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Chapter Text

Ian

It's been four weeks since they'd agreed to give it another shot.  They've been to one movie, went to dinner four times, and out to a divey gay bar twice.

And they've fucked exactly zero times.

It isn't like sex is the most important thing about a relationship, but it's pretty high up there for Ian, if he's honest.  Even higher up there for Mickey, if what Mickey was like as a teenager is anything to go by.

They've been doing pretty good with the other parts of their relationship.  Conversations come easy but stay pretty light, but that's okay for now.  They've been apart for a long time. 

But it's strange for them, or at least the people they used to be, to be on such opposite pages when it comes to sex.  Not that they've discussed it.  They'd never had to before, so why start now?

They've done some other stuff besides fucking.  Made out a little behind a pillar at the El station.  Jerked one another off in the bathroom stall of the bar ("for old times sake," Mickey smirked).  A blow job for Mickey on Ian's couch.  But that's it.

Ian's tried for more when they've ended up back at Ian's place a few times after dinner or drinks.  Every time he goes for his belt, or makes to turn Mickey around, or even so much as grabs Mickey's ass, Mickey groans, pushes Ian's hands away, makes some sort of half-assed excuse.  Like tonight.

"Gotta get home," Mickey tells Ian apologetically when Ian sits back on his heels moments after swallowing Mickey's come.  "Svetlana's going out tonight.  Gotta stay with the kid."

Ian swipes at his mouth and frowns.  Not only is he really fucking hard in his jeans, but they also only just got here.  Mickey hadn't said anything about plans earlier in the night when they'd decided on going for burgers.

"Was really hoping for the night alone with you," Ian tells him, annoyance seeping into his voice as Mickey buckles his belt and rises from the couch.

"Sorry, man."  Mickey does sound legitimately apologetic, which helps ease Ian's frustration a little.

Ian stands too and crowds into Mickey's space, brushing his hard on against Mickey's thigh.   

"Want me to come with you?  We can fool around when Yev goes to bed," Ian coaxes.

Mickey pushes lightly at Ian, backing away again.

"Svet's not ready for that yet," he reminds Ian, and Ian huffs.

"So what, are we just gonna live apart forever?  Separate lives?  You're my family, Mick."

"It'll get better soon," Mickey insists, running a hand through his own hair.  "You know her, she's the fuckin' master at holding a grudge.  Pretty sure that's the first skill you learn in Russian preschool."

Ian clenches his fists.  He's sexually frustrated, emotionally frustrated. He just wants to lay in bed with Mickey and press against his back. Talk about their day.  Fuck, make love, whatever.

"Could you at least return the favor before you go?" Ian snarks, gesturing to his neglected and flagging hard on.

Mickey's eyes move to Ian's groin.  For a moment Ian recognizes the flicker of heat there- replaced by a flash of panic.

"Next time," Mickey promises weakly, and Ian's heart sinks to his stomach.

He thinks he's maybe known for a long time, but now he can't deny it.  

Something is very wrong.

He isn't gonna push it tonight.  Not when Mickey's nervous and Ian's horny and frustrated.

"Okay," Ian agrees after a beat.  Mickey's adam's apple bobs as he nods.  Then he grabs his coat from the back of the counter stool.

"I'll call ya," Mickey says as he backs away.  He looks torn.  Reluctant to leave.  Afraid to stay.

Ian follows him to the door, grabs Mickey by the elbow and turns him to face him before he can reach for the doorknob.

"Love you," Ian tells him quietly.  He hasn't said it once since that day in the coffee shop all those months ago- one of the worst and best days of his life- and he sincerely regrets not having said it sooner, more often, every day, when he sees how Mickey's face softens when he hears the words.

Mickey rocks forward and kisses Ian softly on the mouth.  It's chaste but it's lingering. I love you too, it says, even if Mickey can't physically say the words yet.

Then he goes.  And Ian stands rooted to the spot beside the closed apartment door for a long time.

Mickey: Year 6

Angel was the easiest of easy targets.

Sometimes Mickey liked to pretend that everyone had a number over their head that showed how easy they'd be to take out. And if Jefferson, the enormous linebacker of a dude who'd killed three armed cops barehanded was a 100, then Angel was like a -10.

"So Milky, you invite Gomez to join your rainbow club yet?" Ronkowski goaded from across the table as they watched Angel meekly enter the breakfast line, evidence of his latest encounter in the way that he limped forward. They guy behind him (probably only a 5 on the scale) shoved Angel aside and stepped directly in front of him.

"How many teeth you wanna lose this time, Ron?" Mickey asked conversationally as he ate another spoonful of cold oatmeal, tearing his eyes away from Angel.

Ronkowski scowled as the others snickered.  Ronkowsli was as decent a buddy as you could probably get in the can, but he was a dumb fuck who ran his mouth too much.  Last time he'd payed for it with a dumbbell to the jaw.

"Leave Gomez the fuck alone," Mickey advised neutrally.  "What's the fun in taking candy from a fucking baby?"

"Because it's easy," Jones supplied, chortling.

Mickey shrugged.  Not his fucking problem, really.

But he found himself keeping the corner of his eye out for Angel when they were in the same common areas anyway.

Angel was different from the other fags that came and went during Mickey's time.  The others were hardened.  Criminals who might like cock but could handle themselves a little better in a prison setting.

Yeah, Angel had killed a guy.  But he'd heard it was the dude he'd caught his boyfriend fucking, so it was practically excusable in Mickey's opinion.   Not worth a quarter century in the general population of a medium security prison, that's for fucking sure.

He felt sorry for him.  

Steadily, it got worse.  Angel would be gone for days at a time.  Sometimes in medical, occasionally in the Hole when the guards took pity on him. (Seg must have felt like a fucking vacation).  It was obvious that the kid wasn't showering.  Mickey didn't blame him.

On the morning it all came to a head, Mickey was dragging his feet to his laundry shift when he bumped into Jones heading resolutely away from the showers, unwashed.

"Nah, man," he warned as they passed one another.  "Don't get fuckin' involved, alright?"

"Wasn't fuckin' planning on it."  He shot Jones's back a confused glare, then he ducked into the showers because Jones warning him off was enough to make him a little curious.

Angel was there, prone on the floor, unmoving.  His face was caked in congealed blood, eyes swollen so shut it was difficult to tell if he was even conscious.  His jumpsuit was torn down past his waist, blood seeping down the backs of his orange-clad thighs as a big white dude rammed into him with such force Angel's head slammed against the tiles.  Two other guys stood over him- one guy was palming his naked dick.  Mickey recognized the nautical star on the guy's neck.

"Yo Milky," the dude called.  "You hear there was a gang bang and come looking for the party?"

His ears rang as he charged, rage clouding his vision, body moving on autopilot. He took Neck Tattoo down and got him right in that stupid fucking star with his sock shiv before the other two even had time to react.  He didn't remember much after that- just stabbing wildly in a three against one attack he was definitely gonna lose. 

He couldn't remember the guards separating them, but it must have happened, because he came back to himself in the Hole.  He spent nearly a week there for his trouble, but he was remarkably unscathed considering he'd been outnumbered.  They did let him stew in someone else's blood for a couple days before he was escorted to the showers.  And when he finally reemerged into gen pop, his first stop was to Wilson's office, where the older man glared at him for a full minute without speaking.

"And you were having such a good fucking run for a while there," Wilson sighed, running a hand over his face.  "Thought you were gonna be one of my success stories."

"How the fuck can a felon be a success story?" Mickey grunted back, uncomfortable under Wilson's disappointed gaze.

"Maybe by putting his family first.  Getting his GED.  Maybe by not getting time added to his fucking sentence!" Wilson yelled, throwing his pen across the room.

Mickey's throat went dry as his eyes stung.

No.

"Yeah, wise guy, your little scuffle cost you an extra ninety days.  You're lucky you didn't fuck up your chances of parole."

"Why the fuck-"

"A man died, Michael," Wilson interrupted sternly.

God, he hated it when Wilson called him that.  Like he was trying to be all fatherly and shit.  Mickey glowered at the floor, wondering how the fuck he was gonna explain this to Svetlana, then sat up suddenly, realizing.

"Not-"

"Gomez'll survive," Wilson dismissed.  "He's still in Medical, guessing he'll be there for a while.  He was shortlisted for minimum security, you know.  Was gonna head there if he kept his nose clean.  Really too bad he copped to using that shiv to carve up Lizakowski's neck," Wilson said, tone indicating he knew exactly what had really gone down.

"What was I supposed to do?" Mickey asked, running a hand roughly through his cropped hair.  "The kid was getting- he was-" 

"I know."  Wilson held up a hand.  "And don't tell anyone I said it, but a part of me is proud of you for that.  But you got a target on your back now and I don't have the extra manpower to keep an eye out for you."

Mickey snorted.

"I can handle myself."  Like having a guard tail him wouldn't immediately make him a target. 

Wilson frowned at him.

"And stay away from Gomez," he warned.

"Fuck you, it ain't like that," Mickey snarled.  Just because Wilson knew both he and Gomez were a certain way didn't mean shit.

"Watch your fucking mouth," Wilson ordered.  "I'm still your C.O.  And I didn't mean that.  I was saying you guys are square now.  Don't need either of you getting tied up in this shit again."

And then Mickey was waved out of the office to sulk in his own cell.

Ninety fucking days.  Fuck.

And trouble did come for Mickey, just as Wilson predicted.  Only two mornings later he headed to the john down a curiously silent hallway after breakfast to find them waiting for him.  Two of the same guys (including the huge guy who'd been pounding Angel, Mickey noted with chagrin) and a new face.

He put up as good of a fight as he could. When they got him on the ground he kicked out with the heel of his shoe where he'd embedded that razor blade and did a little damage to the new guy's knee, then got a kick in the head as repayment.

The world dimmed.

Oddly, he thought about how the jumpsuits probably came in handy in times like these. Makes it just that much harder to fuck someone by force.

Maybe they ripped them. He wasn't exactly sure. Luckily or unluckily, the throbbing from his head overtook any other pain he might have felt. He was pretty sure his brain was oozing out his ear.

One guy sat on his shoulders while another fucked into him roughly. Dully, Mickey could only hope that they didn't come prepared with a broom handle or anything.

"Bite me and you'll be swallowing all of your fuckin' teeth," the third guy snarled, before he yanked Mickey's head up and forced his dick into his mouth.

There was blood in his eyes and obstructing his broken nose. With the brutal assault of his mouth there was no room to breath. He could feel the pull of unconciousness as his body gave one last feeble attempt to escape. The black dots clouding his vision grew and grew, until, blessedly, there was nothing.

Ian

It's awkward as fuck to talk about his sex life with Dr. Arnold, but she's the only one in his life who's close enough to him that doesn't also know Mickey (that part seems crucial, because talking about feelings is one thing, but sex?  Ian already knows he'd get his ass kicked if Mickey found out). 

"How has everything been going with Mickey?" she asks him immediately, as if she knows what's on his mind.  Dr. Arnold had seemed pleased, in a neutral sort of way, when Ian had told her about their decision to work things out as a couple.

"Good," Ian answers automatically.  He fidgets in his chair.  "We're still, y'know, getting to know each other again."

"He's different than you remember him?" Dr. Arnold asks as she interprets his tone.

"In some ways," Ian hedges.

Dr. Arnold's pen pauses against her paper.

"Something's bothering you," she guesses evenly. 

Ian laughs uncomfortably.

"I feel weird talking about it with you."  He scrubs at the back of his neck.

Dr. Arnold just blinks at him until he relents.

"It's just- it's been weeks since we've been back together and we still haven't-" he gestures helplessly with his hands.

"Had sex," Dr. Arnold finishes for him.  She starts up on her note taking again.

"We've had opportunities," Ian says, encouraged by Dr. Arnold, who seems entirely unembarrassed. "And we've done some- other stuff.  But when I try for more he makes excuses."

Dr. Arnold hmms.  

"What did he say when you asked him about it?" she wonders.

Ian colors.  He looks at his hands.

"I haven't," he admits.  "We've never talked about this kind of thing before."

"You've never talked about sex?"

"Came pretty naturally to us before."  Ian shrugs.

"Ah," says Dr. Arnold.

They sit in silence, each seemingly waiting for the other to speak.

"Why do you think he's reluctant to be intimate with you?" she asks finally, like she already knows the answer.

Ian's next exhale comes out shaky.

"Because of something that happened to him in prison," he answers hollowly.

"Sexual assault," Dr. Arnold supplies evenly.

Ian nods.

"I'm glad you brought it up," Dr. Arnold says sincerely.  "Changes in intimacy are enormous stressors for couples in which there has been a previous traumatic experience."

Ian nods again.  Then he frowns.

"But Mickey's had hookups and stuff since getting out.  Why would he only have trouble with me?"

Dr. Arnold considers this.

"I can only hypothesize of course, but it could be because he knows you that it's most difficult for him.  The two of you have a sexual history together.  You maybe did things a certain way that he's no longer comfortable with."

Ian mulls this over, staring at the well worn carpet under his feet.

"The best thing, Ian, is to have a discussion about it.  As open and neutral as possible, during a time when there's no expectation of sex."

Great.  Easy peasy.

He waits to bring it up, like Dr. Arnold suggested, until they're in a non-sexual situation, which is difficult for Ian, because lately his entire body hums when Mickey's even in his sight.  So he invites him over a few days after his therapy session for takeout and a movie, then realizes belatedly that if anything were to look like a hookup attempt, it would be a movie in a dark living room.

Well fuck.  He's just gotta go for it.  He can't have it hanging over them any longer.

Mickey knows something's up, too, because he gives him a bewildered look when Ian squashes himself all the way at the other end of the couch the moment Mickey sits down with the pizza he'd brought.

They're only twenty minutes into the movie when Mickey forcefully tosses his pizza crust down into the empty box and turns to face Ian.

"You gonna tell me what the fuck is your problem now?" he starts, tone already aggressive.

"I don't have a problem, Mick," Ian insists, trying to keep himself calm and tone neutral like Dr. Arnold said.

"Really."  Mickey stares hard at him, brows high and challenging.

Ian withers under his gaze.

"It's just- we haven't fucked yet."

Mickey scowls on instinct, but he rubs his lip with the pads of his fingers.  His tell.

"Yeah, so?" he asks, trying for annoyed nonchalance.

"So, do you want to?"  Ian's going about this completely the wrong way, but his brain is misfiring as he and Mickey stare at one another.

Mickey breaks first.

"Yeah," he says, staring, but not looking, at the screen where the movie plays on.  "I guess."

"You guess?" Ian repeats.

"Well what do you fucking want me to say?" Mickey explodes.  "That I don't- that I haven't-"  He stops himself, runs a hand over his face.  "Don't make me say it."

Ian can't help the tears that well up in his eyes.

"How many times?" he asks, voice scratchy.

Mickey inhales and holds it, blowing it out in one quick huff.

"Once.  But it was-" he swallows.  "Couple of guys."

Ian barely suppresses a moan.

"How bad?"

Mickey rounds on him, meekness gone and anger taking its place.

"Bad enough to put me off taking it in the ass, so what do you fucking think?" Mickey scoffs.

"Why didn't you fucking tell me?" Ian asks, reacting on instinct to Mickey's anger with his own anger.  If he's angry at anyone, it's at the assholes that did this.  And at himself.  He wouldn't have pushed Mickey to do anything if he hadn't been thinking with his dick instead of his brain.  "If I'd known I would have-"

"What?" Mickey interrupts.  "Left?  Found someone else to stick your dick in who isn't so fucked up?" Mickey snaps back, voice biting, but with an undertone of wavering fear.

"No," Ian insists.  "God, Mick. No."

They start up the staring again, Mickey's rage cooling into shame.

"Cigarette," he mutters, and heaves himself off the couch and in the direction of the patio.

Ian sits in place for an indecisive minute, wondering whether or not he should follow Mickey.  But just as he starts to get up, Mickey returns bringing with him the scent of a hastily smoked cigarette.  It must have taken the edge off.

"So let's do this," Mickey says without preamble.  "Let's fuck."

"Uh."  Ian gapes.  "What?"

"Yeah," Mickey says, nodding once, twice, three times.

"You mean, right now?"

"Yeah," Mickey says again.  He shifts his weight.  "This is a dumb fucking movie anyway."

Ian can imagine Dr. Arnold's horror as this conversation veers spectacularly off the tracks.

He knows he probably shouldn't.

"Okay," he agrees.

Mickey makes an impatient "lead the way" gesture and Ian hastens to bring him to his bedroom.

"Nice bed," Mickey comments as he shuts the door behind him.  "Big."

"Never been broken in," Ian tells him, hoping to ease the weird tension.

It works.  The familiar salacious grin Ian's been craving to see lights up Mickey's face, and suddenly they're kissing.

He wants to take his time, and it seems like Mickey's in silent agreement, because they lick into each other's mouths for several heated minutes until it's too much and not enough.

He lets Mickey take the lead, and Mickey doesn't disappoint.  He tears off his shirt and then pulls Ian's over his head too.

Mickey's torso is a tiny bit softer than when Ian had first saw him again at the gym nearly a year ago now.  A bit more like the body Ian remembers from before.

Mickey stares at Ian too, eyes bright with lust, but he doesn't move further to continue undressing.

"Do you wanna top?" Ian asks hesitantly.

"No," Mickey says firmly.  "You don't really want that either."

"Sure I do," Ian encourages.  "I want you however I can get you.  I just wanna like, touch you.  Feel you.  You know?"

Mickey bites his lip.  Then he nods once, dropping his eyes to the ground.

"Didn't know I'd be such a little bitch about this," Mickey mutters.  "Thought maybe since it's you that it wouldn't be as big a deal."

"So, with Max and- the other guys you've been with since prison?" He just lets his half-formed question hang there, and Mickey picks up what he's asking.

"I'm a gold star top, far as anyone knows."

That almost makes Ian laugh.  Mickey's probably the most demanding bottom he's ever been with.

Mickey closes the space between them again and runs his hands along Ian's chest.

"Better than I remembered," Mickey says reverently.  "Wanna see if the rest of you is too."

Ian kisses him again before Mickey's insistent hands tug at his belt.  Now this is more like the Mickey he knew.  He tugs at Mickey's belt too, and then they're stepping out of their jeans together.

Mickey hums satisfactorily as he takes Ian's body in, eyes lingering on the tented boxers.  Ian mimics him, stopping briefly at the initials inside Mickey's hip as a twinge of something he doesn't want to acknowledge hits him in the chest.

Mickey raises both eyebrows when their eyes meet again.  "Off," he says succinctly, and Ian doesn't hesitate to comply, tugging his boxers down and kicking them away.  Mickey follows suit, and their bodies collide again, Mickey tugging Ian toward the bed.

Ian lands on top of Mickey and braces his arms on either side of Mickey's head.

"Like this," Mickey tells him, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip.  "When we get there."

Ian nods.  Mickey wants to see him.  Watch him.  The implication for the reason behind this makes Ian's nose tickle and eyes burn as he struggles to hold in his emotions.  He covers it by trapping Mickey's lips with his own again.  

They make out and rut against one another until Mickey can't take it any longer.  Soon he's guiding Ian's fingers toward his ass.  Ian watches Mickey's face carefully as they work together.

"Good?" Ian checks in as Mickey grimaces.  It's difficult to tell whether it's from pleasure or pain.

"Fuck me already."  It's so reminiscent of younger Mickey.  Ian sucks a hickey under Mickey's collarbone in celebration. Then he does as he's told, pausing to lean over Mickey and fumble with a condom from the bedside drawer.

Mickey keeps his eyes open the entire time, roaming from the place they're connected, up the trail of burnt orange hair to Ian's navel, then up his chest and back down again.

It's been a really long time, for both of them, in different ways. Ian is coming far too quickly, keeping up momentum only long enough for Mickey to follow him over the edge.

Mickey is underneath him, pliant and spent, eyes finally closed.  He looks equal parts happy and relieved.  But Ian's afterglow is bittersweet, and suddenly he's tearing up again, and this time it can't be stopped.

Mickey's eyes snap open when he hears Ian's breath hitch.

"Hey," he says softly, urgently.  He pushes gently at Ian's chest so he can swing his legs around and sit up.  Then he pulls Ian close again.  "You okay?"

It's ridiculous.  Mickey's the one who went through hell and back, and it's Ian who needs to be comforted.

Sometimes it just hits him- how awful he's been to the man he loves.  How that man loves him so much that he willing to forgive anything.  Go through anything. 

"I just really missed you," Ian chokes out.

Mickey swallows.  He touches Ian's chin with his thumb.

"Yeah.  Me too."

Mickey: Year 3

It was like a catch 22, being a Milkovich in prison.  People knew the name.  It gave him a little respect going in.  But people also expected him to be a certain way.  Mickey'd had years of practice watching his dad, so it wasn't too tough to emulate, but he drew the line at joining the Aryan Brotherhood, because honestly, fuck those guys.

And there was always some asshole from around the old neighborhood who heard Milkovich and wanted to start something.  With Terry out on parole again and Jamie untouchable in Max just one building over, Mickey was the only one (and the easiest, people assumed, based on his size) to go after.

Which is exactly what happened.

Mickey had walked into the TV room as he always did during his alloted time, when some huge fucker got in his face.

"You Milkovich?" he growled.

"Who the fuck's asking?"

The guy had half a foot and easily 75 pounds on him.  This wasn't looking good for Mickey's face.

"Your pops did me dirty on a gun deal couple years back.  I owe him a friendly chat."

Mickey shrugged.  

"Don't worry, give it a few months and you can take it up with him personally."  Mickey made to move around the guy but was stopped with a meaty palm to the chest.

"Ain't how it works, little man," the guy sneered.

Mickey rolled his eyes.

"Then get the fuck on with it, already.  There's a rerun of Saved by the Bell I'm missing for this."

The first punch was a fucking doozy.  Mickey's ass was on the floor before his face caught on to what had happened.  All he could really do was protect his head while fists rained down on him.  Around him he could hear cat calls of the other inmates and shouts of the guards.

And above them all, a feral roar- and suddenly the big fuck fell away from Mickey.

Mickey watched in open mouthed shock as Trav kicked the guy in the teeth again and again, bloodying up his shoe and pant leg before a guard tackled him down.  

"Stay down, inmate," Thompson, a C.O. warned Mickey as Trav fought being restrained.  "Unless you wanna follow your butt buddy to the SHU."

Mickey had a full 24 hours to stew while Trav cooled off.  He got some more shit for being some sort of fucking damsel in distress in the day and morning following, and by the time Trav was escorted back to their shared cell, Mickey was raging.

"What the fuck?" Mickey snapped the moment Trav appeared in his sight and the guard fucked off.

"Missed you too, sweetheart," Trav snarked, winking.

"What the fuck?" Mickey articulated again, shoving Trav in both shoulders.  "Why the fuck would you get involved?"

Trav, laid back about everything, rolled his eyes.

"Jesus, if I'd known I was gonna come back to this I'da punched a guard or something to stay away longer."

"People are talking," Mickey insisted.  "I was almost made an offer I wouldn'ta been able to refuse in the showers this morning!"

"They're just giving you shit.  Ain't like they have actual proof."

"When did that fuckin' stop anyone?  I've kicked the shit out of someone because I didn't like his fuckin' bushy eyebrows!"

"Exactly!" Trav threw out his arms like Mickey'd just made his point for him.  "Maybe I was just pissed off and wanted to crack some skulls!"

"Don't you fucking get it? This ain't some fucking joke! You know what happens to guys like us in places like this?"

"Says the dude with a man's name on his chest," Trav snorted.

"You fucking-" Mickey lunged for him, then changed his mind mid course when he saw the provoking light in Trav's eyes.  "Whatever.  I'm done with you.  Fuck off."  Mickey turned his back and flopped on to his bunk.  He didn't feel like kicking his ass anyway.  

"I give you two days," Trav taunted, but he dropped it.

Sometimes the things Trav would do and say reminded him of Ian.  Most of the time it was an infuriating mix of pleasure and pain- like having a piece of Ian with him, even though it hurt.

As he glowered at Trav, he could see Ian's face in front of him, exasperated and pleading, as he insisted, we got nothing to be ashamed of.  He could hear the roar in Ian's chest as he came to Mickey's aid during their showdown with Terry at the Alibi.  He could imagine the smirk on Ian's face as he waited, resolutely, for Mickey to eventually relent about things.  Because he always did.

Trav mirrored Ian in a lot of ways.

Mickey didn't even last 24 hours, but Trav only smirked and scooted over when Mickey padded over to his bunk in the dead of night and shoved at him to move over.

"I'm still fucking pissed at you," he warned as Trav grinned and tugged off his own underwear under the covers.  "But thanks.  I guess."

"Anything for you, dear," Trav deadpanned, palming Mickey through his own prison issued boxers.  They stared at one another for a moment, Mickey's eyes searching, Trav's confused.  "You good, man?"

Mickey made a quick decision. And with only a little hesitation, he rolled over, presenting his ass. 

"Wait-you serious?" Trav's voice was both incredulous and exuberant.

"Better get the fuck on with it before I change my mind," Mickey snapped to cover his nerves.

"Holy fuck," Trav breathed, sounding like an excited little kid.  "I have dreamed about this ass."

"Alright, you had your fucking chance."  Mickey flopped onto his back again as Trav whined in protest.

"I'll shut up now, I promise!  Turn the fuck around again."

Mickey did as he was told, glad the pitch black room would hide his grin.

He'd dreamed of this too, but had never dared to allow it.  Trav had just assumed, like almost everyone in his life, that he'd be the top, and he definitely hadn't made a fuss about it.  He couldn't afford to do that shit here.

But something about the way Trav had sacrificed his own safety for Mickey spoke right to his dick, and made his ass clench with want.  Trav could be trusted. Trav was like him.  Trav cared about him.

It was a pretty good fuck- not quite like Mickey remembered, but good.  He came harder than usual, so that was a win, and tried not to imagine long, freckled fingers on his waist and a lean, chiseled chest against his back as he and Trav came down from their orgasms.

"Does this mean I ain't your bitch anymore?" Trav teased when they were sated and breathing evenly.  Trav sat up and rested his back against the cement wall.

"Shut the fuck up."  Mickey, on his back in the tiny bed, kicked at him weakly.  "You know it ain't like that."  When Trav said nothing in reply Mickey chanced a glance at his face.  Trav was grinning down at him.  Then he surged forward and kissed Mickey purposefully on the lips, allowing himself to be pushed away when Mickey spluttered and shoved at him in protest.

"So it ain't like that either, huh?" Trav asked, voice soft but tone harsh.

Abruptly, Mickey pushed himself to his feet and stormed the five feet from Trav's bed to his own.

"You think he isn't out there living his life, fucking whoever he wants?  Dating?"

"This ain't about him.  You don't know shit," Mickey spat back, collapsing on his bed and turning his back.  His asshole ached with the unpleasant reminder of what he'd just let happen. 

"I know you're scared of moving on.  Finding someone else," Trav insisted.  Mickey said nothing.  He couldn't go there, not with himself and especially not with Trav.  "People are allowed to move on, Mick.  He did.  Why can't you?"

Mickey pulled the scratchy blanket up to his chin and stayed perfectly still.  After another minute, he listened to Trav flop down again.

Then he laid there, sleepless, until the fluorescent lights kicked on.  

Ian

"Tell me something you've never told me before," Ian murmurs into Mickey's shoulder as they lay together in Ian's bed.  Mickey's flat on his back carefully smoking a cigarette from his fully reclined position.  Ian's curled up on his side next to him, cheek to shoulder, arm over chest, knees to thighs.

Mickey snorts at Ian's lameness but falls silent.  Ian glances up at his profile and watches Mickey's teeth work his bottom lip in thought.

"Had some chickens when I was a kid," he begins.  "My mom and Mandy came home with them one day the summer before kindergarten."

Ian props himself up on his elbow to watch Mickey talk more closely.  He's beautiful when he's relaxed.  Ian hasn't seen Mickey look this much like himself in a long time.

"Jamie and Tony built this little chicken coop in the lot next to our house," Mickey continues.  "My dad musta been locked up.  He wasn't around."  He leans away from Ian for a minute to put out his cigarette in his empty beer can.  "That was a good summer."

"Mmm," Ian articulates sleepily, shuffling closer again. "Tell me more."

"About the chickens?"

"Sure."

"Mandy named them all.  Can't remember what she called them.  She and Tony would take care of those fuckers like they were dogs."

"How come I don't remember this?" Ian wonders.  "You'd think the neighborhood kids would want to come play with the chicks."

"No chicks," Mickey corrects.  "We didn't have a rooster.  Besides, you woulda been real little.  Might not remember anyway."

"Right," Ian agrees.  Strange to think that they've practically grown up together, him and Mickey.

"Anyway,  it was probably the best thing my mom ever did for us.  We were real hard up with my dad put away.  Jamie was like fourteen, so he could only steal so much."  He cards a hand through Ian's hair.  "Ate a lot of eggs."

"So what happened to the chickens?" Ian asks through a yawn.

"Too cold for them in that little coop in the winter so we butchered 'em."  He pauses, then adds, "One died cuz Tony held it too tight.  First and last time I ever saw him cry.  He's like that guy from that book- Lenny.  A gentle giant.  Don't know his own strength."

"Of Mice and Men?"

"Yeah.  You read that one?"

"Mmm," Ian says again.  He can't stay awake much longer.  

Mickey chuckles.

"Go to sleep," he orders gently.  Then he starts to get out of bed.

That wakes Ian up.

"Where are you going?" he asks quickly, sitting up as Mickey swings his legs over the side of the bed.

"You need to sleep," Mickey tells him matter-of-factly.

"Aren't you staying?"

Mickey hesitates.  Then he lays back down and fluffs his pillow under his head, flat on his back.  He looks like he's ready to bolt at any moment, so Ian flicks off the bedside lamp, then slides away, giving him ample space.

In the dark, Mickey shuffles around for a while, finally turning his back on Ian, curled up on his right side just as Ian remembers him.  Abruptly Mickey says, "You can do that thing you do.  If you want."

"Huh?"  Ian isn't exactly firing on all cylinders.

Mickey huffs, and Ian imagines he must be rolling his eyes hard.

"You know," he says.  And he scoots his ass marginally closer to Ian.

"I can spoon you?" Ian asks eagerly, catching on.

"Jesus," Mickey groans.  "Why you gotta ruin the moment, huh?"

"Excuse me for calling it what it is," Ian teases back, positioning himself behind Mickey.  As he drapes his arm around he feels Mickey tense ever so slightly.  "You sure?" Ian asks, pulling his arm back.

"Yeah I'm fucking sure," Mickey snips.

"Well, if you're gonna be an asshole about it-" Ian huffs and withdraws completely.

Mickey's reaction is instantaneous.  He jerks around and grips Ian's arm before he can get too far away in the bed.

Ian allows himself to be dragged back in place behind Mickey's back.  Mickey wraps Ian's arm firmly around his chest.

"Sorry," Mickey mutters into his pillow.

"S'okay."  He should probably apologize too, for threatening to leave Mickey high and dry, but the feel of his lover's warm back against his chest and the soft tickle of short hair against his nose lulls Ian to sleep before any more words can escape.

Ian wakes up to his alarm and an empty bed.  He's still on his side, but his arms are empty, like Mickey had carefully snuck out of them in the middle of the night.

Ian sighs and rubs his eyes.

"You gonna turn that off anytime soon?" a voice asks from the doorway, and Ian jumps in surprise.

Mickey is leaning on the door jam, clad in boxers and a wife beater.  He's holding a bowl of cereal in his hands.  "Brought you breakfast in bed."

Ian grins in pleased surprise and reaches over to turn off his phone alarm, then takes the bowl from Mickey.

"It's half eaten," he says as he stares down into the bowl of Raisin Bran.

"Got hungry waiting for you to wake up." Mickey shrugs.  He's still standing a little awkwardly beside the bed.  Ian scoots over and pats the empty spot next to him.

He looks carefully at Mickey's face as the other man rejoins him to sit against the headboard. Mickey looks tired, like he hasn't slept at all.

"How long have you been up?" Ian takes a bite of his cereal.

"Little while." Mickey tugs the covers up from where Ian's kicked them and brings them around their waists.  "Your roommate did the walk of shame bout an hour ago."

"Couldn't sleep?"

Mickey shrugs again, but the answer is clear.  Ian, in contrast, slept better than he had in a while.  He hopes Mickey's lack of sleep isn't because he pushed him too hard, with the sex and the cuddling and the staying over.  "That happen a lot or is it a- new thing?" Ian asks carefully.

"Guess I don't like bein' apart from them," Mickey admits.  "Spent enough time away already."

Ian opens and closes his mouth.  He wasn't expecting that answer, and he's embarrassed by how hurt he is.  Mickey would rather be with his platonic wife who lives 20 minutes away than spend the night with his boyfriend.

Ian pulls the covers off and gets out of bed.

"Gotta get ready for work."

"Yeah.  Me too," Mickey agrees.

Ian takes the empty bowl out to the sink and dumps it, then stands with both hands on the counter for a minute, head bowed.

"I'm borrowing some underwear," Mickey calls to him as he moves from the bedroom to the bathroom.

"Yeah, okay," Ian calls back.

He takes a few deep breaths as he hears the shower start up.

He signed up for this. They're working at Mickey's pace.  But it doesn't mean that he shouldn't let Mickey know what he wants.

He's almost proud of himself for the way his inner voice sounds a little more like Dr. Arnold every day.

He resolves himself, and heads to the bathroom 

"Hey-"

"Jesus!" Mickey yelps as he jumps dramatically behind the curtain.  Bottles clatter to the ground.  "Don't fuckin' do that!" He yanks the curtain away to glare at Ian.

"Sorry."

Mickey has suds in his hair and he rubs water out of his eyes. It's pretty fucking adorable, and Ian forgets why he even came in here.

"You uh, wanna get in here and rinse off?" Mickey asks after a beat.

Ian doesn't have to be asked twice.  Quickly he sheds his boxers and joins Mickey under the weak spray.

Mickey bends to pick up the fallen bottles, but Ian stops him.

"I got it."

"You trying to make this a 'don't drop the soap ' thing?" Mickey accuses.  Ian's eyes widen and he opens his mouth to defend himself when Mickey grins at him. "Just kidding, man.  C'mere so I can wash your hair."

Ian hums happily as Mickey's soapy fingers scrub at his scalp.  Mickey takes his time with it, scratching at the nape of Ian's neck for a while before moving on to rubbing behind Ian's ears.

He opens his eyes when Mickey's fingers still.  Mickey's looking at him with soft eyes.

"I'll talk to Svet," Mickey says suddenly.

"Huh?"  Ian feels like a cat, purring as he's being pet.  Why are they talking about Svetlana right now?

"About you staying with us some nights.  At the house."

"Oh," Ian says in surprise.  And he watches Mickey's walls go up ever so slightly again.

"It was just an idea.  You don't fuckin' have to."  Mickey moves past Ian in the tiny shower so Ian can stand under the spray.

"I really want to, Mick.  I just didn't think you did."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Ian sighs.

"You didn't seem like you had a great time last night is all.  You couldn't sleep."

Mickey scowls.  He's starting to shiver now that he's away from the hot water, but he makes no move to move closer.

"First of all, fuck you for saying that.  What happened last night was-" he swipes water droplets off of his face.  "It was a big fuckin' deal for me. Not just the fucking but all of it."  Ian fills in the blanks in his head.  The talking.  Cuddling.  Intimacy.

Ian reaches for Mickey, and the other man moves willingly, albeit reluctantly, into his arms under the water.

"I didn't mean it like that," Ian soothes.  "I just- you're different than how I remember you.  It's just- different.  Sometimes I say things or do things and I don't know how you're gonna react.  Like, sometimes you want me to touch you, but you really don't."

Their faces are just inches apart.  Droplets of water from the shower head are bouncing off Ian's shoulder and spraying Mickey in the face, but Mickey ignores it, face pensive.

"Yeah," he says finally.  "I get that."

They don't say anything else for a long moment, until Ian breaks the silence.

"Guess we'll have to keep working on it.  Long haul, right? Til we're old and gray?"

Mickey leans his head back to leer at him.

"Just can't wait for my dick to get all wrinkly huh?" he teases.  Ian flicks him in the pec.

"Fuck off!  So I had a daddy phase, what the fuck ever!"

Mickey laughs, and Ian grins back.

"It never fuckin' gets old."  Mickey pauses like it's a punchline. "Get it?"

Ian has to laugh.  What a fucking dork.

"God, I love you," he breathes, and as Mickey's grin fades a little, his does too.  "Is that- do you not want me to say that?"

"No- it's fine.  It's good."  Mickey leans up and catches Ian's mouth with his own.  "It's real good."

Chapter Text

Mickey: Year 1

He came to in a hospital bed. His hearing tuned in first, the steady beeping of machines cueing him into present time. His sight followed, and he blinked over and over as shapes came into focus.

Above him, a person shaped blob moved in and out of his view as he struggled to focus his eyes.

“I will find Doctor,” the blob with Svetlana's voice said. He blinked again as the blob disappeared. Slowly the ceiling above him lost their fuzzy edges.

Finally, his body returned to him- more acutely than his other senses, and he groaned as pain seeped into every muscle.

“Hey, man.” He turned to the voice. Iggy was halfway out of his slumped position in a hospital chair near the bed, half smiling, half frowning. He looked stone cold sober, which was a first.

“Fuck are you doing here?” was Mickey's first coherent reply. But it came out more like a whispered gurgle.  Iggy, seemingly getting the message, shrugged, glancing past Mickey's left shoulder.  Mickey followed his gaze, turning his neck slowly. Everything fucking hurt.
A guard stood against the far wall, gazing into space with practiced indifference. Past him, Mickey could make out the shoulder of another blue uniform standing guard at the slightly ajar door.

“They told us it was touch and go,” Iggy finally replied. “You know where you are?”

“In a fucking hospital?” Mickey snapped, but it came out with significantly less bite than he'd intended due to the painful, scratchy throat. He coughed.

“You remember what happened?” Iggy asked this time, urgency creeping into his tone. Mickey swallowed cotton.

Terry says hello.

“Someone beat the shit out of you. Stabbed you a few times too. Punctured your fucking lung.”

“I was fucking there,” Mickey snapped (or tried to) and then promptly erupted into a dry hack. “Why does my throat hurt so fucking much?” he whispered.

Iggy ignored him.  “You know who did this to you?”
 
The brothers’ eyes met. Mickey had never seen Iggy so serious, so unwilling to back down.  Even though Iggy was older, he'd always been a follower, a go with the flow kinda guy.  He didn't take much seriously.  Except this, apparently.

Mickey broke eye contact first.

“No,” he said firmly.

Iggy’s face remained unchanged.  “Seems a little personal,” he challenged.

“I didn't see shit,” Mickey insisted, glancing at the guard, who had perked up in interest.

“But you fought back,” Iggy pressed, gesturing to Mickey's bandaged right hand and cut up knuckles on his left.  "Musta seen his face."

“So fucking what? We didn't exchange contact information.” He noticed a glass of water and reached for it, grunting in pain. He didn't get far. His right arm was handcuffed to the bed. “This fucking necessary?” he spat hoarsely at the guard, who gave a nonchalant shrug. “Policy,” he replied.

“What if I gotta take a piss?”

The guard smirked and gestured below the bed. Mickey followed his gaze and grimaced at the half full catheter bag.

This was fucking embarrassing.

“Here,” Iggy said, moving forward to hand Mickey the water. “Doc said not to give you any food or liquids til he got in, but what he don't know won't hurt him.”

Gratefully, Mickey took the water from his brother and downed a big gulp, immediately sputtering it out as he coughed.

“Been a couple days since you drank anything,” said Iggy, snatching the water back. “ Maybe we should wait for the doc.”

“How long I been out?”

“Not sure. They didn't call Svet til after they transferred you here.  Listen-" he leaned forward again, dropping his voice.  "I heard some shit from- someone." He glanced again at the guard.  "Batko?" he asked meaningfully, and Mickey stared at him.  The fuck?  "Batko," Iggy repeated with more inflection.

He remembered now.  The summer his dad's grandmother lived with them after his grandad died.  She had a thick Ukranian accent and was scarier than Terry ever was- old and shriveled and definitely a witch, Mandy insisted.  Always coming after them with a wooden spoon yelling at them to "mind their batko."  Bitch thought the sun shone from Terry's ass.

So someone bragged about the beating.  Maybe even Terry himself.

"You talking in code or something?" the guard interrupted gruffly.

"Nope."  Mickey glared pointedly at Iggy. Iggy frowned, but finally dropped it.

"Ah, he's awake," a male voice said. Svetlana joined them, trailed by the doctor who had spoken.  He focused his attention on Svetlana, who stared back at him.  Her hair was different than the last time he saw her when she'd brought Ian to see him.  Months ago.

She came to him, brushed her lips against his, (the guard said "Hey now," in a warning tone) and he didn't even feel the urge to groan and push her away.  With a start, he realized that he'd missed her.

The doctor sauntered to Mickey's bedside and Svetlana settled on the other side, blocking Mickey's view of fuckhead on the chair.

"Full name please."  The doc shone a light in Mickey's eyes and he flinched away, scowling.

"Uh, Michael Milkovich," he rasped.

"Voice'll get better soon.  Age?"

"Twenty."  Doc hmmed and yanked the blanket down and Mickey's gown up.  Mickey made a sharp yelp in protest and glanced quickly at Svetlana.

"Nothing I have not seen before," she smirked.

"Felon at age twenty," Doc mused, peeling taped gauze away from Mickey's ribs to peek at the itching scars below.  "Real shame."

Mickey bristled but said nothing.  He was used to this type of shit, and wasn't exactly able to defend himself at the moment.

"Good news, your beating wasn't life threatening.  You've probably had worse, am I right?"  Mickey and Svetlana shared an incredulous look and he heard Iggy shift in his chair.  "Stabbed twice in the ribs, punctured a lung.  Annoying, but manageable. The real trouble came when they pumped you full of penicillin.  Multiple times."

Mickey and Svetlana stared blankly at him.

"You know, penicillin? Antibiotic that you're highly allergic to?"

Svetlana shrugged, and Doc sighed dramatically.  "You wouldn't know, would you?  Wasn't in your chart either.  Anyway, you went into shock, anaphylaxis, the whole nine yards.  Good news is your kidneys are fully functioning again."

 Mickey gaped at the doctor, trying to remember back to any of that happening, but the last thing he could remember was the slam of his head against the metal toilet in the cell.  Maybe some other fuzzy moments, but mostly pain.

"Now that you're awake we'll run a few tests.  And figure out when and what you can eat and drink again.  Enjoy your company, it's unlikely they'll be allowed to visit again now that you're not at death's door."

And he sauntered back out of the room, clicking his pen.

"That man thinks you are not human," Svetlana sniffed, glaring at the door.

"Don't worry about it," Iggy said, rising, a mischievous glint in his eye.  "He'll probably have really bad luck sometime today."

Mickey chanced a glance at the blank faced guard, then rolled his eyes, secretly pleased that he could still count on his brother to have his back.  "I'll call Mandy and the others, alright?" Iggy continued.

Mickey shrugged.  What difference would it make?  He hadn't spoken to Mandy for nearly a year, when she'd come to visit after returning to Chicago.  He didn't even have her number to attempt.  And who the fuck cared about his other shithead brothers? "Anyone else you want me to tell?" Iggy raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Ian.  Just the thought of him made his chest tighten painfully.  What he wouldn't fucking give to have someone who he could hold onto for a while.  More than the sex, the stupid jokes, or that fucking smile, he missed the brush of shoulder against shoulder as they walked down the street, familiar heat of Ian's chest against his back as they lay together.  He hadn't cried yet since going in, but he wanted to do it with Ian.  Be comforted by Ian.

But all he saw now behind his eyelids were dead, impassive eyes staring back at him.

He wasn't gonna beg to be wanted anymore.  He'd embarrassed himself enough already.

"Fuck no."

Iggy shrugged and Svetlana looked smugly satisfied.

Mickey didn't miss her so much anymore.

"Glad you ain't dying, little bro."  And Iggy sauntered out of the room without a glance.

Svetlana sat gingerly on the side of the bed.

"Where's the kid?" he asked her.

"With V.  Children not allowed in Intensive Care unit."

Mickey itched at his ribs awkwardly while cuffed to the bed.

"You ain't brought him to see me in a while."

Svetlana stared haughtily at him.  

"What do you care?"

Mickey glared back, even though he knew he deserved it.  They stayed that way for a long time until finally Mickey relented, dropping his gaze down to the bed.

"I wanna see him," he muttered.  "Please," he added begrudgingly.

Svetlana considered this.

"I will show you pictures," she told him.  "For now." And she pulled out her phone to swipe through her photos.  "Ah, here!"

She handed it to him and the guard stepped forward, snatching it out of his hand.

"No phones."

Mickey opened his mouth to retort, but Svetlana stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I will hold it then," Svetlana said.  "Just to show him pictures of his child."

"No," the guard insisted.  "It's time for you to go."

Svetlana curled her lip in a sneer but raised off of the bed.  Mickey resisted grabbing her hand to keep her with him.

"I will think about it," she told Mickey as she leaned over and kissed him again.  "Stay well."

And then she was gone too, and Mickey felt even lonelier than in prison, knowing that they were just here, in the same room- not through glass.  And now they were out there, free to do as they pleased.

He needed to snap the fuck out of it.

Neither Iggy or Svetlana visited again over the next two days.  He wasn't sure if it was because they weren't allowed to or if they just didn't want to.  Both thoughts were depressing.

He managed to talk one of the night shift guards into giving him a magazine, and he read every article word for word, even the ones about which lipstick worked best for your skin tone.  He tried his hand at the crossword puzzle in the back, but it reminded him too much of how he and Ian would lazily work through them together during boring times at the Kash and Grab, so he stopped.  He knew fuck all about celebrities anyway. 

Even with the help of the magazine and a particularly chatty nurse who didn't seem phased at all by his handcuffs, guard duty, and general bad attitude (bitch fucking grinned when she took out his catheter) he couldn't stop thinking about Terry.  Mickey had worked his whole life to be of value to his father.  Dropped out of school, ran drugs, stole shit, kicked ass.  Sacrificed the person he loved, only to be shit on, over and over.

Evidently the knowledge that his youngest son was rotting in prison wasn't enough for Terry.  He had to make sure that Mickey knew he was still under his fucking thumb.

Mickey might be a shitty ass father, but he sure as shit would never celebrate his own son's incarceration by sending someone to jump him.

Yevgeny wasn't gonna know this kind of life.  Even if it meant Mickey would have to drop off the face of the earth.

All too soon and not nearly soon enough, he was discharged and was made to change back into a clean orange jumpsuit.  If that wasn't enough, they wheeled him out, hands and feet shackled, while two guards flanked his wheelchair.

The breeze hit him as the sliding glass doors opened, and Mickey closed his eyes to the feeling for a moment.  The world was right here, just out of his reach.  He was back in the city.  He could hear sirens, traffic noises, people going about their daily lives.

"Get up and move forward, inmate," the guard to his left ordered, shoving at his shoulder.  Mickey grimaced and raised from the wheelchair with effort.

Right.  He was shackled, hands and feet, being escorted by two guards to a waiting transport van. To return to prison for another seven years, at least.

He watched as people give them a wide berth, either finding the ground particularly interesting or blatantly staring (more of the latter).  He bared his teeth at a teenage boy who was ogling him, and was pleased when the kid made a face like he might have pissed himself.

"Up," the same guard commanded, and Mickey stumbled up into the back of the van.  There was an old man in there, bald and nearly emaciated.  Cancer, Mickey guessed.  The guard chained Mickey's feet shackles to the floor, then slammed the back door.

Mickey ignored the old guy, and he did the same.  Instead Mickey gazed out to the real world- the last glimpse he would get for a long time.

And saw Svetlana.  Bending over awkwardly and holding the hand of a small toddler as they walked toward the hospital.

"That's my wife- hey!  That's my wife and kid!"  Mickey tried to get to the back window on instinct, maybe to pound on it, but was stopped short by the shackles.  "Fuck.  That's my son."

Yevgeny was so much bigger than the last time he'd seen him- months now since he'd come with his mother and Ian to visit.  "He's fucking walking," Mickey said with awe.

Old guy peered around him.  "Kid looks like he's two.  Course he's fucking walking."

"Nobody fucking asked you," Mickey snapped back, unable to tear his eyes away as the van abruptly started and then began pulling away from the hospital.  "And he ain't two yet."  Svetlana and Yevgeny disappeared into the building as the transport van turned the corner.

She was bringing Yevgeny to see him.  And he fucking missed it.

The van ride was excruciating, every turn and bump aggravating his aching scars.  At long last, when the van came to a stop safe within the prison walls, C.O. Wilson was there to greet him.

"Back from the land of the living, I see."

"Don't you mean to the land of the living?" Mickey snarked as Wilson gripped his elbow to lead him out the back of the van.

"Nope."  Wilson smirked at his own cheekiness.  "Hope you enjoyed your stay at the Four Seasons.  We changed your job assignment to the library to accommodate your restrictions.  Report there in the morning, alright?"

"Aw, fuck."

Wilson smirked again.  "Maybe you'll learn something."

Mickey rejoined prison life with a new reluctance.  He was pretty sure his dad wouldn't bother to send a message again, but now he looked weak to the other inmates.  Easy to take down.  He'd have to do something to change their minds.

But in the meantime, he'd try to convince Svetlana to visit with the kid.

Two weeks later he suffered through the long phone line after dinner time to call her.  It rang and rang, until finally she picked up and accepted the call.  Wherever she was, it was loud in the background.

"Svet," he yelled into the phone.

"Hold horses," she shouted back, and there was rustling and a thunk as a door closed somewhere.  "Yes?" Her voice was impatient, and the wind went out of his sails a little.

"You uh, said you'd bring the kid by," he reminded her.

"Oh."  She paused.  "I thought it maybe was just the pain drugs talking."

"I want to see my son," he insisted loudly, and the dude next to him shot him a look.  Mickey gave him the finger and turned his back.  "Listen, I want to fucking be in his life, okay?  Good as I fucking can from in here."  She was silent for a long time, so he tried again, unable to keep the desperation from creeping into his voice.  "Look, you and me, we got shitty fathers, right?  Maybe if I don't do as shitty a job as them he can be better than us someday."

"He already is," she snapped.  Mickey thunked his head against the receiver in frustration.  The silence lagged again.

"Next Thursday," she told him finally.  "We will call it trial run."

His shoulders slumped in relief.

"Fuck, alright," he agreed.

Then the line cut off abruptly, and he wasn't sure if it was time up or if she had just hung up.  Honestly, it could go either way.

"You can ask one question," Svetlana announced the next Thursday when they'd settled in their metal seats, separated by glass.  Yevgeny squirmed in her arms, eager to explore.  "About him.  Then we do not speak about it again."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Mickey hedged, avoiding her eyes.

"Do not play dumb.  Get over with it so we can focus on Yevgeny."

He tried to glare and planned to resolutely refuse, but didn't last long.

"Just- how is he?"

Svetlana smirked.  "I would not know.  I never see him."

"You mean he ain't around?  He go away again?"  Mickey gripped the phone too tight.  Maybe he'd gone off the meds again.

"One question only," she taunted.  "But he is around.  Just he is always too busy with big black boyfriend.  Or so I hear."

"Fuck you," he snapped at her, but she only shrugged.  Maybe she was trying to get a rise out of him by telling him, but he could see that she was telling the truth regardless.  Mickey's stomach roiled, even though he wasn't surprised, not really.  Seemed like Ian had always fucked around.

"Why do you suddenly want Yevgeny?" she asked him, changing the subject.  "Getting lonely?"

Mickey blinked a few times, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes.

"Yeah," he said after a beat, unable to say anything other than the truth.  Svetlana's face softened for a moment, then the walls went back up.

"So you cannot have Orange Boy and Yevgeny is consolation prize?"

"No!" Mickey insists.  "It's just- some shit went down and maybe I reevaluated or whatever."  He waved a hand dismissively.

Svetlana's eyes widened in speculation. "With your father?  The hospital?"

Fuck.  Iggy.

"No," Mickey said firmly, but he could tell she didn't believe him.  "Let me talk to him, would ya?"

Svetlana spoke to the toddler in Russian and pointed to Mickey through the glass.  Yevgeny turned his big blue eyes on the father he didn't know.

Mickey abandoned all pride and set the phone down to make a monkey face.  The kid giggled, so he did it again.

Too soon, the buzzer sounded.

Svetlana smiled at him genuinely.  It looked strange on her face.

"We will return," she assured him.  "Two weeks."

Mickey exhaled, nodding.

Two weeks.  Two more weeks.  He could do this.

Svetlana

Inhale, sharply.  Exhale, slowly. 

The pain washes over her like a wave.  Starting small, building, building, until it peaks and falls away again.

They are not so terrible.  Every eight minutes or so, bothersome but bearable.  For now.

They say second, third and beyond babies will come more quickly than their older siblings.  With Yevgeny, she spent one entire day and night in agony.  Surrounded by other prostitutes, but alone just the same.  With the second baby, eighteen hours.  Holding the hand of a woman she did not know.

This time will be different.

It was not difficult to decide, having another.  Yevgeny had been a horrible accident.  The other baby an act of necessity.  And this one- wanted by both parents, which is more than most children can say these days.

Svetlana had always imagined that she would have children. Something she supposes most little girls dream of.

Speaking of dreams, they are in English these days.  And she doesn't even have to stop and translate in her head when someone says something to her.

Everyone around her speaks English, of course.  It has been nearly ten years since she's even spoken in her native tongue to someone from home.  Sometimes it nearly makes her reminiscent of her days as a prostitute.  Nearly.

She is glad to have Yevgeny, even if he speaks to her with a strange American accent on the words.  Without him her mother tongue might dry up entirely. 

And this new baby girl, coming into this world today or tomorrow, will be taught her mother's language as well.

Maybe one day they will all go together, to see her hometown, the place Svetlana was raised. She, her children, and her husband.

She thinks she could have loved him once.  The both of them were thrust into something they did not want.  Only trying to survive.  He was decent enough to her, gave her those scared eyes any time she so much as brushed up against him.  A man to provide for her, keep a roof over her head and food in her belly, would never raise a hand to her- and she did not even need to fuck him?  Well, what was not to love?

But Orange Boy had to come in and ruin things, as he does. She does not remember well the day they all met, and she is glad for it.  But sometimes she sees her husband's face from that day in her dreams- bloodied, afraid.  In love.

If she could recognize it even then, she should not be surprised now.

She must give them both a little more credit.  Ian had once taken care of Yevgeny like his own, even if he had run away with him.  And his crazy pills work well for him now.

And Mickey- Misha, as she has taken to calling him (Mickey is a mouse, not a grown man's name, besides, the name sounds even more ridiculous in her accent).  He who swallowed his pride and asked to be taken back all those years ago.  She is sure he was mostly lonely, feeling sorry for himself about Ian and his father.  But look at him now.  Truly, she can see that Yevgeny comes first for him.  Even with Carrot Boy back in the picture.

No, she is not surprised that they are together again.  She took one look at Ian's face the first day she had seen them together at the Alibi nearly one year ago, and she knew.  It was Mickey she was most surprised by.  He held out much longer than she would have guessed.  She supposes it must have something to do with the other man from prison, and something to do with pride.

God knows she would not have taken a lover back if she had gone through what Mickey had.  But as they say, the heart wants what it wants.

It is early yet, but they're usually up the stairs by now when Ian works his day shift, because her husband cannot sleep so well without him now.  She knows they are down there together, because Ian's schedule is highlighted on the calendar by the back door, the days he will spend in this house.

It was a compromise, suggested by Mickey himself when he had come through the door the night after staying with his lover.  He had sat her down at the table where she sits now, asking if Ian might stay with them some nights.  He did not like leaving his wife and child alone, he had said.  But he needed his Carrot Boy too.  Only on days when Ian worked typical hours.  He would still have dinner as a family (with Ian too, sometimes, and that is alright because Yevgeny loves him), help Yevgeny with homework.  Only he would sleep with Ian in his bedroom.

And Svetlana had agreed.  Mickey deserved it.  But still, she worried.

"And what will you do if he leaves again?" she had asked him.

"He ain't leaving again."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Just am."  And after a long silence, he had added quietly, "If he leaves again I ain't ever letting him come back."

She knows that he thinks he means it, but she is not so sure.  She hopes she never has to find out.

If they are not in the kitchen by now it means maybe they are fucking.

She is glad for the space between the upstairs bedrooms and Mickey's bedroom in the basement, so she does not have to hear any noises.  Walls in these old houses, like her childhood home in Smolensk, and the old Milkovich home are paper thin, even though the two of them always have been quiet lovers.

She is jealous of them sometimes.  She has not fucked anyone, man or woman, since she became pregnant, and they are able to do it whenever they like.  Sometimes she misses Kev and V.

She cannot wait any longer.  She needs Carrot Boy to get Yevgeny ready for school while Mickey takes her to hospital.  She heaves herself out of the chair and goes to the basement steps slowly.  She feels as though if she moves to quickly the baby may slip right out, the pressure is so great.  If only that were how it worked.

A contraction grows just as she reaches the closed bedroom door, and the pain causes her to push the door open harder than she intends to.

They are still lying in the bed, thankfully not fucking, and Mickey swears and shields Ian's larger body on instinct, breathing heavy from the surprise.  

"Easy," Ian murmurs to him, trailing a hand down his back.

"What's wrong?" Mickey demands.  As the contraction ebbs away Svetlana supresses her smirk when Ian frowns as Mickey's attention shifts instantly to his wife.  "You hurt?"

"Baby day today," Svetlana announces.

"What?" Mickey says as Ian breathes "really?"

"Contractions every seven minutes," she tells them.

"Has your water broken?" Ian asks her, climbing over Mickey to move toward her.

"Not yet.  Lots of pressure."  She swats his hand away when he tries to place it on her belly.

"Shit," Mickey says.  "Fuck."  He runs his hands through his hair.

"Everything's gonna be fine," Ian says to both of them.  He moves around the room, pulling on jeans that were thrown over a chair.  "Let me call work and then we'll head to the hospital."  He pulls a shirt on too.  "I'll give Yev some cash, maybe he can hit the arcade after school until Fiona gets off."  He stops putting his socks on and stares at them.  "What?"

"Don't you got work?" Mickey asks him.  Ian laughs.

"Obviously I'm not going to work today."

Mickey and Svetlana exchange looks.  Had Mickey not told him of the plan?  Mickey rubs the back of his neck.

"Look man, you head to work, stick to your schedule, and you can come up when you get off.  I'll text ya when the good stuff happens."

Ian's jaw drops.  "But I don't get off until 6."

"Perfect," Mickey says, falsely cheerful.  "Baby should be here by then, right Svet?"

She nods.  

"It is better this way," she tells Ian, attempting a soothing tone but failing as she doubled over, the tightening in her uterus growing quicker than before.

Mickey launches off the bed and is by her side.

"You wanna sit?"

"No," she breathes.  "Does not hurt so much when I stand."

He lets her squeeze his hand tight as the pain recedes.  "Damn, Svet," he says.

"This is nothing," she tells him.  "Will only get worse."

Ian coughs.  "I'll go wake up Yevgeny then?"

Mickey nods.

"Yeah, thanks."  To Svetlana, he asks, "Want me to run a bath for you while I pack our shit and call Kev?"

"Yes," she sighs.  "Please."

"Can't believe you came all the way down," he chided her.  "You coulda called."

Ian hovers in the doorway, his work bag on his arm.

"Okay then," he says.  "Uh, good luck."

And he pounds up the stairs.

"He is angry," Svetlana tells her husband as they slowly make their way up.  The bowling ball in her belly feels as though it is dropping with each step.

"This ain't about him," Mickey dismisses.

Another contraction hits in the kitchen, and Mickey hovers, grinding his teeth with anxiety.

"Mom," Yevgeny says, appearing bleary eyed by her side as she returns to herself.  "Ian says it's baby day."

"Don't bug mom right now," Mickey orders his son.  "She's not doing so hot."

"I am fine," Svetlana insists as Yevgeny's eyes widen in concern.  "Eat your breakfast and get ready for school."

"What?  I can't come?"

"It's a grown up thing, bud.  Ian'll bring you tonight.  Right?" Mickey looks past Yevgeny to where Ian is in the doorway.

"Yup," Ian says, looking at Yevgeny rather than Mickey.

There is no time to worry about petty things.  Mickey helps her into the bathroom and fills the tub with water.

"I'll call Kev now.  Your bag packed?"

She nods as a contraction builds again.  She holds onto Mickey and rocks back and forth.  When it finally subsides, Mickey breathes out the breath he's been holding, then averts his eyes when she drops her robe.

"You will be seeing much worse very soon," she warns him as she carefully lowers herself into the water.

"Nope.  Staying up by your head and not moving."

"That is what they all say."

"You have lotsa baby daddies I don't know about?" he teases.  Then he leaves her, keeping the door cracked so he can hear her if she calls.

She has two more contractions while she waits, but the warm water dulls the pain a bit.  Soon Mickey has returned.

"Kev's here.  You ready?"

Is any woman ever ready for childbirth? she wonders as she slowly dresses.

The ride to the hospital is terrible.  She would swear that Kev hits bumps on purpose, and she needs to be sitting in the car, so the pain is much worse.  When finally they arrive at the hospital, she waves away the wheelchair a nurse tries to sit her in, and Mickey snaps "She likes to fuckin' stand, alright?"

She does not get the epidural.  Women in Russia do not use medicine during childbirth.  Mickey looks at her like she is crazy but says nothing, just holds her hand when she holds it out.  He is a good labor partner.

She knows she is getting close when she begins to lose focus of time.  The relief between contractions is insignificant.  They build and they build on top of one another.  She vomits once.  She wishes she were dead.  She wishes Mickey were dead.  She demands this baby come out right now.

And then, calm.  Her body is ready.  It is time to push.

He does not say much.  He holds her leg and murmurs to her sometimes.  He looks, even though he said he would not.  Svetlana does not care.  Her dead father, even Mickey's dead father could walk through the door and she would not care.

She breathes in.  She pushes.  She breathes out.  Again.  And again.

"Baby's coming out sunny side up," her doctor says.  "That's why we're not making much progress."

"What is that?" Mickey demands.  "Something wrong?"

"Baby's coming out face up.  It makes things harder for the mother.  Don't you worry, daddy, everyone is fine."

She tunes out again.  Focuses on pushing.  This will be her last baby.  Last time to feel the relief of a baby leaving her body, the joy of a baby placed on her chest.

"Head's out," the doctor says.

"Holy shit," Mickey breathes.  "Svet, she's got hair.  So much fuckin' hair."

"One last big push, mama! Let's get those shoulders out!"

Svetlana gives all of her effort.  And is rewarded with the wet slip of the pressure disappearing, and an exuberant yell from her husband.

"You were right, it's a girl!" the doctor cheers, and Mickey whoops again.

The beautiful baby rests against her breast, shivering and wailing.  And Svetlana weeps as Mickey cuts the cord.

"Misha," she says to him.  "Misha."

Mickey turns to her.  His eyes are damp and his hands are shaking as he touches their child reverently.

"Thank you," he tells her.  "Fuck. Thank you."

Mickey: Year 5

Wilson waved him into his office, then sat there behind his desk, arms folded over the top, looking fucking affectionate.

"So what's new?" Wilson asked.

"I dunno, you're the one who called me in here, remember?"

Wilson smiled again.

"You're starting to freak me the fuck out.  Sir."

"None of that lip from you today, Mickey.  Today's a good day."

Mickey stared blankly at him.

"How so?"

"I'm just saying you've come pretty far in a year."

Mickey swallowed.

"Proud of you," Wilson told him.  "Picking yourself up from down in the gutter after-" he at least had the grace not to finish that sentence.  "Focusing on your family again, getting your GED."  

"Haven't heard back yet about that," Mickey muttered.

"Yeah you have."  Wilson tossed a thick envelope at him.  "Congratulations! You passed."

Mickey stared down at it.

"You opened it."

Wilson shrugged.  "Even GED results aren't sacred around here."

Mickey pulled the papers out.

"Barely passed the social studies section," he noted with a frown.

"But check out that math score, huh?  And the reading?  Sticking your nose in those books really payed off."

Mickey shrugged.  He and Trav had worked their way through the high school reading list up until- yeah.  He never did finish the Catcher in the Rye.

"These are decent scores," Wilson interrupted his thoughts.  "You should be real proud.  It'll help you get a job in the real world in a few years."

Mickey looked at the results a little longer.

He was proud, a little.

"Hey uh, my kid's on his way," Mickey told him a little apologetically.  It was kind of nice to bask in the glow of Wilson's praise but he had to make it to visitation.

"Go! I'm not gonna keep you from your kid.  Tell him the good news though, alright?"

He could see it was only Svetlana there as soon as he was buzzed into the visitation room.

"Where's the kid?" he asked immediately upon sitting down and grabbing the phone.

"Soccer practice," she told him, blowing him a kiss in greeting like she always did.  He stopped telling her to cut that shit out around the fifth visit.

"The fuck is a six year old doing at soccer practice?" he snipped.  Now he wouldn't see the kid for another two weeks.

"Practcing soccer," Svetlana told him, rolling her eyes.  Mickey rolled them right back.

"Well, tell him hey for me at least, would ya?"

"Of course."  She smirked at him.  "Anything else?"

"Yeah, uh, you can tell him I ain't a total piece of shit.  I got my GED."  He hid his pleased grin behind his hand, but it was ruined when Svetlana furrowed her brow, puzzled.

"What is GED again?"

Having to explain what it meant made giving the news a lot less satisfying.

“Means I passed a test to get my high school equivalent. Like a diploma without the school bullshit.”

“Ah, yes. I know now. You do that in here?” She seemed genuinely surprised and faintly impressed.

“Not much else to fuckin’ do.”  He shrugged, feigning nonchalance.  She nodded.

“Well good for you. You should be proud.”

“Whatever.”  Mickey shuffled his feet under the both, the wind taken out of his sails a little.  Svetlana tapped one finger on the glass to get him to look back up at her.

"I am proud.  Maybe you are right.  Maybe you are not piece of shit after all."

"Yeah, well."  He felt like he might be blushing.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Ian

He stews silently in the waiting room with the rest of the Gallaghers and Balls.

"Long labor, huh?"  Lip sits heavily next to Ian in a waiting room chair.

"Over twelve hours," Ian sighs.  Ian had gone to work and come home (to Mickey's house) and he and Yevgeny had even grabbed fast food burgers on the way, and still there's s no baby.

Lip nods, then glances up at Ian as the angry silence lags on.

"So what, you really expected to be in there with them?" Lip challenges.  "That why you're pissed off?"

"Well, no but- I don't know.  Thought he'd at least act like he wanted me around."

Lip nods again and scratches at his chin.

"Look, they decided to do this kid thing a long time before you were back in the picture, right?  And what's it been, a couple weeks? You guys are practically still fuck buddies at this point."

Ian considers punching Lip in his face, but settles for glaring daggers instead.

"Fuck you.  We're exclusive."

Lip shrugs, unconcerned.

"Whatever man.  You know I'm not Mickey's biggest fan, so if I'm telling you to cut him some slack then you know you're overreacting."

Ian doesn't want to concede, purely for the fact that it was Lip who suggested it, but he has a point.

"What the fuck are you even doing here anyway?" he asks.  Like Lip would want to sit in a hospital waiting for Mickey's kid to be born.

"Eh, nothin' better to do."

Ian shakes his head.  "Your life is pretty fucking sad these days."  Lip just smirks at him.

"Jesus, you're all here?"

There's a sudden silence as everyone turns to see Mickey framed in the doorway of the waiting room.  He looks exhausted.  On the edge of tears.  Joyful.  Unlike any way Ian has ever seen him.  Ian's throat catches.

"It's a girl," he says, voice husky with emotion.

The room erupts with cheers, and V and Fiona burst forward to embrace Mickey, who nearly stumbles with their weight.

"How are they?" Kev asks.

"Can we see her?" Carl yells.

"Nah, not yet."  Mickey untangles himself from the women and rubs at the back of his neck.  "Yev and Ian first, all right?"

Lip shoots Ian one of his famous haughty gazes as Ian stands to follow a bouncing Yevgeny down the hallway.  Ian is elated and embarrassed. He'll have to make it up to Mickey later.

Mickey pushes Yevgeny ahead into the room and then stands there in the hallway, stopping Ian's forward movement just by the look on his face. 

"Mick," Ian says, and pulls the other man into his body.  Mickey's arms wind around him like vices as they embrace. Ian doesn't think they've ever held onto each other this tightly before.

Mickey's shoulders shake a little as he buries his face in Ian's shoulder.  Then he  physically steels himself and pulls away.

"C'mon."

Yevgeny is curled into his mother's side staring at an impossibly small bundle in Svetlana's arms.

"She's so cute," he coos, stroking her cheek with one finger.

Svetlana is sweat soaked, exhausted, and joyful.  She beams at Ian and Mickey when they walk in.

"Beautiful," Ian agrees.  She looks a lot like Yevgeny.  "Great work, Svetlana."

"Could not do it without Misha," she says, smiling softly at Mickey.  Mickey flushes.

"Quit hogging the baby, would ya?"  And he reaches for his daughter.

Seeing Mickey lovingly hold his newborn makes Ian emotional.  He blinks away tears as Mickey meets his eyes.  Mickey holds her out to Ian, and he takes her willingly.

"Wow,"  Ian says.  It's all he has words for.

The others join them in the room shortly, all of them crowding in so there's no room to breathe, much to the chagrin of the nurses.  Kev, Carl and Mickey disappear for fifteen minutes and return smelling like cigars.

Both Mickey and Svetlana are losing energy quickly, and Svetlana is itching to be reunited with her daughter, Ian can tell.  He herds the eager guests out of the room until it's the four of them and the baby again.

"Let's head out guys," Ian says quietly to Yevgeny and Mickey.  "Svetlana looks beat."

"I'm staying the night here," Mickey tells him, rubbing blearily at his eyes.  "Could you stay with the kid at the house tonight?"

"Oh," Ian says.  He shouldn't be surprised.  Of course Mickey will stay here.  It's what new fathers do.  "Do you want me to bring him back here in the morning?"

"Yeah," Mickey says as Svetlana says "no."

"Yevgeny has school," Svetlana insisted.  "Plenty of time after school to visit."

Yevgeny argues, of course, but Svetlana doesn't back down, and soon the pair of them are reluctantly leaving.  Mickey follows them down to have a cigarette.

"Thanks for taking care of Yev for us," Mickey tells him.

"Course.  I love you guys."  Yevgeny and Mickey give him identical looks of pleased embarrassment.

"Listen to Ian," Mickey orders, ruffling the top of Yevgeny's head.  He touches Ian's elbow.  "See ya tomorrow."

Yevgeny seems to pick up on Ian's mood, because the train ride home is quiet.  Yevgeny goes to bed without protest, then Ian heads to Mickey's bedroom alone.

Yevgeny begs to go to the hospital with Ian instead of going to school in the morning.

"Ian, I only got to hold her for a little bit last night!  Everyone was hogging her!"

"I know, bud, but mom says you gotta go to school today.  I told you I'd take you right up at three."

"Dad said it was okay," Yev reminds him, going for Ian's soft spot.

"Sorry, mom overrides dad."

"I'm telling dad you didn't take his side," Yev taunts playfully.

"Make sure to tell your mom that too.  Get me some brownie points."

With Yevgeny at school, Ian makes his way to the hospital.  He hadn't exactly been invited, but it's his day off, and he can't ignore the tug at his heartstrings, like he just needs to get to where Mickey and the baby are.  

He knocks quietly on the slightly ajar door of the room number he was given in the maternity ward, then takes a cautious step inside.

He averts his eyes when he finds Svetlana sitting up in the bed, nursing the baby, engorged breast virtually entirely exposed.

"Hey," he says, rubbing at his neck awkwardly.  "I can come back later."

"Do not be stupid.  You have seen it before with Yevgeny, yes?  You must get used to it again if you will be around."

Ian nods.

"Where's Mick?"

Svetlana gestures to the sofa tucked along the back wall of the room, where Mickey is lying, flat on his back with his arm over his face.

"Oh shit," Ian whispers.

"It is all right.  Nurse came in twenty minutes ago and he did not wake," Svetlana says in her normal volume.

Ian gazes at Mickey.

"Don't think he's ever slept that hard before."  Any little noise usually rouses Mickey, activating his fight or flight mode instantly.

"You would think he is the one who pushed out baby," she teases affectionately.  "I want to talk to you," she directs at Ian, tone hardening.  "He has done well not to leave us alone together these last few weeks.  Now is my chance."

"I know what you're going to say," Ian begins hastily.  "I'm not going anywhere. Even if you try to tear us apart."

Svetlana sneers at him.  "You think so little of me.  I only want to see him happy.  As long as you make him happy we will have no problems." She leans forward a little, baby still at her breast.  "But if the day comes that you hurt him again, I will kill you, and I will make it hurt."

Ian swallows.  Svetlana raises sharp eyebrows at him for a moment, then she pulls the baby away and rearranges her gown.  "I will take shower now.  You watch baby."  She holds out the tiny bundle, who is snuffling softly under a delicate pink hat.  Ian moves forward on instinct and takes her from Svetlana.

She's even more beautiful than he remembered.  Face scrunched up in sleep, she looks like Mickey.

Svelana moves delicately off the bed and shuffles toward the bathroom, grimacing.  

"Did you guys pick a name yet?" Ian asks before Svetlana disappears into the bathroom.

"He wanted to wait for you before we decide."

Ian's heart swells as the door clicks shut behind her.  Mickey wants him involved.

Ian sits in the rocking chair next to Mickey's sofa and gazes down at the little girl in his arms.  It's probably too late for Yevgeny, but he wonders if this little one will ever call him daddy.

Mickey jolts awake, sitting up suddenly and startling Ian, who jostles the baby, but she sleeps on.

"Hey Mickey," Ian says softly as Mickey gets his bearings.  Mickey turns to Ian's voice and his shoulders relax.

"How long I been out?" He rubs sleepily at his eyes.

"Dunno.  An hour for sure."

"How is she?" Mickey gazes at his daughter.

"Perfect," Ian says.  "You want her?"

"Nah, man," Mickey dismisses.  He watches Ian and the baby together, eyes dreamy.  "You look good holding my kid."

"Yeah?"  Ian smiles back.  "Svetlana says you're still deciding on a name."

"Yeah.  What do you think about Nadezhda?"

Ian wrinkles his nose.  "Huh?"

"Na-dyeh-zda," he enunciates slowly.  "But we'd call her Nadia."

"Nadia," Ian repeats.  He looks down at the baby in his arms. Then he pulls off the pink hat and runs his finger through the soft dark hair.  "Yevgeny's hair was dark like this.  Then it got super blond until it went dark again.  Remember?"

Mickey shrugs and looks at the ground, and Ian feels a little chagrined.

"She looks like a Nadia," Ian says, changing the subject.

"Yeah," Mickey agrees after a beat.  "I think so too."

"What's the name again?"

Mickey repeats it, slower this time.

"Means hope," he tells Ian, leaning forward to to touch the baby's cheek.  That seals the deal for Ian.  What better meaning for this baby than 'hope'?

"Hey Nadia," Ian says to the baby.  "She likes it."

"She does, huh?" Mickey laughs.

"Everything still okay?" Svetlana asks from behind them.  She's changed into a pair of Mickey's sweatpants and a nursing top.

"Nadia's doing great," Mickey tells her with a grin.  

"Nadia, eh?" She raises an eyebrow, but she's pleased.  "If you say so."

Mickey stretches.  "Gonna take a shower."

"Why don't you go home for a bit? Take a nap in a bed, cuddle with Orange Boy?" she offers.

"And leave you?" Mickey looks mildly offended at the suggestion.

"Sometimes a mother just needs to get to know her daughter," Svetlana tells him.  "Before the circus shows up later."

Mickey glares uncertainly from Svetlana to Ian to Nadia.  Ian tries not to look too hopeful.

"Just a few hours," he relents.  "If you're sure you'll be okay?"

"Maybe I will finally get some sleep," Svetlana shrugs.  "Without hearing you snoring away on that couch."

"Fuck off, I don't snore," he singsongs as he takes Nadia gently from Ian.  "Daddy will be back soon.  Don't start walking or talking or nothin' while I'm gone, alright?"

Mickey kisses first Nadia, then Svetlana before reluctantly heading to the door, Ian at his heel.

"You'll call me if you-"

"Yes!" Svetlana rolls her eyes, but smiles.  "You bring me back burger.  Food here is shit."

Mickey sort of slumps against Ian's shoulder on the train ride home.

"So fuckin' tired.  My feet hurt from standing in one place for fuckin' twelve hours."

"When we get home I'll rub you down," Ian mutters into Mickey's ear, feeling pleased when Mickey squirms and blushes.

When they get back to the house Ian herds Mickey down the basement stairs and into the bedroom.  "Take off your clothes and lay on the bed."

"Don't you think I should shower first?  I probably have placenta or something all over me."

"You can shower now if you want, but you'll have to shower after too."

Mickey bites his bottom lip and raises his eyebrows.

"After? You got some big plans?"

"Yeah."  Ian palms himself through his jeans.  "Real big."

Mickey snorts.

"Think a lot of yourself huh?"

"Never heard you complaining," Ian teases back.  Mickey grins lasciviously but groans as he pulls off his shirt and jeans.

"Don't think I have it in me right now."

"I told you.  Relax and I'll take care of you."

He pushes Mickey onto the bed.

"Lay on your stomach.  I won't- I'm just gonna rub your back."  For now, he thinks, because he definitely has every intention of fucking that ass soon.  Maybe if he gets him relaxed enough Mickey'll be willing to try on his hands and knees again.  He hadn't been into it last time.  And Ian really misses watching his dick move in and out of his ass.

Mickey tucks his arms under his pillow and closing his eyes.  Ian begins at Mickey's shoulders, and the first touch already has Mickey moaning.  Ian's dick jumps at the sound, but he ignores it, moving steadily down, over the tense muscles of Mickey's shoulder blades and down to his lower back.  He skips over Mickey's boxer-clad ass (later) and moves down the backs of Mickey's thighs, one at a time. Down his calves, then finally to his feet.

"Fuck," Mickey moans into the pillow.

"You like that?" Ian's voice is huskier than he means it to be, but touching all over his boyfriend's body and listening to the noises of pleasure he's making is really turning him on.

Mickey pushes up on his elbow for a minute to adjust himself.

"Foot rubs turn you on, Mick?" Ian teases as he pushes his knuckles a little harder into a sore spot.

"Mm," Mickey articulates.  "Where'd you learn to do this?"

"Took a massage class once.  Like an Adult Ed course."

"Why?"

Ian hesitates, fingers stilling.

"It was an ex's idea," he admits.  "Supposed to bring us closer together."

"Guess it worked, huh?" Mickey teases, seemingly unperturbed by Ian's confession.  "But you uh, missed a spot."  And he lifts his ass up a tiny bit.

"Oh, I didn't miss it," Ian assures him.  "I was saving it."  He can see the crinkle at the corner of Mickey's eye that tell Ian he's grinning.

"Get on with it then, masseur."

"Patience."  Ian pulls his jeans and boxers off with a little difficulty over his erection, then pulls Mickey's boxers off and straddles his upper thighs.  "You good like this?"

"Think so," Mickey groans.  "Talk to me."

Ian smiles.

"I love you," he starts.  Mickey buries his head under his arm, bashful.  "I love your ass," Ian adds as he massages and ruts lightly.

Ian's words and actions quickly get more obscene, and soon Mickey is up on his elbows as Ian thrusts in and out, still babbling.  It's new for him to be so chatty during sex, but he likes it, especially because of the way Mickey responds to it.  Is comforted by it.

Afterwards, Mickey smokes as Ian scrolls through the pictures Mickey had taken of Nadia the night before.  He lingers of one of Mickey and Svetlana squeezed together on the hospital bed, baby between them.

"So you and Svetlana," he says.

Mickey blows out a billow of smoke.

"Me and Svetlana what?" his voice has a touch of a sharp edge to it.

"You seem pretty close is all."

Mickey snorts.

"She's my kids' mom.  Would you rather us be at each other's throats, fighting over custody or some shit?"

Ian frowns. "No.  Guess I'm just- jealous maybe."

Mickey puts out his cigarette and turns to face him.

"Look, Svet was there for me when I needed her is all.  She gave me a chance and she helped me through some shit."  He doesn't say it with any sort of malice, but Ian's guilt morphs into anger and his mouth reacts before his brain can catch up.

"So what, you're gonna throw it in my face that I wasn't there for you like she was?" he snaps.  Mickey raises his eyebrows.

"I ain't throwing shit.  That's just the facts, Ian."

Ian glares at the comforter around his waist.

"Look," Mickey continues, voice firm.  "You signed up for this shit again.  You knew my family came first, and you said you were up for it."

"Yeah, but I thought we'd be partners.  Equals.  Not me riding your coattails while you're all some big happy family together."

Mickey's eyes widen.

"So what are you saying?" he asks, voice cracking.  "You saying you want out?"

"No!"  Ian puts both hands on either side of Mickey's face.  "No."  He sighs and pulls away again.  Mickey looks like he's trying not to cry.  "I just didn't expect it to be this complicated," he admits finally.

Mickey says nothing for a long time, and Ian watches him clench and unclench his jaw.

"I don't know what to tell ya, man," he says finally.  "I want you to be my equal, or whatever the fuck you said, but maybe part of me ain't ready yet."

Ian nods, swallowing thickly.

Mickey hesitates, then reaches out a hand to card through Ian's hair.  "I love you," he says softly.  "We'll figure it out, alright?"

Tears prick the corners of Ian's eyes.

"Okay," he agrees.  Mickey leans in and kisses him.

"Now let's go the fuck to sleep while we still can," Mickey orders teasingly, swiping a thumb delicately under Ian's eye.  "We got a baby to get back to."

Chapter Text

Mickey: Year 4

Mickey woke to hot breath in his ear.

“I don't know about you,” Trav sang against Mickey's jaw as he trailed his hands down Mickey's bare chest, “but I'm feeling twenty two.”

“The fuck?” Mickey muttered, still sleep addled.

“Everything will be alright if you keep me next to you," Trav warbled as Mickey groaned, throwing a hand over his face.  “What, you don't want birthday head?” Trav teased as he worked his hand over the morning bulge in Mickey's boxers.

“Could do without the Taylor Swift," Mickey grumbled.

Trav laughed.

“You know how I know you’re gay? You knew Taylor Swift sings that song.”

“Yeah well, you're the one singing it with your hand on my dick.”

“Lucky you, huh?” Trav waggled his eyebrows.

“Shut up and blow me.”  Mickey shoved playfully at Trav's head and he didn't resist, moving lower.

“Birthdays make you grumpy, Milky?” Trav muttered as he pulled Mickey's dick out of his boxers.

Mickey flipped him off, but hissed as warm lips closed around him.

"Birthdays in this shithole do," he breathed.  "And don't fucking call me that.”

Because he's a giant asshole, Trav hummed the chorus of the song around his dick until the moment Mickey came.

The fluorescent lights kicked on just as Trav sat back on his haunches.

"You're gettin' real good at timing that shit," Mickey commented as they got out of bed together.

"My internal clock is always set to find the stealthiest times to fuck.  Part of growing up gay in the ghetto, right?"

"Shit man, not me.  We always fuckin' got caught."  Mickey chuckled ironically.  "Probably good I came out when I did or we woulda ended up giving the whole neighborhood a show." Trav laughed too. 

"Hey, I'd pay good fuckin' money to see your dad's face while you humped that cop car."

Mickey grinned salaciously.

"I'll reenact it later for ya."

"Long as I get to be the cop car," Trav joked.

The buzzer echoed through the cell as the doors in their cell block unlocked.  Mickey slipped on his shoes and clipped his tag on his jumpsuit.

"Got a lead on some good shit," Trav told him conversationally.  "Gonna try to figure out a trade that doesn't involve my ass gettin' pounded."

Mickey grimaced.

"Wish you wouldn't do that shit, man.  What if they piss test you and send you up to Max?"

"Aw, Mick, would you miss me?" Trav teased, snapping Mickey with his towel.

"Not when you're being an annoying little shit, which is most of the time."  Mickey rolled his eyes.

"I'm itching out of my skin," Trav whined.  "It's been weeks since my last hit."  

"Just don't do anything fucking stupid," Mickey warned as he headed out to breakfast before Trav.  "Oh, and I'm twenty three by the way," he called back, grinning when Trav went out of his way to step out of their cell to give him the finger.

The rest of the day, Mickey walked around with lyrics from that stupid fucking song stuck in his head.

Everything will be alright if
You keep me next to you

Ian

He's been awake since three, trying hard to stay as still as possible next to Mickey, who's curled up on his right side away from Ian.  If he tosses and turns too much, he'll wake Mickey.  If he gets out of bed, he'll wake Mickey.

It's like Mickey has this sixth sense- even in his deepest of sleeps, he knows when Ian's out of the bed.  Ian wonders how Mickey manages to sleep on the weeks Ian's on overnights.  Not for the first time, he feels guilty about his chosen profession.

It's cold in the basement in January, even though the thermostat's kicked up nice and high to keep the baby toasty upstairs.  Ian thinks there might be a bad seal on one of the tiny windows in their room.  That'd be a good project for him.

Ian curls his body around Mickey for warmth, hating that there are so many layers between them.  They're both wearing flannel pajama pants and long sleeves.  He's really fucking horny.

He ruts against Mickey's ass lightly, experimentally.  Mickey sighs and rolls onto his back.  He shoulda known it would wake him up.

"Time is it?" Mickey mutters, yawning.  "Still dark as fuck out."

"Not six yet," Ian whispers back.  "Sorry I woke you up."

"No you're fucking not."  Mickey hasn't even opened his eyes yet.  "Or you wouldn'ta poked me with a half chub."

"I didn't mean to," Ian insists quietly.  "Just wanted a little relief."

"Ain't that what a tube sock and some lotion's for?" Mickey snarks back sleepily, starting to turn back around to face the closed door again.

"I'll suck you off," Ian offers, palming himself.  "All you gotta do is lie there."

"What's in it for you?" Mickey counters, but he shifts around a little, body responding to the idea.  Ian blinks at him.

"That I get to suck your dick."

Mickey breathes out a quick laugh, then gets comfortable on his back.

"Get under the covers then.  I'm freezing my nuts off."

"Not for long," Ian teases.  Then he scoots down under the comforter.

"Morning head," Mickey groans.  "Must be a special occasion."

"Stop talking and enjoy it," Ian orders from his spot. He pulls Mickey's dick out of the flap in his pajama bottoms and licks from base to tip.  Mickey listens.

It is in fact a special occasion, Mickey just doesn't know it yet.

Mickey gently scrubs his fingers through Ian's hair as Ian hollows his cheeks and gets to work.  He ruts his own erection against the mattress and hums, and Mickey's hips jerk.  Ian grins around his mouthful and does it again.

He jerks himself off while he laves Mickey with his mouth and tongue.  Ian comes first, then muscles through the rest of the hummer with added enthusiasm, eager to strip off his pajama bottoms and  clean off his sticky, cooling come.

Mickey grunts his release, and Ian swallows and emerges from under the sheets.

"That was good," Mickey groans.  "Thanks."

"Anytime."  They grin at each other, then Ian shucks off his pants and cuddles in next to Mickey again to keep warm.

"You sure you gotta work today?" Mickey asks him, yawning again.  "Sucks you gotta miss the science museum."

"Told Matt I'd cover his shift a week ago," Ian lies apologetically.  "Really shitty timing, huh?"

Actually, he's pretty fucking pissed about that.  Yev had been begging to go see the new human body exhibit and Mickey had finally gotten tickets for him and Ian to take him, unknowingly planning the outing for the same day as his surprise party.  And now Ian has to miss it, pretending he's working and instead decorating the Alibi for the big reveal at six.

Hopefully it'll be worth it.

Ian snatches one of Mickey's books from the makeshift bookshelf beside the bed and tries to focus his attention on it while Mickey settles into sleep.  The Scarlet Letter.  It's stolen from the public library, like most books in Mickey's possession.

Ian vaguely remembers the premise from high school English.  It doesn't really seem like Mickey's thing.  But then again, reading never seemed to be Mickey's thing, before prison.

There's a  thick folded piece of paper used as some sort of makeshift bookmark in the middle.  Ian starts where Mickey left off, but gets easily distracted.  Yeah, this book really doesn't seem like Mickey's thing.

He shoves the paper back into the middle of the book, but stops when he recognizes Mickey's neat scrawl.

It's probably just a to do list or something, but he glances at Mickey's back anyway as he unfolds the paper.  And again, and again, and again.

It's a yearly calendar on oversized,  thin desk paper, something someone might keep in their office to jot down meeting times.  It's dated 2018.

Ian stares at the light pencil writing in the boxes.  Some of it is Mickey's.  The other handwriting is a little sloppier, in all caps.  YEVGENY BIRTHDAY it says on March 30th.

Two weeks later on April 14th, MICKEY FIGHTS CARR AND LOSES!!!

Mickey's handwriting, in May.  Trav shits his pants, with a surprisingly well done, tiny drawing of a man with a soiled jumpsuit.

And on and on like that.  Notes clearly made to rile someone up, or make the other laugh.  And serious things too.  Just about every other Thursday is marked Y+S visit (that one makes Ian's heart hurt more than any of them).

In what Ian now knows to be Trav's writing, he reads MICKEY BIRTHDAY on October 24th.  There's a tiny heart drawn in the corner of the square.

Mickey sighs suddenly in his sleep, and Ian jumps about a foot, then quickly folds the paper back up and shoves it in the book.  Carefully, he leans over his side of the bed and returns the book to its original spot.

Should he say something?  It's obvious that Mickey stuck it in a place he thought Ian would never look.

He's torn between understanding and jealousy.  After all, Ian's got an old Chicago Fire Dept. sweatshirt at the bottom of the dresser.  If Mickey's seen it he's never asked about it.  But at the same time, this is intimate.  Something close to Mickey's heart that Ian can never be a part of.

Not for the first time, Ian hates himself for being thankful that Trav isn't somewhere out there in the world with the opportunity to rekindle a relationship if Mickey wanted to.

Ian lays as still as he can while Mickey sleeps for two more hours until the sounds of someone moving around above them rouses him for good.  Thank God.  Ian's been alone with his thoughts too long, and he's ready to get things started for the party.

Ian keeps stealing guilty glances at Mickey, as if the other man might know what Ian found as they take turns showering in their tiny basement bathroom and then head up the stairs, dressed for the day.

Svetlana's in her robe stirring oatmeal at the stove.  Nadia is pulling pots and pans out of a low cupboard next to her.

"Morning," Ian greets as Mickey stoops to scoop up his daughter.  She giggles and pats at the beginning of stubble on Mickey's face.

"Oatmeal in five minutes," Svetlana says as a way of greeting.  "I told Yevgeny he may sleep til 8:30, then we must be ready to go to museum."

"Real shame you're missing it," Mickey says to Ian again, a hint of teasing in his voice.

"We will go again sometime," Svetlana breezes neutrally.  She and Ian exchange furtive looks.

"What else do you got going on today, Mick?" Ian asks, changing the subject.  Pining after Trav, maybe? the jealous monster in his brain wonders.

Mickey sets Nadia in her high chair and goes to the cupboard for bowls while Ian puts toast down.

"Supposed to meet Carl at your old house and then grab a drink," Mickey answers, picking at a spot of dried food that's stuck on a bowl from their shitty dishwasher.  (Something else he could fix, Ian thinks, and he files it away for later.)  Mickey sets that one in front of Ian's spot and smirks when Ian flips him off.  After a beat, he adds, "thinkin' of bailing on him though."

"No!" Ian says quickly, then hastens to cover for his outburst when both Mickey and Svetlana shoot him looks, Mickey's keenly curious, Svetlana's warning.  "I mean, didn't you guys plan this like a week ago?  It'd be kinda rude to bail."  It had taken a long time to figure out how to get Mickey occupied and over to the Alibi in time for the party without suspicion, and Mickey isn't gonna fuck it up now.

"Ain't you getting off around six though? You and me could take Yev out for a burger or some shit.  Make up for you begging off the science museum."

Ian supresses his desire to lash out, instead focusing on buttering the toast.

"It is not his fault that he goes to work today," Svetlana chides Mickey as she ladles spoonfuls of oatmeal into the bowls.

Ian can see Mickey appraising him out of the corner of his eyes.

"Hey," Mickey says, running a hand down Ian's back.  "I'm just busting your balls, man."

"Yeah well, I feel shitty enough about it already."

Ian brings the toast to the table and sits.  Mickey frowns at him, but drops it, following him to sit beside Nadia.

"I'm hungry," Yevgeny whines as he enters the kitchen, plopping down onto a chair and grimacing at his oatmeal.  "Do we have any pop tarts?"

"No," Svetlana tells him.  "Eat what I make you or go hungry."

Yevgeny considers this, then he sighs and grabs his spoon.

"You excited for the science museum, bud?" Ian asks him.  Yevgeny nods eagerly.

"The body exhibit is made from real live bodies!" he tells Ian through a mouthful.

"You mean real dead bodies," Mickey corrects, smirking at his own joke and kicking Ian under the table playfully.  "Hey, don't you gotta leave for work?" he asks suddenly, glancing at the wall clock.

"Oh.  Shit!"

He hadn't thought that far ahead.  Now he has to go somewhere for a while until everyone clears out of the house.  He brings his dishes to the sink and makes the rounds, ruffling Yevgeny's hair and giving Nadia a smacking kiss on her oatmeal covered cheek.

"Say 'bye bye papa'," Svetlana singsongs, waving exaggeratedly until Nadia copies her, giving Ian a floppy wristed baby wave.

Ian wrinkles his nose.

"Is that what we're going with?  I don't think I like being called papa," Ian admits.

"We can teach her to call you douchebag instead," Mickey offers, his sarcastic jab a sharp contrast to his actions as he does the airplane with a spoonful of oatmeal into Nadia's waiting mouth.

Svetlana ignores her husband.

"Papa is like daddy in Russia.  Much better than 'dad'.  So American."  She shudders.

"Or she could just call you Ian," Yevgeny pipes in with a frown.  The adults share knowing glances.

"We'll talk about it," Ian tells Yev.  "She can't even talk yet so it's no big deal."  Ian moves on to Mickey.  "Don't stay out too late with Carl tonight," he murmurs against Mickey's lips as he bends over at the waist.

Yevgeny makes exaggerated gagging noises and Mickey grins against Ian's lips, pecking him quickly and leaning away.

"Get to work, you bum."

Reluctantly, Ian heads to the front closet and bundles up in preparation to head out into the cold.  He hopes Svet will text him as soon as they've left so he can come home and get some of the party shit he'd stashed in Nadia's closet.

"Hey," Mickey says from behind him, stepping into the entryway with Ian's duffle bag.  "Forgot this."

"Right!"  Ian shakes his head.  He's pretty fucking bad at this lying thing.  He stretches out his hand for the bag and Mickey pulls his arm back teasingly.

"Gotta come and get it."  Mickey bites his bottom lip in a flirtatious challenge.

Ian herds him up against the wall and mouths at his neck, then nips at his collar bone.  Mickey swallows loudly.

"See you later." Ian breathes the promise into the skin under Mickey's ear, and Mickey shivers.

Hours later, while Ian and Debbie are painstakingly blowing up balloons and Ian's busy enough to get other things off his mind, Ian's phone buzzes, and he opens a picture text from Mickey.  It's of Yev with a hand on one of those electric current globes.  His hair is standing straight up on his head and he's grinning like a mad scientist.

Ian laughs out loud.  That one's going on Instagram.

 Lip

"Hey," Lip says in surprise as he comes into the Gallagher house to find Mickey and Carl stretched out on the couch together playing video games.  "Thought we were hanging out."

"What's it look like we're doing?" Carl grunts, focused on the game.

"Looks like you're playing video games with Mickey."

"Yeah," Carl says evenly.  "Thought we'd all hang out together.  Maybe get a drink in a few."

Mickey shoots Lip a look that says he isn't too happy about this either.

Lip watches them play in silence for several minutes.  What a waste of his Saturday.

"Gotta take a dump," Carl announces suddenly, tossing his controller to Lip and pounding up the stairs without a second glance.

"So what's the occasion?" Lip asks, gesturing to the blue dress shirt Mickey's wearing tucked into black jeans.  "Today the day for your weekly shower?"

"Fuck you, least I own a hair brush, Richard Simmons.  They're probably gonna be taking pictures."

"What, you planning on getting another mug shot taken today?"

Mickey gives him a comically offended look.  Then Lip watches realization dawn.

"You shittin' me?  You don't know?" Mickey asks.

Lip just stares impassively at him.  Mickey snorts in amusement.

"They pulled the wool over your eyes, huh, Mensa?"

Lip glares, but Mickey doesn't squirm like most people do when they meet Lip's icy eyes.  He matches Lip's gaze and smirks.

"You gonna fuckin' tell me?" Lip prompts, agitated.

Mickey shrugs and takes a sip of his beer.

"It's our surprise party today."

"Our surprise party," Lip repeats.  "What the fuck for?"

"Ain't you turning thirty soon?"

"Yeah, but my birthday isn't until April."

"Yeah, and mine was at the end of October.  Guess they wanted to shoot for some day in the middle."

"Coulda let me be surprised, asshole," Lip scoffs.  Mickey shrugs, unconcerned.  "So how'd you find out?"

"Few weeks ago Ian and Svet were always whispering and shit.  Every time I asked what was up they said she was teaching him Russian.  Fucker still only knows how to say 'good morning' and 'fuck you', so..." he lets that sentence hang there.  "Plus Carl told me."

"Told you what?" Carl comes bounding back down the stairs and snatches Lip's controller back.

"The party."

"Oh," says Carl.  "Yeah."

"You told him but you didn't tell me?" Lip snips at Carl.  Carl shrugs.

"I see him more.  Plus Ian made me call him up and ask him to hang out all gay and shit- no offense, man," he adds to Mickey.  "So I couldn't not tell him."

"You called me up and asked me to hang out all gay and shit," Lip prompts Carl.

"Your point?"  Carl drawls as Mickey smirks.

What the fuck ever.

"You don't exactly seem like the surprise party type," Lip tells Mickey as he resigns himself to his fate- hanging out with these two douchebags until his non-surprise surprise party.

"Ian's excited about it.  Plus it's kept him busy the last few weeks.  Keeps him distracted on harmless shit." Mickey shrugs, but he tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth.

Alarm bells ring in Lip's head.

"Is Ian manic right now?" he asks urgently.  Mickey shrugs again, but looks like he's fighting hard the urge to spill.  "What did he say when you asked him about it?"

Mickey glares at Lip, but says nothing.

"You haven't even had a conversation about it?  What the fuck, Mickey?  Is he still taking his meds?"

"Yes, he's fucking taking his meds!" Mickey barks.

"Really."

"I ain't standing over him while he takes 'em or nothin'," Mickey says, voice rising defensively.

Lip shakes his head.

"Yeah well, maybe you should be," Lip snaps back.

"Ian's been doing this for almost ten years without me breathing down his neck about it.  He don't need me babying him!" Mickey pauses, then mutters, "He don't talk to me about that shit anyway."

"Your boyfriend doesn't tell you how he's feeling?  What else is he keeping from you, do you think?"

"Lip, shut the fuck up, alright?" Carl advises coolly. 

Lip watches Mickey's face as the angry light flickers out of his eyes to be replaced by something darker, more sorrowful.  The fact that Mickey doesn't even attempt to rise to the bait tells Lip that he struck a nerve.

He took it too far and he knows it, but his pride keeps him from apologizing, or even looking Mickey's way until it's time to walk to the Alibi.

He's only worried about Ian (and he's definitely not petty as fuck about sharing his spoiled surprise party with his brother's lover several months too early).  

He just wants Ian to be with someone who makes Ian's life easier, who Ian feels comfortable sharing shit with.  Suddenly he isn't sure if that person is Mickey.

The short walk to the Alibi is awkward as fuck.  Carl doesn't even try to make conversation.  Lip's pretty sure Carl's pissed at him too.  Lip wonders when the fuck Milkovich outranked Gallagher loyalty for his brothers.

Well, probably around age 15 for Ian.

"You tell Ian I knew about the party and I'll cut your balls off," Mickey says evenly, spitting on the sidewalk as the trio comes to a stop in front of the Alibi.

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you," Lip taunts.

"Guys, cut the shit," Carl orders.  "Remember to act surprised."  Carl pulls out his phone and texts someone, then they loiter for a few minutes until Carl gives them the signal.  Lip feels somehow a little nervous as he pushes open the exterior Alibi door with Mickey on his heels.

"The fuck?" Mickey says pretty convincingly as they step into the pitch black bar.

Suddenly the lights flick on, and dozens of people roar "Surprise!"  Even though Lip knew it was coming he sways a little, startled by the enthusiasm.  Beside him, Mickey grins as Ian bounds up with Yevgeny on his heels.  Lip can see the undercurrent of mania right away in Ian's slightly too-wide smile and over eager eyes.  Maybe he wouldn't have recognized it if he hadn't been looking for it.

"Happy birthday!" Ian crows, throwing his arms around both Lip and Mickey's shoulders.  "Kind of," he adds with a laugh.

"Were you surprised?" Yevgeny wonders as Mickey gives him a noogie.

Mickey's saved from lying to his kid's face by Fiona, who joins them, laughing with glee.

"Happy birthday!" she cries, hugging first Lip, then Mickey.  "Kinda."

"There an echo in here?" Carl deadpans from behind them.

"Thanks," Lip tells her.  "Where's Katie?"

Fiona's jaw drops.

"Oh shit, I knew we were forgetting someone!"

"What the fuck, Fiona, seriously?"

"Just kidding, she's over by the cake."  Fiona laughs, pointing out Katie, who waves uncomfortably.

"You're still seeing her?" Carl wonders skeptically.

"It's the quiet ones that are the kinkiest," Mickey chimes in helpfully.  He smirks at Ian.  "Or so I hear."

Ian frowns.

"I can't decide if I'm quiet and kinky or not."

"If you hafta ask, you're not," Carl offers mildly, clapping Ian on the shoulder and heading for the bar.

The party's pretty fun, actually.  The room is decorated with black and blue balloons (their respective favorite colors, Debbie informs him), and a huge Happy Birthday Lip and Mickey banner.  The enormous cake says Over the Hill in cursive writing, and when Lip asks about it V says, "you both been smoking and drinking since you were twelve.  Odds are you're already on the back nine."

His family invited some of his less annoying coworkers, and Katie of course.  The rest of the attendees are a couple of Mickey's brothers and their kids and a few of Ian's friends, including Ian's old roommate with the rainbow colored hair.

Mandy is here too, with her two kids and a lunkhead who looks about ten years older than her.  Lip watches with interest as Mickey and the husband shake hands cordially.  If Mickey thinks he's good for Mandy... actually, Mickey had let Kenyatta hang around forever, even let Mandy leave Chicago with him, so maybe he wasn't the best judge of character.

Lip can't stop watching Ian.  Ian flits around, acting as host, bringing people drinks from the bar and refilling the appetizers.  And he fawns over Mickey's baby, too.  At one point he even manages to coerce Mickey into about five beats of a slow dance with the little girl between them.  Mickey sees Lip staring and flips him off behind Ian's back.

"Hey," Lip says to Fiona, sidling up to her as she packs up the leftovers of the cake at the bar as the party winds down.  "Great party."

"I know!" she says brightly.  "Ian did a great job, huh?"

"He did it all by himself?"

"We helped with the food and the decoratin'."

Lip shifts his weight.

"You know he's manic, right."

Fiona sighs, still smiling brightly.

"He's a little manic, yeah."

Lip groans.

"You can't be just a little manic Fi.  You either are or you aren't."

Fiona sets the serving knife down.

"So he's on a high!  But he's also excited.  He wanted to do a nice thing for his boyfriend and his big brother.

Lip blinks.  He hadn't thought of that.

"You aren't worried?" he asks her.

"Course I am.  I always worry.  But he's on his meds.  He's got a steady job.  He's in a stable relationship.  Mickey knows what to look for."

Lip snorts.  "Yeah, like last time?"

"Jesus, Lip."  Fiona runs her hands through her hair.  "Y'know, sometimes you take this protective big brother shtick too far.  Mickey'd just got him back and was scared of losin' him."

"And how is that different from now?  Mickey hasn't even talked to Ian about it.  How can they possibly be on the same page here?"  He's got her there.  Fiona frowns.

"I trust Ian to know himself," Fiona says finally.  "Think of how far he's come.  He asks for help when he needs it.  He lets us help when he needs it.  And he doesn't need it right now."

Lip finds Ian easily in the throng of people, his hair like a beacon.  He's standing with Mickey's family- Ian's family now too, Lip notes a little begrudgingly.  They're posing for a picture, Svetlana between Ian and Mickey, Nadia in her arms.  Mickey's got his arm around Yev's shoulders. They look happy.

"Something isn't right, though," Lip persists.  "With Mickey and Ian."

Fiona stares at him.  "Is this about Ian, or is it about Mickey?"

Lip shrugs.  He isn't totally sure.

"Look, I know you think Mickey's not good enough for Ian.  I did too at first.  But Mickey's got a decent job now and does mostly legal shit."

"Nah, that's not it."  It isn't, really.  He's gotta give Mickey some more credit too.  He beat the odds.  He's keeping his nose clean.  And it's clear that he loves his kids.  Loves Ian.  "It's just- I know what being loved by a Milkovich is like, Fi.  It's really fucking intense and overwhelming and they'll do anything for you.  To keep you.  It's a lot to fucking handle."  And Ian had already cracked under the pressure once.

"Sounds like a real hardship," Fiona sighs, rolling her eyes.

"You wouldn't understand," he tells her.

Her posture stiffens.

"Mickey's family, Lip.  Get over it or shut up about it."  And she takes the container she's been filling and leaves him standing there.

He feels grossly misunderstood.  He recognizes that Mickey and Ian love one another, and maybe he's even a little jealous of it.  But he's also concerned, especially for Ian but for Mickey a little bit too.  If this relationship goes south, Ian could go off the deep end.  And if that happened, there was no way Mickey would be staying out of trouble.

"You got something you wanna say to me?" Ian appears suddenly to Lip's left, leaning against the bar.  His demeanor and tone are friendly, but Lip knows his brother.  There's a glimmer of something under the surface.

"Yeah.  Thanks for the party."  He claps Ian on the shoulder and Ian blinks at him.

"You keep staring," Ian tells him.  "It's making Mickey all tense."

"Not staring.  Just looking out."

Ian's eyebrows go up.

"For me?"

Lip nods, bringing his neglected beer to his lips.

"You.  And Mickey."

"What the fuck for?"  Ian's looking at him like he truly has no idea what Lip's talking about.

"You two doing okay?"

"Yeah," Ian says brightly.  "Why?"

Lip shrugs.

"Something Mickey said."

The mention of Mickey turns Ian's open face immediately panicked.  Usually he can hide it well.  He's definitely on an upswing.

"What did he say?"

Lip shrugs.

"More like what he didn't say, really."

Ian scans the party for his boyfriend, nostrils flaring.

"You better start talking right fucking now."

"Jesus."  Lip holds up his hands in a neutral gesture.  "It's nothing earth shattering.  He was just noticing how you've been acting lately."

"How I've been acting."

"Yeah.  Manic, maybe."

Ian shifts his weight aggressively.

"Mickey said I'm manic?"

Lip is quickly losing any tiny sense of control he might have had during this conversation.  Ian looks like he's decing between which of them he'll throttle first.

"He didn't use those words exactly. Just said-" Jesus, how to explain this without letting on that they'd known about the surprise party? "-you'd been distracted lately. Over focused."

Ian's anger disperses a little.

"I'm on an upswing.  It's hard to keep my thoughts quiet, but I'm handling it. I'm taking my meds," Ian insists.

"Good."  Lip nods.  "Maybe you should tell him that." He gestures to Mickey, who's laughing with Svetlana in a booth as Yevgeny twirls around with Nadia.  "He's worried about you.  Thinks you're keeping shit from him."

Ian's eyes widen, and to Lip's horror, fill with tears for a moment before he blinks them away.

"He said that?"

Lip scoffs.

"Course not, it's Mickey.  It was implied."

Ian is silent, thinking.

"Guess I just don't like talking about it with people," he admits finally.

"What, bipolar?"

Ian nods.

"Ian, Mickey isn't 'people', he's your boyfriend.  And if anyone would understand, it'd be him.  He sorta had a front row seat in the beginning, y'know?"

Ian juts out his chin a little.

"It isn't like he's talking to me about it either."

What a couple of knuckleheads.

"Jesus, if you know it and he knows it, what's the point of being secretive about it?"

Ian shrugs.

"A pride thing, maybe.  I don't know."  He chews on his lip in contemplation, something he must have picked up from Mickey.

Speaking of, Mickey's got his eye on them now.  Lip's probably only got a matter of minutes left with Ian before Mickey comes to investigate.

"There's shit Mickey doesn't bring up," Ian says suddenly, defensively.

"Yeah?  Like what?" It doesn't surprise Lip.  Mickey seems like the type to struggle to talk about the weather with a stranger without insulting them.

Ian hesitates, like telling Lip might betray Mickey's trust (in truth, it will) and Lip perks up, interested.

"Just- some shit that went down in prison, mostly."  Oh.  Well that's a boring revelation.  Lip's sure there's tons of things Mickey'll keep buried about his time in the can.  But Ian continues, blowing out the words like he's been waiting a lifetime to tell them to someone.  "There was this guy."

"A guy," Lip repeats.  Ian nods.

"Yeah."

Lip blinks.  "And?"

But Ian shakes his head.

"That's all I know.  And only cuz he's got a tattoo of his initials."  There's more, Lip can tell, but Ian's jaw is set.

Lip smirks.

"Better hope you guys never break up.  He'll have a personal Rolodex all over his body."

Ian huffs, shaking his head.  Lip rolls his eyes.

"My advice?  Talk to him about all this shit.  I think you'll save yourselves a lot of hurt in the end."

Ian snorts.  "Relationship advice from Phillip Gallagher."

"Do as I say, not as I do," Lip drawls back.

"When did you get so invested in my relationship?" Ian wonders.  "I always thought you'd be kicking and screaming on the way to my wedding."

"You making yourself the official sister wife?"

Ian rolls his eyes.  "You know what I mean."

Lip shrugs. "Can't fight fate.  Now let's get the fuck back over there before Mickey's eyes scorch the bar."

Ian leads the way, with Lip trailing behind.

"Who picked this shitty ass music?" Mickey is complaining loudly as strains of Eternal Flame filter through the bar.

"I wanted it to be shit you recognized, man," Kev insists defensively.  "I was trying to be sensitive!"

"You do realize I was born in the fuckin' nineties, right?" Mickey snaps back.

"I saw you tapping your toes to the Longest Time," Ian teases Mickey.

"That's different.  That's Billy Joel.  Everybody fuckin' loves Billy Joel."

Kev and Mickey start arguing loudly about which hit song is actually the best (Kev says Piano Man, and Mickey insists it's Uptown Girl).  Lip watches Ian slip his hand casually into Mickey's as they stand there.  Mickey quirks one eyebrow up, but doesn't quit talking and lets their hands stay linked.

Ian smirks at Lip as if to say, see?

Whatever, if they want to ignore the heavy shit, let them ignore it.  Lip can only do so much.

Mickey: Year 4

"'Where I want to start telling is the day I left Pencey Prep. Pencey Prep is this school that's in Agerstown, Pennsylvania. You probably heard of it. You've probably seen the ads, anyway. They advertise in about a thousand magazines, always showing some hotshot guy on a horse jumping over a fence. Like as if all you ever did at Pencey was play polo all the time. I never even once saw a horse anywhere near the place. And underneath the guy on the horse's picture, it always says: "Since 1888 we have been molding boys into splendid, clear-thinking young men."  Trav tossed the book onto his bed and guffawed. "Shit man, this is gonna be a gay porno!"

Mickey looked up from his Solitaire game, scowling.

"Fuck gave you that idea?" Mickey muttered, drawing a new set of cards and placing a four of spades.

"The book's set at an all boy's school.  Ain't you ever watched porn before?" Trav teased.

Honestly, not really.  He'd told himself he just wasn't into porn as a young teenager when he was desperate to get hard while looking at tits. When he got older the opportunity to see what he was into was rare, and terrifying.  But Ian had liked it.  He showed him some of his stash once, when they were alone in the Gallagher house one day.  That was a good fucking day, pun intended.

"Put the two of hearts on the Ace," Trav coached, eagle-eyed from across the space between their beds, and Mickey curled his lip but played the card he'd missed.

"You backseat driving my Solitaire game?"

"Looks like you need it.  You're really shitty at it."

Mickey flipped him off.

"The fuck is polo?" he wondered, returning to the conversation about the book.  Trav considered this, but didn't get a chance to answer.

"Milkovich." A guard, Humphrey, stood in the doorway.  "Visitor."

Mickey glanced up, then back down at his game.

"You got the wrong Milkovich, man."  Out of the corner of his eye he watched Trav pick up the book again nonchalantly.

"You're the only one we got right now.  It's a fuckin' miracle," Humphrey goaded.

"It ain't Thursday," Mickey insisted impassively, ignoring the barb.  "My wife only comes on Thursdays."

"It's not a chick."  Humphrey leered at him.

Mickey peeked at Trav, who was studiously focused on the book.  His eyes weren't moving over the words, though.

Aside from Yevgeny, who was just a little kid, there were only two men on his short visitor list.  Iggy, the only one of his brothers miraculously not on parole or probation (or locked up) was the only Milkovich permitted to visit, and Iggy preferred to stay away from prisons as much as possible.  Mickey didn't blame him for that.  Maybe he'd come if something happened to Mandy.

Mickey secretly, guiltily hoped something had happened to Mandy, because the only other dude on his visitor list was Ian.

Mickey hesitated.

"Come with me or don't, but quit wasting my fucking time," Humphrey snapped.  "Probably only a few minutes left anyway."

"Easy, Humpty Dumpty, I'm comin'."  He tossed his cards down and sat up, slipping his shoes on.  Quickly, he made eye contact with Trav, who nodded nearly imperceptibly, before turning to follow Humphrey.

His heart beat quickened as they approached the visitation booths.  It had taken a long time, but he didn't feel like puking whenever he thought of Ian anymore.  He'd been doing good- as good as he could.  Leave it to Ian to know just when to show up to fuck shit up.

He resolved himself as he waited to be buzzed in.  Whatever Ian had to say, Mickey would stay cool.  Stay calm.  He had a lot of years left in here.  No reason to get worked up over some shit he couldn't control.

Maybe he was here to tell him he was getting married or some shit.  Mickey surprised himself by not totally hating that idea.  Then he'd really get some closure.  Then he wouldn't still feel guilty about Trav.

He wished he didn't have the remnants of that scuffle he'd gotten into in the weight room evident on his face and knuckles.  His shiner was just starting to yellow.

Mickey's steps leadened as Ian came further into view.

Ian was unkempt.  His hair was too long, his eyes were too tired.  He looked at Mickey with trepidation.

Well, fuck.

Hed'd been standing too long, just staring.  Humphrey gestured for him to sit, and finally he did, bringing the phone up to his ear.

Ian took a shaky breath.

"I think it's happening again."

Twenty minutes later, and Mickey flopped back down on the bed in his cell.  He felt exhausted, emotionally and physically.

"So your boyfriend gonna be coming around now?" Trav muttered from behind a book.  Mickey gnawed on his lip.

"Think maybe he's gonna commit himself."

Trav sat up straight, letting the book skitter onto the floor.

"What the fuck?  That bad huh?"

Mickey rubbed down his face with both hands.

"Says he's still taking his meds but they ain't working for him.  He was having- visions.  Thoughts.  That something bad was gonna happen to me."

Trav snorted.

"Couple years too late for that premonition, huh?"

Mickey ignored him.

"He's doing better though.  Even though he's manic.  He's taking care of his shit."

"Well fucking good for him, huh?" Trav said in a tone that depicted exactly how happy that made him.

"Hey," Mickey urged forcefully.  "Nothing's changing.  He's still out there and I'm still in here. With you.  Alright?"

He wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, but he felt conflicted.  Yeah, he was into Trav.  He might even fucking love Trav.  But they would never have connected if they hadn't been trapped in a cell together for the last few years.  And Ian still hovered in the back of his mind, the fucker.

Whatever, there wasn't shit that could be done about it now.

He watched Trav absorb his words.  Finally his smirk returned.

"You won't be in here forever," Trav teased.  "Who's gonna read me bedtime stories when you get out?"

"Serves you right for getting locked up for twenty years."

That night, even with Trav's come dripping out of his ass (especially with Trav's come dripping ouy of his ass) and lips raw, Mickey laid awake thinking of Ian.

He was supposed to be done worrying about that asshole.  Trav and Yev and Svet had been a good distraction for years.  And then Ian had to waltz back in his life all needy and shit.

Well, fuck him.

But Mickey hoped Ian was doing okay.  He hoped he wouldn't be scared when he was locked up in the nuthouse.  The Gallaghers wouldn't let Ian suffer alone.  They don't do that to family.

Mickey was never their family, anyway.

Ian

"Coulda given us your bed, assface," Mandy comments as Mickey bends over the air mattress he's blowing up in the living room.

"Coulda," he agrees.  "But we haven't washed the sheets in weeks."  He raises his eyebrows, playfully challenging, at his sister and she gags.

"Gross.  Not sleeping on your come soaked sheets."

"That's what I thought."  Mickey grins at Ian over his shoulder, then caps the air mattress and stands.

"Here.  Sheets and blankets."  Ian hands over a freshly washed stack to Mark.

"Thanks for coming," Mickey says to his sister.

"Are you kidding?  Course I was gonna be here."  She punches him hard on the shoulder, and then they embrace.

Mark and Ian exchange smiles as they witness the rare display of affection.

"Don't fuck on my air mattress," Mickey warns Mark as he pulls away from Mandy.

"Scout's honor, Mick."

Ian snorts as Mickey scowls at the use of the nickname.

"Night guys," Ian tells them as he hugs Mandy too.

Then, finally, he and Mickey are descending the stairs to their own space, alone.

"They're gonna fuck on that air mattress, aren't they?" Mickey groans.

"Definitely," Ian laughs.

Mickey's pretty much ready to crash the moment they enter the bedroom.  Ian had been hoping for some un-birthday sex, but Mickey only puts his pajamas on and pulls the covers up to his chin to ward off the cold while Ian fiddles with the drafty window.

"Think I can fix this, Mick.  Hey, did you have fun at your party?"

"It was real cool.  No one's ever done that shit for me."

Ian grins, coming to sit on the edge of the bed.  He reaches out a hand to straighten the stack of books on Mickey's end table.

"Were you surprised?" he asks.

"Yeah," Mickey says evenly.  "You did a good job, Martha Stewart.  Did you have fun?"

"Course.  It was so much fun!  Wish I didn't have to miss the science museum, though."

"You really committed to that lie, huh?"  Mickey grins at him, then tosses the covers back and stands up, moving to fish his wallet out of the back pocket of his discarded jeans.  "Here," he says, removing three plastic cards and handing them to Ian.

Ian stares down at them.

"Annual passes?  To the science museum?"

Mickey nods.

"Knew you were pissed about not being able to go.  Now we can take the kids whenever."

Ian gapes at him.

"Mickey, these are like sixty bucks a piece!"

Mickey shrugs, smirking.  "Swiped 'em from some lady's purse."

Ian looks from the passes to Mickey, grinning.  "Let's go next weekend!"

"Sure, man," Mickey agrees.  "The kid'll be happy.  Hey, ya coming to bed?"

"Nah," Ian says, shaking his head.  "Not tired yet."  He's been slacking on his schedule a little lately.  Mickey keeps going to bed at the same time every night anyway, though he's never mentioned it when Ian doesn't.

Mickey nods once as a look passes over his face, though it's gone quickly.

Ian thinks of Lip, and what he'd said about Mickey worrying about him.  He hates that it took Lip pointing it out for Ian to notice.  He hates that Mickey's never said anything himself.

"Lip says you're worried about me," Ian tells him.

Mickey huffs.

"Fucking Lip.  Sticking his head where it don't belong."

"I dunno, Mick.  If it weren't for him I'da never known how you felt."  He doesn't mean to have an attitude about it, truly, but it's just instinct.  He doesn't want to appear weak.  He's handling his shit.

That, and Mickey's pretty good at keeping shit from Ian, too.

"I don't feel anything," Mickey insists.  "Lip's talking out of his ass, as fucking usual."

"So you don't think I'm acting manic."

Mickey rolls his eyes.

"I think you're up right now, yeah.  I got eyes, man.  But I'm not worried."  Mickey's always worn his heart on his sleeve, it just took a long time for Ian to realize it.  And even now it tells the tale.

"You're lying," Ian accuses.  "Why don't you just admit it?"

"Because I ain't going down that road again, Ian!" Mickey explodes.  "You made it pretty fucking clear that that's not what you want from me."

Ian stares at him.

"What are you fucking talking about?"

"You don't want a nurse, remember? You don't want me to have anything to do with your bipolar shit."

"What- ten years ago?" Ian sputters.  "Seriously, Mickey?  I'm different than I was back then."

"How?" Mickey challenges.

"I see a shrink, for one.  Take my meds, for two!  I let people help me when I need it!"

Mickey snorts and crosses his arms, but says nothing.

"You seriously can't see the difference?" Ian demands.  "You're the one who told me how much better I am now."

"You are better!  Doesn't mean you're not still a stubborn asshole though."

"I'm a stubborn asshole, huh?  Says the guy who hasn't said one word about prison since he got out."

"Don't hear you askin'," Mickey snaps.

"Ditto!" Ian yells back.

There's a stilted silence for a moment.  Mickey blinks.

"Did you just say 'ditto'?"

"Fuck yeah, I did.  You got a problem with that?"  By the time the words are out of his mouth they're grinning reluctantly at one another.

Mickey shakes his head, pushing down his smile.

"Fucking dork."

Ian rests his hand on Mickey's blanket covered knee.  He's glad for their reprieve from anger.

"I'm not trying to shut you out, okay?  I'm just used to keeping it to myself."

"Yeah," Mickey agrees. "Me too."  Then he smirks.  "Ditto."

"Jesus," Ian groans.  "Never gonna live that down am I?"

"Nope."

Their faces settle into more serious expressions.  Mickey stares down at the comforter for a minute, working out what he wants to say.  Ian waits him out.

"Think I still got how we ended things in my brain," Mickey admits finally.  "Like if I start to ask too many questions or try to help you too much you're gonna take off again."

Ian's eyes shutter closed.  He has no excuse for the way he'd treated Mickey back then.  He knows that he'd been scared, resistant to his life changing.  Mickey, his one constant, was changing too, already accepting how their new life was going to be, and Ian was left swimming alone in open waters.

"I'm sorry," Ian tells him.  "I shouldn't have pushed you away for caring about me.  That was fucked up."

"Seriously fucked up," Mickey agrees with feeling.

"So I'm doing okay.  If you're wondering."  He leans down to catch Mickey's eyes.  Mickey gnaws his lips, nodding.

"Told you.  I ain't worried."

Ian rolls his eyes.

"Mick, you're allowed to worry about me.  I worry about you too."

"The fuck you worrying about me for?"  Mickey huffs.

"You don't talk to me about things that happened to you.  Important things."

"I'm not keeping anything from you," Mickey insists defensively.

"You aren't sharing anything either."

Mickey sighs.

"What the fuck do you wanna know?  How shitty the food was?  Who to look out for during outdoors time?  It's prison, not some dream vacation."

"I know.  It's just sometimes you're-" he pauses, trying to describe the look Mickey gets sometimes.  "Sad."

Mickey scoffs.

"You think I miss prison?"

"No.  I think you miss someone."

Mickey's expresion doesn't change, but his hand twitches toward his hip almost unconsciously.

"Whatever," Mickey says finally, as if that one word answer changes anything.

Mickey watches with guarded eyes as Ian moves around to his side of the bed and snatches the Scarlet Letter from its spot on the bookshelf.

"Found this," Ian tells him, pressing the book into his chest.

Mickey stares down at it but doesn't open it.

"Not tonight, alright?" he asks finally, setting the book carefully on his bedside table.

Ian sighs.

"Sometime soon, okay?"

Mickey nods, then jerks his head to the side and pulls the covers aside.  Ian tugs off his jeans and crawls in next to Mickey.

"You gotta start coming to bed on time, man," Mickey says abruptly, unable to hold it in any longer.  "You know it'll help you in the long run."

Ian hides his grin in Mickey's shoulder.

"I know."  Now that he's given Mickey permission to worry he's gonna get an earful, Ian can tell.  When once it had been suffocating, now it's endearing.

For now, anyway.

"It's just- it's just how it is," Mickey begins again, haltingly.  "There's shit you'll never understand."

"I know," Ian says again.  He does.  He doesn't want to erase Trav.  Torture himself with the details, maybe.  But there's one thing, selfishly, he's got to know.  "Mick, if you could choose-" He stops.

"You," Mickey says without hesitation.  "Always you, douchebag."

Ian believes him.

But he's gotta call Dr. Arnold.  He has some shit to work out.

Chapter Text

Mickey: Year 1

Mickey slumped heavily in the chair, barely able to even focus his eyes on Wilson in front of him.  Wilson had picked a real bad time to call Mickey into his office.  The hit he'd taken was all sorts of fucked up, and it wasn't doing shit to ease the burning pain on his chest.

Wilson glared at him.

"Really?  You're not even gonna try to hide it?"

"Hide what?" he shot back, jutting out his chin defiantly even as the world spun a little.

"Might as well march your ass right over to Max," Wilson sneered.  "Wouldn't even have to bother with the piss test."

"You won't do it.  You fuckin' like me too much," Mickey taunted.

Wilson had a reputation for being a hard ass with all of the inmates he was assigned to.  Except Mickey, for whatever reason.  Not that he was complaining.  Made Mickey's life a little easier to have an unlikely someone on his side.  For fucking once.

"Fuck me, I do," Wilson admitted with a scowl, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair.  "Even though you're a pain in my ass."  He sighed.  "I see through you, y'know.  You act like a tough man.  You want to be a tough man.  But you're soft, in here."  He pressed a finger to his chest, over his heart, and Mickey winced on instinct, scratching at the infected skin on his pec.

He'd been fucked up when he'd done it, but he'd been sober when he'd traded for and collected the supplies, so he had no excuse, really.  Except that he was a fucking idiot.  A stupid fucking idiot.

It had felt like the right thing to do at the time.  Something to remind him, every day, of the reason he was in here.  To show Ian that he was it for him, always.  The only person who mattered.

But that person had looked him in his face and laughed.  Had to be paid to visit, was obviously taking his meds (fuck him for that), and who lied to Mickey's face when he'd asked him to wait.

Ian wasn't gonna wait.  Mickey knew that.

Yeah, Mickey was soft in the heart all right.  A grade A fag.

"What did you do?" Wilson demanded suddenly.  "Aside from the fucked up trip you're on."

Yeah, he was fucked up.  And he'd do it again if it meant it would take away the ache in his chest, fucking literally and figuratively.

"Show me," Wilson demanded, and when Mickey's sluggish arms couldn't move quickly enough, Wilson came around his desk and ripped open the buttons of Mickey's jumpsuit himself.

Mickey winced as the fabric was dragged away to reveal the angry red tattoo he'd marked himself with only weeks ago.

Wilson just stared at the tattoo for a long moment.

"Ian Gallagher," he read aloud finally, looking into Mickey's face.  Defiantly, Mickey held his gaze.  "Thought you had more survival instinct than that."  He shook his head slowly, back and forth.  "This why you're so fucked up?"

Mickey shrugged.  He felt tears prick at the back of his eyes.  Holy fuck, this was not happening right now.  He blamed it on the bad hit.

Wilson sighed as Mickey blinked.

"I'm sending you to the hole for the night to sober up without getting questions from the guards, then to medical for a shot of amoxicillin.  And you're gonna toughen the fuck up.  What's done is fucking done, but I don't need to tell you what happens to guys like you in prison, do I."

Mickey thought of the stories his father had gleefully told around the breakfast table, the things he'd witnessed in juvie and in his short time so far in prison.

"Do I?" Wilson prompted again, with more feeling.

He thought of what Ian had said to him.  You're afraid to be who you are.

He'd been getting somewhere, with Ian by his side.  Now he was back to square one.

"No."

"Good," said Wilson firmly.  He hesitated, eyes softening for a beat as he looked Mickey over.  "There's a guy in the Latino block, Fuentes.  Got a rep for good work.  Decent guy.  If you wanted to-" he gestured to Mickey's chest.

Mickey swallowed hard.

He couldn't think about that.  Not now.

Instead of passing him off to some guards lower on the food chain, Wilson opted to escort Mickey all the way to Solitary.  He shook his head as he uncuffed Mickey in the tiny singular cell.

"Soft hearted idiot," he chided lowly.  "Gonna be the death of me."

The tattoo healed, aided by the antibiotic, and remained a constant reminder of Mickey's biggest mistakes.  He showered quickly, back to the other guys.  Didn't pull his jumpsuit down to the waist when he worked out.  Practically fucking  slept with one eye open.

The cash Svetlana put in his commissary from that hit he'd done for her would hopefully be good enough for Fuentes.  But he resigned himself to the idea that this dude would take one look at his tat and demand another form of payment.

He had to go out of his way to find the guy, which was pretty fucking annoying.  The prison was pretty well segregated.  Mickey figured Wilson probably knew what he was talking about when he suggested the guy though.

Hopefully this wasn't some sort of setup.

With the tattoo burning a hole in his chest, he waited. The guy seemed to do business with people of all colors, which was encouraging.

"You Fuentes?" he asked, approaching him in the rec room after weeks of scouting.

The man, early forties maybe, heavily tattooed on every visible part of skin, barely glanced up from his card game.

"You got an appointment?"

"Nah, but I got cash."

Fuentes did look up then.  His cards partner said something to him in Spanish and leered at Mickey.

"If you looking to get some Nazi bullshit covered it costs extra," Fuentes told him mildly.  The other dude snickered.

"It ain't like that."

Fuentes stares him down and Mickey stared back.  Finally, the other man motioned for his buddy to take off.  Mickey took the empty chair.

"We can make a trade, or my girl can get cash to someone on the outside," Mickey offered.  If Svetlana would answer his calls.  If he even tried to call her.

"You want an original or a coverup?" Fuentes asked, leaning back in his chair.  He glanced down at Mickey's hands.  "Who touched those up for you?"

Mickey flushed a little.  He'd had all the supplies for his other monstrosity, so he'd touched up his neglected knuckle tats while he was still numb from his high.  He'd done a pretty bad job of it too.

"I did.  After I did this."

He went for it, unsnapping the buttons of his shirt and pulling his tank top down to give Fuentes a peek.

Fuentes whistled and leaned forward.

"Shit.  Chest piece on yourself.  Must be a tough fucker.  You went hella deep."  He didn't comment on the name.  Mickey's shoulders slumped in relief.  Ian wasn't too common a name, maybe there was a chance people might think it was a chick's name.  Fuentes shook his head.  "Can't cover it."

"What? Why the fuck not?" Quickly, Mickey buttoned back up, glancing around.

"Told you. Too deep."  Fuck.  Fuck.  "Got any other shit you want done?  I like working with milky white skin.  Makes the art pop."

"No.  Thanks anyway."  Mickey stood hastily and strode away.

Fuck.

Carl

Carl fucking loves his blues.  Every time he puts them on it's like he morphs into someone else - someone smarter, better, more powerful.

But, the Lip in Carl's head reminds him, with great power comes great responsibility.

Of course, given his background he'd been placed on the beat of his own neighborhood.  And when he'd returned to the streets for the first time on the job he'd had a rough go of it.

People really fucking hate cops.

He should have expected it.  He hated cops too, once upon a time.  Fuck, he still curls his lip a little when he's in street clothes and he gets looked at funny.  Like some dirty kid from the back of the yards is always up to no good.

So he remembers that when he's out on patrol. These people gotta do shit to survive, and as long as they're not raping, killing, or beating too hard on anyone, Carl can look the other way when small shit like stealing and scamming go down.

His partner's been on the job ten years, but he's young, maybe Lip's age.  He's South Side too and they get along pretty good, except Bolton prefers BK while Carl goes for Mickey D's.  Bolton's got a wife and two kids and a girlfriend on the side. He's always leaving Carl on his own to take a phone call or deal with some drama.  Juggling two chicks might seem sweet, but in reality it sucks.  Bolton always says so.

Carl's still working on getting just the one chick, anyway.

They're turning the corner in the cruiser, arguing mindlessly about nothing when a man stumbles into the street a block ahead of them.

"Public intoxication and it isn't even five yet," Bolton sighs.  "Let's go give him a little shit."

"Stop" Carl says suddenly and urgently, and Bolton hits the brakes so quickly the tires screech.  The drunk guy in front of them sways as he turns to take in the noise and then sneers when he sees it's the 5-0.  "That's my buddy Mickey."  Bolton raises his eyebrows in surprise as Carl opens the passenger door.  "Yo, Mickey," he calls as Bolton maneuvers the car onto the side of the road.  Carl hops out while it's still rolling as Mickey lifts a middle finger in the air and keeps walking.  "Mickey, it's Carl!" he shouts. "Hold up!"

That gives the other man pause.  Mickey hesitates, one eye on Bolton as Carl's partner hustles out of the driver's side of the car to join him.

"Fuck's going on?" Carl greets as he meets Mickey on the sidewalk.  "Shouldn't you be at work?"

Mickey sways and spits on the ground.

"Got some shit I gotta deal with," he says finally, glaring Bolton's way.  "Fuck is he looking at?"

Bolton squares his shoulders, instantly gearing up for an altercation.  Carl holds a placating arm up and leads Mickey a few paces away.

"You doin' your best Frank Gallagher impression?" Carl reprimands.  "Mouthing off to cops too?"

"Told ya.  Dealing with some shit."

Mickey rocks on his heels, avoiding Carl's eyes.

"Ian know what's going on?" Carl asks finally when Mickey doesn't elaborate.  Mickey sniffs.

"Working."

"You try to call him?"

"Yeah I fucking tried to call him," Mickey snaps.  "Phone died."  He pulls the dead phone out of his pocket as proof.

"I'll call him for you," Carl says, pulling his own phone off of his belt clip.  "If you tell me what the fuck is going on, man."

Mickey sighs.  He rubs at his lips aggressively.

"My PO came by the house this morning. Gave me this."  Mickey hands him a damp, balled up paper he's apparently been holding this whole time.

Carl unfolds it and stares down.

Thomas Wilson, it says at the top, with a picture of a smiling older man.  In Loving Memory.

"Shit," Carl says.  "Your CO?"  Mickey nods, blinking bloodshot eyes furiously.  "Fuck.  Sorry Mick."

"Yeah."  Mickey swallows.

"Water?" Bolton suddenly interrupts, holding out a bottle from the corner store across the street.  Mickey doesn't reach out his hand to take it, so Carl grabs it instead.  "So you can sober up," Bolton supplies.  Mickey opens his mouth to retort, probably something highly offensive and bound to get him in hot water, so Carl steps between them again, tugging Mickey towards the parked car.

"Sit down while I try him, alright?  I can get him at the station if I need to."

"Ain't that big a deal," Mickey grumbles, but he follows Carl dutifully, accepting the water Carl holds out to him.  Behind them Bolton huffs.

Carl opens the back door of the car and Mickey raises his eyebrows.

"Fuck.  That."

"Whatever."  Carl scrolls through to Ian's number.  It's 5:40.  If Ian's got the day shift he should be home soon.  "You want me to tell him?"

Mickey takes a long swig of the water, then collapses onto the backseat of the squad car, giving in to his drunken exhaustion.  He nods.

It only rings once before Ian picks up.

"Hello?" he pants, breathing heavy like he's running.  "Carl have you talked to-"

"He's with me," Carl interrupts Ian.  So someone tipped him off.  Carl wonders what other kind of shit Mickey got into today.  "He's blitzed, but he's fine."  It's not exactly true, but it gets a rise out of Mickey, who flips him off.  Carl smirks.  "We picked him up on the corner of 51st and Aberdeen."

"You're on duty?  Did you fucking arrest him?  What the fuck, Carl!"

"Course not.  Relax.  We're just chillin'."

Ian breathes out a long puff of air.  He's slowed down his pace, Carl can tell.  The both of them, Ian and Mickey, are significantly calmer now.

"He tell you what happened?" Ian asks quickly.

Carl glances at Mickey, who's eyes are closed as he rubs his temples.  He steps a few paces away.

"His CO died."

Silence.

"Wilson?" Ian asks quietly after a beat.  "Fuck.  I'll- I'll get a cab and be there in twenty."  Then Ian says, "Carl."

"What."

"Don't- don't make him sit in the back of the car, alright?"

Carl looks over at Mickey again, who is doing just that.  The door's open though, so no harm no foul.

"Sure."

Ian sighs heavily.

"He's in the back of the car, isn't he?"

"Yup."

"Put him on."

Carl passes the phone over to Mickey, kicking him in the shoe to get him to look up.  Mickey stares at it like he's not sure he wants to take it for a beat, then he snatches it.

"Hey," he says into the phone.  "Yeah," he mutters, sniffing and pressing the heel of his left hand to his eye to quell the tears.  "Okay."  And then he hangs up and passes it back.

Bolton sits in the driver's seat for the next fifteen minutes while Mickey and Carl share a smoke leaning against the car.  They don't talk.  Carl's okay with that.

A car door slams and Ian walks quickly toward them, still wearing his uniform, his mouth set in a firm line as he hustles.  Mickey stands hurriedly, and then Ian's taking it at a jog, and Mickey steps forward, and their bodies are colliding in a lingering, tight hug.

Ian drops a series of kisses down Mickey's temple to his shoulder.

"You guys good?" Carl interrupts the moment a little awkwardly.

"Yeah," Ian says thickly as he and Mickey pull out of the embrace but don't let go of each other.  "Thanks."

"Call me, kay?" Carl says to Mickey.  Mickey nods and swallows but doesn't meet his eyes.  Ian claps Carl on the shoulder in thanks.

Carl slams his door closed as he rejoins Bolton.  Bolton is still staring at Ian and Mickey.

"Thought you said that guy was your buddy," he tells Carl, inclining his head toward Mickey.

"He is," Carl says, hackles rising.  "And Ian's my brother."

"But they're-" he gestures vaguely out the window where Mickey and Ian are walking away, shoulders touching.  Carl thinks it's pretty fucking sad that they can't even hold hands down the sidewalk.

"You got a problem with gay people?" Carl demands his partner.  "Because if you do you can fuck right off."

Bolton eases the car onto the street and the radio chatter fills the silence.

"They're so normal looking," Bolton says finally.

"Yeah well, they're just people.  What the fuck did you expect?"

Bolton shrugs.

"More glitter maybe.  Better clothes."  He pauses, smirking.  "I didn't even get hit on."

"Jesus, you think you're fucking God's gift, don't you?"  Despite himself, Carl's grinning back, shaking his head.

They turn the corner and Mickey and Ian disappear from view.  Carl pulls out his phone again and texts Mickey, so he'll get it when he charges his phone.

I mean it, call me if you need anything asshole.

Mickey: Year 2

“Get away from my shit,” Mickey spit as soon as he entered his cell and saw the new guy bending over the wall where Mickey’d stuck the pictures of the kid Svetlana sent.  The guy reared back, startled, but didn’t back down when Mickey got right in his face.

"Hey," he said, grinning.  "Cute kid."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Mickey demanded.  Always better to come in swinging, show the other guy you can't be fucking messed with.

Not that this guy would be any trouble.  He had a few inches on Mickey (who didn't?) but he was scrawny as fuck.  Obviously hadn't been hitting the weights.  Probably focused most of his time on hitting something else, if the track marks on his arms were anything to go by.

He wasn't terrible looking, though.

"Travis," the dude said.  "Knutson."

He grinned at Mickey like they shared a secret.

"What're you fucking looking at?" Mickey snapped.

"Nothing, Milky.  That's what everyone calls you, don't they?"  He leered.  "Can see why."

Mickey seethed, but pushed past the dude to flop down on his cot, book in hand.

"So what're you in for?" Knutson asked, moving to his own bed.

This fucking dude.  Seriously.

"Murder," he told him finally, because at least a stretched version of the truth might scare this douchebag off.

"Cool.  Manslaughter for me.  And possession and selling to a minor."  Knutson rattled them off like he was discussing the weather.  Honestly, Mickey was a little impressed.  "Wilson's your counselor too, right?" Knutson continued.

Mickey glared at him over the top of his book.  "Yeah."

"Told me we'd be good together.  You and me."  The guy kicked his loafer against the cement floor.

"The fuck that's supposed to mean?" Mickey snapped, sitting up quickly.

Knutson shrugged.

"Like maybe we'd get along.  I don't fucking know."  But his eyes did that thing again that thing that told Mickey they really did share a secret.  Jesus, the guy was about five seconds away from waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Wilson told you we'd get along huh?" Mickey was seeing red.  Knutson seemed entirely unperturbed.

Mickey swung off of his bed and stormed to the open cell door.

"What-" Knutson started, surprised.

"Fuck off!"

He had to compose himself a little to avoid being flagged by the guards as he made his way toward Wilson's office.  Of course the fucking guy was in there, he was too fat and lazy to make the rounds.

He rapped hard on the open door and Wilson looked up, removing his reading glasses and smirking.

"Problem, inmate?"

"You think you know me?” Mickey seethed. Wilson just raised one fuzzy brow.

“Show some respect, kid,” he warned, but Mickey, never one to heed warnings when he was feeling cornered, stormed further into the room. "On the chair, inmate," Wilson snapped, jerking out of his own chair with a hand on his belt on instinct.  "Before I call for backup."

Mickey bared his teeth but did as he was told.

"Met my new cell mate."

"Oh yeah?  He not pretty enough for you?"

Mickey clenched his fists so hard he was sure he'd drawn blood.

"You playing matchmaker now?"

Wilson's eyes narrowed.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"The new guy came on to me! What did you say to him?" Mickey demanded.

Wilson rolled his eyes and slammed his hand against his desk, agitated.

"I told him I thought you'd get along.  He's a snarky asshole, you're a snarky asshole.  I said nothing else."

"Then why's he looking at me like he wants to eat my ass, huh?"

"Jesus," Wilson balked, and the older man's disgusted look was almost worth it.  "I don't fucking know.  But I oughta make an example out of you for mouthing off to me.  I'm looking out for you, Mickey, fucking believe it or not, because you're smarter and prouder than the rest of these fuck ups.  You really think I'd do that to you, kid?"

For a moment Mickey was placated.

But the panic he'd felt, the roiling fear in his belly since the time he realized he liked dicks instead of chicks at around 11, was returning ten-fold.  He thought the South Side or even his own living room was dangerous, but prison was like walking around with his father lurking in every single corner.  He was stupid to trust Wilson with some small version of his secret.  He'd be stupid to engage with his idiot new cell mate with a death wish.  He'd been stupid to mark himself forever with that stupid fucking tattoo.

He wasn't smart, and he never would be.

“You don't fucking know me,” he spat.

"Another word and you're out of that cushy library and on janitorial, inmate."  They glared at one another, until finally Mickey lowered his gaze, relenting to Wilson's authority.  "Now get the fuck out of my office and show the new guy what's up."

Rage simmering, Mickey stormed out of the office and immediately caught the attention of a guard at the corner. 

“Problem, Milky?”

Mickey took a breath, fighting the urge to surge forward.

“Nope,” he said through his teeth.

When he returned to his cell, fucking Knutson was there, lounging on his bunk just as Mickey'd left him.

“Yo,” he said, getting up. “I was thinkin’-”  Mickey pulled his arm back and punched him in the mouth with all of his force. Knutson dropped satisfyingly like a sack of potatoes and groaned.

Good.

Ian

It's just starting to get cool enough to leave his windbreaker in the bus when he goes on calls.  Fall is in the air in the city, and the leaves on the ground do little to curb Ian's good mood.  He's just finished the first day of his weekly daytime shift and he's got the upcoming weekend off, so he's looking forward to spending the evenings and two whole days with the family.

He's joking with Justin about one of their drunken frequent flyers that reminds Ian so much of Frank as he opens his locker after his shift and reaches for his phone.

10 missed calls.  Four from Mickey between 8:30 and 11.  The otheir 6 are from Svetlana, only minutes apart from one another starting at 4:00.

"Shit."

He tries Mickey first, but it goes straight to the automated voicemail.

Maybe something with Nadia.  She'd come home from daycare last week with a cold.

Or Yev.  Spring warmup for his traveling team had only started a few weeks ago.  Maybe he'd gotten injured.

Or Mickey.  Fuck, what if he'd gotten picked up for something stupid, like not renewing his tags on his motorcycle or something?

With a stuttering heartbeat, Ian tries Svetlana.

"Ian," Svetlana answers on the second ring.  "It is Misha."

Shit.  Fuck.  Ian's heart beats wildly in his chest.  Across the locker room Justin frowns at him.

"What happened?" Ian asks Svetlana, panic rising.

"He is angry drunk at home when he is supposed to be working.  He will not tell me what happened," she says quickly. "Ian, he punched a hole in the wall." 

"I'm coming right now."  He slams his locker closed, not even bothering to change or grab his duffel.  "I'll get on the El now.  Give me twenty minutes.  Are you there with him?"

"No.  He yells at me to leave him alone.  So I tell him he cannot be at home with the children right now."  She's angry, but she's also gravely concerned.  Her worry makes Ian worry tenfold.

Ian moves quickly through the station, ignoring his coworkers as he blows past them and out into the street.  "Svet, what the fuck is going on?  Where did he go?"

"I do not know.  He left an hour ago."

"Okay.  I'll try him again.  Call me if he comes home."  He hangs up on her without saying goodbye as he jogs to the nearest El station.

Straight to voicemail again.  He tells himself that Mickey's shit at remembering to charge his phone and not that something really bad has happened.

He tries the next best number as the El station comes into view up the block.

"Alibi," Kev answers on the second ring.

"It's Ian.  Mickey there?"

"Oh hey, Ian.  Nah, he never showed up today.  He sick or somethin'?"

Jesus, Kev could be an idiot sometimes.  Most of the time, actually.

"He's in trouble, Kev.  If you see him make him stay put and call me."

"Oh, shit," Kev breathes through the line.  "You need me to call hospitals or somethin'?"

"No!  Just- keep an eye out, alright?"  His other line buzzes, and Ian hangs up on Kev and answers Carl's call without missing a beat.

"Hello?"  If anyone might know something, it would be Carl.  "Carl have you talked to-"

"He's with me," Carl say immediately.  "He's blitzed, but he's fine." Ian stops jogging, relief seeping through his body. "We picked him up on the corner of 51st and Aberdeen," Carl continues.

Ian's anxiety shoots right back up again.

"You're on duty? Did you fucking arrest him? What the fuck, Carl!"

"Course not. Relax. We're just chillin'."

Ian sighs, thankful.

"He tell you what happened?"

There's a beat of silence before Carl answers.

"His CO died."

Oh, fuck.  Mickey.  All the good things about prison, the things to hold on to- gone.

He needs to hear Mickey's voice.

"Put him on," he orders Carl after a short exchange.  There are several seconds of silence.

"Hey."  Tears prick Ian's eyes as Mickey's hollow voice comes on the line.

"Hey," Ian says back.  "I know you're not okay, but are you okay?"

"Yeah."  Mickey sniffs through the phone, and Ian rubs at his eyes.

"I'm coming to you, okay?  Stay with Carl.  I'll be there soon, alright?"

"Okay," Mickey says, and Ian knows he won't get any more out of Mickey right now, while he's struggling not to break down.

Ian hangs up and has to walk several blocks and coerce the first taxi he sees to head to Back of the Yards.

Everything's been going so well.  Nadia's talking up a storm,  Yevgeny's killing it in his first few weeks of the new school year, they're co-parenting well with Svetlana.  Mickey is working so hard to open up.  And Ian is working so hard to listen.

Of course something would have to throw a wrench in all that.

Ian thrusts cash at the cabbie and leaps out of the taxi as soon as they reach the corner where Carl said they'd be.  Mickey's with Carl, leaning against a cop car.  Ironic, really.

When he reaches them, Mickey goes willingly into his arms, and they embrace on the sidewalk, more exposed than they've ever dared to be in public.

Carl leaves them be.  Ian puts a hand on his arm, grateful to Carl and the universe for the stroke of luck.  Who knows where Mickey might have ended up.

"Coffee maybe?" Ian mutters to Mickey, and the other man nods, so they set off down the street silently.  Ian aches to touch him.

They only have to walk another few blocks before they find a hipstery coffee house.  There's soft jazz music playing in the background and the small room is filled with carefully chosen mismatched furniture.

Unspoken, Mickey heads for a couch while Ian orders: black coffee for Mickey, green tea for himself.

He turns his body towards Mickey, rests his knee against Mickey's thigh.  And waits.

Mickey's hair is a little unkempt, and his eyes are bloodshot.  He looks exhausted.  Defeated.

"Johnson stopped by before I left for work this morning," Mickey begins finally.  "Brought me this."

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and hands Ian the memorial card for Tom Wilson.  Ian opens it, but doesn't read the words.

"When was the funeral?"

"Couple days ago."  Mickey sniffs.

"How come he didn't tell you then?"

"Probably a good thing.  Lots of COs woulda been there.  Warden too."

"Yeah," Ian agrees.  He looks down at the photo of the man who made such an impact on Mickey.  "I'm sorry, Mick."

Mickey pulls his lips into his mouth, blinking furiously.

"Johnson said he asked about me sometimes," he says quietly, looking down into his mug.  "Said he was-" Mickey's face crumples for just a second before he composes himself again, continuing throatily, "-proud of me."

Ian grips Mickey's knee tight.  He wonders if anyone's ever told Mickey that to his face before.

"When Trav died," Mickey continues, unshed tears shining in his eyes, "I freaked the fuck out.  Fucking lost it.  Spent a long time in isolation.  I don't even know how long.  They were gonna send me to Psych, and it woulda been like a fucking death sent-" he looks up sharply suddenly, immediately repentant. "It's different in there than out here. I-"

"No," Ian interrupts him, swallowing back his own tears and squeezing Mickey's leg.  "I get it.  Tell me more."

Mickey takes a breath.

"Wilson convinced them to let him counsel me instead.  We'd sit in his office every day, and he'd read shit to me from these stupid therapy books.  And we'd kinda talk about Trav, and you sometimes-" Ian heaves a shaky inhale as Mickey continues, "-and then after a while he told me that was enough and to buck the fuck up."  Mickey laughs wetly.  "So I did."  Ian laughs through his tears too.

They sit for a while longer, pressed against one another on the couch in silence.

"Sometimes I think-" Mickey starts again suddenly, "-what if I'd had someone like him for a dad, you know?  Someone who has your fuckin' back but don't take your shit?"

Ian has no idea what that's like, but he knows that he's ached for it his entire life.

He's glad Mickey had that, just for a little while, during the time he maybe needed it most.

"Wish I could've met him," Ian tells Mickey.

"Nah, he didn't think much of you," Mickey teases, the hint of a grin on his face.  But Ian knows he isn't joking.  Who would think much of him, with the way he'd carelessly tossed Mickey aside?

He wonders what Trav knew.  What he'd have to say about Ian.

"Ready to head home?" Ian changes the subject.

Mickey chews on his lip and doesn't answer.

"Shit!" Ian says suddenly, remembering. "Svetlana's probably wearing a hole in the floor right now."  He pulls out his phone, where Svetlana had sent a string of question marks just minutes ago.

All fine.  CO Wilson died.

"She told me to get out."  Mickey sloshes the dregs around in his mug.

"Because you were drunk in front of the kids.  She was scared.  You know how she can get."  Kind of like you, Ian adds affectionately in his head.  Svetlana and Mickey were sometimes so alike.  "She's worried about you."

His phone buzzes.  He shows Mickey the text.

come home please.

"See?"

Mickey shrugs, but sets his mug down and stands.

The cab right home is silent.  Svetlana greets them at the back door with a drowsy Nadia in her arms, and Mickey stands in the kitchen and rocks their daughter for a long time before he and Ian poke their heads in to say good night to Yevgeny.  Svetlana doesn't say a word.  She knows Mickey just as well as Ian does.

Ian and Mickey stand at the counter and pick at the leftovers from dinner, neither very hungry.  As it gets later, Mickey's having a harder and harder time keeping his emotions in check.

Ian doesn't know what to say to him.  He's never been very good at comforting with words, so he uses his body instead.

He teases Mickey as long as he will let him, licking and sucking at his own name on Mickey's body and further down until Mickey's moaning and writhing.  And then Mickey's under him and around him and matching him thrust for thrust.  Ian cries because Mickey does, and afterwards neither of them moves, tangled so tightly together that Ian can't tell who's legs are who's.

"Punched a hole in the wall," Mickey mutters guiltily, voice scratchy from crying, breath hot on Ian's collarbone.  "In the foyer."

"I know."

It isn't funny, but it is.  Mickey starts chuckling first, then Ian starts up too.

"I'll patch it up with the kid.  Teach him a life skill," Mickey says when they can control themselves again.

"So when he punches walls he knows how to fix them," Ian teases.

Mickey's finger stop ghosting across Ian's belly.

"You think he's gonna turn out like me?" Mickey asks quietly.

"Definitely," Ian answers, and before Mickey's tension can fully return, adds "He'll be smart."  He kisses Mikey's shoulder.  "Loyal." Kisses his temple.  "Badass."  He tilts Mickey's chin up and whispers against his lips, "Brave."

Mickey preens a little, though he tries not to.

"What's he gonna get from you, then?" he wonders.

Ian grins.

"My charm, obviously.  And my hilarious sense of humor."

Mickey guffaws.

"You think you're funny, huh?"

"Mm-hm.  Make you laugh all the time."

"Yeah, at you, not with you," Mickey jibes, and Ian muscles him onto his back where they wrestle playfully for a minute before settling back again.

"You wanna go to the gravesite tomorrow?" Ian asks Mickey as the mood grows subdued.

"Yeah.  You don't gotta go with me though."

"Course I'm coming, asshole," Ian scoffs.  Mickey buries his head in Ian's neck.  "Hey."  Ian pokes him in the stomach.  "Proud of you."

"Alright, enough girly shit," Mickey groans, but he can't hide his pleased smirk.  "Go the fuck to sleep."

Mickey: Year 5

"Hey,” he said into the line when they were finally connected.  Svetlana had told Mickey that Mandy needed to talk to him, but has refused to say why.  Not that Mickey didn't have some idea.

“Hey,” Mandy said back, and her voice sounded, wet like she'd recently been crying or maybe still was crying.

He waited.

“Dad’s dead,” she said finally.

He'd known it was probably coming- he'd heard a few rumors over the past couple of days, but hearing it from Mandy’s lips made his heart sink into his stomach like a rock at the same time as a single laugh bubbled up into his throat.

He was relieved.  Sad.  Confused.

“Are you laughing?” She seethed through the phone.

“I don't know,” he said, running a hand over his face. A few beats passed before Mandy sighed into the phone.

“Me neither,” she said finally. They listened to each other's breathing through the phone.

“How?” He asked. He didn't really want to know, but he'd heard three separate stories from three different guys- each more unbelievable than the last.

“Heart attack. In his sleep they think.  Barely felt a thing.”

“Of fucking course.” He couldn’t stop his bitter laughter this time. Leave it to Terry to lead the literal most piece of shit life only to die peacefully in his sleep.

“Jamie’s trying for furlough,” Mandy told him.

Jamie. Mickey hadn’t thought of his oldest brother in years. He’d been in prison since Mickey was 17, at Pontiac just like him.  Strange to think that there were only buildings between them right now.

“He must not have much time left, huh?”

“I dunno, a year or two. You gonna try for furlough too?”

“No,” said Mickey automatically.

“Why not?” huffed Mandy. “You’ll get to be out in the real world for a little while.”

Mickey had a clear memory of his uncle Phil standing at the back of his great grandmother's funeral, cuffed at the hands and feet and flanked on either side by two guards.  Mickey couldn't keep his eyes off him, and had received a hard smack to the back of his head when his father noticed.

He couldn't think of anything more humiliating than showing up to his dad's funeral in chains.

"First of all, ain't no way the warden's letting us both go.  Jamie wants to go, he can go.  Besides, dad wouldn't want me there anyway."

Mandy didn't bother to argue that point.

"Uncle Ronnie wants to do the whole nine yards," Mandy told him.  "Wake, funeral, everything.  Then the neighborhood'll throw a celebration party."

Mickey snorted.  Who wouldn't throw a party?  The neighborhood was probably ten times safer now.

"I'll come see you when I get in town, alright?" she assured him.  "I'll be in on Tuesday."

"Bitch, you better come."

Mandy laughed.

"Later, assface.  Stay safe."

"Hey, Mandy," he yelped suddenly, thinking of something.

"Yeah?"

"If I don't see Svet before the funeral- just- make sure she doesn't take the kid, alright?"

"Why?  He was his grandpa."

"Just tell her, alright?  She'll get it."

They hung up, and Mickey hesitated long enough for the dude behind him in the phone line to bark "move, fucker!", then he made a beeline for Wilson's office.

"It's official," he told Wilson as he was ushered in.  "My dad's dead."

Wilson raised his brows over his coffee mug, then set it down and shifted in his chair.

"That story about him being taken out by the mafia true then?"

Mickey snorted.

"That's a new one.  Nah, heart attack I guess."

Wilson gestured for Mickey to sit, then he came around and perched on his desk.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said sincerely, eyes boring into Mickey's.

"I ain't."  Mickey scuffed his shoe against the floor.

"Aren't you?" challenged Wilson.

Mickey gnawed on his lip.  Finally, he shrugged.

"Dreamed about getting to let him have it one last time before he died.  Maybe even been the one to pull the trigger."

Wilson crossed his arms and leaned back a little.

"You planning on taking that anger to the grave?"

Mickey snorted again.

"Probably."

"We talked about this shit before, Mickey.  Can't let assholes destroy your life.  Especially when they're dead."

Mickey barked a laugh.

"My life's already destroyed, man.  Look at me."

Wilson didn't say anything for a long moment.

"Can't imagine what it was like with Terry Milkovich as a father, but my dad wasn't a ray of sunshine either," he said finally.  "Decided never to have kids because of him."

"Yeah well, I got a kid cuz of my dad."  In the game of 'who's dad is the worst', Mickey was pretty sure he'd always win.

Wilson frowned.

"I got my work cut out for me on this one, huh?"

"Might as well just give up now."

"Never," Wilson said seriously.

Mickey swallowed, overwhelmed.  No one had ever taken such care with him, even if they did it in a rough sort of way.

"Come back tomorrow," Wilson ordered him.  "Give me some time to google 'how to properly mourn asshole fathers' and we can do some Kumbaya healing shit together."

True to her word, Mandy visited on Tuesday. Mickey felt like a little bitch, but his eyes might have misted a little when she came into view that first time. It didn't help the fact that she was heavily pregnant, married, and happy.  And then she visited again on Friday on her way out of state.  After she'd buried their father.

He'd spent every day since he'd heard the news in a confusing state of rage, relief, and grief.

His dad was dead.  He couldn't hurt him anymore.

His dad was dead.

"Sorry I haven't visited you much," Mandy told him a little guiltily when they put the phones to their ears.  She'd visited him twice now in one week, more than she'd managed in the last two years.

"Least you got an excuse," he placated her gruffly.

For a minute Mandy looked pained, but she covered it quickly.

"I'll try to come again after the baby's born, alright?"

"Whatever."

Mandy flipped him off.

"Asshole.  Don't pretend like you're not happy to see me."

He was happy to see her, but it was bittersweet too.  Just like seeing Svetlana and the kid.  He got to see them, but he wasn't really a part of their lives.

Peripheral.

"Oh, did you get the pictures I sent?" she asked him.

"Yeah.  Got em up in my cell.  Your husband looks like a tool."

"Fuck you, he's perfect!" she cried, sticking her tongue out at him.  "He's outside in the car with Leah."

"You know if this one's a boy or girl?" he asked her curiously.

"Boy," she supplied happily.  "Mark's totally psyched.  He wants to name the baby after himself."

"Tool," Mickey repeated with more feeling. Mandy rolled her eyes, grinning.

Then her smile faded from her face a little.

"Brought you the program from the funeral if you want it.  We listed you in the obituary."

"What, as Terry's homo son?" he snarked.

"Yep.  Didn't even use your name, just called you 'the fairy'," she deadpanned.  "I'm giving it to them to give to you.  You'll regret it if you don't take it."

"Doubt it."  But he didn't argue.  Maybe he kinda wanted to look at it, whatever.

Mandy bit her lip, deliberating.

"Ian was there," she told him.  Mickey prided himself on barely reacting to the news.  He'd kinda expected Mandy to bring him up anyway.  "Wanna hear about him?"

"He's alive, that's all I fuckin' need to know."  He wondered how close Ian and Mandy were these days.  He had to ask more.  "He doing okay?"

Mandy shrugged.

"Yeah, seemed okay.  Didn't seem surprised you weren't there."

"I am currently in fucking prison, if you forgot," Mickey quipped.

"Furlough, asshole.  Jamie was denied, if you were wondering."

Mickey shrugged.  He wasn't.

And if anyone would understand why Mickey wasn't too keen on showing up to his dad's funeral, it would be Ian.

"You doing alright?" Mandy asked him, watching his face carefully.  "Got friends or something?"

Mickey scoffed.

But he did have a few people.  And he had Wilson.  Things could be shittier.  Things had been shittier.

Suddenly he wanted to tell her everything.

But the buzzer rang around them.

"Remind me to tell you about someone.  When I'm out."

"Someone?" Mandy repeated, puzzled.

"Yeah."  Mickey raised his eyes meaningfully.  "Someone."

 As he left the visitors room and was escorted back to his cell block, he imagined what his dad would have thought if he'd known what Mickey had gotten up to in prison.

It both pleased him immensely and roiled his stomach to think about it.

Ian

Two weeks pass since they'd visited the grave, and Mickey's mostly back to normal- his usual snarky, occasionally moody self. He hasn't brought up Wilson since.

As they get ready for the day, moving around one another in their tiny bathroom, Mickey spits out his toothpaste and asks,"you still got the weekend off?"

"Uh-huh."  Ian runs his razor under the water and tilts his head, catching Mickey's nervous eyes in the mirror before Mickey looks down.  "Why?"

Mickey shrugs.

"Thought maybe we could go away for the weekend.  You and me."

"Like to a hotel?"

"No, like out of the city."

Ian sets down the razor and turns to Mickey, grinning.

"You got something in mind?"

"Maybe," Mickey hedges, smiling too.  "You in?"

"Time alone with you?  Why the fuck wouldn't I be?"

Mickey boxes Ian into the counter, leaning up on his toes to press chest to chest with him.

"Pack a bag then.  We'll leave Saturday morning."  Mickey kisses him quickly and moves away.

"Hey," Ian calls to him as he leaves the bathroom.  "You got shaving cream on your chin."  Mickey gives him the finger.

Mickey doesn't give away any more details about the trip he's apparently planned for them, no matter how hard Ian tries.  Svetlana's on board though, and she kisses each of them on the cheek when she sends them off bright and early on Saturday.  And Ian gets the shock of his life when he sees a shiny new Lexus on the street in front of their crappy rental.

"What the fuck?" Ian stands agape as Mickey moves around him, popping the trunk like he's driven luxury cars his whole life.

"Loaner from Lip," he supplies, rubbing at the back of his neck as Ian's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  He wonders what Mickey offered as a trade.  "Uh, you're not pissed, are you?"

"Course not."  The fact that Mickey went out of his way to ask Lip for a favor for Ian is actually a huge turn on.  "Just surprised is all.  Who else is in on it?"

"No one," Mickey lies, and Ian smiles, bemused as Mickey lets himself into the driver's side.  "Okay, Carl mighta hooked me up with the cabin," Mickey relents.

"A cabin?  You're taking me camping?" Ian asks as he settles into his leather seat.

"Not camping." Mickey scowls.  "A real house on a lake with a bed and a kitchen and shit."

"I'm not complaining, Mick," Ian assures his boyfriend as Mickey pulls out into the street.  He teases, "I wouldn'ta minded huddling up next to you for warmth under the stars."

"Keep it up and you'll be cuddling out there all by yourself," Mickey shoots back, a hint of a sharp lilt to his voice.

"The fuck's up with you?" Ian demands.  "Thought you were excited."

Mickey flips off a car that cuts him off as he merges onto the freeway.  

"Just want you to like it," he admits finally. "We got all this shit to deal with at home, all my fucked up issues- just want to escape for a while."

Ian grabs his hand and holds it tight, and doesn't let go for two hours.

They stop at a gas and grocery about thirty miles away from their destination.

"So what brings you city boys out to lake country?" the cashier asks congenially as Mickey and Ian load the counter with food and snacks for two days.  When Mickey and Ian give him furrowed looks, the older man gestures to the shiny Lexus, whistling.

"Uh," Mickey says awkwardly, glancing at Ian.

"Fishing trip," Ian supplies easily, pointing at Mickey. "It's his first time."

"A fishing virgin!" the cashier crows, and Mickey flushes, barely suppressing a scowl.  "You're gonna love it.  So what kinda bait are you thinking?" The guy gestures to the rows of tanks behind him.

Ian and Mickey stare at each other.  How many different kinds of bait are there?

The cashier clears his throat at the growing awkward silence.

"Tell ya what, let's start you out with night crawlers.  Good for first timers.  You guys got rods and everything?"

"Yeah, at the cabin," Mickey says, and Ian grins.  He's never tried fishing before, and he's certain Mickey hasn't either.  This could be fun.

"You sure you know where you're going?" Ian asks as Mickey maneuvers the sports car onto a gravel road tucked in the trees  twenty minutes later.

"Following the fuckin' GPS, man."

"We're so gonna get murdered," Ian jokes.

Mickey laughs nervously, like he almost thinks it's possible.  Then he clears his throat and says, "Carl's asshole partner brings his side piece out here couple times a year.  Got a deal since it's out of season."

"So you thought you'd bring your side piece out here too, huh?"

Ian means it as a joke, but Mickey raises incredulous eyebrows high on his forehead.

"That what you think you and me are?" Mickey demands sharply.

"Relax, it was a joke," Ian laughs.  "I like how it is now.  Svetlana makes my dinner and does my laundry."

"I do your laundry, asshole."  Mickey flicks him in the peck.  "It ain't about Svet though.  It's about the kids."

"Yeah," Ian agrees.  He doesn't want to be separated from their children, far from it, but he's definitely dreamed about getting a place of their own.  "Maybe someday."

"Maybe someday what?"

Ian shrugs.

"I don't know.  Won't always be like this."

Mickey has a look on his face that says he definitely doesn't want anything to change, so Ian tries another subject, going for the classic, "We there yet?"

"Supposed to be right... here."  They turn into a winding driveway and Mickey rolls their windows down and they inhale deeply.  "Had no idea what unpolluted air smelled like," Mickey says.

The cabin is a tiny one-room, but it's clean.  A small range and fridge and a sink in the kitchen area, a plaid couch overlooking the wall-to-wall windows.  And a bunk bed.

"Fuck," Mickey breathes when they take in the wooden bed along the side of the wall after unpacking their groceries.  "We won't even be able to fit, much less fuck."

"I dunno, that ladder looks pretty sturdy to me," Ian teases, already picturing Mickey naked, one leg high on a rung, holding onto the upper bunk for support. "Yeah, I can work with that."  He adjusts himself in his jeans.

"Jesus, we've been here like thirty seconds," Mickey grumbles, but he grins slyly at Ian as he opens up the sliding glass door to the large deck.  "Check out that view."

"Wow," Ian agrees.  He's done stuff like this before, with past boyfriends.  But looking at a peaceful lake through a curtain of trees never gets old, and having Mickey next to him makes the moment even sweeter.

It's already too cold to get in the water, but the air is warm enough to be comfortable in long sleeve shirts.  

There's a hammock strung between two trees down near the water.

"Think we can both fit?" Ian asks, pointing.

"Nope." Mickey laughs.  "You're gonna make us try it aren't you?"

"Yup."

Mickey makes a show of grumbling as he follows Ian down the wooden steps of the embankment, but Ian knows he sort of wants to.

"How do we do it?" Ian wonders as they stand in front of it.

"How the fuck should I know?  I look like the kinda guy who lounges on hammocks in my free time?"

"Do I?" Ian shoots back.

Mickey stares at him playfully.

"You really want me to answer that?"  Ian shoves him and Mickey snickers.  "You first, you're heavier," Mickey instructs.

Ian sits gingerly on the netting, and when he's sure he's balanced, swings his legs up and leans his head back.  He grins and pats the spot beside him.

"We go crashing to the ground I'mma kick your ass," threatens Mickey mildly as he lowers himself carefully.  "No way hammocks were invented for gay dudes. Fuckers."

"We'll make a queer rights activist out of you yet," jokes Ian.  Mickey settles next to him, and they're squished uncomfortably tight together.  "This workin' for you?"

"Nope," Mickey grunts.  "Put your arm around me or somethin'."

It takes a minute to get settled, and it's much more comfortable with Mickey tucked into Ian's body like this.  Ian brings his right foot down and kicks at the ground to get them rocking.

"So gay," Mickey murmurs, eyes closed.

"You love it," Ian mutters back.

"Never said I didn't," Mickey breezes, smiling.

They lie like that until Ian's grumbling stomach wakes him from his light doze.  Mickey jerks comically as Ian stirs, nearly toppling them both with his instinctual wake up style.

After lunch they take the fishing rods Ian finds in the fish cleaning hut and stand on the end of the dock.  Neither knows what the fuck they're doing, but Mickey's surprisingly unwilling to spear the worms on the hooks, so Ian does it for both of them, laughing at Mickey's disgusted expression.

"So fucking boring," Mickey complains after just minutes of his line being dropped in the water.  "That gas station attendant was full of - shit!"  Mickey's bobber suddenly jerks under the water.  "Oh shit!  What the fuck do I do?"

"Reel it in," Ian urges.

Mickey swears as he struggles to wind up his line.  "This fucker must be huge!"

And then the hook with fish attached comes out of the water, and Ian bursts out laughing.

"It's like six inches long," Ian yelps through his tears.

"Fuck you," Mickey snaps, but he's grinning sheepishly.  "Felt bigger."

"That's what he said," Ian deadpans as he catches his breath, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

"Get this fish off my hook," he orders Ian.

Reluctantly, Ian reaches for the fish, and it flaps, slimy in his hand, while Ian removes the hook.

"Fuck fishing," Mickey mutters, setting down his rod.  "Let's go break in that bed."

Mickey does put a foot on a ladder rung and he does grip the top bunk for dear life while Ian fucks him, and it's better than Ian envisioned.  But the best part of the night comes when Mickey builds them a fire and they recline together against a fallen log.

The quiet is peaceful, but Mickey breaks his reverie to say, "Wilson told me on the day I got out to make sure to look up as often as I could.  Make up for all the night skies I missed out on."  Mickey snorts.  "Guess he forgot I live in Chicago."

Automatically, Ian tilts his head up to look at the stars twinkling above them through the trees.  They're much easier to see here in the country.  They're beautiful.  It reminds him of something, a tickling memory that doesn't feel entirely pleasant.

Mickey nudges Ian with his shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."  Ian shakes the cobwebs out of his head.  "Just thinking."

"About?"

"How lucky I am.  That we came back to each other.  That we have our family."

"Yeah," Mickey agrees, smiling faintly.  "All this," he gestures his arms wide, as if to encompass the whole world, "makes everything we went through worth it."

Ian's not totally sure he agrees with that, not at all, but he can see his point.  They wouldn't be exactly in this place had they not gone what they'd gone through.

It's a strange feeling, to both regret past mistakes and be thankful for them at the same time.

"Thanks for doing this," Ian tells him, pulling Mickey close against him.  "I know things have been hard for you lately."

Mickey mumbles into Ian's shoulder.

"Huh?"  Ian shakes Mickey a little until he  repeats himself.

"Said I wanted to be with just you for a while," Mickey tells him, scratching his nose with his thumb.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.  You make me feel better about all this shit that's been going on."  Then Mickey groans dramatically.  "But your bony shoulder is uncomfortable as fuck!"

Ian laughs and shoves him hard enough to tip him over into the grass.

"Fine, I'll take my bony shoulders somewhere else then."

"You mean like back to that bunk bed?"  Mickey waggles his eyebrows, grinning salaciously.  Ian smirks back.

"Yeah, maybe, if you play your cards right."

Mickey scoffs.

"Please, I'm a royal fucking flush.  You can't resist me."

Ian can't argue with that.  He wouldn't want to, anyway.

They don't make it to the bed.  Mickey rides him on the deck of the cabin in the open air, face turned up toward the sky and skin glistening in the moonlight.  This metaphor for his new life- Mickey succumbing to his true self out in the open, no walls in sight- is not lost on Ian, and he blinks away tears as Mickey comes with a groan.

He's becoming a real pussy lately, tearing up practically every time they make love.

But he can't even fathom how lucky he is for this man to have given him another chance after everything.  That Mickey looks to him for support when he needs it, no matter how shitty Ian is about talking about that kind of stuff.

He'll work every day on not taking that for granted.

Chapter Text

Mickey: Year 2

"Your kid visit you today?"

Mickey looked up from his book at 'friends call me Trav' Knutson.  The guy had been all right in the month or so  following Mickey's fist in his face.  Hadn't even so much as looked at Mickey the wrong way.  

Except the first time he'd seen Mickey's tattoo.  That had been awkward.  They'd sort of stared at one another for several seconds, then Trav had cleared his throat and turned away.  Thank fuck he knew better than to ask about it.

"Yeah," Mickey answered finally.  "Why?"

Trav shrugged.

"You can mark it on the calendar if you want."  He gestured to the large yearly desk calendar he was painstakingly sticking to the cinder block wall with sticky tack.  "That bitch drug counselor says it's good to track shit on a calendar so you feel productive.  Keep you from thinking about drugs or whatever."

"Sounds like horseshit," Mickey snorted.

"Yup.  But I like free shit, so I took one."

Mickey eyed Trav as he admired his handiwork.

"How long you been clean?" he asked.

"How long I been locked up?" Trav countered with a smirk.  "That long minus three days probably."  He itched a track mark as if on instinct.

Mickey chewed on his lip.  Finally, he said, "My kid's birthday is March 30.  If you wanna mark it on your thing."

Trav grinned, pleased, and Mickey reluctantly smiled back.

"Cool."  Trav scrawled quickly with the stubby pencil.  "Mickey's kid's b-day," he read aloud as he wrote.  "You're a good dad."

"How the fuck you figure that?" Mickey snarked, because really, how would this guy know?

"I see you write him letters and send drawings and shit.  And you know when his birthday is."

Mickey'd been trying out drawing again, the first time since he was like thirteen.  He'd been alright at it then, but quit to pursue bigger and better things.  Like dealing. (And for a while, desperately and aggressively, chicks.)  He figured the kid wouldn't know the difference between good art or bad art, so he drew for him sometimes.  Last week he'd sent him a drawing of a dog he'd copied off the cover of Old Yeller.  (He hadn't bothered to read it.  Who the fuck wanted to read a book about a dog who dies in the end?  The movie adaptation they'd watched in the fifth grade was sad enough.)

"If that's all someone's gotta do to be a good dad to you then you got low standards, man," he told Trav.

Actually, what did Mickey know?  His own father had pistol whipped him, had him raped, tried to kill him in public, then had him jumped in prison.  And that was just in the last few years.

"Yeah well."  Trav paused.  "My dad kicked me out of his house when I was fifteen."

"Why?" Mickey asked.

Trav just stared at him.  Gave him the look.

"Found out something he didn't want to hear," he said finally.  Mickey swallowed. Nodded.  "So, I started selling and using so I'd have a place to crash some nights, and the rest-" he spread his arms wide "-is history."

"And look at you now," Mickey deadpanned.

Trav's story reminded Mickey a little of Ian, and what he'd been up to while he was supposed to be at basic.  Only he'd sold something else.  It pissed Mickey off that Ian had apparently gone back on meds the moment the cuffs were snapped on Mickey, but he was thankful too.  Ian could have ended up dead, or worse, locked up.  Imagining Ian in prison, likely permanently housed in Psych?  It made Mickey ache to think about.

Trav, unaware of Mickey's inner thoughts, snorted, then turned faintly pensive.  "My dad coulda killed me, but he didn't.  So, least I got that.  Gold star for my pops."

Mickey scratched at his nose and glanced away.  He couldn't say the same for his dad.

"What's your kid's name?" Trav asked, changing the subject and throwing himself on his creaking, protesting bed.

"Uh, Yevgeny."  Trav made a face, which Mickey expected.  It's what people usually did.  "His mom's Russian."

"That your wife?"

Mickey mm-hmmed and pretended to focus back on his book.  When he chanced a glance up again Trav was looking right back at him.

"We ain't talking anymore," Mickey informed him, eyebrows raised.  Trav smirked, but he shut up.

Mickey stared down at the words on the page of his book, but he thought about what Trav had said, about how he was a good dad just because he gave a tiny bit of a shit.

He wanted to give more than that, but he had no other options.

He hoped Yevgeny would look back on his dad's time in the can and know that Mickey had cared as much as he could from inside.

Yevgeny

Most of the time his dad's pretty cool.  

Some kids at school used to give Yev shit about his dads being gay until one time he puked up some bad chicken nuggets all over the lunchroom and his dad had to come pick him up, grumpy as fuck because Ian hadn't been doing too good and that shit always made dad sad.  So dad came into the school in his dirty tank top and his uncovered tattoos and his potty mouth.  And when Yev came back to school the next day he told them all about Mickey being in prison too even though mom always said not to tell.  That made everyone shut up forever about it though, so it was worth it.

And another time his history teacher had given Yev a real shitty and real unfair grade on his paper and mom sent Ian to hit on the guy or something.  And it worked. Yev got a good grade and Ian got a kind-of stalker, so dad slashed the dude's tires in the faculty parking lot.  He's pretty sure it was his dad, anyway.  Mr.  Hanson complained all 7th period about it and when Yev went home he asked his dad and Mickey said, "none of your fucking business," but he was smiling.  And then he said not to tell Ian or mom what happened.  So, case closed basically.

Yevgeny isn't as tough as his dad, but he figures the knuckle tats that uncle Iggy promised for his fifteenth birthday will help.  Iggy says it's their little secret, but it won't stay a secret for long and Yev is pretty sure Iggy's gonna end up murdered because of it.

But right now he just turned fourteen, so there's a whole year to decide what he wants his tats to say.  He spends a lot of time thinking of eight letter words.

It's a week before the championship game.  It's already a huge fucking deal because he's a starter on the high school team and he's only an eighth grader.  And his coach says scouts are already interested in him and he's really feeling the pressure.  He always feels better when his dad's at his games because the dude gets more nervous than Yev.  Dad smokes and paces and shouts even though he still doesn't really know what's going on, and hearing him on the sidelines always makes Yev feel good.

Then tonight at dinner, dad just casually starts talking about Saturday, and how fucking cute Nadia's gonna look in her tutu and he can't fucking wait.

"You're still coming to my game though, right dad?" Yevgeny checks just in case.  Because dad still helps him with his math homework and watches zombie shows with him and shit when Nadia's not around, but he's all over her when she is here.  Mom says it's because she's still little and a girl but Yevgeny's not so sure.

Dad looks up at Ian like he always does before he talks, like Ian's gotta give him permission or something, and Yev knows it's bad news when Ian just stares back like a deer in headlights.

"Did you not hear?  They are at same time.  I warned you of this last week," his mom says to him.

"I'm gonna be a ballerina when I grow up," Nadia tells Yevgeny.  "What do you wanna be?"

Yev ignores her.

"You're coming, right?" he asks his dad instead.  "To my game?"

Mickey sighs.

"Look kid, Nadia's only got one recital a year.  I went to your games all season."

Yevgeny drops his fork on his plate.  His heart beats fast.

"It isn't just some game.  It's the championship!  To see if we go to State!"

"And that's why we're splitting up.  Ian'll go to your game and your mom and me will take Nadia to the recital."

"What!  That's not fair!"  Who cares about a stupid four year old's dumb as fuck recital anyway?  Yevgeny's seen her practice and she can't even remember all the steps.  "Why can't Ian go to Nadia's recital and you go to my game?  He's her dad, not mine!"

"Hey!" Mickey snaps, and Yevgeny juts out his chin.  It's the truth.  Ian's been around since Nadia was born and the most Ian managed with Yevgeny was a breakfast a month while dad was put away.  And yeah, he's here now and he's good at lots of things dad isn't, like correcting Yev's English papers and making grilled cheese and driving him places with the car he bought a few months ago.  But he isn't his dad.  He doesn't want to be.  No one had even asked Yevgeny what he wanted to call Ian, but when Nadia called Ian papa for the first time everyone shit a brick.

Nadia is everyone's favorite.

"Yev," Ian says, and he's doing those stupid hurt eyes dad always grumbles about.  "I'm just as much a parent to you as I am to Nadia."

"Like fuck you are," Yev grumbles.

"What the fuck," Mickey roars all of a sudden, and they all jump.  Yev should've expected that.  Dad always goes weird about Ian.  "Go the fuck to your room!"

Nadia shrieks and cowers at the sound of his voice.

"Stop," Svetlana scolds everyone, pulling Nadia close.  "Послушайтесь своего отца," she orders Yevgeny.  Listen to your father.

The rational part of Yev's brain listens, but not before the teenager part puts up a fight.  He kicks his chair to the ground and storms away as aggressively as possible.

"Mickey," Yev hears Ian warn firmly as he pounds down the hallway and slams the door closed.

He flops face down on his bed and yells into his pillow.  He feels out of control.  It's a stupid thing to be mad about, he knows, but he can't help it, and the more he thinks about it the madder he gets.

If Ian needed him his dad would be there. A year ago when Ian wouldn't get out of bed for four days his dad had practically spoon fed him soup and even washed his hair for him like mom does Nadia. He witnessed that on accident when dad had yelled up for a towel and Yev brought him one.  Through the crack in the door when dad shoved his hand through, Yev had seen Ian, just lying there in the tub, up to his chest in water and looking actually dead.  It was pretty fucking scary.

Mickey's never made soup for Yevgeny in his life. Never washed his hair either. Missed out on that while he was busy in prison.

They used to spend tons of time together right when dad got out, and then Ian came around more and they did things together the three of them for a while and that was cool too.  But Ian's not always healthy and he needs dad more sometimes.  And Nadia's just a little kid, so he gets that.  But it's like everyone forgets about Yev.

There's a knock on his door and Yevgeny ignores it because whoever it is is just gonna come in anyway.

"Hey."  It's dad.  He comes in the room and closes the door again and stands there.  Yevgeny makes a point to turn all the way around in the bed.  If Yev isn't important to Mickey then Mickey isn't important to Yev.  "You gonna tell me why you lost your shit out there or what?"

Yev says nothing.

"Look.  You're fucking amazing at soccer, right?  You guys'll make State next year too, and the year after that.  I got plenty of soccer to see in my future.  Alright?"

"You mean unless you have to watch Nadia take a dump or feed Ian his supper, right?" Yevgeny hears himself saying before his brain catches up.

His dad's eyebrows go up and he wets his lips.

"The fuck is wrong with you, huh?  Why're you shitting on Ian and your sister?  You think I like them more than you?  That it?"

"You do," Yevgeny mutters into his pillow.

"What?"

Yevgeny pulls his head away from his pillow and glares daggers at his dad.

"I said you do.  And you don't even try to fucking hide it!  You care about Ian and Nadia and you don't give a shit about me! I wish I weren't even your fucking kid!"

Its's not true, not at all, but the words fall out of Yevgeny's mouth like hot lava, spewing at everything and everyone in sight.

"That's it!" Dad roars, his voice reaching a new level of angry Yev's never even heard.  "You're fucking grounded!  And you can kiss that soccer game on Saturday goodbye too!"

Yevgeny's stomach drops and he at once feels like he could throw up and cry buckets.  No.  Not soccer.  He'll have to tell coach that he was grounded and it'll be so embarrassing, and college scouts might be there and he'll miss his chance.

His life is over.

"Fuck you!" Yevgeny screams, and he reaches for the first thing on his bedside table and whips it at his father.  Mickey barely manages to sidestep it before the book crashes into the closed door.

For a moment time is frozen as they stare at it, Yevgeny in horror, Mickey in pain.  Hatchet lies face down on the ground by Mickey's feet, the spine badly dented.

His dad had given it to him on his thirteenth birthday.  He might've even teared up when he handed it over.

Yevgeny's read it like 10 times.

"Yev-" Mickey starts, but Yevgeny can feel more words bubbling up in his throat.  He doesn't want to say them, he wants to stop this before it gets worse for him but he also wants to make himself and his dad as miserable as possible, and he knows just the thing to say.

"Get out of my room you fucking faggot!" Yevgeny roars, and then he recoils in fear as Mickey lunges for him, rage boiling over.

"You little-"

"Hey!"  The door slams open with so much force there's a hole in the drywall from the doorknob. "Mickey!"

Mickey stops moving forward immediately, chest heaving, as Ian fills the doorway authoritatively.

"Go," Ian orders Mickey, and dad listens like he always does, pivoting to storm out of the room.  "We're having a conversation about this later."  Ian jabs his finger at Yevgeny.  "Stay in your room until we come for you."

Yevgeny bites his tongue to keep from telling Ian to fuck right off, too.  Ian closes the door as he leaves, and Yev slams his fists over and over again into the pillow.

He hates his life.

 Mickey: Year 6

"What's wrong?” Mickey demanded immediately as he lifted the phone to his ear.

Svetlana sat across from him, her mouth in a thin line, worry in her eyes. Mickey stared behind her at their son, who was scuffing his shoes against the cement floor, looking everywhere but at his parents.

“The fuck happened?” Mickey reiterated with more urgency. “You two look like someone killed your fucking dog.”

God, he wished he could reach out and touch them.

“Yevgeny breaks his arm,” Svetlana said without fanfare. She turned her mouth away from the phone and spoke to Yevgeny in muffled Russian, Mickey only catching the word “papa”.

In response, Yevgeny lifted his left arm to show his father a bright blue cast from wrist to elbow.

“That's it?” Mickey asked, eyebrows raising to his hairline as his heartbeat slowed in relief. “When I was his age I'd already been stabbed for the first time.” It was a gross exaggeration, because it had been a plastic fork in the leg from skinny assed Mandy, but still. A broken arm at age 8 was nothing compared to the beat downs Mickey’d endured, even if he'd never actually officially broken any bones.

“Yevgeny cannot play soccer this year. He is very upset. You speak with him, yes?”

And before Mickey could object, Svetlana hustled the boy into her now vacated spot and Yevgeny was holding the phone to his ear and staring glumly at the metal counter like he'd rather be doing anything else.

“Hey,” Mickey said stupidly into the phone after a beat.

“Hi,” replied Yev with a sigh.

“So what's up?”

All of a sudden the words whooshed out of his son like a rocket.

“Dom and Pauly and me were messing around and I fell off the bleachers and now I have to wear this cast for a month and by then the season will be over and I'll have to wait a whole year!”

Mickey blinked.  He thought those might be the most words the kid had ever said to him in one conversation.  He searched his brain for something at least kind of comforting to say.

“You’ll survive, bud. There’s worse shit in life than having to take a year off of sports.” Like going to juvie, Mickey thought.

Yevgeny sighed dramatically, but didn't argue.

“Isn't soccer kind of gay?” Mickey pressed. Yevgeny's eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

“You mean only gay people play soccer? Am I gonna be gay too?”

Mickey ignored the implied reference to his own sexual orientation, wondering with frustration who'd told him and what exactly they'd said. Probably Svetlana. Or maybe one of the neighborhood kids.

Shit. What if people were running their fucking mouths to the kid about his gay, incarcerated old man?

It wasn't that he was ashamed.  He'd come to terms.  Accepted it.  But it didn't mean he wanted his kid to have a hard time because of something that wasn't his fault.

Mickey pushed those thoughts away. There wasn’t shit he could do about it from here. Besides, Yevgeny never seemed to have a scratch on him when he saw him.  He talked about his friends, especially Dom, Kev and V's kid.

“Nah man, not gay gay, just like- gay stupid.” The instant the words were out of his mouth Mickey regretted them. Yevgeny's face crumpled.

Asshole, Mickey scolded himself. What the fuck was he thinking?  Quickly, he worked to make it right.

“Wait, soccer’s the one with the bat and the bases right? Cuz that's boring as shit.”

It worked. Yevgeny perked back up and rolled his eyes at his dumb old man. Mickey wondered how stupid his kid must be to fall for that one.

“No, dad, soccer’s the one where you kick the ball into the net.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows in feigned realization.

“Oh yeah. Guess it's been a while since I've watched sports. Which one was I thinking of?”

“Baseball,” Yevgeny supplied, grinning. “And baseball is boring as shit.”

Svetlana, hovering behind him, swatted Yevgeny in the back of his head as her son swore. Father and son grinned at one another.

“It'll be okay, bud. Keep kicking the ball around. If you want something bad enough you'll get it.” It was cheesy, and Mickey felt like an idiot coaching his son through tough times, especially through bulletproof glass, but Yevgeny grinned at him again like he hung the moon.

Mickey felt his heart swell with pleasure knowing he did that. Father-son bonding wasn't half bad.

“You are good, Misha,” Svetlana murmured to him when Yevgeny, slightly more mollified, handed the phone back to his mother.

“Yeah, whatever.”  But he grinned into his hand.

Who woulda thought that this little dude,  who came into the world the way he did, who Mickey hardly knew, would be the only reason for Mickey to keep moving forward?

Ian

Mickey is vibrating with rage.  Ian manages to steer him down the stairs and into their bedroom before Mickey boils over.

"Can you believe the fucking attitude on that kid?" he yells, tugging hard at his hair.  "He can't fucking talk to me like that!"

"I know," Ian agrees.  "But you can't react like that either."

Mickey kicks the door closed with his foot.

"If I would've dared opened my mouth to my dad like that- he has no fuckin' clue-"

"I know," Ian says again.  "Calm down."

"Don't tell me to fuckin' calm down," Mickey snaps back.  He does though, a little.  He sits heavily on their bed, rubbing a hand over his face.  "I wasn't gonna hit him," he mutters finally.

Ian sits next to him, tugging Mickey into his arms.

"I know," he says against Mickey's temple.

"Jesus, if you say that one more time-"

Ian chuckles a little despite the anger still evident in Mickey's tone.

"I wasn't," Mickey insists again.  "I was just gonna scare him a little."

"Think it worked."

Mickey scrubs at his face and takes a deep breath.

"Sorry if I scared you."

Ian shakes his head, smiling faintly.

"You've never scared me."

Mickey's eyebrows shoot up.

"Never?  Not even with a tire iron about to slam into your skull?"

Ian laughs outright.  Their first real encounter.  It's a good memory.

"Maybe, until you poked me with your half chub."

Mickey grins too, slyly.

"Shoulda beat your ass instead, saved me a lot of trouble," he teases, and Ian chuckles again, even though the offhand comment sorta twinges in his heart a little.

Mickey sighs again as the seriousness of the moment returns.

"Told me I didn't love him as much as the rest of you," Mickey tells his hands.

"Did you tell him that was bullshit?"

"Tried."  Mickey shrugs.  "Ain't always great about getting my point across."  He rubs at his eyes.  "Kid has no idea.  No fucking clue that the only reason I got out is cuz I had him to get back to."

Ian swallows around the lump in his throat and blinks away the burning sensation in his eyes.

"Told me he didn't want to be my kid.  He called me a-" Mickey stops before he repeats the word, sholders slumping.

Ian winces.  That had been an uncalled for low blow.  And Yevgeny knew that.

Still, Ian can't help but defend the kid a little.  It's only natural, given both his biological parents' inclination for nasty insults when they feel cornered.  It's in Yevgeny's blood.

"Because he knew it'd make you the maddest.  You told him he couldn't go to his game on Saturday."

"What, were you listening at the door or some shit?" Mickey barks incredulously.

"You weren't exactly having a quiet conversation," Ian reminds him.

"He deserves to skip the game.  He was disrespecting you," insists Mickey defensively.

"I'm not arguing."  Ian holds up his hands.  "But he's sort of got a point about that." Mickey stares at him.  "I mean-" Ian hastens to explain, "-we haven't really ever talked to him about it.  Or asked him what sort of relationship he wants with me.  I mean, I thought it was obvious, but I guess it wasn't."

"He don't got a choice!  You're my partner!  You're his other parent!"

Ian raises an eyebrow.

"That same rule apply to that guy Svet's dating too?"

Mickey shakes his head, exasperated.

"Fuck that guy.  Now you're just being a fuckhead.  You know that's different.  You've been in the kid's life longer than I have!"

"You saying you'd be okay with him calling me 'dad'?  If he wanted to?"  Ian's heart skips at the idea.  He'd thought about it a little, the first time they'd played house back when he was just a teenager himself.  And then when they'd finally rekindled it seemed like Yevgeny might be too old to want to go there.  To think of Ian as 'dad'.  He'd never indicated a desire to, but it's been obvious for a while now that Yevgeny is jealous of Nadia's relationship with her three parents.  Maybe Yev would want that.

They've let this go on too long.

"Why the fuck would I have a problem with that?  Course he could call you dad if he wanted."  Mickey runs his hand through the short hair at the back of Ian's neck.  They each move forward simultaneously, on instinct, touching their foreheads together.  "You're his dad, same as me.  Probably rather have you than me."

Ian shakes his head.  "No way.  I'm unstable."

Ian's had to rely on Mickey more than he ever has anyone in the past year, with med changes and sharp mood swings ruling their lives for a good chunk of time.  It's been really fucking rough, but it's better now.  Still, he doesn't regret making Mickey put Dr. Arnold's number on speed dial.  You never know.

Ian swallows the guilt that his disorder has not only interfered with his and Mickey's relationship, but Mickey and Yevgeny's as well.

Mickey's eyebrows furrow and he opens his mouth to hotly refute Ian's last point, but is interrupted by a quick rap on the open door.

"Strange time to fuck, don't you think?" Svetlana teases from the doorway, and the men pull apart quickly on instinct.  "V came to pick up Nadezhda so we can deal with problem."

Mickey groans as the men untangle themselves and rise.

"Let's make a game plan first," Ian tells them as they move up the basement stairs one by one, Mickey bringing up the rear.  Svetlana turns around to give him her you're-an-idiot look.

"Ain't he gonna hear us up here?" Mickey wonders aloud just before Svetlana opens the door at the top of the stairs and muffled heavy metal greets them.  "Right."  Mickey sucks his lips into his mouth and shakes his head. "Fucking teenagers."

"You were his age once," Ian reminds him.  He pauses, poking Mickey in the ribs.  "Actually, he's not much older than me when you and me started hooking up."

Mickey and Svetlana turn to him with identical disgusted faces.

"Really, Gallagher?"  Mickey shakes his head.

"I do not need that image of my son in my head.  Or the two of you."  Svetlana shudders.  She goes to the stove to put the kettle on as Mickey and Ian sit heavily in their chairs. The dinner dishes haven't even been picked up yet. "Tell me everything," Svetlana orders. "I took Nadezhda away and did not hear.  It must have gone badly?"

Mickey glances at Ian, then down at his hands.  Svetlana leans against the counter, hand on her hip, and waits.

"Little shit sassed back to me so I grounded him," Mickey says, tone defensive.  Svetlana is usually the punisher, Mickey the enforcer.  And Ian gets to play good cop.

"What did he say?" Svetlana asks.

Mickey glances over at Ian again and Ian kicks out his legs, trapping one of Mickey's between his own.  Support, without getting too mushy.  Sometimes Svetlana doesn't like obvious displays of affection.

"Told me I didn't give a shit about him.  Said some stuff about Ian."  Softer, he adds, "called me a faggot."

It's Svetlana and Ian's turn to look at the ground.  Now each of Mickey's three most loved family members have used that word against him.

"That is my fault," Svetlana admits lowly, pouring hot water into three mugs.

"Nah, it's not."  Mickey shrugs.  "I'm sure the kids at school say that shit about us all the time."

"You think he might be confused- you know- about his own sexuality?" Ian wonders out loud.  Yevgeny must think about it, coming from a gay man and a bisexual woman.  Ian wonders if it bothers Yev, having gay parents, now that he's older.  Another thing that straight parents don't have to worry about.

Mickey snorts.

"He ain't gay.  Borrowed his phone to look something up once.  He's into some weird shit, but it ain't guys."

Ian nearly spits out his tea.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Ian demands as Svetlana balks.

"His business.  We all got our kinks, don't we?" He smirks at Ian and teases lowly, "You're the one who wanted to try a golden show-" he grunts, still grinning, as Ian, horrified, punches him hard in the shoulder before he can finish that sentence.

"We are changing the subject now," Svetlana insists loudly, coming to sit finally.  "I do not want to hear anymore about it."  Svetlana shudders.  "And once he was so sweet and innocent."

They lapse into silence.  It's comforting to know that Ian's not the only one who doesn't know where to begin.  Sometimes it's hard to forget that, as much as he is present, a co-parent, he has no real authority over his children.  No legal rights.

"He don't gotta miss the game," Mickey says finally.  "Shouldn't have done that."

"Alright," Svetlana agrees, and Ian nods too.  They don't want to totally crush Yev's spirits.  "But it is school and home for two weeks.  And I will make him busboy at the Alibi."

"Okay," Mickey accepts.  "But he's gotta apologize to Ian."

"And to you," Ian reminds him.  "Especially to you."

"And we gotta- I don't know.  Something's up with him. He- he told me he wished he weren't my kid."  Mickey sniffs and lifts his mug to his lips, then sets it back down again.  He doesn't really like tea.

"Mick, kids say that shit when they're mad.  I did," Ian placates.

"Me too," Svetlana agrees.

Mickey gives them the famous incredulous eyebrows.

"That supposed to be comforting?"

They all chuckle a little at that.  The three of them together have some of worst parents on the planet.

"I gotta spend more time with him," Mickey says.

"Me too," says Ian.  "I don't want him thinking-  I want him to know I think of him as my son."

Svetlana claps her hands loudly, startling the men.

"Enough whining.  Let's do this, shall we?"

And all three of them square their shoulders, gathering strength from one another as they prepare to face the wrath of their teenager.

Yevgeny

His mother comes for him.  He's almost glad to see her- at least it isn't dad or Ian.

"иди сюда," she says sternly to him, turning off his music.  Come here.

He debates just lying there in bed, but his mom gives him a look that says try it, and Yevgeny gets up, because maybe Svetlana really is scarier than the others.

His dad and Ian are waiting for him in the kitchen.  Yevgeny stares at the space between their shoulders.  All of them together like this, three against one, makes him feel like he's getting interrogated.  And it blows.

He does feel bad.  He knows he overreacted and said shit he didn't mean.  But he's not wrong.

"Yevgeny," Ian starts, like he always does, while dad glares.

"What," Yevgeny snaps back, his mouth already doing that thing where it speaks before his brain can think.

Great, really great way to start, he scolds himself.  He'd given himself a pep talk in his room while he waited for the inevitable, like maybe if he could just keep it together and act right they'd let him go to his game Saturday.

Ian sighs.

"We need you to apologize for disrespecting us," he says slowly.

"Sorry," Yev says quickly, automatically.

"Like you mean it, asshole," Dad chides, and Ian elbows him.

"Sorry," Yev says again with a little more false feeling, and he meets his dad's eyes, then quickly drops them.  Dad's angry, definitely, but he's also hurt.  Yev is an asshole.  Softer, he adds, "I didn't mean it."

"Did not mean what?" Mom prompts.

"Well I meant some of it.  Just not-" he looks a little helplessly at his dad "-you know."

"You got a problem with your old man being gay?" Dad asks him.  Everything he says with his tone of voice sounds like a confrontation or the prelude to a fight, but Yevgeny's learning that it's just the way he talks.  It's hard to remember that when he's upset though.

"No," Yev answers honestly.  He'd truly never given it much thought at all.  He'd been a little disturbed when he'd done some research back when Mickey first got out of prison, but he got over it quick.

"But your buddies do," dad presses.

Yevgeny shrugs.

"Maybe.  Not so much anymore."  He kinda wants to tell him about how badass and terrifying his friends now find Mickey, but that would reveal his secret about telling his friends about prison, and he doesn't need his mom all over him right now too.  She's being pretty fucking chill about all this, considering.

"We will not use that word anymore.  Any of us," mom says, looking hard at all three of them.  Ian nods and opens his mouth to go next.

"Should've told you a long time ago, but Yevgeny-" Ian's eyes bore into his and Yevgeny has to look away "-since you were born I've wanted you to be mine.  I think of you as mine, and I'd go back in time and do lots of things differently-" Ian grabs Mickey's hand under the table, then looks at Svetlana, and the three adults in the room share a look that Yevgeny can't read and doesn't understand "-but you being born isn't one of them."

His mother pats delicately at her eyes with a tissue and dad squirms in his seat.

Yevgeny feels awkward.  He's not really sure what Ian's getting at here.   It seems to make more sense to the rest of them.

"Okay.  Cool."  He'd been hoping for and expecting to have to give an apology, getting lectured on respecting his elders or whatever, and he'd be on his way.

Ian is looking at him like he has more to say and is about to cry. Fuck.

"I'm saying I think of you as my son.  Is that- is that okay with you?"

When Yev was a little kid and would get down about his dad being locked up, sometimes he would fantasize about Ian being his dad.  Ian was strong and handsome and funny and always let Yev pick out whatever he wanted from the menu when he took him out to eat.

He shouldn't have said that shit about Ian, either.  He knows Ian loves him.  And he loves Ian too.

"Yeah," Yevgeny says finally.  "I- yeah.  You're my dad too."  He sniffs, and Ian turns proud, affectionate eyes to Mickey, who smirks back.  Yevgeny thinks of something. "But I wanna call you Ian still.  Otherwise it's like, confusing."

"Oh."  Ian's face falls.  "Sure."

Yevgeny looks away.  He doesn't want to hurt his feelings, but it's how he feels.  Yeah they're his parents, but dad's Dad, and Ian's Ian.  Yevgeny isn't a little kid anymore.  He's too old to start calling Ian something different now.  And besides, like, who the fuck would come running if he just shouted out 'dad'?  (He is not calling anyone papa.)

"You can go to your game, alright?" His dad tells him out of nowhere, sounding both agitated and apologetic at the same time, like he feels bad but doesn't want to.  Yevgeny knows the feeling.

Yevgeny's jaw drops.

"Are you fucking serious?"  He'd been hoping for this outcome, but he thought it was a long shot.

"Watch your fucking language," Mickey snaps back (and Ian snorts and mom outright laughs at the irony).  "Yeah, you can go, but you're still grounded as fuck."

"Two weeks," Mom adds.  "To school and to home and that is it."

Honestly, Yevgeny's just elated he won't have to miss the game.  He tries to hide it though, so they don't realize it and think he got off too easy.

"Fine," he mutters.

"Look, kid," Dad says, rubbing his lips.  "You think I really wanna go to some girly dance recital instead of watch your game?"

Yevgeny considers this.

"No?"

"Fuckin' right I don't.  But it's just the way it is.  Sometimes shit ain't fair.  We gotta split our time.  And you and me'll go see one of those stupid superhero movies you like when you're done being punished.  Alright?"

Yev doesn't get it, not really, because dad just said he'd rather go to Yevgeny's game, and what would Nadia care if Ian went instead of dad?  And it's obvious dad's just placating him by offering to go to a movie.  But they're waiting on his acknowledgement, so Yev sort of half shrugs anyway.  Better to just get this shit over with.

Ian's good to have at his games too.  Whatever.  He'll probably record the whole thing like a total loser anyway.  Dad can watch it after.

"Can I go now?"  He stares at his hands and waits for one of them to say okay, but it doesn't come, so he looks up, and then regrets it.  Ian's confused, mom's irritated, but worst of all is his dad.  He's got a look on his face that's etched in Yevgeny's brain.  He saw it every time he and mom left dad behind the glass in prison, promising to come back in two weeks.

Yev doesn't wait any longer for an answer.  He stands up and leaves the table before he cries like a little girl.

When he gets to his room he picks up Hatchet and puts it back in it's place on the bedside table.

Chapter Text

Svetlana

She wakes slowly to the soft nuzzling of a cheek agains her own.  It is too hot to sleep so close to another body, but she will always make an exception for this body.

Nadezhda sighs and rolls over in her sleep, kicking out her legs as she does so.  Svetlana moves further out of her way, because while she loves the snuggles, she can do without the bodily harm.  Nadia has always been a restless sleeper, especially as she approaches wakefulness.

"Mmm," the man on Svetlana's other side suddenly groans suggestively into her neck, kissing below her earlobe.  Svetlana arches back on instinct, then pushes him away, remembering.

"We have company," she whispers to him in Russian.  Vlad groans again, this time out of frustration.

"Nadezhda again?  Can't she sleep with your husbands?"

Svetlana rolls her eyes.  She hates it when Vlad calls them that.

"Bring her all the way to the basement when my bed is steps away?  No."

Carefully, they extract themselves from the bed and shuffle together into the adjoining bathroom.

"I don't think Misha would be happy to know that his daughter sometimes sleeps in a bed with me," Vlad tells her as he goes to the toilet to relieve himself.

"You are correct," Svetlana agrees.  "And do not call him Misha."

"Why not?  You do."

She glares at him as they switch places.

"I am his wife.  You are my boyfriend."

"Fiancé," Vlad corrects, and they share a secretive smile.  "When are we telling them?"

Svetlana flushes the toilet and catches her own reflection in the mirror.  The woman in front of her has aged seemingly overnight.  She smooths away the frown lines on her forehead only to scowl when they reappear.  Probably only making more wrinkles.

"Sveta?" Vlad prompts.  "When will you tell him you want a divorce?"

Svetlana sighs.  They haven't spoken about it, she and Mickey.  Not since he returned from prison, when they'd decided to continue the marriage for Yevgeny's sake, and because there was no real reason not to at the time.  And she knew then, that Mickey had felt a duty.  To protect her and provide for her, because she had been there for him when he had needed her.  That sense of duty has not gone away for him, even after over five years back at home. 

"Never, if I can help it," she says honestly, and Vlad deflates a little.  Svetlana reaches out to soothe away the stress lines on Vlad's forehead too, then pulls her hand away and rests it on his chest instead.  He is too young for her. (Mickey reminds her of that often.) Vlad can afford to gain a wrinkles.  It will make her feel less like she is taking a baby from his cradle.

She had met Vlad at Yevgeny's school (a fact her son truly loathes).  Vlad was running a booth on Russian culture during multi-cultural in the gym. Mickey and Yevgeny had been keen to simply move from booth to booth sampling the foods and had passed over the Russian booth ("We eat enough of that shit at home," Mickey had said) but Ian lingered with her.  Sometimes it is nice, the way the two of them can balance one another out, sweet when the other is sour.

Vlad introduced himself as a history major at Chicago State, who came to the high school to earn extra credit.  His parents were immigrants from Russia, and Svetlana jumped at the chance to speak her native tongue.  Vlad mistook Ian for her husband, of course, as people often do when they are together.

"No," Ian had laughed.  "I'm her husband's lover."  And that was the ice breaker that had started everything.

She and Vlad have been seeing one another for one and a half years now.  In May, Vlad asked her to marry him.  And she had said yes.

He may be too young, but he is beautiful and energetic and tries his best with the children.  And he wants to help her become a citizen.  Svetlana would be lying if she said that it was not a selling point.

Also, perhaps she is ready for an excuse to not live with Mickey and Ian any longer.  It is lonely, watching the two of them love one another.

"I will tell them as soon as the time is right, Vova," she assures him.  "Let us start by getting through today, and see if you would still like to be around."

 "No, I love hanging out with your husband, your ex-boyfriend and your ex-girlfriend in one room," Vlad teases cheekily.  "What could go wrong?"

Svetlana shrugs.

"There will be explosives," she reminds him with a smirk.

Mickey: Year 2

"Seriously?" Mickey grumbled as he pulled a 300 from the 600 section.  "How fucking hard is it to put a book back where it belongs?"

"You talkin' to yourself again, Milky?" Truman chortled from the tables.

"Fucking assholes can't respect the Dewey fucking Decimal System," Mickey complained.  "Ain't that hard. The three comes before the six."  Mickey shook his head.  "Fucking pea brains."  He stomped out of the stacks and added it to his cart of books to return.  Truman snorted again.

"Laugh it up, but if I find you sneaking that law book in with the computer science shit again I'mma beat you bloody with it."

Truman shut up quick enough after that. Truman was a nice guy.  Big thick glasses, intellectual type.  Swore up and down he was innocent and spent an hour a day poring over the legal aid section.  It was Mickey's most popular section by far, and always the most wrecked.

It had felt like a punishment, initially, when he'd been given his job assignment.  Some pansy ass pity work. But back then every movement or labored breath twinged in his side, so he embraced sitting on his ass for a while.  Plus, in just the first couple months he found a shit ton of contraband hiding within the stacks, including a dead cell phone, three shivs, a bag full of pubes (what the fuck?) and an assortment of pills, which he gave to Trav to test out in exchange for cigarettes.

But, the surprise of all surprises: Mickey discovered he sorta liked reading.  He wasn't very good at it- he'd always been told that in school anyway so he'd given up trying around fifth grade.  But there was fuck all else to do in prison, especially sitting in that smelly old library, so Mickey picked up a fucking book.

It was a lot like watching a movie, only you saw the pictures in your head.  Kinda cool, because Mickey could make the people look however he wanted them to look.  It took more effort than watching a movie, so that was harder to get used to, and it gave him a headache sometimes, but it kept him real busy.  Sometimes he'd even get pissed off when the lights would go out and he hadn't gotten to a good stopping point.

There was lots of shit he could never even dream about in books.  Like the fucking Hunger Games, that shit was crazy.  He vaguely remembered watching the movie while high with Iggy, but the book was a shit ton better.  It took him like two weeks to read, though.

Mickey kicked Truman out an hour later, after he'd finished re-shelving, then stuck his favorite book under his arm and headed back to his cell before supper.

He was just starting to get comfortable (well, as comfortable as he could get on his squeaky thin mattress) when Trav entered, groaning.

"My fucking back," Trav whined.  "They had us digging holes for a new fence.  Like being in a fucking chain gang."

Mickey arched a brow.

"Could use a little more muscle anyway," he taunted.

"That what you're into?" teased Trav, grinning and ducking as Mickey whipped his book at him.  Trav bent down to pick it up and tossed it back to Mickey, not even glancing at the title.  "Why're you always reading, anyway?"

 "Cuz there ain't anything better to do."  Mickey shrugged.

Trav flopped down on his own bed, then grimaced, rubbing a sore spot on his back.

"Used to like reading, before I dropped out," Trav said, stretching out and cracking his back with a twist.  "Shit, that feels good."

"So pick up a fucking book then."

Trav, sniffed, rolling his head lazily in Mickey's direction.

"You read to me instead, how bout."

"Fuck off."

Trav laughed and mirrored Mickey's raised middle finger.

"Been thinkin' about trying for my GED though," Trav confessed, a little bashfully.

What the fuck for?" Mickey wondered.  "Don't you got like, twenty years to serve?"

"Yeah, and another thirty on the outside if I'm lucky.  Gotta try to make something out of myself when I get out."

"Yeah, cuz a GED'll totally cancel out that felony," snorted Mickey.

"Hey, don't crush my dream, man.  You gotta have something to live for in this shithole, right?  Otherwise what's the fucking point?"

Mickey chewed on his lip and absently ghosted his fingers over his chest tattoo.  He thought of Yevgeny, and wondered how Svetlana was supporting him with Mickey in the can.  Honestly, she was probably doing just fine.  Bitch was resourceful. And by the time he got out the kid would probably be calling some other asshole dad, anyway.

"Fuck that," Mickey decided.

"Whatever," Trav rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  "My scores would have kicked your scores' ass, anyway." He shot Mickey a sneaky grin, and Mickey sat up straighter.

"The fuck they would."

Trav squinted at him, then asked, "What grade'd you finish?"

"What does it matter?" Mickey bristled.  Trav laughed.

"So, not very high I'm guessing.  That's good.  Good for me."  Trav nodded to himself.

"I ain't falling for the bait, man," Mickey scoffed.

"Yeah, cuz you know you'll lose."  Trav tossed Mickey a wide, shit-eating grin.  Mickey shook his head, unable to resist smirking back.

"Fuck you is what I'll do."

Too late, he realized what he said.  Trav choked back laughter and Mickey whipped his book at him again. This time it caught him in the shoulder, and Trav made a satisfying yelp of pain.  But he didn't toss it back to Mickey like last time.  Instead he opened to page one and started reading.

"Brian Robeson stared out the window of the small plane at the endless green northern wilderness below.  It was a small plane, a Cessna 406.  A bush plane.  And the engine was so loud, so roaring and consuming and loud that it ruined any chance of conversation.  Not that he had much to say."

Mickey thought about demanding that Trav stop, but he had a nice reading voice, actually.  A lot less choppy than Mickey's, even when he read silently in his own head.

Mickey laid back down and closed his eyes.

Trav picked them both up GED prep packets from Wilson's office the next day, and Mickey ignored them all day as they sat there on their shared shelf.  

"Hope you didn't tell Wilson the other packet was for me," grumbled Mickey, tugging his blanket further around himself that night after lights out.

"What, you trying to impress Wilson by being an idiot?" Trav jibed as he flipped over to look at Mickey in the dim light. "Test looks harder than I thought," he admitted.  "Tons of math shit.  Only thing I know how to do is add and subtract."

"I'll help you with the math, man," Mickey offered.  He used to correct Ian's math homework for him every once in a while in the beginning. Mostly just to enjoy the shocked look on Ian's face.  "Long as you teach me all about the Civil War."

"That the one where we fought the British?" Trav wondered.

"Jesus," Mickey groaned.  "Never mind."

"So this means you'll do it, then?" Trav grinned slyly at him.  Mickey shrugged.

"Whatever.  Got fuck all else to do."  They stared at one another for a beat too long, until Mickey turned around again.  “Cold as fuck tonight.”  Mickey shivered and wrapped the scratchy blanket tighter around himself.

“I run hot. Want my blanket?” Trav offered.

“No,” Mickey ground out.

He heard Trav’s bed creak and the padding of his bare feet on concrete as he took the three steps to Mickey's bunk.

“The fuck?” Mickey barked as the bed dipped. He turned away from the wall and yanked back on his blanket when Trav tried to snatch it from him.

“Move over and let me in!” Trav ordered.

“Fuck that! Go back to your own bed before I make you!”

“Your toes are fuckin’ icicles,” Trav commented mildly as he wormed his way next to Mickey. “Haven't you ever had a sleepover before?”

“No.” Trav was pretty warm. The chill in his bones was already leaving.

“Not even with Ian Gallagher?” Trav teased.

Mickey shoved him hard off the bed. Trav groaned between his laughter. When he got up and tried to get back in the bed again, Mickey didn't stop him this time.

“So what's the holdup? We doing this or what?” Trav asked him, tone flat but eyes suggestive in the faint light.

Mickey considered.

“Get on your fucking hands and knees then,” he ordered, and Trav grinned, moving to do as he was told.

Mickey hadn't fucked anyone in years.  Not since Ian's attempt at medication in the weeks before Mickey was arrested.  And not very often before that, either.  But Trav didn't need to know that.

"Spit," Mickey directed, holding out his palm.  He added his own saliva too and then slicked himself up, his body already responding to what was going to happen.  Mickey sat back on his haunches and palmed the left cheek of Trav's exposed ass, unable to stop himself.  Then he pressed forward.  Trav hummed and then hissed as Mickey breached his hole.  Maybe Mickey should have prepped him.  He wasn't usually the top.  Hadn't ever really required much prep himself when he was getting it on the regular.  "You good?" he asked, feeling a little guilty for his hasty entrance.

"I'm ready," Trav groaned.  "Jesus."

 "You've done this before, right?"

Trav muffled his laugh into Mickey's pillow.

"Have you?" Trav challenged teasingly, and that was all Mickey needed to hear.  He set a quick pace and Trav matched him thrust for thrust, grunting softly into the pillow.  "There," he groaned when Mickey hit his sensitive spot.  "Fuck."

Mickey didn't mean to be a minute man, but it had been a long time.  As Trav clenched tight around him, Mickey's orgasm rose out of nowhere, and he bit his lip as he released, gripping Trav's hips tight.  Fuck, he hoped he hadn't left any bruises.  For Trav's sake.

He thought about apologizing for his shitty performance as he collapsed on the bed next to Trav, but though better of it.  This wasn't a relationship.  It was nothing.  It was getting off.  Next to him, Trav jerked himself into his boxers, moaning into the pillow as he finished.  They lay there together for a minute as each man caught his breath.  Finally, Trav sat up, the bed creaking under his weight.

"Thanks," Trav said, and although Mickey wasn't looking at his face, he could tell Trav was grinning.

Shit.

Ian

They've taken to having sex right away in the morning on the weeks of Ian's day shifts.  It's the longest amount of time between Ian's two med doses and the best chance of Ian being able to get it up without a little blue pill.

He never imagined he'd be in one of those relationships where they had scheduled sex.  Sometimes he gets nostalgic for the spontaneous, frequent sex they used to have when they were teenagers.

Mickey takes it in stride, of course, like he does most things concerning Ian's disorder.  And they try to relieve the monotony by switching it up every once in a while.  This morning they're in the shower, and Ian grips hard onto the curtain rod as the cooling water slams his back while Mickey works him languidly with his hands and mouth.

Ian grunts his release and teases his fingers through Mickey's wet hair as Mickey leans his head against Ian's thigh, catching his breath.

"Help me up," Mickey demands, and Ian grips him by the elbow and hauls him back up.  They switch positions and Mickey opens his mouth into the stream of water and spits.  "You used all the fuckin' hot water," he complains, shivering a little.

"Not my fault you took your time," teases Ian, crowding closer to Mickey's chest to offer him warmth.  He still feels on fire from his orgasm.

"Speaking of, we gotta get a fucking cushioned bath mat or something.  My knees hurt."

Ian chuckles as he hands over the shampoo.  Getting older has snuck up on them.  Mickey's hairline is starting to recede a little, and Ian's got a little bit pudgy in the middle that no amount of exercise seems to make go away.  His metabolism isn't quite as fast anymore, and his latest cocktail of meds doesn't help anything.  He'd consider ditching these particular meds if it weren't for the fact that he'd never felt more stable.  Being unable to get it up on his own and getting a little fat were preferable to being certain that the woman who bumped into him on the train had embedded a tracking chip in his arm.

Ian could probably get out of the shower and let Mickey bathe in peace now that he's clean and satisfied, but he leans back and watches Mickey as he goes about washing his hair and body, eyes closed and moving quickly to get out of the lukewarm water.

"You get your knuckles touched up?" Ian asks Mickey when he zeroes in on the heavy black lettering on Mickey's fingers.  "Seem a little sharper."

"Yeah.  Couple days ago," Mickey says, glancing down briefly and flexing his fingers  "Brought the kid to that new tattoo parlor that opened up to start thinkin' about what he wants.  Turns out a buddy of mine runs it."

Svetlana had flipped her shit when she discovered Yevgeny and Iggy's plans to indoctrinate Yev into the Milkovich family rite of passage.  Mickey had been secretly pleased that Yevgeny wanted to emulate his old man with some knuckle tattoos of his own, but they'd all come up with a compromise.  Yevgeny could get a tattoo somewhere on his body that wouldn't hinder future employment opportunities.

But Ian's still stuck on the fact that Mickey knows someone that Ian doesn't.

"A buddy," Ian repeats.  "Like, a friend?"

Mickey opens his eyes and gives him the eyebrow.

"What are you fucking implying?"

Ian laughs and smacks Mickey sharply on the flank, getting momentarily distracted by the way the thick muscle jiggles under his hand.

"Thought I knew all your buddies."

"Well you don't."  Mickey turns into the stream of water.  "It's a guy from prison," he says into the water.

"Huh."  Ian waits, but Mickey doesn't expound.  "I'd like to meet this buddy sometime."

"Sure," Mickey says after a beat.  "Sometime."  He turns the water off and steps out of the shower.  Conversation closed.

Ian purses his lips as he watches Mickey dry off.  He senses something isn't right, but he's not sure what.  Maybe Mickey doesn't want his old prison friend to know he's gay?

"You gonna stand there all day?" Mickey prompts, tossing Ian his towel from the hook.  "We gotta get fucking moving if we want to get to Fiona's by eleven.  Still gotta pick up a case on my way."

"Sorry."  Ian starts moving again, and Mickey suddenly grins conspirationally.

"Let's hope Vlad still hasn't taken a shower yet."

Ian shakes his head.  Mickey's never had any problem with the men and women Svet's casually dated before, but Vlad gets under his skin.  Probably because this is as serious as Svetlana's been about anyone in a long time.  And also probably because Nadia adores him.

Hours later and they're all piling into Vlad's car.  Yevgeny, Mickey, and Ian squish side by side in the back and Nadia perches on Ian's lap.  She's already wearing her American flag swimsuit, and she chatters nearly the whole way there about all of the fireworks uncle Liam promised to light with her later.

In the front seat, Vlad mutters something to Svetlana in Russian and she shrieks and swats him.

"You two better not be sayin' inappropriate shit up there.  We got fucking kids here," Mickey snaps.

"Heard you complaining about getting Ian's ball hairs stuck on your tongue the other day, so."  Yevgeny smirks.

Mickey flushes as Ian snorts.

"He's got you there, Mick."

"You have hairy balls, papa?" Nadia wonders innocently, scratching her fingers through the scruff on Ian's chin.  "Where are they?"

Yevgeny starts laughing so hard that he chokes on his gum, and Mickey thunks him hard on the back.

"Where are they?" Nadia asks again, more persistently, now that she knows she doesn't get the joke.

"Hey, look, we're here!" Ian shouts as a distraction as Vlad pulls in front of the Gallagher house.  Nadia shrieks and opens the car door before they've even come to a complete stop, then shimmies off Ian's lap, ignoring the four adults' shouts of protests as she scampers off.

"Too bad she ain't got any other little kids to play with," Mickey comments as he slides out of Ian's open door after him.  "Who'd have fucking thought that this generation of Gallaghers would be so smart about birth control?"

"Guess we learned from our parents' mistakes."  Ian shrugs.  "That, and I can't knock you up."

Mickey shoves him hard.

"Happy Fourth of July!" Fiona cries as she comes around the corner of the house.  "You're just in time for lunch!"  She pulls Ian into a quick hug and then does the same for Mickey, who awkwardly pats her back.  "Hey Vlad.  Glad you could make it!"

"Wouldn't miss it," Vlad tells Fiona sincerely, pulling her into a hug.  Mickey pulls a face and Svetlana smacks him.

Fiona leads them to the backyard, where the Balls have already set up camp in their lawn chairs.  Carl's manning the grill this year while his new girlfriend, a pretty yet vapid looking blonde, scrolls through her cell phone as she sits behind him on the steps.

"Hey," Carl greets, slapping palms with Mickey and punching Ian on the shoulder.  "Hope you're hungry.  Brittany's dad's a butcher so he hooked us up."  He opens the grill and smoke and flames billow out.  "Oh shit!"

"Shoulda let me handle it, I'm telling you," Kev chastises from his lawn chair, scratching his balls with one hand while taking a drink of his beer with the other.

"Where's Lip and Debs?" Ian wonders.  Fiona flops down in her own chair and rolls her eyes.

"Lip's late, obviously.  And Debbie-"

"Right here," Debbie announces, coming around the corner with Nadia in tow, wearing a tiny black bikini.  Mickey makes a comically startled expression and stares awkwardly from Debbie's ample chest to Ian's face and back again.

"Think you've managed to confuse Mickey straight, Debs," Fiona teases.

"Nice tits, Debbie," Kev calls, earning a smack from V, and a round of glares from Debbie's family.

"I look great."  Debbie flips her hair over her shoulder.  "Don't I?" She pokes Nadia in the tummy.

"I wanna wear a swimsuit like Debbie's too!" Nadia chants.

"In ten years, yes," Svetlana offers mildly.

"Over my dead fucking body," Mickey grumbles at the same time as Ian's outcry of "no fucking way!"

"Uh, guys, if you still want this stuff to kinda taste like meat we better get started."  Carl is plating very black burgers, looking a little sheepish.

There's a lot of people, and a lot of food. The teenagers trickle out from wherever they've been hiding like the food is calling to them, then they disappear again.

"You hear back from him yet?" Carl is asking Mickey as they load up plates next to one another.  Ian looks up, curious, in time to see Mickey skitter his eyes away from Ian and shake his head minutely.

"Hear back about what?" Ian asks loudly, because now that it's obvious he's not supposed to know something, his interest is piqued.

"Nothin', just waitin' on some parts I ordered for my bike," Mickey says, shrugging.

"Your bike hasn't run in two years," Ian points out suspiciously.

"Which is exactly why I need new fucking parts."  Mickey shakes his head like Ian's the idiot here, but Ian knows it's a front. Ian looks over to Carl, who just shrugs, face impassive.  No one has a better poker face than Carl, not even Lip.

"Which parts did you order?" he asks mildly, hoping to catch him in the lie.

"A new, uh-" Mickey hesitates.

"Fuel pump," Carl supplies on cue.  "Wasn't that it?"

Ian glares at the both of them, shaking his head.

"Really, guys?"

Carl shrugs, unbothered, but Mickey chews on his lip, then nods toward the back door.  Ian tosses his dry, blackened burger in the trash and follows him up the stairs.

"So what's going on?" Ian presses as soon as the back door shuts behind them.  "Who are you waiting to hear back from?"

"Told you I went to that tattoo parlor the other day."

"Yeah.  The one your buddy runs."

"Yeah."  Mickey nods, ignoring Ian's passive aggressive tone.  "He's looking for some help so I sorta applied."

Ian blinks.

"You applied for a job at a tattoo parlor?"

"Not to do tattoos or anything.  Like bookkeeping and office management and shit."  Mickey shrugs and stares at the ground.

"Holy shit, Mick.  That's awesome!"  Ian squeezes Mickey's shoulders.

"Yeah well, haven't heard anything back yet."

"You will," Ian insists.  "You said this guy and you go way back, right?"

"Yeah, but he's a businessman.  He ain't just gonna hire me on the spot cuz we hung out in the can."  Mickey snorts derisively.  "Least I know he don't care about the felony on my record."

"I didn't even know you wanted a new job, Mick."

Mickey scoffs.

"You hear me bitching about the Alibi all the time, don't you?"

"Yeah, but in fairness you bitch about everything," teases Ian, and Mickey flicks him in the arm.  "So how come you told Carl about this and not me?" Ian wonders, feeling a little hurt.  They try to make it a point to tell one another everything.  Or at least he thought they did.

Mickey moves forward and rests his forehead on Ian's shoulder, wrapping his arms around Ian's waist.

"Didn't want to disappoint you if I didn't get it," he mutters into Ian's t-shirt.  "Fucking embarrassing."

Ian pulls away far enough to look Mickey in the face.

"What the fuck?  Why would I be disappointed?"  Mickey shrugs.  "You're a fucking idiot if you think that," Ian's says matter of factly.

"Gee, thanks."  Mickey tries to extricate himself from Ian's arms, but Ian holds tight.

"Mick, I'm proud of you every second."

"What, for waking up every morning to go to my shitty ass job?  For managing to not get myself arrested?"

"Yup," Ian agrees.  "And for being an amazing dad to our kids and not strangling Vlad and for taking care of me."

"Alright, alright," Mickey concedes, and Ian allows him to pull away this time.  "Either I get it or I don't.  Don't even really want it anyway."

"Such a liar."  Ian shakes his head, smiling indulgently.  "Can't you have a little faith in yourself for once?"

"No," Mickey grumbles, but he shoots Ian a half grin.  "You do it for me."

"Okay.  You're getting this fucking job."

When they re-emerge into the backyard a little raw around the mouths, the party has moved to the pool, and Lip has arrived.  He's leaning against the porch railing, cigarette dangling from his lips, and he looks Ian and Mickey up and down, eyes sharp.

"Up to no good?" he teases coolly.

Mickey gives him the finger and strides past him, pulling off his t-shirt as he goes.  Ian gazes at his boyfriend's bare back for a moment before turning back to Lip.  "Everything good?" Lip prompts.

"Yup.  How bout with you?"

Lip grimaces.

"Me and Katie broke up."

"Oh, shit Lip.  Sorry." Ian pats Lip awkwardly on the shoulder and Lip looks away, hacking a loogie and spitting on the ground.  "What happened?"

"She wanted to get married."  Lip shrugs.

"And you didn't," Ian guesses.

"Obviously."  Lip rolls his eyes skyward.

"Why not?" Ian wonders.  Lip takes a long drag from his cigarette.

"Don't want to be tied down, I guess," he says finally.

"Lip.  You've been dating for years.  You're practically tied down already."

"Exactly!" Lip points a finger at Ian like he's just proved Lip's point.

"No, Lip, I'm saying if you're gonna be together, why not be married? Enjoy the tax benefits, or whatever."

"Is marriage important to you?" Lip wonders.  It's Ian's turn to roll his eyes.

"Obviously not," he answers.  "But if he wanted to I'd do it.  Because I love him."  

Lip smirks.

"That why you never pushed him to divorce Svetlana?" Lip wonders.

Ian turns his head and watches Mickey as he throws Nadia over his head and into the water of the pool.

"Partly," Ian answers honestly.  "Makes sense for the kids' shit.  Helped him out while he was in prison, too.  Being married to a woman.  Besides, I don't think it'll be much longer anyway."  Ian inclines his head towards Sevtlana and Vlad, who are laying together on a lounge chair and laughing at the pool antics.

"You think Vlad's the one?"  Lip wonders, following Ian's gaze.  Ian shrugs. 

"She wants him to be."  He knows Svetlana's anxious to find her life partner.  He sees the way she looks at him and Mickey sometimes.

Lip tosses his cigarette away.  Ian continues, "If you really love her I think you should reconsider.  Being married won't change much.  And it'll make her happy."

"Shouldn't she want to make me happy by not getting married?"

Ian laughs and shakes his head.

"Girls don't fuckin' work that way, Lip."

Lip sighs.

"You're lucky you're gay, man."

"Sure am," Ian agrees as he watches Mickey climb out of the pool, water dripping off his pale chest and swim trunks clinging to his legs.

"Jesus, keep it in your pants, would ya?" Lip whines, shifting his weight.  Ian smiles wryly.  If only he could get it up so easily.

"Ay, Opie, you coming in or you just gonna stand there all day?" Mickey yells over to him, and Ian gives Lip's shoulder one last squeeze and heads over to join the rest of them in the overcrowded and overflowing pool.

Later in the evening, as Nadia yawns in Mickey's arms and Ian yawns into Mickey's shoulder, Yevgeny, Dominic and Liam light off the fireworks Liam swiped.  Mickey kisses Ian, long and tender, as the finale lights up the sky.

Mickey: Year 3

"This is gonna look sick, man, if I do say so myself."  Fuentes told him as he sketched with a blue ballpoint pen on Mickey's back.  "Start with three, down here."  He pressed a finger into the fleshy part of Mickey's lower back.  "You got some fat here so shouldn't hurt too bad."

"Fuck off," Mickey snarked back, and Fuentes snickered.

"Glad you came back," Fuentes told him mildly as he prepared his tools.  "You got real nice skin for ink."

"This what you do in the real world?" Mickey asked through gritted teeth as the needle suddenly hit his skin.

"Ran my own shop.  Got into some bad business practices. The rest is history."

"Shit."

"Is what it is, man.  Got no regrets."

Mickey wished he could say the same.  If only he'd done things a little differently.  If he hadn't pushed Ian to be medicated.  If he hadn't fucking messed with Sammi.  If he'd never gotten involved with Ian Gallagher at all.

But things were getting better.  He didn't wake up in the morning confusing Trav's hot breath on his neck with Ian's anymore, on the nights Trav never made it back to his own bed.  He didn't wonder about Ian any free chance he got, and not because he was doing anything on purpose.  Time heals all wounds, or whatever.

Trav was a good distraction, too.

"So why the birds?" Fuentes wondered, pulling Mickey back from his thoughts.  Mickey cleared his throat.

"Dunno, man.  Just sorta came to me."

He hadn't thought too much about it really.  Just pictured it in his head, and it felt right.

"Birds symbolize freedom, 'specially birds flying away," Fuentes told him.  "Chicks get 'em a lot."

"Fuck, now you tell me," Mickey groaned. "Didn't think about it, honestly.  It don't mean anything."

"All tattoos mean somethin'," Fuentes argued mildly.  "Even if you ain't sure what."

Mickey stared down at his knuckles.  He'd gotten them when he was fifteen, a birthday present from his brothers.  He'd been waiting for that day since Joey got his.  It felt like tradition.  Like family.  And even though they often got him into more trouble than they were worth, he liked them.  They kinda made him who he was, not that it was anything to be proud of, really.

He glanced down at his other tattoo, that piece of shit name over his heart.  Fuentes must have followed the movement of his head, because he said, "got my fair share of names inked on my skin."  He pulled away from Mickey's back for a minute to show Mickey the looping writing on the inside of his right wrist.  Marla.  "Fucking bitch. But I keep her name on me anyway."

"Why?"

"Cuz she was my first kiss, and my first fuck.  Gave me my first kid.  Reminds me of all the good shit, and reminds me not to get in too deep with crazy ass bitches too."  Fuentes stopped working, leaning back to admire his handiwork.  "You're a bleeder.  I'll fill 'em in next time."

"Shit."  Mickey pressed his balled up wife beater to his back, then hissed.  Fuentes laughed at him.

"Next time you tell me about Ian."  Fuentes stood and gestured to Mickey's chest.  Mickey swiveled away on instinct, flushing.  "Relax, Milky, I don't give a shit, long as I get paid.  You think I ain't seen and heard it all?"  Fuentes snatched the stack of ramen noodle flavor packets and handful of loosies from the bed, and turned back, relaxed artist gone and shrewd businessman in his place. "Here's the deal.  You keep the supplies, so if you get caught you go down.  You try to finger me in anything and you get fucked up.  You want more work done you make an appointment."

"Yep."

Fuentes saluted and left without another word, and Mickey gingerly rolled over onto his stomach and closed his eyes.

He jerked awake when someone kicked at his leg.

"Hey," Trav said.  "Went with the birds, huh?  You're bleeding all over your bed."

"Don't give a shit," Mickey muttered into his blanket, moving his cheek out of the drool spot.

"You will tonight," predicted Trav.  He leaned over, inspecting the swollen skin.  "Gonna look good.  Symbolic."

"What is everyone's fucking obsession with symbolism today?" Mickey snarked sleepily. "They're just fucking birds."

"The birds are fucking?" Trav yelped.  "Now that's an interesting choice."

"I'mma kick your ass."  He groaned.  "Tomorrow."

"Maybe one day you'll get my name tattooed on you," Trav teased him, laughing as Mickey flipped him off.

"Fuck you.  You wish."

 Ian

"Ian."

A hand on his arm gently shakes him awake.  Ian sighs and rolls over on his side.  When he's alone in the bed he tends to starfish on his back.

"Hmm," he murmurs, keeping his eyes closed.  "Feels like I just fell asleep."  Overnight shifts aren't his favorite, but he doesn't mind being gently woken up by Mickey instead of a noisy alarm.

"Want me to open the curtains and give you a minute?" Mickey asks him, fingers carding through Ian's hair.  Ian pushes into the touch like a cat and hums again.

"No.  C'mere a minute."  He feels the sheets pull away from him and the bed creak down with Mickey's weight as he settles in next to Ian.  He smells like the Alibi.

"How was work?" Ian asks sleepily, burying his face in Mickey's shoulder.

"Real good."  Mickey kisses the top of Ian's head.  "Put my notice in today- ow! What the fuck!"

"Sorry." Ian had shot his head up so fast he'd clipped Mickey's chin.  "Did you just say what I think you said?"

"Said I put my notice in.  And then you made me bite down on my tongue!  Fuck!"

"C'mere you big baby."  Ian grins and kisses him, soothing Mickey's tongue with his own.  Mickey kisses back eagerly, then groans when Ian pulls away.

"Why'd you stop?"

"Cuz I need details, asshole.  This mean you got the job?"

"Yeah."  Mickey ducks his head a little, hiding his pleased smile.  "Gotta stop by tomorrow and fill out paperwork and shit.  It's a done deal."

"Mick, that's awesome!"  He swats Mickey on the chest.  "How'd Kev take it?"

"Think he might've shed a tear."  Mickey grins, despite himself.  "I am gonna miss that idiot.  Don't tell him I told you that."

Ian kisses Mickey again, and Mickey rolls them so he's leaning over Ian, bracing his weight on his forearms on either side of Ian's head.

"Got time to celebrate?" Mickey nips at Ian's neck and ruts lightly against Ian's leg.  Ian groans, frustrated.

"You know I can't.  Even if I had time."

"So take a pill on your way home in the morning and wake me up when you get here."  Mickey adjusts himself and climbs off.

"Not doing that again.  Got a stiffy on the train last time, remember?" Ian reminds him.  That had been one of the most embarrassing moments of his life.  Mickey huffs.  "Don't worry, Mick.  We're gonna celebrate, and I'm gonna make it worth your while."

"You better."  Mickey moves off the bed and goes to the window, opening the curtains to let in the early evening light.  "I'll go make you somethin' to eat.  Want eggs?"

"Yeah.  Thanks."

Mickey leaves him to it, and Ian crawls out of bed and heads directly into the shower.  He's got to start figuring out a plan to celebrate with Mickey.

They decide on dinner out, just the two of them, on Ian's first day off, and they dress up a little and head downtown.  Ian loves being out in public, an obvious couple, with Mickey.  As they eat Mickey catches Ian's leg between his own and holds it there, keeping them connected.

"So tell me what it's gonna look like," Ian encourages.  "You're gonna do bookkeeping and shit?"

"Yeah.  Like a glorified secretary I guess. Order new supplies and all that."

"They got healthcare?" Ian asks, stabbing a baby potato with his fork.  Mickey blinks.

"Shit.  Kinda forgot to ask that.  Doubt it, though."  Ian nods.  He supposes Mickey can get an individual plan.  He'll pay up the nose for it, though.

"So what's your salary?" Ian wonders.  Mickey's eyes widen, and he reaches for his beer, opting to take a big swig rather than answer.  "Jesus," Ian groans.  "You said this place was legit!"

"It fuckin' is, alright?  I just- forgot to ask a few questions!"

"A few important questions," Ian chides.

Mickey kicks Ian none too gently in the shin.

"It'll be fine," he insists, though he doesn't look too sure himself.  "If it don't work out Kev'll hire me back."

Ian purses his lips.  He'd been so pumped to see Mickey starting something new, something that he was excited about, that he hadn't bothered to ask about the details before now.

"Look," Mickey wheedles, grabbing Ian's hand as he reaches for his water glass.  "Wanna stop by the shop with me tomorrow and say hey?  So you can check the place out and shit?"

"Seriously?" Ian's mouth drops in shock.  "You want to bring me there?"

"Why wouldn't I?"  Mickey scowls, and Ian shrugs in return.

"Figured you might want to keep me on the down low."

Mickey looks so affronted it's almost comical.  He sets his fork down with purpose and leans forward.

"How the fuck could you think that, huh? You and me are together and I'm fucking proud, alright?"

"I know."  Ian reaches for Mickey's hand and snatches it before Mickey can pull away.  "I know, Mick.  I just figured with your new job and all, with buddies from prison..." he lets his unfinished sentence hang there.

"First of all, it's a buddy from prison, not like a whole fucking gaggle of them."

Ian's lips quirk despite himself.  He loves it when Mickey throws out an old man word.  He'll have to give him shit for it later.

"And second of all, I told you everyone had me made, remember?  Wasn't exactly easy to hide your stupid ass name.  Besides, you don't gotta worry about Fuentes.  He's cool.  He's the guy who did my other one, anyway." 

Vaguely, Ian remembers a conversation, years ago when Mickey had first gotten out, about the tattoo artist who'd encouraged Mickey not to remove Ian's name.

Of course Mickey wouldn't keep his relationship with Ian in the dark, and it was shitty of Ian to even have thought it.  He knows Mickey loves him, knows he'd shout it from the rooftops if Ian asked him to.  But there's something about Mickey's past prison life.  The way he hesitates every time he talks about it.  It gives Ian a strange feeling of simultaneous guilt and jealousy.

"Sorry," Ian tells Mickey guiltily, squeezing his hand.  "Shouldn'ta doubted you."

"Whatever."  Mickey shifts in his seat.  He's still pissed.  "Let's get the fuck outta here already."

"Yeah."  Ian hastens to motion for the check.  "Sure."

Mickey softens on the trip home, and by the time they're on their block he's bumping shoulders with Ian and murmuring about how they're going to continue their evening plans.  They're stumbling into the back door, Mickey's lips attached to Ian's neck, when the outdoor light suddenly flips on.

"Fuck, Svet," Mickey groans.  "Such a cockblock."

"Probably a good thing," Ian pants.  "Kids'll still be up anyway."

Mickey straightens out Ian's shirt, smirking, then pushes the door open.

"We're home," he bellows.

"Just in time," Svetlana calls from the kitchen.  "I take cookies out of oven."

"Sweet."  Mickey makes a beeline for the kitchen, already forgetting about his annoyance from mere seconds earlier.

Svetlana is sitting by herself at the kitchen table, looking eerily docile as they walk in.

"Where's everyone?"  Ian wonders.  Usually Yev's just coming in the door (or heading back out) and Nadia's getting ready for bed.

"At Kev and V's," Svetlana answers.

'What for?"  Mickey snags a cookie from the plate.  Svetlana shrugs.

"Thought it might be nice to have the house to ourselves."

"Ourselves?  Where's Putin?"  Mickey furles his lip.

"Fuck you.  He does not call you Mickey Mouse, does he?" Svetlana chides, hackles rising.  Ian rolls his eyes.  Not this argument again.

"Like to see him fucking try," Mickey mutters.

"I love him, Mickey."  Both Mickey and Ian look up to stare at her.  Svetlana hasn't called Mickey by his given name in years.  After a beat Mickey relents with a shrug, though he looks a little chagrined.

"So you guys planning some kinky sex shit tonight?  Need us to clear the premises?" Mickey asks mildly, licking a melted chocolate chip off his thumb.  Svetlana just shrugs, inspecting her hands.  "The fuck's up with you?" Mickey demands.  "You're acting weird."

"Nothing."  Her eyes are too wide.  Too sincere.  Usually Svetlana is a better liar than this. Mickey and Ian exchange a look.

Mickey steps toward her.

"You sent the kids away.  Vlad practically lives here and he's nowhere in sight.  What's going on, Svet?  You pregnant?"

Svetlana squares her shoulders.

"No," she says.  "I want a divorce."

Ian chokes on air.  Mickey stares at her, puzzled.  Then he laughs.

"Vlad ask you to marry him or somethin'?"

"Yes.  Months ago."

Mickey's eyebrows raise high on his forehead.  He wasn't expecting that answer.  He and Ian exchange incredulous looks.

"And you're just telling us now?"

"I was waiting for the right time!  Ian is not working today, you have a new job.  I thought tonight would be good!"

Mickey looks to Ian again and Ian stares back, dumbfounded.  He'd known that this was coming, but he hadn't expected it so soon.

"So what, you guys sign the papers and Vlad moves in officially?" Ian wonders.

"Yes."  Svetlana nods her head encouragingly.  Then she hesitates. "And maybe the two of you move out." 

"No!" Mickey yells, reacting instantly with anger.  "No fucking way!  You're not taking my kids from me."

"Misha," Svetlana soothes, leaning forward as if to reach out and touch him.  Mickey shrinks away.  "I will never."

"What the fuck do you mean, you'll never?  You just said you wanted us to move out!"

"I do.  But there are arrangements.  You can have them for a whole week, I have them for another."  Ian's heart sinks to his stomatch at the thought of not seeing Yev and Nadia every day.  Kids change so quickly, especially Nadia at her age.  They'd miss out on so much.  "Or something else," Svetlana tries again when she sees they aren't satisfied.  "Every other day."

"That'd get complicated with school," Ian argues.  He watches Mickey's face closely.  He looks astounded.  Bordering on devastated.

"We will figure it out," Svetlana insists, splaying her fingers on the table.  "No rush."

"Fuck, Svet," Mickey bursts suddenly.  "Why now?  Why not wait til Nadia's eighteen or whatever?"

"I cannot wait thirteen more years."  She shakes her head.  "And you need your own space, without me around."  She throws her hands up with a sudden thought.  "You can get married!  We can have big gay wedding!"

Mickey snorts, turning and pacing around the tiny kitchen.  Svetlana turns to Ian.

"He wants to help me get green card.  Become a citizen.  It will be easier with real marriage."  She shakes her head, then corrects herself.  "Real love."

"This ain't about the divorce," Mickey seethes.

Ian sits heavily in a chair across from Svetlana.  

Svetlana says, "I know that.  But living apart would not be so different.  Yevgeny is so busy with his friends these days I never see him."  She turns to Ian.  "And Nadia.  On days you work nights you will hardly see her anyway."  She has a point there.  Ian can go days without seeing her for more than a few minutes at a time.  And he can't remember the last time he sat down for dinner with their teenager.

Ian watches Mickey pace.  One two three turn.  On two three turn.  The silence weighs heavy.

"How come you're so fucking calm about this?" Mickey snaps at Ian suddenly, whirling on him.  "They're your kids too!"

"I'm not happy about it," Ian assures him.  "But I don't think it's a horrible idea."  Co-parenting as a family living in the same house has been largely successful, but sometimes he wishes he could have Mickey to himself.  Have conversations about their day without Svetlana and Vlad seated at the same table.  Argue without Svetlana putting in her two cents (even though she usually sides with Ian).  Fuck in more places than just their bedroom.

The only downside will be sharing the kids.  He thinks quickly.

"We need time to find a decent place.  Someplace nearby, so they can walk over whenever they want.  And joint custody."

"And we'll split every other weekend," Mickey pipes in, and Ian glances a little triumphantly at him.  Mickey's coming around much quicker than he expected.  Judging by the look on Svetlana's face, she's surprised too.  "And Vlad's gonna cosign on our new place with Ian.  I ain't living in a rat infested shithole," Mickey insists.  That's a good one, actually.  Mickey won't pass a background check on a nice place.

"Fine," Svetlana agrees easily.  She'll probably insist on giving it her mark of approval anyway.

"And I'm taking the sectional," Mickey adds, gesturing toward the living room where everyone's favorite piece of furniture sits.

"You will not!" Svetlana cries, outraged.  "I chose it.  It belongs to me!"

"We're the ones who broke our backs bringing it in here."  Mickey crosses his arms over his chest.  "And I'm pretty sure both me and Ian chipped in, so we own a bigger percentage."

"You will take that couch over my dead body," growls Svetlana.

"Jesus," Ian moans.  "The kids are whatever, but you guys are willing to come to blows about a couch."

Svetlana and Mickey continue to glare at one another, but Ian can see the teasing glimmer in Svetlana's eyes and the twitch in the corner of Mickey's mouth.

"You sure about him, Svet?" Mickey asks suddenly, voice devoid of everything but concern.  "He the one you want to break up the family for?"

For a moment Svetlana looks like she might cry.  Her chin wobbles a little before she steels herself.

"We will always be family," she says stiffly.  But she reaches for Ian's hand and squeezes, then bolts out of her chair to plant a kiss on Mickey's cheek.

"Say the word and I'll kick his ass, alright?  And if he tries to make my kids call him dad I'll fucking kill him."

"I'll help," Ian agrees with feeling.

Svetlana rolls her eyes.

"Whatever will I do without the two of you?"

She means it as a joke, but the mood turns somber again.  Mickey runs a hand over his face and sighs.

"I feel like maybe we need to seal it with a group hug," Ian tells them.

Both Mickey and Svetlana flip him off simultaneously.

Chapter Text

Mickey: Year 4

There was a tongue in his ear.

"Motherfucker!" Mickey snapped, jolting all the way awake and wrenching his body around to face his bed partner.

"You're not into that?" Trav questioned innocently, teeth bright in the dark cell.

"Not how I wanna be woken up in the morning."  Mickey rubbed at his ear.  The wet feeling wouldn't go away.

"I got the shakes," Trav whined, holding his trembling hand in front of Mickey's face.  "Distract me."  Mickey hummed and turned so he was lying on his back, exposing his neck so Trav could continue his ministrations.  "You're into kinky shit, I can tell," Trav teased him, replacing his tongue with his teeth and tugging on Mickey's earlobe gently.  He whispered against Mickey's ear, "We get outta here and I'm gonna show you what I can really do."  Mickey shivered, both at the sensation and the words.

"Makes you think I'm gonna wait around for your ass, huh?" he breathed out jokingly as Trav's teeth scraped against his jugular.  Trav pulled back, and they stared at one another, faces close in the dim light.

Would Mickey wait for him?  Wait another ten years after Mickey was back out in the real world?  It was a lot to fucking ask.  He couldn’t be sure about the answer.

"Good thing we got a couple more years together, huh?"  Trav waggled his eyebrows, glossing over the moment and resuming his ministrations.  Mickey closed his eyes, feeling guilty when his thoughts flickered to Ian.  He'd asked Ian to wait, stupidly.  He'd been desperate to hear the words, to give himself a little hope.  But Ian's hollow response in the affirmative just hurt more, because it was the clearest lie he'd ever told.

Mickey understood now, of course, that it wouldn't have been possible anyway.

"Get out of your fucking head and back in the game here," Trav scolded, bucking against Mickey.  "You worrying about him again?"

"No," Mickey answered honestly.  He hadn't even been thinking about where Ian was right now, alone and probably scared.

"It's okay if you were," Trav offered generously, still moving his hips against Mickey's leg.  "The nuthouse ain't no picnic."

"How the fuck would you know?"  Mickey rose up to his elbow to glare at Trav.  Trav shrugged.

"Been there.  Took some weird ass synthetic shit once and they weren't sure what was wrong with me.  Twenty four hours with those whack jobs- woulda lost my actual mind if I'd had to stay any longer."

Mickey punched him hard in the shoulder.

"Watch your fucking mouth, asshole.  They're just people.  They're fucking mentally ill and trying to get help."  He didn't need to hear Trav's commentary on the conditions in the psych ward right now.

Trav frowned, stilling his body.  "Sorry, Mick.  Hard to compete sometimes, you know?"

"There's no fucking competition," Mickey insisted.  He'd hardly even thought of Ian before he and his fucking sister came by.  “I told you I'm with you.  I-" He stopped.  He'd only ever told two people in his life what he was about to say.  He knew that he’d felt this way for a while about Trav- he was pretty sure, anyway.  He loved the way they could relate about shit, being here and being gay and all that.  And he loved the sound of his voice when he read aloud.  Even found himself tapping his toes to those stupid fucking songs Trav always hummed under his breath.  He made the bad shit bearable and the good shit better.

But saying the words- the actual words- made it that much more real.  That much more of a chance for rejection.

Even as Mickey’s defenses rose, Trav’s eyes softened.  He brushed his lips tenderly over Mickey’s own, holding him there for a long moment.  Mickey’s heart thundered in his chest, blood spreading warmth all the way to the tips of his toes.  

"Yeah," Trav agreed when they finally parted.  "Me too."

 Mickey

He wakes with a start, the uneasy feeling having long ago settled into his bones as he swims to the surface of a foggy, terrifying dream.  It doesn't come so often anymore.  Hasn't in years.  Mickey rolls over and finds Ian's body, instinct taking over even though he knows Ian needs his sleep and shouldn't be bothered.

Ian murmurs incoherently when Mickey snakes his arm around his waist and tucks his toes under his calves.  Ian rolls over onto his side too and returns the embrace, pulling Mickey further into his arms.

"Time is it?" Ian mutters, already coming to full wakefulness.  Jesus, Mickey's an asshole.  He knows Ian can't get back to sleep once he's been woken up in the early hours of the morning.  Ian had been just shy of manic all through Nadia's infancy due to the lack of sleep alone.

"Not time yet.  Sorry."

 Ian lifts his head off of his pillow.

"What's wrong?" he asks urgently.

"Nothing."  Mickey tries unsuccessfully to shimmy away a little, but Ian stops him with a sharp tug.

"Your heart's beating fast," Ian observes with concern.  "Nightmare?"

"No."  Mickey bristles on instinct, glaring at the dusting of freckles on Ian's shoulder he knows are there, even though he can't see them in the dark.

He knows Ian knows he's lying, but Ian says nothing, just pulls Mickey closer, close enough to drop a lingering kiss on his hairline.  He runs his fingers up and down Mickey's bare spine until Mickey's shoulders come down from his ears a little.  Ian's hand eventually dips lower still, and Mickey's heart rate picks back up again as Ian cups the swell of his bare ass.  Ian hums in sleepy appreciation and grips tightly, pulling Mickey flush against him so their naked groins touch.

There's something about feeling Ian's dick get hard as it rubs against his own.  He'll never get tired of it.

"Good?" Ian breathes as he pushes Mickey onto his back, coming up onto his elbows to lean over him.  It's simultaneously endearing and annoying, the way Ian's so fucking careful with him when they fuck, even after years of being back together.  Mickey likes to think that he's long ago buried those demons, but demons don't always stay in the ground.

"Good," Mickey repeats, bucking his hips to create that friction again.  He holds onto Ian's shoulders, hand creeping up to cup the back of his neck as they rut against one another, breathing heavy.  "C'mon."

Ian leans over him, brushing Mickey's lips with his own as he grabs the lube from the bedside table.  Mickey rolls over onto his side.  He doesn't have enough energy for much else.  And he likes it when he can feel the length of Ian's body against his back, his mouth against his ear.

Ian pulls back for just a moment to lube himself up, then pushes two slick fingers expertly into Mickey.  Mickey grinds down on them and Ian groans, slipping his fingers out again and replacing them slowly with his dick.  His arm comes around to grip Mickey's, and Mickey leans into the contact.

"I love you," Ian whispers into Mickey's ear.  "Mick.  God."

Mickey bites down hard on his lower lip as they rock together.  Ian grunts and groans and provides meaningless commentary (so tight, so good, oh God).

Ian comes first, and Mickey clenches around him while Ian stills, pulsing inside him.  Ian tugs desperately at Mickey's dick, valiantly resuming his pumping as he softens.  Mickey buries his face into his pillow as he finally comes a minute later.  Ian lowers his mouth to Mickey's shoulder and his hot breath sends shivers down Mickey's body.

"Stay in bed," Ian orders softly, then he sits up and pads into the ensuite.  Mickey listens to Ian piss, and then the water turns on and off.  Ian comes back with a wet washcloth and hands it over.

Mickey swipes the cloth down his ass, then up around his dick.  He's sticky everywhere.  Ian stands in front of him, still nude, beautiful in the barely there light from the moon. He's as long and lean as ever, although he's got the hint of a tiny pudge on his midsection (Ian talks like it's a fucking beer gut).  He's older now.  He's got smile lines beginning to form around his eyes, frown lines on his forehead.  But he looks more distinguished this way.  Jesus, the guy ages well.  Like fucking Clooney.

"You think you can get back to sleep?" Ian whispers.

"If you come back to bed."  Mickey knows it's a long shot.  When Ian's up, he's up.  Ian scratches the back of his neck.

"Thinking about going for a run."

"At-" Mickey glances at the alarm clock "-four in the morning?"

Ian shrugs.  "I'll stay if you tell me about your dream," he wheedles.

"Don't remember," Mickey says honestly. "Just wasn't good."  Ian sits on the edge of the bed and runs a hand through Mickey's hair.

"How do you feel now?"

"Better, obviously."  Mickey rolls his eyes, then yanks on Ian's hand hard enough to topple him into the bed.  "Now fucking snuggle with me.  You can do your run at five."

Yevgeny is awake by the time Ian comes and goes from his run and Mickey's showered for work.

 "Dad, can you check this for me?" Yevgeny asks through a huge mouthful of cereal, pushing his math homework toward Mickey.

"Thought you said you didn't have homework last night." Mickey glances at it, but Yevgeny's a sophomore now in advanced classes and the math is starting to get a little over his head, but he's not ready to admit it.  He kinda likes the fact that the kid thinks Mickey's good at something.

"Lied."  Yevgeny shrugs.  Mickey sets his coffee mug down a little too hard on the counter.

"The fuck?  Why would you do that?"

"So I could go out with Ashley."  Yevgeny shrugs again, then stands from his stool to dump his bowl in the sink.

"No."  Mickey shakes his head.  "Fuck that.  You do your homework first, then you go out."

"That was mom's rule," Yevgeny scoffs.  Mickey raises his eyebrows.

"Those are everyone's rules, kid.  We ain't letting you live here just because you think you'll have it easier with us."

Much to Mickey's disappointment, they'd started out with the kids spending most nights at Svetlana's on school nights just to make things easier.  But Yevgeny had begged to live with his dads full time, and Svetlana had reluctantly relented after an enormous blow out that left every adult in tears.  Fuck, they'd gotten along better when they all lived in the same house.

Yevgeny shoves his homework aggressively back in his bag.

"Thanks for letting me live in your house."

Fuck.

"I didn't mean it like that," Mickey insists.  "I want you living with us.  We fucking love it.  But I'm not gonna be some patsy, alright?"

"What's going on?  Who's a patsy?" Ian rounds the corner into the kitchen, putting on his watch.

"Nobody," Mickey says casually.  He knows Yev hates it when both he and Ian go after him.  "The kid was just telling me that he's gonna do his homework after school like we asked him to."  Mickey glares meaningfully at his teenager, and Yevgeny scowls right back.

Ian pauses, looking from Mickey to Yevgeny.

"Great," he says flatly.  He helps himself to a cup of coffee.  Mickey can't help but feel a little guilty about that.  Usually Ian makes tea, but the lack of sleep must be affecting him already.  "Remember tonight's our night with Nadia, so we're eating here as a family," Ian tells the both of them.

"Can I invite Ashley?" Yevgeny asks hopefully.

"No," Ian and Mickey say together.

"You using those rubbers we got you?" Mickey asks, and Yevgeny groans, slamming his head against his backpack.

"Yes, fuck!"

"Good, cuz I ain't ready to be a grandpa at thirty five."

Yevgeny rubs his hands over his face in embarrassment.

"She's on the pill, anyway," he says through his fingers, and Mickey and Ian glance meaningfully at one another.  That was basically an admission of guilt.

"Condoms aren't only for protection against pregnancy, Yevgeny," Ian lectures.  "They protect you from STDs too."

"But they suck!" Yevgeny whines.  He pulls his head up and eyes the two of them.  "Did you guys use condoms?"

"Every time," Ian answers evenly without missing a beat, and Mickey has to turn around and stick his head in the fridge to hide his grin.  "You know what?  Ask Carl about STDs sometime.  He's got a couple horror stories."

"Gross.  No fucking thanks."  Yevgeny hops off his stool again and grabs his backpack, heading for the door.  "See ya."

"Dinner at six," Ian calls after him.  "And wrap it the fuck up!"  When the door slams, Ian says to Mickey, "You can come out now."

Mickey shuts the fridge door with a grin.

"You fucking liar."

"So, I'm just gonna tell our son that we were as irresponsible as he is?"  Ian shakes his head and boxes Mickey against the fridge.  "We were lucky we didn't give each other anything," he says between kisses up Mickey's neck.

"Unlike you, I wasn't fucking anyone else."  Mickey shoves him away playfully.  "And don't even fucking try to bring up the chicks I banged.  That was different."  He hadn't been the smartest about gay sex back then.  He'd been a horny teenager with a hot sort-of-boyfriend and scarce time to fuck him.  Condoms hadn't been real high on his list.  Sometimes even lube hadn't been real high on his list.

Ian's face turns serious.

"If I'd known, Mick, I wouldn't have either.  Besides, I didn't do it a lot.  Just when you were away."  Mickey doesn't hold that against him, honestly.  They'd never put labels on their relationship back then, mostly because of Mickey's issues with his father.  Doesn't explain Ian screwing around when Mickey was right fucking there though, but Ian doesn't ever bring it up and Mickey's glad for that.  He doesn't think about it at all, really.  Ian was sick.  Confused.  Maybe they hadn't been clear with each other about things.  Whatever.

"Whatever," Mickey repeats out loud.  No point in hashing shit out now.  He's different, and Ian's different.  He's perfectly happy to leave that shit in the past where it belongs.

Ian looks like he wants to continue the conversation, so Mickey shoves his tongue in his mouth.  The age old tactic to get one another to shut up about something.

Ian returns the kiss with fervor, backing Mickey up into the island counter.

"Gotta go," Mickey says against Ian's lips.  "And so do you."

"Work can fuck right off," Ian murmurs, but he backs away and runs a hand through his hair.  "Tonight?"

"Obviously."  Mickey grins lasciviously and Ian laughs a little giddily, swatting Mickey's ass as he leaves the kitchen.

God, it feels good to be wanted by Ian.

They leave the house together but separate quickly, Mickey heading for the bus and Ian the L.  Ian's got that car in their tiny garage, but it's not worth the gas and the traffic to use it for their commute.  Plus, the weather's getting nicer now.  The mid-May weather is starting to feel like summer's around the corner.  

"See you," Mickey says, bumping Ian's shoulder with his own as they part.  Ian flips him off just to be cute, and Mickey walks the rest of the block with a grin on his face.

Mickey lets himself into the quiet shop fifteen minutes later, glancing at the small rainbow flag sticker taped to the inside of the glass door amongst the band flyers and expired restaurant coupons.

He heads to the back room to put a pot of coffee on for the artists when they roll in hungover as fuck.  He likes being alone in the shop in the mornings.  It's peaceful.

He hadn't expected to like the job so much.  He'd known he needed something different and took a chance because he had the connection with Fuentes, but this job suits him.  It's been ten months now he's worked here, and things are going pretty smoothly.  He takes care of the bookkeeping efficiently, enjoys keeping inventory of the ink and equipment, and even likes overseeing the idiot receptionist who couldn't jot down an appointment time correctly to save his life.

As much as he likes it, the job pays peanuts.  The shop is still in its infancy, and really no one's making money, so they're all in the same boat, but Mickey's got rent for a nice house he can't afford, plus the bills and money to support the kids.  Ian pays more than his half of the bills, and that doesn't seem fair, especially when a huge chunk of his paycheck goes to medication and therapy  bills.  Mickey doesn't really understand how insurance can have a fucking cap on therapy hours.  If you need therapy you need therapy.  You shouldn't be punished for it.

Speaking of insurance, that's another thing Mickey doesn't have.  He'd paid the fine on his taxes last year for being uninsured, but Ian's always getting on him about it.  What if something happens to you?  You gonna leave me with all your medical bills when you kick the bucket?

There's an easy solution to their insurance problem that they've talked a little about: marriage.

Mickey gets goosebumps every time he thinks about it, which honestly isn't very often.  He likes the idea though.  It won't change anything besides insurance and a tax break, but it means more than that.  Like an announcement to the world and each other that this is It.  Til death do us part and all that.

He'll have to think about it some more.  He knows Ian's happy with whatever, as long as they're together.  Nice not to have any pressure to make a decision.

"Hey."  Fuentes interrupts Mickey's thoughts as he comes into the office.  "Wife made cookies or whatever."  Fuentes drops a Saran wrapped paper plate in front of Mickey.

"They're burnt as fuck."  Mickey wrinkles his nose.

"Why you think she let me take 'em to work?"  Fuentes snorts.  "She kept the good batch for home.  My daughter's bringing her boyfriend over today."

"Shit."  Mickey shakes his head in commiseration.  He isn't looking forward to that day when Nadia brings someone home.  It's hard enough watching Yevgeny pull away; he doesn't want to go through it with his baby girl too.  He takes a cookie so he won't look like a jackass.  "Got a city fire inspection next week," Mickey tells Fuentes.  "Gotta do more than just a duct tape job on those fraying wires at Leo's station."

"Do what you gotta do."  Fuentes shrugs, scratching the cross above his eyebrow.  He's got less and less un-inked skin the longer Mickey knows him.  Mickey, in contrast, hasn't had any work done in the  entire time he's worked here.  He's been thinking about getting some sort of matching tattoo with Ian and the kid, but he's a little embarrassed to bring it up.  It's kind of a girly idea.

Fuentes eventually leaves him to his work, and the shop hums to life outside the back office.  An eclectic mix of everything from heavy metal to Barry Manilow blares through the speakers to cut through the sounds of buzzing needles.

Mickey goes about his day.  He calls up an electrician and bullies him into coming the same day.  He yells at Andrew multiple times and eventually takes over the front desk for an hour while he sends Andrew on a coffee run to get him out of his fucking hair.

The credit card reader breaks for the two hundredth time late in the afternoon, and Mickey spends another hour on the phone with the company.  He's just hanging up, shoulders tense and extra agitated, when Carl comes through the door, wearing his uniform.

"Couldn't answer your fucking phone?  Tried the shop line too and all I got was a busy signal," Carl snaps.

"Been on the phone all day.  What's the big fucking emergency?"  The minute the words are out of his mouth Mickey can see it on Carl's agitated face.  And he knows.

"No."

In a flash, anything and everything that could go wrong flashes in Mickey's head.  Ian run over by a car.  Ian getting shot.  Ian taking his own life.  Ian overdosing, drowning on his own vomit-

"He's fine," Carl insists, stepping forward as Mickey's back hits the edge of the counter in shock.  "He's headed into surgery right now."

"Surgery!"  Mickey yells, panic overriding everything else.  "He's fucking-"

"He's fine," Carl repeats, holding up a placating hand.  "He just got injured on the job."

Mickey swivels and punches the first thing he sees, smashing his fist through the drywall.

"Hey!" Fuentes yells from the back.  "What the fuck, Milky?"

"Fuck you!" Mickey roars back.  He feels out of control of his body, his mouth, his thoughts.

"Ian's in the hospital," Carl tells Fuentes calmly as Fuentes rounds the corner in fury, latex gloves still on his hands.

"Oh, shit."  Fuentes's anger immediately morphs into concern.  "Go," he tells Mickey simply. "I got this."

Somehow they're suddenly in the patrol car.  Mickey has nothing on him but his wallet.  Jesus, if he'd only carried his phone in his pocket today he'd have known sooner.

His ears are ringing and his vision is tunneling and his hands are clammy.  Mickey wipes his palms on his thighs and taps a hard pattern into the floor with his feet.

Carl takes one look at him and flips on the siren.

"Chill," he orders as he races past cars.  "You look like you're gonna pass out."

"Tell me what happened.  You better not be fucking with me.  If he's not okay I'm gonna-"

"Yeah, yeah.  Disembowel me or whatever, I get it."  Carl waves a dismissive hand.  "I'm serious, Mickey, he's gonna be fine.  Just a stab wound."

"Just a- are you fucking-" Mickey slams his fist into his own leg "-who the fuck stabbed him?"

"I don't know," Carl admits.  "We'll be there in like two minutes.  Breathe."

"Fuck off," Mickey spits back, but he takes a deep shuddering breath through his nose.  It does help, a little.

Carl doesn't even have the chance to come to a full stop before Mickey's opening the patrol car door and hustling into the emergency room doors.  He pushes past a guy holding a bloody rag to his arm and says to the front desk, "I need to see Ian Gallagher."

"Mickey."  He whips around at the sound of his name.  Fiona is striding purposefully toward him, looking frazzled but not panicked.  "We're in the waiting room down the hall."  Mickey hustles toward her and she picks up her pace to match his.  "He's gonna be out of surgery any minute."

"You better start fucking talking," Mickey seethes as they round the corner into the small family waiting room, where Lip is already sitting scrolling through his phone.  "Jesus, he got here before me too?"

"Who the fuck doesn't carry their phones with them these days?" Lip retorts calmly, hardly glancing up.  Fiona sighs.

"Sit down, Mickey," she urges, and he obeys, only to stand quickly again, unable to resist the need to pace.  "They went to a domestic.  The woman he was treating pulled a knife.  It was a freak thing.  She was obviously cra- unstable," she corrects herself quickly as Mickey's eyebrows raise incredulously.

"Did they fucking bring her in?"

On the other side of him, Lip snorts.  "Ian said he wasn't gonna press charges."  

Mickey closes his eyes and rubs his hands down his face.  Of fucking course that soft hearted idiot won't press charges.

Wait.

"You talked to him?" Mickey demands, whirling on Lip.

"Cops told us."

"We haven't seen him yet either," Fiona assures Mickey, touching his elbow gently.

"Family of Ian Gallagher?" a new voice interrupts, and Lip stands quickly to join Mickey and Fiona as they crowd around the doctor.  "It was a simple surgery.  A small wound, but deep.  He's all patched up and he's coming out of sedation."  She looks around at each of them.  "Have you been able to get a hold of his psychiatrist?"

"Dr. Arnold?" Mickey questions.  "Why?"  He turns first to Fiona, then Lip.  Fiona looks directly at him, pained and apprehensive, but Lip rubs his fucking lip and cuts his eyes to the ceiling.  "What the fuck is going on?"  Fiona's hand settles on his elbow again, and Mickey fights the strong urge to throw it off.

"They want to confirm Ian's meds and dosages with her before they let him take them," Fiona tells him softly.  Mickey takes a step back in shock.  The Doctor holds up a placating hand.

"He carries medication with him in an unmarked pill case.  We can't allow him to take unlabeled, unauthorized medication before speaking to the prescribing doctor."

Mickey fumbles for his wallet, yanking out his copy of Ian's medication card and scattering dollar bills and receipts in his haste.

"I got the list right here!  This is what he's prescribed."  The Doctor takes it from him, scanning it over and nodding.

"I'm not doubting you.  Both Mr. Gallagher and his employer informed our intake staff about his condition.  But it's hospital policy, as we don't have access to his medical records at the moment."

"It's after fucking five already!" Mickey shouts, unable  to control his tone.  "He's supposed to take his dose in a couple hours!  If he misses it'll fuck him up!"

"Not to mention with the addition of the pain drugs and sedative," Lip adds unhelpfully.  Mickey has to ball his fists to keep from fucking strangling him.

"Did you call her?" Mickey demands, turning back to the one Gallagher he can stand right now.  

"Left a message," Fiona says, frowning.  "She hasn't gotten back yet."

"I have her after hours number in my phone- which is at the fucking shop!" Mickey kicks at a chair in agitation, and the doctor makes a sound in the back of her throat.  Fiona holds up her hands, giving Mickey a warning look and darting her eyes quickly to the doctor, who looks like she's about a second away from calling security.

"I'll send Carl to get it.  Don't worry."  Fiona's already taking out her phone.

"It's just one day off his med schedule," Lip attempts to soothe.  "You need to chill."

"Don't tell me to fucking chill!"  Mickey roars, balling his fists.  Lip shoots him a haughty glare, then cuts his eyes to Fiona.

"Mickey," Fiona says.  "He'll be okay."

"Quit fucking saying that!" Mickey insists loudly, whirling on her.  Fiona takes half a step back.  "You don't know that!"

"Sir-" the doctor begins, but is interrupted by the hasty entrance of a new figure.

"Mickey," Dr. Arnold says calmly, sliding past the doctor to approach him.  "I could hear your voice from the elevator."

"Tell her he can take his meds!" Mickey barks, jabbing his hand towards the doc. "They're not gonna let him take his meds!"

"I'll handle that," Dr. Arnold tells him.  "But right now you're my first priority."

That startles him.

"Huh?"

Dr. Arnold turns to the other occupants of the room.  "May we have a moment?"  The three others hastily retreat, eager to get out of Mickey's line of sight.

"What about Ian?" Mickey asks weakly, already succumbing to his emotions under Dr. Arnold's probing gaze.

"I'm caring for Ian by making sure you're alright.  Tell me what's going on."

"Didn't they tell you already?" Mickey asks incredulously.  "Ian was fucking stabbed."

"No," Dr. Arnold clarifies.  "Tell me what's going on with you."

"I just told you.  Ian got stabbed."

"And he's going to be fine.  You know this, don't you?"

"Shit could happen!” Mickey insists.  “Infection or, or organ failure, or-"

"That won't happen."  Dr. Arnold shakes her head and changes the subject.  "Let's start with how your body feels.  Tell me about that."

Mickey collapses heavily into a chair, and Dr. Arnold follows suit, sitting significantly more gently.

"Feel hot," Mickey says finally, mumbling through his fingers.  "Like I- like I can't catch my breath.  Like I can't control my body."

"Good.  Now  tell me what you're most concerned about."

"Ian not getting his meds on time."

"He's going to take his meds- on time," Dr. Arnold assures him.  "Does knowing this make you feel better?"

Mickey heaves a shaky breath.  "No," He answers honestly.  He jiggles his leg.

"Is there a time in your life that you've felt like this before?" Dr. Arnold prompts.  Mickey doesn't answer.  He doesn't want to go there.  He can't go there.  Dr. Arnold correctly takes his silence as assent, because she says, "I think you've been triggered by something, even if you're not aware of it." 

He's aware of it, alright.  All he knows is he can't think about it now. He's teetering on the edge as it is.

"I can't-" he manages to choke out, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

"I'm not asking you to share with me right now," Dr. Arnold insists gently.  "Now isn't the time, and I'm not your therapist."  She pauses.  "Have you considered individual therapy any more?"  Mickey sometimes attends with Ian, when he asks him to, and Dr. Arnold has never been subtle about her desire for Mickey to talk to someone on his own.

Mickey shakes his head.  Things have been going good.  He doesn't want to open his can of worms.

"Have you been taught coping strategies to deal with unwanted memories and emotions from the past?"

Mickey nods, because it's kinda true.  He attempts another deep breath.

"Gotta focus on what I can control.  Right now."

"What do you think that is?"

"Taking care of Ian."  Mickey's answer is automatic.  It's all he needs to do right now.  See Ian.  Make sure he's alright.  "I gotta see Ian."  Dr. Arnold nods.

"Let's make sure that happens then.  We'll do that right now.  But Mickey, I really recommend you see someone.  I'll send you an email with the names of a few therapists I think might be a good fit for you, okay?"  Her gaze is unrelenting.  "Mickey, this is very important."  Mickey nods again.  Maybe he'll consider it this time.  "Okay, let's see if Ian's ready for visitors." 

He follows her dutifully out of the room, heart still beating quickly but feeling a little calmer knowing he's about to see Ian.  Dr. Arnold will handle the meds fiasco.  Everything is going to be fucking fine.  It's been fine for years.   

Lip and Fiona are standing alone in the hallway when Dr. Arnold and Mickey emerge.

"We can see him now," Fiona tells Mickey.  "We wanted to wait for you."

"Who is the attending doctor?" Dr. Arnold asks Fiona.  "I'll provide a copy of Ian's prescriptions so he can stay on his medication schedule."

"Alma George," Lip supplies, tugging on his mouth with his fingers.  Mickey recognizes that look.  Lip's in desperate need of a smoke.  Strangely, Mickey hasn't felt the urge yet.  Too distracted.

"Well, what are we fucking waiting for?" Mickey snaps as Dr. Arnold strides off down the hallway, not before she squeezes Mickey's shoulder and gives him a reassuring smile, grounding him a little for the moment.  He's always liked her.  He's glad Ian found her.

"Thought you'd be calmer once you got your head shrunk," Lip deadpans, turning to lead the way.  "He's in 404."

The three of them move quickly along the hallway, Mickey sidestepping Lip to bring up the front as they get to the slightly ajar door.  In the middle of the room on the bed, Ian lays at a slight incline, his hair bright against the sharp crisp white of the sheets around his body.  His head lolls to the side as they enter, and his grin is lopsided. 

"Hey, Mick," he says, zeroing in on him.  "Got stabbed."

"No shit, asshole."  Mickey strides forward, all false bravado, and kisses Ian firmly on the lips, uncaring of the audience behind him.  Ian hums and lifts a heavy arm to touch Mickey's face.  "Thought gettin' hurt like that was my M.O." 

"You think you're so tough," Ian teases playfully, pawing at Mickey's face.  Mickey bats him away, his pulse quieting as he sets his eyes on his boyfriend, not too worse for wear.  Fuck, this could have been so much worse.  Ian's unfocused, teasing eyes hone in on Mickey again.  "What's wrong?" he demands softly.  Mickey ducks his head, but not before Ian catches Mickey's chin with his hand, a lot more coordinated this time.  "I'm okay, Mickey."

Mickey swallows.  "I know."  He feels the steady thumping of Ian's pulse under his fingers.  Ian is alive.  He's hurt, but he's alright.  "Say hi to your family," Mickey orders, moving aside so Lip and Fiona can crowd in, distancing himself so he can turn his back and swipe at his eyes.

"Hi sweetie," Fiona coos, reaching out to tousle Ian's hair.

"Hey, bud," Lip adds with care, and Mickey rolls his eyes hard behind their backs.  Ian isn't some five year old waking up from getting his tonsils taken out.  But Ian winces as he shifts on the bed, and the urge to soothe him is strong. Mickey turns away and bites hard at the inside of his lip to keep himself from barging in on the siblings' time.  He's gonna kick them out as soon as he gets the chance, so he'll give them a minute.  Maybe Ian's phone is around here somewhere.  Probably not.  He usually leaves it in his locker when he's on duty.

"Mick?" Ian's fuzzy voice cuts through his spinning thoughts.  "Did you bring the kids?"

Shit.  Fuck.   Yevgeny was supposed to pick up Nadia from after school care.  They're supposed to be having supper together.  Mickey turns wildly, searching for a clock.  He's gotta call Svet.

"They'll come later.  When you're feeling better," Fiona assures Ian, the turning and frowning at Mickey.  "I texted Svetlana while you were with Ian's doctor.  She says she's got everything under control."

"Wanna tell us what happened?" Lip prompts Ian, settling down in the only chair next to the bed.  Mickey shifts his weight and scowls.  Ian shakes his head, glancing at Mickey with more clarity than Mickey was expecting, considering how high he is.  

"Later.   Still foggy."  Mickey can appreciate Ian's delirious discretion, even if it does piss him off a little.  He isn't in any real shape to hear the details right now.  

"Got room for a couple more?" a voice asks, and everyone turns as Carl, still in uniform, strides into the room with Yevgeny trailing behind him.

"Yevvy!"  Ian lights up like a Christmas tree.  "My boy!"

"Jesus."  Yevgeny's eyebrows shoot up.  "They got you on the good stuff, huh?"  Yevgeny tosses Mickey a quick, guilty look before advancing to the bed.  "How're you feeling?"

Carl sidles up to Mickey and passes him his forgotten phone.  "Yev called me, begged me to bring him up here.  Sorry."

"No, it's fine."  Mickey shakes his head.  "It's good he's here."  Seeing the kid is calming for Mickey, too.  It reminds him of everything good in his life, bad shit he's dealing with be damned.

“Is Nadia with you?” Ian asks, craning his neck as if she’ll pop out from behind her brother.

“Mom said she'd bring her over tomorrow morning before school if you want.”  Yevgeny addresses Ian, but turns his head to quickly glance at Mickey again, and Mickey nods in assent.  “Did it hurt?”  Yevgeny gestures to Ian's gown-clad body.

“Nah.”  Ian laughs.  “Least it wasn’t a bullet in the ass, huh Mick?”

The other Gallaghers burst out laughing as Mickey scowls and Yevgeny gapes.

“Dude, I totally forgot about that!” Carl guffaws, and Ian grins at Mickey like a cat that ate the canary.  Fucker.

Carl's gotta head back to work, but the others stay far too long.  Ian seems to really like the company, or Mickey'd've kicked them out long ago.  At dinnertime, Mickey walks down and buys Yevgeny a burger from the cafeteria to keep his body and mind busy.  He manages to get a couple pretzels down himself as he watches Ian scarf down his hospital turkey and gravy.  At least Ian has an appetite.  That’s one less thing to worry about.

Dinner passes and he paces and he waits.  He just needs to be with Ian now, but these goddamn Gallaghers like to stick together at the most inconvenient of fucking times.  He's been holding himself in for hours and he feels like he’s about to burst.

"Ian needs his rest now."  Ian's night nurse, Tameka, appears at Mickey's elbow and glares at the group of people still crowding around Ian's bed.  She arrived on shift an hour ago and was quickly dubbed the 'female Mickey' by Lip, on account of her brusque personality with the rest of the room and an obvious soft spot for Ian.  Mickey heaves an internal sigh of relief, thankful for her authority.  It's long past time for Ian to rest.  His eyelids have been drooping shut for at least the last half hour.  Mickey wishes he would have maybe put his foot down and sent them all away sooner.  "I got one last round of pain meds for the night before you conk out, honey,” Tameka tells Ian soothingly, pushing a little aggressively past Lip to approach the bed.  

Lip and Fiona and Liam, who'd stopped by after his evening class, all finally say their goodbyes and file out, leaving only Yevgeny and Mickey.

"Say bye to Ian, kid," Mickey tells Yev.  "He's gotta go to sleep."

"Huh?" Ian articulates, cracking his eyes open and wiping drool from the side of his mouth.  Mickey raises his eyebrows at his son, pointing at Ian, who's already back to closing his eyes.

"See ya," Yevgeny says, looking a little like he might want to lean over and give Ian a hug.

"I love you, buddy," Ian says back, smiling faintly before he gives into the pull of sleep, snoring softly through his nose.

"Stay with your mom and sister tonight, alright?"  Mickey can't help but cup his hand around the back of his son's neck, squeezing gently as they're finally walking toward the hospital exit together.  Yevgeny, bless him, doesn't even jerk away.

"Was planning on it," he mutters, with just enough annoyance to remind Mickey that he's still a teenager.

"Thanks, kid."  

Should he hug him?  He should probably hug him.  But he thinks if he touches another human being right now the dam's gonna break, and Yevgeny doesn't need to see that shit.

"Tell dad goodnight for me," Yevgeny says, and even through Mickey's almost-panic attack he feels bemusement.  Leave it to Yevgeny to pull out the dad card when it's needed.  He only wishes Ian were around to hear it.

Yevgeny sticks his hands in his hoodie pockets and turns, heading for the automatic doors.  Mickey can't stop himself.  It's bubbling up, and it feels important.

"Love ya," he calls, voice breaking a little.  Yevgeny turns, eyebrows raised in calm surprise.  Mickey's said it to him before, of course, but he can't remember the last time.  It might have been years.

"You too," Yevgeny says back without any fanfare.  And he disappears out the doors, walking tall and looking so fucking grown up.  He texts Svetlana that Yevgeny's on his way home, then heads back into the belly of the hospital, limbs heavy with fatigue.  

The events of the day come crashing down as Mickey rides the elevator back up.  He makes a beeline for Ian's room before he loses it in the hallway, not like crying people aren't a dime a dozen in hospitals, but he doesn't want to look like a total pussy.

Ian's fast asleep, as predicted, chest rising and falling steadily, one hand dangling off the bed like it does at home when he's sleeping alone.

He could have lost him today.

Mickey collapses in the chair and lets everything go, burying his face in the sheets of the bed as he cries.  He's not sure how long he sits there, heaving quietly, but after a while, he feels a hand gently card through his hair.

Shit.

Mickey pulls away quickly, hiding his face to swipe frantically at his cheeks before he looks up.  Ian is gazing at him, eyes concerned, face still fuzzy with sleep.

"Go back to sleep," Mickey orders sharply, embarrassed to have gotten caught.  He knows Ian is fine.  Logically, he knows this.  But the feeling of potentially losing him?  It weighs heavy in his chest.  

"No," Ian says firmly, gesturing with the flick of his hand for Mickey to come closer.  "Come here."  Ian tries to scoot over a little to make room, and Mickey hesitates, knowing what Ian wants and what he shouldn't do, but needing the contact.  Eventually he toes off his shoes and carefully climbs in next to Ian, flattening himself on his side as much as possible to avoid brushing against Ian's stitches.  Ian's hand resumes it's soft trailing through Mickey's hair, and Mickey presses his cheek against Ian's shoulder, letting out a heavy sigh that he feels like he might have been holding for days, given the immediate relief of it.

'You ain't supposed to be comforting me right now," he mutters, chastising himself.

"Yes I am," Ian argues.  "We take care of each other."

Mickey can admit to himself that when they'd first gotten serious- truly serious- he knows he cared more than Ian did.  The eight years alone in prison fucking proved that.  But Ian has more than made up for that now.  Ian is his partner, his other half.  They lean on each other .

"We're getting married," Mickey says suddenly into Ian's shoulder, the words spilling out completely unplanned, and yet feeling so right.  "You and me."  Beside him, Ian shifts subtly.

"Okay," Ian says, and he brushes his lips over Mickey's forehead.  He can feel that Ian's smiling.  

"Because I need cheaper health insurance," Mickey says a little defensively, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"Okay," Ian says again.  "Insurance.  If you say so."

Mickey pulls back his head to look Ian in the face.  Ian has that sweet expression that Mickey will never tire of, a smile that is simultaneously innocent and smug.  Ian knows he's fucking adorable and he uses it to his advantage.

"You love me," Ian gloats sleepily.  The pain meds must be kicking in.  He looks a little loopy.  "And I love you."  Ian closes his eyes, but he seeks out Mickey's lips blindly.  Mickey obliges, leaning forward and holding the chaste kiss until his lungs burn and he's forced to pull away.  "No more crying," Ian murmurs as he slips back into dreamland.

"No promises," Mickey mutters back, knowing Ian won't hear him as he rubs his wet cheeks carefully on the scratchy sheets.

As the night wanes on, Mickey allows himself to think about what's he's been holding back all day.

Trav. 

He doesn't talk about him a lot to Ian.  Tells himself it's because no one wants to hear about an ex, no matter how fucked up the situation behind being together; Mickey certainly doesn’t want to hear about Ian’s.  But in reality, thinking about Trav feels more bad than good a lot of the time, which really fucking sucks, because being with Trav made years of his sentence marginally better.  And that loss- that emptiness that he had felt when the goodness was ripped away from him- it was too much to bear.  It's what Mickey was always terrified of most, being abandoned by the people he loves.  And it's happened too many fucking times to count.

Mickey slides closer to Ian, settling a hand lightly on his chest.  Sometimes he can't believe they're back here, taking on the world together.  After everything they've been through, together and apart.  Ian's sticking around this time.  And they're gonna get fucking married.

Mickey: Year 4

Mickey tossed his plastic silverware into the bucket and slapped his dinner tray onto the dirty stack, taking one last cursory glance around the busy cafeteria.  He was pretty sure Trav hadn’t made it down to supper tonight.  At least, he hadn’t seen his familiar wiry frame chatting excitedly with his fellow meth head buddies three tables over.  

They kept to themselves most of the time in the common areas, him and Trav.  Made it harder for people to start shit ever since their little incident almost two years ago now.  People had memories like elephants in prison.  Nothing else to fucking do but get in people’s business.

Whatever, maybe he got caught up with the lawn work.  It happened sometimes.  Snow was about to fly, maybe they were winterizing shit or something.  As long as Trav had energy to finish up The Catcher in the Rye.  Jesus, that book was a downer.  Mickey was ready for something new.

Mickey nodded to the guard as he exited, spreading his arms, palms exposed, out of habit.  Food wasn't worth stealing and the plastic forks did fuck all damage.

He took the familiar path to his cell block.  He could walk it backwards with his eyes closed at this point.  The only thing that didn't keep him from strangling himself due to the sheer monotony was Trav, the lone bright spot in his tragic fucking life.  Seeing Svet and Yevgeny helped too, of course, but sometimes their visits left him more depressed than ever.  Just more proof that time was passing by out there.  Meanwhile Mickey put the same clothes on every day.  Did the same shit every day.  Ate the same slop every single fucking day.

Yeah, he was real glad for Trav.

He rounded the corner into their open cell and found Trav already flat on his back, sprawled across his bed.

“Rough day?” Mickey teased as he kicked off his shoes and knocked them out of the way under his bed, turning back to face Trav.  “You missed meatloa-”

Trav's arm hung limply over the side of the bed.  His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, vomit trailing out of the corner of his mouth and splattered on the front of his jumpsuit.

No. No. No.

Mickey's vision tunneled.

"Trav," Mickey moaned, jolting forward to yank him onto his side with clumsy, shaking hands.  The skin around Trav's lips was already turning blue.  "Help," he croaked.  "Help!  Somebody fucking help me!"   He shook Trav's shoulders.  "Trav.  Wake the fuck up, man.  Wake up!"  Frantically, he stuck a finger into Trav's mouth and attempted to clear his airways.

Trav’s limp body fell heavily back onto the bed when Mickey him go.

CPR.  He had to start CPR.  How the fuck do you do CPR?

“Wake. Up.” Mickey pushed his palm into Trav's chest, pumping with all his weight.  “You can't- you can't leave me here, man!  Trav!”

Suddenly he was shoved away, falling heavy on his ass as two guards pushed their way into the fray.

“You gotta help him!” Mickey shrieked, getting up to his feet and struggling to push past Thompson, who was leaning over the bed.  “Use the fucking heart paddles or- or call a fucking doctor!”

Thompson shook his head.

“He's already dead, Milky.”

“No!” Mickey roared, shoving Thompson aside to begin chest compressions again.  “We can bring him back!  You have to help him!”

“Lockdown on C-block,” Kowalski said into his walkie.  “Dead body and unruly cellmate in C316.  Down on the ground, Milkovich!” he shouted over the sound of the alarm as the heavy cell doors of the cell block swung shut.

“No!”  He couldn’t let go of Trav.  He wouldn’t.  “You have to try!  Please, you have to try to help him!”

“On the ground, inmate!” Kowalski repeated, hand on his baton.

“No!  I gotta stay with him.  I need to-” he was wrenched away from Trav and he swung back out of panic and instinct, slamming his fist into Kowalski’s fat fucking face.

They wrestled him to the ground, kicking and screaming, as Trav lay there above him, his arm still hanging off the bed.  Mickey sobbed into the concrete floor as the breath was choked out of him by a knee in his back.

The heavy cell door slid open and booted men swarmed in.

“Mickey!  Jesus.  Let him the fuck up!   What’s he still doing in here?”

“He was refusing to cooperate!” Thompson insisted as he and Kowalski reluctantly followed orders.  Mickey scrambled to his knees, heaving, as he approached the bed again.  He reached for Trav’s hand.  Cold.  Stiffening.

“It’s too late,” he sobbed.  “It’s too fucking late!”

“Mickey.”  Wilson crouched beside him and set a heavy arm on his shoulder.  Mickey hid his head in Trav’s armpit.  “Mickey.  We have to get you out of here.  Mickey.  If you don’t go willingly we’ll have to use force.  I don’t wanna have to do that, Mickey.”

“We need to get a coroner in here,” someone says from behind him.  “Get these other inmates out of lockdown.”

Wilson shushed the guard sharply.

“Give us a minute,” Wilson ordered the others over the roaring in Mickey’s ears.  “Everyone outside.”  After a minute, Wilson squeezed Mickey’s shoulder again.  “Say goodbye, Mickey.”

Mickey raised his head.  Through bleary eyes he looked at Trav’s face.  His eyes were still open wide.  Vomit on his chin.  Fuck.

Mickey was gonna find whoever sold that shit to Trav and kill them.

He kissed Trav’s cheeks, the spot under his collarbone.  His forearm.  He didn’t give one shit who was watching.

“Okay,” Wilson said finally.  “You have to go now, Mickey.”

He didn’t fight it when his hands and feet were shackled.  Allowed himself to be led out of his cell.  Down the hall, down, down.  Into the SHU.  Hands and feet uncuffed.

He lay on the bed as the door closed.  Everything was empty.  The room.  His life.  His mind.    

"Inmate."

"Inmate."

"Milkovich!"

People were speaking to him. He could sense them, hear them, see them. But they weren't here. Or he wasn't there.

He stayed where he was put. They didn't try to move him anymore. What the fuck did they care, anyway. What the fuck did anyone care.

Not him.

"Michael." Someone jostled him, almost enough to snap him out of his stupor. Maybe he recognized the voice. "Mickey."

Light in his eyes. Someone grabbed him under the arm. He was swinging, swinging through the air, until he toppled again.

"Jesus. Did he touch his food today?" someone, the same man, barked.  To Mickey, he said softly, “Mickey.  You haven’t eaten in days, son.”

Days. It had only been days. It felt like years. It felt like seconds.

Trav was dead.

Mickey wished he were, too.

He was slapped across the face. Hard.

"Mickey!"

He focused his eyes on Wilson the best he could.  His throat was scratchy and raw, his tongue like heavy cotton in his mouth.

Water, he tried to say.

Wilson's presence went away for a minute, but then there was cool water flowing against his lips.  Mickey spluttered, but managed to get down a few gulps before the cup went away again.

"We have to get you up to medical, Mickey.  Think a couple of your fingers are broken.  When did you do this to yourself?"

The laughter bubbled up in his chest, unbidden and inappropriate.  Of fucking course they were broken.  At one point he'd slammed his fist over and over again onto the cinder block wall.  He'd punched that wall over and over again, and then he'd cried until he couldn't breathe, and then he'd left himself again.

Jesus, he was fucked up.

"Mickey."  Wilson gripped him tight by the good wrist.  "It’s been days.  You gotta pull yourself together or I gotta send you to psych."

What the fuck did it matter, going to psych?  Maybe they'd drug him up on some good shit, make him forget he'd ever thought he deserved to be loved.  Maybe they'd put him out of his misery and fry his brains.

"We're taking you to medical.  We're going to restrain you.  Don't fight it."

As if he had the energy for it.

He allowed himself to be manhandled onto a gurney, allowed his wrists and ankles to be restrained, just like before.  He lay there, like Trav had lain there, flat on his back as they'd rolled him out of the cell.  Dead to the world.  Just plain fucking dead.

He couldn't cry any more.  He couldn't do anything but be.

Mickey

He wakes with a start when someone puts a hand on his shoulder.  It's Tameka.  She glares down at him, shaking her head.

"Knew I couldn't trust you," she tsks.  "Get outta that bed."

He doesn't argue.  He knew it was a bad idea, but he couldn't help himself.  Carefully he extracts himself out from under Ian's arm.  Mickey rubs at his eyes and glances at the clock on the wall.  2AM.

"Made up the couch for you best I could," Tameka grumbles, gesturing to the built-in sofa along the window.  She's tucked a sheet around it and even provided a pillow and blanket.  Mickey shoots her a surprised, pleased look.  He knew Tameka liked him.

"Thanks," he tells her, shuffling over to it and collapsing down.

"I see you in the bed again I wring your neck," she warns him lowly, and he believes her.  He watches her as she moves over to Ian, checking the meds bag and jotting down something on her clipboard.  "Got a cousin like him," she says, nodding toward Ian's sleeping form.  "Cute as fuck and he knows it, but he only got eyes for one.  Just like your guy over here.  How long you been together?"

"Dunno," Mickey says, shifting on the stiff sofa.  "Long time."

"High school sweethearts?"

Mickey snorts.  "Somethin' like that."  Tameka hums in acknowledgment.

"Get some sleep," she orders him sternly, as if he were the one who'd been trying to make conversation.  Mickey obeys, taking one last look at Ian and closing his eyes for a fitful sleep.

Ian's already awake when Mickey rouses himself the next morning.  He's swallowing his meds down with a cup of water and giving Mickey a shit eating grin.

"The fuck are you so chipper about?" Mickey grumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  His back hurts from sleeping on this sofa.  Ian just keeps on grinning, and Mickey's heart stutters.  Remembers last night.  What he'd said.  Marriage.  

Shit, that wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

"They got caramel rolls on the breakfast menu," Ian explains.  "Want me to order you one?"

Mickey breathes a silent sigh of relief.  Ian was pretty hopped up on pain meds last night.  Mickey's still got a chance to turn this around.  Do it better the second time.

"Obviously."  Mickey rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance, and Ian fucking giggles.  Jesus, Mickey'll be glad when Ian gets off the hard pain meds.

Nadia comes screeching into the room just as they're finishing breakfast, nearly tearing Ian's stitches open with the force of her hug.  Svetlana chastises her sharply in Russian as she hugs Mickey tightly hello.  He shoots her a confused glare as they part.

"I know this is harder on you than him," she tells Mickey quietly, and Mickey ducks his head, scowling.

"Where's the kid?" he asks her as a diversion.

"Practice."

"He stay at the house last night like I asked him to?"

Svetlana nods.  "Chest all puffed up.  Thinks he is man of house now."

"When do you get to come home, papa?" Nadia asks Ian, helping herself to the rest of Ian's orange juice from his breakfast tray.

"Later today, they think," Ian tells her.  "You miss me, baby girl?"

"Yup."  Nadia takes a deep gulp of the juice and swipes at her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Such a lady," Svetlana snarks under her breath to Mickey, shaking her head.  "Too many men in her life."

"Won't be able to move around much for a while," Ian tells Nadia, tucking her straight dark hair behind her ear.  "You gonna keep me company and watch movies on the couch?"

"If I get to pick the movies," Nadia wheedles.  

"I put food in your fridge," Svetlana tells Mickey as Ian and Nadia barter over their movie plans.  "The pasta dish he likes.  And beef stroganoff for you."  She gives him a searching look.  "Are you okay?"  Mickey shrugs in response, because Ian's got one eye on them.  Svetlana pokes him on the pec, right over the tattoo, but doesn't press any more.  He's kinda missed her.

"Time for school," Svetlana says loudly, clapping her hands.

"Nooo," whines Nadia as she finds the bed remote.  "I want to stay and watch TV."

Ian yelps as his carefully chosen incline suddenly gets more upright.

Mickey strides forward and snatches the remote from Nadia's hands.  "Quit messing with shit!"

Nadia and Ian stare up at him with equally wide eyes.

"Sorry," Nadia says meekly.  "Did I hurt you?"

"Course not."  Ian grimaces and glares at Mickey over Nadia's head.  "Daddy's just a little stressed right now."

"Just- be more careful, alright?"  Mickey shifts his weight, feeling pretty shitty about the way he snapped at his daughter.

"It is time to go," Svetlana says again, brushing past Mickey to collect Nadia from the bed.  "Say goodbye to your daddy and papa."

Nadia awkwardly pats Ian's shoulder, eyeing Mickey warily.

"Jesus," Mickey groans under his breath.  "C'mere."  He tugs Nadia into his arms and squeezes her tight.  "Sorry, baby."

"It's okay," Nadia placates, her words muffled against his shoulder.  Mickey closes his eyes and inhales the smell of her kids' shampoo.  Green apples.

"Have a good day," he tells her, ruffling her hair when he finally releases her.

"Learn lots!" Ian adds, reminding them all what a huge drugged up dork he is.  

After Svetlana finally drags Nadia out the door, Ian suggests Mickey head home for a bit too ("C'mon Mick, you've been here forever.  Go home and take a shower or whatever ").  Reluctantly, Mickey leaves Ian at the hospital to take care of things at home in preparation for Ian’s return.  He won't be allowed to go up and down stairs for a few days, and because their bedroom is on the second floor, Ian's bed'll be the couch for now.  And Mickey will either have to suffer alone in their big bed or sleep on the floor.  Both are shitty options.  He doesn't sleep well without Ian.

Back at the house he tucks clean sheets into the living room couch (they never did manage to take that sectional from Svet's- a fact Mickey is still fucking salty about).  True to her word, Svetlana’s stocked the fridge and cupboards, which keeps him from having to run to the store.

He showers quickly and steps into clean clothes, in a hurry to get back to Ian and not at all keen on relaxing long enough to think about anything other than him.

When he returns to the hospital with the car Ian's alone in his hospital room, sitting up in bed and snarfing down a cherry jello like it's his last meal.

"You just missed Carl.  And Justin from work stopped by too.  Oh, and I walked to the bathroom by myself.  Well, shuffled."  Ian grins.  The pain meds he's on interact weird with his bipolar pills.  He's acting a little manic, honestly.

"Good."  Mickey wipes a bit of jello from the corner of Ian's lip and sucks his thumb clean, enjoying watching the flicker of heat jump in Ian's eyes.  "Catheter bag just ain't sexy."  

"You're on pelvic rest until those stitches come out and the doc clears you."  Tameka says from the other side of the bed, her reading glasses low on her nose as she glares at Mickey.  “Do I gotta go into detail here?"

Mickey inspects Ian's empty apple juice cup carefully as Ian chuckles.

"Got it," Ian answers.

"And keep that wound dry," she instructs, leaning down to catch Mickey's eye.  "That means no baths, no showers, no getting those stitches wet."

"He's a fucking paramedic," Mickey reminds her.  "We got it."

Tameka snorts, jabbing a finger at each of them in turn.  "He seems like the type to try to get away with shit, and you seem like the type to let him."  Ian laughs out loud at how easily she's pegged them.

"Whatever," Mickey grumbles, unable to keep the reluctant grin from the corner of his mouth.  She's got a fucking point.

"Kids'll come over tomorrow if you're feeling up to it," Mickey says hours later as Ian buckles his seatbelt after being wheeled out to the car and carefully maneuvered into the passenger seat.  Ian nods but says nothing, grimacing as they pick up speed when Mickey pulls away from the curb.  But he keeps glancing at Mickey curiously, like he wants to say something.

"What?" Mickey snaps finally after the fifth meaningful glance.

"Nothing."

A few minutes later and Ian starts humming quietly to himself.

"What is that?"  Mickey scrunches up his nose at the faintly recognizable tune.  Ian grins cheekily at him and hums louder.

Mickey's ears burn.

"Go-ing to the chapel and we're- gonna get maaaaried," Ian warbles badly.

"Jesus," Mickey mutters.  "Was kinda hoping you forgot about that."

"What?" Ian's face falls.  "You don't wanna anymore?"

"Course I still do."  Mickey grabs Ian's hand and squeezes, but keeps his eyes on the road, unable to make eye contact.  He feels like an idiot.  "Just thought maybe- I should do it better.  Get a ring or something?"

"Get a ring?" Ian snorts.  "What am I, a chick?"

"I don't know," Mickey splutters, embarrassed.  "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"  Shit, this was a stupid idea.

Ian's laughter dies as he gazes pensively at Mickey for a minute, the hint of a smile still in the corner of his mouth.

"I'd wear your ring, Mick."  Ian spreads apart Mickey's fingers with his own and interlaces their hands.  "Would you wear mine?"

Mickey clears his throat to quell the sudden prickling of tears that threaten to rise.  He nods.  "Yeah."

Ian laughs, giddy, and Mickey can’t help but grin back.

"Y'know-" Ian starts, waggling his eyebrows.

"Don't even fucking think about it," Mickey interrupts.  "You're on pelvic rest, remember?"

"I am.  You're not.  I could just lie there,"  Ian offers teasingly.  "Let you do all the work for once." 

"Really?  Really."  Mickey stares Ian down as Ian grins.  "Just for that I'm not doing shit for you.  You can sit on the couch and watch me jerk off for all I care."

"That supposed to be a punishment?" Ian teases back.  They grin at one another.

"I like seein' you happy," Ian tells him sincerely after a beat.  "Been a little worried about you."

Mickey scoffs, but avoids Ian's eyes.  "Yeah, uh- Dr. Arnold thinks I mighta been triggered or whatever," he shares after an agonizing beat of deliberation.  He chances a glance Ian's way and sees wide green eyes, startled and concerned.

"Triggered," Ian repeats.

"I don't know, man.  It's fucked up.  Just started thinking about if something happened to you and about what happened before-" he stops.

"Before, with Trav?" Ian asks carefully, already cottoning on to what Mickey is struggling to say.

Mickey wets his lips.  "Yeah.  Seeing you hurt like that- made me think of losing you.  Took me back, I guess."

Ian ducks his head to catch Mickey's eye as Mickey looks right before he turns left onto their block.  "I'm not going anywhere, Mick.  You know that, right?"

"Yeah," Mickey says, and he means it.  And he can tell Ian wants to continue the conversation, but Mickey just isn't up for it.  "Not right now, alright?"

"Okay," Ian agrees, leaning back against the headrest.  “Soon though, yeah?  Wait- when did you talk to Dr. Arnold?"  Oh.  Fuck.  Ian still doesn't know about the meds drama.

"Long story," Mickey hedges.

Ian shrugs.  Then he giggles and starts up again.  "Gee, I really love you and we're gonna get maaaaaried!"  Mickey pulls his lips into his teeth and shakes his head.  

"I'm hiding your pain meds, man.  I don't care how much you hurt."  He parks the car in the driveway and quickly leans over to unbuckle Ian's seatbelt for him.  "Hey."  He tugs at Ian's t-shirt until Ian turns his head, and Mickey catches Ian's mouth with his own.  Against Ian's lips, Mickey finishes the last line of the song.  "Going to the chapel of love."

Ian

Recovery is going quickly with Mickey waiting on Ian hand and foot.  Anything Ian needs, and it’s as if Mickey has anticipated it moments beforehand.  If he starts to feel a little thirsty, suddenly he’s got a glass of water thrust in his hand.  If he’s gotta piss, Mickey’s right at his elbow to help him up 

It’s incredible and it’s frustrating.  He’s worked hard over the years to not be such a parasite, because it’s Mickey’s nature to give and Ian’s nature to take.  It works best if they don’t try to fight it so much, though, so Ian gives back in other ways the best he can with words of appreciation.

Mickey's reluctantly returned back to work after two days at home together and Ian keeps his phone near him as he moves around the house, washing dishes and starting laundry.  Mickey yells at him for exerting himself too much, but he doesn't quite understand what simmers just below the surface when Ian doesn't have a purpose.  He knows his disorder is working against him right now.  He's gotta stay busy or he won’t get out of bed.

Thankfully he's got his follow up appointment today, which he's driving himself to, much to Mickey's dismay.  He holds a washcloth over his stitches while he rinses off quickly, then carefully steps into his clothes and descends the stairs.  After day two of sleeping on the couch Mickey had given up on his insistence for Ian not to climb the stairs, instead opting to let Ian lean heavily on him as they ascended.

Ian's pretty sure he's gonna be cleared from pelvic rest at his appointment today, and he can't wait to surprise Mickey with something good tonight. They haven’t even had a chance to celebrate their kind-of engagement yet, either.  Or even talk about it.  That’s another thing to add to the list of discussions.

Ian shakes his head, smiling to himself.  That’s just like Mickey, blurting out about marriage when Ian would least expect it, in the sweetest and most insecure way.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he leaves the house, and he can't help but roll his eyes at Mickey's text.  don't forget about your appt

got it Ian texts back.

Mickey had made Ian retell the events of the stabbing in excruciating detail, but had been reluctant to open up about his own issues surrounding the incident.  Ian knows better not to push him until all the signs are there, and he thinks tonight- after they celebrate Ian being cleared from pelvic rest- might be a good time to bring it up.

Ian texts Svetlana at a stop light to make sure she’s still on board with keeping Nadia, and especially Yevgeny, at her house tonight.  Yevgeny has been so sweet as Ian has recovered, proving how much like Mickey he really is by always trying to be helpful in that gruff, insecure teenage way of his.

Svetlana responds with a series of innocently raunchy emojis, and Ian takes that as a yes

As predicted, the doctor clears him for everyday activities but tells him not to lift over 50 pounds and to continue to take it easy.  Work is out of the question for at least a  few days due to the high physical demand, and that dampens Ian’s mood a little, but it doesn’t stop him from spending a strenuous ten minutes (fucking meds) jerking himself to full hardness in the back of the parking lot and sending a picture to Mickey.  He grins wide as he watches the three little dots as Mickey no doubt works hard to think of something to type back.  Finally, Mickey responds.

be home at 5.  don’t start without me

Ian doesn’t even bother getting dinner together when he gets home.  They can eat after.  He straightens up their bedroom, tossing the garbage from the bedside table into the trash can and digging the lube out of the drawer so it’s in arms reach, then he goes to the bathroom, grimacing at himself in annoyance and embarrassment like he always does as he pops his viagra. He glances at the clock.  It’s 4:50.  Perfect timing.  He feels nervous for some reason, even though it’s only been days.

There’s dried, caked toothpaste in the bathroom sink, so he busies himself with scrubbing it while he waits.  Just as he’s thinking he should maybe wipe the tub down while he’s at it, the front door slams below him.

“Home!” Mickey calls, and Ian grins, picturing him toeing off his shoes and tossing his coat into the closet instead of hanging it up.  “The fuck are you?”

“Up here!” Ian calls, and he suddenly has a brilliant idea.  He hurries to tug off his pants and shirt and has barely enough time to carefully lower himself onto the bed before Mickey’s pounding up the stairs and coming into the bedroom.  “Hey,” he says as nonchalantly as possible.

“Hey,” Mickey says back, bottom lip pulling into his mouth in that familiar way that always gets Ian going.  “How’d the appointment go?”

“What do you think?”  Ian spreads his legs a little wider and gestures with his head for Mickey to come toward him.  Like a magnet, Mickey does as he’s bid, shuffling forward until he’s seated at the edge of the bed, a tattooed hand trailing softly up Ian’s calf.

“And the doc specifically said you could resume- you know?”

Ian rolls his eyes.  “She said I could resume normal activities if I’m careful.  Sex is a normal activity.”  Mickey hesitates, even though his body language gives away his interest.  ‘Look, if you’re so worried about it we’ll switch it up.”

Mickey’s eyebrows go up and he laughs shortly.  “Thought you were joking about that.”

Ian hums.  “Come here.”  Mickey obeys, leaning forward until their lips meet.  “Missed you,” he says into Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey hmm’s in agreement.  Mickey’s hand resume their trailing up and down Ian’s legs, and Ian tangles his hands in Mickey’s dark hair.

“You take your shit?” Mickey wonders as he pulls away and stands, tugging his pants and boxers over his erection and wrenching his t-shirt over his head.

“What am I, an amateur?”  Ian gestures to the beginnings of his own hard on, and Mickey grins in that sexy way he does.  “Get me all the way there?”

Mickey doesn’t hesitate.  He crawls back onto the bed and pulls Ian’s boxers down, freeing his dick and going to work.  Ian moans and lies back, digging his fingers into the sheets as Mickey’s hot, wet mouth works its way from the head of his dick down to his balls and back up again.

“Shit, shit shit,” Ian breathes.  Abruptly, Mickey pulls away.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.  It was good.  It was fucking perfect.  C’mere.”  Ian drags Mickey on top of him and Mickey straddles his hips, grinding against him until they’re both panting.  Ian thrusts upwards a few times experimentally.  The blood pooling in his dick numbs the pain a little, but it does twinge.  “Sorry, Mick.”

“Don’t fuckin’ apologize,” Mickey grumbles, scooting lower.  “I’ll just-”

“No.”  Ian snags him by the elbow and tugs him upward again.  “Sit on my face.”

Mickey stills.  Swallows.  “What?”

“You heard me.”  Ian grins, feels his dick jump with the excitement.  “Going once, going-”

“Jesus, I’m coming.”

“Not yet, I hope.”  Mickey wipes the grin off of Ian’s face with a sharp nip to his bottom lip, then he comes up on his knees and scoots up to Ian’s head.  Ian leans forward and licks a stripe up Mickey’s dick before swallowing him down.  Mickey groans and thrusts weakly, trying to hold himself back.  

“C’mon,” Ian urges when he finally pulls away, tugging slowly at himself as Mickey swings a leg over, gripping the headboard with both hands.  Ian tugs at Mickey’s ass with both hands, spreading his cheeks wide and letting them go, enjoying the view as they jiggle back into place.  Then, before Mickey can get comfortable, he dives in, first sucking gently on Mickey’s balls, then lapping at Mickey’s hole.  Mickey jerks and gasps, and Ian grips him tight around the hips, holding him down and working Mickey open until he relaxes enough for his tongue to breach him.  Mikey rocks back and forth over Ian’s mouth, making noises that sing straight to Ian’s neglected dick.

“Ian,” Mickey moans.  “Oh fuck.  Ian.  Stop.  Stop stop.”  Ian releases his mouth with a wet pop and Mickey clamors off of him, thighs slick with spit and sweat.  “Gotta- gotta fuck you,” Mickey pants, dragging his leaking dick over Ian’s lips before leaning over and grabbing the lube Ian had conveniently placed.

“Yeah,” Ian agrees.  “Please.”  Mickey kisses him hard on the mouth, overcome.

“On your side, yeah?” Mickey suggests, and Ian agrees, turning with his back to Mickey as Mickey fluffs a pillow under Ian’s head.  “Tell me if-”  he doesn’t finish his sentence, but Ian nods, understanding as slick fingers trace his hole.  Mickey doesn’t do it very often, but he does it well.  Careful yet sure.  Ian breathes out the breath he’s holding, focusing on the nips and kisses Mickey’s laving on his shoulder as he gets used to the initial pressure and starts to feel the pleasure.  And then his fingers are gone and then the pressure is back, thicker and more wonderful than before.

Mickey grunts, deep and guttural, as he pushes carefully in, tightening his grip on Ian’s lower thigh as he sheaths himself.  Ian’s dick flags, and Mickey works him back to full hardness with his hands as he thrusts.  Ian rocks back as best he can in time with Mickey’s thrusts, but he closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy.  He feels the jolt of electricity as Mickey hits his prostate, and he moans as he turns his head to seek out Mickey’s lips.  They come quickly, in fast succession.  It’s been a while.

Ian lays against Mickey’s chest as Mickey softens enough to pull out. Ian squirms a little at the sensation of come dripping out of him.  He knows that’s part of what Mickey likes about bottoming, and it turns Ian on to think about Mickey liking it, but Ian’s never liked the sensation.

Mickey sighs, catching his breath.  “You good?” he asks finally, leaning over to check out Ian’s healing wound.

“Perfect,” Ian assures him.  It twinges a little, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.  It’s worth it to have Mickey laying, boneless and sated, beside him.  Ian shifts in the bed until he’s tucked into Mickey’s side.

Ian’s gotta work fast.  Mickey’ll get up for a cigarette any second now, since now that Nadia and Yevgeny’s bedrooms are just down the hall he no longer has the luxury of a post-coital bedroom smoke.

“You ready to talk about things now?” Ian asks, trailing a finger down the shallow dip between Mickey's pecs.  Mickey shifts a little, his tell.

“What's there to talk about?” he mutters finally.

“You said you’d tell me more about how you’re feeling with everything,” Ian reminds him carefully.

“I’m fine,” Mickey says automatically.  “It was a one time thing.”

“You said that Dr. Arnold said you were triggered.”

“I told you-” Mickey shifts again, voice rising.  “It just reminded me of something.  But I handled it.”

“Yeah.”  Ian sits up, ashamed for feeling frustrated.  “I can see that you’re really handling it well.”

“Hold up.”  Mickey grabs Ian by the shoulder and tugs him back down into a reclining position.  “Don’t fucking- don’t be like that, alright?”  He runs a hand over his face.  “What do you wanna know?”

“I don’t know.  How I can help you.”

Mickey shakes his head, worrying his lip.  Ian waits him out.

“I just hate that- that lately all I think about is the way he died and not the way he lived, you know?”  He looks down, tracing the initials on the inside of his hip.  “When you broke up with me and I went in-” Mickey begins, “-kinda thought that maybe I didn’t- deserve to be loved, you know?  And then I met Trav and things got better and I thought, fuck it.  And then he died.”  Mickey swallows and Ian sniffs, trying to hold in his own emotions as he watches Mickey’s face.  “And then I got out and you came sniffing around-” Ian lets out a mock-offended scoff at that, and Mickey grins slyly for a moment before sobering and continuing.  “And I thought about Trav and how it ended really shitty, but that I was grateful I had him when I did, you know? Like, loving him was worth it.  And I figured loving you again would be worth it too.”  Ian closes his eyes tight to keep the tears from falling, kissing Mickey’s hand.  “Told myself I’d never forget him, but I’ve been pushing him away because I thought I had to.”

“For me?”

Mickey shrugs.  “Ain’t like I want to hear about your exes.  Anyway, I’ve been thinking maybe I should talk to someone about it.  Not you,” he adds, glancing Ian’s way.  “Like, a professional.”

“He’s not an ex,” Ian points out.  “You didn’t choose to break up with him.  It’s different.  And you can talk to me about him too,” Ian offers, though he understands Mickey’s point.  He isn’t all that eager to hear Mickey wax poetic about Trav, if he’s being honest, but he’d do it if he thought it would help.

“Thanks,” Mickey says genuinely.  “Actually, Dr. Arnold sent me a list of therapists.”

“No shit.”  Ian can’t help but smile a little.  He and Dr. Arnold have been tag teaming Mickey on this for years.  Leave it to Mickey to do shit on his own terms.  “That’s so good, Mick.”

“Yeah, well.”  Mickey kicks half-heartedly at the blankets balled up at the end of the bed.  “Anyway.”

“That’s all I’m gettin’ out of you, huh?” Ian teases gently.  “Can we talk about something else on my list?”

“I knew this was a trick.”  Mickey shakes his head ruefully.  “What kinda man wants to eat out another man for no reason?”

“A gay one.”  They laugh, and Mickey leans over and kisses the top of Ian’s head.  “So, this wedding,” Ian begins.  “When do you wanna do it?”

“Don’t care,” Mickey says easily.  “Whatever you wanna do, princess.”  He pauses, and when he speaks again there’s a hint of bite to his voice.  “So are we goin' down to the courthouse in tuxes like a couple of old queens?”   Ian leans back in confusion, the tiniest sense of deja vu tickling the back of his brain.  “You said that to me.  When you broke up with me,” Mickey reminds him.

“Jesus,” Ian groans.  “Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and punch myself in the face.”

“I wouldn’t stop ya,” Mickey agrees, smirking.

“I like the idea of the courthouse.  Something simple,” Ian muses.  “Soon.”

“That eager to make an honest woman out of me?” Mickey jokes.

“Didn’t know I wanted it so bad until you asked me,” Ian confesses.  “Well, told me.  When I was high on pain meds and practically dead asleep.”

“Shut the fuck up, you liked it.”  Mickey shoves him playfully in the shoulder as he rises, but he flushes just the same. “Wanna order Chinese?”

“Sure.”  Reluctantly, Ian climbs out of his warm spot on the bed and catches the boxers Mickey tosses at him.  He feels a little better about everything now, and judging by the way Mickey moves around the room, easy natural grin on his face, Mickey does too.

Ian might not deserve him, but Jesus Christ, he loves him.  

Chapter Text

Mickey

Mickey tugs uncomfortably at his tie as he paces at the top of the church steps.  He takes a drag of his cigarette to calm his nerves.  He doesn’t know why he’s so fucking nervous.  He’d snuck away from the hubbub in the church to have a quick moment of peace before the madness begins.

He barely has a chance to take two hits from his smoke before the heavy stained glass door creaks open behind him.

“Hey dad,” Yevgeny says, coming out onto the steps and letting the door bang closed behind him.  “Everyone's looking for you.”

“Well everyone needs to relax.  I still got-” he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and glances at the time “- shit.”  He looks down at his half smoked cigarette, then shrugs.  “Whatever.  Ain't like they can start without me.”

Yevgeny grins and holds out his hand for Mickey's cigarette.

“What the fuck, man?”  Mickey bats Yev's hand away.

“Dad, I'm seventeen.”  Yevgeny rolls his eyes.

“Don't fuckin’ remind me,” Mickey groans.  “Makes me feel old.”  He eyes his son, then hands over the stick.  He watches his kid as he takes a tiny puff.  Yevgeny looks good in the grey suit that matches his own.  Too grown up.  He feels a sudden swell of pride as he takes in his son’s profile.  Almost a man.  “You’re the best thing I ever did, ya know?”

Yevgeny rolls his eyes.  “Dad.”

Mickey laughs, but he can’t stop himself from praising him.  “I’m serious.  You’re a good kid.  Sweet to your mom.  Helpful.  Real fuckin’ smart.  Gonna be the first Milkovich to graduate high school.  Go to fucking college.”

“Yeah, well.”  Yevgeny looks at the ground and scuffs his feet.  “You’re pretty cool too.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says, and he sniffs to quell the tears that threaten to leak from the corners of his eyes.  He’s the luckiest fucker alive.  Yevgeny could hate his guts - maybe should hate his guts, for missing out on so much of his life when he was a kid.  But Yevgeny just loves him.  Likes hanging with him.

Yeah, Mickey got lucky.   

Yevgeny, either oblivious or choosing to ignore his old man’s misty eyes, hands Mickey’s cigarette back to him.  Mickey takes another hit and passes it back.  Ian and Svetlana would kill him if they saw, but it’s a father-son bonding moment.  So sue him.

Yevgeny coughs a little on his next exhale and Mickey turns his head to hide his smirk.

The door opens again, and Ian sticks his head out.  He grins when he sees Mickey, then raises a sharp eyebrow when he takes in Yevgeny, and what Yev is holding in his hand.

"The fuck are you doing out here?" Mickey snaps reflexively as he snatches the cigarette out of the kid’s hand and tosses it over the railing.  "Ain't there some sort of rule about seeing people before the wedding?"

"You're not the bride," Ian points out.  "Or the groom."  He comes out onto the steps and Mickey gets his first look at Ian all dressed up in his navy suit.   He looks really fucking good.  “Svet’s freaking out.  They’re all lined up waiting for you two.”  

Mickey grimaces and tugs at his tie again.

“Gotta get back,” Yevgeny says, and he avoids Ian’s eyes guiltily as he skirts past him and back into the church.

“We’ll talk about what I saw later!” Ian calls after him.  He sighs and shakes his head ruefully.  “Why do you always get to be the cool dad?”

“Hope that’s rhetorical.”  Mickey smirks, then gives Ian a suggestive once over, pulling his lower lip into his mouth.  “You look good.”

“Flattery won’t get you off the hook.  You and me are having a conversation later too.”  He tries to look stern, but his eyes quickly flicker with heat as he looks Mickey up and down.  “You look good too.”  Ian crowds him, slipping his hands between Mickey’s suit jacket and dress shirt.  “Can’t wait to peel you out of this later.”

“Jesus,” Mickey groans, tugging Ian’s arms free but letting his hands linger on Ian’s elbows.  “Any more of that and we’re gonna burst into flames right here.”

Ian throws his head back and laughs.  Mickey loves that sound.  “C’mon,” Ian urges, gesturing for Mickey to follow him.  “Svetlana’s having kittens.”

The bridal party is already lined up at the doors to the nave.  Ian gives Mickey’s hand a quick squeeze before he slips through the doors to find his seat at the front of the church, and Mickey heads to take his place at the back of the line with Svetlana.

“Bout time,” V snarks, adjusting the deep v-neck of her navy bridesmaids dress.  “The wedding march has been playing on repeat for five fuckin’ minutes.”  Beside her, Vlad’s college frat buddy tries not to stare at her tits.  Mickey rolls his eyes and continues down the line.

“Where were you, daddy?” Nadia demands, itching at the collar of her flower girl dress.

“Papa needed something,” Mickey lies, tugging on her ponytail.  The curls Fiona had painstakingly put in this morning are hardly noticeable now in her pin straight hair.  From her spot at the front of the line, Fiona turns and smirks at him, giving him an exaggerated once over.  He flips her off.

“You smell like ashtray!” Svetlana snaps, rounding on him.  “Cigarette is more important to you than wife’s wedding?”

“Ex-wife,” Mickey reminds her with a smirk.  “Relax, Svet.  No harm done.”  She pinches him as they link arms, but she shoots him a shaky smile.  She’s nervous.  It’s almost sweet.  “You look good,” he tells her as the doors open and the processional begins.  And she does.  Her dress is enormous and glaringly white with little sparkles sewn in.  Her dark hair is swept up under a long tulle veil.  She looks every bit the traditional bride.  “Way better than that hooker dress you wore to our wedding.”

“Ha ha.”  She curls her lip at him.

Mickey knows it’s fucking weird that he’s walking her down the aisle as she marries her new husband.  He’d been both touched and terrified by the idea, and when he’d demanded to know why she couldn’t just walk her own damn self down the aisle like she’d done for their wedding nearly eighteen years ago, she’d pretty much sealed the deal for him by saying, “ Walk down the aisle is for important man in your life, yes?  Who is more important than you, the father of my children?”

The Svetlana that stands next to him today, the one who’s gripping his arm like a vice and smiling at Vlad, who stands nervously with his hands clasped in front of his body at the altar, turns her head minutely toward him as the congregation rises.

“I am glad you are my ex-husband,” she tells him, and although it might sound like an insult to some, he knows just what she means.  They’ve been through a lot together.  Their traumatizing first meeting and the amazing kid that came out of it, the friendship they’d maintained during Mickey’s incarceration  Successfully co-parenting.  Svetlana accepting Ian back into their lives.  And Nadia.  Their mutual decision that has made all of their lives, his and Svet’s and Ian’s and Yev’s and Vlad’s, infinitely richer.

Mickey catches Ian’s eye as they make their way to the front of the church.  Ian stands at the edge of the front row of the bride’s side, eyes clear and happy, lips smiling.  In a few weeks Mickey’ll be marrying that gangly, goofy, freckled kid.  Mickey’s a little sad to be closing this chapter with Svetlana, but he’s beyond fucking excited for the times ahead with Ian.  As his husband.

“I’m glad you’re my ex-wife,” he whispers into her ear as they stop at the altar.  She reaches for him, and Mickey clears his throat as they embrace quickly and tightly.  Vlad steps down and offers his hand, and Mickey takes it willingly.  Vlad’ll take care of her.  And if he doesn’t, well, Mickey will fuck him up.

Mickey winks at Yevgeny, standing nervously to Vlad’s right as best man (he hadn’t been thrilled in the least by the honor) and joins Ian at their seats.  Immediately Ian’s hand finds his, and Mickey squeezes back, happy for the contact.  Ian grounds him.  Always has.

 Mickey: Year 8

"Yo, Milky. What up, man?" Fuentes greeted Mickey pleasantly, even though the two guys in his crew glared at Mickey suspiciously. "Milky's got a standing appointment," Fuentes told his guys.

"No he don't," one of them, the dumber looking of the two, argued.

"He do if I fucking say he do, alright?" Fuentes smacked the guy on the side of the head. "Now get the fuck outta here for a minute while I talk to my boy here."

Fuentes's cronies took off pretty quick after that. Mickey took a vacated seat and Fuentes re-dealt his playing cards.

"You didn't have to make dumb and dumber leave on accounta me." Mickey pointed his thumb in the direction of the door to the game room.

"They are fuckin' stupid, ain't they?" Fuentes snorted. "Beggars can't be fucking choosers, hey? When I get the fuck outta here I'm gonna be picky as fuck."

"Got big plans for when you get out?"

"Gonna open me a shop again. Do some legit business next time around. You know my daughter's sixteen now? Haven't seen her since she was in kindergarten."

"Fucking sucks," Mickey commiserated. "My son's nine now. Missed his first fuckin' steps."

"Shit." Fuentes drew another card. "Least you get to see him soon. Hear you're getting out."

Mickey exhaled.

"That's what they fuckin' say."

"Don't look so damn happy about it." Fuentes grinned. Mickey shifted in his chair.

"Just been a long time is all," Mickey confessed. "Not sure what I'm coming home to."

"Come home to whatever you want. The world is your fucking oyster or whatever." Fuentes spread his arms wide, grinning, and Mickey snorted derisively. "Hey, none of that shit," Fuentes chided. "Positivity, man."

"Didn't peg you for the hipster type."

"Peace and love," Fuentes joked, smirking.  "But serious, Milky.  Your kid's young enough to still want to love you.  Your girl obviously waited around for you, more than I can say for mine-"  Mickey shifted in his seat and Fuentes shrugged, grinning. "- Or not, whatever.  Go out and get you some low level shitty job and work your way outta the gutter.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I hear that.”  Fuentes appraised him for a minute.  “So what do you want?”

Mickey huffed.  “Who says I want anything?”

“That look on your face, for one.  You ain't exactly the type to come for a chat.”

“Alright,” Mickey conceded, throwing down his cards.  “I got something I want you to do. But you ain't allowed to ask questions.”

Fuentes’s eyes lit up with interest.  He leaned forward.  “You know I'm real good at keeping secrets.”

Mickey glared at him.  “No questions.”

Fuentes held up his hands in surrender, the hint of a smirk on his lips.  Mickey hesitated, then dug in the pocket of his jumpsuit and pulled out a scrap of paper and handed it to Fuentes.  Fuentes glanced at it, face blank, and if he made the connection he gave no indication.

“You could probably do that shit yourself, you know,” he commented mildly.  “Simple enough.  You sure you wanna pay me for my time for that?”

“It's gotta be right,” Mickey argued.  “It's important.”  He thought about the tattoo over his chest that he'd done himself while he was fucked up.  He'd moved past the point of regret, but he did wish it looked a little better.

“Whatever,” Fuentes said agreeably.  “You know where you want it?”  Mickey nodded.  He knew the perfect spot, right where Trav's thumbs would rest on the inside of Mickey's hip.  Private.  Personal.  “Alright.  You need some time to get my shit?”

“Nah.”  He'd planned for this, from the moment Wilson had given his release date.  Not that he didn't trust Fuentes - he did, for the most part.  But there was no reason to give himself any trouble if he didn't have to.  “Whenever you're ready.  I got a week and a half left.”

“Think I can pencil you in.”  Mickey stood, having got what he came for.  Fuentes handed the paper back and tapped his temple.  “Got it up here.  Three letters ain't so hard to remember.”  Mickey pocketed the scrap, glancing at Trav's initials in his own handwriting.  He'd toss it at dinner.

“See ya soon,” he said to Fuentes standing up and raising a hand in a half wave.

“Real soon, Milky.”

Svetlana smiled cheekily at him when he sat down across from her a few days after his meeting with Fuentes. She already had the phone up to her ear.

“How does it feel to be the last time?” she asked him as soon as his ear hit the receiver.

“Pretty fucking weird," he told her honestly.  "Like it's a dream.”

“No dream.” She grinned again, and he couldn't help but smile back a little quizzically.

“The fuck are you so happy about?”

“What?” She questioned innocently, “A girl cannot be happy about her husband leaving prison?”

He shot his eyebrows up at her and they both chuckled.

“You still plan to move home with us, yes?”

Mickey gnawed on his lip some more, that nervous habit he couldn't quit, especially since hearing the news. He’d be bleeding soon if he kept it up.

“That still okay?” he wondered.  Svetlana grinned.

“Yevgeny is over the… what is it?”

“Moon,” Mickey supplied. He felt his nerves ramp up again at the mention of the son he'd only held a handful of times and had only had halting conversations with through glass twice a month for the last eight years.  “Can't believe I'll be living in the old rub and tug. That shit’s weird. Don't it feel weird to tuck your son into bed in the same room trusted to suck guys off?”  It was a dirty attempt at deflecting away from his nerves. Svetlana scowled at him.

“Remember, you say shit like that in front of Yevgeny and I chop your balls off and serve them for supper.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Kev has job for you. Legitimate. Over the table.”

Mickey groaned.

“You will do it and you will like it, prison boy. No where else will hire a felon.”

"Whatever," he relented.  It was pretty fucking good of her, setting him up with a job, letting him immediately rejoin the family. He would forever be grateful to her.

“I will see you next Thursday afternoon. We will have steak for supper, yes? You still like steak?”

Thursday afternoon. One week. His heart clenched and unclenched.

“Yeah, I still like steak.”

“Good,” she said.  She smiled, eyes soft.  “Be happy. It is good thing.”

“I'm good,” he assured her.

“And we will have late Christmas,” Svetlana announced.  “Celebrate as a family.  We got Yevgeny a scooter.”

“Speaking of, where’s he at?”  Mickey didn’t like it when Yevgeny didn’t come with Svetlana.

“Birthday party for a friend.  I tell him it is alright since he will see you next week.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey allowed, although he was disappointed.  One week.  He could do this.

Could it be possible that after eight years and three months, one week could crawl by so fucking slowly? He said goodbye to some of the decent guys on Thursday morning at breakfast, then he was finally being escorted to the place where they'd done his intake all those years ago.

Mickey wasn’t altogether surprised when it wasn’t just any guard who handed him his personal effects, but Wilson himself.  He swallowed the lump in his throat as Wilson passed the stack of clothes Svetlana had supplied to him.

“Don’t,” Mickey warned Wilson.  “Don’t fucking say anything.  I’m not-”

I’m not supposed to miss you.

Wilson nodded, clearing his throat.  “You uh, got everything from your bunk?”

“In my bag.”  Mickey held up the plastic bag they’d given him for his personal effects from prison.  He’d stuck the letters, pictures and drawings from Yevgeny over the years in there.  And Trav’s wall calendar from the year he died, carefully folded.

They stared at one another for a long moment, long enough for Thompson, the other CO in the room, to clear his throat.  Wilson glared his way, then turned back to Mickey.

“Listen, so you got Earl Johnson for your PO.  He’s an old buddy of mine.  Told him not to take any of your shit.”

Mickey laughed awkwardly.  “Yeah.  Thanks.”

“He’ll do alright by you if you keep your nose clean.  And if you end up back here I’ll kick your ass myself,” he warned.

Mickey snorted.  “Don’t worry.  You’ll never see my face again after this.”

“Good.”  Wilson stuck out his hand and Mickey shook.  “Keep making me proud, alright? Do right by that kid of yours.”

“Yeah.”  Mickey cleared his throat again, willing down the tears.  “That’s the plan.”

“And do good shit for yourself too, alright?  Stop and smell the roses.  Look up at the stars.  Make up for all those night skies you missed.”  Mickey laughed.  Leave it to Wilson to be corny as fuck at the end.  “I’m serious, Michael,” Wilson insisted, chuckling a little himself.  Then his face turned serious again.  “Just make sure you don’t carry all this shit from inside out there alright?”

Mickey brushed his fingers against the still-healing tattoo on the inside of his hip.

“Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah.”

Wilson laid a heavy hand on Mickey’s shoulder.

“Goodbye, son.”

And then he was gone.  And Mickey took off his prison jumpsuit for the last time.

The new jeans were too tight all over but the tee shirt and hoodie fit well. He stomped into his new boots, blessedly the right size. He observed himself in the tiny mirror, wondering how different he'd look to people he hadn't seen in years. Older Mickey gazed back at him. His face was paler, if that could be possible, cheeks a bit thinner (chiseled, he told himself) and his forehead had probably a few more creases.

Finally he was given back the possessions he'd had on him at the time of his arrest (minus the pair of brass knuckles and lone joint they'd confiscated from his coat pockets). Said coat in question smelled like mothballs but looked otherwise the same- just as worn as always. His wallet was in the plastic bag - 13 dollars, a very old condom (tossed in the trash without too much thinking about its intended use at the time) and a very, very expired driver’s license. He chucked the condom, then decided fuck it and chucked the whole wallet, only to have to sheepishly fish it out of the trash again to snag the thirteen bucks and the old ID (just in case he needed to prove who he was in the near future).  He jammed them into the front pocket of his too tight jeans.

Then finally, the heavy door was buzzed open, and Thompson joked “See ya in a few months, Milky.” Mickey flipped him off just because he could, and then the door was shutting behind him and Svetlana was standing in front of him with her hands on Yevgeny's shoulders. The kid was taller than he'd expected (it was hard to tell height when sitting behind thick glass) and he looked nervous, but he was smiling. Svetlana was too, and she darted forward to plant one right on his lips. He swatted her away, like old times, and both Svet and the kid laughed.

“It is good to see you.”  Svetlana put her hands on both of his cheeks, grinning at him, then she turned to their son.  “Yevgeny, say hello to your father.”

Mickey swiveled his head to look closer at the kid.  He knew what he looked like, of course.  But up close Mickey could see the faintest of freckles on his nose.  The flecks of gold in his blue eyes.

“Hi Dad,” Yevgeny said shyly, peeking up at him from beneath his dark lashes.  Jesus, even his voice sounded better in person.

“Hey, kid.  Long time no see.”  They stared at one another for a moment, until Mickey couldn’t resist any longer.  He tugged Yevgeny into his arms and nearly wept at the feeling of his scrawny arms around his waist, the feeling of his soft dark hair against his lips.  When they finally pulled apart he glanced up at Svetlana, who was wiping stray tears from her eyes.

“Come.  We must leave before they change their mind,” she joked.  It was probably the most cliche just-released-from-prison joke in the world, but the three of them laughed anyway.

Svetlana and Yevgeny turned and headed for the exit, the doors that led to the real world without bars and fences. Mickey hesitated, long enough for them to turn back and stare.

“Coming dad?” asked Yevgeny.

He didn't know what he would find - what he wanted to find - on the other side of that door. But he knew that he had two people by his side that wanted him, needed him, had waited for him.

Mickey took a deep breath and stepped forward into the sun.

 Ian

Their family crowds into the courthouse pews, taking every available space.  They all look at little ridiculous, honestly.  This wasn’t meant to be a big production, but here they all are, dressed up like idiots as they wait for Ian and Mickey to be up.  Ian sits in his spot nervously shaking his leg.  The seat beside him is empty.  Mickey’d announced a bathroom break at least ten minutes ago now.

“Anyone seen where Mick went?” Ian hisses to the gaggle of Gallaghers, Balls, and Milkoviches as the couple at the front of the room recite their vows.  

“Why?  You think he got cold feet and took off?” Lip snarks back.

“Check the smoking area,” Mandy suggests, leaning forward from behind him.  “Probably taking the edge off.”

Ian slips out of his seat and heads out the door to the courtroom, shooting Nadia a quick wink on his way.

He makes his way to the back of the building, where there's a little courtyard with a picnic table by the dumpsters for the smokers.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Ian teases as he steps into the smoking area off the back of the courthouse.  “You're so predictable, you know.”

Mickey turns, looking equal parts defiant and guilty at being caught.  “Least this time it's for our wedding, huh?”

“Kind of unbelievable, right?”  They laugh a little awkwardly.  Mickey takes another pull from his cigarette and shoves his other hand in his pocket.  Fiddling with the ring.  Ian's ring.  Mickey's is burning a hole in Ian's pocket too.

“Thought you said you wanted to quit smoking,” Ian says, mostly to make conversation as the silence lingers.

“No , you said you wanted me to quit smoking.”

“And you agreed, remember?”

Mickey hums.  “Pretty sure I'll agree to anything when my dick’s in your mouth.”  They smirk at one another.  Mickey takes an exaggerated drag and blows smoke directly into Ian's face, just to be an asshole.

“So you're sure you wanna do forever with me?” Ian teases.  He means it to be a joke, because he knows.  He knows Mickey’s all in.  But Mickey tosses his cigarette and reaches with both hands for Ian’s face.  He looks deeply into his eyes, and Ian swallows back the sudden threat of tears.

“Ian, I have always wanted to do forever with you.”

Mickey kisses him, softly and sweetly, and Ian revels in the familiar taste of him.  He grips the back of Mickey's neck tightly and pours himself right back into the kiss.  This is all he wants.  He could do this forever.  He will get to do this forever.

“Hey, save something for the honeymoon,” a voice yells, interrupting their moment.  They untangle themselves quickly, and Mickey gives the middle finger to Carl, who's leaning out the door.  Carl gives him the finger right back.  “You're up!”

“Oh shit,” Ian breathes.  This is it.

Mickey takes his hand and squeezes.

They stay like that, hands intertwined as they head up the steps together, as they walk down the corridor and take their places in front of the judge, and as the ceremony begins.  They separate briefly, to slip the rings on each other's fingers, and then they come together again.  Nothing else exists in this moment except the two of them.  Ian can feel Mickey's pulse beating, strong and steady, just a hair too fast.  All he sees is Mickey, smiling softly, eyes firmly on him.  All he hears is Mickey's voice as he says, slowly and surely, “I do.”  And all he feels is Mickey's hands against his face as they kiss to seal their marriage, chaste but lingering.

And then the world comes back into focus again with the roaring and cheering of their family, and Nadia's barreling into them both and Mickey's laughing, eyes damp.  The moment couldn't be more perfect.

“Let’s party!” Kev cries, and the cheers start up again.

They're swept up into the flurry of people.  Mandy hugs first Mickey, then Ian.  Svetlana kisses them once on each cheek.  Carl offers Mickey a celebratory swig from his flask, and then Mickey passes it to Yevgeny with a wink.  Ian's too elated to care.  It's a special occasion.  They're fucking married .

Mickey and Ian sign their marriage license, and Lip and Carl serve as witnesses.  Fiona makes them stand together holding the license between them (“ Cmon guys, this looks like a bro hug!  Show a little love !”), and the picture that comes out of it - Mickey and Ian kissing and clutching the marriage license, Mickey blocking their faces with a one fingered salute - is so perfect that Ian changes it to his lock screen photo the second Fiona sends it to him.

After pictures with every combination of family unit on the front steps, then several long minutes of loud deliberation on how everyone is getting to the Alibi from downtown, the party finally leaves Mickey and Ian alone in the parking garage.

“Fuck.”  Mickey runs a hand through his hair and shoots Ian a frazzled, relieved look.  “Thought they'd never leave.”

“Why, got big plans, Mick?” Ian teases as he advances on Mickey until his back hits the trunk of the car.

“Nah, nothing special,” Mickey breathes out, stretching up so his lips are only inches away from Ian's own.  “Just got hitched, you know.  Hear sex loses it's magic after that.”

“Oh, you hear that, huh?”  Ian noses at Mickey's neck and relishes in the way that Mickey shivers.  “I've always had a thing for married men.  Maybe that'll help.”

Mickey's shoulders shake with laughter even as Ian kisses a path up his neck.

When they finally enter the Alibi, the party's already in full swing.  People catcall and wolf whistle good naturedly when Ian and Mickey walk in, and Mickey overcompensates for his embarrassment by immediately downing a shot with Iggy.

They separate for a while.  Ian dances with Mandy while Mickey chats with a few heavily tattooed co-workers.  But they find one another again as soon as they can.  Mickey sidles up next to Ian in a booth and presses his thigh against Ian's.

“We gotta get out of here before I get whiskey dick,” Mickey says in Ian's ear.  He's pleasantly buzzed, on the cusp of drunk, which explains the roaming hand under the table.  Ian stops Mickey's hand before it can reach its destination.

“How romantic.”  He rolls his eyes, but he hold Mickey’s hand tight in his.  “Listen, I have a surprise for you, if you’re up for it.”

Mickey raises a brow, already looking apprehensive.  “What kinda surprise?”

Ian grins.  “Like a suite at the Thompson kinda surprise.”  He leans forward and whispers into Mickey’s ear languidly, “They have a jacuzzi tub in the room.”

Mickey’s other eyebrow shoots up to join its mate.

“Well, what the fuck are we still doing here, then?”  He pauses, brow furrowing. “Wait.  How the fuck did you-”  Ian shushes him, shaking his head.  Yeah, so maybe Lip helped him out a little.  It's a wedding present, or something.

“We should probably tell everyone goodbye.”  Ian starts to get out of the booth, but Mickey stops him with a sharp tug on his arm.

“Are you kidding me?  Let’s sneak out the back.  If I have to hear one more gay sex joke tonight I’m gonna knock someone out.”

“You think they won’t notice the guests of honor disappearing?”

Mickey snorts.  “Take a look around.  When has this party ever been about us?”  It’s true.  People around here use any excuse to party.  Everyone’s doing their own thing, for the most part.  “Svet’s already watching the kids tonight.  Let’s cut and run.”

“Okay,” Ian agrees, hardly needing convincing.  Mickey takes the lead, heading straight for the back of the bar without looking back.  Ian follows behind, putting his finger to his lips when he catches Lip’s eye.  Lip raises his glass in salute, smirking.

“This is the nicest place I’ve ever been,” Mickey admits, whistling when the door to the hotel room finally closes behind them.  “Holy shit.  I’m afraid to fucking touch anything.”

Ian laughs and sets down the bag he’d packed the night before.  It’s still daylight, but the city view from the enormous windows is incredible.  Mickey wanders forward and runs his hand on the velvet sofa in the corner of the room.  “Jesus.”

“It’s nice, huh?”  Mickey nods, open mouthed, and Ian grins, pleased he’s managed to stun Mickey.  Mickey deserves amazing things like this every day, but they’ll have to settle for once in a blue moon.  Ian takes his pill case out of the front of the overnight bag and heads for the bathroom.

‘Hey, where you goin’?” Mickey demands, stopping Ian in his tracks.

“Uh, gonna go take my shit so we can - you know.”  Ian shakes the pill container at him.

“Hold up.”  Mickey gestures Ian closer.  “C’mere and lay with me for a sec first.”

“But it takes like a half hour to work,” Ian argues, even as he moves closer.  “If you want to-”

“Ian,” Mickey says firmly.  “Shut the fuck up and come here.”  Reluctantly, Ian tosses his pill container onto the desk and toes off his shoes, crawling onto the bed next to Mickey.  Mickey shoves a pillow further under his head and reaches for Ian with his left hand.  His gold wedding band glints in the sunlight.  “Just wanna hold onto you for a while,” Mickey murmurs into Ian’s chest.  Ian grins and pulls Mickey even closer, resting his chin on the top of Mickey’s head.  “Love you,” Mickey says, muffled against Ian’s shirt.  “Can’t believe you’re mine.  Can’t believe I got everything I ever wanted.”

Hot tears prick the corners of Ian’s eyes at the sincerity and awe in Mickey’s voice.  If there’s anyone who should be grateful, it’s Ian.  After all the shit that Ian has put Mickey through, after all the shit Mickey’s gone through on his own, Mickey still loves Ian unconditionally.

Ian kisses Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey smiles against Ian’s chest.  They lie there, arms and legs intertwined, breathing in synch.  Together.

Mickey

He wakes slowly.

He lets the sun warm his face.  He rubs his cheeks against the starchy fabric of the hotel pillow.  He leans into the familiar weight of a body wrapped around him, hot breath against his neck.

Carefully, he slips out from under Ian's arm and pads naked to the floor to ceiling window.  Below him and above him and all around him is the city.  It's a fucking beautiful city, when it wants to be.  He puts his hand on the glass, cool under his touch.  His wedding ring clinks, alerting him to its presence on his finger.  As if he could forget.

He smiles.

Behind him, Ian groans. He turns in time to see Ian stretch, the bedsheets pulling to reveal more and more of his lithe body.

"Morning, Mick," Ian says through his yawn.  "Whatcha doing?"

"Admiring the view."  He grins at his own innuendo, and Ian laughs.

"Come back to bed."

Mickey pads back to his husband, the plush carpet cushioning his feet as he goes.  Maybe they'll get breakfast after this.  Then they'll head home.  Spend time with the kids before real life starts again on Monday.  Back to the grind.

This is his life.  And he fucking loves it.