Chapter Text
Mickey’s no stranger to the legalities of being a male surrogate, but he’s fuzzy on exactly what the rule is about letting your client blow you during your work break. Although as long as it’s consensual, who cares?
And this is very, very consensual. The part of his brain that can still function is thinking Ian might’ve had a future in porn if he hadn’t gone the EMT route, because the guy has practically no gag reflex and an incredible instinct for using his tongue.
“Fuck,” Mickey pants, head lolling against the wall as he gets his breath back. “Jesus, Gallagher, where did you fucking learn that?”
Ian smirks up at him.
“Would you believe it’s just natural talent?”
Mickey huffs a blissed-out laugh and rumples Ian’s hair. “Yeah, whatever. Get up, I gotta get back to work.”
Ian does, and Mickey starts getting himself back in order so he can go back to the bar not looking like he just got lucky.
Ian, for his part, zips up his jacket and leans in, hovering over Mickey.
“Nah,” Mickey says, pushing him away. “This wasn’t a date, don’t kiss me. It was just hormones.”
Ian smiles and takes a step back.
“You can still call me the next time you get hormonal like this,” he says.
“Sure,” Mickey says offhandedly, straightening his tie. “And don’t forget, doctor’s appointment on Thursday.” He brushes a hand over his stomach. “Gonna see the little alien again. It’s supposed to be the size of an apple now, or some shit.”
Ian’s eyes light up, and before Mickey can stop him, he’s put his hand on Mickey’s bump.
“That’s amazing,” he says. “Can you feel anything yet?”
Mickey shrugs, trying not to focus on how warm Ian’s hand is or how fucking good he smells.
“A little bit, could be gas,” he replies. “I really have to get back.”
Ian blinks and steps back. “Yeah, okay. Um...keep in touch.”
“Whatever,” Mickey breezes out the door, throwing a casual middle finger over his shoulder.
***
This isn’t his first rodeo, or even his second. Mickey’s had two kids before now, both for other people willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money to bring home a screaming, shitty little life-ruiner. It wasn’t the side gig he necessarily wanted, but he had the gene and a business to get off the ground, and what was nine months out of his life?
He stopped smoking, cultivated a story about being a former teen hooligan who turned his life around through the miracle of community college (his brother helped get him a fake diploma) and charmed a rich couple into convincing them that he was the perfect oven to bake their little bundle of joy in.
The whole thing was tougher than he’d expected, but not a nightmare. They got their kid, he got money for his bar, and within two years he was ready to do it again for another couple. What the hell, he needed the dough and it was actually easier the second time around.
He knows that the older he gets the less appealing he’s going to be for the job. He figures once he’s had this one and maybe another in a couple of years, he should be ready to give up baby-baking and just live his life as the business owner of a semi-successful bar.
But this is the first time he’s had a kid for a single parent, and god-fucking-damn is Ian Gallagher a DILF. Tall redhead, freakishly pale, with green eyes that lock onto his like a challenge. And technically, this is more of a closed adoption than a surrogacy, because the baby’s partly Mickey’s as well as Ian’s. Mickey doesn’t worry about getting attached, though--he has ways of distracting himself, always gets the good drugs during labor, and never asks to hold or see the baby after it’s out. Easier that way. Then he gets his money and goes home with some pain meds and a postpartum bump that’s gone in a few weeks.
No matter what anyone says--specifically his sister, the only member of his family he still keeps in touch with regularly--it doesn’t matter that this little alien is part Milkovich. A deal’s a deal. Money was exchanged, forms were signed, and Mickey’s not buying any little shoes or setting up a nursery. This is going to be Ian Gallagher’s baby in every sense of the phrase, and Mickey’s not going to be involved.
The only thing that bothers him is that it means he won’t see Ian anymore once the baby’s here. But that’s how it works, how it’s always worked. Just because he’s popping out a kid for the guy doesn’t make them a fucking couple or anything.
And that suits him fine.
***
Mickey can practically go through the whole routine in his sleep--drink water, lift his shirt, lie back for the gel and the wand and watch the little thing squirm around on the screen. Then zone out while the parents say all kinds of sappy things to it like it’s a fish in an aquarium. Ian, though, doesn’t say much. He just stares and smiles like he can’t believe it, and Mickey catches himself smiling back.
He doesn’t have any particularly troubling symptoms to report--morning sickness fucked off weeks ago, his weight is where it should be, he’s got more energy and his sex drive is back (Ian hides a smirk at that.) The only thing the doctor warns him about is working too late and letting his blood pressure get too high.
“You’re not twenty-one anymore,” she warns him. “You’ve been lucky so far, but carriers have a higher risk for pre-eclampsia as they age. Keep your stress levels low and watch out for sudden headaches and swollen feet.”
Mickey nods, having heard this before. Really, though, he’s not worried. He’s had two successful pregnancies with no complications before or after, so why worry about anything going wrong now?
“She’s right,” Ian says when Mickey voices his lack of concern out loud as they’re leaving. “If you start feeling off at all, even if you think it’s nothing, you need to call me--”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Mickey sighs. “But fuck, I’m okay now. Can we just take this one thing at a time?”
Ian shrugs. “Fine.” After a minute, he pipes up again. “Hey, uh...next week my family’s having Thanksgiving at my old house, if you want to join us.”
Mickey’s surprised. He’s never been invited to any parent’s home for a holiday meal before. He knows better than to expect any Milkovich get-together this year, since one of his brothers is in prison, the other’s lying low in Canada, and his sister’s in Indiana.
“No thanks,” he says finally. “I’ve, uh, got stuff to do at the bar. We get a lot of business this time of year, people who don’t have turkey dinners to go to and all that.”
“If you’re sure,” Ian says. “It’s no trouble. My sister and brothers bring friends sometimes, and we’ll have plenty of food. You can stop by anytime.”
Mickey smirks. “For anything?”
Ian gives him a smile. “Anything.”
“I’ll try to get away, then.”
***
When Thanksgiving Day comes around, Mickey finds he’s not really in the mood for holiday sexy-times.
He blames hormones--again--for making him depressed about not having a family dinner of his own to sit down at, and even the idea of heading across the street to his favorite diner seems pathetic. Besides, he’s tasted their “Thanksgiving Platter” enough times to know that it’s pretty much just salty gravy mix and barely-thawed turkey breast. Even if he could still eat any old crap and not worry about it, he wouldn’t want to eat that shit again this year.
Since his choices are either order takeout and bum around his apartment, or stay in the bar and listen to drunks talk about their family drama while watching the Macy’s Day Parade, he figures he’ll take Ian up on his offer. What the hell, at least he’ll get a free meal (and maybe another BJ, who knows) out of it.
He calls Ian to let him know he’s changed his mind, and Ian sounds...kind of tentative.
“Great,” he says. “Um...but I should probably warn you, I told my family who I chose as a surrogate, and they remember you from back when you used to live here.”
Mickey knows where this is going. “They think we had a one-night stand and I’m trying to shake you down or something?”
Ian laughs. “Pretty much. At least, that was their first reaction. I told them it’s not like that. Look, if you don’t want to face a Gallagher interrogation, you don’t have to.”
“Fuck that, I’m not afraid of them,” Mickey says defensively. “You don’t gotta protect me. I’ll be over in an hour, tell the Inquisition.”
***
Mickey has a passing acquaintance with at least three Gallaghers besides Ian. He lived in this neighborhood until after high school, and he vaguely remembers Lip and Fiona. Thanks to the shit he used to pull at the convenience store where he and Ian (technically) met, he’s sure they’ve heard stories about him. But it’s been a long time since those days. He’s got his life together and he’s stayed out of prison. If any of them have done better, he’s happy to hear about it.
All the same, he’s a little nervous when Ian meets him at the door and shows him inside. He almost doesn’t want to take off his coat for a minute, because he’s not looking forward to inviting open stares or endless questions about the pregnancy all through dinner.
“Hey,” he says to the milling group of people who are just beginning to sit down at the table. “Uh...Happy Thanksgiving.”
He gets a generally positive reply, Ian brings him a root beer (god, he could really use the real thing right now, but of course that’s not an option) and he takes a seat next to him for dinner. Everything looks and smells great, and he’s sure to compliment Fiona and Veronica (who clearly remembers him from the way she mentions how he “cleans up nice.”)
Dinner’s not as bad as Ian made it sound. He fields plenty of questions about what he’s doing these days and what made him decide to be Ian’s surrogate, and he gives them the standard answers--running a bar and because Ian wasn’t a total stranger. That earns him some odd looks, but fuck it, it’s not as if he owes them an explanation for this.
“So you guys didn’t have sex?” Carl asks at one point, and Mickey almost chokes on his yams.
“Carl, shut up!” Ian snaps, but Mickey waves at him.
“No!” he says, coughing. “No, not to--no.” He takes a gulp of root beer. “It was an insemination, like IVF, only without the egg because Ian’s a guy. So it’s biologically half my kid, too.”
Fiona’s eyes widen. “Whoa. So, you’re still gonna let him have full custody?”
“Yeah, why not?” Mickey says, digging into his food again. “I don’t want kids. Ian does. Makes total sense.”
“I’m just saying,” Fiona goes on, despite Ian sending her a warning look. “It’s still a baby. They’re easy to get attached to.”
“I don’t,” Mickey says firmly. “Once they dope me up, I barely remember a thing. By the time I wake up, the kid’s gone home with their family. It’s better that way.”
He can see a million other questions ready to come out of her mouth, so he gets in front of the biggest one.
“We’re not gonna be co-parenting,” he says with a glance at Ian. “I signed papers that say I waive my parental rights. This kid is a hundred percent his, I’m just the incubator. Happy?”
Fiona reads his mood and nods, although she clearly isn’t completely happy. Well, whatever. He’s not answering any more questions.
***
“Do you know the sex yet?”
Mickey glances at Lip, who’s sitting across from him as the majority of the Gallaghers mindlessly watch the football game. He’s ready to give into a turkey-induced food nap, so his answer is a little slow.
“No,” he says. “Ian wants it to be a surprise.” That’s technically true, but also Mickey doesn’t want to know. If he does, he has a feeling he’ll start to get attached, and that won’t be good for anyone.
Lip nods. “Would you care if we started a betting pool?”
Ian snorts and Mickey flips him off and closes his eyes, ready to fall asleep. His bladder, though, has other plans.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
Ian points to the kitchen. “Door next to the stairs.”
Mickey gets up and immediately has to sit back down again because he’s hit by a wave of dizziness.
“Mickey?” Ian’s hand is on his arm, but Mickey bats him away.
“I’m fine, stood up too fast. I’m good.”
Ian’s still hovering and he’s got the entire family’s attention, which is not what he wants. The dizziness passes.
“I’m good,” he insists. “Really.”
***
He’s not good.
He gets dizzy again when he’s washing his hands, and this time he nearly ends up on the floor.
“Fuck,” he grunts, grabbing onto the sink for dear life. He knows what this probably is--low blood pressure. He should lie down and drink some water. That’s what his doctor said to do the last time this happened.
The only problem is, he’s in Ian’s house and he can’t just crash on someone’s bed.
There’s a knock on the door. “Mickey? You okay?”
It’s Ian. Mickey opens the door.
“You look pale,” Ian says immediately. “Do we need to take you to the hospital?”
“No,” Mickey protests. “No, I’m okay, just low blood pressure. I need to lie down somewhere, have some water, I’ll be fine.”
“My bed’s still in my old room, you can lie down there. But I still want to take your blood pressure and call your doctor just in case this is more serious. Okay?”
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Okay, Mr. EMT, but I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“Seriously?”
Mickey realizes how that must have sounded.
“Let me just lie down,” he sighs. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”
Ian puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not. Trust me.”
***
Ian’s bed is comfy and smells like him, and once he’s a little more hydrated, Mickey starts to feel better.
“Didn’t drink enough water before I got here,” he says by way of explanation. “With the traffic and everything, I didn’t want to have to pull off the highway for bathroom breaks.”
Ian’s sitting on the end of the bed, on the phone with his doctor, and he nods briefly.
“Yeah, I used my cuff, and his blood pressure is definitely a little low,” he says into the phone. “He says he didn’t drink much before coming over. No, I don’t think so.” He glances back at Mickey.
“Any severe headache or blurred vision?”
“No!” Mickey retorts. “I would’ve mentioned that.”
“He says no,” Ian relates, and Mickey kind of tunes out the rest because he’s tired. He might just take that nap after all.
He’s almost dozed off when Ian touches his foot.
“She says you should take it easy for the rest of the day and stay hydrated,” he says. “You can sleep over if you want.”
“Mm,” Mickey replies. “Don’t wanna be--”
“Mick, stop,” Ian says, scooting so he’s closer to Mickey’s hip. “You’re not a nuisance. You didn’t do this on purpose to score free pie.”
“There’s pie?” Mickey jokes feebly, lifting his arm off his eyes. Ian pokes his side.
“Really, we’re used to houseguests. Nobody will care if you stay one night.”
Mickey turns onto his side and tucks an arm under the pillow. “You should go downstairs, be with your sister and everybody. I’ll be fine.”
Ian glances towards the door and his jaw clenches.
“I’d...probably have come up here after dinner anyway.”
“Not a fan of football?”
Ian looks at the floor. “No. But...our mom tried to kill herself on Thanksgiving one year.”
“Shit.” Mickey half-raises himself onto his elbow. “I didn’t know that.”
“I don’t talk about it much,” Ian says, with palpable tension in his voice. “She slit her wrists right there in our kitchen. I thought maybe it was an accident, but then I saw that it was both arms, and--” He turns away. “I never realized how sick she really was until then.”
Mickey has no idea what to say. So he doesn’t say anything.
Ian clears his throat and seems to compose himself, and gives Mickey a terse smile.
“So, yeah, not really a fan of anything Thanksgiving related.”
Mickey nods, still at a loss for words. He could tell Ian a lot of stories about shitty holidays around his place, but none of them involve people trying to off themselves.
“I’ll let you sleep.You need anything?”
Mickey shakes his head, lying back down. “I’m good.”
“Okay.”
Mickey hears the skepticism in his voice. Ian doesn’t get it--he probably had Fiona making him chicken soup or getting him cold medicine when he was sick as a kid. In the Milkovich house, if you got sick, you toughed it out. Mickey never saw the inside of a doctor’s office unless he was bleeding heavily or had a broken bone that nobody else knew how to set. Mostly he was just left to fend for himself, like his siblings, unless one of them decided it wasn’t too inconvenient to lend a hand.
His last thought before he falls asleep is that it’s nice not being alone right now.
***
When Mickey wakes up, it’s just after midnight. He really has to pee, so he goes to sit up--slowly--and that’s when he realizes that Ian’s curled up behind him asleep, one hand sliding off Mickey’s stomach when he sits up.
Too tired to read into it, Mickey goes to use the bathroom and comes back without any further dizziness. All the same, he drinks half the bottle of Gatorade that Ian left on the nightstand. That just makes him realize he’s hungry, so he ventures downstairs to raid the fridge. What the hell, there’s probably next to nothing left, the way this family eats.
He finds some leftover yams and heats them up as a snack. When he’s done, he heads back upstairs, only to meet Ian at the top of the stairs. They almost collide with each other.
“Fuck!” Mickey says, almost losing his balance but this time not because he’s dizzy. Ian takes a step back, looking startled.
“Hey, there you are,” he says. “I woke up and you were gone. You okay?”
“Fine. Got hungry,” Mickey replies shortly, glancing toward the very inviting bed down the hall. He moves past Ian, who follows him and stands there a little awkwardly when Mickey climbs back in bed first. Mickey glances up at him.
“What? You want to keep spooning?”
Ian’s eyebrows jump. “I wasn’t--I came in and you were asleep, I was just--”
“Whatever,” Mickey yawns. “Just stay on your side.”
Ian mutters something, but climbs over him onto the side he was on before Mickey woke up.
They settle in, and Mickey’s just closed his eyes when...
“I thought I felt something earlier.”
“It’s called a boner, go to sleep,” Mickey grumbles, not bothering to open his eyes.
“No, not that.” Ian taps Mickey’s stomach. “In there. You didn’t feel it?”
“I was asleep,” Mickey groans. “It’s not strong enough to wake me up yet. And if you wanna grope my belly, at least do it when I’m awake, a’ight?”
He feels Ian move away slightly. “Okay.”
Mickey might be exhausted and cranky, but he knows Ian well enough that he can tell he’s just going to bring this up again in the morning. So he moves onto his back and grabs Ian’s wrist.
“What--”
“Shut up,” Mickey says, laying Ian’s hand on his belly. “It usually moves after I’ve eaten something, so…”
Sure enough, there’s a definite tap from inside, and Ian laughs incredulously.
“Holy shit!”
“Yeah, it gets old after a while,” Mickey says calmly, even though he likes knowing that the kid is doing okay. “And don’t worry, soon she’s gonna be kicking away all the time.”
Ian stares at him. “She?”
Crap. Shit. No. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, why did he say that?!
“I...I mean, y’know, he or she. It, them, whatever you wanna call it,” Mickey babbles. “I don’t know, how could I, it’s too early. Go to sleep!”
“Mick…” Ian’s grinning now. “Do you think it’s a girl? It’s okay if you do.”
“It’s really not,” Mickey says through gritted teeth, turning back onto his side and causing Ian’s hand to fall off him. “Now can I please just fucking sleep?”
***
Mickey takes off before breakfast that morning because he doesn’t want to face Ian after last night. He’s panicked enough as it is because he called the baby “she.” He doesn’t do that. He’s never done that. It’s always “it” or “thing” or “alien.” The parents can call it whatever they want, but not him. Because it’s not his.
Or at least, it never has been before.
He wants a cigarette. Hell, a whole fucking carton sounds good right now, but he can’t have any. He’s not sure what to do to calm himself down besides taking a long walk, which sounds good in theory but in practice just reminds him of the shitty neighborhood he lives in. Everywhere he looks there are overflowing trash cans, homeless people holding battered cardboard signs or asking for “a dollar,” and boarded-up storefronts that have been tenant-less for months. There isn’t even a park or anything nearby. This is no place for a kid.
He digs his palms into his eyes at the thought. Why do parks matter? He’s not keeping the damn kid. He’s handing it off to Ian as soon as the cord’s cut. Even if he was having second thoughts, which he’s not, he can’t do anything about it now. He signed legal documents saying that he has no parental rights to this kid and that unless Ian agrees to shit like visitations and partial custody, that isn’t going to change.
He knows all this. He accepted all this before he even got pregnant. So why the fuck is he calling the thing “she” and bemoaning the fact that he lives in a neighborhood without a park for kids to play in?
Because she’s yours, says a part of his brain that’s probably been taken over by the fucking hormones. She’s not just Ian’s. You can’t change that.
No, but…
Fine.
***
He leaves Ian a voicemail thanking him for dinner and letting him know he’s okay. He blames the holiday for fucking with his head about the baby and everything. Christmas will probably be even worse--who knows, he might ask Ian to marry him or some shit.
He thinks it over and comes to the conclusion that this “wanting the kid” thing is just a temporary lapse. It definitely wasn’t a good idea to use his own DNA in this surrogacy, and he won’t be doing it again because it’s making it very hard for him not to think of this as his kid...his family.
That way lies total shittiness, though. And an ill-advised custody battle he’s sure to lose, because no matter how good his business is or how much money he’s made in the past few years, he’s still got an impressive record of misdemeanors, robbery, vandalism, and a stint in juvie. No judge in their right mind would grant him full custody, and...well, is that really what he wants?
He’s never wanted kids. He’s not parenting material. He hates just hearing a baby cry in the supermarket. Just because his brain is swamped with hormones telling him to nurture and protect this baby doesn’t mean he’s ready to be anyone’s dad. He had the worst one in the fucking world and he barely remembers his mom, even though he’s pretty sure she died to get away from Terry Milkovich. Sometimes he’d almost envied her for that.
So, yeah, nothing will change. He might get mushy about the baby from time to time, but it’s just temporary. Once he’s had it and Ian’s out of his life and raising it on his own...everything will gradually go back to normal. Maybe he’ll even manage to forget what an unbelievably good fuck Ian Gallagher was.
Nah, there are some things he never wants to forget.
***
The next week, Ian meets him at the doctor’s office with a gift-wrapped box in hand.
“You know Christmas isn’t for three weeks, right?” Mickey says, with a pretty good idea what the gift is. “And I don’t have a tree to put that under.”
“You’re right--we need to go Christmas tree shopping!” Ian says, shoving the present at Mickey and digging in his coat for his phone. On closer inspection, he seems a little jumpy, like he’s had too much caffeine.
“Uh, that can wait, too,” Mickey says, sitting down in one of the waiting room chairs. “Plenty of time. Sit down.”
Ian shakes his head. “No, we should get one soon, otherwise the good ones will be gone.”
“Ian, it’s just a tree,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. “And who are you even getting it for--me or you?”
Ian looks at him in surprise. “You, duh. I already have a tree. Got it yesterday.”
Mickey’s the one who’s surprised now. “You got a Christmas tree two days after Thanksgiving?”
Ian grins. “Yeah, I know a guy. It’s great, six-foot fir tree, takes up about half the room but it’s perfect. I was up all night decorating it.”
Mickey blinks. He’s about to say that’s nuts, but the nurse calls their names and he decides to leave it for now.
***
“Are you still sure you don’t want to know the sex?” the nurse asks. “We can find out right now, if you’ve changed your mind.”
Ian nods. “I have, and I do. I mean, if that’s okay with Mickey.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Mickey acquiesces. “But I only want Ian to know--I’ll, like, shut my eyes or something.”
“How about I write it down and you can give it to Ian?”
That actually sounds like a good idea--kind of a thank-you present for Thanksgiving (and for what he’s pretty sure is the foot massager.)
True to her word, the nurse scribbles a word down on a piece of paper, folds it in half and hands it to Mickey--who promptly shoves it in his pants’ pocket.
“Hey!” Ian protests, laughing. “I was supposed to see that!”
“You still can, once we’re out of here,” Mickey says smugly.
***
“Okay,” Mickey says later in Ian’s car, drawing this out on purpose because seeing Ian almost bouncing in anticipation is incredibly entertaining. “My blood pressure’s back to normal, the baby’s perfectly healthy, and...what else did we find out today?”
“Mickey, come on!” Ian laughs. “Just tell me!”
Mickey scratches his head. “Yeah, I can’t remember, pregnancy brain and all that--where did I put that piece of paper?”
Just like he hoped he would, Ian plunges a hand right into Mickey’s pocket and gropes around more than is strictly necessary before pulling out the crumpled Post-it.
He draws it out in triumph and opens it. His breath catches and he claps a hand over his mouth like he’s looking at a winning lottery ticket.
“It’s a girl.”
Mickey’s trying really hard not to tear up--fucking hormones--and smirks. “Told ya.”
Ian responds by grabbing him in a hug, and Mickey’s not really a hugger, but he allows it. Ian’s laughing and crying at the same time, and there’s a moment where he’s sure Ian’s about to kiss him.
This time, though, he doesn’t push him away.
Ian’s face is so close Mickey can feel his breath, and his eyes are flicking from Mickey’s lips to his eyes, like he’s waiting for permission. Mickey grins, curls a hand around the back of Ian’s neck, and nods.
Ian goes all in, and Mickey almost forgets how to breathe. But fucking hell, he doesn’t care--he could do this all day. They’re not big on kissing, preferring to do other things with their mouths before now. Mickey’s not even sure why. They’re synced up already, and Ian’s applying just enough pressure. He tastes like coffee and mint toothpaste, and Mickey is no longer sure what day it is or even what planet they’re on.
Ian’s hands are all over the place--on Mickey’s face, neck, hips--but they end up on his belly, tracing it like it’s a treasure map. Mickey smiles into the kiss, and their baby girl decides to get in on the action by kicking enthusiastically at Ian’s hands.
It’s enough to temporarily distract Ian, and he breaks the kiss to look down at the bump.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he coos, and Mickey chuckles at how sappy he sounds. Just when he thought Ian wasn’t going to be that kind of dad.
“I love you already,” he goes on, and Mickey has to swipe at his eyes and glance around, because they’re still in a fucking parking lot and it’s not nearly as private as this kind of thing warrants. “And I can’t wait to meet you in twenty weeks.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay, that’s enough,” Mickey half-jokes, shoving him away. “We can continue this at home.”
***
“Why did you freak out earlier?”
Mickey lifts his head from where it’s buried in the crook of Ian’s neck. “When? Oh, you mean--on Thanksgiving?” He shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t usually get a feeling like that...like I know what the kid is. It threw me.”
Ian’s rubbing Mickey’s belly slowly. “So you really meant that about not getting attached.”
Mickey lowers his eyes. “Can’t when it’s not my kid. But…” He sighs, rolling onto his back away from Ian. “But she is, man. I mean, I’m not gonna fight you for her or anything. But it’s not like it was the last couple of times.”
Ian folds his arms under his head. “I get it. And I’m not worried about you wanting to keep her.” He pauses. “But if you do change your mind...I mean, there’s still stuff we can do to make sure she’s in your life, too.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Mickey says quickly. He gets out of bed and starts tugging his clothes back on. “Hey, are we still gonna get that Christmas tree?”
***
They find a nice, reasonably-sized tree for Mickey’s tiny apartment, and Ian’s been online shopping all day, ordering him a ridiculous amount of presents to put under it.
But just as Ian’s getting ready to go, a car backfires outside and he actually shoves Mickey to the floor like a fucking bodyguard.
“The fuck, Gallagher, it was just a car!” Mickey sputters. “I think we both know what a gun sounds like!”
Ian’s still pressed against the wall, one hand firmly on Mickey’s back, and Mickey does not appreciate this at all. Well...okay, maybe a little, because seeing Ian in soldier mode is hot. But he’s still on the floor and the baby is squirming around in protest, and it was a stupid car. No need to go all “Call of Duty.”
“I don’t like this neighborhood,” Ian says, finally helping Mickey up. “It’s dangerous.”
“It’s pretty much the same as the one we grew up in,” Mickey points out, adjusting his shirt. “Just with better coffee shops.”
Ian is still keeping watch like he’s expecting someone to start throwing grenades through the window.
“Maybe you should move. Find a bigger place.”
“Yeah, good idea,” Mickey snarks. “I can afford it cause I’m a fucking millionaire.”
“You could move in with me,” Ian says, oblivious to his sarcasm. “I have a two-bedroom and my roommate moved out six months ago. It would save you some money and it’s only about twenty minutes longer for your commute.”
Mickey stares at him. “Are you fucking serious? Ian, we’re not--I’m not your boyfriend here. We don’t have to move in together just because we’re having a baby and we fuck around a lot.”
“I want you to be safe!” Ian fires back. “I can’t sleep at night because I’m thinking ‘What if someone breaks into Mickey’s apartment’ or ‘What if Mickey gets mugged on his way home?’”
“I can take care of myself. I got four guns, two nightsticks, a couple dozen cans of mace, and if all else fails I can beat the shithead to death if I have to. I’m not helpless just because I’m fucking pregnant.”
“I know,” Ian says, softer this time. “I know you’re a badass. But it’s not just you anymore.” He glances at Mickey’s belly. “She needs to be safe, too. And the stress of living in a place like this isn’t good for either of you. Just...think about it, okay? Doesn’t have to be forever, just until she’s born. I’ll even help you find a new place if you want.”
Mickey still thinks it’s a bad idea, but then again...he’s had more than a few sleepless nights around here. It might be nice not to hear backfiring cars or gunplay outside every day.
***
Eventually, Mickey decides to move in with Ian. It actually takes a bedbug infestation to convince him that his shithole apartment is exactly that, and after throwing out the tree, getting rid of his bed, washing all his clothes in hot water, and salvaging as much bug-free stuff as he can, he moves into Ian’s apartment.
It’s nice. Not ultra-modern or any of that hipster crap, but nice. There are no weird smells or stains anywhere, the walls don’t have visible cracks, and Ian keeps the place gleaming--Army training, probably. Not to mention Mickey’s got his own half-bathroom, which will save them that awkward “walking in on each other” phase.
He even gets a new bed--a queen-size memory-foam-top mattress so comfortable, Mickey falls asleep on it for three hours before he’s even done unpacking.
He can’t get over how quiet the place is. He can’t hear anything through the walls no matter what room he’s in. There’s not much traffic noise, either. It’s probably due to living higher up and facing away from the main street. Mickey doesn’t mind at all, even though there’s not much of a view from his room. He feels safer, less exposed. He can relax.
One day close to Christmas, he wakes up to the smell of eggs and bacon, and smiles into his pillow. Ian’s making his favorite breakfast--not the bacon, cause he can’t eat that right now, but the eggs. He takes his time getting out of bed and shuffles into the kitchen to see Ian putting the plates on the table.
“Morning,” Mickey mumbles, sitting down. “Smells good.”
“Made eggs Benedict,” Ian replies, putting Mickey’s plate down in front of him. “It was my first try, so be honest and tell me what you think.”
Mickey shrugs--he’s not too picky about food as long as it tastes good. And these eggs taste great, which he relates to Ian.
The chef doesn’t look satisfied. “Are you sure? I thought they were a little runny. I’ll try again later.”
“Seriously, they’re good,” Mickey insists. “And if I could eat nitrates right now, I’d be all over that bacon, too.”
Ian smiles, drumming his fingers on the tabletop while he eats said bacon. “I’m going for a run before work. Do you have a shift today?”
“Going in a little later,” Mickey says. “I hired a new guy this week, and I’m doing a trial by fire to see how he handles a pre-holiday rush. Even if he quits, there are plenty of people looking to make some extra money.”
“How are your feet?” Ian says, and Mickey blinks at the change of subject before he realizes what Ian’s implying.
“Hm? Oh. Fine. I’ve got some foam thingies for my shoes, and I take a lot of breaks. I’m doing good. That foot massager you got me helps a lot, too.”
Ian gets up, practically jogging in place as he shoves a last piece of bacon into his mouth.
“I still think you should take a few days off,” he says a bit indistinctly. “Go easy on yourself.”
“Look who’s talking!” Mickey laughs. “You’re making eggs, going for runs, taking extra shifts at work. What kind of energy drink you on?”
Ian laughs in reply, but doesn’t answer. “Gotta go. See you later.” He leans in and Mickey tugs on the drawstrings of his hoodie to pull him close enough to kiss. Then just like that, he’s off. Mickey half-expects to see a cartoon dust cloud behind him.
“Your dad’s crazy,” he says fondly to the bump. “But I like him.”
***
Mickey’s halfway through his lunch break when he gets a call from Fiona. She doesn’t usually call him unless there’s an emergency or she’s trying to get a hold of Ian, so he answers right away.
“Yeah?”
“Mickey!” She sounds frantic. “I just got a call from the police, Ian’s been shot. He’s at--”
She gives him the name of the hospital, but it barely registers because all he can think is how the FUCK did Ian get shot? Who shot him? Is he okay? Is he dead?
“We’re on our way there right now, but I thought you needed to know. Can you meet us there?”
Mickey realizes he hasn’t said a word since she started talking, and nods into the phone like a moron before choking out a coherent “Yes.” He hangs up, grabs his coat, and tells Jack, the guy he’s training, that he has to go and he’ll be back later.
“Family emergency,” he says by way of an explanation, and two seconds later he’s flagging down a taxi.
***
He finds Lip and Fiona in the waiting room off of the ER, and every question he didn’t ask over the phone comes spilling out.
“What happened, is he okay, who did it--”
“Hey, hey,” Lip is the first one to get up. “He’s okay. He tried to stop a convenience store robbery by jumping the guy with the gun, and it got him in the side. The doctor said the bullet missed the vital organs and pretty much went right through him.”
“He’s in surgery now, and they think he’ll be fine,” Fiona adds, one hand hovering over Mickey’s shoulder. “He’s gonna be okay.”
Mickey feels like he’s been shot himself, and he has to sit down fast.
“Fuck,” he says in a quavering voice. “I just saw him. He was going for a run. He made me eggs.”
Fiona and Lip exchange a look.
“Mickey,” Fiona says gently. “Has Ian been weird lately?”
It takes him a second to focus on her. “Weird, like how?”
“Manic,” Lip clarifies. “Hyper, energetic, doing a lot of impulsive shit.”
Mickey tries to think. “I mean...I dunno, maybe. He’s not sleeping much, and he’s taken like three extra shifts this week. I just moved in last month, but--”
“You moved in together?” Fiona echoes. “That didn’t strike you as impulsive?”
Mickey glares at her. “My old place had bedbugs and drive-by shootings every other day. Ian was worried about me. Not like we’re getting married.”
She doesn’t seem placated, and Lip looks uneasy about this arrangement, too.
Mickey tries not to let that bother him, but the more he thinks about it, the more he starts to question why Ian’s been so wired.
“You know he has bipolar disorder, right?” Lip says after a minute.
“Yeah, he told me,” Mickey says defensively. “It was one of the first things we talked about. He didn’t want me to agree to this”--He gestures to his bump-- “until I knew.”
Fiona nods. “Okay, but you’ve never seen him manic before, have you?”
“What’s with the twenty questions?” Mickey says irritably, far more concerned about how Ian’s doing under the knife right now. “No, I haven’t seen him manic.”
“Well, it kinda sounds like that’s why he tried to stop an armed robbery,” Lip explains. “He does shit like this if he’s manic for too long. But he usually just has to adjust his meds and see his therapist, and he gets better after a little while.”
“Whatever, I don’t fucking care about that,” Mickey says, waving a hand impatiently. “I just want to know if he’s okay.”
“We all do,” Fiona says with a considerable edge in her voice. “That’s why we’re here. But we also want him to be okay once he’s back home.”
Mickey crosses his arms over his belly and ignores her, staring down the hall like he expects to see Ian walking towards them at any second.
Fucking bipolar disorder, manic shit….is that why Ian really wanted him to move in? Was this all just because he was losing it and Mickey didn’t even know? Should he have told someone, maybe gotten him some help?
A chilling thought pops into his mind--was the baby an impulsive decision? No...Ian’s had almost six months to back out of this and he hasn’t given any indication that he’s changed his mind. Hell, yesterday he was obsessing over what kind of crib to buy based on safety reviews. That doesn’t strike Mickey as panicking over parenthood, just Ian wanting his kid to have a place to sleep.
At the same time, though…what does he know about this? He didn’t even realize Ian was manic until today.
He decides not to think about it, not until he knows Ian’s okay. That’s all that matters.
***
He hangs back and lets Fiona and Lip talk to Ian first, cause they know more about this stuff than he does. Ian’s still groggy, but he doesn’t put up much of an argument when they say they want him to come home for a few days, just until he’s more stable.
“Mickey?” Ian says, glancing over at him. “You okay?”
Mickey can’t fucking believe him. “Am I okay? You’re the one who went full-on Seagal and got shot, asshole!”
Ian blinks. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry’s not good enough!” Mickey has no idea where all this is coming from, but dammit, Ian did something really stupid and it’s pissed him off. “If you need to be at home with your family until you get your head on straight, then go. I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll keep you posted about the kid and....” He breaks off, the full realization that Ian could have fucking died hitting him.
He covers his eyes, not about to start bawling in front of Ian’s siblings.
“Um, we’ll give you guys a minute,” Lip pipes up, and he and Fiona step out into the hall.
Mickey takes a huge breath and faces Ian.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says roughly. “But...fuck, Ian, you were sick and I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to know,” Ian says, so low that Mickey almost doesn’t catch the words. “I thought I was okay. Right up until I got shot, I thought I could handle it and just go home, take my downers, and you’d never know. I didn’t…I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Bullshit,” Mickey replies instantly. “If all you said was ‘Hey, I need to adjust my meds,’ I wouldn’t have questioned it. Well...maybe I would have, but I wouldn’t have been worried, because you said you’ve had this since you were seventeen and you know what to do about it. Fuck…” He tries to put what he’s feeling into words--never a strong point for him. “Ian, you might have been killed.”
Ian nods, looking down at his hands. “I know. And I’m sorry, Mick. Really.”
Mickey doesn’t know what else to say, so he kind of just stands there.
“Are...are you gonna spend Christmas with them?” he asks, trying to gauge just how long Ian’s going to be gone for without sounding clingy.
“Probably. You can come over if you want.”
Mickey shrugs. “Ah, I don’t really do Christmas.” He doesn’t say that up until today, he was thinking of making an exception to that rule.
Ian seems to see through that, but doesn’t push the issue. “Okay, but…”
“It’s fine,” Mickey interrupts, not wanting to drag this out because the only other thing on his mind is Do you really want this baby, or was this just another bipolar decision you’re going to regret? This is not the time or the place to talk about it. Also, he’s afraid of the answer.
He crosses to Ian and kisses him, unable to help himself. Ian smells as good as he always does, and a part of Mickey doesn’t want to leave him. But he has to. Ian has to get better, and Mickey can’t help him do that.
Ian leans his forehead against Mickey’s.
“Mick…” he murmurs, but Mickey’s already fighting off more tears, so he steps back and roughly pats Ian’s cheek.
“Fuck you, Gallagher,” he says, all he trusts himself to say. Before Ian can reply, Mickey leaves the room and doesn’t look back.
*TBC*