Soooo….this is my first Gallavich ficlet. It’s basically an exploring of how Svetlana and Yevgeny MIGHT re enter Gallavich’s lives post-canon. I headcanon that Lana and Mickey lept in touch while he was in prison and he visited her and Yevgeny before Mexico, and they lost touch after that. So…here.
Mickey’s phone lit up with another call. Ian.
Mickey smirked at his husband’s name on the phone and answered.
“Fuck you want, bitch?” he asked, no real venom in his voice.
“Is that the way to talk to mother of your child?”
Ho-ly fuck.
Mickey dropped the phone. It clattered to the kitchen floor, loud in the silence of his apartment. Mickey heard his husband’s voice agaun, cursing “Shit!” and then calling his name.
“Mick? Mickey?”
“What the fuck, Gallagher!” Mickey yelped.
“This was not how I planned it, okay, Svetlana just kinda grabbed the phone-“
“Planned!?”
“Mick! Just-just hear me out please-“
Mickey rubbed his eyebrows. Cracking open a bottle of beer (no way was he doing this shit sober), he drew a deep breath. “Get your ass home, Gallagher. You and her. I want a fuckin explanation.”
With that, Mickey slammed down the phone and downed the bottle in one go.
Half an hour later, Mickey heard his husband’s key turning in the lock. “Mick?” he called out. “Mick?”
Mickey was in the dark of their living room, leaning on the wall, a half-smoked cigarette on his lips and a bottle of beer in hand. Ian flicked the light switch on and flashed a smile at him. “Hey,” he said gently, coming forward to kiss him, but Mickey pushed away. “You have five fuckin seconds to explain before I put your head through this fuckin wall, Gallagher.”
Ian sighed and rubbed his eyebrow, a habit he’d picked up from Mickey. After being together for over a decade, some habits just became shared.
“Svetlana’s in the weed business too,” Ian said. “And she recognised me. I was gonna call and talk to you first, but erm you saw how that went.”
Mickey went quiet for a moment. He fiddled with his brows again, biting his lip.
“Mickey?”
Ian tried, once again, to touch him, and Mickey let him, let Ian squeeze the back of his neck, let him press a kiss to the top of his head while a million thoughts were running inside, but before he could vocalise any of them-
“This place is nice. Very nice. You have done well. You are more than just Ukranian pussy.”
Mickey forced himself to follow the voice, the Russian drawl he hadn’t heard since just before Mexico, and settle his eyes on his ex wife.
Her hair was in a short dark bob now, her blue eyes bright, her lipstick vivid red, her suit black. And holding her hand…
“Yevgeny,” Mickey breathed. He hadn’t seen the boy since he’d broken out of prison. Before he went back for Ian, he’d paid a visit to Svetlana. Yevgeny had been three years old then. Mickey remembered kissing the boy’s forehead as he said goodbye, knowing that he was growing up under Kevin Ball, who would be a damn better father than Mickey had ever been.
Now Yevgeny’s fluffy blond hair was darkening. His eyes were blue, but they were a Milkovich deep blue, instead of Svet’s paler ones. The boy looked up at his mother, who scooped him up in her arms, as she had done when Mickey last saw her.
“You have done well, clearly,” Svetlana said, leaning forward to kiss Mickey on the cheek. “Orange Boy tells me you are in the weed.”
Mickey smiled weakly and he heard Ian chuckle at the old nickname beside him.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “He says you are too.”
“Top of the game. I am kept woman.”
“You really wanna say that shit in front of the kid?”
Ian nudged him. “Language!”
Yevgeny was still staring at Mickey, those blue eyes wide and curious. Then, he held out a small hand for Mickey to shake. “Hello, Papa,” he lisped. Svetlana set him down before Mickey could reply. “Carrot Boy will show me around. You will bond with your child.”
And before Mick could say anything, she left the room. Ian shot Mickey a reassuring look, kissed his cheek, and hurried after Svetlana, leaving Mickey alone with the small dark haired boy.
“Mama says-you’re my Papa,” Yevgeny whispered. “Are you?”
Mickey levelled with him. “Do you want me to be your papa?”
“Yes,” the little boy replied.
Mickey smiled. “Come here,” he whispered. He pulled Yevgeny into his arms and hugged him, long and hard. God, he’d grown. He was seven years old now, not the baby he’d left. He kissed the top of Yevgeny’s head, unaware that Ian and Svetlana were watching from the doorway.
“You were right, Orange Boy,” smirked Svet. “All he needed was time.”
