Work Text:
2023
Ian begins to slow down when the counter displays a bright green 2, and he comes to a stop before reaching the crosswalk, just as the traffic light turns red. Only then does he let out a sigh.
It had been a long night, following an even longer week. Returning to his routine as a paramedic was taking its toll; at 29, Ian’s resilience—the very quality that had driven him to pursue this same job in his 20s—was starting to wear thin. Not because of aging per se, of course—he hadn’t even turned 30 yet—but because of the lethargy that had preceded his time in prison, the pandemic, and his jobs as a dispatcher and truck driver; he had become too lax, and all those years had weakened the military discipline he took such pride in. That didn’t mean it wasn’t still there—he knew it was—just that it was somewhat dormant, struggling to awaken.
Maybe it is partly due to getting older. Either way, he doesn’t dwell on it too much. He knows it’s just a matter of getting used to it and adapting his routine to his life—and, by extension, to Mickey’s.
Their routine had taken a complete turn since Ian managed to pass his paramedic exam again and, miraculously, get his old job back. They still wake up and go to sleep together, and there are very few dinners and lunches they don’t share, but they aren’t glued to each other’s sides like they were in the first few years after they got back together. Now, Ian devotes himself body and soul to his new job, trying to prove that he appreciates and deserves the opportunity to be there, and Mickey goes out of his way for his new business—a cute auto parts store they opened when the transportation business stopped looking very appealing and their savings were enough to invest in something.
Ian has to admit that he’s never seen Mickey so motivated by anything. He gets up every morning without complaint, maintains good relationships with his suppliers, and treats customers kindly; many—those who aren’t intimidated by his appearance—even hold him in high regard. Besides, since he’s so busy, he commits far fewer crimes, and Ian lives in peace knowing he’ll never have to see him isolated behind bulletproof glass again.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the sad look in his husband’s eyes when he saw him for the last time after that breakup so many years ago—dressed in an orange jumpsuit and a 15-year sentence hanging over his head—but he knows he won’t forget the sparkle in his eyes on the day the shop opened either. He’d never seen him smile so broadly. The memory seems more magical every time he recalls it.
Beside him, Mickey has his eyes closed, but after so many nights and mornings spent studying, Ian can tell by his breathing that he isn’t asleep—just resting.
Tammy’s birthday was last Wednesday, and she decided to celebrate it this Saturday night.
Ian really enjoyed the party. He loves spending time with his nieces and nephews, who seem to grow half a centimeter every day (it’s hard to believe Franny is already eight), and he enjoys listening to Carl’s stories, which are fresh every week at The Alibi. Liam is turning into a charming young man, better than any Gallagher at his age—it’s a beautiful thing to watch.
Debbie… well, she’s still Debbie. Just as unpredictable as ever, but it’s always entertaining to have her around. Family gatherings wouldn’t be the same without her inappropriate comments, which always lead to some sibling squabble and Mickey’s most beautiful laughter.
On that particular night, Carl had thought it was a good idea to bring some joints to share at the gathering, and Mickey—fed up with the Tamietti family and looking for some fun—had thought it was an even better idea to mix them with beer and wine.
Now, Ian is driving home from Lip’s house with a sloth in place of his husband.
Mickey on drugs is the stickiest thing Ian has ever touched. Not that it bothers him, of course, but there’s a limit to how much public displays of affection you can get away with before people start finding you obnoxious. On that occasion, the first sign that they’d pushed others’ tolerance too far had come in the form of a roll of the eyes from Lip and some exchanged glances between Carl and Debbie. “Happy Birthday” had already been sung, and both Freddie and Franny were dozing off on the couch after eating cake, so Ian took it as a polite cue to head home.
The traffic light turns amber, and seconds later, they’re driving through the streets again. The stereo hums in their Toyota Camry, a mundane luxury they were able to afford once the business started bringing in a good income. Neither of them had the energy to pick out songs, so they just let the radio play.
Ian longs for a nice hot shower and to be buried in the mattress, cuddling with his husband, without having to set an alarm for the next day (no need to state his love for Sundays). These are the simple pleasures of life he hadn’t noticed before getting married, moving out, and becoming a fully functional adult—but to which he had become utterly addicted. A drug his parents had never bothered to try (if you’ll pardon the pun), and one that Ian enjoys as if it were the greatest discovery of all.
He glances quickly at the clock on the car’s display, which reads 12:06 a.m. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel.
Suddenly, Mickey sits up, his eyes bloodshot and his hair disheveled.
He lets a few long seconds pass before speaking.
“I like this song,” he says in a hoarse voice.
“Hmm?”
Para amarte
Necesito una razón
Y es difícil creer
Que no exista una más que este amor
Ian brakes again at a red light and turns to look at him closely. Mickey has his eyes fixed on the dashboard, as if he were recalling a memory buried deep in his mind. Or maybe it’s just the lingering effect of sleep.
Then he smiles shyly and returns Ian’s gaze.
“Shakira.”
A ballad plays over the speakers, and everything clicks into place in Ian’s mind. He doesn’t recognize the station, but he does recognize the unmistakable voice of the Colombian singer, which now fills the silence around them. The song sounds old, and Ian’s heart flutters in his chest at the tenderness his husband exudes. A smile spreads across his face.
He himself knows very few Shakira songs, and all of them are in English, so how is it possible that his husband—the most hardcore metalhead on the continent—would know this Latin ballad? They listen to music together all the time; they share a YouTube Music account. Something like this wouldn’t have gone unnoticed by Ian.
“Green.”
“What?”
“The traffic light, Ian.”
Fuck.
He refocuses his gaze on the road and resumes driving. Deep down, he’s grateful that it’s so late and that there aren’t any cars behind them, because he would surely have been blasted by honking by now.
As he gets back to work, things get even stranger beside him.
“Y aprendí a quitarle al tiempo los segundos, tú me hiciste ver el cielo aún más profundo.”
His pronunciation is noticeably off because of his accent, and the words slip out thanks to the alcohol, but his raspy voice betrays the confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s saying.
Ian is stunned, and soon the realization hits him like a truck.
Mexico.
“I thought you hadn’t learned Spanish,” he says, making no attempt to hide how delighted he is by the situation. He doesn’t usually hear him sing, and now that he’s heard him in Spanish, he thinks he’s found a new addiction to add to his list.
Mickey, who had closed his eyes again at some point, looks at him once more and gives him a sweet smile.
“I lived there for two years, Gallagher. Only you, fuckhead, believed me when I said I didn’t learn shit.”
It makes sense, and Ian feels a little silly for not having realized that sooner. He’d always assumed that Mickey hadn’t bothered to learn a single thing while he was there. He remembers that when Carl’s ex-girlfriend’s Mexican family moved into the Gallagher house, he used to pester Mickey to talk to them.
“I don’t get a single word these idiots are sayin’,” he would say, and go back to eating his burrito, ending the discussion.
Now, years later, it seems obvious that it had all been due to his husband’s apathy and not a lack of knowledge.
He was far from everything he’d ever known, with free time on his hands and working with people who spoke another language—what else could Mickey have been doing other than learning Spanish just to get by? And he wasn’t living in isolation; he surely heard Spanish songs wherever he went, and maybe he even sought them out on his own, as a tool for learning.
Ian imagines Mickey alone on a beach watching the sunset, listening to music on a disposable cell phone and letting the melodies blend with the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. For a moment, he wonders what kind of music he would listen to there: only in Spanish, or also in his native language? Would he listen only to Spanish music so as not to miss home? Would it hurt him to be there? As a paramedic, he knows it’s impossible, but the mere image is enough to make his heart turn to mush.
Curiosity gets the better of him, and a question slips uncontrollably from his lips.
“How did you learn?”
Mickey takes a while to answer. For a moment, Ian thinks he won’t, and that he’s crossed a line by asking for more than Mickey was willing to offer. They don’t talk about Mexico. His husband always finds ways to avoid talking about his days as a fugitive, and Ian, feeling guilty, lets him. He doesn’t like talking about his days at the club either. These topics are still too raw—wounds that haven’t healed yet—and, as such, they’re painful to touch. Ian thought that if they let time pass, it would be easier to address these issues—which are so crucial to both of them and to their relationship—but they’ve been married for four years now and don’t talk much about it, not nearly enough. Those days always find their way into their conversations, because it’s hard to refer to past moments without bringing them up, but the topics usually fizzle out right away.
A heartbeat. Another one. And…
“Chatting,” he begins, looking down the road alongside Ian. “I met a woman at the bar where I worked. She spoke both languages—she was from Argentina. She helped me a lot and introduced me to music that helped me learn a few words.”
Something loosens in Ian’s chest, and he feels lighter. Maybe it’s relief, or excitement. He’s entering a world Mickey hadn’t allowed him to access before—or at least not completely; he can’t let the conversation die, he needs to know more. He clings to his curiosity with composure and follows up with something simple.
“What was her name?” simple, harmless, inoffensive.
“Valentina.” This time he answers immediately, as if he’d been waiting for Ian to ask for more and agreeing with it. “She was older; she could have been my mother. She ran the bar. She used it as a front for her husband’s side business.”
And Mickey sacrificed them in a heartbeat to get back to him. He doesn’t say it out loud, of course, but it’s implied. They both know it.
“Do you miss her?”
“What?! No.” His expression is one of utter disgust. “I wanted the fuck out of there, man. I hated every second of it.”
Ian doesn’t know how to feel about it. The fact that Mickey did that is what led them to be here today, and God knows how much he loves him—and the life they’ve built together. But he can’t help but feel sorry for that family that had accepted Mickey without question. They helped him, for better or for worse. They were there for him when Ian couldn’t be.
His husband, as always, seems to read his mind.
“They killed people, Ian. They probably would have killed me if they’d had to. They probably want to do it now. Every night, I’m grateful they’re serving life in prison.”
Ian agrees with him. And so, his sense of guilt fades just as quickly as it appeared, and instead he takes in the new information and tries to bring a playful tone back to the conversation.
“What other songs do you know, Luis Miguel?”
“Go fuck yourself.” The little smile that slips out of her mouth neutralizes the aggressiveness of the comment.
“No, I’m serious. What others?”
“I don’t remember,” and he closes his eyes again. They both know he’ll end up talking, but teasing his husband is one of Mickey Milkovich’s greatest passions.
“I don’t buy it.”
“That’s your problem.” Ian has had enough and takes his eyes off the road for a moment to give his husband a light punch. “Jesus Christ, fine, I’ll tell you.”
When they get home, they turn on the TV and search YouTube for all the songs Mickey can remember—and there are way too many of them. Ian finds his ability to memorize so many titles and lyrics fascinating, and he’s surprised to find himself enjoying many of the ballads his husband plays for him, even though he doesn’t fully understand the lyrics. The song on the radio is one of Mickey’s favorites, something Ian realizes just by reading his husband’s body language.
They’re sprawled on the couch, skipping through the songs and trying to make out the lyrics (or well, Ian is). Mickey’s buzz was wearing off, so he figured it was time to open another beer. They share it, because tomorrow is Sunday and after such a long week, Ian deserves a little reward.
“Wow. And I’m the ‘to gay’ one,” he says teasingly, and gets a playful punch in return. Mickey doesn’t even try to keep up his act of being angry, because half a second later he snuggles even closer to his husband.
“It’s a great song, bitch,” he replies, offended. They listen to the music in silence, breaking it only to make the occasional comment. Mickey is the one who talks the most; the alcohol turns him into a chatterbox, something Ian loves to pieces. “If you tell that fucking idiot brother of yours, I’ll kill you.”
Ian can tell from his tone that he’s completely serious. He laughs and kisses the top of Mickey’s head.
“I love you too much to do that to you,” Mickey smiles.
“Good,” and he snatches the beer from him to take a sip.
He knows there’s still so much he hasn’t discovered about Mickey’s years in Mexico, but he has all the time in the world to complete the puzzle. They have so many things to experience, and they’re the ones who set the course and the pace. He wonders how much he still has to learn about his husband, and how much Mickey still has to learn about him. The anticipation already fills him with excitement, and it’s that excitement that speaks for him when he blurts out:
“Have you dated a Mexican ?”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
The only lights on come from the TV and the lamp next to the couch, which they bought when they moved in. Neither of these sources of light—one cold, the other warm—shines as brightly as the smile Mickey gives him, with his tired eyes and tousled hair. It takes his breath away, and he knows he must have the dumbest expression in the world, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is Mickey—his voice, his eyes—and the fact that he’s his and his alone until the day they die.
“I love you,” Mickey steals the words from his lips.
“I love you more.”
They’re fine; they have time.
All the time in the world.