Chapter Text
Lucy rolled over, groaning and internally cursing her body’s natural alarm clock for always getting her up for work on Saturdays. Her husband was still dead to the world, forehead creased and lips etched into a frown. She felt her chest warm at the sight, and placed a gentle hand on his cheek, sweeping her thumb back and forth. The corners of his mouth perked up slightly at her touch, and a twinge of sadness pricked at her; he’d been through so much. First Ian, revealing his abuse, then his mother dying, and now Monica’s sudden reappearance. He was still reeling from everything Ian had been through, and the extra stressors on top of it all were hell on him.
Guilt welled up in her at that thought. She hadn’t done much of anything to help him, standing by powerlessly as Clayton spent days acting as sentry outside Ian’s room, unable to sleep. He hadn’t slept for a solid week, not until Lucy started grinding up sleeping pills and putting them in his desserts. Those slumbers weren’t restful, though; she always heard him mumbling Ian’s name mixed with profuse apologies. Sometimes there would be whimpers that tore at her heart, and he’d tearfully revealed to her one night that the nightmares plaguing him were always of Ian, naked and bleeding and crying for help, or screaming as Clayton's former mentor laughed. All he could do was pound furiously on his son’s bedroom door, but no matter how viciously he fought against it or how frantically he clawed at it, the wood remained unyielding, forcing him to listen to his child’s pain without being able to do anything to help him.
A lump rose in her throat at the memory of him resting his head on her shoulder and weeping, but she swallowed it down. She bent to press a kiss to his forehead before pulling on her robe and walking through the hall to check on her children before starting breakfast.
Jane’s door was ajar, which wasn’t unexpected; they were trying to wean her off her nightlight, substituting her small set of paper lanterns for the light in the hallway. She could hear her daughter’s soft snores and peeked in, smiling at the sight of the small girl curled around her copy of The Amber Spyglass. The cover was bent from where Jane’s arm was resting, so Lucy crept in to smooth it out, knowing Jane would be upset with herself for ruining it. As she set it down on her nightstand, she couldn’t help but allow herself the time to watch the even rise and fall of her daughter’s thin chest, running her fingers through the sweaty red curls she’d have to fight to comb out later that morning.
“Sweet girl,” she murmured to herself. Jane shifted a bit, and it was then that Lucy noticed the crude imitation knuckle tattoos her daughter had drawn onto herself sometime in the night. The words “RAGE” and “FIRE” were etched into her skin with a pen, and she just rolled her eyes and gave her one last pat on the back before heading to Malcolm’s room.
She could hear her son’s wheezing through his closed door and found him buried under all of his covers and sweating through his t-shirt. “How many times...” she sighed, shaking her head and pulling back the blankets. Malcolm had a habit of wrapping himself up during fall and winter--sometimes even spring--before he went to sleep, which always left him overheated and coughing when he woke up. She must have told him a thousand times in the last seven years to leave his comforter off, but he never did.
“What am I going to do with you?” she mused. The boy grunted and rolled over in response. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
She closed his door and made her way down the hall to Ian’s room next.
There was a time when he wasn’t included in her before breakfast ritual, when she would pass over his door with a disdainful look on her face and malice in her heart. Now, of course, things were different, and she felt a deep shame and overwhelming guilt for her mistreatment of her stepson; what would’ve happened if she’d opened his door just once? Would she have seen him crying? Would Ned have been sleeping there? Could she have spared him some of this pain if she’d only been less petty?
She was brought out of her musings when she reached his door.
It was open.
Ian’s door was never open; whenever he was in there it was firmly shut, an attempt to seal himself in, and each night she heard him triple check the lock Clayton had installed for him, tugging and twisting the knob until he was satisfied that no one would get in.
Now it was wide open, and his bed didn’t have sheets on it.
Fear fluttered in her chest, and she looked back to her own bedroom. Should she wake Clayton? Is this something he should be alarmed with?
She willed herself to calm down and think. His windows were still closed, so he didn’t make a rope out of his sheets and vault down the side of the house to run away. His drawers still had clothes in them. His backpack was still here. He hasn’t run away.
But where is he?
“He’s fine,” she assured herself quietly as she bustled out of the room. “You’re being ridiculous. He wouldn’t run away. Everything’s fine.”
She hastened down the stairs, and when she reached the bottom step, the one that creaks, Mickey whirled out of the armchair he’d been sleeping in, blinking rapidly and brandishing his switchblade.
“Sweet Jesus,” she breathed, clutching a hand to her chest. “You scared me half to death, Mickey!”
He rubbed his face with his free hand, snuffling a bit.
“What are you doing down here?” she asked. She stepped further into the living room to find Ian curled up on the couch, wrapped up in his comforter with a small frown on his face. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said softly, relief saturating her voice.
Mickey put his blade away, and the movement brought forth the stern parent in her. “You two weren’t up all night watching TV, were you? Because I really don’t like that.”
“What? No, we--uh, we had a fight.”
He looked distinctly uncomfortable revealing that fact to her, eyes darting back to Ian’s sleeping form. “You had a fight,” she repeated. “And Ian slept down here?” Ian hated open spaces like this; they’d gone camping one year, when he was eleven, for Memorial Day, and he spent the entire bonfire looking over his shoulder. They hadn’t even been in the woods, just an open field with a view of the stars. Clayton had asked him teasingly what he was so jittery about, and he’d cryptically replied “You never know what’s coming up behind you.”
Actually, come to think of it, he’d only been anxious enough to look over his shoulder when Ned wasn’t in their circle, when he couldn’t see the older man sitting next to his father and laughing jovially; as soon as he’d been out of sight, though, the cautious glancing over his shoulder would start again.
A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach, seeing more memories of Ian’s time here, even the most innocuous ones, in a new light.
“You good?” Mickey’s sharp voice jerked her out of her reverie.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. “Yes. Yeah, I’m fine.”
They stood together awkwardly for a moment, Mickey avoiding her gaze by watching Ian sleep and Lucy watching him watch Ian.
“What did you fight about?” she asked suddenly.
Her questioning surprised him, and his eyes widened before he took a step back and scratched at his nose. “Nothing,” he dismissed.
She quirked an eyebrow at him and sat on the coffee table, crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest. “Nothing,” she echoed. “Really.”
Mickey shuffled his feet, uncertain under her scrutiny.
“Ian wouldn’t have come downstairs to sleep on the couch over nothing, you know. I’m surprised he even managed to fall asleep, actually; he gets really fidgety when he has to sleep out in the open. Doesn’t really feel safe.”
She watched him carefully for the effect her words would have on him, and he seemed to relax and tense simultaneously, jaw clenched and shoulders loose.
“He must’ve known you were here, then. If he could fall asleep.”
His shoulders tightened up again, face pinched.
“And you had to have known he’d be having trouble, right? So you followed him down to watch over him.”
He resumed his seat in the armchair, dragging a hand over his face. “Will you stop?” he asked tiredly.
She paused, reaching over to rest a hand lightly on his knee. The contact startled him, and he narrowed his eyes at her. “It’s hard,” she mused softly, “knowing that you can’t protect the people you love.”
He freezes.
“It eats away at you, and you just want to hold them and never let them go. Lock them away forever, so no one can get to them.”
He avoids her gaze, looking instead at Ian over her shoulder.
“And it’s especially hard to protect them when they’re strong, right? Or worse, when they think they’re stronger than they really are.”
He gulps, looking back at her with a deer-in-headlights look on his face.
They were silent for a moment, watching each other, before she continued. “Ian’s stubborn, honey,” she murmured. “And he holds grudges; doesn’t often forgive and seldom forgets, so whatever it is that’s got you two so worked up has to be resolved soon.”
He bites his lip before finally replying. “He’s being a fucking idiot.”
She cracked a smile. “He’s a Gallagher, and from what I understand, they have a tendency to do that.”
He eyed her carefully. “Yeah, well...that fucker’s got some kinda hearing on Monday, and that dumbass thinks he’s going.”
Her thumb stopped stroking the side of his knee, and she wondered in the back of her head when she’d started. “Oh.”
They lapsed back into silence, listening to Ian’s even breaths and occasional murmurs. He breathed out Mickey’s name before rolling over and mumbling to himself some more, and Lucy watched a faint blush rise to Mickey’s cheeks.
“You know he’s gonna wind up going, no matter what we say,” she said, resigned.
“No he fucking isn’t!” Mickey replied harshly. “He’s not fucking going.”
“Mickey--”
“No,” he insisted, voice hard. “If you think for one second I’m letting him anywhere near that place--”
“Mickey.” His mouth snapped shut at the warning look in her eyes. “Thank you. Now, like it or not, he will find a way to go, whether it’s sneaking out of school or tricking Lip or asking Mandy. But you have to decide if you’d rather go with him, or if you want him to go alone.”
“He shouldn’t be going at all.”
She sighed, pulling away from the contact with his knee. “We’ll talk with Clayton about it, okay?”
“What’s the point in that? He’s just gonna side with me.”
“Yes, in all likelihood he will agree with you, and that’s why the four of us are going to discuss it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “So you’re siding with him?” he asked, gesturing at Ian indignantly.
“I...I think it might be good for him to go,” she hedged.
He snorted. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“It could be therapeutic for him--”
“He’s not going,” he said with a ring of finality. “If I have to fucking follow him around all day or put a fucking leash on him or whatever, then fine, but he’s not going.”
“Don’t interrupt me, Michael,” she said sharply.
His eyebrows quirked up in surprise at the rebuke. “That’s not my name,” he mumbled, cowed.
“I don’t care. Don’t interrupt me again.”
He scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, but didn’t say anything more.
“Thank you. I’ll talk it over with Clayton after breakfast, and then we’ll come to talk to the two of you, alright?”
He nodded, back to avoiding her gaze.
She stood, making her way to the kitchen to start on some eggs and waffles. “Oh, and Mickey?” she called back to him.
He looked up at her.
“Thank you for caring about him so much.”
Breakfast was awkward, to say the least; Ian promptly ignored Mickey as soon as he woke up, sitting on the opposite side of the table from him and refusing to speak to him. Jane was happy to fill in Ian’s usual spot, chattering away at her psuedo-brother-in-law.
“You like my tats?” she asked, presenting her hands to him.
Mickey tore his eyes away from Ian and turned to her. “Uh, yeah. They’re...nice.”
She rolled her eyes. “Say it like you mean it, Milkovich, or I’ll unleash ‘em on you.”
He snorted. “Yeah right. I’m pretty sure I could take a six year old.”
“I’m nine. You were at my birthday party.”
“Oh, you mean that day when you and your demented cousins kept pulling my fucking pants down? I repressed that.”
“Language,” Lucy reprimanded reflexively.
Mickey rolled his eyes, aiming a look at her that clearly said Eat me.
A sticky silence descended upon them after their exchange, awkward for some and comfortable for others. Clayton, who couldn’t truly enjoy any meal without conversation, broke it. “So,” he said cheerfully, “Halloween’s coming up soon. Any idea what you guys want to be?”
“I’m being Mulan!” Jane declared.
“You were Mulan last year, stupid,” Malcolm scowled.
“So? There’s no rule saying I can’t be the baddest bitch in Disney history twice in a row. And besides, I was a huge hit with the neighborhood moms; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
“Remember what Debbie said, though,” he cautioned.
She rolled her eyes exasperatedly. “I know, I know; culture is not a costume, if people can’t tell who you are without you painting your face then you didn’t do a very good job, yadda yadda yadda. I’m not some douchebag going to a party as Lil Wayne in full blackface. Or the owner of the Redskins.”
Lucy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Are we going to have to start putting up a swear jar? Honestly, Jane, would it kill you to not use such vulgar words?”
“Yes,” she answered resolutely. Mickey snickered into his cereal.
“Don’t encourage her,” Lucy admonished. “The two of you, I swear.”
“Malcolm, what about you?” Clayton asked pointedly, attempting to diffuse any mounting tension.
“Stephen Hawking,” he announced proudly. “Ian, you wanna be Einstein?”
In an effort to force encourage the boys to spend more time together after Ian had come to live with them, Clayton had made it so that their Halloween costumes complemented each other each year. They’d both hated it at first, but Malcolm got more eager to choose a duo every year. It started out with the classics--Batman and Robin, Superman and Lex Luthor--but later became obscure references for them to laugh at; one year they’d had a pretty explosive fight over whether they would go trick-or-treating as Hootie and a blowfish or Joe and a volcano.
Ian was quiet for a moment before responding. “Nah, I think I’m gonna do something different this year, bud.”
“Oh.” Malcolm sat back in his chair, trying not to let his disappointment show on his face. “That’s fine, I guess. Who’d you have in mind?”
Ian fixed Clayton with a hard stare before announcing, “Lolita.”
Lucy’s fork clattered onto the table. Clayton stiffened. Malcolm’s eyes widened comically behind his glasses, darting from his brother to his father apprehensively.
“Not really sure how I’m gonna pull it off, though,” he continued, eyes locked on his father’s ever-tensing shoulders. “I could probably find a hot schoolboy uniform somewhere. Have someone pinch my cheeks to keep ‘em nice and rosy.”
It was as if his words were sucking the air out of the dining room. Jane could feel the tension rolling off of everyone in waves, but didn’t understand its origin; she watched Malcolm get progressively uncomfortable and Mickey progressively angry, wondering how she should be reacting.
“What’s the masculine form of Dolores, anyway?” Ian mused. “I guess I could tell people my name was Daniel Haze. I mean, I already kinda fit without the costume, don’t I? Might as well capitalize on it.”
Clayton slammed his fork down, nostrils flaring. “That’s enough,” he spat.
Ian narrowed his eyes at him, schooling his face into one of matching disdain. “No.”
“Ian, I mean it--”
“No! I’m sick of this shit!” he exclaimed, jumping from his chair with enough force to knock it down. “I’m sick of the tip-toeing and beating around the bush and walking on eggshells. Just fucking say it!”
“Ian--”
“Say it! Stop acting like it never happened, stop pretending Ned doesn't exist, just fucking say it! I’m the one who went through it, I’m the victim, so stop ignoring it! Ian was abused. Ian was molested. Ian was ra--”
“Enough!” Lucy thundered, standing as well. Her sudden outburst shocked Ian into silence, and he turned to face her. “Ian,” she began, taking a deep breath to calm herself down, “we all know what happened to you, okay? We know that it was awful, and we all acknowledge your pain--”
“No you don’t! You refuse to talk about it and act like closing off Ned’s bedroom is gonna change the fact that he slept there!”
“Everyone handles things like this differently, Ian,” Clayton gritted out. “You can’t be angry at me because I’m not dealing with it the way you want me to.”
“You aren’t dealing with it at all! You had your one little breakdown, and then you just brushed it under the rug and pretended everything was normal.”
“Things have changed!”
“Yeah, you gave me lock for my bedroom door and make me tell you where I am all the time, but you never talk about why.”
His words hung heavily around Clayton’s ears. “What do you want me to do, then, huh? What do you want?”
“I want you to stop minimizing this!” he exploded. “Stop pretending you’re okay, stop pretending Ned was never your best fucking friend, and stop treating me like a child!”
The silence that followed was deafening. Ian stalked away from the table and rushed out the front door before anyone could stop him, barefoot and clad only in his pajamas. Mickey swore under his breath and jumped up, sliding into a pair of sneakers and grabbing a jacket from the hooks on the wall before running after him, leaving the rest of the Gallaghers behind, stunned.
Malcolm took in his parents’ uncertainty after coming down from the adrenalin rush that came with all the yelling and sprang into action. “Come on, Jane,” he urged quietly. “Let’s pick out which of Mulan’s outfits you’re gonna wear this year.”
His sister jumped up, eager for the distraction. “I think maybe I’ll do what she was wearing at the end, when she fought Shan-Yu at the imperial palace; her outfit for the matchmaker scene just doesn’t do it for me anymore.”
With that the two scuttled off, leaving their half-empty plates behind as they scrambled up the stairs. Clayton and Lucy were left staring at each other, an increasingly awkward silence filling the air.
“Well,” she started, wringing her hands uncomfortably, “I guess I’ll clear the ta--”
“Was he right?” he cut her off, speaking softly and keeping his head down. “What he said...was he right?”
Sympathy welled in her chest. “Sweetheart--”
“Don’t sugarcoat anything, okay? Just tell me.” He squared his shoulders, turning to face her with a determined expression, as if he were expecting her to condemn him.
She thought back on the weeks leading up to Ian’s blow-up (had it only been weeks? A month? She could barely remember what her life had been before) and tried to see Ian’s point: Clayton had presented him with a lock and key for his bedroom door, helping him install it and exchanging awkward smiles afterward; Clayton called, frantic, whenever Ian was late coming home, whether it be two minutes or twenty; the children were under strict orders to never set foot in Ned’s study or his bedroom, but Clayton, more often than not, could be found standing in the doorway of either room, silently staring and coming back even more stony-faced than he’d started out.
“You may have been a bit...withdrawn,” she said hesitantly. “You avoid any and all conversation about it, you’ve all but erased Ned from your memory--don’t think I didn’t see you boxing up the books he gave you and putting them in the basement.”
He sighed and rubbed his eyes, slumping back down into his chair. “I thought...I thought that’s what he needed. I thought he wanted to put it all behind him.”
“He can’t put it behind him if it’s still weighing you down,” she chastised gently. “And it won’t be behind him for a long time, especially with the hearing coming up.”
“Hearing?” he echoed, brows furrowed in confusion. “What hearing?”
Her eyes widened. “Shit,” she muttered. “I wanted to tell you later,” she explained apologetically.
“What hearing.” His voice was hard and flat, no trace of inflection.
She sighed. “Ned’s got some kind of hearing on Monday, I’m not sure what it’s about. Mickey says that Ian wants to go.”
“No way,” he protested immediately. “No fucking way!”
“Calm down,” she urged, eyes darting to the ceiling and listening for signs that her other children overheard their father’s outburst. When there wasn’t any suspicious silence or loud shushing, she continued. “He wants to go, Clayton. You know how stubborn he is; if he wants to go, then he’ll get there, one way or another.”
“He’s not going,” he said with a ring of finality. “He’ll never be in the same room with that bastard ever again.”
His eyes flashed dangerously, and she steeled herself for confrontation. “Clayton,” she placated, “don’t you think we should give Ian this chance?”
“This chance to what, get hurt again? I don’t think so.”
“He wouldn’t be hurt, honey.”
“Not physically, at least,” he scoffed. “There’s all kinds of emotional and psychological pain to consider here, Lucy.”
“I realize that, but if he thinks he’s strong enough to handle it, then why not let him? Clayton, this could be good for him; he’ll be confronting his abuser, standing up for himself--he’ll be the one with all the power now, don’t you see? This could help him recover.”
“Yeah, and it could also traumatize him further!” he exclaimed. “This could set him back, make him regress--fuck, he could have another breakdown! I refuse to let him be hurt anymore, do you understand? Never again.”
“Dad.”
Ian’s voice rang clearly through the air, causing them both to whirl around. Ian stood in the kitchen entryway, wrapped in the jacket Mickey had grabbed for him and wearing mismatched socks. The front door closed quietly, and Mickey padded across the living room to stand with him. “I’m going,” he announced.
Clayton made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “No you’re not.”
“Yes, I am,” he insisted.
“No--”
“It happened to me, okay? It was my bed and my body, so it’s my decision. I’m going.”
The determined expression on his face matched his father’s from earlier, while Clayton’s had morphed into a cross between desperation and anger. “Ian,” he said slowly, “I understand that you were hurt and that you want to take some control back, but I’m your father, and it’s my job to protect you.” His voice broke on ‘protect,’ and it made Lucy flinch.
“I’ll be fine,” he assured, walking around the table to stand in front of his father. “It’s not like I’ll have to talk to him or anything. And you’re acting like I haven’t been living with him for the last six years; it’s weirder not seeing his face every day than it will be to see him in the courtroom.”
“That’s not the point,” Clayton said softly, placing his hands on Ian’s shoulders. “I can’t...I can’t risk anything happening to you, okay? I’ve failed you too many times already.”
“There’ll be other people there too, Dad. Like the bailiff, for one. Nothing’s gonna happen.”
Clayton took in his son’s earnest eyes and felt the edges of his resolve beginning to waver. He stepped back and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We'll talk about it later, alright? And that’s the best you’re gonna get.”
A small smile broke across Ian’s face, and he stepped forward to hug his father. “Thank you for trusting me,” he whispered.
Tears pricked in the back of Clayton’s eyes, and he held onto him tighter.
“Yo, slow down!” Mickey called out, jogging up the block to catch up with Ian.
“Leave me alone,” he said shortly.
Mickey ignored him, easily matching Ian’s pace. “Here,” he said, holding out the jacket he’d snatched off a hook. It must have been Clayton’s; it was long and broad-shouldered, smelling of aftershave and antiseptic.
“I don’t want it.”
“You’re shivering.”
Ian ignored him, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.
Mickey rolled his eyes. “Real mature, man. I can see where Jane gets it from.”
Ian side-eyed him. “If I take it, will you leave?”
“...If that’s what you want,” he said, biting his lip.
He could see deliberation in the creases on Ian’s forehead before he grabbed the coat and draped himself in it. Ian turned to Mickey expectantly. “Well? You said you would leave.”
Mickey toed off his shoes and kicked them at Ian’s legs. “Yeah, well, I lied,” he said simply. “Put those on.”
Ian glared at him. “No.”
“At least take my socks, then.”
“Go away.”
Mickey stopped walking, trying to take the time to reign in his temper as Ian continued up the block. “You know what, fuck this,” he muttered darkly, bending down for his sneakers. He lobbed one as a warning shot, hitting Ian’s ankle and tripping him up; the other bounced off the top of his head.
“Ow!” he yelped, rubbing the sore spot. “You asshole!”
“Don’t be a pussy, it didn’t hurt that much!” Mickey called back. Ian flipped him off and turned around again, stalking away. “Shit,” he murmured. He jogged up to gather his shoes again before launching them at Ian in quick succession, one hitting him between his shoulderblades and the other clipping his ear.
“Argh! Motherfucker!”
“What’s the matter, Gallagher?” he taunted. “Can’t take a little pain? You turn into some weak little bitch?”
His words had the desired affect; Ian stiffened, face morphing into something feral. With an enraged cry, he doubled back, running at Mickey and tackling him. “Fuck you!” he screamed. “I’m not weak!”
Mickey fought his way on top of Ian, pinning his shoulders and shaking him. “I know that, you dumbass! Now will you stop and fucking listen to me?!”
Ian struggled and squirmed, but Mickey’s hands were curled around his shoulders in a vice-like grip, their legs tangled together like tight coils. “Listen, Ian--listen to me!” he roared. The other boy seemed startled by his volume and stopped, glowering. “I’m not doing any of this because I think you’re weak, you imbecile.”
“You keep saying that, but then you do this shit!” Ian retorted, trying to gesture with his hands.
“What shit?”
“This! Bringing me a jacket and trying to give me your shoes and telling me to take my pills and making sure I eat and treating me like some goddammed invalid!”
Mickey sat back on Ian’s thighs, releasing his shoulders. “Are you fucking serious?” he demanded. “Jesus Christ, you’re so stupid.”
Ian’s answering glare was murderous. “Then explain it to me, shithead,” he gritted out.
“I’m not doing any of that shit because I think you’re an invalid, I’m doing it because you’re fucking important to me! Forgive me for giving a shit about you, you twat.”
“Fuck off, I’m not a twat,” he scowled.
Mickey rolled his eyes. “Yes you are. Now can I get up, or are you gonna attack me again?”
Ian clenched his jaw and relaxed his body, surrendering. Mickey ambled off of him and didn’t offer a hand to help him up, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I care about you, Ian,” he said quietly. “I care about what happens to you.”
Silence descended upon them, and Ian felt shame beginning to prickle through him. “I know you do,” he said softly. “I just--I’m sick of feeling like I’m some useless kid, you know? Everyone thinks I can’t do anything myself anymore. And it’s not like they’re wrong, right?” he asked dejectedly, shuffling his feet. “I can’t defend myself, I was too stupid to figure out he was lying about my dad, I’m too messed up to do stuff with you--”
“Hey, come on. Stop that,” Mickey admonished softly, rubbing a gentle hand along Ian’s arm. “Stop worrying about that shit. You’re getting stronger all the time, man, all that working out you do. And you were scared before, alright? You were scared and you thought you were helping your family.”
Ian sniffed, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his father’s coat. “I just want it all to stop,” he whispered. “I want them to stop feeling sorry for me and I want to stop hurting all the time--”
Mickey cut him off with a hug, feeling tremors run through Ian’s body and tears leak onto his shoulder. “Seeing him won’t make you hurt less, Ian,” he said quietly.
“You don’t know that,” he replied, pulling away and wiping his eyes. “And it’s not about that; I want to show them I can be strong.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
Ian bit his lip, turning to face Mickey head on. “Then maybe I want to prove it to myself.”
Mickey took in the tense set of his shoulders and tried to see someone strong and sure, someone who walked with his back straight and his head held high, but all he could focus on was Ian’s wet eyes and smattering of freckles and how boyish he looks--and that shouldn’t surprise him, he’s still a fucking child, goddammit--
“Okay,” he said, surprising himself. “If that’s what you need to do, then we’ll do it.”
Ian’s eyes lit up. “Really? You mean it, you’ll go with me?”
Mickey heaved a sigh at his hopeful tone. “Yeah. I better not fucking regret this, either.”
“You won’t, I swear.” A wide grin split his face, and he launched himself at Mickey again, laughing.
“Alright, alright, keep your shirt on, Jesus,” he complained, pushing Ian away lightly. “There are conditions, man. Your dad has to be okay with it, too.”
“Oh come on, Mick--”
“You’re not going anywhere on Monday if your dad says no, alright? I’m not tryna get between you two.”
“Fine,” he scoffed. They turned around and ambled back to Ian’s house, walking in silence for a few moments before Ian sheepishly asked, “Does the offer for those socks still stand?”
Mickey snorted, shoving them into Ian’s hands and sliding his sneakers back on. “Dumbass,” he said affectionately.
Ian’s answering grin was blinding, and he heard the other boy’s lilting voice in his head, teasing him. You know you love it.
When they got back to the house, they caught the tail end of Clayton and Lucy’s conversation before Ian interrupted it. Mickey caught Lucy’s eye as the father and son hugged, reading a question there.
Everything okay?
He bit his lip and nodded infinitesimally. For now.
Things were slightly strained for the rest of the day; no one quite knew what to say to alleviate the thick tension permeating through the air, so the house was mostly silent. The only sounds all through dinner were the light scratching of silverware against plates, and when Lucy asked Malcolm and Jane to clear the table and do the dishes, Ian knew she was gearing up to have a discussion--his siblings took forever to do chores, especially when they did them together, and the two of them doing dishes would inevitably end up turning into a fight with soap suds. Clayton gestured for him and Mickey to come to the living room after Lucy had finished preparing her evening cup of Earl Grey tea. They sat on the couch together, facing Lucy in the plush armchair with Clayton perched on the ottoman.
Clayton heaved a great sigh and dragged a hand over his face. "Tell me about this...hearing," he said wearily.
Ian took a deep breath, grabbing Mickey's hand and squeezing. "Detective Hanson said it was his arraignment."
"Arraignment," he echoed quietly, rubbing his hands together. "And what does that mean, exactly?"
"A judge reads the charges and then asks for a plea," Lucy explained softly, watching her husband for a reaction. He nodded to himself and gulped, Adam's apple bobbing. "Do you know what time it'll be, Ian?" she asked.
"12:25. But she wanted to know if we could come at 12 instead, to go over some things."
Clayton's head snapped up from where he'd been staring at his knees. "What things?"
Ian shrugged. "I'm not sure. I told her I would be there, though."
Clayton snorted mirthlessly. "Of course you did," he muttered. "So, what, we sit in the courtroom and wait for him to say 'guilty'?"
"Pretty much."
He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I...I'll think about it. No guarantees, and I reserve the right to change my mind at any time, got it?"
Ian's eyes lit up. "Got it." Then he hesitated, giving Mickey a sidelong glance. "Can, um, Mickey come?"
Lucy and Clayton responded simultaneously, with a soft "Of course he can, sweetheart," and a stern "I haven't said you're going yet," respectively. They looked at each other before Lucy continued. "You can bring whoever you want; we all support you."
Her answer seemed to disconcert him for a moment before he replied. "Fiona. I want to bring Fiona."
"What about Mandy?" she asked. "Is she coming?"
He bit his lip, going over a conversation he'd had with her the day before.
***
"Hey Mandy," he greeted happily. "I hope you know you're saving me from math homework--"
"She knows," she interrupted quietly. "Linda. She knows."
A myriad of emotions fluttered through his chest, the primary being relief. "Are you sure? How?"
"I--I don't know, but she gave me a set of keys for the store and her apartment and said I could come to her when things got bad."
He paused, trying to sort through his own thoughts as well as to decipher hers. "Well that's good, isn't it?"
"Did you tell her?" she demanded. He could feel her eyes flashing through the phone. "I already told you I didn't want people to know--"
"Whoa, calm down, I didn't tell her anything," he swore.
He pictured her pacing and running her fingers through her hair. "Ian, I don't--I can't--goddammit!" He heard her kick something viciously before flinching at the pain. Her breath hitched, and he knew she was close to tears.
"Mandy," he said softly, "do you want me to come over?"
She sniffed. "No," she said dismissively. "No, I'm fine. I'm good; I can handle it."
It sounded more like she was trying to convince herself rather than him, wiping at her eyes and trying to control her voice. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. Yeah, I just--ugh, I don't know."
They were quiet for a few moments before Ian broke the silence. "Does she know about...you know, the--baby?" His voice dropped like it was a dirty word and he was in church.
Mandy hesitated. "I--I'm not sure. Should I talk to her about it?"
"You could find out how she knew about the other stuff, at least. Or maybe she could give you some money; how much do you have now?"
"$407.64. At this rate I'll have to use a coat hanger."
"Jesus." He cringed at the mental image, stomach turning. "Is that even safe?"
"I don't know, I don't care, I just--I just need it out of me." Her voice had an edge of panic to it.
He gulped. "Maybe I could send you some more. Or you could try doing overtime."
"There isn't any reason for overtime here, it's so goddamn boring. And you already did so much, Ian."
"I can do more," he insisted.
She took a breath to protest before the sharp sound of glass breaking interrupted her. "Shit, I gotta go."
"Mandy, wait--"
She'd already hung up.
The brief conversation had him reeling, a never-ending circle of unanswered questions swirling through his head.
How did Linda know?
***
Now Monica's words from in the car floated through his head, words that made him sick with their implications.
We've gotta stick together, don't we?
"Mandy's--um. Mandy's got plans. An English test. She can't miss it," he invented hastily. His stomach churned, hearing a phantom echo of his mother whispering into his ear. We've gotta stick together.
Mickey narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "You good, man?"
Ian gave a quick jerk of his head, trying to rub his sweaty palms on his jeans. "Yeah," he answered, voice cracking. "I'm good."
Mickey didn't look entirely satisfied, but Lucy gave him a small smile. "So you want the four of us?"
He seemed surprised that she'd included herself. We've gotta stick together. "...Yeah," he hedged. "The four of you."
A loud crash and an impassioned shout of "I'm telling!" brought Clayton to his feet with a groan, and he walked briskly to the kitchen to settle whatever dispute Malcolm and Jane had gotten into.
The remaining three sat in semi-companionable silence before Ian broke it. “Why are you doing this?” he asked suddenly, eyeing his stepmother nervously.
“Doing what?” she asked, sipping her tea.
“Being nice to me. You hate me.”
She rushed to deny it. “I have never--”
“Oh cut the shit, Lucy,” he cut her off sharply. “You do so.”
She ran her finger along the rim of her teacup, avoiding his gaze. “Alright, fine, I’ll admit that I harbored some...less than warm feelings for you.”
He looked unimpressed with her admission.
She sighed. "Let's go upstairs for a bit. Mickey, do you mind?"
"Uh--" he shot a quick glance to Ian for some kind of guidance or confirmation, but his eyes were firmly on his stepmother. "Yeah, I'll--I'll stay down here."
He squeezed Ian's hand before allowing him to follow Lucy upstairs and into her bedroom. She closed the door and sat on her bed, inviting Ian to do the same. “Okay," she huffed, tapping her fingers against the edge of her teacup, "you want the truth? I despised you,” she said simply. “I hated that my husband was willing to risk our marriage to get custody of you. I hated that every time I looked at you I saw Clayton and--that woman. I hated that he spent so much time with you that he started to neglect Malcolm and Jane. I hated that he missed you during the summer more than he ever missed Malcolm when he went to science camp.”
“You think I don’t know that?” he scoffed. “You think I didn’t feel you glaring at me every time he hugged me or kissed me on the forehead or patted me on the back?”
She paused, letting her guilt roll over her while she contemplated what to say. “Things are different now, Ian,” she replied quietly, eyes downcast.
“No!” he exclaimed, standing. “No, you don’t get to do that. What, you think I’m damaged now or some shit? You think I can’t take it? I don’t need any of your fucking pity.”
She reached to grab his arm. “I don’t pity you, sweetheart--”
“Stop it!” He yanked himself away from her, stepping back until he was almost at the door. “Stop with the pet names and the pats on the head and the fucking smiles, alright? You weren’t supposed to change! Everyone else, they treat me like I’m some stupid little kid who can’t even fucking tie their shoes. They all look at me like I’m pathetic and act like if I hear Ned’s name I’ll start crying. You were the only one who treated me the same as before.”
His voice cracked with emotion, and she had to resist the urge to reach out and comfort him. “Ian--”
“No! I don’t care if you feel guilty about before, stop treating me like--like--”
“Like you’re my son,” she supplied for him.
He seemed to deflate, staring at her with a blank look on his face.
She sighed. “Would you sit down for a minute? Please?”
His jaw clenched, but he did as she asked, resuming his position on the edge of the bed.
“Thank you.” She pulled idly at a loose thread in her sweater, fishing for the words to make him understand. “I...I had a sister.”
His shoulders tensed, and she could tell he was interested against his will. “Had?” he questioned.
She smiled bitterly. “Yeah. Had.”
He waited for her to continue, allowing her time to gather her thoughts. “Our mother remarried when I was eight, and she was thirteen. His name was Max.” She sighed, dragging a hand over her face. “Christ, I haven’t even told your father this,” she muttered.
He didn’t respond, keeping his full attention fixed on her.
“Mom and Max bought a new house after they got back from their honeymoon. It was bigger than our old one, so we didn’t have to share a room anymore. I was afraid of the dark, so I slept with my door open, and sometimes...sometimes I would see him go into her room.”
Memories came rushing back; the confusion, the fear, the discomfort. “I didn’t know what it meant, so I didn’t say anything, but my sister was...different. Quieter. More jumpy. And she started losing weight. Not much, but her sweaters always looked baggy on her. Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night to her getting under my covers. Always said that she’d had a bad dream.”
A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it down. “I was ten when she tried to tell our mother. Max had just left for work, and we were in the kitchen. She didn’t beat around the bush or segue into it, just blurted it out. I remember thinking that there was something wrong with her eyes...” she trailed off before pinching the bridge of her nose and taking a deep breath. “Mom laughed at her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,' she said. 'Max would never do that. Why would you make up something so awful?’”
She looked up at her stepson this time, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I watched my sister die a little inside every day that year without knowing what it meant, and when I was eleven--” she broke off, trying to compose herself. “There was one day when I was eleven that she wasn’t there to walk home with me from the bus stop. And I haven’t seen her since.”
A stray tear ran down her face, and she hastily wiped it away. “It’s not that I feel guilty about what happened to you, Ian--I mean I do, but that’s not--oh nevermind.” She took a deep breath before continuing, locking her gaze onto his. "It’s that I refuse to drive you away the way my mother did.”
The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity before Ian broke it. “What was her name?” he asked, voice thick.
She gave him a wan smile. “Matilda. Matilda Jane Buchanan.”
A lump rose to his throat. “You...you named Jane after her?” he asked quietly.
“Malcolm too, a little," she replied hoarsely. "It felt like the least I could do, after I let her slip through my fingers. It probably sounds stupid, but I thought--I thought that it would be like having her around again.”
He reached a tentative arm out to comfort her. “No, Lucy, that’s not stupid. It’s...sweet.”
She snorted. “It’s pathetic, is what it is.”
He smiled, feeling a fragile bond starting to form between them. “What was she like?”
“Like Malcolm and Jane put together, funnily enough. Mostly Jane, though.” The smile on her face was more genuine now, and Ian couldn’t help but respond to it. “God, she hated her name. Always asked people to call her Lind--”
The door opened suddenly, and Ian jerked his hand away from her reflexively. A panting, slightly damp Clayton crossed the threshold. “Those kids, I swear--” he cut himself off, their solemn expressions bringing him up short. “Everything okay?”
“We’re fine,” she sniffed, sliding her hand across the comforter and grabbing Ian’s wrist where it rested. “We’re fine.”
Lucy listened to the house breathe around her, her family tucked safely into their beds; Jane's book was on her nightstand, Malcolm was only wrapped in a sheet, and Ian and Mickey were wrapped around each other. Clayton was squirming beside her, trying to find a comfortable position with the tension in his shoulders before finally giving up and settling directly on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "I called out of work Monday," she admitted quietly. "Taking a personal day."
He sighed. "I figured you would. I guess I will, too," he said, sliding his hand under their covers to reach for hers.
They laid in silence for a few minutes, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. "I don't think I can do it, Luce," Clayton whispered, voice quivering.
She turned onto her side to face him. "Don't be silly," she said softly, bringing a hand up to stroke his cheek. "Of course you can."
He sniffed, avoiding her eyes. "He's so much stronger than me."
She applied more pressure to the hand on his face, forcing him to look at her. "That's nothing to be ashamed of. All it means is that you can support each other, right?"
The sadness in his eyes killed her. "You really think he'll be okay?"
He sounded so young, so much like his sons, that she almost couldn't bear it. "I know he will. He's got you, and Mickey, and Fiona, and--"
"You," he interrupted. "He's got you, too."
A now-familiar lump rose in her throat, and she struggled to speak around it, fighting the tears burning in her eyes. "Yeah. He's got me, too."