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“JESUS CHRIST, will you STOP that!”
The cacophony of the Gallagher kitchen, which seconds before had felt like an unstoppable, unrelenting force that would crush all in its wake, dies immediately. Mickey, hands clenched into fists and jaw so tight he’s nearly shaking, has all eyes on him.
Awesome. Fucking perfect.
“Just,” the words are coming out in a harsh staccato. “Don’t. Please.”
He isn’t looking at the culprit. But she seems to know he’s talking to her because she has stopped throwing her tennis ball against the dryer door and is making little sounds of distress that are starting to mount into a wail. Fuuuuuck .
“Franny,” Debbie coos, sweeping across the kitchen and kneeling down to scoop up her daughter. “It’s ok. It’s ok, honey. Let’s go find something else to do.”
Mickey keeps his eyes fixed on the far wall because he doesn’t want to see the look on Debbie’s face. He’s upset the one person in the house who can do no wrong and there is no way this is going to be good for him.
“Jesus, Mick.”
Case in point. He glances at his Sandy, who is looking at him like he just set fire to a kitten orphanage.
“What?” he’s immediately defensive. “That wasn’t driving you out of your fucking mind?”
“Yeah,” Sandy drawls. “It was annoying as fuck. She’s four. Four year olds are annoying.”
“My father would have thrown a fucking kitchen knife at my head for shit like that!”
“Great example. That’s the father figure you want to emulate.”
Mickey feels his face heat. He glares at his cousin, who knows exactly what she just said to him, but Sandy doesn’t back down, so she must be pissed. And he must have been a fuck of a lot worse even than he thought he was. His eyes dart quickly to Ian, who is still standing next to the sink, eyebrows raised.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
“Go to hell,” he grinds out, grabbing his coat off the back of a nearby chair. “Go fuck yourself, Sandy.”
Mickey explodes through the backdoor, into the empty Gallagher backyard, and drags what passes for fresh air in south side into his lungs. He already feels sick. Fucking dizzy and angry and disgusted. With himself. He fucking hates it when he loses it like that. He hates it when his grand achievement in the last three minutes is that he didn’t tell the four-year-old to fucking stop it.
The air isn’t helping. Mickey pulls on his jacket, already patting the pockets for his cigarettes when the back door slams.
He really should have just taken off because this is going to suck.
He glances back to see it’s not Sandy or Debbie or even a vengeance seeking Franny. It’s Ian. Who is probably at the top of the list of people he doesn’t want to see right now.
“Don’t fucking start with me,” he mutters, shoving his hands through the cuffs. “Not right now.”
Ian regards him, head cocked to one side, with a grim expression. Mickey both bristles and shrinks at the same time. Ok. Fuck it. What’s the point in putting it off?
“I know I fucked up,” he starts, then stops as Ian continues down the steps. He’s undeniably calm and has just fished a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He offers one without speaking. Mickey nods, and it feels like he’s making an admission of guilt instead of accepting the smoke he’s desperate for.
Ian lights two cigarettes simultaneously like he’s Humphrey fucking Bogart or something. Mickey’s insides are churning, but he accepts what is maybe a peace offering. Or possible the last cigarette before the firing squad takes aim. His hand has a slight tremor as he lifts it to his mouth to take a drag. Tobacco might not be strong enough for this one.
“You wanna take a walk?” Ian’s voice is so free of any subtext that it twists all the way around to being full of subtext. Namely: don’t bite my head off, but we should get out of here.
Mickey casts eyes warily to the back door. “Might be a good idea.”
“Might be.”
Mickey nods and turns towards the alley. He takes about three steps before he feels Ian’s hand on the small of his back.
Ok. So his husband doesn’t hate him. That’s a start.
They head down the alley in silence. When they get to the end of the block, Mickey lets Ian steer him north. The further they get from the house, though, the worse Mickey feels. Franny is so small and quiet and just… unobjectionable. Mickey’s been wary of kids for about as long as he can remember, though to be honest, he’s not even sure he thought about them much before he was presented with one of his own. He and Mandy are the youngest in the family and the fact that all his brothers are kinda stunted and dumb doesn’t add up to knowing anything about dealing with a little girl who loves rainbows and unicorns.
Ian, on the other hand. He’s seen Ian in action. He’s the fun uncle. The affectionate older brother. Holds babies with one arm, head always supported and all that shit. Comfortable. It feels like a magic trick.
The guilt is rolling over Mickey in waves now. He can handle loud music. Loud voices, even. Fucking gunfire . But that… that god damn ball hitting hard against the washer, is too much. It set every part of his body on edge. He doesn’t understand how other people can stand it. She’d done it six times before he snapped. How was he the only one to snap?
He’s been directing them to the park, which is mostly empty in the late Chicago fall, even on a Sunday afternoon. When they reach a picnic table, chained to a mostly-empty garbage can, Ian pulls lightly on the cuff of Mickey’s jacket and hops up to sit on the table. He’s already fiddling with the cigarettes again. “Want another?”
This time, Mickey gets to light the cigarette himself, though to do so he has to lean his head in next to Ian’s. Ian takes a few quick puffs, then flicks his eyes over and gives a wry smile.
“For the human embodiment of chaos, you sure don’t like to be startled, huh?”
“Startled. That what you call it?”
“Startled me. It was loud as fuck.” he flicks ash onto his shoe, and pauses to brush it off. He’s grateful for how mellow Ian is right now, but it’s fucking weird. It’s almost like he’s in a good mood about this shit. “I was kinda waiting on Debbie to do something. I should have thought.”
“That I’d fucking lose it?”
“Well. Yeah.” He takes another drag. “You don’t like being caught off guard. I mean, you’re better than you used to be, but you fucking hate shit like that. And, like, the first year we were together you’d throw an elbow at my throat every fifth time I’d go to wake you up.”
Mickey exhales. “Jesus fuck.”
“Didn’t know ROTC was going to be relationship training.”
“You’re a fucking dick, you know that, right?”
“Yeah, you say that.” Ian flashes his left hand at him, fingers spread. He’s taken to doing that lately, whenever he’s being particularly annoying. Like a taunt. You put a ring on it. “I’ll deal with it next time. Take the heat from Debs.”
Mickey looks down at his own rings. Runs his thumb across them. “How would you have handled it?”
“Honestly? Probably just picked her up by her ankles. She loves it and it solves most problems. Well. Noise problems.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that would gone over coming from me.”
“Height is a factor.”
Mickey is feeling too strung out to even debate that. He hangs his head, rubbing his free hand over his head several times before just coming out with it.
“You’re fucked, you know that right?”
“You wanna narrow that down for me? What am I fucked over this time?”
“You wanna have kids.”
Ian shrugs. Then nods.
“You sure you wanna have them with me?”
The fucking things Mickey will find it in him to say to Ian, sometimes. He can’t explain it. Things come off his tongue that feel as likely as just spitting out diamonds.
“Well,” Ian sighs. “You’re my husband. So if I don’t have them with you, I don’t have them.”
He says it so lightly, Mickey almost wants to hit him. “I’m fucking serious, man.”
“Mickey,” the heaviness finally arrives in Ian’s tone. “If this was a dealbreaker for me, do you think I’d have brought it up for the first time 45 minutes before the ceremony on our fucking wedding day? If the choice is having you or having kids, then it’s you.”
Well. That was good to know. “And you’re ok with that?”
Ian frowns, picking a piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. “I’ve always known that it’ll be kinda complicated for me to have children. It’s not like I’m gonna accidentally knock you up. Plus, being bipolar and an ex-con isn’t exactly in my favour for adoption. It might never happen for reasons that have nothing to do with you not being sure. That’s just one of the million things I gotta accept about my life, you know?”
“You’re being pretty blase about this.”
Ian looks to be considering that, twisting his mouth as he thinks. “I guess… I don’t think just wanting kids is the best reason to have them.”
Mickey snorts. “Sure beats the alternative.”
“Yeah. I mean, I definitely don’t think anyone should be having kids they don’t want,” he says it like this specific thing hasn’t happened to Mickey. Just side-steps Yev entirely. They almost always do. “For the kid’s sake, you know? I just mean… If we want kids, it’ll involve other people. And there’s a pretty good chance it’ll be really hard. I try not to get attached to it, because there’s a million reasons it might not happen. So I want kids, but I don’t need them to be happy. Probably gonna have a million nieces and nephews, anyway." He reaches down and stubs out his smoke on the edge of the table. “Here’s what I think about, though. I can imagine seeing some kid who is stuck in the system, who’s like, little Mickey Milkovich. Useless parents, never caught a break.” he nudges Mickey’s shoulder with his. “Already thinks he’s fucked for life. And I’d think that’s my kid .”
Mickey feels his face heat. “You don’t want a little Mickey Milkovich. Believe me.”
“Mmm. I do, though. I do. We know what it’s like to grow up here and we both been in the fucking system. And I think you’d be a great dad. When you’re ready, and if you want it. Fuck, we could both do better than our fathers.”
“That is a low bar,” Mickey laughs in spite of himself. “You just set that bar underground.”
“Foster care’s kinda a low bar, too. Sometimes.” Ian leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t want to make it sound like I have some rescue fantasy -- though, definitely that’s a thing with me. It’s more like… If I felt like there was someone who belonged with us. Someone we’d be good for, who’d be good for us, too? Then yeah. I’d want that.”
“Are you suggesting a kid or polygamy?”
Ian laughs, shaking his head. “I’m definitely talking about kids, Mick. Our kids.”
Gallagher has a way of putting things sometimes. And Mickey realizes his stomach has unclenched as they’ve been talking. Though maybe that was the cigarette. He’s second one is almost down to the filter, so he tosses it into the grass.
“I just hate the fucking idea of taking all my shit out on some poor kid. Because that’s what my family was like. We were all just lined up to take my dad’s shit, over and over again. Good times, bad times, it was just more of Terry’s Terrible Torture Hour. With brief intermissions when he was locked up.”
“Your dad is next level shitty, Mickey,” there’s finally an edge to Ian’s voice. “No, I take that back. Frank is next level shitty. Your dad would get cut from a horror movie for being too sadistic. You’re not gonna do that to someone.” Ian taps Mickey’s hand with his finger tips, leaning over like he’s sharing a secret. “Look, here’s the thing about Little Mickey Milkovich. No one gets him. No one is patient and no one is looking below the surface. But you would. You’d know he was hurt and scared. You’d know how to talk to him.”
A smile tugs at the corner of Mickey’s mouth. “What about little Ian Gallagher?”
“Oh, we are NEVER going to get a little Ian Gallagher. That kid will be in demand.”
“You’re such an asshole. Jesus.” Mickey lets himself lean into Ian a bit. Press against his warmth and soak in the lack of judgement he was expecting. Still feels like there’s a rock in his gut, though. “I shouldn’t have fucking yelled. I feel like shit.”
“Yeah,” Ian is resigned in his agreement. “That’s a whole fucking thing, though.”
“What is?”
“Just… Look. If you went to a shrink and told them about your life they’d tell you that there is a diagnosis for why you don’t like loud noises and people sneaking up on you, ok? It would probably have a bunch of letters in it.”
Mickey has been through enough correctional facilities to have heard the term PTSD specifically tossed his way. Never really heard a lot of solutions for it, though.
“Look,” Ian groans, sitting up. “The thing you learn when you’re severely mentally ill is that mental illness isn’t that special. I mean, mine is a little bit. Not to brag, but I am particularly mentally ill.” Ian says this with a little flourish. It’s something he rarely does, so Mickey knows he’s trying hard to keep this light.
“You saying I have some catching up to do?”
“I’m saying most people have something. With your childhood, if you didn’t get jumpy like this, it would probably mean you could be diagnosed with something a lot worse. And I’d be a fucking hypocrite if I held your shit against you.” Ian toes at the bench a moment. Draws in his breath. He’s clearly gearing up for something and Mickey clenches a fist in anticipation. “The thing is, you don’t like this. Like, you don’t enjoy the fallout. You’re fucking miserable right now. So. if you wanted to try and do something about it, I just want you to know… I think you should do it so you don’t have to feel like this. Guilty and shit. But I don’t think you’re a fucking monster or anything. And I don’t think you scarred Franny for life.” He looks up finally and meets Mickey’s eyes. “I just hate that you feel like this over something you learned to do to protect yourself.”
“You think THAT’S what that was? Cause it doesn’t fucking feel that way.”
“Believe me, when you nearly clock me because you didn’t expect me to be some place? It feels like you’re protecting yourself.” Ian’s mouth twitches dangerously. It’s a sure sign some big feelings are about to come up. Mickey instantly wants to bolt, but is held fast to his spot out of the bottomless curiosity that will always make him want to know what Ian thinks. “I know you hate this shit, Mickey. But we wouldn’t be together if I thought you were too fucked up to function. I’ve seen how you’ve changed since we’ve been together, and I know you are nothing like the people who raised you. I know what you’ve been able to do on your own, too. And if you want to work on it some more, just so that you don’t have to deal with shit like this at all, then I think you’d do great. For real.”
Mickey could use another fucking cigarette. Something to do with his hands. But fuck it -- he reaches out and takes Ian’s hand in his. Laces their fingers together. They sit like that for a bit. Just silently together, with the light wind and relative quiet. Finally, Mickey clears his throat.
“Your sister’s fucking pissed at me.”
“My sister is pissed at everyone. You want a list of the things Debbie’s done that are more fucked up than yelling at a kid for making too much noise?”
“I mean, not sure it’s gonna matter. People are intense about their kids.”
“I’ll handle it. You take it up with Franny.” Ian catches his eye. “Look, you know what I don’t remember happening even one time, my whole childhood? I don’t remember my parents apologizing or telling me they were wrong. Not in a way that counts, you know? Not in a way where I really felt like they were sorry. So maybe just tell her you fucked up -- with better words than that -- and you shouldn’t have yelled. But, for real, no bouncing fucking tennis balls off the dyer! We need that thing.”
“You think that will work?”
“Yeah.” He wags his head back and forth. “We may need to take her for ice cream or something, too.”
“Seriously?”
“I mean, I want her to feel safe and I want you to feel like she doesn’t hate you. Ice cream is a pretty quick way to get from here to there.”
“Isn’t that basically encouraging her to throw tennis balls against the dryer?”
Ian shakes his head. “Franny’s big downfall in life is going to be wanting to make people happy.”
“Hmm. Sound like anyone you know?”
“Fuck you,” Ian says, with no heat. He drops Mickey’s hand and stands up on the bench seat, stretching. “She’s pretty obsessed with being a good girl. Probably why she cried. I’m not worried about spoiling her that way.”
“It’s like 60 degrees. Not exactly ice cream weather.”
“Oh, she will NOT care.” Ian jumps down to the ground and reaches his hand back for MIckey to take. Guess they’re going home. “You gonna be ok with Sandy?”
Ugh.
“Fucking low blow,” he mutters. “But yeah.”
Ian smiles, with this sort of warm amusement that Mickey officially hates and also loves to see on his face. His husband slings an arm over his shoulder and they start to the walk back to the house.
They are just reaching the alley that runs behind the Gallagher house, when Mickey stops, ducking out from under Ian’s arm and turning to face him.
“What if i’m never ready? You thought about that?”
“I’m not gonna force you to be a Dad, Mickey. Not gonna punish you for it, either. We’ll just deal.”
“You’ll fucking resent it.”
Ian sighs. He determinedly holds Mickey’s gaze. “You gonna resent me in 15 years? If the shit in my head means your life doesn’t look exactly like you want it to?”
Mickey knows Ian’s asking that question because he’s confident of the answer. Which is ‘of fucking course not’. This is a new trick of his -- turning Mickey’s doubt back on him. Pointing out, over and over again, that Ian is as in this as Mickey is. It’s starting to sink in.
“I’ll maybe look into it,” he clears his throat, which feels tight. “The PTSD shit. Just see if it makes sense. Or if there’s, I don’t know. Something I can do.”
Ian’s got that soft, fond smile back. Fucker. “You’re doing pretty good already.”
“If you say so.” Mickey starts down the alley. He can maybe see it. The way Ian talks about it. It’s not a Gerber commercial, but it makes sense to him. And the weird thing is, he likes being around Ian when there are kids around. He likes Ian’s ease and he likes how calm it makes him feel. “I know you’ll be a great dad. If we do it.”
“Thanks.” They’re nearly at the back gate. “You ready for this?”
He can already see Sandy is sitting out on the back stoop. She sees them and stands up, hair all wild, leather jacket open. She’s got that look. That unsteady Guilty Milkovich look.
“Yeah,” Mickey sighs. “Bring it on.”