#things are getting real heavy between Ian and mick | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

unbridgeabledistances · 4 years

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hi so @self-absorbed-pretty-boy (💖💖) sent me an AMAZING list of prompts a week ago and while i had truly no time this week to do as much writing as i wanted, here is a 4+1 thing i whipped up between classes that is pure husband fluff— i hope u all enjoy<3

prompt: the first time mickey calls ian his husband in front of a stranger (could be a cashier, a pharmacist, a cop, some weed buying college kids, you decide)

The first time that Mickey did it, he didn’t even really realize it— it was a slow Tuesday morning, just after their “honeymoon,” when he woke to the abrasive, slanted sunlight streaming in through the blinds. He immediately noticed that the house was silent, surprisingly quiet from any of the classic Gallagher clamor that usually bounced through the thin walls in the mornings, especially these days with Franny and Liam in their final weeks of the school year—and the absence of noise made Mickey curious enough to rub his eyes and open them, finally pulling himself out from the last warm dregs of sleep.

Ian’s arms were wrapped around him, a comforting spoon bear-hugging him in close, and Mickey took a moment just to take in the sensation of the solid, sleeping weight of him— he could feel the rise and fall of Ian’s ribcage pressed against his back and the soft fabric of the t-shirt that clung to Ian’s chest, the only barrier between him and Ian’s pink, sleep-warmed skin. Mickey rustled in Ian’s arms, reaching for his phone on the bedside table; and no wonder there were no cabinets slamming or lunches being packed or Debbie screaming that they had to get out the door— it was nearly noon for some fucking reason, and he and Ian were still sleeping like babies.

Which, okay, maybe that had to do with the fact that last night involved lots of tugs of hair and searing kisses and bodies pressed together until late into the night— Mickey felt his lips tick upward at the memory of it. But still— ever since returning a few days ago from their honeymoon in the dingy motel with the musty satin sheets, they had both been tired; the last few months had been compounded by a release from prison, a murdered P.O., the engagement shitshow, and a wedding to top it all off, and each incident had pushed a sense of normalcy more and more off-kilter, until finally they both just had to crash.

There was no mistaking that this was harder, more draining, for Ian; he was trying to sink back into a routine existence in the Gallagher house after all of the events of the past few months, and it was clear that he was still reeling from the shift— Mickey could see it now, in the way that Ian was so deeply sleeping well past noon, a dead weight pressed close against him.

Mickey scooted himself up to a seated position on the bed, letting Ian’s arm limply fall off of him and cascade onto the bedsheets with a muted thud—and again, he let himself take a moment to just look at Ian, his mouth parted and breathing steadily, the light coming in through the blinds illuminating the constellations of freckles smattered across his face and cheekbones, threads of sunlight weaving between the strands of bright, rusty hair on the top of his head that were partly splayed onto the pillow. Since getting home Ian had been slicking his hair back less now, and letting it grow wiry and wild and curled—Mickey fucking loved it, and he couldn’t resist reaching a gentle hand out to brush Ian’s hair back from his forehead, feeling its mossy give. He took it all in; the tides of Ian’s even breathing, his fully relaxed face, and the blossoming blue rings of exhaustion that were still there under his eyes, even in his sleep; and Mickey felt a swell of gratefulness that Ian was still sleeping soundly, that he could sleep all fucking day if he needed to, at least for now while they were just getting back and settling into a rhythm—if Ian deserved anything, he deserved to recharge.

Mickey silently sat beside him, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone and every so often running a hand through Ian’s hair—because, fuck it, his husband was sleeping next to him, soft and warm, and something about touching Ian always grounded him. He was leaning propped on a pillow he’d shoved between his back and the wall, and was just beginning to contemplate putting on the tattered robe he’d found in one of the stray bedroom drawers and dragging himself downstairs to make some coffee when he heard a buzz from Ian’s phone on the nightstand, and saw the screen flash with a silent alarm:

“PICK UP MEDS”

So ultimately that was the reason why Mickey forced himself to crawl out of bed that morning— or afternoon was more accurate— and detached himself from the cocoon of his husband’s warmth to go for what was usually Ian’s own Tuesday morning walk every month before his shitty shifts with Paula to go over to the pharmacy and get his meds. He bounded down the front steps of the Gallagher house, turning the corner to walk down a few blocks to where the sagging houses turned to the brick storefronts and neon signs of the few ramshackle businesses that were left on the Southside. Since getting back a few days ago, he and Ian had barely done anything except lounge around the house with everyone, settling in— and now Mickey realized how long it had been since he’d gone for a walk outside, breathing in the not-so-fresh Chicago air that smelled of gas exhaust and cigarette smoke, but also of something earthen and familiar. Sunbeams were radiating off of the sidewalk, and the air was cool, like the late spring weather had finally just broken into something crisp and clear— Mickey let his feet carry him over the pavement past the dingy corner store with the faded sign hanging crooked above the awning, and then two more doors down to the business with the glowing red and white sign that read “SAVE RITE PHARMACY.”

Mickey entered the pharmacy, hearing the tinkle of a bell as he pushed through the glass door.

There was no one really in the store on a Tuesday afternoon— his eyes adjusted to the waves of artificial light bouncing off the white shelves that contrasted with the soft glow outside. Mickey made his way through the aisles to the pharmacy counter at the back of the store, and was met with a middle aged woman in a lab coat typing on a computer.

“Hey. I’m, uh, pickin’ up for Gallagher.” Mickey slid his ID over the linoleum counter, quickly doing a double-take to make sure that this was a real ID and not one of his fake ones; not that it would really matter anyways, no one was getting high off of whatever shit Ian was taking on the daily.

The woman glanced at Mickey’s ID over the rim of her classes, then clicked the mouse a couple of times.

“Gallagher. Just one moment.”

She turned and filed through a few organized-looking bins, and retrieved a crinkly white paper bag and placed it on the countertop. Mickey stood there in silence, listening to the heavy thud of keys typing on the desktop computer.

“And who are you in relation to Mr. Gallagher?”

Mickey opened his mouth—and for just a millisecond, he let himself pause. Usually he just said “partner,” or sometimes “family” when the situation required him to be vague—but in this moment, he had a flashing realization. They were married—and today he got to drop that word, and all the weight of it, into the empty aisles of the drugstore on a Tuesday afternoon. Mickey cleared his throat.

“S’my husband.”

Mickey couldn’t help it—there was some weird, warm, giddy rush in his chest as he said it. It wasn’t natural yet, and he almost fumbled over the word as it fell out of his mouth, like a kid trying to swear for the first time— but he said it. And the pharmacist barely flinched—which, thank fuck for that, after the whole geriatric florist incident a few months ago. She just gave him a curt nod, a half-smile, and she handed Mickey the paper bag and a printed receipt and sent him on his way.

And so what if Mickey stopped at the grimy corner store on the way home and bought a pack of cigarettes for himself and a fucking Kind bar for Ian, because he knew he liked that shit— and so what if there was a little extra bounce in his step as he walked back from the store, his arms swinging by his sides in the cool, early summer breeze as his feet hit the sunwarmed pavement and he headed home to his husband who was curled up in the warm safety of their bed, sound asleep.

His husband.

The second time it also just sort of… tumbled out of Mickey’s mouth, a little more naturally this time. It was a day or two later, and he and Ian had finally rejoined the land of the living— and to Debbie, that meant that the two of them were now available to be drafted into a circuit of random chores and errands with lists of shit to pick up, tasks that Ian tried to squeeze in between shifts at his new warehouse job and that Mickey mostly just ignored. But much to Mickey’s dismay, there was no getting out of their assignment this afternoon; Debbie had some hotshot welding gig on the Northside and Frank was nowhere to be fucking found, and Liam needed a parent or guardian to come to his parent-teacher conference at the end of the school year. Liam had softly voiced this information in the swirling hurricane of conversation at dinner the evening before, and Ian couldn’t resist saying that he and Mickey would go, even though Mickey had repeatedly kicked his shins hard under the kitchen table and passed him a series of dagger-like glares. Mickey didn’t realize why Ian had volunteered the both of them to go to this shit— it was Ian’s brother, not his— but after lots of long glances and fucking puppy-dog eyes and some very intense manipulation the night before, when Ian whispered into the crook of Mickey’s neck at a very inconvenient time and said with a mischievous smile “C’mon Mick, I don’t want to go alone”—well, let’s just say that was how Mickey ended up weaving through the sweltering, barren hallways of Liam’s public school on some random muggy summer afternoon with Ian, trying to find Liam’s teacher’s classroom.

As much as Mickey did not want to be here right now, in the paint-chipped locker-lined halls of the public school that mostly just brought up a lot of angsty memories of dirt under his fingernails and cardboard signs written with sharpies and pasted up with duct tape, the whole thing also felt vaguely nostalgic— like those days before everything went to shit and he’d gotten married to Svet, just after he’d busted the fuck out of juvie and was trying with all of his might to force down all the tidal waves of feelings he had about gangly fucking teenage Gallagher with his crew cut and his camo pants—and walking through the halls next to Ian, feeling his tangible presence beside him, was enough to keep Mickey’s mind from veering into other darker places about his own wasted potential.

“Where the fuck is this room, anyways?” Mickey huffed out. All the rows of lockers looked the fucking same, and all Mickey wanted to do right now was go home and lay back on the couch and sip a cold beer, instead of standing in this stuffy hallway with sweat dripping down his neck.

Ian playfully elbowed Mickey between his ribs. “We’re in Liam’s school, Mick. You’re not supposed to say ‘fuck.’”

“Fuck you.” He flipped Ian off for good measure.

Ian halted in front of a closed classroom door, glancing down at the slightly crumpled piece of paper that Liam had written his class number on.

“I think this is it.” Ian softly rapped his knuckles on the classroom door, and a young woman in a pencil skirt appeared to open it.

“Hi, lovely to meet you both. You must be Liam’s dads?”

Mickey spluttered out a laugh, a surprised noise catching in his throat. His first feeling was a flicker of annoyance at this random lady, that always popped up anytime someone so immediately knew he was gay, which probably had to do with some deeply internalized shit— but his second feeling was a warm sort of astonishment. Liam’s dads?

He and Ian could be someone’s fucking parents someday. Fuck.

Ian’s cheeks had turned slightly pink, like he was equally as affected by the assumption— so Mickey spoke up, trying not to sound like his insides were squirming as much as they were.

“Nah, man, you got it all wrong. I mean— not totally wrong, he is my husband. But we’re not his dads.”

Ian’s ears nearly perked up when he heard the word— this was the first time they’d called each other husbands so casually out in the world, while they were both in each other’s presence. A crooked smile crept onto Ian’s face, and he tentatively reached out to ensnare Mickey’s fingers in his.

“Yup. Husbands.”

Liam’s teacher just looked at them, raising her eyebrows expectantly, like she was slightly confused.

“Alright. So, who are you to Liam, then?”

Ian let out a quick breath of a laugh. “Oh, right. I’m Liam’s brother.”

And as Ian led him by the wrist to sit beside him in a fucking uncomfortable plastic chair meant for ten-year-olds, chattering away with Liam’s teacher, all Mickey could think about was the blood rushing hot, hotter than usual between his ears.

He didn’t know if he’d ever get tired of calling Ian his husband.

Mickey had never given much thought to pet names, or any sort of frilly bullshit like that, with Ian—every time that he called Ian something that wasn’t just “Ian” or “Gallagher,” it was some punchy and witty nickname that he’d concocted in the moment in an attempt to make a smile burst onto Ian’s face, with “sugar-tits” and “babyface” being his personal all-time favorites; but never any of that sappy bullshit that other couples called each other, like “babe” or “honey” or other garbage.

But, fuck. Fuck if Mickey didn’t love the fact that he could call Ian his “husband” now, that he was allowed to just do that, whenever anyone was in earshot.

It was a late night at the Alibi, the first time that most of the Gallaghers had been out of the house since the pandemic started; the mayor had finally loosened some restrictions, and Kev had sent a text to the Gallagher family group chat with way too many cork-popping emojis telling everyone to come by the Alibi after their respective evening shifts—and when he and Ian had walked through the door nearly half of the neighborhood was there, including Sandy and Debbie, and a bunch of random Southsiders that most of them hadn’t seen for weeks or months.

Kev had immediately handed Mickey a foamy beer as he walked through the door, and readily poured Ian a shot of Jameson—and now the room was pressed tight with bodies, full of random-ass neighbors puffing on cigarettes and some music playing low, the air hanging heavy with the fog of secondhand smoke and boisterous conversation. At one point, after taking one too many sips of something, Sandy had convinced Kev to give her control of the aux cord—and now the music turned more upbeat, and some of the younger people in the room had started dancing, which obviously caused his over-enthusiastic husband to grab Mickey’s wrist from where he was seated at the bar and pull him into the crowd. And maybe it was just the fact that Mickey hadn’t been around so many people for so long, or maybe it was the fact that he could see that Ian was having a good time, his cheeks flushed and glowing in the dim lights— or maybe it was just that he’d had one or two more beers than usual, if he was being totally honest, but Mickey was feeling happy and light, feeling a buzzing in his veins.

And now they were dancing, and Mickey was just kind of shuffling side-to-side and probably looked ridiculous but he didn’t really care, and the room was getting hazier with smoke, and he could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks and the bass of the speakers thrumming in his chest and the rising tide of his pulse and he felt alive, alive—

And Ian’s body was pressed next to his, doing that stupid fucking dance move he always did where he just kind of bopped up and down with his hands raised above his head with the energy of a golden retriever— and Mickey couldn’t fucking help but lean in, pressing his lips close to meet the shell of Ian’s ear; and yes, they’d been married for a couple of months now, but he couldn’t help the airy feeling rising up, bubbling up in his stomach from the heat of the flames licking at his insides that made him whisper:

“We’re fucking husbands.”

Mickey knew Ian could feel his hot breath in his ear, could smell the whiskey on his lips—and Ian’s eyes lit up, his mouth splitting open in a tipsy grin.

Ian hummed and tilted Mickey’s chin up and pressed their lips together— there was light dancing in his eyes, and Mickey loved him, and he was his husband.

“Yeah. Husbands.” Ian murmured the words against Mickey’s mouth under the music, into the air between their lips.

“Fuck.”

And in that moment, Mickey realized that he’d never really known happiness before, not really— because nothing could fucking compare to the feeling of having his hands wrapped tight around his husband’s warm hips, while Ian’s arms were slung over his shoulders and Mickey could burrow his face into the sweet skin at the crook of Ian’s neck…

And yeah, maybe Mickey could get into the idea of calling Ian his husband a lot more often.

It was the evening on some run-of-the-mill weeknight after their security runs, and they were at that fancy hotel gym they’d gotten a trial membership of weeks before— Ian had loved the fancy weight machines and the steamed towels so much (and let’s face it, Mickey had also definitely enjoyed the fact that he could check guys out in the steam room) that Mickey had used some cash he had on hand (of questionable origin, which just made Ian frustratedly roll his eyes) to get them both a membership at the place for a month— and Mickey had to be honest, working out under mood lighting and mirrored walls with a bunch of chiseled gay dudes beat hauling kegs around the musty back room of the Alibi any day.

So now, they made a habit of stopping by the gym after work, typically parting ways after stripping off their camo by the lockers to go do their own thing in the weight room. At the current moment, Mickey was standing off to the side of the open floor plan, leaning against a weight rack and curling a 40 pound dumbbell into his bicep— but more accurately what he was doing was drooling over his husband, who was across the room with his tank top sticking to his skin, energetically hitting a static punching bag hanging from the ceiling. Mickey let his eyes bore holes into Ian from across the room, watching the sweat gleam on Ian’s body, watching his muscles ripple—and fuck, he was married to a fucking Greek god, like those fucking sculptures he saw in textbooks at school that made his blood run hot when he stared too hard, wasn’t he?

Mickey was so fixated on watching Ian that he barely noticed when his upper arm started to burn, and he realized that he’d forgotten to keep track of how many times he’d curled upward. Fuck it. Mickey bent down to place the weight back on the rack—and that was when he noticed another guy, some scrawny, slender dude wearing a neon-green tank top and with fucking hot pink sweatbands on his wrists, who had his eyes locked in on Ian from across the room almost intently as Mickey did.

Tank Top noticed Mickey staring at him and sheepishly smiled, putting a hand on his hip—and then in the spirit of light gym-time chatter, something Mickey was definitely not interested in entertaining, the dude opened his mouth.

“You think he’s gay?”

The old Mickey, Mickey from a few years ago, would’ve pummeled this guy’s sorry ass for even looking at Ian the wrong way, and even Mickey from a few months ago would’ve felt some sort of anxious panic or jealous fear that someone other than him desired Ian— but today there was a heavy band of silver pressing into Mickey’s finger, and he could feel the solid weight of it. So Mickey just raised his eyebrows, and gave a passive reply as he placed his dumbbell down and strolled past Tank Top Dude to walk across the room towards Ian:

“He’s my husband, asswipe.”

It was late— all there was in the empty room was a half-deflated air mattress, sinking under their weight. The streetlight beamed in through the paper-thin curtains— they would definitely have to invest in a better pair to block out the light, but that was an issue for tomorrow.

Right now Mickey and Ian were just sprawling out on the mattress, letting themselves sink into it—their few boxes of belongings were stacked along the wall, the papers had been signed, and now they could let themselves breathe.

Ian cradled the back of Mickey’s head in his hands, giving him a quick peck just above his eyebrow. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Mickey breathed out a low chuckle. “Yeah, man, me too.”

Ian rustled, turning onto his side on the wobbly mattress to face Mickey fully. “‘Man?’ You’re my fucking husband. I think we can do better than that.”

Mickey smirked, leaning in close to hover over him. “Whatever you say, husband.”

#ty for the prompt bb i am so grateful for u!!!#woke up very early before a busy day & felt compelled to post this Right Now lol #<3 #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #ian and mickey #ixm

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callivich · 3 years

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I love the idea of time travel and I just couldn’t get this idea out of my head, so here’s a little time travel story! Reworked this so it’s slightly different and longer! Planning on a part two soon.....

———

Ian had been standing in the kitchen of his and Mickey’s new apartment. He had been about to make some coffee and take it to his husband who was still sleeping. Everything had been normal and fine - he’d been idly thinking about what they were going to do that day. It was Saturday and Mickey had, the night before, demanded not to be woken early, but other than that, they had no plans. Maybe a dip in the pool? It was sunny, but not too warm, which was good because the slightly cool weather meant less people in the pool.

And, just as he was imagining swimming lazily in an empty pool with his husband, it seemed like he blinked and the whole world had shifted sharply. He felt dizzy and his vision swam, his body felt weak and he collapsed against a nearby wall, trying to catch his breath. It was like no feeling he’d ever experienced.

Blinking furiously, he noticed something alarming - he was not leaning against his kitchen wall, he was somewhere else. Somewhere he never thought he’d ever go again. Somewhere it was impossible to go again, but he recognised it immediately. The Milkovich house. He glanced around at his surroundings, struggling to understand how he could be standing outside Mickey’s old bedroom. What the fuck?? Was he dreaming? Or, worse, hallucinating? If he was dreaming or hallucinating, it was the most realistic thing he had ever experienced, there was nothing dreamlike about it. Everything looked exactly the same as he remembered - the signs on Mickey’s door, the dirt covered carpet, the dimly lit hallway - it even smelled the same - that stale mixture of smoke, beer and sweat.

It was too much - this situation he found himself in, it couldn’t be real, and yet, apparently it was. He felt a sharp burst of panic, his chest felt tight, and he reflexively clenched his hands, trying to calm himself. It was then he realised he was holding something. It was heavy and solid in his hand, and as he stared at it, it took him a few seconds to understand what he was seeing - it was a tire iron. And then everything began to click into place - he noted his worn, hand-me-down clothes and when he reached up to feel his hair with his free hand, his fingers found bangs. An overwhelming feeling of familiarity washed over him, he remembered these clothes, he remembered holding the tire iron and he remembered why he was holding the tire iron. Most importantly, he remembered this day. It was the day that everything changed between him and Mickey - the stolen gun, the fight, the sex - and he was in his teenage body. Shit.

Ian didn’t know what to do. This was impossible. There was simply no way it was possible. And yet, here he stood, years in the past. His mind began to race with possibilities - should he leave? and go where? back to the Gallagher house? or should he stay here and wait to see what happens? would anything happen? would he blink and be back in his kitchen? or was he stuck here in the past forever? He wanted to go home, to his apartment with Mickey, he wanted his husband. Mickey. A thought occurred to him - maybe Mickey, his Mickey, was here too? Not that would automatically fix everything, but at least Ian wouldn’t be alone. He stared at the door, he needed to know either way - either Mickey was also, somehow, here in the past, and they could figure this out together, or he was about to run into angry, teenage Mickey, who perhaps didn’t hate Ian as much as Ian had assumed at the time, but was definitely not his friend.

He paused outside the door, and as he took a deep breath, his hand tightened on the tire iron - unsure if he should just leave it on the floor. He definitely wasn’t going to hit Mickey with it, but if it was teenage Mickey in there, then Ian hoped the sight of the tire iron would stop Mickey from hitting him. Ian pushed open the door, and softly shut it behind him with a click. There was Mickey, laid out on the bed, face down, asleep, just as Ian remembered. It was bizarre seeing this again, at the time he had no idea how this day would change his life, but here it was - the moment that their lives began to become entwined.

This wasn’t the time to reminisce though. Ian gently, much more gently than he had done so originally, poked Mickey in the back with the end of the tire iron. Perhaps too gently, because Mickey didn’t move. This was promising - teenage Mickey was a light sleeper, but in the safety of their apartment, adult Mickey had began to sleep heavily, and Ian hoped that the fact Mickey didn’t move immediately meant that this was his husband.

“Mickey. Wake up.” Ian moved closer to the bed, and tapped him on the back with his free hand.

That did it, there was an annoyed groan, and Mickey turned his head, so Ian could now see his dirt-smudged face, but didn’t open his eyes, only muttering a tired, “No.” This was different to what had happened before, but Ian still wasn’t sure if this was his Mickey or teenage Mickey.

“Wake up.” Ian tried again, this time giving his shoulder a shake.

“Fucks sake, Ian, it’s the weekend....I wanna sleep in.” Mickey mumbled, sleepily. Still, he didn’t open his eyes, just reached out a hand, and when he didn’t feel anything but an empty space, he continued, “Come back to bed.”

It seemed like Mickey thought Ian should be in bed with him, and relief flooded through Ian. This was his Mickey! Now he just needed to actually wake the fuck up.

Feeling more confident, he sat down on the bed next to Mickey, dropped the tire iron on the floor, and ran a hand down his back. “Mick. Open your eyes. But don’t freak out.”

“What am I gonna freak -” And then he was speechless. His eyes were finally open and he looked at Ian in shock. “What the fuck?”

“I know.”

Mickey’s eyes darted around the room, back to Ian, down at himself, and then settled on Ian. He reached a hand out to touch Ian’s face softly, running his fingers over the freckles. “Fuck. What’s going on? How...”

“I don’t know?! I was in the kitchen, I was going to make coffee, and then suddenly I was here and shit, I thought I was dreaming, or hallucinating, but this is all so real. So it must be real?” The words tumbled out and Ian was so glad that he wasn’t going to have to deal with this alone.

“I don’t....the last thing I remember was going to bed with you.” Mickey sat up, and swung his legs around to sit close to Ian. “This is fucked up. It’s fucking impossible.” He ran a hand down his face, before turning to stare at Ian again in disbelief. And Ian couldn’t help but do the same back - he still couldn’t believe his eyes.

“What are we going to do?” Ian broke the silence, they couldn’t sit here staring at each other all day.

“Shit. I don’t fucking know.” Mickey frowned for a moment, as if considering something and then pinched Ian on the arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“In case it’s a dream.”

“You’re supposed to pinch yourself.” Ian grumbled, as he pinched Mickey on the arm. “There. Feel real?”

“Hardly felt that, but yeah.” He looked around his room. “So, I guess we’re in the past. That means -”

Mickey didn’t have time to finish his sentence because the door opened and a ghost entered. Or rather, not a ghost, someone who was very much alive. Terry. Mickey instantly tensed up, his hands balling into fists. Terry made his way into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Ian didn’t think, he just pulled Mickey close, hugging him tight.

“Fuck. Shit.” Mickey let out a shuddering breath. “Ian, we can’t.” He moved away reluctantly. Ian felt his heart clench but nodded, shifting away to the end of the bed. Of course they couldn’t hug, not here, not now. Fuck. Ian wanted to punch the wall. Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, “I can’t fucking be here, man.” He jumped up and threw on some more clothes and some shoes.

Terry stumbled back out of the bathroom, and Mickey froze, his eyes wide, still unbelieving of what he was seeing. He kept staring at the door after Terry left. It was surreal seeing Terry alive, walking around like normal. And if Ian thought it was surreal, he couldn’t imagine what Mickey was thinking. Or rather, he probably could guess. His mind drifted to thoughts of Monica - she was alive here, what would it be like to see her again? Would he felt strange? Horrified? Upset? And Frank....shit, Frank had only just died, but right now, he was alive.

He pushed the thoughts away, they needed to leave. This was all too confusing. Mickey had only just finally come to terms with Terry’s death and this....this fucked up situation was only going to cause him pain. And Ian was still going through some pretty strange and surprisingly upsetting emotions about Frank’s death, it was all still so raw. Neither of them needed to be confronted by their dead fathers (did anyone ever?), especially not so close to said fathers deaths. The room felt too small, too hot, Ian knew they needed to leave. It was impossible to think here.

“Let’s get out of here.” Ian tugged on Mickey’s hand, squeezing it gently, before dropping it.

“Where?” Mickey questioned, shrugging on a coat.

“One of the abandoned buildings? At least then we know we’ll be alone. And we can try and figure out what we’re going to do.”

Mickey gave a whispered “yeah” and flung open his bedroom door, hurrying towards the front of the house, causing Ian to jog behind him to catch up. He was about to reach him when Mandy appeared. Ian’s stomach did a pleasant flip when he saw her - he’d missed her so much and here she was, looking exactly the same as he remembered. He fought the urge to hug her tightly.

“Ian? Are you ok?” Her eyes searched his face curiously, like she could tell something was wrong. But that was stupid, Ian thought, even if she could, she would never guess it was that Ian and Mickey had somehow time travelled from the present back to the future.

“Uh...yeah. I just...” He couldn’t help it - he glanced at Mickey who had paused by the front door, looking over his shoulder at Ian. “I gotta go home.”

“Ok. But-”

“Everything’s fine, Mandy. I’ll see ya.” He could hear the tremble in his voice and he could tell from the slight frown on her face that she was concerned. She looked back and forth between Ian and Mickey, her eyes narrowing and noticing Mickey’s hand on the door. “Where are you going, shithead?”

“Out.” And with that, Mickey practically flung himself through the doorway and made his way onto the sidewalk. Ian waved a hand in Mandy’s direction, wishing he could explain to her but knowing he couldn’t, and headed out, shutting the door behind him. He felt guilty brushing her off, but Mickey was his priority.

“Mick.” He called out as he caught up. He bumped his shoulder against Mickey’s and they began to make their way to one of the more isolated abandoned buildings, both knowing which one they should go to. They walked in silence, both of them struggling to make sense of where, and when, they found themselves. So, it was no surprise that neither of them noticed the figure that followed them.

——

Ian watched Mickey as he climbed the old, battered stairs in front of him, he could see the heavy tension in his shoulders. It was familiar but not something he had seen in awhile. Mickey was relaxed and happy, most of the time, they were finally settling into the West Side and things were good - safe and stable - and their days were filled with kisses and laughter, they just were enjoying being together. But, now, they had been thrown backwards to a time when things were dangerous and unstable and complicated.

There was a splintered door, which Mickey kicked open with his foot. He sighed heavily and Ian grasped his hand, leading him towards one of the walls. They sunk down onto the floor, backs against the cold brick. Ian moved to cuddle Mickey close, but it was awkward. He was used to being able to hold Mickey easily, but here, now, as they were a similar height, it was different. He had never had the luxury of being able to hug or be close to Mickey like this back then, so he wasn’t used to trying to hold him like this. Eventually, with some fumbling, they managed to find a good angle. Mickey slumped down a bit, and Ian put his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, they were pressed close, and Mickey threw one leg over Ian’s, and rested his head close to Ian’s neck.

“This isn’t fucking fair.” Mickey whispered. “What the fuck is this shit and why is it happening to us?”

“I’m scared.” Ian replied, using his free hand to grab one of Mickey’s. “What if we’re stuck here?”

“Your meds.” Mickey squeezed Ian’s hand. “What are we going to do about your meds?”

“I don’t....” Ian faltered. He hadn’t even considered that. What was he going to do? He hadn’t been diagnosed back then, now, so what did that mean in terms of his illness? The fear that had been bubbling under the surface suddenly began to overflow. What the fuck was he going to do? “I don’t know. Shit. Mick. I don’t-”

“We’ll figure it out.” Mickey put his free hand on top of his and Ian’s clasped ones. Ian wanted to believe Mickey but he didn’t feel convinced, and as confident as Mickey sounded, Ian could hear the worry.

“Ok. Yeah. We’ll figure it out. But, what are we going to do, like right now? We can’t stay here tonight.”

“I can’t go back there. I can’t see-”

“I know. I know. We’ll stay at my house.” Ian cut him off before he could say his father’s name. It felt strange saying that - my house - because it wasn’t, not anymore. His house, his home, was the apartment he shared with Mickey.

“And how the fuck do we explain that? And what about Frank? You gonna be able to deal with seeing him again?”

“Don’t care.” He heard Mickey snort. “I don’t care Mick, you’re my fucking husband, and I love you and we need to-”

“Holy fucking shit! What the hell is this?” A shocked voice cut through the air, startling both of them.

Ian and Mickey jerked their heads up at the same time to see Mandy standing in the doorway, a look of complete and utter disbelief on her face. They had been so wrapped up in their problem, that they hadn’t noticed her following them or heard her making her way up the steps of the building. They slowly disentangled from each other in a way that Ian noted would not have happened in their teenage years. Mickey would have shoved Ian off back then, but now, he was so used to not hiding or feeling afraid that he didn’t. As much as Ian would like to focus on the growth Mickey was showing, he knew he couldn’t. Because right now, the stakes were too high.

Ian’s heart pounded, he knew they needed to say something. He could trust Mandy. He had done so before. But fuck, there was so much more he knew in hindsight. So many more terrible, violent things that he knew he could not let any of them go through again.

Which is why he blurted out the first thing he thought of, “It’s cold. We were cold, so we were just warming up.”

Ian didn’t need to look at Mickey to know he was probably rolling his eyes.

“Cold?” Mandy folded her arms and leaned against the wall. “Thank fuck I’m not a cop Ian because you would not last-”

“What the fuck are you doing here? You follow us?” Mickey interrupted. “Go away.”

“No. Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Mandy pushed off the wall and walked to towards them. “Ian, what’s going on? I thought you and Kash-”

“Fuck him.”

“Shut up, Mickey. I’m talking to Ian.”

“Mandy, please. This isn’t what it.....can you just forget you came here? Please? And please don’t say anything. To anyone.” Ian pleaded. He needed her to go. He loved her, and he loved seeing her again, but fuck, this was not the time. He couldn’t think with her here. All he kept thinking of was when Terry found him and Mickey - that horrible morning that always made his stomach churn when he thought about it. He didn’t think Mandy would tell. But in that moment it felt like it was too much - someone else knowing - he just couldn’t handle it right now. He just wanted to be with Mickey. “I’m begging you, Mandy. Please.”

Mandy bit her lip, in the same way Ian had seen Mickey do a thousand times. She looked back and forth between them, uneasy and suspicious, Ian realised he had tears in his eyes and he could see the exact moment Mandy noticed. “Fine. But you owe me an explanation Ian. And so do you Mickey.”

“Yes.” Ian breathed in relief. And he watched her turn on her heel and leave. They stood in silence until they were sure she was gone.

“So, what now?” Mickey pulled Ian close, his arms winding around his waist.

“Maybe if we fall asleep, we’ll wake up back home?” Ian hoped more than anything that would be true.

“Thought you were awake when you came here. Back? Now? Whatever.”

“I was but....who the fuck knows right? It’s worth a try.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But we can’t sleep here.”

#gallavich #gallavich fic #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #shameless #headcanon #as always feel free to continue this or add to it!!#I think this idea would be great written by someone who is good at multi-chapter fics #I’m not great at that #so very happy if anyone wants to take this idea and do their own thing with it #or remix it or use parts of it #btw sorry but I’m probably not going to continue this #but they definitely get home safely

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littlespoonevan · 4 years

Note

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

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

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

I hope you like it <3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s- what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s his turn now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re gonna be alright.

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

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oforamuse · 4 years

Text

won’t you rain on me

ian gets his emt job back and the boys kiss in the rain.

for jordan ♥ / 929 words / ao3

It’s late by the time they finally drag themselves out of the Alibi.

Mickey’s bones are loose with booze and he hangs off Ian’s shoulder with an arm wrapped around his neck. He presses his head into the curve of Ian’s neck as they walk and Ian feels warm all the way down to his toes.

They’re both a little buzzed, but mostly just shit eatin’ grin happy, unabashedly so, after an evening of drinking and talking shit - the two of them goofing off in a booth, in their own little corner, in their own little world.

It was a quiet celebration for the two of them. That morning, with a shaky hand holding his phone to his ear, Ian was told he got his job back.

His EMT, the shit he worked his ass off for, the place he found himself again, job.

The one he lost.

But his P.O had worked hard, after the fourth or fifth time Ian brought it up to him and strings had been pulled after weeks of negotiations, and finally, finally, he gets a I guess they want you back phone call.

And Ian feels light as a fucking feather because things are falling back into place, back to where they’d once been. Before prison, and gay Jesus, and blowin’ up a van.

Stable.

Except this time, he’s got Mickey by his side, a ring on his finger and an entirely new relationship status box to tick.

Things have never been consistently this...good.

The sky is dark, it’s late - 1am, maybe - but there are visible grey clouds threatening to spill any minute and a quick glance at the weather app on his phone tells him it doesn’t look too promising.

Chance of rain: 90%.

‘You’re wasted as shit.’ Ian says, hooking his arm around Mickey’s waist to support his unbalanced footing as he stumbles.

‘Fuckin’ celebration.’ Mickey says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His words are slurring slightly, ‘Can’t stop after just one beer.’

Ian sends an elbow into his ribs, ‘I can.’

‘You have to, bitch.’ Mickey says, smirking, and he can’t fault him because he’s right. It used to bother him, being unable to keep up with Lip or Mick - he’d watch them down pint after pint, longingly almost, but Ian’s getting pretty good at the whole nursing one beer for an entire night routine. There’s a crack of thunder and it rumbles loudly through the blocks, like a thrumming drum beat.

‘Stop draggin’ your feet- it’s gonna rain any second.’ Ian says, pulling him up by the hips again. They need to make a move on, otherwise they’ll be soaked and tipsy, ‘Don’t wanna get caught in it.’

Mickey stops and in one swift movement presses Ian up against the brick wall of the building they’d been walking alongside, his forearms pressing firmly against his shoulders.

Lighting follows quickly, illuminating their faces and Mickey is close, his nose brushing Ian’s as he leans in and whispers-

‘I’m…m’ proud of you.’

Then the sky breaks.

Rain begins to fall, and it’s cold as it drips down Ian’s forehead and the back of his shirt, but he’s nothing but hot as Mickey captures his bottom lip and tugs him in closer.

The sudden need to get home quickly falls away as they kiss slowly, it’s a little sloppy - the rain and the booze - and Ian can still taste the beer on Mickey’s lips, he knows Mickey can taste it on his.

Mickey pulls back enough to murmur, ‘I mean it.’

Ian looks at him, looks, and all he can feel is love.

He’s never felt so full. Full of all these good things. Good things he gets to have.

So full of luck. So full of love.

Mickey’s hair is sticking to his forehead, the way it does when they’re standing close and sharing a showerhead, and he looks a little ridiculous as a water droplet trickles down his nose and pools above his top lip.

He brings his hands up to the side of Mickey’s face, his fingers running through the ends of his dripping hair, and leans, giving him the softest peck on the space between his top lip and his nose.

Mickey puffs a hot breath against his skin as he does, tipping his forehead forward to connect with his.

He knows they must look silly, the two of them soaked to the bone and stationary - any sane human would run home right now and take cover, it’s coming down hard - but in that moment, in that soggy, sodden moment, he couldn’t give a shit.

There’s fireworks in his bones, and they spark colourfully in his chest. He’s an EMT again - a real one, this time, and he gets to fuckin’ celebrate with a drink and a date.

And a kiss in the fuckin’ rain, like some shitty, cheesy, rom-com Debbie loves to watch.

He gets to have a shitty, cheesy, rom-com kinda love.

They’re gonna be late getting home, they’ll tread water through the living room and up the stairs, they’ll have to shower to warm up and feel clean. Maybe they’ll even wake up with runny noses and a heavy head, but-

But right now. Now as he leans in again, wet lips to wet lips, open mouthed and wanting, there’s nothing that can extinguish the fire in his chest, the hot, hot heat he feels to be so close to the man he fuckin’ loves.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, and the rain falls and falls and falls.

#just a little something #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #sandymilkovich

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shamelessly4shameless-blog · 7 years

Text

What we need. What we have.

Anon: Hi Han, please could you write a story. It’s a bit of a jumble but I have this idea of Mickey maybe trying to get someones wallet or maybe like a sweater back to them and Ian being a bit of a pest wanting sex but Mickey is trying to do a good deed? IDK. Please try if you think it might be good. Thank you! Love all your work so much! xxx

“Hey! I found a wallet!”

Iggy dropped down onto the sofa next to Ian and snatched the video controller out of his hand.

“Oh yeah? Any money in it?”

Ian cupped his now empty hands around a joint and lit up contentedly. Iggy shook his head and tossed it over Ian into Mickey’s lap.

“Nah, but it’s quality. Might get a couple bucks for it.”

Mickey plucked the joint out from between Ian’s lips and stuck it between his own, earning himself a scowl

“Jesus. Does anyone in this family ever ask for anything?”

“No.”

Both Milkovich’s smirked in unison and Ian shook his head, suppressing a small smile.

“Assholes.”

Mickey quirked an eyebrow at the insult but didn’t respond as he opened the wallet and began prodding through the contents.

There was an old photo, two men stood side by side, arms around each others shoulders. There was something about the pose that didn’t strike Mickey as being merely friendly. It was too intimate, their bodies pressed too close. He flipped the picture over and read the note on the back

‘Jack and Jim. August 1977. Love is Love.’

“Where’d you find this?”

He asked, passing Iggy the joint.

“Over on Newly Avenue. Was just lyin’ there. Weird.”

“Why weird?”

Ian let Iggy have a couple of puffs and then reclaimed his smoke. He didn’t mind sharing but Iggy could be like a human chimney with weed and Ian wanted to get good and baked and take Mickey into the bedroom for an afternoon of really filthy sex. The kind that would leave his boyfriend close to exhaustion, his lips swollen and sore and his body quivering on the bed, too wiped out to even clean himself up, letting Ian pamper him without complaint.

“Because it was like no one else could see it. You drop a wallet it normally gets snatched up like fuckin’ birdseed.”

“Birdseed?”

Ian spluttered, handing the joint back to Mickey who waved it away, once again rifling through the compartments in the little black leather pouch.

“Yeah like cause people are like birds and they swarm free shit.”

Iggy grinned around the joint as Ian dissolved into a fit of giggles.

“Doesn’t have an address in it.”

Mickey mumbled causing Iggy to frown at him.

“Well they’re clumsy, not stupid. If it had an address I’d have gone round and roughed the asshole up for a reward.”

Mickey gave his brother an impatient look and stood up.

“I’m headin’ over there. You wanna come?”

“What? No! Don’t ...”

Ian scrabbled to his feet, following Mickey to the door

“C’mon. No one is giving you a reward for an empty wallet Mickey.”

Mickey switched his impatient look to his boyfriend and shook his head

“I don’t want a fuckin’ reward and it ain’t empty. It’s got personal stuff in it. Someone might need it.”

“What?”

Ian scrunched his face up, confused

“Since when do you give a shit about stuff like that?”

“I … fuck you. You comin’ or not?”

“Fine. But I was hoping we’d spend the afternoon in bed. Together. Naked...”

“I can fuckin’ hear you!”

Iggy called over his shoulder and then returned the middle finger that he didn’t have to look to know his brother was giving him.

“Yeah well. Newly ain’t far. We can do whatever nasty shit you want later.”

Ian pouted and zipped his hoodie up firmly

“How’d you know it was gonna be nasty? Might have been sweet.”

Mickey snorted and held the front door open, ushering Ian out

“Not likely when you’re stoned. You always want to get your tongue right in ...”

“STILL FUCKING HEAR YOU!!!”

Iggy roared and Mickey slammed the door firmly behind him.

They walked the couple of blocks to Newly in relative silence. Mickey had the wallet in his pocket and kept his hand on it possessively. Ian slung his arm around Mickey’s shoulders once they were a little way away from the Milkovich house and Mickey let him do it which was a surprise. A pleasant surprise but still …

“You Okay?”

“Yep.”

“Sure?”

“Yep.”

Ian rolled his eyes and moved his arm, letting it fall in a clumsy arc to slap his palm teasingly on Mickey’s ass.

“Fuck sake! We’re in public, Ian.”

“Not my fault that ass won’t quit.”

Mickey’s lip quirked upwards but he tongued away the smile and shook his head

“You’re a fuckin’ pervert.”

“Says the guy licked jello off my nipples last night.”

“You fuckin’ put it there!”

Ian grinned wickedly and leant in close enough for his breath to tickle Mickey’s ear

“Wasn’t me who smeared it over my ass.”

Mickey glanced around furtively but the street was empty.

“Also, it’s not me who likes things to get a bit rough.”

“The Hell it isn’t!”

Mickey stopped dead, making Ian have to back track to him with a shy smile on his face

“Well ...”

Ian considered whilst Mickey looked up at him with utter incredulity

“Do I need to list every damn time you’ve left a bruise on me?”

“No … I mean, it might be fun but you don’t need to. Maybe just tell me about the ones you enjoyed most?”

Mickey narrowed his eyes at Ian. The redhead was far too handsome for any of his expressions to be called a ‘leer’ but the one on his face was damn close. The difficulty was that despite Mickey’s outrage his treacherous body was reacting all too warmly to Gallagher’s nonsense.

“You’re an asshole. And a pervert.”

Mickey managed finally, shoving Ian lightly and thumbing his lip to quell a smile that would undermine what little dignity he had left.

Ian danced around him as Mickey continued walking, every now and then darting out one strong hand or the other to touch Mickey lightly, mostly on his butt, and ask

“The one I left here?”

“How about here?”

“This one?”

Mickey shook his head, desperately trying not to either laugh or shove his boyfriend into oncoming traffic.

“I’m gonna leave a real good one on you later.”

He growled as Ian bounced in and touched Mickey’s nipple through his shirt, raising his eyebrows in silent question.

“Promise? Leave more than one.”

“Jesus, Gallagher.”

“Aww come on, I can handle whatever you can give.”

Mickey gave in and smiled down at his boots. The thought of beating Ian was, at that exact moment, rather appealing but not really something Mickey was likely to be able to do and they both fuckin’ knew it.

“You ain’t handlin’ shit, Firecrotch.”

“Is it because you just want to be sweet to me? Treat me nice?”

“Right now? No.”

Mickey glanced around again but didn’t protest as Ian stepped in again, pressing his chest flush to Mickey’s.

“You want to be good for me, huh?”

“What the fuck, man?”

Mickey could feel the colour creeping into his cheeks. They were in the middle of an empty street, in broad daylight and Ian seemed about ready to have him right there. His hands gripped Mickey’s upper arms tightly and his eyes focussed intently on Mickey’s own deep blue iris’.

“I’ve been real bad, Mick. I need you to teach me a lesson. You can’t always be sweet to me.”

Ian purred, his lips grazing Mickey’s earlobe.

“Okay, but maybe not right here?”

He raised his eyebrows in warning and Ian finally bit his lip a little guiltily and stepped back, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Sorry. Got carried away.”

“Yeah, kinda.”

Mickey gave him a final ‘what the fuck’ look and then shrugged. He loved it when Ian told him exactly what he needed and Mickey loved to please him, whatever that looked like on any given day.

“I mean … uh … you’ve started something now, you know? I’m gonna have to sort you out later and you’re gonna have to deal with that.”

Ian’s embarrassed scowl lightened into another slightly cheeky grin.

“Yeah?”

“Oh definitely. You’re done, Gallagher.”

Ian bit his lip and his eyes lit with expectation but mercifully he seemed content to just revel in what Mickey had said rather than demanding more. Mickey huffed out a heavy breath and gave Ian a side-on look before dismissing it as him just being a horny eighteen year old. There had been some weird shit lately but Ian had been stressed. Svetlana, money, South Side … all of it. It was fucking hard, Mickey knew that. If Ian wanted something to release that tension – a bit of blood on his lips, having someone push his buttons, or getting his ass whooped, well shit. Mickey understood that and was more than happy to oblige.

As they turned onto Newly, Mickey squeezed the wallet in his pocket a little tighter. There was a lady rummaging through her bags and a couple of kids hanging out on bikes but not the sort of person he was looking for.

“What’s the plan?”

Ian asked and Mickey shrugged, irritated with himself for not having a plan.

“I guess walk up to the end of the street, walk back down, if no one is looking for a wallet, toss the fucker in the trash.”

“Cool.”

Ian nodded, falling easily into step beside his boyfriend. Mickey smiled slightly to himself. This was one of the things he liked most about Ian. He could be a bossy, inappropriate asshole one minute but then when Mickey needed him to shut the fuck up and just go with something, he was always down for it. Whatever stupid fucking thing it was, Ian would do it if Mickey was doing it. He wasn’t afraid or ashamed to help. Mickey valued that kind of loyalty very highly and hoped he could return it at least a little.

He licked his lips, looked around once, and then squared his shoulders and grabbed Ian’s ass cheek in a tight, full palmed grip, hard enough to know that the skin beneath the denim was bleaching white around the outline of his fingers before flushing pink.

“And don’t fuckin’ distract me while we’re doing it. You’re in enough shit.”

Ian looked momentarily shocked and then a slow, sexy smile spread across his face. Mickey tightened his grip, making Ian wince.

“The fuck you smiling at?”

“Nothin’. Sorry.”

Ian physically wiped the smile from his face and Mickey nodded, releasing him. Ian walked a little closer, his arm brushing lightly against Mickey’s, and there was a definite spring in his step but clearly Mickey had got the game right as Ian just walked, saying nothing.

They walked up one side and had just started to come down another when Mickey saw a guy up ahead peering intently at shrubs and in gutters. He couldn’t see his face but hadn’t actually studied the photo that much so doubted it would help anyway.

“Hey. You lose something?”

The guy looked up wearily

“I don’t want any trouble, son.”

“Me neither. You lose something?”

Mickey gripped the wallet a little harder. He thought it might have been the dude on the left but he really didn’t know.

“Yeah. My wallet.”

Mickey looked over his shoulder and tongued his lip, pulling it out of his pocket. Ian startled and gave Mickey a confused look which his boyfriend ignored.

“This one?”

He held it out and the older man’s face lit up.

“Holy shit! Yes! That’s the one.”

He reached out for it and then stopped looking at Mickey cautiously

“Go ahead, it’s yours. Ain’t got any money in it though.”

“Ha. Never had any to begin with. Thank you. Truly. Thank you.”

Mickey shrugged. Now that the deed was done he just wanted to get out of there and head home with Ian.

“It’s cool. I figured you’d want what is in there anyway.”

The man, Jack or Jim, pulled out the photo and glanced between Mickey and Ian with a knowing smile.

“Love is love, boys.”

“Yeah well. See ya.”

Mickey didn’t look back at Jack/Jim but Ian did and saw the little picture.

“Aww Mick.”

“What?”

“We walked all the way over so you could get that guy his picture back?”

Ian’s voice was all soft and hopeful and … proud? Jesus. Mickey gritted his teeth and pressed his lips together.

“Why? I mean it’s so nice of you but why?”

“Because ...”

Mickey looked around, more furtively than he had when Ian had been talking dirty to him, more cautiously than before he grabbed Ian’s ass and then, satisfied no one could hear them, he murmured

“Cause I have a photo in my wallet too. Fuckin’ suck if I lost it.”

“You do?”

Ian cocked his head to the side and Mickey nodded

“Yeah.” “What’s it of?”

“Mind your own fuckin’ business!”

Later that night, with Mickey passed out in bed and Ian trying to find a comfortable position to sleep after then delightfully thorough working over his boyfriend had given him, reminding Ian exactly of the capabilities of the man he fell for, Ian slipped out of bed.

He picked Mickey’s pants up and patted the pockets until he found his wallet.

Under the light of his cellphone, Ian pulled out the folded photo and after one final guilty look at Mickey’s sleeping form, unfolded it.

“Aww Mick.”

He whispered. He wondered if he still had that beanie, or that shirt and made a mental note to find both if he could and wear them the next night ... and be as sweet to Mickey as he could be. He had everything he needed and things he had not even known he wanted. And Ian wanted Mickey to be able to say the same.

#shameless #Shameless US #shameless fanfiction #Ian Gallagher #ian x mickey #mickey milkovich #iggy milkovich #Gallavich #love

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shamelesslydevotedtoyou · 7 years

Text

Partner, Lover, Family

I was thinking about the fuckery that was the end of season 5 and decided to fix it, so I wrote a thing. I’m sure it’s been done many times before but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“He tried to kill me! HE TRIED TO FUCKING KILL ME!”

“Ma'am, you were the one with the gun in your hand and we have several witnesses stating that you were trying to kill him.” The cop gave up on being nice about it and full on shoved Sammi into the back of the cruiser.

“HE DRUGGED ME AND LOCKED ME IN A STORAGE CONTAINER. HE TRIED TO FUCKING KILL ME!” Sammi’s screeches were barely muffled by the slamming of the car door.

Panic clawed at the back of Mickey’s throat. He couldn't go to jail. Not right now. He couldn't leave Ian alone in the state he was in, and he couldn't leave things they way they were between them. He plastered on what he hoped was his most non-threatening smile as the cop walked up to him. “Officer, I can explain.”

“Go on then.” She didn't look impressed, and Mickey hoped to hell his name wasn't working against him right now.

“About a week ago I was outside for a smoke and I noticed that Sammi’s storage box was wide open so I locked it up. I didn't want any of her shit to get stolen, right?” Sammi was still screaming from the back of the squad car, and the cop looked back and forth between her and Mickey. “She'd been drinking pretty heavy that night and had wandered off a little while earlier. She must have passed out in the container and I didn't notice.” He gave a little shrug, hoping it added to the innocent look he was going for. Over the cop's shoulder he noticed that Fiona was giving him a calculating look, like she wasn't quite sure what to believe. Beside her, Ian wasn't buying any of it.

“You got anyone to corroborate that story?” The cop asked, like she didn't really believe it but she also just wanted to get this thing over with.

“Yeah, Debbie was with me.” Mickey watched understanding flash over Fiona’s face, followed quickly by anger and then resignation.

“And Debbie is…”

“She's my little sister,” Fiona said, stepping forward. “And I'm sure it was an accident. Debs wouldn't hurt a fly, an Mickey was the one suggested we should go lookin' for Sammi when the rest of us thought she'd just fucked off.” Mickey was a little impressed with how easily the lie rolled off of her tongue.

The cop looked between the two of them, then back to Sammi--practically foaming at the mouth--then to her partner who just shrugged. Behind her, Ian just looked amused yet bored at the same time. “Whatever. We're taking her in now, but don't leave town, we might have some questions for you.”

“Of course.”

“We'll be here.”

As soon as the cop car turned the corner, Mickey and Fiona breathed a sigh of relief, and Ian immediately turned back to the house, where they could see V standing on the back porch, spectating.

“Hold on a second,” Mickey said, blocking Ian's path, “we're not fucking done here.”

Ian sighed, not even looking up at him. “Yeah we are, Mick. That's kinda what happens when people break up.”

“Wait, who's breaking up?” Fiona asked, sounding about as shocked as Mickey felt when he had figured out what Ian was trying to do.

“Nobody. I'm not fucking letting you do this.”

“What are you gonna do, date me against my will?”

“You're bein’ crazy right now.” Mickey knew it was the wrong thing to say the second the words left his mouth, but at least it got Ian to finally look at him.

“That's the fucking problem isn't it? I'm fucked in the head.”

“You kiddin' me? We're all fucked in the head. Just cuz you got a fancy name and meds to go along with your crazy don't make you special.”

“It's who I am, Mick. The meds change me. I can't be with someone who wants to change me.”

“That's Monica talkin' right there,” Fiona cut in. Ian just shook his head.

“The disease isn't who you are. You almost killed Kenyatta. Not that the fucker didn't deserve it but that's not you. You cheated on me. You kidnapped my fucking son.” It was a low fucking blow, but it finally broke through and Ian started sobbing. Mickey put both hands on the sides of Ian's neck, brushing his thumbs across his jaw. “That wasn't you. That wasn't Ian. You would never put Yev in danger. I know that. We all know that. That was the disease. That's why you need the meds.”

“I hate the meds.” Mickey’s heart was fucking breaking at the hopelessness in Ian's voice, at the tears trailing down his face.

“I know you do.” Mickey pressed their foreheads together, and Ian wrapped his hands around Mickey's wrists but didn't try to move them. “I know. But remember what the doc said? Sometimes it takes a while for the chemicals to balance out. And sometimes they gotta try a couple different meds or doses to find the combo that works for you. You'll figure it out. And guess what, asshole? I'm gonna be there every fucking step of the way because that's what partners do. Got it?”

It felt like it took forever, but Ian finally nodded and Mickey pulled his head down so he could press his lips to Ian's forehead. “I fuckin’ love you, but if you try to break up with me again I'll beat the shit outta you,” Mickey said hoarsely into Ian's hair.

Ian choked out a laugh through his tears and crumpled into Mickey, wrapping his arms around the shorter man's waist. “C’mere.” Mickey put one hand on the side of Ian's head and pressed his lips into the other side, breathing him in. He smelled like dirt and sweat and… meth? Whatever. He smelled like home and Mickey never wanted to let go.

Later, after they brought Ian inside, gave him a couple pills and sent him to bed, Mickey and Fiona sat at the kitchen table, each with a beer in their hands.

“So, ya tried to kill Sammi?” Fiona asked, the hint of a smirk on her face indicating that she wasn't exactly broken up about it.

“Hardly. I just roofied her a little. Debs and me were just gonna scare her--”

“You mean torture her?”

“Fuckin’ to-may-to, to-mah-to, whatever. Not my fault she had some weird reaction to the drugs and we thought she kicked it.”

Fiona laughed and tipped her beer towards Mickey and they fell back into silence until Mickey got up to replace their empty beers. “So, you really love him, eh? You're in this for the long haul?”

“You really think I’d’a put up with all this bullshit over the last year if I wasn't?” Mickey asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Touchè.” Fiona held out her bottle and Mickey clinked his against it. “Ya know, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm kinda glad to have a Milkovich as an honorary in-law.”

He let the dig slide, distracted by the fact that he wasn't freaked out by the in-law comment like he woulda been even a few months ago. Mickey thought about Ian's mocking comment about going down to the courthouse earlier. He thought about how much easier it was for Fiona to get answers from the cops and the hospital about Ian, because she had a legally recognized relationship to him. He thought about his own joke of a wedding, when he made the comment about marriage being just a piece of paper, and Ian saying it wasn't to him, and Mickey made a decision. Some day--not right away, not until Ian was stable and maybe they even had real jobs and a place of their own, but one day--he was gonna marry Ian Gallagher.

#gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless fic #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #season 5 fix #i wrote a thing

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its-a-queer-thing · 7 years

Text

That talk we all want Gallavich to have

Mickey was back. Ian couldn’t believe it. He finally had the love of his life back and he was so thrilled he could barely contain himself. They lounged in the backyard of the Gallagher home watching what little of the stars shone through the light pollution.

“I’m sorry for… well, for everything.” Ian blurted out, interrupting the contented silence. Mickey turned his head to him.

“Everything?” Mickey baited. Ian rolled his eyes and sat up, turning to the other man.

“Everything, asshole. I was a dick to you when you tried to get me on my meds, never thanked you for everything you did for me, and broke up with you… I just… It’s been bothering me since Mexico.” Mickey stared at him a moment, but looked away because regardless of how far he’d come, emotions still freaked him out, especially his own.

“Everyone always shits on you and I never thought I’d be one of those people–but… there it is. If someone ever trashed you, I never defended you, never corrected anyone who had the wrong idea about you. At first, I even believed those things myself…” Ian drifted off, worried about what else he might say. At some point he may say enough to get Mickey to change his mind about picking back up. Mickey had laid back in the grass and was gazing at the sky in silence, clearly listening but trying not to reveal any emotion. “I think I just… resented you caring so much and I couldn’t feel that way back because of the stupid mood stabilizers. After my meds balanced… And I started to feel again… I noticed how much I missed you and got angry again because you were in prison and with everything I’d done–the bipolar, the meds, running away, breaking up with you–I was sure I’d lost any chance at being with you.”

Mickey stared on in silence, absorbing Ian’s words. Ian almost kept going just to fill the gap, but decided to give Mickey a minute.

"I never believed it was over. Even with that bullshit of a visit in the joint... I never gave up on you, making myself believe you hadn't either. The bipolar had fucked you up so much... It didn't make a difference to me, of course, I still love you all the same but it was like fucked if you did fucked if you didn't with the meds. At least off the meds you wanted me, loved me. With the meds, you at least wouldn't cheat on me or go around stealing suitcases one day, laying in bed for a week the next, but then you'd act like I didn't matter. I was okay, I knew it was the meds, but I still couldn't believe that you broke up with me. After all we'd fucking been through, you'd just throw me away because of meds you'd end up taking anyway!" He had to pause to control his anger. Ian shrank back, ashamed of everything he'd done, and also afraid of how this tirade would end.

Mickey sniffed and crushed his eyelids behind his fingers, wiping moisture away before either of them could notice there was any. "I just couldn’t wrap my head around it, like... where'd I go wrong? Was it the bipolar talking? The meds? Your mom?" He shook his head sadly. "I think it was the shock that kept me holding on to you. I hadn't lost you because in my mind there was no way we had broken up it just couldn't be. It was like a nightmare that would go away as long as I stayed awake, or really as long as I didn't see you trying not to look at me or... fuck. " Ian looked at him then, struggling with his emotion. Ian was about to speak when Mickey's strong voice rang out. "I'm not doing this in-between shit anymore, Gallagher. I mean it. Either we are together, or we're not. You might laugh at the idea of us getting married but I knew soon after coming out that you were it for me. If we didn't work out, I'd fuck around, sure, but love someone else or settle down with someone else?" He shook his head for emphasis. "Besides, we don’t have to get married if it’s not what you want. That part has never mattered. What matters is knowing where we stand and committing. We don’t need a fucking piece of paper to say how we feel.” Mickey sighed again and lit a cigarette. “You pushed me to do a lot of things, so now, I'm pushing you. I'm only doing this again if you commit. It doesn't mean we have to go down to city hall today or even next year, but I will not get my hopes up again for you to throw me aside again." He was breathing heavy and Ian could only stare. Mickey looked scared. Even though he said he wasn't putting himself out there again, the irony was he just did. If Ian rejected him now, Mickey would be obliterated. The good thing would be it would be for the last time, and the bad thing would be... It would be the last time... but at least he would know.

"So, you in or out, Gallagher?" Ian just stared at him. Mickey had sat up and was sucking on his cigarette, avoiding eye contact to feign indifference.

"There was a time," Ian finally murmured, "living with you, Svet, and Yevgeny that I knew we would get married. I dreamed about it; you and me, kids, soccer games and parent teacher nights at school, the whole nine..." He went silent, the unmentioned "but" hanging between them.

"And now?" Mickey asked, the inflection in his voice giving away his rising hope, and anxiety.

"Now it's still what I want. I didn't mean to mock the idea that day... I guess I just never expected that was what you wanted, especially if I was going to refuse medication--which at the time I was determined to do. On my meds, I have a stable job and I'm still saving for a future and--"

"And you don't want a fugitive fucking your life up, I fucking get it." Mickey scoffed. He stood and started pacing, like he was torn between staying to hear Ian out and running as far as fast as humanly possible. "Is this your fucking hobby or something? See how far you can drag Mickey back in then how fast you can fucking destroy him, then how fast you can reel him back in again?"

"What? Mick, no--"

"Then why do you keep fucking doing this to me?"

"Doing what? I haven't said anything yet!"

"Oh, you've said plenty." Mickey scoffed. "You honestly mean to tell me that you talking about how great you've been doing without me was going to lead to you committing?"

"If you'd give me a second, yeah!" Ian cried. "Listen. I've put my shit together but it never would have happened if you didn't get me started. I've grown a lot and I give a lot of credit to that year with you putting up with my shit and making me take my meds and... everything. Now that I've got my shit in order, it's your turn and I want to be there to help you with it. But how long do you really think you can stay in the south side before being caught or dragged back into the same illegal shit? I'm trying to think ahead and think realistically here, that's all." Mickey brushed his hand over his face and sighed.

"Why didn't you just fucking say that then, asshole?"

“You didn’t give me a fucking chance!” Ian snapped. Mickey took another drag of his cigarette and breathed out roughly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to hide his emotions. Leaning against the wall of the porch, he took another long drag.

“I’d thought about all of that... How long I’d be able to stay here before getting caught. Then where would I move? How long will ‘free’ really be free? Wondering if you would come with me for real this time...”

“You gonna be pissed if I want to stay here until I have my shit in order? Until I have a plan?” Mickey sighed again and leaned his head back against the beam.

“Like... Like long distance?”

“If that’s what you want--”

“Of course it’s not what I fucking want!” Mickey snapped. Ian let him calm down, refusing to feed his frustration. “You already left me at a border once...” He pointed out.

“But what if I still commit? We can commit and still wait. I just don’t want to backtrack with this job. I have a good chance of getting out of the south side and if I have to stay here longer so you can come with me?” Ian shrugged, “then so be it.” Mickey finally met Ian’s gaze.

“Say what you mean.” Mickey demanded.

“Yes, at some point I want our white picket fence, two kids, happily-ever-fucking-after ending. It’s just not the right time right now. We need to figure out how to keep you off the radar so one day we can go to the courthouse and make it official. For right now though, we each have to do what we have to do. The most I can give you right now is a roof over your head and food for you at the table while you’re here and promising to be faithful to you. I’ve tried to give you up Mick... but no one has measured up.” Mickey was silent after Ian’s impassioned speech. He peeled himself away from the porch supports and walked back over to Ian, settling down onto the grass. He finished off the cigarette and extinguished the butt on the bottom of his boot.

“I tried to give you up too. so many fucking times, even before Mexico. I never gave up... but I did try. Why can’t I quit you, dammit?” Mickey snarled. Ian’s heart faltered. Mickey exhaled sharply and turned to look at Ian.

“You want to?” Ian asked nervously. Mickey shrugged.

“Sometimes.” He replied simply.

“You want to right now?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He snapped. Ian couldn’t help his shy grin. It was the look he always acquired when Mickey tried too hard to act hardass, but Ian alway saw right through it.

“I love you, Mick.” It felt so good to say it, and he could hardly believe that he could. Too much time had been lost for them, and Ian didn’t want any more regrets. Mickey stared at him, wary.

“I love you, too.” He finally replied. Ian stood up, grabbed Mickey’s hand and encouraged him to stand up. Once the shorter man was also standing, Ian caressed his face and kissed him. Mickey kissed back and for a moment, Ian thought he tasted tears. He didn’t open his eyes to check, though, allowing Mickey some privacy with his emotions. Mickey reached one hand up to cup Ian’s neck and brought the other to his waist, drawing him closer.

“So this is your final answer?” Mickey asked anxiously. “We’re together and this is the final time?” Ian smiled and nodded.

“I know we have to figure out what to do with you soon, but tonight let’s focus on us and being together,” Ian suggested.

“What kind of guy do you take me for? Think I’ll put out on the first date?” Mickey joked, feigning offense.

“I mean it’s up to you... But it has been almost a year without me, and...” Ian pressed his hips, and growing arousal, into Mickey, “I guess I hoped you missed me as much as I missed you.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to Mickey’s throat. “And everyone just happens to be out of the house tonight, so we wouldn’t even have to be quiet...” Mickey’s brow arched at this. That had been the best part about their roadtrip; being able to just enjoy each other--no limits, no barriers--true freedom to love each other openly.

“You’re starting to sound desperate, Gallagher.” Mickey teased, wrapping his arms around the redhead in an embrace.

“Ah, damn. Can’t make it too easy for you, you’ll lose interest.” Mickey smirked and drew Ian in as he started to back away. He kissed the redhead softly, stroking his neck in the way he knew he liked.

Though it would likely take years to fully get past all that had happened, in the moment, the most important thing was the moment. They were together, they were exclusive, they were happy and finally on the same page. The men stumbled up the porch stairs and barely got into the house before shredding their clothing. This was what they knew; passion, love, physical connection that triggers an unparalleled emotional connection. As they re-established said connection, each man could only think of the other and fantasize of what the future held.

#gallavich #gallavich fanfiction #fanficfriday #waiting for season 8 #please have something like this in season 8 #pleading with the writers #original

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arrowflier · 3 years

Note

A fic prompt if you'd like: Mickey opening up to Ian about details of his childhood and the abuse he suffered. In 11x06 after Terry is brought home Mickey says he could do anything to him now like "piss on him and let him air dry" and "use his mouth as an ash tray". To me it sounds like those are examples of things that Terry has done to him.

Content warning: child abuse

the things he did

“You’re so much better than that.”

Ian’s words echoed in Mickey’s head while the cooked dinner together. They resonated as they sat side by side at the table to eat, shoulders brushing, rings glinting in the harsh lights of the kitchen. They played on loop as they retired to the living room, alone for once with everyone else out for the night who knew where, sitting close on the sofa as mindless sitcoms droned on from the television.

“What if I’m not?” Mickey asked abruptly, when it got to be too much.

Ian turned to look at him, face full of shadows in the blue light from the tv.

“What if you’re not what?” he questioned, confused, and Mickey shifted away from him, bringing a knee onto the sofa between them to face his husband.

“Not better than that,” he answered, and saw Ian realize what he was talking about. It was in the way his eyes softened in that harsh light, the way his lips turned down at the thought that Mickey might question himself.

He always took it personally when Mickey did that.

“You are, Mickey,” Ian reassured instantly, just as expected. “I know you are.”

Mickey shook his head, looking down. His fingers scratched at the label of his beer, tearing it from the condensation-wet bottle.

“You don’t,” he said quietly. “No one fucking does.” He shook his head, looked up again into Ian’s green eyes. “You don’t just come away from a life like that and turn out alright.”

Ian looked like he wanted to argue. His chin was already pushing out, his lips pressed tight and thin.

Mickey didn’t give him a chance.

“If you knew half the things he did to us, man,” Mickey laughed humorlessly, averting his gaze again. “He should be on death row right now, not sitting next door with a roof over his fuckin’ head.”

“Tell me,” Ian prompted softly, but Mickey shook his head.

“You don’t want to hear this shit, Ian.” At least, Mickey didn’t want him to hear it. Didn’t want him to think of Terry when he looked at Mickey’s face.

“I do though,” Ian countered easily. “Wanna know everything about you, Mick.”

He was always saying things like that. Always trying to challenge the barriers Mickey put up.

But Mickey always challenged his, too, so he supposed that it was a fair enough trade.

“Fuckin’ sap,” Mickey said anyway, glancing up at Ian’s face and down again. “Gonna change what you think of me,” he added more quietly, and bit his lip at how pathetic it made him sound.

“Mickey,” Ian said. That was it, just his name. But it made things better, somehow. “Nothing can change how I feel about you,” Ian went on. “Besides, I was there for some it, remember?”

Mickey snorted, and took a swig of beer.

“How could I fuckin’ forget?”

They sat in silence for a long moment, only the sound of the clock ticking behind them and the strains of an annoying jingle on the TV filling the room. Ian didn’t scoot any closer, didn’t ask Mickey again. He just sat in his presence, calming sipping his own drink, and waited Mickey out.

It was a technique that never failed him.

“It wasn’t too bad when our mom was there,” Mickey started out of nowhere. “She was strung out most of the time, but she cared, you know?” He ran a hand through his hair, scratched his neck. “At least in her own way.”

“And when she wasn’t?” Ian prompted gently. Not pushing, just providing a guiding hand.

Mickey shook his head. “When she wasn’t, things really went to hell.”

A beat. The TV had changed over to some new infomercial, an obnoxiously eager voice droning on about the ‘next best thing’, whatever that was. Mickey ignored it. They both did.

“Iggy and Colin were already used to it, I think,” Mickey expanded. “They were around more the first few times she left, when Mandy and I were still in school. They knew what was coming when she was gone for good.”

Ian made a sound, deep in his throat. He set down his glass on the coffee table, overlapping the multitude of condensation rings that already marred the surface, and grabbed up the carton of cigarettes that lay there. He lit it with a spare lighter, took a drag, and passed it over to Mickey’s waiting hand.

“What about you?” he asked casually. Too casually for the way his fingers shook when Mickey took the cigarette from him.

Mickey scoffed. “Me?” he repeated, then took a drag himself. He held it in as long as he could, breathed it out in a plume of smoke that hid the new wetness in his eyes.

“I was a naive little shit whose mamma hadn’t warned him how bad Terry could get,” Mickey said, then took another hit.

“The first time he hit me—really hit me, not just a cuff around the ears for mouthing off—he laid me out flat on the kitchen floor. I had eaten the last side of bacon, see,” he explained. “Mandy made it for me after school. And Terry’d been savin’ it for after whatever run he was out on.”

Ian stayed silent.

“Couldn’t tell him it was Mandy’s fault,” Mickey went on. “He didn’t care that she was a girl.” Mickey flicked the ashes off the end of the cigarette, watched them fall. Watched the tiny burns it made on the knee of his jeans. “Didn’t care until she was useful.”

Ian swallowed hard at the reminder of what Terry had done to his best friend. But this was about Mickey right now, not Mandy, and as much as she was entrenched in that part of his life, it wasn’t what he needed to get out.

So Ian scooted closer, brushed ashes off Mickey’s knee and rested his hand there, waiting.

Mickey stared at the point of contact, then at his cigarette again.

“You know he used to burn me with these?” Mickey asked abruptly, waving the lit stick in his hand. “Think it was an accident, the first time. Caught me suckin’ on a candy one when I was a kid, told me I needed to man up. Tried to stick a lit one in my mouth, but he was drunk. Used the wrong end.”

He tongued the corner of his lips. “Couldn’t eat for two days while it was healin’.” He chuckled, shook his head. “I was suck a fuckin’ wimp back then, man.”

“Not the worst thing he’s put in my mouth, though,” Mickey continued, on a roll now. His voice was faint, full of that absent quality it got when he wasn’t really there. When he was reliving his nightmares in real time.

“Stumbled into my room more than once looking for the toilet,” he confided. “Forgot there was a second door, I think. He usually just went in the corner, but he got me on my bed more than once.”

Mickey paused, looked up at Ian through his lashes.

“You know why I don’t breathe through my mouth anymore?”

Ian shook his head.

“Wakin’ up to the taste of piss will teach you that trick real quick.”

The cigarette was gone, now, and his beer was only dregs. Mickey stared at a space over Ian’s shoulder, breathing heavy, refusing to let his eyes spill over.

He was done crying for the kid that let his dad walk all over him. He was done crying for Terry. He was done with all of it.

And he really, really wished that were true.

“Frank locked me in the basement, once,” Ian stated suddenly, taking the empty beer bottle out of Mickey’s hand and placing it with his own glass on the table. “During one of my mom’s episodes, when she wouldn’t get out of bed.”

Mickey just looked at him. Let Ian take his hand, turn it over to hold it in his.

“He told Fiona I was at a sleepover, and she believed him—forgot I didn’t really have any friends.” Ian grinned, then, but it was empty, almost sharp.

You had friends, Mickey wanted to say. You had family. You had me.

But the first and the last were lies, and the middle wasn’t always a blessing.

“Lip found me two days later,” Ian told him. “He got suspicious when he saw Frank taking food down there; he was an asshole, but he wasn’t gonna starve a kid on purpose, at least.”

Ian laughed, and rubbed his free hand along the leg of his pants.

“He just didn’t want to look at me.”

Mickey gripped his hand tighter.

“Why are you tellin’ me this?” he asked. “It’s not a fuckin’ competition, man.”

“I’m just saying,” Ian pressed on. “We don’t have to be our dads, Mickey.”

Oh. And there it was. Ian, his husband, ever the optimist.

“What if we don’t get that choice?” Mickey questioned. He’d seen it often enough, after all. Milkoviches that tried to get out, tried to do better for themselves and their kids.

But they always ended up back where they started. They always ended up under Terry’s roof, and under his thumb, just waiting for another chance to break free.

Ian shrugged, and pulled him closer, tucking Mickey’s head into the space between his own neck and shoulder. Mickey made a grumbling sound, but went without protest, tilting his head so that his nose rested near Ian’s collarbone.

“Then I guess we have to kill each other,” Ian stated blandly.

Mickey gave a stunned, barked laugh, breath hitching and releasing in a wash of hot air over Ian’s neck.

“Ian, what the fuck?” he managed, but Ian only gripped him tighter, pressing his face into skin so that he couldn’t speak.

“It’s for the greater good, Mick,” Ian assured him. “Mutually assured destruction, and all that, right?”

He ran a hand down Mickey’s back, scratching lightly.

“I lock you in a basement, you take me out,” he declared. “You piss on me—well, without my permission at least—”

“Ew, Ian, Jesus Christ—”

“I get to murder you in your sleep.” Ian pulled back just enough to look at him, Mickey meeting his eyes without a struggle this time. For all the macabre discussions, Ian’s eyes were bright.

“Deal?” Ian asked, and Mickey finally smiled.

“Yeah, alright, tough guy,” he agreed. “It’s a fuckin’ deal.”

#thanks for the prompt!#daily speedwrite #fanfic #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #tw: child abuse #angst #but they'll be okay

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unbridgeabledistances · 3 years

Text

kings of the southside: CHAPTER 2

The storefronts on the block were different now— fragile minimalist displays and organic coffee shops uprooting the aged wooden bar signs with peeling paint and bullet holes— but against all odds, and with everyone else moving on, he and Mickey had decided to stay.

(a canon divergent fic in which ian and mickey stay on the southside and take over the alibi)

read chapter 2 here on ao3, or below the cut! (see notes on ao3 for various credits)

The end of the first weekend of them running the Alibi came quickly, and with it came Mickey’s focus being pulled in a million goddamn directions; they still had to unpack all of their shit upstairs, still had to figure out inventory and restock the bar and balance the books. Between all of the swirling and circling tasks Mickey felt like his head was going to explode, a sharp shift after the smooth waters of doing fuck-all for the past few months before the weed security business took off and he’d been forced to snap back into business mode.

Ian had bounced back from that first Saturday night of running the bar, the slump relaxing and fading out of his shoulders, and he was chipper as ever all Sunday afternoon, constantly grabbing at Mickey’s waist and singing fucking songs in his ear as they brushed elbows while pouring beers beside each other at the bar. As always, Ian fucking sunshine Gallagher’s mood seemed to have some sort of trickle-down effect on Mickey on Sunday, despite Mickey’s best efforts to not be a love-crazed loon. So even though they had a million things to do for Ian’s 80s night bullshit and Mickey had every reason to be stressed, he found himself fucking whistling when he rinsed the dishes behind the bar on Sunday night, and Tommy started giving him shit— and Mickey realized that he didn’t think there was a time he’d remembered whistling, ever, in his goddamn life.

He couldn’t really help it; Ian was radiating this new, breezy energy that Mickey still hadn’t had the time to feel the past few months, with all the bullshit going on with Terry and his family next door that set his teeth on edge— but now Ian was melting into their new life, acting settled, acting like he didn’t have a goddamn care in the world and everything was all figured out. And Mickey started to realize, in the fuzzy back corners of his brain, that maybe, just maybe— he could start to feel that way about their new gig at the Alibi and their new place, too.

They didn’t have to run from anything anymore.

Mickey practically couldn’t believe his ears the other week when Ian had willingly accepted custody of the Alibi with a too-relaxed air of nonchalance, with a well, maybe Mick and I could take it off your hands, on one of their final days scarfing down sugary cereal in the late hours of the morning in the Gallagher house kitchen. There was no way Gallagher was being serious about this— Ian was always talking about going somewhere, about being something bigger than he was, so there was no way he was offering to Kev that they would take over his dump of a bar. Except he definitely was— and for a sharp and splintering instant Mickey was worried Ian was saying this for him; that once again, he was holding Ian Gallagher back.

But Mickey had felt Ian’s warm palm resting on his leg under the kitchen table— and he’d seen the warmth, that fucking warmth that always heated Mickey’s insides, as Ian turned to him with his eyebrows raised in a question, in a wordless proposition— and once again it struck Mickey like a goddamn lightning bolt just how much Ian Gallagher loved him, if he looked this blissed out about the prospect of living in a shitty Southside apartment and running an even shittier bar with Mickey Milkovich for the rest of his days.

Mickey knew part of Ian doing this was for him, after all the Westside bullshit that Mickey had resisted at every turn. Mickey knew he’d lost his shit when he made that yuppie poodle lady rip their lease to shreds, but could anyone blame him? The few hours they’d spent at the apartment complex made Mickey feel like he was going to crawl out of his fucking skin, like the glares of everyone he passed by in the too-clean, air-freshened hallways made him itch from the inside out. There was no fucking way he could stay in a place like that. But he was going to try, if Ian wanted.

But with a simple sentence, with a simple maybe Mick and I could take it off your hands spoken into the dusty kitchen of the Gallagher house, Mickey was saved. This Alibi plan pulled them both above water, gave them both a shore to rest on— and now they were finally, finally on the same fucking page, after figuratively (and literally) butting heads about the future for so long.

So now they were here, and they were doing it, and it was scary as fuck. Mickey had never lived in a place so quiet, a small space so devoid of the press of other people screeching and fighting and leaving trails of clutter, and he knew that Ian hadn’t either; both of their childhood homes were always crawling with various drunks or Russian prostitutes or batshit crazy relatives, and the silence of their too-small studio, in the morning hours before the bar was opened downstairs, was deafening.

Mickey could feel his jaw start to clench as he laid twisted in the sheets on Monday morning, when Ian had gone for a run and Mickey was left in the apartment alone for an hour and it was quiet, too quiet— but instantly the boisterous noise of the Southside streets had started to flow just outside the open window, a cacophony of honking horns and shouted slurs and gunshots, and the trickling in of the sounds tickled Mickey’s scalp, and reminded him that he was still rooted— he was still home.

And then Ian came clomping up the stairs like a sweaty monster after his run and tackled Mickey into the mattress, flopping onto him like a fucking Saint Bernard—and Mickey remembered why they did this, why this was good for both of them.

Against every single one of Mickey’s instincts, against everything he’d always known— he was going to let himself have this.

Ian’s brows were furrowed, a pressed series of creases narrowed in focus, as he stared at the paint swatches with a too-sharp glare.

“Mick, I really don’t see the fucking difference between Charcoal Gray and Burnt Ember.”

Mickey huffed, snatching the series of paint swatches out of his hand. “Nevermind then. You’ve got no eye for this shit, Gallagher. Charcoal Gray has cool undertones, Burnt Ember has a warmer vibe. We’ve definitely gotta go with Burnt Ember, the lighting in this place is shit and I wanna make sure the kitchen has a good ambiance.”

Ian’s lips curved into a smile of disbelief, rolling his eyes. Annoying motherfucker. “They both look like gray to me.”

Mickey flashed a grin in reply, then swatted Ian’s chest with the remaining paint swatches he was holding. “It’s a good thing you’re good at manual labor. If we wanna have this place painted by Wednesday, we’ve gotta get moving.”

“On it. Lip’s coming by with the paint for the main room and the wallpaper stuff, too.”

And just then, there was a gentle tap at the door. “Ey, it’s me and Liam.”

Ian bounded across the room to pull the paint-chipped door open. “Speak of the devil.”

Lip strode into their shithole apartment carrying cans of paint and a wrench clenched between his fingers, Liam trailing behind him.

“Damn. It’s only been two days and I already forgot what a dump this place is.”

Ian shoved Lip’s shoulder. “Fuck you. If you can renovate our shitty house, fixing this place up should be a piece of cake.”

Mickey noticed Liam scanning the room— in a fit of annoyance the other morning, with the bright fucking sun streaming in because they hadn’t gotten curtains yet with the bar pulling focus downstairs, Mickey had sliced a black trashbag and pinned it to the window as a makeshift curtain. Liam’s eyes lingered on the hanging trashbag, and he raised a judgmental eyebrow at Mickey.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Ian chuckled. “Yeah, Mick’s a real interior designer.”

Liam just sighed. “You guys need all the help you can get.”

Mickey’s brows furrowed. “Fuck you both. That was a temporary solution.” He walked over to the kitchen to grab a bottle of beer, just so he had something to do.

Ian grinned again, then reached out to ruffle Liam’s hair. “How’s the new place, superstar?”

Liam shrugged nonchalantly. “I like it. I just hung up all of my posters. Added a bit of vibrancy to the color palette that Tami chose to paint my room.”

Ian smirked, and nodded a head towards Mickey, who was standing by the fridge and fumbling with his beer bottle. “You should talk to Mickey about color palettes—we’ve been arguing for the last half hour about what shade of gray to paint the kitchen. Something about cool and warm undertones?”

Liam turned to examine the kitchenette in the back of the studio, hand on his hips. “Definitely warm undertones in a small space like this, unless you get some updated light fixtures.

Ian grinned. “Damn. Guess I really do have two interior designers in my family.”

Liam smiled back, his eyes lighting up. “You need any other advice? Mickey, I’d love to hear what unified aesthetic you’re aiming for with the décor.”

The rest of the afternoon was filled with the rhythm of smooth paint rollers sliding against the wall, the old radio in the corner of the room (that had probably been there for decades) turned to a low hum— Liam and Lip helped them shuffle through their belongings in the trash bags, moving the mattress to the center of the room and not even bothering to cover the already-stained hardwood floors with a drop cloth before they coated the studio’s walls in thick layers of paint.

Mickey and Liam were tackling the kitchen, priming the walls in a comfortable silence. Frank’s death had hit Liam pretty hard, and Mickey could only imagine how fucked up it was, to have all the heaviness and all those complicated clumps of emotion that came with Terry dying inside you when you were only a kid— losing a shitty father was almost harder than losing a good one.

But Liam seemed enthusiastic about helping with the renovation efforts— he covered the walls dutifully in multiple coats of primer, ran to the corner store to pick up canned pints of “Burnt Ember,” and even offered Mickey advice on various wallpaper swatches for a feature wall in the studio (which Mickey actually appreciated, because he was still learning all this shit and fuck if he knew what a “feature wall” was or how to make it look good). Liam also gave his review of the various pieces of furniture Mickey had circled in an Ikea catalogue with a black Sharpie. Mickey was flipping through the catalogue, Liam methodically painting a final coat of paint in the kitchen beside him in a comfortable silence, when Mickey tuned in to Lip and Ian’s conversation from where they were painting in the main room.

“So, you guys are really doing this shit, huh? Running the Alibi?”

Ian paused, presumably taking a sip of his beer. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Don’t know, man. The neighborhood’s changing. My bet is the crowds’ll get thinner and thinner.” Lip paused, ripping a paper towel to wipe his hands. “You sure that you and Mick have thought this through?”

Mickey tried to hold back an audible scoff from the kitchen. There were a number of things he could’ve yelled from the other room— for starters, when in the last 12 months had fucking Phillip Gallagher thought anything through— but he decided to hold his tongue, listening for Ian’s reply.

“Jesus, Lip. Yes. We’re already living in the place, not gonna give it up now.”

A pause.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole.”

Mickey could hear Lip twisting open the soda can he’d been drinking from.

“I don’t know, man. It’s my job to care about this shit, isn’t it? I thought Fiona taking over the laundromat was a bad idea, and she still did it anyways.”

Ian gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah.”

The soft tempo of the paint rollers on the wall continued.

“You sure this is what you wanna do with your life?”

Mickey felt that twist in his stomach again— the ice cold one, the feeling of fear that always sunk into his bones in moments like this, when he knew other people saw what he saw: that Ian Gallagher was far, far too good for him, and that all Mickey doing was ensnaring him in the dirty streets of the Southside and holding him back, when everyone else was moving on with their lives into gentrified apartment complexes.

But he’d heard the smile in Ian’s voice as he replied.

“Absolutely.”

Finally, after a long fucking day, Lip and Liam had left the creaky apartment— the place was looking pretty good, the kitchen and the main room both painted, and Lip had even been able to do a bit of work on the plumbing and fixed the leaky sputter of the upstairs bathroom faucet (he had also tried to convince Ian to install some sort of fucking backsplash thing in the kitchen, a multi-day project that they’d both resisted). Now, with Lip and Liam out the door, he and Ian were ready to crash. Mickey strode across the room and opened all the windows as wide as they could possibly go, trying to dispel all the paint fumes and let in gusts of humid summer air so they could collapse on the mattress. They probably could’ve crashed at one of the other Gallaghers’ places for the night if they felt suffocated by the fumes— but for now the light evening breeze was quickly drying the paint, circulating the almost-too-small room.

Across the room Ian flopped onto the mattress, a ridiculous streak of gray paint smeared across his forehead. Mickey smirked, and crawled into bed next to him, sitting so his legs were pressed against Ian’s upper torso.

“I can’t wait to get a fucking bedframe,” Ian breathed out—his face buried in the pillow, his eyelids drooping. “And a new mattress. Not this shitty one with stains all over it.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey smirked, reaching a hand over to card through Ian’s hair.

“Mm.” Ian hummed happily in reply as he kept his eyes closed, probably starting to drift off to sleep.

While was probably a horrible idea— at the very least, Ian should change out of his paint-streaked clothes and wash his fucking face. There were flecks of paint all over his face and in his hair, mingling and dried in his copper curls, from when he and Mickey had gotten into a moderate paint-splattering war like a couple of teenage boys when they were trying to paint the living room walls later in the day. He prodded Ian in his side, who was now laying curled beside him with a dreamy fucking smile on his face.

“Hey. Mumbles. Get the fuck up. You’re gonna fall asleep with that toxic shit all over your face.”

Ian yawned, his nose crinkling. “Don’t care,” he said into the pillow.

“C’mon, Ian.”

And all at once Ian’s eyes were open, and he was crawling his way on top of Mickey, boxing him in with his arms on both sides of Mickey’s head. Mickey felt a gust of air whoosh out of his lungs in surprise—and in an instant he was reminded of when they used to live at the Milkovich house, in his shitty bedroom with far too many bad memories for Ian’s presence to completely tip the scale and outweigh them with the good ones, when Ian would be laying sleepy beside him and they’d get into little wrestling matches and tussles like this, with grips of hair and breathed out “C’mere, army!”s. There was the same energy buzzing between them in this moment—but god, they were so fucking different than they’d been then. They were fuller, more solid; Ian was measured in a way that still made Mickey’s toes curl when he looked at him and compared him to the scrawny and glassy-eyed teenager that he’d been, to the hollow frame he’d been on the worst days when Mickey placed a hand on a too-cold ribcage curled under thin blankets and run a hand through his hair and whispered “please,” trying to will the light back into Ian’s eyes.

But that light was there all the goddamn time now— and it was there right now as Ian dipped down and kissed at Mickey’s neck, Mickey breathing out as a no-longer-sleepy Ian made his way downward.

He guessed Ian could probably just shower all the dried paint out of his hair tomorrow morning.

Tuesday was a blur of getting ready for Ian’s idea to host fucking 80s night, and getting ready for Franny to stay— Mickey had thought the extent of Ian’s plan for this party thing was going to just be playing some tunes and charging a little extra for beers, but apparently Ian wanted to go all out. He’d had Debbie make some sort of poster with a colorful font and stapled them all over random bulletin boards and telephone poles on the Southside, and posted a bunch of shit on her Instagram (which had a weirdly large following because of her whole “hot handywoman” thing, which was still a complete fucking mystery to Mickey). Mickey wasn’t sure that Ian’s plan of throwing a party at their random Southside bar on a Friday night was going to fix all of their financial problems— but hey, if they needed cash then they needed cash. And while Mickey’s preferred way of procuring cash was heading down to the local corner store with a gun stowed at his waistband, for once in his life he was trying to do this shit right. So maybe his goody-two-shoes husband was making him soft (he definitely, definitely fucking was)— but when his jackass ginger giant of a husband looked at him with fucking puppy dog eyes and asked him to go along with this plan, instead of Mickey’s not-quite-joking suggestions that they just rob the bodega two doors over instead to fix all of the Alibi’s money problems, there really wasn’t much that Mickey could do about it.

He and Ian were wiping the bar, Mickey mentally running through the list of shit they had to order to prep for Friday’s crowd, when their phone screens both illuminated with text messages on the bartop.

Debbie (2:34 PM): everyone make sure to post the 80s night flyer on ur socials!!!!

Lip (2:34 PM): What the fuck are socials

Debbie (2:35 PM): 🙄

Debbie (2:35 PM): u aren’t an old man, phillip. instagram, twitter, even facebook for dinosaurs like u🦖

Liam (2:35 PM): 👍👍 Already posted.

Liam (2:36 PM): But I don’t know how useful advertising to a bunch of 11 year olds will be…

Carl (2:36 PM): me and a bunch of the boys r gonna roll through- get ready to rage motherfuckers!!!

Ian (2:37 PM): ❤️❤️

Ian (2:37 PM): Thanks for all your help Debs

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Sappy motherfucker.”

He decided to reply to the groupchat in the way that he knew best:

Mickey (2:37 PM): 🖕

Mickey remembered the first day that he’d been initiated into the Gallagher family group chat, nearly a week after returning from their “honeymoon” in the dingy motel that smelled like mildew and cigarette smoke— he and Ian had been back at the Gallagher house for about a week, sleeping in most long lazy mornings and getting up to… various activities. It was one of those lazy mornings in bed when Ian had gotten decidedly distracted from said activities by the series of notifications that were lighting up Mickey’s phone on the nightstand from the groupchat Gallagher Fam:

Debbie (11:34 AM): the jonas brothers are playing upstairs. everybody take cover

Lip (11:34 AM): Thank god I don’t live there anymore

Debbie (11:35 AM): also welcome to the group chat mickey xoxo

Liam (11:35 AM): Noise-cancelling headphones are on. An excellent investment

Carl (11:35 AM): i’m just seeking shelter & keeping it real in the basement 😎

Mickey had never been part of a fucking family group chat before—he’d barely been involved in any group chats, since the extent of his smartphone use before prison was nonexistent, and he’d relied on burner phones to do all of Terry’s shady bidding after he got out of jail up until the wedding. He’d used some of their wedding cash to get himself an iPhone—even though he barely fucking knew how to use it half the time, except for shitty multiplayer games he and Ian liked to mess around with— but he’d barely had an excuse to text anyone except Sandy about various wedding logistics, and obviously Ian.

But now he was crashing with Ian’s family, and he and Ian were fucking married, and he was a part of this shit for real— it was group chat official. Which strangely felt all the more real, even though Mickey already had a fucking ring on his finger. And he’d never tell a fucking soul, not even Ian, but it made something warm pool in his stomach— to have siblings to fucking banter with about who ate the last of the potato chips, or who could pick Franny up from school, or whining about whoever was making too much noise, in the same ways he and Mandy and his brother used to get on each other’s fucking nerves.

Ian smiled down at his phone at Mickey’s reply to Debbie’s nudge about the posters. “Excellent contribution. Thanks for showing Debs how grateful you are.”

Mickey brought his emoji to life and flipped Ian off. “You’re welcome.”

Ian bit at his thumbnail, looking down at his phone. “Debbie says she can get us a karaoke machine for Friday. That might be kind of fun, right?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Whatever you think, man. It’s your idea.”

Ian started tapping away at his phone, and Mickey turned back to tidying the bar, the rows and columns of those fucking black binders from the Alibi’s storeroom still lingering in the murky corners of his mind. He didn’t want to blow too much money on this shit— he had no idea how much a karaoke machine costed, but it probably wasn’t cheap. Why the fuck couldn’t they just steal one? Mickey gritted his teeth. He could crunch numbers any day, could make enough bank to stay afloat— but something about this, about running a fully legit business, was making him start to feel like he was being pulled underwater.

Mickey stayed tense the rest of the day, feeling like a bundle of fucking nerves without really knowing why— there was just so much going on, between moving and painting and Ian’s nervous excitement at planning this event bullshit. They’d both stumbled through the slow day at the bar, and now were collapsed in bed for the evening; Mickey was scrolling through various furniture store websites, weighing their options, while Ian was curled next to him, talking about something in a low voice that Mickey wasn’t really paying attention to.

“Sorry, what?”

Ian breathed out and smirked. “Nevermind. You weren’t listening.”

Mickey scrubbed a hand down his face. “Sorry, man. Just distracted.”

“Why’re you distracted?”

“Just thinking about all this shit. Furniture shopping, unpacking, whatever.”

Ian smiled. “Yeah? We can probably just pick stuff out when we go in person, we don’t have to overthink it.”

Mickey blew out a breath. “Yeah. Guess so.” He stretched his arms over his head— when the fuck did his shoulders get so tight?

“You ready for bed?”

“Yeah. I’ll grab the light.”

Mickey stood to pull the string for the bare lightbulb hanging directly above them, then thudded onto his stomach on the mattress. Immediately he heard Ian rustling under the sheets, moving closer to him, and eventually lifting on his arms to hover over Mickey’s back.

“The fuck’re you doing?”

“Relax, Mick. Just take a deep breath. Lemme take care of you.”

Mickey blew a breath out of his mouth into the pillow. “Not in the mood right now, Ian. I’m fucking exhausted.”

“Not like that— just lemme make your shoulders hurt less, at least.”

Mickey could feel Ian’s hot breath on the back of his neck as Ian settled, sitting back on Mickey’s upper thighs and leaning over him. He ran his hands along Mickey’s upper shoulders, delicately rubbing his thumbs up and down near his spine and trying to work at the permanent knots there.

“R’you giving me a fucking massage?” Mickey mumbled the words into the pillow, letting his eyelids droop. It did feel pretty fucking good, if he was being honest—the tension was draining from where he’d been holding it in his shoulders all week long, absorbing the impact of all the changes swirling around them and trying to keep them both afloat.

“Mm.” Ian hummed in reply, working his hands down to Mickey’s lower back and digging his thumbs in right where there were bundles of dull pain. Mickey almost flinched—not because it hurt, really, but because Ian’s fingertips gliding across his skin felt so fucking good.

He remembered the first 17 years of his life, the years when he’d been touch-starved without even realizing it, when the only touches his nerve-endings knew were high-impact beat downs and fists connecting with his jawbone. Milkoviches didn’t fucking hug, aside from a casual slap on the shoulder or side-hug when one of them was released from juvie—and even after he and Ian got together it took fucking forever to know what being held, what being gently touched, felt like. Those first few times when Ian had dragged his fingers over Mickey’s hipbones when they were fucking made Mickey nearly shudder, his nerve endings sparking like goddamn fireworks; and he couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. It was like his body was going on alert, like there was an invader breaching and he was always used to bracing for impact; but despite himself, all Mickey wanted was more— all he wanted was to press his cheek to Gallagher’s fucking jawbone and just keep it there and breathe in the scent of him, absorbing the warmth of his skin.

He still wasn’t totally used to this shit, the luxury of a warm body next to his after those years in a narrow prison cot, and on the run— but as he drifted off to sleep, his shoulders now unclenched and Ian’s warm, sturdy limbs circled around him, he thanked god, if god even did fucking exist anyways, that living in the shitty apartment over the Alibi was where he ended up in his life right now, with Ian by his side.

The next evening, just as the sun was setting pink outside the windows and Mickey was finishing up organizing everything behind the bar, Debbie towed Franny into the main room of the Alibi, wearing some sort of pink frilly shirt and carrying a kid-sized backpack with her pajamas and toothbrush inside.

“Thanks for watching Franny tonight, you guys are the best!” Debbie had barely set foot in the door before she was out it again and letting it swing shut behind her. Seconds later, Mickey could hear the distinct roaring of a too-expensive car engine coming from the street outside the bar.

Ian peered out the front window to inspected Heidi’s ride. “Jesus. It’s some sort of Ferrari convertible.” He scooped up Franny’s backpack from the floor, slinging the comically small bag onto his broad shoulders as he crouched to give Franny a hug. “Hey Fran, it’s so good to see you!”

“I missed you, Uncle Ian!” Franny enthusiastically squeezed Ian back.

Ian pressed a peck to the top of her head. “Missed you too. We’ve gotta have a talk with your mommy when she gets back about child road safety. That Ferrari was noticeably lacking a car seat.”

“Uncle Mickey!!!” Franny nearly squealed as she spotted Mickey behind the bar, running up and trying to jump up onto a stool so she could reach him. Ian laughed and lifted Franny so she was perched on a stool, her legs dangling as she reached forward. Mickey reached out an arm to fist-bump Franny, the best he could do with the bartop between them.

“Hey there, Little Red. Missed ya.”

Franny immediately looked Mickey up and down, like she was assessing if he’d changed at all since she last saw him. Her brows furrowed—then finally she spoke.

“Uncle Mickey, I have a question.”

Mickey reached across the bar to ruffle her hair. “What’s up, kid?”

She paused. “Can I rip the sleeves off my shirt too, like you?”

Mickey chuckled in surprise. He was wearing one of his flannel tank-tops with the arms ripped off—a white trash summer look in every way. “Let’s see what we can do. I think Uncle Ian’s got some old shirts packed upstairs that we can mess around with.”

Luckily, the bar was totally empty for the evening, aside from their three or four regulars— so Ian and Franny got to go upstairs and play dress-up while Mickey dealt with shit at the bar for an hour or so, deciding they’d close early so they could pay attention to Franny.

“Hey, Mick! We’ve got a surprise for you.” Ian’s voice wafted down from the back stairway that led up to the apartment.

“What’s up?”

“One sec. Stay downstairs.” Mickey could hear two sets of pattering footsteps coming down the staircase—and Franny dashed into the room, wearing a very baggy white tank top that reached her knees and an oversized flannel with the sleeves ripped off, an exact replica of Mickey’s outfit.

“Look, Uncle Mickey! I have an outfit like you! Now we can play liquor store robbery.” She looked at him seriously—then her face contorted, her brows furrowed and her lip sticking out in a face that Ian had taken to calling the “Milkovich scowl,” a trait that Franny had adopted in her many hours of playing “robbers” in the backyard with Mickey with her fake guns he’d gotten her for her birthday.

“Gimme all of your money!”

Mickey chuckled, and threw his hands up in surrender. “You got me, Wonder Woman.”

Ian walked towards the bar, lifting Franny up so she was perched on the countertop. “You like Franny’s new look? She was pretty insistent about wearing the tank top too.”

But Franny was still peering over at Mickey, like something had caught her eye.

“Uncle Mickey, can I have drawings on my fingers too? Like you? All the real robbers on TV have those.”

This time it was Ian who was laughing. “Oh my god. Debbie’s gonna kill us. If Franny gets knuckle tattoos by the time she’s seventeen, I’m blaming you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Ain’t nothing wrong with family tradition. Fuck you.”

Ian tapped his fingers on the counter. “Wait, I have an idea. Franny, wait here.” Ian rushed upstairs, and came back down holding the black Sharpie that had Mickey had been using to circle pictures in the Ikea catalogue.

“Here, hold out your hand Fran.”

Franny held out her hand for Ian to hold—and he started to draw blocky letters between each of her knuckles. When he finished, he held Franny’s hand up for Mickey to see the doodled serifs, smiling sheepishly.

“L T T L R E D ♡”

Mickey grinned. “Now you’re a real robber, Rockstar.” Franny looked at her hands and smiled contentedly, running her thumb over the letters.

“L. T. T. L. I know all these letters. They’re different from Uncle Mickey’s. Mommy said his say ‘fuck.’”

Ian snorted. “Yeah, you get your own special letters Franny. They say ‘little red.’”

Franny beamed. “That’s what Uncle Mickey calls me!”

“You got it, kiddo.”

The rest of the afternoon involved many rounds of playing “liquor store robbery,” and Ian lifting up Franny to “help” behind the bar by pulling the lever of the beer tap— and by the early evening, when even fucking Kermit and Tommy had gone, Ian had the idea to make a fort out of the leftover empty inventory boxes, and Franny had repeatedly busted through the tower of boxes and shouted “Put your hands in the air!” as she pretended to blow up fictional liquor store walls.

Now it was late and they were all upstairs—Franny had crashed after dinnertime, after bouncing on the bed with a sugar high from the Poptarts Mickey had snuck her after dinner (to supplement some bullshit pasta thing that Ian had forced Mickey to feed her, even though he never remembered wanting to eat that shit when he was five— he practically lived on Honey Buns and pork rinds from the nearby gas station).

They still didn’t have furniture, and at one point they’d perched on the mattress so Mickey could show Franny videos of monster trucks on his phone— and now Franny was totally passed out against Mickey’s chest, breathing those raspy, loud breaths kids make when they’re deeply asleep.

Ian came in the room from the semi-divided wall of the kitchen, wiping his hands after finishing rinsing the dishes (two plates, and a bowl that Franny ate from because they’d only swiped two of everything from the Gallagher house last week); and Mickey saw Ian’s lips curve upward in a knowing smile as he noticed Franny curled in the bedsheets, half-leaning on Mickey’s chest. Franny and Mickey were smack in the middle of the mattress, taking up most of the room; but Ian crouched to sit on the edge of the mattress beside Mickey, hooking his chin on Mickey’s shoulder casually as he peered over at Franny, still wearing her oversized flannel and smudged knuckle tattoos.

“Guess our babysitting duties are over.” He breathed out, trying not to unsettle Franny’s steady breathing. “Hope we didn’t corrupt her too much.”

Mickey scoffed. “Debbie’s dating someone who’s more of a fuck-up than we’ll ever be. Don’t think the ball’s really in our court on that one.”

“Fair.”

Franny scrunched her nose in her sleep, sighing out heavily before nestling deeper into the bedsheets.

“I kinda missed her, man.”

Mickey was surprised by the words as he heard them coming out of his mouth— they were true, but he hadn’t even voiced them to himself until now. As shitty as he’d always been with kids, he had to admit that goofing around with Franny was pretty fucking fun.

Ian smiled from where his mouth was pressed against Mickey’s shoulder. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a silence, the room filled with the soft sound of Franny’s steady breathing. And then:

“Maybe… we’ll have a kid of our own sometime.”

Immediately, Mickey felt his gut lurch. It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about this shit—they definitely had, in the abstract moments before the wedding; before everything blew up in their face and the pandemic took hold and any thought of kids was pushed way, way to the sidelines. And it wasn’t like Mickey was avoiding the topic— but he wasn’t exactly bringing it up, either, and neither was Ian.

Mickey thought back to that moment before the wedding, back to the hushed “you want kids?” Ian had placed between them— and how in that moment Mickey had known how much Ian wanted kids, how much Ian constantly cared for other people, how his voice got all soft and mushy around the edges in the vicinity of a baby. He knew how much Ian wanted this— but even broaching the topic made Mickey’s muscles start to clench.

Mickey tried to keep his cool—even though he felt the tides starting to roll inside of him, threatening to pull him under.

“I’d be a shitty dad, man.”

Ian’s head pulled away from where it had been nestled against the crook of Mickey’s neck—and Mickey turned his head to meet Ian’s piercing gaze.

“No you wouldn’t.” Ian’s voice was soft, surprised.

Mickey swallowed. “What if I like. Beat it. Or—” he cut himself off, knowing his voice was starting to waver.

Ian’s voice was firm when he replied. “You won’t. You’re great with Franny.” Ian paused.” “You were great with Yev.”

And there it was—the other fucking elephant in the room, beside all of Mickey’s other daddy issues; the fact that Mickey already was a father, was forced to be a father against his own will, giving him some sort of complex that he didn’t even have the energy to dig into about the potential of scooping up some kid to raise with Ian…. when there was already one out there with his gene pool that he didn’t want, that he couldn’t want, whose existence was forced onto him at gunpoint and who he didn’t have the strength to take care of.

Mickey felt Ian’s hand, feather light, tracing down his side— pulling him out of the current of his internal monologue. Ian’s hand hooked around his hip; a touch to root him, giving Mickey solid ground to hold on to.

“Hey.”

“What.”

“You’re gonna be a great dad.”

Mickey swallowed down the lump in his throat—and with it he tried to swallow down whatever bullshit was holding him back from letting himself have this. He thought about Ian—despite all his own reservations, he knew Ian must be having the same type of feelings about all of this shit; Ian was the one who had stolen Yev, who had worked so hard to get himself to the person he was today—a stable place where he was allowed to dream about being a parent, allowed to dream about shit like this.

“I hate this.”

Mickey didn’t really know what he was referring to in particular as he said the words—he hated all of this, he hated the churning emotions inside him. He felt so fucking uncomfortable—but that was always the first thing he felt, wasn’t it, when there was something deeper inside? It was the first thing he’d felt when he started to fall for Ian, when he started to realize he much preferred scrawny redheads to the busty figures with long hair; the pushing and heaving of no no no from somewhere in his ribcage, because he knew how much letting himself have this was going to hurt, how much shit he was going to have to wade through.

But he’d fucking done it—and look where he was now: Ian curled against his back, their fucking niece sound asleep beside him.

“Hey.” Ian’s voice was soft, nearly tickling Mickey’s ears. “There’s no rush for any of this shit. I’m just talking about… big picture. Eventually. When we’ve got all our shit settled.”

There it was again—that word, the one Ian had been saying all the time lately, the one that had been radiating out of his pores. Settled.

Mickey clearing his throat, trying to dispel the huskiness he knew would be there when he spoke. “Yeah. Maybe someday.”

He looked down at his hands. He knew that saying that wasn’t enough— Ian had to know how much he meant it.

“I— I wanna give you that shit. Someday.”

Mickey knew that was still an inadequate expression of everything he was feeling, of how much he wished he could just race carefreely into making fucking forts and playing dress-up with a kid of their own; but he also knew that for tonight, Ian understood. He knew in the way Ian pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw, and said into the silence of the room:

“You’re so fucking good at taking care of people, Mick.”

Mickey let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. They were going to do this—someday.

“You know… now that we’ve got our own place.” Ian’s voice trailed off.

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Well— we could be good millennials and start with a dog. Y’know, as a practice run. Get your fucking Milkovich pit bulls or whatever.”

Mickey instantly felt whatever remaining tense energy that had been clinging to him dissipate. He felt a grin creep onto his face. “Hell yeah. I’m in.”

Ian pecked his shoulder. “Cool. We can check out shelters sometime next week.”

Mickey shook his head, still smiling in relief. “A pit bull, I can handle. We’re gonna treat her like a fucking princess. Who needs kids anyways?”

Ian smiled back. “The first step in starting our own Southside family.”

Mickey’s insides instantly got warm and gushy at the words— and again, it was that mix of no no no and you don’t deserve this alongside something deeper, something more solid. He tried to do what Ian always told him to do, in the moments that he felt like this: he forced a breath in, forced himself to expand his ribcage. He forced himself to think:

You deserve this.

The next day had been uneventful, other than Franny’s tearful goodbye— and now it was the early afternoon on Friday, far too early for any sort of rush. Once again only Tommy and fucking Kermit were seated at the bar, but today he and Ian were barely paying attention to them, despite Tommy’s halfhearted attempts to drag Mickey into some sort of bullshit banter (as much as Tommy said he preferred silence at the bar, everyone knew that was a lie. Why the fuck else would be have been coming here every day for the last eleven years?).

Today, Ian had dragged a chalkboard out from the clutter of the dingy back closet of the Alibi, a sandwich board meant to be placed on the curb to promote the bar that looked like it had hardly been used. Ian continued to shuffle through the various boxes in the back room, making a shit ton of noise, until he finally found whatever else he’d been looking for.

“Aha!”

He held up a bent cardboard box of multicolor sidewalk chalk— half empty, and half broken, but it would get the job done.

He strode over to the bar, laying the chalkboard on it— then turned to Mickey, folding his arms in front of him.

“Alright, bartender extraordinaire. What drinks should we make for 80s night?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, puffing out a breath. “I don’t fucking know. Most of the guys who come in on Fridays just drink beer. We don’t gotta overcomplicate shit.”

Ian pressed his lips together, contemplative and looking down at the blank canvas of the chalkboard. “I’m not saying we should force out the regulars, because that’s definitely not what we’re going for with the event— but it’d be nice to have a couple of new things, in case the new people in the neighborhood do some by. Nothing too fancy or frilly or whatever.”

Ian dug in the cardboard box, plucking out a piece of chalk.

“And we should make our own signature drinks anyways, since we’re taking over the place. Make our mark on the Alibi.” He grinned. “Got any fun drink name ideas?”

Mickey rolled his eyes again, and felt the corners of his lips turn upwards in an amused smile against his will, thawing. “I don’t fuckin’ know.”

Ian continued smiling. “How about… the Milkovich Mojito.”

Mickey puffed out a breath of air, shoving Ian in the chest and furrowing his brows. “No fucking way.”

Ian just waggled his eyebrows. “C’mon, we own the place. It’ll just be a mojito with a shit ton of rum, only enough for someone with Milkovich-level tolerance. People will think it’s funny.”

Mickey felt his eyebrows lift upwards a bit, and he could see from the expression on Ian’s face that he’d lost this one. “Fine.”

Ian smirked, penciling in “Milkovich Mojito” on the chalkboard and drawing a little design around it. Mickey forgot how good Ian was at this— at the little details like this, at making shit look nice.

Ian rose from where he was hunched over the chalkboard when his masterpiece was completed, hands on his hips. “Alright. What else?”

Mickey shrugged. “I don’t know. How about ‘just fucking beer’?”

Ian laughed, and a warm feeling pooled in Mickey’s stomach despite himself. “Yeah. We should spell that out on the menu, so people know that’s our standard.” He leaned to write “JUST FUCKING BEER” on the chalkboard, drawing a little cartoon beer stein with foam on the top next to it. Mickey reached out, smudging a bit of the chalk of the drawing to annoy Ian, just because he could.

Ian swatted his arm away. “Hey! No touching the masterpiece.” He drew over the part Mickey smudged as best he could, biting his lip in concentration. Fuckin’ dork.

Ian stood tall again, admiring the finished product. “There. One more?”

Mickey shrugged again, feeling utterly out of ideas. He could balance a budget, sure, but he was useless with all the creative shit like this.

Ian bit his lip again, thinking. “What’re even mixed drinks people like? Sex on the beach?”

Mickey smirked. “There ain’t a lot of beaches in Chicago, man.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess it’s more like ‘sex behind a dumpster.’ Or ‘sex on your twin bed at your family’s house.’”

Mickey grinned, catching Ian’s drift. “Sex in the dugouts.”

Ian laughed, then made a little gesture with his hands like inspiration had struck. “Mick, I think we have our final drink name.” He turned to write it on the chalkboard.

“What the fuck are we gonna put in it? Just a fuckin’ lukewarm beer?”

Ian smirked, looking off dreamily. “Ah, memories.”

Mickey prodded him in the sternum. “You’re a fucking sap.” He shoved Ian over. “Here, let me write this one.” He took the chalk from Ian’s hand. “No peeking.”

He scratched on the chalkboard for a moment, then stood back to reveal his work. “Ta-da.”

In scratchy handwriting, not unlike the “STAY THE FUCK OUT” sign that used to be taped to his door, read “SEX IN THE DUGOUTS”—and next to it was two drawings, of a cartoon dick and two stick figures fucking doggy-style.

Ian grinned wide. “It’s perfect. Definitely captures the vibe of the new owners.”

Mickey just smiled back.

It was 6 p.m. now, and the bar was just about ready—Ian had compulsively swept the floor during the lull in the afternoon, even though it would be dirtied and scuffed within seconds of the usual Friday blue-collar crowd streaming in through the doors, and Mickey was perched on a stool at the end of the bar, laboring over his playlist. He usually didn’t overthink this shit— he’d included all the classics, from Bon Jovi to Queen to fucking Cyndi Lauper, but there was something so public about he and Ian running this thing now, and about throwing a loud event to proclaim it, that make Mickey’s stomach start to do somersaults for some reason as the first huddled crowd of Southsiders shuffled their way in through the door.

The bar did look good— Ian had got some sort of lighting gels to put over the lamps in the Alibi, and the room’s lighting was tinted a suave blue color, making the small space feel a little hipper, a little cooler, while still retaining its comforting dingy feel. It almost reminded Mickey of the soft, colorful lighting in that random Westside bar they’d gotten engaged in, with the shitty overpriced beer and the sparkly fucking lights when they’d watched that god-awful harp band with Barry or whatever the fuck his name was— but the lighting here looked cooler, more deliberate, and cast a calculated glow across the room that added to the vibe. The bass was thrumming low through the speakers Ian had rented from somewhere— right now it was just playing some mellow Joy Division song as people continued streaming into the bar.

Ian had crept upstairs at some point, probably to change out of whatever sweaty t-shirt he’d been wearing all day; and Mickey saw a flash of red hair emerging from the stairway now, turning the corner to stride into the dark room.

“Hey! Oh my god, it’s great to see you guys!”

Immediately Ian was swept away by some group of people in their mid-twenties near the swinging door that led to the back of the bar, who were chattering away about how they’d seen the poster on Debbie’s Instagram or some shit. Mickey assumed they were some people Ian had known when he’d been locked up, one of the unfamiliar faces from their wedding that got involved with Ian’s “Gay Jesus” bullshit—and as much as Mickey knew Ian’s relationship with those figures from a very different time in his life was complicated to say the least, it was nice to see Ian leaning comfortably against the bar, chatting away with someone that wasn’t him or Lip— chatting with friends. Looking settled.

Mickey smirked, knowing his gaze was lingering for too long when Ian locked eyes with him from across the bar, tilting his head towards the stairway. Giving Mickey a chance to go upstairs, to freshen up, to take a deep breath if he wanted to.

Fuck it. Mickey strode across the bar, heading upstairs to the quiet sanctuary of the studio and its fresh-painted walls. He shuffled through the various shirts and baggy jeans that were now in their designated-clothes-pile in the corner of the room, at least until they got a dresser and hangers and all that shit. He decided to peel off his sweaty tank top and change into a blue Hawaiian-print shirt, the one he’d swiped from the laundry room at the yuppie fucking Westside apartment complex before he’d burned that bridge, to amp himself up and fit the vibe downstairs. The shirt was only a little bit creased from being shoved in a pile in the corner of the room, which felt like a bonus— and Mickey smoothed a hand through his hair and fixed the collar of the shirt as he caught his own eye in the cracked bathroom mirror. There weren’t lots of times Mickey really gave a shit about what he wore—he and Ian pretty much lived in tank tops and boxers at home, and tank tops and denim at the bar especially on hot fucking days like these ones— but he had to admit that it did feel pretty nice to put on a shirt with a collar, a shirt with bright colors and patterns on it that, fuck it, he knew made his eyes pop—just because he wanted to have fun, just because he could.

He ruffled his hair one last time, then clomped back down the back staircase towards the light chatter swirling in the room below. Immediately he noticed the line at the bar starting to grow, and walked with intention over to behind the bar to start taking orders from a mixed sea of regulars and younger, new faces.

“Looking pretty festive there, Mick.”

Mickey held up a middle finger to where Tommy was seated on his usual stool. “Fuck you. I look hot and you know it.”

“You definitely do.” Ian slid behind him, speaking low into Mickey’s ear and his hands gliding to bracket Mickey’s waist for a moment as he shuffled by to pass a beer to a customer, then walked to the end of the bar and start to take more orders without a glance back. Mickey felt his neck flush red, just for a second— Ian was always just saying shit like that, about how good Mickey was, whenever he looked nice. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it.

After a few hours the party was fully humming, and both he and Ian could barely glance up from the bar because of how many people were streaming through and placing their orders. Courtesy of Debbie, a karaoke machine was up and running in the corner of the room, the speakers blasting a series of poppy instrumentals across the small space—and as much as Mickey hated to admit it, he had to say that this event bullshit was actually a pretty fucking good idea. There were a handful of new faces in the crowd, a bunch of fucking millennials with man-buns and Ray-Bans and brimmed hats; but most of the crowd was the typical neighborhood crew, blue-collar workers with beer guts who were dropping slightly more money than their usual tab on an extra beer, and walking sloshed to the corner of the room to serenade their buddies with “Livin’ on a Prayer” (which made Ian stare across the bar at Mickey with a knowing smile between pouring drink orders).

At some point in the evening Debbie rolled in with a group of people from some gay bar she’d been pregaming her evening at, and Carl came by with some of his cop buddies; and all in all, the place had all the makings of a good fucking party. Which meant they were making good cash—beyond the wads of bills left on the bartop as tips, all the millennial jokers filtering through the space were surprisingly biting on the overpriced cocktails Ian had concocted, and they were racking up a good profit as the night went on.

Maybe they could fucking run this place after all.

Right now, a very sloshed Debbie was singing on the karaoke machine in the corner, belting out the final verse of “I Will Always Love You” and practically eye-fucking her new Grand Theft Auto girlfriend— an image that Mickey was trying not to pay attention to at all costs as he scanned the room, trying to mentally calculate just how well they’d done for the night. There’d been a good crowd streaming in for hours— and now the numbers were finally dwindling, and at last he and Ian could finally slow their pace for a bit, instead of being pulled in a million goddamn directions to wipe up beer spills or clear tables or refill the ice cubes in the freezer.

“Heeeyyyyy everyone! Listen up!” Debbie’s muffled voice took over the fade of the final chords of the song, her mouth a little too close to the microphone and making it screech as she spoke out to the crowd in the bar. “I just wanna say a shoutout to Ian and Mickey for taking over the Alibi! And for being the heroes that kept this place alive!” She teetered slightly. “Southside forever!”

Mickey scowled, and locked eyes with an amused Ian across the bar. “Control your fucking sister, man.”

Ian shrugged. “Eh. She’s the one that helped plan half this shit. Let Debs have some fun.”

Debbie pointed a finger over to where Ian and Mickey were standing behind the bar. “Everyone give them a round of applause! C’mon, they deserve it! C’mon!”

There were a couple of chuckles from the crowd, at Debbie’s deeply inebriated state as she tried to put the microphone back in its stand and drag herself away from the small TV showing song lyrics— but then, one by one, people at the bar started to clap— regulars, random newcomers, and even Tommy gave a little whoop as the cheers grew louder and louder and started to erupt.

Mickey just rolled his eyes, but Ian straightened his spine and smiled as he addressed the crowd. “Couldn’t have done it without all of you guys!” He wiped his hands with a towel, and went back to wiping down the bar as the applause settled.

Just then, Debbie turned and fumbled to grab the microphone once more. “Wait! Ian, Mickey! Come up here and sing a song.”

If Mickey thought he was scowling the first time Debbie had stumbled her way into the mic, now he was on a whole different level. He flashed a glance to Ian, and saw the sappy grin starting to grow on his face, like it always did when Ian had some dumbass idea. Jesus Christ.

Mickey needed to pump the brakes on this one fast. “No fucking way, Gallagher.”

Ian stepped closer to Mickey, reaching a placating hand onto his elbow. “C’mon, Mick. It’ll be fun.” Ian raised his eyebrows— and his stupid fucking eyes were shining again, doing that fucking thing where Mickey could feel in his bones that Ian was so ridiculously happy that they got to do sappy, mundane shit like this together…

Mickey blew out a breath. “I gotta do a shot or some shit before we do this.”

Ian’s grin grew ten sizes as he dropped the towel hanging from his shoulder onto the bar and swiftly turned to pour Mickey a shot of Jameson. Mickey’s frown deepened as he lifted his head back to pour the liquid fire down the back of his throat, bracing himself for battle; of course his stupid fucking American-Idol-wannabe husband couldn’t resist a call to do goddamn karaoke. Mickey blamed himself—he should’ve known Ian anywhere in the 1-mile radius of a karaoke machine would inevitably be a recipe for disaster.

Ian strode past the length of the bar and toward the corner of the Alibi where the illuminated screen of the karaoke machine was sitting there waiting— Mickey trudged behind him, shooting a glance at where Tommy and Kermit were seated on their regular stools.

“You two are in charge of the bar for 2 fucking minutes. Don’t fuck this up.” Kermit raised his hands in surrender, and Tommy just raised an eyebrow.

Ian was already punching at the little arrows on the machine. “What song d’you wanna do?”

“I could give less than a fuck, man. This is your fucking idea.”

Ian just flashed him a grin as he scrolled through the preselected song options. “Here, let’s do this one.”

He handed Mickey a microphone, and reached over to grab the second mic from Debbie’s hand (who was now successfully being corralled back to a booth by Heidi).

Instantly, the techno intro rhythms to the song began—and Ian started bobbing his head, causing the onlookers at the bar to laugh and one person to whistle. Mickey just shoved his upper arm.

“I fucking hate you so much.”

Ian just raised his eyebrows, and in a very off-key voice, started to sing:

“You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar

When I met you

I picked you out, I shook up and turned you around

Turned you into someone new”

Mickey felt his heart thudding in his chest—and fuck that. He owned the fucking bar, he could fucking sing with his goddamn husband if he wanted to. Fuck whatever everyone else was thinking.

So when the first verse ended, and quickly streamed into the second, Mickey clutched the microphone and half-spoke, half-sang the illuminated words on the screen:

“Now five years later on you’ve got the world at your feet

Success has been so easy for you

But don’t forget it’s me who put you where you are now

And I can put you back down too”

Ian’s grin was splitting across his face— and once again Mickey had to reach out and prod him in the chest.

“Stop looking so fucking sappy!”

Ian just held the microphone in both of his hands, and playfully started to sing the chorus:

“Don't

Don't you want me?

You know I can't believe it

When I hear that you won't see me”

He looked over at Mickey, raising his eyebrows. “C’mon, Mick!”

Fuck it.

Mickey swallowed down whatever lingering… feelings were happening about all of this shit, and let the people watching them melt away, fading into the hazy blue lighting— because fuck all those assholes, anyways. He and Ian had been through way too much shit in the main room of the Alibi for Mickey to be afraid of doing fucking karaoke right now; he’d literally come out to his dad in these four walls. He’d had his face bashed in the moment he decided right here, rooted in this same spot on the scuffed hardwood floors, that he would do fucking anything to always be by Ian Gallagher’s side. So he squeezed his eyes shut, just for a second— and pretended it was just him and Ian, singing fucking Lady Gaga in their bathroom as they brushed their teeth (which, yes, they had been prone to do since Chromatica came out, fucking sue him)— and let himself actually sing, deep from his gut in the same goofy, lighthearted way that Ian was doing along with him:

“Don’t you want me baby?

Don’t you want me? Oh!

Don’t you want me baby?

Don’t you want me? Oh!”

Ian’s face was slightly flushed, still grinning from ear to ear, his eyes shining as he bobbed his head along with the music— and as they both finished singing the chorus, everyone in the bar started to lose their shit. Everyone was clapping and whistling; even some of the old regulars Mickey had pegged as homophobes a long time ago were cracking smiles through their scraggly beards and clapping their hands together.

When the song finally ended, Ian took a dramatic bow— then he took Mickey’s hand, clasping it and raising it over their heads. The applause and cheers erupted from the crowd, and someone yelled out:

“Let’s hear it for the new owners!”

After that, for the rest of the night Mickey loosened the fuck up— and maybe it was the couple of shots in his system, or maybe it was the fact that there weren’t that many people in the bar now at all except for a thin crowd of familiar faces— but he was feeling happy and warm as he milled through the crowd picking up empty glasses. At some point Debbie switched up the playlist to more dance-y stuff, causing her and Heidi to start spinning in the middle of the room, and a couple others to push the bar tables to the side and follow suit.

And now, people were dancing—and some random middle-aged neighborhood lady grabbed Mickey by the wrist, a smile on her face, to come dance with them—and usually Mickey would scowl and say “Fuck no” to dancing with some random fucking stranger in a situation like this, but he was feeling the blood rushing through his veins, feeling fucking settled—so for just this once, he decided to dance like a fucking goof in his Hawaiian shirt with the random lady for a while, til he locked eyes with where Ian was standing across the bar.

And maybe they were supposed to be paying attention, because they were still the ones running the fucking bar— but all Mickey wanted to do in that moment was walk across the room and press himself closer, closer, and reach his hand up to the side of Ian’s neck, and drag him to lean down to just the right height to press their lips together, to feel the warmth between them.

So that’s what he did, in the midst of the whirring of their neighbors and strangers in the Alibi around them.

We don’t have to run anymore.

#finally finished!!!#not rly proofread lol #yes it is almost 10k oops #i am actually rly proud of completing this chap i hope u enjoy #i love u all so so much i cannot get over how many amazing hcs i feel lucky to have included in this!#gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #gallavich fanfiction #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #lip gallagher #liam gallagher #ian and mickey #ian x mickey #ixm

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unbridgeabledistances · 4 years

Text

final part of valentine’s day fic is here!! this is maximum fluff, i hope u enjoy:’)

Mickey sauntered into the Gallagher house, rubbing his hands together to warm them as he quickly slammed the front door shut to block out the bitter cold. He shuffled his coat off his shoulders, trying to go through the same mental checklist he’d been that had been running through his mind all week. Okay. 7 o’clock. He was right on time— now he just needed to shower, and put on a clean fucking shirt before he tried to get Ian to come with him…

Mickey turned the corner into the living room— and was met with Ian standing there, leaning against the back of the couch with his hands behind his back. The lights in the living room were dim, and the house was surprisingly silent for a Saturday evening; if Mickey didn’t know any better, it seemed like someone had coordinated having all the Gallaghers out of the house at the same time this evening.

His eyes flickered to meet Ian’s, who was watching him carefully and steadily from across the room, his gaze soft but piercing.

Mickey’s heart instantly started to thud, and he wasn’t really sure why— maybe it was the intensity of Ian’s gaze, or maybe it was the fact that all of a sudden, all his scheming from the past week had finally caught up with him. What if what he was planning for tonight was too much, what if Ian fucking hated it? Mickey tried to swallow down the anxiety gnawing at his insides, willing his heartbeat to settle back down to an even tempo. Be cool.

“Hey. Where is everybody?” Mickey asked, feigning nonchalance as he pulled off his shoes.

Ian gave a sheepish smile. “Might’ve suggested that they find other places to be tonight.”

Mickey smirked. Fucking sap. “Oh yeah?”

Ian’s gentle, closed-lip smile grew a little wider, and then he pulled a bouquet from behind his back, his gaze still hesitant but piercing, a laser beam burning a hole into Mickey’s chest.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mick,” he breathed.

At first, something deep inside Mickey made him want to squirm out of his skin, made him immediately feel the need to open his mouth to make some quick retort how gay and sappy it was to even think about getting Mickey a goddamn bouquet of flowers for Valentine’s Day, like he was some fucking girl— but before that sentence traveled from his brain to his mouth, Mickey noticed what type of flowers they were and the words got caught in his throat. These weren’t just some cheap fucking flowers Ian got him to try to fulfill a convention, or because he thought that that was what he was supposed to do— these were blue stargazer lilies, the flowers that Mickey had picked out for their wedding before everything went to shit, and all of Mickey’s towering expectations for the day had been forced to crash down and crumble to the wayside. These were flowers for Mickey— these were Ian showing that he listened, that he remembered, that he cared how important this shit had been to him. These weren’t flowers for anyone else.

Mickey realized he was standing frozen in the middle of the living room with his mouth gaping open for a millisecond too long. He quickly snapped it shut, and put his hand up to his brow like he always did when he was trying to keep his shit together. Ian just kept staring him down, his eyes gleaming as they caught the low light.

“Got these fuckers special ordered on some sketchy website yesterday,” Ian admitted in a low, throaty voice as he held the lilies out in front of him, rustling the cellophane and paper they were wrapped in. “I was pretty desperate. Cost a shit ton.”

Mickey cleared his throat. “For someone who didn’t care about all the wedding bullshit, you’ve got a good fucking memory.”

Ian smirked. “Yeah, well, listening is what marriage is all about, right?” He suddenly slouched slightly, like a weight had appeared on his shoulders. “Listen, Mick— I know you don’t really care about Valentine’s Day or whatever, but the other day with Franny just got me thinking about how I wanted to do something for you, just to say I’m sorry for how tough shit has been lately. M’sorry if you think it’s too… I don’t know, too fucking gay or whatever.”

Mickey smirked. Fucking Gallagher. He immediately took a long step towards Ian, bridging the gap between them, invading his personal space and tangling their fingers together. Ian’s eyes widened, his lips almost imperceptibly parting in surprise. Their faces were millimeters apart; Mickey could feel the warmth radiating off of Ian’s skin, the space between their lips hanging heavy with tension.

“Thank you for the goddamn flowers,” Mickey murmured, holding Ian’s heavy-lidded gaze.

“Welcome,” Ian exhaled, his breath tingling on Mickey’s lips.

And then Ian’s hands were digging into Mickey’s hipbones, and wrapping around his lower back to pull him in closer, and their lips were meeting with a searing tenderness that almost made Mickey’s chest ache. Their lips crashed together again and again— not like they were building towards anything, or scrambling to get their clothes off and rush into the bedroom like usual— but like everything was wrapped up in this kiss, like everything was pouring out in every press of their lips and every tug of Ian’s teeth at Mickey’s bottom lip. It was a kiss Mickey could lose himself in, with Ian’s hands cradling his neck and pulling on the back of his waist, holding him upright. And he almost would have— if he didn’t suddenly remember all the shit he had planned tonight.

Ian kept his eyes on Mickey as he pulled away, his pupils blown out and his hands still pinning Mickey into place.

“What d’you want to do now?” Ian asked in a low voice.

Mickey tried to hold back the grin threatening to burst across his face. “Well, I’ve got some fucking tricks up my sleeve too, Gallagher, so why don’t you go change into something nice and follow me?”

“Mickey, where the fuck are we going? It’s freezing, we should’ve asked Debbie to just drive us instead of taking the L.”

Mickey was briskly walking a couple of paces ahead of Ian like a man on a mission. He turned to Ian and flashed a mysterious smile over his shoulder— without slowing down, much to Ian’s irritation. “Quit your fucking whining. We’re almost there.”

Ian rolled his eyes, but jogged to catch up with Mickey and intertwined their gloved hands. “Better be,” he mumbled in a voice that was supposed to be annoyed but he knew came out overly fond.

Mickey just smirked, squeezing Ian’s hand and leaning into the touch.

Ian didn’t know what the fuck they were doing on this side of town— he and Mickey had never really been over here together, except during that whole shitshow with Byron and the engagement. Mickey definitely had something up his sleeve, but this was… definitely not where Ian had expected Mickey to drag him off to.

And weirder than that, Mickey seemed nervous— like, genuinely sweaty-palms nervous, which was not a state Mickey was in very often. Whatever the fuck Mickey had planned for them, Ian knew it was a big fucking deal for him; hell, Mickey even acknowledging that today was Valentine’s Day for Ian’s sake felt like a big deal in his book.

Finally, they turned the corner and Mickey’s pace slowed. They had reached a block of the city known for having a lot of fancy high-end restaurants, but tonight the street was dim— even though it was Valentine’s Day, indoor dining was still banned and all the restaurants on the block were closed, their dark front windows looming and reflecting the streetlights.

All the restaurants on the block, that was, except one— and it was the place that Mickey was towing Ian towards, to under a classy, warmly-lit sign reading “Sizzler’s Dining.”

Ian felt something rise in his throat, flushed heat flooding his face.

“Holy shit, I just realized something. We’ve never actually been on a real date.”

“Bullshit!”

“I’m serious— like, a date where you sit down, and you go to a nice restaurant, and you put on a nice shirt and you, like, eat with utensils.”

“You wanna do that?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“What, like at Sizzler’s?”

In an instant, that cool autumn night came flowing back to him— his scrawny, bloodied body hanging off of Mickey’s solid presence beside him, the fuzzy sensation of alcohol warming him from the inside out, making him feel normal for the first time in weeks before everything had split open and gotten messy again. Those were the days when things felt the darkest they had ever been, when all he and Mickey had to cling to was each other— until eventually even that got ripped away too, when Ian was shoved into the backseat of an unfamiliar car with tinted windows, and they settled for the fact that they would never get to have this.

They’d never had the chance to go on a real date, a date like Ian talked about that night, between then and now— Ian had been locked up, and then Mickey had been, and they’d barely gotten married or been together for long before COVID had hit and everything shut down. Sure, they’d gone to the mall food court a couple of times between Mickey getting released and all the shit with Paula and the engagement and the wedding—but never like this, never here.

For years the ground had been shifting beneath them, threatening to open up and swallow them whole— but now, they’d finally made it somewhere solid.

The glowing sign cast shadows onto Mickey’s face—Mickey, who was biting his lips and casting his eyes downward in trepidation, like he was waiting for Ian to say something, to pull something out of him.

“Mickey, are you fucking kidding me?”

Ian cupped his hand under Mickey’s chin before Mickey got the chance to respond, shifting his gaze up from the concrete.

“You said I had a good memory, but I was nothing compared to this. Fucking Sizzler’s?”

Mickey finally smirked, meeting Ian’s eyes with relief. “Why don’t we go inside.”

Ian shook his head with disbelief, smiling a crooked smile and playfully shoving his upper arm. “You’re softer than I am, Milkovich.” Mickey just rolled his eyes and reached out to grab Ian’s hand.

Ian fully expected them to go inside the door and grab some sort of take-out, then head back home to eat and spend the rest of the night in bed— but what Ian couldn’t have imagined, what absolutely no amount of knowing Mickey Milkovich could have prepared him for, was what met Ian’s eyes when they entered the restaurant. The entirety of the main room had been cleared— all the tables and chairs were pushed to the side, except for one single table in the middle of the room covered with a red tablecloth. The lighting was dim, jazz music was playing low, and there were candles flickering around the room; just like the hotel room they’d stayed in for their honeymoon, with the heart-shaped bed and the satin sheets, the whole thing was extravagant and kitschy and tacky beyond belief.

It was fucking cheesy and over-the-top and ridiculous, like a set straight out of a rom-com; and in spite of it all, Ian felt something welling in his chest. Mickey wanted to give me a normal Valentine’s Day.

Mickey walked towards the table, gesturing to the table halfheartedly.

“S’what you wanted, right? Romantic dinner and a box of chocolates and some sappy fucking note?”

“Mick…” Ian breathed out. He didn’t have the right words to describe what was welling in his lungs, in his throat, on his tongue. He couldn’t imagine how much coordination this must have taken— Mickey had rented the entire fucking restaurant, had made someone set all of this up— and had done it all when Ian didn’t have a goddamn clue. He hoped that his awestruck silence communicated to Mickey what words couldn’t.

His eyes flickered to the table—there were two place settings laid out, along with two wine glasses and way too many utensils than Ian knew what to do with. On the place setting opposite where Mickey was standing there was a tacky, red heart-shaped chocolate box that almost blended in with the tablecloth—and on top of that, a sealed white envelope.

Mickey noticed Ian’s eyes lingering. “You, uh. You can open it if you want. I fucking tried my best, but it’s not much.”

Ian reached deep into his pocket, pulling out a heavy cream-colored envelope.

“I got you a note too.” He took in a breath, trying to gather his thoughts. “I figured… I don’t know, you were so into the wedding and all that traditional bullshit, and I saw something online that said your first year together you’re supposed to get each other something paper. So, I, uh, I wrote you this.”

He held the envelope out in front of him—Mickey reached and took it from his hands like it was something delicate. They stood there for a moment.

“Wanna read them on three?”

Mickey smirked, breaking heaviness hanging in the air. “What is it with you and countdowns, Gallagher?”

Ian rolled his eyes, then pulled the chair out from the table and sat down, lifting the envelope from where it was nestled.

“One… two… three.”

Ian peeled the seal of the envelope, ripping it open. Inside was a plain white piece of paper, folded in half and clearly worn, like it had been creased and crumpled repeatedly. He unfolded it to a page of chunky handwriting, the ink smudged and blotched in places where Mickey had run his hand over the paper.

ian,

i’m bad with words, and you fucking know that, but you wanted a valentine’s card or some shit so. here it is. not sure what i’m supposed to write, either.

i always thought i was fucked for life, ever since i was a kid. but for some reason, i couldn’t shake your ginger ass off and it turns out that you were the best thing to happen to me. which you already know, but in case i don’t say it enough- you fucking saved me, gallagher. you’re everything i’ve got, and the happiest fucking days of my life have been spent near your crazy ass. so here’s to lots more years of doing crazy shit together, and making the south side our bitch for the rest of our lives.

i love you. for better or worse, in sickness and in health, im yours.

mickey

Ian swallowed down whatever he was feeling, and turned his gaze upwards to where Mickey was seated across from him, reading his note that was scribbled on a simple card he’d found at the dollar store:

Dear Mr. Gallavich,

Happy Valentine’s Day. If you’re reading this, this means that I’ve either forced you to, or you’re half as much of a soft motherfucker as I am. There’s nothing that I can put down in paper here that I haven’t said already- that I’ve been in love with you since the first time I saw you, that I always want to be where you are (and I always have). I guess the best way to put it is that no matter how much shit we’ve both been through, for some reason I still trust the universe, because the universe gave me you- whatever it throws at me, it gave me the thing that I needed the most to get through it. You’re everything, Mick- you’re the center of it all, and I feel so lucky every day that we made it here.

So happy fucking Valentine’s day. I love you.

Ian

Ian rose from his seat—he knew his eyes were shiny, but he really didn’t care—and crossed to where Mickey was sitting, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Mickey stood too, wordlessly wrapping his arms to fold around Ian’s middle. They stood there, in the flickering candlelight, that yes, was nauseatingly corny, but also cast a soft glow across the space, letting Ian sink into the feeling of holding Mickey pressed tightly against him.

“Mick, we both gave each other the stuff we wanted, but never got,” Ian whispered into Mickey’s hair.

Ian felt Mickey’s lips curve into a smile against his collarbone. “Yeah, I guess we fucking did.”

part 1 of this fic here, part 2 here!

#gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #ian x mickey #ian and mickey

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shamelessly4shameless-blog · 7 years

Text

The Night Will Always Pass.

Just a quick one shot of Ian being protective of Mickey. Gallavich for life, yo!

He wakes in the night with a gasping breath and sweat prickling his chest. His eyes are wide open, staring into the darkness and his heart is thudding painfully fast. Years of conditioning means that he keeps his mouth shut but he is taking rapid, shuddering breaths through his nose, getting as much air into his rigid body as possible.

He is in his bedroom but his eyes are not seeing the heavy metal posters on the walls or the various items he owns. He is seeing the dark concrete of the bunker and he knows that he is trapped inside it with something awful. He sits up and wraps his arms tight around his knees, making himself as small as possible. His entire body is trembling and his skin puckers with goose bumps.

He doesn’t dare move, the thing in the corner is staring at him with dead eyes in a ruined face that Mickey saw as he clung to his father’s arm, pushing backwards with his heels. He was shoved forward anyway, Terry’s massive hand pushing him roughly between the shoulder blades and then the door is slammed and he is alone with the terrible dead eyed thing in the dark.

It is what happens to fags. Mickey is lucky because if he wasn’t Terry’s son he wouldn’t be alive to scream.

The thing in the corner sits up and reaches for him and Mickey rests his head on his knees to avoid it’s gaze.

“Please, please … just fuckin’ let me out.”

He whimpers and then lifts his head and blinks as light floods his senses and a sweet, freckled face appears in front of him.

“Jesus! Mickey? Hey. Hey, you’re safe. It’s OK, Mick. I’m here.”

Mickey blinks again, relief rushes through his constricted chest but his brain hasn’t quite caught up with his heart and all Mickey can think to do is throw his arms around the young man who is stroking his shoulder and looking at him with such tender concern.

Ian wakes to the sound of whimpering coming from beside him. He lies still for a moment, trying to process the sound and realises with a start that it is coming from Mickey. He can hear laboured breathing but this isn’t the heavy breathing of jerking off in the night. He sits up, hastily shoving the blankets back and gropes for Mickey in the darkness.

“Please, please … just fuckin’ let me out.”

The hairs on the back of Ian’s neck stand up. It’s Mickey’s voice but smaller, more like a kid, and the tone is one of completely wretched misery, not anything like Mickey’s usual cocky drawl. Ian flicks the bedside lamp on and his heart leaps into his throat at the sight before him.

Mickey is sat up, staring right at Ian but clearly not seeing him, his face is twisted in fear, beads of sweat on his temples and upper lip that quake as Mickey’s body shakes. Ian reaches out and cautiously puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing lightly.

“Jesus! Mickey? Hey. Hey, you’re safe. It’s OK, Mick. I’m here.”

There is a moment when confused relief flits across his face and then Mickey pitches forward and clings to Ian as if his very life depends on it. Ian enfolds him in his arms and rocks gently back and forth making soft hushing sounds, though Mickey is no longer making any noise at all. Ian’s own heart is pounding but he is trying to conceal his distress, trying to be as strong and stable as Mickey needs him to be.

Suddenly Mickey pushes himself upright, thumping his chest with one hand, his face bleached of all colour and his soft mouth has formed a painful grimace

“I can’t fuckin breathe … I can’t … I …”

He pushes Ian out of the way and stumbles, naked, from the room. Ian tugs his shorts on, counts slowly to thirty to give Mickey a moment and then grabs the blanket from the bed and follows him outside.

Mickey is leaning against the railing when Ian steps out of the front door, his head bowed low between his splayed arms and Ian can hear the ragged sound of his breathing, fast but under control now. His legs are shaking, the thick muscle of his thighs quivering and twitching in the thin yellow light from the streetlamps.

“Go back inside.”

Mickey’s voice is hoarse and he doesn’t look up. Ian shakes his head and takes up watch on the other side of the porch.

“I’m staying right here.”

“Go back to fuckin’ bed, Ian!”

His tone is softer than the words he uses, almost pleading.

“No, Mick. I’m staying with you.”

Ian does not say anything further and the night is silent except for the occasional wail of sirens and the sound of distant breaking glass. He knows what it costs Mickey to be seen like this and he is respectful of it, but he will not leave him alone.

When the worst of the tremors stop coursing through Mickey’s body, Ian then steps forward and carefully drapes the blanket around his shoulders, careful not to touch Mickey in anyway.

“Better?”

He doesn’t expect and answer but Mickey manages to nod and pushes himself upright with one final shudder, wrapping the blanket more securely around his shoulders.

“Yeah. Fuck. I thought I was havin’ a fucking heart attack. Sorry.”

The apology is bashful and Mickey can’t quite bring himself to make eye contact with Ian, not yet.

“It’s alright. It was a panic attack, I think.”

Ian keeps his voice low and level. He desperately wants to pull Mickey into his arms but refrains from doing so, giving him space.

“Was it? Shit.”

Mickey is still too shaken to deny it and just continues to stare out across the junkyard alley. Ian takes a deep breath and steps in close behind him, carefully smoothing the black hair that has tumbled forward back behind Mickey’s ear. It is a small touch, gentle and intimate but measured and Ian is ready to step back if Mickey gives any sign that it is unwelcome.

Instead of pulling away, Mickey turns his head to kiss the inside of Ian’s wrist. It is a completely unexpected reaction and Ian feels a warmth spread through his chest. A month, maybe even a week ago, Mickey would never have done that.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Ian’s words seem to pull Mickey out of his trance and with a definite shake of his head; he turns and walks past Ian, going back into the house. Ian follows him in and they both sit down on the edge of the bed as Mickey snatches up a packet of cigarettes from the floor. His fingers are shaking as he tries to get one out and he curses softly at the packet, but Ian does not offer to help, he knows Mickey will want to do it himself.

“Was it a nightmare or a memory?”

“Fuckin’ both. I don’t know.”

Mickey finally gets one of the cigarettes free and lights it with a satisfied sigh, smoke curling up around his head as he exhales through his nose.

“Was it …”

“I said I don’t wanna talk about it.”

There is warning in his voice and his eyebrows have raised in a way that Ian recognises as Mickey being close to the end of his patience.

“OK. But it might help to.”

“Leave it, Ian! Jesus! Just … fuckin’ leave it.”

His voice is terse, irritated and Ian can feel the closeness of the minute before slipping away from them. Mickey is retreating into himself and pushing whatever the Hell just surfaced as far down as he can get it. Ian wonders how many times this has happened to Mickey before, with no one there in the darkness to help him through.

He considers pushing it, trying one more time to get Mickey to talk, but another look at the tense set of his boyfriend’s shoulders convinces him that Mickey has been through enough tonight. There is no need to make him live through it again.

Instead Ian climbs onto the bed, kneeling behind Mickey and places his hands flat against his broad, pale shoulders, massaging in slow circles until the muscles beneath his fingers begin to loosen and he hears a satisfied grunt.

“You’re good at that.”

“Thank you.”

Ian smiles and places a kiss between Mickey’s shoulder blades, then another on either shoulder, left and then right. He sees the curve of Mickey’s cheek lift in a small smile and lets his hands slip down over Mickey’s arms, stroking the softly sculpted muscles.

“You feel real fucking good, Mick. You know that?”

A small snort of laughter is all that greets this but Ian knows he is pleased with the compliment.

“Come back to bed?”

“Nah, man. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Mickey stands up but Ian catches his hand and tugs him back. He can let Mickey keep his silence if that is what he wants but he will not let him sleep alone.

“Don’t. I want you here with me.”

This earns him a crooked smile and even though he is still looking toward the bedroom door uncertainly, Mickey’s resolve is weakening.

“You sure? I … don’t normally sleep so well after … that. I don’t wanna keep you up.”

“You won’t. Besides I don’t sleep at all when I’m not beside you.”

Ian shrugs and settles himself back, taking Mickey’s usual position beside the wall and patting the mattress beside him

“C’mere.”

Mickey hesitates a moment longer before giving in and settling back beside Ian, lying on his back, his hands folded neatly on his chest not quite touching his boyfriend. Ian can see him chewing on his lower lip and the crease between his brows and knows that he is afraid to go back to sleep. He also knows that Mickey will die before admitting that, even to Ian.

“You mind if we keep the light on? I wanna see you a bit longer.”

It is not a lie and it does not sound forced and Ian can see gratitude flash briefly across Mickey’s face as he nods.

“Yeah. Course we can.”

Wordlessly, Ian gathers Mickey to him. It is a bit like trying to move a mannequin at first but slowly, cautiously, Mickey wraps his arms around Ian and accepts the shelter of his embrace, tucking his head up beneath Ian’s chin and sighing against his chest as Ian runs his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Mickey’s neck.

“You want me to move my ass? I’m crushin’ you.”

Mickey asks after a little while, his voice is thick with sleep and Ian kisses the top of his head, never pausing his gentle stroking.

“Keep your ass still. You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He whispers and a few moments later hears Mickey’s breathing deepen and fall into a steady rhythm. Ian sleeps lightly that night, ready to be whatever Mickey needs him to be and to protect him from whatever terrors the night holds.

At some point in the night, Mickey rolls over, wrapping his arms around his pillow and half burying his face in it, his usual way of hunkering down in deep sleep and Ian rolls with him, keeping his chest flush to Mickey’s back and his arms lightly slung across his torso, his nose just touching the black waves of Mickey’s hair.

That is how Mickey wakes up in the morning and the first thing he does is smile.

#shameless #shameless us #shameless fanfiction #shameless imagine #shameless fluff #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #Ian loves Mickey #mickey milkovich #gallavich #love

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shamelessly4shameless-blog · 7 years

Text

Flight pt. 2

As the plane began to roll across the tarmac aiming for the runway, Mickey cracked one eye open, glancing out of the little window beside him.

“We goin’?”

“Yeah, but this is the taxiway, it’ll be a little while yet before we take off.”

Ian smiled and eyed the steward who had promised Mickey a drink; she had a beer in each hand and was facing toward them but had been caught by passengers further up the plane and was in deep conversation.

“Right.”

Ian took in the tense set of Mickey’s shoulders and jaw as he slouched low and allowed the hand on his thigh to travel higher, trailing the inseam of his jeans, just firmly enough to make Mickey squirm a little.

“What are you doing now?”

“Thinking up ways of relaxing you.”

Mickey’s upper lip curved in a small smile but his hand covered Ian’s stilling his fingers.

“Go ahead. Give me a hard-on I can’t do shit about, I hear all guys go wild for blue balls.”

Mickey rolled his neck back and forth, the smile never leaving his lips.

“How do you know so much about planes anyway? Taxiway? Who the fuck knows what that is called.”

“I know what a fuss you make about anything new so I read up on it.”

Ian announced with a flourish, pleased with his foresight

“What? I’m fine with new things.”

Mickey answered defensively, brows knitting together.

“You hate new things! You pitched a fit when I changed the brand of orange juice.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you got the shitty kind with all those nasty little bits floating around in it!”

Mickey had made his feelings very clear at the time and still couldn’t quite believe Ian actually liked the stuff.

“What about the new shirts I got you?”

“My old ones still got some wear left.”

“When they ran out of your deodorant so I got you the green label one. Remember that?”

“Smelt like a girls fuckin’ perfume.”

Mickey wrinkled his nose and Ian rolled his eyes

“See! You hate new things.”

He said triumphantly, slapping Mickey’s arm lightly with the back of his hand.

“Maybe you’re right. I hate you acting like a cocky dickbag … oh wait, that’s not fuckin’ new, is it?”

Mickey grinned flashing his white and remarkably perfect teeth at Ian and then held up his hands in mock submission as Ian laughed and mimed elbowing him in the gut.

“Sir, your drink?”

Neither had heard the attendant approach and Mickey turned to her with the smile still on his face, causing a small blush to creep up her neck.

“Thank you very much, Miss. I appreciate it”

He accepted the can gratefully, and held it up in brief toast to her, cracking it open with one practiced flick of his thumb and drained half of it in one swallow.

“No problem. Just so you know, take off is scheduled for about four minutes so if you could ensure you’re strapped in that would be great.”

She flashed another smile at Mickey and sauntered back down the aisle, looking over her shoulder just the once.

“I think she likes you.”

Ian whispered and Mickey peered round him to look down the aisle, amused

“Good taste on her part. Think she’d get me another beer if I offered to bang her in the cockpit?”

“Oohh sure, you think planes run on fire but you know the word ‘cockpit’. Please, be more gay.”

Ian teased and Mickey tongued the corner of his mouth nonchalantly before finishing his beer, middle finger raised to Ian’s nose.

“I know another thing about planes too.”

“Seriously? You a fucking pilot?”

“Ever heard of the Mile High Club?”

Ian bobbed his head and bit his lip flirtatiously a deliberately exaggerated gesture that none the less sent tingles throughout Mickey’s body.

“You want to try that?”

“Why not?”

“Sure, if you like.”

Mickey half stood and peered over the chair in front of them. A woman, already asleep, and her elderly father also asleep had received the first can of beer the steward handed out but it was sat untouched. He leant over and plucked it from the folded down tray before resuming his seat.

“What? I’ll buy him another one if he wakes up and misses it.”

Mickey shrugged at Ian’s disapproving frown and pushed up his shirt sleeves to the elbow as if preparing for business.

“So what do you want to do? This thing is like a fucking sardine can and I don’t normally go in for public displays but I’ve had a couple beers and you’re wearing those black jeans that make your legs look nice… I can probably get it up if you want to blow me.”

“You’re like a poet sometimes. You should write that in my valentine card next year.”

Ian scoffed sarcastically and closed his eyes as if praying for forbearance and Mickey grinned at him, eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

“Think you’re getting fucking valentine’s cards now, huh? The kind with the little bears and hearts and all that other shit?”

“Well … I mean. I hadn’t thought about it but I’ve never had one from my boyfriend before. Might be nice.”

Ian’s slightly haughty tone and the stubborn set of his jaw told Mickey that he clearly had thought about it and probably more than once. Mickey caught his chin between thumb and forefinger tugging it forward and kissing Ian’s lips softly. He often said brash things that made Ian a little upset, normally when the subject matter made him uncomfortable, he wasn’t sure what was wanted of him, or when Ian wanted some open display of affection that made Mickey’s chest feel tight to contemplate.

In this case Mickey reasoned that as long as he could just give Ian the card over a beer or something, it would probably be fine and it wasn’t like it would be fucking hard to find one! Shops were littered with that crap from January, like a pink elephant toy or a glittery flower were ways to prove love. Mickey sighed to himself. People were fucking nuts.

“You remind me a couple days before and I’ll get you one, okay?”

“If I have to remind you it’s not quite as romantic.”

Ian grumbled but Mickey only rolled his eyes

“You gotta learn to recognise a win when you get one, Gallagher. Play your cards right I’ll get you a box of candy too but if there is a caramel in it, that one’s mine.”

All of a sudden, there was an announcement to buckle up and the plane began to roll forward again, gathering speed as the engines roared making the earlier noise seem almost soft in comparison.

“Here we go!”

Ian grinned, minor disappointment forgotten and gripped Mickey’s fingers tightly.

“Ah fuck!”

Mickey pressed himself as far back in the seat as he could get as the plane tipped sharply upwards and the peculiar feeling of pressurised weightlessness engulfed the cabin. Ian had never been in a passenger plane either but what terrified Mickey only exhilarated him and he let out an involuntary whoop of glee at the same moment as Mickey let out a noise that fell somewhere between a swear and a shriek.

“What the Hell was that noise, Mickey?”

Ian cackled to himself, nudging his boyfriend in the ribs.

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher!”

The tone of Mickey’s voice was one that made most people think twice but Ian only laughed again and kissed his cheek, delighting in the slight rasp of stubble against his lips.

The plane banked sharply left, and a protective arm flung across Ian’s middle. He glanced down in surprise at the hand gripping his chest, pressing him backwards into the safety of his seat and as the plane levelled out, he looked across at Mickey, beaming from ear to ear.

“The fuck are you smiling at right now?”

“You protecting me from … I don’t even know what.”

Ian leant over the divide ignoring the scowl Mickey gave him.

“Look how beautiful it is, Mick! Wave goodbye to Chicago.”

Ian waved at the window and Mickey half-turned, flicking his gaze upwards before jumping like a startled cat.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

Ian had thought Mickey was pale before but now his colour dropped to a sort of ashy grey as the city fell away beneath them. Mickey squeezed his eyes shut for a second and then forced them open to fix Ian with a look that was caught between fury and pleading.

“Ian, swap places with me.”

“What? No! You’ll miss all the …”

“Don’t give a shit what I’ll miss. Swap with me now.”

Mickey interrupted with an impatient hand gesture. His mouth was compressed tightly, blue eyes fixed rigidly on a spot somewhere above Ian’s shoulder on the fake leather headrest. He could feel sweat slicking down his back and the armpits of his shirt were heavy with it. He dimly recognised the feeling as panic but with nowhere to run to, Mickey simply tried to concentrate on not pissing himself or vomiting.

“C’mon, in a minute there will be clouds and …”

“Ian, if you don’t shut the fuck up and move your ass I am going to ram your head out that window and you and the fucking clouds can get acquainted real well.”

“OK! Jesus.”

Ian unbuckled his seat belt and stood, awkwardly trying to shuffle around Mickey, who despite desperately wanting to move, seemed unable to make his limbs cooperate and was half-dragging himself across the chair arm.

“Sir! Sir, you need to sit down!”

Ian waved an apologetic hand at the flight attendant and nudged Mickey

“Well? Move if you’re moving.”

“Fuckin’ trying, asshole!”

With a monumental effort Mickey managed to force his legs into action and dumped himself in Ian’s chair before closing his eyes tightly, his chin tucked onto his chest. The last time he felt this was just before coming out to the entirety of the Alibi at Yevgeny’s christening. He’s survived that and he would most likely survive this, but at that moment, Mickey really didn’t care if he did not.

“It’s OK. Hey, it’s fine. I’m right here.”

Ian’s annoyance faded as quickly as it had arisen and he gently smoothed Mickey’s hair back.

“Look at me, c’mon, open your eyes, Mick.”

Mickey did as Ian asked and let the breath he had been holding out very slowly through his nose. Ian held his gaze earnestly until Mickey came back to himself and was able to breathe normally again.

“Shit. Thought I was gonna pass out.”

“You OK now?”

Mickey shrugged irritably, the adrenaline had left him feeling shaky and he couldn’t ever remember wanting a cigarette more badly in his life. Ian bit the inside of his lip and looked out of the window. He felt a little guilty for making Mickey take the flight. He’d known it wasn’t going to be the happiest experience of Mickey’s life, the crowds, the proximity to police and the lack of space, but he hadn’t thought he would find it this bad.

“I’m sorry. I guess I thought you’d like to see the world from up here. I shouldn’t have booked you the window seat.”

“Maybe once I’m used to it … I don’t know. Ian, if you want me to look at the fuckin’ clouds I’ll try it but just … not yet, okay? Let me get my fuckin’ heart rate down for a minute.”

“Sure. You want me to close the blind?”

“No! Just cause I hate something doesn’t mean you can’t like it. You want to look at the clouds, fuckin look at them.”

“Yeah but if it makes you feel sick…”

“Lot of things you like make me feel sick. Like that gross fuckin’ orange juice and your brother.”

Ian grinned despite himself and saw Mickey watching him out of one half-squinting eye, still not completely able to look but trying to, really fucking trying.

Ian watched as Mickey tried gather himself, thumbing his lip in that familiar gesture that Ian loved so much. If it were Ian, Mickey would know to hold him, murmur something comforting maybe but Mickey was not a softly, softly person he needed something sharper, colder. When Mickey needed to cling to something, he reached for iron railings not feather pillows.

“So did you actually piss yourself?”

Ian asked, shrugging one shoulder

“No. Asshole. I don’t think so anyway.”

Mickey half smiled and Ian pressed on

“Good, cause you know I’ll still do nasty things with your dick but I need a bit of prior warning if it’s a mess down there.”

“Fuck off!”

Mickey laughed, a genuine laugh that reached all the way to his eyes, chasing away the last of the fear.

“Hang on … Shit. I crushed it a bit …”

Mickey reached into his shirt pocket and produced a small packet of cookies

“Sorry they’re broken. You gotta eat these it’s been over an hour since you took your meds.”

Ian took the crumpled foil packet and felt his eyes well up a little.

“You can remember my schedule in the middle of a panic attack?”

“What? Fuck you. I didn’t have a fuckin’ panic attack, just … startled me, the damn noise and the … ah … that.”

Mickey flapped his hand at the window without looking directly at it, his nose lifted in a dismissive sneer.

“Thank you.”

Ian ignored the harsh tone of his voice and ran Mickey’s hair lightly through his fingers, toying with the lengths until Mickey pulled away slightly to peer around the other passengers, most of whom were plugged into headphones or settling down for a nap.

“Of course, I got your back, man. Sickness, health all that.”

Mickey shrugged and Ian busied himself with the packet. Affection was one thing, but if Mickey saw him getting teary eyed in public over a cookie? No. That was not the Milkovich way and Mickey would not be impressed.

“This it now? It’ll be just quiet like this?”

“Should be, I think if we hit a rough patch they let us know and we just buckle in again.”

“Alright. Let me look at you.”

Ian quirked an eyebrow in question but obligingly turned to face Mickey properly, licking crumbs from the pad of his thumb.

“Mmm. Damn Gallagher. Yeah, okay. I’m ready.”

“What are … Oh Jesus!”

Ian laughed down at his crotch frowning

“Well don’t fucking laugh at it.”

Mickey snapped, eyeing Ian incredulously and putting a hand self-consciously over his crotch.

“I can’t just get you off right here! They’d have police waiting at the gates!”

“Why? People do it on the bus all the time. This is just a bus with wings.”

Ian chose to ignore that comment, refraining from asking Mickey what damn busses he had been taking.

“Meet me in the bathroom.”

“Ian …”

Mickey tried to catch Ian’s sleeve to tell him he would really, really prefer not trying to walk down the juddering body of the plane. Stupid as he knew it was, he kind of worried that his weight would manage to tip the thing into a nose dive, but Ian dodged his hand, winked at him and strutted up the aisle, deliberately pausing to stretch his hands over his head, clenching his butt and working the muscles in his back. Mickey muttered a curse low under his breath and shakily unbuckled his seatbelt.

Ian opened the door immediately when Mickey knocked and dragged him in. With two of them in the cramped little space, it felt impossibly tight but if anything it just made Ian want it more. He looked down at Mickey and shook his head

“God. You know how much I want you right now?”

Ian whispered as he gently took hold of his lover’s chin as he bowed his head to kiss him. Mickey pressed his body instinctively against Ian’s and felt the length of him pressing against his belly.

“I can feel how much. You got about nine and a half inches of want just begging for me.”

Mickey pitched his voice low to match Ian’s and for a second they just looked at each other, then Ian kissed him again and smiled

“We’ll have to hurry. Straddle the toilet and bend over.”

“Now who’s writing fuckin’ valentine’s poems?”

Mickey joked but did as Ian said without argument, dropping his jeans as Ian took a firm grip on the back of his neck that made Mickey’s skin feel electric. Ian nudged Mickey’s ankles a little further apart with his foot and gently stroked the soft, pale curve of his ass before shifting his grip to a much stronger hold on his hip.

Ian’s own ass bumped the door with the first thrust and it rattled loudly. For a horrible moment, he thought he was going to lose it and start laughing but Mickey clenched around him and glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrows lifted in impatient question.

Ian shook his head, fought down the panicked laugher and began to find his rhythm. With Mickey it never took more than a few strokes to find it; to begin to move as one, it was a deeper connection than just the physical. Ian hadn’t ever discussed it with him because he suspected it would only make Mickey feel uncomfortable, but he was quite sure that it was the difference between sex and two souls actually entwined, coming together in an act of love. One day he would broach the subject with Mickey he resolved, maybe even one day soon.

Ian noticed tiny beads of sweat prickling the skin on Mickey’s lower back, bit the inside of his lip hard enough to bruise, and began to move his hips faster, narrow and jerky pulses in the tight confines of the bathroom. Ian laid his hand flat on the ceiling, chilling it against the plastic tile before reaching for Mickey’s cock and wrapping his fingers tightly around him. The contrast of heat and cold, hard and soft, elicited a low groan from Mickey, ripping it from his throat, the force of his orgasm pitching him forward so that only his hands flat against the wall stopped him crumbling to the floor. Ian saw all of that and in the second before his own orgasm floods his mind with light and joy, he managed to breathe the words ‘I love you.’

#shameless #shameless us #shameless fanfiction #shameless imagine #shameless fluff #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #Ian loves Mickey #mickey milkovich #Milkovich

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