Work Text:
This is all Svetlana’s fault, Mickey thinks.
It starts when Svetlana gets up on his ass about Yevgeny. Again. “Entertain your child,” she says, shoving the brat into his arms as she shrugs on her clothes. It’s morning, and Ian’s still in bed, doing his whole I'm-stuck-in-bed shtick. His meds went all screwy a couple of weeks back, and now the trials have brought out a resurgence of depression that’s left Ian all but completely bedridden. Mickey doesn't really get it, doesn't think he ever will, really. The whole mental illness thing's always kind of just flown by him, but it doesn't matter whether he understands it or not. Ian's sick, so Mickey needs to take care of him. That's all there is to it. All Mickey wants to do is watch Ian all day, but no, he’s a dad now and he has to do dad shit. He doesn’t hold out much hope that he’ll be anything other than a complete fuck-up at it. Still, a fuck-up probably better than whatever the hell Terry was, so he’ll take it.
“Bitch why do I have to do it. Get your lesbo girlfriend to do this shit,” he fires, even as he adjusts Yevgeny to settle more comfortably in his arms. Svetlana doesn’t miss the movement, so she just quirks a lone eyebrow at him that says I'm not buying your shit. Mickey isn’t sure when Svetlana got so good at reading him, but he isn’t sure he likes it. It makes him feel exposed, like he’s under some fucking microscope or something. Still, it's nice, not to have to be misread or misstep and then have everything blow up in his face. The king of that song and dance is currently doing his best impression of a fucking marshmallow in his bedroom.
“Because girlfriend is at work and I must go be surrogate to happy couple,” she replies. She’s wearing a fluffy cream top over a light blue mini-skirt, and she looks every inch the motherly school-teacher she’s posing as. All she needs now is some proper fucking English and she’s set.
He sighs. “Fine,” he says. “But don’t be fucking surprised if the milk-sucker is dead when you get back.” He doesn’t mind the baby, not really. People keep expecting him to hate the baby because of Terry and his fatherly affection, but seriously, he’s a Milkovich. He can get past that pretty easy. Sure, he bitches and grumps about the kid, but at the end of the day the kid has his icy blue eyes and Mickey can see the Milkovich fire burning in them. He looks a bit like Mandy back then, actually, when his mom was busy cleaning up Terry’s shit and had to leave him to look after the baby.
So no, he doesn’t actually mind, and he supposes that if he dug really deep he could find some shred of love for the kid, but he has a rep to maintain here.
Svetlana doesn’t even stop to respond to him, which is a testament to how fucking crazy she is because instead of being a sane fucking human being, she just picks up a knife and stabs it into the table, embedding it several centimeters into the wooden top. “If baby is not happy sleeping when I come back, this is you!” she quips brightly, shoving the knife a little further in for emphasis. Jesus Christ, and he thought Mandy was bad. She shoots him one last icy glare that is somehow matched with a beaming smile for Yevgeny, and sweeps out of the house like some demonic Russian hurricane before he can even reply.
“Yeah, fuck you too!” he yells to the empty living room. Yev just giggles.
-
It’s noon and Mickey is ready to shoot himself with his Luger and set the remains on fire. In the past three hours Yevgeny has managed to climb onto the stove, find a switchblade that Iggy that left on the couch, mistaken a bottle of vodka for milk, and almost stabbed Mickey with the kitchen knife that Svetlana had left on the table twice. He’s a Milkovich alright, for fuck’s sake. Mickey has since gone out of his way to baby-proof every surface within the little brat’s reach, not because he cares, mind. He just doesn’t want to have his body sold on the black market by Svetlana if she comes back and finds a scratch on the kid. Mandy was never this batshit crazy, he thinks. Hell, Mandy would just happily gurgle at him as he fed her, ignoring his scowls and curses. Mickey wonders what went wrong. Like most things fucked up with the Milkoviches, he chooses to blame Terry.
He’s left Yevgeny in the living room, strapped to his baby seat like he’s in a fucking roller coaster, and left the TV on while he excavates the fridge for something to cobble together for lunch. So far he has some old tomatos, a chicken drumstick, and a couple of spices. Not much to work with, but enough to make an old recipe. He hasn’t cooked this for a while; fuck, he hasn’t cooked in general for a while. You don’t cook in the Milkovich household, or do anything that isn’t to do with videogames, booze, drugs, fucking some whores, or beating the shit out of some asshat. Anything outside of that scope is faggy. Still, now that Terry’s behind bars, hopefully for a long time this time, he supposes he can afford to let loose a little. Bring back a couple of old habits. Besides, some of those old habits were the only thing he has left of his mother, before his home life officially went to shit.
He’s jolted out of his thoughts by Yevgeny’s shriek. His first thought is that someone’s died, but no one’s around to scream. His second thought is that he’s been right about his house being haunted all along, and that Iggy really shouldn't have buried those bodies in the backyard godammit. His third thought is what the fuck that’s Yevgeny. Yup, that’s his kid alright, screeching like Christ has come to earth early and landed in the fucking living room. What the fuck was supposed to happen while watching fucking TV? He bolts to the living room, and watches Yevgeny bawl as some old movie about dinosaurs plays. He squints at the screen. Jeez, the fucking movie had come out when he was a kid, what was the network fucking thinking?
“Hey,” he hisses, foisting Yevgeny into his arms. “Quit that shit kid, you’re gonna wake Ian up.”
Yevgeny looks at him with wide eyes, and he has to shove down a surge of affection for the innocent brat. He's not supposed to go soft at some doe-eyed brat, especially when not said brat might just wake Ian up with his shit. Still, he can't help feeling a little bit of care for him. The poor kid’s not in for an easy life, growing up in the South Side. At least he won't grow up with the shadow of Terry hanging over his head, not if Mickey has anything to say about it, and he has an entire arsenal of weapons to fucking say about it. He's a little at a loss as to how to handle a screaming child until he drags up a faded memory of his mom. He slowly starts bouncing the kid like his mom used to do for Mandy in hopes of calming the kid and bringing back some nice and quiet. It settles the stomach , she used to say, her eyes bright with joy as she cradled Mandy. When he’s sure the brat’s not about to start bringing the house down with his vocal chords again, he settles Yevgeny back into his baby chair, smirking as Yevgeny gurgles happily and wriggles to get comfortable.
The room’s still dark when he walks in, the curtains drawn tight to block any sunlight, which has the bonus effect of making his room look like something out of a shitty TV-drama. He focuses in on the swathe of blankets on his bed, and the huddled figure nestled inside them. The second time Ian had gone into this depression shit, he'd gone over to Goodwill and taken all the blankets he could find, dumping them on the bed for Ian to wriggle into like a fucking earthworm. He keeps them under the bed when Ian comes out of it, just in case. “Hey Mumbles,” he says, “I’m making some grub. You want any?” He doesn’t think Ian’s actually going to reply, but he offers anyway, because hope’s a bitch. Stark silence is his reply. Mickey’s eyes twitch a little with annoyance, but he tamps it down for Ian’s sake. God, he’s going to kick Gallagher’s ass when he gets out of this shitty funk. Fuck what Fiona says about that TLC crap.
“Right, so I’m making some soup, and you’re going to fucking drink it when I come back. We clear?” he orders, raising an eyebrow that he knows Ian won’t see. He phrases it like an army-command, just on the off-chance some part of the ex-military crazed Ian still responds to that. His patience is rewarded when the bundle of blankets shift slightly. “Didn’t know you could cook,” a disembodied voice croaks, and Mickey can’t help but feel a wave of relief. Ian’s replying. He’s coming out of it. He’s not moving, and his voice sounds like he’s decided to inhale a couple of shipments of cigarettes, but it’s something.
“Fuck off,” he replies automatically, and then winces because seriously the dude just started talking Milkovich now is not the time to be a bastard . Thankfully, a soft chuckle assures him that he didn’t just fuck it up. He waits for Ian to say something else, but nothing else seems forthcoming. “So I’ll just cook the shit. I’ll let you know when I’m done,” he tries, hoping for another response.
Silence.
So much for fucking progress, Mickey thinks as he ruffles the tuft of hair sticking out of the mountain of blankets and shuts the door behind him. He glances at the living room, where Yev is now happily clapping his hands at the TV. He could still remember actually being stabbed by accident by Iggy in front of that same TV, a couple of years back. Now he’s cooking soup for his depressed boyfriend while his sort-of son gurgles at cartoons. Hell, last year he got fucking shot, for christ's sake. He used to be a fucking badass, so when did his life get so domestic?
Right. Lunch. He grabs a giant pot and settles it on the counter with a bang, wincing at the sound when he realizes that he might be disturbing Ian. He cooks a lot gentler after that, making sure to not make too much noise. It's difficult, but he manages. As he throws the tomatoes in, he’s suddenly confronted with the memory of the first time he’d tried cooking. He’d been 6 back then, and Anya Milkovich was still alive;
“ It’s too fucking high mom! I can’t reach!” Mickey grouses as he balances on a stool. He’s still so short that he can’t actually see over the top of the pot, let alone put in the ingredients.
“Language!” Anya scolds, cuffing him over the back of his head while he giggles. Sighing, she wraps her hands around the young boy’s torso, lifting him clean off the ground.
“There, you see it now?” she asks with fake-annoyance. Mickey can hear the smile in her words though.
“Yep!” he crows, tossing the onions in with gusto.
After half an hour of Mickey whining about the soup taking too long to cook, it’s done. Anya’s barely put the bowl on the table with some bread before he lunges at it like a ravenous wolf. It’s not often Mickey Milkovich gets to eat a full meal like this. He vacuums the soup, and holds out the bowl for seconds to his smiling mother.
“Next!” he demands, trying to emulate his father’s gruff tone. Anya is not amused.
“Mickey Milkovich. Ask me that in a better tone or I will drink it all myself!” Mickey stops, wide-eyed, before grinning suddenly with a smile that screams ‘eureka’. He bolts off the chair, making his way to the pot. He manages to get a hold of the ladle with both hands, intent on getting the soup himself, but there’s just one problem.
He’s still too short.
Anya just sashays over to the pot, casually ladling more soup for herself in front of her distressed son. Like a moth to flame, Mickey follows the bowl back to the table, and can only gaze pitifully as his mother betrays him in the worst way possible. She drinks the soup.
“Mo-om.” he whines over to the table, where Anya is desperately trying not to laugh.
“Apologize or I’ll finish it!” she warns, holding a spoon threateningly to her mouth.
Mickey folds. “Okay okay!” he cries, “I’m sorry so please give me the soup!” For added effect, he places his hands together and bows at his mom. He’s rewarded with a soup bowl and a kind smile. He’s about to dig in when he realizes that his mom hasn’t gotten up to get more soup.
“What about you?” he asks. Anya just smiles. “There isn’t any more left,” she replies warmly, like Mickey hasn’t just taken her lunch. He can feel a pit of guilt gnawing at him, which only gets worse when his mom adds, “Besides, I’m full already. You just eat up.”
He chews at his lip, rubbing it absentmindedly while he thinks. On one hand, he wants the soup. On the other…
“I know! We’ll share!” he declares brightly, proud of himself for coming up with such a clever solution. His mom looks pointedly at him for a second, before she breaks out into laughter at Mickey’s puffed out chest. They end up sitting on the same chair, Mickey cross-legged on his mom’s lap while they drink the soup. By the time they’re done, Mickey can feel his eyes drooping. It’s been a fun morning, but now he just wants to sleep. Fuzzily, he feels himself being picked up by his mom and being lowered into his bed.
“Sleep, diet’a. Sleep to my lullaby,” she says, smoothing his hair. Mickey falls asleep to his mother’s warm voice, its words echoing as they lead him into blissful rest.
He comes back to himself only to realize that he’s holding three bowls of piping hot soup. Apparently he’s so used to cooking it that he can do it on autopilot. Good to know. Slowly, he puts one in on the table for him, and steps into the darkened room to give another to Ian. After some coaxing, he manages to get Ian to take a few sips, which he counts as a win. Leaving Ian to his soup, he finally gets to Yev.
Note to all mothers: As Mickey will attest, you would rather slam your head against a brick wall until the wall breaks, than to ever, ever spoon feed a fucking baby. It's less a feeding session and more a war of epic proportions. Mickey thinks that the fucking Nazi's didn't have shit on the horrors of feeding a baby Milkovich.
“Fuck!” Mickey swears as Yevgeny, or as he now calls him, the shit-faced bastard, spills some more soup onto his shirt. He swears, the thing looks more like it was fucking printed red. He’s not even sure he can remember its original color anymore, under all the grime. Still, somehow he’s managed to get Yevgeny to drink most of the soup, so go Mickey Milkovich, dad of the fucking year.
When he's put the dishes in the sink to wash later, he comes back to check on the kid, looking at him placidly from his stool. Yevgeny’s eyes droop slightly, and he abruptly pitches forward into Mickey’s arms. “Jeez, give a guy a little warning, will ya?” he chuckles, gathering the exhausted child into his arms for an afternoon nap. Except Yev doesn’t sleep. He keeps forcing his eyes open, like he’s waiting for something to happen.
“What, you want me to sing you a fucking song or something?” he asks, incredulously. Amazingly, the responding smile seems to reply enough. He knocks his head for something that’s appropriate to sing to a kid, but he can’t think of anything. Most of his songs are a bit too… rock , for a lullaby.
Like a river, the words flow into his head, lyrics from a happier time, when the world still seemed open and full of joy. A tide that carries a world with Anya Milkovich in it, before the mugging and the bullet holes. Before standing before a grave, wondering to god what his mother had ever done wrong. Before his father closed up and became a full-time criminal hunting down his wife’s murderers. Before he was roped in into a dark world and learnt how cruel it was. Before he had to become cold.
In his head, he can still hear his mom, breaking through time to watch as her son cradles his grandson to sleep. She might even be proud, he thinks as he opens his mouth to sing.
“Don’t lose your way, with each passing day. You’ve come so far, don’t throw it away.
Live believing, dreams are for weaving. Wonders are waiting to start. ”
He’s a little awkward at first. Milkoviches don’t make a habit of ever being faggy enough to sing, especially a song as fucking sappy as this, but he’s not exactly a straight Milkovich anymore, so he’ll give it some room. Besides, he's always been able to hold a key, before the habit got beaten out of him. As he sings, he remembers. His voice chokes up a little here and there, but he holds steady. He’s not about to break because of fucking memories, but they flow nonetheless. Live your story. Faith, hope and glory. Hold to the truth in your heart, he sings, and he thinks of Ian. Of fights and tears and the earth rumbling and shattering before them because if Ian's the wind, blowing wild and free, then Mickey's the fucking fire that gets stoked by the wind. It shouldn't work, but somehow they've found their home in each other.
He finds his stride around the chorus, watching as Yevgeny’s eyes droop lower and lower until they finally close. If we hold on together, I know our dreams will never die. He remembers Anya Milkovich's tender smile, and thinks maybe that's why he fucking fell for Ian in the first place. They have the same smile. Tucking the baby close to his chest, he’s suddenly struck by how small he is. So young, just like Mandy was, before the world came and the reality of Southside embedded itself into her skin. He feels the need to protect him, to guard him and make sure he never knows the fear he and Mandy grew up with, the knowledge that you'll grow up without a home, not a real one. It’s a sobering realization.
Sometimes he wonders whether he'll ever be okay. He'll never admit it, but he knows he's fucked up. He's always figured something broke under Terry's fists, and he's never really managed to put himself back together. He's just cobbled together something out of bits and pieces of himself, and then threw in everything he knew Terry wanted from him. Sometimes he wonders whether he'd have turned out like Gallagher, if Anya hadn't lost the fight, if he hadn't been left to watch his father implode into himself at the loss.
Sometimes he wonders if that's what he'll do if he ever lost Ian.
Dreams see us through, to forever. He knows he's fucked up. He knows he's nothing even resembling a catch. There is no one in the fucking universe that should be able to look at Mickey Milkovich in the eye and see anything worth being with. Even if they did, it wasn't feasible. Mickey's got nothing but knives, guns, and a willingness to use them. He can't fucking build a future for his family. Not for Yevgeny, and not for Ian. So maybe he's waiting for the other fucking shoe to drop, for everything to go fucking wrong and for him to land somewhere worse than Juvie. That's what shit's like in the Southside. It isn't fun or pretty to live there. It's why people want to fucking build over this shithole, because there's not much worth saving. Ian used to know that, he thinks as he puts Yevgeny to bed. Ian was supposed to get out, do all the shit Mickey would never get to do, because Ian was smart. Then the bipolar happened and he's been thrown back into the ghettos because nowhere else will take him.
He doesn't have much else to do, so he just keeps singing. Souls in the wind, must learn how to bend. He walks to the kitchen, starts scrubbing the bowls clean. He doesn't think of how much he knows what fucking bending is. Bend for Terry, bend for your poor old dad and go fag-bash some poor kid. Bend for Ian, shove yourself into fucking gay bars and almost get murdered for choosing him. He rubs a tired hand over his eyes, and then swears because soap in his eyes fucking shit. He manages to get most of the soap out of his eyes, but Jesus fuck that hurt.
He walks about the house, absentmindedly gathering the kids toys Yev's thrown about throughout the day to toss into his room. Seek out a star, hold on to the end. Hold on to what's good in your life. Hold on to Mandy, to Yevgeny, to Svetlana. His grip on the toys tightens fractionally.
Hold on to Ian.
"We're taking care of him together. You, me, together. He's fucking family." Mickey borderline yells, because this is too fucked up. He's just gotten Ian, just fucking came out for the bastard. He's thrown away his cred, his reputation as a Milkovich, just for a fucking shot with Gallagher, and now life's thrown another fucking screw-up into the shitstorm that's his life.
He's all I have. He doesn't say, because he knows they all hear it anyway.
Don't take away the only home I've ever had.
Sveltana's running late. She should've been back by now, from whatever odd-end jobs she pulls to pitch in for the house. At his insistence, she's gone out of the prostitution business, but being pregnant as a surrogate mother doesn't leave much room for job opportunities. Mickey throws the toys haphazardly into Yev's room, and turns to leave. A tiny gurgle stops him. The kid's reaching out for something, eyes scrunched up in some silent need. Valley, mountain, there is a fountain, washes our tears all away. On a whim, he picks a stuffed lion that Ian won at a fair for the baby off the floor, gingerly placing it into the kid's outstretched palms. The brat all but snatches it away from Mickey, cuddling into it like a pillow. Mickey snorts fondly, because his rep aside, there's something there in that innocence that gets him every time. Fuck, it's always the night that brings on this shit, Mickey thinks. Darkness has a habit of bringing out the introspection he usually never bothers to deal with. Or maybe today's just fucking special. He doesn't know.
When he turns around, Ian's watching him.
Worlds are swaying.
“Hey,” Ian greets. He’s dressed in the same clothes he’s been wearing for the past week, and he looks ragged to the bone, but he’s standing there, clutching a soup bowl in his hands as he leans against the door frame. Mickey can't bear to look at Ian's eyes yet, he doesn't know how to handle what would happen if he looks up and sees the dead eyes that have greeted him every fucking morning for the past three weeks. He wants Ian to be okay. Fuck it, he needs Ian to be okay. Someone is praying. He's done fucking pretending Ian's a fuck-buddy, he can't go back to that now, but he needs some stability. He needs for something in his life to stay, to give him actual fucking hope to get through tomorrow. Please, God, don't take this from him.
Mickey looks up, and he sees the stars twinkling in Ian's shining eyes, a soft smile dancing across his lips as he fixes Mickey with all his attention. Please let us come home to stay. He looks like Old-Ian, the one from before the crash in depression and disaster. He can feel the life pulsing beneath in his veins. He looks in Ian's eyes and sees freedom. He sees hope and future and things he'd never thought Mickey Milkovich would be so lucky to have. He takes a step forward.
He’s awake.
He’s okay.
He’s home.