Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He gets the voicemail. Ian can’t remember the last time Mandy picked up when he called. She texts back sometimes. He got a whole sentence when she rejected the wedding invite. “sorry can’t get back to chicago but have fun.”

“Hey, Mands. Sorry to do this, but maybe your aunt called or something. Terry died. Actually, he was murdered by his nurse. It’s fucked up.”

As is this message.

Ian takes a fortifying breath. “I don’t know if that changes anything for you. I hope it does, in a good way. Just…. That. You’ll never have to deal with his shit again. Ever.”

None of them will.

“Anyway. You can call me, or Mick, If you want to talk. But mostly we just thought you should know.”

He hangs up and tosses down a cigarette as his family emerges from the hospital, Frank looking dazed and Lip frowning at his phone.

“You think you can fit us all into the back of that thing?” Debbie asks, nodding at the ambulance he absolutely should not have driven to meet the family today. Ian shrugs.

“Let’s find out.”

***

They pick up KFC on the way home and it’s only when he and Liam are unpacking it in the kitchen that Ian remembers that this is what they had the night after Monica died. Which is weird. But it’s food, and it’s quick and it’s on the way home from the hospital. So.

Lip and Debbie fought all the way back to the house, so his brother ends up stealing a drumstick and taking off before things escalate further. Debbie angrily sets the table, slamming down plates and forks while Frank sits in a chair and stares vacantly. No one is talking about what happened. No one has a plan. They’re all just putting alcoholic dementia on pause and Ian doesn’t question it. They stopped trying to intervene with Frank years ago. It’s hard to muster up the strength to worry about it when he doesn’t know where Mickey is.

He checks his phone and the three unreturned text messages asking Mickey to tell him where he is. The ambulance--the real one--and the cop cars are gone from in front of the house next door. He worries that Mickey’s somewhere with his cousins. He’s worried he’s out in the world, shocked and emotionally compromised, with terrible people who aren’t going to take care of him. Mickey isn’t a child, but he’s Ian’s responsibility and the longer the text messages go unread, the more Ian regrets going to the hospital.

Or he would. But he thinks he knows where Mickey is.

While Debbie and Carl are low-key bickering over dark meat, Ian piles four pieces of chicken on one plate, takes generous helpings of potato salad and coleslaw and grabs two of the wrapped utensils packs.

“Jesus, Ian,” Debbie offers her judgment on his portion control. “Got enough food?”

“Maybe.” He evaluates and then decides to grab a beer from the fridge, tucks a stack of napkins under his arm, and heads upstairs.

Mickey is, in fact, alone in their room. Sitting on the bed, still in the camo pants and black t-shirt, starting at the wall. Ian nudges the sliding door closed with his foot.

“Dinner.”

“Not hungry.”

Ian sits down on the bed next to him, holding the plate out to Mickey anyway. “Try.”

Mickey rolls his eyes but picks up the wing. Ian watches expectantly until Mickey finally deigns to take a bite.

“I left a message for Mandy,” he tells him, picking up a thigh. “You talk to everybody else?”

“Who’s everybody else?”

“I dunno. Your brothers. Uncles. Cousins.”

“Just Sandy. She’ll tell the rest of them.”

Ian frowns. “Everyone?”

“No one has any fucking idea where Colin is.”

“Iggy?”

Mickey grunts. “I’ll send him a text.”

Ian chews, thoughtfully.

“They DO care about you, Mick.”

“Not enough to come to our fucking wedding.” A small but unmistakable shiver goes through his husband and Ian decides not to push. Mandy had sent a gift. Iggy sent a card, which seemed like a fucking miracle, honestly. But Mickey’s family had scattered a long time ago.

“Here,” Ian shoves a spork into Mickey’s hand. “Have some fucking coleslaw.”

In the end, Mickey eats the wing and a drumstick under some duress. He has a few bites of the sides but has much more interest in the beer. Ian’s finishing up the plate when there’s a knock on the door jamb. Mickey shoots Ian a look. Make them go away.

“Yeah?” Ian calls.

The accordion door opens to reveal Liam, holding his new iPad in front of him like he can scarcely believe it’s real. “Can you sign me into Netflix? Debbie won’t tell me the password.”

For fuck’s sake. “Won’t?”

“Well. Won’t stop ranting about Lip to tell me. And Carl says he doesn’t know.”

Ian doesn’t quite manage to quell his irritation but Mickey cuts in before he can speak. “Where’d you get that?”

“Won it.” Liam can’t help but grin.

“No fucking way. Won it doing what?” Mickey shoves at Ian to get out of his way and scoots down the bed to meet Liam, who is more than happy to share the story of his victory. Mickey is aggressively interested, so Ian decides to at least get the dirty plate and garbage out of their room. As he moves to the door, Mickey whistles and waves the empty beer bottle at him.

Fucking fine.

The kitchen is empty so Ian takes the time to put shit away while he tries to get his head straight. His head feels like it’s floating a foot over him. He keeps thinking about Terry’s face. That fucking plastic bag.

He found out Monica died by text. That’s a weird fucking thing to have in common with Iggy Milkovich.

***

When Ian comes back upstairs with two beers and half a pack of Oreos (Why? He doesn’t know why.) Mickey and Liam are stretched on the bed, messing around with the iPad and Liam looks legitimately excited.

“We’re gonna watch a movie,” his brother announces as Ian pushes the door aside.

“We are?”

“Yeah.” Mickey’s voice is low in his chest. He sounds relaxed and shit. “Gotta break the thing in.”

“What’d you wanna watch?” Liam’s eyes are aglow and Ian feels shitty about it, but he tries to catch Mickey’s attention to silently ask are you sure?

He succeeds, but Mickey looks at him like the question is insane. “You choose, little man. It’s your day.”

“But your dad died.”

Mickey frowns, and it’s sharp. Like the words hit him in a way he didn’t expect.

“Doesn’t have shit to do with this. You pick. You have better taste than your brother, anyway.”

So that’s how they spend the next two hours -- the three of them on Ian and MIckey’s bed, with Liam between them holding his new acquisition and delightedly showing them Into the Spider-Verse. Ian pays more attention to his husband than the movie, observing the occasional smile and a chuckle when Miles crashes into the school windows and gets stuck to all sorts of fucking things. Ian’s never watched this movie and he gets why Liam loves it, but there’s a fuck ton of “sensitive material” in it and he has about a dozen opportunities to look over at Mickey with concern while bad shit is going down for the Spidermen.

Mickey’s unconcerned. He nurses his beer and he eats a few Oreos, and once or twice Liam looks up at Mickey with a grin when something ridiculous happens. That makes Ian’s chest swell a little. The night Monica died he’d sat around the kitchen table with his siblings and they’d gone through his mother’s stuff and talked. Made dark jokes. Tried to make sense of it, together. Mickey doesn’t have that. But he wasn’t going to go to bed alone tonight, either.

Towards the end of the movie when Miles’s father is delivering some sage words, Mickey’s brow knits. Ian reaches behind Liam and puts a hand on his husband’s shoulder. Mickey doesn’t shake it off, but he doesn’t lean into it, either, so Ian just gives him a squeeze and retracts his arm.

Later, when Liam’s gone to his own room and Ian comes back from brushing his teeth, he finds Mickey already under the covers. He’s curled up on his side, facing the wall. Ian watches him while he changes, and turns off the lights. Once, he thinks he sees Mickey’s shoulder shake a little. Ian slides into bed next to him without a word. Puts a hand on his back, waiting for a reaction. Mickey sniffs, then brings a hand up to wipe at his face, impatiently. Ian slides over, snakes an arm around his waist and pulls Mickey back against his chest. He presses a chaste kiss to his shoulder.

After a minute, Mickey threads his fingers through Ian’s. They fall asleep holding hands.

***

Ian wakes up to Mickey pushing him into the mattress, his body half covering Ian’s chest as he presses his mouth against Ian’s collarbone, and then along his neck and jaw. Ian blinks. Frowns.

“Mickey?”

“Mmm.”

“You ok?”

“Of course I’m fucking ok,” Mickey grumbles, throwing a leg over Ian’s waist and heaving himself up so that he’s straddling his husband.

It’s still dark out. Ian sighs. “What time is it?”

“Does it fucking matter?” There’s some light grinding. “You up for this?”

Ian’s body is well trained, at this point, to respond to any overture Mickey might make so the question is quickly rendered rhetorical. Ian reaches up, groggy but willing, and puts a hand on Mickey’s hip. He strokes his side as his eyes adjust to the darkness. Mickey looms over him, looking pissed. Which is another way of saying Mickey looks hurt.

“You wanna be on top?”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes, bending down to giving Ian a hot, desperate open-mouthed kiss. “But don’t just fucking lie there.”

Ian can’t help but grin. “Whatever you want, Milkovich. I’ll do my best.”

***

The next time Ian opens his eyes, it’s after eight and he has to get up and take his meds. No message from Mandy when he checks his phone. He considers asking Mickey if he’s heard anything, then decides to let it drop. They have a light delivery day since the day before was so fucking crazy, but Ian hasn’t decided if he’s going to try and push to next week due to “extenuating circumstances”. He’s not sure the legal weed trade is going to be into that. But if Mickey wants him to stay… he’s gotta stay. That’s just the way it is.

***

“Why the fuck wouldn't we be doing our deliveries today. What else we gotta do?”

“I dunno.” Ian hands Mickey a cup of coffee. “Don’t you got funeral shit to do? Handle the body or whatever?”

“Fuck that,” Mickey spits. “Let my freeloading fucking cousins handle it. Let his fucking brothers do something if they want to so bad.”

“You hear from Iggy?”

“Iggy isn’t doing shit.” He scowls into the coffee mug, then takes a sip. “We’re gonna shower, suit up and take care of our fucking business. I don’t owe Terry shit.”

“I know you don’t.”

“Yeah. So today is fucking Thursday. And we’re gonna do our fucking job.”

***

“What the fuck is a ‘record machine’, anyway?”

They’re stopped at a light. Ian glances over at Mickey in undisguised bafflement.

“A what?”

“If I call something a record machine, what the fuck do you think I mean?”

“A record player?”

“No one fucking leans on a record player.”

“What are we talking about?”

“‘Can't you see me standin' here, I got my back against the record machine’--the fuck does that mean?”

“Like, the song?” Ian’s eyes dart back and forth from his scowling husband and the intersection. “Are we talking about song lyrics?”

“It doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“Maybe they mean jukebox.”

“Then why the fuck wouldn’t they SAY jukebox? We already got a fucking word for jukebox. You don’t have to make up new words for shit. Just say jukebox.”

Ian taps his fingers on the steering wheel. The lights change.

“They probably wanted the rhyme,” Ian suggests, a few blocks later.

“That’s fucking lame.”

Ian shrugs. “Yeah.”

Mickey stares out the window until they stop at the next light. Then he grumbles, “Terry fucking hated Van Halen.”

They don’t even have the radio on or anything.

***

They’re done by three, so they swing by the Alibi and grab a beer. Ian regrets it immediately because Kev is there and. Well.

“Sorry about your dad, Mick. That’s rough.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, beer’s on me. First one, at least.” Kevin looks across the room, wistfully. “We still got a mark on that booth from when he threw that table after you came out. Remember that?”

Mickey freezes with the pint glass halfway to his mouth. “Do I remember when my dad tried to kill me in front of a room filled with half my family? Yeah. It rings a fucking bell.”

Kev shakes his head. “He sure hated you being gay.”

Ian puts a hand on Mickey’s thigh.

“Hating things was kinda Terry’s whole deal,” he points out.

Mickey nods and takes a healthy pull of his drink. “May he rot in fucking hell.”

***

After dinner, Franny is telling Mickey about a picture she drew at school that day in great detail while Ian and Debbie do the dishes. Ian catches Mickey shifting his weight in his chair, then hears him sniff tellingly. When he glances over, Mickey is nodding and smiling at the kid, but his eyes are shinning. Ian hands the dishcloth to Debbie, who starts to object until she sees the look on Ian’s face.

“Fine,” she grumbles. “Just let me do everything.”

“Hey, Franny,” Ian claps both hands on his husband’s shoulders. “I’m gonna steal Uncle Mickey for a minute, ok?”

Franny shrugs and sing-songs, ”Ok!” as Ian all but pulls Mickey out of his chair and pushes him out the back door onto the back porch. When the door slams behind them, Ian pulls Mickey into his arms as Mickey breaks the fuck down. He fists his hands into Ian’s t-shirt and presses his face into Ian’s chest and sobs like Ian has never heard before.

***

In bed that night, just as Ian is drifting off, Mickey rolls over and throws an arm across his stomach. Ian sleepily slips his own arm around Mickeys’ shoulders. Stokes his back a little.

“I’m an orphan,” Mickey murmurs.

Ian lets out a hum. He doesn’t bother to point out that, functionally, Mickey’s been an orphan for a fucking long time.

They both have.

***

“What did the nun TELL you? On the phone?” Mickey asks the next morning.

Ian pauses, with his spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “The nun?”

“Yeah. How did she sound?”

“I mean, you met her.”

“She was creepy.” Mickey frowns. “Don’t you think she was creepy?”

“I kinda think all nuns are creepy.”

“Yeah,” Mickey nods emphatically. “So why the fuck did we leave him with a NUN?”

“Because he’d verbally abused every single person we’d left him with up to that point, and alienated his entire family and she was what was left.”

“Shoulda fucking said something. She was weird. I knew she was weird.”

Ian shakes his head and continues to make his way through his cereal. “Don’t fucking blame yourself for this, man.”

“Gotta blame someone.”

“So blame the nun,” Ian spits out. “Or blame Terry for being a fucking psychopath.”

He should probably tone that shit down. There’s not a lot of point in focusing on how the world is absolutely a better place without Terry in it.

But he knows what Terry did to Mickey. He knows better than anyone. Ian can’t quite bring himself to act like Terry’s a loss. He can help Mickey, but he can feel a sourness in his belly the longer this goes on.

Terry doesn’t deserve Mickey’s tears. He doesn’t deserve his guilt and regret. Terry is not going to get to fuck Mickey up from beyond the grave. Ian’s been down that road. He’s gonna stop Mickey from taking it if he has to drag him off the path bodily.

***

“Motherfuckers.”

“Who?”

“All of them. Every fucking relative I have.”

Ian frowns, hauling the bags of groceries out of their shopping cart and into a laundry basket he’s rigged up in the back of the ambulance so that shit doesn’t fly everywhere.

“Is that news?”

Mickey shakes his head, shoving his phone into his back pocket. “No one claimed the fucking body. It’s been three days.”

Ian frowns, yanking on the basket to make sure it’s secure. “What does that mean?”

“That means it’s me. Just like hiring the fucking nurse. Just like emptying his piss bag and feeding him his fucking food while he calls me names--It’s fucking me again. I’m gonna have to deal with this shit.”

“We’ll deal with it,” Ian shuts the back doors and turns to make sure Mickey can see his face. “We don't have any deliveries tomorrow. We’ll make a list. Take care of everything.”

Mickey shakes his head, eyes tracing the horizon. “Motherfuckers. Every single one of them.”

***

Twenty minutes later, just as they turn down South Wallace, Mickey screamers “FUCKERS” and punches the dashboard with his fist.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Every FUCKING TIME!”

“Don’t break your hand over it,” Ian pulls over, even though they’re two blocks from home. “Here. Gimmie your hand.”

“It’s fine.”

“Then it’s no big deal to let me look at it.”

Mickey sighs, deeply put upon. He lets Ian take his hand and inspect it. Ian traces his fingers over the red, chaffed knuckles. He lets a thumb graze the K.

“We’ll put ice on it when we get home. Otherwise, it’s gonna fucking swell.”

“This shouldn’t be my fucking job,” Mickey spits.

“I don’t disagree.”

“He fucking tortured me my entire god damn life.” His voice cracks. “Never happy. Nothing was ever fucking good enough. Tried to ruin our fucking wedding. Couldn’t even just leave me alone and let me have one fucking day--”

He presses his lips together. Ian just holds his hand and waits.

“He hated me.”

He did. It’s sad. Ian can recognize that much. But Mickey is right. Terry hated him. And Mickey doesn’t owe him shit.

“I should let him fucking rot,” Mickey seethes. “Let the city do whatever they want with him. Let them donate him to fucking science. Study his brain or whatever the fuck. I shouldn’t be the one fucking taking care of this!”

Ian lets his hand go and moves to rub the back of Mickey’s neck. “Hey, I’m cool with that.”

Mickey snorts.

“Drive the fucking bus, man. We gotta get home before Franny’s popsicles melt.”

***

Mickey’s silent all through dinner, and afterward he and Ian fall onto the couch together and stream episodes of Archer from Ian’s phone. About halfway through the first episode, Mickey starts to sniffle. Ian hits pause.

“You wanna watch something else?”

“No,” Mickey crosses his arms, defensively. “I’m fine. Start the fucking show again.”

Mickey cries steadily through four straight episodes before Ian convinces him they should go to bed.

***

Somehow the crying is even worse the next morning. He’s crying when Ian wakes up. He cries through his shower and brushing his teeth. He’s still crying, harder than ever, as Ian finishes getting dressed. It makes Ian’s chest hurt. It also makes him want to throw something. He tries to talk to Mickey, but everything comes out clipped and impatient.

“This is just really unfair, man,” Mickey chokes out, finally. “I could have killed that fucker, like, a thousand times. This bitch just swoops in?”

“Are you crying because you’re pissed off or because you’re sad?”

“STOP asking me fucking questions!” Mickey shoots back. “I don’t know! I have no idea.”

***

They make a list on Ian’s notes app while they drink their coffee in bed. Mickey still shaky, but at least not openly weeping. His hand is unsteady on the mug and Ian can’t believe how angry it makes him, to see that. He tries to keep it in check, but he rages inside. Fuck Terry Milkovich. Fuck watching Mickey, the toughest badass in all of Southside, reduced to tears over this. He swears his vision goes fucking red as he types “visit funeral home” with his thumb.”

***

One thing the Milkoviches and the Gallaghers have in common: Nothing ever, ever goes to fucking plan.

***

They get back from the cemetery in one piece, though their clothes smell like smoke in a really distinct way that there’s no getting rid of. Ian demands Mickey strip down to his boxers and he piles everything into the washer. Just in case.

But the cops don’t show up. Either because they decide it’s not worth it, they have too many suspects, or they just figure setting Terry Milkovich on fire is justifiable in any circumstances. It takes an hour for Ian’s heart to slow, though. For him to start to breathe and take in that the hard part is over. Terry’s body is taken care of. They aren’t going to have a gravestone or an urn they have to cart around from apartment to apartment. They don’t have to figure out how to pay for a funeral. He and Mickey are done talking about just how much they’re gonna spend--both of their time and their money--burying a man who treated Mickey like absolute shit.

There is so much about Terry they never talk about. There is much that’s left unsaid, even when Mickey rants about stolen Halloween candy and pawned Christmas gifts. Terry is so much worse than a violent, abusive homophobic white supremacist asshole. And only a few people know, really, how bad it gets. Maybe only Ian and the people Terry hurt the most. That might be the whole list.

But he knows Mickey well enough to know they won’t talk about that today. They might never talk about it again. It’s not like it’s an unspoken thing that looms between them. It’s something they both acknowledge, silently. It’s something that leads Ian to hold Mickey a little tighter sometimes, or step back and let Mickey come to him at others. It’ll be with them forever. Because the shit Terry did won’t go away. All this is, really, is a bookend. A closed chapter.

He has a little time to think while Mickey is in the shower. Already clean and free of the smell of gasoline, Ian sits on the edge of the bed and rolls a joint. Thinks about the funeral they’re not going to have. How weird it would have been. How unfathomably angry it would make Ian to listen to Milkoviches share their tales of Terry’s recreational sadism like it’s heartwarming. If any of them even bothered to show up. They haven’t even seen Sandy, for God’s sake. Though at least she’s been in touch.

Mickey wanders in all pink and well-scrubbed, still rubbing at his head with a towel. He smiles--a full smile--when he spots what Ian has in his hand. He raises his eyebrows. “Whatcha got there?”

Ian smirks as he lights it up. “Come join me and find out.”

He pats the bed next to him and Mickey gamely drops down onto the mattress. He reaches for the joint, but Ian holds it out of reach, turning and swooping down to give Mickey a shotgun kiss. He pushes the smoke from his lungs into his husband’s mouth, enjoying the way Mickey breaths in next to him as Ian exhales.

When Mickey pulls back, he’s a little flushed and a whole lot soft and happy. “That’s not gonna do it for me, Gallagher.”

Ian shrugs, before taking another hit. “We can try again.”

“Give me the fucking joint, asshole.”

They pass it back and forth, and it doesn’t take long before Ian starts to feel all the stress of the day--of the week--melt away. When he goes to pass to Mickey a third time, his husband holds up a hand and shakes his head.

“I’m good. Believe me.”

Ian grins and licks his fingers to extinguish the cherry. He sets it on the edge of their side table, then leans over and tackles Mickey down onto the bed. Kisses him. Then kisses him again. Light and playful. Enough to make Mickey smile.

Ian rolls off, then, and he and Mickey lay together on their backs, side by side, looking up at their stained ceiling. He lets himself enjoy the high for a moment. Just floats and thinks. Considers whether or not he should say something.

“I know you don’t fucking get it,” Mickey says, finally breaking their mutual silence. “The crying and everything. But I dunno. He was my dad, you know?”

Ian lets out a long, resigned sigh. “I do get it. That’s the fucking problem.”

“Yeah? That why you keep fucking pointing out the obvious all day long?”

He had kinda done that. And he can see how it’s fucking annoying, but Dodge the Dagger. It would be criminal to let that shit go.

“Maybe,” he admits.

They lie in silence a little while longer. Finally, Ian decides to dive the fuck in.

“When Monica died,” he says, heavily, feeling like an asshole for bringing it up. “Fiona didn’t have anything good to say. And I get it, you know? She bailed on everyone, but Fiona’s the one who had to pick up the slack. She lost her whole fucking childhood.”

“You kinda all did.”

Ian shrugs. “It was different for the rest of us, though. She carried the most weight for the longest.” He pulls in an unsteady breath. “And she really thought--like believed--that Monica didn’t love us. Didn’t love anybody.” His jaw starts to feel tight and the back of his throat starts to hurt in a deeply familiar way. “And maybe that’s true, but. I never.” He has to stop. Take a breath. Because there is still part of him that could curl up in a corner and sob over Monica if he really thought about it. That same part of him wishes he’d done that back when it happened. Tried harder to feel the whole of his grief so that it could burn through him faster. “I felt like she loved me. And… I don’t feel that way about very many people, you know. My brothers and sisters. Monica.”

“Me.”

“Yeah,” Ian breathes. “You.”

And that is the fucking crux of it.

“None of them really got why I was so fucking sad after she died. I didn’t even get it, you know? But it fucking knocked me back, hard. I’d think about her all the time and I didn’t think about the bad shit. I didn’t think about all the times she took off. I didn’t think about the reasons I’d been so fucking mad at her the last time I saw her. I thought about the times she came through. I thought about her showing up…” Shouldn’t bring up the MPs, but fuck. It was such a big deal. “I thought about her trying to make me feel better when things had gone to shit. And how she was good at it, sometimes. How, in some of the fucking lowest moments, you know… Some of the worst moments of my life, she was there telling me she loved me, no matter what.”

And he is crying now. Fuck.

“If Fiona’s right, that’s all bullshit. And I know your dad is different, but. You said. He’s your dad. You got moments where you made him proud and shit. You got memories that don’t suck. That’s what fucked me up after Monica died. That’s what really…”

Mickey reaches out and takes Ian’s hand. That’s all he does. It’s all he needs to. “It’s not gonna be like that for me.”

Ian nods. “You aren’t fucking bipolar.”

“No,” Mickey allows. “But mostly my dad was a way bigger asshole. And. I got you.” he jostles Ian’s arm a little. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Ian half laughs and wipes at his eyes with his free hand. “Fucking crying all over you because YOUR father died.”

“Fucking standing by my side every step of the way. Fucking there, Ian.” Mickey squeezes his hand. “Iggy never even texted back.”

“Yeah. I didn’t hear from Mandy, either.”

“You’re all I’ve got, Gallagher. You’re fucking it.”

Ian pulls his hand back and rolls over onto his side. He places a hand gently on Mickey’s stomach. Just soft and intimate. He waits for Mickey to turn and look at him. When he finally does, Ian smiles.

“I love you enough to make up for all of them, you know. Every single one of your 500 shitty relatives.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but Ian can see the lie of it. “You’re a fucking sap.”

“I know. But it’s true.”

He rubs a little circle on Mickey’s belly, then slides his hand a little lower and traces the waistband of his boxers.

“This more grief sex?” Mickey murmurs, closing his eyes, the pot and the conversation finally removing some of the tension from his body.

“If it’ll help,” Ian matches Mickey’s tone, sliding his hand into his husband’s underwear.

“Let’s try it out,” Mickey sighs, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “Can’t hurt.”

Ian leans over and kisses Mickey with a little more intent and a little more tongue. He feels the grin start to spread across his face. It’s infectious and soon they are kissing and smiling like there’s nothing wrong in the whole fucking world.

He really does love Mickey enough to make up for 500 Milkoviches. And he’s got a lifetime to prove it to him.

Chapter Text

Stages: Chapter Two

On a normal day, they’d probably have slept through it. But, after taking the time to set up their bed and then responsibly, sanely tearing each other’s clothes off for the private portion of their anniversary celebration, Ian had never gotten around to doing shit with his phone. So it’s lying where he’d left it, facedown on their uncarpeted floor and rattles to wake the fucking dead when the call comes in some time after five in the morning.

Mickey has no idea why Ian fucking answers it, but. Ian. He’s conscientious and shit. Mickey, assuming this was not going to be a weed-based emergency, had rolled over onto this stomach and buried his face in his pillow while keeping one ear on Ian’s conversation. First a bleary “Hello?” and then a clearer “When?”

Followed by:

“Ok. Where is he?”

And then:

“Fuck off. Why?”

And:

“Fuck! Are you fucking serious? FuuuuuckingFrank.”

And:

“No. No, I’ll call her. Unless Lip wants to. Maybe wait ‘til six. Let her sleep a bit.”

And:

“No. Fuck. Lip should. Or maybe… I dunno. Where’s Debbie?”

Until finally:

“Ok. Ok. No, I got it. Don’t do anything yet. I’ll grab a shower and head over. You ok? You sure?”

By this time, Mickey has rolled onto this back and is staring at the ceiling. The mention of a shower is bad news and so is the fact that, after he hangs up, Ian immediately calls someone else. Sitting on the edge of the bed, naked and leaning over his knees, he jiggles his leg restlessly. Mickey reaches out on instinct and touches his husband’s back. He knows shit is bad when Ian jumps.

“Hey,” Ian inhales mid-word and twists around. “Hey, it’s ok. You can sleep.”

“Shit’s pretty obviously not ok, Gallagher.”

He cuts his call. “No, it is. It’s just. Frank died.”

And now he’s awake. Mickey sits up like he’s on springs. “No, he fucking didn’t!”

“Hospital called Carl ‘cause he brought him in after that shit at Liam’s school. He’d already been gone for hours.”

“OD?”

“No. Ah. Maybe? But he tested positive for COVID. So, since we all saw him yesterday, we’ve all been exposed.”

And ok. Mickey’s not a monster. But he’s pragmatic and this is fucking Frank Gallagher so he doesn’t mind just venting on that one.

“Are you FUCKING kidding me?”

Ian huffs out a mirthless laugh. “Really wish I was.”

Mickey flops back onto the bed. “One last final fuck you, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Ian doesn’t say anything else.

***

They shower together and not in a sexy way. Just because Mickey figures he’s coming along to the Gallagher house and it’ll save time. He gets their shit together while Ian makes a call to Florida. He makes warm small talk with his sister for a full minute and it isn’t until Mickey gives him a what-the-fuck-man? look that Ian clears his throat and gets on with it.

“Look, I didn’t call and wake you up and shit just for the hell of it,” he starts. “I got some news.”

It’s clear that Fiona expects the news to be good, but once Ian lets her know that Frank’s dead the conversation on his side consists of a lot of “No” and “Yes” and “I know” with the occasional “We didn’t want you to fucking worry, Fiona! It’s Frank!”

Ian says that last one multiple times.

***

“Ok. Here we go,” Mickey scrolls through the browser on his phone. “Living in the same household as a person with COVID-19 -- Fuck that. We weren’t living there.”

“We were there that night.”

“I had the fucking window open!”

“What else?”

“Caring for a person with COVID-19, being within 6 feet of a person with COVID-19 for more than 15 minutes…” Mickey’s stomach clenches. “Oh. Fuck.”

“What?”

This really is the fucked up thing about marriage. You think you can keep these little things to yourself because they don’t matter and they’d hurt your husband, but then something happens. Then your shitty father-in-law dies and you have to explain why you slept in the same room as him a few nights ago.

Ian’s response is mostly irritated fatigue.

“Now you’re definitely getting fucking tested.”

***

When they pull up in front of the house, Lip is sitting on the front porch. His eyes are red, but it looks sleep-deprived more than anything else. He stands as Ian gets out of the ambulance.

“Well, this is just the kick in the balls I was looking for,” Lip says as he grabs his brother and pulls him into a tight hug. “Sun’s barely even up.”

“Coulda been worse,” Ian sighs, pulling back. “Carl said he died around 8:30 last night.”

“Didn’t interrupt a good party. He’d want some fucking credit for that.”

Mickey is silently grateful, all the same. And, because he truly has never given a single fuck about Ian’s shitty dad, he’s also angry to realize the asshole died on their anniversary. Fucking fantastic.

“It’s fucking weird,” Lip says, rubbing his fingers together like he’s desperate for a cigarette. “I’d been braced for that call my whole life. Since I was Liam’s age. Younger, even.”

“Ten, easy,” Ian confirms. “It was always coming, and it was also never gonna happen.”

Lip nods. “How many times did we tell the kids he was gonna outlive us all? He always comes back? Used to say it to you, then Debs. I said it to Liam fucking yesterday.”

“Liam,” Ian breathes, sounding sad for the first time, really. “How’d he take it?”

Lip shakes his head. “Was just trying to get up the nerve to wake him up. Could do it together if you want.”

Mickey figures Ian probably doesn’t want. But they’re brothers. All of them. So he and Lip go up the stairs into the house and Mickey goes to make some fucking coffee.

***

By eight, everyone is gathered in the kitchen, including V who had the good sense to turn up with donuts. They’re still piecing it all together, trading information and figuring out what they can about the last few days of Frank’s life.

“So did COVID kill him?” Liam’s eyes are huge and it’s honestly pretty hard to look at him.

“Probably not,” Lip glances at Ian for input. “It was probably a lot of things, working together. Frank had a lot of shit wrong with him. But one thing’s for sure. There’s nothing you could have done, buddy.”

“Nothing,” Ian confirms.

“He tried to kill himself.” Liam is emphatic and honestly, the kid knew Frank better than any of them, probably. Or the recent version of the old fucker. “He WANTED to die.”

“He was an alcoholic,” Debbie says, dully, from her seat on the staircase. “As long as he could get to a bar, Frank was always gonna have something to live for.”

Liam starts to cry and honestly Mickey wants to leave. This shit is rough because Liam is devastated in a house where no one else is sad about the person he’s grieving. Which sucks. It sucks to be the only one who cares. Even if everyone else is just as fucking right to feel the way they do. Lip and V coax a story from the kid and it’s grim. Frank thought alcohol had turned on him. He couldn’t keep it down anymore.

“Jesus Christ,” Lip murmurs, numbly.

“Only thing he ever gave a fuck about,” Debbie says, right in front of the sniffling eleven-year-old. And Mickey knows he’s not an expert in tact, but fucking hell.

“You were good to him, kid,” Mickey cuts in awkwardly while the Gallaghers all reel. “He was fucking lucky to have you. Probably the best thing in his life at the end.”

Liam locks eyes with Mickey and Mickey has to force himself not to look away because the fucked up thing is… he knows how Liam feels.

***

There’s shit to do. Real basic shit, complicated by Frank’s positive COVID test. They talk to public health and are told they’ve ALL been exposed--V, too--and they need to schedule tests immediately.

Fuckin’ A.

This is the kind of shit that Ian normally does, but his attention is shot. Phones keep ringing and his siblings keep pulling him into conversations, so Mickey ends up picking up his phone and googling around. He figures out how to book two appointments for the next day.

So there. He was fucking useful.

***

The whole thing is inexplicably exhausting. Mickey finds himself in the grips of a little retroactive sympathy for his husband when things finally start to wrap up because he also thought the death of his father was gonna be something basic. He was as shocked as anyone when it turned out to be something he had feelings about. All kinds of fucking feelings, all the time. And while IAN doesn’t seem to be in that place, the rest of the Gallaghers are. When it gets too late afternoon, it becomes real fucking clear that there’s nothing else to do. The body is going to be sent to the crematorium. The personal effects are being held for 14 days before they’ll be released to the family, and none of them are allowed to go anywhere even if they weren’t. Mickey is getting antsy when Lip calls his name.

“What?” he shoots back, belligerent by default.

“Tami’s outside. Wants to talk to you.”

The fuck?

But whatever. Tami’s fine. Relatable, to be honest. He doesn’t know people like Tami, but if she procreated with Lip, she’s gotta have some kind of screw loose, and he can roll with that. He finds her standing on the front walk, mask on, fiddling with her keys.”

“Hey, Mickey,” she calls, unsteady. “How’re doing?”

“Fucking madhouse,” he mutters, taking a step off the porch. Tami draws back. Mickey raises his brow and sits down on the top step. “What’s up?”

“Lip says you and Ian got your tests set up.”

“Yeah.”

“Could you send me the link? Lip hasn’t even tried and I can’t go inside, so the least I can do is get him set up.”

“What’s stopping you from going inside?”

Tami sighs, droops and then spells out all the public health policies that say that she isn’t exposed unless Lip is positive because she wasn’t around Frank long enough. So now she’s going to stay away for Fred, and she already HAD COVID once so maybe it’s fine and maybe Lip even had it once and… it’s a whole lot. Mickey just stares at her blankly and waits for her to run out of steam.

“So… You just want the fucking link, right?”

“Yeah. But, like. I dunno. You’ve known all these people longer than me. What the fuck do I do?”

Mickey’s eyes flit between Tami and her little red car. “About what?”

“Just. How do I help?”

“Book the appointment,” Mickey shrugs. “They all fucking hated him. Shit’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” Tami nods, then says more firmly. “Yeah. Yeah, ok. So I’ll book his test and take care of Fred. And he’ll just tell me if he needs something.

“I mean, it’s Lip, so probably not.” Mickey sniffs. “Are you allowed to shop and shit?”

Tami looks taken aback, but what the fuck. Family, right?”

“Oh! Yeah. Yeah, for sure. I can do that. You guys will need food. I can ask Debbie--”

“Oh, me and Ian aren’t staying here. Fuck that. I’ve already been through one quarantine with these assholes. We’re going home.”

***

Home, to their unfurnished apartment with half a case of beer, three packets of soy sauce, a container of milk and half a box of Fruity Flavoured O’s. But at least now they have a cutting board. He also put his foot down about getting at least two of everything a person needs to eat a fucking meal. No one is going to be hitting up Target this week.

He took the potato thing. Debbie was pissing him off.

“We are super unprepared for this shit,” Mickey mutters, digging through the box they just brought up from the ambulance. Ian nods and wanders off down the hallway to collapse onto the bed with so much force that Mickey can hear it from the kitchen.

Alright, fuck it. He’ll figure this shit out tomorrow.

***

The nurse is a bitch for no reason. Like, ok. It must suck to spend a solid year of your life jamming long-ass q-tips up people’s noses, but that’s not Mickey’s fault. She’s snotty as hell when he asks about whether he’s really gotta quarantine for 14 fucking days.

“You work in critical infrastructure?”

“I delivery legal weed and collect the money, so yeah, I’d say that’s pretty fucking critical.”

The nurse doesn’t agree and Mickey swears that she’s extra forceful when she jams the q-tip up his nose. His eyes water and he complains to Ian later that he’s surprised he didn’t punch her on pure instinct.

“Thank you for not punching the nurse, Mickey,” Ian says in a monotone, though one with a hint of amusement.

“I can still fucking feel it,” Mickey complains. “You?”

“Nah,” Ian says, sliding the mask over his face before they step out of the ambulance. “Don’t feel a thing.”

***

Tami has a lot of fucking questions and Mickey has no answers.

“I don’t fucking know,” he mutters, opening cabinets and slamming doors, even though this action is telling him nothing. “Breakfast, lunch, dinner. What’s so fucking complicated?”

“Well,” Tami’s voice has got some edge. “What do you want? What do you like? Give me a fucking clue here.”

“I don’t know!” Mickey’s anxiety starts to spike with his frustration. What the fuck is he supposed to say? They just moved in. They don’t have a fucking TABLE. “We’ve been in fucking prison! We can eat anything.”

He catches Ian looking vexed out of the corner of his eye. Takes a breath. Closes his eyes. How fucking hard can this be? “Ok, Breakfast. Cereal, milk, bread, butter. Lunch… I dunno. Sandwich shit, I guess. Dinner--” JESUS. This is fucking hard! Mickey’s version of meal planning has always been based on what’s possible at any given moment. “Fucking… meat and potatoes? Some frozen shit?”

“Can we get some fruits and veggies in there someplace?” Ian asks, approaching Mickey from behind.

“Fine, yes. Ian wants some fucking vegetables.” He thrusts the phone at his husband, feeling like a failure. “You wanna talk to her?”

Ian takes the phone from Mickey, but when Mickey tries to walk away, Ian catches him around the waist and pulls him back against his chest.

Ok, fine.

“Mickey’s right,” Ian says into the phone. “I think right now it’s just about quantity over quality. We have fuck all in the house. We got, like, a saucepan.” Ian leans his head against Mickey’s as he listens to his de facto sister-in-law. “Yeah. I just don’t want scurvy on top of everything else. Yeah. Ok. Thanks, Tami.”

Ian cuts the call and puts Mickey’s phone down on the counter. He brings his other arm around Mickey’s waist and tightens his hold. Rocks his body just a little, breathing against the back of MIckey’s neck. After a minute, Mickey puts a hand on Ian’s.

“You ok?”

“Thanks for doing that.”

“For freaking out about food?”

Ian’s chest bounces with a light chuckle. “For all of it.” He sighs. “She’s gonna drop off some shit tomorrow. So generic fruit loops for dinner, but tomorrow we eat like kings.”

Mickey snorts. “You sure you’re ok?”

“Just so fucking tired.”

“Go take a nap.” Mickey pats Ian’s arm affectionately. “I’ll order a pizza. We’ll do that contact-free delivery shit.”

“Mmm.”

“Even get vegetables. Onions, green peppers, tomatoes. Whatever the fuck you want.”

“How will they fit the three types of meat?”

“You know what? Fuck you. Go lie down, asshole.”

***

Mickey pours over flyers and finds the company that will bring the most pizza for the least money because this shit is gonna be breakfast, lunch and dinner. As he settles on a joint with a cheap 2-for-1 deal.

He feels light panic stirring in his stomach. He’s never liked rules and this COVID shit is all rules, all the fucking time and Ian cares about health shit. So there’s no getting around this 14-day quarantine. They have a business. They have deliveries. They don’t have a fucking toaster or a frying pan.

They’re fucked.

***

You know what else they don’t have? Fucking chairs.

***

Mickey drags the air mattress into the living room for variety, he guesses, and re-inflates it so that their asses don’t hit the floor while they eat.

He calls and orders their dinner. Springs for four toppings. Then wanders down the hall to see about coaxing Ian back to wakefulness. His husband is sprawled on his back, head turned towards the door, one hand on his stomach and the other stretched across Mickey’s side of the bed.

He has such a soft spot for this motherfucker. It still surprises him sometimes.

He watches him a bit. Because sometimes he still does shit like that. And then he goes and sits on the edge of the bed. Puts a hand on Ian’s thigh and waits for a sign of life.

The phone vibrates on the bedside table and Mickey picks it up as his husband stirs.

“Hey, man. You have like 25 text messages and 10 missed calls.”

“Any of them Fiona?”

Mickey opens the phone with Ian’s passcode and scrolls. “Nope. Three from Lip, though.”

Ian swears under his breath. “I’ll text him.”

“You feeling ok?”

“Dunno.” Ian shakes his head when Mickey frowns. “No, like. I’m not sick. I’m just…”

“Numb?”

“Maybe.” Ian exhales and looks Mickey straight in the eye. “My father died.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m an orphan.” Ian looks at him like he’s just said something both ridiculous and completely and undeniably true. The corners of Mickey’s mouth twitch.

“Yeah, asshole. You are.”

“We match.”

“Yeah.” Mickey takes Ian’s hand and threads their fingers together. Gives him a light squeeze.

“Didn’t think it’d feel this weird.”

“How did you think it’d feel?”

“Didn’t think it’d feel like anything.” Ian jostles their linked hands. “Just. Glad you’re here.”

“Where else would I be? For better or for worse, right?”

“Which one is this?”

Mickey grins and Ian gives a weak smile in return.

“Get your ass up, sleepyhead. Dinner’s on the way.”

“ Get up, lie down. So fucking bossy.”

Ian frowns, but there’s no heat behind it. In fact, he looks pretty cute in his post-nap haze. Mickey leans forward and brushes a light kiss over his mouth. Like a fucking sap.

“You know it.”

***

After some debate, they decide that eating on the air mattress will be even worse than eating on the bed, so they stand in the kitchen and consume their food with purpose. Because it’s been fucking hours since they put something in their bodies and all this stress makes them hungry.

Ian calls it quits after his sixth slice and they put the boxes in the fridge for tomorrow. Then he slings an arm over Mickey’s shoulder and presses a kiss to his temple, saying “thank you” with his lips against his skin. Mickey grins.

“So. What the fuck do we do now?”

Ian groans. “Read my text messages?”

“Riveting.” Mickey looks around their darkening apartment. “We got a fucking furniture problem, man.”

“You don’t think we can get Tami to pick up an armchair at Costco?”

“Seriously. We gotta figure out this shit. And what the fuck do we do about our deliveries? You got a solution for that one?”

Ian admits he doesn’t. They’ve already fought about it once on the WAY to the hospital, and then again on the way back. Mickey could roll with this quarantine shit. But he likes their business and he doesn’t want it to tank. He definitely doesn’t want to go back to fighting about shit like they were before they stumbled onto this particular career path.

“Can we talk about it tomorrow? I can figure out what we need to do.”

Mickey wants to point out that they have DELIVERIES tomorrow and that they’ll be cancelling but Ian looks exhausted--still--and he guesses he can let it go.

“You’re gonna hafta call people.”

“Tomorrow. Please.”

***

Mickey decides to take a shower just for something to fucking do. Ian’s been quiet, fucking around on his phone, texting a little while Mickey played some zombie tower defence games in endless mode. But that means every game ends in a loss with his base overwhelmed and he starts to feel like this is not the shit when you’re waiting on a COVID test result.

He does have to admit the bathroom is nice. Clean. Functional. No vague smells of sulphur and urine. He takes his time drying his hair. Flossing. Examining his pores. He comes back to bed in his PJ pants and t-shirt to find Ian’s put the phone down and is staring at the ceiling, hands on his abdomen. Like he’s in a fucking coffin. Mickey kicks off his slippers and throws himself over his husband’s body, knees on either side of his hips and hands on the mattress above his shoulders.

“Hey.”

Ian laughs a bit and shakes his head. “Hey. Good shower?”

“What the fuck are you thinking about so hard?

Ian's smile is a little sad but he just looks at Mickey and breathes. Then he moves his hands up to hold Mickey’s hips.

“Nothing,” he grunts, sitting up and tipping Mickey back so that his arms are now around Ian’s neck. Mickey used to hate it when he straddled Ian and Ian sat up because he’d move from this power position to sitting in Ian’s lap and… Well. Shit like that used to fuck with him. He’s passed that now. He’s done analyzing or caring about every position and every fucking feeling he has while he’s in it. He likes how it feels when his husband envelopes him like this. He lets his weight settle, shifting so that his legs hook around Ian’s waist. Looks down into his husband’s upturned face. Brow creased like he’s thinking about something. Mickey smooths his thumb across Ian’s forehead and that elicits a smile. Ian stretches, extending his neck to ask for a kiss.

And hey. Mickey’s not one to deny Ian anything he wants, so.

He bows his head and tenderly brushes their mouths together, and lightly pulls on his bottom lip. Then he turns his head a little and kisses Ian again. Ian’s being soft and Mickey usually gives him just a little bit of shit about that. Rolling his eyes while grinning. Hoping he isn’t fucking blushing or anything. It took him a long time to learn how to just let Ian look at him and not worry he was imagining the adoration in his gaze.

He still thinks it’s fucked up that he gets to have this. He’s not sure how it happened. Being in love with someone and having that person be in love with him--It had felt more possible to raise the dead. But somehow, here he is. Believing that Ian loves him with the same stupid, unavoidable fervour that he loves Ian. It’s scary. It creates expectations.

But fuck it. There were worse things that could happen to him.

He kisses Ian and presses into him as Ian’s hands slide up his back to draw Mickey in closer. They rock together a bit. He smiles when Ian sighs and then grins when he starts to moan. Raises his arms when Ian starts to pull at his t-shirt and then lets him roll Mickey over so that he’s on his back. Their kisses deepen, but they stay soft and unhurried. And Mickey doesn’t mind any of it because he knows his husband. Sometimes when shit goes down Ian wants distraction. He wants to be robbed of the ability to think. But tonight he’s looking for comfort. And Mickey’s going to give it to him.
***

“Hey,” Ian’s shaking Mickey awake mid-morning and it’s not fucking cute.

“Whaaaat?” Mickey growls, grabbing his pillow like it’s offering protection.

“Where’s your phone?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“It’s your PHONE!”

“Yeah, you have a hard time spotting it in our apartment full of nothing?” He rolls over. Fucking SUN. “What time is it?”

“10:30. I just got my results from the testing center, so where the fuck is your phone?”

Results.

Oh. Yeah. Ok. Mickey lifts his head and glances around. “Dresser.”

“I don’t--” Ian cuts off and lunges at Mickey’s phone, spotting it sitting under his wallet. Mickey watches with a frown as his husband unlocks it and opens his email. He finds what he’s looking for and exhales, sharply. “You’re negative.”

“Great.” Mickey sits up, rubbing at his eyes. “You?”

“Same thing.”

“Well, good for us. Don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about us being stuck in this fucking place for the next 12 days?”

“Nine,” Ian mutters. And huh. Time flies.

“Fuck. It’s Monday. Did you--”

“Yeah. Yeah, I called our drops for today. But we’re gonna have to work something out. We can’t just leave them hanging for a week and a half.”

“No fucking kidding.”

“Everyone I fucking know is in quarantine. I mean, even if I trusted Kev not to fuck up--”

“Do NOT trust Kev--”

“I don’t! But even if I did, he’s in quarantine with V and the kids. And Tommy and Kermit--”

“Fucking Kermit? Are you out of your mind?”

Ian throws his hands up. “Well, who the fuck can do it? Lip can’t. Debbie can’t. Tami’s doing enough shit for us, and she’s fucking off-brand--”

“Sandy.”

Mickey’s half throwing the name out there to stop the list of people who can’t fucking help them, but the minute he says it, he realizes that, as an idea, it doesn’t fucking suck.

“Sandy could work,” Ian admits, considering the idea. “Yeah. We can trust her, right?”

“Yeah.” Mickey hesitates, though. His whole family tree right now is either fled the state or gone to ground for some other fucking reason. He doesn’t know if he trusts any of his family where money’s concerned, but. Sandy’s the best answer. She probably has at least one friend who can back her up. He sighs. “Ok, throw me my phone.”

***

Sandy will do it for a price, which is higher than Mickey necessarily wanted to be, but she tells him he’s gotta pay Gallagher Tax. And fucking figures. He lets Ian work out the schedule with her. It takes a couple of hours and a few dozen phone calls, but Ian manages to rearrange everything so that Sandy’s only covering four days. And then, assuming they don’t have the fucking plague, they’ll be back at it on April 1st. Fucking perfect.

Tami drops off food while Ian’s on the phone, knocking and then yelling at Mickey to give her a head start so that she doesn’t get caught in the disease vector, which kinda pisses him off. He finds a laundry basket filled with shopping bags on his doorstep. Drags it into the kitchen and when he’s done unpacking… well. They have fucking food. A frozen lasagna, a few bagged salads. Cans of tomato sauce and pasta and peanut butter and bread and cereal and milk. He figures even he can’t fuck this up.

He weighs a couple of soup cans in his hand and realizes he has to figure out where the fuck they keep food.

Ian wanders into the kitchen as Mickey opens cupboards and frowns. “You figure shit out with Sandy?”

“Yeah, I got her to agree to put on a camo t-shirt and to wear a real mask.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Suggested it might turn into a semi-regular gig. We need some backup.” Ian leans back against the counter, brow furrowed. “She’s gonna show up, right?”

Mickey shrugs. “She’s the most reliable person in my whole fucking family, so. Maybe. Can knock it up to probably since she’s getting paid, but she’s fucking pissed at your sister, man. Hey,” Mickey gives up on trying to make sense of their kitchen and turns around. “Where the fuck do you want to keep canned stuff?”

“Oh,” Ian looks startled by the question. “I think… Cabinet across from to the fridge, right?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

They stare at each other in incomprehension. “It’s, like, a pantry, right?”

Mickey looks at it. Basically, two cupboards stacked. “Isn’t a pantry like a room? This looks like a little… food closet.”

He glances back and Ian is smiling.

“Don’t you fucking laugh at me, Uptown Boy.”

“I’m not!”

“You’re all grinning and shit.”

“I fucking promise you, Mick. I don’t know any more about pantries than you do.”

They at least agree this is where the canned shit goes. And one loaf of bread. They unpack the groceries together and afterward, Ian’s got that worried look again.

“We really have no shit. Like what the fuck do we even make the salad in?” Ian digs through the box from Kevin and V’s place. “Shoulda grabbed that mixing bowl.”

The bowl had been big and awkward and they’d grabbed some pans and some other random shit that seemed important instead. Thinking they’d maybe go back, but then shit had gone down. Mickey feels a twinge looking at Ian’s fretful expression and his furrowed brow and he thinks of something.

Fucking Frank. Getting in the way of everything, including his god damn anniversary shit. He’d totally forgotten about the other thing he’d planned for Ian. An anniversary fuck-you. He turns and walks out of the kitchen without another word.

“Mickey?” Ian calls after him.

“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses.” He opens the door to the fucking linen closet -- which has one threadbare towel and a cardboard box he’s haphazardly put a ribbon around. It looks messy as fuck. But he’d been in a hurry. He picks it up and walks back to Ian.

“OK,” he announces. “I was gonna do a whole fucking thing about this but fucking Frank’s kinda ruined our lives, so here.”

He tosses it at Ian who only barely manages to catch it, looking at Mickey with confused awe.

“What the fuck.”

“Open it.”

Ian eyes the familiar box and then looks back at him. Mickey can tell he wants to ask a shitload of questions but thinks better of it. He pulls on the ribbon which slides off the box like it was never committed to the look.

“IOUs.”

“Keep looking.”

Ian digs under the loose paper, letting them spill from the box and pulls out a stack of bills. Not big numbers or anything. But enough.

“You can check ‘em against what’s in there. It’s all fucking accounted for.”

Ian shakes his head. “How long have you had it?”

Mickey shrugs.

“Mick.”

“I told you I was good for it.”

“I figured we’d settled that with the fucking food scam and the money we’re making off the business.”

“I told you I was good for it.” Mickey pulls the box back and starts to fish out the stacks of messy bills he’d buried in the box. “Picked shit up here and there. Most of it… maybe did a couple more deals than I told you about.”

Ian is grinning. “You fucking asshole.”

“Yeah, well. This fucking asshole is gonna buy you a frying pan.”

***

They heat up their leftover pizza and lie on the air mattress this time while they eat. On their stomachs, like two teenaged girls, chewing on their food and debating the merits of Amazon’s kitchen set collections.

“Why the fuck do we need THREE fucking pots. We got a pot.”

“It’s barely a pot,” Ian argues. “It looks like it got in a gunfight.”

“We don’t need a fucking 12-piece cooking set for two god damn people.”

“Then why the fuck do they sell so many 12-piece cooking sets?”

They settle on an eight-piece set. Two pots. Two frying pans. Something called a dutch oven. Mickey points out that it’s only five pieces and Ian says the lids count. The world is fucking out of control.

After that, they have the same fucking fight all over again about cooking utensils. First about the number--who the FUCK needs 26 “utensils?”--and then about colour.

He prevails on colour, if not the style, and they land in the middle with numbers. Ian admits he doesn’t know what two of the utensils are FOR, but since they’re cheaper to buy together, Mickey relents.

“We should get some mixing bowls.”

“Fuck that, we can make the salad on the plate.”

“Just let’s look,” Ian insists, tapping into the search bar. “See what’s there.”

“V still has shit we can take! Not like she went through with that garage sale.”

Ian ignores him and starts to scroll through nested bowls. Sets with rainbow colours and others that are simple plastic shit that’s ugly, but will get the job done. He suggests a few things here and there, and they ARE cheap and a set, where V just had odds and ends they’d be making do with. Finally, he clicks through a collection of three ceramic bowls that are a little nicer than average. A little asymmetrical, textured on the outside and all different colours. They give off a definite Westside vibe.

“How about these?”

“Why?” Mickey frowns. “There’s only three, they got a weird shape, they’re more expensive--”

“Just $23. And look. They kinda double as serving bowls.”

“Who the fuck are we serving?”

“I dunno,” Ian shrugs. He brings up photos of the bowls in action. The big one as a salad bowl, the middle one with fruit. “I just like them.”

He glances up at Mickey and they look at each other a bit. In the way they do when they’re deciding whether or not they’re really going to fight about something. Ian’s expression is open. He looks a little hopeful and a little resigned. Like Mickey isn’t going to get this.

“Look,” Ian sighs. “I don’t want to rent ugly fucking furniture. We got the ambulance. We can Kijiji shit. Go to Ikea or Costco for some of it. But we can be a little picky. Just a little. I know you know how to be picky.”

Mickey narrows his eyes, though he can’t help but smile a little. “You’re turning into a fucking princess on me.”

“I just… This place is nice. I like the idea of having nice things with you. Shit that’ll last.”

“Plastic lasts.”

“No, but--” Ian pushes out his breath, and cuts himself off in a way Mickey is very fucking familiar with.

“You were gonna say something about that fireman, aren’t you?”

Ian smiles faintly because that’s what he does when Mickey calls him out and is absolutely correct. Mickey’s not torn up about Ian’s exes, but he doesn’t love that they exist. They’d never talked about either in-depth--and Mickey privately cherishes the one time Ian, almost off-handedly, mentioned that he’d been in love with Mickey the whole time they’d been apart. So fuck those guys. They’d never had Ian the way Mickey did. One of the worst things about their fight in front of Barry’s had been Ian asking him if he’d been in love with anyone else--because who the fuck had IAN been in love with other than Mickey? Not that fucking do-gooder he’d been with when Mickey broke out. He hadn’t had to do more than raise an eyebrow to blow that situation up. And not the firefighter, either. Maybe the firefighter’s espresso machine.

“I never think about him,” Ian says like he can read MIckey’s mind. “But sometimes I think about his kitchen.” He nudges Mickey’s shoulder with his. “We don’t have to get the bare fucking minimum every time. We can afford to go one step above the bare minimum.”

Mickey looks back at Ian’s phone. He can acknowledge the aesthetic superiority. And why admitting them to the apartment might not be a total surrender to some brave new world Ian wants to drag him into. There’s not that much money from the wedding and there never was. But there’s some. And when he thinks of this shit as wedding gifts… Well. He can see it.

“Ok. Knock yourself out, Daddy Warbucks.”

***

They end up putting a little over $200 on Ian’s secured credit card, which isn’t too bad, really. Mickey agreed to a casserole set and the slightly nicer flatware set, and Ian agreed they could cheap out on the coffeemaker. At the last second, Mickey realizes they don’t have a fucking can opener and they get a giddy rush out of the remembering before they confirmed the order.

The fuck is happening to him?

He blames the fact that Ian looks so fucking happy. When they hit purchase, he puts his phone face down on the floor and looks over at Mickey almost pulsating with delight. Happiest Mickey’s seen him since their anniversary party.

“You really got a kink about kitchen shit, huh?”

“Maybe I got a kink about compromise. Come on. That was kinda fun.”

It was. But he has no fucking idea why. Other than the fact that he generally finds Ian fun. And when the stakes are low, he kinda enjoys fighting with him.

“Don’t mind buying from the evil overlords?”

Ian makes a face. “I do. But we’re desperate. Which is how they become the evil overlords in the first place.” He rolls onto his side and pulls on Mickey until he relents and allows himself to be dragged into a full-body hug, all From Here to Eternity on their fucking air mattress. Ian leans down and kisses him, all sweet and soft.

“This is what I pictured, you know? Spending our money together. Figuring shit out.”

“You’re really into this.”

Ian gazes at him and Mickey lets him.

“Yeah. I guess I am.”

Something, deep in the pit of MIckey’s belly, cracks open. A little knot of worry and uncertainty slips free and he smiles.

“Good. You better be.”

***

The next few days remind Mickey of prison.

Not really. It’s not actually like being in prison.

But it’s like how being in prison was for them. Right when he got there. When Ian arrived and they were barely even aware of other people. When Ian would stare at him and then suddenly crack up saying “I can’t believe you’re here.” When they’d push each other into the hidden corner of the cell so they could kiss and laugh and just revel in being together. It had been one of the best times of MIckey’s entire life.

He had known it was extreme. To flip on a cartel. To come back to the US. To do it all for an ex he hadn’t seen in over a year. But he had never thought about Ian as an ex. Nothing about them had ever felt over to Mickey and whenever they found each other again Ian sure acted like it wasn’t over, so. He’d expected Ian to be some kind of happy to see him. But Ian had been ecstatic, and they’d fallen back together like nothing had happened. Like Mickey had just been on some long trip. There was shit to catch up on. But after that, there was a long period where things were just easy and he felt immune to the stress of what was going on around them in a way that he didn’t usually associate with prison life.

That’s what the next few days feel like. But better, because they’re alone and Mickey realizes that a part of him has fantasized about having Ian all to himself, with no fucking interruptions or interlopers since he was seventeen. And shit is objectively fucked up. There’s a lot for Ian to worry about. And a lot he IS worrying about. But none of it entirely penetrates. They’re in their bubble. One year married. Happy. Together. Having fun while they ignore all the bad shit. Ian’s phone rings a lot, but Mickey notices he keeps leaving it in the bedroom and only answers when it’s Liam. He texts a little. Consents to a couple of short calls with Lip, but for the most part, Ian doesn’t want to talk to his family.

Mickey doesn’t ask. They find other shit to do. Their Amazon order arrives and they set up the kitchen together. Ian writes out a meal plan, which Mickey finds annoying, but consents to. They start a list where they write down all the shit they don’t have as they notice it:

Salt
Pepper
Blinds/curtains
Kitchen towels
Paper towels
Jam

They look at a lot of websites, always sitting with their heads close so they can debate the merits of buying a dining set used or new, and what they’d do if a used couch had bedbugs.

Ian gets really into cooking TikTok. One night, Mickey wanders into the bedroom and finds him viewing a video where a woman makes “mashed potatoes” by boiling two full bags of Lays potato chips.

“You make me eat that, I will kill you in your sleep,” Mickey tells him, sliding under the covers.

Ian laughs over that for three straight minutes at that. They aren’t even high.

They choose a show to binge together, deciding on Prison Break, even though Ian suggests it might be “triggering” and then Mickey makes fun of him for days for using the word triggering. The show’s old, but they get sucked in immediately, and Mickey really likes having shit like that together. Debating when to watch the next episode, agreeing they can’t stop after that fucking cliffhanger. Making dumb jokes about how the lead character is fucking insane not to get something going with his hot and devoted cellmate.

Ian takes the lead on organizing meals, but they mostly do everything together. Ian adds dumb flourishes where he can, like heating up bread they can’t toast in the oven and shit. Everything they make has leftovers, but the first night they eat some of the lasagna, he makes them sit on the air mattress with the fire on, and toast with their one beer.

They have to ration the beer and that’s kinda like prison too, because Mickey finds he quickly falls out of the habit when he and Ian can just hang out and talk about dumb shit without anyone else turning up and making things complicated.

They start talking about their future. Like, a lot. Mickey’s braced for Ian to bring up kids again, but he doesn’t. He wants to talk about the business and about things they can do together. The apartment, what they want and how to get it. Ian keeps bringing up how long it’ll be before they can legally leave the state. One night, he talks about how he thinks about the nights they were together, trying to get to Mexico. He wants to try another road trip.

He looks at Mickey, meaningfully, acknowledging all that fucking baggage. Mickey smiles in absolution. Presses a quick kiss to Ian’s mouth. Tells him it sounds good to him.

On Wednesday, around the point you’d think they should be getting really fucking sick of each other, Ian tells Mickey it’s been six days since their last exposure to Frank. Most people show some symptoms within six days.

“Then why do they make us lock ourselves up for 14?”

“Outliers.” Ian moves forward and puts a hand on Mickey’s hip. “We could still have it.”

“But it’s not as likely.”

Ian pulls Mickey into him. “No.”

They have a lot of sex.

What they don’t do, and they don’t talk about, is Frank. And that’s not fucking new. But Mickey watches out for all the shit he knows to watch out for with Ian. His little tells--up, down, happy, sad, irritable, over-excited--and none of them really come. He gets a little antsy about exercise, but then he finds a video of basic callisthenics, like a grade school gym class, and does his Ian thing, where he counts off burpees and sit-ups and jumping jacks. And that’s all pretty fucking normal, too.

Really only two things flag for Mickey. Ian’s a little more clingy than usual, in a literal fucking way. Comes up and leans against Mickey’s back while he’s trying to do the dishes with no drying rack and no towels. Sits a little closer while they eat. Cuddles more at night. Mickey has no objections, but he notices it.

Ian’s also both avoiding his phone and consistently looks a little bummed when he checks it. And Mickey doesn't know what that’s about but he hesitates to ask.

***

“We’ve been invited for drinks,” Ian tells Mickey on the Saturday morning that marks a full week since they last left the house.

“Drinks? Who the fuck by?”

“Jill and Alan. That couple from the pool.”

It takes Mickey a moment. Then he grunts. “Those assholes.”

"You didn’t even talk to them! Can’t go anyway. Grounded."

Ian keeps texting away, stretched out on top of the bed next to Mickey. They’ve both gotten up, eaten, showered and then...changed back into their PJs, because what else is there to wear, anyway? Mickey watches him a moment and when the conversation doesn’t seem to be coming to an end, he nudges.

“What’re you telling them?”

“The truth,” Ian shrugs. “It’s a good excuse and… I don’t really want them to think I’m blowing them off. They were nice.”

“They were not fucking NICE.”

“SHE was nice and you’re not that fucking sunny, either, so. It’s not the fucking worst thing to know your neighbours. Always knew our neighbours in Southside.

“Fat lot of good it did us.”

Ian doesn’t say anything. Maybe because of Kev and V, or maybe because he’s fucking texting with this woman--zero surprise he’d have exchange phone numbers after one conversation--and he isn’t paying attention. Mickey watches suspiciously a few more minutes until Ian finally puts down his phone and rolls over to face his husband.

“Can I trade looking at organic fruit for having drinks with Jill and Alan, like, SOME fucking day?”

“Maybe.”

Ian grins and it’s overly flirtatious. “I’ll throw in a blow job.”

“You blow me all the fucking time! Your mouth’s not that magical.”

“Never had any complaints.”

Fucking ASSHOLE. Mickey tries to maintain his grump.

“Sitting around having drinks with these westside dickheads is a hell of a lot worse than just going to look at some fucking fruit.”

“Would you rather go to a yoga class?”

“Why are we renegotiating? We made a deal!”

“It’s free booze. And I bet they have food.”

“It’ll be boring. You said that Alan guy was a dick.”

Ian’s hand snakes across Mickey’s belly. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

God damn. He should be past this shit by now, shouldn’t he? It shouldn’t still be possible for Ian to fucking seduce him into shit like this. But it fucking gets to him when Ian looks at him like this. When he makes it sound like he’s got some fucking ideas. Mickey’s heart picks up speed and his breath gets shallow in anticipation of what Ian might consider worth Mickey’s while.

“You think your dick is so fucking powerful.”

Ian moves fast and grab’s Mickey’s wrists, pinning him to the bed. “I think you like it when I’m powerful.”

There’s no point in denying it. Ian’s not wrong and Mickey knows he’s not even a little subtle as he squirms underneath him. So he lets himself smile. Even laugh a little.

“Fine. Let’s hear your opening argument.”

He’s still smiling as Ian dives down to kiss him with every fucking thing he has.

***

When there’s a knock on the door, Mickey nearly jumps out of his skin and his first instinct is to reach for a gun. Ian, standing right next to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, either in comfort or restraint. Mickey’s never sure which.

“Hey, Ian!” a woman’s voice sings out. “Don’t open the door! Just leaving you and your husband a little welcome package. So sorry about your father!”

“Oh,” Ian looks startled. “Thanks, Jill.”

“Oh, it’s our pleasure! But really. I’m so sorry. Alan and I send our condolences.”

Ian and Mickey exchange a look. Ian frowns, in clear discomfort. “Uh. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Mickey echos. “That’s real nice of you.”

“Well, you two take care! Give us a shout when you're out of your quarantine!”

Mickey gives her a minute to get back down the hallway and then goes for the door because, shit! Free stuff.

“Holy fuck,” Mickey laughs, picking up the fucking BOX this lady has left on their doorstep. “Look at this!”

Ian hangs back like they’ve been left an explosive device as Mickey puts the box down on their kitchen counter and starts to dig through it. It’s obvious she just did a Trader Joe’s run, but Mickey’s into it. He fishes out a little glass bottle and holds it up for his husband’s inspection. “Salt!”

Ian barely smiles. “Yeah, I told her we weren’t exactly well-stocked.”

“Some kind of fucking spices and shit,” Mickey starts to pull things out and lay them on the counter. “What the fuck is Eggplant Garlic Spread? COOKIE Butter!”

There’s bags of flavoured popcorn, some baking mixes, some dried fruit shit. And as Mickey picks things up and reads out their name, Ian ventures closer like some scared animal being tempted out of hiding. “Vintage Spiced Ale. These people are all right.” And then he spots it. And he can fucking tell it’s going to be a thing, so he plucks the Hallmark card tucked into the corner and hands it to Ian like it doesn’t matter. “Kale gnocchi. Ok. Maybe I take that back.”

Mickey starts to put things away, running a commentary like Ian isn’t acting weird. When he looks back, Ian’s opened the card. There are flowers on the front and a swooping font that says “With Sympathy.” He stops what he’s doing and waits for Ian to look up. When he does, his face is stony. He tosses the card onto the counter.

“I don’t want fucking condolences.”

“Yeah, well. People think it’s what they’re supposed to do.” He clears his throat. “Was kinda surprised you told her.”

Ian shrugs. “She asked how we got exposed. Then she asked how my dad was.”

“Fucking normal people. They expect everyone else to be like them. Especially you. You fit in too well.”

Ian snorts. “You’re saying this is my fault?”

“Yeah. Our super-friendly neighbour lady bringing us food is definitely your fault. I promise, you’d thrown a chair in the pool like I did, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

Ian rolls his eyes. But he smiles.

Here.” Mickey pops the top off of the container in his hands. “Have a fancy fucking peanut butter cup.”

His husband complies.

***

The next time Ian initiates sex he’s not looking for comfort.

***

Two nights later, in the middle of high-stakes drama at the Fox River State Penitentiary, Ian’s phone rings and, for the first time in days, he answers it.

“Hey,” he sounds nearly relieved. “Fiona.”

Mickey pauses the show on his phone and Ian gives him an apologetic look as he sits up.

“Hey. Hey, I’m glad you called. How’re you doing?”

Mickey knows in his bones it’s gonna be a long call so he rolls off the bed, groans and stretches, and wanders off to their tiny fucking balcony to have a smoke.

They’re rationing cigarettes, too, though they’ve both cut way back during all this COVID bullshit. He’d agreed to smoke on the balcony entirely because he was pissed about the security deposit and wanted every single penny of it back when they finally decide to move on from this dump.

The longer they’re married, the more certain Mickey is that he knows Ian to his core. So he knows Ian’s processing shit. And he’ll talk about it when he wants to. But he didn’t get until tonight that part of whatever the fuck is going on in his head involves his sister. It unsettles him a little, so he smokes and looks out at the street from the second floor. Listens to the lack of city noise. Wonders if he should feel guilty for how much he’s had fun this past week. How they’ve been fighting less and talking more and how he’s kinda glad this shit happened. Because he has been freaked out by this marriage shit. He’d wanted to get married so they could keep things the way they were. But then Ian had decided that it meant all this shit had to change. It made Mickey anxious and pricked at his insecurities. Like if Ian wanted more space, more quiet, more kitchen appliances, this was inevitably going to lead to him wanting more in his husband. And Mickey wasn’t entirely sure he had more in him.

But then this had happened and Ian only seemed to want to be with him and was avoiding everyone else and was fucking giddy over buying fucking mixing bowls together. They still liked the same TV shows and liked to argue about things that didn’t matter. He likes feeling like this. Like they make each other happy. Like they belong together. He knows it’s harder to see that shit when life is moving at full speed. So he’s taking fucking note: when he and Ian stop and it’s just the two of them, it all still works.

But he would like to know why Ian’s suddenly so into talking to Fiona.

***

When Mickey comes back in, Ian’s pacing in the living room, deep in conversation. He touches Mickey’s arm lightly as he passes, but doesn’t say anything. Mickey goes back to the bedroom and plays a game on his phone for a bit. Opens Netflix and watches half an episode of Riverdale pretty much entirely because it has actual (annoying) gay people on it. When it hits midnight, he surrenders the hope that Ian is coming back. Brushes his teeth, washes up a bit and goes to bed.

Ian follows a good hour later. Mickey’s still awake, but barely. Still hanging on to a tiny bit of worry. But when Ian slides into bed, he moves to him, puts his arm around Mickey’s waist so they can spoon. He buries his face in the back of Mickey’s neck. Presses a kiss to the top of his spine.

Mickey smiles in recognition and then drifts off to sleep.

***

Mickey gets up first the next morning, and that’s not weird. Ian’s medication has kept them from drifting too far from their normal schedule, and they’ve started to fall into patterns. He’s started to become the one to get up first, put the coffee on, and then grab his shower. Ian gets up a little later, brushes his teeth in the “en suite” (Mickey still can’t believe they have as many bathrooms in this place as the entire Gallagher house) and starts breakfast--even when it’s just cereal--so that everything is ready to go when Mickey pads back out to the kitchen. He likes this. If Ian’s version of marriage is making plans and compromising on kitchen gadgets, then this is closer to what Mickey envisioned: Taking care of each other. Getting shit done. He likes it when Ian pours his coffee to a truly ridiculous degree. So when he comes out of the bathroom to find that Ian decided to make honest to God breakfast--scrambled eggs seasoned with a spice mix from Jill, along with their warm bread trick with cheese so that he can kinda fold them in with a slice of bologna and consider it a breakfast sandwich--he is almost embarrassed by how good he feels.

“I was thinking,” Ian says, handing him his plate, “that we should start looking at second-hand dining sets online. Like we’ll be out of quarantine Thursday morning. We’d only be asking them to hold on to something for a few days.”

“Whatever you want, Buttercup. I don’t have plans today.”

Whatever the fuck is in the eggs is fucking incredible and Mickey feels a bit warmer inside as he sips on his coffee. “How’s Fiona?”

He doesn’t mean it to be loaded. Or he doesn’t WANT it to be loaded. He’s had Ian’s company and attention pretty every second for the past ten days. But it does feel weird and Ian glances up like he recognizes the edge of hurt in Mickey’s voice.

“Good. We hadn’t really talked in a while.”

“You sure talked last night.”

Ian chews as if it takes great effort and then shrugs. “Had a lot to say I guess.”

“What about?”

Mickey knows he’s pushing, but Ian just looks up at him and smiles. “Well. I had to tell her my husband threw me an awesome surprise party.”

“You fucking didn’t.”

“Of course I did!”

Mickey can tell his ears are turning pink. “Why the fuck are you telling her that?”

“Mickey, my entire family was there. She asked about it. Besides. I can’t tell her fuck all about my life without talking about you. You’re my husband. AND my business partner. She says hi, by the way.”

“Fuck you, she does not.”

“Tell Mickey I said hello. Direct quote.” Ian takes another bite of his sandwich and doesn’t talk again until she’s washed it down with a swig from his coffee. “I don’t know. She’s been on my mind lately. Something about all this shit with your dad and Frank. I just wanted to talk to her. Like… really talk to her, you know?”

“Nah. I don’t fucking talk to anyone for three hours.”

Ian doesn’t point out that Mickey could easily talk to Ian for that long. Instead, he just exhales. “I’ve been letting her be away, you know? Giving her space. I think I was giving her space even before she left. Like, I knew she felt responsible for me and shit and she didn’t want to be.” Emotion starts to edge into Ian’s voice. “And things got pretty fucking ugly between us the last time I was manic. I felt like I owed her… I owed her not having to deal with me for a bit. So, like, I didn’t call much and I was cool with it when she didn’t come to the wedding. But some fucking switch flipped and suddenly I don’t feel that way anymore.”

“Just like that.”

“Maybe ‘cause… I know I’m not really her problem anymore.”

“Yeah? Then whose problem are you?”

Ian smiles at him. Just the slightest tinge of regret. “Yours.”

“Damn right.”

They look at each other, Mickey feeling like they’re sharing an understanding. Ian’s getting less scared of losing control. Mickey knows he’s got some control over their lives together and what it looks like.

“So. Fiona says hi to my secretly sweet husband. And she probably also says thank you.”

Mickey knows that this stuff is still touchy with Ian and he still needs some reassurance about it. So he plays dumb and puts his plate down on the counter.

“You tell her I’m fucking sweet, I’ll send you back to her UPS. Cash on Delivery.”

Ian grins as he pops the last bite of his breakfast in his mouth. He pushes off the counter and reaches out for Mickey, pulling him in. Mickey rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Just want a hug from my husband. Sweet or otherwise.”

So Mickey slides his arms around Ian’s waist and holds tight, while Ian tucks his head to Mickey’s neck and breathes.

***

Thursday morning, Ian is already awake when Mickey opens his eyes. He had a hand lying flat on Mickeys’ chest, resting over his heart.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s up with you?”

“How’re you feeling?”

Mickey smiles slightly, then pulls in a deep breath. “I seem ok. How about you?”

Ian mimics his movement, drawing in his own breath. “All good here. Guess that means we’re out of quarantine.”

“Congratulations,” Mickey drawls. “What d’you wanna do with our newfound freedom?”

Ian hmms, stretching and scratching his chest. “Laundry. Grocery shopping.”

“Fucking awesome.” Mickey lets his eyes close. “I’m in.”

***

It really is a fucking miracle, in the end, that no one got sick. Like, no one. Not V, cleaning up Frank’s puke during his last trip to The Alibi. Not Liam, who hung out with him for a whole long day trying to make him feel better. And not Mickey, his unwitting roommate for that one fucking night. Frank went out clean and took no one down with him. When Ian and Mickey swing by South Wallace that afternoon, the Gallaghers joke that it was a final gift. And also his only gift.

But the real truth of it, Ian tells him later, is that COVID is at its best when it gets you alone in a room for fifteen minutes. “No one spent fifteen minutes with him,” Ian shrugs. “Even Liam. They were mostly outside.”

“Still think you guys dodged a bullet, man.”

“You definitely did,” Ian sighs. “Liam did. Not me.”

Mickey narrows his eyes. “You feeling guilty?”

“No.”

“Ok. Good.”

Ian keeps staring into space though. Mickey nudges his knee against his husband’s. “Gonna celebrate my newfound freedom by going to pick us up some fucking take out. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Ian smiles, though his eyes are a little glassy. “Sounds good.”

***

Life goes back to normal. Ian and Mickey hit their rounds again. Sandy wasn’t so bad that people complain, but they seem to be happy to see their regular guys back, which Mickey figures is about perfect. Ian gets aggressive about filling in some of the holes in their apartment situation. They finally get some cheap dishes. Order some blinds they can install themselves for the bedroom. They make a deal over email with a guy out in Evanston and by Saturday night they have an actual table they can eat at. They agree that they’re going to end up buying an actual couch. Probably from Ikea.

Lip and Debbie invite them to dinner on Sunday but Ian begs off, saying he has a headache. He plainly doesn’t, and he and Mickey spend the night finishing off Prison Break’s first season and then having particularly involved and athletic sex.

Days after they exit the quarantine, the great state of Illinois opens vaccines to everyone 16 and up. Mickey pursues appointments for him and Ian with rabid determination. Not that being stuck with Ian for 14 solid days hadn’t been kinda great... but it had set them back. They were gonna have to hustle to get back on track and he’s not doing this shit again. Ian’s got him thinking about the future. About whether or not they want a fucking rug in the living room. He wants to keep the money coming in.

Then next Saturday morning, Ian pulls Mickey out of bed at the fucking crack of dawn to hit some Northside garage sales. This is fucking Jill’s fault, which sets her back in Mickey’s good graces as much as he’s had to admit he didn’t hate the kale gnocchi once Ian got done with it. He re-evaluates when they get a pretty good TV for $25 because one of the HDMI ports doesn’t work.

And a toaster. Mickey’s been feeling pretty deprived without one, so that alone cheers him up a bit. However, he makes Ian promise this isn’t going to become a fucking thing as they pack their haul into the back of the ambulance. Ian, looking distractingly good in a clean-cut sort of way, shuts the back door and turns to drape his arms over Mickey’s shoulders.

“I promise.” He gives Mickey a couple of light kisses, then goes in for a third and fourth, like he can’t quite stop himself. Mickey pulls back and eyes his husband suspiciously.

“You doing ok?”

“I’m great.” And he looks great. He’s smiling and it’s sunny and the air is damp and fresh. “Let’s go find a diner. Get some breakfast.”

Fucking awesome.

But shit is nagging at him. That night, as they eat something called Dragon Noodles that Ian made entirely on his own, Mickey tries to figure out what’s that about. Ian is still cheerful. Possibly on an upswing, but upswings and downswings are part of the deal and it’s pretty fucking rare that it’s a big enough deal to matter. Mickey’s heard about what Ian went through when Monica died, so maybe he should be paying extra attention, but…

But. He trusts his read on his husband. Something’s up. But it’s not that.

Mickey is rinsing dishes to put them in their dishwasher when he notices Ian answering a text.

“Something going on?”

“Ah. not really. Debbie wants us to come for dinner tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Mickey says, keeping his voice light. “What time?”

Ian frowns. Hunches his shoulder.

“Ok, asshole,” Mickey shuts the dishwasher and turns to face his husband. “Why are we avoiding your fucking family?”

“We’re not. I saw Lip Wednesday--”

“If we blow off dinner two weeks in a row, we are DEFINITELY avoiding your family.”

Ian shifts his weight. Looks up to examine the seam between the wall and the ceiling. “They’re gonna want to talk about Frank.”

“So what? Let them talk about Frank.”

Ian shakes his head. Doesn’t answer.

“Ian,” Mickey sighs. “No way you’d let me get away with this shit.”

“I’d a hundred percent let you avoid your fucking family if you wanted.”

“Not the same thing.” He waits, but Ian doesn’t say anything. “You seriously don’t want to talk to me about this?”

“Nothing to talk about. It’s fine. You’re right. We’ll go.”

Mickey scowls as he turns to push buttons to start the wash cycle. So now he’s somehow the one insisting they haul themselves out to Southside to hang out with Ian’s family. Marriage is fucking weird.

***

Ian wasn't wrong. There’s a lot of Frank talk. And a lot of that is about whether or not there’s going to be a memorial. Lip is dismissive, but Liam gets emotional about it and that seems to set it in stone.

Fine. There will be a memorial. When will depend on Fiona. Because, for the first time in two years, she’s decided to come home. Something she apparently told Ian during their marathon phone call.

“She wants to see if she can get her first shot before, though.”

Debbie snorts. “Why?”

“‘Cause she’d have to fly. And she’s been working for a food truck the last few months, so it’s not the safest shit in the world.”

“How the fuck do you know that?” Debbie demands. “She didn’t tell me that!”

Ian sighs and looks completely exhausted at the idea of continuing this conversation, so Mickey cuts in. “Me and Ian are going to get jabbed on Tuesday. This quarantine shit sucked.”

There’s an explosion of conversation after that, about vaccination and how much it matters and who is watching too many Facebook videos and whether or not Liam has a right to live in a house with vaccinated adults and… what the fuck ever. Debbie complains that she wasn’t even planning on staying in town that long and that kicks off another series of freakouts. Ian ends up pushed back from the table, arms crossed, looking at the floor.

“Look,” Mickey says, getting to his feet. “You guys work shit out and tell us when we gotta be someplace. We’re gonna take off.”

Ian doesn’t even try to hide his gratitude.

***

When Mickey comes to bed that night, Ian is furiously texting with someone and over the last few weeks, it’s become easy for Mickey to guess.

“Fiona?”

“Debbie called her. She was pissed she’d told me some shit she hadn’t told her.”

“Why? What the fuck does it matter?”

Ian shrugs and thumbs out another message. “No fucking idea. ‘Cause they’re the sisters, I guess.”

Mickey doesn’t bother to point out that Ian and Fiona aren’t even that close, because this suddenly seems like a giant sore spot. Ian tosses his phone down anyway. “Doesn’t matter. They’ll figure it out.” Ian reaches out to grab Mickey just as he slides into bed, dragging him towards him and into his arms. He smooths Mickey’s hair back, studying his face. “We’ll just show up.”

“Mmm.” Mickey lifts his head and presses a soft kiss against Ian’s mouth. “You sure you’re ok?”

“I’m great.”

***

Almost six weeks go by between Frank’s death and the wake at The Alibi. Kev and V close down late Sunday afternoon for a family-only event.

Family, plus Balls, plus Tommy and Kermit.

Ian stays weird from the time Debbie announces what she and Fiona decided, to the day of the memorial. Focuses on the apartment and cooking and Mickey. Barely talks to anyone else. It’s weird enough that Lip even reaches out to Mickey to ask if Ian’s ok. Taking his meds? Getting enough sleep?

“He’s fucking fine,” Mickey shoots back at the barrage of questions. “Frank died. He gets to be weird for a bit.”

“Yeah, well. It’d be nice if we could all be weird together.”

Mickey gets why Lip would expect that. Mickey had expected it, too. He softens enough to tell Lip that Ian is fine. “I’ll tell you if there’s something to fucking worry about.”

“Can that be a standing offer?” Lip asks.

Fucking Gallaghers. Always pushing.

***

They get up a little late on the morning of the wake. Mickey makes breakfast when it becomes clear Ian’s gonna be slow to get moving. He lets Mickey herd him. Doesn’t object to his pills being put by his plate, which is normally a good way to start a fight. Stays quiet, but affectionate. Kisses Mickey’s cheek as he moves past him in their narrow kitchen. Takes his hand when they mask up and leave the apartment.

They go straight to The Alibi. Fiona’s standing outside smoking a cigarette when they get there and lets out a whoop when she sees Ian. He drops Mickey’s hand and rushes forward, sweeping his sister up in a crushing hug.

“Hey!” she laughs. “I was waiting for you!”

Ian fully spins her around before he puts her back on her feet. He’s grinning as she reaches up and cups his cheek. “Look at you. You look so good!”

“Yeah, well,” Ian shrugs, then glances back at Mickey. Fiona turns her gaze on him and beams. It’s a surprise to be on the receiving end of that smile. There’s no hesitation. No moment where she schools her expression. She just grins and reaches out both arms.

“Oh my God. It’s my brother-in-law!”

Oh, what the fuck?

But she comes at him and pulls him into a hug and it definitely seems like the best choice is to go with it.

“Hey, Fiona,” he murmurs back. “How’re you doing?”

“LOOK at you two!” she gushes, then holds up both hands. “We gotta go for dinner while I’m here. Just the three of us. I still feel like shit for missing your wedding. Let me take you out to make up for it.”

“You don't have to make up for anything,” Ian objects.

“Nah, she can make up for it a little.” Mickey means it as a joke but immediately wants to take it back. Because it’s been a fucking long time since he saw Fiona. And while they’d had some moments, he had no reason to think she actually approves of him.

But Fiona just smiles and punches Ian’s arm. “There you go. Listen to your husband. Fuck! HUSBAND. That’s so crazy.”

She keeps talking as she moves back towards The Alibi, probably a little wound up from all the shit that is going on. And Ian looks a little more alive for it, but he still grabs Mickey’s hand as they head through the door. Squeezes it.

Mickey squeezes back.

***

There’s a big picture of Frank at one end of the bar, classic rock on the stereo, and an urn sitting alone in the middle of a table. Old Style served in the bottle and some random food that looks like it came entirely from Food 4 Less. Cut up fruit, chips and dip. That kind of shit. They haven’t set up chairs so everyone sits wherever they want -- either in booths or at the bar. Ian and Mickey drop down at one of the tables near the door. Kev elects himself master of ceremonies. Opens with some flowery words about how Frank saw himself--the Jester of Southside. Living by his wit and charm.

“The rest of us saw him kinda like an infestation. Sometimes a rat. Sometimes a cockroach. On a good day, kinda harmless. On a bad day--” he shrugs. “He could ruin your life. He died how he lived--owing everyone in this room money. But today we gather to honour him as a legend of our times. Even if it was only in his own mind.”

That’s kinda how it goes. Everyone tells Frank stories. Most focus on the outrageous. Sometimes they come up with something sweet. They avoid the worst topics. Fiona doesn’t talk about her wedding, even though Ian says later it probably counted for both’s best and worst. Instead, she tells a story about selling batteries and charging phones during a blackout. And Frank telling her she was a mean drunk.

“Everyone here knows it wasn’t a fucking picnic, having Frank for a Dad. But he had his moments.” She smirks, tears in her eyes. “And who the fuck knows where I’d be without him.”

Almost definitely somewhere better, Mickey thinks. The room seems to agree with him.

Lip talks next, and Ian visibly tenses when he realizes this is probably going to go in birth order. He drops Mickey’s hand and leans over his legs, almost like he’s gonna be sick. Lip talks about how he and Frank never saw eye-to-eye when it came to being alcoholics. But he tells a story about Frank giving him some advice about Fred that wasn’t completely useless.

“Thanks for the shitty genes, Frank,” Lip says, finishing up. “And for the sterling example of what not to do.”

People clap and then eyes drift towards Ian, who is still bent over, jigging his leg.

“I’ll say something,” Mickey gets to his feet. “Since I’m fucking here and shit.”

And he should have thought of something. But Frank’s always been one of those things Mickey just doesn’t think about.

“Frank…” He pushes out his breath. “Frank knew about me and Ian before almost any of you assholes. But he never said anything. Probably because he legitimately didn’t give a fuck, but. I appreciate that, Frank. Thanks for not making me kill you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter, though Liam looks a bit concerned. Mickey sighs and gestures towards the urn with his beer. “So to Frank Gallagher, I guess. He coulda been worse.”

Mickey shoves Carl’s shoulder as he sits down, and though his brother-in-law looks confused, he takes the fucking hint and goes next.

It’s a little haphazard after that. Carl talks, then V, then Tommy. Debbie gets up and talks about everything Frank did for her when she was pregnant with Franny. Ian calms a bit beside him. He eventually chooses his own moment. Following Kermit, who hadn’t made any fucking sense as far as Mickey could tell.

“Frank,” Ian takes a breath. Frowns. Then he shakes his head and says “I don’t have a lot of stories about Frank. Like, I got the ones we all have. Looking for him when he didn’t come home. Trying to keep him out of the house when he wasn't supposed to be there.” Ian glances over at Mickey. “He attacked me once over a case of beer, so there’s that kind of shit. I guess the best thing I can say is that he mostly left me alone. Like Mickey said, he didn’t give a fuck that I was gay. Which, I guess, he could have.”

“He got you that car for your wedding,” Liam speaks up. Ian smiles and cocks his head to one side.

“YOU got us that car for our wedding.” Ian glances down. Scratches at the label on his beer bottle with his thumb. “I just don’t have that much to say about Frank,” he admits. “I don’t have a lot of stories.” He shrugs, smiling wryly. “So I guess that’s it from me.”

Kev leads another round of applause.

***

When everyone has talked, and a million toasts have been made and the wake has moved on to the drinking and the partying, Mickey looks up from a conversation with Kev and notices Ian’s not in the room.

No surprise. None. He checks out front of the bar, and when that doesn’t turn his husband up, Mickey heads to the back alley. Sure enough, he finds Ian leaning against the wall with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Mickey stands there a minute, waiting for Ian to acknowledge his presence. When he doesn’t, he joins him on the wall. Takes the beer our his husband’s hand and takes a swig before pressing it back into Ian’s hand.

“Whatcha doing out here?”

Ian shrugs. “Trying to come up with a convincing reason to leave.”

“Yeah? That bad?”

“Not yet.”

Mickey nods. He turns his body towards him so that he’s leaning his shoulder against the wall. “This is the most fucked up you’ve been about this the whole time.”

“Yeah,” Ian admits. “When it comes to Frank, I’m a fucking sociopath. No feelings. Dead inside.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, I’ve always thought that about you. Stone cold.”

Ian shoots him a look. “Just about Frank. And if that was ever gonna change, I figured it’d be now. But… I don’t know. I looked. I tried to feel something. And fuck,” Ian takes a quick drag. “I guess I feel shitty about his bad fucking choices. And that he could never find something worth fighting for, other than new ways to get fucked up. Like I feel bad about that as a concept.”

“Going deep here, Gallagher.”

Ian turns the cigarette in his fingers. Fixes his eyes on the lit end. “He didn’t love me. I always knew that. And at some point, I stopped caring. And I’ve known a long time, that out of all of us, I was gonna care the least when he finally kicked off. I was going to have nothing to say, I wasn’t going to miss him, I wasn’t going to be that fucked up about it. And I’m not.”

Mickey lets his fingers brush the back of Ian’s hand. “You’re fucked up about something.”

“Maybe I’m pissed. That they have each other. I mean, not really. But it’s hard to watch. It’s hard… When I didn’t have that from them when I needed it. But they couldn’t make themselves give a shit that Monica was dead. And I can’t make myself give a shit about Frank.”

“This have anything to do with why you and Fiona are suddenly talking so much?”

“No,” Ian sighs. “That’s just… What I said before. That’s just me wanting back the shit I felt like I lost because of Monica. And thinking I could probably get it.” Ian finally looks over at him and there are tears standing in his eyes. “I’m just always the odd one out on this parent shit. And maybe this is the last time it fucking matters, but. Still sucks.”

“Ok,” Mickey grunts, reaching out for him. “Come here.”

Ian tosses down his cigarette and rolls into Mickey’s arms. He’s crying. Finally. Even if it’s not over Frank, it feels like something Ian’s needed to do. Mickey pats his back. “Jesus, you have a lot of baggage.”

Ian half laughs and half sobs, and just holds Mickey tighter and lets Mickey hold him. Minutes pass before Ian pushes back. Straightens up, sniffs. Brushes at Mickey’s shirt where he’s probably left some tear stains behind.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he manages. Mickey rolls his eyes as he takes Ian’s hand to stop him from fussing about whatever damage he might have left. He knows what Ian means. Why he says it. It's not just that Mickey is here, but that he isn’t alone. That he’s not going to be isolated like last time. That they’ve got each other, and Ian doesn't have to deal it all on his own. So Mickey says what he’s said before. What he will always say.

“Where the fuck else would I be?”