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Published:
2023-07-01
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Who We Become

Summary:

And then there’s Fiona. Mickey’s always liked her; she’s snarky and quick-witted and doesn’t take anyone’s shit—he can see where Ian gets it from.

But beneath all of that, under the sharp edges and determined front, she’s all soft inside. He can tell from the way she is with the kids: from the way she soothes them when they’re upset or anxious or scared; from the way she still cooks for them all and hands them brown-bag lunches out the door, even though they’re practically all grown; from the way she loves them.

He can tell from her eyes. They’re soft, earnest. Like MIckey imagines a mother's would be.

 

Or: Mickey and Fiona have a conversation about childhood, being raised by your sibling, and the people we become when we have no other choice.

Notes:

This came out of left field, to be honest. I adore and support Gallavich but I'm honestly not super invested in writing or reading about it... However. There's something about the Mickey and Fiona friendship that blossomed in Season 5 that has an absolute chokehold on me. They both had shitty childhoods and shitty responsibilities, and they're so surprisingly alike. I just think they'd be besties. <3

Here is one (1) long ass conversation between these repressed bitches. Hope you enjoy! I'd love to chat with you @ mother-of-houseplants-2 on Tumblr!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

As shitty as the Gallagher house is, with its dilapidation and crampedness and general grime, Mickey’s gotta admit, it’s kind of nice.

Don’t get him wrong—it’s a pain in the ass to live in such tight quarters with all the little losers crawling around everywhere, getting underfoot all the time and cockblocking him at every turn—but there’s a charm to the place that he can’t deny.

Ian’s still got all his posters up on the wall by his bed, silly little army propaganda and Spider-Man shit papered over one another to make a kaleidoscopic mural in the sliver of wall by his head. The hallway’s always dotted with dropped bits of clothing and Franny’s toys, which used to be Liam’s toys, which used to be Carl’s. And downstairs, in the kitchen, there are marks of the family everywhere—photos and report cards stuck to the fridge with magnets, Tupperware containers spread out across the kitchen table, Fiona’s calendar with color-coded notes reminding the kids what to pay to whom and by when.

And then there’s Fiona. Mickey’s always liked her; she’s snarky and quick-witted and doesn’t take anyone’s shit—he can see where Ian gets it from. But beneath all of that, under the sharp edges and determined front, she’s all soft inside. He can tell from the way she is with the kids: from the way she soothes them when they’re upset or anxious or scared; from the way she still cooks for them all and hands them brown-bag lunches out the door, even though they’re practically all grown; from the way she loves them.

He can tell from her eyes. They’re soft, earnest. Like Mickey imagines a mother's would be.

That’s a thought he shuts down fast. He doesn’t want to touch that line of thinking with a ten-foot pole.

Mickey’s up late, sitting at the kitchen table poring over a checklist full of shit he needs to sort out for the wedding, when the front door creaks open and closes with a carefully muffled thunk. When he glances over his shoulder, he sees whoever it is walk into the kitchen, making a beeline for the fridge to grab a coke. He recognizes her with a single glance—Fiona.

“Hey,” he says, and it startles her. Fiona whips around, wide-eyed, before she locks eyes with him and the tension drains from her with a long exhale.

“Jesus. Hey, Mickey.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re okay. Coke?”

“Nah,” he says, gesturing at the beer bottle open by his elbow on the table. Fiona shrugs, grabbing her drink and shutting the fridge. Without the fluorescent white fridge light illuminating the kitchen, it’s dark save for the dim warmth of the shitty dining table overhead. Mickey watches as she walks over and takes a seat next to him, eyes on the papers strewn across the table. She twitches a sheet closer to herself to read.

“Oh, you got food sorted out?”

“Yeah, finally. All on my own, too; all your dumbass carrot-top of a brother had to say was ‘I dunno, anything’s fine.’” Fiona laughs softly at his dopey impression, shaking her head.

“Ian’s like that.”

“Motherfucker doesn’t have a single opinion on this shit,” Mickey grouses, “Expects me to decide everything for him. Fucking child.”

Despite his annoyance, he can’t help but to sound so incredibly fond with his complaints; he loves that ginger bastard, he really does. Fiona smiles, like she can tell he means no harm.

“I think he’s just thrilled to be getting married at all. None of us ever thought it was in the cards for us, really, so the fact that he’s found someone he loves… Well, that’s all that matters. Not the flowers or the food or anything, but the person.” And Jesus, does that make Mickey feel like a piece of shit.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, “It’s his day, too.”

They lapse into silence for a few moments. Mick thumbs through some documents idly, jotting down prices on a scrap sheet of paper to get a rough estimate. Fiona nurses her coke and watches him. He thinks it should be unnerving, having her eyes on him, but it’s surprisingly comforting. Mickey’s long since considered her a tentative friend; she’s seen him cry too many fucking times at Ian’s hospital and silently offered him tissues without judgement to be just an acquaintance.

She’s nice. Safe. That’s new to him. It’s a little bit terrifying. Falling in love with Ian was one thing—had him sweaty and breathless with panic at the realization—but falling in love with the whole Gallagher family? Fuck that. Not in a million years.

“Is your family going to be there?” Fiona asks softly. Mickey swallows. It takes him a long moment to respond.

“Nah. I dunno. We gotta keep Terry away or he’ll throw a fucking fit, try to shut the whole thing down. Never knew my Ma. Colin and Mandy… Who even knows where the fuck they are,” he laughs bitterly. “I guess Sandy will be there. Though she’s really only here for Debbie, not me. Oh, there’s my cousins. But I sorta hate them, to be honest. They don’t do shit but get smashed and have a good time.”

“Ugh,” groans Fiona. That makes him laugh, despite everything.

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

“You ever…” she hesitates. Mickey tenses. “You ever hear from Iggy after he left?”

That’s not what Mick expected her to ask. He’s used to the regular questions: You ever want to kill your dad for the shit he put you guys through? You ever miss your mom? You ever wish things were a little bit different?

But no one asks after his brothers, usually—especially not his oldest. The memory of him, with his stupid face and dirty beanies and ripped up duffle bag on his way out the door tugs at something in him that he thought he cut out years ago. Iggy was a dumbass piece of shit brother who left the second Mick turned eighteen. And then it was just him and Colin and Mandy.

And then, later, it was just him.

“Nah,” he says hoarsely, “Last I heard of him was through a buddy of a buddy. Apparently he’s walking the straight and narrow now, got a nine to five and everything.”

“Hm. Good for him,” Fiona sighs. Mickey bristles at that.

“The fuck? He left us.”

“Yeah, after he finished raising you!”

“He barely raised us,” he grumbles, “Didn’t do shit to protect Mandy from that rat bastard we call a father. You did more for her than he ever did.”

“Yeah,” she concedes, “He wasn’t the best. But we were friends, you know? In high school?” That’s news to him. The surprise must show on his face, because Fiona nods, brows high. “Yeah, he dropped out the year before me to be with you guys. Ran with your dad. We sorta fell out of touch after that, went down different paths to survive. But I know he always tried his best.”

“Huh. Well. Doesn’t make him any less of a shitty brother.”

“That’s fair,” Fiona nods, “He was still an asshole. But he deserved his own life, too.”

Again, silence for a moment. Mickey can’t help but to fume a little bit; he hasn’t thought about Iggy in years, and now here he his, remembering all the little things he tried to forget: his big brother teaching him how to steal a car, making him spaghetti-o’s at two in the morning when he couldn’t sleep, beating his ass at video games. Stealing his shit. Shielding him from Terry. Keeping a careful eye on Mandy’s bedroom door.

And then he got into the drugs and the guns and got locked away and came back all goody-two-shoes, wanting to get out of this life. Like there’s a way out of this life. And he packed up and handed over all the responsibility of Terry and Mandy and the house and the family business to Mickey, and left.

There were bad times growing up. Mostly bad times, he thinks. But there were good times, too. Mickey doesn’t know how to reconcile with that.

“Ian says shit sometimes,” he says, apropos of nothing, “About how you guys grew up.”

“Yeah?” Fiona laughs softly, “Like what?”

“Like about the squirrel fund. And the lice checks. And Frank and Monica. Mostly Frank and Monica, to be honest.”

“That’s a good chunk of how we grew up, yeah.”

“But also you.” Fiona startles at that.

“Me?”

“Yeah. The stuff you’ve done.” Her face goes dark at that, closed in like she’s bracing for a punch.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes. He’s got every right to be mad—”

“No, I mean—Yeah, he talks about that shit too,” Mickey acquiesces, “But mostly he tells me about what you’ve done for him. You know? You got him on his meds, came to his first ROTC ceremony… I dunno. You’ve done a lot for him. Bastard doesn’t even realize it. Complains about you embarrassing him at Little League games. At least you fucking came to his Little League games.”

Fiona seems a little surprised at the confession. Mickey notices she’s got a pink flush to her cheeks that wasn’t there a few seconds ago. Does she really not know? Surely she can’t think no one ever saw what she did for those kids? For Ian?

“Oh,” she breathes, “That was nothing.” Mickey starts to laugh, before he realizes she’s being serious.

“The fuck are you talking about? It wasn’t nothing,” he exclaims in protest, “You did fucking everything for those kids.”

“Yeah, well.” Fi takes a swig of her coke. “I should’ve done more.”

“Bullshit!” Mickey is truly amazed. He can’t tell if it’s humility or low self-esteem or the pure blockheadedness that all these Gallaghers seem to possess, but Fiona doesn’t seem to understand that she was the best fucking thing that ever happened to this family. Honestly, it seems like no one else does, either.

“You raised them all. Ian—I love that stupid sonofabitch, but he doesn’t even notice the way he talks about you sometimes, like he’s—like he’s complaining about his mom embarrassing him or some shit. Can’t see past his own nose enough to be grateful. I mean, you gave up everything for them. You were the best thing they ever had.

“I was so fucking jealous of you all growing up, you know? Or, at least, I was jealous of Lip and Ian. They always came to school with packed lunches. They always had someone to come to their Parents’ Nights. They always had you in their corner. And yeah, sure, I had Iggy. And he did some shit for us, I suppose. But, man. I always wished I had a Fiona.”

When Mickey’s done with his fucking monologue and realizes all the beans he’s spilled, he’s mortified; he never talks about this shit, would never admit it to anyone on a regular day when he hasn’t had three beers and four hours of sleep stressing over wedding planning. But when he looks up at Fiona, she isn’t laughing at him. She’s not angry or disgusted or mad. Instead, she looks like she’s trying not to cry.

It hits him then: he had an Iggy, and the Gallaghers had a Fiona, but she had no one. She never had a big sibling looking out for her, showing her the ropes and keeping her safe.

Was she always safe?

“I, uh.” Fiona pauses, clears her throat. She goes quiet again for a long moment. Mickey doesn’t intervene; he gives her the space to choke back tears and sip carefully at her can. When she finally manages to speak, her voice is strained, quiet.

“I read this thing. A while back. One of those bullshit self-help guides,” she laughs, though it falls flat. “It said, um. When you grow up in a shitty situation, you eventually become the person you needed when you were young.” She’s quiet for a second. Mickey lets that sink in. “I just did my best. You know? I just tried to help.”

“You did,” he says, softer than he thought capable. Fiona glances over at him with a watery smile. Again, those soft eyes.

“So did you,” she says, “You were there for Mandy.”

“You did more for her than me,” he protests.

“It’s different when it’s family. Trust me,” she presses, and something about the earnestness of her tone makes him want to believe her—that even though his sister was in a shit situation, maybe his meager attempts to take care of her mattered in some small way. He nods. Fiona reaches out, squeezes his hand.

“You’re a really good guy,” she says, and when he scoffs, adds, “No, look at me, I’m serious. I was wrong about you before. But you’re a good kid.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You’ll always be a kid to me. You and Ian both.” She’s quiet for a moment. “You’re so good for him.”

“Yeah, well,” he sighs, voice fond, “Hate to admit it, but he’s good for me too. He’s the best.”

“Yeah. He is. If you hurt him, I’ll cut your dick off.” Mickey lets out a bark of laughter at that.

“Fiona, if I ever hurt him, I’ll cut my own dick off, I promise you that.”

“I know you would. And if he hurts you, I’ll do the same to him.” That shocks him a little, but Fiona just shrugs. “You’re family.”

Mickey isn’t expecting that to hit him as hard as it does, but it takes him like a punch. Family. It’s been a long time since he’s given the concept of belonging to a family any real thought. He’s always worn the Milkovich name like a badge of honor, like it’s proof that he's—what? Tough? Not to be messed with?

But to be a Gallagher? Mick’s a little choked up just thinking about it.

Instead of giving into the pinch at the back of his throat, Mickey squeezes the thin, bony hand still in his, and says, “I’m sorry the kids don’t appreciate you like they should. They should be more grateful to you; I know I would.” Fiona smiles.

“I’m sorry Iggy left. I know it’s complicated, but it must hurt either way. I wish you’d had a—a ‘Fiona’ growing up.”

“I wish you had someone. Anyone.”

“Ah, well,” she sighs in soft amusement, “Things turned out okay, all things considered.”

And they did, didn’t they? Fiona’s doing alright for herself. She’s single and happy. She’s got five kids that maybe don’t respect her as much as they should, but adore her all the same. And Mickey? Mickey’s out of that goddamn house. He misses his brother, but he’s happy for him, too, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. He’s got a little bit of money. And he’s marrying the love of his life.

He’s marrying the love of his life. Jesus. Imagine that.

“Mick?” comes a groggy voice from the staircase. Mickey looks over his shoulder to see Ian, his shock of red hair a floppy mess, rubbing at his eyes with a fist while clomping down the stairs. Mickey can’t help it; he melts immediately at the sight of him so soft and sweet. He loves that bitch. He loves him so damn much.

“Hey, Ian.”

“What are you doing still up? Come to bed.”

“I’m coming, man. Just talking to your sister.”

“Mmf,” Ian grunts, half-asleep, “Fiona. Go to bed too.”

“I will, honey,” she laughs, giving Mick a pat on the shoulder before hauling herself up. “Go on, I’ll clean this up. Go, before he gets all whiny.”

“Thanks, Fiona. Come on, you big baby, let’s go upstairs.” Mickey can’t keep the fondness out of his voice when he scoots back from the table and heads over to follow his fiancé up the stairs. When he slips his hand into Ian’s, it’s warm and familiar. He’s no poet, but that, now, is home if he’s ever felt one.

“Night, Fi,” Ian calls, barely awake, “Love you.”

“Goodnight, boys. Love you too.”

She’s responding to Ian, but she looks at Mickey when she says it. Reluctantly, he’s starting to let himself believe it. Fiona’s already beginning to putter around the dining table, cleaning up his mess—when does she ever stop? When does she get to sleep? When does she get to live for herself, let someone else look out for her, be someone other than the kids’ only lifeline? When does she get to feel safe? At home?

And then Ian tugs him upstairs, and she disappears out of view, and he follows his soon-to-be-husband peacefully to bed.

Notes:

something about Them ... i want to put them in my house and feed them rice