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“Hello, boys.”
Mickey jolted upright from where he was splayed out on a makeshift table in the Kash n Grab’s cooler when he heard the voice. He knew that voice. He and Ian jumped apart and both turned to look through the open cooler door to see Frank Gallagher staring at them, smirking slightly. Mickey couldn't move, he just stared with wide eyes and an open mouth.
No. This can't be happening…
“The front door was locked,” Frank continued, looking amused, “So I came in the back, no pun intended.”
If Mickey wasn’t shaking in terror, he might have chuckled. Ian just rolled his eyes. He seemed to be taking this well for someone that was just caught sodomizing the neighborhood delinquent.
“You might want to check the locks,” Frank advised before grabbing a half-gallon of orange juice, shutting the door and walking toward the register.
Mickey and Ian both scrambled to find and pull on their clothing, taking too long since all the articles had been ripped off and tossed together in a pile in a moment of lust-driven impatience.
Frank had a bag full of items collected by the time the boys got dressed and walked out of the cooler, and he was tucking a handful of cash, no doubt from the register, into his pocket.
“Um, I see that you're preoccupied, so why don't we put this little loan on my tab?”
Mickey grit his teeth. Fucking smart ass.
“As you were, sailors,” Frank mocked the boys, saluting them before turning and walking back out the way he came.
Mickey's breathing got short, and before he knew it, he was hyperventilating.
“Mickey?” Ian asked, setting his hands on the boy's shoulders.
“Did that really just happen?” Mickey asked, and Ian pursed his lips. “We have to do something.”
“Do what?” Ian asked, leaning casually against the counter. Mickey scoffed, not understand why Ian wasn't taking this seriously.
“Anything! He's gonna spread this around town like syphilis. Everyone's gonna know.”
Ian shrugged, which pissed Mickey off.
“How can you be so calm right now?” He shouted, voice pitching higher as he got more frantic.
Ian shrugged again. “Who cares who knows? I'm comfortable with who I am.”
Mickey scoffed. “Good for you,” He said harshly, and Ian frowned when he realized what he'd said.
“Sorry.”
Mickey waved his apology away, pacing in front of the still-locked front door. He pinched his lower lip as he thought, one of his many oral tics.
“We gotta kill him,” was the solution he landed on.
“C'mon! Open up!”
“Fuck off!” Mickey yelled, flipping the bird at whoever was knocking on the door. “Look, nobody will miss Frank anyway. We shoot him in the head, we dump him in the river,” He said simply “Problem solved.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “Look, he has a lousy short-term memory; he's probably already forgotten,” he reasoned.
“Can't chance that.”
“I'll talk to him.”
“Cut his hands off, pull his teeth; he can't even be identified,” Mickey thought aloud.
“You stay here, watch the store. I'll take care of it,” Ian said, motioning for Mickey to stay put. Again, Mickey's temper flared when he realized that Ian wasn't taking him seriously.
He ripped off his security jacket, still spit-balling ideas. “My Uncle Joe works at the foundry; he'll dump the teeth into the chrome plating vat and it's done.”
Ian rolled his eyes again. “Mickey, you need this job for your probation.”
“No, what I need is to take care of Frank and his big mouth,” Mickey argued. What he needed was to not be outed to the whole town because Frank didn't understand that doors were locked for a reason. What he needed was his father to not find out that he liked taking it in the ass. What he needed was to not be beaten to death. “Stay here,” He instructed Ian. “This won't take long.”
He left quickly, feet aching as he practically stomped his way home. His idiot brothers were playing Hot Hands when he walked into the kitchen, which was exactly what he needed; more criminals with less brain cells.
“Hey. You guys got plans today?” Mickey asked as he walked in, headed straight for the fridge.
“I was gonna drop a Cialis and stroke it,” Iggy said, and Mickey groaned in disgust.
“A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would've been just fine.”
“Why? What's up?”
“I need help killing somebody,” Mickey said, popping open his beer.
“Someone we care about?” Colin asked.
“Someone nobody cares about,” He scoffed.
Iggy nodded. “Knife, gun or tire iron?”
“Gun's safest,” Mickey assumed.
Colin shook his head. “Not with today's forensics.”
“Fine, a knife,” Mickey said, exasperated. On second thought, maybe he needed more brain cells than these two had.
Colin made a sour face. “That's a lot of blood flow. One drop left behind, that's life in the joint,” He explained.
“Why don't you tell me, John Wayne Gacy?” Mickey snapped, throwing his hands in the air.
“Kidnap and strangle,” Iggy said with a smile.
“Perfect.”
The boys all walked over to what was once the pantry when their mother was alive, but now served as the catch-all for everything illegal in The Milkovich home; guns and knives, some hot, some not, weed, blow, thick stacks of dirty money, blunt objects, rope and anything else that could be used to incriminate.
“Where's your rophenol?” Iggy asked Colin as each boy grabbed a pistol.
“I ran out. That quincenera over at Jamie's. I got plenty of duct tape,” He compromised.
Mickey nodded. “Get it.”
****
Mickey barged into the Alibi Room, Colin hot on his heels. The bartender looked toward them.
“Hey, what's happening, boys?”
Mickey answered the bartender’s question with a question. “You seen Frank?”
“Frank who?”
Mickey sighed. “Don't give me ‘Frank fucking who’. How many people come in here named Frank?” He snapped.
The man behind the bar cocked an eyebrow. “Hey, don't get salty, sweetie. There's Frank Stitson,” he said, pointing to a man at a nearby table, “Substitute math teacher, loves Sudoku. There's Frank Salmon, comes in on Thursdays with his softball buddies, and there's Frank McNault, retired air traffic controller, playing pool,” He said, nodding toward the pool table in the corner.
Mickey grit his teeth. His patience was wearing thin. “Frank Gallagher.”
“Check the Rusty Hammer. They got happy hour breakfast 9 to 11. He's a bargain drinker.”
Mickey shook his head and walked back out, Colin following like a puppy.
“Where to now?” He asked.
“Gallagher house,” Mickey instructed, heading toward North Wallace. Mickey instructed Colin to wait out front while he walked up the back steps, pounding on the door.
The oldest Gallagher (he thinks her name starts with an F) opened the door, and he walked right past her.
“Frank here?” He asked, looking back and forth between her and the woman sitting at the table.
“No,” She said simply.
“When's he going to be back?” Mickey asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“For as long as I've been alive, I haven't known the answer to that question," The girl said with something akin to a smirk.
Mickey was surprised at how irritated that answer made him, for all the wrong reasons. He knew she wasn't lying, and if he had any remorse over killing Frank, it was all gone now. He was a piece of shit that disappointed, dumped on and broke his family every chance he had. He deserved to die.
“Fuck,” He swore. Mickey walked back past her, not looking back over his shoulder as he walked away.
****
“Why we killing him again?”
“He raped a girl,” Mickey lied.
“Statutory or catch and release?” Colin asked from the backseat.
Mickey turned in his seat as much as he could to give his brother a dirty look. “You think I'd give half a fuck if he was banging a teenager? He rape raped a girl.”
“Why do you give a shit anyway?”
Mickey shrugged. “You don't fucking hurt women. Even you two are smart enough to know that. We don't got a ton of morals, but we're not pieces of shit. And do you really want someone like that living a few streets away? God forbid he catches Mandy out walking alone.”
Iggy scoffed. “Please. I feel bad for the guy that lays a finger on Mandy. Remember when she broke my nose just because I said I didn't think she could?”
“Or when she kicked down the front door when we locked her out of house for fun?”
Mickey smirked as he listened to his brothers. They were right. Mandy was the least ‘damsel-y’ chick he knew.
“Fine, then. What about Gallagher’s little sister? She's only like, 12.”
“Ain't she his daughter?”
“That's not the fuckin’-” Mickey cut himself off, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Never mind. The point is that he's a fuckin’ lowlife that's gotta pay for what he's done.”
That seemed to get through to the boys, and they both nodded.
“Shit. He's locking up,” Coling said upon seeing the bartender from earlier walk out the door, locking it behind him. “No Frank.”
“Shit,” Mickey cursed, flicking his cigarette to the ground. He started the car and sped off.
****
“Where is he?”
“I have no idea,” Ian said calmly, puffing on his cigarette. Mickey grit his teeth. He wasn't in the mood for this shit right now.
“He's had 24 hours to run his mouth already. Where is he?”
Ian stood, taking one more drag from the cigarette and throwing it to the ground. “He won't.”
Mickey tried a different approach. “If my dad finds out about this, he will kill me himself.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “You're overreacting, Mickey.”
Mickey scoffed. “No, I'm not. That's the fucked up part.”
Ian went to open his mouth, until he thought through what little he knew about Terry Milkovich. He remembered the way Mickey had frozen, paralyzed with fear when his father walked through his room after they had had sex for the first time. Ian had never seen fear in Mickey's eyes before; didn't know he was capable of it. But what he saw that day was primal, uncensored terror, and it was all because Terry might figure out Mickey was gay. Ian frowned the more he thought about it.
“You're not kidding?” He asked softly.
Mickey scoffed again, glad the annoying redhead was finally catching on. “No, I'm not. You don't know what he's capable of.”
Ian grimaced. “Frank’s not gonna say anything,” He insisted, hoping that for the first time ever, Frank wouldn't let him down. He walked away. But Mickey wasn't surrendering that easily. He followed him, still talking.
“I've been to sixteen bars, the homeless shelter, shantytown under the L, your house, batty Sheila's. Where the fuck is he?” Mickey raised his voice at Ian, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around, forcing him to look him in the eye.
“I don't know!” Ian yelled.
“Bullshit!” Mickey spat back. He knew the look on Ian's face all too well. It was the look he wore when he was holding back, not giving a complete answer. Mickey looked back and forth between Ian's green-grey eyes, and the more he looked, the more livid he got.
“You warned him,” He chuckled in anger. He spun and walked away, behind the counter. “I can't believe you fuckin’ warned him,” He muttered under his breath.
“I hate him more than you do,” Ian insisted.
“Then why do you care?” Mickey snapped. “The fuck-up doesn't have a decent bone in his body. He doesn't give a shit about anyone or anything except himself! He abandoned your entire family; how can you still care if he lives or dies?”
“I don’t!” Ian spat. “I don't care about him, I care about-”
He cut himself off, and Mickey was grateful. He knew what Gallagher was about to say, and if he had said it, Mickey knew he wouldn't be able to go through with this. He had to do it; he needed to take care of Frank, but he couldn't do that until he took care of Ian. As nauseous as the idea made him, he needed to make Ian believe that he didn't care about him. He bit his tongue. He wasn't sure who this was gonna hurt more.
He shook his head and opened the register, pulling out all the twenties and tens, and most of the fives. “I ain't stealing this. This is less than what I'm owed for my hours this week. I'm done,” He said, punctuating his sentence by slamming the till shut. He looked Ian right in the eye. “Done, done,” He clarified, gesturing in turn to the store, then Ian.
Ian sighed. “Frank's walked in on Fiona and all of her boyfriends, walked in on Lip and his girls.”
“And?” Mickey snarled.
“And he didn't care. He never cares,” Ian explained. “We got nothing to be ashamed of.”
“What fucking world do you live in?” He asked, furrowing his brow. “Nothing to be ashamed of? In this neighborhood? You must be insane. Look, it doesn't matter if Frank cares or not,” Mickey explained, getting more and more annoyed that Ian wasn't understanding. “It's not about him caring! It's about him runnin’ his fuckin’ mouth and the wrong people finding out about this, about us. It's about my father and his piece of shit friends and the fucking lynch mob they'll form. It's about us being beaten to death because Frank can't keep his big mouth shut.”
Ian frowned. “You can't- you can't. I… You know... I don't want you to-” He stuttered, finally shaking the calm shell he'd been wearing.
Mickey flared his nostrils. Ian wasn't giving him a choice here. He had to hurt him, and he had to hurt him bad. It was the only way Ian would let him walk out of here. He channeled his fear, turning it into anger. “Look, what did I just say to you?” He spat, taking a step backwards to emphasize his point. “Done is done. What, you think we're boyfriend and girlfriend here? You're nothing but a warm mouth to me.”
That did it.
Ian's face immediately changed, going from concern to agony. His forehead creased and water pooled in his eyes. Mickey was impressed that he managed to keep the tears just in his eyes and off his face. It certainly took control. His lips curled into his mouth, his chin shaking just slightly, and suddenly, he looked fifteen. It was so easy for Mickey to forget how old Gallagher was. He held himself with confidence and poise, he knew exactly where he stood. He spoke well, was compassionate, and though not as stereotypically intelligent as his older brother, Ian was certainly wise. But right here, right now, on the verge of breaking down because of Mickey's own lies, Ian looked like the kid he was.
Mickey hated the look on Ian's face, hated knowing that it was his sharp words that were the cause. They left his mouth dry and tasting like absolute garbage. It was a lie, and he was shocked that Gallagher couldn't see through it. He knew him so well, how could he not tell that Mickey's words were empty? He got shot because of Ian, and yet he still was the first person Mickey saw when he got out of juvie, was out less than twelve hours before he needed to get him alone. He wouldn't still be carrying on this thing with him if the redhead didn't mean anything. Ian was important to Mickey, and he was kind of upset that the boy couldn't see it.
Mickey huffed. “Sorry I gotta go kill your dad, but I'm doing a lot of people a favor,” He said, turning and pushing open the door, “Including you,” He threw over his shoulder.
He left Ian alone in the store, in near-tears. He apologized to the boy in his head as he headed toward his house. He hoped desperately that Ian would eventually understand that he was why Mickey had to do this. If his father found out about the two of them, Mickey wouldn't be his only target. He'd kill Ian, too. Guilt by association. Mickey couldn't let Ian get hurt, especially not at the hands of his own homophobic fuck of a dad. He had to protect him, and this was the only way.
****
“Frank's at the Alibi,” Iggy announced breathlessly as he galloped into the house. Mickey smiled. The fucker probably ran the whole way home. His brothers weren't the smartest, but they were loyal.
Colin stood with Mickey, but he motioned for him to sit back down. “I got this.”
“No, we got your back,” Iggy argued.
“I know you do, but I got it.”
“I hate rapists, too,” Colin said simply.
“Okay, so get the next one.”
“We're coming,” Colin insisted.
“Grab a mask.”
The three boys all grabbed rubber Halloween masks, a la Point Break, and walked out the door single file.
Mickey sighed as they filed into the car.
“Any heat shows up, you two run,” He instructed his brothers. “I’ll still get juvie, but you two’ll be headin’ to Joliet.”
Iggy nodded. “Got it.”
Mickey parked the car across the street from the Alibi, and the three waited patiently for Frank to walk out. When he did, he was stumbling.
“Drunk as a skunk,” Iggy smiled. “Perfect.”
“Run up a couple blocks. I'm gonna come from behind. I'll catch him in an alley and get it done,” He told his brothers. They all got out of the car, and with quick nods, Iggy and Colin disappeared into separate allies.
Mickey took a deep breath to center himself. This was for the best. It had to be done. Frank couldn’t keep a secret, especially not when he was completely sloshed 22 hours of the day.
Mickey fell into step behind him, breathing heavily. He’d beaten people to the point of hospitalization, but he had never killed anyone before, and to his knowledge, neither had Iggy or Colin. The only person he knew for certain that had killed was Terry, but only one or two, and only during his prison stints.
He held the gun securely in his hand, and it grew warmer and warmer by the second. After a moment, Mickey thought it was sure to leave burns on his skin. The more he thought about what he was about to do, the slower he walked.
This was Frank Gallagher. Ian’s father. For some unknown and completely illogical reason, Ian still cared about him. Even if he denied it, Ian didn’t want him dead. But Ian didn’t understand. Mickey was doing this to protect him. If Terry knew that Ian had been the one fucking his son… Mickey stopped short at the mental picture of Ian bloodied, Mickey’s own father standing over him triumphantly. He couldn’t let that happen.
Mickey picked up his pace, determined to get it done. Right here, right now. He cocked the gun and raised it.
I don’t want you to-
Mickey jumped at the voice. It was crystal clear. Ian was inside his head, his words playing over and over like a record skipping.
I don’t want you to-
I don’t want you to-
I don’t want you to-
Mickey stopped suddenly, bracing his hands against a trash can. He shook his head to get Ian out of it, but it was too late. The irritatingly beautiful redhead had been in Mickey’s head for months, and would be until the day he died. He tried to piece together what Ian had been trying to say to him. I don’t want you to kill him, I don’t want you to get caught and go to prison, I don’t want you to be a murderer. Any one was plausible.
Mickey leaned over the trash can, suddenly feeling nauseous. The tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t do this. Trash or not, Frank was Ian’s father, and Ian cared about him. He didn’t deserve his kids. Mickey didn't give a shit about killing Frank; he deserved it, but he couldn’t hurt Ian like that. He tossed the gun into the trash can.
“Fuck,” He swore. He had to do something. Frank would blab eventually, and eventually Terry would find out. And Mickey needed protection for when he did.
As if a sign from God, a police car pulled up to the curb not ten feet from where Mickey was breaking down in his own little existential crisis. The officers got out to deal with a drunken bum, and that’s when the light bulb went on in Mickey’s head. Terry couldn’t kill Mickey if he was in a cell.
Mickey walked over to the squad car confidently. “Hey Officer,” He called, and the cop turned to look at him. “Oink, Oink!” Mickey said mockingly, pulling back and hitting him with all his might.
The cop fell to the ground, but his partner was on Mickey in less than a second, the drunk bum a forgotten memory. Mickey decided to just yield; to let the officer push him to the ground. After all, he only needed to be gone for a while, not until his 21st birthday.
“Hey, does that violate my probation?” He asked the cop with a smile.
“Shut up!” He ordered, and Mickey laughed.
As he was stood up, he saw Colin and Iggy a block away, both looking confused. He shook his head to let them know the hit was off, and they walked back to their car.
Mickey watched the familiar South Side landmarks pass by as they made their way to the police station. He smiled when they passed the Gallagher house and he saw Ian and his brother, Lip sitting on their porch passing a cigarette between them. Maybe Mickey would be outed, but if Ian kept his big mouth shut, he’d be fine.
Mickey leaned his head against the window and sighed. This was not how he had expected to spend his first weeks as a free man.
Firecrotch must be damn special to be worth all this trouble, he thought. Then he smiled, because yeah, he totally was.
****
“Milkovich! Visitor!”
Mickey groaned and hopped down from his bunk, letting himself be escorted to those stupid little booths that served as ‘private’ visiting stations. Private, his asshole.
He turned the corner, expecting Iggy or Colin, most likely Mandy.
But no. The only seat taken was taken by an incredibly pissed-off looking redhead. Incredibly pissed, but also relieved.
Mickey tried his best not to smile when he locked eyes with Ian. He wasn’t sure if he did or not, but Ian’s annoyed expression didn’t change. Mickey sat down and picked the phone up, and Ian did the same.
“Hey.”
Ian just scowled.
“Nice to see ya.”
Nothing.
“You look good.”
Nothing.
Mickey sighed. “Did you come just to glare at me?”
Nothing.
“You did. You bussed your happy ass all the way over here just to give me dirty looks through plate glass?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.
Nothing.
“All right, fuck you, man,” He said, and went to hang up his phone.
“I told you he wouldn’t say anything,” Ian said finally, and Mickey brought the phone back to his ear.
“What?”
“I told you that Frank wasn’t gonna say anything.”
Mickey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “It’s been a month and a half and he still hasn’t said anything?”
Ian shook his head. “I talked to him, like I said I would. He hasn't said a word, not about you.”
“About you?”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t care who knows. Frank can tell anyone he wants.”
“It’s not his secret to tell,” Mickey insisted angrily.
“Well, secret's out. That's living with Frank; you just have to learn to deal with it. I don’t care,” Ian repeated. “The point is that I told you he wasn’t gonna run his mouth about you, and he hasn’t, he promised me he won’t. And because you’re so fucking hard-headed, you’re stuck in here for what, nine months now?”
“Maybe only four if I behave,” Mickey offered with a sarcastic shrug.
“Are you gonna behave?” Ian asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Probably not.”
Ian scowled, but it was significantly less harsh than the one he was wearing earlier.
“Well, Linda says your job’s waiting for you when you get out.”
Mickey smiled. “What about the redhead that works there?” He asked softly. He needed Ian to know that he didn't mean what he said, and he figured this was the best way. “Still gonna be there?”
That broke Ian’s scowl, the tips of his mouth tipping up to form a smile.
“The redhead’s still really pissed at you.”
Mickey frowned.
“But I’m pretty sure they'll be here waiting when you get out, too.”
That smile, Mickey couldn’t stop if he wanted to. He couldn't believe his luck. After the awful things he'd said to Ian, Ian still cared about him, still wanted to be in this thing with him. His stomach flipped when he remembered the acidic words he'd thrown at the boy back at the Kash n Grab. Ian either saw right through him, and knew that it was bullshit, or he didn't care, wanted to be with Mickey anyway. Mickey wasn't sure which was worse. He knew he didn't deserve Ian’s affection. All he did was stomp on the boy, and Ian still chased him. He suddenly felt very much like Frank.
“I gotta go,” Ian said with a sigh. “Please don’t be stupid,” He warned Mickey.
“I’m not making any promises.”
The boys both chuckled and hung up their phones. Ian stood and, before he turned to leave, set his fingertips against the cold glass window.
Mickey shot him a smiling scowl, and Ian laughed. He took his hand off the glass, and instead waved at Mickey before he turned to leave. Mickey watched him the whole way out the door, tight ass shoved into those perfectly fitting jeans.
Mickey decided that he could stand to work on his good behavior. If that was what was waiting for him, he figured he could try a little harder to get out early. Boys like Ian Gallagher didn’t wait around for long.