Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s the same old Chicago, same old Southside. But Mickey figures it’s only been about a year and change. It couldn’t have changed that much. Except it has on a level that Mickey can’t even put into words. The minotaur at the center of the labyrinth has been dispatched and he’s free to wind his way through these old streets in relative safety again.

He gets off the El and pulls his denim jacket up close to his chest. It’s still brisk for early April. Almost two years away hasn’t dulled his sense of the neighborhood as he passes through Canaryville and the Yards, looking for a friendly face. A specific friendly face, even though he’s probably long gone by now. In any case, he is only stalling the inevitable.

Time to pay the piper, he thinks as he turns onto South Trumbull Ave. The Milkovich house stands as it always has—which is to say barely standing. There is more garbage in the front yard than usual, but other than that, it’s the same old shithole.

He lets himself in. Even two years gone, this is his house. He’s not knocking on his own goddamn front door.

“Any o’ you fucktards around?”

“Mickey?” from down the hall, he recognizes the voice of the second eldest brother, well, now the eldest one living. He heads down the hall to Colin’s room. He’s got a douchey vape pen in his hands and he’s got a few days of growth on his chin.

“Finally showed back up, huh?” he spits. “Come to dance on their graves?”

“Graves plural? I thought pops wanted to get cremated.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

Mickey’s eyebrows are in his hairline, threating to fly off his face completely. “He told us, dipshit.”

“Well, fuck me if I can’t remember everything.”

“Try anything,” Mickey huffs. “You and Iggz always did smoke too much of the product you’re supposed to be pushing. Where’s Mandy?”

“She hasn’t come around in ages. Last I heard, she was staying with a boyfriend.”

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He doesn’t know if he’s ready to see Gallagher again. But if she’s holing up again with that dickhead brother of his, it may be inevitable. But he should be in upstate New York getting reamed out by a drill sergeant by now. It should be safe to visit until school’s out for the year.

“You shitheads didn’t touch my room, did you?”

He heads down to the end of the hall and finds his room relatively as he left it, minus the stupid posters. Shit, he thought he was so hardcore back then. Back before he had to fend for himself. Instead, the walls are painted green and there are posters for wrestling and mixed martial arts all over. Joey must have taken up residence while he was gone. Well, I guess it’s mine again, he thinks ruefully as he tosses his rucksack down on the bed. While Terry getting gunned down fills him both with relief and regret, the fact that Joey was with him is solely in that latter category.

“So, where are they buried?” he asks as he pulls his Marlboros out of his back pocket and taps one out.

“The poor mass grave in Mount Olivet.”

 “Of fucking course they are. Jesus…” Mickey is burning a trail out of the house.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“I’ll be back.”

“You just got here!”

Mickey turns around to face his brother who is following down the hall. “Keep your fucking shirt on, I’ll be back.”

He is about to turn to leave when his eyes catch the sight of the living room. The fucking living room. He feels lead in his stomach at the sight of that fucking sofa. He can still remember that day as vividly as if it were just this morning.

“No son of mine is gonna be a goddamn AIDS monkey!” His father’s fists blurring his vision and bloodying his face.

“She’s gonna fuck the faggot out of you.” His nostrils fill with cheap lavender perfume as a Russian whore stripping in a single practiced movement and mounting him while his boyfriend is forced to watch.

His boyfriend is forced to watch. Ian is forced to watch. Ian looks so broken. Mickey feels so broken. He hates this. He hates himself. He brought Ian here. He thought they were safe. For one night, he thought he could shelter Ian from the harsh reality of being forced into a group home while his family is away. And now the boy has a gun pointed to his temple as he’s forced to watch Mickey fuck this bitch. And he won’t look away. He won’t look the fuck away and Mickey wants to die.

He breaks the connection. He flips the whore onto her back and does what he has to in order to satisfy his father’s expectations. He does what he must in order to get both him and Ian out of this situation alive.

The rest of that day is a blur. Too bloody to think clearly. But he remembers deciding it was the last night he would ever be in this house as long as Terry was alive. He stole 5k from the profits of Terry’s latest gun shipment, and by the time he fell asleep the next night, he was on a Greyhound headed east. He didn't care where he planted his feet next as long as it was nowhere near Chicago.

“Mick?” asks Colin. “You okay?”

“Mind your fucking business, Col.”

And before his brother can ask another question, he is out the door. He pulls out his lighter on the porch, covering the cigarette tip against the wind as he lights it up. His pulse is racing. He needs to calm down if he’s going over there.

He palms the burner phone in his pocket, tempted to text ahead. But he second guesses it. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

He crosses a couple streets over and down a block to where the shabby blue house is situated behind a chain link fence. He eyes the property for a long time, finishing a second cigarette before gathering up the courage to mount the front steps and knock.

The little sister opens the door. Damn, she looks older now. Or at least she looks taller and she wears makeup now. She doesn’t resemble an American Girl doll quite like she used to. “Mickey Milkovich?”

“Is Mandy around?” he asks walking in without waiting to be invited.

“Why would she be here?”

“My brother said she was staying with her boyfriend.”

“Oh.” The girl mouths with some weight behind the syllable.

“What?”

“You haven’t been around for a while, have you?”

“I’ve been outta town. Home for some family business.”

“Mandy isn’t here,” she says bracingly. “They really haven’t been together since before Lip got sick.”

“Sick? What sort of sick?”

“Mick?”

Mickey feels his heart shoot into his throat. This is what he wanted to avoid. Or did he? Seeing Ian for the first time in nearly two years feels like something in him is about to explode. He’s standing at the top of the stairs wearing a jeans and a green t-shirt. There is a doughy looking baby slung over his shoulder. Mickey thought the little black one was the youngest, but maybe Frank and that crazy wife of his popped out another while he was out of town. Ian’s eyes are narrowed like he’s appraising him. All the while, he is clutching at that baby like it’s a treasure.

“What are you doing here?

“What am I doing here? The fuck are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at West Point by now."

“I… some things came up. Is there something I can help you with?” His words are cold, but not measured like the customer service voice Mickey has seen him used at the Kash N Grab. It feels like formality.

“Uh… yeah. You hear from Mandy?”

“Of course. I hear from her all the time. Mandy tells people when she changes her number.”

Okay, Mickey knows he probably deserves that.

“Where is she staying these days?”

Ian looks at him for a long time. The kid on his shoulder is babbling and pawing at the redhead, but Ian doesn’t look down at him, instead he leans in to kiss the little dirty blond thing on the top of his head.

“I’m sure if she wanted you to know where she is, she’d tell you.” Mickey already misses the formal tone. Now he sounds as cold as a glacier.

“Look, just gimme her address and I’ll be on my way.”

“Why do you even care after all this time?”

“What’s the big deal?” asks the younger redhead. Mickey had almost forgotten she is still in the room with them.

“Grown-up shit, Debs. Do you mind?”

“Alright, fuck me for asking, right?” grumbles the redhead as she disappears up the stairs, shoulder checking Gallagher on his babyless side along the way.

Mickey pulls an open envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket. “Look, I got this letter from Mandy last week. She told me my dad and oldest brother were on the wrong end of a drive by. I came home to… I don’t know. Tie up loose ends, I guess.”

“And that’s all you’re here for?” asks Ian as he comes down the stairs. Once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Mickey is struck by just how much taller Ian is now, nearly a full head taller than him.

“Phone number and address. C’mon, man.”

Ian’s eyes widen and juts out that damn chin of his. Mickey doesn’t know if Ian is mad or disappointed. “Look, Mandy is a little cagey these days about people knowing where to find her. I’ll tell her you were asking for her. Okay?”

“You fucking serious?”

“She had to call a restraining order on her last boyfriend. So, yeah.”

“Fine.” huffs Mickey as he pulls out his burner.

“You gonna give me your number?”

Mickey taps in a phone number and starts a message. “Yeah, just a sec. This is just a burner. I should probably invest in a real phone now that.. you know.”

“Know what?”

“Terry. Y’know.”

“Oh. I see. That’s the only reason why you’re back you’re back.”

He clicks send and seconds later, Ian’s pocket vibrates. He shifts the child’s weight to unearth his phone.

The message reads: I missed you, Firecrotch.

His expression softens, but only for a moment. “You had my number saved in a burner phone?”

“I have it committed to memory, man.”

“Fancy that. Well, if Mandy’s cool with it, I’ll be in touch.” The tone is obvious. Tacitly nudging him onto the opposite side of the front door.

“Yeah, thanks.” Mickey steps back. “So what’s with the kid? Hurricane Monica strikes again?”

“No. This one’s mine. His name’s Yevgeny.”

“The fuck kind of name is that?”

“His mother’s choice. After her father.”

“You seriously got a kid?

“Yup. I’ve been involved in the little guy’s life since the day he was conceived.”

“You’re still gay, right?”

“As a maypole.”

“But you got a kid?”

“Times change, Mick. I’ll see you around.”

Ian closes the door behind him and Mickey feels an emptiness that has been in him for the past seventeen months. He has numbed himself to it for so long, but now the sensation is back in full force. Nothing has changed between the moment he knocked on the Gallagher front door and now. He came here empty-handed. But he still feels like managed to lose something along the way.

Chapter Text

Ian doesn’t have much time to spend dwelling on his past. Not right now, anyway. He has a household to run. Debbie is old enough that he doesn’t worry about her too much, and convincing Carl to take an interest in ROTC has been good for his sense of discipline. Even if his interest in firearms might have increased more than slightly. But that still leaves him with a precocious five-year-old baby brother, an older brother who is mentally ill and too proud and stubborn to listen to reason on a consistent basis, and last but not least his son.  

And Yevgeny is his son. Legally. Emotionally. Yevvy is Ian's child, if not his flesh and blood. Mickey showing up out of the blue after almost two years might end up changing a lot of things, but it won’t change that. Mickey probably won’t give two shits if he finds out Yevgeny is his offspring and even if he did care, which the asshole won’t, the guy fucked off to who knows where for almost two years. Yes, it is Ian’s name, not Mickey’s, next to Svetlana’s on the birth certificate. But more importantly it was Ian and not Mickey who changed every stinky diaper, attended to every late night feeding, who held him and did everything he could to soothe him during several long weeks of colic.  

And where was Mickey all that time? Ian would have thought Mickey would have some sort of explanation when he finally showed up. But no. All he wanted was Mandy’s number. It isn’t as though Ian used to spend his nights dreaming of the day that Mickey Milkovich would finally show up at his door with a profound apology and a confession of feelings. He knows— knew— Mickey too well to expect that. But Mickey couldn’t even admit that he missed him out loud. The asshole thought it would be cute and texted that shit.  

Mickey didn’t show up here today for him, couldn’t give two shits. Maybe he never really did. He always did claim that it was just about getting off. But… no. In his heart of hearts, Ian knows what Mickey felt with him. You can’t fake that. No matter his posturing, his eyes always told a different story. Ian simply doesn’t know what Mickey feels, if anything, about him now.  

Not that he’s gives it much thought. His days are too jam packed anymore to worry about a personal life. Fiona has been in a women’s prison for nearly a year now on a five-year sentence, and she still has a while to go before she is up for parole. Keeping Lip from being a danger to himself or others is turning into a fulltime job. And he’s already working over fifty hours a week on average between two jobs.  

And above all, Yevgeny is his number one priority. Yevgeny, who has eyes as blue as the ocean, an expressive set of eyebrows, and a pair of the cutest little bunny teeth growing in that protrude over a bowed bottom lip. He’s the best thing in Ian’s life. 

It isn’t until Ian has put Liam and Yev to bed, made sure Debbie has finished her homework, frisked Carl to make sure he wasn’t bringing anything in the house he shouldn’t, and watched Lip swallow his pills before he has the time to follow up on Mickey’s request. 

Closing the master bedroom door closed behind him, he takes a peek at the crib to make sure his son is still sleeping soundly before he shucks off his pants and  collapses onto the bed. He reaches for his phone on the night stand and opens up his text messages. 

Ian (8:45pm): Mickey was here looking for you   

Mandy (8:58pm): Why? 🤨  

Ian (9:02pm): He thought you and Lip are still a thing  

Mandy (9:02pm): Shit.   

Mandy (9:03pm): Why didn’t he just ask my brothers?  

Ian (9:05pm): I dunno. But I told him I’d ask if you were okay with me giving out your number  

Ian (9:06pm): He said he got a letter from you. Why didn’t you ever tell me you knew where he was?  

Why didn’t he? Ian wasn’t going anywhere. Even if he had ended up at West Point, the Gallagher house wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Mickey didn’t even have to let him know where he was. Just that he was alive and he cared would have been enough for Ian. Christ Ian, who are you kidding? His internal monologue scoffs. You were always going to want more from Mickey Milkovich.  

Mandy (9:10pm): Didn’t occur to me. Not like I tell you about Iggy or Colin’s shit  

Ian tosses down his phone and puts his digits to his temple, rubbing circles into either side.  Stupid fucking idiot. All this time and Mandy still doesn’t even know about him and Mick. Sometimes, he has been so certain that she must have some sort of inkling. She’s not an idiot by any stretch of the imagination. Hell, she got Lip into three of the six colleges she applied to for him, including MIT. But she is tragically bereft of a clue when it comes to the fact that he and her brother used to fuck like rabbits even when she was only one room away.  

He hates that he still feel like he has to lie to his best friend. But as angry as he is at Mickey for ditching him, he’s not going to betray that trust. It's bad enough he ran his mouth off with Lip. But Mickey deserves to tell his sister on his own terms.  

Ian (9:13pm): We used to be tight, guess he trusts me   

Mandy: (9:17pm): Mickey doesn’t trust people  

Even after all the time Mickey has been gone, Ian’s first instinct is still to rush to his defense when someone badmouths him. Mandy is mostly right. There is very little in this world that Mandy trusts. But what Ian and Mickey had was different. The trust was implicit from their very first time together when all other signs should have told Ian to steer clear of the other boy.  Mickey may not have ever said so, but he knows that Mickey trusted him. In his own way.  

Mandy (9:17pm): But if he wants you to be the go-between, fuck it. Give him my number  

Ian (9:19pm): Just your phone, right?  

Mandy (9:20): Obvsly  

Ian gets it. He has spent enough time around the Milkovich house and has had enough shitty interactions with her last couple of boyfriends that it doesn’t shock him at all that his best friend is putting herself and her safety first.  

Ian (9:22pm): K. Let me know if you need anything  

Mandy (9:24pm): Dont you have a kid to parent instead of me??? 🙄  

*** 

Ian feels like he only just closed his eyes when his alarm starts going off. He sleeps through it. But then his little blond ball of baby starts making noise. When all else fails, that is what typically galvanizes Ian into action anymore. The kid is kneeling in the Gallagher family crib, pudgy little fingers wrapped around the bars. He swallows back the sour taste lingering in his mouth from yesterday's stark reminder that his son Gallagher, or not, is a Milkovich too. Ian prays nurture wins out over nature and these will be the only bars Yevgeny will ever be behind.  

Yevgeny never even minded being in his crib before. But ever since he started crawling last month, he seems to wake up from all his naps with that same grumpy expression Ian used to see so often on Mickey. Like, he resents his Daddy for curtailing his mobility long enough for the both of them to get some needed shuteye. Seeing the boy’s pout as he lifts Yevgeny up for a session of flying baby, Ian wonders how long Mickey is going to be around. Should he bite the bullet now and tell Mickey about their son before he figures it out just by how much a mini-me Yevgeny is of his bio daddy? Will it change anything? Will he resent the child? Will he resent Ian for keeping him? Will he be indifferent? Scared off? He better not try to take him. Ian may not have much money, but he’ll go to court if he has to.  

This is insane. He’s spent the past eight months training himself not to see Mickey Milkovich every time he looks at his son. And now all he can think about is the fucking asshole. Even when Yevgeny is dissimilar from Mickey. Like that giggle he makes that sounds like the jingling of bells? Did Mickey ever laugh like that before Terry Milkovich started wailing on him like his own personal punching bag? Or the lightness of Yevgeny’s hair—will it darken closer to black as the child ages? It makes him picture Mickey as a blonde, but it’s just too ridiculous for him to take seriously.  

Shit, he needs to put Mickey out of his goddamn mind. Mickey sure as hell didn’t give him a second thought for the past eighteen months. He slips on his uniform for work today—a matched set of forest green scrubs and a pair of Adidas sneakers. “C’mon, milk dud. I’ve got a jar of strained bananas with your name on it.” 

Downstairs, he finds Lip sitting across from Liam both of them with a bowl of Fruit Hoops. Good. That’s the third day in a row since his latest med adjustment that he got out of bed on his own. The doctors keep stressing that it’s not just the medication alone. Lip needs routine and a schedule to create a sense of normalcy for him. Along with journaling and tracking his moods, a routine supposed to make it easier for Lip himself to detect when he’s starting to go off the rails if he can notice when things are off. 

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the start of Lip taking his mental health seriously. Dear god, please just take this one thing off my plate , Ian prays silently to himself as he slips Yevgeny into his highchair. 

“Morning, gentlemen.” 

Five-year-old Liam, very much the Harpo Marx of the Gallagher brothers, greets Ian with a silent salute, holding his spoon like a drum major’s baton.  

“How are you today, little man?” asks Lip, leaning in to give his nephew a tiny fist bump. Both Ian and Lip were elated when he picked up that little gesture starting around six months.  

The little ball of sunshine babbles incoherently. So far the only word that the Gallagher family agrees he knows is “dada.” But each sibling thinks they’ve heard their name somewhere in the baby babble here or there. The only one Ian is certain of is “Wip” for Lip, which would make sense. After Ian himself, Lip is the uncle who has clocked the most time helping out with Yevgeny around the house. Just because of how the past six or seven months have played out, Lip has been homebound much of the time. First because of his expulsion, later the depressive episodes, then the multiple times he’s been thrown for a loop whenever he has to adjust to a new dosage... or when he needs to restart his medication regimen. But as long as he isn’t manic, which are getting rarer and milder the longer he sticks with treatment, Ian wouldn’t trust anyone with his son more than his big brother.  

“Any sleep problems last night?” Ian asks, trying to sound casual and not like he has a mental checklist of questions. 

Lip shakes his head. “Not since the new dosage leveled out. Now all I gotta work around is the damn tremors and keeping the pantry stocked with Metamucil.” 

“And this is working for you, right?” 

“Now that I don’t feel like Dorothy before the technicolor, yeah. Oh! And before you ask...” Lip’s eyes dart to his weekly pill organizer sitting in front of him at the table. He opens today’s morning hatch and makes a presentation of popping two capsules and a pill into his mouth and washing it down with a glass of orange juice. “Ta-da!” 

Ian has to admit that compared to their mother, Lip is at least trying. He still hates it, he isn’t even fully convinced he has bipolar like Monica, but he’s doing what he needs to. By all rights, the responsibility of head of the household ought to have fallen to Lip when Fiona’s attempt to represent herself in court for child endangerment didn’t work out. And he did try, balancing a full college curriculum and the Gallagher household.  

In hindsight, Ian recognizes that there must have been too much pressure, far too much stress for him, triggering his first hypomanic states that lasted from finals until he crashed by mid-July. He insisted he was okay and he could manage and the family believed him. Lip always was the voice of common sense before. So they took him at his word.  

And then came the expulsion in October after he was caught bashing in car windows in the faculty parking garage. That was the breaking point. University police had him committed on a 72-hour involuntary commitment. Though he ended up being extended to ten days total. And since then, it has been a cycle of ups, downs, and places in between ever since.  

Growing up, Lip used to always rail against the notion that he was the “golden goose,” the genius sibling who was going to pull the family out of poverty. And he may still be that. His mental health doesn’t change the fact that he’s the smartest person Ian knows. But the perpetual cycle of Lip taking his meds, then thinking he is better  off without them, only to turn his life into a dumpster fire over and over again makes the light at the end of the tunnel seem dimmer ever time it comes into view.  

But even as Ian sits there praying “maybe this time,” he cannot help but feel like he’s Charlie Brown and the universe is Lucy van Pelt with that fucking football.  

“Good,” Ian nods approvingly. “So what’s on the docket for today?” 

Lip’s expression darkens, eyes narrowing and a quick flare of his nostrils. “Five hours of letting Linda berate me, then I’ve got group.”  

“Cool,” hums Ian, trying not to act like he’s mentally checking off boxes in his head. 

Ian knows Lip hates feeling like he is being managed. And Ian hates feeling like his brother’s keeper. But until they reach some sort of equilibrium that lasts more than a few weeks at a time, this is their life. 

“Oh. You had a visitor earlier.”  

“What?” 

“More like a stalker.”  

Ian hurried to the front door and looks out as though Mickey is still out there like the ghost of fucking Christmas past. 

“How long has your old boyfriend been back in town. 

“We were never boyfriends. Or. I don’t think he thinks we were. Did he say what he wanted?” 

“Beats me. He was just skulking out on the front porch, but I think Carl spooked him on his way out the door.” 

Ian throws his hands in the air. He doesn’t have time to deal with whatever Mickey wants now. He agreed he’d text when he had an update and badgering him isn’t exactly making him feel like being all that helpful.  

“What the fuck ever. Milkovich is gonna have to wait. Peanut, go get your coat and book bag.” The littlest Gallagher brother shoots off like a rocket while Ian starts bundling his son up against the early April chill. “I’ve gotta get Liam to kindergarten and then I have a hospital shift.”  

“Another fulfilling day of holding out pills? 

“It puts food on the table, doesn’t it?” Asserts Ian as he straps Yevgeny’s baby sling across his chest. “Speaking of, it’s Thursday. This is when—” 

“When Linda does inventory. The best day to grab expired food. Yeah, yeah. I know the routine by now.” 

Routine. Just what the doctor called for. Literally. “Good. Try to bring home some veggies. I know the older carrots look bad, but—” 

“Blegh!” 

“They’re healthy, dammit!” 

Chapter Text

Mickey leans against the handrail of the neighborhood El platform, his hands jittering as he lights up a Marlboro to calm his nerves. He convinces himself it’s the early morning chill.   

Carl ? Mickey asks himself. Was that the name of Gallagher’s little brother? Or was it Liam. Wait, no. Liam’s the baby—the kid must be Carl, then .  

Whatever his name, the kid had spooked him. That’s for damn sure. The second youngest Gallagher doesn’t look much older than the last time they crossed paths, but there is an intensity to the kid that feels more Milkovich than Gallagher. Mickey wonders if Gallagher knows just what sort of ticking time bomb he probably has on his hands.  

It doesn’t sit well with him the way the kid’s eyes widened in wonder at the sight of him like Mickey is some fucking living legend in his own back yard. He bristled at the hero worship. He got out of that life and would spare Gallagher’s kid brother the experience if he could.  He owns the person he used to be-- a juvenile delinquent, petty thief, small-time drug dealer. It’s who he was and there is no changing that. But he takes no pride in it the way he used to. That was the shape Terry Milkovich molded him and his brothers into. It used to be all he knew until he ran off, before someone showed him another way.  

And then he found some guidance in the form of a reluctant mentor (at one point the man told him, “I swear if you even try to call me you father figure, I’m pulling over and leaving you on the Jersey turnpike. Try it and find out.”) who kept his hands truly clean for the first time in his life without feeling like he’s living a half life by staying on the right side of the law. He travelled halfway across the continent, was practically ankle-deep the Atlantic before he found the course correction he needed. And even if his time under Warren’s wing was short-lived, his advice was instrumental. It spelled the difference between finding out about his father’s death while stocking shelves overnight at a Food Lion versus being in a correctional facility.  

Carl is still young. Thirteen, maybe fourteen. It’s not too late for someone to step in and show the kid a better way. Mickey wouldn't set him straight. The only person who can truly set Carl on the right path is Carl. But he could nudge, he could suggest. He wouldn’t mind being the kind of mentor Warren had been to him for this kid too if it spares Gallagher the heartache of seeing his kid brother behind bars someday.  

“Did you need something earlier?” 

Gallagher? 

Mickey turns around to see Ian Gallagher in a brown faux leather jacket over a set of green medical scrubs and a grey wool beanie on his head. The baby is harnessed in around his chest and the baby brother is holding Gallagher’s hand, looking bored.  

“You stalking me, Gallagher?” 

Gallagher rolls his eyes. “I have a kindergartener to drop off and a shift at St. Anthony’s. And if we want to talk about stalkers, what were you doing hanging around my porch this morning?” Gallagher continues walking up the platform. He has places to be. Mickey follows. Does he really want to know what Mickey was doing this morning or is Gallagher just calling him out? 

“Look, I don’t know what I was thinking; maybe I didn’t like how we ended things yesterday or whatever. But I figured I could catch you before you got back from your run. And maybe we could talk.”  

Gallagher sighs. “Remember what I told you yesterday, Mick? Times change. I haven’t had the time or really the energy for my old morning runs in ages. Not since...” He gestures silently toward the kid strapped to him, currently engaged in gnawing on the mitten sewn into his little pint-sized puffer jacket.  

“Really? And he’s, what? Six months?” 

“Eight.” 

“Where’s the kid’s mom?” 

“She’s... not in the picture anymore.” Mickey catches the defeated tone in Gallagher’s voice. He wants to know the story there, but he doesn’t know if he has the right to ask. Did he expect Gallagher to never fuck around in the nearly two years he was gone? No. Hell, until seventy-two hours ago, he didn’t think it would be safe to come back for years. Or ever. It would have been just like Terry to outlive them all out of spite. So of course, he can’t sit here and feel jealous if Gallagher fucked other people. Chest-tighteningly resentful of the mystery woman, maybe, but not jealous.  

But there is one thing that simply does not compute in Mickey’s reckoning. Gallagher always tried to convince Mickey that there is no shame in being gay. Gay, not bi. Gay. Ian Gallagher is an admitted cockhound who visibly recoils when he hears the word “clitoris.” How the hell did he manage to get some chick knocked up? 

“How long were you guys together?” 

Gallagher rolls his eyes. Mickey can feel the intended sting. “Do you seriously wanna know or are you just trying to make small talk?” 

The El arrives before he can answer. Mickey doesn’t even look at the line, he just follows Gallagher on-board. Gallagher takes the first pair of open seats he sees, lifting his brother into the window seat and taking the aisle seat for himself. Mickey holds onto the rail above Gallagher’s seat, keeping the distance between as tight as possible, even if the redhead keeps turning his back to him; a literal cold shoulder. 

“Look, I don’t care if you banged other people while I was away. What I care about is—” 

“Is what?” he asks sharply, still not even turning his head to look at Mickey. “What do you want to know now that you couldn’t have asked in a letter or a phone call in the past year and a half?” 

“Come on, Gallagher. I missed you and I’m trying to... would you just look at me, man?” 

“You know, for the longest time I went to sleep every single fucking night wondering where you were and praying you’re okay.” Gallagher still won’t look at him, but at least the biting cold edge of his voice is starting to thaw. Although that coldness was the armor, beneath it is the unvarnished hurt. And hearing it makes Mickey’s stomach twist itself in knots. 

“Same. You were still in that group home when—” 

“You had my number,” Gallagher says wetly. “The whole time. When your phone disconnected, I guessed you must have lost my contact along with the rest of it. But you had my number committed to memory.” 

“Of course I did, Red.” 

“Then why didn’t you ever—” 

“I didn’t have any intent of being in this city while my pop was still sucking down oxygen. What he did to us that morning? That was just the icing on the cake. You’ve seen the scars, the bruises. I know you have even if you’re too polite to point them out.”  

Gallagher almost turns to him, but stops himself. He nods curtly in confirmation. 

“And I thought the old fucker would never die. Seriously. I thought I was starting my life over.  Calling you woulda been...” It would have been temptation to return, he would have been a moth to a flame the minute he heard Gallagher’s voice. “It would have hurt too much.” 

Gallagher turns to face him for the first time since he sat down. Mickey catches that his eyes are lined with red. “Did it never occur to you to ask me along?” 

It did, but only long after Chicago was in the rear view mirror—when the fight or flight response in his brain finally calmed down and he was faced with the grim reality that he had set himself truly adrift, no turning back. The first major lull he had was in Sandusky, Ohio. Of the buses on offer when he got to the Greyhound station, Sandusky was the first destination Mickey could think of where his father’s operations didn’t have a connection. It was only two states away. He remembers contemplating turning back, or calling Gallagher and asking him to come join him. But he was staying in a flop house while peddling weed to the Cedar Point crowd. What sort of life would he be offering Gallagher if he came? And he was only there for a few weeks before he “acquired” a car and kept pushing further east.   

“It did,” Mickey admits, dismayed. 

“I should probably be grateful you didn’t. If everything that went down happened and I wasn’t around... I don’t know where my younger siblings would have ended up. Lip woulda gotten himself tossed in some place like Arkham Asylum by now.”  

“Where the hell is your sister, anyway? Why were you the one left holding the bag?” 

“It’s a long story,” Gallagher murmurs as he gets himself to his feet, careful not to disrupt the chubby baby attached to his midsection, who managed to doze off.  And my stop’s coming up.” 

“And I got all day.” 

Gallagher gives Mickey a look, right inner cheek hollowed as he pincers the inside between his molars. There is annoyance but also a trace of amusement. It reminds Mickey of the expression Gallagher used to shoot his way when he would use the Kash N Grab as a front for dealing weed.  

“Well, keep up because I’m not slowing down. I’ll tell you once we drop off Liam.” 

Once they are back on the street, Gallagher picks up the pace. “C’mon, this place gives the parents demerits if the kid gets in late. And I’m not letting those PTA motherfuckers win.” 

Moving at a speed walker’s gait, Mickey follows Gallagher and his little entourage to the front entrance of a fancy-looking elementary school. Apparently, Frank weaseled his way into getting Liam a spot. Cars are lined up for drop-off with overly-involved parents coordinating the daily event, but since Gallagher is a  pedestrian, he walks the youngest Gallagher sibling directly to the teacher who can’t be much older than Mickey or Gallagher. Her voice is gratingly saccharine-sweet like it was a skill learned expressly for early childhood education. It makes the voice Gallagher makes when he talks to his son sound downright distinguished. 

Once Liam is safely ensconced among his fellow bite-sized students, Gallagher looks at him seeming to exhale, shoulders slouching. “Okay, so you want the whole play by play or can I give you the SparkNotes version of what you missed?” 

Mickey sticks his hands in his jacket pockets. “Like I said, I got time.” 

Mickey listens attentively Gallagher tells a story that would sound very much like a Southside cautionary tale if it happened to anybody else. His sister got legal guardianship of Gallagher and his siblings not long after Mickey flew the coop. She even landed herself a cushy job and ended up dating her boss. Screwed it up (because of course she did) by fucking the boss’ brother who hooked her up with cocaine. And the dumb cunt was stupid enough to leave the cocaine out where a fucking toddler could get to it. And the cherry on top? The girl thought she had a leg to stand on in court. Good fucking grief.  

As for the second Gallagher sibling, Phillip looked like he was doing well for himself, too. Got into college up at Chicago Poly. But then when Fiona’s shit the fan, the pressure triggered mental problems. Bipolar. Gallagher says he inherited the gene from their mother. The guy can barely take care of himself now. Lucky for the lot of them, Gallagher turned eighteen right before Phillip went off the deep end or it would have meant a visit from CPS and back into the system for the lot of them. 

“Sounds like you really stepped up, Red.” Remarks Mickey approvingly. They had foregone another ride on the El and instead, they hoofed it ten city blocks to the hospital, where they now find themselves on the steps outside the employee entrance of St. Anthony’s Hospital. Mickey lets the baby play with his finger. Yevgeny seems delighted to be free from his harness even if he is still being held securely on the ginger’s knee. 

Gallagher shrugs. “I pretty much had to.”  

“And you’re managing okay?” 

“Some days are harder than others. I’d be lying if I said it never feels like too much sometimes.” 

“Anything I can do to help?” 

“Mick, don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” 

“The reason I’m telling you all this is so you understand. My life isn’t what it was. I have neither the time, energy, or inclination to pick up where we left off.” 

“So, we don’t. What if we start fresh?” 

“And what am I supposed to do in six months when things get tough and you get yourself thrown in jail on purpose? Or fuck off to… where did you even go, anyway? Doesn’t matter. Point is—I don’t have time for the bull. Or getting invested in having you around if you don’t plan on staying. You’re chaotic and exciting like an wild stallion and I love that about you. But that’s not what my life needs right now. I need dependable. And that’s not you.” 

The words cut deep. Mostly because they’re true. He may have cast off his criminal behavior, but he still wouldn’t call himself reliable. The minute he heard that the old son of the bitch had died, he quit his job with no notice, packed what little he owned into two duffel bags, and hauled ass to the Amtrak station without bothering to leave a forwarding address. 

He wets his lips, pressing closer to Gallagher, stopped only by the rolly poly baby in the redhead’s lap. “Well, Terry’s gone. Ding dong the fucking witch is dead, right?” He looks for the younger man to crack a smile. He doesn’t. “I’m back for good this time.” 

“If you say so.”  

“How do I prove I’m in it for the long haul.” 

“You can’t overnight, Mick. It takes trust. And trust—” 

“Takes time… Okay, I get it. What about friends? We were always friends, right?” 

Gallagher shrugs, face unchanging. “The best.”  

“Can’t we at least be friends again?”  

“We’re still friends, dumbass. It doesn’t mean can’t still be mad at you.” 

“Still friends,” echoes Mickey. The corners of Mickey’s mouth want to quirk up into the kind of bright, broad smile he only ever gives Gallagher, but he is out of practice with the expression, so he remains neutral. He nods. “Cool. So we’re good, then.” 

Ian narrows his eyes as he stands, rising to his full height. “We’re fine. How about that?” 

“So,” Mickey starts, in a tone that conveys let’s change the subject, “ You’ve told me about your siblings. How about your kid? How did he end up factoring into the equation?" 

Gallagher’s expression hardens a little, much like the stony expression he was wearing when they ran into each other at the platform. He must catch himself, though. Because he breathes in deep and lets out a huff of warm air. “That’s another long story, but it’ll have to wait. My shift’s about to start and I still need to get this little hedgehog upstairs to the daycare before I clock in.” 

Mickey watches as the redhead hoists his son up and turns to head inside. It strikes Mickey as strange that this time twenty four hours ago, he would have dreaded seeing Gallagher again. And now he is desperate to find anything to stall him just for a few more seconds. 

“Red! Ian, hold up!” 

Gallagher turns on his heels and looks at Mickey with a soft smile he is trying to press down into a flat line. “What’s up?” 

“Mandy’s number, did you ever get a chance to—?” 

“What? You mean the reason you showed up at my door in the first place? We’ve been chatting for almost an hour and that only crossed your mind now?” 

Mickey gives him a shit-eating grin and flips Mickey off. Yeah, Gallagher caught him having zero chill around him. Shocker, there. The walking freckle always has that effect on him. 

“Check you’re messages, Mick. I sent you her contact info when we were still on the El.” 

He pulls his burner out of his back pocket and checks. Sure enough, his baby sister’s contact info is waiting for him. He looks back up at Ian. "Just her phone number?” 

“You aren’t the only Milkovich who gets cagey about people trying to find them. Mick.” 

“I guess that’s fair.” 

“Anything else you need to ask?” 

Mickey doesn’t have any more reasons to hold the redhead up, so he shrugs. There are thousands of things he wants to tell Ian, but he needs time to sort out his thoughts. All those sleepless night he laid up trying to parse through the jumbled, needful thoughts for Ian Clayton Gallagher over the past year and a half. And he still needs more time.  

“See you around, Mickey.” And then Gallagher disappears into the hospital with that baby of his in tow. Cute little fucker. The Gallagher house may be a chaotic mess, but Mickey hopes that kid knows what a good dad he has. 

Chapter Text

Ian. Not Red, Freckles, Tough Guy, Firecrotch, or even Gallagher. Mickey called him by his god given name for the first time since he stormed the Kash N Grab, ready to pummel Ian under false pretenses. In all the time since he first snuck into Mickey’s room armed with a tire iron, he has wanted to hear his name on the other boy’s lips spoken affectionately. And now he’s heard it. At long last.

And… it’s too little, too late.

He’s got too much bearing down on him to let himself get swept up in his feeling again, or let himself get suckered in by that old, fluttery feeling that used to be an adrenaline rush for him. The part of his life where he gets to be young and stupid and fall for the bad boy has withered on the vine, now all that’s left is Ian the caretaker and provider. No time for Mickey, no time for guys, full stop.

He has an eight-hour shift in which he juggles the duties of a nursing assistant and a medication aide, putting on his charm offensive as he acts as the bridge between the patients of the Transitional Recovery Unit and their nurses and doctors.

It can honestly be an unexpected source of relief for Ian. Other peoples’ problems seem manageable in a way his own never do. Maybe it is because by design, a hospital is intended to provide solutions and resources for its consumers’ struggles.

By five in the evening when he arrives at the hospital daycare, the rictus grin he wears just as a means of coping is starting to hurt the side of his face. He is one of the last day shift kids waiting to get picked up while the evening shift parents are still trickling in with their own children. Yevgeny tuckered out now, curled up like a pudgy ball with a plush black cat in his grip on the mat in front of the story-time chair.

He looks so peaceful. And until the kid got the hang of crawling, that was the overall impression anyone asked to sit for Yevgeny would have. But once again, the kid was all over the place today. Rambunctious, disinterested in what the class is doing unless it’s story time, and refusing to nap. At least when he’s supposed to. The staff worry about when his son finally starts walking. Then, he truly will be a whirling dervish that they might not be able to chase down.

Not for the first time in the past five weeks, the shift supervisor Siobhan, an older black woman with a penchant for costume jewelry and increasingly creative nail art, once again suggests that it might be worth the time testing Yevgeny for ADHD. And honestly, if that’s the worst that Yevgeny’s Milkovich gene pool has to offer, Ian will count himself fortunate. It certainly is better than anything he could have inherited if he were a biological Gallagher.

Yevgeny is never disruptive with Ian, at least not the way multiple people have reported back to him. But he is not one of those parents who blithely insist that their little bundle of joy can do no wrong. He wants to wait until Yevgeny is a little older before he takes his son in to a headshrinker. Maybe two? But in the meantime, he does want to put some own research into it.

Either way, Yevgeny’s rambunctious side abates whenever he puts the baby in the chest harness. Ian supposes it’s because even if Yevvy doesn’t have the control to go where he wants, he is still gets to move around and at a much higher vantage point than he would on the floor or even in his stroller.

He checks the group chat to make sure Liam was picked up. Typically, he has a standing arrangement with Kev for evening pickup, but he still wants to double check. Kev and Vee are closer to family than any blood relative Ian can think of beyond his siblings. And they’re the closest Ian has to functional parental figures at this point. Kev is ever eager to help out with the little ones while Vee tends to gravitate more towards guiding the older Gallagher siblings. Although, with a set of twins of their own now, Ian doesn’t want to impose too much. The Gallagher household is his responsibility and he doesn’t want to overburden a couple with responsibilities of their own.

The El has almost arrived at his neighborhood platform and he’s already out of his seat and making his way to the automatic doors when he feels a buzz in his scrub pants, the vibration difficult to ignore through the thin material. He pulls out his phone and sees an incoming call from Mandy. He assumes Mickey has reached out to her and now whatever stupid shit they’re already fighting about, and now she wants him to weigh in.  

The call connects and before he can even greet her, she launches in. “Are you home?” The sky is grey as he descends from the platform, the air smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke, and in the distance is the sound of what could just as easily either be a car backfiring or gunfire. That’s as home as you get in their neighborhood.

“Almost, I got off work about half an hour ago; just getting off the train now.”

“Can you hit my old house first?”

“It’s only a block out of my way, yeah. Why?”

“I wish I could tell you, I’m headed over, too.”

“What do you know?”

“Lip said the house in on fire.”

“What?”

But he doesn’t hear what Mandy says. He doesn’t hear anything at all. The sights, the sounds, the smells of the neighborhood aren’t even white noise. His senses are focused to a fine point and the only thing that matters is the column of smoke he notices in the distance. Everything in Ian’s world vanishes except the pavement under his feet leading him to 1955 South Trumbull Ave.

Mickey. Not ten hours ago, he was simultaneously unloading all his issues on him and telling him to back off. Shit, he could be trapped in a burning house right now. Ian doesn’t think he could live with himself if Mickey died engulfed in flames and the last thing he remembers telling him this morning is Mickey is not what he needs in his life.

He just got him back. His fucking head might not know what that means but his heart does. He just got him back and now he might be dead. And Ian acted like a fucking prick.

He follows the smoke and the sound of sirens to the Milkovich household, stopping only briefly when he encounters Lip and Debbie about fifty yards from the Milkovich house, but if they even said a word to them, his memory is drawing a complete blank. But somehow on autopilot, Ian handed off his child to his older brother. The only thing more pressing to him than Mickey is the safety of his son. And he doesn’t want the baby’s little lungs inhaling any smoke.

A fire engine has apparently been parked outside the house for some time and a team of five firemen is in the final stages putting out a blaze along the side of the blackened house. The majority of the house looks salvageable, but the entire side facing the yard is fucked.

Iggy Milkovich, the perpetually buzzed middle sibling of the Milkoviches is sitting on the sidewalk, legs splayed. He is covered in ash to the point where half of his hair looks as dark as Mickey’s.

Mickey.

“Iggy!”

“Hey, Gallagher. Come to rubberneck?” Ian thinks this might be the first time since the fourth grade that he is talking to a non-blitzed Ygor Milkovich. He is taken aback by the bitterness in his tone from someone who tends to be a peacemaker and people pleaser.

“Where’s your brother? Did he get out in time?”

“Colin? He’s with his gi—”

“No, not Colin—Mickey? Is Mickey okay?”

“Mickey’s in town? Why does nobody tell me fucking shit?”

Ian is on the verge of hysterics when he remembers he has Mickey’s number. For the first time in ages, he has phone access to his boyfr… to his friend. He pulls out his iPhone and frantically scrolls to the M’s in his contacts and taps on Mickey’s name. There is an eternity waiting for the call to connect. One ring. Two. Three. And then an automated message telling him to leave a message.

“Mick, please tell me you got the fuck out of there in time. I need you…" He chokes on the words. "I need you to be okay. I need you to be safe. Remember when I said I needed you to be reliable? Getting burned alive in your house after only being back a day is not fucking reliable—”

“The fuck happened here?”

Ian spins around like he is on a pivot and his eyes widen and he gasps in relief at the sight of the man who for better or worse means so much to him, his arms weighed down in what looks like twelve reusable canvas grocery bags either crisscrossed over his chest or strapped around his elbows and wrists.

“Mickey! Oh my fucking christ!”

“Gallagh—?”

Before Ian even knows it, he’s pulling Mickey into an embrace. Mickey makes an audible “oof” from surprise, and quite likely from how firmly Ian is grasping him. The grocery bags in his arms slide into two heaps on either side of the pair. “Don’t you ever fucking scare the shit out of me like that again.”

“Jesus Christ, I was gone for two hours!” He isn’t shoving Ian off even with his brother and a dozen witnesses around. Ian doesn’t know if Mickey is simply okay with this sort of physical contact now or if he’s in shock. Honestly, Ian doesn’t care. Right now, he just needs to know on a tactile level that Mickey is really here, truly safe and whole.  

“Hey, Mick,” hums Iggy, not bothering to stand, but looking up with large bloodshot eyes. “When did you get back into town?”

Mickey shrugs off Ian, who complies, remembering himself. He only this morning told Mickey the best he can offer, if anything, is friendship. Moreover, he doesn’t think Mickey has had the chance or inclination to tell any of his siblings that they are anything more than friends. Ian certainly knows he’s kept Mickey’s secret from everyone. Except Lip.

“What do you mean ‘when did I get back,’ you stupid fuck?” He palms his forehead, pinching at the outside of his eyebrows. “I had a forty-five minute conversation with you at lunch. Remember? The grocery list?”

Iggy just shrugs. “I seriously don’t remember any of that.”

“Fucking Christ, lay off the damn weed,” Mickey mutters to himself, although Ian catches it. “I’m gone for ages and I come back and this same stupid fucking shit’s still happening… Did you at least know how the fire started?”

Iggy thinks, but can only shake his head and shrug. “I was taking a siesta when it started.”

“And were you toking when you fucking fell asleep?”

“It was arson,” comes the answer from behind them. They turn to face one of the fire fighters; apparently the captain based on the symbol on his helmet. He is a clean shaven man in his early forties with walnut brown hair and a grim expression. He holds up a smashed-up can of kerosene. Someone hefted this through your front window. Any notion of why?”

“Terry had a lot of enemies,” mutters Mickey.

“Terry?”

“This is the Milkovich residence, Captain… Baxter.” She says coming up from behind the fire fighter.  

Ian didn’t even notice Mandy show up, but her ride is parked on the opposite side of the street. He hasn’t done more than facetime her for a while now, so even though he isn’t shocked to see that she has gone blonde, he really hasn’t seen her from the shoulders down in ages. And Ian is taken aback by how nicely she is dressed. He knows she explained what it is she does. It sounds like she’s just arm candy for men with too much money and not enough confidence. And if the way she is dressed is any indication, she is much more financially comfortable than anyone Ian knows.

“Terry Milkovich? He’s the owner? Shit.”

“Don’t worry, he croaked the week before last.” Growls Mickey, never all that pleased to speak the man’s name among the people he’s comfortable with, let alone a stranger. “Him and my eldest brother got caught in a drive-by.”

“You don’t sound torn up.”

“Yeah, well… you wouldn’t be crying into your pillow if you knew half the shit we lived through.”

“So, who is the current owner of the residence?”

“Colin. He’s the eldest,” explains Mandy. “But if you want to talk to someone who can actually help you without biting your head off, I’m your girl.”

As Mandy goes over the details with Baxter, Ian and Mickey look over the half-charred residence. “It doesn’t look too bad, Mick. At least your bedroom is probably in decent shape.” Mickey’s bedroom is all the way in the back of the house on the corner adjoining the next residence over. Whereas the fire started in the front living room, and the flames seemed to travel along the rooms facing the yard.

“It better be. Everything I own is stuffed in my duffel bags.”

“What about your place wherever you ended up?”

“Delaware.”

“Delaware?”

“I wanted to see the ocean. And I figured nobody goes looking for shit in Delaware. Y’know, unless they want to do tax-free shopping. And no, I quit my job and cleared out my place when I left. Just a bunch of thrift shop furniture in there now. Shit. I don’t want to pay for a fucking motel while this gets repaired.”

“Motel room?”

“It’s that or squat in the old abandoned warehouse. Our spot still there? They didn’t tear it down yet, did they?” Mickey remembered. They have spots that matter to them scattered all throughout the neighborhood. The Kash N Grab, the dugouts, under the bleachers. The warehouse was the last one before everything fell apart. Mickey had built Ian an obstacle course back when he still had aspirations of going to West Point. And Ian got his hands on a mattress and dragged it up four flights of stairs to their little secret hangout place.

“The building’s still there. Maybe. But I bet there’s someone else squatting there now. Y’know, there’s a spare bed at my place. If you don’t mind sharing with a kindergartener and second-year seventh grader.

“Did I just get invited to a sleepover?” smirks Mickey.

“Fuck you is what you were invited to,” replies Ian. “I just don’t want to see my friend homeless. That’s all.”

“Hopefully, it goes better than the last one,” Mickey shrugs.

“It’s hard to do worse than that one, yeah.” Ian agrees. He is trying to laugh it off the memory Mickey is invoking, even though he still has bad waking dreams of that morning. It has to be worse for Mickey. But if Mickey can laugh it off, Ian doesn’t want to seem like a fucking pussy.

“So, what happened to our conversation this morning? I thought you were gonna make me jump through hoops proving myself.”

Ian sticks out his chin. “All I’m doing is trying to help out a friend, Mick.” This is a lie. He would be poking someone’s eye out clear across the room if he were Pinocchio. He was so scared shitless when he thought Mickey had been trapped in that fire. The swirling whirlpool of feelings that had been so confounding suddenly shifted into sharp clarity. He may be mad at Mickey, resentful at the abandonment. Mickey ran off with his heart and he holds claim on it still, whether Ian is willing to admit it or not.

“All I’m offering you a twin bed in a shared bedroom. I’m not exactly inviting you into my boudoir.”

“Giving me that chance to prove I can be reliable, huh?” Asks Mickey as he pulls out his cigarette and taps out two Marlboros. He pops them both in his mouth and lights them with his zippo.

“You can try,” demurs Ian as he accepts a cigarette from Mickey. “I could use the extra help around the house. Everyone pitches in. Got it?”

“Yeah. I figured. And I can chip in to that coffee can thing you guys got once I get my old job back from Linda.” Ian wonders if he should warn Lip.

“At the very least I’m not going to be waking up night after night worrying whether or not you’re safe for a while. Until we can get your house fixed, at least.”

“We, huh? Well,” sighs Mickey as he picks up the grocery bags, handing some to Ian. “Guess we should get all this crap to you place before the milk starts to spoil.” Ian takes a quick look at the contents. It looks as though Mickey had meant to completely stock the Milkovich kitchen. And there is at least two bags devoted to cleaning supplies.

“Ajax and Swiffer pads, huh?” he asks as they walk towards South Homan Ave.

“Yeah. Mandy was the only thing keeping my brothers from living like wolves. And the cupboards were disgusting. I was tempted to hire a fumigator.”

Ian turns his head and looks back at the half-scorched shell of the Milkovich estate. “Looks like the fire probably took care of your problem for you.”

“Yeah, well… fuck. What am I supposed to do about that?”

“Tommy. One of the barflies over at the Alibi. He could probably help.”

“Won’t help if this shit keeps happening, man. In less than two weeks, my old man was gunned down and someone tried to burn down my house. The Milkoviches have a target on their backs.”

Ian gulps back the bile in the back of his throat. “I know you probably don’t wanna hear this, but do you want to talk to the police.”

“Mandy probably already is. Man, are you sure you want me crashing? I don’t want someone trying to burn down your place. You got kids in the house.”

“I want you keep you safe, Mickey.”

“I don’t need protecting, man. Grown man, here.”

“But will you let me? Protect you?”

Mickey gnaws on his bottom lip. “Eyes up ahead, man,” is all he has to say. Same old Mickey, dodging the question when Ian gets too personal. But as annoying as it is, it feels like old times. Bonding in the face of calamity. Offering each other a place to crash. Wanting to be together, but afraid to say so. Aside from the fact that everything around them has changed, there is some something both familiar and new in the way Mickey “accidentally” shoulder checks Ian every so often on the walk to the Gallagher house. Ian can deny he feels electricity course through him whenever they just happen to knock into each other.

Ian slows down as they turn the gate into the house. He takes some pleasure at the sight of Mickey entering his home with his arms loaded with groceries. It feels so fucking domestic. It’s ridiculous. He’s just letting him crash. No more, no less. So why is his stomach doing somersaults just watching Mickey putting away groceries?

Chapter Text

“Look, if you don’t have anything better to do than stare at me like I just kicked your puppy, do you wanna help do stock?”

Mickey has only been back at his old job working for Linda at the Kash N Grab for about a week, but it’s already quite a different experience than he ever had when he was partnered with Ian. For one thing, he is now teamed up with Ian’s elder brother, Lip. Actually, he’s Lip’s supervisor now. Much to his surprise, Linda promoted him over Lip. He has about the same amount of responsibility around the store that Ian had before he left to work at St. Anthony’s. He is essentially an assistant manager in all but name. He feels kind of shitty for being gone so long and instantly being placed over Lip. But then, he does have seniority around here. Plus, the majority of the time he spent on the coast was spent doing stock at another store. Other than when he was working as a child wrangler at a beachfront amusement park last Summer, working grocery is pretty much the only legal work he has ever had.

Though, Mickey cannot help but wonder if Ian made Linda aware of his condition before she took him on. Aside from the fact that Lip is staring daggers at him more than he used to, there has been nothing about Lip that tells him that the smug piece of shit is unstable or is any less capable of doing the same job he is doing.

“Sure you don’t want someone watching the front, sir?” Lip asks.

“Dude, chill. I’m just trying to make the time move faster for the both of us. But if you’d rather just twiddle your thumbs up front, have at it, man.”

“Works for me.” deadpans Lip, who sinks back further into his stool behind the cashier’s counter.

“Y’know, I’m just doing what Ian used to do back when we used to be the double act around here.”

“I’m not spending any quality time with you in the cooler if that’s what you have in mind.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Who else has he run his mouth to?”

“Nobody. I don’t think anyway. I only know because he had to vent to somebody.”

Mickey sets down the box of women’s sanitary pads he had been restocking on the counter in front of Ian’s asshole of a brother, staring him down. Lip scratches his nose, sneering. Mickey can tell he’s getting some amusement. Mickey wouldn’t say Lip has him squirming, but Lip definitely got a reaction out of him. “How long?”

“Since Linda’s husband put a cap in your ass.”

Mickey’s arched eyebrows don’t falter. He’s not going to let Lip get the better of him. “That long, huh? And you’re not fucking with me? You never told anyone, either?”

“Who says I didn’t?”

“I don’t think E would’a let me take this job if he thought I had reason to kill you.”

“Pfft.” Lip leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. “You’re not as dangerous as all that, Milkovich.”

“Says you.” Mickey takes the box of sanitary pads and resumes restocking. “Like you have any idea what I got up to while I was gone.”

“What are you even doing here, anyway?”

“What? Am I cramping your style at the house or something?”

“No. Well, yeah. But I meant here—at the store. Of all the places you could work in the whole fucking city, why here?”

“I had an in with Linda. The lady’s hell on wheels, doesn’t fuck around. But she’s fair.”

“That’s all? The only reason?”

“Look, if this is about me being your supervisor—”

“Like I give a fuck,” spits Lip on an eyeroll. “Did Ian send you here to keep an eye on me?”

“What?”

“He told you I’m sick, right?”

Mickey finishes with the box and pulls out his matte knife to collapse the box. “He explained it to me, yeah. I don’t think I totally get it, but I know you’re going through something. You have good days and bad, right?”

He nods. “I got it from my mom, genetic.”

“Monica, right? I think she and my mom used to be tight. Before, you know.”

“Oh? Our moms were both basket cases? Did we just become best friends?” Snarls the dickish Gallagher sibling as he flips Mickey off.

“Well, fuck me for trying to play nice.”

“Look,” starts Lip as he chews on the inside of his cheek. “Just leave me to my menial babysitting task, would you?”

Mickey puts his hands up in surrender. “Fine, whatever. But when the store’s quiet, we stock. Capisce?”

“Fucking whatever. Just do me a solid and make sure you tell Ian I’m behaving myself when you report back to him.”

***

“I really think I should start looking elsewhere,” Mickey insists later as he and Ian watch Yevgeny crawl circles around the coffee table.

“Lip’s just going through something. You have every right to be there, Mick.” Ian insists as he squats down to snatch up his son after the chunky monkey’s fifteenth loop around the table. “I’m gonna have to start baby proofing this place soon. Yev’s turning into a regular escape artist. I don’t think the playpen is gonna hold him much longer.” Ian nuzzles his nose against his son’s face as he switches into his baby voice. “Isn’t that right, little bud?”

“I’m being serious, E.” Mickey urges on. “He thinks you had Linda rehire me so I could monitor him.”

“That wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Gallagher!”

“Okay, I know it sounds like I’m micromanaging him, but… Mick, I know in the grand scheme of things a year and a half isn’t that long, but you missed so much.”

“So, what? You said he had a breakdown over at his fancy college, right?”

“Breakdown is putting it lightly,” huffs Ian as he reacts to the ding of the oven timer. He almost hands the kid off to Mickey, but then stops himself. “Can you check that for me?”

Mickey complies without argument, inspecting the family-size Salisbury steak meal in the oven while Ian situates his chattering child in his blocky plastic high chair. “I’m thinking five more minutes,” hazards Mickey, inspecting the food with a fork.

 Once Yeveny is snapped into place so the little escape artist in training can’t climb out, Ian continues on. “Yeah, so Lip… he was doing so well in school last year. Even with all the Fiona drama. But he started acting erratic over the summer. And then he crashed. I kinda knew what it was. And I really shoulda gotten him help when he was in that first low last July. But… once Lip was out of bed, we all acted like everything was fine. And he insisted he had everything under control. And I believed him. I had to believe him. He’s Lip, right? He’s always been the dependable one.”

“I’ll take your word for it. But I just know him as the guy who overcharged me for term papers and did my sister dirty.”

“Yeah, well for me, that’s what he always was. The big brother—voice of reason and the steady hand at the helm. And then he got back to campus in the fall and then… it got bad, Mick.”

“What? Did he try to jump off a building or something?”

“He got into some fight with a profession and caused a lot of damage. He got expelled, lost his scholarship. Hell, he’s not even taking home half his paycheck every week because he still owes money for all the destruction he caused.” Ian rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand. “So, yeah. I feel like I have to keep an eye on him.”

Mickey pulls out a few cans of baby food from the pantry for Gallagher, who takes them appreciatively and places them on the tray of Yevgeny’s high chair.

“But he’s doing better now, right?” He asks.

“For now,” Gallagher shrugs. Mickey recalls Ian telling him about Lip’s tug-o-war relationship with his medication. “The longest he’s gone without his med routine getting fucked up is three or four weeks.”

“Then what happens?” asks Mickey as he straddles the chair next to Gallagher’s kid and starts spooning out a bit of strained pork for the baby. It’s a disgusting pink pureed goo that briefly makes Mickey contemplate vegetarianism. 

“Then the boulder rolls down the hill and Sisyphus has to start all over again.”

“Who?”

“Guy from Greek myths. He was punished to spend eternity rolling a boulder up a hill, but it always rolls down before he could get it to the top.”

“That’s lame.”

“It’s eternal torment.”

“Not exactly getting your liver pecked out by vultures every day, is it?”

“You know about Prometheus by not Sisyphus?”

“Would you believe I needed to know about him for a question on my GED?”

Ian crosses his arms and stares Mickey down, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed into slits.

“He was a God of War character,” Mickey admits with a shrug.

“You seriously got your GED?”

Mickey scratches at the side of his nose uncomfortably. He wants to shrug off the sound of pride in Ian’s voice. But the traitorous flush of warmth starting behind his ears and pouring out onto his cheeks gives him away. “Hopefully, I still have it. Assuming my room didn’t get trashed in the fire.”

Ian pulls on the Ove Glove and pulls the tray out of the oven again. “They still haven’t let you back into the house?”

Mickey doesn’t know whether he’s “allowed” back into the house or not. He hasn’t looked into it. Perhaps he has been too preoccupied with settling back into his old life this past week. Or maybe he’s enjoying playing house with Gallagher. Regardless, the truth of the matter is he isn’t exactly driven to be back inside that house. Too many bad memories. Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that he had deposited all his worldly possessions in the house just the day before, he would have been perfectly content to see his father’s house completely consumed by the flames. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

“You wanna find out?” asks Gallagher. “Mandy probably knows.”

Mickey shrugs. “Not high on my to-do list.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “At the very least, I think Lip would appreciate it if you got your own clothes back and stopped borrowing his.”

Mickey blows a raspberry. It makes Yevgeny giggle. “Like I can borrow your clothes, Jolly Green?”

“I’d be fine with that, but we should get your shit back. Put your clothes through the wash a couple times to get the smoke out.”

Same old Gallagher, trying to boss Mickey around when he thinks he knows better. Annoying as fuck, but he misses this. He misses having someone who cares enough to get on his case about the stupid shit.

“Yeah, fine. After dinner. We can unload the kid on one of your siblings and head over.”

Gallagher looks at him nervously. Mickey hasn’t seen Ian without seeing his son since he returned to Chicago. He supposes it’s natural. The kid’s mother isn’t in the picture, Gallagher is the only parent the kid has. But he’s going to end up being one of those helicopter parents if he doesn’t start loosening the tether now.

The microwave dings and Ian takes out a large Rubbermaid container of mixed vegetables. He starts ladling Salisbury steaks and veggies onto paper plates.

“Debs? Yeah. I guess.”

He weighs the thought in his head before he speaks. “What about Phillip.”

“Lip? I don’t know. I trust him with Yev, but…what if Debbie helps—?”

“Either you trust him or you don’t, man,” sighs Mickey. “But you can’t keep remediating him. Not sure if you noticed, but the guy’s smart or something. He notices shit like that.”

“Fine. Yeah. What the fuck? But I want Debbie to keep an ear out.”

Mickey nods. Maybe if Ian shows a little more confidence in Lip, he won’t be such a little shit at the store. “Alright. So, we good to start feeding the unwashed masses?”

“Go for it.”

Mickey covers the baby’s little ears before he shouts in the direction of the stairs. “Hey Gallaghers! Grub’s on!”

 ***

The initial smoke has cleared out over the past week. But it doesn’t detract from the scent of melted linoleum and fried polyester. The living room and kitchen bore the brunt of the damage. And Mickey finds himself transfixed at what little remains of the primary gathering place of his family’s house. The sofa where his father forced a Russian prostitute on him  and the chair where he made Ian watch at gunpoint are an ashy collection of springs and scorched memory foam.

Mickey feels his hands tense and untense over and over again. He doesn’t know what he feels seeing the site of his last and worst abuse at the hands of Terry Milkovich rendered to cinders. His eyes water and he wants to stomp what little remains on the bottom of his boots until they’re nothing but powder. He wishes he had dragged the couch and chair into the yard and lit the match himself.

He doesn’t know how long he stands staring before he feels a hand slip around his own, squeezing it tight.

“He can’t hurt you anymore, Mick.”

Mickey nods. The memories remain even if realistically he knows Ian is right.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Mickey agrees as he wills his feet to press on to the bedrooms in the back of the residence.

As predicted, the bedrooms came through  unscathed. His own bedroom, which he had only restored to its former glory eight days ago is a little fried along the wall closest to the front of the house, but otherwise fine. He’s glad he didn’t still have posters up. He finds the one duffle bag filled with personal affects while Ian empties out Mickey’s dresser of what few clothes he had unpacked on his first day back. And managed to squeeze them all into the second duffel.

Unscathed or not, they smell like they have been bathed in smoke.

“It’s weird, man. I just settled back in here and now I’m packing my shit to leave again.”

Ian stops what he is doing and looks at him. They still aren’t together like they had been before, but they feel closer now in a way they never had a chance to be. Maybe it’s because they’re living in close quarters. Maybe it’s because they talk more now because they aren’t looking for an excuse to bang hourly.

The glance Ian gives him is fond and familial. “It doesn’t have to be forever, y’know. We can fix it up.”

“Be realistic, Gallagher. I got some funds in the bank, but I don’t exactly have enough to turn this place around. And it was a shithole before someone lit the joint up.” He kicks absently at the hardwood floor, then feels the floorboard shift beneath his foot.

“What was that?”

“Shit!” Mickey’s eyes widen as he drops to his knees. “I totally forgot about my little hidey hole.”

He digs his finger nails in prying up the boards and exposes a hidden compartment about a eighteen inches long by ten inches wide.

“What’s all that?”

He pulls things out one by one. Most of it is junk. Old muscle mags. Lube. A couple toys.

“You’re not bringing those in the house, are you?”

“I’m bunking with Carl and Liam. What do you think?” Asks Mickey as he unearths the treasures he is after. The first is a long, thin folder. The second is a small  package wrapped in plain brown paper.

“What’s this?” Asks Ian, as he cracks open the folder.

“Memories. Our memories. The ones I didn’t want my old man or my brothers finding.”

There are pictures of the two of them. Mostly just goofing around, candid photos Ian had taken and Mickey had casually asked for Ian to send him. A small plastic souvenir Ian got Mickey when they snuck into a White Sox game. A 6x8” copy of Ian’s junior year photo, a strip of pictures of them from when they snuck off to the Navy Pier.

“Mickey, did you go out and get all these pictures professionally developed?”

“Mickey scratches the back of his neck.”

“CVS self printout,” he blushes. “It’s nothing special.

“What about that?” Ian asks, pointing to the package.

“Oh. It’s stupid. It was gonna be a surprise on your first day of senior year. Ship’s sailed on that, I guess.”

“May I?”

“Look at you, Miss Manners with your ‘May I.’”

“Mick?”

“Yeah, sure. But you’re gonna be disappointed.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Ian sticks his index finger under a fold in the paper and meticulously slides along it, loosening the tape. Within thirty seconds, Ian reveals an expensive Texas Instruments graphing calculator still in its packaging.

“You were signed up for AP Calculus and I knew you were nervous as fuck about keeping up, what with Lip going away to college.” Yammers Mickey self-consciously. “You were really trying to pack in those math classes for when you apply to West Points. Figured you’d appreciate the help.”

Mickey is caught off-guard when Ian leans forward and wraps his arm around Mickey’s neck, pulling him in close. “Hey! Wha—!”

Ian’s lips press into Mickey’s crown, planting an affectionate kiss into his soft hair. Mickey hears Ian inhale deeply before he releases him.

“What was that for?”

Ian cheeses a smile at him and Mickey is thankful he is seated because his knees feel weak and he has half a chub in his jeans. “For being you. Even if you want people to think you’re señor badass.”

“I am a badass,” Mickey harrumphs.

“And you’re also sweet and thoughtful when you think nobody’s watching.”

“Yeah?” Asks Mickey, “Well, keep that under your hat. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Ian winks at him. “You can count on me. C’mon, let’s head home.”

Ian’s home, Mickey reminds himself. As kind as it is for Ian to invite him to stay with him and his family, Mickey doesn’t have a home. Home is a place where you feel safe, where you belong. Before, Mickey would have said that his place is at Mickey’s side. And while having Ian’s friendship again is important to him, he knows Ian doesn’t feel the same not anymore.

Ian is eventually going to tire of having Mickey around. Friend or no friend, Mickey knows unless Ian really wants him back, all they can do is play house.

Chapter Text

The hard mechanical thump of a magnetic door releasing fills the air, immediately followed a flat air horn. The doors open and the women of Statesville Correctional file in to their designated visitation booths. Fiona’s hair is pulled back into a messy bun. She looks washed out, even if she does brighten her expression as soon as she sees Ian and Lip.

She takes the receiver off the wall as the second and third eldest Gallaghers split the other end between them. “Hey guys.” She says with feigned enthusiasm. “Holding down the fort okay?”

“Yeah, we’re holding up,” answers Lip. “Or at least it’s been a while since I’ve tried to steal and/or vandalize any cars or lock myself in the bathroom for days at a time. At least that’s a win on my end.”

Ian shoots daggers at his brother, who seems to be getting a kick out of making things uncomfortable.

“What about you sweet face?” Asks Fiona, who would rather not take the bait when she only gets an hour a week. And she didn’t get to see any of her siblings last week to give Kev and Vee a turn.

“The hospital job is still working out. I think I might have found my niche.”

“Yeah, they have him sweet talking the patients who refuse to take their pills. He gets plenty of practice at home.” Ian wishes Lip would back the fuck off and let him speak for himself if he’s going to be like this.

“And they have on-site daycare for Liam and Yevvy, so I don’t need to pay for sitters.”

“Where are my little guys, anyway?”

Ian turns around and gestures to Mickey, who has been sitting out of Fiona’s view with Liam on one knee and Yevgeny on the other. “Hey, Mick…”

Ian can recognize that Mickey is hesitant. It took four weeks since he moved into the Boys’ Room to convince Mickey to join him on his weekly trip out to Statesville. The younger Gallaghers all like Mickey for one reason or another. He treats Debbie as a peer, Carl seems to hero worship him, and as far as Liam is concerned, Mickey may as well be an extra big brother. Meanwhile, Lip and Mickey have this whole frenemies thing going for them. But Mickey has had little to no history with Fiona. Other than the time she walked in on him getting bullets extracted from his ass in the Gallagher kitchen, she really hasn’t dealt with him since they were little kids and she had to break up Mickey and Lip’s fights on the playground.

Mickey helps Liam to his feet, then stands, Yevgeny on his hip as he approaches the glass.

“Fifi!” Squeals Liam as he rockets ahead.

Ian nudges his older brother, the intent clear. Ian is introducing Mickey to Fiona as a member of the household and he wants to be the one sitting by his side when it happens. His brother rolls his eyes, his fingers twitching in annoyance like they are in need of a cigarette. He vacates his seat and skulks to the seat where Mickey had been. Liam leaps into Ian’s lap while Mickey sits down, making a simple polite wave of the hand as he sits down, positioning the baby straddling his knee.

Ian hands the receiver to Mickey, who stares it down like a katana and he is expected to commit seppuku. Grimacing, he takes it and spits out, “Hey, Fiona.”

“Y’know, when I heard you were in the equation, I thought this place is starting to get to me and I finally lost it.”

“Yeah, well, Ian’s been a trooper putting up with my ass. I promise I won’t overstay my welcome if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That doesn’t sit right with Ian. And maybe that’s his fault. He has been so adamant about maintaining those boundaries he established when Mickey first got back into town, keeping Mickey at arm’s length despite how much Ian wants him, despite how much Mickey has stepped up in the past month. The pressure on Ian is hardly what he’d call manageable. He felt crushed by the weight of the world. But Mickey does his part to take a huge load away from him.

While Mickey doesn’t report back to Ian from the Kash N Grab, as Lip often accuses them of, Mickey does still manage to help ease tensions between Lip and the rest of the household. Perhaps it is because Mickey wasn’t there for the worst of it, but he never treats Lip like someone who is sick, he never looks at the man and sees the bipolar before he sees Lip. Mickey looks at Lip and sees an asshole. Surprisingly enough, it cuts the tension.

And he’s good with Yevvy. Ian feels ashamed that he wanted to hide his son from Mickey, tried to shield Yevgeny from him that first day or two after he returned. Despite his bluster, Mickey took to Yevgeny like a duck to water. Without even realizing it, Mickey has formed a bond with his son. Their son. He doesn’t know how Mickey has managed to bond with the child over the past several weeks and not recognize his Mini-Me for what he is.

It’s going to get harder to tell him the more he waits. But would Mickey’s feelings for the boy change if he knew Yevgeny is the result of that morning after the sleepover?

He knows Mickey won’t advocate for himself. He’s long since known Mickey thinks he’s just trash. Fucked for life, he once told Ian. Someone has to speak up for him. Ian takes the receiver from Mickey. “He’s welcome,” he proclaims definitively. “No such thing as overstaying.”

Mickey glances at him, a ghost of a smirk.

“You want to tell Fi what’s up with you, bean?” asks Ian as he guides the phone receiver into Liam’s hands. The youngest Gallagher brother chatters on about his friends at school and his teacher. It’s the babble of an excited five-year-old who thinks everything he experiences is the height of excitement. Ian is thankful that his little brother is still young enough that he doesn’t quite understand what happened to him, that he doesn’t resent Fiona like Debbie and Lip do.

After eight minutes though, the five-year-old loses steam and runs out of things to say. Ian lets his baby brother hang to the rear with Lip and Fiona turns her attention to Yevgeny. holding him up so that Fiona can get a better look at him. “Shit, he’s getting so big,” she croons holding her finger as though she could give his little nose a boop through the glass. She stops briefly and gives her nephew a discerning glance. Then she looks at the adult head above him. Then back at the baby. And then, she looks at Ian.

Oh, shit. She knows.

 But she continues on, letting whatever she noticed pass unremarked upon as their hour with her continues. After some time, Mickey offers to trade places with Lip, letting him handle the littlest Gallagher for the remainder of the time.

For her part, Fiona keeps up high spirits. She informs them that she is less than a year away from her first chance at parole. Ian would be so relieved to have Fiona back in the fold. But he knows that his reasons are selfish. When Fiona lost her trial and was hauled off to prison, Ian had been readying himself to be a teenage father of one, and Lip was still ostensibly healthy. His older brother was still resentful of the added burden, but had taken it on out of a sense of responsibility to his family. Ian had been expected to care for the child he had agreed to adopt from Svetlana, but that ought to have been all. There was no inkling that Ian would be head of the household at the tender age of eighteen. He doesn’t know how Fiona managed to keep them all together when she was even younger still.

Fifteen minutes before Fiona’s hour is up, she asks the others if they mind letting her have a few minutes alone with Ian. Mickey waits until Ian gives him a tacit nod reassuring him that everything is fine.

Lip also concedes, but not without running his mouth. “If you’re gonna talk to Nurse Ratched about me, I’m used to being discussed like I’m not in the fucking room. And he is gone before either of them can rebut. And Ian understands Lip’s frustrations. A year ago, it would have been him that everyone would be relying for a steady hand on the helm, not Ian.

“Lip…!” Fiona calls after him into the phone.

“Let ‘em go, Fi,” Ian sighs. “He gets like this sometimes. He’s angry and doesn’t know where to place it.”

“He’s not taking it out on you, is he? Or the others?”

“Not as much as he did in the beginning,” shrugs Ian, attempting to stand up for his Irish twin. He looks back at the door Lip just vanished behind.

“So, does he know?”

 Ian turns back to regard the serious expression on his sister’s face. “Does who know what?”

“Kid, don’t play dumb with me. Your buddy out there. Does he know Yevgeny’s his kid?”

Ian’s shoulders slump down. And his elbows his his knees. “You can tell?”

“If you ignore the button nose, he’s practically Mickey’s clone. Ye gods, as if this family didn’t have enough problems, you took on a Milkovich.”

“I don’t even know how to tell him. He was gone for so long… I thought I’d never see him again. Like, he was gone for good this time. I figured Yevgeny was going to be the last piece of him I would ever see. Then, when he showed back up, I didn’t want to get hurt again. And I didn’t want Yevgeny getting hurt either. But… he’s really trying.”

“Wait… are you two a thing?”

Ian blinks for a moment, and it dawns on him that Fiona never had an inkling that he and Mickey were ever together. Hell, considering what she knows of his dating history, she probably would have dismissed Mickey for being too young for him, not even considering the old Mickey Milkovich tough guy routine.

“More or less.”

“How long?”

Ian suddenly feels the pressure of being in the hot seat; steaming under the collar, despite wearing a tank top. She may be a jailbird with six inches of glass keeping her from reaching him, but she could still somehow manage to crush him if he thought she was disappointed in him.

“Since I was fourteen. Maybe a month or two after you and Steve. Jimmy. Whatever.”

She shakes he head, the smile is unexpected, quirked to one side as though she’s gnawing on chewing tobacco. She doesn’t say anything, which Ian takes as an invitation to keep explaining. He tells her as quickly as he can about the morning of the tire iron, their early ups and downs, the sleepover. He presses himself to tell her of the nature of Yevgeny’s conception and how it is he became the single parent of his missing lover’s child. Even through the harsh klaxon warning them that the inmates need to return to the genpop in five minutes, he explains Mickey’s return.

“He’s really stepped up without any promise that we’re ever gonna be a thing again. And I want to tell him the truth. But…”

“But what, monkey?” asks Fiona patiently, in her most patient “mom” tone.

“What if he’s angry that I kept the secret from him? Will he still want me back, then? Or what if he doesn’t want to be around Yevgeny?”

“Why wouldn’t he want to be around Yevvy? You said he’s great with him.”

“What if he looks at our son and starts seeing just some rape baby?”

That takes the wind out of the room. Fiona puts her hand to the glass. “I know you’ll figure something out, Ian. You do owe him the truth. But be careful. He doesn’t pull any hotheaded Milkovich shit on you.”

Hotheaded Milkovich shit. He knows exactly what she’s talking about. He has watched Mickey storm out of his life proclaiming Ian was nothing but a warm mouth to him driven by that temper. Although, now he understands how much fear was behind it. But he’s also seen that same temper cause him to beat up a guy in a pique of jealousy. And he’s seen Mickey push back his fear to pounce on his father when the old fucker was trying to beat Ian within an inch of his life.

Which version of Mickey the firebrand will make himself known if he doesn’t like what Ian needs to tell him?

He must have been lost in thought because Fiona has to pull him out of his own head. “Hey Ian, you with me?”

“Yeah.”

“We just got the one minute warning.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to space out.”

“Milkovich is that important to you, huh?”

“I tried not to get invested in him when he came back. Fi, what do I do if this scares him off? Or he hates me? Or he wants to take Yev away?”

“Look, I’m not predicting he’s going to do a jig, but if you mean as much to him, none of that shit’s gonna happen.”

A guard’s hand is on her shoulder, “Time’s up Gallagher.”

“I love you all,” mouths Fiona as she is led away back into general population. Ian waves her off, not retreating from the glass until she is completely out of sight.

The small entourage of Gallaghers and Mickey board the bus headed back into the city. Lip sits with Liam while Ian and Mickey take turns holding Yevgeny. The child is babbling up a storm. By now, in addition to “da-da,” Ian can swear he is trying to say “Mickey,” even if it sounds more like “Mimee.” But after twenty minutes the wheels on the bus have a hypnotic effect on Yevgeny, his little mouth opening wide, making his whole face scrunch up as he yawns.

“So, what did your sister chew your ear off about?” he asks Ian in a whisper, keen to let Yevgeny nap for the remained of the drive back to the city.

“Mostly I had to explain our situation.”

“What’s to explain? We’re just friends and I’m crashing with you, right?” Ian can hear the pain behind the mask of resignation. He realizes now that as much as he was protecting himself when Mickey first got back, on some level he must have wanted to hurt Mickey the way he had been hurt. Death by a thousand cuts—let him still be in Ian’s life but always at arms’ length. What if Mickey is content with just friendship? After all, the arrangement they have now seems to be working. Has Ian’s window closed?

With a mind of its own, Ian’s hand finds purchase in Mickey’s, fingers lacing together. Mickey’s eyes widen in shock, but then it melts into a warm grin. “We’re never gonna be ‘just friends,’ Mick,” he whispers.

Mickey doesn’t say anything. Ian hadn’t thought he is capable of stunning Mickey into silence, but the evidence speaks for itself. The older boy leans slumps against Ian’s side and rests his forehead against Ian’s shoulder, careful not to disrupt the child harnessed against his torso. It is the first bit of physical contact the two of them shared since the night he gave Mickey a chaste kiss on the forehead weeks ago. And that old thrill of having Mickey’s skin on his feels as vivid as ever.

He can hear the question even if Mickey doesn’t ask it. Are we back to where we were? And honestly, Ian thinks they have surpassed it. They may not be having sex, they may not even be calling themselves a couple, but Mickey feels more like his partner now than they ever had when they were chasing each other around Southside and banging wherever they could find a bit of cover.

He loves this man and he loves the child harnessed into him. He’s doing nobody a favor by keeping this secret any longer. Tonight, he thinks. After dinner. That’s going to be the right time.

Ian and Mickey’s hands remain joined. And the bus rolls on against the misty mid-May horizon.

Chapter Text

“Does Ian know you’re applying to colleges, Milkovich?” 

Mickey looks up from where he is re-labeling the prices on older stock bound for the clearance rack and sees that Lip has found the plain black and white booklet of course selections that he had been reading in the break room. He has it splayed out in front of him at the checkout counter. 

“Don’t throw me a going away party yet, Phillip. I’m not going anywhere.” Mickey bites on the corner of his mouth as he fights against a jam in the label gun. “I’m  just looking to sign up for an art class at Malcolm X in the Fall.” 

“Art?” 

“Yeah, I took a class back East. Just pencils, not like oil paintings or anything. Still life. Bowls of fruit, a hand, a skull. Shit like that. Thought I’d start back up." 

“What’s the point? You’ve got other skills, ones that could actually make money if some classes that actually put them to use.” 

“What? Like cooking the books? So I can balance a checkbook, so what?” 

“You really wanna contribute? Show Ian you’re in it to win it? Maybe takes some classes that’ll pay dividends later on. Bring in more money for the house.”  

Mickey still isn’t out. But since everyone in the Gallagher house knows about him and Ian, he’s reluctantly grown accustomed to being able to talk to at least a few other souls about his situationship with Ian. He still catches himself looking over his shoulders when Lip or Carl bring the subject up, but for the most part, having someone to talk to has been a load off his shoulders. Even if that someone in this case happens to be Phillip Gallagher. 

“E’s the one who put this idea in my head, not that it’s any of your damn business.” There is a tone of finality to his voice. He could leave it at that and Lip would be cowed into dropping the subject. But Mickey never could leave well enough alone. “And since when are you rooting for me and Ian anyway?” 

“I’m not,” the smug prick replies flatly. “In fact, after you fucked off, I told him he could always do better. But then, he could do a lot worse, too.” 

“That so?” 

Lip rolls his eyes and looks as though he is being made to confess under duress. “You do clear the very low bar of not being some pedo, so I guess you’re a step in the right direction.”  

“Aw, so we have your blessing, then? I’m touched. Shithead.” 

“Right back at you, fudge packer.” From anyone else that comeback would be grounds for a beatdown. From Lip Gallagher, it’s just low-key frenemy banter. 

What I wouldn’t give to have my fudge packed these days, Mickey sighs inwardly. It’s bad enough Ian still isn’t quite ready for them to be… them again . But it’s hard to get enough privacy to squeeze one out around the Gallagher house, especially considering he’s sharing a living space with Ian’s little brothers. 

He is about to fire off a perfunctory comeback when a customer interrupts them with a very purposeful clearing of her throat and Lip rings the  woman’s purchase up.  She is visibly annoyed that Lip isn’t giving her his full attention. But Lip must catch this and makes a show of scrutinizing one of her purchases.  

“Hey Milkovich, can we get a price check on a First Advantage early pregnancy test?” he bellows out loud enough for the whole of the Kash N Grab to hear.  

“A what?” asks Mickey, mirroring Lip’s volume. 

“Pregnancy. Test.” Lip repeats. “The kind  you have to piss on.”  

Mortified, the woman throws down two crumpled twenty dollar bills on the counter and gathers her purchases up in her arms. She launches herself out the door, not bothering to wait around for her change.  

“Speaking of, have you and my brother had the conversation yet?” 

Mickey suddenly regrets being friendly with this guy. Yet again. "Leave it be, man. What Ian and I have is working so far. Why make things more complicated than they have to be?” 

“Yeah, I get it.” replies Lip noncommittally. And Mickey prays Ian’s brother has the good sense to leave it at that.  

He doesn’t know what possessed him to confide in Lip to begin with. They’ve been civil if not friendly for a while now.  But that hardly makes them kindred spirits who tell each other every little thing. And the secret Lip Gallagher keeps pressing is hardly a little thing.  

Mickey gets through the rest of his shift with Lip minding his own goddamn business. And thank fucking Christ for small favors. He hangs up his apron in the back and doesn’t even address the fact that he’s out the door. Lip is a genius, after all. He’ll figure it out.  

As soon as he steps out intoxicated the back alley, he leans on the brick wall and lights a cigarette. He’s trying not to smoke in the house anymore. Ian is adamant about their— his kid’s health. And Mickey will yield to Ian’s request. After all, Yevgeny is Ian’s, not his. That’s how Ian prefers to keep it, otherwise he would tell Mickey the truth. And that’s how Mickey prefers it. He can keep his emotions down to something simpler and much more manageable if he sticks to the story Ian spouted out to him when he first got back into town.  

He breathes in deep, letting the smoke fill his senses while the nicotine starts to ease his nerves. He drums softly on the sides of his thighs, quietly cursing the night he and Ian stole away to the charred wreckage of the Milkovich house.  

*** 

It was that damn cache of photos he brought back that helped him piece things together. Ian had come down from the attic with a box of dusty, mismatched picture frames. Mickey looked up from the floor of Ian’s bedroom, where he was holding the baby aloft, aping the movements of walking for the child, even though he was still keeping Yevgeny inches above the floor.  

“What’s all that for?” He asked as he watched Ian sort through the box.  

“They’re for your photos.”  

“You don’t have to do that, Red.”  

“No but I want to. Your memories deserve more than being stuffed under the floorboards, Mick,” the redhead had told him. “We can find places for them around the house.”  

“Isn’t that kinda weird?” Mickey asked, “Putting up my stuff along with the family photos?”  

“Give it the fuck up, Mick. You and Mandy are family to me and you know it. So, you’re cool with this, right?”  

“You do what you want man,” he shrugs and casts a sly smirk at the younger man.  

And that was that. As far as Gallagher was concerned, the matter was settled. He wiped the frames down with lemon Pledge and laid them on a towel to dry. Meanwhile, Mickey set Yevgeny down in the crib and poured the contents of the large envelope of photographs onto the bed spread.   

Interspersed among the photos of the two of them together are some captured memories that are purely Milkovich. School pictures of him and his siblings, His parents on their wedding day, one of the few times he can remember seeing his mother happy. Him and Mandy at age four and six dressed as Princess Leia and Frankenstein’s Monster.   

And then he saw it— a picture of his mother, sporting a Rachel cut in all its mid-90s glory. And in her arms is a baby, maybe at twelve months, with a dark mop of wispy hair. It’s him, he recalled. But as he looked closer, he took in his face as a baby. Synapses connected. He realized he’s seen a dead ringer for his own bygone face day in and day out ever since he took up residence in the Gallagher house.   

He cast a glance over at the crib, where Ian’s son was inelegantly pawing at the noisy sensory toy mounted on his crib bars. Then he gazed back at his own baby picture. There was no denying the resemblance between the expressive eyebrows, the deep blue of the eyes, the little bunny teeth that protrude onto the bowed pout of a lower lip.  

He quickly does the math in his head and he felt so dumb when he realized that Ian’s eight-month-old son had to have been born nine months after Mickey took off. Sure, the kid could be Mandy’s he could easily see Ian offering to take Mandy’s baby off her hands if she found herself in the family way and couldn’t afford an abortion. But the child’s age… the math was too close for him to think… no.   

He shoved the baby picture back into the envelope. Out of sight, out of mind. He willed the mental image out of his mind. He can’t be back there. That couch was ash and dust now— let the memory die. Babies all look like smoosh-faced little goblins. That’s all there was to it. Yevgeny was Ian’s son and that was all there was to it.   

He can love his once and future boyfriend’s son as though he were his own flesh and blood. But he doesn’t think he could bring himself to love a child conceived on that terrible morning.   

“Something wrong?” Ian asked him.   

“No, nothing,” Mickey replied. If he didn’t say a word out loud, he can let the thought wither on the vine. As long as he didn’t ask, he could bask in blissful ignorance. Without asking Ian for confirmation, it could just be another case of Mickey simply being irrationally pessimistic.  

He had to force himself off the rails of his train of thought. “You seriously want to hang up all these photos of us together around the house?”  

“Why not? It’s not like you ever even let me hold your hand,” Ian answered his normally chipper tone dimming. “Other than the Photo Booth pics, we really do just look like friends.”  

Mickey regretted asking, but he could deal with what a shitty sort-of boyfriend he had been far more easily than the thought he wanted snuffed out of his mind.  

*** 

He follows his feet. The Kash N Grab isn’t far from the Gallagher house, but he manages to take the scenic route. He finds himself passing by the northern end of  Sherman Park, the Fieldhouse looking oddly stately for its economically depressed neighborhood. Honestly, the park is too beautiful sometimes. But Mickey guesses that’s why it exists. Even back in the day, this neighborhood was home to the lower rungs of Chicago society and city planners thought they would play saints and “enrich” the neighborhood by developing the park.  

He is just passing the Sherman Pool when he hears a familiar voice, “Hey, Mickey! Wait up!” 

Mickey stops in his tracks and turns to see the elder of his two pint-sized roommates hustling after him, pool towel draped across his skinny shoulders and cheap flip-flops smacking against the the curb as he runs.  

“Have a nice swim, kid?” Mickey asks perfunctorily as he resumes walking. 

“Swim? Pfft. I was just here for the eye candy. Y’know what I mean?” Carl puts up his index and middle finger and laps his tongue between them.  

“You’re being smart, right?” Asks Mickey, trying to mask the concern in his voice. “The last thing your brother needs is you getting some chick pregnant at thirteen or getting your ass beat for eying up the wrong guy. Which is most of them.” 

Carl slaps Mickey’s bicep with the back of his hand. “Hey, keep it down!” He blurts out in a stage whisper. “I told you that in confidence.” 

“You told me nothing. I caught you pulling your pud to Ian’s old stash.” Mickey side-eyes the boy. “Speaking of stashes, that’s all you were doing out there, right?” 

“Some weed may have exchanged hands.” 

Ideally, Mickey wants to help Ian’s little brother stay on the straight and narrow. And Ian simply has too much to worry about to really notice his blind spot around his younger brother.  He sorely overestimated how much ROTC would keep Carl from getting himself into trouble. And Ian is oblivious about the true reason for the kid’s newfound interest in gardening.  

Of course, Mickey isn’t Carl’s father like Frank or even his legal guardian like Lip technically is and Ian functionally is. But the kid listens to him from some misguided belief that he’s still the same guy who used to menace these streets like when he was still a kid.  

While it’s nice to know his teenage fuckery has become the stuff of local legends, he is a little put off by the fact that Carl still clings to that mental image even after almost two months sharing a bedroom. But if it means the kid listens to him, he’ll do what he can to nudge Carl in the right direction before Ian is stuck having to raise bail money for him. 

“Yeah? Well, as long as it’s just weed.”  

“You haven’t told Ian yet, have you?” 

“I told you I ain’t a narc, kid. As long as you don’t go and get mixed up in the hard stuff.” 

“No. I mean about the other thing.” 

“Kid, you know I’ve been in your shoes, right? Fuck, I’m pretty much still in ‘em. I know fucking well that some secrets are better off staying that way until you’re ready to deal with the consequences.”  

Both boys are quiet for some time. But just as they turn onto South Homan Avenue, Carl elbow checks him and whispers a quiet, “Thanks, Mickey.” 

Inside the Gallagher house, he finds that Ian beat him home. The scent of Stouffer’s meat lover’s lasagna perfumes the air.  

Debbie has been left alone with Yevgeny in the living room. Mickey has to admit, he may have not known the second middle Gallagher sibling all that well before coming to live with them, but she is a shadow of the girl that used to follow his own sister about. A couple years ago, Little Red would have been all over this kid with her Gallagher Daycare routine. Singing him songs, reading Dr. Seuss to him, that sort of thing. Now, she is all but ignoring her nephew while she gossips on her phone with some Holly bitch. 

The child is clumsily trying to pull himself upright, but he doesn’t quite have the technique down yet. It looks more like he’s trying to pull his playpen down around his ears. When the boy spots Mickey looking down at him, the boy’s face brightens, although Yevgeny is a naturally happy baby to begin with, and he reaches towards Mickey, making his “uppies” hand gestures. 

He scoops up the nearly ten-month-old, holding him like he’s about to show off Simba atop Pride Rock. “Oof. You’re getting to the point where I gotta start lifting with my knees, ‘Geny.” 

The child babbles on giddily, but it is getting easier for Mickey to hear some key words. “Mitty something something yuckies, yadda yadda dada blah blah nummies.” Or translated, he wants Mickey to change the toxic diaper he’s stuck in because his daddy is too busy cooking dinner. And he keeps saying something about a “baba.” Mickey figures the tyke isn’t happy with the sippy cup three weeks after they switched him over.  

“Yup, kid. I smell it too. You did a number in your shorts, didn’t you?” 

He cuts through the kitchen on the way to the first floor bathroom, where he finds Ian seated at the kitchen bar stool closest to the oven, doubled over and wearing a sleep mask that reads, “Fuck Off” across the eyes.  

“Hey, your son’s diapers might be a war crime,” he says in passing, not entirely expecting a reaction. He knows Ian lets those patients run him ragged over at St. Anthony’s. 

In the bathroom, he lays out the changing pad and tries not to curse out Ian’s son as he disposes of the child’s toxic waste. The boy clearly thinks the faces Mickey makes to mask his reflex are absolutely the height of comedy.  

There is a small stack of baby clothes to change Yevgeny into, the majority are upstairs in Ian’s room. Mickey grabs the onesie on top. Only once he has it on the boy and he is snapping up the crotch does he realize it’s a Cubs outfit. The goddamn Cubs. And you call yourself Southside. Whatever happened to having some civic pride, Gallagher? If Yevgeny were his son, he’d trash the onesie. This is a White Sox household. But Yevgeny is Ian’s son, so he doesn’t say a word.  

In the kitchen, Ian is up again, sleep mast pressed up and resting against his soft coppery curls, and he’s pulling out plates (actual ones, paper plates have been added to the grocery list).  

“If I vomit in the next hour, it’s your son’s fault.” 

“I thought Debbie was keeping an eye on him.” Ian grumbles, clenching his jaw.  

“Don’t worry about it. She’s fourteen. It’s just what they do.” Mickey defends as he sits the baby in his chair. “Remember what you were doing at fourteen?” 

“I remember who I was doing at fourteen.” 

“God, please don’t bring that old fuck’s name up.” It’s bad enough the guy’s name is built into his current place of employment. He likes working for Linda well enough, but her ex-husband is hardly one of Mickey’s favorite humans on this planet. 

“I’m referring to you, stupid,” the redhead grins softly. 

“Shit, I almost forgot we were that young.” Admits Mickey as he pulls out two jars of baby food from the cabinet. “Okay, little man. We’re doing strained carrots and prunes tonight, eh?” 

The kid claps his hands and babbles Mitty! Baba! Nummies!” Among other things. 

“Sorry, kid. No bottle, but we got a sippy cup ready to go.” 

“Y’know, you’re really good with him,” Ian comments. Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey can see that meaningful look on Ian’s face. He has been making that face more and more ever since that first time he joined Ian and Lip to visit their sister a few weeks back. He loves how soft Ian looks when he makes that expression, but he is coming to dread it. Mickey knows in his gut what Ian wants to discuss whenever he looks like that. 

“Hey, do you mind if we talk? There’s been something serious I’ve been meaning to—” 

“Can it wait, man?” Mickey asks. “I had a long day and I’m just too beat.” 

Ian seems to think for a moment, but then nods. “Okay, yeah. It can wait, Mick.” 

And from there, the evening proceeds as it normally would. The elephant in the room can be brushed aside. Mickey can put his strong hunch to rest more easily than he could if Ian confirmed his suspicions.  

It’s just as he told Carl earlier: it’s better to let secrets remain secret until you’re ready to deal with the consequences. 

Chapter Text

Thursdays are Ian’s Fridays and unfortunately this particular Thursday happens to have been a twelve-hour shift. He has been on the clock since three in the morning. But he wanted the overtime. That’s something Ian has come to understand about picking up extra shifts around the hospital. He is always happy to sign up for those overtime hours. And he is always quite happy to see the extra padding on his bi-weekly paycheck. Working those extra shifts feels like a torment set upon him by someone with a grudge.  

Fortunately, Thursdays are also the one day of the week that Mickey schedules himself early in order to make sure the weekly sale prices are switched over and the featured stock is on display for the coming week. That means he gets to punch out early enough to be the one who picks up Liam from his daily summer program at the library. Together, the two meet Ian outside St. Anthony’s daycare center and wait for Ian to reach the end of his shift.  

Like clockwork, after he gets off at 3:30, Ian trudges downstairs from the Transitional Recovery Unit to the daycare center on the third floor where he finds Mickey sitting on the bench outside. His back is turned to Ian as he pretends to be tripped up by the child’s shell game the youngest Gallagher brother is showing him.   

As tired as he is, he smiles warmly at the sight of the two of them. Three months ago, Mickey was a bygone dream he had to will from his thoughts just to get through the day without wanting to put his fist through a wall. And when he showed up at his door out of the blue, not even looking for him, he didn’t even have the space in his brain pan to will himself not to let himself get his hopes up again. He was simply too overworked and overwhelmed to make space for him again, to brace himself for another emotional fallout.  

And now, he doesn’t know how he managed as head of the household as long as he did without Mickey backing his calls and shouldering enough responsibility to save Ian from enduring his first nervous breakdown at the tender age of nineteen.  

He squeezes Mickey’s bicep as he sneaks up on the pair of them from behind. “Hey,” he almost whispers.”  

“Y’know, I heard you coming,” Mickey insists, cuffing his hand around Ian’s forearm.  

“Sure you did. How are our boy doing today?”  

A grimace briefly dances across Mickey’s countenance, but it passes and he turns, gesturing for them to take a gander. The three of them turn to the observation glass (Liam stands on the bench in order to see), where they see the three daycare staff members and about eighteen or so kids ranging as old as five. Yevgeny is seated with several of the other smaller ones in the story circle, where Amara, the youngest member of the daycare staff, is reading from an illustrated treasury of fairy tale stories. Ian spots his son trying to push himself up again. He still isn’t standing yet, but he has gotten a handle of sitting up on his knees while he holds onto the side of various pieces of furniture. In this case, it is the bench where Amara is sitting.  

“Your kid’s keeping ‘em busy in there. But no more than he does at home. Miss Boss Lady still trying to tell you he’s a problem?”  

“Siobhan hasn’t bothered in a few weeks.”   

“’Bout time. Bet she’s targeting the kid just ‘cause he’s Southside.”  

Ian smiles as he makes his way to the door. “The West Side isn’t that snooty, Mick.”  

Mickey follows, standing and taking Liam’s hand. “C’mon, big guy.” Liam smiles a toothy grin. Now that he is six, he’s too old for the on-site daycare and as far as he is concerned, that makes him one of the big kids. But as far as Ian and Mickey are concerned, it means having to budget for Liam’s care. Mickey suggested to Ian more than once that if Debbie could manage a dozen kids when she was eleven, she should be able to handle Yevgeny at fourteen. But Ian is adamant about letting Carl and Debbie be kids a little longer.  

They stand outside the story circle, not wanting to tear Yevgeny away until Amara finishes her current story. It’s The Ugly Duckling . The choice in story stings. It has been just over a month since he resolved that he would tell Mickey about Yevgeny’s true paternity. But every time he works up the nerve, either he finds a reason not to or Mickey isn’t in the right frame of mind for a heavy conversation.   

He doesn’t want Yevgeny to be like him. Ian woke up one morning when he was almost fifteen and thought he was just as much a member of the family as his siblings. And he went to sleep that night knowing he was fathered by another man. He met Clayton once shortly after he learned the truth. The truth went unspoken but the family resemblance was so plain to see that it upset his wife. Clayton never sought him out after that.   

When Yevgeny was born, he initially showed the baby Mickey’s picture day after day. He wanted the child to know his father. But that daily ritual fell by the wayside after the first two or three months. The newfound weight of keeping the family afloat shifted Ian’s priorities entirely. And he didn’t have time nor the room in his heat to remind every day of a man who he may never see again. He would have grown up an ugly duckling, oblivious that he’s a swan.  

But Mickey did come back and he’s tried so hard to prove to Ian that he’s in it to win it. He’s proven every day that he isn’t the same wild and tempestuous boy who ran off on him when Ian needed him most. He’s a man now that Ian can count upon. Mickey has been there for his son every day since whether he knows it or not. They’re raising Ian’s son together. Mickey deserves to know Yevgeny is his son, too.   

“Dada. Mitty Baba. Mome.”  

“We keep telling you, jelly bean,” sighs Mickey as he hoists the child into the air, “Sippy cups at home, no more bottles.”  

Ian has long since figured out Yevgeny isn’t trying to ask for his bottle. He should probably come clean with Mickey before he figures out that “Baba” is “Papa.”  

A few months ago, Mickey was still nervous around Yevgeny. He would hold him just as long as necessary until he could hand the baby back to Ian, Lip, or one of the older kids. But the way he lets their son nestle against him is so effortlessly paternal. It makes Ian’s heart feel close to bursting. He bristles with anxiety at the thought that he may spoil the bond Mickey has formed with the child by invoking the memory of the incident surrounding Yevgeny’s conception.  

And so, he goes another afternoon without broaching the subject. He’s a fucking coward.  

***   

“Ian!”  

“Ian you gotta come downstairs quick!”  

It feels like he only entrusted Yevgeny to Mickey seconds ago so he could take a quick nap after dinner. Mickey is long past that initial fear of being left alone with the baby that he clung to after initially he came to live with the Gallaghers. By now he’s an old pro at covering for Ian long enough for him to get forty winks. And he’s got Lip and Debbie there with him. What could be so urgent that it can’t be handled between the three of them?  

He’s pulling his shorts on when Mickey is at his bedroom door, his face lit up like the sun. “Firecrotch, you gotta see this!” Mickey insists as he wraps an arm around Ian’s waist and hurries him down the stairs.  

“See what?”  

But then they get to the bottom of the steps and he sees it. Yevgeny, the little ball of baby he has loved since before the day he was born is standing, holding himself up on the side of the family room sofa. His little man, looking up at him like this is just another day. Lip and Debbie have their phones trained on the eleven-month-old.   

Ian’s eyes are pools of tears, brimming with pride as he drops to his knees.   

“Would you look at your son, Gallagher.”  

Right. My son . Mickey has been back in his life for nearly three months. He has spent every day finding new ways of showing Ian that he can be relied upon with no promise that they might get back together.  

“Yevvy, look at you—you’re finally standing.”   

The eleven-month-old babbles about “debert.”   

Ian laughs. “Yeah, jelly bean. I think you earned dessert tonight.” He knows that standing up is a big milestone, walking isn’t going to happen tonight. So he scoops the child up.   

Debbie is following behind, suddenly more interested in Yevgeny than she’s been in quite some time. As Ian sets Yevgeny down in his highchair, she keeps peppering Ian about questions about parenthood.   

“It’s a lot of work, Debs,” insists after the fifth or sixth question while he picks out a single serve container of banana yogurt for the baby.   

“Yeah, but hypothetically, how much harder would it be with two babies around the house?”  

“Debbie,” Lip cuts in, concern in his voice, “Please don’t tell me that you and Mattie have done anything…”  

“Mattie the full-grown adult Mattie? Asks Mickey. Lip nods. Lip and Mickey exchange a silent look like they are about to round up a posse. “What is it with the redheaded Gallaghers and older men?”  

Debbie flips him off, but Ian takes it in stride. He chuckles and retorts, “You are one of those older men, technically.”  

“News bulletin— me and Mattie have been done for a while. I kicked him to the curb.”  

“Did you?” Asks Ian who is far too polite to bring up the unsettling version of events he has heard with Lip and Mickey around.   

“Yeah, I did.”  

“So, why all the baby questions?” Asks Lip.  

The younger redhead rolls her eyes. Ian sorely misses the little girl who used to spend her days clipping coupons and learning how to bake with Sheila from a few blocks over. Teenage Debbie is turning out to be even more of a handful than Carl is. At least talking to Carl doesn’t make him consider changing the locks.   

“I’m just asking hypothetically,” she insists. “I’m a woman, now. I gotta start thinking about these things.”  

“As long as you keep it hypothetical.” Asserts Ian.  

“Yeah,” adds Lip. “We barely break even as it is without another mouth to feed.”  

“I don’t get it. Ian buys a baby off some Russian hooker, and everyone treats him like Mother fucking Teresa.”  

Ian suddenly feels like he is having an out of body experience, like he is suddenly watching his life happen to someone else. He can practically see the color draining from his normally rosy complexion as his face metamorphoses into a blue screen of death. He sees Lip stepping in to deflect their younger sister and lead her away into the other room on some pretext that Ian’s mind doesn’t have the processing capacity to grasp just at this moment.   

And he sees the Mickey grimace, but say nothing. The light in his eyes dim.   

And just as abruptly, he is back in his own body. “Mick, I swear I’ve been meaning to tell you—”  

“Yeah, I know. Can we go on like she never said anything?”  

“You… you knew?” All this time Ian has been agonizing about how to tell him the truth and it turns out he already knew?  

“I suspected. But I didn’t want to say anything.” He takes the cup of yogurt and sits down to spoon the treat to Yevgeny. “But he’s got my face. And the math added up.”  

“Can I explain?”   

“Whatever, man. Do what you want,” bristles Mickey. Ian hates when Mickey acts indifferent like that. He is rarely indifferent and when he acts like this, it makes Ian feel like he’s treading a minefield and doesn’t know what will set him off.   

Ian sighs and resolves to get this over with now that the subject is out in the open. “You were gone,” he begins. “It had been a little more than two months since, y’know. And she found me.”  

“The whore?”  

He nods. “Svetlana. She was looking for you. Apparently, your dad promised her that you’d ‘do the right thing’ and marry her since she was knocked up.”  

Mickey avoids eye contact, much more content to feed the baby.  

“When I told her I had no clue where you were, she let it drop that she would need an abortion. She couldn’t afford to have a baby on her own and work.”  

“Heh… work,” scoffs Mickey as he feeds Yevgeny another spoonful.   

“I couldn’t let her, Mick.”  

“Didn’t take you for a pro-lifer, man.”  

“I’m not. But… Mickey, the baby is a part of you. He could have been the last part of you I’d ever have.”  

“Got all sappy on me, huh?” A smirk ghosts across Mickey’s face.  

“Can you blame me?”  

“So, you adopted him?”  

“Yeah. I got my GED so I could work full time to pay for her appointments. I took night classes for my CNA certification. And when the day came, she passed me off as the father and signed over the parental rights.”  

“Just like that?”  

Ian nods. “Her only request was I name him after her father. All things considered, not a huge request. After the hospital, I sent her pictures and updates, but after a while, they started coming back, return to sender.”  

“So, that’s that? She isn’t in the picture?”  

“Vanished. And nobody at the massage parlor would tell me where she went.” Ian tries to look Mickey in the eye, but he seems to be avoiding Ian’s gaze. “Mickey? Are you okay?”  

“Just so we’re clear, Yevgeny is your kid.”  

“Mick?”  

Mickey takes Yevgeny’s bib and wipes the residual yogurt from the baby’s mouth.   

“I love your son, E. But I don’t think I could love my own. Not after what happened.”  

Ian looks at Mickey as he cares for the child he refuses to claim but still loves as his own. He should feel a swell of relief that Mickey didn’t storm out the door, he should be horrified that Mickey may never call their son his own. But the only words he wants to dwell on was the part where Mickey admitted that he loves Yevgeny. Even if it’s on his own terms, even if he does mental backflips to get to a version of the truth he can handle, Mickey still loves Yevgeny.   

Ian pulls a chair up alongside Mickey, sidling close as possible to Mickey, their shoulders grazing one another as they look at the child. Ian rubs the baby’s blonde curls, making Yevgeny giggle even as he swats at his father’s arm.  

“We both have complicated feelings about fatherhood, you know. My birth father never wanted me, Frank neglected us and he hardly tolerates me even now. “Mickey, I don’t care what you call yourself. All I care is that you’re there for Yevgeny.”  

“Just for Yevgeny?” Mickey asks pointedly.   

“Not just for him,” Ian admits.   

Mickey turns to face him and before he can speak, Ian is cupping his face. Since Mickey has been back in his life, they have only touched a few times. A chaste kiss to the forehead, taking Mickey’s hand on the bus, fingers grazing one another for one reason or another. Ian hasn’t held Mickey like this in nearly two years, but it feels like a lifetime.   

As Ian brings their mouths together, he recalls that they had only kissed a handful of times. Once outside of Ned’s palatial McMansion, then quite a few times the night of their sleepover. He had barely gotten the feel for Mickey’s lips when he was left bereft of them.   

And yet, as their lips connect, it feels like a key slipping into the right lock, their bodies melding into one another like they were always meant to be this way. Mickey’s lips are as soft and inviting he remembered, creating a contrast to the tough exterior he presents. He feels his chair being pushed back to give Mickey extra clearance, the wooden chair legs scrapping against the linoleum. Then Mickey is throwing his leg across the breadth of Ian’s thighs like he is mounting a horse. His arms wrap around Ian’s neck while Ian’s fingertips glide down Mikey’s frame until they are resting on the other boy’s hips.  

Mickey’s lips part and Ian seizes the opportunity, sliding his tongue past those pillowy lips until it meets with Mickey’s own tongue. The electricity coursing through him is doing a number on his brain, all he can concentrate on is “want” and “need.” He doesn’t know how he managed to deny himself ever since Mickey returned three months ago. He doesn’t comprehend how he managed to get through each and every day he was gone before then.  

They remain locked in that position until the moment is disrupted by the sound of small hands drumming on plastic as their child chitters on about wanting to be let down (or “dowies,” as he puts it). For once, Ian wants to disregard his son’s demands, even if it is just for a minute or so. But Mickey’s wits prevail. It feels like all too short a time when Mickey breaks away from the embrace, practically spring-boarding himself back to his feet. His hair is askew, his normally pale complexion ruddy and warm. He wipes at his lips with the back of his hand. “Got a little carried away there, huh?”  

Mickey is contorting his face into this sheepish, embarrassed expression, like his just accidentally fell on top of Ian mouth-first. But Ian sees that look in Mickey’s eyes. Mandy once told Ian that he would recognize he would recognize that look in a guy’s eyes when he really wants to be with you. And once he caught on that Mickey’s eyes burn bright even when he denies it (sometimes especially when he protests too much), it became unmistakable. And right now those ocean blue beauties are practically glowing.  

“I got Yev if you still wanna take that nap,” Mickey offers as he lifts the eleven-month-old out of his high chair.  

Ian adjusts his pants, blushing. By now, he had quite forgotten that he had intended to crash after they had cleaned up dinner. But his body, every single molecule of his body feels alive in a way he hasn’t felt in quite some time. “Yeah, I probably could use some rest,” he lies, not wanting to risk scaring Mickey away like a skittish faun by seeming too over-eager.  

He does go upstairs and take his nap though, leaving his bedroom door invitingly ajar just in case Mickey would like to pick up where they left off in the kitchen. He wants Mickey to join him. Having Mickey in his arms like that after so long just serves to remind Ian how lonely his bed has been.  

While his mind is alight, practically tingling in the afterglow of the moment he just shared with Mickey. But his body really is tired from his long workday. Ian would have thought sleep would have eluded him, but his head has barely hit his pillow before he is out like a lamp.  

Ian wakes to the sound of starlings, sparrows, and the odd mourning dove. It’s morning. He had only meant to take a power nap. It had barely been 7:30 when he fell asleep, the night was still young. And he wanted... oh, how he had wanted.  

He sits up in bed and sees that Yevgeny is sound asleep in his crib. Mickey must have slipped into Ian’s bedroom while he was dead to the world. His little jelly bean is tucked in snugly, a black and white stuffed tuxedo cat doing far more to support his little blonde head than any of the pillows.  

Much as he wishes he’d woken up to Mickey beside him, he appreciates that Mickey let him get the rest he needed. And he loves the fact that he can be down for the count like he was last night but he could still count on the man to take care of his son without waking up in a panic attack. He pulls on some gym shorts and pads out his bedroom door.  

The house is still. It isn’t even seven in the morning and with school out for the Summer, the normal rhythm of early morning Gallagher house life is on hold while Carl and Debbie sleep in.  

Though Mickey might be up by now. He schedules off on Fridays and Saturdays. He claims it’s because there is only so much one-on-one time he can take with Lip, but Ian likes to think it’s so they can have the same days off together.  

He pokes his head in the Boys’ room, but only Carl and Liam are accounted for. Undeterred, he tries the living room, the kitchen, both bathrooms, and finally he checks to see if he’s enjoying a cigarette out on the front stoop. But all of these yield no fruit.  

Mickey is gone.  

Chapter Text

Mickey bucks his knee up and down, letting Yevgeny giggle and squeal with excitement. Anything to tucker him out before bed. He had promised Ian to take care of Yevgeny while Ian got some extra sleep. The redhead had acted like he was only laying down for a power nap, but he had been up since two am, worked twelve hours, and then made dinner for a household of seven. So when Ian didn’t come out of his room after an hour, Mickey figured let sleeping Gallaghers lay.

But eventually, Yevgeny’s bedtime arrives. Mickey even takes an extra twenty minutes keeping the baby entertained and even makes a production of changing the boy and putting him in his pajamas in the hopes that he’ll be tired enough to sleep through the night by the time he lays Yevgeny down for bed.

It is nearly ten when Mickey gets to the top of the stairs and sees that Ian’s door stands invitingly ajar. Holding the sleeping babe slung over his shoulder, he elbows the door wider and slips inside. The room is dark aside from the nightlight atop Yevvy’s crib. He does his best to ignore the beautiful man laying in the queen-size bed and focuses on making sure Yevgeny is tucked securely into his crib. He finds one of his favorite crib toys, a plush tuxedo cat with a bushy tail and nestles it under the boy’s arm.

Turning around, he means to leave— but there is Ian in the bed, his body draped in just a thin bedsheet is shifted to the right side of the mattress as though expecting company. Is Ian expecting him? Mickey doesn’t understand why. He had just told Ian not to expect him to be a father to his own flesh and blood. What kind of asshole says that to his lover and doesn’t end up kicked in the nards and cast out into the street? But that’s not what Gallagher did. No, Ian pulled Mickey in for a kiss so intense that Mickey is certain he fried some  brain cells in the process. A lot of grey matter is the only reason he can think of for why he is doffing his duds, unbuttoning his shorts and letting them pool around his ankles while he pulls off his shirt.

He kneels onto the far side of the mattress. He doesn’t know if Ian wants him there or if he is completely misreading the situation, but he’s resolved that no matter how much he wants this—and he does want this—he won’t lay a finger on him, not without his express say-so. They aren’t stupid teenagers anymore.  He can’t pounce on Ian like he’s in heat and hope the guy will just go with it. He manages to lay on the opposite side of the bed without shifting his weight enough to cause Ian to stir. Either he is being very gentle in his movements or Ian is just that dead tired.

Minutes pass. Sleep doesn’t come. Even illuminated only by Yevgeny’s nightlight and the occasional flash of moonlight, Mickey cannot look away. He gazes endlessly at the way Ian’s curls matte against the pillow, the rise and fall of his well-defined chest, and the way his nostrils gently flutter as he snores.

He is still awake when he hears  the sound of a text notification coming from his pocket, but he lets it pass; doubtless it can wait until morning. But three minutes later another text comes in. And other less than a minute after that.

Frustrated and not wanting to wake an eleven-month-old or his sleep-deprived... whatever, he slides off the bed and soundlessly as possible, grabs his phone from his shorts, and slips out into the hallway. He awakens the screen. The time reads 12:11. If it weren’t for the fact that the texts were coming from his sister, he would be shutting his phone off for the night.

Mandy: Call me its urgent

Mandy: Colin got shot

Mandy: They’re taking him to Loretto

Shit. This keeps happening. Terry and Joey got gunned down. Their house was set on fire less than a full day after he got back to Chicago. And now Colin is being rushed to the emergency room. He knows all the Milkovich siblings have floated the idea over the past few months that the Milkovich family has a new target on their back, but now he is starting to believe it.

His feet move with a will of their own to the boys room and he throws on the first clothes he can find in his dresser, not bothering to even look. He is still pulling on his boots as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. The remainder of the Gallaghers are all huddled around the tv watching one of those inane sparkly vampire movies. 

“Any o’ you know where Loretto hospital is?”

“Loretto?” asks Lip, thinking. “That’s in West Garfield.”

“Of course it is. Fucking West Side. I gotta get over there pronto.”

“Someone die?” asks Debbie. Then after a patented Mickey Milkovich death stare, she asks much more earnestly. “Oh, god did someone die?"

“My brother got shot up.”

“Cool, is there gonna be a scar?” asks Carl excitedly.

“You’ll be waiting forever for the El this time of night,” surmises Lip. “I still got the spare keys for Kev’s van.”

“He won’t mind me taking it?” asks an incredulous Mickey.

“No. He won’t mind me taking it.” asserted Lip as he pulls out his phone and starts texting their two doors down neighbor. The improbably-sweet-natured  owner of the Alibi and his resourceful wife (sort of) Vee aren’t connected to the Gallaghers by blood or marriage, but they’re probably more family to them in the ways that count than their own parents. To hear Ian tell it, Kev and Vee took Fiona under their wing when she was fifteen and struggling to keep her family together even more than Ian is now. They always treated her like a little sister, and by extension Ian, the rest of his siblings may as well be their niece and nephews. “You want Ian coming, right?”

“No.” refuses Mickey.  “He’s dead tired. Let ‘im sleep.”

Lip seems to weigh a decision in his mind, giving Mickey a weird look like he’s waiting for approval. Mickey figures that account of all the drama about his bipolar, the guy has been benched for so long that he’s trigger shy about springing into action.

“Yeah, makes sense,” Lip agrees in a hushed tone. “Debs, make sure Liam gets to bed.”

She nods. Despite the extent to which she tries to seem older these days, she hasn’t seemed quite as small like this in ages. “Your brother’s going to be okay, right?”

“Dunno. I don’t even know where he was shot,” he says vocalizing the realization in real time.

“Lip pockets his phone and pats Mickey’s shoulder. “Kev said we’re good to borrow the van, Milkovich.” Lip reaches for the bowl of keys on the side table closest to the door, but doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Mickey also notices the front door is open and Carl is unaccounted for, but he just proceeds out the door and assumes Lip will follow. “C’mon, Phillip.”

Mickey walks brusquely towards Kev and Vee’s house where the janky, repurposed food vendor’s van is parked. The engine is humming and Carl is in the driver’s seat, not even a hint of apology about the minor instance of theft. Mickey can’t help but appreciate the kid’s nerve.

“Out,” Lip orders.

“I’m coming, too.”

“Don’t you have Summer School in the morning?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Mickey murmurs into his ear.

“I passed all my classes.”

Lip performs a double-take like something out of a slapstick comedy. “Since when? You always have Summer School.” Lip opens the driver’s side door and Mickey is at the passenger side door. Lip is looking at his little brother like he is only noticing him now for the first time in nearly a year.

“Mickey and Ian helped.”

Lip looks like he has some choice words to say about both Mickey and Ian’s academic profiles, as if they both didn’t earn their GEDs. But the truth is that Ian may not be a genius like Lip, but he was punching above his weight class trying to get into West Point. And yes, Mickey used to pay Lip to write papers for him. That was really the only viable option he had considering how much school he kept missing on account of being dragged into the family business time and again.

“Well… good.” Lip finally says as he gestures Carl into the back of the vehicle so he can get into the driver’s seat. “But it’s up to Mickey. It’s his brother we’re—”

“It’s fine, Phillip. Let’s go.”

***

Mandy and Iggy are in the waiting are of the emergency room when Mickey and the Gallagher brothers enter. The fact that they don’t seem to be discussing funeral preparations when Mickey arrives is at least encouraging.

Mandy, despite not being as dolled up as she has been any time he has seen her since his return, still looks better than she ever did when she lived in the Milkovich house. He can’t remember the last time he saw her without makeup. But then again, it’s been a while now since she has needed to cover up any bruises. She is wearing dark-wash hip-hugger jeans, a white camisole, and a purple bolero jacket. Mickey wonders whether she was out on a girls’ night when she got the call.

“Not the Gallaghers I expected you to show up with, Mick.” Comments Mandy, her eyes more on Lip than himself. To the best of Mickey’s knowledge, nobody alive outside the Gallagher household knows jack squat about what he and Ian have going on. Or had going on. Trying to have going on? He really needs to talk to Ian because whatever boundaries they had before feel shaky now. Regardless, Ian is no snitch, she pointedly does not talk to Lip these days and he doesn’t know who else is giving her any information about them. But the insinuation is clear.

But he’s not in the mood to play the old denial game. He really hasn’t for a while now. He has passed the time to put away childish things. At the very least, he is comfortable acknowledging that they’re close. Mickey shrugs. “Ian and the baby need their rest. And Lip had wheels. Or had access to ‘em.”

“You look good, Mandy.” Lip says evenly, like he’s trying not to lose his cool.

“Yeah? Well, my current gig is a big step up from the Waffle Hut.” She looks like she is fishing for something to say. “How about you?”

“Mentally ill.”

“Huh?”

“Went out of my gourd this fall and got my ass expelled.”

“What?” She says as though she has personally been affronted. “They can’t just kick you out.”

“I caused a lot of property damage before I got some help.”

“I worked to fucking hard getting those applications—”

“So, how is Colin doing?” asks Mickey insistently, intent on keeping the conversation on track.

“He’ll live. Lip, have you appealed? Did they know you were sick when they kicked you out?”

“Focus, Mands. Could you explain what happened?”

“We don’t know who it was,” volunteers Iggy, who had been having his own private exchange with Carl. Unlike most illegal drug vendors, your average weed dealer is far more likely to befriend the competition. No doubt because they sample the sativa and are very chill. “But whoever it was knows what he was doing. It only took 'em three bullets. Two in the thigh, but the third hit Colin right in the kneecap. He’s gonna have  to get an artificial one.”

“Where were you guys when it happened?” Asks Lip.

“I was in the car when it happened.”

“That’s helpful,” snarks Mickey. And where fucking pray tell were you parked.

“No, I mean I wasn’t even there. I was driving to pick him up. He’s been seeing this girl for a while. They’ve been doing Thirsty Thursdays at Hamburger Mary’s for weeks. I was only driving to pick him up ‘cause he got in a fight with his girl and she left him there.”

Conversations continued on. The old Lip showed his face, taking pointe and asking all the right questions. Does he have insurance? To Mickey’s surprise, yes. He has a job in construction now and actually has very good health coverage just because of the high likelihood of work-related injuries. Will Colin’s health insurance cover the knee replacement? He’ll probably have some sort of copay, but five hundred bucks is nothing compared to what the American health care industrial complex would charge him without it. Is he being discharged tonight?

Eventually a nurse calls out their family name and the assembled Milkoviches and Gallaghers swarm her for an update. He has been admitted to inpatient and has a same-day surgery scheduled for five-thirty later this morning. The surgery is predicted to take two hours

They are invited back to visit with him, though the two Gallaghers at Lip’s suggestion hang toward the rear. He is on a lot of morphine for the pain and he well and truly is out of it, talking about runs they did with their father a million years ago, fights that their moms got into with aunts and uncles at family gatherings (mostly Terry’s getting out of prison parties), and why doesn’t Mickey ever visit them at the house anymore. The longer they’re with him, he gets lucid enough to recognize the three Milkovich siblings even if he doesn’t have anything groundbreaking to say.

The only time they really needed to eke any information out of him was when Mandy proposed that Colin’s girl would want to know what happened. Not even Iggy seems to know her name. That’s a Milkovich trait, it seems. Keeping your loved ones’ names away from your family’s lips. Iggy shrugs it off, saying this is Milkovich business and she can find out after he’s discharged like everyone else. After all, the bitch left him to get blasted full of rivets. As far as Iggy is concerned, and in a surprisingly headstrong turn for him, they don’t owe it to tell her shit. But still, Mandy presses Colin, asking what her contact info is. Or at least her name. Colin just mutters Camry or Carrie, maybe Cammie and falls back asleep.

All the while, Mickey is a bit too distracted to join in on what passes for a Milkovich family love fest (which is mainly just cracking insults at each other for laughs). Whether or not any of the other siblings want to admit it, this is the third time in as many months that their family has been dealt a heavy blow, albeit at least Colin survived his attack. But they’ve lost Joey and Terry in a drive-by back in April. Less than a fortnight later, the house catches fire with Iggy still inside, not a full twenty-four hours after Mickey returns from parts unknown (at unknown to his siblings, anyway), and now Colin is laid up. Alive, but he’s going to be using a cane for the foreseeable future. Someone with a vendetta is picking off the family. Or maybe they smell blood in the water with Terry gone.

Eventually, though the nurse insists that Colin needs his rest. Back in the waiting room, the five of them regroup. Lip and Carl had been sitting in the hallway outside Colin’s room to give the Milkoviches their privacy, but now Mandy feels beholden to fill them in considering it’s close to four in the morning and they were concerned enough to wait.

Although, Mickey doubts the sincerity of the concern. Something tells him Carl is only here to see some scar tissue. And Lip may have been sticking around just to make sure Mickey had a ride home to start, but his eyes haven’t left his sister for more than a few seconds at a time since they arrived.  Mickey swears to himself that if Lip and Mandy get back together before him and Ian, he cannot be held accountable for his actions.

Iggy is the first to head out. And nobody blames him. He was the one that found Colin bleeding out outside a burger joint. Mickey and Mandy will hold vigil until he’s gotten a few hours sleep.

The remaining four head upstairs to the cafeteria for a serviceable if depressing breakfast and coffee from a vending machine. Lip resolves that he’s going to take Carl home. They shouldn’t have brought a fourteen-year-old in the middle of the night anyway. Carl is dozing at their table in the cafeteria, otherwise Mickey is sure he’d be ready with a counterargument.

Lip does wait until it is time for Colin to go into surgery before he leaves, promising Mickey that he’ll come back after he gets some rest with Ian and the kid. Mandy gives Lip her current number before he goes. Oh, Mickey certainly didn’t fail to catch that little maneuver. He prays that whatever goes on with these two this time, it doesn’t result in attempted vehicular manslaughter.

“So, you and Gallagher, huh?” asks Mandy once they are alone.

Mickey shrugs. “We’re close.”

“Uh-huh. So are we. And the way Ian lights up when he mentions you about even stupid shit, Mick… why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“You have met Terry, right?”

“Oh. Right,” she sighs, deflated. “But you knew I was keeping Ian’s secret, right? I coulda kept yours.”

“Mandy, I haven’t even admitted to Gallagher that I’m a fag yet. And I’ve let him bang me like a drum ‘till I’ve cried. You’d think it’d be easy.”

“Thanks for the mental image.”

“You can deal. My point is, I’m not even good at talking about this with the guy I was getting with, let alone everyone else. Maybe with pop gone, it’ll be easier if and when we ever make it official again.”

“Wait. You two aren’t together now? Mick, what the hell are you doing in his house?”

Mickey’s cheeks flush. “It’s gonna sound pathetic. When I came back, I didn’t even want to run into him, but once he did… all I wanted was the start up where we left off.”

“And he didn’t?”

“He couldn’t. He’s got so much responsibility bearing down on him that he flat out told me that we couldn’t go back to what we had going on. He needed someone who wasn’t going to keep running off on him.”

“Fucking hell, you’re mystery guy!” exclaims Mandy clutching a string of non-existent pearls.

“Huh?”

“Okay, I know way too much about your sex life. Fucking Gallagher.”

He can’t help but smirk. “He told you about us, huh?”

“Mick, he was over the moon about you. God, everything makes a lot more sense now. Every time you got yourself locked up, he was a moody pain in the ass. And then when you ran off…”

“I know. I should have at least left a note or something. Did he… he never told you what happened, did he?”

“No, but now I don’t feel crazy when I see your fucking face whenever he shows me Eugeny's baby pictures with your face on ‘em.”

“It’s Yevgeny, actually.”

She palms her forehead. “Shit. How am I only now piecing this shit together?”  

“It’s okay, one thing me and Ian have in common is we’re good at keeping secrets. I’m just still shocked he never told even after I fucked off for the East Coast.”

“Ian’s loyal like that.”

Mickey reaches for his pocket. Ian should be up and checking on Yevgeny by now. He probably should have at least left Ian a message about where they were and what’s going on while they were on their way over here, but he didn’t want to disturb Ian’s sleep. He digs his hand into the right pocket only to discover that his phone isn’t there. He checks the other side. Nope. He stands up, praying it’s in his back pockets. No dice.

He went to bed last night wanting nothing more than to wake up next to Ian for the first time in nearly two years. Instead, it’ll probably look like he ran off in the middle of the night just like Ian always feared he would.

“Fuck!”

Chapter Text

Gone. He’s gone. All these weeks and months of Mickey worming his way back into his heart, and now once again, as Ian predicted, he’s gone at the first sign of life being more difficult than he can handle. As if life was going to change at all now that Mickey knows Yevgeny is his biological son when he was already essentially helping Ian coparent to begin with.

And once again, he didn’t even bother to say goodbye. Although at least vanishing when Ian isn’t looking is a step up from the first time he called it quits. He didn’t shit all over Ian and call him nothing but a warm mouth. Maybe the silent approach is better for Mickey.

The asshole doesn’t even think he owes Ian an explanation when he calls. He just lets the call ring and ring until he gets shunted over to voicemail. But at least he hasn’t disconnected his phone this time. Not yet, anyway. Ian attempts to call him six or seven times before he gives up, too proud to admit how much he needs to hear Mickey tell him he’s on his way home from Susie’s Sweets and Ian doesn’t need to panic. Instead, he is met with soul-crushing silence.

You know what? Fuck him. Three times I let him back into my life and three times he’s made me live to regret it. Third strike, you’re out, Milkovich.

“Baba?” Asks Yevgeny as Ian wipes the majority of his morning meal off his face.

“Papa’s out of the picture again, jelly bean,” sighs Ian. “I’m sorry I let him in long enough for you to get attached, Yevvy.”

Ian’s phone starts to ring. He looks on the display and sees that it is Mandy trying to reach him. He loves his best friend, but the last thing he wants to deal with right now is having to explain to Mickey’s sister that he left Ian again. He can’t handle airing out the emotions and he doesn’t want to burden Mandy when she deserves to be the neutral party. So he lets it go to voicemail.

She tries calling two more times. Then Ian just shuts off his phone.

A little past eight-thirty, Ian is watching as Yevgeny attempts to pull himself up to stand again. Liam is kneeling at the coffee table playing with some of Carl’s old action figures that seem to somehow managed to be passed down before Carl melted them down to slag. Ian just about has the kids’ breakfast cleaned up when Lip comes down the stairs looking like he is auditioning for a zombie film.

“Coffee?” Asks Lip.

Ian nods. “Make sure you eat before you take your pills.”

“Yes, Fiona.”

Ian flips him off. “What are you doing home anyway? Don’t you have a shift at the store?”

“Called off. And what are you doing here?” Lip inquires as though this isn’t Ian’s day off. “I thought you’d be at the hospital by now.”

“Hospital?” Ian feels his entire being go limp and collapse in on himself. As far as Ian is concerned, the only good thing in his life to come out of a hospital is standing upright in the playpen trying to figure out his next move.

“Yeah. Mickey, he—”

“Shit! Is that why— what happened to him?”

“Nothing. The little asshole is fine, but his brother got shot. He and Mandy are probably waiting for him to get out of surgery by now. He seriously didn’t even send you a message? I know he didn’t want to wake you, but he should have given you some notice by now.”

“Well, he hasn’t,” Ian practically hisses.

“Probably for the best.”

“What?”

“You guys need space every now and then,” insists Lip. “He’s been like your shadow for months now. Last night was the longest I’ve seen him away from you in ages without getting paid.”

Ian doesn’t have any sort of response for his brother. Yes, maybe they do need a little space every now and again, logically. But Ian isn’t a logical person. And he always will want Mickey around even if he won’t always admit it.

Sometimes it feels so natural having Mickey here with him that he takes for granted that Mickey has his own on top of helping Ian keep the Gallagher household afloat. He knows his past with Mickey gives him every right to feel what he felt, but reason should have willed out. He’s not the same angry kid who ran off two years ago. He’s grown up and Ian knows it. So, was his knee-jerk reaction to throw himself a fucking pity party?

Without even realizing it, he is on the move, scooping up his son and slipping on his tennis shoes without so much as a second thought, his brain on autopilot. “What hospital?” he demands urgently.

“Loretto.”

“Where’s that?” He curses himself, hearing the anxiety in his own tone of voice. Lip just got done telling him Mickey is safe and sound, why does he still feel sick at heart?

“Gimme five minutes to eat, drug up and grab some pants and I’ll drive.”

Five interminable minutes later, He is fitting Yevgeny into one of the Fisher-Ball twins’ car seats while Lip relocates the other to make room for Liam before they climb into the front seats of Kev’s van. It seems like a lifetime ago that Lip spent a Summer selling ice cream and weed out of this thing, but they have it set up like an actual family vehicle now. He can absolutely see Kev taking the girls to dance class and Vee driving them to soccer practice in a few years’ time. His knee is repeatedly bucking up and down like a piston, anxious even as he waits for Lip to fire up the motor.

“You need to calm down, bro.” Lip insists as  turns northbound onto S. Halsted. “I told you, Milkovich is fine.”

“Then why hasn’t he called me?”

“He didn’t want to wake you. The guy seriously thinks your spreading yourself too thin, man.”

“I am not.”

“How many hours did you work the past two weeks?”

“Hundred ten, hundred fifteen maybe?”

Lip takes his eyes off the road while they are stopped at a light. “Yeah, that’s nearly a third full week’s worth of hours you squeezed in there. You’re running yourself ragged. And he cares. Some days, he talks my ear off at work about just how worried he gets.”

Ian would be touched if he weren’t so riled up. “He still should’ve let me know something is up. Or at least texted me.” Ian pulls his phone out of his pocket and boots it back up. Seven more missed calls from Mandy and four unread texts from her, but nothing from Mickey. “He isn’t even taking my calls. See?”

He opens up his recent calls and clicks on Mickey’s name. A picture of Mickey with a shit-eating grin, spiked hair, and dressed in his old security vest pops up on his screen. And two seconds later, the van is filled with the muffled sound of an up-tempo pop rock song from the 1980s.  Ian instantly recognizes it as a song that Mickey used to rock out to back when they used to hang out in the old abandoned warehouse. He has only had a real phone again for he past few weeks. Did Mickey assign him a personalized ringtone?

“What is that?”

“Bonnie Tyler.” Ian supplies as he stiffens his body as though sitting stock still will help him locate wherever “I Need A Hero” is playing from.

Ian feels around the floor under his seat and finds nothing. He wipes the dust from the floor on his shorts and digs his hand between the thick old cushions of the passenger seat and digs out Mickey’s refurbished Samsung Galaxy, silencing the call. Lo and behold, there is a pop-up notification telling Mickey that he has a whopping eight missed calls from “Sexy Nurse.”

Seriously, Mick? Ian snickers despite himself. He locks the screen and pockets Mickey’s phone. “Well, that’s one mystery solved.”

“Your boyfriend’s music taste is kind of retro, huh?”

Ian nods. “’Cause of his mom,” he explains. “She got him hooked on 80s pop rock and New Wave. Even when he wasn’t big on talking, I could get him to monologue about Tiffany and Debbie Gibson’s feud or why Cyndi should have had Madonna’s career. He and Mandy inherited her record collection when she died. I think Mandy still has ‘em all now.”

“I would have pegged him for Nu Metal. Or—”

“Screamo? Nah, he likes his Eighties girls.” Ian grins. But it fades all-too-quickly. “I thought he ran off on me again.”

“Yeah?”

“I was so ready to think the worst.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself. You jumped to a conclusion. We’ve all done it.”

“I told him about Yevgeny.”

“What about him?” Ian glares at him. “What? Can’t I play dumb, too?”

“Not very convincingly. You inherited Monica’s dummy gene, but you're still you.”

“Okay,” sighs Lip as he drums his thumbs against the steering wheel. “You gave Mickey the old Maury Pauvich treatment. How did he take it?”

“Weird. He already knew.” Ian notices the expression on Lip’s face shift to something that would be guilt on a normal person but only manages to be basic acknowledgement for a Southsider. “And I would have thought he’d have a strong opinion either way. He was like, ‘fine as long as we keep on pretending.’ Like he loves my son, but he doesn’t think he could love his own. And when I woke up this morning and found him gone, I figured the truth was too much for him after all.”

“And I’m right in thinking you two are still not...?”

“No, we aren’t.”

“So, what happens if you guys get back together and it gets serious? Will he still not be Yev’s dad if you make an honest woman of him?”

Lip asking questions far beyond the time frame Ian has in mind. He can barely manage how he’d going to keep things together a day at a time, let alone years down the line. “Who said anything about getting married?”

Lip looks at him quizzically. “You love him, right?”

“What’s with all the freaking questions, man? I’m asking you for advice, here.”

“Socratic method isn’t helping?”

“Fucking… no, Lip. It isn’t. You wanna know how close my tether is to snapping every day? Hint: pretty damn close.”

“You know what a bad look it is when the manic depressive guy is telling you to get it together?”

“Either help or don’t, Lip. I’m okay with driving in silence the rest—”

“Okay, fine. Here’s how I see it. Point number one— he shows up again out of the blue and you have him camped out in the boys room in less than two days.”

“His house burnt down.” Ian blurts out, feeling accused.

“Not my point. Listen. The only proviso was that he had to chip in around the house, right? For anyone else that would mean cash in the squirrel fund and wash the dishes now and then. Maybe ask him to hold keep an eye on the little booger monster while you run to the bathroom. Is that how things played out?”

Well, no. That’s not how Mickey has fit into the Gallagher house at all. If anything, Ian can more easily rattle off a list of things Mickey doesn’t do around the house. Ian would honestly have needed to be hospitalized for fatigue by now if Mickey hadn’t stepped up the way he has.  And he’s good with the boys. Carl actually listens to him in a way he really doesn’t with Ian or Lip, Liam adores him, and son or not Mickey is great with Yevgeny.

“No,” Ian answers.

“Right, he’s been helping out you the way Jimmy used to be there for Fi. More, even. And my second point— what was your biggest complaint about Milkovich before he ran off?”

“The way he acted like we weren’t anything except—”

“Except when you were going at it, right. And now it’s the opposite, right? Practically a dry marriage. And now you’re the one—

“I’m the one who’s being withholding. Shit.” Three months of friend zoning the man he offered up room in his home and his heart in order to keep himself from getting hurt again, showing him the occasional flash of affection, then acting like it never happened. He loves Mickey, he’s loved him since he was fourteen. But somewhere along the way he lost the words to express it; first because he didn’t want to scare Mickey off, and now because he was afraid of getting hurt again.

And the fact is Mickey could hurt him again. He could leave. Or Ian could hurt him. But you cannot have the good without the bad, right? Ian wonders whether he’s keeping either him or Mickey a chance at the good by safeguarding himself against the chance of heartache.

Suddenly, Ian feels his phone vibrate. It’s Mandy again. “I should probably take this.”

“Since when do you blow Mandy off?”

“I didn’t want to deal with Milkovich shit when I thought Mickey had… y’know.”

“Dipshit, Mandy’s with him right now.”

Ian’s thumb hits the “accept” button so fast he is surprised he didn’t punch a hole in his phone. “Mands, is Mickey there with you?”

“Finally woke up, huh, Sleeping Beauty?”

“Mick!” Ian feels like his whole body had been holding in a deep breath from the moment he woke up this morning. And now he can finally release it. He has lied to himself for the longest time, told himself Mickey isn’t what he needs in his life anymore. But the illusion of losing Mickey again has been a revelation. Now more than ever he understands just how much he needs Mickey.

Chapter Text

The entire phone call with Ian is incredibly brief, but also cathartic. He can only imagine what went through Ian’s mind this morning when he woke up this morning to find Mickey had vanished without a word of explanation. History repeating itself, most likely. And when Ian wasn’t picking up when he saw Mandy’s name popping up on his phone, Mickey was expecting an uphill battle trying to explain himself the next time they do speak.

But if the conversation that he just finished is any indication, then Ian was worried about him more than anything else. His voice was laced with relief and, if Mickey didn’t know any better, contrition. But what does Ian have to be sorry for? Other than ignoring calls from “Mandy” before the ass crack of dawn. Mickey would have done the same.

Mickey hands the cell back to Mandy, trying not to look her in the eye. “Thanks, Mands.”

“So, he’s on his way, then?”

“Almost here. Lip, too. In case you’re interested.”

“I’m not.”

He smirks. “Then why have you been scrolling through Chicago Poly’s by-laws for the past three hours?”

“Because I worked my ass off getting him into college,” she proclaims heatedly. “Nine schools total when you include the safety schools. Do you know how much time and energy, and money that cost me?” Mickey is shocked that any glass panels in their vicinity hasn’t shattered. “At least if he’d fucked up when he had his head on straight, yeah, he’d fucking deserve to get kicked out.”

“He did fuck up, Mands. He took a crowbar to half the cars in the faculty parking garage.” Mickey explains. “He’s still having his wages garnished to pay off the repairs.”

“But he was not in his right mind. He didn’t even have a diagnosis yet, right?” Mandy asks, pretty confident of the answer.

“Probably not. This was back in September or October. I wasn’t around for any of it.”

“I think I can get Lip an appeal.”

Mickey shoots his left eyebrow up in surprise. “Did he ask you to?”

“Lip doesn’t ask for help. He’s an idiot like that.”

He cannot fault his sister’s logic. He would never acknowledge this aloud, but Lip has a decent handful of positive qualities. He is dedicated to his family, and he has a genius intellect. But that intellect does not extend to common sense. Additionally, he’s stubborn as a mule and convinced anything worth doing he can do it himself. The past few months of basically being the guy’s supervisor has given him a vivid picture of what Lip must have been like in college, the way he thumbs his nose at someone who has even the slightest amount of seniority over him. He thinks of the way Lip gives him grief when he even asks him to restock a single shelf. Now, he imagines an elite college professor dumping his teaching load on the guy’s shoulders and no wonder Lip went off the deep end if stress is such a trigger for his bipolar.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “He is. But I’d at least tell him what you’re up to before you drag him in before a college tribunal or whatever.”

“He’s the one of us that should have gotten outta Southside, Mick.”

“What are you talking about? We all deserve better than we got. None of us deserve the hands we were dealt. Both our families… we got saddled with parents who spent years trying to break us down or not even giving a shit about us. And one thing I learned while I was away was that we didn’t deserve it. And we don’t need to think we’re the trash they raised us to believe.”

“What did you end up doing out in Delaware anyway?”

“I worked overnight stock at a Food Lion, took a couple art classes, and spent a Summer child wrangling at FunLand.”

“FunLand?”

“It’s a mini amusement park along Rehoboth Beach. What about you? You’ve obviously come up in the world. What have you been up to since I left?”

“None of your business, Mick,” she snaps defensively.

“Sorry,” he throws up his hands in surrender. “Didn’t know you had some classified NASA gig or whatever.

They sit in silence for some time before Mandy finally utters, “I’m an escort. But it’s not what you think. Men take me to fancy events, I pretend to be their girlfriend, I smile for photos, and I make them look more charming than they actually are.”

“Rent-a-trophy-wife?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “That’s actually pretty accurate.”

“You like what you do?”

“It’s better than waiting tables.”

“And these guys treat you right?”

She smiles. “When they don’t, I can get them banned from the escort service. For life, if they’re shitty enough.”

“You call me if any of ‘em need to be roughed up, get me?”

“Same old Mickey…”

A short time later, a familiar mop of coppery-red hair bursts into the room. Ian must not have even bothered to fix it before they left the house because he’s a mess of curls. Mickey loves it when his hair is like this. It makes him want to tug on the tendrils and watch them recoil back into place like little springs.

Following close behind is the elder Gallagher brother. Lip is walking along with Liam holding his brother’s hand. Yevgeny is harnessed against his chest, but Lip is still keeping an arm wrapped around him to support the weight. The kid is going to be too big for the harness pretty soon. Mickey hopes Yevgeny is walking before it finally gives up the ghost.

Mickey is standing to wave “hi,” but before he can do so, long freckled arms are wrapped around him, bracing his neck and lower back. His arms flail in a brief moment of confusion, but then his own arms slip around Ian’s broad chest and fingers press into him, gripping him tightly as though he is drowning and Ian is the life raft.  Two years ago… oh, how he would have recoiled from Ian embracing him like this out in the open like this. Even three months ago, he would have been cagey about even letting Mandy or Lip see him wrapped up like this in Gallagher. His Gallagher. His Ian.

Now? As their foreheads touch and their noses caress, he gazes into Ian’s eyes and lets himself relax, let Ian press his lips to his own. Maybe it’s because fireworks are illegal in Illinois that Mickey cannot help but liken them to the sensation of Ian’s lips against his again for only the third time in his nearly twenty-one years of life. Explosive and beautiful. Unbridled and foolishly forbidden to them for far too long.

For once, he is genuinely thankful Lip is around. He’s running interference with Yevgeny— no infants cockblocking them this time.  

When at last the boys separate, Mickey feels like a deep sea diver, coming up to the surface purely because he needs air.

“I’m sorry,” Ian utters as he nestles his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck. “I kept you at arm’s length for so long. And I probably sent you a lot of mixed signals.”

“I’m a big boy, Ian.” Mickey insists. “I can take it.”

“Not from me, not anymore. This was the first morning you weren’t there when I woke up in months. And it made me realize I’ve been a dick for making you wait when all I have wanted to do since the day you got back is to  ask you to stay.”

“And I will. I’ll prove—”

“You don’t have to prove anything.” Ian demurs. “Either I trust you or I don’t.”

“And…?”

“And I’ve waited for you long enough. I do, Mick.” And Ian is kissing him again, a softer, gentler, but more purposeful kiss this time. Mickey feels like he found a fresh spring after crossing a desert.

“Dada! Baba! Hubs!” Claps the infant, now being held in Lip’s arms and as usual quite pleased to be free of his harness.

“That’s right, jellybean.” Ian confirms as he takes Yevgeny from his brother. “Daddy and Papa were hugging.”

“Wait, Papa?”

“You didn’t think he was still asking for his bottle after all these weeks, did you?”

“Not sure if I’m comfortable with this.”

Ian grins patiently at him. “Me and Yev are a package deal, Mick.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And let’s face it— the boy recognizes his fathers.”

Mickey deflated, scratching the back of his neck. “I told you before, Ian. I can love your son, but I don’t know if I am ready to be his father. I don’t think I could if I had to be reminded of what Terry did every time I look at him.”

“What if you shift perspective?”

“Huh?”

Ian sets his jaw, sucking at the inside of his cheeks. “Why look at Yev as your kid with her when he’s just as much your kid with me?”

Mickey scratches at his temple, trying and failing to mask his confusion. “I think you’re missing the biological component there, Freckles.”

Gallagher rolls his eyes. Mickey cannot help but find it cute when he gets annoyed like this. “Okay, maybe not literally. But think about it. Why was she called in in the first place?”

“Cause Terry caught us.”

“Yeah. And he never would have if you hadn’t lo— cared enough about me to invite me over.”

Mickey catches Ian trip over the word and he feels a stab of regret. He should have told Mickey how he feels long ago. And he certainly should have chosen his words more carefully when he has spoken out of fear. Because he does love Ian. Maybe he knew as early as that first time Ian came to see him in juvie. But he has never had the brass to say it out loud. He thought by now his actions would make it crystal clear how he feels. They say actions speak louder than words for a reason, right?

“Is not calling him mine a dealbreaker, E?” Mickey asks. “You know I do love the little stinker, right?”

Ian laughs thickly. “You hear that, Yev? I’m gonna tell him you called him that when he’s older.”

“Well, I’ll have to own up to it then, won’t I?” He asks as he scoops the child out of Ian’s arms to give Ian a break. The child seems very pleased to be held by yet another person in quick succession, babbling for “Mitty Baba.” He ruffles the boy’s wispy dusting of blond hair and kisses the top of his head.

“And you’ll still be around by then, won’t you?”

Mickey takes Ian by the hand, smiling at Ian. Mickey never thought of himself as a smiler. In fact, he doesn’t even like eye contact with most people if he is being completely honest. But it comes easily with Ian. “Take a wild guess.”

“Hey!” Shouts Mandy. Mickey feels like a glass of cold water has been splashed in his face. She is standing with Lip and Liam as well as Iggy. Mickey hadn’t even registered that he had gotten back in. “Col’s out of Recovery. They’re letting us back.”

“You two done making doe eyes at each other?” quips Iggy who seems to have been looped in either by Lip and Mandy or from watching the way Mickey is oblivious to anything besides Ian in the redhead’s presence. This is something he needs to get over if he is going to hold onto Ian. People are going to put two and two together whether or not he’s proclaiming from the rooftop that he’s into dudes or not.

Mickey, drops Ian’s hand and flips his brother off. “Yeah, yeah, we’re coming.”

Colin is sitting up, his hospital bed positioned to keep him upright as best as possible with his braced leg suspended in a stirrup. “What’s with all the Gallaghers?” He asks when the room fills up.

“Just being neighborly,” shrugs Lip.

“Lip drove me over when I got Mandy’s text last night,” Mickey explains. “I’ve been staying with ‘em since the fire.”

“Yeah, I heard you’ve been chummy with the red-headed again.”

”I guess it is getting to be common knowledge, huh?”

“Hey Colin,” chimes in Ian. “How are you feeling?”

“Cloud nine as long as the drugs hold out.” He holds up his hand to show the IV drip inserted into the back of his hand. “Fuckers better keep the good shit coming.”

“Any idea who got the jump on you?” Mickey asks. “That’s the third attack on one of us in three months.”

“Getting a little suspicious there, Mick?” Iggy smirks.

“Yeah. I am. You don’t think it’s weird that someone tries to burn down our house within weeks of Terry and Joey getting gunned down? And now this?”

“Do we really want to discuss this with the egg head and the eagle scout in the room?”

“Ian’s family,” Mickey snaps automatically. He doesn’t second-guess the impulse. It feels true even if it isn’t factual.

“And Lip’s not that bad,” Mandy adds.

“You two can keep a secret?”

Ian nods. “You can trust us.”

Lip shrugs. “Yeah. I can dummy up with the best of ‘em. But maybe I should take Liam up to the cafeteria.”

Mandy looks like she just sucked on a lemon. Mickey can tell she’s disappointed in him. They haven’t been together in two years, but she still expects him to jump into the fray in a way he wouldn’t even be equipped for back when they were knocking boots. “Yeah, maybe you should,” she spits bitterly. “We don’t want to scare the kid.”

After Lip takes Liam away, Ian smooths things over with Mickey’s sister, telling her that whatever or whoever it is that they’re dealing with, Ian would rather keep him out of it now that he is starting to level out. Mandy nods, slowly taking the information in.

Once they are certain they have the room to themselves, Colin explains that there had been two guys waiting for him outside the Hamburger Mary’s parking lot, but only recognized the one. Hector Cadiz, a hitman in the Sinaloa Cartel.

“Why would the cartel be targeting us? Terry worked with ‘em for years.” Mickey asks, finding it hard to believe his fathers drug cartel contacts would be trying of off them.

“You were gone a long time, Mick,” Colin sighs, beleaguered. “Pop dropped Sinaloa and started up arrangements with the Beltran Levya.”

“He fucked around and found out, huh?” The Beltran Levya Cartel were once members in good standing of the Sinaloa. But they broke ties and went their own way some years back. Terry made a show of loyalty by sticking with Sinaloa, but leave it to the man and be fickle. He probably kicked up a hornet’s nest on the way out the door.

“So, what do they want with us? The Cartel is usually good at leaving family out of their politics,” reasons Mandy. “Unless Terry had something else going on.”

“What? Like they’re after Terry’s buried treasure or something?” Ian is joking,  but something sounds oddly accurate about the guess.

“Maybe not a treasure,” Mickey surmises. “But they think we either have our hands on or know about something Terry had over them.”

“What’s with the kid?” Colin asks, no doubt on too much of a buzz from the morphine to want to deal with the ghosts of Terry’s past. “Someone leave a new baby cousin on the front stoop or something?”

Ian is about to answer when Mickey elbows him gently. “Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag. You wanna meet your nephew?”

That stuns the elder Milkovich boys into silence. Mandy has this look of satisfaction as though she had been the one to pull out the carpet from under their brothers’ feet. Meanwhile, it is the look of astonishment on Ian’s face as it slowly melts into tearful joy that tickles Mickey.

That’s my Gallagher for you. Always so freaking soft.

Finally, Colin waves Mickey over who whispers in Yevgeny’s ear, “Go easy on him, kid. He’s on the injured list.”

The kid takes to Colin more easily than Colin takes to him, it takes a minute or two before he stops holding the baby like he could shatter at any moment. Yevgeny has been handed off between Gallagher siblings since day one and entrusted to daycare staff since he was six weeks old. He’s an old pro at letting people hold him.

“What’s his name?” inquires Iggy as they watch the tot settle into place in his uncle’s arms.

“Yevgeny,” Mickey answers.

“Yevgeny Mikhailo Gallagher.” Ian adds.

“You named him after Mick, huh?” Mandy asks, intrigued.

“Yeah, what the hell, Ian?” Mickey can deduce pretty easily why he is only now finding out about Yevgeny’s middle name. But it is throwing him for a loop nonetheless.

“Well… you were gone, and I figured he’s legally a Gallagher, but I wanted him to have some sort of connection to you. I wanted him to know who you are.”

“Oh! I get it!” Iggy exclaims. “You adopted Mickey’s kid!”

“What? You thought they had him together?” Mandy asks incredulously.

“Well, Mick was gone for over nine months,” jokes Iggy. Mickey hopes he is joking. Thick as his older brothers can be, he cannot believe that Iggy can possibly be this stupid. “How do we know he didn’t get you in the family way and you hid in a convent or something?”

Mickey is about to rip into his brother when a certain smarmy voice from the door chimes in, “Do those look like child-bearing hips to you, Iggy?” Lip is there brandishing a cardboard carrier tray of hospital coffees while Liam stands shyly at his legs.

Mickey feels as though he could murder everyone in the room. But instead, he opts to laugh along. In a single morning, his siblings have found out in short order that not only is he gay and has been with Ian off and on for years, but they somehow managed to have a son together. He claimed Yevgeny as his own for the first time and somehow, the world didn’t stop. In fact, he feels better for it than he ever would have imagined. So, he is going to laugh along. He is going to let himself enjoy the moment.

His life hasn’t afforded him many moments of peace. Even now his eldest remaining brother is laid up from an assault and he is wondering whether he has a target of his own on his back. But one of his biggest fears has just been relieved. He came out to his family and the earth didn’t open up to swallow him. They don’t even seem shocked. And he is going to take the wins where he can find them.

Chapter Text

It has been five weeks since Ian and Mickey officially got back together. Four and a half since they threw out the “let’s take it slow” notion and started sleeping together again. And it has been just over two weeks since they gave up the pretense of Mickey staying in the Boy’s room.   

Ian is still getting accustomed to waking up each morning and finding Mickey by his side, or sometimes plastered to his chest (much to Ian’s surprise) quite content to be the little spoon. Not that he minds waking up to Mickey one bit. This particular morning, he wakes up to find Mickey’s brawny arm slung across his torso. Looking over, he finds Mickey laying on his stomach. His other arm is curled around a pillow turned on its side like a body pillow. Ian loves the way Mickey’s features are soft and relaxed before he wakes up in the morning. It makes him look angelic.  

He runs his fingers through Mickey’s hair. It is soft and cloud-like as it always is before his morning pomade ritual. Ian presses his lips to the crown of Mickey’s head, still in awe of the fact that he gets to have this now. He gets to see the way he drools from the left corner of his mouth, the way his body twitches in the minutes before he falls asleep, and he gets to enjoy the way his briefs follow the curvature of his ass when he sleeps clutching the blanket rather than covering himself with it.  

Ian used to curse the fact that work has completely reset his internal clock to the point that he even wakes up at five in the morning even on his days off. But now he gets this extra time to watch Mickey at his most peaceful.  

Before he stares long enough to qualify being creepy, he pulls on last night’s sleep shorts and a tank before he heads downstairs to prep the coffee pot. The house is so still this time of day, especially in the summer when not even the cadence of the morning school routine threatens to disturb the peace prematurely.   

Ian cannot help but imagine all those years that Fiona was the central spike keeping all the gears of the Gallagher family greased and turning. He imagines her checking in on each room to watch her younger siblings at their most peaceful and feeling bolstered  by the serenity.     

Once the coffee pot is full, he takes two of the rooster mugs from the drain board and pours cups for the two of them. By the time he arrived back at the master bedroom, he can hear commotion on the other side of the door.   

“Baba Baba! Ubbs!”  

He hears a faint straining groan and Mickey saying, “Man, you really are committed to this whole ‘papa’ thing aren’t you?”  

Ian elbows the door open to find Mickey, still in just his underthings, standing at the crib, holding Yevgeny high above his head. The child is squealing happily at this morning’s session of “flying baby.” This scene of his lover and their child having a bit of early morning play is so ridiculously domestic that Ian doesn’t think it can be real. Six months ago, he had well and truly given up hope that he would ever have this. Four months ago, he would let himself believe that he could have this even with Mickey back in his orbit.   

The three of them form a young family within the larger family unit and they have been like this long before Ian and Mickey got back together. And now he has to worry about how to keep that family safe.  

“Yeah, that’s probably on me,” Ian admits. “I showed him your picture a lot for the first couple months after he was born.”  

“What picture?” Mickey inquires seeming suddenly self-conscious. He squats down to lower Yevgeny to the floor before he accepts his morning coffee from Ian.  

“Remember the day you kicked the crap out of Ned?” There is a lack of recognition on Mickey’s face. “The older guy I was seeing.”  

“Oh, yeah. Daddy Warbucks.”   

“It’s from later that day when we ended up in our spot at the warehouse.”   

Ian grabs his phone from where it is charging by the bed and flips through the favorites album in his photos. He hands his phone over to Mickey, who is currently letting Yevgeny use him as a base to bring himself to standing position again. It won’t be long now before Yevgeny is walking.  

Mickey looks at the picture of himself still a few weeks shy of eighteen, his hair gently spiked and wearing a sleeveless black and tan shirt. He hands back the phone. “I looked so stocky in that shirt.”  

“I know,” Ian smiles with a suggestive wink. “Not sure if you know this, but you bulk up pretty nicely.”  

“Oh, yeah?” Asks Mickey, cocking his head and grinning devilishly. “Short and brawny does it for you, huh?”  

“Never called you short, Mick,” refutes Ian as he accepts the phone back from Mickey.  

 “Yeah, sure. And I never point out your red hair.”  

Ian takes a sip of his coffee and settles back into his side of the bed. “I swear, if you wrote a book of all the things you call me, the ginger nicknames could be their own chapter.”  

“Hi-cha?” Inquires the one-year-old with interest as he paws at Mickey’s knees. “Hi-cha,” is the newest word in his vocabulary. What the child is actually trying to say is “high chair,” which is what their son has decided to call all his meals.  

“Still a little early for your breakfast, kid,” Mickey protests as he squats down to pick Yevgeny up.  

“He’s awake,” Ian counters. “As far as Yev’s concerned, that means it’s time for him to eat, Mick.”  

“The kid is lucky he isn’t being raised a Milkovich.”  

“Don’t talk like that.” Yes, Ian is grateful that Yevgeny will never know his grandfather Terry, but two of his favorite people in the whole world just happen to share the old bastard’s last name. True, neither Mickey nor Mandy are devoid of their faults and they both have their fair share of trauma, but just like the Gallagher siblings, the Milkoviches look after their own.  

“I mean it, E. Growing up in my house, you’d be lucky if mom remembered to go shopping for groceries. And you would be getting Terry’s scraps most of the time.”  

“You’re better than Terry’s legacy, Mick. You all are.”  

“Ian,” Mickey sighs. “There are literally people trying to murder my family and we still don’t know what they want.”  

And that feels like it ought to be Ian’s cue to concede the point to Mickey. He knows that to one level or another, Mickey has been worried about his and Yevgeny’s safety ever since he started acknowledging Yevgeny as his son.  

Ian sets down his coffee. He can manage a couple steamy sips just to get the initial flow of caffeine in his blood stream, but he needs the rest of it to cool down. He doesn't know how Mickey manages to shotgun his coffee when it’s still piping hot the way he does. But then, Ian also doesn’t know how Mickey manages to drink his coffee black. Perhaps, he simply loves to thumb his nose at creature comforts.   

Mickey gives in to the child’s demands before either of them manage to finish their coffee and Ian follows. Days off always amuse Ian because Mickey always takes charge with Yevgeny, as opposed to during the work week when the boy needs to follow Ian’s schedule at least as long as it takes to get him to the daycare. Even after they’ve been truly back together for over a month, Mickey is still showing Ian that he can be relied upon. Ian knows in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t exactly parting the Red Sea, but it still feels miraculous.   

But as happy as Ian is with how things are between them now, Mickey’s prolonged time away remains a mystery to him. He knows Mickey spent a few weeks in Ohio before he made his way to the Atlantic coast. And he knows Mickey had a regular blue-collar job in a grocery store and took a couple art classes at community college, but Ian knows very little beyond that.   

Mickey likes to paint this picture of himself as the ultimate loner, it takes a while to earn his trust and even longer for him to admit it, as Ian can attest. But Ian truly believes no man can be an island, and he hates to think of Mickey spending nearly eighteen months isolated and refusing to let people in.   

Did he have friends? Surrogate family? A lover? The idea of Mickey fucking around with other guys while he was gone doesn’t exactly make him jump for joy. But the notion of Mickey having someone while he was away at least brings Ian comfort to think that Mickey wasn’t alone. Even if he would knock this theoretical guy’s lights out if Ian ever meet him.   

Ian doesn’t have too much time to reflect, let alone a good segue to ask about Mickey’s past when Debbie comes in through the back door. She only just turned fifteen a few weeks back, but she is already following Ian and Lip’s leads, determined to flaunt her teenage independence as much as she likes. Ian didn’t even know she was up, much less out of the house at six in the morning. She has a brown paper grocery bag in her hand, the opening rolled up and held so tightly in her hand that her sweaty palm is threatening to soak the bag through.   

“Just getting in?” Asks Mickey, aiming to sound disinterested.   

She brushes past Mickey and looks to Ian instead. “I’ll be upstairs.” And then she is stomping her way up to her room.  

As much as he is essentially helping Ian co-run the Gallagher household, Mickey tends to tread lightly with Debbie. Unlike Liam and Carl who treat him like an extra older brother, and something of a mentor in Carl’s case, Debbie always wanted a seat at the adults’ table. Mickey and Debbie’s dynamic always felt like Lip’s relationship with Fiona’s old boyfriend, Jimmy/Steve. But Ian has certainly noticed Mickey’s footing has become more precarious with her ever since she entered the “terrible teens” phase of puberty.   

“Any idea what that’s about?” Ian asks.   

“I don’t know. Mattie blocked her number. And you know what? Good for him.” Ian and Mickey haven’t really discussed either of their opinions on Debbie’s severe right turn in behavior. It’s the elephant in the room that they both just hope will resolve itself. But if either of them were truly to confront his baby sister about the fact that she sexually forced herself on some guy, then they would be opening old wounds. And Ian doesn’t think either of them are ready for that.   

“Maybe she’s having women’s issues,” Mickey shrugs at last while he struggles to convince Yevgeny that strained peaches are worth trying.   

Ian thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “Not her time.”  

Mickey’s eyebrows flare up to half mast in surprise. “You know your sister’s cycle?”  

Ian doesn’t know what specifically it is that amuses him, but it always tickles him the way Mickey thinks Ian is oblivious to women’s health. As if being a gold star homosexual allowed him to skip the women’s section of sex ed in tenth grade. But he grins and shrugs. “What? Just ‘cause I wasn’t running around banging chicks like Angie Zhago, you think I don’t know shit?”  

“I wouldn’t exactly say what Fat Angie and me got up to gives me any sorta edge, here,” snickers Mickey.  

“Couldn’t get it up?”  

“She was into anal,” Mickey smirks like a master magician revealing the trick of his illusion to his audience. “Never actually ever touched a fucking vag until after Terry pistol whipped me. And it’s not like I had to pull out a fuckin’ abacus to figure out—”  

“Twenty-eight days. It’s a lunar month, Mick. Would you be this surprised if I were tracking a werewolf?”  

“Yeah, but the surprise would mostly be about the fucking werewolf. ”  

By seven thirty-five have Yevgeny fed and changed for the morning and Ian is just setting their son down in the playpen when Carl comes downstairs, still wiping last night’s crust from his eyes. He is followed by Liam, bright eyed and exuberant. The youngest Gallagher sibling has come to expect a little bit more than Fruit Hoops on the days when two or more of the adult members of the family have the morning off. He’s already clamoring for Ian’s apple cinnamon waffles by the time he climbs into his chair at the kitchen table, sitting on his knees.   

“Apple waffles, Ian?” asks-slash-demands the exuberant six-year-old. “Please?”  

“Ey, I was gonna make my banana pancakes, but if you want waffles...”  

Ian gives his boyfriend a healthy dose of side-eye as Mickey retrieves the eggs and bacon from the fridge before he grins at his kid brother and says, “Sure, Peanut. Wanna keep your nephew company while we take care of that?”  

Liam nods, excited that he didn’t have to come up with talking points to get his breakfast of choice. And in a flash, he’s headed to the living room.  

“Carl, can you keep an eye on the kids?” Ian asks. He likes to treat Liam as a little more of a big kid now. But he’s still only six. He needs some oversight with the baby.  

“Can I get a cup of coffee, first?” asks the bleary fourteen-year-old, still rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hands. “I didn’t get in until late last night.”  

If Ian were truly trying to parent Carl and Debbie, he would insist on some sort of curfew even during the Summer months. But by the time he and Lip were their ages, Fiona used to give them both a freer reign. And Ian believes if paying it forward. Cocaine parties aside, Ian still believes his eldest sibling set a very good example for him to follow.  

“Who were you out with, kid?” Mickey asks.  

“Nobody.”  

“Nobody, eh?” Asks Mickey. “You staying outta trouble like I told you, kid? Being safe?”  

Carl rolls his eyes. “Nothing to report, man.”  

“Good to hear you’re being careful, man.” Mickey tilts his head and runs his fingers through Carl’s hair, which is starting to get some real length to it. Mickey whispers something to Carl and Ian pretends not to notice. They have a bond that Ian doesn’t want to interfere with. Ian enjoys that Mickey has dynamics with his siblings that go beyond the context of “their brother’s boyfriend.” So, he is content to let them have their little conspiratorial moments without him butting in.  

Shortly afterward, Carl does set up shop in the living room keeping an eye on the smallest Gallaghers. The boys watch PBS.  While Carl makes at least some modicum of effort to pay attention to what they are watching while they play, mostly he finds himself checking the Lock Screen on his phone every few minutes.   

By the time the kitchen smells like a Bob Evans, Lip comes down the stairs dressed for a shift at the Kash N Grab, khaki slacks and a plain white shirt, his apron slung over his shoulder. “These big Friday morning breakfasts are starting to be a regular occurrence, huh?”  

Ian shrugs as he grates the side of an apple into the mixing bowl. “Yeah, I guess things are finally starting to level out around here.”   

He instantly regrets the word choice. “Leveled out” along with “evened out” and “balanced,” is a phrase so often bandied about when they discuss Lip’s mental health. So often, it seems like a mythical promise just always out of Lip’s reach. Thanks to months of therapy and several medication adjustments, Lip is as close to his old self as he has been in some time. And yet his life will never be what it was. And the other Gallaghers will always look at him differently than they once did, Ian included. Gone is the image of Lip as the wunderkind who is going to lift the family up from below the poverty line someday. And in its place is a version of Lip who will always need a support system. Ian knows Lip still mourns the relative independence he once had.   

Lip’s expression shifts, but not quite in the way Ian expects. His mouth is pinched and his eyes dart back and forth before he decides to speak. “It might not be leveled out for all that long.”  

“Why?” Asks Ian, “What’s that supposed to mean?”  

Lip extracts his phone from his pocket, unlocking it before he hands it off to Ian. “I woke up to this message from Linda.”  

Ian reads.   

Linda: None of my business, but your little sister just left the store with two EPTs  

“EPT’s?”  

Lip puts up a finger and whispers, “Early pregnancy tests.”  

“What?” Asks Mickey Mickey, whispering in a sarcastic stage  whisper. “Are you telling me the girl who does stupid shit like raping guys in their sleep got herself knocked up? Shocked.”  

“Mick…” sighs Ian pleadingly. “Not the time.”  

“Well, if she is in the family way, no need disrupting breakfast,” shrugs Mickey. “Let’s feed the troops first.”  

Ian can’t fault the logic. There’s no use trying to get the milk back in the cow’s udder. They may as well have one more morning of relative peace before the impending family drama explodes.   

A short while later, Debbie joins the family around the table, not a hint that anything is amiss. “Something smells good,” she smiles. No sign of the sullen brat she has been lately. Ian wonders if this is her way of buttering them up before the big reveal.   

They enjoy their breakfast. The apple cinnamon pancakes were a rare treat to begin with, as they are Ian’s specialty and he rarely has the time in the morning. It has become an even rarer occasion ever since Mickey has become a fixture of the household and shoulders a lot of responsibility in the kitchen now.   

Liam is finished after two pancakes and three pieces of bacon. Ian is later thankful that his youngest sibling has scurried upstairs to play before the family feud begins in earnest. Lip has been glaring at her askance all through the meal. It’s easy to forget sometimes that even though Ian is the one really running the household, Lip still is the eldest sibling. And as such he will never back away from weighing in on his siblings’ behavior.   

“You went to town on your plate, huh?” Asks Lip neutrally.  

“I guess I did.”  

“You must’ve been famished. Huh, Debs?”  

“Yeah. I went on an early walk today, really worked up an appetite.”  

“I remember back when I had the time to run on the regular,” muses Ian.   

“Yeah,” agrees Lip, his tone pointed. “He used to get home and be so hungry he would act like he could eat for two.”   

Ian turns from where he had been feeding Yevgeny a few small experimental pieces of bacon, flinching like he can feel the impending argument on the wind. “Careful,” warns Mickey, clutching Ian’s thigh before Ian can address either the potential teen mom-to-be or the confrontational eldest Gallagher. “Let ‘em go, E. Stay above the fray.”  

“Got something you want to tell us, Debs?” Lip insists.   

“Not really.”   

“That so? ‘Cause I hear you took a little stop on that early morning stroll of yours. Figured me and Milkovich wouldn’t be on duty this early, huh?”  

“What’s going on?” Asks Carl, confused.  

“Could you check on Liam for me, Carl?”  

“Fuck no, where’s my popcorn?”  

“Your boss told you, right? Fucking bitch camel jockey.”  

“Whoa, way out of line, Riding Hood,” snaps Mickey. If the circumstances were different, Ian thinks he’d be applauding Mickey’s growth. He used to be a font of offensive religious epithets for their assertive boss when they were younger.  

“She didn’t have any damn right. That’s gotta be against some customer confidentiality law.”  

“Debbie,” coaxes Ian, playing the good cop to Lip’s bad cop, “Do you think you’re pregnant?”  

Before she can answer, a stranger appears at the back door. She is thin, with stringy strawberry blonde hair. She wearing a leather jacket and carries a motorcycle helmet. She is probably only a year or two younger than Ian.  

“Sandy?” Asks Mickey, standing. There is shock in his voice. Ian knows that name, but he hasn’t seen the girl the name belongs to since she was on the other side of puberty.  

“Your cousin?”  

Mickey closes the difference between them and puts his hands to her shoulders. “Sands, what are you doing here?” Mickey asks. “Shit, you guys didn’t get hit, did you?”  

“Get hit?”  

“Jamie and Uncle Ronnie? You guys are fine?”  

“You mean the cartel shit? Mick, we’re fine. Debs?”  

Debbie stands and crosses to take Sandy by the hand. “Come on, I got the stuff upstairs.”  

“Wait a minute, how do you two know each other?” Asks Mickey, confused.  

“Because we’re fucking, asshole.” Hisses the younger Milkovich.  

“When did she suddenly decide to be interesting?” Asks Carl, filling the silence after the girls go upstairs.   

“What do you think was up with the pregnancy tests if they’re…?”  

“I don’t know, Mick,” shrugs Ian, who is waiting for the world to stop spinning around him so he can catch up.  

“Do you think this is a ‘pregnancy pact’ situation?”  

“Still don’t know, Mick.”  

“I can’t believe she came out before I did,” Carl grumbles.  

Ian and Lip both do a double take, but with very different reactions. Ian grins and offers his little brother a fist bump. “Alright! Welcome to the pink mafia, little bro. Gay?”  

“Bisexual.”  

“Cool.”  

Lip on the other hand looks like he would have been much more at home if Carl just confessed to treason. “Am I seriously the only straight Gallagher?”  

“Fiona,” shrugs Ian.  

“She probably has a prison wife by now,” chuckles Mickey. “And I’ve seen the way you look at the paying customers. You aren’t all that straight, Phillip.”  

Lip, accordingly, flips him off.  

Chapter Text

How is Ian managing to remain so calm? Mickey wonders as he stalks up and down the second-story hallway, practically wearing a groove into the floor. He is at a loss for why is he the one on tenterhooks? Maybe it were Mandy holed up with Debbie waiting for their pregnancy tests to reveal the future, he would feel different. Sure, Sandy is his cousin. She is family, and he knows he should at least be concerned about her well-being. And he is. But she has Jamie if she wants the protective big brother experience.  

Is it Little Red that has him so worked up? Again, she has two big brothers and a jailbird older sister. How could he be palpitating with such panic and rage? 

“Why am I the only one stressing out, here?”  

Ian looks from where he is sitting on the floor with Yevgeny directly facing the bathroom door. He blinks a few times like he is taking in the question comprehensively. “Trust me Mick, I am far from calm,” he insists. “I’m just not pacing like a tiger in a cage.” 

Mickey suddenly feels a wave of insecurity flow through him. He plants his feet and hugs the wall, pressing his forehead against the pane of a family photo. “She’s barely fifteen, E.” 

“I know.” 

“Y’know, I still think of her as just this little apple polisher who used to follow around my sister like a baby duck.” 

Ian nods. “You know, I always figured Mandy was into it. You know, being the only girl in a houseful of boys. She kind of treated her like a kid sister.” 

“Bet Fiona loved that.” 

“I think she did at first; just happy to see Debs had any friends at all.” Ian chews on his lip. “Fiona got her panties in a twist with her after she and Lip started getting serious. But compared to her friends from school, Mandy’s fucking Mother Teresa.”  

Mickey braces him against the wall nearest Ian and lowers himself to sit beside him. He reaches behind him, meaning to grab his cigarettes and lighter only to remember he is still wearing lounge shorts, and his Marlboros are still in yesterday’s jeans. He silently curses himself. He could really use the quick stress relief of a nicotine hit. 

“Need a smoke?” Ian asks. Mickey wishes his body language wasn’t so obvious.  

“No!” he lies and reaches over to take Yevgeny off Ian’s hands for a few minutes. “I just need something to do with my hands. That’s all.” 

Yevgeny tells what Mickey imagines to be a whopper of a story, although he can’t make a lot of it out. But the words he assumes are “snacks” and “Big Bird” features a lot. Sorry kid, we’ll plant you in front of the old boob tube with some Cheerios after we get things sorted out with your aunts. Is Sandy your aunt? First cousin once removed? Whatever. It’s all the fucking same thing.  

Mickey leans back low enough to put up one leg comfortably, letting his son lay prone against the length of his lower leg while his little hands curl around Mickey’s thumbs for support. “Flying Baby” has a high likelihood of making the baby forget what he presently focused on entirely. This morning is no exception. Even for a baby, Yevgeny seems prone to fits of the giggles. Or perhaps this is the difference between growing up in the Gallagher house as opposed to his own Milkovich upbringing—still dirt poor, but at least there is room for joy. 

“They’re not ready for this, E.” He utters before he even realizes he’s speaking aloud. “Especially not your sister. She’s only fifteen.”  

Ian rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to let out a knot of tension. “I don’t know, Mick. When I was her age, I already had an affair with a married man under my belt and I was visiting you in juvie like a teenage prison widow.” 

“That’s different. At least we didn’t have a kid back then. I know I wasn’t ready when I was her age. Hell, we’re nineteen and twenty. And we barely got our act together.” 

“I wouldn’t say that. I was barely holding on by a thread when you came back. But I was still holding on.” Ian turns to face him more directly. “And once you were here, I don’t know how I managed to get by for so long without you.” 

“Any idea how you wanna handle this if she is knocked up?” 

Ian doesn’t have an answer for him. And Mickey isn’t surprised. He can just picture the gears turning in his lover’s head asking himself “what would Fiona do?” It’s irksome how often he hears Ian muttering the thought to himself. After all, Fiona wasn’t exactly on the cover of Good Housekeeping herself. The crazy bitch got herself arrested because she let a four-year-old go hog-wild on her cocaine. Mickey’s no saint. He has made his fair share of dubious decisions. But he has more sense than to endulge in some nose candy five feet away from a child he’s responsible for. Maybe it’s because he set the very low bar of being better than Terry and Laura that he couldn’t even fathom pulling that shit around Liam and Yevgeny.  

The real kicker, though, is that the eldest Gallagher sibling thought she could win her court case. Mickey would have thrown the book at her merely on the grounds of being such a huge fucking idiot. The whole lot of them were just lucky Lip was over eighteen and Ian wasn’t that far behind or they would have ended up all scattered throughout the system for the second time in under a year.   

What would have happened to our kid if Ian had been shipped off to a group home? Wonders Mickey, unnerved. Would the prostitute have gone through with the abortion? Or would it have been too late in the pregnancy for that and the kid would have been shunted off somewhere in the system? Without even realizing it, he takes Yevgeny closer, pulling the baby into a protective hug. 

“Fiona would try to control the situation,” Ian finally surmises. “I can picture her hogtying Debbie up and dragging her down to Planned Parenthood.” 

“Sound like that’s not what you have in mind?” asks Mickey, detecting the doubt in Ian’s tone.  

Ian shakes his head. “Fiona’s a sledge hammer when she thinks she’s in the right. Did I tell you about the time Lip dropped out of school?” 

Mickey shakes his head. 

“He thought he knocked up Karen Jackson. He wanted to get a job to support her. Fi kicked him out.” 

“Shit. Don’t tell Lip I said this, but that actually sounds like husband material.” 

“He didn’t actually get a job. He crashed on Jimmy’s couch. But he had to promise to go back to school before she let him come back. I can just picture her making some shithead ultimatums with Debs, too.” 

“So, what’s our play, then?” 

He pops his lips a few times before he answers, “We’re just going to have to lay it out to her how much we can or can’t support her.” 

The bathroom door opens and Ian scurries to his feet. Mickey hands the baby to Ian before he too stands up. Debbie stands in the bathroom doorway, a sour expression on her face. Behind her, Mickey can make out the appearance of his cousin, looking like she has been dealt a heavy blow. She leans on the sink, fingers laced through her the stringy strawberry blonde hair on either side of her temples. 

“What’s the story?" Ian asks. 

“Yevgeny’s gonna have a baby cousin.” 

“So, you’re preggers, then?” asks Mickey. Debbie looks like she has a few choice words for the pair of them, but then continues walking, shutting her bedroom door behind her.  

Mickey looks to Ian, then over at Sandy. His lover seems to understand his intend before he does because Ian is holding out his arms to take Yevgeny from Mickey. “Go on, have your ‘cousins’ moment. I bet you guys haven’t even had a chance to catch up since you came home.” 

“Longer,” Mickey nods. “Try ‘since before that first stint in juvie.’”  

Mickey steps inside the bathroom. The door was ajar. It’s not as if he doesn’t know whether or not she’s decent. Once he is inside, she looks up to see him, and it is as though Mickey is a gazelle and his cousin is a leopard on the hunt. He wants to back right on out the door. But maybe that’s an old habit he needs to nip in the bud. His relationship with Ian teaches him every day that he is capable of having the tough conversations that need to happen. But he needs to be able to have them with someone other than his boyfriend and occasionally his sister. Sandy is one of the few other Milkoviches he knows with half a lick of common sense. He should be able to hold an adult conversation with her, shouldn’t he? 

“So.” he looks around the bathroom as if an ice breaker topic is laying on he tiled floor somewhere. “How did you and Debs get so chummy?” 

“She used to spar with Royal.” 

“Royal?” 

“My husband.” 

Mickey’s eyes narrow in confusion and he thumbs at the left corner of his mouth. “You’re married? How old even are you?” 

“Seventeen, fuckface. I got knocked up at fifteen and my dad insisted.” 

“Oh... kay. And when you say Debs was sparring, was that code for—?” 

“They sparred, Mick. Boxing. At the gym.”    

 “Didn’t even know she went to a gym.”  

Sandy bites at her lower lip ruefully. “Yeah? Well, Debbie’s her own fucking person, isn’t she?” 

“So, you’re a mom, huh?” 

“I had a kid. Doesn’t make me a mom.” She crosses her arms over her chest. "Royal raises Prince and I pay him one seventy-five in support every month plus I let him mooch off my gym membership."

“Royal and Prince?” Echoes an incredulous Mickey. 

She palms her forehead, reddening as she runs her fingers through her hair. “Yeah, I left naming it up to him. And what can I say? My husband is a menace.” 

Mickey forces an uncomfortable laugh as he turns his gaze away from his cousin, where he catches sight of two pregnancy test indicators laying on the tank of the toilet. Both of them have a a splash of blue visible in the test window.  

“So, what was the plan, here? You and Debs both took a break from bein’ scissor sisters long enough to try and get in on some pregnancy pact?” 

The question catches Sandy by surprise. She looks at Mickey as though he asked her if has grown tentacles. “What? No, Mick. I’m not trying for another of these things. One was bad enough. I haven’t even been with a guy since Royal. The truth is she was seeing someone else when we met. And... well, it’s not my fault if he wasn’t able to hold her attention.” She tries to seem hard as nails, but she cannot help but let a ghost of a smile dance across her face. Cockiness comes natural in their family. 

“Then what’s up with two pregnancy tests?” For emphasis, he holds one up. 

“You know there’s urine on that thing, right?” 

He rolls his eyes. “I got a kid, too, Sands. Piss ain’t even the grossest thing I’ve had to touch this morning. And if you’re not both knocked up, why bother with two positive tests?” 

“Look closely, you dumb fuck. Two different brands.” He does as instructed and compares the two plastic indicators. Slightly different shapes, one has a thick blue line while the other has two thin blue ones. And the one in his hand is the only one with the Clear Blue logo. “She wanted a spare test to be sure.” 

“So, Debbie’s the only one with a bun in the oven, then? Why’d she need you here? Moral support?” 

“Yes. Idiot. I’m her girlfriend.” 

“She’s had babies on the brain for weeks and weeks now. If she’s preggo, why did she storm out of here like the world’s ending?” 

“You wanna know?” She asks with an edge to her voice. “Curious out of the goodness of your heart or are you investigating on behalf of Archie Comics out there?” 

“Ian and Yevgeny are my family, cuz. And his family is my family. Debbie and all the rest of ‘em.” Mickey feels oddly assertive considering this brushes up so close against emotional intelligence, which is far from his comfort zone. The truth is even if he didn’t become close with Ian’s siblings until after he came to live with the Gallaghers, Ian still talked about them and confided with him. Even if he would never admit it, he has had a vested interest in Ian’s family for years. “And you know what family means to us  Milkoviches.” 

“That so?” Mickey can practically feel the burn of the acid dripping from her words. “Where were you when Terry and Joey got gunned down?” 

“I was… It’s none of your business where I was. Or why.” 

“Uh-huh. I see.” She murmurs as she heads to the door. “If you must know the reason she looked like she was about to commit murder, it’s ’cause of me. We had a fight and now she’s not too pleased with me.” 

“Yeah? Why’s that?” 

“She really wants to keep that baby. And I asked her to choose me instead.” And then she’s gone before Mickey can even come up with a follow-up question. 

Chapter Text

Ian and Mickey both spend the next two weeks trying to corner Debbie into having the conversation. But Debbie is her father’s daughter and is adept at wriggling her way out of situations until she wants to deal with them. Ian suspects Debbie wants to keep on dodging them until the pregnancy is too far along for them to even consider an abortion.   

And as it turned out, Planned Parenthood was Fiona’s immediate impulse when the two eldest Gallagher brothers and Mickey next visited her in Statesville. “She’s too young,” Fiona had insisted. “She’s going to dump that kid on you and expect you to raise it for her so she can play at being ‘mommy’ after school.”   

And Ian wasn’t able to fault her logic. Sure, Debbie used to run Gallagher Daycare single-handedly, but babysitting isn’t parenting. A sitter’s responsibility only lasts from drop-off to pickup. Ian knows firsthand that parenting is every moment of every day. He still finds himself worrying about his son’s well-being when Yevgeny is in daycare just as much if not more than when he is with him or Mickey. Debbie would treat this baby like one of the dolls she used to push around in a broken stroller.  

“You’ve got to convince her to get an abortion,” Fiona exhorted. “You guys got your hands full with your own kid. Don’t fall into the same trap I did. I love you guys, but don’t get stuck raising someone else’s kids. Get her to Planned Parenthood and get it taken care of.”  

But Ian isn’t Fiona— he is not the type of person to determine someone else’s fate for them. Perhaps it is an essential difference in their leadership styles. Fiona was in a position from early on when she had to make the hard calls back when even Lip and Ian were too young to really weigh in on decisions. But Ian is the quintessential middle child— he favors collaboration and compromise. And Ian is determined that when they finally manage to sit her down, they are going to hash this out like adults. He won’t treat his sister like a child, he won’t pull any punches. Because if Debbie goes through with this pregnancy, she better be ready to step into adulthood. Fifteen years old or not.  

But at the same time, he still wishes Lip were up for taking the reins again. Or at the very minimum, he would love to be relieved of all the weight bearing down on him. He misses being the Gallagher sibling who got to fade into background and let the louder and much bolder personalities of his siblings take center stage. But Fiona still has just over a year until the next time she is up for parole, Lip had been stable for a while, but he’s been spiking lately and Mandy badgering him about school is probably adding to the stress, and Debbie seems to only be getting to be less mature as she ages.   

“Any word from her?” Ian asks as he gets home on a late-July Tuesday to find Lip and Mandy sitting at the coffee table with what appears to be an intimidating amount of paperwork. Liam is sitting nearby, seemingly all played out for the day. The jumbo-sized coloring book in front of him goes neglected as he stares engrossed at whichever Real Housewives show Mandy has playing in the background.   

Noticing Liam makes Ian feel like he has come home empty-handed. Liam has been home with Lip as it was his day off. Meanwhile, Linda agreed to cover the last few hours of Mickey’s shift (and break in her eldest son Sid on the cash register) so he could pick up Yevgeny from the hospital daycare for an appointment with the pediatrician. It occurs to Ian that Mickey should be headed home by now, although Yev is getting another round of boosters today. And Yevgeny is fussy about needles.   

“She’s making herself scarce,” sighs Lip from behind a packet with a dizzying amount of official-looking text on it.   

“Yeah,” adds Mandy with the lid of a black felt-tip pen poking out of the corner of her mouth. “She’s not banking a lot of time at Sandy’s either.”  

“Do we at least know if she’s coming home at night?”  

Lip shrugs. “At the very least, we know she’s going to class. There’s a voicemail on the landline bitching about her refusing to go to gym class. And something about her getting flour all over the place.”  

“What do you guys plan on telling her when you get the chance?”  

She looks between the two of them, but Lip deflects, turning to face his younger brother and steepling his fingers. “Ian?”  

“I just want to make sure she knows where our line in the sand is. And what we expect of her if she decides to keep the baby,” Ian explains. “No ultimatums.”  

“Good,” hums Lip.   

“But she’s gotta know we can only support her so much. She’s the parent here. Not Lip, not me and Mickey. She’s the one’s gonna raise it, pay for childcare, diapers, all of it.”  

“Look at you laying down the law,” enthuses Mandy as she circles spots on the paperwork for Lip to initial.   

“Yeah. Fiona was right. It’s one thing that have Yevgeny and I’m Liam’s legal guardian.” Ian feels like he is ruminating aloud, verbalizing thoughts that have been trying to coalesce for the past fortnight. Legally, he is also Debbie and Carl’s guardian, but the dynamic isn’t parental the way it is with Liam. “I chose them both. They’re my kids. I’m not gonna let Debbie do to me what do what Frank and Monica did to Fiona. I’m not letting her leave me holding the bag.”  

“I’m your kid?” Asks Liam with a mild speech impediment to his R sounds. He seems suddenly engaged in what the adults are talking about now that his name has been mentioned. “What about Fifi?”  

“She loves you, too, peanut.” Answers Ian, kneeling and planting a kiss on the crown of his baby brother’s head. “She tells you how much she misses you every time we bring you over to visit, doesn’t she? But until her adult punishment is over, you still got me. And Lip. And Mickey.”  

“But she’s coming back, right?”  

Oh, no. It has been quite a while since Liam asked. Getting him adjusted to life without her had been an ordeal in the first place. Even with the night terrors he had in the wake of the cocaine incident, he was still far too young to understand that what had happened to him had been Fiona’s fault and the reason Fiona doesn’t live with them right now. Ian is thankful he still doesn’t understand what happened or even that the place the visit her at is a prison (because she is in a yellow jumpsuit instead of dressing like the Hamburglar). When Fiona eventually does get released, he doesn’t want her to come back to a resentful child. Fiona may have been taking care of the family, but everyone else has some memories of Monica’s attempts at parenting. Fiona is the only mother Liam has ever known.   

“Of course she’ll be back,” reassures Ian. “Maybe not soon, but hopefully her punishment will be up before this time next year.”  

“A whole ‘nother year?” A year may as well be a lifetime at six years of age.   

“She did something really naughty,” Lip stresses. “Grown-up punishments take a lot longer than when we have you sit on the steps for fifteen minutes. You want to come the next time we visit?”  

The boy thinks. “Yeah, I think I wanna see ‘er.”  

Lip may have needed to yield legal guardianship to Ian back when his mental health first deteriorated to the point where he couldn’t even take care of himself, but he is still good with the younger Gallaghers. In fact, Ian guesses that Debbie is more prone to listen to him specifically because he isn’t the final authority the way Ian is. It would also explain why Carl turns to Mickey.  

With the six-year-old’s meltdown averted, Ian tells Liam to go upstairs and straighten up his half of the boys’ room before dinner. Ian plops down on the unoccupied easy chair, hand to his head and massaging his temples between his thumb and forefinger.   

He feels like every day lately is another chance to just barely avert another catastrophe. He was starting to feel like he had reached some modicum of equilibrium with Mickey in his corner. But the Debbie pregnancy drama makes him feel like he is failing on a brand new level.  

He looks over at all the paperwork Lip and Mandy have been sorting through. As much as Lip has told Ian in confidence that the pressure he experienced at Chicago Polytechnic was most likely a trigger for his first few manic episodes, it seems he has gone along with Mandy’s efforts without too much resistance.  

“How’s Operation: Back To School going?” Ian asks.   

“There’s… progress,” answers Lip stoically. “They’re letting me back in.”  

Ian’s face lights up. “Lip, that’s great!”  

“Don’t go popping a cork just yet, Ian.” Mandy cautions. “They aren’t letting him back until the Winter semester.”  

“Okay, that doesn’t sound too—”  

“On the condition that he doesn’t have any major manic or depressive episodes.”  

“I don’t think they really care about the days I can’t get out of bed,” dismisses Lip. “They just don’t want me back if I’m still going around bashing in people’s cars.” Lip knows he has been spiking lately. It was the events of a manic episode that derailed his life, so it seems only natural to Ian that his brother should feel self-conscious about going back to school at this very moment.  

“Well, you’ve been taking your meds, going to therapy and group. You’re taking care of yourself,” Ian encourages. Truly, as much as he knows it is completely valid that Lip’s school has its reservations about letting him back in, he knows that his brother is gifted with a brilliant mind. He doesn’t deserve a life in which he is relegated to minimum wage drudgery behind a register. Lip is capable of so much and it pains Ian to think of their mother’s fucking disease being the thing that holds him back.  

“They gave my scholarship away,” Lip admits, standing and walking away before he can see Ian’s smile fade.  

“Can they do that?” He asks Mandy once they are alone.  

“They did it,” she clicks her tongue. “But I’m pretty sure we can get it back.”  

“How?”  

She gestures towards all the paperwork she is straightening, the proud expression curling across her lips is unmistakable. “I’m engaging a lawyer.”  

“Escorting sounds like lucrative work. You got an angle in mind?”  

“I certainly do.”  

“Certainly do what?” Asks Mickey as he shoulders the front door with his one-year-old son cradled on his hip.   

“Mandy still thinks she can turn things around with Lip’s school.”  

“My argument is that they reward students from extreme poverty without accounting for the cultural difference.” Mandy slaps the newly gathered stack of papers along the side to straighten them out. “They discriminated against him the whole time he was enrolled, then they stuck with their decision to expel him even though Ian made sure they knew about Lip’s diagnosis. Oh, and guess what’s covered by the Americans with Disabilities Act?”  

“I’m gonna take a wild shot in the dark and guess Lip’s specific brand of crazy?” Mickey guesses as he squats down to let Yevgeny crawl about.  

Mandy nods. “Schools like that headhunt talent like Lip and treat it like they found a diamond in the rough. Then they kick him to the curb as soon as he becomes inconvenient.”  

“And you’re a hooker?”  

“Escort,” she corrects, rolling her eyes at her brother.   

“Either way,” Mickey rolls his shoulders, sounding impressed. “Why are we focusing on Lip’s school when you sound like you should be pre-law?”  

Mandy doesn’t reply at first, but she smiles wryly, batting her eyes in a transparently feigned performance of humility. “Lip is still iffy about hiring Faye, but she really thinks this could be an open and shut case, especially since the school demanded him to pay reparations in full even after his expulsion.  

“In completely unrelated news,” starts Mickey as he gestures for Ian to follow him into the kitchen, “The kid’s got a clean bill of health, but Dr. Papadakis wants us to ease up on the fiber and the kid’s ready for watered-down juices.”   

Ian flushes as Mickey speaks. He isn’t even sure he really registers what his lover is saying because every word Mickey utters sounds like the verbal equivalent of bedroom eyes. Before Ian even knows it, he is bracketing Mickey against the fridge. Ian’s hand gently glides along Mickey’s jawline. “You know, this is really the first time you took Yevgeny anywhere without me, right?”  

“You kidding?” He asks as he lets Ian bury his nose in his hair and inhale deep. “I was panicking the whole time. At least when I pick up Liam, we end up meeting you at your work.”  

“Good thing I updated his medical information to include you.”  

“Oh yeah. I don’t think I could have tolerated it if they kept calling me Mr. Gallagher.” Mickey plants a series of kisses along Ian’s long neck.  

“You know, I love how good you are with our kid, right?”  

“I know it gets you going.” In fact, Mickey has taken advantage of how feral Ian gets over Mickey’s domestic behaviors on multiple occasions. Ian doesn’t quite understand it sometimes. He fell for Mickey when he was at his most brash and brutish. But the soft boy version of Mickey who takes loving care of their son and exudes that “farmer’s market’ kind of hot does it for Ian just as much.  

“You guys!” Ian faintly hears his best friend holler from the other room.  

“You hear something?”   

“Iunno,” shrugs Mickey without stopping the barrage of his lips against Ian’s chin, working his way until their lips meet. Mandy must call for them a couple more times, but they are too involved with one another to really notice.   

“Dada! Baba! Wa hi-cha!”  

Ian feels a small hand tugging on the cargo pocket and he looks down to find Yevgeny. “Oh, hey, jelly bean! We’ll get you in—”  

“Gallagher…” Mickey’s hand finds its way to Ian’s jaw and he repositions his head to see that Mandy is recording on her phone. Then once more, he guides Ian to look at their son. And it occurs to him that Yevgeny is standing, which is nothing new, but the fact that he is standing unsupported by a wall or a piece of furniture.   

“Yevvy? Did you just—”   

“If you guys weren’t going at it like a couple of cats in heat, you could have watched in real time.” Mandy taunts. “Luck you two dumb ‘mos got Aunt Mandy on the case.”  

Mickey is the first to drop to one knee. “Did you just walk, little man?” He lifts his U-UP hand to get a fist bump from the child. Yevgeny sort of has the maneuver down, palming the top of his birth father’s knuckles.   

Ian squats down right alongside Mickey, wrapping his arms around their son. “We’re so proud of you, jelly bean.”

Mandy never stops filming, keen to capture every minute of her best friend and older brother turn into a pair of blubbering messes over their son’s newest milestone. The three of them never even notice the younger redhead come in through the front door brandishing an empty suitcase in each hand. She disappears up the stairs wordlessly. She leaves the house again just as stealthily while the family enjoys dinner. By the time Ian and Mickey get Yevgeny to sleep later that night, Debbie will be unpacking her suitcases somewhere else.  

Chapter Text

“Don’t you think it’s a little soon to be playing musical rooms?” Asks Mickey as they roll Yevgeny’s crib into what had until very recently been Debbie’s room. “She could always come back.”  

“Nobody told her to run off in the middle of the night.” The bitter tone in his lover’s voice is unmistakable. Mickey would have thought the silver lining of Debbie running off is that at least Ian would have one less thing on his plate for a while. Ian hasn’t said so, but Mickey thinks he’s grieving in a way.  “She has already had more than enough time to change her mind. There are plenty of beds in the boys’ room if she changes her mind.”  

“She will,” Mickey asserts reassuringly. “She’s fifteen and thinks she knows everything. She’ll be back when she realizes she doesn’t.”   

He feels like a hypocrite practically promising that Ian’s little sister will be back once she learns that the real world is bigger and tougher than she realizes. After all, wasn’t he gone nearly eighteen months with no guarantees that he would ever return as long as Terry was still up and kicking? He stuck to his guns and stayed away until the old codger was rotting away in a mass paupers’ grave. Is he selling Debbie short to say she won’t be able to hack it on her own? Is he giving Ian false hope?   

He needs to remind himself that his circumstances are wildly different than Debbie’s are. He was eighteen for one. Debbie is only fifteen, legally still a child. Legally, she’s too young to work. She might not even be able to provide for herself unless she ends up in a line of work Mickey would rather not think about. The girl should have counted herself lucky. Sure, things were tense around the house, but Ian is reasonable. When Mickey ran away, it was to escape his abuser after his father arranged for him to be raped and made his boyfriend watch at gunpoint. He still wakes up in cold sweats over the memory of that morning.   

He’s certain she’ll be back. He is convinced of it. Debbie may have become an immature brat, but she’s not stupid. Once she gets closer to that due date, she’ll realize she needs the other Gallaghers’ support. That’s another advantage Mickey’s lost time away from the Southside had that Debbie’s emphatically won’t. He was only responsible for himself. No, he just left the pregnant whore to carry his son and luckily Ian offered to raise the child for him. He can never thank Ian enough for being Yevgeny’s father.   

Shit. Where is the father? Did Debbie even tell anyone?  

“Well, she’s probably not coming back until she needs something. And part of my present tomorrow is giving you a very happy twenty-first birthday without having to wait until Yevgeny is conked out.”  

“Oh, yeah?” Mickey peers into that shit-eating grin on his boyfriend’s face and he cannot help but mirror it warmly. “As if we aren’t going be be surveilling him on the baby cam.”   

“Tonight, sure. But tomorrow?” He gives Mickey that toothy Cheshire Cat smile that means he has mischief in mind. “I’m outsourcing Yevgeny duty to Mandy again.”  

“She’s enjoying the whole ‘Aunt Mandy’ schtick, huh?”  

“Lip’ll probably be joining in.”  

“Oh Christ. Those two are starting to be a thing. Are they playing house again?” Mickey groans as they push what they now suppose is at least temporarily a guest bed up against the wall so they can squeeze Yevgeny’s little toddler-sized wardrobe into the room.  

“More like Mandy has decided she’s his life coach.”  

“ That’s a grim prospect.” A memory springs to mind of a time he came home to find Mandy wiping some girl’s hair and blood out the grill of their uncle’s car. And then there was the time she sicced him on a certain red-headed homosexual he now shares a bed with on a false accusation of attempted rape. He loves his sister, but hers is not the behavior of someone who starts the day with an emotional balanced breakfast.  

“Hey, if it gives me the opportunity to give you birthday spankings uninterrupted—”  

“No birthday spankings, Red.” He prays he doesn’t need to spell the reason out, but he doesn’t exactly have the greatest take on corporal discipline even if it is supposed to be just for laughs and part of their sexy times.  

“Alright, fine. No spankings.” Ian puts his hands up in surrender. “But I’m sure I can think of other ways to celebrate your birthday that involve you bent over my knee.”  

Mickey suddenly feels flushed. “Yeah. Well, you’re resourceful. I bet you’ll think of something before tomorrow night.”  

The rest of the transition of Yevgeny’s things from the master bedroom goes smoothly, though ridding the newly christened nursery of Debbie’s possessions is a harder process. As personally as Ian took it when she ran off on them, he is not ready to box her stuff up and stow it away in the attic. But Mickey takes the lead. He figures it’s far kinder than what became of his stuff when he took off. Anything he left behind was either up for grabs or on the curb unless he did a good job of hiding it. So he haphazardly loads up all her remaining worldly possessions into  four black hefty bags and stores them in the attic for safe keeping.  

“I don’t think this is going  to work,” Mickey hears Ian bemoaning in Debbie’s room by the time he is climbing back down the attic ladder.   

Mickey finds his lover kneeling on the floor, his ass resting on the back of his heels and looking defeated like he’s halfway through Catholic mass. Ian on his knees should be exciting; possibly an entreaty to a long, wet knob job. But the fact that he is staring at the wall with his shoulders slumped gives Mickey pause. With the nursery furniture in place, Ian has moved on to finding a way to make Debbie’s very neutral cream-colored walls. There is only so much he could afford to splurge on colorful art appliqués when they were in the crafts aisle of Wal-Mart the other day. Sure, keeping Debbie’s bed in the room helps cover up some of the bare wall, but it looks like Ian overestimated how much the Sesame Street decals he acquired will end up covering.   

“Yev’s gonna look at this room and be so bored. Just a tiny Elmo, Bert and Ernie, and some pixie Muppet,” Ian complains. “No Oscar? No Grover? Where the fuck is Big Bird?”  

“Easy on the throttle, there. Yevvy’s only thirteen months old. He won’t know the difference. You don’t want to go spoiling the kid, do you?”   

“I just want it to be special for him.” He looks at the bare wall, then at the decals he has laid out on the floor. “I guess maybe we could space them out a bit, make them look like they take up a lot of space.”  

Mickey hates the defeated tone in Ian’s voice. It reminds him too much of when he has hurt or disappointed the redhead in the past. Whenever he used to treat Ian like his dirty little secret, when he swore that Ian was nothing to him but a warm mouth to him. When he left message after message on Mickey’s voicemail pleading just to know if he’s safe. When Mickey finally came back and Ian wasn’t ready to be hurt again. Mickey hates that he has been that person to Ian in the past— and he still feels that lingering twinge of guilt in moments like this. He knows what it is like to be the cause of that disappointment.   

He sighs. “There’s a few buckets of paint in the basement, right?”  

Ian turns away from the wall for the first time since Mickey came down from the basement. He has one eyebrow raised, a facial tic he has picked up recently as a mirror to Mickey’s markedly expressive facial features. “What? You finally gonna paint me like one of your French girls?”  

Mickey’s eyes crinkle at the corners as Ian rises to his full height and pulls Mickey in close. Mickey lets out a lusty gasp and silently prays that Ian gets many more opportunities to manhandle him like this now that Yevgeny won’t be their roommate anymore. “I was thinking something more like Cookie Monster or a Teletubby.” But then he gets the cocky impulse, like an aftershock in the wake of an earthquake. “But if you wanna react that one scene from Titanic , I hear that class I’m starting in a few weeks hires live models.”  

“Or you can give me a sneak peek tonight.”  

“Am I interrupting something?” Mickey peels ruefully away from Ian and turns to see Carl at the door. His one lip is curled into a wry grin.   

“What have we told you about sneaking up on us when we’re going at it?” Mickey snaps. Carl is probably his favorite of Ian’s siblings—him or Liam, but Liam has all the cute points. Still, Carl has an unnerving habit of leering at him and Ian now that the two of them are a known quantity at least within their two families.   

Okay, the kid is queer and needs role models. Mickey isn’t convinced he’s cracked up for the job, but who else is going to put up with the kid. That said, he needs to get it through the kid’s thick skull that he draws the line at Carl pulling this voyeuristic shit. That’s what internet porn is for.  

“Sorry, Mick.”  

“Is Mandy back with the boys?” Ian asks.  

“Nah, still at the playground. But we got other Milkoviches at the door.”  

“Those bozos,” grumbles Mickey. Colin and Iggy are invited over for his birthday dinner tomorrow. But perhaps celebrating birthdays is still a novelty for the Milkovich family. Maybe they think they need to show up the day before. Or maybe the dipshits don’t know when his birthday is.   

It is his brothers but neither of them look like they are here to celebrate. They look like they’ve seen a ghost. Iggy is at the door, hands in pockets, while Colin is at the foot of the steps. The last time Mickey had checked in with Colin, he was on a hospital-issue walker with tennis balls on the legs. Now, he is on a plain aluminum cane. Mickey imagines his elder brother could look pretty dope if he got a cane or walking stick with a little more personality, maybe a little skull on the pommel or something.   

It takes him a moment to register that Sandy and Jamie are there, too. Jamie is at the front gate, smoking a vape like a fucking douche bag. He’s tall and broad like his brother Joey had been, but with fair, blonde coloring like Colin and Iggy. Sandy is standing almost out of the line of sight. Mickey doesn’t know if she either doesn’t know Debbie is gone and is trying to avoid being seen, or if she knows Debbie is gone and thinks Mickey holds her responsible.  

“Don’t you shitheads know how to phone ahead?”  

“None of us have your number, genius.” Replies Jamie.   

“Yeah. Mandy’s pretty shy about giving out your number.”  

“Well, lucky for me, you assholes know where I live,” Mickey snarks, arms crossing in front of his chest. “So, what gives? You’re a day early if you’re here to wish me well for my birthday.”  

“We don’t give a shit about your birthday, dipshit,” seethes Sandy. She is trying to appear nonplussed, but Mickey can spot the distress coming off of her like heat.  

“Well? What is it you shitheads want that it couldn’t wait?”  

“Mick…” hums Ian from behind him, like he figured something out before him.   

And then it hits him. Of course. The only reason any of the Milkoviches seem to gather ever since he got back in town. “Who this time?”  

***   

Uncle Ronnie had been Terry’s right hand man for as long as Mickey can remember. He is only two years Terry’s junior,  but time has been a lot kinder to him, still blessed with a mop of wavy brown hair and a bushy mustache that Mickey suspects gets in all his food. Yes, Ronnie is a picture of health compared to his late brother. Or he would be if it weren’t for the patch over his right eye.  

None of Terry’s children had any intention and/or aptitude for following in the family business after Terry was gunned down. So, it was up to Ronnie to carry on the old man’s legacy, albeit in a diminished form. Ronnie simply didn’t have Terry’s clout or panache for intimidation and violence.  

But still, Ronnie carried on. He played it safer than Terry had simply because Ronnie didn’t have the connections to get away with murder, both literally and figuratively, that his older brother always seemed to have. He played a safer game, not aiming as ambitiously as the operation used to strive for, but remaining more consistent and reliable than it had been under Terry.  

Mickey supposes it’s that reliability, predictability, that caught up with him. It was the cartel again. Of that, Mickey has very little doubt. They must have been casing Ronnie’s safe house for a while to get a jump on them the way they did this morning.   

This time, they came with knives. That’s a new one. But that seems to be part and parcel for the cartel’s attacks. Never the same time of day, strange intervals between the attacks. And never the same method of attack twice in a row. That’s why Uncle Ronnie is going to be lucky if he retains any vision in his right eye. And why his cousin Lou is being kept in cold storage down in the morgue.   

“Did you see who did this to you?” Asks Mickey. “Out of your good eye, anyway?”   

He feels his brothers’ and cousins’ eyes on him. He feels self-conscious of the fact that despite being a mental giant among his relations, they don’t entirely trust him ever since he ran off.   

Despite being surrounded by family, he feels surprisingly alone. So far, Mandy hasn’t been targeted. And hopefully, whoever is targeting his family isn’t aware of Yevgeny yet. And he wants to keep it that way. He played it off like this is a Milkovich matter only, heading away with his brothers and cousins. But the truth is he wants Ian, Yevgeny, and his sister away from the criminal games still at play almost six months after Terry was killed.    

“There were three of them, maybe four. Definitely cartel, but nobody I know by name. All of them are pretty young, though. Two men and a girl.”  

“Did they mention what they’re looking for?” Asks Colin. “We’re running out of family who aren’t dead or injured. And we still don’t know why the fuck they’re doing this.”  

“It could just be a vendetta,” shrugs Reggie. “Terry did side with the Beltran Levya. And the Sinaloa value loyalty. And Terry…”  

“Terry did what Terry does best,” Mickey snarls. “He screwed people over and left shit in his wake for us to clean up.”  

Mickey storms out of the hospital, pulling out his phone and hitting the first name in his recent contacts. He needs to hear the bolstering, supportive sound of Ian’s voice to calm him down. “Is everything okay?” He hears Ian ask as soon as the call connects.   

He wants to tell Ian that everything is okay just so he can hear it himself and convince himself. But he doesn’t lie to Ian, and so he cannot lie to himself. “No. I don’t think anything’s okay.”   

Chapter Text

“You’re not leaving!” Ian insists.

“You think I wanna go?” Mickey growls as he shoves the contents of his half of the drawer into his large duffel bag. “But I can’t stay here. Too dangerous.”

Ian leans on the wall where Yevgeny’s crib had been until earlier that day. He wishes the day had panned out differently. Ian knows in the grand scheme of things, the fact that Mickey had to miss Yevgeny’s reaction to having his own room pales in comparison to dealing with the reminder that there are still people targeting Mickey’s family. Mickey, whether or not he hates the man, lost his father, a brother, and now a cousin. Someone tried to immolate Iggy and burned down the Milkovich house in the process. And Colin and his uncle have both been maimed.

The weight resting on Mickey’s shoulders must be crippling.

“Please don’t do this,” he pleads, his voice thick but low. Upset as this is making him, he’s thankful Mickey waited until close to midnight to pull this stunt. Yevgeny is fast asleep in his new room; as long as Ian keeps his voice down, there is no chance of their son witnessing Ian making a scene or Mickey abandoning them.

“Ian, I promise. This isn’t like last time. I’m not running away. I’m not even leaving the city.”  Mickey looks up from where he is sitting on the bed, duffel between his legs. “But I gotta put some distance between me and you.”

No. This is unacceptable. Ian isn’t going to let him disappear again, not this time. “What the fuck is it going to take for you to fucking sack up and stick around when things get tough, huh?”

It’s like watching Larry Talbot transform into the Wolf Man. Mickey’s face shifts from nervous and pallid to a snarl, a flush of red invading his cheeks. “The fuck did you just say?”

“You can’t keep going into hiding every time things get too hard, Mick.”

“I’m not a coward!”

“I never said you were,” Ian volleys back trying to keep his tone calm.

“Sure sounds like it!”

“Then quit fucking like a damn pussy!”

“You don't get it, E!” he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You never have. It’s not like I’m afraid of my own fucking shadow. When I got myself sent back to juvie, and when I ran off, you had a front-row seat of what I was running from. Not a pretty sight, huh?”

Ian can’t refute it, but continues to look on, his mouth a pinched line caught somewhere between rage and remorse.

“That just what Terry did the first time he caught us. I ran off because I didn’t know how else to give you up and I couldn’t stomach the thought of him hurting you worse than he already did. My fears were legit. And I don’t know if you noticed, but I got some pretty fucking valid reason to be afraid this time, too.”

Ian sighs and tries to regroup his thoughts. Mickey’s speaking in emotional truths, and the wetness in his lover’s eyes could normally pull a whammy on Ian’s defenses. But not about this. He is tired of the cycle of Mickey coming with the east wind and leaving with the west like a foul-mouthed Mary Poppins. Ian isn’t a fair weather lover he’ll weather whatever storm is headed Mickey’s way. And all Mickey has to do is let him.

“Remember what I told when you came back? I said I needed someone I can depend on. And you said you were done with running, right? Did you mean it or did you really think life was going to be all rainbows and Skittles ever after without Terry around? Do I  need to be ready for you to leave every time you get chickenshit?”+ Ian knows he is just trying to goad Mickey into staying. Is he playing on Mickey’s insecurities? Probably. Scratch that— most certainly. But Ian also has a very real fear about losing Mickey. It took him so long to let down his guard and embrace his feelings for the man he loves specifically because he was afraid that Mickey would bolt again. Ian doesn’t think he can do this another time. He cannot lose Mickey again. He doesn’t think his heart could take it.

And somewhat more pragmatically he doesn’t think he could go back to the way things were before Mickey was helping him keep the household afloat. So, he is going to fight for Mickey. And he isn’t afraid to play dirty.

“If there is a target on your back, then there’s probably one on me, too. Just like there are targets on you all because of Terry. And you can’t help me protect our son if you’re holed up in cabin in the woods like you’re the fucking Unibomber.”

The mask of insult and anger on Mickey’s countenance slips and his mouth tilts into a wry Mona Lisa smile. “The Unibomber? Seriously?”

“That’s what I’m picturing.” Ian cannot help but mirror Mickey’s grin. He blushes and slips his hands into his pockets. “You in a rundown hut, or maybe a scary-looking trailer. Living off the land, setting traps for whoever’s after you. There may or may not be a manifesto written somewhere in the vicinity.”

“That’s quite an imagination you got there, Red.”

“You know, this might come as a shock to you, but the last time you ran off I had a lot of time to imagine all sorts of increasingly wild scenarios you might have ended up in. At least until everything around here spiraled out of control.”

“That so?” Asks Mickey, leaning back across the width of the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Ian nods. “The idea of you stocking shelves in some sleepy little beach town didn’t even crack the top two hundred.”

“Not that sleepy. Did I ever mention Rehoboth has a pretty popular gay beach?”

Ian lays down beside his lover. “It must have slipped your mind.”

“Yeah. It’s all the way at the far end of the board walk, nowhere near the family shit or the shops. It’s practically closer to Dewey, the next beach over, than it is to all of Rehoboth’s touristy shit.

“Hang out there a lot?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you think.”

“So you didn’t hook up with anyone?”

Mickey trembles with embarrassment. “Okay, so it was like you think, but that wasn’t a regular thing.”

“Uh-huh,” demurs Ian. Until Yevgeny came along, Ian wasn’t exactly a nun in a cloister either. But giving Mickey a hard time about his hookups has a way of turning the guy’s cheeks a bright shade of scarlet and it never fails to delight him. Does Ian love the fact that Mickey has been with other guys? No. But he knows that for the longest time, Mickey didn’t think he would see him or even Chicago again for years and years. He can’t begrudge Mickey if he had hookups or even a lover, can he? Plus, making him squirm over it is a silver lining.

“Mostly I just watched.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Fuck off. I meant I watched all those gay dude just being at ease with themselves like that.” Mickey rolls onto his side to face Ian. “Like, I used to think you were a walking Pride parade just ‘cause you were out. Then I saw crowds of dudes strutting laying out swimming, strutting around in that make my tighty whities look like Mormon long johns and they were just, like they weren’t doing anything explicit, but they were free. No judgement, not afraid of getting their asses beat. Holding hands, kissing in public. All that stuff that still scares the shit outta me. And I guess it put things into perspective for me.”

Ian makes a mental note to cajole Mickey into a speedo someday.

“I guess I did notice that you weren’t quite so closed off by the time you got back.” Ian rolls over so that they are both on their sides facing one another. Ian’s hand find its way to Mickey’s hip. “So. Still planning on running?”

“Dunno. But I don’t know how else to protect you. You’re right. You guys are too vulnerable if I run off without you.”

“And I can’t exactly leave my family. Or uproot them. Shit, do you have any idea how that kind of stress could impact Lip’s mental health?”

“So. We stay? We take the risk?”

“Mick, when you came back, I was scared of getting hurt.”

“And I told you I’m sorry.”

Ian laughs and kisses the top of Mickey’s head. “That’s not where I’m going with this. I was so scared to let you back in, but it turns out you were the strength and support I needed all along. I’m better for having you at my side.”

“Thanks,” hums Mickey, sounding confused.

“It works both ways, you know. That’s how being a couple is supposed to work. We’re better together. I know what you’re going through is shitty and you’re scared. But let me help you. Share the load.”

“But this is my problem, not yours.”

“Bullshit!” Ian exclaims. And in one sweeping motion, he rolls Mickey onto his back and Ian straddles his waist. Hunched over low, the tips of their noses are centimeters apart. “Not sure if you noticed, but I’m not some wilting damsel who swoons with a fit of the vapors whenever there’s the hint of a threat, Mick.”

Mickey is breathing heavily, his upper lips curls and the tip of his tongue glides across his teeth. Ian feels the smaller man’s hands surge down the sides of his torso, fingertips dancing until they find purchase  at the fly of Ian’s jean shorts. One hand loosens Ian’s jeans with practiced skill while the other hand caresses the inside of Ian’s spread thighs, massaging the bounty in Ian’s pants with the ball of his thumb. “I think I woulda caught by now if you were a damsel, tough guy.”

Ian nips at his lips, but he stops and seizes Mickey by each wrist, pinning them above his head. “I mean it, Mick. Whatever’s going on, I want you to let me stand by you. Through thick and thin, for better or worse. All that crap.”

Mickey’s head lunges upward connecting with Ian’s lips and Ian allows the welcome sensation of a shockwave that always accompanies Mickey’s kisses to flow through him.

“That sounded an awful lot like a proposal, E,” whispers Mickey between one kiss and the next.

“Is that what it sounded like? Married married and not just ghetto married? Maybe. But how am I supposed to have and hold you if you run off?”

Mickey helicopters his legs to give himself enough momentum to roll the both of them over, catching Ian off-guard and flipping their positions. Mickey’s milky-white palms frame Ian’s jawline. “Then fucking have me,” he practically moans, grinning like the cat who caught the canary as he takes Ian’s lips again. Once he comes up for air again, he adds, “Hold me all you want. Not going anywhere.”

Ian’s sighs of relief are short-lived, transformed into moans of delight as Mickey’s fingers clamp around the nipples through the thin cotton of his snug tank top.

“Mick, the baby!” Ian shouts and yet whispers even as he wriggles down Mickey’s sweat shorts.

Mickey stops and looks around the room as though he expects to find Yevgeny in the empty area where his crib once resided. “He’s halfway down the hall, now. We got this place to ourselves now, remember?”

The corners of Ian’s lips curl upward like rolled up parchment. Ian and Mickey having privacy, true privacy without having to hide under bleachers, or dugouts, or delapidated buildings is going to take some getting used to. “Oh, yeah,” he replies, practically radiating sunshine at his lover. “I remember just fine.” Ian’s large hands each seize a fistful of Mickey’s ass and spreads them apart, fingers teasing at Ian’s prize within.

Mickey groans ecstatically, “Fucking hell, Firecrotch...” as he sinks deeper into Ian.

***

“Paba! Paba!" Comes the sound from down the hall earlier the next morning.

Ian’s eyes flutter open while his arms grasp around the naked form of his boyfriend plastered against his chest. Is “boyfriend” still the operative word? Last night, all he wanted was for Mickey to choose him over his fear. He hadn’t meant to propose marriage like it was a “Hail Mary” play. He wants Mickey more than anyone, loves him more than anything. But he doesn’t want Mickey to think he proposed just to give his lover an incentive to stay.

Without even realizing, the arms wrapped around Mickey give him a squeeze, both loving and possessive. Mine, Ian thinks, Mickey wants to be mine. My husband. Ian resolves to look past the series of events that spurred him to ask and instead focus on the fact that Mickey chose him, wants to be Ian’s husband. Mickey is going to stay with Ian where he belongs. And Ian believes they can stand against the storm that is headed Mickey’s way.

“Paba! Lem’out, Paba!”

Ian smirks and plants a kiss into the soft black hair of the man in his arms. He whispers, “Hey, Birthday Boy.”

“Ten more minutes, Mands.”

“You expect me to believe this how Mandy wakes you up?” Ian asks as he bucks his hips allowing his morning wood to burrow between Mickey’s taut, creamy thighs.

Mickey snickers softly. “I wouldn’t be anywhere near as appreciative as I am when you rouse me that way, lover,”

“Rouse or arouse?”

“Take you pick.”

“Pa-baaaaa!”

“Well, think some unsexy thoughts and cover up,” urges Ian as he gently pushes Mickey off him. “It sounds like your son would like an audience.”

Mickey finds his briefs at the side of the bed and slips into Ian’s fluffy lilac bathrobe. It’s a little long on him and his fingertips only just breach the hem of the sleeves unless he rolls them up. The sight of Mickey in his robe makes Ian want to launch himself headlong at him and make their son wait a little longer?”

“How is it he somehow always knows to call for me first when we take the day off?” Mickey grumbles as he ties the bathrobe belt into a square knot.

Ian shrugs. “Maybe it’s ’cause you’re the fun dad.”

“Don’t leave me alone with him for too long, ey?” He beseeches as he opens the bedroom door. “Thick and thin and all that shit, right?”

Ian’s face practically cracks from the smile he makes. “Yup. That’s what we agreed to.”

Mickey disappears out the door. Seconds later, Ian hears him down the hall cracking wise with their son and making him giggle and squeal. No doubt Mickey is lifting Yevgeny up and “flying” him around the room. Ian’s life isn’t perfect. In fact, it is far from it. But right now, even if it’s just for a moment, he feels like the luckiest man in Chicago.

Chapter Text

Growing up, Mickey was never really accustomed to people making a fuss about his birthday. Sure, Colin and Iggy would treat him to whatever their five-finger discount could afford them from the old K-Mart. The store spent the better part of a decade with the lax security of a company seemingly always a heartbeat away from collapse and the Milkovich siblings were not the types to let such a golden opportunity pass them by. Once every month or two, they would go in for “an item or two” and they would come out with whatever caught their eye and could fit in either their cargo pockets or the inner lining of their coats. It started out as candy or smaller toys when he was little, then music and dvd’s when he got older. By the time he was in his early teens, though, they mainly just hooked him up with free weed. 

 Mandy, who was always smarter with her pocket money as a child, always just bought him packs of cigarettes or six pack of Old Style at the Kash N Grab. Or got an adult to buy them for her at places that bother to card. 

The same, however, could not be said of his parents. His mother was forever trying to numb herself to the reality of her circumstances with one substance or another. Her method of coping was hardly a cheap one. She always spoke of regret that she couldn’t afford to give her children nice things. But that regret after the fact never prevented her from paying through the nose for crystal meth. Or crack cocaine. Horse.  OxyContin. PCP. Whatever highs she used to chase whenever life with Terry proved to be too much for her, which was most of the time. 

And Terry would probably laugh at the idea of doing something nice for any of his kids on their birthdays. “Being spat out the womb isn’t a major accomplishment, now quit your bitching and get back to work!” His kids were there to be utilized, not celebrated. Terry would always prefer to take than give to his kids. 

So, it takes him by surprise when he gets down the stairs, holding Yevgeny’s hand as the child learns to manage the steps, and finds the three elder Gallagher brothers at the kitchen table, engaging in a conspiracy around one of Debbie’s many cookbooks that stand vigil for her in the kitchen. From the images he catches sight of before he averts his gaze, they are in the realm of pastries—cakes, specifically. He doesn’t think anyone has made him a birthday cake since he was four. While Mickey is touched that Ian is spearheading this for him, these three knuckleheads could end up causing a disaster if this what Mickey thinks it is. Oh, sure. He trusts Ian—he's even managed to teach Mickey a thing or two. The man is a whiz with a skillet. But he does not trust Carl near an open flame, for one. And while both Lip and Ian are competent at cooking dinner, neither of them are bakers. As far as the Gallagher family lore he has absorbed goes, that was Debbie’s domain from the age of seven. And while cooking involves a lot of adaptation and improvisation, baking is a science. 

He tries to look away and play dumb veering Yevgeny into the living room, where Liam is watching reruns of X-Men Evolution ; let them think they are surprising him. A surprise is as much about the people planning it as the intended recipient. Mickey can play dumb if need be. Although, the Gallaghers tend to outshine him in that role. Lip may be a genius, but Mickey swears, Ian is the only one with a lick of common sense. 

A short while later, Ian joins Mickey and the kids in the living room. He is wearing plaid lounge shorts and a black tank top that does little to keep the ginger’s ample pecs contained. If Mickey didn’t know any better, the sartorial choice was all part of a ploy to keep him distracted. 

“Hey,” he sighs, kneeling into the sofa cushion beside Mickey. He traces up and down the muscles of Mickey’s upper arm. “I was thinking today we could check in with your uncle again.”  

Mickey nods. Birthday or not, he has a cousin in the morgue and an uncle laid out in a recovery room with severe retinal damage. And presumably a badass looking scar once it’s healed. The Gallaghers want to give Mickey the chance to celebrate his birthday for once. Meanwhile, he’s more concerned with the safety of his kin. Living with Ian, he is slowly learning how to talk about feelings, but he doesn’t quite have the lexicon to show his surrogate family that he appreciates their effort even if he is in no position to enjoy it right now.  

“Then after, I thought we could take the boys to the zoo.” 

“The zoo?” repeats Mickey, both amused yet incredulous.  

“Yeah, I figure we have the day off. And we’re running out of Summer. Liam’ll be starting first grade on September First.” 

Mickey quirks the left corner of his mouth. “And Lincoln Park’s free?” 

Ian gives him that shrewd smile of his that accentuates his top row of teeth and his laugh lines. “Free’s always good, right?” 

Mickey is already agreeing, but in the back of his mind, he is factoring in the little cabal he caught Ian having with his brothers. Ian may not know how to bake, but at least Mickey trusts him not to blow up the kitchen. But Lip and Carl? When you split the difference between the family know-it-all and the village idiot, what you end up with is a recipe for catastrophe.  

But Mickey is nothing if not a man who can think on the fly. “Well, if we’re taking a toddler and a preschooler on a day trip where we’ll be walking around for hours... do we know anyone who has a two-seater?”  

Mickey knows exactly which couple they can go to with a two-child stroller. And he knows one of them just happens to be a whiz at the baking. Kev is in his Betty Crocker era and is never shy to talk your ear off about whatever his special interest du jour is if you belly up to the bar at the Alibi Room. Mickey insists on being the one to take the quick trip two doors down to the Fisher-Ball household. 

Vee is the one who greets him at their front door. Mickey is now in his fifth month residing with the Gallaghers and he feels like he and Veronica Fisher are still in the process of adapting to one another’s proximity. Before he left, she was just the girlfriend of the barman at the Alibi who was tight with Ian’s elder sister. And presumably, she just saw him as another Milkovich apple that didn’t fall far from the tree.  

One of the first things Mickey learned about her in his new context as a Gallagher house residence is the how protective she is of Ian and his siblings. She may not act like a protective mama bear with her cubs. She has her own twin daughters for that and she isn’t one to overstep. But she has made it clear that they will never find all the body parts if he steps a toe out of line around the house. She has eased up on him, though, ever since she figured out that he and Ian are banging and Mickey isn’t laying in wait to commit a hate crime.  

“Mickey? What are you doing here?” she remarks in blunt consternation. “Sorry, that came out rude, but I’m not used to seeing you without either a redhead or a beer.” 

“Fair. Look, I know we aren’t close like pals or nothing, but I was hoping I could ask a favor. Or two.” Mickey curses the nervousness in his own voice. He has become accustomed to being the one who helps out in the past several months, but asking for help is still new territory. It makes him feel vulnerable. And eighteen years under Terry’s tender mercies has made him leery of asking for favors without knowing what is expected in return. But Vee isn’t his father, so he gulps back the lump of anxiety in his throat and does his best to smile. 

She seems to stare at him for a long time before her face finally softens. “Well, there’s no harm in being neighborly. What do you need, Mickey?” 

“Can we borrow your stroller? Ian wants to take the boys to the zoo?” 

Her face suddenly illuminates like someone just turned on her light switch. “Oh, this is for the kids? Why didn’t you just lead with that? And you know Ian’s my favorite Gallagher, right? After Fiona, I mean.” 

Mickey has noticed that Ian and Vee are close at gatherings and Summer block parties. Similarly, Kev seems to click with Lip. Mickey imagines that back when Ken and Vee took Fiona under their wing, each of them glommed onto one of the eldest two boys because Lip and Ian were just old enough at the time to really talk to them like people, as opposed to Carl and Debbie who must have been four and five at the time.  

She leads him inside. The Fisher-Ball residence is what happens when a couple with a chintzy “1970’s by way of Ron Jeremy” aesthetic start to procreate and resolve to have their cake and eat it too. Their twin daughters are only a month or so younger than Yevgeny. In fact Kev and Ian have arranged regular play dates with them from early on. Gemma has started walking and presumably causing her parents a lot of distress while Amy, who is the more verbally developed of the two seems content to crawl and occasionally lift herself to standing alongside furniture. 

“It is a nice day for the zoo,” Vee remarks as she leads Mickey through the living room to the mud room next to their kitchen. She pulls out the stroller and guides it towards him. Mickey catches the fact that it’s a four-seater. He knew that the Fisher-Balls had initially been expecting triplets. Now he wonders if there is any truth behind the weird account he had heard about a fourth child that never ended up coming their way. 

“Oh, yeah,” agrees Kev. “They were probably boiling last week, but this cool down ought to be great. Why the zoo, Milkovich?” 

“See, the thing is it’s my birthday. I’m pretty sure this is just an excuse to get me out of the house while his brothers bake me a cake.” 

“Since when does Lip know how to bake?” Asks Vee. “Shit, you might be about to be burnt out of your second house this year.” 

“That brings me to favor number two. Can you send the big guy over and make sure they don’t burn down my kitchen?” 

“ Your kitchen?” Balks Vee. 

“With Debs gone, I just edge Ian out for the most time clocked in there.” 

“I can go over,” agrees Kev as he picks up Gemma, who has climbed onto the back of the sofa and is reaching for an artifact of Kev and Vee’s amateur porn days mounted on the mantel piece. “I’ve been watching a lot of How to Cake It lately and I think I picked up a few new tricks.” 

“And I’ll go over too. Make sure he cleans up his mess after he’s done.” 

“Any word on the Debbie front, by the way?” Asks Kev solemnly.  

“Not a word.” Mickey drums this fingers along the grips of the baby stroller handle. “Frank hasn’t been seen around for a minute. Lip thinks she might’ve ran off with him and some old girlfriend he’s been rolling with.” 

“Yeah, I also heard that she found work as a live-in au pair up in Glenco.”  Adds Vee. There is an edge to her tone suddenly ever since Debbie was brought up. It was Kev and Vee’s turn to visit with Fiona this past week. Mickey cannot help but wonder if Debbie was a point of contention between them. “Whatever she’s doing, wherever she ended up, she’s smarter than y’all realize. She’s a survivor.” 

“Smarts and common sense aren’t the same thing, Vee.” Mickey murmurs. “I’m sure Ian and Lip’ll rest much easier when she comes to her senses and shows back up.” 

“Not if she’s got people breathing down her neck to abort.” 

“Nobody told her anything.” 

“That’s not what Fi told us.” Kev admits. 

“Oh. That. Yeah, she told Ian to force her to pull the plug. And he decided that was overstepping.” Mickey squeezes the grips of the handle, trying to remember he is supposed to be grateful for the assist before he leaps to his sort-of fiancé’s defense. “All E wanted to do was make sure Debs knew that nobody was gonna be raising the kid for her.” 

Vee looks like she’s seeing Rashomon for the first time and seeing the same scene from another character’s Point of View is taking her by surprise. “Yeah. Well, good. The boy’s got a lot of sense in that pretty red melon of his.” 

“He’s kept the family afloat for a reason,” agrees Ian.  

“Well, thanks for the stroller. And I’m sure Ian’ll appreciate it if we don’t come home to a mound of burning rubble.” Mickey starts pushing the stroller toward the front door. 

“Not so fast, Mickey.” Vee forestalls. “I’m gonna need you to return the favor if you want Kev to help you.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“I’m not getting stuck alone with the twins while Kev’s off playing Julia Child.” 

Mickey looks at the four seats in the stroller and immediately knows where she is going with this. “You want me to take both of ‘em?” 

“At the very least take Gemma,” suggests Kev. “Let her run around, it’ll tucker her out.” 

Mickey catches sight of Vee rolling her eyes. Obviously, she wanted both kids off her hands for the day. He knows he is probably jinxing himself, but he thinks to himself, What’s the worse that can happen? Then he insists, “Well, I would never dream of breaking up the dream team. You girls wanna see the lions? Otters?” 

“Chickens!” Giggles Amy. Gemma doesn’t respond, too busy trying to squirm out of Kev’s arms.  

Mickey nods. “I gotta explain it to Ian, but you know how he is with babies. I’ll shower and we’ll get the boys cleaned and out the door by ten.” 

“I’ll give you some cash for their lunches.” Promises Kev as Mickey heads out the door.  

“Good. Saves me from having to bill you later.” 

“An afternoon free of twin duty and all we have to do is bake a cake,” Vee beams once Mickey is walking down the sidewalk back to the Gallagher house. 

“Think he suspects anything?” 

“Not a damn clue.” 

Chapter Text

“Okay, I know we tend to breed like rabbits, but didn’t you say you only had the one kid?” asks Colin when Ian and Mickey turn the corner to the waiting area closest to Ronnie Milkovich’s hospital room.  

He is seated, on one of the wider hospital waiting room chairs that are meant for the more zaftig visitor, his bad leg is stretched  out strait and Colin is leaning his hands on his hospital-issued cane. There is a sheen of perspiration on his brow. Ian cannot help but conjure the mental image of  the wizened old man waiting Colin may grow up to become. Assuming he grows to such an age. The shelf life of your average Milkovich is in question lately.   

“Still only the one, genius.” responds Mickey. “And it was only supposed to be Yevgeny and Ian’s kid brother coming along, but we got roped into taking the Alibi owners’ girls with us.”  

“Apparently, they came with the stroller,” Ian adds with an easy-tempered wink.    

The stroller is designed so that the four seats are arranged in two sets of two. Yevgeny and Gemma are seated in the front row, leaving Amy by herself in the back. While Liam is still small enough to fit in the stroller, it is a bit of a tight fit. Liam alternates between walking alongside the stroller and riding it. Although, Ian is placing odds that the youngest Gallagher brother ends up conning a piggy back ride out of Mickey before the day is done.  

“You guys might want to tread lightly with the other kids,” Colin warns. “He’s not as bad as dad was, but I don’t feel like hearing Ronnie bitching and moaning about ‘the mixing of the races’ all day.”   

Mickey gives Ian an apologetic glance, but Ian gives his lover a crooked smirk. “It’s okay. I can hang to the rear with the kids. I didn’t really think Ronnie’s is up for the chat about me. That I’m, y’know, in the picture.”  

“Gonna have to cross that bridge sooner or later,” observes Colin. “He’s getting used to Sandy running around licking box. And she’s his own kid.”  

Mickey lifts Yevgeny from his seat and brushes off a couple Honey Nut Cheerios stuck to his son’s shirt front. “I’ll drop some hints. Ronnie’ll probably catch on when I mention we’re raising him together.”  

“He’s your family and it’s your coming out process. I’ll follow your lead.” Ian assures him. Mickey has taken leaps since he moved back to Chicago, but Mickey’s extended family is a terrain Ian knows Mickey is still shaky on.  

“Why not go for broke and mention what I found in your nightstand while you were gone,” asks Iggy appearing from around the corner. He had headed to the cafeteria after Mickey texted that they were stopping by and now has a cardboard beverage carrier with four cups of hospital-quality coffee for them.   

“Right…” Mickey scoffs, shifting Yevgeny to a one-armed carry and unloading one cup from the tray. Ian can tell from the expression on Mickey’s face that Iggy loaded the cups with cream and sugar. Though after sloshing it around in his mouth once or twice, he seems to like it. “Like neither of you ever got pegged before.”  

Colin blanches, but Iggy is visibly confused. “What’s pegging?” He asks as he sets the carrier down on a coffee table festooned with outdated magazines.   

Mickey is headed down to Ronnie’s hospital room, snickering. “Wanna explain it for me, Freckles?”  

“You serious with this shit, Mick?” Ian calls after astounded. The last thing he wants to think about right after he’s eaten is getting banged by a chick.   

“Don’t worry, Gallagher,” Iggy allays, crouching down to greet the remaining children, his features brightening. “I know what it is. I just like seeing Mick’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead when he’s annoyed.”  

“Here’s to living dangerously,” offers Ian, lifting a drink off the tray and holding it up for a toast. The elder Milkovich brothers humor him, each taking their own drink and raising it, even if Iggy has to contend with Gemma using him as her new personal jungle gym.  

“So, you guys got my text this morning, right?” Ian lowers his voice, eyeing the door to Ronnie’s room.  

“Yeah, we got it, Carrot Top.” Iggy answers in kind. “I’ll probably make it in, but gimpy here is still up in the air.”  

“My girl’s giving me grief,” Colin grumbles. “Crowds make her nervous.”  

“Starting to think this Cammy chick is your George Glass, bro,” jokes Iggy. “Four months and you still haven’t brought her around.”  

“Camilla’s just shy. She prefers one-on-one.”  

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”  

“Mick’s the same way,” admits Ian, surprised to be discussing Mickey with his brothers like this. “He’s getting better with my family since he lives with us, but for the longest time, it was just him and me hanging out on our own.”  

“Yeah, but at least you could prove Mickey exists.”  

“Fuck off, Iggs.”  

“She’s just a step above your internet girlfriend who lives in Canada.”  

“What’s Canada?” Asks Liam, looking up from the seek and find puzzle in Highlights for Kids he is working on.  

“Our sensible neighbors to the north, Peanut,” Ian answers. He supposes his baby brother might start learning about states and different countries in first grade next month.  

“Maybe that’s why she’s skittish,” ponders Colin, scratching at the honey-blonde scruff on his cheeks.   

“She’s Canadian?” Asks Ian.   

Iggy shakes his head. “ Mejicana . And I’m not sure if she’s here legally.”  

“Oh.” Is all Ian can reply. It never occurred to him that Mickey and Mandy’s older brothers strayed from their father’s bigoted ways just as they had. Despite the fact that Terry had worked hand in glove with Mexican cartels longer than they had been alive, the old neo-nazi never missed the opportunity to include Latinos and specifically Mexicans in his litany of people he thought he was superior to.  

“Pick up any Spanish?”   

“She really only speaks it on the phone, but I’ve picked up a few  things she says a lot. ‘Odio cuando me toca.’ That one comes up a lot. Oh, and, ‘èl todavía no sospecha.’ She says, ‘vengaremos,’ a lot too.”  

Iggy scratches the back of his head. “Know what any of that means?” Ian is in the dark, too. He opted for French over Spanish when he was in high school because Fiona still had all her old assignments from Madame Crenshaw’s class.   

“Not a clue. But I know she misses her family back home. I guess it’s about that.”  

Ian looks towards Ronnie’s door and cannot help but think of Mickey. This time last year, Mickey was celebrating his twentieth birthday in anonymity along the Delaware coastline; ten months gone with still  another nine before the first domino in a sequence of Milkovich family tragedies brought Mickey back to him. Mickey spends so much time with Ian. And Ian’s family. It makes him feel selfish that it rarely occurs to him to wonder whether Mickey missed his own family other than Mandy while he was gone.  

***   

Ian keeps reminding himself that tuckering the kids out during the day is the ulterior motive of this little day trip to the zoo. The more Liam and Yevgeny tucker themselves out as they explore the zoo, especially at  the children’s play areas which can keep them engaged for long spells at a time, the more likely they’ll sleep soundly while the adults treat Mickey to his surprise party.   

But honestly, handling four children in a cumbersome stroller and navigating the city across two different forms of mass transit had Ian feeling wiped out by the time they arrived in Lincoln Park. So surreptitiously, he texts for backup.  

He and Mickey both splurge on an energy drinks and fries at the first food stand they come to after about ninety minutes. In addition, they procure watered down apple juice for the toddlers and a Starry for Liam.   Mickey seems surprisingly unbothered, which would have seemed uncharacteristic two years ago. However, Mickey’s confession that he spent last summer being a “child wrangler” at a beachside tourist attraction is illuminating. The ease at which he happily holds each child up to get a better look at the animals helps to create a picture of what Mickey’s time on the beach must have been like. He can see parents and older teens depositing smaller kids with Mickey in a play area to keep them entertained while they go on the rides.   

It makes him chuckle inwardly thinking of when Mickey once told him that he couldn’t be a father to their son. Because he is a natural, not just with Yevgeny, but with Liam and the girls, too. Any fears Mickey might have that he would end up the monster that his father had been were just that: fears.  

“Don’t tell me I missed the polar bears.”  

Ian looks up to see that the cavalry has arrived. He has grown accustomed to seeing Mandy in her uptown finest, but the very Bohemian ensemble she is wearing today is a novelty. She looks like she is bound for Coachella in her vividly patterned maxi pants and mint green asymmetrical top. She is also wearing a sun hat and slip-on light tan sandals almost the same skin tone as her feet.  

“The fuck are you doing here?” asks Mickey, who is snagging a French fry from Liam’s serving.   

“I just happened to be in the area.” She lies as she leans down in an effort to kiss her brother on the forehead, only for him to swat her away as though she were a swarm of gnats. “Happy birthday, assface.”  

“You just happened to be in the zoo?” Asks Mickey, incredulously.  

“Hop, skip, and a jump.” She replies breezily.   

“That so?”  

Ian is convinced he is turning red from the sideways glance his lover is giving him and not from the early August sunlight beating down on him. Ian knows that Mickey is far more clever than most folks give him credit for. He is pretty sure Mickey caught them straight off this morning when they were going through Debbie’s old cookbooks, but Mickey was kindly enough to play dumb. But now Mickey has that knowing look in his eyes and Ian knows the jig is up.  

“Too obvious?” He asks as though trying to repel the eyes boring into him.  

“There is only so much clueless I can fake, Red.” Mickey grins like a sphinx. “My baby sister just happening to show up? Come on, man. I can’t fake being that gullible.”  

“Surprise!” He exclaims with halfhearted facetiousness.  

“Yeah… Ian asked me to come. With a rental van. Sounded like getting the kids all up here was a bit of a procedure.”  

“Who knew twice as many kids would be twice as much work?”  

Mickey takes his hand. “You know, it’s thoughtful of you. Nobody’s ever done something big for my birthday. But did you need to lure me away from the house with four kids in tow just to bake a cake?”  

Mandy looks away. Conveniently. Ian tries not to flinch.   

  Aha! You’re not on top of things as you think, Mr. Milkovich.    

“Well,” he sighs, “can you at least pretend to be surprised when we get back home.”  

“Oh, Mick can play dumb with the best of ‘em,” cracks Mandy as she sits in the empty seat between Liam and Ian. Mickey flips her off, snickering something both crude and affectionate under his breath.   

***   

Ian sits in the back with the kids. He figures it gives Mickey more time to spend with his sister on the drive back. Though, it never occurred to him that Mickey would be a nervous wreck with his sister behind the wheel. Okay, perhaps she is a bit of a menace with her right turns, but Mandy’s usual vehicle is a much more petite little thing. It isn’t until they’re past The Loop before Mickey relinquishes the “Oh, Shit!” handle.  

“So, how’s Ronnie doing?” She asks as they turn onto Halstead Avenue.   

“No intention of checking in on him yourself?” Mickey asks, still sounding shaken from Mandy’s last brush with oncoming traffic.  

“Not really,” she replies. “I’ll check in on you guys, but Ronnie was too…” she loses the sentence and sighs. Ian understands.  “Too close to dad. He knew what Terry was doing to me, Mick. For years.”  

“What he…shit. You, too?”   

The silence feels like a storm cloud weighing down on the adults in the car.   

“He watched the door and kept you guys away when it would happen,” she admits quietly. “Can we change the subject already? I don’t want to spoil—”  

Mickey reaches over and squeezes her shoulder. “He’s dead and gone. And now we get to live, Mands.”  

And that’s all that needed to pass between them. Ian looks between two of his favorite people in the world. Both of them had been wronged by the same man who they ought to have been their protector. And they were both wronged by him in very similar ways. Yet both of them sought to suffer in silence. Perhaps, together they can heal.  

The moment of calm tranquility that came with the mutual revelation between the youngest Milkovich siblings lasts seemingly ages even if they were only a few intersections away from the house.   

But that brief quiet is shattered as they turn on South Homan Ave and they find the makings of an end-of-Summer cookout in the empty lot next to the Gallagher house. Mismatched folding tables are arranged in two rows, one is set with places to sit and the other is filled with side dishes from friends and neighbors. The Fisher-Balls had wheeled their standing Foreman grill over and Vee is keeping watch over the burgers, fries, and various chicken parts on the barbecue.   

Hung from the side of the house is a banner reading, “Happy Birthday, Mickey!”  

Ian opens up the side hatch of the van and starts unloading toddlers, feeling pretty proud of himself as he takes in the sight of Mickey, mouth agape, stunned into silence.   

The twins toddle over to their father and Liam goes to investigate the food on offer. Ian hoists Yevgeny onto his hip and stands next to Mickey. “So…what do you think?”   

Mickey looks at him with a soft come hither of a smile. “You’re a sneaky bastard, you know that?”   

Ian smiles and his free hand finds its way to the small of Mickey’s back. “Well, you said nobody ever made a big deal about your birthday before.” Ian tries to play it cool even if the sight of shock on Mickey’s face turning into wonder, and then finally happiness.   

“I just thought we were gonna have a family dinner. Figured you guys were baking a cake when I walked in on you guys this morning.”  

“Right, like I was going to trust Carl and Lip with baking a cake.”  

Mickey snickers. “Yeah, I was half expecting ting to come home to the house burnt down.”  

They join in and enjoy the company of Mickey’s well-wishers. Ian is usually the more social of the two of them, but this evening he leans back in his lawn chair and watches as Mickey puts on a brave face to graciously meet with all his well-wishers. And okay, yes. Ian is setting a timer on his phone to see how long it is before he blows up at someone.  

And with Mickey distracted, he turns to Lip and asks him how much high school Spanish he can recall.  

Chapter Text

“You do realize it’s probably racist to assume his girlfriend’s with the cartel just because she’s Mexican, right?” Mickey asks, keeping his voice hushed as they ride on the crowded El train from St. Anthony’s.   

“Counter-argument!” Ian pierces the air with his index finger. “Isn’t it racist to assume that the people attacking you guys are with the cartel just because they’re Latino?”   

Okay, that’s a valid point. Ian tends to have them every once in a while. It is odd the way they work in tandem. Neither of them are exclusively logical thinkers, and yet neither of them can be said to run on instinct. They both are a blend of the two. And yet they never seem to both apply the same approach at the same time. It’s as though they inherently want to shore up each other’s blind spots when difficult circumstances arise. When Ian is on the verge of leaping before he looks, Mickey is the one insisting they think things through. And when Mickey resorts to a fight or flight response, it is Ian who reminds him to listen to his better angels.   

It is a rare thing for them both to be fellow travelers on the rationality train at the same time and yet still find themselves at cross points.  Case in point, after several attempts on his family’s lives, which at current tally amounts to three deaths, two debilitating injuries, and one half-incinerated house, the redhead thinks he has a lead on what’s going on. Last week, while Mickey was seeing to his uncle, who was still pretty hopped up on painkillers, Colin let slip that his live-in girlfriend badmouths him in Spanish. But Mickey doesn’t quite buy it. If he knew Spanish, he is fairly convinced he would use it to shit talk his family unimpeded, too. He’s sure plenty of women tell their families, “I hate it when he touches me,” or “he still doesn’t suspect” without it being an incriminating statement. Sure. “We will have our revenge” sounds a little suspect, but Mickey isn’t going to condemn this Camilla without even having met her. He’s been too often misjudged without people attempting to get past his outward appearance, as well. It would be fucking hypocritical of him to turn around and do the same.  

Still, Ian is like a dog with a bone once he gets an idea in his head. Mickey cannot help but snicker when he recalls that Ian is a Taurus because he can be pretty stubborn and bull-headed.  He had brought this up days ago once the afterglow of Mickey’s birthday had passed. And he hasn’t let up since.  

But that’s Ian for you. He’s passionate and resilient. He believes in things, often wholeheartedly. He believed in his family, so he held them all together when Fiona was taken from them. He believed in Mickey enough to give him an avenue back into his life even when Ian was so stressed out that he was at the brink of snapping his tether. And now Ian believes he can crack the case and figure out who is gunning for the Milkovich clan.   

Mickey tends more towards cynicism. Mickey’s understanding of the grand scheme of the cosmos can sometimes be summed up by stating that shit always rolls downhill and if there is a Milkovich at the foot of the mountain, inevitably he or she will get crushed in its path. And as much as Ian wants to Scooby-Doo his way into solving Mickey’s problem, Mickey doesn’t want to drag Ian down with him by letting him get involved.   

“Okay,” Mickey concedes on an exhale once they disembark the El, “Say I do agree with you. Or at least think it’s worth investigating, you’re asking me to show up at their apartment and accuse a woman I’ve never met of… of what? Conspiracy murder?”  

“Come on, Mick,” Ian cajoles in his you know I’m right voice. “A few days ago, you were ready to go into hiding. We have a lead.”  

“We have a suspicion ,” Mickey fires back as he lowers Yevgeny to the ground and letting him walk now that they are within sight of the Gallagher house. “You gotta hold my hand, bean. And when we get inside, you can bug your Uncle Liam all you want, okay?”   

“Think about it, Mick— nobody in your family has actually seen this chick.”  

“Yeah, and nobody knew about me and you until a few months back.”   

Mickey waits for Ian’s inevitable rebuttal that at least people knew Ian was a person who existed. But Ian doesn’t volley back, and it takes a moment for Mickey to mentally catch up. Parked in front of the Gallagher house is a very expensive-looking matte-black Lexus.   

“Think your brother is having a manic episode and spent the squirrel fund on a new car?” Mickey asks. He has seen Lip hypomanic a couple times, but it usually comes across as being irritable or hyper. But he has heard enough stories about Monica to have the incident from a few years ago in the back of his mind.  

“I don’t think the squirrel fund would cover a down payment on this thing.” Remarks Ian, who is getting a closer look, but still giving the vehicle a foot of distance, as though he would devalue it if he stands too close.  

Mickey figures the car can’t have been parked in this neighborhood for too long. There is a trace of urine on it, the wheels and hubcaps are where they ought to be, the paint job hasn’t been keyed, and nothing has been stuffed in the tailpipe. Either this car only arrived within a few minutes of them or the neighborhood is going soft.   

“It’s probably CPS,” Ian determines fretfully. “Someone must’ve reported me. Hundred dollars says it was one of the Lisas. Petty fucking bitches.”   

“Calm down, E,” Mickey urges. “It’s probably another realtor trying to sell the house next door again.”  

Ian shakes his head. “The real estate agent knows better than to show up around here in a car like this. Mick, what if they want to take the boys away?”  

“You’re a helicopter parent and I’m not much better. We keep the boys housed and fed and it’s been ages since Carl got his ass into trouble. Why are you freaking out?”  

“We aren’t exactly a cookie cutter family, are we?”  

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” eases Mickey as he throws his arm around Ian’s waist and leads Ian and their son up the front steps.   

“And then there’s the Debbie of it all.”  

“For all we know, it’s CPS bringing Debbie back. Ever think of that?”  

Mickey is about to reach for the doorknob when it opens for him revealing Lip and Mandy on either side of a newcomer, who Mickey assumes is the owner of the luxury car. She is late thirties, maybe early forties, dressed professionally yet practically. Her hair is set in box braids, pulled up and back into a slightly oblong bun except for two loose curly tendrils that frame her face. She wears red cat-eye glasses perched on the tip of her nose that make Mickey wonder if she needs them or if they are a fashion statement. Mickey thinks she looks like what the expression, “professional gal on the go” would look like in human form.  

“I do want you to moderate your expectations, Mr. Gallagher,” the woman insists.   

Her accent has a slanted, nasal quality to it that reminds Mickey of people from Philly. Wait, no, it’s New Jersey. He used to come across that sound every day last Summer when he was working in Rehoboth Beach. They used to take the Cape May ferry down to Delaware to vacation, which seemed silly to Mickey at first considering Jersey has more than its fair share of its own beaches. Though, with time, he learned that each and every beach has its own atmosphere and culture around it. And New Jerseyans really do need a vacation from one another, it seems.   

“It won’t be ‘change your life’ money,” she continues, “But we’ll get what we want— your scholarship reinstated and restitutions.”  

“Oh, so this is lawyer lady, huh?” Mickey nods his head in understanding.   

“Faye Bridges,” she introduces herself, extending her hand. “So you must be Mr. Gallagher’s brothers?”  

“That’s defamation of character if ever I heard it,” Mickey says, jabbing Ian playfully with his elbow.   

“Mickey’s my brother,” Mandy clarifies. “And Ian is Lip’s. But they live together.”  

“And this is our son, Yevgeny,” offers Ian, hoisting up their son so that he is at eye level with the stranger.   

“You can just call him ‘Jelly Bean’ if it’s easier,” Mickey shrugs. “So, is that your luxury ride over there?”  

“Nice, isn’t it?” She asks, practically casting her net for compliments.   

“You’re not exactly who I pictured when we saw it.”  

“Older white man?” She asks.  

Mickey nods. “With a midlife crisis and a small cock.”  

She cackles. “My fiancé said the same thing.  I think I almost scared him off. It’s really the only bougie thing I’ve ever done for myself.”   

“Where’s that accent?” Mickey asks. “Cape May?”  

Her eyes widen. “No, but good ear. Wildwood Crest, just a twenty-minute drive away.”  

“You could pick that out?” asks Lip, agog.  

“No big, I heard it all summer long last year.” he shrugs.  

Ian cuffs Mickey with his free hand. “Mick here’s well-travelled,” Ian boasts. He spent some time up and down the coast last year.”  

“Gross exaggeration, but I was settled in the Delmarva area. Rehoboth. Dewey. Lewes.”  

“Seriously, Mick?” asks Mandy, hands on hips.  She looks at him like he just admitted to spending a year aboard the International Space Station.   

“What?” asks Mickey, amused at her bemusement. “Did you think I spent eighteen months hiding out in some old bomb shelter in the woods? Living off old army rations?”  

“It’s more believable than Mickey the beach bunny!” From the sound of it, Lip thinks that is the height of comedy. Mickey rolls his eyes more at Lip than his sister. “I always figured you ended up in some other city ghetto. New York. Philadelphia. DC. You know, somewhere like here.”  

“Much as I’m loving this exchange of ideas,” Faye interjects, her stilettos clacking their way down the Gallaghers’ front steps headed toward the gate, “I’m off the clock and I need to haul buns up to Highland Park before my sitter’s rates double at six.”   

Mickey isn’t one for standing on ceremony and he’s about ready to get off his feet when Faye does a quick pivot on her heels. “But you three,” Mickey catches the manicured nails pointing at him, Ian, and Mandy. “Help him keep up with his mental health responsibilities.  

It is subtle, but Mickey notices the shift. Out of the corner of his eye he espies Lip. His eyes narrow momentarily, but then he willfully widens them to compensate. Similarly, the corners of Lip’s mouth twitch and fluctuate until it settles into a thin line, but then he manages to compel his lips back into a forced Stepford wife’s grin, the kind that accentuates the creases of his cheeks until he looks like the Joker.   

Mickey can relate. It wasn’t all that long ago that Mickey was the one who bit down his feelings and masked them in whatever way he could. However, his expression of choice was a menacing scowl that scared off just about everyone from examining any closer except for Ian. It was perhaps not as socially acceptable as the rictus grin on Lip’s lips, but back then he always figured it’s better to be feared than to let people see you hurting. He would rather people avoid him than pity him. And similarly, he knows Lip bristles at being condescended to, coddled, treated like his condition renders him incapable.   

"One of the key points of my argument hinges on the fact that Lip is that Lip’s condition is a disability and the school is at fault for penalizing him even after they were apprised of his condition. But a judge is going to be much more likely to rule in Lip’s favor if she can see he is proactively managing his condition. So, meds, therapy, tantric medication, whatever. Document it all between now and then. Get receipts if you can.”  

“And what if I do have an episode between now and then.”  

“Yeah, it isn’t exactly something he can predict,” Ian adds.   

“Hogtie him and lock him in the basement if you gotta,” she suggests as she lowers herself into the driver’s seat. “But we can’t have him running around causing property damage and expect a positive outcome.”  

“I don’t need you guys babysitting me,” Lip all but growls as he turns around and stalks back inside the house.   

“We know you don’t,” Ian attempts to tell him, but he doesn’t quite get the words out before the heavy front door slams shut behind him, spooking Yevgeny.   

Mickey catches the early recognition in his lover’s eyes. Of course, Ian notices immediately; he probably felt it. Ian may treat Mickey like they are equal partners raising Yevgeny together, but the truth is that Ian has been at it more than twice as long as Mickey, thirteen to Mickey’s five. But whatever millisecond’s difference between the two of them, their eyes connect three full seconds before the waterworks.   

He hates the way their son’s chipmunk cheeks deflate, reddening as his lower lip quivers in the fragmentary lead-up. The expressive eyebrows that Yevgeny inherited from Mickey swoop down his forehead looking like a pair of dirty blonde wings in flight and the cornflower blues of his eyes turn to pools and give way to currents of frightened tears. In truth, Yevgeny looks not unlike a gargoyle when he cries. But he’s one cute, little gargoyle.  

Usually, when he has a crying fit, the child will reach out for the nearest human to cling to, but fortunately he is already cradled in Ian’s arms. And it’s for the best that Yevgeny happened to already be there, truly. Ian is always better at running interference with these kinds of crying fits than Mickey is. Mickey can fix a problem. Hungry? Thirsty? Stinky? Stuck somewhere he shouldn’t have toddled? Mickey is your man. But just being there? Being a comfort? Mickey thinks he will never have Ian’s gift for it.   

“What the fuck is his problem?” trills Mandy, trying not to shout for Yevgeny’s sake and instead hissing through her clenched teeth. “He was fine all afternoon.”  

Ian rolls his eyes and sighs resolutely. He rocks their son gently in his arms and repeats a shh shh shh sound, trying to soothe Yevgeny. “I’ll go talk to him.”  

Ian moves to follow, but Mickey puts up his hand. “Nah, you got the kid. I’ll go see what crawled up his ass.”  

“You sure?” asks Ian and the meaning is obvious. After years of them respectfully loathing each other at a safe distance, Mickey isn’t exactly the first choice to talk the elder Gallagher brother out of whatever fit of pique Lip is working his way through. But Mickey has worked alongside each other at a safe distance for a long time now. They have a rapport. Of sorts. And Mickey thinks he can pinpoint what set him off.  

“Yeah, let me talk him off a ledge. If he tells me where I can stick it, then I’ll tag you in. Deal?”  

“Please don’t kill each other, pleads Mandy.”  

He smirks. “No promises.”  

“Alright, fine,” Ian concedes. “Just... don’t set him off, okay?”  

Mickey lifts himself onto his toes to kiss Ian’s cheek. “You know what they say about making omelettes, right?”   

“Mickey...”  

“Okay, fine!” Mickey groans, putting up his arms in surrender. “I won’t try to provoke him.”   

At the top of the stairs, Mickey rattles at the accordion door of Lip’s bedroom. “Can you spare a minute of your time, mop top?”  

“Leave me alone, Milkovich.” grouses Lip, but he makes no motion to bar Mickey from his room. Mickey enters to find Lip lying on his back on the floor with his feet up on the foot of the bed. He has a tennis ball in his hand, which he tosses up and down  

“What lawyer lady said bugged you, right? When she asked us to help stay healthy?"  

“She basically told you guys I still need a sitter.”  

“Do you think you need a sitter?”  

“Pfft. No.”  

“And are you balanced right now?” he asks, leaning on Lip’s dresser, arms and legs both crossed.  

“Mostly,” he concedes. “I’m spiking a little high lately, but nothing I can’t handle. I’ll go to the clinic if it gets any worse.”  

“Good.” Lip looks like he is formulating some feeble comeback, but Mickey presses on. “It must be hard for an older sibling, huh? With Fiona gone, you ought to have been the one everyone could turn to. But the universe had other plans, right?”  

“Did Ian send you up here?”  

“No, I volunteered in his place. He takes on too much around here as it is. So I volunteered as tribute. You know none of us think you’re weak or dangerous or whatever else, right?”  

“Yeah,” Lip pushes himself upright. “While I’m mostly stable, anyway. But that was only half... Y’know what? I’m mostly over my little snit downstairs, so if you wanna go find my brother, tell him I’m not running around, doing something crazy, I’d appreciate it.”   

“Does lawyer lady do that a lot? Treat you like you’re the problem in the room that needs to be solved?”  

“I’ve been living with my diagnosis since October, Milkovich. And my family had been trying to get me to seek help four months before that. I’m numb to people around here treating me like a child. Except—” Lip looks out the window. In the quiet, Mickey can still hear Ian and Mandy talking on the front steps.   

“Except what?”  

“Except Mandy. She still thinks I can do anything, which is insane, right? And amazing after everything that’s...”  his shoulders slouch. “I don’t deserve the second chance I have with her. Even if it never goes past friendship this time, I missed her. But she is so damn convinced I should be back at Chicago Poly.”  

“And you don’t?”  

Lip shakes his head. “The stress from school is what sent me over the edge in the first place, right?”  

“Then why don’t you tell my sister?” Mickey tries to modulate the tone of his voice, but he is offended on her behalf that Lip might just botch this second shot at an education after she moves heaven and earth for him. Again. “Why let her dole out money for a lawyer, spend hours researching your fucking school bylaws—?”  

“Because she’s the only person who makes me feel like my life isn’t shit anymore. ‘Kay?”  

“Phillip, just because your condition makes it—”  

“Don’t you get it? I’m not getting over a case of strep. I'm stuck like this until I'm old and grey. And Mandy’s the only person who makes me think I could have a normal life. But she thinks I deserve an extraordinary life. But the pressures of a life less ordinary are just going to send me over the edge time after time.”  

“How are you so sure?” Mickey asks.  

“’Cause I watched bipolar wreck my mom’s life. And then I got a front row seat for her to turn around and wreck ours. Wreck mine. I could have been anything. But now no matter what career I land on, I’m always going to be hamstringed ‘cause I’m a head case. I’m fucked for life because I lost the genetic lottery. I'm never even gonna have what you and Ian have. I’m not going to have kids and make them worry they’re going to end up like their fucking basket case of a father.”  

Mickey takes his lover’s brother by the shoulders and tries to steady him. “You wanna... I don’t know. Take a few deep breaths or something?”  

“Okay, so I’m never going to be a world-renowned roboticist. I’m not going to invent C-3PO or the Iron Man suit. And I can’t have a family.”  

“Gallagher–”  

“So. What if I don’t aim so high... Mandy makes me happy. She’s someone I could—” Before Mickey even realizes it, he has clocked Lip across the jaw. It sends him flattened out on his bed.  

“The fuck, Mickey!” shouts Lip, reaching to touch the sting on the side of his face.  

“Didn’t mean to do that. Sorry. Or whatever.” Mickey cradles the hand that just landed the punch in his other hand. “Lip, I know you got your issues you’re trying to work through but fucking get your act together. If you want to be with my sister, fine. But you fucking treat her like a goddamn queen, not a consolation prize. Got it?”  

He hears Lip mutter something. Presumably an apology, but Mickey is out the door and down the hall to do some fuming of his own.  

Chapter Text

“Mrs. Landau wants us to meet with her and Liam’s principal on Thursday,” Ian announces as he checks the e-mail from Liam’s school. It fills Ian with trepidation. A meeting with the principal is hard-coded into his brain as an ominous portent.

It is still mind-boggling to Ian that Mrs. Landau is still teaching at Hamline Elementary. Despite there always being two other first grade teachers, the odds were not in her favor and she has taught every single Gallagher sibling. Ian would have thought a school year with Carl would have persuaded her to take early retirement.

“They probably just have to give us the run-down since Liam is the new kid on the block.” Reasons Mickey as he ladles a layer of mashed potatoes on top of the confection that will eventually be cottage pie.

The decision to switch Liam to their local public school  after spending a year in the private school Frank had conned him into was both a difficult and surprisingly easy one. Ian and especially Lip understand access to educational resources that an underfunded public school would not afford their brother. But Liam kept missing class. Recruiters kept pulling him out whenever prospective parents would tour the school. As one of the few kids of color in the school, they kept planting him in public areas where tours would be escorted through to make the school look more diverse than it actually is. Liam is both sensitive and observant. He understood what the faculty were doing and why and it didn’t make him feel like he belonged in a place like that when they only seem to keep him around for self- congratulatory advertising (not Liam’s words, but definitely his spirit). Mickey says Liam is a natural-born bullshit detector.

What it finally boiled down to is that Liam wasn’t happy there. And that alone made it a no-brainer to switch Liam to Hamlin, the public elementary school in their own neighborhood.

But now it’s mid-October and they have teachers trying to pull Ian in for a meeting. Just thinking about it makes him want to break out in hives. It once again makes him wish Fiona were around. She is adept with talking to teachers and parents from years of experience. Unfortunately, Ian still has until June, or possibly May, before Fiona is expected to be paroled.

“Don’t look so worried, E.” Mickey insists. He probably spotted the way Ian chews on the inside of his cheek. “He’s a good kid and he’s in first grade. It’s probably just a routine meeting.”

Ian walks to the living room where Liam is diligently doing his homework. Kneeling in front of the coffee table, he is scratching at the side of his forehead with the eraser of his pencil.

“Hey peanut, how are you holding up?”

“Okay, I guess.” Answers the six-year-old distantly.

“Got any idea why your teacher wants to have a meeting with me?”

Liam shrugs. “Maybe it has something to do with the Halloween party.”

“Shit, we need to get you a costume.”

“I found the costume box in the attic. I’m going as a vampire.” Ian should probably admonish Liam about climbing into the attic without asking him for help. Well, someone had to have helped him. He can’t reach the chord to pull down the ladder. Still, Ian appreciates that Liam is getting to an age when he doesn’t need Ian for everything.

He looks down at the assignment in front of his brother. His old school would have probably given all the students Chromebooks for their schoolwork. Instead, he is working from a small stack of worksheets  mimeographed from a workbook. Who uses a mimeograph? He knows public schools don’t have the best funding, but he knows that school has to have its own photocopier.

“So, Halloween? That’s all?”

“Maybe it’s ’cause I’m different from the other kids.” Liam shrugs.

“Different how?”

“I dunno. But they all use the blue book for reading time and mine’s yellow.”

Ian is confused. “Like you have a different book? You sure it isn’t just the covers that are different?”

“Totally different. Mrs. Landau talks to me for about five minutes and I work on my own, then she teaches the rest of the class.”

Ian and Lip had been warned this might happen after Fiona’s fateful cocaine party. While it sent her to prison, it landed Liam in the ICU. Ian can still remember how the nurses had to strap his arms and legs to the sides of his little hospital bed so he couldn’t hurt himself. He was only four. The trauma nurse at the clinic warned them that Liam might have developmental issues as he ages. Problems with language development, intellectual impairment. Difficulties with emotional and behavioral regulation. She advised them to take Liam to a neurologist, as if they were a couple of Rockefellers who could throw out that kind of money on a whim.

“I don’t like being treated like I’m an alien in class. Or a weirdo.” Liam admits as he continues his class work. He seems like he is six going on sixty. “I just wanna be treated like everybody else.”

Ian understands. Perhaps not precisely what Liam is going through, he didn’t have learning differences. He was always painfully average in school aside from the time he tested out of English in tenth grade. And he wasn’t born so visibly different from his siblings as Liam was. But nobody is absolved from feeling out of step with the world around them. And the expression “red-headed stepchild” exists for a reason. 

For years, he could never quite figure out why Monica, at least when she was around and more or less leveled out, always gave him a little bit more attention, a bit more affection than his siblings. Conversely, he didn’t understand why he was so often the victim of Frank’s capricious temper. They all had to suffer though his negligence and his apathy as a parent. But any inclination towards physical abuse was reserved for him. It wasn’t until shortly after his fifteenth birthday that he and Lip took blood tests and found out that he is the result of an affair between his mother and one of Frank’s brothers. It was hard for all of them, certainly, growing up without the love of their parents in any meaningful way, but he would trade a lack of warmth and affection for the active enmity.

He knows their elder brother has had similar experiences, when being different made him feel isolated. Lip used to feel singled out for being so smart, he used to openly lament the pressure it used to put on him. And then his bipolar made itself known and he had an exciting new reason to complain about feeling different.

Liam already has enough reason to feel like an outsider working against him just being a Gallagher. Ian isn’t going to stand by while his teacher shoves him in the corner. He his baby brother a one-armed hug. He’s still so small that Ian can wrap one arm around him completely and yet he’s already at an age where he’s confronted with this bullshit. He knows life is only going to be harder for Liam because of race and a learning disability. He'll never experience the same adversity Liam will. But he is going to champion his youngest sibling as best he can.

“I’ll talk to your teacher, peanut. We’ll get this straightened out.”

***

“Do you remember elementary schools smelling like this?” Mickey asks, seemingly unconcerned with whether his voice is carrying in the claustrophobic corridors of Liam’s school.

Ian looks up from where he had been quite distracted by his phone. He has been texting back and forth with Lip, who is on kid duty while he and Mickey attend the meeting with Liam’s teacher and principal. Mickey had been more than willing to take the boys, but Ian is nervous and could use the support. On the one hand, he’s anxious about facing one of his siblings’ teachers in the role of their guardian for really first time. And the fact that he’ll be talking to a teacher who taught him back when he himself was small enough to be scolded for picking his nose simply feels surreal.

But one the other hand, Mickey is impervious to the sort of intimidation teachers actively or passively cause. The Milkoviches were never really pressed to do well in school the way Fiona prioritized it with the Gallaghers. He doesn’t have academic PTSD the way Ian does. He still has “I didn’t study for this exam” stress dreams. Ian hopes Mickey could be the one cool under pressure for him. And the truth is there is a good likelihood that strolling in with a Milkovich might make the faculty just as nervous as Ian feels.

“Huh?”

“The smell?” Mickey repeats. “You’d think it wouldn’t be so bad outside the principal’s office, right? What is that?”

“Turpentine and BO? I don’t know.”

“Shit, kids are gross. You’d think the school could afford to hand out deodorant.” Hygiene can be a touchy subject for Mickey. One of the more pervasive and yet less overt ways Terry abused his kids over the years was denying his children access to cleanliness. A favorite punishment Terry would dole out (at least when he was on Child Protective Services’ radar), he would often screw with the pipes so that only the plumbing in the bathroom in the master bedroom and the kitchen worked properly. By the time, Ian Mickey started shoplifting to get Ian’s attention, tugging at his proverbial pigtails, Mickey could get a shower more consistently at the nearest homeless shelter than his own home. 

“They’re little kids, Mick,” smirks Ian, not giving him too much of an argument.

“Then why are kindergartners sharing a building with kids old enough to be sprouting facial hair?”

“Gallagher?” Cheryl Lewis was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when she started working as the administration office secretary when Ian was in seventh grade. She had to have been fresh out of secretarial school. But for a twelve year old, she seemed like a Capital “G” Grownup. It is off-putting how much smaller the age gap seems now that he is twenty.

“That’s me, Ian.” He clamors to his feet and fights the urge to salute as though she were one of his JROTC instructors. And this is my fiancé Mickey.” Color forms on the apples of Mickey’s cheeks. Despite Ian proposing (sort-of) back in July, they have only been telling people for about a month now. And Mickey only spilled the beans when he became overzealous while cajoling someone, anyone to take the boys for the evening so that he and Ian could finally have a real, official first date night.

“Yeah, um. We used to go here.”

She smirks. “I remember. Talking too much and tardies,” she says pointing a trim but brightly painted nail towards Ian. Then she points to Mickey “And fighting and absenteeism.”

“You remember all the kids by what they were sent to the office for?”

“It’s how I get to know you all best. Your parents still aren’t in the picture, huh?”

Ian feels like he is being put on the spot already and he hasn’t even met Liam’s teacher and principal yet. He gives her the abridged version of the state of the family on the short walk to Principal Gutierrez’ door. And also apologizes profusely for Carl without even being prompted.

Inside the principal’s office Miss Gutierrez is seated behind her desk. She is a young thirty-something woman with a aggressively blonde hair like she is gunning for an on-camera job at Fox News. She is dressed in a blue pantsuit. Ian doesn’t know why he expected her to be just as old and cantankerous as Mrs. Chan-Goldstein had been.

Mrs. Landau is seated in one of the four office chairs in front of the desk. She still has the hippie granola aesthetic she was rocking when he was still enrolled as a student, despite the fact that at the earliest, she was born in the late 1970’s. She has a few more crows’ feet and the shade she is using to cover up the grey hair is a darker shade of brown than he is used to seeing on her.

There is a brief moment of mental disconnect on the principal’s face. Ian wonders if it is because he is white or whether she has been here long enough to expect a different Gallagher. “Mr. Gallagher,” Gutierrez stands and offers her hand. He accepts it then she presents her hand to Mickey, who just looks at it. “And Mr…?”

“Mickey. Milkovich.”

“Please have a seat.”

“I thought Liam was confused when he said you’d be coming. What happened to Fiona?” Asks Mrs. Landau with the concern you would expect from someone who has seen five other Gallaghers come and go before Liam.

“She had to go away for a while,” answers Mickey, straddling tactful and blunt. “Ian stepped up.”

“You’re one of Terry’s aren’t you?” Asks Mrs. Landau. “Right!” She answers herself. “Mikhailo! Such a good kid.”

“You were?”

“Every kid’s a good kid when they’re six, Red.”

“You gentlemen want to take a seat?” Asks the principal, whose line of sight dances along Mickey’s knuckles, but only briefly.

“Speaking of good kids, my brother? Liam says he’s been treated differently in class? Different lessons different text books.”

“Oh, good. So we are all on the same page!” Mrs. Landau singsongs.

“Yeah, the kid doesn’t like feeling singled out like that.”

“Well, it can hardly be helped, Mr. Malk— er, Milkovich.”

“The nurses told us that he might have learning differences or special needs whatever you wanna call ‘em.”

“Exactly! Your little brother is definitely learning at a different rate than his peers.”

“Which is why Mrs. Landau asked to set up this meeting.”

A lump forms in Ian’s throat. They probably want to move him to the special ed classroom or even send him to some expensive special school in some bougie Northside community or something.

Mrs. Gutierrez continues. “We really ought to arrange for him to be moved to a class with students more his speed while the school year is still young. It’s always harder to transition classrooms once the kids get attached to one another.”

“Look, I’ve been living with the family for months now and Liam’s a bright little fucker. He can’t be that far behind the curve.”

“Behind?”

“Yeah,” Ian admits. He doesn’t want to air Fiona’s dirty laundry and he is careful to avoid mentioning the incident, but the trauma nurses’ warnings are all he really needs to convey. “We were told that he could have problems with language skills and—

“Mr. Gallagher, I think you misunderstand,” sighs the principal, stifling a laugh.

“So you’re not putting him in Sp.Ed classes or something?”

Mrs. Landau’s mouth pinches briefly, clearly not liking that term. “No, Mikhailo. We are discussing advancing Liam to a grade where he will have more of a challenge.”

“Advance him?” Asks Ian, suddenly feeling like he has followed the wrong roadmap.

 “We’re thinking he could test out of first and second grade,” Gutierrez clarifies. “He could even move him up to the fourth grade language arts unit, but he isn’t quite the math whiz our records indicate that…” she looks at her notes. “…Phillip was at the same age.”

“So, we are thinking third grade will be a good sweet spot.” Mrs. Landau explains. “He’s really a bright boy. More serious than Lip was at that age, but also more insightful. It’s like having a pint-sized philosopher in the room with me sometimes.”

“This sound good to you, E?”

This doesn’t align with anything he was warned about by the doctors following the cocaine incident. They had made it sound like he was bound for a life of special needs, in which one of the Gallagher would be caring for him for the rest of their lives. When he bounced back hale and hearty, Ian and Lip thought it was a small miracle. Their little brother beat the odds and would have a normal life after all.

They didn’t expect him to be years ahead of kids his own age. The Gallagher luck is a fickle thing. Ian never expected it to grant the family a second genius in the same generation.

The rest of the meeting passes in a blur. They schedule testing for Liam and they resolve not to explain what it is for until after it is determined whether or not he will be advancing grades.

Thirty minutes later, as they walk through their neighborhood headed home, Mickey pokes Ian’s bicep. “Hey.”

“Hey what?”

“Wanna know the best part about all this?”

“We probably don’t have to worry about any lingering effects from the cocaine incident anymore?”

“Eh. Close.”

Ian gives him a suspicious grin. “Okay, then what?”

“I am going to have so much fun using this to make Lip feel insecure.”

“Only use this power for good, Mick.”

His fiancé scratches at this smooth chin. “Hm. Nope. Don’t think I can make any promises.”

Chapter Text

“Think you can give Sid some pointers before your shift’s over?” Mickey asks as he grabs his jacket and scarf. “I think this might be his first time closing on his own and he’s still having problems resolving the register at the end of his shifts.” 

Lip looks up at him after his current customer is out the door. “Yeah, I can manage that.” Lip gives Mickey a wry grin as if to challenge him to come right out and admit his ploy.  

“Good,” he replies, rolling his shoulders. “I’d rather have you pull him aside and course correct than let his mother lay into him.”  

That is surprisingly one of Linda’s better qualities as the proprietor of a family-owned business. She is just as demanding of the family on the payroll as she is on Mickey and Lip. However, the inverse problem is that she speaks to her fifteen-year-old son as critically as she talks to grown men. And unlike her husband, Mickey doesn’t want Siddig to feel like running away from home is better than working for Linda. 

“You do realize I know what you’re doing, right?” Lip challenges before crossing his arms over his chest.  

“Yeah, I’m briefing you before I take off for the day.” Mickey replies dismissively as he drapes and layers his scarf around his shoulders.  

“I’ve noticed you’ve been giving me more responsibility around here, Mick.”  

“I’m just delegating, man.”  

“Sure.” 

“And once the kid’s punched in, could you have him cover the front while you straighten up the end-caps?” 

“Gotcha,” Lip replies with a sardonic salute.  

Mickey is about to leave when Lip declares, “I’m not gonna go running back to college just ‘cause you’re making it harder to coast around here.” 

“You tell Mandy you don’t want to go back to school yet?” 

“I’m still deciding. Don’t want her busting her hump for nothing, y’know?” 

“Figure it out soon. Your day in court is coming up.” 

As Mickey cuts through the neighborhood, he cannot help but admit to himself that, yes, he is manipulating Lip, but not in the way he thinks. Ian’s brother seems to be living under the delusion that his mental illness is a life sentence. And yes, he is pretty much going to be living with it for the rest of his life, but it is a handicap, not a prison cell. He would never admit it to the asshole, but Lip is still very capable, bipolar or not. And it is about time he realized it before he wastes the opportunity his sister is going out of her way to secure for him yet again.  

So, Mickey figures he can give Lip some extra responsibilities around the store, things that he would usually take on himself like keeping Sid from landing himself in hot water with his mother. He figures if Lip gets enough of a confidence boost, hopefully he will arrive at the conclusion that he can manage school again. Hell, with Ian and Mickey pretty much running the household, he might be able to cut back on his hours at the store, let them worry about the bills while he focuses on his education. 

It’s strange though that he even gives a shit what happens to Lip. Eight months ago, when he moved into the Gallagher house, he truly looked at Lip as a nuisance he would need to put up with if it meant staying with the Gallagher family and rebuilding  trust with Ian.  

He gets along fine with the rest of Ian’s family. Carl looks up to him and Debbie used to come to him with problems she didn’t want to talk about with her older brothers. Fiona has warmed up to him during their weekly visits, particularly ever since he stopped playing dumb about Yevgeny’s paternity. He supposes that she respects that he stepped up to the plate to help Ian out the way she did when they were all just kids. 

But his dynamic with Lip has always been a weird push and pull. Granted, if you told him years ago, that the kid he used to regularly get into fight with in the schoolyard would end up being his fiancé’s brother, he would have laughed. Even now, even though they are mostly chill with each other, there is an outwardly combative quality to their dynamic.  

And yet, there is this tacit understanding, borne perhaps by the fact that they both care for Ian. Working and living with the guy has added another dimension to how they engage with one another. He won’t admit this, not even to Ian, but he doesn’t like seeing Lip fuck up his life. Or in this case, let opportunities pass him by. Mandy must have felt the same way when she took it upon herself to apply to some pretty big name universities on his behalf.  

The way Mickey sees it, everybody has their boons and banes. Sure, Lip’s bane, his mental illness, seems like a lot, but so is his intelligence. And after a little research, Ian and Mickey found out that plenty of people have been very successful despite living with the diagnosis. Buzz Aldrin, Isaac Newton, Frank Sinatra, Van Damme (which impressed Ian to no end), Linda Hamilton, and Carrie Fisher (which pleased Mickey to discover). Lip has a gift that could take him far if he could push past his hangups over his condition. The man spends too much time standing in his own way and  looking for reasons not to try.  

And he hates the look of worry on Ian’s face whenever he worries about his brother. Ian often laments how the diagnosis devastated Lip’s confidence. Once upon a time when he was the tender age of seventeen, Mickey told Ian without a hint of doubt in his voice that he was fucked for life. And true, his life was littered with setbacks both minor and major. But despite it all, he has ended up with a pretty good life with Ian and their son. Hopefully, Lip will also someday discover that his problems are setbacks and not a life sentence. 

He takes a slight detour on his walk home to check on the old family homestead. In the last weeks of August, he and his siblings voided their family home of the last of the personal affects worth saving. He still remembers Ian following him about the house entertained by the sheer number and creativity of Mickey’s hiding places throughout the abode. Then in early September, Mandy paid to have what remained of the house to be demolished.  

For a few weeks, it was unsettling to walk their old street and see the house completely gone, as though it had never been there. Mickey vacillated between relief and remorse. The site of some truly heinous acts is gone for good and all. The memories linger, and Mickey is still coming around to the idea that he should probably talk to a professional like Ian has suggested once or twice, but a least Terry’s house of horrors can never act as the home of anyone else’s childhood torment.  

But on the other hand, he remembers growing up there. He remembers playing with Mandy and Iggy in the living room. He can still recall Joey teaching him to swear in Ukrainian and Colin giving him his first Old Style. What few fleeting, happy memories he has of his mother were in that house. 

The house is gone. And yet the foundation remained, intact and solid. Mandy figured a new home could replace it without the painful memories of their childhood. Unlike the ones Terry left on Mickey’s back, the new Milkovich house would be free of the scars of their past. Colin is still on light duty after his injury, but Mandy hired on his construction company to start work on a new house under the proviso that Colin would oversee it. They only broke ground a few weeks ago, towards the end of October, but Mickey is impressed with the progress. The framework indicates that the new house is still intended to be a split-level as the old house had been, but there will have a second story. The initial drywalling is complete for the basement and first floor. It is pretty impressive progress considering Mandy’s mystery sugar daddy is only doling out enough to pay for three or four days of work per week.  

It looks like the construction team is finishing up for the day, only a couple of stragglers left trickling out of the trailer parked out front that serves as Colin’s office. He leans on the side of the chassis waiting for his elder brother to step outside.  

When Mickey imagined what it would look like when his elder brother upgraded his cane from the bland aluminum one the hospital sent him home with, he pictured something hard-edged. Black with metal spikes along the side, some sort of animal head cast in silver for the pommel. What he doesn’t expect is a lacquered Blackwood shillelagh with a Ukrainian evil eye carved into the bulbous handle with an inlay of lapis. The Irish walking stick with the apotropaic symbol from Eastern Europe is decidedly Old World, considering their father always taught them to eschew any identity other than American. 

“Nice work on the new place, Col.” 

Colin jumps, startled and not expecting anyone to be awaiting him. 

“Jesus fuck, what are you doing sneaking up on me like that?” 

“Little jumpy, huh?” 

“Yeah, aren’t you?” He asks, letting his breathing settle. “The last attack was three months ago. We’re overdue for another.” 

Mickey thinks back to a conversation he and Ian had shortly after the attack that put Lou in the ground and introduced Uncle Ronnie to using eye patches as a fashion accessory. “Maybe they moved on. Got what they’re looking for or they spilled enough blood.” 

“You really think so?” 

“Gotta sleep soundly at night somehow and getting shitfaced every evening ain’t an option,” shrugs Mickey. “Say, you planning on coming to Thanksgiving dinner?” It has been a few years since the Gallaghers’ mother was found laying in a pool of her own blood mid-way through Thanksgiving dinner. Ian resolved, though, that the Gallagher clan has overcome too much shit in their lives not to celebrate. It’s a day when people show gratitude for what they have. And Ian insists it is a day worth honoring and they’ve let it pass uncelebrated for too long because their mother is in Ian’s words, “a messy bitch who lives for drama.” 

“You seriously want us all breaking bread under one roof?” Asks Colin as they walk toward his car.  

“You guys all showed up for my birthday, right?” Mickey reminds him. “It’s not like we’re the fucking Hatfields and McCoys, right? At least three of us have been with three of them.” 

“Four if you include our mom and theirs.” 

“What? Seriously?” How is it that sounds downright incestuous but not the fact that Lip still has heart eyes for his future sister-in-law? 

“Only once or twice.” Mickey doesn’t know if Colin sound so unbothered because this is old news for him or because he doesn’t have the same nostalgia goggles Mickey has for their mother. “PCP was involved.” 

“That sounds about right for both of them. So, Thanksgiving?” 

Colin shrugs as he unlocks his car door. “May as well. Camilla’s going alone to her family’s thing.” 

“Trouble in paradise, huh?” 

“Nah,” dismisses his older brother as he throws his shillelagh across the passenger seat. “She says her family has always been super private. But good to know I’ll have somewhere to go.” 

“Can you bring a side?” 

“Store-bought cranberry sauce count?” 

“As long as it isn’t in the can when you get here.” 

“A bit above my kitchen skills, bro.” Colin snarks as he pulls away. 

Mickey is cutting through the alley nearly in sight of home when his phone buzzes in his pocket accompanied by a song by Bonnie Tyler. Pulling out his phone, he sees a picture of Ian grinning broadly and holding their son. The text under the image reads, “Ian (Fiancé).” He smiles. He is a street over, but Ian can’t seem to wait for him.  

The call connects and he puts it to his ear, “Hey Firecrotch.” 

“We need a car.” Insists an urgent Ian.  

“What do we need wheels for?” He quickens his pace, practically  

“We gotta go to Iowa.” 

He pushes open the front door and ends the call when he sees Ian standing in the living room, his skin looks wan like he just saw a ghost. 

“What’s in Iowa? Besides fucking corn?” 

Ian pockets his own phone. “Debbie.” 

“How did you track her down?” Mickey had figured Ian had resolved to just wait for her to come back on her own.  

“I didn’t. I just got a call from Madison County General. I guess I’m still her emergency contact.” 

“Yeah? And?” 

“She went into labor.” 

Mickey does the math in his head. “But it’s—” 

“Yeah, she’s two months early.” 

Chapter Text

“What gives, shit-for-brains?” he hears Mickey screech. “Thirty minutes ago, you said it was fine!”

“Sounds like you’re gonna need to look for another way to get there, huh?” Carl’s talent for stating the obvious ought to be studied by science.

“Well, how the hell else does your woman expect us to drive out to the middle of fucking nowhere?”

Ian reflects upon Mickey’s question, albeit more pragmatically.  Colin obviously isn’t their only option if they want to borrow a car. There is Kev’s van. Plenty of space, especially (hopefully) if they plan on bringing back Debbie and her baby. But it rattles just getting them around the city. She might not be seaworthy enough to get them all the way to central Iowa and back again.

Seriously, Debbie, how the fuck did you end up in the middle of the woods in the Midwest’s answer to the Deep South?

“Y’know this bitch has you by the balls, right?”

“You guys do realize you’re missing a golden opportunity, right?” Asks Carl as he starts digging around the bowl of house keys next to the front door.

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

He holds up a set of keys on a tacky yellow foam key chain. Ian vaguely recognizes them, but they have been sitting around in that bowl  for over a year now. They may as well have been part of the wallpaper. “Sammie’s RV.”

Ian had been quite happy to never give his siblings’ half-sister another thought after she was dragged away in cuffs the last January. They had grown up quite ignorant of the existence of Frank’s eldest daughter, but suddenly when he needed a liver transplant and the Gallagher siblings of age were neither a blood type match nor inclined to help. That’s when Frank’s eldest daughter materialized out of nowhere ever so ready to claim her place as daddy’s favorite. There was little competition.

In the process, she and Frank ended up squatting in the home of the Gallaghers’ kind but batty family friend, Sheila Jackson. To raise money for a liver transplant, she scammed a couple dozen people out of a considerable sums of money in cash by passing off Sheila’s home as their own and acting like they’re motivated sellers.

After Frank was on the mend, because the man is a cockroach, she kept up the grift until she had enough to replace the janky old camper she lived in with a luxury RV. Though she didn’t get much time to enjoy it before she landed herself in prison when she attempted to murder Frank. Honestly, Ian officially has no idea why, but it wasn’t all that long after mentally challenged son was sent off to juvie when he was caught acting as a mule in a cocaine trafficking ring. Somehow, Ian supposes there is a positive correlation there.

She ended up getting eighteen years for attempted murder and another seven when the real estate fraud. Her motor home is still parked in the empty lot next to Sheila’s house.

“Yeah, well fuck you and your cunt girlfriend, too!” Shouts Mickey irritably into the phone. “Yeah, that’s fine. See you at Thanksgiving.” He tosses his phone onto the coffee table and massages the sides of his temple. “Colin says we can put him down for cranberry sauce and pecan pie.”

“Well, that’s a load off my shoulders,” Ian snarks.

***

An hour later, Mickey has the RV parked in front of the Gallagher house. Ian and Mickey are both in the process of making arrangements for coverage at work for the next few days while they pack up a couple overnight bags for themselves and Yevgeny.

“You sure I can’t come along?” Asks Liam, sitting at the foot of their bed. “She’s my sister, too.”

Ian cannot help but be impressed by his little brother. This time last year, he was such a quiet kid, but he’s really come into his own since the new school year started. He always knew there was more to Liam going on under the surface. Even as a baby, he had these big precocious eyes that seemed to always be taking in the world around him, wanting to explore. For the past two years, despite the fact that he did have little episodes and a several night terrors, he seemed relatively unchanged beyond the fact that he was so quiet. Not mute, but simply not a talker. He doesn’t know what it is about public school that the private charter school lacked, but Liam seems to have only flourished since they made the switch.

“You’re still getting caught up with the other third-graders, little dude,” Mickey reminds him. Technically, he only really struggles in long division and converting decimals to fractions, but it’s enough to convince the six-year-old, who nods in assent.

“Besides, we need someone around who can keep Carl in line.”

Liam’s eyes narrow as he peers down the hall to the boys’ bedroom. Then he looks back at Ian and Mickey. “Isn’t that supposed to be Lip’s job when you’re not around?”

“Lip’s going to be looking after you,” Ian shrugs. “And Carl’s gonna look after Lip. That’s how family works, Liam. We all take care of each other.”

“And Kev and Vee are gonna make sure you get to and from school,” Mickey asserts. “Lip is going in early to cover my opening for me. And you’re not walking all the way to school by yourself. Capiche?”

“But none of the other kids in class—”

Mickey’s one eyebrow shoot up and the other furrows as he stares Ian’s kid brother down. Ian takes in the sight of Liam getting sheepish in the face of Mickey’s masterful “dad” face. He is going to have parenting down pat by the time Yevgeny is the same age, Ian thinks.

“It’s just going to be for a night, maybe two,” reminds Ian placatingly. “Debbie’ll have her kid and we’ll bring her home.”

“You sure she’ll cooperate?”

Ian looks up to see Lip at his bedroom door. He hadn’t even heard his brother come in the house, but it occurs to him that his shift probably ended close to an hour ago. Ian had sent him a flurry of texts after he called Mickey (because if he had sent one long paragraph, Lip would have only read the first and last sentences), but he still expected some follow-up questions. Instead, his eyes seems oddly fixed on Mickey and his lips are pursed as though he’s formulating an argument. 

“So, I’m slipping into your shoes for a couple days, huh?”

“Nothing we think you can’t handle, Phillip.”

“Mick—”

“How many times do we gotta say ‘you got this’ before it sinks in, man?”

Lip looks at Liam. “Hey, Peanut. White Castle’s on the table?”

“You got me some sliders?

Lip nods. “Two Crispy chicken and one bacon.”

Liam doesn’t need any more prompting than that. Kid genius or not, he’s still a Gallagher and processed food choices he will regret later are practically encoded in his DNA. Once Liam is gone, Lip closes the bedroom door and lets his mask slip. The stoic front he wears gives way to concern in his crystal blue eyes.

“What am I supposed to do if something happens?”

Ian rolls his eyes. He knows that his older brother is more than capable of making sure a six-year-old and a teen are fed and sheltered for two or three days. “Lip, you’re the most resourceful guy I know. And Carl and Liam practically take care of themselves.”

“But Liam’s still to young to use the stove,” Mickey interjects.

“No shit, Mick. He can’t even reach it yet. Look, I’m not worried something will happen. I just don’t know what to do if something happens.” He taps the side of his head for emphasis.

   Oh. Of course, Ian should have understood. Mickey had confided with him that Lip has been a bit more self-conscious about his bipolar lately. But his brother has been balanced and taking good care of himself for a while. It can be difficult to see the same reason for worry that Lip is feeling. But then again, that is a matter of seeing what he wants to see in his brother. Perhaps Ian just sees Lip not acting like Monica and is only assuming that things are okay. He is still searching for the balance between being attentive towards Lip’s mental health without making his older brother feel like a problem that has to be monitored. It’s a process.

“Well, we have a plan in place, right? You’re take care of yourself, meds, therapy, routine. And you’re journaling, too, right?"

“Yes. It’s dumb as fuck, but I’m doing it.”

“And in the off chance that you catch yourself going off your rocker in the next few days, we got a plan in place, ain’t that right?” asks Mickey. “You send the boys over to stay with Kev and Vee while you haul ass to the clinic.”

Lip’s right hand twitches like he’s reaching for his cigarettes. “I still don’t think this is the right play.”

Ian throws the charger for his phone  and a ziploc baggie full of  toiletries that he hasn’t reorganized since he was in ROTC on top of the clothes in the duffel before he starts to zip it shut.

“Lip, remember right after they took Fiona away and we all thought I’d end up in another group home and the kids would go back into the system? Who stepped up and kept us together? You did.”

“Yeah, but—”

“You’re still that guy. You were mentally ill then and you still are now. The big difference is you have the tools you need to handle it.” Ian takes his older sibling by the shoulders, practically shaking him. "We’re Gallaghers! We hold each other up even when we don’t got our shit together. And we get by.”

Ian feels one of Lip’s hands clutch around Ian’s wrist and they stay like that as still as a pair of statues for several long minutes. Then Lip rests his forehead on Ian’s shoulder. “Thank, bro,” he whispers. “You’ve kept us all together for a long time now.” He lifts is head back up and Ian can see his eyes are a little watery. “And doing a better job than I could.” Ian isn’t completely sure he agrees with the assessment considering he’s headed out of town to retrieve the pregnant fifteen-year-old who ran away on his watch months ago. “You’re right, I can handle this. Go get our sister back.”

***

Despite both of them having their licenses, neither of them is a well-practiced driver per se, but of the two of them, Mickey is the one who approaches the open road with the most gusto whereas Ian is the more cautious and pragmatic driver. But with a six-hour drive, they figure there is plenty of time to take turns. Mickey takes the first shift, enjoying the feeling of driving on the interstate instead of the tight congestion of city streets. They switch off twice, meaning Mickey is the one behind the wheel when they arrive at Madison County General Hospital a little after one in the morning.

At first, Ian mistakes the hospital for a high school. He is accustomed to hospitals like the one he works at, facilities that fit into a cityscape. But this is no city, in fact, MCGH is nestled snugly in the middle of a small town. Ian imagines this might have been a local baseball field or more likely a cow pasture before the medical center was erected. The building is a brown brick building only a floor or two in height but it has some sprawl to it. Ian can feel it in his bones. We are going to get all turned around in this fucking hick town hospital.

There is an old truism that medical professionals make the worst patients. Ian can attest that the family of the patient ought to be included in this. The closest way he can come with to describe what he is feeling is road rage. Ian feels like Nostradamus as they venture out on the third leg of their wild goose chase. They had initially went to the Maternity unit, thinking Debbie must be in the delivery suite or recovery. But there must have been something wrong because they get redirected to the Emergency Unit, where she was sent three hours ago.

But she must have been turfed over to pain management an hour ago, which is their current destination. And as annoyed as Ian is by the hospital’s lack of communication that has sent them from ward to ward for the past thirty-five minutes, what is really driving him up a wall is how nice everyone is while still being utterly unhelpful.

They arrive at the Pain Management milieu’s reception. Mickey is on Yevgeny duty, freeing up Ian to deal more with hospital staff. Their son is dozing oblivious as can be in the new carrier Ian shelled out a little extra cash for via Facebook Marketplace once he got too big for the old one. This one is more like a saddle. Their son’s sleeping head pokes out from behind Mickey, slumped on his shoulder.

“Hi, we’re here looking for Gallagher?” He asks the middle-aged night nurse who looks like her last straw was weeks ago as she looks up from her harlequin romance novel.

“Gallagher?” She echoes, setting down her book and turns to the clunky, old computer at her desk. “Gallagher-comma-Francis was discharged already.”

“Frank’s here?”

“Or he was,” shrugs Mickey. “Look where we are, Red. Pain. He probably unloaded Debs on some unsuspecting nurse and came over here to scam some unsuspecting nurses out of some OxyContin.”

“Shit, yeah. That says textbook Frank.”

“If that’s all you need—”

“No, not just yet,” Ian tries to quell the frustration at the nurse’s attempt to give them the brush off. Though at least she is too checked out for the fake niceness. “We’re looking for Debbie Gallagher. Deborah Margaret Gallagher. Born 1/27/1993.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Please. I’m her legal guardian, but she ran off with her deadbeat sperm donor. She’s been missing for months until you guys called me as her I.C.E. contact.”

She rolls her eyes yet again, but this time with a beleaguered sigh. “Give me a minute.”

***

 They stare at her through the door of her hospital room, sleeping fitfully despite the sedation. Ian can’t quite wrap his head around the conflicting realizations of how far along in her pregnancy, how pronounced her stomach is from the child she is carrying, versus how young she still seems.

Garett, the charge nurse in Overnight Observation doesn’t pull any punches. To hear him tell it, Debbie had been staying with an autonomous commune in the nearby Fellowship Forest (Ian elects to interpret this as “cult”) for some time. Apparently, she had an unexpected reaction to some concoction she was provided by a Queenie Slott that toxicology is should have analyzed sometime tomorrow morning. The resulting effect of the compound induced a series of intense cramps that hospital staff misread as contractions. In other words, she experienced false labor.

They would have discharged her if not for the fact that they scheduled a same-day appointment for to get get her stomach pumped in the GI unit and they determined that due to the impact whatever she took might have on her pregnancy, she warranted overnight observation.

“And let me guess,” Mickey ruminates, “Frank and this Queen lady were long gone by the time you realized you had a drugged up pregnant fifteen-year-old on your hands?”

“Pattern of behavior?” Asks the nurse.

“Frank only puts time into his kids when they are either useful to him or if he sees himself mirrored back in one of ‘em.” Ian cannot help but think it is worth not having the love of either his bio dad or Frank. Debbie may have ended up in any number of places when she ran off, but he feels fairly confident that she wouldn’t have ended up in a podunk hospital getting her stomach pumped if she had crashed with Sandy or something.

He sends his fiancé and son to get some rest in the camper. Mickey tries to convince Ian to come along, but Ian isn’t certain Debbie will still be here if he leaves the room without her. He’ll stay here all night if he has to. Garett tries to convince him as well, but when he puts his foot down, the charge nurse brings him a thin hospital blanket and a pillow.

He sleeps in twenty-minute increments, each time startling awake and looking around to make sure his baby sister didn’t steal away while he dozed off. Even if he wasn’t holding vigil, he doubt he would have slept well with all the ambient sounds around him. The beeps and wheezing of medical equipment, the sound of staff walking past the door, occasionally the creaking of transport beds. The Gallagher house is rarely silent as a pin. Ian thought he could sleep through anything. Maybe it is his training. After over a year at St. Anthony’s, perhaps he has  conditioned himself to sleep lightly in a hospital.

“You came?”

Ian flutters his eyes open and realizes it is morning. More importantly, his little sister is awake, sitting propped semi-upright thanks to the adjustable bed. Her brown eyes look just as tired as he feels.

“They called when you were admitted,” he explains groggily.

“Yeah, I know. I just didn’t think you would.” She nervously attempts to flatten her bedding. “Figured you were pissed.”

“I wasn’t until I found out were with Frank this whole time. Until then…”

“Please don’t say you’re disappointed in me. That’s so cliché.”

“Disappointed in myself.” He reaches out and takes his sister’s hand. “I’m supposed to be your legal guardian, Debs. I’m supposed to keep us all together. Keep us a family. And you’re the one I lost track of. I was so busy keeping Lip on track, taking care of Yevgeny and Liam, hell, making sure Carl isn’t trying to set fire to anything… you’re the one that slipped off my radar.”

“It’s not all your fault. I made all my own decisions. And you’re dealing with—”

“Gotta disagree. Fiona always taught me that we each take care of each other. We’re all supposed to look after the next Gallagher down. Lip always looked after me. And I’m supposed to look after you.”

“I guess I messed that up. I never bothered to look after Carl.”

Ian laughs. “Yeah? Well, we all gotta admit that Carl had to have been a tall order. You were always great with Liam, though.”

“He was practically a baby doll.” She sounds suddenly remorseful, looking down at the swollen belly under her medical gown.

“I’m coming home with you guys, right?”

“We’ll need to shuffle the rooms again. I sort of turned your room into nursery for Yev. But yeah. You belong home. With your family.”

“Can I confess something? No judgment?”

“You owe me six months of brother-sister confessions, Debs.”

She nods, perhaps not necessarily agreeing so much as taking in the fact that Ian is being receptive. “When I ran off, I thought I was ready.”

“Having second thoughts?”

She thinks, and then nods, albeit irresolutely. “I’m thinking adoption.”

He squeezes his sister’s hand firmly. “Whatever you want to do, I’ll back your call. But let’s get you home first.”

Chapter Text

“Bombs away!” A third black trash bag plummets down from the attic. Mickey, manages to catch it, thankful that it didn’t land on his head this time.

“You wanna be more careful with that last one, kid?” Mickey grumbles. “Process of elimination, that’s gotta be all her  shit.”

Carl’s head pops out  the hatch of the attic. “Does she even need all this crap? She got by for months without any of it.”

“She’s suffered enough. She was living out of a couple suitcases in tent with a bunch of aging hippies for months.”

“Where are you guys even putting her?” Carl asks as he descends the attic stairs with the fourth and final Hefty bag of Debbie’s things. Mickey snorts back a laugh, but Carl looks like a scrawny ghetto Santa. “Is Yevgeny moving back in with you guys?”

“We’re still figuring that out. But she hasn’t minded the foldout sofa so far. Or at least she isn’t complaining.”

“But with Thanksgiving next week—”

“Yeah, it’ll be a crowd alright,” Mickey concurs as they head downstairs with Debbie’s things in tow. “I’ m surprised my siblings all RSVP’d. Guess I shouldn’t be. Free turkey is involved.”

“You guys didn’t have to do all this.” Debbie insists from the sofa. She is still weak as a lingering effect of the draught of peyote, nightshade, and several substances that Madison General’s toxicology department couldn’t identify. They have no way of predicting the long-term effects on her or the baby. As such, just to be safe, she is to stay off her feet and preferably in bed for the remainder of her pregnancy.

“It’s the least we can do until we get the bedroom situation figured out,” insists Ian from the kitchen as he attempts to convince Yevgeny to try finely sliced pieces of chicken and tiny cubes of broccoli.

“I don’t need anything from my old room. At all. I literally can’t fit in any of my clothes right now.”

Mickey looks down at the three bags he had brought down, now plopped down around his shins. All of them are fabrics, he can tell from the way the plastic bags sag. But one is distinctly heavier, and a bit more solid than the others. He loosens the draw string and pulls out some of the contents. A patchwork quilt, a fluffy lavender comforter. Pillows. “Bedding okay by you, or are you too used to sleeping in a fucking potato sack?”

She seems to think about it momentarily. Mickey can relate. Okay, perhaps he wasn’t camped out with some cult of viagra-addled baby boomers. However, when he was on his own, he definitely grew accustomed to muddling through with the bare necessities and patted himself on the back for it more than once for getting by without taking any handouts.

He supposes if he were still living in the Milkovich house, as was originally the plan when he returned from afar, perhaps he would still be functioning under a similar mindset even now. The Milkovich family stick their necks out for each other, always ready to take up arms on one another’s behalf, but they don’t take care of each other, not the way the Gallaghers do.

Mickey has come to realize since he has lived with them that it is really the core difference between the two clans. The Milkovich siblings show their love for one another when push comes to shove— they are a very “there when the chips are down” sort of brood. But the Gallaghers make it part of their every day life in the way they take care of one another. And taking care of each other takes many forms in this house. It is getting Liam to and from school. And it’s treating Lip like a person and not his diagnosis. It’s keeping Carl out of trouble and their  weekly visits with Fiona on Saturdays. Love is waking up every morning and choosing Ian and Yevgeny. Or in this case, it’s convincing Miss Strawberry Shortcake to accept some of her own creature comforts again.

Debbie seems to come to a conclusion, rolling her he shoulders back as she gestures for Mickey to give her the fluffy lavender comforter he is holding half way out of the black plastic bag. “Twist my arm, why don’t you, Mickey?”

“So what are we thinking about rooms?” Asks Carl, digging through the bag he brought down. It’s mostly school supplies, ELF cosmetic kits, some paperbacks, and the few toys that have followed her into her teenage years. He pulls out a well-loved stuffed pig and laughs. “You still have this?”

“Hey, give me Mr. Truffles!” Debbie insists, leaning forward to snatch the toy from Carl’s grasp.

“I was thinking,” answers Ian as he lets Yevgeny out of his high chair. “Debs could live in her old room again and share it with Yevvy like when Liam was a baby. Except, well, we really did a good job of turning that room into a nursery.”

“What about the basement?” Asks Lip, who has come from his room and delved right into the conversation.

“Oh, sure,” snarls Debbie, affronted. “Barely back home two days and you want to throw the pregnant girl into the musty basement. Thanks, Lip.”

Mickey cannot help but chuckle inwardly. One blanket later and she suddenly seems to be a lot more concerned with her creature comforts again.

“I meant for me,” he shrugs. “The basement is past due for a purge. And it’s partially finished. It would make a decent apartment. Debbie could take my room and I’ll have a bit more privacy for studying.” The smile is hesitant but unmistakable. It is the first time since Mickey has come to live with the Gallaghers that Lip has sounded optimistic at the prospect of returning to school unless Mandy was in the vicinity. “Everybody wins, right?”

***

While Debbie is comfortably installed in Lip’s by the end of the weekend, converting the basement into the bachelor pad Lip envisions is a taller order than anticipated and certainly will not be completed until after the holiday. Lip finds himself returning to the Boys’ bedroom with Carl and Liam for the time being. He takes up Ian’s old bed, because it is one thing to take one for the team and move back in with his little brothers, but he is not resorting to bunk beds again.

Mickey is keen to remind Lip that it is only until after Turkey Day, but the eldest Gallagher brother seems resigned to his new yet old sleeping arrangements.

Ian and Mickey can’t afford an extravagant Thanksgiving, even with three full time employed members of the household. However, they feel pretty certain that they can give their families a good meal. Especially since everyone over the age of fourteen is expected to bring a side.

As head of the household, Ian takes on turkey duty just as Fiona would have, while Mickey opts to make a lasagna. Mickey honestly thinks lasagna is a weird pull for Thanksgiving dinner considering neither the Gallaghers nor Milkoviches have a drop of Italian coursing through their veins, but Ian has fond, if faint, memories of Monica making it for them.

Mickey and Lip have off for the holiday simply by virtue of the fact that despite being hell of wheels sometimes, Linda is a good employer and closes the store on state holidays. She also covers the register on Christmas and Easter as long as they step up during Muslim observances. Though Mickey thinks it’s tacitly understood that she’ll be delegating her coverage to Sid now that he’s been trained up.

Ian on the other hand had to do some wheeling and dealing to get the day off. He worked a sixteen-hour shift the day before and came home in the wee hours of the morning. Mickey refuses to let Ian anywhere near the stove until he gets forty winks, so he is actually the one to get the ball rolling while Ian sleeps off the sixteen hours he spent in the Transitional Recovery Unit.

He is just getting the second layer of noodles laid out when the neighborhood is shaken and the loud chemical roar of an explosion fills the air. Mickey has no idea what to do in an earthquake, but he knows he doesn’t want debris falling into his lasagna, so he braces the counter and shields the tray with his torso.

Faintly, he hears Yevgeny crying upstairs and Lip comes racing down the stairs in boxers, thick wool socks, and a short-sleeve tee over a long-sleeve t-shirt. “Did you feel that?” he asks urgently.

“What do you think? Since when do we get earthquakes in Chicago?” Mickey catches onto the fact that Lip stopped on the second to last step with a frozen look of panic on his countenance.

“Did a car slam into the house or something?” comes a groggy voice at the top of the stair. Ian is dressed in a pair of plaid flannel sleep pants and a white undershirt, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Mickey wishes he had slept through it. He only got home a few hours earlier and not operating at optimal capacity. Ian is perfect as far as Mickey’s concerned, but at the moment he looks like an extra in a George Romero movie.

“Either that or someone overclocked his sybian,” snarks Carl, joining them from the living room where he had been watching reruns of Steven Universe with Liam.

“A what?” asks Ian, still bleary from sleep.

“Christ, you are such a top... How do you know what a sybian is, kid?”

Carl shrugs. “Research.”

“Right. Is this the kind of research that would stand up to a blacklight test?”

Lip points out the kitchen window. “You guys!” he shouts. “Would you fucking shut up and look outside?”

The three of them all crane their heads to look out the window and see the signs of a fire coming from the next street over on Trumbull Avenue. Mickey inhales and recognizes the scent of smoke wafting in the air. It feels like ice water in his veins when he realizes that it’s coming from the direction of his old house.

“Fucking...!”

He slips into his timberlands and he’s out the door before he can even think to grab a coat. Even if the house he grew up in is gone and the one being built in its place is still Milkovich territory all the way down to the foundation. And as the Milkovich sibling who lives closest, he cannot help but feel territorial about the property.

The Cartel, he thinks. What purpose could they possibly have in keeping this game up? What could Terry have taken from them? We literally mowed the house down and found nothing that you wouldn’t find collecting dust on a rack in Good Will.

Surprisingly though, the half-constructed new Gallagher home is completely in tact, not a single one of Colin’s team seem any the worse for wear. The dread that had been pooling inside him like water filling his lungs begins to dissipate. “Thank Christ...”

“Mick...” Ian has caught up with him. A knee-length winter coat and a pair of crocks on. Lip is not far behind him, tightening the drawstring of the sweatpants he pulled on in a hurry.

“You should be in bed, E.”

“Mick, look...”

He follows Ian’s finger pointing further down the street past the end of the block and that’s when Mickey catches sight of the source of the flame and smoke. It’s a familiar older Cadillac model, champagne-colored. It is engulfed in gouts of flame from the motor. The hood looks like it was the epicenter of the explosion that rocked the neighborhood, completely blown out, scraps and shards of charred aluminum litter the vehicle in all directions.

Colin.

It’s Colin’s car. It was the first big project he undertook after he moved out of the Milkovich house back when Mickey was still in middle school. He spent ages fixing it up. He took vo-tech classes at Malcolm X specifically to get that old lemon up and running. If it weren’t for that car, he would probably still be engaged in shady business dealings instead of pursuing mechanics and construction work.

A lump swells in Mickey’s throat so much that he can’t even out his brother’s name as he chases down the fiery wreck. A fire engine is just pulling up to the carnage as Mickey draws near, croaking out his brother’s name.

The fire fighters hold him a safe distance away and Mickey feels like he could very likely lose his mind. He runs his fingers through his hair, feeling beside himself at the thought that his brother burnt up in his own car while Mickey was only a street over. He kicks the curb and curses a string of obscenities so long that it could wrap around the continent.

Ian catches up with him again for a second time, holding him tight, not letting go. Mickey still isn’t the biggest fan of public displays of affection, but Mickey clings onto the support Ian provides him. He reaches up, clasping his own tatted digits around Ian’s freckled wrist. Mickey doesn’t even try to convince himself that it is the smoke making his eyes well up.

“Why the fuck does this keep happening?” he chokes out, strained and trembling.

“We’ll find ‘em, whoever is doing this, Mick.” reassures Ian, whose voice is wobbling as well. “I promise.”

“Won’t bring ‘em back.”

“I know.”

“Last thing I said to him was ‘fuck you,’” Mickey chagrins.

A second or two passes before he hears Ian swallow, then say, “Y’know, Kev once told me ‘fuck you’ is just the way we say ‘I love you’ around these parts.”

If that’s true, then there are a lot of people who Mickey has accidentally professed his love to dozens of times over. Then again, he’s said it to Ian enough time for him to think maybe Kev is onto something.

He watches with his heart in his throat as the fire department uses the jaws of life, the hydraulic device’s blades digging into where the seam between the front passenger-side door and the chassis ought to be and wedging them open until they can tear it open. Even at the distance Mickey and Ian (and by then, Carl, who cannot resist the urge to rubberneck) are forced to stand away from the site of the incident, Mickey can still hear the crunching and scraping against the hull of the vehicle. Mickey cannot help but imagine how Colin would react seeing his baby torn apart like that.

They’re pulling out a body, sooty and burnt. But both Ian and Mickey seem to register the fact that he’s breathing at the same time, exhaling collectively.

“He’s alive,” Mickey sighs.

“I see it too, Mick.”

Mickey buries his face in the crook of his fiancé's neck and makes a concerted effort to convert the sobs that are still bubbling out of him into a chuckle. The results are mixed. “Colin’s one fucking lucky bastard.”

“It’s not Colin.”

“It’s... what?”

Mickey looks at the man rescued from the wreckage, his eyes squinting to get a closer look. Ian was right—unless Colin woke up today suddenly looking very Afro-Latino, then it was some other damn fool who was behind the wheel.

“For fuck’s sake,” Mickey grumbles to himself as he pulls out his phone and pulls up his brother’s contact and taps on the “Call” button.

“I’m covered in flour,” his brother announced by way of greeting when the call connects.

“Better than being covered in first degree burns,”

“Huh?”

“Where the fuck are you, shithead?”

“Making your damn pecan pie, why?”

“Why aren’t you here with your crew? Fuck. Why is your crew working on Thanksgiving and you’re not?”

“Relax, it’s only a half shift. They should be wrapping up by now.”

“On Thanksgiving? What sort of construction company—?”

“They’re non-union.”

“You telling me you guys are a bunch of fucking scabs? Did Mandy know that when she hired you?”

“Fuck off, Mick.”

“So, why aren’t you here?”

“I’m busy baking your fucking pie, alright? I got my buddy Theo to cover the crew.”

“How’d you convince him to do that?”

“I let ‘im borrow the Cad for the day. He wanted to take it to his Abuela’s for dinner, show off.

Mickey sighs. “Col, I got some shitty news for you.”

***

Thirty-five minutes later, Colin showed up practically out of breath, flour visibly baked on his pant legs. He is red-faced and Mickey suspects he ran all the way from his little fixer-upper down in Englewood. Mickey can see his brother take in the sight of the charred remains of his vehicle, the way it makes his upper lip quiver, but he wills himself to attend to Theo first. He had already been back-boarded and driven off by ambulance by the time Colin arrived, but he conferred with the police and fire department still on-scene to find out where Theo had been taken. The remainder of the construction crew had started to scatter by the time the police rolled in. Knowing that they’re non-union and willing to work on Thanksgiving, Mickey somehow suspects that they made themselves scarce before police reported them to ICE. Colin always makes it sound like his company has him raking in the dough, but Mickey bets they make up the differences by stiffing the undocumented workers.

Once the authorities have dispersed, Colin finally allows himself to mourn, throwing himself on the scorched remains of his proudest achievement and openly wailing. And he has plenty of time to do so because the city isn’t paying the overtime fees it takes to have the remnants of the Cadillac towed away on a holiday. Especially not in this neighborhood.

Mandy arrives on the scene after some time with a casserole dish in hand. Then Iggy not long after with a tray of Hawaiian rolls. Mickey just knows Ian put up the bat-signal while he was distracted. The three younger siblings and Ian sit with Colin for a long while until Mandy is the first one to insist the get up.

“Some fucking Thanksgiving, huh?” Grumbles Colin as they head into the house.

“At least you have something to be thankful for,” Mandy shrugs. “That could’ve been you in the car.”

“Why wasn’t it?” Mickey asks, curious.

“What d’you mean?”

“Last week, we could’ve used your wheels to get to Iowa.”

“What did you need in Iowa?” Mandy asks.

“Debs,” answers Ian. Mandy’s expression softens in reply.

“I told you before. Camilla told me not to.”

“But she was okay when you lent it out today?” Inquires Ian.

“She’s spending the holiday with her family down South. And what she don’t know won’t hurt her, right?”

“Did she explain why we couldn’t borrow it?”

“No. But she’s been weird about it for weeks now. I guess she knows it’s my baby. She doesn’t want anyone driving it but me. Well, didn’t, I mean. She said it’s bad luck to have passengers in your car in Autumn.”

“Since when?” Asks Ian.

“I dunno. I figured it was some Mexican superstition,” he shrugs.

“Where did you say she was from again?”

“Mexico. I think she said Obregón.”

“She went home to Mexico to celebrate Thanksgiving?” Ian asks.

Colin merely shrugs in reply. “A holiday’s a holiday, right?”

Ian looks at Mickey with intention in his eyes. Ian has suspected this girl for a while. Mickey is starting to see where he’s getting coming from. She comes across as pretty suspicious for a woman Mickey has still yet to see proof of her existence. Mickey reminds himself to give Ian a fucking Scooby snack.

Chapter Text

Faye shows up at the house on the Monday after Thanksgiving for one last prep session for Lip’s day in court the following Morning. Ian wouldn’t say she is a fixture at the Gallagher residence by any stretch of the imagination. However when she is here, she feels like quite a number of guests who glide into their lives for however long and occupy a welcome niche in their dynamic.  

She bonds with Mickey over the time he lived along the Atlantic coastline. Listening to them go back and forth gives Ian insight into Mickeys lost time through stories he would never have thought to ask. He spent his first Thanksgiving away from Chicago in Philadelphia, his last pitstop along his way to the coast, with someone named Warren who sounds like he must have been important to Mickey, at least for a little while. Ian always hoped that Mickey hadn’t been alone for such a long time. So why does learning a name suddenly make him feel wretched inside.   

They talk about the Philadelphia Mummers parade and Philly sports fans versus New York sports fans, versus Baltimore teams. Faye asks about what local foods he got into when he was in the area (Ian makes a mental note to investigate Old Bay fries) and he in turn suggests things in Chicago away from the tourist traps that she ought to try.   

Ian can’t help but be impressed in the way he has warmed up to her. He isn’t exactly known for his alacrity at forming new friendships. Sure, he has formed in-roads with Ian’s family, but Mickey has been living in close quarters with them for nine months now. He helps get the kids to school. He co-parents Liam and Yevgeny with Ian. And he has become so civil with Lip that it occasionally borders on cordial. He supposes Mickey warmed up to them for Ian’s sake, at least at the start. But now he cannot help but feel they are in his inner circle about as much as Ian is. But Mickey still has a tendency to keep casual acquaintances at arm’s length.  

The others all have formed some sort of rapport with her as well. Faye doesn’t have kids of her own, nor does she have any intentions or inclination towards motherhood. And until her sisters or brother start families if their own, she admittedly tends to expend her “cool aunt” energies on her friends’ and clients’ children. And hell if Liam and Yevgeny aren’t both in the perfect sweet spot for fawning over; Yevgeny with his happy-go-lucky temperament and toddler’s curiosity, Liam with his thoughtful observations and eagerness to share whatever he learns at school (academic or otherwise) like he just unlocked a new secret of the universe.   

As for the elder kids, she loves calling Carl out on his crap, giving him a hard time every time he acts like a player. It takes a lawyer’s talent for observation and scrutiny to really put the kid in his place. And both Ian and Mickey find it hilarious.   

Debbie meanwhile always appreciates it when there is another woman around in the house. Sometimes Ian forgets what it means for Debbie being the only woman in the house now. Monica hasn’t been seen in over three years and it is still about half a year until Fiona is up for parole. She’s the lone girl in a house with six boys. And having another woman in the house even for a few hours at a time is a balm to her soul. Or at least another woman besides Sandy, who never seemed to be in the same room with her all through their Thanksgiving gathering. Debbie didn’t even have to be prompted to sit at the kids’ table in the living room.   

The one member of the tribe who still seems to have a hard time connecting with her is the one she is actually here for. Lip had his confidence shaken back when she made her first visit to the house. As much as he downplays what an accomplishment it is to have mostly balanced out and gotten the hang of managing his mental health, Ian knows his brother is secretly proud of himself. And if there is one thing that will shake Lip’s confidence, it is being made to feel incapable. He is the elder of the family’s two geniuses. Before symptoms of his bipolar made themselves manifest, it was long assumed that he would be the one to transcend the family’s meager circumstances. And he was on his way before his unchecked manic behavior caused his life as he knew it to unravel a little over a year ago now.   

But Faye made one critical, if well-intentioned, mistake in August when Mandy hired her on. Lip doesn’t  like being remediated on account of his condition. He pushes back if he feels like he is being treated like a child, checked and double checked about his meds, hovered over like he needs constant care. And unfortunately, Faye did not know this about Lip when she told his nearest and dearest to do whatever it takes to minimize his potential for another publicly documented case of manic behavior such as what led to Lip’s expulsion in the first place.   

Mickey and Ian both ended up talking Lip down from a ledge when he was considering aborting this whole endeavor. And Lip, when asked to put himself in Faye’s shoes, does understand the logic. The goal of the court case is not merely to get Lip’s scholarship restored, but also to prove that Chicago Polytechnic is guilty of failing to the needs of its most vulnerable students, discriminating against him due to mental health and setting him up to fail as an impoverished member of the student body. It provides scholarships based on financial need without considering the disparity and culture shock someone from a background of extreme poverty would have even after being admitted into their institution. More to the point, the university terminated his education and recanted the full scholarship that he earned by academic merit even after the university had been provided medical documentation of Lip’s condition and internally disciplined him with a heavy fine which he was still obligated to pay off after his expulsion.    

Faye made it clear that the evidence against the university ought to make this case a slam dunk. But. It will not look good for Lip if he goes off the rails and the opposing lawyer ends up with police reports that could easily paint Lip as erratic and destructive and justify the school’s decision to expel him in the first place.   

Lip understands the reasoning behind it logically, but there is the sting of being reminded that you are different. Lip’s bipolar isn’t some roadblock he needed to overcome and now he can move on with his life. It is something he will end up having to prove over and over again that it does not define him nor does it make him less deserving than others. And that is a hard pill to swallow.   

But if Fay notices that Lip has been distant since then, she hasn’t said a word about it. But Ian can’t help but think that a lawyer must be shrews enough to notice.   

“So, Lip,” she beckons as she slathers some garlic sauce onto her slice of Domino’s chicken and green peppers. “Do you feel prepared for tomorrow?”  

“I guess,” he tilts his head, not sounding like he has convinced himself.   

“You guess? Anything you want to go over? Talking points?  I could run you through some likely opposing—”  

“No, I’m good with all that,” he interrupts with a slight insulted edge to his voice. “I mean, what if we win the case and I go back to school and history repeats itself?”  

“By all accounts, as long as you keep taking care of yourself the way you have, you won’t ever get that bad.”  

“And you have resources and all of us looking out for you if you think something’s wrong,” adds Mandy.  

“And we’re taking your school to court specifically to ensure that they do right by you. They do right by you and your needs. The school will no doubt set you up with a 504 plan.” She licks some grease off her finger. “What it comes down to is the school may have given you a full ride, but their attitude towards their own students is one size fits all. Treating everyone equally only works if everyone arrives on an equal footing. The school had the same expectations of you as they have for people who can afford the best schools, private tutors, who didn’t  have to work during high school and don’t have to take on a work study. Even if you didn’t have pressures mounting at home, the school still expected you to perform at the same level as trust fund babies with every advantage in the world. And all so the school can pat itself on the back and say they gave someone from an impoverished background an opportunity. That’s socioeconomic tokenism. And expelling you after you’d been disciplined and your diagnosis entered into the record just goes to show that they’re only willing to lift up the disenfranchised as long as they don’t come with their own set of problems. They were thinking about their narrative. CPI wants to taut that they gave an impoverished young man an opportunity to make something of himself. They don’t want the narrative to be ‘they gave someone with psychiatric issues a full ride.”  

“And what if that all pans out? Scholarship back, and CPI does everything it is supposed to do, all’s well that ends well. What if all the dominoes land where they’re supposed to and I get back into the classroom and realize Chi Poly isn’t for me? Or that I don’t even think college is for me anymore?”  

“My scope is legal, Lip. You’re asking questions for your life coach. But the way I see it, if that happens, you will be the one deciding your future, and not the school.”  

“You won’t think less of me after going through all this?”  

“As long as your girlfriend's check clear, I don’t care what you do when we’re done.”  

Both Lip and Mandy have a reaction to the world girlfriend. They've grown much closer working together platonically than they ever had while they were still together. And yet the word still seems to fit. Ian wonders if maybe they could be like him and Mickey. Maybe it will take them a few tries to get it right, but they'll get there in the end.

“I won’t be too thrilled,” admits Mandy. “But at least that’ll be your choice.”  

***   

“You did good up there,” Mickey tells Ian the following afternoon while they sit in the courtroom. The judge is in recess with Faye and the leading member of the defense, a rat-faced man named Hodge.    

Faye roasted the school’s defense. Chi Poly’s lawyer seemed to have only prepared for a defense based around Lip’s conduct. Hodge painted Lip as a dangerous element that CPI saw as a threat to the student population, and as universities are within their right to adjudicate internally, the decision to remove a threat to public safety was justified.  

Faye counters by presenting the judge with a much more vivid mental picture of the type of man Lip Gallagher is and the context of the environment he grew up in as well as the dire series of events that precipitated Lip’s manic behavior. She presents a timeline of the cascading failures that impacted her client’s mental health contrasted with the dates he spoke to various teachers asking for considerations, given his circumstances only to have all but a single extension denied. Then she details the timeline of the early stages of his treatment and disciplinary actions. The school’s judicial committee convened within days of his offense and sentenced him to pay $7,600 in reparations and perform eighty hours of community service. She confirmed that Ian was only able to get Lip admitted for a seventy-hour hold for diagnosis days after the university’s adjudication. It was only after Ian Gallagher submitted documentation of her client’s diagnosis with the Provost’s office the following Monday that the judicial committee reconvened without informing Lip. By ten o’clock the subsequent morning, a representative of the committee arrived at Lip’s dorm room flanked by campus security informing her client that his enrollment had been terminated. Campus security then proceeded to oversee him packing up his dorm room and escorting him off campus.     

Ian and Mickey cannot help but snickered and joked to each other as they watch the opposing counsel crumbles once Faye asks their witness from the school’s judiciary committee to recite some select passages from the Americans With Disabilities Act as well as Chicago Polytechnic’s own student bill of rights.   

Next, Hodge asks that one of the professors whose vehicles Lip had vandalized. But it quickly becomes apparent that Hodge had anticipated Professor Youens to paint a much more bleak image of Lip’s behavior. Quite the opposite, Youens is quick to mention that while out of line, there was a blow-out that preceded Lip’s actions and he had been dismissive toward him, despite very much believing in Lip’s academic acumen. He ends his testimony by stating that it would be a disservice not only to Lip but to CPI as well if he is denied the scholarship. And as a cherry on top, he reminds the judge that Lip earned his scholarship through academic merit and not his behavior.    

All Hodge can do is seethe over his loss of control over his own witness.  

Finally, Ian and Mickey were asked to attest to Lip’s progress and commitment to managing his bipolar disorder over the past year before Lip was asked to speak on his own behalf. The defense attempted to draw attention to the early stumbling blocks as further justification that Lip represents a threat to campus safety. And not for the first time, Faye needs to object, reminding that it is the school and not Lip who is on trial.   

While they wait for the judge and both the defense and prosecution to return from their deliberations, Ian fiddles with Mickey’s hand, running small circles into the pad of his palm. “The household is gonna need to readjust once Lip’s back in school,” he thinks aloud.  

“So sure Faye won the case?” Ian smirks and Mickey can’t hold a straight face for long before he is snickering. “Yeah, yeah. It’s more a case of just how fucking bad she trounced ‘em. You really think this is gonna change that much?”  

“There’ve been three adults in the house for so long.”  

“Still will be.”   

Ian looks up to see that his brother is turned around in his seat looking at the two of them.  

“After all this, you still don’t wanna fucking go back?”  

“No, I’m going. In fact, after that shitty defense, I kinda feel like going back just to stick it to them,” Lip reasons. “Success is the best revenge, you know?”  

“So you are going, then?”  

“I won’t be in the dorms.”  

Mickey furrows his brow. “You sure, man? That’s gotta be a bitch of a commute every day.”  

“It is. But I don’t see an alternative. I need stability. Campus life is wild, but it’s too chaotic. I need routine. And I’m gonna need my support system.”  

“Aw, do you hear that, E?” Mickey crows, feigning being moved. “He likes us. He really likes us.”  

The fiancés both laugh. “Hey, if I don’t need to hire a sitter every time me and Mick need the night off, I’m all for it.”  

“You two are such dicks.”  

The judge and the lawyers return shortly after and the hearing resumes. The judge does indeed rule in favor of Lip. The university will be obliged to restore his scholarship. However, the school already issued the scholarship Lip once held to a new recipient. As such, he will need to wait until the following Fall when he will be the designated as the next recipient. And as such, knowing his financial need, the school will be obliged to accept his deferment until them. But the true whammy of the ruling is that the school will me required to reimburse Lip any and all of the remunerations he paid following his expulsion. The university had right demanding payments from him after terminating his studies, especially as Youens and the other two victims of Lip’s manic vandalism never saw a dime of it. In addition, the school is ordered to pay a restitution of $5,000 for emotional duress suffered, bringing the total awarded Lip up to $12,600.  

“I guess that can all go in the squirrel fund,” Lip figures as they ride the El home later.  

“Nope.” Refuses Mickey. “You’ve been chipping in weekly just like the rest of us even when you were still paying off that debt. That dough’s yours.”  

“What else am I supposed to do with that kind of money?” Lip asks. “A new flat screen?”  

“How about a used car so you don’t have to spend two hours on the El round trip every day next Fall?” Ian recommends.  

“Great,” snarks Lip. “Trying to trick me into being the household chauffeur, huh?”  

Mickey cackles and cuffs Lip on the shoulder. “We’re that transparent, huh?”   

Chapter Text

“You’re kidding!” Exclaims Mandy as she helps Mickey gather up ingredients for Gallagher Family Night, recently rebranded as Gallagher-Milkovich. “How are you right about to pop and you haven’t been to an obstetrician?”  

“The commune had a birthing matron. Same diff.” Debbie shrugs as she sits at the kitchen table. She is reading through the course material she needs to have learned and test out of if she expects to rejoin her classmates for the second half of the school year. Though pregnancy brain seems to be a periodic roadblock.   

But Debbie is determined to get the past four months of learning lodged into her brain before her test day on December 22nd. Because the alternative is waiting until next September to start the tenth grade. And she absolutely refuses to accept the possibility that she will end up in the same classroom as Carl.  Though, Mickey wonders how heading back after the New Year will go for her, considering her due date is sometime in January.  

“So, is a birthing matron like a licensed midwife or a doula or something like that?” The book on pregnancy that Mickey has been skimming through on and off ever since Debbie ran away mentions alternatives to hospital birth briefly. He hardly has an exhaustive understanding of what they do, but they were the closest idea he has to whatever a “birthing matron” is.  

Another shrug. “What’s a doula?”  

“Did she give you Lamaze class or pelvic exams or any of that shit with your lady bits?” Mickey asks.   

Mandy elbows him. “‘Lady bits?’”  

“Fuck off! I’m trying here.”  

“She was more about guided meditation and owning my feminine power. And once I started to show, she led this little ceremony where everyone in the commune could rub my belly and say a little prayer to Isis.”  

The Milkovich siblings eye each other nervously. Every time she lets a detail about the commune she was staying with, the more plausible  Mickey’s theory that she was in some sort of cult becomes.   

“At least tell us she hooked you up with prenatal vitamins.” Mandy urges with an undertone of hope.  

“She gave me herbal stuff. Teas.”  

“Jesus… It wasn’t fucking tannis root, right?” Because these folks are really beginning to sound like the satanic cult from Rosemary’s Baby .  

“I dunno. She said it was all natural. It’s no big deal, right? Ian took me into the clinic last week and the doctor said I’m fine. Everything worked out.”  

“Well, it might not have not.”   

“You’re one to judge,” Debbie snipes. “You weren’t even in the same fucking time zone when your kid was born. And at least I’m not aborting my kid.”  

Mandy looks at Mickey, fire behind the eyes. They have both treated Debbie like a kid sister at different time and for different reasons. But the version of the younger redhead Gallagher who came home with Ian and Mickey feels so different than the one who left. She is in more of an adult space than she ever was before, and yet she seems more immature than Mickey certainly has known her.  

She is wrong of course. But like most people, she doesn’t have a full picture of the events. Other than themselves, Ian, and to some degree Lip, most people only have an outsider’s understanding of what Terry did to them. It keeps coming back to that, Mickey realizes. It seems like they are forever cursed to dwell in the memory of their father’s misdeeds. Even Colin and Iggy didn’t survive Terry’s parenting unscathed. And even now, they have to dwell in a state of hypervigilance because some clowns from south of the border have taken a literal approach to the old “sins of the father” adage.  

Debbie doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about it. And a younger, angrier, and more untethered Mickey would have  called her out on her bullshit. And to be honest, he would probably still be apt to now if it weren’t for the fact that Debbie is a powder keg of stress and hormones now that she is in the last weeks of her pregnancy.   

“Just let it go,” he whispers to his sister. “She’s frustrated.”  

“You would be too if your body was holding you hostage.” Debbie attempts to storm out the room, but she struggles getting out of her chair. “See? I can’t even get out of a fucking chair without it being a whole procedure! Everything hurts, I gotta piss, like every ten minutes, I’ve got fucking cankles! And now I’m stuck because the kid decided he wants to be in the baby shifted positions and my hips are locked!”  

“Do you maybe you should upstairs and rest for a while before dinner?” Mandy asks as she allows Debbie to take her shoulder so she can lift the pregnant girl to standing.  

“All this effort to get up and you want me to go lay down?”  

The front door opens and shortly after Ian appears in the threshold of the kitchen. He already has his winter coat off and he is wearing olive green scrubs and a grey Henley. Mickey remembers when he used to come up with flimsy excuses to loiter around the Kash N Grab just to flirt and fool around with Ian back when they were fifteen and sixteen, respectively. Back then, that shirt was baggy on him. Now he fills it out so well that Mickey is surprised it is deemed work-appropriate. He tries to keep from popping wood by picturing something unsexy. The blue-green of the ocean. Sailing ships. Maybe motorboating.   

“You guys would not believe the patient they saddled— you okay, Debs?” The redhead doesn’t wait for an answer before he rushes over to help Mandy get his sister to her feet.  

“I’d be a lot better if you’d all just leave me alone!” She shrills at them now that she’s upright. She gathers up her study material and waddles out of the kitchen. Her journey up the stairs is a percussive march, which is pretty impressive for someone who only minutes ago needed help getting to her feet. The sounds grow distant, but then they are punctuated by the sound of an attempt at rage as she throws the accordion door shut behind her.   

Mickey chortles. They didn’t plan it this way, but giving the erratic pregnant teenager the one door in the house you really can’t slam shut was unintentionally brilliant. And good thing, too. He only got Yevgeny down for his afternoon nap maybe fifteen minutes ago.  

“Has she been like this all day?” Ian asks as he sits at the table.   

“Her moods come and go,” Mickey shrugs as he turns his attention to slicing up carrots and celery for tonight’s cottage pie.   

“Pregnancy brain rot is a real thing,” Mandy says in Debbie’s defense, albeit half-heartedly. “But she really does act like she’s got a bug up her ass.”  

“I think we set her off this time,” Mickey confesses. “We were talking and she got to mentioning that she never got a sonogram and it got me wondering how she was taking care of herself while she was gone.”  

“She was with Frank. Obviously, she wasn’t getting the care she needed, Mick.”   

Mickey cannot refute  this. When they came to pick her up from the hospital, Frank had feigned his own illness and scammed the hospital for some Oxy’s before he abandoned her there.  

“I’d be feeling a little sensitive if I were her, too.” Mandy admits as she sits opposite Ian and plops a bag of potatoes and two peelers down between them. “This time last year, she was the golden child. Little Susie Homemaker in training, right? Always ate her vegetables, cut coupons, brushed her teeth three times a day… and now? She’s kind of the family fuck-up.”   

“There’s no one family fuckup,” Ian denies as he finishes peeling his first Idaho Gold. “We’re all pretty messed up.”  

“Well, it’s definitely her turn at the wheel.” Mickey asserts. “Things are looking up for Lip, Carl’s actually averaging a B minus, Fiona’s keeping her nose clean in Statesville, and you’re keeping this whole thing afloat.”  

“Thanks in part to you,” Ian grins at him.   

Mickey feels a rosy warmth fill the apples of his cheeks. “My point is that everyone’s got their acts together lately. And she really…doesn’t.”   

“Well, we can only do so much to help, especially when she isn’t asking for it. My job is to help her push through and hope she makes good choices,” shrugs Ian as he stands up and grabs a pot so that he and Mandy have somewhere to put the potatoes once they’re peeled and quartered. “My approach here is taking a light touch, it’s not my place to push. I’m her legal guardian, not her dad.”    

“Yeah, but didn’t the whole laissez faire approach result in her running away once already?” Mandy asks.   

Ian seems to stop and reflect. “Not much of a choice other than going Fiona on her and that’s just not my style. “I can’t parent her the same way I do with the kids or even Carl, can I?”  

“Didn’t you say when she agreed to come home with us, it was because she isn’t ready to be an adult?”  

Before Mickey or Mandy have a chance to really think of a response, the basement door opens. Lip enters the room looking like a a sweaty mess, sawdust and smudges of plaster dappling his clothes. Colin can be heard taking the stairs a bit more slowly, though he has really has come a long way since his injury over the Summer. “How is the bachelor pad coming along, boys?” Mandy asks.   

Colin had agreed to give Lip the past two afternoons of his time as a favor to Mickey. Though, being on light duty, he really talked Lip and Carl through the process of installing a wall in the basement that will give Lip’s future apartment in the finished half of the basement a modicum of privacy. “Lip officially has a wall and a door,” Colin proclaims as he crests the top of the staircase. He is clearly a project superintendent in the making. He looks fresh as a daisy after instructing Lip all afternoon. “You’re on your own for painting, though.”  

“I really appreciate you helping out,” sighs Lip as he opens the freezer and pulls out a bag of frozen vegetables to apply to a sore spot on his shoulder.  

“Keep putting out these nice spreads every week and I’ll see about getting this whole place fixed up on the cheap,” promises Colin as he takes a seat at the table.  

“How about finishing our place first, Col,” Mandy reminds him.  

“Keep your fucking panties on. We’re just down to the interiors and that’s almost done.”  

“So, is your lady friend joining us this week?” Ian asks pointedly.   

By now, Ian has convinced not just Mickey but also Lip and Mandy that she seems suspicious, refusing to meet any of Colin’s family, becoming mysteriously unreachable after Colin’s assault last Spring and the tampering with his car a few weeks ago, whispering ominous vows of vengeance in a language Colin doesn’t know. But Mickey is starting to wonder how many more times they will have to hint that they suspect her of the attacks on the Milkoviches before they have to sit him down and spell it out to him.  

Colin shrugs. “She takes classes a few nights a week.”  

“Well, maybe you can get her to come over the winter holidays,” Mandy grumbles.  

“Don’t you find it a little strange that she keeps coming up with reason after reason not to meet any of us? Not even Iggy?”  

Goddammit, Lip. It’s not your place to push.  

“It is, yeah. But—”  

“Or the fact that she couldn’t visit you in the hospital even once when you got shot?” Asks Mandy. Mickey curses inwardly. They’re not officially together, but they are on the same wavelength. And this is not something Mickey wants them ganging up on Colin about. This conversation needs a scalpel, not a sledgehammer. “Or when she flat out refused to come to our cousin’s funeral? Even if it was Lou?”  

Colin huffs. If Mickey didn’t know any better, he would say his older brother is steeling himself. “Exactly what are you suggesting?”  

“Ever wonder why she doesn’t want any other Milkoviches getting a good look at her?” Asks Lip.  

“Guys,” demurs Ian. “Wanna let up on him?”  

“Maybe because she doesn’t want anyone recognizing her,” presses Mandy.   

Colin pushes his hands to the table and stands. “I’m not hearing this.” He reaches around for his shillelagh.  

“Your car engine was rigged to explode!” Mandy shrills. “And she didn’t want anyone but you behind the wheel!”  

Colin looks like he has something on the tip of his tongue he wants to say but he swallows it back. Colin hasn’t seen this face since they were kids: the livid little pout Colin wears when he’s upset. “I think I’m gonna have to give you guys a rain check on dinner, if you don’t mind, Mick.”  

“At least give it some thought, Col,” Mandy pleads as Colin hobbles to the front door.  

“Do you guys really think I’m that stupid a fuck that I never wondered without your little brain trust here leading me along by the nose?”  

“Then why didn’t you ever say so?” Mickey asks.  

“Thinking it’s different than saying it. And I want some fucking evidence before you expect me to accuse my girlfriend of… all that shit.”  

“Or at least being part of it,” Lip amends.   

Colin flashes an acidic glance Lip’s way that evokes the memory of their father. “Why can’t you shitheads let me have one nice thing?”  

And then he is gone.   

Chapter Text

“So, how do you know if a boy likes you?” Asks Carl as they wander around the Discount Outlet Mall in search of Christmas presents. Ian and Mickey look up from the circular rack of women’s jeans they had been sifting through and look at their young shopping companion.  

Ian reflects for a second and struggles to come up with a simple answer. He had been preyed upon by older men when he was Carl’s age and Mickey always struggled to express himself back then, so he is hardly the authority for what a kid his brother’s age really ought to be looking for as a sign. He shrugs. “Mandy once told me you can tell when a guy has that certain look in his eye.”  

In his periphery, he sees Mickey scoff. “What look was in my eye, Red?”  

“Depends. Straight girls don’t have to account for what we have to. Straight guys don't have to worry about getting their asses handed to them if they make bedroom eyes at the wrong guy. Mickey used to look at me like a rash when anyone else was around.”  

“Okay, that’s an exaggeration.”   

And that’s just the thing,” Ian demurs. “It’s not just how he looks at you. It’s how he looks at you when he thinks nobody’s watching.”  

“So, when we’re alone?”  

“How often are you and this guy alone , kid?” inquires Mickey, seemingly oblivious that he has slipped into a "dad" line of questioning.

“How often were you and Ian alone at my age?”  

“Don’t answer that, Mick.”  

Mickey chuckles. “Wasn’t planning to. Think I don’t know a trap when I see it?”  

Ian turns his attention towards Carl, channeling Fiona as best he can, or at least a better version of her. “Are you going to tell us this boy’s name, Carl?”  

“Absolutely not.” 

***  

Later, after Carl heads over to crude novelty shop, they find their way to a retro entertainment storefront. Ian leans on the wall, texting Kev to check in on the kids while Mickey flips through vinyls in search of a diamond in the rough. Ian keeps catching his fiancé out of the corner of his eye, all meaningful glances and chewing his bottom lip nervously.  

“What?”  

“What?”  

“Think I can’t feel your eyes on me, Mick?”  

“Yeah? Well, stop being so distracting.” Mickey huffs as he returns to his hunt.  

“Got something you wanna say? It’s just us.”   

“It’s no big. Don’t worry about it.”  

 Ian comes to stand next to Mickey. “Can we just shorthand the part where we talk in circles for twenty minutes and you tell me what’s on your mind?”  

“You’ll think it’s fucking stupid.”  

“Try me.”  

“Did my sister really give you that advice.”  

Ian cannot resist grinning as he nods. “The amount of input Mandy had on us without realizing it would astonish you.”  

“You really didn’t know?”  

“It was after that second stint in juvie.” Ian shrugs. “We kept getting our signals crossed.”  

“So, you asked my sister?”  

“Couldn’t exactly ask Lip about boys. Anything calling to you?”  

“Nada. There’s nothing here you don’t find collecting cobwebs at Good Will.” To illustrate his point, Mickey holds aloft the current record in his hand. The cover is faded and the artwork warped from water damage, but it depicts a tableau that looks remarkably like the interior of the Polish Doll with a title that reads, Polish Hymn Songs: 80 Polka Hits. “This same crap is a seventy-five cents at consignment, but these assholes think someone’s gonna shell out fifteen bucks for this shit.”  

“It’s just as well,” Ian shrugs as they head out of the shop. “We’re supposed to be doing Secret Santa shopping, right? Not shopping for ourselves.” The standard Gallagher family arrived upon is that everyone old enough to at least in theory be expected to chip into the Squirrel Fund participates in a Secret Santa, but everyone is going to try to find something for the boys.   

Well, perhaps not Debbie. Even if she weren’t on bedrest, she has been tetchy around the family ever since they brought her home. More than once since they returned from Iowa, Ian has found himself wanting to pull his hair out dealing with her. She seemed so keen on coming back, but she is so changed now. It used to be that she was a forty-year-old woman in a pre-teen's body. Then, she hit puberty and the teenage rebellion was strong with her. But now? For lack of a better word, she’s been behaving childishly ever since she resolved not to keep the baby. It makes Ian consider figuring out who got Debbie in the lottery just to make sure the poor soul isn’t empty-handed on Christmas morning.  

Mickey throws a skeptical look Ian’s way. Then he gives Mickey that secret look  “You never know, Red.”  

“Yeah, well I’d love to get you something nice, but I pulled Debs this year,” Ian admits ruefully. Though this is a half truth. Mickey is getting something from Ian whether they are each others’ secret Santas or not.  

Mickey sucks in sharply through his teeth. “Raw deal there. Shouldn’t we have been looking for maternity clothes, though?”  

“Eventually, she is going to have the kid out of her, Mick. She’ll need some new jeans.”  

“Even if she pops that kid out tomorrow, she’s not going to be rocking a size 12 for a while, right?” Mickey is more declaring than actually asking, but Ian appreciates the kinder, softer way Mickey has learned to tell Ian he’s being an idiot. “She talk to you about her plans post-kid?”  

“I know she plans on adoption,” Ian shrugs.   

“Has she given you any more details?”  

No answer is as good as an answer. “I know she wants to go back to high school like nothing happened, but I think she’ll be better off waiting until the Fall. Even if she passes the exam, which…”  

“Isn’t looking too promising?”  

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “Her practice tests, man. And even if she passes, the baby's due in January and it’s not like she’ll be physically ready to jump back into high school the next day, right?”  

“She just doesn’t want to end up in a class with Carl and have to answer for his crimes,” Mickey jokes.  

“That’s an extensive list. Did I ever tell you he’s technically a twin? He ate his brother in utero.”  

“So, he’s the evil twin, huh?” murmurs Mickey distractedly.  

“Imagine if Carl turned out to be the good twin.”   

“Hey!” Mickey’s tone is suddenly alert. Before Ian can react, he is pulled down behind a display into a squat by his shirtfront. Mickey, who is also positioned in a crouch, like he is ready to pounce. There is an urgency in his eyes as he pincers his lower lip between his teeth.  

“What gives?”  

“Shh. Look.”  

Ian follows the shorter man’s gaze towards the off-brand Aunt Anne’s across the way from and catches sight of a thatch of dirty blond curls and a shillelagh with a Ukrainian evil eye painted onto the pommel. Colin. Just days ago, Mandy and Lip had pressed him on their growing suspicion of his mystery girlfriend and her proximity to so many of the attacks that have befallen Mickey’s family since April. And Ian ended up joining in. Unfortunately, as Mickey spent a full afternoon seething at the three of them over, this was the wrong move.  

And in hindsight, Ian can agree. The Milkoviches as a fast and loose rule need an indirect approach to bad news. They have a tendency to ragequit. Or to simply rage, depending on the situation. Although, knowing the Milkovich clan the way he does, Colin, though, had quite possibly the least Milkovich reaction Ian has ever encountered: he excused himself.   

Beside him is a woman, maybe an inch taller than Mandy. She has a light tan complexion and wavy brown hair cut an inch above her shoulders. This must be the mystery girl, Camilla. So much for Iggy’s “girlfriend who lives in Canada” theory.  

“Think that’s her?”  

“What do you think?” Snaps Mickey. “Colin’s nuts about this girl.  He’s not about to two-time her. Especially after you dumbasses shat the bed the other day.”  

“So, what’s our play?” Asks Ian. “Tail ‘em?”  

“What do you think?” Mickey repeats, but this time smiling wryly, like he recognizes that Ian is game to be his partner in crime.  

***   

There goes their shopping trip for the rest of the day. There are still twelve days until the holiday. At least they managed to get a couple things for the kids before they got sidetracked.  

Ian learns in the process that he doesn’t have Mickey’s knack for this line of work. In another life, Ian imagines Mickey playing detective in a criminal noir. Mickey simply knows how not to draw attention to himself, he keenly understands exactly how far away to keep from catching his brother’s notice, which Mickey admits is closer than they ought to be, but Colin has eyes only for this girl, so Mickey presses his luck.   

The funny thing that Ian catches though, that Colin seems oblivious of, is that his lady friend seems to barely pay him any notice. Even at a distance, he can read her body language. She treats him like a mosquito buzzing around her while she is trying to do her shopping.   

“Does he get that look in his eye?”   

Suddenly, Ian thinks he understands Colin just a little bit better; why it is that he shut them down so hard the other day. He thought it was a large enough pill to swallow asking him to consider that she might be involved in the attacks. Though, now Ian thinks that might be incidental.   

No. What really caused Colin to rush out the door without a by your leave the other day was the suggestion that what he thinks he has with this girl might be all smoke and mirrors. Some people love the suspension of disbelief that allows them to embrace a magician’s tricks, others want to know how the magician pulls off every feat of thaumaturgy and sleight of hand. And then there are those who simply recoil at the thought of being tricked by the illusion.   

“Can’t you guys let me have one nice thing?”  

They follow Colin and Camilla to four more stores before the couple heads to the parking lot. Ian stays near the doors, but Mickey trails one row over from them. Luckily with Daylight Savings, it is dark enough that he isn’t easily spotted out in the open.   

After the couple drive away in an obnoxiously purple WV Jetta (Ian concludes that it must be hers, considering Colin’s Cadillac is a smoldering heap), Mickey rejoins Ian near the entrance, seemingly mulling over something on his phone.  

“Something up?”  

Mickey looks at him with an expression of frustration slowly melting away. He holds up his phone to show Ian a pic he snapped of the back of Camilla’s car, a focus on her license plate.  

“What? We gonna ask Markovich to run her plate or something?”  

“We can’t,” grumbles Mickey as he pockets his phone. “It’s a fake. Surprised Colin never noticed. C’mon, man. Colder’n a witch’s tit out here.”  

“So what do we do now?” Asks Ian ask they re-enter the shopping mall, with its inane barrage of Mariah Carey, Wham, and Paul McCartney Christmas music blaring from the sound system overhead. “We stalked them all evening? Are we seriously at a dead end?”  

“Shit, Gallagher! I should be offended. The girl isn’t that good.”  

Chapter Text

“Papa! All done!” Cheers the baby as he lifts up his arms expectantly.   

Mickey looks up from the meal prep instructions he had been reading and presses his index finger to his lips. “Remember we gotta keep it down. Your dad is still sleeping.”   

Yesterday, began the start of a new work schedule for Ian that is supposed to last until after the Winter Holidays. He has switched temporarily from straight daylight Sundays through Thursdays to a wonky rotation where he is covering an opening on night shift. He is working longer hours, but fewer days. And while this is going to pay off when his scheduled long weekends give him both Christmas and New Years, for now, his body is adjusting to the sudden shift.     

Of course, the toddler doesn’t grasp why Ian isn’t around. Little Id monsters, babies. As far as Yevgeny is concerned, there is a grownup here for food, picking things out on Disney+, and keeping him from sitting too long in his own waste, he’s good to go. Although, if last night is any indication, bedtime is going to be tricky. Ian ended up having to take a break so they could FaceTime before their son would settle down for the night. For now though, the child is more concerned with getting back to the episode of DuckTales he was watching in the living room.   

By nature, Yevgeny is a gregarious little butterball. Even when he is watching his favorite shows, he likes to be able to wander about the room, like it’s an obstacle course. As such, Mickey’s son doesn’t like being confined to his highchair any longer than it takes to finish his lunch. In fact, Mickey suspects Yevgeny had become so compliant about eating food whether he likes them or not because he wants to expedite getting out of the chair sooner. He expects his theory will be tested in a few months when he gets to big for the chair. They’ll see if Yevgeny the Picky Eater returns when they transition to a booster seat.   

And his son is getting really big now. Ian has measured him against the doorframe of the boys’ bedroom on the seventeenth of every month since he was born. At last month’s count, Yevgeny is two feet, three inches. He suspects his next measurement in a couple days will add at least another inch to the tally. And the baby fat has thinned out as he lengthened. He looks distinctly more like a little boy than the chubby baby he first met lately. The thin, wispy curls he had at eight months has grown into a thick, unruly mop of dirty blonde.   

And the more like a person in miniature Yevgeny appears, it amuses him to think how long he got away with playing dumb about the family resemblance. Blonde hair and snub nose aside, the kid looks more than ever like the one or two childhood photos Mickey has managed to retain.   

The thought comes unbidden, and it has recurred more often than Mickey enjoys, but he cannot help but wonder whether raising a son with Mickey’s face was a solace or painful for him back when Ian didn’t know where Mickey was or if they would ever see each other again. The question then creeps into imagining what it would have been like being here with Ian for all Yevgeny’s tiniest moments. But he shrugs the thought away. Can’t change the past, after all.  

“You’re pulling my leg!” he teases his son as he makes a performance of inspecting the floor around the high chair. “You ate all your veggies, huh?”  

“Up!” Yevgeny asks insistently. “Papa! Up!”  

“Alright, bean. You’ve served your time,” he relents as he lifts the toddler up and sets him down to go about his business. The boy’s Velcro sneakers smack in a rapid fire staccato as he vanishes into the living room.   

He wets a sponge to clean up Yevgeny’s tray and begins to wipe it down when there is a knock on the back door.   

Since when does anyone bother to knock around here?  

He sets down his Scrub Daddy and turns to answer the door, but in the intervening three seconds, the visitor has taken it upon herself to let herself in. Sandy Milkovich stands in the threshold the Gallagher kitchen, leaning on the door frame with her arms crossed. Her body seems to project the patented Milkovich gruffness, as much a ward as it is a shield. But her eyes betray her.   

“You sure she’s not gonna bother us?” She asks.   

“She keeps to herself a lot lately.”   

“Seriously?” She asks. Mickey cannot parse whether it is relief or regret on her face. She and Debbie ended very abruptly, hardly a few days after the Gallagher family found out about them. Neither of them have spoken much at all to Mickey about it, but he knows Sandy asked her to terminate the pregnancy.  

“You’re free from whatever unfinished dyke drama you two are dancing around.”  

“You could have done this yourself, you know,” she insists as she takes a seat at the kitchen table and begins husking off her winter layers. “I don’t see why you need me.”  

“I’ve been keeping my nose clean for too long. I can spot the forgery alright, but I don’t know who’s in the game anymore. You do.”  

Mickey pulls out his phone and opens the most recent image, besides baby pictures, in his Live Photos. It is the picture he snapped the other night of that Camilla chick’s license plate, an obvious fake at least by Milkovich standards. But spotting a forgery and ID’ing the craftsmanship are two separate feats. And among the Milkovich clan, this is Sandy’s area of expertise. And Mickey isn't too proud to outsource.  

He slides his phone across the table to his cousin. She enlarges the image. Camilla’s license plate is incredibly basic, blue text on a white background. One would have needed to have gotten that plate in the nineties. Modern plates tend to have either the Chicago skyline, old Honest Abe’s head, or both these days. But the woman he spotted his brother with cannot possibly be old enough to be that license plate’s owner. Especially if she is a newcomer to the states.   

She asks for a piece of paper and a pen. From there, she seems to enter the zone; her mind critically appraising the forgery in ways Mickey would never think to do so. She can spot the quality of the press, without pulling out a swatch, she can narrow down the shades of paint within five hues. There are quite a few different aspects of the font that go over Mickey’s head.   

“See the way the texture is fraying on the bottom of the E there?” She asks forty minutes of analysis later. “Only two presses in the city have that specific flaw. This is what really narrows it down.”  

“You couldn’t have just pointed that out from the start?”  

“You gotta respect the process, man.”  

Mickey looks at his cousin as appraisingly as she has been scrutinizing the license plate. “Sure you aren’t just stalling so you get a chance to run into a certain pregnant redhead?”  

“Hell no!” Sandy refutes defensively. “She made it fucking clear at Thanksgiving she doesn’t even want to be in the same room as me.”  

“Okay then,” hums Mickey, attempting to diffuse the landmine he just set off. “That’s good. Because after what she’s been through, we don’t want to—”  

“Why? What happened to her?”  

“It’s long and complicated.”  

“I got time,” she says, pushing Mickey’s phone back his way.   

“You seriously pulling this shit with me?”  

“You can always figure this shit out yourself, right?” She stands up, smirking. Once upon a time, yes he could. But it is going on three years since the last time he was party to the world of petty crime in the city. The landscape can change so rapidly. Mickey tries to prevent his lip from snarling, knowing that Sandy knows she has him over a barrel.   

Ugh , he groans internally, I shoulda kept my damn mouth shut. Now she’s gonna hold out on me if I don’t feed the carpet muncher gossip mill.   

“Okay, fine. Cliff Notes version. Want more? You ask her yourself.” He counts the details of Debbie’s misadventure off like he’s rattling off a grocery list. “Ran away with Frank Gallagher to fucking Iowa. Joined a geriatric hippie cult. Got drugged. Drugs caused false labor symptoms. Her scumbag dad ditched her in the hospital. Then we came and retrieved her. So. Who are our likely suspects?”  

There is a pregnant pause while Sandy takes in Mickey’s report on her ex, but then she gets back down to brass tacks “Grady Williams for one.”  

“Yeah? What gang is he with?”  

She pushes back in her chair. “He isn’t. Work for hire out of Lawndale. Competitive rates, keeps him pretty busy, but he keeps good records.”  

“That’s promising,” nods Mickey appreciatively. “And the other?”  

“That’s the thing— it’s Terry’s. Or it used to be. But that press changed hands about six month after you fucked off for Rhode Island.”  

“Delaware.” Corrects Mickey, palming his forehead.   

“I knew it was one of the tiny ones.”  

“So what? Either it’s this Grady guy or we’re at a dead end?”   

“It’s not a dead end. I just don’t know where it ended up off the top of my head. Let me do some digging, yeah?”  

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. “Do what you gotta.”  

“Right now, I gotta get back to work and do some PostMates deliveries.”  

“Legal work, huh?”  

“Yeah. Who would’ve figured? I’m getting my dad a pimped out eye patch for Christmas.” She says absently as she pulls he coat on and begins wrapping her scarf around her head and neck. “Whose plate are we looking at, anyway?” Asks Sandy as she heads to the door.  

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. You want me to tell Debs anything?”  

“Fuck.” Fingers dig anxiously through string hair as she tucks her wool hat down around it. “Just tell her what she wants to hear. It’s the only thing Debbie listens to.”  

***   

Ian comes smiling into view as Mickey blinks his eyes open. He is sitting side saddle on the arm of the sofa, creating the illusion that he is yet another head taller than Mickey. He didn’t even realize he fell asleep. He had put Fantasia on to lull Yevgeny to sleep for his nap. Mickey intends to use the quiet to do some internet research of Grady Williams. The guy at least seems straight-forward. His official business is car repairs, detail work, stereo installation. He suspects, if asked, this guy would claim that the press is only for vanity plates. He tries to do some digging, but they guy doesn’t seem too crooked, at least by Southside hood rat standards

He sets his phone down and investigates Yevgeny curled up on the couch cushion next to him. The kid is only starting to doze off as he watches the weirdly sexy fish in the Nutcracker segment. Mickey figures he can wait until the boy is out like a light before he turns his attention to the sink of dirty dishes and planning dinner.   

Instead, Mickey himself ended up conked out right alongside his son by The Rite of Spring .   

“Rested up?” Ian asks as he massages small circles into Mickey’s thigh.  

“What time is it?”  

“Almost three-thirty.” Ian’s voice is soothing and almost makes Mickey want to pull Ian in by the shirtfront and curl up inside the warmth of his fiancé’s big spoon rather than sit up. “You can’t have been asleep too long, the screen wasn’t even dim when I got here.”  

Mickey looks around to where Yevgeny had been earlier, his hand twitching anxiously at the realization that the rambunctious toddler is missing. There is probably purple crayon all over the walls by now.  

“Relax, Mick. I laid him down in his crib. Peaceful morning?”  

Mickey shrugs. “Eventful. Sandy stopped by.”  

“Debs?”   

Mickey shakes his head. “I got two leads on the girl’s license plate. But I got  feeling in my gut that the less promising one is our likely suspect.”  

“Why is that?”  

“Because whoever they are got their press from Terry. And if anyone is going to have a beef with my old man…”  

“It’s someone who he’s fucked over,” Ian nods, comprehending.  

“Funny thing?” Mickey volunteers, as he stands up, stretching his way into a yawn like a cat. “According to Sandy, my father unloaded it while I was out of the picture.”   

“So?”  

“I’m the only Milkovich that hasn’t had to dodge a bullet in the past eight months.”  

“What about Mandy?”  

“Okay, let me rephrase: I’m the only Milkovich that worked for Terry who hasn’t been targeted. I think there is a good chance that whoever has that press is more than just our link to figuring out little Miss Camilla’s whole angle.”   

“So what do we do with that information?” Asks Ian. “Go on the hunt?”  

“This needs a scalpel, not a club. When we figure out who this bitch is working with, I want to lure them out of the fucking shadows. Make sure they know we know where the fuck they live and we don’t play. You wanna go after my family? Fine. But they need to be taught who the fuck they’re dealing with.”  

He expects Ian’s expression to sour. Mickey has long worried that reverting to his old criminal leanings would be a dealbreaker. But who else is going to do it? The stoner? The lovesick idiot? Uncle Cyclops? Why does this shit always end up on Mickey’s shoulders?  

“There’s my little barbarian,” purrs Ian. “Wanna go upstairs and show me how rough and tumble you wanna get?”  

Mickey’s right eyebrow peaks as he lets Ian lift him to his feet. “This do it for you, huh?”  

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want you getting on the wrong side of the law again, but I was starting to wonder if you left Badass Mickey back on the coast.”  

“Oh, he’s always been here, firecrotch.” Mickey promises as he races his lover up the stairs. “Ready whenever you want him.”  

Chapter Text

Ian blinks bleary-eyed as he steps into the house. Last night represents sixteen very long hours in a very busy hospital. A busy shift is supposed to move quickly, but each and every case seemed like it existed as a roadblock between Ian and being home with his family for the holidays. Now, shuffling into the house at quarter to eight in the morning, all he can think of is stealing away to the darkness of his bedroom with its blackout curtains and the sleep mask once belonging to Fiona that he has grown accustomed to wearing the past couple of weeks.   

But the house is bright and luminous with festive cheer and Ian cannot help but stand wide-eyed at the exhibition before him. For someone who didn’t even have something in his own home like the small Christmases that Fiona used to throw together, Ian thinks Mickey did a good job. It’s nothing that is going to make the cover of Good Housekeeping, but it feels warm and inviting; words that Ian once never thought he would use to describe Mickey Milkovich.

Garlands frame the thresholds of all the doors on the first floor. A miniature Christmas tree that looks like it has been liberated from a department store window display is lit up exuding a soft glow and set up on the side table next to the sofa. He has covered the inside of the front door with shiny, reflective wrapping paper. And he has taken two large poster boards and illustrated a winter landscape onto them filled with all the secular Christmas characters that Ian can name. Ian can’t help but reflect that Mickey better be acing that art class he’s been taking.  

Ian really wanted to sing Mickey’s praise when he got home from his last shift before the holiday, but all he had the strength to do after his overnight shift ran long was give his son and lover a kiss at the breakfast table before he headed upstairs. When he wakes up, though, he is ready to shower Mickey with praise.

But when he steps out of his room, he hears the sound of the baby crying and a cacophony of shouting. Quickening his pace, he makes his way down the hall only to be nearly plowed over by a teary-faced pregnant girl storming her way into her room.

“Debs?”

“Don’t you fucking start, too!” Debbie blubbers more than shouts as she storms into her bedroom, the accordion door flying shut behind her.

At the bottom of the stairs, he finds the Christmas he found when he arrived home this morning set askew, like someone was trying to tear it down. Carl is righting the tree that had been knocked on its side while Lip is attempting hang up one of the poster-boards. Mickey is sitting on the couch, calming Yevgeny down, Liam kneels on the couch cushion next to them, attempting to help Mickey, telling his nephew that Christmas is going to be okay.

“Anybody want to tell me what just happened?” Ian asks.

“Debs happened,” Lip answers as he tries to obscure the one corner of the poster that Debbie tore. “She came down here in a mood.”

“Yeah, she said we’re doing Christmas wrong and tried to take it all down.”

“Doing it wrong?” Ian parrots as he sits on the arm of the couch. “This is bigger than anything Fiona ever threw together.”

“Yeah, took me and Mickey all evening putting it all together,” grumbles Carl as he takes a broken ornament in his hand, a little red rocking horse, now with a crack in the left bow. “I’ve been scrounging around thrift shops since before Halloween to find all these decoration.”

“Why didn’t you guys tell me you were doing all this?” Asks Ian. As upsetting as Debbie’s behavior is, he barely got a chance to even acknowledge all the work Mickey and Carl did last night. Whatever cry for attention Debbie is making, he wants Mickey to know just how in awe of the accomplishment he is before he turns his attention to putting out Debbie’s latest fire.

“You not familiar with the concept of a surprise, Red?” smirks Mickey, his mood improving now that Yevgeny’s sobbing has abated. “You work longer hours than a coal miner and have a harder job than us. I figured we could take care of this and take some of the holiday stress off your back.”

“How did you hide all this from me?”

“That’d be me and Mandy” Lip explains. “Her place and the basement— not exactly on your regular route.”

“Well, it looks great.” Ian says, trying to reassure his family even as they try to mitigate the damage.

“Yeah, if it weren’t for your sister’s little tantrum, I woulda hoped Yevgeny would remember this Christmas when he’s older.” Mickey huffs, trying to sound less bitter than he actually is.

“He isn’t even two yet, Mick.” Ian reminds him. “Even if he does remember this Christmas, it will be in bits and pieces. The toys, the wrapping paper, the old Christmas specials that are new to him.”

“Speaking of wrapping paper,” Mickey practically sings as he sets Yevgeny on the floor. “You wanna show daddy what you found, jelly bean?”

Yevgeny grins broadly, like Mickey just let him in on a naughty joke. Then he scampers off in the direction of the front door. Ian follows and recalls that Mickey had covered the door with several sheets of wrapping paper. The lowest sheet, most accessible to their son, is a bright, metallic red. The boy is giddy at the sight of his vermillion mirror self.

“You’ve seen a mirror before, Yevvy,” Ian remarks as he squats down to his son’s level. "What’s got you so excited?” Ian supposes that maybe it is the funhouse proportions the paper creates. The child is having a ball watching every silly wave of his arms and funny face slightly distorted and mirrored back at him.

“Tell ‘im, buddy,” Carl joins in. “Mickey thinks this is peak comedy, bro.”

“The kid’s a riot, what can I say?” his fiancé shrugs.

“I red like daddy!” The toddler answers in a sing-song voice.

Ian’s brothers snicker and Mickey smirks sheepishly, biting his lower lip. “What d’you think?”

He reflects for a moment, sighing. “I think I’d much rather stay down here and watch our kid be cute than go upstairs and deal with whatever Debbie’s damage is.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I know you’ve kept the house running ever since my bipolar reared its ugly head,” Lip begins, hands in his pockets, “You're her legal guardian and all, but I’m still her big brother, too. I could talk to her, if you want.”

Ian is tempted to take his brother up on the offer. What a difference a year makes, he thinks to himself.  This time last year, Lip was patently the Gallagher most likely to have a meltdown from minute to minute. He had already fallen off track with his medications twice, insistent both times that the medications were making him feel worse. Lip was devastatingly worried that med compliance would mean being forced to live like a zombie in a sort of dreamlike half-life. And he would have a few more slips before he finally started to get on a steady footing with his medications. Getting him into therapy, both one-on-one and group helped immensely, as did the coping strategies he ended up learning to better track his moods.

But in that time, it was Debbie who had been Ian’s strong right arm. She was the one who helped him hold everything together when Ian was juggling a defiantly unstable Lip, Carl veering closer to dropping out and falling in with a child drug smuggling operation, and on top of everything else a newborn in need of constant attention. Where did that Debbie go? Did everything helpful and conscientious about her evaporate when she hit puberty like morning dew in the sunshine?

“Tempting offer, but it’s gotta be me.” Ian is already regretting the mature decision. “She’s my responsibility, guys. I knew I’d actually have to be the bad guy every so often when I signed up to be the legal guardian. I just thought my biggest problem was gonna be Carl.”

“Don’t count me out just yet,” his little brother jokes. “I could always surprise you.”

***

He taps on the PCV material and calls out to his little sister twice without response. His instinct is to take it as read that she doesn’t want to be bothered. Ideally, he would like to think letting her be until she is ready to talk about what happened would have better results; give her some semblance of control by letting the dialogue unfold on her terms.

However, the last time Ian took this tack with her, she took off while he wasn’t looking and none of them saw her for five months. She is so close to her due date that he cannot picture her running now, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try.

Opening the according door of Debbie’s bedroom reminds Ian of the sound his long, bony fingers make running along the slats of an old-fashioned washboard. He finds his sister, struggling to sit upright as she throws clothes into her suitcase.

“You want to talk about what happened?” he says evenly.

“What does it matter? You’re not going to care. Like you’d ever side with me over Lip or your fuckbuddy.”

He sighs. He knew coming up here that attempting to have a mature conversation with Debbie was bound to be an uphill struggle. “Can you at least tell me what’s bothering you?”

“You let him take over Christmas,” she grouses. “That was always Fiona’s thing.”

“And it will be Fiona’s thing once she’s released,” Ian insists as he delves further into her room. He starts taking clothes out of the suicase and placing them back in her dresser. She physically isn’t in much of a position to put up a fight. “Mickey just wanted to surprise me.”

“And you think everyone’s gonna be happy with what Fiona puts together every year after Mickey’s done showing off?”

“I thought you liked Mickey.”

“I did. I mean, I do. But—he's not a Gallagher, Ian. Why does he always have to be around so much?”

“What are you talking about?”

“They finished his house, didn’t they? He can go back home,” she hisses. “Ian, he isn’t even a  member of the family.”

“Mickey’s family, alright. He’s my family. I’m marrying him. And he’s Yevgeny’s father every bit as much as—”

“Then why won’t you just take your guy and your kid and leave!” she howls thickly, red-faced. “There’s no room for me around here anymore.”

“Debs... I don’t know what else you need to hear before you’ll be satisfied.” Ian doesn’t know what else to say. They’ve done everything to make Debbie’s transition back into the household as seamless as possible. Lip gave up his bedroom and relocated to the basement so she could have her own room. They brought her meals in bed and made sure she didn’t have to worry about any chores while she was under rest orders. They have bent over backwards to welcome her back.  

"I wish I could go back to the way they used to be before it all got so fucked up." She is avoiding his gaze, picking at a hangnail along her chipped Granny Apple green thumbnail. "But I guess the genie's out of the bottle. Fiona's always gonna be a felon. Lip's gonna be a basket case like mom. And I'm never not going to be just another statistic. A Southside girl that tried to get pregnant. The hell was I thinking? So fucking stupid... I just want things to go back to the way they were before when we were kids, y’know?”

Ian sighs. There are a great many things he has tried to do for his siblings over the past year or so since he became head of the household. He used to be the loner of the family, but became the one who kept them together when the shit hit the fan. He used his certification to get a well-paying job. He has worked sixty-hour work weeks to keep up with household expenses without forcing Debbie and Carl to go out and find work under the table like he had to.

But one thing that was simply beyond his ability was to make things like they were before.

“Life doesn’t work that way, Debs. Things change and we’ve got to adapt or die.” He sits beside her on the bed and throws an arm over his sister’s shoulder. “You know that, right? Even when Fiona’s back, it won’t be like it was before.”

“We never got a chance to just be kids,” his sister bemoans, leaning into his side. “I thought I could have that when you brought me back. After I have the kid, I mean. But… it’s never gonna be like that, will it? Not for us.”

She never was that kid, Ian realizes. Try as Fiona might, she didn’t have the means to shield them from the cruel reality of the life they were born into. And it impacted the two red-headed Gallaghers more than their siblings. While Fiona was intent on keeping Lip trained on his studies, she was unconcerned with how it would impact his schooling when Kash took him on. It brought in more money and lightly expired groceries into the house. And Fiona was blissfully unaware of the way his boss looked at him when he was as young as thirteen. Likewise, Debbie precociously taking on so much of the household at such a young age would have been a red flag, but it freed Fiona up, one less thing to worry about. Their childhood was forfeit to keeping the house running and keeping the lights on.

“We can’t really change how we were raised, Debs. We can’t redo our childhood. But you’re not an adult yet. After the kid comes, we’ll do what we can to give you as normal fifteen as we can manage.”

Debbie doesn’t seem convinced, but at least Ian managed to talk her down from a ledge. She uses her heel to kick her suitcase back under the bed before Ian takes his leave of his little sister.

“Could you tell everyone that I’m sorry?” She asks when he is at her door.

“Come downstairs whenever you’re ready,” Ian tells her instead. “You can tell them all yourself.”

Chapter Text

“You really think this is the best idea?” Lip asks. “This time yesterday, she was on the verge of being the second Gallagher to end up institutionalized in under eighteen months. And now you want me to drag her over to the prison?”

Mickey looks up from where he has just gotten the honey-baked ham into the slow roaster. Truth be told, he understands Lip’s apprehension. He isn’t entirely sure it is a good idea just because Debbie is supposed to be taking things easy. But he sees the logic in insisting that Debbie should accompany Lip and Carl to Statesville for Christmas Eve visitation. She hasn’t seen her elder sister since before the pregnancy. The Gallagher clan thinks nothing is more important than family. Perhaps a mini reunion with Fiona will do her some good.

“Ian thinks seeing Fiona will do ‘er some good,” Mickey shrugs, but he smirks wickedly, his nose crinkling. “But I’m with you, man. A padded cell woulda been the better call.”

“The psych ward isn’t exactly five star accommodations, Mick.” Lip replies grimly. “I felt like I was in prison.”

“Says someone who’s never been on anything more than an overnight hold.”

“I’m serious, Mick. I know I didn’t have to worry about someone shivving me in the yard, but I  didn’t know where I was or why when I woke up that day and the meds had me so loopy that I felt like I was walking through jello. Psych nurses are too trigger-happy with their panic buttons and there was always one guard on every shift who thought he was in a fucking fight club.”

“You would never make it a week in real prison, man.” Mickey shakes his head as he uses a coffee mug to cut out the shapes of the cookies uniformly.

“Fiona has,” sighs Lip ruefully. Mickey can practically feel the weight of the response.

“Takes balls of steel, man,” Mickey remarks, attempting to recover. He gets too flippant, sometimes. He forgets that having a family member in the clink is the exception for the Gallagher clan, not the rule… despite the fact that their father should probably be serving decades for all manner of fraud. “I have to hand it to her. I’ve gone up to see your sister in Statesville almost as many times as Ian has. She’s never let us see how hard she’s kicking underwater. And that can’t be easy for her.”

“She knows how to put on a brave face for the rest of us.”

Liam comes down the stairs in a trot, looking proud as a peacock. He is dressed in khakis and a Kringle red button down shirt with white polka dots. He is wearing a necktie that is perhaps too big for him. He is all too eager for Mickey and his eldest brother to notice that it is his own handiwork. It’s a little janky. Wise beyond his years or not, he still has a six-year-old's hand-eye coordination.

“I watched five YouTube videos to do it,” the youngest Gallagher brother crows even as Lip kneels down to straighten it up a little. “This is a Windsor.”

“That’s impressive, peanut,” Mickey responds. He certainly didn’t know how to tie a tie at six. Hell, it was a skill he didn’t need to know until his first juvie arraignment.

Carl is next down the stairs in a green holiday sweater he inherited from Ian, who in turn inherited it from Lip. His hair is overdue for a haircut, but Mickey doesn’t say anything. Carl, however, seems to be pleased with the length of his mane. It makes the family resemblance between him and Lip a bit more apparent. Usually, Mickey would say Carl most resembles Fiona.

Ian comes downstairs with a small carboard box in his arms. “Okay, I just got a text from Vee, she’ll be ready to roll in five minutes. Anyone have anything that  won’t get confiscated to add to Fiona’s care package?”

The boys are all quiet, but then from the top of the stairs, a sheepish voice calls out. “I’ve got a couple.”

Mickey along with everyone else looks up to see Debbie in a simple, plum colored maternity dress with a cream-colored cable-knit cardigan on top of it. She is holding two purple bottles in her hands as she steadily works her way down the stairs. “I know it isn’t a lot, but it’s Fiona’s favorite brand of shampoo and conditioner. I doubt they have Aussie at the cantine or whatever it’s called.

“The commissary,” corrects Mickey, nodding.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it, Debs,” encourages Ian, accepting the bottles from her and nestling them into place among the other small gifts.

Carl has given her a two-pack of Dove soap. Lip made a coup at the thrift store and picked up a small horde of trashy romance novels they all know Fiona likes even if she claims she only hate-reads them. Ian puts an extra forty dollars in the envelope of cash for Fiona’s commissary account. Mickey is giving her a carton of Pall Malls. Fiona isn’t a big smoker, but cigarettes are basically currency among correctional inmates.  Finally,  Liam has made her a Christmas card from red, green, and white construction paper and signed it from both himself and Yevgeny.

“Great,” sighs Ian. “That’s something from everyone. “A lot better than we managed last year.”

Mickey catches Lip’s expression falter out of the corner of his eye. But he recovers easily enough. Mickey may not have been around this time last year, but Ian has created a vivid enough image of what the Gallagher household was like to know that everyone was having a rough time with growing pains. The household had already been shaken by the events of the Coke Incident that led to Fiona’s incarceration. The role of head of the household had fallen to Lip, who already hat the weight of the world on his shoulders at school. It was through no fault of his own that his mental health took a turn the way it did. Genetics are a bitch you can’t put down behind the shed like Old Yeller.

Sometimes, when old nightmares of Terry startle him from his slumber and the subsequent racing thoughts keep him from falling back asleep, he finds himself looking over at Ian and wondering just how differently things had worked out and it was Ian that has fallen prey to their mother’s genetics. With Fiona in prison and Lip’s attention so much more at school than the home, who would have been around to be the support him and hold the family together the way Ian has taken care of them all? The lack of options Mickey can imagine makes his blood run cold.

Beep Beep.

In the distance, Mickey can hear Vee shouting, “Come on, little Gallaghers. Time to spread some Christmas cheer!”

“That’s our cue,” sighs Lip as he picks up Yevgeny from the playpen. Ian has donned their son in a Rudolph onesie, which Mickey had initially objected to, but ended up taking almost as many pictures as Ian did once he was dressed. What can he say? The kid somehow managed to inherit the cute gene, which has skipped the past few generations of Milkoviches.

“You sure you don’t want to come along?” Asks Carl as he hoists the box into his arms.

“We’re good this time,” Mickey shrugs.

“Just want the house to yourself, huh?” Carl leers at them, “Get a chance to make the Yuletide gay without anyone walking in on you?”

Mickey flicks the back of the boy’s ear, causing Carl to howl.

 “One of these days, you gotta learn you don’t gotta share every thought I in that head of yours kid.”

“We’ll catch up with her for New Years,” Ian adds, grimacing at his younger brother. “She only gets so much time to visit and some of you are overdue.”

“Way to name names,” the younger redhead deadpans.

“Hey, Jelly Bean,” Mickey calls to the squirmy sixteen-month-old in Lip’s arms. “Be good for your Uncle Lip and Auntie Vee and we can do presents when you guys get home.”

“It’s berfday?” Asks the toddler.

“Not your birthday, but it’s still special,” explains Ian ruffling the boy’s hair. “Give your Aunt Fifi all our love, promise?”

“Kay, daddy.”

Beep Beep.

“Coming, Aunt Vee!” Liam hollers, opening the door for his siblings like a little gentleman.

Forty-seven minutes later, Ian and Mickey lay naked on the living room  floor, passing a cigarette between one another. Mickey has to chuckle to himself, wondering if they are simply predictable or if they need to get Carl laid so he will stop thinking about their sex life.

He looks over at Ian, scanning for signs of discomfort.

“Hey,” he starts, gently elbowing Ian’s side. “You okay?”

Ian thinks for a long moment, then shrugs. “Does it always feel like that?”

Usually, they do not stray from their usual sexual roles. Why bother with perfection? Sometimes it genuinely seems like the two of them were equipped like a bespoke pairing, designed to interlock with one another in just the right way. But today they switched it up in their second round. It was Ian’s suggestion, he claims to want to give Mickey the chance to “take control.” But Mickey thinks he is such a prolific moaner when they don’t have to worry about volume control that he just sells the bottoming experience enough to pique Ian’s interest.

Of course, selling him on it and enjoying your first time bottoming are two different experiences. Mickey wishes he had someone like Ian with him the first time he bottomed. Then again, the less said about his first time the better. He’s been telling Ian for years that he was Mickey’s first simply because he has officially stricken that first anonymous bang while doing community service from his personal history.

No, he is not going to be like that shithead, taking what he wants without any concern for what his partner is feeling. He is going to check in with Ian and make sure he’s okay. Because the truth is bottoming can really hurt the first time, especially if your top doesn’t know what he’s doing. Hell, from what Mickey read online after his first time, sometimes it takes a few times before it really feels like more pleasure than pain. That’s how he got into toys— so that he would be ready the next time his opportunity with the real thing presented itself. And boy, if Mickey didn’t pull himself a winner on his second attempt.  

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Mickey’s cock may be a modest six inches compared to Ian’s nine, but he is equipped with a thick chode that can do some damage if you don’t do enough prep, especially if you aren’t used to being the receptive partner in the first place.

Ian turns on his side to face him, slightly tugging at the throw blanket as his weight shifts. “I don’t think ‘hurt’ is the right word, but it does feel… different.”

“It might feel that way the first few times. Getting a good handle on your breathing and muscle relaxation helps. And if you need me to, we can spent more time making sure you’re opened up next time.”

“Maybe I could get some practice in before the next time we try this again,” Ian suggests. “Maybe we could go to the Adult Mart and you could help me—”

“Jesus Christ what is with you Gallagher boys and asking me to take you toy shopping?”

Ian’s smile evaporates. “Did you buy my brother a fucking dildo?”

“Kind of.” Mickey shrugs. “I took him out and got him one of those graduated plug sets for beginners. The thickest one is maybe a silver dollar.”

“But he went to you?” Ian asks. “Not his own brother?”

“He’s heard us going at it enough times to know who likes taking it,” Mickey shrugs, sitting up. “He wanted some expertise. And, I don’t know. I guess talking to family about the sex shit isn’t easy. I’m not exactly staying up with Mandy to talk about boys.”

“Okay. I guess you have a point. Christ, no wonder he’s been monopolizing the fucking bathroom.”

“He’s not even ready to talk to his crush, man.” Mickey assuages, rubbing Ian’s arm soothingly. “As far as Carl’s concerned, they’re training wheels. He’s nowhere near ready for the real thing. Besides. Masturbation for a bottom is a production number. I saved him from ruining some perfectly good broom handles. Do you know how many cases hospitals have every year of people in the ER with things stuck up their asses that shouldn’t be there?”

“I work in a hospital,” Ian laughs as he sits up, mirth returning to his voice. “Yeah, thanks. I really don’t want to get called down to the ER because my little brother broke a beer bottle up his chute or something nasty like that.”

“What are older brother’s fiancés for?”

“That reminds me,” Ian says purposefully as he finds his briefs and pulls them back on as he rears himself up to stand, then proceeds to gather up the rest of the clothes he had on before. “Give me a second, I have a surprise that I’ve been meaning to give you.”

“I thought you said we were doing presents when everyone else got back?” Mickey asks as Ian disappears up the stairs.

 “This one’s special,” he hears Ian call down the stairs.

Without Ian basically being a human space heater, Mickey suddenly feels the chilly Winter temperature and shivers a bit as he follows Ian’s lead and begrudgingly pulls on his own tighty whities and his chunky blue mock turtleneck sweater. Pants be damned, he’s going to let his thighs breathe while they still have the house to themselves.

Ian comes downstairs with a plain manilla folder. “This isn’t your actual Christmas present, but… Merry Christmas, Mick.”

Mickey takes the envelope from Ian, eying his lover cautiously. “What is this?”

“Open it and see,” smiles his ginger.

He opens it and finds a government document partially filled out, the state seal of Illinois is embossed in the background of the document. The title of the document reads, “Marriage Certificate.”

“Ian?”

“Mickey Milkovich? Will you marry me?”

He looks up from the document and sees Ian has lowered himself to one knee, a black gel pen in his hand.

“I already said I would, you huge dork,” he laughs. “But we haven’t even set a date for the wedding.”

“The wedding can come later. A wedding’s just an expensive party we throw ourselves,” Ian insists. “I just want to call you my husband.”

Okay, Mickey didn’t expect to get so choked up hearing Ian say that. His tough guy stock has been in serious jeopardy of plummeting ever since he moved in with Ian and his family. He has grown accustomed to letting his soft side come out without hesitation the more comfortable he has become with this domestic existence with Ian. And if he starts crying now, it’ll be all over for him.

“I want to be yours and you to be mine. I want to wake up every morning with a fresh opportunity to make you happy. I want you to be legally Yevgeny’s father. If something happens to me, I don’t want there to be any question that anyone other than the man I love and want to spend the rest of my life with gets custody of Yev—”

Mickey crushes their mouths together, breathing in the man he adores deep. He smells like Old Spice, strawberry lube, and the cigarette they had just shared. “Save your speeches, you pussy. I’ll marry you,” he promises as he takes the pen from Ian. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

With several long angular strokes of the pen, Mickey’s signature is standing alongside Ian’s on the license. Ian looks it over. “Your legal name, huh?”

“This is all official, right?” Mickey replies. “It’s gotta be Ian Clayton Gallagher and Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich for the government to recognize us, right?”

“I hope you don’t think I’m calling you anything but ‘Mickey’ when we finally end up reciting our vows.”

“I hope not. I don’t even think half my cousins remember my government name. And they’re easily confused fuckers, most of them.”

They hold each other close and regard the document for some time as though they were gazing at a masterpiece in the Louvre.

“Can’t believe you’re my husband now,” Mickey grins.

“Technically, not until we take this down to the courthouse together and get this signed by the county clerk. And it’s Christmas, so we’re gonna have to wait until tomorrow.”

Mickey steals another kiss. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to start calling you ‘husband’ now.”

“Not at all,” smiles Ian into another long kiss as he pushes his nearly-lawfully wedded husband onto his back for round three.  

Chapter Text

“You’re going by ‘Mickey Gallagher’ now?” Asks Sandy incredulously as she sits down at the service bar of the new Milkovich house while Mickey combines the ingredients for his mother’s stuffed cabbage recipe by hand. There was so much of his mother that Mickey thought has been lost over the years, especially after someone lit up the house like a Roman candle last Spring. The fact that all this time, Mandy had their mother’s cookbook among a few choice items in her safe keeping feels like a minor miracle.  

Miracle or not, as he digs his hands into the bowl of ground pork, rice, vegetables, and tomato sauce, he is being careful not to make a mess. Mandy’s new kitchen was pristine when they came in to set up for the combination New Years and housewarming party. As much as he loves his little sister, he knows better than to underestimate her. She can be damn scary when crossed. Especially when she is only a couple feet away just waiting for Mickey to spill something that will stain on her shiny brand fucking new tiled floor. 

“Why not?” Asks Iggy from the kitchen island where he and Mandy are peeling spuds for the potato pancakes. 

“They’re married, right?” Mandy interjects. “I still can’t believe you guys eloped.”   

“We didn’t elope,” insists Mickey. 

“Did you get married without telling anyone?” Asks Sandy. Mandy and Sandy tend not to agree on a lot of things. They are both assertive and strong-willed personalities even by Milkovich standards. And Mickey cannot help but feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end when they gang up on him like this. It almost makes him want to grab his coat and make a beeline for the door.  

“I signed a marriage certificate. It’s not like we ran off to the Chapel of Love in Vegas.” 

“But you didn’t think I’d want to go down to the  I’m court house and support you? Or Lip?” 

“Okay, yeah. So maybe we eloped. But it’s not like we won’t have a real wedding sometime down the line. Maybe when we have more than a couple dimes to rub together at the end of the month.”  

“So, did they charge extra for the name change?” Asks Izzy. “Or was that actually a second transaction?” 

“Well, you guys can all get off my case because I didn’t actually change it. I’m still legally a Milkovich. But I’ll get around to it eventually.”  

“I get it, bro,” Iggy reassures him. “You know how hard it is for people to spell our name?” 

“Unless you’re Chicago PD,” Sandy jibes as she takes a swig of her drink. 

 Mandy’s expression darkens, “And it’s not like the Milkovich name is bringing us any good luck these days.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “My son and my husband are Gallaghers. Easier for me to change my name than them.” 

“But our family name really is turning out to be one fuck of an albatross. Are you certain about this, Sandy?” 

Sandy throws up her hands. “You ask me to dig. I dug. And this is what I found out. Your dad kept it in the family.” 

Mickey tries not to think about it too deeply, at least not today. Hector Milkovich. Who the fuck is Hector? He knows he has more uncles and cousins than he knows what to do with, but generally the problem is forgetting who is related to and how. He would at least feel better if he felt like this is some he merely blanked on. But no— there is absolutely not even the slightest ding of recognition. 

“Yeah, and now we’re back at square one. Like a goddamn snake eating its own tail.” 

“We aren’t back at square on, dumbass,” Mandy protests. “Thanks to you and Ian, Sandy narrowed down our list of suspects down to our own family tree. That’s massive.” 

“And freaky. I get pop made plenty of enemies, but one of our own?” Iggy asks, astounded.  

Mickey looks to his sister and his cousin and catches their own glances bouncing between each other and him. The three of them all have first-hand knowledge of what kind of behaviors their fathers are capable of that Iggy is blissfully unaware of. All three of them have battle scars that Iggy will never experience.  

And it isn’t merely the fact that he had the advantage of being born both male and straight but also because he was blessed with a rare gift in the Milkovich clan. He somehow manages to remain off people’s radars whether he means to or not. Being invisible within your family can be a curse for some, but Iggy has been spared the brunt of a lot of Terry’s worse ministrations. Even Colin and Joey got knocked around their fair share growing up. And Terry actually liked  them.  

“And you’re sure none o’ you guys have heard of this Hector before now?” Mickey asks.  

Silence all around.  

“I honestly always figured dad killed any extended family he didn’t trust,” admits Mandy darkly. “I wouldn’t put it past him, would you?” 

Before anyone can chime in with agreement, Bonnie Tyler's “I Need A Hero” begins playing and Mickey’s smartphone begins to vibrate on the countertop. Mickey reaches for his phone but stops when he realizes he is forearm-deep in the greasy, meaty slurry of the cabbage roll filling.  

“Someone want to grab that for me?” 

Being closest, Sandy grabs the phone and looks at the picture on the Lock Screen. “Lucky Charms? Pass.” 

“Hand it over,” insists Mandy, setting down the potato peeler and reaching over. She clicks “Accept” and pushes her hair behind her shoulder to hold the phone to her ear. “Why hello, brother-in-law.” Mickey hears his husband’s voice faintly across the room. “Yeah, he’s right here stuffing holubtsi.” 

“Just put him on speaker phone, Mands.” 

“You’re what?” Mandy asks Ian, her voice suddenly growing hushed.  She looks up at Mickey with intent, purposeful eyes. “Debbie’s water broke,” she announces to the room.

Mickey goes into autopilot, washing his hands clean, reviewing the go-plan that he, Ian, and Lip ironed out with Debbie weeks ago. He already knows that Lip is probably ordering the Uber that is going to take them to St. Anthony’s.  

“Her due date’s still two weeks off,” murmurs Sandy. 

“How did you know that?” Mickey reproaches. To the best of his knowledge, Debbie and Sandy have been avoiding each other even before Debbie ran off with Frank. And Debbie hadn’t even seen an obstetrician until after they brought her back home. How does she know how many weeks along Debbie is? 

“You aren’t the only one who can do math your head, asshole.” 

“Whatever. I gotta get over to the house before the rideshare—” 

“Don’t worry about it. Ian, I’ll be over there with Mick in a jiff.” 

Mickey is drying his hands and Mandy is already grabbing their coats. Iggy is following them around like a lost puppy. “So, you guys are just ditching your own party?” 

“Baby trumps party,” Mickey growls, annoyed that his brother hasn’t quite caught up with the conversation. 

“Sorry, Iggs,” Mandy adds. “Party’s cancelled. Can I trust you with the cleanup?” 

“Have I ever let you guys down?” 

Mickey cackles. “That’s a ‘no,’ Mands.” 

***  

The maternity unit is on the same floor as the hospital daycare center, which along with the cafeteria and the lobby of the TRU unit, is one of the areas of St. Anthony’s that Mickey is the most familiar with. But Debbie has only had one in-person appointment since she came back from Iowa, and she asked Vee to accompany her.  

It feels so odd to enter into what is essentially foreign territory that is caddy corner to where he meets his husband and picks up his son several times per week. The primary colors of the are immediately surrounding the day care area give way to softer pastels. Pale pinks paired with soft blues, a muted canary yellow contrasted against lime. It is surprisingly mellow for an area of the hospital that Mickey imagines is populated by women in labor yelling at or about the men knocked them up. 

Even more of a surprise to Mickey is the added amount of  security. He is used to the visitor badges, but the maternity unit has their own special badges. Visitors need to be photographed and have their images printed on special temporary badges. They need to walk through a metal detector and get wanded down before they are permitted past the unit reception area.  

“Sorry about the precaution,” apologizes the nursing assistant as she leads the Milkovich siblings to the waiting room. “A few years back, we had an incident where a visitor stole a baby. It  turned out to be the grandmother, but they added security measures just in case it ever happens again.” 

Then a third surprise awaits them when they find Sandy mingled among the assortment of Gallagher siblings and Kev and his twin daughters. She is wearing a mask of disdain like she is loathe to be here. And considering her own rocky relationship with her own pregnancy, it would be understandable.  

But Mickey can see his cousin’s eyes telling a different story. Hell, her being here is statement enough, but there is a panicked concern in her eyes that Mickey undoubtedly recognizes. It is the same unspoken concern that he used to hide as best he could whenever something shitty went down at the Gallagher house and Mickey was still pretending he and Ian were just casual friends. The same studied nonchalance he would emulate whenever Terry rounded up a posse to play a round of smear the queer. The same attempt as coolness under pressure he failed to exude the day Terry discovered him and Ian together. Sandy may be Debbie’s ex, but even after all these long months, she still cares. 

He spots his son playing at a table full of children’s puzzles in the corner alongside Liam, who very much seems to be enjoying  his opportunity to teach his baby nephew about shapes and colors. Mickey kneels down quickly to give both boys a hug and kisses the top of Yevgeny’s head before he lets them resume their play. 

“Ian’s in the delivery room,” Carl announces by way of greeting. “They’re only letting two of us in at a time with her.” 

“He used to turn green if you said ‘hymen’ and now you’re telling me he took first watch while her vag is on full display?” 

Mandy rolls her eyes. “You did clock the fact that you married a nurse, right?” 

“And he’s done this more recently,” Lip explains. “You know, with Svetlana.” 

“So, when he said he was with Svetlana every step of the way…?” 

Lip shrugs. “I guess he felt he had to be.”  

 He doesn’t think Lip means for the words to feel like an attack, but they do sting. The guilt Mickey still carries for abandoning Ian when he ran off two years ago is very nuanced with several different points of articulation. When he was gone, his biggest regret was not asking Ian along, despite the very real threat posed by his fagbasher father knowing exactly where Ian lived. But since his return, it has been outstripped by the knowledge that he left Ian to take care of his mess, that Ian stepped up to be Yevgeny’s father without hesitation even though he had no way of knowing they would ever see each other again. In reality, he only missed the first eight months of his son’s life, but it isn’t like getting to the cineplex late. He can’t purchase another ticket. He will never have a second chance to get the eight months he missed back.   

Mickey takes a seat but it isn’t long before Ian steps out of Debbie’s delivery room clad in blue scrubs over his clothes, hands over his eyes, which are trained on the floor. Mickey moves his coat from the seat he reserved for his husband. Ian stumbles into it and takes Mickey’s hand like he needs to be braced for support.  

“You okay, lover?” 

“I just saw my sister’s vagina. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.” 

Mickey rubs Ian’s shoulder. “This too shall pass.” 

“I need to wash my eyes with bleach.” 

“I got some bourbon waiting for us back at Mandy’s new place.” 

Ian turns to face him. “Wanted to ring in the new year in style, huh? I’d settle for some weed.” 

Mickey surreptitiously looks over Ian’s shoulder at Carl, who gives Mickey a curt nod. 

“That can be arranged.” 

“Is that your Christmas present from Iggy?” 

“Something like that.” Nobody has moved to replace Ian in the delivery room. Mickey knows Debbie is in good hands with Vee, but he figures someone else ought to be in there with her. “Hey Sandy! You wanna—?” 

“Nope. I’m staying right here.” 

“Why did you even come if you two still aren’t speaking?” Asks Mandy who stands up, heading towards the door instead. 

“Honestly, I don’t know what possessed me to even come.” Mickey would think that would be her preamble to leave, but instead she burrows lower into her seat. 

Ian gently elbows his husband and gestures for Mickey to talk to Sandy, which makes him groan. Mickey has gotten better at talking about the soft and squishy feelings with Ian. And sometimes, he can bring himself to open up to Mandy and maybe even give Ian’s siblings a pep talk. But Sandy is an actively hard nut to crack and Mickey isn’t exactly a life coach himself. 

But he hauls himself to his feet and takes an open seat next to his cousin. “Y’know, it’s alright to admit you still care about her.” 

“Whatever. You married into these weirdos. We show up for family, right?”   

“Family’s more than blood and marriage. You know that, right?” His cousin doesn’t dignify his question with a response. “Ian’s treated Mandy as good as a sister since way back. And then with Yev, he—” 

“Please spare me. If I hear you monologue about your sainted husband adopting your kid, I’ll vomit.”     

Mickey’s instinct is to get up and let her stew in her own juices. Let her sit here and sulk outside her ex girlfriend’s delivery room. But he knows he should make one last salvo before he leaves her to her self-inflicted suffering. “You know, she refuses to say so either, but  she misses you, too.” 

The hours pass and it gets closer and closer to midnight as one-by-one, everyone over the age of eighteen cycles through a turn in Debbie’s room as her contractions inch closer to five minute intervals. Mickey can’t help but muse over the alternate timeline where they got to have their party. Mandy had party games planned. He was going to give everyone insisting on Anderson Cooper a hard time by putting on the Twilight Zone marathon. And he really did want to try to show off with his mother’s recipes.  

By the time Mickey steps in for a second time, he is tagging out Kev and joining his husband. Both of them are decked out with surgical pants and gown over their clothes, guards over their shoes.  But as ridiculous as Mickey feels in his ill-fitting medical garb, Ian looks so natural. It makes Mickey think that Ian should look in the mirror and realize how close he is to his calling. Ian’s place is in the hospital, but he is meant to be more than changing bedpans and passing out meds. He is receiving on-the-job training to advance in his career. This Summer, he could have enough experience to do clinical rotations and test to qualify as a registered nurse.  

“How’s she doing?” He asks Ian. 

“I just found out I’m going to tear my snatch and probably shit myself in front of total strangers. I’m doing great,” Debbie deadpans, visibly annoyed that Mickey asked Ian and not her. 

“Dr. Shodipo said you might have some vaginal tearing,” Ian insists.  

Mickey can’t help but scan his husband’s face, searching for a sign of his gag reflex kicking in at the sound of the word “vaginal.” But he seems unbothered. Perhaps, he can handle the female anatomy better when he can medicalize the language.   

“How soon are we thinking?” 

“Not long,” answers Luci, the nurse on-duty. “Your sister’s contractions are at eight minutes now and her cervix is almost fully dilated.”    

Ian looks at the clock on the wall. “At this rate, you might have the last baby of the year or the first of the new one.” 

"Our own resident baby new year," smirks Mickey. 

“Great,” replies Debbie, an edge to her voice.  

“Have you talked to any of the staff?” Mickey asks. “About your decision?” 

“Is this something I need to call the doctor in for?” Luci asks with trepidation, no doubt concerned with a curveball getting lobbed at her. 

“Debbie?” Asks Ian, trying to lead her, “You’re the patient here.”  

She hesitates, but then says, “I don’t think I want to be a mom.” 

“That’s fine. We have the Safe Haven program where we can—” 

“But I don’t want him going into the system.” 

“The program works in tandem with Child Services, ma’am.” 

“Then, no. I don’t want to do your safe house thing,” the younger redhead insists resolutely.  

“Debs,” Ian coaxes. 

“I’ll figure out something. I’ll find someone. But I’m not subjecting my son to what we all went through.” 

“Ian?” The nurse asks.  

“We’ve all been put into the system, Luce. A few times.”  

“I get it,” Mickey backs up his sister-in-law. “Happened all the time in my family, too.” Not only did it happen but unlike the Gallaghers, Terry often handed them over to social services whenever he was too busy working for the cartel and Laura was too messed up to care for them. At one point, he, Mandy, and Iggy were tossed around from home to home for over a year while Joey and Colin were remanded to a group home that thought it was a scared straight program. 

“We can help you find alternative resources,” Luci insists. “Adoption agencies.”  

“I want someone I can trust.” 

“Speaking of trust,” Ian starts, “If you’re as close to popping as they think, who do you want in here with you for the delivery?” 

“She’s out there, right?” Debbie asks. “Sandy?” 

Ian and Mickey hesitate and each glance at one another. Ian nods almost imperceptibly, then they turn back to face the pregnant girl. “Yeah,” Mickey confirms. “She was with me and Mands when we got the call. She beat us here.” 

“Can I see her?” There is such hope in her voice. “It’s just that she has been through this all before.”  

“We can ask.”  

***  

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Asks Ian. 

“Dyke drama,” Mickey shrugs. “Either they’re crying it out or trying to murder each other.” 

“What do you think they call our fights behind our backs?” Grins Ian tentatively.  

“Fag fights?” Mickey spitballs. “Fag feuds?” 

“Gays of our Lives,” volunteers Lip.  

Mandy stifles a laugh and elbows him playfully. “Get out of here, that’s so low-effort.” 

“What about Men-eral  Hospital? The Hung and the Tactless?” 

“Can you not work my dick size into the conversation?” Ian insists. “I work here, remember?” 

“Why do you know his dick size?” Asks Kev, suddenly baffled. 

“Aside from the fact that we used to share a room and I’ve caught you pulling your pud on multiple occasions?” 

“Fuck off,” blushes Ian.  

“Maybe ask your husband not to shout it to the hilltops when you guys are going at it and it.”  

Suddenly, there is a flurry of activity outside the delivery room. Luci pops her head out the door and recommends if a second member of the Gallagher clan wants to be present for the delivery, this is their window. Ian is about to get up, but Mickey cups his hand around his husband’s forearm.  

“Mick?” 

“Take a knee just this once, Red.” 

“But she’s my sister.” 

He nods over at Lip who is bounding back up to his feet. “Let your brother take the the lead for once, man. She’s his kid sister, too.” 

Ian’s eyes widen only for a moment, but then he relents, nodding. Mickey waits for Ian’s body to relax before he lets go. “You’re right. I’m so used to taking care of everyone. Sometimes it’s easy to take for granted that she’d want Lip or Fiona there instead.” 

“Not everything needs to be on your shoulders, man. That’s what family’s for, right? Group effort, right?” 

This time it is Ian who takes Mickey by the wrist, bringing the back of his “U-UP” hand  to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss into it. “Thanks, Mick.” He runs the ball of his thumb against the ink of Mickey’s knuckles. “I really do need to learn when to hang to the rear and let you guys pick up the slack sometimes.” 

“Yeah. We don’t need another Gallagher cracking under the pressure.” 

***  

The family finds themselves gathering around the newborn in Debbie’s recovery room a little before one in the morning. She delivered a baby girl (which causes Debbie to complain that the “birthing matron” at the commune lied to her), with a full head of wispy red hair. 

Everyone takes their turn to gush over the newborn. Well, everyone except Sandy, who keeps herself at a distance, but does not leave the room. Mickey may be imagining things, but he thinks he catches glances between Debbie and Sandy that could pass for tender. Or the Milkovich equivalent of tender which tends to read as mildly aggressive. 

Debbie is eager to pass the child off, not wanting to get attached to the child she intends to find adoptive parents for. But in the moment, Debbie’s intentions mean very little to the family. There is a new Gallagher in the mix and the Gallagher clan loves a new baby.  

And maybe Mickey has become more of a Gallagher in the past eight months than he realized. Because seeing his husband cradling the pint-sized ginger in his arms, seeing the rosy-faced little thing blinking with unfocused green eyes, it does something to Mickey. He looks down and the unconscious toddler slung over his own shoulder. They look like just as much a matched set as he does with Yevgeny. She could be Ian’s mini-me. 

“Something wrong?” Ian asks, his eyes searching Mickey’s face. 

“No. I don’t think anything’s wrong.” He thinks for a second before he speaks again in a whisper, “I think I got an idea. But it might sound crazy.” 

Ian smiles softly, then looks down at the littlest redhead in the room. “She is perfect, isn’t she?” 

Chapter Text

"I think we’d be better off if we keep letting her sleep in a drawer,” Mickey grumbles as he takes an Allen wrench the base of the old Gallagher family bassinet, reattaching the legs.   

“It’s not like we need to do without, Mick. All we need to do is put it back together.”  

“Yeah, but I could do with one less piece of furniture cluttering up the joint. This house is getting crowded.”   

Ian looks up from the newborn he just nestled in between two pillows and just watches on amused at his husband’s attempts to seem more cantankerous than he actually is. Mickey is actually pretty good with his hands. He can figure out how to assemble things pretty easily. It comes from having a visual imagination, Ian supposes. He has watched Mickey tally up estimates in his head that Ian would have needed scratch paper if not a calculator to solve. But performative kvetching aside, Mickey is the man for the job, never shy to apply some good old elbow grease for the sake of his family.   

Of course, they would have ended up needing to assemble the bassinet whether or not Ian and Mickey had adopted Vivi. Debbie wasn’t going to drop the child into the system, so they would have needed to find space for the littlest redhead  one way or another.  Although, now Ian finds himself hoping for once that Yevgeny grows up just a little faster so that he will be in a toddler bed by the time they need to relocate Vivi to the crib.   

“I think we can manage at least until Fiona gets out. Liam wasn’t much bigger than Yevgeny when we moved him into the boys room. But I figure Yev and Vivi can share until Yev hits puberty.”  

“Where’s your sister gonna go, though. We’re in her room, right?” Mickey flips the bassinet over to make certain it’s level. Dissatisfied, he flips it over and makes some more adjustments. “We can’t exactly ask her to bunk with Debs, can we?”  

“No,” Ian agrees. The last thing Ian wants is for Fiona to come home from Statesville and feel like he and Mickey have usurped her place in the family. She’s head of the household. Always has been. Ian has just been keeping her seat warm. “We need to figure out something by the time she’s breathing free air again.”  

“I heard your cop friend is thinking of selling, heard he’s shacking up with a guy up in Avondale. Maybe he’ll give us a deal.”  

“Wait. Did you just say Tony’s with a guy?”  

“I know you’ve heard of gay cops before,” Mickey smirks and gives Ian a sly wink. “Or are we gonna sit here and pretend we haven’t watched Hot Buttered Cop Porn together?”  

“You know your voice carries, right?”  

“So does Markovich’s. You seriously haven’t heard him and his gentleman caller going at it?”  

“Tony went with my sister for a little while, you know.”  

“Yeah. And I used to go to Fat Angie trying to prove something.”   

Mickey makes a good point, so instead of grappling with the notion that the only decent guy Ian has ever seen his sister with is a member of the tribe, he hones his focus towards a more productive end. “So, he’s thinking of selling? Hm. I’m surprised he lasted this long. We’ve scared off a lot of next-door neighbors.”  

“You guys aren’t that bad.”  

“Did I tell you about the time Carl shot down a Bald Eagle right in our backyard? He managed to get his hands on an Uzi.”  

Mickey’s eyes widen. “Goddamn, Killer Carl... I guess that ROTC training paid off.”  

“What? No. This was back when he was ten.”  

“Ten?” echoes Mickey, astounded. “Fucking Christ, you Gallagher motherfuckers don’t mess around, do you?”  

Ian puts his hands behind his head and leans back on the headboard of their bed. “I don’t wanna brag, but...”  

“Here he goes.”  

“We’re not that much better than your family. But the Gallaghers  would rather run a grift than run guns.”   

Mickey flips the bassinet right-side-up again and tests it out. All four legs are even and the bed of the bassinet is level. Mickey nods, satisfied. “You’ve never been much of a con artist, though.”   

“I tricked Kash into loading up your commissary account in juvie, didn’t I?”  

“Okay, I’ll give you that. I just mean you've always been more on the up and up. Total straight shooter.”  

 “I guess it comes down to the fact that I’m not one of Frank’s. I don’t have that trickster thing going for me. And Frank was always keener to knock me around than show me what he knows like he did with all the others. Is she seaworthy?” Ian asks.  

“Just about,” Mickey affirms as he covers the small mattress with its cover. It is bright blue and covered in a pattern of baseballs, bats, soccer balls, tennis rackets, and footballs. “We should head over to Family Thrift and see if they have something more girly.”  

“Probably. We might still have some from when Debs was little up in the attic. Monica never threw anything away.”  

“Sentimental?”  

“Hoarder.”  

“Did you always know you weren’t one o’ Frank’s?” Mickey asks as he fits the little mattress into place.   

“No. I found out while you were locked up that first time. I went with Lip to get tested.”  

“But he knew?”   

“If he didn’t know, he at least always had an inkling. Always made me feel like an invasive species even when he wasn’t....” he trails off.  

“You don’t gotta answer if you don’t want, E.” Mickey says, coming to sit beside his husband, arm bracing Ian’s shoulder. “Sometimes I forget that even with Terry being... Terry, I don’t hold the monopoly on shitty parents.”  

Ian can’t help but picture so many times growing up where he was on the receiving end of his father’s ire, oblivious that he was being punished over and over again for his mother’s indiscretion, guilty of the crime of being of someone else’s seed. Then he thinks about Yevgeny and Vivi. He doesn’t share one ounce of blood with Yev and only a quarter with Vivi, but damn if he and Mickey aren’t going to spend the rest of his life making sure his children know that they were wanted and that they are loved. They are going to ensure that their parents’ cycles of neglect and abuse stops with them.   

“Hey Freckles, you with me?” Mickey snaps his fingers at Ian, causing him to snap to attention, unaware that he had gotten lost in his own thoughts. Ian looks around and sees that Mickey has finished making Vivi’s bed.   

“Yeah, sorry. I was thinking,” Ian admits.  

“I could tell. The smoke’s still coming out of your ears.”  

Ian laughs through his nostrils even as he flips his husband off.  

“C’mon, first nap in her criblet.”  

“Bassinet,” Ian corrects.  

“Same difference.”  

Ian is careful picking their daughter up from where she is sleeping peacefully on the pillows of their bed. Taking slow steps he gingerly lowers the little green-eyed babe into her bed for the first time. She stirs for a moment and Ian worries she might wake up, but she only opens and closes her mouth a few times like she is trying to blow a bubble before she settles back into a gentle sleep. And just like that, Valeriya Veronica Gallagher is officially home. Her fathers remain watching her sleep for quite some time.  

***   

“Okay, Vivi,” Mickey hums into his daughter’s ear. “Meet your Auntie Fiona.”  

“Finally!” Fiona practically sings as she sits down across the table from them in the visitation room. Her hair pulled back into a pony tail and she is clad in a tan jumpsuit, indicating that she is low security. It’s nearly the end of January and she has been very impatient to meet the newest member of the family. Ian would have brought Vivi up sooner just for the sake of Fiona getting a chance to bond while the baby was still imprinting. But as with Yevgeny when he was particularly small, Ian wanted to limit her exposure to germs until she was a few weeks old. “Look at you, sweetheart,” Fiona chimes gazing at the little girl from across the table.  

“Would you look at that family resemblance… Didn’t I say you’d end up raising her kid for her?” Asks Fiona, though she’s smiling through her reproach.   

“Yeah, that’s kind of what happens when you adopt, Fi.”  

This may be the happiest Ian has seen her since she has been incarcerated and with good reason. The good behavior (and keeping her would-be prison wife at a distance) has paid off. She keeps her nose clean, she is taking college level courses in digital record keeping and data management, and even tutors other inmates on the English and History portions of the GED exam.  

And now she is finally beginning to see the payoff for her efforts. As a reward for being a model inmate, in the new year she has been rewarded with relaxed visitation conditions. The family can be in the room with her instead of talking through a glass pane. She gets to hold her nephew and new niece for the first time in their short lives.   

She gets to embrace Liam, who despite knowing he came out okay from The Cocaine Incident, she has longed for that tactile connection. But even as she brings herself to the point of tears as she holds her youngest brother and hears Liam tell her all about his exploits in the third grade, Ian catches her glancing at him with trepidation.   

He suspects his sister feels like she has something to prove after what happened to Liam on her watch. Even though it was Lip, not Ian, who she left to care for the family, it was Ian who ultimately ended up being the proverbial lighthouse keeper of the Gallagher clan. If all goes well, when she gets paroled in May, it will be Ian who she will taking the reins back from. Ian hopes that after so long in prison, in a constant state of looking after herself, she will still be game to take their younger siblings off his hands. His life will be infinitely less stressful without worrying about Carl and Debbie. He and Mickey could find their own place and focus on their own kids instead of spreading themselves too thin. Although, he thinks he would miss being Liam’s legal guardian. Watching him grow has probably been the most rewarding.   

But that’s still four or five months off.  

“So, how did you guys settle on a name?” She acts as the baby starts to stir. Mickey is already reaching into the diaper bag and pulling out a bottle of recently-pumped breast milk. He hands it off to Fiona to see if Vivi will take the bottle from someone besides Mickey, who seems to be the ginger whisperer.  

“Well, we went back and forth. We debated naming her after Debs, but we ended up shelving that idea.”  

“Yeah, and I didn’t want her named after a parent that didn’t want to claim her,” Mickey adds. Ian braces himself for a rant about his birth father. Mickey and Lip both ganged up on him when he suggested “Deborah,” reminding him that he is stuck with “Clayton” attached to him. Because of course his absentee father is exactly the sort of thing that both his husband and brother would take much more issue with than him.  

“I didn’t see the problem. Debbie’s gonna be an okay aunt. And it worked out with Yevgeny Mikhailo, right?”  

“Dumb luck that I came back, man. Anyway, we did settle pick her middle name after her godmother.”    

“But we ultimately decided on a Ukrainian first name,” Ian continues, “So she and Yev have that in common.”  

“But I insisted on one that Americanizes easier than Yevgeny.” Mickey continues pointedly. “So, Vivi's full name is Valeriya Veronica Gallagher.”  

“And how is Debs holding up?” Fiona asks, handing both her stubborn niece and the bottle over to Mickey to feed her. “It can’t be easy living in the same household as the baby she gave up.”   

“She’s okay for now,” Ian shrugs. She’s a ticking time bomb, truthfully, but Ian anticipated problems, so she has been seeing a therapist at the hospital who focuses post-natal care twice a week for the past three weeks. “But in the long-term, I think it’ll be smart if we find our own place once you’re back. Just for a sense of boundaries.” Ian wants to kick himself for the way his voice sounds like he’s asking for permission. He’s a married man with two children to his name. When will he reach a point in his life where he isn’t looking out of the corner of his eye for Fiona’s tacit approval?  

“Yeah, we’re running outta space to convert into bedrooms. And we figure you’re gonna want your room back.”  

Fiona is quiet for a moment, lips pursed as she reflects. “It makes sense. We’re a family. We’re always gonna be family. But you have your own now, Ian. You guys need space to grow.”   

“Markovich might be selling his place,” Mickey informs her. “Although Mandy’s been hinting that the new house is way too big for just her.”   

“Oh, I’m sure that’s just what you want,” Fiona comments as she turns her attention to the towheaded toddler climbing up her leg. “Living with the Ian and Mandy show.”  

“I practically already do. She’s over often enough.” Ian catches that tone again, that feigned annoyance that Ian has come to read as fondness. “Who knows? Maybe she’ll end up spending more time at your place now that Phillip’s got his head out of his ass.”   

“Oh no. Please tell me that they aren’t playing house again.”  

“Heh. No. And it’s getting damn annoying. Either shit or get off the pot.”  

“Like we weren’t “will they/won’t they” for years at a time?”  

“Yeah. And if my old man had dropped down dead a lot sooner, it would have always been ‘they will.’” Mickey replies almost sounding like he is reciting the sacred texts. “You know that, right?”  

“Of course I do. And I think we owe our siblings the same benefit of the doubt. They’re both in better places these days.”    

“You know me, lover. You lead. I follow.” Mickey smiles fondly at Ian, the kind of warmly domestic grin that absolutely makes him feel so light that he could float.  

“You two are adorable, you know that?”  

Ian briefly looks out of the corner of his eye and suddenly remembers that he and Mickey aren’t the only ones in the room. If they were a little younger, he can imagine both of them becoming keenly self conscious, both in their own ways. Ian would clam up and make himself scarce, lose himself in someone else’s problems. And Mickey would deny, he would bluster and shout. But they aren’t those kids anymore. Despite still only being nineteen and twenty-one, they’ve both been made to grow up beyond their years in the time since the days when they used to hide together in abandoned warehouses and chase each other up and down alleys. All that growth and maturity-- and they still get tunnel vision in each other’s company like a pair of lovesick schoolboys.  

It always amazes Ian when Mickey breaks out that soft smile with the only-for-Ian eyes in front of others. It used to be that even Ian wasn’t even sure what to look for, Mickey hid it so well. But Mickey is comfortable enough now that he is whipping it out in front of his sister while surrounded by prison guards.    

“I keep telling my prison wife about you, but she is convinced I’m describing a romcom plot.”  

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Thanks. Glad to know we double as a form of entertainment between movie nights.”  

“Are we just blazing past the fact that Fiona has a girlfriend?”  

“ Prison wife , not that big a deal.” Fiona demurs. “You know, it’s not that bad once you get used to it.”  

“I’ll stick to cock, thanks,” cracks Ian.   

The visit unfortunately has to come to an end in the full length of the hour. It is always sad, especially now that hugging the kids is an option. Liam hugs her so long that Ian thinks he’s struggling to keep it together almost as much as Fiona is. He has grown so accustomed to thinking of Liam as his kid every bit as much as Yevgeny and Vivi are. But Liam will always think of Fiona as his parent, not him. He’s a placeholder sibling just doing his best. He understands it, but emotionally he needs to learn to make peace with it between now and May. Even if it feels like giving up a piece of his heart when the time comes.  

Chapter Text

Hector Milkovich either doesn’t exist or he has done a thorough job of convincing the world that he doesn’t. He’s a ghost. A myth. A bogeyman haunting his family. This was already frustrating, but with the excess of free time Mickey has while he and Ian are on parental leave, figuring out who and where the fuck this mystery Milkovich is has become a bit of a fixation.  

He loves that he gets the opportunity to spend so much time at home with his husband and baby. However, the big learning curve with Vivi was the fact that she is so small and needs such constant attention, but once he has the rhythms down to a science, he can do this on autopilot. Chasing down Yevgeny when he had already learned to crawl by the time Mickey first met his son was much more of a trial by fire. And so Mickey’s mind has been plagued with time to wander, and to fixate on problems he normally doesn’t have time to solve. And there is no bigger problem facing him than the mystery of who is trying to bump off his family. And exactly how are they connected to his brother’s girlfriend. 

So he searches the internet. During naps, while he has ten minutes to himself on the can, when he finds himself watching the pot boil when he’s on dinner duty. Or in this case, when it is 2:40 in the morning and it is Mickey’s turn to feed Little Red. Until recently, he hadn’t wanted to investigate his family beyond what Sandy was able to dig up. Because family talks. And unlike whoever this Hector guy is, Mickey isn’t keen on people thinking he has betrayed his own kin. But it nags at him. Any one of those shitheads in his extended family could be the Rosetta’s Stone that decodes this mystery. If only he could trust any of them.  

But he can’t trust any of them. And that is always going to be what makes it easier for Mickey to accept Ian’s siblings as a second family. They have their faults too, but he can count on them. He doesn’t have to worry about divided loyalties and which branch of the family might be planning to move against the others. Ian is never going to plug his ears and look the other way if he doesn't like what Mickey has to say-- they call each other out on their bullshit until one of them relents.  

Yes, he can trust his own siblings infinitely more than the extended clown car of cousins. But like him, they have all moved so far from the life Terry would have kept them trapped in that he can’t count on them, not for something like this. Mandy has always kept out of Terry’s operation, Colin found his sense of purpose in carpentry and auto work, and even Iggy has ditched dealing weed in alleys in favor of working quality control at Cannabist Dispensary.  

So instead, he depletes the few contacts he still has from his less-than-legal days whom he does trust and he hopes trusts him. Then he sifts through the underground of the internet for rumors and conjecture that might lead him somewhere. A few rumblings, but the leads don’t amount to much. At least not in English. In Spanish, the name has cropped up a few times in a few message boards that date back a good fifteen years. The email address roots back to a Mexican server. Were there seriously Milkoviches that screwed themselves over so badly that they had to go into hiding down there? He figures that would be the stuff of family lore. It makes sense, considering the family’s long and tangled history with the Sinaloa among other cartels south of the border.  

He uses an extra-legal website he just happens to know about to see if he can geo-locate the user based on usage, but the account hasn’t been used in over five years. Another dead end. Dammit. 

He is woken up in the morning by his husband, who is sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at him while he administers their daughter’s 5am bottle. Mickey looks around him, piecing together how he ended up falling asleep on the floor besides Vivi’s bassinet rather than clear the four feet it would have taken to get back into bed with Ian. His right hand is still curled into a claw grip even if his phone has slipped into his lap. 

“You’re gonna wake up with your back fucked up if you keep sleeping on the floor like that.” 

“Must’ve dozed off,” Mickey admits.  

“Late night doom scrolling?”  

“Something like that,” shrugs Mickey. “Did some more digging on good old Hector.” 

“What did you find on Chicago-crime-lords-dot-biz?” 

One eyebrow arches upwards while the other slopes down. Mickey hoists himself to his feet. “Dot biz?” 

“It’s 5am, Mick. Haven’t even had my coffee yet. I’ll come up with better bad jokes for you later.” 

“That’s… you know what? Yeah. We can workshop ‘em.” 

“Make any progress this time?” 

“Found an email, but it’s an old one. Cousin Hector may as well be a ghost.” 

“You so sure this is a cousin? Could be an uncle. Or a grand-uncle or a third cousin twice removed.” 

“Whatever you call it, ‘cousin’ is any family that’s not my brothers and sister. Or you and the kids.”  

“What about my brothers and sisters? You call them cousins?” 

“Try ‘in-laws. You ready for that coffee or do you want to try out any other bad jokes at my expense?” 

“Is there a third option where we go back to bed?” Ian smirks with bedroom eyes. 

***  

It is a couple days later when Mickey by some miracle Mickey has the run of the house. Ian’s little brothers are at school and Lip has been bringing in Debbie to cover at the Kash N Grab while Mickey is out on leave. She doesn’t seem overjoyed by the work, but at least it she can chip in to the squirrel fund and it keeps her out of trouble until she can resume school in the Fall. 

After a particularly rough night of late night feedings. Mickey offered to get the kids through breakfast while Ian recovers a few REM cycles upstairs. This leaves two babies to one parent, which may seem like he is outnumbered, but Mickey likes a challenge.  

He hopes if he gets the kids complacent enough, he will have some time to review some of his study materials. One of the first big moments of post-adoption panic Mickey experienced came when he realized that eventually he and Ian will need to move their little family out of the Gallagher house. And once they have their own place, he doesn’t think his fourteen dollars per hour are going to cut it.  

That is how Ian brought up the idea of Mickey studying to be a clinical nursing assistant like him. The pay is decent, but he doesn’t have Ian’s gift for people and the more intimate nature of nursing. As an alternate suggestion, Ian suggested studying to become a EMT— stabilizing victims and getting them to the hospital. That sounds more Mickey’s speed. Be there for people on their worst day and get them to the people like Ian who really do the heavy lifting. And the average starting pay is nothing to sneeze at. 

But it is more than just the pay or the fact that he has the advantage of having someone like Ian at home to help him study. He has come to appreciate the medical profession since his return. Despite the Milkovich family’s reputation, they keep patching up his family whenever they are attacked. Doctors and nurses were there when they brought Debbie home from Iowa as well as when they helped bring Vivi into the world. They save lives. And as someone who could have ended up on a much darker path, he likes the idea of being part of the equation in saving lives.      

Of course, kids by their nature can make it hard to focus on the anatomy text Mickey had in front of him. Sometimes he thinks he has Yevgeny down to a science, but then the little goober reminds Mickey that he is eighteen months old and predictability is a cruel lie parents tell themselves. He gets such random case of the zoomies that if Mickey didn’t have a seven-week-old to consider, he would consider taking the boy out for a run around the block to tucker him out. Ian would approve.  

Mickey has just managed to lull Yevgeny into Scooby Doo-induced nap and is turning his attention to Vivi’s next nap when there is a knock on the door. It’s barely ten in the morning, so Mickey figures all he should expect on the other side of the door is a Jehovah’s Witness or someone looking for signatures for a petition. 

What he is not expecting to see when he opens the front door is his older brother Colin. Dressed like he is either on his way to or from his latest job sight, his jeans are dappled in spackle. His hoodie is clean yet careworn like he practically treats it like part of the uniform while he works outside in inhospitable Chicago winters and he has a yellow reflective vest with his company’s logo printed on the left breast. His normally unruly dirty blond hair has been buzzed short. He is still using the shillelagh with the evil eye painted on the pommel, but he is leaning on it less than he had previously been.  

That was a couple weeks before Christmas that he last saw his brother, Mickey realizes. He and Ian had snuck around following Colin and his girlfriend around the Discount Outlet Mall like a couple of creepers. It makes him feel like a little shit. After Colin stormed out of the house in the face of Mandy and Lip’s less-than-subtle insinuations about his girlfriend, they resolved to give him his space. Invitations to Christmas and New Years were sent out, but he was a no-show at Christmas, and New Years was spent in the delivery room at St. Anthony’s. If Colin made an appearance at the Milkovich house, Iggy never passed along the news.  

He’s their brother. And they were in the wrong for putting him on the spot the way they did. He and Mandy should have made more of an attempt to reach out to him, wave a flag of truce in his direction.  

“Col? What are you doing here this time of—” 

But Colin interrupts him with a pronounced, “Shhh.”  

“What the fuck gives?” 

And it is only then that he notices his brother is holding up a handwritten sign on a page torn from a spiral notebook. Colin is practically shoving it in the younger Milkovich’s face, his hand a little unsteady, so Mickey has to take it from him before he can read it.   

Turn off your phone.  

“Seriously, Col?” He gingerly adjusts the infant in his arms who seems oddly entertained by the new human in her line of vision so that he can reach into his pocket and power down his smartphone. He holds up the blank phone screen up to his brother as evidence of his cooperation.  

“You mind telling me what that’s all about?” He asks as he leads Colin inside. 

“Are we alone?” 

“I got the kids here with me and E’s upstairs catching up on some sleep.” 

“Kids? Kids plural? Kids multiple?” And just as Mickey hadn’t noticed Colin’s sign, his brother seems to only register that the baby in his arm is not Yevgeny. Mickey has to hand it to his brother. He may be talented at home remodeling and a whiz with a car engine, but he’s still pretty obtuse outside his areas of expertise.  

“What? You thought this is Yev?” Asks Mickey, giving him a hard time. “He’s a toddler, nearly comes up to my waist already.” 

“Well, you always were short.” Colin snickers at the obligatory middle finger he receives. “Neither of you looked knocked up last time I saw you. You guys got her off Craigslist or something?”  

“We adopted Debbie’s little girl. Wanna say ‘hello’ to your niece?” He sits down on the sofa and gestures for his brother to follow suit. Colin sets his lacquered walking stick down on the coffee table and sits beside his brother. 

“Okay, now I understand why you weren’t at the Towelhead’s store.” 

Mickey cringes, remembering when he used to speak of Linda like that, still too accustomed to th casual racism he learned at his father’s knee. But he has grown up so much since he then. He had to when he was out on his own in the world. He’s mature enough to own up to how shitty he had been. It stings even more because he feels like despite the shit they both give each other, he hopes that Linda begrudgingly respects him as much as he respects her.   

“Yeah. I’m on parental leave from the Kash N Grab,” I got about five more weeks and then I’ll be back to the grind.” 

Colin has held up his index finger, letting his new-found niece wrap her pudgy little digits around it. “Strong grip on her. She got a name?” 

“We’re calling her ‘Vivi.’ Short for ‘Valeriya Veronica.’” 

“That’s a mouthful. She looks a lot like Ian, huh?” 

“She sure does,” wistfully grins Mickey. “So, what brings you over? And what’s with the cloak and dagger bullshit with the phone.” 

Colin heaves a heavy sigh. “I need you to stop digging.” 

“Digging for what?” 

“I know you know what I’m talking about, shithead,” replies Colin, rolling his eye. “Your little internet searches. You know we’re all being tracked, right?” 

Am I really having this conversation with Colin of all people?  

“And if the people I’m in talks with know about your search history, that means they probably know, too.” 

“So, what? We’re onto something with your lady friend? Last time we talked, you practically buried your head in the sand and stormed off. Are you saying she’s tied to all this after—” 

“Of course she is, jackass!” Colin hisses, making the baby in Mickey’s arm suddenly feel skittish, burying her face into the side of her father’s chest. “You think I couldn’t put two and fucking two together when she didn’t want me to loan out the car she rigged to explode? I’m not as thick as you all think, man! But I gotta play dumb or she’ll catch wise and then I won’t have anything to tell… to tell the guys I’m working with.”  

“So, what? You’re an informant? For who?” 

“Can’t. It’s better if you don’t know.” 

“Seriously with the spy versus spy shit, man?” 

Colin only shrugs. “For whatever reason, you and Mands don’t seem to be on Camilla’s list. Or whoever is pulling her strings, I mean. But that doesn’t mean you two aren’t being watched, too.” 

“You sound paranoid, Col.” 

“They’ve tried to kill me twice. I think paranoia is justified.” 

“So, how is she tied to Hector?” 

“Leave it alone, man. And stay off fucking Reddit, shithead. All of us have been hacked. Probably your boyfriend and his family, too.” 

“Actually, he’s kind of my husband now,” Mickey corrects him, cheeks blooming a flush of pink. 

“Seriously?” He asks, eyes widening. “Where’s your ring? Why wasn’t I invited to the wedding?” 

“We just went to the courthouse, nothing fancy. We figured we can table weddings and rings and all that expensive ‘put yourself into debt’ shit until sometime when we don’t have a family of eight to support.” 

“A husband and two kids…” Colin mutters. “Mick, you really need to drop it. Give up the hunt. I know you couldn’t give two shits what happens to the rest of us—” 

“That’s not true!” 

“But you got a family of your own, now. You gotta think about Gallagher and the kids. You haven’t been targeted yet. You got so much to lose now. Don’t give these assholes a reason to go after you.” 

“You saying if I get too close—?” 

“I don’t know what they’re capable of, Mick. But they’re going after the rest of us unprovoked and leaving you alone. Think that’s gonna last if you get caught snooping? The Nancy Drew act ain’t safe. You could be painting a target—” 

Colin stands at the sound of feet on the stairs, his bad leg wobbling under him ever so slightly until he braces himself on the back of the sofa and finds his center of gravity.  

Ian plods down the stairs looking refreshed if still fighting off the slumber. He is clad in a striped tank top and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. “Colin? Hey.” There is an understandable sense of disorientation in his voice, considering Colin had actively been avoiding them since before the new year. 

“Hey, Gallagher,” he says pleasantly as he takes his shillelagh from the table. “I hear that congratulations are in order. Cute kid.” 

“Oh, um. Thanks. Do you, want to stay for lunch or something?” 

“Thanks, but I need to get back to work. They still got me on light duty, but you’d be how serious it is getting our licenses filed on time and with the right people.” 

“They’re keeping you busy, huh?” Ian asks. 

“Yeah. So you guys should appreciate your time off while you got it.” He insists as he hobbles to the door. “Relax and take it easy with your family. And don’t bite off more than you can chew. ” Mickey can tell the last part was aimed directly in his direction.  

“Yeah, of course,” Ian agrees as he looks around. “Didn’t you bring a coat?” 

Colin laughs. I work in a poorly heated trailer outside a construction site. I’m bundled up under my clothes like you wouldn’t believe.” 

“Okay,” Ian shrugs as he reaches to get the front door for his brother-in-law. “Well, don’t be such a stranger. I feel like we haven’t seen you in ages. Right, Mick?” 

Mickey looks at his brother and then at his husband. Does Colin expect him to keep their conversation from Ian? Because Mickey has no intention of keeping something like that from him. “Yeah, you’re welcome any time, man.” 

“One of these days, I’ll hold you to that invite, boys.” 

“What did your brother want?” Ian asks once it’s just them and the babies in the house again.  

“I think… I think Colin might be working undercover for the feds or something.” It sounds just as insane said aloud as it does in his head. 

“Hilarious.” 

“No, seriously.” Mickey insists. “Shit Colin, what did you get yourself tangled up in?” 

Chapter Text

“I can cook a simple meal,” Lip insists. “Give yourselves a damn break for once.” 

“You sure?” Ian asks, hiding his smile. It has become such standard operating procedure for Ian or Mickey to take the reins in the kitchen at dinner time, and it has only become more entrenched in their daily routine since Vivi was born. During their parental leave, as busy as Vivi and Yev keep them, they still end up needing to find activities that aren’t baby-centric to keep their sanity. Lip may think he’s helping, but Ian has reached his limit of Paw Patrol for the evening.  

“Would it make you feel any better if I stick around and help?” Asks Mandy, pulling down the breadcrumbs and a large mixing bowl. “How hard can it be?” 

“You’ll find a way to botch it,” Mickey japes from the living room. 

“It’s Spaghetti and meatballs. Not rocket science,” Lip insists. “Go. Sit with your husband.” 

“Yeah, I’m getting lonely out here,” Mickey adds. “I haven’t seen you in a whole three minutes.” 

Ian puts up his arms in surrender as Mandy shoos him out of the kitchen, flicking her hands at him as though he were a precocious cat snooping around somewhere it oughtn’t to be. “Alright, I give.” 

“You better, Ian Gallagher!” She retorts menacingly, though through a wry grin.  

 And there in the living room, Mickey sits, with their daughter in his arms, their son conked out and using Mickey’s thigh as a pillow. This is his family and Ian can’t believe this time last year he had given up hope of ever seeing Mickey again. And now they’re so freaking domestic sometimes he can’t even wrap his head around it.  

“You seriously missed me out here, huh?” 

“Fuck yeah, I did. You bring out the needy bitch in me, Firecrotch.”  

Ian grins like an idiot as he leans down to steal a caress of a kiss from his spouse, gently pincering Mickey’s full lower lip between his own. “Hate to break it to you, but I had you pegged as pretty high maintenance back when we were still working together at the Kash N Grab.”  

“Oh, yeah? What gave it away?”   

Ian presses their lips together. At that moment, Ian’s phone starts to ring. It’s the generic ringer, meaning it isn’t a member of the family. He lets it go to voicemail. But then the phone rings again. This time he pulls it from his pocket. Mickey’s face sours as Ian turns to his phone.  

And though he doesn’t say it, that right there is the answer to Mickey’s question. Even back then, Ian knew just how needy Mickey could get whenever they would be in a moment together only to get interrupted by a customer. Those looks of resentment towards the various customers spoke volumes.  

He takes a cursory glance at the caller ID. “Shit, it’s the police.” 

“I have an airtight alibi,” Mickey snickers. “We’ve been attached at the hip for weeks.” 

Ian sniffs a laugh as he answers the phone. “Hello?” 

“Is this Ian Gallagher?” 

Ian’s face scrunches up in surprise. “Tony?” 

Tony Markovich isn’t the best cop that Chicago has to offer. In many ways, he is a painfully average human being. But for his shortcomings as a policeman he is an unfailingly decent person. He is one of the few cops on the beat in the Yards and Canaryville that has the trust not just because he grew up here but also because he never forgets where he comes from. He uses his badge to safeguard his community against a system that so often is set up to work against them.  

But stalwart of the community or not, Ian does not want to hear the other man’s voice on the line when he accepts a call that comes up as the Chicago Police Department.  

“Ian, you need to get to the hospital.” 

“Tony?” 

“Yeah, it’s me. I figured it’s better you hear this from me than a trauma nurse.”  

“What does Markovich want?” Asks Mickey, who seems keen to figure out the distressed look on Ian’s face. Ian switches the call to speakerphone. 

“What happened, Tony?” 

“There was an incident. Your sister Debbie and one of the Milkoviches— 

“Sandy?” Asks a suddenly alarmed Mickey, though in a hushed tone to keep from upsetting the nine-week-old who seems to prefer his index finger over her pacifier. 

“Identification says ‘Oleksandrina Klava Milko—” 

“Where are you taking them?” Asks Mickey, his voice level in a way a casual acquaintance might perceive as Mickey getting down to brass tacks, but Ian knows Mickey’s stoic routine better that anyone.  

“They’re being taken to UChicago.” 

***  

They leave the little kids with Vee and Kev. Mandy thought to bring them over there. Ian can’t think that clearly. Nothing is in focus, nothing except for the mental image Ian has conjured up of the hundreds of GSW’s he has seen whenever he picks up shifts in the ER except instead of anonymous strangers, his imagination is supplying his baby sister. He’s been to the emergency room so many times in the past year. But he has always been a support to others, the nursing assistant guiding others through trying times as best he can.  

But it isn’t as though this is his first time in the emergency room for his own family. This is actually the third time he has had to drop everything to rush to the hospital for Debbie in just the past five months. But the maternity ward isn’t the emergency room.  

By the time Mandy is pulling into a spot in the parking garage of UChicago, the initial shock has worn off. And now Ian is trying to know who to blame. He needs something to hit. He hates to feel like he is the kind of guy who needs a punching bag. Because if he gave into his baser instincts, he knows his training with ROTC would make him a danger to others. He was rated high in both ranged and hand-to-hand combat. But he’s an adult now, a medical professional, only a few months away from moving up to registered nurse. He put that sort of behavior behind him when he took the Nightingale Pledge. 

“What was she even doing with your cousin, anyway? Debbie said they were done.” 

“Pfft,” intones Mickey dismissively. “By now, you shoulda figured out that done is never done when Gallagher and Milkoviches get together.” Ian quietly notes that despite still technically being “just friends,” neither Lip nor Mandy object to Mickey’s assertion. 

First of any family to arrive, Ian is tasked with signing them in and getting them furnished with visitor tags at the front desk. However, while he is more than prepared to be the one to speak on the group’s behalf when they arrive in the emergency room, he is grateful for Lip when his elder brother takes the lead for the second time this evening. He has absolutely no objections. He may be better equipped to know the ins and out of a hospital system, but he is not prepared to be in a situation quite like this.  

In all this time that he has stood by Mickey’s side with the various attacks against his Milkovich in-laws, Ian has always been a prop of support, but always keeping his focus on Mickey and what he must be going through. Now, not only is Mickey’s favorite cousin the latest target, but now Ian has his own sibling to worry about. He always thought harboring Mickey in the Gallagher home was what had always safeguarded him from becoming a target by whoever has been after them. Similarly, Mandy is in and out of their house all the time and nobody has come for her. He thought being around his family was a deterrent to the Milkoviches’ enemies. But he has been proven wrong.  

The ER nurse leads them back to the recovery room where both girls are being kept. The nurse explains before he leads them inside that they were both brought in with gunshot wounds, but that Sandy also sustained a fractured radius in her fall. Both are both expected to make a recovery, which makes Ian’s heart finally start to climb back down from his throat. But unfortunately the nurse keeps talking. “Miss Milkovich got by with only graze to the shoulder, but Miss Gallagher’s injuries are a bit more serious. She sustained three bullet wounds. Two hit her in the thigh, which absorbed the brunt of the impact, but the third punctured her abdominal wall, resulting in a ruptured gallbladder. She is stabilized and they are prepping an operating room for surgery.” 

Inside the room, they find Sandy sitting upright in her bed, she looks nervous even through the relief of the painkillers. She has a fluid drip hung up on the IV behind her. “Took you fuckers long enough,” she spits.  

Though Ian barely takes notice of his in-law’s characteristic bitter tone. All he can focus on is his sister looking as small as he has ever seen her. She is fully reclined in her bed and like Mandy, she is hooked up to an IV. Her mid-section is bound in gauze and there is more wrapped around her thigh. She is all but conked out, blearily counting back from one hundred, barely audible. No doubt, she has already been put anesthesia for her impending surgery. 

“What happened?   

Sandy looks at Ian like he is a blithering idiot. “We got shot at, genius.”  

“He knows that, shithead,” Mandy fires back on her best friend’s behalf. “He’s asking for some details.” 

“What’s there to say? We were coming back from a screening of Kill Bill and she wanted to stop off at the Kash N Grab ‘cause she wanted to grab something from her locker. And the next thing I know, my shoulder feels like it’s on fire and she’s pushing me out of the way.” 

“That’s how she got shot? She pushed you out of the way?” Asks Lip. 

“I broke my arm in the fall, but yeah. She saved me.” 

She saved her, Ian thinks. She saved her and paid the price.  

When they return to the waiting area of the Emergency Room, they find Mickey’s cousin Jamie and Uncle Ronnie now in attendance. Jamie is standing, making sure he is in the line of sight of Ronnie’s good eye, his arms flailing aggressively as he tries to convince his father of something. Even at a distance, his voice sounds like they are walking into an argument. 

“How far are you going to let things go?” Ian hears Jamie snarl in a tone uncharacteristic of him. Typically, Jamie is among the sweetest and most passive temperaments of Mickey’s extended family. “Uncle Terry’s gone! Is keeping the old fucker’s secrets worth your daughter’s life?  

“What secret?” Ian asks, feeling something swell inside him. He’s been patient and supportive for a long time. But until now, he wasn’t a Milkovich by marriage. Until now his own family is taking bullets and receiving emergency surgeries. Now, he has a seat at the table and he is damn well getting answers. “Is this about Hector?” 

“Stay in your lane, Gallagher,” huffs the elder man.  

Before Ian has time for his brain to catch up with his body, he pushes his way past Jamie and he grabs two fistfuls of the old codger’s shirt and with strength Ian never realized he had, he lifts a full-grown man inches off the ground and he pins him against the wall. “I’ve kept my peace long enough, but I’ve been here the whole time! Fuck you if you think this isn’t my business!” 

“What? You think you boys play Gobble the Gurken and you think that means you’re one of us?” 

Mickey’s hand cups Ian’s forearm, but Ian isn’t budging. Not this time. “Need you to calm down, big guy. We’re married, Ronnie. We got kids together. He’s family.” 

“Bull!” 

“How about the fact that the only reason your daughter is going to walk away from this is because my baby sister saved her life?” 

“What? Seriously?”  

“Three bullets. They have to put her under the knife to undo the damage. So if you don’t think I have fucking skin in the game, then think again. Now, I’m only going to ask nicely,” Ian pushes Ronnie against the wall one more time for emphasis, “Who is Hector and why the fuck is he doing all this?” 

“Fucking put me down.” 

“C’mon, Ian. Before they call hospital security on us,” Lip urges. Ian almost ignores it, but then Mickey’s hand, still clutched around his wrist, squeezes firmly. He looks over and his husband nods reassuringly. Slowly he lowers the elder man down until his feet find purchase on the floor. Now that the man has a bit of leverage again, he pulls himself free of Ian’s grip on his shirtfront.  

“Now, you gonna answer his question or do I have to sic my husband on you again, Ron?” Asks Mickey with a glint in his eye. It’s Mickey’s “up to no good face” and if it weren’t for the situation they find themselves in, Ian would be aroused.  

“Fucking…” 

“Tell ‘em, Dad,” Jamie insists. “Hasn’t this gone on long enough?” 

“Yeah, who the fuck is after us?” Asks Mickey. “Who’s this Hector guy?” 

“Your fucking brother.”  

“Wait, what?” 

“Hector Cadiz is your half-brother.” 

The assembled Milkoviches and Gallaghers are stunned into silence. And Ian finds himself wondering why that name sounds so familiar. 

Chapter Text

Mickey stares down his Uncle Ronnie, still red-faced and wheezing from Ian’s confrontation. His plain black eyepatch is askew, putting the crooked and lifeless artificial eye on full display.

He doesn’t know if he should feel awe or rage at the man. Just seconds ago after nearly a year attacks, they finally managed to wring a iota of him that could actually matter, that could crack the mystery of the assaults wide open. But it wasn’t for the sake of his murdered brother and nephews, or the relations who have been maimed. It wasn’t with the loss of his own eye in mind or even for his own daughter being stitched up and having her arm set in a cast.

No, it’s because Ian had finally had enough of being Mickey’s calming support and what was left was the belligerent scrapper. Everyone always forgets that Ian is a born fighter because he acts like a fucking Eagle Scout half the time. Sometimes even Mickey forgets because they don’t want to raise their kids exposed to what they grew up subjected to on a daily basis.

“I want the gun back, Mickey,” Mickey remembers the rough and tumble fight the first time he lured Ian into his bed fondly. But he has to swallow back the thought and focus on the here and now.

Mickey tries to process the implication of the clipped, reluctant answer they eked out of the old man at the threat of a beat down. He has a brother. A half-brother, which shocks him not at all, but a secret half-brother he’s never heard of is another story. Terry used to crow endlessly about how strong his swimmers are, like he was practically forming a small army one lay at a time.

Hector Milkovich. He’s been hunting for anything on the guy ever since he learned the guy’s name back on New Year’s Eve. And now something finally clicks. It finally makes sense why he kept arriving at dead end after dead end. Because Mickey had been tilting at windmills. Hector Milkovich was nobody, a name probably long-abandoned. Which Mickey can understand, considering part of the reason he took Ian’s name is to untether himself from his father’s legacy.

Hector Cadiz. The man is a fucking legend if you have even a passing knowledge of the Sinaloa’s inner politics. He and his brother Paris are both notorious hitmen for the Cartel with a body count between them in the triple digits, though Hector is the one you hear all the stories about.

“Why do I know that name?” Asks Ian.

“Because he’s the one who shot Colin’s kneecap to hell,” Mandy supplies. “Colin ID’d him. No doubt that’s the reason why he hasn’t been at any of the other attacks. Kept out of sight.”

“Or hired a cats paw,” Lip nods in agreement.

“So, we have a Mexican half-brother who kills people for money,” Mickey says out loud, feeling like he can summarize the revelation into something he can handle. “And for some reason, he has it out for us. Why?”

All eyes turn once again to the elder statesman of the Milkovich family. He looks like the kid who didn’t do his homework when the teacher calls for him out of spite. His lip is curled up to one side in impotent rage, vanishing under the frizzy brush of his mustache.

Uncle Ronnie looks like he is about to tell the lot of them off when Jamie intercedes on his father’s behalf. “Can we take this elsewhere? Somewhere more private.”

Mickey doesn’t know what an aneurysm feels like, but he is pretty sure he is having one. They’re finally making some progress but he is stuck with Terry’s chief disciple as a source of information and the guy’s idiot son trying to mediate. “Seriously? You think a change in venue is gonna—

“There’s a courtyard,”  Ian interjects, intent in his voice. “Nobody really uses it ever since they cracked down on smoking. There are camera, but video only, no audio and it’s an easy angle to avoid.”

“You been casing the joint?” Asks Mickey, trying very hard not to grin at his husband’s display of talking the talk.

“I spent six weeks doing my practicals here.” He admits non-chalantly. “I don’t know this place half as well as St. Anthony’s, but it was always quiet when I wanted a minute.”

Fortunately, they have a legitimate excuse to leave the ER en masse when the nurse explains that they need to relocate the waiting area for Outpatient Surgery, where both girls will be awaiting them once their respective procedures are taken care of. Ian leads the way, acting as though they are headed to general Surgery, then detouring to the interior courtyard.

It’s refreshing out here despite the crispness of the late March. Ian points out the two camera points and directs them towards the a blind spot for privacy. Mickey figures if he were hospital staff, this would be an idea spot to hide out during breaks, so it is surprisingly that they are the only ones out here aside from a checked-out older nurse pushing the wheelchair of an elderly patient on assisted breathing.

“Okay, dad,” Jamie sound more assertive than Mickey has ever heard him other than fighting over the last slice of pizza. “You tell them or I will.”

Ronnie glowers murderously at his own son before finally spitting out, “Fine. Shit on Terry’s grave why don’t you.”

“Oh, if only…” murmurs Mandy.

Ronnie glares at her. Mickey wonders if the rage in his eyes comes from blind devotion to his brother or a belief that the younger generation shouldn’t mock their elders.

“Just start talking, old man,” Mickey insists.

“Fine.It was about twenty-seven years ago. Me and Terry had made our bones with the Outfit, but we ended up going our own way. The gun trade always needed men willing to put in the week of travel it takes to run goods from Juarez to Chicago and Terry enjoyed the challenge. Top it off, Terry had a squalling toddler at home and had another on the way. I think he just wanted an excuse to skip out on the missus for weeks at at time.”

“Class act,” Mickey says almost involuntarily.

“Of course, I kept things professional, but your old man had to go and meet Estella Cadiz, the daughter of a lieutenant in the Sinaloa. Young, a total ten, everything sitting in the right place. I mean…” Ronnie makes a performance of showing off all the woman’s curves.

“Dad, could you not?” Asks Jamie.

“I’m just saying, I’m not blind. Or I wasn’t blind. I understand why your old man married her.”

Mickey wants to drive Ronnie’s speech to a halt. Pop married this woman? He always stepped out on their mom, but he never was with any of them long. Terry had a “why buy the milk” philosophy. Was this legal if it was in another country? Does Terry have a secret Canadian family out there somewhere?

“Got ‘em in good with the Cartel, too. He worked his way up the ladder pretty quickly with her father’s connections.”

“How long were they together?” Asks Mandy, clearly doing some math in her head. “Were they serious or was this a marriage of convenience?”    

“I don’t know that faggy love shit, but they were together any time we did a run. She gave him twin boys, he spoiled ‘em rotten.”

“Of course he did,” Mickey snarls. “He woulda had their Sinaloa lieutenant grandfather to contend with if he started wailing on ‘em.”

“He did have some sort of falling out with Hector’s brother Paris a year before Terry croaked. Terry never seemed to want to brag about him after that. But he only ever sang Hector’s praises.”

“What happened?” Asks Lip.

But Ronnie looks at Mickey’s brother-in-law with even more animosity than he gave Ian, if that’s possible. Mickey chews on the inside of his cheek. “Got yourself a case of hearing loss, Ronnie? Answer ‘im.”

“Terry never told me or your Uncle Maxie. Don’t know if anyone else even knew.”

“Did Estella know about us?” Mandy asks, suddenly sounding sick to her stomach. Mickey, too, wonders if Terry’s Chicago family was as much of a dirty little secret  as his Mexican family was to them?

Ronnie grits his teeth and looks like he’s about ready to snap. They might not get much more out of him. “Do I fucking look like the kind of guy who asks every fucking question about my brother’s side pieces?”

“So, why is our long-lost brother after us?”

“I don’t know. Probably had to do with when your old man started working with the Beltran Levya,” he pushes his way past the gathered Milkoviches and Gallaghers.

“Hey, where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Calls Mandy after him.

“That’s all you’re getting outta me until I see my fucking daughter!” The old man practically snarls as he shrinks into the distance until he disappears back into the building.

Mickey wants to chase after him, press him for information, but honestly, he is grateful for the respite. He doesn’t think there is much more that he can process it right now. He massages his temples and staggers to the nearest bench while the others give chase after Ronnie. Everyone except for Ian, who remains standing just alongside the bench, hands in pockets.

He kicks at a patch of grass, perhaps waiting for Mickey to be the first to say something. But he’s going to be waiting a long while unless what Ian is waiting on is a string of expletives. A brother. A goddamn brother he’s never heard of before today is holding such a grudge against Terry that the shithead is trying to cut them all down like wheat. This whole Cain and Abel shit doesn’t sit well with Mickey. The Milkoviches may not be able to put faith in their parents, but they always have their siblings’ backs.

“You want to talk about it?” Ian finally asks.

“Want to? Fuck. No, I don’t think I want to.”

Ian sits beside him, shoulders pressed against each other and clasps his hand around his husband’s knee. Mickey inhales through his front teeth, hissing. “I got family trying to kill us, E. Has managed to bump off a few of us.”

“He’s not family.” Ian counters.

“Literally my brother, just like Molly’s my half-sister.”

“Totally different. Molly’s actually been around. There’s a connection there. You think I keep Sammi on our Christmas card? Or Clayton? Family is… it’s the people who are there for you. Like us, we were family long before we got hitched.”

“Even when I was gone?”

Ian relinquishes Mickey’s knee and laces his fingers through Mickey’s. “Yes. Even when you were gone. Even when I hated you for leaving. Not a day went by that I didn’t want to know where you were or wish you were with me. And when you heard your family was hurting, you came home. When you saw I was barely treading water, you stepped up.”

“You needed the help.”

“That’s family, Mick. It’s the people who matter to you, the people who take care of you and who you take care of. It’s not some guy trying to kill you who happens to share some genetics.”

Mickey adjusts himself to face Ian head on. He can’t quite bring himself to smile right now. He is processing too much right now to remember how those muscles in his face work. But he cards the fingers of his free hand through Ian’s hair, and breathes Ian in deep. It’s soothing and a surefire way to generate the dopamine he needs to get through the rest of the evening.  

“C’mon,” he stands, not relinquishing Ian’s grip. “Let’s go see if either of the girls are in recovery.”

As reassuring as Ian’s words are, Mickey still feels troubled. Yes, the man who pleaded with a whore to carry Mickey’s baby to term just out of love for him might have a great deal of insight on what it means to be family. But Mickey knows Terry. Ian unfortunately endured a harrowing crash course of what it means to run afoul of Terry Milkovich. But he’ll never know what it means to be his son or daughter, to live in fear of him day in and day out, to irrationally long for his approval even when the man is physically beating you down.

As unfathomable that the Milkoviches are being hunted down by one of their own, Mickey knows firsthand how his long-lost brother was driven to the edge.

Chapter Text

“Shouldn’t she be awake by now?” Sandy’s voice is working overtime to sound impatient, downright ready to put her fist through Debbie’s heart monitor. But underneath that restlessness is a distinct note of disquietude. “I mean, it’s gallbladder surgery. It isn’t even one of the organs that actually matters.” 

Ian tears himself away from Debbie’s heart monitor, his right hand still loosely clutching at Debbie’s. Sandy  is sitting up in her hospital bed, knees tucked under her. Her jaw is set and she is occupying her time using a Sharpie with her non-dominant hand to illustrate her cast with a series of thunderbolts, knives piercing hearts and eyes, anarchy symbols and whatever else she can think of to fill it up before someone offers to sign it.  

She had already been wheeled into the recovery room while Debbie was still being prepped in  pre-op. Really, it’s only been an hour since the nurses wheeled Debbie into the recovery room. Ian has spent too much time in a hospital to expect her to wake up immediately.  

“They had to open up her chest cavity. It’s a lot more invasive than resetting a hairline fracture,” Mickey explains. “Her probably went into shock.”  

“Yeah,” confers Mickey, not looking up from the rapid fire texting he is engaged in, “And redheads require twenty percent more subcutaneous anesthesia because of a mutation to their MC1R gene.” He adds, sounding proud to be able to meaningfully contribute to a medical discussion. “It makes them more sensitive to pain perception.” 

Ian smirks softly at Mickey. Offhandedly he wonders if it is the first time he has smiled in hours. “Do you need to know that for your EMT exam?”  

Like Nursing Assistants, Emergency Medical Technicians  typically aren’t expected to have the same store of knowledge that the doctors or even the registered nurses have. On a fundamental level, they exist to stabilize patients and get them into the emergency room. EMTs don’t even have the same level of expectations of paramedics, who are more akin to what a trauma nurse can provide. But Mickey is spouting off knowledge of genetics that Ian  would never have known until he’d been working under a rotating staff of registered nurses for some time.  

“Pfft,” Mickey responds dismissively. “I got a husband and daughter who are ginger as fuck. I figured with skin as flammable as yours, I better look into whatever else I need to know.”  

Ian feels his eyes perk up in the corners. Sometimes, Mickey says and does little things that half convince him that the year and a half that they were apart was nothing but an extended bad dream. It is a struggle to reconcile the boy who ran off without so much as a word with the doting, almost clingy man he married. 

“Did you know you produce your own Vitamin D?” asks Mickey, wiggling his eyebrows with a less-than-subtle grin. 

“I’ll thank you not to talk about your boyfriend’s D in front of my sister,” snaps Jamie, who seems more upset about Sandy’s injuries than she does.  

“ Husband’s D, thank you very much.” 

“Prove it. Where are your rings?” 

“You got a spare thousand bucks laying around?” Mickey grits his teeth. “You think I don’t wanna give E everything he deserves? Fancy wedding? Matching rings? Honeymoon in Key West? But here’s the thing about going legit:  everything costs money, asswipe. And two grocery clerks and a nurse aren’t exactly rolling in it.” 

Is that what Mickey thinks I want? What I imagine when I picture what our marriage will be like? Ian’s days of letting himself accept the attention and the gifts of older men with cash to burn are dead and buried. He probably would have put a stop to things with Ned even sooner than he did if it weren’t for the fact that Mickey needed a light lit under his ass. And jealousy looks so fucking hot on him.  

But no, Ian never imagined a version of his life with Mickey where they strike it rich and paint the town red. He doesn’t need Mickey to buy him things and order room service. That’s not the type of couple they are. That’s never what he’s needed to be happy with Mickey. Maybe he has known as early as that first time he visited Mickey in juvie— all he’s ever needed was to be the one who got to see Mickey’s genuine smile.  

Truly, if it weren’t for the fact that Ian has taken on the responsibility of caring for his family, he imagines a very simple life. A house just big enough for them and the kids, enough space that Liam, Yevgeny and Vivi can all have their own room. Or maybe the boys would share, like he did with his brothers. He envisions a tire swing in the front yard and a charcoal grill and picnic table in the back.  

“Yeah, I’d think we’re doing just fine without any rings.” Ian shrugs, giving Mickey a half smirk. “Even if it would be nice to make sure strange men know you’re off the market.” 

“Christ sake,” murmurs Ronnie from the doorway, a cup of vending machine coffee in his hand. “Your old man would never’ve put up with the faggy mushy talk.” 

“I think Pop’s problem was really with the faggy anal penetration,” grimaces Mickey. “And considering the apple of my Terry’s eye is the one trying to kill us all, I’d say what the old fuck did or didn’t approve of can fucking take a hike.” 

Ronnie seems to be chewing on something he’d like to say, but he takes a sip of his drink instead. He trains his attention on his daughter, apparently with no more time or patience for anything Mickey or Ian could possibly have to say. “They about ready to discharge you? We oughta get you home.”  

Sandy looks like she just sniffed something foul. “Jamie’s gonna drop me off. After they let Debbie out of here.” 

“Sandy… you almost got shot. I’d feel better knowing where you’re spending the night at the house.” 

“Yeah, and Debbie jumped in front of a bullet for me.” 

“No! I’ve let you run wild way too—” 

“Dad,” sighs an emotionally exhausted Jamie even as he insinuates himself between his father and his sister’s hospital bed, “Just listen to her. For once. She hasn’t been around the house when she didn’t need be since before. That’s not gonna change ‘cause she’s got a broken arm.” 

“Won’t be happy until you turned ‘em all against me,” he grumbles. “Just like you turned ‘em against Terry.” 

“I haven’t turned—” 

“I think he means me, Red,” interrupts Mickey. “And Terry did a bang-up job on his own without me helping him out. The guy’s got a son so mad at him that just killing Terry wasn’t enough.” 

Ronnie clenches his fists, crushing the drained styrofoam cup in his hand. He wants to lash out and take control, Ian realizes, and that poor defenseless coffee cup is his in-law’s attempt at intimidation. But Ronnie isn’t Terry, not by a long shot. Compared to Terry, Ronnie is about as scary as Iggy is compared to Mandy during one of her darker moods.  

“Fine,” the older man barks, wounded. “You’ve made your own bed, now lie in it. But they’re running out of space in that god forsaken house.” 

As much as Ian wants to match Mickey’s new level of disdain towards his uncle, he cannot help but feel bad for the man. Shitty as their parents are, Ian finds himself putting himself in the elder generation’s shoes. He’d feel torn to shreds inside if someday the kids said some of the things they’ve said to Frank and Monica over the years.   

“Is dad under the impression that I’m staying in the Gallagher halfway house?” Sandy murmurs. 

“Better the Gallaghers than your car, Sands,” insists Jamie in a whisper. The stalwart resolve Jamie demonstrated moments ago is already softening speaking to his sister. Jamie has always been one of the more passive of Mickey’s family. Ian figures now that he has shown some stones and  stood up to his father, Jamie will probably revert back to form; the gentle giant of the Milkovich clan. 

Ronnie turns on his heels and storms away, pushing past a trio of newcomers. “Fuck out of my way,” he snarls as he disappears from sight.  

Colin and Iggy stand at the door with a tall, slender woman between them. Ian recognizes her from when he and Mickey tailed her during the holiday shopping rush. Colin’s girlfriend now has her brown wavy hair cropped into a short asymmetrical undercut, like she is just dying to ask to speak to the manager. And it doesn’t escape Ian’s notice that her wrists are bound by a zip tie. 

“Always love these heart-to-hearts, Uncle Ron,” jibes Colin after the heatedly retreating elder Milkovich. 

“‘Bout time you showed up,” grumbles Mickey. “I texted you shitheads two hours ago.” 

“That’s on me,” chirps Iggy, holding up a pair of to-go bags. “I figured Sandy would want some Popeye’s when she got out of surgery.” 

“Yeah, then we had to go back and get more after he ate it sitting in traffic,” laments Colin. The woman standing between them rolls her eyes, looking like she could scream.  

“ And we had to figure out what Debbie would want.” Continues Iggy, shaking a bag of White Castle in his other hand. “I figured, there’s always White Castle in your trash, so I rolled the dice.” 

“Why are you going through our trash?” Mickey scrutinizes, his eyes brows high, his forehead creased. 

“She just got out of surgery, tarado ,” seethes the woman standing between the elder Milkovich siblings. “"She's not gonna be eating no chicken sliders and fries, estupido. Can we get on with this? A jail cell would be better than spend another minute listening to—” 

“We don’t deal with the cops.” Mickey proclaims definitively.  

“I do. For now,” counters Colin. “I’ve been deputized. But you’re more useful out of a cell.    

“And you finally brought the girlfriend home to meet the family, huh?” deadpans Mickey as he stands, positioning himself protectively between the two convalescing girls.  

The girls scoffs. “Took him long enough, right?” 

“Cam, that’ll be my youngest brother Mickey and his husband Ian.” 

“I’ve been casing your family for months. You don’t need to introduce—” 

“Why?” Mickey demands, closing the distance between himself and Colin’s plus-one, practically nose to nose. “You’re part of the crack team going after me and mine. I want to know why.” 

“I’m the only reason half of you aren’t dead.” She spits. “And get out of my face. You don’t frighten me, maricón.”   

“Give her some space, Mick. I promised her safe harbor.” 

Ian strides across the room and takes his husband by the shoulders, redirecting him away from Colin and the woman under his protection. He half expects Mickey to shrug off his touch, but Mickey quietly acquiesces as they sit down in the seats alongside Debbie’s side of the room. “C’mon, babe.”  

“Now spill.” Colin squeezes Cami’s shoulder firmly. There is no sense of malice in the gesture, nor comfort either. It feels like a reassurance.  

“Your cousin was never meant to be a target. And not you or your sister.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Asks Sandy, seething as she points to the still unconscious Debbie. “Batting one hundred there. Who is this bitch?” 

“Colin’s girl,” Ian explains. 

“My name is Camilla Suarez-Cadiz. I’ve been seeing Colin since late-April. And using it as a cover for keeping tabs on all of you.”  

Suddenly the synapses start a chain reaction in Ian’s head. “You only came into the picture right after the Milkovich house burned down, huh?” 

Cami doesn’t answer, but bows her head, not meeting anyone’s gaze. That’s as good a confirmation for Ian. “I probably stopped him from doing a lot worse. Hector was going to act out either way. At least I managed to talk him out of his more extreme ideas.” 

“You tried to blow Colin up!” Mickey hisses, not buying whatever it is she is trying to sell them. “You put a fucking bomb in his car!” 

“Yeah, but I also tried to keep the dumb fuck from driving it. I tried to get the idiot to switch to knives so he’d do less damage.” 

“Tell that to Cousin Lou.” Sandy’s eyes are icy, she is practically bearing her teeth. 

“Got a convention in here?” Lip and Mandy are in the doorway. They had taken a drive back to Yards to grab some changes of clothes for the girls and bring Carl back with them. Though, Ian cannot notice that his little brother is nowhere to be seen.  

 “Who’s this?” Asks Mandy. 

“The Mother Teresa of attempted murderesses,” Mickey scoffs.  

“Where’s Carl?” Ian asks sharply. 

“Oh, he’s, um. He thought it would be better if him and Rhys stayed at Kev and Vee’s place. Keep an eye on the littles, you know?” 

“Rhys?” 

“His… you know, his friend. From ROTC.” 

“His boyfriend,” clarifies Mandy, seeming annoyed at beating around the bush. Mickey shoots her a look. “Oh, come on. It’s not like the kid’s subtle.” 

“I hadn’t gotten around to telling him.” 

“You knew?” Asks Ian. 

“I was waiting for it to come up organically.” 

“What is with all the fruit in your tree? Are you the only straight man in your family?” Inquires a bemused Camilla.  

“Me and Iggy,” asserts Lip. 

“Hey, speak for yourself,” contradicts Iggy hastily. “I’m aroace.” 

Okay, that tracks. Ian thinks to himself. Iggy’s online profile may as well read, “In a long term relationship with weed and Adventure Time reruns."   

“Are you freaks expecting anyone else? I don’t want to repeat myself.” 

“It sounds like this should do it. Keep talking, bitch. Why is your husband after us?” 

“He’s not my husband. I married his brother. That’s where it started.” She looks around the room. “Can I have a seat? This isn’t exactly a short story.” 

Lip takes one of the empty chairs by Sandy and brings it over to Camilla. She thanks him curtly and sits down as gracefully as one can with their arms constricted. “Terry Milkovich had two sons by Estella Cadiz. Twins.”  

“Yeah, we’re caught up on the who, lady. We’re looking for the why.” 

Camilla glares daggers at Mickey, but presses on. “Three years ago. Your brothers—” 

“Half -brothers,” Mandy corrects. 

“Hector and Paris were hit men for the Sinaloa. Feared and respected. Then your father came home from visiting with his secret other family and walked in to discover Paris in a compromising position. With another man.”  

Ian feels the color drain from the world around him. 

“That’s where I come in. I’m a prosituta by trade. Fluent in English, so I get requested by the Americans on a regular basis. By the time Terry’s brother commissioned my services, Paris’ lover was dead. Bullet between the eyes. Terry propped up the dead homo up so that Paris had to look at him while… what was the expression Terry used?” 

“Fucked the faggot out of him,” supplies Mickey, his voice hitching. And Ian is right there alongside him, suddenly reliving the worst day in their lives like a home video spooling across his mind’s eye. 

“There was a baby. And a wedding. Terry insisted. Hector didn’t approve of me. Not then. And he didn’t understand why his beloved twin was suddenly had a wife and a kid on the way when they both knew him for a confirmed cocksucker. But Paris didn’t want to explain what had happened. Their mother was happy, excited to be an abuela . Estella had been struggling with cancer for some time and the twins agreed to keep her in the dark about things.” A shadow ghosts its way across Camilla’s face. “I’m thankful she passed before I lost the baby. It would have been hard on her.” 

Ian and Mickey give each other meaningful glances. This very well could have been their fate. Ian dead, no doubt buried in an unmarked ditch somewhere, and Mickey forced into a loveless marriage with Terry’s unfortunate proxy in Mickey’s rape. Mickey sniffs, too proud to flick away the tear forming in his eye. Ian quietly takes his husband’s hand and squeezes it. 

“That’s how Hector found out about Terry’s other family. The old fuck bragged that his other faggot son may have skipped town, but Paris was going to honor his marriage. Even after I miscarried. Terry even ‘let slip’ what he did to his daughter to keep me compliant.” 

“No offense, but you sound like a telenovela,” jokes Lip. Mandy jabs his ribcage with her elbow, causing a deserved yelp of pain. 

She shrugs, not denying the allegation. “We tried to make it work. I had my lovers. Paris had his. Until Terry found out.” 

“Shit.” Mickey blurts out. “Lemme guess: Ter didn’t go so ‘easy on him’ the second time around?” 

“No, Terry didn’t go easy on him.” 

“Is he dead?” 

“No, but some days he wishes he was. Hector… he may be a hothead and a killer, but he loves his brother. He’s burning through his inheritance from his grandfather. He moved us to Chicago for a specialized doctor who has been treating Paris’ spine. And he makes sure Paris has a nurse with him any time Hector can’t be.” 

“How much mobility does he have?” 

“A crushed right hand that's healed, but it will never hold a gun steady again. And there is absolutely nothing  going on below the waist. Five procedures since we came here the December before last. Hector… Hector is the kind of man who needs to punch his problems.” 

“You can’t punch quadriplegia,” Ian mutters. 

“He needed to take his anger out on someone. So when he found out by all the dumb luck that this is where Terry and his American family lived, at least he had someone to take things out on. But killing Terry didn’t quell his rage. He got it in his head that he wanted to snuff out Terry’s whole family line.” 

“Terry’s made me contemplate the scorched earth approach once or twice,” Mickey concedes. “Never went through with it.” 

“Remember that time you tried to kill me when you thought I tried something with Mandy?” Ian asked.  

“And you kicked the stuffing out of me in the process,” Lip adds.  

“We all have our breaking points,” Mickey shrugs halfheartedly. 

“And Hector’s a trained killer with that shitty Milkovich temper working against him,” adds Mandy.  

“I did my best to steer him away from doing any real harm after the fire, when I knew he wasn’t going to stop with just your father. I tried. But… he’s just so angry. All of the time. And Paris isn’t getting any better.” 

“So why are we off the table?” Asks Mandy. “Why are we the only ones without a target on our heads?” 

“Like I said, Hector knows your stories. Terry talked too much. And he looks at the three of you and he sees what happened to me and his brother. He’s not a monster. He knows you’re victims just like Paris and me.” 

“So why’d he go after the girls tonight?” Asks Jamie. 

“He didn’t go after them,” she answers. “Not intentionally.” 

“So, what?” Asks a groggy voice. Everyone turns to see Debbie sitting up in her bed. “He spotted a Milkovich in the wild and just decided to go for it?”  

“You’re awake!” Exclaims Sandy with more enthusiasm than Ian has ever observed her muster as she leaps from one bed to another. Debbie winces in pain and Sandy adjusts herself to keep from hurting her. Meanwhile the Gallagher contingent as well as Mandy clan rally around her.  

Once the relief dies down, attention turns back to Camilla. “So, what’s the plan now?” 

“Colin takes me to prison.” 

“No,” Colin denies. “I told you. We’re just going down to the precinct and you’re going to make a confession. You cooperate once he’s in custody and you testify. Tony is already waiting for us and he’s already arguing for leniency.” 

“Tony Markovich?” Scoffs Mickey. “That’s your fucking cloak and dagger contact? Good fucking grief.” 

“So, that’s it?” Asks Mandy, “You’re gonna squeal and they’ll send a SWAT team after him? End of story?” 

Ian stands. “No. That can’t be all there is to it.” Ian doesn’t know what he wants to say. This guy just put his sister in the hospital. He should be out for blood. And the man deserves to see the inside of a prison cell for a good long time. “Like, that could have easily been what happened to me and Mick. What if Terry had shot of us dead? Or what if he put Mickey in a chair for life? Mick?” 

“Oh, I would've burned the whole world down just to make sure Terry got caught in the flames.” 

"Yeah, same," seconds Lip. 

“See?"

"But Ian," protests Mandy. "He has killed and maimed. We can't just forgive and forget. That's not the Milkovich way."

"Then again, neither is working with the pigs," Iggy quibbles.

"I'm not insane, Mands. Like, I know he needs to be brought to justice. But what about justice for him?” There is none. Consecutive life sentences or sending Hector to the electric chair won't undo what happened to Paris. In fact, bringing down the police on Hector will jeopardize Paris' well-being if he is that dependent on him. But they have to do something. 

“He’s right,” concurs Mickey, standing and wrapping an arm across Ian’s back. “He may go by ‘Cadiz,’ but he’s a Milkovich. And Milkoviches take care of their own.” 

Chapter Text

"So, both of you have family in the hospital this time?" Asks Linda, who is engaged in sketching on a legal pad as the brothers-in-law disassemble this morning’s two pallets full of fresh stock for the shelves.  

Mickey grunts in the affirmative. 

“Fucking Southside,” she sighs, more disappointed than anything else.  

“You know, eighteen months ago, if you told me a Gallagher would take a bullet for a Milkovich, I would have said you were crazy." 

“Yeah, but eighteen months ago you were in and out of a padded room yourself.” It’s low-hanging fruit and it would be below the belt if Mickey were actually trying to be hurtful, but Lip seems to take the joke as intended, a wisp of a crescent moon grin even as he flips Mickey off.  

“I mean it though,” Lip continues, undeterred. “Mandy and I imploded. And even with Yev, Ian felt abandoned.” Because he was. Mickey took off with no intention of ever looking back on pure fight or flight instinct and it wasn’t until he was in a different time zone before it hit him like a sucker punch to the gut: he could have taken Ian with him. But he didn’t even occur to him to ask, much less explain. And Mickey wonders if he will ever be reminded of it without feeling that stabbing sensation of guilt. 

“The Gallaghers and Milkoviches could have been Southside’s answer to the Hatfields and McCoys if you and Ian weren’t the first to mend fences,” Lip shrugs. 

“I don’t know,” Linda muses. “The Hatfields and McCoys intermarried a lot. Inbred hicks, you know? Sounds awfully familiar.” 

“Offense taken, Linds,” replies Lip evenly. 

“Yeah,” follows up Mickey as he loads up a cart with cases of flavored rice, meals in a can, and ramen soup cups. “I know from the outside looking in, it seems like Hood Rats and Rednecks both fall under the Poor White Trash umbrella. And they do. But the vibes are way different.”  

“I’m just going to have to take your word for it,” Linda concedes. They work in silence for a moment, then she hazards an attempt. “So. Is it serious?” 

“What? With the girls?” asks Lip, “Well, Sandy is already discharged.” 

“Yeah, but she can’t exactly do PostMates just yet. So, she’s crashing with her brother for a week or two.” Mickey bites his lip as his demeanor darkens. “Debbie got the real shitty end of the stick. Doctors hat to open her up, took out a ruptured gall bladder.”  

“It’s a super common procedure, Mick.” 

“Yeah?” He volleys back, “Try telling someone who isn’t cramming for his EMT certs. You know what happens if you don’t get someone with a ruptured gall bladder into the ER on time?” 

“I don’t know. Death?” 

“There are some steps in between, but yeah. Sepsis. Bile leakage. Organ failure.” 

“What have I told you about talking about medical shit after I’ve eaten Milkovich?” 

“Sorry, Linda.” 

“You’re almost as bad as Ian.” 

“Hey! Don’t I get bonus points for never sticking it to your husband?” 

“ Ex- husband, Milkovich,” she protests, flashing her gaudy, new engagement ring at them. Linda is very confident she picked a breeder this time around. But Mickey has his doubts, the way he keeps catching the guy’s eyes cast down appreciatively in the direction of his ass. But as long as the guy’s eyes are wandering and not his hands, he doesn’t want to spoil Linda’s happiness. “Speaking of which, how does this look?” 

She flips over the legal pad she has been doodling on to reveal a few different thumbprint sketches for replacement signs now that Linda has finally resolved to remove her ex’s name from the store. She has churned out a few ideas in the past week. Both Mickey and Lip have talked her out of using her fiancé’s name in the title this time around. Brashear’s Bodega just didn’t flow and Brash N Grab didn’t make any sense. 

“Any of these calling out to you?” 

“Maybe don’t use your new husband’s name?” Questions-slash-suggests Lip, finding any reason to avoid eye contact. “It’s your place, Linds. Make it yours. Just in case you and Hal don’t—” 

“Hal and I don’t…what?” Venom lines her words as she stares Mickey’s brother-in-law down like a Siberian tiger stalking a gazelle. The Gallagher men have been accustomed to hearing Linda badmouthing Kash even before she learned he was a pedophilic cheater. Sometimes, it still catches them by surprise how in it to win it with the future hubby.  

“Um… what do you think, Mick?” 

Mickey feels his back pocket start to vibrate and sees that it is a call from Tony Markovich. “Sorry, I gotta take this.” Having to deal with the point man handling the Murderous Prodigal Milkovich case is surprisingly less stressful than giving Linda Karib  constructive criticism. 

He slips out the back door to the alley and accepts the call as he slips into the passenger seat of the Kash N Grab’s van. Normally, he wouldn’t bother. Then again, these days normally he would be answering the phone to iron out day care pickups, grabbing poster board for Liam’s latest school project, or more recently plans for Milkovich-Gallagher Sunday dinners. He’s not used to fielding shady business like this anymore.  

“What’ve you got for me, Tone.” 

*** 

“This is crazy. I am right in thinking this is fucking bonkers, right?” Sending them in as the advance vanguard before the police raid the joint sounds like the police want to make sure one more Milkovich gets maimed or murdered before all is said and done. But Markovich actually likes the Gallagher brood, so perhaps this isn't a transparent ploy to off him. 

Tony Markovich sent Ian and Mickey ahead of the police. Camilla gave up the address that Hector and his paraplegic brother Paris have been staying. It is a hole in the wall of a five-story apartment building In Englewood. The apartments here remind him of some of the absolute slum in Sandusky he squatted in when he first ran off; really just meant as a place to crash at the end of the day, hardly suitable for human occupancy. Mickey figures considering Paris is wheelchair bound, the large elevators were probably a draw. 

“It’s crazy alright, but we’re just going to talk, right? De-escalate?”  

Mickey snorts bitterly. “Yeah, ‘cause if there’s one thing Milkoviches are known for, it’s lowering the temperature.”  

“You’re not the same hothead you were, Mick. We’ve grown up.” Ian insists as he scans the doors once they are off the elevator. 

“Can’t believe Tony wanted us to bring the kids with us. As if the police aren’t using us as their meat shield, Markovich wanted a meat shield on top of a meat shield,” Mickey jibes, making his anxiety. 

“Can we not talk about our kids like meat shields, Jesus fucking...” Ian suddenly stops mid-sentence, . “4-E. This is the one.” 

They both standing in front of the door, taking deep breaths for what feels like a long time. Their gaze shifts from the tarnished brass numbering on the doors to one another. Mickey doesn’t realize just how tense he is until he feels Ian’s hand slip into his own, fingers threading. Mickey squeezes that giant catcher’s mitt of a paw and Ian squeezes back. 

“I love you,” he whispers. He doesn’t know what they are going to face on the other side of that door, but he wants those to be the last words he says to his husband. Just in case. 

“Love you always,”  the redhead echoes back, planting his lips into Mickey’s hairline.  

If Mickey weren’t so nervous, he would make a joke about Ian one-upping him. Instead he balls up his fist and raises it to the door. He waits a second. It’s his last chance to turn back, to tell the Markovich and his FBI connections that they’re not trained for this shit. Led vests under their coats or not, their family has been put through enough without the risk of orphaning their Yev and Vivi. But he steels himself, jaw set, face muscles relaxed. He tries to appear as calm, cool, and collected as he can manage. Deep breath in. 

Knock. Knock.  

He exhales. It takes close to a minute before they hear movement on the other side of the door.  The door rattles and shakes as secondary locks and deadbolts are undone.  

The door opens not even a full four inches, halted by a brass chain. A slither of a man’s face pops into view. The man looks to be thirty at the oldest, but everything about his expression suggests a great many more years. Being Terry’s kid has a way of aging you.  

“¿ Que quieren , white boys?”  

“Welcome wagon. Just here to talk. Ex-Milkovich support group.” 

Hector Cadiz stares them both down like he is studying them. He probably is. Scanning to see if either of them blink.  

“¡ Dejarlos entrar, Hec !” Comes a second man’s voice.  

Hector looks like he is seconds away from spitting poison in their faces when the door slams shut. Mickey hears the sound of a firearm cocking before he hears the rattle of the door chain coming unlatched.  

The door opens wide enough to let them in and on the other side stands Hector holding a Glock to their faces. “ Entrad . Before I change my opinion.” 

Mickey steps inside, followed by Ian, who is taking his cues from Mickey because he doesn’t understand Spanish. They hold out their hands to show that they aren’t armed and take slow movements to keep from upsetting the armed man unnecessarily. 

“Before you change your mind,” amends the voice out of range of sight. Though as the husbands step inside, they see Paris sitting in a mechanized wheelchair where the living room flows into the foyer. Mickey concludes that this is Hector’s brother. Same face shape, same eye shape though more amber in hue while Hector’s are brown. His nose is more patrician. Mickey sees a little of his own genes in both of them. Hector is on the shorter side and has the same expressive eyebrows, meanwhile Paris has a similar aquiline nose and bowed lips like Mickey’s own.  

“Mick…” Ian mutters. “Eyes up front.” Following suit, Mickey remembers the barrel of the pistol trained on him and his husband. And Hector has a steady fucking hand. Mickey tries to think clearly, but the imminent threat of death makes it a challenge.  

“My name is Paris, the one with the gun is Hector,” explains the man in the chair. “His English is not so good. I will help.” 

Mickey’s eyes dart between the gun and the chair. Gun. Chair. The two both serve to paint a portrait of what could have happened the morning Terry discovered them. He swallows down the  thought and redoubles his game face. 

“I’m Mickey. This is my husband Ian.” 

“Husband?” asks Paris. “Where are your rings?” 

“Fucking...” Mickey bites his lip, remembers he has to keep control of his temper when there is a gun pointed his was. “Where does it say you need a wedding ring?”   

The brothers talk back and forth in Spanish, but it is way too fast for Mickey to catch what they’re saying. But he knows a joke at his expense when he hears it. The Cadiz boys laugh. It’s a robust chuckle that reminds Mickey a lot of the way his older brothers always had in-jokes that he wasn’t party to, being so much younger than him.  

“So, they send you in ahead of them, huh? Brave American boys in blue, huh?” Paris translates for his brother. “Hector knows the police are circling the building. Why send you?” 

“Could we continue this conversation without a gun pointed at my husband’s head?”  

“Hector likes his insurance policy.” 

“The Feds have got you one way or another,” Ian interjects, looking like he is already regretting his word choice. “The police sent us ahead because if you shoot us dead, what do they care? We’re Southside trash. Just a couple of expendable fags.” Ian stops while Paris translates. Then comes Hector’s reply.  

“He wants to know why they would send you? He is going after Milkoviches. Why gift-wrap one for him and bring you straight to his door?” 

“Look, I don’t pretend I like working with the cops, in fact I think this was a fucking stupid idea,” Mickey admits. “We got kids at home and I don’t exactly trust my sister or his brother to not fuck them up for life if you guys choose to off us. But... shit, man. I got a good taste of what Terry put you guys through. I’ve been angry at the world, too. I know what it’s like to crave that shithead’s approval. And I know what sorta shit he pulls when he does not approve. Beat me to a bloody pulp, made Ian watch while I banged a hooker. Pops had a twelve gauge aimed at E’s head if I didn’t go through with it. Sound familiar?” 

“You think we didn’t know?” Asks Paris heatedly, not bothering to translate for his twin. “It is the only reason he never went after you or the girls.” 

“What? Didn’t you know?” Hisses Mickey heatedly. “Sharpshooter here just put Sandy in the hospital.” 

“Yeah, and my sister. She needed emergency surgery.” Ian adds.  

Paris’ expression falters, then darkens, eyes narrowing as he stares down Hector. They go back and forth in another round of rapid fire Spanish, fighting between the two of them. Mickey cannot make out what either of them are saying, but he gets the impression that there is a power shift. Hector’s body language shifts, he shoulders becoming low and rounded, the cold dead expression in his eyes turning fiery and passionate. Mickey feels like he is watching the master hitman turn into a petulant teenager before his eyes. Hector finally lowers his gun and Mickey can audibly hear Ian exhale. 

“Allow me to apologize. This has gone too—” 

“¡No!” Hector shrieks as he aims the Glock at Mickey again, “¡ Todos se lo merecen !” 

It happens so quickly. Mickey’s heart nearly jumps right out of his chest when Ian steps in front of him to shield Mickey from Hector’s crosshairs. “Don’t you fucking dare!” The redhead barks at him. Reaching out, he wraps his hand around the barrel of the gun. 

“Gallagher!” Mickey tries to pull him away, “You fucking lost it?” 

“He’s hurt enough Milkoviches,” grunts Ian. “Get back, Mick!” They struggle and there is a lot of unintelligible screaming in both languages. Ian manages to elbow Mickey out of the away.  

“He’s right, you know,” a hand cups his arm by the elbow. Mickey flinches and sees that Paris has wheeled himself next to him. “It’s too much. I’ve let this go on much too long.” 

BLAM! 

Mickey’s head jerks back, panic gripping him like a vice. The recoil knocks both Hector and Mickey back in opposite directions and the Glock clatters to the ground. Mickey has to hold his breath and pray that it doesn’t go off again. Hector’s back hits the wall while Mickey catches Ian in his arms. If that stupid orange bastard got himself shot and killed, Mickey might never forgive him. But then drywall rains down on them and he breathes a sigh of relief.  

And then he punches Ian in the bicep.  

“Shhfuck, Mick!” 

“Don’t you ever do something that fucking stupid ever again or so help me Christ—” 

Mickey’s words are brought to an abrupt halt with the sound of sobs. Mickey and Ian both back towards the gunman, where Paris is wheeling himself closer, who has slid down the wall into sitting position on the floor, head in his hand. Hector is murmuring to his brother, drifting between English and Spanish.  

“I’ve been so shit fucking angry at the old man for so long,” Paris translates. “He treated our mother like a mistress. Killed Hugo and put my brother through hell. Then put him in a chair. Broke him. Managed to break everyone I cared about one way or another.”

"Hugo?" asks Ian.

"My lover. His best friend," Paris explains.

As if to drive home that this could have been their fate, Mickey cannot help but draw the comparison of the late Mr. Hugo and Ian. “Killing Terry wasn’t enough,” Mickey nods, summarizing with a heavy heart. “I get it. There isn’t a member of my family that doesn’t have some scarring. Physical. Emotionally. You two included.” 

“We’re not your family.” 

“Maybe not yet,” Ian starts. “But you’re related. It’s a start. Family are the people you choose to care about, right?” 

“My brother has been trying to bump your family off for nearly a year.” 

“With a very low success rate,” Mickey shrugs. “Don’t translate that, don’t want to set your brother off. Look, the police are taking Hector in one way or another. But it’ll be easier for everyone if he goes willingly. Camilla’s getting leniency for cooperating.” 

“We’re murderers,” Paris counters. “We won’t be getting leniency.” 

“They just want your brother.” 

“And what happens to Paris?” Asks Hector once Paris has translated.  

“I second that,” Paris asks once he is done translating his brother’s question. “Am I free to go? Am I an accessory to murder? If I’m free to go, what next? I can’t take care of myself yet. Can’t hold a job. I’m not a citizen. Am I getting deported back to Mexico? Because I have nothing to go back to.” 

“You want to come stay with us?” 

Paris laughs. “In that crowded, little house?” 

“We were thinking you could stay in the new Milkovich house.” 

“¿ Qué ?” He asks, then quickly summarizes a translation to Hector. “My brother burnt the old house to ash. And you’d invite me to stay there?” 

“Plenty of space,” Mickey shrugs. “Iggy’s in a few days a week. Mandy’s by a lot, considering she’s not not seeing Ian’s brother. We’re a block down on the other side of the alley.” 

“And I guess you already know there’s a small army of in-laws.” Ian adds. “We can check up on you as much or as little as you want. Whenever.” 

Paris thinks for a moment. “Can my brother and I have a moment?” 

***  

Hector stands tall as he is cuffed and read his Miranda Rights, proud even in defeat. Mickey doesn’t know how he avoided that Milkovich gene that causes them all to make a scene in a situations like this. The guy has been targeting his own half-siblings driven by grief and rage for a year. He has hospitalized four Milkoviches, permanently debilitating two, put three in the ground, and committed arson. All because plain and simple revenge against Terry didn’t satiate the pain.  

Hector looks to his brother the whole time he is read his rights, cuffed, and led to the police vehicle that will be taking him in. Mickey wanted to hate this man days ago. Then he learned what drove the man to this and it brought him to pity. But now, seeing his resilience as he is led away, Mickey can’t help but respect the guy.    

 The cops take him by the shoulder and pushes him to sit in the back seat of the vehicle. Paris audibly winces watching his brother being manhandled by the authorities. Mickey catches it when Paris mutters “ malditas chotas ,” under his breath. “Goddamn cops.” He’s a Milkovich alright.  

“Do you think we made the right decision?” He asks as the three of them watch his brother being taken away. 

“There is no right decision,” Ian shrugs.  

“Yeah,” agrees Mickey. “But this sure beats the possibility of one or both of you getting shot full of lead in a Mexican standoff.” 

“¿ Qué ?” 

Chapter Text

A Few Hours Later  

They whole walk home from the police station. Tony offered, but even though he’s been on the straight and narrow for over two years now, Mickey doesn’t sit in the back of police cars if he has the options.  

Ian had thought once Hector turned himself in peacefully, they would be free to go home to their kids and their family. But Mickey seemed resolved when Tony insisted they come down to the station to make official statements.   

Paris isn’t being charged with anything. At least not in the United States as far as anybody knows. That’s a relief, though with Ian and Mickey sticking their neck out to protect him and offer him a home, it does make Ian what happens to Hector. His grasp of English is only so-so. Despite being more than capable of taking care of himself, the language barrier makes vulnerable within the American correctional system. Both of the twins agreed before Hector turned himself in that with a list of crimes as long as his arm back in Mexico, he is better off in the States’ carceral system.   

Tony drove Paris back to the apartment he shares—shared—with Hector personally. Paris was already planning through the steps to clear out the apartment and hopefully get their deposit back. Their lease was month to month, so technically he has a couple weeks before he needs to be out of there, but Paris seems to be ruefully accepting the fact that at least at present, he isn’t capable of living independently.    

Mickey is oddly quiet as they walk home, letting Ian do most of the talking, all of the planning what they can do to help their newfound relation as he fires texts back and forth with Mandy.   

Ian pretends not to notice. Mickey deserves the space to process everything that happened today. Ian is only a Milkovich by marriage. He doesn’t want to step on Ian’s toes over something he should have only a liminal amount of input on. And Ian actually does believe it when he reminds himself  three or four times over the course of their walk.   

But as they round the curb leading the Gallagher house, Ian can’t take it anymore.   

“Smoke?” asks Ian as he sits on the stoop and pulls out his Pall Malls. He knows Mickey prefers Marlboro Red, but they’re getting too pricy for Ian’s liking.   

Mickey considers for a moment before he nods and sits down beside his husband, pulling out his lighter. Ian holds the cigarette in his lips as Mickey lights it, but then hands it to the raven-haired man, letting him take the first drag.   

“You’ve been quiet,” he observes. “Anything you want to talk about?”  

“No. But what are the chances that you’ll let it go if I don’t?” wonders Mickey aloud as he breathes in the nicotine.  

“Oh, I’ll badger the crap out of you.” smiles Ian hopefully charmingly as he Mickey delicately lets out rings of smoke with practiced ease.   

“Alright, fine.” Mickey hands the stick back to Ian. “I can’t lose you.”  

“Huh?”  

“You practically leapt in front of a loaded gun, E. Do you have any idea how scared shitless I was?”  

Ian’s chest constricts at the very thought. There he was with the prodigal son of the Milkovich family with a Glock 19 pointed at Mickey at pointe blank range. And all he could think was the year behind them. Once he thought Mickey was lost to him, not a word for nearly a year and a half. He even convinced a Russian prostitute to carry Mickey’s child to term, slaved away day and night to pay for her pre-natal checkups at the clinic, just so that he could hold onto this last vestige of the man he loves and give Mickey’s child a loving home.    

But then chance, quite likely on account of the same handgun trained at his husband’s chest, brought Mickey back into his life. Ian was so overworked and burnt out that initially he didn’t let himself feel joy at Mickey’s return, kept him at arm’s length even as he welcomed Mickey into their home. But Mickey came back changed. Perhaps he grew up on in his own. Or maybe with Mickey’s abuser slain, he was simply freer and more open, but Mickey proved to Ian time and again that he is back for good this time, in it for the long haul. Despite the whirlwind of drama happening around them, Ian has never been happier as they formed their little family. Him, Mickey, and Yev. And now Vivi, too.   

“I couldn’t lose you again,” he admits, looking down, one hand tracing the freckles on the back of the other. “The last time another Milkovich pointed a gun at us, we got lucky. But you were gone.”  

“Hey,” he feels Mickey’s hand cup his jaw, lifting his face up to make eye contact. “I love you, Ian Clayton Gallagher. More than I thought someone who grew up in a hellhole like my pop’s house could. But I don’t need you to take a bullet for me. Never did.”  

“It wouldn’t have been like when you got shot in the leg. Or your ass. Hector could have put a bullet between your eyes. You’ve been through too much for me to stand by and let it happen.” He accepts the cigarette back from Mickey.   

“And what do you think I’d be going through if he shot you, Ian? I wouldn’t be planning living arrangements for Paris, I can tell you that much.” Mickey shifts his weight slightly closer to Ian. “You bring out the best in me. Sometimes, I get so worried I’d end up a shit dad like Terry if you weren’t here doing it all with me, if you hadn’t adopted Yev in the first place. You were running around with my little mini-me on your hip with Terry knowing who you are and where you live. You’re brave in ways that give me courage, too. I can’t lose you either.”   

“So… do we want to go back to the courthouse, then? Amend our vows to include no more getting into situations where nutzo family members threaten to shoot us?”  

Mickey snorts as he snuffs out the cigarette, standing up. “We can sure as fuck try. C’mon, we left Lip and Mandy on toddler duty long enough.”  

“Yeah,” agrees Ian taking his husband’s hand and rising to his feet. “Lip can only hear ‘Baby Shark’ so many times before he starts contemplating going off the wagon.”  

He feels such an overwhelming sense of relief when the heavy red door of the Gallagher house shuts behind them. A hyper-charged pair of toddler feet makes a stomping beeline for his daddies before they even get a chance to get their coats of. Ian lifts him up to humming the Superman theme, the way Yevgeny likes when they play flying baby.   

Meanwhile, Mickey visits his sister on the couch with Little Red dozing with a bottle of formula half dangling from her lips. Mandy slips Vivi into Mickey’s arms, careful not to wake the little miss, as Ian “flies” Yevgeny to the sofa, making jet sounds, much to Liam’s chagrin as Lip helps him with his book report of one of the Narnia books.  

Ian feels like a lifetime has passed since he and Mickey arrived at Hector and Paris’ apartment. But now he is just happy to be home and ensconced in the warm glow of their family.  

Three Days Later  

“Are you fucking shitting me?” demands Colin. “He can’t stay here!”  

“He’s got to stay somewhere, Col.” Mandy counters, speaking up over the members of Colin’s construction team who are at work installing a chair lift into the staircase down the hall.  

“He crippled me!”  

“No, that was Hector, not Paris. I know it’s very confusing. Although, they’re fraternal twins so, I guess it shouldn’t be all that confusing,” jibes Mickey.  

“Fuck off, Mickey. This is our house.”  

“No, it’s my house,” Mandy corrects. “I put up the money to get it rebuilt.”  

“Well, your old sugar daddy did,” snickers Iggy.  

“Hey, just because the old geezer died and left me a fortune doesn’t mean I didn’t earn it fair and square.”  

“Funny how the old man started to take ill when things started to get serious between you and Raggedy Anne’s brother again,” muses Iggy.   

“What the fuck ever. Autopsy said natural causes. Look, the property is ours, but I paid for the construction of the new house. So unless you shitheads want to reimburse me for your shares of the property, I get to decide who stays here.”  

“Paris seems like a reasonable guy, Col. And Hector? Man, from what I could tell when we went to meet them, he seemed like he was at the end of his rope,” Mickey assuages.   

“I still can’t believe the cops sent you in there without even a bullet-proof vest or something,” Mandy fumes.   

“Well, after what we learned from Camilla, Markovich thought we’d be safe. The dumb fuck thought you should come with us. But we both shot that down. And when he spitballed bringing the kids in with us, I nearly walked.”  

“I’m surprised the pigs even bothered to send you in and give Hector a chance to reason,” Colin admits. “They had the place surrounded. He was dead to rights.”   

“Hector wasn’t an evil man. It took his brother to see reason, but I think he was just too angry to think clearly. Paris’ lover was Hector’s best friend. It reminded me of me, Mands, and Ian when I found out. What happened to them feels like such a dark, fucked up version of what he did to me and Ian before I ran off.  

“Did to… he did that to you?”   

Mickey has told Mandy about what happened. But he never told Iggy or Colin. Part of him thinks he kept it from them because he was never as close with them as he is with his sister. But now that feels like a lie he convinced himself of. He loves his brothers, even if he calls them fucking idiots all the time, just as much as Mandy. He never told them because… even after they knew he was into dudes, he didn’t want them to think of him as less of a man, that letting Terry do what he did diminished him somehow.  

“How else do you think the big ol’ mo has a biological kid, dummy?” teases Colin, poking Iggy in the stomach playfully with the pommel of his shillelagh.   

“Yeah. Pop did that. He didn’t put me in a wheelchair. And obviously he didn’t put a bullet between E’s eyes. But it was touch and go. He beat the shit out of us and pistol whipped me when I tried to fight back, pull his focus on Ian. When I came to, he had a gun pointed at E’s head and a Russian prostitute and forced her to… He said she was gonna ‘fuck the faggot out of me.’ A charmer, that father of ours, right?”    

“Shit, Mickey. We didn’t know.”  

“And you didn’t know because I didn’t want you to. But what happened to Paris and Hector could have been my story, my fate.   

“In this analogy, that would make me Hector. And you dumb shits may chap my ass, but I’d try to burn the fucking world down if someone hurt you guys or Ian like that.”  

“Makes sense. There’s a reason we all know not to cross you. Scary ass bitch,” Iggy laughs and takes a manicured fist to his bicep in good humor.  

“You don’t gotta like it, but he’s one of us. A child of Terry Milkovich who lived long enough to regret it.” Looking around the room, Mickey can tell that he chose the exact right phrasing for all three of his remaining siblings to know exactly where he is coming from. He knows Mandy’s story in broad strokes. He cannot help but think Colin and Iggy must have their own scars even if they never speak of them. “He got the worst of it. He’ll never be able to live independently. Not fully. And now he’s lost his twin. It was just Paris and his brother against the world. Hector was his protector.”    

“And… Milkoviches look after their own,” sighs Colin, passing his gnarled shillelagh with the evil eye painted onto the pommel between both hands. “Is that where you’re going with this, Mick?”   

“Knock-knock,” comes the voice of Mickey’s big red ox of a husband from the foyer.    

“Over here, sugar tits!” His sibling break out into a fit of giggles.  

Ian doesn’t even mention the embarrassing epithet as he joins the Milkovich siblings accompanied by their newfound half brother in a motorized wheelchair, a large duffle strapped across Ian’s back and a couple stuffed totes dangling from the back of the chair.   

From the way Ian’s face is contorted into a mischievous half smile, Mickey suspects that Ian is plotting some payback for the embarrassment. Hopefully tonight. After the kids are asleep. Possibly bent over his lap and utilizing something that vibrates.   

Focus, Mickey. Try not to sprout wood in front of your family.  

“We got Paris’ apartment all packed up,” he announces. “Good thing you built this place with a ramp. Those old steps were treacherous.”  

“Yeah,” agrees Colin acerbically. “Good thing someone burned down the old house and blew out my kneecap, right?”  

“Colin…” reproves Mandy.   

“My bad. Not your doing. I understand.” Though Colin’s tone is anything but understanding. “You coulda stopped your brother after you offed Terry, couldn’t you?”  

“I tried. Not hard enough. He was… I know it doesn’t change anything, but I want you to know I’m sorry. For what I allowed him to do.”  

“Sorry? I’m twenty-seven and I’m going to be walking with a cane for the rest of my life!”  

Paris nods, tapping on one of his wheels. “Getting crippled in your prime really is a pisser, isn’t it?”  

“I could have been immolated! Your brother killed, blinded, stabbed, and shot at us for nearly a year! How the fuck were you guys hired assassins anyway? Your brother missed over half his fucking targets.”  

The room is quiet for a long moment, the tension thick. Mickey looks to Ian, who they both agreed in private ought to play the neutral party if this sort of dispute were to inevitably arise.   

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Colin starts to chortle, his words choppy. “Like, okay. I get it. Pop raised us to be a passel of petty criminals. Dealers and smugglers and shit. Lower stakes, right?  But he still took us out to the gun range. He woulda tanned our hides if we missed the bullseye that much.”  

“First rule of my old line of work,” shrugs Paris. “Don’t make it personal. It clouds the judgment. And Hector…”  

“Yeah, we get it, bro.” Iggy closes the distance between them, “We were just discussing the murder spree one of us woulda committed if we knew half of what our dear old dad did to Mickey.”  

“And me. And Ian,” Mandy adds. “Shit, there’s probably good reason why our mom was so fucked in the head before she OD’ed.”  

“Yeah, fucked up and fucked over by Terry is kind of the Milkovich way.” Mickey admits.  

“Then, I should fit in just fine.”  

“We’re trying to do better, though. Colin’s in construction, I’m studying to be an EMT. Even Iggy’s gone legit.”  

“What about you?” Paris inquires of Mandy.  

“Me? I pulled an Anna Nicole. But I’m starting up a UChicago in the Fall.”   

“Since when?”  

Mandy shoots daggers at Iggy. Mickey has heard her explain this at the past three family dinners, but Iggy wasn’t blessed with the best short-term working memory  

“Still just General Studies, Mands?”  

"I’m thinking social work, or maybe pre-law? Faye told me I’ve got a knack for forming arguments.”  

“I’ll say,” Mickey laughs, catching sight of his eldest brother raid the liquor cabinet.  

“I’m happy you are all doing well,” Paris interjects solemnly. “And it’s no fault of mine or Hector’s. That’s for sure.”  

“Paris, we told you. It’s fine. Fresh start, remember?” Ian exhorts.    

The Mexican Milkovich sibling just shrugs. “I’m not a big believer in clean slates. The ledger doesn’t wipe clean so easily.”  

“Agreed,” Colin nods as he sets up six shot glasses and pours out some Maker’s Mark.  “Trust isn’t an overnight thing, man. Here’s hoping you earn it.” He hands a shot to Paris, who accepts the drink cautiously.   

They knock it back. Paris is right, Mickey realizes. There are no fresh starts or clean slates here. Too much has passed between them. But hopefully bringing Paris into the fold will give them a way to move forward.    

May  

“You promise you’re not going to embarrass me, right?” Asks Carl as Ian pulls the Stouffer’s family-sized lasagna from the oven.  

Ian looks at him quizzically. “You know, there was a reason I never brought Mickey around until was literally living here, right?”  

“Because he kept getting thrown in juvie or running off?”  

Ian flips the teenager off. “I was only out to Lip and Fiona when I was your age. And Mickey was only out to me. You got it easy compared to us. And psycho Nazi father-in-law aside, we had it easier than guys ten twenty years ago.”  

“What about the brother-in-law spinning his wheels?”  

“Hey, just ‘cause the aforementioned psycho nazi did even worse to Paris than he did to Mickey, it doesn’t mean his life is over. The new physio sounds optimistic.”  

“So, my question? You guys are gonna be cool, right?”  

“Well, I’m your legal guardian. Which means I’m by definition not cool. Which is fine. I won’t try to embarrass you, but I am gonna make sure this is a good kid you’re bringing home. Now, Lip and Mickey on the other hand, they’ve got the whole ‘you hurt our baby brother and they won’t find all the body parts’ thing covered. But they might do good cop/bad cop.”  

“Well? Which one’s the bad cop?”  

“You got me there. Lip’s more invested but Mickey’s got the whole intimidation factor.”  

As if on cue, Mickey comes rushing down the stairs, clutching a squirmy little five-month-old in a poofy, green silk satin dress. Vivi seems far less pleased than Mickey. “You guys will not believe just how darling Little Red looks in that new party dress we picked out for her.”  

Carl looks at Mickey, then shoots an ironic eye roll at Ian as only a fifteen-year-old can.   

“Okay, so maybe you’ll luck out and Mick’ll be too deep into Girldad mode to intimidate your boy.”  

“Hey, it was either spoil the kid or stress eat over my written exam,” Mickey explains. “I figure you don’t want me getting fat.”  

Ian grins as he slaps Mickey’s bounteous butt. “Depends on where, baby.”  

“Could you freaks not do that in front of the food?”  

June  

“Well, would you look at you?” Beams Fiona as she appears at the gate of Statesville Correctional, a small plastic bag of her personal effects tucked under her arm. Mickey, clad in his new dark blue EMT uniform, is leaning on the front of his freshly-leased second-hand car, a cranberry red minivan. “This time last year when Ian told me you were in the picture, I didn’t know what to think. But you’ve gone full-on family man with the legitimate job, the two point three kids and the soccer-mobile.   

“Fuck’s sake, Fiona. I could just leave you here to take the bus back into town.”  

“So sensitive,” she croons, giving him a hug. Mickey initially panics, arms flailing at his side before he settles in to his in-law’s embrace. The younger Gallaghers are generous with their hugs, but Lip is more of a “pat on the shoulder” kind of brother-in-law; he expected Fiona to be the same with him.   

Even though Fiona had been granted in-person visits for the better part of the past year, the quick window she was usually allowed for hugging her guests before she was required to take a seat was usually reserved for her siblings and the little ones. This time, it is just him here to bring her home.   

“So, is our little secret still safe?”  

“He hasn’t said anything, but Ian may have figured it out. Big Red knows my schedule better than I do,” Mickey admits fondly. “And it definitely raised some red flags when I told him Kev be picking up Carl from JROTC. But even if he has figured it out, at least I know he can keep a secret.”  

“He’s fifteen. Since when does he need to be picked up?”  

“Since he started up with someone from class.”   

“Oh, yeah? What’s her name?”  

“I’ll let him tell you.”   

Ian has assured him that he is fairly confident that Fiona won’t be bothered about having yet another queer sibling in the family. If Carl’s experience is anything like his, it will be an utter non-issue. And in Debbie’s case, Fiona sounds like she is just happy that her little sister is far less likely to end up in the family way again any time soon. Still, they both agreed that it’s Carl’s truth to tell. It’s bad enough that Mandy blabbed to pretty much everyone in the entire merged clan above the age of eighteen. But that wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t told her in the first place. At least Carl will get to tell the woman who raised him on his own terms.   

“So, Lip’s at the Kash N Grab, Carl’s at ROTC…”  

Mickey nods. “The littles are in the hospital daycare, Debs and my cousin are taking Liam to his afterschool program at the library. And everyone thinks you’re getting out tomorrow.”   

She rubs her hands together like she is on the verge of a windfall. “I love it when a plan comes together.”   

She picks Mickey’s brain the whole ride home to the little blue house on North Wallace. It seems to Mickey like she enjoys getting Mickey’s read on her brothers and sister. With the obvious exception of Ian, he figures it’s because he can be slightly more objective.   

Or can he? He has lived with Ian’s family day in and day out for fifteen months now. In addition to parenting their own children, he has had a hand in parenting Liam, mentoring Carl, and trying to be a fiend Debbie through a truly chaotic transition into adolescence. He formed at least a working bond with Lip, despite the fact that Mickey is pretty sure the loathing used to be mutual. And he’s put his back into the time honored Gallagher tradition of throwing Frank out of the house on a few occasions before the old weasel vanished with some old hippie girlfriend into the wilderness. On a fundamental, he really does think he would feel like a Gallagher by now even if he hadn’t legally changed it.   

Soon enough, they arrive at the home. He knows the plan is to surprise the rest of Fiona’s siblings, but he cannot notice how glum she is looking around the empty house. He finds her looking at the height marks notched into the living room door as he brings her a sandwich.  

“Yevgeny’s getting big, huh? Have you guys been measuring monthly or something?”  

“Ian swears to scale back after he hits twenty-four months.”  

Mickey helps Fiona settle into Lip’s bachelor pad in the basement. Lip had conceded the room and took up temporary residence in the Boys’ Room, with the understanding that Ian and Mickey plan to move into the Milkovich house once Fiona is settled in.   

“A lot of space is gonna open up soon enough,” Mickey insists. “Especially if… shit, Ian should be the one—”  

“Liam wants to stay with you guys, doesn’t he?”  

Mickey feels irrationally timid in the eldest Gallagher’s presence.  

“It makes sense. It’s not like I was in the can for mail fraud.” She admits, not happily, but resigned.   

“He doesn’t remember what happened, Fi,” he reassures her. “He remembers a bad thing happened and he had to see lots of doctors. And he knows you’re sorry.”  

“Thanks,” she reached across the coffee table. Mickey suppresses the urge to flinch as he accepts her hand. “It’s just as well, right? Your kids are closer in age.”  

“You wouldn’t believe how excited he is now that he gets to play ‘big brother.’”  

“I’ll bet. Plus I have two teenagers and a bipolar genius to worry about. And you guys are just down the street and across the alley. Not like I can’t see him any time. You guys can focus on getting the little Gallaghers to school and day care. And leave the young adults to me.”  

He is relieved that she is taking this so well, but for a hot minute, Mickey had been sweating bullets. The last thing he wants to do is upset his recently incarcerated and probably incredibly emotional sister-in-law. Ian and Lip wanted to be part of this conversation. And they would have if Fiona wasn’t afforded the chance to leave prison a day early. And the legends of her going Fiona on people are legendary  

“Better distribution of the work than Ian’s had in a good long while. He was carrying too much on his shoulders when I got back from the east coast. He likes to say he was on the verge of a breakdown by the time I blew back into town. But I don’t believe it. He’s made of sterner stuff than that.”  

She leans in and plants a kiss into his hairline. “That goes for both of you.”  

She doesn’t elaborate, but she doesn’t have to. What the Milkovich clan went through this past year is nothing short of an endurance test in human misery and resilience. And Mickey didn’t have to come home after Terry was murdered. It’s not like he had any last respects he wants to pay.   

Sometimes, he imagines what his life would look like now if he hadn’t come when Mandy wrote to him. He might still be along the coast, beautiful vistas in the distance and sea salt in the air. Stocking shelves at a Food Lion in the Winter and kid wrangling on the boardwalk during the Summer months. His life would be safe, far from the harrowing life of a Southside Milkovich. And it would be hollow. He came home and stepped up— Ian’s rock and the center of the Milkovich storm. He found purpose.   

Ian steps off the L after his shift with Vivi nestled safely in her Baby Bjorn and Yev chafing at his fathers’ insistence that he needs to hold an adult’s hand out of the house. The little guy would very much like to run out ahead of Ian. But Yevgeny doesn’t complain. He’s a happy-go-lucky kid, not like his sister who likes the make her fathers know even if she can’t speak yet that she has a stubborn streak. He can’t wait until she’s talking so that she can tell him and Mickey what she’s fussing about instead of leaving it to guesswork.   

“What’s at soun, dada?”  

Ian listens as they turn onto their block. It sounds like someone in the neighborhood is cranking up the 90s music. Summer block parties aren’t exactly out of the ordinary. But this feels different.   

Destiny’s Child is playing so loudly Ian can feel his fillings rattle. He used to watch Vee and Fiona dance it out to “Jumpin’ Jumpin’” so many… that music is coming from the house.   

“Holy fuck!”  

“That’s one of ‘em bad words, dada.”  

“And I give you full permission to rat me out to your papa, monkey,”  he scoops his oldest child up, like a football tucked under his arm.  

“Dada?” Asks Mickey’s mini-me as he clings onto Ian like a koala.   

“No time, kiddo. We’re missing all the fun!”  

The party is at full tilt when they get inside. Family, friends, and neighbors all having a grand old time having a good old fashioned blowout. Even though it’s only 7:30pm on a Wednesday.   

That bastard. That sneaky bastard. Ian knew Mickey was up to something. He’s searching around the house and spots his siblings all enjoying themselves, but not the one he is looking for until a wavy mane of chestnut brown descends upon him.  

“Sweet face! You’re here!”   

“Fi!” he hugs her back, though trying to give some support to the six-month-old still in strapped into the Baby Bjorn. “I could say the same about you.”    

“You’ve done an amazing job. Thank you for keeping everyone together, monkey.” She kisses his cheek. “Consider this me tagging you out.”   

Ian knew this day would come from the moment Lip was hospitalized and he had to petition with the court to become the younger Gallaghers’ legal guardian (and more or less Lip’s caretaker). Someday, she would be back and she would take the reigns back. He expected to feel relief. And he does, like a heavy boulder has been lifted off his chest.   

“Hey,” he says once he finds his husband on the back porch smoking. He is still doing the shoulder stretches he always has to do after he wears the Baby Bjorn too long. “Like your surprise?”  

“Love it, you cheeky bastard.”  

Mickey snuffs out the stick and flicks the filter into the ash tray. “Yeah, I’m actually surprised you didn’t catch on.”  

“Oh, I knew something was up. I just thought you were being the good cop and giving Carl a little wiggle time to fool around with his boyfriend.”  

“I sent Kev to pick him up,” Mickey counters indignantly.  

“Yeah, which is the same as saying you gave him twenty extra minutes in the Kash N Grab’s cooler.”  

“Fair.” Mickey looks to the left and right as though checking to make sure he’s not being overheard. “Y’know, I still got the manager’s keys if you want to head over to the store for old time’s sake.”  

“Tempting,” he croons and Mickey crowds his way into Ian’s arms. “Maybe once the kids go to sleep. We can’t be reckless teens anymore.”   

“Nah. We’re not.,” agrees Mickey as his hand cuffs the back of Ian’s neck. “But we aren’t old men just yet.”    

Ian leans in and accepts a long but gentle kiss from his husband. Ian can see a future ahead of him that is defined by what he has with Mickey and not a sense of duty to his siblings.  

His life is his own again.   

Though it isn’t, really? Is it? It’s his, yes. But it’s also Mickey’s. And Yev’s and Vivi’s. And Liam’s. And that's just enough. For the first time in quite a long time, he doesn’t have more than he can handle. And neither does Mickey. They can just live and raise their family.  

Three weeks later, Ian and Mickey along with the kids move into the Milkovich house. Paris insists that he doesn’t need them being nursemaids. And they make no attempt to be. But Paris is a twin who was never alone for very long until Hector turned himself in. Ultimately, he enjoys the company.   

The following Christmas, their anniversary, Ian and Mickey finally exchange wedding rings.