Chapter Text
I didn't know if you'd care if I came back
I have a lot of regrets about that
“Fuck.”
It’s barely a whisper out of Mickey’s mouth and he can’t break they eye contact he’s trying to keep with Ian’s glazed over eyes. He keeps searching for something in them; a lie, a hint of regret. Something…anything to tell Mickey that these past 3 years weren't for nothing. That he didn’t make it all up in his head. That what he felt; what he thought Ian felt; didn’t just die with Ian’s only answer of a “yup” that came out with such juvenile harshness, to Mickey’s question. The question of, after everything, after surviving everything together; juvie, pedophile bosses and geriatric viagroids, Frank, psycho homophobic fathers, Russian whores, unwanted children, beatings, rapes, stolen babies, weeks of not getting out of bed, diagnosis’s, pill bottles; everything, that this was it for them. The end. Before they could even really begin.
But Ian’s got nothing behind his eyes but his truth, and his truth is that it was all for nothing. Because there’s nothing left here for them. Just a scattering of bad memories that fill Ian’s head, spilling out like the blood from a wound, and Mickey can't clean it up fast enough to show him that it’s just a small cut, nothing that won't heal with time. But Ian doesn’t see that, he doesn’t see anything, but the end. There’s no beginning, or middle flickering back in Ian’s eyes.
Mickey sees nothing. There’s nothing left. And Mickey’s ‘I love you’ that flowed from his mouth so easily, was too late. He did everything too late with Ian, and now he’s paying the ultimate price. He lost him. And it makes Mickey wonder if he ever really had him at all.
Mickey can hear his name being shouted from somewhere in the distance, but he’s so scared to take his eyes off Ian in the hopes that maybe, just fucking maybe, he will see some emotion at all in Ian other than the tears that Mickey knows are more about the things Ian is feeling within himself, about himself, instead of anything he feels for Mickey. Because in this moment, Ian feels nothing for Mickey.
“Mickey!”
Mickey finally turns toward the sound of the voice calling his name, tearing his eyes off Ian’s tear stained face. It’s a blur, at first, his own tears causing everything to kaleidoscope in the distance.
“Holy shit.” Mickey whispers slowly when he realizes who is walking toward him.
“Is that Sammi?” Ian mutters. She’s stalking toward them and then Mickey sees it.
“She’s got a fucking gun.” Mickey feels Ian step closer to him but he extends his arm to push Ian back with his palm against his chest. “Don’t Ian.”
She’s getting closer and Mickey doesn’t know if he should run or protect Ian. But Ian isn't even his to protect anymore but the need is still there; overwhelming his entire body and mind. Ian brushes his hand off his chest and as Sammi brings the gun up Mickey grabs for Ian’s wrist to pull him behind him but Ian is a strong fucker and he pushes Mickey back with his shoulder and then it's like time stops and speeds up all in seconds when the gun goes off.
Mickey puts his arms around Ian and they fall to the ground, Ian landing on top of him with an ‘oof’ on the sidewalk. Mickey groans, forgetting how heavy this fucker can be when all his weight is on top of him. He can hear screaming from inside the house; it sounds like Fiona but Mickey can't tell because it's like he’s underwater and there’s this loud whooshing in his ears and he can hear people yelling from a distance and then sirens and he doesn’t know exactly how much time has passed when Ian finally leans up, just slightly and looks down at Mickey, eyes searching his face and chest.
“You’re bleeding.” Ian murmurs and Mickey presses his chin down to his chest and see’s blood spatters on his jacket. But it's not his blood. He looks back up at the boy who just minutes ago shattered his entire world to find the eyes that were filled with tears and nothingness, now shimmering with grogginess and sliding shut.
“No, no, NO! Ian!” Mickey pushes himself up and onto his knees and grabs onto Ian’s now almost completely limp body in his. Mickey’s hand wraps around his shoulder and when he pulls it back, it's soaked with blood. Mickey isn't the one bleeding.
It’s Ian.
“NO! Ian! Someone help us! Someone call 911! NOW!” Mickey pulls Ian against him; his body now completely void of movement, and wraps his hand hard against the wound spilling blood all over himself and the concrete.
Fiona comes bursting out the front door and screams Ian’s name and is at their sides instantly and she too wraps her hands around Ian’s shoulder, trying to stop the bullet wound from pouring out blood everywhere. Mickey can see Sammi being slammed against the ground in the distance, but his eyes can't really focus on anything around him. All he sees is Red. Red blood. Red hair. Red eyes from tears. All around him. V is now there, wrapping the jacket she had on around Ian’s shoulder as best as she can and Mickey wonders why he hadn't thought of that.
“Are you hit? MICKEY! Are you shot too?” Fiona is in his face and Mickey blinks at her and he wonders if he is. He can only shake his head at her and then the EMT’s are there and they are trying to lay Ian on the ground but Mickey still has his arms around him and he knows they are saying things to him and Fiona is touching his wrist, telling him to let Ian go, but he can't move. He literally can't make himself move. Fiona and V both have to grab Mickey back by his shoulders and he falls back on his ass on the sidewalk and watches as the EMT’s rip Ian’s flannel off his body and they are pumping air into his lungs with that plastic beehive looking thing and Fiona still has her arms wrapped around him and Mickey’s putting all his weight on her as he leans against her front and V has a hand on his arm and it’s hot and steadying and he just watches and watches in silence as they load Ian onto a gurney and into the back of the ambulance.
“Are you coming?” Fiona asks when she stands and Mickey now has to support his own weight and he’s just staring at the ambulance and he can't move and he doesn’t even feel like he’s breathing. This is his fault. If Ian dies...
“Mickey!” Fiona is in his face now, kneeling down in front of him and her soft hands are on his cold face and he blinks at her, trying to focus. “Are you coming?”
He can't answer her. Words are stuck in his throat and all he can smell is copper and there’s blood everywhere and lights are flickering somewhere in the distance and he’s not breathing. Ian’s not breathing. Mickey’s not breathing. How is Fiona breathing?
She gives up and he watches as she hops in the back of the ambulance and he’s left alone on the sidewalk with V still knelt down beside him and they watch as it pulls away and the sirens are so loud and Mickey winces.
“Mickey.” V is whispering right in his ear and he blinks a few times as the sirens grow further and further away and he finally turns to look at her. She's blurry; when did he start crying? And she gives him a sad look and stands, grabbing him underneath his arms to pull him to his feet. “Come on. Come with me to the hospital.”
She grabs his wrist to start walking but his feet won't move from the spot where the concrete is stained with red and he looks down at it. It's on his shoes and his jeans and the wrist she’s holding is attached to a hand covered in it.
“It’s my fault.” He whispers.
“No, come on. Let’s go. He’s gonna need you.” V tugs on him and his knees won't support his body and he stumbles and she wraps her arm around his shoulders and now she has blood on her, Ian’s blood and she’s shushing him and he doesn’t deserve such empathy.
“He doesn’t want me. He told me, it's over.”
But V isn't listening. She’s just walking Mickey carefully away from the stained concrete and toward her house. There are cops and they are calling for him but it's garbled and V yells something to them and Mickey knows they want answers to questions he can't answer right now because the bottom line is this is his fault. He should just turn himself in. Tell them what he did that caused this.
But V won't let go of him and he knows this must be some kind of shock because as soon as the car door closes and she reaches over to put his seatbelt on him, the tears come in buckets down his face and they are red too.
*~*~*~*~*~
Could've followed my fears all the way down
And maybe I don't quite know what to say
But I'm here in your doorway
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Mickey’s been keeping a rhythm in his head to the machines and he wonders why some emo band hasn’t made a song yet to that sound. He’s been having weird thoughts lately. Maybe to keep his mind off the situation in front of him. He doesn’t know. Maybe it's from the lack of sleep. It doesn’t matter really, does it?
It's been 3 days.
Ian still isn't awake.
It's not from the gunshot. It was a pretty clean wound. They removed the bullet but the amount of blood he lost is what’s keeping him unconscious. Mickey answered all the cops questions; deciding after much heated discussions with Fiona and Lip that telling them what he did to Sammi to make her come after him with a gun was the worst thing he could do and they would vouch for him, especially if it meant keeping Debbie out of trouble because yeah, they weren't too happy to learn she was involved. So, he just told them over and over that Sammi was nuts and she had a lot of issues with the Gallagher's and whatever story she was spewing about Mickey drugging her and locking her in a storage container was just utter bullshit.
They bought it. Because they caught her with the gun and she’s obviously fucking crazy and they have a 17-year-old shot and that’s more important than some story from an obvious nutcase.
So once the cops got what they wanted and the surgeons worked their magic and the waiting room was filled with all the Gallagher's, Mickey finally got to see Ian. He looked pale, paler than normal and his freckles which had already started to fade from the summer going into the deep winter months, seemed darker now against his pale skin. His shoulder is bandaged and they are giving Ian his bi-polar medication through injections, which Mickey knows Ian is gonna be pissed about when he wakes up because he doesn’t want to take the meds but Fiona talked extensively with the doctors about Ian’s disorder and that maybe the whole reason he jumped in front of the bullet meant for Mickey was due to the mania.
Mickey has to believe that’s the reason. Because he knows it's not because Ian cared that Mickey was about to get shot. Because there was nothing in Ian’s eyes when he was breaking Mickey’s world into a million little pieces. He didn’t care. The doctors had asked if Ian was suicidal. Was this on purpose? Fiona looked at Mickey with hope in her eyes that maybe he had an answer to that, but he just shrugged because the truth is, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything anymore.
He doesn’t know Ian like he thought he did.
Maybe he never did.
Mickey had called Mandy and told her what happened. He told her not to come when she insisted, she’d been on the next bus, telling her if anything changes, he’d let her know. Changes as in if Ian doesn’t make it. She knew that’s what he meant. It’s what they are all thinking. Because Ian hasn’t woken up and it's been 3 days and Mickey hasn’t slept and neither has Fiona or Lip and Lip looks like he’s been drunk for more than 3 days, it looks more like 3 years, and Fiona just keeps drinking coffee like it’s the only thing running through her veins right now and Mickey’s smoked 4 packs of cigarettes and he still has blood stained clothes on and he refuses to leave the hospital because...
They are all thinking it. What if?
So, on the fourth day Mickey decides it's time to go home. He needs a shower; he feels like it's 3 years ago, before Ian, when being clean wasn’t up on his priority list. Before he had someone to be clean for. And the bloodied clothes he’s been wearing, like some kind of morbid badge of honor, are hard and disgusting against his dirty body.
Svetlana is standing in the hallway when Mickey gets out of the shower, her baby…their baby against her hip.
“It has been 4 days.”
“Good for you, you can count.” He brushes past her and into his room.
“Orange boy dead?”
Mickey turns sharply. “Shut your fucking whore mouth.” He points his finger at her, teeth gritted.
“He stole baby. I do not care if he lives or dies.”
“Well, nobody fucking asked what you care about.”
Mickey slams the bedroom door in her face and sits on the bed, his towel loose around his waist. He should eat. And sleep. But he can't seem to do anything but just stare at the back of his bedroom door.
Ian could still die. Ian could not ever wake up. Ian could end up a fucking vegetable and then his family will have to make the decision about pulling the plug and donating his fucking organs and all Mickey can think about is how people have eye transplants and he can't imagine being in line at the fucking liquor store and see Ian’s eyes in someone else's fucking face.
Mickey digs the heels of his palms into his own eye sockets to stop the tears that are forming because it didn’t matter if Ian didn’t want him anymore, he just can't live in a world that doesn’t have Ian in it, somewhere out there, even without Mickey, living his fucking life.
Mickey doesn’t remember falling asleep but when his cellphone starts ringing it's dark outside his bedroom window and he’s laying sideways on his bed, towel now bunched around his naked frame. He fumbles for the phone and croaks a form of ‘yeah’ into it.
“Mick? He…uh. He’s awake.”
Mickey sits up, too fast because his vision goes blurry and he suddenly feels like he’s gonna vomit.
“He okay?” Mickey can hear voices in the distance on the other end of the phone and Lip chuckles into the phone.
“Yeah, he’s good man. Cracking jokes. He’s real good.” There’s a pause and Lip clears his throat. “He’s asking for you. Told him you went home to shower. He wants to see you.”
Mickey can feel the pain start to radiate through his chest and the tears are back again and he realizes how much he just can't do this. Any of this.
“No, he doesn’t. Trust me, man. He told me he was dumpin me. Right before. He’s just being polite and shit.”
“Mickey, listen to me. He doesn’t remember any of that. Doesn’t remember being with Monica. Nothing. He thinks…”
He thinks they are still together.
Mickey stands, pacing back and forth in his room, trying to control his breathing and figure out what the fuck is going on. What is it? Some kind of weird amnesia? How can Ian not remember breaking up with him? All the shit he spewed out at Mickey on that front porch. How he pretty much scoffed at Mickey’s ‘I love you’ like it was nothing. Like it hadn't taken Mickey 3 fucking years to say it.
“So, what now?” Mickey finally breathes out. He honestly can't believe he’s even having a discussion like this with Lip of all people. Lip was the only person he had told about what happened right before Sammi pulled that gun while they chain smoked outside the hospital that first night at 2AM. Lip stayed oddly quiet while Mickey talked and all Lip could muster in the form of consoling was that Ian was sick. And he probably didn’t mean any of it. It didn’t make Mickey feel any better then and now he doesn’t know how he fucking feels now. About anything.
“Now, you come here and see him. Isn't this what you want? You want to be with him, don’t you? I mean, he doesn’t remember. And he’s asking for you. Which means he probably didn’t mean any of it. There are meds in his system which means he’s himself and he’s not manic. And he wants you. So, let it be for now, okay?”
Mickey lets out a long sigh and opens a drawer, pulling out clean boxers. “I’ll be there soon.”
*~*~*~*
And my words shoot to kill when I'm mad
I have a lot of regrets about that
By the time Mickey arrives, visiting hours are long over for the ICU but the nurse he likes is on duty tonight and her eyes light up when she sees him. She smiles at him, because yeah, Ian’s fucking awake and nods at him as he shuffles past her. He stands outside Ian’s glass sliding doors and watches Ian; his head back against the pillow, bandage still on his shoulder and wires coming out of his body but he looks less pale and there’s an empty food tray next to the bed which means he ate, because he’s fucking awake and alive.
And Mickey has never felt more dead on his feet.
“He keeps asking for you. ‘Where’s Mick? Did Mick say when he was coming back? Is Mick okay?’ He won't shut up. He really loves you.” That nurse is behind him now and she’s looking thoughtfully at Ian and back at you with little fucking heart eyes like he and Ian are some sort of South Side romance and she doesn’t know shit because if she really knew...
“He’s a bit dramatic.” Mickey finally says and she laughs softly.
“You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
Yeah, she would think that. She would think that Ian deserves so much and maybe he does but Mickey is broken, he’s fucking broken, because even if Ian doesn’t remember what happened on that sidewalk; every fucking detail; Mickey does. He remembers the words and the blood and the sirens and the way Ian stopped breathing. And that’s something Mickey may ever forget.
Mickey finally slides the glass door open and Ian’s head pops up from the pillow and he’s smiling; Mickey’s fucking smile. The smile that Mickey earned fair and square. A smile Ian took away days ago and is now returning to him like the world didn’t stop spinning for a time.
“Fuck, there you are. Thought maybe you ran away with someone else.”
Mickey just stares at him, because it's Ian. It's his Ian. The Ian he remembers before stolen babies and MP’s and ‘take your pills, bitch.’ It’s Ian at the dugouts and in the storage room of the Kash and Grab. It’s Ian nursing a beer and watching movies with him on his ratty old couch. It's Ian, kissing between his shoulder blades as he fucks him slow from behind.
Ian.
“I was in blood stained clothes.” Is what Mickey spews out of his mouth and Ian’s smile slowly fades and when Ian reaches his hand out for Mickey to come closer, Mickey wants to cry. He literally wants to buckle and fall to his knees right there and scream and cry until there is nothing left inside him. But he doesn’t, instead moving slowly to Ian’s bedside and curls his fingers inside Ian’s. Ian pulls him down and Mickey goes willingly, half bent over and Ian’s buries his face in the space between Mickey’s neck and shoulder and he inhales deeply, taking Mickey’s smell in like he’s done a million times before. Mickey doesn’t understand why that soothes Ian, but it does.
“I’m sorry. Everyone told me what happened. I don’t know why or what happened but I’m sorry. I don’t remember. I just...”
“Shut up, Gallagher.” Mickey mumbles against his shoulder. The only part of his body that’s touching him is Mickey’s mouth against the material of the itchy hospital gown on his shoulder and his fingers white knuckling his, but he’s shaking. He knows he is.
“You’re okay, right?” Ian whispers. Mickey nods. “Good.”
Mickey pulls back and stares at Ian and Ian is just smirking and rubbing his thumb over Mickey’s and Mickey doesn’t even know how to act. If this was before, he’d be cracking jokes and making fun of Ian. He’d have kissed him by now.
But that was before.
This is now.
And now everything is different.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“You don’t remember anything?” Mickey doesn’t even recognize his own voice. He feels like a stranger in his own skin.
Ian frowns and lays his head back against the bed. “No. The last thing I remember the dugouts and then the MP’s grabbing me at the house. Then I woke up here.”
Mickey pulls his hand back and rubs his hands down his face. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Fiona and Lip told me I was in prison. And then I ran off with Monica. I have no idea what happened when I was with her. I don’t remember coming home and Fiona she didn’t even know I was back until she heard the gunshot and came outside and there we were.”
“Yeah, well. I remember. I remember fucking everything.” Mickey mumbles and turns away from him to stare out the glass doors. He watches as Doctors and nurses and patients go by. He wonders if their stories are as fucked up as his. He wonders if they ever had to work so hard to be happy as he has. He wonders if he will ever be happy again.
“Tell me. Because it's like I’m missing an entire part of my life. And I know I was manic. And I promise I’m gonna take the pills now, Mick, if that’s what your worried about. Why you’re being so...”
“So what?” Mickey asks, not looking at him.
“Distant?” Ian says gently. Mickey huffs out a disgruntled noise from deep in his throat.
“Right.”
“Come on, Mick. Talk to me. I know I fucked up okay? But I won't again. I promise.”
He promises. Ian promises. Right. Until he wakes up tomorrow and suddenly remembers ‘oh right. I broke up with this piece of shit.’ Because bi-polar or not Ian said the words. And he meant them. He meant them in that moment. And Mickey can't forget.
“We went to see you. At the prison. Fucking guard told us Monica came and got you. We called you, man. I called you for days and I thought you were just fucking gone man. And then you call me and I run all the way to your fucking house and you’re just standing there. No coat and you looked...so fucking lost man. I’d never seen you look so lost.”
“I’m sorry, Mick. I never should have gone with her. I should have waited for you to come get me. I should have gone home with you.” Ian’s voice is cracking and Mickey knows he’s crying and Mickey wants to climb into that small hospital bed and hold him and tell him everything's going to be okay. That they can get through this. That none of it matters.
But it does matter. All that shit did happen. And Ian gets the luxury of not remembering any of it while Mickey has to live with it, rolling around in his head, maybe forever.
“You said shit to me, Ian. You said shit to me that I can’t-”
“What? What did I say, Mick?”
Mickey just shakes his head and bites at his bottom lip. He can't do this. He can't be here.
“I told you I fucking loved you and you just-” Mickey’s voice finally breaks and he rubs his eyes and he needs a fucking cigarette. He needs to get the fuck out of here.
“You told me you loved me?” There’s a desperation in Ian’s voice. A melody of awe in it.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck, Mick. I love you too. So much. I... fuck. I can't believe I don’t remember that.”
Mickey stops breathing.
That’s the reaction he wanted on that sidewalk. The reaction he deserved. He turns to find tears streaming down Ian’s face and before he can even think he’s crossing the room and taking Ian’s wet cheeks in his hand and pressing his mouth firm against Ian’s. Ian’s hands come up around the back of Mickey’s head and Ian’s mouth opens, wet and hot against Mickey’s and their tongues slide together and one of them moans, who the fuck cares who, and Mickey knees buckle from the sensation of having Ian here, right here, like this with him.
Mickey breaks the kiss first, because he forgot how to breathe for a second, and presses his forehead hard against Ian’s. Ian hisses, lowering his arm, the one bandaged and Mickey presses light fingertip touches against it.
“I’m okay. Just keep forgetting about it, you know? Guess I’m not gonna be able to jerk off for a while.”
Mickey laughs low. “Poor baby.”
“Gonna help me, Mick?”
Mickey swallows thickly and leans back to look in Ian’s eyes. It's all Ian staring back. Not the Ian he saw on that porch. Or the Ian when he couldn’t get out of bed, or Ian in that psych ward. It's just Ian.
“Sure, Gallagher.”
Ian smiles and presses another small kiss to Mickey’s lips. “Can you tell me? Can you say it. I need to hear it.”
Mickey slides his eyes shut and stands, one hand still on Ian’s face. He shakes his head, bringing his lips into his mouth. He can't. He can't do it right now. He’s not sure he’s ever going to be able to. It took him so long to be able to, and now...he knows Ian doesn’t remember. But Mickey can't risk it that it could happen again. He can't go back there again. He can't go through that moment ever again.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I’m just so pissed I don’t remember. You’ll tell me again. I know you will.” Ian is being so calm and patient and understanding and Mickey realizes it’s the meds. Maybe a combo of the pain medication and the fucking Lithium, who the fuck knows. But Ian is pulls and pulls until Mickey never has anything left and he’s not doing that now and Mickey doesn’t know how he feels about it.
That day at the dugouts, Ian wailed on Mickey because he had gone soft. That he wasn’t that tough South Side piece of trash Ian had originally gotten to drop his fucking pants for. He had changed. And now here Ian was, all full of love and hope and understanding and it's like Ian is 16 years old all over again, before all the bad shit hardened him and he’s looking at Mickey like he used to. And Mickey can't breathe because he doesn't know if he loves it or hates it.
He doesn’t know anything.
“You gonna stay?” Ian finally asks.
Mickey nods and pulls the chair over to the side of the bed. Ian gives him another smile and reaches for the remote attached to the bed. “There’s probably no Segal movies on but I bet there’s a rerun of Law and Order on some channel. I know you have a thing for Chris Meloni.”
“Fuck off.” Mickey mumbles leaning his arms on the bed next to Ian. Ian reaches out and takes Mickey’s hand in his, like they do it all the time. Like it's their thing when honestly, it really isn't.
But Mickey will allow it because Ian’s alive and he’s smiling and he doesn’t remember breaking up with Mickey and dismissing Mickey’s ‘I love you’. He knows he’s going to have to tell Ian. He knows that he isn't going to be able to keep this charade up. That Mickey will never be able to move on, with or without Ian, if he doesn’t try to get Ian to remember that day.
Mickey wakes up sometime in the middle of the night with visions of blood-stained sidewalks and Ian’s voice echoing in his mind over and over again.
‘What does that even mean?’
‘What does that even mean?’
‘What does that even mean?’
Mickey thought he knew.
Now he thinks he might not know what it means anymore.