Work Text:
Ian tucked his feet underneath him as he settled onto the couch. Debbie joined him shortly, passing him a glass of water and several small, coloured pills. Ian swallowed them with practiced ease, followed by a gulp of water, and reached past his sister to grab the remote control.
“Hey!” Debbie swatted his hand away, taking the controller herself. “It was your turn with the TV yesterday.”
“I don’t think it really counts if I wasn’t home last night.”
Debbie shrugged and turned the television on. “Your loss. And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaking in last night. You’re meant to have a stable sleep schedule.”
“One night ain’t gonna kill me, Debs.”
“I know, but I told Fiona I’d keep an eye on you.”
“And you are but I can make my own decisions.”
“Whatever,” she said, flicking through the channels aimlessly, settling on one for a minute or so before changing her mind. She discarded each of Ian’s suggestions, instead choosing to pause on each reality show she came across. Resigned to his fate of Real Housewives for the foreseeable future, Ian slipped his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. His smiled at his background, a photo with him and Liam pulling faces at the camera. Fiona had laughed as they’d taken it, saying that their faces would stay that way if the wind changed.
He pulled up a new message thread and typed in the contact’s name. He stared at the screen for a while, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
“Did you actually get Mickey’s number?”
Ian jumped and fumbled with his phone, hastening to close the message and lock the screen. “What?”
“On your phone. It said ‘Mickey’, didn’t it?”
“Course not.” He shoved her playfully, if only to wipe the knowing grin from her face. “You need to get your eyes checked.”
“I do ‘cause I think they’re deceiving me. Are you, Ian Clayton Gallagher, hesitating to text a guy you want to sleep with?”
He threw her a scandalised look and replied, “You make me sound like some slut.”
She held her hands up in defence. “Hey, I have absolutely no issue with your sexual confidence. Just surprised in this particular situation.”
Ian sank back against the cushions with a world-weary sigh. “I dunno. I mean, like, it’s a bit too weird, isn’t it? Not like I haven’t been with a few shady characters, but one of the kids’ dad who may or may not be married to a Russian prostitute is pushing it a bit far.”
“Thought you said you’d been with married guys before?”
He snorted. Looking back on his younger days was painful sometimes; hindsight was a great and terrible thing. “That’s not really something to be proud of. I was underage and those guys were pretty creepy, actually.” He paused, then teasingly added, “Pretty sure none of them were married to a Russian prostitute, though.”
“Hey, Svetlana is a lovely lady.”
“I know, I know.” Ian ran a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his eyes. “How do you not know if he’s married? You knew he’s a mechanic. Aren’t you supposed to have this on file or something?”
Debbie rolled her eyes. “We have information on the kids and their emergency contacts and stuff. I try not to pry too much. And Mickey was the guy who fixed Chris’s car that one time. He didn’t exactly stand around talking about his love life.”
Ian groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “How do you not know this? You’re supposed to know everything.”
“I just act like I know everything. Lip’s the one who genuinely thinks he knows everything.”
Ian chuckled at that. They settled back into the monotonous lull of reality television, Debbie focusing intently on the dating show, Ian caught up in his own thoughts.
“Is he even gay?”
“Hmm?” Debbie glanced over to him, brows furrowed. “Mickey? Maybe. Gave you his number, didn’t he?”
“But he married Svetlana.”
“Doesn’t mean he can’t like guys too. Why are you so caught up in this, anyway? Just text him or don’t bother if it bugs you so much.”
Ian shrugged, placing his phone away from him on the coffee table with an air of finality. “I dunno, Debs.”
Fucking glitter. Whether it came from rampant toddlers or flamboyant queers, it weaselled its way into Ian’s life and refused to leave. The smallest spillage could wreak havoc for weeks. He found it behind his ears, under his nails and, in one rather bizarre instance, in his coffee. Yet, despite Ian’s protests and misery, Debbie insisted on putting Ian in charge of arts and crafts. He was no Van Gogh but at least he could keep the paints in the pots and the glitter on the page, which was more than he could say for the kids.
“Tristan, Tristan, no, paint is not for eating.” Ian swiped the brush from Tristan’s sticky hands. Tristan’s face slowly morphed, scrunching into a picture of pure despair, and he let out an almighty wail. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. It’s okay, everything’s fine.”
“Een, Trist’n’s cryin’!” Tyler screeched, words muffled around his thumb.
“Yes, thank you, Tyler.” Tristan’s howls were mostly ignored by the rest of the group, who continued making collages of their families, or Picasso-esque variations thereupon.
He crouched beside Tristan’s seat. Tristan’s cheeks reddened but no tears fell from his watery eyes. Ian murmured soothing words to him, trying to calm the boy from his temper tantrum. Tristan shook his head and pummelled his tiny, paint-covered fists against Ian’s shoulder, colouring the once pristine shirt. Ian flinched back away from the assault out of shock rather than pain. Despite his obvious temper, Tristan rarely lashed out physically.
“Okay, buddy, you’re gonna need to take a trip to the time-out zone.” Ian stood in one swift motion and pulled Tristan’s chair back from the table.
“No! No, I hate you!”
“I know, Trist, it sucks, doesn’t it? Are you gonna walk or make me carry you?” He waited, hands on his hips, as Tristan quietened to snotty sobbing. He jumped down from the chair and held onto Ian’s apron, wiping pathetically at his eyes. Ian spared him a subdued smile; he’d grown used to Tristan’s sudden bouts of anger months ago. He and Debbie tried to keep track of his triggers and update his family, but once he got started, they just needed to isolate him and wait for it to pass.
He led Tristan to a small room towards the back of the house. It was by the downstairs bathroom and sparsely decorated; a bed was pushed into one far corner, a baby’s cot in the other. It had various uses, but the primary occupants were either ill or naughty. Tristan trudged in like a man sentenced for life and threw himself onto the bed with the dramatic air only an enraged child could muster.
“Ian, you got a moment?” he heard Debbie call.
“Yeah, hang on!” he replied. He stood by the foot of the bed, watching Tristan’s slender shoulders shake with angry sobs. “You can come out when I tell you to or when you want to come apologise for hitting me and shouting, ‘kay?”
He assumed the groan Tristan gave was one of agreement and went to find Debbie.
“In here,” she said as he passed the bathroom. He halted in his steps and stumbled as he spun around. “Got a bit of a situation in here.”
A small boy was hunched over the toilet, heaving. Debbie ran a comforting hand over his back and grimaced at Ian.
“I tried calling Svetlana but she didn’t pick up. You’ve got Mickey’s number, right?”
“That’s Yev?” The boy raised a hand in a slight wave, acknowledging Ian. “Don’t you have his number on file?”
“Well, yeah, but that involves leaving Yev and finding it.”
“I could stay while you—”
“Ian, would you just call him already?” The fire in her eyes told Ian that she would continue if the man in question’s son wasn’t present.
“I—yeah, sure.” He backed out of the bathroom, pulling his phone from the pocket of his apron. He pulled up Mickey’s contact information, which was entirely blank save for his name and number, and pressed ‘call’. He chewed at his lower lip as the phone dialled, an unfamiliar bundle of nerves coiling in his stomach. Usually he would’ve called a guy a few hours after obtaining the number and be done with him a couple of hours after that. He never second guessed himself, never hesitated. He either wanted someone and went for it, or he ditched them. He was a romantic at heart but relationships hadn’t been his thing for years. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt an almost nauseating anxiety when talking to a guy.
“The fuck is this?”
Shaken from his internal rambling, Ian said, “Oh, hi, Mickey. It’s Ian from day care.”
“Red? Ain’t you at work?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling,” he said, leaning forwards to peer into the bathroom. “It’s Yev. He—”
“Is he okay?”
Ian smiled. The genuine worry in the man’s voice was oddly heart-warming. “Yeah—well, not really. I’m watching him puke his guts up. We tried calling Svetlana but she didn’t answer.”
“Yeah, she don’t turn her phone on much at work. Ruins the atmosphere, I guess.” He huffed, in amusement or derisiveness, Ian couldn’t tell. “How’s Yev doing?”
“I… don’t actually know. I’ll pass you onto Debbie,” he said loudly enough for Debbie to overhear. She looked over her shoulder and nodded, beckoning him closer.
“Mickey? Yeah, hey, it’s Debbie Gallagher,” she said once Ian handed the phone over. She covered the base of the phone with her hand. “Ian, go supervise. We can’t both be in here.”
She shooed him away, back to the nightmare of arts and crafts.
The doorbell rang.
The doorbell rang again.
And again.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Ian shouted as he jogged to the door. He wiped his damp hands on his apron and reached for the door handle. “Hi—”
“Where’s Yev?” Mickey pushed Ian aside, shouldering his way into the house. “Yev?!”
“Here, dad!” came Yevgeny’s reply from the bathroom. His voice was stronger than before but still shook. His brow was moist with sweat and his skin had taken on a sickly pallor. He was mostly dry heaving now; there wasn’t anything left to throw up.
Mickey shot off to join his son, leaving Ian to linger in the hallway, unsure about intruding. Debbie joined him after a moment, Mickey and Yevgeny trailing after her. Ian pulled Yev’s coat from the wall but his bag was nowhere in sight.
“I took it… I took it somewhere,” Yev explained, swaying slightly on the spot. “I’ll go get it.”
He turned and wobbled. Debbie steadied him. “I’ll go with you. You can say goodbye to everyone while we’re at it.”
Ian and Mickey watched the two of them walk away. A tense silence remained in their wake. Ian looked at Mickey from the corner of his eye and he raised his eyebrows when he found himself meeting Mickey’s gaze.
“The fuck you lookin’ at?” Mickey grumbled, playing at the corner of his lips with his thumb.
You were looking first, Ian wanted to say, but instead, “The concerned dad thing is kinda hot,” came out instead. He groaned internally; his mouth had acted before his brain, and now at best he’d be called unprofessional, at worst he’d get a broken nose.
Mickey turned to him, brows arched, mouth quirked in a disbelieving smirk. “Seriously? My kid’s fuckin’ puking and you’re trying to get in my pants?”
Ian gave a cheeky grin. “Is it working?”
Debbie reappeared, Yevgeny’s hand clasped in her own.
“I’ll let you know,” Mickey replied quietly. He crouched as Yevgeny ran shakily over to him and threw his arms over Mickey's shoulders. Mickey stood, bringing Yev up with him, secured tightly in his grip. Yevgeny buried his head in the crook of Mickey’s neck as Mickey shifted him to one arm, accepting the rucksack Debbie held out to him with the other. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Debbie grabbed the door for him, stepping aside to let him pass. “We’ll sign out for you.”
Mickey nodded, eyes flicking from Debbie over to Ian. “Right. I’ll, uh, see if I can get hold of Svetlana and let you know how he’s doing later.”
There was a crash and several shouts from the kitchen. Debbie excused herself with a hastened farewell to Yev, who didn’t reply. When Ian approached the two Milkoviches, he realised that Yevgeny had fallen asleep in his father's embrace. A small patch of saliva was darkening Mickey’s shirt but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
Ian leaned against the open door, watching the two with a gentle gaze. “You’ve got my number now. If you or Svet could let us know how Yev is and if he’ll be in tomorrow, that’d be cool.”
“Yeah, I’ll, uh—I’ll call you later. See ya, Gallagher.”
“Bye, Mick. Tell Yev to feel better from me.”
The words brought a genuine, if tiny, smile to Mickey’s lips. “Will do.”