Work Text:
Thing is, most of the time he can already tell how a day's gonna be like from the way he slept. Which is, most of the time: fucking bad. A therapist would have a fucking field trip with his nightmares, his panic attacks and his almost insomnia. The first time Ian slept over, he'd punched him in the dick thinking it was someone else (someone who is in prison, he's in prison, he's in prison, he's in prison). But, Ian was patient. He was different from all the other people he'd slept in a bed with (which is three), maybe from the fact that he had a shit ton of siblings he'd probably had to share a bed with from time to time. When he punched Mandy in the stomach that one time, she'd punched him right back. Ian told him that it was okay.
God, he wishes Ian was here.
It's not like he doesn't know how to come down from a nightmare himself, he's been learning to do that since the moment he could breathe, it's just that he's not completely used to dealing with his problems alone anymore. He doesn't remember the last time he had to calm himself down, had to get out of bed to get a dry towel to sleep on (since his sheets are soaked and probably stink). He has Ian for that now, and isn't that fucked up? To be so completely used to somebody's comfort? Milkoviches don't need anyone. Because no one needs them, other than to buy drugs or guns. But he's not exactly a Milkovich anymore, stopped being one when he was 16.
He looks at the clock. 3:03 am, fuck. He has work in a few hours, and already he knows that today will be hell. He knows he's more cranky than usual if he doesn't get his sleep (or so Ian tells him), and right now it doesn't seem like he can go back under. He can't seem to get his heart rate under control.
Breathe in. You're okay. Out. You're okay. In. Mandy's okay. Out. In. He's in jail. Out. He doesn't even know your address. In. Out. In.....
From his position on the bed, he can see his phone blink on the nightstand. He doesn't want to look at it, his arms feel like they're made of jelly, but the only people who have his number are Mandy and the people from work, and if Karen has a problem with her night shift... Fuck it, he's gonna check.
It's a text from Ian, sent one hour ago.
IAN
Can't sleep w/o u :(
Ian and his fucking smileys. And his constant texting. And his dumb profile picture. And his stupid hair.
He's not sure how, but it works. His breathing gets steadier and steadier, while he just keeps reading the message over and over. It's just a message. Ian can't sleep without him, in his big ass bed in his too small apartment. Ian misses him. It's not a big deal. (Except that it kinda is) Ian thinking about him in the middle of the night is not something to get all heart eyes over. (He's never had someone care about him before to text him in the middle of the night)
His head is so full with those 4 words that his earlier mantra is completely forgotten. His heart rate is back to normal, thank fuck.
And if, well, if just Ian's text seems to have brought that on, and if he can't stop smiling like a lovestruck idiot, well, then that's nobody's business other than his own.
–
The first person he runs into while going into his office is Karen, which isn't surprising. She had the night shift last night, and she's normally pretty good with the kids and with keeping an eye on them. And with being terrifying, if she needs to be.
“Night shift went by okay,” she says, because neither of them are big on small talk. That's what he likes about her, her 'no bullshit' attitude. “No one ran off and no one had any nightmares. The only surprising thing that went down was that Amy had some stomach cramps, but we took care of it.”
“She okay?” Amy's one of the sweet ones, the ones who draw you pictures and want you to play with them.
“Yeah, yeah, I made her some tea. Doubt it's anything serious.” He nods with that. Karen's pretty great at picking up when someone's catching something, she even does it with him, which is annoying but helpful.
“Okay, then. I'll go wake the little monsters up after checking up on something.” She nods and goes, probably to go make breakfast ready. He has to write some reports first, otherwise he'll forget about them and never finish it.
There's a warm cup of coffee standing on his desk when he gets in. He can't help but smile to himself a little. Ian's been bringing him coffee in the mornings ever since he started working here, at first he thought it was some kind of weird bribe, but then he just ended up being grateful as hell.
He takes a small sip. Black, no sugar or milk. A habit from his days in the south side, where their old coffee maker would only start working if you hit it a couple of times and from when they were too poor to be able to shower regularly, let alone buy milk and sugar. Ian drinks it like that, too, even though he got one of those expensive coffee makers at his apartment. Mickey can't really tell the difference between his shitty one and Ian's, but Ian swears it's there. Whatever.
–
He has this tactic, when a kid doesn't want to get up in the morning and needs a little help, something he copied from another guy that used to work here. It's not the best tactic, but it's effective. He shoots them with a water gun.
Some of the girls are already finished with brushing their teeth, while Alex's still in bed. But that's nothing unusual, Alex even has a clock that doesn't wake him. Not even an earthquake would wake this kid if he doesn't want to get up. So, he shoots him.
“Fu-” The bed gets soaked a little while he jumps out of it like it's on fire, shaking his head like a dog. “You motherfuck-”
“Hey, language!” he warns, because that shit's not acceptable here. Even he has to restrict his cussing to his thoughts and to outside of work. (Mandy used to spray him with water, too, when he fucked up) (He fucked up a lot)
“A guy with FUCK U UP knuckle tattoos really tries to tell me not to cuss?” Alex retorts back and damn. That kid's got a mouth on him.
“Yeah, and guess why I have to wear this everyday,” Mickey says exaggeratedly, pointing to his gloves (which, yeah, he has to wear them if he wants this job) (fuck you very much), “and I gotta tell you, I don't wear them because they look fashionable and bring out my eyes. Now go brush your teeth.”
Alex curses, low enough that Mickey doesn't hear, and starts his way to the boy's bathroom. He's walking like he's on death row (which is also a problem, kid doesn't like to brush his teeth much). While Mickey's still standing in the hallway with his very dangerous gun, watching Alex brush his teeth like his personal bodyguard, he doesn't even spot Ian until he's standing right in front of him and grinning.
“Please don't shoot me, I have a wife and kids!” he says, throwing his hands up in the air all the while still grinning. The fucker. Mickey points the gun at him, squinting his eyes a little like he's trying to weigh his options.
“Please, you wish you had a wife and kids.”
“But I do have some very nice flowers that need to be watered, so...” They're still staring at each other when Alex passes them, seemingly finished. Mickey looks inside the bathroom and jup, he's done.
Ian's grin turns into something softer. “Did you get my text?” he asks, a little too meaningful for a message that literally only contained 4 words and a smiley.
“Yeah, I did.” He lowers his gun a little. Helped me out of a panic attack, too. So thanks for that. But of course, he can't say that. Wouldn't be himself if he did. So, he shoots him. “Sap.”
Ian looks a little flustered with his hair all wet and his lips shiny and inviting. And then, because he doesn't want Ian to think sending that message was a mistake and because they're alone, he presses his lips against Ian's wet ones, if only for a moment before he shoves the gun in his hands and walks past him, grinning.
–
If someone had told him 10 years ago that he would end up working in a group home a little outside of the south side he'd probably punched the fucker. Yet here he is. Earning his money in the legal way, he doesn't even remember the last time he went along with his brothers on a drug run. He's even got a boyfriend. Fuck.
He's never told anyone this, but for most of his teenage years he'd thought that he wouldn't even be alive anymore at 26. Fuck for life. As a kid he used to have nightmares about him randomly getting shot on a run, but after a while he got used to it. When he found out that he's actually gay as fuck, his nightmares shifted from accidents to his father beating him to death and burying him in his backyard. Eventually, he'd gotten used to that reality, too.
It's not like he liked it, but in his neighborhood being gay meant having a death wish, unless you kept your mouth shut. He's seen enough fag bashings to last a lifetime, been forced to take part in them sometimes.
He tries not to think about that part of his life. His teenage years up until 16 often seem like a hazy nightmare nowadays, like something that had happened to someone else and not him. Some other poor guy that had an abusive father and a drug addict mother.
Being put in the foster system at 16 wasn't the greatest thing, either, he remembers how Mandy and him had been put in shady as fuck foster homes, but they'd managed.
After he'd finally turned 18 and graduated (at that time they were living with an old married couple that was actually pretty nice, he probably wouldn't have graduated without their nagging) working in a foster home had seemed like the best career at the time. Mickey's not naïve, he knows he doesn't have any special talents, he's not very clever, but he knows how to handle kids. Especially kids that have been through the same shit he's been through. Most of the group homes he's been in weren't very nice, he sometimes wonders how his and Mandy's life would've turned out if someone had actually listened to them back then.
Sometimes, he remembers the look the social workers had given them once they've read through their file, pity. He hates that look.
(He remembers standing in front of court, palms sweating, looking his father straight in the eyes as he'd told a bunch of people every thing his father had ever done to them.) (He tries not to think about it.)
–
He's standing outside in the freezing cold, on his well deserved smoke break, when Ian spots him again. They normally see each other a lot more, but today's been pretty hectic. They try not to act like they're dating during work, Mickey's number 1 rule. Work is work.
“There you are,” he grins, stealing the cigarette from Mickey's lips and inhaling a few puffs, all the while fixing him with that intense stare he likes to do. It's kind of annoying.
Both of them ignore the fact that Mickey's been staring at his lips, wrapped around the cigarette. They're pretty nice lips. He clicks his lips and can feel his eyebrows going up to his hairline (something Ian sometimes gives him shit for), a silent question. “There a reason you're stealing my hard won cigarettes, or do you just like to annoy me?
Ian hands back the cigarette, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. He looks kinda nervous like that, which in turn makes Mickey nervous. It takes a few seconds before Ian finally spits it out. “Family's been asking about you, you know?” he says, looking down on the floor and laughing. “The mysterious boyfriend. They're half convinced I'm just hallucinating you.”
“What do they care?” Already on the defense. He can't help it, though, from what he knows the Gallagher's seem like a nightmare he can't quite get out of. Half the reason he's been postponing on meeting them for this long is that he doesn't exactly want them to take one look at him, at his knuckle tattoos, and decide that their brother deserves better (he does, but he doesn't need them to know that). The other half is the fact that some of them still live in the south side, their house a maybe 5 minutes walk away from his old one. He's not ready to go back there, he's never gonna be ready to go back there.
Ian can read him like a book though, so of course he answers with the right thing. “Come on, they won't judge you. Most of them just want to get to know you.” Most of them. “Fiona's birthday's coming up in a few weeks, if you want we can just go there, say hi and ditch them. Whatever you want.” Ian's standing in front of him right now, giving him that damned puppy eyes look. If they were alone he'd probably push him up against the wall and convince him in some other, more fun way, but they're not. Mickey's rules.
“Ian ...”
“Please, Mick.”
That goddamn nickname. He hates it when Ian calls him Mick, it's like a sure way for him to say yes, and the fucker knows that. The only person to know him that well is Mandy. “Fuck, fine, yes we will go, if you let me enjoy my break in peace now!” Ian grins and hands him back his cigarette, like he's been waiting for that. Nicotine fills his lungs, his racing thoughts quieting down a little.
“Good,” he says, before getting more serious (for all his annoying tendencies Ian does take his job very serious). “Hey, Becca didn't eat breakfast today. Or lunch. I don't think she's left her room at all.”
Both of them can guess why. Last weekend was the first time Becca stayed with her mother, after the court agreed of course. Staying over at your parents while you're no longer living with them always feels a little awkward. Most kids here don't have any parents left they can visit, some are dead and some in jail, but there's always the case where a child was taken out of their home and put in here (they normally try to find a foster home for them, but most of the time they stay here).
“Door locked?”
“No, that's not the problem, it's just that she's been in bed all day.” They look at each other. Mickey's biting his lip, stomping his cigarette out on the floor and sighing. Fuck it. He can always smoke after his shift ends.
–
He finds her in her bed, but thankfully she's not sleeping or dozing off. There are posters of some annoying punk band on the walls. She's drawing actually, her hair made up in a messy bun with some strands falling into her hair. She's a pretty girl. He's never actually seen her with someone before, girl- or boyfriend, though. She's only been here for a few months, he blames it on that. Not really interested in relationships when you've just been ripped out of the only home you've ever had.
“Hey, you hungry?” Nothing. Not even a little acknowledgment that she heard him, which okay, he can work with that. If she wants to be difficult. “Okay, fine. I didn't know you could draw?” Still nothing. If he couldn't see her he'd guess she had headphones on, but as it is she's just stubborn. He's never seen her this withdrawn (he has to ask Ian after to see what her mood before the visit was like).
He sighs, tries again. “I get it, you don't wanna talk, but can I at least draw with you, then?” That gets a response, fucking finally. Green eyes meet his, drawing her eyebrows up a little, a silent question. “ Yes , I can draw. Haven't done it for a while, though, but I figure it's like riding a bike, right? Can't really unlearn how to draw.” Without asking first he falls down on the bed next to her, grabbing a used pencil and a piece of paper.
Honestly, he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. He hasn't been drawing for years, he knows that he used to be really, really good at it. He used to draw his mom a lot, the beer bottles on the table. Mandy, if she let him (which she most of the time didn't). That period of his life belongs to Before, though. Before everything turned to shit, before they took them away. He pushed those memories so far into his unconscious that he didn't think about them for years, yet here he is, pen in hand and getting nostalgic all of a sudden.
“You know,” he begins, nervously chewing on his bottom lip, “I used to draw a lot. I don't even remember when I started drawing things around the house, feels like I've always been doing it. I wasn't very good at first, I mean I was a kid. But I got better.” He pauses. Doesn't really know how to approach this without her bolting. He feels like he's got a vague idea of why she's sad, but he's not totally sure. But he's good at this. He knows that. If there's one thing he's good at, it's this.
“Used to draw my mom a lot. I'm not totally sure if she actually ever liked playing model, but she never complained, so. My mom, she, you know, she … used to do a lot of drugs. Always the drugs my dad would give her, didn't care which, she just wanted to be high. I don't think I've ever seen her sober. Don't think she liked her life much, I mean, who would, first kid at 12 with a baby daddy who would hit you and your kids and who was almost twice your age. Too poor to even pay the bills, let alone buy your kids something nice. Probably wanted to escape it all, ummm ...” There are tears in his eyes but he blinks them away. Milkoviches don't cry, and this ain't the time. He wasn't even aware he's been drawing Becca's face, all beaten down and sad. It's not the best thing he's ever drawn, but it's not the worst either. Becca stopped drawing halfway through his speech. He's hitting a nerve, apparently.
“So, anyway, when I was real small I used to draw her a lot. The drawings didn't take that long, but once I was finished I would always try to drag it out longer. A small detail here, a wrinkle there. I used to tell her stuff like 'The nose needs more work' or 'Your left eye is bigger than the other one, hold on'. I don't know why I always did that. Like, it wasn't even true, you know? I didn't even try to correct the drawing or anything, I just pretended like I did. I remember my mom's legs shaking after a while, like really bad, but she never complained. She probably needed her next dosage of drugs, but she wouldn't move an inch until I told her that it was okay. We spent hours like that, in my room. Don't even know why I did it.”
It's so quiet that he doesn't hear it at first, but that's unbelievably Becca's voice, even if she's mumbling it into her paper. “You were trying to distract her from the drugs.”
Bingo. “Yeah, I thought I could change her mind if I just spent enough time with her and then she'd stop being an addict, you know? But that never works. I mean, I was just a kid, I shouldn't have to think about that stuff. I remember trying that with my dad, too. If I'm nice enough and don't talk back he won't hit me. But adults do the things they do because they made the choice to do them, there's nothing a kid can do to stop them, or to change them. Doesn't matter how much we want that. 'S not your fault.”
There's a heavy silence that follows, where both of them continue to draw. Mickey tries not to look her in the eye, while she keeps stealing glances at him. He thinks she might've gotten the message. He knows her family, studied her file. Knows about her absent dad and her alcoholic mother, that only seems to be sober when she has to appear in court. He has no fucking clue how anyone could think she should be let alone with a child for a weekend, but that's not his department. He can write case files and explain his point of view all he wants, in the end it's not gonna do shit because they won't listen to him. Like talking to a wall.
After a while she says she's finished and he's so surprised by her willingly talking to him that he almost drops his pen. No matter how many times he does it, he never believes bringing out his own skeletons out of the closet is gonna do any good, until it does. He always feels accomplished afterward, like for once he could help someone instead of break their teeth in like he used to, but it's also so exhausting. Talking about his past. Always feels like he aged ten years during the course of the conversation, and then also like he's that angry little kid again, trying to change people who don't want to be changed.
He asks her if he can take a look at it, and she cheekily replies with: “The nose needs more work, hold on.” He can't help but smile. Can't be feeling that bad then.
“Alright, alright, you think you're so funny, don't you? This what I get for dragging all my stuff out in the open, huh?”
“Don't get your panties in a twist, old man,” she murmurs, and okay, that's Becca. And he's only 26, so what the fuck.
“You show me, I show you, alright?” She nods, and then puts her drawing up in the air so he can see. It's a pencil drawing of a hand with the middle finger sticking out. There's FUCK tattooed on the knuckles and well. That certainly doesn't leave it to imagination which person this hand belongs to. “This is, ummm … I didn't even know you've seen my knuckles,” he admits, because fuck. If even the newbies know about his tattoos, then why even bother covering them up?
“I've only seen them once, on my first day. I like them, though.”
“Yeah, there are plenty of people who would disagree with you. People who write my checks and give me money, so I try to stay on their good sides.”
Becca grins, a little crooked. It reminds him a lot of Ian's smile (Not the time, brain). “They're dumb. Hey, is that me? Did you draw me?” He has no idea how she realized that, because he can't see the similarities. His drawing really is rusty as fuck. “That my mouth or is it my nose?”
“Hey, take it easy, I don't exactly practice. Hey, umm, can I keep yours?” It's a little embarrassing, the fact that his first thought is 'Hey, I need to show Ian this'. Fuck, he is so whipped.
–
“Hey, did you get Becca to open up?” Ian's in the kitchen, bringing his boyfriend a beer and himself some water. Mickey meanwhile is sitting on his couch, lazily flipping through the channels on Ian's TV. Neither of them had the night shifts today, so Mickey just ended up showing up at his door without warning. He doesn't want a repeat of last night.
“Nah, but I think I cracked her shell a little. Made her promise to talk to either me or you if she wanted to.”
Ian walks into the living room, handing Mickey his beer and sitting next to Mickey as close as he physically can. So subtle. “Awww, did you two hug it out?”
He's nervously playing with his beer when he shakes his head. He never told Ian this. “Nah, we drew.”
Ian's eyes land on him so fast he thinks he might get whiplash. “What? I didn't know you could draw.”
“Used to.” He starts drinking to distract himself and looks down at his left arm, scratching. He's always scratching his arm when he's nervous. His body language is practically yelling 'Drop it, Ian, please' and Ian seems like he gets it, exaggeratedly yawning and draping his arms over Mickey's shoulders. They spend the next few minutes just watching TV and enjoying each others company. Their lives are so hectic, they have to be, it's nice to have the complete opposite for once. Silence used to make him twitchy, but not anymore.
“Hey, did you know that even the newbies have seen my knuckle tattoos?” He's holding his left hand up in the air to demonstrate the cuss words on it, the other one is a warm weight on Ian's thigh. “Don't even know why I fucking bother with the gloves. Half the time I feel like a fucking assassin or some shit.”
Ian laughs next to him, nuzzling his head like a cat. He barely remembers the time when Ian wasn't next to him, when physical contact like that made him uncomfortable. Ian was a persistent asshole, though. “Could always cover them up with make up?” he offers, his warm breath tingling his skin.
“Please, I still have some fucking dignity left, Gallagher. Over my dead body.”
It's only half surprising when he feels soft kisses on his neck. Yeah, showing Ian the drawing can wait. Groaning, Mickey gives him a little more room to work with, his FUCK hand gripping on red hair. “I think,” a kiss on his jaw, “they're hot.”
Mickey's hands find Ian's cheeks so he can hungrily press their lips together, again and again. “You have weird kinks,” he whispers against them before diving back in, licking his way into his boyfriend's mouth. Mickey starts climbing into his lap, forcing their bodies more closely together and slipping his hands under Ian's t-shirt and then getting it off his head because fuck that. (Who needs t-shirts, anyway? If it was up to Mickey Ian wouldn't ever wear a shirt) Fuck, no matter how many times they do this, hearing Ian's frustrated groans never gets old.
He lets his mouth drag down Ian's body, sucking a few hickeys on his chest and sucking and biting on each nipple. When he's finally almost reached his destination, he starts blowing raspberry kisses on his belly without warning.
“You f-- fucker – oh, shit!” He shuts up real quick though, once Mickey has him in his mouth. Yeah, this never gets old.