Chapter Text
The pharmacy on Kedzie still had the metal gate halfway down even though the OPEN sign was lit, like the place couldn’t decide if it trusted the neighborhood or not. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The whole place smelled like bleach and cheap candy.
Fiona had two crumpled dollar bills in one hand and a handful of coins in the other, counting them again like they might multiply if she stared hard enough.
Two ninety-nine before tax.
She had two seventy-four.
Behind her, the cooler hummed. Somewhere near the counter a kid coughed, wet and sharp. It made her shoulders tighten automatically, like she could feel it in her own lungs.
Ian’s cough had sounded like that that morning — thin and rattling, too deep for a kid his size. Fever-bright eyes, skin too hot, blanket kicked off and then dragged back on again because he couldn’t get comfortable. Lip had sworn he could handle it, twelve years old and already trying to be a man about things, but Fiona knew better. Fever didn’t care how smart you were.
She counted the coins again. Same result. Useless.
The cough syrup sat on the counter like it was mocking her.
“Two ninety-nine,” the cashier repeated, already bored, already looking past her like she was taking up oxygen.
“I know,” Fiona said, voice tight. “I’m— I got it, just—”
She didn’t. She knew she didn’t.
Her brain was already running through options: put it back, try the corner store, water it down, make Ian sleep it off, hope it didn’t get worse. He’d been shivering. That part scared her more than the heat.
She started to gather the coins back into her palm, already bracing herself for the walk home empty-handed, when a voice from behind her cut in, rough and annoyed.
“Jesus, just give it to her already.”
He was leaning against the end of the counter like he owned the place, one shoulder propped up, a bag of chips dangling from his fingers. Dark hair, crooked mouth, eyes that looked half-lidded and mean even when he wasn’t doing anything.
Of course.
“Mind your business,” she snapped automatically, turning back to the cashier. “It’s fine. I’m leaving.”
The cashier had already picked the bottle up to take it away.
A hand slammed a few coins onto the counter beside hers. Not enough to look generous — just enough to close the gap.
“Ring it,” he said.
“Wha—”
“Ring it,” he repeated, not even looking at her, like he was bored already.
The cashier shrugged and punched the button.
Fiona’s face went hot. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Good thing I didn’t do it for you then,” he shot back. “I did it so we could all stop standing here.”
The bottle slid across the counter toward her. She grabbed it on instinct, fingers tight around the plastic.
“I’ll pay you back,” she said immediately, the words coming out like a warning.
That got his attention. He finally looked at her fully, eyes dragging over her face like he was trying to place her.
“Gallagher, right?” he said. “The loud house with the screaming kids.”
Her jaw set. “What’s it matter to you.”
“It don’t,” he shrugged, “just curious.”
“Stay curious.” She said, voice hostile.
“Well, aren’t you?”
Fiona blinked at him. “What?”
He jerked a thumb toward the bottle still clutched in her hand. “You wanna pay me back, don’t you? Ain’t you curious on how to find me, or you gonna play dora the explorer?”
Her cheeks heated. She opened her mouth to say something, closed it again. She didn’t like being caught off-guard. Didn’t like that her brain was trying to calculate exactly how to get out of this without looking like a total idiot.
Iggy snorted, like the whole thing was funny in the worst way. “Iggy Milkovich.”
Her eyes widened, blinking at the name. Milkovich. Of course. She should have known. The Milkoviches were… infamous. Kind of like the Gallaghers, only with more teeth and less subtlety.
She huffed, more to herself than him. “Whatever,” she muttered, shoving the bottle into her bag a little too tightly. Her fingers trembled even though she tried not to let it show.
Iggy opened his mouth to say something, but the doorbell jingled again.
A little dark-haired boy stomped up, shoulders squared, glaring at Fiona like she’d stolen his last dime. Probably about Ian’s age — maybe older. He froze when he saw Iggy and narrowed his eyes.
“You got ’em?” the kid demanded, voice clipped.
Iggy rolled his eyes, crouched slightly, and ruffled the boy’s hair. “I told you to wait in the fuckin’ car, shithead,” he said. He shoved a pack of cigarettes into the kid’s hand. “Here. Don’t lose ’em.”
The boy grumbled but didn’t argue, shoving the pack into his hoodie pocket.
Iggy turned back to Fiona, smirk tugging at his lips. “Later, Gallagher.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He pushed through the gate and out the door like the place didn’t exist.
“Hey! You have to pay for those!” the cashier shouted after him.
Fiona’s brows furrowed. How the fuck did he steal those? You had to get behind the counter for that, and—
Whatever. Not her fuckin’ problem.
Ian was.
And she needed to get home fast so she could get this medicine to him and get him feeling better.
Fiona huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose, and muttered, “Sorry,” to the cashier without really meaning it. Then she shoved the bottle deeper into her bag, turned on her heel, and started walking fast in the opposite direction of the Milkoviches, boots slapping the sidewalk.