Chapter Text
It’s been a month. A long month, but Ian doesn’t feel like he’s seen much of it. The prison got him back on his meds, but he’s been dragging. Dragging his heels, dragging his vowels, dragging his head.
It’s easier, with Mickey here. Ian didn’t think it would be, thought it would be harder, because it’s painful making someone you love see you like that. Dragging.
And while it was painful, it was also easier because Mickey just makes it easier. The guilt is something Ian still feels acutely at times like a stabbing pain in his gut. Telling him that Mickey deserves better, Mickey shouldn’t have to put up with this, but then Mickey’s voice is there too, saying the opposite.
He helps.
Now that the month of med adjustments and countless counselling sessions is closing, it feels better. They got the right mix - or the best mix, because there’s no perfect concoction - of his pills, and the counsellor is getting less concerned. Less particular about things, less watchful for symptoms of an episode.
Ian feels like he can breathe again.
Which is weird, he knows. Because it’s like he’s breathing again for the first time in years, not just a month. He feels like he’s been treading water, barely able to take a breath for so long. Now it’s like he’s swimming, head mostly above the sea.
Mickey brushes his teeth at the little shared sink in their cell as they wait for lights out. Ian can’t help but let his eyes wander his body; the pale shoulders reaching through the white tank, the yellow jumpsuit bunched around his waist. His hair is shorter, neater than it was the last time he saw him.
“What’re you reading?” He garbles around a mouthful of shitty prison toothpaste.
Ian glances down at the open book in his lap, flipping to the cover quickly. “Uh… Jekyll and Hyde.” He answers, but he hasn’t really been reading it.
“Never heard of it.” Mickey spits into the sink.
“I’m surprised they let us read it. It’s about a scientist who creates a potion which makes him evil and ugly for a little while, and then he changes back.” Ian’s only on chapter three, but he already knows the plot. “He kills someone.”
“Ah, exciting then.” He rolls his eyes, sitting next to Ian on his bed.
Mickey moves around so he’s lying down, but still leaving space for Ian to sit somewhat comfortably beside him. The beds here are small and cramped and can hardly fit one of them, but most of the time they make it work. A lot of the guards leave them be, especially if they’re like this and nothing is actually happening. A lot of the guards get paid by Mickey, so hardly look in their cell. A lot of the guards would have a huge problem with them coming within two feet of each other.
Tonight they should be fine.
“Want me to read to you?” Ian asks, fiddling with the pages in front of him.
Mickey shrugs, hums, noncommittal. That could mean anything, but Ian can probably assume it means no. Since coming here, since getting back together, since trying to avoid everything that’s ever gone down between them, Mickey’s been different.
The first thing Ian noticed was how quiet he was, how reluctant. He used to come home and tell Ian everything on his mind, and now he doesn’t. He used to give Ian these secret little smiles which went along with bursts of laughter, but now it’s like Mickey is trying to hide it. Every time he’s on the verge of smiling, he purses his lips to prevent it from showing teeth.
Ian next noticed how Mickey doesn’t really say ‘no’ anymore. How he usually shrugs or says nothing to avoid actually saying no. Maybe Ian’s reading into it, but it seems like Mickey’s terrified of Ian leaving again. Maybe not even leaving, because they haven’t actually established what they are yet.
They’ve still been having sex, using the lube packets Ian can steal from the infirmary. Face to face, too, which Ian would have thought Mickey would be uncomfortable with. Afterwards, though, he’s not keen on cuddling or being close. He doesn’t shove Ian away exactly, just establishes a little distance. Which is bad, Ian knows, because Mickey had been getting better at affection, especially post-sex. Mickey cried once, while they were fucking, and seemed so humiliated that he could barely look Ian in the eye.
Mickey had been getting better at being vulnerable too, before. Now it feels like they’re back at square one, even though now it’s not internalised homophobia and psychopath dads keeping them apart, it’s insecurity.
It’s infuriating, really, because Ian hasn’t had the mental capacity to talk to him - properly - yet. And Ian wants to. Wants to rehash all of them, go over it no matter how painful and wipe it all clean so that when they get out, they can be better.
It’s not like he wants to start over. It seems cruel to ask Mickey to start over, when that would mean erasing every good thing that happened, as well as erasing years of trauma between them which they can’t just ignore.
There’s also a part of him that really doesn’t want to talk about what’s happened in the past. Guilt is a hard pill to swallow, and he has a lot of it. Saying it all out loud? Apologising? It’s hard.
But Ian thinks they’ve gone long enough without a conversation about something real.
His fingers twitch where they’re buried in between the pages of the battered novel.
“Can we talk?” Ian asks, staring somewhere in front of him.
Mickey obviously stiffens behind him, muscles tensed as if preparing for something. He sits up, backing himself against the wall like he needs the stability.
“About what?”
“About- well… about everything really. Like- the border, Mexico, prison, before… I just feel like we should at least talk about it all.” He cringes at his own words.
Mickey scoffs, is silent for a second as if thinking. Ian can’t look up to see his face.
When he’s about to continue, maybe start off this important conversation, Mickey speaks up. “If you’re gonna end this shit, just say so, man. Only came here to make sure you didn’t die, you don’t have to stay with me.”
And fuck, the way Mickey says it physically hurts Ian’s chest. He whips his head around to look at him, but Mickey’s got his face carefully neutral. His words are carefully indifferent, as though he wouldn’t give a shit if Ian just broke his heart all over again. The words sound planned, making Ian think Mickey expected it.
Fuck.
“That’s not- Mickey, that’s not what I was gonna say.”
Another dejected scoff. “You don’t have to feel guilty or some shit. I’ll be fine, been fine before. We can still fuck or whatever, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”
It twists his heart, twists it so painfully that Ian can hardly breathe for a second. “No, Mickey. That’s really not what I was gonna say. Why- I don’t feel obliged to be with you or something. I want to be.” Ian swallows, watching as Mickey rolls his eyes and rubs his nose with a sniff. “I know I’ve fucked up before and that’s what I want to talk about. So we can… I don’t fucking know, move past it, or something?”
“It’s fine, we don’t need to talk. I get it.” Mickey still seems to be under the impression that Ian’s not in this. And Ian understands why, but wishes it wasn’t the case.
“Get what, Mickey?”
A loud buzzer interrupts him, then the sound of a guard marching down the hallway. He bangs his baton on the cell door next to them, counting loudly. They both stand, so they can be seen from the window and the guard counts them too. He moves on, and they stay silent until he’s been around their entire floor. When the lights shut off, Ian tries again.
“Look, I just want to do it right this time. Talk about stuff. Like- insecurities, things we’ve done wrong, the future, fuck- even kinks and sex stuff. It’s important.” He tries to keep his voice down so no one else hears them.
“I don’t- What the fuck are you even talking about? You wanna talk about sex?” Mickey does this sometimes, intentionally playing dumb to avoid genuine feelings.
Ian sighs. He sits back on the bed, but Mickey remains standing. Ian can’t see his face in the dark, but knows he’s on edge. “No, I wanna talk about everything. Sex included, about what you like and what I like so we don’t do things wrong, you know?”
He can feel Mickey looking at him, and he watches his own hands instead of meeting his eyes. Somewhere above him, Mickey breathes a long huff out.
“You already know what I like.” He says as he sits beside Ian on his bed, maintaining a few feet of space.
“Okay, well I still think we should have a conversation about it.”
In the dark, when Ian can hardly see him, Mickey seems more settled and less likely to freak out. He seems to realise that Ian really isn’t trying to get away from him, just wants to communicate.
“Fine, that’s have a fucking conversation then.” Despite the clearly mocking way in which Mickey says it, Ian knows he’s telling the truth. He smiles a little, because this means Mickey is willing to try.
“What do you wanna talk about first?”
“I don’t know, man. This was your idea.”
“Fine, we can talk about sex first.” Start with the easy stuff, then go into the deeper emotional shit. Ian might be procrastinating with the things he feels guilty about, but whatever. They have months together, there’s time. Mickey shrugs beside him. “What do you like?”
“I don’t know! I like when you fuck me and don’t have a pussy chit chat about it-“
“Okay! Calm down.” Ian placates. “I know you like when I pull your hair. And you like it rough.”
Mickey relaxes, if only slightly. “Yeah.” He mutters.
“You like when I… make you do what I wanna do?” It’s a statement, because Ian is fully aware that Mickey likes submitting sometimes, but he wouldn’t enjoy it being called that. Ian poses it like a question, to avoid just telling Mickey what he likes when this is meant to be a two-way talk.
“Why you gotta phrase it like that?” Mickey huffs.
“Just- just talk, Mickey. You like it, right? Because I’m not gonna do it unless you say you like it.”
He breathes out, long and heavy. Seems to consider, weighing up the options. Which is worse, having to admit out loud that he likes being told what to do in bed, or Ian stopping what he’s doing. “Yeah. I like it, or whatever. So you can keep doing it.” His voice is grumbly and quiet, but at least he’s saying something real.
“Good. You gotta say if I do something you don’t like.”
“Why are you doing things I don’t like?”
“Because you won’t tell me!”
Mickey huffs again, cracking his knuckles. Ian considers reaching out and touching him, but he’s put space between them on purpose.
“Fine. I don’t like weird shit. I don’t like… you calling me names and stuff.” He seems uncomfortable, but this is important.
“No? But I do that all the time. You should have said something sooner.” Ian registers that this is fucking bad, if he’s been doing that for the entire time they’ve been together and Mickey hasn’t liked it.
“Urgh, no. I like the way you do it. Just- I don’t like certain things. Like being called a fag and stuff. Or a pussy.” It’s a relief, because Ian did already know that. There’s more guilt, because he remembers a time when he called Mickey a faggot to purposefully annoy him.
“Oh. Well, yeah. Okay.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Don’t you have shit you like and don’t like?” Mickey asks, and it occurs to Ian how much Mickey still cares after all this time, after all the shit Ian’s done which has hurt him.
“I like what we do. I like that we don’t do the kinky stuff all the time. I don’t know.”
“See? Harder than it looks.” Mickey scoffs at him.
“Shut up, I never said it was easy.” Ian pauses for a second to think about it. He tries to think about other partners he’s had, when they did things he didn’t enjoy. When he maybe didn’t want to tell them how much he didn’t like it, but felt guilty for not being able to enjoy it. “I don’t like being called a twink and stuff. Reminds me of the club, makes me feel weird.”
“Wouldn’t call you that anyways.”
“I know.” He’s reminded of when Mickey beat up that random guy for calling him that. “I like being close to you after sex. Makes me feel like I haven’t done something wrong. Even if we’re just doing normal stuff.”
Mickey says nothing, but Ian can see his silhouette nod.
“If anything changes, I’ll tell you okay? But you need to tell me too.” Ian ensures, and watches Mickey nod again.
“Can we be done now?” He questions impatiently.
“Yeah- I just. I have one more thing.” This isn’t sex stuff, but he feels like he has to say it. “I’m not with you because I feel like I have to be, yeah? I want to be with you, and the shit that happened before wasn’t to do with you. It was my issues, but I know it - I hurt you. I’m sorry, Mick.”
Ian knows that it probably isn’t enough. He probably needs to go through every event, explain each one in detail. Maybe. Mickey also has things he could do with going over and apologising for, although those apologies are almost a decade overdue. They never had time to talk about anything back then, but Ian hopes they have time now.
“It’s fine. Like I said, I get it.” Mickey blows it off, but Ian can tell at least some of what he said hit home. He doesn’t really know what it is Mickey thinks he ‘gets’ but lets it slide for now.
“Okay. Good.”
“‘Good.’” Mickey mimics childishly, and it’s so obvious that he’s trying to get rid of the emotions in the room.
Ian laughs. “Yeah, good, asshole.” He shuffles towards Mickey slightly, and closer he can see that Mickey’s smiling a little too. Maybe he’s delusional, but Ian thinks his smile is wider than normal.
“You gonna do something?” Mickey asks when he’s so close that they’re sharing breath.
Ian hums, teasing. “Maybe.”
“Tsch.” He tuts, placing a hand on the back of his neck. “C’mere, dickface.” Mickey says playfully, then kisses him suddenly. Like most of Mickey’s kisses, it’s hard and passionate and Ian can feel his teeth nip his lower lip, a clear expression of Mickey’s frustration with the emotions Ian is making him let out.
This is something he knows they both like, even if it took Mickey two years to ever kiss him. He never realised how much he missed Mickey’s kisses. No one kisses like he does, no one tastes like he does. Mickey’s all tongue and teeth, trying to consume him. Even when he takes it slower, taking his time, it feels like he wants to own Ian in some viciously possessive way that he’s obsessed with. It might be bad, but Ian has always enjoyed Mickey’s possessiveness.
Ian grabs Mickey’s thighs - still somehow covered by the yellow jumpsuit- tugging them until he’s straddling his lap. He makes sure to not to separate their mouths until Mickey is steady on top of him. Then, Ian winds his hand through Mickey’s hair and tugs, until he’s forced away. There’s a breathy fuck from above him, which Ian takes as incentive to continue. With his grip on Mickey’s head he tilts it, so that his neck is exposed. Obviously, he can’t leave marks like he would want to, but that doesn’t stop Ian from carefully sucking along his neck, paying special attention to the bit under his ear which is the most sensitive.
In response to his actions, Mickey moans quietly, grinding his crotch forward a little.
“Wanna fuck?” Ian asks, grinning, just to tease because he knows that’s exactly what they’ll be doing.
“If you don’t fuck me I’ll rip your dick off.” He threatens, making Ian laugh.
“So impatient.” Ian mutters.
“I’ll show you impatient.” Then he’s shoving Ian back, so he’s lying on the bed and crawling on top of him, biting into another kiss. He nibbles on his neck, leaving little pinches on the skin.
And Ian just has to smile, biting his lip to stifle it. He’s grateful, so grateful, that they get to have this again. That Mickey’s here, that Mickey’s the way he is, that he gets to have Mickey, that they can laugh and fuck around even after something deep.
He stops smiling when Mickey moves lower, though, unable to contain his gasp at his movements.
——————
After that conversation, Mickey seems more comfortable. It’s not a huge difference, but he notices anyway. Slightly bigger smiles, he’s less reluctant to tell Ian ‘no’ about simple things. He’s more talkative. It’s nice.
There’s still some clear indications that he’s holding back, but Ian assures himself that it will just take time.
Prison in general is as shitty as he thought it would be. As a whole, the people aren’t that bad. It’s not like they’re kept here with murderers and rapists, just tax evaders and maybe people who got done for assault at most. Drug addicts and dealers, too. Ian would probably go as far to say that Mickey’s got the worst charge in here, since he’s got the attempted murder from his last stint, the whole escape charge along with the fake shit they arrested him for this time, which is possession of an illegal firearm. Ian thought the cartel would be all over them, Mickey constantly on edge. When he asked about it, though, Mickey told him that they think he’s dead.
There was a raid, apparently. A lot of people died. People on a similar level to Mickey, so the disposable men who were high up enough to be trusted with information and other men to manage, but not high enough to be heavily protected. Ian doesn’t fully understand how drug cartels work, but he doesn’t need to. Mickey told him that he was planning on getting himself arrested before the raid, to help Ian, but the raid made things smoother and safer. They think he’s dead, and hopefully it will stay that way.
The food here is crap, and people are violent even if their crimes aren’t too bad. There seems to be some awareness that Ian and Mickey are together, even if others might not realise that they’re in love. Ian knows they assume Mickey protects Ian in exchange for sex, but he doesn’t mind. If they knew the truth it wouldn’t be good for either of them.
However, Ian’s job is good. He gets to help out the doctors, even if he’s not trusted with keys to medicine cabinets. Even if the doctors are assholes who don’t see inmates as people, more like animals. Mickey hates his job, complains constantly about having to wash come-stained underwear, or underwear with even more disgusting substances on it. Ian has to deal with gross stuff as well, but he signed up for that when he became an EMT in the first place.
He pushes the weird slop on his plate with a fork, cringing when he can’t decipher what it’s meant to be.
“Stop playin’ with it and eat it.” Mickey nudges him under the table with his foot.
“You have it.” He shoves the slop towards him.
Mickey makes a disgusted face. “No fucking thank you. Bad enough that I have to eat my own. I’ll take the Jello, though.”
“It tastes like plastic anyways, I don’t know how you like it.” Ian says as Mickey swipes the Jello and slurps it like he’s dying of starvation.
“You Gallaghers are fucking princesses, Jesus Christ.”
“Fuck you, Mick. We were just as poor as you growing up.” He laughs, kicking his shin.
“Nah, you ate like royalty.”
“Fuck that, Fiona had to piss for the government employee to get us lasagne.” Ian argues, wincing as the brown ‘food’ slides down his throat.
Mickey looks up at him, faking a wide-eyed, awed expression. “What’s lasagne? It sounds amazing.” As if lasagne is some delicacy.
“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes and Mickey smirks, finishing his food.
“Hurry up.” He taps Ian’s plate.
Ian groans like it pains him, but dutifully continues, trying to eat as quickly as possible.
“Hey.” A deep voice sounds from above them. Ian looks up with the fork half raised to his mouth. The guy’s not speaking to him.
“Yeah?” Mickey replies, sparing any politeness.
“Milkovich, right?” Mickey nods.
The guy is big. His head is shaved, covered in tattoos and there’s a nasty scar on his cheek. He’s tall and well-built, and Ian’s pretty sure his name is Malone.
“I knew your daddy.” Malone says, and Ian can’t tell if he’s being threatening or trying to ally with Mickey.
“Sorry about that.” Mickey scoffs, and Ian has to agree. Terry isn’t an enjoyable person to know.
“He owes me. Two grand.” Big, Bald and Mean tells Mickey, as though ordering him to pay up.
“Don’t know shit about that. Take it up with someone else.”
“He’s your father, it’s your debt.” Big Bald and Mean demands.
“He’s my father, it’s his debt, asshole.”
Ian winces, knowing this is going to cause something. As expected, Malone slams a fist down on the table between them, making their trays jitter. Ian jumps slightly, but Mickey just watches like he’s some zoo animal.
“We’re eating, have some fucking table manners.” He’s intentionally riling the guy up, and Ian sincerely hopes this doesn’t end in a fight.
They’ve made friends. Well, Mickey has made alliances, and Ian has some friends. But this guy is massive and looks like he wants to bash Mickey’s head into a wall.
“Fucking Milkovich scum. Liars and cheats, the lot of you.” His words are slurred, and Ian wonders if he’s a little drunk or high. It may be hard, but people still find ways to get things in prison. Hell, he and Mickey have cigarettes stashed in their room and Mickey drinks toilet wine on occasion. It’s gross, and Ian doesn’t react well with alcohol anyway so he stays away. Someone has to watch his back when he’s drunk and stupid, so Ian will take that job.
“Okay, Homer Simpson, find someone else to bother before I break your skull.” Ian cringes again, both at the insult which is surprisingly on point (the guy really does look like Homer Simpson) and at the threat. See, Mickey’s tough and strong and a dirty fighter but if Ian was a betting man, he probably wouldn’t bet on Mickey. Obviously, he would never say that out loud.
Homer Simpson, Big Bald and Mean Malone, snarls. Mickey stands up quickly, and Ian rises too. Like hell he’s letting Mickey get the shit beat out of him alone.
“Fuck you.” The guy spits, swinging a fist at Mickey’s face. It hits - he’s quicker than he looks - but Mickey recovers quickly and lands a punch to Malone’s stomach. He knees him in the stomach before the guy can do much else, narrowly missing his junk. Malone head butts Mickey in the nose, and Ian takes the opportunity to elbow him in the neck. Momentarily, he’s slightly dazed. Ian and him are the same height, making it a bit more of a fair fight. When Malone turns to grip Ian by the shoulders, Mickey slams his tray on the guy’s head.
Malone growls like a rabid tiger, flailing to get at both of them at the same time. There’s blood running down Mickey’s nose, and Ian worries it’s broken. It would be a shame, because Mickey has a nice nose.
“Fucking Milkovich, getting your bitch to fight your battles for you.” He snaps, attempting to tackle Mickey by gripping him by the neck.
Ian registers that maybe Malone doesn’t have as many friends as he initially believed. No one else comes into the fight, Mickey making no suggestions that anyone should help them. There are rules here, unspoken ones which Ian is trying to figure out. Other alliances coming into this now could suggest Mickey is weak, and can’t fight his own battles. Maybe the same goes for Malone. Maybe he was trying to seem tough by beating on Mickey who not only knows his own way around prison antics, but also has a family history here keeping other people away.
Whatever it is, the word bitch seems to trigger something in Mickey, because he quickens his punches. He doesn’t reply, just shoves at Malone, landing smacking hits to his face. When Ian can, he helps by pulling Malone back if it seems like he’s getting an upper hand.
It’s only another minute before guards are diving in. Two of them dash batons at the back of both Big Bald and Mean and Mickey’s knees, knocking them backwards. Malone still tries to kick at Mickey’s legs, spitting out insults. Another guard pulls Ian away by the arms, frog matching him away. He watches, choosing not to struggle against the guard’s grip, as they’re both pulled to their feet. Ian will probably see both of them in the infirmary this afternoon.
He’s pleased to see that Mickey doesn’t struggle, because Ian made him swear he’d be good so they could both get out as quickly as possible. Malone however puts up a big fight, desperately trying to knock the steady arms gripping him from behind. He yells out insults, too, which remind Ian of Terry. To his credit, the only response Mickey gives is a bloody spit at his face. It misses, obviously, and lands in a gross glob on the floor but it makes Malone all the more angry.
To Ian’s surprise, he’s released, apparently not considered enough of a threat to be removed as well.
“Lunch over, get to your shifts!” One guard yells to the prisoners watching the show while they eat. There’s a collective groan, but they all get up to dispose of their trays.
Ian picks up his own tray, then the two pieces of Mickey’s from where he cracked it on Malone’s globe of a head. Afterwards, he manages to clean some of the muck from his cheeks and forehead in the small infirmary mirror, stealing some wipes to get most of it off. He wonders why neither of the two are here yet.
He attends to the two men who have been in here for weeks. One is Chester, an old guy who has had bad leg pains for weeks. There’s no real evidence of it, but none otherwise either so the prison doctor keeps him there on some pain medication. Ian knows he’s faking, but the man’s nice and easy to talk to so he also suggests keeping him here. The other man is called Jimmy Smith, and he’s been in a coma for a week now because of some bashing in the shower. If it goes on, he’ll be sent to a real hospital, but for now they keep him on a drip and monitor his heart rate.
For about half an hour, Ian does nothing but clean and dispose of supplies until the Doctor Shaw returns from his lunch.
Before he does, Officer Raymond comes in, holding Mickey by the arm. He looks bloodier now that Ian’s properly looking.
“I’m guessing you know what to do with him?” Raymond asks, getting a glare from Mickey.
“Yeah.”
“You gotta keep him cuffed. You’ll both go to solitary if you uncuff him.” Raymond warns, shoving Mickey towards Ian. It’s not gentle, but Raymond is one of the kinder guards, so it’s not aggressive either. Ian thinks he’s kind mainly because he’s sick of all their bullshit.
“Both of us? Mickey’s going to solitary?” Ian asks hurriedly, glancing at Mickey who averts his gaze.
“He got in a fight, what did you expect?” The officer scoffs.
“He didn’t start it!”
“Doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t be too long, though, he was unusually cooperative.”
“Thank you.” Mickey rolls his eyes, sarcasm clear in his voice as he smiles condescendingly at the guard.
“Malone should be coming in soon. Keep ‘em as apart as possible. If either of them get bitchy, just put them under.” Raymond suggests, tugging Mickey toward one of the beds to cuff both his hands to the side. He pointedly doesn’t lie down, just sits on the hard bed no matter how uncomfortable it is. The officer leaves the room, turning to speak over his shoulder as he goes. “That goes for Milkovich, too. Put him under if he pisses you off!”
Once he’s gone, Mickey smirks at him.
“Gonna put me under, nurse?” Ian rolls his eyes.
“I will if you annoy me.”
“Ooooh, I’m scared.” Mickey grins, finally lying back against the bed. Ian adjusts it so he’s almost sitting, putting the back of it up.
“Hey, Milkovich.” Chester greets, having woken up since the guard entered.
“Hey, Chester. They haven’t let you out yet?”
“I don’t mind it in here.” Chester shrugs, lying back down.
Ian leaves them to their short chat, gathering cleaning supplies for Mickey’s face. He picks up a roll of thread, too, in case he needs stitches.
When he returns, Mickey bounces his eyebrows.
“You like me in handcuffs?” He whispers salaciously in Ian’s ear when he bends closely to examine his face.
Ian can never get over how casual Mickey can be in prison. It hurts him when he thinks about how much he’s gotten used to it.
“I like you better when your face isn’t busted up.” Mickey tuts, rolling his eyes. “Does your nose hurt?”
“No, it feels like fucking daisies.”
“Be serious.” Ian tells him as he dabs a wipe along the blood collected there.
“Ow- Ow. Yes! It hurts, now fuck off.” Mickey winces, trying to pull away.
“I can’t fuck off, I need to clean it. Be quiet.” Ian tries to be more gentle, but most of it is dried by now so it’s harder to wash away.
“You gonna give me a full-body exam, nurse Gallagher?” Mickey switches quickly back to flirty.
“Did they give you something already?” Ian asks incredulously.
“Depends, are you gonna check under my tongue for ecstasy?” He grins, poking his tongue into his cheek.
Ian rolls his eyes. “What did they give you?”
“Told me I needed to chill out, the doctor gave me an injection of something.”
“Probably diazepam.” Ian mutters, applying butterfly stitches to the cut on Mickey’s nose.
“Don’t care. Come here.” Mickey’s fingers wiggle at him, and he tugs at the metal restrictions. When Ian comes closer, the hand grabs his leg and squeezes in a way that’s clearly trying to be sexual.
“No, Mickey, I need to clean your face.” Ian scuttles away from his hand.
To that, Mickey pouts like a spoiled child. “You ain’t gonna examine me?”
“I’ll examine you when you’re out of solitary.” He acquiesces, and Mickey deflates into the bed.
“Fucking hate solitary.” He mumbles as he closes his eyes.
Ian breathes out. He swipes at the blood under Mickey’s nose, going over his cheeks. Maybe he shouldn’t ask him things when he’s drugged up and likely to say things he wouldn’t normally share, but Ian wants to know. He wants every opportunity he can get to understand more about their time apart.
“You go a lot the first time?” Ian mutters.
In his drugged haze, Mickey nods slowly. “Mhm. Got in a lot of fights.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Nothin’ to stop me.” his heart clenches at the idea that Mickey saw no reason to take care of himself.
“Could have gotten out earlier?” Ian suggests.
“‘Earlier’.” Mickey scoffs. “I had eight to fifteen years. Nothing would be there for me by then.” He mumbles, leaning slightly into Ian’s touch. He’s glad he’s closed his eyes, Mickey would hate the sad expression on Ian’s face. The drugs seem to be making him drowsy.
“Is that why you escaped?”
“Either stay in here and probably end up dead or try my chances out there.”
“Yeah.” Ian mutters quietly, frowning.
“Fucking hate solitary. Guards don’ like me.” His words slur together.
“What did they do?”
“One of ‘em…” Mickey fades into a yawn, almost going to sleep.
“One of ‘em what, Mick?” Ian asks, trying to get as much out of him as possible.
“One of ‘em kicked me once.” Is all his says, then he’s falling asleep. It’s not what Ian expected, and maybe there’s more to the story but it’s all he’s getting for now. It must have been shitty, being all alone in here. It must have been shitty and vulnerable and lonely.
God, Ian feels guilty. He knows it’s not necessarily his fault that Mickey went to prison. Mickey may have tried to kill or torture Sammi because of him, but that was his choice. Also, it’s not like anything Mickey was doing was legal, so it was likely he’d end up there sooner or later. But Ian could’ve visited. Could’ve checked up on him somehow through Mandy or Iggy. He knows Mickey would have, even if he didn’t want to be with Ian. Even if he was mad at Ian. Hell, Mickey went back to fucking prison just to make sure Ian was safe.
It sends a rock into his gut, one he tries to get rid of by gently sanitising Mickey’s cuts and applying cream to his bruises.
“He’s right, solitary’s a nightmare.” Chester adds as he shuffles his bones.
“Yeah. How long do you think he’ll be there?” Ian asks, washing up his hands in the sink and throwing away the wipes.
“Probably only a week. They don’t like to do it longer because it takes so much maintenance. Plus, Milkovich’ll probably be an A plus inmate, what with you to come back to and everything.” Chester winces when he moves his legs in a way that is clearly fake. He reminds Ian of Frank a little, with the way he’s constantly trying to get more drugs. “Can I have some morphine?” The man asks, practically batting his eyelashes. There’s only one person whose eyelash-fluttering will make Ian fold, and he’s knocked out.
“You don’t need more, Chester, you’re fine. Sit tight until tomorrow.”
Chester grumbles about it, but seems to settle. He’s chatty today, asking Ian about some of the other prisoners who he hasn’t seen in a while. Ian doesn’t understand why he doesn’t just say he’s fine and can go see them again, but he doesn’t care enough to ask.
Doctor Shaw takes longer than usual, and when he comes back it’s clear why. Malone is in a stretcher, not because of his injuries but because they clearly had to knock him out completely. When Ian gets a look at his file, he’s not surprised that the guy has ‘Anger Issues’ listed at the top, but what does shock him is the Borderline Personality Disorder diagnosis beneath it. Maybe it will always come as a bit of a shock when people he meets have similar mental health illnesses as he does. BPD is very different to Bipolar, but they’re easily confused and have similar symptoms at first.
He wonders what Mickey’s file looks like. Shaw focuses on Malone at first, ignoring Ian until he wants him to get something for him. Another thing that annoys him, being treated like a personal slave.
Big Bald and Mean requires stitches on the back of his head, which Ian guesses is from the tray, although he’s surprised Mickey got him so hard. When that’s done, Shaw turns to him.
“I heard you were involved in the fight.”
“Eh, a little. Just ‘cause Mick- Milkovich was there.” He tries to avoid using Mickey’s first name here, mainly because he doesn’t want other people thinking it’s okay to use it. Ian likes being able to call him Mickey or Mick and that just being for him, no one else here.
“I don’t like my assistants being violent.” Shaw squints at him, looking him up and down. Ian doesn’t know what he expected - surely Shaw looked at his file too? Where he has arson charges? “You don’t have to do what he says just because he threatens you.” The doctor tells him, wheeling his chair beside Mickey’s bed.
“He’s not- he doesn’t threaten me. We’re just… friends, I guess.” Ian stutters, trying to avoid letting him know the truth of it. He was always a terrible liar, Mickey would be much smoother.
“Uhuh - pass me Milkovich’s file.” Shaw orders, and Ian complies. He sifts through the alphabetically-ordered cream files, pulling out Mickey’s and trying to hand it over. Shaw waves him off. “Look through it, tell me if he has any allergies or mental illnesses I have to worry about.”
Shit, that feels like an invasion of privacy. This file includes all of Mickey’s medical records, all of his violations and more importantly, all of his therapist’s notes from when they court-ordered it in his first sentencing. Ian only knows about the therapy at all because Mickey complained about how annoying she was.
“Um- okay. What counts as mental illnesses you have to worry about?” Ian asks before he opens it.
Shaw purses his lips, evidently annoyed at Ian’s hesitance. “Anger issues, anorexia, bulimia, BPD, bipolar, depression - anything he’s on medication for? Anything that could make him act irrationally when he wakes up.” He lists condescendingly, shining a light into Mickey’s unconscious eyes. He must be really out of it, having stayed asleep for all that.
Ian takes a breath, nerves clamping over his fingers.
He flips the manilla page over.
‘Mikhailo Alexandr Milkovich’ is in bold print at the top, along with his visitor’s list and emergency contact. It’s still Ian, even though it definitely shouldn’t be when Ian’s also in prison. His visitor’s list consists of Svetlana, Mandy, Ian and Ian’s family, who he made him add when Lip said he wanted to visit. He turns the page, fingers shaking a little.
He scans through, trying only to absorb the relevant things although he wants to analyse every word. Ian swallows when ‘PTSD’ and ‘depression’ are on the list of diagnoses. He checks the allergies, too, with the only listing being naproxen, which is an anti-inflammatory.
“He’s got-“ Ian clears his throat, “- PTSD, depression. He’s allergic to naproxen.” Ian reads, and immediately closes the folder. The PTSD doesn’t surprise him, nor does the depression but it’s surprising to read it in bold print.
“That’s fine. Does he take anything?”
“No, not that I can see.” Which is bad, probably. Mickey should be on some sort of anti-depressants and Ian knows some help with PTSD as well, so that would be helpful. Maybe at some point he’ll mention it to Mickey, but he can’t see how without bringing up what he’s seen. Surely Mickey must know about the diagnosis? They would have told him. Surely, they would have told him.
“Good, who’s his cellmate?” Shaw asks.
“I am.” Ian answers, confused. What does that matter?
“Oh, right. Do you know if he’s taken any illicit substances in the past two weeks?” Shaw turns to him, and Ian knows Mickey will get in serious trouble if he says yes. Either way, he hasn’t, because Mickey only ever uses cocaine and that was when they were young. Usually if Mickey was feeling especially mad or upset, which Ian realises now was probably because he was depressed. Shit, he should have noticed these things.
“No, he hasn’t.”
Shaw doesn’t say much else, just sterilises Mickey’s injuries again. Chester tries to ask for more morphine again, but Shaw shuts him down the same way Ian had. He’ll probably give him some, though, when Chester complains that he can’t fall asleep.
The rest of his shift is quiet, filled only with the sounds of Shaw’s pen scratching on the forms he fills out on Mickey and Malone’s health and injuries. Ian watches both Mickey and the clock, trying to make the hours longer so he can stay with him as long as he can before he has to leave for dinner. He’s terrified of being here without Mickey.
At around six, an hour before he’ll be ordered out by the doctor, Mickey stirs. Unable to contain his grin, Ian tries to subtly wheel his chair towards Mickey’s bed so that Shaw won’t notice. When he finally does wake up, Ian gets to see the scrunch in his eyebrows and his little smirks when he glimpses Ian.
“Mmm, hey.” He mumbles, then gets confused when he can’t move his hand.
“Hey. You’re still cuffed to the bed. Doctor Shaw is here.” Ian lets him know, gesturing to the doctor in the room to carefully indicate that Mickey should not obviously flirt with Ian.
“Ugh, is he the asshole you always complain about?” He asks all too loudly, and Ian wants to slap himself for even bringing up Shaw, because Mickey barely has a filter on the best of days, never mind when he’s drugged up and sleepy.
“Um- no, I mean. I never called him an asshole.” Ian tries to cover, blushing a little and giving Mickey eyes to shut the fuck up.
Shaw looks up from his paper work, glaring at Ian. “I’ll be over in a sec to give you a check-up, Milkovich.”
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Uhuh. He’s definitely an asshole.”
“Shut up, Mick.” Ian hisses, slapping his leg lightly.
Mickey only chuckles, looking around the room and catching sight of Malone chained to his bed across the room. He makes a disgusted face, but to his credit doesn’t say anything.
Ian smiles at him, and it’s good to see Mickey looking relaxed and happy even if it’s in prison, tied to a bed, high off his ass. Shaw eventually comes over, sitting on Mickey’s other side.
“Any pain?” The doctor asks clinically, reaching for the little torch again.
“No, my face feels like daisies.” Mickey repeats himself from earlier, glancing at Ian to watch him hold in a laugh.
“Any pain other than your face?”
Mickey squints at him like he’s offended. It occurs to Ian that in Mickey’s confused state he probably thinks the doctor is trying to fuck him or something. “No.” Shaw doesn’t ask, just points the light into Mickey’s eyes and holds his eyelids open, which makes Mickey try and writhe away. “Fuck off me, man.” The doctor must be used to it, because he ignores him.
“You seem fine. We’ll get you in solitary before the end of the day.”
“Fuckin’ great.” He answers sarcastically.
“I might set you up for some aspirin. Are you taking any medication for your depression or PTSD? Your file isn’t clear.” Shaw asks and Mickey flinches like he hit him. The file wasn’t clear, to be fair, which probably has something to do with Mickey’s multiple juvenile and adult detention records, but Ian thinks he could have been a bit more tactful.
Mickey shrinks away from the doctor as much as he can, scrunching up his face in clear annoyance. He also casts a glance at Ian, and he can’t make out what it means. “No.” He gets out.
“I can also put you on paroxetine or sertraline for that if you’d like?” Shaw questions, shuffling back to his desk.
“Yeah, m’good.” Mickey scoffs, avoiding Ian’s eyes.
“Okay.”
Shaw turns back to his paper work, moving to the computer to add a few details. Meeting Mickey’s gaze is hard, because Mickey is looking everywhere but him. The thread of the blanket looks increasingly interesting. There’s only a couple hours before Mickey’s taken away from him - again - for God knows how long to a place he hates, and Ian doesn’t want the last bit of time to be shrouded in discomfort.
They probably shouldn’t talk about this right now anyway, with all the other people in the room and Mickey still seeming out of it.
“You still high?” Ian murmurs, smirking a little. Trying to show he really doesn’t care about the diagnosis, it’s not going to bother him or something.
Mickey seems relieved, taking the opportunity to allow a loopy smile to take over his face. “Sober as a tree.” He replies, and Ian takes that to mean he’s still very much under the influence.
“As a tree, huh?”
“Yup, I’d do the tree pose right now if I wasn’t chained to this bed.” Mickey laughs, tugging at his restraints to make them rattle.
“You know yoga?”
“No, I just know trees.” Mickey says it like Ian’s being stupid and ridiculous, which he decidedly is not.
“Ohh, right. I’ll have to see your tree pose when you come back.” Ian tells him, smiling softly. Mickey rolls his eyes, but it’s fond and sweet.
For a second, Mickey seems to process something. Like this, it’s obvious when thoughts cross his eyes, because his brows furrow and he looks at Ian. “You gonna be okay with me gone?”
“You’ll only be gone a week, I’ll be fine.” He comforts, stopping himself from touching him.
“Could be longer.”
“A week. It’s all you’re allowed.” Ian orders, as if he has any sort of say.
“All I’m allowed. Right.” Mickey scoffs. “You hang out with those pussies you became buddy-buddy with, yeah? Don’t do any stupid shit.” He warns, pointing his finger in his face as much as he’s able.
Ian rolls his eyes. “The only stupid shit I do is you.” He teases.
“Mmm, fuck you. Ginger freak.”
Ian laughs, a giggly thing, then tries to cover it with his hand. Mickey notices, smirking at him.
When they do take him away, Mickey goes solemnly and silently, but Ian’s glad they got time to be happy before he goes into the unknown. Well, the unknown to Ian, but what is apparently familiar to Mickey.
———————
The next week is stressful, to say the least. He follows Mickey’s advice, hangs out with the few people he tolerates and knows won’t get violent on him. There’s a guard - Daniels - who he manages to bribe with some of Mickey’s money and he confirms that Mickey will be out in a week. As long as he plays nice.
Ian hopes he plays nice.
Surprisingly, what bothers Ian the most is the pure boredom of it. When he thought about prison, he thought about the possible violence there - despite Terry’s advice. Now he realises the boredom is truly the worst part.
Jekyl and Hyde doesn’t keep him as interested as he would like, and the library only has a meagre selection. He takes up Mickey’s bed in the time he’s gone, because he loves how Mickey smells and he can hardly sleep without him there. Ian will never know how he survived so long while Mickey was in prison.
He thinks it was the haziness of the meds, the belief that he was too crazy for Mickey. That he would probably be better off there - anywhere away from him - anyway.
In his downtime, he plays chequers with some of Chester’s friends. The old man won’t stop bugging Ian about them, so he decides to spend time with them so he’ll have something to report back. They’re shockingly interesting, regaling tales about lost loves and stupid, childish mistakes they made. Half them are made up, Ian’s sure, but he finds them fun to listen to. It keeps his mind off of his own lover, kept in some dark room.
Before he goes to sleep, he flips through some of Mickey’s drawings. He’s always been a good artist. There are doodles of rockets and guns and knives, reminding Ian of Carl’s kid-psychopath phase. Detailed sketches are scattered throughout, few and far between. Most of them are of Ian, but one is of Lip. It pisses him off, until he realises that Mickey purposefully has made him comically ugly. Sketching his nose too big and giving him a double chin like a caricature, with the caption ‘all Gallaghers r annoying but u win’.
He likes it. Might ask Mickey to send it to Lip.
His family call him, Fiona’s voice trilling down the line with worry when he tells her that Mickey’s away for a bit. At first, she thinks it’s Mickey’s fault and scolds that he shouldn’t be pulling shit like this now. When Ian explains the situation, she gets it. Tells him it’s the ‘Southside way’.
At the weekend, a few days before Mickey’s return (two and nine hours exactly), Lip shows up to visit. He’s already waiting on one of the picnic benches when Ian slides up opposite him. He tries to ask questions carefully, asking about his meds without asking about them. Ian gets it - hates it - but gets it, especially since being off his meds ended him in prison. When Lip asks about Mickey and solitary, Ian tells him about the stupid drawing instead of about how much he misses him.
——————
It’s at night that Mickey comes back. For some reason, Ian expected it in the morning. So he waits the whole day on edge, wondering why he’s not back yet.
The cell door clanks as it opens, startling Ian from his vacant stare at the wall.
His hands and feet are both chained, which wasn’t truly necessary, Ian thinks. A guard - Raymond again, he notices - guides Mickey into the cell and unlocks the chains. He says nothing when he leaves, not even glancing at Ian.
Immediately, Ian is on his feet.
“Mickey.” He breathes.
Mickey’s hands wind through his hair and he sighs, looking away.
“Hey, are you okay?” He whispers gently, getting a light hand to his side. Mickey nods, but still won’t meet his eyes. “Mick.” Ian tugs slightly at his waist, pulling him to face him.
It’s dark, but Ian still squints to scan Mickey for injuries. The cuts on his face have healed significantly, but the bruising has turned a nasty yellow-green. He has a black eye, too, which Ian doesn’t remember. Maybe it happened during the fight, maybe it happened in isolation.
Either way, Mickey is clearly unsettled. Ian can tell by how shaky his breath is and how unsteady he looks on his feet.
“Come lie down.” Ian orders, and witnesses Mickey’s robotic nod.
His bones look a little rattled as he removes the yellow jumpsuit, sleeping in his tank and boxers. Ian would help, but Mickey has never liked being treated like a child.
Quickly, he manoeuvres his pillow on his own bed to look like a person under it, then Ian slides into Mickey’s. In the dark, hopefully no one will notice. He tells himself that he’ll get up early and go into his own bed before morning checks.
Mickey looks uncertain, but slips into the bed next to him, under the sheet.
His breaths are irregular, scared and anxious. Ian comes close to him, folding his body around Mickey’s which seems to make him relax a little. He doesn’t know how long he has Mickey wrapped in his arms, but it will never seem like long enough. He traces a thumb over his temple, keeping his hand secured protectively against Mickey’s head. Ian doesn’t give a shit about anything right now but keeping Mickey close.
When he hears a muffled mumble against his shirt, Ian pulls away slightly. Mickey’s eyes are a little glassy, and maybe he’s cried, which makes Ian hurt a little inside. Makes him tear up a little more than he was already.
“I don’t wanna fuck tonight.” Mickey mutters, looking at Ian’s shirt instead of his face.
“Jesus, Mick. Of course not. Just come the fuck here.” He mumbles like the notion is outrageous. Ian knows that he’s never been like that with Mickey. Knows he’s never forced or expected sex from Mickey, so this thought process confuses him. It must have been something he picked up in Mexico, which makes Ian worry more about the kind of partners Mickey had there.
Mickey obeys, and Ian can see the obvious relief in his eyes. He pulls him in tighter, winding their legs together and he just wants to keep Mickey from everything. Everything that’s ever hurt him. Wants him wrapped in fluff and kept safe forever.
He knows Mickey can look after himself just fine, but doesn’t want him to have to. Doesn’t want him to be on constant alert. Ian wants him to be able to rest.
“I love you, Mick.” Ian says into his hair, inhaling the smell he missed.
“Love you, too.” He replies, sleepily, obviously tired from whatever happened in solitary.
“I’m gonna get us a house someday, you know? Somewhere near my family, somewhere safe. Away from fucking Terry and fucking prison. We’re gonna be happy, and safe. Promise.” Ian mutters to nobody, because he’s almost a hundred per cent sure that Mickey’s unconscious.
He doesn’t sleep much that night, making sure Mickey is okay the same way Mickey has made sure he’s okay countless times.
There’s things Ian will need to talk about, even more items added to his list of ’Needs a Conversation’ - like diagnosed mental illnesses and solitary confinement and Mexico boyfriends - but it can wait. For now, it can wait.
Mickey smells like cigarettes and laundry and something distinctly him and that’s all that matters right now.