Archive of Our Own

When Mickey was a kid, whenever he sat on his roof, he was convinced it was some sort of throne. Managed to make himself believe that all the shit he was going through in his house was to prepare him for one day being the king of Southside. 

He was an idiot. 

When he’s feeling charitable — which is rare because charity’s for fucking suckers with plenty of extra shit he doesn’t have — he can tell himself it’s not entirely his fault that he believed so much in the Milkovich name. His family’s reputation has given him a lot of leeway on these streets over the years. Terry threatened death to anyone who slighted him and raised his kids to do the same. When people found out Mickey was a Milkovich they would start giving over everything they had so Mickey wouldn’t look at them funny. It made him feel strong. 

Sometimes, when Mickey’s feeling particularly weak, it still does. 

But Mickey’s not a kid anymore, and he knows better than to think Southside is a place where anyone reigns. The Milkovich name certainly isn’t going to lead him to some throne. He’s surprised it hasn’t already put him in a grave, fucking curse that it is. 

The roof, however, remained a good spot to hang out. 

Today he smokes a cigarette and looks over his dreary corner of hell. Lot of the time Mickey’s out there to avoid Terry when he’s riled up and throwing knives and shit, but today it was to get away from Mandy. She keeps asking him about English homework as if he gives a flying fuck. 

He blames the Gallaghers — another cursed fucking name — Ian first and Lip second, for her newfound fucking studiousness. After the fourth question on some sonnet, he’d snapped at her that it’s not like she’s going to college or anything like that so who gives a shit if she knows Iambic Pentameter. 

She didn’t get mad at him. Worse. She fucking cried. It was so unlike her Mickey didn’t know what to do. And Mickey doesn’t know how to apologize for telling her the fucking truth, so he went out on the roof. 

It’s cold outside, the wind sweeping underneath Mickey’s flannel and cutting into his back, but Mickey’s been stranded out in colder. Fall’s settling in and all the leaves around them are turning red while the grass turns gray and dead. Smells almost sweet outside with all the decay. It’s a good morning for a slow cigarette. 

There’s not a whole lot of people out: a woman drunk off her ass trying to fix her own fence, and a couple of shifty guys who’ve drifted up and down the roads four times now. When he first saw those two Mickey considered giving them a proper Southside welcome, but he doesn’t feel like it. They’re not tweaking now, but they clearly have done the hard shit at some point because they look like they smell worse than Mickey’s living room couch when his dad’s passed out on it. They’re probably broke, to boot — more trouble than it’s worth.

Any thought about an easy morning is dashed, though, when Mickey sees Ian walking down the sidewalk. He can’t catch a fucking break. 

They make eye contact once and only once, and Ian looks away first. Still annoyed with Mickey, he’d guess, over not kissing him again or not letting Ian want him or not being some storybook lover because Ian’s got his head up his ass. Mickey looks away, too, but then he looks out again and watches him walk home. Mickey can tell he’s working too hard not to crane his neck and look at Mickey, but he manages to keep his eyes ahead. 

Should make Mickey feel good. Mission accomplished, Ian’s not acting so damn gay. 

Except it doesn’t. He’s not used to Ian actually being able to not look over at him, no matter how many times Mickey’s threatened to rip his eyes out for being too obvious. 

Mickey inhales the last pull of his cigarette and flicks the butt off the roof. Cigarette gone, Mickey figures he can leave the roof in a few minutes without seeming like a pussy or getting too snide a comment from Ian when he’s had enough of giving Mickey the cold shoulder. Last thing he needs is to give Ian more ammo to tease him when they’re screwing around, Ian already seems to never be short of things to say when they’re together. 

Before Mickey can get his feet underneath him, though, he sees those two twitchy guys step in front of Ian. 

Their getting in his way is not an accident. Ian notices, too, but he keeps his face placid as he goes around them. Suddenly these two motherfucker’s shifty-ass behavior makes a lot more sense: They’re vultures. Worse, actually, they’re starved coyotes, if they’re feasting on the likes of Gallaghers. 

Mickey forgets, Ian rarely can catch a break, either. 

Whatever they want, it’s a good bet to assume it’s Frank’s fault. Drunken moron. Or maybe these two are looking for Lip, which Mickey would love to blame that jackass. Lip always relies on being the smartest guy in the room, like he forgets this is Southside and a fucking bullet doesn’t give a shit if you can see it coming. 

They approach, hands outstretched, smiles plastered on their faces. Ian’s not stupid, so he ignores them. Good. When they continue to walk in Ian’s path, Ian steps back, drops his shoulders and rolls his neck how he always does when he’s getting annoyed, and continues to pay them no mind. 

These two don’t announce what they want from Ian. Unlikely to be a problem with Frank, then, since every time someone’s running after Frank they’re yelling his name like the bastard’s so drunk he’s forgotten it himself. 

They do, however, reach out to grab him. 

Ian pulls out of their grip easily, says something aggressive to show he’s had enough, but quiet so he’s not causing a scene yet. The two start yelling, but Mickey can’t make out what the fuck they want. Ian seems to get it though, judging by the roll of his eyes. He can’t tell what Ian’s muttering, but he’s familiar with the shape of it on his mouth, it seems familiar. A memory of Ian complaining, somewhere, has that same movement. 

Part of Mickey’s itching to get off the roof and confront them himself, which what the fuck is he thinking? This ain’t his damn fight, and Milkoviches don’t protect anyone but their own. 

Fuck his fucking body for not realizing that in the light of day, Ian is not Mickey’s at all. 

Ian will handle it. Ian will be fine. He wouldn’t want Mickey’s help anyway, he’s giving him the silent treatment or some shit, and besides Ian’s always got something to prove. Such a showoff, he’d probably prefer if Mickey didn’t get involved, give him something to tell Mickey all about later in the dugouts. 

Ian likes giving him battle stories. Sometimes, Mickey will admit, they even turn him on. Ian’s endless chatter is why Mickey knows all about what Ian learned at ROTC. Knows that, unlike Mickey, when Ian shoots a gun he stands with perfect poise, and he hits his pinpointed targets. Mickey just shoots to shoot a motherfucker and so long as it hits that’s golden. Knows that, unlike Mickey, when Ian goes into a fight he’s got strategies built into his muscle memory from practice. Mickey’s fighting tactics are passed down brutality from the Milkovich bloodline, but whatever fucking works, right? 

Sometimes Mickey thinks about it, what Ian would look like without all that army training. 

It’s only when Mickey’s high as a kite, and even then he has the sense to tamp that shit down before he thinks too hard about it, but he can’t help himself at first. Makes him smile. Mickey has felt the warmth of Ian’s muscles, knows their layers, and underneath it all Ian may as well be made out of a bent clothes hanger. Still that wiry kid Mickey first met. Without all the training, without all the regiment, he might be gawky and freckled and goofily awkward. Mickey’s chewed on sweatshirt strings that are bigger than Ian’s frame underneath all the work he’s put into himself. 

Mickey doubts he’ll ever see him again without all that wrapped muscle, though. If there’s one thing Mickey knows about Ian, it’s that Ian’s working on himself all the time. If that guy wants something, he kicks up into some hidden third gear, and works to get it. It’s un-fucking real. Fucking annoying for the likes of Mickey half the time, too. 

All that training, all that time Ian’s put in? These two assholes don’t stand a chance. 

They get in his face and Ian takes a step back. The first guy, shorter, stockier, raises his fist up and Mickey cocks an eyebrow. Is this supposed to be a punch? Fucking God, Mickey’s jacked Ian to completion faster than this fucker throws his fists. Can’t they tell by how Ian’s built that he’s faster than that? 

Ian dodges, body cutting through the air as he shoves his heel into the person’s face and kicks them in the shin. 

“I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, so fuck off,” Ian spits at ‘em, finally angry enough to get loud. 

They try to swing another punch, and Ian knees them in the stomach. With one guy down, he looks at the other, a guy who is taller than Ian by maybe an inch, giving the guy a chance to go. 

He does not. The guy kicks at him, splutters out “you better watch it, kid,” and other threats that, judging by the first guy’s performance, don’t mean shit. 

Ian pushes the guy, trying to force himself through and home, but he spins around to make sure he keeps his eyes on them. The guy winds up, and he’s a little faster, and has a little more leverage. Ian grabs his arm and knees him in the side. 

Maybe Mickey should’ve warned ‘em that Ian’s flexible, could probably get that leg around the guy’s head and pull down if he chose to do so. Ian gets the asshole away from him, shoving him back. Then he moves to leave and get home, and that’s when the stockier guy recovers and throws another punch, hitting Ian in the side of the head. 

Ian drops. 

Mickey blinks. Blinks again. Doesn’t comprehend what he just watched. 

He’s never seen Ian go down like that before.  

Ian can take a punch, has had plenty of black eyes — hell, Mickey’s punched Ian plenty of times himself — and Ian should be getting up. He knows Ian should be alright if not even more pissed off. 

But Ian doesn’t move. 

Mickey’s hands tingle, there’s this buzzing in his chest. There’s nothing in his mind except replays of how Ian just fell, trying to make it make sense. Ian’s body had twisted, his legs lost their lock, nothing catching or keeping him stable. His arms fell loose at his side, and the line of his spine went fluid, and he collapsed. He dropped like someone shot him in the head. 

Once the fucker who decked him moves out of Mickey’s view, Mickey can see Ian’s face. There’s a big streak of red at Ian’s temple. Mickey looks at the stocky guy, looking for rings on his fingers or brass knuckles or something, when something drops out of his hand. 

A piece of sidewalk, the tan concrete bleeding red. The guy bashed Ian’s head with a rock. 

Mickey jumps to his feet. “Hey!” he launches from the top of his roof, the drop shocking his knees but he barely registers as anything more of a pulse in his legs, and he runs forward. “The fuck do you think you are?” 

The guys jump, turning to look at Mickey. They immediately leap back, start making move to run, and Mickey sees fucking red. 

“Motherfucker, you think I’ll let you get away with that? Not in Southside, bitch!” 

He’s charging at them, toward Ian, not ready to let these bastards leave his sight. He should have given ‘em the Southside welcome after all, especially if they think they can pull that kind of underhanded shit. Mickey will make sure they know never to step in Southside again, not unless they want to end up with bags over their heads, buried alive in one of the fucking construction sites. Mickey will make sure concrete’s poured over their corpses. 

Then he steps in something wet, and his body quakes at the feeling, a shock running through him. He looks down. 

“Shit, Ian.” 

Ian’s bleeding. There’s a splash of red underneath Mickey’s sneaker.

The bastards keep running, and Mickey doesn’t know what to do. Well he knows what he should do — he should be showing them exactly what happens when you fuck with the wrong person. It’s what his brothers would do, it’s what Terry’s told Mickey to do his whole life, he can’t let these people go without getting their fucking asses pulled over their heads.

But Ian’s bleeding. Ian’s bleeding so much. Too much. 

Mickey’s lungs are filled with coal, and he’s trying to keep a fire burning, raking them over and over, but all he’s accomplishing is filling himself with smoke and burning his fucking hands. He doesn’t know what to do. 

Beyond him those assholes are running, and every second Mickey waits here, the further they’re going to go. 

But Ian’s bleeding. 

Mickey tugs on the sleeves of his flannel, pulling it off of him and wadding it into a tight ball. He crouches down and presses the cloth to Ian’s head. Right next to his hand is that bloody piece of concrete and he wants to throw it hard as he can at those fuckers, but he can’t tear himself from Ian. 

“Don’t think I won’t find you!” he shouts back at them, but it hardly means anything, doesn’t it? Without him being on their heels, it’s an empty threat. 

He returns his attention to Ian, though, and those two just don’t matter. Mickey’s hands go cold at the sight of him. Ian should be wincing, should look bitter or even a little pathetic, but instead he looks almost peaceful and Mickey fists his free hand in the hem of Ian’s shirt to keep from grabbing at Ian too hard. 

Carefully, Mickey tries to maneuver him, wants to make sure he’s getting the whole wound on his head. He pulls the flannel back just enough to see how far that rock dug into his skull, and there’s a deep gouge, nasty, the kind of mark that’s going to scar. Mickey’s heart rams into his throat and he presses the shirt down harder. 

A scar is the least of Ian’s worries. This kind of blood loss from his head? Mickey doesn’t know much about this kind of thing, but he thinks Ian could die. 

That’s when Mickey starts yelling. The old drunken woman is near enough, he hails her over and yells at her to get to the Gallaghers and pull one of them from the door. She staggers, and he tells her to move faster, fucking drunkard, because Ian is going to bleed out if they just sit here. 

Mickey would call for an ambulance, but he doesn’t have his phone and he doesn’t have the money for that, either, and neither does Ian. If they do it, and Ian’s not on his deathbed, all he’ll do is add to the mess. 

That’s when the Gallaghers come stomping out of their house. One by one, like filthy fucking Von Trapps, but instead of stepping out to song they’re stepping out with a litany of fucks. 

“What the fuck is going on?” he hears Fiona yelling. Their friends, V and Kevin are just behind her, shouting the same thing. Debbie steps out the door, only to grab Carl by the neckline of his shirt and throw him back inside with her. 

Then Lip runs out, and he makes eye contact with Mickey. Starts running at him like he’s about to kick him in the face.

“The fuck did you do?” 

“I didn’t do anything, these two assholes —”

“Didn’t do anything? Bullshit! You’re telling me you didn’t get into any trouble. What sort of shit are you roping my brother into?”

Mickey wants to get in Lip’s face, wants to yell at Lip for all the shit he knows he’s gotten his own brother into because he’s too big of a fuckhead to keep his own trash on his side of the street. What the fuck is his problem, assuming that Mickey’s the one who’s getting Ian’s head caved in, when it was probably some piece of shit looking for Lip?

When he pulls his hand back to even turn around, though, he sees how red his flannel is getting with Ian’s blood and his thoughts fall away. All he can do is put his hand back, all he can see is how the blood is seeping into the red of Ian’s hair. 

“Ian,” Fiona gasps. She’s immediately crouching down in front of Mickey, covering his hand with her own and pressing down. “Don’t let go of him, you can’t let go of him.”

Mickey wants to snap at her, too, because he knows he can’t let go of him. Hasn’t been able to let go of him for some time now. When she looks at him, though, all his words dry up. Her eyes are wide and rimmed with tears, her face going pale. 

Still, Mickey can feel Lip’s comments all over his skin. Seems like every single one of the Gallaghers and their friends looking at him like this is all his fault, and he wants to explode. 

“Fuck you, Lip,” he spits. “Your brother here is draining out of his fucking head and you’re gonna stand there and argue with me? He needs a fucking hospital.” 

Fiona looks behind Mickey. “Kev, do you still have that van?”  

“Yeah, I’ll go get it.” That’s all Kevin needs to run back to the Gallagher house. 

V steps up beside Fiona, and Fiona’s looking at her like she’s going to have some sort of answer. V sighs out her nose. “We’ll get some wraps around his head, we’re going to make sure he’s alright,” she assures Fiona. 

Mickey swallows around his own nerves. V turns back toward Kevin. “Kevin! Tell Carl to get the frozen veggies, and get Debbie packing up Liam!” 

Lip crouches next to Mickey, and he’s damn lucky Mickey’s preoccupied otherwise he’d be wrapping his hands around Lip’s neck. 

“What happened?” he asks, and this time Mickey doesn’t hear the blame.  

Mickey exhales. He can feel wetness on the inside of his hand from Ian’s blood and he hates it, he hates it. He should have stepped in, he should have fucking shot those assholes, should have broken both their legs and left them to bleed, carved Milkovich on their fucking skulls. 

But he didn’t. He was too busy being pissed off at Ian, and now Ian’s out like a light. 

“There were these guys. Fuck, man, I knew they were acting strange, but I didn’t know —”

“Who were they looking for?” Lip interrupts, but Mickey can barely hear him. Is instead watching Fiona crouch down, bending so low to the floor, her thin fingers cradling Ian’s head and strumming his cheek. Lip shoves Mickey and Mickey’s ready to kill him. “Hey. Milkovich.”

“I don’t know!” Mickey shouts at him. Lip jerks back, his eyes wide, and Mickey squeezes the flannel instead of decking him in the face. “I have no fuckin’ clue what they wanted from him.” 

He watches Fiona and Lip make eye contact. That patented Gallagher nonverbal communication. Mickey’s watched Ian do it enough times with his siblings, even though Mickey tries to spend as little time as possible with the rest of them. 

“It’s not important right now,” Fiona decides, her attention returning to Ian. But she glances up at Mickey. “Thanks, Mickey.” 

Mickey grimaces but says nothing. Bundles the flannel again, his hand shaking as he does so. Fiona’s got nothing to thank him for, yet. 

At the hospital, Mickey wonders with each passing minute why he’s still standing like a moron in the waiting room. 

He’s not a big fan of hospitals, not that he ever spent too much time inside them. Hospitals are a luxury reserved for being on your death bed, otherwise his family would opt for gauze and duct tape or, if real bad, Mickey thinks he saw his brother staple himself once. Still, Mickey recognizes the sick smell of it all, staleness of the sheets on beds people have died in, the ammonia burning in his throat, the goop of syrups and medications sticky and cloy. Hospitals are the only place other than school where Mickey’s encountered blindingly bright lightbulbs and yet depressingly dim hallways. People crying, screaming, groaning, and coughing in a crap-shoot orchestra are also a reason to get the hell out of there. 

All the Gallagher siblings are here, Kevin and Veronica, too. From what Mickey can tell, some doctor owed the Gallaghers a favor because Fiona’s always finding favors to keep her family afloat, so this won’t break the bank. However, every time a nurse comes by, she informs them about how Boris Boranov is doing — which is a stupid fucking name, but he has a feeling the Gallaghers didn’t pick it — and inside Boris Boranov’s room is where Ian’s getting stitches and a whole onslaught of IVs and blood. 

Probably an insurance workaround. The Gallaghers find a way, don’t they?

What really plucks at Mickey’s attention span, however, is when the nurse covers Fiona’s bloody hand with her own and says. “You got him here just in time. Any longer…” and Fiona looks over at him. 

Mickey knows, somewhere in his lizard brain, that Fiona’s just focused on this situation. Not that he knows her well, but what Mickey does know is that all Fiona ever does is focus on her family. Mickey intervened with someone in her family, and that’s the only reason for the attention. 

In this hospital, though? All Mickey can think is how those big eyes of hers are giving her some sort of x-ray vision. Somehow, she can look at him and see every single place Ian’s touched him, she can hear the echo of every word Ian’s ever whispered in his ear, like she can scan him and find Ian fucking tattooed on Mickey’s heart. 

“Thanks for taking care of him,” she says to the nurse, and then she lets the nurse go and sidles up next to Mickey. 

“What?” he snaps. 

“Thank you.” 

“Didn’t do anything.”

Fiona scoffs. “They said Ian might have died if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“What was I supposed to do, just leave him there?” 

When Fiona doesn’t answer, Mickey swallows. Is that what she would have expected him to do? Let him bleed to death right there two blocks from her house? 

Looking over at the sign on Ian’s door. “I don’t know no Boris Boranov, so don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

Fiona nods, falsely understanding. This wasn’t some grand favor, this was just being not pure fucking evil, and fuck, he knows he’s a Milkovich, but does she really think he’d just let Ian die? 

A booming voice says something in what Mickey presumes is Russian but it’s a mess of consonants that doesn’t sound like any word anyone would recognize, and watches Kevin leave Ian’s room. He’s grinning like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. 

“Boris is loopy. And about to fall back asleep.”

“Glad he’s not dead, though,” V says, sounding truly relieved. “Ya did good, Milkovich.” 

Mickey grimaces. Shrugs. “Didn’t do anything.” 

“You want to go in to see him?” Fiona asks, and it’s that, shit like that, that makes Mickey think that Ian’s not being as fucking tight lipped as he claims to be. Fiona sounds too knowing, and Mickey wants to hate Ian for a moment. Wants to hate all the Gallaghers, because fuck it, he does want to see Ian. 

Which means he needs to leave. “Nah, I’m out of here. He’s not dead, so.” He shrugs, shoves his hands into his pockets, and starts moving past Fiona toward the exit. 

Fiona’s eyebrows pinch, but she recovers quickly. Blows an exasperated sigh. “Alright, bye.” 

Mickey’s done reading into the Gallagher reactions. If he wants to keep his head on his shoulders, he’s got to just to ignore them. 

Doesn’t help that there’s four million of them, though. He runs into another one, Debbie, reading the surgery board. 

Seeing her ginger hair and speckled face, Mickey wants to roll his eyes and call out to the nurses that he can’t believe they’re buying this crock of shit that anyone in this family is Russian, considering that Debbie looks like a girl for a Lucky Charm’s commercial, and Ian’s a fucking vampire leprechaun. 

If he did that, though, he’d likely get Ian kicked out of the hospital, or be footing the Gallagher’s bill. Still, it’d stop him from having to hear Debbie ask,

“You’re leaving?” 

“Yeah. Adios.” 

“Why?” 

Mickey’s not one to indulge conversation with kids, but Debbie’s already left the charts to follow him, so he wants her off his tail. “I was just helping him get here, and now he’s here, so.”

“But you didn’t leave right away.”

“Was hoping to get a ride, but apparently this is taking a while,” Mickey lies. 

“But he’d be happy to see you.” 

Mickey spins on his heel at that, eyes her. “What makes you think that?” 

There’s no intimidating this kid, apparently. Jutting her chin out, she looks him up and down, her pout turning into a frown. Then she stamps her foot, looking at him like he’s stupid or something. “You’re the one who found him.”

“So?”

“He probably is going to want to thank you.”

“He can save it.”

“Well, what if he wakes up, realizes he can’t thank you, and dies because of it? And the last thought in his head is that he’ll never be able to thank you for saving his life, and he ends up dying, and then it becomes your fault he’s dead because he was sad.”

Jesus, the fuck is she talking about? “What?” 

“It was the plot of some movie Kevin and V were watching,” she replies easily with a shrug. “But I’ve read sadder stuff in some books in the library. It could happen. And if he dies, this would have been a total waste of your time, right?” 

Kids. Gallagher kids. They never know how to leave shit alone, do they? 

Lip comes by, and Mickey wonders if they just spawn automatically, like some video game if you’re not paying attention. Lip’s twitchy, keeps focusing on Debbie or peeking into hospital rooms. One guy even gives him the finger and he backs off with a grimace. He glances at Mickey briefly, but Debbie turns her attention to him. 

“What are you doing?” she asks him. 

“You seen Carl?” Lip asks. 

She shakes her head. Lip nods at Mickey.

“You seen ‘im?”

Mickey puts his hand on his chest. “Oh, I’m not the Gallagher daycare center.” Lip rolls his eyes, but does look genuinely panicked at the thought of Carl being gone. With a sputter, Mickey tacks on, “Nah man, I haven’t seen him.” 

“Shit.” Lip starts waiving Debbie over. “Debs, help me look for Carl.”

“Why are you so worried?”

“Because we need to make sure he’s not unplugging machines.” Lip slaps his hands against his legs, as if he can get a Carl-locator from his pocket. 

Debbie’s lips twist and she shrugs. “Ugh, fine,” she says. Then she looks at Mickey. “Mickey should help, too.”

Before Mickey can exclaim absolutely not, Lip’s shaking his head. “Nah he’s got places to be and so do we, c’mon.” Lip ushers her forward, starts looking up and down the hall like Carl’s on the walls or something. 

As Debbie walks away, she spins around and waves Mickey goodbye. Mickey huffs, swipes his thumb against his lip and looks down. In his periphery, though, he can see that she’s still waving despite Lip tugging her along. 

Mickey slumps his shoulders. Gives a single wave back. She grins and turns around, skipping ahead. 

Then Lip’s the one who stops. Looking over his shoulder, Mickey stiffens at his blank look. “No one’s with Ian right now,” he calls out. “Thought you might want to know.” 

Jackass, he almost spits out, but he doesn’t. Lip turns back before Mickey could get the word out. It doesn’t matter anyway, because while Mickey should be leaving, while he told everyone he was leaving, he knows he’s not going anywhere without checking in on Ian.

Still, Mickey really wishes Lip would stop acting like the smartest motherfucker in every room. 

Mickey’s hand hovers over the handle for the door, and screw whatever vagrant Gallagher decided to shut it, because now he can’t even slip inside or duck out without the sound. 

He needs to stop being such a fucking coward. 

Opening the door quiet as possible, Mickey steps inside. Boris Boranov’s hospital room has a small box television hanging in the corner turned on, the static glow fuzzy and the picture terrible, and it’s the only real light on in the room. The light coming in from the windows on the opposite side of Ian’s bed is gray and gloomy, with patches of vibrancy from the autumn leaves of some bush scraping against the glass as the wind blows and a downpour begins. 

Of course mother earth cries its filthy eyes out just ‘cause Ian’s in the hospital. 

Ian lays in bed looking pissed off in a way that Mickey’s not so familiar with. Mickey typically places Ian’s anger into two buckets: one — an impish, arrogant, complaining rage, his voice gets almost whiny and he stutters with frustration, and Mickey can easily either ramp it up into a fight or use it for a good fuck if he plays his cards right; and two — a serious anger, infected with years worth of disappointment and misery, where his upset is this bleeding maw, and Mickey hates that anger because it means he actually fucked up and he doesn’t want to deal with that shit, he’d rather get vicious right back. 

This is somewhere in between. Solemn, resigned, dogged. Mickey’s not a fan. 

Ian’s attention snaps to Mickey as soon as the door clicks shut behind him. At first his gaze lights up, but then it falls back into that shadowed expression. 

Mickey pauses. Waits to see if Ian’s going to start complaining about Mickey not being some sort of idyllic boy in some shitty high school romance, or he’s going to let Mickey check in unscathed. 

Ian doesn’t say anything. 

“Hey, killer.” 

Ian scoffs, disparaging. “Hardly.” He looks out the window, watches the rain. “Can’t believe I couldn’t take those assholes.” 

Much as Mickey’s relieved to not have to talk about relationships and shit he doesn’t get to have, he’s not exactly thrilled by Ian’s take on the whole fight. “Only in Rock Paper Scissors does paper beat rock,” Mickey says. “At that point just take the gun to the fistfight, if they’re going to be such goddamn cowards.”

Ian’s eyebrows come together for a moment, before a smile slips sly across his lips and he laughs. “Uh, no thanks. I’ll take a concussion over a gunshot.” 

There’s some flak Mickey could counter with, that this wasn’t some bonk-on-the-head concussion and that he’d heard the nurse talk about Ian being woozy with blood loss, discussing cranial pressure and other freaky sounding crap, but he figures Ian doesn’t want to hear it. 

“Really? Depending on where you get shot, there’s worse. Not that it’s not a pain in the ass.”

“Literally, for you.”

Mickey huffs, brings his hand up pinch his nose, trying to hide the fact that he’s blushing. “Yeah, I know, jag-off, that’s the joke.” 

“Was it also a pain in the leg?” Ian asks. 

“I’ll give you pain in your leg.” 

“You’re so original Mickey, I just don’t know where you get these amazing comebacks of yours.” 

Mickey eyes him, incredulous. Would hit him upside the head if someone hadn’t already beat him to it. “Glad to know you’re feeling alright, asshole.” 

Ian smiles. Looks down at his hands, spinning the bracelet around his wrist. Mickey walks up, threads his finger underneath the hospital band and pulls it taut to read the information. Ian jerks, and when Mickey looks at him, he blushes. With a smile, Mickey presses his finger against the thin skin of Ian’s wrist and Ian inhales sharp. So fucking sensitive to every touch. 

Then Mickey reads: Boris E. Boranov. Male. Caucasian. DOB 4-8-1929, but the year is crossed out, 1992 put in its place. Some code that Mickey doesn’t know, the current date, and the department, Emergency.  

“Boris.” 

“I know.”

“Boris Boranov. Who the hell is Boris Boranov?” 

“Some guy in a coma with great insurance up in Milwaukee, now.” 

“Lotta good it did him if he’s in a coma. So he‘s real?” Mickey tugs on Ian’s bracelet again, letting out a huh and swiping his thumb underneath the corrected year. They must have somehow convinced the nurse’s station that they got the year wrong, which makes sense since Ian’s not some dementia-riddled geezer. 

“Apparently Veronica, Kevin, and Carl pretended to be the patients from hell checking into an appointment that didn’t exist while Lip, Debbie, and Fiona changed the info on the computer while they were distracted. The doc who Fiona and Kevin caught snorting coke in exchange for free medical advice behind The Alibi said we could use the name ‘cause the guy’s in a coma but has great insurance, but we had to figure out how to check in.” 

Gallaghers. Unbelievable. 

“Fiona was hoping to use this for emergencies, but…” he shrugs and gestures to himself. Mickey blanches. 

“Oh, you bleeding out on the fucking pavement wasn’t an emergency? Don’t want to know what is to you freaks, then.” 

Ian exhales, the sound poured into it meant to be something like a laugh, but it’s too frayed, too down. “It wasn’t meant to be used on me,” he says quietly. 

Occasionally Ian will say things that are darker than Mickey’s used to from him. Not usually so insecure, at least, not like this. While Ian talks a lot, there’s usually some sort of positive upswing to anything he says that’s depressing, or some sort of false confidence that Mickey’s not going to try to puncture. There’s none of that here. 

This is important, though Mickey desperately wishes it wasn’t. Mickey couldn’t even get through a conversation about homework with his sister without making her cry, so he’s not sure he’s the right guy for this topic. But he tries. 

“They tell you that?”

“No, but, this should be used on like, if Liam got really sick, or Carl nearly gets himself killed trying to kill someone else, that kind of thing.” 

“I’m no Gallagher, but I think they made the right call to use it now. You were bleeding a lot.”

Ian hums, but doesn’t outright agree. Instead he looks down at where Mickey’s finger is still curled into his hospital band. His hand twitches, his tendons shifting, Mickey can feel it which is strange and close. 

Ian glows underneath the snowy static of the distant television, and Mickey can see the bruise forming, spreading from underneath the bandage and gauze covering the gash in his temple. Smudged with a nasty bruise, blood crusted in his now greasy hair, eyes shadowy with exhaustion, laced with IVs and wrapped in stiff hospital sheets, Ian should be ugly. 

He isn’t. 

Mickey pulls back, drawing his fingertips down the line of his arm before pulling his hand away. He swallows, and Ian grabs at his own wrist and starts twisting the band again.  

“We should talk,” Ian says. 

Of course Ian wants to talk. 

“About?”

Ian’s response is nothing but a flat look. Mickey’s eyebrows twitch up. What’s the point in rehashing this old argument if nothing’s going to come of it? Ian wants to be out and wants to hold his hand like some schoolgirl on the sidewalk and wants to get ice cream and ride tandem bikes. The thought of all that makes Mickey want to get a gun and pull the trigger when the barrel’s at his temple. The thought of all that scares the shit out of him. 

“I don’t got anything more to say on it, Gallagher,” he says. 

Ian grins mad like he took a punch — without the rock in the hand — and frowns. “Then what are we doing here?”

“Thought we were having a good time. Things are working, what do you want to change about that?”

“I think about you all the time,” Ian admits. Mickey cringes because Jesus, Ian, where in the world is he supposed to put that? “I want to be able to talk to you and not have to find a hole in the ground to do it. I want to share things with you without running to the dugouts to do it. I want to share the things we do with others because it makes me happy, but if I so much as breathe anything sounding like your name you get mad.” 

“Have you told anyone?” 

“No.” Ian scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. “But don’t you think now’s the time to start…” Ian waves his hand, sparing Mickey from the detailed ideas he’s got about what a couple looks like, thankfully. “They have to know you mean something now, though. I mean, you’re here. They told me that you were the one to get me.”

“So?”

“Thank you for doing that. I mean that couldn’t have been easy. If you’re willing to do that, why won’t you admit, at the very least, that you fucking like me? That I’m more than just some guy in your neighborhood as a bare minimum.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes, steps back from the bed completely and goes toward the window. Tries to watch the television in the reflection, wanting to ignore the whole thing. He pulls a cigarette and tucks it into his mouth until he realizes that he absolutely can’t smoke in here, and that annoys the piss out of him. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth but has to keep his hands on something, because there’s a part of all this that scrapes nasty at his brain. 

“What was I supposed to do? You were bleeding out.” 

In the reflection Mickey sees Ian turns over his hands, gesturing wildly. Then he winces at his own movement and Mickey turns around, thinks to put his hand on Ian to keep him from fucking moving, the moron, but he doesn’t reach out for him. 

“You could’ve left,” Ian says.

“You’re the third person to say that to me,” Mickey says, which isn’t entirely true, but he could read it on the Gallagher’s faces. That doesn’t even matter, because the critical part of all this is that it’s Ian saying this to him now. “What, you people think I could just leave you to fucking die?” 

“Not like you’re known for taking on other people’s problems for free, Mickey. Apparently, I’m just a guy you went to school with when you bothered to go, or worked with at the Kash and Grab. Why do you think they’d expect you to do shit for me?” 

And why would I believe you would is read loud and clear on the fierce look on Ian’s face, and Mickey is pissed. 

“Fuck you.” Mickey scrapes his hands through his hair, looks out the window, at the bush constantly battering against the window in the rain thudding hard over and over and over. He’s not sure what’s worse, the fact that Ian thinks this, or that Mickey had considered it, vaguely, distantly, when this all went down. That no, he shouldn’t be getting involved. That it was this line of thinking that stopped him from interfering sooner. Now he knows that if he hadn’t, apparently Ian wouldn’t have even been surprised. “Fuck you, Gallagher. After all the shit we’ve been through, that I —” 

His voice breaks off, hysteric, and Mickey hates that sound coming out of his own mouth. He can’t help it, though. This is what Ian thinks of him? He kissed Ian ten feet from his brothers, didn’t he? Took him to his favorite places, followed his suggestion to work with Ian at the place he got shot. What more does he have to do? 

“Why are you so upset by this? I thought you wanted people to think you didn’t give a shit about me.” 

“Maybe I want you to trust me to have the fucking common decency to not let you fucking die.” 

“You don’t want anyone to know we’re together,” Ian repeats, his voice hard, and Mickey can see the tick in his jaw that he’s in pain, his hand flexing as he stops himself from reaching up to his skull. “You don’t want people to know how much you know me, not in any real way. Yet at the same time you want people to think you’d put your life on the line for me?”

Mickey points at him, “No, I want you to know that.”

Ian’s mouth falls open. He stammers, “How am I supposed to know that? And is that all the time? Or just when you can cover up anything you do for me as just being neighborly, just another guy from Southside?” 

“What, you planning on putting yourself in situations like this again? Scaring everyone this time ain’t enough, huh.” 

This would be about the time Ian would kick off and take a walk, except he can’t. IVs are still laced into his wrist, his family is all outside expecting him to be in here, having used their one get-a-hospital-room-free card on him. He can’t leave, and Mickey doesn’t know if he hates that or is grateful for it.

“You’re mad I got hurt?” 

“No!” Mickey wants to step closer, wants to shake him, but he keeps his distance and crosses his arms to stop himself. “No, I’m not mad you got hurt, Ian, God.” 

Ian reaches his hand to his head, no longer able to ignore his headache, and it’s all such a pathetic sight that Mickey wants to yell into a pillow. It’s not enough to take Ian out of the fight though, because this is Ian and he’s never one to back down from anything. It’s why Mickey expected him to get up after he took that punch. 

“Look, do I expect too much from you, or not enough? ‘Cause I’m having a hard time figuring out what your fucking problem is with me now.” 

Mickey opens his mouth, but falls short of having anything to say. It’s not that simple. 

Silence, though, is the wrong answer for Ian this time.

“Fuck, Mickey, you know what? Fine. You win. I don’t expect anything from you. Thanks for helping me, and thanks for staying ’til now. If you want to go, though, I’m not keeping you here.”

It’d be as good as a time to leave as any, if Mickey believed him at all. He wouldn’t have lived very long, though, if he didn’t know what final warnings looked like. 

This isn’t Ian telling him he doesn’t expect anything from him. It’s giving Mickey one last chance while Ian still does. If he fucks it up now, it’s over. 

There’s a part of him that bucks at the idea. Refuses to believe Ian has the ability to cut the tie. On his roof earlier, though, Ian was figuring out how to not look at Mickey. Was doing a good job of it, even though Mickey couldn’t stop staring. Ian’s good at being dedicated. He’d figure out how to cut Mickey out, if Mickey gives him the opportunity. 

“I don’t want to go.” Mickey walks back toward Ian. “I’m not leaving unless you send me outta here.” He looks out into the hallway for a moment through the interior window to see if any Gallaghers are spying, and when he sees there aren’t, he reaches out. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Not dying.” Ian leans away from Mickey’s hand. Mickey levels him with a look, and Ian slumps down and lets Mickey lay his hand on his shoulder. “I just needed stitches, I was going to be fine.”

“And a bag of blood.” 

Ian hums. “And a bag of blood,” he concedes. Whatever was fueling Ian’s side of the argument is gone, because he actually manages to look at Mickey like he’s not robbing him of something. “Thanks for helping me,” Ian says. He’s grateful, which isn’t something usually directed Mickey’s way, and Mickey hates that he’s such a sucker for it. 

“Whatever, man,” he says. “Just get while the getting’s good. Got your own bed, some nice drugs, and a television to yourself. Live it up.”

“Probably in the exact place where Boris fell into a coma. Slept here for days. Very comfortable.”

Mickey snorts. 

“Besides, It’d be easier to take advantage of the bed and get while the getting’s good if I wasn’t concussed and had stitches in my head.” Ian eyes Mickey, doesn’t waggle his brows like he usually does when he’s making an innuendo because that’d hurt his head, but Mickey gets it all the same.

“Sex on your mind, Gallagher? Got everything else knocked out of that skull of yours?”

Ian smirks. “Maybe.” 

“Well you were already getting me out of my clothes, so you were part of the way there.” 

That makes Ian’s smile twinge a little bit. “Sorry. Can you get the blood out?” 

Mickey doesn’t want to think about how much blood had soaked through, because no, he can’t, and if what he’d done was a crime he’d have already burned the evidence. “It was a favorite. You owe me.” 

“I think I have something you can take. Or you can find something to steal, whatever,” Ian offers. 

It should make Mickey want to fucking burn to death, what Ian’s insinuating. If Ian wasn’t already injured, he’d consider hitting him, or telling him to fuck off, but he keeps his mouth shut. Truth is he’d like that. Having a flannel of Ian’s that was personally selected just to be his by Ian, like normal fucking couples, instead of just squirreling shit of each other’s that they can hide under jackets and shit. 

Fuck, what kind of sappy bullshit is that? Since when did Mickey care about being a normal couple? 

Mickey sighs and forces the conversation along. “I should have backed you up,” Mickey admits. “If I’d done that, you wouldn’t have gotten cracked in the head.” 

Ian frowns at him. “No. That would have been dumb of you to pick a fight that wasn’t yours. I should have been able to handle them myself.”

“They punched you with a rock.”

“What, and I should expect my life to be filled with fair fights?” When Ian puts it that way, he’s surprised he’s not the one lecturing Ian. “Sounds like a good way to get fucked over fast.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “They’re still dicks.”

Ian laughs, soft through his nose. “Yeah. Won’t disagree with you there.”

Maybe if Ian was still with one of those geriatric fucks they’d have bought him flowers, or gotten him a get well balloon. They might have showered Ian in affection, and it would have left Ian’s stay here warm and pleased, but Mickey wants to believe that those would all be empty gestures. Wants to believe that Mickey’s the only one who, when he touches his fingertips to the bottom of Ian’s chin, can get this blissed out look on his face. 

The moment is ruined when Mickey catches sight of the only Gallagher left in Chicago that Mickey’s aware of who hadn’t come with them in the van. 

Frank stumbles down the hallway, his beanie flopping on top of his head, his shirt on inside out. He keeps slumping his shoulders, rolling them out, and looking down the hall as if he expects someone on his heels. 

Mickey’s eyebrows come together. He drops his hand from Ian’s chin, but he doesn’t separate from him. Just puts his hand back on his arm and holds Ian still. 

“What?” Ian asks. He’s about to turn over to look but Mickey shakes his head. 

“Nothing, just…” Mickey watches as Frank looks inside Ian’s room, his fuzzy eyebrows twisting in confusion, his 5 o’clock shadow doing nothing to hide the confused curl of his lips. He looks inside, and Mickey knows that he recognizes Ian. There’s a moment where it seems to dawn on him, and he stands there, considering. 

Then he decides to keep walking. 

“I’ve got to do something,” Mickey says, letting Ian go and walking toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

“It’s okay, Mickey.” Mickey can hear the crinkling of Ian’s stiff bedsheets as he lays himself back down on the cardboard hospital pillow. “You can go, I won’t — it’s fine, I can see you later.” 

Mickey turns around to face Ian, looking him straight in the eye. “Hey, I told you I’d be right back. And I’ll be right back.”

He’s not sure Ian believes him, but he also doesn’t want Frank to get out those double doors and the leave the hospital. Mickey let the first assholes go without giving ‘em a piece of his mind, he’s not about to let that happen twice. 

The moment he steps out the door, Frank looks behind him, face twisted. When Mickey’s glare doesn’t target anyone else, he seems to get the picture Mickey’s coming after him. 

Frank starts ambling a little faster. His gait is sloppy, and he teeters from side to side as he tries to run quicker, and Mickey can hear his breathing already.  

When Frank looks over his shoulder to see if Mickey’s still following, Mickey juts his chin out and prepares to charge at him. 

Frank lets out a shrill sound and tries to pick up his pace. Turns down a hallway on the left, starts grabbing at doorhandles frantically, and when one finally gives, he throws himself through. 

Mickey rolls his eyes and slams into the door with his shoulder, bursting in. The lights come on automatically, they’re in some general practice room with the chair covered in paper and the computer on a swivel and the mobile countertops. 

Frank’s immediately raising his hands up as if Mickey’s got him at gunpoint. He begins shaking his head, quivering, his jaw wagging. Being a Milkovich really does have its perks. 

“I was here minding my own business, had my own appointment, so, you know, I need to be treated carefully. There’s no honor in taking a man when he’s down. Besides, I — I don’t have anything of your dad’s, or your brothers’ for that matter, in fact I think they owe me, so I don’t know what you’re looking for, Milkovich.” 

“Not here for them.” 

Frank gives a huh face, dropping his hands. It shouldn’t bother Mickey. Mickey shouldn’t even be picking this fight; what you fight for is a surefire way to tip your hand on what you give a shit about, and if Frank weren’t drunk off his ass he might recognize that, but Mickey can’t help himself. Mickey’s been telling Ian to keep everything under wraps, but just the fact that this guy cannot put two-and-two together in the slightest that he saw him in Ian’s room and now he’s here, it makes Mickey so mad he wants to scream. 

No, he wants to hit him. So he rushes up and does just that, a fist to Frank’s gut, and he doubles over wheezing. 

“Not even going to see Ian?”

Frank clamors for the wall, sputtering as if Mickey gutted him, which he’s lucky Mickey doesn’t find some scalpel and shred off his scalp he swears to God. 

“Your own fucking son? You don’t want to know what’s going on with him? Don’t want to know why he’s got wraps around his fucking head?” 

Frank has no response to that. He starts off like he does, gives some sort of “ah, well, you know,” but then he descends into mumbles, like he thinks Mickey won’t catch that he’s not speaking words anymore. 

Mickey’s angry. No, he’s fucking furious. He’s madder than he’s been in some time, he’s somehow even more enraged than he was at the guy who hit Ian with a rock, and he doesn’t know where all this rage is coming from.

“Ay, what the fuck are you saying?”

“You know, this isn’t my fault,” Frank starts whining, shuffling backward from Mickey. Mickey takes a step closer and Frank clatters along the metal rolling cart. When the wounded animal act shows to never work, he pops up as if Mickey didn’t hit him, his eyes wide. 

“The real problem, the real problem is the fucking system! I’ve got my own health issues to worry about, no one’s there for me at every appointment. You don’t catch me crying about it! No, no, siree. And I know the truth about the whole thing, but they won’t let me get in because they’re too busy beating down the little guy!” 

Groaning, Mickey tries to think of way to cut this rambling crap out, but Frank doesn’t stop. Mickey can’t even get a word in edgewise to get him to slam his trap shut.  

“The system has taught people to become needy and dependent, when us old folks who actually need something, we can’t get it, because it’s getting leeched on by the likes of — of — of people conning the system, when us good people, us locals, we can’t even get the stuff we pay the taxes for. They don’t want us good folks to figure it out, they don’t, because that means we might actually be able to win and get what we’re due. It’s all a bunch of bullshit. It’s all bullshit, and until —” 

Mickey slams the metal shelf, the sound banging like a gunshot, which causes Frank to jump. 

“Stop. You are what’s bullshit.” 

Mickey reaches forward, and there’s nowhere for Frank to go, so he’s able to grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him down. Frank smells like booze, his eyes are bloodshot and watery, his hair is wet. This isn’t what pisses Mickey off. It’s the fact that he’s clearly being taken care of by someone. Someone he’s conned to caring about him. He’s near-clean shaven, his hair isn’t oily from lack of showers, his clothes underneath the smell of cigarettes and booze are laundered. Frank is being taken care of by someone who he’s tricked into loving him, while Ian — fuck. 

“You are a goddamn disappointment.” Mickey says. He laughs, incredulous. “You, all you do, is show up and fuck up. All you do is let your family down.” 

Frank’s eyes flash, and Mickey hates it, but he sees the family resemblance among all the Gallaghers. How anger lights them up like a butane lighter: a flick of frustration, a spark of indignation, a light of fury, everything to tell Mickey that they’re ready to burn. 

Frank shoves Mickey, but Mickey doesn’t let him go. He tries it again, and Mickey slaps him upside the head, and Frank winces over-exaggeratedly, reaches up to protect his face. Mickey wants to hit him again, right in the temple, give him a taste of what brought Ian to the hospital, but he holds back. 

“Jeez! What do you even want from me, man?”

It’s a simple question, and Mickey’s about to rattle it off, except he doesn’t know. 

Everything shifts in that moment. His gaze skitters across Frank’s hunched over form, this pathetic fucking man. Mickey takes in how Frank keeps angling for the door, how he’s muttering about everything and anything except something along the lines of how he’s going to start showing up for his fucking kids. Mickey wants to beat him senseless, Mickey wants to drag him by his hair and throw him in Ian’s room and let the Gallaghers thrash him, Mickey wants to never see him again. But what he wants from Frank? Mickey’s trying to piece it together, what he wants from Frank, when he realizes — 

“I don’t want anything from you.” 

There’s no point in wanting anything from Frank. There is no point to expecting anything from Frank. The only thing anyone can depend on him to be is this. 

Mickey tosses him away. Frank looks confused, and Mickey doesn’t give a shit. He turns back toward the door and goes back into the hallway. 

It’s Frank. Frank is what Mickey can’t stand about the idea of Ian not expecting anything from him. It sounds insane, but Frank is the reason it bothered Mickey that Ian wouldn’t even look at him this morning. 

Ian wants. 

Ian so clearly wants. It’s painfully obvious. Ian’s want is present in every kiss he sneaks onto Mickey’s skin, that want is in the strength Ian has when he grabs at Mickey, want is always there in Ian’s eyes when he looks at Mickey. Ian can’t seem to stop wanting, but he’s learning with Mickey not to expect anything, and that idea makes Mickey fucking sick. 

High hopes for Ian are dangerous, just like they are for everyone in Southside, but Mickey knows Ian can’t help but have them. He’s somehow still an optimist. Mickey likes that about him. That’s one of Ian’s best qualities, and yet he’s the one killing that for them. Because Ian’s not stupid, and he will learn to stop expecting, and that’s clearly what he was trying to do this morning. Stop looking, stop waiting, stop wanting. 

He throws open the door into Ian’s room, or Boris fucking Boranov’s room, and Ian jolts at the sound. 

“Told you,” he says, and he sounds as breathless as he feels. 

Ian’s eyes are plate-wide and focused solely on Mickey. Mickey forces a smile he’s too nervous to really feel and shuts the door. 

This feels like the right decision, even though his blood is rushing through him electric, his body humming at him to run like a bat out of hell, but instead he walks toward Ian. Rounds on Ian’s bed, his feet carrying him without thinking. Ian watches him the whole time, his cheek smushed into his pillow when Mickey gets to him. Mickey’s careful when he slips his hand between Ian’s cheek and the pillow, because concussions are a bitch and he knows that wound in his temple must be throbbing, but he also knows that Ian likes this kind of thing. Mickey likes it, too. 

“What’re you…” Ian looks him up and down. His eyebrows come together. “What’s wrong?” 

“I would never just leave you to die. Got it?” 

Ian exhales, clearly thinking that Mickey’s just trying to pick up where they left off, but Mickey’s not he swears. “Yeah, fine, I got it, Mick.” 

Then Mickey kisses him. 

The thoughts still flare up that they’re too exposed like this, that the whole hospital is going to know, but he tries to put it out of his mind ‘cause he knows Ian’s thrilled that Mickey initiated. Maybe that’s the most pathetic part of this whole mess, how much Mickey cares that Ian’s excited. Should have known a long time ago that he was getting in too deep. 

The soft gasp into Mickey’s mouth, his hands coming up and curling into Mickey’s sleeve, the gentle way he reciprocates… Mickey thinks he might be done for, all of his self preservation gone, because he shouldn’t want this. Ian’s tongue is gentle as it tangles with Mickey’s own, his mouth warm and sweet. Mickey’s supposed to be all barbed wire, especially if he’s fucking a guy, it should be rough and brutal. But Ian kisses him like this, and all Mickey can think to do is bring Ian closer. Finds comfort in the having the weight of Ian’s head in his hands, he places his other hand on the injured side of Ian’s face, careful, and strums along the hollow of his cheek. Ian inhales shakily again. In the small humid gap while Ian breathes, Mickey’s lips are buzzing, and he kisses the corner of Ian’s mouth, his jaw, letting his tongue slide against the smoothness of his skin because it’s just good, before going back to his mouth. 

They can’t do too much more. Ian’s got a gash in the side of his head, probably giving him a nasty headache. Mickey’s been there. With a thumb to Ian’s jaw, Mickey presses Ian back. Their lips smack as they pull apart, which makes Mickey’s face hot, makes him laugh in an astonished oh fuck kind of way. 

Mickey’s face gets even warmer when Ian opens his eyes and smiles like seeing Mickey is his favorite thing in the world. 

“You okay?” 

Of course Ian’s asking Mickey while he’s in the damn hospital bed. Mickey wants to grumble, but he’s trying not to be a pussy, so instead he thinks about how to explain. 

He doesn’t want to tell Ian that his dad was here and how he didn’t come by to see him, because Ian doesn’t need that shit right now. The rest of his family is here, that’s who matters. Mickey also can’t tell him that he’s ready to go on all fronts, and that he’s all in and they can be open, because Mickey’s just not there. Doesn’t want to give Ian false hope, another thing to be disappointed in. 

The shadow of Ian’s bruise is spreading, spidering near the knock of his eyebrow. Not the first time he’s had a bruise there, Ian’s accustomed to shiners. Still, Mickey wishes he could douse those two assholes in gasoline and set ‘em on fire. 

Mickey licks his lips, his mouth suddenly too dry. He strums his thumb against Ian’s cheek, trying to will himself to make familiar this basic intimacy. It’s not hard, and Ian’s eyelids flutter when he does it, and Mickey likes when Ian looks at peace with the world. 

“If you can give me a little more fucking credit,” he says. The words come out of him slowly, as if he can turn away from them at any point, but Mickey forces himself to finish the thought. “I promise to not let it kill you.” 

Mickey hates asking for chances. Fuck people if they don’t want to give him a shot or dismiss him, he’ll prove that will be the worst mistake they’ve ever made.

It’s different this time, though. There’s something like relief, which Mickey didn’t know you could feel relief when you swallow your pride. 

“I can do that,” Ian says. 

And because Mickey knows Ian, Mickey knows he’s going to push his luck before Ian even reaches out his hand, grips onto the cuff of Mickey’s sleeve and keep him there. Mickey rolls his eyes. He doesn’t hold Ian’s hand because, shit, Ian, maybe also give him a minute, but he doesn’t remove Ian’s hand either. 

Ian chuckles, because he knows what he’s pushing the bounds, the bastard. But he looks relaxed. There’s something tentative about his smile. “You’re going to want to move soon.”

“Why’s that?” 

“I know my family. This kind of quiet doesn’t last.” 

When the Gallaghers start coming back into the room, Ian eyes Mickey, expecting him to leave. 

At the beginning of this visit, Mickey definitely would have. Didn’t want any of ‘em to see that he was sticking around, and had made it loud and clear he was going. Despite the challenge in Ian’s expression and his scathing suspicion that Mickey’s out of there, there’s also a plea for him not to go. 

Mickey kicks out the chair next to Ian’s bed and drops onto it like it’s nothing, despite the fact that his palms are sweating. His attention turns to whatever’s on the television. Looks like some kid’s halloween movie. He does his best to ignore everyone else in the room. 

Debbie strides in and nods her head once in a mock sort of salute. “Boris.”

“Hey Debs,” Ian greets, letting her come up and hug him, but before she gets her arms around him she looks over at Mickey. 

“You thank him yet?” she asks Ian, and Ian laughs. 

“Yeah.”

Mickey doesn’t want to know the overly fond expression that’s taken over Gallagher’s face, so he ignores Ian like he’s the plague and keeps watching the television. Judging by the snort Mickey hears come out of Ian’s mouth, he knows Mickey’s avoiding him, and damn Mickey would kick him if it weren’t for his fucking head. Definitely would duct tape Debbie’s mouth shut if she wasn’t a kid. 

Lip comes in, holding Carl by the scruff of his coat in one hand, Liam in the other arm. Carl is pissed. “I wasn’t going to do anything!” he says. 

Mickey raises an eyebrow at all the plastic gloves Carl’s got shoved inside of his sweatshirt pockets, and other shit he’s got shoved into his jeans. Debbie walks up and starts taking everything out, tissues and gloves and tubing, and Carl snarls at her and pouts. Schemes like the one Lip’s suspicious of him for, the kid could be a Milkovich. 

“Right now, Carl, we need a low profile, and I don’t want to explain to any doctor why you’ve stashed all their shit.” Lip guides Carl to one of the chairs in the corner of the room, and Carl gets up and sits down, still pouting. Then Lip comes over to Ian with Liam still in his arms. 

“How’s your head?” Lip asks. 

“I’m fine. Still aches, but, I’m okay.”

Liam starts stretching out of Lip’s hold, and Ian reaches out to take him, but Lip draws Liam back and lowers him to the ground to stand on his own two feet. “No toddlers for the concussed.” Then Lip looks up, and his glance at Mickey is brief, but it’s there, and afterwards Mickey notices how Lip maintains his careful attention by not looking at Mickey, and Mickey really wishes he could smoke a cigarette. 

“Peace and quiet do you good?” Lip asks. 

Ian gives him a thumbs up. Lip bumps his knuckles against Ian’s. “Yeah, well, I imagine we’re just in time for the headache to have gone away to bring it right back.” 

Then Fiona and V parade in with a ton of trays full of food. Two layered across each forearm, V is trying to balance one more on her head and Fiona’s laughing at her. “Somebody take it! Somebody take it from me!” she laughs, trying to lower down like she’s trying to limbo, her body bending back and back and back. Everybody starts laughing and squealing, chaos ensuing and — shit, Ian really wasn’t kidding when he said the quiet doesn’t fucking last. 

Fiona rushes to drop off her trays at the window sill before grabbing the nearly falling tray off Veronica’s head and taking a few more from her. V breathes out a sigh of relief, setting the last of her trays alongside Fiona’s.

“Where did you get all these?” Ian asks. “I didn’t even think they were going to feed me.”

“We all gotta eat, don’t we?” Fiona asks, setting up the trays with various things. She seems to have a specific food for everyone in mind, though Mickey can’t figure it out. “Kevin’s gone, right V?”

“Yeah, he had to head back to work.” 

“A little extra for all of us, then,” Fiona says smiling. 

“Seriously, guys, how did you get this?” Ian asks again. “I’m not even gonna be here a whole night, this is enough for a whole week.” 

Veronica got a rueful smile on her face. “You think I can’t convince a guy to give us a little something extra, Ian? Shame on you,” she says, shimmying out of her coat and swaying her hips flirtatiously. Ian laughs. 

Mickey nearly chokes. What a thing to ask Ian of all people. Then it occurs to Mickey that she knows Ian’s preferences, that Veronica is in the know, and that she’s teasing him on purpose. Because these people all know what Ian likes. Everyone here knows Ian, and they just… roll with it. 

Before Mickey can think anymore about that fucking nightmare, Fiona’s calling out, “Dinner!” 

Debbie and Carl hop up from their spots and rush up behind her, and Fiona quickly gets them their trays stocked with some pre-wrapped sandwich, what looks like pasta salad, pudding, and a cookie on a styrofoam plate. She hands Liam a little cup and keeps him close to her while he starts digging into his food. 

Lip pulls a tray for himself and grabs the last free chair, pulling it toward the window so he can see the television, though his focus on Carl in particular. Carl sticks his tongue out at him, and Lip gets up briefly to pull yet another plastic tube that Carl had tucked into his pants and covered by his sweatshirt. 

Fiona grabs one tray and places it on Ian’s lap before sitting on the edge of Ian’s bed. “How you feeling?” 

“M’alright.” 

Fiona smiles, grabs his hand, and Mickey suddenly feels like he shouldn’t be anywhere near this conversation. This isn’t meant for him to see, except, Ian doesn’t seem all that bothered. This seems familiar to him, normal. 

“Good,” Fiona says. “You scared the shit out of us. Don’t do that again.” Mickey recognizes the guilty expression on Ian’s face that he gives her. She squeezes his hand. “Eat up.” 

Whatever sad little spiral Ian’s on, Mickey doesn’t let it last for long. “I’m stealing your pudding, bitch,” he says, grabbing it off Ian’s tray and dropping back into his chair. Ian laughs, looks more than ready to let him have it. Mickey’s prepared to open it and just eat it without a spoon when Fiona slaps Mickey’s hand, snatches the pudding back from Mickey and puts it back on Ian’s tray, and before he can even protest or crack a joke, she drops a tray of food on his lap. 

Fiona wags her finger at him. “Don’t you steal from him. We got you some, too.” 

“Asking him not to steal?” Lip snarks. “It’s the same as removing spark plugs from a car, it won’t operate anymore.” 

Mickey flips Lip off, but admittedly he’s glad for the bullshit, because he feels a lump in his throat, which is stupid. It’s just a tray of hospital food, it’s not like it’s going to be good. It’s just — he didn’t expect that. 

“Thanks.” 

Fiona hums as if this is no big deal, and moves to get her own food, biting down on her sandwich like she hasn’t eaten in days. Mickey looks around at all of them, engrossed in their shit. Veronica’s slid down against the wall, taking fork fulls of pasta salad with one hand while the other scratches her nails through Liam’s hair. Carl’s watching the television, his face contorted, and he starts looking for the remote. Debbie has the remote behind her back, but she eats as if she’s hiding nothing. 

Mickey feels fucking adrift. He’s not used to so many people just in one room, doing their own thing and being okay with the other’s presence. It’s not like this is a bar and people are shitfaced and are just going through the motions. This is family, everyone knows each other, and everyone seems comfortable. 

Finally he looks at Ian for some direction, but Ian just holds up his pudding. “Trade?”

Grabbing the pudding on his own tray, Mickey’s currently got chocolate, Ian’s got butterscotch. Mickey hands his cup to Ian and Ian tosses his cup to Mickey, and for some reason that alone makes the ringing in Mickey’s ears die down a little. Helps him learn to ride the wave. 

Riding the wave is exactly what he needs to do, because the Gallaghers start up on a series of conversations — what are we watching? Does anyone have any mayo? Carl where the hell did you find all this crap, we’re doing a strip search before we leave —  and it seems endless, like they’re all talking around yet through each other. 

Then Lip scoots his chair a little closer to Mickey. 

“Saw Frank.” He’s quiet, his gaze flicking to Ian to make sure he’s not overhearing the conversation, before going back to pretending to watch the Halloween movie. “He didn’t come in here.”

Lip doesn’t say it like it’s a question, but Mickey confirms it all the same with a shake to his head. Lip mutters something like asshole, but he doesn’t seem surprised. 

“Probably a good thing anyway. He looked like shit.” Lip continues, tilting his head to the side. “Somehow, though, he still looked like he didn’t get hit hard enough.” There’s a knowing look on Lip’s face that makes Mickey seize. 

Licking over his teeth, Mickey works hard to ignore the voice in the back of his head telling him to clock Lip to get him to knock it off, to do something to shut down whatever Lip’s implying. Instead he lets himself laugh. “No fun when he’s already in the hospital, but I’ll consider it for next time.” 

Lip smirks. “Now you’re getting it.” 

Mickey doesn’t get the chance to ask him what that means. Lip slumps back against his chair and rolls it away from Mickey like the conversation never happened. Instead, Lip begins trying to distract Carl from whatever shit he wants to get up to by trying catapult his pasta salad into Carl’s wide open mouth. Mickey expects Fiona to groan, or someone to yell about wasting food, but Fiona just joins Veronica and Debbie in cheering him on and counting down to each toss. 

When the first two get nowhere near Carl’s mouth and the third hits Carl in the cheek, Ian snorts. “Your aim sucks,” he says. “Carl, look at me.” 

Carl turns. The gloop of the pasta salad makes his cheek wet, but he doesn’t even seem to notice, keeping his mouth wide open. Ian grabs his spoon, puts pasta on it, and flicks it at Carl’s mouth. 

It hits dead on into his mouth, Mickey thinks it might have even stuck to his throat. Carl makes a wheezing noise before swallowing, but hardly seems concerned about choking as he pumps both hands in the air in victory. Veronica, Fiona, and Debbie all cheer. 

“Fuck yeah!” Carl cries. 

“Beginner’s luck,” Lip complains, but he’s smiling too with a mouthful of food. 

“I’ll give you my cookie if you can do that twice, Gallagher,” Mickey chimes in, holding up his cookie for the bid. Everyone goes quiet for a moment, and Mickey thinks he fucked up big time by even saying a word and joining in, but then there are a series of oohs, and Ian grins. 

“You’re fucking on.” He grabs another spoonful of pasta, and prepares. Carl squats down, gets into position and opens his mouth. 

Debbie pipes up, “okay, on three.” 

Debbie, Veronica, and Fiona all count, “One. Two. Three!”

Ian flings the pasta, and damn him, he gets it into Carl’s mouth once again. 

Carl leaps from his spot like he won a world championship, both arms raised and running around the bed in a victory lap, humming loud because he can’t scream due to the sticky pasta salad in his mouth. 

Ian’s looking at Mickey all smug. “Pay up, Milkovich.” 

Mickey raises his hands in mock defeat. “Alright, alright,” he gripes, getting up and putting the cookie on Ian’s plate. Ian holds it in the air like it’s a fucking olympic medal, before bringing it back down and splitting it in half. 

“Only fair my catcher gets a share, I think, eh, Carl?” 

That’s a funny concept if Mickey’s ever heard one. An older brother just giving shit away for free? Didn’t happen in his family. 

Carl treats this as yet another chance to catch shit with his mouth, and gets back in squatting position. Ian hums, ready for the challenge, raising up the half a cookie and doing little fake practice throws. 

“Carl’s ready,” Lip says. “Might as well see if you can toss it in there.” 

Debbie holds up three fingers, priming the girls to count to three again. On Debbie’s mark, they count down, and on three Ian tosses the cookie — 

And it lands in Carl’s mouth. 

Everybody erupts in cheer, so loud Mickey jumps in his seat. Carl chomps down on it, chocolate all over his mouth. Ian laughs, taking his own half of the cookie and nibbling on a corner of it. 

Mickey looks at Ian and he wants to kiss him. Wants to kiss him badly, kiss him into the bed and give him an entirely different reward, which is stupid and this is all just a dumb game and he definitely won’t with everybody around them. But Mickey still wants. 

Ian looks over at him like he’s wanting the exact same thing. 

A promise of later lingers between them, and Mickey’s surprised by how okay he is with only that. How satisfying later can be because he knows Ian will be more than happy to provide it then. There’s a flash of paranoia, that somehow all the Gallaghers know what Mickey’s thinking just because he’s in their proximity, but no one says a word. All of them are too wrapped up in their own conversations, enjoying each other’s company, to make anything strange out of Mickey and Ian just hanging out. 

Which means Mickey’s free to let himself want to kiss Ian, and be okay without acting on it right then and there. He can let himself want Ian without needing to run out of the room before anyone can figure out how much. 

And he’s even free to think about how Ian wants him, too. 

The thought sits on simmer as the rest of the Gallaghers boil over with their own chatter. Debbie and Carl flip through channels until they land right back on the Halloween movie they were on. Lip’s texting someone, by the look on Ian’s face he’s stringing along some girl or starting up some scheme. Veronica plays with Liam. Fiona eventually tells Ian to scoot, pulls up on the bed herself and lays down with him and watches the movie. 

Mickey stays in the chair, surprised at himself that he isn’t leaving. He doesn’t need to be here, among all this. This isn’t his family, and he’s not engaging in any real way other than a few comments to Veronica and stealing the remote from Carl. Especially once Ian falls back asleep, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

But he stays. 

No, the quiet does not stay among the Gallaghers, but once the chaos is done, there is a kind of ease to it. Debbie and Carl are still bickering, but everyone tries to tone it down so Ian can sleep. 

“Mick,” Fiona whispers from beside Ian. “Mickey.”

Mickey looks over at her. She picks herself up enough on the bed to be able to look at him, but her movement flipped some of Ian’s hair in his face, so she brushes it back easy as anything and keeps her hand on his shoulder. Then she reaches up and touches the bandage on Ian’s face before smiling something sad. 

She looks back at Mickey. 

“Thank you,” she mouths. 

Mickey tightens his grip on the metal armrests of his chair. His stomach clenches. But he manages, 

“Yeah, no problem.”