#long ass list of thoughts about how the gallaghers see fiona

[mother-of-houseplants-2]

thoughts on the gallagher siblings’ relationships with fiona

and what specific and nuanced role she takes on in their lives—mother, sister, or something in between.

special thanks to @aceyanaheim for not only listening to me ramble on and on about my silly little gallagher siblings thoughts, but also for sharing so many insightful and poignant ideas themselves on the matter. thanks so much for the brain worms! <3

lip

lip’s relationship with his sister is complicated. they’re only four years apart in age, so he’s a little more conscious of fiona’s situation than the other kids.

he doesn’t see it all—fi keeps her struggles a little too under wraps for that—but he knows what she’s had to sacrifice to take care of them all (“i stole so fiona didn’t have to work a third job to cover the bills” s11). he knows how alone she feels (“you’re not supermom; you don’t have to do it all yourself” s3). he knows she struggles (seeing her cry over the sticks and skates job in s1). he knows what she’s lost in the process (“you called her mom” s1). he knows that the kids aren't fair to her a lot of the time ("we've taken you for granted. i know i have" s4).

but as much as lip sees what fiona goes through, as much as he picks up jobs to help out with the bills, as much as he takes care of the little ones, he’s still a kid in need of a mother figure. he still leans on fiona, hard.

all of s2, lip struggles with seeing fiona as a sister vs. a mother. he wants independence, he wants to follow his own plans in life, and he doesn’t want anyone to stop him—in his mind, who’s fiona to tell him what to do? he can drop out if he wants to. he’s done one more year than her! she can’t make him go. she can’t. she’s not his mom.

but, well, isn’t she? he’s still a kid who messed up and needs help. he’s still a boy who can’t go it all alone. he’s still a sixteen year old child who finally comes home and gives his big sister a hug because, despite all his big talk, he needs her. he does. and fiona loves him more than anything. she just wants what’s best for him, even if she struggles to express it in a manner that doesn’t push him away.

lip doesn’t want to call fiona “mom” (s3) but he’s okay with her taking guardianship. and why wouldn’t he be? she’s done the job his whole life. and he sees that.

the problem is that lip, as much as he wants to be independent of fiona, as much as he wants to see her as a sister and not a mom, he can’t help but to idealize her. he still craves for the perfect mom in his head that never messes up and always takes care of them, and since monica for sure was never going to be that mom, he’s superimposed that desire over fiona. but that version of her doesn’t exist. that version of any mother doesn’t exist. mothers are human. they mess up. they make mistakes. even if no one wants them to.

so when fiona messes up (s3 with the club money, s4 with liam, s8 with the apartment, s9 with the drinking) it’s unthinkable to him. he’s furious with her—rightfully so, she did mess up—but he’s disproportionately angry because she was supposed to be their mom! she was supposed to be good and never fuck up and always take care of them! so when she breaks that image of perfection in his head, it shatters his trust in her, somewhat unfairly so.

fiona’s not allowed to mess up. she can’t. she’s not supposed to. she’s supposed to be the one taking care of everyone, not in need of care herself. lip is understanding and gentle and supportive when it’s ian or debbie or carl, and fiona’s the same with him, but when fiona’s spiraling into addiction and her life is falling apart, he’s all tough love. maybe it terrifies him.

when she leaves, it’s obviously sad. but he’s grown by then to know that she’s her own person, not just a mother figure to them all. it’s hard. but he’s at that point that everyone comes to in life when they realize their parents are individuals with their own lives and hopes and dreams. and he lets her go.

at the end of the day, a huge part of lip’s relationships with fiona is his eternal struggle between wanting independence and wanting a mom—and not just any mom, but a mom he can trust and love and depend on. that mom is fiona, even when she fucks up.

ian

ian was fiona’s first baby. he was the first child she really, truly raised—lip was always her boy, but he was also her second-in-command, blurring the lines between brother and son, working together with her to take care of the others—while ian was the first baby she was all on her own for. the “we were living in a car once…” speech in s3 makes that clear.

in the early seasons, it’s clear that ian defers to fiona quite a bit. he listens to her, seeks her out for comfort, respects her word like that of a mother. fiona calls him sweetface, expresses maternal affection with him, and he is receptive of it all in that long-suffering way older teens tend to be with their moms. their relationship is more mother-son than anything else.

but at the same time, he's still marginally aware of her struggles, too, just like lip; the conversation he has with his brother in s3 when fi tries to get guardianship ("she's only twenty-two!") makes it clear that he worries for her, doesn't want her to take on a terrible burden for them. so it's clear that, though he does see fiona in a maternal light, he isn't blind to her reality.

this all changes, however, when ian starts to grow up and want independence and freedom. fiona tries to give him this in s4 when he joins the army, even though it doesn't work out. and in s5, when he is finally forced to confront his own struggles with mental illness and deal with his bipolar disorder, he starts to bond more with monica.

now, this is understandable, seeing as they share the same mood disorder and he feels connected to her through their similar struggles. at first, he actually resents being compared to her ("i'm not fucking monica" s5), but the more they communicate and bond (s7), the more he comes to care for her.

s8 shows ian genuinely mourning his mother (getting sentimental over her meth, getting a tattoo for her), and the other gallaghers don't really understand it, which upsets him; in his mind, that's their mom! why aren't they upset too? i think it's lost on ian that no one else in the family ever had the same connection with monica that he did. she bonded with him; she didn't do the same for the others before her repeated abandonment.

so ian starts to see monica as "mom." where does that leave fiona?

i think this truly marks the final shift of their relationship from parent-child to siblings. especially when looking at s8, where they're fighting over the church. in 'occupy fiona,' ian is furious with her perceived selfishness, and screams at her when she attempts her typical motherly nagging in the form of asking him if he's taking his meds. which, fair; that must be frustrating to hear. but this makes it clear that they're on two separate pages: fiona still sees him as a son. ian sees him as a sister.

but fiona's seeking independence, too. she's seeking an identity that is distinct from her role as caretaker. it isn't just ian growing apart from his sister that's shifted their relationship so dramatically; both characters seek an escape from their family and a life where they can be independent and all grown-up. and in a typical parent-child relationship, only one side of the equation feels those growing pains. in this situation, it's both.

of course, no matter how much they grow apart and hurt each other, they still adore one another. ian's the one fiona goes to for advice about leaving in s9, after all. he's the one who urges her to go and save herself from another lifetime of gallagher chaos. so really, the change in their relationship doesn't destroy their bond; it just alters it a little.

debbie

debbie had, i think, one of the most tumultuous relationships with her sister. as a little girl, she definitely saw fiona as a mother figure, and was very attached to her, almost subconsciously so. the "i wanna stay with fiona" from s1, the way she sought her out for comfort after monica's suicide attempt in s2, the terror she felt at being separated from her after dcfs got involved in s3—it all makes it very clear that little debbie very much saw fiona as her mom.

she still had some understanding of her sister's struggles—"fiona takes care of everyone, but who takes care of fiona?" (s1)—but she was still a little girl and fiona was still her mom.

and then monica came crashing back into their lives. debbie very reluctantly accepted her in, hugging her at sheila's and allowing her to buy her dolls (even though she didn't play with them anymore!) just to humor her mother's attempts to build a relationship. so, as much as debbie unconsciously saw fiona as a mother figure, she still always had this craving for monica—her real mom.

it makes me think of debbie's assertion to sheila in s1 that if monica ever came back and apologized, she'd "forgive her in a heartbeat. because she's [debbie's] mom." she was still a little girl hanging onto the dream that her mom will come home and love her and take care of her. and she barely realized that she'd found someone else to fill in the gap monica left behind, but it's just not the same. she still wants her real mom.

season 4 marks the shift of debbie's character from seeing fiona as a mom to seeing her as a sister—or, at least, wanting to see her as a sister. like ian, she was desperate for independence. she was being peer pressured by girls at school, she was interested in boys, she didn't want to be seen or treated like a baby anymore. she was fed up with fiona still treating her like she's her daughter because she's not. she doesn't want to be.

and anyway, fiona was busy with her new job at the cup company and her new boyfriend mike. she wasn't around all the time anymore. sheila'd been babysitting more and more. debbie was the one taking liam to and from head start. she felt abandoned, alone, with fiona not around as much as before.

she sought comfort in sammi. she found purpose in her friends, in boys. it's a very knee-jerk teenage-girl reaction: to find connection in others when you're mad at your mom. but for debbie, she wasn't just shifting away from fiona as a daughter growing distant from her mom, she was shifting away from the idea of fiona as her mom in the first place.

and then, of course, franny happened and drove a terrible wedge between them both. debbie grappled with her identity as a mother. she rejected fiona's help and advice in favor of her quest for independence. monica returned, made her feel like debbie's a good mom. frank supported her. and debbie was in a position where she had both her parents on her side—her real parents—while fiona opposed her. this, i think, solidified fiona in her mind as her sister. not her mother figure anymore.

don't get me wrong; fiona was in the right opposing her at this time. debbie's pregnancy was a stupid idea. it really did ruin her life and her character overall, and it was unfair of debbie to expect fiona's support in that situation. fiona was being a good mother by telling her she was making a mistake. she still saw debbie as her little girl. debbie's the one who didn't accept that anymore.

after debbie and fiona made up later in the show, they settled into a true sister-sister relationship. debbie came to see fiona at her worst ("she broke her wrist, she's nonstop ugly crying" s9) and tried to take care of her, while fiona still tried to resist the flipping of their roles ("i'm fine. i'm fine." s9). debbie fucked up ford for her that season. got angry and protective on her behalf.

and when fiona left at the end of the season, she left as debbie's sister. no longer her mom. at least, not from debbie's perspective anymore.

carl

carl's relationship with fiona, i believe, was one of the least complicated and most wholesome ones on the show. carl absolutely saw fiona as a mom in the early seasons, without a doubt. he listened to her even when he didn't want to, like a little boy to his mother ("did you brush your teeth? carl?" "yes, ugh!!!!" s1), reluctantly learned lessons from her ("privacy's important" s2), looked to her for permission for things (glancing at her when monica asked him to pass the salad in s1 and only doing it when fiona nodded yes), and sought her out for comfort after monica's suicide attempt (s3).

carl's the only one i can vividly remember saying he loves his sister ("'night, fiona, love you" s1) or thanking her for what she's done for them all ("thanks for being a great sister" s3). at least when he was little, fiona was without a doubt his mom.

it certainly helps that he never really bonded with monica. she left when he was too little to start seeing her as a mom, and every time she returned, she never really took the time to get to know him or connect with him. but carl did briefly bond with frank (the fake cancer arc in s3, "i'm shaving your head to let the sun rays in"), and was the only one who cared about him potentially dying in season four, tending to him in the hospital when no one else did.

season four is when he, like debbie, starts to rebel against fiona's parenting. he's angry and sad and mean and it all comes out in the form of sharp words and beating up kids at school and getting into all kinds of trouble. he's mad at fiona for not caring about frank, but he's also just mad at the world—understandly so. he's fourteen.

the trouble continues well into season 6. carl gets mixed up with g-doggg, starts selling drugs. frank helps him get into the drug world, but he gets caught. he goes to juvie, comes back a little harder, a little meaner. sells harder stuff, sells guns. the whole time, he's established a sort of distance from fiona, because he's too cool for deep, vulnerable relationships, or so he thinks. and the whole time, fiona continues to love him, tries to connect with him, attempts to open his eyes and make him realize how dangerous what he's doing is, but he's determined to be his own man, to earn the respect of his buddies. he feels like frank's the only one who understands.

but then he gets hurt and scared. he sees someone die. he wants out. and frank—who he hasn't like, loved, per-say, but has at least trusted and established some sort of camaraderie with through their shared misdeeds—betrays him, scares the shit out of him with his anger and disappointment. and who does carl have to fall back on but fiona?

fiona tells him she's proud of him. she and sean help him get out of the drug world. their relationship is finally rekindled. and it's around his time when carl overhears fiona cry to sean about being exhausted and scared about losing the house (s6). and it terrifies him, because here's his strong big sister, the woman who raised him, young and vulnerable and afraid. and he steps up and gives her the money to buy back the house. he's there for her. he's being a good man.

from then on, carl shapes up and his character is on track to make something better of himself. he takes on some form of responsibility, denounces his father, and goes to military school. and fiona's so fucking proud of her boy. because he is her boy—always will be, no matter how much he tries to be a strong, independent, grown-up.

when he comes home in s7, he's grown to be a kind, goodhearted, respectful young man. he doesn't refuse her hugs and kisses. he admits—though with some hesitation—that "you were right, fiona! and we were so fucking wrong!" in s8. and when monica dies, he's... conflicted. but he's okay. because fiona was always his mom, anyway. and that never changed.

liam

liam has never known any parent other than fiona.

sure, lip helped a great deal with taking care of him and raising him, and, much later, he bonded quite a bit with frank. and his relationship with most of his siblings is very parental at its core—he’s the baby, after all, and all of his siblings had a hand in raising him.

but fiona was the one who fed and changed and cared for him his whole life. took him to work with her as a baby (s1). dealt with his hair when he had lice (s6). stood up for him against anyone who dared to hurt him (s9). it was always her, really, in the end. it was only her.

liam was just a baby when monica left. and he was—what, 6?—when she died. there are a few times when she randomly returns when they spent time together, but he doesn’t even really remember her because he was too little. he’s never known a mother other than fi. she’s the only one that matters, really.

i’m still upset that she didn’t take liam with her when she left in s9, and that we didn’t see them stay in contact throughout the remainder of the show. obviously, this was just because emmy rossum left, so it’s just a reflection of the writers working around their situations, but it just felt heartbreakingly unrealistic to me.

they loved each other so much. that was her son, her little boy, her baby bear. she was his mom. no two ways about it.

it wasn't until after fiona distanced herself from the family and then left that liam and frank grew close. frank got him into private school (s8), recruited liam to steal from his rich friends (s8/9), and liam, in turn, made it his mission to take care of frank when his health started declining and his mind started deteriorating to his alcholic dementia (s10/11). part of that connection was absolutely due to liam's bigheartedness; he's such a good, loving kid, with so much forgiveness and love to give to people.

i also wonder if a part of that connection resulted from the desire for parental love and affection. liam's smart enough to know that frank will never care for him the way fiona did, but he seems at peace with his father's shortcomings. he wants a relationship with him anyway.

regardless of the reasoning, liam was so loved by his family and his parental figures—both fiona and frank.

in conclusion

i think, from fiona's perspective, she was always the kids' mom ("my siblings are my kids" s9), even though at times her relationship with them blurred the lines between maternal and sisterly. but from the kids' points of view, she was always a very complicated figure in their lives.

the gallagher siblings' complex relationships with their sister are really at the heart of the show; she is the matriarch, the thing holding everyone together, after all. not all the kids had easy connections to her. many of them grappled with their vision of her as a mother vs. a sister. but that doesn't erase what she did for them.

she still raised them. she still cared for them, mothered them. as messy as their relationships were a great deal of the time, she was the best parent those kids ever fucking had. she was their mother through and through, and that is what made shameless truly, unabashedly, shameless.

[y0itsbri]

5 times Ian and Mickey eat ice-cream/popsicles together - shameless summer series 🍨🍦🥄

inspo from @ianandmickeygallavich's summer prompt list

moments from s2 - post-finale

words: 1.4k

the first time ian and mickey ate ice cream together was at the kash & grab. they had just finished helping lip stock up his ice cream truck with goods from the store. mickey focused on tuning out linda's obsessive ranting.

"you ever get anything from the ice cream truck when you were little?" ian asked out of nowhere, after a lull of silence had passed over them.

"the truck never ran in our neighborhood, numbnuts."

ian paused, considering, "oh, i guess maybe fiona took us to the parks sometimes. maybe that's where it was."

"probably." a pause.

"what would you get?"

"a joint."

"no, no, like from a legit truck!" ian rolled his eyes "i always got the bomb pops. carl always got the spongebob. he liked ripping the face apart."

"'course you would get the bomb pop, army."

"doesn't answer my question, mickey."

mickey flipped him off. "how about those little chocolate cones? those bitches always looked good."

ian smirked his dumbass smirk that mickey couldn't look at for too long without his cheeks heating up.

"what?" he asked, adverting his gaze.

ian headed towards the freezer. yeah, mickey could go for another round. he followed him until he saw that ian had stopped in front of the open door for a moment before turning around with two chocolate covered ice cream cones in hand. he handed one to mickey, cold fingers meeting hot for a brief second.

"i'll have to take it out of your pay check, of course," ian teased.

mickey simply glared his way, but softened when he realized the tone. "yeah? well i'd ring ya neck for even considering it, but it's hot as balls so i'm saving my breath."

"sureeee you are." ian smiled again.

it was quiet in the store except for their obnoxious slurping as the ice cream melted faster than they could lick it.

---

ian's been having a difficult time adjusting to his new med change. he was tired all the time, his usual go-getter motivation put on hold.

fiona usually only bought popsicles at the beginning of the summer. it wasn't the beginning of summer. it was almost fall. so no one knew how bomb pops were stocked in the freezer.

mickey knew.

carl wretched open the freezer, shaking the popsicle box upside down, the remaining three falling out. he took one for himself, passed one to a zombie-like version of ian sitting at the kitchen counter, and tossed another to mickey, who was reading a magazine at the kitchen table.

mickey furrowed his eyebrows. "i didn't ask."

"yeah, but you wanted one." carl shrugged and leaned against the fridge for a moment.

"thanks, kid." mickey mumbled after maybe somewhat of an awkward length of time. carl took that as a dismissal as he bounded up the stairs.

ian had been quiet, not even muttering a thanks. he managed to unwrap it, but not much else.

"'s your favorite, man," mickey nodded towards the bomb pop sitting idle in his hands.

ian half nodded and gave a sorry excuse for a fake smile. his popsicle dripped.

mickey frowned. patient, he got up from the table and sat next to ian, wiping the melted popsicle with his jacket sleeve.

they sat there quietly, eating their popsicles together, tongues cold and red.

mickey was trying.

---

ian and mickey had been in the car for hours now, heading further south with every passing minute. conversations fell anywhere from their past, their present, and their future. ian tried to keep his focus on their present.

"didn't you say there was some ice cream around here we gotta try?" ian wondered, memory flickering with something mickey had said a few hours ago.

"paletas de crema," mickey enunciated in a put-on spanish accent. he smirked. "yeah, man, we'll make a pit stop for it pretty soon. damon said it was to die for."

"wonder if damon's got himself arrested yet?" ian mused.

"nah, fuck him."

they stopped at some ma & pa shop down in texas near the border. somehow, mickey had a family discount.

mickey ordered pineapple, claiming to be a slut for piña coladas. he ordered a strawberry for ian, claiming to know what ian would like. he wasn't wrong. they switched ice creams for a couple licks and ian definitely preferred his strawberry.

mickey got a little on his chin and ian wiped it off without thinking, they both paused and stiffened for a moment, before acting like that didn't just happen. the uncharted territory scaring them both a bit.

---

"what's your favorite ice cream flavor?" franny asked, kicking her feet absentmindedly in the backseat of the new gallagher-milkovich van.

"really, kid? ya had a whole day of school you could be tellin' me about, but you wanna know about ice cream?" mickey argued with the six year old.

"mhmm," she nodded before staring out the window again.

"chocolate ice cream's my fav. what's yours?"

"strawberry!"

"'course it would be, strawberry shortcake. should we go get some, just the two of us?" mickey asked, pulling out of the school lot.

franny chanted for ice cream until the physical cups (not cones) were handed to them through the drive through. she frowned when she saw a third cup. there were only two people in the car, right? and this ice cream was green.

"what's that?" she asked incredulously.

"ice cream?"

"but it's green, uncle mickey!"

"'s pistachio. it's your uncle ian's favorite."

"we gotta wait for him before we eat ours then!"

mickey snuck a spoonful of his chocolate ice cream when fran wasn't looking.

mickey may have also broken several traffic laws to get them home before their ice cream could melt.

as soon as they were parked in the street, franny bolted towards the house, pink and green ice cream in hand.

"uncle ian, uncle ian! look!"

mickey slammed the car door behind him and picked up franny's backpack from the back seat. he glanced up to see franny nearly tackling his giant of a husband. he looked so enthusiastic about everything franny was telling him before he directed her inside.

mickey made his way over to ian's side, tossing franny's backpack at his feet with a thud before giving him a quick smooch.

"mmm," ian hummed. he smacked his lips together. a pause. "chocolate?" he asked, picking up the backpack.

"what about it?" mickey's eyebrows raised, somewhere between a threat and a tease.

"fran told me you were waiting for me."

"told ya i'm not good with rules," mickey smirked at him before following franny inside.

they all ate at the dining table while franny told both of them about her drama-filled day at first grade.

---

it was a hot ass summer and the AC in their apartment was on the fritz. they thought that moving to the west side would guarantee working utilities at all times, but apparently they were wrong because it was sweltering inside their bedroom.

ian couldn't help but lay on the bed and groan. he was shirtless, hair still a bit wet from his most recent shower, and he was utterly uncomfortable.

mickey had left to go to the corner store in a fucking jacket like a crazy person. so ian closed his eyes and waited it out.

he opened his eyes again to the sound of a wrapper being ripped open. mickey sauntered over to the bed, tossing his jacket in the corner. ian was distracted by just how good mickey's arms looked today that it took him a moment to realize what was in his hands.

a cold, cold popsicle in all its glory.

ian reached for it, but mickey moved it out of reach, instead dramatically teasing ian when he licked it.

ian didn't know if the heat or his taunting husband would be the death of him.

it looked like mickey finally had his share of fun fucking with ian. he brought the popsicle close to ian's mouth, hovering above his awaiting tongue. at the last second mickey dipped the popsicle below his mouth, messily dragging it down his chin, neck, chest. ian shivered at the chill, and then again as the sticky trail was covered with mickey's tongue, still cold from the popsicle.

ian would have to shower again, but he couldn't care less.

[thevioletjones]

31, because I can’t see it fitting Ian/Mickey easily and know you’re a good enough writer to prove me wrong ☺️

Thanks! I tried. 🙂

Prompt 6: “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

Ian’s Box of Crap

Being currently unemployed, Mickey didn’t have much of a leg to stand on when attempting to deflect Ian’s demands that he get chores and household tasks done while his husband was out earning an honest paycheck. He wasn’t even allowed to shake people down anymore, let alone pull robberies, or get back into the drug trade. Ian had made it clear that divorce wasn't off the table if Mickey deliberately did something stupid that got him thrown back in prison for a long stretch.

He didn’t much like being told what to do, but what he liked even less was not having Ian in his life. He’d had to go too many years without him in the past, and nothing good ever came during those times. Unfortunately, Ian Gallagher was it for Mickey Milkovich. That meant that he actually had to stay in line and put in the work if he didn’t want to lose him again. Ian wasn’t as soft as he used to be. Never really had been at his core, but the maturity of age had cemented his backbone rather rigidly, and Mickey was actually loathe to piss him off too badly these days.

So he did the bullshit grunt work requested of him, just to keep the peace. He was tired of fighting every day of his life, and what was the point of marrying Ian if they weren’t going to try and make each other happy?

In the past couple weeks, Mickey had done everything from laundry and dishes, to vacuuming and mopping. He’d patched up a couple of big holes in the wall that Frank had made, and fixed the loose parts of the wooden outdoor steps and banisters, both front and back. He’d even gone so far as to babysit the tiny, helpless Gallagher spawn a few times, which had been interesting and somewhat terrifying. Then Ian had given him this look when he caught the scene one afternoon, eyes shining, smile beaming. It reminded him of that brief time they’d helped take care of Yevgeny, which made Mickey’s head spin. He didn’t need Gallagher getting the whole ‘having kids’ thing back in his head right now. Mickey was in no way ready for all that. Hadn’t been the first time, and they’d all seen how that turned out.

Today, he was supposed to clean out the attic. He told Ian that asking someone outside the family to do it sounded like a bad idea. How was he supposed to know what shit the Gallaghers wanted to keep, and what they wanted to get rid of? What if he made a mistake? If anyone had asked him what to keep from the hoarded piles of shit in the Milkovich house, he would’ve laughed in their face, then set everything on fire. Mickey wasn’t the sentimental type. So did Ian want him to just toss everything?

Ian had rolled his eyes, clarified that Mickey was a Gallagher now, and given him a run-down. Anything that had obviously been made or cherished by a Gallagher kid, any family photos and albums, or small boxes of keepsakes, those stayed. Anything that wasn’t being used by anyone, but could be of use and handed down to the youngest or recently shacked up of them, set them aside to be put in rotation. Anything that worked, but they already had one of or didn’t need, donation box (because apparently they actually sometimes donated shit to the local shelter). And anything that looked completely unnecessary for anyone, throw it in a Best Choice trash bag, but don't take them to the curb yet. Ian would go over everything when he got home to make sure it was sorted correctly.

“So you’re gettin' me to do all this boring-ass grunt work, then you’re gonna have to go through it anyway? What the fuck, man?” he’d asked.

“It'll make the whole thing way easier on me, so can you just shut the fuck up and do me the favor? I’ll blow you later for your trouble.”

“Like you wouldn’t be doin’ that anyway.”

Ian had shrugged. “If you don’t, I won’t.”

“Threatening to withhold sex? That’s a bitch move if I ever heard one.”

“Whatever, deadbeat. You want me to support you, gotta help out when I ask. A blowjob would just be a bonus, because I’m generous of spirit.”

“I’m not gonna forget this hardcore manipulation, Firecrotch. I’ll get my revenge eventually.”

Ian merely kissed him on the nose. “Sounds like a plan. See ya.”

And he was out the door.

“Asshole,” Mickey’d muttered under his breath.

And now, a few hours later, here he was; sitting on the dusty, hard planks of the weird-smelling Gallagher attic, sorting through the memories and forgotten things of the family he’d married into less than six months ago. He’d dawdled as long as he could on the couch, eating junk food and watching his favorite daytime game shows, judge shows, and salacious ‘who’s the baby daddy?’ shows. The only hint of fun left in the remainder of his day was in the bong and the beer he’d brought with him up the rickety ladder. After every box sorted, he’d take a rip or two and chase the smoke with a long swig of cheap alcohol.

The most interesting things he’d found so far were some old pictures of Ian when he was little, his hair a curly mess, and his pale skin covered in dark freckles. His smile was too big for his face, and he looked goofy as all hell. Nothing like the hot hunk of man he was today. It was the Ian Mickey remembered from Little League a million years ago. And maybe he’d set one of the photos aside to keep for himself and taken some pics of others with his phone, so what?

Mostly he’d had to sift through little Debbie’s ridiculous girly shit, and Frank’s completely random assortment of insignificant trinkets with a side of what looked like bondage gear. He’d since moved on to a group of boxes obviously labeled by Carl when he was younger. He recognized the scrawl, occasional backwards lettering, and lack of possessive apostrophes. The words were short enough not to be atrociously misspelled, and consisted of a Gallagher first name in plural, followed by: ‘box of crap.’

Everybody had one, including Fiona, who hadn’t taken it with her when she’d left Chicago, and the kids she’d raised as her own, behind. The most scandalous item in there was a dildo of decent size that Mickey definitely would’ve packed in his suitcase if he’d been the one moving away as a single chick. The thought crossed his mind to pilfer it for his own collection, but he figured that Ian would be weirded out by the association. Sex toys were probably the only thing Gallaghers never shared between them.

Carl had a box of his own, semi-well-hidden compared to the others, and Mickey discovered why when he’d managed to get the copious amount of packing tape off. It was full of straight porn mags with big-tittied women and shaved pussies, underneath an array of dangerous weapons the family had forbidden him to have when he was underaged. He found everything from nunchucks, to throwing stars, to switchblades, to brass knuckles. No guns or attempted homemade bombs, thank fuck. He chucked the porn in the trash pile, cuz nobody needed to see that shit, and set the switchblade aside for himself, deciding to give the rest to Ian to sort out.

He saved Ian’s box for last, opening it up to find a grab bag of old army decorations, tattered paperbacks, comics, a bunch of loose paper covered in scribbles, and a stack of notebooks.

Mickey didn’t realize Ian was such a huge nerd that he’d kept his high school notebooks, but giving a quick flip through the first two revealed they weren’t school-related at all. He remembered Ian going through a phase when he was always writing shit down, ranting about having great ideas he needed to save for posterity. Before he went to the hospital. A manic phase. Probably one of many he’d cycled through, yet Mickey had missed some of those extremes.

Everything had been so chaotic then. He’d pushed Ian away, then gotten the same treatment in return. Their typical messiness pervaded everything back then. And now, he had in his hands Ian’s unfiltered thoughts about what happened back then.

“Fuck,” he said to himself, setting the notebooks down and going for the beer/weed combo again.

There were exactly two ways to go about this: he could put the notebooks back into the Ian box and not invade his privacy, or he could skim through them and hone in on the interesting relevant bits and maybe get a few long-pondered answers. On the one hand, Ian would probably get pissed if Mickey read them. On the other hand, Ian never had to know about it, did he?

It really wasn’t much of a choice… he’d always been curious as to what the hell was going through Ian’s head back in the day. They’d never exactly been great at talking things out, and he didn’t have it in him to try and make Ian relive some of the lowest moments of his life just to give Mickey some peace of mind. Plus, they were always facing some new bullshit obstacle head-on, so the past always just kind of got lost in the shuffle of their present difficulties.

Mickey took a deep breath and opened one of the notebooks again. The pages weren’t dated, and a lot of it didn’t make much sense. There were many lists with lines crossed out, but they didn’t describe things ‘to do,’ more like an endless inventory of concepts and feelings. The thought patterns were totally abstract, and Mickey couldn’t really make heads or tails of them. It hit him sharply in the chest when he realized that when Ian had been out of it, he’d really and truly been fucking out of it. These seemed like the crazed rantings of an unmedicated schizophrenic babbling on public transportation. It pained Mickey to the core, and it scared the shit out of him too.

He flipped through it fairly quickly, then opened the next one. It seemed to be calmer, more legible, and less unintelligible. It was more like a diary with bad poetry sprinkled in, and it only took a few pages for Mickey’s own name to jump out at him among the wall of words. It must have been written during Ian’s lost months, after going AWOL from the Army when he was 17.

He described running away from Chicago, scamming his early enlistment, crashing and burning his way out of bootcamp, shaking and selling his ass as a club boy, snorting, smoking, and swallowing all manner of substances, and crashing anywhere from penthouses to flophouses with sexual favors sprinkled in liberally. It was like the chronicle of a person going mad and coping in all the wrong ways. It surprised Mickey how emotional it made him to read these things in vivid detail. He’d completely forgotten how worried he used to be about Ian. When he was gone, when he went missing again, and when he started doing irrational things that could’ve ended so much worse than they did.

Ian was the one that had to live out all the drama and trauma of his disorder, but Mickey was the one caught on the sidelines, not having a single clue what to do or how to fix it. He’d never felt so useless or helpless in his entire life, even through all the bullshit he’d suffered growing up with Terry as a father. Maybe it was because of his age, or how Ian made him feel a certain way he’d never felt before. He just remembered hating it, and being so fucking sad.

These pages reminded him that through the mania, Ian was a bottomless well of sadness himself.

It was tough text to get through, and more than once, he felt like maybe he shouldn’t be reading it at all. Ian had never intended for other people to see his innermost thoughts, even Mickey. But it was impossible to stop now that he’d opened that floodgate. It was like reliving a part of their shared history through the eyes of his partner in crime. It was too fascinating.

After countless pages of dark tales from the void, Mickey came upon a page that was actually addressed to him. Surely, Ian had never intended to hand it over, but it was his nonetheless.

Mickey— I never had the balls to tell you this, But you’re the only boy I’ve ever loved. I thought you loved me too, But now I’m not so sure. I’m so confused and I go back and forth, Never really knowing what to actually think, Or what the truth is. All I really realize now is that I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you. It took you forever to let me, And now I just do it with anyone, Cuz I don’t fucking care. I just miss you, And I wish you were here. But also, I don’t, Cuz I don’t want you to see me like this. I’m having a great time on my own adventure, But also not. You shouldn’t be a part of it right now. You’re on your own strange journey, I guess. Maybe one day we’ll be on the same road together again, And also for the first time, since we never really were.

Mickey barely had enough time to sniff and wipe away the stray tear that had fallen, when his husband’s voice startled him out of his reverie.

“You’re still up here?”

“Jesus Christ!” he cried out with a visible jolt of his body.

His head snapped toward the attic hatch, where Ian’s dumb red head was surveying the musty space. Mickey let the notebook fall from his grasp, but Ian was already climbing the rest of the way in before it occurred to him that he was about to be caught red-handed with journals that were supposed to be deeply private. He could only flip it closed and grab his beer to polish it off, before Ian was crouching in front of him and taking a seat.

“Can’t believe you actually did this for me, to be honest,” Ian said with a chuckle, glancing at the bong. “Anything left?”

“Baggie’s right there,” Mickey replied nodding his head to the left.

“Nice.”

Ian got distracted with loading a bowl, so Mickey very subtly tried to nudge Ian's notebooks aside with his foot, like maybe if they were slightly farther away, he could claim complete innocence as to knowing what they were.

He watched Ian take a couple hits before passing it to him, and Mickey welcomed the opportunity to temper his suddenly sullen mood.

“How was work?” he asked between hits, before passing back to Ian.

Ian snickered and furrowed his brow. “You never ask me about work.”

Mickey shrugged. “Don’t mean I don’t care.”

“Uh huh.” Ian looked even more skeptical, and finally glanced around at what Mickey had in his vicinity. That sent his brow up high, in a decent imitation of Mickey’s usual expressiveness. “Oh. That my box?”

Mickey gulped and nodded. “Yeah. Just sorting it out. Should’ve just left the whole thing for ya. Sorry.”

Ian’s gaze snapped to his face. “You read stuff.”

It was a statement rather than a question.

“Just a little,” Mickey admitted. “I shouldn’t have. Fuck, I’m an asshole.”

But Ian only shook his head. “Nah, it’s okay.”

“You don’t have to say that. I’d be pissed.”

“I’m not. I promise.”

“Really? You’re not mad?”

Ian shook his head again. “No. Actually, I’m kinda relieved.”

“How the fuck so?”

“It's all stuff I wanted you to know. I mean, part of me used to be really ashamed, maybe still is, but… another part of me always just wanted to be totally honest with you. In a way I haven’t ever been with anyone. Even Lip. But I didn’t have the words to say it, you know? And I know a lot of it is just scary rambling. I don’t even understand what some of it means, but the stuff that’s real… the lucid stuff… it’s depressing as fuck, but it’s the truth. We didn’t always tell each other the truth, but we showed each other. And this was something I couldn’t really show you. So maybe you were meant to find these. Do my dirty work for me.”

“Damn, Gallagher, that’s kinda heavy. These were… kinda heavy. Made me feel shit I’d forgotten about, you know?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t read ‘em in years, but I remember. It’s why I wanted to put ‘em away, I guess. Plus, I didn’t want someone else snooping around and finding out too much. I mean, you never know in this house. It’s possible every fucking Gallagher already read them, but I hope not.”

“Ian…” Mickey started, but didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say. Words of reassurance? It was all in the past, and Ian was doing so well now. He was diligent about his medication, and he hadn’t spun out of control since before prison. Anything Mickey said now would just be cold comfort, since that notebook version of Ian barely existed anymore. Ian was always afraid that it would recur, but Mickey wasn’t. They were truly in it together now, and he’d never let Ian cross the threshold into the uncontrollable. “I wish I coulda been what you needed me to be back then. However impossible it was. Some of it was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even my fault, really. It was some shitty shit that happened to me. I reacted the only way I thought I could. There’s no use in either of us wishing we’d done things differently now. At least we got the right outcome, right? We’re together.” He clasped their left hands so that their wedding rings touched. “Forever.”

Mickey couldn’t help but snort. “Okay, you didn’t have to get that gay about it. I already had to suffer through a buncha your faggy teen poetry. I deserve a break from the high drama of it all.”

Ian laughed, kissed his hand, dropped it, then smacked him on the cheek. “Fuck you.”

“Just say when,” Mickey responded with a smile.

“After we go through all this shit, Romeo. Explain the piles.”

“Well,” said Mickey, pointing to the nearby corner, “Carl has a shitload of contraband in there. Weapons, not drugs. Frank has some shit that might be S&M gear, not sure, then aside from your lunatic journal ramblings, everything else is boring as shit. Oh, and Fiona left a big blue dildo.”

[wehangout]

I can Still hear You Saying (You Would Never Break the Chain)

AO3

“Knew you’d come.”

You didn’t know. Had no clue. You used to know. Used to know that you could turn up after however long away and Ian would climb on you without a second thought. Used to know that you could say whatever the fuck you wanted and still be Ian’s first choice. Shit, you used to know everything there was to know about Ian Gallagher, up until that day in front of his house.

Sure, the luggage was fucked up, taking your baby had been a shock, and the porno was a kick in the fucking teeth, but …

That moment, staring into Ian’s wet eyes – you didn’t know him, not anymore.

And you don’t know him now.

You had sat on those stairs, hands shaking and mind praying the only way a Milkovich knew how – desperate and hating yourself more with every passing second. Because you didn’t know if he’d turn up. Not anymore.

You’re under my skin, man. The fuck can I do?

The fuck, indeed.

But now he’s here. Ian’s here and he’s kissing you – he’s kissing you like maybe he’s missed you, maybe this isn’t entirely one-sided, maybe the end wasn’t really the end. And it’s good, it’s everything, it’s better than you’ve ever imagined.

You’ve imagined. A lot. You tried everything to move on, but nothing worked. You couldn’t fuck him out of your system, you couldn’t scratch the tattoo away, and you couldn’t go a single fucking day without thinking about him. Wondering, hoping, wishing maybe today was the day he’d come back and visit … call, send a letter, a postcard, a fucking smoke signal, anything, Ian, please.

But there was nothing. There was never anything and it should have helped, going cold turkey should have eased you out of all things Ian Gallagher, but the exact opposite happened, and it fucked you up.

He has a boyfriend.

You didn’t know that either.

 His kisses used to tell you everything. You would know exactly what kind of fuck he wanted from you by his kiss alone – lots of tongue meant he was impatient, needy, didn’t want to wait anymore; tiny bites on your lips and jaw meant he was feeling playful, that he wanted to laugh with you as much as he wanted to fuck you; and heavy, open-mouthed kisses … fuck, that usually meant he was about to tease you until you couldn’t breathe.

You don’t know what his kisses mean anymore.

You thought you could, thought that being with him brought it all back, made you aware again of who he is, aware of Ian. You read that first kiss and everything in it, but then he pushed you away.

Then he told you he had a boyfriend.

There’s a chill in your gut, one that slithers its way up your chest, makes you ill. But you push it away, because he’s there. You didn’t know he would come, but he did and he’s pushing into you, lips gentle while the lack of lube borders on that side of painful.

But it’s worth it. It’s so fucking worth it to have him inside of you, have him moaning against your skin, whispering your name as he comes far quicker than you remember him ever doing so.

 You don’t know what’s going to happen now. It’s morning. He’s getting dressed and you’re barely fucking awake.

He spares you a glance. “Back to work and shit.” As if it was nothing, as if being with you again was just another fuck.

So, you ask, because you don’t know. And when he kisses you, when you hold onto him with everything you have, you still don’t know.

 “This goodbye?”

Yeah, he’s carrying a bag, and yeah, he fucked you good last night, but that doesn’t mean shit when it comes to Ian Gallagher. Maybe that’s why you have so many questions. There’s a huge fucking list of them that run through your head.

You taking your meds?

Who’s this fucking boyfriend?

EMT, man, really?

Did you bring the uniform?

You really takin’ your meds?

How’s Mandy?

Your family know where you are?

Seriously, though, you doin’ okay? Takin’ your meds?

You can’t ask them, though. Not those ones. You keep things casual.

“You ever been to the beach?”

“Want anything?”

“You got a better idea how to get cash?”

“You ever had one of those croissant-donut things?”

“Wanna fuck again?”

“Where should we stop for the night?”

“What the fuck?”

“You got a bank account?”

But then you can’t hold back. It’s dark and your alone with Ian. Like, really alone. Not sitting in a car, listening to music and talking shit or planning how to get across the border. You’re beneath the train tracks looking at the fucking stars, and everything hurts so good and so bad that you can’t help yourself.

Because he’s lying next to you. He said it was hard to see you behind that glass. You desperately want to attach your mouth to the corner of his jaw, and you know he’d be okay with that. He hasn’t mentioned his boyfriend once. He looks at you the way he used to …

“You ever think about me? When I was in the joint?”

The silence aches.

“A lot.”

Maybe you still know him after all.

“Fuck, I missed you.”

Or maybe you don’t.

 He leaves you at the border. Leaves you with an I love you and a couple of grand, as if that’s supposed to make everything okay.

You don’t know him. Maybe you never did.

 He treats you different in prison. It’s weird. He’s still the cocky shit he’s always been, but then he looks at you like you hung the fucking moon or some shit, and it makes your insides gooey and your mouth stupid.

He blows you every night that first week. Every night, without fail, the second those lights go out he’s on you, mouthing at whatever skin he can reach, tasting and teasing you until his lips finally – god, Ian, finally – wrap around your dick.

Eventually the banging slows down. It’s less frantic, less impulsive, less every day. But it’s never less – never less good, never less intense, never less you and Ian.

It’s just less. And the less it is, the more he talks.

“I should have gone with you.”

“God, you smell good.”

“I’ve fucking missed you.”

Sometimes you say shit back, sometimes you touch his face, not knowing what to say. Sometimes you pretend you’re already asleep because you’re here, you’ve given up your freedom for him, but you’re sure as shit not ready to talk feelings again.

 There’s one guy who fucks with you as soon as he gets the chance. You’ve been in for nearly three months when he arrives, and your mouth goes dry at the sight of him because – shock-fucking-horror – he’s friends with Terry.

He corners you one day when you’re leaving the laundry and it’s stupid, so fucking stupid. You knew he was out to get you, but you still walk that deserted hallway alone, you still don’t tell Ian, and you still mouth off to him when he pulls out his shiv.

He’s cruel and quick, but he’s small. You put up a good fight, break his nose and kick him in the balls, all the while he cusses you out with derogatory comments you no longer give a fuck about. But when he gets you with the shiv – and what a fucking surprise, he gets you right in your left ass cheek – everything goes rage-white.

You bite, you pull his stringy hair, you squeeze his wrist until he drops the shiv on the ground next to you. Then you pick up the shiv. You don’t aim, you don’t think – you drag it across whatever skin you can find, infinitely proud when you shove him away and see his face carved up.

“Don’t gotta worry about him no more,” Ian says later that night.

You’re out of the infirmary, but Terry’s buddy is still there. Seems you got a little too close to his eye.

“Why’s that?” you mutter, the good drugs the doc gave you kicking in.

“I took care of it.”

“The fuck you talkin’ about, Gallagher?”

Everything’s a bit dopey, a bit tilted, but you don’t miss his smile. “I took care of it,” he repeats. “No one’s gonna mess with you again, Mick.”

A shiver of fear you haven’t felt in a long time runs through you, but you pass out before you can reply. It’s not until two days later, when you’re in the infirmary getting your dressing changed, that you find out what Ian did.

Fucking tough guy, acting like he took the fucker out in his sleep, added Deep Heat to the anti-biotic ointment. It would cost him his cushy job, too, if anyone found out, but no one narcs in prison.

And no one wants that burning shit in their open wound, so they leave you the fuck alone.

 The Chatty Cathy attitude doesn’t go away.

Sometimes it’s little things that shouldn’t mean shit.

“You get a haircut? Fuck, man, you look good.”

“Hey, you want my last smoke?”

“You’re always been so fucking good at poker, Mick.”

Sometimes it’s filthy and leaves you panting.

“Remember the first time you rode me? I think about it all the fucking time.”

“Christ, no one sucks cock like you, Mick.”

“Want you to come on me, on my face, yeah, do it, I fucking want it.”

Sometimes it’s everything.

“I love you.”

 Prison food is shit, but you make it bearable. Ian makes it’s bearable. He takes your egg whites and swaps them for his yolks. You give him the milk for your coffee, and he sneaks you his extra sugars. He picks the broccoli out of your stew and replaces it with half his potatoes.

Prison showers are shit, but he never lets you go it alone, always has your back, and if you drop the soap, he picks it up because that shit ain’t a fucking joke.

Prison visits are the worst. He gets visitors – Fiona, Lip, Debbie and her kid – you get no one. But after a while, money starts showing up in your commissary, he gets back from visits with messages like Lip said to say hey, and his pictures from Franny say To Uncle Ian and Mickey.

 He gets a parole meeting. You want to crawl into a hole and die.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

But you don’t know. There’s still this itch inside of you that expects things to be like last time, that expects Ian to forget about you the second he leaves this place because you just don’t know.

But you’re beginning to.

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

Nickovich pt. 7

“Your fuckin’ what?”

Mickey looks slowly at Trevor and then back to Ian and gives a small humourless snort, tongue firmly in his cheek, scratching the back of his neck.

“My …uh ... boyfriend?”

Trevor lifts the word in a question, glancing between the two men.

“Do you … do you know each other?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows at Ian, who is completely frozen to the spot and doesn’t seem to have even heard Trevor’s question. When Ian doesn’t speak Mickey nods to himself and then grins brightly at Trevor, a smile that is a menacing as it is beautiful.

“Here, take your fuckin’ shirt and shove it up your fuckin’ ass.”

Mickey tugs the too small tee over his head, balls it up and shoves it into Trevor’s arms, hard. Trevor’s eyes flick to the poorly done tattoo on Mickey’s chest and flare wide.

“What the fuck?”

“Oh! This? Don’t worry man, won’t be there long. I can get that shit covered real quick.”

Mickey is still smiling but it’s getting more stretched and Nicky takes a deep breath before putting herself between the two men.

“Hey, put your shirt on. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Yeah? You fuckin’ quittin’ your job already?”

Mickey looks down at her, eyes wild and slightly unfocussed but not yet glassy and Nicky is willing him to hold it together until they get outside. It will be easier on his pride if he can hold it together until they are away from the redhead.

“Yeah, man. Fuck this freak show, huh?”

Nicky nudges the crushed shirt in his fist and Mickey quickly tugs it over his head. Ian is still rooted to the spot, his jaw clenched so hard that Mickey can see the muscles standing out starkly against the pale skin. Mickey shakes his head at him. He’s at a loss for words too. He doesn’t mind that Ian has been fucking other dudes … okay, he does mind, but it’s not exactly a shock. But a boyfriend? A fuckin’ committed relationship? Yeah, he minds that. He minds that very fucking much.

Trevor begins to reach out to touch Mickey’s shoulder, offer some sort of comfort or maybe an apology, but as his fingers linger close enough to feel the frantic heat pouring off of the older man, Mickey’s hand comes up and catches his wrist, twisting it slightly in a way that sends shudders of diluted pain up and down Trevor’s entire arm.

“Touch me again, and it will be the last time you use this fuckin’ hand. Do you hear me?”

Mickey’s voice is completely calm, as if he is simply asking a passing stranger for the time. Trevor nods and Mickey lets him go. A little voice at the back of his mind is telling him he cannot afford any trouble. He cannot make a scene, cannot make a fuss. Blend in, mingle, and escape.

“Abe? C’mon. Let’s just go.”

Nicky risks a hand on his forearm and Mickey nods curtly.

“Fuck you, Gallagher.”

He snaps, barging Ian with his shoulder, just for the satisfaction of knocking the fucker a little off balance to make up for the chaos he has just shoved Mickey into.

The shock of the contact seems to break the stupor because Ian lunges clumsily after Mickey, hand outstretched, a strangled noise coming from the back of his throat.

“Mickey …”

Mickey half turns but Nicky gets there first and pushes Ian’s hand away firmly.

“No. Not now. You got a phone, use it! Later.”

She adds giving him a stern look that reminds him of Fiona and stops him shoving her aside to get to Mickey, who seems to consider Nicky more than able to deal with the one again mute Gallagher and is resolutely headed down the steps and out the building.

*

“GOD DAMN … HIM? FUCKIN’ CURLY FUCKIN’ FUCK!”

Nicky flinches as another bottle smashes against the wall and sighs, taking a healthy bite out of her burrito. The insults have not been the most creative and this latest is one of the worst but that’s fine. Nicky has been guarding his phone, after wrestling it away from him before he could smash it, and it has rung three times. Apparently, this Ian guy likes short men and drama because anyone with an ounce of sense would know that ‘later’ meant hours, not minutes.

The abandoned building is clearly familiar to Abe/Mick. He went there without hesitation and there are old beer cans and bottles littered around as well as a decent amount of graffiti. Beside Nicky’s head there is a love heart with ‘I’ on one side and ‘M’ on the other and she’s not a gambling woman but if she was …

“He couldn’t wait even two years? Said he’d wait eight and couldn’t fuckin’ manage two!”

“A person’s gotta fuck, Abe. You know that.”

“Quit calling me that. You heard him and don’t pretend you didn’t. It’s Mickey.”

“Ha! Mickey and Nicky. What a hoot!”

Nicky toasts him with her can of beer and Mickey huffs out an impatient breath.

“This a fuckin’ joke to you?”

“No but are you sayin’ you never banged anyone in the joint?”

“Course I did but they didn’t mean anything!”

“Maybe a boyfriend doesn’t mean anything to Ian?”

Nicky shrugs and then seeing the murderous look on Mickey’s face adds

“Not that you didn’t mean anything but you seem to think the term ‘boyfriend’ is for life. For some people it is, but maybe not for him. Maybe for him it’s just what you call the person you’re banging after a while.”

“Like that fuckin’ paki queerbo Kash. That fucker was married with a couple damn kids and Ian still called him his boyfriend.”

Mickey wrinkles his nose at the thought of that old pervert and grabs another beer

“Ugh. Again with the race hate and the homophobia – I know you’re upset but do you have to?”

“What the fuck does it matter?”

“It matters because it makes you sound like an ignorant asshole.”

“Like I give a shit.”

Mickey mumbles but looks vaguely abashed and stops smashing shit, choosing instead to sit down next to Nicky who scowls at him but moves on

“Anyway weren’t you married with a kid?”

“Yeah but that was while me and Ian were together, not before, and I’m not twenty years older than him and I wasn’t his boss which made it even fuckin’ creepier that Kash started that shit.”

Mickey lists these apparent wins off on his fingers and Nicky nods, deciding it is a knot that is not really worth unpicking. They sit quietly for a couple of minutes both thinking.

“It took me fuckin’ years to call him my boyfriend.”

Mickey says softly, playing with the ring on his beer can, spinning it until it comes away in his hand.

“It’s a bigger deal for you maybe. I bet he was ready a lot quicker, huh?”

“Yeah, no, I mean, he did want to and all … I don’t fuckin’ know.”

Mickey does know. He knows how badly Ian wanted to call him his boyfriend for all that time before Mickey was able to do it. Asshole has always loved labeling shit. Always wanting everything to fit into a nice little box.

“Still shouldn’t fuckin’ have a boyfriend out here though.”

“Maybe or maybe not. Eight years is a long time to wait, even if you love someone.”

“Fuck love.”

Mickey snaps and drains his can, tossing it across the room with a hollow rattle.

“He’s calling again.”

Nicky glances at the burner phone by her side and Mickey looks across but then hastily looks away again, frowning.

“You want me to tell him to fuck off or come over?”

“Just … leave it. I don’t need to hear him tell me it’s over.”

“Might not be you he’s over with.”

Nicky shrugs and holds the phone out to Mickey. They watch it until it stops vibrating and then Nicky places it by her side again.

“He won’t come with me.”

Mickey’s voice is small but firm and Nicky pats his leg reassuringly

“He might. You have come this far. You might as well hear what he has to say.”

Mickey worries at his thumbnail with his teeth and glances over at Nicky as the phone vibrates again.

“Go ahead. I’ll give you some space.”

She hands it over and stands up, wondering if the place will still be in a similar state of disrepair or completely fucking destroyed by the time she gets back.

*

“Mick?”

“Yeah.”

“…”

“What the fuck do y…”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“No, seriously. What are you sorry for? Cheatin’ on me or …”

“I wasn’t … I don’t know. I’m just sorry, okay?”

“What did you tell him about me?”

“That it’s complicated.”

“Oh fu…”

“And that I love you.”

“…”

“Mickey?”

“What?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“Well are you gonna say it back?”

“No.”

“What the fuck, Mickey?”

“You wanna meet or what?”

“Where?”

“I’ll call you back.”

*

Nicky pokes her head around the doorway and smiles.

“Safe to enter?”

“Stupid fuckin’ question.”

Mickey answers gruffly but he’s looking happier and Nicky winks at him

“Hey, you’re a scary little fucker when you’re mad. All crazy eyes and heavy tongue – like you could do some serious fuckin’ damage if you wanted.”

“I don’t hit chicks.”

“I remember, a proper gent, but still. Made me edgy so I got donuts.”

“Jesus! Do you ever quit eating?”

Mickey frowns but licks his lip. It’s been a while since he had a donut.

“What kind?”

“You will not believe it …”

Nicky’s eyes are bright and she’s giving him that Gallagher-esque smile again.

“UNICORN SPRINKLES!”

“Ugh! What … why? Fuck sake!”

Mickey pulls a face but peers into the box and takes on with blue and purple icing on it.

“I think they got jelly in the middle but …”

“Not rainbows? Fuck it. I don’t want it then.”

Mickey jokes, his spirits instantly lifted by the insane amount of sugar in the first bite.

“Ha! Second time today I made you happy with my love of unicorns.”

“You don’t love them, you just love that it pisses me off.”

This is a more astute observation than Nicky had credited him with the ability to make and she beams widely.

“True. So what is the verdict with Red? Do we hate him or kind of think he’s okay or …?”

“Both. I dunno. Told curly fuck that he loves me.”

“Shit. Well too bad for Trevor I guess.”

“Don’t mean they broke up.”

“Means they should!”

Nicky snaps and Mickey raises his eyebrows in surprise but doesn’t comment. She doesn’t talk about herself much and Mickey doesn’t want to know. It’s not that he doesn’t care but his skill set has never lain in the realms of patient ear or agony aunt so it would probably just be a waste of her time trying to tell him anyway.

“So when are you gonna meet up, bang, fight, whatever you gotta do?”

“Well I was gonna meet him tonight but where would you go? Van’s not all that big and definitely not fuckin’ private …”

“Make him book a room somewhere.”

“Huh?”

Nicky rolls her eyes and then casts her hand out as if painting a scene for him

“A decent room somewhere. Fuck in an actual bed! Take a shower! … Keep the key card and let me in in the morning so I can take a shower. Order pizza!”

“The cops already questioned him …”

“He’s South Side too right? You Chicago types seem resourceful.”

*