#pillwrites

Trevor comes outside to stand next to him at one point -- but Ian doesn't even register his presence -- not when there's a cop right here right now asking him about Mickey.

But the silence goes on for so long, it triggers Lip to speak up from where he's sitting next to Fiona on the front steps. "What's this about, detective?"

The detective relents, finally.

"He escaped two nights ago with his cell mate. Led us on a merry chase across Illinois. Almost made it to Paducah when his getaway car T-boned into a truck. The vehicle caught fire. He didn't make it."

Ian almost stops breathing.

Doesn't hear a word the detective is telling him now -- something about a notebook filled with Mickey's scrawls about escape plans and bank robbery to get some money and crude maps of various routes into Mexico, with Ian's name thrown into the mix in that notebook here and there -- "It looks like he was planning to get you roped in, did he contact you before--?" but . . .

. . . But--

Mickey can't be dead.

He can't be.

This isn't how things are supposed to go.

---

Unbeknownst to Ian, the detective, or even Damon the cell mate (who miraculously survives the car crash and is again in police custody, but is otherwise as clueless as the rest of them), Mickey Milkovich is alive and well and is -- in fact -- watching the whole thing unfolding in the front porch of the Gallagher house. Because no one would pay attention to a beat-up, nondescript van parked across the dark street.

"You seen enough yet, lover boy?" Iggy asks from the driver seat.

"Shut the fuck up," Mickey shoots back, although there's no heat in his words.

He watches as Ian just stands there on the front steps. His mouth hangs half-opened with disbelief written all over his pale face.

He watches as Fiona Gallagher gets on her feet to put a comforting hand on Ian's shoulder.

Lip gets up too. But he steps between the detective and his siblings, as if trying to give Ian some space.

Ian, who's still petrified on his front porch.

As Fiona hugs him, Mickey thinks he can see tears in Gallagher's eyes.

He finally turns away from the scene, sniffing and rubbing at his nose as he does so.

“Sorry, the discussion with my grad student must’ve… Y’know what, forget it. You eaten yet? I’m starving.”

With that, Mickey stomps over to the kitchen and opens the fridge to take out what Ian assumes is the microwavable lasagna that he likes so much. Ian’s had his dinner already, but he figures he might as well sit and accompany this impossibly endearing, impossibly handsome man as he eats his late dinner.

“Would it be alright if I text you every now and again?” Ian asks at one point that night. He's had Mickey's number all this while, he just never thinks it's appropriate to text the guy because, well, they're not exactly friends. At least Mickey doesn't think so. Not yet, anyway.

Ian watches as Mickey’s hand stills, his fork hovering just over his lasagna.

Mickey frowns. “Sure? What for, though?”

He resumes eating, but his blue eyes are looking at Ian like he is a puzzle that needs solving.

Ian shrugs. “Ionno, just to check in on you, I guess. I tried calling you earlier today, but–”

“Oh!” Mickey’s frown deepens and he shakes his head emphatically. “Nu-uh. No calls. Don’t call me, like, ever.”

Ian laughs. “What? Why not?”

“I hate talkin’ on the phone, man. Go ahead and text me whenever, just don’t fuckin’ call.”

“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind!”

From then on, Ian texts Mickey whenever the guy gets home late – or when he himself is expected to come home later than usual from the EMS station. True to his word, Mickey doesn’t seem to mind it whenever Ian texts.

Not even when he’s in class.

You: aren’t u in class?

M. Milkovich: yeah

You: should u even be on your phone right now???

M. Milkovich: ?

M. Milkovich: it’s my class

M. Milkovich: i can do whatever

Ian tells this to Fiona on their nightly calls out on the balcony. He doesn’t realise he’s been going on and on about Mickey until Fiona points it out to him.

“He sounds like a great guy,” she says over the phone.

“Yeah, he is. He’s just a little…”

“Weird? Strange?”

Ian pauses. He doesn’t like to call Mickey any of those things, but he has to admit that it is kind of true.

“Neurodivergent, I think,” is what Ian settles on. Fiona whistles on the other end.

“Fuck! You tryina win at Scrabbles tonight or what?" she teases. “You really do like him a lot, huh?”

Ian laughs and thanks the stars that Fiona cannot see his face right now – because he’s sure he’s kind of blushing a little. But Fiona – being Fiona – picks up on it anyway. It must’ve been the prolonged silence.

“That’s completely fine, Sweetface. You get along well with your roommate – that’s a good thing!”

“...Yeah. Yeah, no, I know.”

Fiona changes the topic after that, and he’s eternally grateful to have her for a sister.

Ian goes for a run that night when he realises that he has maybe probably fallen for his roommate a little.

Gallagher shifts in bed just then, slowly heaving himself up into a sitting position. He takes a few moments just to lean against the headboard and breathe, and Mickey, having grabbed a nearby chair and sitting down, breathes with him. Gallagher presently glances at the dish Mickey’s made, and then at Mickey himself.

“Thank you, Mickey,” Ian says earnestly. His eyes, although tired, are clear, and so are his words. It feels so stupidly intimate, it makes Mickey uncomfortable.

The use of his first instead of last name doesn’t escape Mickey’s notice, either.

Time to change the topic again, then.

“Think you might be thankin’ me a little prematurely, Red, cause you ain’t even tasted this yet,” Mickey says, switching the bedside lamp on before picking up the plate and poking at the spaghetti with the fork. “Might taste like dogshit for all I know.”

It doesn’t. Mickey’s made sure to season the sauce carefully. He’s even taste-tested it before plating the whole thing up.

But it gets Gallagher to smile again. Mickey counts that as a win.

Those big hands make a waving motion, so Mickey hands the plate and the fork over.

Watches with anticipation as Gallagher takes a bite.

Allows himself to smile goofily back at the other man when he hums approvingly as he chews his food.

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, feeling insanely proud of himself.

Gallagher lets out another pleased hum as he chases after a drop of bolognese sauce on his upper lip. “Yep – oh yeah,” he says around a mouthful, “s’good. Fuck. Didn' t notice I was this hungry.”

Well, hearing that is just an ego boost, really.

Mickey just sits there for a couple of minutes and watches as Gallagher eats. He has questions about the whole bipolar thing, but he thinks he’ll wait until Gallagher is better to ask them. It’s obviously not something Gallagher’s planned to ever share with Mickey before, but now that they’re in this situation…

Gallagher is halfway through his spaghetti when he comically pauses and shoots Mickey a confused look.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work right now?” he asks.

“Huh? Oh. I took the day off.”

Gallagher blinks.

Mickey feels himself blushing.

Gallagher’s shoulders drop when realisation dawns on him. “You really didn’t have to, I would’ve been—”

“No, but I wanted to make sure you were gonna be alright,” Mickey quickly says, avoiding those eyes. “I really thought you were dying, you know.”

He hears a soft huff coming from Gallagher, but he still doesn’t wanna meet those eyes. What would his roommate see? A pathetic guy, crushing on him and taking the day off just to play house?

It’s a little too much for Mickey to process right now, so he stays silent.

It’s all on Gallagher now.

The ball’s in his court.

“M’sorry,” Gallagher says after a while. “My bipolar isn’t something I’m proud of. It’s not something I was planning on lettin’ you know…”

---

The ad had said, tidy and quiet.

And while Ian would sometimes belt out off-key Kelly Clarkson songs in the shower and is a slob every now and again, he is also kind of desperate at the moment.

Okay, maybe ‘desperate’ is too harsh a word.

But he is looking for accommodations. With Jason getting hitched and moving out to live with his husband across town, Ian can no longer afford his current place. He’s been house-hunting these past several weeks, Jason occasionally helping out of guilt, but every other ad is either A) too expensive for Ian’s measly budget, or B) too far away from the EMS base that it would require Ian to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to catch the train or bus, or get a car to commute to work.

Ultimately, it’s Jason who finds the ad.

It seems to tick off every box for Ian.

It’s a two-bedroom apartment in a nice enough neighbourhood, it’s close to base, and Ian will only be having the one housemate – the owner, one M. Milkovich.

The rent, though, is suspiciously affordable.

“I’ll check the place out with you,” Jason says when Ian voices out his concern. It’s a legit concern. With rent that cheap, this M. Milkovich guy could be a serial killer looking for his next victim for all Ian knows. And Ian and Jason, being an EMT and a firefighter respectively, have seen their fair share of fucked up people in the world. Ian once had to patch up a guy after he’d been beaten half to death by his own boyfriend, while Jason has had to rescue three kids and their mother from a locked bathroom after they’d been placed there by the drunk and violent patriarch.

Men are terrible beings who do terrible things, even to those they supposedly love.

So Ian has to be careful, first and foremost.

But everything checks out.

M. Milkovich – the M stands for Mikhailo, or Mickey, for short – is a handsome, if a little standoffish, guy. He appears to be around Ian’s age, give or take a few years. He tells Ian and Jason that the apartment is in his aunt’s name, and that he’s been needing a housemate because he needs someone to watch the place if and when he’s out of town. Apparently the guy travels for work sometimes, and his aunt would grow antsy over the place burning down by accident or some shit like that.

So Ian signs the rental agreement, with Jason’s blessings, two days after the visit. Jason helps him move in and even promises to check in on Ian every now and then, just to make sure that he’s settling in alright.

And Ian tries to settle in, all right.

It’s awkward as fuck at first, because it takes Mickey a while to warm up to Ian. Mickey barely speaks to him the first few days, avoiding eye contact when they pass by one another in the hall or in the kitchen. Ian knows that he has to be the one to initiate things right now, because he doesn't want this cold and awkward vibe to persist between them. If they’re gonna be roommates, Ian wants them to at least be on speaking terms.

So he starts saying shit like, “Morning Mickey,” or, “See ya,” as he heads out the door to work. The first few times he does this, he just gets a blank stare in return, but eventually Mickey starts responding with his own, “Mornin’,” and “Yeah, bye.”

“Jesus, these people need to calm down,” Mickey laughs when he sees someone’s comment about wanting to bundle him up and take him home. He passes the phone back to Ian. “The ladies are barkin’ up the wrong tree, anyway.”

Ian lets out a small, “Oh?” as his gaze turns curious.

Ah, shit. Maybe Mickey shouldn’t have been too forward — this is only their second meeting, after all.

But now that it’s out…might as well…

“Yeah, well…” Mickey taps at his ID badge — Mikhailo Milkovich, PT — with the pride flag sticker on it. “M’gay, so, you can tell fuckin’...” He leans over and peers at Ian’s phone, “...Lisa Three Point Oh there not to get her hopes up.”

Mickey watches Ian’s face carefully, but the other man takes it all in a stride. His eyebrows go up, but he’s smiling and he simply says, “I hear a lot of cishet women’s hearts breaking already,” as he scrolls through the comments.

And that’s…

Okay, that’s a polite reaction — a good reaction, even — from Ian, but.

Mickey kind of wishes for more, here.

“But the views are really encouraging, Mickey! V really wants to boost our paediatrics PT services, so this is a good start,” Ian continues. “I hope you won’t mind if I keep coming down here to shoot more videos with you. If you’re free, of course.”

…Or maybe Ian is just focused on work?

“No, yeah. Sure,” Mickey says, shrugging and feeling something crash and burn inside him. Feels oddly like disappointment, really. “I mean, if that’s what V wants. I don’t mind.”

“No dances, as promised,” Ian says with a teasing smile. Mickey rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too, despite the turmoil he feels inside. Red’s smile seems to be infectious, what the hell.

“V wants me to film some patient testimonials next,” Ian says, “so I was thinkin’ of sitting down with you and going through your list of patients. See which ones might be willing to participate in a short interview.”

Mickey can already think of a few of his patients with pretty chill parents who might be game. “Yeah, okay.”

Ian pushes his sleeve back to check the time on his watch. “We can start after lunch…?”

Mickey considers this.

Bites his lower lip…

Nothing good in his life ever came just like that. He’s had to fight tooth and nail over everything he has right now — his education, his career, his apartment, his goddamn ability to live openly as a homosexual man — so if he wants to get to know Ian better, he knows he has to fight for that too.

So he thinks, ‘what the fuck’ and goes for it.

“Come grab a bite with me,” he says. “We can start with the patients list after lunch.”

The invitation catches Ian somewhat off guard. He blinks back at Mickey, and for a second Mickey thinks he’s going to reject the offer, but then his face lights up as a slow smile forms on his lips.

“Yeah?” Red sounds so hopeful, it’s adorable. He quickly covers that up by saying, “I mean. Sure, okay.”

Fuck yeah, Mickey loves it when things go his way.

Mickey smiles, easy as anything. “Aight, cool. Gimme a minute. Ay, Ethel!”

They’ve made it to the staff room where Ethel, Byron, and Damon are.

“I’m headin’ out to lunch with Ian, you kids want anything?”

Ian looks amused as Mickey whips out his phone and types out the various food and drink orders from Ethel and Byron.

“Oh, and could you get that strawberry cheesecake for Jasmine?”

“Mm, with the oolong peach tea as well?”

Ethel beams. “Yep!”

“Aight. Is that all?”

“Yes, thank you, Mickey!”

Mickey turns his attention to the occupational therapist. “Damon?”

“I’m good,” Damon says, lifting up his homemade salad bowl.

“Okay, don’t text me any additional orders after this, I ain’t entertaining it.” He grabs his shit and they head out.

Ian still looks amused as they make their way to Mickey’s car. “Do you do this often? Or is this some sort of a hazing ritual for the new guy?”

“Psh, as if,” Mickey says, pressing the button on the key fob to unlock his car. The idea of Ethel and Byron hazing him is ridiculous. Jasmine and Eddie though, now that’s a different story. “I’m just a good samaritan like that.”

The truth is, Mickey likes going out on drives to clear his head — even short drives to grab some lunch would do. He doesn’t do well if he’s cooped up indoors for too long. And of course the others noticed this in the short weeks he’s been here, so they started tacking on their lunch orders whenever Mickey’s headed out.

Ian chuckles and looks like he wants to say something.

“Oh, what? Spit it out!”

Ian’s smile turns into a grin. “You’re like their UberEats,” he says, “but more like… MickeyEats.”

Ian looks so damn proud of himself. It’s stupid, but Mickey does snort at the pun.

His eyes meet Gallagher’s.

“Sister, huh? Fiona or Debbie?” he asks. Gallagher seems surprised that Mickey remembers the names at all. That’s fair — Mickey left southside Chicago some eight years ago and never looked back.

“Fiona. C’mon, the banana muffin is great.”

Mickey’s appetite makes itself known right then and there, his stomach grumbling a little. He had walked all the way here, after all, so he is a bit parched and peckish, to be honest.

“Fuckin’ – fine,” he sighs, tossing his laptop bag onto a vacant table by the window before sliding into the booth. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Gallagher punch the air in quiet celebration.

“Ay – there’s also a 30% discount on some of the house specialties,” Gallagher says, “so yeah, definitely grab those.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go back to fixin’ your Roomba, Gallagher. And leave me alone.”

There’s a beat of silence, but then Gallagher says ‘alright’ before retreating back to his own table.

Mickey orders the hazelnut caramel latte (bearable) and the fucking banana muffin (good – amazing, even), and settles down to grade the test.

Time flies, and not one single person strikes up a conversation with him or bumps into the back of his seat.

~X~

Mickey’s grading a different assignment on a random Wednesday when he sees a familiar face at Caffeino.

Tall with red hair and pale skin, the name Ian Gallagher shoves all the way to the forefront of Mickey’s brain like a piece of plastic bag hitting one’s face on a windy day.

He’s dressed in the cafe’s dark blue colours and he’s got an apron on.

There’s also a bit of flour on the tip of his nose and left cheek as he emerges from the kitchen with a tray of something.

Mickey’s gawking before he knows it; he catches himself in time and looks away, his cheeks burning.

Because when Mickey left southside Chicago all those years ago, Ian Gallagher was just a dorky teen, all gangly limbs and freckles and floppy red hair. Sure, they’d fucked in the back rooms of the Kash & Grab once or twice or ten times — but Ian Gallagher had been just that: a dorky teen.

Now though?

Mickey swallows as he overhears Ian telling his sister something about that week’s stock of eggs and flour. He risks a glance at the two Gallaghers.

Ian stands almost one whole goddamn head taller than Fiona. Mickey doesn’t know where they got the pretty genes from — because if memory serves, Frank and Monica Gallagher were fuck ugly motherfuckers (or maybe that was the side effect of all that fucking meth? Ah, who knows?) — but standing there side by side as Fiona goes through something on the computer behind the counter, the two siblings look like they could be movie stars.

Fiona with her big doe eyes; Ian with his stupidly chiseled jawline.

Like what the fuck?

When did Red get so hot?

And — Red works here? Is he their baker? Does he make those banana muffins? Because those taste heavenly.

But more importantly, how come Mickey’s never seen him here before today?

Well…to be fair, Mickey’s only been here a handful of times. Maybe Ian was in the kitchen all this while, slaving away at those muffins and cookies and fuck knows what else…

“The banana muffins are sellin’ really well, Ian,” Fiona says, her voice loud enough to carry all the way over to where Mickey sits by the window.

“Told ya,” comes the playful reply. “Don’t doubt me next time, Fi, it won’t end well.”

“Okay, Mary Berry, calm down.”

Ian chuckles at the nickname. They go over some shit on the computer before Ian grabs his tray of baked goods and makes his way to the bakery display case, completely oblivious to Mickey’s presence.

And he’s fucking thankful for it.

He sighs and hunches over the assignment he’s supposed to be grading, hoping it’ll somehow make him smaller and disappear altogether.

It seems to take for-fucking-ever for Ian to arrange his baked goods in the display case, but he eventually strolls past Mickey’s table with his empty tray, all the way back into the kitchen, without so much as a glance at Mickey.

He heaves another sigh.

Get a fucking grip, Milkovich!

---