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It had been three days since Terry walked in on them. Ian hadn’t seen Mickey, hadn’t spoken to him. He wasn’t even sure Mickey was still alive until he talked to Mandy, though she couldn’t tell him anything more than that.
Ian couldn’t take it anymore. He walked to the Milkovich home and waited. Crouching behind a car across the street, he watched the front door. Twenty minutes later, Terry Milkovich walked out. Ian stayed frozen where he was until Terry disappeared around the corner.
Ian sprinted across the street and up the Milkovich’s front steps. He hesitated with his hand on the door, images of what happened the last time he was here holding him in place. But Mickey was inside and he needed to see him. Ian took a shaky breath and opened the door.
The house was dark inside. It was as wrecked and dirty as it always was, but the only thing Ian was looking at was Mickey’s bedroom door.
Ian tried to open it quietly, but the door creaked and suddenly he had a gun pointed at him.
Mickey was sitting up in bed with his sheets crumpled around him. He had both hands on the gun, but he couldn’t keep it steady. His face was badly bruised. Ian could see where the butt of Terry’s gun had hit him.
“Mickey, it’s me.” Ian whispered.
Mickey wasn’t really looking him. He looked so tired. His shoulders slumped as he let out a breath and set the gun down on his bedside table. He slid back down into his bed, lying on his side with his back to Ian.
Ian took a moment to let his heart rate return to normal before walking around to the other side of Mickey’s bed. He laid down on top of the covers, moving slowly, not wanting to startle Mickey again.
Mickey’s eyes were closed, so Ian let himself stare a bit. Mickey looked like he hadn’t showered since the last time he saw him. There was dried blood crusted to his pillowcase. Ian wondered how long he’d been in this bed for.
He wanted to touch Mickey, to hold him, to comfort him, but he wasn’t sure how. Ian didn’t know how to touch someone who had been touched so violently without scaring them off, without hurting them more. He reached out for Mickey’s wrist, wrapped his fingers around it, held him gently. That felt safe. Mickey didn’t pull away.
“I’m not sick.” Mickey whispered. His voice sounded hoarse despite the claim, though Ian suspected it had nothing to do with illness. “You can come closer if you want.” Mickey muttered under his breath.
Ian moved slowly towards him until his arm was around Micky’s waist and their foreheads were resting together. Ian let out a sigh of relief.
“I’m sorry.” Mickey breathed. It was so quiet Ian almost missed it.
Ian pulled back enough to look Mickey in the eye. He moved his hand from Micky’s waist to the side of his face, holding him so he had to meet his gaze.
“None of this was your fault.” He whispered gently, but firmly. “None of this was your fault.” He repeated. He needed Mickey to hear it.
Mickey’s head dipped as he started to cry. Ian pulled him close to his chest. Mickey was shaking. He clung desperately to the front of Ian’s shirt as he sobbed, unable to hold back any longer.
When he quieted down, Ian loosened his grip but didn’t let go. He stroked a hand soothingly up and down Mickey’s spine, pressing kisses to Mickey’s hair.
“I love you.” Ian whispered. There was no expectation with it. He didn’t need Mickey to say it back right now, he just needed Mickey to know. As long as Mickey didn’t hit him, Ian would consider it a victory.
Mickey tensed at the words. Ian pressed a kiss to his temple and held him closer. Mickey melted into it. He nodded as best he could against Ian’s chest. Ian understood. It was enough.
They held each other for a while longer and both of their breathing started to slow. It got harder to keep their eyes open. Eventually, they stopped fighting it and fell asleep.
A loud crash woke them up. Someone had broken something in the living room. There were heavy footsteps. Mickey and Ian pulled themselves out of their tangle of limbs and flew apart.
Mickey shoved Ian towards the window, hoping he would get the message, then he ran to the door.
Terry had broken the lock years ago when Mickey had tried to hide from him during a particularly violent bender. Mickey was eight at the time. He didn’t think about it. He propped a chair under the handle to keep it in place.
Mickey turned back to Ian who was just standing there staring at him.
Mickey pointed insistently at the window. Ian glanced at it. They were on the first floor. It would be so easy to just climb out and leave.
Except it wouldn’t. Ian thought as he looked at the desperate expression on Mickey’s face as he leant back tensely against the door, as if bracing himself for his father to try to barge in at any moment.
Ian couldn’t go through another day of wondering if Mickey was okay, if he was with his father, if he was still alive.
Ian found himself crossing the room before he had made the conscious decision to do so. One hand landed on Mickey’s waist, the other cupped Mickey’s jaw gently tilting it up, meeting Mickey’s lips with his own.
“Come with me.” Ian whispered when he pulled away. He kept his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against Mickey’s.
“Ian…” Mickey began as a warning.
“Please.” Ian breathed, leaning in to kiss him again. “Come stay with me.” Another kiss. “Just a few days. Please.” Ian's face felt wet. He wasn’t sure which of them was crying. Maybe both.
Mickey sighed and pulled away. He walked over to his bed, bent down, and pulled a backpack out from underneath it. He moved to his dresser and stuffed some clothes and other things in the bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, Mickey walked to the open window.
“You coming?” He asked as he turned to Ian.
A wide grin split Ian’s face. He crossed the room quickly and crashed his lips into Mickey’s. It was awkward and messy, but Mickey could feel Ian’s smile against his lips and he couldn’t help but return it.
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A few days turned into a few weeks, turned into a few months.
Mickey sleeping on Ian’s floor turned into Ian convincing him to share his tiny twin bed.
A friend who needed a place to crash for a few days turned into Mickey unquestionably living with the Gallagher’s.
Mickey had been tense at first, waiting for his father to show up and tear everything away from him. But he never did. Mickey didn’t know if he was in jail, or dead, or just too drunk to come after him. He didn’t care.
Mickey helped Fiona clean sometimes or set the table. He didn’t know how to cook for shit, but Debbie taught him a few things and together they made some decent meals. Fiona noticed that there was more money in the squirrel fund then she expected to be there every time she counted it. When everyone else was busy, Mickey would watch Liam, who had taken to him almost immediately and started affectionately calling Mickey “Mouse” and making Mickey read him bedtime stories nearly every night.
Mickey never went back home. He had a new home. He had Ian.