#the way you can tell mickey is holding ian so gently.....

[sgtmickeyslaughter]

hi Gigi! how about number 2 for the prompt game?

Hi! If you had sent this ask yesterday morning, I would still be in a happy weekend mood and you might get a cute story about Mickey getting attacked by a swarm of bees on a picnic date or something, but unfortunately im answering this on my lunch break, so enjoy the emo vibes

2. Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.

The nightmares only started after Terry died. 

Before, Ian liked to joke that Mickey was a professional sleeper. He’d lay down and be sucked into a deep, dark unconsciousness within minutes. He was a peaceful sleeper, curled up on his side and breathing softly through his nose. 

On the rare nights when sleep was evading Ian for completely normal reasons, the way it had since he was a kid and stayed up all night worrying about how to tell Fiona he needed new shoes, he’d learned that just being in Mickey’s presence was like a melatonin ooze. He could wrap himself gently around Mickey’s plaint form and bury his face between Mickey’s shoulder blades, aligning his breathing with his boyfriend’s until sleep claimed him.

But the night they found Terry sitting pathetically with a bag over his head, Mickey fell asleep like normal but shot up and out of Ian’s hold after just a hour or so, miraculously not waking his sleeping husband. 

He’d huffed out uncertainly, reaching up to this own chest to feel his racing heartrate. His hands were shaking, and he could feel a headache coming on, so he got out of bed to splash some water on his face. 

Mickey got good at sneaking out of their bed without waking Ian, so good that it wasn’t until Spring was fully blooming and Ian was careening into a seasonal manic episode and they decided to see his doctor about the next day when Ian noticed at all. 

He was awake most of the night, mind racing beyond his usual anxiety, and counted a total of 5 times that Mickey woke up during the night. 

Sometime before dawn, Ian finally confronted him about it. 

“You’re not sleeping, are you?” 

Mickey shrugged evasively. 

“Is that why you’ve been so…” moody, sullen, miserable for the last month or so since you found Terry. 

“Could be” Mickey responded evasively, staring up at the ceiling. 

Ian leaned over and finally turned on their bedside lamp, silently admitting that neither of them were getting anymore sleep that night.

“What’d you think is wrong?” Ian asked curiously, laying back down with his head propped up on one hand shielding Mickey’s body with his own as his husband ran both hands roughly down his face, scratching satisfyingly against his couple days old stubble. 

Ian waited patiently for a response, knowing it would come.

“Shitty dreams” Mickey finally admitted quietly. “Terry, and my uncles, and my oldest brothers - the ones who died. And Mandy, she’s there sometimes.”

“Memories? Or is it just-” Ian asked hesitantly. 

“Yeah” Mickey said, licking his lips. “Memories that are all mushed together, but I’m around - I don’t know, 8 or 9 in all of them.”

“Why’re you a kid?” Ian asked confusedly. 

“I have no fuckin’ idea,” Mickey answered. He sounded so incredibly tired, just soaked in bone-deep exhaustion that had him on the verge of frustrated tears. “I broke my hand when I was 8, and my hand’s broken in all the dreams. It’s broken and it-it hurts so bad, Ian-”

“Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.” Ian hushed, bringing his hand down to sooth the heated skin at Mickey’s temples, like the could root out where the pressure was building. 

Mickey finally looked at him, “what are they doing right now?”

His husbands words gutted Ian, and all he could could do is lean over and kiss Mickey’s forehead, pulling the two of them closer together. He got confirmation when Mickey took the opportunity to wrap his arms around Ian’s waist, keeping him close.

“When I go to the doctor today, we should see if he’ll talk to you. See if we can get you some sleeping pills.” 

“I don’t want to-”

“Not forever” Ian cut off. “But you need some sleep. You’ve been miserable for a while now, haven’t you?” 

Mickey didn’t respond, but Ian could feel him nod. 

“Okay, so we get you something to get you to sleep for a while and hopefully once you’re better rested and your nerves aren’t so fried the nightmares go away.”

Mickey nodded again, then he spoke so quietly Ian barely heard it.

“I hate this.”

Ian took a steadying breath, staring out their bedroom window as the sky lit up in a light pink color. His chest ached and for the first time he understood what it meant to have your heart living outside of your body. 

“I know” he said soothingly, feeling Mickey sag slightly against him. “’m sorry.”

“I love you.”

Sorry 😭 I hope you liked it <3

Prompt Game Fun

#shameless #gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #gallavich fanfic #sgtmickeyslaughter

[metalheadmickey]

ian overstimulating mickey plays around in my mind everyday like a vinyl record

You and me both, baby. It's been on my mind a lot lately.

So many different ways he could do it! So much he could do to him. Something like this, perhaps, where he's got Mickey trapped beneath him, one wrist restrained overhead to the headboard, cuffed in something thick and soft and padded. His other hand is free only because he promises he only wants to touch Ian. He just wants to cling to him. He promises he won't try to uncuff himself or get Ian to stop or anything, he promises. He swears. Look, he can be good. He can be so good.

And to his credit, he is being good, just like he said he would be. He's holding onto Ian and not reaching down to get him to stop. Just clinging to his shoulder, his nails biting in. Ian's face is an inch away, watching him so closely and breathing in all his perfect little sounds. Eating them up and closing the distance between them to kiss him gently, soft enough to be in jarring juxtaposition with how roughly he's working him over between his legs.

Ian's only human, he can only fuck so much. But that doesn't mean he's done with Mickey.

First it was a dildo. Big, just how Mickey likes it. He managed to fuck two more orgasms out of a thrashing Mickey with it, and he could've probably kept going with it, but he decided to swap it out for something more targeted, knowing that it was just going to get harder the longer they went.

So now it's a prostate massager, and Mickey's exhausted, he knows. But he also knows he's got at least one more in him. He just knows it. So he's pushing it inside, up and against him over and over and over and he's not letting up until it happens. It doesn't matter how weak it is, even if it's just a tiny, tense shiver, he wants to see it. He wants to make it happen.

Mickey's not begging him to stop. He's not urging him on either, though. His sounds are desperate, conflicted, tired little sobs. He can't form words anymore. Twitching legs. Pink cheeks. Tears. Sweat. Heat. It's been forever but he's close, though. Getting there again, finally. Ian can tell.

Mickey hisses. "Ah...oh!" Ian chuckles when he grips his shoulder tighter, feels that it's happening, his gaspy breaths, his little sounds getting louder, and Ian swallows them all up, stays so close and works the toy in him like he was fucking born to do it and finally, it happens. Mickey cums for him again.

And it is just a little shiver, so weak, but Mickey's so loud about it. Ian knows it's crossing that line from glorious pain into something unbearable, and he waits for Mickey to tell him to stop, to tell him he can't take anymore, but he just goes limp, catching his breath, eyes closed like he's resigned himself to it, and he looks so gorgeous and somehow Ian's still fucking him.

Maybe he's got one more in him.

#y'all are fucking wild lately and i love you #thanks anon #asks #gallavich #my fic #barely

[sam-loves-seb]

HellO hi I need to read every single one of the works you listed in the worksinthedocs list because you are literally my fave writer in the history of fanfiction BUT I especially need to know about the babysitting Liam one and the magic au one!! What are they? What era are they from? Can you share a tiny piece of them please?

Thanks ily

omg hi hi hello, you are so incredibly kind thank you 💙💙 in a perfect world someday i will actually finish everything in the worksinthedocs list but in this world i will try my best !

for now i will offer a bit of insight into two of them under the cut

okay so:

babysitting liam:

the babysitting liam fic is slightly misleading considering he's like, twelve in this fic (it's post-canon) and doesn't actually need a babysitter, but the vibe still stands

it's set in a post-canon world where liam lives with lip, tami, and fred (in a very cramped in-law apartment attached to tami's parents house) and there's not a lot of room, or privacy, and fred's teething so nobody is sleeping, and Big Brother Ian swoops in and tells liam he can spend the weekend at his and mickey's apartment if he needs a break from lip-tami bickering and the baby crying all the time

(it's not that liam doesn't like living there, he just needs a break)

so essentially it's like a 3-4 chapter fic of liam spending the weekend with ian and mickey and doing fun things together and generally having quality brother (and brother-in-law) bonding time

and mickey pretends to hate the idea of liam invading their space for a whole weekend, but he's a softie, and next to ian, liam is his favorite gallagher sibling, so of course he caves and ends up having a good time in the end

here's a snippet (in case the fic never sees the light of day)

“How’s the kid?” Mickey asks, grabbing his controller again and exiting out of his game. He pulls up Netflix. “Liam?” Ian asks, and Mickey nods. “He’s… fine.” Mickey quirks a brow. “Fine?” “Yeah,” Ian sighs, climbing over the back of the couch and more or less falling into Mickey’s side. “Fred’s teething. I don’t think anyone’s really sleeping over there.” “Poor kid.” “He’ll be fine. I mean, at some point the teething stops.” “I meant Liam.” “Oh.” Mickey presses a soft kiss to Ian’s hairline. “Kid needs to sleep.” Ian wiggles his way under Mickey’s arm, tucking his face in his husband’s neck. He presses his lips against the warm skin, just holding them there for a minute. He breathes Mickey in, the faint smell of sweat and cigarettes mixing with the fading deodorant from this morning. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. Mickey’s hand sneaks under the hem of Ian’s t-shirt, his thumb gently stroking arcs across Ian’s hip. He gives him a minute, lets him breathe—but he knows his husband too well. “What?” Mickey almost whispers. Ian sighs quietly. “Like you said…” He blinks and his eyelashes brush against Mickey’s neck. “Kid needs to sleep.” Mickey pulls back just far enough to look at Ian’s face. His eyes narrow. “…What did you do?” “Nothing.” “Uh huh,” Mickey says, tongue in cheek, almost biting back a smile. “What did you do?” Ian shrugs, suddenly looking everywhere but at Mickey. “I… may have told Liam he could stay with us this weekend.”

...yeah, so.

i have the first chapter written and part of the second so who knows what'll happen with that eventually

anyway--

magic au

i have no snippets of this to share so have some random thoughts from my unhinged 1k outline that sits in this doc:

this one is set in an world (s1 timeline) where people can have magical powers, but they're rare, so when ian first discovers that he's one of those few people who has magical abilities, he mostly keeps it to himself. lip's known since they were pretty young, helping ian to develop it and train it, and ian tells fiona eventually, but she claims she already knew

none of the other gallagher siblings have powers, and this has always confused ian until he realized his biological father isn't frank, but a guy who lives in a cushy northside house with a successful career and life--no doubt products of some kind of power--and then it clicks

anyway, life largely remains the same as canon for ian and co. because he's only 15 and he still has a long way to go with mastering his abilities and everything, and then: he meets mickey

and ian's powers? well, they're somewhere along the lines of mind control.

and yeah maybe he was going to use magic to get mickey to give back the gun that he stole, and maybe he has a crisis about whether or not he accidentally did use it to make mickey fuck him instead of beat the shit out of him (he didn't), but it all works out in the end because mickey gave the gun back anyways

and mickey keeps ian grounded, because yeah he shows up to the store for a booty call when ian asks, but he always tells ian not to kiss him, and though the rejection stings a little, it reassures ian that mickey is of his own mind when they're hooking up and he's not somehow accidentally under ian's control--because how else is he supposed to explain mickey fucking milkovich suddenly jumping his bones every five seconds when a week ago he wanted to kill him

anyway.

long story short, mickey ultimately finds out about ian's powers after kash catches them, after mickey comes back to the store the next day, after mickey mocks him and tries to rob him again and kash fires one bullet into the fucking drywall, barely missing mickey's head

his finger's on the trigger and his aim's a little better, and that's when ian drops what he's doing and uses his powers

(probably should have mentioned before this that kash already knew about them, something about them having secrets between them (ew) whatever)

ian stops kash from shooting mickey in the store--even though kash is fighting the hold ian has on him--and our story starts (ends?) there because that's as far as i got with that one

so, yeah.

if you're somehow still reading this long ass post, thanks for staying 'til the end. come bully me talk to me about these or any other half-formed fics/ideas from my worksinthedocs list anytime.

#god yeah that was a long one #my bad #ask sam

[sisitrip]

Zago, The Vulnerable

.GIF by @mickeygifs

Here's the second installment on the Angie/Mickey friendship I never knew was needed. Link to the first part is here and third and final part here.

This was partially born from the scene (S3; E3) where Mickey jealously watches Ian and Ned having drinks at The Fountain. When Mickey confronts them, Ian says "Shit, Mickey. What're you doin' here?" I burned a track in my mind thinking about how Mickey might've responded if Ned hadn't creepily interrupted. For me, I settled on one Mickey response that I would've loved based on the scene below: "M'just showing up, Gallagher."

Warnings: Unbeta'd; length (y'all might need to rein me in); tiny slip into self-harm (so brief and working on it); a growing closeness between friends that is so nice to write 💛🖤

Tagging @energievie @chicanomick @jomilky @ianandmickeygallavich and @creepkinginc because you've been so encouraging. Thank you 😌.

____________________________

Mickey - 17 Years Old

Mickey helps Angie sit on the bed and wrestles with her for the brown bag of Crown Royal. 

“The fuck, Mickey. Gimme my shit,” she complains, when he yanks it away. She’s not quite drunk, but is well on her way and with good reason.

He didn’t show up. Again. 

That dismissive shit had rarely bothered her until him. Somehow, that asshole got her all the way fucked up.

“I’ll give you a fresh one if you don’t chill out,” Mickey says softly, lifting her chin with a gentle finger. “Just the booze or you back on that pill shit?”

She swats at his hand and grabs his wrist, holding on, needing contact.

“Told you. Been done with that shit for almost a year.”

Mickey nods and pats her face. 

“I’ll get water and when I get back, be ready to open that trap and spill.” He gives her cheek a soft pinch.

She squeezes his wrist then lets go. 

“Die horribly,” she says affectionately.

“You first,” Mickey laughs out. He walks away and she miserably yanks at her hair, willing the ache in her chest to go away. 

She’s got to do something or this love shit is going to kill her. She needs to be lost in something other than her thoughts. Lost in someone. Even if it's for the briefest moment, she just wants to stop feeling.

There’s only one thing that helps when she needs to get out of her fucking head. 

Mickey comes back and she locks her eyes on him, on a mission. Yeah, this’ll have to do.

“Ayo, I got some of that expired Tylenol from your bathroom. If you take three you-”

He chokes off as she slides to her knees and starts unbuckling his pants. 

“Angie?” 

He’s frozen, hands stiffly holding a glass of water and the pills. She’s got Mickey where she wants him. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll use two fingers,” she says, determinedly pulling at his zipper. He’s not hard yet, but that never stopped her before. 

She’s reaching into his boxers when the first stream of ice cold water hits the crown of her head. She yelps, flinching. 

“What fuck are you doing?!” she snarls, gasping as the stream continues unabated. “You’re the one who asked me if I wanted to fuck!”

“You know what that's code for. Why are you acting brand new?” Mickey retorts, stepping back from her attempts to punch his dick into hamburger. 

“You done?” he questions softly after she runs out of curses. 

Wet, hurting and frustrated, she grabs her boobs and squeezes them hard, not knowing what else to do. 

“Fuck!” she screams, miserable. She sags onto her side and curls up on the floor.

Mickey joins her, sitting against the bed and avoiding the wet spot on the rug. 

He flicks the empty cup at her, spraying water droplets and laughs when she pinches him.

“Colin didn’t call, huh?” he asks gently after several beats of silence.

“Like I give shit if he calls.” Her watery sigh betrays her bravado. 

“You need to cut him loose, Ang. I keep telling you. You can’t do worse, but you can do better.”

She heaves a wet snort. “You ain’t never lie.” 

They laugh quietly and Mickey’s the first to sober up. 

“You saw him? Ian?” he asks hesitantly. “What’d you think?” 

“Barely saw him. But, you can't miss that hair. You undersold how red it is.”

Mickey shrugs. “Who knew that’d be my type.”

She sits up next to him, pushing her wet hair out of her face. 

“Who knew that a coked out asshole wearing the underwear I bought him could have me so fucking strung out.” They snicker, leaning against each other.

Mickey’s phone rings and he bites his lip, a tell she’s come to recognize. 

“Is that Red?” 

Mickey gives her a stiff middle finger, but doesn’t answer the call. 

She snatches at his phone, grateful for the distraction. 

“Let's tell your little boyfriend how you love cooking.”

Mickey dives to the side protecting his phone from her grabby hands. “I gotta eat don’t I?” He’s wiggling and snorting, holding the phone out of reach.

She slaps a hand at his forearm and digs her knuckles into his ribs. 

“Let me tell him how you describe, in detail, what he wears into the store everyday, and how you keep that security jacket on in ninety-degree weather because he said you look “official and shit.”

“Fuck off, Angie!” Mickey’s red-faced and laughing. “Never telling you shit again.”

In their scuffle, Mickey must have accidentally activated the call and the speakerphone because they both still when a voice speaks hesitantly. 

“Mickey?” 

The reaction in her friend is truly wondrous to behold. He literally uncoils, sagging into a dopey sweetness that makes her smile. He looks lit from within. 

“What is it, Gallagher? Gettin’ my dick wet.”

Angie rolls off Mickey and sits back against the bed. Her friend is also ablaze with idiocy.

Mickey settles next to her, fighting a smile that seems to be completely controlled by his red-haired dick whisperer.

“Linda wants to, uh, to know if you're coming back to the store,” Ian says a touch too casually.

Even she can hear the lie as it trips out of Ian’s mouth.

“I’m on my lunch hour. Tell Linda, it’s a bodega, not a sweatshop. I’ll be back after this nut.” 

She can’t help what she does next because she can feel the hurt wafting through the phone line as Ian responds, sounding resigned and confused. “I’ll tell her, Mick.” 

She slaps the back of Mickey’s head hard and he scrambles to end the call. 

“What the fuck’s your problem?!”

“You, Linda Blair. How fucking evil are you to fuck around with his feelings like that?”

Mickey rubs the back of his head, frowning.

“Sure you’re not projectiling or some shit?” he grumbles. 

“Projecting, Einstein, and maybe! But, that’s besides the point.” She turns to him. “Stop actin’ like we’re fucking and just tell him you like him.”

Mickey looks out the window stubbornly. “Ain’t ready for that.”

“Then let him go.”

“Ain’t ready for that either,” he says softly, digging his phone into his thigh. 

Another tell. Like her, Mickey hurts himself when he feels too much.  They've been working on that. Together.

She pulls his hand away from the spot that’ll have a fresh bruise tomorrow.

“Whatever you decide to do, just try and show him how you feel. Give him something besides this confusing back and forth shit.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” he snarks. “Put his name in my notebook? Make him a mixtape?”

She snorts softly. “I don’t know you idiot. Maybe …,” she looks down at her wet shirt, speaking quietly. “Maybe just show up, you know? Sometimes just showing up is everything.”

Mickey’s looking at her and she can’t look at him. Not yet. Not until she does something about these stupid fucking tears that have been threatening all morning. 

As always, he can feel her distress, so he quickly yanks her wet t-shirt over her head and mushes the wet fabric into her face, helping her hide her tears and her pain. 

“Just show up, huh? Deep thoughts by Angie Zago,” Mickey teases as she pulls her shirt down.  

“And you’re as deep as a puddle," she says lovingly. "Now get the fuck out. I got Mr. Patel coming over.” 

Mickey hops up and extends a hand, helping her stand. 

“Don’t tell me you’re fucking that dry cleaner asshole.”

“Nah. He’s coming for that ointment. The infection down there is almost cleared up.”

Mickey wrinkles his nose, still squeamish about her Amazon sex shop side business. 

“You still getting that shit for him? Tell him to stop fuckin’ without a rubber.”

She shoves his shoulder. “And ruin my best income stream? I order shit for him at least once a month. Fuck that.”

Mickey chuckles. “Bad Bitch Angie. The neighborhood’s very own ‘down low/do dirt’ marketplace.” He reaches out and snaps her bra strap. “You should give me a cut. I started it all.”

She grabs him into a headlock, smushing his face into her wet shirt. 

“You started shit, damn near literally. My fingers still smell like your ass and it’s been a year motherfucker.” 

Mickey wiggles out of her hold and dodges her slap. 

“You should be so lucky, bitch,” he laughs out. “See you, tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Steal me some more tampons.” 

He’s stepping into the hallway when she stops him, forcing herself to do the one thing she'd been dreading for months. 

“Mickey?” He turns back. “If you see him, tell that fuck I ain’t waiting no more.” Her voice is husky, but she gets it out.

Mickey’s face softens into sadness. He tilts his chin, holding his head up, waiting. With effort, she does the same, drawing her shoulders back and raising her head too.

“Good for you,” he says quietly, then leaves after winking at her.  

When he’s gone, she finally lets the tears come. All losses, even if the person you’re mourning is worthless, should be acknowledged.

She changes her bra and t-shirt and by the time she’s done repacking the ointment for Mr. Patel into a Just For Men box, she’s no longer crying.

#Angie Zago #mickey milkovich #shameless us #gallavich #my fic

[mikhailoisbaby]

Hey Harvey my love~ I got really emosh in class today bc we were talking about early intervention and I shared how when I tried to advocate for myself no one fucking believed me, and I'm thinking about Mickey. Like. He looks back, thinks about how he was awful at expressing himself, how other people didn't make sense to him, and wonders what would've happened if someone had noticed that, had mentioned it to Terry- not that he would've listened, not that Terry would've done anything except call him a slur and pull him out of school even earlier. He thinks about how Terry used to hit him when he waved his hands around or called him a pussy when he rocked himself because he was upset. Numbers always made sense, chewing on his lip or his thumb always helped him.

He tells Ian one day after he's been overstimulated and frustrated and he's crying because he just can't calm himself Down (same Mickey I'm useless when I'm overstimulated) and he talks about how loud noises hurt his ears but screeching sounds never bothered him and how one time he shut the fuck down in the midst of a rant at his brothers because it got to be too much and how they called him a freak for years afterwards.

Ian holds him. Ian gently suggests they see a psychologist. Mickey walks away with prescriptions for PTSD and Autism, and he and Ian keep doing what they've been doing and figuring out strategies to deal with shit. The first time Ian sees his husband excitedly waving his hands around, it's because Mandy's coming to visit and Mickey's literally so excited to see her and give her a hug, and Ian knows that they're gonna be okay.

I like to think I'll be okay too

Alicia, my love, my sweetness, my darling.

I love you so much and I’m so sorry that people didn’t listen to you and how much that sucks 🖤

I love these thoughts so much and I feel like it’s very true to his character! Mickey feeling stimulation and not being able to explain is something I feel so much and I can see him trying to explain it and just getting more overwhelmed.

I just want to say fuck terry and as much as I love Iggy and Colin they probably weren’t the best brother to Mickey and he deserves so much better!

I have thought of Mickey being allowed to express himself without no judgement with Ian and not feel like he has to mask in any way with him Ian will see when Mickey getting overstimulated when at the Gallagher home and Ian will try and help the best he can.

#Harvey’s asks #Alicia ily so much #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #shameless #gallavich #ian and mickey #shameless us #ian x mickey

[buckleypilled]

i feel ill

#im actually going to cry i cant do this #ians thumb almost grazing his lip... #the way you can tell mickey is holding ian so gently..... #the goddamn LOOK on mickeys FACE #THE WAYS HIS EYES ARE SPARKLING #THEYRE SO #HKSKKSKDJDJSJNDNCJD #theyre my everything #shameless #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #gallavich

[arrowflier]

I'd like to see Ian and Mickey celebrating their 20th anniversary? Being all mature and grown up and realising how lucky they are they're still in love after all those years x

Mickey woke up to a weight over his back, pushing him down into the soft pillow-top mattress. Lips touched the back of his neck, warm and dry, Ian’s breath raising goosebumps on his skin.

“Mmm,” Mickey hummed, rubbing his smile into the pillow. “Good morning, Mr. Milkovich.”

Ian chuckled, a gentle huff of air that moved the hairs on the back of Mickey’s head.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Gallagher,” he murmured back, voice husky from sleep, lips brushing down to Mickey’s shoulder. He pulled the strap of Mickey’s tank top to the side, pressed a kiss to the pale skin it revealed.

“Happy Anniversary, Mick,” he said, kissing it into Mickey’s body. Mickey arched back against him, getting a hand up to hold Ian’s where it still rested on his shoulder.

“Twenty fucking years,” Mickey said proudly, and pushed back until Ian rolled over, letting Mickey do the same.

He moved from stomach to side to back, letting Ian settle back in on top of him once they were face to face. Ian’s bare chest was warm through Mickey’s own shirt.

“Long time, man,” Mickey said softly, reaching up to card gentle fingers through Ian’s hair. It glimmered red in the faint sunlight coming through the curtains, shot through with a few paler streaks that Ian swore were blond, not grey.

“And longer to come,” Ian promised, his smile bright and sleepily content.

They lay there for a moment, watching each other blink, watching each other breathe. Then Ian sighed, and lowered his head, capturing Mickey’s lips in their first real kiss of the morning.

It tasted terrible, but they were long past the days of caring about stale morning breath. The innocent slide of mouths gave way to sucking kisses, chapped lips pulled gently between teeth, soothed with tongues. Ian pulled back with a wet sound, moved his mouth up Mickey’s jaw, and pressed searching lips to the space just under his ear.

Mickey hummed, eyes slipping closed at the warmth of the sensation. The bed was soft under him, Ian comfortable over him, and he wanted nothing more than to live in that moment forever.

Or at least for a little while longer.

Ian had other plans.

“Ready for your present?” he breathed into Mickey’s ear, biting the lobe as Mickey shivered.

“Never thought I’d say this,” Mickey muttered as Ian traced his tongue down the side of his neck, “but I think I’d rather go back to sleep for a bit.”

Ian laughed, burying his face in Mickey’s shoulder, breath cooling the trail his mouth had left.

“I don’t blame you,” he admitted easily, rolling off of Mickey again to lay at his side instead. His arm crossed Mickey’s chest, hand secure around his bicep. “Last night was a mess; I’m ready to sleep for a week.”

“Remind me never to let your daughter go to a concert again,” Mickey said plaintively, turning his head to face Ian’s on the pillow. “I don’t care if we’re supposed to be her safe space or what-the-fuck-ever, picking up a bunch of drink teenagers in the middle of the night is not my idea of a good time.”

“Please,” Ian said, “Like you’d ever tell your daughter no.”

Fair enough.

“But regardless,” Ian continued, “we don’t have too long before the girls are up, and I wanted to give you your present in peace.”

“Fine,” Mickey grumbled, putting on a show of being disappointed. He rolled onto his side, reaching for the drawer of the bedside table, but Ian whacked his hand before he could open it.

“Thought you wanted to give me my present?” Mickey asked, eyebrows raised, but Ian shook his head.

“Not that kind of present, you dolt,” he laughed. “We can do that later, once we have the house to ourselves.”

Ian’s face softened as he bit his lip, eyes darting away from Mickey’s for a brief moment before coming back.

“I, uh,” he said, scratching his chin. “I kinda got you something else.”

“We said we weren’t buying shit, Ian,” Mickey pointed out. “Between tuition and fuckin’ club dues, we ain’t got a lot to spare right now.”

“I know, but…” Ian shrugged. “We had enough for this.”

He leaned over, reaching long arms under the bed, squirming until he found what he was feeling for. With a twist of his shoulders, he was back up on the bed and tossing a small box at Mickey without aiming.

Mickey fumbled it, then snatched it back off the sheets before Ian could see. He turned it in his hands, suspicious, but the twitch of his lips gave him away.

“Go on, open it,” Ian encouraged, scooting closer. “I think you’ll like it.”

Mickey did, untying the tiny bow and lifting the lid off the box with no fuss.

“I went with the modern theme,” Ian told him as he looked inside. “Platinum. Thought that fit us a little better than fine china.”

Mickey didn’t answer, eyes caught on the glint of metal peeking out from under a scrap of cheap tissue paper.

“It’s supposed to represent how strong we are, together,” Ian said as Mickey lifted his gift out of the box, turning it over in his hands. “That we’ve made it this far, overcome shit.” His eyes were on Mickey’s hands. “That we’re still here to stay.”

Mickey held his gift up toward the window, letting the light reflect off the silver surface. Just a keychain, a little metal charm in the shape of a record dangling from a short chain. The word “Always” was engraved along the top curve, and at the bottom, the date of their wedding.

“It’s not really platinum, obviously,” Ian said, twisting the sheet between his fingers. “I couldn’t afford that even if I—”

“Ian,” Mickey cut him off. “Shut up. I love it.”

When their eyes met, Ian was beaming.

“C’mere, you sappy idiot,” Mickey ordered with his own broad grin, and Ian met him with a single, lingering kiss.

Mickey pulled away before it could become anything more.

“Got you somethin’ to,” he said, watching Ian’s eyes from inches away. “’Cept I figured you were the traditional sort, so…” He shrugged. “Guess what you get?”

“Sex?” Ian joked, and Mickey rolled his eyes, standing up and swinging his legs out of bed.

“Not quite,” he answered dryly, opening their closet door and fishing through the dirty clothes on the floor inside. He lifted a much larger box with a muffled oomph, and carried it over to the bed, where he let it fall a bit on heavily onto the mattress in front of Ian.

“Go on,” he started, but Ian hadn’t waited anyway, already tearing off the paper with eager fingers.

“Jeez, you’re like a fuckin’ kid on Christmas,” Mickey laughed, and Ian stuck out his tongue as he pried the cardboard box open.

Ian paused as the contents were revealed, the pushed aside bubble wrap and packing paper to lift out a single, dessert-sized plate.

It was fragile and white, plain in the center, with bursts of blue and pink along the outer, silver-plated edge. The colors swirled together into petals, shaped like—

“Stargazer lilies,” Ian breathed, and his eyes were wet when he lifted them. “Mickey, they’re beautiful.”

“Yeah, well,” Mickey hedged, sitting on the edge of the bed. “So are you, you soft fucker.”

Ian’s breath caught.

“Not the same theme as yours,” Mickey said, gesturing to the plate with a hand that still held his own gift. “But the ideas kind of the same, you know?”

He reached out, took the plate from Ian’s hands.

“You said the platinum was for strength; well this shit’s pretty fragile,” he continued. “But it stays good if you take care of it.” He looked up at Ian. “And we take pretty damn good care of each other.”

“You know that stuff’s not gonna last in this house,” Ian pointed out, voice choked. “We might take care of each other, but we take terrible care of our stuff.”

“Might not even make it through tonight,” Mickey agreed. He traced a finger around the rim of the plate, the flowers there. “But we’re gonna use it anyway.”

He turned, set the plate down on the bedside table, along with his keychain. Hoisted the rest of the box down onto the floor. “We can have nice stuff,” he said as he did, “but I ain’t gonna be one of those people that leaves shit in a cabinet gettin’ all dusty.”

“Nah,” Ian agreed, wiping his leaking eyes. “That really wouldn’t be us.”

Mickey smiled, and leaned in, kissing the corner of Ian’s eye and the happy tears lingering there.

“No it wouldn’t,” he said softly, and then his grin turned wicked.

“And speaking of using things,” he said, flopping down onto his back, arms spread wide. “We should use the rest of the morning to our advantage ‘til the girls get up.” He waggled his eyebrows, glorying in Ian’s wet laugh.

“Come show me what the next twenty years will be like, lover boy,” Mickey challenged.

And climbing over him with a toothy grin, all else forgotten in favor of getting hands on skin, Ian did just that.

#i may have spent longer looking at 20th anniversary themes and gifts than actually writing this #but it was fun! #daily speedwrite #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #fluff #fanfic

[faggyangel]

In the early hours of the morning, while the golden sun streams through their apartment window, Mickey stirs at a knock on the door. 

He shakes Ian, whose limbs are wrapped tight around him, his drool pooling on his chest. Ian grumbles something but doesn’t move. 

“Someone’s at the door, shithead, go get it,” Mickey shakes him again. 

Ian yawns and stretches his arms, laying flat on his back now, “Who the fuck is here this early?” Ian turns back to Mickey, smiling, “You know what day it is?” 

Mickey scrunches his eyebrows, trying to remember, “Uh, shit, a Tuesday?” He searches his brain for the date but he doesn’t get very far before Ian jumps on him, pressing kisses to his face. 

“It’s your birthday!” Ian says, far too loudly in Mickey’s opinion, in between kisses. 

Oh. 

Mickey knew Ian would want to celebrate. He’s been getting better at the whole self-love thing. Instead of sulking in their room, remembering all the times he was punished for his excitement until he figured out his existence isn’t something to celebrate, they would go out and get dinner and come home drunk on both alcohol and love. Though he can’t help but feel an ache in his chest for his forlorn upbringing. 

“Christ. I forgot,” Mickey places his hands on Ian’s hips, “I’m getting old.” 

Ian scoffs, “Don’t say that. You’re still in your twenties, doofus.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and pushes Ian off his lap, “Go get the door.” 

Ian complies, leaving one last kiss on his cheek. 

He overhears a soft conversation, hushed and excited. 

He barely makes out what sounds like a woman’s voice paired with Ian’s. Mickey rubs his eyes, trying to rack his brain for any neighbor they might have pissed off last night who would come over to complain. He quickly throws on clothes and walks out to the living room to see Ian standing in the kitchen with Tami. 

She makes eye contact with him, “Fucking finally.” 

“What the hell do you mean ‘finally.’ It’s nine in the fucking morning.” 

“For normal people with healthy sleep schedules, it’s late,” she cocks her hips out, “Came to drop off your present, asshole, say thank you.” 

He punches her shoulder lightly, “Thanks, dick.” 

She holds out a small box, wrapped neatly in green wrapping paper. He haphazardly rips it off and opens it.  

There's an assortment of gifts. The first thing he pulls out is a Mickey Mouse plushie with a card taped to the front. The writing is messy, scribbled crayon, it reads: 

“hapy birth day, uncle mickey

freddie.” 

“Cool,” Mickey’s voice breaks, Tami and Ian snicker. 

“Lip helped pick out the toy,” Tami adds. 

“Fucker,” Mickey gently places the gift on the countertop. 

He goes back in and grabs a package wrapped in plastic. He realizes it’s soap and shampoo, a certain kind he told Tami he wanted a while ago, “How the fuck did you remember this?” 

Tami shrugs, “You’re my friend, stupid. There’s also a cookbook, Lip got that for both of you since Ian’s getting into growing his own food.”  

Mickey grabs the book that’s sitting on the bottom of the box, glancing at it before tossing it to Ian, “Thank you,” he nods and before he realizes it, she’s hugging him and pulling away. 

“Happy birthday, Mick. Love you guys,” Tami kisses Ian’s cheek, “I gotta go, see ya.” 

“Bye, Tami,” Ian waves, turning back to Mickey, who’s still standing, staring at the gifts that Tami dropped off. 

“Hey,” Ian says softly, rubbing his shoulders, “You good, baby?” 

Mickey nods, “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just-you know-” 

Ian does know. Not only because Mickey told him how weird it is, how uncomfortable he gets when people do things like this for him-nice things-but also because Ian experiences it himself. Maybe not to the same degree as Mickey, but he’s seen the way Ian malfunctions when one of his friends gets him something nice. He knows he has the same sort of wary confusion when they get to have good things. 

Mickey leans into Ian’s touch, “Wanna go back to sleep.” 

Ian rests his chin in the crook of Mickey’s neck, turning his face to plant a kiss on his cheek, “We can do that, baby.” 

They go back to sleep until one, Ian wakes him again gently, whispering in his ear that they have to get up because Kev and Vee need help in the Alibi. 

“It’s my fucking birthday, they should helping me!” Mickey yelped as Ian poked his side. 

“Come on. The minute they’re done, we’ll come back here and sleep to your heart's content.” 

“So forever?” Mickey asked from underneath a pillow. 

Ian made an alarmed sound from the back of his throat, Mickey threw a pillow at his head, “Not like that, asswipe. Just tired today.” 

Ian nods, sympathetic despite Mickey’s attack, “I know, honey. I promised them we would both go. So get your birthday ass up.” 

Mickey does in fact get his ass up. After thirty more minutes of complaining, they’re off to the Alibi. 

Ian pulls up to the bar and parks right in front of the doors. Mickey’s about to get out when Ian grabs his arm, “Okay, cards on the table, we planned a surprise party for you.” 

Mickey tilts in his head, perplexed by Ian’s definition of surprise, “I don’t think you know how surprises work, lover.” 

Ian picks at the skin of his lip, his eyes narrowed at the hollow of Mickey’s throat, “I just know you don’t like surprises.” 

Mickey sits back in his seat, watching as Ian nervously gnaws at his chapped lips. They’ve had this talk before, mainly about Mickey’s sleeping. Ian’s learned from experience after sleeping in the same bed with him for five plus years that no one should ever shake Mickey awake. Or yell to wake him up. Or sneak up on him. Mickey’s always been hyper aware of his surroundings, it was never something he concerned himself with, ignoring the panic that reached up his throat with surprises. Though recently, Ian told him he has symptoms of PTSD rather than just being cautious. 

“Alright,” Mickey nods, “How many people?” 

“Just my family. I called Mandy but-” 

“She’s working, I know.” 

“She said happy birthday. Kev and Vee obviously. Tami,” Ian squirms in his seat like he’s nervous. 

“Right, well, can’t sit out here forever.” 

The minute they step into the bar, everyone screams surprise. 

Ian was right, that wouldn’t have been good for anyone had Mickey not known. 

“Uncle Mickey!” Franny screams and hugs his legs, “I made you a card!” She presents a card covered in glitter, depicting two stick figures holding guns and bags of money. 

For the second time today, Mickey has to stop himself from crying. Bending down to hug her, he pats her hair and tells her he loves it. 

“Uncle Ian helped!” 

“Did he now?” Mickey raises an eyebrow at his husband, who nods proudly at his niece. 

“Happy birthday, Mick!” Tami calls out, rocking Freddie in her arms. 

Mickey nods and immediately gravitates to the bar, sitting down next to Lip, who’s playing with Freddie’s fingers. 

Kev sets down a beer, “On the house for family, dude.” 

Mickey takes it, trying not to show his unease, he grumbles, “Thanks,” before turning his attention to Ian who’s bending down and talking to Franny and Liam. 

“Hey, Mickey,” Lip greets, distracted. 

“Yo,” Mickey’s about ready to comfortably sit in silence, just enjoying watching on the outskirts as his in-laws mingle. 

“Ian tell you about the party?” Lip asks nonchalantly. 

“Uh, yeah. Right before.” 

“Knew he would. While we were fucking putting it together, he-” 

“Wait, hold on,” Mickey interrupted him, “You helped plan this shit?” 

Lip deadpans, “Uh, yeah. Well, obviously Ian said he wanted to do something for your birthday but I figured we should have it here, you know. With family.” 

Family. 

He remembers the kitchen conversation, it feels like it happened so long ago. The sinking feeling in his stomach when Lip told him he wasn’t family. To a degree, he understood what he meant, but he still felt the words hit his chest like a bullet. 

“Thought I wasn’t family,” Mickey teases, watching as the realization dawns on Lip, recognition enveloping his eyes. 

“Shit, Mickey, that wasn’t-” Mickey cuts him off by waving a hand. 

“It’s alright, shithead. Don’t give a shit,” Mickey lies, he does give shit, many in fact, but he doesn’t need Lip knowing that. 

“Sure, but you are family, you know that, right?” Lip doesn’t make eye contact with him, just continues playing with his son's fingers.  

Mickey sits on the bar stool, trying to cope with the knowledge that all of these people-these stupid fucking Gallaghers and Balls and Tamiettis-care about him enough to throw him a surprise birthday party. 

His fucking family. 

Ian apparently takes notice of his discomfort and walks over to him, Franny on his hip, “Hey, you good?” With the hand that isn’t holding up a six year-old, he rubs his back, eventually resting his palm on the nape of his neck. 

Mickey nods, “It’s just a lot, man.” 

Ian nods, “I know. Do you wanna go?” 

Mickey shakes his head, staring at the sleepy Franny who buries her head into Ian’s shoulder, her cheek squished on his collarbone. 

“Nah, I’m good,” Mickey says as Franny stretches out her arms, opening and closing her fists. 

“You wanna go with Uncle Mickey instead?” Ian asks her. 

When she nods, he kisses the top of her head and passes her to Mickey. Ian giggles as Mickey’s eyes go wide then soften, his shoulders relaxing as Franny peacefully transitions from one Uncle to the next, blissfully unaware of Mickey’s internal panic. 

“Happy birthday, Mickey,” Ian kisses his cheek and leans into his side, sliding an arm around his torso. 

“I think it might be.”

#summary: it's mickeys birthday and his fucking family throws him a party #uhh i did another thing #mickey my love you have a family who loves you so much #i had another version of this where liam tells mickey he's family but i think lip works cause of the whole family only thing ?? idk #everything else is the same tho so probably not gonna drop the other one #at least until mickeys next birthday >:) #shameless #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #lip gallagher #tami tamietti #franny gallagher #gallavich #ian x mickey #gallavich fanfiction #margo writes #HAPPY BIRTHDAY MICKEY #my sweet boy #goodnight <3

[abundanceofnots]

The door to the darkened alley next to the Alibi Room opens behind him, letting out a jumble of voices and loud music. Mickey expected Ian to find him there sooner or later. That’s why he’s so surprised to see that it’s not his husband pushing the heavy door open with his hip, his hands occupied by holding two glasses of beer, but Tami, his—

Well, whatever they are to each other.

Strangers, mostly. Both holding the title of Gallagher family appendages—the husband and the baby mama—who occasionally shared a laugh over some Gallagher bullshit. But that has always been as far as their relationship went.

“Occupied,” he informs her curtly before he takes another drag of his cigarette.

Tami smiles, undeterred.

“I was actually looking for you,” she explains as she lets the door close behind her, cutting the sounds from the inside to mere thumps again.

“Look, if you’re already tired of your baby daddy’s dick, I can’t say I blame ya, but you’ll have to find someone else because, on principle, I don’t fuck Lip’s sloppy seconds—”

Tami makes a face. “Jesus fuck. Is that really the only reason you can think of why I might want to see you?”

His eyes dart around her head of hair as he tries to look at anywhere but her, suddenly feeling very tense.

“Yeah?”

“Well, fuck you, too. No, here, listen.” She passes him one of the beers. “I saw the way you looked back in there and thought you might wanna talk.”

Mickey’s felt sick all evening. Ever since their big announcement when Ian threw his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, squeezed him tight, and gave him that blinding grin before he told everyone the good news.

There was clapping and noise, so much fucking noise. People were reaching out their hands to tap him on the shoulder or shake his hand, and it made Mickey feel like those hands were all grasping his throat while his blood was pumping in his ears.

His plan was to spend the rest of the party here, where he could breathe again, chain-smoking his way through the ordeal. He thinks he’ll be sick if he drinks anything right now, but he takes the glass from Tami anyway.

“About?” he shoots back noncommittally.

“Why you’re scared.”

On instinct, Mickey scoffs out a laugh. “Fuck off, I ain’t scared.”

“Right,” Tami replies, giving him a pointed look over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip. “That why you’re hiding out here during your own party?”

“Just needed to—” Groaning in exasperation, Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose and composes himself. “I just needed a second away from everyone congratulatin’ me. Or callin’ me daddy Milkovich. Or fuckin’ Kermit asking if I was gonna be the mom or the dad—” He cuts himself off again, measuring Tami with a hard stare. “What’s it to you, anyway?

She responds with a sincere smile.

“Believe it or not, I was scared of having a baby, too.”

Mickey’s brows furrow in confusion. “That why you decided to have another?”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not scared anymore.”

“Sounds fuckin’ stupid.”

“Maybe,” Tami admits with half a shrug.

They spend the next few minutes in silence, Tami drinking her beer and Mickey finishing his smoke, his own beer left untouched.

“But you’re a chick, you know, so it’s different,” Mickey states resolutely after he lights another cigarette, confident he’s found an argument she couldn’t dispute. “You have, like, all those motherly instincts and shit. I don’t.”

For some reason, she snorts and shakes her head. Then, her expression softens again, and she says, “I have it on good authority that there’s one little boy who basically worships the ground you walk on.”

“He’s five. Fuck does he know,” he retorts back derisively, immediately chastising himself because Freddie knew a lot, in fact. Most importantly, how to get underneath Mickey’s skin.

Not that he didn’t love and pester Ian just as much, obviously. Everyone loved Ian, the charming motherfucker. But Mickey and the kid had a special bond, much to Lip’s irritation.

Freddie was one of the main reasons Mickey decided that he was ready to have kids all those months ago. He isn’t so sure of it now, though.

He takes another drag and lets the smoke out through his nose.

“I never thought I’d be this,” he explains ambiguously, not just meaning being a guy who gives enough shit to smoke outside a bar. “Always knew how to survive. I was good at that. I was gonna see forty, most of it behind bars, maybe fifty, if I was lucky enough and didn’t lose a fuckin’ limb at some shitty construction job. And then, one day, I wake up to a tire iron to my spine—”

“If that’s a metaphor, I don’t follow.”

“—and next thing I know, I have a whole ass husband, a fuckin’ condo on the West Side like some yuppie, and I catch myself sayin’ things like, fuck it, let’s have a kid. What’s wrong with me? I can’t fuckin’ do this, can I?”

The truth he’ll never admit to anyone, probably, is that Tami’s right. He is scared. Fucking terrified, really. Because there’s a kid who will have him for a dad, and Mickey feels sorry for it.

The poor bastard isn’t even a proper baby yet. It’s just a sonogram stuck to their fridge. A baby-like matter that Ian’s app insists is the size of cauliflower now. When Mickey finally managed to spot one in Whole Foods, he found himself apologizing to it for some bizarre reason.

He doesn’t want to be like his dad. He wants to do this right, but he doesn’t know if he knows how.

“The most important thing?” Tami breaks the silence then, reading Mickey’s reaction correctly even when he doesn’t say anything. “You don’t bail on this kid. Or Ian, because he’ll need you to be there just as much.”

Mickey bites his cheek and nods. There’s a chance he’d say more, ask Tami for advice even, maybe, if, at that very second, Ian didn’t come out to join them, bursting out of the alleyway door as if summoned.

“There’s the pops-to-be!” he cheers a little too loudly with a smile that splits his whole face. He stumbles forward on clumsy feet and envelops Mickey tightly in his arms. “I was looking for you.”

“Fuckin’ octopus-man,” Mickey laughs, careful not to let the drunk idiot spill his beer. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Just a couple beers,” Ian answers as he nuzzles into Mickey’s neck.

“Such a fuckin’ lightweight.”

Humming his agreement, Ian snags Mickey’s glass and knocks down most of its contents in one go. He belches before saying in a low voice, “I was planning on dragging your ass to the bathroom later and having my way with you, but since we’re already here, alone...”

He already has his free hand palming at Mickey’s dick over his jeans when Tami makes a sound behind him, something between a snort and a cough.

Ian’s eyes take a minute to properly zero in on her.

“Tami! Hey!” he greets her with exaggerated excitement. “You’re here, too. Why are you here, too? Something wrong?”

Tami looks pointedly at Mickey. “Wanna tell him, or should I?”

He seriously considers being honest for a second, but his next words are out before he can stop them.

“Your brother’s girlfriend was tryna jump me.”

Tami almost chokes on the incredulous huff of laughter she lets out. She finishes her beer and shakes her head, staring Mickey down.

“You’re such a fucking asshole, Mickey, I swear to God. Forget I ever said anything,” she barks at him as she goes for the door.

“Hey, Tami,” Mickey stops her last minute. “Thanks, or whatever.”

Tami rolls her eyes. Still, just before she slips back inside, she throws a quick smile over her shoulder.

“Did you just thank her for trying to fuck you?” Ian inquires stupidly when the door closes behind her.

“Sure,” Mickey sounds off without further explanation.

He turns back to his husband and lightly pats his cheek, letting his hand slide all the way down to his junk in hopes of pointing his attention in the right direction again. “So, about those plans you had—“

But all of a sudden, Ian’s white as a sheet, giving him a look of absolute horror.

“What?” Mickey asks, mirroring his look.

“Think I’m gonna puke.”

“’ Course you are,” Mickey has enough time to groan before Ian bends in half and proceeds to throw up on the sidewalk.

Mickey takes a few steps away, trying to give Ian some privacy, but he’s stopped by a hand clutching his wrist and pulling him back.

“I’m so sorry, Mick,” Ian says in between spits as his hand slides down to hold Mickey’s awkwardly.

“Hey, that’s okay,” Mickey tells him gently—just as gently as he strokes his back in big circles. “I’m here.”

#just 1.5k words with some post-canon much needed convo #that wouldn't leave my mind alone #my fics #shameless fanfiction #shameless fic

[bravemikhailo]

VAL I ADORE YOU SO TOO 😘😘😘

How do you think Mickey & Ian will get a cat during husband era?

Also wishing you a lovely day/evening bc you deserve everything that is good in the world 💗

myn myn myn!!!! you sweet sweet gem my day’s been good so far, and I hope yours wonderful as well 🥰🥰🥰

AND OH IAN GETTING MICKEY A CAT?? YES YES YES I have so many thoughts about how this could possibly go down but the main one is:

ok so maybe one day they’re talking about some random shit, maybe they’ve just come home and they spotted a cat wandering around their complex, and mickey just casually tells ian that it looks like the cat he had once and ian looks at him like 🤨🤨🤨 what cat are you talking about?? he’s sure he would remember it if mickey ever had a cat. and mickey just always figured ian knew, that he told him once but apparently he didn’t and ian’s just 🥺🥺🥺 when mickey tells him about her like there are literal tears pooling in his eyes and now it’s mickey’s turn to be like 🤨ok calm down you fucking weirdo

and maybe weeks pass, or even months, and ian will randomly think about it every now and then, until one day his legs guide him to a shelter, and he doesn’t really know what he’s doing he’s never had a pet before. the only thing he knows is that he wants to make mickey happy and wants to have him this thing, just another thing that mickey thought he never could have because of his father, so he goes in, and there are so many cats in there that need a home and ian would take them all if he could. and maybe he thinks about getting a kitty, at first, but then a cat catches his attention. he’s curled up in a corner, silent and with sad eyes, as if he’s been waiting for someone taking him home for years and has just given up. he’s a boy, the lady working at the shelter tells him when she sees him approaching his cage, and he’s 8 and he’s been here for over two years now and there’s a voice in ian’s head telling him it’s him it’s him it’s him. when the lady opens the cage so ian can slide a hand inside, the cat stretches his leggies and approaches slowly, warily. he sniffs ian’s hand for a moment, testing the waters, and when he eventually rubs his small fluffy head on ian’s palm, ian’s heart flutters and his throat burns in the attempt of holding back tears. he thinks he’s getting way too soft with each passing day but he doesn’t really care in that moment

so he ends up signing a bunch of papers immediately, takes the cat in his arms and he realizes he hasn’t really thought this thing through because he didn’t even buy one of those portable things to carry cats but whatever, he’ll walk home with the cat in his arms. it’s not like he minds anyway

and well. his heart is beating out of his chest with every step and he knows mickey’s going to be so fucking happy but he’s still nervous for some reason

anyway, when mickey sees them he’s like what the fuck gallagher and when ian tells him everything mickey’s chin trembles and it’s so clear that he’s fighting back tears, bringing his palms to his eyes. ian gently puts the cat on the floor, and he laughs when he immediately goes to mickey, rubbing itself on his ankles. and maybe his laugh is a bit wet but whatever. the smile on mickey’s face is so fucking worth it. every time.

#myn: asks a simple question #me: here have this inexplicably long thing because apparently I don’t know when and how to shut up! #anyway yes they have a cat and he’s a boy but what do they call him? any ideas? I’m terrible at names 😭 #myn I love you thank you for this ask and for giving me something to do on the bus 😌🥰🥰 #asks #vintagelacerosette #*things i wrote

[metalheadmickey]

I would like to hear about Ians aftercare. I love mickey aftercare but everyone tell me how Mickey acts post sex towards him 🥹

☀️ hi, anon! i love this! the plan was to just give a brief description of the headcanons i have about this, but then it spiraled. so here's a short drabble about ian receiving aftercare from mickey. 💫

The blindfold is carefully slipped off of him, and Ian opens his eyes, squinting against the low lamp light. He's still dazed, and there's hot, lingering pleasure still warming him, everything just now starting to recede out of him. He's laying flat on his back, loose-limbed, sweat making him stick to the sheets. There's all kinds of shuffling beside him as he takes his shuddering, uneven breaths, and he sees that it's Mickey stacking pillows against the headboard.

Mickey pulls a towel off the nightstand where it had been waiting for them, and then he's right beside him again, blessedly close and comforting, kneeling over him and so, so gently wiping him down. Slow drags on his skin, the softest touch he can manage. Ian hisses when he dabs around his cock, still so sensitive, and Mickey soothes him with a hand on his stomach, murmuring, "sorry, I got you..."

When Mickey leans away to drop the towel onto the floor and rummage around on the nightstand, Ian brings his hands up to his face, closing his eyes and wiping away sweat. He groans when he gets the spins to a surprisingly unbearable degree, opening his eyes back up quickly and trying to focus his vision on a single point on the ceiling, trying to ground himself. His head is all cottony. There's a dull ringing in his ears.

He doesn't normally go completely nonverbal the way Mickey so often does, so he's able to mumble "C'mere, please," and bat a hand out toward his husband, smacking the mattress.

"I'm comin'," Mickey assures him, shuffling over with a water bottle in hand. He drops it on the mattress to take Ian's face in his hands, cradling him sweetly, his touch so warm. "Wanna sit up for me?"

"Mmm," Ian grunts agreeably. Yeah, he wants to sit up. So he can drink the water Mickey has for him. He wants to feel more steady. He wants...ah. He wants a fucking hug.

He groggily heaves himself up, and then Mickey's helping him ease back against the pillows he's stacked for him, all nestled and propped up and cozy. His husband slides into his lap, straddling him and pressed so close, all warm and soft and so lovely and loving. His arms wrap around Ian's shoulders, and Ian buries himself in him. Yes, this is it. Such a good fucking hug. He lets his hands rest on Mickey's hips, his face pressed against his neck, breathing in that warm, slightly musky smell of him, familiar and beautiful. They sit like this for a moment, and his head begins to clear.

He peers over Mickey's shoulder and sees the cuffs lying unbuckled on the bed, the blindfold discarded beside them. He wraps his arms tighter around Mickey, taking one wrist in hand against Mickey's lower back and rubbing it tenderly, remembering. He felt so good. He feels so good.

"Here, drink," Mickey says softly, leaning away to grab the water, Ian unwinding his arms from around him. He unscrews the cap and hands it over, and Ian carefully takes it from him. He holds it with both hands, not trusting his trembling fingers to grasp it with just one. He takes a couple of sips, and fuck, that feels good on his raw throat. It cools him down.

Mickey watches him drink it, then takes it from him when he's done.

"Feelin' alright, tough guy?" he asks sweetly. Ian nods. "Want a snack?" And how is that so cute?

"Yeah." Ian nods again.

Staying firmly seated on Ian, Mickey leans aside again and grabs the little packet on the nightstand. It's trail mix, but it's the kind that's mostly chocolate. Just a bag of candy, really. Ian's got a hell of a sweet tooth, especially after this kind of exertion, and Mickey knows it. He's prepared.

Ian smiles as Mickey carefully rips open the bag and reaches in. He holds up an m&m, and Ian opens his mouth, still smiling. He lets Mickey feed him, laughing a little bit.

"You're cute," he says as he chews.

"Fuck off," Mickey replies, no heat to it. And then, "You're fuckin' cute."

He feeds him another piece of chocolate.

"I can do this part, baby," Ian says as Mickey digs into the bag again. "Can feed myself." Not that he minds, really. He likes this kind of attention.

And Mickey looks at him all soft then, in that way that he does sometimes when he's about to be earnest and sweet, and it's got Ian melting a little bit already.

"I wanna do it," he says. Ian's heart clenches.

"Okay."

He lounges there, leaning back against pillows that his husband piled up for him so he would be comfy, said husband in his lap and being the perfect grounding weight and presence, eating chocolate that his husband slips between his lips with fingers that had only just been wrecking and unraveling him. And he enjoys feeling wholly treasured, entirely taken care of.

#why does the thought of them feeding each other always send me spiraling #anyway yeah the aftercare that ian gets involves mickey feeding him little bits of candy because it's cute and i say so #hope this is the sort of answer you were looking for anon! #gallavich #gallavich headcanon #my fic #barely a fic but whatever #it's something #asks

[heymacy]

I love all those sentence prompts you just posted.😂 But I feel like the most appropriate one is probably:

“So why did I have to punch that guy?”

Thank you Arrow!! 💗

Ridiculous Sentence Prompts: "So why did I have to punch that guy?"

--

There were only a few things left in the world that made Mickey really, really angry.

The first was their property manager, Melanie, and her stupid-ass dog with its stupid, stupid diaper.

The second was the fact that a single can of beer cost four times more on the West Side than it did back in their old neighborhood. What special brand of bullshit were these crunchy granola hippies trying to churn out at the Wine, Etc. store, anyway?

The third thing, and probably the only one that would stick around after he adjusted to his new life above the poverty line, was any time that anyone disrespected, hurt, or even mildly annoyed his husband.

Every time they dealt with an irritating client or an overzealous new employee, Mickey would clench his teeth and fight the urge to knock them on their ass. One hit was all it would take, he knew that for certain. He'd taken down Ian's exes, family members, hell, even Ian himself on a few occasions, with a single punch to the throat.

Now, he was an adult, a business owner, a husband and partner that needed to play by society's rules if they were ever going to crawl out of the gutter completely.

The very idea made Mickey's teeth ache.

He bit his bottom lip while they sat side-by-side in their booth at the Alibi, waiting for some schmuck to meet them for an interview.

"We need to start interviewing the guys we hire, Mickey," Ian had said one night while cooking dinner. He chopped the carrots and celery on the wooden cutting board while Mickey sat slumped on the couch, nursing a beer and watching a TikTok Mandy had sent him earlier that day.

He looked up at his husband as he watched an orange and white cat chow down on kibble after his automatic feeder malfunctioned.

Mandy 🌻 (6:09pm): plz tell ian this is him in cat form

Mickey snorted at his phone, barely registering Ian's comment.

"Mick?" Ian tried again, and Mickey looked up from his phone.

"Hmm?" he replied through a mouthful of beer.

"I said we need to start interviewing the guys we hire," Ian said again, using the knife to scrape the carrots and celery off of the cutting board and into the giant pot he had boiling on the stove. Mickey wasn't sure what he was making, but it smelled amazing.

"What for? Those resumé things ain't good enough for you?" Mickey's mouth quirked up on the side as he tried to hide a smirk.

Ian rolled his eyes and used the comically oversized wooden spoon to stir his soup.

"No, Mick. So we don't have another Connor situation."

Mickey snorted. Connor was a dipshit they'd hired back in April to help with pickups, a dipshit that had cost the company almost $2,500 after he "forgot" to make the deposit with Ian and Mickey at the end of his scheduled route.

"I mean, his name's Connor. Kinda feel like you should've known what you were walkin' in to with that one."

"I'm serious," Ian said. "Interviews. We gotta do 'em." He stirred the soup vigorously, the spoon clanking against the side of the pot with every twist.

Mickey sighed deeply and rolled his eyes.

"Fine, we'll interview some new guys. But we're not doing it at a Starbucks or some shit. I'm not ready to go full West Side." He scrunched up his nose and made a face, to which Ian just chuckled.

"Glad you're on board," he teased, getting back to work on his soup, which had started to bubble.

--

Kev and Vee had moved to Louisville a month before, transferring ownership of the bar to Carl and Officer Tipping, who promised to keep everything just as it was. It gave Mickey a sense of calm knowing that even as the rest of his old neighborhood was slipping away, his adolescent stomping grounds now littered with coffee shops and yoga studios, some things remained the same.

He ran his fingers along the familiar crack in the table, a sharp sensation prodding the pads of his fingertips and helping him forget, even temporarily, what they were there to do.

Ian smacked the back of Mickey's hand gently.

"Stop it," he said, referring to the way Mickey was two seconds away from giving himself a splinter.

Mickey huffed and rolled his eyes.

"What's this guy's name again?"

Ian looked at his phone where he had an email pulled up. He glanced over the message then scrolled to the bottom.

"Derek," he said plainly.

"Derek," Mickey mocked, and Ian whacked him in the chest with the back of his hand.

"Knock it off," he said, and Mickey rolled his eyes again.

"Whatever. He's late anyway, let's just bail and go get some pizza."

"He's not late, Mickey. It's only..." he looked at his watch. "3:58. He's got three minutes until he's late."

Just then, as if summoned by Ian's voice, a tall, lanky, blond man walked through the front door of the bar and made his way towards the back corner booth where Ian and Mickey sat.

"You guys Ian and Mackie?"

Ian snorted as he tried to hide his laughter. Mickey rolled his eyes a third time, this time so hard that it was honestly impressive he didn't snap his optic nerves in the process.

"Mickey," Ian corrected politely. He nudged his husband with his elbow and the two of them climbed out of the booth to meet with their interviewee.

Ian shook his hand firmly.

"I'm Ian, and this is my husband Mickey." He smiled and turned to Mickey, who was standing with his hands in his pockets and giving Derek, all six feet two inches of him, an intense once-over. Elbowing his husband for a second time, Mickey relented, pulling his hands from his pockets and reaching out to shake Derek's hand. His giant palm was cold and clammy but also somehow uncomfortably hot. Mickey grimaced.

"Hey," he said gruffly. "Mickey."

"Derek," the other man said as they shook hands. "So you two are married?"

Ian nodded.

"Little over a year now, yeah."

Derek nodded.

"Cool, cool, cool," he said, nodding and looking around. "So this place is...interesting."

The judgmental and condescending way Derek said "interesting" wasn't new or unusual to either of them, but tall lanky blond bitches with North Side energy and a terrible fade saying "interesting" like they wanted to say "disgusting" made Mickey's blood boil.

He clenched his fist without even realizing what he was doing. Ian noticed immediately when Mickey's shoulders tensed up, stiffening in a way that reminded Ian of a startled cat, and he turned to climb back in the booth. He squeezed Mickey's arm once, twice, and dragged him down into the booth with him.

"It was a family friend's place," Ian said, nonchalant, eager to move the conversation away from the Alibi and towards their business. "So, Derek, on your resume, I see that you worked--"

Derek cut Ian off mid-sentence.

"Have they ever thought about turning this place into some sort of art installation or something? Just with the open floor plan and the exposed pipes, it's very pseudo-industrial-chic."

If they hadn't already assumed before by his distinct vocal fry and the smell of coconut hair gel, Derek's use of the term "pseudo-industrial-chic" solidified what the other two already knew: there were three gay motherfuckers in this booth.

Ian stuttered for a second, surprised by Derek's interjection and resistance to changing the subject.

"Don't think so, no." He grabbed his phone and opened up the Gmail app again. "So, anyway, your resume says you worked at--"

"You know what would be really cool in here? A movement class. I went to one in LA once that was hosted by Gwyneth Paltrow and it was liberating."

Mickey snorted and Ian elbowed him in the ribs.

"I bet it was," Ian said, unamused at Derek's refusal to talk about his work history. "So you worked at--"

"Have you guys ever been to LA? Oh my god, it's the best. So chic. I mean, I'm from Evanston originally, so basically anything is chic in comparison. I mean, not here, obviously, but you know. Other places."

Ian sighed.

"Totally," he said. "So, your work history, it says--"

"Hey, do you guys know what the best dispensary is around here? Preferably something upscale, with those iPads you can order on. I need a few new carts--"

"Dude," Mickey cut in. "Can you shut the fuck up for five seconds?"

Derek looked surprised, and Mickey could hear Ian's sharp, apprehensive inhale.

"Excuse me?" Derek said, holding his hand to his chest.

"He's been trying to ask you the same question since we sat down, and you won't shut the fuck up about chic cities and weed, so if you could just answer our questions, that would be great." He looked over at Ian, whose eyes were wide and hesitant, unsure about how things were about to unfold.

"You're very rude," Derek said to Mickey, giving him a scowl.

Mickey snorted.

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know."

Derek's eyes narrowed and his forehead wrinkled up, agitated.

"You should be nicer to the people you want to hire." He crossed his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

Mickey laughed out loud.

"Dude, who says we wanna hire you? I'm pretty sure if you worked for us, I'd blow my brains out in the first two minutes."

Ian tried and failed miserably to conceal his laughter, covering his mouth with his hand and looking down at the table. Mickey leaned over towards his husband.

"I kinda wanna punch this guy in the mouth," he mumbled, and Ian side-eyed him from where he sat beside him.

"Please don't," he replied in a whisper before composing himself and turning back to Derek.

"Look, Derek, you seem like a nice guy, but I don't think this is gonna work out." He held out his hand to signal that the interview was over, but Derek didn't return his handshake. Instead, he pouted like a toddler that had just been scolded for bad behavior.

"Your husband's a dick," Derek said to Ian, and Mickey could literally feel Ian's body stiffen next to him.

"Hey," Mickey said, putting his hand on Ian's knee. "Forget it. Let's go get pizza."

"No," Ian said sternly, turning back to Derek. "Listen, dude, you're also kind of a dick, so why don't we just call this a wash and you can go track down your carts or whatever."

Mickey bit his lip, fighting a smile. He secretly loved when Ian got defensive, as long as it wasn't directed towards him.

"You're both dicks!" Derek said, slamming his hands down on the table. He slid out of the booth and stood up, and Mickey and Ian did the same. The three men stood there, Derek facing the husbands with a pissed-off expression.

"You should go," Ian said, pointing at the door.

Derek snorted.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised. When the ad said South Side, I knew there was a good chance the owners were a couple of trashy, ghetto assholes. But him?" He pointed at Mickey. "He's a world-class dick."

Before Derek could say anything else, he was cut off by a fist to the jaw and dropped to the floor, unconscious.

The ambient chatter and loud clacking of billiard balls came to a halt as the regulars that sat scattered around the Alibi turned in unison to see what had happened. Once they identified the source of the loud "thud" as one of the Gallagher-Milkovich boys knocking out some blond giant, they immediately turned back to their various activities.

Just another day on the South Side.

Ian cupped his right fist in his left hand and turned to Mickey, bewildered.

"I just punched that guy, Mick," he said, genuinely surprised. "I knocked him out. Shit."

Mickey shrugged.

"He kinda deserved it."

Ian looked at Mickey with a really? sort of expression and shook his head back and forth.

"Still," he said, turning to look at Derek, sprawled out unconscious on the floor like a rag doll.

"C'mon man, it's fine. He'll come to, and when he does, we'll be long gone." He grabbed Ian's upper arm and gave him a tug, but Ian just sat back down in the booth.

"Why did I do that?" he asked, but Mickey knew he was talking only to himself. He sat down beside his husband, stepping over Derek's long ass leg on his way back to the booth.

"I mean, you kinda had to."

Ian looked over at Mickey, eyebrows raised. He stared at his husband for a moment, puzzling, before breaking into a smile.

"What?" Mickey asked, confused as to how Ian could go from having some sort of moral crisis over knocking out a hipster to grinning gleefully at his husband in a half second. Ian reached over and put his hand on Mickey's thigh. Immediately, the mood shifted. Pool cues squeaked as they were chalked up and glasses clinked on the countertops. The distinct chhh-chhh sound of a spray bottle punctured Mickey's ear drums as he looked down at his husband's hand on his thigh.

"So," Ian said, voice quieter than before. "Why did I have to punch that guy?"

Mickey smirked. He could be honest, and say the obvious reason, which was that Derek was a total douche canoe and deserved to be socked in the mouth by someone his own size. He could lie, and say it was because Derek seemed dangerous and Ian was just following his instincts, but that would have been the lie of the fucking century.

Instead, he said neither, and opted for something he knew would make Ian smile.

"Because you love me."

Ian's face broke into a full grin and he giggled, leaning over to kiss his husband once, quickly, well-aware of Mickey's hesitancy towards PDA when they were out and about on the South Side.

When he pulled back, he was smirking, and Mickey knew his cheeks were flushed. He hadn't been expecting the kiss, however brief it was, and his stomach felt a little fluttery.

"I mean, I'm not the kind of guy that just stands by and lets people talk shit about the man he loves." He grinned and Mickey rolled his eyes, remembering Ian telling him about the last words he'd said to Glittery Twink Byron the night they'd gotten engaged.

"You're a fuckin' sap, man."

"True," Ian said, standing up from the booth and stepping over Derek's leg as Mickey had done minutes before. He reached out his hand and pulled his husband from the booth. The two of them stood there momentarily, staring at Derek's lump of a body on the sticky, peanut-shell covered floor.

"Should we like, do something?" Mickey asked, kicking Derek's foot with his own boot. The man didn't move a muscle. Mickey wondered for a second if he might be dead, but the shallow rise and fall of the douche canoe's chest let him know that unfortunately, for all of humankind, the asshole was still alive.

Ian shook his head.

"Nah, he can sleep it off."

He reached down and took Mickey's hand in his own.

"C'mon," he said as he dragged them both towards the door. "Let's go get pizza."

#writing prompts #sentence prompts #ficlet #the husband energy is strong with this one #shameless

[unbridgeabledistances]

some ian/mickey prompts! (this is not a demand, just some ideas☺️)

• waking up/going to sleep

• cuddling

• domestic scenes in general

• hurt/comfort scenarios

• being in each other’s company (like ur recent fic) and falling in love with each other again

I really don’t know how to describe but I hope these are enough?

<3 ah thank u so much for these ideas anon! i couldn’t fall asleep last night bc i was stressed about a bunch of stuff, so i started to write this little bit of nighttime fluff that seems to fit with your requests:) i hope u enjoy!!

a drabble where ian can’t sleep, and mickey comforts him (can be set as a little coda to 11x05)

--

It was the dead of night at the Gallagher house— Ian was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes trying pierce through the blanket of darkness to count the cracks in the crumbling plaster above him and listening for something, anything, to distract his mind and finally get him to go the fuck to sleep. But it was no use— it was so late that even the usual summer chatter that bubbled up from the South Side street corners into open windows on wafts of summer air had stilled, leaving Ian sweaty and tired and restlessly laying in bed. Ian was more than tired; he was fucking exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed and scratchy and his muscles tense and rigid. Most nights Ian slept well, or slept okay at the least—he kind of had to learn to sleep in any situation after sharing a room with Lip and Carl and Liam for his entire childhood, always plagued with slamming doors and shouting voices. It wasn’t noise that usually kept Ian awake on nights like tonight, it was silence— a deafening, pounding silence that felt like it was crawling under his skin.

He looked over at Mickey, curled tightly on the opposite side of the bed, facing the wall with his arms around his chest and the covers practically up to his chin, the only really visible part of him the sliver of pale skin at the back of his neck that reflected the gauzy moonlight that was streaming in through the blinds. Ian noticed how comfortably Mickey’s face was pressed into the pillow, with even breaths escaping his half-open mouth, and instantly felt a pang of envy. That was the thing about Mickey—he never really had trouble sleeping. Mickey could always drift off the second he hit the sheets, whatever voices that lived inside his head easily quieting when the lights were dim and the world was still. Ian didn’t get it—the voices in his head always ramped up when the lights turned off, always churned and swirled and made him question his entire existence in the stagnant, pitch-black silence— and usually Ian could quiet them, after a little while, but on a night like tonight Ian knew he’d be stuck in the spiral, with his heart racing, until the sun came up. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to will his body to relax.

Ian could feel an odd sense of panic bubbling up in his throat as he laid there unmoving, feeling suffocated by the heat of the deep, dark night pressing in on him. His legs felt tingly and restless, and his head was throbbing because of how tired he was but the static in his mind kept whirring, like a broken radio set to the wrong frequency. He sighed loudly, letting the air burning in his lungs fizzle out of him, just wanting to penetrate the thick silence. He just wanted to be asleep—he was supposed to get up early to put the coffee on before Lip had a job interview, and then he wanted to go for a jog before he and Mickey had a shit ton of weed runs to do that would jam-pack the entire day tomorrow…

Beside him, Mickey shuffled beneath the covers. Ian froze. Fuck, he did not want to wake Mickey up right now. Mickey was crabby and groggy on the best of mornings, but when he didn’t get enough sleep he was truly a force to be reckoned with.

Unfortunately, Ian’s prayers went unanswered. Mickey drew in a deep breath, rustling under the sheets once more.

“Okay Gallagher, what’re you sighing for?” Mickey’s flat, muffled voice piped up from under his blanket cocoon, low and throaty and full of sleep. He sounded exasperated and deflated, and definitely not fully awake.

Ian let out another long breath, more quietly this time. “Nothing, Mick. Go back to sleep.”

But of course, instead of listening, Mickey aggressively yawned and turned over, stretching to shift his body weight and turn onto his opposite side to face Ian. Ian just remained where he was laying, his head lying limp and heavy on the pillow while he stared up at the ceiling.

Mickey dazedly rubbed his eyes, noticing that Ian was fully awake. Immediately, Mickey shook off the sleep that was clouding his eyes. He stared at Ian for a moment, his eyes wide and searching. After a moment, almost on reflex, he carded a quick, gentle hand through the front of Ian’s hair as he leaned in closer.

“You feeling okay?” Mickey’s voice was distant and drowsy, like he was still half-asleep but trying to will himself to wake up.

Am I feeling okay? There was so much latent meaning wrapped up in that question, and Ian felt a cavernous gratefulness bloom in his chest that this was the way Mickey asked—he wasn’t assuming that Ian being manic was the reason that he couldn’t sleep, but he didn’t rule it out either. Mickey was just waiting for Ian to tell him what he was feeling, what he needed, without assuming anything about Ian’s brain before Ian did.

Am I feeling okay?

Ian swallowed, his glassy eyes still fixated on the cracks in the ceiling that he could barely make out in the dark.

“Yeah. S’not anything to worry about, I’ve been taking my meds. I’m just… stressed out I guess.” Ian could hear the fatigue dripping from his voice as it glided across the darkness.

Mickey was still staring at Ian, his gaze piercing and concerned.

“Stressed out?” Mickey questioned lowly, like he’d never heard the two words before.

“Yes, Mickey, stressed out. I don’t know, it’s fucking stupid, just go back to bed.” Ian sighed in frustration.

Instead, Mickey shifted again, propping himself up on his elbow and leaning fully on his side, looking like a teenage girl at a sleepover who was ready to hear some juicy gossip.

“Well I’m awake now, mouth-breather, so why don’t you tell me what you’re worried about?”

Ian gave a quiet, strangled chuckle. What the fuck was he supposed to say? It just fucking sucked to not be able to sleep, to lie there frustrated with dry eyes and a parched throat, grasped tight in the clutches of whatever worries were lying hollow and dark in the pit of his stomach and not being able to do anything about it.

Ian knew it was stupid, but for the last few months he had been pretty much the only one worrying about keeping things together— getting steady money, putting aside fucking savings, trying to keep the house intact and fill the gaping hole Fiona left behind that Ian still just didn’t fit into right, for the sake of Liam and Franny and Carl now that Lip had moved out. Ian had never really given a shit about money, until he had to start caring about everyone else—and it didn’t bother him, it really didn’t, but now that Ian was caught in this fucking sticky silence, he realized how much worrying about taking care of everyone else was actually wearing him down, grinding away at him bit by bit without him noticing.

He exhaled a heavy, trembling breath.

“Just. I don’t know. Worried about money, I guess? And worried about our job. I know we agreed on guns, and I totally fucking get that now, but I’ve never done a job that’s so… dangerous? And then I’m panicking because what if we make total asses of ourselves with this business bullshit and fail and lose everything, and then we’d be back to square one…”

Mickey just sat there perched on his elbow, listening. He wordlessly reached to press the pad of his thumb to Ian’s forehead, above his eyebrows, smoothing the worry lines and creases that started to bloom there as Ian spoke.

“And I just… I don’t know, my heart’s just fucking racing for some reason tonight and I can’t make it stop.”

Mickey continued to silently run his thumb gently on Ian’s face, tracing above his eyebrow and the side of his temple in a soothing pattern that made Ian’s eyes want to flutter shut for the first time in hours.

“S’there anything I can do?” Mickey’s gravelly, sleepy voice cut through the darkness.

Ian peeled his eyes from the ceiling, and shifted them to meet Mickey’s. He was still staring down at Ian with searing concern, like Ian’s stupid fucking worries were a big deal if they were making him feel this distressed.

“It’s fine, Mick. Just get some sleep.” Ian held Mickey’s gaze for a moment, expecting him to turn back over and wrap the blankets around himself.

Instead, Mickey curled closer, draping a heavy arm over Ian’s waist, followed by a thick and heavier thigh between Ian’s legs, his nose nuzzling into the side of Ian’s neck. Ian froze, just for a moment—Mickey definitely usually wasn’t the one to initiate tender touches of intimacy, but he was half-asleep and he knew how much Ian needed this right now, knew it would calm his racing heart down to a steady beat. Instantly, Ian felt something, some heaviness that was burrowed deep in his chest, dissipate at Mickey’s touch.

“Mick,” Ian said. There was something in his lungs, in his throat, on his tongue. He didn’t know what it was. All he knew is that his heartbeat was slowing, his blood was running through his veins at a normal speed again, and the pressure building in his head starting to dissipate.

“This okay?” Mickey was almost asleep again, and mumbled the words into the crook of Ian’s neck, his breath tickling Ian’s chin.

Ian breathed out with relief, curling a hand over Mickey’s shoulders and drinking in the feeling of Mickey’s warm skin nestled against his, a grounding, solid weight holding him at bay. “Yeah, this is good.”

#wishing u sweet dreams wherever u are <3 #am i just fully projecting onto ian in this one??? yes #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #ian and mickey

[mickey-millagher]

Mickey stepped out onto the Gallagher front porch, his current search for his husband had been so far been fruitless but the ladder leaned up against the porch roof was starting to shed some light on his whereabouts.

Making his way down the front steps and looking up, Mickey was greeted by the shock of red hair belonging to the one and only Ian Gallagher.

“Ian the fuck are you doing up there?”

Ian looked down, seemingly unsurprised by Mickey’s presence, which really in itself wasn’t shocking, the two of them had hardly spent any time apart since they got married.

“Liam and Franny’s frisbee got stuck up here, said I’d get it back for them.”

Mickey rolled his eyes at his do-gooder husband. “Ain’t you meant to have someone holding those things?”

“Worried about my safety Mick?” Ian grinned down at him.

Mickey was about to reply that no, he absolutely was not, and fuck you for thinking so, when a gunshot rang out from around the corner. Ian with his soft centre that no years of hardship seemed to ever quite have stamped out of him, jumped at the noise, the motion causing him to lose his footing and go falling to the ground, ladder right after him.

“Fuck, Ian.” Mickey yelled, rushing to the younger mans side, pushing the ladder off of him where it had landed on his face, a cut to start swelling up in its wake.

“Hey, hey you okay?”

No response.

“Fuck.”

Mickey, quickly checked for breathing, letting out a sign of relief when he felt his husbands steady breath still coming through. Pulling Ian’s head onto his lap he then got out his phone to call for an ambulance.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance, my husband hit his head and he’s not waking up.”

“Okay sir, can you tell me your location?”

“Err shit um.” He quickly looked up at the house number. “2119 South Wallace.”

“Okay an ambulance is coming. I need you to answer a few questions for me. Is your husband still breathing?”

“Yeah, he’s breathing fine.”

“Good, that’s a really good sign. And his pulse?”

“Fuck, I don’t know, he’s the one who knows all the medical shit.”

“Take his wrist and place your thumb on the outside corner.” The voice guided him through.

Mickey placed the phone on the grass to follow the woman’s instructions. Clumsily attempting to pinpoint Ian’s pulse, a nurse of sheer panic flew through him when he couldn’t immediately find it, his breath coming out in quick, jagged pants when he did locate Ian’s, thankfully, steady pulse.

“Yeah, his pulse is good.” Mickey breathed down the phone.

“Okay, these are all good signs. The ambulance should be with you soon but your husband should be okay in the mean time.”

“Should be?” But the phone line was already dead.

“Shit, c’mon Gallagher, get up you stubborn son of a bitch.”

Maybe he heard him or maybe it was coincidence but at that moment Ian let out a groan.

“Ian?”

“Mickey?” Ian blinked, confused, back up at him. Unsteadily pulling himself up from the shorter mans lap.

“Woah, easy, you took a fucking nose dive off the roof.”

Ian stared back at him, drawing in on himself slightly.

“What?” The younger man asked.

“You don’t remember?”

Ian shook his head, immediately wincing and bringing a hand up to his head.

“What are you still doing here?” Ian asked after a second.

The question took Mickey aback.

“Where the fuck else would I be?”

Ian shrugged, crawling back to lean against the chainlink fence.

“Most people don’t stick around after a breakup.”

It was Mickeys turn to stare, not understanding a word that was coming out of his husbands mouth.

“What the fuck are you talking about? That fall knock a few screws loose? We just got married, that was the end of our breakups.” Mickey said, wiggling his ring finger in front of Ian to prove his point.

Ian stared at the ring wrapped around Mickeys finger before lifting up his own left hand to examine his finger ring. He touched the ring with such a mixture of emotions, Mickey couldn’t even pinpoint them all. Confusion, disbelief, shock, fear, and awe, being among them.

Ian’s eyes flickered back up to Mickey’s, mouth open no doubt to ask another strange and confusing question when the sirens sound came blearing down the street.

“We got a call that a man had suffered a head wound at this address?” The first paramedic out of the ambulance asked.

Mickey pointed them over towards Ian.

“My husband. He just woke up and he’s been acting fucking weird since.”

The paramedics came over to where Ian was hunched by the fence.

“Hello, sir. We heard you had an accident.”

Ian shrugged, not paying much attention to the people in front of him, his focus still on the ring on his finger.

“Sir, could you tell us your name?”

“Ian Gallagher.” He replied softly, having yet to look up at the paramedics.

“Hi, Ian. Would you mind if I looked at your head?” The male paramedic asked.

Again Ian shrugged, moving slightly away from the fence to allow better access.

While the male paramedic examined Ian, the female one crouched within his eyesight.

“Hey Ian, could you answer just a couple of questions for me?”

“Okay.”

“Great.” The woman replied, way too brightly for someone who was meant to be making sure Ian was okay, at least in Mickey’s opinion. “What do you remember prior to the impact?”

Ian’s eyes flickered up to meet Mickey’s before looking back at the paramedic.

“Umm, I’d just gotten back from a trip with my mom.”

Mickey stilled, Ian’s answers earlier had been strange but not thinking he’d been hanging out with his dead mother strange.

“Do you remember what lead to you hitting your head?” The paramedic asked, this time using a light to shine into Ian’s eyes while she waited for his answer.

“No.” Ian replied, wincing slightly as the other paramedic continued his check of Ian’s skull.

“Okay that’s perfectly normal. Can you tell me what year it is?”

“2014.” Ian’s answer came with no hesitation but the simple date brought Mickey’s world grounding to a halt.

2014, that was the year Ian had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. The year Mickey had been sentenced to fifteen years behind bars. And the year Ian had torn his heart to shreds in this very front yard.

No wonder Ian had been confused by his presence, why he thought they were broken up, why he didn’t know they were married.

The paramedic however seemed to just take this answer in her stride. “Do you know where we are?”

“This is my house.”

“Do you know who the president is?”

“Obama?” Ian asked, getting confused by the random questions.

“okay, and finally, can you tell me the days of the week backwards?”

“Umm, Sunday, Saturday, Friday— fuck it’s um.” Ian’s eyes flickered back to Mickey in a panic.

“Hey, it’s okay, there’s no wrong answers here, we just need to access how best to help you.” This came from the male paramedic, who had apparently finished his head assessment.

“It’s um— Thursdays, Wednesday, Tuesday, Monday.”

“That’s great Ian.”

“So I’m okay?”

“Ian, have you heard of the condition amnesia?”

“Yeah?” Ian replied, a slight questioning lilt to his voice, not yet understanding what Mickey was just starting to piece together.

“During my questions you said you believe it’s 2014 and that Obama is President. Do you still believe that?”

“Yes?” Ian replied, nerves now clouding his voice.

“Ian, the year is 2020.” The paramedic informed him gently.

Ian looked between the two health workers before looking up to Mickey, as if to ask for confirmation.

Mickey nodded and Ian let out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes while leaning back against the fence while he took it all in.

“We’d like for you to come down to the hospital so we can run some routine tests to make sure you’re okay. Amnesia is common after head wounds and usually goes away on its own but it’s important we check nothing else is going on.”

Ian nodded, getting up slowly from his position to follow them to the ambulance.

Mickey made to go after him.

“You don’t have to come, you don’t owe me anything.” Ian said when he heard the footsteps following him.

Mickey was glad Ian was facing away from him so he couldn’t see how much those words broke his heart.

“Fuck off Gallagher, I know I don’t owe you shit, still gonna make sure you’re okay.”

“I don’t need a nurse.” Ian complained, now turning to face the older man.

“Think the doc said the opposite.”

Ian huffed at his answer but made no more moves to stop Mickey from following him into the ambulance.

~page break-

The L ride back to the house had been spent in silence, the walk from the L didn’t seem to be faring any better. The doctors at the hospital had cleared Ian of any major damage, just a slight concussion and told them to come back in a week if his memory still hadn’t improved. Stupid doctors go to all their fancy medical schools but still couldn’t help Ian when he was hurt.

“You don’t have to come back to the house you know.” It was the first thing Ian had said since they left the hospital.

“Considering I live there I kinda fucking do.”

“Right.” Ian started fiddling with his wedding ring, going back to looking between Mickey and the ring like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

They fell back into silence for a couple more minutes.

“Why did you want to marry me?” The voice came out small, the words so vividly reminiscent of Ian’s fears before their wedding. Words and worries that they’d moved past, but only Mickey remembered that now.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Mickey laughed, there was no joy in it but once he started he found it incredibly hard to stop.

Ian stood there in alarm, watching Mickey have his, breakdown? Was this a breakdown? It felt like a breakdown. All there years of life constantly pulling them apart was meant to be over and now Ian couldn’t even remember it. He should’ve known not to get too settled.

“Have you gone fucking crazy too?”

That just made him laugh more. Mickey shook his head at his husband, taking a couple of minutes to calm himself down.

“You’re not fucking crazy.”

“Yes I am. There’s too much wrong with me, why would you choose to tie yourself down to me? I have nothing to offer you.”

“We got married cause we fucking love each other.” Mickey replied, Ian’s words from the diner proposal ringing in his ears.

“What so we really did go down to the courthouse in some tuxes like a couple of old queens?” Ian asked with a small joyless laugh.

“Polish Doll actually.”

“Aren’t they homophobes?”

“Worked around it.” Mickey replied, lips twitching upwards just at the memory of that day. “C’mon man, let’s not do this here.”

Ian sighed but seemed slightly more accepting of Mickey coming home with him now, or at least he wasn’t outwardly fighting it as they continued the short trudge back to the South Wallace house.

“I’m tired, think I’m gonna go to bed early.”

“You sure that’s okay? They said you had a concussion.”

“A mild concussion. And it’s fine, as long as I can walk straight and keep a conversation I can sleep.”

Mickey’s heart leapt up in his chest at those words, was he starting to remember?

“You remember all that medical shit?”

“What medical shit? Carl’s always getting concussions so I remember that stuff.”

Mickey tried to hide his disappointment but probably not well enough as Ian gave him a weird look before shaking his head and climbing up the stairs.

Mickey sighed as he watched the retreating form of his husband, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes that he refused to let fall as he headed to get a beer from the fridge. The first of likely many this evening.

Mickey was halfway through his second one when the front door opened, Carl, Debbie and Franny coming into the house, with the two siblings arguing about some dumb shit or other. The noise soon bringing Liam down from his room.

Not for the first time Mickey was grateful for how self obsessed the majority of the Gallaghers were. Liam had acknowledged him before being dragged into whatever drama his siblings had going on, while Franny was too invested in her cartoons to notice much. Meaning Mickey got away with mostly staying out of it while he finished his beer before deciding it was time to check on his husband.

Slowly pulling the accordion door open, Mickey swore his beat stopped when he saw that the room was empty, remembering teenaged Ian’s tendency to run when things got hard. Pulling back quickly, Mickey scanned the first floor of the house before landing on the slightly ajar door to the old boys room.

Rushing down the hall, Mickey only felt like he could breathe again once the rickety old door was open and he could see Ian curled up on his old bed, having forgotten he ever moved rooms.

Mickey went back to their bedroom, digging around under the bed to find the wedding album he’d created with Franny not that long ago. His young niece insisting she’d be a big help. The overall look ended up being slightly childish but it would still hopefully have the desired effect today, to get Ian to realised what he hadn’t been able to six years ago. That he loved him and wasn’t going anywhere.

Back in the boys room, Mickey carefully placed the album down on the side table. Leaning over he ran his fingers through Ian’s hair, the younger man nuzzling into his hand even in his sleep, looking so peaceful all the while.

Mickey couldn’t bring himself to wake him up, if he didn’t have his memories back, all being awake would bring him was pain and misery. At least in his sleep he he could be happy.

Mickey grabbed a pillow from the abandoned third bed and lay down on the floor to wait, he didn’t want to be too far away from Ian, not right now but the days events had been too exhausting. He just needed to close his eyes for a few seconds

~page break-

When Ian woke up the room was lit only by the moonlight streaming in through the window. He could hear snores coming from the other occupants of the room, Carl up in the bunk bed and— Mickey sleeping on the floor? Ian remembered the events of the day, the doctors who told him he’d forgotten six years of his life, and Mickey who had stayed by his side throughout all of it, not caring about the breakup. Although, he supposed, to Mickey that must seem like ancient history by now.

Leaning over to properly look at his now husband, Ian’s eye caught something resting beside the bed that hadn’t been there before.

Picking it up he couldn’t help the small gasp that left him once he realised what was in his hands. The photo on the front was of Mickey and himself, dressed up in fancy tuxes, flipping the camera off with their other arms wrapped around each other.

Ian brushed his finger against the photo Mickey softly before slowly turning the page. The album was filled with photos upon photos of them, dancing, laughing, kissing. The ones that must have been taken while they exchanged their vows made him pause the most. The serious looks on their faces, followed by the utter joy in their grins from the pictures of them walking down the aisle together.

They fucking loved each other. After everything, they really fucking loved each other.

Ian pulled the album to his chest, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes. He wanted to keep looking but his head was hurting now more than ever and it helped to close his eyes.Still it wasn’t long before he fell asleep, soothed by the images of his wedding to the love of his life.

~page break~

Waking up groggy hours later, Ian sat up with a groan, looking around his old room and the down at the album still in his arms confused.

“Hey you’re awake, how are you feeling?” Mickey asked, sitting up from his place on the ground.

Looking at Mickey, Ian suddenly remembered everything that had happened yesterday. It was strange to remember a time that he didn’t remember so much of his life.

Ian quickly moved off the bed to wrap his arms around his husband, not being able to go without holding Mickey any longer, they’d lost enough time and yesterday only proved that.

“I’m so sorry Mick.”

Mickey tensed in his arms.

“What you sorry about?”

“Yesterday, fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know how I’d manage if all you remembered was from one of our breakups.” Ian breathed into his neck.

“You remember?” Mickey asked, not quite ready to let his guard down after the hell that had been the day before.

“I remember everything Mick.”

Ian couldn’t be sure but thought he heard a slight sob before Mickey’s arms tightened around him, bringing him as close to his body as possible.

“Don’t fucking do that again Gallagher.”

“I promise Mick.” Ian replied, kissing Mickey’s neck where his head was buried. “I’m not going anywhere.”

#amnesia fic #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #gallavich #shameless #shameless fanfic #shameless fanfiction #gallavich fanfic #gallavich fanfiction #it’s set some time between 10x12 and 11x10 I dunno when tho #this is 100% full of medical inaccuracies but I wrote it across two bad days of long Covid symptoms #and like my dissertation is due in a week so I’ve got no time or energy to properly research #I might edit this in the future and make it more realistic to post on ao3 or something #Freya’s fics

[arrowflier]

Prompt for you my lovely 😊: Ian having a bad bipolar day/really depressed and Mickey taking care of him while they still live with the Gallagher’s, maybe outsiders perspective on the way Mickey can translate Ian when he’s nonverbal or that he tries to coax Ian into eating dinner by pulling him into his lap and sharing his plate, that sort of thing and maybe someone is about to tease them but Mickey gives that glare all protective like and then they shut up:) (also can Ian be wearing Mickey hoodie or some along those lines, he’s skinny it would fit)

Thank you for the prompt! Standard disclaimer that as much as I've been writing about bipolar disorder lately I still have a lot to learn, and always want to know if it makes anyone uncomfortable.💖

Content Warnings: bipolar disorder, depressive episode, food

It had been two days since Ian left the room he had Mickey had taken over once they were both out of jail. Two days of Debbie worrying, trying to talk Mickey into taking him somewhere (The fuck are they gonna do, Raggedy-Anne, sedate him? He’s already out like a light), sending Franny up with toast and coffee like they used to do for Monica (I don't like it when he's sad, mommy), and checking the bottles of meds on the bathroom sink that Mickey swore he doled out each morning.

And Debbie remembered what it was like, with their mom. It had been scary then, too. But Monica had never been stable, and Ian…

Well. It was a lot scarier when the person that wouldn’t get out of bed was the same person that had taken you to school, and been there to pick you up. Had taught you to swim, and to fight, and to never give up.

When the person who had shown you what strength was lost their own, what were you supposed to do?

So when Ian stumbled down the stairs that morning, thin and pale and dead-eyed, Debbie wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or force-feed him pancakes until he choked on them.

She went for none of the above, and hid her wet eyes by turning back to the stovetop instead.

Franny had no such compunctions, and was out of her chair and barreling into Ian’s legs before Debbie could even think to warn her.

“Uncle Ian!” she greeted excitedly. “Are you feeling better now?”

Debbie bit her lip, turning just enough to keep an eye on them from under her hair. She hated that she felt like she had to, but it was what it was.

And right now, what it was was her older brother letting his hand fall weakly onto Franny’s head, tangling in her red hair as she pressed her face into his leg.

“Hey, Fran,” he said, voice soft and scratchy from two days not speaking in anything but a whisper. He didn’t answer her question, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Franny pulled away, Ian’s hand falling limply back to his side until she grabbed it and tried to lead him to the table.

“You must be so hungry!” Franny was saying. “Mommy, can you make Uncle Ian breakfast too?”

Debbie looked at Ian, still standing there fidgeting as Franny swung their linked hands back and forth. His face was tucked down into a hoodie that didn’t look like it belonged to him—too loose in the chest and too short on his torso, barely even hanging to his hips—and he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I don’t know, Franny,” she hesitated. “Does Uncle Ian want breakfast today?”

No response. With a sigh, Debbie quietly added another egg to the bowl she had yet to whisk, and hoped for the best.

Franny had given up on getting Ian to the table, hugging him again before taking her own seat, and he was left standing there awkwardly and alone. Debbie wondered what she should do—Should she talk to him? Ask him to sit down? Tell him it was okay if he wanted to go back upstairs?—when the back door opened, Lip coming through with baby Fred in his arms.

“Hey Debs,” Lip greeted with a nod. “Got enough food for two more?”

Like he hadn’t just marched in after almost a week of not being home, off with Tami in their new place while Debbie took care of everyone and everything else. Still, she added another egg even as she rolled her eyes.

“Depends,” she asked dryly as she did it, “Got some money for me?”

“Nope,” Lip answered, then finally noticed Ian in the corner. “Morning bro,” he started, then did a double-take.

“Are you wearing Mickey’s shirt?” he asked, smirking. Knowing him, something rude was right on that comment’s heels, so Debbie threw an eggshell at the back of his head.

She widened her eyes at him when he turned to glare, trying to gesture without Ian noticing. But Lip didn’t seem to catch on, raising his hands like he needed an explanation, and Debbie wondered, not for the first time, how someone so smart could be so fucking stupid.

Thankfully, Ian didn’t seem to notice that the question was less than genuine, and just let his face pop out from the collar to whisper, “I like the way it smells.”

“Fuck yeah you do.”

Mickey was suddenly there on the stairs behind Ian, who seemed to relax a little more when he heard his voice.

“You keep fuckin’ stealin’ it when I’m not lookin’,” Mickey accused, coming up behind Ian to wrap an arm gently around his waist.

“Better watch out,” he warned, “or one of these days it ain’t even gonna smell like me anymore, you sap.”

Ian didn’t answer, but he did lean back just a little into Mickey’s hold. It was a far cry from the way he had pulled back from Debbie’s hand the last time she tried to check on him, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved at the change or annoyed that once again, Mickey was the only one that could seem to influence him in this state.

She was glad Mickey was there for Ian, don’t get her wrong. But she wished that she was enough to help her brother without him, sometimes. They were family—she should be enough.

“Hey,” Mickey was whispering into Ian’s ear as he held him. “You wanna eat something for me?”

There was no spoken answer, and Debbie sighed, mentally recalculating the egg count yet again. Then she looked up just in time to see Ian nod, the slightest, slowest movement, and almost dropped the plate of bacon she was about to bring to the table.

“Alright,” Mickey said simply, “that’s good, Ian.”

He caught Debbie’s eye over Ian’s shoulder, and she nodded at him. Of course there was enough.

Mickey took the same hand that Franny had released minutes ago, and led Ian to the table. He glared at Lip until he got up and moved over a chair, finally having caught on to the fact that something was up, then sat down and pulled out the chair on his other side for Ian.

But Ian didn’t sit.

He stood there, hand still in Mickey’s, eyes wandering around the room like he wasn’t sure where he was. Franny waved at him from her seat when he looked past her, and his eyes caught on her smile, but moved on without returning it.

“Hey,” Mickey said softly. “C’mere.”

He tugged at their linked hands, raised his other one to clasp Ian’s elbow.

“Sit down, man,” he urged. “Come on, sit with me.”

Ian’s legs bent, and his body followed. And instead of sitting in the chair Mickey had chosen for him, he landed on Mickey’s lap, curling into his body like a child and tucking his head under Mickey’s chin.

It might have been comical, any other morning, Ian’s tall frame trying to hide within the confines of Mickey’s smaller form. It might have been sad, right now, the way he looked more like a scared little boy than the grown man they all knew he was.

Might have been, but wasn’t. Because Mickey just pressed his lips into Ian’s hair, stroked a hand down the back of the stolen hoodie Ian wore, and gestured to Debbie for a plate.

She didn’t try to speak to them when she brought it over, or when she returned with a second plate piled just as high. She didn’t try to argue when Mickey freed up his arms to grab a plate in one hand and a fork in the other, Ian still nestled in between, and dumped the entirety of Ian’s breakfast onto the same plate as his own.

And when Mickey got Ian to sit up enough to take a single bite from the fork he held to his mouth, held eye contact with Ian until he swallowed and went back for more, Debbie finally settled on something to feel.

Because Ian was alive, and out of bed, and eating. He was sitting at the table with them, at least sort of, and wiggled his fingers a little at Franny the next time she caught his eye.

Watching her daughter beam at her favorite uncles; watching her see what a real adult relationship was supposed to be like for maybe the first time; watching Lip and Fred too as they stared at Mickey taking care of Ian without concern for who might see…

Well. Mickey was there, and Mickey was family. Maybe they could be enough together.

#daily speedwrite #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #debbie gallagher #franny gallagher #lip gallagher #POV: Debbie #bipolar disorder #tw: mental health #tw: food #btw if there's any triggers anyone wants tagged in future drop me a line and i'd be happy to

[faggyangel]

It’s cold and dark, winter raging outside of their broken down home on South Wallace and Fiona’s little brother recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder. She picks up a laundry basket and heads upstairs, rubbing her eyes and running a hand through her tangled, greasy hair. She needs to brush it, she needs to take a shower, she needs to sleep. 

But she can’t. She has laundry to do and bills to pay and meals to make. She has to take care of her little brother who she can't seem to reach. She wants to help, to monitor him, but every time she tries he pushes back, the rift already forming between growing with every worried glance and pill check. 

She saw what happened to Monica, she experienced it first, she picked up the pieces with every depressive or manic episode. She was the one who stepped in every time Monica left. Even though each time, a little piece of herself was taken with her. She knows the kind of pain caused by this diagnosis, not only to the people around the person with it, but the person themself.  

So sue her for being concerned. Sue her for being overbearing. Sue her for being an older sister stricken with experience in this field. 

She snaps back to herself when she runs into Mickey Milkovich, said little brother’s boyfriend. 

“Oh, shit, sorry,” she yelps, startled by his presence. He’s been staying with them, whether because of Ian or because of his own issues, Fiona’s not sure. All she knows is this is just another mouth to feed and ex for Ian to cry about. 

And if you ask her, he isn’t worth it. Mickey’s just gonna leave as soon as he realizes this takes work. He’s gonna break her little brother’s heart and tear him to shreds just like Milkovich’s do. But she’s stuck with him, this intruder welcomed by a vulnerable Ian who’s intrigued by his dangerous nature. That’s all this is, Fiona knows because she’s been there. 

“Fuck, be quiet,” Mickey rubs his eyes, the bags underneath dark and obtrude. 

Fiona opens her mouth to argue because are you fucking kidding me? You’re living in my house and you tell me to fucking be quiet? But just as she does so, Mickey points back to the room he had just stepped out of. 

“Ian just got to bed,” Mickey looks back at the ajar door. Peeking through the crack is a fluff of red hair and pale, chubby cheeks squished against a pillow. Fiona tilts her head at the sight, she remembers putting him to bed, the only way to get him to settle down was to give him a book to read. She called him sweetface, kissed his cheek, tucked him in tight and promised to not let the monsters bite. He would giggle and tell her that he’d protect her. 

That giggle. She would give anything to hear that giggle again. 

She shakes her head and looks back to Mickey, seeing him gaze at Ian with a similar sort of fascination. 

He turns back to her and looks down at the basket she’s holding, “You need help?” 

Fiona quirks an eyebrow, “You wanna fold clothes?” 

He shrugs, “Did it all the time to help out my ma,” Fiona apparently shows how taken aback by this she is because he immediately throws up his arms, “Unless you don’t fucking want me to,” he still keeps his voice down in a hushed tone so as not to disturb Ian who stirs slightly and pulls the blanket up over his head, snuggling deeper into it. 

Fiona doesn’t say anything more, she just jerks her head downstairs and sets him up in the living room. With that job out of the way, she slips back upstairs to find more dirty laundry to throw in the washer but she gets distracted. She finds herself leaning against the door frame of Ian’s room, staring at him. 

She watches as he squishes his face deeper into the pillow and twists around in the blanket. She watches with intense affection as her heart aches. She just wants him to be happy, that’s all she’s ever wanted for her kids. She can’t stand the thought of Ian being lonely or curled up crying like she was last night. 

She watches hoping she didn’t do a bad job but something inside her tells her to doubt herself. Fiona’s never been particularly stable, yeah, probably the stablest thing they’ve ever gotten but that doesn’t say much. Her relationships are flakey and her self depreciation always comes leaking through. 

Maybe Ian will do better. Maybe Mickey will be good for him. 

But maybe he won’t be. He is a Milkovich, she knows that family of thugs and criminals and abusers. Fiona ran into their father a couple times, him always scowling yet looking her up and down with hunger in his eyes. If that’s what Mickey’s been taught, then how does she know he'll be different? What if he hurts him or gets him involved in Milkovich bullshit? 

What if she can’t protect him? She needs to protect him. 

“Hey, all your shit’s folded,” Fiona turns around to see Mickey holding up a basket of neatly folded clothes, “I didn’t know whose shit was whose aside from Ian’s so I just guessed.” 

Fiona nods and takes it from him, she’s about to walk off and sort the impressively folded laundry when Mickey speaks. 

“Does this shit get easier?” He says it quietly, almost as if he hadn’t meant for Fiona to hear. But she does. 

“Hopefully, yeah,” Fiona answers honestly, making Mickey turn his head, his eyes shining with the hint of tears. 

He sniffles and crosses his arms, puffing out his chest and turning back to Ian. Fiona scoffs and watches him walk back to Ian. Ian gently stirring at the footsteps. 

“Ah shit, man. Did I wake you?” Mickey asks not as quietly as before but still soft. Ian shakes his head, lifting up the covers for Mickey to slide in next to him. 

Fiona walks downstairs before realizing she forgot to gather up the dirty laundry. Sneaking back, she overhears conversation from Ian’s room. 

“Fucking jackass,” Fiona’s ears perk up immediately. It’s Mickey’s voice. Then she hears rustling. 

She switches into Fiona mode as her kids have begun to call it, her mind flies to the worst possible conclusion. Mickey sounds mad, maybe they’re fighting. What if Mickey hits him? What if Mickey’s hurting him?  

Then she hears a sound she hasn’t heard in so long. A sound she would have given anything to hear again. 

Ian giggles. 

That bright, affection giggle. She can almost picture his scrunched up nose, his face lifting, unable to contain his glee. 

She peeks her head into the room just for a second. She sees Mickey leaning on one elbow, tugging, no, playing with Ian’s hair. He flips it into his eyes and twists it around his finger. Ian stares up at him with a glaze that’s coated in warmth and affection. 

Then Mickey spots her and tugs his hand away. 

“Just wanted to see if you guys needed anything. Mickey,” his demeanor returns back to defensive and something about his impulsive need to cover makes Fiona’s heart ache, “You can help yourself to snacks, just be careful with the cabinets, they’ve been known to snap off from time to time, alright?” 

Mickey nods stiffly, Ian chuckles softly at his awkwardness. 

“Okay, after I sort these, I’m going to bed, wake me if you need anything, sweetface. Don’t stay up too late,” she closes the door but her instincts kick in again so she opens it one more time, “And keep it over the covers.” 

Mickey’s face goes white and he stammers, a rare trait in a Milkovich reminding her that he’s still a teenager. Albeit a teenager with a record and knuckle tats, but a teenager nonetheless. And if he can make Ian laugh like that, make him forget for a moment where they are, then he’s welcome in her home anytime.

#shameless #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #fiona gallagher #gallavich #gallavich fanfiction #summary: fiona is stressed and doesnt trust mickey but helps out a little and makes ian laugh a whole bunch and fiona changes her mind <3 #literally just mickey and fiona are both amazing and ian deserves to laugh <33 #margo writes