."
Mickey relaxes somewhat and stops hopping around like an idiot, trying to snatch his phone away from Ian.
"Okay, Mary it is." His smile falls, but only fractionally. "No, I know. He's invited me, don't worry. Things have just been kinda crazy these last couple months... Sure... Sure. Yeah, he's right here.... Nice to sorta meet you too, Mary. Bye."
He hands over the phone and then bends to scoop up the kid.
"Mary," says Mickey as Ian collapses on the couch with Yev in his lap. "The fuck you calling me for?"
"Well, hello to you too, baby. Your Ian is just delightful."
"Yeah, he's a fucking ray of sunshine." The statement is actually pretty fucking accurate, but it comes out sarcastic and biting. Ian just grins up at him, tugging on his wrist until he sits close on the couch, and in his ear Mary laughs.
"I like him," Mary says. "When he's ready, when you're ready, you bring him to see me."
"Whatever. Why you calling?"
"I got you a job."
Mickey thinks it is long past time he cleaned out his ears because he's got to be hearing things.
"You got me a job," he repeats, tone free of inflection. That gets Ian's attention and his head snaps up from making silly faces at Yev. He whispers a shit ton of questions and Mickey reaches out to cover his mouth so he can hear his mother answer properly.
"Yup. In a garage. Working on cars. Full time, too," she says. He can hear the pride in her voice.
"You got me a job working on cars at a garage from jail," Mickey says, still not really believing it.
"Cars!" squeaks Ian, tickling Yev. Between his squeaking boyfriend and his giggling kid, it’s damn difficult to hear but he has no desire to move away.
"I'm in prison, Mykhailo, not jail. There is a difference."
"Whatever."
"And Carla, nice lady who's in here with me, she owed me a favor. Her husband runs a shop not to far from the neighborhood and he’s in need of reliable employees," she says, pleased as fucking punch.
"Reliable employees, huh?"
"That's you, my dear."
He’s skeptical, more out of habit than anything. Sitting next to Mickey are the two most important people in his little world, and they certainly rely on him. He's doing his fucking damnedest to be a reliable boyfriend and a reliable father, so why not add employee to the fucking list?
"Yeah. Okay. What do I gotta do?"
"I got his number. Ready for it?"
"Ready."
She rattles off seven digits and then keeps talking. “And I also had an account opened in your name, over at that credit union on Wentworth. There’s a couple thousand in there, but please don’t spent it on anything stupid, alright?”
“What?” Mickey snaps.
“It’s for bills and shit. Ease the burden money. No fucking video games or nothing,” she lectures. “Kids these days like video games, right?”
“Uh,” replies Mickey.
She then rattles off a whole bunch of shit about debit cards and checking accounts and building credit scores.
“Mom!” Mickey shouts. “How’re you giving me a couple thousand dollars from jail?”
“Prison, Mickey! Prison! And I have my ways. You’d be surprised, all the shit I’ve figured out how to get done in here. Now what’s that money for?”
“Bills.”
“And what is the money not for?”
“Video games.”
“Perfect!” Love you, kid.”
He hangs up with his mom, promising to visit in the next couple weeks, and turns to blink at Ian.
“Dude, I’m pretty fucking sure my mom is the Queen of Decatur,” Mickey says.
"I wasn't sure," Ian murmurs later at home in their bed.
"Sure about what?" Mickey mutters into his pillow, nearly asleep. Naked, Ian pressed up against his back, all fucked out and exhausted, he doesn't understand what Ian's saying or why he is fucking speaking at all.
"I didn't know for sure that you told your mom about us."
Mickey chokes out a laugh and Ian tenses behind him.
"Fuck, Ian, basically all I do is tell my mom about us," Mickey replies, his exhaustion making him honest.
"Really?"
"Yes. Shit, man. And even if I hadn't, which makes no fucking sense seeing as I've been trying to get you to come with me all summer, you coulda told her."
"No, I couldn't. I just... I've outed you enough for one lifetime, alright?"
"The fuck, Gallagher?"
"I forced you to come out last time. To your dad. That wasn't right. It shoulda been your choice but I made you and you got hurt. No way I'm doing anything like that ever again, even if it is over the phone to your mom." Ian's grip on his waist has gotten progressively tighter as he's confessed all this to the back of Mickey's neck. He wonders if this is something Ian's talked about in therapy, the sessions Mickey sits out.
"You didn't force me to do nothing," Mickey says. "You didn't force me to do anything I didn't want to do."
"You did not fucking want to come out to your dad." Ian snaps, sitting up slightly.
"I wanted to be with you," Mickey insists, surprised by his own calm. "And that was the only way to do it, not because you said so or made me or whatever. Think about it, Ian. With Terry home you really think I coulda got away with living at that house with you? Fuck no. No fucking way. Terry would’ve had me sharing a bed with fucking Svetlana and pretending and it would’ve destroyed us all over again. You were right that the only way to be together was to come out and yeah, you had to push me to see it too and maybe your tactics were a little rash, but I needed that fucking push, Ian. And it got that fucker outta our lives."
The for now is left unsaid.
"Oh," says Ian, settling back in behind Mickey again.
"You can tell anyone you want, alright? About me and you. I'd prefer it not be anyone who'd want to kill us for it, but whatever."
"Okay."
"Now go the fuck to sleep."
"Okay."
Mickey wants to ask why Ian won’t come with him to meet Mary, but he doesn’t. Instead he stays awake long after Ian’s breathing slows, coming up with theories, each stupider than the last.
"Here, trade me," says Mary, dropping a stack of books on their usual table and scooting it towards Mickey before reaching out to take Yev from Mandy.
"Hello to you too, Ma," Mickey says with a snort and an eye roll. Mary is too busy cooing over her grandson to notice.
"Hello, Mickey," Mary says, using the fucking annoying baby voice that Yev unfortunately seems to find hilarious. "Hello, Mandy."
"Hi, Mom," Mandy says, taking a seat and sounding as cheerful as she ever is, apparently unbothered by Mary's focus on the kid and her annoying as fuck baby voice. This is visit number three for Mandy and, like Mickey, she somehow lost most her Mary-rage just a couple minutes into visit number two. "What's all this?"
"That," says Mary, tearing her eyes away from Yev as she takes her seat, "is my old GED stuff."
Mickey and Mandy share a look.
"You've got your GED?" asks Mickey. Milkoviches have a long tradition of dropping out or failing out. For awhile he thought Mandy would prove the exception – really fucking hoped – but then Ian left and Mandy just gave up
"Years ago," says Mary. "I'm working on a bachelors degree now."
"You can do that?" Mandy asks, gaping. "In jail?"
"It’s prison,” says Mary, grinning. It is a little freaky, how much Mandy looks like their mother. "There are all sorts of programs and classes. NA, for example. And where do you think I learned about checking accounts? This place wouldn't be so bad, if it weren't for the food and lack of freedom."
"You want us to get our GEDs?" asks Mandy. She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, obviously thinking this idea is stupid as hell.
"No, I think Mickey should get his GED," Mary says, failing to notice how Mandy crumbles at her words. "Here, Mick. Check out the work. That look like anything you can't handle?"
He flips through the prep book and watches Mandy try not to cry.
"Mandy," Mary murmurs, apparently noticing her daughter’s distress now. "You have one semester left. You don't need to take a test. You might as well get the real thing. And don't even tell me you can't, young lady," says Mary as Mandy opens her mouth to argue. "You're smart."
Mandy looks shocked and Mickey wonders if anyone has ever told his sister that before. It’s obviously true, even if she's never been great at school, but Mickey sees the stunned expression on his sister's face and he hates himself for not telling Mandy every day.
Maybe Mickey is smart too, because the GED stuff doesn't look too hard. The math shit, anyway. He did a lot of his stuff in his head, figuring out who gets what of the Rub & Tug money when he was still spending his days bored and irritated at the Alibi instead of tinkering under the hoods of cars.
"I hate everybody in that fucking school," mutters Mandy, slinking a little lower in her chair. "I'd rather take some stupid test then set foot in that building again."
Mickey gapes, shocked that Mandy has gotten on the finish high school bandwagon so quickly, but Mary just shrugs. "Maybe Ian would go back with you."
Mickey snorts, thinking of their fight last night, and all the ones before it, that they haven't quite recovered from. Ian deciding to go back to work at the club and Mickey yelling that over his dead body would Ian ever go back to that creep hole.
"Doubt it," says Mandy.
"I know I haven't actually met him, but you two talk about him enough that I think I might kinda know him," says Mary. "And he seems like the kind of guy that would go back if his best friend asked him, if he thought he was doing it for his best friend."
"Ain't that kinda manipulative?" asks Mandy.
Mary shrugs. "Not if it's true."
"What the fuck are you doing?" Mickey grumbles at his mother as she gleefully bounces his son on her knee. Usually during these visits Mary just listens or asks questions, but now she seems confident enough in her motherhood to be doling out orders.
Mickey isn’t sure if he loves it or hates it.
"You only visit me once a month and I am making up for years of missed parenting," says Mary. "How’s Ian?"
"Planning on going back to work at the fucking club," Mickey says. "A fucking toxic environment if I ever heard of one, but the more I say no the more determined he is to go the fuck back there." The thought of Ian at the goddamn Fairy Tale, in the same place where Mickey found him drugged out of his mind and groped by predatory old queens, makes him want to punch things.
And he is really trying to not punch things. Stable people with stable lives don’t punch things.
"Sometimes folks just got to figure things out for themselves," says Mary.
"It's just bartending, Mick," says Ian as they approach the club. It’s early, so the streets are pretty clear of creepy old dudes but they will be out in droves in a couple hours and Mickey tries to prepare himself for the inevitable onslaught. Even behind the bar, they will try to get Ian. "You really don't have to stay."
"Shut the fuck up, Ian," says Mickey. "Don't you have a sparkly outfit to put on?"
Ian grins, pulling Mickey closer with a hand around his neck. He drops a kiss on the top of Mickey's head and lingers longer than usual.
The early hours at the club ain't so bad.
With the lights up and the music low, it simply seems like a particularly flamboyant bar. The crowd is thin and casual. Ian’s free to linger at the end of the bar, where Mickey sits on a stool, trying and failing to pace himself on the beer. A couple dudes Mickey vaguely recognizes from the loft party months ago hang out, chatting with Ian and somehow remembering Mickey.
The whole thing is tolerable until nine thirty, when the lights go down, the DJ starts up, and the mostly naked dancers come out. About ten minutes after the place transforms from fruity bar to flashy club, Mickey watches Ian at the other end of the bar, where some bald old asshole is smirking, his face vile and lecherous. He waves around a twenty, obviously asking Ian for something in exchange for a big tip.
Mickey fully expects Ian to flirt back, like he would back in the day, but instead his smile is tight and wary. He shakes his head and shrugs at Baldy before moving on to the next dude waiting for a drink.
Mickey smiles into his beer.
"Hey."
There is a guy sliding into the stool next to Mickey’s, scooting closer than he needs to be. He looks smarmy as hell with his suit and his Rolex and his grin, but at least he is younger then the assholes always all over Ian. Early thirties maybe.
Mickey grunts in reply, sipping his beer and wondering if he could get away with swiping that watch.
"Aren't you lonely, all the way over here by yourself?"
"No," says Mickey simply, frowning at this guy.
"Wow, not very friendly are you? Did you chase everyone else away with that scowl? Oh, and those tattoos? Good thing I don't scare easy."
Mickey rolls his eyes and downs the rest of his beer.
"Let's get you a drink."
Before Mickey can tell this dude to fuck off, a fresh beer appears under his nose.
"There you go, babe," says Ian, leaning as close as he can to Mickey's face with the bar top between them. Mickey raises an eyebrow, the nickname babe new and completely unacceptable, but he lets it go because he can feel Mr. Smarmy backing off.
"Thanks," replies Mickey. He stands on the rungs of his stool to get close enough to give Ian a brief kiss. When he sits back down Ian is smiling for real, that dopey, moony look he seems to reserve for Mickey.
"Oh I see how it is," says Mr. Smarmy.
Ian's face is stony again as he stands up straight. "Can I help you?" he asks.
"No thanks," replies the dude, shaking his full drink. "Unless you two want to head come back to my place. What time do you get off?"
"None of your fucking business o'clock," snaps Mickey. "Get the fuck outta here, Gordon Gekko. We ain't interested."
He scrambles back, almost knocking over the stool in his hurry to get away from Mickey and his half way raised, Fuck U-Up fists.
"Hey, you okay?" Mickey asks as Ian scowls at the guy, even as he disappears onto the dance floor.
"I'm fucking fine," says Ian obviously not fucking fine.
Sometimes people just got to figure things out for themselves, Mickey thinks as some other customer flags Ian down for a drink.
It's boring as fuck, sitting at this same stool, drinking through Ian's shift. Mickey tries to study on some GED app he downloaded onto Ian's phone, but his success in the practice quizzes decreases as his beer intake increases, so eventually he gives up and plays solitaire instead.
Ian, who is always right there with a fresh beer when some random asshole offers to buy one for Mickey, helps his drunkenness along. He’s a little surprised by the near constant stream of old men vying for his attention, but with Ian protected by the bar and with Mickey sitting alone, he’s the most accessible young dude in this general area.
It‘s an exhausting, irritating night, only made marginally better when Ian drags him to the back room for a couple of blow jobs over his break.
Last call is a relief and when Ian goes to change, Mickey drifts off for a quick nap, leaning on the bar and head resting on his folded arms. Ian is quiet and moody when he emerges, taking the seat next to Mickey as they wait for Ian's manager to count out the tips for the night.
"Good night tonight," says the manager, handing a fat roll of bills to Ian.
"Thanks," says Ian. "I quit."
Mickey’s drunk and giggly as Ian leads him out of the club, gladly wrapping his arms around Ian's waist and leaning against him heavily as they walk towards the el.
"How drunk are you?" asks Ian.
"Your fault."
"My fault? My fault! Mickey, the second you were down to half a beer some asshole was there, ready to buy you a fucking drink."
"You’re so ridiculous," says Mickey with a laugh. "I woulda just said no."
"Whatever. When did everyone at that place get so fucking creepy?"
"Always, Ian. That's when. Always is when."
"That was fucking terrible," grumbles Ian. "I don't remember it being so fucking terrible before. How fucked up is that?"
Ian is distressed now, rather than just pissed. Mickey doesn’t like Ian distressed.
“You okay?”
He can feel Ian shrug before firming up his grip on Mickey. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Just made me remember some shit I’d rather not, you know?”
Mickey feels cold, all that beer rolling in his stomach. It shouldn’t be a surprise, not the way he first found Ian here pawed at and passed out in the fucking snow, but he’s not equipped to handle this conversation sober without murdering someone and right now he is too drunk to even keep his eyes open.
“Like what?” he whispers back, despite absolutely not wanting to know.
“Nothing, Mick. Best to leave that shit in the past.”
“At least tell The Lemon.”
Ian barks out a laugh a relaxes somewhat, reminded that there is someone he can talk to this shit about without the risk of sending them into a homicidal rage. “My shrink’s name is Carrie Lemmon, Mick. I don’t think she likes it when you call her that.”
“Ain’t my fault she’s got a weird last name.”
“Okay, Milkovich.”
Mickey replies with a string of sounds that are not really words and very nearly purrs when he feels Ian's lips pressed to the top of his head. Ian’s not so distressed now. That means Mickey can sleep.
"But you knew I wouldn't like it," Ian continues, undeterred by Mickey’s failure to really participate in this conversation. "You knew and you tried to tell me but I wouldn't listen."
"Sometimes folks just got to figure things out for themselves."
Ian laughs and Mickey closes his eyes, trusting Ian to lead him home safe.
"When did you get so wise, babe?"
"It's genetic."
Ian just laughs harder.
"The fuck?" Mickey mutters, securing Yev on his hip as he takes in the three Gallagher's huddled on his front porch.
"We're coming with you," says Debbie, bouncing slightly and holding Liam's hand.
"What? Fuck that." Mickey scoffs and heads back inside, leaving the door open. Shutting it wouldn't get them to go away. He'll have to argue this shit out, Gallagher style.
Some-fucking-how he got roped into watching Liam on Mary Day, because he’s a complete fucking sucker for Ian’s puppy look, but the plan was to pick the kid up on his way to the bus stop, not drag all three little Gallaghers with him to Decatur.
"Please," whines Debbie, following close behind him. "I brought cookies. Peanut butter chocolate chip."
He eyes the Tupperware clutched in her hands, severely tempted.
"If you two assholes have a whole day to waste on a bus to a prison, why can't you just watch your little brother, huh?" Mickey asks, setting Yev down on the kitchen floor with a couple toys while he finishes packing the diaper bag.
"I had a date," says Debbie, shrugging. "With a boy. But then I heard you were going to see your mom and I cancelled."
"You cancelled a date?" Mickey asks. “With a boy?"
"Yeah."
“Why?”
Debbie shrugs. “Prison is fascinating. And your mom is like double fascinating.”
"What about you, Rambo?" Mickey asks, nodding to Carl who is lingering in the hallway.
Carl just shrugs.
"I bribed him, too," says Debbie. "Maybe your mom can scare him straight so he'll stop beating up kids at school."
Mickey snorts. "You do realize it's gonna be six hours on a bus to sit in a windowless room with shitty florescent lighting? You really wanna do all that on your Sunday?"
"Yes!" Debbie says with a groan. "Urg, you’re so annoying. We know what it's going to be like and we wanna go. So let's just go already!"
"Mary’s so cool," says Debbie, taking the seat across from Mickey.
"Mary’s so fucking scary," replies Carl. Coming from Carl, that's pretty fucking scary. “But she told us about all the chicks she’s seen get stabbed. It was awesome.”
Mickey rolls his eyes and then smiles at Ian when he sits down, setting a plate full of hot dogs and a bowl full of salad on the table.
"You took them to Decatur?" Ian asks, frowning at his siblings who are once more going through every little detail of their visit with Mary. Between the fucking girl talk (boys, self defense techniques, baking) and the scare Carl straight lecture (which was pretty fucking scary), Mickey hardly got a word in.
"They fucking followed me, alright?" Mickey fidgets in his seat as Ian stares blankly at his plate. They've got to be thinking the same thing, how fucking strange it is that the little Gallagher's have met Mary when Ian still hasn't.
Mickey's not mad that Ian won't come with him, but he doesn't understand it. Meeting the goddamn parents is the sorta bullshit relationship step that Ian should be all over. His hesitation seems to be a bipolar thing, somehow, and Mickey might not understand it, but Ian will tell him eventually.
He always does.
"Are you mad?" Ian asks as they walk the couple of blocks between the Gallagher house and home. He's been quiet all night, responsive enough with his siblings to avoid arousing suspicion, but not genuine enough to trick Mickey.
"Mad?" Mickey puffs on his cigarettes and watches Ian out of the corner of his eye. Both his hands are stuffed in his pockets and Mickey can see the tension in his shoulders, held so high and so tight that Ian looks like a goddamn turtle, trying to hide in a shell. "Naw, man. Those kids ain't so bad. They kept Yev entertained the whole way there and part of the way back, until he passed out. I even got some studying in."
"No." Ian sighs, obviously frustrated. He runs his hands through his ridiculous, too long hair. "At me. Are you mad at me?"
"You? Why the fuck, Ian?"
He shrugs and keeps his mouth shut. It seems Ian always keeps his mouth shut just when Mickey needs him to fucking open it and explain.
"'Cuz you ain't been up to see Mary?" Mickey guesses.
Ian nods once, looking straight ahead even as they turn towards the front steps of their house.
“Hey." Mickey tugs on Ian's wrist, keeping him from trudging up those steps and disappearing inside, where all sorts of shit could be waiting to distract him, Svetlana and Mandy and whatever shitty show the three of them have been marathoning. "I ain’t mad."
"Yeah, you don't want me to meet your mom?" Now Ian is pissed, like he'd get back in the day when he was fucking done being Mickey's dirty little secret.
"Not if you don't want to."
"It's not that I don't want to!" Ian's frustration is mounting. He runs his hands through his hair some more and paces. Mickey sits on the steps to finish his cigarette. When Ian gets like this, best to just wait for him to figure it out. Telling him it's okay makes him angry and telling him to calm down makes him furious. Asking questions just makes his frustration grow.
It's only a few minutes before Ian's pacing slows and his breathing calms. He takes a seat right next to Mickey, their thighs pressed together. Mickey puts out his cigarette and turns slightly to look at Ian who is looking at the sky.
"Remember what it was like this time last year? Last summer?"
Mickey snorts. "Yeah. You were a giant pain in my ass. Ditching me for happy fucking hour with old dudes and nagging me into kissing you."
Ian laughs. "Nag? I did not fucking nag. Shoulda nagged. You got off easy and made me wait forever."
"Always so fucking demanding," Mickey teases, bumping Ian with his shoulder.
Ian's smile is a little sad this time, and he looks too old and too young all at once. He rests his head on Mickey’s shoulder and wraps Mickey's arm around his waist. Mickey presses a kiss to Ian's temple because it's right fucking there and why the fuck not?
"It was so good for us," Ian murmurs, still looking at the sky. "Summers are always so fucking good for us but then it all goes to shit. Summer ends and you punch a cop in the face or Terry catches us. Summer ends and I lose you and it's torture."
"Not gonna happen this time, Ian," Mickey says. "Even if things get bad again, you got me."
"Promise?"
"Fuck yeah, I promise."
It's a nice night, a much needed cool off after the unbearable heat of the day. There are no clouds in the sky and Mickey can even make out a star or two. The couple of times he's been out of the city for runs with his dad, he couldn't stop looking up at all those goddamn stars. He'll take Ian one day. They'll get their hands on a car and just drive.
"You remember two summers ago?” Ian murmurs. “When we went on our first date?"
Mickey snorts. "Date? There were no goddamn dates."
“Uh, try the night you got out of juvie. The first time.”
Mickey scoffs. “What the fuck, Gallagher?”
“Think about it. There was food—“
“Pizza rolls.”
“And drinks—“
“Old Style.”
“And you took me out—“
“To a half abandoned baseball field.”
“Where we talked about the future—“
“Jesus Christ.”
“And had great sex.”
On that point at least they agree. “Okay, that’s pathetic. We’re gonna need to get you out on a date.”
“Yeah?”
Mickey shrugs and Ian’s head bobs around on his shoulder.
“Who’re we gonna get to take me on a date, Mickey?”
“Very fucking funny. You’re a regular fucking Steve Martin,” Mickey says, punching Ian lightly in the chest. They shove each other and wrestle around on the steps, ribbing each other and laughing, until Ian settles with his head back on Mickey’s shoulder.
"But it wasn't just us,” Ian continues as they settle. “I was good too, in the best shape of my life, acing all my summer classes. Kicking ass in ROTC. I had a fucking future."
Ah, that's it. Ian always gets there eventually. Mickey didn't mind following him on the rambling trip down memory lane, but this is it. Ian's stupid reason he doesn't want to meet Mary.
"I had a plan, Mickey. I was gonna be something. It was only a year ago, but I don't remember what it was like to be that self-assured, future-having, successful fucker. He was the kinda guy you woulda been proud to bring home to mommy, not some crazy asshole whose back at the goddamn, dead end Kash and Grab, where he will probably spend the rest of his crazy, dead end life."
Yup. Ian always gets there eventually.
Mickey takes a moment, considering how to best approach all that he extremely disagrees with from Ian’s little rant. He’s trying to learn from the plethora of fights and all the goddamn therapy. Getting pissed – his first instinct – never works, and neither does straight up trying to convince Ian that he’s wrong, about the crazy thing, the dead end thing, all of it.
"I'm really fucking proud of you, you know that?" he says instead.
"Mickey," Ian replies with a groan. He tries to pull away, but Mickey holds firm.
"I'm serious."
Ian huffs, like he either thinks Mickey is full of shit or he thinks Mickey is completely delusional.
"What you've accomplished these last couple months, it's harder than getting into West Point," Mickey says.
Ian laughs. "You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about."
"Sure I do," Mickey says, resting his cheek on the top of Ian's head. "I was the one who had to wait to get fucked while you did all your extra training and fucking homework in the summer. I saw how hard you worked. And this has been harder."
"Not having a fucking clue what I'm doing with my life is harder than getting into West Point? Yeah, okay."
"Your own mind wasn't safe for awhile there Ian. So yeah, I think that's harder, figuring yourself out. You amaze me, every goddamn day, and I'm fucking proud of you."
"Jesus, Mickey," Ian says, but he sounds pretty choked up.
"You're only eighteen, Gallagher. You're young. You've got time to figure out a new plan for your life. And if you never meet Mary, that's fine by me, but just know I would be fucking proud to introduce you, okay?"
Ian is silent for a long time. Mickey doesn't like Ian silent. Silence is the crash and Ian's inability to even get out of bed.
"When did you get so fucking sappy?" Ian asks, fingers digging into his ribs.
"That's it," Mickey replies, smiling. Ian is teasing and calm again, although Mickey really hopes he was fucking listening. "All the sappiness I've got in me. You'll have to wait another twenty years for my sappiness reserves to build back up."
Ian laughs again, genuine and free, and Mickey thinks he could probably live off the sound alone.
"I really fucking love you, Mick."
"You fucking better."
"Yo, Mickey. Cute kid. What’re you doing here?" Kev moves to pour a beer as Mickey takes his seat at the end of the bar, nearest to the stairs that lead up to the Rub & Tug. "It's been awhile. Thought you handed over pimping to the wife?"
"Yeah, yeah," Mickey says, settling Yev on his lap and making sure the kids has a firm grip on his toy before taking a sip of the beer Kev sets before him. "She's got me keeping watch tonight. Yev has to get shots or some shit and Lana thinks the doc at the clinic is a fine piece of lesbo eye candy."
Kev laughs. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. There’s no arguing with Lana when she wants to ogle bitches. Believe me, I'd much rather be with Yev at the clinic then here on my one goddamn day off this week."
"Wow," says Kev, slinging a towel over one shoulder and leaning on the bar with both hands. “You’ve really hung up your pimp cane for good, huh?" Kev grins like he's the most hilarious motherfucker in the whole goddamn world.
He really isn't.
Mickey just shrugs, bouncing Yev in his lap. The baby gurgles happily and Kev leans over the bar to coo at the kid like Yev is the cutest motherfucker in the whole goddamn world.
He really is.
The bar is pretty empty. Just the normal alcoholic crowd. Frank is at the far end of the bar, working on destroying liver number two. He keeps glancing at Mickey and opening his mouth like he wants to say something before shutting it again. Thank fuck he's stayed quiet. Mickey has no desire to talk to his boyfriend's wasted fuckhead of a father/uncle.
Feeling like a pathetic asshole, Mickey glances at his watch, wondering how Ian is at the Kash and Grab. Hopefully it's slow enough that he’ll be able to get through his homework before his shift ends.
Because Mickey is a fucking romantic, he ventured to the high school and glared at whispering, staring students until Ian emerged. He didn't look too happy, but brightened instantly when he caught sight of Mickey, bouncing Yev on his hip and scowling at everything. Ian practically sprinted over, plucking Yev from his arms and dropping a careful kiss on the top of Mickey's head, a gesture that somehow became a habit since that night at the Alibi when Terry nearly killed them both. Again.
Mickey walked Ian to work, feeling domestic and strange and already dreading the extra hours until he’d get to see Ian again.
Yev tries to gnaw on Mickey's watch, the teething a progressively annoying phase, and Svetlana finally emerges from the staircase, looking bizarre in a yellow dress that almost reaches her knees. It's still pretty fucking hot for fall and typically Lana shows as much skin as she can get away with. Mickey more thinks of her barely there outfits as her work uniform, although she claims to be done turning tricks now that she's the Madame of this shitty little brothel.
"The fuck you wearing?" Mickey asks, turning towards her on his stool.
Svetlana glares at him and fluffs her hair. "My doctor is respectable lady. Need to look like wholesome mother."
"Right," says Mickey, rolling his eyes and holding out Yev. The baby is wiggling and delighted by her presence. She picks him up, swinging him around and speaking to him in Russian.
"Enough with the commie shit," Mickey says.
Svetlana ignores him, but hands over a stack of cash that Mickey immediately starts to count out.
"Four girls upstairs," Svetlana says, her tone harsh and abrupt now that she's talking to Mickey instead of their kid. "No Johns. Good day so far. Girls need paying. Here is tally of work today."
Mickey counts and nods, glancing at a slip of paper with four names and tick marks.
"Let's not be forgetting your old buddy, Kev," says Kev.
Mickey and Svetlana flip him off in unison.
"How long you gonna be?" Mickey asks as he starts to count the money out into six separate piles, one for each girl, Kev, and finally, the Milkoviches.
"Maybe long time," replies Lana with a shrug.
"Really?" Mickey very nearly whines. “You can’t get your ass back here after? Do your fucking job for the night?”
"Doctor might want to meet up. After checkup. Maybe doctor has break for dinner."
"Yeah, I agreed to fill in for you so you could get our kid shots. Not so you can fuck a doctor."
"No fucking. Must be respectable lady for respectable doctor."
"You’re a fucking whore, Svetlana!"
"Not anymore. I am pimp now, yes? The Abraham Lincoln of whores."
Mickey groans and drops his forehead to the bar top, an action he immediately regrets as the surface is sticky. He also regrets liberating the goddamn whores. This is exactly the sort of thoughtless shit Mickey can't afford to pull now that he's trying to build a stable life with Ian. No more flying off the handle at assholes named Sasha. No more rash decisions that leave him basically responsible for six Russian whores with no paperwork. No more anything that will bring Ian unnecessary stress.
"Money," says Svetlana, smacking him lightly in the back. Yev joins in the smacking, giggling with glee.
Mickey lifts his head to glare at Kev, who shakes his head in amused commiseration.
He straightens up fully to finish counting out the money, figuring out easily what the girls and Kev are owed before handing the rest over to his goddamn wife.
"This isn't seduce a respectable doctor money," Mickey says, refusing to let go of the cash as Lana tries to tug it from his grasp. "This is pay for Yev's shots money. And it's your week for groceries. And you need to put in something for winter clothes for Yev. Should have enough for a coat next week, if you don't skimp."
Lana nods. Mickey lets go of the cash, keeping a twenty for himself to cover his bar tab.
"Say goodbye to piece of shit father, Yevgeny," says Lana, her voice sing song and grading.
Mickey kisses his kid. "Have fun with your whore of a mother."
Svetlana glares.
"Ex-whore of a mother," Mickey amends before Svetlana finally leaves, bizarrely modest dress swishing around at her knees.
"Your life is fucked up. man," says Kev, shaking his head.
"Fuck off." Mickey tosses Kev's money at his chest, making each bill scatter and fall to the floor behind the bar. Kev yelps and falls to his knees, scrambling to collect his bills before Frank notices.
"I said fifty. Not twenty. Not fucking forty-nine. Fifty. This ain't no negotiation." Scowling, the john hands over a pair of twenties and a ten. "See? Was that so hard? Go on up."
It's been a busy night at both the Alibi and the Rub & Tug. Friday is payday at the meat packing plant. Drunks and perverts alike have cash to burn.
"Hey!" calls Kev from the far end of the bar. Mickey glances up to see Kev pointing at the front door, where a certain morose redhead loiters with hands deep in the pockets of his perfectly too tight jeans, scanning the crowd and looking like he would rather be anywhere else.
Mickey stands on the rungs of his stool to give himself the extra height necessary to wave Ian over. He smiles when he catches sight of Mickey, but as he works his way through the drunken crowd he gets progressively tenser. Mickey can see it in his posture and the thin line of his mouth. Ian is making himself small, shoulders curved in and hunched, as he attempts to not touch anyone, despite the bodies packed tightly in the small bar.
"Hey," says Mickey when Ian finally gets close enough to hear the greeting. He stands, gesturing for Ian to sit on the stool at the very end of the bar. Mickey then squeezes in between Ian and the dude on the stool to their right, doing his best to give them a little square of privacy. "No inventory today?"
Ian shakes his head. He turns towards Mickey, tentatively lifting a hand to touch Mickey’s face but then changes his mind at the last moment. The aborted gesture has Mickey wincing and all the beer he's consumed since Svetlana fucked off with the kid curdles in his stomach.
Ian's hesitation is Mickey's fault because for the first few years of their relationship, Mickey conditioned Ian not to touch, not to even fucking look, and when Ian inevitably pushed for more, Mickey rejected his advances, nine times out of ten.
While Ian was in Cedars, fighting with every breath to get his mind back, Mickey changed. Six months out of Cedars, and Ian hasn't quite caught on yet. He almost lost Ian – again – and Mickey changed into the person he always wanted to be, the one Ian also managed to see despite Mickey's increasingly desperate attempts to stay hidden and safe.
But Mickey's nothing if not practical and his behavior wasn't keeping him safe any longer, not with Ian bleeding on the bathroom floor, slicing his hands open to see if skeletons bleed. So Ian went to Cedars to win back his mind and Mickey shed those final layers of protection and denial that still lingered after his big coming out.
No one seems to notice but Ian and that little fucker still doesn't really believe it.
Ian's had a shit day. Whether it's been a standard shit day or a bipolar shit day, Mickey can't say. But Ian's had a shit day and he can't handle being rejected by Mickey right now. Better to not even reach out at all.
So Mickey does the reaching out, wrapping an arm around Ian's shoulders and pulling Ian into his chest. Ian absolutely fucking melts and he shudders slightly as he wraps both arms around Mickey's waist, squeezing too tight but also not tight enough. Mickey strokes Ian's ridiculous long ass hair. He hasn’t cut it in months.
"You don't smell like cigarettes," Ian mumbles into his chest.
"Told you. Quit." Cigarettes are too fucking expensive and he's found that the numbers in his new bank account go up way fucking faster when he isn't taking out money to burn through a pack a day.
"I know you told me," says Ian. Mickey can hear the grin in his voice, even if his face stays hidden in Mickey's chest. "I just didn't believe you."
"Fuck off." Mickey rolls his eyes and draws out the syllables.
Ian laughs and the sound makes Mickey okay.
"Were things at work not so good?" Mickey asks when Ian gets his shit together. The question is domestic as fuck, but Mickey asks anyway.
"Just more assholes then usual. And I hate math."
It's Mickey's turn to laugh because math has caused Ian to threaten to drop out no less then three times since the semester started a month ago. Again, Mary’s approach worked where all Fiona’s pleading and Lip’s ordering failed. Mandy went to Ian, asked her best friend to do this hard thing with her, and now they are both taking the handful of classes they need to graduate.
"I'll help you tomorrow," Mickey promises. "Who’re these assholes I have to kill?"
Ian sighs, lifting his head to frown up at Mickey. "Kill no one. It was just a couple kids. Seriously, they were like twelve and calling me a fag and shit."
Mickey bristles and Ian holds him a little tighter, as if he's preparing to keep Mickey from tearing through the neighborhood, beating the shit out of any twelve year old he comes across. Maybe that would be standard operating procedure for Before Mickey, but he ain't angry or closeted or scared anymore so Mickey can acknowledge this rage without needing to do anything with it.
"You best not have sold them shit."
Ian grins. "I didn't. No cigarettes. No beer. No fucking Bubblicious."
Mickey nods his approval and Ian's grin slowly fades. "They were just a couple kids, Mick. And their parents or this neighborhood or whoever have already poisoned them with all this hate. It wasn't teasing or joking. It was hate and they were just a couple kids. The whole thing was so depressing."
"Yeah," Mickey agrees. He wonders if these little assholes reminded Ian of Mickey at that age.
"Can I just..." Ian's arm is around his waist, pulling Mickey a little closer. "Can I just stay here for a minute?"
Mickey doesn't say anything. He just runs his fingers through Ian's hair, not self-conscious. Not afraid. He can hug his fucking boyfriend and still be Mickey Milkovich, neighborhood terror, part time pimp, and someone you do not want to fuck with.
"Piece of Shit!"
Mickey glances up to see one of the girls at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing her jaw and scowling at him. He's pretty sure that the girls know his name at this point, whether they've learned English or not, but they continue to follow the lead of goddamn Svetlana and they never actually use it.
Mickey scans the crowd, looking for the horny fucker next in line. "Yo, Timmy!" he calls over Ian's head, waving him over with the hand that his not around Ian's shoulders. The guy grins at Mickey, probably amused by the sight of Ian wrapped around him, but doesn't say a word as he ascends the stairs.
When he walks into the visitation room, Yev freshly diapered and babbling nonsensically on his hip, he is surprised to see his sister crying.
Although she sits with her back to him at their usual table, her shoulders are shaking and her head is bowed. Mandy didn't cry yesterday when they learned they’d have two weeks to prepare for Terry getting out of the can, so her hysteria now is a surprise.
Across the table, Mary looks dazed. She cries too, although while Mandy is sobbing, Mary appears too stunned to do anything but stare into space with tears silently falling down her cheeks.
They got the phone call yesterday, when Ian was putting Yev down for a nap and Mickey was teasing Mandy about her squirrel hat as she got ready for work. It was a pretty fucking shitty moment, but not exactly shocking. They knew Terry wouldn't stay in forever but hoped that he would keep fucking up and getting his time extended. For a few minutes before Mandy had to leave, the three of them talked about what to do in two weeks, ideas ranging from moving to murder, but nothing was decided and there were no tears.
Not like there are now.
"The fuck?" mutters Mickey as he takes his seat. Yev immediately starts arching his back and whining, desperate to get on the floor to crawl around, his current favorite activity. Mickey manages to distract him, pulling a toy out of his pocket, but he doubts it will last long. "I leave you alone for ten minutes to clean up the kid and already you’re crying over Terry getting out? I told you, Mandy. We'll figure it out."
Mandy lifts her head to scowl at him, her raccoon make up running down her face and her blue eyes glassy. At least her irritation with him has distracted her from the sobbing.
"That's not what we’re talking about, Mickey," says Mary. She still isn't looking at anything and her voice is hollow. Something in her tone makes him shiver and his stomach sinks. Even Yev goes quiet and still in his lap. "Not really."
Mandy sniffs and Mickey just knows.
Like Mickey when he first came to see his mother, Mandy has shared her own Terry traumas. The ones that happened after Mickey selfishly punched a cop and got himself safely locked away from Terry, leaving Mandy alone. Ian told him, when he got out, not everything but enough that when Mickey confronted Mandy about it, the details – Terry blackout drunk, getting knocked up, the abortion – came spilling out.
If he wasn't such a fucking pathetic coward, he would have shot Terry in the head right then.
But that summer Mandy was sheltered at the Gallaghers and Mickey deluded him self into thinking that avoiding Terry would keep them all safe.
After the wedding, after Ian left, he started bunking in Mandy's room both to avoid his wife and protect her sister, until fucking Kenyatta moved in, brining with him a whole new slew of dangers.
"Oh," says Mickey. Yev whines, sensing the sudden change in Mickey's mood, so he holds the kid close to his chest, letting Yev tuck his face against his neck.
"I was thirteen when I first got together with Terry," Mary murmurs, still talking to the floor and not seeing anything. "No, not got together. Was kidnapped. He took me and our house as collateral, to make sure my dad paid off his drug debt. And life with Terry was so much better than life with my piece of shit father. There was always food. And always a bump. I was used to it by then, the way men would look at me, and at least Terry was feeding me and housing me and giving me drugs instead of selling me off for heroin money, so I convinced myself that I wanted it, in the hopes that I would get to stay. But I was still just a kid. And you two should just be kids too."
Mandy sniffs again, but Mary doesn't notice. When his sister reaches for his hand Mickey lets her take it.
"I was so fucking happy, when in the same week my dad ODed and I found out I was pregnant," Mary continues, smiling slightly. "I got to stay."
Yev is quiet in his arms, face still pressed into Mickey's neck, tiny fingers clutching Mickey’s shirt, and for the first few months of his life, Mickey couldn't even look at him without thinking about how he was conceived. But this is the first time Mickey's ever considered how he came into the world himself.
Despite knowing that Mary was thirteen and Terry was in his thirties, Mickey never really thought about how fucked up the whole thing must have been. He wonders if Mary looks at him and thinks about being young and scared, thankful to be in one fucked up situation because the fucked up situation before was so much worse.
"It was good for awhile," Mary says. She blinks and looks up, smiling slightly at her kids. "In flashes, anyway. Do you remember?"
Mandy shakes her head because she was only six when Mary went away, but Mickey nods, remembering when Mary would smile and sing. Terry would grumble about it, but eventually he would smile back and let Mary pull him to his feet, twirling her around the living room as Mickey watched and laughed.
"I think he might have loved me once," Mary says, back to frowning at the floor. "Loved us all, in his own limited way. But he actually listened to me. I was the only one that could pull him out of his rages and he never hit me. Not once. He went after the two of you a handful of times, but I could talk him out of that too. I think there might have been moments of real happiness. Do you remember when we got married? On my eighteenth birthday?"
Again, Mandy shakes her head and looks like she genuinely regrets being too young to remember any moments of real happiness, but Mickey remembers tugging at the collar of his button up shirt and Mandy in a pink dress, holding his hand as they watched their parents exchange promises and rings. Terry offered more rare smiles in that one day than every moment since combined and Mary looked beautiful.
But Mary always looked beautiful.
"I thought I could love him that day," Mary confesses. "But now I know better. Three years later I got caught with his drug shipment, and we'd found the limit of his love. He let me take the fall, encouraged it even. And I was too scared to go against him. I figured if I ratted, someone, Ronnie, one of your brothers, whoever, would definitely have killed me, and where would that leave you two, huh? In the system. I thought you'd be better off with one present parent. What a fucking load of shit that turned out to be. Shoulda just taken the chance, grabbed you two and ran."
Mickey feels so fucking guilty for every moment he blamed Mary for leaving them with Terry. He glances at Mandy, who appears equally horrified and regretful.
"But at least for the first few years he brought you two to visit, let me see you and touch you, and fuck, those were my favorite moments, when you would babble at me about school and your friends and your lives. I just breathed it all in. Until you showed up with a black eye, Mickey, when you were ten."
That's another thing that Mickey forgot. How after Mary left, Terry started smacking him around a little bit, a spanking here and a slap there, until it escalated into closed fists and kicks. That black eye was the first bruise Mary saw and she was usually so happy and so carefree when they visited, but she just couldn't manage that day.
"Your father then informed me that he came home to find the two of you coloring, and that might have been acceptable behavior for Mandy, but no son of Terry's would be some sort of faggy artist."
Mandy squeezes his hand a little tighter and Mickey flinches. That year, fifth grade, Mickey failed his first class. Art.
"So I tried to figure out a way for Rande to get custody, but it is so fucking impossible to make anyone listen to you from in here. Of course Terry caught wind of it and vowed to never let me see you again." Mary is looking at them now, her smile watery.
"But here we are," murmurs Mandy. She and Mary share conspiratorial grins, but Mickey can't get over how long he let Terry manipulate him in to blaming everything on Mary. She was alone in here for eight years, when she only ever did her best. At every turn, Mary did her best for them.
"No more," Mary says, her voice low and dangerous. "Terry is done dictating our lives. He's done enough to all three of us. And it's over. Don’t worry about it, okay?"
She stares them down for a long moment, clearly telling them more then she is willing to say here in this fucking prison visitation room. Mickey finds himself nodding, even though he isn't totally sure what Mary means.
Mary shakes her head and runs her hands through her stupid slicked back hair, taking a moment to collect herself before she is back to her typical beaming self.
"Sorry to get all serious on you, there," she says, faintly embarrassed now. Mickey smirks back, glad that his mom finally gets what it feels like to be on the other side of the table, confessing all the shit that's been rattling around in her head for too long. He's done it and Mandy has too.
"Don't be," says Mandy. "I'm glad I know."
Mickey nods some more because apparently that is all he is capable of doing in this moment.
"I'm glad you know, too," says Mary. "Now, can we please fucking talk about something happy? Goddamn."
This Mickey can handle because something happy was his plan for this visit all along, until the fucking prison called last night with the terrible news.
"Hey, Yevy?" Mickey says, prying his son away from his neck. The kids looks deeply wary, as if he expects everyone to get all sad and tense again. "Can you say hi to your grandma?"
Shy in a way he usually isn't, Yev eyes Mary from the safety of Mickey's neck. After a few minutes of Mickey, Mandy, and Mary all cajoling him, Yev is once more his typical attention-loving self.
Mickey stands up, setting Yev on the table and demonstrating for Mary the way the kid can now stomp around, taking funny little steps as Mickey holds both his hands. He’ll be walking all on his own soon.
When Mary hugs them goodbye, it lasts a little longer than usual.
"What did she mean, Mickey?" Mandy asks as the bus passes into the Chicago city limits. Yev is asleep on her chest, drooling onto her shirt. "That Terry's done."
"Dunno," Mickey says, thumbing at his lip and considering it. "She's definitely got some master plan to keep him in the clink. Shit, it would be easy to get his sentence extended again. Just have some poor asshole ask Terry about his faggot son would be enough to send him into a rage."
Mandy nods and closes her eyes. She's pleased with that theory, even if Mickey remains dissatisfied.
"How'd it go?" Ian's on the couch, book for school in his lap, beer in hand. Without a word, Mandy takes Yev from Mickey, moving towards the back of the room to put the kid in his crib.
Mickey collapses on the couch next to Ian and steals his beer, downing it in a series of deep gulps.
"That good, huh?" Ian asks.
In response, Mickey burps, drops the bottle on the table, and hides his face in Ian's chest. Ian makes a soft, surprised sound, because Mickey might enjoy this cuddling bullshit but he rarely initiates it. Ian gets with the program fairly quickly, hands running down the length of Mickey's back and pulling him closer. Ian's lips press into the top of his head and he shuffles a little until he is practically in Ian's lap.
"Mary okay?"
Mickey grunts in reply.
"What happened?" Ian murmurs.
Squeezing his eye shut, Mickey tries to figure out where to begin. His own birth? Before that, when Mary was a little girl with shitty, abusive, addict father, a guy so bad that he made Terry look like salvation?
In the end he hesitates long enough for Mandy to plop down in a chair. She brings a vodka bottle to her lips and then rattles off the whole tale, every detail starting with what Mickey missed when he was changing Yev.
Mickey stays tucked into Ian's side, but he opens his eyes to watch his sister drink and cry and talk. Ian gives all the right responses, gasping when appropriate and crushing when Mandy pauses to down the vodka.
"Did you know all this shit?" Mandy asks, pointing the near empty bottle at Mickey and already half way out of the chair, ready to beat the shit out of him if he answers wrong.
"Fuck no," mutters Mickey. "But I probably shoulda guessed. We fucking knew how old Mary was when she was knocked up"
Mandy groans and drinks. "Terry just made it sound so fucking normal. He played us good. Really made us hate her."
“Not any more,” Mickey murmurs.
Later, when Mickey is in pretty much the same position with his face pressed into Ian's chest, naked now and in bed, Ian just has to talk about it. Mickey did his best to wear Ian out with excessive fucking to avoid this very scenario, but Ian opens his mouth anyway.
"You okay?"
Mickey grunts.
"You've got to stop fucking grunting at me," says Ian with a groan. "Use your words, big boy."
"I’m—“
"And don't just say your fine!"
Mickey huffs, biting back the instinct to curse and make a dramatic exit. Communication is a big topic in therapy so he tries some of the bullshit they've learned.
"I don't know what I am," he confesses.
"Yeah?" Ian's fingers drag through his hair.
"Yeah. Mandy and I didn't visit her for eight years, blaming her for leaving us. She was just all alone in there and that just fucking sucks, you know? And if she can adore me the way she does, given the fucked up way I was conceived, why can't I adore Yev?"
Ian snorts. "You do adore Yev."
"Do fucking not. I mean, he's an okay little dude."
"Okay little dude is high praise coming from you,"
Mickey opens his mouth to argue before realizing that Ian has a good point.
"It'll come, Mick. You are so good with him already. Fake it till you make it, and all that bullshit. And I’ve seen the way you smile at him when he is being all cute. You aren’t really even faking it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Mick,” murmurs Ian. “Even if it's fucking hard and we’re way too fucking young to be raising a kid."
"Mary did it younger."
"Yeah. What do you think she's gonna do? About Terry. I mean, she is the Queen of Decatur. She probably knows people and can have favors called in and shit."
Mickey sighs. "Can you please shut the fuck up now?"
"I hope she has him killed," Ian whispers.
And Mickey honestly doesn't know if he agrees.
She has him killed. They get the call three days later.
It’s almost two in the morning and he is supposed to be up for the day in five hours to go through the normal routine: feed the kid, pills, feed everyone else, walk Mandy and Ian to school, get on the train, go to work, work, get the kid (from Svetlana, from Vee, from Debbie, from whoever), hang out at Kash and Grab with Ian, go home with Ian, cook dinner with Ian, pills, hang out with Ian, homework with Ian, do Ian, sleep with Ian.
Routine is good. Routine is stable. Routine is something he’s going to do hung over tomorrow, maybe even drunk if his current pace continues.
It is almost two in the morning and instead of sleeping curled up with Ian, he is drowning in vodka he stole from Svetlana, not exactly mourning, not exactly celebrating.
They got the call and Ian felt like celebrating. He saw Mandy’s stricken face and Mickey’s blank expression, and tried to hide it, but Ian felt like celebrating. Mickey can’t exactly blame him, even if he can’t exactly celebrate either.
His mother had his father killed. The unsympathetic prison drone on the phone said something about a feud, a shank, and bleeding out in the showers. It would have been easy to believe that Terry pissed off the wrong person and got him self killed, but that was before Mary told them not to worry, told them it was done.
Mostly it is relief he feels, but not all. He fucking loathes that tiny fragment of himself that is mourning his vile rapist homophobe of a father. For as long as he can remember he has feared Terry and wanted his love in equal measure, and maybe that stupid fucking tiny fragment still wants to be loved by his own father. But Terry is dead now so there is no chance of Mickey earning it, even if there never really was a chance before.
He drinks more stolen vodka and hears a sniffle. It is not a whiney Yev sniffle, more like the pathetic sounds that come from Ian when he was at his very darkest. The kitchen is empty, he sits alone at the table, and after confirming there is no one out here to sniffle, he abandons the vodka and rushes to their closed bedroom door, convinced something’s happened to Ian in the couple hours since Mickey slipped out of bed. His fingers are wrapped around the doorknob when there is another sniffle, not coming from behind this door.
Mandy.
Of course it is Mandy sniffling. Mickey might be partially celebrating, but Mandy is full on mourning, with a side of hating Mary. After the call she sobbed into her hands as Ian rubbed her back and then raged against Mary for half an hour before stomping off to her room when Mickey couldn’t join her in her fury.
He hesitates at her door for a minute before another sniffle has him slipping inside, just like he did countless times when they were little and Terry was drunk and Mary was gone and things were scary.
Like all those times, he doesn’t say anything as he crawls into bed beside Mandy, getting under the blanket and lying flat on his back.
"I hate that I'm upset about this shit," Mandy whispers into the dark. "And I fucking hate her, too. Mary definitely murdered Terry, however the fuck she managed it. It's her fault."
"She did it for us, Mandy." And probably herself, too.
"Well no one fucking asked her too! That makes it our fault, you know. Like we're the ones who killed him."
Mickey sighs and wants a fucking cigarette. But no one smokes in this goddamn house anymore, not since Ian went to the library and printed out pages of info on second hand smoke and babies. He'd have to go rooting through Lana's shit to find one and then Ian would frown after kissing him, tasting it on Mickey’s tongue.
"Mandy, there was no fucking scenario, short of Terry dying or us leaving Chicago, that would have ended without him hurting one of us. Or Ian or Yev or Svetlana."
"Then we shoulda left Chicago," Mandy says. She is fighting her tears valiantly, but that sniffle is still in her voice.
"We couldn't make Ian leave Chicago," Mickey murmurs. "Those Gallaghers just fall the fuck apart when one of them is missing." He thinks of the summer Lip left home and Ian pretended not to be miserable about it. Fiona once told him that with Ian gone they all just sorta unraveled and Mickey lived through the scramble to compensate for Fiona's absence, those few days when she was locked away in Decatur. "Someone was gonna end up dead, Mandy. Better him than us."
"Did Mary have to be the one to do it? And for us?"
"Guess so."
"Our mom had our dad killed, Mickey. It's fucked up, no matter how you spin it."
"Yeah, okay."
"And I'm going to hate Mary for it."
"How long to you think that will last?"
Beside him, he can feel Mandy shrug.
“Forever.”
“Mandy, come on.”
"Years. At the fucking least.”
Without meaning to, Mickey falls asleep next to his sister.
Ian wakes him up with a steaming cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and some painkillers. Mickey grumbles out his gratitude, sitting up in Mandy’s bed and cradling the hot mug between his hands.
“How’s Mandy?” Ian asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and talking quietly. He absently rubs Mickey’s knee. “She was gone when I found you in here.”
“Pissed,” he mutters. “Sad. I dunno. Even if Terry had to go, it’s kinda fucked up.”
“And how’re you?”
“Relieved, mostly,” Mickey says.
“But kinda sad too?”
Mickey shrugs.
“It’s okay. I mean, he was your dad. I hope he burns in hell for all eternity, but I guess I’d be a little bit sad too, if Monica had Frank shanked.”
“Thanks for your understanding, dickhead,” Mickey says, not even bothering to fight his grin.
“Mary definitely did it, huh?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.
“I wanna meet her,” Ian confesses in a rush. “Your mom.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
"Daddy!" From the backseat Yev whines and kicks his feet against the back of Mickey's chair. "Are we almost there?"
"Jesus Christ," mutters Mickey. "You best stop with the kicking or you just might find yourself without feet, kid."
Yev giggles, but mercifully stops the kicking. Behind the wheel, Ian chuckles too, and Mickey wonders when he became this person, whose threats are laughed at rather than feared.
"Daddy's funny," declares Yev.
"Daddy is funny," agrees Ian.
Yev is momentarily distracted by the iPad in his lap. The fancy piece of technology is new, a gift from Svetlana for Yev's fifth birthday a couple months ago. She probably scammed it off some poor sap and Mickey's never been more thankful for his ex-wife’s ability to get men to shower her with gifts than he is now, because that fucking iPad is the reason that Yev sat quietly in the backseat for a full two hours before getting restless.
"Dad," Yev says, leaning forward as far as possible to get a good look at Ian. "Are we there yet?"
"Getting close," says Ian for the sixth time in the last fifteen minutes. He is infinitely more patient than Mickey.
"That's forever." Yev groans and goes back to kicking balefully at the back of Mickey's chair.
"Yevgeny!" Mickey snaps.
"Sorry!"
"You didn't have to come with," Mickey says. "You coulda hung out with Liam and the twins, instead of being stuck in this car."
"But I wanna see grandma."
Mickey sighs. "I know, kid. Hey, you got a book back there you want me to read again?"
"Dad should write a story," Yev says, still pouting.
Ian rolls his eyes. "You know that's not the kind of writing I do, buddy."
"But writers make up stories. You write always and I wanna hear your stories."
Mickey snorts. He doubts that Yev would be all that entertained by the queer rights and mental health pieces Ian pumps for a variety of magazines and blogs and shit. Mickey's been printing off everything Ian's ever written for the last couple years and he'll show it to Yev one day, when he is old enough to get how fucking good Ian is, even though he doesn't write about magic and dragons and superheroes.
Some of it’s about them, Ian and their family, being gay and bipolar on the fucking South Side. Some articles are designed to inspire and encourage and bring awareness. Some are well-researched academic types that Mickey yawns through. Some are just fucking hilarious.
Mickey prints them all.
It took years to convince Ian that the pages and notebooks left over from that first phase of mania weren’t just filled with nonsensical bullshit, but insightful, moving, and witty words. Sure there was some rambling and random tangents, but Ian’s talent was obvious.
Ian lives quietly, but he observes everything and it’s all right there when he writes.
"You should branch out," Mickey says, grinning at Ian. "How hard can it be to write a goddamn kid’s book?"
"Hard, Mick. Really hard. Come on, Yev. You've gotta have some book back there. Your dad's voice gets all pretty when he reads and I wanna hear it."
"Oh, you can fuck right off."
"Here!" says Yev.
Mickey groans when he gets a good look at the cover of the book Yev hands over. Shel Silverstein. A-fucking-gain. The kid has been obsessed for the last two months and Mickey's started dreaming in rhymes.
But reading out the same poems he probably has memorized at this point is better then Yev whining and kicking at his seat. Yev says his favorite parts of his favorite poems along with Mickey and Ian never looks away from the road, but he grins hard and reaches out to rest his hand on Mickey's thigh.
For the first time since he was eight, he sees his mother in street clothes. Her jeans and t-shirt look so strange compared to the prison jump suits, but Mary is beautiful as she steps into the waiting room.
"Where's everyone else?" she asks as she hugs Mickey.
"Parking lot," Mickey replies as Mary steps away. She fusses with the collar of his shirt just because she can. "Three hours in the car plus the hour and a half it took these fucks to process you outta here. Kid's a fucking energy monster."
Mary beams, handing over a clear bag full of her meager belongings. She links their arms together and Mickey allows it because Mary's been behind bars for a decade and a half. There is probably a lot he'll allow Mary to do; Mom things, cooking them meals and bossing him around and other shit he ain’t used to.
"Yev came?" Mary asks.
"He insisted. Shoulda said no. Six hours in the car with a five year old. The fuck was I thinking?"
"And Mandy?"
"At work."
"Really?" asks Mary, raising an eyebrow to adequately express her skepticism. They never quite recovered, from the whole Mary murdering Terry thing, but in recent years Mandy’s come around and Mickey hopes it will be better with Mary finally out.
"She's doing make up for some music video shoot," Mickey replies. "Apparently it fucking pays to be able to make people look like zombies." Somehow his sister is managing to afford a room in an apartment downtown with three roommates, take a couple of college classes, and keep herself fed, all by turning people into aliens or werewolves or supermodels with the shit she pulls out of her makeup bag. Ian calls her an artist.
"No shit?"
Mickey nods. "She'll be at the party tonight along with the rest of them."
A couple months ago when they were dreaming of Mary's parole going well, the thought of a big party with the rest of them made his mother grin, but now she looks pale, like Mandy whipped out her brush and turned her into a goddamn ghost.
Mary’s heard stories for years: Kev and Vee and their crazy sex life they somehow manage around raising their girls. Fiona working three jobs to get Liam into a travel soccer team and her decision to stop dating which has lasted months longer than anyone expected it too. Lip and Amanda and grad school which is apparently extra college. Sheila with all her weirdo food. Svetlana and Nika, who got back together a couple years ago when the divorce went through and Svetlana found her own apartment a couple blocks away. The little Gallaghers (not so little, Carl is nearly as tall as Ian) still come visit Mary on occasion, but as much as Mary might know about these people she doesn't actually know them. All these characters in Mickey life are more like a story to Mary than real, breathing people.
The party might have been Mary's idea but she sure as fuck appears to be regretting it now.
"Ma?" Mickey asks as Mary stares at nothing and continues her ghost impersonation.
"Nothing! I'm fine. I'm great! It'll be good to finally meet everyone."
"You sure? Cuz I can call the whole think off. Just like that."
Mary nods. A lot. “I’m sure.”
Mickey glances around for a guard or someone, but there is just the lady at the desk who told him to take a seat an hour and a half ago, offering nothing more helpful then a grunt when Mickey asked what the fuck was taking so long.
"Are you like...” he asks and glances around some more. He wasn’t expecting much fanfare, but he thought the release would feel more official. “Free to go? You ready to get out of here?"
Mary winces and nods some more. Her grip on his arm tightens and she audibly swallows, but she leads him to the exit.
When they get to the doors, Mary pulls him to a stop. She stares intently out the windows, her brow furrowed, gnawing on her lip.
For fifteen years, Mary's lived in this place, and it's got to be weird as fuck to imagine a life of her own after all that time, so Mickey waits silently.
"So, um." Mary clears her throat and huddles a little closer. "What happens next?"
"Like in your life?" Mickey asks, confused. He's seen his brothers easily fall back into a life of drug dealing and gun running after doing a couple months to a couple years in the can, but this is different. Mary's life before jail was managing Terry and raising her kids. Her life in jail lasted years longer than her life raising Mickey, so he doesn't have an answer.
She can stay with him and Ian. She can help out with Yev. She can try to find a job, but Mickey has no idea what comes next for Mary.
"You'll come home, Mom," Mickey says when Mary does nothing but stare out the window.
And it really is home now, with the clean white walls Ian and Mandy spent a weekend working on years ago and the thin green drapes Svetlana whipped together after they got her a sewing machine one Christmas. Ian’s made it theirs, battling writers block with DIY projects, learning how to tile a bathroom from YouTube during one painful bout and refinishing all their cabinets last time. Just yesterday, Mickey got home from a long day managing the shop to find Ian and Yev painting a fucking mural on the wall between the kid’s room and theirs. The sloppy, hideous thing made Mickey grin, even as Yev promised they’d paint over it when he got better at art.
He wants Mary to come home and feel safe.
She continues to stare intently through the glass door, frowning out at the big wide world that’s foreign to her now, and Mickey fights his own impatience. He shuffles his feet and tries to find something to distract from the urge to hurry her along.
In the distance Mickey watches Yev dash between cars before crouching next to a tire. Ian appears on the other side of the vehicle, scratching his head and pretending not to see Yev's sneakers. Yev giggles into his palms before he makes a break for it. He only gets a few feet when Ian catches up, lifting Yev off the ground and swinging him around in circles.
“Okay,” says Mary. “Okay, let’s go.”
They only make it halfway to the parking lot when Yev spots them, shrieking as he wiggles out of Ian’s arms. He sprints towards them, launching himself at Mary’s knees and she immediately kneels, pulling Yev into a hug.
“Grandma?” Yev asks, alarmed by the way she suddenly bursts into tears. “Don’t be sad!”
“I’m not!” Mary manages. “These are happy tears. Because I missed you so much and now I get to hug you whenever I want.”
Reassured by all the hugging, Yev giggles and then progresses to fill Mary in on every detail of the day, from the drive and his iPad to tag in the parking lot.
Ian throws an arm around Mickey’s shoulders and he lets out a breath. Ian presses a kiss to the top of his head and he relaxes even further.
Mary will be alright. She survived Terry and became the Queen of Decatur and didn’t break even when she lost her kids for eight years.
She can handle freedom, too.
“You get to come home with us,” Yev continues as Mary gets to her feet, a slight shake to her knees.
“Yes, I do,” she replies, sniffling slightly.
“And we’re having a party.” Yev looks to Ian, wandering over and tugging on his jeans. “Right?”
“Right,” confirms Ian, easily lifting the kid to hold him on his hip.
Mary presses a kiss to Ian's cheek in greeting as Yev continues to babble.
“My Uncle Kev will be there with Twins," he says. "And he is cooking cow sandwiches.”
“Kev will be there with his daughters, Amy and Gemma,” Ian translates.
“He refers to them collectively as Twins,” supplies Mickey.
“And cow sandwiches are hamburgers,” says Ian.
“We have no fucking clue why,” Mickey finishes.
“And Aunt Debbie promised to bake cake!” The statement starts with a giggle and ends with a yawn. A real big yawn.
Ian and Mickey grin at each other, satisfied that the run-around-with-Yev-in-the-parking-lot plan will probably have the kid sleeping part of the way back.
"Oh," whispers Mary. "Now I remember."
"Remember what, Ma?" He frowns at his mother. For a moment there, he was so absorbed in normal Ian and Yev things he forgot that this is so fucking far from normal for Mary.
"Why I've wanted get outta here so fucking bad these last couple years."
“Yeah,” agrees Mickey, back to grinning at Ian. “They’re definitely worth getting out for.”
“You all are,” says Mary. “Let’s go home.”