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Mickey is a bleeding heart, and no one knows.
Ian and Mickey are sat on the couch side by side, and though Mickey would probably headbutt Ian for mentioning it, they're totally cuddling. Ian's slouched down low with his head resting on Mickey's right shoulder, and Mickey's right hand in on Ian's left thigh. There's nothing nefarious going on, just sweet little touches and the occasional rub of Mickey's thumb across the dark denim of Ian's Levi's.
It's nice, and it's not something that happens near enough, Ian thinks. Sure, he's allowed to touch Mickey far more often than anyone else, but it's not like he gets to all of the time. And that's okay, really, Ian gets it. But when it does happen, it's bliss.
They're most of the way through some nature documentary that Ian's only half way paying attention to; he's pretty tired and quite honestly he's a little bored with the content, but Mickey is interested, so whatever. He deals because he's a man of compromise. It's a show about a baby dolphin learning how to be, well, a dolphin, and it's not like Ian has ever actually seen one, so he's not all that invested.
But... apparently Mickey is. Ian finds this out when he hears a little sniffle from just above where his head is rested. At first he doesn't think much of it (Mickey's a life long smoker and tends to have all sorts of sinus related issues) but then he hears it again not long after, and that definitely is not a sinus thing.
"Are you crying?" Ian asks in a playful sort of way. It's not that he's insensitive to Mickey's feelings, it's just... it's a show about a dolphin?
"Fuck you is what I am," Mickey says, even as he wipes at his face in a way that would suggest he thinks he's being slick.
"No, really... are you alright?"
Mickey doesn't say anything, but Ian can feel his muscles seize up beneath his cheek, goes from soft and comfortable to rigid and decidedly very uncomfortable before he starts to pull away.
"Mickey..." Ian sighs when he gets jostled enough to sit up straight and look at Mickey's reddened face.
"Shut up."
"Did something happen? Everything okay at work?" There's a million reasons that Mickey could be crying- it seems like the two of them are never really granted any reprieve in their day to day lives. Always something or someone trying to bring them down, and Ian hates it.
"I'm fine, Gallagher. Jesus," he whines even as he once again tries to subtly wipe at his nose.
Ian's known Mickey long enough to realize that if he just sits back and lets Mickey work out what he's feeling, he'll eventually tell him when he's damn good and ready. So that's what he does. He folds his hands in his lap and lets Mickey process his emotions. And to Mickey's credit, it doesn't take him long to get himself together long enough to croak out what's got him so blue.
"It's just... that little dolphin, man. He's trying his best and it's just not working. Whatever. It's fucking stupid. The dolphin is fucking stupid."
Ian wants to feel for him, wants to empathize and let him cry it out on Ian's shoulder... but. The dolphin?
"I... don't really know what to say here," Ian says and tries not to laugh.
"Don't want or need you to say anything. This show blows."
He turns the tv off and stomps upstairs, sniffing and wiping at his dampened face the whole way.
~
Ian's in the kitchen with his brothers fixing breakfast for dinner, because pancakes are good at anytime of the day, and Ian will not be taking counter arguments at this time. He's got a good stack ready and waiting while he flips a few more around in the rusty old skillet set atop their rusty old stove when he hears it- a high pitched shriek coming from his niece who's been playing outside under Mickey's passive supervision, followed by a loud and gruff curse immediately after.
The boys inside are just about scrambled to the door when Mickey bursts in with a crying Franny in his arms. He's holding her close and whispering quietly to her that she's okay, but his eyes are wild as he scans the room looking for Ian. When he spots him, he darts forward and passes her off quickly.
"She, I dunno, man. She fell. She's bleeding. Her knee," he says all out of breath like he's just run a mile. "I was watching her, I swear. She just tripped or some shit."
At this point, Mickey's far more concerned about the little scrape than even Franny is, even as she whimpers in Ian's hold. He's biting at his bottom lip and peering over Ian's shoulder as Ian sets her down on the counter to get a good look at the damage, rattling off nonsensical suggestions on how to treat her.
"Mickey, she's fine. It's just a scrape," Ian says over his shoulder. "You're okay, aren't'cha? You're a tough girl," he coos at the little lady and wets a napkin to press to her angry skin.
She hisses at the contact, but Ian makes up for it by making a goofy face at her, and all is right with the world when she grins through her tears. He dabs the tiny smear of blood away and tells her to wash up for dinner, and she bounces away like nothing ever happened.
Ian goes back to a now burnt pancake and tosses it away, and as he does so, he catches sight of Mickey's still worried face. He bites at his thumb nail and stares at the steps that Franny had just raced up like she may never come back down.
"Mick," Ian says softly and touches Mickey's shoulder. "She's fine. Seriously. Would you have even blinked at getting your knee scraped when you were her age?"
"No, but, she's like. Little..."
"Mickey's gone soft," Liam says without looking up from his homework spread out on the dining table.
"He's always been soft," Ian grins, and Mickey scowls.
"Ain't fucking soft, bitch. But she might... get an infection or something."
"You're right. I'll go chop her leg off at the knee so it doesn't become an issue," Ian deadpans and plates the last of the prepared food. He gets a middle finger in return.
Mickey may claim that he isn't soft, that he never was and never will be, but when he eats dinner with Franny on his lap and shares his meal, Ian thinks he may just be lying to himself.
~
It's nearly half past eleven at night, and Ian is starting to get antsy. Mickey can stay out as late as he wants, he's a grown man and can take care of himself and yada yada yada, but he's also Ian's fucking husband and he should at least call when he's not going to be home when he says. It's the right thing to do. The decent thing to do. It's literally the least amount of effort that anyone could put in, and yet. It's 11:45 and still nothing.
Ian's starting to really get pissed once the clock hits midnight, and picks up his cell and clicks on 'Mick,' for what must be the twentieth time. He listens to it ring and ring and ring, but there's no other voice until, "Not answering. Leave a message. Get back to you if I feel like it," and Ian is fuming.
"Yeah, surprise, it's me again," Ian gripes into the receiver. "Answer your fucking phone when I call or I'm gonna drop it in the toilet."
Ian hangs up and tosses his phone onto the couch before he looks out onto the darkened street again. Something is wrong, he just knows it. Mickey's probably drunk and lost, or got in a fight or maybe he was murd-
The back door opens with a harsh thunk, and Ian's stomach swoops when he turns to see his husband rummaging around the kitchen without preamble.
"Uh, where the hell you been?" Ian squawks, and Mickey looks up with a glazed look in his eyes that makes Ian feel like he's gonna be sick. Something actually is wrong.
"Found a dog," Mickey says in a rush.
"A dog? Seriously? I thought you were dead, you fuc-"
"Ian," Mickey snaps as he grabs a few dish towels. "He's fucking hurt. Saw him get hit by a car. I gotta take him to the hospital or something. You gonna help me or what?"
Ian has bi polar disorder, okay, everyone knows it. He's had his fair share of manic episodes. He knows the signs. He's lived them. And this version of Mickey, this wide eyed, fast talking, sporadically moving machine of a man, is giving Ian serious manic vibes. Of course he knows that's not the case, but the way he's fretting and pacing and jumping from foot to foot is enough to make Ian nod and let himself be led to the back porch.
"He's here," Mickey says and points at the bottom step where the teeniest little black dog that Ian's ever seen lays on the ground.
"Mickey. That dog isn't going to make it. You said he got hit by a car? Look how little he is..."
"No!" Mickey yells as he scoops the dog up and wraps him in his scavenged rags. "No, he's gonna make it. I'm gonna find an animal hospital and I'm gonna fucking take him in and he's gonna be fine."
Ian's only seen Mickey cry a couple of times, though it's becoming increasingly frequent now that he's out from under his dad's thumb, but every time he sees it, something inside of him wants to break. And now, when his eyes glisten and he looks at Ian like he's pleading with his soul, Ian's only choice is to help. So he does.
~
Ian opens the front door, home from work, to see the back of Mickey's head as he sits on the couch facing the tv. When he hears the door and the sound of Ian toeing off his boots, he turns around with a grin and tips a bottle of beer in hello.
"Hey," he says casually and turns back to his regularly scheduled programming.
"Hey," Ian says back and rounds the couch to take the seat next to Mickey, and smiles when his view isn't hampered by the furniture.
"I see you two got comfortable," Ian says and motions to the tiny black dog in Mickey's lap.
"Mm. Fucker won't leave me alone," Mickey snorts like he's pretending to be annoyed by his company, but as he says it he gives a little scritch behind his ear and the puppy stretches out like he owns Mickey's lap.
Mickey saved the dog, took him to an animal ER, called the very next day to check on him, and the day after, and finally showed up back home with the dog in his hands. Ian couldn't say no.
"You have a good day, Road-eo?" Ian asks and gives him a pat of his own.
"Don't call him that. He answers only to his given name," Mickey chastises, "Don't you, Roadkill?"
Ian doesn't mention the endless list of pet names that Mickey's given him in the short time they've had him. (Killer, Roadster, Tiny Dog or TD, Pup Pup- really, the list goes on and on)
~
It’s late on a Sunday night when Ian comes in from a twelve hour shift on the rig. He expects the house to be dark and quiet and tired, but immediately upon entering the living room, he can see dusty yellow light streaming in from the kitchen and he follows it without a sound.
He can see Mickey perched at the dining room table, little black dog in his lap, and Lip is sitting catty cornered to him picking idly at the tabletop. He’s about to make himself known when Lip lets out a harsh breath and talks.
“Sometimes it’s too much, yeah? Almost like I can’t breathe without it.”
Mickey scratches the length of the puppy and nods before lighting up a cigarette and passing his pack over.
“Yeah, man. I get it. But you’re fucking smart, right? Can figure a way to get over it.”
Lip scoffs and exhales a billowy cloud of grey tinted smoke.
“Yeah, I’ll just tell my smart fucking brain that I don’t need to drink and voila, addiction cured,” Lip says with a roll of his eyes.
“Yeah, okay, asshole,” Mickey chuckles, and it doesn’t hold any of the usual heat that simmers in his words with Lip. They’re soft and gentle in a way that soothes like cool aloe Vera on sunburnt skin.
“I just... have rough days, y’know. Today was one of those days. Just feel like I need something to take the edge off. I dunno,” Lip sighs and drums the fingers not holding his cigarette.
“But you have something, man. A lot of somethings. You got your kid. You got your girl. Got your family- whole fucking bunch of ‘em wondering around the neighborhood...”
“Yeah, but it’s not... they don’t...” Lip stutters, rolling his hand around like he’s trying to pluck the words from the air but coming up short.
“Look,” Mickey says and leans forward a little, “I get it. I do. You think I didn’t have vices? Had a whole lotta shit I was doing before... before me and Ian... but I stopped when me and him started up. And I wanted to get my hands on some of the shit my dad was pushing, believe me. All the time, I wanted it. And it’s not like I quit cold turkey, don’t get me wrong. But it’s like, it’s like when I started hanging around Ian I could, like, find happiness or whatever in other shit. I understand what you’re saying. You need an escape. But Lip, you have an escape. I know you do, cause I got one too. You can do this. Don’t ruin what you got for something you want. It ain’t worth it, I promise you.”
Lip slouches a little further down in his seat and chews on his bottom lip as his forehead crunches up at the words. He sucks down his smoke like it’s the very oxygen he needs, but finally he nods.
“Shit. When you get so fucking smart, Milkovich?”
Mickey scoffs, but Ian can tell it’s good natured, even when Mickey’s middle finger goes up in his brother’s direction.
“You ain’t the only one that knows his shit, bitch.”
Lip smiles and nods. “Alright, you might be on to something. I’m’a head out. Don’t, uh, don’t tell Ian I came by, yeah? Don’t wanna worry him.”
“Okay, I won’t. You... you good?” Mickey asks and there’s genuine concern in his voice. Deep and raw and real, there’s concern.
“Yeah, man. I’m good. Thanks. Gonna go home and hug my kid. I’ll catch you later.”
Ian waits until Lip has left to make himself known, and gives Mickey a tight hug before he leads him up to bed.
~
Mickey makes Liam’s lunch almost everyday. Liam would qualify for free lunch at school, but Mickey always bitches about nasty ass institutionalized foods, says he wouldn’t subject his worst enemy to that swill. So. He packs a lunch everyday.
And they’re usually decently healthy.
Ian comes down stairs just as Mickey’s putting together a sandwich- multi grain bread, turkey breast. He even slices up a tomato and puts it between slices of meat and cheese to make sure it doesn’t sog up the bread.
“Ay kid, you want Doritos or regular chips?” Mickey asks as he cuts the sandwich in half and slides it in the baggie. He smiles when he sees Ian and gives him a quick kiss before he packs the off brand potato chips that Liam asked for.
~
“Take your meds?” Mickey asks for the second time that day as they climb into bed for the night. Ian doesn’t get irked by it anymore- if he did he’d never be happy because Mickey asks everyday, twice a day, and has for as long as they’ve been together.
“Yes, mother,” Ian says, but it’s all playful and not at all spiteful.
“Call me mother one more time, see what happens,” Mickey challenges as he gives one last look at the puppy curled up on his bed against the wall, and turns off the light.
“Please, you’re everyone’s mom these days. Don’t know how we’d manage without you.”
“Jesus, Gallagher. Shut the fuck up and get on me.”
Ian smiles, but he does in fact, get on him.
Mickey is a bleeding heart, and everybody knows.