Chapter Text
The day before Fiona's birthday is hectic, to say the least. Apparently the Gallaghers have a tradition that, since they don't see each other as much as they'd like, they all take off work during birthdays, all sleep over in their old rooms, and party as hard as they can. Mickey's not sure how they haven't gotten fired yet, considering they have like, a thousand birthdays to celebrate every year but whatever. Not like he cares.
He doesn't normally take days off work, to be honest. He used to be able to call in sick without any guilty feelings while he was only working as staff, but after him climbing his way to the top (the top not really being that high, to be honest), he just doesn't feel good leaving all of them hanging like that. Which is kind of dumb, it's not like they can't look after the kids themselves, they do just fine while he's away, but still. And even when he takes days off, he makes sure to call in every few hours to see how everyone's holding up. Karen used to cuss him out about that, interpreting his over protectiveness as a stab to her working abilities, but it's not that. It's just that, well, he knows he shouldn't feel like that, but as long as these kids are in his home they're his kids. His responsibility.
Ian used to go fucking nuts if Mickey came to work sick. He'd flip his shit and would keep nagging him if he felt okay, if he wanted any tea, if he needed aspirin. He remembers one time, back when they were trying to work their way into a relationship, that he ended up having a really bad stomach flu, not like a normal infection, but rather him puking out every intestines he had in his body and them some. Mickey still wanted to go to work, because there was supposed to be a newbie coming in today, and Ian had forced him to stay in bed by aggressively cuddling him for a whole day. He wouldn't even let him go to the bathroom, he was that determined. Remembering that day always made him smile and calm down a little, because after all, spending the day in bed with Ian wasn't that bad. He couldn't understand why they couldn't just do that instead of go to that dumb birthday party for Ian to not even be able to drink because of his meds and for Mickey to get judged by his in-laws. Fucking fantastic.
He keeps tapping his gloved fingers on his desk, suppressing the urge to scratch his wrist. It's a weird tick he has, scratching his wrist when he's nervous, but he's trying to cut back. His wrists are already scratched raw, he doesn't need another scar on his body. He's had enough to last a lifetime.
Oh, and that. That's also why this trip sucks so much, because while it is true that he doesn't exactly live in another city, going back to his old neighborhood still makes him feel uneasy, like he's still that 16 years old boy, hating himself more than he could ever hate anything else. He's not that person anymore.
Another thing on why he hates Ian for making him do this is because he knows there were rumors, during Terry's trial. (Don't think about that) (Don't think about that) Rumors of that ungrateful Milkovich boy, ratting out his own father. And then, while the trial was in full swing and Mickey had to tell every awful thing his father had ever done to him and his siblings to a bunch of strangers, there were different kind of rumors. About what kind of sick, evil things Terry Milkovich did to his children. (Most of them were true)
Ever heard the story of the queer Milkovich boy?
He flinches, as if the memories had come back to life and slapped him in the face. He's not supposed to think about that stuff. The file Terry Milkovich had been closed long ago, yet he keeps opening it without meaning to. But, if he's going to visit Ian's family, either they're going to be kind enough not to bring shit up in front of him, or they're going to bombard him with questions. He's not sure which is worse, because in the end they will still look at him all the same.
Mickey decides to go check the boys' rooms, while they're still at school, having nothing better to do. Karen is actually supposed to do that, but whatever, she'll be glad he helped.
–
“What's up, boss man?” Karen asks in greeting, apparently already finished with the girls' rooms. Checking those rooms usually is pretty easy, since most of these girls are sweethearts, or just smart enough not to leave shit in their room. Boys, however. Most of the boys here are dumb fucks in that department.
“Nothing, you find anything?”
“Hmmm,” she starts swaying her hips back and forth, like she normally does, “Jayden had a pair of scissors in her room.”
Mickey sighs. “You'll think she starts learning the rules sometime?” he asks, Karen handing him said scissors. They're not much, not anything big to worry about, but still, they're against the rules. He's gonna have to put them in his office, and she can come ask for them.
“Hey, did you tell her she couldn't have any sex stuff on the walls?”
He wrinkles his nose, confused. “I told her she couldn't hang up any dick pics, unless they were very scientific. Why?”
Karen laughs, motioning him towards Jayden's room. He gets it as soon as he steps inside. “Wow,” he says, and if he's honest with himself he kind of likes it. “She put up anatomy dick pics. I appreciate her effort to be as hardcore as possible, have to give her that.”
“Please,” Karen says, playfully nudging his shoulder with hers, “you're so digging those pics. If you could, you would hang them up in your office.”
“Well, that'd certainly be a nice way to greet new people.” He turns to her, outstretching his hand and saying, in the most monotone voice: “Hello, I'm Mickey Milkovich, gay as fuck and admirer of dicks in all sizes and colors. And I can assure you that I will take good care of your kid.”
Karen shoves him, but only lightly. They've kind of become friends over the years, and she even knows about him and Ian. “Eww, I don't need to know all the shit you and Gallagher get up to.”
“Don't worry,” he replies, grinning, “I take my studies very seriously.”
She fakes vomiting noises. “Oh my god, you suck. Go do the shit you're paid to do.”
He's giving her a salute with his left hand, already on the way to his first room. He already knows it's Marcus' room because of the gold fish on his desk. “Hey there, buddy,” he greets the fish, waving his hand in front of the glass. He knows that Marcus loves fishes, if he gets out of this shit hole he'll hopefully start doing something with that, like working in an aquarium or something. But Mickey knows that he's been acting weird lately, snapping at him or the others for the smallest things, or getting in fights with other kids even though he's never been aggressive. Marcus' one of the sweet ones, has been staying here since he was 12. But maybe it's that. He's turning 18 soon, and then he'll have to leave all of this behind. It probably doesn't feel that fucking great.
Mickey starts going through drawers, carefully so that he doesn't fuck anything up. He doesn't want to be one of those social workers that destroy a kids' whole room trying to find something. All that does is make them feel like shit.
All the drawers, the closet, everything's fine, so he starts getting the sheets off the bed and flips the mattress, because people love to destroy the mattress and hide shit there. He did the same, back in the day.
It's not big, but it's there, the small hole in the mattress, obviously done by someone who wanted to hide something. Mickey curses, taking off one glove and then hoping to god it's not some weird shit like condoms or lube as he gets his hand through. His fingers come in touch with a small plastic bag, so he carefully gets it out and holy shit.
Condoms would've been better.
–
He waits for the kids to get back from school before finding Ian and dragging him into an empty hall. “Hey, I need you to watch the kids for a moment,” he says, “I need to talk with Marcus for a second.” Going into the hall was a mistake, they're so close his breath keeps tickling Ian's chest.
Ian sighs with relief. “Just that?” He asks, taking a chance and letting his broad hands rest on Mickey's waist, and while Mickey knows he should be pushing him off, he leans into it. Ian sounds almost shy when he whispers: “And here I thought you were gonna bail.” They both know what he's talking about.
Mickey wants to tell him, wants to tell him that while yes, he's not exactly looking forward to it, he's gonna do it because Ian asked. Even if that means he's whipped as fuck. But the words just don't come out, they keep getting stuck in his throat from years and years of 'showing emotion makes you weak' rhetoric carved into his brain. Don't let anyone know they mean something to you, because they will use it against you. You loved your dad, too, after all. Look where that got you. He knows Ian's not like that, but it's hard to unlearn all that shit. So, instead he murmurs a “Shut up” and leaves it at that.
But Ian's apparently not satisfied with that. Wouldn't be Ian if he was. “No, really, I wouldn't blame you if you did. Gallagher crazy is a whole different kind of crazy.” There it is. Mickey has long since realized that Ian has this deep rooted fear that any boyfriend of his is gonna leave him once he meets the family, and he hates it. Mickey wants to punch every asshole that made him believe that.
He touches Ian's cheek, barely there. “Hey,” he warns, forcing him to look into Mickey's eyes. Then he kisses him, not particularly deep but still passionate enough to get the point across. I'm not leaving. Ian's lips are a taste he could never get tired of and he almost loses himself in them, but then he remembers that he has a point to make here, so he stops. Ian's panting into his mouth. “I happen to like Gallagher crazy,” he whispers into his mouth. Yours.
Ian laughs, weak and unconvinced, but there. “Yeah, yeah.” He lets their foreheads touch and closes his eyes, exhaling like he's been holding his breath for a while now. “Why you wanna talk to Marcus, anyway?”
Mickey sighs, nuzzling his forehead against Ian's a little. “Found something fishy in his room.”
“Umm, yeah no shit, he owns a fish?”
He hits his shoulder. “I meant drugs, dumbass,” Mickey says, exaggerated. And then a little lower, so nobody can overhear them: “Found some weed under his bed.”
Ian looks confused, rubbing his shoulder. “You sure it was Marcus' room?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck,” he says, sliding his hands up and down Mickey's waist. It's comforting, so he doesn't tell him to stop. “But Marcus is normally such a nice kid. I don't think I've ever even seen him drink.” Ian studies his boyfriend's face, and then, as if he can read minds, he asks: “Think there's something else going on?”
“Dunno, that's what I wanna find out.” Mickey starts biting his lower lip nervously, already feeling the stress sinking in. “I still have the drugs, gonna flush them down the toilet after.”
Ian hums, riding up Mickey's shirt by his movements a little and taking full advantage of the exposed skin. Mickey almost doesn't want to get back to work, all he wants to do is drag Ian somewhere secluded and never leave. Shit. “Would be best,” Ian says, drumming his fingers along Mickey's skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “It's probably not even good weed.”
“Don't you dare say that shit in front of the kids, I'll cut you,” he warns him, pecking Ian's lips one more time and then reluctantly untangling himself from his ginger idiot. “Go do your job, I'll do mine.”
Ian cheekily salutes him as he goes. “You got it, boss.”
–
Marcus is outside when he finds him, only looking up once when Mickey asks him if he can have a word. Marcus is generally not a very extrovert person, during his first weeks here he hardly spoke except to answer questions, preferring to lose himself in music and writing his own songs. Mickey's heard him rap before, he's pretty good.
He takes the pack of weed out of his pocket and lets it lie it between them, strategically not looking at him. He doesn't say a word, but he doesn't have to. “Dunno what that is,” Marcus says, shrugging, trying to not look like the boy that got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He's failing miserably.
“Please, I've been dealing drugs since I was 9, I know what weed looks like,” Mickey counters, still only looking straight ahead. It's quiet here, but outside these walls there is a whole other world, hectic and foreign to someone who's only ever known the system. Someone like Marcus. “And I know you do, too.” He almost adds I've read your file, but restrains himself. He doesn't want Marcus to feel attacked, exposed, then this conversation is gonna go nowhere. The worst kind of attitude you can have around these kids is acting like you know everything about them and judging them for it, because then they'll just snap. “What's going on, Marcus?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah?” Mickey finally does turn to look at him then, and even though Marcus is set to turn 18 in a few weeks, all he sees is a scared kid. A kid that got dealt a shitty hand and now thinks he needs to fuck up his life further. “'Cause last I checked, you don't do drugs. And you're sure as hell not dumb enough to leave them in your room, too. So, what's going on?” He waits a few minutes, but still nothing. Marcus won't even look at him, choosing instead to look at his shoulder. “Okay, then I'll tell you what's going on. You're scared. I know you are. You left those drugs in your room, didn't even touch them, hoping that I'd find them. And that you, what? Get to stay here for a little longer? That's not how it works, Marcus, you know that.”
“Hey, I'm not scared,” Marcus objects, raising his voice a little.
“'Course you are,” Mickey says, taking the plastic bag of weed and putting it back in his pocket, planning to flash it later. “We all are. I'm scared you'll do something stupid. You're scared of going outside these walls, of having to fend for yourself. And it's okay to be scared, okay? It is. And the best way to deal with these fears is to face them head on, and to punch the ever living shit out of them.” Mickey flinches. “No, wait, scratch that, don't punch people.” Marcus finally looks up, laughing and shaking his head.
“Man, you're weird.”
“Years of taking care of a bunch of kids made me that way, trust me.” Marcus laughs again at that, and Mickey grins along. He likes making kids laugh. It's one of the reasons he wanted to be a social worker in the first place. “You know,” he starts, scratching his chin, “when I turned 18, I was scared, too. My sister was a year younger than me, so I had to leave her behind and start over. All on my own.”
“Yeah, how'd that go?” Marcus asks, intrigued.
Mickey laughs. “I managed, I guess.” Barely. He remembers college, having no fucking clue why he was there, why shit was so expensive, and how he was gonna pay for all of it. But that's life.
He's almost done before he realizes he has another speech to give. He hates giving the 'Don't do drugs, kids' speech, most likely because no one's gonna believe that shit from a guy with knuckle tattoos, but he can try. “Oh, another thing: don't ever do that again. Because when you get caught, and if you start there's no way you're not gonna get caught eventually, they won't look at you as a kid. They're gonna treat you like an adult, and while they're at it give you the hardest punishment they can.” Marcus opens his mouth to agree, or argue, but Mickey cuts him off. “No, listen. Jail isn't juvie, they're gonna eat you alive in there. And even once you're out, you're screwed. Believe me, I know.” He sighs, his right hand automatically going to his left wrist and scratching furiously. His clothes feel way too tight, closing in around his throat. “My dad, he … he got 10 years. And I don't want that for you.” (And Mickey put him in there) (Wait, shit, don't think about that) His fingers are furiously working on his wrist, scratching it raw and sensitive. Scratch.
“For real, your dad's in the can? For what?” Scratch.
Mickey shrugs, willing himself not to say it. Drugs, mostly. Child abuse. Sexual assault. Some other shit he can't remember. “Lots of stuff.”
Marcus hums, contemplating that answer. “He ever gonna get out?”
“No.” Not if he's got anything to say 'bout it.
–
“Stop scratching.” They're inside Ian's shitty car, driving to what will probably turn out to be the most awkward dinner ever. Mickey's feeling strung up from his and Marcus' conversation as it is, but now he just feels ready to snap. And he's not scratching, fuck Ian.
“I'm not,” he huffs.
Ian laughs, gesturing to Mickey's wrist. “You're doing it right now.” Mickey looks down, and almost as if he has no control over his hands anymore, he is scratching. He forces himself to stop, even though it's hard. One of these days his hands are gonna fall off or some shit. “You have nothing to be nervous about, I promise.”
Mickey crosses his arms over his chest, grumbling. “Except a bunch of judgmental Gallaghers.”
Ian sighs, taking one of Mickey's hands without looking up from the road and putting it up to his lips, kissing his knuckles. Mickey would complain about how cheesy this is if it wasn't helping. Ian starts grinning. “Don't worry. I'll defend you, my love.”
Mickey almost wants to take his hand back, but Ian's hold is stronger. “Oh, fuck you.”
“What is it, my love?” Ian asks innocently, cracking up almost immediately and finally releasing his hand.
“I fucking hate you.” Mickey grumbles.
“I know you do,” Ian says, grinning. He stops talking to focus more on the busy streets of Chicago, and the car once again gets engulfed in silence. But it's not an uneasy silence, it never is with Ian.
Mickey falls asleep halfway through, dreaming of nothing in particular. It's only once they've arrived and parked the car that Ian wakes him up. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt and doing the same for Mickey in his still sleep drunken state. “We're there.”
Mickey yawns, and finally looks ahead of them and wow. “This place looks like shit,” he says out loud before stopping himself, but Ian's not offended, he only snorts, in a sort of 'fair enough' way. “Don't get why your sister won't just move out of this shit hole.”
“Well, the place holds a certain sentimental value to us,” Ian says, and Mickey wonders what it would feel like to have that. Sentimental value. He's always been moving around, and before that the Milkovich house was the earth equivalent of hell to him, so no. He doesn't get it. “Besides, Liam's still in school, so Fiona's not the only one still living in there.” Ahhh, Liam. The youngest, he already knows that.
Mickey's reluctance to get outside doesn't go unnoticed by Ian. “Come on, don't be nervous,” he says, smiling at him encouragingly.
“I'm not nervous,” Mickey grumbles, and it's in that moment that the Gallagher door opens and a slim brunette woman goes outside, waving at them. “Is that your sister? Shit.”
Ian laughs, getting out of the car and then waiting for Mickey to intertwine their hands together. Mickey feels nervous, given that they're in the south side and all, but he tries not to focus on that. “Here we go,” Ian says, leading his boyfriend to the house, and his death, most likely.