Chapter Text
Mickey has always loved the feeling of a gun in his hand. The sturdy weight in his palm, the feel of cool metal against his usually scorching skin. He loves the satisfying sound it makes when you cock it, almost as much as he relishes in seeing the bullet push past the opening. It's so quick, so swift.
He's been holding onto this particular one for the past half hour that he's been back in his old home, blue eyes glued to the door. The gun is loaded, prepared to go off anytime. He can do it this time. Mickey promises himself that over and over again. Promises that the next time he sees that bastard, the weapon will be fired.
Mickey's been focusing on his own thoughts so hard that he hadn't heard those first few timid knocks. But clearly this time, the person has gotten impatient because there's a loud bang on the door. He feels the panic rise, his throat constricts, so he just grips the gun tighter in his hand. Opening the front door had never felt like such a challenge before. It takes a great deal of strength to actually get off the couch, with his knees trembling so hard.
"Who the fuck are you?" Mickey is more than relieved when he opens the door and sees a face he definitely wasn't expecting, letting the gun drop down to the ground. There's some boy out on the porch, mouth open and orange hair peeking out from under his beanie.
The boy, almost man rather, seems to be just as shocked as Mickey for a moment. But then he's composing himself, eyes lighting up. "Mickey Milkovich?" The redhead looks too excited, and Mickey shrinks back uncomfortably, wishing that the guy would tone it down. No one's ever this happy to see him, not even his siblings. He just looks at the still nameless male with his brows raised. The other man takes a moment to read Mickey's expression, before shaking his head, laughing softly. "It's me. Ian... Ian Gallagher."
And all of a sudden, there is a flashback in the brunette's mind. He remembers Ian, and how different he looked to the guy standing out on the porch right now. Ian had been Mandy's best friend, always hanging around her. He'd been his sisters shy little friend who'd smile everytime Mickey would wave a hello. This man, this... Was that Ian.
"Ian Gallagher. Well, fuck me, man. You're a fuckin' bean pole now." Mickey can't help but smile somewhat, as he eyes Ian over, having to tilt his neck just the tiniest bit because Ian was at least a whole head taller.
Seeing Ian makes Mickey remember that there was a time before. Triggers the past, allows it to feel real. When things were different, when he had just come out, and taken a beating from his dad. Seeing Ian reminded Mickey of what it had been like before he ran away with his guy, and fucked up his life to an extent that he no longer knew exactly what he was even doing.
Ian is smiling so damn hard, that Mickey wonders if it hurts. But he can't even focus on that too much right now, because all he can think about how someone, not even a very close someone at that, is looking at him with so much joy. The kind that no one looks at Mickey with. Mickey doesn't know how to feel about, foreign things like this always left him confused.
"I might have grown a bit, yeah." Ian's pretty pale, and there's just enough sun out that Mickey can see him blush scarlet. "Oh, shit, what's it been like... Two years? How've you been? How's, uh... Dave?"
Mickey's small smile drops at Ian's last question, eyes growing dark, as he trains them to look at the floor. "Derek. His name is Derek." Mickey feels sick talking about it already, too familiar a feeling gnawing at him. But he brushes it off. "Don't 20-fucking-questions me, Gallagher. Just, uh, get in here, man. Mandy 'll be home real soon."
He moves back enough to allow Ian to enter, before bending down to pick up his fallen gun, his thumb gently running down the barrel. He shuts the door behind them then, but not without a glance around the street. Everything looks fine, at least for now.
Mickey can tell that Ian's still been coming around here a lot, because he seems to know his way well enough. The redhead already has a bottle of water from the fridge in his hand, leaning against the couch. "It's been so long. You look.. Good."
"Oh, fuck off." There's no real heat to Mickey's works.
"What's with the gun? Expecting cops or something?"
Mickey's back tenses, his top row of teeth sinking into the lower swell of his lips. He can't tell Ian why he's really got the gun, won't let anyone know, actually. Doesn't want to know what people will think of him when they find out. Mickey's got enough labels on him with coming out as gay right before he skipped down. "Nah, just a little force of habit. Never open the door in this shitty neighbourhood without one."
He reaches up to place the gun on to a shelf, having to lean up a little bit to compensate for a lack in height. The movement causes his shirt to rise. It causes pale skin to be on display, and the contrasting blue and purple marks on it. Mickey takes a calming breath, thinking that if he acts natural, Ian won't notice. But it's too late.
The taller man is making his way over, concern practically written on his forehead. Here comes the question, Mickey knows it. He's had friends from work look at him the same way. Mickey hates it. "What.. What was that? What happened?"
Mickey let's out a forced chuckle. "Relax, Chuckie.. Was off-roading on my bike the other day, and hit the gass too hard. But not the breaks so much. Just a fucking klutz move." He's been practicing that one. Said at the gym once or twice so he thinks that his story must sound believable by now.
Ian doesn't look convinced though, and Mickey looks away for a moment. He'll handle this they way anyone would expect for him to do. A harsh 'fucking mind your own' and a grunt. But before either of them can get a word out, there's a banging on the front door. Someone relentlessly pounding a fist on the wood.
Mickey knows who it must be, because if Ian is already here, no one else is expected, who else would show up here? He thinks of grabbing that gun back, thinks of facing the knocker head on. He wants to deal with this. Only, Mickey's mind and body don't seem to be in sync, because he can't move, he can't breathe. Everything is falling down, burying him under.
The hairs on the back of Mickey's neck raise to attention as the person barges in as a next step, his eyes immediately narrowing as they land on Mickey. "Where the fuck you think you'regoing off, huh? Fucking leaving without a word.."
So Derek did remember where Mickey's house was, he'd said differently last night when Mickey had asked to be driven there, or maybe he just asked around. But all that mattered right now was that he was in here, that murderous glint in his eyes.
"Yeah, so? You're not my fucking keeper, asshole! Go home, I'll meet up with you in a while." Mickey hopes that his voice sounds a lot stronger than he actually feels right now. Because in reality he's feeling faint, his legs are like jelly. He won't show that, though. You can't be a Milkovich and be weak at the same time. Those two just do not mix.
Derek laughs, the sound making Mickey shudder, which turns into an outright shiver because Derek is so close now, his face right up with Mickey's. "The fuck did you say?"
Mickey can't inhale anymore, air seems to be so thin in this moment. He feels caged, strangled. He's going to be sick. His chest is getting real tight, and Mickey forces himself to remember those ridiculous breathing excersises that actually do end up working sometimes.
"You need the fuck out, alright?" It takes Mickey a second to realise exactly where than voice is coming. But a glance behind Derek's shoulder, and he gets a glimpse of ginger hair. There's malice in Ian's tone, and something in his hand. Something sharp, and that's all Mickey can make out over the pounding in his head. Derek doesn't bulge. "Now." Ian's voice is dead cold. "Get away from him, and leave. Now."
Derek spins around, golden hair moving into his eyes as he does so. Mickey knows from experience that his partner doesn't scare easy. So Derek must know that Ian is not bluffing as the knife he's holding gets dangerously close to his chest.
"And who the fuck are you, gingernut? Look, why don't you stay out of what you don't belong? Mickey and I are having a little conversation here." Derek's sneering, meeting Ian head on with a stance almost as certain as the redhead's.
Ian's knuckles are getting white as they clench tighter around the handle of the kitchen appliance. Mickey wants to intervene, say something, because he doesn't even want to risk the chance of something happening to Ian. But Ian is apparently not someone who backs down when smack in the face of something that can only end badly. "Really? Because by the look of it.. Mickey wants you gone. So get the FUCK out."
Ian is breathing hard, something in expression seems off to Mickey. It's not aggressive like Derek, it's crazed. Ian looks like a man man, psychotic enough in this moment to actually stab the blonde to death.
Derek growls at Ian. Maybe it wasn't so much of a growl, but definitely some kind of sick, animalistic sound. "Fine, I'll go.." He glances back at Mickey, eyes still slits. "But I bet you this, this fucking carrot top won't always be around to save your sorry ass."
By the time Derek actually has one foot out the door, his whole demeanour changes. Tone pleading, and gentle. Same shit happens every time, he gets soft when the worst of the shit-storm is over, enough to convince Mickey to come back in the end. It's a vicious, ongoing cycle. And Mickey wants to throw a fucking punch at the whole world because of it. Because he keeps falling for this. "Just.. Come back to mine soon, Mick. Can't be away from you so long, baby." With that he's gone, out of sight.
The nickname gives Mickey almost as much of a chill, as it does relax him. It makes him remember there are worse things. Like still being stuck here with Terry. Derek took him far away from a father who wanted to kill Mickey. Derek had been like a knight in shining armor at the time, not that Mickey will actually admit that he thought of something so corny.
But Derek wasn't exactly what he seemed to be before he left. Some nights he could be as bad as Terry. As cruel, and demeaning. Mickey bites down on his tongue, hard, trying to stop himself from thinking about it.
He still takes a whole minute to regain himself, walking back towards the couch, when Ian clears his throat. Mickey wants to run, far far away from here because someone has seen too much. Someone who was probably afraid of Mickey at some point had now seen him quaver like some bitch. Mickey does his best to act like Ian still isn't here.
"Did he do that to you?" Ian's eyes fall onto Mickey's hips, where he'd previously seen bruised skin. "Mickey, did he fucking do that to you?"
"Don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Gallagher."
"Really? Is that so!?" Ian's fuming, his hands moving erratically by his sides as if he wants to punch something. "He.. He fucking hi-"
Mickey's expression immediately causes the other male to stop short, because hell, he can look as murderous as Derek. He's Mickey fucking Milkovich after all. He's scared enough people in his lifetime. But he also knows the way he's carrying himself right now is not going to coincide with what he's about to say, but anything to get Ian to stop looking at Mickey with that stupid look of care, and concern and a whole bunch of other things he can't place. He can't stand it. "Shut the fuck up, okay? Don't even think of finishing that fucking sentence." Mickey is vibrating with rage right now, his teeth ground together. No one is allowed to see any of that, let alone talk about it. Because in Mickey's head things are not as bad as they really are. Because if let's the reality of it really, really sink in, he'll lose all of his mind. "Stay the fuck out of it, do you hear me? One word... To anyone and I'll rip your tongue out of your mouth."
Anger is the alternative. A mask that Mickey's trained himself to wear since he was little. It always managed to hide what was inside, and as his dad had always said, letting anyone see what's actually going on in one's head is like stepping into a crossfire. It's no good for you. So this is what Mickey does, what he was raised to do. To cover up everything else with a good swing from his tattooed hand and a filthy mouth.
Mickey's just doing what he always does. He's closing himself back up, Ian had already seen too much. He'd seen the fear, the panic. Order had to be restored, it just had to. He wouldn't let anyone make anything out of his situation. Not in this lifetime. Not while he could still throw a punch that could land someone in the emergency room.
Ian looks like he's going to protest. His green eyes are desperate, almost teary as he tries to get closer to the brunette. He only edges further away from Ian. Mickey is ready to bolt if he has to, to get away. He's not about to start dealing with this, especially when Ian's face looks so comforting. He won't fall for that, won't risk letting everything out.
But as if the God's were on his side just this once, Mandy chooses this exact moment to walk into the house, a large box of pizza in her hands. "Hey, Ian.. Mick. You're still here, asswipe?" She grins at her brother, settling the food into Ian's hands. "Wanna join us for dinner?" It takes her a moment to pick up on the tense atmosphere. Looking from one male to the other. "What the fuck happened here? Someone really needs to get rid of the testosterone levels."
Mickey has seemed to level out himself somewhat in the time it took this whole exchange to happen. His body language screams nonchalant, in a way that Ian has Ian silently screaming. You can see it in his eyes. "I need a goddamn smoke. Gotta go by some more. Save me a slice will, ya bitch?" It's not harsh like most of Mickey's slurs, just the way he and Mandy are. They're good that way.
Mickey feels Ian staring a whole in the back of his head as he makes for the door, doing his very best not to look back and ask Ian to come with him. But of course, he doesn't. Because there are two things that completely make Mickey's teeth hurt, and his head feel like it's going to explode. One, someone messing with his sister, no fucker would screw with her if he had something to do with it. And two, he won't let himself look weak in front of another soul, no one beside Derek has ever seen the absolute vulnerability in Mickey's eyes, and no one else ever could. As far as the world was to know, Mickey was a brick wall.