Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mickey’s in a hurry, so he doesn’t immediately register the thin white stick in the sink until he’s about to turn on the water to wash his hands.

He picks it up and turns it over. Two things become immediately clear--it’s a pregnancy test, and it’s positive.

Holy fuck. Ian.

That’s his first, honest-to-God thought. It must be Ian’s test. They’ve switched things up exactly twice lately--once was on Ian’s birthday and he enjoyed it so much that they did it again the next night. Yeah, twice isn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but…they’re both carriers. It’s possible.

Mickey drops the test back into the sink and starts hyperventilating. Holy shit. Ian’s pregnant. That’s...he isn’t really sure what that is. It’s not all bad, because they’re renting a pretty nice place and have steady jobs and bank accounts with money that doesn’t come from drugs or prostitution, but a kid? Now? 

Mickey can’t wrap his head around the idea. They’ve talked about adoption before, because Ian doesn’t want to pass on his bipolar. Mickey gets that, and there are plenty of kids he wants to give a good home to. But this...this would be their kid. Mickey smiles at the thought of a little red-head running around the place, playing Army with Ian and learning how to pick locks with Mickey (a useful skill that any kid should have.) It could be--

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Mickey shakes his head and drops the test into the trash where it rightfully belongs. All Ian did was take a test. He’s probably somewhere freaking out about it and not sure what he’s going to tell Mickey. 

Well, Mickey needs to call him right the fuck now so they can talk about this. He rinses his  hands, grabs his coat and heads out the door, phone in hand. 

***

Ian comes home early with a headache, which wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t also pretty sure he was running a fever. Just like him to forget his flu shot this year and get sick.

He’s not really hungry, but he knows he has to stay hydrated, so he pours himself some orange juice and heads to the bedroom. Halfway there, he has to make a quick detour to the bathroom because his breakfast is suddenly not sitting well at all. He barely manages to secure the cup of orange juice on top of the toilet tank before he’s puking into the bowl.

Three minutes later, he flushes and shakily stands up to rinse his mouth out. He glances down at the wastebasket and sees something on top of the used paper towels and floss. 

Is that…?

He blinks, hoping his fever isn’t making him hallucinate, and picks the object out of the trash.

It’s a positive pregnancy test. And it’s not his. 

Mickey.

***

Mickey’s left three voicemails and seven texts, but Ian isn’t responding. He finally gives up and goes home after his shift at the Alibi is over. Ian can avoid him all he wants, but he has to come home eventually and they need to fucking talk about this.

Fortunately, he knows Ian’s already home when he walks in and sees his EMT jacket on the arm of the couch. What’s unusual is that Ian isn’t on his laptop or watching TV, or even making dinner. 

“Ian?” Mickey calls, heading for the bedroom. “Hey, man, we need to talk.”

“In here.”

Mickey stops in the doorway and sees Ian curled up in bed, looking like hell. 

“Hey, you sick?”

“Forgot my flu shot,” Ian croaks. “I just need to sleep.”

Mickey feels bad for him, but he also thinks this is more than just a flu. 

“Okay,” he says, sitting down next to him and rubbing his back. “You want me to get you anything?”

“Water,” Ian says. “Don’t wanna get dehydrated.”

“Coming right up,” Mickey replies, kissing him on the shoulder before he gets up.

“Hey, Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“When I get better...we need to talk.”

Oh, he’s definitely right about that.

***

The next three days are the weirdest of Mickey’s life, and that’s really saying something. 

For one thing, he looks up everything he can about morning sickness (because he’s pretty sure that’s why Ian’s puking every day, not just this flu,) He plies Ian with ginger ale and crackers and every bland food he can think of, and Ian seems to appreciate it but stays close-lipped about why he needs it. 

For another, Ian keeps asking Mickey if he’s feeling okay. Mickey figures he just doesn’t want him to catch his flu, so he says yes, he’s fine. But Ian won’t stop looking at him like he’s hiding something, which is pretty rich considering the secret he’s sitting on.

Sometimes when Ian’s sleeping, Mickey just watches him and tries to imagine what he’s thinking. Does he think Mickey doesn’t want a kid, or is it that he doesn’t want one and he’s planning on calling the local women’s clinic as soon as he’s better? Mickey would be okay with that, he’s not some sanctimonious pro-lifer standing outside Planned Parenthood with a sign. They both know what poverty and bad parenting can do to a kid. 

But he wants Ian to at least fucking tell him before he makes any decisions. They’re not in high school, for fuck’s sake. This is a conversation they can have as two adults in a committed relationship.

So on the fourth night, when Ian seems a little more lucid, Mickey broaches the subject. 

“I know about the baby.”

Ian focuses on him and lifts his head off his pillow. “You do?”

Mickey smiles. “Yeah, man. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it. You know we don’t have to--”

“I want it,” Ian interrupts, smiling back. “I mean, if you do, too. I know we talked about adopting and all that, but Mick, it’s our kid.”

Mickey lets out a shaky breath and brushes Ian’s sweaty hair out of his face. “You sure?” 

“I’m sure. I love you.”

Mickey kisses him, sweat and all. “I love you, too.”

***

After about a week, Ian’s on the road to recovery and Mickey’s still waiting on him hand and foot. But Ian’s still being weird and telling him not to lift things and take it easy, like Mickey’s the sick one. 

Then there’s the time Ian’s finally able to move from the bedroom to the couch, and Mickey comes in with a beer and Ian’s face immediately darkens when he sees it.

“Are you kidding me? Mick, you can’t drink that!”

Mickey freezes, bottle halfway to his mouth. “Why the fuck not?”

“You’re pregnant!” Ian yells, reaching up to take the bottle away from him. Mickey nearly drops it on his head. 

“No, I’m not, you’re the one who’s knocked up!” 

“Mick, seriously, put it away,” Ian insists. 

“I am serious!” Mickey snaps. “I’m not pregnant. That’s you, you moron.”

Now Ian freezes. “Wait...what?”

Maybe he’s still feverish. “You,” Mickey says with exaggerated mime gestures. “Have. A. Baby. Inside. You. Somewhere, I mean I don’t know exactly where, I’m not a fucking gynecologist, but--”

“Mickey, I’m not pregnant.” 

Mickey’s completely lost now. “What? But--your test said---that is what a positive sign looks like, right?”

“ My test? I thought that was your test!”

They stare at each other for a good ten seconds, and Mickey finally puts it all together.

“I found that thing in the sink on Monday,” he reiterates. “Then you found it…oh, Jesus. We’re fucking idiots.”

***

Of course, the only other part of the mystery is who the fuck took the test in the first place, and after some cursory asking around, it turns out it was one of Debbie’s friends, Kaitlin. Debbie explains that she’d forgotten her house key, so they went to Ian and Mickey’s place to take the test instead. 

“I’m really sorry,” she says when Mickey talks to her over the phone. “Kaitlin and I went to Planned Parenthood yesterday anyway, so….”

“Congratulations,” Mickey says shortly. “Tell her to buy more condoms. That goes for you, too.” He hangs up and shakes his head at Ian.

“I like your sister, man, but she’s--” He stops when he sees Ian’s started laughing. “What? What the fuck is so funny?”

Ian just leans his head back and laughs. 

“Stop it!” Mickey huffs. “It’s not funny!”

“Yeah, it is. You were being so nice to me because you thought I was knocked up, and I was freaking out because I saw you drinking, and--” He coughs and gets himself a little more under control. “Come on, it’s kind of funny, admit it.”

Mickey doesn’t want to, especially given how embarrassed he feels when he remembers all the mushy thoughts he had at the time, but he shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Wait...did you want me to be pregnant?” Ian says, putting a hand on his knee. “For real?”

“No!” Mickey scoffs. “No fucking way, man, we’re not ready for a kid.”

“But you said…” Ian trails off. “So what you said before, you didn’t mean it?”

“Well---I mean--did you actually want me to be pregnant?” Mickey fires back, avoiding the question. 

“No, but...I thought it was a lot more likely that you were,” Ian points out. 

They’re both quiet for a minute.

“You sure you’re not?” Mickey says. “I mean, we did that thing on your birthday, and…”

“I’m sure,” Ian replies with a small smile. “I have to take a urine test every time I go in for a check-up. No babies here.”

Mickey’s relieved, and that tells him everything he needs to know. 

“You?”

“I don’t think so,” Mickey says automatically, then realizes that he doesn’t know. The only downside of having no periods. “I mean…” He swallows hard and looks at Ian.

“Maybe I should make sure.”

*** 

One drugstore trip (Mickey shoplifts the test because no way in hell is he letting anyone see him buy the damn thing) and three nerve-wracking minutes later, he’s thrilled when the test comes back negative.

“Thank fucking God,” he breathes, tossing the stick in the wastebasket. 

Ian knocks on the door. “Mick?”

“Negative!” Mickey reports. “Told you.”

“Okay.” Ian sounds relieved, too. Mickey washes his hands and opens the door, and they hug. 

“So, just to be on the same page, we’re not ready for kids yet,” Ian says after a minute. “Right?”

“Right,” Mickey replies.

“But when we are ready,” Ian says, looking him in the eye. “Do you want to?”

“You mean…” Mickey considers it. “I dunno. Maybe. Although I think you’d look hot barefoot and pregnant.”

Ian tickles his sides. “Yeah? I was just thinking the same thing.”

Chapter Text

Four Years Later:

“No,” Mickey says firmly. “No fucking way are we doing that. It’s sick.”

“Mick, it’s just a sperm donation,” Ian says, holding the leaflet they got at the doctor’s office. “We’d find a healthy donor we both liked, and--”

“You're not shoving a turkey baster of some random guy’s jizz up my ass!” Mickey yells.

“We wouldn’t have to use a--”

“Ian, come on,” Mickey pleads. “Seriously, why can’t we just do this the old-fashioned way? We know how, we’re good at it, and it’s awesome. This way costs a fuckton of money and involves some dude that we’ll never even meet.”

“I know,” Ian sighs, burying his face in his hands. “But, Mick, I meant it when I said I don’t want to pass my bipolar onto my kids. Monica did, and it fucked up my life. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. If our kid had to go through half of what I did, I’d never forgive myself.”

Mickey hears him. He does. “I get that. But you’re one of, like, six kids, and none of them have it. At least, not yet. So that’s a one in six chance for your kid, right?”

“I think it’s less than that,” Ian sighs. “Anyway, I wouldn’t want to spend the first seventeen years of their life watching for signs that they had it.”

“My mom had cancer,” Mickey says, which is not something he’s ever talked about before and doesn’t plan to after today, because the past is the past. “Her mom had it. Mandy might get it someday. Terry’s side of the family had all kinds of problems. Everybody’s got their shit, man. You can hope our kid doesn’t get your bipolar, but even if they do...I mean, it might not be as bad as yours. And you’ll know what it’s like. You can help.”

He remembers how much he tried to help Ian before he was diagnosed, and right after. He remembers never knowing if what he was doing was actually helping or not, and as much as he would hate for his own kid to go through that, at least that kid would have Ian.

Ian looks down at his hands. “I know.”

“I still mean it about no turkey basters.”

Ian chokes out a laugh. “Okay, no turkey basters. Got it.”

***

“You’re not kidnapping me again, are you?”

Mickey rolls his eyes and steers Ian carefully toward the center of the lawn.

“No, I’m not kidnapping you. You put the blindfold on and came willingly, so I don’t think it even counts.”

“Mick, really, where are we? Are there other people here?”

“Not right now.” Mickey stops him and checks to make sure nobody’s walking by with their dogs or kids. Good thing he decided to do this after dark. “Okay, take it off.”

Ian grins and removes the blindfold, and blinks when he sees where they are.

“The baseball field?” He looks at Mickey, bemused. “Are we recreating the first time we fucked here?”

“Not yet,” Mickey says, stamping down every voice in his head screaming that this is stupid and straight out of a rom-com and whatever happened to the guy who would rather shoot somebody in the face than be emotionally vulnerable?

Well, he grew up. And fell in love. And he’s not ashamed of that anymore.

“Take a look,” he says, putting an arm around Ian’s shoulders. “Just look.”

Ian does. “Are there going to be fireworks?”

Mickey swats him lightly on the back of the head. “No, smartass. Imagine this place about eight years from now. Summertime, kids running around, Little League game going on.”

“Okay…”

“And right there, up to bat,” Mickey points to home plate. “Is our kid.”

Ian’s breath catches.

“He looks like you, little redhead,” Mickey says, willing his voice to stay steady. “Got my eyes, maybe. He hits a home run, leaves the other little shits in the dust, wins the game. Everybody’s cheering. And we--” He turns Ian slightly to the right towards the bleachers. “Are right down in front, screaming our heads off for him, telling everyone that’s our boy and one day he’s gonna win the Sox the World Series.”

Ian has tears streaming down his cheeks by this point, but Mickey’s not done yet.

“I only want to have your kid,” he says, facing Ian directly. “Only yours. I don’t care if we have a boy or a girl or whatever, just as long as you’re their dad. I don’t want to use a donor, and I know you’re worried about the whole bipolar thing. But we can do it. We’ll help our kid if they have it, and we’ll help each other. That’s what family does.”

Ian pulls him close and kisses him.

“Okay,” he breathes when they break apart, and Mickey’s almost crying too. “Let’s do it. Let’s have a baby.”

“That’s more like it,” Mickey laughs, one hand in Ian’s hair, keeping his face close to his own. They stagger backwards towards the bleachers.

“This might make for an awkward conception story if our kid does play baseball one day,” Ian says as they fumble with their respective clothes.

“Fuck that, we’ll lie,” Mickey grunts. “Like good parents.”

Chapter Text

Ian can’t believe he’s doing this at a funeral.

Not just anyone’s funeral, either--Terry’s. The bastard’s finally dead, and to everyone’s relative surprise, it’s of natural causes. The medical report says it was a brain aneurysm that most likely ruptured in his sleep.

Ian doesn’t know how to feel about it, but that’s nothing compared to what Mickey’s going through. He’s been drinking non-stop since he got the phone call, and the last thing he wants to do is talk to anyone. Ian had to practically wrestle him into a cold shower this morning just to sober him up enough to get to the damn church. Mickey hasn’t shaved or had much solid food in the past few days so he looks like hell, but given the situation, Ian’s pretty sure no one will care.

Ian, in the meantime, is taking care of something he planned to do before they got the news about Terry. It understandably fell by the wayside, but now he’s got a few minutes before the service begins and he just can’t fucking wait any longer. He has to know.

Ten more seconds. He’s pacing up and down, hands fisted in his suit pockets, all nervous energy. His phone’s timer finally goes off, and he practically knocks it into the sink in his rush to grab the cheap white stick and see--

A plus sign. Bright pink, unmistakable plus sign.

He can’t breathe.

“Oh my god.” He keeps staring at it like it’s going to change, but it doesn’t, and after the first wave of shock comes giddiness.
They did it! Six months of trying their brains out with no result, and then one night after a lot of Jagermeister, Mickey suggested they should just switch things up again and what the hell, maybe Ian will turn out to be the more fertile of the two of them. Ian had laughed about that the next morning, figuring that one drunk night couldn’t do what endless sober ones had.

Looks like he’d been wrong.

Ian’s hands are shaking--all of him is, actually--and he presses them to his face, his eyes, his head, unable to process this completely. He can’t stop smiling, which is going to be a problem given that he’s at a goddamn funeral and even if he hated Terry Milkovich, he can’t just sit there grinning...not the entire time, anyway.

There’s a knock on the door, and Ian jumps when he remembers he’s in a single-stall bathroom and he can’t delay getting back to the service any longer.

“Coming!” he calls, doing a cursory rinse of his hands and, after a moment’s uncertainty, dropping the test into the trash. Maybe he should have kept it for posterity, but it seems gross to hang onto something he literally urinated on. He steps aside to let in an older woman he doesn’t recognize--maybe a friend of Terry’s, because a handful of them actually showed up--and heads upstairs.

All he can think is how he’s going to tell Mickey--or more importantly, when he’s going to tell Mickey. He straightens his tie as he walks back into the church, pausing for a second to let his buoyant mood fade when he sees Mandy’s bowed head next to her brothers’ in the front pew. Mickey’s glancing around, and Ian waves and slides into the spot next to him.

“Hey,” he whispers, taking Mickey’s hand. It’s cold. “You okay?”

Mickey nods. “Great,” he says hoarsely. “Where’d you go?”

“Bathroom,” Ian replies, and has to squash a smile. “When we get a second after--”

The priest walks in at that exact moment, and the service starts. Ian only half pays attention to what’s being said, mostly because he can’t think of a single good thing to say about Terry and his focus is torn between monitoring Mickey and daydreaming about the test, what it means and what’s going to change in their lives and how fucking happy Mickey’s going to be when Ian finally tells him.

But first, they have to get through this fucking day.

***
Ian remembers being sixteen and sandwiched between Mickey and Mandy on their ratty old couch, watching them play video games right after he and Mickey had gotten each other off in Mickey’s room. He kind of wishes they could go back in time and be there right now, because sitting between them holding two cold hands--Mickey’s clammy, Mandy’s bone dry--is not what Ian considers fun at all.

Mandy doesn’t cry. She leans her head against Ian’s shoulder, eyes closed, but he doesn’t see tears. Mickey sometimes removes his hand from Ian’s to wipe at his face, but is otherwise stony.

A few of Terry’s bar buddies get up and say some words--mostly about the most memorable fights he got into, the ways in which he hurt people for calling him what were probably well-deserved names. Ian’s jaw clenches and he thinks about all the things he’d like to say about Terry that even his friends don’t know--

--but he locks it down, because Terry’s not his dad. This is Mickey’s family, and if anyone has a right to let the world know what he did, it’s Mickey or his siblings.

So he thinks he’s prepared when Mickey stands up to say something. Ian braces himself, and exchanges a look with Mandy. Whatever’s coming isn’t going to be pretty, they know that much.

“I’m Terry’s son, Mickey,” Mickey begins, unnecessarily because everyone there already knows who he is. “And my dad was a fucking bastard piece of shit.”

Ian tries disguising his laugh as a cough, but isn’t entirely successful.

“I can’t count the number of times he beat the shit out of me,” Mickey goes on, his voice belligerently ringing through the church. “Started when I was about five and it just got worse every year. He used to say that the bigger I was, the more I could take. I guess that was the reason why. Probably the worst thing he ever did was get a Russian hooker to fuck me in front of my boyfriend after he almost pistol-whipped me to death. Then he made me marry her, like that was gonna fix me.”

Ian’s not laughing now, and Mandy’s sitting upright with her fists clenched. Mickey’s entire body is twitching with ill-suppressed rage, and he looks like he’s about to explode.

“He tried to kill me when I came out a year later,” he continues. “You guys know, you were there, you saw it. And not one of you did anything to stop him. Nobody ever tried to stop him, except Ian. And you know what? I’m fucking glad he’s dead. I’m glad he’ll never be able to hurt me or anybody else ever again. And that’s all I have to say. So fuck you, Dad!”

He whirls around and punches the coffin, which creaks a little under the impact. Mickey punches it again and again, and after about three punches, Ian and Mandy jump up and pull him away. He’s still yelling “Fuck you!” and Ian knows what to do.

“I got this,” he tells Mandy, and half-pushes, half-pulls Mickey out the side door into a small courtyard with a bunch of stone benches and trees. It’s a nice, quiet spot where hopefully no one can hear them.

Mickey rips himself out of Ian’s grasp and staggers over to the nearest bench, breathing as hard as if he just ran a mile. His knuckles are red, but not bleeding.

Ian sits down on the bench nearest to his and doesn’t say anything. Sometimes this is better than trying to say the right thing.

After a few minutes, Mickey meets his eye.

“Did I--”

“Punch out your dad’s coffin?” Ian says with a tiny smirk. “Yeah. I think you made a dent.”

Mickey huffs a weak laugh. “Good.” Then his face goes slack again. “All that stuff I said, about…”

Ian gets why he looks like that--he’s never told anyone that part of the story before. After they got back together, they had a kind of mutual understanding that nobody needed to know the truth behind Mickey and Svetlana’s marriage or Yevgeny’s conception.

“It’s not their business,” he says. “Even if they ask you about it, you don’t have to tell them anything.”

Mickey nods distractedly, eyes darting around like he’s waiting for someone to come storming out and take him to task for the things he said. Ian hates seeing him like this.

“You need another minute?” Ian says, and Mickey nods again, head in his hands. Ian’s happy to get a breather. He’s not sure what comes next in the service, but he’s not looking forward to the trip to the gravesite itself.

“Fuck him,” Mickey mutters. “I still get so fucking mad at him, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Ian swallows hard. That’s the same way he feels about Monica. There was so much he wanted to say, so much she would never have heard if he had, but there’s nothing he can say to her now.

He gets up and sits next to Mickey, arm going around his shoulders.

“We can bail, if you want,” he suggests. “I don’t think anyone will blame you after that.” Or maybe they will, but fuck them.

Mickey leans into him for a second, but shakes his head.

“Nah. I want to see them bury the fucker. And I don’t want to leave Mandy alone.”

Ian nods, and after a cursory straightening of jackets and ties, they go back inside.

***

Ian knows this isn’t the best time--hell, it’s probably the worst time--but he has to say something before the funeral is over. He can’t let it end with Mickey losing his shit and punching a coffin.

“Excuse me,” he says once the priest is done with the prayers and the coffin’s ready to be lowered into the ground. “Um...can I say something really quick?”

The priest looks surprised, but nods. Ian clears his throat and glances at the small crowd who are looking at him like they’re wondering if he’s going to start cursing Terry out, too.

“I’m Ian Gallagher,” he says, for the benefit of those he doesn’t recognize. “I’m Mickey’s boyfriend and we’ve been together for about eight years now.”

Nobody says anything, which is encouraging. Mickey’s looking at him like he doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going with this, and Ian flashes him a smile.

“Terry hated me,” he continues. “And the feeling was mutual. But in spite of everything he did, and how he treated his kids...Mickey Milkovich is still the best person I know, that I’m not related to.”

Mickey’s eyebrows go up sharply, and Mandy grins.

“He’s put up with so much shit from me, he probably deserves a medal,” Ian goes on, warming to the topic. “Although he hasn’t exactly been a saint, either.”

Mickey flips him off, and a few people laugh.

Ian’s beginning to enjoy himself, but the priest is looking a little impatient and he can’t drag this out forever, so he takes a deep breath and cuts to the chase.

“But one thing I know for sure is that unlike Terry, Mickey’s a really good father. I helped him raise his first kid...and I know he’s going to be great with ours.”

Mickey’s face goes rigid with surprise, and Mandy gasps, clapping a hand to her mouth as she figures it out first.

“Mick,” Ian says, thrilled not only to be saying this, but to be literally announcing it over Terry Milkovich’s dead body, “I’m pregnant.”

***

Four hours later, Ian’s exhausted, happier than he’s ever been in his life, and really wants salt and vinegar chips.

That’s nothing new--he’s always hungry after sex--but he’s willing to chalk it up to his first pregnancy craving.

“Have I mentioned how fucking awesome that was?” Mickey says, kissing his collarbone lazily. He keeps petting Ian’s stomach, but Ian’s pretty sure the area he’s focusing on isn’t exactly where the baby is.

“You might have, a few times,” Ian chuckles. He tilts Mickey’s chin up to kiss him, and slides out of bed. “I’m hungry, want anything?”

“Yeah, for you to stay put while I get the food,” Mickey says, grabbing his arm and tugging him gently back down.

“I’m not on bedrest,” Ian protests, secretly loving how Mickey’s been insisting on doing everything for him since the funeral. “I’m just going as far as the kitchen.”

“Hey, you need your rest,” Mickey insists. “Now what does the little fetus want? Ice cream, pickles, sauerkraut?”

“Salt and vinegar chips, if we have any left,” Ian supplies. “And it’s an embryo, not a fetus.”

Mickey shrugs. “I’ll get the chips.”

Ian watches him leave and smiles, relaxing back on the mattress. He’ll let Mickey spoil him for a little while longer, especially if it helps take his mind off of his dad.

Right now, though, his boyfriend is getting him chips because he thinks it’s what their baby wants. And it’s freaking adorable.

Mickey comes back after a few minutes with a bowl, and Ian digs in.

“So how far along are you, anyway?” Mickey asks, grabbing a few for himself. “You never said.”

Ian shrugs. “The test doesn’t pick up on anything until about four weeks, so...I don’t know, five at least? We need to make an appointment and find out for sure. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Mickey smiles. “Think they’ll do an ultrasound so we can see the little bug?”

Ian smiles back. “I hope so.”

Mickey reaches out and brushes his fingers over Ian’s stomach again. “I can’t believe it’s in there. Doesn’t seem real.”

Ian moves Mickey’s hand down a few inches lower, right below his navel. “It’s actually about there, I think.”

Mickey keeps his hand there like he’s waiting to feel something, and Ian takes the opportunity to just look at him. Mickey hates being stared at or scrutinized, so Ian appreciates any chance to see him look...open. Relaxed, off-guard. Like he’s enjoying the moment.

“I’m glad it’s finally happened,” he says quietly. “Even though it’s not me.”

Ian covers his hand with his own. “It still could be, if you want.”

“Whoa, whoa, one at a time, Gallagher! We don’t have to fill the whole house or anything.”

Ian’s a little embarrassed that he said it out loud, but he’s been thinking about it since they started trying. Still, Mickey’s right--they’re not in a hurry, and one kid at a time seems best.

“All right,” he says, smiling. “But next time?”

“Next time,” Mickey agrees.

Chapter Text

Ian’s excited, nervous, and still a little giddy when he and Mickey wait in the exam room for their doctor to come back with the results of his blood test. He can’t stop moving restlessly in his chair, and Mickey puts a hand on his knee.

“It’s okay, twitchy,” he says with a smile. Ian leans in for a kiss. It gets pretty heated, and they only stop when the door opens and Dr. Kimm steps into the room.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says dryly. Ian laughs, and Mickey straightens his collar self-consciously.

“Hormones, I guess,” Ian remarks. “That’s normal, right?”

“It is,” Dr. Kimm says, but seems unamused.

Freakin’ homophobe, Ian thinks. If this is going to be a problem, they might as well find another doctor.

“Mr. Gallagher, I have some bad news,” Dr. Kimm says rather formally. “Your blood test came back negative.”

Ian blinks.

“For what?” Mickey says, and Ian realizes what it means before the doctor can even open his mouth.

“Negative for pregnancy, Mr...Milkovetch?”

“Milkovitch,” Mickey corrects him tersely. “But--he took a test just two days ago, and it was positive. Did he lose the baby?” His hand reaches out for Ian’s, but Ian is feeling too numb to take it.

“It appears it was a false positive, and Mr. Gallagher was never pregnant in the first place,” Dr. Kimm clarifies. “It’s rare, but it happens more often in male carriers. In any case, Mr. Gallagher, I would recommend that you not pursue this course of action when it comes to...your attempts at conceiving.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Mickey snaps. “He can’t bottom anymore, is that what you’re saying? Why the hell not?”

“Mr. Gallagher has bipolar disorder and requires medication to manage his condition, correct?” Dr. Kimm says, mouth pursing like he finds the subject distasteful. “These medications would have to be either stopped entirely during the pregnancy, or he would have to take a lower dose of lithium for at least the first trimester. The risks range from possible fetal heart defects to a resurgence in manic episodes. As it stands, this is the best possible outcome--”

“Okay,” Mickey interrupts, standing up. “We get it, you think Ian would go off the deep end again if he got pregnant. But you don’t know him, and you don’t know us. And you don’t get to tell my boyfriend that his mental illness is the reason he shouldn’t have kids. So fuck you, we’re leaving. Ian, let’s go.”

Ian gets up and follows him out, giving the doctor a cursory nod as they go. There’s a good chance they’ll be banned from this office after Mickey’s little rant, but he doesn’t care. All he can think about is how stupid he feels for forgetting all the risks.

“That fucking asshole,” Mickey vents as they drive home. “Being all…what’s that word Lip uses, ‘ableist?’ Just because you have bipolar, he tells you not to have kids? What kind of fucking quack is he?”

“He’s not a quack,” Ian says quietly, staring out the window. “He’s right, Mick. All that stuff he said was right. I would have to go off my meds, or at least take less lithium. And the baby could still be affected or I could get manic again, or depressed. There’s no way to know.”

Mickey glances at him in surprise. “Seriously? Then why didn’t you say something?”

“When?” Ian says, hunching his shoulders. “That time we switched, or when I took the test and I was so happy that I forgot all about being bipolar for one fucking day, or while you were cussing him out just now? When should I have told you all this?”

“How ‘bout the day we started trying?” Mickey says in a level voice. “That would’ve been a help.”

Ian rubs a hand over his eyes.

“I did my research,” he says tiredly. “I talked to my psychiatrist, too. She told me what could happen. I figured if...if you couldn’t get pregnant but I could, I should at least know what I was getting myself into.”

Mickey’s grip on the steering wheel eases a little. “That makes sense. But you still should have told me.”

“We tried for six months, Mick!” Ian protests. “I thought you’d take it personally if I said ‘Hey, maybe you’re not so good at this, wanna try it the other way?’”

“Not good at---Ian, for fuck’s sake, I’m still a guy! If I never get pregnant, that’s not going to be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Maybe it won’t. I’m okay with that. Maybe it’s just not in the cards or whatever.”

Ian sighs. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay with not having kids just because of what it might do to me.”

“I’m not,” Mickey says earnestly. “We tried. We’ve been trying. But some asswipe just told us you weren’t pregnant, and I never want to see that look on your face again.”

When they get home, he looks over at Ian as they pull into their parking spot.

“Seriously, do you still want to? Even though it’s risky for you?”

Ian thinks for a while before answering.

“I guess...I’ll always kind of want to,” he says pensively. “I mean, as long as there’s a possibility that I could, y’know?”

“Yeah...”

“But if I can’t trust myself off the meds--if everyone would have to be constantly watching me to see if I was manic or depressed again--then maybe it wouldn’t be fair to the kid. I don’t want to put them in danger, ever. I never feel out of control when I’m manic, and I never feel depressed when I’m low. Everything still makes sense, just…in the wrong ways.”

He sighs again, running his hand through his hair. “If I wasn’t bipolar, I’d want this kid even more, but I have to accept that I might not be the best person for the job.” He glances at Mickey. “Not that I want to put all the pressure on you.”

Mickey copies his shrug. “Either it happens or it doesn’t.”

What neither of them want to admit is that there isn’t much of a third option. Adoption can take years, and they’re not exactly perfect candidates, what with the criminal records on top of bipolar disorder. Ian’s not even sure if they could be foster parents one day. It feels like this is their only chance.

“Tell you what,” Mickey says after a pause. “Let’s give it another six months, what the hell. And if...nothing happens, then we can talk about making you Yevgeny’s legal guardian, like we planned.”

Ian gives him a skeptical look. “Like a consolation prize?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey retorts. “He’s my son, and he’d be yours, too. If that’s the best we can do as far as kids, he’s a lot better than nothing, right?”

Ian gives in and smiles faintly. “Yeah. Of course he is.”

Chapter Text

It’s a week until Thanksgiving, and Mickey’s holiday stress has decided to manifest itself as a twitch in his left upper eyelid that won’t go away.

“Really, Mick, I don't think it's serious,” Ian says for the tenth time as they’re getting ready that morning. “It’s probably just stress, and once we’re napping on the couch the day after Thanksgiving, you’ll feel a lot better. I get stressed this time of year, too.” He glances at a corner of their kitchen floor before busying himself with packing his lunch.

Mickey knows what that look means--it may not be the Gallagher house, but thanks to Monica’s suicide attempt all those years ago, Ian’s always hated Thanksgiving. Or at least, hated going back to that house for it. Mickey’s happy that at least this year there won’t be any alcohol-fueled rants by his father around the dinner table, but that’s not quite the same as what Ian had to witness.

He rubs a hand down Ian’s back as he rinses out his coffee mug.

“We’ll be alright,” he says, and Ian flicks him a smile. “If it gets to be too much, we can just leave. Say we’ve got food poisoning or something.”

Ian chuckles and shrugs on his jacket. “Debbie would love that.”

Mickey steps closer and zips up Ian’s jacket for him, taking the opportunity to tug him in and kiss him slowly.

“Have a good day,” he says. “Save lives and all that.”

***

“Jesus!” Mickey staggers out of the men’s room two seconds after he walked in. “Kev, what the fuck happened in there, a chemical spill?”

Kev looks up from restocking the shelves behind the bar, frowning.

“Dude, I just cleaned it. Did somebody drop a load in one of the stalls already?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey says, breathing in deep to clear the smell out of his nostrils. It was so bad he thought he’d be sick for a second there. “It just reeks. What did you use, pure ammonia?”

Kev looks at him strangely. “No. I used the stuff that I always use.”

Either he’s lying--which would be stupid even for Kev--or some unlucky patron had had an epic shit in the five minutes between when Kev cleaned and Mickey stepped inside. And Mickey’s pretty sure he would have noticed.

His eyelid starts twitching again, and he rubs it briefly, annoyed. This is all he needs--more stress, and a bathroom that smells too bad to use.

“I’m going across the street,” he says, grabbing his coat. “Spray some fucking air freshener in there, will ya?”

***
By the time the day’s over, Mickey’s wiped. He wants to crawl into bed and sleep until after Thanksgiving, fuck missing out on turkey and all that.

He naps longer than he means to, because he wakes up to Ian wrapping his arms around him from behind.

“Hey,” Mickey croaks, not opening his eyes.

“Hey. Long day?”

“Very,” Mickey presses against Ian. “Kev was a fucking idiot and cleaned the bathroom with some kind of expired rat piss, so I had to use the one across the street every time I had to go.”

Ian kisses his nape. “Anything else happen?”

Mickey shrugs. “Not much. You?”

“Delivered a baby.”

Mickey turns to look over his shoulder at him. “No shit? You do that a lot?”

“No, thank God,” Ian says, smiling. “It’s nerve-wracking. But the baby was fine, and so was the mom. She’d gone into labor really fast and couldn’t get to the hospital on time.”

“What was it?” Hell if he knows why he’s curious, but he is.

“Little boy,” Ian recalls. “Screamed like a banshee. She named him Kyle.”

“That’s a douchey name. Poor kid.” He yawns.

“You okay? You usually don’t nap this time of the day.”

Mickey “hmms.” “Just tired. I’m probably getting a cold.”

“Want me to pick up some cold medicine next time I go out?”

“Yeah, sure,” Mickey yawns again, deciding that five more minutes of sleep can’t hurt. “Dope me up.”

Ian chuckles. “Go to sleep.”

***

“Ian, I think this mouthwash is bad.”

Ian pokes his head into the bathroom. “I just bought it. What’s the expiration date?”

Mickey checks. “Uh...next year. Must be a bad batch.”

“What’s wrong with it, exactly?”

Mickey holds out the opened bottle. “Smells terrible.”

Ian takes it and sniffs, but shakes his head. “It smells normal to me.” He gives Mickey a searching look. “Is your nose stuffed up?”

“No. I feel fine,” Mickey says a little defensively. “I’m not...making this up.” He tries not to use the word “crazy” around Ian. It’s one of their few but important ground rules.

“I didn’t think you were,” Ian assures him. “But first you said the bathroom at the Alibi smelled bad, and now you think my mouthwash does, too. It’s weird is all.”

“Just a coincidence,” Mickey says. “Get a new brand of this stuff, okay? I’m not putting it in my mouth.”

Ian’s eyebrow goes up, and Mickey would happily follow that train of thought all the way to a very satisfying end if he wasn’t both late for work and, sad to say, a little too tired to have morning sex with his boyfriend right now. Not that he’ll admit it.

“Hold that thought,” he says, cocking an eyebrow right back at him. “I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

***

For the first time in a very long time, Mickey has to beg off sex because of how exhausted he is. Ian understands and is perfectly happy to leave it till later, but when Mickey wakes up the next morning and this time even his coffee smells like someone took a shit in it, he knows something’s up.

Either he has a brain tumor--just his luck--or there’s something else going on, but he can’t think of what else it could be. He tries not to think about it, but going without coffee that day does nothing to improve his mood, especially when the lack of caffeine makes it harder to focus.

Kev, of all people, is watching him like he’s a fucking zoo exhibit, and Mickey’s two seconds away from smashing a bottle over his head if he doesn’t stop.

“What?” he snaps at one point. “I got something on my face?”

“No,” Kev says, and actually winks at him. “But you might have something in the oven.”

“I’m not a cook,” Mickey says automatically before he remembers what else the phrase means. He freezes. No, he couldn’t be….

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he says, lowering his voice so the barflies don’t overhear them. “I’m not...I mean, I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

“I told Vee about you flipping out over the bathroom and how I didn’t smell anything,” Kev says. “She says it sounded like how she got when she was pregnant--stuff just started to smell bad to her. Has it happened again?”

Mickey opens his mouth to say no, then recalls the mouthwash and the coffee, and gapes for a second.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Did...did she get really tired, too? I’ve been sleeping ten hours and I’m still wiped.”

“Oh yeah,” Kev says, looking more thrilled by the minute. “And that eye twitch you got going? That could be related.”

Mickey touches his eye out of habit and thinks back to the last time he and Ian had sex. They’d still been trying, and he couldn’t remember the last time they bought condoms. Mickey had gotten so sick of taking those stupid tests that he finally stopped about three months ago, and--

Holy. Shit.

“I gotta go,” Mickey says, heading for the back door.

“Good luck!” Kev yells after him.

***

He takes five tests. It’s excessive, but he needs to be absolutely, one hundred percent goddamn sure. He’s not going to fall for a false positive.

Forty minutes and a lot of water later, Mickey’s staring at a collection of extremely positive pregnancy tests. They’re all different brands, but they all say the same thing.

He can’t believe it. He keeps thinking one of them has to be wrong, or maybe they all are, and how would he know? Maybe he’s just got a twitchy eye and a brain tumor to blame for the way he’s been feeling lately. He doesn’t want that to be true--fuck, he’d rather be pregnant than have a brain tumor--but he can’t bring himself to trust the tests just yet.

He calls up the local Planned Parenthood and schedules an appointment for later that day, and they book it for him. Two hours later, he’s trying hard not to let the ultrasound technician see him cry when she points out a small but very definite embryo on the screen.

We did it, Gallagher, is all he can think. We finally fucking did it.

***

Deciding how, when and where to tell Ian is a challenge he didn’t prepare for. All these months and he never figured out how he’d share the news. He always figured they’d both be there when the test came back positive, and they’d probably celebrate together, have sex, and call the entire Gallagher family and Mandy with the news once that was done.

He doesn’t want to text it--too casual. Calling him at work could be distracting. But he can’t just sit on his ass and wait for Ian to get back. He has to do something.

So he goes into the part of town where he gets followed around by the staff of almost every store he patronizes, but this time suspicious looks are the least of his concerns. He wanders around a baby supply store, and just as he’s starting to feel overwhelmed at all the stuff a baby needs, he stumbles upon the exact item he wants.

He grabs it off the rack and actually pays for it. Ian will know exactly what it means when he sees it.

***

“Hey,” Ian says when he walks in to see Mickey standing by the kitchen table. “You’re home early.”

Mickey smiles and nudges a small cardboard box on the table towards Ian.

“Got you something.”

Ian glances at the box. “Is this a Thanksgiving present?”

Mickey shoves his hands deeper into his pockets to keep calm. “Yeah, kind of. Go on, open it.” Christ, he feels like a kid at a birthday party.

Ian looks at him oddly, but opens it and pulls out a tiny baseball cap.

“What....wait. Really?”

Mickey’s grinning from ear to ear now, and he nods emphatically. “Yeah. Turn it over if you don’t believe me.”

Ian turns the hat over and notices the ultrasound picture that Mickey’s wedged into the band. He takes it out and stares at the image, eyes filling up.

“Holy…” he breathes, glancing from the picture to Mickey and back. “You...you’re actually…?”

“Yep,” Mickey confirms, feeling like he’s earned the right to brag. “Eight weeks and growing like a--”

Whatever he was going to say next is interrupted by Ian’s mouth on his, and the next thing he knows, Ian’s nearly crushing him in a bear hug. Mickey’s having trouble breathing, but hugs him back just as tight. His face is pressed up against Ian’s, and he can feel tears on his cheek.

“Hey,” he says jokingly. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be all hormonal.”

“Shut up,” Ian says, his voice muffled in Mickey’s shirt. “I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you, too.” He pulls away slightly to see that Ian’s crying. “You okay?”

“I’m awesome,” Ian says, cupping Mickey’s face in his hands before trailing them down to his stomach. “Mick, this is amazing. I was starting to think that it wasn’t going to happen for us.”

“Yeah, me too,” Mickey says easily, hands grabbing the folds of Ian’s jacket to keep him close. “I took about five of those stupid tests, and I went to the clinic just to be sure it wasn’t another false alarm.”

Ian starts kissing him all over his face and Mickey’s tearing up despite his best efforts not to, and both of them start laughing, because they’re too overwhelmed with the knowledge that they’re finally pregnant to behave any other way. This is real. This is actually happening. In about seven months, they’re going to have a third person around who’s both of theirs, and Mickey can’t believe how excited he is.

“Can we tell everyone at dinner tomorrow?” Ian asks. “Or is it too early, do you want to wait?”

“Fuck yeah we can tell everyone!” Mickey laughs. “I’m pretty sure Kev and Vee have a pool going about this. I don’t want them to win.”