#also the image of Mickey walking into the shelter with the dog and just being like NOPE

[mickeym4ndy]

Post-canon headcanon that the first time Ian has to go for a long weekend away without Mickey (brothers trip or something) he’s anxious to get home because Mickey’s been a bit ~~weird~~ on the phone while Ian’s been away, ending the phone calls too quickly and stuff.

And then he gets home to his husband sitting too still on the couch and Ian’s like “what did u do this weekend” “……nothing…” and Ian knows immediately something’s up and just when he’s about to ask more he hears barking from another room. And mickeys just like 😳

And then all of a sudden Ian’s being jumped on by a giant excited ball of fur and he’s just like “… oh what did u do”

And mickeys just like “she was sleeping under the tracks Ian I couldn’t just leave her there it’s cold and she was hungry look at her she clearly hasn’t been eating properly! And u should’ve seen the shelter nearby it was miserable she would’ve hated it there!”

And Ian knows that right now is not a good time because they’re expanding the business and there’s so much going on and they’re already so busy… but he takes one look at his husbands pleading face and knows that this dog is not going anywhere

And at first Ian’s like fine but ur taking care of her and she sleeps in a crate “but Ian-” “she’s not sleeping in the bed Mickey”

BUT then he becomes the epitome of ‘dad and the dog he didn’t want’ and he insists on buying her the expensive name brand food because “she doesn’t like the other stuff mick it upsets her stomach” and the expensive dog shampoo bc “she’s more comfortable when we use this stuff mick” even tho mickeys like she was sleeping on the streets and eating trash when I found her but ok

Then Mickey gets home late one night after helping Sandy with something to find his husband already in bed and Mickeys side of the bed is taken up by some familiar fur. Mickey laughs as he gets ready for bed “she’s not sleeping in the bed Mickey” he mocks

“shut up. get in here” Ian mumbles sleepily and Mickey just laughs as he slots himself into bed between his husband and the dog

#gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #shameless #they also give the dog some badass name like Harley or bazooka or smthn #it’s also an absolute mutt like a mix of about 6 breeds that they aren’t 100% sure of #and they love the little mongrel sooooo much #about a year later Mickey goes away for some week long security expo thing and he gets back to Ian having done the exact same thing again #headcanon #galladads but dog edition #also Mickey basically brings her home bc he’s lonely in the apartment without Ian #ianxmickey #ian x mickey #also the image of Mickey walking into the shelter with the dog and just being like NOPE #and walking right out #gallavich headcanon

[arrowflier]

Fic prompt: Backstory on the Gallagher family photos on the mantle.

Thanks to @grumpymickmilk and @whaticameherefor for finding me scenes that showed them. I'm not sure that the one is of Fiona but I'm going with it. Also I'm sorry these paragraphs are so long 😅.

It felt weird, to be leaving the house after so long.

Ian hadn’t always been happy there, but it was still home. It had been home when he was a closeted gay kid sleeping with his boss for want of options and attention, when he was struggled with relationship and self-worth and needed to feel like he belonged. It was the home he came back to after the army, the home that took him back in when he lost himself. When he lost Mickey, Caleb, Trevor. Mickey again.

It was the home where he watched his siblings grow up, go on their own journeys, and come back themselves with new family in tow. They had all left, at one point or another, but this house had always been where they returned.

Until now.

Walking through the house one last time, Ian trailed his hands along everything he could touch, memorizing the feel of it under his fingers. His whole life, it had all been here like this, at his fingertips if he just reached out.

The worn sofa, with its handmade blanket. The scratched and burned table, where they ate meals together in front of the television and stubbed out shared cigarettes after dessert. The broken fireplace, where Liam used to huddle when they didn’t watch him close enough.

Ian paused as he reached the mantelpiece. Their pictures were still there, right where they had left them—the real estate agent said it was good for buyers to see that the house held happy memories. Like they didn’t all know that the house wouldn’t survive the sale intact.

Ian let himself linger there, over the still images of their past.

First and largest was Lip, of course. Their best hope at redemption, their golden goose. So proud the day he graduated the 6th grade, so eager to pose with his fake diploma as Monica gushed over his accomplishments. Lip, the smart one, the one that was going places, all geared up in academic regalia that he would never see the like of again. Those young eyes were so full of intelligence, so full of hope.

It would be dashed soon enough when Monica left, and with everything that came after. Lip would no longer find happiness in that type of accomplishment, not once it became all he had. But Ian thought that if the little boy in the picture could see Lip now, with Tami and Fred and maybe another baby on the way, he wouldn’t think things had turned out so bad.

Then came Liam. Little baby Liam in a small square frame, wearing an old sweater that had found it’s way onto the backs of three Gallagher boys before him. Monica had already been gone, when that one was taken. She hadn’t been there to fawn over him the way she had over Lip years before. No, Fiona had done that—had gotten him dressed up, borrowed a camera from a girl at work, and snapped enough pictures of his chubby face to cover the entire wall. They could only afford to get one printed.

Liam didn’t look like that little boy anymore. He didn’t smile as much, or as widely. His eyes were more serious now, more searching. But he had grown up well for all his struggles, Ian thought. Grown up strong and smart and sensitive, in a way none of the rest of them had quite managed to balance. You’d never know that he had grown up without his parents, overdosed on drugs as a child, spent so much time following Frank around to scams and homeless shelters and who knows where else. Not from that picture on the mantle, and not if you saw his face today.

Debbie was next. Debbie with her favorite pigtails, red hair unkempt but bright and beautiful. She hadn’t thought she was beautiful, back then, Ian knew. She had taken one look at that school picture and turned her face away, and it took Fiona brushing her hair back and pressing a kiss to her head to convince her that it was worth saving. Fiona had found the biggest frame she could and put Debbie’s face front and center on the mantel, just to show how much she loved it.

Ian wasn’t sure that Debbie had ever really recovered from the feelings it first evoked, though, no matter how much they all supported her. She had gone on to mimic all the girls that used to make fun of her, taking more pride in her appearance than her character for quite some time. It was better now, now that she had Franny, but Ian still caught her looking in the mirror a little too long sometimes, like she wanted to change what she saw. Ian was afraid of the way she forced Franny into dresses and fancy things, afraid that she didn’t even realize what she was doing. He loved Debbie, but he hoped Franny grew up more like the little girl in pigtails and less like the hot convict version of his sister that attached herself to anyone who complimented her.

Carl’s was the only picture that was a little bit different. His school photos always came back unusable, and getting him dressed up was an exercise in futility even now. But Frank—fucking Frank, of all people—had managed to get a decent shot one summer as Carl beamed at him from the bottom of the patio steps, lips blue from a popsicle that Lip had stolen for him from the corner store.

Carl always had been his own person, Ian reflected. He had changed a lot over the years, going from pyromaniac trouble-maker to drug pusher to cop, but that had always stayed the same. Whatever Carl did, from eating a popsicle with his whole face to caring for dying dogs in their basement, from shooting illegal guns in their backyard to being one of the least violent cops on the beat, he did it his own way. Ian had always admired that about his little brother.

Fiona’s picture was by far the oldest. From a time Ian didn’t really remember, when she still smiled. He had asked her once whether Monica or Frank had taken it, but she had gotten quiet. Lip was the one who told him, later, that neither of them had been around that day. That Lip had found Monica’s camera and started clicking the shutter, and happened to get a few good ones.

Wherever Fiona was now, Ian hoped she was smiling again. She deserved to, after everything. Everything she had done for them, everything she had put aside for herself to do it. Maybe there was someone else taking her picture now, someone that made her happy, someone that made it possible for her to think of good memories and not bad. He’d see her again someday, he was certain, and she should look as young and carefree as she always should have been.

Ian himself was last. The last picture, tilted toward the others like he was watching them, just a boy in Lip’s old hand-me-downs looking out past the camera toward his family. That day, he remembered. Monica had wanted a picture so badly, but Frank barely let them out of his sight. Looking back, Ian figured there was more to it than he thought back then, when he idolized his mother and already felt little toward his father.

Well, not his father, not really. Biological or chosen. Seeing himself now, Ian wondered how he hadn’t realized sooner that he was the odd one out among them, with his height and his freckles and his hair. He was quieter than the rest, then, easier, more accepting.

That hadn’t lasted very long.

“Hey, you ready?” a voice came from the open front door, and Ian looked over to see Mickey standing there. The sun at his back cast him in hazy yellow light, like a dream sent to shake Ian from his memories.

Ian looked back to the pictures, so carefully chosen and arranged. An image of what their lives had been. Then he looked at Mickey, and his dark hair, and his soft smile. The smile that was reflected in the picture they had over the fireplace back home, the one of them standing together at their wedding. A wedding that the younger Ian in that staged photo would never have imagined for himself, with a boy he barely knew existed yet, in a world where he could be loud and happy and loved by more than his siblings.

He smiled, and took a step toward the door.

“I’m ready, Mick,” Ian said. And he left it all behind.

#daily speedwrite #fanfic #gallagher family #ian gallagher #gen #shameless

[unbridgeabledistances]

hello! <3 once again will not have a new full-chapter update of ✨ian and mickey take over the alibi✨ fic for a day or two, but wanted to post this little fluffy preview featuring the first appearance of our girl bazooka gallagher-milkovich!!! hope u enjoy:’)

—

“Hey, Mick. C’mere. Look at this one.”

Mickey glanced up from where he was elbow-deep in a series of sudsy dishes in their too-small kitchen sink. Once again Ian had made some sort of pasta dish for dinner, with tomatoes and basil and some fancy fresh mozzarella (that he was surprised the little dingy grocery store on the corner even carried)— and even though Mickey grumbled about “fucking gourmet bullshit” and “I’m fine with ramen, man,” he’d still helped himself to multiple scoops of second servings while they’d eaten their first meal at the little circular table from Ikea they’d assembled earlier that afternoon.

Now Mickey was on dish duty— Ian was trying to get the two of them to divvy up household shit equitably, since the usual rule at the Gallagher house was “leave dishes in the sink until they start to smell, then blame someone else for them”; and Ian was leaning back in his chair at the table, scrolling through pictures of various dogs on the websites of the local shelters— when one listing caught his attention.

Pit Bull Puppies, Chicago area NEED HOMES FAST, 8 months old

He clicked on the link—there were a series of images of dogs from the same litter, most of them already claimed. Ian scrolled to the last available listing, holding up his phone for Mickey to see as Mickey strode towards the table, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“Look, she’s got blue eyes. You guys match.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Stop being soft. Gimme your fucking phone.”

This friendly pittie comes from a troubled past and needs a loving home. She was found in a barn outside the city that is well-known for illegal dog fighting along with her brothers and sisters. She isn’t trained yet, and needs someone patient to give her a loving and active environment. She’s a sweetheart, and because she isn’t trained we would love for her new family to give her a name!

Ian saw a crease form between Mickey’s brows as he read the listing. “Sounds like a lot of fuckin’ work.”

Ian could sense Mickey’s hesitation, his gut impulse to immediately put a barrier between himself and this new, fragile thing to take care of, especially after their conversation the other night— but beyond that, he could also see that Mickey didn’t even believe himself as he said it. It was an impulse response, for Mickey, to immediately put up walls— and it was getting easier and easier for Mickey himself to be the one to tear them down.

“Yeah, but it’ll be fun. We can go see her if you want, decide if we think she’s a good fit.”

Mickey swallowed, his eyes still fixated on the picture on the phone screen. “Yeah, but it’s got, like… y’know. Trauma and shit. What if we fuck it up even more?”

Ian smiled. “We won’t fuck her up, Mick. We’ll give her a loving home with two dads and a shit ton of dog toys.”

Ian saw the gentle worry creeping into Mickey’s eyes at the word “dads”—and, okay, maybe that was too soon. Mickey had said he’d be fine getting a dog, and was excited about it the whole time they’d been furniture shopping—but in a weird way this did feel like a trial run for a kid, in a way they were both hyperaware of. There was so much there—this was Mickey’s first real try of taking care of someone that was totally dependent on him, after years of shutting out and pressing down those dark chapters of unwanted fatherhood.

Except it wasn’t just Mickey taking this on; it was both of them, together. Ian tried to show him that, as he reached a hand out to press against Mickey’s lower spine in a grounding touch, pulling him closer.

“Hey. Wanna just visit, to see if we click with her? It’s just a fucking dog, and an excuse to see some adorable puppies.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, then pursed his lips. He stared at the picture again. “Yeah, whatever.”

**

“Thank you so much for coming by—this sweetheart is the last of the litter, I’m so glad you both saw the listing so quickly!”

The dog shelter employee, a caricature of a kind-faced middle-aged midwestern woman wearing a cardigan and khakis, led them through the well-lit hallways, turning them into room filled with scattered dog toys and two folding chairs.

“This is our little meet and greet area, we’ll bring her in just a moment.” She shut the door behind her, leaving Ian and Mickey in the mostly-empty room.

Mickey’s eyes darted around curiously. “This doesn’t look like a fucking dog shelter, man. It looks like a preschool.”

Ian smirked, settling into one of the chairs while Mickey remained standing. “It’s a dog rescue center, I guess. Probably run by lots of people who are way too into the dog thing.”

Mickey shrugged, capturing his lip between his teeth contemplatively. “Whatever. And they’ll just let us take it home? If we want it?”

“Yeah.”

Just then the door creaked open—and in came the shelter worker once more, carrying a bundle of grey wrapped in a worn towel. She placed the puppy down on the floor.

“Like the listing said, she doesn’t have a name yet—but here’s our girl!”

The puppy rose to stand on her four legs— a little grey pit bull, with ice-blue eyes and a too-skinny frame, the lines of her ribcage jutting out through her thin fur. She was tiny—definitely smaller than Ian had realized from the pictures, and definitely smaller than an 8-month-old pit bull should be based on the bits of googling he’d done on the L ride over.

The puppy stretched her limbs out long, then stumbled over her too-big feet slightly to race towards one of the dog toys in the corner of the room. Once she captured it in her mouth she circled back contentedly and flopped down on the floor in the middle of the room, starting to chew on the corner of the bone sleepily.  

“She’s so little.” Ian crouched on the ground— and he could tell he was doing that little baby-voice thing he always did, where his voice went up ten pitches and went all fuzzy around the edges that Mickey always gave him shit for, but in this moment he didn’t particularly care.

“Hey there, girl. You’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

Ian could tell Mickey was rolling his eyes behind him. He reached out a hand to pet the puppy’s fur—it was soft, velvety and warm. Slowly, the dog inched closer and wriggled herself to sit pressed against Ian’s lap, letting the bone fall out from the corner of her mouth and nestling her chin to rest on Ian’s upper thigh.

“She’s a little sleepy,” the shelter worker added. “She’s been pretty mellow since we received her, but we think with some good nutrition and some exercise she’ll have loads of energy. It’s just a matter of getting her back into good health.”

The scrawny puppy was sleeping now, her chin still tilted on Ian’s leg and her eyelids drooping shut.

“Mick, d’you wanna pet her? Her fur is so soft, it’s ridiculous.”

Mickey bit his lip again, staring at the scene from where he was still standing a safe distance away, a few paces behind where Ian was perched on the floor.

“Yeah, guess so.”

He kneeled beside Ian, tentatively reaching a hand out to stroke the dog’s head— almost like he was scared he’d hurt her, like he was scared he’d do something wrong. The corner of Mickey’s mouth ticked upwards a bit at the contact with the puppy’s soft fur— and then he rubbed her head again, giving her a gentle pat. The puppy’s eyelids lazily opened, her tail starting to sweep side to side against the linoleum floor.

“Uh. Hey there.” Mickey chuckled uncomfortably, but his uneasiness was starting to melt away. “Do I gotta, like, talk to it?”

Ian grinned. “You can do whatever you want.”

Mickey ran scratches against the dog’s scalp, then down her sides.

“She’s kinda skinny. I can feel her fucking ribcage.”

Responding to the touch, the puppy lazily rolled over onto her back, exposing her tummy to welcome belly-rubs. Mickey grinned, and reached out to scratch at the puppy’s tummy.

“You’re a pretty girl, aren’t you? That’s right. Yes, you are. Such a good girl.”

Ian smirked—and filed Mickey’s puppy-talk away in his mind as something to make fun of him for later; but not right now, when Mickey was still learning to do this, when the defensiveness and self-judgement had only just drained from his system and he was still second-guessing his every move.

The puppy nudged her wet nose into Mickey’s hand and licked at his palm; and Mickey laughed, almost jolting in surprise. His eyes crinkled as he looked over at Ian.

“This is the friendliest fucking dog I’ve ever met, man.”

Ian felt his lips curve into a smile. Of course Mickey hadn’t met dogs that were this bubbly and friendly; half the dogs he’d had exposure to were chained in Southside front yards, trained to rip each other’s throats out and bark viciously at people walking by. Ian hadn’t really been near many dogs either; but seeing his husband immediately melt in the presence of a puppy, the innocence and awe seemingly radiating off of him, made something warm pool in his stomach.

“Yeah, she’s pretty special.” Ian reached a hand out to try and pet at the puppy’s head, and she turned her neck to nip at Ian’s wrist with her pointy puppy teeth.

“There’s some of that feisty energy we’ve been hoping for.” The shelter worker smiled knowingly. “Are you two interested in taking her home?”

Ian lifted his gaze from the squirmy puppy rolling on the ground between them to meet Mickey’s eyes.

“Mick?”

**

They called Debbie to pick them up from the shelter, since the logistics of taking a brand-new puppy on the L with them without a leash or collar seemed like too much to handle, even if she would probably just sleep the entire time. Debbie had spread an old towel in the back next to Franny’s car seat and Ian plopped the puppy into the middle seat, opting to sit shotgun next to Debbie while Mickey kept Franny and the puppy company in the back.

They were almost back at the Alibi now, and Ian was half-listening to Debbie prattle on about what slobs her new roommates were, and how she had half a mind to U-Haul with Heidi— when he tuned in to Franny and Mickey’s conversation in the backseat, the puppy sleeping soundly between them.

“What d’you think, Little Red— what’s the best dog name you can think of?”

Ian noticed Franny furrowing her brows from where he could see her in the rearview mirror. “Hmmm. How about… Queen Justice? That’s the name of my favorite wrestler. And the name I gave the fish Mommy got me.”

Mickey chuckled, and Ian raised an eyebrow at Debbie, cutting her monologue off mid-sentence. “Wait, you got Franny a fish?”

Debbie sighed. “Yeah. I felt bad about the move, and Monica and Frank never gave us shit like that when we were little. Figured I’d try to be a good mom or whatever.”

Ian smiled, reaching out to softly punch her in the upper arm. “That’s actually kinda cool, Debs.”

In the backseat, Franny was still thinking out loud.

“We have to name her after something you like, Uncle Mickey. That’s what Mommy told me about naming Queen Justice. What are your favorite things?”

Ian twisted in his seat to turn towards Franny and join the conversation. “Probably beer and guns, but neither of those things make good dog names, Fran.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Here’s a fucking relationship quiz then, lover— what’s my favorite type of gun?”

Ian rolled his eyes, contorting even more in his seat to twist and face Mickey. “I don’t fucking know, Mick.”

“A bazooka, bitch.” Mickey ran his hand over the sleeping puppy’s silky fur, scratching behind her ears. “Bazooka Gallagher. Or Milkovich. Or whatever. That’s a pretty good fucking dog name if you ask me.”

Ian felt a smile creep onto his face. Bazooka. “That’s honestly kinda perfect.” He reached his arm into the backseat to reach at the puppy. “Hey there, Baz. You like your new name? You ready for us to take you home?”

Bazooka’s eyelids drifted open, her tail starting to drum against the back of the car seat in a reaction to all of the attention. Franny reached down from her car seat and gave Baz a little peck on the head, and immediately Baz started licking all over Franny’s face, making her squeal and laugh and wriggle in her car seat as Baz shifted to stand on the seat and leaned closer to Franny’s face.

“It tickles! Uncle Mickey, she’s licking me!”

“Allllright.” Mickey reached to scoop the puppy off of Franny, wrapping Bazooka back in the discarded towel on the carseat and holding her like a baby in his arms. He scratched at Baz’s head again, then smoothed down her fur.

“We’re gonna take you home real soon, Bazooka Gallagher-Milkovich.”

#xoxo love u all #have not been able to write much after the Events of this week but this happened to day and i was happy about it!!!!! #also i love that i am truly just writing about.... my own dog as a self-insert shameless character lolol #how did this happen #shameless #shameless fic #gallavich fic #gallavich fanfiction #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #debbie gallagher #franny gallagher #ian x mickey #ixm #bazooka gallagher milkovich #gallavich