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ireallylovepuppies101 · 1 year

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Inky Mystery Audrey AU 4

PART FOUR!!!

During their time at Hat’s casino, Audrey gets rather bored being cooped up in the hotel room. Sure there’s a tv for her to watch, and Bendy lets her borrow his Felix book to try reading by herself even if the big words are a bit hard, not to mention learning Mickey’s circus coming to town gets her and Boris pretty excited, but a 6 year old who’s used to getting up and doing stuff every day would start going stir crazy. Though with her brothers being busy trying to work on figuring out how to get clues for the ink machine and the pieces, she doesn’t exactly want to bother them.

So, she comes up with the oh so brilliant idea to explore just a LITTLE bit while her brothers are too busy to pay full attention to her. It’s not like she’d be going into the areas of the casino where she’s not old enough to be. All she plans to do is look around the hallways and maybe check out some of the decorative artwork hanging on the walls. Simple and easy, right?

Wrong.

Turns out it’s a little hard to find her way back when the hotel area hallways look the same and she can’t remember what hotel room number she was in. Thankfully Bendy and Boris made sure to teach her not to panic when lost and to be sure to go to someone, preferably someone working at a store or something, for help. Since she doesn’t see anyone working in the hotel hallways at the moment, Audrey would make her way to the busier area of the casino to find someone. Spotting a very pretty woman cleaning food tables and being drawn to her when she gets a warm comforting feeling from her, Audrey walks over and tugs on her uniform. “Excuse me miss, I can’t find my hotel room. Can you help me please?”

Audrey at this point is used to getting stared at by people, as well as getting dirty looks before Bendy throws a dirty look back at the person and/or Boris moves to shield his little sister from the person’s gaze, but it’s not very often someone gives her a very shocked double take look where their eyes look like they’re as big as dinner plates. The young woman looking around confused after snapping out of her shock before looking back down at Audrey. “I-I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I can’t find my hotel room. I left without my brothers’ permission, and they might be worried now. Can you please help me find it?”

Seeming even more shocked over hearing Audrey say the word please, the young woman eventually agrees to help Audrey, stopping by the kitchen to let her coworkers know she'll be back in a few minutes, and grabbing Audrey a juice box before they continue on their way. Audrey thanked her and ignored how that made the woman’s eyes go big yet again. While they walk around and try figuring out where Audrey’s room is from how she described the hallway, Audrey breaks the silence. “I’m Audrey by the way.”

“... I’m Alice.”

As they walk, they hear rushed footsteps from behind and then a very firm voice. “AUDREY THE DEMON!”

Knowing very well that it's Bendy's “You’re in trouble” voice, Audrey cringes and turns around right as Bendy makes it over and yanks her into a tight, relieved hug. “Hi Bendy…”

After pulling away from the hug and checking her over to make sure she’s not hurt, Bendy would glare at her and scold her for leaving their room and worrying them sick. Alice watches this, and being ready to step forward when Audrey wraps her arms around herself and her lip trembles, she stops herself when Bendy lowers himself to his sister’s eye level and gently tilts her head up to look him in the eyes. “I’m not mad, I was scared. We have a lot of things going on right now, and I know you’re bored out of your mind, but we need to know you’re safe. Our brother and I love you very much and would hate it if something happened to you because we weren’t there. That’s why you need to stay close until things calm down a bit, okay?”

Nodding, Audrey would wipe at her eyes with her sweater sleeve. “Okay… I’m sorry.”

Scooping her up into his arms, Bendy would stand back up and tell her it’s okay as long as she promises not to do this again. Audrey gives a muffled promise as she has her face pressed against his shoulder.

It is then that Bendy finally notices Alice, who watched the whole thing. Slightly embarrassed that this woman who has been glaring at him since they first met watched him open up his softer side in front of her, and concerned if she gave the same cold treatment to Audrey, Bendy asks if she was helping her find their room. Alice confirms this, so Bendy gives a somewhat awkward thanks.

Alice saying it’s quite alright, and commenting that Bendy seems like a good big brother. Bendy tries not to be offended by how surprised Alice sounds and takes Audrey to go find Boris who’s still looking for her too.

After a few more days at the hotel, Boris getting the map from an angel, and being reunited with the Warners who help them get to New Orleans, the three siblings officially start the quest to find the ink machine and the pieces for it. Which doesn’t exactly start well when only the three of them can read the really outdated magic map.

And then they meet Lady Facilier.

Bendy is cautious the whole time they’re in her shop, holding Audrey’s hand as she curiously looks around the room with all the weird stuff. After Lady Facilier gives them the “helpful” advice, the three siblings end up deep in the swamp, and eventually chased up a tree by hungry alligators. Audrey firmly hugging the tree like a koala as her brothers try figuring out what to do, and groaning when they realize Lady Facilier stole the map from them.

On the plus side, Bendy gave Audrey full permission to yell swear words to vent out her frustrations. She also doesn’t argue when her brothers carry her through the swamp so she doesn’t get stuck in the mud or something tries taking a bite out of her.

They eventually find the place where the ink machine part is supposed to be. Which ends up being very dangerous, full of traps, and bones. Bendy lets Audrey know that if things get too scary to just press her face against his shoulder as she rides on his back. Audrey is thankful for that as she does her best not to focus on the bones on the floor.

Thank GOD they met Mama Odie. Her kind personality helps Audrey relax as she curiously watches the older woman guide them until they find a way out and defeat the giant snake. She even giggles when Mama Odie lets her pet the now small and friendly Juju (not noticing how Bendy’s watching said snake like a hawk in case he tries biting her). After they spend the night at Mama Odie’s and go back to New Orleans, they end up finding the friend Mama Odie said they’d need to defeat the Voodoo Queen. Though none of them are super thrilled right away when they realize it’s Mugman who’s in desperate need of help to save his brother from Lady Facilier.

Bendy being 100% against wanting to help Mugman or team up with him since he and Cup tried killing them, but Boris would be willing to hear him out. Audrey ends up taking Boris’s side much to Bendy’s frustration. Commenting how they don’t have many options, Mugman clearly knows how to fight, and it’s a bit hard for her to believe Mugman would attack them right now with how he’s literally begging on his knees for their help.

Doesn’t stop her though from kicking Mugman in the shin before Bendy quickly yanks her out of possible harm’s way. “THAT’S FOR HURTING OUR FRIENDS AND TRYING TO KILL US BUTTFACE!”

Mugman honestly is far more shocked how bold and blunt a kid clearly under 10 is as he rubs his smarting leg. He’d be quick to assure Boris and Bendy that he’s not mad and honestly kinda deserved that.

They all sit together to eat and hear Mugman out, Mugman noticing but not commenting on the rather rude drawings of him and Cuphead he saw in Audrey’s notebook when she pulled it out to work on some doodles, and the three older members of the group making their deal. Boris tells Mugman they’ll help him get Cuphead back, in exchange for the two of them leaving their friends alone, and not hurting Audrey. She’s a little kid, she’s the least deserving of being chased down and killed or hurt. Mugman agrees to Boris’s terms while Audrey has some mixed feelings over hearing that.

When they confront Lady Facilier, Audrey sticks with Boris while Bendy and Mugman try fighting. Audrey has strict instructions to use her talent to get away if things get bad, which she tries, but the shadows grab her and Boris and make it impossible for her to get away as she tightly holds onto the voodoo doll while Boris holds the map and the now literal cup Cuphead. Bendy would be ready to do whatever it takes to protect his two siblings when Mama Odie comes to the rescue.

With the map back and the doll in their hands, Bendy, Boris, and Audrey quickly get out of there after Cuphead is turned back to normal and he tries shooting at them. Audrey calls out a very fast “BYEMAMAODIEANDMUGMAN!” as Bendy scoops her up like a sack of potatoes and books it the hell out of there with Boris.

And now, Funfact time!

-Despite how cold Alice was to Bendy at first because he’s a demon, I doubt she’d be mean to Audrey since she’s a child and came to her for help in a very polite way. Certainly left her confused though, especially after watching Bendy interact with Audrey and being a good brother/adult figure to her.

-After being reunited with the Warners again and the three helping them get to New Orleans, before splitting ways Dot would hand Audrey a card with her phone number on it. “Call me sometime, you can tell me how to win over my Mailman as we paint each other's nails!” Audrey would be excited about this as she looks at her two brothers.”Guys! I made another friend!” Bendy does his best not to cringe over their little sister making friends with Dot of all people while Boris chuckles and says they’re happy for her.

- Audrey decides she hates the swamp, very much. The only reason she’d consider going back is to visit Mama Odie, but other than that, being chased by gators, being stuck up a tree, having to be carried for most of the time, getting soaked, and barely getting any sleep kinda soured the whole experience for her.

-That being said, she loves Mama Odie. First she got Granny Gopher, and now she has Mama Odie too who kept Audrey distracted from the dangerous tunnels they were in by sharing old stories about the swamp. Bendy and Boris are a bit thankful she kept Audrey from getting too upset from their situation, as well as how her stories helped them relax a little too before the giant snake showed up.

- After they get to know Mugman a bit better, and after Mugman stood up for her and Bendy when the one restaurant wouldn’t serve them, Audrey decides he’s not THAT bad as she initially thought. Sure she’s still very well aware of how dangerous he and his brother are, and she doesn’t like the thought of how they’re still going to go after her brothers even if they spare her, but he seems like an okay guy. He and Cuphead just make bad choices for reasons she doesn’t know/understand.

- Cuphead’s still a cusshead though, she wishes she got the chance to kick him in the shin if it didn’t mean getting a magic bullet to the face.

-Boris made sure to cover Audrey’s eyes when Lady Facilier’s soul was turned into a shadow, not removing his hand until he and Bendy, heck even Mugman, could move themselves to keep Audrey from seeing her body.

- No, the doll does not bite Audrey and turn into a doll version of her, it bites Bendy when he took it from her for safe keeping, and so she’s not tempted to play with the creepy thing since it looks like a child’s play thing. Better safe than sorry.

-Despite how Bendy and Boris do their best to shield Audrey from how people can be, she still notices how they judge Bendy and her before they even get to know them. At one point when they still lived in sillyvision she asked Bendy why a lot of people hated them. Bendy was not surprised but dreaded that question being asked as he held Audrey in his arms and explained how people think demons are bad for different reasons, but that doesn’t mean they’re bad. Boris loves them and so does Sasha, and that’s way more important than some random schmuck judging them.

#bendy and boris in the inky mystery #babitim #Bendy and the Ink Machine #batim #Cuphead #the cuphead show #au #my stuff #audrey drew #Inky Mystery Audrey AU #quest bendy #quest boris #quest cuphead #quest mugman

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clearmentalitykryptonite · 7 months

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Yesterday on February 18 2024 my daughter asks is mommy coming with us and my son goes "Mommy can't leave" like he can see what's happening. Today I call on lunch and it's like the kids don't even want to talk to me and my daughter looks like she is about to cry. I remember in the past how you use to threaten them or bribe with things. Do you remember why I call on my lunch? To make sure they are being taken care of i still remember how our daughter was crying a few weeks ago and you said "your talking privileges are over" it's not a privilege I am their mother it's my right. MY children; our children. You always threaten to take our kids or keep me from our kids then try to play all nice. Remember we talked about staying together until they were 18 and that was like half a decade ago remember you threatening me that you would take them and that's what got me to stay in this damn trauma bond for so long.

Today there was a redbull in the fridge that is your preferred drink when I'm about to be drugged or poisoned. Today at the store some of my favorite things were missing but who knows; could it be like when my tampons were thrown out at home and then at the store the box was cut open and one was missing or was that coincidence. Then I park for my lunch as normal and there is a suspicious family watching me and moving there car up. I later realized when i started having chest pain again and the car door was left open the someone must or did something topical. Just like the lotion I have at home that burns and was turning my face red and the body wash thats oily. Is it you or your mother who likes to drug people. She like to pay people right? How can someone manage a restaurant and abuse their power to negatively spead things about their sons ex who he repeatedly abused. Tell them to do or say things or even show a picture and stalk me. How can someone like that be allowed to work with so many people and be around their food. When she has had people drug me before. What about at the school with the teachers and that one special teacher our son was afraid of at the meeting with those mickey mouse earrings you seemed to know so well. Who provides the drugs/poison is it your sister who works in the medical field or one of your moms waitresses. You know how abused and like shit I feel. I don't care how crazy I sound because the truth will come out there is zero doubt on that. In your special IT job at a very well know store with I'm sure more skilled friends helping you abuse me. Accountability will be taken. I didn't deserve all this abuse especially when I have been having a hard time for years and have done nothing to you guys but speak my truth. The mental abuse you guys put me through is real and the physical abuse you put me through is real. I'M DONE! Your Karma/Accountability is coming. I will heal and be happy and you guys won't be apart of my life.

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wlwmarvelenthusiast · 3 years

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Can u write an au where carol’s cat (goose) keeps sneaking into fem!reader’s apartment and so carol and reader communicate with each other thru notes they put on goose’s collar and they eventually fall in love (((:::::::

Goose's Best Friend

Summary: After a stranger's cat injured in your apartment one night, you decide to attach a short note to its collar to give your apologies. They lead to something you could have never expected.

Pairing: Army Pilot!Carol Danvers x Reader

Warnings: language

Word Count: 2,792

It was the middle of the night, 2:57a.m., to be exact, when a loud crash shook you from the clutches of sleep. You sat up with a groan, rubbing your eyes to clear your vision enough to look at the clock on your nightstand. You swung your legs off the bed, eyes catching the shattered lamp on the ground. Fighting off the temptation to leave it on the ground for tomorrow, for fear that you might forget about it and slam your bare feet into the shards scattered around the floor, you slid your legs into some sweats and stood up.

You weren’t expecting, when you turned on the light, for something to move. When something darted around the corner you actually let out a high-pitched yelp, flying backwards and hitting your elbow hard off the corner of the nightstand. You felt tingling rush into the tips of your fingers as you tried desperately to comprehend what had just happened. Your breathing had already increased, and your heart was racing inside your chest. You took a hesitant step forward.

Despite being alone in the apartment, you flushed beet red in embarrassment when you found the creature you’d been so terrified of. The orange tabby cat stared up at you with wide eyes, letting out a quiet mew. Immediately your heart softened, its beat slowing down to a normal pace. When the cat made to step toward you, though, you immediately noticed the limp. Your eyebrows furrowed and you knelt down, letting it come to you. You reached out for its front leg, and it let you take it into your hand.

“Oh, sweet baby,” you muttered softly, wiping a bit of blood out of its fur with your thumb. “Come on. I think I have a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

It surely didn’t understand what you said, but it followed you when you stood up. It limped into the bathroom behind you, settling once it reached the tile floor. You reached into the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the red case, propping it up on the countertop and opening it up. Quickly, you located the roll of bandages and the scissors that came with it. You pulled it out and got some wet paper towels. Once more you knelt down on the ground next to the tabby.

A black collar around its neck caught your attention. You reached out for the silver tag that hung from it and spoke aloud. “Goose. Well, Goose, there’s no phone number here for your owner. Guess I’ll have to fix you up and trust you can find your own way home, huh?”

He meowed in response.

You continued to wrap up his leg. When you finally finished, you tucked the first aid kit away again. You clicked your tongue a couple times in an attempt to get him to follow you again. The both of you headed toward the kitchen, where you rummaged through the fridge for the leftover chicken from dinner the night before last. You pulled some out and set it in a small dish on the floor, a sort of apology for your lamp having done such damage to the poor animal’s leg. He helped himself quickly. Meanwhile, you dug through one of your drawers.

You popped the cap off a pen and cut a small strip of paper, struggling to keep your writing small enough to fit.

There was no number on the collar, so I opted for this. Goose found his way into my apartment and had an unfortunate mishap. I patched him up and gave him a treat. I hope that’s okay. He should be alright.

Hope he feels better soon.

You rolled the note around the tabby’s collar and taped it in place. He’d finished his treat by now, so you led him back to the apartment door. When you opened it, he cast one glance back at you, eyes shining as if in gratitude, then scurried down the hall. Just as he turned out of sight, though, someone else moved into your peripheral vision. You could have scoffed when you saw who had wandered into the hallway. She spoke before you could close the door.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Fuck off, Danvers.”

“Captain Danvers,” she hummed, a wide smirk on her face as she twirled her keys around her finger.

“In your dreams,” you scoffed. “And next time you’re using your stripes to get random women in bed, be a little quieter, would you? Some of us around here have self-respect.”

You closed the door before she could respond to that.

You and Carol Danvers had hated each other for as long as you’d lived there. The two of you were like hot and cold, or night and day. She liked loud music and late nights whereas you liked a nice book and an early night. You were quiet and soft-spoken, and Carol was a bully. In fact, she was your bully. You’d never endured such teasing and taunting from anyone else before. It wasn’t her harsh words that got to you, though. In fact, you weren’t entirely sure what it was that got to you. Maybe it was her arrogance, or maybe it was her ignorance for anyone around her. It didn’t matter.

Carol Danvers brought out a side of yourself that you didn’t know existed. You’d only have to hear a single word fall from her lips or see a glimpse of her from the corner of your eye, and instantly any semblance of a good mood would dissipate and fade into annoyance. The hatred you held for her made your blood boil in your veins at the mere sight of her stupid, cocky smirk. You sometimes wished you could just reach out and slap that stupid smirk off her stupid face.

You pushed the blonde from your mind, heading back to bed. Hopefully, the coming day would be one that didn’t involve the blonde captain.

It was three days later that a quiet meow caught your attention. It tore your gaze from the TV, and you glanced toward the source of the sound. The face that was watching you immediately brought a smile to your face. You pat the couch beside you and the tabby jumped up, settling onto the blanket. You ran your hand across his head, watching his eyes close in content. You were about to turn your gaze back to the TV when you noticed the paper around his collar. It wasn’t the same one you put there. You reached out for it and removed it, careful not to rip it, and unrolled it. You flicked on the lamp.

Sorry about him. He wanders around the building. This isn’t the first time he’s gotten into someone’s room. If you fed him, he’ll probably come back to you (which I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind that he’ll keep coming back). That’s how I know you’ll get this. So, thank you for patching him up. The vet would’ve cost more. You were right. He was just fine.

Rolled up with it was a twenty-dollar bill. You chuckled, immediately standing up off the couch. You pulled a small treat out of the fridge as you passed it, Goose trotting into the kitchen at the sight. You handed it to him and he took it happily, chowing down as you stood up straight again and continuing on your journey toward the notepad on the counter. Once again you ripped a small piece of paper out of it, ripping the cap of the pen off with your teeth and holding it there as you brought the pen down to meet the paper.

It seems so. You were right. He came back. He’s a sweet boy. I truly enjoy his visits. I don’t get many of them, so he’s welcome here whenever he pleases. And I don’t need this. Keep it.

You knelt down on the ground to Goose once again. He sat still for you as you wrapped the bill around his collar, wrapped the note around it, and then taped them both in place. Once more, you led him back to the apartment door, opened it up for him, and let him into the hallway. He rubbed his head against your calf once more before dashing out of sight. You shut the door behind him.

You huffed as you stormed into the lobby of the apartment building. Work had not treated you well that day. All you wanted was to head upstairs, put on your coziest pyjamas, order takeout, cuddle into the couch, and watch a movie or two. It was all you needed to wash away the horrible day and ease the stress that was weighing so heavily on your chest. You only wanted to pick up your mail before you did, but apparently, the universe had other ideas.

“Looking for some mail from your mommy?”

Danvers was the last person you wanted to deal with today. You didn't even bother to grumble a response to your neighbour, who was still in uniform as she stepped up beside you and unlocked her own mailbox. You were going to step away without a single word, but once more, you didn’t get your wish. Carol snickered at something, making you slam your box shut with far more force than necessary.

“What, pray tell, is so fucking funny?” You snapped.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing. Nice keychain.”

The keychain was a souvenir one you’d gotten from your trip to Disney with your family a few years ago. It was a picture of you and your brothers all wearing Mickey Mouse ears and sticking your tongues out at the camera. If anyone else had said the words, you would have blushed and thanked them. When Carol said the words, you shoved the keys in your pocket and shot a glare so harsh that it would have killed if it could have.

“You’re a dick, Danvers.”

“Captain Danvers,” she corrected once more.

“Look, this whole army pilot thing might work on those girls you pick up from god knows where, but I’ve met you,” you sneered. “You use this uniform for detestable things, Danvers. It’s disgusting.”

You stormed away.

When you unlocked your door and stepped into your apartment, however, you found that you wouldn’t need pyjamas or takeout or movies to make you feel better. Your new best friend was sitting on your couch as if he had been waiting for you to arrive home. You dropped your bag at the door and moved to sit with him immediately. After stroking his head absentmindedly for a bit, you noticed the new note.

Take it. Please? Come on, you’re going to make Goose sad if you don’t. You’re going to make me sad if you don’t.

Attached with the note, again, was that same twenty-dollar bill. You rolled your eyes as you moved into the kitchen once more, handing Goose a few of the cat treats you’d bought for him. He accepted them happily as, for the third time, you prepared to write a note for Goose’s mystery owner. You didn’t even bother to sit down, hunching over the counter in a way that your back probably wouldn’t have thanked you for. You scribbled on the paper.

I’m sure Goose won’t mind at all. As for you? Well, I don’t really know you, do I? Just keep the damn money, will you? You know, Goose is going to gain a few pounds if you keep sending him back here.

Sincerely, Goose’s new best friend

After a few pats to the head, you sent Goose off with that. He was back later that day.

Goose’s best friend,

Goose does mind. He wants you to keep it. Please? Besides, if we keep attaching it with scotch tape to a wandering cat, it’s going to get lost. You wouldn’t want that, now, would you? I sure wouldn’t. As for the treats, I’ll make sure to walk him a bit more. Wouldn’t want to lose my new favourite pen pal over a couple extra pounds on the cat.

- Goose’s mom

This time, there were two twenties attached. You chuckled at that. Goose was gobbling down his treat as you wrote.

Goose’s mom,

I think that’d be quite a sight to see, you walking Goose down the street. Guess if I ever see Goose leashed and with some random woman on the street, I’ll know what you look like.

- Goose’s best friend

P.S. Just donate the money. Seriously.

As if it were habit by now, you reattached the bills, added your note, and sent the tabby out the door once again. You headed back to what you’d been doing.

It wasn’t long before the next reply.

Goose’s best friend,

Here, I’ll help you build the image. I’m 23, blonde, and about 5’6”. I’m in the army, so I’d probably still be in uniform after work. Oh, and Goose’s leash is blue, and he has a grey harness for walking.

- Goose’s mom

P.S. I split the $40 between the humane society and the local shelter

You once more had to laugh at the stranger. Of course, you immediately moved to respond. As much as you didn’t want to kick Goose out, you wanted her to get your answer as soon as possible. You grabbed your notepad.

Goose’s mom,

You sound cute.

- Goose’s mom’s best friend

It was a short note this time. You were having fun, though, and you wanted to tease your new friend a little. You attached the note to Goose and let him run off.

Once more, Goose returned with a new reply.

Best friend,

You didn’t give me anything in response. I’m offended.

- Goose’s mom’s best friend’s best friend

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the way she’d signed her newest note. A pang of confidence hit your chest. You scribbled on the note.

Goose’s cute mom,

Let’s go for coffee then. 2B. I’m free when you are.

- Girl with a crush

You regretted sending that last note. You’d never gone more than 12 hours without communicating with the mystery note sender. You’d grown quite fond of the little pieces of communication you’d exchanged with her. It was actually the highlight of your day, on most days. Since sending that last one, though, you’d yet to hear back from her. It’d been four days now. You were quite upset about it, and decided the best way to fix that was some loud music. Maybe it’d piss Danvers off as much as she pissed you off.

When there was a loud knock on the door, you immediately assumed that you’d sure pissed someone off. Of course, they’d complain about you and not her. Everyone loved Carol fucking Danvers. You wished you could whirl the door open and shout at whoever was on the other side, but knew yourself better than that. You’d probably open it up and apologize, then turn the volume down and wallow in your misery to the sound of softer music.

That is, if it were anyone but Danvers.

“What? Just now realizing how damn annoying it is to hear loud music blaring from the apartment directly below yours?” You rolled your eyes. “Fuck off, Danvers.”

You went to slam the door, but she stuck her hand in. It must’ve been a little harsher than you meant to, because she shook her fingers out when she retracted them. You didn’t apologize, because you didn’t even feel bad. She deserved it after giving you two years of hell having to live in the apartment below her. You’d not have been surprised if one day she invited an elephant into her room just so she could make as much noise in your apartment as possible.

As you were about to make another snarky remark, though, you noticed something. That cocky glint that was usually shining in her brown eyes was missing. She wasn’t even meeting your eyes. Her gaze was cast to the door beside your head, locked to the bronze numbers that were screwed into it. You raised a single eyebrow, waving your hand in front of her face to get her attention. She blinked as if coming out of a trace, looking back to you.

“What do you want, Danvers?” You snapped when she wouldn’t speak.

She didn’t answer. She only held out a small piece of paper. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, but took it from her. The handwriting was one you’d seen so many times.

Goose’s best friend,

Coffee it is. But I’m paying. I still owe you.

- A girl who also has a crush, Carol Danvers

#carol danvers #carol danvers x reader #captain marvel #captain marvel x reader #reader insert #marvel #mcu #lesbian #wlw

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sully-999 · 3 years

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Mickey and the Gallaghers Part 2

This might be the lowest point of his life he thinks. Even on the lowest points of his alcoholism and all the shit with college and Helene he was only really fucking up his own life.

But now, shit was different. He had 3 (potentially 4) people that depended on him. He had no job, no stable income, and no potential leads to other opportunities.

They had decided not to sell the house to Shelby and to wait for another bigger offer to come in. The Gallagher house had survived and been their shelter their entire lives. Lip was sure it would continue to be, but now they had less furniture, fewer appliances, and worst of all no fucking hot water.

He was at a loss. Desperation filled every cell of his body. Even if he worked on this stupid delivery job all day he couldn’t front the expenses to repair the pipes or the water heater.

Lip was a hustler. He knew what he could do to come up with the money. Less than legal ways to do it. But after the whole Born Free debacle, he had sworn to Tami that he wouldn’t do anything that could potentially affect them. Regardless, things were still too hot with the police still sniffing around.

He knew Ian and even Carl could lend him some money but he couldn’t find a fiber in his body that made him want to ask them. He was supposed to be the big brother, the protector. How the fuck did it all come to this?

He was so involved in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the footsteps climbing up the porch stairs. With his head on his palms, he only saw the combat boots and thought it was Ian but when he looked up he saw instead his brother-in-law looking at him with an inquisitive face.

“Hey man, what’s up?” “Ian sent me to pick up some shit he left in the room.” “Oh ok” “He’s at fucking Yoga class or some shit” “Wow in true west side fashion”

They stayed in awkward silence for a while. Lip and Mickey had known each other for years. They had done some crazy things when they were younger and normally had a decent relationship. After the fight, things got better but sometimes they still had awkward moments.

“Sooo, I’m going in” “Yeah yeah go ahead”

Mickey knew Lip was going through a hard time. Not only had he shared with Ian all that was pestering him, but Mickey could just see it. Lip’s cocky attitude and know-it-all fuckery were toned down and he was often quieter, observant. The years of the college boy in the Ivy?... What was it?.. Ivory? Ivory Tower were long gone and Lip was back to being full south side trying to make ends meet.

Mickey entered the house and couldn’t find anyone inside. The kitchen was still a mess and it seemed like Lip attempted to work on the pipes while still trying to paint and do touch-ups around the first floor. He picked up the stuff Ian had asked for and since no one was there he made his way back to the door. He heard Lip on the phone trying to get a quote for the repairs so he just waved and kept walking.

As Mickey drove back to the apartment he couldn’t get the image of Lip with his head in his hands sitting on the porch. He was alone since Tami and Fred were still at her dad’s and he looked plain miserable. He remembered the brilliant guy that tutored Ian when he wanted to go to West Point. The one with the bright future when all the other Gallagher siblings seemed screwed for life. The one that acted like a punk but always gave his all for his family.

Family. He shouldn’t give a fuck but Mickey feels restless.

He knew that if Ian offered him the money he wouldn’t accept it, even miserable Phillip was too fucking proud for that. Ian had told Mickey that he offered his share of the house if it sold and Lip had said no.

As Mickey entered the new apartment he didn’t feel like he could sit down. He walked around, cleaned up, turned the TV on trying to occupy his mind. Instead, he thought about Fred, about Tami, about Liam. His mind took him to think about Yevgeny and all the scams they did to put food on the table at the Milkovich house.

He went back to the bedroom rushing. He entered the walk-in closet and stretched to find a dark blue carton box. He grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down an amount of money and an “I O U” below it. Here he was, again. This time he would tell Ian...eventually.

Last time had been too complicated. There were so many little things that Mickey had almost lost track of where all the money had gone. Liam’s new graphing calculator, Franny’s after-school clubs, Tami’s last bill from the hospital, Carl’s required duty belt, the anniversary party.

He picked up his phone and dialed one of his contacts. “Hey, I have a job for you…”

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Lip was coming back home from making deliveries and upon opening the door he was faced with 2 guys cleaning up debris from the floor.

“Who the fuck are you?” he said startled. The 2 men looked at Lip and started speaking Spanish explaining something Lip couldn’t understand. Finally, they pointed at the water heater and one of them opened the kitchen faucet. As warm water started coming out a confused expression grew on Lip’s face. The men finished up cleaning and waved goodbye to Lip. He was dumbstruck.

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Ian and Mickey were making dinner when Ian’s phone rang. Mickey could only hear Ian’s responses to the call but he automatically knew who was calling.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about...They were just randomly inside the house?... I would have told you asshole!... Maybe Debbie?”

As Ian continued his conversation, Mickey kept chopping the beloved tomatoes from the garden.

“That’s awesome though, do you guys need help moving Tami and Fred back in? Ok, let me know what you find out. Bye.”

“Lip says someone came to fix the pipes and reconnected the gas so they finally have hot water.”

“Mhm,” Mickey was trying his hardest to avoid meeting his husband's eyes. He could lie his way from any situation but he couldn’t, for the life of him, lie to Ian.

Ian eyed him suspiciously “Do you know anything about this?”

Mickey ignored him but Ian knew something was up. He kept probing him until he broke.

“You can’t say anything to him Red” “Why?” “Because he would be embarrassed and would try to pay us back. You had offered him money before and he refused but he needed help Ian.” “Why didn’t you tell ME anything then?” “Cause you couldn’t have kept the secret and Lip would have stopped us!”

Ian knew he had a point...“Where did you get the money?” he asked next. “...” “Mickey…” “The honeymoon fund man. I’m sorry I know we promised to talk to one another and have a mutual understanding and all that shit but Ian...family is family” He said harshly. After a moment Ian smiled and kissed him sweetly. “Family is family” he repeated grinning.

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They hosted the next family dinner at the Gallagher house. As the kids played games and Debbie and Ian helped Tami to set the table Lip approached Mickey giving him a beer.

The two men kept looking at the kids and relaxed in comfortable silence. “I’m glad you’re part of our family Mickey”

Mickey nodded without facing him and without saying a word cheered his beer to Lip’s pop.

He was too.

#gallavich #gallavich fanfic #ian and mickey #this came out way longer than anticipated.

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writefasttalkevenfaster · 4 years

Text

Take My Hand (Part Six)

Summary: rafael returns and things only get more complicated as the Davis case begins

Pairings: Sonny Carisi x Reader, Rafael Barba x Reader

Word Count: 8,240

Song: There's an ache in you put there by the ache in me / But if it's all the same to you / It's the same to me (coney island by taylor swift)

Warnings: T, swearing, the angst is back, lot of soft parts, but a lot of difficult emotions to detangle, “sightless in a savage land” (22x04) is used as background (but i also f*cked with the timeline to make things easier for me), also the v*rus doesn’t exist b/c i don’t want to live in reality.

A/N: ok, things are happening, and i want to saw those of you who spot all the little parallels w/i the fic i love you. thank you to those who have stuck with the series and have reblogged and commented!! as always, thank you to @laneygthememequeen and @bucky-of-the-opera for being the best beta readers!!

You would be lying if you said you didn’t imagine this moment.

The moment you saw Rafael again. It was a thought that haunted the recesses of your mind — stuffed away with all memories of him — one that wriggled to the forefront when your thoughts had quelled in the silence and stillness. And you wondered what he would say. And what you would say.

And now you didn’t have to wonder.

"What are you—" the question deflates on your lips — stupid question — so you ask another, "when did you get back?"

"A few days ago," Rafael jerks his head to pull you aside, an easy smile on his lips, too easy. It wasn't easy when you both started dating. It wasn't easy when you left. It wasn't easy when he proposed. And it wasn't easy to say no. Nothing was easy when it came to this. But there he was, "my mother is moving down to Florida."

You raise your eyebrows, "Finally retiring? Did you have to pry the keys of her charter school out of her fingers?"

He gives a wry smile, "No, but helping her find a replacement and helping her pick out a place down there made it easier. That and promising to help her move."

"You're a good son," he was good — a good son, a good friend, a good prosecutor—

But he wasn’t good for you.

"Well I am a man of many talents," he crosses his arms, “with a few notable exceptions.”

And you know where this is going — to a place you don’t want it to.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but you cut him off, “Are you representing Davis?”

The words stuck in his throat, his mouth opening and closing, before he swallows them, “I am,”

“I didn’t know you did defense work,”

He tilts his head, “Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? I assume you’re here because Noble-Gordon wants the case?”

You raise an eyebrow, “Keeping tabs on me?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” the teasing is so routine — the banter clicks into place — picking up right where you both left off, smoothing over broken hearts and hurt feelings. Hiding behind quick witted barbs because it was easier than untangling ensnared feelings.

“Rafael—”

“I met with Jack,” he admits, holding his hands up, “I asked about you. Can you blame me for being curious?”

No. No, you couldn’t — not when you had asked Jack about him.

“I can try,” you want to bite the inside of your cheek when he smirks, “why do you want this case?”

“Off the record? Liv and Fin,” he slides his hands inside his pocket, “I suspect they didn’t know your firm would want the case for themselves, but,” he adds, “there’s a way this could work for both of us.”

“How?”

“How about a partnership?”

“A partnership?”

“Your firm gets their name on the case, and I need financial support,” and you furrow your brow, “but I have some terms.”

“Of course you would,” you sigh, “what are they?”

“One, I do the actual defense work in court, two, your firm’s involvement is limited to only a few employees — I don’t want your partners’ politics to be running the case — and three, you’re on the case with me,” and you raise your eyebrows, “before you say no—”

“Before I say no?” you repeat, “Rafael with everything that happened—”

“Before anything happened, we worked cases together, and even after everything happened, we did,” he shifts from foot to foot, “we know how the other works, we know our strengths and weaknesses, and I need someone I trust to work this case on — so I can walk into that courtroom for the first time since—” he sighs, biting his lip before speaking again, softer, “I want your help, and I know I have no right to ask for it, but I am. And that term is negotiable, but I’m pretty sure your firm will agree. You’re the best person to work this case.”

“But—”

“And before you ask,” he says, gaze soft, “this isn’t a ploy to win you back.”

You blink, “I know,”

Did you? You wished you could tell your heart because now it’s thumping against your ribcage, “I know I missed my chance, and I don’t want to cross any boundaries,” he reassures you, “this will be professional.”

“‘Professional,’” you repeat, the taste of the word disconcerting with just how unprofessional this felt, “Rafael—”

“Just think about it,” he tilts his head, “meet with Davis — trust me, he needs our help,” and then he pauses, “and you know that we’ll be facing—”

“I know Sonny is the A.D.A. on the case,” and he’s also my boyfriend. The words want to leave your tongue, but the sheer awkwardness is as disconcerting as working with Rafael — “Look—”

“Don’t give me an answer yet, just talk to your firm,” he checks his watch, “I have to go, but I’ll email you.”

“And where’d you get my email?” he shrugs.

“You can blame your firm for that one — firm’s website lists you,” and he begins to walk past you before pausing to look back, “it was nice to see you...counselor.”

How was it that he walked into your life as easily as you had left his? How was it that you wanted to hate him, but it was so easy to like him? How was it that everything was so easy — when it was him?

“It was nice to see you too,” and you spared one last glance at his retreating back, as the guard buzzed you in.

And that wouldn’t be the last time you’d see him.

Sonny was beginning to doubt any of this would ever get easier. Checking his watch, it was well past 3:00 PM and he hadn’t even eaten yet — typical. He spares a glance at the whiteboard — littered with schedules, case numbers, and statuses of cases.

But there was still so much to do.

He checks his phone — you had texted him, the messages bunched together, but his eyes fall back to the files stacked on the conference table. He begins placing them in a case box. It would have to wait.

“Carisi?” and he pauses at a voice — a voice he hadn’t heard in quite a while. He’s grizzled — different from the clean cut A.D.A. he once was, but he’s also lighter — again, different from the broken man who left his city with his reputation in shambles.

His words, not Sonny’s.

But now Sonny knows, knows that he wasn’t only broken because of the case, of having to leave his city, but because of you — the you that Barba had been with for years, the you whose heart he broke, the you who said no when he proposed.

And now you were dating Sonny.

Him, not Barba.

He stands in his doorway, “How’s the eighth floor treating you?”

But this was the same man that was his mentor, his friend — so he smiles.

“No differently than any other junior A.D.A.,” and Rafael gives a knowing smile, as Sonny continues to put away the files.

“They want you to cover their ass all the time? Never lose a case?” he knew it well — because he had lived it.

“Pretty much,” Barba crosses his arms, as Sonny grabs the box and brushes past him, “it’s good to see you, Barba. If you came to taunt me, I got all day.”

And it was good to see him — why wouldn’t it be? He would be lying if he didn’t wish before that Rafael was his boss instead — it would have been easier if nothing else. But not now.

“Huh, they gave you an office,” Barba remarks, glancing around his shoebox of an office, peering out his window to look at the paralegals at their desks, “nice view.”

Sonny places the box down, snorting, “I had to move the xerox machine and four filing cabinets just to get the desk in,” and then move them back. It wasn’t much — but it took him this long to get it — glorified closet or not, it was his.

“So you caught the Mickey Davis case?” He’s standing by the window, and Sonny sighs — the case had been all over the news, the media were having a field day, and so were his bosses upstairs. These were different times — and this was a dangerous case — vigilantism wasn’t something to be taken lightly. But it wasn’t something that was simple — not in this case.

“Oh, yeah,” Sonny sighs, leaning against his desk, “horror story.”

“What are you charging?”

Sonny almost scoffs, “The guy brought a gun to court, he followed the vic to transport, and shot him at point-blank range. What do you think?”

“I think the guy's got a Purple Heart, titanium leg, and PTS,” Sonny blinks — what was this?

“That doesn’t change what he did,” Sonny says slowly — Barba knew that — killing is still killing, no matter how justified it may seem.

He said it himself best — otherwise we might as well let the blood flow in the streets.

“He was betrayed by the V.A. and A.C.S., even the eighth floor has to know this is a dog,” Barba says, stepping forward, a ghost of a chuckle on his lips.

“Maybe,” Sonny admits, “but they still want him to do time.”

“That has to be negotiable,” and that’s when it clicks.

Sonny pauses, his mouth parted, as Barba meets his gaze, “Hold on,” he says slowly, “before we continue—”

“Mm-hmm,”

“Are you representing Mickey Davis?” And it’s Barba’s turn to pause, and he’s searching Sonny’s gaze — and he doesn’t know for what.

“I am,”

Sonny scoffs — that would have been nice to know from the start, “Okay,” Sonny gets to his feet, shutting his door and rounding the table to sit behind his desk — time to get down to business, “What kind of deal are you looking for?”

“No way you want to put this guy on trial,”

“Three and half years? No, but thank you,” Barba sits across from him, and Sonny knows he’s playing hard ball — he always played hard ball, but this time, they weren’t on the same team.

“Barba, we both know this wasn’t heat of the moment,”

“Maybe to you, not to Mr. Davis,”

Sonny raises an eyebrow, there was defending your client and then there was plain hubris,“There's security cam video. There's multiple eyewitnesses. Mickey broke the law—”

“A jury might see that as defending his daughter when no one else did,” Sonny narrows his eyes — jury nullification — did he get that strategy from Calhoun or Buchanan?

“Get the jury to ignore the law?” Sonny knew he wouldn’t make easy on him “That's a slippery slope, Rafael.”

He smiles, he’s almost proud, “You really have become a lawyer,”

Sonny wrinkles his brow, “What does that mean?”

“Mickey Davis is a human being. So are the jurors,” Rafael rises to his feet, as Sonny calls after him.

“You going for insanity?” He half-expects him not to answer — that would be the smart thing to do — but Rafael’s pride always trumped any strategy.

“I'm going for straight-up not guilty,” Rafael opens the door, turning, “and my co-counsel may be in touch as well.”

“Co-counsel?” Sonny leans back in his seat — he didn’t know Barba needed a second chair, “who’s that?”

And your name leaves his lips, “Excuse me?”

“Looks like you’ll be facing both of your mentors, Carisi,” and he knew that Rafael hadn’t seen the picture of you on his desk — “I’ll make sure to relay the offer as well. See you at arraignment.”

Sonny stares at the closed door, before his phone vibrates again, and he glances to see another text message from you: Hey, checking in on you. Can I drop by?

And Sonny knows, he knows you would never cheat. He knew this doesn’t change the year you had spent together, he knew it doesn’t change that you loved him, he knew it didn’t change anything, but — another text comes through: I miss you — it was complicated.

Not right now. Busy.

And he sighs, but it also didn’t change how he felt about you.

I miss you too.

The lights in the D.A.’s office had long ago dimmed — the barely lit fluorescents flickering as you passed the empty line of desks before finally reaching it. You knock at his office door, leaning against the doorframe, watching him work, his brow furrowed in thought, pen flicking as he scribbled notes.

“You forget about me?” Sonny barely looks up from his work, tight lipped, and your smile begins to slide off your lips, “Sonny?”

“Sorry, got caught up in work,” he leans back in his chair, just as you step forward, “what time is it?”

“Way past dinner,” you round his desk, leaning against it as you tilt your head, “you okay?”

You reach for him, but he moves away, crossing his arms, “Barba dropped by,” and his eyes fall on you — and you wonder if this was what it felt like to be interrogated — the pages of the book snapped shut, his cards resting against the table, and his face blank, “He wanted to discuss the Davis case—”

Your heart drops, “Sonny—”

“—and apparently you’re his co-counsel?” he shakes his head, sighing, his eyes falling to his desk, “When were you going to tell me that you met with Barba?”

You frown, “I wanted to tell you, I was going to tell you before I went to meet him — but I couldn’t reach you. You know my partners wanted to score some points—”

“Because of the Thompson case, I know—” but his brow is still furrowed, “but how did you end up calling point on the case?”

“I had to meet with Davis to discuss the details of the case,” you explain how your partners were too busy to go down and handle it nor did they trust any of the associates to do it, “we need this case — it’s a high profile case involving a vet? We had to jump on it, but when I got to Rikers, it turned out someone else got the jump on it first.”

He scoffs, “Barba,”

“He had already met with Davis, he offered to work in partnership with my firm, granted I handle the case and he gets to be in the courtroom,” and Sonny raises his eyebrows.

“He asked for you specifically to work the case with him?”

“Because he knows how I work,” your hand reaches for him slowly, “nothing more than that. Sonny, please don’t be mad — it was a coincidence.”

“I’m not mad,” he sighs, eyes finally meeting yours, his fingers intertwining with yours, “Would have been nice to know you two decided to work the case together,”

“I was going to tell you — I was just about to—”

“I know,” and he’s pulling you into his lap, “Just don’t let me find out you’re working with your ex from your ex,”

“I won’t,” you whisper, pressing your lips to him softly, “I promise. I didn’t mean for this—”

“I know,” he kisses you again, his arms wrapping around your middle, “what about us?”

Your lips purse, “What about us?”

“Our relationship — will we have to disclose?” it hadn’t been a problem since the cases you handled fell out of Sonny’s jurisdiction most times and when it didn’t, you delegated the work to someone else, “it seems like professional responsibility 101,”

“Well, I already told Mr. Davis, I got his written consent in writing when I met with him, just in case I end up handling the case,” you bite your lip, “as for the judge, it shouldn’t be a problem as long as we have the consent of my client.”

Your hand runs over his cheek, and he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm, “Are you going to work the case?”

“I have to talk to my firm, see what everyone wants to do,” your fingers run over his face, “but if they do want me to handle the case, are you okay with that?”

“You know I can’t make that call for you,” his hand rests on the small of your back, “it’s yours to make, sweetheart.”

“But I don’t want to make it without knowing you’re okay with me working with him—” you lean down to press a kiss to his temple, “are you okay with it?”

“I am,” he says softly, “are you?”

“The firm needs the case — and this could be my shot at making partner,” his lips press butterfly kisses to your neck, and you sigh, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Sleep on it?” he murmurs against his skin, “always how the best decisions are made.”

“Says who?”

“Me,” he replies.

And you chuckle, noses brushing, as you lean closer, “As long it’s from a reliable source,” and your lips meet again, he pulls away, but you give chase, until you’re pressing him into the seat, fingers sliding along his shoulders, your hand finding the back of his neck, swallowing his moan with ease.

“Doll,” his lips are kiss ruined, eyes fluttering, and you trail kisses along his jaw, “you’ll be the end of me,”

And the double meaning isn’t lost on you — “I would be happy to end with you,”

He smiles, and it’s enough. For now. You rest your forehead against his for a moment in the relative silence, only broken by the hum of the fluorescents and the quiet sound of your breathing.

Until his stomach growls.

And you blink, a grin breaking across your lips, “Hungry?”

“It depends,” and you slide off his lap, offering your hand to him, and he cocks his head, “did you cook?”

You huff at him, “You’ll be glad to know I ordered takeout right before I got here,” and he gets to his feet, taking your hand, “but just for that, I’m cooking for the next week.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” he wraps his arm around you, grabbing his bag, before flicking off the light.

And after you got back to the apartment, eating dinner, and slipping into bed, you lied awake, his quiet snores filling your ears, and you turned to look at him — barely illuminated in the moonlight that peeked through the parted shutters. His eyes shut, his breathing steady, his freshly washed hair falling against his forehead.

You turn away, reaching for your phone — finding the email from Rafael, disclosing the details of the case — a question ending the email: Are you in?

And you glance back at Sonny — only you didn’t know the answer.

He was okay with you taking the case, right? You scoot a little closer, nestling yourself beside him a moment, he said he was okay with it.

You shut your eyes. He was okay, and you would be okay.

Right?

“Wow, this is a nice upgrade from your office at the D.A.’s,” Rafael remarks at your office door, taking a moment to examine the room.

You barely look up from your work — a dozen cases, associates’ work to check, and several arraignments to do, “That’s because someone took the only nice office, and stuck me in a closet off of yours,”

“Bureaucracy at work,” he replies, shutting your door and taking stock, “how’s defense work treating you?”

“The same way it has been I left the D.A.’s office,” you spare a small smile, “wonderfully.”

“Found your calling?” you shrug.

“You could say that,” you sigh, placing your pen down, “what about you?”

“What about me?” he raises an eyebrow, and you roll your eyes. Always had to work for it when it came to Rafael Barba.

“What have you been up to?”

“Looking something I lost a few years ago,” and you furrow your brow, and he smiles, “don’t flatter yourself, counselor — I meant a calling,”

Your cheeks burn, “You came to talk arraignment? Thought you could handle that yourself, Mr. Innocence Project,”

“I wanted to talk deal,” Rafael crossed his arms, “there was one thing I didn’t disclose to you in that email and that’s my meeting with Carisi,” and you blink, only you knew about that already, “I met with him yesterday — he offered man 2.”

Sonny didn’t mention that, but then again it was better that he didn’t, “But you don’t want to take it?”

“I don’t,” he slides into a chair, pulling a legal pad out, leg folded over his knee, “I think we can do better — I think we can get not guilty.”

You raise your brow, “Do you want to—”

“I want to go for jury nullification,” he crosses his arms, shrugging, “we have a strong case for it.”

“And we have a man who literally shot another point blank on security footage, and who brought a gun with him to court,” you shake your head, “we have to at least consider it,”

“What’s there to consider? Mr. Davis doesn’t want to take the deal,” and you pause, and Rafael nearly wavers, adding, “I may have discussed it with him—”

“Before asking me about it?”

“You only told me this morning you were on board,” Rafael holds up his hands, “I had a duty to relay it to him,”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he didn’t want to deal — he wanted his day in court,” he tilts his head.

“Did he? Or did you?”

“What are you implying?”

“Did he come to this conclusion on his own or did you help him along?” and he pauses — all the answer you needed, “Rafael, this is our client, we have to be realistic—”

“He’s a vet with—”

“Awards and a prosthetic leg I know, but he also could go to jail for murder — and never see his daughter again,” and he opens his mouth to speak, “so I’m asking you, are you taking this to trial for him or for you?”

His lips are a thin line, “First of all, this is for him — I wouldn’t take this trial if I didn’t think there wasn’t a good chance of winning and if I knew this wasn’t what he wanted,” and he sits up, “and what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your firm probably wants this to go to trial — need the publicity of a trial for this to work — for you to get the break you need, isn’t it?” Rafael argues the same way he does in court — his words pointed and true, aimed for the chinks in someone’s armor, “sounds like we’re on the same page.”

You glare at him, “Don’t question my motives,”

“Then don’t question mine,” the words are terse, a period at the end of a paragraph that is still left hanging, until he chooses to start a new one, “Is this about the case? Or is this about us?”

You scoff, “So much for keeping it professional,”

Your name leaves his mouth soft, but firm, and your eyes meet his, “Is it going to be like this?” he asks, crossing his arms, “throughout the entire trial?”

“Like what?”

And he sighs, running a hand over his bristled chin, “I know I’ve made mistakes, I know, you know, but I can’t change what I’ve done,” his voice grows soft, “and I’m sorry, I wish I could — I wish I didn’t hurt you, but I did, and I take responsibility for that,” your gaze falls and he continues, “but if this is too hard, if you don’t want to do this, if you’re still angry, like you have every right to be—”

“I do,” the words leave your lips, “I do want to work with this case with you — it’s just—” you break off. You had meticulously tucked away any feelings for Rafael Barba away along with any reminder of him, including the man himself. It was easy, it was clearcut, but this wasn’t easy — because now your feelings were leaking, slipping from your careful control, and where there was a leak, there was a flood. And you were bound to get hurt.

“It’s hard,” he swallows, and you blink.

“It’s hard for you?” the words leave your lips harshly, and he flinches, “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he gives a rueful smile, “I deserved that, after everything I put you through,” he shrugs, pressing his lips together, “I did love you, I did, I was just afraid.”

“What were you so afraid of?”

And he shakes his head, “I saw so many relationships fall apart around me — my own, my parents, our cases—” he breaks off, “I didn’t want us to hate each other, I didn’t want to regret you,” a bitter chuckle leaves his lips, “but you ended up regretting me.”

You frown, “I don’t regret you,” and his brow furrows, “You’re surprised by that?”

“If I were you...I’d regret me,” and you sigh, hands wringing under your desk.

“Rafael, I loved you, even though it hurt, I can’t regret that. Do I wish things turned out differently? Maybe, but,” your voice softens, glancing at the picture of Sonny on your desk, and you gesture around you, shrugging, “it also got me to where I am.”

And you know you should tell him — you should tell him that you’ve moved on, you should tell him that you’re with Sonny, but the words are lodged in the back of your throat, and you can’t bring yourself to say them before he’s already speaking.

“Well,” he clears his throat, licking his lips, before smiling, “I’m glad, for that much at least,” and he sits back again, “So—”

“So?”

“Are we taking this to trial?” and you bite your lip — jury nullification was a risky move — for both the policy ramifications and the risk involved — but, that wasn’t your responsibility anymore, your duty and your only duty is to your client.

“Are you sure this is what Mr. Davis wants?” and Rafael nods.

“I would give you his exact words, but there are some obscenities,” and you snort, shaking your head.

“And you’re sure about putting him on the stand?”

“Not at all,” he scoffs, “he’s questionable at best, and a loose cannon at worst.”

You rub your temples, “That’s going to play well during cross,”

“We’ll prep him well — let’s just get through arraignment,” he sighs, flipping to a fresh page, “Carisi is going to ask for remand, how should we play it?”

“We ask for R.O.R. — he’s a father of a young girl who was just raped and impregnated, he’s a decorated veteran who needs physical therapy, and he’s not a flight risk.”

Rafael chuckles, “And when we don’t get it?”

“Honestly, I’ll take anything over remand,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “we should schedule a psych eval, start on gathering information on his tours, interview character witnesses and especially those who can testify to what he saw—” your words fall short when you see Rafael is smiling, “what?”

“Nothing,” he waves you off, pressing the tip of his pen to his lips, “Go on.”

And you blink, before going on — not noticing the way his smile returned when your eyes fell away.

Running late from the office — be there soon. Your text comes in just as Sonny’s food arrives at the table, and he’s about to order for you when a voice draws his attention away.

“Mr. Carisi,” Sonny’s head snaps up his phone to find Jack McCoy smiling at him, “am I interrupting?”

His mouth is dry, and he shakes his head, “No, not at all,” he gestures for him to join him, and Jack does, not bothering to look at a menu, “so I suppose this isn’t a social call?”

“I wanted to ask your progress on the Davis case,” he crosses his arms.

And he blinks, wondering why he hadn’t bothered to ask whether you had told his boss if a) you two were dating, and b) if he knew you were on this case, “Discovery is ongoing — I’ve handed my materials over per the new discovery rules within 15 days, and now I’m waiting on the defense to turn over their evidence.”

Jack shakes his head, “New York law catching up with the modern days — a damn fine day for defense attorneys — before we could sandbag the day before, not that I ever did that,” he gives a wry smile, before his eyes fall to Sonny’s phone, vibrating, “you need to get that?”

“No, sir,” Sonny waves it off, “What’s your interest in the Davis case?”

“Well, I am your boss, I’m interested in all your cases,” he replies, before smiling, “I did hear who the defense attorneys for the case are.”

And Sonny picks at his food, “Oh?”

“I am just curious how prepared you are to tackle a case against both of your old mentors,” Jack says, as Sonny chooses then to sip at his drink, “and your partner for that matter.”

He chokes, “Who—”

“It was obvious — at least to me,” Jack shrugs, “don’t pretend you haven’t heard the rumors about me,” he adds, furrowing his brow, “one piece of advice, son—”

“We are planning on disclosing to the judge—”

“Not that,” he says sharply, “you’ve been good together — the two of you. But it’s easy to let a case get between you,”

“Is this about Diana Hawthorne?”

And Jack raises an eyebrow, “Did—”

“Rumor mill isn’t just about me, sir,” he shrugs, “I heard it a while ago, that case was tough,”

“Made tougher by our relationship,” he sighs, “I think sometimes if we hadn’t been together, maybe things—” he cuts off, “my point is, you two have done a good job of keeping professional and personal from mixing so far, but when you both start bringing this case home—”

“We won’t,” Sonny says, and Jack raises an eyebrow, “we won’t.”

And Jack relaxes, before shoving his hands in his pockets, “How long have you two been—”

“Over a year now,” Jack smiles softly.

“Are you both happy?”

And is he happy? When he’s with you, he feels at peace for once — the world and its horrors slipping away, until he feels nothing but you in his arms. You challenge him to grow — even when he doesn’t want to. And he would do anything for you — he would give you the life you wanted, give the family you want, give you his best — if only he could give you the same peace you give him.

“We are,” Sonny smiles softly, hand slipping into his pocket, thumbing the ring box in his pocket, “in fact—”

“Hey,” you arrive, glancing between him and Jack, furrowing your brow — and he knows you hadn’t told Jack, “Jack, Sonny — what a—”

“Cat’s out of the bag, sweetheart,” Sonny slips his arm around your waist, and you tilt your head, before realization washes over you, relaxing into his touch, “care to join us?”

“You’ll be joining him,” Jack slips from the booth, “like I said, this wasn’t a social call,” he smiles between the two of you, “we should set up a lunch.”

“Will do,” you nod, “I’ll call you."

With a nod, he leaves, and you slip into the booth beside him, "Hi," you kiss him, "menu?"

"I would have ordered for you, but I got interrupted,” and you bump his shoulder.

You snort, “I wouldn’t have ordered if my boss was grilling me about my relationship,”

“You didn’t tell him?

“Should I have?” he’s frowning, and you’re shaking your head, “it’s not that I didn’t want to,” you bite your lip, “sorry, I’m not explaining this well,” you sigh, placing the menu down, “it’s just Jack had me and Rafael figured out from the second we…”

Sonny is shaking his head, sipping at his drink, “Yeah, well looks like not much has changed,”

“Well, he didn’t exactly approve of me and Rafael, which is why I was worried what he’d say to you,” you purse your lips, shifting in your seat, “did he say anything?”

Sonny pauses, “No I don’t think so,” and Sonny’s biting back a smile, remembering Jack’s words — he approved.

And now you’re bumping his shoulder, “Why so smug, counselor?”

“No reason,” and you’re stealing one of his fries, “I’m just glad I’m not on his bad side.”

“No one would want to be,” you say as the waiter comes order, taking your order, as well as the menu from your hand.

“Did you tell him?”

“Jack? I just told—”

“No, I mean,” he licks his lips, “did you tell Rafael that we were dating?”

And he was hoping he wouldn’t see your brow knit together like that, see your fingers wringing in your lap, “I didn’t,”

His mouth is dry, and he’s turning his body to face you, “Why?”

“I didn’t know how to bring it up — to just say, ‘by the way, I’m dating Sonny, just thought you should know,’” and doubt begins to creep in, “we were trying to keep things professional—”

“I understand,” and your lips are twisting and he knows you don’t believe him — hell, he doesn’t believe him.

“Do you want me to tell him?” and he doesn’t know what to say — he wants him to know, but why does he want him to know? You weren’t his property — he didn’t own you, he knew you wouldn’t do anything. He trusted you.

Didn’t he?

“I’ll tell him, Sonny,” and Sonny’s gaze snaps to you, “he’s picking up files from me at the office, and I’ll let him know—” Sonny opens his mouth, but you cut him off with his lips, “we have to disclose to the judge on Monday anyway before jury selection, it’s necessary.”

“I don’t want to make you—”

“I know,” you silence him with another kiss, soft, comforting, and his guilt settles, instead peace seeps in, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” his heart warms, as the waitress brings over your meal, and Sonny’s check, and he checks his watch, “and I gotta go. See you tonight?” and you shake your head.

“I got to work late tonight and I have arraignments early in the morning — but I get off early tomorrow and I’ll be waiting to make it up to you,” you kiss him again, before pressing chaste kisses along his jaw.

“Looking forward to that,” and he wants to ask — ask why you won’t consider moving in, why you brush it off, and the question burns on his lips, until the words are seared into his tongue — but he doesn’t, “call me?”

“I will,” and he kisses you one last time, before slipping from the booth.

And he wonders, fingers finding the velvet box in his pocket — if you won’t move in with him, will you even marry him?

Can you do me a favor? Rafael’s text comes in as soon as you’re leaving from court, and you’re sighing at your phone screen.

And another: Please?

He really must be desperate. What’s up?

Can you drop the files off somewhere for me? I can’t make it to your office today — something came up.

Is something wrong?

Only with my mother’s cable service — they were supposed to be by today to disconnect the service.

You snort, Then sue them.

Civil is not my area of expertise, and then he adds, but I may be willing to learn if they take any longer. Can you please drop the files off?

You raise an eyebrow — ‘please’ — he really must be desperate.

You bite your lip — you wanted to get home early, but you also needed to tell Rafael about you and Sonny. You glance at the time, sighing, before replying to him.

I’ll drop by with the files — text me the address now.

A tax ride later — you had arrived at a place you thought you would never be again. You couldn’t but stare at the door of Lucia’s place. You had been here five years ago — first and last time you had met his mother. And it was the first time you had realized you had to break up with Rafael.

It was over the moment you left here — even though neither of you wanted to admit it. His kisses could no longer patch your heart because it was no longer cracked — it was broken.

But it didn’t make it any easier to leave him.

You shake yourself from your thoughts, knocking on the door — but you had.

And so did he.

You hear his voice from within the apartment — a muffled coming — and some stumbling, until finally you hear the telltale sounds of the chain, bolt, and locks.

He opens the door, wiping his face with a towel — and he’s clean shaven. And you blink — he smiles at you, the very same smile he always gave you, “You shaved,”

“And you’re observant,” and he finds you staring at him, “Does it look bad?”

“No, no,” he steps aside, letting you inside the apartment, before shutting the door and locking it, “you look good.”

And his lips are curving in a grin now, “I look good?”

Your cheeks burn — always a dog with a bone, “Don’t push your luck, Barba,”

“Ouch,” he snorts, “you used to be much more accommodating to my self-esteem.”

“That was when I worked with you,” you cross your arms, taking a survey of the apartment — more boxes than apartment at this point, you could barely take a step before tripping, “men work better with their ego stroked,” You find your way to the kitchen table — his makeshift office from the looks of it — complete with two cups of coffee, “Old habits die hard, huh?”

“They often do,” he sips at the coffee, holding it by the rim with the tips of his fingers, “everyone is allowed to have their vices.”

“And here is your other one—” you pull the files from your bag, “I brought everything you asked for — you should be well prepped for jury selection.”

He nods, flipping through the materials, “You’ll be there right?”

“Of course,” you blink, “any reason you ask?”

“I may run a little late on Monday, but it shouldn’t be an issue—” Rafael waves it off, before setting it down, “can I make you a cup of coffee to thank you?”

You offer a small smile, “No, I probably should get home, but I’ll see you on Monday,” and you swallow your nerves, squeezing the handle of your bag, “but there is something I wanted to tell you—”

And that’s when you hear the lock clicking, “Rafi, how many times have I told you to just leave the door unlocked?” heels clicking against the hardwood, arms full of bags. Rafael slips from his chair, rounding the kitchen table.

“And how many times have I told you that’s not safe?” he replies, taking the bags from her arms, and then she spots you, blinking, “Mami, you remember—”

“Oh!” she walks over, pulling you into a tight hug, “it’s so wonderful to see you again, dear,”

“Lucia, it’s great to see you too,” you smile, awkwardness smoothed over the warmth of her smile, as her hands found yours, squeezing, “it’s been far too long.”

“I’ll say,” she shoots a glare at her son, before her eyes find yours and soften again, “I had warned him not to let you get away, and did he listen?”

Rafael is rubbing his temple, “Mami, please—”

“Oh,” she looks between the two of you, raising a brow, “if you’re here does that mean—”

“No,” he clears his throat, the tips of his ears red now, “I told you we’re on this case together. I needed some files dropped off—”

“You must join us for lunch,” and both you and Rafael open your mouths, “I insist, please. This will be the last time for a while I will be up north for a bit. Let me impose.”

And your eyes flicker between Rafael and his mother, before Rafael speaks, “We can’t impose on any plans—”

“I’ll stay,” and his eyes fall on you, as your phone feels heavier in your pocket with guilt — knowing you would be late, “it’s fine, how can I say no?”

Lucia squeezes your hand. And how could you say no to this?

After lunch, you’re helping Lucia clean up, when Rafael is in the bathroom, washing the dishes while she dried, “Are you looking forward to moving down to Florida?”

“I am, even though I’ll miss my work and my students,” she sighs, her shoulders much lighter, “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life living the same — I want to have time for myself, I want to experience new things, not like my mother,” her voice grows smaller, the plates clinking in the dish rack, “I don’t know how much Rafael told you about her—”

“I knew that she had passed, while Rafael and I were together,” he had been a mess — he wasn’t sleeping, he was barely eating, you had to ply him to get him away from the office —- when he wasn’t working, he was drinking. He had blamed himself for his grandmother’s death for so long — and even now you wondered if he had ever stopped, “she was a wonderful woman.”

“I wish you could have met her,” she sniffs, “she would have loved you,” and you nod, silent, and you feel her eyeing you, “what happened with you and Rafi anyway?”

“It just didn’t work out,” you knew she wasn’t going to let it go that easily.

“You two loved each other,” Lucia replies, “that just doesn’t go away.”

And you did — you had loved him, you would have married him, you would have started a family with him — but he didn’t want that. And you did.

“It doesn’t,” you wanted to brush it off, you wanted to tell her you were with someone else, you wanted to say something to make her stop pushing, but you couldn’t, “I did love your son, Lucia. I really did, but it wasn’t the right time for us.”

“You made him happy—happier than I’ve ever seen him, even now,” and you meet her gaze, “you can’t tell me you don’t feel something for him now? Can you?”

And you waver, no words coming to mind, “Lucia, I—”

But then the bathroom door is creaking open, and you jolt, continuing to wash dishes, tongue tied and cheeks burning in shame — why didn’t you mention Sonny? Why didn’t you just tell her you loved someone else? But another question nagged at you, as the object of the question appeared before you — and you turned at the sound of your name to find him smiling at you.

Why couldn’t you say that you didn’t have feelings for Rafael?

“Ma, we should probably let your hostage go now,” he tilts his head, hands in his pockets, “I’m sorry if we stepped on your plans—”

You clear your throat, “No, no, it’s fine—” And you move to grab your coat and bag, “but I really should get going.”

Lucia holds out her arms, wrapping you in a hug, “It was wonderful to see you dear,”

“You too,” you smiled, despite the interrogation that rivaled your son’s, “if I don’t see you again, please have a safe trip to Florida,”

“Thank you, and good luck on your case,” she presses a kiss to your cheek, as Rafael stands by, arms crossed.

“I’ll walk you out,” he nods at his mom, before slipping out of the apartment with you, as the door clicks behind you, and he walks you to the elevator, “I’m sorry my mom shanghaied you—”

“It’s fine,” you wave him off, as you press the call button, “I enjoy being shanghaied when it involves your mom’s cooking,”

“But still, I don’t want you to think that was my intention—”

“Rafael?” you cut him off, “it’s fine.”

And the elevator dings, the doors sliding open, “Are you sure?”

You smile at him, sighing, stepping in, “If it’s not, I’ll just sue you,” and he scoffs, “I’ll see you Monday, Raf.”

The nickname slips out before you can help it, and the doors close shut, as you step back, back of your head leaning against the wall.

What the fuck were you doing?

~~~

Rafael slips back inside, shutting the door behind him, “So what was that stunt you pulled to get—”

“How much of our conversation did you hear?” Lucia replies, wiping her hands off, and crossing her arms. His gaze softens, “you still have a chance, mijo.”

“Mami—”

She finds her way over to her son, “Do you miss—”

He sighs, “You know I do,” but he shakes his head, turning away from her, “but it’s over, I can’t cross that line again—”

“Can’t or won’t?” she places her hands on her hips, “you heard us — couldn’t deny having feelings for you still, and you — I’ve seen you since you’ve been working the case, you’re happier.”

And he doesn’t want to admit it — it hurt to see you again, after you had rejected him, but more because of the way he had treated you. You were a reminder of yet another way he had failed, but also a reminder that he wanted to be so much better. And he did, and he was.

He wasn’t the same person — he had grown, and so had you.

And maybe, for once the timing was right — your mouth wrapped around his nickname, the way it used to be, still ringing in his ears.

He turns to face his mother, “Now I’ll ask one more time, did you hear our conversation?”

And he smiles, “I heard everything.”

And he knew what he had to do.

“Where is your co-counsel?” Judge Harper asks sharply, and you stand twisting your fingers, “Counselor—”

“I apologize, Your Honor,” you are texting Rafael for the sixth time, asking him where he is, “Mr. Barba is not responding to my attempts to get into contact with him. He had told me he may be a little late—” not twenty minutes late, but— “if you could give us a few more minutes—”

“The People have no objection,” Sonny adds, sparing you a sympathetic look.

“Even so, this is wasting the jurors’ time,” Judge Harper sighs, “Can you proceed without him?”

Fuck — you still needed to disclose to Judge Harper.

Proceeding without disclosure would be a violation of your duties, and your eyes slide to Sonny who purses his lips, not to mention Sonny’s. Well no time like the present, “Yes, but I would like to enter chambers before then,”

Judge Harper blinks, but agrees, rising to enter her chambers, and just as you round the defense table, Rafael arrives through the double doors, harried and rushing, “I apologize, Your Honor, I—”

And he's glancing at all of you on your feet, halfway across the courtroom floor, and Judge Harper speaks first, "You're just in time to join us in chambers, counselor,”

Rafael’s eyes flicker between you and Sonny, a questioning brow raised, but he follows, and your heart sinks.

Fuck.

He needed to know — you just didn’t want him to find out this way. You had opportunities — you had your chance, and you had lost it.

Just like he lost his — with you.

The doors close behind you, as Judge Harper settles behind her desk for a moment, “Now, what is this about?”

The uncomfortable feeling of everyone’s gaze settles over you, and Rafael’s gaze feels sharper than the others.

But why did it feel sharper?

It had been years since you had been together, years since you had ever— and why would he care if you were dating Carisi? Why did it feel like his gaze was carving into your mind and he could see the truth written across your forehead? But you still didn’t know — you didn’t know why you cared.

Why did you care?

Your throat was tight, and you still couldn’t think of an answer to your own question.

“I wanted to disclose something — something that’s already been disclosed to my client with his consent in writing from the very start,” you swallow the lump in your throat, unable to meet Rafael’s eyes,

“We wanted to disclose,” Sonny cuts in, “We were waiting for the trial to start, since we didn’t find any need to disclose to the arraignment judge, since Mr. Barba and I handled that.”

“Disclose what?” And you still can’t bring yourself to look at Rafael.

You hand her the paperwork, glancing at Sonny, “I’m currently in a relationship with A.D.A. Carisi.”

#rafael barba #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba imagines #sonny carisi #sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi imagines #law and order svu #svu imagines #svu #law and order: svu

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koutarousangel · 4 years

Text

━ burn this world / ushijima wakatoshi.

prompt : he was harsh to the world, but when you held his face in your hands, he softened.

genre : fluff, angst

word count : 3.2K

warning(s) : mafia theme, mentions of harassment, violence, mentions of guns

song recs : persephone ━ tamino, nfwmb ━ hozier, follow you ━ bring me the horizon,

author’s note : this took so long to release because i just couldn’t get the right flow going, but once i finally did, it turned into a ‘mickey shut the hell up challenge’ but i just love the image of persephone and hades so much i could rave on and on and on about them.

EPISODE TWO ━ hades.

the first time he stepped into the flower shop was for something innocent.

his mother’s birthday was that day and he didn’t know what to get her, so as soon as he saw your flower shop, he made no mind of it and set foot inside. the tall man looked lost, dark clothing sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the myriad of colours the flowers offered. it almost looked endearing how out of his element he looked.

despite the fluttering in your chest, you’d stepped forward and offered your help, asking him his mother’s favourite colour while sneaking glances at the rings decorating his fingers and the tattoo peaking at the edge of his shirt’s collar.

in the end, he decided to go with a white and lavender bouquet, consisting of tulips, carnations and roses. the man stood and watched as you delicately cleaned the flowers and brought them together, putting the utmost care into handling the flowers. he could see the passion seeping through your fingertips and the adoration in your eyes as you spoke about the different meanings the flowers had.

it was at that moment that he realised that he needed to know your name, and as you said it out loud to him with a shy smile on your face, he offered his in return.

“ushijima wakatoshi.”

as his name easily rolled off your tongue after you’d repeated it, it set his chest aflutter and he promised himself that he would see you again.

the second time he stepped into the flower shop, he swore was pure coincidence.

your eyes brightened as you heard the bell above the door ring, glancing over at the door and nearly melting at the sight of the mysterious, tall man once again. you nearly stumbled over a box of ribbons to watch him as he cautiously walked inside the shop, visible hesitation dancing on his face as he tried to figure out what he was going to look at to seem inconspicuous.

he looked incredibly calm as he carefully thumbed at the delicate petal of a white lily, brown eyes trailing along the different flowers, before he sneaked a quick glance at you. coincidentally, your eyes met because you were sneaking glances too.

you picked up a box and stepped out around the counter, going to the row of shelves parallel to where he was standing. due to his stature, you were still able to see his head and face, and how a slight smile rested on his lips.

“what brings you back?” you questioned nonchalantly, keeping your hands busy as you continued to glance up at ushijima trying to understand if he needed another flower arrangement or if he had an ulterior motive.

he took his time to formulate his answer, because how was he going to explain to you that he’d purposefully made sure that his lackeys were busy and wouldn’t bother him with talks of the next shipment or about a payment, just because he wanted to visit your flower shop, because he loved the way your eyes sparkled as you spoke about the flowers, or how you said that every human was blessed to be living among such beauty as you gazed down at one of the tulips, sharing the sentiment but only thinking about you as the subject of said beauty.

it was a breath of fresh air, an outlook filled with bright, beautiful life, contrasting the dark, bloody life he’d chosen to lead.

“i was passing by,” deep voice admitted, causing you to raise your eyebrow in scrutiny, because that was the oldest excuse in the book, “and i wanted to tell you that my mother loved the flowers,” it was a sight to behold, this man, dark and brooding, adorned in a black coat with golden accents on the shoulders, practically blushing.

you grinned and nodded your head proudly, “i’m glad she did, and i hope she had a nice birthday,” continuing to walk , you realised that he was walking along with you, your bodies separated by the shelves. the two of you continued to make idle conversation, and you were glad that it was a slow day, because his voice was calming, strong. the giddiness in your chest was something akin to a schoolgirl’s as she talks to her crush after school.

“i like your ring,” the comment was innocent, but it still caused heat to rush to your cheeks as soon as you realised the thought had come out of your lips, and you were quick to take his hand into your now empty ones, avoiding his eyes as you ran your thumb over the skull ring you’d caught sight of the other day.

ushijima chuckled, deep rumble in his chest causing you to glance up only to see a soft look on his face as he looked down at you.

but at the back of his mind, a small voice was telling him over and over how innocent you seemed, how he shouldn’t involve himself further into your life, how the ring you were ghosting your fingers over had been used to bash in the face of people who had attempted to wrong him, just so that it would be more painful.

and for the first time, ushijima wakatoshi, the most feared man in what was called the underworld, allowed his heart to silence his brain and softly smiled down at you, allowing you to hold his hand as he nodded once, “thank you … it was my father’s.”

that was the first time in a long while that he’d spoken about his father, and he startled himself as the words came out so easily, but there was just something about you that made the high walls he’d spent many years building just crumble.

the third time he stepped into the flower shop, was with a purpose.

at that point, it was pathetic.

a week had passed since your last encounter with wakatoshi, and it was almost as if your days felt empty, filled with silent hope that he’d walk through the shop doorway again. every time the bell above the door rang, your head whipped around fast, hope dissipating from your chest as someone that wasn’t him accompanied you in the store.

maybe fate only wanted you to cross paths twice, and then never again, but fate had always been a tricky mistress.

you were busy fixing things behind the shop counter, kneeling on the floor as you made sure that everything was orderly, when the taunting sound of the bell was heard again, causing you to sigh softly, “i’ll be with you in a second.”

“please, take your time.”

the deep voice caused your head to reel back, painfully knocking into the shelving on your way up, causing you to cry out softly and fall back into a seated position on the ground.

wakatoshi appeared in front of you, ignoring the ‘employees only’ sign as he knelt in front of you, large hand coming to the side of your face and gently placing it there, “careful,” he mumbled, cautiously turning your head and inspecting the place you’d hit, “are you okay?”

embarrassment spread through your whole body as you sat there, face cradled in his hand as you looked up at him, head throbbing and tears stinging the corners of your eyes, but you nodded anyway, “that happens way more than i’d like to admit,” you admitted with a small chuckle, missing his hand on your face as he moved it in front of you, offering it to you to help you stand up.

“i’m sorry for startling you, it wasn’t my intention,” the look on his face was truly apologetic, a look that never really crossed his face in his line of work, but he never wanted to see you hurt even if it was a silly accident such as this one.

you waved him off, a small grin coming to your face as your heart fluttered, finally happy that the subject of your yearning was finally in front of you, and the situation had caused your hand to be sitting in his once more, and neither of you made any motion to pull away, “then what was your intention?” your voice was soft, tentative, not sure if you wanted to know why he was back.

that seemed to pull him out of the slight trance and he took his hand away, causing your eyes to sadden slightly, but you were quick to cover it up, head tilting softly as he held open his coat and reached into the inside pocket, pulling out a box and holding it out to you, clearing his throat, “i saw this and it reminded me of you … i hope it’s not too forward.”

your eyebrows pinched together as you took the box, opening it and gasping softly at the contents. a rose gold skull ring, quite similar to the one that he always wore on his pointer finger, only daintier, with small diamonds in the skull’s eyes.

“ushijima i can’t accept this,” your words were quiet, so much so that your voice cracked softly as you tried to make yourself louder, shaking your head softly.

the pride he was holding in his chest was quickly snuffed out. hadn’t you said that you liked his ring, while holding his hand and making his heart beat quicker than anyone or anything had before? had he been incorrect at the amount of times he’d seen you get flustered during your two encounters, or how he’d caught you looking over at him multiple times.

his mouth fell open momentarily, embarrassment trickling down his body like a cold shower, as he reached out to take the box back, “i apologise for making you uncomfortable, i didn’t mean-”

“i can’t accept this,” the box snapped shut and you held it against your chest, unwilling to part with the gift, “not before you take me out on a proper date … one where preferably i’m not wearing a green apron,” a cheeky smile crossed your face as you saw relief cross the man’s face.

a small, nervous chuckle fell past his lips as he nodded his head, “how’s 8PM tomorrow sound?”

the fourth time he stepped into the flower shop, you were in his arms, tears staining your cheeks and his coat around your shoulders.

it was a mundane task that you’d set for yourself, go to the convenience store and pick up some milk because the day at the flower shop was so busy that it hadn’t allowed you to go out at any point.

no one expects to be backed into a dark alley by two men.

you felt more than helpless, especially since you didn’t have anything to defend yourself with but the milk in your hands and your keys, which could’ve been turned into a makeshift weapon, but amidst the panic that’d settled in your chest, it slipped past your mind.

a choked sob slipped past your lips as you turned your head away from them, trying to kick out your leg to ward them off to no avail. you wondered if the skull ring adorning your middle finger would make a difference if you tried throwing a punch in an attempt to protect yourself, because you were sure that yelling out wouldn’t work, because people never liked to get involved in these sorts of situations, scared that they would end up on the receiving side.

but their hands barely grazed the sides of your body before a booming voice made them jump away from you, “shit ushijima, run!” one tried to tell the other, but the man in question gripped them by the backs of their shirt, shoving one of them towards the dumpster, a sickening clang reverberating through the alleyway as his head made contact with the metal.

you slipped down the wall, sitting yourself on the dirty ground as you grasped at the top of your head, trying to drown out the sounds of skin against skin as your saviour battered one of the men who’d even dared to lay their hands on you.

the sounds of your whimpers caused ushijima to stop his attack, low growl emitting from his mouth as he shoved the man away, and made his way to you, slipping his coat off and wrapping it around your shoulders tenderly, pulling you to your feet with caution. his heart broke as you refused to move, body shaking against his own. with ease, he lifted you off your feet, allowing you to cry into his chest as he cradled you in his arms and began to walk towards the shop, remembering that you’d said that your apartment was above it.

after setting you down on your bed and covering you with your blanket, he pressed a small kiss to your forehead, turning to leave even though he didn’t want to. in a silent promise, he swore that you wouldn’t ever get hurt, especially as he heard your voice silently plead, “stay.”

the fifth time he stepped into the flower shop, he collapsed in the entryway among the roses.

the rapid knocks on the flower shop door only made you think of someone who’d forgotten something significant in their relationship, desperate to mend it through a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates, despite the very clear ‘closed’ sign.

“i’m sorry you forgot your anniversary but i can’t stay open all throughout the night-” but your words were cut short as you saw ushijima’s towering frame leaning against the entryway, hand pressed to his side, pain evident on his face. you fumbled with the keys as you opened the door and let him inside, hand ghosting over his shoulder as you guided him, and as you were locking the door once again, a loud crash signified the fall of the strong man, staining the white roses red in the attempt to steady himself.

you were quick to be by his side, ducking your hand underneath his arm and using all of your strength to stand up, allowing him to use you as a crutch as you lead him to the backroom that lead up to your apartment.

more knocking on the door caused you to groan, setting the man down on the stairs and placing your hand on his face, worry painted across your face as his tired eyes looked up at you, silently telling you not to go answer the door but you were sure that they would bust down the door if you didn’t do something.

seeing as your apron and clothes had been stained with his blood, you were quick to slip off the apron and grab your jacket off the coat rack, slipping it on and tugging your hair up into a messy bun, making it seem like you’d just come out of the confines of your home.

you put a confused expression on your face as you went to the door again, opening it harshly as you look up at the men, courage sitting in your heart, wanting nothing more than to protect the man who was inside, “it’s late, i hope the attempt to bust down my door isn’t for some stupid reason,” the voice of a pissed off woman caused the men to reel back, “well, what do you want?”

“did you see a man-”

“i was upstairs, sitting comfortably on my couch eating ice-cream on a saturday evening, do you think i’ve seen a man recently?” discomfort crossed the mens’ faces as they apologised and backed away from you and the store, allowing you to close the door and frantically lock it again, rushing back to the man bleeding out on your stairs.

in some episode of strength, you’d managed to lead him up to the apartment, setting him down on the couch, embarrassment flying out of the window as you cut through his shirt and tended to the wound on his side, slightly thanking your mother for nagging you take that first aid course at the beginning of the year, in case of emergencies … maybe not quite like this.

you stopped the bleeding and wrapped the wound up securely, gently pushing him back onto the couch to allow him to rest and recover, taking a seat on the ground next to him with a washcloth in hand, swiping away at the dried blood on different parts of his body, unable to sleep as the thought of ‘what if he doesn’t wake up’ rushed through your head. at one point you’d found yourself crying, swiping at your face with the back of your hand frustratedly.

“i don’t like seeing you cry,” his gruff voice was heard from in front of you, making you sigh out in relief and bow your head forward, shoulders shaking as sobs wracked your body, “i’m okay.”

you nodded and sniffled softly as you lifted your head and looked at him, smiling sadly as he placed his hand against your face, swiping away the tears and causing your eyes to flutter shut for a second.

“you owe me an explanation,” your voice was small, tired … practically pleading.

ushijima’s face contorted with worry as he gave his head a slight shake, before shaking it more defiantly, “you’ll leave if i do explain … everyone leaves when they find out,” and he wasn’t ready to lose you, even though he knew that you deserved the truth.

you brought your hand up to press against his own, “but what if i don’t leave?”

and the first time you stepped into his office, a picture was painted so vividly in front of you.

he’d asked you to drop by before your date, apologising multiple times that he wasn’t able to pick you up at the flower shop, even though you assured him that it was fine, that you were a big girl able to handle yourself, especially since he’d gotten you to carry a small switchblade and pepper spray in the event that something did happen and since you know that the people who called him boss were always keeping an eye on you when he couldn’t.

you had never felt safer, even though the man you stood by was feared by and targeted by so many people.

as you stood in the doorway, you saw him sitting at his desk, chin rested on his fists as he sat in silence, black button up shirt straining against his strong shoulders, and the skull ring resting on his pointer finger, as it usually did.

a painting of hades, the ruler of the underworld was clear as day, two men sitting in front of him pleading for a lesser punishment for disobeying rules and regulations, hoping that they wouldn’t be sent to the depths of the underworld where no one wanted to go and when you slipped into the office after he’d dismissed them and went to stand beside him, setting down the bouquet of white lilies you’d brought as a gift, you were the his perfect persephone.

as he looked at you, he swore he could let the world burn, but he wouldn’t ever let a flame touch you.

#hqradiostation #ushijima x reader #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu au #the red string : episodes

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gallavictorious · 3 years

Text

Gallavich Week Day 5: Fix-It / Rewrite

Right, so fix-its aren’t so much my jam, but there is this one weird, weird, weird thing that I’ve (so far) been unable to meta into any sort of sense. Namely, Mickey looking like that in season 11 while apparently not working out. It’s just… uh… he… what? At one point I hypothesized that he’s been bitten by a radioactive spider or the like, leaving him magically super buff, and to be honest, that’s still the most reasonable explanation I can think of, soooo…

Today I'm back at my nonsense to bring you, everyone and especially our dear @gallavichthings, 2,711 Very Serious words about Mickey being a secret superhero. Well. Except for the hero bit.

Read it below or on AO3.

---

In Which Mickey Milkovich Does Not Save the World

Afterwards, he would always refer to it as the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell, but the truth is that Mickey never saw the thing that got him.

He was going about his business (namely poking around the Gallagher basement for any forgotten shit he could sell for beer money now that all the cash from the wedding had been surreptitiously replaced with I.O.U:s) when he felt a sudden, sharp pain just above his ankle. Cursing up a storm, he desperately waved his foot around and lost his balance and stumbled straight into one of the many piles of boxes that littered the basement. By the time he was back on his feet whatever creature that had dug its nasty little teeth/pincers/claws into his tender flesh had scurried off, leaving Mickey with a throbbing ache and a halfway impressive puncture wound on his left leg.

Muttering darkly about fucking Gallaghers being so used Frank they didn’t know how to keep goddamned monster vermin out of their shitty house Mickey limped up the stairs to pour some Jamison on the wound, and then pour some down his throat because he had the bottle out already so he might as well. He borrowed one of Franny’s colourful pirate-patterned band-aids, and when his nosy as fuck ex-EMT of a husband asked about it later that evening Mickey said he’d dropped a can on his foot, it’s just a scratch, man, no you don’t need to take a look at it, just put your fingers back in my ass, please.

Mickey didn’t make a habit of lying to Ian, but he figured that telling the truth would lead to all sorts of questions about why he was in the basement and having to come up with plausible explanation for that when he should just be focusing on getting railed wasn’t part of his plans for the evening. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to Ian, who’d been getting so worked up over money lately, to distract him with that sort of unimportant stuff while they were banging. Mickey was a considerate spouse.

Thankfully, Ian dropped the subject and proceeded to do his husbandly duty. Mickey went to sleep deeply satisfied.

He was almost as satisfied the next morning when he woke up to realize that the pain in his leg was gone, as were all traces of the wound itself. Mickey had always healed pretty fast, but this was quick enough to have him questioning whether or not he’d really been bitten/stung/whatever at all. Maybe he’d had more beers than he thought and imagined the whole thing… ?

It didn’t really matter, and if that had been the whole of it Mickey was likely to soon have forgotten all about the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell. However, in the next few weeks he started noticing stuff, weird stuff. For instance, it wasn’t just the (possibly imagined) bite/sting that healed far more quickly than normal; it was all the little cuts and scrapes he tended to acquire. A big bruise from running into the table while playing with Franny; faded to nothing the next morning. A cut from the razor; gone within the hour. For the first time he could remember, Mickey looked at his naked body in the mirror and saw not one single wound (though there were still scars aplenty). It wasn’t a bad thing, per se, but it was weird.

Then there was that thing with his muscles. Mickey had been in decent shape for most of his life and whenever he got locked up for extended periods of time he made a habit of hitting the gym on the regular. Really wasn’t much else to do in the joint, and having a decent bulk reminded the other inmates that you weren’t someone they could push around; letting people know that you could beat the shit out of them often meant you didn’t have to actually do it, which saved everyone a lot of time and energy and trips to the prison quack. But on the outside, exercise wasn’t very high on Mickey’s list of priorities, meaning he tended to slim down a bit after a while in freedom.

Not now, though. Almost a year after being out of prison, and he was still as built as ever; if anything he seemed to be developing more muscles, in spite rarely engaging in anything more taxing than vigorous fucking. (Okay, so there was a lot of vigorous fucking, but still. If anyone ought to be building their biceps from the sex they were having, it should be Ian.)

Mickey didn’t mind being inexplicably ripped, though. He felt great, looked great – and Ian seemed to be pretty into it, too. Then again, Ian seemed to be pretty into Mickey whether he wore dirty clothes, sported a beard, sported a dress, or hadn’t showered in a week, so maybe that wasn’t saying a lot.

But even given all that, maybe Mickey still wouldn’t have thought too much about it (he was, after all, very busy being on his honeymoon, which required lots of determined sleep-ins, dedicated beer-drinking, and – obviously – lots and lots of banging) if there hadn’t one day come a knock on the front door. At first he ignored itm in the hopes that someone else would get it, but when it became apparent that a, he was alone in the house, and b, whoever was at the door wasn’t giving up anytime soon, he grabbed the family baseball bat (even big soft ass Larry would react to Mickey opening the door with an extremely illegal gun in hand) and went to answer the insistent knocking.

Outside stood two women, looking an unsettling mix of sober and apprehensive and eager. One of them reminded him vaguely of Angie Zago; the other was taller and darker and quite possibly brooding.

“Can I help you?” he demanded, not quite as rudely as he might have. He didn’t think they were social workers, but one never knew; they’d been checking up on Debbie and Franny ever since Debbie pleaded guilty to statutory rape.

“Mr. Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich?” Not-Angie inquired in a polite sort of tremble.

“Who’s asking?” Mickey demanded, feeling a little thrown by the use of his full name. The only people who pulled that out was law enforcement, and neither of these ladies had that feel about them. Especially since they seemed to be… excited to meet him, which wasn’t a reaction Mickey was used to getting. Particularly not from ladies looking like they ought to be out collecting for the fucking Red Cross.

They better not be asking for donations for the Red Cross.

“I’m Tania and this is Dreamweaver,” Not-Angie said. “Can we come in? It’s really best if we talk in private.”

Mickey didn’t move. “Dreamweaver? You kick your mama too many times in the kidneys before you were born or something?”

The women glanced uncertainly at each other. “Mr. Milkovich,” the one improbably called Dreamweaver began, but Mickey cut her off:

“You with the police?”

They quickly shook their heads. “No, we— “

“You here to give me money?”

“No, you see, it’s— “

“Okay, thank you, bye.” But as he moved to close the door, Tania – displaying more spunk than he’d have given her credit for – took a step forward and blocked the entrance.

“Have you been experiencing any strange body phenomena lately, Mr. Milkovich?” she blurted. “Wounds healing very quickly, perhaps, or increased muscle mass?”

Mickey stilled, eyes darting between the two women. Small, small smiles on their faces now, as if they knew they had him. There was a hint of hunger to those smiles, making Mickey feel uncharacteristically uncomfortable. The urge to push Tania back and slam the door shut was strong, but…

“Fine,” he said at long last. “Come on in.”

They better not be fucking cannibals either.

---

They called themselves The Guardians, and they wanted him to save the world.

Mickey asked what numbers they were talking and, after getting bored of their uncomprehending stares, clarified: “How much is it gonna pay? What’s my cut?”

Dreamweaver frowned. “You mean… money? As in a… salary?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s my salary?”

“Mr. Milkovich, saving the world is a higher calling and a duty, it’s not something that– “

“Uh-huh. So, just to be clear, you’re not gonna pay me?”

They weren’t. Mickey laughed in their faces, stood from the couch, and told them bye and good luck with that and don’t let the door hit ya on the way out.

They reasoned with him. They pleaded. They explained, again and again, that after the evil society USCH destroyed The Guardian’s headquarters in a devastating attack, the two of them–and Mickey–was the only thing standing between the world and utter destruction. Surely, he must understand that it was nothing less than Fate that had brought the one remaining Bestower Bot into the Gallagher basement and his path? Admittedly, injecting Mickey with the bio enhancer might have been the result of a malfunction – Tania and Dreamweaver had found the bot dead down the street a couple of nights ago – but didn’t he see that he had been called to serve as a warrior in the fight against evil?

“Yeah, no thanks,” Mickey told them, and then he picked up the bat and waved it around until they took the hint and left.

When Ian returned home a few hours later, Mickey carefully didn’t mention the curious visit or any of what Tania and Dreamweaver had told him. Ian was pretty into saving people and had all these lame ideas about service and honor, and Mickey found it more likely than not that his husband would both be upset that Mickey, rather than Ian himself, had been called as a warrior (it’d be Lip and West Point all over again, Mickey just knew it), and demand that Mickey answer the call and run off like some loon to get himself killed by evil technomancers.

Mickey didn’t particularly feel like dying and he didn’t like the idea of hurting his husband’s feelings either, so he kept his mouth shut and skillfully derailed all of Ian’s attempts at asking about his day by giving him a blow job, teasing him about being a grunt, and allowing himself to be wrestled to the floor when Ian decided he’d had enough of teasing. It was a good evening.

As he lay in bed that night, back against Ian’s chest and with those strong arms wrapped around him, Mickey wondered if it would be worth risking Ian’s reaction by going public. Okay, Tania and Dreamweaver had mentioned how he’d probably gotten a pretty small dose of the bio-whatever-the-fuck, lending him nothing more exciting than enduring muscle mass and enhanced healing, but that should probably be enough to turn him into a cut above the rest, right? He could hire himself out to the highest bidder and make a fortune doing private security or collections or stuff like that. Fuck, he’d even consider taking on jobs for The Guardians, if they just agreed to pay him.

It was a fun thought to play with, but in the end a long life in the shadows made Mickey wary of putting himself out there like that. Besides, he’d seen enough movies to know that it’d probably wouldn’t be long before he mysteriously disappeared to some secret government facility to be experimented on. He’d had enough of the state’s hospitality to last him a lifetime, so thanks, but no fucking thanks.

And that could have been it. Should have been it, but of course Tania and Dreamweaver wouldn’t leave well enough alone. They started showing up at the Gallagher house at all hours, whenever they knew they could get Mickey alone. They accosted him on the way to the Alibi, they sat down next to him on the L, and they left him pictures of puppies with little notes saying stuff like “Only YOU can SAVE him from BURNING. Have a HEART”.

It was exhausting. Fearing the retribution of the cartel hadn’t anything on fearing seeing Tania and Dreamweaver’s disappointed-yet-still-somehow-hopeful-and-terribly-determined faces appear in a crowd, or round a corner, or on the porch when he went out for his evening smoke.

Mickey began to lose sleep. He’d spend the nights tossing and turning, which led to him staying in bed half the day to catch up on much needed rest, and he was often so tired he couldn’t bring himself to put on proper clothes or go outside the door the whole day.

Ian was on his ass about getting a job; he didn’t get that Mickey had a job, and that job was not getting lured into sacrificing his life for the greater good. If Ian didn’t like the prospects of being a prison widow, how offensive wouldn’t he find the prospect of being an actual widower, after his husband got blown to bits by some big bad villain?

It got to the point of Ian initiating a sex strike to force Mickey to get “a real job”, which struck Mickey as really fucking unfair, considering how all he was trying to do was make sure Ian even had a husband to refuse to fuck.

Enough was enough. Something had to be done. Fortunately for Mickey – and unfortunately for Tania and Dreamweaver – Mickey had a guy for everything. As annoying as The Guardians were, Mickey didn’t have the heart to see them killed, but he figured that having them kidnapped and shipped off to some sweatshop on the other side of the world would serve the same purpose. He felt a little bad about it, sure, but he had given them plenty of chances to fuck off. Not his fault they couldn’t respect a fucking boundary.

Mickey called Johnny, told him the score, and a few night later Johnny called Mickey to tell him it was done.

It was done. Over. Mickey would finally be able go about his life in peace again, giving all his attention to his husband and doing his outmost to make him the happiest man alive every single day, even when Ian was annoying as hell and started asking pointless fucking questions about how Mickey was in such great shape even though he never did as much as one single curl up.

I see. So… you’re telling me that you have secret superpowers.

Yeah. Except, not actually secret anymore. ‘Cause, you know, you told me we shouldn’t have secrets.

… yeah, that was three months ago.

Guess it must have slipped my mind, huh.

Must have. But let me get this straight: you couldn’t get a real job because you were busy dodging secret agents, and your muscles are the result of you getting bitten by some magic robot—

Radioactive motherfucker bug from hell.

—and not you sneaking down to the basement to do weights and cardio almost every day?

… oh.

Yeah, oh. Carl told me about it, asshole. He noticed you using some of the stuff down there. Don’t get why you’d wanna keep that a secret though?

…

Mick. We have to be honest with each other, remember?

Jesus Christ, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know.

Okay.

Guess the first time was back when you had that dip a couple of months after the wedding. Few times after that, if we had a fight or whatever and I needed to let off some steam. Then you started working and sometimes I got bored watching TV all day but you were all mopey about your shitty job and me not having any and you have this thing about your body—

I don’t have a thing about my body.

—so I didn’t really wanna rub your face in me having all that time to work out when you could barely squeeze in dozen push-ups in the evening. And I guess I didn’t really want anyone to know that I… cared, or whatever.

Cared? About what? Being healthy? Looking good? Being strong?

Whatever, man, I told I don’t fucking know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, ‘cause it was a radioactive motherfucker bug from hell that did it.

Of course it was. Come here. Show me what that bio enhanced body of yours can do.

---

Ahahahahahaha, would you look at that. I tried to meta it anyway. 😭😭😭

You might reasonably ask about Mickey’s visit to Kev Fit – how does that fit? WELL, I rather imagine that whatever Mickey does in that basement is enough to keep him fit but still not SUPER hardcore? So when he starts worrying about Ian thinking him weaker than, he decides to take it up a notch and do it properly in a real(ish) gym? And his comment about “not remembering how much working out sucks” is part of the whole “not wanting anyone to know this is something I care to do on the regular”… Yeah, it’s pretty weak. All in all, I’d say the radioactive motherfucker bug from hell is still our best bet. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This is probably the last time I have one of them tell the other a story this week, but I make no promises. These little ficlets don’t tend to go as planned. (Ha! She said, as if there was a plan to begin with. Oh, well. I guess it’s working out so far.)

#gallavich #gallavich week 2021 #gw2021 #ficlet #my stuff

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unbridgeabledistances · 4 years

Note

soft prompt ideas: comforting each other, cuddling, waking up together/going to sleep, going on a date, idk just being in each other’s company? i’m terrible at being specific but i hope these help!

hi bby<3 thank you so much to u (and everyone else!!!) for sending in prompts, they brought me so much joy and now i have SO many little soft things in the works:’)

yesterday ended up turning into a long day and i didn’t get to finish most of the things i started, but i wrote this while i was freshly showered and in bed and wanted to quickly whip up some bedtime softness to end the day right!! so here is the softest, quickest pre-11x07 bedtime one-shot and ode to the gallagher house, i hope u enjoy<3

Ian turned the creaky handle to shut off the shower, stilling the scalding water that had been beating a steady stream onto his body, soothing his aching muscles and weary bones. Ian was tired—after he and Mickey had gotten back from their various security stops around the outskirts of the city, he’d promised to help Lip track down and deliver parts to the people who’d bought the odds and ends of the stolen bikes, and then he’d somehow ended up in Lip and Tami’s living room that was half-packed into boxes for hours, silently sipping a beer and listening to them tag-team their attempts at persuading Ian to convince Debbie into wanting to sell the house— an effort that was a lost cause, and they all knew it.

It was kind of funny— they’d all gotten so close to losing the house so many times before, from being pulled out by DCFS officers to being kicked to the curb by fucking Patrick, to feeling desperate ripples of fear as they watched the house be put up for auction for a bunch of Northsiders and boujee fucking families who picked through the bare skeleton of the rooms as they pleased— so it was funny that after all of that, after their front door being plastered with more bright orange eviction notices than they could count, that the eventual thing driving them out of the house in the end would be a Gallagher himself, just because Lip wanted some extra cash. Ian got it— they were older now, and Lip had a kid to worry about— but he couldn’t help but feel a soft pang in his gut, something muted and dull but still there, every time Lip nonchalantly mentioned “fixing the house up” and “making gentrification our friend” and “getting on with our lives”—even though he and Mickey had readily agreed, at the family meeting that Mickey now had a right to be a part of, that it made the most sense to sell the house and for the two of them to find a place of their own.

And honestly, that prospect was a little terrifying; it sounded silly, but this crumbling house, with its paint stripping away and its roof nearly caving in, had pretty much been the only constant in Ian’s life for as long as he could remember. He had memories, ones that were soft around the edges, of him and Lip and Fiona sleeping curled in the backseats of cars and, on a few of the worst nights, on playgrounds or stoops or streetcorners when Frank and Monica were too far gone— and then inevitably one day, one sunny afternoon, they would come home to this sturdy gray house, and even then Ian understood that this was a place he could always return to. He didn’t really know what a world without the Gallagher house looked like; he always found his feet leading him back to these four walls, even those months when he was living with Mickey and he’d walk the silent moonlit city blocks back home to splash in the pool with everyone on those muggy, late summer nights. Thinking about the comforting sag of the Gallagher house was one of the few things that kept Ian going in the colorless cinderblock walls of his prison cell; the concave mattress of his single bed at home wasn’t much better than the inch-think foam pad he scrunched onto each night in his cell, but it was still familiar, it was still home, it had still held him through all of these years.

Lip wanting to sell the house was just another bitter reminder, along with the changing storefronts of the Southside neighborhood stores, the people walking by with baby strollers and shopping bags of organic groceries, the notches on the closet door that showed how much Franny had already grown, and the tinny sound of Fiona’s voice wafting through a Facetime call, a voice too small and too quiet to fill the absence she’d left behind—that things were always changing, that life wasn’t going to stop for any of them.

Ian clambered out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, scrubbing his face with his hands to try to clear his head. The hallway outside the bathroom was still, the only sound the soft hissing of the radiator—when the fuck did this house get so quiet? There was no boisterous laughter wafting up from downstairs, no clanging in the kitchen, no WWE blasting from the TV at full volume; Lip and Tami had moved out, Liam was grown up and preferred steady conversation to the classic Gallagher screeching, and Carl was either off at the station for the night or doing god-knows-what in the basement— when did silence start to sink into these walls, without anyone really noticing? Even Frank was getting quieter, somehow, giving more blank stares than quick replies when they talked back and forth in the kitchen.

Ian stepped out of the bathroom and crept down the hallway, walking carefully in case Franny was sleeping; there was a comfort in the melody of the creaking floorboards, reminding him of all the nights when he’d lay awake staring at the ceiling, sometimes gripped by the swirling black thoughts he thought he’d never be able to shake off, and he would hear Fiona tiptoeing around in the hallway, checking in on everyone while she tried not to wake them. Ian gripped the handle of the flimsy accordion bedroom door and slid it open as quietly as he could muster, ready to crawl into bed and hopefully snap out of all this wallowing.

And… oh.

The lamp on the bedside table was still on, shining a soft glow into the cramped room— but Mickey was curled up and fast asleep on Ian’s side of the bed, his mouth half-open and his head tucked to his chin, his hair slightly mussed and ruffled by on the pillow he was gripping onto. Ian smirked—he knew it was getting late, and Mickey might be asleep when he got home—but there was something so soft and innocent about the way Mickey was laying, like he was breathing in the scent of Ian’s pillow, that made him stop for a moment before mindlessly crawling into bed next to him. Ian let himself linger in the doorway for a moment, just listening to the steady waves of Mickey’s breathing, taking in the sight of his flushed cheeks and the innocence in his sleeping face that was so bare and open that it almost hurt to look at.

Instantly, Ian felt something bloom in his chest from the pit of uncertainty that had been planted there. The Gallagher house had always been his home—but he realized in a sweeping moment that his best days here, ones where he felt solid and settled and himself rather than someone he was pretending to be, were the days when Mickey was nearby, the days when Mickey was just down the road.

Mickey made up the only other home he’d had, the only other place he’d felt this safe; they’d built a cocoon around themselves in the equally-as-shitty Milkovich house, smoking and laughing and whispering into each other’s skin in the darkness. Even as Ian’s grip on reality felt like it was slipping through his fingers, Mickey’s warm body next to his kept him rooted, in the same ways Mickey’s thrumming presence beside him kept him safe in all the blaring uncertainty of federal prison and imposing cell walls and the press of too many strange bodies in orange jumpsuits. Ian had always felt safe in the Gallagher house—but so much of that, since he was a scrawny fifteen year old, was because of the nights he spent awake in bed thinking up pipe dreams of a future with the loudmouthed kid he worked with at the convenience store, or when he could crawl into bed after a late night EMT shift and feel the solid, grounding weight in his chest as he remembered his road trip with Mickey to the border, and thought about Mickey having some kind of a better life in Mexico. So much of that feeling of home, especially through all of the epic highs and colossal lows, was just knowing that someone out there, by some miracle, loved Ian as deeply as Mickey Milkovich could— knowing he had a doorstep to run to when his own house was infiltrated by Monica and some stranger threatening to take Liam, or a bed to crash in for months when everything else in his life felt like shifting, unstable ground. So much of home was right here, and it always had been.

Ian quietly slid shut the squeaky folds of the door, discarding his towel and throwing a threadbare t-shirt over his head—and then he gingerly stretched out onto the opposite side of the bed beside a sleep-soft Mickey, his body radiating heat and the ends of his hair still damp from his own shower, smelling of the fresh scent of cheap shampoo and very slightly of toothpaste, mingling with the earthy smell of cigarette smoke and the other scent that Ian could only just describe as Mickey. Ian let himself lay there for a moment, listening to Mickey breathing— just breathing.

He reached over Mickey’s torso and shut off the bedside lamp, enveloping the room in a heavy cloak of darkness—but this time the silence didn’t seem so bad with Mickey’s steady breaths punctuating the quiet. He slid a hand over Mickey’s waist, resting his chin on the crook of Mickey’s shoulder and breathing in deep—he could feel Mickey’s heartbeat vibrating into his own chest, feeling the rise and fall of his ribcage as he held him close. Ian felt all the latent tension, the lungful of air he didn’t even know he had been holding, drain out of him—and it started to make him feel weirdly light and giddy to imagine sometime in the near future when he and Mickey would actually have a place of their own, a place where they could ride out the silence together just like this— a place with clutter and creaking floorboards and slanted moonlight of their own.

If the Gallaghers were “getting on with their lives,” like Lip had said—then this right here was the only thing that Ian was moving towards, just like he always had been.

#lol this was very contemplative and not very narrative heavy #but i hope u enjoyed??#i wrote 90% of this in my phone notes lol #also the fiona hall of shame got me feeling weirdly emotional about how much ian must miss fiona!!!!#anyways ty so much for the prompt<333 #gallavich #gallavich fanfiction #gallavich fic #ian and mickey #shameless #shameless fic #ian x mickey #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich

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calpalirwin · 4 years

Text

Tough Act

Summary: Lip may have finally met his match.

A/N: A season 4/season 5 AU of sorts. My first Shameless/Lip Gallagher fic too, so fuck off if it sucks.

Content: Swearing, fighting, fucked up-ness.

Word Count: 4.3k

And away, and away we go!

The door to the lecture room slammed open, averting everyone’s attention to the teenager rushing into the closest empty seat. Underneath the sea of unruly brown curls was a face red from the exertion of his run across campus in a blind hurry. There was a wild look in his crystal blue eyes as he tore his backpack apart, digging around for a notebook and pen, and a flash of agitation as he came up empty-handed. The adrenaline of his bad morning made all his movements swift as he frantically scanned around to figure out who to ask to help him out of his predicament.

“Psst,” he whispered, his rushing about coming to a standstill as he stopped on the girl seated to his left. “Psst… hey!”

“What?” she whispered back in annoyance, her lips barely moving, her attention still fully on the professor who continued with their lecture.

“You got a spare scrap of paper. And, uh… a pen? I seemed to uh…”

“Forgot to charge your precious laptop?” she questioned with the same note of annoyance.

“Oh, you think I’m one of these snobs?” he smirked, gaze flickering about the room. “Nah. Rough morning.”

Her eyes rolled as she reached wordlessly into her bag at her feet, producing a notebook with a pen tucked into the spirals. “Here,” she hissed, handing it over.

“Oh, I don’t need the whole th-”

“Don’t care. Now, shut the fuck up.”

“Thanks.”

“The fuck did I just say?”

The boy smirked again, but didn’t say another word, turning his attention to catch the rest of the lecture.

When the class was over, he ripped the pages free from the notebook, tucking the pen back in the spirals and handing it over. “Thanks again.”

“Keep it,” she said, pushing the notebook into his chest as she rose to her feet. “You clearly need it more than I do.”

Confused irritation flashed across his face as he followed her out of the classroom. “I was just trying to be nice. Fuck.”

She paused, turning on her heel to face him. Now that they were literally standing toe to toe, she got a good idea of just how tall he was as she found herself eye level with his chest. Or what would be his chest if it wasn’t covered in a white t-shirt sporting the words “Fuck you you fucking fuck” in blue block letters. The same color blue of the simple zip up hoodie he was also wearing. The kind of blue that really made his eyes pop as her chin tilted upwards to find his own gaze staring down at her, unchecked attitude in every sharp feature of his face. She crossed her arms, scoffing. “Are you saying I wasn’t nice back?”

“Look, if you’re gonna be a cold bitch, that’s fine. But why bother helping in the first place?”

“Right. Next time I’ll just let you keep pestering me, then.”

“I just said ‘thank you.’ What the fuck more do you want?! Jesus…”

“You’re welcome!” she snapped back. “Better?”

His temper gave way to cockiness as he flashed a grin. “See? Was that so hard? Can I buy you a coffee? Or like a new notebook?”

“Ugh, I don’t get you. One minute you’re pissed I helped you. The next you’re trying to flirt with me? Pick a side, loser.”

“It’s Lip, actually.”

Familiarity flashed in her eyes. “As in Gallagher?”

He chuckled lightly. “Yeah. How many Lips do you know? Wait… you know me? How?”

“Think you’re the only one from the South Side with a brain? I’m Mickey and Mandy’s cousin.”

“Oh shit! You’re a Milkovich?”

“A Y/L/N, actually. But yeah, I guess.”

“No shit, huh?”

“Yeah, what gave it away? The attitude, or the fact that I’m the only one in this place taking notes by hand?”

“Well, not the only one,” Lip chuckled, waving the notebook he had tucked under his arm.

“Right…” she said before walking off. After a few steps, she turned to look over her shoulder at him still standing there. “Well?” she demanded. “You buying me that coffee, or not?”

That trademark smirk graced his lips before he adjusted his backpack on his shoulder and jogged after her.

“So, how’d you end up here?” Lip asked as they pushed their way out of the building. He rubbed his hands together, blowing into them before digging into his pocket, producing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Lip shook the box at her in a silent question as he placed one between his lips and lit it.

She took one, and when she moved to take the lighter from him, he gave a small shake of his head. One of Lip’s hands cupped around the cigarette in her mouth, the other lighting it for her, before he took a long drag from his own cigarette. “You gonna answer my question?” he asked, pocketing the cigarettes and lighter.

“You didn’t really give me time before you asked a new one,” she responded, blowing a ring of smoke.

“Well?” Lip prompted, twisting his left wrist in a gesture to indicate for her to go ahead and answer.

“Like I said. You think you’re the only one from the South Side with a brain?”

“I mean… statistically no. But to get into a place like this? And afford it? What’s your secret? The Milkovichs fuckin’ got some dirt on someone? Can you get them to threaten them for me too?”

She rolled her eyes. “One, I got in here on my own. Two, I’m not a Milkovich. I may share a little blood, but I don’t share the name. Not that I’d want to anyway. Fuckin’ Terry trying to fuck the gay out of Mickey by having him fuck that Russian broad? Like he has several dipshit sons to pass on those disphit genes. Who gives a fuck if one of ‘em’s a raging homo?”

“Hey, that raging homo is fucking my brother. Watch it.”

She raised her hands in defense. “Like I give a shit who’s fucking whom. None of my damn business.”

“Whom, huh? Jesus, you are smart.”

“Yeah, and for a brainiac you’re fuckin’ slow. Smart isn’t a special Lip trait made just for you. Other people can have it too. Probably hard to see that though with your ego. Does that ever get heavy?”

“Ooo, she bites.”

“She happens to have a name. And I swear if you call me a Milkovich one more time, I’ll show you exactly how I’m not one by not pulling my punches for a Gallagher like some white trash version of Romeo and Juliet.”

It was his turn to hold up his hands in defense. “Shit, okay. Let’s see… a Y/L/N… My age, give or take a year in either direction… that makes you Y/N? Which makes you a junior. Impressive.”

“Is that an ‘impressive’ in regards to your stellar deduction skills? Or an ‘impressive’ in regards to me being a junior.”

“The latter. I’ve already almost dropped out like 6 times.”

“Mmm, then maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are, Lip. Spewing bullshit to illiterates is easy. Actually being smart though requires a little more work.”

“Alright, fuck me for being curious, but I don’t exactly see our kind around campus, do you?”

“That’s probably because we don’t go around flaunting that part of ourselves. We had our chance to get out, we took it, and then we didn’t bother looking back.”

“What like some take the kid out of the hood metaphorical shit? Wouldn’t the follow up to that mean that you can’t take the hood out of the kid?”

“Yeah, and that’s exactly why I’m constantly busting my ass to keep up with these silver spoon trust fund brats. It was easy in high school. Pay attention every now and again, and you don’t have to bother with cracking a book to be labeled a genius. Big fish, small pond. Here? These kids have had nannies and tutors since before they could string two words together. Suddenly I’m just an average sized fish in a bigger pond. And out there in that ‘real world’ everyone keeps harping about? Do you see how as the pond gets bigger, you get smaller? But you think I’m gonna let that slow me down? Play into that self-fulling prophecy that I won’t amount to shit because of where I grew up? No. I’m gonna keep my mouth shut, and work my ass off because that’s what got me out in the first place, and that’s what’s gonna keep me from backsliding.”

“Did you just call me a small fish?”

“I’m saying you better get your shit together, Gallagher. This ain’t fuckin’ t-ball, it’s the big leagues. Back home, we might be the big shots. But here? We ain’t shit unless we do something about it. And showing up late to class without a fuckin’ notebook and pen isn’t how you make that happen.”

“Fuck, alright. If I wanted a lecture, I’d just call Fiona.”

“Just trying to warn you. One hood kid to another. But by all means, you could also contemplate dropping out for the 7th time.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you need to fuckin’ relax?”

“If they think that, they’re not stupid enough to say it to my face.” She took a last drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke up in Lip’s face, before dropping the butt on the ground and grinding it out with the toe of her boot.

“Oh, yeah cuz I bet you’re real tough,” he deadpanned with an eye roll, stomping out his own smoked up cigarette, and pulling open the door to the school’s coffee shop.

Y/N scoffed. “Start putting those pretty eyes of yours to good use Gallagher, and you might just realize that in addition to being smarter than you, I can also do anything else better than you. That includes being tougher. And partying harder.”

“Pretty eyes, hmm?”

Her eyes rolled, but the way her cheeks flushed didn’t go unnoticed either. “That would be the only thing you heard… Friday night. 8 o’ clock. And if you have to ask… well… guess you better put that brain of yours to work.” The smirk on her face could rival his any day as one of her hands patted affectionately at his chest. “Bye, Lip.” And with that, she walked backwards from him out of the coffee shop, leaving him wondering what the fuck had just happened, and more intrigued than he’d ever been by any girl before.

~~~

Lip understood what Y/N had meant about not needing to bother with an address for the party. All he had to do was follow the sounds of loud music and drunk laughter.

He could feel the music vibrating in his bones the second he stepped inside, the room dark with the exception of the strobe lights bouncing triadic colors all across the party-goers, one of which was Y/N.

“Hey!” Lip said when he got closer to her.

“Hey!” she greeted with a grin. “Looks like you figured it out. C’mon, let’s get you a drink.”

He followed her deeper into the house, into a brightly lit kitchen that had him squinting. “Pick your poison,” she said, tossing him a red cup.

“So, I still owe you that coffee,” he commented after a beat, while they made their drinks.

“Oh, do you now?” she asked, looking up at him over the rim of her cup.

“I mean… I don’t do well with debts.”

“Who said you were in my debt to begin with?”

“You helped me out when you didn’t have to. What would you call that?”

“I’d call it being nice.”

“Yeah, well you know as well as I do that being nice comes with a price tag attached where we’re from.”

“That may be so. But look around Lip. Sometimes people do things for others without there being a catch. And it was a fuckin’ notebook and pen, not bail money. I don’t need anything from you, because I don’t want anything from you. Crazy concept, I’m aware.”

He took a pause to take a long drink from his cup. “I don’t get you, you know that? Like you’re nice, but you’re such a fuckin’ bitch about it too.”

“The duality of woman,” she smirked, bowing dramatically. “Some people aren’t so easy to pin down, Lip. God forbid you might actually have to get to know them. Or let them get to know you. Which one scares you more, Lip?”

Again, as a chance to get his thoughts together, he took a drink. He decided to take a page from her book. “Bye Y/N,” he called out over his shoulder as he walked away.

She watched him go in proud amusement, knowing that she’d be seeing Lip sooner rather than later.

It took about an hour for Y/N to be proven right.

“So less say you n me get outta here,” the drunk nameless college boy slurred, one hand propping himself up against the wall, the other getting dangerously close to her face.

“Let’s not, and say we did,” she replied, grabbing his hand and dropping it to his side.

“Aw, but where’s the fun in that?” he crooned, breath smelling like cheap booze and shit weed.

“The fun is that you walk away with the only part of you bruised being your ego,” Lip growled from behind.

Frat boy turned to face Lip, his movements sluggish. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Nobody,” Y/N hissed at the same time Lip responded with “Her boyfriend.” “Nobody,” Y/N repeated in a firmer tone. “Lip, leave. I got this handled.”

“Yeah, leave,” the other boy said earnestly. “Probably be best if you didn’t watch me fuck your pretty little girlfriend.”

“Ugh, you’re disgusting,” she spat while the muscle in Lip’s jaw ticked. “You can follow Lip in getting the fuck out of my face.”

“Mmm, feisty. Good. Just the way I like ‘em.”

Y/N’s hand cracked against his face, and then Lip was shoving him backwards. “The fuck did you just say to her?! Get the fuck out of here!”

“Oh, yeah? And who’s gonna make me?”

A snarl ripped itself out of Lip’s throat, before he was throwing a punch, his fist connecting solidly with the other guy’s jaw. “Lip!” Y/N scolded in disbelief as Lip took the next hit square in the face. “Hey!” she yelled, wedging herself in between both young men, each prepared to keep exchanging blows. “Leave! Both of you!”

The drunk frat boy stumbled off, but not before throwing Lip the dirtiest look he could muster. Lip huffed in disdain, but stayed rooted in place. “You alright?” he checked, the lights bouncing off the room showing the area around his mouth already starting the transition from red to purple. With a thumb, he wiped at the trickle of blood spilling from his nose, smearing it with the blood coming from his busted lip.

With both hands, she shoved him as hard as she could. “I had that fuckin’ handled!”

“Well fuck me for being nice, then!” he shot back, matching her anger. He turned on his heel, away from her.

“Where the fuck are you going?!”

“Away! Like you wanted!”

She grabbed his arm, whipping him back around and dragging him to the nearest bathroom. “Sit!” she instructed, as she locked the door and grabbed a washcloth.

“I’m fine,” he protested, but sitting on the ledge of the tub anyway. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

She slammed one of her hands on the counter as she turned on the faucet to wet the washcloth. “See?” she said, cupping his face and cleaning away the blood. “It’s exactly that type of thickheaded stubbornness that’s gonna keep you stuck exactly where you are.”

“Thickheaded stubbornness?”

“Yes. That chip on your shoulder that says the world is always gonna be against you, and that everything comes with a price tag. That fighter’s instinct you disguise as reckless bravery, but is really just a stupid desire to hit the world as hard as it hits you. The world isn’t as black and white as you were made to believe. If this was some piss poor attempt at saying we’re even for giving you a fuckin’ notebook the other day, congrats. We’re even. Thank you. Are you satisfied now, Lip?” She chucked the washcloth in the sink.

“I’m never satisfied. And wasn’t it you who told me that sometimes people can do nice things for others just because? I wasn’t evening a score between us, Y/N. I was just being nice.”

“Well, way to be a bitch about it…” she snorted.

“Oh, you liked it,” he taunted, rising to his feet. “Didn’t you?”

She rolled her eyes in disgust. “No.”

“Aw, not so tough when it’s me confronting you with the truth now are you?”

“Fuck you, Lip.”

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” He closed the distance between them in one step, lifting her up onto the counter, his lips finding that niche where her neck met the collarbone. When her fingers flew to tangle in his hair, he took that as his cue that he wasn’t pushing limits that shouldn’t be pushed. But erring on the side of caution, he pulled back to peel his shirt off, giving her ample time to stop him. When he got a throaty whine of protest instead of her slapping him senseless, he chuckled darkly. “Aw, look who doesn’t want me to leave now.”

Y/N pulled her own shirt up and over her head, tossing it to join his on the tiled floor. She hooked a finger in his belt loop, pulling him back to her. “Fuck me, Lip,” she breathed before their lips collided, heat radiating in every touch.

~~~

Lip’s chest heaved as he tugged his jeans back on. “Here,” he said, digging out his phone and handing it over. “So next time we can cut right to the chase.”

She scoffed but started to put in her number anyway, a warning about how he better call on the tip of her tongue, but the screen changed as the name “Fiona” flashed and his phone started to ring. “Uh…” Y/N said slowly.

He swore under his breath, taking the phone back and answering. “Yeah, Fi? Whoa, slow down. Ian did what? Okay, we’ll keep him there. I’m on my way now. I dunno, Fi, as soon as I can. I’m coming from campus. But I’m coming. Just… sit tight or something.”

“What was that?” Y/N asked as Lip hung up the phone, pulling on the rest of his clothes in a hurry.

“Family emergency. D-do you have a car? Can I borrow it? It’s faster than taking the L.”

“Yeah,” she said, redressing with the same hurry and dangling her car keys. “C’mon, I’ll drive.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” he rushed. “Come with me, I mean.”

“I’m coming with you whether you like it or not.”

Figuring that arguing with her would only only result in him leaving later, he nodded his head before letting them out of the bathroom.

The drive to his house was filled with tense silence as Lip bounced his leg and smoked the whole trip. As a quiet act of comforting the young man, Y/N rested a hand on his leg, and while he flinched at the contact, he allowed her hand to stay, the touch soothing even if it didn’t fully quit the storm raging in his head.

She hadn’t even put the car in park before Lip was bounding out, his boots racing against the pavement as he rushed towards the house. Y/N followed as quickly as she could, nearly colliding into his back as Lip froze in the small entryway of the house. “Where is he?” Lip barked, his brief hesitation breaking at the sight of his family huddled together in the middle of the living room while pounding and screaming sounded from upstairs.

“Up there,” a woman a couple years older than Lip directed, her voice cracking with fear and worry. “Mickey’s trying to break down the door to get to him. He’s been locked in there for like 2 hours, Lip. He stopped answering us. I- I-” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pushed shaky hands through her hair. Behind her was a man and woman who looked to be even older than the woman talking, a teenage girl and boy of similar age, and a small toddler, all of them bearing the same terrified confusion.

Lip nodded once, understanding what the woman was saying without her needing to finish the thought. “Are all the knives accounted for?”

“Yeah, I think so. But… Fuck, Lip, I dunno what to do. Like I can’t just call the cops. I- I guess I could call Tony?”

“No, it’s fine, Fi,” Lip told her. “I’m gonna go help Mickey. You guys stay here. Actually, Kev, come with me. Carl, you too.”

As the men sprung into action and headed upstairs, the attention averted to Y/N who was still standing in the entryway. “Who are you?” the woman asked.

“Uh, I’m Y/N. I drove Lip. You must be Fiona?”

Fiona nodded numbly. “Yeah. This is V, Debbie, and Liam. Thanks for driving Lip. Uh…” She dug around in her pockets, pulling out a few crumpled bills. “Sorry,” she said, placing them in Y/N’s hand. “That’s all I got right now.”

“Oh, no,” Y/N responded, pushing the money back. “I- I go to school with Lip.”

Any chance for more small talk was interrupted by a loud splinting crack and an “Ian! What the fuck?!” before Lip, Kev, and Carl all came stomping downstairs, along with Mickey and Ian. “Y/N?” Mickey blinked, as he helped Ian onto the couch.

“Mickey,” Y/N deadpanned.

Mickey looked back and forth between Lip and his cousin, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ hell, Gallagher. You gonna fuck all my female relatives, or what?”

“Shut the fuck up, Mickey,” Lip and Y/N told him.

“Ian, are you okay?” Fiona asked, as Debbie went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water.

“Yeah, I’m fine…” Ian muttered, gulping down the water, whatever that had transpired upstairs apparently long over in the red head’s mind.

Fiona’s gaze flickered over to the other boy’s for a more detailed answer. When Kev answered with a small whistle and twirl of his finger to indicate that Ian was off his rocker, V shoved him. “Kev!”

“What?” the man asked, holding up his hands in defense. “It’s true. Oh, and Fi… we’ll uh… fix the door tomorrow.”

“Don’t care,” Fiona responded, all her attention on Ian.

“I’m tired,” Ian declared.

“Okay, get some rest right here. I’m gonna talk to Lip real quick.” Her voice was soft, motherly even. A drastic change from the scared person she’d been 10 minutes ago.

“Okay. Hey, Lip. You home for the weekend?”

“Something like that,” Lip told him before following Fiona into the kitchen to talk out of earshot.

“What are you still doing here?” Mickey asked Y/N, not caring for the answer as he stalked after the eldest Gallagher siblings.

“Yeah, who are you?” Carl asked.

“She’s friends with Lip,” Debbie explained.

“Oh,” was the knowing reply.

V rolled her eyes. “Alright, Debbie, Carl, take Liam upstairs and go to bed. Kev, c’mon, let’s go home.”

There were some grumbles before the group dispersed, leaving Y/N alone with Ian. “So, you’re friends with Lip, huh? And related to Mickey somehow?”

“We’re cousins on his mom’s side. And I wouldn’t say Lip and I are friends, necessarily.”

“Mmm, right. Yeah, Lip doesn’t really do friends. Or relationships.”

“Good to know.”

“Hey, thanks again for driving Lip over,” Fiona’s voice sounded from behind as her and Mickey came back into the room. “We got it from here if you got somewhere to be.”

“Lover boy’s outside,” Mickey smirked.

“Not a problem. And thanks, jackass,” Y/N said, then headed in search of Lip, finding him on the back porch smoking yet another cigarette. “Hey,” she said softly, sitting down next to him.

“You’re still here?”

“Was I supposed to leave?”

He shrugged. “Everyone else does.”

“Ooo, dark…”

“Wasn’t saying it to seek sympathy points.”

“Does this tough act of yours ever get tiring?”

“Who said it was an act?”

“It’s not gonna kill you to let someone in, Lip.”

“Yeah, maybe. But it sure beats the hell out of watching them leave. Because in the end, they all do. I learned a long time ago that the only person I can count on is myself.”

“What a lonely way to live your life.”

“Better than the alternative.”

“Did you miss the part where I said I was tougher than you? That shit,” she said, jerking her thumb back at the house, “is a fuckin’ Tuesday. If anyone is gonna get the fucked up parts of you, it’s me, Lip.”

“Why?”

“Why do I get it?”

“No, why do you want to?”

“Because you get me back. Look, I know I’m abrasive. I know I piss people off. Because like you, if I push them away from the start, then when they eventually leave it hurts less. But here’s the stupid thing about that, Lip. It still hurts. Maybe this time it doesn’t have to.”

“You know that this is like a complete 180 from you berating me three days ago, right? Or even earlier this evening. Or right now.”

“That didn’t seem to bother you when you were fucking me in that bathroom.”

“How do I know you won’t leave?”

“How do I know you won’t?” she countered. “I’m not saying you gotta fuckin’ marry me, Lip. Just loosen up on the tough guy act. Not everything has to be a fight.”

“But what if I like fighting with you?”

“I’m sure we can find ways of making sure that still happens.”

“Wanna stay the night then? Maybe have a fight or two?”

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#tough act #lip gallagher #lip gallagher fic #lip gallagher x reader #lip gallagher one shot #shameless #shameless fic #calpal irwin

229 notes · View notes

thevioletjones · 4 years

Note

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

Thanks! I tried. 🙂

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

Ian’s Box of Crap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he was out the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re still up here?”

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

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

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

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

“Nice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a statement rather than a question.

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

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

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

“I’m not. I promise.”

“Really? You’re not mad?”

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

“How the fuck so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#ian x mickey #fanfic #gallavich #fanfiction #asks #answers

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heyheydidjaknow · 4 years

Text

Why do I not have the option to copy and paste formatting? Why is that an option I am not given? Who thought that I wouldn’t need that when I’m on my phone? Screw that guy, who I am arbitrarily calling Adam. If anyone knows how to do that, please tell me.

Chapter 6 Pt 2

“There is no fucking way you got a date with her.” Raphael does not even look it up. “No way in hell.”

“And yet the flow chart worked.” He laughs from his lab, shutting off any excess equipment as to not overwork it. “It worked like a charm and she asked me to go to her place so ha.”

”You didn’t show her the chart, did you?”

“I did not.”

“Well, there you go.” Leo looks back at him from his seat on the couch. “What time?”

“Seven o’clock.” He slides the door closed. “But I’m planning on being there at six fifty-five so that she knows I value her time.”

“Does the sun set that early?”

“Why do you even ask?” Raph turns a page in his once periodical periodical. “You know he looked it up.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Forgive me for also valuing preparedness.”

“Nobody likes a know it all.”

He grins smugly. “That’s where you’re wrong. See, I,” he gestured to himself, “have a date with a gorgeous girl tonight, one where she has already invited me into her home, and you,” he gestured to Raphael, “are reading a magazine from a company that went out of business two years ago alone.”

“Donnie, don’t be a jerk.” Leonardo looked back at the television. “Raphael brings up a valid point; you tend to act like you know everything, and the actual request wasn’t for a date.”

“How else can I interpret one on one time with her?”

“Well,” he counters, “how do you interpret one on one time with us?”

He blinks. “Wait, so you’re saying she’s… how do you put it?”

“Nah, I don’t think she’s friendzonin ‘im.” Mickey looks up from his drawing. “Think she’s sending signals she doesn’t mean to.” He sets his half-shaded piece aside. “Think about it; she said she’s been all stressed out, right? She died like two weeks ago.” He shrugs. “She’s probably just lonely and needs the company.”

“That’s… actually really insightful of you.”

He grins. “What can I say? I’m a modern McPherson.”

Raph snickers at that. “Donnie is more of a McPher—how old is that movie, anyway? A hundred?

“Hey!” He shoots a glare at his brother. “Respect the classics.”

“Not to interrupt your riveting intro to film class,” Donnie interjects, losing his shit, “but I really need to know what this is before I go, and it’s already fifteen ‘till.”

“Look, maybe she’s interested, maybe she’s not.” Leonardo’s eyes are back on the screen. “Just try to tread carefully and you’ll probably be fine.”

“Probably?”

“Again, Raph had a point.”

He groans, walking to the entrance and exit of their home. “You guys aren’t helping.”

“Not our job.”

Leo calls after him. “Be home before six!”

He turns the corner, cradling his head in his hands. ‘I am totally and thoroughly fucked.’

GoodFellas.

Of all the movies in the world, that is the movie you have decided to use to explain these concepts. This is the example piece that you are going to show to the vigilante. All you know is that you had started watching the Phantom Menace and had decided against explaining the concept of racial coding and this is the only other movie that you can think of right now. You have decided to commit, and you are already regretting it, but you decide to figure it out as you go.

You set the pizza on the coffee table, throwing a bag of popcorn in the microwave to pop. You do not expect Donatello to be late, so you decided to start now so that they could get started right away. You start walking to the window, stopping at the mouth of the hallway. You look yourself over one more time in the bathroom mirror despite yourself. You do not exactly know why you care so much; this was not a date, and you had not advertised it as one. Still, impressions are important, and the last thing you need is for him to not listen to you because of it. That is what you are telling yourself, anyhow.

You hear knocking against the glass. You check your phone for the time. ‘Five minutes early.’ You smile softly. ‘How responsible.’ You open it up, smiling at your guest. “Welcome, Donatello.” You take a step back. “Please, make yourself at home.”

He barely makes a sound as he steps off the windowsill, looking around your apartment, fully illuminated, for the first time.

After about thirty seconds of his investigation, you clear your throat. “Donnie?”

He snaps out of it. “Huh?”

You smile gently. “You wanna sit down? I bought pizza.”

“Uh, yeah.” He nods, sitting down and facing the television screen. “I like your place.”

“Thanks.” You sit down next to him, tucking your feet under you as you flip on the television. “How do you feel about gangster movies?”

“Gangster movies?”

“Yeah.” You list a couple on your fingers. “Scarface, Godfather, all that jazz.”

He shakes his head, brow furrowed in confusion. “How can you make gangster movies legally?”

“That is a long answer. The short version?” You lean forward, taking a slice from the box. “The police are kind to those who cooperate, and people think their stories are fascinating.”

“So they’re documentaries?” He mimics you.

You shrug. “Sometimes. Not always, but sometimes. You want something to drink?” You hear the microwave beep as you stand up.

“Water?”

You nod, walking over to pull the popcorn out of the microwave and grab your drinks. “I trust the walk wasn’t too bad?”

“Not at all.” The small talk is torture. “Getting to your window was a bit of a challenge, but it wasn’t anything too bad.”

“That’s good.” You pour him a glass. “I’ll have to get something for that; maybe a planter or something, so you have a bigger ledge.”

“It’s alright.” He taps his fingers against his knee. “It’s wide enough to stand.”

“Still.” You place his cup on the counter, dumping the kernels into a large plastic bowl. “I wouldn’t forgive myself if one of you guys got hurt trying to come in through the window.” You grab a can of soda out of the refrigerator, sitting down and handing him the glass.

He smiles slightly. “You’re really sweet sometimes, you know that?”

You grin. “I try,” you hum, starting to pull up the movie. “I think you’re pretty cool too, Hamato.”

He chuckles. “You make me sound like I’m fifty.”

“Oh, totally.” You nod in agreement. “You’re an old soul.”

He blinks. “Old soul?”

“Mature, I mean.” You shrug. “I mean, handling the stuff you do with any degree of tact, to me, displays a great maturity you don’t see in most teenagers, myself included.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

You get back up for napkins and plates. “Not at all.” You hand him one of each. “It’s an admirable quality, though not one I particularly envy.”

“You think?” His hands linger for a moment longer than typical as he took them.

“Yeah. You want me to turn down the lights for the movie while I’m up?”

His face goes red. “I-I mean,” he stutters, “if you want to.”

“Then I will; shows the image better when it’s dark.” You walk to the wall, flicking off the lights and sitting down next to him, setting your slice on your plate as you turn on the movie.

Your reactions to it are different.

He does not seem what you would call disturbed, but he gets grossly invested in the story extremely quickly. He is noticeably more interested in watching you watch the movie, but he studies the plot intently, noting the more domestic plotline between the lead and his wife in particular. His reaction to the violence is strange to you; he is not aloof, so to speak, but he does not flinch much until the fighting is between Henry and Karen.

You have seen this movie what feels like a thousand times. Whenever you think it applicable, you lean over and whisper to him about the directing, the script, the plot—it is supposed to be a lesson, after all. But you realize that your attention, every so often, shifts to the bed, to your pillow with the knife underneath it. The violence of the movie makes you edgier than you are used to.

About halfway through the movie, you move closer to the boy sitting beside you. You lean your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes as you listen for cues for comments. You don’t notice his reaction, but you do notice how his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You do not object; you were the one who initiated, after all.

“Here’s a psychology relationship thingy you can tell your family about.” You cringe at that poor little girl standing in the hallway. “’That’s all in your head’ is classic gaslighting. I dunno if that’s really your area or not.”

“Oh, yeah, I see what you mean.” He fiddles with the cloth of your jacket absentmindedly. “It’s kinda hard for me to wrap my head around, people staying like that. I mean,” he clarifies, “I get why, but—”

You both tense up as a young man on screen is shot dead by Joe Pesci’s character.

You exhale. “Yeah, I get what you mean.” You shrug. “But folks get scared, ya know? In her case, she doesn’t want to break the family apart, and she’s really into him.”

“What? No way.”

“Yes way.” You look up at him. “What can I say? We fall into infatuation so fast with bad people who say what we want to hear.”

“Don’t you mean fall in love?”

You watch as Lorraine Bracco holds a gun to her husband’s face. “Nope. Love is entirely different.”

“Yeah?” He glanced down at you.

“Apples and oranges.” You gesture to the television. “Love is supplementary, a beautifully imperfect connection between people.” Your voice becomes smoother, airier. “It’s a bond built on trust and respect. Infatuation is more of an addiction than anything.” You sigh as Liota meets to discuss his relationship with Sorvino. “At least I think so. That’s why love at first sight is a bunch of bullshit; you can’t have that kind of profound trust with someone you just met.” You shrug, looking back up at him. “Then again, what do I know? I’m an inexperienced, fifteen-year-old girl.”

“That makes a lot of sense, actually.” He looks back down at you. “I get what familial love is, but whenever Master Splinter talks about his wife, he has a hard time putting what he means into words.”

You hear their guilty verdict. “Totally get that. Articulation is not easy to do.”

A few minutes go by.

“May I be frank?”

“Please.”

You watch as a man drags his wife out of a Christmas party. “This movie is exactly why I don’t ever want to learn how to do the stuff you do. It changes you, all that violence; desensitizes you.” You bring your knees to your chest. “Especially Raphael. I swear, that shift was as dramatic as his, at least at this point in the flick.”

He pauses. “Please, tell me you’re kidding.”

You close your eyes, breathing slowly. “I’m going to try my best,” you swear, “do everything in my power, to see to it that you guys don’t experience more than you have to.”

You mean it. He can tell.

You two are quiet for the rest of the movie. You explain why certain directing choices were made, connect the beginning with the end, talk about the theme, all while you two watched their fall from grace. When the movie ends, you realize how tangled up in him you are; your head on his chest, legs draped over his with his arms around your waist. You feel the icy air against you, as if his skin attracted it to you. You push the hair out of your face. “So,” you stretch, turning the light back on, “do you wanna see another movie, or do you have a curfew?”

He pauses. “I should honestly probably get home,” he sighs. “If I’m not home early they’ll start getting ideas.”

“Oh, yeah.” You nod, completely understanding the reasoning. “You can take the leftover pizza home if you want; the guys’ll probably eat it before I do.”

“Mikey’ll be on cloud nine.” He picks the box off the coffee table. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” You stand at the window, opening it for him.

He climbs onto the windowsill, looking down at you from his perch. “I had a good time.” His face flushed. “We should do this again.”

You nod in agreement. “Definitely.” You rub the back of your neck. “I’ll pick a lighter movie next time.”

“Alright. It’s a plan.” He gives you a thumbs up.

You steal yourself, cupping one side of his face and kissing him gently on the cheek. “Goodnight, Donnie.” You smile. “See ya tomorrow.”

You are a bit concerned he’s going to fall off the windowsill. “Y-Yeah,” he grinned, words slurred. “See ya later, Y/N.” He waved, climbing up and out of your window.

You smile softly, sigh. You flop back on the bed, rolling over. You have not been this at ease since you died.

‘I really like that guy.’ You close your eyes. ‘I really, honestly do.’

You drift off to sleep, dreamless for the first time in too long.

Table Of Contents

Chapter 6 Part 1

Chapter 7

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loftec · 3 years

Note

Hi! in this prompt, could we know about Mickey's ex boyfriend or something? I think his name was Matt?

thank you for participating + pre NTW - Mickey's POV 👀

Anon: tell us about Matt

Yevgeny: his name was Mark

Mickey, pinching the bridge of his nose: Martin, and no. I’m not gonna tell you about Martin.

Narrator: little did Mickey know that he had zero say on the matter, let’s goooo.

April 13, 2013. Saturday.

Mickey is just off the L when his phone rings. For a moment, he considers ignoring the buzzing in his pocket as he lights up a cigarette and bounds down the metal steps. The list of people likely to call him is very limited, and most of that list is very welcome to fuck off to voicemail on a Saturday evening. Work can fuck off, telemarketers can doubly fuck off. On this particular Saturday, even his extended family can fuck off. It might be Martin, wondering where he is, but he can quite frankly also fuck off, seeing as Mickey is no more than five minutes away from their agreed rendezvous.

That only leaves one, and the thought alone is enough for Mickey to step out of the flow of people rushing to and from the platform, and check the damned call. Seeing the ID, he quickly picks up, pressing the phone to his ear.

”What the fuck?” he asks, unsure if he should be annoyed or alarmed and figuring this would best cover a bit of both.

”Hey dad,” his son says, unexpectedly.

”Yev?” Mickey says, inching towards annoyed. At least his son is unharmed enough to dial a phone, so it can’t be too bad. ”What’s wrong? Where’s Sonya?”

”She’s right here,” Yevgeny says, he sounds fine, normal, good, ”we can’t find the cake poking thing.”

Staring at the empty space in front of him, Mickey feels the rest of his mood swan dive head-first into annoyed. ”The what?”

”The thing we use to poke cakes, to check if they’re done? We can’t find it and we need it, the cake is almost done.”

Taking the forgotten cigarette from his lips, Mickey angles the burning end away from his face as he rubs at the deep line between his eyebrows.

”Kid,” he says, trying to sound calm, ”give the phone to Sonya.”

There are some muffled noises over the line, and then Mickey can hear his son’s distant voice. ”He wants to talk to you.”

”Hey Mickey,” Sonya comes on, breezy as anything. ”Is it supposed to be in the cutlery drawer? Been rifling through that thing for a good minute already.”

”Are you fucking kidding me?”

”What? It’s not such a weird guess, is it? I’d say it’s cutlery adjacent at least.”

”I’ve been outta the fucking house for less than forty minutes!” Mickey says, calmly. He is absolutely not screeching loud enough to have people on the street give him concerned looks. ”And you call me about some fucking–, I don’t have anything like that! Who has a thing specifically for poking cakes?!”

”Oh please,” Sonya scoffs. ”Plenty people do, you being one of them!”

He wants to point out that this is categorically not what he meant when he said ’call me if there’s an emergency’, but he’s got a feeling that this is only going to get him into an argument about the definition of ’emergency’ that he’s not going to win, and besides, he’s got bigger fish to fry right now.

”I absolutely do fucking not!” he splutters, glaring at a couple throwing him side-eye as they rush past him. ”Are you outta your mind?”

”I know you have one, because I gave it to you,” Sonya says, clanking sounds in the background from where she’s still presumably rifling through Mickey’s shit. ”Remember? When you moved in? I got it in Sweden when I was visiting for my cousin’s wedding. It was hand crafted, Mickey, you better not have thrown it out!”

”That thing?” Mickey balks, smoothly electing to not point out that they both know Sonya came home from her trip with like ten of those in her luggage and then spent the next two years giving them to all her friends and family whenever she’d forgot about getting gifts for an occasion. ”I stuck it in Merida.”

The silence on the other end of the line is palpable, and it takes a second for Mickey to hear what he just said.

”Who is Merida, and do I want to know why you stuck my hand-carved Swedish cake poker in her?”

Mickey sighs, and decides that he doesn’t have to answer that. He can try, at least. ”Tell Yev it’s in Merida.”

”I most certainly will not tell your sweet summer child that you’ve stuck the cake poker in–,” her increasingly high pitched voice abruptly falls to a hiss, ”–Merida, who is Merida?”

Luckily, Mickey can hear his son in the background, saving him from having to explain. ”It’s this thing?”

There’s another silence, Mickey takes the opportunity to smoke and accept the inevitable.

”Two questions,” Sonya says, her usual good humor back in her voice. ”One, you stuck my hand-carved Swedish souvenir in a potted plant? And two, you named the plant Merida?”

”It’s cartoon character–,” Mickey starts, before realizing what he’s saying and cutting himself off, ”I didn’t name it, obviously.”

”But you still call it by its name.”

”Whatever,” Mickey blows out a puff of smoke and can’t help smiling. Sometimes he just has to stop and take stock of how fucking ridiculous his life has turned out. And how much he fucking likes it, despite himself. ”Congratulations, you found it. Any other emergency you needed me for, or can I get back to my–”

He swallows, catching himself mid-sentence, suddenly unsure of how he intended to end it.

”–thing.”

”You’re there already?” Sonya asks, sounding genuinely remorseful now. ”Sorry, you left so late I thought for sure you’d missed the train and would still be en route, or I wouldn’t have told Yev to call. How’s the date going?”

Mickey swallows again, throat dry. He starts walking down the street in the direction of the bar.

”It’s fine, still on the way,” he says, ”and it’s not a date.”

”Like heck it isn’t,” Sonya tuts, ”you’re out on a Yev weekend for the first time since I’ve known you, and I saw that shirt you’re wearing.”

He runs a hand self-consciously along his belt, his button-down still tucked in and in place. He refuses to worry about it.

”You looked good, Mickey, I meant to tell you,” Sonya continues, and she doesn’t even sound like she’s teasing anymore which Mickey knows even less how to handle. ”And you’re undeniably on a date.”

”Shut up,” Mickey mutters and smiles to himself when Sonya laughs. Feeling a little more himself, he chucks his cigarette to the curb and stops to look across the road at his destination. ”Maybe.”

He hadn’t really considered the possibility, before Martin asked him. But the sex was always good, they got along really well, and when Martin looked up at him from his bed as Mickey was pulling on his jeans, his hair rumpled and lips still shiny, and asked if he wanted to go to some kind of hipster showcase gig together, Mickey had barely even hesitated.

”About time, too,” Sonya says. ”Was starting to think the guy wasn’t all there, taking his sweet time. Maybe he was waiting for you to ask.”

”Ey,” Mickey shakes his head, ”it’s only been a couple of months.”

”Try six! That’s half of a whole year.”

”Try minding your own fucking business,” Mickey says and frowns. Maybe it has been that long since the first time they hooked up, but it’s not like they’ve been fucking on the regular the whole time since then.

”Just happy for you, Mickey,” Sonya says, like it’s an easy thing for her to say. ”You like him, right?”

He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t outright deny it either, which probably tells Sonya everything she needs to know.

”Gotta go,” he says instead, ”and don’t call me again unless it’s an actual fucking emergency. See you tomorrow.”

Not waiting to see if she’s got something to say to that, he hangs up and shoves the phone back into his pocket. Staring at the unassuming building across the street, he allows himself a moment to take it all in. He’s just casing the joint before he enters, it’s normal fucking behavior. He isn’t stalling.

It doesn’t look too busy from the outside, there’s no line, and no bouncer or guard by the propped open double doors. The walls of the building are littered with layers of posters, on both sides of the doors and across the covered windows. Not much can be seen through the doors from his vantage point, but he assumes that it’s a front room leading to whatever’s going on inside the building.

There’s a guy standing off to the side of the doors, smoking. He’s got a lanyard shoved down his back pocket, ID badge dangling in clear sight. Most likely someone working at the bar, out on a break. His shoulders are hunched and he’s got a phone clutched to his ear, head bent and lips pressed together in a thin line. He nods at whatever is being said to him over the phone. Mickey looks up at the worn sign above the door.

”Fuck it,” Mickey mutters and, pushing aside the last of his niggling doubt, makes his way across the street and through the doors. It’s dark enough inside that his eyes need a second to adjust, before he quickly orients himself and heads toward the noise and lights leaking out from behind a set of swing doors beyond the coat check.

”Excuse me!” someone pipes up behind him, and he turns back to raise his eyebrows at the girl standing behind a counter by the entrance. ”We’ve got a showcase tonight, you need to buy a ticket.”

She makes an apologetic face as Mickey gets closer and pulls out his wallet.

”25,” she says when he gives her a questioning look.

”Christ,” he mutters, but forks over the money. ”This better be good.”

”We’ve got a really exciting lineup tonight, all local acts,” she says, obviously relieved now that he’s payed and she can tuck away his hard earned cash in her little lock box. ”I’m hoping I can take a break soon so I can sneak a peak of the headliner.”

She winks at him as she hands over a ticket, and he has zero fucking clue what he’s supposed to do with any of that.

”Okay?” he says and accepts the ticket. ”What’s this for? I’m already here.”

”In case you want to go in and out,” she says, and then tacks on when she seems to remember something she’s supposed to say; ”there’s no smoking in the venue.”

Mickey shrugs and pockets the ticket, biting back the urge to tell her that there’s no fucking smoking anywhere these days, thank you very much. The girl is still smiling at him when he turns his back on her and heads for the bar.

”Have fun!”

Finally inside, the place seems to be a collection of smaller rooms with some walls knocked down to make a larger, oddly shaped space. The bar is crowded, three bartenders moving around each other and pouring drinks in the narrow space behind it, and all the tables tucked away in the dark half-room next to it seem occupied. In the main room, Mickey finds the small, raised stage with a bigger crowd gathered in front of it. There’s a guy on stage, talking about something and looking like he’s about to cry while getting thoroughly ignored by a majority of his audience.

Mickey included, when he spots Martin a bit to the left of the stage. He’s talking to a couple of people he must have met in the crowd, smiling in that carefree way of his, eyes squeezed together and head tossed back when he laughs. He seems to do that a lot, laugh and talk and make friends wherever he goes. Open about himself in casual throw-away lines as he lets Mickey into his apartment, takes his clothes off, catching his breath, seeing Mickey off again. It’s nice seeing him out here, in the real world.

Maybe this could work. Mickey really should have tried harder to be on time, leaving your date to make new friends while he waits for you to show up seems like a bad move, now that he thinks about it.

Shit. Here goes nothing.

”Hey!” Martin exclaims, face lighting up with a wide smile when Mickey walks into his line of sight. He doesn’t sound upset, really doesn’t look it either when he pulls Mickey in for a quick kiss. It’s over before Mickey’s had the chance to do much else than blink in surprise.

”I’m late,” he acknowledges and hopes Martin will take the attempt at an apology for what it is.

”It’s fine,” Martin gins at him, tilting his head in the direction of the stage, ”you haven’t missed anything good.”

”– have you ever noticed that?” the guy on stage mutters into the microphone, ”I mean–, uh, I’ve noticed, that–, sometimes–”

Tuning the guy out again, Mickey looks past his date at the two people still standing on his other side, regarding them curiously.

”We got a problem?” he asks them, raising his eyebrows further when the woman just smiles at him.

”Oh,” Martin says, angling himself so the four of them make a little semi-circle in the crowd. ”My friends, Nora, Ethan, this is Mickey.”

Mickey stares at the side of Martin’s face for a moment, before he notices Ethan’s outstretched hand. He feels confused enough to grab it in a quick handshake. The woman, Nora, just keeps smiling.

”Nice to meet you, Mickey,” she says, clearly hiding something. People generally aren’t this smiley without an agenda, in Mickey’s experience.

”Sure,” Mickey says, glancing at Martin for some clue as to what he’s supposed to do now.

”You wanna go get yourself a drink?” Martin asks, pointing in the direction of the bar. ”This comedy train wreck should be over soon, hopefully.”

”Sure,” Mickey says again, wrong-footed by the whole odd situation and frustrated with himself for not being able to shake the feeling that he’s made a huge mistake.

”Go with him!” Nora says, making Martin take a half-step closer to Mickey by shoving lightly at his shoulder. ”We’ll save the spot.”

She gives Martin a pointed look and some kind of silent communication seems to happen between them, ending with her looking victorious and Martin dropping his head back with an exaggerated sigh. Then he turns to Mickey and playfully gestures for him to lead the way.

”Sorry about her,” he says once they’ve reached the bar, leaning in closer to speak directly into Mickey’s ear. The warmth of his breath makes the hairs on his neck stand on end. ”I keep telling her to back off, but she’s got it in her head that we’re doing something we’re not.”

Mickey swallows and turns his head to look at Martin when he leans back.

”And what are we doing?” he asks, and he doesn’t realize how it sounds until he sees Martin’s gobsmacked expression.

He lets out a startled laugh. ”Are we really gonna talk about this now? Here?”

And technically, Mickey agrees with him. He really doesn’t want to have the ’what are we’ conversation, and he definitely doesn’t want to have it now, here. But he’s already said it, and now he needs to know.

”Maybe,” he says and frowns when Martin just stares at him for a moment.

”I don’t know?” Martin eventually says. ”We have fun, right? I didn’t think you wanted it to be more than that?”

Mickey can barely hear his own thoughts over the noise from the bar, but he can practically feel his heartbeat in his throat. ”Do you?”

Martin makes a pained face, like it’s an involuntary reaction to the mere idea, before he shrugs helplessly and gives Mickey an uncertain smile.

”We don’t really have anything in common, Mickey,” he says. ”I don’t know, I just don’t see it going anywhere.”

”Thank you for participating,” the guy on stage says, his voice louder and verging on hysterical. It gives Mickey a reason to look away from Martin’s face for a second, hating the sympathetic twist to his lips. He feels like a fool.

”You suck!” someone yells in the audience.

”Yeah? Right back at you buddy!”

”Get off the stage!”

”Sure,” Mickey says, and nods. ”No, sure. You’re right.”

”Sorry?” Martin says and grins when Mickey rolls his eyes. ”And we can still have fun, right? Hey, I’ll buy you a drink! What do you want?”

”Anything, a beer,” Mickey tries to focus on Martin, on the list of prices pinned to the wall behind the bar, but there is suddenly too much noise, too many people, too much… stuff. ”I just gotta–”

He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, so he stops. He doesn’t know what he wants, but getting out of this room would be a good start.

Martin looks confused, and then tuts reproachfully when Mickey pulls out his pack of smokes and gestures in the direction of the doors. He hates it when Mickey smokes, always makes him brush his teeth before they do anything. Guess that’s another thing they don’t have in common. Mickey hadn’t given it much thought.

He leaves Martin by the bar to fend for the bartender’s attention on his own and goes back outside, ignoring the surprised look on the girl by the door when he strides past her. Once outside, he’d hoped the fresh air and relative silence would knock him back on track, but it doesn’t. Everything is exactly the same, only now he can add ’running away like a pussy’ to the list of tonight’s embarrassments. He hates this, this isn’t him.

He should go back inside, show Martin and his friends that he doesn’t give a shit. Have a couple of beers, get through the night, make that asshole suck his dick until he can’t feel anything but a warm mouth and his own pleasure. But he’s not repaying any favors, not tonight, let that shithead take care of himself, since he can’t see it going anywhere. Fuck that. It’s fine.

”I know–, no, I know…”

Wrapped up in his own bullshit, Mickey hadn’t noticed he wasn’t alone. The same man from before is still on the phone, and he looks if possible even more miserable than he did when Mickey first arrived.

”That isn’t–, no, I know you didn’t… listen–”

Mickey ignores him, taking out a cigarette putting it to his lips. Might as well, he’s already out here. He lights it up. He, lights it up… come the fuck on, he lights it up. His lighter is out. Fucking great.

”Ey,” he says and turns to the guy on the phone, ”you got a light?”

The guy stares at him, and Mickey absently thinks he looks even worse up close. Like, disturbingly hot and built enough to properly toss a guy around if he wanted, but absolutely worn down by whatever it is he’s doing with whoever’s on the phone with him. Whatever, not Mickey’s problem. He shakes his empty lighter when the guy doesn’t immediately react.

”Oh,” the guy blinks, his eyes are red. He digs out a lighter from somewhere and hands it over. ”Here.”

”Thanks,” Mickey steps close enough so he can reach out and take it, and consequently hear the distant sound of a man’s voice on the other end of the line. He can’t make out any words, but the tone is unmistakable. The guy frowns and turns away slightly.

”Jesus, Jace, what the fuck?” he says, voice low and sharp. ”Are you serious right now? I’m not–, you know what?”

Mickey lights up and takes a couple of steps away to give the guy some privacy, but might still watch him out of the corner of his eye and hear pretty much everything he says. Call him a nosy bitch, but he really needs the distraction right now.

”I can’t do this right now,” the guy sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. ”We’re on in like ten minutes and I can’t–, I can’t do this with you right now. I asked you for time.”

He listens, and whatever it is that’s being said to him seems to hit a nerve. The general air around him of annoyed resolve slowly shifts into something more resigned.

”Yeah, I know… I’m sorry,” he says, and Mickey doesn’t know him or his situation, but he knows this can’t be right. ”Tomorrow, we’ll talk. I promise. Yeah, thanks… I will. Love you, too.”

Mickey shouldn’t be listening to this, he should finish his cigarette and go back inside. Find Martin and enjoy the night, have some fucking fun. Maybe he should, but he doesn’t want to.

He wants to go home, put on some fucking comfortable clothes and watch a movie with his kid.

”Heads up,” he says and waits until the phone guy looks up before he lobs the lighter back at him. He fumbles, but catches it. ”Fuck him, you deserve better.”

The guy stares at him, and rightly so. Mickey doesn’t know why he said that, he doesn’t know anything about it. But the guy looks… he looks a bit like Mickey’s feeling, deep down and buried many times over.

He looks lost.

”You deserve better,” Mickey repeats, because he already said it and he’s nothing if not all in. The guy opens his mouth on a shaky exhale, but he doesn’t say anything. Probably thinking of ways to get away from the freak accosting him on the street with unsolicited affirmation bullshit. Which, fair enough. Guess that’s Mickey’s cue to fuck off. If the guy would just stop staring at him like that.

A hand-holding couple suddenly walks right through their intense moment, heading for the doors. Mickey comes back to himself and, thinking quick, he takes out his ticket and waves it at the couple to get their attention.

”No thanks,” the man said, probably thinking he’s trying to sell it.

”Just fucking take it,” Mickey grumbles, shoving the ticket at them.

”Uh, thanks?”

Mickey waves a dismissive hand at them, already on his way.

”Thank you!” someone shouts after him.

He can’t wait to get home. Kick off his shoes, wash out the gel in his hair. Untuck his fucking shirt. Investigate whatever that cake poking business was about, hopefully cake. Watch his kid watch a movie, see his little face light up and mouth along with the words. Absolutely ignore Sonya’s inevitable attempts to get him to ’talk about it’.

His life is fucking fine the way it is, he doesn’t know why he got it in his head to try and make it something it isn’t.

#hey friends #I've had some feelings this week #and will try to get as many of these prompts out #as a double thank you #to you and the show #it's not much #but I hope it's something #also i got a bit carried away with this one #loved the prompt #thank you!#Anonymous

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thebrownssociety · 3 years

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what’s the sibling dynamic between buster and elmyra? since elmer and bugs are married in and the looney tunes cast adopted the tiny toons cast

Thanks for the ask! Sorry it's taken so long, I was trying to tie all the threads together.

So, I'm going to include Babs in this as well, as I headcanon Bugs and Elmer adopted Buster, Babs and Elmyra together.

So to understand this we've got to go back to after Tiny Toons had finished filming in early 1992. By that point the kids were all 5 years old and had basically formed a tight-knit group. They were also at the stage in there development when they were starting to expand a little bit beyond what their official characterisation was.

So, take Montanna Max, for example, although he was still hot-headed, obsessed with money and greedy [and those traits would never go away] he was now learning that his friends [and particularly the adults] weren't going to put up with his screaming at them all day and not sharing anything and that if he wanted to remain friends with them he was going to have to change his behaviour at least a little. The rest of the toons would accept what he was created as, but they wouldn't accept him using that as an excuse to act completely out of order.

Buster and Babs upon finishing filming were both enrolled in a two-year long course which was basically going to help them adjust to not being a protagonist anymore. It's a course that every protagonist of a TV show, or a film, does after the completion of there first show, and it basically helps them come to terms with the fact they are not the centre of the universe. The reason for this is because it's been accepted and realised that it's very hard for a toon who's had there entire show revolve around them to suddenly not have that anymore and be sent out into the world of Toons where most Toons don't care.

As a genreral rule in Toontown, unless you've achieved the fame levels of Bugs Bunny or Mickey Mouse, or are associated with them, no one really cares what film you were in. So Anna and Elsa are treated like goddesses in Toontown because, there film was really successful and they're seen as really good characters, contrast that with Princess Aurora [who's film was a box-office bomb at time of release, I believe] who is more respected and liked because she's royalty and she's really nice than because her film was successful.

In short, unless your film is massively successful at time of release, you're just another toon and the two-year course helps protagonists come to terms with that. There are positives as well, it's not all 'you're nothing now'. The toons work on their individual skills and how they may be transferred to other things. [Babs's impression are so good, for instance, that even if Tiny Toons never got rebooted, she'd still have a really good shot at becoming a Toon Impressionist, if she wanted to. Buster's flexibility and ability to 'read' other people means he'd potentially be good as a nurse/doctor/police officer or just a role that's with the public.]

While Buster and Babs were doing that Elmyra spent time with Bugs and Elmer and practiced her toon powers while benefiting from the individual attention being given by her dads. [Just a note, there is a two-year course for villains as well that was introduced in the 60's that helps them to...not be so villainous, but you have to meet a certain level of 'badness' like Maleficent OR Evil Queen to get in there and - obviously - Elmyra doesn't meet that requirement.]

So, back to the actual ask, Buster, Babs and Elmyra moved into Bugs and Elmer's 5-bedroom mansion shortly after filming ended. It was decided they would each have there own room, which they decorated to there own preferences [Elmyra's is very VERY pink]. So this relieved some tension, because Babs HATED the idea of sharing a room with Elmyra. [Elmyra, for her part, was happy about the idea and cried buckets when she was told it wouldn't be happening.]

At first Buster didn't really get on well with Elmyra at all. Over filming he'd kind of managed to build her up into the 'oh, help me, it's Elmyra' figure, and although he knew she was largely harmless, he still didn't like her. Her 'baby-act' and need to be constantly supervised also grated. This was the same for Babs.

Elmyra, at first, adored the idea of living with Babs and Buster and had visions of dressing them up all day in 'cutesey-wutesey outfits'. It may surprise you to know, that Buster and Babs did not WANT to be dressed up in outfits, cute or otherwise, and had no issue anvilling her to get the point across. This led to tears on Elmyra's part and frustration on Babs and Buster's.

This did eventually mellow out though, due to a couple of things, firstly - Bugs and Elmer's determination to teach Elmyra how to handle her new brother and sister properly [and vice versa for the bunny's]. Secondly - because Elmyra did have regular session with Doctor Scratchensniff every week during which they worked on 'how not to strangle animals when you hug them.' among other things and thirdly because Buster and Babs realised things where not all sunny for Elmyra.

That sounds really ominous, but what I may is that a few of you may have remembered that Elmyra actually had a family when she was on the show. A physical one, not just 'mentioned' parents like Buster. [Babs had a mother who was shown, but Babs's mother is a sufficiently flat characters, that if she doesn't have Babs in the house she assumes she's at school. It doesn't matter whether it's snowing, the middle of the school holidays or the middle of the night, as far as 'Mrs Bunny' is concerned, Babs is at school.]

It was decided after Tiny Toons ended that Elmyra should continue to see her 'designed' family [the family she was designed to have] at the weekends. Friday afternoon she walked home/would be dropped off by someone at her designed parents house and she would stay there until Sunday night until she was returned just after dinner. [So Elmyra would miss dinner with Bugs and co]

This worked for a little while until it got to when Elmyra was going into Grade 1 and Elmer realised she was always doing her homework when she got home. Her parents weren't helping her. In a rather tense conversation he asked Elmyra's designed parents if they would help her do her homework. They promptly replied that the homework was to difficult for 'there little baby' and she should be given something age-appropriate. It was during that discussion that Elmer discovered her 'parents' thought she was 4 years old.

Even by Toon standards, this was a warning flag and Elmer promptly excused himself and ran the conversation by Doctor Scratchensniff because the fact Elmyra's parents didn't seem to recognise the fact that A} her designed age was 12 and B} she was actually 6, not 4 - was concerning to say the least.

Now. Normally D.S. doesn't get involved with this kind of thing because otherwise he'd never do anything else, but as Elmyra was already a patient of his and he decided it wouldn't do Elmer/Bugs any good if they challenged Elmyra's parents themselves, he decided he better have a word with them herself.

He had his word. And they seemed to understand. Scratchy went back to Bugs and Elmer and told them they didn't have to worry, that Elmyra's parents understood her designed age was 12 and that she would get older and mature above that [hopefully]. Bugs and Elmer [particularly Elmer] were suspicious about this at first, but Elmyra came back from her parents having had her homework done and with tales of having done exciting things during the weekend. She was also - they noticed - being given age-appropriate things to play with and this lasted...until she moved up to middle school.

Elmyra moved up to middle school a year after Buster and Babs did, which meant they weren't in the same class. However they were in the same house and it became noticeable that Elmyra didn't seem very happy. Specifically she didn't seem very happy with the idea of going to her parents house at the weekend and was somehow even less happy when she came back.

Bugs and Elmer had noticed this and tried to ask her what was wrong, but she refused to tell them. Buster didn't really want to get involved - he felt it would open a long, emotional conversation he didn't really want to have - but when Elmyra came home one day in tears and he was the only one in the house it fell to him to deal with it.

Turns out Elmyra's parents did not like the fact she was in middle school. They thought the schoolwork she was doing was to advanced for her [it was perfectly acceptable work for her grade and she was doing well with it] and her mother in particular was concerned because Elmyra had started Noticing Boys. This did not fit with the notion they had that she was still a little girl who spoke in a babyish voice and called everything 'cuddly-wuddly' despite the fact that Elmyra herself was doing her best to drop the 'cuddly-wudddly's' [unfortunately she still had to keep the babyish voice] and asking that her parents maybe not buy her games and stuff that were clearly designed for a child under 10.

By this point all this had been going on for a few months. Buster - after calming Elmyra down and running the situation by Hampton - told there dads what was going on with Elmyra and they took matters out of his hands.

Doctor Scratchensniff paid another visit to Elmyra's parents with the intention of explaining to them, gently and tactfully, why they needed to change the way they were treating Elmyra because it was risking damaging her and no one has a clue what was actually said in that meeting, but the end shot was that Elmyra no longer saw her parents on the weekend. She could contact them again at 16 if she wanted to, but until then it was in her best interests to stay away from them.

You all may be wondering why I'm going into so much detail about Elmyra's circumstances, and that's because I feel it's necessary to understand the siblings dynamic. Buster, Babs and Elmyra - up until they were about 11 - only spent Mon-Thurs as a proper group. During that time they anvilled each other, teased each other and tried to actively avoid each other [or rather Buster and Babs tried to actively avoid Elmyra when she was at her most annoying] They also played games together, struggled through school-work together and dealt with there annoying parents together. They became a pretty effective sibling team.

Buster and Babs - despite being created to have a crush on each other - came to view each other as adopted siblings and remained close. They laughed together, joke together and messed with people together.

Babs and Elmyra go shopping together, they talk about stuff together - 'stuff' being the subjects of romances and Life in general that perhaps Buster wouldn't want to be a part off - they get on pretty well actually, mainly because they have a good few things in common and on Elmyra's sensible non-complete-moron days they can even have deep conversations about politics and the world in general as well as analysing TV shows and fangirling over there favourite characters.

Buster and Elmyra are a bit of an odd paring. On Elmyra's smart days the two of them can be quite devious and can throw adults for a loop easily. On her less smart days Buster just tries to stay out her way. The things with Buster and Elmyra is that he basically thought of her as an annoyance for the first 5 years off his life. When he was adopted by Bugs and Elmer and found himself now living with her he was essentially banned from insulting her to harshly. ["No anvilling at the dinner table, Buster!"] But part the issue was that Buster was jealous because Elmyra had another family she got too see and he didn't. He knew that Bugs and Elmer were his official family and it was great to be adopted by his mentor but he couldn't help a pang of envy every time Elmyra got in the car to go to her parents house.

And then the breakdown happened with Elmyra when she was 11 [Buster and Babs knew her parents had had a few problems with her before, but didn't know the exact details, To be fair not even Elmyra herself knew the exact details. Elmer had the conversation away from her and then the rest of it was kept away from her. The only thing she was told was that her parents would now be helping her with homework when she went to them at the weekend.] and Buster realised that Elmyra's home life was not a bed of roses and he made a conscious effort to not be so short with her and to be more patient in the way that Babs seems to be able to do effortlessly. [Babs's realised pretty quickly after they all started living together that Elmyra wasn't going to change and decided that rather than fight it she was just going to embrace it. She was hoping that Elmyra would go away after Babs played 'dress-up' with her, but it just made Elmyra like her more. After a couple of months - and a conversation with Bugs - Babs realised that Elmyra literally just wanted someone to spend time with and dress up. But it was more the spending time than the dressing up that Elmyra liked. They managed to work out a system where Babs would let Elmyra dress her up and do her ears, if Elmyra would give feedback on Babs's impressions and watch comedy tapes with her.]

Going back to Buster, it took a while and, while he and Elmyra are never going to be 'best friends', Buster eventually realised she wasn't that bad and started to enjoy spending time with her.

Elmyra, for her part, has made a conscious effort over the years to not hug her siblings [or any other cute, fluffy creatures for that matter] to tightly, dress them up against their will, or chase them round the earth till they just give up. She still hugs and does like going shopping [or 'grown-up dress up' as Babs calls it] and will chase them to give them a hug if she's having a particularly stupid day or thinks they look upset, but the main thing is that Elmyra is trying.

Very very trying.

#Looney Tunes Headcanons #Looney Tunes #Headcanons #Looney Tunes Ask #Tiny Toons #Elmyra Duff #buster bunny #babs bunny #Sibling relationships #Babs Buster and Elmyra #It was an interesting time for Elmyra really

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capybaraonabicycle · 4 years

Text

A Family Wedding-Part 1

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

I wrote a little story inspired by ‘The Wedding of River Song’ by @elsaistherelifeonmars about one of the guests at the Doctor’s and River’s wedding

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Some swearing, I think?

Summary: Since her resurrection, between all the running and adventuring and seeing new worlds, Jenny has been looking for her dad all over the universe. It is quite difficult to track down a time-traveller and until now she’s run from one dead-end to the other. Luckily, the Doctor has decided to get married during her timeline and she can’t miss that, can she?

Words: ~2000

AO3

She wasn’t strictly on the invite list. But she had been so sure, he’d be happy she showed up. Had put on her best dress and parked her space shuttle next to the restaurant on Darillium. Well, neither of the two items were actually hers, she was ‘borrowing’ them. But no one needed to know, and she didn’t think he would mind either.

So, here she was, trying to understand why she was fidgeting nervously. She had never fidgeted before, hell, she couldn’t remember ever being nervous. Even when that bullet had shot towards him and she had jumped in between, shielding him with her body, she hadn’t been nervous. And this should be so much less frightening. He would be happy to see her, of course, he would. And his spouse would like her as well and if they didn’t, what was it to her? She was here for her dad.

Maybe she was nervous because it had taken her so long to track him down. For a man this celebrated and feared across the universe, the Doctor was surprisingly hard to find. At least if you worked on your own and couldn’t ask UNIT for help because you had accidentally blown up one of their laboratories during your first visit of the headquarters. But his wedding had been the talk of the universe and even though the location was supposed to be secret, there was always someone you could get to spill. In her case it had been a handsome face in a red robot suit who apparently had worked at the restaurant before.

And now she was staring up the front of the building, her fingers playing with the satin bow on her dress. It was a beautiful gown, dark green, knee long with a cute petticoat, that she had found in a little shop in New New New York. None of the accountants had even noticed her being in the shop, let alone how she took the dress with her when she left. A smile played on her lips as she stroked down the skirt.

Would she recognise him? she wondered, when she finally could convince her legs to take her into the bustling interior of the restaurant, silently closing the door behind her. Of course, she had heard of the Doctor’s many faces, but she had only seen the one. Apparently at one point he had had an enormous chin, another time he had had eyebrows that would send armies fleeing. She still had to chuckle silently at that image. Her dad, the soldier who refused to be one with eyebrows that were their own army. Would it be one of the two she would see getting married today? Or would it be the face she knew?

In any case it wasn’t difficult finding the wedding, she just had to follow the clutter of excited voices. And only a few steps into the restaurant past the empty reception she saw the legendary blue box, parked between an abundance of wedding decorations. Someone had even fasted a little heart shape to one of the TARDIS windows. It read River & The Doctor and she had to smile at the cursive letters. She was actually here, she had found him.

Well, she hadn’t found him yet, she corrected herself, when she rounded the TARDIS, coming face to face with a huge crowd of wedding guests. None of them seemed familiar at first glance, which was not a surprise. A little unnerving maybe, but she wasn’t one to shy away. She’d just have to find someone to help her out. What was that woman’s name again? Right, Donna. Donna was bound to be here, she would be able to help her.

“Excuse me, Miss, but this wedding is invite-only” a voice startled her.

She looked to her left and saw a short, bald man, staring at her in a way that he probably considered intimidating.

“Do you have an invite?” he asked, taking a few steps towards her and effectively moving himself between her and the party.

“Yes, of course” she lied, flashing him the sweet smile that got her out of trouble half of the time.

“Well, let’s see, shall we?” he said, pulling out a very long list from his pocket, “What’s your name?”

“Donna” she said, automatically, hoping he wouldn’t know any better, and she could go on and look for her dad.

The little man shot her a mocking glance, and she cursed her luck.

“No, it’s not” he stated, “You’re not Donna.”

“No, I’m not” she admitted, “But I’m here with her. My name’s Jenny.”

Now he smiled a small, tight-lipped smile.

“I do have a Jenny on my list” he mused, “However, you’re not her either. And you’re not here with Donna.”

“Listen, I really am” she pleaded. Of course, she could just go past him, he wasn’t really a match for her. But causing a scene was the last thing she wanted to do right now. “And I promise you, the Doctor will want me to attend. Just please, get him or get Donna, they will understand.”

The man tilted his head curiously.

“You’re surprisingly misinformed” he said. He even sounded a little amused. “So, if you came here with malintent, I don’t think you’ll get very far.”

“I really just want to attend the wedding” she promised, “And I’m sure, the Doctor will want me to. Honestly, if you could just tell him…”

She trailed off because she finally had caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the crowd. A dark-haired woman who was seating guests a little to her right. It took her a while to remember her name, but then she couldn’t help giving a small, triumphant shout.

“Martha!” she called, loud enough that it carried over the chatter of the guests and made the woman turn her head. Jenny waved at her, a little too excited perhaps. “Martha Jones!”

“Well, at least that’s someone who’s actually here” the bald man mumbled, turning around to face the Doctor’s friend.

“Do you know this woman?” he asked Martha, who had left the crowd of guests to stroll over, “She said her name was ‘Jenny’ and that she came with Donna.”

Martha was halfway through a confused shake of her head, when she stopped, her eyes flying open.

“No!” she breathed, “You are kidding me!”

Jenny felt her smile spreading and gave a little wave. It was no surprise it had taken Martha a moment to recognise her, all dressed up for the wedding.

“I’m not kidding you” she grinned, very pleased with the stunned look on Martha’s face.

“You’re not actually here, are you?” Martha asked, coming closer and very carefully poking Jenny’s arm as if she couldn’t believe she was real.

“’Course I am” Jenny beamed, “I couldn’t miss my dad’s wedding after all.”

______

Nardole, as the bouncer was called, had let her leave with Martha after all, even though he seemed more than confused. Maybe it hadn’t helped that her and Martha had simultaneously tried to explain the situation to him, reconstructing a story that was well in the past for both of them and that involved things like progenation machines, fishlike aliens and a war of seven days that lasted for generations. Now Martha was pulling her along excitedly.

“We’ve got to get you to the Doctor” she said, “We thought you died!”

“Yeah, so did I” Jenny chuckled, following her through the rows of seated guests, “But then I woke up.”

“Curious, you don’t seem to have regenerated” Martha said, smiling quizzically at her, “Must be something else that has brought you back… The Doctor has regenerated though, you know, that’s why Nardole didn’t believe you.”

She seemed, like she wanted to explain more, but a hush had fallen over the crowd and she stopped herself. Jenny noticed that they were the last ones standing and some guests were shooting them annoyed glances, while an elderly man in the fourth row was waving at them to come to him.

“Oops” Martha said, quickly changing their course and steering Jenny towards the man.

“You’ll meet the Doctor later” she promised in a low voice, while they sat down next to a young man who immediately took Martha’s hand, offering his other to Jenny.

“Hi” he whispered, “I’m Mickey.”

“Jenny” she introduced herself, taking his hand.

“My husband” Martha explained.

“And I’m Wilf” the elderly man added. He was sat on Mickey’s other side and clutching a veil.

“It’s my granddaughter Donna’s” he explained with a sad smile, when he caught her staring, “From her wedding. Now it’s a bit like she’s here, too.”

Jenny felt her heart break at his sad demeanour and the memory of Donna Noble. What had happened to her?

“Donna’s safe, she just can’t be here today” was the last thing Martha managed to whisper in a too tense voice, only slightly reassuring her.

Then the ceremony began. The giant crowd fell silent, staring expectantly at the TARDIS. Only the beautiful melody of the singing towers was filling the air now, a melancholic but festive tune. According to everything Jenny knew about her dad, it fitted him perfectly. Where was he, by the way? She wanted to turn towards the front where he surely had to be waiting. After all, that was where Martha had been leading her.

But then the door of the TARDIS opened, and she couldn’t avert her gaze anymore. A woman stepped out of the box who was nothing short of stunning. Her curls were wild even though a flowery hairdo tried to keep them in line and her smile was youthful and ancient at the same time. On her arm was a man, apparently younger than her, so normally Jenny would have considered him to be her son. But she had been born and raised in mere seconds herself, so he could very well be her dad.

“That is my dad’s fiancée?” she breathed, and she heard Martha chuckling.

“That is River Song” she agreed.

“Wouldn’t think the Doctor of all people would make such a catch, right?” Mickey snickered, but Wilf shushed him.

Like all the other guests Jenny trailed River with her eyes down the whole length of the aisle.

‘That’s my dad’s spouse’ she thought. She tried to figure out how that made her feel and was surprised when the only emotion she found was pride. Pride and delight, that her dad was marrying a woman who seemed so happy to be here, so sure in herself and the fact that she was marrying him.

River and her companion passed them and finally Jenny could avert her eyes and look for her dad. There were three people at the front: the officiant, then a woman in a long dress who was holding a little box, so she had to be the ring-bearer or the best person or something similar, and…a petite blonde in a tux. Who was looking at River the exact same way River had been looking at the front before.

Jenny’s jaw dropped.

“That’s my…” she started, stopping herself shortly to get the words right, “...mum?”

That explained at least why Nardole hadn’t believed she was close to the Doctor. When she had been misgendering her until now.

“The one and only” Martha said as River reached the front, taking the woman’s hands in hers. In both their eyes tears were glimmering and Jenny felt herself getting emotional as well.

“I have a mum” she repeated, stunned, a slow smile spreading across her face when the officiant commenced the ceremony.

Martha took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t know River that well” she murmured, “But if I’m not terrible mistaken, you’ll have two mums now.”

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it :) This will probably get 3 more parts soon, we’ll see. I at least want Jenny to meet her mums and possibly a couple other people...

#doctor who #dw #fanfiction #Jenny #the doctor's daughter #thirteenth doctor #Martha Jones #the doctor/river #oh yeah: this is exclusively based on the doctor's daughter #I have not listened to any of Jenny's audios or read any comics unfortunately #a family wedding

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