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Chapter Text

Fiona was tired, having just worked a long night shift at the club. She was looking forwards to getting home and grabbing a few hours sleep before needing to get up and get the kids to school in the morning. Sometimes she felt so much older than she actually was, but that was what came with being a substitute parent she supposed.

Her plan was ruined though when she almost tripped over a set of legs poking out of the shadows by a house just down from hers. She only stopped because there was a possibility it could be Frank and she only didn't walk off because the state the person was in. Some would call it stupidity, but she called it her conscience.

"Mickey," she nudged at his shoulder, wincing when he groaned.

The guy was a mess, his lip swollen and split, his eye and cheekbone sporting a rapidly darkening bruise. And that was just what she could see in the shadows. He was also unconscious, which was the bit that concerned Fiona, but the fact he was making noises was positive.

She crouched beside him, shivering because of the cold and reached out to touch his face. His skin was smeared with blood and it was pitiful to see him like that, because Mickey had never been weak. She was almost glad to see the blood smeared across his knuckles, the bruises there, he'd fought back.

"Mickey," she shook him slightly, tilting his head up with her hands.

His eyelids flickered and she exhaled loudly. He blinked, only half seeming to register that she was there. Picking up one of his arms, she manoeuvred them so that it was slung around her shoulders. "Mickey, you need to help me out here," she said to him, considering running and fetching Lip or Steve – Jimmy, whatever – to help her out, but she didn't want to leave him. Knowing him, he'd probably do a runner if she did and he wouldn't make it two blocks before he passed out. "I can't carry you on my own, Mickey."

She hoped that if she kept saying his name that maybe he'd respond, or at least come back to consciousness a little more. He muttered something under his breath, but the words weren't discernable and the minute she pulled him onto his feet he was oh-so-charmingly spitting out a mouthful of blood onto the pavement.

It was a bit difficult getting him up the steps to the front door, unlocking it and practically carrying him inside, but she managed it. Maybe it was all the practice she had lugging around an only semi-conscious Frank. She sat him down on the couch, not caring in the slightest that he was bleeding on it. Worse stuff had been spilt on that couch.

"Mickey, what happened?" she asked him as she pressed a bag of frozen peas against the side of his face. He looked completely out of it, but she figured this was going to be the only opportunity she had to get any sort of answers out of him.

In the morning he'd no doubt be up and bolting out the door.

He shied away from the pressure of the cold bag, wincing. "Where is he?" he asked, his voice rough and broken and now that they were in the light she could see some bruising around his throat. That probably explained it.

"Where's who, Mickey?" she asked, confused even though she tried not to show it. He was shaking his head at her now, his eyes darting around, but it was more like he was looking for something in particular.

"Firecrotch," Mickey muttered and she could smell the alcohol on his breath now that she was this close. That probably also contributed to his chattiness. "You can't let my Dad find him, if he knows, he'll kill him."

His words were becoming slurred and she could see him fading back into unconsciousness, but now she had to talk to him. Trying not to think too much about the fact Mickey was calling Ian, Firecrotch, she slapped the cold bag onto the side of his face none to gently to get his attention. "Mickey, why would your Dad want to hurt Ian?" she asked, glaring at him, taking in all of his injuries, "Are you telling me your Dad did this to you?" And then because the boy was still looking as her with wide eyes, practically begging for some sort of positive news she said, "Ian's not here anyway, Mickey, he's at an ROTC camp for the next month."

Mickey nodded, looking pleased at this news but nevertheless wincing as he did so. "Because he knows," he said, sounding terrified as he answered her question and it was heartbreaking, "But I don't know if he knows."

Yeah, because that clears it all up, she thought, but didn't say that.

"What does he know Mickey?"

He shook his head, surprisingly adamant. "I knew he'd try to kill me if he found out," he was saying, the words coming out in one big, drunken rush, "I told Ian he would, but he wouldn't believe me, he wouldn't let me shut Frank up, he wouldn't understand that it was to protect him." Mickey moaned, his expression full of anguish. "But now he knows, my Dad knows," he was close to being hysterical, "He'll kill me for it, I know he will, but I can't let him get Ian."

His eyes were slipping closed and as he tipped forwards she gently moved him from his sitting position to lying down. He curled in on himself, his hands cradling his battered head and Fiona thought he was going to cry for a moment. He didn't.

The boy was dirty and the tattoos across his knuckles had always been a little bit worrying, just like he'd always been rude and harsh and more than slightly cruel, but in that moment, he looked helpless. It was a strange look for Mickey Milkovich.

"Why'd he try to kill you, Mickey?" she asked, crouching down right in front of him, her face close to his. She could see that he was just seconds away from falling asleep. "Why would he want to kill Ian?"

She could have been wrong, but Mickey's features seemed only to twist into a pained expression at the mention of something happening to Ian. She didn't understand that, but she had a feeling she was going to.

"Because," he muttered quietly, so quietly she had to strain to hear him, "Because we're the same."

She didn't say so, but she thought that she could see absolutely no similarity between her brother and the neighbourhood thug. "How are you the same?" It was impossible not to ask that question and she just hoped it didn't come out sounding rude.

Then again, he was too far gone to really register anything.

She didn't think he was going to say anything for a minute, in fact she thought he was unconscious. But it was only with his eyes screwed tight and his mind obviously somewhere else entirely that he managed to whisper, "Because I'm gay."

And Fiona couldn't explain how angry that made her. Terry Milkovich had tried to beat his own son to death because he was gay. She didn't understand for a moment why that would mean Mickey would instantly know about Ian, but the fact he was only a few doors down from their house when he'd passed out, the way he'd asked for Ian instantly and how his face had twisted into one of pain at the idea of Ian being hurt gave her a pretty good idea.

She never would have pegged Mickey as being gay and even though she'd known about Ian for a long time, probably for longer than Ian had known, she couldn't quite picture him and Mickey together. They had worked together before Mickey had got put in Juvie again, she vaguely remembered, but other than that she'd never seen them hanging out. Sure, Ian had hung out with Mickey's sister Mandy and she even claimed to be his 'girlfriend'.

Fiona wondered if Mandy knew about Mickey. And if she did, did she know about Mickey and Ian.

The more she thought about it though, it did actually explain why Ian was always over at the Milkovich's when Mickey was out of Juvie, but how he seemed so withdrawn and depressed when he was in there.

Ian being with Mickey could explain a lot of things actually.

And if the ex-con had cared enough to come over here to try and check up on/protect her brother and even if that hadn't been his intention, Fiona still felt the need to look after him. She wondered if the boy had ever been properly cared for in his life?

He didn't even stir as she eased his jacket off his shoulders and pulled his t-shirt over his head. They were both stained with blood, she was guessing from the nosebleed Mickey had obviously had judging by the blood on his face. While he slept, she cleaned as much of the blood off of his face as she could and kept the bag of peas awkwardly positioned on the worse side to try and keep the swelling down.

It made her feel sick when she saw the bruises littering Mickey's torso. Most of them were fresh, those ones large and angry-coloured, but she'd seen enough bruises to be able to tell that there were a few that weren't new at all. They looked several days old if she had to guess.

At the same time though, she couldn't help but notice that even though he had a layer of dirt clinging to his pale flesh like a second-skin, he was in good shape. Sure, he didn't have the best personality and he was grimy and could be disgusting, but it made her thing that Ian's tastes weren't as bad as they first seemed. That was, if Mickey was in fact getting it on with her baby brother.

Actually, she didn't want to think about it even if they were.

Since Mickey was gay anyway and because his trousers were actually in a disgusting state, she eased them off his hips once she removed his shoes. Putting all of his clothes sans his boxers – she even took off his socks – into the wash, she covered him up with a blanket and checked that he was as comfortable as anybody could possibly be when battered and asleep on a couch.

Her last order of business before she headed upstairs to grab a handful of hours sleep was to put a bottle of water and some painkillers beside him, in case he woke up in the night and for when he woke up in the morning.

After that, there wasn't much else to do.

"Why the hell is Mickey Milkovich asleep on our couch?" Lip asked, frowning at the still unconscious ex-con before looking up at Fiona expectantly.

She motioned for him to keep his voice down, as she'd told everybody else to do and he moved out of the lounge into the kitchen to talk to her. "Did you know about him and Ian?" she asked him first before answering his question. She knew it wasn't really her business to go telling people about it in case he didn't, but Lip always seemed to know about everything that went on in Ian's life, so she was guessing he'd know.

She was right if the way he stared at her was any indication.

"Yeah," he said after a minute, "But how'd you know? Did he tell you?" He jerked his head back towards the other room.

"He told me he was gay," she explained, "I worked the bit about Ian out on my own though." And then she asked, because she simply had to know, "How long's that been going on?"

Lip shrugged, taking a swig of orange juice from a glass Debbie handed him. "Well, he was in Juvie when Ian left, so they haven't done anything recently, obviously," he muttered, trying to keep the kids from overhearing, which was easy since they were too tired to even attempt to listen in, "But do you remember when Kash shot Mickey?"

Fiona nodded.

"That was because he and Ian were fucking," Lip shrugged, "So from since before that I guess." He looked over his shoulder again into the other room, as though expecting Mickey to charge in and punch him. "So how come he's here anyway?"

She chewed her bottom lip and followed his line of sight. Mickey didn't seem to have woken up at all in the night, but he had pulled the blanket around himself until it looked like he was wrapped in a cocoon.

"His Dad found out about him being gay," she said eventually, "I found him outside, he's in pretty bad shape, says his Dad tried to kill him." She winced at the memory of the bruises over Mickey's ribs and at the idea of him being killed simply for something he couldn't help. Then again, in this neighbourhood, that was a common reaction.

"Damn," Lip muttered, before frowning, "So why was he outside?"

"He wanted to warn Ian that his Dad knew," she said, "I got the feeling that he wanted to protect him." Not that that would have been in any way possible given the state that Mickey was in, but it was still a nice sentiment.

Lip looked nonplussed and gave the figure on the couch a perplexed look. "Well, it does have a heart after all," he muttered, shoving in a piece of toast practically whole, "So what are you going to do now?" The unspoken question hung in the air between them: Is he going to stay?

"I can't kick him out," she said, pushing a hand through her hair and sighing, "I doubt he has anywhere else to go, and if he's gone to the trouble of staggering over here in that condition to try and protect Ian, I think we at least have to try and help it out."

Lip didn't seem bothered about the idea of Mickey sticking around, but he did snort and say, "Yeah well, good luck getting him to accept your help."

And Fiona did think he had a point there. Mickey was still a Milkovich at the end of the day and they meant trouble, whether or not the guy had a little bit of a soft spot for Ian, it didn't necessarily mean that Mickey was going to take kindly to their help.

She pulled his clothes out of the dryer and moved about trying to get to the iron. She wanted him to be able to actually put some clothes on when he woke up.

"Does Ian care about him?" she asked, "Would he want us to at least try and help him?"

Lip looked a little resigned when he nodded, "Yeah he cares, sometimes I think too much." And Fiona could see why he thought that when you considered Mickey's reputation. But the evidence that the other boy cared back was there, whether or not he would admit it.

"So we help him out," Fiona said simply, in her mind it was all black and white, "Did you know he calls Ian, Firecrotch?" She still couldn't quite get over that particular piece of information.

Lip pulled a face, looking disgusted. "I did not need to know that," he muttered before starting to shoo Debbie and Carl out the door and get them to school. They were walking today, Jimmy – Steve – was out of town.

Finishing up ironing Mickey's jeans, she figured she would grab a quick shower while the ex-con guest they'd gained was still down for the count.

Chapter Text

Mickey's whole body seemed to be in pain, but it was the throbbing in his skull that was the worst. Or maybe he only thought that because something was pulling on his hair. Something sticky touched his cheek and he thought he was dreaming, because he thought it felt like a tiny hand.

He opened his eyes, blinking past the light that seemed to be shooting daggers into his brain and frowning at the child standing in front of him. It grinned and pulled his hair again.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked, his voice slightly broken as he gently tried to remove the kid's fingers from his hair. He was kind of cute in that chubby baby sort of way. Mickey neither liked kids or disliked them, but he decided that he was going to try to be especially nice to this one since with the pounding in his head, he did not need to little rugrat to start screaming.

The kid just sort of giggled and stuck a hand in its mouth and that was when Mickey remembered where he was and what had happened. He remembered his Dad grabbing him around the throat, punching him even as he choked the life out of him. It had been a sort of desperate struggle for air and Mickey had managed to land a few punches, but it was Mandy cracking a glass bottle over Terry Milkovich's head that had saved him.

"He knows Mick," she'd said, her eyes wide, desperate, "You have to go."

And Mickey had known exactly what she'd meant, so he hadn't even hesitate before running. Not that it had been quite running, since he was already half drunk and the pain in his head was making the world spin, the pain in his chest where his Dad had punched him was making him feel like he was about to pass out.

He almost made it to the Gallagher's before that happened.

And it was only when he'd woken back up to find Fiona crouched over him that he realised why he'd been heading in that direction at all. Firecrotch. He was safe. God, Mickey was glad he was safe, even if he hated that he felt like that.

What he hated even more was remembering what he'd told Fiona, because he was positive that he'd told Fiona he was gay right before passing out. He wasn't one hundred per cent sure, but it was more definitely a possibility.

He'd been drunk, that was his excuse.

"Ugh, God my head hurts," he muttered, which of course made his mouth hurt because of his split lip. He sat up and only then realised he was only wearing his boxers. Even his socks were gone. Somebody had undressed him, no doubt while he was unconscious and that would have bothered him a hell of a lot more had he not immediately seen the clothes folded up by the couch he was on.

What surprised him though was that they had been washed. He could tell just by the fact that he could actually tell what colour his jeans were originally. He looked at the kid again, who didn't look like he could possibly be related to Ian and yet somehow was.

Mickey knew because he remembered Ian telling him how by some fluke Frank was his youngest brother's father. He hated that he remembered that. Hated that he actually listened when Ian had been blabbering on about his family. Normally, with anybody else, Mickey wouldn't have listened.

"I don't know what the hell your name is, but I don't think you should be holding those," Mickey said, his voice croaky and annoying for him to hear. He extracted the packet of painkillers from the toddlers grasp and then noticed the bottle of water on the floor.

Okay, this is new, somebody actually gives a shit.

Because he wasn't stupid enough to think that it was all there by accident, but he was confused because in his family, you laughed at the person in pain and if they had a hangover, made as much noise as possible. You certainly didn't wash the clothes of a near-stranger and provide them with a place to sleep and something to kill the pain.

The kid laughed and clapped his hands when Mickey popped the pills and then eased off the couch to dress. It then stuck its thumb in its mouth and climbed up on the sofa to stare at him with wide eyes. He thought it was a strangely silent child, but maybe that was because his only real experience of children was his cousin's daughter who screamed near non-stop whenever anybody went near it, or just for the sheer hell of it anyway.

Normally that would have been the moment when Mickey would have bolted, but he didn't have anything against kids, especially not this one and he also didn't have anywhere to go, so he just sat down next to it on the couch. He hated the fact he knew he would have felt bad if he'd just left it sitting there on its own.

God, isn't Fiona or somebody supposed to be here to look after the brat? They both sat there for a minute or so in silence – because just because Mickey didn't want to leave it to stick its finger in a plug socket didn't mean he had any clue how to amuse it or much of a desire to – before the kid then got up and went across the room. Coming back with a piece of screwed up paper and a handful of pencils.

It made him smirk because it reminded him of his Gallagher, the way he would always take charge of the situation because he knew damn well that there was no way Mickey was going to.

He eased himself down onto the floor beside the kid and took one of the offered pencils. "This is only because you're related to Firecrotch and you're not old enough for me to hate you," Mickey told him firmly, flattening out the piece of paper that the kid had brought over.

Mickey would never admit to it, but he actually liked to draw. Probably because it was something he wasn't half bad at it. The only drawing he ever really did was graffiti, because he knew his brothers would take the piss out of him if they ever caught him drawing otherwise, but that didn't mean that he'd ever lost the skill to actually draw.

"What you want me to draw?" he asked, because even though he could draw didn't mean he knew what he actually wanted to. And considering the things his brain was filled with weren't exactly appropriate for children, it was probably safer to ask.

"El-fant," the kid said, grinning and proving that he actually was capable of forming words even if he didn't very often.

Mickey rolled his eyes, thinking how unoriginal that was since there was a stuffed toy elephant on the opposite side of the room, but hey, he'd asked and he wasn't about to go and argue with a two-year-old.

The thing Mickey found he actually liked about the youngest Gallagher kid – not that he would admit it, ever, he wouldn't even admit to sitting there drawing with the rugrat – was that he actually let them fall into a sort of comfortable silence. Mickey drew the outline of the elephant so that the kid could scribble aimlessly over the paper while he made it a little more detailed.

At the very least, Mickey was glad the kid was a quiet one because it helped out his hangover situation.

He leant back against the couch for a moment, watching the kid scribble with a sort of renewed gusto on the paper, presently making the elephant red. His ribs were fucking killing him, but he knew from experience what it felt like when they were broken and they weren't that bad. He was just sore and it was a pain in the ass. Then again, it didn't seem too long before the painkillers would kick in, so it was only a matter of waiting.

"Fi!" the kid squealed, picking up the paper and waving at the person that Mickey hadn't realised was standing behind him. Fiona came and sat on the couch, gently taking the paper from her little brother's chubby fist. "El-pant," the kid proudly proclaimed.

Mickey suspected from the look on Fiona's face that she was expecting to look down at the paper and see a mass of colours all scribbled onto the page and when she didn't, her jaw dropped a little. She looked down at Mickey, her eyebrows raised, "Did you do this?"

He shrugged, "Yeah, I just didn't want him to start screaming at me or some shit."

She smiled. "It's good," she said and he hated that he felt the tiniest bit pleased about that. He racked it up to the fact that nobody ever complimented him. They swore at him, told him he was a fuck up, but they never said anything positive. Well, except Firecrotch, but saying stuff in bed didn't really count.

Hell, the stuff Ian said to him didn't count. He couldn't explain why, it just didn't.

"Sorry about that anyway, I was in the shower and then work called," she explained and that was when he noticed her damp hair, "And somebody has recently taken to climbing out of his crib." She looked accusingly at the kid, but there was such love in that expression that Mickey had to look away. It practically blinded him. He didn't know how to deal with love like that. He wasn't good with any emotion other than anger, hate or lust.

He shrugged, regretting when he did, because that hurt. "Doesn't matter," he said gruffly, "I just didn't want him sticking his fingers in a plug and frying his brains out or nothing." Mickey was uncomfortable having to talk to Fiona. He wasn't good at talking to people. He usually spoke with his fists.

"Carl did that once," she commented, not seeming to know quite what to say either.

But he could tell that was just because she knew exactly what she wanted to say to him, just didn't know whether or not she had the courage to. If she was anything like Firecrotch, she'd say it eventually.

"Yeah, but that kids a fucking nutjob," Mickey replied, not caring if she found his words harsh or blunt because it was true. Mickey knew who Carl was, but only because the kid was a junior sociopath and Mickey made sure to keep the fuck away from him. He didn't scare him, he just freaked him out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fiona smile and decided that maybe it wasn't just Ian who had strange reactions to things Mickey said. Then again, he really doubted Fiona was going to start smiling that shit eating grin at one of Mickey's insults any time soon.

A part of him wanted to thank her for washing his clothes, for looking after him, but the words got stuck in his throat. Mickey didn't know how to do that, he wasn't good at the whole gratitude thing, so he just said nothing and hoped it didn't come across as being too rude.

"Mickey?" she said after a moment and he knew her big question or whatever was coming then.

He just looked up at her, didn't say anything, because he didn't know how the words would sound when they actually left his head. He didn't even know how to make sense of half of what was going on in his head. He blamed the painkillers that had now started to kick in.

"You do know that you're welcome to stay here as long as you need?" she asked and he couldn't help the way she frowned at him. He had been expecting her to ask him to leave or to grill him about what had been said last night, but he hadn't expected that. He didn't know how to deal with that. People were supposed to be horrible to him, they were supposed to want to get rid of him as quickly as possible. They weren't supposed to want him to stick around. He didn't know how to cope with that.

"Why?" he had to ask.

She rolled her eyes at him, like he was being an idiot. "I'm not going to kick you out onto the street," she said, like it should have been obvious to him that she would never do that, "Unless you have somewhere else you need to go?"

He could have been wrong, but he thought that she might have even been hoping that he didn't. But that would have meant that she wanted him to stick around and that was just stupid, he wasn't even going to let himself consider that because that would make him hope.

"So do you?" she asked when he didn't reply, just stared at her in a way he knew was unnerving her, "Have somewhere to go, I mean?"

He considered lying to her, but he was curious about where this was going. "Not really," he admitted, "I have a friend I can probably crash with for a few days." He hadn't given it much thought as to where he was going to go when he'd run out of his Dad's house, the only placed he had ever lived before in his life. He'd just needed to check Ian was okay, needed to see that he was fine. It almost made him regret that he didn't have very many friends – any friends really if he was being honest – that would let him crash at theirs for a long period of time. He knew some people he could threaten into letting him stay, some people who would do it just because, but there wasn't anybody who would take him in out of the kindness of their hearts – not that he believed that shit even existed.

People always wanted something and Mickey didn't do charity.

"So stay here," she said, shifting the kid around on her lap when he started squirming, "I have to go to work, but I'm not kicking you out on the street, Mickey, you're welcome here for as long as you want to be."

He chewed the corner of his mouth, like he often did when he was thinking, or just out of habit really. He could see that she meant it and that pissed him off. He didn't know how to deal with sincerity. If she lied to him, sure he could cope with that, he'd probably find it more realistic, but open honesty wasn't something he was in any way used to. It kind of freaked him out if he was being completely honest.

"So will you be here when I get back?" she didn't really seem to be expecting him to be giving her straight answers, wasn't pushing him for anything, but he could tell that she really wanted an answer from him.

Didn't she understand that he actually needed time to process this? Time to process it when his brain wasn't starting to become fuzzed up with painkillers. "I don't know," he told her slowly, his instincts screaming for him to run, but practically that wouldn't be the wise decision.

She nodded, standing and taking the rugrat with her, but Mickey didn't really register it. He just stayed there on the floor, thinking more than was probably healthy for someone like him. He scowled at nothing in particular, like that would help.

He didn't have anywhere to go that was actually as good an offer as staying here would be, so it would be logical to stay here. But then logical wasn't really a part of Mickey's vocabulary. He wasn't good at logical. But he knew it would be worse for his ego if he left and then had to come crawling back seeking out that place to stay. So wouldn't it be simple to just stay here? It would be, it would definitely be simpler, but Ian had once told him that he had an ego the size of Canada and he thought that pretty much summed it up. He wasn't comfortable with the whole accepting help thing, charity. He didn't need charity, but somehow he was sure that wasn't what Fiona was offering him.

She was offering him help. And even a Milkovich could accept from time to time that they needed help.

So hours later, Mickey was still there, even if he didn't completely know why he was sticking around the house. Maybe it was because it was warm and safe and he didn't have anywhere else to be. Or maybe it was because the whole place reminded him of Firecrotch. He could have explained all of his reasons for doing that, but when the smaller Gallagher girl. . .Debbie or something. . . came barrelling into the house, slamming straight into Mickey, he automatically steadied her. He looked down into her tear stained face and frowned, not knowing why it bothered him that she was crying, certainly not knowing why he bothered asking, "What's wrong?"

Mickey didn't bother asking things like that, not unless it came to Mandy. But he asked it then. And he didn't know why.

She snivelled, reminding him stupidly of Ian as she scrubbed a hand across her cheeks. "T-They t-took Fiona's phone," she said eventually in a broken voice her skin turning red and blotchy, completely unattractive. He wondered how old the kid was, probably eleven, something like that and it was obvious that she had been raised completely different from Mickey, because he knew that if he'd cried at eleven, he would have gotten the pulp beaten out of him from his father. "I wasn't even supposed to b-borrow it."

He wanted to tell her that Jesus Christ it was just a phone and she should get over it and stop crying, but that wasn't what he did. He wanted to say that to her, he definitelywanted to, but he didn't. Instead he asked, "Who?"

And when she looked at him, it was with a frown showing through her tears. Like him, she didn't understand why he cared, but she was smart enough not to question it. He would have backed down and run off instantly if she'd questioned it.

"The b-boys at the end of the r-road," she stammered out after a minute, rubbing at her eyes again, "The one with the h-hat." She waved vaguely at her head, which he thought was stupid, because he knew what a damn hat was.

Mickey didn't comment on her stupid actions, or the fact she was still crying, he just nodded. She followed him back to the door, standing just outside it and watching as he walked down the road. Because he could see the boys she was meaning about. He didn't know them, but he wouldn't have cared if he had done. He zeroed in on the one with the hat, a tall guy with a slightly crooked nose and hair the colour of dirt.

"You took a phone," he said, rubbing a thumb across his mouth and then wishing he hadn't done, because it only reminded him of Firecrotch. He knew Ian had always liked it when he did that, didn't have a fucking clue why though. "I want it back."

The tall guy in the hat smirked, which annoyed Mickey. "Don't know what you're talking about," he said, his tone as cocky as his expression, which really didn't help his situation, "Don't have no phone."

Mickey shrugged, "If you say so."

And then he slammed his fist into the guy's face. There were only three of them and one of them started edging off the side the minute the first punch was thrown. Two against one were definitely odds that were in Mickey's favour. He was a Milkovich, he knew how to fight. He knew how to fight because he enjoyed the fight.

He batted them around a little bit, enjoying the crunch as he stamped on the guy in the hat's hand, breaking at least one of his fingers. "Now, do I need to repeat myself?" he asked, staring down at him, "Because I can do this all day, and I want that phone back."

The guy whimpered which was just pathetic and made Mickey haul him none to gently to his feet, pushing him into a street light. He kept a hold of the front of the guy's shirt as the idiot rummaged through his pockets, pulling out multiple phones and two wallets, dropped them all on the floor.

Mickey pushed him away roughly afterwards, collecting up all of the stuff on the floor and with a one-fingered salute to the boys, sauntered back off towards the Gallagher house. Debbie didn't say anything to him as he moved back inside, but stared with wide eyes as he deposited all of what he'd collected on the kitchen table. There were about five phones, most of them pretty shitty, but still worth money.

She picked one out after a minute and before he could stop her latched onto his waist, her arms wrapped around him. "Thanks," she said when she pulled back. The entire time Mickey had just stood there stock still, but he finally looked down at her and made himself shrug, "Whatever, don't hug me again."

Debbie just smiled, like she'd been expecting that reaction and then because she was a Gallagher and although they had morals, those morals didn't extend to certain things, she started going through the wallets, pulling out the cash. And the kid didn't even hesitate for a moment, she just held it all out to him, not even taking one fucking dollar for herself.

And he didn't know what made him shake his head and step back, refusing to touch the money offered to him. "Keep it," he muttered, pushing his tongue into the corner of his mouth, feeling nervous even though he couldn't have explained why.

She watched him for a minute before a wide smile broke out across her face. "Do you want to watch the new Transformers movie?" she asked after a second, "Lip copied it off someone the other day, but we haven't watched it yet."

God, did all of these Gallaghers talk so much? And why the hell are they all so nice?

It confused him that they were being nice to him, but it confused him even more that he wasn't actually being horrible to them. Maybe it was because Fiona had helped him out for absolutely no reason. Maybe it was because they were related to Firecrotch. Maybe it was because Mickey couldn't actually think of a decent enough reason to hate them.

So he said, "Sure, whatever," and frowned as the youngest Gallagher girl ran off into the other room. Dutifully he followed her, sinking down into the sofa that that last night had been his unlikely bed. She sat beside him, closer than he was comfortable with, closer than he'd expected, but since she wasn't touching him, he didn't complain anywhere other than in his mind.

"You're not that bad," she commented as the movie started, "You should stick around."

And he couldn't help but think, maybe I might, because even if he didn't understand it, even if he hated it, it was quite nice to be looked at with something other than distaste for a change. And besides, it wasn't like he had anywhere else that he could go.

Chapter Text

Fiona laid down the rules the next day.

"You have to pull your weight with the money and don't injure any of the Gallagher's too seriously or too often and you can stay as long as you need," she'd told him and since that had been a pretty good deal, he'd accepted. Well, he'd sort of just grunted at her, but she'd got the message well enough, even smiled at him.

Of course, it was either sleep on the sofa or take Ian's currently vacated bed, but he didn't feel comfortable doing that, so the sofa it was. Mandy had dropped off some of his stuff and as many clothes as she could bring at one time and that was all stashed up in the boys room, mixing in with Lip, Ian and Carl's stuff almost instantly.

The girl, Debbie had also taken to hanging around him. He didn't know why, but she kept popping up out of nowhere to ask him if he'd like to watch a movie, or playing cards with him or stupid stuff. He didn't mind it too much, which confused him. And when he did mind it, she didn't get offended when he turned her down. He suspected he was probably just some new novelty or something and it would soon wear off.

Mickey had only been living there four days though when she came home and handed him a bunch of brochures for the community college down the road. When he'd asked her why she was giving him the things, she'd just said, "Because you're not as stupid as you think you are." And he suspected it was probably because that was the only time anybody had said anything like that to him and because it was like spitting in his father's face since he was the one to always tell Mickey how much of a fuck up he was, so he'd actually enrolled. The course had only just started and I was mechanical science or something like that, with some bullshit name that at the end of the day just meant he was learning how to fix up car engines and stuff.

It was something he already basically knew how to do and it wasn't like he'd hate it as a job, so he humoured the little female Gallagher and actually went to the classes. Even when he wanted to skip, he couldn't bring himself to, because the look of pride in Fiona's eyes when she'd found out was so new that it was something he couldn't shake.

He wasn't used to people caring about him and he hated that he knew he would feel bad if he let them down. So he tried not to let them down. He even cut back on the shop-lifting and the fighting a little bit, but not completely, because the Gallagher's were good, but they still lived in the shit part of town and they were far from fucking saints themselves.

"It's weird not having you around," Mandy said, curled up on the other end of the sofa to him, staring at him with wide eyes that were pasted with far too much makeup. She was wearing a skirt as well, but as far as he was concerned she might as well have been walking around in her underwear for all the effectiveness that skirt had.

He scowled at her, she just didn't know what for.

"You're here like all the fucking time," he retorted, not believing in all that soppy family crap despite how the Gallaghers were trying to drag him into it. He'd drawn lines, he'd babysit once in a blue moon because the littlest rugrat wasn't all that bad, he'd contribute towards the bills money wise, he wouldn't kill the little sociopath Carl no matter how much he asked for it and he would be about as nice to Debbie as he could possibly manage without having a personality transplant. But he refused to let them make him all soppy and girly and a 'true gay' as Lip kept saying.

Mickey didn't want to be a 'true gay', he just wanted to be a guy who happened to like cock.

"Yeah, and?" she scowled back at him, a true Milkovich even if she was a girl.

"And, you can hardly fucking miss me if you see me more now than you did then."

She rolled her eyes. "Never said I missed you," she retorted, "Just that it was weird."

That was their relationship in a nutshell, always lying through your teeth to keep from admitting you give a shit even though everybody can see that you do. It was so much easier to pretend. Sometimes he thought it was a lot more fun to pretend as well.

"You staying for dinner, Mandy?"

Neither of them had noticed Fiona until she appeared in the doorway, Liam balanced on one hip like he often was, a smile on her face even though the dark smudges under her eyes spoke of a hard day. Mickey didn't know how she could do that, grin even though she probably wanted to cry. If he was in her position. . . well he didn't know what he'd do because he'd never let himself be in her position. He knew he wouldn't be able to cope with it.

Mandy looks a little surprised and he knew it was because just like him, she still wasn't used to the easy hospitality that the Gallaghers handed out. If they had masses of food going around, maybe Mickey would understand it, but they don't, so he didn't. Mickey always felt better seeing Mandy unnerved by it though, because she'd been practically living here as Ian's 'girlfriend'.

"Um. . . sure," Mandy said, "What are we having?"

Fiona shrugged, "Whatever I can find in the fridge." Mickey had come to discover that that was the standard answers. He'd also found out that Fiona could be pretty damn inventive when it came to food. She looked down at Mickey, meeting his eyes with such an intense gaze that it was only two seconds before he looked away, "Mick, you have two options, entertain Liam while I make dinner or help."

She raised her eyebrows to make it clear he needed to make his decision pretty damn quick otherwise she was just going to make it for him. He was too slow, "Good choice, here you go." She dropped Liam into his lap, the kid instantly latching on to Mickey's hair in the way he always did. Mickey had already decided the kid had a hair fetish.

"This is fucking slave labour," he muttered as she was walking away.

"No, slave labour would be me making you change his diapers," she called back over her shoulder and she did have a point. That was another line Mickey refused to allow to be crossed. He did not do bad smells, which meant there was no way in hell he was going to be caught anywhere near one of Liam's full diapers.

Mandy was watching him with a frown on her face as he repositioned Liam on his lap so that the kid couldn't get too firm a grip on his hair. "What?" he snapped, which for some reason made the rugrat giggle. He'd already worked out that it was actually pretty sadistic for a toddler, proved it was definitely related to Carl.

"Since when have you been babysitter of the year?" she asked, her frown turning into a scowl, "You turning soft Mick?"

He didn't even reply to that, just reached out and twisted her tit, hard. He'd worked out a long time ago that it had exactly the same effect as kicking a guy in the nuts. She yelped and punched him on the arm, proving yet again that she was a Milkovich because it fucking hurt.

"What have I told you about doing that?" she said, edging away from him so that she was safely out of reach. Of course he knew that he could well and truly freak her out just by handing the kid over, but that would be cruel on the rugrat, so he didn't. Mandy didn't do kids, especially ones that weren't related by blood.

"Don't piss me off then," he replied simply, because it really was simple logic if you thought about it. Even Liam probably understood, but then again, Liam was probably smarter than his sister already.

She pulled a face at him that was more of a grimace than anything else and he rolled his eyes.

"What do you do with it then?" she asked after a minute, frowning at the kid.

He just shrugged. "It's actually pretty fucking easy to entertain," he answered, "Draw, veg out in front of the TV, destroy shit, build shit, it doesn't matter." It was the reason Mickey actually didn't mind babysitting the brat, because it wasn't actually a brat.

It was a surprisingly easygoing child.

"Aww Mick, you do have a soul," she said, putting a hand over her heart and giving him a soppy sort of look.

He scowled, standing and moving onto the floor, dragging a box of Lego towards him that had been given to them by somebody. "Yeah, shut the fuck up," he replied, watching as the kid dug around in the box for pieces, dropping them onto the floor aimlessly, "You knew that anyway."

Unlike a lot of people, Mandy actually had some faith in him, didn't think he was a complete fuck up.

She shrugged and sat cross-legged beside him on the floor. "True," she admitted, "Doesn't mean it isn't surprising to remember that fact once in a while."

Mickey didn't answer, because he didn't need to. A few minutes later they'd all fallen into an easy sort of silence as Mickey set about making himself a monster fucking spaceship out of the Lego. Even Milkovich's were allowed to be kids sometimes. Especially considering both he and Mandy had actually had a pretty shit childhood.

The whole eating tea thing as a family was still not something Mickey could get used to. Growing up he couldn't actually remember his family ever sitting down together and eating at the same time. He'd have remembered if they had done, it would have been mayhem. Worse than mayhem, it would have been a disaster. The only person Mickey had ever really eaten with had been Mandy and even then that was while they vegged out in front of the TV or while they played on the Xbox. There hadn't been much talking.

But at the Gallaghers, everybody sat down at the table and everybody seemed to try to talk at once. There was always about a thousand different conversations going on and the more there were, the higher the volume rose until people were practically screaming so that they could be heard over one another. Steve – Jimmy? – had been a part of the group long enough to integrate in, shouting along with the best of them, but Mickey just sort of sat there. He wasn't excluded, people talked to him, all of them talked to him in fact, trying to draw him in, make them one of him, but he made sure he hovered on the edge. He didn't start the conversations, but if someone spoke to him he answered, often with a mouthful of food, which of course elicited the whole, "Mickey, could you be more gross?" conversation.

And yet, even while they reprimanded him, they never seemed to actually care too much whether or not he followed their instruction. It was strange and he had to admit – although he never would admit it – that he sort of liked just sitting there watching it all, feeling like he belonged even though at the same time he knew he probably really didn't.

Even Steve – Jimmy? – as a car thief was a good person fundamentally, he grinned and laughed and joked and was good. But that wasn't Mickey. Mickey didn't know how to be good, he didn't even think he wanted to be. So he didn't really fit in, but at the same time, they sort of all insisted on dragging him into the fold, like they could see something in him that was worth accepting.

Especially Debbie.

Debbie was like Ian, she saw the light in every person's dark soul. And even though he was pretty convinced there wasn't any light inside of him, he humoured her because if he did, it was like he believed it and if he believed it, it was like there actually was somehow some goodness there.

"Do you ever eat nicely?" the chick-friend of Fiona's who was always hanging around frowned at him when he stuffed a large chunk of bread into his mouth to stop Mandy from snagging it off of his plate.

Even though the Gallaghers ate together, they still ate in the same style as the Milkovichs. Mickey thought there was a certain art required to cram as much food in as quickly as possible to make sure nobody could take it off you. You ate slow, someone else ate it for you, that was just a fact of their life.

He shrugged and blew crumbs at her which made her thump him hard on the air.

"You do know there's a working shower here, right?" she asked, "Because you've been here what, a week and your still the dirtiest fucking white boy I've ever seen." Mickey actually found that comment funny, because it wasn't really an insult, not by his standards anyway.

"Mickey has an aversion to soap," Mandy put in helpfully, which earned her a hard elbow to the ribs.

It was true that he didn't exactly wash often, but that wasn't out of any sort of distaste for cleanliness, it was simply that it slipped his mind. It wasn't something that he ever remembered to do straight away. It was never at the forefront of his mind. So he was dirty and he couldn't name half the substances that were on some of his clothes, but he didn't care. It was only other people that did.

To be honest though, he was actually cleaner than he usually was. But that probably had something to do with how Fiona kept putting his clothes through the wash without even bothering to consult him about it. If she consulted him, he'd just say they were fine and she knew that, so she never did. He didn't ever complain for the stupid fucking reason that he liked how it made him smell a little bit like Ian when she washed his clothes.

"You actually don't smell all that much," Debbie put in helpfully, "You're just kind of dirty."

Mandy choked back a laugh and Mickey simply snorted, choosing not to reply to that statement for fear of being horrible to one of the people who actually thought there was something in him worth smiling at.

"Mickey, seriously, when was the last time you had a shower?" Fiona asked, her nose wrinkling the next morning as she turned back to face him on her path to the kitchen.

He shrugged.

"If you have to shrug, you're overdue one," she told him, "Go now, nobody's in it." She jerked her thumb towards the stairs, her expression practically daring him to argue with her before she turned back around.

He pulled a face at her retreating figure, but knew better than to actually complain or anything. Besides, it was only a shower and not worth the actual argument anyway. Some people thought Mickey was stupid, but he wasn't. He knew when to throw the punch or shout the insult and when to back the fuck down and just do as he was told. Not that many people actually ever had the courage to tell him what to do.

Groaning, he hauled himself up off the sofa and padded up the stairs in nothing but his boxers. Nobody in this house ever had a problem with nudity or people not wearing all that many clothes. And since Mickey wasn't exactly fussed either, he'd taken to the arrangement of not always having to be fully dressed quite nicely.

He turned the heat up on the shower until it was almost scalding, his head tipped forward as he watched the murky water swirl down the drain. He could feel the muscles in his back unwinding, the bruises on his ribs still there, but fading slowly. He was no longer a wide variety of colours, just a handful.

He never really let himself think about what had happened, because he didn't know how he should feel about it, let alone how he actually did feel. His father had never even really been a father to him anyway and it wasn't like he hadn't been expecting that reaction if the man ever found out Mickey was gay. It hadn't been a surprise, but he knew it still hurt a little bit.

There was that mild concern in the back of his mind that his Dad would go blabbing to somebody, but nobody had made any comments to him and he knew then that his Dad was probably too ashamed to admit to it. Mickey could imagine him pretending he didn't have four sons, only three and he was perfectly fine with that. It was pretty much the story of his life anyway, so he was as equally content to pretend he didn't have a Dad.

He rested his head on the cold tiles and shut his eyes, thinking that he must have been a bastard in a past life to deserve this. Then again, he was a bastard in this life, so maybe it shouldn't have come as such a bit surprise to him.

Mickey was just washing the shampoo out of his hair – shampoo that he knew Ian must use because it smelt exactly like him – when the bathroom door opened and somebody walked in. He wasn't really surprised, people just sort of strolled into any room in this house regardless of who might be in it and what they may be doing.

"Jesus, you actually taking a shower?"

It was Lip.

"Shut the fuck up, Gallagher, it happens occasionally," he retorted, turning his face up into the spray and then pulling back the curtain enough so that he could spit the mouthful of water into Lip's face. Served the guy right for standing so close, didn't it?

"You're a dick, Mickey," he said, grabbing a towel and scrubbing his face dry with it, like Mickey had acid spit or something.

Mickey just shrugged, snagging the towel off him and stepping out of the shower, completely uncaring about his nudity. Then again, Lip didn't really seem to give two shits about it either, he just continued scowling at him just like he would have done if Mickey had been fully clothed. The Gallaghers really were a unique bunch, but then he supposed living with so many people under one roof sort of removed the ability to be a prude.

"And your point is?" he asked, securing the towel around his waist and then shaking his head like a dog, water flying everywhere.

Lip didn't say anything else, just sort of sighed and stalked out of the bathroom.

Mickey smirked at his reaction, quite liking how the Gallaghers on the whole weren't easily wound up. In his house, one of his brothers probably would have decked him for doing that, but here, Lip just glared.

His house. He had to stop thinking that, he knew he did. No doubt by now one of his brothers would have taken over his room and all of his stuff would have either been trashed, burnt, stolen or left lying around someplace. Mickey didn't care, he had the only important things with him and whatever else there had been had probably been stolen in the first place and he could always steal it again.

Still, it was weird knowing that that was never going to be his home again. He was probably never going to set foot inside of it ever again, which wasn't too much of a problem considering it had been a shit hole, but it had still been his home. He didn't even have a home anymore. No doubt if he said that aloud he knew Debbie or Fiona would argue and say this was his home now, but Ian hadn't come back yet. It would only be his home if Ian didn't kick off and make him leave.

He wasn't going to live under the same roof as a pissed off Ian, it just wasn't worth it. Especially not considering it would probably kill Mickey to see him every day.

"Damn, you don't look half bad clean."

It was that friend again, Vee or something like that, the one who just seemed to appear at the most random of times. She stood just down the hallway to him, her arms folded across his chest as she surveyed him standing there in his towel like he was a prime cut of meat or something.

"No need to sound so fucking surprised," he replied, scratching his stomach.

She smirked, "And you just ruined it, because you still have a horrible personality."

Mickey shrugged. He would have been pissed off, but for some reason he could tell that she didn't really mean it. And he didn't know why she didn't mean it, because it was true. He did have a horrible personality. "Like I fucking care," he replied, because he didn't. He didn't need to be a nice person, being a dick got him about as far as he was ever going to get.

Nice people didn't survive in this neighbourhood anyway.

"Thick-skinned bastard, aren't ya?" she asked, eying him up again.

He thought that was a random thing to comment, but he didn't tell her that. Didn't see the point. "If I broke down and cried every time someone was a bitch about me, I'd die of fucking dehydration," he retorted, "So yeah, I am."

She nodded. "It's a good thing, I guess," she said, "Especially considering that you really are a dick."

It was true.

"This conversation going anywhere in particular, or can I go?" he asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to the boys' room and where his clothes resided. He chewed the corner of his mouth, tasting blood on his tongue but not caring in the slightest.

Vee rolled her eyes. "You see what I mean," she muttered and then moved closer to him, too close, into his personal space, but he didn't hit women – not unless they really fucking deserved it or were related – so there wasn't a hell of a lot he could do about it. "Just wanted to say that I think you're handling what happened real well," she said, smiling at him weakly, like she knew he was going to hate her words. He already did. "And you may be a dick, but your Dad takes it to a whole new fucking level."

She shrugged, "Just thought you should know Kev and I'll stand by you if we have to."

He wanted to frown at her, but knew it turned out as more of a scowl. It wasn't his fault, he didn't understand the Gallaghers and now he realised he didn't understand the people they were friends with either. It made him wonder if he actually properly knew anything anymore, because the way he'd grown up, the people he knew, they weren't like this. His experience of life was not that people were supposed to be nice to you for no fucking reason, standing up for you, help you. It just didn't make sense, but they were doing it anyway and he couldn't detect one single hint of a lie in their expressions when they did shit like this.

If they lied, he could have coped with it. He wouldn't have been so fucking confused.

"Why?"

He had to ask.

"No fucking clue," she replied, "Maybe cause Fiona likes you and Debbie certainly does, maybe because you obviously give a shit about Ian even if you won't admit it, or maybe it's cause you ain't half as bad as you make yourself out to be." She shrugged again, "As I said, fuck knows, but just don't be a bitch and accept the help your given, then we won't have a problem."

And when a woman glares at you like that, daring you to defy her and looking like if you tried, she'd rip your bollocks off, Mickey did the only logical thing that there was to do. He nodded and said, "Yeah, kay, whatever."

She grinned, patting his bare, slightly damp shoulder. "Good," she said, "Now, I'll see you around Mick."

And with that she left him in peace. Only problem was, she also left him a hell of a lot more confused that he was comfortable being. He thought it would probably be a lot fucking easier to just quite while he was ahead and stop even attempting to understand these people. It would probably be the smartest thing.

Chapter Text

Fucking algebra.

He'd been staring at the piece of paper in front of him for what felt like hours and he was about ready to tear his hear out at the roots. He hated maths, had never understood it, never wanted to understand it and yet here he was, staring at fucking algebra. And why? Because one stupid Gallagher had walked up to him with wide eyes and a handful of community college brochures and a smile that was just pathetic.

The worst part: it wasn't even the Gallagher he was fucking. No, it had been Debbie. This was all Debbie's fault.

"Mickey, Jesus, you look like you're about to be sick," Fiona said, pressing her hand against his forehead because in this house there were no fucking boundaries anywhere and apparently he now had a sign on him that said it was alright to touch and hug him and treat him like he was your normal, friendly person.

He'd had the youngest Gallagher run up to him with hands covered in chocolate insisting to be picked up so that he could give Mickey a kiss on the cheek just earlier that day. And it was shit like that that was freaking Mickey the hell out.

"Yeah well, I hate fucking algebra," he replied, pushing a hand through his hair and leaning back slightly about ready to give up, "Why the hell I have to do a fucking paper on algebra when the course I'm on is about bloody car engines, I don't know, I mean where the fuck is the logic in that?" He picked up the papers and waved them at her, "And when am I ever, going to need to know this."

She smiled and he was pleased someone was finding this amusing.

"It's school, Mick," she said, "There isn't anything logical about it."

Which didn't help him at all. She bent over to look at the equations and within seconds was frowning just as much as he was. "Yeah, I can't help you with that," she muttered, "Lip should be upstairs, go get him to explain it to you and if all else fails, get him to do it." She looked at him sternly, "But only if you've actually had a go, don't just go up there and say I said he can do it for you!"

Mickey really doubted Lip would help him anyway, but he nodded and because she was staring expectantly, picked up the papers and went upstairs. He felt fucking stupid walking towards the boys' room with maths papers clutched in his hands ready to ask for someone's help. It was like he was a bloody seven year old again. And normally, he wouldn't have sunk so low as to actually ask for help from Lip, but he knew there was no way he was going to be able to do it and Fiona was like a bloody mother in that he already knew she'd check to make sure he had it done before he left the house tomorrow.

He didn't bother knocking on the door, just walked straight in. He'd learnt pretty quick in this house that nobody ever expected you to knock and Mickey wasn't much into doing the unnecessary. It did mean he'd walked into the boys' room for a fresh shirt only to find Lip fucking the whole Karen or whatever her name was on the top bunk.

That time though, he supposed it probably should have been enough of a clue that Liam was sitting outside of the door, but Mickey had thought maybe he'd climbed out again. He did that a hell of a lot. Sometimes Mickey would go to sleep alone, only to wake up with the toddler fast asleep next to him on the end of the sofa.

Fiona said it was because he liked him, but Mickey thought that was bullshit. He was convinced the kid sleep walked or something like that. The family were strange enough, it could be a possibility. The only problem was, that when that happened Fiona would come downstairs to find Mickey playing with Liam or feeding him and she'd get this look on her face that was a mixture of happiness and surprised, like she hadn't known a Milkovich was capable of something like that but was pleased that they were.

He had to admit though, that by now pretty much everybody had admitted that he had a bit of a soft spot for the kid. The official line was that he didn't have a reason to hate him yet and someone had to make sure at least one Gallagher kid grew up to be a badass. But he thought they all saw through it to realise that Mickey for some reason had just genuinely taken a liking to the brat.

"Hey, Lip," he found the guy in question lying on his stomach flicking through what looked suspiciously like a porn magazine.

"What's up?" he asked, putting the magazine down on the other side of him.

Mickey could feel himself blushing slightly and he fidgeted, not actually wanting to have to admit what he'd come in here for. "This algebra paper I've got is fucking bullshit," he said, holding up the papers, "Fiona said you could probably explain it to me in a way that I might fucking understand it."

He grimaced, which he hoped got across that he really was sort of desperate here.

Lip looked surprised, but he hadn't instantly told him to fuck off. "Yeah sure," he said, "But one question first." He pulled the magazine back out and held it out so that Mickey could see one of the pages. "Does this seriously do nothing for you?"

Mickey scowled at the page. "Not at all," he replied, "The whole pussy thing. . . " He shuddered. There wasn't really any other way he could explain his feelings towards that particular part of a girl's anatomy.

Lip smirked, "Weird."

He swung his legs down over the edge of the bed, lifting up the corner of the mattress and stuffing the magazine under it. "Right, let's see this algebra then," he said and five minutes later, Mickey was actually envious of him. He'd never really envied anyone before, didn't see the point in it and he especially didn't envy anyone over something stupid like how smart they were, but he did a little bit then. It was probably just because Lip just looked down at the questions Mickey had spent ages glaring at and seemed to instantly understand.

He sat and started explaining it, helping Mickey with each question until Mickey actually thought he understood what he had to do. But there was another thing he was confused about. Why the fuck was Lip helping him? In Mickey's mind there was no way that someone who Mickey had previously beaten up and never really been nice to in his life would be nice to him and help him out for absolutely jack shit in return. And yet, here he was, being helped with fucking algebra by Lip Gallagher who he'd beaten to a pulp once during that whole Mandy/Ian mix-up.

Shit like that just didn't make sense to him.

"Why the fuck are you all being nice to me, dude, seriously?" Mickey asked suddenly, unable to stop himself because he just had to know the reasoning. He had to see if there was some sort of logic behind it at all.

Lip frowned at him, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you shouldn't be nice to me, any of you," he said, waving his hand around him, "You shouldn't be letting me stay here, helping me out with fucking algebra or any of this shit, it just doesn't make sense."

Lip smirked slightly, "And why shouldn't we?"

Mickey snorted. The question really in his mind was: why should they?

"Because, I'm a dick, I know I'm a dick," he said, "And people like me, who've landed themselves in Juvie not only once, but fucking twice shouldn't have Fiona asking me whether I had a nice day, you helping me out with bloody algebra or Debbie telling me all about her fucking day at school because for some reason I've managed to make her think that I care about stuff like that. It just doesn't make sense."

Lip stared at him until Mickey started to squirm again. He hated it when people fucking stared at him, but he wasn't very well going to look away because that would be a sign of weakness and he definitely couldn't punch Lip in the face like he sort of wanted to because that would have been breaking one of Fiona's ground rules.

"Do you care?" Lip asked finally and Mickey couldn't remember ever being so relieved to hear someone speak.

"What?"

"Do you care?" he repeated, "You said Debbie talks to you about stuff because she thinks you care, so do you, or is she wrong?"

Mickey scowled. He would have said no, that he didn't care in the fucking slightest, but he wasn't sure if that was true. The kid was sort of amusing, always going on about something or other that had happened and asking Mickey what he thought she should do about different kids when they said stuff to her. And he found himself wanting to tell her to tear their throats out, because they shouldn't be bothering her or saying anything like that to her, but he didn't, instead he did one better and told her to tell them that they'd get a visit from Mickey Milkovich if they didn't shut the fuck up. And Mickey knew that they will have heard of him, because almost everybody had heard of Mickey in this fucking neighbourhood, or at least heard of the last name Milkovich.

And also, he knew that if they did say something again after she'd made that threat, he would go and track them down because he was becoming oddly protective of the dysfunctional group that was the Gallaghers.

"Fuck," he muttered and that seemed to be all that Lip needed to hear, because he laughed.

"See, that's why," he replied, "Because you actually give a shit even though you don't want to and you're not actually as bad as I fucking thought you were." And that was saying something considering Lip and Mickey had gone through a phase of being best friends for a couple of years.

Mickey frowned, "I'm not good at being nice or any shit like that."

Lip laughed again. "Mick, nobody wants you to be fucking nice," he replied, "We just don't want you to put anyone in intensive care or something. You don't have to be nice, hell even Carl definitely isn't nice."

"The kid's a sociopath," Mickey muttered, "If you think about it, it isn't really his fault."

"You know Fiona hates it when you call him that, right?" Lip asked, scratching his head, "Even if it is kind of accurate."

Mickey snorted, "Kind of is an understatement."

And it was. Carl was fucked up in the head, of that Mickey was positive. But he had his amusing moments as well, Mickey had to admit that. And that annoyed him, because Mickey wasn't the sort of person to think things like that. He wasn't the sort of person to give a shit what happened to any of the Gallaghers.

Except, in Mickey's mind, even if he didn't like them, he'd feel some sort of duty to make sure nothing too fucked up happened to them, because they'd helped him out and that was like a debt. Milkovich's repaid there debts.

"Just look at it like your family or some shit like that if it makes you feel better," Lip said, "Cause it's pretty fucking obvious that you don't like this whole caring thing." He smirked, "But even you protect family, Mickey, so just think of it as the same scenario, minus the blood relations."

Mickey pulled a face and jumped down off the top bunk, grabbing the maths papers when he landed. "Yeah whatever," he said quickly because he was getting uncomfortable and he wanted to get out of this room that smelt far too much like Ian for him to handle right then, "Look, thanks for the algebra shit and all that."

Lip shrugged, "Anytime."

Before the words were really even out of his mouth Mickey had bolted. And he could have sworn he heard Lip laughing, but by the time it registered in his mind as the sound being laughter, he was already halfway down the stairs so he supposed it really didn't matter.

"You sorted?" Fiona asked, looking up from where she was rooting through a stack of papers for something.

He nodded, "Yeah, pretty much."

She smiled and it still astounded him that she actually cared. That any of them did, but he could see that it wasn't a lie in the way that she had smiled at him then. "Good," she said before shouting, "A-ha!" and straightening up with a piece of paper clutched in her hand. Mickey didn't know what it was, but thought it was probably some sort of bill that was due to be paid.

"Hey Mick?" Steve/Jimmy – everybody was calling him Jimmy at the moment so Mickey supposed he'd go with that even though he really didn't get what all of that was about – twisted around to look at him over the back of the sofa. "What time you get off college tomorrow?"

Mickey frowned, "I only have a class in the morning, why?"

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but he wasn't really pulling it off very well. He even had Fiona's attention now. "I could just use your help with something, that's all," he said simply and turned around when he seemed to sense that Fiona was trying to tear him apart with her eyes.

"You are not getting him involved in that car stealing scam of yours," she said, folding her arms over her chest, "We don't need to have him already back in Juvie by the time Ian comes home!" None of them had actually told Ian that Mickey was staying with the Gallaghers, even though they all spoke to him basically every night on the phone. All mention of Mickey was avoided. They said it was because they wanted it to be a surprise, but the reality was that they simply didn't know how Ian was going to react.

Besides, he was home in just over a week and a half, so it wasn't like they had any great length of time left to wait. Mickey didn't really know how he felt about Ian coming home to find him there, even if he was just sleeping on the sofa.

He knew he was nervous that was for sure, but he wouldn't admit that because it was a fucking stupid thing to feel. It was only Firecrotch, not the mafia or anything.

"That is not what I need his help with," Jimmy replied, waving her away before turning back around to face Mickey, "I have to get some money off a few guys, they owe it to me and I just thought it would probably look better if I had someone there to back me up."

Mickey wasn't actually all that ashamed to admit that he would be willing to help Jimmy out on that simply because he was itching to do something that didn't involve babysitting or going to community college. He felt like doing some damage, getting the adrenaline going.

"Who is it that owes you money?" he asked, rubbing his forefinger across his bottom lip.

"The Costellos," he replied a little sheepishly and Mickey smirked.

Yeah, he knew the Costellos.

"Sure I'm in," he replied, "I used to work for the Costello brothers breaking people's legs and shit so it'll probably work in your favour if I go with you." If Mickey didn't go with him they could pretty much guarantee that Jimmy wasn't going to be alive the next day.

"What the fuck you going getting into business with the Costellos anyway?" he asked, curious.

Jimmy shrugged and his eyes flickered towards Fiona, which Mickey took to mean that she wouldn't want to know. "It's a long story," he said vaguely, "But you're definitely in then? You'll back me up?"

"Yeah, already said I wouldn't, didn't I?" he replied and then risked looking at Fiona who was glaring at them both.

"You better fucking come back in one piece," she said pointing at him and then looking at Jimmy, "Otherwise you are a dead man." And Mickey didn't doubt what she was saying, except he was actually more preoccupied being surprised that she was threatening someone for him. "And you better not be late for dinner either, because I refuse to make small talk with your mother and try and control Carl at the same time."

Mickey frowned, "Dinner?"

It only then seemed to dawn on her that she hadn't actually told him about that. "Shit yeah, I meant to tell you, we're going out to dinner with Jimmy's parents tomorrow night," she said, "It's quite early as well, about six o'clock."

"You want me to babysit Liam then?" he asked and she scowled at him.

"No, don't be stupid, Liam's coming with us and so are you," she said, picking up the child in question and trying to angle him so that sticky fingers couldn't grab a hold of her hair. It didn't go very well. "Which means I expect you to have showered and wear something nice, which no does not mean jeans."

Mickey frowned at her, "What do you mean, I'm coming?"

She rolled her eyes, "Jesus Mickey, you live here don't you, that means you have to suffer along at dinner with the rest of us."

And he didn't actually have any objections to that, it just surprised him.

"You do know I don't actually have anything nicer to wear other than jeans right?" he pointed out, "I've never had reason to where anything nice in my entire life." His family's idea of smart was not stinking to high heaven and having showered in the last two days.

"We'll get you something when we go get that money tomorrow," Jimmy said, lying back on the sofa with his feet up now that he felt like everything had been sorted out. "You just have to do me one favour," he said when Mickey started to walk away, desperately in need of a cigarette to try and make sense of the jumble in his brain, "My Dad's paying, so you have to order as much as you can physically eat, if not more."

Mickey smirked, "I think I can do that."

He wasn't sure about anything else anymore, but he sure knew he could milk a rich guy for all he was worth if said rich guy was paying for the meal. Yeah, he could certainly do that.

Chapter Text

What Jimmy didn't get was that things didn't have to be complicated. Not when it was really all so simple. With people like the Costellos, you couldn't walk in there andask for your money. You had to demand it.

Mickey knew that.

Jimmy didn't.

A lot of people didn't think that Mickey was very smart; and maybe he wasn't. Except when it came to this, he was a fucking genuine with stuff like this. Sometimes he thought that he must have been born to do shit like this, because it just made sense to him. He may not have known a hell of a lot about algebra, or anything about Shakespeare, but he knew all about this.

Mickey walked in behind Jimmy with a baseball bat slung over one shoulder and maybe he looked threatening, maybe he didn't. It didn't really matter right then. He moved before Jimmy could even open his mouth, because if Jimmy opened his mouth, the Costellos would laugh and it the Costellos laughed, they were as good as dead.

It was all about picking the right person and Mickey knew the people here.

He knew the guy standing behind him, Jared, was the only thing blocking their way out and he would block it if things went tits up. He'd be the one that most people would try and take out, so that they could run, but Mickey not only knew that Jared was nothing but a wall of muscle who could be easily replaced, but he also had no intention of running. They didn't have to. And Mickey didn't do anything he didn't have to.

So he swung that bat at Mike, catching him right on the shin with the full force of his swing and there was this sort of crunching sound before the guy screamed and went down and they all saw the bone sticking up through his flesh.

Mickey smirked and propped the bat back over his shoulder.

"Fuck, is that Mickey Milkovich?" the guy in charge of all of this, Tony Costello, hissed at the person beside him.

None of them were smiling anymore.

"The one and only," Mickey replied, subtly moving to step in front of Jimmy because the guy was looking a little green and it really wasn't a good idea for the Costellos to get wind of his weakness.

"Who the fuck let you in here?"

"New guy on the door," Mickey replied, shrugging, "You might want to tell him to be more careful, put my face on a board or some shit like that."

The funny thing was that Tony actually looked like he was considering that idea.

"Get Mike out of here," he said after a minute, motioning to two men at the side of the room, "We're gonna have to take him to the hospital."

The guy in question looked like he was about to pass out from the pain and Mickey actually thought the expression on his face was pretty damn funny. But then Mickey was kind of screwed in the head like that.

He rolled his head from side to side to crack his neck, watching as Mike was carried from the room.

"So anyway," he said when the door had shut behind them, smiling at Tony in a way that wasn't at all pleasant, "Shall we cut to the chase and you give us that money before is start playing Wack-a-Mole with your boys here?"

He drummed his fingers on the bat to emphasise his point and out of the corner of his eye saw someone flinch.

Tony stared at him levelly, obviously trying to work out what the fuck it had to do with Mickey. He obviously decided it was wise not to ask that question. "How much was it again?" he asked, "Ten thousand?"

What the fuck is Jimmy doing dealing that much money with these guys, Mickey thought to himself, kind of impressed with the guy behind him at the same time as he thought it was fucking suicidal. The guy wasn't right in the head, but then Mickey already knew that.

"That right?" he asked, not taking his eyes off Tony.

"Try doubling that," Jimmy said after a minute and Mickey was pleased that his voice only shook ever so slightly. Not enough for it to be noticeable.

Mickey tried not to let his surprise show on his face. "Remember what I said about Wack-a-Mole?" Mickey asked, "I'm more than willing to start playing if you try and fuck us around." And Tony knew he would, had seen him do it, that was the best part of all of this.

Not many people would have taken a teenager with a baseball bat seriously, but Tony did.

He motioned to some more men and they scurried out of the room, coming back with a backpack stuffed with cash. Tony tossed the bag at Mickey's feet, but Mickey didn't pick it up straight away, he just looked down at it.

"You better not be tryin' to rip of off here, Tony," he warned, "Otherwise I'll have to come back and get the rest and it won't be fun for any of you, I can guarantee that." He shifted the bat on his shoulder, "You should see what I can do with a metal one of these."

Tony flinched, "It's all there Mickey, I'm not that stupid."

Mickey smiled, he could tell when someone was lying. Tony wasn't lying. "Good," he said, picking up the bag and slinging it over one of his shoulders, "Have a nice day then boys, and give my regards to Mike."

With a one fingered salute in Tony's direction he turned around on his heel and shoved Jimmy back out the door. Mickey was confident, he wasn't suicidal and he didn't really have much of a desire to stick around longer than was necessary.

"Why the fuck didn't they just shoot you?" Jimmy asked when they got out of there and into the car, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel and looking like he was about to puke.

Mickey smirked. "They get raided by the cops like every week," he explained, "They can hide drugs and shit like that, but a load of guns are a little trickier, so the guy I decked with the bat is the only one in the room that's actually armed."

"How the hell did you know that?" he sounded impressed, but still looked a little green.

"Told you I worked there, didn't I?"

"What did you do?" he asked, "Or do I not want to know?"

He probably didn't want to know, but Mickey told him anyway. "I was literally the Leg Breaker," he said, shrugging at Jimmy's disgusted expression, "It was sorta fun actually, a bit like baseball."

"How old were you?"

Mickey shrugged, "Must have started when I was like nine or summat, I dunno." He looked down at the watch he'd 'borrowed' from Lip, actually feeling like his day had turned out a whole lot better than he'd anticipated now, "Don't we have to be going, anyway?"

"Fuck yeah," Jimmy muttered, starting up the car and slamming his foot down on the gas.

They were late to that dinner thing in the end, which meant that Fiona was probably going to kill them, but Mickey was planning on letting Jimmy take the wrap for that one. Getting money from the Costellos hadn't been what had taken so long, it had been Jimmy coaxing Mickey into the only – and hopefully last – suit he had ever worn in his entire life. He felt like he was choking on the air that he swore had somehow been slightly perfumed or some shit as they walked through the hotel lobby towards the restaurant they'd been booked into.

He pushed his hands into his pockets to hide the tattoos on his knuckles, knowing stuff like that would definitely be frowned upon in here. And he wouldn't normally have cared, except there was the prospect of free, expensive food and even Mickey wasn't stupid enough to do anything that could sabotage that.

"Hey guys," Fiona smiled at them but they could see the annoyance in her eyes, "How did your business go?"

Jimmy just turned a little green as he kissed his mother on the cheek and took the seat beside Fiona. Mickey slotted in between Debbie and a guy he didn't know. "Amazing what the sight of someone's shin bone can do to a person's resolve," he said lightly, because he couldn't resist and the colour Jimmy was turning was really quite hilarious.

"Cool," Carl said, like Mickey had expected.

Fiona just narrowed her eyes at him, "Not at the table, please, Mickey."

He shrugged and flicked Debbie in the back of the head by way of a greeting. She smacked him on the arm, but he had a feeling it hurt her more than it did him.

"Mum, Dad, this is Mickey," Jimmy said after taking a deep breath, "Mickey these are my parents and my brother Chip." Chip would be the guy sitting next to him, the one who smelt like he must have bathed in cologne.

They all smiled at him and he did his best to look polite and. . . nice.

"So this time around we've gained Debbie, Lip and Mickey but lost Ian," Jimmy's father, Lloyd or something if Mickey was remembering right, said, "Where is our ginger-topped Gallagher?" And Mickey thought he might have been imagining it, but there was a hint of something in his tone when he asked that that just didn't quite sit right. It was sort of like he was a little bit too interested in knowing the answer to that.

Mickey frowned.

"He's at an army camp," Fiona explained, "It's good experience for when he applies to go to WestPoint."

"Wouldn't he have the be really smart in order to get into a place like that?" the guy beside him, Chip asked and he had one of those superior fucking tones that Mickey hated, "I didn't think they accepted just anybody."

"And Firecrotch isn't just anybody, so if he wants to get into fucking WestPoint, he'll get in," Mickey said, not meaning to sound so defensive, but unable to help himself, "I'd like to see you try and outrun him."

They were all watching him, quite a few of the Gallaghers smiling, but it was Lloyd that spoke up first. "Ahh, but isn't it vital for them to have stamina and not speed in the army?" he asked and he had one of those superior tones as well.

Mickey felt a muscle in his jaw twitch.

"Trust me, the guy has stamina," Mickey said, playing with his knife.

Lip choked on his drink as he laughed, Debbie pulled a face, Carl looked blank and the others just looked amused. "Mickey, we really don't need to know the details of Ian's sex life," Lip muttered when he'd finished choking.

"Oh that wasn't giving you details," Mickey replied, smirking because if he was smirking he wasn't frowning and making it obvious why the hell Jimmy's father was staring at him like he was doing.

"Are you and Ian a couple then, Mickey?" Jimmy's mother asked, Mickey couldn't remember her name, he supposed it wasn't all that important.

He didn't really know how to answer that.

"Not really," he said and didn't miss the way that Lloyd relaxed, "But as far as I'm concerned he's mine, I just haven't told him that yet." And normally he wouldn't have said that, except he had a pretty good idea of why Lloyd was looking at him like he did and it made Mickey crazily possessive of a person who wasn't even there.

"I really don't think you can claim to own a person," Lloyd said slowly, obviously trying not to make his tone sound challenging. Nobody wanted to challenge Mickey. Even people who didn't know him didn't want to challenge Mickey.

Mickey shrugged, "I don't own him, but my teeth marks in his shoulder make him mine."

Mickey didn't like the look of recognition that came into the older man's eyes. What the fuck is it with Ian and fucking old men? He thought to himself, because he knew that was what had happened.

He wondered if anybody else knew.

The conversation shifted onto other things then, but Mickey had already made his decision about Jimmy's family. The mother wasn't too bad, but Jimmy's father was automatically a twat and Mickey hated him just because he'd touched Ian and the douchebag Chip next to him was potentially worse than Mickey's own brothers. Which was saying something.

"You can either play nice, or I can violate my probation and stab you with this fucking fork," Mickey hissed at him half way through the meal, waving the utensil in mention at the guy next to him before slipping the piece of meat on the end of it into his mouth, "You choice."

Debbie kicked him under the table, but nobody really seemed in the slightest bit bothered that he was threatening Chip. Apparently the opinion that he was a douchebag was one that was universally shared.

"So you've been to jail, Mickey?" Lloyd asked, staring at him over the top of his wine glass.

"Juvie," Mickey corrected, "And yeah, twice."

There was a pause, "What for?" It was Chip who had asked, no doubt trying to work out just how dangerous Mickey actually was.

"Shop lifting," he said, really not caring what they thought of him, because at the end of the day one of them had still fucked a teenager and the other was still a douchebag. So Mickey wasn't even twenty yet and he already had a record, that was none of their fucking business, they didn't have a right to judge him for that. "And then the second time was for punching a cop in the face."

They were all watching him, Jimmy's family no doubt to try and work out if he was serious and the Gallaghers were watching his temper, trying to predict whether or not he was going to flip out. He saw Lip's hands tense into fists on top of the table, like he was ready to jump in and pull Mickey back if he went for one of them.

If they thought about it though, they'd realise that not even Mickey was going to start a fight before he'd finished his steak. Especially not since it was damn good steak.

"Why did you punch that cop again?" Debbie asked, watching him out of the corner of her eye. She was the only one who seemed to understand, the only one who wasn't looking at Mickey like he was about to go postal.

"It was either that or go to jail for killing Frank," he replied through a mouthful of food, "Which you know I would have done, but then Firecrotch found me and was crying and shit and it just wasn't fucking worth it in the end."

"Thanks for not killing him then," she said, taking a sip of her Coke, like this was the most normal conversation they could be having. Like they weren't discussing Mickey's near murder of her father.

He wondered if any of them would really miss Frank if he was gone. Knowing the Gallaghers and their fucked up way of looking at things. . . probably.

Nobody really said anything for a while, just quietly ate their food and then Jimmy's mum broke the tension and asked Lip about whether or not he was planning on going to university. Things pretty much went back to normal after that, as normal as they could get anyway.

"Am I right in thinking that there's another little Gallagher that we haven't met yet?" Lloyd asked when there was another gap in the conversation and for no reason whatsoever, Mickey could feel his grip tightening on his knife.

Debbie kicked him under the table again.

"Yeah, Liam," Fiona said, "But he just would have been a pain through the entire meal, so we left him with a few of our friends."

Mickey sort of wished Liam had been there, because he could have made the kid throw up on Lloyd, or maybe Chip. He wasn't particularly fussy.

"You should bring him next time," he suggested, smiling like he was the nicest fucking guy in the world. I was guessing from the way that Fiona was smiling back at him that she didn't know about him and Ian.

Mickey wondered if Ian had known about Lloyd being Jimmy's father when they'd fucked.

"I'm gonna go pee," he said, putting the napkin that Debbie had made him place on his lap back onto the table.

"Yeah, you do know you can keep stuff like that to yourself right?" Lip asked, smirking at him as he stood.

"You do know I have a stash of itching powder that I could let Carl loose with?" Mickey replied, not even looking to see his response. It didn't even matter that he didn't actually, it was just the first thing that came into his head. And they all knew giving Carl anything that could be used to make other people uncomfortable was not a good idea.

In the bathroom he stared at his reflection in the mirror and wondered how in the actual hell he'd gotten there. Not only want he standing in some fancy hotel restaurant's bathroom, but he was dressed in a suit, was jealous of some old man for fucking someone he wasn't supposed to give a shit about and to top it off he'd actually eating with a group of people who didn't hate the fact he was there breathing the same air as them.

This wasn't who he was, wasn't who he thought he was supposed to be and he didn't know why he didn't care. It felt like he was unravelling, like parts of him that he'd managed to make people believe was all there was were cracking and falling away and he was standing there hardly able to completely recognise the person that he was looking at.

He didn't know how to be this person.

He didn't know how to be the person that the Gallaghers were turning him into. And maybe he would have resisted, would have bolted for the hills if they'd been doing it intentionally, but they weren't. They'd all made it clear from the start that they didn't need him to change, they just wanted him to be exactly who he was and possibly bathe a little more often than he had been doing when he'd lived with his Dad. But he was changing anyway, if he could see it, it was definitely happening.

It confused the hell out of him though, because he didn't like feeling jealous, but didn't know how to not. He didn't like feeling protective over people that weren't his own kin, but he couldn't help it. He didn't like handing over his money to help buy groceries for all the Gallaghers, but he did it without even being asked. He didn't like going to community college, but he did it because he didn't want to see the disappointment in Debbie or Fiona's face when they heard he'd dropped out or skipped a class. And he wasn't supposed to care, he wasn't supposed to give two shits about whether or not they were disappointed in him, because everybody was always disappointed in him, but he did. And he didn't know how to deal with that.

He just wasn't supposed to care.

He was supposed to be a fuck up, a Milkovich through and through, but he wasn't. Not anymore. It was like the Gallaghers were slowly choking the life out of who he had used to be with their happy smiles and far too fucking easy acceptance.

He was still Mickey Milkovich. He still swore too much, drank excessively sometimes, loved the feel of a fight and the sound of bones crunching under his fist when he punched someone in the face. He still got high pretty frequently and smoked enough that his lungs were undoubtedly going to give out before he hit thirty.

But that had been all he had used to be. And now. . . now there was other stuff too.

It was the other stuff that confused the shit out of him. The other stuff that had him constantly thinking: what the fuck have you gotten yourself into this time.

"I have to say, you're a unique sort of young man."

He jumped a little when Jimmy's father Lloyd came to stand behind him. He hadn't even heard anybody enter the bathroom, which showed how engrossed in his own thoughts he was. His lips twisted into a snarl that was completely Old Mickey, but the reason behind it was New Mickey.

"And I have to say that I'm sort of impressed with how well you hide your tendencies from your family," Mickey replied, fighting to keep his voice level, because if his voice snapped, he was going to snap and then he wasn't being held responsible for anything that happened.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the older man replied quickly, too quickly for that statement to carry any weight.

Mickey snorted, "So you haven't fucked Ian then."

The guy flinched and Mickey was guessing it was a completely involuntary action, but it made Mickey smirk. "You know him, you should know he isn't the one who gets fucked," Lloyd said, obviously trying to take control of the situation, "He made that pretty clear, pretty quickly."

"No he doesn't let you fuck him," Mickey replied, "The same rules don't apply to me when it comes to Firecrotch."

And that was true, to a degree.

Admittedly, Mickey was the bottom most of the time, but that didn't mean that they hadn't switched it around a little bit. It was mostly when they were high, but still. Mickey sort of liked the idea that he had been the only one in Gallagher's ass. Gallagher had made that pretty clear to him when they had been fucking and if Ian had laid down the law with this guy that quickly, he would have done the same with anybody else he'd fucked.

It made Mickey smile before he realised how fucking stupid that was and stopped.

"Are you going to tell them?" Lloyd asked.

Mickey shrugged, "Are you going to try and fuck Ian again?"

That was all that mattered to him, which he knew was kind of retarded, but he couldn't help it. Besides, Mickey didn't have any interest in fucking up someone's home life. It wasn't his business unless it was going to continue involving his Gallagher.

Lloyd chose the right decision. "We were only together that one time," he said, "And it was good, but I'm guessing not good enough to get on your bad side." He looked at Mickey in a way that was probably supposed to be meaningful.

"You got that right," he replied, before pushing past the guy and back out into the restaurant.

Chapter Text

"Hey, how did you do in that test?"

He looked at Fiona in surprise because he couldn't believe that not only had she remembered that he'd had a test that day, but also that she actually cared. He'd mentioned it the week before, had moaned about it being pointless that he had to know maths when it was mechanics that he was taking the class for.

"Um, okay I guess," he replied, pushing his tongue into the corner of his mouth and shrugging, "I didn't cheat so that's something I guess and I think I remembered most of what Lip told me about that algebra shit."

She grinned. "Good," she said, "You do know it's Debbie's birthday tomorrow right?"

Annoyingly, he had remembered that actually.

"Yeah, Mandy said I should get her some make-up or something, but I fucking hate the stuff, so I was gonna steal her one of those animal things that talk or some shit," he shrugged, he didn't really know, he was just going off things that Debbie had mentioned wanting.

Fiona smiled, "Mick, you don't have to get her anything."

"Well it's not like I'm paying for it," he replied, scratching the back of his neck, "So it really isn't a proper present or anything."

"Just don't get caught," she said, giving him a sort of half-hug that made him really uncomfortable. She laughed at his expression. "And you do know that we're picking Ian up in a few days?"

How the hell could he have forgotten that? He didn't think it was possible for him to forget that.

"Yeah, I knew that already as well," he said, grabbing some Jell-O out of the fridge.

Fiona passed him a spoon because she knew he wouldn't bother using one otherwise. "You have an obsession with that stuff, you know that right?" she smirked and raised her eyebrows at him, "And you think you could look after Liam tonight, I have to work and I'd ask Lip but he's pissed off to Karen's."

"Yeah, whatever."

It wasn't like he had plans to go out, so it really didn't matter.

"Thanks," she smiled at him again, "But if you're gonna paint with him again, can you not let him near the walls, it's a bitch to try and wash off."

He smirked, because he knew there were still handprints behind the door that she hadn't noticed yet. He'd thought about washing them off for all of five seconds before deciding that, no, it would be funnier if he didn't.

"I actually have to dash, like now," she said, pulling on her coat even as she spoke, "Carl's at Little Hank's until alter, but Debbie should be back any minute, you think you can sort her and Liam out something to eat?"

If they didn't mind their food slightly charred. Mickey wasn't exactly a good cook.

"Yeah, I'll do something," he said.

"Don't just let them eat Jell-O," she warned him, giving him her 'stern look', but looking like she was literally seconds away from bolting out the door.

He snorted, "Like fuck I'd share my Jell-O."

And he was serious, he'd be nice to them all, he'd make them food, he'd look after them if she asked him to, but there was no way in hell he was going to share his Jell-O. That was where the line was drawn as far as he was concerned. And it wasn't going to move. . . ever.

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she said, "I'll see you later."

Which meant she knew she'd be coming in late enough that she'd accidentally wake him up, but he didn't care. It was just the same as it had always been at his dad's house when someone needed the bathroom in the middle of the night. Difference was, here people actually tried to be considerate.

He didn't bother saying goodbye, because she'd already gone.

Liam walked into the room, standing in the doorway and watching him with wide eyes, apparently attempting to try and put his whole fist into his mouth. He laughed when he noticed Mickey looking at him. "Is that your way of telling me that you're already hungry?" Mickey asked, frowning at him a little bit.

Liam just carried on trying to eat his own hand.

Sighing, Mickey stood up and had a root around in the freezer. "I think you can cook these from frozen," he muttered, turning over a box of chicken nuggets to look at the back, "And I don't actually give a shit if you don't like them, you're eating them."

"He likes them."

He almost jumped out of his skin when Debbie wandered into the room. He hadn't heard the front door go. She smiled at him.

"And you know Fiona doesn't like you swearing at Liam, right?" she said, folding her arms across her chest, "She thinks we're not allowed to corrupt his mind or something until he's at least five."

Mickey snorted, "Have you met Carl? There's no way I'm gonna be the one who gives this kid a complex."

If anything, Mickey thought his influence was improving the kid's chances of surviving in the world. Or at least not getting his ass kicked.

"We were learning about Hitler today," she said randomly, pushing past him to get at a cupboard and pulling out potatoes, "He kind of reminds me of Carl, they're both fucked in the head."

Mickey brandished a spoon at her. "It's you Fiona thinks I'm having a bad influence on," he said, but he was smirking, "Don't swear in front of her and land me in trouble, kay?" She nodded. "And anyway, Carl's not like Hitler, Hitler was a psychopath, Carl's much more like a sociopath."

She frowned, "What's the difference?"

"I don't know, I just know the signs," he said, "Don't argue with me."

She laughed and corrected the heat he'd put the oven on. "You looking forwards to Ian coming back?" she asked, sitting down at the table to peel potatoes.

"Don't bother doing that, it takes too long, I'll make toast," he said, taking them off her and putting them back in the cupboard. He kind of admired his ability to avoid questions like that.

Because he was looking forwards to Ian coming back, but at the same time he wasn't. It could go either way. Ian could either be pleased to see him, or he could want to stab Mickey with a fork and tell him to fuck off and never come back. Which would put Mickey out of a place to stay, something he was starting to realise was going to piss him off for more reasons than it was comfortable here.

He was actually getting attached to the fucking Gallaghers. And not just the one he was fucking.

Not that he'd ever tell them that, he'd rather eat his own fist like Liam was still doing.

He swiped up the toddler and put him on the table, wincing at Liam grabbed his hair and pulled, hard. The kid had a serious grip on him. Mickey could see him being a wrestler or some shit. "What the fuck is it with you and my hair?" he asked, gently trying to prise himself free.

It didn't help that Debbie's laughing was egging the kid on.

"Does toast even go with chicken nuggets?" she asked as Mickey found a piece of paper and a pen and sat Liam on his lap so that he could scribble as Mickey drew, "Because I don't think it does."

"Of course it does," he retorted, drawing the basic outline of a tiger roughly and swapping the pencil in Liam's hand for an orange one so that he could colour it in. He'd add in the detail once he'd gotten bored of scribbling quite so vigorously. "You can just turn it into a sandwich or something, we'll make some beans as well."

She still looked dubious, but in the end just shrugged.

Debbie was a Gallagher, she'd eat practically anything that was put down in front of her.

"So, you never answered my question," she said after a minute, "Are you looking forwards to Ian coming back?"

He frowned at her, he'd thought she'd let that go.

"Don't you have homework you should be doing or something?" he asked, starting to draw the lines onto the tiger with a black pen. Liam laughed and poked him in the cheek with a pencil.

She shrugged. "I have some English and I have to work out something to take to show and tell, but other than that, no," she said, "Now stop avoiding the question." She poked him hard in shoulder, "Are you looking forwards to him coming back?"

Mickey scowled at her. "If I answer you honestly, will you leave me the fuck alone and go do your homework?" he asked.

She grinned and nodded, "Promise."

He rolled his eyes. "Sort of," he muttered, "But I don't know if he hates me for what I said or not, I don't know if he'd want me here."

Debbie opened her mouth to comment, but he held up a hand. "You said you'd leave me the fuck alone if I answered, I answered," he said, maybe a little too harshly, but she didn't look hurt or anything, "Now, go do your homework."

She patted him on the shoulder like he needed comforting or something.

He didn't. Did he?

"Just don't let the nuggets burn," she said before she left, "And don't forget to put the beans on in a bit."

In the end the nuggets were only slightly charred, but once Mickey had scraped off the black and put them in between two slices of toast with a bunch of beans on top, you couldn't notice. None of them complained even though Liam did stick a bean up his nose.

Mickey didn't know what to make of that.

Debbie's birthday was started with the biggest breakfast Mickey thought he had ever seen.

It was obvious Jimmy had supplied the food if the amount and quality of it was anything to go by and Mickey would have skipped his first class to enjoy it a little more if Fiona hadn't memorised his fucking timetable. She watched him inhale his food like a hawk, staring at Lip the same way before shooing them out the door.

They only just had time to even wish a happy birthday to a sleepy-eyed Debbie.

They were doing the whole presents thing at the party later on. And besides Mickey still had to knick it.

Debbie being Debbie, didn't want a birthday party. Not a real one anyway. She spouted some crap about her wanting Ian there if she had one, so in the end they just all decided to celebrate it at the Gallagher's and Mickey made sure he had some weed with him.

He didn't bother wrapping the, because Mickey didn't even know how to do shit like that. He didn't even give it to her ceremoniously or anything, just walked up to her, held it out and said, "Here." Not that any of that mattered, because she still squealed like it was the best fucking thing in the world and wrapped her arms around his middle to hug him.

He only let her because it was her birthday, not because he was pleased that she liked it or anything.

"There was a lion one, but it looked retarded, so I went with the panda," he said even though he didn't know why, "It still looks kind of retarded though actually."

She grinned at him and out of the corner of his eye he saw Fiona looking amused and Lip smirking.

"I love it," she said and he couldn't find any hint of a lie in her voice.

He thought that was stupid.

"You know you're actually not bad as this being nice stuff," Lip commented, sitting down next to him in the corner of the room. Everyone else was up and dancing around, but Mickey was staying out of that, more than happy to sit in his corner with a bottle of beer and a joint.

He passed the joint over to Lip, who took a drag and blew smoke out his nostrils. "If you're waiting for me to say thanks for you saying that, I'm not fucking going to," he said, snagging Lip's beer because he couldn't be bothered get up to get another one.

Lip didn't complain, but then he already looked pretty wasted.

It didn't seem like it took a hell of a lot to get any of the Gallaghers drunk though. Mickey'd already had more than Lip and he was only feeling a slight buzz.

"I didn't think you could be nice," he said, tipping his head back and blowing smoke up at the ceiling before handing Mickey the joint back, "And don't hit me for saying that, but I really didn't think any Milkovich could be nice."

Mickey snorted, because to be honest, neither did he.

"I'm not allowed to hit you remember, house rules," he muttered, "And no, I don't think they do."

He wondered why he'd said 'they' instead of 'we' then.

He wondered why he didn't think of himself as being just like them anymore. It was like the Gallaghers had twisted everything he was completely out of shape. He didn't understand any of it anymore, he didn't want to.

He just knew it probably wasn't going to last, that it was all going to fall around him when Ian came back. Because after what he'd said, after how he'd acting, why the fuck would anyone want him around?

Chapter Text

Mickey scowled as someone shook him awake, his body telling him it was early without him having to check a clock. "What the fuck?" he pushed the person away without even opening his eyes, knowing just from the breath hitting his face that it wasn't anybody he gave a shit about hurting.

He heard a body tipping over, hitting the floor, but didn't care.

Pushing his fingers into his eyes to rub them, he blinked through the sleep clouding his vision. And he hadn't expected to see Frank there on the floor in front of him, in his usual stinky, dishevelled state, but this time with blood running down the side of his face and a genuinely panicked look in his eyes.

"I need you to do me a favour," he said, pushing his hand through his hair.

"Whatever trouble you've gotten yourself into Frank, get yourself out of it," Mickey said, shutting his eyes again and lying back down, "I don't owe you shit." Frank was definitely the one Gallagher he had no love for whatsoever. He felt no need to be nice to him, not need to help him and definitely had no desire to give him any money.

"You're living in my house," he pointed out.

Mickey snorted, "Yeah and when you actually start paying anything towards it, you know where I am."

"Yeah and they know where I am," Frank said, grabbing his shoulder again and almost rolling him off the couch onto the floor. Almost, because Mickey hit him in the jaw before that could happen.

He rubbed his eyes again, considering Frank a little more seriously this time. "Okay, who knows where you are?" he asked. And it wasn't that he was concerned for Frank's welfare in any way. He couldn't have cared any less about the guy, but the idea that someone who was after Frank knew this was where he would be, wasn't a good prospect. Not with all the other Gallaghers that lived in this house.

"Martin Louis' gang, you know who they are?"

Mickey stared at him. Was he fucking kidding? You didn't get on the wrong side of Louis and his boys. Everybody knew that. The guy was a psychopath, quite literally. And the problem was that Mickey knew there was no way he was letting Louis get anywhere near this house. He groaned and seriously considered hitting Frank. He really wanted to, especially considering he knew what he was going to have to do.

"Are you fucking stupid or something?" he asked, glaring at him, "Or is this some sort of sick fucking joke where you're telling me Louis wants you dead?" Or even worse, Louis wanted something off of him.

"This isn't exactly good news for me either, you know!"

Mickey scowled at him. "You think I give a shit about what's good for you?" he snarled at him, "Just count yourself fucking lucky Louis knows me."

Unfortunately, Mickey didn't know the ins and outs of Louis' group like he had done with the Costellos. He knew that you didn't fuck with Louis and he also knew where he lived. That was the only thing he could really use.

He stood up, cracking his neck and pulled on the pair of jeans that Fiona had left folded beside his bed. "Stay here," he said, glaring at Frank as he pulled an actually clean tank top over his head, "I don't need you making it worse by showing your fucking face."

Liam was staring at the bottom of the stairs when Mickey turned around and he couldn't help the way the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile. He picked up the toddler, holding him in a way that had used to be awkward but that had become natural. Knowing that annoyed the shit out of him. "How would you like to come with me to sort out you're douchebag daddy's mess?" he asked, not surprised when Liam latched onto his hair, "I can teach you how to be a real badass."

He took the way Liam clapped to mean a yes.

"When Fiona gets up, don't forget to fucking tell her that I have Liam," he warned, glaring back at Frank over his shoulder."

He only just thought to grab one of Liam's coats off the pile of washing near the stairs as he also picked up the bat.

Liam kept trying to play with the handle of the bat as they walked at the same time as he burrowed into Mickey's jacket against the cold air. Mickey had one arm holding the toddler, the other holding the bat over his shoulder and it reminded him a lot of when he'd helped Jimmy out. Minus the kid, obviously.

Mickey only knew where Louis lived because he was smart. He knew where anybody who sold decent weed and was the sort of person you wanted to keep an eye on was. Mickey thought himself smart like that. He hadn't checked the time, but he knew it was early morning, probably about five-ish and he was hoping the fact he was by now wide awake would work to his advantage.

It was a situation like this that almost made him wish his brothers were there to back him up. . . almost.

Mickey banged on the door with the bat, keeping his distance slightly and wincing as Liam resumed pulling his hair. He let the bat hang down by his side, less noticeable, less likely to make Louis pull a gun out or some shit. It was only when he knocked that he realised bringing Liam might not have been the best of ideas, it was putting him in danger. But then he was probably safer here surrounded by drug dealers than he was having to spend an hour with Frank whilst Mickey sorted this shit out.

It made Mickey think that maybe all of the Gallagher kids had been dicks in previous lives to have deserved getting Frank as a father. Lip often commented that Ian was the lucky one, he didn't have to be Frank's son, he just chose to be. Which for the record, Mickey thought was stupid. Then again, as far as he was concerned, Ian would be alright no matter what, he was strong like that. He had to be.

They all had to be.

It took him banging another two times before anybody opened the door. Someone else would have walked away, thought there was nobody in, but Mickey knew there was. Louis jerked open the door, looking sleepy and pissed off as he glared out at Mickey.

Mickey thought it was probably a sight to see, him standing there with a baseball bat and a kid.

"Milkovich?" he asked, because everyone and anyone who was smart knew Mickey, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

He sounded a little bit less pissed off now that he knew who it was.

"If you want weed, come back at normal fucking hours," Louis said, scowling at him, "I'm fucking sleeping."

"Not anymore," Mickey pointed out, because he was a wiseass.

Louis' scowl became a little more serious, "What the hell do you want, Milkovich?"

Mickey pushed his tongue into the corner of his mouth, trying to ignore how Liam was pulling at his hair. It made his stance a whole lot less threatening. Another reason he shouldn't have brought him along. Although, the fact Louis hadn't come to the door armed was a positive.

"Yeah, I kind of need you to back the fuck off of Frank," Mickey said, tapping the baseball bat against his ankle out of nothing more than habit and the need to fidget.

"Frank who?" Louis was confused now. Mickey didn't know if he preferred the guy frowning or scowling. At least when he was scowling it just looked like his normal face. Mickey had a feeling the guy already knew which Frank he was on about.

But he still clarified, "Gallagher."

"Why the hell you defending that fuckwit?"

Mickey shrugged, he didn't even completely know himself. "I've got my reasons," he replied, "So are we going to have a problem, or are you going to back the fuck off back to the end of the line of people who want to do Frank in?"

He could see Louis trying to work out how threatened he should be about Mickey standing in front of him with a baseball bat. Mickey was glad that this guy knew him, because a stranger wouldn't have taken him seriously standing there like he was. Of course, said stranger would have found himself in a coma for being so fucking stupid, but that wasn't the point. Mickey preferred to cut out the unnecessary hassle.

"And if I don't?"

Mickey felt Liam jump slightly in his arms as he kicked the door open. Louis staggered backwards into his apartment and Mickey thought the guy was only just realising now that he a) should have kept his mouth shut and b) shouldn't have had gun close to hand if he was going to start asking stupid questions.

"If you don't," Mickey said, setting Liam down beside him so that he could free his hands, "I'm going to be teaching Liam here exactly what a piñata is, he can be blindfolded and I'll have me some fun with this bat."

He grinned, because they both knew he would as well.

He really was growing fond of this baseball bat he had to admit.

It was Louis that moved first and Mickey knew it was out of fear more than anything else. Maybe the guy was trying to make it to the door, maybe he just felt like he needed to do something, Mickey didn't know and didn't particularly care.

He ducked the fist that flew at his head and wrapped his arms around Louis' middle as he tackled the guy. Louis was a lot taller than him, but Mickey had ways of working his smaller height to his advantage. The bat was dropped and it rolled away as Mickey landed on top of Louis, punching the older guy in the fact a few times before he was kicked off.

Pain slithered uncomfortably through Mickey's not completely healed ribs, but he was a Milkovich, he was good when it came to pain and he just gritted his teeth and ignored it, instead focussing on inflicting pain to the person he was fighting.

Mickey took a fist to the gut, but he kneed Louis in the face, not breaking his nose unfortunately, but definitely hurting him. The ex-con had to say that he was pretty proud that he had the mind to keep the fight away from Liam, who out of the corner of his eye he saw sitting on the floor, chewing on his own hand again like he so often did.

A table broke as they crashed into it and Mickey could feel wood splinter into the palm of his hand, but he just closed his fist around the pain as he landed on top of Louis and hit the guy in the face a few more times while he had the chance. When they hit the wall, plaster fell around them and there was a bang that had to be loud enough to wake up the neighbours.

Louis got a dislocated shoulder when Mickey twisted his arm behind his back and really after that, the fight deteriorated and the guy gave up pretty quickly. Mickey knew it was sort of sick and probably not the best hobby in the world by any stretch of the imagination, but he enjoyed it. He enjoyed the feel of the adrenaline pulsing through his veins, the throb of wounds on his flesh and the soreness in his knuckles.

He spat blood out onto the floor and pushed his tongue into the corner of his mouth as he stared down at where Louis had dragged himself up against a wall, clutching at his shoulder. "You can tell you're a Milkovich alright," he muttered, glaring up at Mickey, but it was in a sort of defeated way that Mickey decided he liked the sight of.

"Yeah, no shit," Mickey muttered, rubbing his thumb across his bottom lip, "So you gonna leave Frank the fuck alone or do I really have to go find some rope?" He was sort of disappointed that he knew he wouldn't have to. He had a lovely image of Louis dangling by his feet from the beam in the ceiling.

Louis glared at him and Mickey had to say he was somewhat impressed that even though he was giving up, the guy wasn't really backing down. He admired that, because it was exactly how he would have been in this situation. Of course, saying that, Mickey was never on the opposite side of this situation. Mickey didn't lose fights, he just didn't.

"I don't get why the fuck you're defending him," he said, his teeth gritted against the pain, "You two friends or something now?"

Mickey snorted, both at the idea of him being friends with Frank and at the idea that Louis actually knew who the fuck his friends were.

"Don't be stupid, I hate Frank more than most people," Mickey retorted, because it really had been a stupid thing to say.

Mickey hated Frank for a lot of reasons, because he was a shit parent, because he was just generally as annoying as hell and because he knew. Mickey hated the fact that Frank knew. Not that it mattered so much anymore since his Dad already knew and there was no person who could find out that was worse than Mickey's Dad knowing, but he still hated him.

Would probably always hate him.

It had been Frank's fault that he'd fucked things up with Ian. It was Frank's fault that Ian would probably come home and hate his guts. It was Frank's fault that Mickey had gone to Juvie that second time. A lot of things were Frank's fault, anything could be if you just thought about it.

"So why are you helping him?"

Mickey had to admit, it didn't seem logical.

"Why the fuck would I tell you?" he asked, "You gonna stay the hell away from him or what?"

Louis nodded after a minute, "Yeah, he ain't worth the pain."

And that was all Mickey needed to hear. He didn't need to stick around any longer. He nodded to Louis, not at all worried about turning his back on him even though he probably should have been.

"Come on, kid," he said, swinging Liam up and onto his shoulders, toying with the bat in his hands, "I'll teach you about piñatas another day." Because it was always a given when it came to Mickey Milkovich that there was going to be another fight.

It was in his blood he couldn't help it.

Chapter Text

Everybody was going to pick him up and even Mickey was expected to come along.

But the thing was that he hadn't actually decided whether or not he wanted to. It wasn't just that it was a sort of long drive and he didn't really fancy being stuck in a car with all of the Gallaghers for so long, it was also that he still didn't know, hadn't managed to work out or guess how Ian would react.

Mickey didn't even know how he wanted him to react.

Only problem was, he wasn't actually sure if he was going to be able to get out of going.

He even showered and dressed, sitting downstairs until Fiona was supposed to come and pick him up so that they could go. He just stared at the wall without even seeing it, trying to think of some sort of excuse that Fiona would accept as to why he couldn't go with them. He'd rather wait until Ian had gone through all the mushy reunions with his family and was hopefully slightly tipsy, then Mickey would make an appearance.

As it happened though, he didn't have to worry about using one of the many lame excuses he'd come up with.

The door slammed shut, making him jump and Debbie came skidding into the living room, her face red and her eyes wide, like she'd been running. "I'm not here," she said before he could ask what was wrong and then threw herself under the stairs just as someone knocked on the front door.

Mickey scowled, really not having the patience for this but at the same time pissed off that someone was bothering Debbie.

"Who are you?" he asked, not expecting to see the woman he did on the other side of the door. She was blonde and had a wild sort of look in her eyes, like she wasn't completely sane. He thought he recognised her from somewhere, but they'd definitely never met before.

"Is Debbie there?" she asked and Mickey almost cringed because her voice was really annoying, "I just saw her run in, can I speak to her?"

His grip turned white knuckled on the door as she pushed against it slightly, trying to get past him. "Sorry, she went out again," he lied, gritting his teeth because he still didn't know who she was, "And I don't know you, so like fuck am I letting you in."

She scowled at him, which actually made her look sort of demented. "I know she's there," she said, trying to see past him, "Debbie, baby, come talk to me, please!"

God, her voice was seriously grating on his nerves, but he realised who she was.

"You're Monica," he said bluntly, because he knew he was right. He'd seen her once, from a distance, when he'd been friends with Lip, before she'd taken off. None of the Gallaghers talked about her, it was sort of a taboo subject and since Mickey really didn't give a shit, he hadn't ever asked. He knew the basics anyway.

"Yes," she said, her eyes narrowing, "Who are you?"

It was like she'd only just realised that he normally didn't live there.

"Mickey Milkovich," he replied, still not opening the door anymore even though she pushed against it again, "And you're not coming in, so you might as well fuck off now."

She looked taken aback slightly and he didn't know why that amused him. "You can't stop me from seeing my daughter!" she said, obviously not understanding that in that moment, Mickey was the one with all the control.

He smirked. "Actually, I can," he replied, "And you're not seeing Debbie because don't you think you've already fucked up her life enough. Slitting your wrists on Thanksgiving, really smart move there." He let the sarcasm drip from his voice, plastered it on thick and he didn't even know why he was so pissed off at her.

Maybe it was because his own mother had dipped in and out of his life before finally croaking it a few years ago. Maybe it was because he knew how it felt to be abandoned by someone who everyone said was supposed to love you unconditionally. Or maybe it was because he couldn't get the image of Debbie's wide, scared eyes out of his head, because her expression was exactly the same as Ian's had been that day Monica had turned up again.

"You can't tell me what to do," she said, looking like she wanted to hit him at the same time as she looked like she was about to cry.

"Yeah, and you can't just dip in and out of you kids' lives when it fucking suits you," he retorted and then before the bitch started with the waterworks, slammed the door shut. He could hear her shouting and bawling on the other side of the wood, but he really couldn't have cared less.

He grabbed his coat – or maybe it was Lip's – and went back into the living room, pulling back the curtain that covered under the stairs and crouching down in front of Debbie. She had her hands clapped over her ears, no doubt to try and block out her mother's wailing, but she pulled them off when she noticed him crouched there.

"You want to go out the back and sneak into a movie?" he asked, really hoping that unlike the mother the kid knew how to actually keep her tears to herself. He really hated it when people cried, it made him uncomfortable. "Because that sound's really starting to piss me off."

She smiled at him weakly and he nodded, rising out of his crouch and wincing when his knees cracked. Debbie crawled out from under the stairs and sniffled slightly, but thankfully didn't cry. She flinched when Monica's screaming became especially high pitched and Mickey thought he probably understood now why the Gallaghers were all a little bit crazy. They were related to that bitch, it was probably a given.

"Thank you," she muttered to him as he snatched up a set of keys off the side in the kitchen.

Mickey just shrugged, "No problem."

He hoped she wouldn't fucking hug him again, he hated it when she did that.

She didn't, just silently followed him as he crept out the back door, making sure it was locked before sneaking around the side of the house. They could see Debbie, now sitting down on the threshold, sobbing. It was sort of pathetic, but Mickey couldn't bring himself to be affected by it, it just wasn't in his genes to be bothered by shit like that.

"Right, she's probably going to see us because we go sorta have to go past her," he whispered to Debbie even though there was no way Monica could hear them over the sounds of her own crying, "So just run and we'll lose the bitch when we get into town."

Debbie nodded and something in that sentence managed to coax a smile out of her.

"Okay, now," Mickey said and he was actually pretty impressed because even though he wasn't anything close to being the fastest runner in the world, he hadn't thought the kid could keep up with him quite so well. Maybe it was something about living in this neighbourhood, he didn't know. His excuse was that he'd been running from the police since he could remember, Debbie's was probably that she had to run around trying to track down Frank or one of her bloody siblings.

They could hear Monica behind them, but the bitch was too busy snivelling to actually be any sort of threat when it came to catching up to them. They were basically in the clear before they'd even started running. Mickey dived off down a side alley just to be safe and because if he was being honest, he needed to get his breath back.

He didn't know why, but he laughed as he rested his head back against the brick. In front of him Debbie was hunched over at the waist, panting. "Is it. . . wrong that. . . I thought. . . that. . . was fun?" she asked in between breaths and he smirked.

"It's called adrenaline kid," he told her, "You should try it when the police are the ones behind you."

She straightened up and grinned at him like she always seemed to do, pulling the bobble out of her hair and then retying it. "So. . . what now?" she asked, staring at him expectantly, like he had all the fucking answers.

"Well let me finish dying," he muttered, not understanding how the hell she could recover this quickly, "And then we can sneak into the movies or something, but I'm not watching any girl shit or nothing."

This sort of reminded him of the times when he'd had to escape from the house with Mandy when their dad was in an especially bad, drunken mood. They get out, sneak into a movie and Mickey would nick some popcorn from someone. Weirdly, those had actually been the better moments of his childhood and it felt strange to think that he was reliving it a bit.

Debbie laughed, "You need to work out more."

"Fuck off," he said, pushing away from the wall just to prove that he wasn't dying anymore.

She looked worryingly like Firecrotch when she smiled at his comment. Normally people flinched, but the Gallaghers just smiled. He knew people were looking at him weird when they walked across town towards the movie theatre, but he didn't give a shit. So what if normally he wouldn't have been caught dead with any of the Gallaghers, especially not the younger ones, he knew this was a better option than staying in that house with her and listening to Monica cry.

It was definitely a better option than him sitting in the house with Debbie while she cried.

Mickey actually got his own popcorn this time, but he didn't exactly pay for it. He knew the kid behind the counter and literally all he had to do was smile and she was calling for the next customer without him having to part with any cash.

"You like being mean, don't you?" Debbie asked when they were seated and Mickey was throwing popcorn at some of the kids in front of them, just because he felt like it and one of them had a stupid fucking hat on.

He shrugged, "You should try it sometime."

He motioned towards the kids sitting three rows in front of them. "Try and hit that douchebag in the hat," he said, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth before making another shot. He spat out a hard bit and laughed when it stuck in someone's hair.

She looked a little dubious about it, but nevertheless took a shot and actually smiled when she hit the fucker and he turned around. Mickey flipped him off and the guy quickly faced the front again.

It carried on like that for most of the movie until they ran out of popcorn and Mickey couldn't be bothered to pay attention to the storyline anymore. "You actually interested in this shit?" he asked, not bothering to keep his voice down which earned him some choice glares.

Debbie shrugged, "I wasn't really paying attention in the beginning."

"Let's fuck off then," he said, picking a piece of popcorn out of his teeth with his nail, "I'm bored."

She rolled her eyes, but didn't complain and followed when he stood. It wasn't like they'd wasted any money on the fucking film anyway. As he walked past, Mickey slapped that stupid hat off the head of the idiot wearing it and smirked when the guy didn't react in the slightest. People in this neighbourhood were getting boring, they hardly ever reacted anymore to shit he did, just thought that if they pretended he wasn't even there that he would go away.

Mickey squinted as they walked out into the blare of the streetlights and he used that as his excuse as to why he didn't see the punch coming.

Some fucker hit him in the side of the head and he almost went down, stumbling slightly and whipping around. He sneered, "What the fuck do you want?" it was one of his brothers, definitely the stupidest one if he had to choose and also the one who looked the most like their dad.

"Hear you've decided you're a faggot," he said, spitting on the ground near Mickey's feet, "I ain't having no faggot as a brother."

Mickey snorted and didn't even bother replying before he threw himself fists first as his older brother. Saying that the douchebag was older didn't really mean much, because he wasn't any bigger than Mickey and he certainly fought a hell of a lot worse.

Mickey did count himself lucky that only one of his brothers was there, if it had been all of them, he would have been fucked. Hands grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him close and he thought he might have heard someone yelling something, but he wasn't paying attention. He headbutted the fucker hard, feeling something crunch under his forehead and he followed through pretty quickly with a knee to the groin.

He probably shouldn't have been enjoying this fight as much as he was, especially considering it was against his own blood, but like he'd said to Debbie earlier, it was all about the adrenaline. That, and he was still a Milkovich after all.

Chapter Text

Fiona sat up front of Jimmy, three of her four brothers crammed into the backseat of the car. Ian was still dressed in his combat clothes and he looked tired, but happy. None of them had mentioned anything about Mickey yet. They hadn't said anything to each other either, it just went as a sort of unspoken thing not to mention him. There were two empty seats in the very back where Mickey and Debbie were supposed to be sitting, but Fiona had stopped by to pick them up from the house only to find that they weren't there.

She suspected something had probably happened, but so long as they were together she didn't really care.

"You missed us then?" she asked, twisting around to smile at Ian.

It had been weird not having him in the house, but it had sort of made up for it that Mickey had been there. It had made it the right number of people for her to worry about at the very least.

He smiled and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. "Yeah, when I actually had time to stop and think, I did."

He'd already told them that it had basically been non-stop action at the camp. They always been doing something, running somewhere, being woken up to do drills in the middle of the night. Fiona knew that was the sort of thing that would have killed her.

"Yeah well it's been kinda of different at–"

She didn't have time to finish that sentence because suddenly Lip slammed his hand against the window and yelled, "Holy shit, is that Mickey?"

Jimmy slammed on the brakes and like Lip, she was out of the car before it had even really stopped. People honked their horns at them and threw curses out the window, but she didn't care. She was too busy running towards the scene that was happening on the sidewalk, right outside the movie theatre.

"Mickey!" she didn't know she was yelling until she did, but she couldn't help it because she watched as one of the other Milkovich boys picked Mickey up by the front of his shirt. Mickey headbutted the guy hard and blood sprayed over them both, but Mickey was following through with a knee to the bollocks before she even had time to think about doing anything.

Lip grabbed a hold of Mickey, hauling him backwards and Fiona could see the muscles straining in Lip's arms as he struggled to hold the ex-con back. Debbie was standing off to the side, impassively chewing on the side of her thumb. When she saw Fiona looking at her, she walked over and smiled weakly. "He hit Mickey first," she said, like Fiona had blamed Mickey or something, "And he did say some pretty nasty stuff."

Fiona sort of loved Debbie's eagerness to defend Mickey, she thought it said a lot about the sort of person he was. She'd always just seen him as the dirty ex-con that was also the neighbourhood thug, but there was actually a person underneath all that grime that wasn't half bad.

She nodded, she didn't doubt that Mickey had a good reason for fighting, if for no other reason than he was fighting back. It made her almost sick to see Mickey's family reacting this way to him though. She didn't understand what their problem was, but from what she'd heard from Mickey about them, they weren't exactly a close knit family. The thought of Lip reacting this was to finding out Ian was gay just wasn't something she could get her head around though, Lip didn't seem in the least bit phased about Ian's sexuality.

"Mick, calm down," Lip said, his arms locked around Mickey's torso and when he squeezed Mickey made this sort of choking sound. Lip had obviously forgotten that Mickey's ribs were still something of a sore spot on the guy. "You can't get seen fighting!"

And he was right, with Mickey's record and his reputation, this was a one way ticket to Juvie if the police turned up to try and break up the fight.

Mickey's brother – Fiona didn't know which one, couldn't really tell with the broken nose and all – stood upright and sneered through the blood. "That's right, Mickey, run away like the girl you fucking are."

None of them had really noticed or even thought where Carl was until he sucker punched Mickey's brother in the nuts. The guy dropped like a sack of potatoes and Fiona couldn't stop herself from smiling. It was kind of amusing how he was turning purple.

"Everybody back in the car," she said, taking charge as she grabbed one of Mickey's arms and helped steer him towards the car. It wasn't really necessary though, because after a minute he shook them off. Smirking, he spat on the floor near his brother and then climbed into the very back of the car. Debbie jumped in beside him, which no one even questioned for a minute.

Only when they started actually driving, leaving the scene behind them did Fiona ask, "And where the hell were you? You were supposed to be at the house for us to pick you up!" she was looking at Debbie when she spoke because she knew Mickey wouldn't answer her, he was too busy poking his cut lip with his thumb.

"Monica turned up at the house," Debbie explained, "She started crying on the doorstep, it was fucked up."

"Watch your language," Fiona said automatically, but she knew that she'd gotten it from Mickey. The boy swore like a sailor. "And Mickey, stop playing with your lip, you'll only make it bleed more." She didn't know how to react to the fact Monica had shown up. Debbie didn't seem too upset by it, which Fiona suspected had something to do with Mickey, she wondered what he'd done because normally Debbie just shut down whenever Monica appeared. The others though all tensed up immediately at the mention of their mother's name.

Mickey pulled a face at her, but stopped poking his lip nevertheless.

There was a few minutes of silence in the car, nobody knowing quite whether they should skirt over the topic of Monica, but also not knowing what to say anyway. And then Debbie leant forwards and wrapped her arms around Ian from behind. "How was army camp?" she asked, "We missed you!"

They all looked at Ian then, even Mickey's eyes flickered towards the redhead because nobody had actually seemed to have considered until then what Ian's reaction to all of this was. He did seem confused, but that was probably less to do with the fact Mickey was fighting or Monica turning up and a lot more to do with why they had stopped the car so suddenly to pick Mickey up.

If Fiona thought about it, she knew it didn't make any sense unless you knew about Mickey staying with them. And to be honest, not many people did and they certainly knew Ian didn't. She wondered what was going through his head, what he was thinking.

"It was pretty good," he said eventually, "Tiring and I missed you too, Debs, how was your birthday?"

She grinned, "It was great, Vee made me a cake."

And then she was off, rattling on about her presents and Ian was nodding and making the appropriate noises. Fiona was still turned around in her seat watching them and out of the corner of her eye she watched Mickey in particular. He was staring out the window most of the time, except his eyes kept sliding back to Ian, seeming to drink in every detail of him, like he was trying to work out what had changed since they'd last seen each other. Fiona had almost forgotten that they hadn't seen each other since Mickey had gone to Juvie.

Unlike with Ian though, Fiona could tell exactly what Mickey was thinking, or at least the basics of it because the ex-con probably didn't realise it, but his feelings were written all over his face. He would never have admitted it, but it was obvious that he cared about Ian and a lot more than she thought she had realised. The way he was watching her brother was with a mixture of need, lust and possessiveness.

Like he'd jump in front of a bullet for Ian without even hesitating. Of course, Fiona knew Mickey would then try and play it off as a coincidence that he'd moved to take that bullet. He probably never would admit to anybody his feelings about anything unless they were negative, but once you started to understand Mickey, it wasn't that hard to work them out for yourself. Fiona knew that.

"Alright troops," Jimmy said, stopping the car, "We're home."

She could tell from the way he said that that he genuinely enjoyed thinking of the Gallaghers as family. Unlike Mickey though, he had no problem admitting it. She smiled at him and for no reason whatsoever pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before clambering out of the car.

"Liam with Vee and Kev?" Ian asked as they walked up to the house, Mickey trailing along at the back, like he wasn't sure he was welcome anymore now that Ian was back. Sometimes, Fiona just wanted to slap him upside the head in the hope it would make him understand that nobody here was going to kick him out. He'd practically become part of the family and it was without him even trying.

She thought it sort of proved that it was meant to be that he could fit it without even wanting to.

"Yeah, he just would have been hell on the drive," she said, opening the door and only just managing to get inside before Carl came bowling past. The kid was constantly on high speed and sometimes she thought life would have been so much easier if she could have had that much energy.

"I'll get something from the freezer to put on Mickey's ribs," Debbie said as she passed, behind her Mickey pulled a face.

"I don't need any fucking ice, I'm fine," he said, but they all knew he couldn't really say that when he had a bruise rapidly forming on one side of his face and a cut on his lip that was steadily weeping a trickle of blood. "I'm fine," he repeated, seeing him watching her. His tongue flicked out to lick away some of the blood.

"Mickey, if you saw yourself, you would not be saying that," she said and pointed to the couch, "Now sit down and stop complaining."

He muttered something under his breath, but she didn't catch it and in the end it didn't really matter because he sat down. For a Milkovich and a thug he was actually pretty good at following instructions.

Debbie came back into the room with an icepack wrapped up in a tea towel and a wet flannel and handed the first over the Mickey. He winced as he pressed the icepack to his ribs, lifting up his shirt and giving Fiona a quick glimpse of the purple bruise still covering the bottom of his ribcage. He'd said nothing was broken, that he could tell when he'd broken a rib because he'd done so before, but she was still concerned that the bruise was lasting so long. She thought it was probably testament to how hard Terry Milkovich had hit him and it sort of made Fiona want to track him down and punch him for doing that to his own son.

Mickey's breath hissed through his teeth as Debbie touched the flannel to his cut lip.

"Bitch, get off me," he growled, but Debbie didn't so much as blink.

"You're such an angry person," she muttered instead under her breath, continuing to clean him up even though he kept flinching away from the touch. It made Fiona glad that he'd been unconscious the last time he'd needed cleaning up like this.

"And you're point is?" he muttered, but Debbie ignored him again. Sometimes that was the best option with Mickey. If he was rude or you didn't like what you heard, it was just easier to ignore him or pretend like you'd heard something else.

Debbie twisted around to look at Fiona, "Do you think he needs another icepack on his face?"

Before she could even reply that she thought it would be wise Mickey was speaking, "Not fucking happening, I just need a drink and then I'll be fine, I'm not a child, stop blood fussing over me!"

He hated people fussing, he'd already made that much clear, but they did it anyway.

Chapter Text

Mickey had to give his brother one thing, the fucker could hit hard.

Jimmy had the right idea though, shooing away the Gallagher women and handing him a bottle of vodka. He saluted him with it before taking a swig, wincing as the liquid went into his cut and burned a path down his throat. He'd never liked vodka, but it did the trick for getting you pissed quickly and he knew in five minutes and a few more mouthfuls his ribs would feel nice and numb. And not because of the bloody icepack Debbie had given him.

He knew Ian was standing behind the couch, obviously wondering why the fuck Mickey was in his house and why people were being nice to him. But Mickey didn't know how to explain and also didn't know how to apologise for everything that had been said before he'd gone to Juvie. So he didn't say anything. Not that that meant he hadn't noticed how Ian had changed. He'd gotten taller, which was fucking stupid and unfair and made Mickey feel like a midget, but his hair was just as short as it had been before and Mickey thought he'd maybe bulked up a little as well. He couldn't tell underneath the combat outfit.

Not that he was complaining because even though he wouldn't ever say so, Ian looked fucking hot dressed up like a soldier.

"Hey Fi, I know you were going to cook, but can't we just order in a pizza?"Jimmy asked, sitting next to Mickey on the couch with a beer, "I'll pay." They all knew he had a load of money anyway, but even he couldn't have already spent everything that he had gotten from the Costellos.

"Damn right you're paying," she replied, but smiled at him in that way Mickey thought was so fucking stupid because it was all sappy and in love and it annoyed him for reasons he couldn't even explain to himself.

They took orders, everyone wanting something different and when Ian spoke, the sound of his voice made Mickey shiver. He hoped people thought it was because of the icepack. That was what he'd tell them if he asked, not that he loved the deep sound of Ian's voice from behind him, not that it reminded him of when they fucked.

"Mick, what d'you want?" Jimmy asked his ear already pressed to the phone.

"I'll just eat some of everyone's," he replied because he couldn't be bothered think, "Or just get something random."

"Something random it is then," he said and then moved off into the kitchen when the person on the other end of the line started talking.

They'd all piled onto the couch, the TV switched on with Lip flicking through the channels. Mickey thought it was such a strangely normal scene, one he wasn't used to being a part of, but at the same time was. He wasn't a stranger to the Gallaghers anymore, but he wasn't used to having Ian sitting on the other end of the couch from him, watching what he was doing, wondering at it because Mickey knew that was what he would be doing even if he didn't intend to.

Debbie sat squished up beside him, Fiona next to her, Lip on the floor by her feet and Ian was sandwiched in on the end, a Jimmy-sized gap in between him and his sister. Mickey nudged Carl with the toe of his shoe, probably a little harder than was necessary, but the kid wasn't exactly a wimp, so he didn't say anything, he just turned around.

"Nice punch," Mickey said, because he had to say something.

It seemed strange for the Gallaghers to have jumped into that fight. Lip hadn't have had to hold him back, Fiona hadn't had to have been worried about whether or not he was going to get caught and sent back to Juvie and Carl hadn't had to punch Mickey's brother for making the comment he did. But they all had anyway and Mickey thought that just about said it all about the Gallaghers. They seemed to do everything they didn't have to do and nothing that Mickey expected of them.

But he was adjusting. Slowly, he was starting to learn their topsy-turvy way of looking at the world.

Carl grinned. "You should see me with a baseball bat," he said, looking psychotic, "Once this guy came and was hanging Lip out the window and I hit him in the leg with it and there was this crunch and it was so cool."

Mickey smirked, "You know you really are fucked up in the head, right?"

Fiona reached around Debbie and smacked him in the back of the head, but not very hard.

"What?" he asked, smirking before he could stop himself, "It wasn't like I called him a sociopath again!"

Fiona just shook his head at him, not commenting.

"When you hit a guy with a bat though, you want to aim for the knee," Mickey said, leaning forwards a little so that Fiona couldn't whollop him one again, Carl twisted around and probably looking way too interested in this conversation, "They drop like instantly, it's great, but you have to put enough power into the swing otherwise you're screwed."

Jimmy rejoined them then and he actually looked a little green. "Can we change the conversation topic please," he said, sitting down between Fiona and Ian, "I'm getting a flashback and it's not something I'd like to relive."

Mickey laughed, "When you asked me to go with you, what did you fucking think was going to happen?"

"Not that I was going to see someone's bone sticking out of their leg," he replied quickly, making a show of trying to concentrate on the TV and taking a large swig of beer.

"Cool," Carl muttered.

And Debbie rolled her eyes, "You would think that was cool!"

Mickey only just refrained from saying, 'Yes, he would, because he was a fucking sociopath and it sort of came with the territory'. Fiona already looked like she wanted to gut him though for even having started this conversation in the first place, so he kept his mouth shut. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't suicidal.

And taking on Fiona was suicide.

"Was that when you went to see the Costellos?" Lip asked, finally settling on some weird ass nature program Mickey didn't really have any interest in, but he could tell Debbie beside him did and no doubt Carl would enjoy it as soon as one of the big cats started tearing something apart. He was predictable like that.

"Yeah," Mickey nodded, watching the elephant on the screen and thinking of his first morning waking up in this house before he could stop himself. The picture was pinned to the fridge along with multiple others that Mickey had been roped into drawing while entertaining Liam.

Admittedly, it didn't take that much coaxing though.

The pizza arrived and when it did Mickey didn't even look at what it was that had been ordered for him, he just folded one piece in half and shoved it in whole. It tasted weird with the acrid taste of vodka clinging to his tongue, but Mickey didn't care. He hadn't even realised he was hungry until he started eating.

When they'd finished and the program had ended, Carl raced off to go find the gun he'd stolen from somewhere to show Ian, Lip had to piss, Debbie wanted to change into her pyjamas and Jimmy and Fiona carried plates into the kitchen so that they had an excuse to make out. And that left Mickey sitting alone with Ian on the sofa, the silence practically deafening.

He wondered if Ian felt just as awkward or whether he was happily oblivious to it.

"I'm surprised you came here," Ian said, which was the first clue Mickey had that he didn't think Mickey was actually living here. He didn't know how to tell him, so he didn't. "When did you get out of Juvie?"

That was a safe question, that was a question he could answer.

"Just after you left to go to that camp thing," he replied, rubbing his lip with a finger, "Got out early on good behaviour."

"Surprised you didn't try to stay in there forever," Ian said and Mickey couldn't tell how he felt. The comment had sounded a little bitter, but there was nothing in his expression that would suggest the same thing.

Mickey shrugged, "It got kind of boring."

A small part of him wished he had stayed in there though, then his father would never know and he wouldn't be in this situation. But then that would mean none of these last few weeks would have happened and it was the last few weeks that had sort of made him like this situation as much as he hated it.

"You not stab anyone over Jell-O this time?"

He could hear that Ian was forcing himself to make conversation and that he didn't understand why Mickey was here.

"Considered it," Mickey muttered, because he didn't like the idea that Ian didn't want to talk to him. He didn't like thinking that Ian didn't understand him, even though the idea that the redhead did used to have made him feel sick.

"Why were you fighting with your brother?" Ian asked and Mickey knew he'd sort of been winding up to that. Because Ian knew that the Milkovich's didn't ever really fight amongst themselves, not unless it was serious. Not like that.

Mickey opened his mouth to tell him, he honestly did. He knew it was stupid, but he wanted Ian to be proud of him for his Dad knowing, to feel sorry for him, to say something. But at the same time Mickey didn't want that comfort, he didn't like comfort. So although he intended to explain it to Ian, all that really came out was, "It's a long story."

"Oh, okay," Ian looked crestfallen, like he'd wanted Mickey to explain too, like he thought he'd like the answer.

He looked tired, that was something Mickey hadn't noticed too much until now. And because he was stupid he said so.

Ian looked surprised that Mickey had noticed anything at all, but he rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times sort of stupidly. "Yeah, they worked us really hard there," he said and Mickey thought that being tired was making Ian really un-Ian, "But it was still really good."

He wasn't talking Mickey's ear off like he normally did, because normally he would have been doing that right now. He would have been telling Mickey all about the camp and Mickey would be pretending not to listen. But that wasn't happening and it was the clearest evidence you could ever get of how Gallagher didn't want anything to do with him anymore.

"Least you didn't get your ass shot off," he said, because he had to say something to fill the silence. He wasn't good at this. He didn't like this. He hated Frank even more right then in that second. "That's never a good idea."

Ian smirked, but there wasn't any real heart in it, "What, like you?"

And Mickey didn't know if he was meaning that Mickey wasn't a good idea or that Mickey had got shot once. He didn't know how to answer that, didn't like the feeling of his throat closing up, of his stomach dropping. So he stood. "I need a smoke," he muttered, rubbing his bottom lip with his finger.

He didn't know how long he stayed out there in the cold, but it was long enough that he'd smoked all the cigarettes he'd had on him and long enough that he was sure the temperature dropped another few degrees whilst he stood out there. When he came back, everybody had gone to bed and the place was strangely silent downstairs. Mickey was left alone, but all he could think was: so what the fuck am I supposed to do now? He hates me.

Chapter Text

It was a long time before Ian could get to sleep.

The reason, he could hear Mickey Milkovich still downstairs. He didn't know why he had been fighting with his brother. He didn't know why Fiona had felt the need to jump in and bring him home with them. He didn't know why they'd all fussed over Mickey, why they'd been nice to him. He didn't know why Mickey had accepted the help. And he didn't know why Mickey was still there.

It didn't make sense.

Mickey was sitting there like he'd always been there, like he fit in and in some fucked up sort of way he actually did. But letting himself think that only hurt. Because he knew Mickey would never let himself fit in with the Gallaghers. He'd never put up with any of his siblings for longer than a day, he'd never do anything Ian wanted him to do.

And Ian had used to be fine with that, but now he had a plan. He had a future that was become all the more clear and he just knew that if he let himself try and work Mickey Milkovich back into it, it would become foggy again. Mickey didn't do planning, he liked working dead end jobs because he thought that was all he was capable of.

Mickey was convinced he was fucked for life, and maybe because he thought that he was. But Ian wasn't. He refused to be. He was going to get out; and he was never going to get out if he remained in love or maybe it always had just been in lust, with someone who was determined to stay.

He didn't know if he'd forgiven Mickey for what he'd said. He'd thought that maybe he had, but seeing Mickey again he wasn't so sure. And it wasn't exactly what Mickey had said, it was just that Ian couldn't work out whether or not he'd actually meant it. Some days Ian would convince himself that he hadn't, that he had just been saying that because he was angry, because he was trying to push Ian away. Other days Ian wasn't so sure, he thought maybe Mickey had meant it, he drove himself mad, until he almost felt sick thinking about how he was sure Mickey had meant it.

The only thing that Ian did know, was that whether or not Mickey had meant it, no matter what his reasons for saying it had been, he'd definitely succeeded in driving a wedge between them, for breaking whatever the hell they had had going on.

"Guys, time to be up," Fiona said, coming into the room and mercilessly switching the light on.

Ian had almost forgotten all about the fact he had school.

"Carl, get up!" Fiona shouted when she walked back into the room only to find all of them still semi-passed out. Ian didn't know why it had become easy to wake up at six o'clock every morning at the camp, but it was now difficult to drag himself out of bed after an extra hours sleep. It didn't make sense.

He opened his eyes a fraction to see Fiona standing there, glaring at Carl with her arms crossed over her chest. "Okay, here are your options, either you can get up," she said, "Or I can go get Mickey and he can dunk your head in the toilet again."

It didn't surprise Ian as much as it probably should have that Fiona was using Mickey as a threat. It was that one little word. The word, again. It implied Mickey had been hanging around here, which just didn't make sense. Maybe him and Lip were friends again. Probably not. There had to be some other reason.

Carl was out of bed in a flash, almost falling over and from the top bunk Lip laughed.

"I don't know what you're laughing at," Fiona pointed out, the eyebrows going up, "I can just as easily set him on you two." She looked back at Ian to emphasise which two she was talking about. Ian thought he'd like to see Mickey try and get him up, he wasn't scared of that Milkovich anymore.

Lip snorted, "You make him sound like a bloody pit-bull, Fi."

"It's a pretty good comparison," she said, shrugging, before leaving the room and they could hear her going downstairs.

Ian groaned and dragged himself out of the warmth of his bed and like Carl, once he was up he dressed quickly, before the cold could set into his limbs. He wondered if Mickey was actually still there, or if Fiona had just been bluffing. He'd probably bolted some time in the middle of the night when he'd realised where he was.

He had sort of managed to convince himself of that, which was why when he came down the stairs to find Mickey in the kitchen, he did a bit of a double take. He was clean, that was something Ian hadn't noticed last night. And he could tell that he was clean because he was only wearing a pair of jeans.

There was a large bruise across one side of Mickey's ribs that Ian didn't think had come from the fight with his brother, but Mickey was always getting into fights, so it wasn't exactly worrying. Vee walked in, carrying V and her eyebrows flew up at the sight of Mickey.

Ian was pleased he wasn't the only one who seemed surprised that Mickey was here.

"Oh that's attractive," Vee said and Ian knew she was talking about the bruise across Mickey's cheekbone, "A face only a mother could love."

"Fuck off," Mickey said, cramming a piece of toast into his mouth that he snagged off of Carl's plate and blowing crumbs into her face. Vee swatted at him about as well as anyone could with her eyes closed and her face scrunched up. "And actually, for the record, my mum hates me."

Vee put a hand over her mouth in mock surprise, "But how? You're such a ray of sunshine, it shouldn't be possible."

Mickey flipped her off and Ian couldn't help but smirk.

In Vee's arms, Liam was twisting about, reaching out to Mickey, which Ian thought was weird, but he was actually curious to see Mickey's reaction. "Not happening little man," the ex-con said, finishing off whatever the hell he'd just shoved into his mouth to eat that time. It had probably been another piece of Carl's toast. "I have to go."

"Mickey, you haven't got a shirt on," Debbie pointed out as he picked up a bag lying near the door.

Ian smirked a little more, because Mickey was obviously in a rush to leave. He figured it was probably because Mickey was experiencing some sort of overload about being in an actual family environment. Or maybe he'd noticed Ian standing there behind him even if he hadn't said anything yet.

"Fuck, I forgot that," Mickey muttered, pushing past Ian into the other room and coming back fully dressed. Ian was sure that hadn't been the shirt that he'd been wearing last night, but then he supposed that it had to be. It wasn't like Mickey was going to have any extra clothes lying around. "See you around, douchebags," he said as he bolted out of the door.

Vee shook her head, looking amused as she handed Liam over to Debbie.

She came over and hugged Ian, "Good to have you back, kid, how was camp?"

And then things were like normal. Everything was just a little bit manic, but sort of controlled at the same time. They ate and got shooed out the door by Fiona and it was just like it had been a month ago. Except Ian couldn't shake the presence of Mickey out of his mind. He knew he should be able to, he wanted to, but he just couldn't.

It didn't help that there were reminders everywhere of Mickey's presence.

When Mandy popped up and gave him a kiss on the cheek, the first thing he thought of was Mickey. When he heard Debbie threatening some guy using Mickey's name, he couldn't stop thinking about the ex-con for hours.

And it made him ill to think of Mickey that much, especially when it wasn't in a way he understood, especially not when he didn't want to be thinking about the guy. He just wanted to be able to understand why Mickey was there, why nobody had seemed all that phased that he was there.

The only explanation he could come up with was that Mickey had been hanging around. And there was only one reason Mickey would do that.

He left school early, his brain too scrambled for him to concentrate on his last few lessons, but it only tipped him over the edge when he got home to find Mickey there. He was sitting on the couch with his feet up, playing on the Xbox that Ian hadn't known they'd gotten back after they'd had to sell it to make up for Monica selling the squirrel fund.

He jumped when Ian walked in, like he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. And maybe he was, because why the hell was he in their house when evidently there was no one else in. How the hell had he even gotten in?

He didn't seem to relax in the slightest when he realised it was Ian.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, watching the ex-con as he slowly got up off the couch, the game he'd been playing forgotten.

"I. . . um. . ."

Ian thought it looked like Mickey knew exactly what he wanted to say, he just couldn't say it. It had been the same when he'd asked Mickey what he'd been fighting with his brother about. Mickey was hiding something and Ian normally would have been so eager to find out what, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

Unlike him though, Ian had the courage to say what he wanted to. Because he couldn't let this drag out, he had a feeling it would kill him if he let it.

"Mickey, if you're waiting for me to tell you that I want us to carry on like before, I can't do that," he said, making sure to look at Mickey when he spoke. He wanted to see Mickey's expression, except it had gone blank. "I can't be like that anymore, I can't be with someone who hates the idea of being with me, who tries to kill anyone who finds out. I deserve more than that."

That was what he'd realised while Mickey had been away. Ian deserved more than to just be that lost puppy trailing around after someone who refused to admit they actually liked him following.

Mickey didn't say anything, even though Ian waited a minute to give him a chance to speak.

"You're not ever going to change," Ian said bluntly, "I know that, I know that you're not ever going to be with me like I want you to be and what you are capable of giving me, a quick fuck in the back of a storeroom or in the dugouts, that just isn't enough to me anymore."

He'd also realised that he wanted Mickey more than he'd ever wanted anything else. But if he was going to have Mickey, he wanted him for more than a few minutes a couple of times a week. He wanted Mickey to stick around after he'd got his kicks, but Mickey never would.

Ian had used to think that underneath all of it, underneath the facade of indifference, that Mickey really had cared. And maybe he had done, maybe he still sort of did; but it wasn't enough. Not anymore.

He took a deep breath. "So Mick, I'm sorry that you lost your convenient fuckbuddy or whatever the hell we were, but you'll find another," he wanted Mickey to dispute that, to tell him that he wouldn't. But Mickey just carried on staring at him with his mouth set in a firm line, his expression blank. Ian though it sort of looked like Mickey had been expecting this. "Go home Mickey."

And he didn't know what it was he saw in Mickey's eyes when he said that word, 'home'. If it had been anyone else he said it would have been sadness, or maybe heartbreak that he'd seen. But this was Mickey, Ian was starting to realise that Mickey couldn't feel that deeply.

He didn't say a word as he walked out.

Ian sort of wished that he had. That he'd contradicted him, fought for him. He should have known that Mickey would never do that, Ian should have known better than to even consider it for a second.

It was better this way.

So why did he feel like he had to convince himself of that? Why did he feel like there was so much that had been left unsaid between them? Why did he feel like an idiot? Why did he want to chase Mickey down and ask what it was that Mickey had wanted to say, but couldn't? Why did he want to take it all back?

Why?

Chapter Text

"He's not answering his phone," Fiona said, pulling her mobile away from her ear and looking worried. They were all sitting at the table, even Vee and Kevin were there, so Ian couldn't think who the hell she could be trying to ring. Everybody other than Frank was here and nobody wanted Frank here, so it couldn't be that.

"Who?" Ian asked, because he seemed to be the only one who was wondering that.

"Mickey," she said, checking her phone again, looking like she was sending a text.

Ian frowned. "Why are you ring Mickey?" he asked. And why did that feeling of making a mistake come back and hit him full force again, clawing at his inside.

"Because he's supposed to be here," she said, chewing her bottom lip, "You don't think something happened to him, do you?"

Why the hell would anything have happened to Mickey? Nobody ever worried about Mickey. He was too tough to waste the thoughts on worrying about. Ian thought everybody knew that, but here Fiona was looking like she was about to be sick.

"He was here earlier when I got home," he said, because he didn't like seeing his sister that way.

She relaxed a little bit, "Oh, did he say he was going anywhere?"

Ian shook his head and didn't know why he was suddenly nervous before he said, "No, he didn't really say anything, I told him to go home."

It was like someone had flipped a switch, suddenly everything just stopped, everything froze.

"You did what?" Fiona asked slowly, staring at him in exactly the same was as everyone else was. Blank shock. "Did you just say you sent him home?"

Ian nodded, he really wasn't understanding what all the fuss was about. But he was a little worried that Debbie looked like she was about to cry. "Yeah, I got home and he was here and I didn't understand why he was still hanging around," he explained, not knowing who to look at, "So I told him that he couldn't ever change and I couldn't be with someone who didn't want to ever admit that he liked me or who wouldn't ever change, so I told him to go home."

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence.

And then Fiona said, "Lip?"

"Already going," Lip said, pushing away from the table and bolting out of the door.

They all sat there in tense silence for ten minutes, obviously waiting for Lip to come back. And Ian wanted to ask what was wrong, wanted to ask why they were worried about Mickey. But he knew that if he opened his mouth, someone would bite his head off.

Even Liam was silent, staring around with wide eyes and trying to ram his own fist down his throat by the looks of it. The food on the table was forgotten, not even Carl looking hungry anymore and even though he was, Ian didn't eat either.

When Lip came crashing back through the door, everyone jumped

He was panting heavily, doubled over at the waist as he shook his head at Fiona in particular. "He wasn't there," he said after a minute, "I spoke to Mandy and she said he hadn't turned up there at all." He straightened back up, looking red in the face. "I told her to stay there, she'd trying to call him to find him, she also gave me a list of places he might go."

Fiona nodded and then the list was being passed around and people were shouting out places that they would go to check. Everyone was moving at once, bolting out of the door like there was a fire or something. And Ian was still sitting there confused. He still didn't understand.

He watched as Fiona crouched down in front of Debbie, who by now was crying, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. "Debs, it's fine," Fiona said, squeezing her hands, "He'll be fine, you know Mick, he's too tough for anything too bad to happen to him."

Debbie sniffled, scrubbing a hand across her face.

Fiona tilted her head up, "And you know he'd bite your head off if he caught you crying."

She nodded.

"Now, I want you to stay here," Fiona said, "In case he comes back, Ian and I are going to take Liam and see if we can find him, okay?"

Debbie nodded, rubbing at her eyes again, like she was now determined not to cry. She didn't say anything else and neither did Fiona, just motioned to Ian as she picked up the youngest Gallagher and headed out the door. "You don't understand do you?" she asked as they were walking away from the house.

Ian didn't know where they were going.

"No," he said honestly, "Why are you so concerned about Mickey, he can look after himself?"

Couldn't he?

"He didn't tell you, did he?" she asked, staring at him, "He didn't tell you that his Dad tried to kill him, or that Mandy had to crack a bottle over Terry's head to stop him choking Mickey. He didn't tell you that the first thing he did was even in the state he was in, make his way over here to try and protect you from his Dad in case he knew about you too." They'd stopped now, and she was staring at him in that impenetrable way that made him squirm. "He didn't tell you that I found him unconscious outside, or that I brought him home, or that he told me everything before he fell unconscious again, did he?"

Fiona looked like she wanted to throttle him for something, for not knowing.

"He won't have told you then that he adores Liam or that he defends Debbie, or that he got her a birthday present even if he did steal it," she continued. She kept on talking even though he opened his mouth to say something, he didn't know what. "He probably didn't tell you that he helped Jimmy out against the Costellos, or that he took on Louis to sort out Frank's problems because he didn't want Louis coming anywhere near the house.

"You wouldn't know that he's enrolled in community college because Debbie asked him to or that he almost stabbed Jimmy's brother Chip with a fork when we went to dinner because he dared suggest you wouldn't cut it in the army," she said. She still didn't seem willing to let him get a word in, but by now Ian didn't want to. He only wanted to listen, he wanted her to make him believe everything she was saying. "You wouldn't know how he was basically a nervous wreck before you came home, or that even though he tried to hide it, it was obvious he was looking forwards to it as well," she continued, "And you definitely wouldn't know then that when Monica turned up, he told her she wasn't ever going anywhere near Debbie and slammed the door in her face, that he then snuck into a movie with Debs to try and cheer her up."

She looked like she wanted to slap him.

"And after all that, you tell him that he isn't good enough for you anymore, that he doesn't want you enough or care enough," she said and he could see her temper rising, "You tell him that he isn't capable of changing when if you'd actually opened your eyes and had a look around, you'd see that he couldn't be any different from what he thought he was."

It didn't sound like Mickey. Everything she was saying didn't sound like Mickey, but he could hear the conviction in her voice and see that she was telling the truth in her eyes. She wasn't lying, which meant Mickey really had done all of that.

The bruise on his ribs that he hadn't thought could have been from his brother, had been from his Dad probably. And if they'd lasted this long, if the bruise had been that deep, it meant he really had been through hell.

But could anyone really blame Ian for not being able to imagine Mickey being nice to Liam, couldn't imagine him helping Frank out or even remembering Debbie's birthday, let alone getting her anything? Was it his fault his mind couldn't change the Mickey Milkovich he knew into the person that Fiona was describing?

"I didn't know," he said lamely, because what else could he say?

She sighed, the anger seeming to seep out of her now. She'd vented, she didn't look like she wanted to hit him anymore.

"It just doesn't sound like Mickey, any of that," he said, because it didn't. He still wasn't sure if he believed it.

Fiona smiled ever so slightly. "Don't get me wrong, you still have to force him to take a shower on a regular basis, he's still gross, violent and swears way too much," she said, shrugging like none of that mattered. And maybe it didn't. It had never used to matter to Ian. "But he's got good in him as well."

Her eyes turned stern for a second again. "And he doesn't have anywhere else to go," she said, "So we're going to find him and you're going to help us convince him that he has to stay, even if the sexual tension threatens to choke all of us, he's going to stay, understand?"

And Ian just nodded, because really, what else could he do?

Especially when he really kind of wanted Mickey to stick around, if only so that he could find out whether or not he really had changed like Fiona had said he had. Because it was a little bit hard to believe.

Chapter Text

Mickey had left it until he knew most of them would be asleep before creeping back towards the house. He eased open the back door, slipping inside and praying all of them were too deeply asleep to hear him. This was going to be a simple in and out exercise, grab what he needed and go.

He hadn't really been bargaining on Debbie sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the television, the toy Mickey had given her clutched to her chest. She made this sort of choked sound when she saw him and latched on to his waist, hard enough that it made his ribs sting.

"You can't go," she said, still holding onto his middle, "You have to ignore what Ian said, we don't want you to go." He could tell that she was trying not to cry and he was actually quite proud of her for that, even though it was making him ridiculously uncomfortable to have her hugging him like she was.

"Debs, I have to," he said, trying and failing to prise her off of him, "I can't stay here when he doesn't want me around, I only came back to get my wallet and some other stuff." He hadn't thought about grabbing anything earlier, had just bolted.

Having to listen to what Ian was saying, he'd just shut down. He could sort of tell that Ian had been waiting for him to make some sort of comment, but he didn't know what he was supposed to say. Nothing he could have said would have changed any of it. He still would have hated him and Mickey still would have left.

He'd figured it was best not to drag it out.

"Don't be stupid," she said, jerking back then and looking like she wanted to hit him with something, "Ian isn't the only one who lives here and the rest of us want you to stick around." And he couldn't see any trace of a lie in her eyes, that was what made him swallow nervously. He wasn't used to people – still not used to it – actually wanting him around. It still confused the actual shit out of him.

And Mickey hated that he knew that if she kept staring at him in that heartbroken way, he was going to cave in and stick around.

"I've fucked up his life enough," Mickey said lamely, "It's just look fucking needy if I try and stick around."

Because really, at this point, that was his only excuse. Ian was his only excuse.

"If you loved him, you'd fight for him," she said, staring at him in a way that was way too intelligent and knowing for her age. In a way that made him squirm and want to tear her eyeballs out of her head just to make her stop looking at him. But he wouldn't do that, he couldn't.

"Fuck off," he said, because he couldn't admit to that.

Even though he could feel it.

When it came to Ian, Mickey's feelings had always been sort of heavy. They felt like they were dragging him down, making him drag his feet because maybe that would come across as indifference and indifference would make the world think he didn't give a shit. But then there were the days when the heavy love he carried around was threatening to drive him into the ground and he wondered whether if he just showed it, or maybe said it, that it'd get lighter. Mickey didn't like the feel over love, not this love.

He was used to the carefree way he loved his family, where the shouting of 'assface' or 'fucker' across the room would be affectionate, would be taken as 'I love yous'. This love wasn't anything like that, even if the compliments came out as harsh words, even if nothing sounded right because Mickey didn't know how to love without insults, without pain.

Mickey didn't like to feel the love that he felt, he didn't like feelings, didn't like any of that bullshit, he hated it. But what he did know was that he didn't ever want to stop feeling it, to stop feeling like this. He envisioned that that would be like someone was tearing off a limb, stealing it from him. He couldn't imagine it and he didn't want to.

Debbie saw right through his harsh words and smiled, "You said you'd stick around, so you have to."

And he knew he would.

Although what he told himself was that he was just picking the easier option. That staying there in that house was a lot easier than going out and trying to make his way in the world. That was what he told himself. He wasn't sure how much he believed it.

When there was a knock at the door, Mickey didn't even think about it, he just walked over and jerked open the door. And he had to say, the thing about his oldest brother Joey, was that the guy didn't fuck around with stupid words like the others. No, he just grabbed the front of Mickey's shirt and wrenched him outside.

Mickey was fighting before he hit the ground.

He could tell his brother was drunk and he could tell that Debbie was panicking in the house judging by the pitch of her screams. And stupidly, that made him more angry, it fuelled the adrenaline that allowed him to fight back.

It was the scrabbling of limbs, the clumsy punches that hurt like fuck. It was all about making each other bleed and about not holding back at all, because from the very first second it was a fight of survival. He could see it in Joey's eyes right before he punched Mickey in the face. He could see the determination, the hatred that burned there. It was the exactly same look that their father had had when he'd tried to choke Mickey to death.

Mickey rolled away from the kick aimed at his gut, making it back to his feet and spitting blood out of his mouth onto the grass. He could feel pain slithering through his ribs, which seemed doomed never to heal and he could feel the blood sliding down the side of his face from a cut on his head, but he couldn't feel the cut. He could feel stupid things, like the dirt under his nails or the blood in his mouth, but he couldn't feel any of the actual wounds.

He supposed that was the adrenaline.

Milkovich's fought bloody and brutal and to the end. That was the way it had always been. There was never any backing down. You fought till you won or till you dropped. Which was why there was a sense of doom settling onto Mickey's shoulders as he tried to stare down his brother, who not only had quite a few years on him, but a good few inches in height and more than a few pounds in weight.

And some sick, twisted part of Mickey wanted to take the easy way out. He wanted to let Joey win, to bring an end to it all. Because that would be easier, wouldn't it? Except Mickey refused to fucking die for loving the feel of a cock in his ass and hard flesh pushing under his hands rather than soft, for the feel of stubble on his thighs and teeth in his shoulder.

No, Mickey wouldn't die for that.

He also wouldn't let these fuckwads be alive in a world where Ian was sans Mickey. Ian maybe be some tough ass some of the time, he may know how to fight, he may even have been pissing off to the army in the near future, but he still didn't stand a fucking chance against the wrath of the Milkovich's if they found out.

Mickey was past being able to stop them finding out, but he could do the protection bullshit. He could do that.

Or at least he thought he could, because when Joey's arm wrapped around his throat and his legs wrapped around Mickey's torso, he wasn't so sure. He could feel the air being choked from his lungs, the blood rushing to his face and his vision blurred slightly. Which was why he wasn't completely sure he was seeing things right when he spotted Debbie not far away from them, because he could have sworn she was holding a gun.

Mickey thought it was sort of funny when the world seemed to tilt off kilter, as he could feel the bunch and twitch of his brother's muscles as the arm continued to be rammed up against his throat. He thought it was sort of funny that the moment it seemed possible that he was about to lose, not long after he'd been considering letting it, he found it funny that that was the minute that the pure desire to live kicked in.

But what could he do now? He couldn't do anything. He twisted in Joey's grip, clawed at the older Milkovich's arm, feeling flesh lodge underneath his short, jagged nails along with the dirt. But he couldn't free himself, he couldn't do anything other than writhe and gasp, trying to drag air in through his straining airways.

He looked up at the sky, at the grass and the dirt, at the streetlight not far away, wondering what he wanted the last thing he ever saw to be. He knew it was none of those things, but the thing he did want to see wasn't there. The thing he did want to see didn't want to see him. So his gaze flickered over towards Mickey and he was definitely sure then that the lack of oxygen was making him imagine things, because he was positive he could see a gun in her hand. Carl's gun. The one Fiona didn't know he had stashed under his bed.

Mickey knew he wasn't seeing things a minute later.

Debbie pulled the trigger three times.

One bullet hit the ground. The other two tasted blood.

Chapter Text

"Stop crying, seriously, I fucking hate it," he said, glaring at her, "The bullet didn't even go in my arm, you only clipped me, so Jesus, relax already."

"B-But you're bleeding," she said, rubbing her eyes as though that was going to help the flow of tears. Unfortunately he knew it wasn't going to.

He rolled his eyes and tried to rein in his temper. He really hated it when people cried. "Well yeah, clipped still means you hit me," he said, his glare softening into a scowl when she snivelled, the tears seeming to have stopped, "I've been shot before anyway, it's not like it's a big deal."

Well actually, it hurt like a bitch, but he'd tell her the sky was pink if it got her to stop looking at him like a heartbroken puppy. God, what was it with the Gallagher's and puppy dog eyes? Even the sociopath seemed to have mastered them.

"I-I'll get you s-something to tie around it," she said, scrubbing a hand across her face again.

And even though he didn't think he needed it, he let her find out, let her tie it around the top of his arm just a little bit too tight, because if it got her to stop being upset he'd get up and do an Irish jig, he really didn't care.

"See, it's fine now, will you please stop fucking crying?" he asked.

She didn't answer, just wrapped her arms around his neck and latched on to him. He grimaced because this still wasn't something he was used to from anybody other than Mandy, but as he thought before, if it got her to stop crying, he'd so anything.

The only problem was that then the rest of the Gallaghers came trooping into the house and after the initial shout of, "Mickey!" it apparently became alright for everyone to hug him. Well, everyone except Ian who he noticed was standing at the edge of the room near the door, just watching, frowning.

"Do not take off like that or listen to him ever again," Fiona waved over her shoulder at Ian, "You had us thinking one of your brothers had left you in a gutter somewhere to die or something!"

He was pleased for the breathing space he had when he pulled back and pushed his tongue into the corner of his mouth, uncomfortable with the way they were all watching him. Even Ian. Especially Ian.

Of course, at the mention of Mickey's brothers, Debbie immediately burst into tears again.

"Jesus Christ, calm the fuck down," he said, flicking her in the middle of the forehead to get her attention, "It doesn't even hurt, but I am kind of getting freaked out by all the water works!"

He'd rather get shot again than sit there listening to her cry.

"What happened?"

He didn't know who'd asked the question, Mickey just shrugged.

"I s-shot him," Debbie stuttered out and Mickey groaned.

"You didn't shoot me, how many fucking times do I have to say it," he said, glaring at her, "You grazed me, you shot my brother." Which had actually been pretty fucking awesome. Joey had taken a bullet to the leg and he'd gone home limping and whining like a baby.

It proved he was a Milkovich that he'd actually gone home by himself though.

What was pissing Mickey off was that he wasn't getting the opportunity to appreciate the wonder that was Debbie shooting his brother, because the girl was refusing to acknowledge the distinction between shooting and grazing. As far as Mickey was concerned, there was a difference. And he considered himself the expert since both had happened to him.

"Okay, ignoring the fact that Debbie got a gun from somewhere," Fiona said slowly, folding her arms over her chest and managing to look pissed off and concerned all at once, "What the hell happened?"

Mickey groaned and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, not that he would admit that. "I thought I could sneak back in because I forgot my fucking wallet and some shit when I left," he said, making sure not to look at Ian standing in the back watching. Except, he didn't want to really look at any of them either, so he looked at Liam, who was fast asleep against Fiona's shoulder, his thumb in his mouth. "And then Joey turned up and tried to follow in my Dad's footsteps and choke me to fucking death and then Debbie came out and fired off a few rounds."

And he could see out of the corner of his eye that Fiona was staring at him like he'd just given her the condensed version when really that was all there actually was to it. She grabbed his chin, getting up in his face and turning his head at all sorts of angles like she was assessing the damage done to him.

The sudden movement woke Liam up and he blinked at Mickey with sleepy eyes, reaching out for him. And the response had become automatic. Mickey took him off Fiona, letting the kid push his fingers into Mickey's hair like he was some sort of fucking comfort blanket and press his face into the cross of Mickey's neck as he fell asleep again.

"If you even think about taking off again without telling one of us where you're going, I will find you and kill you in your sleep, understand me?" she said slowly, her eyes narrowing at him to prove just how serious she was about that.

"Yep, you're coming in loud and clear," he said, because he knew not to fuck with her, "Now will someone get me some fucking Jell-O, I'm hungry."

Fiona just flipped him off which made him laugh, but of course because Debbie felt guilty for 'shooting' him, she was fetching him the Jell-O in a flash. "Debbie," he said staring at her as she passed him a spoon, "I will steal you that retarded fucking lion cub thing to go with your panda if you get over the whole fucking shooting thing."

And he would as well.

She smiled sort of sleepily, but said nothing, rubbing her eyes.

"Right," Fiona said, clapping her hands loudly, which made Liam mumble something in baby talk against Mickey's neck, "Time for bed, you all still have school in the morning."

Mickey pulled a face, not liking the thought of that, but nevertheless inhaled his Jell-O and got to his feet, because he'd had enough fights for one day. He touched his neck gingerly as he stood, knowing there were going to be bruises there, but not having the energy to care.

All this emotional shit was really draining, he'd found. It was just another excuse for him not to bother with it as far as he was concerned.

He lowered Liam into his crib upstairs, knowing the kid would probably be out of it before Mickey woke up in the morning, but still, they could hope. Debbie hugged him goodnight, which probably classed as an apology as well, but he ignored that. Fiona kissed him on the cheek which made him squirm, Jimmy clapped him on the back which he was fine with and Lip gave him the one-fingered salute which made him smirk.

But it was the way Ian lingered in the hallway, still not having said anything and obviously nervous that made Mickey feel like he was itching inside of his own skin. It was the way Ian's wide eyes seemed to take in every bruise, like he was finally realising the reason behind them for the first time. And he probably was.

Mickey could tell from the way that Ian was looking at him that someone had explained the situation.

It sort of made him want to hit him, the whole pitying thing he had going on when he looked at Mickey. But he didn't. His fists were already sore enough.

The sight of Ian standing there, staring at him, both of them letting the silence settle between them was making Mickey hard at the same time as it made him want to bolt. Because it was looks like that which made him feel. And feeling got Mickey punched in the face, it made someone try to choke him.

What hit Mickey most of all though was how much he knew it would kill him if Gallagher was ever in his position. If Ian ever got hurt because of this, if he ever got bruised or battered because he liked cock, Mickey would tear the person who did it apart. He didn't care about himself, he cared about Ian. And he knew that was fucking stupid and probably not reciprocated if the earlier reaction was anything to go by, but it was still there and he couldn't make it go away. He didn't want it to go away.

Mickey offered him some lame sort of half smile, because he was too tired to stand there forever, even if he would have been happy to just stare at Ian forever. Especially with him standing there all red faced, with his chapped lips and ruffled hair and eyes so wide Mickey thought he might be drowning in them. Like he might be choking not because of his brother's arm now, but because of the emotions in those eyes that were suddenly bearing down on him.

"I'm sorry," Ian blurted out when Mickey was almost at the stairs.

Mickey looked back at him over his shoulder. "What for?" he asked, because that was what Mickey did. He was the master of indifference, or pretence, of lying. Even if it killed him inside to do it. "You don't have anything to fucking apologise for."

And he didn't. Nobody should have to apologise for telling the truth. Mickey never did.

Chapter Text

It first hit him at the weekend, when he was already nervous about Jimmy's parents coming over to dinner and having to face Lloyd again. Especially with Mickey there. But he didn't think that it he had really believed any of it until that day, not really.

He woke up to any empty room, thought maybe an empty house, except that he could hear Liam laughing downstairs. He honestly didn't expect it to be Mickey who was the reason for that laughter. He didn't really expect Mickey to be there at all, thought he would have had so many better things to do.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Mickey looked up at him, blue paint streaked across his cheek, over one of the bruises. He was shirtless which was actually the first thing Ian noticed – but hey, sue him, he was horny, it had been a while and Mickey shirtless was something anybody could appreciate if they had decent fucking taste and working eyes in their head – and also kneeling on the floor, painting something. And Ian thought that that was strange in itself, because he hadn't pegged Mickey to be the artistic type, except he soon became distracted by and much more interested in the small handprints covering Mickey's bare chest, arms and back in a wide variety of different colours.

Mickey looked nervous as he shrugged.

"Fiona went out with Jimmy to get stuff for tonight's dinner or something," he explained, his teeth worrying his already swollen bottom lip, "The others all pissed off somewhere, so that left me with Liam and I figured we'd paint."

He was trying to play it off as not a big deal, Ian could tell, but he could also tell that he was practically vibrating with the need to discover Ian's reaction. Only Mickey thought anyone could have a negative reaction to this scene.

Ian couldn't help the way that he was drawn closer to the ex-con. It was like gravity was propelling him and he found himself moving before he could realise when he'd even started doing so. Liam laughed again and slapped his hand noisily on Mickey's arm, leaving a blue handprint that the sight of made him giggle again.

Mickey's glance just flickered towards his bicep and he smirked slightly before looking back down at what he was painting. Ian wanted to look, to see what it was, but he couldn't take his eyes off of Mickey.

"Who exactly is doing the painting here?" he asked as he sat down on the couch close to Mickey, but not close enough that he was within Liam's range.

"He got bored of paper and decided to upgrade," Mickey shrugged again, still looking embarrassed that Ian had caught him like this, "Last time it was the fucking walls, Fiona flipped out and she still hasn't noticed the handprints behind the door."

Yeah, Ian could imagine that she would get mad about that.

He found himself smiling before he could stop himself. Except the only thing was that he wasn't thinking about Fiona's temper or about Liam's painting, because he stillcouldn't stop looking at Mickey. He couldn't tear his eyes away, didn't want to.

He knew it was stupid, he knew he wouldn't try because Mickey would only hit him for it, but right then, he really – and like really, really – wanted to kiss him. He knew that wasn't allowed, had stopped thinking about it too much because he knew it wasn't allowed. It never had been, probably never really would be and so he shook the idea out of his head.

Or at least he tried to.

"What?" Mickey asked after a minute, frowning when he noticed Ian staring at him, "The fucker got it in my hair again, didn't he?"

Ian shook his head as he smiled, because he sort of liked the fact that the Mickey that he knew was still there. The Mickey that could be rude about anyone and anything and had the most random concerns in the entire universe. "No, you haven't got any in your hair," he said, still unable to look away, but by then, he'd given up even trying.

"So what the fuck are you staring at?" Mickey snapped, looking like he wanted to hit him.

Only when Ian blushed and looked at him through his lashes, his gaze hovering for just a little bit too long on Mickey's mouth did he seem to understand. It was only then that he seemed to follow the train of Ian's thoughts.

A pink tongue darted out to wet those lips and Ian felt like moaning out loud.

Mickey's scowl turned into a smirk and it was strangely, ridiculously, stupidly beautiful.

"Right, let's get all this fucking paint off you," Mickey said suddenly, making Ian jump slightly because he hadn't been expecting any words, "Vee's coming to pick you up in a minute." He scooped Liam up and headed out of the room, giving Ian a knowing sort of look through heavily-lidded eyes.

And Ian watched Mickey's ass as he walked, watched the ripple of muscles underneath the pale skin as he lifted and swung Liam. Yet, of all things, it was seeing that smirk on Mickey's features that made Ian so uncomfortably hard in his pants. How the fuck did that make sense?

Chapter Text

The first time they fucked that night was when Mickey finally managed to grow the balls to back Ian into a corner. To his credit though, it didn't take that long to find the courage. He'd seen the way Ian was looking at him, had recognised it and even if he was covered in paint and doing something as fucking stupid as painting with Ian's little brother, he still liked that Ian looked at him like that.

Ian was in the kitchen when the door shut and Vee carried Liam off to go over to her house, because Mickey was supposed to be doing this fucking assignment he'd been said for class, but fuck it, it wasn't in for a few days and he was horny.

The redhead was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping at a beer like he'd opened it out of habit but didn't really want to drink it and Mickey didn't know why he suddenly felt like he wanted to, but he decided he was going to kiss Gallagher then.

He walked over and stood between his legs, taking the beer off him and chugging half of it down and fuck, you could have cut the sexual tension in the air with a knife. Mickey could already feel himself growing hard in his jeans, but he didn't quite have the courage yet to check if Ian was too. Not yet.

Mickey leant closer to put the beer on the side, and he breathed hotly on Ian's neck, not knowing what made him lick a line up it. He imagined he could feel the pulse jumping underneath his tongue. Maybe he could. To be honest, he didn't know what was true and what wasn't anymore. He didn't particularly want to, he liked it just the way it was.

Ian shivered under Mickey's tongue and his fingers latched onto Mickey's hips, digging into bare flesh because Mickey was wearing his trousers really low that day. He was glad for that, he liked the feel of Ian's touch on his hipbones, he'd missed it, not that he would ever fucking admit that. Now all he needed was Firecrotch's fire crotch pressed up against his ass, his cock buried deep inside him, then everything would be fine.

Both of their lips were chapped, swollen, the skin broken and Mickey's already bloody from chewing, but it was how it was with everyone in this neighbourhood. It was a trait everybody had. Mickey thought it looked hot on Gallagher whereas he didn't notice it with anyone else.

He blamed the fact it had been a while or maybe that mouthful of beer for the way he was thinking, the way he was acting right now. He blamed that for his thoughts, which normally he wouldn't have even let progress as far as they were.

When their faces are just inches apart when Mickey pulls back, Mickey lets Ian think that he let him kiss him. Not that it was what Mickey had been planning all along, not that Mickey was craving it like Ian was a drug he hadn't had in far too long.

It was a battle of tongues and teeth and fingers digging into skin until bruises were inevitably left behind. It was Mickey sucking on Ian's bottom lip for no other reason than he wanted to, and then biting it because he couldn't let Ian think he was going soft or anything. They ground their crotches together as Ian pulled them closer against each other by sliding his hands around Mickey's waist properly. His hands pressed flat into Mickey's skin, feeling the dried paint that was still there.

And Mickey could feel that touch all over his body, just like he could feel the slide of Ian's tongue right the way down to his toes. He felt so completely alive and he knew how stupid that was, but he couldn't stop feeling it and maybe he didn't want to.

He loved the sound of Ian's moan, lovely the taste of him as Mickey swallowed the noise.

It was just them in the house, which was why they didn't even move. They didn't even take their clothes off. Ian just unbuckled his jeans and rolled on a condom before jerking Mickey's slacks down to his knees. And it was nothing but raw need, nothing but the desperation building up between them as Ian entered Mickey roughly, with Mickey bent over the kitchen counter.

Ian's fingers were creating bruises on Mickey's hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bleed and that was what made Mickey moan. Of all things, that was what made him push his hips back until they were flush with Ian's.

They fucked like they fought, hard and rough and brutal, with the slap of flesh against flesh ringing through the empty house. When Ian bent forwards and pressed his torso against the length of Mickey's, biting hard into Mickey's shoulder, he thought he was about to lose it. That only happened when Ian rolled his hips, doing somethingthat Mickey didn't have to vocabulary to describe. All he knew was that it hit that spot inside of Mickey in such a way that he had words tumbling out of his mouth that weren't even English. They weren't even words. It was just noise that wasn't quite a moan, but wasn't quite anything else either.

Ian came almost immediately afterwards, slamming into Mickey twice more, knocking the ex-con's knees almost painfully against the counter with the force of his thrusts, but Mickey couldn't have cared less. He didn't care about anything right then.

While Mickey went upstairs to wash the dried paint off his torso and the jizz off his fist, Ian cleaned up what Mickey hadn't managed to catch in his hand. And Mickey had hoped he would, but he'd never really expected Ian to climb into the shower beside him.

Under the spray of the water, Ian pressed his mouth to the bruises on Mickey's throat, grazed his fingers across Mickey's aching ribs and slid his tongue over the dip of Mickey's hip bone for no reason whatsoever. In the shower it wasn't anything sexual, there wasn't even any sexual tension anymore. And what would have freaked Mickey out if he had had the energy after that fuck in the kitchen, would have been that he actually quite liked just being like this.

He trailed his fingers down Ian's back, pressing his fingers gently into the small of his back. There was nothing brutal about any of it then, there wasn't any need for it. It was like the edge had been taken off and underneath there was finally time for emotions now. Emotions that Mickey hadn't wanted to admit to before, but couldn't help but show now.

He ran his tongue around the curve of Ian's ear, pressing a kiss at the patch of skin just underneath it, feeling Ian's wet hair against his forehead.

Ian's hands brushed the paint off Mickey's body until the water swirling down the plug hole was rainbow coloured. And then he wrapped his arms around Mickey and held him close, both of them just standing there under the luke warm spray, clinging to each other, Ian holding Mickey like he was breakable. And maybe then he was. In that one moment, which seemed to be hanging by nothing more than the thinnest of threads, the frailest of heartstrings, maybe Mickey was fragile.

He was certainly brittle enough to shatter.

And Mickey would have liked to have said that the words were first spoken during a hot round of sex, when neither of them knew what they were saying, when neither of them could be held accountable. But that wasn't how it went. No, it was standing there, their hold started to loosen around each other, when Mickey looked up through the water at the redhead who never seemed to stop growing. It was then that Ian looked at him through his lashes and Mickey could tell what he was going to say even before he opened his mouth.

"I love you."

It was out there, in the open, spoken for the first time.

And Mickey could feel the panic pounding through his veins, knew some of it probably showed on his face if the way Ian's expression darkened was anything to go by. Mickey would never deny that the panic was there, that the urge to run wasn't the first thing that consumed him, but after that it was something akin to satisfaction that he felt.

He'd say happiness, but that was just fucking stupid.

But what tipped him over the edge was that Ian was looking at him like he fully expected him to run. And Mickey didn't like being predictable, he didn't like people thinking they had him all sussed out and he fucking loved how hot Ian's surprised look was.

So he let himself smirk and he didn't say the words back, because he didn't want to right then and Gallagher should have already fucking knowing how Mickey felt. So instead he said, "Yeah, I already kinda knew that, Gallagher, but thanks for telling me anyway." And then he crushed his mouth against Ian's in a kiss that was supposed to be hard, but that wasn't. Instead it was stupid and sweet and gentle and careful, like both of them had become breakable and fragile.

Mickey's hands came up to frame the sides of Ian's face, pushing into the sides of his hair and Ian's hands rested on the older boy's hips. They didn't grip, they simply rested there and Mickey thought he could feel the heat of Ian's touch burning more of a mark into his flesh than any bruising grab ever could.

Mickey didn't say it, because he didn't have to and Mickey wasn't for doing things he didn't have to do. And he wouldn't ever admit it, but that 'I love you' was the best thing he'd ever heard, the touches on his hips were the best thing he'd ever felt and the taste on his mouth as Gallagher gently ran his tongue over his bottom lip was definitely the best thing he'd ever tasted. For the life of him he couldn't remember when the hell he'd gotten so sappy and fucking stupid. Because this was just setting himself up to get his heart broken, so why didn't he care?

Maybe because he knew already that the ride would be worth the heartbreak at the end.

They fell still damp onto Ian's bed in a tangle of limbs and clumsy kisses. Slowly, with no real rush lingering between them this time, they let the touches turn bruising again; because with them, that was what it was always going to turn back to. It was staking a claim.

Ian's finger's scraped down his back, jagged nails biting into flesh in a way that made Mickey squirm and press against him. The slide of damp skin as they rolled, crashing almost onto the floor was almost all if would have taken to send Mickey over the edge, because he was teetering there, so precariously it was ridiculous.

But he didn't, he didn't let himself, he wanted to make this last.

The second time they had sex that night was just like they always did, with Mickey's face in the mattress and his ass up in the air, putting Ian completely in control. The redhead bit and licked his way down Mickey's spine because this was the one time he had the time to savour any of this. He sank his teeth into one cheek of Mickey's ass and sucked up a mark on the other and it was such a stupid, possessive thing that shouldn't have made Mickey's eyes cross or his toes clench, but did.

Ian took his time because he knew that this was probably the one time Mickey wouldn't tell him to hurry the fuck up.

He flickered his tongue over the entrance to Mickey's body, skirting around it and making the older boy squirm, making him want to hit him so badly for no reason whatsoever that he had to twist his hands in the sheet to stop himself moving. When Ian pushed a single finger in, he just about shot off the bed and when it was removed, he almost whimpered. Maybe he did.

Hand smoothed down his sides, like Ian was comforting some sort of wild cat or something, but what was a hell of a lot more comforting was definitely the tongue in his ass. He moaned, pushing back ever so slightly and he could feel Ian chuckling into his ass, which was just stupid.

"Oh fuck, Gallagher!"

He'd gotten better at this, a lot better and it made Mickey see red with jealousy at the idea of Ian ever doing this to anyone else, but the pleasure stamped down the jealousy until it was containable. Of course, it didn't stop the thought of how good it would feel to break Lloyd's nose when he arrived tonight, but then Ian pushed two fingers into him and he couldn't think of anything else but that feeling.

Those fingers worked in and out of his ass, making the sound of a tearing wrapper far away. His skin seemed so incredibly over sensitive as Ian bent forwards to swirl his tongue in that dip at the bottom of Mickey's spine. Mickey could feel himself shuddering, could hear himself begging but he had no clue what he was saying and he decided he probably didn't want to know. If he didn't know, he could deny it all later.

Ian's fingers bit into his hips as he lined himself up and slammed himself home with no hesitation at all. And that was the way Mickey liked it, hard, fast and brutal. With Ian's hands on his hips, in his hair, nails scraping down his back, biting into flesh.

He didn't last long, neither of them did. It seemed like that was their fate. Just like their lives, everything went by so fast, so rough, with a slithers of pain and pleasure so tightly interwoven that they couldn't be distinguished from one another.

It was Ian's teeth in his shoulder, biting down so hard that Mickey could feel the skin being broken and the blood sliding down his shoulder blade, it was that which pushed him over the edge. He screamed when he came, the opposite of Ian, who marked his release with the whispering of Mickey's name like a prayer. They were two opposites so completely the same, fitting together so seamlessly that it was at times like these when Mickey couldn't recognise where one of them ended and the other began.

It was glorious, that feeling of completion he could only ever get with Ian.

He fell in a boneless heap, only just having the mind to twist around onto his back. He looked up at Ian as he knelt there, tying off the condom and tossing it onto the floor somewhere beside the bed. They'd pick it up later, or maybe not, who cared?

Mickey thought he looked stupidly beautiful like he was right then, with his cheeks red, the sweat shining on his skin and stray droplets of water running from his hair, down his chest and getting lost in the grooves of his abs. His eyes were sleepy looking, his expression contented.

He pulled Ian down, flipping them so that he was on top and Ian was far too relaxed to care. He just lay where Mickey put him. But he squirmed when Mickey's tongue lapped across his abs, tasting the sweat and the water there and practically humming at the taste of it. He couldn't have explained why he did it, he just wanted to. He licked and sucked a path up Ian's chest, nibbling under his jaw and sucking on his earlobe, letting his lips skim over a cheekbone until he could finally taste that mouth.

And the kiss was lazy, clumsy like always, but so incredibly familiar. It was like Mickey's soul was recognising every move that Ian made, like it was ingrained into the both of them so deeply it was impossible to ever forget. They were a pair. Mickey knew that even if he thought it was fucking gay to think; what he did know was that he was going to do everything in his power to make sure the redhead underneath him saw that.

Ian curled into Mickey's body when he lay down and Mickey thought it was gay, but he was past caring. So he let Ian rest his head on his chest, shivering at first at the feel over his breath dancing across his over sensitised skin. He let his hand curl possessively behind Ian's back, feeling the knobs of his spine, pressing his fingertips against them.

"Mick, I'm sorry," Ian said after a minute and Mickey didn't even open his eyes. He'd known that the quiet was doomed not to last. It never did with Gallagher, not any of them. He'd lost since accepted that even if it had taken him a while to accept everything else.

"We've already had this conversation," he said, letting Ian play with his fingers. Letting because Mickey didn't like it at all, not really. "You don't have anything to apologise for."

And Mickey meant that, he really did.

"But Mick," Ian's cheek was lifting off of his chest and Mickey knew that he was looking down at him, could feel it, but he still didn't open his eyes, "You do know I didn't mean any of it right, not really, you know that I wouldn't ever want you any other way."

Mickey did open his eyes then, because he wanted to see the truth in Ian's eyes, wanted to make himself believe it. He wanted to believe it more than anything. And Ian was staring down at him with those wide eyes not looking sleepy anymore. The look in them was sort of bold and unashamed, practically daring Mickey to tell him that he didn't believe that what he was saying was true.

And Mickey wanted to do that, he wanted to call Gallagher a liar, he really did, but he couldn't. Because Gallagher wasn't lying.

He gave in to that stupid soppy part of him that was starting to emerge for a second, reaching up to touch Ian's cheek, to run his finger over the redhead's swollen bottom lip. He could try to be nice for a minute, even Mickey could do that. Even if the fingers he was touching Ian's face with did have dirt under the nails and tattoos across the knuckles.

"We've both lied," he said, hating that his voice broke ever so slightly. He put that down to all the screaming he'd been doing not long before, not the emotion or any bullshit like that. It definitely had to be the screaming, definitely. "It's just like when I told you that you were nothing but a warm mouth." He touched Ian's bottom lip again as he spoke, transfixed by it for some weird perverse reason. "You do know that was bullshit, right?"

He had to ask, he had to make sure Ian really didn't believe he'd meant it.

Ian nodded, but there was something in his eyes that made Mickey hate himself. Because Ian hadn't thought he was lying, maybe he'd thought that a little bit, but not completely.

Mickey used his hold on Ian's face to pull him closer and flickered his tongue over the redhead's bottom lip, smiling when he gasped and his mouth opened. "Because you are a warm mouth," he muttered, his voice so quiet that nobody could have heard him other than Ian, "But that's definitely not all you were."

And that was another way of Mickey saying, "I love you," without really saying it at all.

Of course, Ian knew that, Mickey could tell that he knew that with the way that he suddenly crushed their mouths together. They were still too tired, their muscles too limp and their limbs too boneless for the kiss to become anything more than gentle, but Mickey still nipped at Ian's bottom lip just because before the redhead pulled away.

They fell asleep with Mickey's arms holding Ian close to him, pulling the younger boy almost on top of him. Ian's face was pressed against Mickey's neck, his hand on his chest and even as he slept, the pressure on that hand didn't ease up. It was like Ian was determined to cling onto Mickey even while he was unconscious, he was determined not to let him go.

But Mickey wasn't going anywhere. Never again, of that he was sure.

Besides, it wasn't like he had anywhere to go anyway.

He didn't think they slept long, just long enough for Mickey to recharge and for him to wake up with a hard on like he hadn't just come twice already that day. It probably had something to do with the way that Ian was pressed against him though, his still damp skin sticking to Mickey's and his breath that fluttered over Mickey's nipple making all of the blood in his body rush south.

Ian was still completely out of it, Mickey could tell by his breathing. And he supposed that was probably fair enough since he had been the one doing all the work before if you thought about it. Yet it still surprised Mickey how easy it was to untangle himself from Ian, to roll him into the position that he wanted.

It was Mickey's devious side coming out that he blamed for his curiosity on just how long it would take for Ian to wake up. Mickey trailed his tongue down from Ian's throat to his hipbones, pressing a soft kiss on one just because he could do it without Ian ever being aware. Ian stirred only slightly in his sleep, fidgeting almost, but he didn't wake up and that made Mickey smirk and think, good.

Ian's cock was soft and limp in its little nest of red curls, but Mickey was sort of amazed at how easy it was to make Ian hard even while he was asleep. He took his time, since Ian still wasn't awake and Mickey didn't have anything better to be doing, plus he was sort of enjoying it.

He licked a wet line where Ian's thigh met his groin, nuzzled at Ian's balls, sucking on one for a while before moving on to the main object of his attention. He followed that thick vein that ran up Ian's impressive length with his tongue, sucked on the tip ever so gently before making his way back down.

It was only when he pushed his tongue into the slit that Ian woke up, almost shooting off the bed had it not been for Mickey's hands on his hips pinning him down. Mickey looked up at him through his lashes, trying to pull off that innocent look all the Gallaghers seemed to have mastered. He didn't know how well it worked.

"W-What are you doing?" Ian stammered out as Mickey dipped his head again to suck on the tip of Ian's dick.

He raised his eyebrows and let Ian's cock drop from him mouth with a loud, wet pop. "What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?"

Now that Ian was awake, he didn't see the point in taking his time, didn't want to. So he swallowed Ian down to the base, making the younger boy buck up with his hips involuntarily. Mickey didn't know why the idea of Ian losing control made him smile around the cock in his mouth, but he did.

He sucked Ian for a while, right until he felt the redhead was on the brink, until he could almost taste his orgasm and then he pulled off. Ian swore at him, which made him laugh. It turned into a gasp when Mickey slipped his hands under his ass and lifted him slightly, swiping his tongue along Ian's crack.

"Yeah, so I figured it was my turn," he said after sucking on his thumb for a while before pushing it inside of Ian. He pushed it in as far as it would go and then twisted. "Or do you have a problem with that?"

Ian shook his head quickly, which made Mickey smirk.

"Good," he said, pulling his thumb out of Ian and draping his legs across either side of his thighs, "Now where the fuck are the condoms?"

Ian motioned wordlessly to his nightstand, moaning when Mickey leant forwards, their cocks rubbing together as he reached for the drawer. Mickey couldn't resist kissing him, he wouldn't deny that. It was the sound Ian made, the way his eyes slid closed and his mouth dropped open slightly. It was irresistible. And fuck, but somehow Mickey was still horny.

Arms wound up and around his neck, pulling them closer together and Mickey moaned into Ian's mouth as the younger boy's fingers tugged on the bottom of his hair. He couldn't help the way that he rocked against him, it was pure instinct. He would have said it was pure need, but the past two rounds seemed to have knocked off the edge of desperation to their movements completely.

Mickey wasn't used to that, he wasn't used to being gentle or slow, but he didn't care. He actually sort of liked it.

The arms around his neck loosened slightly so that he could roll on the condom, but they didn't stop kissing, they didn't have to, not in the position they were in. They'd never fucked face to face before when Mickey was on top. Admittedly, Mickey had only topped twice with Ian, but that was because it wasn't their natural preferences and it was also more than enough practise for Mickey to know exactly what drove the redhead crazy.

He didn't slam himself in quickly like they always normally did, but instead eased forwards, pushing forwards so slowly that it made Ian squirm and whimper into his mouth, his legs wrapping around Mickey's back and trying to pull him in fully. Except Mickey's hands on his hips stopped him from doing anything more than wiggling, which actually made Mickey's eyes cross, but Ian's eyes were closed so thankfully he couldn't see that.

Mickey licked a line under Ian's jaw, nibbling at his neck when he was fully seated inside the redhead's ridiculously tight ass, trying not to lose control right then. "Fuck Mickey!" Ian wasn't exactly quiet, moaning and writhing underneath Mickey as he slowly started to thrust in and out of Ian's ass.

It was the slowest Mickey had ever done anything and he couldn't explain why. Maybe it was because he didn't have all that much energy for anything too forceful. Or maybe it was because the sounds of Ian's loud moans, the way he was practically shouting his name, giving him orders that Mickey only sometimes followed was the best thing he thought he'd ever heard. Maybe he dragged it out because the longer he made it last, the longer he would get to hear those sounds coming from Ian.

"Oh God, there, fuck Mickey, right there," Ian gasped out, his nails tearing flesh from Mickey's back as he tried to make the ex-con press in further.

And Mickey did, just because he loved the way that it made Ian unravel underneath him.

He pushed forwards until they were pressed flush together and bite Ian's neck gently, making him moan in a way that sounded like the noise had been punched out of him. He rolled his hips, muttering, "Firecrotch," in his ear because he knew the gravelly quality in his voice at that moment made Ian crazy.

"Fuck, Mickey, Mickey. . . I need to come," Ian's voice in his ear, so whiney, needy, and fucking desperate made him smile. Not smirk, smile. "Please, Mickey, make me come. . .I– I need to."

And Mickey could have done to many things to make him. He could have kissed him, could have bitten him, could have slammed in harder or rolled his hips, but he didn't. He didn't know why he didn't, but in his defence, he was way too far gone to be really making rational decisions at that exact moment.

He blamed how tight Ian's ass was, how hot he looked, how fucking great it sounded to hear him beg, he blamed all that for the reasons as to why he did what he did. He pressed himself in impossibly closer, his thrusts become more like gentle rocks against Ian's body, because while pressed this close to Ian, he couldn't do much more. He pressed his cheek into Ian's still damp hair, his lips right by Ian's hear so that nobody else could hear him when he whispered, "I love you."

And the effect was instantaneous.

Ian legs locked even tighter around him, his fingers clawing at his back, clutching at flesh, pulling him in so tight that Mickey almost couldn't breathe. And considering Ian had been making so much noise, his release was oddly silent. He gasped into Mickey's neck, his body arching up against Mickey's at the same time as he pulled the ex-con down, mashing them so completely together that there wasn't even air between them anymore.

It was Ian's reaction coupled with the way his ass contracted around his dick when he came that sent Mickey over the edge and he would have clamped his teeth down on something to try and muffle his release, except he couldn't. He didn't want to. He didn't scream this time, instead he noise he made was something more of a choked out bark.

His entire body felt like it was on fire, like every nerve ending was screaming in complete ecstasy. It was better than being high, better than anything he had ever felt and he could feel the slow shudders running through his body, or maybe it was through Ian's, he couldn't tell anymore.

Ian's fingers ran down his spine, soothing at the same time as it was something completely different, something Mickey couldn't describe because no word in his vocabulary was quite adequate. But he knew what it felt like. It felt like tiny jolts of electricity were shooting out of Ian's fingertips into his body.

"Fuck me," Ian said in a sort of breathy sigh against Mickey's neck.

"I just did," he muttered back, straightening out his arms and trying to push off Ian slightly. Except apparently the redhead didn't get the message and didn't ease up his hold on Mickey at all, so when Mickey pushed up with his arms, all that happened was Ian lifted off the bed and ended up clinging to him like some sort of retarded monkey.

Mickey still hadn't even bothered to pull out yet, but he didn't care, he'd only tried to move because he thought Ian would have been uncomfortable. That was what he got for trying to be considerate apparently. He lowered them back down onto the mattress, but slid his arms under Ian, propping himself up on his forearms so that he could look down at him.

His eyes were partly closed, his expression stupid, but Mickey supposed that he probably didn't look much better. "We need to change it up more often," Ian muttered, sounding as out of it as he looked and it made Mickey dip his head down to run his tongue lightly over the seam of Ian's lips.

Ian surprised him by sucking on Mickey's tongue lightly, his breath sweet in Mickey's mouth as they kissed. He could feel the stickiness of Ian's jizz between their bodies, wondered if they'd get glued together if they stayed like that long enough.

Except he could also feel the growl of Ian's stomach and he could feel his own hunger gnawing at his insides and that was probably the only thing that could ever have made him move. "Let's go get some fucking food," he said, licking a beat of sweat from under Ian's ear.

Ian let him go this time when he eased off him, but it took a few minutes and a hard prod in the ribs from Mickey until he actually got up. He wiped the jizz off his stomach with the same dirty shirt Mickey used and tossed to him.

"Say it again," Ian said as he buttoned up his jeans, watching Mickey.

Mickey scratched his chest and raised his eyebrows at Ian's expectant expression. He snorted, "No."

The redhead scowled, which was stupidly cute. "You've already said it once," he said, like Mickey didn't already know that, "So say it again."

He smirked, because Gallagher obviously wasn't understanding that the only reason he wasn't going to, was because Ian wanted him to. Mickey didn't like doing anything that anyone expected him to do either. He didn't like the whole rational thing most people had going on.

"No," he said again, digging through the pile of clothes to see if he could find something that was his. Everything just seemed to get mixed in together in this house. God forbid if you were ever in a rush.

"I bet I could make you."

Mickey snorted loudly, "Sorry Gallagher, but even I can't reload that fast. . . again."

"I didn't mean like that," Ian said right before he caught Mickey around the waist and tackled him out of the room.

Chapter Text

They'd picked up the wine and Jimmy's parents – Chip was thankfully remaining absent – and all that needed to be done was put the lasagne into the oven and heat it up. Everyone was with them except Liam who was being dropped off by Vee a little later and Ian and Mickey who should already be at home. As far as Fiona was concerned, it was all set to be a civilised, controlled evening, at least as much so as she could make it.

Of course, that all went out the window when the first thing they heard when they walked into the house was, "Oh God there, fuck Mickey, right there."

Fiona wasn't the only one who blushed on behalf of her little brother. Lip looked like he was about to be sick, Debbie went bright red and Jimmy's father Lloyd went a little pink around the ears. And it only got worse when Ian's voice carried down the stairs, high-pitched and keening like she'd never heard it before, begging.

Debbie and Carl both simultaneously clamped their hands over their ears and Fiona sort of wanted to as well. She didn't know why she didn't. They all heard Mickey's release, a choked sort of sound that she hadn't ever thought could be humanly possible to make without someone trying to kill you.

After Ian's moans cut off, the house was more silent than she could ever remember it being.

She wanted to say something to Jimmy's parents, but she didn't know how the hell she was supposed to explain that. She kept opening her mouth, hoping the words would just come, but every time she had to shut it again without saying anything.

Lloyd was fidgeting, looking uncomfortable, whilst Jimmy's mother just stared at the stairs like she wasn't completely sure she was hearing what she was hearing. Or rather what she had heard.

"I think I'm going to go drink bleach," Lip muttered, breaking the silence and moving off into the kitchen, like he thought putting some distance between him and the stairs would help erase the memories.

Fiona didn't know why that almost made her laugh. Almost.

"Well I guess they finally had their reunion," Jimmy muttered and she hit him on the arm, but it snapped the tension in the air, seeming to free them all. It also kick started her own senses, because she forced a smile onto her face.

"Would you like a drink?" she asked Jimmy's mother, although the question was directed at his father as well, "If you take a seat on the couch I'll put the dinner in and get you one." She was trying to force herself to act as normal as possible, trying not to let her smile seem false.

In the kitchen, she rested her head against the fridge, trying to find some sort of control, scrabbling for it. "I am going to kill them when they come down," she muttered when she felt Jimmy step up behind her, "Both of them."

He laughed and pressed a kiss to her cheek, "It's fine, get some wine in my parents and it'll all be forgotten about."

And she hoped he would turn out to be right, because she didn't need his parents' acceptance, but she wanted it. She didn't want them to think that her family was completely fucked up – even if it was – because she didn't want Jimmy to have any real excuse to leave. Of course he would leave, probably, eventually.

Her luck didn't seem to want to hold out though as there was a crash, two bodies flying down the stairs. There was the painful sound of flesh hitting flesh and she watched as Mickey picked Ian up and flung him into the back of the sofa. There was no holding back, no restraint, it was like they hated each other, not like they'd been fucking only minutes ago.

Both of them scrambled for control, Ian catching Mickey under the jaw with his fist and jumping on him trying to pin him, except Mickey was still a Milkovich and he refused to go down. He flipped them, slamming Ian hard into the floor and they could all hear the sounds of the air leaving Ian's lungs in one loud, solid whoosh.

And then she couldn't tell when the fighting stopped and the kissing began. The two just seemed to blend so seamlessly into each other. Mickey had Ian pinned with his body and a hand around his throat. And she would have been concerned if Ian's legs hadn't been wrapped around the older boy's thighs, if his hands hadn't been in Mickey's hair, pulling him closer.

Fiona could see the marks on both of their bodies that hadn't been there that morning. Like the line of hickeys along Mickey's spine, or the bloodstained bite on his shoulder, the scratches down his back. And when they rolled so that Ian pinned Mickey to the floor with strength that surprised her, she could see the perfectly formed handprints on his waist, the bite under his jaw and another on his neck.

And even now, in front of everyone, as they writhed on the floor, she could see them marking each other, their touch bruising and painful, possessive. She could see blood staining their lips as they kissed like they were trying to devour each other, but neither of them seemed to really care.

"Oh God, my eyes," Lip shouted as he walked back into the room and saw them there on the floor. He promptly walked back out again, no doubt to follow up on his intentions to drink bleach this time.

Chapter Text

Mickey felt like marking his territory when he saw Lloyd. He felt like doing something stupid, making Ian undoubtedly his right there on the floor, in front of all of them, just to prove something. It didn't help matters either that Ian was hardly dressed and Mickey thought it was stupid how fiercely the possessiveness curled in his gut, but he couldn't change it.

He rolled them again, jerked Ian to his feet and nipping at his bottom lip again before stepping away. He stared at Lloyd, dared him to say something, anything, to so much as look at Ian, but the guy seemed to have gotten the message loud and clear in the bathroom of that hotel restaurant. He wasn't ever going to get what was Mickey's, not ever again. Nobody was going to.

He saw the blush spread across Ian's cheeks, contrasting so horribly with his hair that it was fucking hot and it pissed Mickey off that other people got to see that. He shouldered Ian towards the stairs again.

"Well that was embarrassing," Ian muttered, his cheeks still red and it made Mickey want to kiss him. But he didn't. "Do you think they heard us before?"

Mickey raised his eyebrows. "Heard you, you mean, I wasn't the one screaming," he replied, "And who the fuck gives a shit if they heard us?" Mickey certainly didn't, it was just another way they'd all be sure who Ian belonged to.

Ian put on a smart button down that probably matched the mood of the evening, but Mickey had already dressed up once for the fuckers downstairs and he wasn't doing it again. So he put on a semi-clean tank top, knowing the bruises on his throat and the bite on his shoulder were all clearly visible and really not giving a shit.

He wondered for a minute what Ian would think of him all dressed up in that fucking suit Jimmy had bought him. He could imagine fucking Ian in the bathroom of some fancy restaurant, his hand over his mouth to keep him from screaming, or the other way around, Mickey really wouldn't care.

"Yeah, but it's embarrassing if they did," Ian insisted, "Not everybody can have your fuck them all attitude."

Mickey shrugged, "Well you should, it makes life easier."

And it really did. For him at least. Then you got some stupid redhead with a shit eating grin waltzing into your life wielding a crowbar of all things and everything just got fucked up and ever rule you'd ever created got a little fuzzy around the edges.

Ian just rolled his eyes and Mickey couldn't take the way he was looking at him so he walked out of the room, almost crashing into the person coming out the bathroom. And he didn't even think, he didn't care to, he just acted.

There was a bang as he picked Lloyd up by the front of his stupidly smart little outfit and slammed him against the wall. "You know, it's like you actually want me to tear your eyeballs out and replace them with your bollocks," he snarled into the older man's face, "Or do you just suffer from a short fucking memory or something."

Lloyd had gone limp in his grip, not fighting back at all, which Mickey thought was just pathetic.

"Relax, you've already staked your claim loud and clear," he said, gritting it out through his teeth and Mickey thought that if this hurt the fucker, he was going to be screwed if Mickey ever set out to hurt him, "I just came up to use the bathroom."

Mickey scowled at him, not sure whether or not he actually believed it.

"I already told you," Lloyd ground out, "It was a good fuck, but not worth getting on your bad side over, I'm not going to try anything."

Still scowling, Mickey let go of the front of his shirt.

"And I heard that you really weren't lying about that bottoming thing," he commented, smoothing out his shirt in a way that was really, completely, totally gay and something Mickey would never do.

He smirked, "Nope."

"What the hell happened to your face anyway?" he asked, motioning to Mickey's bruised cheekbone.

"What the fuck's wrong with yours?" Mickey snapped before he realised that the guy had actually meant that in a friendly sort of way. He pushed his tongue into the corner of his mouth and shrugged, because he wasn't going to apologise, "Had a bit of a disagreement with someone's fist."

Lloyd winced and Mickey decided that, yeah, the guy was definitely a pussy.

"And apparently they didn't like the fact you were breathing," he commented, looking at Mickey's throat.

"You could say that," Mickey muttered, rubbing a hand through his hair, "You learn to fucking deal with it when you grow up around here though."

He smirked, "Is that why it sounds like you fuck like you fight?"

Mickey rubbed a finger across his bottom lip, "Wouldn't you like to fucking know."

It wasn't a question, but Lloyd answered it anyway, "Not particularly, you would no doubt do something horribly painful to me in retribution."

The ex-con smirked, because he had that right. "Probably," he muttered, "Just ask your son about my skills with a baseball bat." Although no doubt, Jimmy would turn a little green during the process.

"What the hell was that?" Ian asked, shoving Mickey once the old man had gone back downstairs, "Did he tell you about me and him?"

Mickey snorted, not liking the jealousy that spiked up inside of his stomach again. "He didn't have to, it was pretty fucking obvious by his expression when we were talking about you," Mickey couldn't help but sneer, "And seriously, Gallagher, what the fuck is it with you and old, married men?"

Ian pulled a face, "Well I didn't know he was married at the time, did I?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know?"

He smiled and the expression was so stupid Mickey wanted to hit him. "Aww Mick, are you jealous?" he was the only one stupid enough to poke and prod Mickey when he could see that he was pissed off.

"Shut the fuck up," he sneered, shoving Ian back because he didn't like the expression on the redhead's face, "I don't get fucking jealous."

And he hated that Ian smirked at that statement, like he knew Mickey was lying, like he could see straight through him. Maybe he could. Who the fuck knew anymore? Because Mickey certainly didn't.

He chewed on his bottom lip as he scowled at him.

"Jealousy actually kind of suits you, you know," he said, because Ian was the type to dig his own grave like that. He stepped closer and backed Mickey up against the wall, pressing his body against Mickey's so lightly that the touch was barely there. He leant in closer and Mickey could feel his breath, he could taste it. "But you don't have anything to be jealous about," he said, flicking his tongue out to touch Mickey's chewed up bottom lip, making the ex-con shiver.

He couldn't stand the way Gallagher was just sort of hovering in front of him, like he was ready to take off any minute, so he grabbed a hold of his hips and jerked him roughly towards him, slamming their bodies together.

The gasp that stuttered out of Ian's chest made him feel better, which was fucking stupid, but that was how it went. "Not if he likes eating solid food I don't," Mickey said roughly, his voice suddenly lower, a smirk lingering on his face as Ian pressed his forearms against the wall either side of his head.

Ian smiled and it wasn't that shit eating grin that Mickey had expected, it was that private one that only usually ever appeared after they'd fucked. The one Mickey couldn't quite make sense of. "What did he mean when he said that you'd already staked your claim?" Ian asked, dragging his lips up the side of Mickey's neck, but pulling back in time to see the splash of red rise across his cheekbones.

Mickey didn't want to tell him. He didn't want to admit to the weakness he'd had, to the jealousy. But what was the point in denying what Ian already knew? Mickey always told himself that he didn't do anything that was unnecessary and lying now would be unnecessary.

"Fiona made me come to one of those dinner things," he said, trying to sound flippant, uncaring, like none of what he was saying mattered one bit, "And I may have made it pretty clear that you were mine."

He expected Ian to say something, to yell at him, to say that he didn't belong to Mickey even though they both knew that he did. But Ian just looked at him through his lashes, his smile slowly turning into a sexy sort of smirk. "You went to dinner with them?" he asked.

Mickey frowned, "What are you fucking deaf? That's what I just said."

Ian's smirk only grew, "In a restaurant."

"Yeah," Mickey said, his tone getting snappy because he didn't understand and he didn't like not understanding.

"Did you wear a suit?"

Mickey scowled. Of course, Gallagher would pick that piece of information up out of the entire conversation, the fact Mickey would have had to have looked smart. "Fuck off, like I'm telling you," he said, shoving at Ian's chest. Except from the position he was in, he couldn't get the leverage.

He stayed pinned against that wall, with Ian's cocky expression all he could see.

"You did, didn't you?" Ian said, his tongue darting out to touch Mickey's bottom lip again, which was just annoying and infuriating for reasons Mickey couldn't even begin to work out.

Mickey still didn't say anything.

"I'd like to see you in a suit," he muttered in the ex-con's hear, biting the lobe gently.

"Too bad," Mickey snapped, "Because I ain't ever fucking wearing it again."

Ian chuckled, which was not the reaction Mickey was supposed to get. "I bet I could make you," the redhead said softly, sounding so confident that Mickey grabbed his hips and gripped hard again, just in a sort of retribution that probably didn't really have all that much effect.

Especially not since Ian moaned slightly when he did it, and it was definitely not a moan of pain.

The worst part was that he knew Ian probably could make him as well; and Mickey had always thought nobody could make him do anything. "I still want you to say it," Ian muttered in his ear, the feel of his breath making Mickey shudder.

"Too fucking bad, because I'm not going to," Mickey retorted, wanting to push Ian away but instead pulling him closer.

Ian rolled his eyes and kissed him. And it was a proper kiss, all tongues and teeth and rolling along the wall, slamming each other into it with each turn as they tried to one-up each other. As they both tried to be in control.

Mickey only said it later, when he'd officially moved off the couch and into Ian's bed without anybody even thinking it was ever going to be to the contrary. He said it when Lip was murmuring in his sleep, when Carl's snores could drown out his words. He said it when Ian was curled against him, his leg thrown over both of Mickey's thighs, like some sort of retarded monkey. He said it because it confused him that he didn't mind Ian being as clingy as fuck, he said it because he wanted to, because Ian didn't expect him to.

He said it and then kissed Ian to stop him saying it back.

Because Mickey didn't need to hear what he already knew. He just didn't.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

He hadn't even told Mickey because he was a sneaky bastard like that.

He'd just gone right ahead and done it anyway. At the time he hadn't thought it was strange that Ian had made him be the top, that he'd put a condom on him even though they didn't use them anymore. He'd obviously planned it, obviously had it all thought out, but he hadn't asked Mickey, because he knew Mickey would have said no.

Gallagher had always been saying that he felt bad for leaving Mickey all alone when he went on tour, but Mickey had never thought anything of it. He'd certainly never thought the redhaired little shit would talk to Fiona, get Fiona to agree to the whole fucking plan and then get Fiona pregnant with that condom full of jizz he'd managed to tie off and pocket while Mickey was too relaxed to notice.

And how had he told Mickey what he'd done? In a letter, while he was all the way on the other side of the fucking world. That's how he'd let him know, because he was too much of a coward to tell Mickey himself. Because he knew Mickey would hit him.

Mickey had never known how to feel about it, had never openly felt anything, not even when Fiona had dragged him to the scans or pressed his hand against her swollen belly to feel a kick. But when he was alone at night in the bed that Ian was supposed to share with him, in the apartment Mickey lived in mostly alone, he'd get out that picture of the scan, of the baby that didn't even look like a baby and he'd put it on the side of the bed where Ian should have been.

When Ian came home that time, when Fiona was about fit to burst, already nine months along, Mickey had gone to the airport to pick him up. He'd been surrounded by sobbing women running at the soldiers that walked through the barriers and he'd gritted his teeth to try and stop himself bolting. And then he saw his soldier, his Gallagher, looking as hot as hell in his smart uniform. His hair was shorter than Mickey remembered it and he had more muscle on him, but his shit eating grin wasn't exactly the same.

With everybody watching, not even caring that everybody was watching, right in the middle of the airport Mickey had punched the fucker in the face. "I fucking hate you," he snarled at him, grabbing the front of his shirt and hauling him back upright before he could topple onto the floor. Then he crushed their mouths together in a kiss that was brutal and bruising and everything Mickey had been craving since Ian had left. It made him feel better that he could taste Ian's blood on his tongue when they kissed.

Mickey was past the stares directed at them when they pulled apart, he didn't care about them anymore. Although this time, he didn't know whether they were because of the kiss or the punch. Probably both.

"You ever pull any shit like that ever again, I will cut you while you sleep, I swear to God," he said, scowling up at Ian, hating that he was taller than him, even though he sort of liked it as well.

That shit eating grin was back and Ian reached out and tugged Mickey closer again by the front of his shirt, "I missed you too, Mick." Because of course, Ian knew Mickey wasn't really all that pissed about it. He knew even if Mickey was, he'd get over it. Because he knew Mickey.

And that was the reason Mickey bit him when they next kissed.

Ian was there for the birth, but he got re-deployed a week afterwards. He made Mickey promise to send him pictures every day, pictures of their little girl. And Mickey did, because he was determined to capture every single moment of the kid's life, so that Ian wouldn't ever feel like he was missing out on anything. Parenthood made Mickey sort of gay like that.

They'd named her Macey for no reason other than Ian wanted her name to end in y and it was the only thing they could really think of. She was pale and beautiful, with Mickey's blue eyes and hair that he would imagine had a hint of red. Maybe it did. Maybe only in some lights, but still there.

She was small and delicate and Mickey would kill for her. He'd known that the moment he'd first laid eyes on her. She was small and she was delicate and she was his. She may have had the last name Gallagher because Mickey didn't want his family to have any bit of his daughter, but she was still his.

His favourite memory had used to be the first time him and Ian had kissed while fucking face to face. But now it was the memory of Ian and Macey curled up asleep in the same armchair in the corner of the living room, both of their mouths open in the same dopey expression as they slept. Parenthood had definitely made Mickey more gay, but he was still the stronger one out of him and Ian. He hadn't cried when Macey had been born, no he'd just bitten his lip so hard he drew blood.

Macey grew up with one Dad everyone feared and another one that was hardly ever there. But she was never alone, she was never lacking in the family department. Gallaghers were in and out of their apartment constantly, they babysat when Mickey had work and even when he didn't. And Mandy had come to forget that a locked door sometimes meant that you shouldn't just waltz in.

Mickey pretended it all pissed him off, but it didn't really.

Their little girl was six when Ian finished his tour and promised not to extend it. He promised to be done, promised to come home and not just be the Daddy that was away shooting people with the army. He promised to not make Mickey go celibate for months, or to raise a kid on his own or to be so completely un-Mickey like that he sometimes didn't recognise himself when he looked in the mirror.

And it wasn't such a bad thing sometimes he supposed.

They stood waiting at the airport, Macey dressed up, because she thought that if she looked pretty her other Daddy would stay longer. It didn't matter how many times Mickey told her that Ian was back for good this time, she wouldn't believe him. And why should she? Mickey didn't really believe himself either. Mickey wasn't dressed up nice, his jeans were ripped and his shirt wasn't clean and he had a layer of dirt on his skin that always seemed to be there. But Ian wouldn't care, Ian wouldn't even notice.

The scene was as cheesy as fuck. Mickey knew that and he hated it as much as he sort of liked it.

People, women, were already standing around and crying even though their husbands or partners or whatever hadn't even walked out yet. There were children Macey's age and younger and older, clinging to their mothers. But Macey was just like Mickey in this respect. She was standing there, her hair definitely reddish in this light, her blue eyes locked on the place where Ian would come through and her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her dress. They probably looked like two of a kind standing there, neither crying and neither were probably going to. They weren't like that.

Squeals and shouts went up all around them as people came through and were hugged and kissed, but they did nothing. They just waited, unmoving aside from the occasional fidget as Macey swished her dress and Mickey rubbed her thumb across his bottom lip. They waited as person after person, all in uniform walked through and were greeted, they waited until Mickey started to get twitchy and Macey was giving him worried glances.

And then there he was, red hair standing out like a beacon.

He grinned when he saw them, caught the little girl that silently launched herself at him, arms wrapped around his neck hard enough to choke the air out of his lungs, her face pressed into cheek like she was determined to memorise his scent. Because like Mickey, she didn't completely believe this was real.

People were watching, they were thinking how cute the scene was, Mickey could see it on their faces. He wondered how cute they'd think it was in a minute. "Just so you know," he said, staring at Ian almost venomously, "If you even think about leaving again, I'll rip your tongue out your head, understand me?"

Ian grinned that shit eating grin that Mickey not-so-secretly loved, which only got bigger when Macey leant in and whispered to him, "He meant to say I miss you." She probably meant to whisper it, but she was like a Milkovich in that she'd never really seemed to master the whole subtly thing. The kid – sort of like Mickey – was about as subtle as a brick to the face.

Close to them, a couple laughed and Ian smirked at the soldier, "Told you he was charming, didn't I?"

And Mickey punched him for that one, because he hated how much he liked the idea of Ian talking about him. Of not being ashamed of him. Ian put Macey down – who didn't seem to care in the slightest – so that he could wrap his hands around the back of Mickey's neck, digging his fingers into Mickey's skin and kissed him.

Mickey didn't know why, but he thought it was sort of amusing that even though they'd aged; even though Ian had gone and come back from war and even though they had a child standing beside them idly rooting through the bag Ian had brought, not bothered in the slightest that her two dads were making out like teenagers, they still hadn't calmed down at all. Not when it came to each other. Each kiss was still brutal, challenging and bloody, it was a statement of ownership, it was a claiming and that would probably never change. It was still all tongues and teeth and slithers of pain as they bit each other's lips.

But it was familiar in a way that it had never used to be.

When Ian slid his fingers down Mickey's spine to press against the small of his back, he knew it was because it made Mickey subtly press his hips forwards. When Mickey put his fingers against Ian's collarbone, they both knew it was because there was a scar shining there where Mickey had bitten him a little too hard that one time. When Ian clamped his hand down on Mickey's thigh, they both knew he was seeking out the small faded scar there from when Kash had shot him.

They were both reeling through an endless fall, each movement seeming pointless, aimless to the rest of the world, but contained so much reason for both of them.

"Daddy, what are these?"

It was Macey that made them pull apart, who held up the little box with the two matching silver rings in. And Ian blushed while Mickey scowled and wondered how long he'd been carrying those around for.

"How fucking gay can you get, Gallagher?" he asked, looking at the redhead incredulously, "Are you actually fucking serious?"

It didn't matter that they had a kid standing right next to them, their kid. Mickey would swear as much as he wanted.

Ian chewed his bottom lip and looked up at Mickey through his lashes in the way he knew made Mickey want to give him everything that he had. "So it that a yes then?" he asked, blinking a few times just to add the full effect, because he was a sneaky bastard like that.

"You'd only find some bloody way of making it happen anyway without me even knowing," Mickey muttered, because Mickey didn't do yes or no answers, he didn't want to sound that gay, but he still had to answer.

And Ian grinned because he knew that that was Mickey talk for yes.

Mickey took the box off Macey before Ian could and put his own ring on his own finger before handing the other one to Ian. Because this was already gay enough without Ian trying to make it all romantic or some bullshit like that.

"Can we go now, Firecrotch?" he asked, taking Macey's hand, feeling her playing with the ring that was now on his finger, "Or do you want to stand here all fucking day?"

And it would have phased anybody else, but because he was Ian, he just grinned and pressed a kiss to Mickey's cheek before the ex-con could jerk away. "Love you too, Mick," he said, sliding his hand through Macey's other one and swinging her between them.

As she laughed, Mickey glanced sideways at Ian and even he couldn't help but smile. "Yeah whatever," he muttered, "Anything else you wanna fucking spring on me?" He raised his eyebrows in a clear challenge, daring him.

Ian shrugged, "Well, I was thinking of knocking up your sister actually, she already said yes."

Mickey didn't even care that Macey was standing there watching, he punched the redhead that for some reason he couldn't live without, straight in the face. He just picked Macey up and carried on walking when Ian hit the floor. "Daddy fell over," she said, giggling in his ear and pointing over his shoulder.

He couldn't help but smile as he shifted his hold on her, "Yeah, he does that." Mickey couldn't help but imagine what a little Ian would be like, another person with reddish hair, a shit eating grin and wide eyes you couldn't say no to. Mickey wouldn't admit it, but he wouldn't actually mind that.

Not really.