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sam-loves-seb · 8 months

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wip wednesday

happy wip wednesday !!

haven't done one of these in a while but i have so many wips going on right now that i haven't and/or can't start posting yet and i'm itching to get some of this out there in the world

tagging: anyone who wants to share a bit of their wip !

this one's going to be kind of a longer one so i'll put it under the cut:

***

Ian stands frozen on the floor.

He thinks he can make it back to the kitchen without Mickey seeing him if he moves now, right fucking now before he finishes paying and turns around, so Ian tries to scoop up his bin, the table only half cleared, but he bangs his knee into the side of the booth and the silverware rattles loudly.

Mickey looks over at him suddenly, and it’s like Ian can’t breathe.

There’s a buzz—a thrill—that thrums through his body. It starts just under his sternum and goes all the way out to his fingers and his toes. His face feels hot, his cheeks definitely pink by now, and his hands twitch on the bin, suddenly too energized to stay still.

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters, then turns back to Fiona. “Does your whole fucking family work here now, or did you guys move into the back room?”

“It’s just me and Ian,” she tells him easily, handing him his change. “Debbie’s… visiting.”

Debbie makes a noise. “Debbie is just trying to eat her pancakes while she gets harassed by her bitch of a sister.”

Ouch. Ian watches the near imperceptible flinch on Fiona’s face and knows that one had to hurt.

“What for?” Mickey asks, glancing at Ian again briefly before turning his attention on Debbie.

That look is enough to get Ian moving again, quickly clearing away the lasts of the coffee mugs and water cups. He feels… He doesn’t know what he feels. Only knows that he does feel which is more than he’s been able to say in a long time.

“She wants to kill my baby,” Debbie answers.

“What baby?”

“The one growing inside of me.”

“You’re pregnant?” Mickey asks incredulously, eyebrows jumping high before furrowing in confusion. “You’re like… twelve.”

Debbie glares at him. “I’m fifteen.”

“Same shit.”

“Mickey!” Fiona says suddenly, like she just had an idea. “You have a kid.”

Mickey blinks. “Yeah.”

“Can you talk some sense into Debbie and tell her how much it sucks?”

Ian’s hand hovers over the last mug he sets in the bin. He waits for it, turns his head and looks for it.

Mickey thumbs his lip, sort of shrugs. “S’not that bad.”

Fiona rolls her eyes.

Debbie beams.

And Ian? Well, Ian fucking laughs.

It’s a short, single puff of air, but it’s loud enough to get Mickey’s eyes back on him. He glares at Ian, his jaw clenched and his eyes cold, and it makes Ian’s blood sing.

“Since when?” Ian spits out in pure disbelief.

“Since none of your fucking business,” Mickey bites back without hesitating.

Ian opens his mouth to reply, but—

“Maybe if you’d actually stuck around, you’d know.”

Ian flinches at that. His body actually lurches back half an inch like he’s been burned, and he starts to remember the kind of pain the boy standing across from his is capable of inflicting.

He kind of wants him to do it again.

“Okay, Mickey,” is all he says instead.

He grabs his bin full of dirty dishes and turns towards the kitchen, reveling in the feel of Mickey’s eyes on the back of his head the entire way there.

Once he’s out of sight though…

Ian drops the bin loudly on the counter. “Fuck!” he whisper-shouts, running his hands through his hair.

He feels like he might die. Like his heart is beating so hard it’ll break his ribs, like it’ll beat right out of his chest. His body is on fucking fire, and his hands are shaking.

He’s… angry.

He thinks.

Ian honestly can’t tell the difference anymore. Ever since he got on his meds, even after they stabilized him and leveled him out, he’s been in this fog. It’s thick and it’s heavy and it makes everything feel almost exactly the same.

Like nothing at all.

Until Mickey fucking Milkovich walks into his place of work and orders lunch and talks to his sisters like he knows them well—because he does, doesn’t he? He knows them better than most after all the time he’s spent at the Gallagher house over the last few years.

He looks at them like they were friends, once, maybe. In another life. But he looks at Ian with hatred in his curled fists and anger in his clenched jaw and something—something—that he’s desperate to hide behind the cold, empty façade in his eyes.

And Ian—yeah, Ian kind of hates him a little bit too.

But there’s more, so much more, bubbling just under the surface, just out of reach, and as Ian is desperate to grasp at it, to understand it, the adrenaline from the confrontation starts to ebb. The fog starts to settle around his peripheral once again, and he puts his palms on the edge of the sink and curls his fingers over the edge, gripping hard to the cool metal basin.

***

-- an excerpt from a sbb fic coming to an archive near you in 2024

#can't wait for ppl to start reading this one #i'm very excited about it #okay now i gotta go keep writing bc it's still not done oops #anyways #gallavich #wip wednesday

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catgrassplantdad · 2 years

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happy birthday to our dear sweet mel, our tomato ian monarch, a beloved and important presence here. i love you @gardenerian and i've written you something short and sweet. i hope you enjoy!

continue below the cut, or read on ao3 💙🍅✨🌸

It’s a beautiful day, one of the first nice days of the year. It’s the kind of warm that leaves you feeling chilly as soon as you’re in the shade. But they’re going to sit right in the sunlight, Ian thinks, tugging Mickey along by the hand.

He thought this was going to take some convincing, but all he had to do was suggest it. Mickey was itching to get outside too, it seemed. Now they’re trudging through the grass, blanket under Ian’s arm and Mickey’s hand in his.

There are a lot of people around, but the park is big, and it isn’t so crowded that they have to set their blanket up anywhere near other people. They can have their bubble. Ian’s grateful for that, and he knows Mickey is, too.

They find their perfect spot in the sun a few yards away from a cluster of trees and spread out the ratty little throw blanket they pulled out of their closet before heading out. They settle down, and Ian laughs at the way Mickey grunts like an old man as he gets comfortable on the ground.

Ian sits with his legs crossed and pulls his backpack into his lap.

“Is it weird that I kinda want to take my shoes off?” he asks.

“Huh. I dunno. I guess not,” Mickey replies with a shrug.

That’s good enough for him. He takes his sneakers off and sets them aside in the grass.

He knows Mickey’s after the potato chips, so he hands him one of the small bags he packed. Ian holds off on enjoying the food for now and cracks open a can of seltzer.

They sit in comfortable silence, Mickey munching away. The bright and constant noise of other people around them isn’t bothering him, but Ian finds himself looking for the silence in between all the sounds. All the quiet that’s in there. Some meditation technique he learned about in one of those yoga classes he checked out.

It’s hard to find, and so he gladly embraces the cheerful noise.

He brings his hands behind himself and braces them in the grass, leaning back and propping himself up. He lets his fingers sink lightly into the dirt, he lets it get under his nails.

He instinctively closes his eyes, face finding the sun and basking in it. It smells so good. Grass and dirt and sunlight. The way the air always smells different when the world is newly golden and warm.

He lets his idle thoughts carry on aimlessly for a while, sunlight blanketing him and shaking loose some of that residual wintry melancholy, feeling bits of it falling away. Glorious contentment. He has to savor it, has to savor everything around him.

So he opens his eyes. Because he wants to savor the sight of his husband in the sun.

He’s set aside his empty chip bag. His eyes are closed and his face is relaxed as it rests in his hand, elbow propped on his knee. Ian loves that face, those plush lips at rest in a perpetual pout, dark eyelashes casting little shadows on his cheeks. He likes seeing the brown tones in his hair in this light. He likes how his soft cheek is squished against his hand.

Ian’s heart clenches as he drinks it all in.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hmm?” Mickey replies, opening his eyes.

And Ian’s not sure what he wants to say. He wants to connect with him.

He wants to share something with him.

So he says:

“C’mere, I made a caprese salad.”

Mickey scrunches his face up.

“Salad?” He’s rightfully skeptical.

“It’s like fifty percent cheese,” Ian tells him. “Come try it.”

He’s being sweet. He knows he’s giving Mickey that little smile he likes. Besides, it’s something he made. Of course Mickey is going to try it for him.

Mickey looks at him for a moment, and then he moves in. He faces Ian and gets his feet on either side of him, his knees bent and resting against Ian’s ribs in a sort of straddle. Ian uncrosses his legs and spreads them wider on either side of Mickey.

And this feels even more perfect, their closeness and contact. The sun is warm. Mickey is warm. Facing each other like this, their hearts reaching out to each other. Everything feels so easy and beautiful.

Ian reaches for the backpack and pulls out a small plastic container and a fork. He pulls the lid off, and the smell of the basil makes him mmm in delight.

The ingredients are from the big chain grocery store, so he doesn’t think he made anything special. But it’ll be delicious.

And he’ll get to grow some of his own ingredients later in the season. Something he’s looking forward to and has been yearning for.

He takes the first bite and mmms again. He loves this. It’s something so simple and so satisfyingly luscious. Big, leafy strips of basil. A little balsamic. Cherry tomatoes cut in half and still bursting as he chews. Enough soft little balls of fresh mozzarella to entice Mickey to try some. He gathers some on the fork for him, making sure it’s a perfect bite with all the components, and he holds it out for him to take.

Instead of taking the fork, Mickey leans in and parts his lips. Heart fluttering and staring at him in wonder, Ian feeds it to him and watches those lips close around the fork before sliding back.

He chews thoughtfully, then looks to Ian’s face. After a moment, he nods in approval.

“Yeah, it’s good,” he says, still chewing.

Ian smiles proudly. “I’m glad,” he says.

They share time and food and warmth and light together. They share breath. They get close and make everything fall away around them. They finish their snacks. They take their fill of staring at each other in the sun. They chat softly about nothing. They kiss once, a gentle and lingering press. They go slow. It feels so easy.

They sit until the sun is dipping behind the trees, casting lacy light over Mickey’s face and dropping the temperature enough to give them goosebumps. And then they pack up and start walking, fingers loosely woven together, quiet and sweet. They savor each step in the grass before reaching the sidewalk, squinting against the sun as they walk back to their home.

Full of light, warmth reaching down into their very souls, connected as ever.

#is this just me saying that i want mel to straddle me while i feed them next time we have a picnic? well. i'm not saying no.#i love you so much you magnificent creature! happy birthday #gallavich fic #my fic #gallavich

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howlinchickhowl · 2 years

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this was not what i intended to write today, but i got caught up in the mickey x lip best bro-ship madness (thanks to @gardenerian, @baguetteslut, @celestialmickey) and inspired by the @galladrabbles prompt for this week from @flamingbluepanda, and this happened! It is not exactly 100 words long...but it is 6.7 times as long as that, so I feel like that counts?? maybe?? Right?!

anyway, whatever it is, it's here:

They're clearing away after dinner when Lip and Tami show up.

“Where’s the kids?” Lip asks, pulling Ian into a one-armed hug and dropping a couple of knitting patterns on the table with a nod in Mickey’s direction.

“Tory’s room.” Mickey replies, all three of them had piled in there as soon as the last piece of pizza was gone. “Where’s your hair?”

Self-conscious, Lip scrubs one hand over his very closely-shaven head, a head that had had at least a half a head of hair on it this morning when Mickey had dropped Tory off for the school run.

“Ah”, Lip ducks his head with that squinting grimace he does, “the guy got a little excited.”

Tami snorts from over by the stove where she is picking pieces of zucchini out of the salad, and Lip shoots her a sharp glare.

“He found a gray hair.” She announces to the room, seemingly unaware of the daggers Lip is throwing her way. “Had a mid-life crisis in the car this morning, it was a whole big thing.”

“Christ Tami!”

“What? I was gonna ending up telling Ian later after a couple of drinks anyway, and you know he would tell Mickey, I don’t know why you pretend you can keep secrets.”

Lip rolls his eyes with a huff and skirts around the table to go say hi to the kids. Ian winces with second-hand guilt as he goes. Mickey and Tami just meet each other’s eyes and shrug.

“You ready to go?” Tami asks Ian, her feet clearly itching in her dancing shoes. His husband nods and gathers his wallet, jacket and keys, giving Mick a peck on the cheek and ushering her out the door.

It’s a few minutes before Lip emerges from the bedroom, salad’s all boxed up and Mickey’s popped a beer while he puts the last of the dishes away.

He stops at the edge of the kitchen area, hands shoved in his back pockets, and they regard each other for a moment, quiet.

“What’s up Grandpa?” Mickey says eventually, just to cut through the weirdness. He’s trying to keep it light, he learned nearly a decade ago that shitting on Lip is no fun when it actually makes him feel shitty.

“Fuck off Mickey.” Lip grumbles, not quite in the pit of despair yet, though clearly sensitive.

Mickey wonders how he’ll feel, when his time comes. Or Ian’s. If Lip’s there now they can’t be far behind. He’s growing thick wiry hairs in new places and sneezing so loud you could wake his entire army of dead nazi relatives. He’s ageing. They all are. And it’s hard to know how to feel about it.

They are quiet, and his eyes drift to the box sitting by the balcony doors, delivered yesterday and yet to be opened. Assorted yarn from some dead lady’s knitting stores, he’d paid six bucks for it on ebay without knowing what was in it. That’s the kind of shit he did these days. Old Man Milkovich, buying yarn on the internet to share with his Geriatric Gallagher brother-in-law. If his fifteen year old self could see him now.

“Hey uh, estate sale lucky dip thing got delivered yesterday.”

“Oh yeah?” Lip looks relieved at the change of topic, and kind of psyched about the yarn, Jesus Christ they’re barely even forty.

“Wanna look through? Might be some shit you can use for Sockathon or whatever.”

“Yeah cool. Smoke first?” He nods, and they both move in the direction of the balcony, Lip patting his pockets for his smokes.

Mickey sidles up as they walk and gets a hand on the back of Lip’s head, fucking weird and bristly, he remembers hating Ian’s when he buzzed it in prison.

“Just try not to get upset if there’s any gray stuff in there.” He jokes, giving Lip’s head a hard shove and dodging away from the shove that comes in return.

“Suck a dick, Mickey.”

Later, Mickey thinks, with glee. Later, he's gonna. Lip probably doesn't wanna know though, it is his baby brother's dick after all.

#fic #i wrote this #lip x mickey best bro-ship #btw sockathon. if you're interested. is a thing I made up that Lip started when he got involved with the PTA at Fred's school #because gentrification or not there's still kids who are without enough warm clothes in the winter #so Lip started a thing with the other PTA moms where they knit socks for kids who need socks #and once a year they do a 24 hour thing where they camp out in the gymnasium and drink too much coffee and knit for sponsorship money

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arrowflier · 3 years

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How about 20 & 66?

Oops, look like I have more of these! I’ll be sprinkling them in around other prompts.

Restaurant AU + Partners in Crime

When an old client from Ian's club days calls him up to offer him a host position at a new restaurant for Chicago's elite, he jumps on the opportunity before anyone can talk him out of it. He's not all that excited to work for a man that still sees him as meat, but the family needs the money, and picking up minimum wage shifts at the diner isn't cutting it anymore.

And it works out okay, really. It's harder than he expected, and the starched uniform itches at his pride, but at least the leers are accompanied by a large tipout and he gets to keep his clothes on. And he's focused, and he's good at it, and it earns him a manager position in a matter of weeks.

Which is great, except...

Except for the unfairly attractive line cook with the bad attitude and tattooed hands that he's pretty sure is running some kind of drug business out of the restaurant's kitchen.

The first time he notices, he writes it off. Maybe there was a delivery he didn't know about, some new vendor or something, that would explain the shifty looking guys crowding the back alley door every time Mickey--that was his name, Mickey Milkovich--happened to take a smoke break.

But after a few more incidents--including a guy trying to get through the front door until Mickey himself shows up to drive him off--Ian has had it. He hides in the alley, waits for Mickey's break, and listens.

"You got the stuff?" some vagabond rasps as soon as the back door cracks open.

"Christ, Kenny, hold your fuckin' horses," Mickey grumbles as he slips out, waiting for the door to slam shut again before continuing. “You tryna get me fired or somethin’, runnin’ your mouth like that?”

“Sorry boss,” the guy says, cowed. “Just need to make a drop real soon.”

“Yeah, alright,” Mickey answers him, and Ian peeks over the top of the dumpster he’s hiding behind to see him dig in his back pocket. “Business first, I can respect that.”

He passes something over. A little bag of something powdered, not more than a few grams.

“Now get outta here so I can have my fucking smoke,” Mickey orders, and the man slinks out of the alley, in the opposite direction of where Ian’s still hidden.

Ian slides back down behind the dumpster, careful to be quiet. He was right, he thinks. Mickey’s no good, and he needs to do something about it.

He hears the snick of a lighter, the heavy drag Mickey takes on a cigarette. He just needs to wait until he finishes, and head back inside, and then he can find the owner and—

"I know you're there, firecrotch," Mickey says, words shaped around his smoke. "Could see your fuckin hair a mile away."

And get caught. Fuck.

He thinks for a second about pretending Mickey is wrong. Staying put until he gives up and goes inside. But Mickey doesn’t seem the type to let things go that easily, and Ian has some things to say to him, anyway.

So he pushes himself back to his feet, and moves around the edge of the dumpster. Leans there, hands in his too-tight uniform pockets.

“And I could see your deal go down from that far, too,” he starts with. “Not exactly subtle.”

Mickey snorts, cigarette bobbing between his lips.

"Yeah? You gonna tell on me?"

He doesn't sound as concerned as he should for a man about to lose his job.

“Why wouldn't I?" Ian asks.

Mickey eyes him, finally takes the cigarette out of his mouth with two fingers.

"Cause that old grey fucker don't deserve your loyalty just for givin’ you a mediocre paycheck," he says, and that isn’t what Ian expected at all.

"And you do?" he asks, instead of asking Mickey what he knows about Ian’s position. "You're selling drugs in an alley, Mickey,” he adds for good measure. “Not to mention putting this business—my paycheck—at risk.”

Mickey looks away, at that. Brings the cigaratte back up for another drag before stomping it out beneath his non-slip shoe.

"Nah, you're right,” he says easily. “I'm no good.”

The way he says it almost has Ian wanting to correct him, which is stupid. But Mickey isn’t done.

“I'm not the one puttin’ things at risk around here, though,” he shares. “At least my clients know what they're gettin’."

Ian blinks.

“What does that mean?”

“Means come for drugs, they get drugs,” Mickey says. He takes a step forward, closer to Ian, then another.

“Not like these rich fuckers,” he adds, gesturing back to the restaurant, “thinkin’ they're gettin’ the best when it's just street grub laced with psychedelics.”

Oh. Shit.

“You’re not serious,” Ian says slowly, trying to wrap his brain around the accusation. “He would never…”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. And Ian lowers his estimation of their employer.

“Fuck, he would, wouldn’t he,” Ian groans, and Mickey’s little smirk is the most offensive thing he’s ever seen.

“Shouldn't we tell someone?” he asks, rhetorical, and Mickey shakes his head with a dry laugh.

“Why?” he retorts, head tilted like he’s trying to figure Ian out. “Who cares about those rich fucks? They sure as hell don't care about you.”

Mickey glances down Ian’s frame and up again, eyes glinting in a way Ian was well familiar with.

“Hell, Sloan bragged he got you cheap cause you're a stripper."

Ian swallows. So people did know, then.

“I'm not,” he feels like it’s important to say. “I mean, not anymore.”

Mickey’s grin is slow.

“Didn't say you were,” he says, and drags his eyes up and down again. “Fucking shame, though.”

Ian doesn’t have time to process that before Mickey is backing away, headed back to the door that leads inside.

“So what are ya gonna do?” he asks when he reaches it, stopping with one hand on the knob. “Go running to pops, hope he gives ya a pat?”

He smirks, like he knows how low that hits.

“Or are you gonna cover for me?”

Later, Ian will say he thought about it. That he considered the benefit of turning him in, weighed it against the cost. That he realized there was a better choice, realized what it could do for him, for his family, and came to his decision.

But then, in the moment, all he can see are Mickey’s knowing eyes, and the sardonic twist of his lips. And he wants to see them change, wants to see a whole host of other expressions on that face.

“Neither,” he says, and steps forward to crowd Mickey against the door. “I want in.”

#daily speedwrite #trope mashup #fanfic adjacent #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #feel free to expand #probably won't crosspost this one cause it's more of an elaborate prompt than a fic

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gardenerian · 3 years

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I'm thinking about when they stole the ambulance all the medical equipment must've been inside so Ian takes all that and saves it for when it could come in handy. Included in that is a stethoscope and Ian and Mickey take turns listening to each others hearts

oh my god oooh my god oh my god ohhh my goddddddddd

after a long day of getting robbed, of lou, of hiding a fucking body, mickey parks their contraband a couple of blocks from the house. he starts the walk home, already grumbling about dinner and a beer, but ian hangs back for a moment.

he runs a hand along the side of the rig as he walks around it. it's familiar, all hard and smooth beneath his fingers. sturdy and reliable.

steady, just like he remembers. like he was, then.

like maybe he's about to be again.

he hears mickey take a sharp breath behind him where he'd stopped his walk. ian turns back and holds up a finger. just a minute. mickey nods, smiling a little.

ian opens up the back and hops in. his body reacts immediately, blood pumping and fingers itching to touch, to care. it feels like there should be some urgency, like the siren should be blaring and he should be flying towards a scene.

instead, he's on the side of the road in his own neighborhood after stealing this fucking thing.

ian swallows down the fear over what they just did, letting his eyes wander over the the cot, the trauma board, the defibrillator. it'll all have to go. cleared out for guns and cash.

it hurts to think about, just a little.

ian's hands move before his brain can catch up, and suddenly he's grabbing at all the plastic drawers, searching out anything he can stuff in his backpack. masks, medical tape, thermometers, stethoscope. basic essentials for any ghetto nurse. or any uncle with a niece that likes to play doctor.

he slaps the side of the ambulance as he hops out, shutting the doors and taking a deep, bracing breath. this is how he uses these now. maybe there's something poetic about that. he made his way back to the rig after all, but now he's riding with his husband, picking up stockpiles of cash instead of stitching wounds.

it's not the same. maybe that's okay. he'll figure it out later. for now he tugs on mickey's arm, and they walk quietly back to the house for dinner.

later, as they're lying in bed, ian pulls the stethoscope from his bag. he ignores mickeys the fuck? as he puts the earpieces in his ears and places the diaphragm over his own heart.

"you hear that?"

mickey nods.

"we did something insane today."

"sounds like you're worried," mickey tells him, gesturing to his chest.

"i am. i'm not supposed to do insane things. but..."

"yeah?"

"i don't know, it was wild. being in there. with you. flipping the siren on and seeing you there. i'm nervous this is gonna blow up in our faces but - that thumping means i'm alive, y'know?"

mickey smiles and takes the earpieces out, putting them in ian's this time. he puts the diaphragm over his heart and raises an eyebrow.

"sound good in there, doc?"

"very strong, very steady. excellent."

"you're damn right. you know i'd never put you in danger, right?"

"we might have put ourselves on a direct path back to prison today, mick, and i don't think you can help that. but i trust you. we'll figure it out."

"we're not going back to - "

"shh. shut up, i'm trying to listen. i love this sound."

#sorry i made this a THING #but anon oh my god #how had i not considered this!!!#you're amazing ily #and wowowoweeee #this was one of those things #where if you don't write for a while it feels WEIRD and stunted #so apologies if this is not... y'know.. good 🤕#all queued up!

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y0itsbri · 3 years

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Hi Bri 🥰

C-16 if you'd like to 👀

Coffee dates and disasters

au with college!lip and barista!mandy where ian is a frequent visitor at the campus café and meets mickey under rather unfortunate circumstances. don't cry over spilled milk, buddy.

which also fits under a.u.gust for @gallavichthings

words: 2.4k

"never would have thought you the type to come to one of these places," ian mused, looking around the small café with only lamps and string lights illuminating the space. "can't believe college changed you, man," ian clutched at his heart dramatically.

"don't worry. 'm still the annoying bastard you love so dearly," lip squeezed ian's shoulder before he sauntered up to the counter.

the barista's bored expressed brightened when she saw them. her perky demeanor was matched by a high pitched voice, "hey lip," she smiled, dark lipstick striking. she appraised ian with a somewhat predatory eye, "hello, lip's friend."

"uh, brother," ian coughed.

lip rolled his eyes, "and he's gay so don't even try it, mandy."

she pouted and flicked her hair behind her shoulder, "not that it's any of your business, anyways."

ian chuckled besides him, drawing another smile out of mandy, this one kinder, sweeter.

"what can i get you boys?"

the pink highlights glistened in her dark hair as she whipped up lip's cold brew and ian's caramel macchiato, then proceeded to insist that this one is on the house. neither of them argued, but thanked her before they settled down in some stools by the window.

"fucking the barista privileges?" ian asked, raising his eyebrow at his slut of a brother.

"i think of it more like fellow south sider charity," he rubbed his bottom lip, "but yours works too," lip smirked around the edges of his coffee cup.

"you're an idiot."

"can a man who got us free drinks really be deemed an idiot?" lip philosophized.

ian paused, taking a moment of thorough consideration. he looked lip straight in the eyes as he answered, "if that man is you, then without a doubt."

lip tried to knock ian's cup out of his hand, but failed at his attempt. ian thanked his well-practiced jrotc skills and a lifetime experience of growing up in a house packed with annoying siblings for his victory.

they chatted about the robotics classes lip was taking, how he got full-time access to one of the labs, and his weird ass roommate who may or may not be gay if ian is at all interested. ian scrunched up his face. after hearing so many horror stories about the guy, ian didn't want anywhere near him. he wasn't that desperate yet.

the second that lip was out of his seat and heading to the bathroom, the beautiful mess that was mandy descended.

"hiiii lip's gay brother," she leaned against the table.

"it's ian," he spun his empty cup in his hands. he couldn't help himself from smiling at her charisma.

"well hi, ian, i just wanted to say sorry if i spooked you earlier. i just had no idea lip's brother would be so cute!"

"his ugly mug's not too hard to beat." ian laughed. "he got the short end of the gallagher stick, literally."

"cute and charming. you're funny, ian gallagher, i like you." she placed her hand on his shoulder for a moment, a movement so soft compared to her rather frantic appearance. "come back here anytime and it's on the house, yeah? i work most evenings after three."

"oh. uh- okay," ian scrambled for words, "thanks."

she squeezed his shoulder once before lip returned with a rather obnoxious entrance.

"ayo mands, stop harassing him!"

ian ducked his head in embarrassment.

"oh, shut up! i'm just clearing your cups," she winked at ian as she left.

mandy was something else. but she was kind and good company. ian could get used to the chill atmosphere over the chaos of the gallagher house anytime. he might just take up her offer.

"you'd think with all the time you spend here, you'd be offered a scholarship or something by now." mandy sipped on her chocolate frappuccino as she laid her feet across ian's lap. he always made sure to come visit during her breaks at least twice a week during the past couple months.

ian shrugged, "guess they only had room for one gallagher."

mandy hit his arm in a way that hurt. lip was fucked if he ever broke her heart.

"does fiona even know that this is where you sneak off to?"

"yeah." mandy's look said she didn't believe him. "well, kinda. she thinks i'm visiting lip, brotherly duties and all."

"yeah? how are those brotherly duties?"

"fuck if i know."

she laughed.

"i still think you should apply here for next fall," she encouraged, "could take some art classes."

"i suck at art."

"chemistry?"

"failed that."

"business?"

"yeah, no thanks."

mandy flipped him off, "fine. botany?

"ya know what? sure." he had always wanted to grow tomatoes.

"really?!"

"heart wants what it wants, mandy. we can't all be psychology brainiacs."

"brains and beauty, what can i say?" she teased. ian laughed, eyes glistening towards his friend. mandy made things better.

"hey," she continued, "there's this concert on the main campus lawn this weekend, you should totally come!"

"isn't that just for students?"

"they don't card, dummy."

"right, right, i knew that."

"sureeee. you in?"

ian mentally checked his work schedule.

"i'm in."

lip and ian strolled into the café a few days later. okay, maybe ian had felt a bit guilty for abandoning his brotherly duties lately, but at least this way he could hang out with both his best friends. well he could have if he remembered the fact that mandy had the day off for her behavioral neuroscience midterm. they had literally spent her previous shift reviewing the terms, he should have known.

ian's couldn't help his face from falling as another blonde barista took their orders, mostly eyeing lip the whole time.

"hi lip," she smiled a little too sincerely, "what can i get for you today?"

ian had ordered something new at the recommendation of the blonde and he was not a fan. and to make matters worse, he had to actually pay for the atrocity that he wouldn't even be able to finish.

"so how's your little coffee dates with mandy?" lip asked over his cup.

ian nearly choked on his god-awful americano. "how'd you know?"

"please. she's obsessed with you. every time i see her, it's 'ian this,' 'ian that,' 'ian might apply here in next year.'"

"oh."

"yeah, oh. when were you gonna tell me?!"

“it’s all mandy’s idea, i’m not even sure i want to,” ian muttered, refusing to make eye contact.

“dude, i’ve literally shared a room with you since the day you popped out of monica’s wretched womb, you think I can’t tell when you’re lying?”

okay maybe ian had been getting increasingly more excited about the idea of attending school and actually learning things that he wants to learn. something that might actually lead him somewhere real since rotc was looking more and more like a poor man's fantasy the more that he thought about it.

“I was gonna tell you, swear on it.” and he was. once he convinced himself that lip wasn't going to straight up laugh in his face. but the look in his eye seemed genuinely supportive.

“mhm, i gotta catch my english lit class," lip stood up, swinging his tattered tan backpack across one shoulder. he patted ian's shoulder in his big brother ways, "don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

“yeah, yeah for sure! have fun learning a language you already know!” lip flipped him off at his smartass remark.

soon after, ian stood up to return his drink to the counter, the anxiety from the conversation making him entirely lose whatever appetite he might have had. plus, it wasn’t the same here without lip or mandy. he just wanted to be wrapped up in a cocoon in his own bed. but that was so far away. maybe he could catch an early ride—

thump.

ian crashed into a guy’s sturdy body.

the remnants of his shitty drink spilled in an americano nightmare over both of them, ceramic pieces shattering on the floor in a truly horrific manner.

ian yipped and the other man let out a grunt of irritation.

they were fucking soaked. well, at least the coffee wasn't hot? ian tried justifying the situation, but, nah, this was bad.

"shit! i'm so sorry, lemme," ian reached out and the shorter man flinched away.

they were now far enough apart that ian got a good look at him. a leather jacket.. now covered in ian's drink -- shit. and shockingly piercing blue eyes that lingered too long on ian's before his cheeks turned a shade of pink that made ian's stomach flutter.

he might have seemed cold if he didn’t make ian feel so warm.

"it’s cool, man. i gotta go, uh," and he walked out of the café without looking back.

fuck.

ian smelled like coffee the entire train ride to the back of the yards. he laid in his bed regretting his entire life.

no mandy. no lip. no dignity.

the day of the concert that mandy had invited him to rolled around. ian wouldn’t admit it, but he was nervous to spend a coffee-less evening with mandy, their entire friendship built inside that one room. his little bubble of safety was bursting.

well, to be honest, the bubble had burst the moment that his disaster of a coffee was spilled onto one of the most ridiculously pretty guys that he's ever seen. every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the guy’s face shift from hostile to something else. he was torn between wanting to know the his name and also on never seeing him again in fear that he would simply pass away of embarrassment.

hopefully mandy hadn't heard about it. they may not have been friends for a long time, but he already knew that she would never let him live it down.

"hey ian!" her familiar voice called. that sounded promising.

his face fell with relief as he finally spotted her at the corner. she embraced him in a warm hug before pulling back and giving him a once over.

"huh, could have sworn you'd still have coffee behind your ear or something after the description karen gave me of your little disaster the other day." she smirked, quite literally double checking behind his ears as they turned hot under her gaze.

"ugh, fuck, how much did she tell you?" he itched his forehead and scrunched up his nose.

"oh, calm your tits, it's funny as fuck." she giggled, punching his arm in a way that still unintentionally hurt.

"whatever. are you excited for the concert tonight?"

their reunion conversation lulled eventually, and ian noticed that they weren't necessarily standing alone.

no. fucking. way.

just his luck, if he was being honest. he probably deserved this.

there he stood. the man that has plagued his dreams the past few days. in a light wash jean jacket that was a little tight on the biceps, leaning casually against the wall, kicking the pebbles on the ground with his boot.

"uh, what's he doing here?" ian gestured towards the victim of The Coffee Incident.

“what, you know him?” mandy asked, walking them towards him.

“vaguely.” if that wasn’t the understatement of the year.

"huh. i didn’t think my idiot brother had any friends."

brother? how did ian not realize she had a brother?

"what, did you think i was going to babysit you all night? i can't let everyone here thinking you're my boyfriend, no offense or whatever, but you're in good hands!" she kissed his cheek, clearly not helping her own not-looking-like-her-boyfriend rule.

ian eyed said brother's good hands only to see the faded letters of FUCK U-UP on them. oh.

mandy pushed ian over to her brother, "ian, mickey. mickey, ian," she introduced before pushing and shuffling her way through the crowd of college students to find herself someone’s cheap ass fruity alcohol to mooch off of.

mickey. ian's brain repeated over and over, a chime against the murmuring sea of voices they found themselves enveloped by.

"nice jacket," ian pointed out, an awkward attempt to converse before shoving his hands back in his pockets.

"it's my second favorite." the corners of his mouth lifted like there was more to the statement. ian took the bait, as if he could resist.

"what's your first?"

"first is still airing out the fuckin’ coffee smell," he smirked as ian groaned. "oh c’mon, man, don't go crying over spilled milk."

how could he not? on the bright side, he didn’t seemed to hate ian for it.

“if it was anyone else,” mickey drawled, “they’d have to get a beat down for it.”

“why do I get a free pass?” ian mused.

“well, you’re mandy’s friend, right?”

“yup,” ian tried to suppress his disappointment. he really did. but fiona always told him he wore his heart on his sleeve.

“yeah, that ain’t why, though,” his eyebrows waggled suggestively and ian nearly felt his heart drop out of his ass.

ian blessed whatever coffee god was out there for sending him both mandy and the beautiful man in front of him.

“you wanna go listen to the band?” ian nodded his head towards the stage with passionate players jumping around like they were playing lollapalooza or some shit.

“lead the way, stud, just try to keep your drinks off of me this time,” mickey knocked into ian’s own flannel covered shoulder.

yeah, ian couldn’t believe his luck. maybe karma was finally on his side.

—

mandy smirked at her brother and best friend not-so-subtly checking each other out over the course of the night, bopping their heads to the music and downing whatever free booze they could get their hands on.

she hoped that adding mickey to the equation would be enough incentive to convince ian to stick around. things were better when he was near.

the way that ian followed mickey around like a lost puppy with that dopey moon-eyed look, it seemed like her hopes would come true.

and when both ian and mickey strolled into the café to come visit her at work the next week, mickey in his worse-for-wear leather jacket and ian in borrowed denim, she thanks the coffee gods for her luck.

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gallavictorious · 3 years

Text

Okay, serious talk about the baby talk for a moment (and then I'll return to my unstructured squeeing). There's quite a bit to unpack here:

For one, one might question why Ian thinks it's a good idea to try to even slightly steamroll Mickey over the whole having a baby thing, given what they've just been through with the lease and the new apartment and given that he knows all about the whole Yev situation. (“No,” Mickey says; “Just grab the other end,” Ian insists.) But we need to remember that the last time they talked about this – one year ago exactly ! – Mickey did eventually seem somewhat amendable to the idea, so it's not completely unreasonable for Ian to think they're on the same page about this and be a little confused by Mickey's disbelief. Secondly, it's just a good character beat and such an Ian thing, to be itching for the next step and planning ahead: okay, we've got the apartment, good, might be time to start thining about babies, here's a nice crib for us to hold on to while we do that. And it's such an Ian thing to push, too, and I do like that we're shown that this is a persistant trait and pattern, not so easily shaken just because he does realize that it sometimes leads him a little wrong. Note that he immediately asks “why” when Mickey refuses to help with the crib; he tries to talk about it, to understand. And then then when Mickey doesn't give him a proper answer but starts talking about the practical difficulties, Ian responds to that with a potential solution and okay, maybe going on about how fucked up the Milkoviches are when you're trying to convince him to become a father is not a great idea, but once he realizes that he stops and shifts gear to comfort Mickey instead. So, not perfectly handled by Ian, perhaps, but realistic and perfectly right for the character and I loved it a lot, both the similarities and the contrasts with the whole flat situation.

As for Mickey, I really, really do not want him being pressured into having children just because ian badly wants them – but I also think that Mickey has never truly considered whether he wants them or not. When Ian asks if he doesn't, he offers no real response, but instead start talking about the problems of them even attaining a kid in the first place. And that concerned look on his face has me wondering if maybe part of his reluctance here is tied to worrying over Ian wanting something that is pretty unlikely to happen; he doesn't want Ian to get all excited about it only to then be disappointed? (And then he freaks out slightly when Ian jokes about stealing a kid because this has been known to happen and nobody had a good time back then and Mickey's not sure if Ian is actually joking or if he has reason to be worried again, so. Also, you cannot tell me that he's not thinking a little, little bit about Yevgeny here and that this doesn't contribute to his feelings of inevitably being a fatherhood failure, in spite of having no obligations to that innocent child. I am a little upset we didn't get an actual Yev mention, but I also absolutely buy that this is still a topic that they skirt; if they keep talking about children, it will come up sooner or later.) Oh and I love that he does open up about what truly bothers him pretty quickly – they are both learning to do better at this communication lark!

I think that Mickey simply assumed that he'd never have children because he never assumed he'd be in a relationship where that was a reasonable option, and once he was, he still held on to that assumption because he couldn't imagine himself not being a shitty dad and he has no interest in hurting a kid like that. This doesn't mean he necessarily wants kids deep down; it just means that he doesn't actually know, because he never thought about it.

But now he has that opportunity to do just that, and with Ian's continued reassurance that he can be a good dad, he can finally start to ponder whether this is something he'd like.

#i think they'll probably have kids #one day #but it's really important to me that mickey's truly onboard #and not just agreeing to it for ian's sake #gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #11x12 #meta #my stuff

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whatthebodygraspsnot · 5 months

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Part vi number 18 and 8 👀

8. “Kiss me, I can’t wait any longer.” 18. “It’s so hot when you talk like that.”

it's been a long night. the mission was a success and the team is celebrating - using a chunk of the stolen cash to fill their stomachs with food and good wine at the vacant building they renovated into their hideout.

it's been a long night, and it's made even longer by how ian hasn't had a single moment alone with mickey since the heist started. since mickey had to concentrate on doing his thing with the wires and ian had to put on his tux, blending in with the gala's diamonds and furs. pretending to be someone you're not is hard in a room full of rich snobs. it's even harder in a room full of people who think they know you from top to bottom.

because they don't. these people are his family - they have been for years - but they don't know what makes ian tick. what's most important to him. the way his heart pulses and fingers itch for the man across the table from him.

his team is his family, but they don't know that he and mickey are fucking.

they can't. it would complicate too much. they'd start going off about how emotions like that can fuck with the plan. how their entire mission can go haywire if something happened to one of them. and they're right. it would. ian would scrap an entire weeks-long pursuit the fucking second he saw something happen to mickey. he cares too much. he's a fucking liability.

so they don't tell them. they keep their nights together to themselves. keep how long they've been doing this a secret. act normal and cordial and friendly on the outside, even when one shared look across the table sends pulses of want and desire through ian so powerful that he has to swallow down another gulp of wine, their heavy gaze never leaving each other once.

because it's been a long night. he hasn't had a chance to touch mickey. to reward him for a job well done in his own way. to look him over and smooth him out and exist with him, away from the others. alone. together.

the team is his family, but they don't know that he told mickey he's in love with him last night. they have no idea how powerful the wave of delight in his soul was when mickey said it back to him. to them, they're just ian and mickey. two members of the team who have gone quiet now, content with stealing glances across the table with heavy, wine-drunk eyes.

they can't know. and ian is two seconds away from reaching across the table and pulling mickey's hand into his own, so he forces himself to get up, stepping away from the table.

he disappears into one of the bedrooms - the one with the big floor to ceiling windows that look out into the abandoned building's courtyard. it's quiet here. peaceful. he can hear exactly how hard his pulse is thumping in his eardrums while everyone else carries on in the main room.

because he's good at slipping away without causing attention to it. it's how he joined the team in the first place. but there's one person who tracked his entire exit. he's fucking banking on it.

behind him, the door shuts. the lock clicks.

and when ian turns, the warmth that was being pushed down all night blooms fully and heavily in his chest.

mickey takes him in just as hungrily, the grin that's pulling the corner of his mouth so good that ian needs to chase after it. "kiss me," mickey murmurs, already stepping toward him on the momentum they've been building across the table, "can't wait any fuckin' longer."

it's got ian's heart soaring. has something almost animalistic rumbling in his chest as he steps forward too, fucking finally, because christ... "it's so fucking hot when you talk like that."

and when they meet in the middle of the room, it's with hands grabbing - feeling - running over ian's shoulders and holding mickey's face and they pull themselves together so tightly that ian can taste blood as their mouths clash.

but it's what he's been craving all night. it's what keeps him going, mickey just as hungry for it as he starts walking him backward until ian's back is pressed against the window.

they probably shouldn't be doing this here. not right now, at least. they're celebrating in the other room, after all.

but nothing is more important to ian than this man. this moment. this thing that they've made with each other.

and soon, it will be too big to hide.

[ send me a smutty one-liner ]

#absolutely god-tier quote combo anon - you really nailed this #gallavich #shameless #ray writes #im impossibly late for work so i shan't reread. which means i hope there's nothing glaring in this hehe #smutty one-liners

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goodkwuestion · 3 years

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Now that the story is completed and they have their happy ending, can you tell me how Mickey would've reacted or responded had Ian lost his fight with Ivan? I'm curious

Oh, well Ian would have lost some points initially, no doubt. It would have been a big deal for Ian to get his ass handed to him by a flamboyant Russian playboy on his home turf. Plus, the dominant displays do get Mickey's dick hard (at least how I wrote him). But ultimately it wouldn't have mattered that much, kinda like making a choice in a Telltale game.

Mickey would have still have gone to see Ian, equal parts pissed and concerned, instead of having the vapours, but Ian would be licking his wounds while in full kicked puppy mode (while secretly planning his epic vengeance, because fragile, toxic masculinity, amiright?). Mickey was already all in with Ian at this point anyway, so the injured puppy schtick would have worked wonders, and comforting sexy tymez would ensue.

He would then be BIG MAD at Ivan for a minute instead of teasing and pacifying as he was in the story. Until, of course, Ivan points out that it's not his really fault lil bro couldn't cash the cheque his headbutt wrote. Then the convo would continue pretty much as it did in the story. 🤗

Hope this scratched an itch?

#orfnsp #meta

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librarygf · 4 years

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10:17 PM CST - Ian wakes before Mickey and spends extra time in bed watching him sleep until Mickey calls him out on being a creep with the spread on an impish grin on his sleepy face, Ian laughs and moves to get closer, Like I haven't caught you doing the same thing, and gives him a soft kiss. Mickey mmm's, Don't gotta a choice but to look at your ugly mug while you got me trapped here. They share a few kisses before Ian pulls away and gets out of bed. Mickey pushes up on his elbows confused asking where the fuck he's going. Ian tugs on a hoodie and tells him they aren't having sex until his burns are looking better. Mickey gives him a blank look and asks if he's seriously doing this shit again? You couldn't even hold out last time, Gallagher. Ian crosses his arm and leans on the doorframe, tells him it's different this time, and maybe he should be more careful about getting bleached dumped on him. Mickey, annoyed, throws off the blankets and gets out of bed muttering about how it wasn't even his fault. Ian shrugs and says, it doesn't matter if it was, we can't risk you getting an infection. At Mickey's glare, he moves closer to give him one more kiss, telling him that they can still do other things, but first, he wants to check those burns.

Mickey follows Ian to the bathroom where Ian gets started on carefully taking off his gauze. Where'd you learn this shit anyway? Your EMT training? Ian pauses in the middle of his task of removing the last of the medical tape, eyebrows furrowed and mouth pressed into a line, before turning away to toss the used gauzes into the trash, Uh-yeah, treating minor burns was one of the things you learn in basic. You're lucky the bleach was diluted or we would've had to take you to the hospital. Ian inspects the burns and asks questions about if it hurts or itches while he patches Mickey back up.

That night in bed, Mickey's playing on his phone while Ian has had his book opened to the same page for quite a while. Mickey keeps sending him glances before giving in, tossing his phone away, and turning his full attention to Ian, Alright Gallagher, out with it. Ian startles, shooting Mickey a confused look, What are you talking about? Mickey gives him a look, You've been in that head of yours all day, Ian starts to deny before sighing and pushing himself up to a full sitting position, back against the wall, knees pulled up to rest his forearms on. It's just- I miss it, ya know? Being an EMT. He glances at Mickey, then away, down at his hands as he plays with the ring on his finger, It just felt like I was supposed to be, I worked hard for it, I was fucking good at it... But I fucked that all up so, a slight shrug. Mickey knocks their shoulders together, Just go get another EMT job then. Ian gives a self-deprecating laugh, They aren't exactly looking to hire ex-cons, Mick. They sit quietly in thought for a moment, You know we got this security gig, right- Ian leans his head back on the wall, releasing a breath, staring at the ceiling, Yeah, I know but, Mickey elbows him lightly to get Ian to look at him, and raises his eyebrows, Just let me fucking finish, alright? Ian sighs with a huff of his nose and tilts his head towards him as a sign to continue. Alright, so we got this security gig and we're gonna be making some serious cash, right? We just save up our cash and hire one of those fancy lawyers and get you shit covered up, he snaps his fingers. Ian scrunches his eyebrows in confusion, Cover it up? What do you...you mean like get my record sealed? Mickey half-shrugs, Sure, I guess. Ian lifts his head off the wall, turned completely towards Mickey, Do you think they could do that? Mickey leans slightly closer, Fuck if I know, with a enough cash?Worth a shot. Ian's voice goes soft, But what about saving up for our own place? Starting our lives together? Mickey huffs out a breath, Ian, we're fucking married, Mickey shows off his left hand as if to prove his point, Pretty sure it's already started. Ian rolls his eyes, moving the rest of the way over so they're shoulder to shoulder, You know that's not what I meant. They look at each other fully and smile, We don't gotta have it all figured out now anyways. We just save up then figure out what we wanna spend it on first, it doesn't have to be that complicated.

first of all, the fact that it’s different now bc before it was about being petty, but now it’s about worrying about mickey and his wounds, he loves him 🥺 second of all, the way that you have him pulling his legs up to his chest and making himself small, which he does when he’s upset, and also the fact that he’s fiddling with his ring, i love it bc he really does those things. and thirdly what the fuck, i’ll literally never get over him not being an emt anymore, it made him so happy and he was so good at it and it gave him purpose and kdsflfjkgh 😩

#em answers

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littlespoonevan · 4 years

Note

hiii! I really hope I'm not bothering you but... are you taking prompts? 👀 cause I love your fics and this is kinda your fault because I read your post about 9x06 lol but now I can't stop thinking about I&M having a *real talk* like... "I'm sorry I let you go" 🥺?

Sorry it took me a while to get to this - my ao3 fics kept me quite busy the past few weeks! okay so i’ve written about the aftermath of 9x06 quite a few times but never an actual, full “talk about everything” conversation in its entirety so i decided to give it a whirl here!

for the record i 100% believe they had a conversation like this within the first week, if not 24 hours, of being in the cell together and find it absolutely preposterous john wells tried to act like they hadn’t in 10x03 and then again in 10x08 bc all ian wanted to do legit all season was talk things through and that didn’t come from nowhere but ANYWAY, they’ve got a lot of things to sort through but i did my best to cover as much as i could!

I hope you like it <3

The lights have been out for five minutes and Ian just about manages to stay in his bunk long enough for the guard to do his final check of their cell before he’s swinging himself down from his bed to crawl in next to Mickey.

He’s met with kisses and a muffled laugh into his mouth and fuck, he never thought he’d get to do this again. He allows himself to get lost in Mickey’s body for a few minutes, trading hungry kisses while their hands roam wherever either of them can reach, like they’re trying to commit one another’s skin to memory again – not that Ian has any intention of letting Mickey go this time.

He’s been itching to touch Mickey like this all day – they’d managed a hurried, flustered mutual reunion handjob before but they couldn’t risk anything more. Even that had been reckless but he’s pretty sure he lost any and all sense the second Mickey walked through the door of his cell.

He wants more now, wants Mickey whatever way he can have him, but a thought makes him pause and as soon as he thinks it he can’t stop thinking about it.

Is this supposed to be reunion sex or make-up sex?

Ian had done a lot of soul-searching and self-reflection after he’d left Mickey at the border and he just- he wants to talk about it. He doesn’t want them to jump straight into everything again and let their issues fester like they used to. Sex has never been a problem for them, communication on the other hand…

Mickey must notice he’s slowed down because he leans back, a confused smile on his face. “What?”

Ian looks at him and feels nothing but an all-consuming, addictive kind of love envelope him. He loves Mickey so fucking much – he hadn’t been able to stop even when he wanted to – he’s not going to hurt him again. But that means he needs to do this right. “Do you think we should talk first?” he asks uncertainly.

They’d both sort of agreed earlier that they would talk eventually when they’d been catching up and found themselves naturally slipping into deeper territory. They’d said they could worry about it later. But well, it’s later now.

Mickey appraises him for a moment and Ian tries not to panic when he notices his expression shutter the tiniest bit. Cradling Mickey’s jaw, he runs a thumb across his cheek. “Mick, I wanna do this right this time. We should talk about it.”

Mickey’s expression softens somewhat at that. “Talk about what?”

Ian blows out a breath. “Everything, I guess?”

He’s not sure they ever really talked out their issues in the past. He thinks they would’ve when Mickey brought him back home after he took off for the army. But Ian had already been halfway to manic by then and hadn’t exactly been in the most rational frame of mind to discuss the deep shit.

Mickey shifts onto his back, still keeping one arm around Ian, and Ian fits himself against Mickey’s side, head half on the pillow, half on Mickey’s shoulder.

“Well, if we’re talking about everything,” Mickey starts, rolling his head to the side and meeting Ian’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

And that’s- what?

“What the fuck are you sorry for?” Ian asks with a frown – he’s pretty sure he’s the one with a laundry list of apologies to make here.

Mickey huffs out a laugh but it sounds sad. “Jesus, Ian. Did you just block out the first year and a half of our relationship?” He averts his gaze for a second before looking back to Ian with renewed determination. “I’m sorry for all the times I pushed you away or pretended this didn’t mean anything or ended it because I got scared or hit you- fuck-“

“Mickey,” Ian says, cutting him off with a hand on Mickey’s chest. “You think I resent you for any of that?” he says, words quietly disbelieving. “Or that I don’t get why you acted the way you did? Yeah, sure, it fucking hurt at the time but I’m pretty sure you made up for it a thousand times over with everything that came afterwards.”

When I almost burned our relationship to the ground, he thinks, and all you did was try to love me.

Mickey glances away again, looking more bashful this time. “It still doesn’t make it okay.”

“Yeah, well if it wasn’t already clear, I forgive you,” Ian tells him, feeling his mouth tick up at the edges when Mickey starts to smile at him. And he can’t help leaning to brush their lips together – just once before he allows himself to get side-tracked.

It’s his turn now.

“While we’re doling out apologies,” he starts, feeling shame burn through him. Even thinking about half the shit he’s done makes him question how the fuck Mickey’s still here. “I’m so fucking sorry, Mick. Jesus. For all of it.”

Mickey stares at him with something vulnerable in his eyes and Ian wonders if anyone’s ever actually apologised to Mickey for hurting him before. That thought alone is enough for him to keep going.

“I’m sorry for giving you an ultimatum after the wedding. I was just- fuck, I was at breaking point, y’know? I know what happened that day with Terry was a million times worse for you-“

Mickey tenses at that and Ian thinks they’re going to talk about a lot tonight but they probably won’t talk about that. Some scars just run too fucking deep.

“I always wondered,” Mickey interrupts quietly, staring at Ian’s hand on his chest instead of Ian himself. “If that day was your trigger or whatever.”

Ian’s wondered it too, has considered bringing it up whenever he does go to therapy countless times, but he can never make himself say it out loud.

“It might’ve been,” he says slowly. “But if it was that’s Terry’s fault, not yours.”

Mickey nods absently and Ian shifts forward until he can press his forehead to Mickey’s temple. “None of it was our fault, Mick.”

Neither of them speaks for a beat – everything they’ve left unsaid hanging heavy in the air between them until Ian eventually decides to carry on.

“And I know I said sorry for this one before,” he continues. “But I’m sorry for trying to make you come out.”

Mickey shakes his head as if to tell him it doesn’t matter. But it does.

“And for all the fucking bullshit I pulled with you while I was manic. Not even just the big stuff – the cheating, the porno, Yevgeny – but all of it. I didn’t treat you how I wanted to back then.” Ian feels tears burn behind his eyes just thinking about it and his pulse is ragged by the time Mickey finally turns his head to look at him.

His eyes are shining and Ian’s heart is fucking broken. “You were sick, Ian.”

“Doesn’t make any of it okay,” Ian mumbles, closing his eyes when he feels Mickey’s fingers graze against the back of his neck. “Just- I really need you to know that the only reason I broke up with you was because Monica fucking got in my head and I could see how much I was killing you and I didn’t want that for you, Mick,” he says, voice low and desperate, begging Mickey to understand. “The thought of you just staying with me and letting me hurt you over and over again was too fucking much. Especially back then when I felt like I’d never feel normal again.”

Mickey is quiet for a moment before he squeezes the back of Ian’s neck. “I’m not excusin’ shit, Ian. Losing you back then- it nearly fucking broke me. But it’s like what you said about the stuff I did. It’s not okay. But I know why you did it.”

Ian nods, sniffling back the tears threatening to fall and burying his face in Mickey’s neck to press an apologetic kiss against the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. Mickey’s arm tightens around him in response and it’s enough to give Ian courage to deliver the final part of his apology.

He leans back, pushing up on his elbow so he can look down at Mickey and meets his gaze while he talks. “I’m sorry I didn’t go with you to Mexico,” he whispers, breath hitching. “I’m so fucking sorry but I wanted to believe so badly that I actually had my shit together and-“

Mickey cuts him off before he can say anymore, lips upturned in a rueful smile. “I’m not mad about that,” he murmurs.

Ian frowns in confusion. “You’re not?”

Mickey nods, blowing out a resigned breath. “You were fucking right, Ian. Where were we supposed to get your meds? I spent two years working for a fucking cartel, that’s not exactly the kinda stress-free, routine life you needed to be living.” Mickey shakes his head, shrugging half-heartedly. “I didn’t think it through, I just wanted to be with you again – couldn’t see past that, y’know?”

And Ian is so fucking in love with him. He can’t believe Mickey still has so much goddamn faith in him.

“Fat lotta good it did anyway,” he huffs bitterly. “Goin’ home. Look where I ended up.”

He’d given Mickey the basics of what’d happened with the whole Gay Jesus thing earlier. But it’s still hard to believe how quickly things spiralled after he came home from the border.

Mickey doesn’t say anything because there’s not much to say really but he links his fingers together with the hand Ian’s still got resting on his chest which is an answer in and of itself.

“Listen,” Ian murmurs, meeting Mickey’s gaze and hoping he can see the sincerity there. “I know- I don’t expect you to just give me blanket forgiveness right now, okay? I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me,” he says, voice feeling thick with emotion. “But let me make it up to you, alright? Let me prove that I’m in this this time. I’m not fuckin’ around again, Mick. I’m not- I can’t let you go again.”

Mickey doesn’t reply right away and Ian watches as a myriad of emotions flickers across his face. Eventually though, his throat bobs and he offers Ian a hint of a smile. “You let me make my shit up to you. It’d be pretty fuckin’ hypocritical if I didn’t let you do the same.”

Ian huffs out a relieved laugh, resting his forehead against Mickey’s shoulder. “Or smart, maybe.”

“When have I ever fuckin’ been smart around you, Gallagher?” Mickey says amusedly and Ian raises his head again, leaning in until there’s the barest inch of space between them.

“I mean it,” he whispers steadfastly. “If it takes a week or a year to make you trust me again, I’ll do it. I promise.”

Mickey’s expression is calm and open as he watches him and Ian revels at being allowed to see the vulnerability behind his eyes – more as a sign of trust than because Mickey can’t conceal it for once. He closes the distance between them and tries to pour every bit of love and devotion he possesses into the kiss, hoping Mickey can feel it.

When their lips dislodge after a minute or so Ian rearranges them until he’s the one lying on his back and Mickey’s head is resting on his chest.

“I missed you so fucking much,” Mickey admits into the cotton of Ian’s tank top and Ian closes his eyes, feeling a lump swell in his throat as his eyes begin to water.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs hoarsely, tightening his arms around Mickey like he could fuse their bones together and pressing a firm kiss to Mickey’s hair. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Mickey mumbles and it’s just three words but it feels like fucking salvation to Ian’s ears.

They’re gonna be alright.

#gallavich #ian x mickey #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #shameless #my fics #mickeys gonnagetrealbitchy #asks #long post #i have NO idea what's wrong with the read more i'm so sorry #i've tried to fix it a million times

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labelma · 3 years

Note

39, 44, 63 please? ❤️

Thank you! ☺️

39: What’s an idea for a fic that you’re excited about, but haven’t had the chance to write yet?

So one thing you should know about me is I love listening to the podcast Stuff You Should Know and that I have my best fic ideas while hiking. So last October it was the first day of the year cool enough to go outside for long periods of time and I went on a lovely hike. I was listening to an SYSK podcast about bipolar disorder and I was thinking about how even though I don’t have bipolar disorder, I can relate to a lot of the symptoms because my migraines sometimes give me weird mood swings and I can’t always trust my own emotions because they might not be real, they could be a symptom of an oncoming migraine. Which got me thinking that just because Mickey doesn’t have Ian’s same disorder, he is still an empathetic person who most definitely relate’s to Ian in some ways. So I had this idea for a fic where Ian experiences a mixed episode, an episode with all the energy of mania, but all the emotions of a depressive episode which would be a new and stressful experience for him, and Mickey, his amazing husband helps him through it. Of course Ian rejects the help at first but eventually relents because he loves his husband so much, and realizes Mickey only wants to take care of him. But since I had this idea last October I CLEARLY have no idea how to actually write it. It’ll happen eventually though! It will!

44: What are some of your favorite tropes?

Y’all already know the answer to this, I absolutely lose my mind for “encounters with the ex” fics, as well as any fic written from an outsider perspective. I love these fics so much, they’re like crack to my little brain. And this is something that extends to every fandom I’ve ever been in, something about my main ship being perceived by others just scratches that itch so perfectly.

I also love mutual unrequited pining. It drives me crazy and I love it at the same time.

63: What canon Ian and Mickey moments (together or individually) do you think are under-explored?

Hmm I had to think about this one for a while. I think the fandom likes to kind of collectively ignore seasons 6-9 (except for you know, the good stuff like Ian becoming an EMT), but something about the fact that Ian and Mickey literally never stopped loving each other, even if they tried really hard to, and pushed their feelings down so deep they may have forgotten they were even there in the first place, just really gets to me. Like this is all something we know, but I think it’s a little under-explored how those feelings never disappeared. Ian and Mickey are each other’s one and only love, and I am OBSESSED with that. I have a gallavich playlist on Spotify with like 250 songs, and a good portion of them are there because they make me think of seasons 6-9 Ian and Mickey.

Also I’m not sure this is under-explored but I do like to talk about it; the fact that the reintroduction of Mickey back into Shameless gave Ian the most consistent story arc of any character on the show. With Mickey back in the picture, Ian’s story becomes about a boy learning to love, and let himself be loved even in the face of a pretty intense mental illness. We all know Shameless isn’t exactly known for its excellent story-telling, but I think it’s a little underrated just how amazing Ian and Mickey’s story is. Like it really is a great story, despite like, everything.

#gallavich #shameless #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #I love answering these

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oforamuse · 4 years

Text

and then there were none

it takes until 12:34pm for mickey to realise what day it is.

may 9th.

or, the one where it's ian's birthday and mickey is in mexico. alone.

read and comment on ao3

It takes until 12:34pm for Mickey to realise what day it is.

May 9th.

It hits him like a pile of bricks and he throws his phone across the room.

He presses his palms into his eyes because of course it falls on his day off. Of course, today of all days, he has absolutely fuck all to do so he doesn’t even get the opportunity to be distracted by the ins and outs of the Mexican drug business.

His eyes sting.

It’s not even 1pm and Mickey wants to get fucking drunk.

Before he knows it, he’s on his way to his favourite bar with his heart halfway up his throat. The midday sun is high and hot and he can feel it burning into the back of his neck as he walks. He doesn’t care.

May fucking 9th.

It’s a small place, conveniently tucked away between a row of apartments - it’s the kind of place you can only access through a back alley, if you know then you know and if you don’t… well, then you can easily walk past it without even remotely catching on.

It’s the kind of place you go if you don’t want to be disturbed (though also in Mickey’s case, avoid being noticed by the wrong person or organisation.).

He shoves open the door with a bent elbow and he’s flooded with the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and last night’s booze. It’s as comforting as those smells can be. The bell above the door alerts his presence - everyone who patrons here all tend to be on the same side of cautious, you can never be too careful - so you need to make yourself known.

It reluctantly reminds him a bit of The Alibi, as much as he tries to avoid making the connection. There always seems to be someone around no matter the time of day, the same faces, same voices, same drink orders. The community sense of it all. The sticky floors.

Same bar, different lifetime.

Thousands of miles and one broken heart between the two.

‘Hey, Mickey- fuck’s up with you?’ The guy behind the bar asks with a frown, his tone changing at the twisted expression on Mickey’s face.

His muscles ache with it. His whole body aches.

The bartender, Jason, looks at him suspiciously. Jason’s a relatively plain looking white guy from Australia, though a few weeks prior he drunkenly told Mickey that he hasn’t been back in years. Mexico was his home now. Something about needing to disappear, needing to run and get as far away from home as possible.

Mickey didn’t question it. He knows that feeling well.

There’s a slight camaraderie between the two of them, two foreigners in an unfamiliar village both saddled with years worth of baggage to unpack, history left on the road behind them. There's mutual trust. A tip of a head across the bar in solidarity.

Jason speaks a lot better Spanish than he does though, Mickey doesn’t bother to fight him on that one.

‘Don’t fuckin’ matter.’ He grunts, sliding onto a stool at the bar. ‘S’all good.’

Jason laughs cautiously and Mickey can tell he’s unconvinced. He looks up from where he’s halfway bent down towards the fridge under the bar where Mickey knows where they keep the imported beer, ‘You want some of your American shit?’

‘No.’ Mickey runs a hand down his face, then flips off Jason deftly, ‘And fuck you, your Aussie shit isn’t any better. Tastes like fuckin’ piss.’

He makes a sound at the back of his throat in disagreement, and the bell rings behind him signalling someone else’s entry. Jason sighs, ‘Whatever, man- just let me know when you’re ready.’

He turns away.

Mickey rolls his eyes and lets his forehead fall down onto the sticky bar top. It stinks of spilt tequila and stubbed out ash, but all he can think about is today’s date and it makes him want to scream.

He breathes, alone for a moment, and counts to ten in an ill attempt to find peace. It’s all in vain though because everything is screaming at him and it gnaws down to his bones.

May fucking 9th.

A firm hand claps down on his shoulder.

‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’ A familiar voice says.

‘Fuck off.’ He snaps, shooting upwards and shaking his shoulders out. He turns and glares at the culprit - it’s just who he suspects. He looks at him expectantly.

‘How you doin’, man?’ Emiliano says, cracking a wide grin. He's a local boy, born and raised in the suburbs outside of town but went to college in Boston so there’s an amusing twang to his English as he speaks. Emiliano loves to mention how much he likes to have an American around - Mickey reminds him of the good days, he says.

Mickey doesn’t tend to hang around in the same place too long - his area of business requires constant moving to save face and keep cover. He can’t make friends, he can’t build relationships. This bar is the closest he’s come, really, and even then he tries to keep it all at arm's length. It’s safer that way, easier…

Things get dangerous when they’re made personal. When he cares. He learnt that the hard way.

Everything Mickey has ever cared about has ruined him, everything he’s ever held close and dear, has shelled him out and left him hollow.

His mother. His father. Chicago. Ian…

So when he crossed that border?

He decided that he was done.

Done with caring, done with friends, done with vulnerability that comes with opening yourself up and letting someone in .

But...if he could make friends? If he let himself cross that line?

Emiliano and Jason would probably be the closest he’s come.

‘What’s up with you?’ Emiliano prods, nudging an elbow into his ribs, ‘Someone shit in your coffee?’

‘Nothin- don’t give me that look, it's nothing.’ Mickey says, waving his hand dismissively. He forces himself to keep his face neutral, ‘You keep lookin’ at me with those raised eyebrows I’m gonna knock your teeth out.’

Emiliano whistles, sliding in next to him. ‘Fuck man, someone did shit in your coffee.’

He leans over the bar and fires off something in quickly spoken Spanish to Jason.

‘You gotta chill, dude.’ He says, and Jason places three shots of what Mickey assumes is tequila - it’s always tequila here - in front of him.

Emiliano shoves his shoulder, ‘Come on, man.’

Mickey sighs deeply, but feels himself give in. ‘Fuckin’ assholes.’ He says with an irritated grumble, there’s no bite behind it. He knows they mean well, even if he feels like he’s going to throw up.

They raise their glasses in unison and clink them together. He knocks it back.

The liquor stings as it goes down, burning all the way into his stomach. It’s a relief, at least for now, from the painful ache in his chest but it doesn’t stop the one thought that’s been playing on his mind since he discovered the date from flooding through him. The feeling of a lost limb.

Ian should be here. Ian should be here. Ian should be here.

Ian should be here, next to him and raising a glass-

No.

‘Another.’ Mickey mumbles, slamming the empty glass down. Jason raises his eyebrows but obliges, pouring him out another. Mickey shoots it down immediately.

The beach spins, nothing in his head is slotting in place properly and he tries to piece things together but he feels like a puzzle made up of only corner pieces. He breathes deeply.

The warm air from the sea washes over him, his bare feet warm in the sand.

It’s the first time he’s felt balance in hours.

This is it. The beach, the sun. The thrum of tequila running through his blood stream, the fiery burn in his throat.

This is what he wanted.

It was the only thing that kept him waking up each morning and going to bed every night in the joint. The last thing he thought of before he closed his eyes and the first thing he thought of before he opened them. It filled him with hope, so much fucking foolish hope.

Except he’s empty. It’s empty.

It’s empty because the key component of his carefully crafted and agonised over Mexico fantasy is missing and for the first time today, Mickey let’s himself think of him, properly visualise and think of him.

Mickey kneels down onto the sand and the barrier breaks.

He thinks about his smile and the way the corners of his mouth curl up fondly when he pretends Mickey exasperates him. His arms, the muscles he built over years worth of ROTC training and the physical need to be better, to fight harder. His red hair and the many ways he’s worn it in the past, long and hanging in his eyes, short back and sides, closely buzzed to the scalp - his scramble to identify and present himself in a community that came with so many labels you’re saddled with from birth. Southsider, Gallagher, Milkovich. The feeling of his calloused and begging hands on his, the sweaty skin on skin, low, guttural breaths. The pressure on his hips, ass, back.

That hot summer, passing cigarettes at the dugouts, the chill against naked skin in the Kash N Grab cooler.

The minutes, the hours, the days spent together.

The minutes, the hours, the days Mickey wasted being scared. A pussy. A coward.

His voice.

I love you.

This isn’t me anymore.

The look in his eyes when they last kissed, faces cradled by gently cupped hands, eyes wet.

Mickey doesn’t think about that day often. He can’t think about it.

If he thinks about it too much, it’ll fill his lungs and he’ll drown.

Mickey knows if he wanted to, if he really, really wanted to, he could walk down to the payphone just off the boardwalk and call him up - the temptation to hear his voice itches. He thinks about it late at night sometimes, the possibility of making that connection beckoning him in the moonlight.

It’s there. It’s in his reach.

But he can’t. Any connection between the two of them could implicate Ian in so many ways and Mickey can’t risk that. He can’t risk cops turning up at Ian’s door in the middle of the night, public call records flattened out a table, tossed accusations of aiding and abetting a fugitive.

No matter how much he wants to.

He can’t.

He knows that their goodbye at the border has to be The Goodbye.

He looks over at the wide ocean, it shimmers as the sun begins to set.

He thinks about the sun and how it’s a consistent factor no matter his place in the world. Unlike many things in life, the sun remains the same.

His love for Ian, like the sun, will always remain the same.

It’s a comfort to know, that thousands of miles away, Ian’s celebrating a new year of life under the same sun.

365 days without him.

In another universe, Ian would be standing next to him looking out onto the same ocean. Maybe they would’ve fucked on the sand, drunk off their asses in celebration. Sand between their toes, the smell of sunscreen sweating off them, sun in their eyes. Perhaps they wouldn’t have even left their apartment, the day spent in a warm bedroom with hot skin and a cold Mexican beer for afters.

In another universe, Ian would’ve taken his hand at the border and said, let’s ride.

But this isn’t that universe.

He swallows harshly, the remnants of alcohol lingering on his tongue.

He lets himself have one more minute of wallowing, one more minute of missing him, missing them.

One more minute of what ifs and could’ve beens.

He sighs, and looks back out towards the ocean. The waves pull in and out, periodically returning home to the shore. He can’t return back to his home.

He falls back, the sand softening his fall.

He’s not thinking about Ian, he’s not thinking about Chicago, or i love yous at border crossings, or anything else. He’s not thinking about the drug deals he has lined up, or his boss, or those who’ve somehow come to work underneath him. He’s floating, he’s floating away and he really could just disappear.

He wishes he could.

Would anyone even notice if he did?

Mickey lies on the hot sand, closes his eyes, and breathes.

2 years or so later, Mickey wakes.

He doesn't need to check the date. He knows.

He thinks back on his time in Mexico and that drunken evening on the beach. He can’t really remember the exact passage of time, being out of prison means he doesn’t feel the need to tirelessly keep track of the days that go by. He simply gets to exist now. There’s no clock hanging above his head.

There is however, a wedding band on his finger and love in his heart.

Mexico and it’s encapsulating loneliness is a memory.

It’s May 9th.

Ian wakes up next to him, tiredly blinking as his eyes adjust to the morning light. Their bed is warm and comforting. Familiar. Ian looks over to him and smiles, a year older.

Mickey smiles back.

He’s not alone anymore.

#ian gallagher #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey

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wehangout · 5 years

Text

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

AO3

“Knew you’d come.”

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

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

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

And you don’t know him now.

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

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

The fuck, indeed.

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

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

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

He has a boyfriend.

You didn’t know that either.

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

You don’t know what his kisses mean anymore.

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

Then he told you he had a boyfriend.

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

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

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

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

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

“This goodbye?”

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

You taking your meds?

Who’s this fucking boyfriend?

EMT, man, really?

Did you bring the uniform?

You really takin’ your meds?

How’s Mandy?

Your family know where you are?

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

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

“You ever been to the beach?”

“Want anything?”

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

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

“Wanna fuck again?”

“Where should we stop for the night?”

“What the fuck?”

“You got a bank account?”

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

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

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

The silence aches.

“A lot.”

Maybe you still know him after all.

“Fuck, I missed you.”

Or maybe you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should have gone with you.”

“God, you smell good.”

“I’ve fucking missed you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I took care of it.”

“The fuck you talkin’ about, Gallagher?”

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

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

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

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

The Chatty Cathy attitude doesn’t go away.

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

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

“Hey, you want my last smoke?”

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

Sometimes it’s filthy and leaves you panting.

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

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

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

Sometimes it’s everything.

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

“I know.”

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

But you’re beginning to.

#ian and mickey #shameless fic #gallavich fic #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #shameless #my fic

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