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Chapter Text

March 2024

When Mickey wins the title of Miss Siren’s Song, it is a lark. There are exactly fourteen queens in regular rotation at the club and Mickey has been performing as Cha-Cha has been there for three years. He’s the third most senior queen on retainer and arguably the most popular. The vote is counted by round of applause and Cha-Cha is an even bigger ham than Mickey.

Cha-Cha handily wins the title, with Kel Dommage and Anita Tension as the first and second alternates, respectively.

It makes Mickey all warm and tingly inside when people tell him how pretty he is as Cha-Cha. However, Mickey insists on treating it like this is no big deal. He only participated for the fifty-dollar gift card to the Outback Steakhouse. But it did make him feel a little special, no matter how he tells his husband the contrary. He parades around the house for the next week in his sash and cheap costume tiara, convinced that this was as far as his pageant career would go.

April 2024

“Miss Chi-Town sounds like it should be a big deal, right?” asks Ian.

“I doubt it,” Mickey shrugs as reclines on the chaise lounge that only recently replaced the old Milkovich family sofa. “Not like I’m doing Miss America or something like that.”

“I don’t think drag queens are eligible for Miss America,” smirks Ian as he reviews the criteria the organizers sent him. Ian suspects the winner of every bar's in-house drag pageant in the greater Chicago area gets a packet like this. “You gonna do this, then?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey grumbles, visoring his eyes with his hand. “Side hustle’s supposed to make money, right?”

It surprises Ian that even now, four years into the life of Miss Cha-Cha Heals, Mickey still talks about his career in drag like it’s a hobby or a side project. But the truth of the matter is when you look at Mickey’s actions and not his bluster, he treats it with as much fervor as he does his work in dance.

If only he could marry the two, Mickey wouldn’t have to choose between the one and the other, Ian thinks. 

“Every girl I know who does the whole pageant scene makes it sound like a huge money pit and a time commitment.”

Ian sits by Mickey’s feet on the chaise. “We both make good money during the day. And you have a crap ton of time-off piling up. We can afford it if you take a weekend off to do this. If you want.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it. Does Mickey want this? Most things Mickey has wanted in this world, he has spent some considerable time acting like they meant nothing to them when the truth is that it was just his insecurities speaking. Mickey wants good things to come to him just as much as anyone else does. But he still has the voice in his head he has to battle with, telling him he doesn’t deserve them, or doesn’t measure up.

“Think you’d do okay?” Ian asks.

“You kidding? I’d slaughter those no-talent whores.”

Ian looks at the prompt brief. “Just three categories. Evening gown, talent, and Q&A.”

“Actually categories, huh?”

* * *

July 2024

“No, I said ostrich feathers. Are you freaking deaf or something?” seethes into the phone. “Nobody uses chicken feathers.” The customer service rep says something on the line that Ian can’t make out, but it turns Mickey’s face red as a tomato. “So, you knew you were sending me the wrong thing? Who the fuck does that?” ... “Well, if you didn’t have ostrich feathers, then why the fuck do you offer it on the website?” ... “Well, when will they be back in stock? ... No. Are you retarded? No, that is not satis-fucking-factory. Just refund me. I don’t need this shit.” He ends the call.

“Everything okay?” asks Ian, knowing full well that he risks getting his head bitten off.

“The problem with cell phones is you don’t get that satisfaction of slamming it down after a shitshow like that.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You up for a shopping trip?” Mickey asks, “I really only need one thing.”

“And you need me?” asks Ian.

“Would it help if I said I need your expertise?”

That is how Ian finds himself crisscrossing Chicago with Mickey, scouring his go-to discount supply shop on a Wednesday afternoon.

Ian had gotten so used to doing these supply runs on his own. The rotating schedule when he was an EMT often allowed for him to shop during the day. And now that he’s a masseur again, he takes advantage of the gaps between his different appointments across the city. He didn’t used to think he was a particularly creative or crafty person, but the time to himself alone with the varied materials trying to figure out how to turn Mickey’s increasingly expensive designs into something both affordable and achievable brought out an ingenuity he never knew he had.

Drag shopping with Mickey in tow isn’t a foreign concept, but Mickey has left the materials in Ian’s hands for so long that it feels weird doing it together. They had clearly delineated roles in forging Cha-Cha’s career. Ian’s scope of coverage is admittedly smaller, but he still feels his toes stepped on as Cha-Cha’s costumer.

Not that Ian is having a bad time. Far from it. If you have a chance to go shopping with a drag queen, do it. Going through Hobby Lobby and Good Will with a drag queen is like watching a kid hopped up on Pixy Stix running through a toy store. And if that drag queen is your loud, and adorably obnoxious husband, all the better.

It may have only been a few years since the last time they went drag shopping together, but Mickey is so much more comfortable with himself. He used to play it cool when he saw feminine things he wanted to try. He’d gesture with a nod to something he’d want, then Ian would be the one to take it off the racks and tuck it into their shopping cart.

Times have changed.

“Hey!” exclaims Mickey pulling a dress off the rack and holds it up to the length of his body, fanning out the skirt to give it the full effect. “Think I’d look cute in this?” And he kicks up one foot and twirls on the other.

Ian thinks, “I don’t know about the cut. You’d have no hips in that thing.”

“So, like a flapper kind of deal?”

He smiles. This dress will not flatter Mickey unless Ian does some significant work to it. But he can’t refuse that sweet, earnest look on Mickey’s face. He loves that the man who once said good luck getting him in a skirt after he came out has grown into this uninhibited and self-assured queen as comfortable with his feminine qualities as the masculine ones.

“Maybe I could rework it.”

“Yay!” Mickey is a man who shrieks “yay” now. Ian feels blessed to see it.

“But it won’t work with the look we’re trying to put together, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. We gotta focus on Miss Gay USA. Doesn’t mean I can’t think about the future.”

Winning Miss Chi-Town was a vindication to Mickey, a form of admiration he didn’t know he craved until he was crowned. It was one thing for the regulars at the Siren’s Song to cheer on one of their own who has earned a lot of good will over the past three years. And it’s something to be recognized as a talented dancer, even if he’s always cast in the chorus or as comic relief. He doesn’t shun that sort of praise like he used to. But to be picked out as the best in anything is a wholly new feeling for him.

He grew up feeling worthless.

But now he’s someone. Two someones. However, Mickey may be a skillful dancer and he has every right to feel proud of it, but right now Cha-Cha is a crowned queen feeling the respect of her peers and it has Mickey on cloud nine. She’s Miss Chi-Town, the rated the best fucking drag queen in one of the biggest cities in the country. And she’s headed to a national pageant in a few short weeks. It makes Mickey feel invincible.

Or at least it does until he remembers the upcoming competition.

“Remember what you said when we left the house, baby?”

Mickey shrugs and scratches the back of his head. “Maybe?”

“You said we only need to get…”

“…One thing.” Finishes Mickey.

Ian does Mickey the kindness of not talking to his husband like a child, but he does make a point of nudging his head in the direction of their very full shopping cart in front of him.

“Ostrich feathers?”

“Fuck off,” grunts Mickey. “We would have found some eventually.”

Ian pulls Mickey in for a one-armed hug. “I know you got a lot running through your head, but we gotta have a mission plan.”

“It’s my drag. Isn’t it better to get some of everything, go over the top?”

“I’ve been costuming you for almost five years. I know how to edit your ideas. Trust me.”

Fuck you, thinks Mickey. But he doesn’t say it. Ian is trying to help. He’s holding Mickey back when he feels like he could fly, but he thinks he’s being helpful. Mickey can’t fault him for it.

The rest of the trip goes on as normal. Ian may have rebuked Mickey for turning this “just one item” errand into a shopping spree, but he doesn’t begrudge him. At a discount outlet like this where you pay by weight, Mickey could fill two carts and it might not ever crack the hundred dollar mark.

They never find the ostrich feathers. Plenty of rhinestones, sequins, whole bolts of plum-colored and jade green chiffon, three pairs of stilettos, and enough dresses for a two-week cruise, but not a damn feather.

“I can’t believe you dragged me around there and we didn’t find what I wanted,” gripes Mickey as they push the shopping cart to the car.

“Relax we’ll find them. Or we’ll find something just as good. We can—”

“Two weeks!” Mickey shouts loud enough that heads turn in the parking lot. “I have the biggest show of my life in two fucking weeks! And you’re acting like I’m still blundering around at Sing, Sing!”

“You think I don’t know what a big deal this is, Mick?” spits Ian as they load up the car. “I’ve been here with you every step of the way.”

“You’re not with me on-stage. You don’t know what it’s like!” Mickey exclaims as he slams the car door. “You don’t feel the… the…”

“The what?” asks Ian, both visibly annoyed at being yelled at, but also his eyes searching Mickey for something.

“You don’t feel the same pressure. The way I do. It’ me out there. You get to sit back and watch, and I have to pray I don’t fail.”

Mickey feels sick from the admission. He’s gotten very comfortable with being vulnerable around his husband, but he still hates this kind of feeling vulnerable. Before he even knows it, he’s turning on the balls of his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“Can you take that shit home for me?”

“Mick?”

“Gimme some space, would you?”

“Mickey?”

But Mickey doesn’t stop. He shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps walking.

Chapter Text

July 2024

Mickey trudges down the sidewalk he doesn't know how long. He knows Ian didn't follow him. If he had, the sweet idiot would have driven alongside him at a crawl begging for him to calm down, to get in the car. He would have plead for cooler heads to prevail. 

He feels shitty for snapping at Ian. Even worse that he just walked off like that. He hasn’t pulled this sort of crap in years. But he needs to clear his head. A walk home, that’s all he needs. But he doesn’t even recognize what part of city Ian took them to. Forty minutes of walking pass and he wants to bang his head against the wall. It’s too hot a July day to be trekking blindly across Chicago by foot.  But at least the sun is setting. Then he gets to wander around aimlessly in the dark.

Wonderful. Where is the nearest El station? he wonders.

Once he finds the platform, he has a solid fifteen-minute wait until the next car arrives. He reaches into his pocket, hoping to find something to pass the time. But his phone isn’t there. Shit. I left it in the car, didn’t I?

It leaves him time to think, at least. To reflect.

***

Autumn 2022

Mickey ascends the stairs to their home after a long day of blocking and choreography at Ballet Chicago. He works up a good sweat teaching. It’s almost enough to make him want to start auditioning again, but he knows there really isn’t a part for his body type worth auditioning for, so he’ll stick to instructing behind the scenes.

It’s just as well. It gives him more time to spend with his husband and son. And fewer conflicts on evenings and weekends. And more energy to put towards his drag.

He opens the front door, expecting to find Ian napping on the sofa after a day of massage appointments, or maybe getting a head start on some household project.

Ian has made impressive progress getting the basement inhabitable for the first time since he was little. The goal is to move the drag closet down to the basement once it’s finished. The goal is to can convert the spare room into a massage studio, so Ian can have customers come to him. Mickey isn’t a big fan of strangers in the house, but he really isn’t keen on Ian having to crisscross the city every day on mass transit with his massage table in tow.

It also has the advantage of keeping the drag closet somewhere they can lock the door, so a certain nine-year-old will stop messing around with his drag whenever he’s over, now that they are back to joint custody. The kid treats the drag closet like his own personal costume shop. And no. It isn’t mortifying to realize that his pre-pubescent son has shot up like a week over the pandemic and now is only about five inches shorter than him. Not at all. Why do you ask?

What he is not expecting is his loving husband going through some of his most recent notebook of drag idea, looking like Mickey had wanted a coat made out of ninety-nine puppies.

“Hey, lover.”

“Oh? Hey. You serious about all this?”

Mickey shrugs. Yes, he is very serious about every magazine clipping, sketch, or note on a scrap of paper he pastes into the marble notebooks he uses as his drag mood boards. This latest one, however... “I mean, it’s ambitious. Not gonna lie.”

“Ambitious is one thing. But this is... maybe it’s time you hire a professional.”

“What? No. I love everything you make me, Firecrotch.”

“Yeah, but if you’re serious about even half these new ideas,” he flips through the notebook where Mickey has pasted more than a few rather couture looking designs he found in back issues of Runway and Glamour, “Look, these are just way too high above my pay grade.”

Mickey tosses his duffel by the hallway closet and toes off his boots, taking a seat next to his husband, arm, snaking around Ian’s shoulder. “These are just ideas. Inspiration. I want you to think of these as launching pads for making Cha-Cha clothes you can execute at your level.”

Ian huffs. “It’s getting to feel like a lot. Fiona taught me to sew so that we could stretch the budget. Some of the queens you work with hire professionals.”

“Yeah? fuck ‘em. Did I ever tell you that the first thing Chopin Margaret said about my drag was how far your skills progressed just in the time we were in lockdown?”

“Heh. Yeah, teaching myself to sew at that level sure beat thinking about how much I was already starting to hate the EMT gig.      ”

“And if you want me to push you, I can pare down some of these looks to something still challenging, but still--”

“I’m serious, Mick. I know we work well together, but you need to find someone else. I’m sure one of the other girls know--”

“Eh! This is me you’re talking to. I don’t want to wear anything you don’t put me in."

Ian looks at him. It’s a smile, but there is something sour behind it. “We both know you don’t mean that after the shit some of the other girls--”

“Hey, let me worry about that. You worry about making me look just as good as you can. Two years ago, you had only ever patched holes and made, like, two shirts for Home Ec. I have faith that someday, you can do shit like this.”

Ian puts his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, giving them the comforting squeeze of a practice massage therapist. He doesn’t need to say anything, but Mickey can tell it’s a thank you. Ian doesn’t believe in his skills. But Mickey does.

***

July 2024

Ian doesn’t deserve how Mickey treated him today.

Shouldn’t have blown up over nothing like that, he realizes as the El shakes under his feet on the ride home. He was only trying to help.

He knows that a lot of what he said is demonstrably false. And stupid of him. Ian has moved mountains to be the person Mickey has wanted him to be the past five years. And he’s learned not one but two different careers simply at his suggestion. He became the massage therapist that could soothe all of Mickey the ballet dancer’s sore muscles. Then he self-taught himself to turn Mickey’s sartorial fantasies into something approaching reality. Ian’s done it all for him for ages now. Sometimes he forgets Ian is wrapped around his finger every bit as much as Ian has a hold on him.

I’m taking him for granted.

When the car is nowhere to be found outside their house, Mickey can’t help but feel like he should have expected it.

I deserve this.

Chapter Text

July 2024  

Ian doesn’t know what possessed him to head out to Glendale Heights, but he’s certain it’s either love or idiocy. Either way, he located the only place of business guaranteed to have the feathers he needs and they’re his if he gets there before eight o’clock. He has about seventy minutes in late rush hour traffic to get out to the western suburbs of Chicago.  

But at least his contact was on shift today. They got what he needs packed and ready for pickup. He could just pick it up tomorrow. He fully understands this. Fancy Feather has a seven-day hold policy for over-the-phone orders.  

But Mickey just had a public meltdown. He hasn’t ran off in a huff like that in so long, certainly not since before they were married. They might have been still teenagers the last time Ian witnessed him blow up like that. These are important to him.  

Fucking feathers.  

If Mickey knew how many times he has specified ostrich or rooster feathers over the past few years, but has been blissfully unaware of the substitutions, it would make the man’s head spin.  

And feathers are hardly the only instance of Mickey throwing down an extravagant request for his costumes. Rayon instead of silk. Costume jewelry.  Mickey wants plush velvet and Ian delivers pretzels and beer.  

God, is that a theater reference? Being married to a showtune queen is starting to melt my brain.   

Traffic eases up once he’s out of the city. Suburbanites who work in the city but live in the picturesque outlying towns vanish into their respective exits, retreating to their goddamn cul-de-sacs and gated communities. Ian thinks he’ll make it to Fancy Feather in time. He might even make it with ten minutes to spare. 

He makes it in seven.  

***  

Officer Carl spends the evening straightening up the Gallagher house, something that he doesn’t need to happen as often now that it’s just him, Fiona, and Liam living in the house, but something that falls on his shoulders more often since he’s become an orderly neat freak from years of regimented life at military school and part of the police. 

Though tonight, cleaning has nothing to do with creating a sense of structure. No, sir. Carl is at science camp this week and Fiona is going to be out late celebrating... Carl doesn’t know what, he wasn’t really listening. After she said she wouldn’t be home until three everything else she said was just white noise.  

He has the house to himself. He can host. And he found a goddamn unicorn on Grindr. Thom. Black. Twenty-eight years old. Six foot four inches. Submissive top. Eight inches. Cut. Negative. Open to the weird, but not too weird, shit.  

After spending the past two months in a ho-hum relationship with a girl that wasn’t into pegging, he needs this. The chick made vanilla sound downright exhilarating. 

There is a knock at the door. His phone only says 8:27. Early. They agreed on 9:00. But he’s thinking with his dick instead of his brain, so he doesn’t care. He grabs the Lysol can and gives the living room a last-minute spritz with one hand and runs fingers through his hair with the other. 

Thom knocks on the door, this time more insistent. Forceful. Guy must be as eager as me , he grins to himself.  

He opens the door, looking up expecting to find his vertically blessed hook-up he absolutely intends to climb like a jungle gym. But nobody’s up there. 

“My eyes are down here, dumbass.”  

He lowers to eye level and sees his brother’s husband, looking fiery behind the eyes. “Mickey?” 

“Expecting someone else?” his brother-in-law asks, letting himself in. “Call your brother.” 

Being a member of the Chicago Police Department has taught Carl to expect the unexpected. A day on parking meter assignment can result in a foot chase through Wicker Park. He’s responded to more than a few civil disturbances have resulted in him in loco parentis at the precinct while they wait for CPS to come to the aid of children whose parents have been hauled off. 

He doesn’t always expect the unexpected when he’s off-duty. He certainly doesn’t expect to see the only in-law he really likes to show up asking him to play middle man between whatever fight he and Ian are having. 

“Why don’t you call him?” he spits, annoyed as Mickey flops down on the sofa. Carl had meant to budget twenty minutes to prep his ass and do stretches so he’s ready for all the positions he wants Thom to put him in. But now he’s stuck dealing with Ian-and-Mickey drama. 

“I would if I could, but Ian drove off with my phone in the car.” 

“Oh, no. When you say he ‘drove off,’ you don’t mean...” 

“What? No. Nothing like that. You know he fucking hates that when you guys just assume he’s  manic, right?” Mickey is cracking his knuckles nervously. “No, I stormed off when we were out shopping. I wandered around for a while to cool off and took the El home. He should have been back ages ago. 

Carl pulls out his phone. “How do you know he isn’t out looking for you?”  

“He just might be, but we were in some bougie neighborhood on the West Side when I stormed off.”  

It’s surprisingly easy for Carl to picture the elder Gallagher brother wandering around the hipster end of town with a bag of Whiskas cat treats, calling out, “Here Mickey! Pssst, pssst, pssst.” 

“Just call him, asswipe.” 

“You’re never this mean to me when you’re Cha-Cha,” Carl grumbles. 

“Yeah, well, thanks for being a good tipper.” Admits Mickey, who somehow manages a twinkle in his eye even while he’s glowering. “Call him. Or gimme your damn phone.” 

But before Carl can pull up Ian’s contact, he receives an incoming call from Ian. 

He answers. “Hello? Bro?” 

But it’s not Ian on the other end of the connection. “Finally, a response!” Exclaims the woman’s voice on the other line. “Is this a family member of Mr. Ian Gallagher?” Ninety seconds later, he ends the call and turns to an anxious-looking Mickey.” 

“We gotta go. There’s been an accident.” 

Chapter Text

July 2024  

The space around his blindingly white and bleary. A pinging sound pierces the air at regular intervals. It may have been two years since the last time he worked as an EMT, but Ian recognizes the sound of an EKG monitor. 

“What happened?” he slurs as he tries to sit up. His body is still tingly and numb. Something feels off. He feels sick to his stomach. 

“The patient is coming to,” comes a woman’s voice in front of him. She sounds like she’s in an echo chamber. Or maybe that’s just the drugs wearing off.  

“Already?” 

“Goddamn gingers. Told you he needed extra. Get the anesthesiologist back here, Keith.” 

The other two voices sound further away. The blurs moving in the distance look like they’re just on the other side of the room, while the first voice is right next to him.  

He blinks and scrunches his eyes several times, hoping the bring the world back into better focus.  The doctor and nurse treating him are a moderately heavy-set black woman who is still in surgical scrubs. Her ID badge reads “Carla Andrews, Attending Physician.” The assisting nurses Keith is a younger white man in nursing student scrubs. The close by belongs to a thirty-something Middle Eastern woman in a hijab named Nuru. Her badge indicates her as an Emergency Department Technician. 

“What hospital am I at?” And why is my stomach doing cartwheels?  

“His vitals are stable, slightly tachycardic,” Nuru reports. 

“Consistent with side effects of the anesthetic with Bipolar 1,” the physician shrugs, her eyes darting towards the boy. 

“Can someone talk to the patient like I’m in the room with you?” snarls Ian.  

“You were in an accident, Mr. Gallagher,” explains Nuru, who seems to be the “human touch” of the three of them. “You’re going to be fine, but you woke up early. I’m almost done stitching you up.” 

“Stitching?” His eyes dart southward, still a little unfocused. But he sees the zigzag of a surgeon’s knife running along the front of his lower leg. And still numb, he can’t feel the sutures still being woven into his flesh, but his eyes roll back at the medical smell.  

The doctor tries to distract Ian as a small slip of an anesthesiologist comes in and gives Ian another shot. Smart , he thinks. 

“You mostly got through the accident unscathed, Mr. Gallagher,” explains Dr. Andrews. “Light cuts and bruises mostly. But you came in with a fracture to your left leg. It was a clean break and we had to reset it.” 

“Is the car okay?”  

“Our terrain is people, Mr. Gallagher.” explains the physician. “Speaking of which there is a little black-haired spitfire trying to give Shirley McClain in Steel Magnolias a run for her money.” 

“Sounds like Mickey,” Ian laughs thickly, short of breath. “My husband. He can be a little...” 

“Passionate?” offers the nursing student. 

“The sooner we get you into recovery, the sooner you can see him.” explains the attending. 

But Ian zones back out before she finishes her sentence. 

***  

Hours earlier.  

His connection at Fancy Feather, an older woman in her late fifties named Ruthie, had been surprised. She always gives him a hard time when he comes into the store. Initially, it was because he was so out of his depth, but now it’s just how they communicate. She’s at the cashier counter. “Didn’t think you were gonna make it, Jolly Green.”  

“I seriously hauled ass to get here. I swear, my engine is about to give out from underneath me one of these days.”  

“How old is that thing?” she asks as she pulls out Ian’s order.   

“Too old. It already had almost fifty thousand miles on it when we got it in 2015.”  

“Ten years?”   

“Ish.”  

“Well, that doesn’t exactly sound like a museum piece.”  

“That cheap bucket of bolts? Nah."  

“Speaking of cheap, why is a bargain shopper like you ordering the quality shit?” she asks, ringing him up. “Twelve full plumes and a pound of loose feathers.”  

Ian shrugs. “My husband is participating in this big event and he’s being more hands on than... well, ever... He ordered the wrong thing without consulting me. I would have ordered the wrong thing and tell him it’s Ostrich. Stretch the drag budget, you know? But he’s on alert now, so he’s getting the real deal.”  

“How romantic,” Ruthie smarms at him.  

“I feel kinda crappy. Like, I know him, right? We’ve been together since we were kids. I should have known what it means when he says something is no big deal.”  

“It is a huge deal?”  

Ian nods, “And a major stressor. I haven’t seen him this stressed since his first professional ballet.”  

“A ballerina and a drag queen huh?”   

Ian nods. “And he teaches professionally.”  

“He must like the Ballet Trockadero, huh?”  

Ian has no idea what that is, but it sounds like the kind of thing Mickey probably would go at length about if Ian were to inquire, so he smiles and nods dumbly, automatically.  

As soon as Ian is done extracting his jaw from the floor after seeing the receipt, Ruthie is keen to rush him out the door so she can get home. She doesn’t mince words and Ian is the last thing standing in between her and a show about Roman gladiators she’s been dying to binge.   

He had just merged onto 1-355 when it happens. He gets side swiped by a yellow Camry that had been been bobbing and weaving through the lanes of evening traffic with abandon. For the longest second of his life, all he feels is the impact, like pure sensation washing over him. The another impact, softer yet still overwhelming when the air bag deploys. The next thing he knows, he feels something crunch below his knee. Shooting pain dapples up and down the left side of his body. He can feel the vehicle swerve as he loses control. He feels the shock of impact again when the Ford Fiesta is off the road and only stopped by a guard rail.   

He’s alive. He’s whole but alive. But everything aches. He pulls out his phone on instinct and weakly manages to his the call app. Mickey’s face lights up his phone. Mickey needs to know where he is. But then he hears a snippet “ Love is a Battlefield” playing muffled inside the dashboard drawer. He has just enough strength to pop open the compartment and hold both Mickey and his phone to close his chest.  

He hears an ambulance klaxon in the distance.  

And then the world turns goes black.  

***   

It is past ten and Mickey is still waiting. He's had to calm down considerably since his arrival. The nursing staff threatening to sedate him proved to be strong incentive. The waiting is going to kill him He wishes he had some distraction, but Carl is in the corner of the waiting room with his hookup Thom, who was surprisingly game when he pulled up in front of the Gallagher house and they confused him for their Uber to the hospital. They talk in furtive whispers and despite his brother being in surgery, Mickey recognizes the Carl Gallagher charm offensive at play.  

Outside of juvie, Mickey was never big on casual hookups, so maybe he doesn’t know how it works. But if this guy is only here for casual sex, then he probably would have convinced Carl to go home with him by now.  

Carl has never been serious with a guy before. Total whore with guys, but he has only ever dated women. From the way his brother-in-law are looking at each other, talking with each other, who knows? Maybe they are the trace of a silver lining on an otherwise shitty evening. 

“You guys don’t have to sit around and wait if you don’t want to. They said Ian’s out of the woods. It’s just… waiting now.” 

“No, it’s alright,” answers Thom, to the surprise of both Gallagher men. “I’m a paramedic.” 

“No kidding,” exclaims Carl, absentmindedly lacing their fingers together. The size difference is even more pronounced than Ian and Mickey. “My brother used to be an EMT.” 

“That why you didn’t hesitate when we piled into your car and said ‘Mt. Sinai and step on it?’” 

He nods sheepishly. For such a big imposing guy, there is something distinctly doe-like about him. Carl might end up running roughshod over him if the guy is always this soft. “Instincts kicked in.” 

“Not every day a first date asks you out to the hospital, huh?” asks Carl, playing it as chill as possible given the situation. 

“Oh, so this is a date, huh?” beams Thom. Presumably, this is something they were teasing each other about while they were whispering nothings into one another’s ears.  

“Well, this is the most time I’ve spent just talking with a guy I like, so—” 

“You like me, huh?” 

“Fuck off,” he smiles with no teeth to it. 

“Gallagher?” comes a nurse stepping out from behind the OR door.  

Mickey immediately leaps to his feet to meet the nurse. 

Carl and Thom follow suit, but hang to the rear.  

“Wait, your last name is Gallagher? Your brother is Ian Gallagher?” 

Carl winces. “Shit. Please don’t tell me you and my brother did it.” 

“What? No. He was in my EMT class. He let me copy off his answers for our written final.” 

“Oh,” Carl laughs. “So the other kind of cheating.” 

“I wasn’t even out yet. But the guy never shut about this guy he was seeing at the time. Sounded like some rough trade hood rat though.” 

Mickey turns away from the nurse just long enough to give Thom murder eyes, but turns back to give her his full attention.  

“I think you’ve met his husband Mr. Hood Rat,” jabs Carl as he smacks Thom’s ass playfully.  

“Shit.” 

“Don’t worry. He’s heard worse. Watch out for the right hook, though. 

***  

The world comes back into focus and Ian is expecting to see stark white again. Instead he sees a rich cerulean.  

“Are the feathers okay?” 

“What?” asks Mickey as he strokes Ian’s forehead. 

“I went out to Fance Feather. Got you ostrich plumes.” Explains Ian.  

The ginger attempts to sit up. He fails, but Mickey instead sidles next to him on the bed. “You didn’t need to do that,” reproves his husband. “I was being such a little shit this evening. Sorry if I took my stress out on you.” 

“I felt bad because… You know I’ve been making your costumes within budget for years, right?” 

“Yeah. You save us a lot of money. The whole Gallagher thrift thing.” 

Ian takes his partner’s hand. “You know how many times you’ve asked for Ostrich and I’ve given you rooster? Or glass instead of pearls? Synthetic velour instead of Velvet? I’m just like the sales rep you blew up at today.” Mickey doesn’t respond. It makes Ian worry. “It is still Wednesday, right? I wasn’t in a coma or something, was I?” 

“It’s still the same day, lover.” Mickey leans down and kisses Ian on the less bruised side of his face. “And I don’t care what you put me in. It’s always beautiful. You’ve turned your life around for me as much as I have for you. And I’m sorry if I made you feel like what you do isn’t enough.” 

“I just wanted you to know I take your art seriously. I felt bad about cutting.” 

“Shh,” forget about that. “We’re not apologizing each other in circles tonight, okay?” 

“Kay,” Ian mews as he accepts the arm wrapping around his sore body. “Wait. I had your phone.” 

“I know. Apparently, you had a vice grip on it till they put you under. I can’t get it back until you sign for your personal affects.” 

“But how did you know I was here?” 

“Well, fortunately I was with the only Gallagher who bothered to answer his phone when he got the call.” Mickey explains as he makes his way to the door and waves someone in. His brother and very tall gentleman enter, standing very close to one another. 

“Carl?” gasps Ian. “You’re like fourth on my emergency contacts.” 

“Fourth? Who’d I outrank? Lip?” 

“Debs.” 

“Ah,” respond Mickey and Carl in chorus, both understanding. 

The Carl sits on the other side of his brother and offers to be the first to sign Ian’s cast, then introduces his date Thom. Mickey lets slip once or twice that Thom is boyfriend material, making them both blush but neither deny. Ian feels a glint of recognition of the newcomer, but he’s still a little too groggy to place the face.  

That’s okay, Mickey thinks. Odds are he’ll get another chance to thank Ian for fucking passing his EMT training.  

Chapter Text

Carl and Thom step out of the hospital a little after 11pm. He looks at his intended hookup-turned-Über-turned-companion in trying times.  

A wiser, saner man would have dipped and left the Gallaghers to their drama, would have given them the space to sort their shit out. But the Gallaghers don’t do normal. And they don’t attract the wise and the sane.  

He looks up at the gentle giant and Thom is looking at him just as awkwardly.  

“I should probably take you home.” He’s looking at his shoes as though they have cue cards. “We can try this again some other time if you want.” 

“Where is the rush?” Asks Carl. “Let me take you out for a drink. It’s the least I owe you for helping us out.” 

His new friend smiles softly. It shows off his cheekbones. “Come on,” he gestures in the direction they parked in. “I know a place open late I’ve been meaning to try." 

“Sweet.” 

“Think your brother’ll be okay?” 

“He’s dealt with worse,” Ian shrugs. “A mental disorder he’s kept on-lock for years now and a high maintenance husband.” 

“That guy’s high maintenance? He looks like he eats with his fingers.” 

“Yeah, well… He’s… artistic.”  

“Like a painter?” 

“More like a ballet dancer.” 

Thom’s eyes widen as they arrive at his green Toyota Safari. “Him? Seriously.” 

“Professional. Kind of a big deal.” 

“You’re kidding me.” 

“And he does drag a lot, too?” leads Carl as they climb into their respective seats. 

“No fucking way.” Thom gasps. “You gotta be putting me on.” 

“That isn’t even the weirdest job anyone in my family has. And he’s actually really good. He just some city-wide competition or something.” 

“You mean a pageant? Miss Chi-Town?” Carl shrugs. “Are you telling me I just met Cha-Cha Heals?” 

“You follow drag?” 
 

“I was at that pageant. Shit, you weren’t kidding about the dancing then. Truth? I follow her on Insta.” 

“You’re a stan?” 

“Am not.” 

Carl rubs his hands together coyly, “Well. Now you gotta see me again just to get an autograph, don’t you?” 

“Oh, fuck! I called her rough trade, didn’t I?” Thom realizes suddenly mortified.  

He’s heard worse. Trust me.” 

***   

Ian is admitted overnight, which Ian finds funny considering it is almost midnight when they are informed. “I’ll be here seriously less time than I’d be on a double shift when I was an EMT.”   

He’s grateful that Carl and his gentleman caller had already retreated to the Gallagher house for the night. He doesn’t imagine they would fuss over him the way Mickey is doing, of course. But more importantly, he’s happy that Mickey is spared from others bearing witness to his theatrics when the doctors attempt to send him home for the night.  

They relent. They bring Mickey a blanket and pillow and he is fully willing to sleep sitting up in the chair he had pulled up to the side of Ian’s bed. But as soon as staff retreat, the younger man makes it very clear he has no intention of sleeping in that bed by himself.  

“C’mon,” he insists as he scoots as much as possible to the left. “I saved your side of the bed for you.” He pats the slither of space on the bed for emphasis.  

“Not a lot of room here,” Mickey argued gently even as he mounts the side of the bed.  

“It’s bigger than my old bed at the Gallagher house.” 

“We were smaller last time we shared a bed this small,” contends Mickey. “Well, you were. I’m still tiny.” 

“You calling me fat or something?” 

“Beefy,” he whispers out seductively. “A total hunk. Perfect specimen, really.” 

“Aw, you say that to all the guys who break their legs.” 

Ian manages to inch another inch, despite the resistance of the stirrup holding his leg elevated; just enough room for Mickey to curl up on his side. Mickey has been in a state of panic for hours. Ever since he arrived home to an empty house, he’s been catastrophizing. Not even being allowed in to Ian’s hospital room alleviated the knot of anxiety dominating Mickey’s chest. But laying beside his husband, their foreheads gently touching. It’s a balm to his spirit. It lets him breathe easier. It allows him to stop fighting the heaviness of his eyelids. 

***

Ian’s hospital room is internal, no sunlight streaming in from the windows, and no ambient noise like they have in abundance on Trumbull Ave. So, Mickey has no sense of what time it is when his eyes flutter back open. Time doesn’t matter. Ian does. Ian is awake and looking at Mickey with a cherubic grin.  

Part of Mickey is scornful, resentful of whatever fates he must have crossed for this to happen. He slept dreamlessly, praying he would wake up and the previous day’s events would turn out to be just a dream. No such luck. He lays beside him bruised and bandaged and his left leg bound up in a lime green plexiglass cast. He wouldn’t be in this position if cooler heads prevailed last night.  

But he is alive. Ian is alive and Ian is beautiful and Ian is still his to share a life with. Mickey doesn’t believe in a god. His mother used to read world mythologies to him at bedtime, but never religion. He never entered a church except to steal from the collection plate until well into adulthood. But right now, he wants to thank whatever guiding force spared his beautiful man’s life. 

His husband wraps an arm around Mickey’s neck and pulls him closer, kissing his forehead. “I’m so thankful you’re safe.” 

“I’m safe?” asks Mickey, perplexed. “Lover, you just survived a car crushing the driver’s side of our car. Fuck worrying about me.” 

“I was worried when you ran off like that.” 

“That feels like days ago now. I’m sorry—” 

“Hey! No more apologies,” Ian forbids. “’Kay? What happened was nobody’s fault.” 

“I shouldn’t have stormed off,” Mickey asserts on an exhale. “We would have just gone home and you wouldn’t be looking at six to ten weeks of recovery.” 

Ian squeezes Mickey’s shoulder therapeutically. “Hey, look at the bright side. We’re looking at minimum a week or two I won’t be able to leave the house.”  

“You’re in no condition for a weeklong fuck fest, if that’s what you’re—”  

“Your wardrobe. I’ll have so much time now.” 

Mickey cannot believe Ian’s priorities right now. He could have been permanently and grievously injured. He could be dead right now, facing judgment with St. Peter. Or maybe having his heart measured against the weight of a feather. But instead he’s here. He’s alive. And this beautiful idiot is focused on ostrich feathers and costumes. 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

Mickey rolls over to face the door. But there is too little bed, and ends up falling onto the cold linoleum.  

A male nurse who looks a little younger than Ian and Mickey is at the door. He wears the type of large thick-framed lenses that Mickey recognizes as the kind that many drag queens wear to hide the fact that they shave their eyebrows. Although in his case, maybe it’s meant to cover the heavy bags under his eyes. He has a tablet, presumably with Ian’s patient records, and two plastic bags with Ian’s belongings are tucked under his arm. 

“You better not have hurt yourself. I’m only assigned to one patient in this room.  

“Only hurt my pride,” grimaces Mickey, picking himself back up and dusting himself off. 

“You sure?” he asks, his head cocking as though he were talking to a child.  

“My ass took the brunt of it. Lots of padding. I’m fine.” 

“Good,” he says immediately shutting off any feigned concern he had a moment ago. 

 “Gallagher-comma-Ian?” The nurse proceeds to ask Ian his date of birth and the last four digits of his social as though he doesn’t have a medical bracelet identifying him on. It makes Mickey’s eyes roll a full rotation. 

“Am I being released?” Ian asks, optimistically. 

“Not yet, but we need you to sign to acknowledge your belongings were returned.” Explains the nurse as he hands over the tablet. “Just use your finger tip.” 

Ian complies, running his index finger in a series of loops across the screen. Satisfied, the nurse hands off the two clear bags and tells them that Ian’s breakfast should be around 8am before he takes the tablet back and makes his way out of the room, disappearing back to wherever the nurses hide when the patients actually need them.  

Ian dumps out the smaller bag with the personal items. The second larger bag has Ian’s clothes, which are bloodied, and sliced to ribbons with medical scissors. Neither of them feel like exploring that bag. 

The first thing Ian makes sure to locate is his wedding ring. Then his and Mickey’s phones. The hospital gown, that is more like a skirt on him, doesn’t exactly have pockets, so his keys and wallet are kept in the bag for now. 

Mickey powers up his phone, grateful that hospital staff took the time to power down their electronics before locking them up. The screen background, a photo of them dancing at their wedding, appears, and his apps follow. And then come the deluge of notifications. Five missed calls. One from Ian. Two from the hospital. One from On*Star. And finally, one from the auto shop. Their auto repair shop. That’s at least a little bit of luck on their side. Maybe their usual mechanics, Lou and Gretchen, were able to salvage their car. 

“You should go check it out,” suggests Ian.  

“It’s not gonna be in any shape to pick you up.” 

“We won’t know until one of us goes.” 

“One of us being the guy with two working legs, huh?” Mickey huffs, knowing he’s losing this argument. “Guess you want me to swing by the house and get you some clean clothes, too?” 

“And the supplies.” 

“Supplies?” 

“For the pageant looks.” 

“Ian...” Mickey sighs heavily and takes Ian’s hand. “I’m not even sure if I’m going to Dallas, now.”  

“What? ‘Cause of this?” 

Yeah, doofus. “I can’t exactly leave you alone for a long weekend when you can’t get around, can I?” 

“You’re going. You need to.” 

“You’re my priority, man. Let Kel Dommage go in my place.” Mickey squeezes the hand laced through his fingers. Ian’s hands are soft as you’d want a masseur’s to be, but still firm and strong. "That’s what first alternates are for.”  

“No. Absolutely not.” 

“The fucking pageant doesn’t matter right now—you do.” 

His husband leans in as far as his still-propped-up leg will allow and nuzzles against him.  

“Listen to me. Can you do that, Mick?” 

He inhales deeply. And nods.  

“I’m laid up, yeah,” he starts gesturing to his re-set and plastered up leg. “But it happened because I wanted to make sure you looked fabulous on-stage.” 

“I was being a selfish little br—” 

“Yeah, you were!” Ian ejaculates, throwing his arms in the air. “And that’s fine. I married every part of you, not just the nice ones. But I’ll be fucking damned if I'm gonna spend the next two or three months stumping around and you don’t at least try to make it worth the effort. You’re going.”  

“Red...” 

“And I’m coming with you.” 

Mickey’s face suddenly betrays him, warmth filling his cheeks as he smiles. “The fuck you are.” 

“You still got two tickets, right? Didn’t lose ‘em in the accident?” 

“Yeah.” It came part and parcel with the Miss Chi-Town. Round-trip airfare to Miss Gay USofA for the winner and a guest.  

There had been no question of who Mickey’s plus one was going to be. Ian had been there through every single step of the journey that brought Mickey to this point. A staunch support propping him up as he took up dancing again, always his first cheerleader and number one fan from student, to teaching, to professional work. And Mickey is convinced drag would have been a passing whim if Ian hadn’t been by his side believing in him. Ian even took his own basic skills with a needle and thread and slowly turned himself into the kind of seamster Mickey needed. Ian helps create Cha-Cha Heals almost as much as Mickey does himself. 

“But are you gonna be cleared to travel?” 

“What? You think injured people can’t sit in a plane? I’m not made of glass.”  

“If the doctor says you won’t be ready to—”  

“Think a doctor’s warning is gonna stop me?” 

Mickey looks at his husband, really looks at him. He looks passed the yellow-purple bruise on the side of his temple and the bandaged up scraps along his jawline. He looks past the hurts that his childishness caused. He looks at Ian’s eyes. Those steadfast, assured eyes. Brilliantly green with flecks of gold. 

He knows his husband has often struggled with self-confidence since his diagnosis. He’s had peaks and he’s had valleys. But never where Mickey has been concerned. Ian is as constant as the north star as far as Mickey is concerned. If Ian can go through what he just went through on account of Mickey’s actions, and still be unwavering, Mickey owes it to him. 

“Yeah. We’re going.” accepts Mickey. 

“And you’re going to look beautiful.” 

Mickey smiles and kisses his husband. It’s gentle. He might be treating Ian with kid gloves, but Ian’s will have to accept that. They take care of each other and they both know what that means. 

“Go on,” Ian says finally. “The auto shop’ll probably be open by the time the El gets you there.” 

“You gonna be alright while I’m gone?” 

Ian nods as if to ask, where do you think I’m gonna go? “And could you swing by the house for some clothes. I got nothing to wear.”  

“I don’t see the problem.” Mickey smirks. 

“This hospital gown is like a mini skirt on me.” 

“Hey! I finally got you into drag.” 

“We aren’t doing a sister act.” Ian growls. “Pants!” 

Chapter Text

“I’m still waiting for a camera crew to pop out and tell me I’m on candid camera,” jokes Fiona as she circles Mickey, pinning the materials into place.

“And if it were up to me, you’d still be in the dark.” Mickey grumbles, only to be rewarded with a light jab of a crutch to his stomach. “Hey!”

“She’s doing us a favor, asshole.” hisses Ian from his workstation at the sewing machine, his injured leg propped up on a folding chair.

“You know I don’t like people seeing the unfinished work.”

“’Bout time you got over that, huh?”

“Sorry, I’m not trying to make this weird. Left arm up.” Mickey complies, allowing his sister-in-law to pin along the underside of his arm. “I mean, I knew Mickey did drag, but I never get to see the process. It’s exciting, you know?”

“We’ve invited you to a bunch of performances and you’ve been a no-show,” fumes Mickey on an exhale. “Why is seeing me in a half-way constructed garment suddenly exciting?”

She shrugs. “I get to be part of the process.”

Mickey shakes his head but can’t manage to hold onto the annoyance. Fiona is in a unique position among his in-laws. She is neither one of the Gallaghers he’s particularly close with such as Carl or the other younger ones. Nor does she tend to get his hackles up the way Lip does and the late Frank did. She isn’t even like Debbie, who wildly swings between the two extremes.

Fiona stands apart. She’s always stood in a distinctly neutral place for Mickey. She is a lot like Ian and Liam in that she very obviously has opinions about people, but does not allow them to influence how she interacts with them. She has never been anything but patient and kind towards Mickey, but there have been times when he did not know where he did not know where he stood with her.

This was exacerbated for a time after Ian’s bipolar diagnosis. Ian and Mickey put a lot of time removed from the Gallagher clan at large working through Ian’s new set of needs together until the two of them had figured out the right medicinal cocktail to get his brain chemistry leveled out. Finding a therapist who was both affordable and adept in treating both Ian’s condition as well as the trauma that comes from his upbringing.

Fiona was always thankful for being spared having to live through another Monica situation. But Mickey always thinks it is kind of shitty of her and the other Gallaghers when they reduce Ian down to Monica 2.0. Ian is so much more than that. They don’t do it consistently, however. But Fiona does it the most often. No malice is meant by it, of course. But it hurts Ian when it happens. And by the spousal distributive property, that means it enrages Mickey.

It's created a situation where while cordial with his eldest in-law, he’s been also guarded.

It feels unnatural including her in his drag, the realm of his life where, other than sex, he is at his most uninhibited. But Ian is determined to get Mickey ready for Miss Gay USofA. And with him mobility-impaired at the moment, it meant outsourcing.

Debbie would have been Mickey’s first choice, if they were going the route of asking family for help. But unfortunately, the girl was still pissed with them from the last time Ian sided with an ex-girlfriend over her. Debs can hold a grudge.

Can Debbie still sew? Not really. Fiona had taught her just as she taught Ian, but the more Debbie transitioned into construction and home repair, the more her basic needle skills withered on the vine. But that really isn’t the point. Ian can still man the sewing machine. All he really needs is a second pair of hands to do what he physically cannot.

And lucky for them, being a landlord leaves Fiona with relatively a lot of free time. Provided it isn’t the first of the month.

“If you have three to four hours to spare sometime, maybe you could watch Mickey get into drag for real,” offers Ian.

“Fuck you. I’ve had my process down to two and a half for ages now.”

“Do you make a lot of money doing this? Right arm.”

Mickey switches arms and Fiona sets to the task of pinning the other sleeve.

“Not at first. It was kind of an expensive hobby for a while. These days? My commission is $450 an hour plus tips.”

“How good are the tips?”

Ian puffs up with pride for his husband. “Tell her.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. Talking about how much they make with others is something he hasn’t really made a habit of since they put their less legal methods of employment to the wayside. It feels like bragging, especially considering his day job is teaching dance and his side hustle is making himself into a pretty lady and performing at clubs. It makes him feel like he’s doing very well for being frivolous.

“Let’s just say if I ever quit teaching, I could still cover the majority of monthly household expenses in two or three performances.”

“That good, huh?” asks Fiona. “You’ve come up in the world. Explains why you’re doing this and not ballet.”

“It’s lucrative, yeah.”

“Miss it? Dancing, I mean?”

He shrugs. “Not many lead opportunities when you’re my height and build. I can do drag roles, but not every ballet has them. And I still have to audition for them. Otherwise, I’d probably get stuck playing children or I’m part of the corps. Drag may not be as prestigious—

“Or sophisticated,” adds Ian.

“—But Cha-Cha doesn’t have to vie for the spot. And Cha-Cha the drag queen out-earns Mickey the ballerino.”

“Okay, that’s the last pin,” declares Fiona.

“Fucking finally!”

“Sorry I’m not as fast as your live-in seamstress,” laughs the elder Gallagher sibling.

“Mick’s way of thanking you, Fi.”

Mickey huffs as he wriggles the white muslin dress off, careful not to stab himself as he lifts it up over his head.

“Hey! That’s too much Milkovich! Warn me next time you plan on stripping.”

Mickey looks down. Yes, he’s in his corset and underwear, but this isn’t even the sexy underwear he likes. Plain old Hanes tighty whities. And they aren’t even that tight. “What? I’m decent.”

“Are you always naked when you do fittings?”

“I’m not naked you, fucking prude!” growls Mickey as he searches for his gym shorts and henley. “We used to go around in our underwear half the mornings at your place.”

“Boxers aren’t briefs! I can see way too much of your thighs. What does that even spell?” she asks as she flattens the unfinished garment and hands it to Ian.

Mickey looks down and sees the relatively fresh ink on his upper thigh. “Любов і довіра.”

“It’s Ukrainian,” Mickey explains as he pulls his shorts back on. “E paid for a trip to the tattoo parlor for our last anniversary.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Love and trust,” answers Ian.

“Aww…” coos Fiona.

It makes Mickey grit his teeth, but he pretends it’s on account of the fact that he’s unlacing his corset by himself. The “Aww-ers” of the world are the diametrically the opposite of the Gay Bashers out there. But they are freaking annoying. Mickey finds it infantilizing the way some people look at anything a gay couple does (with their clothes on, at least) and acts like they’re a couple of adorable teddy bears.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to do measure and fit with a dress form?” she asks. “They aren’t that expensive. And Mickey wouldn’t have to run around naked afterward.”

“Not naked.”

“And dress forms are expensive.” Explains Ian. “Male dress forms are even more expensive on average. And male dress forms designed for female impersonators?”

“How much could it possibly cost?”

“About three-fifty. Four hundred, maybe.”

“And you can’t swing that? You told me you’re raking it in.”

“You think we’ve remodeled this place with just elbow grease and hope?” Asks Ian as he starts lining up the gold faux charmeuse piece to fit the panels of the pinned muslin. “Everything Cha-Cha owns either goes back into Cha-Cha or into the house.”

“I think you just like watching your husband strip,” snarks the older sister.

“It’s not as titillating as you’d think.”

“So, what’s this going to look like when you’re done?

“It’s a little extravagant for Cha-Cha,” admits Mickey as he pulls out the latest costume bible where he sketches out ideas, pasts in magazine pictures, and jots down his notes. “But we figure this is a national pageant and Cha-Cha owes it to herself to up her game.”

Fiona’s jaw drops. “Ian is going to make that?”

“What? Like it’s hard?” asks the younger Gallagher.

The drawing gives Cha-Cha a showstopper of an ensemble, an Elizabethan royal gown by way of Ukrainian peasant dress. The simple straight neckline has pear-cut prisms sewn into it, and it is crowned by a ruff of scooped up tulle forming a series of rosettes almost two whole feet above the hem of the neck.

There are princess-cut capped sleeves over the actual sleeves of the gown with so much volume to them that Mickey’s admittedly muscular forearms will look downright dainty.

The brocade is meant to be stoned with even more prisms. A note on the side reads that the mirrored pieces are meant to create a rainbow effect under the lights. The bustled skirt wraps three quarters of the way around and are embroidered in traditional eastern European fabric patterns. Where a kirtle would be are more of the tulle rosettes. A sketch in the corner shows that the bustle is meant to detach to reveal an A-Line skit with a high slit and a train of lavender organza.

“You can do all this?” asks Fiona. Mickey takes umbrage at the slight against his husband’s skill set.

“I can, but we need a lot more tulle.”

“Fuck,” grumbles, “I forgot we still need to replace it.

***

Mickey arrives at the auto body shop, Zovko & Sons Motors. They’ve done their best the past eight or nine years to extend the life of Mickey and Ian’s jalopy of a used car. But Lena Zovko, the proverbial “& Sons” of the business doesn’t look too confident when Mickey walks through the door.

“What the hell happened, Gallagher?” she asks.

As worried as Mickey is both about his husband’s health and their continued car ownership, he feels a bit of warmth fill him whenever he gets addressed as “Gallagher,” the way he used to address Ian back when they were a couple of horny teenaged miscreants.

“The hubby got side swiped. The other guy was completely at fault. I spent the whole ride over here talking with On*Star and my insurance. Modern technology is amazing. Street surveillance caught the whole thing.”

“Well, I hope you’re getting a decent pay-out. This might be old Beula’s swansong.”

Mickey absentmindedly rubbed the back of his hands. Ever since he covered up his old knuckle tats with the two beautiful swans that run the length of his hands from the wrist to the first knuckle. He may not have to be self-conscious about looking like a gang-banger anymore, but now he gets the occasional swan puns.

“You named our car ‘Beula?’”

“I name every car I work on. Follow me.”

Lena leads Mickey from the office back into the garage. The old Ford Fiesta certainly did have a rough time of it yesterday. The entire driver’s side is one large indent. The back seat took the brunt of it. Ian could have come out of this in much worse shape than he did. Cold comfort, but it is a comfort nonetheless. The passengers side back seat is just… it’s crushed. He looks inside. One of two bags of supplies was spared. It had mostly accessories, rhinestones, beads, spirit gum, glue sticks, etc. At least it’s something. The bag full of dresses and bolts of fabric have been shredded to ribbons.

In the front passenger-side seat however, completely unscathed, is a large bag of Ostrich plumes from Fancy Feather. That husband of mine, Mickey thinks, so convinced these feathers were important that they got pride of place in the front.

***

“Well,” asks Fiona. “I guess we’re going on a shopping trip.”

“We?” Mickey glances at Ian out of the corner of his eye.

“If you’re offering, Fi.” hums Ian as he searches his box full of bobbins for the appropriate color. “The tulle needs to be plum, but I think I could match up Byzantium if you can’t find it.”

Mickey hesitates. He has Gallagher bonds independently. He and Lip were in the same grade, so there is a begrudging bond there. Liam tends to come to Mickey for life advice, confoundingly. And Carl has always hero worshipped him. Back when he wanted to be a thug, and even now. The kid has been asking Mickey to make him his drag daughter for well over a year and he’s losing the ability to tell whether Carl is joking or not.  But he hasn’t had solo time with Fiona in years. Not since Ian’s first stay in the psych ward.

“Yeah, my treat,” exhorts Fiona.

“You sure, E?”

“Go on,” he answers, making a shooing motion. “I could use the alone time to focus.”

***

“So,” finally starts as they are on their way back from Hobby Lobby, “How did it happen?”

“The accident?” she nods. “Asshole bobbing and weaving through traffic like it was Mario Kart. But… he wouldn’t have even been there if it weren’t for me.”

“He was on a supply run?”

“We were on a supply run.”

“Then why weren’t you with him?”

“I… we had a fight. Not even. I snapped. I got in my head and stormed off. And he took it on himself to drive all the way out to the burbs.”

“How much do you pay him?”

“What?”

“Dressmaking, errand-running, diva wrangling.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

She grins out of the corner of her mouth. “Is he being compensated?”

“We’re married.”

“So, no?”

“Did I say that?” Mickey snarls. “We have a joint bank account. There’s no his money, no my money, only our money. So no, I never bother to issue him 1099s or W2’s or whatever.”

“And he’s okay with this?”

“Why are you asking me what he’s okay with? He’s a grown ass adult.”

Fiona pulls over on the side of the road. “Look, I’m not trying to rake you over the coals.”

“And yet here we are.” He scratches his eyebrow, hoping the sensation will distract him from the vein pulsing in his forehead.

“Look, I know your art is important to you,” Mickey can hear the quotation marks in the air, “And what you care about, Ian always latches onto. I get it. As you go, so goes my brother. Just… make sure you aren’t leading him along by the nose for no good reason. Make sure you’re taking care of him. He’s… you know. He’s fragile.”

“No, he’s not.”

Mickey is livid. He’s put up with this kind of casual remark for years. Casual aspersions upon Ian’s capabilities to manage his own goddamn mental health. Praise for Mickey taking such good care of her brother like he’s Ian’s nurse. And interlaced with that praise is the summary condemnation if anything should happen to Ian on his watch.

“He’s not weak. Your brother is the strongest person I know. He takes care of himself, like a pro, I might add. I just make a point of standing by him through thick and thin.”

Fiona pulls back out into the flow of traffic. “Well, you weren’t standing by him the other day.”

Mickey bites his lip. “Yeah, you got me there. I didn’t mean to totally go Fiona on him. But I did. And instead of just taking a few breaths and apologizing like a fucking adult, I stormed off like a fucking brat. And because I wasn’t there, he ended up getting hurt. Is that what you wanna hear?”

“Can we stop saying ‘Go Fiona?’ That’s not a thing.”

“Sorry, it totally is.” Every Gallagher and even Mandy have slung around the expression on one of the numerous times Fiona has gone from pleasant as punch to choosing the nuclear option on whatever trial or shitty boyfriend life throws her way.

“Whatever. My point is-- I’m not trying to put you on the defensive. You know that, right?”

Mickey doesn’t respond immediately. Years of therapy and anger management and this is the second time in a week that he’s lost his temper and flew off the handle.

“Yeah. I know. But what happened to Ian… Logically, I know it isn’t anyone’s fault. It didn’t happen because I stormed off. It didn’t happen because Ian went off to make a romantic gesture instead of going home. I wasn’t the driver in that fucking other car. Logically, I understand all that. But emotionally…

Fiona let out a low wheezing sigh. “Remember when I went to jail?” she asks. “It was around the time of Ian’s first little walkabout.”

Fiona, Lip, Debs, and Mandy are the only three other family members that have more or less a full scope of what happened to Ian between the day Ian disappeared and the night Mickey physically hauled his now-husband home over his shoulder. Falsifying his identity, attempting to steal a helicopter, going AWOL, dancing at The Fairy Tale. They know about the kind of work he did behind closed doors in order to survive, even if they don’t know Monica’s role in it.

They all know. And Ian has learned not to shy away from his past. But Fiona is the only one who insists on sanitizing it over a decade later.

“What about it?” he asks.

“You’re a better person than I am.” She huffs. “You may not always act like it, but… do you know how long it took me to own up to what happened to Liam? I pled guilty because that was my fast track to getting back home, but it took months before I came to terms with it. You? You don’t hesitate to take blame, do you?”

“Blame Terry,” he murmurs as he thumbs at the four days of scruff starting to amass on his chin.

“Our parents all sure did a number on us. You and your dad. Monica and Ian. Me and Frank.”

“I hate my temper. I don’t like being reminded I’m like him. And I hate that it started the chain reaction that led to my husband nearly getting killed. What if he died?”

“But he didn’t.”

“But he could have.”

“And I bet you would have thrown yourself on the funeral pyre if you felt that guilty.”

“I certainly wouldn’t be bothering with a fucking pageant, I’ll tell you that much. I wouldn’t even be doing it now, but Ian insisted.”

“He insisted, huh? Lemme guess. Didn’t want his sacrifice to be in vain?”

“Something like that. Why are you being nice all the sudden? I thought you were mad at me.”

Fiona pulls up in front of the Milkovich house. “It sounds like you’re mad enough at yourself for the both of us.”

They get out of the car and make their way up the front steps.

“And what’d you have done if I didn’t?” asks Mickey as he slings the bag of fabric over his shoulder.

She shrugs, “Milkoviches aren’t the only ones who know how to dig a fucking grave, Mickey.”

That stops him in his place. She doesn’t even change her facial expression, not even her tone of voice. Mickey makes a mental note not to cross Fiona any time in the near future.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know if I said this yet,” starts Carl, bouncing up and down nervously on the balls of his feet, “But thanks for driving down with me.”

Thom looks at him and smiles. They’ve really only been together for a couple weeks. Agreeing to a thousand-mile drive across the country seems like a quantum leap in terms of into to dating steps. But something about Gallagher makes it hard to say no to him. Definite fucking charmer, thinks Thom.

“It’s not a problem. I didn’t like the sound of you pulling a fourteen-hour drive by yourself. That’s a recipe for getting into trouble.”

“You know I’m a cop and a Millberry graduate, right?”

“I still don’t think “Millberry sounds like a real school.”

“Real enough. That placed turned me around.”

“Why? Were you sent there for discipline?”

“More like I wanted discipline.” shrugs the smaller man, “I was mixed up in a lot of shady shit. I had already been to juvie at thirteen and I woulda been in and outta big boy jail a couple times by now if I didn’t make a few changes.”

Thom should have a lot of follow-up questions. A normal person would. But the two have spent so much time together in the two weeks since their hookup-turned-date that he can imagine. He knows a lot about how the Gallagher household used to need to resort to a lot of less-than-legal acts just to keep the roof on over their heads and the utilities on.

But the particulars of what Carl’s past was like is immaterial. Because Thom is just amazed by how open and honest Carl is with him. It’s honestly why Thom had been on Grindr to begin with. His last couple boyfriends had either been commitment intense, afraid of monogamy, or just so private that Thom felt like he was being proverbially kept at arm’s reach.

Grindr just seemed easier. Simpler. It allowed Thom to moderate his expectations.

And that lasted about three weeks tops before this little oddball and his brother-in-law plowed into his car and told him to drive. He’s been done for this guy ever since.

He’s been trying to play it cool, though. Yes they’ve been on eight dates in two

and a half weeks, but he hasn’t been in a rush to define the relationship. That could be cause for accusing him of wanting to rush. And he absolutely doesn’t want to rush. He always does and maybe that’s why the relationships are always doomed. So, he’s going to wait for Carl to be the one who wants to ask if they’re boyfriends. Even though Thom absolutely thinks they are.

Again, a cross country trip with a man you’re crazy about isn’t the act of a man trying to keep things casual, but too late for that now.

“Either way,” shrugs Thom as they wander around the airport’s Duty Free Store, “if it saves us from making this awkward, it’s probably easier to say I’m here to fangirl over your brother-in-law. Speaking of... when did you say their flight gets in?”

“Aw shit,” murmurs Gallagher. “Soon enough that we need to start making our way over to Gate E.”

Thom laughs. “Let’s hope we don’t get turned around again trying to find it.

***

“Here they come!” exclaims Ian as one large pink and black suitcase appears on the baggage claim conveyor belt, followed by three much smaller roller suitcases. Cha-Cha Heals may have been rewarded two tickets roundtrip to Dallas Fort Worth for this pageant, but the luggage cost was not included. The cost of four suitcases is close to a third roundtrip ticket, which has Ian irritated and Mickey livid.

The fact of the matter is that Mickey had wanted to drive. Mickey hasn’t really traveled since he was in a touring production of Giselle a couple years before the Pandemic. And there is only so much you get to see of the city from a tour bus. He was hoping to see the country.

With the old Ford Fiesta kaputt and sold for scrap, he was tempted to sell their tickets and use the car insurance payout to buy a stylish classic car and live out a To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar fantasy. Mentally casting Ian as Vida Boheme and himself as Noxeema. He even invited along Carl so they could have their own Sheriff Dullard. He pictured them in a Cadillac convertible, the top down, wind in their hair. Okay, Mickey wasn’t not going around in 24-hour-drag in this fantasy, but he would have still been living for the experience.

But it was not to be. Ian’s injury is a factor. He’s in a boot and down to only one crutch now, but it’s nearly 1,000 miles between Chicago and Dallas. He needs the leg room. And the airfare is business class.

So, here they are gathering up three days worth of clothing and five nights’ worth of drag (plus a couple emergency alternate looks just in case) in one of the busiest airports in the nation. In a strange city.

To say Mickey is a little overwhelmed in the moment would be an understatement. He’s the type of person whose anxiety can easily flare up when presented with novelty. New people. New environments, new experiences.

Mickey isn’t afraid of novelty. The past decade, you could easily make a case that he’s sought it out. But he dipped his toes into dance before he took it up again full time. He spent the majority of Lockdown experimenting with makeup and wigs before he ever debuted Cha-Cha on a live stage. Mickey needs a modicum of control in order to feel secure.

And right now, if it weren’t for his husband with that dopey smile of his, Mickey would feel like this entire place is all too much too soon. Ian is his life raft, his tether.

"Told you we’d find ‘em.” comes a voice from behind.

Mickey turns around to find Carl and his new beau Thom walking up to them. Thom has Sbarros with him. Pizza is one of those foods he more or less gave up when he started dancing again. He’s had it maybe ten times in ten years. The scent of pizza actually has a stronger hold on him than nicotine does as an ex-smoker. It smells amazing. He promises himself to pizza. After the pageant.

“I never doubted it,” Thom responds. “How many six for redheads on crutches with giant pink suitcases full of drag can there be in a red state? Even while he jokes, the new boyfriend lays a hand on the suitcase. “I’ll take this if you guys each wanna take one of the smaller ones.”

“You got yourself a gentleman there, bro,” approves Ian.

“Yeah. It’s weird dating guys though. It’s weird being on the receiving end of the whole chivalrous gesture thing.”

“Just wait until he’s beating up middle aged pedophiles just to prove how much he likes you.”

Thom’s eyes dart back and forth. “Did one of you guys do that?”

“Okay, there is a lot of context he left out,” confesses Mickey, blushing as the find their way to the people mover.

“Cha-Cha?”

“Cha-Cha Heals wasn’t even a gleam in my eye back then. I was pretty rough and tumble back then. And asshole here was trying to make me jealous.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” concedes Ian.

The four of them drive first to the pageant venue. Mickey has a few housekeeping things to take care of when he gets there. First and foremost, the contestants are provided space to stow up to two suitcases worth of drag. Mickey worries that he might not have brought enough, with only one suitcase. Staff needs to check the contestants’ wardrobes to ensure taste levels.

There are five categories. At most, he will be showing only five ensembles. He packed three, just to give himself options. But he’s confused when there are an additional two more.

“What’s with the extra gowns?” he asks Ian.

Ian shrugs, noncommittally. “If my hunch is right, I want you to have some extra options.”

“What hunch?”

“Nah. Not saying. I’ll jinx things if I say it out loud.”

Ian has a way of occasionally acting as mysterious as a sphynx that drives Mickey up the wall. Mickey figures it’s because Ian usually is as subtle as an air raid siren.

“Alright, fine. Keep your secrets.”

“I will,” he chimes back.

They also need to take an account of what each contestant’s solo talent is going to be for the emcee to know ahead of time. Mickey is actually pretty proud of his solo talent. He plans to show off his sharpshooting skills he honed as a teenage hoodlum, while dressed in an Annie Oakley-inspired costume. Of course, he implements gun safety. He declared his pistol legally when they checked in their luggage at the airport. And he made sure that production had the only key to the travel safe it is secured in. He even brought his own targets. The only thing production needs to provide him is a place to post them.

Their next stop is to the hotel. Ian and Mickey got a discounted suite from a block of hotel rooms that were reserved for pageant participants. It has two bedrooms and a common area. Ian and Mickey have the larger of the two rooms.

Thom is willing to sleep on the couch in the common room, but the Gallagher men just laugh. Mickey can’t believe this guy is for real sometimes. They are all queer men. They know the score. Why is this guy acting like he’s meeting the parents and doesn’t want them to know he’s sticking it to their son?

“Dude, you’re already nailing the boyfriend test,” consoles Mickey.

“Not to mention my brother,” adds Ian. Carl flips him off. “If you guys wanna take the other bedroom, that’s literally why they gave us two.”

“Okay, okay,” surrenders Thom and takes both their bags into the second room. “So, what’s the score with the pageant? Are we gonna be in the audience or helping out backstage like a pit crew situation?”

Mickey’s lip curls. “Why wouldn’t you want to watch the show?”

Carl shrugs. “We don’t know how it works, Mickey. And you did ask me to help, right?”

“How many times do I need to explain that this isn’t Drag Race and it isn’t Paris Fashion week?” wails Mickey. “Yeah, I need help getting ready before each event. But once I’m done you guys are sitting in the audience. I paid good money for those comps.”

“No you didn’t, jackass. Don’t confuse them.”

“Oh, like they’d know what comps are anyway.”

Their conversation is interrupted when there is a knock at the door. Ian answers the door, insisting despite the fact that anyone else would have gotten to it quicker with his crutch.

Two officious looking men are at the door. “Hi, can I help you?”A few words pass between them and suddenly, “Mick, you’re gonna want to step out here.”

Mickey doesn’t recognize them, but they are wearing the staff badges they saw participants wearing at the theater. “Something wrong?”

“Are you Cha-Cha Heals, the Chicago participant?” asks one of the men, Southeast Asian, broad shoulders. Crisply dressed in his suit.

“I go by Mickey out of drag, but yeah.”

“Then, yes. We might have a problem. A serious concern has been brought to our attention.”

“What? Did we bring too many dresses? Is that a sportsmanship and fair play kind of dealbreaker? Cause we can—”

“Your gowns are fine, Mr. Heals. You’re at risk of disqualification.”

Chapter Text

“I quit!” Mickey declares as Ian hobbles after him down the corridor to the elevator.

“No you don’t,” eases Ian finally catching up with his husband.

“They’re gonna disqualify me, anyway. This is such bullshit. This is fucking Texas!”

“They said they might have to if we don’t make some changes. And we’re not gonna let that happen,” Ian asserts reassuringly. “Not as long as we find something else for you to do.”

 “Nowhere in that fucking rulebook did it say anything about weapons.”

Ian flips through the thin booklet of policies for participants they had just been provided by their recent visit from the Pageant committee. “It does say something about performing with any means that could either intentionally or unintentionally injure themselves, their fellow contestants, or the audience.”

“You spent the better part of the past week on that Annie Oakley dress,” Mickey gripes as they board the elevator and press the lobby button. “I swear, if we see one flaming baton, we call shenanigans on this whole dog and pony show.”

Ian has an idea, one that he thought was . But his melodramatic husband is at an eleven. He needs the diva down to at least a six before reasoning with him will do any good. “Want to just do a little sightseeing? Calm down before we make any decisions.”

“We’re on a crunch, though. If I’m not quitting, I need to have something to report to them before ten tonight.”

Ian wants to see some of the sights related to the John F. Kennedy assassination. But that wouldn’t help mitigate the smoke threatening to fume out of his husband’s ears. Mickey needs art. Creativity has been the force that has guided him for years. More to the point, he thinks he located just the shop that will get Mickey’s own creative juices flowing like a geyser.

After a tour of the Dallas Museum of art, they are recommended to simply explore Dallas’ downtown area. Mickey voices some concern about Ian’s leg, but the ginger shrugs it off. If his leg gives up the ghost, he promises Mickey to be the one who pays for Übers for the rest of the day.

“Can’t we just call your brother?”

Ian shrugs. “I don’t want to treat Carl like our personal taxi service. It’s his trip, too. And I’m sure he’s having a fun time with Thom.”

“Yeah, I can just bet. Hotel room’s gonna smell like closing time at Steamworks by the time we get back.”

“Look, we’ve gotten you around Chicago with a bum leg without the benefit of a car before.

“Yeah, when we were teens. We’re looking down the barrel at thirty and I don’t want you putting undue—”

“Speak for yourself. I’m a youthful twenty-eight.” Cheeses the younger spouse. “Come on, it’s just one afternoon.” And I’ve almost got you where I want you, Mr. Gallagher.

Downtown Dallas has an open air art gallery free for tourists to explore at their leisure. It soothes the stressed out drag queen. It gives him ideas, but mostly it just makes him smile. His husband’s current predicament seems distant as the diminutive man basks in the glow of creativity.

“So, it’s just an eyeball?”

“Yup.”

“A really big one?”

“Looks like,” grins Mickey as he takes another bite of his street taco.

“And this is art?”

“Someone’s idea of it,” shrugs Mickey.

“Yours?”

“I’m more into the human form.”

Ian clocks him playfully with his shoulder. “Of course you are.”

“Not like that, dick.” Mickey laughs as they continue walking. “Dance. The human body as a method of expression.”

“Not the nude models?”

“Greek statuary has some of the most depressing male genitalia I’ve ever seen.” kvetches Mickey.

“Yeah. I’ll bet. Let’s take a left here,” suggests Ian, following a map on his phone.

“Why? What’s down this way?” asks Mickey, even though he’s already turning the corner.  

Ian lets Mickey get a few paces ahead of him and then he hears that sigh of wonder. “You tricky bastard.”

Ian feigns ignorance for just a minute longer as he crutch-walks to catch up. Mickey has his face pressed up against the glass of a ballet supply store and studio near the dead end of an alley. “What did you find here?” asks Ian coyly.

“This was your goal all along,” beams Mickey. “Was wondering why you’ve been sitting through all that modern art without complaint. You hate all that conceptual shit.”

Ian kisses the top of Mickey’s head. "I figured this is the kind of place you could go to and get your head clear. They rent studio space by the hour. It could be just like your old classroom back at Kim Rose."

It’s an indulgence, but it’s the exact sort of indulgence Mickey needs. They rent one of the smaller spaces for ninety minutes. And Ian treats Mickey to a new pair of tights and point shoes. Of course, the first fifteen minutes in the space is dedicated to Mickey loudly and violently customizing the shoes to his feet with practiced ease. But it gives them an opportunity to brainstorm before he’s even up on his feet.

“This why you packed the swan dress?”

It’s one of the first things Mickey revealed about himself as a creative nearly a decade ago when Ian caught him red-handed with a bag full of dance gear. Swan Lake has always been a little bit of a big deal for Mickey even as a child. Back when Mickey was a baby ballerino learning at the barre, both his mother and his dance aunties would always choose Tchaikovsky for rehearsal music. Then as he got older and saw a recording of the Matthew Bourne version for the first time, he would fantasize about the day he would get to be a swan himself. It’s been a creative motif Mickey always imagines when he dances even if he doesn’t always say it.

When he finally decided to cover up the knuckle tats that once emblazoned his fingers, he chose swans. One in flight to represent freedom and creativity, another nesting to represent the home he and Ian built together.

It has led to some funny new nicknames that he has learned to accept with grace. Swan Song. Swanny River. Feather Head. Bird Brain. Father Goose or Mother Goose, depending on whether or not he’s in drag. But pity goes out to anyone who thinks it’s cute to call him “Ugly Duckling.” Those are fighting words. But even Ugly Duckling is preferred to some of the crueler nicknames back when most people wrote him off as the neighborhood thug bound for a life spent in and out of the prison system.

The swan costume is one of the first designs Ian made when both his talent for costume design and his skills at the sewing machine were really coming into their own. But it has languished in the back of the drag closet for close to two years now. Mickey has always presented Cha-Cha as a dancer, but he has shied away from making ballet part of her routine. Ballet was reserved as the professional territory of Mr. Mickey Gallagher. Cha-Cha could have all the rest.

It's a beautiful dress, though. Even if Mickey is now fully aware that those aren’t ostrich feathers in the design. It is a version of the Swan Queen ballet costume, albeit one that that has been processed through a drag filter. Ian may or may not have gotten stoned while watching Black Swan when he came up with the design.

“I just thought you should keep your options open,” admits Ian. Even though he knows that this should have been the obvious choice for him all along.

“Well, help me figure out which melody I should choose.”

“You don’t need to watch a video for inspiration? You just… know?”

Mickey gives his husband a long, withering glance. “I’ve been teaching dance for years. Do you know how how many versions of each piece’s choreo I’ve got on lock up here?” he taps his head with two fingers for emphasis.

“Sorry, didn’t mean… it’s just that I wasn’t thinking you’d do the real dances.”

Mickey quirks and eyebrow. “What were you expecting me to do?”

“Remember that funny combination you came up with when we were bored in lockdown?”

Mickey laughs. The several weeks of confinement in their home before he landed on drag as a new project had seen Mickey coming up with a lot of different choreo routines intended for when the world opened back up again. Most of them have been taught to his students for their solos and graduation routines. But his comedic take on the Odile variation remained a silly little secret between the two of them.

“That? You want me to showcase my ballet with that?”

“Drag is all about exaggeration right?” offers Ian with his hands open. “Just like when you think my costume designs aren’t big enough. You’re a beautiful dancer, baby. But you gotta drag it up.”

Mickey exhales out his nose and pulls out his iPhone. “Let me see if I saved the routine to the cloud.”

Chapter Text

“I could have gotten your brother to come help. That’s why he drove all the way down, right?” insists Mickey as he extends one arm outward.

“Yeah, probably not,” Ian dismisses as he gingerly slides the attachable sleeve into place and lining it up with the fasteners. “He barely made it to the evening gown competition. I’d rather do it myself than trust him to buckle down and focus.”

“I guess we should have thought about that before he brought down a six-foot-four distraction.”

“Yeah, loud little fucker, isn’t he?” remarks Ian as he ties the fasteners into place around the sleeve hole of his leotard.

“It ain’t weird? Talking about your little brother’s sex life?” Mickey gives Ian a quizzical smirk.

“We banged in a twin bed with him in the room dozens of times when he was little. At least he has the courtesy of being two rooms away.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t a howler monkey like that till we had a house to ourselves.”

“Okay,” nods Ian. “Dick move there. Your poor beauty sleep…”

“Fuck you, I’m freaking gorgeous and you know it.” Mickey sticks out his tongue playfully, rotating so Ian can turn his attention to the second sleeve.

“Nervous?” the doting husband asks as he ties the closures of the second sleeve into place.

“Only when you ask me.”

“Mm… I love a confident Mickey. You know that.”

“Confident or cocky?” asks Mickey, beaming softly.

“Can’t be too cocky when you’re tucked, can you?”

“Asshole,” snickers the drag queen as he wraps his arms around his husband as best he could in the cumbersome costume.

“You’re going to be amazing out there.”

“You think?”

“Yeah,” smiles Ian. “I can never take my eyes off you when you dance.”

Mickey is no stranger to praise from his husband. They both give each other a lot of lip. But Ian always makes sure that Mickey gets buried under a sea of compliments whether he deserves them or not. Right now, the look in Ian’s eyes. Yes, this tall, beautiful man believes Mickey deserves it. And it’s almost enough to calm his nerves.

Mickey laughs and pushes Ian away. “Bitch, don’t make me wants to smear my makeup all over that hot mouth of yours.”

“Alright, Ladies! Ten and places.” Booms a very caffeinated assistant stage manager. “Alphabetical order. That’s starting with A for those of you here because you flunked the fuck out!”

“Guess it’s time for me to get going,” sighs Ian a little glumly.

“Yeah. Especially if you wanna hobble that broken leg of yours to your seat before they cut the house lights on you.”

Ian looks from left to right and left again. “Do theater superstitions apply? I know this isn’t exactly—”

“I swear if you jinx me, you fucker…”

“Okay, okay. Break legs. So many legs. Just not your own. You know how I like those stems of yours.”

***

The Emcee steps out onto the dais. He’s a c-list celebrity that had a reality show on Bravo that enough people are polite enough to pretend they watched. Bet he was affordable at least. Mickey could not tell you this guy’s name if you held a knife at his throat.

“Give it up for Katarinka Farbissina Romanovna from the great state of Idaho and he fabulous color guard demonstration!” He exclaims.

Color guard, huffs Mickey from the wings, I see how it is. I can’t show off my marksmanship, but this stupid spud fucker can flip a rifle in the air all willy nilly.

“Our next contestant arrived in Dallas with a different exhibition in mind. But when we told her a rootin’ tootin’ gun show wasn’t going to make waves in Texas, the lady decided to regroup.”

Fuck you, whatever your name is. Normally, this would be when Mickey would be finding his inner peace, getting into Cha-Cha’s light and breezy personality. But he’s in a tutu and pointe shoes. He’s about to go out there and perform a craft he’s been studying and mastering since he was four. Cha-Cha Heals can do the mambo, salsa, even the fucking can-can. But Mickey Gallagher is the professional ballet dancer. This is Mickey, not Cha-Cha on display, no matter whether he’s in drag or not. He chalks the toes of his shoes nervously as he waits for his cue.

“So, instead we are going to be treated to the balletic stylings of the dancing queen of Chicago. Representing the great state of Illinois is Miss Cha-Cha Heals!”

That’s Cha-Cha’s cue. He folds his arms across his arms across his chest. A row of chaîné turns brings Mickey to center stage and he unfolds his arms to reveal the visual gag of his performance. Instead of Cha-Cha’s toned and powdered arms, he reveals a swan illusion, giant feathery wing sleeves that nearly double the length of his arms. Wrapped around his neck, is a swan’s neck, reminiscent of a dress Bjork once wore.

***

Mickey only wishes he could lay claim to this concept. But this was all Ian. Once, when they were still in lockdown and his husband was trying desperately to distract himself from his soul-numbing experience as a first responder, the big lug agreed when Mickey pulled out his collection of dance movies and suggested a marathon.

Most of the films would result in Mickey’s occasional diatribes and anecdotes about accuracy or behind the scenes information that he just had stored in his head. But some of them, elicited silence out of both of them. Okay, the fact that Ian has zero alcohol tolerance and he was on his second Guinness might have been an explanation for Ian’s sudden quiet, but he was transfixed by the time they got around to watching Black Swan.

Days later, Ian comes to Mickey with a sketch. Ian isn’t the artist that his husband is, but the concept had the dancer intrigued. Ian had never come up with a design on his own before. He’s more in the habit of taking Mickey’s ideas and seeing how he can accomplish them. This impulse in his husband is new and exciting.

“I know I got a ways to go, but when I’m good enough at sewing, I wanna make this.”

“Ambitious,” nods Mickey, impressed already.

“Would you wear it?”

***

The real gag, though? He’s playing this straight. Ponderous wings and swan’s head aside, he performs with all the professionally he would if he were performing at the Joffrey or the Lyric Opera House back home. And therein lies both the artistry and the comedy. This is why he chose not to get into character.

The first part of the medley is Odette’s Variation, the Swan Queen’s first big solo performance as meets and tells her prince the story of her enchantment. It is lyrical, and shows off Mickey’s grace, precision, and his talent for using his body as an instrument for storytelling.

Next comes the Dance of the Cygnets. This is meant to be performed by four members of the corps, but it displays his fancy footwork. It’s also the most playful and birdlike of the pieces Mickey and Ian selected. This is the section he chooses to play up the wings for comedic effect and he can tell the audience is eating it up.

Jesus Christ, he thinks to himself, Maybe it’s the dance teacher in me, but the clack of pointe shoes hitting the hard wood of the stage at all the right beats is gonna make me cum in my tights if I don’t pull my shit together.

Finally, the last minute of Mickey’s allotted time is a snipped from later on in the ballet—the last minute of Odile’s Variation. The music is powerful and frenetic as the False Swan Odile seduces the prince. It’s a showstopping maneuver in which the dancer performs thirty-two fouetté turns, powerful kicking that propels the body into forceful pirouettes, without taking a moment to rest or come down en fondu the entire time.

Trying to squeeze in three different melodies into the five minutes each contestant is allotted had seemed like a daunting task when he and Ian were throwing out ideas yesterday. But Ian has been editing his music selections for years now, both as a drag queen and a dancer. Even if he didn’t have a access to his laptop and had to actually pay for a music editing tool on his phone, it was worth it. Ian got the Swan Lake medley down to a tight four minutes and fifty-one seconds.

Mickey ends his talent exhibition bended on one knee, wings outstretched upward reaching the full 8.5 foot wingspan. He huffs in place, reclaiming air after the exertion and for a moment, he’s worried the house is completely dead. But then the applause comes.

This is the satisfaction he craves. He never knew how much he missed being on stage performing ballet before. He convinced himself for so long that he is content to teach. That he doesn’t need to be dancing ballet professionally to feel centered and whole like this. But he does. He’s been telling himself for four years, he’s happier dancing in the studio than on the stage. But this moment feels like a statement of purpose in his life.

He loves doing drag. He loves being Cha-Cha. But he’s a dancer to his core.

Goddamn it, just live in the moment, Mickey scolds himself. Let yourself enjoy your victories for once. He should be basking in the applause, the attention, not focusing on the lifelong dream he’s set aside for a second time.

He tries to push the thoughts down. He remembers he’s supposed to be Cha-Cha. Mickey may be racked with career regret and self-doubt. But Cha-Cha is here for the applause. The smile that often comes so hard for Mickey slips on easily as he allows the Cha-Cha character take over.

Chapter Text

Mickey hadn’t been shocked when he made it to the top twenty-five. Cha-Cha had been a highlight of the group talent technical and the ensemble Ian crafted for the evening gown category belongs in a museum, in his humble opinion.  

He is a little shocked when the number is reduced from twenty-five to ten and Cha-Cha is still among the fortunate and blessed on-stage. Yes, he was absolutely proud of the performance he brought to the stage for Cha-Cha’s talent exhibition. But it was an idea that he and Ian brainstormed together a little over a full twenty-four hours ago. He fills almost guilty about all the girls who put weeks of work into their performances that Cha-Cha bested on short notice.  

Cha-Cha stands graciously on the stage, hand to her heart in delighted surprise while Mickey scans the audience for wherever his brother-in-law and husband might be sitting. That vivid red hair is usually so easy to spot in an audience. But this theater is just so vast, he can’t figure out where his husband and brother-in-law are.  

Mickey has to keep Cha-Cha’s game face on even if the nerves are starting to get to him. What’s-his-name (Bob?) is working his way down the line asking each of the final ten a question. It is a different question each time. It makes Mickey more than a little anxious.  

He had not even expected to make it to this round. Otherwise, he probably would have asked Ian to spend a few hours before bed last night giving him random prompts to answer. He isn’t even sure how this is supposed to work with drag. In a normal beauty pageant, the Q&A portion is supposed to be about getting to know the contestants. It’s about getting a sense of their values, what’s important to them.  

But drag? So much about the art is about the artifice, the illusion. Am I answering as me? As Cha-Cha? Earnest answers or do they want something comedic and memeable? Mickey is half-tempted to lean into the bit and give full-on unhinged pageant babble. 

“Miss Cha-Cha?” 

“Yes, Jimmy?” answers Cha-Cha airily. 

“It’s Glenn.” 

“Sure, it is.” This gets a delighted laugh from the audience. Mickey wonders if they don’t know this guy’s claim to fame either. 

“You made a splash during the Solo Talent round, Ms. Heals.” 

“Thank you,” replies Cha-Cha tartly as she curtsies.  

“Cha-Cha, the panelists’ question for you is what struggles specific to your region have you overcome? And how would they influence your reign as Miss Gay USofA?” 

He hands Cha-Cha the mic and she accepts it purposefully. “I’m so happy you asked, Gregory.” The audience laughs again. “I hail from the great city of Chicago.” That brings on a round of scattered cheers from the Midwesterners in attendance. “It is one of the largest and most populous cities on this continent. And like so many major cities in the US, the divides between the haves and have-nots is getting wider all the time.”  

“I came from the bottom pile of the have nots. I grew up with a good chance the lights or the water would be shut off for weeks or months at a time. My family resorted to crimes to get by. Even me. I was shoplifting on a regular from my husband’s after school job because it was the only way I could get him to notice me without missing out on eating some days.” Cha-Cha hesitates. “I grew up in a part of my city where it is still very dangerous to be openly gay. My father used to drag me around to watch him gay bash folks just so I would know what to expect if he ever caught me with a guy. And that was only the tip of the iceberg.”  

Mickey can hear the sounds of shock and alarm at his confession. But that’s what this is about, right? Honesty. Putting yourself out there emotionally. Not a traditional Milkovich trait, but he’s trying his best.  

“When he did catch me with the man who I now call husband, it got worse. And it didn’t have to if I had someone ready and willing to show me the light on the other side of the tunnel.”  

“What I want to represent as Miss Gay USofA is a promise to little queer boys and girls who grew up like me, who grew up scared. I want them to know they aren’t alone and that they are loved. And as scary as coming out is, of letting yourself be exposed like that, taking that risk, I want them to know it’s better on the other side. There are people who love you and you don’t even know it. I want anyone out there struggling to know there are people who want you to not just survive— they want to see you thrive and find happiness.” 

The crowd applauds. No doubt some are out of polite respect for all the competitors. But Mickey cannot help but imagine some peoples’ heartstrings were tugged. Candor hurts. Especially when you have a head full of childhood memories as bad as Mickey’s but laying yourself bare? He feels like even if the truth doesn’t garner him a single point from the judges, it was still the right call. 

She curtsies as she hands the mic back to the Emcee. She hands the mic back to Whatshisname and is surprised when he hands her a handkerchief. Mickey doesn’t even realize his eyes had started to well up until Cha-Cha is dabbing her cheeks. 

***  

“Eighth place is great!” Cheers Ian, threatening to squeeze the life out of Mickey. “I’m so proud of you, baby!” 

Mickey reclines on his side, happy to be back in his boy clothes after over eight uncomfortable hours in drag. “I prefer to think of myself as the seventh alternate,” he beams.  

“I was so worried you were gonna come out swinging when we got out of there,” Ian admits as he sifts through the pile of takeout menus they picked up from the lobby. “Indian?” 

“If we’re banging tonight, maybe not.” Shrugs Mickey. 

“Why don’t we go out? Celebrate?” 

“Celebrate what? I lost.” 

Eighth out of how many girls? Who all had to win multiple pageants to qualify? That’s like you beat every queen those queens beat. So seven other girls did better. So what? Six month ago, you didn’t even think you thought you weren’t going to go any further than Miss Siren’s Song. Now look at you.” 

Mickey blushes at the genuine praise. He’ll never truly get over just how much Ian just admires him. “They got a Sizzler around here?”  

***  

Carl and Thom joins them. Carl doesn’t pass up a free meal. And Ian is treating. There is no Sizzler in Dallas, but the city has no shortage of dining locations where you can eat any array of cow parts.  

They’re finishing their meal and waiting for the check when Mickey finally says, “I gotta thank you guys. I know I’ve probably been a lot to deal with the past few weeks.” 

“I’ve seen you bitchier,” snarks Carl as he uses his dinner biscuit to sop up the lingering juices on his plate. Ian elbows his kid brother. 

“But seriously? I know I’ve been a huge dragzilla off and on all the past month. Thank you all for putting up with my drama queen ass.” 

Ian leans in and kisses the side of his cheek. “Putting up with a few drag queen tantrums is worth the payout.” 

“Still didn’t win anything,” sighs Mickey. “Unless you think self-doubt is a prize. I seriously questioned whether I even want to keep doing drag after my Swan Lake routine.” 

“Why’s that? You were great out there.” Carl has confided in Mickey that Thom is a fanboy, but he’s doing a great job of playing it cool. “Like, I thought Carl was pulling my leg about the ballet until I saw that performance.” 

“Yeah. That’s just it. Cha-Cha only started because I got bored during lockdown and started dreaming up a drag character. I never intended to put my career aside as long as I have.” 

“So,” starts Ian tentatively, “what do you want to do now then?” 

Mickey stares at his empty plate. There are hardly any crumbs left on it. It’s time to either leave the table or ask for dessert. Is he ready to push away drag as readily as this plate? Or is there room for still more? 

“I don’t know,” he answers. “Next steps always take time to plan, don’t they?” 

“You guys wanna try the peach cobbler?” asks Carl. 

There is a pause followed by words of approval. Mickey chimes in, “Yeah, I think I have room for a little more.” 

Mickey feels Ian slide his fingers into his hand under the table. He looks up and sees that hopeful half grin on the redhead’s face. That smile is the reassurance Mickey will always need to get through the tough choices. 

It doesn’t solve the questions at hand coursing dizzily through the turnabout of  Mickey’s current train of thought. But it makes dealing with the decisions that much easier. As melodramatic had Mickey can be at times, Ian never makes him walk his path alone.