Chapter Text
Canaryville, Chicago, IL.
12:59:27 PM
It’s been fifty-one minutes since his brother threw open the curtains and shoved open his bedroom window, warning him about the cops downstairs. Forty-seven minutes since he climbed out of the window and didn’t look back, and twenty-two minutes since he hung up with Mickey, out of breath and excited - and a little bit terrified, if he’s completely fucking honest; but he knew going into this that if he wanted the thrill, that he was going to have to accept the sliver of fear that was bound to come with it. Part of the thrill of anything is knowing that at any second all of it can be ripped away from you in as little time as it takes to blink, that everything could go wrong before you ever get the chance to let your blood settle.
For most of his life, Ian has always been fit, save for the brief period when he’d first started taking his meds and the last thing he wanted to do was get out of bed, but all of that feels like ages ago now. He’s come a long way, sorted out both his head and his health to the best of his abilities, but even with all of his army training under his belt, even with all of his five mile runs at 6AM, the unexpectedness of the morning and the realization that he doesn’t actually have a plan in place is enough to slow Ian’s jog down to a brisk walk, breathing in deep through his nose as his lungs burn for more oxygen.
The Chicago air is crisp and cold and void of the sound of sirens (for now), and Ian glances back over his shoulder for a moment just to make sure he’s not being tailed. He reaches back to pull the hood on his jacket up, tucking his hair up into it as best as he can with a couple pushes of his fingers, and then adjusts the strap of his backpack, his feet carrying him blindly, keeping him moving even without a solid destination in mind.
“Shit,” he breathes, patting his jacket pockets down for the pack of cigarettes he didn’t think to grab in his rush to get out of the house.
Last night he’d had a plan - or the semblance of one at the very least - rough and filled with little holes that he’d have to fix or work around later, but it had been enough to get him out of bed and quietly packing a bag in the late hours of the night, his conversation with Lip from a few hours earlier playing over and over in his head.
“You ever think of Mandy? [...] I mean - do you ever regret letting her go?” “Every damn day. [...] I loved her. By the time I realized how much, it was already too late. But I think she loved me too, you know? Really, truly, loved me. ... If there’s one thing I regret, it’s letting her go.”
It was all Ian had needed to realize that he’d made a mistake, that leaving Mickey at the border was possibly one of the worst decisions he’d ever made. Fiona had told him that getting involved with Mickey again would set a match to all of his progress, but in the history of fires that made up a good portion of Ian’s life, Mickey had always been the one to put them out, or at the very least, burn himself trying, even if his motivations and his methods for protecting Ian were sometimes a little unclear at the time. If the water sometimes seemed like gasoline instead, it’s only because nobody ever looked hard enough or stayed long enough to watch the flames flicker out, and Mickey was the last person to blame for everyone else’s inability to see his actions for what they really were, far beyond the surface.
Ian had decided, then, in the middle of the night after everyone had gone to bed, that playing with fire was infinitely better than feeling burned out. If Mickey was a match like Fiona had said, then Ian was a torch set to burn for the rest of his life.
“Okay,” Ian breathes, a low whisper ghosting past his lips as he glances over his shoulder again, taking a sharp left without really thinking too much about where his feet are taking him. His brain is too jumbled, too scattered to focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds, but he knows he has to keep moving, keep going, keep thinking. “Fuck.”
All of this seemed so much easier last night when he was laying in bed staring up at the ceiling, a bag packed and ready to go for the morning, but Ian should have known better than to think for even a second that happiness was something that had ever or would ever come easy for a Gallagher. In all of their years combined, nothing had ever come easy. Nothing was ever as simple or a lucky as it seemed, and if it wasn’t Frank or Monica sweeping in like a hurricane to twist everything around and turn their lives upside down, then they usually took care of the destruction themselves. Usually, without even trying.
Before he knows it, Ian finds himself climbing the steps up to the El, sliding his Ventra card back into his wallet and then tucking the billfold into his back pocket. He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder again and sniffs quietly, trying to appear a lot more relaxed than he actually feels. He keeps his head tilted down and his hood up, and when the train finally pulls into the station a minute or two later (thank god), he steps on and tucks himself in towards the back of the car, sliding his wrist through one of the worn straps hanging from the handrail above him.
As the train starts to pull away from the station, Ian shoves his hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers closing tightly around his phone. It’s been less than an hour since he ended his phone call with Mickey, but already things are starting to feel… uncertain. He feels unsteady and conflicted where he felt confident just the night before, and the sudden switch makes him feel anxious and nervous and, frankly, kind of at a loss for what to do.
Ian stares down at the phone in his hand, the flesh of his cheek caught between the edges of his teeth. He breathes out through his nose, then unlocks the screen with a single swipe of his thumb, tapping the contacts and scrolling through the short list of names until he reaches the ‘M’s. There are only four names listed. He touches the second name from the top, and then brings the phone to his ear, his eyes downcast and focused on the fraying laces of his boots.
It rings once.
Twice, three times.
On the fourth ring, Ian swallows, ready to hang up before the call can go to voicemail--
“Your ass better be calling to tell me you’re sorry, ‘cause if you’re not, you need to hang up and try again.”
Ian blinks slowly, relief and confusion washing over him all at once. He turns slightly, curling his shoulder in toward the window and away from the rest of the train’s passengers, attempting to create a little bubble of privacy despite the fact that literally no one on the train cares enough to pay him any attention beyond a passing glance.
“I’m… sorry?” he murmurs into the phone, his brow furrowing slightly. His tone sounds less apologetic, and more like he’s grasping for some sort of clue about what he’s supposed to be sorry for. He wets his lips, but before he can ask, he’s interrupted.
“You little shit. When were you going to tell me? Were you going to tell me? Or were you just going to pretend I’d never-,”
“Mandy,” Ian interjects once it clicks, his voice quiet but sharp. “Mandy, hey - I’m sorry, okay? The whole thing was - it was a mess.”
Truth be told, Mandy hadn’t crossed his mind when he’d made the decision to go with Mickey the first time. When he’d thought about everything and everyone he’d be leaving behind after he’d tossed his backpack through the Jeep’s window, he didn’t think of her. It wasn’t until he and Mickey were laying underneath the train tracks in the middle of the night in God knows what state, Mickey pouring out his feelings the way Ian had always wanted him to when they were younger, that he’d thought of her at all.
He’d felt guilty, then, for not having said goodbye to her, when things had been more certain, when he’d been more certain that he was never coming back. It was strange to think he’d felt worse about leaving her behind without so much as a ‘see ya’ than he felt about leaving his own family behind at the time, but what struck him the most was that Mickey had been able to write her off as someone who didn’t give a shit about him, lumping her in with the rest of the Milkoviches when Ian knew better. He had wondered, briefly, if maybe Mickey was still learning about love and the ways it presented itself in all its different forms.
“ Ian. ”
Ian swallows, realizing he hasn’t been listening to a word Mandy’s been saying to him. He wets his lips again, glancing up to look out the window for a moment before his gaze falls back to his boots.
“Yeah. Yeah, sorry, I’m here. Listen, are - are you at home? I, um.” He pauses, suddenly feeling vulnerable in a way that he hasn’t in a long time. “I need to see you.”
Mandy’s quiet for a moment, save for the sound of her breathing. Ian can already feel the shift of her mood from angry to concerned, and he steels himself for the question he knows is coming, the question everybody asks when he shows any kind of unexpected emotion anymore.
“... Okay,” she says, her tone much gentler than it was just a minute ago. “Yeah. I’m home,” she continues, and he can hear the question, feel the weight of it sitting on her tongue. “Are you okay?”
It’s not as bad as he expects, and he’s glad for it. She doesn’t jump right to the conclusion of his disorder, at least not in a way that’s so blindingly obvious, not the way his family does every time he does or says something with a little more enthusiasm than they expect from him these days. Suddenly, Ian feels a little more at ease, even if the relief is minimal. He does, however, suddenly wonder how much she knows.
“Yeah. I’m okay, I’m - fine,” he says, and for the most part, he means it. He scratches near the edge of his hood over his brow, twisting himself back around and effectively bursting his little bubble of privacy. “We can talk when I get there.”
With a quick goodbye, Ian hangs up, his thumb tapping the little red circle a few times to end the call. Before he can put his phone away, it vibrates twice in his hand. Two banner notifications scroll up to the center of the screen, one right on top of the other.
MANDY MILKOVICH
Kicked Iggy out for a while, so it’s just me. 1:37 PM
CARL GALLAGHER
U better mail me some tequila w/ a snake in it or I’m gonna tell the cops ur getting ur dick wet in Tijuana. 1:37 PM
Ian huffs a quiet breath through his nose, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. His phone vibrates a third time.
CARL GALLAGHER
Is it still called getting ur dick wet if it’s gay? jw. Snake tequila. 4 real. 1:38 PM
He leaves the message unanswered, tucking his phone back into his jacket pocket and making a point to not make eye-contact with anyone in the same train compartment for fear of being recognized. For the most part, Ian’s meds have done a pretty decent job of keeping his paranoia in check for a while now, but he can feel it creeping up his spine like fingertips ghosting over every vertebrae, climbing higher and higher toward his shoulders, closer and closer to the back of his mind.
When the El slows to a stop in the station, Ian untangles his hand from the strap above his head and shoulders his way out onto the platform, reaching up with the same hand to curl his fingers around the strap of his bag. He doesn’t linger, heading for the stairs that’ll lead him back out onto the street.
The last time Ian saw Mandy feels like ages ago, when she’d hugged him goodbye after spending the night, reminding him that a person’s birthplace isn’t always the same place a person calls home. There’s a small part of him that feels guilty for not having made a point to see her more after that, but he’d always been sure to send her the occasional text to check in or catch up or ask for hypothetical advice that was never very hypothetical at all.
Since then, she’d quit her job as an escort - after being abused by a client resulting in her killing him in self defense, Ian didn’t blame her - giving up the small apartment the agency had provided and leaving her with no option but to move back into her old house until she could figure something else out. That had been six months ago, and Ian hadn’t been over to see her even once, making up excuses on the rare occasion that she extended the invitation for him to come hang out so he wouldn’t have to face all the memories and the feelings about a boy he’d tried his best not to think about for over a year.
But that was then. That was before Mickey had looked at him from under the high school bleachers like it was the first time he’d ever seen the sun. That was before he’d felt Mickey’s fingers pulling at the collar of his jacket, before he’d met him in the dark by the docks and let Mickey breathe the life back into him, before he’d pressed his nose in between Mickey’s shoulders and breathed in deep, holding him a little tighter in the back of the van. That was before Oklahoma and Texas and almost-Mexico, and before Ian had made the biggest mistake of his life.
Finding his way from the El to the Milkovich house is as easy as finding his way home, because at one point it was his home. Ian doesn’t even really have to think about it, letting his feet carry him where he needs to go until he finds himself standing just outside of the chain-link fence framing the poor excuse of a front yard. The house looks almost exactly the same - dull and cold and full of memories Ian hasn’t touched in far too long.
The fence squeaks bloody murder as he pushes it open, the hinges rough and tainted with rust. Ian wrinkles his nose at the sound and tries not to think of the last time he walked up these old, rickety steps. The vibration of his phone in his pocket has him stopping just short of the last stair and he tugs it out of his coat, thumbing the home button to light up the screen.
MASTER CHIEF
1 Photo Attachment 2:02 PM
It had taken Mickey a little over two days to text Ian after they’d parted ways at the border, which was honestly a lot sooner than Ian had ever expected to hear from him. After watching his heart break for the umpteenth time and knowing that, like almost every other time Mickey had had his heart broken, he was responsible for this last time, too - well, it would not have surprised him if he’d never heard from Mickey again.
Ian hadn’t had to ask who was at the other end of the ‘ new number, firecrotch ’, because nobody else addressed him by that nickname - nobody dared to. Ian had saved the number under a false name just to be safe, settling on something that went way back to the days when he was still growing into his limbs and Mickey thought he was some kind of legendary Halo master (he wasn’t).
Chewing at the inside of his cheek, Ian takes a moment to open the message, met with a poorly lit picture of the inside of a shitty motel room. His brows furrow and he drags his thumbs to the opposite corners of the screen, enlarging the photo a little bit to see if there’s something he’s supposed to be noticing, a little detail Mickey would expect him to pick up on. Out of the garish red-orange shag carpet (was it originally red and it’s faded over time and traffic, or did someone purposely choose that color?), the eyesore of a red and pink bed spread, and the nightstand that looks like it’s seen better days, Ian can’t find anything particularly out of the ordinary. Certainly nothing worth sending a picture of.
Just as he taps the text area to reply, another message comes through.
MASTER CHIEF
Gettin the fuck outa this shit hole.
Lamp hsn’t wrkd since I chked in a wk ago.
How fuckin hrd is it 2 get Consuela 2 chnge a goddamn bulb? 2:02 PM
Ian smiles to himself a little and taps out a quick response ( you afraid of the dark now? ) before pocketing his phone and climbing the rest of the way up the stairs. He doesn’t even get a chance to knock before Mandy pulls the door open, nearly colliding with him as she steps out, her expression tense before it quickly smooths into something a little less intimidating.
Mandy blinks up at him, a little startled at first, but then she smiles. It’s small, but it’s genuine and Ian doesn’t even hesitate to step forward the moment she lifts her arms to hug him.
“Hey, asshole,” she says affectionately, murmuring into his shoulder. Ian sighs quietly, his cheek pressed against the side of her head. He smiles faintly, lifting her up off her feet for a moment.
“Ouch. I may or may not deserve that,” he answers as he puts her down, loosening his hold on her and letting the insult roll off of him like water. Mandy just tilts her head slightly, gesturing for him to come inside, forgetting that she’d been on a ridiculous mission to find a lighter somewhere in or around the house.
Ian follows her in, lingering just inside the door for a moment as he takes everything in. Despite all the time that’s passed, the house hasn’t really changed much. It’s still messy, but it smells less of stale beer and dirty laundry and Ian doesn’t have to wonder if maybe that’s because Terry hasn’t been around for a long time now. Ian wills himself to move, to follow Mandy, and when he passes the hallway that leads to Mickey’s old room, he can’t help but glance toward the cardboard sign that’s still taped to the door, the bold, scratchy ‘STAY THE FUCK OUT’ still warning people to do just that.
Mandy’s standing by the stove, pressing the end of a cigarette to one of the burners when Ian steps into the kitchen. He lingers in the archway, letting his backpack slide down from his shoulder so he can set it on the floor. Mandy eyes him suspiciously for a moment, but chooses not to ask him about it for now because she’s got her own slew of questions to sling at him. She turns one of the dials on the stove a little more, hiking up the heat in the hopes of lighting her cigarette a little faster.
“Well,” she says, not looking at him. The burner suddenly flares a bright red and a thin wisp of smoke curls up from the point where paper meets hot metal, and Mandy turns the dial until it clicks off. She brings the cigarette to her lips, turning to lean her back against the edge of the counter with one arm crossed over her chest. She eyes Ian for a moment, taking a long drag and blowing out a lungful of smoke. “Were you going to tell me?”
Ian’s not sure what to say. He’s not sure what she’s asking , if he’s entirely honest. He leans his shoulder against the archway, forcing himself not to look away as if he has something to be guilty of. “About…?”
Mandy huffs, her eyes narrowing at him for a moment like she’s disgusted. Maybe it’s just disappointment - it’s hard to tell, but it eats at Ian either way.
“Oh, don’t. My dumbass brother breaks out of prison and you expect me to believe you’re not the first person he contacted? The first and the only , I’m guessing, since the asshole couldn’t even come say bye to his fucking sister,” she spits, but the venom in her tone quickly dissipates by the time she’s done.
Ian frowns, sighing heavily as he pushes away from the wall with his shoulder, taking his hands out of his jacket pockets as he steps toward her. He holds his hand out, silently asking for the cigarette. She passes it to him after a moment’s pause.
“First of all, he’s not a dumbass. Breaking out of prison was a stupid-ass move. I’ll give you that, but he’s not stupid. Stupid people don’t find their way out of prison.” Ian pauses long enough to press the cigarette between his lips, inhaling long and hard and holding the smoke in his lungs until it burns before he blows it all out. “Second of all - you ever go see him while he was locked up? How was he supposed to know you weren’t still in Indiana with Kenyatta? That’s not fair.”
“You could have told him.”
“... Okay. That’s fair.”
Ian passes the cigarette back, stepping a little closer and turning himself around so he can lean against the counter next to Mandy, close enough that their arms touch. After a beat or two of silence, Ian blinks, his brows furrowing sharply.
“How - how do you know he’s not still here in Chicago? No reason to say bye if he’s still hanging around.”
Mandy laughs, closing her eyes for a moment. Ian can’t remember the last time she looked quite as beautiful. He can’t remember the last time he saw her smile. “Okay. He’s not a dumbass, but apparently you think I am. There’s no way in Hell he’d stick around and risk getting his ass caught and thrown back in the joint.”
Twisting slightly at the waist, Mandy turns to ash her cigarette into the sink, glancing back at Ian with raised brows and a knowing look in her eye.
“So,” she says, her lips pressed together thinly as she looks at him, like she’s daring him to tell her she’s wrong. “It’s either Mexico or Canada. He tell you where he was going?”
Ian stares at her for a few long moments, realizing then that she hardly knows anything. She doesn’t know about the road trip or the cops that showed up at his house less than two hours ago because they’d caught him on camera with Mickey in not one, but two places. She doesn’t know about him breaking Mickey’s heart for the hundredth time.
“Yeah,” Ian says, finally, as he pushes away from the counter, stepping towards the small, cluttered table in the middle of the kitchen. He reaches out, absently lifting the corner of an old stack of expired grocery coupons, purposely avoiding having to look at Mandy. “...We made it all the way to Mexico.”