Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mickey sat in the ICU waiting room, pushing his knuckles into his eyes, thinking he would wake up from this nightmare if he squeezed hard enough. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He hated hospitals. Hated the smell.

Ian was in surgery. Non-fatal head wound. That’s what they said. Serious, but survivable. Mickey had heard those words before—about bullets, about psychotic breaks, about Terry. Survivable didn’t mean easy.

He replayed it again. The scene. The sound. The blood.

He’d just come from the corner store, nearly slap-fighting a soccer mom over the last red Gatorade. Ian’s new favorite. Mickey didn’t even know when that happened—when the guy who used to drink straight vodka started requesting new sports drinks like a picky giant ginger toddler. But it made him happy, so Mickey fought for it like it was gold.

He came home ready. Ready to feed his man, wrap him up in warmth and arms and maybe have a little sex if Ian was up for it. He thought Ian was still in the tub, maybe finally relaxing. The water was still running. The door was closed.

Then the gunshot.

Mickey didn’t remember moving. Just screaming. Tearing into the bathroom after busting the locked door off its hinges.

“Ian!” he roared, voice cracking. “IAN, FUCK—NO, NO, NO!”

The air was still—too still. And then he saw him.

Ian's headwas slumped against the wall of the shower, half in the tub, half out, blood smeared across his temple like a brushstroke. The gun lay inches from his hand, forgotten. His hair was matted, sticky with blood.

“I didn’t want to die,” Ian whispered, voice barely audible. “I just wanted the noise to stop.”

Mickey dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he fumbled for his phone.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My husband—he fucking shot himself! He’s bleeding, he’s—he’s alive but he’s not okay! You need to get here now!”

“Sir, I need you to stay calm—”

“Calm? Are you fucking kidding me? He’s bleeding out in my goddamn bathtub! You get someone here or I swear to God I’ll—just fucking hurry!”

He pressed a towel to Ian’s head, voice trembling.

“You’re okay, baby, you’re okay. Stay with me. Don’t fucking close your eyes.”

Ian blinked slowly, tears mixing with blood.

The paramedics pushed Mickey aside and began to work on Ian. Mickey just stared helplessly as he saw that beautiful red hair shaved unevenly where the paramedics had cut through to relieve pressure. A thick bandage wrapped around his head, already soaked through at the edges. His skin was pale and waxy, but his chest rose—shallow, slow.

Too fucking slow for Mickey's liking.

His left eye was swollen shut, the right fluttering open just enough to register Mickey’s shape. His mouth twitched, like he wanted to speak but couldn’t quite find the motor control. One side of his face drooped slightly, the aftermath of the hematoma pressing against his brain. His fingers curled and uncurled like he was trying to grab hold of something—maybe reality, maybe Mickey.

There was a tremor in his right leg, involuntary, like his body was rebooting in fragments.

They began to get Ian strapped in for transport and Mickey became aware of freezing and burning up at the same time.

His shirt was soaked in sweat, and the room stank of copper and fear. Mickey's fear. 

Mickey came to the side of Ian and leaned in, hands hovering, unsure where to touch without hurting. Ian’s lips parted, voice a rasp.

“Didn’t… mean to die.”

Mickey swallowed hard, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He wanted to scream, to shake him, to demand why the hell Ian had done this. But instead he said:

“You look like shit, Gallagher.”

Ian blinked, slow and uneven, and managed the ghost of a smirk. A hint that Ian was going to fight through this.

“Still prettier than you.”

Mickey barked a laugh that cracked in the middle. He pressed his forehead to Ian’s, careful of the bandage, and whispered:

“You don’t get to leave me. Not like that.”

***

Ian was wheeled into the ambulance. Sandy showed up—how Mickey called her, he had no idea. The Gallaghers were notified. The waiting began.

Five days in ICU until Ian began to wake up.

Five motherfucking long days.

But it hadn’t started there. Not really.

***

Three weeks ago, Ian had been all gaga about a new farmers market. Mickey couldn’t give less of a shit about grass-fed beef, but Ian was glowing, so he went. He bitched the whole time, but Ian knew there was no venom in it. That was their language—banter, sarcasm, and love wrapped in electric fencing, shooting sparks but no long-term harm.

Ian was mid-sentence about sustainable pork when he froze. Turned green. Vomited in a bin. Then ran.

Fuck.

Ian had been a runner their whole life. One of his most maddening traits. But it hadn’t happened in years. Mickey sprinted home, half-concerned, half-pissed, bellowing into their apartment.

“IANNNN GALLAGHER, WHAT THE FUCK MAN?”

He started ranting about being abandoned in gentrified hell when he saw him—curled up between the bed and the wall, all six-foot-plus looking small. Smaller than Mickey had ever seen him. Choking on sobs. Ian flinched when Mickey attempted to touch him.

“Don’t touch me!” Ian screamed, voice raw.

So Mickey sat. Hours passed. He didn’t leave.

Finally, Ian spoke.

“Everyone thought Kash was the first,” he said, voice hollow. “You know, the first old guy to take advantage of me. But he wasn’t.”

“You ever wonder why I thought Kash was love?”

Mickey blinked, caught off guard. Ian’s voice was hoarse but steady.

“It wasn’t just the age gap. Wasn’t just the secrecy. It was the way he made me feel like I owed him. Like being wanted meant being used.”

He turned his head.

“By the time Kash came around, I already thought love was supposed to hurt. Chase taught me that.”

Mickey froze, heart pounding.

“Who the fuck was Chase?”

“Monica used to say I was beautiful,” Ian continued. “Said she did good when she made me. I was her golden boy. Not close, but... fucked-up close. I thought making her happy meant love.”

Ian didn’t look at Mickey when he said it. He just stared out the window fingers twitching against the blanket like he was counting something invisible

“His name was Chase,” Ian said, voice flat. “Monica’s dealer. She used to leave me with him when she was high. Said he was ‘safe.’ Said he liked kids.”

Mickey’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. Not yet.

“Lap time,” Ian continued, like he was reading from a script he’d buried deep. “Started with cartoons and candy. Then it got quiet. Then it got wrong.”

His voice cracked, just once, but he didn’t stop.

"I was seven years old the first time I was forced to have sex." And after that first time when Monica nodded out, he always wanted to. I told her I didn’t want to go. Fiona heard me. Lip too. They said, ‘At least she wants to spend time with you, Ian.’ Like that was supposed to mean something.”

He finally looked at Mickey then, eyes bloodshot and glassy but piercing. No dull edges. No distance. Ian was enraged in a way Mickey had never thought Ian capable. This was his usuallyhappy husband fighting with betrayl he buried most of his life.

“Nobody asked why I stopped sleeping. Why I flinched when someone touched my shoulder. Why I wore long sleeves in July.”

Mickey’s hands were fists in his lap, nails biting into his palms. He wanted to scream. Wanted to dig Monica up and murder her. Wanted to find Chase and erase him from the earth.

But Ian wasn’t done.

“I buried him. In my head.  But he’s still there. Like a splinter I can’t dig out.”

Then Ian's eyes met his and Mickey was paralyzed. 

Ian’s eyes looked like they’d forgotten how to shine. The green was dulled, like moss left to rot in shadow. No spark, no fire—just a haunted stillness that made Mickey’s chest ache. His pupils were blown wide, not from drugs or adrenaline, but from something deeper. Like his brain was still bracing for an impact that never stopped coming. It was the look of a boy who’d been left behind  to fend for himself too many times.

“And my mom, she just let him. I know she knew. She would just pat my head. Good job, Ian,” she’d said.

It was Mickey’s turn to puke after Ian fell asleep, tossing and turning like his body couldn’t find peace.

***

Since then, it had been a raw ride. Ian unraveling. Mickey realized the  sexual abuse went on for years. Older men. People who should’ve protected him. Lip. Linda. Fiona. Monica. Frank. Even Mickey, in his own way, had let it happen. Had missed the signs. Had been too wrapped up in their day to day survival to see the damage Ian fought to hide from himself.

Ian started shrinking. Not physically. Spiritually. Like his soul was folding in on itself. Crumbling.

And then the gun.

No, then the fucking gunshot.

Mickey stared at the hospital  vending machine now, eyes unfocused. He wanted to punch it. Wanted to scream. Wanted to crawl into Ian’s hospital bed and never leave.

He thought about the first time Ian kissed him.  The way Ian always knew when Mickey was about to spiral. The way he held him through the worst of it.

Now it was Mickey’s turn.

He wasn’t just rescuing Ian. He was standing beside him. In the darkest moments yet. No Southside throne. Just a man who loved another man so fiercely it made him want to give up his life for Ian.

“All the king’s horses,” Mickey muttered, voice low. “All the king’s fucking men.”

He didn’t know how they’d put Ian back together. But he’d be there. Every step. 

Because Ian didn’t want to die.

He just wanted the noise to stop.

And Mickey? Mickey would silence whatever Ian needed him to.

***

Ian woke up slowly. Groggy. Eyes fluttering like the light hurt. Mickey was already leaning over him, one hand gripping the bed rail like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Hey,” Mickey said, voice low, rough. “You’re back.”

Then tender, " Missed ya."

Ian blinked, tried to speak, and winced. The bandage on his head was thick and white, stained faintly pink at the edge. His hair was still  matted with dried blood. There were stitches near his temple, bruising down the side of his face, and a pressure monitor still taped to his skull. The bullet had grazed him—missed the brain, thank fuck—but it fractured bone, tore through skin, and left him concussed and weak.

Mickey had memorized every word the doctor said. But Mickey knew the physical part would be the easy one. Managing his meds and his bipolar while in recovery would also be a challenge.

The doctor’s words still rang in his ears, clinical and cold:

“The bullet didn’t penetrate the brain tissue, but it caused a subdural hematoma. We relieved the pressure surgically. He’s stable, but there may be temporary motor deficits—weakness on the left side, speech delays, emotional dysregulation. He’s lucky to be alive.”

It was the emotional wreckage that scared him.

Ian’s eyes met his. “Did I ruin everything?”

Mickey swallowed hard. “You didn’t ruin shit. You scared the hell outta me, but you’re here. That’s what matters.”

Ian nodded, barely. Ian then drifted back to sleep.

Mickey sat back, hands clenched. He thought about the fight. It was the first real fight after Ian had shared everything with him.

***

Mickey sat chewing his lip; he hadn't slept  in days and couldnt.  A loud "fuck you" from down the hall made Mickey's head jerk up. 

It hit Mickey like a sucker punch. The memory of that fight clawed its way back into his chest as he sat alone in the hospital waiting room.

They’d fought. Not the usual banter or sharp-edged teasing. This was raw. Ugly. 

Mickey had been trying, really trying, to get Ian to understand that what happened to him as a kid wasn’t his fault. Chase, Monica, all of it, was a shit show of epic proportions that Ian had been thrown into, not something he’d summoned. But Ian wouldn’t hear it. Wouldn’t let it in.

He remembered the way Ian stood there, fists clenched at his sides. Not frustrated. Not even defensive. Not even a glimpse of that jutting chin. Just… broken. Like Mickey had touched a wire that was too deep and frayed.

Ian had shouted, voice cracking under the weight of pain  he’d never spoken aloud.

“You don’t get it! I was the kind of kid people let get hurt. I was quiet, forgettable. Easy to leave. Easy to ignore. And Chase saw that. He saw it in me before I even knew what it meant.”

Mickey had wanted to scream, to shake him, to make him see the truth. But Ian kept going, unraveling in front of him.

“By the time Kash came around, I thought love was supposed to feel like shame. Like secrets. Like being used. I didn’t know any different. I didn’t think I deserved different.”

And Mickey had said the only thing he could, his voice trembling with love and tenderness:

“You were seven, Ian. Seven. That’s not weakness. That was no fucking choice."

But Ian hadn’t believed him. Not really. Mickey saw it in his eyes— those eyes that looked like they’d run out of light. They were the saddest he’d ever seen.  Just a quiet resignation that made Mickey’s stomach turn.

Mickey had stood there, gutted. Nothing he said could reach Ian in that moment. Not love. Not logic.

He’d held Ian that night, after the shouting faded. Held him like he was trying to anchor him to his side. But now, sitting in the hospital, Mickey realized Ian had already been slipping. That fight wasn’t the beginning. It was the last flare-up before the fall.

The doctor had said the bullet missed the brain tissue, but the hematoma was severe. Pressure on the motor cortex. Temporary paralysis. Speech delays. Emotional instability. Mickey didn’t care about the medical jargon. All he heard was critical. All he saw was Ian, pale and bandaged, lying in that bed like a ghost of himself.

And all he could think was, “I should’ve seen it coming.”

Ian had been screaming in silence for years. And Mickey had finally heard him—just one day too late.

***

 Now, in the hospital, Mickey watched Ian sleep again. The machines beeped softly. Ian’s face was pale, lips cracked, and eyes twitching under closed lids.  He seemed as fragile as a leaf that could be easily blown away by a gust of wind.

His big, beefy, sexy husband looked withered.

Fiona flew in that afternoon. Mickey barely acknowledged her. Lip, Debbie, and Carl came too. Ian was still asleep when Mickey pulled the Gallagher siblings outside.

He lit a cigarette with shaking hands. Then his hands, still shaking, dropped it.

Maybe the Gallagher siblings did not deserve to get his wrath but fuck, someone needed to.

Mickey’s hands shook as he lit another cigarette.

The Gallagher siblings stood in a loose circle outside the hospital, the sun casting long shadows across the pavement. 

Fiona had flown in, but Mickey barely looked at her. Lip, Debbie, and Carl—they came too, faces drawn, eyes heavy. But Mickey didn’t care how tired they looked. He cared about his husband inside, who had nearly died because no one had ever made him feel like he mattered.

“You all let him down,” Mickey said, voice low but sharp, slicing through the silence like a dull knife. “Every single one of you.”

Lip frowned, already bristling. “Mickey—”

“No. Shut the fuck up.” Mickey’s voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. “You called him a kept boy. You knew what Kash was doing and you let it slide. You let Ned walk. You let Monica parade him around like a fucking trophy. You let Frank ignore it. You let Linda hand him off like a goddamn thing so you could get discounted beer for your ice cream truck.”

Debbie flinched like she’d been slapped. Carl stared at the ground, jaw tight.

“I didn’t know,” Fiona said quietly.

“None of us did,” Lip added, defensively.

“You didn’t want to,” Mickey snapped. “You didn’t look. You didn’t ask. You didn’t protect him.”

He took a long drag and exhaled hard.

“I love him. I love him more than I know how to say. And even I had no idea how deep it went. How much it fucked him up. He thinks he deserved it. Thinks he was made for it. And I can’t fix that. I can’t even reach him when he’s in it.”

They were silent, the weight of Mickey’s words pressing down.

“He put a gun to his head,” Mickey said. “Because the noise wouldn’t stop. Because the memories wouldn’t shut up. Because none of you ever told him he was worth saving.”

Fiona wiped her eyes. Lip looked like he wanted to punch something, maybe himself.

“I’m not asking you to fix it,” Mickey said. “I’m asking you to show up. To stop pretending it wasn’t that bad. To stop acting like he’s just bipolar and dramatic. He’s dying inside. And if you don’t help me hold him together, he’s gonna disappear.”

They nodded. One by one.

Fiona spoke again, voice cracking. “He changed when he was seven. Got quiet. Started helping more. We just thought… that was him.”

Lip nodded. “He was always the good one. The easy one.”

Mickey’s rage surged.

“Quiet? Helpful? That’s what you saw? What about Kash? What about fucking Ned? You weren’t little kids then. You knew. Did Ned getting a free pass keep Jimmy Steve happy? Did Kash not fuck with Ian’s self-esteem every goddamn day? You all saw it. I did too. And I can barely live with it. So how the fuck are you and Fiona so okay with this, Lip?”

Lip’s jaw clenched. “I’m not okay with it, Mickey. But screaming at us isn’t gonna change the past.”

Debbie stepped forward, voice firm, cutting through the tension.

“Kill each other later. Right now, it has to be about Ian. Okay?”

Mickey stared at her, chest heaving, cigarette burning down between his fingers. Then he nodded, once.

“Then get your asses in there and sit with him. He’s asleep, but he’ll know.”

And they did. One by one, they walked back into the hospital, into the room where Ian lay heartbroken and still. Mickey stayed behind for a moment longer, staring at the sky.

***

The meds dragged Ian under again, slow and relentless. Not sleep—never sleep. It was drowning. A quiet suffocation where the past came dressed in familiar smells and voices.

In the dream, he was seven. Maybe eight . The apartment was a swamp of garbage, burnt plastic, sour milk, and stale smoke. Monica twirled in the living room, arms wide, laughing like the punchline was her own life. Her eyes were glassy, her voice syrupy.

“Ian, baby,” she purred, grabbing his chin with chipped nails. “You’re so pretty. I did good when I made you.”

He smiled. Because that’s what you do when your mom says something nice. Even if her breath reeked of beer and Cheetos and her pupils looked like black holes.

Chase was already there. He always was. Greasy hair, yellow teeth, and a grin that made Ian’s stomach twist. He patted his lap like it was a gift.

"Sit here, kiddo."

Ian hesitated. Monica’s smile vanished.

“Don’t be rude,” she snapped. “He gives me discounts. You wanna eat tonight or not?”

So Ian climbed onto Chase’s lap. The man’s hands were heavy. Sweaty. Monica lit a cigarette and smiled like she’d done something noble.

For a stranger.

Not her so-called favorite.

“Keep him happy,” she said. “Good job, Ian.”

The dream warped. Chase’s voice became Kash’s, whispering in the back room of the store. Then Ned, with his cold hands and expensive cologne. Then Mickey’s voice, years later, teasing—

“You gargle man balls for breakfast, Gallagher?”

Ian whimpered in his sleep, his body twitching. The dream twisted again. Monica laughing, Fiona saying, “at least she wants to spend time with you,” Lip is calling him a kept boy, and Debbie is asking why he is always so quiet.

He woke with a gasp, heart racing, eyes wide and unfocused. The room was too bright. Too full.

Fiona. Lip. Debbie. Carl. Mickey.

They were all there. And for a moment, Ian felt something like warmth. Like maybe he wasn’t alone.

But then Fiona started talking. Soft. Careful.

“We didn’t know, Ian. About Chase. About how bad it was.”

Lip chimed in, arms crossed.

"Defensive Asshole, Ian thought.

“We were kids too. We didn’t understand what Kash was doing. Or Ned.”

Ian blinked. Confusion flickered across his face. Then anger. Then something darker.

“You didn’t understand?” he said, voice rising. “You didn’t understand when Monica handed me off like a fucking twix bar ? When Kash kept me in the back room like a secret? When Ned touched me and you let him walk?”

Fiona stepped forward, tears in her eyes.

“We thought you were just quiet. Helpful. We didn’t know."

Ian’s breath hitched. His hands clenched the blanket.

“You didn’t want to know,” he said. “None of you did. I was the middle kid. The easy one to forget. And pedos can smell that.”

Lip’s jaw tightened. “We were trying to survive too, Ian.”

Ian’s voice cracked.

“And I was trying to protect you. I went with Monica because I thought if she hurt me, she wouldn’t hurt Debbie. Or Carl. Or Lip. I thought that was my job.”

He started to shake. His fingers clawed at the IV line, at the bandage on his head. Mickey moved fast, grabbing his wrists gently but firmly.

“Ian. Stop. You’re safe.”

Ian’s eyes were wild, panicked. “I’m Monica. I’m fucking broken.”

“No,” Mickey said, voice fierce. “You’re not her. You’re you. You’re mine.”

Fiona tried to speak again, but Mickey cut her off.

“Out. All of you.”

“Mickey—” Lip started.

“Out!” Mickey roared. “You’re crowding him. You’re making it worse. You don’t get to fuckin boo hoo  now. You don’t get to explain.”

Lip didn’t answer. Mickey just stared them down until they left, one by one.

Then he turned back to Ian, who was curled in on himself, trembling.

Mickey sat beside him, pulled the blanket up, and brushed his hair back.

"Mick, I...I don't know how to fix this; fix me."

“You don’t have to fix it right now,” Mickey whispered. “You just have to stay.”

Chapter Text

Ian had spent two weeks in the ICU, drifting in and out while surgeons carved through his skull to relieve the pressure, patch the damage, keep him alive. Two more surgeries. A hematoma that wouldn’t quit. He was medically stable now—whatever the hell that meant—but his body still felt like borrowed parts. Headaches like jackhammers. Legs that trembled when he stood. Arms that didn’t always listen. And his brain? A haunted house with all the lights dimming.

They moved him to the psych ward. The weight of everything he’d buried was now clawing its way back up. Memories he'd stuffed in corners and locked behind sarcasm, sex, and survival. Now they were flooding him. Drowning him.

He hated it. Hated the way the nurses looked at him. Hated the way his hands shook when he tried to hold a pen. Hated that he couldn’t even scream without someone writing it down. But mostly? He hated that Mickey couldn’t stay.

***

Mickey never thought Ian was a different person with his mental health. To Mickey, it was always just Ian, his Ian. And his Ian was sometimes manic and unfiltered, or Ian was low, silent in sheets for weeks. But all these versions were just one man Mickey loved. Now though, new behaviors and new traits were emerging, and Mickey began to think of this as Ian 2.0. Not worse, just a myriad of new nuances Mickey was trying to keep up with.

The nurses were kind but clinical. They spoke in soft tones and used coded language.

“He’s exhibiting signs of dissociation,” one explained gently. “It’s common in survivors of prolonged sexual trauma. The hyper-cleanliness, withdrawal, and silence are not signs of stubbornness. It’s reclaiming control."

 Mickey saw it firsthand. Ian scrubbed his hands until the skin cracked, asked for fresh sheets twice a day, and refused food unless it came sealed and untouched.

Mickey learned quickly: don’t touch anything on Ian’s tray.

Don’t sit on the bed without asking. Don’t reach out unless Ian reaches out first.

He became fluent in the language of this new Ian, guided Ian, asking permission before every gesture, watching for the flinch, the freeze, and the way Ian’s eyes would glaze over if something felt too close.

The nurses told him that such behavior was common. TThe nurses explained that survivors often reclaim their bodies through ritual. Having control over small things—like clean sheets, sealed food, and untouched spaces—was a way for survivors to feel secure again.

Secure. MIkey hated that word. It felt like a lie.Ian wasn’t secure. Not in his mind. Not in his memories.

One night, when the hallway lights dimmed and the nurses had retreated to their station, Mickey leaned close to Ian’s bed. Ian's eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow yet steady.

“I should’ve seen it,” Mickey whispered. “I should’ve known. Kash. Ned. All those club fuckers. I should’ve protected you.”

Ian didn’t move, but Mickey kept going.

“I hate that you were alone in it. I hate that Monica let it happen. I hate that I didn’t ask the right questions.”

A tear slipped down Ian’s cheek, and Mickey froze.

Ian opened his eyes slowly, gaze unfocused. “I didn’t know it was wrong. Not at first. Monica made it seem normal. Like it was just part of being me.”

Mickey sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch. “It wasn’t normal. It was abuse. And you didn’t deserve any of it.”

Ian’s voice was barely audible. “I thought if I gave enough, they’d stop taking.”

Mickey’s throat tightened. “They should be dead.”

Ian blinked slowly. “Sometimes I wish I was.”

Mickey leaned in, voice fierce but trembling. “Don’t you fucking say that. You’re here. And I’m not letting you go.”

Ian looked away. “I feel dirty. " I feel dirty all the time. "Like it’s in my skin.”

Mickey was quiet for a long moment. Then he said it.

“After Svet… after Terry finally let me up, I stood in the shower for hours. Freezing. Washing and rewashing. I scrubbed until my skin bled. I thought if I got clean enough, maybe I’d feel like me again.”

Ian turned toward him, eyes wide and wet.

“I get it,” Mickey said. “I wish to God you never had to feel that too.”

He didn’t speak, but his trembling hand reached out, and Mickey took it. 

It was the first touch Ian had instigated in days.

Later, when Ian drifted off to sleep again, Mickey whispered into the dark.

“I love you."

He paused, voice cracking.

“I’m scared too. Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of saying the wrong thing. Of walking into you dead."

He kissed Ian on the cheek and headed home before the nurses could threaten to call security because visiting hours were over.

***

Every night, Mickey walked out of that psych ward like he was leaving a piece of himself behind. The nurses were polite but firm. Visiting hours are over, Mr. Milkovich. Like Ian was a freakin museum exhibit and Mickey was just some guy who wandered in and stayed too long.

He hated it. Hated the way the door clicked shut behind him. Hated the way Ian’s eyes followed him as he left, like he was bracing for abandonment even now. Mickey would linger in the hallway until the very last moment, his fingers digging into his sides as he felt an urge to punch something. Or cry. Or both.

He didn’t. He’d go home, feed the cat Ian insisted they adopt, sit on the couch in the dark, and replay every word Ian had said that day. Sometimes it was nothing. Occasionally it was “My legs feel like spaghetti” or “I hate this place.” But sometimes—sometimes—it was “I thought I was already dead.”

Sandy had cleaned the bathroom that first night Mickey sat vigil at Ian's bedside, but now he peed in the kitchen sink, not caring. He was not ready to go into that room yet, replaying finding Ian like that. So he showered at Sandys or  Carls. Slept or at least lay with his eyes closed, on the couch, not trusting himself to not break down like a bawling pussy smelling Ian on the sheets and not being in his arms. 

But most nights, most nights he began to research and felt sick at each new revelation.

Mickey hadn’t meant to go down the rabbit hole. He just wanted answers—something to help him understand why Ian was unraveling in a psych ward. Why Ian tried to end it.

So he started googling. Grooming. Shame. Childhood sexual abuse. How kids survive it. How they don’t.

And what he found made him want to put his fist through the screen.

Grooming wasn’t just some sleazy creep in a  white van. It was calculated. Quiet. It looked like affection. Trust. It happened in homes, in families, behind closed doors, where no one asked questions. It was about isolation. Manipulation. Making the kid feel complicit so they’d never tell.

And Mickey saw it—clear as day—in Ian’s past. In the way Monica always picked Ian. Called him her “favorite” like it was a gift, not a curse. No one else was left alone with her. Not Lip. Not Debbie. Just Ian. The quiet one. The helper. The one who didn’t make waves.

He remembered the way Ian used to flinch when surprised. The way he’d dissociate during sex sometimes, eyes going glassy like he wasn’t there. The way he’d joke about being a “stud for hire” like it was a badge of honor. Mickey had thought it was just Ian being Ian. He hadn’t realized it was conditioning.

And then there was porno.

Mickey used to be furious about it. Ian had been manic, spinning out, and suddenly he was on camera, naked, fucking some guy for cash. Mickey had felt humiliated. Betrayed. He’d yelled, calling Ian reckless and sick. But now? Now he saw it for what it was.

Ian hadn’t been trying to hurt him. He’d been trying to help.

Mickey had been bitching about money—Svetlana bleeding him dry, bills piling up. Ian had heard that, internalized it, and done what he’d been taught to do since he was a kid: take the bullet. Use his body. Solve the problem. That’s what Monica and Chase had trained him for. Not with words, but with patterns. With twisted praise and conditional love.

Ian thought he was supposed to do it. That sex was currency. That his body was a tool to fix things.

Fuck fuck fuck.

And Mickey hadn’t seen it. He’d been too young, too angry, and too wrapped up in his own shame over Svet and Yev to recognize the signs.

But they’d always been there.

The Gallagher stories were full of red flags about Ian.

Ian giving up his bed, his money, his space. Ian laughing off things that weren’t funny,like Monica calling him her “special boy.” When Frank showed up drunk, Ian went quiet, his eyes darting as if he were calculating escape routes. Ian offering sex like it was a solution, meant to fix everything.

By the time he drifted off, it was 5 am. His alarm blared at 7. He took a swig of whiskey and then headed to Carl's to shower. Debbie was going to see Ian today and Mickey was going into work, getting the crew set up for the rest of the week. Then he was stopping by Whole Foods to get Ian his sealed yogurt and gonna see how his husband was surviving another day.

***

Ian sat propped up in bed, legs buried under the blanket, a deck of Uno cards scattered across the tray table.

Debbie plopped into the chair beside him, chewing her gum and blowing a bubble. “You ready to get your ass handed to you?”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “I can barely remember my name, Deb. Uno might be a stretch.”

She shrugged. “Cool. I’ll win by default.”

They played in silence for a few minutes—Debbie laying down cards, Ian fumbling with his shaky hands, cursing under his breath when he dropped a green reverse.

“You always sucked at this,” she said, smirking.

Ian snorted. “I let you win. You were a violent child.”

“Still am.”

He smiled, faint but real. Then the silence stretched again, heavier this time. Debbie leaned back, eyes on the ceiling.

“You know,” she said, voice quieter, “I used to think you were just... good at disappearing. Like, you’d vanish when shit got bad, but you always came back. Like some kind of ginger boomerang.”

Ian snorted. “That’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up. I’m being deep.”

He didn’t respond. He simply gazed at the cards.

Debbie leaned forward. “I didn’t know, Ian. About Monica. About Chase. About what she let happen to you.”

Ian’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. Well. Neither did I. Not really. Not until it all came back like a fucking horror movie marathon.”

“I keep thinking about it,” she said. “How were you always the one left alone with her? How you gave up shit without anyone asking. Fiona worked her ass off, Lip was the golden boy, and you—" She paused. “You were the glue. Quiet. Sarcastic. Holding us together while they hurt you."”

Ian looked at her, eyes glassy. “I didn’t want you guys to get hurt.”

“I know,” she said. “And it wrecks me.”

They sat in it. The truth. The years of missed signs and swallowed pain.

Debbie reached out and laid a card down. “Draw four, bitch.”

Ian laughed, hoarse and surprised. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But I love you. And I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t throw shit at you growing up. But you were always there. For me. For Franny. For all of us.”

Ian swallowed hard. “I didn’t know how to be anything else.”

“Well,” she said, “you don’t have to be glue anymore. You can fall apart. I’ll be here.”

He looked at her, really looked. And for the first time in weeks, something in his chest stopped driving pain in deep.

“Thanks,” he said. “Even if you’re still a violent child.”

She grinned. “Ginger solidarity, bitch.”

***

Mickey stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Ian fumble through a game of Uno with Debbie. His hands shook, his focus drifted, but he was trying. Engaging. Laughing, even—soft and hoarse, but real.

It made Mickey’s heart jump. Like maybe, just maybe, Ian was coming back.

Debbie caught his eye and gave a nod. “He’s kicking my ass,” she lied.

Ian rolled his eyes. “She’s cheating. I saw her draw five and play two.”

“Snitches get stitches,” Debbie muttered, tossing a red skip onto the pile.

Mickey didn’t say anything. Just watched. Let it sink in. Ian was still here.

Eventually, Debbie stood, stretched, and blew a kiss. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Don’t let Mickey win anything. He’s smug enough.”

Ian gave her a tired smile. “Love you, Debs.”

She squeezed his shoulder and walked out. Mickey followed her into the hallway, catching up just as she hit the vending machine.

“I’ll call Lip tonight,” he said. “Give him the update.”

Debbie scoffed. “Lip and Fiona. The brain trust. Despite having all those degrees, none of them realized that something was wrong."

Mickey stayed quiet.

“I mean, when Ian disappeared after your wedding? It was me and Carl tearing through the South Side looking for him. Lip was in Chicago, and Fiona was off being Fiona. And no one thought it was weird that Ian disappearing was just... normal.”

She turned to him, eyes blazing. “Why was that normal, Mickey? Why was it normal for him to vanish and come back like nothing happened? Why was it normal for him to give up everything and no one asked why?”

Mickey leaned against the wall, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then he said, low and steady, “Because fucking families like that—like ours—they run on roles. You got the hero, the scapegoat, the lost kid, the mascot. Ian? He was the fixer.  The quiet one who made shit work without asking for anything.”

Debbie blinked.

“And that role?” Mickey continued. “It makes you easy prey. You learn to disappear. To say yes. To take the hit so no one else has to. Pedos love kids like that. Kids who don’t scream. Kids who think it’s their job to keep the peace.”

Debbie’s jaw clenched. Her eyes filled, but she didn’t let it spill.

“Fucking Gallaghers,” she muttered.

Mickey stepped forward and hugged her—tight, fierce, and no bullshit. “Fucking Gallaghers,” he whispered back.

***

She didn’t go straight to pick up Franny.

Instead, Debbie drove to the cemetery, parked crooked like she always did, and walked  toward Monica’s grave.

No flowers. 

She stood over the headstone, her arms flailing wildly and her eyes burning with emotion.

“You broke him,” she said, voice sharp and shaking. “You picked him. You left him alone. You called him your favorite and used that to destroy him.”

She crouched, fingers digging into the grass like she wanted to rip the earth open. “But it wasn’t just Ian, was it? You fucked us all up. You were a hurricane in lipstick and manic episodes, and we were just kids trying to survive your wreckage.”

Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop.

“I used to think I was strong because I didn’t cry when you left. I believed I was strong because I could hold my own and fight my way through anything. But you made me hard, Monica. You made me mean. You taught me that love was something you had to earn, and even then, it might disappear.”

She sat back on her heels, staring at the stone.

“I watched Ian give up everything. His time. His food. His voice. Fiona worked herself into the ground, Lip got the brains, Carl got the rage, Liam got the innocence—and I got... what? The guilt? The need to fix shit that was never mine to fix?”

She stood, brushing dirt from her jeans.

“He’s still here. He’s fighting. And you don’t get to win.”

She paused, then added, quieter, “And I’m still here too. Raising a daughter who’ll never know you. Who’ll never have to wonder if she’s worth staying for.”

Debbie looked down one last time.

“You were our mother. You were supposed to protect us. And you failed.”

Then she turned, walked back to her car, and drove off.

***

Debbie kicked off hershoes by the door, her body still shaking with everything she hadn’t said and everything she had. The cemetery dirt clung to her jeans, and her throat felt scraped raw. Franny was curled up on the couch, coloring a picture of a unicorn with flames shooting out of its horn holding a rifle.

“Hey, Mama,” she said without looking up. “How’s Uncle Ian?”

Debbie sat beside her and pulled the little girl into her lap. “He’s... it’s gonna be a long road, baby. But we’re all gonna be there for him. Every step.”

Franny nodded, serious. “Is he sad?”

“Yeah,” Debbie said softly. “But he’s also strong. Stronger than anyone I know.”

Franny leaned her head against Debbie’s chest. “Tell me a story about him.”

Debbie smiled, tired but warm. “Okay. You wanna know what kind of protector your Uncle Ian is?”

Franny nodded.

“So, when I was little—like your age— Monica was screaming in the kitchen, throwing plates, and I ran into the closet to hide. I was shaking so bad I couldn’t breathe. And then the door opened, and it was Ian. He didn’t say anything. Just crawled in next to me, wrapped his arms around me, and whispered, ‘It’s okay. I’m here.’”

Franny blinked. “Did the screaming stop?”

“No,” Debbie said. “But it didn’t matter. Because Ian made me feel safe. Even when our world was falling apart.”

She paused, brushing Franny’s hair back. “He did that a lot.Let me lay with him when I was sick. Took the blame when I broke stuff. Let me make my own choices, even when they were dumb. He never tried to control me. Just... stood beside me.”

Franny looked up. “Like a superhero?”

Debbie laughed. “Yeah. But not the cape kind. The real everyday ones are more rare and even more special.

"I am gonna draw Uncle Ian a special unicorn."

“With fire powers?”

“Duuuuh.”

Debbie kissed the top of her head. “He’ll love that.”

***

Mickey was halfway through changing the damn pillowcase again because Ian had declared the fresh one from that morning smelled like “hospital death ass.”

Mickey didn’t argue. Just yanked it off and muttered, “You’re lucky I don’t make you sleep on a towel."

Ian smirked, eyes heavy-lidded. “You’re getting soft, Mick.”

“Yeah, well, you’re getting picky for a guy who just tried to ghost the planet.”

Ian coughed, then winced. “Too soon.”

“Too true,” Mickey shot back, fluffing the pillow with unnecessary aggression.

He looked at the edge of the bed and nodded at ian, silent permission, and was relieved when Ian patted the spot.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Ian settle into the clean case. “You wanna play cards?”

Ian didn’t miss a beat. “Only if it’s strip Uno.”

Mickey froze, one eyebrow shooting up. “Seriously?”

Ian gave a weak grin. “What? You scared I’ll win and you’ll have to flash the nurses?”

Mickey stared at him, then shook his head. “No, Red. We’re not doing this.”

Ian blinked. “Doing what?”

“This thing,” Mickey said, gesturing vaguely. “Where you pretend you’re horny but really you’re just freaked out and trying to make me feel better by being all sexy and distracting.”

Ian’s smile faltered.

Mickey leaned in, voice low but firm. “I know you. I know your tells. You’re not trying to get laid—you’re trying to skip the hard shit. And I love you, but we’re not using sex to dodge pain anymore.”

Ian looked away, throat tight.

“Our sex is epic,” Mickey said. “Like, hall-of-fame level. But if all I needed was sex, I’d still be banging dudes in the back alleys of Mexico and not changing your goddamn pillowcase twice a day.”

Ian let out a shaky breath, eyes glistening.

“You’re my husband,” Mickey said. “I want you. Not the performance. So tell me what you need. Don’t just play sexy.”

Ian blinked fast, then whispered, “Can you get in bed and rub my back?”

Mickey didn’t say a word. Just kicked off his boots, climbed into the narrow hospital bed, and pulled Ian into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Jesus,” Mickey muttered, settling in. “You smell like yogurt.”

Ian chuckled, muffled against Mickey’s shirt. "You smell like cigarettes and old spice."

“Perfect match,” Mickey said, rubbing slow circles into Ian’s back. “Now shut up and let me love you, dumbass.”

Chapter Text

The past few days had been a busted loop of whiskey sweats, half-slept nights, and Lady Marmalade’s busted meow echoing off the apartment walls like a broken alarm clock. Mickey didn’t even know what the hell kind of sound it was—some whiny wheeze like the tabby was trying to summon demons or the dead. Cross-eyed, fat, and loud.

Ian had fallen in love with her instantly, standing outside Food Lion like he was about to cry over a box of discarded fur.

“She’s fucked,” Ian had said, voice cracking. “No one’s gonna take her. She’ll get kicked to the curb.”

And just like that, Mickey was a cat dad.

Didn’t even argue. Just scooped the orange mess into his hoodie and muttered something about how Ian better not expect him to scoop shit.

But looking back, that moment,Ian’s voice, the way he looked at the kitten like he was seeing himself,was heavier than Mickey had realized. 

Now Mickey woke up every morning at six, no alarm needed.

The whiskey didn’t hit like it used to, and he wanted to be awake, wanted to see Ian before he left for work.

Wanted to be present, even if his curreny version of present was half-hungover and talking tthe cat like she was his therapist.

“Yeah yeah,” he muttered, rubbing Lady Marmalade’s belly while she howled like a banshee. “I know your favorite dad ain’t here. I hope he gets back soon too.”

The bathroom was a battlefield.

Mickey stood in the doorway, hand trembling as he tried to close the busted door.

He almost made it to the shower, but the sound of running water hit him like a punch to the gut.

Water.

Gunshot.

Door splintering.

Ian in the tub, blood mixing with bathwater. Ian’s face, vacant, gone.

Mickey bolted.

Did a prison-style birdbath in the kitchen sink, rubbed a fabric softener sheet over his skin like it was cologne, threw on clean jeans, and gave Lady Marmalade a final pat.

Then the phone rang.

His blood iced over. Hospital.

“Fuck Ian,” he whispered. “Fuck. Be okay. Be okay. Be okay.”

“This is Mickey,” he snarled into the receiver.

“Mr. Gallagher, this is Tiffany, the ward nurse. Just checking if you were coming in this morning.”

“Don’t I fucking come every morning?” Mickey barked. “Is Ian okay?”

Tiffany chuckled, unfazed. “He’s doing well today. Nervous, though—he meets his therapist at eleven. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

Mickey’s grip tightened.

“Ian wanted to know if you’d bring him a coffee. Said you’d know the kind. But only if you promise to not take your eyes off the  barista. when she makes it, so nothing bad slips in.”

Mickey’s lips twitched. That little shit.

That  freaky coffee drink was Ian’s way of saying he missed him. That he wanted something normal.

Something sweet.

Mickey knew the drink—iced, overhyped, sugar bomb with soft top. The one he called Ian’s “cheerleader on crack” coffee.

“Yeah,” Mickey said, voice softening. “Yeah, I’ll be there at nine.”

***

And he was now in the coffee shop from hell.

Standing at the counter, ordering the most ridiculous iced coffee on the menu, eyes locked on the barista like she was a threat to national security. When she pointed out he was staring, Mickey snapped, “I made a fucking promise, alright? If I break it, he’ll kill me. So just make the damn drink.”

He left with the cup sweating in his hand. 

Because when Ian asked, Mickey answered. Every time.

Mickey stomped through the hospital doors, iced coffee  in one hand, the other shoved deep in his hoodie pocket.

The drink was ridiculous—whipped cream, caramel drizzle, some kind of soft top that looked like it belonged on a birthday cake.

But Ian loved it. 

And Mickey, despite all his snarling and bitching, was secretly thrilled Ian had asked for it. Meant he was hungry. Meant he gave a shit.

He found Ian in the common room, legs curled under him like a damn yoga instructor, chewing his lip raw and staring at the floor.

“Yo,” Mickey said, dropping into the chair beside him and sliding the coffee across the table. “Your sugar bomb, sir.”

Ian blew a raspberry and looked at the drink, then at Mickey. “You didn’t glare at the barista, did you?”

“I glared so hard she almost cried,” Mickey said proudly. “Kept my promise.”

Ian smiled, just a flicker, and took a sip.

Mickey watched the straw hit Ian's lips and felt something stupid and warm bloom in his chest.

Ian was drinking it. It wasnt sealed and he was still drinking it. He was here. He was trying.

But then Ian’s smile faded. His fingers started picking at  the cup. Lip chewing resumed.

“I’m nervous,” Ian whispered. “Like, really nervous.”

Mickey leaned back, boots scuffed against the floor. “Yeah? About what?”

“What if… what if too much is wrong?” Ian’s voice cracked. “What if I’m too damaged? What if the therapist thinks I’m gross?”

Mickey’s jaw clenched. He hated this part. The spiral. The way Ian’s eyes dull and plaint, like he was falling down a hole only he could see.

“Hey,” Mickey said sharply. “Ian. Stop.”

Ian looked up, startled.

“This woman’s here to help you, okay? It sucks talking about it, yeah, I know. Remember how pissed I was when you told me to get a doc? Anti-anxiety meds? I didn’t talk to you for two days. Broke, like, three plates.”

Ian snorted, barely.

“And it was really fucking awful,” Mickey continued. “Spilling all that shit. Every fucking thing, even Svet riding me. But I survived. And it wasn’t the punch to the gut I thought it’d be.”

Ian’s eyes softened.

“You just hung out with me,” Mickey said. “Let me rant. Smiled when I went back. Didn’t push. Just… loved me.”

Ian nodded slowly.

“You don’t gotta spill thirteen years of hell in forty-five minutes,” Mickey said. “Although if anyone could talk that fast without breathing, it’d be you.”

Ian laughed, a real one this time. "I do talk when I really want to, huh."

“Damn right you do,” Mickey said, grinning. Then his voice dropped, tender. “Can I kiss you?”

Ian nodded, eyes wide.

Mickey leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to Ian’s lips, lingered just long enough to say everything he couldn’t say out loud.

“I’ll be back after work,” Mickey murmured. “Love you.”

Ian touched his forehead to Mickey’s, voice barely audible. “Love you too, Mick. More than I can express.”

Mickey stood, gave Ian’s shoulder a squeeze, and walked out like he hadn’t just left half his heart behind in a hospital chair.

***

Mickey had just gotten into their office—okay, a 20-by-20 garage with two bays for their delivery vehicles, a stolen desk, and some on-sale Staples supplies. But it was theirs.

They’d built it from nothing: fifteen regular dispensaries, two money runs, and a handful of special gigs every few months. Mickey loved it. Ian did too, even if they never talked about the lingering sadness that clung to his redhead.

Ian’s spirals had taken so much—two careers he’d loved, years of clarity, and trust. Mickey knew one day Ian would go back to college, and he’d be fine with that. Today, though, Mickey fired up their main computer, flipped Sandy off, and started returning emails when his phone rang.

Fuck it. Fiona.

Mickey didn’t hate Fi. She was messed up, sure, but so were they all.

She’d tried. She’d raised her siblings with zero help from Monica or Frank. Yeah, she fucked up sometimes, but she didn’t bail.

She could’ve let them rot in foster care. Ian was proud she got out. He encouraged her to live her life.

But right now? Fi was Ian’s enemy.

Not logically. Just emotionally.

Ian was swimming in memories—every abuse, every mistake, every time his family forgot he existed. It was all bubbling up. Mickey got it. They’d all seen Ian drugged out, spun, manic, making choices that felt like slow-motion disasters. The dancing, the men—it was quietly ignored.

“Fi. Whatcha need?”

“I need to go back to South Carolina on Friday. Ian’s still not ready to see me.”

“Huh.” Mickey rubbed his face. “Fi, look. Ian’s gotta feel what he needs to feel. You know it was hard to make time for him. He never pushed for it. So yeah, you and Lip need to buckle up. He’s probably gonna go back and forth with you for a while.”

Fi went quiet. “He almost fucking died. I mean—we saw Monica slit her wrists, bleeding out on the floor—but a gun to the head? I’m having nightmares and I didn’t even find him.”

“How do you think I’m holding up?” Mickey snapped, voice dry.

He promised to update her. Then he hung up and went back to work.

***

Ian sat in the rec room, slouched low in the vinyl chair. 

He was finally out of the damn gown,now in his own sweatshirt and tee, though the hoodie strings had been snipped and the waistband was elastic, no drawstrings.

The bright yellow band around his wrist still marked him as a suicide risk. That hadn’t been cleared yet. New team, new protocols. Same old brain.

His head throbbed. Migraines from the swelling, they said. He’d dropped his Kind bar earlier when his hand trembled. It sat on the floor now, half-squished, like it was mocking him.

His new journal lay open on his lap. The nurse had suggested he start using it. “You might find it grounding,” she’d said, voice soft like he was a flight risk .

He’d snickered. “What am I supposed to write—‘Dear Diary, today I didn’t shoot myself. Gold star.’”

Still, he hadn’t closed it.

He used to write. A lot. Before everything.

Before Kash and Ned and the fairy tale that turned into a horror show.

Before Mickey got raped.

Before Svetlana and the baby and the bipolar diagnosis that turned his brain into a roulette wheel.

Now he only wrote when he was manic. And he wasn’t manic now. Just tired.

He stared at the blank page. Then muttered, “Fuck it,” and picked up the pen.

Fiona says sorry.

Lip says sorry.

Monica bled her apology into the vinyl.

Frank never bothered.

I collect them.

Fold them.

File them.

None of them pay the debt.

Mickey doesn’t say sorry. He just stays. That’s the only kind I believe now.

He stared at the words for a long time. Then, without thinking, he doodled a heart. Inside it, he wrote Ian + Mickey. Then drew a middle finger through it.

Classic.

“Ian?”

He looked up. A woman with long curly grey hair and sensible shoes stood in the doorway, smiling .

" Oh here we fucking go," he thought 

“I’m Dr. Frost. Ready to come on back?”

Ian blinked.

His legs didn’t move right anymore. He had to think about standing. About shifting weight. About balance. It used to be automatic. Now it was like learning choreography with a drunk partner.

He stood, wobbled, caught himself.

“Nah,” he said. “Not really ready. But I got nothing else to do today.”

She nodded.

***

The office smelled of paper and febreeze,  Ian hated it immediately.

Dr. Frost gestured to the couch and a few chairs. “You can sit wherever feels comfortable.”

He sat in the chair across from her, stiff-backed. “Comfortable's not really a thing in the nuthouse, ya know."”

She smiled like she’d heard that before. “Fair enough.”

She waited. He didn’t speak.

“So,” she said gently, “you wrote something today.”

Ian shrugged. “Poem. Kind of.”

“Would you like to read it?”

“Nope.”

She nodded. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

Ian leaned back, eyes scanning the bookshelf behind her. “You ever abused, Doc?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t get it.”

“I don’t. But I’d like to understand.”

Ian snorted. “Understand? It’s like your brain’s on fire and everyone’s clapping at your downfall. You’re the star of your own disaster.”

Dr. Frost nodded.. “That sounds exhausting.”

" Then it’s shame. Then it’s silence. Then it’s Mickey picking me up off the floor.”

She tilted her head. “Mickey?”

Ian blinked. “My husband.”

“You trust him.”

Ian looked down at his hands. “I do. More than I trust myself.”

Dr. Frost let the silence stretch. Ian hated it. He filled it.

“I almost died. Not metaphorically. Not ‘I felt dead inside.’ I put a gun to my head. And I didn’t even cry.”

Dr. Frost’s voice was soft. “Do you want to cry now?”

Ian’s chin jutted. "No, not for you."

***

The rec room was quiet. Ian sat curled on the couch, journal closed, eyes red-rimmed but dry.

Mickey walked in with his signature cocky strut, a paper bag in one hand, and his usual smirk dialed down a notch.

“Brought snacks,” Mickey said. “Don’t ask me what they are. I just grabbed whatever looked like it wouldn’t taste like hospital.”

Ian didn’t respond. Just looked at him.

Mickey sat beside him, close but not crowding. “Therapy suck?”

Ian nodded.

“Did you cry?”

Ian shook his head.

Mickey opened the bag and pulled out a crushed granola bar and a bag of chips.

Ian’s voice cracked. “I don’t want to. I am tired of crying, feeling weak and dirty, and now I gotta talk about it. It aint fucking fair.”

Mickey didn’t push. Just leaned in, wrapped an arm around Ian’s shoulders, and pulled him close.

Ian broke. Quietly. No sobs. Just tears that wouldn’t stop.

Mickey stroked his hair, slow and steady. “I know, Red. I know.”

Chapter Text

Ian hated the hospital tray before he’d even pushed aside the congealed mess of institutional eggs. The food arrived sealed and still inedible. He could have eaten the orange on the tray, but he gagged when he tried to peel it. His seven-year-old and 17-year-old selves had been roofied enough to understand unsealed food was access to him. While he was certain Mickey would never let it happen again, he could not trust anything not looked over by his fiery tiny husband.

His leg tremor was back, God damn it!

He was used to being a machine—athlete, runner—so learning that his body could be quieted into a hospital bed felt obscene.

Movement felt like a betrayal.

Appetite felt like a test he was failing.

Self-hate settled over him the way winter settled on the South Side: immediately and inevitably.

Because he did this to himself and everyone else.

And now he had thirty more days in this wing. Mickey and he had talked and agreed after he was moved from the ICU. This was more than stabilization; this had to be a solution to help Ian maybe not conquer but cope.

The thirty-day timeline sat in Ian’s chest like a clock on a wall he couldn’t stop staring at. The nearly two months apart loomed: routines to rebuild, appointments to keep, and calls to make across distances that would feel both small and enormous. It hurt them both. It was grief disguised as scheduling. But he groaned, eased on his house shoes, and went to therapy.

***

Dr. Frost had the kind of calm that made a person either confess things they’d been keeping secret or re-wall themselves in new, more patient layers.

She didn’t take notes at the start; she let the silence be big enough to hold Ian without forcing him to perform.

Her voice was thin and even, the voice of someone who’d learned the difference between pushing and waiting

That waiting made Ian furious and, oddly, safe.

“Ian,” she said finally, “only say what you want. No pressure.”

He looked at his hands—bruises still from things he’d let happen and from things he’d chosen.

“Okay,” he said.

He said it like he was starting a joke. He said it was smaller and more survivable if he could half-lie his way through.

It didn’t start as a clean confession.

It started with memory, like bad TV static: Chase’s laugh in the kitchen, Monica’s smile when he was around, and the smell of smoke and something moldy in the apartment.

He told it the way he told everything that hurt—half sarcasm, half bare-boned honesty that left out the thing that would make him sound like a child who’d been failed over and over.

“I and Monica used to go over sometimes. Bring stuff and hang. Monica liked him. He made everyone laugh. I thought if I made him laugh, she’d be less sad. So I tried to be funny. That’s all. Kids do that, right? Make people happy.”

Dr. Frost’s face didn’t flicker.

She let the room breathe. “You were trying to help your mom,” she said, which was not a judgment but not a consolation either.

It was a map: here is what you did; here is what we will now look at together.

Ian’s voice got lower when the things without names nudged forward.

He didn’t have the word for grooming; he had guilt and shame and the grammar of a child who thought love meant doing whatever it took to keep the house from falling apart.

“I don’t know if it’s even... I don’t have words for it,” he said. “It felt like—if I didn’t let him, then Mom would be lonely. If I let him, she’d be okay. I thought it was my job.”

Dr. Frost nodded. “You were a child who tried to keep a parent safe. That is a heavy job for anyone. You didn’t have to handle that.”

Ian flinched at the words.

“You didn’t have to handle that.” He wanted to rip his chest open and show the wiring to prove why he was disposable to himself and others. But there was also a ridiculous, human fear: if he admitted what happened, would the world decide he was damaged beyond repair?

Would Mickey run?

Would someone finally call him what he’d become in his head, garbage?

Dr. Frost nodded at a small, plain notebook across the table. “For now, a simple task,” she said. “Write a note to the seven-year-old you. What did he need to hear that day? That first day Chase made you be sexual with him.

Ian rumbled, a wet, brittle sound. “You giving homework now? For real? I already do leg exercises at night."

She allowed a small smile. “The leg. The Mind. Different muscles.”

***

Ian sat counting down the minutes until Mickey would be there.

Mickey would be here soon.

He would have to look steady.

He would have to be worth staying for.

Mickey wanted him to do this therapy, and he would, for his husband.

He did not want to write to himself.

But Mickey would think he didn't care if he didn't try, didn't push.

Mickey might have married trash, but Mickey was anything but.

Ian would do it for him.

He breathed and wrote.

The first lines were defensive—sharp, brittle jokes that read like a warning: don’t get close, don’t expect miracles.

He thought of Mickey holding him; Mickey was the first who sex felt equal and appropriate.

Then the guard slipped.

The sentences stopped being smart-ass and started being true.

Memory rose the way water finds a crack: slow at first, then insistent.

Ian banged his head on the table and only stopped when the security and nurse looked over. He hid that a stitch opened.

The memories would not go back into that safe black box in his brain.

They spilled.

Chase’s laugh in the kitchen, the smell of marlboros and meth, Monica smiling like she’d swallowed her meds and was suddenly stable. Ian’s seven‑year‑old brain made notes.

Monica was happy and Ian made her happy.

Maybe if she were happy, she would stay.

Then Frank would not drink so much and call them all names.

Fiona would not be exhausted and maybe take him to the park.

Lip would not hate Monica and they could do things like go to the library with her.

But no matter how hard he tried, he failed.

Failed, Monica.

Failed his siblings.

She never stayed, even after he did what she asked.

Fucking lying bitch.

Shame came up with the ink. It felt different at 26 than it had at seven: older, grainier, threaded with muscle memory and a muscle’s memory of being used.

He wrote, hands trembling: I thought it was my job.

The words looked small on the page, ridiculous and enormous all at once.

He could feel the familiar tug of wanting to fix it—fix Monica, fix the past, fix Mickey’s pain—by apologizing, by being smaller, by swallowing pieces of himself until there was nothing left to take.

Every phrase cracked open another place that hurt.

He scribbled for the parts he’d never had a name for.

Then his mind drifted between Chase and what Mickey was dealing with.

The shame was a living thing under his skin, saying dumb, loud things: you ruined him, you made him sad, you let him find you.

He pictured Mickey’s face when he’d been pulled from the tub, that mix of furious and fragile. 

The image stung. Ian’s chest split into two conversations: the one that knew Mickey was stubborn and bad at leaving, and the one that kept tallying the damage he’d caused.

The fear of letting Mickey down pulsed through each line.

What if staying with him was the worst thing he could do?

What if Mickey looked at him and realized the cost of loving Ian was too high?

The page soaked up that terror; the pen left ragged tracks where ink pooled and then dried.

He circled words, erased lines, and struck through apologies .

Each revision was an attempt to make himself less harmful, a clumsy engineering of self‑repair.

Then he gave up trying and just wrote what was in his mind.

***

 Ian heard the thunk of the cafeteria door and the lighter cadence of Mickey’s footsteps before he saw him.

For a breath he panicked: the page was a confession keyed to raw, and Mickey deserved better.

He shoved the notebook under his hand like something contraband, wiped at his face with the back of his other hand, and practiced a laugh in his mouth until it sounded almost real.

Mickey slid into the chair, holding a sandwich like an offering. His eyes flicked to the notebook, to the smear of ink on Ian’s thumb.

Ian knew it was now or never.

Show Mickey he was trying, really trying.

Please God, let him see I am trying.

Ian shoved the notebook across the table without thinking.

Mickey read a line, then another, brows doing the slow work of translation—soft where it could help, hard where it had to.

“You gonna make me read your homework out loud?” Mickey asked, half-joking, half-ornery.

Ian picked his head up like the world had just asked him to be brave and he was allergic to bravery. “Promise me you won’t leave if I keep being a broken asshole for a while,” he said instead.

Asking for promises was easier than explaining why he felt like a live wire about to short.

Mickey’s gaze didn’t flinch. “I promise to stay even if you’re the most spectacularly prickly asshole the world’s ever seen,” he said, . “I’ll stay and I’ll nag you."

Ian leaned over and kissed him; Mickey kissed Ian's cheek and, holding his hand, took a deep breath and read what Ian offered him.

Hey, kid—yeah you, sticky‑fingers and knee‑scabs , freckles and everything else,

Nobody handed you a manual. You were supposed to be eating cereal and smashing things and making dumb faces at the cat, not being the one who had to keep the house from falling apart. You weren’t hired to be a grown‑up. You didn’t ask for Monica’s chaos and you didn’t sign up for Chase or whatever he called himself. You were seven. That’s the whole point.

When he came in  and told you you were funny, that didn’t mean you owed him anything. Laughing to keep the house quiet was survival, not a goddamn contract. You learned to be small because that felt safer, but being small wasn’t your fault. The people who used that quiet deserve the blame, not you.

If you think you could’ve fixed it, fuck that voice. Kids don’t fix adults. Adults are supposed to fix the kids. You took the job because no one else would—because you were smart enough and stupid enough and brave enough to try. That’s not a crime. It’s not the reason things went wrong.

You’re allowed to be pissed. You’re allowed to miss her. You can be a mess and still be worth keeping. You don’t owe apologies for surviving. You don’t owe penance for being a kid who wanted someone not to be lonely. That guilt? It’s a liar. 

You’re allowed help. You’re allowed to be soft and dumb and human and loud and sarcastic and tired. Yo

Keep your jokes. Keep your weird, tiny cruelties and your stupid hero bullshit. They saved you then and they’ll keep saving you now—except now you don’t have to carry it alone.

Later me

At first he read with that flat face he uses when he’s trying not to show too much, then the corners of his mouth betrayed him and did a little crooked lift.

He muttered a laugh that turned into a soft, shocked sound halfway through a line, and then—quiet—his throat hitched.

He kept reading. The swearing made him grin. The part about the cat made him snort. When the sentence about “survival isn’t blame” landed, Mickey’s jaw loosened like someone had unclenched a hold he didn’t know he’d been keeping.

" You believ ethis Red?'

Ian shook his head. "Trying to. Saying it and meaning it are two different things, apparently.

Mickey nodded and looked down at the letter again. 

Ian saw the exhaustion, the eye bags, and the jaw stubble.

As he gazed at the paper, he heard Ian whisper. "Mick, how are you holding up, really?"

Mickey just shrugged.

He did not want to add to Ian's plate. But damn it. Ian was still Ian and his Ian already knew the answer.

Mickey was doing, like, shit.

“I’m selfish,” Ian spat. “I know you’re barely holding it together too, Mick. You would’ve been better off before this. I never should’ve let you find me. You could’ve had a life without all my mess. I dragged you into so much. That's my MO. I make people pay.”

Mickey watched him, anger skimming the surface until he chose honesty. He sat closer, close enough for Ian to feel his heat.

“Yeah, nah,” Mickey said, then, because dark humor was a habit, “not the best memory I had on file. Finding my husband in a bath with a self‑inflicted gunshot wound is up there with ‘unexpectedly marrying a Russian hand whore.’ Don’t recommend either.”

Mickey’s mouth softened. He put his hand on Ian’s and didn’t let go. “When I pulled you out, I thought I was going to have to bury you."

Ian gagged on guilt. “You’d have been better without me,” he insisted, because self-loathing had become his default .

“No,” Mickey said, flat and immediate. “I’d have been alone. I don’t want ‘better’ if better means you’re gone. I want better, with both of us less fucked up.I’m an idiot who cares, and because honestly, until the ambulance came, I thought I might not get you back.”

The bluntness landed like a hand on Ian’s sternum. It made room to breathe. “You sound like a resentful and weirdly romantic,” he managed.

“Yeah, well, don’t make me compose faggy love poems, ok,” Mickey said, then smiled. “Also, I promise to be dramatically selfish later. I’ll make you listen to my shit playlists and beg you to cook. For now, I’m selfish in the one way I mean—I’m not leaving.”

They finished lunch, well, Ian eating the applesauce packet Mickey had, and they chatted about how work was going , Sandy's customer service skills, and Franny. 

Ian was in a good mood when Mickey left. 

It did not stay that way.

***

That night before Mickey came back,  guilt came back like a bad radio signal—low and reptilian, whispering to Ian, "You ruined things, you’re selfish, you made people pay."

Ian was caught banging his head into the wall. He had been restrained for a while, the stitch patched, and the blood was just being cleaned from the wall as Mickey entered the ward for visitation.

The nurses let Mickey know Ian was in his room and had been given a sedative that had not yet taken hold because he was confused and combative.

Upon seeing Mickey, his eyes became electrified green.

The confusion on his face as he repeated part of their lunch conversation like it had never happened.

“I’m selfish,” he said. “I make you pay. I made you walk into that mess. You could’ve had—” His voice broke. He slammed his hand into the mattress because the sound turned the infinite regress into something finite and real. “I’m garbage.”

Mickey let him throw the words. He let him be loud and ugly and bitter and then he answered with a truth that sounded more like rough ends than comfort. “Yeah, you’re selfish sometimes,” Mickey said. “And so am I. We can be selfish pricks. But you tried to stop the pain. That’s not selfish in the way that matters. You were trying to save someone you loved, yourself."

Ian hiccupped, laughter and sobs tangled together. “You say that now. But you were barely holding it together.I fucked you again."

Mickey knew that the conversation was not about the now; it was about the past, that night.

Again, he reassured Ian, aware that the head injury sometimes caused him to repeat himself multiple times. This new quirk, he prayed, would go away with time. seeing Ian lost like this was worse than any low, any high.

“You didn’t,” Mickey said.  I’m not gonna pretend finding you in that tub is a highlight, but it’s the highlight of my life because I still have you. Until the ambulance came, I thought I might have to live with not knowing if I tried hard enough. I can’t sleep with that on my conscience.”

“So you stayed because you’re selfish,” Ian whispered.

There was a small tug of a smile on his lips. 

The meds were kicking in.

“Yeah. Because I’m too selfish to lose you,” Mickey said. “And when you’re better, I’ll be selfish in more petty ways. Your control of the remote is over; kiss your Lifetime movies goodbye."

Ian let the words in like something warm.

The guilt didn’t vanish.

It crouched in corners and sneered.

But Mickey's love kept it cornered.

But the lines of their conversation—humor, ugly truth, ridiculous promises about something to stand on.

They were not a cure.

They were a way to make the days survivable.

The meds were making Ian blurry and sleepy, and Mickey's eyes made his life less terrifying.

Mickey laughed; the sound was fire  and fierce. "Get some sleep, you stubborn, spectacular mess. Fucking Love you."

Ian fell asleep to the echo of that grin; someone had promised to stay.

Mickey, it was always Mickey.

It didn’t make the past disappear. It didn’t fix the truths that had been wrong since he was seven.

But it gave him something to come back to.

***

Mickey thought about Ian’s letter to his seven-year-old self—how he’d told that boy it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t deserve what happened.

Ian had said those same things to Mickey once, about the abuse Mickey endured growing up, about that awful morning with Terry and Svetlana. Ian had meant every word.

It was right after Mickey came out at the Alibi. They stood under a warm shower while Svet screamed in Russian outside the bathroom door. Ian took some of the pain and self-hatred off Mickey's shoulders.

But even when Ian said it to himself, Mickey could see he didn’t believe it.

Didn’t believe he was worthy of not being at fault.

It made Mickey insanely angry.

He punched the door to their entryway, bloodying his knuckles.

Ian wasn’t perfect, but at his core, he was gentle. Mickey had just learned the term "old soul," and it fit Ian like a second skin.

Mickey got home exhausted, petted Lady Marmalade while she bitched about her redhead’s warm lap being gone, ate a stale bagel, and fell into a bottle.

Everyone growing up knew his dad, Terry, beat his wives and his kids—he was an all-around asshole. Everyone saw the bruises, even if they ignored the severity.

It was terrifying and disgusting, but because everyone knew, Mickey got to act out. He got to be angry. Got to be loud.

The Gallaghers? Yeah, everyone thought Frank and Monica were pieces of shit—neglectful—but no one thought the Gallagher kids were being harmed. Not really.

But Ian was.

And Mickey knew now,too late, too fucking late,that the silence around Ian wasn’t just neglect.

It was covered. It was a shame. It was secrets. 

The kind that starts when you’re seven and someone decides your body’s not yours anymore.

The kind that twists your brain into thinking you asked for it, deserved it, liked it. The kind that makes you go quiet because if you scream, no one’s gonna help—they’re just gonna look away.

Ian had carried that shit alone.

For years. Since he was seven.

Through puberty, through breakdowns, through manic episodes and hospital beds and Mickey’s own dumbass mistakes.

And Mickey hated himself for not seeing it sooner. For not asking.

For not knowing how to ask.

Ian interpreted the silence surrounding the abuses,from himself, his family, and everyone else—as a sign of shame.

As if he were the culprit. As if he deserved it.

And Mickey had no clue how to change his husband’s mind.

No clue how to reach into that seven-year-old boy’s chest and pull out the ick someone else put there.

All he could do was stay. Keep showing up. Keep saying, “You didn’t deserve it.” 

On repeat but it did not feel like it was sinking in. 

And would it? what if the TBI had lasting effects, keeping Ian in this hell?

Even when Ian rolled his eyes or changed the subject or made a joke about being fucked up.

Because Mickey knew what it meant to be fucked up. And he knew what it meant to be loved anyway.

Ian taught him that.

The  sixth beer hit him around one am. He stumbled into the kitchen, grabbed a grocery pad and a sharpie and began to write.

To Ian, age seven—

Alright, listen up, kid. I know you’re probably sitting there with your dumb little bowl cut and your oversized hand me downs, trying to disappear into the wallpaper. I know you think if you’re quiet enough, good enough, maybe they’ll stop being assholes. Maybe they’ll love you like you deserve.

Spoiler alert: they won’t. Not because of you. Because they’re fucked. You’re not.

You didn’t do shit wrong. You’re seven. You’re supposed to be annoying and loud and covered in dirt and asking a million questions about space and bugs and whatever weird crap you’re into. You’re not supposed to be the one holding the family together like some tiny therapist .

I wish I could go back and sit next to you . I’d probably light a cigarette and get yelled at by some PTA mom, but I’d tell you the truth. I’d say, “You’re not the problem, kid. You’re the goddamn miracle.”

You’re gonna grow up and fall in love with someone who sees you. Someone who adoresfor you even when you’re being a stubborn little shit. Someone who knows you’re worth it, even when you don’t.

And when you love him back? That’s you choosing yourself. That’s you saying, “Fuck the shame. I survived.”

You’re not the bad thing. You’re the good thing that made it through hell and still knows how to laugh.

Love, Mickey (the guy who’d punch God in the throat for you)

 

Then he stared into the hallway, went outside, lit the letter on fire, and cried.

Fell apart for the first time in years by himself.

Just come back to me, Ian; please come back.

***

The next morning, Mickey was nursing a hangover. His head throbbed, his mouth tasted like stale carbs and bile, and Lady Marmalade was meowing for wet food , which he had forgetton to get, again.

He was halfway through a lukewarm coffee when his phone buzzed.

Lip.

Mickey stared at the screen nonplussed. He answered anyway.

“Jesus, you sound like roadkill,” Lip said by way of greeting.

“Fuck off,” Mickey croaked. “What do you want?”

Lip hesitated. That alone made Mickey sit up straighter.

Lip never hesitated. Not unless he was about to say something that mattered. Or something that hurt.

“I just… wanted to check on Ian.”

Mickey snorted. “Bit late for that, ain’t it?”

Lip sighed. “I know.”

And Mickey did know. Lip had known about Kash. Had known Ian was pulling underage tricks at the Fairy Tail. Had seen the signs, heard the whispers, and maybe even walked past Ian in that damn alley behind the club and said nothing.

Just like Mickey had.

They were both teenagers then. Both stupid. Both scared.

Neither of them had the language or the guts to say, “This isn’t okay.” So they said nothing.

And that silence? It screamed.

It screamed to Ian that no one cared. That maybe he deserved it. That maybe he was the problem.

Mickey rubbed his face, trying to scrub the guilt out of his skin. “You knew,” he said quietly. “You fucking knew.”

“I didn’t know how bad it was,” Lip said. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Neither did I,” Mickey admitted. “But we didn’t even try.”

Lip didn’t argue. That was new.

For some reason, Lip’s betrayal stung Ian more. Maybe because Lip was supposed to be the smart one. The protector. The brother who could fix things. But Lip could still be a condescending asshole, even when he was trying. Patronizing hard shit flew out of his mouth with regularity, like he couldn’t help himself.

Mickey hated him for that. And wanted to punch him in the throat.

“Ian’s not okay,” Mickey said finally. “He cracked last night. They had to sedate him cause he was hearing voices tell him over and over how fucked up he is. And Lip, is it the almost bullet through his brain, the trauma, or the psychosis? What the motherfuck fuck knows but it's painful. They had to restrain him and sedate him. He opened up a few stitches from banging his head. Trying to bang out your junkie mothers drug dealer fucking him at seven. So no , not OK."

Lip was silent for a long time. Then, “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “Fuck.”

They sat in that silence together, this time not as teens who felt like cowards, but as men who finally understood the cost of looking away.

Chapter Text

Dr. Frost sat across from Mickey, her clipboard balanced on one hand , but her attention fully on him. The late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the office floor.

"Yesterday was a good day," she said, not as a platitude but as a clinical observation. "Ian spoke up. Not just about the head injury but about the trauma. That’s significant."

Mickey nodded, arms crossed tight over his chest. “He said he’s doing it for me. That’s what scares me.”

Dr. Frost leaned forward slightly. “I understand your concern. But let me reassure you—doing it for you isn’t a bad place to start. It gets him in the door. It gives him a reason to show up. And once he’s here, once he’s engaged, we can help him start doing it for himself.”

Mickey looked down, jaw clenched. “But what if he crashes again?”

“We’re watching closely,” she said. “There’s a possible upswing, yes. But we’re tracking his behaviors, checking lithium levels, adjusting meds as needed. He’s not alone in this.”

He nodded, slowly.

Dr. Frost’s expression softened. “Ian’s begun sharing some of the harder truths. Not all at once, and not always clearly—but he’s trying. That’s progress."

Mickey exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

“I know it’s hard,” she said gently. “Watching someone you love walk through this. But Ian speaking up—that’s healthy. That’s brave. And even if right now he’s doing it for you, that doesn’t make it less real. It just means he’s still learning how to own his feelings. That takes time.”

Mickey swallowed hard. “I just want him to be okay.”

Dr. Frost smiled, “He’s on the path, Mickey. And yesterday was a good day.”

Two steps forward, three steps fucking back

*** 

Mickey was a fucking fool. Yesterday was a good day; today started out better, but now, of course, it is shit.

Ian lay half on his pillows, with a throw blanket from home on his lap. He stared at the bathroom door.  The Ian chin is stuck out and a small pout is on his lips. Usually this would make Mickey swoon but Ian is so serious right now.

“Mick, that shower was like ice water,” he snarled. “I’m still covered in them. I can feel their hands all over me.”

Mickey slid into the chair beside the bed and took Ian’s hand. “It wasn’t freezing, E. You had that lavender soap—remember? You even rinsed off for a solid 15 minutes.” He pressed Ian’s fingers to warm his own. “When you get home, you’ll get one scorching‐hot shower. Then we’ll turn it down just enough so it won’t set off the smoke alarm.”

Ian’s eyes dimmed.He shook his head. “I wanna to go home. I wanna wake up, have a hot shower, cuddle on the couch, play with Lady Marmalade, and pretend none of this ever happened.” His voice cracked. “And that Giordano’s Italian beef we always get…” He swallowed hard. “I’d kill for one. But what if someone laces it? I’m terrified they’ll roofie me again.”

Mickey squeezed Ian’s hand. “I’ll wake up at five, stand in Gino’s kitchen until they start slicing. I fuckimg watch every step. I won’t let a soul near your sandwich.” He brushed a strand of hair from Ian’s forehead. “You’re safe with me.”

Ian’s lip trembled, and he looked away. “Remember at the Fairytale? That one client gave me a cheesy fry dripping in melted cheese. Next thing I knew, I woke up naked in a sketchy motel.” He closed his eyes. “I was such a slut…an idiot.”

Mickey’s jaw hardened. “No. You were seventeen. Predators took advantage. And nobody—nobody talks shit about my husband.” He leaned forward, voice softening. “You’re not a slut. You’re my man.”

Ian leaned into Mickey’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Can we watch TikToks?” he whispered. “And maybe you could sneak Lady Marmalade in for a visit?”

Mickey chuckled. "Only for you would I sneak pussy in and out. I will try, ok? ask the nurses. But for now, how about we do the cat channels on TikTok?

The video played in the background—tiny kittens tumbling over each other in a cardboard box, one trying to climb out and failing spectacularly. Mickey snorted. “That one’s you,” he said, pointing. “All legs and no plan.”

Ian smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was quiet for a beat too long, and Mickey turned toward him, sensing the shift.

“I’m a lot,” Ian said finally. “I know that.”

Mickey didn’t respond right away. He just waited, letting the silence stretch until Ian was ready.

“I’m loud inside,” Ian continued, voice low. “Even when I look calm. It’s like... static. Screaming. Sometimes it’s memories, sometimes it’s just noise. And that day—when I pulled the trigger—it wasn’t about you. It wasn’t even about me. It was the voices. They were so loud, Mick. I couldn’t hear anything else.”

Mickey chewed his bottom lip. but he didn’t interrupt. THis repetition , Ian going back over and over, hurt. But for Ian, he would stay present in this conversation. Even if it was for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” Ian said, eyes wet but steady. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want to leave you. I just wanted the noise to stop.”

Mickey reached out, thumb brushing Ian’s knuckles. “You scared the shit outta me,” he said, voice rough. 

Ian nodded, swallowing hard. “I love you. Not just because you stayed. Not just because you fight for me. I love you because you make me want to fight for myself. Because my life—whatever it ends up being—it’s never gonna be whole without you in it.”

Mickey blinked, then looked away, like the weight of that truth was too much to hold in his eyes. “You’re such a sap,” he muttered.

Ian laughed. “Yeah. But I’m your sap.”

Mickey didn’t argue. He just leaned in, resting his forehead against Ian’s temple as the kittens kept tumbling.

***

He had tucked Ian in his blankets, as the midday dose and the early morning PT had worn him out. He planned to swing by Gino's, grab a sandwich, and see if he would split it; would Ian at least try a bite? He breezed through payroll and was going to try to catch a nap at his desk while his drivers were out.

Mickey was half-asleep at his desk, head tipped back, one boot propped on the edge. His breathing was the only sound—until his phone rang, sharp and shrill.

He groaned, reaching for it. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Milkovich?” It was one of the nurses. Her voice was tight. “We need to inform you—Lip Gallagher came by. It started out okay, but then Ian became agitated.

Mickey sat up fast. “Agitated how?”

“He fell. Lip tried to help him up, but he didn’t know the protocol. He grabbed Ian around the waist—too much contact, too fast. Ian panicked.”

Mickey’s stomach dropped.

“There was a scene,” the nurse continued. “Two trays thrown, one chair tipped. Ian’s having flashbacks—he’s babbling, things that don’t make sense to most people. He keeps saying he’s sorry, that he’s not forbidden fruit or a ginger snap. He’s asking not to go see Chase. We had to administer Geodon. He’s restrained for safety now—he was hitting himself, headbanging.”

Mickey was already grabbing his keys. “Is he hurt?”

“No physical injuries. The meds are helping. You can come straight in; we’ll provide you with an update before you see him.”

Mickey didn’t even hang up properly. He was in the car, with the engine roaring and his heart pounding. Lip. Goddamn Lip. He got it—Lip loved Ian, loved all his siblings, and would do anything for them. But Lip’s version of “help” was pushing, pressing, and assuming he knew best.

And that pissed Mickey off so bad he nearly rammed into a city bus.

He pulled over, breathing hard, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Then he saw Lip outside the hospital, pacing, looking wrecked.

Mickey got out, storming across the lot.

“You,” he snapped.

Lip turned. “Mick—”

“You touched him,” Mickey growled. “You grabbed him without asking. You triggered him.”

“I didn’t know—he fell, I panicked—”

“You don’t get to panic,” Mickey shouted. “You don’t get to play motherfucking savior when you don’t know the rules.”

“I was trying to help!”

“Help?” Mickey shoved him. “He was screaming about candy tasting funny, begging not to see Chase, apologizing for not being a ginger snap. You cracked something open he wasn’t ready to face.”

Lip’s face twisted. “I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean to,” Mickey snapped. “But you keep doing it. You think pushing him makes it better. You think you know what he needs. That’s a fucking joke.”

Lip stepped forward. “He’s my brother.”

“Then act like it,” Mickey barked. “Your brother was molested as a kid. Assaulted over and over as a teen. And you think grabbing him when he’s vulnerable is okay?”

Lip flinched.

“For once—for fucking once—can you follow his lead?” Mickey’s voice raised . “Funny how when he was sixteen, running around flop houses, fucking Ned, you were out looking for him. Debbie and Carl were scared. But now that he’s somewhere safe, you’re up his ass.”

Lip’s guilt was written all over his face.

“You think guilt makes you a noble asshole?” Mickey shoved him again. “It makes you reckless. And Ian doesn’t need reckless. He needs space. He needs control. He needs to feel safe in his own fucking skin.”

Lip tried to speak, but Mickey swung. A fist to the ribs, a knee to the thigh. Lip stumbled back, winded.

“You don’t get to break him and walk away,” Mickey shouted. “You don’t get to trigger him and call it being his brother.”

Security was already moving, but Mickey didn’t care.

“He was screaming for me,” Mickey said, voice hoarse. “Begging. Babbling. Hitting himself. And now he’s restrained, doped up, and I’m the one who has to walk in there and put the pieces back together.”

Lip nodded, bruised and silent.

“You don’t touch him again,” Mickey said. “Not until he says it’s okay. You don’t speak for him. You don’t decide what he needs. You don’t get to be the expert on pain you never lived.”

Then Mickey turned toward the entrance,eyes narrowed, heart breaking. He was going in.

***

Mickey shoved through the hospital doors. The nurse at the desk looked up, startled.

“Milkovich,” he snapped. “You said I could come straight in. So where the fuck is he?”

The nurse stood, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Milkovich, please—”

“Don’t ‘please’ me,” Mickey growled. “You called me. You said he was restrained. You said he was screaming. So unless you want me flipping chairs like he did, you better start talking.”

She nodded, calm but firm. “Ian’s stable. The Geodon is taking effect. He’s still restrained for safety, but he’s no longer hitting himself.”

Mickey nodded.”He was asking for me.”

“Yes,” she said gently. “He kept saying your name. Over and over.”

Mickey’s voice dropped. “Did he say anything else?”

The nurse hesitated. “He was disoriented. Flashbacks. That the candy tasted funny.”

Mickey’s eyes burned. “Jesus.”

“He’s not injured,” she added quickly. “But he’s scared. And he’s tired.”

“Yeah, well, so am I,” Mickey muttered. “But I’m not the one strapped to a bed because my dumbass brother decided to play assist the patient.”

The nurse gave a small nod. “You can go in. Just… be gentle.”

Mickey snorted. “Lady, gentle’s not my brand. But Ian is the only one who gets my gentle.”

He walked down the hall.The door to Ian’s room was slightly ajar. Mickey pushed it open.

Ian was there, eyes half-lidded, wrists strapped down, chest rising and falling  His curls were damp with sweat, and his lips moved in whispers Mickey couldn’t hear.

Mickey stepped in, pulled the chair close, and sat down hard.

“Hey, Firecrotch” he said, voice rough. “You look like shit.”

Ian blinked, eyes fluttering open. “Mick?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m here.” Mickey leaned in, brushing a hand over Ian’s sheet. “Heard you won a fair fight with a craft tray…”

Ian’s lip trembled. “I didn’t mean to. I just… the candy tasted wrong. And I didn’t wanna go see Chase. I’m not a ginger snap.”

Mickey wanted to find Linda murder something important to her, chain the doors to the Fairy Tail and toss a Mal Tov cocktail, watch it burn .

But he would stick to the script the doc coached him on. Ian needed consistent reassurance.

Mickey swallowed hard. “I know. I know. You dont hafta have candy, ok?.”

Ian’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Mickey said fiercely. “Don’t you fucking apologize. You’re allowed to lose it. You’re allowed to fall apart. You’ve been through hell, Ian. You don’t owe anyone composure.”

Ian whimpered. “Lip grabbed me.”

“I know,” Mickey said, jaw tight. “And I already kicked his ass. You don’t gotta worry about him. He’s not coming near you till you say it’s okay.”

Ian blinked slowly. “You fought him?”

“Damn right I did,” Mickey said. “He thinks guilt gives him a hall pass to stomp all over your boundaries. I reminded him that you’re not a goddamn group project. You’re a person. My person.”

Ian’s lip quirked, just barely. “You’re such a dramtic old queen sometimes."

Mickey leaned in, kissed his forehead. “You bring it outta me.”

He sat back, eyes scanning Ian’s face. “You rest, okay? I’m not going anywhere. You want me to punch a doctor, I’ll do it. You want me to steal you more grippy socks? I’ll do that too. You want me to sit here and talk shit about Lip until you fall asleep? Done.”

Ian’s voice was a whisper. “Just stay.”

Ian fell into the meds effects . Mickey sat staring at the wall.

He was officially out of tears.

***

The restraints were off now, but Ian hadn’t moved much. He lay curled on his side, eyes open, staring at the wall like it might shift and swallow him whole.

Mickey sat nearby, legs stretched out. He’d been quiet for a while, letting Ian breathe, letting the meds settle.

Then Ian spoke, voice barely audible. “Sometimes I don’t know what’s real.”

Mickey looked up. “You mean like, right now?”

Ian nodded. “It’s like I’m back there. In that house. Or the store. Or the alley. And I know I’m not, but I feel it. I smell it. I hear things that aren’t there.”

Mickey’s voice became protective. “You want me to punch the wall? Prove it’s solid?”

Ian gave a weak smile. “I want you to help me remember what’s real. When it gets bad.”

Mickey scooted closer, resting his arm on the edge of the bed. “Alright. Let’s make a list. Real shit only. No Lip, no ginger snaps, no creepy-ass candy.”

Ian blinked slowly. “Okay.”

Mickey held up a finger. “One, you’re in a hospital bed, not an alley . No one’s coming to hurt you. The only person in this room who’s ever laid hands on you is me, and I do it with love and a little bit of filth.”

Ian snorted. “True.”

“Two, you’re not alone. I’m here. I’m always here. Even when you’re babbling  or throwing trays like a pissed-off Karen.”

Ian’s lip twitched. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Stop apologizing,” Mickey said. “You’re allowed to lose it. You’ve earned it.”

Ian nodded, eyes wet.

“Three, you’re safe. There is no candy. You’re not a secret. You’re not something to be used and tossed. You’re Ian fucking Gallagher. You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Ian’s breath hitched. “I love you.”

“Good,” Mickey said. “Because I’m not going anywhere. So next time the flashbacks hit, you say my name. You grab my hand. You tell me what you’re seeing, and I’ll tell you what’s real.”

Ian reached out, fingers brushing Mickey’s wrist. “You’re real.”

“Damn right I am,” Mickey said. 

***

Ian was sitting up now, knees drawn to his chest, hospital blanket draped over his shoulders.

His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but he kept rubbing his thumb over the inside of his wrist like he was trying to remember something.

Mickey sat beside him, chewing the inside of his cheek, watching every twitch, every breath.

“I keep seeing the compass,” Ian murmured. “The one Ned gave me. For ROTC. It was shiny. Heavy.”

Mickey leaned forward. “Yeah, I remember that. Was so fucking jealous he could buy you crap I couldnt."

Ian nodded slowly. “But then it gets weird. I don’t know what happened after. I was in his apartment. I think he wanted to play soldier or something. I don’t know. I was wearing the uniform. He said I looked ‘ready for orders.’”

Mickey’s jaw clenched. “Jesus, fucking dick bag, him , not you.”

Ian’s voice cracked. “I thought it was just sex. But it felt… wrong. Like I was being tested. Like if I didn’t do it right, I’d lose something.”

Mickey didn’t speak. He was piecing it together, the need for revenge simmering under his skin.

“He said I was lucky,” Ian whispered. “That I was special. But then he laughed. During. Said I was too soft. That I didn’t know how to follow through.”

Mickey’s fists curled. “He humiliated you.”

Ian blinked. “I think so. I don’t remember all of it. Just the feeling. Like I was failing. Like I was only good if I performed right.”

Mickey stood up, pacing. “That sick bastard gave you a compass like it was a fucking merit badge, then turned it into a prop for his twisted little power trip.”

Ian flinched. “I thought it meant he cared . I belonged somewhere.”

“You do,” Mickey snapped. “But not because you wore a uniform or took orders or made some viagroid creep feel big. You matter because you’re you.”

Ian looked up, eyes wide. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like I’m just… what people want me to be.”

Mickey crouched in front of him, hands on Ian’s knees. “ You’re not a performance, Ian. You’re not a role. You’re mine. And I love you messy,  quiet, loud—every fucking version.”

Ian’s lip trembled. “Even the one that babbles about candy and ginger snaps?”

“Especially that one,” Mickey said.

Ian laughed, a wet, shaky sound. “I’m still so scared.”

“I know,” Mickey said. “But you’re not alone. And you’re not what he did to you. You’re not what anyone did to you.  You’re loved. And you don’t have to earn it.”

Ian nodded and smiled. He was stroking Mickey's hand, watching his husband start to nod off in the chair. Ian reached over and draped his blanket on Mickey's leg and spent the rest of the visit watching him sleep.

*** 

Mickey woke up panicked and swinging. Then he stopped and looked around.

Ian was propped up against the pillows, still pale, still bleary, but his voice had that old steadiness to it—the one Mickey knew meant he wasn’t messing around.

“Mick,” Ian said, quiet but firm. “I want you to take a day off from coming here.”

Mickey blinked. “What? No. Fuck that.”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Have Debbie and Carl come drive me crazy for a day. Yeah, bad pun, I get it.”

Mickey crossed his arms. “You think I’m just gonna leave you here with the Gallagher crew?”

“Or Sandy,” Ian added. “She can snark at me. Better than Lip’s pity parade.”

Mickey scoffed. “You’re outta your mind.”

Ian leaned forward slightly. “Sleep in. Get a burger. Call your therapist.”

“I’m fine,” Mickey said, too fast.

Ian fixed him with those green eyes—still tired, still healing, but sharp as ever. “Mick, baby,” he said, voice low and calm. “You’re not okay either.”

Mickey froze.

“This is a lot,” Ian continued. “You’ve been carrying me through it. Fighting Lip. Arguing with doctors. Sleeping in chairs. Talking to the cat like she’s your emotional support animal.”

“She’s a good listener,” Mickey muttered.

Ian didn’t smile. “I need you to talk to someone. Not the wall. Not the vending machine. A real person. Someone who can help you hold all this.”

Mickey looked away. “I don’t need help.”

Ian reached out, fingers brushing Mickey’s wrist. “You do. And I’ll miss you for a day, but I’ll be super fucking happy you did it.”

Mickey swallowed hard. “You sure?”

Ian nodded. “Then maybe the next day, you bring lunch. And if you do surveillance on the sandwich-making, I’ll try to take a bite.”

Mickey sniggered. “You want me to interrogate the deli guy?”

“I want you to be you,” Ian said. “But rested. And maybe a little less ready to punch someone.”

Mickey sighed, rubbing his face. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

Ian smiled. “ I try. And you love me.”

“Yeah,” Mickey said, voice soft. “I really fucking do.”

Chapter Text

Ian sat cross-legged on the hospital couch, his oldest, softest, and well, Mickey's old, softest shirt tugged over his hands to keep them warm. Nothing bad has happened today yet. Mickey was seeing his therapist and having a day without this damn unit and Ian was glad. But a scowl still crept on his face. he hadn't shaved in over a week and was kinda digging the stubble beard. Maybe he would keep it. The psych unit was quiet that morning. Across from him sat Dr. Frost, calm and steady; it unnerved him at times.

“You seem tense today,” she said.

Ian shrugged. “Got visitors coming. Liam. Carl. Mickey’s doing what I asked, taking the day off, seeing Chelsea, and then hanging with Sandy. It’s like a Gallagher parade instead.” 

Dr. Frost tilted her head. “And that makes you nervous?”

“Liam,” Ian said, voice tight. “He’s different. He sees things. He’s quiet, but he watches everything. I don’t want him to look at me and see... this.”

He gestured vaguely toward his stitches, bruises, and torn ear, but it wasn’t about the injury. It was about the mess behind it—the part of him that cracked open last week and spilled out.

“You mean the wound?” Dr. Frost asked gently.

“I mean the mess,” Ian said. “The part I keep under wraps in my friggin brain. The part that snapped.”

Dr. Frost stood and walked to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker. She wrote, "How do others see Ian?"

Ian groaned. He had to admit therapy now was different from the county hospital and free clinics of his childhood but at times that Gallagher mentality of thinking therapy was for the weak crept in and fucked him.

But he owed it to Mickey, and as Mickey was reminding him, he owed it to himself.

“Let’s try something,” she said. “Imagine Liam sitting here. Not as your brother. As someone describing you to a stranger. What would he say?”

Ian stared at the board, jaw clenched. “He’d say I’m stubborn. Moody. I disappear sometimes. Run when things get hard. I get messed up sometimes and hurt people I love."

“That’s how you see yourself,” Dr. Frost replied. “Try again. What would Liam say?”

Ian hesitated. His voice softened. “He’d say I got people’s backs. That I show up for him. I stand up for people even when I'm on the verge of breaking down. I read too much, steal his books, and write in notebooks that I never show anyone, and never drink the last of the OJ because we may need it for him or Franny."

Dr. Frost nodded. “How about you care? That you protect. That you’re brave.”

Ian shook his head, wincing at the small headache forming, fucking gunshot, fucking idiot.  “Doubt he’d say I’m brave?”

"He watched you survive experiences that no one should have to endure." He saw you get help. He saw you come back from the brink. That’s courage, Ian. Not weakness.”

Ian looked away. “I don’t feel brave. I feel like a walking trigger warning. That I hurt the younger kids. Fi, Lip, and I protected them the best we could, but I was always, like, hypervigilant and shit. That I was just waiting for MOnica or Frank to put them near predators, and I would be damned if they did."

“Bravery isn’t the absence of pain,” Dr. Frost said. “It’s choosing to live through it. It is important to keep showing up. You have showed up for them even in very serious crisises you were having. What we are trying to do is have you show up for yourself, Ian.

Ian didn’t speak for a moment. The words settled in, heavy but not crushing. He nodded slowly.

“I just don’t want Liam to be scared of me.”

“He’s not; he called me, asking if he could bring you a book,” she said. “He’s proud of you. He sees the parts you don’t. Maybe it’s time you started seeing them too.”

Ian leaned back, the soft fabric and faint smell of Mickey's cologne still wrapped around his hands. He didn’t argue. He didn’t deflect. He just breathed.

“I’ll try,” he said.

“That’s all I ask. That's all anyone asks, Ian."

***

Ian sat in the corner of the lounge, waiting for his little brothers. The sterile walls and muted colors made everything feel distant, like he was watching his life through a fogged-up window. He was so tired of this. Once he thought he could have a regular life. Maybe it was not for him. Now he was just trying to carve something salvageable that he could have, Mickey and he could have.

He heard voices down the hall, the kidding and joshing, almost bickering, of Carl and Liam.

Carl stepped in first, his usual bravado  toned down. Liam followed, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes wide looking at the damage to the side of Ian's face that was in various stages of healing.

“Hey,” Ian said, voice low.

Carl grinned. “You look like crap, but less crap than last week.”

Ian smirked. “Thanks, Carl. Real bonding  moment.”

Liam didn’t speak right away. He walked over and sat beside Ian, close but not crowding him. His presence was quiet but full of love that Ian could feel.

“You okay?” Liam asked.

Ian hesitated. he wanted to lie, to soothe and protect but that is how he wound up here. Besides, Liam was too perceptive for anyone to lie to him. “Getting there.”

Carl dropped into the chair across from them. “Mickey said you’re doing the therapy thing. That Frost lady. She any good?”

“She doesn’t suck,” Ian said. “She’s not trying to fix me. I don't think so. Not like in a boo-hoo way. Just... help me see what’s still working.”

Liam nodded slowly. “That’s good. Ian, you deserve to have some peace ya know, just like anyone else."

Liam leaned in. The sudden touch was jolting but unlike when Lip grabbed him, Ian barely panicked this time. He slung his arm around Liam, pulling him in. 

Ian looked at him, searching. “You’re not scared of me?”

Liam’s brow furrowed. “Ian, I, before I even knew what it was, saw your ups and downs, the bipolar. I didn't get it when you were so wrecked when Mickey married Svet. I would just sit in my crib knowing you were crying at night. But in the morning you would always, always hug me. When you did the Gay Jesus thing one day, we were in the kitchen, and Fi was so worried you were off your meds, but you gave me an answer when I asked why you were doing this. For once you did not answer about SHIms' will. You said these bastards have gotten away with it long enough. Making kids be and do what they wanted, not what these kids wanted or needed. When I heard about what happened to Mickey with Terry, I thought you just meant Mickey. Now that I know about all those older assholes, I think you meant you too. No. I’m scared of what hurts you. Not you.”

Ian swallowed hard. 

Carl leaned forward. “You know, when I was little, I thought you were like... invincible. You were always the one who had it together. Even when you really didn’t."

Carl walked over and sat next to Ian. "You never left us alone with Monica; you even called out a few shifts at Kash and Grab because no one else was home but us and Monica. You threatened Frank. I remember he took me out begging once and you pushed him down the steps. You would lose it when Fi did not stop Frank from taking Liam begging; I saw you threaten him about that too. I know you sat on that bus for three weeks after that perv pulled his dick out at Debbie. I knew you did it because you love us; now I know it was because you knew firsthand the bad shit that coulda happened. To me you had your shit together more than anyone, even with the bipolar."

Ian chuckled bitterly. “I am duct-taped together with sarcasm and bad weed.”

“Still held,” Carl said.

Then he looked at Ian.

"I love you so much. Military school, becoming a cop. Yeah, I wanted it but you, out of everyone, being proud of me meant the most. I know you lost so many dreams Ian but please find new ones. I...I...without you, man, I just don't know." Carl began to cry. "Fuck, sorry, I just want to hug you but I know..."

Without a thought, he pulled Carl and Liam in tighter. the hug was powerful; as all three cried, Ian felt a release. He would always worry about his siblings, but he did his job. He kept the perverts and predators away, and now they were strong enough to protect themselves. He hadn't failed them. there would be no Chase, Kash, Ned, or faceless, leering assholes attacking them. He kept the promise he made to himself; his sibling would never experience what he did. And in his chest a tiny part of him that was dead for so long felt resurrected.

They held each other for a while, then Carl talked about the entitled Karens and the secret glee he got from confronting themand aressting them and Liam talked about Tami and Lip and how they both sucked at cooking. Then he pulled a book out and handed it to Ian, 'An Unquiet Mind: a Memoir of Moods and Madness.'

"So, the woman who wrote it is an expert in bipolar disorder and has it herself. Her life had those hell moments, really brutal stuff. But she became a doctor and still has her highs and lows. But she has purpose, Ian, and a positive life. I can't even wrap my head around all the abuse from those guys and how hard holding that in was on top of trying to manage your disease. But she reminds me of you, strong because she values her life. Please value your life again, Ian. I dont think I could sit and say goodbye to you before it's your time, Ok?'"Liam hugged him hard.

Ian just held on and nodded.

"I am working on it, guys, I promise."

***

Mickey sat low in the armchair, arms crossed, eyes scanning the exit like he was ready to bolt. His  eyes flicked first to the window, then to the clock, and finally back to the floor. Chelsea watched him quietly.

“He’s doing okay,” Mickey said, voice tight. “Ian. Therapy’s helping. He’s talking more. Sleeping a little.”

Chelsea didn’t nod. She didn’t agree. She just looked at him.

“Mickey,” she said gently, “I didn’t ask how Ian’s doing. I asked how you’re doing.”

Mickey scoffed. “I’m fine. I’m not the one who—”

She cut in, calm but firm. “You found him. You saw him. After the gunshot. After the years of not knowing what he’d buried coming out. That’s not nothing.”

Mickey’s face fell. He looked away, then back, then away again.

“I thought he was fucking dead,” he said. “I walked in and I thought, that was it. Endgame is fucking over. That all the shit we crawled through, all the fights, all the nights I held him through panic attacks, all the mornings I made him take his meds—it was all for nothing. Because some sick bastards hurt him when he was a kid, and none of us saw it. There was so much fucking blood, like I just felt like it was too much; he was so pale and he was going to die in my arms. Like all the good was gone, it was a dream, and I would wake up covered in blood and Svets wetness on that couch. This was all a dream and Ian was gone."

HHis voice wavered, but he didn’t cry. 

“I missed it,” he said. “The signs. The way he shut down when things got too close. I thought it was just the bipolar. Just the Gallagher shit. But it was more. It was deeper. And I didn’t see it.”

Chelsea leaned forward. “You didn’t cause it, Mickey.”

“No, but I didn’t stop it either,” he snapped. “I was supposed to be the one who saw him. Who knew all of him? And I didn’t. I didn’t know he was carrying that kind of pain. I knew when we were younger he was selling himself because he believed it was all he could do. And I didn't know how to tell him how deeply I loved him; maybe if I could have, he woulda stopped."

He rubbed his face, angry at the tears threatening to fall.

“I almost lost him,” he whispered. “Not to a fight. Not to the system. Not to another guy. To himself. Because someone broke him and he thought he wasn’t worth saving.”

Chelsea let the silence stretch, then reached into her drawer and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook. It was worn and soft at the edges, with a pen tucked into the spine.

“Try this,” she said. “It’s not for journaling. Not unless you want it to be. It’s for moments when it all feels too much. Write one sentence. It doesn't have to make sense. Doesn’t have to be deep. Just one sentence that gets the roar out of your head and onto the page.”

Mickey stared at the notebook like it was going to bite him."

“I’m not a writer; that’s Ian,” he muttered.

“You don’t have to be,” Chelsea said. “Even if it’s just ‘I’m pissed off’ or ‘I miss him’ or ‘I want to punch a wall.’ It’s yours. No one reads it. No one judges it.”

Mickey took the notebook slowly, thumb brushing the edge.

“I just want him to be okay,” he said.

“And I want you to be okay too,” Chelsea replied. “Because loving someone doesn’t mean you have to carry all of it alone.”

Mickey didn’t answer. But he tucked the notebook into his hoodie pocket.

***

It was almost lunchtime, and Ian had just tried art therapy. His squiggles of black and red lines on a crudely drawn arm was gonna give the art therapist, Molly, something to chew on for sure. He planned on reading part of the book after lunch in free time before his PT and Debbie was coming later to say hi. 

He was called to the desk and told he had a call. It sucked not being able to have his cell on him but the nursing staff was good about letting patients use the community phone.

“Hey, Red,” Mickey’s voice came through, low and gruff, trying not to sound worried but failing just enough to make Ian’s chest ache. “How ya holding up today? Did Officer Carl and Liam behave? No pillow fights or brotherly brawls, right?”

Ian snorted. “No, those are my two siblings that you can take them in public.”

Mickey chuckled, and Ian felt the tension in his shoulders ease. That laugh—he missed it like hell.

Ian'ss tone shifted, gentler now. “It was good, really good. I needed to hear that this hasn’t pushed Liam or Carl away. Liam brought me a book; I’m starting it later.”

Mickey laughed. “You and Laim and your passing books. Iggy and I only passed porn and coke. You two are so Leaver it to Beaver cute."

“Probably,” Ian agreed. “Also, today’s gourmet sealed options are cup-of-soup and green jello. Don’t be jealous.”

“Green?”Mickey scoffed. “That’s the worst flavor. It’s like lime had an illegitimate baby with water. ”

Ian rubbed his eye. “How about you, baby? How was your appointment?”

Mickey grunted. “So now I’m supposed to jot down my feelings. One step less horrifying than Larry and his sock puppets.”

“Freaky fucking Friday,” Ian  said. “You’re writing, and they tried to get me to draw. I told them I’d rather eat the crayons. Which I didn't, but I did do a really bad stick figure."

His voice softened again. “I love you, Mick. Thank you for going to see Chelsea. Did it help?”

Mickey paused. He hated admitting vulnerability, especially over the phone, especially when Ian was already dealing with his own shit. But he owed him honesty. Because the truth was pouring out of Ian now, Mickey could try.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “As much as I wanted to fight you about it, I got some stuff off my chest. But I miss you.”

Ian could picture Mickey saying it—hands flexing, feet shuffling, eyes darting like he was confessing to murder.

“I miss you too,” Ian said. “And I love you. But this whole thing’s been a shitshow. On me, on you, on everyone. I need you like fucking air, Mick. But I also need you to stop making your whole world about my pain.”

Mickey teared up.

“I want you to stop worrying about triggering me,” Ian continued. “We’re gonna trigger each other. It happens. But I want more memories of us just being Mickey and Ian. Not tiptoeing around my trauma and bipolar. Okay?”

Mickey let out a low whistle. “Wow. One day without me and look at Mr. Mentally Healthy.”

Ian grimaced. “To be fair, less fuzzy today. The Geodon’s finally out of my system Where are you getting lunch?”

“Sandy’s dragging me to some dyke bar downtown,” Mickey replied. “Pub food. She’s crushing on the bartender. Showed me a pic—chick looks like Deb in a  300 dollar tank top. I said that, and she kneed me in the balls. So I promised to keep my mouth full of fries and just be her brooding wingman.”

Ian laughed so hard Mickey had to pull the phone away for a second.

“Good luck with that,” Ian said. “I get Debbie tonight. Apparently I have a get-well present from Franny.”

“ Hey if lil Red is taking requests, tell her I want a drawing of me punching a teddy bear,” Mickey  said.

Ian chuckled. “I’ll put in a request. Anyway, I’m getting the stink-eye. Time for my plastic lunch tray and a med cup full of pills.”

He paused

“Lady Marmalade, buy her some catnip treats from Daddy for me,” Ian noted. “Tell Sandy not to be too much of a cunt. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

Mickey stared at the phone, lips twitching into a shy smile. “Love you too, tough guy. See you in the morning.”

“It’s a date,” Ian said, and hung up.

Mickey sat there for a moment, the silence pressing in. Then he pulled out the notebook the therapist gave him and stared at the blank page for a minute.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and started to write.

I never want to miss a date with my husband again.