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Mickey hates his life.
He’s thought that a million and one times since he was born, but lately it seems to get worse. He thought he’d bottomed out when his dad caught him getting fucked, or when his dad had a whore rape him, or when his dad had forced him to marry the whore, or when his boyfriend left to join the Army, or when his boyfriend went into a depression, or when his boyfriend stole his kid, or when his boyfriend disappeared with his crazy-as-fuck mom, or when his boyfriend’s half-sister came after him with a gun.
Or when he’d put his heart out on a platter and Ian Gallagher had tipped it onto the floor then stomped on it as he walked away from Mickey without once looking back.
Every time Mickey’s hit rock bottom – or thought he did – life decided to find a new low for him to sink to. Now he’s stuck actually trying to earn an honest living working in some fucking warehouse where it’s roughly the temperature of the sun during the summer. He spends most of his time loading and unloading pallets from huge steel racks, and the rest of it imagining dropping the pallets or tipping over the racks onto his coworkers. But it’s a job. It pays the bills, since fuck all else does. Since the thought of going back to what he was was too much like being who he was.
And, one thing he’ll say for Ian Gallagher, he made damn sure Mickey wasn’t that guy anymore.
“Hey, Mick. You meet the new guy on the crew yet?”
“Nope.” He takes a drag from his cigarette and fills in another set of squares on his crossword puzzles. He absolutely sucks at them, filling half the squares in with dirty words or made up shit written in pen so no one else can enjoy them, but it gives him something to do with his hands on the mandatory lunch breaks. He mostly lives off nicotine, shitty coffee, and Pop-Tarts, so it’s not like lunch takes a long time. “Day or night?”
“Day.”
“Why?”
“Turner got fired.”
“Good.” Mickey takes another hit and then stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray. “Who’s the new patsy?”
“Haven’t met him. Filling out paperwork or some shit. Supposed to start with us after lunch.” Mitchell kicks Mickey’s legs off the seat of one of the chairs and sits on it, opening his tuna fish sandwich smells rank.
“Shit, that shit smells worse than a fucking Russian whore’s pussy.”
Mitchell snorts. “Well, if anyone would know...”
Mickey flips him off and fills out another clue. He’s pretty sure he got a couple of them right, not that it matters, because he’s writing cocksucker in the ten-letter space regardless. “You wish you knew what Russian pussy smelled like. Or pussy in general. Still getting off on all the peeks you took of your sister’s snatch, these days?”
“Your sister’s fucking muff is what I jerk off to.”
Mickey’s smile stiffens, because Mitchell doesn’t fucking know Mandy – no one in Mickey’s life knows Mandy anymore – so it’s not a real dig, just bullshit they all say. But it’s a reminder that Mandy’s not around any more.
“Oh, good. The team leaders are here. Mitchell, Milkovich, this is...”
“Wait. Milkovich?”
It’s been two years since he’s heard that voice, but it’s hardwired into Mickey’s brain. He’s not sure when he first heard it or when it first dug into his skull to take up residence, but shouting or whispering or talking, Mickey knows Ian’s voice. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
Mr. Elliott, the warehouse manager, gives Mickey a sharp look and guides Ian into the room. “Ian. Meet the guys.” He holds Ian’s arm possessively, like he’s claiming dibs, and Mickey feels his hackles rise. “This is Mitchell. He’s the floor manager. Keeps the boys running on the unloading side. And this is Mickey.”
Ian doesn’t look Mickey in the eye. He mumbles some greeting under his breath and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“You’ll be working with Mickey on the lifts. He normally works the forklift to haul the pallets. Turner used to be up on the platform, hauling individual orders down. Whatever you and Mickey decide.”
“I’ve decided I’m not working with him.” Mickey stands up. “Put him on the floor. Give me Anderson.”
“Hey!” Mitchell snaps. “Anderson’s my crew.”
“Well, now you have a new crew member.”
“No, Mickey. You do. Train him. Have him certified on the lift and the platform before the end of the week, or I’ll find someone who will, and you’ll find yourself another fucking job.”
**
Mickey takes a deep breath and gets up, jerking his head toward the door. He looks Ian in the eye as he does it. It’s half a statement that Ian’s got no power over him, and half a reminder to himself that he’s not going to be broken again. Once was enough. This time he doesn’t have a shell, he has a fucking metal exoskeleton like something out of a science fiction movie. Not even Ian can get past that.
“You ever worked either of these before?”
“No.” He says it as if Mickey should know, and he does. Or did. It’s been a long time since he’s been privy to whatever the fuck is going on in Ian’s life.
“Video set up and test are in the back trailer. You can watch them and then we’ll do your practical training. If you’re going to be on my crew, you’re going to do shit right. I don’t deal with fuck-ups. This shit’s expensive – the equipment and the product – and you break it, you buy it isn’t something you can afford. So if you don’t understand something or don’t know what you’re doing, either ask or go the fuck home.”
“Ask you?”
“Ask whoever the fuck you want. I’m not your goddamned babysitter.” Mickey off his key ring and sifts through a few keys before he finds the one to unlock the trailer. He goes in before Ian and sighs in the air conditioning. He pulls up the programs on the computer. “Watch, read, test. It won’t let you go until you score at least an 80. I won’t let you use the machine until you get 100 percent.”
“I can do this.”
“Do it or don’t. I don’t particularly give a shit.”
*
Mickey talks to the guys on the night shift before they hit the floor, and he realizes it’s been an hour and he hasn’t seen Ian. Probably failed the fucking tests and went home. Or maybe he’s having some sort of psychotic break. Or maybe he just doesn’t fucking care about this or anything else. Ian hasn’t talked to Mandy since she left. Maybe he just doesn’t give a fuck about anything that has to do with Mickey. Fine with him.
Mickey opens the trailer door and stops, surprised. Ian’s glaring at the computer, halfway through the last test. He glances at Mickey then looks back quickly at the screen. “This is fucking wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
Ian points at a question on the screen, and Mickey has to move closer to see it. “That’s not the right answer. Your fucking test is wrong.”
“First off, it’s not my fucking test. And second, bullshit.”
“Look at the question and tell me what the answer is.” Ian covers the options and shits back, looking at Mickey. He’s got a familiar cocky look on his face, and Mickey totally ignores the flicker of something that sparks in his chest. “Expanding racks, harness, goggles, leather gloves, safety vest.”
“Right.” Ian pulls his hand away. “Show me where that is on the screen.”
Mickey dares a glance toward Ian and then leans over him, reaching for the mouse. Ian doesn’t move his hand until the very last second and then he slides it back. Mickey fits his hand over it, feeling the heat of Ian’s body next to him, feeling Ian’s breath through his shirt. Mickey scrolls down slightly. “There.”
Ian frowns, looking offended by the answer being there. “Well, shit.”
“Guess you were wrong. Afraid your shit stinks just as bad as the rest of the world’s. You gonna finish that today or should I just come back next week?”
“I never thought that.”
“Yeah?” Mickey smirks. “You always seem so damn sure you’re right about everything.” Mickey makes himself stop, because if he says more, he’s going to say too much, and that will just backfire on him. “Finish the test. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow for the practical. Be here at seven. Not a moment later.”
“Mick...”
“My name’s Mickey.” He looks at Ian, and he hopes his eyes are as cold as Ian’s flinch makes them seem. “Not Mick. Got it?” Ian nods, biting his lower lip to keep his mouth shut. “Good.”
It takes everything he has not to do or say anything else, claim some sort of victory. But he hasn’t won anything. Another pissing contest with Ian Gallagher, and Mickey always loses those. Ian proved a long time ago that he’s got the bigger dick.
**
Ian’s there when Mickey gets there at 6:45, standing outside and smoking a cigarette. Mickey raises his eyebrows as he walks by, but doesn’t say anything. Ian stubs it out and follows Mickey in. “You still smoke?”
“What I do or don’t do has absolutely fuck all to do with you.” Mickey keeps walking, going to his locker and tossing in his lunch and his jacket. It’s cold in the early morning, but by afternoon his brains will be bubbling and boiling, smothered and deep-fried from the heat.
“I’m taking my meds.”
Mickey whips around and pins Ian to the opposite lockers with his hand around his throat, pressing hard so Ian has to fight to breathe. He looks shocked, surprised that Mickey moved that fast. “I don’t give a fuck about what you’re doing either. Take ‘em or don’t. Your life means nothing to me anymore. You decided that all on your own when you fucked off with your mom. You said we’re done, and you know what? I am done. I don’t want you, I don’t need you, and I sure as fuck don’t love you anymore. You took care of all that. Now if that shit’s what you’re here for, then there’s the fucking door.” He takes his hand off Ian’s neck and stretches it, his knuckles popping. Ian swallows and Mickey can see the threat of a bruise starting on Ian’s neck.
“I need the job.”
Mickey grabs a safety vest off the wall. “Then keep it professional, because that’s all there is. Understood?”
Ian nods and grabs a vest as well, following Mickey onto the floor. Mickey puts him through the paces on both of the machines, watching critically. Mickey’s been pretty surprised to learn he’s a decent teacher when it comes to shit like this, but teaching Ian is testing his patience. It’s not his fault, and it’s not Ian’s fault, if he’s honest. There’s just too much between them for either of them to focus, to not find fault.
“Jerome!” Mickey waves over his second and gestures to Ian. “This is Gallagher. He’s new. Teach him the ropes.”
“You don’t let anyone else teach the newbies, Mickey.”
“Well, consider this a fucking promotion then. Do it well and I won’t let Harrison spit in your coffee every morning.”
“He does what?”
“Just fucking teach him. I’ve got shit to do.” Mickey walks off without a backward glance. He does have work to do, and he’s not going to get any of it done if he stands around training Ian all day, because he can’t fucking focus or concentrate, because as much as he wants all of it to be true, he’s not over Ian.
He hates him. He wants to beat the shit out of him. He wanted to press his hand so hard against Ian’s esophagus he couldn’t breathe, that he’d turn blue and purple and try to beg for mercy and not be able to make a sound. He thinks about the look on Ian’s face, the complete lack of expression when Mickey told him. When he said what he said. The complete lack of anything as Sammie fucking shot at him.
Mickey fucking hates Ian Gallagher.
But he can’t manage to stop loving him.
*
Ian’s outside on the smoke break, but he’s not smoking. Mickey lights up and closes his eyes, letting the sun beat down on his sore muscles. He’s worked himself harder than normal today, desperate to keep his body occupied in the hopes it would keep his brain occupied. So far it hasn’t worked and, for the first time in a long time, he’s been haunted by memories of Ian. Of him and Ian.
He takes a deep inhale. He put that shit behind him two years ago. He’s moved on. He’s fucked plenty of guys. He’s even dated a couple, if going out twice counts as dating. One guy was three times because he gave one hell of a blow job, but he had the most annoying laugh. Even worse than Ian’s.
Ian seems to have made friends with half the crew already, and Mickey’s not surprised. Might be Ian’s fucking super power. It makes Mickey feel the valley between him and his crew even more. It’s a good thing. He’s their boss and they respect him, but it’s pointless for them to like him. He doesn’t drink with them, but he doesn’t ask them to do anything he’s not willing to do. Respect isn’t something Mickey’s used to, but he likes it, and he’s not about to fuck it up.
He can’t fucking believe he’s thinking about fucking himself up over Ian Gallagher.
Again.
He grinds the remains of his cigarette under his boot and goes back inside. The windows are cranked open, but they’re too high to actually do anything to cool the place down. He goes to his small office and pulls up the schedule on the computer, frowning at time off requests. Even if Ian learns the ropes quickly, Mickey’s going to have to work two doubles and four nights in the next two weeks. That means Svetlana’s going to be pissed as hell, but if she wants to actually keep living in the room above the Alibi and eating, she’s going to have to deal. She can usually swing day shifts at the bar when Mickey works nights, so their shared arrangement with Yevgeny works, and Kevin and Vee are usually pretty good about working with Mickey’s schedule.
“Hey, boss?”
Mickey looks up and nods at Jerome. “How’s the training going?”
“He’s got it, I think. I’ve got him doing the practical. What do you want him to do after he’s certified?”
“Have him work with you on your order so you can catch up. Keep an eye on him for today. I’ll work him into the rotation after talking with you at the end of the shift. Cut off five minutes early and I’ll meet you here.”
“Okay.” Jerome frowns. “You know this guy?”
“We worked together at a convenience store one summer a million years ago. He was my boss then.” Mickey smirks. “I walked off the job so our working relationship didn’t end on the best of terms.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’d be weird.” He nods, and there’s another reason Mickey’s glad he’s not friendly with his crew. Though he should probably talk to Ian and make it very clear that their relationship is off limits conversation. “Okay, I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Mickey goes to get coffee then gets back to work, actually managing to focus on the series of orders coming in, allotting them to work crews and posting the next day’s assignments. He almost forgets why Jerome shows up at his door, but remembers before asking him what the hell he’s doing there.
“How’d it go?”
“Good. Hard worker. Follows instructions. Didn’t fuck up.”
“Three of my favorite things. Thanks. You want him on your crew again tomorrow?”
“Sure. Thanks, boss.” He disappears from the doorway and Mickey picks up the intercom, paging Ian. It’s five after five when Ian shows up, dressed in a pair of sweats and a familiar blue tank top. “Sorry. I was changing.”
“No problem. Come in. Have a seat.”
Ian looks nervous, but he does as he’s told. Mickey glances at his computer and then grabs a schedule off the printer. “Jerome said you did a good job today, so I’m putting you in the rotation on his crew. If you have concerns or questions, you tell him or ask him. If it’s over his head, he’ll come to me. If it’s about him, you come to me. Understood?”
“Yeah.” Ian’s hands are restless in his lap, rubbing up and down his thighs. Mickey recognizes the sign of his anxiety and nods, knowing he needs to cut this short.
“Okay. Thanks for your hard work. We’ll see you back tomorrow.” Ian waits a beat and then stands up, walking to the door. Mickey rubs his forehead and sighs. “Gallagher.”
Ian turns and looks at him. “Yeah?”
“Jerome asked if I knew you. I told him we used to work together at the Kash and Grab. Told him I didn’t leave on the best of terms.”
“Wanting to kill my dad for catching us?”
“Just not on the best of terms. I think that’s all the explanation anyone needs, don’t you?”
“Sure thing.” Ian nods. “You’re the boss. I’m supposed to meet Fiona to go running. We done?”
The phrasing doesn’t escape Mickey, and he nods in return, a tight smile on his face. “Yeah. We’re done.”
*
Mickey never picks up redheads. It’s the one rule he never breaks. He’ll troll the bars for dudes, but he’ll never pick up a redhead. The area he’s living in now has plenty of bars, so he doesn’t have to hit the park, though he occassionally goes and looks around, like he’s fucking window-shopping.
He got out of the fucking hell hole that was the Milkovich house and, technically, he’s out of the south side. Not by much, but even an inch of distance is enough. Terry’s still in prison, or in prison again. Mickey doesn’t know, doesn’t care.
He hangs out with his kid and he’s two-and-a-half, and he’s funnier than shit, and smarter than any other kid ever, and Mickey’s pretty sure he can cuss fluently in Russian. It’s not perfect, and he fucks up a lot according to Svetlana, but she usually smiles when she says it, so he figures he can’t be doing too badly.
The whole point of all of it is that Mickey has his fucking life together. Good job, nice place. He has everything he needs and wants, including places to go if he wants to scratch an itch. He’s fucking healthy for the first time in his life, and he doesn’t hate himself anymore. It’s probably not the best thing that he channeled most of that hate into Ian, but it is what it is. He’s never claimed to be anything close to perfect.
“Carrot boy came into bar. I slap him and claw his face.” Svetlana watches for Mickey’s reaction, so he’s careful not to give her one. “He ask how Yevgeny is.”
“Guess he’s feeling better.”
“Do you go back to him?”
Mickey looks up from where he’s cooking a can of Spaghetti-Os for Yevgeny and himself for dinner. “Fuck no.”
“You love him still.”
“Yeah, well, he’s pretty toxic for me, so I think I’ll pass. Besides, him showing up at a neighborhood bar has absolutely nothing to do with me. I don’t live there anymore, remember?”
She sits down and bounces Yevgeny on her knee. He’s getting too big for it, and Mickey recognizes the familiar bantam rooster cockiness of a Milkovich in his posture. “I worry about you.”
Mickey barks out a laugh. “What?”
“I worry. You still love boy that hurts you. You never give other boy chance. Just him.”
“Yeah, well, indifference makes you a hell of a lot less inclined to dive into another relationship. Besides, Ian used to be the nicest guy in the universe. If he can’t...Why the fuck are we talking about this?”
“He says he works with you.”
“He works in the warehouse now. I didn’t hire him. I didn’t train him. I don’t see him, and that’s perfectly fine with me.”
“I do not want to see you hurt. Is not pretty. Also do not want to have to bail you out of jail again. Or try to sober you up. Also do not want to have him near Yevgeny. He is bad for you.”
“I know.”
“But you love still.”
“Yeah, well. I can’t seem to help that, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep it under wraps. I’ll keep getting laid and that’ll solve the problem.”
“Was not sex that you had.”
“Oh, no. We had a lot of sex.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, well. I’m over that. Through with it. I don’t need to be told fucking twice that even my best sucks. So Ian Gallagher can fuck off. Just like he has these past two years.” He smirks at her and dishes up the glop of food into two bowls so it can cool down slightly. “Don’t you have a job or something you’re supposed to be doing? I don’t need a warning or a pep talk, okay? And I don’t need him.”
She looks at him with narrowed eyes then nods. “I pick him up tomorrow at ten.”
“Okay. We’ll meet you at the park.” He takes Yevgeny from her and lifts him up toward the ceiling to get a shower of giggles and probably a little bit of spit. “Say bye to mom.”
“Bye, mama!”
She kisses him on the cheek when Mickey lowers him. “No boys, no dirty movies, no candy.”
Mickey rolls his eyes and looks at Yevgeny. “Your mom takes away all our fun.”
“Candy!”
“Spaghetti-Os first, kiddo.” He waves to Svetlana as she leaves and settles the kid at the table. He’s got a movie and popcorn – and candy – planned for later and the top of his bed is covered in toys for Yevgeny and the trundle is already pulled out for him, making him prime target for stuffed animal missiles and late night giggles until they both fall asleep.
Mickey’s actually fucking happy.
Except instead of Yevgeny’s snuffly snores being the only thing he falls asleep to, he’s got Ian fucking Gallagher in his life and his head again. Apparently proof that you can take the Milkovich out of the south side, but his life is still gonna be fucked.
*
Mickey’s exhausted. Two people called out sick, so he’s worked two doubles in a row and all he wants is a cold drink and a warm bed. He stumbles out of the warehouse and leans against the wall, closing his eyes, trying to figure out how long it’s been since he’s slept and failing miserably because math is completely beyond his capabilities right now.
“You okay?”
The irony of that question coming from Ian would make Mickey laugh if he wasn’t so exhausted. “Just fine.”
“Mark said you pulled two doubles.”
“Yeah, well, do what I have to.”
“You never do just what you have to. You always do more. Kicking and screaming sometimes, mind you, but...”
“Stop it.” Mickey doesn’t raise his voice. “I’m not him anymore. I’m not the stupid, hopeful idiot who believed someone could love him, The one who fell in love with you. He’s dead. He died on that sidewalk in front of your house long before Sammie shot him. You don’t know me, Ian.”
“I’d like to.” He leans against the wall next to Mickey, careful not to touch him. “I know you’re not him. You’re not any of the incarnations I used to know. Just like I’m not him. I’m not that stupid, smitten kid with a crush on the neighborhood bad boy. I’m not the resentful, self-involved asshole that went away to the Army. I’m not the hurting, lashing out, scared guy I was when I got my diagnosis. I’m not completely sure who I am now. I’m sort of figuring it out as I go along.”
“I don’t socialize with my crew.”
“I’ll change to the night shift. I’ll change to the floor. I’ll find a new job.” Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey sees Ian frown at the ground. “I didn’t know you were here when I applied. I didn’t have any idea how to find you. I never asked anyone. Not that I think anyone would tell me if they knew. But...well, we were friends once. For a while. I mean, I think we were.”
“I guess. Mostly we just fucked.”
“No. Not since Kash shot you. After that we never just fucked.” Ian keeps staring at the ground. “Maybe we could...try. To be friends.”
“You think that’s gonna happen? You think that’s all we’re gonna be? Friends? Maybe friends with benefits?”
“I always wanted to get to know you. The real you. I asked you every question I could think of. Tried to see your real answers through the veneer and bravado.” Ian’s voice drops, but Mickey can still hear it. “I never just wanted to fuck you.”
“Not sure Svetlana would be cool with us hanging out. I am sure she wouldn’t want Yevgeny around you.”
“So I don’t go to your place. And, since Lip is at home right now, we sure as fuck won’t go to mine.” Ian laughs softly. “You ever been bowling?”
“What?”
“Or played miniature golf?”
“Do I honestly look like the kind of pussy that does those things?”
“I think if you take a nap and take a shower, you’d look just like the kind of pussy who would do those things. I could meet you there. At the complex. No dinner. No movie. Well, maybe pizza. Not a date. Just...one night. To try. I know I don’t have any right to ask. But...”
Mickey’s quiet for a long time, and he can sense the tension in Ian’s body, can feel it increase when he’s about to push off the wall and go. “I’ll kick your ass.”
“At bowling and miniature golf?” Ian’s eyebrow goes up and he’s actually scoffing, but Mickey knows it’s a question, a way to make sure Mickey’s not talking about doing it literally. “Yeah, right.”
Mickey shrugs, not completely sure of what he really means, to be fair. “All right, Gallagher. You’re on.”