Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mickey was slowly going insane from how fast Fiona was tapping her foot. Her tennis shoes had holes in the soles, so they squeaked every time she so much as twitched. The tap-tap-tap was maddening by itself, but the squeak-tap-squeak-squeak-tap thing at a rapid pace was close to driving him up the fucking wall.

He didn't say anything. He didn't know if he could make a sound right then. His eyes were fixed on the clock on the wall.

1:48. The second hand was almost to the 60 second mark.

He had 11 minutes to consider what he was going to say when he saw Ian. ‘Hey Ian, I know you kidnapped my son and took off on some hairbrained road trip with no fuckin’ supplies, and then left him alone in a locked car while you went to turn some tricks. I don't really care, I hate that baby more than I even thought was possible. Do you feel up to learning there's another bun in this oven that's almost definitely yours considering I don't think I’ve made you use a condom once since you moved into my house and I’m pretty sure you got the wrong hole more than once?’

That would go over great.

He could already picture the spiral he was sure he was walking into. Part of him didn't even expect to find the redhead up and around. He would probably still be in bed, maybe with the blanket over his head, maybe staring at the wall like it wasn’t even there. If he wasn't… Mickey wasn't sure what he would do. Manic Ian was so different from normal Ian. If Mickey shared his ‘big news', he probably wouldn't even remember. At least depressed Ian would be a decent listener, even if he wouldn't remember much either.

Fiona was still tapping and squeaking, and it had officially driven Mickey nuts. “Can you fuckin’ stop that?”

Fiona stopped, looking at him like a kicked puppy. She always kinda looked like an injured baby animal, her and Ian both. Something about their eyes.

“What? What's with the look?” Mickey snapped. Self-consciously, he curled slightly around his middle. He knew it was too soon for him to show literally anything, and he wasn't exactly wearing the most form fitting clothes, but he still felt a spike of paranoia. Some latent fear left over, telling him to hide for as long as he possibly can.

Fiona kept staring at him, like she’d only just noticed he was here too. “Uh… Is Yev okay?”

Like Mickey would fuckin’ know. “He's fine. He's with Svetlana.”

“You seem real… Chill about everything, all things considered.” Apparently they were going to have a conversation.

Fuck him. Fuck her. “I’m just worried about Ian.”

“And you're just fine being away from the baby you just got back.”

Mickey curled tighter. “I don't fuckin’ care about Yev,” he snarled. “I care about Ian.”

Fiona stared at him like he was an especially interesting zoo animal, and opened her mouth to say something. She never got to start, though.

“Miss Gallagher?”

Fiona’s head shot up. “Yeah?”

Mickey stared at the clock again. The second hand passed 12. 1:54 pm. Six minutes.

Mickey felt his stomach twist with anxiety. He had six minutes to think of what to say.

He should have googled this before he left home. He should have asked to borrow Fiona’s phone. This was good news, he needed to figure out how to make it sound like good news. People were normally really happy when they got pregnant, right? V had been fuckin’ ecstatic. He should have asked V for help.

Maybe he just wouldn't say anything. That was easier. He could just hide everything until Ian was doing better and frame it as a surprise. Or maybe he could pretend to find out after Ian got out of the hospital.

“Mickey?”

Fiona’s voice broke his train of thought, dragging his eyes from the clock -1:57- to the little reception desk-window-thing. The nurse was watching him, something knowing in her expression.

He tried to hide the prickles of anxiety that look was giving him. Maybe she just wondered why he wanted to see Ian.

(Maybe she smelled mental illness or whatever on him, too)

Fiona was giving him the eyes again though, like she was worried, so he got up and went to stand at the stupid desk. He’d started living in sweatshirts and too-big shirts again, a change no one had commented on, until the nurse looked him up and down and raised an eyebrow.

“Relationship to the patient?” She asked, instead of any other questions he probably raised.

“Boyfriend,” Mickey said, trying to force his voice into a lower register. He noticed Fiona glance at him out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't look at her.

The nurse stared him down for a moment before she looked at her computer screen. “Well, visiting hours are from two to three pm. You’ll be keeping your visitor badges on your person and prominent at all times, they give you access to most of the premises. Try to keep your conversation light and positive, no heavy topics if you can help it.”

‘No heavy topics’.

Shit.

Mickey tried to keep his expression neutral, but part of him relaxed. Now he couldn't tell Ian here and now. He had time. He had the perfect excuse too, for why he didn't say anything.

The other part of him wanted to flip the fuck out and panic about having to keep this a secret for God knew how much longer.

He forced all of that down as the nurse let them come behind the gates -gates that looked way too close to prison bars to be comfortable- and he could focus on seeing Ian again.

It wouldn't make anything better, but it couldn't make anything fuckin’ worse.

He trailed behind Fiona, trying to keep his head cool. It was quiet, not many people around. It was better than hearing muffled screams like some kind of horror movie, but it wasn't much better. He felt eyes on him even now.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, convinced he’d catch someone watching him from a corner or something. All he saw were security cameras. Because a place like this would be covered in security cameras.

The normal anxiety he felt about security cameras was there- he wasn't doing anything wrong, he didn't even have pepper spray on him, but it was there. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knew the actual reason they were there, though.

It was a nuthouse, it was full of nutcases who wanted to kill themselves or someone else.

Up until the past week or two, he wouldn't have thought Ian would ever fit that description.

He never thought that Ian would fill the house with suitcases, either. He never thought he would steal Yevgeney and tear off on a two day road trip with fucking nothing. He never thought he’d break like he apparently had, according to the cops, screaming about angels.

He still… Wanted Ian to stay. He just wanted his Ian back. The Ian who didn't steal fucking helicopters, then stay in bed for weeks.

They were essentially dropped off in the rec room, which reminded Mickey of those little bowls people put goldfish in. There were guards, and other patients, and he felt watched in a way he hadn't since his wedding.

The nurse disappeared down a different corridor, probably to get Ian, but he hadn't been listening. Fiona walked over to a small seating area, with actual couches. He didn't know why, but he hadn't been expecting real couches. Cushions, smothering, bad combo. Maybe the cushions were sewn on.

He sat down on the couch while she took the armchair. The seats were only a little bit more comfortable than public transit, but it was something. He was starting to feel a little sick -from the nerves or the morning sickness, he didn't know. He couldn't stand anymore right then.

Fiona was tapping her foot again. Her shoe squeaked. He half wanted to punch her to make her stop.

A guy sat next to him, staring at him. The fishbowl feeling returned. He felt like that fish with the crappy fin in that movie. Finding something or some shit. He didn't care. He hadn't seen it in years. He’d only seen it because Mandy had wanted to go.

Thinking about Mandy hurt. But there wasn't anything he could do. She wasn't picking up her calls. She was gone, plain and simple.

The guy was still staring at him. Mickey glanced over out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't blinking. How long had it been?

He fucking wished he could play dead right now. He wanted to get the fuck out of here. He couldn't shake that watched feeling, like they might not let him leave.

Still with the fucking staring.

“Okay, you need to back the fuck up,” Mickey snapped. He was not doing this.

Fiona kicked him. “Hey!”

The guy got up anyways, and Mickey didn't feel bad at all, but he mumbled a sorry anyways.

“If you're gonna cause problems, then you can leave,” Fiona hissed. He opened his mouth to say something, but they were interrupted.

The door -big, heavy, meant to keep people in- opened, and behind the nurse was the person Mickey had been wanting to see for 18 fucking hours.

He was back on his feet the moment he saw Ian. He looked fucking awful.

He’d always been pale. Irish ginger and all that (Sometimes during the winter, Mickey swore he could see Ian’s bones under his skin). But he looked fucking gray under the florecent lights. His freckles, already light, were completely washed out. To top it off, he looked exhausted. The skin around his eyes was so dark he looked like he’d been punched.

Had he looked that bad before? Had they done something to him? Mickey dragged his memory for how Ian looked when they brought him in, but he couldn't remember. Why couldn't he remember?

Fiona stepped forward first. “Hey, sweet face! How you doing?”

The force cheerfulness was painfully obvious. Ian, however, didn't even seem to notice. He barely reacted when Fiona hugged him.

Mickey felt something in his stomach curdle. This wasn't right.

Fiona kept talking, but Mickey stopped paying attention. Ian hadn't even noticed him yet. He didn't know if that was good or bad. He was holding himself wrong, too. Ian was a gangly motherfucker, but he never hunched his shoulders or any of the other shit tall people did. He practically flaunted his height. He was making himself small, or something.

“Hey, look who I brought,”

Mickey’s attention snapped back to the conversation as Ian looked at him for the first time. He didn't smile. He didn't do anything.

Mickey didn't need to force his smile. He pulled Ian into a hug. It wasn't like the one last night. Mickey was pouring every ounce of himself into that hug, every promise and every feeling he was too chicken shit to say out loud. Ian had done the same.

This was different. It felt like hugging a sack of bones. (When had he gotten so skinny? How hadn't he noticed?)

“Are we going home?”

Mickey almost missed Ian's question, he said it so softly. It didn't sound like him. It sounded like a little kid.

“In a few days,” Fiona said. That forced cheer was wearing off fast. “Come on, let's sit down.”

Mickey let go, and Ian walked by him like he wasn't even fucking there.

Mickey stood for a moment, alone in the middle of a room. Then the moment ended, and he followed, even if he doubted Ian would notice if he disappeared there and then. He sat down in his old spot on the couch, Ian sat on the fucking table, and for a second Mickey wondered if his Ian was still in there.

He watched Ian’s dead eyed stare as Fiona talked. The lights were on, sure. But no one was home. Or, if they were, they weren't the people doing the important shit. He didn't respond, he just asked where Yev was, and didn't even listen to the answer Mickey forced out.

And then he was gone.

Mickey couldn't blame him. He was gone a second later.

‘It couldn't get worse,’ he’d thought.

He’d been a fucking nieve idiot.

Mickey wasn't really sure where he was, exactly. He was out of the loony bin, he remembered leaving. The urge to just get away had been overpowering.

The sudden urge to throw up had been even more so, and that was how he ended up in a bathroom leaning over a toilet, his nose burning and his stomach trying to claw its way up his throat.

He didn't know what he’d- no. He knew what he’d been expecting.

He wanted Ian from those summers at the Kash & Grab. He wanted the Ian who’d come up to him at that bullshit wedding and tried to get him to run away. The Ian who had looked at him, numb and scared and pregnant, and had wanted him anyways. Hell, he’d have taken the Ian who had looked at him with so much pride in his eyes the night before people started tossing around the word ‘bipolar’.

That person in there, that wasn't Ian. He didn't know when he changed, he didn't know when the line was crossed, but they were way over it now.

He thought the meds were supposed to bring that Ian back. Not make him… Whatever that was on the other side of those bars. He needed his Ian back. If he was doing this, he needed the Ian that had loved him and saw him for who he was when he was at his absolute worst point.

His stomach made a second (Third? Fifth?) attempt at freedom, and what little he had left in there came back up.

He didn't exactly hear someone enter the bathroom, not so much as he felt eyes on him. “The-” his throat burned as he tried to talk. “The fuck-” He was cut off by a dribble of acid dragging itself through his wounded throat.

The hand on his back was a surprise. He would have flinched if he hadn't started gagging. There was no possible way he had anything left in him, but he stayed bent over the toilet anyways. He wasn't sure he could move.

“You okay?” Fiona asked. He wasn't surprised it was her. “You didn't even lock the door.”

Mickey tried to glare at her, but he doubted it was any good. He was still doubled over with his face over the bowl, so she might not have even seen.

“Don't give me that shit, Milkovich.” She kept rubbing his back. “You wanna tell me what's going on?”

There was a long pause before Mickey tried to say anything. The nausea began to fade, so he fumbled for the lever. “Nothin’ to tell.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. You're throwing up in a hospital toilet for no fuckin’ reason.” Fiona scoffed. “Do you want me to take a wild guess? ‘cause I have a pretty good guess.”

“You say anything and I’ll knock your fucking teeth out,” Mickey spat. He sat up a bit straighter, slightly more confident that he wasn't about to throw up again. “It's none of your goddamn business.” He leaned against the wall of the bathroom, resisting the urge to pull his knees up to his chest. He could see the face Fiona made.

“Not my fuckin’ business?” She asked. “What, is it not Ian’s?”

That got his attention more than anything else she’d said. “The fuck- No! Of course it's fuckin’ Ian’s.” Like he would let another dick within 10 feet of him without a condom. Who did she think he was, Svetlana?

He realized he gave Fiona exactly what she’d wanted a little too late. She didn't look smug about it, though, just… Sad. Not ‘I’m gonna cry like a little bitch’ sad. It was something closer to pity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Mickey said, trying to defend himself.

“Does he know?” Fiona asked softly. When he shook his head, she sighed and sat down next to him. “Good. That’s good. If we do this right, he’ll never know.”

Mickey knew exactly what she meant. It wasn't like he wasn't thinking about getting an abortion. Even before Ian started acting really crazy, he’d known adding a new baby to the uneasy peace would end horribly. Between trying to keep Ian from going off the deep end and the… Everything, with Yev, he knew he wouldn't be able to handle being pregnant again, much less having a newborn. He didn't even want to think about what Svetlana would say, she already hated him for how hard he rejected Yev.

He’d made an appointment already, for two days back. He’d missed it, because of everything that was happening.

Now, with Ian like that, he knew a baby would be terrible for both of them. Mickey couldn't handle his body not being his own again, and that wasn't even touching how much he was dreading losing what little progress he’d made with his transition. If Ian knew, it would probably make him even crazier.

There was a small, traitorous part of him that wanted to keep the baby. The stupid fucking optimism that Ian had sparked in him wasn't smothered yet, and it was trying to plant ideas in his head.

“I’ll get an appointment,” Mickey said quietly.

Fiona patted his knee. “Okay. Let me know when, if you want someone to be with you.”

He didn't. More than anything, he wanted to go home, get absolutely fuckin’ plastered, and try to stop thinking about Ian fucking Gallagher, or the thing wearing his body.

“Daddy! Daddy Daddy Daddy!”

Mickey cracked open one eye. The light from the window beside his bed was still dim, but that didn't matter to the little boy trying to climb up the side. Two freckled little hands, barely poking out from cookie monster pajamas, were clutching the edge of the mattress. “Kid, it's not even-” he glanced at his alarm clock on the windowsill. “Jesus Christ, Alex, it's five in the fuckin’ morning.”

Alex decided to switch tactics to using his legs to climb instead of just his arms. His little face popped up over the side of the bed, in all his freckled, ginger glory, clinging to the sheet for dear life.

Mickey decided to step in then, and sat up, shoving the blankets to the side. “Okay kid, I’ll help you up. But, no jumpin’, okay?”

“Okay!” The little boy chirped. He dropped off the side -which was heart attack inducing the first few times he’d done it- so Mickey could stand up and grab him.

Alex had always been a wiggly, energetic little fuck. He’d figured out rolling early, and Mickey hadn't known a day’s peace since. Even now he wiggled in his arms, and the kid was just over four years old.

Once he was securely in Mickey's arms, the floodgates opened up again. “I want breakfast! Can we have pancakes? I want blueberry pancakes!”

I love my kid, I love my kid. “How about plain pancakes, okay? We don't have blueberries.”

“Can we get blueberries?” Alex grabbed the collar of Mickey's shirt in one hand, and made an attempt to climb his dad with the new handhold.

“No. Once the sun is up, I'll make pancakes. Okay?” He very carefully detached his son from his shirt, though his energy was draining fast. He’d only just gotten home a few hours before. “And no climbing me.”

Alex pouted. “But I want blueberry pancakes now!”

Mickey felt what little patience he had snap. “We’re not having fuckin’ blueberry pancakes! We don't have fuckin’ blueberries, and I’m not gettin’ them!”

Alex stopped wiggling, looking up at his dad with wide, scared blue eyes.

The guilt hit him like a right hook to the face. “Hey, look, it's more than I ever got. It doesn't really matter anyways, it's just food. You can't be picky about that shit, you know that.”

He had a brief spark of hope when Alex started wiggling again, but it died quickly when it became clear he wanted out of his arms.

Reluctantly, he put his son down on the bed. “Hey, bud-” he was cut off by Alex disappearing under the covers.

The guilt settled over him like a soaked wool blanket.

“Okay, I get it. I’ll get started on breakfast, okay?”

Their home of the month was not very big. As far as trailer homes went it wasn't too bad, it didn't have roaches like the last one, but it was no real home either. It was painfully small, even for just two people. They had gas, though, and water. Sometimes there was even electricity. They had everything they needed, at least to make shitty pancakes.

He grabbed one of the shitty bowls he'd stolen from Target and a box of cheap just-add-water pancake mix that he’d gotten on sale. He’d gotten pretty good at eyeballing measurements over the past few years, so he got an okay pancake batter ready without having to get out his measuring cup, and the stove turned on with only some spluttering.

Pouring and flipping pancakes was a meditative task. He could let his mind wander for a few minutes as he watched the air bubbles pop.

His first thought was that he would need to get to work soon. He’d managed to get a job at a highway diner/gas station/garage combo, the kind of place mostly filled with truckers and the occasional roadtripper. Being a waiter was hardly the worst job he’d picked up over the years, even with the perverts who thought smacking his ass was funny. He made tips and minimum wage, plus the owner didn’t care too much if he sat Alex down in a booth all day so he could keep an eye on him.

He’d worked dinner last night, and he was working lunch today. He’d hopefully have enough for rent this week, and enough to stash away just in case. He almost had enough to take off again.

He didn’t know where they’d go next. He’d spent the better part of five years making his way around the country, doing everything in his power to avoid Chicago. He was about as close to home as he’d been since he first took off, here in Bumfuck, Indianna.

He flipped the pancake, and the bottom was burned. Fuck.

He wouldn’t go back to Chicago. But maybe he could try Detroit, it’d been a while since he was last there. It’d been long enough that he doubted anyone would remember him, and he’d changed a lot since he was last there.

He flipped the pancake again, and it wasn’t as badly burned. He tossed it onto a plate of questionable cleanliness and started the next pancake.

About three pancakes later, he heard shuffling from his bed. He didn’t turn to look, but in the dawn light, he saw a little ginger boy creep into the kitchen.

“I’ve got some pancakes ready,” Mickey said carefully. “If you still want them.”

“Can I have chocolate chips?” Alex’s voice was small, and Mickey felt his heart crack a little.

He left the stove for a moment and looked for the chocolate chips. They’d been a birthday treat for Alex, and sure enough they still had some left. “Sure, bud. I’ll put them in the next couple.”

Alex was standing by the oven when he looked back. “Can I help?”

“Sure, bud,” Mickey said, glad they were back on good terms. With practiced ease, he picked his son up and rested him on his hip. “No touching, got it? You’re watching the pancakes.”

Alex nodded, and they got through the rest of the batter together, with a healthy helping of chocolate chips. By the time they were done, the sun was rising.

Mickey sat Alex down on the couch. “Okay kid, how many pancakes do you want? Max is two.”

“What's max mean?” Alex was still too short for his legs to dangle off the couch, so he still sat with his feet out in front of him.

“Max is maximum, most you can get. It's fuckin’ Latin or something, I dunno.” Mickey went to grab one of the crappy 99 cent plastic plates and load it with two pancakes. “In prison there's max security, but you’d better not end up in there.”

“‘cause that's where Grandpa is?” Alex asked.

“No, Grandpa’s in normal prison. Maximum security is where they put the murderers. You ain't going to normal prison either.”

“Did you ever go?”

Mickey handed the plate over. “Where, maximum security?”

“No. Prison.” Alex stared at him. He had the Milkovich stare down. Even if the splattering of freckles made him a bit less intimidating.

“I’ve been in juvie,” Mickey said. “Kid prison, basically. But no, never been in normal jail.” He grabbed a few pancakes and tossed them onto his own shitty plastic plate to eat. “Next time we hit the grocery store, we should look real hard for syrup on sale.”

Alex grabbed a fist full of pancake and stuffed it in his mouth. “I like syrup.”

“Who doesn't like fuckin’ syrup?” Mickey sat down next to Alex on the couch -they didn't really have a table, and it's not like Mickey ever ate at his when he’d had one. That was normal people shit.

… Maybe their next place needed a table. Or he would scrounge around and find one. Maybe they needed some normal people shit.

He checked the time. 6:30. He had to be at work by 9:50. “Okay, kid, you promise not to burn the trailer down?”

“Promise,” Alex said. “I’ll be good.”

Mickey ruffled his hair. “I know you will. Finish your breakfast and grab your coloring book.”

Alex grabbed another handful of pancake, and Mickey dug through his closet looking for a clean work shirt and boxers. It took some looking, but he found something. He shoved the rest of his clothes into a laundry basket. He’d see if he could get a load done at the Laundromat before his shift started.

Mickey tried to shower as fast as possible. The water heater was broken, so he managed to set a new record for himself.

He ignored the dirty, shattered mirror over the sink and dried off as fast as possible. He kept ignoring it as he grabbed the duct tape and cotton pads from under the sink. Over years of experimentation, and the Internet, he’d figured out a way to bind without needing an overpriced tank top or making it impossible to breathe. It hurt like a bitch, but he could put up with it. He threw on the rest of his clothes and stepped out to grab his jeans from where he’d left them the previous night.

He sped through the rest of getting ready, he had it down to a science. Clean Alex up, get him dressed for the day, grab laundry and some toys, get everything in the car.

Alex went along with the routine. He hadn't always been very agreeable, but over the past few months he’d stopped complaining. He let Mickey put him in the car seat without a complaint.

Their car was a crappy old Volvo station wagon. It was probably about Mickey's age, maybe older, but it worked.

“Okay, kid, we’re gonna hit the laundromat, then the diner. Sound like a plan?”

Alex nodded from his booster seat. “Sounds like a plan,” he parroted.

Mickey turned on the radio, more for background noise than anything. “Then let's do this.”

Mickey opened the door of the diner with his shoulder, Alex on his hip and his other arm holding a small stack of coloring books. It was busy, or at least as busy as this place ever got.

He sat Alex down in a booth next to the kitchen, and spread the coloring books out on the table. “Stay put, okay? I’ve gotta go clock in. Remember the rules?”

Alex nodded and pulled one of the books closer. “If someone tries to grab me, I scream.”

“You scream like you're getting fuckin’ murdered, okay? And don't talk to anyone you don't know.”

Alex nodded again. “Can I have crayons?”

“Once I get my apron, okay? I’ll see if I can get you some OJ and a sandwich too.”

It wasn't really ideal, but they couldn't afford daycare, and they never stayed in one place long enough for preschool.

Mickey only felt a little anxious heading into the back, but he trusted Alex. It was a diner, it wasn't like someone was gonna just pluck him up in a crowded restaurant and walk out with him.

“Mickey, you’re late!” The chef, Greg maybe, shouted after him from the griddle.

“No I’m not! Check your damn eyes, it's 9:56, asshole,” Mickey snapped back. He yanked open the locker and grabbed his apron from the top cubby. Sometimes he questioned his choice to get legal work. The moving truck scam had been so much better, and he didn't have to deal with drunk kitchen managers.

“Fine, fine,” Greg grumbled. “Just get out there.”

Mickey scoffed and grabbed an order pad. “I’m getting to that, I just don't want to be fuckin’ stiffed.” He stepped out of the kitchen, not bothering to fake a smile.

He doubted anyone ever imagined he’d be doing this with his life. Mickey Milkovich, holding down a customer service job. A shitty under the table job at a roadside diner, sure, but he delt with dumb questions and dumber people all day.

His shift was normal. He wouldn't say they got regulars, but some of the truckers drove the same routes often enough to stop by more than once a month. They knew of him, he knew of them, and they tipped him well if he tolerated their conversation. He managed to not cuss anyone out for most of his shift, either. He ignored his coworkers, they ignored him, they all yelled at the kitchen and the kitchen yelled at them.

Alex stayed where he was supposed to, drawing in his coloring books and occasionally flagging him down to show off some new masterpiece. Honestly, Mickey didn't know how he got so lucky. At home the kid was a ball of energy, he never sat still. At work? Quiet as a mouse, stayed put for hours.

He was almost done with his shift when his careful routine was shattered.

He put a plate of waffles in front of Alex. “Dinnertime, kid.” Another bonus of the diner was free food. Mickey normally saved his free meal for Alex.

The kid looked up from his scribbles. Mickey had stolen some blank paper from the printer in the back, so he had some more creative freedom with this scribble. It was hard to tell exactly what was going on, but it kind of looked like two stick figures.

“Who’s that supposed to be?” He asked, sitting down across from Alex. “Is that us?”

Alex nodded. “That's me.” he pointed at the shorter stick person with a read scribble in the vicinity of its head. “And that's you.” He pointed at the taller one, with a scribble of black over its head.

“That's pretty cool,” Mickey said. He’d read somewhere that being encouraging was good for kids. Terry never had anything good to say about anything Mickey ever did, so the parenting book might have had a point. “Don't get any syrup on it, okay?”

Briefly, he considered putting it on the fridge, but that brought back memories he was trying to forget. A fridge covered in drawings and overdue bills, a kitchen that was never clean but never a health hazard. Sitting at the table and not feeling like he was a wrong word away from being murdered.

He sighed. Maybe if they found somewhere more permanent, he would put stuff on the fridge. He just doubted he ever would.

He got back up, forcing himself to stop thinking about the past. “I’ll check on you in a few, okay?”

Alex nodded and smiled. That same smile. “Love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, kid.” Mickey ruffled his hair. It had been weird at first, when Alex moved out of that gummy baby smile and started looking more and more like his other father. He was learning to live with it.

He did a quick glance of the diner. Things were starting to quiet down in the lull between lunch and dinner rushes. Mickey was supposed to be out of here before the dinner rush hit, so hopefully he could finish up with his last few tables and get home soon.

His prospects for leaving before dinner were smashed when he noticed he had a new table. It was just a single girl, facing away from him. Girls never traveled alone. If there was one, there were probably three more in the bathroom. And they weren't great tippers, not for him.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath. Still, he needed this job, and that meant greeting the damn table. He walked over, eyes already on his order pad. “Welcome to Greg's, I’ll be your server today. You waitin’ on anyone else?”

Dead fucking silence.

Mickey glanced up, slightly confused. “He- Mandy?”

She didn't look the same. Her hair was shorter than he remembered, and she didn't have any colorful streaks. She did her makeup differently than she had as a teenager too, less racoon and more… Not that. She didn't really look older. She’d been almost 18 the last time they’d seen each other, so it made sense that she’d still look similar.

“What the fuck?” Mandy asked. She sounded the same too. “What are you doing here?!”

“Working,” Mickey said. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I live here!” She stared at him, and he stared at her. “Well, I don’t live here anymore. I’m leaving.”

Mickey tensed. “You’re leaving?”

“Out of everything I’ve said, that’s what grabs your attention?” Mandy leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “Jesus, Mickey, I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were dead!” Mickey snapped. “You fuckin’ dropped off the face of the fucking earth, I thought Kenyatta killed you or fucking- I don’t even know. I tried to call you.”

“I tried to call you!” She threw her hands up. “Jesus, Mickey.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, both feeling equal parts guilty and hurt.

“Look, are you heading back?” Mandy asked after a long pause.

Mickey scoffed. He sat down across from her, hoping it would hide his trembling hands. “Why the fuck would I go back?”

He watched his sister’s face go from angry, to confused, to sad. “You didn’t hear? Dad finally kicked it.”

He felt like someone slapped him. He was sure he looked like an idiot, staring blankly for God knew how long.

His dad was dead.

“What? How- when? When did he die? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Fuck- Fucking good, I guess. He’s not around to fuckin’- God, he’s fucking dead? He’s really dead? Like, you’ve seen the body? He’s dead?”

“I haven’t seen-”

“Then how do you know? What if he fuckin’ faked it?” Mickey felt himself start to shake. “Don’t tell me that it isn’t exactly the shit he would do- fake his fuckin’ death so we come home and he can kill us both.” He felt his breathing speed up. His thoughts jumped to Alex. Would Terry hurt him? If he killed Mickey, where would Alex wind up?

“Someone killed him-”

“So we fuckin’ owe someone?” He asked. “Fuck- who fucking killed him? Did he piss someone off or something? Did you pay someone-”

Mandy snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Mick! Chill the fuck out! You’re scaring the kid.”

He blinked. He looked down.

Alex blinked up at him. He’d grabbed onto Mickey’s leg, in his best attempt at a hug. His bright blue eyes were wide, but he didn’t look away.

Mickey’s heart crawled up his throat. “Fuck- Alex, it’s okay. I’m okay, bud. You don’t have to hold on.”

“Up?” Alex asked quietly.

“Sure, bud.” Mickey lifted him into the seat next to him. He glanced at Mandy, who was looking between Mickey and Alex with a look of dawning realization.

He felt his face getting red. He’d gotten so used to no one knowing him or Ian over the past few years that he never really thought about how clear it was that Alex was Ian’s kid as much as he was Mickey’s. The hair, with the freckles and the face, was a dead giveaway.

He cleared his throat, and crossed his arms. “Alex, meet your aunt Mandy. Mandy, this is my son, Alex. He’s four.”

Mandy stared at him for a long moment before she turned to Alex with a smile. “Hello. How long ago did you turn four?”

What she didn't saw was ‘exactly how long has your dad been hiding his and my best friend's lovechild from me’.

“Two weeks,” Alex said quietly. “I got chocolate chips. Daddy made pancakes with ‘em.” He pressed himself into Mickey's side as he spoke. “What’s an aunt?”

“It means I'm your dad’s sister,” Mandy explained. She sounded softer than he had ever heard her speak to him. “Do you know what a sister is?”

Alex nodded, though he practically shoved himself between Mickey and the back of the booth in the process.

“Alex!” Mickey hissed. “Don't be such a-” he was cut off by a nasty glare from Mandy.

“You tell him to stop being a pussy and I’ll break your fuckin’ nose,” she hissed. Then she was all smiles again. “Alex, it's really nice to meet you. I wish I could have met you sooner.” She glared at Mickey.

“Kid, go get your waffles,” Mickey said quietly. “I have to talk to Aunt Mandy. Pick some of your drawings to show her, okay?”

He watched as his son took off like a fucking bullet to escape the situation. He wished he could run off too.

Mandy punched his arm. “You didn't fucking tell me you had a fucking baby!” She hissed. “What the fuck, Mickey?! That's not even a toddler! That's a kid!”

“It wasn't exactly planned!” Mickey rubbed his arm. “You think I wanted to get pregnant? Ian went off the fucking rails after you left! You’ve seen him on the news.”

Mandy softened slightly. “You still didn't call me or anything. I would have helped. With whatever you needed.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mickey huffed. “... Are you actually going back?”

Mandy shrugged, and it was her turn to look away. She hunched her shoulders slightly. “He left me the house. I need a place to live.”

“Why would he leave you the house?” He didn't mean for it to come off as accusing. Between Mandy, Colin and Iggy, Colin and Iggy were on much better terms with Terry last Mickey heard.

She tensed. “I don't fucking know,” she said quietly. “Maybe he felt bad, or something. I don't know how old the will is.”

They sat in silence for a long moment. Mickey was sure his other tables were wondering what had happened to him. He couldn't make himself care.

Mandy broke the silence first. “Did you seriously leave Chicago for this shit hole?”

“I could ask you the same fuckin’ question.”

“I didn't have a choice. Did you?”

Mickey clenched his fists. “Car broke down here. I was looking for a new spot to settle, so we're sticking around for a little bit.”

His sister perked up. He knew what she was going to ask before she could say anything. “You want to come with me?”

“No,” Mickey said flatly.

“Come on, I don't want to go back by myself.”

“You were going to go back completely alone five minutes ago.”

“I wasn't happy about it! Besides, the fuck do you mean ‘for now’?”

“It means what it fuckin’ sounds like!”

“Do you seriously think drifting around is good for a kid?” Mandy glanced back at the booth by the kitchen doors, where a freckled little face was peeking over the back, watching them. She leaned closer to him. “Mick, you and I are prime fucking examples of why kids need stability.”

Mickey thought of the drawing he wanted to hang on the fridge.

He thought of what would happen if Ian ever found out about Alex. He thought of what Fiona told him years ago.

What came out of his mouth was “You sound like a fucking shrink.”

“I sound like a fucking responsible adult. He's gonna start preschool, Mickey. Is moving around all the time a great idea for a kid in preschool?”

It wasn't. He’d been dreading the whole school thing. He knew he’d have to try and stick around somewhere for longer than a month- he’d already fucked that up with the early childhood shit, but he’d been trying to plan for when school started. He only had a month after all. He was half hoping this town would work out, but his nerves were getting to him. The need to move on.

“Is it Ian? Because Ian’s been in fuckin’ jail,” Mandy said. “He’s not getting out for a while. They gave him two to five years and he’s probably gonna be in there for all five.”

Mickey stiffened. Ian in jail still didn't sit right with him. He’d more heard of than seen what went down, but he understood that he’d finally done something he couldn't weasel out of. That had been over a year ago. “What about when he gets out?”

“Avoid him? I don't know. That's years away.”

She had a point. Mickey didn't think he’d made plans years in advance once in his life. The idea of having time to prepare was alluring. “If we come with you,” he said slowly, “we’re invited to live in the house?”

Mandy sat back in the booth, grinning. “Rent free.”

Three years to make a plan and set up his exit. Plus, a stable place to live for Alex.

He hunched his shoulders. “No random Gallaghers, right?” He asked. He was not interested in them sniffing around something that didn't concern them.

“Besides your little Gallagher over there?” Mandy glanced meaningfully at the small child still staring at them. “... What's his last name?”

“Gallagher,” Mickey mumbled. “If anything happened to me, I wanted him to go to Ian's family. Better them than the system or…” He didn't say it. He didn't need to.

“No Gallaghers besides our Gallagher, got it.” Mandy smiled. “So you're in?”

He sat for a second, thinking. He’d been running away for five years. Now the things he was running away from, at least on paper, were gone. Hell, all their clothes were already in the car.

He looked over at Alex.

His choice felt easy after that. “I’m off now. You mind waiting while we pack up?”

Chapter Text

He didn't want to exist today.

Mickey stared down the can of beer on his dresser. It was room temperature by now and probably revolting. He never really cared about the taste though.

Instead he pointed his pistol at it, holding it cockeyed like they did in movies. He would never fire it like that- it was impossible to aim. He'd miss every target he tried to hit. He still did it, pretending for a second that everything was normal. Even if he didn't know what time in his life would be his ‘normal’. He was burying his head in the sand, it didn't matter what pretend reality he was living in under there.

The clock on his bedside table said it was almost 10. His stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten in almost 14 hours, and his body probably didn't appreciate that.

He didn't want to move. He wanted to chug that room temperature beer and pass out, ignore that today happened, and get on with his life. Instead he put the gun back under his pillow and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Without especially meaning to, he glanced down.

He didn't really know how pregnant he was. A couple months, at least. Maybe three, if he was counting right. He remembered being three months pregnant with Yev. He remembered being smaller. Still invisible to most, thankfully. But painfully obvious to him when it went against everything he was supposed to be.

Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of the bed and to the kitchen. Their cabinets were pretty bare, but he found a bag of cinnamon toast crunch hidden in Mandy’s old hiding spot. Normally he wouldn't even consider dipping into his sister's food stash, not if he wanted to live to the next day.

Mandy wasn't here, so her cereal went to him. She'd have to come fucking home if she wanted to fight him for it.

(He’d do anything to get her back. He needed someone- anyone to get through this. Anyone but-)

Mickey knew he couldn't keep his pregnancy under wraps for a long time. He lived with Svetlana. The woman was more perceptive than a fuckin’ tiger or whatever. If something was off, she noticed.

There was also the fact that Mickey had not been nearly as good about covering his tracks this time. He’d been a little busy given that he’d found out around the same time suitcases started appearing in his living room.

Still, he wasn't expecting one of the three pregnancy tests he’d taken to be waved in front of his face when he was trying to pour just-this-side-of-sour milk into his stolen breakfast.

Svetlana was a scary woman, even heavily pregnant and with Yevgeny on her hip. She glared at him like he’d done something entirely new to affront her. “You leave this baby for me to raise too?”

Mickey leaned back in his chair, pushing her hand away. “Get that fuckin’ thing away from my cereal. Ain't you supposed to be out of here anyways?”

Svetlana slammed it down on the table and grabbed a fork, which she promptly shoved in his face instead. “I will not raise second baby you are too chicken shit to look at,” she growled.

Mickey met her eyes unflinchingly. “You won't fucking have to. It's not gonna be a problem.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to back off first and seem weaker.

“I didn't want that fuckin’ thing,” Mickey said eventually, not breaking eye contact. “I don't want this one. But I can actually get rid of it.”

“You already got rid of one. Gave him to me, like I was nanny,” Svetlana snapped. “You are shit mother.”

Bile rose in his throat, and he wasn't sure if it was her words or the morning sickness. “I’m not it's fuckin' mother.”

“Ah, yes, forgot. My baby did not die and this is him. I am stupid.” The sarcasm dripping off her words could have drowned him. “If you are man, grow fucking balls. Be good mother.”

It took a lot of willpower to not punch her. He didn't want her to drop Yev. Instead he lost their staring contest and got up, leaving his breakfast uneaten. “I’m not anyone's fucking mother,” he said, the venom in his words almost lost with how badly he was shaking. “And I never will be.” He turned to leave.

“New baby is crazy carrot boy’s, yes?” Svetlana asked before he could actually leave.

Mickey gritted his teeth. Was it too much to ask for to just curl up in his bed and suffer in peace? “Why the fuck do you care?”

“Baby made from pain is hard to love,” Svetlana said simply. “Baby made from work, easier. But baby made from passion… Hard to let go.”

He slammed his door shut behind him, pretending he hadn't heard what she’d said.

He curled up on what he’d claimed as his side of the bed, facing away from what had been Ian’s side. He purposely kept his arms away from his stomach. What the fuck did Svetlana know about being forced to lug around a parasite? She’d said herself, a baby made from work was easy enough to love. Mickey's bastard husband had been a job to her, maybe even passion. He didn't know what was up with them. He half remembered her being lined up with Mandy as one of the bridesmaids. He's sure if he looked at the wedding pictures, he’d find her, baby bump nearly popping out of her dress. She’d moved in with them after.

If he’d been aware enough to care, he might have been insulted that his husband moved his mistress in. At the time he'd been dedicated to drinking himself to death. He didn't think he’d even noticed she was there until Mandy started hiding the alcohol. By that point she’d been pretty obviously pregnant.

He wondered if she loved the baby who died. The baby Yev replaced.

He shoved his face into his pillow. He didn't want to keep thinking about this.

In an act of self-destruction, he glanced at the empty side of the bed. He’d gotten so used to Ian being… There. Around. His presence in the life they’d cobbled together. There were still bits of him left, clothes tossed on the floor, his eyeliner beside a makeup compact on the windowsill. The 600 dollars in a pile on the bedside table.

Mickey didn't have a damn thing left in him to vomit, but his stomach lurched anyway.

Ian’s three days were up. He was probably already home, but not really. He doubted Ian ever came home.

Fuck. He needed to stop thinking all together.

Without hesitation, he lurched out of bed and grabbed the beer from the dresser. He chugged the whole, disgusting thing in less than a minute. Not even close to his personal best. It did its job anyways. There wasn't anyone to stop him now.

Who did he have left, anyways? His mom fucked off and probably died, leaving him and Mandy to fend for themselves. Terry was in jail, and had been for most of Mickey's life. Mandy vanished in the middle of the night with some asshole boyfriend. His husband was also in jail, and hopefully signing the fucking divorce papers Mickey had sent his Russian ass. Svetlana was essentially moved out. And Ian. (He drank another beer).

His Ian had disappeared somewhere between the… things leading up to his wedding and when Mickey tracked him down in Boystown. He’d come back in moments, when things were good. There were a few months when he thought he had that boy back. He should have known better. (Another beer to soften the blow).

Milkoviches never got to keep good things. They either lost or broke them. Somehow Mickey managed to do both. (Three more).

The only thing he had left was the bundle of cells clinging to his insides to live, rearranging his body to its liking. It affected his moods, his appetite, his fucking breathing. It would start to impact how he moved soon. This biological nightmare that had no permission to be where it was, that he had never wanted, that threatened to tie him to the ghost of the man he loved forever. This- this thing that was supposed to promise new life but was rotting him from the inside out, withering more of him with every passing day as he lost the strength to fight it.

He didn't realize time passed. The world felt like a blur. Nothing really happened to make any moment stand out.

Well. Nothing until he got whacked with a bag of little orange pill bottles.

He hadn't noticed the other ginger Gallagher appear. That probably said more about his state of mind than anything else, since Debbie was about as quiet as a steam train.

He actually sat up. “The fuck?” He croaked.

Debbie glared at him. The features that made Ian cute made Debbie slightly terrifying. “Can you get these?”

He grabbed the bag from where they'd landed, after bouncing off his head. He looked at the labels carefully. “Who's it for?”

“Ian. He flushed all his pills.” She sounded pissed about it too. “Can you get me more?”

Mickey really examined the bottles. “No can do, Raggedy Anne. There's no market for this shit.”

Debbie scoffed, and he wondered if that's how he acted when he was 15. Maybe he understood why Terry beat the shit out of him a little better. “And how would you know?”

“Because my brother’s a drug dealer who can't keep his fuckin’ mouth shut, that's why,” Mickey snapped. “You won't find it anywhere. No one gets high off fuckin’ Lithium.” He threw the bag of bottles back at her.

She actually looked affronted. “You won't even try? What, because he stole your stupid baby?”

“No,” Mickey said, and it was the truth.

“Then why? Did you guys break up or something?”

Mickey huffed and lay back down, turned on his side away from Debbie. ‘Or something’ was right. He was pretty sure missing your boyfriend getting out of the mental hospital you put him didn't mean everything was good.

Debbie was quiet for longer than he thought she could physically be. “You can't just sit there forever.”

“I can fuckin’ try.”

“You're a quitter, you know that?”

Mickey knew that. He quit baseball when the time came for the co-ed to stop and he’d have to play softball instead. He stopped fighting his dad about what he wore and how he cut his hair, at least when his dad was home. He never really tried to fight his teachers- they all looked at him and knew he was going nowhere from kindergarten onwards. He never tried to convince them otherwise. He’d tried to quit smoking, and drinking, and he never kicked either. He’d nearly kicked his own bucket more than once, the ultimate quitter move.

Mickey Milkovich stood accused, and he was guilty on all counts.

“No I’m fuckin’ not.”

He could feel Debbie staring at him, and then her gaze left. “Frank angry drinks, whenever Monica is around. He thinks it’ll help, but he always goes back to her. It never makes anything better.”

Mickey glared at the wall.

He heard his bedroom door slam, then the front door. She was probably off to get whatever drugs she was trying to find for Ian.

He thought about Ian, not alone in that house but probably feeling completely isolated.

He thought about that kid who smiled at him and put his hand up against the glass like they were in some kind of movie. They had been young, so painfully young, Mickey was only now realizing. Ian’s face had been softened by baby fat still, and he’d combed his hair so it covered the acne on his forehead. Mickey’s tattoos had been fresh on his knuckles.

He thought of the kid at the wedding, ready to drop everything and everyone he knew and run, just to keep Mickey safe.

He’d have to sober up a bit.

“Sorry I'm late.”

It was the first thing that came to his mind. It wasn't good enough.

Ian stared at him with empty eyes. In the darkness, it was hard to tell if the person there was truly there.

Mickey knew when Ian shuffled over in his bed, making enough space for the both of them.

Mickey threw the car in park. “Welcome to the South Side, kid.”

Alex stared out the window. “Is that a couch?”

“It was a couch.” Mickey leaned back in his seat. The streetlights were a new color, yellow instead of orange. It was almost midnight, after a solid five hours of driving. Hardly a great time to move back into a shit hole house. He was bone fucking tired after the day he’d had. 19 hours of being awake was a lot. At least the kid had taken a nap during the drive. “Okay, ground rules. You don't go anywhere in there without me, got it? No where. If you have to go to the fucking bathroom, you wake me up and bring me.”

“‘m not a baby,” Alex protested. He'd been on this kick lately about not being a baby, but he still fucked up when he tried to do things himself. It was fine when he just put his shirt on backwards, but not here. Not in this fucking house.

Mickey turned around in his seat. “Aleksander Gallagher, you fucking listen to me,” he said, praying that it would get his attention. “You do not go or touch anything in there without my say-so, do you understand?”

“But why?” The kid crossed his arms.

“Because I fucking said so!” He snapped. He couldn't even imagine acting like this with Terry, he’d have been thrown into a fucking wall. Why couldn't he get that this was for his own fucking good? God fucking knew what kind of state the house was in, or what had been left out and around. “You stay with me, you don't wander off, you don't step where I don't fuckin’ tell you to step. You understand me?”

The thought of Alex finding a knife or a gun settled like lead in his gut. He was supervising every fucking move he made until they were damn fucking sure everything that could hurt him was well out of reach. He’d tear up the floorboards if he needed to.

It made him wonder what kind of fucking father Terry was. Mickey had been handling knives by the time he was Alex's age. That was a can of worms he couldn't open.

Quiet sniffles snapped his attention to the back seat. “Bud?”

Alex made that weird screech-sob noise, the one that Mickey had learned meant full blown hysterics were around the corner.

“Shit, kid, it's okay! Calm down!” He unbuckled himself and threw open his door. He was suddenly so pissed at himself for putting the car seat on the passenger side. In the time it took him to run around the car and get the door open, the tears had started.

He unbuckled Alex as fast as he could and pulled him into his arms. “Bud, it's okay, you’re okay,” he repeated. “Fuck, please stop crying.”

Alex shoved his face into Mickey's shoulder, his crying only muffled. The wet patch on his work shirt was already forming. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck, he didn't know how to handle this. It had been so much easier when the kid was a baby and just wanted a tit or a new diaper.

“The fuck did you do?”

He jumped slightly, then forced himself to chill. It was just Mandy. “He’s throwin’ a fit, it's fine,” he said quickly, trying to convince himself more than her. “Alex, cut it out!”

Alex sobbed again, but he was trying to muffle it. Without much idea of what else to do, he started bouncing him gently, like he was a baby again.

“Shh, it's okay, it's okay. Everything's okay,” he said softly. “You're okay. I'm not mad.” He couldn't admit he was scared, not to Alex. Not to anyone.

Alex started to quiet down, though, giving Mickey a chance to glare back at Mandy.

She held his gaze for a long moment before she looked away. “Let's get inside, see how bad it is.”

Mickey kept Alex in his arms as they climbed the front steps. The glass in the door was shattered, but it didn't look like anyone had tried to bust in. The hole was barely big enough for a squirrel. “You got the keys?”

“No,” Mandy said. She felt along the top of the door frame. “I left a key up here, in case Terry ever locked me out. I don't know if Colin or Iggy got to it- aha! They didn't.” She turned to him with a self satisfied smirk and a very dirty key in her hands. She stuck it in the deadbolt and unlocked it. Her hand was on the handle, but she paused. “You sure about this?”

“We’re here, right?” Mickey asked dryly. “Open the fuckin’ door.”

The door revealed… Nothing. Nothing special, at least. The front hall and living room were dark, and nothing happened when Mandy flicked the light switch. “Think they actually called to get it turned off?”

Mickey held Alex tighter. “Doubt it.”

“Well, at least it's dad's credit that got fried.”

Mickey's throat tightened at the mention of Terry. He forced the thoughts back down, as deep as he possibly could. He wasn't dealing with that. “Yeah. Gas and water are probably out too.”

“Great. We’re gonna have to deal with that in the morning, I guess.” Mandy sighed heavily.

Mickey mentally ran through the list of hiding places he knew about. If Iggy and Colin had abandoned this place, they would have cleared out most of them. If they’d both been caught doing stupid shit, he had a fuck ton of firearms to stash out of the reach of a four year old.

He put Alex down. “You guys get the bags. I'll scope this place out.”

Mandy opened her mouth like she was about to fight him on that, but then she glanced at Alex. “... Sure. C’mon, kid. You ever been a bodyguard?”

“No,” Alex mumbled. He stayed behind Mickey's legs. “Can I stay?”

“Alex,” Mickey said firmly. “Go with Mandy. Now.”

Mandy gave him that look again. He wasn't sure what to make of it- it wasn't really an expression he recognized. Alex looked up at him too, already trembling. “You said to stay with you,” he said accusingly.

“I said that you do what I say. I’m saying that you shut the fuck up and go with your aunt.”

“Mickey!” Mandy snapped. “Jesus Christ, is it that big of a fucking deal?”

“Yeah, it is!” Mickey crossed his arms. “It's about keeping his fucking head on his shoulders.”

Alex cut through the arguing with another ‘I’m about to scream/cry’ whine. Every scrap of attention between the two adults was suddenly on him.

Mickey knelt down and pulled his son into a hug. “Hey, hey, shhh. It's okay,” he tried to sound calming. “I’m just worried about you. I want you to be safe. That's why I want you to go with auntie Mandy.”

The explanation didn't seem to help at all. Alex clung like a tiny koala, and the crying didn't stop.

Desperate to think of something, he looked at Mandy, who was looking at him like he knew what the fuck to do. Wasn't having another adult around supposed to make this easier?

He picked Alex back up and got to his feet. “Okay, how about we go to bed,” he tried. “You’re probably tired, I’m tired, auntie Mandy is tired. Everyone's tired.”

Alex clung harder, and the sobs picked up in volume. Mickey couldn't stop himself from glancing around, searching for a man who hadn't stepped foot in the house in years.

Mandy looked at the two of them for a long moment before she stood up. “I'll look around,” she says. “Make sure it's safe.”

Mickey scooped Alex up and brought him to the living room.

The couch was the same one he’d stolen, after Terry got himself arrested again after his wedding. (The old couch was a pile of ash in the backyard). He sat down, and it creaked under his weight. He held Alex close, hoping it would help.

A part of him he thought was gone prickled with anxiety, though. He kept looking around, expecting Terry to come around and yell about ‘damn kids crying, I'll give you something to cry about’. Then he would remember Terry was dead.

Being back in that house made things feel more… Real. Terry was actually dead. He and Mandy were actually here, back in Chicago. His childhood home had the opportunity to be more than a house of revolving nightmares.

(They were orphans. Adult orphans, sure. But orphans all the same)

Alex started to calm down in his arms. He was almost too big to cradle, something Mickey was going to ignore until he couldn't anymore.

He was doing this for Alex, he reminded himself. The kid needed stability. This was probably the only way he could offer that.

Around 1 am, Alex’s breathing evened out. Mickey couldn't say he wasn't relieved. Carefully, he stood up and went to find Mandy. He hoped she’d cleared out his room, because the exhaustion was getting to him too.

He found Mandy in the kitchen, one hand on her hip and the other holding up her phone. Her flashlight was on. “Cabinets are gonna fall apart.”

“Crap,” Mickey muttered.

“Crap. He asleep?”

“Yeah. You cleared my old room?”

“Yeah.” Mandy glanced at him. “... Would it be okay if I stayed with you guys? Just for tonight.”

Mickey didn't even hesitate to nod. “Don't squish the kid.”

“I won't. I’ll finish up out here, you look dead on your feet.”

Mickey didn't have the energy to argue. Without Alex to keep him on alert, his eyes were starting to get heavy.

He nudged the door to his room open with his foot. It swung open, revealing that nothing had changed. The moonlight illuminated the same dusty covers as the day he’d left. Ian’s old makeup compact was still on the windowsill.

Carefully, Mickey shifted Alex to one arm. He tried to dust off the covers, but there wasn't much he could do with one hand. They’d just have to be dusty for tonight.

He didn't bother getting changed. He just pulled back the covers, put Alex down, and crawled under them himself.

He wanted to think for a bit. Consider what he was doing.

His eyes shut, and he fell asleep almost instantly.

Mickey was up before he could register what woke him.

For a strange few seconds, he couldn't tell when he was. His memory blurred, confusing real events for dreams. For a crazed moment, he thought the past five years of his life had been some insane fantasy. The gray morning light looked the same as so many of the days of his childhood. Reality caught up fast, helped by Alex stirring next to him.

He still felt on edge. Being back in this house made all his instincts go haywire.

“Daddy?” Alex mumbled. He sat up too, blinking at the world blearily.

“Go back to sleep,” Mickey said, slipping out of the bed. He couldn't tell if Mandy was awake -when had she even come to bed?-, or if his brain had made something up to be spooked by. He didn't want to wake her up if it was nothing.

Carefully, he reached for where a baseball bat should have been. (Ian had insisted, when he first moved in, that they needed one. Mickey had thought it was stupid. He no longer thought it was stupid). Luckily, it hadn't rolled further under the bed.

“Mick?” Mandy asked. She sounded groggier than Alex. “What time is it?”

“Dunno. Heard something.” He tightened his grip on the bat and inched closer to the door. The irrational part of him wondered if Terry’s ghost had decided to move in. He heard -for sure- Mandy get up behind him, and the creaking of the bed as Alex crawled out too. “Stay behind me.”

“Fuck you,” Mandy snapped. He glanced back at her, and saw she already had a knife in her hand. She probably slept with it. “We do this together, or we don't do it.”

Them vs the world. They hadn't faced problems together like that since they were kids.

Mickey nodded. “Together.”

Mickey cautiously opened the door, Mandy ready with the knife right beside him.

He didn't know what, exactly, he was expecting. He wasn't expecting to stare at two beady, black little eyes in the face of something that was not quite a cat.

Mandy faltered beside him. “Is that a-”

The opossum fell over, its legs stuck out like sticks.

“Fucking hell,” Mickey muttered. “How’d it get inside?”

“The hole in the door?” Mandy suggested.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, now we have to get rid of it.”

“What is it?” Alex asked. He tried to squeeze under Mickey's arm. “I wanna see!”

He squeezed between the two adults before either of them could stop him. There was a pause. “Is it dead?”

“No, it's just fakin’ bein’ dead so we don't eat it.” Mickey set the baseball bat leaning on the door frame. “We have to get it out of here.”

The kid lit up. “I can carry it!”

“Gently,” Mandy added. “It's alive.”

“No, you are not carrying that thing. Let's dump this outside before it wakes up,” Mickey said. “It’ll be fine if we leave it in the yard.” He grabbed the critter by its tail and held it at arm's length.

Mandy checked her phone. “I’ll get breakfast going. It'll probably just be pop tarts. We should call the power company.”

“Let’s talk about this after shitty room temperature pop tarts,” Mickey said. “Alex, let's go.” This was their house, even if Mickey wasn't completely sure what they were doing here. He wasn't gonna let an opossum live in their fucking house.

Stepping out of the house, into the muggy August air, he examined the yard for a good place to dump the opossum. In the rising sun, the hundreds of beer cans seemed to shine. If it wasn't so disgusting, it might have been pretty.

He set the opossum down on the path from the sidewalk to the front steps. “Okay, you’re outside, scram.”

The opossum didn't move.

“Is it dead?” Alex asked. “Can I poke it?”

Mickey groaned. “Leave it alone. I’m gonna get the rest of my shit, you want to help?”

That snagged his son’s attention, and he beat Mickey to the cars. “Can I carry something?”

“You can carry… Your books.” He opened the trunk and dug around for the stack of coloring books and drawings. “Here, hold these.”

Alex accepted the stack, but he glanced back at the house. “Are we staying here?”

Mickey followed his gaze, and cringed slightly.

The house looked worse from the sidewalk. He hadn't been able to tell last night, but the yard was practically covered in empty cans and other trash. If the building itself had been largely abandoned, the rest of it had been turned into the local dump. He hadn't thought it was possible for the shithole to look worse, but it did.

He didn't even know where to start. The rotting cabinets? The fucking trash heap? Whatever fucking else was wrong with it?

“Can we go home?” Alex asked quietly. “Don't like it here.”

Mickey couldn't blame him. “This is home, kid. We're just gonna have to make it good. We ain't quitters, right?”

Alex nodded, though he stayed beside Mickey, like the house itself scared him.

The more his personality came out, the more it became clear that the kid was sensitive in the same way Ian had been when they were kids. He took things to heart, and he never bothered hiding how much he cared. Under Terry, he probably would have already been dead. Dead or shoving his personality under the surface to survive.

Ian had learned to hide himself, but he’d never been good at it. It was part of why they fell in love.

It made Mickey antsy. He didn't like how easily his son’s feelings were hurt, didn't like how vulnerable that could make him. He’d have to toughen up, but Mickey only knew one way to make that happen, and it was a line he wasn't crossing.

He cursed Ian out in the privacy of his own head. This was some fuckin’ nature instead of nurture shit, and it was entirely his fault.

The similarities also made his skin prickle in a different way. That anxiety, though, had years left to simmer.

Mickey grabbed his ‘essentials’ bag from the car. “Okay. Let's go back inside. We need a plan.” They needed to seriously think about what the fuck they were doing even trying to live in this house. But that was a conversation for later. Right now they needed a plan for the hole in the door before the opossum tried to get back in.

Alex didn't say anything, and when Mickey glanced down, he was staring down the street.

He followed his son's gaze. “Oh fuck-”

Debbie Gallagher was on the other side of the street, but she'd already zeroed in on him. She was holding the hand of a little girl with bright red hair, shades lighter than Alex’s. What the fuck was with Gallaghers and churning out gingers?

They stared at each other from opposite sides for a long moment.

“Mickey?!” Debbie shouted to ensure she was heard, though he didn't think he’d ever heard her not yelling.

“Alex, go find Mandy,” Mickey said in a low voice.

Alex jerked backwards, towards the house, but he froze after a step. Debbie was already marching over, the little girl trailing after her. “Milkovich!! What the fuck are you doing here?!”

“The fuck does it look like I’m doing?!” Mickey snapped back. “It's my fuckin’ house!”

“Since when?” Debbie stopped in front of him. They were almost the same height now. She still did her hair like Svetlana used to. “No one's lived there in like two years.”

That was news. “Well I live here now, so fuck off, Gallagher.” He tried to turn around and drag Alex back into the house.

Debbie leaned to get a look behind him. “Who's the kid?”

Mickey stopped, his mind blanking. He didn't know why, but part of him wanted to gesture at the kid and say ‘Isn’t it obvious? I lug this kid around for nine months and he comes out looking like just like his other fuckin' father’. Debbie was still giving him a blank look, though. Maybe it wasn't as obvious as it was to Mandy. “My son.”

“Yev’s seven,” Debbie said. She ignored Mickey's flinch. “And not ginger.” She squinted at him, then at the little boy half hidden behind him.

“I’m Alex,” Alex offered quietly. “What's your name?” He stepped out a little more, blinking up at Debbie, before he noticed the little girl by her side.

The little girl has her hands on her hips. Her eyes were sharp and dark as obsidian, and she had a nasty glare. “I’m Franny,” she declared, like Alex had asked her and not Debbie. “I’m named after my grandpa.”

“My grandpa’s name is Terry, he's dead,” Alex replied. “But it's good he’s dead. Daddy and Auntie Mandy say so.”

“Terry's dead?” Debbie asked. Fuck his life. “Damn, uh… Sorry for your loss?”

Mickey felt like someone punched him. “Thanks,” he said, voice shockingly even. It wasn't the first time he’d heard that, but it was the first time anyone had said that about Terry. “Like the kid said, I’m not too torn up about it.” Liar.

“Yeah, he was an asshole,” Debbie agreed easily. “Remember that one time he tried to kill you and-” her eyes got wide. “Oh my fucking God-”

“Alex, house! Now!” Mickey snapped.

“But-”

“Did I fuckin’ stutter? Get in the fucking house!”

Alex froze for a moment, his eyes wide, before he dashed up the front steps. Debbie stared after him. “You and Ian had a-”

“I had a kid,” Mickey growled. “If you tell anyone, and I mean anyone-”

“You mean Ian?” Debbie raised an eyebrow. She’d never seemed very impressed with him before, and apparently the sister-murder hadn't deepened her fear of him. “He doesn't know?”

“No. I’m keeping it that way.” Mickey crossed his arms, expecting some kind of fight.

She just shrugged. “Good. Ian’s crazy. Can I still bring Franny over? It'd be cool, since they're cousins.”

“He’s my cousin?” Franny asked.

“No!” Mickey snapped, slightly distracted by the several unfinished conversation threads. “Or, fuck, I guess. Yeah. Debbie, the fuck do you mean?”

“What, you didn't hear about Gay Jesus in whatever hole you crawled out of?”

“Fuckin’- yes, I know about the Gay Jesus thing. Has he lost it more?”

Debbie shrugged. “They didn't let Lip visit him last week, they said he lost privileges. So I can bring her over?”

“No! I said yes to the kid’s question.”

“Well then I’ll file for Aunt’s rights.”

“That's not even a fuckin' thing,” Mickey scoffed. “Jesus Christ, get the fuck out of here.” He turned around to head back into the house.

“I’ll come back!” Debbie threatened. “You can't keep me out forever!”

He turned around on the steps. “I’d fuckin’ love to see you try. You come back here and you’ll be sayin’ hello to my baseball bat.”

“And you'll be saying hello to mine!”

Mickey snorted and walked back inside, locking the door behind him. Mandy's music was coming from the kitchen. “Debbie fuckin' Gallagher,” he muttered to himself. He really couldn't be here and not trip over one of those fuckers. “Mandy! Debbie might come around with a bat.”

The Avril Lavigne music from the kitchen got louder in response. He didn't know what he was expecting.

He checked his wallet. He mostly had $1s and $5s, the occasional $10. Most of his money was stuffed in the lining of a suitcase. But what he had now could probably get them some cleaning supplies. And a plank of plywood. Enough that they could start trying to make this place livable.

He wasn't a big enough idiot to pretend that things couldn't change. But he was a big enough idiot to believe they could make some kind of life here.

Chapter Text

The tension in the house was smashed with a baseball bat.

Ian was shaking. Debbie was shaking. Fiona had her hands over her mouth. Ian was still holding the bat, somehow. It was hanging loosely, but he still had it.

Mickey thought before he acted. The plan formed in a second, and he acted on it.

He grabbed the bat from Ian's hands. “Hey, fucking look at me,” he said with every bit of force he could muster. He grabbed his arm and dragged him to the back door. He didn't wait for Ian's reaction before he threw it open. “No one's there, see?”

Ian tried to jerk away, to hide behind the door, but he couldn't with the grip on his arm. The gray sky and empty backyard stared back at him.

With a new hope that the plan was working, Mickey hauled him to the front door and threw that open too. Same old Wallace Street greeted them. Not a car out of place, not a fence straightened out.

Ian's breathing sounded a little better next to him, but the shaking wasn't stopping.

“No one's comin’ for you. Got it?”

“This is just going to get worse,” Fiona broke into the conversation.

Ian nodded, though the tremors started to get worse.

“We're going to the clinic, okay?” Mickey tried to be gentle. He was still getting used to that. “We're gonna get your meds. Today.”

Ian nodded again, though weakly. It was hard to picture him putting up any kind of fight in his current state anyways. He was skinny as a twig. Debbie could have knocked him clean out if she wanted. (How had Mickey not noticed earlier? Something had so clearly been wrong- was still wrong).

Mickey let go of his arm and gently nudged him to the stairs. “C’mon, let's go get dressed.”

He and Fiona shared a look as he ushered Ian upstairs. He could feel the stress from 10 feet away, and he didn't want to even think about getting closer. He had his own problems and concerns.

In the end, he managed to bully Ian into a button up shirt and a hoodie. He didn't fight him about his hair, or the sweatpants he grabbed. What mattered was that he was out of bed and mostly ready to go. Mickey sped through his own routine -alone, in the bathroom. (Fuck changing in a room without a lock, no one needed to see the ridiculous wrestling match he had with the five sports bras) (Or the little bit of pudge that he wasn't sure he could play off as a cheeseburger too many).

With that reminder, he put on his own sweater and headed back downstairs. “Ian, you ready to go?”

He didn't have time to even reach the living room before Fiona grabbed his arm. Hard. “Ian, you mind if I steal him for a moment? Mickey and I need to have a little talk.” The big, fake smile was audible.

Ian's eyes flicked between the two of them. “Uh, I don't see why not?”

His voice was small. Scared. It was deeply wrong.

Mickey tried to plant his feet. “No, we were about to-”

“We're talking,” Fiona said. She started walking, and by extension dragging Mickey along with her. “We’ll be on the back porch, I’m not gonna kill him.”

“Yet,” he mumbled under his breath. “I can walk by myself, Jesus.” He shook her hand off his arm. Mercifully, he was allowed to walk to the back door by himself.

He paused in the kitchen, and looked back. Just to make sure. Ian was watching from the other end of the living room, looking small. Not as small as the loony bin, but not like himself. The delusions were getting to him, in a way the mania never could. It hurt that this was what convinced him- that this was how much he had to hurt to get help. (That seeing how scared Mickey was wasn't enough)

He turned away. Fiona was the only thing between him and getting Ian back on track. One conversation, and he would be back to getting their life together.

Fiona slammed the door behind them. “Did you get rid of it?” She asked, no preamble or anything.

“No,” Mickey muttered. He glanced around, just in case a stray Gallagher brat was hanging around. “I have the first appointment next week.” It was total bullshit, but he was putting up with the system for now.

Fiona tapped out a cigarette and pulled a lighter from one of her many pockets. “Good, because I can't fucking deal with you being knocked up on top of everything else.” The lighter clicked, but didn't ignite. “Fucking hell- you got a light?”

“Uh, yeah, here.” He’d snagged it from Ian's drawers that morning, after he’d spent several hours scrolling on his phone because he couldn't sleep. It wasn't confiscating, it was normal stealing. To keep Ian safe. Now it belonged to Fiona. Who was also completely mentally stable.

Sometimes he felt like he came from a really white trash family. Then he’d look at Fiona Gallagher. Usually made him feel better about his fucked up home life. At least he’d only been forced to raise himself, and he also didn't sleep with three different guys at once.

They were both silent for a little bit while Fiona took a few puffs of her cigarette. It was broken by her. “Do you understand what you're getting into, Milkovich?”

The air felt a bit colder, all of a sudden. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I meant what I said. It's just gonna get worse.” She took a long drag. “He’s not gonna want to stay on the meds. Then he’ll do all this again. You can't change that.”

“He's not your fuckin’ mom.” The temperature dropped again, nipping at their exposed faces. “And I’m not Frank.”

“I’m not sayin’ you are,” Fiona snapped back. “I’m sayin’ that you should know who you're stickin’ by. He’s gonna crash again. You can't stop it.”

He scoffed and opened the back door. “Thanks for the talk,” he said. “Real informative.”

The door was almost shut behind him when Fiona responded. “If you have that baby, he's not going to be any help.”

There were a million things he wanted to say. He’d watched Ian with Yev, and with Liam, and his two younger siblings. He’d be a good dad, when he had his head on straight. “Then it's a good thing I’m not,” was the only thing that came out.

He slammed the door shut behind him and marched back to the front door. Ian was still there, hood pulled over his greasy hair. He was still shivering.

Wordlessly, Mickey shrugged off his coat. “Put this on, we got places to be.”

“What did you and Fiona talk about?” Ian asked, still too quiet.

“Nothing. C’mon, fire crotch, let's get you your meds. And put the damn coat on, I’m cold just lookin’ at you.”

Ian followed him out the door mutely. He kept his hands stuffed in the pockets of Mickey's jacket. It wasn't right.

Wordlessly, Mickey stuck out his hand. “My hand is cold,” he muttered as an excuse.

Ian stared at him for a long moment, like he was trying to read his mind. “You're sure?” He asked, voice scratchy.

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure.” The confidence he’d had when he started this was starting to shake. But he meant it all the same. He was with Ian, however he needed to be. If Ian got better, or if he lost his mind completely.

Ian took his hand. It felt, to Mickey, like a promise.

If Mickey had known the shit storm that was waiting for him, he probably never would have gone to the end of Wallace Street- next to the failed community garden started by the lesbians that moved away years ago. He would have shoved Alex and Mandy into his car, left everything but the essentials behind, and driven to fucking Florida if he had to. Anything to get as far away from Chicago as humanly possible.

As it was, the instinct that he’d built over five years- that feeling in his bones, telling him it was time to move on? Completely fucking silent. If he needed any more proof that it was a faulty system, this was it.

Alex held his hand tightly as they walked the fifteen minutes between the two houses. He was still little enough that he didn't pitch a fit about holding hands, or still nervous in the new neighborhood. Mickey wasn't really sure which it was.

Trying to get Alex to adjust was going badly. He’d acclimated to having an extended family pretty easily- he’d warmed up to Mandy after a couple of days, and he'd taken to Franny like a fish to water. He fit in surprisingly well with his aunts, uncles, and now both cousins. It was the neighborhood at large he still seemed uneasy with. He clung to Mickey whenever they were out of the house, and even sometimes inside it. He only seemed at ease when they got to the Gallagher’s.

He tried not to think too hard about it while he was walking. He needed to be on alert. He still had a reputation around the south side, bolstered by the Sammi incident, but that was also five years ago. No one had tried anything with him in the months he’d been back, but he wasn't letting his guard down. Granted, it was late afternoon. People usually waited until the evening to pick fights.

“Auntie Debbie says you're from here,” Alex said as they turned onto Wallace Street. “Where am I from?”

Mickey watched the house where that crazy old Greek used to live. “Why do you wanna know? It doesn't matter.”

“‘cause Franny said I’m not Southside. What's Southside?”

That got Mickey's attention. “Well Franny’s stupid. You're Southside, even if you weren't born here.” His attention turned to the house the lesbians used to own. It had a rotting car in the front yard now.

“What's that mean?” Alex asked.

“Means you're a tough motherfucker, that's what it means.”

Alex was quiet for a moment. “What if I’m not tough?” It came out quiet, like he was scared Mickey would hear it. Maybe for good reason, those words terrified Mickey. He looked around, making sure no one else heard, before he considered his next actions.

He stopped and turned his son to face him. “You can't go around thinking that shit,” he said, meaning every word. “You're tough. It's that or you get hurt, you understand me? I don't care how scared or hurt you are, you don't fucking show it.” He held Alex by the shoulders. “Milkoviches don’t show weakness.”

Alex looked up at him, then stood up a little straighter. “Okay, Daddy.”

Mickey relaxed, ever so slightly. “Good. If Franny says that shit again… Don't hit her, but prove you're tough. You don't hit girls, got it?”

Alex nodded, and they started walking again. He started to reach for Mickey's hand, but he stopped.

It hurt, but it was probably for the best. They reached the house, and Mickey bypassed the front door entirely, heading straight for the back.

He shoved the back door open with his shoulder. “Hey!”

The chaos of the Gallagher house had condensed itself into their kitchen. Frank was passed out on the floor between the cooking area and the dinner table, being stepped over by his arguing children. Some kind of soup was sitting on the stove top, filling the air with the scent of cinnamon and something earthy. A few bowls had already been distributed, and Mickey was half tempted to take one.

“It's not like I’m asking you to hold the nuclear goddamn football,” Lip snapped, holding baby Fred in one arm and a glass of coke with the other. He kicked Frank as he passed by. “I'm asking you to watch your fucking nephew tomorrow.”

“No,” Debbie said flatly, “you’re asking me to be fucking free childcare.”

“You aren't doing anything tomorrow!”

“Yes I am!”

Franny waved at Mickey. Carl, sat next to her, raised his coffee cup in place of saying anything. Liam had a list of some kind in front of him, and he was too busy scribbling on it to notice.

Lip either didn't notice or didn't care that Mickey and Alex had arrived. “Jesus Christ, it's literally just watching him for two hours!”

“You gonna pay me 33 bucks an hour?” Debbie shot back. Alex took a seat at the table and stole one of the carrots Franny'd fished out of her bowl. “I’m not watching your fucking kid, Lip.”

“Hey Debs,” Mickey broke in. “I need you to watch Alex tonight.”

Debbie finally looked his way. The circles under her eyes could have hauled 80 bucks worth of groceries. Strangely, the rest of the kitchen became silent. “Sure. What time you picking him up?”

“Mandy can pick him up around 11,” Mickey said at the same time as Lip said, “Oh, you’ll babysit for him?!” With that, the eerie silence broke. He noticed a couple of weary looks pass between the siblings, though.

“He holds Alex hostage,” Carl said. “We can't not appease him.”

“When did you even learn that word?” Lip asked.

“None of your business.”

“Shut up, all of you,” Liam said. “I’m trying to decide what basketball teams I should even consider.”

Mickey hated to say it, but he had missed this particular brand of bat shit crazy. “You're playin’ basketball? Ain’t you a little small? And wimpy?”

“Not me, I don't want to get a concussion. My friend Todd is way bigger than me though, and he's really good at basketball.” Liam puffed up a little. “I’m going to be his manager.”

Carl and Mickey exchanged blank looks.

Lip put the coke down on the table. “Look, can we get back to Mickey getting free childcare?”

“I pay you by bringing him over. I could leave him with my sister.”

“I don't have to bring Fred over!”

“Yeah you do,” Carl butted in again. “You're living in a fuckin’ RV.”

“Fuck you, I have a house.” Lip adjusted Fred so he was holding him with both arms. The baby was still small enough that he didn't have much of an opinion about that. “Seriously, Debs, I just need you to keep an eye on him for two hours between when I go to work and Tami gets back.”

“I have glitter,” Franny said, not even bothering to whisper. Toddlers- they couldn't conspire with each other for shit.

Mickey watched as Alex lit up. He decided that was his cue to leave. “Later, assholes.”

He was out the door before any of them could drag him into their drama. He really did not feel like dealing with Lip’s bitching or whatever Debbie was up to. As long as Alex came back to him in one piece, he only kind of cared. And it wasn't like he hadn't texted her that morning. He just thought it was funnier to act like he hadn't.

Now for the annoying bit. Work.

Being a bouncer was, in all honesty, kinda fun. His shift started at 6, and it sometimes ran for the whole 12 hours. Not always, but often enough that he tried to plan around it. Helpfully, Mandy usually got off work around 11, so she picked up Alex from the Gallagher's and brought him home.

The only major downside was the ‘where’. He had a lot of memories attached to the Fairy Tale. Most of them were pretty fucking awful. But it was work. He was paid well. Alex had the stability he needed, and there was enough money coming in that no one was hungry.

They'd had a pretty solid routine until recently, when Headstart closed it’s doors for sanitizing. Normally, Mickey would pick Alex up and they would have the chance to hang out. Occasionally he’d also take Franny, when Debbie was busy. The past two days had been a disruption, and not one anyone liked.

This part of his routine was off too. The L was pretty deserted when he boarded, and it stayed that way until he got closer to downtown. More people started popping up in skimpy clothes and spring break mentalities. He was normally pretty desensitized to that shit, but today it was making him antsy. It reminded him of the past.

He got to the Fairy Tale just before he was supposed to, and things were already ramping up. The manager, Rich or Dick or something like that -probably Rich-, actually looked happy to see him. He hadn't looked happy once in the entire time Mickey had known him.

Rich had been around five years ago, and he’d remembered Mickey when he’d first been sniffing around for a job. No one here had liked him very much back then, but Rich was the only one who'd been there long enough to remember. He’d said some bullshit that Mickey didn't remember, but he’d offered him a position, and there wasn't much on the con side that mattered more than putting food on the table.

After a few months of working with the guy, they’d built a begrudging respect for one another. Rich wasn't some pompous dick, and clearly he thought better of Mickey to look past the initial impression he'd had around here.

Still, Rich looking happy to see him should have been his first warning sign. The night turned out to be a fucking nightmare. People were losing their fucking minds.

“That's your last fucking warning,” he told a guy -younger, probably not even 21- after his second time trying to grab the shitty Party City tie necklace that the dancers had to wear. He grabbed the kid by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to the front. “Get lost and go home.”

The energy of the crowd was starting to put him on edge. He had a bad feeling that this was a buildup to something, or some kind of last hurrah. He didn't know which would be worse.

He exchanged a look with Rich, and the grim feeling in his gut only got worse. His own weary feelings were mirrored.

He threw out more people that night than the past month combined. And they just wouldn't fucking leave, either. He normally got roped into helping with the cleanup, but the last straggler didn't get in a cab home until almost 5 am. By then the dancers had all left as well, crawled back into whatever holes they spent the day in. By the time he managed to get out, it was past 9 in the morning. He’d been at work for 15 hours, and awake for 19. It was not the most exhausted he’d ever felt, but it was a close fucking fifth place.

When he finally checked his phone, while squinting in the offensively bright morning sun, it was to a notification that the city of Chicago was shutting down all bars and public gathering places that day. And a text from Mandy demanding groceries.

Hour 20 was not shaping up to be a good hour.

Mandy

‘Why tte fuck do we need grovieries’

‘Jesus, learn to spell'
‘I’m just trying to be prepared’

She sent him a gif from The Lion King, and he was too tired for this shit.

‘Fibe, send me the fuckin list'
‘Hows Alex'

‘Good’
‘We made egg toast’
‘You have a lil chef, he added fruit’
‘Idk if hes yours’

‘Shut up’

‘You mean stfu’

‘You know I don't know what that means’
(Read, 9:17 am)

Mandy sent him a middle finger emoji, and then a photo of a list she’d clearly just put together. His own bad feeling, more than her’s, pushed him to reply with a thumbs up. He didn't want to be caught off guard without enough food. So, he got on the L and looked over the list.

It wasn't deserted, but it was quieter than he was used to on a Saturday morning. It made him jumpy. The grocery store, in contrast, was busy. Not packed, but busy. That made him jumpier.

He grabbed a basket on the way in and started going through the aisles, glancing between his phone and the shelves. Mandy's list was pretty practical, mostly frozen food, pasta and the like. He cleaned the store straight out of the little corkscrew pasta shapes, and a bunch of ramen for good measure. He kept a running calculation in his head about how much money this would be, compared with the money he had in his bank account. (And wasn't that insane? Mickey Milkovich had a bank account. Kinda. That wasn't the name on the account, as much as that pissed him off).

Occasionally, he looked at the people around him. It was far from his main concern, more just making sure no one was near him. Until he caught a flash of ginger hair and freckled skin out of the corner of his eye.

For a moment, he wasn't sure. But since coming back to Chicago, every freckled redhead made his heart beat a little faster. He was already fucking nervous, and it seemed like exactly the kind of shit God or the universe or what ever the fuck would pull on him.

He could just see the back of the guy’s head. He was decently filled out, and his hair was short, with a bit of a curl to it. He was wearing a shirt that he had definitely seen Lip wearing. The most damning piece of evidence was when he turned to look at a shelf, and his profile was almost exactly the same as he remembered.

Mickey felt his heart bang against his ribs. He needed to get out of here before he was noticed, he couldn't let this happen. He was not getting wrapped up in Hurricane Ian, not again, not when he has things to lose.

He stepped back, ready to abandon the basket and run -fuck the groceries, it wasn't like there would be a real lockdown anyways- when Ian turned around.

Their eyes met. His eyes were almost as dull as they had been in the hospital. His freckles stood out more, despite it being March. There was a scar on the side of his head. If his hair wasn't so short on the sides, Mickey never would have known. It looked fresh and angry. Something flickered in his expression -recognition, anger, joy, who knew. Hard to tell under the bandana he was wearing over his nose.

“Mick?” Ian asked. His voice was rough, like he hadn't been using it much. Hundreds of memories, formally mute, suddenly had their sound back.

“Gallagher,” Mickey said stiffly. He adjusted his own mask -one left over from the various construction projects needed to make the house livable again. “Ain't you supposed to be in prison?”

It didn't make him feel better when Ian flinched, but he recovered. “They, uh, decided I was no longer a threat to society. Or- something.” He glanced around, almost like he was checking for other people. They weren't in the toilet paper aisle, so it was dead besides the two of them. “I was three out of five, so… I guess they figured I’d done my time.”

The reminder made Mickey take a step back. “They test you before they let you out?” He asked, slightly suspicious. Weren't prisons supposed to be petri dishes for this shit?

If Mickey knew Ian’s expressions -which he didn't- he would have said Ian smiled for just a second under the mask. “I’m fine. Out because of overcrowding. Not sick, besides the usual.”

Mickey relaxed slightly. “Keep it that way, alright?” He went to brush by Ian and fucking leave this situation, but Ian interrupted him.

“Hey, uh, how have you been?” He asked. He sounded off, but not in a way Mickey could place.

He paused. “Um. Fine, I guess. I left the state.”

“But you're back?”

“... Yeah. Yeah, I guess. I'm back.” For how long, he didn't know. He wanted to go home, grab Alex and Mandy, and take off for the other side of the country. He couldn't do that now, though. Fucking lockdowns.

“How long?” Ian pressed.

“I don't fuckin’ know, a few months? It's been a bit.”

“Oh. I- I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, clearly.”

“.... I dyed my hair. Before I went in.”

Mickey blinked. “You did fuckin’ what?”

Ian did his little smile again. “Yeah. Took a page out of your book and went black.”

“You fuckin’ shithead- I don't dye my fuckin’ hair!”

“Really? Because I’ve seen-”

“Jesus Christ, my hair is fuckin’ black! Just because the rest of me never got the memo doesn't mean I’m coloring it!”

“Is that why your eyebrows are like that?”

Mickey hated how easy it was to fall into their old patterns. “Doesn't dye like, ruin your fuckin’ hair?” He’d looked it up once in a fit of insanity, when he was considering dying Alex’s hair black so people would stop giving him looks. Apparently to get anything to stick, you had to bleach the shit out of it first.

Ian rolled his eyes. “That's a myth, Mick. Dying my hair won't turn it purple or whatever.”

“Why the fuck would you do that, anyways?”

An expression that Mickey did not associate with him passed over his face. “You look really good.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Subtle, Gallagher.” When Ian shrugged, he decided to go along with it. “Thanks, I guess. I landed a job. ‘s got health insurance, so I’m seein’ someone. About hormones and shit.”

It did feel good to share the news. It hadn't been long, just a month, but he still woke up every Thursday vibrating with excitement. He’d started doing the stupid video diary of how he sounded with each passing milestone. He’d always thought it was cheesey when he saw it online, but he was too happy to care.

He still needed to see a therapist, to get the letter for top surgery. But that was a couple years out. For now, he was fucking thriving. He probably did look good. He felt like the hottest piece of ass in the state.

Ian stood up a little straighter. “No shit, congrats man. That's awesome.”

“Yeah, it is,” Mickey said. Silence fell again, with Ian just…. Staring. It was weird. “Uh, I should get back to shopping. You heard what they're sayin’ ‘bout a lockdown.”

The ginger jumped slightly, and looked away. “Fuck, yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to hold you up.” His hands tightened around his basket. “Um, can I text you? So we can keep talking?”

Mickey watched him for a long moment. “You still have my number?” He asked cautiously.

Ian swore under his breath and fumbled with his jacket pocket. He pulled out his phone and frantically scrolled for a minute. “Uh, yeah, I guess so,” he said with a strained laugh. “I've still got your old number in here.”

“Oh,” Mickey said. He didn't want to admit that he’d never changed his number. He just… Blocked Ian. He couldn't just admit that, could he? “I'll text you, okay?”

He brushed past Ian after that without too much thought, leaving him in the chip aisle physically. But he didn't stop thinking about him. Not even close.

PBS Kids was the background noise of Mickey's entire life at this point. He heard the theme song for Martha Speaks before he got past the door.

“Hey, a little help?” He shouted into the house. “Mandy!”

“Jesus, I’m coming!” Mandy shouted back. “Fuck me for being busy!”

Alex beat her to the door, his eyes bright. “Can I help?”

“Sure,” Mickey said. “When you weigh more than the bag.” He lifted it over Alex’s head and walked to the kitchen. Mercifully, no one (Mandy) was playing Ke$ha or Avril Lavigne.

After seeing Ian, it was hard not to pick out every little similarity between the two of them. He tried his best all the same.

Mandy came out from what used to be Mickey's room, her hair wrapped in a multi-colored towel and the top of her shirt damp. “I’d ask if you knew how long making myself beautiful takes, but I know you don't.”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, Georgette, whatever you say. Help me put away your prepper hoard. This cost us a hundred and seventeen dollars, in case you were wondering. And twenty five cents.”

“I definitely needed that exact number.” She grabbed the milk and stuck it in their -somehow- kinda stocked fridge.

“How big is a hundred?” Alex asked. He tried to peek over the counter and see where the food was being put.

“A hundred is five times twenty.” Mickey had to get creative with where he put the corkscrews. “Remember when we talked about five?”

“Yeah, but what's twenty?”

“Four fives stacked on top of each other.”

Alex made a face while he thought about it, clearly struggling to imagine a number that big. “... How big is twenty?”

“A hundred is a lot, bud,” Mandy said. “Sorry about him, he’s convinced everyone knows numbers like he does.”

“I know they don't,” he muttered. “Mrs. Allen and her fuckin’ new math shit.”

“What's new math?”

“Don't worry about it.”

It took a little longer to put everything away -Mandy really was preparing to feed an entire army for a month. By the time the last can of spaghetti-os was put away, and coffee brewed, Mickey was dead on his feet. He sent Alex to go watch TV, and he wanted to take the opportunity to get some sleep in finally. Regrettably, he needed to talk to Mandy now that they were alone.

“So, guess who I ran into at the store.”

Mandy took a long sip of her coffee. It was as good as a confession coming from her.

“Really?” He asked. “You knew he was back and you really didn't say anything? Not even a fucking ‘hey Mickey, your batshit crazy ex is back in town, you might run into him’?” He leaned back on the kitchen counter. “I just fuckin’ ran into him at the grocery store!”

“He is allowed in those,” Mandy pointed out dryly.

Mickey gave her a look. “You know what I fucking mean. I can't be here anymore.”

“According to him you agreed to text later.”

The fucking traitor. “You're talking to him?!”

“Dude, we’ve been talking for months.” Mandy took another sip. “We're gonna meet up today actually, assuming the state isn't totally shut down by 3.”

He scoffed. “Did you tell him where I was?”

“I have literally never mentioned you.”

“Are you gonna mention me?”

“No. But he asks about you.”

That stopped Mickey’s racing thoughts in their tracks for a moment. “He what?”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “I haven't told him shit,” she said. “Just that you're fine and as much of a bitch as ever.”

“I can't believe you.”

“What can't you believe?” She asked. “That I missed my best friend? Or that I haven't ratted you out?”

Neither. He believed her, she wouldn't tell anyone where he was without telling him first. Besides that, Ian and Mandy had been friends for years. They hadn't been close in a long time, not since she disappeared, but they had been once. “What I can't believe is that you didn't fucking warn me that he was out of jail.”

She had the decency to not dismiss him. “Well, we didn't exactly know if he would. The parole hearing was kinda up in the air.”

Mickey's mind went to what Debbie had said a few months ago. “Do you know why they let him out?”

“No. He didn't tell me the last time he called. Probably the normal reasons.” She didn't sound sure, though.

If Mickey still cared, he would have asked. Five years ago he wouldn't have even bothered interrogating Mandy and just talked to Ian. “He seem okay last time you talked to him?”

Pathetic, a voice hissed. He didn't bother to contradict it.

“As okay as he could be,” Mandy said. “You know, he’s gonna be around… Like, we just missed him last time you dropped him off with Debbie.”

Mickey groaned. “Well, if there is a lockdown, we won't have to worry about that.”

Ian

’Hey’
‘Mandy made me text you’

‘Oh’

‘she said she donnt hve ur number’

‘Okay’
‘Why didn't you just show her??’

‘she threayened me’
‘she says shes sorry she mussed your meetip’
‘she would gave gone anyways but she didn't thibk you would come’

‘Debbie’s making us all bathe in disinfectant’
‘I’m not going anywhere lol’

‘Fuck off with the text talk’

‘U said ur’

‘Stfu’ (Read, 4:56pm)

Chapter Text

The air was stale under the blanket. The kinda-scented detergent the Gallaghers used, a bit of mold from the dryer never fully working, Ian’s cologne and the faint scent of something uniquely him. Them, maybe, at this point.

Dreams escaped his grasp, filtering through his fingers like the smoke from a candle. They were happy, or he thought they were. The details escaped, more every passing second. He had a feeling in his gut what they were, though.

Reality never felt heavier, and neither had the crushing force of pure hatred for his own body and circumstances.

Light filtered through the worn fabric, but Mickey didn't move to pull it from his face. Hair tickled his eyelids, and somehow that was the least of everything on his mind.

Days like this had felt like they were on the way out. For those precious few months, when Mickey's body was his and he did what he wanted with it, he’d felt so… Himself. Sure, he fucking hated his body, but it'd been tolerable. He’d kept his hair short, worn douchey tank tops and baggy shorts, and for once in his life didn't give a fuck if anyone saw him and told his dad.

Living as Mickey Milkovich, instead of hiding himself away and wearing femininity as a shield, was probably the most free he’d ever felt. It wasn't easy, but he could throw hands with assholes if they had something to say. People looked at him, and they thought ‘that’s a man’. He’d been scoping out hormones, seeing if any of the fuckers who lost their medical license would chop off his tits. He’d been an out gay trans man, and the world hadn't ended.

Bizarrely, the world got brighter. His world was brighter. He’d been happy.

Then, he’d realized his period stopped. Suddenly his not-perfect-but-better life was collapsing out from under him, and he was scrambling for purchase on stacked suitcases.

Soon, everything would be back on track. Ian would perk back up. The mental illness, the kidnapping, it would all be behind them. Fuck, Mickey could even put the cheating and the porno behind him, if it meant he could get that bright future back.

(And could he really blame Ian for finding (multiple) someone(s) ? It wasn't like Mickey brought much to the table for a completely gay guy)

He bunched the blankets up around his chest. Every problem led back to that, didn't it? His fucking body not matching up to his brain and betraying him at every turn.

Sheets rustled, and the bed shifted behind him. He didn't turn to look, he didn't need to. Ian's back was pressed right up against his. He felt every knob in that scrawny little spine, every shallow breath. It wasn't being held, but it wasn't like Mickey would be a fan of that either.

Even under the blanket, the outside world made itself known. Snoring from the other two occupants was muffled, but even a closed door and thick-ish quilt couldn’t block out Fiona and Debbie’s arguing.

“We should get up,” he mumbled.

“Do we have to?” Ian asked. He spoke soft and slow, in a way that sounded impossibly tired.

“Well…” He didn't know if it would work, but he decided to give it a shot. “We don't have to get out of bed.”

For a second, he thought he might actually get somewhere. Instead, Ian rolled onto his back. “Not today,” he said quietly.

Don't take it personally, he told himself. The Internet said that one of the meds he was on -the antidepressant- would knock his sex drive clean out for a while. It wasn't anything about Mickey. (Not this time).

Ian put his arm over his eyes. “Do you think they’ll kill each other?”

“Who, your sisters?”

“Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t mind if Debbie won.”

Ian didn’t crack a smile, he didn’t even snort a little, but he moved his arm off his face. “I would.”

“Then we better get down there, ‘cause it sounds like she’s winning.” Mickey dragged himself out of bed. “It’s ‘prolly time for your meds anyways.”

The blankets rustled behind him as Ian pulled them up and over his face.

It was worrying the first time, but by day four it was starting to get funny. “Not really beating the vampire rumors there, red.”

“Fuck off,” Ian muttered.

Mickey got up and grabbed the three little bottles from the bedside table. “Can’t get rid of me that easy.” He shook out one pill from each into his hand. “C’mon, get it over with.”

A pale hand emerged from the nest of blankets, and Mickey dumped them into the waiting palm. “You gonna come out, or are you gonna keep hiding from the sun?”

That got the intended reaction of Ian actually sitting up, pills still in hand and not dumped somewhere in the blankets. The incident with Debbie and the baseball bat had spooked him enough that they probably wouldn’t have to worry about pill flushing or hiding for a little while longer. “Gatorade?”

Mickey grabbed the bottle and handed it over wordlessly. The fight was still going strong downstairs, and Carl was still snoring away in the top bunk. That kid could sleep through fucking anything, including his final days of freedom before being sent to juvie.

“Do you think if we let them keep going, they’ll wear each other out?” Ian asked. He’d propped himself up with the wall behind his bed.

“I don’t know man, they’re your sisters.”

“You have a sister your age.”

“And?”

“And? You guys never fought?”

“Fuck yeah we did. I’ve got three different fuckin’ bite scars from her.”

“Fiona doesn’t bite.”

“And Debbie does?”

Ian paused. “Not in a couple years.”

Fucking Gallaghers.

In a disappointing turn of events, the Gallagher sisters’ fight did not draw blood, and both walked away physically unscathed. After that, the various Gallaghers fucked off to do their own things.

Ian took up residence in his usual spot on the couch. One of the drugs was making him sleepy, so it wasn’t too long before he was dead to the world. Thankfully, that was the lynchpin of Mickey’s entire plan for the day.

He grabbed his coat from the back of a kitchen chair, checking that the coast was clear again. He didn't want an ambush, especially not by Fiona or another part of the Gallagher brood. The last thing he needed was an interrogation about where he was going or why.

Naturally, the moment he decided it was safe and stepped out the door, he found Debbie. She was sitting on the back stairs, staring at what had been the pool. Her hair was in some ridiculous puff on the top of her head, which he couldn't even imagine being fashionable with anyone but 12 year old girls. “Hey, you’re in the fuckin’ way.”

“Just go around,” she muttered. “Ignore me like everyone else in this fucking family.”

He did go around her, but he wasn't very careful to not kick her. “The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

He got an eye roll for his trouble. “Don't pretend like you care. I won't have to deal with all of you soon anyways.”

“What, you find yourself a new family to shack up with?”

“Yeah.” Debbie puffed herself up, all smug. “I did, actually.”

He didn't know what compelled him to stay and try to figure out what that meant, but he blamed it on the hormones. “What?”

She got this dreamy look on her face. “I met a guy, at the boxing gym,” she sighed wistfully. It reminded him of Mandy. “We’re gonna start a family.”

He didn't need a little sliver of ice to wedge itself in his chest, but it did. “That is a terrible fuckin' idea.”

“What? Because it didn't work for you?” Debbie asked.

“Because it never works,” he snapped. “You're going to ruin your fucking life.”

She huffed and got up, marching back inside. He didn't bother to watch her go. The entire conversation was excellent motivation to head to that appointment.

He wasn't an idiot. He had no delusions, at least none that he let see the light of day. He wasn't Debbie, and he had never been afforded the luxury of fooling himself like she had. Kid didn't know how good she hadn't, and she wouldn't until she fucked it all up. God knew he hadn't realized, not really.

A paper sign stared him in the face, taped to the inside of the glass door. ‘Closed- entire staff has COVID’.

The UberEats bag in Mickey's hands was empty, and some fucker’s order was never filled. The restaurant he was staring into, some kind of vegan BBQ place, was completely dark. From what he could see, the inside seemed frozen. There were bags of takeout sitting on the counter, right there.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he didn't bother digging it out to check. He ran the mental calculation for just how much money he’d lost between gas, wear on his already worn out car, and most importantly time lost. In the time it took him to get over here and see that the restaurant was already fucking closed, he could have actually made fucking money.

He tossed the bag across the console and slumped into the driver's seat. “Fuck.”

Streetlights had been on for a while -the clock on the dashboard read 9:38. It was still eerie, how empty the streets were now. June used to be when the city came to life. Now he half expected a zombie hoard to turn the corner, or an air raid siren to start blasting and warn of a nuclear attack.

The breeze came through his open windows, ruffling his hair and sending a chill down his spine. He leaned back, staring at the roof for a long moment. “Fuck it,” he muttered, and grabbed his phone to take himself off the app. He wanted to be home, and with the dinner rush over it wasn't like he’d be making any more money anyways. If he went home now, he might be able to beg Mandy for some of her leftovers.

He turned the key, and the car shook itself to life. The gas meter blinked at him, showing the needle was getting close to ‘E’.

Mickey groaned to himself, and threw the car into drive. He needed to find a new gig that didn't involve paying for gas. Gas prices had been great when he started this, but that was March and this was June. Everything was fucking spiking.

Weirdest thing of all about this pandemic was how post-apocalyptic everything felt.

As he turned the final corner to the gas station, he half expected to see a hoard of zombies. Luckily, the undead had yet to rise. Though at this point he wouldn't put it out of the question.

The lack of people didn't mean he let his guard down. It was still night, and he was still fully aware of what kind of people would be hanging around a gas station at this hour. Mostly because he had been one of them.

There were a couple of lights on, including inside the station, but more than not we're out. Shadows were long, and the hum of the fluorescent tubes was quieter than normal. Even the bugs that hung around the trash cans seemed to be taking the stay-at-home thing seriously.

The hair on the back of his neck was prickling. The quiet felt unnatural.

He stepped out of the car and went around the back. He got as far as putting the nozzle in the car before he noticed a shadow that was just out of place.

He went rigid for a moment, then forced himself to relax. Better to not let the guy stalking him know he's noticed. Instead, he feigned a casual disregard. Only an idiot would fall for it, but then again only an idiot would hide behind a trash can where his shadow was clearly visible.

The dumbass made his move after drawing out the whole thing for an embarrassingly long time. He lunged with his knife hand first, leaving him wide open and off balance. He also telegraphed his next move an hour in advance, so Mickey dodged easily and threw a punch. It landed squarely on his would-be mugger's cheek, sending them stumbling.

“Jesus- the fuck was that for?!”

He knew that voice. “Iggy?!”

He stepped back from his brother, who shook his head and peered up at him through lank, greasy hair. “Natty?”

Mickey's head jerked back. No one else was around to hear, but the paranoia was still there. “What the fuck?”

“Jesus, I didn't know if it was you!” Iggy stood up straight and grinned. “You're lookin’ so different!” He looked… not great. Maybe a little cleaner than the last time they’d seen each other. Granted, he was also hiding behind a trash can to jump anyone who came too close like a fuckin’ black widow.

“My name is Mickey,” he growled. “You know that, shithead.”

“Oh! Right, sorry, Na-Mickey.” He at least had the decency to look a little embarrassed. If it was for trying to jump his own brother or for messing up the name was anyone's guess. “What're you doin’ back?”

“Fuck off.” He put the nozzle back and started walking around the car. He hadn't really spoken to Iggy since he was 19, and he wasn't planning on breaking that streak.

“Hey! Wait, can I crash with you?” Iggy followed him and met him at the door. “I need a place, man.”

He didn't even have to think. “No!”

“Why not?!”

“I’m already crashing with someone,” Mickey said. It wasn't a lie, he was kinda crashing in Mandy's place. “I can't just bring you back.”

“Nat-”

“Mickey.”

“-I’ll pay rent.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Get the fuck off my car.”

Iggy scowled, and leaned more on the side of the car. “What, you shacked up with some guy?”

Mickey scoffed. “Fuck off, Iggy.” He got in the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him. The ignition took three tries to catch, because of course, but Iggy didn't stick around to stare at him as he left. Somewhere between Mickey's attempts to start the car, he melted back into the shadows from whence he came.

“Creepy motherfucker,” Mickey muttered under his breath. He’d honestly thought Iggy was dead in a ditch somewhere.

He had, however, hit a sore spot. Probably unintentionally, but Iggy'd always had a knack for finding the worst place to poke by accident. Since the clubs closed, things were tight. Mandy had lost her job at the local convenience store, and while she had found a new job at some cup place, they were closer to ‘checking the couch cushions for change’ than either of them wanted to be.

Iggy could pay 1,000 dollars a month and Mickey would still say fuck no, but that was besides the point. They probably could use another person.

He threw the car into drive. The conversation could happen in the morning- he’d definitely have to bring it up with Mandy before they even considered bringing another person into the house. It would have to be a team decision, and they'd been reasonably good at that lately.

Arriving at the house, he blamed his exhaustion on his lack of awareness. Usually, Mandy was still up when he got back, but the lights were off. If he’d been more aware, he probably would have noticed the living room windows glowing.

He opened the door with a shove, bleary eyed and looking forward to a cold beer and some reheated spaghetti. Instead, he walked into the middle of a conversation.

He blinked. Ian blinked. Mandy blinked.

The two of them were facing each other on either side of the couch like a couple of teenage girls. Ian’s duffle bag was on the floor next to him.

“The fuck are you doing here, Gallagher?” Mickey asked bluntly.

Ian tensed. He was on the couch. Mickey's couch. Mickey's fucking couch.

His eye twitched. “Get out.”

“Stay,” Mandy said. “Stop being an asshole, Mick.”

The absurdity of the situation was just this side of ‘Only in 20 fuckin’ 20’. Ian Gallagher, on his god damned couch, staring at him with the big green puppy dog eyes. He looked pathetic too, with a sweatshirt that was too small for him and bags under his eyes that made him look like a raccoon. And a scruffy, infuriatingly ginger beard. He was a fuckin’ wreck.

“I’m not being an asshole,” Mickey said. “I’m saying he needs to get the fuck out.”

“And I’m saying he stays.” Mandy didn't even blink. “It's my house, I decided who stays here.”

Mandy was only slightly right. It was her name on the deed. But he had fuckin’ rights! She couldn't just move him in because she felt like it. “He’s probably crawling with covid germs,” he argued. “And fleas.”

“I don't have fleas,” Ian said, voice small.

Mickey scoffed. “You went from prison to your family. You’ve definitely got fuckin’ fleas.”

“Ian and his fleas are staying,” Mandy said again. “He’s not a freeloader, he’s gonna pay rent.”

“With what job? He can't just fuckin’ waltz in here because you feel like letting him in! We have enough mouths to feed.”

He hoped the emphasis would make her remember her fucking nephew. And wasn't that a kicker too? Mandy just fucking brought Ian in like it wasn't going to blow up Alex’s entire life.

Ian decided to try again, like an idiot. “I’ve got a data entry job. My parole officer-”

There! “We can't have a fuckin’ felon in here.”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “That doesn't matter.”

“Yeah it does!”

“Are you secretly on parole or something?”

“No, but he is!” He pointed for good measure. “We can't have an arsonist in the house if someone comes around!”

“DCFS isn't gonna come sniffing around.” Mandy rolled her eyes and leaned back on the couch.

“You don't know that,” Mickey said at the same time as Ian said “DCFS?”

A bit of movement in the hallway caught his eye. It was behind Ian and Mandy, so they didn't notice, and thank fuckin’ God they didn't.

Mickey's attention zeroed in on Alex in the doorway, directly behind Ian. His hair was stuck up in a couple different ways, and he was in the middle of a giant yawn. Mandy had apparently put him to bed in one of his old Slipknot shirts, which was comically oversized and hilarious to see on a ginger four year old. In any other situation, he probably would have taken a picture and saved it to embarrass him as a teenager.

He didn't let anything show on his face, even as he tried to will Alex to just go back to bed.

“No one is going to call the fucking cops,” Mandy said, apparently mistaking his silence for contemplating CPS. Which he was still concerned about. “Ian's not not allowed near kids- unlike Debbie! You bring Alex around Debbie all the time.”

“That's different and you fucking know it!” “Who do you take around my sister?”

Mickey glared at Ian and Mandy in turn. “Can we go back to you-” he pointed at her, “inviting my fucking ex to live with me and…” He glanced at Alex, who was staring at him. He was still visibly sleep addled. Hell, he had a fucking pillow mark on his face.

His heart started hammering. He couldn't let Ian find out about Alex. It would- things would- he couldn't afford to let things change.

He watched Mandy follow his gaze. She seemed to finally notice her nephew in the doorway, and she hunched in on herself a little. Clearly, she hadn't thought of the bright red elephant in the room, that was now glaringly obvious to the one person Mickey never wanted to see.

He stared at Ian for what felt like an eternity as he looked behind himself, trying to find the spark of recognition. The realization that almost everyone else who saw Alex had made. There was nothing.

Alex blinked at them, looking between Mandy and Ian with a lot of confusion. “Who’re you?”

Mickey acted before he could think anything through. He blinked and he had Alex in his arms. “You're going back to bed,” he said firmly.

“No!” The tiny hellion struggled. “I don't wanna go to bed!”

“You're going to bed,” Mickey said. “This is a grown up conversation.”

“I'm a grown up!” Alex tried to insist. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Why are you even awake?” He tried to redirect his attention. “You had dinner.”

“I heard you talkin’. I wanted to see.” Another attempt to wiggle to freedom.

“You came, you saw. Now go back to your room.” He put Alex down and tried to shoo him away, but he stayed put. “Alex-”

“Who is that?” He pointed at Ian.

“No one important,” Mickey said. “He's leaving.”

“Mickey!” Mandy snapped. “Alex, this is-”

“Ian,” he said softly. “I’m… A friend of your… I’m friends with Mandy. She offered to let me stay.”

“Why?”

“Well…” Ian glanced at Mickey again. If there was a hidden meaning, it was lost. “I needed a new place to stay.”

“The fuck happened to your family?” Mickey asked.

Ian stared at the floor, tugging on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. It must have been someone else’s, because the cuff was above his wrist. “... I don't want to talk about it.”

“Can you lay off him now?” Mandy snapped.

Little traitor that he was, the kid crept up until he was half hidden behind his legs. “Why’s your hair orange?”

That seemed to catch Ian off guard. “Well, why’s yours?”

“My hair is red. Daddy said so.”

“Well so‘s mine.”

“No, it's orange.”

“Red.”

“Orange!”

“Kid, this is not what I meant when I said you gotta start learning colors,” Mickey said. “Leave Ian and his weird hair alone.”

He glanced up, expecting a withering glare, and what he saw was worse. Ian was giving him this impossibly soft look, like what he was watching was cute.

Mickey glared back at him for a moment, then returned his attention to Alex. “What do you say?”

“Sorry,” Alex mumbled. Silence followed, letting Mickey think for five goddamn seconds.

He wasn't satisfied with Ian's answers. Not even close. But -and he hated himself for thinking ‘but’... The conversation he’d had with Iggy came to mind. They needed extra money. Badly. The money Mandy brought in was enough for bills. Mickey covered food. It wasn't enough to pay back the Chromebook Alex needed for Headstart, or for more than cheap ass pasta and what they could stuff in their jackets. Another paycheck would free up more money for better food, and they could leave the doomsday stash for emergencies.

What was there against Ian, anyways? A felony conviction? Mickey killed his sister/cousin, and Mandy was a hooker. This was a house of felons. And Ian was acting relatively normal. He couldn't traumatize Alex forever if neither of them figured anything out- and if no one said anything, he probably wouldn't.

Admitting that his concerns weren't entirely rational was… Embarrassing. His pride was worth significantly less than food, though. He’d put more aside for less. If he could somehow confirm that Ian would not know, could never know, then maybe he could even be comfortable with this situation.

Everything else aside, he knew he wasn't winning this. Mandy was not budging, and even Ian was better to have around than Iggy. This wasn't a full retreat, just a tactical surrender. “I’m not gonna be all buddy buddy,” he said. “But… Fine. We’ll talk later. She owns the house, you two work out money.”

Mandy raised her eyebrows, but Ian visibly sagged with relief. For a reason Mickey couldn't quite parse out, he even smiled.

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” he mumbled. “Alex, come on. Conversation’s over.”

Alex stayed and stared at Ian. “Are you Auntie Debbie’s brother?”

“Uh… Yeah, I am. She's my little sister.”

For a brief, terrifying moment, Mickey and Ian locked eyes.

This is it, Mickey thought to himself. Either he realizes, or he never will.

“Guess that makes me uncle Ian?” There was an attempt at a joking tone, but it fell flatter than his singing voice.

Alex tilted his head slightly. “I’ll just call you Ian,” he said.

That was more than enough. “Okay bud, you're going to bed.”

“No!”

“Conversation’s over, so you're going back to sleep.”

“But-”

“Alex!” He snapped. “You're going the fuck to bed.”

That got him to stop, and he reluctantly looked at the floor. “Okay.”

“You gonna walk by yourself? Or do I have to carry you?”

Mutely, he put his hands up. Mickey scooped him up and took the golden opportunity to escape.

Alex had been really excited to have his own room, when they were solidifying room picks. He’d gotten what used to be Iggy and Colin’s room (after Mickey and Mandy found every possible hiding spot for guns or drugs). It was pretty personalized now, walls covered in drawings and brand new sheets on the bed. Toys scattered all over the floor, even a little bookshelf- with real books. It was the kind of room Mickey would have killed for as a little kid, especially since Alex had it entirely to himself.

Damn kid had no idea how good he fucking had it, and he kept pulling shit that he knew he shouldn’t. If he’d done any of that around Terry-

Fucking Terry. He needed to not think about what Terry would do. Do the opposite of what Terry would do.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and forced himself to take a deep breath. “Do you understand why I was mad?”

“No,” Alex mumbled.

Pulling his own teeth out would be easier than this. “I was mad… Because you didn’t listen to me. You need to listen when I tell you to do something.”

“But why?” Alex looked at him with those big blue eyes, all those freckles dotting his face like stars. How could anyone want to hurt someone who looked at them like that?

“Because you just need to,” he said. “It’s that or bad shit happens.”

“What kinda’ bad shit?”

“You could get hurt, that kind of bad shit.”

“... Is Ian bad?”

“No,” Mickey lied through his teeth. “Ian’s fine.”

“You were mad at ‘im.”

“That was for grown up reasons. You don’t gotta worry about that.”

Alex looked at his blanket. “Okay.”

It was impossible to know if he’d said the right thing, or screwed up everything all over again. All Mickey could think to do was wrap this all up. “Go to sleep, okay? Things’ll be evened out by morning.”

Alex rolled onto his stomach. “Goodnight,” he told the pillow.

“Sleep well,” he said quietly. He was careful not to make too much noise as he left, and left the door cracked open so a sliver of light would shine through. He couldn’t afford a nightlight, so this was the best he could do.

Another tactical retreat. He needed to regroup, get his footing back after everything that happened. Without Alex to occupy his mind, the weight of everything slammed back onto his shoulders. And he was too fucking tired for this.

He marched down the hall, his mind on food and a beer. He'd been saving them for when he needed a fucking drink, and God did he need one.

Mandy and Ian were still talking on the couch, voices hushed. He didn't bother listening to what they said. “Mandy!”

Mandy’s head jerked up, and she shot him a filthy look. “The fuck do you want?”

“Can I have your leftovers?”

“Sure, whatever,” Mandy said. “Is that seriously it?”

Mickey didn't dignify her with a response, and headed for the fridge.

“He hasn't changed much,” Mandy said, probably assuming he wouldn't hear her. “Still as much of an asshole as ever.”

If Ian said anything in response, Mickey didn't hear it and he definitely did not care. He dug an old take-out container of shitty mac and cheese out of the fridge, and an Old Style to go along with it. He tossed the food in the microwave, popped off the cap and took a long sip. It tasted as awful as it had the first time he tried it nearly 20 years before, except this time he didn't care. He needed to be intoxicated if he was going to be reckoning with having Ian back in his life.

A floorboard creaked, and Mickey tensed immediately and focused on the source of the noise. “No.”

Ian put his hands up. “I just want to talk!”

“Fuck off.”

“I didn't know,” Ian said. “If I knew you were living with her-”

“It doesn't fuckin’ matter.” He took a long sip of his beer. “You pay rent on time, we aren't gonna have a problem. Nothin’ to talk about.”

“There's a lot to talk about,” he snipped.

Mickey raised an eyebrow. That almost sounded like Ian. “Oh? Like what, tough guy?”

“Like that- I’m living here. And so’s your kid.” Apparently that little flash was all he was getting, because he went back to the nervous little bitch he’d been earlier. “If you're worried about that..”

Mickey took another swig. “‘m not,” he muttered. “Alex knows to scream if anyone but me tries to take ‘im anywhere.”

Ian winced, but he relaxed a little. “I won't- do crazy shit,” he said. “I’m on my meds. Have been since I got home.”

Ah, so that's why he was in the hole so much. “Sure, Gallagher.”

“I mean it,” Ian said, almost desperately. “I was good for years before that. Ask Lip-”

“I’m not askin’ Lip,” Mickey scoffed. The microwave beeped.

“Then- I don't know! I can't prove it-”

“The fuck makes you think you have anything to prove?”

That seemed to grind whatever little train he’d gotten on to a halt. “Huh?”

Mickey set his half empty beer down on the counter behind him. It would almost definitely leave a condensation stain, and it could join the hundreds of others. “This?” He gestured between the two of them, “we’re roommates. You keep your nose out of my shit, I’ll keep my nose out of yours. So we don't need to trust each other, or any other bullshit.” He went to grab his pathetic little dinner, brushing right past Ian in the process.

The look he got in response reminded him that it was a foreign concept to the Gallagher family to not be up in everyone's business. “So we just… ignore each other.” It was phrased as a question, but said as a statement. “We live in the same house, eat the same food-”

Share a kid, Mickey thought as he grabbed a fork.

“-but you ignore me and I ignore you?”

“Ideally,” Mickey muttered. “You done bein’ a bitch about this?”

“I’m-”

“Great, I’m eating my dinner. Get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

Ian did the kicked-puppy look again, but Mickey looked away. “I- okay.”

The floor creaked as Ian walked away. He didn't relax until he heard the quiet drone of conversation start up again between him and Mandy.

He picked his beer back up and took another long sip. He’d need a lot of alcohol to deal with this. Regrettably, one beer was far from enough to do him in, even on an empty stomach.

He scarfed down as much of his dinner as possible -which wasn't much- and downed the rest of his beer. It wasn't even enough to make him sleepy, but hopefully exhaustion could take care of that.

They were still in the living room, and Mickey ignored them both as he went back to his room. It used to be Mandy's, and before even that they’d shared. For a reason he’d never been able to figure out, she hadn't even gone near it since they moved in. He wasn't questioning it- he liked not dealing with the path to the bathroom being his fucking room. If Mandy liked that, all the more power to her.

He kicked off his jeans and fell face first into his bed, ignoring the rest of his routine and trying to just fall the fuck asleep. The sooner today was over, the better.

He woke up with his fist in the air, swinging at absolutely nothing. His dream clung to his hands and hips, lingering on his body in a way he’d never truly been able to erase. His heart hammered in his ears, but he swallowed the instinct to scream.

It wasn't as bad as it was. His stomach just rolled, instead of clawing at his insides in a desperate attempt to free itself. He couldn't even remember what the dream had been about, or what had woken him up.

A floorboard creaked, and almost on instinct he pinpointed where it was- just outside his door. He couldn't get any more tense than he already was.

Memories flashed through his head like warning lights. Even when, logically, he had nothing to be scared of. He puffed himself up anyways. “Who's there?”

The door creaked as it opened a bit more. “Daddy?”

Tension sloughed off him. “What's wrong, gingerbread?”

The door opened all the way, and his little shadow slipped into his room and closed the door behind him. “I- I thought you missed me,” he said, voice shaky. “I thought you were sad.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Alex said, a little more sure of himself. “I’m tough. I’m not scared at all.”

It was the most transparent thing the kid had ever said, which was definitely saying something. “Okay kid. I’m not scared either, but if you want to stay-”

He didn't finish talking before Alex was burrowing under the covers next to him. “Hug?” He asked, voice muffled by the blanket.

“C’mere.” He pulled Alex into his arms. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Falling asleep was a little easier that time around.