#gallavich fandom

for iron bars:

Ian watches from the corner of the rec room as Mickey makes his phone call. Ian was assured that the person on the other end of the line wouldn’t be Terry - he remains somewhat doubtful about whether Mickey was lying - but a distant cousin who ‘knows a guy’. Mickey has a tendency to run back to Terry whenever something isn’t going exactly right. Somewhere in his head he has this insane idea that Terry looked after him. That Terry taught him to be who he is, forced him to look after himself, and showed him how to be strong. It’s all wrong, Ian knows, because the best traits Mickey has are the ones that have nothing to do with his dad. And he isn’t strong because he has good aim or knows how to hide a body, he’s strong because of his heart and his softness and his protectiveness. 

But Ian thinks that Mickey’s calling Terry, not some distant cousin who ‘knows a guy’. He wonders if Terry can actually help, because even if Mickey managed to convince him to take pity on him and his gay lover, how much could he really do while they were behind bars? 

Once he’s finished, Mickey strides over to Ian, taking up space beside him and leaning against the wall. Slip watches the whole move with eyes like death; beady and glinting. Ian makes an effort not to look back, pulling his attention towards Mickey and the small argument that Scott and Santos are having in front of him. 

“So?” Ian asks, raising his eyebrows when Mickey doesn’t instantly explain. 

“Asshole’s overchargin’ me for it, but says he can get it done.” Mickey states cryptically, shrugging his shoulders as if it’s nothing. 

“Get what done?” Ian hisses back. He stares worriedly at Mickey’s side profile, eyes wide and scared. Ian never said anything about Slip dying. Fuck, Mickey never said anything about Slip dying. Ian didn’t want Slip’s blood on his hands, even if Slip is an awful human being. Even if Ian had been ready to kill him himself a week ago. 

Mickey looks back at him for a second, his expression scrunching in confusion. “Dealing with Slip.” He says, like it’s simple. Like Ian’s the strange one for even questioning it. 

“Dealing with him how?” Ian grits out. 

“By- fuckin’… I don’t know! Dealing with him. I thought we had this conversation.” It would be comical, the way Mickey waves his hands in bewilderment, if Ian weren’t concerned about his partner just ordering a hit on some gang-banger. 

“We had a conversation about getting him off our backs. Not about killing him!” Ian emphasises in a hushed voice. He’s conscious of the other people in the vicinity, even if they care much more about their own business. 

“Hold on. Who the fuck said they were killing him?” Mickey asks, perplexed. 

“You did!”

“When?”

“Just- Fuck! Just now!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“You said you were gonna have him ‘dealt with’. ‘Dealt with’. I know what that means!”

“Yeah! It means my cousin is gonna deal with the problem by getting him off our backs!”

“By killing him!”

“No! By planting fucking… heroin in his cell so he gets sent to solitary. Or makin’ him take the fall for something that gets him sent to max!”

“Well, why didn’t you fucking say that!”

“Because I thought you had more than three fucking brain cells!”

“If you had more than three brain cells, maybe you woulda thought to say that.”

“That I have more than three brain cells?”

“No, jackass. That you aren’t gonna kill Slip.”

“Why would I kill Slip?”

“He stabbed you!”

“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna kill him!”

“You threatened to kill me yesterday because I joked about dying my hair again.”

“And I stand by it. You touch my hair again, you die.”

“Jesus-“

“Hey! Can you two stop squabbling like old housewives and settle this for us?” Santos calls to them from his heated discussion with Slip. 

Ian huffs out a breath, sending Mickey a wide-eyed look of both annoyance and shocked concern. Mickey rolls his eyes - Ian thinks more at him than at Santos, which is rude - but sits himself at their table anyway. Ian joins him with a tiny push, a light shove, something that he’ll call an accident if Mickey says anything. It’s not an accident, by any means, because Mickey’s an idiot and an asshole so that’s what happens. In return, Mickey knocks Ian’s thigh with his knee. Not enough to hurt, just enough for Ian to know that Mickey is not giving Ian the last word. 

There’s something undeniably comforting about the way they can fight. Fighting is something Ian knows, arguing is how him and his family have always shown that they loved each other. It makes sense that it extends to Mickey, too. 

I went a different way with this in the end. I was struggling for a way to get rid of Slip's character after Mickey gets stabbed. I'm not sure why I changed my mind (this was written in November 2024, so a while ago now) but I think their squabbling is funny.

fic I began about Mickey being in prison for being an assassin, being recruited as a snitch and Ian being a psychiatrist who has to evaluate him throughout the mission (????)

Transcript:

DIG: Hello, I’m Dr. Ian Gallagher. I’m the psychologist doing your evaluation to-

MM: You’re a shrink?

DIG: …yes. And I’m doing your evaluation to clear you for the job. Do you have any other questions before we start?

MM: Clear me? As in make sure I’m sane?

DIG: In a way, I suppose. It’s to make sure you won’t go MIA or disobey instructions or do something to hurt yourself or others. 

MM: (laughter) Do you know who I am?

DIG: Yes.

MM: And you want me not to hurt people? Do you know why I’m here?

DIG: For the murder of twenty three individuals. Yes, I know. You’ll have to keep your murderous tendencies in check for this. 

MM: I think you chose the wrong fucking person.

DIG: You can’t contain yourself from killing people, even if it means a reduced sentence?

MM: …

DIG: If I believe you will be impacting on this task in a negative way, I will have to take you off of it. Is that clear? You’ll be back in your cell before dinner and won’t have a chance to come out again for another decade. Does that sound better?

MM: I won’t hurt anyone. 

DIG: Or yourself?

MM: (scoff) 

DIG: …

MM: That’s a serious question?

DIG: Yes. Obviously. 

MM: Jesus. Won’t hurt myself either, doc. I’m not a pre-teen girl who wants attention. 

(let me just say this isn't a statement I agree with, but it is something Mickey would say)

DIG: No, just a psychotic murderer who wants attention. 

MM: …

DIG: …

MM: Pretty sure you can’t say that. 

DIG: Why not?

MM: It’s unprofessional. 

DIG: Not sure if anyone cares about being professional when it comes to you. And I don’t think you care either, you just hate that I’m right.

MM: You’re not right.

DIG: No? How so?

MM: I’m not a psycho. And I didn’t do it to get attention. 

DIG: Hm. You didn’t do it so that Daddy would finally say he loved you?

MM: …

DIG: …

MM: I know what you’re doing. 

DIG: What’s that?

MM: You’re tryna piss me off. Get me to have an emotional reaction. See how regulated I am. You think I’m one word away from losing my shit. (laughter) Yeah, it won’t work. 

DIG: …

MM: You don’t have to do that shit. You can just ask me normal questions. 

DIG: Okay, since you’re so forthcoming. How would you describe your childhood?

MM: …competitive. 

DIG: How so?

MM: My Ma was a famous scuba diver, and she wanted me and my sister to scuba dive like her. My dad was onboard, too. But my sister was always fucking better than me, so I was on the back foot and tryna catch up. But whenever I lost, my parents were always there to catch me. They’d tell me I was a good fucking sport. 

DIG: (sigh) You’ve never done scuba diving.

MM: No?

DIG: Your mother died when you were a young child. Your sister is also not a scuba diver. Do you actually believe that story or are you lying for the fun of it?

MM: Oh, I believe it, doc. I know I was a fucking scuba diver. 

DIG: Are a lot of scuba divers also serial killers?

MM: I wanted to be the first. 

DIG: You know you weren’t a scuba diver. 

MM: … 

DIG: Honesty is the only way this is going to get us anywhere. You don’t want to talk about your childhood, clearly. How about your siblings, what do you have to say about them?

MM: My brothers are stupid. I think they got dropped on their heads as kids. Me and my sister were the only ones who would be getting anywhere. That’s why Ma and Pa signed us up for scuba diving-

DIG: (sigh) I know you aren’t delusional. I know you know you never did scuba diving. 

MM: (laughter)

DIG: It’s not funny. I’ll have to write delusions on your file if you keep this up. 

MM: (laughter) Fine, I never did scuba diving. 

DIG: Did you mean what you said about your siblings?

MM: Sure.

DIG: Were you close?

MM: Scuba diving drove us apart. 

DIG: If you can’t be serious, I’ll have to note you as insane. We can’t trust someone who won’t communicate and seems to have no grasp on reality. 

MM: Do you always threaten your patients to make them speak to you?

DIG: No. I’m not threatening you. 

MM: You’re threatening to send me back to a 3-by-3 metre cell for another ten years, where I’m isolated from the rest of humanity, if I’m not honest with you. And then you expect me to play nice. 

DIG: I’m explaining the consequences of your actions. If you don’t comply, we can’t trust you. 

MM: I’m not a fucking idiot. I get the situation. I also get that they need someone so badly that they’re willing to take a convicted serial killer out of his cage, send him off on his own with nothing but an earpiece and a mini camera. None of you shit-bags are gonna give up on this because I’m making a fucking joke. 

DIG: … 

MM: And I don’t fucking like being constantly reminded that you fuckers could send me back to my fucking box whenever you feel like it. 

Guard: Sit back!

DIG: (addressed to guard) It’s fine. He’s not doing anything. Stand back. (addressed to MM) You’re right. I’m sorry. 

MM: …

DIG: It does matter how we think you’re doing though. If we think you’re… unable to follow instruction, it will matter. And, you have the physical next week. That matters too. 

MM: As if I’d fail my physical. 

DIG: Your routine and consistent exercise is impressive, sure, but given the conditions you’ve been in...

I don't know what inspired this one, but I still think it's an interesting concept. Completely forgot I wrote it, just found it in my notes app.

A continuation of my lilac shirts and bart Simpson fic

Lewis’s sleeve gets finished, eventually. It takes a while, because he’s trying to fit in tattoo sessions around looking after his kids and his construction job. Mickey’s happy with the finished result and Nina takes photos for him because apparently his hand is too shaky for the camera. Mickey thinks that it’s ironic, since his hands are definitely not shaky when he’s tattooing. Lewis declares that he’ll be coming back in a few months for some stuff on his legs, and in the mean time Mickey picks up a few more regular customers. One woman keeps coming back, each time saying that it’ll be her last tattoo, she swears. 

Pérez lets Mickey know that the ‘trial’ period which was never really a trial is over once he’s been working for three months. Mickey had forgotten it was even a trial at all, but he’s glad it’s over anyway. 

The tattoo gun’s buzzing is the only thing Mickey hears as he works on the traditional-style rose that one of their walk-in clients wanted. 

“I swear to fuck, Tone. Stop playing with that shit in my studio!” Pérez yells, pulling away from his client to glare at Tony. 

Tony’s been bringing in a cup and ball toy recently, because he’s an idiot. Both him and Stan compete over who can play it best. Mickey’s had a turn, but it was so frustrated that Mickey almost strangled Tony with the string. 

Tony eyes Pérez with a cautious look, waiting until he turns around to start playing with it again. Both him and Stan giggle over it, wrestling it out of each other’s hands and shoving each other. 

“That looks real good, Mick.” Joey, their nineteen year old apprentice, compliments over Mickey’s shoulder. 

Most of the conversation that they share is mocking insults. Joey’s good at making fun of Pérez, Tony, Stan, even Donna. They all have a decent amount of teasing that goes on between them, and Mickey appreciates that. But Joey’s always weirdly nice to Mickey. Mickey thought at first that Joey figured Mickey was the scariest of the bunch, because he frowns more and is generally more threatening. Threats are one of his main sources of communication. 

But Mickey realises that Joey doesn’t seem to be scared of Mickey. He’s far too close to his back when he compliments him, making Mickey startle and give him a quizzical look. There’s no concern in Joey’s face, though, instead he laughs good-naturedly. It’s deeply strange. Mickey doesn’t like it. 

Once he’s finished with the guy who wanted a basic rose, he pulls up the portable card reader that he has beside his station. The guy pays and then promptly leaves. It took Mickey a long while to figure out that card reader, and he still sometimes gets it wrong. New fangled technology has never been his strong suit. His phone has a long crack down the face of it from when he threw it at a wall because it wasn’t working. Ian tells him he’s lucky it still functions. 

“Your knuckles are looking a little rough, Mickey.” Tony comments once he’s gotten bored with his game and is choosing to bother Mickey instead. 

He glances at his hands. They are getting a little blurry. Mickey doesn’t take care of the tattoos there like he should, with lotions and creams to keep them from fading. He can’t be bothered with the upkeep. He doesn’t love the FUCK U-UP that Uncle Ronnie gave to him when he was thirteen. It was never something that he questioned. All his brothers had them, his dad had them, so it made sense for him to get them too. They’re all scarred, much like the one on his chest is, because Uncle Ronnie did a shoddy job and he’s never had them redone professionally. 

“Yeah, you wanna redo ‘em for me?” Mickey offers. Usually he would only get them redone if they’re looking truly awful, but he has to keep them pretty for the job. It’s not as if he could hide them, like he can the one on his chest and the Grim Reaper on his arm. 

“Oh, fuck yeah. That shit’s gonna hurt.” Tony says with sadistic joy. “Nina! Film Mickey’s pain for Instagram!” He yells, laughing. 

“Fuck you. I’ll get Stan to do it instead.” Mickey grunts, staring at the fading patches of ink on his fingers. 

“I can do it! I’ve never done knuckles before.” Joey pipes up, looking a little too eager. 

Mickey glances at him. “Yeah, that fills me with fucking confidence.” He scoffs, not keen on having an inexperienced teen touch-up his tattoos. 

“Let the kid do it, Mick. It would be good practice.” Pérez suggests, distracted with his own client. 

“Come on! Tony said I was good last time.” 

Tony nods in agreement. “I’ll watch, make sure he’s doing it good. Nina can still film your suffering.” 

“I’ll get my camera.” Nina declares. 

Apparently everyone’s in agreement that it’s going to be Joey. The kid looks excited, and Mickey will feel like a real asshole if he shuts him down now. He takes a second to think about it, because he really doesn’t want it done poorly. He’s had enough terrible tattoos to last him a life time, and he was pretty sure that working in a tattoo parlour would get him decent tattoos for life. But he has seen Joey’s work, and it’s good. Joey’s been working on more clients recently and he’s yet to fuck up. 

Eventually, he nods. “Fine.” 

He pulls up to Joey’s station, rolling along his wheelie chair. He loves his wheelie chair. Mickey beat Nina in a spinning contest once. Joey’s delighted at the whole thing, but Mickey’s uncertain. He wasn’t exactly expecting to get a tattoo done today, and he’s concerned about Joey’s abilities. And Joey’s ecstatic expression. It’s weird. Mickey thinks it’s odd to be so happy about tattooing some stupid letters on Mickey’s fingers. 

Tony wheels himself over too and Nina returns with her digital camera. She likes photography, apparently, and uses it whenever she can. Even though it’s not much better than a phone for taking pictures of tattoos and recording Mickey’s suffering. He doesn’t mind being put on their instagram. It’s not got many followers, only a few hundred, and Tony’s done way more embarassing things on there. 

He lays his hands out on one of the higher stools they use for hand tattoos to save people from having to kill their backs slouching. 

“You ever thought about getting ‘em covered?” Tony asks, chewing loudly in Mickey’s ear as he eats from the crisp packet in his hand. 

Mickey shrugs as Joey cleans the equipment. “Not really. It’s not like I’m planning on becoming a lawyer or some shit.” Mickey hadn’t planned for his life at all. He thought he’d be dead by now, or in prison for life. Or working under his father’s thumb. None of that required clean knuckles. And his current job doesn’t require it, so he’s not keen on going through the pain of a cover-up or the pain and expenses of a removal. It’s not worth it. Ian doesn’t mind, Pérez doesn’t mind, so Mickey doesn’t give a shit. 

“Why’d you get ‘em?” Tony prods. 

“All my family had some. Was like a tradition, I guess.” Mickey mutters, nervously eyeing up Joey as he prepares the needle. 

“Ah, yeah. I remember, I saw your dad’s once. ‘ASSS HOLE’, right?” 

“Why’d you see my dad’s asshole, Tony?” Mickey asks, turning and raising an eyebrow at him. 

Tony laughs. “Used to bend him over in the showers.”

Mickey cringes at the imagery, wishing he hadn’t started this conversation. Although, the idea of his dad taking it from someone is kind of funny, given how disgusted Terry would be about it. 

“Ew, Tone.” Nina grimaces. 

“Ah, come on, it’s a joke. Mickey’s dad’s a Nazi. I’d never bang a Nazi.” Tony says, all casual and calm. 

Mickey grits his teeth, because he’d prefer to avoid talking about his father. Terry’s the worst, the absolute worst, and Mickey wishes he weren’t attached to his name. He wishes he didn’t have Terry’s blood. 

“Woah, what?” Nina gapes, taken aback by the offhand omission. 

Joey raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Yeah, he had an ‘SWP’ tat on his chest. Clear as fuck.” Tony tells them, and Tony needs to shut his big fucking mouth. None of that is anyone’s business. They can all judge Mickey’s dad and their family as much as they want, but they weren’t the ones who had to live with it. “And some Nazi eagle on his back.”

“Jesus.” Nina mutters. 

“What’s that mean?” Joey asks, curious and young. 

“Something White People.” Tony answers. 

“Supreme White Power. My dad’s an asshole. Talk about something fucking new, Jesus.” Mickey mutters, keen on ending the conversation. It’s embarrassing, if he’s honest. Mickey isn’t like that, he was never really like that. Sure, for a while he said whatever Terry said like a broken parrot, but then he got older. Sure, he kept some Nazi crap in his room, but that stuff always made Terry less intent on giving him broken ribs. He learnt better. Even his brothers, who don’t have a significant number of brain cells, learnt better. Some of his cousins didn’t, but Mickey hates them anyway. 

“Don’t the Nazis hate gay people, Mickey?” Tony asks and Mickey’s so close to giving him a sharp kick to the shin. He doesn’t, but it’s supremely hard not to. Usually he would, Tony probably wouldn’t care, but Tony isn’t asking maliciously. He’s curious like a kid, and it’s not as if Tony or any of them are well-versed in history - aside from Nina, because she actually went to school - to know these things. 

“Yeah, you fucking idiot.” He responds. 

“What’s your dad think of Ian then?” Clearly, Tony doesn’t have an off button. Mickey remembers a time when Tony got into a fight in prison, and the other dude bashed his head into a table. Maybe that messed up his ability to read social cues. 

“What the fuck d’you think, Tone?” 

“I think he doesn’t like him.” Tony figures, like the genius fucker he is. 

Mickey claps his hands sarcastically in applause. 

“I’m ready now.” Joey tells them. It took him long enough. 

Tony leans over Mickey’s shoulder to watch, and Nina starts recording Joey work, focusing the camera onto Mickey’s hands. It hurts the second the needle touches his fingers, and he scrunches his face against the pain. 

“Careful, don’t go deep. Knuckles are close to bone.” Tony inputs, which does the opposite of soothing Mickey’s nerves. Surely, Joey should have known that before they started this. 

Joey nods and keeps going, holding Mickey’s fingers in a way that feels less clinical and more soft. He doesn’t like it. Joey’s hands feel too skinny and warm - they don’t hold his hand steady enough. Mickey’s firm with his touch when he’s tattooing people. This is strange, and along with the pain of it it’s not a very enjoyable experience. 

“Having fun?” Nina laughs.

Mickey scowls at her. “No.”

Once it’s done, Joey cleans his fingers and Mickey dislikes that too. He doesn’t particularly enjoy anyone touching him, but usually he can stand it. He doesn’t remember the processes of the Grim Reaper tattoo making him feel so uncomfortable. There’s a clinical energy to giving tattoos, something clean and impersonal. Mickey’s probably reading into it, but it feels strangely intimate. The way Joey’s doing it feels odd. Mickey only wants Ian to try to be intimate with him, so it sets his nerves on fire. 

Joey wraps each of his fingers with the clingfilm they have. They don’t want to waste the more expensive second skin on the workers, and Mickey’s never put anything protective on them before so he doesn’t mind at all. 

Mickey eats his lunch after, and decides he doesn’t like Joey. He’s not unbearable, not boring like his co-workers at Old Army, yet Mickey still doesn’t like him. Mickey could probably manage in general conversation with Joey, he doesn’t mind him when they’re all laughing together, but as a whole, Mickey doesn’t like him. He doesn’t care that he’s only nineteen, Mickey knows when he dislikes a person. It’s like how Ian doesn’t like one of the nurses who works the weekend shift. There’s something normal about it. Something regular, and Mickey hasn’t had many regular things in his life. 

——

Ian notices the freshly wrapped tattoos on his fingers when Mickey walks through the door. He glances at them when Mickey sits beside him on the sofa, but only fleetingly. 

“You get your knuckles re-done?” He asks, as if he can’t see that for himself. 

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. The newbie did it. I don’t fucking like that guy. Has a weird fucking… way about him. I don’t know.” Mickey explains. 

Ian grunts in acknowledgement, passing Mickey the remote control to switch the TV. He changes it from whatever cartoon Ian was watching and replaces it with a random movie that’s half-way finished. It seems to be about murder, which is more fun than the poorly written kids’ show Ian had on. 

Stretching out on the couch, Ian yawns and throws a heavy arm around Mickey’s shoulders. He never used to do that, not when Mickey first came out and not any time after, but apparently he likes it now. Mickey doesn’t care either way, if he’s honest. There’s a comfort in having Ian’s weight around him, but he prefers the content smile Ian gives him when Mickey lets him. They’ve gone so long being hidden, and Mickey’s gone so long shrivelling himself up so that any touch felt like fire, that it’s a relief to be doing better, together, now. 

“Your dad came by today.” Ian reveals, and Mickey tenses. He’s had enough talk of his dad today to last years. 

“Why?”

Ian shrugs. “Don’t know. I think he was drunk. He was yelling outside and pounding on the door. I couldn’t work out what he wanted.”

“Fucker.” Mickey mutters. He hates that his father’s so close by that he’s a constant threat looming over them. Terry would be enough of a threat from three states over. It’s still a little shocking that he came over for no reason, because usually he’d have a purpose for it. Like trying to shoot Mickey. Or trying to shoot Ian. Or trying to strangle either of them. But a lot of the time, something sets him off. Their wedding set him off, their engagement set him off, Mickey coming out set him off. 

I think I was gonna make this a bit of a jealous!Ian fic, with the new Joey character not realising how happy they are together or something. As a side note, I was going to have Terry be a bit of a dick and come by the tattoo studio to say some horrible things as per usual with him. I think I was intending for Ian to come and pick Mickey up after the police get Terry (a little hurt/comfort) and he would then make Joey back off.

A fill-in fic for season 11 after Ian says 'hit my husband again and I'll fucking kill you'

“Fuck off.” Mickey snaps, storming down the hall. 

“Mick-“ Ian tries, stumbling up the stairs after him. 

“Fuck you.” He mutters. He stomps into their room and slams the xylophone door shut behind him. It’s difficult to close all the way, so Mickey tugs at it forcefully until he can’t see Ian’s face anymore. He almost breaks it. “Fucking twat door.” Ian hears him hiss, kicking it. 

“Come on, Mick.” Ian says, trying to pull it back open. Mickey must be holding it closed from the inside, because he can’t figure it out. “Are you serious?” He shouts through the poor quality wood. 

“Go fuck yourself.” Mickey yells. “Go see your stupid brother!” 

“Don’t be a dick, let me in.” Ian pleads. 

“You’re the fucking dick.” Mickey shouts back. “You signed that goddamn lease when I said no. You just blamed me for fighting that asshole when he hit me first.”

“And I’m sorry about that, okay? And you were being a bit of a prick to him-“

“Are you trying to apologise right now? ‘Cause at this rate I’m making you sleep on the couch for the rest of your stupid life.” Mickey snaps.

“Mick-“

“And,” Mickey interrupts, “since when does me being a prick mean I deserve a fucking punch in the face? I thought we talked about that too, but apparently not, asshole! Your dumb brother punches like a bitch, by the way. Barely felt it.” 

“Mickey, please.” Ian begs, pulling the door again. It stays firm. “Come on, let me in. We can talk about it.”

“Don’t wanna talk to you. You don’t fucking listen to anything I say.” Mickey mutters. 

“I’m sorry, okay? Can you open the door so I can talk to your fucking face? C’mon, baby.” Ian mumbles in an attempt to persuade him. 

“That’s not fucking fair, don’t do that shit.” Mickey says. “Just leave me alone, Gallagher.” He huffs. It hurts Ian’s chest to hear Mickey sound so defeated. He regrets today, badly. Everything went much worse than he expected. 

Ian sighs. He knows he won’t be able to talk to Mickey when he’s like this. The most Ian’s getting out of him, if Mickey were to let him in, is nonsensical insults. 

“Okay.” Ian says to the door. “I’ll be back in a bit, alright? I’ll bring dinner and frozen peas.” 

“Fuck you.” Mickey mutters.

He hears him back away from the door, hears the mattress creak as Mickey sits down. Technically, Ian could get inside now. He won’t, though. Not when Mickey so obviously doesn’t want him in the bedroom. 

Rubbing at his eyebrow, Ian steps back. He feels like an idiot. He thought the apartment would be a good idea. Mickey liked it at first, and sometimes he needs a second to come around on big changes or decisions. But Ian should have listened to him, not the very persuasive sales lady. And Ian shouldn’t have immediately assumed Mickey had started the fight. That didn’t help the situation. 

He treks down the stairs, brings something cold outside for his brother. He may as well deal with the other emotional wreck in his family. Ian steps outside with the pliers, handing them to Lip on the porch steps. A few furtive, guilty glances are sent Ian’s way. At least Lip knows he fucked up. He apologises immediately, to his credit. Ian’s still pissed, because as much as he understands that Mickey and Lip will probably never get along, it shouldn’t end in a fight like that. Mickey was looking for a fight, Ian knows that too, but he shouldn’t have gotten one. Not with family. 

Lip talks for a while and Ian lets him vent about his problems, how he feels like his life is falling apart. Ian worries about him sometimes. He knows Lip is trying really hard to stay sober, but he’ll always worry about him slipping. The baby seems to help. Ian sees the way Lip looks at Fred, like that little kid is his reason for being alive, for staying sober, for keeping going. Ian doesn’t offer much input, just allows him to talk. Clearly, he needs to. 

“Hit my husband again, I’ll fucking kill you.” Ian snaps once Lip’s done. Because Ian will, for one, and Lip needs to know it, for two. He can’t keep making comments about Mickey not being family and he can’t keep trying not to include Mickey in big decisions, like selling the house. Not when Ian’s also not included Mickey in big decisions. 

“Yeah, right.” Lip nods, accepting it easily, like it’s what he expected. 

They speak about the painting that Frank stole for a little longer. Ian’s nervous to go back upstairs. He hopes Mickey will at least let him in the bedroom. 

It gets to the point where he can’t talk to Lip anymore before Mickey will definitely get fired up again. There’s usually a small window for these things where he can actually talk to him when Mickey’s upset. It’s not that Mickey’s unreasonable, it’s just that Mickey doesn’t like talking about his feelings. He’s never been good at it, but he’s better than he used to be. Ian’s proud of him for it and he hopes this doesn’t set him back. 

No one’s made dinner, so Ian finds some leftover macaroni and cheese that seems good. He also brings up beer and frozen sweetcorn which is years old, stuffed in the back of the freezer. It’s probably been used as an ice pack for bruises by most of their family. 

Before he knocks, Ian takes a deep breath. He really hopes he can soothe this over. He already feels guilty enough. Ian raises his fist and raps his knuckles against the flimsy wood. 

“Can I come in now?” He calls. It comes out passive aggressive.

“Fuck you.” Mickey snaps back. “If you’re not gonna be a prick.” 

Sliding open the door, Ian smiles half-heartedly at him. “I’m not. I come in peace.” He says, tossing him the frozen food. Mickey doesn’t look up from the magazine he’s flipping through, simply picking up the ice pack and pressing it against his face. 

Mickey grunts at him, ignoring him in favour of the page in front of him. 

“You okay?” He asks.

“Yes.” Mickey hisses, teeth gritted. 

“Brought you food.” Ian offers, presenting the mac and cheese. 

“Not hungry.” Mickey mutters, angrily flicking the page. 

“I’ll, uh… I’ll just leave it here, then.” Ian says, placing it on their bedside table. “Beer?” He suggests. 

“‘Kay.” Mickey mutters.

Ian places it in his outstretched hand and sighs. He sinks down beside him on the bed, staring at the side of Mickey’s face longingly. He hates this. Seeing Mickey sad - especially when it’s because of him - always makes him sad. 

“I’m sorry.” He says. “Shouldn’t’ve signed the lease without you, when you already said no. Shouldn’t’ve blamed you for fighting with Lip, okay? I was being an ass and I’m sorry.” He forces the words out, disliking the bitter feeling of apologising. He dislikes Mickey’s sad face more, though. 

“You done coddling your fucking brother, then?” Mickey mumbles. 

“Wanted to see you. You didn’t wanna see me, remember?” Ian says. 

Mickey grunts again, not taking his eyes off the magazine. 

“I know I fucked up-“

“It’s not that you fucked up.” Mickey snaps. “You don’t fucking listen to me. Or- or you think everything I say is stupid. How long did it take you to think the security business was a good idea?”

“That was-“ Ian tries. Mickey glares at him and it’s the first time he’s looked at Ian since he walked in, so Ian snaps his mouth shut. 

“You ignored when I said I didn’t wanna stay in that stuffy, rich-bitch place. You fucking assumed I would hit your brother when you didn’t see shit. You didn’t even bother to ask me what happened.” Mickey says sharply. “It’s fucking shitty. You think I’m an idiot.” 

“No I don’t.” Ian argues, horrified. Mickey scoffs at him. “Jesus, do you really think that?”

He doesn’t wait for Mickey to reply, he doesn’t want to know the answer. Reaching out, Ian tugs on Mickey’s bicep, encouraging him to release the magazine and uncurl himself. Mickey glances at him with caution, clearly defensive. 

“I don’t think you’re an idiot. Of course I don’t think you’re a fucking idiot, Mickey. I thought the weed business was a bad idea because I thought it was illegal. I signed the lease without you because you liked it and you got freaked out and I figured I would take the deal while they had it.” Ian explains. “But I should’ve listened to you. And I’m sorry about you and Lip. I didn’t think Lip would hit you first, or start a fight with you.”

“Oh, ‘cause your brother’s such an angel-“

“Because fighting you would be stupid.” Ian huffs. “Lip’s never been a great fighter. Starting a fight with you is just… stupid, alright? He’d lose. Badly.” He sees Mickey smirk and try to hide it, forcing himself to stay mad.

“Fuck you.” Mickey says. “I’m still pissed.” 

Sighing, Ian pulls on his arm again and brings Mickey away from the magazine. “I know. I get it, y’know. I didn’t have your back. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Better not.” Mickey mutters, avoiding eye contact. 

“Lip said he was sorry, by the way. I didn’t think I needed to make him say it to your face, because I made sure it wouldn’t happen again.” Ian tells him. “No matter how antagonistic you’re being.” 

A sharp glare is sent in Ian’s direction, and he winces. Maybe it was too soon to make a joke, or bring up Mickey’s part in the initial argument.

“How’d you make sure of that?” He asks eventually, once he’s stopped glaring. 

Ian shrugs. “Told him I’d kill him if he did it again.” 

“What?” Mickey says, nearly snapping his neck with how quickly he turns to face him. “You said that?”

“Yeah.” Ian says, furrowing his brows in confusion. 

“Wait, what did you actually say? Your exact words?” Mickey asks, staring intently at him. 

Ian’s a little confused by the sudden change in mood, but Mickey’s looking at him now. That’s progress. “I said ‘hit my husband again and I’ll fucking kill you’.” Ian answers hesitantly. 

Something in Mickey’s eyes lights up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m not actually going-“ 

“Shut the fuck up, don’t ruin it.” Mickey mutters, swinging a leg across Ian’s lap and fisting a hand into his hair. 

Mickey presses their mouths together, pushing his tongue into Ian’s mouth. He gets with the programme quickly, holding onto Mickey’s hips and grabbing his ass. He should have mentioned threatening Lip earlier. Threats always make Mickey hard. 

Humming, Ian yanks him closer, nudging their crotches together. Mickey aggressively holds onto Ian’s hair while his other hand pushes into his collarbone, just beneath his neck. Ian slips his hands under Mickey’s shirt, spreading his fingers to extend under his jeans as well. 

“Hottest thing you’ve ever said.” Mickey mumbles into his mouth. “Still pissed, though.” 

Ian grabs him by his thighs, flipping him onto his back and climbing on top of him, between Mickey’s legs. Still rough with it, Mickey’s hands cling to the back of his neck, fingernails digging in. They keep kissing, Mickey’s teeth rubbing against his bottom lip angrily. 

Pulling away from his mouth, Ian kisses along his jaw, down his neck. 

“You’re my favourite person.” He mutters, pecking the space under his ear. “You’re smart. I don’t think you’re an idiot. And I hate,” Ian tells him, leaning back to look in his eyes. Mickey avoids the eye contact, staring at a point on Ian’s shoulder, “that I made you think otherwise.”

“You’re an asshole.” Mickey mumbles back, grabbing for Ian’s shirt and worrying the material between his fingers. “I just-“ He starts, voice suddenly thick. “Just hate fucking feeling like you don’t like me, ‘cause-“

“That I don’t like you? Mickey, that’s-“

“Shut up.” Mickey says, slapping a hand on his chest. “‘Cause sometimes it’s like…”

“Like what?” Ian prompts, watching him in fear. 

“Like you’re waiting for me to change. Or be someone else. And- and I’m not, I can’t be.” Mickey murmurs, staring at Ian’s shirt and sniffing slightly. 

“Mickey, I don’t want you to change. I love you. I’ll always love you, it’s part of me. You’re part of me. I’m sorry I made you feel so shitty.” He says, kissing the joint of Mickey’s jaw. He hates that he made Mickey question anything. “Of course I like you.”

Never posted it because I felt like all of my fics made Ian look like the bad guy and I didn't want that to be all I wrote about, because obviously the both have flaws. I also felt like all I'd been writing was Mickey being comforted, so I didn't want to post another variation of the same thing.

An outside POV of Lip that I never finished

Lip remembers meeting Mickey on his first day of school. Lip had a ridiculous head of hair back then that still sprung into insane curls no matter how hard Fiona tried to tame it. He remembers telling everyone to call him Lip, not Phillip and not Phill, and no one questioned it. No one questioned much back then, at that age. There were masses of people at that school. He had been terrified he wouldn’t ever remember everyone’s names. 

He remembers finding classes easier than everyone else. He could read quicker than they did, he could understand what the teacher was talking about when she started up about numbers while everyone else looked dumbfounded. It boosted his ego. Monica had always said he was a smart boy, when she was around and spoke to him, but it was just something she said until it was proven right before his eyes. 

And he remembers Mickey. 

It was hard, back then, not to know him. 

Their first lesson, Lip was buzzing with a nervous energy, hands twitching as he looked around. Fiona was a few grades above him and Ian was still too young to be in school, so he was alone, without his family, for the first time. Mickey was sat beside him. Lip isn’t sure if that was a choice either of them made or if that was decided by their teacher, but it didn’t matter. Mickey was beside him, and he was small in the same way Lip was small. He looked skinny, and too young, and he had a bruise on his face. Lip didn’t have bruises, but he remembers being hungry. He had seven dollars in his pocket to buy lunch and maybe some extra snacks to bring home for Ian. 

The teacher called Lip’s name during registration, he answered in a squeaky voice that was loud and confident enough to correct her. He wanted to be called Lip. Many names down the line, the teacher called for Mickey’s name, except she didn’t say his name. She said some mangled version of Mickey’s full name, which Lip can’t ever remember. Mickey corrected her too, and Lip felt some kind of solidarity with him immediately. The teacher also asked Lip if he had an older sister, apparently she’d taught her a while back. The teacher said it with a smile. She said a similar thing to Mickey. Asked him if he had brothers, and frowned when he nodded. 

They both had nicknames and they were both small and they both had siblings and that was all Lip really needed to want to talk to him. 

Lip remembers them being friends briefly. So briefly that it’s only a blip in his mind. They split a granola bar once at recess. Mickey was quiet but he was funny when he did speak. He remembers Mickey being the first person his age he’d ever heard say fuck. Fuck Miss Pendleton, he had muttered, she told me my homework was bad. 

It didn’t last, though. It was short and not all that sweet or meaningful. Mickey wasn’t a very social person. He talked to Lip if Lip talked to him but most of the time he kept to himself. Lip made friends quickly. People wanted to copy his work and Lip didn’t mind that when it meant he would have more people to talk to at lunch. 

He remembers when he stopped hanging out with Mickey and sharing his snacks with him. It was when he was sitting with some classmates and they were cutting up paper snowflakes for Christmas. Mickey hadn’t been there. Or maybe he was and Lip remembers it wrong. One boy, Michael - the other Mickey, who was bitter about sharing a name - asked why Lip was friends with Mickey. He said it with a nose crinkled in disgust. Lip didn’t have an answer, but Michael kept going with it. He said Mickey smelled bad, said he was weird and ugly and that his parents knew Mickey’s parents and they were really bad people. 

Lip didn’t know much about loyalty then. He knew about sticking by his family, but Mickey wasn’t family. He was just someone he sat with sometimes who told good jokes. So he remembers listening to Michael and not defending Mickey. He remembers everyone else in their group of friends agreeing with Michael that yes, Mickey was weird and no, they wouldn’t want to hang out with him. He remembers them saying that anyone who was friends with Mickey was weird too, smelt bad too, and Lip, because low social status is something you can catch like a cold, stopped talking to him. He called Mickey weird to his face once, and Mickey called him a dick and then got a detention. 

After that, Lip had a bunch of friends. He wasn’t ever in one group, he was popular enough to be able to mingle with almost everybody. He didn’t think about Mickey much. He remembers having a good time in school. The classes were easy and people came easy to him, too, and he didn’t start having a problem with anyone until he was older. People started calling him a smartass, then. It didn’t matter much to him. He found it pretty funny and most people still liked him. His parents were shit, but school was good. 

He remembers it somewhat fondly, his school life. Things were more simple then. He knows Mickey remembers it differently. 

Lip is sure Mickey got over all of that a long time ago. They weren’t hostile to each other afterwards. They found a sort of peace between them, where they both understood each other’s situations, knew about each other and their families, and that was it. Mickey would ask him to write English papers for him and Lip would buy weed off him sometimes. They weren’t friends, they clashed and annoyed and frustrated each other too much for that, but they didn’t care enough about each other to be enemies. 

Mickey is different now. Lip still sees him in a similar way to how he always has, if he’s honest, but there’s a major change. He’s not oh, right, the Mickey that sits at the back of Math class or the Mickey that cussed out the Chemistry teacher or the Mickey that punched Michael for calling him dirty or the Mickey that sells coke on Thursdays anymore. He’s Ian’s Mickey, now. 

Lip doesn’t realise it until he bumps into some of his old school friends in The Alibi Room. He’s drinking a coke at the bar, speaking to Kev about how to deal with teething babies when Evan and Richard walk in. They greet each other with surprise, an easygoing familiarity that makes Lip love the Southside so much, and sit together at a table to catch up. They both order beers, and Lip sees Richard narrow his eyes at Lip’s coke, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Evan moved away, is living with a girl all the way in Canada. He complains about visas and his boss jovially. Lip laughs along even though he can’t really relate. He tries to avoid any talk of college when they ask. Richard is still in Chicago, but on the other side of town now. He’s a chef at a small Italian place, says Lip should stop by and Lip agrees even though that will never happen. He tells them about Fred and about Tami and how he’s fixing up bikes now and loves the work. 

“You still living at home?” Richard asks, without any judgement. 

“Yep.” Lip nods. “We all are, aside from Fiona. She moved away a couple years ago. It’s crammed in that house.” He chuckles, shaking his head. 

“I bet.” Evan agrees. “Gotta have what? Three grown men and your sister living there? Plus Frank and a little brother and a baby and your girl?” Evan blows out a breath. “That’s a lot.” 

“Frank doesn’t live with us anymore, we got rid of him a while back.” Lip says. “Stank the whole house up. Not sure what he’s doing now, but it’s far from us.” 

Richard grins, laughing at the insults to Frank. “Yeah, don’t blame you for that. Still, though. You got three brothers, a sister and your family. That’s busy.” 

“Yeah.” Lip says. “And Mickey, too. So we don’t have much space.” 

He watches their brows furrow in sync. “Mickey? Which Mickey?” Evan asks. 

“Y’know.” Lip prompts, confused by their puzzlement. “Ian’s Mickey.” 

“Only Mickey I remember is the one with those tattoos.” Richard says. “What did they say? Fuck you or something?”

“Yeah, that Mickey.” Lip nods. “Ian’s Mickey.” 

“Why’s he living with you? Ain’t he got that place a few minutes from here?” Richard asks. “The house next to the L?”

It surprises Lip suddenly, that they don’t know. Why should they know, he thinks, when they moved on from the neighbourhood quickly after school and didn’t look back. Everyone around here knows Mickey and knows Ian and knows bits and pieces and rumours of their story. The gossip is usually about Mickey coming out or Ian going crazy, as people like to call it, but they know. It’s a shock to Lip’s system that some people don’t know all of that. 

“Shit.” Lip shakes his head. “You guys didn’t hear?” He asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Hear what?” Evan says. “He going out with your sister or something?”

“Ain’t she kinda young?” Richard adds, nose wrinkled. 

“No, he’s not dating Debbie.” Lip scoffs, rolling his eyes. That thought is pretty disgusting. “He’s with Ian. They’ve been together for… like a decade now, Jesus. They’re engaged and shit.” 

Their mouths drop open, and they blink at him. It’s almost comical. Lip forces down a laugh. 

“He’s gay?” Evan asks, shock-horror painted across his face. 

“Uh-huh.” Lip nods. 

“That’s insane.” Richard gasps, blinking fast. “And he’s engaged to your brother.” 

“Yeah.” Lip says. It’s weird now that he’s thinking about it, looking at it the way they are now. “Surprised you didn’t hear. It was pretty big news for a while.”

“I fucking bet it was big news.” Evan scoffs. “This is the Mickey I’m thinking of, right? Dark hair, short, juvie regular?”

Lip nods and Evan shakes his head in pure disbelief. 

“That’s fucked, man. Must’ve pissed his dad off.” Richard says. 

“Oh yeah.” Lip laughs. “He tried to kill him.”

Richard hums, unsurprised. “So he’s living with you now?” At Lip’s nod, Richard winces. “What’s that like?”

Lip shrugs. “It’s fine. I don’t see him much. I mean, obviously he spends most of his time with Ian.” 

“He’s not a complete asshole anymore?” Evan checks, scornfully.

“Oh no, he is.” Lip says. He’s sort of joking though, and he wonders at what point he stopped thinking of Mickey as a complete prick. “He’s just… He’s fine now, y’know?”

“And you’re totally cool with him fucking your brother?” Richard asks, eyebrows raised. 

“I mean, they’ve been together for years. If I had a problem, it wouldn’t matter at this point.” Lip says. He never really had an issue with it. It confused him at first, and there were times when he thought Mickey was bad for Ian, but they’re older now. They’re also far too stubborn about each other to care if Lip had an opinion. 

“I really can’t imagine Mickey being gay.” Evan says. “Like… I just can’t picture him fucking a guy.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Lip asks, grimacing. 

“Not like that, obviously.” Evan says, rolling his eyes. “Just… he really doesn’t seem the type.”

“Yeah, well. He would if you lived with them.” Lip mutters

Lost motivation for this one. I felt like I'd already done the outside POV thing to death. I still really like that type of writing and I'll probably do more in the future, it's just something that I wrote too much of in a short space of time so I got slightly sick of it and needed a break from outside POV.

fill-in/divergent fic I wrote for s10 when Mickey comes out of prison

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Sitting on Ian’s old bed, smoking a cigarette, still reeling from good reunion sex while Ian pants beside him, Mickey’s still thinking about it. 

This bed brings back memories. It hasn’t changed. Ian’s old army posters are still pinned to the wall. The bunkbed remains in the corner and the street sign is hung on the door. This bed and this room and the distinct smell of the Gallagher house - warm and comforting but slightly stale - it brings a lot back. 

Mickey remembers lying with Ian in this bed years ago. He remembers guilt squeezing his lungs because he didn’t pick Ian up from the psych ward, he left him alone to deal with a daunting mental illness instead. Mickey hated himself for that. He remembers the guilt and the anger and the consuming worry that Ian might not be okay. He came here, eventually, with sad apologies and the echos of booze still in his skin. Back then, he thought Ian needed him. He wanted to be something stable for Ian to rely on. He remembers Ian letting himself be held and taken care of for that night. 

Then there was the fear. Ian woke up with panic on his breath and delusions in his brain and Mickey fixed it. He knew what to do when all of Ian’s siblings looked on, stunned. Mickey wasn’t afraid of Ian, despite being terrified of what could happen to Ian, so he calmed him down. Didn’t judge him, didn’t let him keep running from the reality that he needed help. Mickey looked after him and worried about him and stayed throughout the med changes and the side effects and Ian’s mood dropping into some numb, mean territory. He stayed when Ian punched him and called him a faggot. 

Mickey doesn’t blame Ian for that. He tries not to think about it. The past is stacked away in a corner, better left alone. 

He doesn’t look out the window, but he knows the porch steps are looming below them. He remembers Ian breaking up with him there. He remembers Ian looking on passively as Sammie shot a gun at him, like he wouldn’t have cared if a bullet lodged itself in Mickey’s head and killed him. 

He hates this house. 

It’s not the past that he can’t stop thinking about. It’s the fact that Ian doesn’t really love him. Mickey’s been thinking about it for years. It was a quiet voice in Mexico, a scream in prison when ian didn’t visit. A nasty hiss when they were in prison together. On a loop in his mind, it repeats. How throughout the last five years, Ian’s taken every opportunity to get away from him. How the only time Ian stayed was when they were trapped together in a cell with no other options. Ian’s good, Mickey knows that more than anything else. He probably felt bad for Mickey, for poor Mickey who can’t take a fucking hint, and that was why he offered up his house when they were in prison. Ian probably didn’t think Mickey would take him up on it. 

In prison with Ian, Mickey ignored the voice telling him that Ian moved on, stopped loving him or never did, because it was easier. It was easier when they were stuck together. When he didn’t have to worry about Ian slipping away from him. 

Now he’s out, sitting in Ian’s old bedroom with all the memories rushing back with that stupid smell of something warm and comforting but slightly stale, and he’s only been out for two hours. He’s been out for two hours and it’s already too much. Mickey remembers sitting alone in prison a by nd needing Ian and Ian not being there. He remembers trying to accept that Ian didn’t care about him anymore, that he was being forgotten and left alone to crumble into the concrete of that cold cell. 

Ian offered him his house out of politeness, it wasn’t genuine. Mickey knows Ian deserves better. He doesn’t want to be stuck with the same dirty criminal he fucked around with when he was a kid. Mickey imagines him talking to his family, rolling his eyes about how desperate and lonely Mickey is and how Ian will have to let him stay for a while to make up for Mickey helping him out in the joint. 

Shaking his head, Mickey can’t ignore it anymore. He can’t sit next to Ian, he can’t stay in this room. Mickey won’t force himself somewhere he isn’t wanted. Dropping his legs off the bed, he searches for his clothes, finding his boxers tangled in the bedsheets and his jeans halfway under the bed. 

“Where’re you going?” Ian asks, sitting up on his elbows. The move really shows off his abs and Mickey notes how good he looks. How he could get any guy he wanted so why would he want Mickey? Mickey’s delusional. 

“My dad’s place.” Mickey replies, turning away from him. He pulls his shirt over his head, starts looking for his jacket. 

“What?” Ian snaps. His voice is fast, like he’s been surprised. “Why?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t want Ian to feel bad. Mickey will be fine, he’s been fine before in that house. “To see if there’s a free room.” 

“What?” Ian shouts again, Mickey hears him getting off the bed. He furrows his brows at him. “Why the fuck are you doing that? Did I do something?” Ian asks, scrambling out of his bed and searching for his boxers. 

“No.” Mickey answers. Ian didn’t do anything. Mickey just doesn’t want to stay somewhere he isn’t welcome anymore. He can’t keep forcing Ian to love him. 

“Then why are you going?” Ian says, rushing to block the bedroom door with his boxers finally on. “You were fine three seconds ago.”

Will Ian really make him say it? Is he that cruel? Mickey just wants to speed up the inevitable. Ian getting tired of him and leaving will happen eventually, and Mickey wants to save him the trouble. 

Mickey sighs, staring at somewhere past Ian as he rubs his tongue against his lip. “It’s my house.” He answers lamely. “There’s no space here anyway.” 

“Yes there is.” Ian argues, making sure that Mickey can’t squeeze past him and make a run for it. “There’s plenty of space. And it’s not your house, it’s your psychotic, abusive dad’s house.” Ian tells him, breathing hard with wide eyes. He looks scared. Confused, maybe. “Why don’t you want to stay here?” He asks, eyebrows tilted and voice soft. 

“It’s fine.” Mickey tells him. “It’s just easier, there are too many people in this house anyway.” He sniffs, rubbing at his nose and trying to get past Ian. 

Ian moves, throwing a hand against the door so Mickey can’t reach for it. He huffs, presses his lips together. 

“Did I do something? Why’re you pissed at me?” Ian asks, eyes clear and worried. Mickey avoids looking directly at them. That’s always when he forgets himself. 

“I’m not.” Mickey scoffs. “I’m just getting out of your way.”

“‘Out of my way’?” Ian asks incredulously. “You’re not in my way.”

“You’re kinda in mine right now.” Mickey points out, waving a hand at Ian’s human blockade. 

“I don’t give a fuck.” Ian says, narrowing his eyes. His voice is sharper now, like he’s angry. That’s good. Mickey cab deal with anger better. “Where the fuck did all this shit come from?”

“Didn’t come from anywhere-“

“Bullshit.” Ian spits. 

“It’s not a big fucking deal, man.”

“You choosing to live with your evil dad rather than with me? Oh yeah, no big deal.” Ian scoffs, voice steadily raising. “Excuse me for being stressed out when you’ve only been here for thirty fucking minutes and you’re already leaving.” 

“I’m not leaving, I’m just-“ 

“Then what the fuck is it, Mickey? Did I piss you off? Are you breaking up with me?” Ian asks, yelling now. He’s still against the door. 

“Jesus fuck, no. I’m not.” Mickey emphasises. 

“Fine.” Ian snaps. “Then I’ll come live with you. I’m sure your dad will love that.” 

His face is stubborn, chin jutted out as he clenches his jaw. When Ian decides something he digs his fingers into it and doesn’t let it go. Mickey sighs. Ian’s a good person, it’s easy to think he cares. Ian does care, but he cares about Mickey the same way he cares about every other person. He isn’t special. Mickey’s like another one of those kids Ian told him about, the ones who lived in Ian’s ex’s shelter. Something like that, anyway. Ian doesn’t want Mickey getting hurt, but that doesn’t mean he loves him. That means Ian’s good, or feels he owes it to Mickey since Mickey saved his ass so many times in prison. 

“For fuck’s sake, Gallagher.” Mickey sighs, rubbing his eyebrow. 

“And I’m Gallagher now.” Ian scoffs. “Fuck you, Mickey. At least tell me what I’ve done if you’re gonna leave. You can’t just get out of prison, come here for a quick fuck, then live somewhere else without a fucking explanation!” He shouts, burning his enraged gaze into Mickey. That was poor planning on his part. He didn’t think the reminder that Ian stopped loving him would hit him so hard here. He thought he could push it aside. It’s been years of ignoring it, though. It’s not fair on either of them to ignore it. “Give me a good fucking reason for you to leave and maybe I’ll let you go. For once in your life, just tell me-“

“I’m fucking tired.” Mickey snaps back, cutting him off. “Okay? I’m fucking tired of this shit. I’m tired of you telling me all this shit, like you want me to stay in your fucking house and that you love me when it’s not fucking true. That’s not fair, Gallagher. Just let me leave.” He stares at the ground, sniffing sharply to keep all the emotions inside. 

Attempting to shove his way past, Mickey steps around Ian. Before he can get to the door, Ian grabs his wrists in a tight grip and steps up close. 

“What the fuck.” Ian hisses. “You don’t think that.” 

“Fuck you.” Mickey spits back, staring at where Ian’s hands are crushing his wrists together. He doesn’t mind it. He’ll take whatever he can get from Ian, really. It’s hard to remind himself that he needs to leave. 

“D’you really fucking think that?” Ian repeats, squinting down at Mickey. He refuses to meet his eyes. 

“I think I don’t wanna have no place to fucking live when you dump me again.” Mickey mutters. “So I wanna see if there’s a free fucking room in my dad’s house.” 

“I’m not gonna dump you again.” Ian tells him, tightening his grip. “I- I didn’t mean to dump you, Mick. It was complicated- I was sick and I didn’t want you to have to deal with it, I didn’t want to be a burden. It wasn’t to do with you.” He rushes to explain, shaking his head quickly. 

Mickey scoffs. “Yeah, right. That’s why you dated a bunch of guys after dumping me.” 

“You were in prison!” Ian shouts. 

“And you didn’t fucking visit!” Mickey yells back. “You don’t know half of what fucking happened in that prison, Gallagher. You don’t know what it was like with Terry a block over. You don’t know how much I fucking wished that someone visited, that someone fucking cared.” He shakes his head, tries to pull his hands from Ian’s to push them into his eyes. Ian doesn’t let him go. 

“Svetlana-“

“Stopped coming after she sent divorce papers.” 

“Mandy-“

“Didn’t even fucking tell me she skipped town.” Mickey says. He sucks in a breath, tries to push all the reminders away. He doesn’t want Ian to feel guilty. He doesn’t want to talk about the past. This isn’t how it was meant to go. It’s all about Ian, about Ian who stopped loving him somewhere along the line, who maybe never did. It’s about Ian being good and not wanting to hurt Mickey again. It’s about Mickey letting Ian go. Not making Ian love him. “Look, it’s fine, okay?” Mickey says, smiling toothlessly at Ian. “M’not trying to make you feel bad, it’s just better if I go.”

“No, no. It’s not.” Ian says, voice shaken. “It’s not better. Jesus, Mick, I’m so fucking sorry. There were- there were reasons for it, I swear. I’ll tell you if you want. But I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Mickey says, shrugging. “Don’t need to be sorry. It’s not a big deal. You broke up with me, right? You didn’t have to visit. But you stopped loving me, Ian.” He says with more clarity, now. “You didn’t miss me and you stopped loving me and that’s fucking fine. I get it, you were too good for me anyway. You don’t have to feel bad about it, you don’t have to feel bad for me. I just wanna go. No hard feelings.” He tries to smile in a way that’s comforting, tries to meet Ian’s eyes. 

Ian looks horrified, mouth parted and brows furrowed like he’s in pain. Like Mickey just kneed him in the stomach. He tries to pull himself free again, but Ian doesn’t let him. 

“Kinda becoming a hostage situation, man.” Mickey chuckles, shaking his hands.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ian hisses. Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Mickey glances back at Ian’s face. He seems torn between a bottomless anger and pure pain. 

“Fuck you, asshole, I-“ Mickey starts, skin prickling at Ian’s vicious tone. 

“Don’t ever fucking say any of that again.” Ian says, low and furious. “Don’t think that shit again, what’s wrong with you? How could you fucking say that? Do you really think that little of me, Mickey? That I would stay with you because I felt bad for you?” 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Mickey sighs, rolling his eyes. 

“I don’t care.” Ian says, almost snarling. “You don’t know how much I missed you. You clearly can’t understand how much I fucking love you. I love you more than anything. You don’t get to just decide that I don’t.” 

“You don’t have to say that shit, Gallagher. It’s fine.”

“Stop saying that!” Ian yells. “It’s not fine and I do have to say it, ‘cause you don’t get it! Why aren’t you getting it? Why don’t you believe me? I love you, Mickey.”

He shakes his head, shoves at ian’s chest. “You’re a fucking asshole. Stop saying that.”

“No.” Ian says. “I won’t.”

“That’s not fucking fair, Ian.” Mickey snaps. He can’t hear it anymore. He could barely stand to hear it in prison. Not here, not in this room, not when Mickey just told him everything he’s been thinking. 

“No, it’s not.” Ian agrees, still angry. “It’s not fair that you don’t believe me. It’s not fair that you’ve not been telling me you feel like this.” He seems to realise something with a small frown. “How long have you been thinking that?” 

Mickey sighs. “I don’t fucking know.” He mutters. It’s not something he thinks. It’s something he knows. 

Ian seems to disagree with that. He clenches his jaw again and releases Mickey’s wrists, grabbing his forearms tight instead. 

“Don’t think like that about yourself. I won’t let you. Obviously, I loved you. I loved you when you were in prison and I loved you when you were in Mexico and I love you now.” Ian tells him, staring at him earnestly. 

In a sharp tug, Mickey finally breaks his arms free from Ian’s confines. He can feel his eyes stinging, adding to the humiliation of this entire ordeal. Rubbing the balls of his hands into his eyes, Mickey turns his back on Ian and sniffs, keeping it all at bay. This is embarrassing. He hates this, wishes Ian would save him the trouble and just let him go. 

“Shut the fuck up.” He grunts, facing the window as he recollects himself. It’s cruel for Ian to keep the lie going when Mickey gave him an out. It hurts.

“Hey, come here.” Ian says, softening his voice. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Mick…” Ian murmurs, grabbing his shoulder. 

Mickey shakes him off, jamming his hands into his eyes. They keep trying to cry. “Fuck you.” He mumbles. 

With a sigh, Ian grabs him again, pushing through Mickey’s attempts to get him away. Maybe he doesn’t try as hard as he could have. Maybe Ian knows that if Mickey really wants him to fuck off, he’d punch him in the face. He doesn’t. Instead he shoves at Ian and calls him a prick and then Ian’s holding him firmly against his body. His arms wrap around his shoulders and back and Mickey sort of wants to kill him. 

“I love you.” Ian says.

Mickey hates him so much. He really hates him, especially when those words make the tears worse until he’s crying into Ian’s chest. He feels Ian’s hand against the back of his head, not letting him get away. Mickey refuses to hug him back. 

It’s not like Ian hasn’t done this before. Ian’s cried in Mickey’s arms. Whether it was because of a depressive episode or a really sad movie, it’s happened. It’s just not embarrassing when Ian does it. Ian’s allowed to cry. He’s the only person Mickey doesn’t mind crying, aside from Mandy. 

But it’s humiliating and disgusting and gross for Mickey to cry. He hates it, wishes more than anything for the tears to just stop, but that only seems to fuel them onwards. 

“I was gonna stab someone so I could stay in prison with you.” Ian reminds him. “I wanted to be with you. I didn’t want you to be sad. I didn’t want you to get hurt or do something stupid to make your sentence longer. I did it because I fucking love you and I worry about you and I knew I’d miss you. I wouldn’t do that shit for anyone else.” He sighs. “Only reason I didn’t was ‘cause you stopped me. ‘Cause you said you’d be okay.”

“Don’t fucking-“ Mickey mumbles, rubbing at his face and shaking his head. “Don’t need to say all that shit.”

“Obviously I fucking do, Mickey.” Ian says, some of the old anger returning. “You fucking lied to me. You said you knew that I loved you, but you don’t. Do I need to tell you everything I love about you? Is that what I need to do to prove this shit?” 

“Don’t fucking do that.” Mickey mutters, sniffing and staring at his feet so Ian won’t see the tears still falling. “Torturing me already.” He laughs, a breathy, tired thing. It’s not funny. None of this is funny. 

“I thought about you all the time when you were gone.” Ian tells him. Mickey feels him lean his cheek on the top of Mickey’s head. Tall asshole. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit. I didn’t want to hurt you. Also thought you hated me. But mostly I didn’t want to hurt you of all people. You didn’t know what you were getting into with my Bipolar, not the way my family did.”

“Weren’t gonna hurt me.” Mickey mutters. 

“I already had. I ran off with a kid. I cheated. I punched you in the face.” Ian says solemnly, bitterly. 

“Don’t blame you for that.”

“I know, but I still did it.” He says. “I didn’t want to keep hurting you. The other guys I dated weren’t you, Mickey. Didn’t care as much about hurting their feelings, even though that sounds shitty.” 

Mickey sniffs again. His nose and eyes are starting to sting, but he doesn’t pull away. 

“You can’t think I don’t love you. You can’t think you don’t deserve me or some bullshit. You deserve good things, Mick. You deserve to be loved. I love you.” He punctuates the statement with a kiss to the top of his head. 

Mickey sort of wants to punch him. He also wants to jump out of the window. He mainly wants to stay here and try to convince himself that Ian means it. 

“If you guys are gonna argue again, can you do it outside? Tammi’s putting Fred down for a nap.” Debbie startles him out of the moment, stepping into Ian’s room without knocking. 

Mickey slips free from Ian’s arms and turns away again, pushing the water back into his face and refusing to look at her. 

“Is that Mickey?” She asks, he guesses Ian is herding her towards the door. 

“Yeah.” Ian hisses. “Just go, okay? We’ll be quiet.” 

“I thought you were yelling at Lip. Why’re you yelling at Mickey?”

“I’m not. We’re fine.” Ian says. 

“You were, I heard you.” Debbie argues. “Did you make him cry?”

“No, I didn’t. It’s fine, Debs. He’s fine. Just go.”

“I told you, you can’t break up with him again. I like him. He’s better than your other boyfriends, anyway.” 

“I’m not. We’re fine. This isn’t- He’s fine. I didn’t make him cry.” 

“Okay. I’ll see you both later then. Don’t be loud or Tammi’s gonna get pissed.” 

“We won’t be. Maybe knock next time.” Ian says, shutting the door behind her. 

Shaking himself off, Mickey grabs the smokes he abandoned on Ian’s bedside table. He sticks one between his lips and sinks onto the bed, lighting it. The window is ajar from where Mickey climbed through it an hour before. 

“Hey.” Ian says, quiet. 

“Hey.” Mickey grunts back, wondering why Ian looks so awkward. 

“You okay?”

“Fine.” 

“Don’t push me away again, come on. It’s not my fault Debbie came in.”

“I’m not doing shit. Nothing else for us to talk about.” 

“So you believe me now? You’re not gonna run off in the middle of the night?” 

“No.” Mickey mutters. 

“Good.” Ian sighs, sitting down beside him. “Debbie really loves you, y’know. She was the happiest when I said we were back together. I didn’t realise she liked you. I guess I never talked about you much with my family. Always figured they wouldn’t get it, wouldn’t see what I saw. They don’t really know you, except for Debbie, I guess. I should’ve told them, though, ‘cause you’re my favourite person and you have been for years.” Ian says. “I’ll prove I’m staying, I promise. I’m not losing you again.” 

I don't know. I wrote this because I thought it was weird that the show didn't acknowledge that Mickey would have trust issues, but then I thought it was kind of OOC and also was more Mickey being comforted, so I never continued.

And that's it! I also wrote half an a/b/o fic which is pretty long and ramble-y, so if people want to see that let me know, because I'll probably never post it properly. If you like these, let me know and I can put them on my moments fic on ao3 so they're easier to find.