#nobody tell him that his nose and paws have little heart shaped freckles on them he'll die of embarassment | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

unbridgeabledistances · 3 years

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hi<3 okay i am finally writing the new kotss chapter, and once again here is a lil contemplative snippet of tumblr-drabble length as a preview for when i write the whole thing in a day or two!😌💜 (mostly bc i am feeling sleepy and sappy this morning about mickey’s growth and just. cannot get over it.)

hope u enjoy<3

He fucking loved the dog, okay?

When they were first waiting in that overly-bright room in the dog rescue center (or whatever the fuck it was called) with Ian sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, and Mickey had seen the bundle of fur with its paws hitting the ground, a scrawny puppy with a swollen belly and a protruding ribcage— he’d immediately known he was in trouble.

First, because there was no fucking way that Ian was going to let them leave this place without it, since he practically made heart-eyes the second the puppy stumbled its way over to him— and second, because Mickey was absolutely, totally sure that he was going to fuck this up. Even reading the fucking description on the website on Ian’s phone screen, “comes from a troubled past and needs a loving home,” made something twist in his gut— because how the fuck was Mickey supposed to provide something like that?

Mickey didn’t take care of shit like this, like fragile puppies or babies or anything he could mess up— and he especially didn’t let in anything more than he could handle losing, anything soft and helpless and innocent that he couldn’t let slip between his fingers on his own accord. He’d learned that shit early, when whatever whispers and soft traces of touches on his cheeks were ripped away by the pry of Terry’s calloused hands— when one day, when he was fifteen, he and Mandy and everyone else didn’t have a mom anymore. Losing his mom, losing his family after years on the road, even losing fucking Terry those now months ago; all of that shit compounded and pressed on the walls of his ribcage in a way that Mickey himself didn’t really understand, and apparently was oozing out of him in a fucking dog shelter as he stood there frozen, in the face of a helpless frame on wobbly legs with silky grey fur.

For some reason, even though he and Ian had been talking about the dog in the abstract for days now, something about seeing the dog scared him shitless— because taking care of shit was objectively scary, and Mickey was shit out of practice with it. He’d never been good, comfortable, at holding something fragile in his hands, something that he could mess up in a second with a slip of judgement. Mickey was great at getting shit done, but with something like this— well, honestly, he wasn’t sure if he trusted himself enough, to not make those split-second choices that Terry made, the ones that left cigarette burns on his sides and snapped his jaw out of place and left him with so many aching wounds that only became more dark and cavernous through the years.

I’m gonna fuck this up.

What if he got too mad and kicked the dog, what if he fed it the wrong shit and it withered away and became more frail than it already was, what if it ran away or got hit by a car or got fucking shot by a stray bullet in a shitty neighborhood? It felt scary to choose to care about something this fragile, to sign up for the loss and the ripping ache that would follow if Mickey overreacted or fucked something up or made a slip-second misstep. In the Milkovich family, loving was a liability— a promise that someone you cared about could get pummeled and bloodied and beaten in front of you, could get handcuffed and dragged upstate for months or years in the blink of an eye. When Mickey was fifteen, scratching “FUCK LOVE” and “STAY THE FUCK OUT” signs on pieces of cardboard with Sharpies he’d stolen from the dollar store, he’d made a promise to himself to harden himself against that weakness— against that loss.

And then, of course, freckle-faced chicken-legged Ian Gallagher showed up at his doorstep anyways.

So he’d let himself love Gallagher—and eventually he’d let himself love Franny after she plopped herself in his lap one day, wearing a princess tiara talking a mile a minute about monster trucks; and he didn’t even mind hanging out with Liam once in a while on those late nights in the Gallagher house, when Ian would be working a double shift and he and Liam flopped on opposite sides of the couch, watching shitty cartoons in a comfortable silence as the glow from the TV screen flickered on their faces.

But none of that felt like a choice—all of those people, those warm bodies to love, just fell into Mickey’s lap; so it wasn’t Mickey’s fault, really, if shit hit the fan. It wasn’t like he made the choice to love them in the first place— it just happened.

But adopting a dog (or having a fucking kid, like he knew Ian wanted)— that was a choice. That was telling something, someone, that you were ready to take care of them; that you were ready to lose everything when they inevitably got taken away, that you were ready to pour all of your fucked-up bullshit into someone and hope that you weren’t the reason why they turned out screwed up. It just seemed like too much; and in the face of the tiny fucking furball that Ian was cooing over as he sat cross-legged, Mickey’s immediate impulse was to keep his distance and tether himself into the linoleum floor miles away.

But of course Ian had done that fucking thing only he had the power to do, and melted whatever iron walls Mickey had soldered into place with a gentle Mick, d’you wanna pet her?— and of course the fucking dog had to nuzzle her goddamn tiny wet nose into Mickey’s hand, and give a too-trusting lick to his palm as she rolled over onto her back, exposing her vulnerable belly even after whatever fucking dog-fight bullshit she’d been through— and immediately Mickey couldn’t couldn’t see a timeline in which they didn’t wrap this fucking mutt up in a soft towel and take her home to the dog bed in their apartment and get her healthy on gourmet fucking dog food from a monogrammed tin bowl.

So even though it drove him fucking crazy that she was so fucking skinny, and the entire first night when she’d slept curled on the bed he kept waking up and googling the best dog foods and exercise regimens and refilling her water bowl at the kitchen sink like an obsessed fucking maniac— he really couldn’t help it.

Against every instinct, he’d chosen to love when he didn’t have to— and he was starting the realize that maybe that shit wasn’t a weakness.

“So, I hear you guys’ve got a new mascot.”

Tommy was ambling in the front door, right on the dot of their 2 P.M. opening time, with Kermit skittishly following a few paces behind him.

Ian rolled his eyes from behind the bar when he thought Mickey wasn’t looking (fucking traitor).

“Yeah, I think the whole neighborhood knows by now. Someone’s been a little too eager with the dog photos.”

Which— fuck that. So what if he fucking posted a few pictures of Baz to the mostly-defunct Alibi Facebook page that Kev had given them the login info to, some of which featured Baz wearing Mickey’s sunglasses when they were partway through a walk? Nobody needed to know that Mickey alone was behind that shit— Ian liked taking dog photos too, even though they were never as good as Mickey’s, and mostly just featured the moments Mickey was passed out on the couch with Baz sleeping on his chest.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Ian grinned and turned towards Mickey. “Nothin.’ Just nice to see that you’re growing into the whole dog parent thing. Though it is kind of turning into a stage mom thing.”

Mickey furrowed his brows. “Fuck you. The customers love her. It’s good for business.”

Ian held up his hands in surrender, still smirking—which just cause Mickey to shove him gently in his sternum.

“It’s not my fault Baz is the prettiest pit on the fucking Southside.”

In the corner of the bar, Baz was sitting on her cushion that they’d bought at a boujee pet store down the road, to keep downstairs at the Alibi so they could keep her other dog bed upstairs— and when Tommy and Kermit came into the room her ears immediately lifted, her tail twitching excitedly at the new faces. Tommy just gave a wary side-eyed glance to the dog pillow before plopping himself onto his usual stool, but Kermit nervously crouched beside the cushion and gave Baz’s chin a scratch.

“Ey! Paws off the princess until you drop some money on a beer, Kermit. I didn’t haul myself down to the empty bar on a Monday afternoon to watch you pet my fucking dog.”

Kermit shuffled to his usual seat beside Tommy at the end of the bar. “She’s cute. I didn’t realize pit bulls could be so scrawny.”

Baz was already filling out fast in the few days she’d been living with them; but it was true that she was still small and wiry for her age. Mickey made sure they got some sort of fresh dog food shit from the pet store that they had to keep in the refrigerator (even though Ian insisted kibble was fine, like a fucking cheapskate) to get her strength up, and he also got a bunch of fucking vitamins, like salmon oil and shit to make sure her coat was shiny—and yes, okay, maybe he also bought her a badass collar with spikes on it, and maybe he also dropped money on one of those engraved pet tags in the shape of a skull and crossbones that said “Bazooka Gallagher-Milkovich” on it with the Alibi’s address on it. He couldn’t fucking help it; they had a steady stream of cash coming in from crowded nights, they were planning on doing Ian’s karaoke shit once a month, and Mickey felt like they could afford to spend money on shit like this—like they could afford to do this right. And because of Mickey’s doting, even though Ian had started to take Baz for runs in the morning, it was no secret that she liked Mickey ever-so-slightly more than Ian; when they were laying in bed at night Baz would always hop up and curl into Mickey’s side and leave inches between her and Ian, causing a surprised chuckle to escape Mickey’s lips the first time it happened as he scratched behind her ears. Ian just stared at him, with some sappy fucking smile on his face.

“The fuck’re you looking at?”

“Nothing. Just glad we took her home.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, but felt a smile creeping onto his lips despite himself. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And I’m definitely not jealous of a dog right now.”

It was later in the evening and the bar was pretty empty, a standard for a Monday night— Mickey had been trying to train Baz to stay on her cushion now that she’d learned how to sit and lay down on command; much to the amusement of Tommy and Kermit, who kept fucking distracting her. If Mickey had his way, he’d train Baz to bark at Kermit whenever he said something stupid (the guy just got on his fucking nerves, what could he say)—but of course Baz had other plans once she realized Kermit was the one of the pair who would pet her, and kept nuzzling her head onto Kermit’s thigh and thumping her tail on the floor.

“I thought pit bulls were supposed to be vicious.”

“Fuck you, Kermit. That’s fucking… dog racist, or some shit.”

Kermit just meekly looked down at his half-empty beer glass, as Ian came in the front door from where he was bringing in the sandwich board from the curb, not expecting any more customers for the night. He reached down to ruffle Baz’s fur along the way.

“How’s our girl doing?”

“Pretty good. Once these assholes get out of here we can called it a night.”

Tommy scoffed at that. “Milkovich, we’re some of your most loyal customers— hell, we’re your only loyal customers. I think we deserve more than insults.”

“Oh yeah? You gonna go drink the day away somewhere else?”

Tommy faltered for a moment, and raised an eyebrow. “Touche.”

“Alright, bozos. Time to pack up. No one else is coming in tonight, we’ll see you tomorrow. Me and Ian have better shit to do.”

Tommy drained the last of his beer, placing a wad of one-dollar bills on the countertop and giving an exaggerated salute. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”

When they left the bar and the doors were locked, Ian’s shoulders started to shake with laughter. “Jesus. I never thought I’d be at a point in my life when I’m dependent on the consistent generosity of Tommy and Kermit, but here I am.”

“More like consistent alcoholism.”

Ian smirked, then flopped to sit on a barstool opposite the countertop from Mickey, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Are you fine taking Baz out? I’m kinda tired, wanna get a start on dinner.”

“Yeah, man. Works for me.”

They’d been living with each other in the Gallagher house for months, sure, but they were still new at doing this— at only accounting for each other’s schedules, at divvying up tasks like walking the dog and cooking dinner and doing fucking dishes rather than just coasting on someone like Debbie getting them by. Things were different now— things were settled and quiet, in a way that still made Mickey like he had to rub his eyes extra hard to clear them in the still, dark mornings in the apartment, like he wasn’t convinced this shit was real.

After dinner they sat cross-legged on their bed, watching a movie on Ian’s old beat-up laptop with Baz sitting between them and chewing on one of her toys that squeaked loudly every few seconds (this one was a stuffed animal in the shape of a police officer, because in Mickey’s own words at the pet store, “ACAB motherfucker”)— and later that night, wrapped in the smell of laundry soap on clean sheets and dog shampoo, Mickey slept easily.

Maybe this was something he could trust himself to hold on to.

#catch me laying in bed & ignoring my exams & instead writing This #ily all i hope u are having good thursdays<3 #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #bazooka gallagher milkovich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #ixm

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