Chapter Text
banner art by calli_writes
Mickey heard the sound of the shiv sinking into his chest before he felt it.
He recognized it immediately—you don’t grow up Southside without encountering that slight pop semi-regularly, and you sure as hell ain’t a Milkovich if you haven’t been the cause of it at least once—but it took a moment for Mickey to register that it was his own skin that had been speared.
“The fuck—” He stammered, trying to piece together the puzzle of what was happening.
Having just rounded the corner of his own cell for fuck’s sake, he’d been taken down by the element of surprise. It wouldn’t have come as a shock to him if his cellmate Damon had been lounging on his bunk or doing push-ups on the floor, but the last thing Mickey expected was to be met with a pair of mismatched eyes and the lethal end of a sharpened comb.
Mickey remembered those eyes, remembered that hit.
Joe Franchetti from C Block. 602.
He’d stabbed him in the eye about a year back for $2500. $1250 after Svet’s take. He’d been sloppy. Emotional. Fucked up from the day’s visit.
Fuck, had it really been that long ago?
He’d been such a pussy that morning, counting down the minutes until the buzzer went off. His feet could barely keep up with him as he raced down the corridor. As he approached the door, he took a breath, calming himself—no, steeling himself, so he could saunter in like it was just any other day.
But it wasn’t any other day.
He should’ve waited until his blood wasn’t absolutely boiling to carry out the job. Svet hadn’t mentioned anything about a timeline, just what to aim for. He could’ve taken his time, come up with a plan. Instead, he’d rushed things, his mind fixating on dull, green eyes and forced promises, his hands itching for some action.
He didn’t get caught by the guards, but Franchetti hadn’t exactly gone down easy. It was a miracle that he was alone. Mickey hadn’t even thought to bring a heavy as back up—just treated it like any other late night errand he used to run.
In the end, it was Franchetti’s age that’d done him in. Mickey fought harder, longer, and despite busting a few knuckles of his own, he was able to overpower him enough to devastate his left eye with the makeshift weapon that was concealed in his pocket. After that, there wasn’t much fight left in the old man.
Mickey had pulled it together since then. He had to if he was going to keep up with the business that Svet was bringing in, plus the run of the mill prison shit he was involved in.
If Mickey Milkovich couldn’t be the King of the fuckin’ Southside, he could at least be the King of Cellblock B. Maybe even the whole joint.
Running shit felt good. Kept his mind off things.
People.
People he thought about enough when his chest itched at night. When the chill set in. When there was just no way to get warm.
Mickey was no stranger to sleeping alone. He’d survived long stretches of time spent avoiding his feelings, in hiding, apart. But that was before he had a taste of domesticity, no matter how fucked up it had been. He’d belonged to somebody, and somebody had belonged to him.
Not just somebody—Ian .
In the short time they’d played house, Mickey had gotten used to the warmth of Ian sleeping next to him. The heat. The hold. The love . If he died, right here, right now, he’d never get to feel that again.
Mickey heard the pop of the shiv before he felt it.
The balls on this guy. He’d be flattered if he wasn’t fuckin’ bleeding out.
Mickey’s eyes landed on Franchetti’s hand, which was still firmly wrapped around the handle of the comb. The comb that had bottomed out—Mickey’s new least favorite way to use that phrase—the handle flush with his skin, cutting straight through his big, romantic, misspelled gesture and into his abused heart.
Mickey had given him a target and he’d hit the bullseye.
“Consider this payback and then some for Lefty here, ya fuckin’ faggot,” Franchetti spat, motioning to the scarred nothingness of his left eye socket. The right was focused, yet wild. Things one would need to be to stab a man in the heart. “I don’t care who’s kid you are.”
He felt the second stab right away, right below his rib, the pain throbbing a chord with the wound above. The third, fourth and fifth—all deep slices to his gut—barely registered. Only when the last one twisted in his side did he begin to grimace, his legs trembling beneath him.
As his vision blurred and he began to fall backwards, it occurred to Mickey that he hadn’t even put up a fight. He’d spent so many years being afraid; afraid of Death, of Terry, of Ian. Constantly dodging.
Ian had been the most relentless, insistent even, always showing up where he didn’t belong—the doorway of the Milkovich house. Juvie. The abandoned corners of Mickey’s heart. His fuckin’ chest .
And then he’d disappeared, never to return again.
Mickey felt the darkness swell. A spectre of red hair flashed before him. A chilling reminder of all that he’d lost.
Ian, he prayed, struggling to breathe.
Death might as well come and claim him now.
Mickey choked, slipping from consciousness...
*
Ian Gallagher awoke with a start.
Trembling hands ran through red hair, damp around the neck with sweat. Shifting eyes darted towards the clock.
3:42 AM.
He’d only been asleep for an hour, if that. Just enough time to slip somewhere terrifying.
It’d been a while since this had happened. Nightmares. He’d almost gotten used to sleeping soundly—to not waking up with visions of the nameless and faceless tracking him, to making it through the morning without wielding the killing bat. Almost gotten used to sleeping away from the Gallagher house, too.
That was all shot to shit now. And for what?
One traumatic vagina fuck and one inevitable break-up was all it took to have him crawling out of his fucking skin in his childhood bedroom and scrubbing the rig until his fingertips cracked. Still wasn’t even clean. He’d have to go in early and have another go at it.
There was something else though, too... something lingering .
It wasn’t fully formed enough for his disordered mind to hold onto, but as he sat the rest of the way up and scrubbed at his face with both palms, Ian couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. Lost?
He grabbed for his phone, shaking away the tendrils of regret.
13 text messages. All from Caleb. Some sweet, some sad, some angry. None worth reading.
Ian hopped out of bed, his body lurching towards the door before his feet could even hit the ground. He tugged at the waistband of his black sweats, his dick surprisingly soft beneath them for how much adrenaline was still coursing through his body. Fucking PTSD dick , he thought, as he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Jolayemi, Debbie’s night nurse, was at the table with the baby. They shared an awkward hello as Ian ran his hand through the fuzz on Fran—sorry, Harriet’s head before he started gathering ingredients. Eggs, bacon, and milk from the fridge, salt and garlic powder from the cabinets.
His eyes landed on a small bunch of bananas on the counter, conjuring visions of pancakes, sunrise runs and slicked back black hair from some deep recess of his mind.
The foggy feeling from earlier pooled again in his chest. Slippery. Chemical.
No.
Ian wasn’t prepared to think of him this morning, and he definitely wasn’t ready to link him to anything that ached.
When it came to him, it already ached.
Ian pulled himself out of his head and back into the kitchen, snagging the good pan from underneath the sink and spinning it around in his hands. He let his body take it from there, his choreographed cook all instinct and muscle memory.
“You hungry?” He asked the stranger at the table. “I can make you a plate.”
She nodded timidly, offering thanks, and Ian smiled sweetly before returning to work.
He felt good . Wild how quickly things could change. Whatever had just tried to creep back in was off haunting someone else now, and his fingers felt useful—dexterous—as he cracked the eggs into a bowl, whipping them swiftly before pouring them into the pan. He loved the symphony created by the sizzle of cool ingredients landing on the hot surface, the pop of the toaster, and the ding of the oven timer.
When enough of the food was ready, he loaded up Jolayemi’s plate and brought it to her. The front door opened and shut somewhere behind him as he slid her breakfast on the table.
Ding! chimed the phone in his pocket, and Fiona and Lip bustled into the kitchen.
Jolayemi was up in an instant.
“Come on Harriet,” she cooed, moving away from the table without giving the steaming plate of food as much as a glance. She eyed Fiona nervously, as she climbed the stairs. “Sleeping time.”
“She still scared of me?” Fiona gawked.
“Well, she did watch you bounce Frank’s head down a flight of stairs,” Ian remarked, seamlessly starting another batch of eggs for the newcomers.
Fiona reached into the fridge and pulled out the juice. “How do you say ‘he had it coming’ in Nigerian?”
“What are you doing up?” Lip asked, munching on a piece of toast and clearly trying to read between the lines of Ian’s late night—early morning?—cook fest. Never a good sign, historically.
“Caleb won’t stop drunk texting me.”
“Begging forgiveness?”
“Begging, then name-calling, then begging some more. Nice sex hair,” he lobbed at Fiona, quickly changing the subject. She took the bait, pouring herself some orange juice and regaling the brothers with stories of liberating Tinder hookups.
Ian continued to cook as she and Lip went back and forth, their banter moving as quickly as Ian’s thoughts. He chimed in when he felt like it, and it was nice, this moment . Miles from where he was not even an hour ago. Fleeting. It took all of two minutes for Lip to stick his foot in his mouth and piss Fiona off. Ian tried to side with her—someone had to every once in a while—but it wasn’t enough to keep her in the kitchen. She stomped upstairs before Ian could even put the bacon on the griddle.
“Kinda harsh.”
Lip swigged his beer. “Only ‘cause it’s true.”
“You sure about that?” Ian asked. “Working for free’s called slave labor the last time I checked.”
Lip grabbed another piece of toast, biting into it as he turned to leave. His final looks—all lost on Ian—were full of questions. Ian seemed fine, and yet here he was at 4am, spatula in hand. Mental notes were made as he headed for the living room.
Ian returned to his eggs. They were light, fluffy, and perfect .
He eyed the bananas again, his stomach immediately churning. They were heavy, spotted, and rotten.
Ian tossed them in the trash, pushing down whatever was attempting to crawl its way up his throat.
His phone dinged again, three beeps this time, racing— ding!ding!ding! —one right after the other.
Ian jumped, timelines overlapping.
*
Mickey’s eyes flew open, his whole body jerking.
He gasped, stale air filling his lungs as the final moments of his former life flooded in.
The sound of the shiv. Red hair. Falling.
Waves of confusion rolled through him as he took in his surroundings. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn he was in the abandoned buildings at the edge of the neighborhood. His spot. Where he’d sneak away to drink and shoot and forget who he was and how fucked he was.
For life, he’d thought back then. He just didn’t know how short that life would be.
Right. He was supposed to be dead.
So, what was this? Some kind of fuckin’ liminal purgatory? Would there be other stops? The decrepit Milkovich house, maybe. The Alibi? He wasn’t sure he would ever be ready for a Dickensian drive-by of all the places that he’d suffered.
He sat up as he looked around, the distinct lack of pain bringing him back into his body. He felt… light? Nothing like he remembered. There was no blood, no wounds, and the sinking feeling that lived in the corner of his gut was simply gone .
His prison jumpsuit had been replaced with jeans, a black t-shirt and a hoodie. Besides the fuckin’ gay rip in the knee of the jeans, it wasn’t far off from something he would’ve worn on the outside. Just newer. Clean. Definitely not hand-me-downs like he was used to.
Suddenly, a chill ran up his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention--a lifetime of hyper-vigilance leaving him with an uncanny sense of when eyes were on him.
Behind him, footsteps echoed against the concrete.
“Hey asswipe!” A voice called out. Familiar, familial . “You’re up!”
“Mandy?” He spluttered, shuffling until he was standing.
Mandy Milkovich, his bitch of a sister, stood before him in a cut up black top, a tight jean skirt and ripped fishnet stockings. Her steel toe boots absently brushed at some debris on the ground in front of her as she looked him up and down and shrugged.
“I’m not really her, dumbass. Looks pretty convincing though, huh?” His eyebrows shot to the sky. “Just needed someone you’d know.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Mickey snapped. “If you laid even one finger on my sister, you’re in serious shit.”
The figure who resembled Mandy laughed. It was open, infectious , and Mickey couldn’t help but smirk, thinking how much it sounded like her.
“Easy tiger. She’s all well and good down below,” the figure assured him. “Well, kind of.”
His smirk vanished. “Fuck do you mean, kind of?”
“If you make it out of this alive, you really should check in on her every once in a while. Better yet, you can ask your boyfriend when you—”
“Make it out alive—you fuckin’ demented? D’you not get the situation here?” Mickey yelled, his pointer finger waving wildly in the air.
Mandy laughed again, this time breathy. Different .
Her eyes glimmered. The more Mickey looked into them, the more it was clear that there was something otherworldly about them.
“Lemme see your hand,” Mandy said, reaching out to him.
He pulled back sharply. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”
“Fine, dickhead, stay dead .”
They stared at each other for a moment. There was no way in hell this was happening.
“I don’t believe in this fuckin’ woo woo ass bullshit, y’know. Whatever you want, you’ve got the wrong guy,” Mickey barked, thumbing at the space between his lip and his nose.
Mandy took a step forward, hands up in surrender.
“That’s why I’m here,” she whispered. “Someone you trust.”
Mickey eyed her, suspiciously.
“Right?” She asked, her voice sharp.
Blue eyes rolled as FUCK-branded fingers relented to being held.
Mandy observed his hand, gently tracing the lines of his palm with a cold finger. Her edges had smoothed now that he was cooperating and he felt the shift in the air between them, shivering under her touch.
“This right here is your Life Line. It’s straight. Strong.” She tilted her head to the side, admiring him. “You are brave. That’s good, you’ll need to be brave.”
“Strong Life Line, my ass,” he scoffed. “I’m fuckin’ dead, where’s it say that?”
“Your Head Line is frayed. Smart, but headstrong,” she continued, paying him no mind.
Mickey shifted his weight, trying to see what she was talking about without making it seem like he was actually going along with any of this shit.
“It’s your heart that will save you, Mickey Milkovich,” she smiled warmly. “See this one here?”
Her touch followed the line just underneath his fingers. It slashed across his palm, creating a complete crease if he were to cup or fold his hand.
He nodded, watching her movements, watching how his hand twitched involuntarily in response.
“We call this the Cutting Palm. Where the Love Line and the Head Line meet, where they are intertwined .”
She paused, briefly. Mickey’s eyes flicked upwards, catching hers. She looked so much like Mandy that for a second, Mickey allowed himself to believe that she was. That it was just the two of them, huddled together in the dark, for warmth, safety, companionship. All that existed, all that mattered. Just two kids trying to survive.
“You are a good lover,” she whispered plainly. “Sweet. Caring. Giving. It has not always been this way. This line here, below it—short and jagged—tells me that there has been much conflict between your desires and your understanding of those desires, between getting what you want and keeping it.”
“In English?” Mickey huffed, a lot softer than he would’ve liked.
“There is another. Ian—”
“Did something happen to—he hurt?” Mickey bit, suddenly back on his own porch, sipping from a paper bag and fielding questions about Ian’s whereabouts from the smug face of Lip Gallagher. His heart clenched in his chest, his fists following suit. Mickey leaned in, closing the space between him and whoever the fuck was pretending to be Mandy, lowering his voice to a smooth, but menacing timbre. “You tell me right now, did something fuckin’ happen to him?”
“You’re a good man, Mickey. You did the most that you could with the hand you were dealt.”
Now, he was in the backseat of a car. Lip was driving, and Mickey could almost feel the weight of Ian’s head on his shoulder. You did good, Mickey...
“Yeah and look how good that ended. In prison, fuckin’ alone , stabbed to death. Still haven’t told me where on my hand it tells you all of that.”
The edges of her lips curled upwards as she quickly dropped his hand. The chill he felt when she’d first approached returned, slinking its way up his spine.
“Palms are tricky business. They only tell your half of the story. You may be destined for greatness, but when it comes to love, you don’t play the game alone. This is no different in Death.” Her eyes flashed. “You’re being given an opportunity, Mickey. To live .”
“And what if I don’t want it?”
Mandy’s face split into a knowing grin. “You always were such a fuckin’ pussy.”
Mickey snorted, flipping her the finger and shifting his weight back.
“Fuck you, alright.” He thumbed at his eyebrow. “What do I gotta do?”
“Right now, you’re between worlds. Not alive, not dead. Your fate hangs in the balance. What happens from here is up to you. And Ian.” Mickey opened his mouth to speak, but Mandy held a hand up to stop him. “His Love Line is also strong, intertwined with his Head—like yours—but not as strong. Where yours is frayed, his is fractured. But while he lives , so do you.”
All of the air rushed from Mickey’s lungs and his shoulders collapsed at the confirmation that Ian was alive.
“What do I gotta do?” he repeated.
“Ian is trying, Mickey. Trying to understand himself, trying to make a life for himself, but he is lost. And so are you, as long as you are not together. Make him see. Make him see you.”
Tears pricked at the corners of Mickey’s eyes as he pressed his palms to his cheekbones and willed them to go away. “I dunno if that’s gonna be possible, Mands, er—whoever the fuck you are. Okay? We didn’t exactly leave things peachy.”
Phones. Glass. Discomfort. Yeah, Mick. I’ll wait.
Mandy pulled his hands from his face, holding them in hers once again. It was a tender touch, nothing like he’d felt since before his arrest. Her eyes were bright, encouraging. “Like I said. You’re being given an opportunity. What happens from here is up to you. He sees you, you live. He doesn’t, you don’t.”
She lowered his hands, stepping back.
“Good luck, Mickey Milkovich.”
Mickey swallowed, nodding. He watched as she moved back towards the dark doorway and the stairwell that led down to Canaryville. His home. Ian .
“Oh yeah, Douchebag! You’ve got two weeks!” She winked, disappearing from view.
“What the fuck—”
*
—was Ian supposed to do?
Nothing, he guessed. Wasn’t that the point? Anything he did now would be considered a symptom of him being fucking crazy.
He climbed the stairs, the voices in his head growing louder with every step. His own. Rita’s. Lip’s. His own again.
Demons have been after me before, too.
Take the week off and go to a doctor .
If you feel like your meds are out of balance, what are you supposed to do?
I don’t want to.
I don’t want to.
I don’t want to.
At least he recognized them all this time. That wasn’t always the case.
He really thought he had it under control. He’d been taking his meds—on schedule and everything. Hadn’t missed a dose in weeks. Maybe months. Whether that was his conscious decision or he was just fucking fed up with all of the prodding from Lip and Fiona was nobody’s business but his.
It’d been about a year since his last episode and Ian really had been trying to stay even. Stable. Somebody that people could count on. Somebody that someone could be with.
Fuck, had it really been that long?
He rounded the corner and slipped into the cramped bathroom. Might as well brush his teeth before heading to bed. Who knew how long he would sleep, how long this part would last. He felt a flush flare up at the base of his neck.
Ian opened the cabinet, grabbed his toothbrush and paste, and began to brush. The gentle rhythm of the back and forth motion landing somewhere between soothing and irritating.
This was his life now, it seems. Wake up. PIlls. Breakfast. Work. Dinner. Pills. Go to sleep.
Straightforward, and that’s if he’s lucky. Diligent. The reality of a lifetime of managing was enough to send him into a rage—it already had him slamming every cabinet in the kitchen, some multiple times over, the upset oozing from his fingertips.
He spit into the sink. White foam with a tinge of pink.
He put the toothbrush back in the cabinet, but left it open, not ready to face himself in the mirror. He could feel that his face was red hot, so he turned on the faucet and cupped his hands, watching the water accumulate until it ran down the sides of his palms and back into the porcelain bowl below.
His mind was still racing, but he could feel the familiar weight of his downers kicking in. He needed to make moves now if he didn’t want to be sleeping things off on the bathroom floor.
Ian brought his hands to his face, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling the cool water coat his nose, his lips, his forehead. Every sensation bright, but quickly dulling.
His eyelids drooped as he reached for the cabinet door. As it swung closed, Ian caught the flash of a figure in the mirror—black clothes, black hair, piercing blue eyes.
“Fuck!” He screamed, whipping around towards the doorway where the familiar figure would’ve been standing, but—
Nothing.
No black clothes. No black hair. No piercing blue eyes.
Just the hallway and the phantom whispers of a distant memory—pull ups. Carl. Do you love Mickey? Bodies pressed against the wall. The scent of Irish Spring soap. Probably better if you don’t, tough guy.
Ian’s breath caught in his throat as his chest heaved under the weight of the scare and the past. After a moment, he rubbed his eyes with trembling fingers and stepped gingerly through the bathroom door. He made his way down the hall towards his bed, now hoping that sleep would take over, take it from here.
Maybe he was fucking crazy.