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“Late night, brotha?” Chibs winks. He elbows Mickey in the ribs, cutting off his yawn.
“What? Ya jealous?” Mickey manages to casually quip back even though every fiber in his body has been tense as shit all day.
He’d woken up before Ian. A rarity. Stared at the ceiling for hours. Watched it turn from black to pink to orange to white.
Because today was the day. He was going to do it. He’d even told Ian he was going to do it, so there was no backing out now. Before tonight, every one of his friends — his brothers — are going to know the thing Mickey’s spent his entire life trying to hide. That he’s a big, fat cock hound.
Ian had been beyond sweet. Like always. He’d tried to relax him, distract him. Even loosen him up with sex which Mickey had foolishly declined. Maybe he’d have felt a little more confident if he could still feel the ghost of Ian’s dick in his ass. That lingering sting would have been a nice reminder of why he’s doing this.
Is it terrible there’s a part of him that wishes all his buddies could just stay locked up in prison so he can avoid this forever? Yeah, definitely shitty. Sorry guys.
Mickey hates his therapist for ever putting this idea in his head. It’s absolutely her damn fault. All this work trying to separate Terry from everyone else in his life. When the fuck did he start listening to what those eggheads have to say? And why does so much of it have to be spot on?
Luckily after decades of practice, he’s a master at hiding any and all internal turmoil so no one’s picked up on any of his weirdness this morning.
The guys are all full of energy. The rest of the club gets out today. Opie’s wedding is tonight. The crew is gathered outside the clubhouse waiting on a handful of the mechanics they recruited from the shop to fetch the missing member’s bikes. They’re meeting up here before they all ride out to Stockton. Bikes ready and waiting soon as the guys are out. Send the helpers back in the van.
Lip’s among them and Mickey wonders if Ian’s told him anything. Those two gossip like old ladies at high tea. But he’s not getting any weird vibes, so maybe not.
The excitement has the crew all riled up, messing around and goofing off like a bunch of dumbasses. Opie and Kozig are arguing about god knows what. Piney’s grumbling they’re both idiots while prospects chase him around trying to change out his oxygen tank.
Mickey sits back and observes. He savors the roughhousing and general nonsense of the jackals. Soaks it all in. A worry nags at him that this could be the end of it. The final moments of normalcy before everything changes. Bittersweet.
What if they don’t accept him? What if they kick him out on the spot? Old rules, unwritten but law nonetheless. Or what if they say they’re cool but it changes things anyway? They start acting weird around the foreign gay one. No more teasing. No more taunting. No more being just one of the guys. No more family.
It’s fucking stupid. Mickey knows better. He knows it. He’s been part of this crew for years. They may be a crude group, crass jokes and seemingly offensive comments made in jest, but he doesn’t believe any of them actually have a single hateful bone in their bodies.
Mandy has told him the same. Ian agrees. His therapist has forced him to talk the hell out of it until he’s even convinced himself. Mostly at least.
Fuck, too many of them know already. Juice. Opie. Rat. Gemma and Tara — and who knows who those two have told by now. And none of them seem to give a shit.
So yeah, he knows. Logically, he knows there’s no good reason to be freaking out about this. No good reason to think the ground is about to shift beneath his feet. But still, he can’t help the panicked feeling in his gut. It’s just too ingrained in everything he knows. To hide. To keep quiet. To keep safe.
“Trauma response,” his therapist tells him. Terry this, Terry that. If he never has to talk about the man again in his life, it’ll be too soon. Why couldn’t the memory of his father die right along with the man?
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Terry’s dead. He can’t do shit. His ghost isn’t going to come busting through the door to kill Ian just because Mickey lets himself live his goddamn life for once.
He knows that. He knows that.
When they’ve finally got all the bikes together, they head for the prison. Members in formation in the front, chauffeur mechanics behind.
The ride does wonders for Mickey’s racing mind. Something about two wheels and a rumbling engine has always had a calming effect on him. Grounding.
He still remembers the first time. One of those snapshot memories that etches itself into permanent storage.
They hadn’t been in Charming long. A month. Maybe. The episode — Terry, the kid, the girl — was still a fresh wound. Still processing. Percolating. Festering.
Mandy was walking on eggshells around him and he hated it. He hated that she knew something. Wished she could be clueless. But even more, he hated that he knew whatever she was imagining couldn’t even come close to the horror that was the reality. And god, wouldn’t it feel good for at least one other soul in this world to know what really happened? All of it? But he knew he would never tell a soul. Could never. The shame of it all much too heavy.
Except look at him now. Ian knows. He finally told Mandy the whole story. The least he could do after he tried to fucking kill her in his sleep. His therapist knows all the gory details.
Still certainly isn’t something Mickey loves to talk about, but it does seem to be getting easier every time. A little more like a story he’s telling. Further and further detached from himself with each iteration. The visceral emotions turning into little more than repeated words and phrases. Slowly, but it’s getting there.
So he was fresh into town and a fucking mess. His head was a constant soup of swimming thoughts, drifting around on their own whims, surfacing whenever they damn well pleased.
The nightmares had just started. He doesn’t know why it took so long. Maybe he’d been too shell-shocked at first. Maybe the distance finally gave his body just enough breathing room to start to process. And haunted dreams were the result.
He hadn’t been sleeping. He was a wreck. But he’d managed to weasel his way into a job at the garage he was in no way qualified for. Stripping bikes for parts didn’t quite make him a mechanic, but he needed cash so sure, he knew “a thing or two”. So he showed up every day, kept his head down, and actually tried for once in his fucking life because he needed something to keep him occupied.
Somehow Opie took pity on him. Realized just how clueless he was and helped him out.
One day, after replacing his first engine, Opie told him to take the bike for a spin. Said sometimes the only way to test out the work is to feel it. Mickey had never ridden before, but he wasn’t about to admit it, so he hoisted his weak and tired leg over the beast and fired her up.
He was hooked. The sound, the feel, the freedom, the focus. All the things someone more well-spoken than Mickey could probably wax poetic about for hours. He felt it all.
A sudden calm. A quiet. His brain shut down and his body didn’t feel like it was hurtling through a black hole for the first time in months. He’d finally found the only thing that actually felt good.
Until Ian came along and made everything feel good.
Thankfully, that magic of a good ride never faded. By the time they get to the prison, Mickey’s — mostly — got his head on straight. His frayed nerves knit back together at least enough to function. To enjoy the celebration of his brothers’ homecoming.
They line the bikes up along the chain link fence and wait. Wait and wait and wait. Mickey swears they never release anyone on time intentionally. One last power trip for old-time’s sake.
Finally, all six guys come strutting down the long fenced walkway flanked by two straight-faced guards who unlock the final gate to freedom.
The crew brought their cuts, safely stored while they were away, and as soon as the men are clear of that wretched place, the cuts are tossed back to their rightful owners. Leather is shrugged on one armed through a mass collision of hugs and back slaps. “Missed you, brother” and “so good to have you back” mixed with an adequate amount of shit-talking exchanged between nearly every pair.
Bobby’s lost a little weight. The prison diet Mickey’s sure he’ll get right to work undoing. Mickey still hasn’t gotten used to Jax’s buzzed head. Or Juice’s grown-out hair. Who knew a guy could look more stupid without a tattooed mohawk than with it? Mickey used to give him shit over the hairstyle, but now it’s so much a part of him he looks wrong without it.
There’s a moment when Mickey just wants to blurt it out. Everyone is here. The thing he’d been waiting for. A part of him wants to get it over with. Get it off his chest. Scream it. Be done with it.
But no. This isn’t it. This isn’t the right time.
Though he still doesn’t know when the right time is.
He planned out a dozen different speeches in his head. A dozen hypothetical moments he could drop the bomb. Multiple variations branching off from every possible response he could conjure.
But every single one of those plans seemed wrong. Too dramatic. Too over the top. Too bad nineties teen drama.
Whatever. He’ll figure it out. A moment will present itself and he will take it. Or so he hopes.
Everyone’s bikes are lined up in a row. Shiny and clean and much missed. The half-dozen TM mechanics loiter around the van waiting for some kind of thank you they’re never going to get even though they deserve it. They really are a part of the machine.
Mickey watches as the guys mount their bikes for the first time in over a year. Test the weight between their legs. The grips in their hands. Reacquaint themselves with their mechanical lovers. Mickey knows the feeling well. The relief to be back. Really back.
They pull away from the prison, two by two, falling into their familiar formation reflecting rank and status.
“Fuck you, fuck you, and especially fuck you!” the crew shouts in unison, middle fingers raised high, as they drive past the facility none of them wish to see again.
And it’s strange to think that maybe this could be the last time. That if Mickey and Jax manage to pull off their plan, to get out of all the stupid shit that lands them in here, that maybe they won’t have to be back. Maybe this was the last time they’ll run through this well-worn routine. A strange sort of nostalgia.
Everyone’s there to greet them at the clubhouse. All the Old Ladies, families, some of the regular crow eaters. The guys barely have their helmets off before they’re off into their women’s arms, tongues down their throats. Starved.
Mickey doesn’t blame them. Fuck, if he’d been away from Ian for that long, no telling what he might do. Shield the children’s eyes.
He gets a little flutter in his gut just thinking about it. About how he could have that soon. Be able to walk right up to his man and kiss him. Whenever he wants. Wherever he wants. Because he won’t have to hide anymore.
Exhilarating and terrifying.
“Chapel in ten,” Clay barks over the celebration. Always right back to business.
If it’d been Mickey and Ian’s reunion, good fucking luck dragging him away after only ten minutes. He’d probably be glued to the ginger giant like a koala for hours. Pathetic, but whatever.
At least he finally gets it now. All these badass men turning into goo at the sight of their Old Ladies. Always seemed so fucking dramatic before. Bunch of pussies that couldn’t keep their shit together.
Sure, he missed Mandy whenever he was inside — even though he’d never admit it to her — but for the most part, there wasn’t anyone outside he was itching to come home to. The guys were really his only family. And inside or out, they were still around.
But next time, he’ll have Ian to miss. Have Ian to come back home to. Fuck, next time. Because no matter how hard he might be working to move the club away from the kind of shit that keeps getting them locked up, let’s face it, he’s a Milkovich. And a Son. No matter what he does, odds are high there will be a next time.
No. He tries to push those thoughts from his mind. He can change shit. His future's not set in stone. His name doesn’t dictate his life. He can change. Or so everyone seems to be telling him.
Ten minutes later on the dot, everyone leaves their families and gathers around the massive redwood table behind the thick chapel doors. Mickey doesn’t miss the way some of the guys’ fingers trail over the polished wood, trace the reaper carved into the center. Reverent. There’s a reason they call it church.
They all find their seats. Clay at the head, Jax and Tig to his left and right. The rest of the guys down the sides in a clear order of rank and seniority. Piney, the only other one of the First Nine left, at the end. The prospects in folding chairs around the edges of the room, still waiting to earn their place at the table.
Chibs goes around handing out envelopes full of cash. Back pay for what they’ve made while the guys were inside. Everyone still entitled to their fair share, in or out.
Thick envelopes. Multiple thick envelopes. The buyers have really loved these new guns and they’ve been making a killing.
Mickey watches the guys’ eyes go wide and their minds run wild over all the money. He knows Jax says he has a plan for getting them out of guns. He hopes whatever that plan is comes with this same kind of payout because they’re going to have a real hard time getting the club behind them if it means walking away from this kind of cash.
Fuck, even Mickey would struggle to give it up. It took him a long time to get used to not wanting. Not just barely scraping by. Financially comfortable for once in his life. And now he’s got plans for that money. Fucking goals and future shit. Get Ian through school. Maybe get themselves their own place — something Ian would love.
He’d pick the security of freedom and safety over the cash without a doubt, but it’d fucking suck.
Clay opens the meeting by thanking the crew for making things work while the others were inside. How he knows it’s never easy.
Damn fucking right, Mickey thinks. You’re goddamn Russian prison beef nearly got me killed. Better be thanking my ass. But he just nods. Of course. It’s what we do.
Opie gets the group caught up on recent business including the new housing development their newly elected, sell-out of a mayor approved.
“Building homes in this town no one in this town can afford,” Clay gripes.
South Side. Charming. Can’t escape those gentrifying fuckers no matter where he goes.
The conversation starts to blur into the background. Mickey’s body is here but his mind is off on its own, the talk turning into nothing but a humming in his ears while he frets over how he’s going to do this.
It has to be here. Now. At this meeting. Before everyone leaves and heads their separate ways before the wedding.
He zones out the chapel doors. The next time he walks through them, everyone will know. This thing he’s worked his whole life to hide will be common knowledge. Even the thought makes him feel raw and exposed.
Juice must notice Mickey’s not with them and kicks his foot under the table when the topic shifts to discussing the new sheriff.
Roosevelt’s been pretty quiet since he took over while the guys were away, but after stopping them all to swing his dick around on their way back into town this morning, doesn't seem like it’s going to stay that way.
Yet another reason they need to get out of this shit. Mickey makes eye contact with Jax down the table. Jax nods, a serious look on his face. He’s already told Mickey. Be patient. Gotta plan it right. But fuck, Mickey doesn’t do well with patient.
They confirm their meeting with the Russians this afternoon at the Jellybean sripclub. “Horse meat in a g-string,” Opie calls it. Happy and Tig grin like lunatics, those horny bastards.
“And the freak circle is complete,” Juice adds. Everyone laughs.
Freaks. They’re all freaks, really, right? Not a one of them fits into the mold. That’s why they’re here. Somewhere they can be accepted.
That same acceptance will apply to Mickey, too, won’t it?
When they’re all set with club business, the talk turns to Opie’s wedding this evening.
“And I know how much money’s in those envelopes so those wedding gifts better not be bullshit,” Opie warns and everyone grumbles their acknowledgement.
And shit, fuck, Mickey’s running out of time. People start pushing back in their chairs, grabbing their cash, preparing to leave and he hasn’t done it yet.
Come on, he tells himself. You can’t pussy out of this one. Suck it up.
His heart races as people start standing.
Fuck. He’s never had to do this on his own before. Everyone else that knows, every time it happened, Ian was with him. He always feels more sure of himself with Ian around. More confident.
But he’s gotta do this. And he’s gotta do it now or he’s going to miss his chance. He told Ian he would. That he’d bring him to this wedding as his date. As his boyfriend. That they’d show up together and hold hands and all that other coupley bullshit Mickey knows Ian wishes they had even though he’s a saint and never complains.
He can’t go back now. Can’t take that away from Ian. He’d be too disappointed.
No, actually he wouldn’t. Ian would be annoyingly understanding. But Mickey would be disappointed in himself. This is bigger than Ian, he reminds himself. He needs to do this for him.
Now or never baby.
“Hey, Ope,” Mickey calls across the table. He addresses Opie but makes sure he’s loud enough the entire room can hear. Hopefully none of them notice the shakiness in his voice.
Mickey’s standing now, even though he’s not entirely sure when he got to his feet. His hands grip the beveled edge of the solid piece of redwood, palms sweaty against the glaze.
“Make sure ya leave room at my table for a plus one or whatever the fuck,” Mickey continues, trying his best to sound casual even though his stomach feels like its working its way into his lungs. “Bringin’ Ian.”
Opie’s eyes look like they’re about to bug out of his head at the mention of Ian’s name. And yeah, okay, maybe Mickey could have warned him this was coming.
Opie scans the room for some kind of idea of how to respond. He lands on Juice, who looks just as shocked, his gaze bouncing back and forth wildly between Opie and Mickey. Probably another person he could have given a heads up, but whatever. Not like Mickey fully planned this.
Mickey keeps his eyes on the two of them. It’s easier to watch them flounder around in confusion than it is to brave whatever other reactions might be in the room.
“Who the fuck’s Ian?” Jax questions, completely lost and probably wondering what the hell he’s missed.
He still hasn’t caught on to what Mickey’s getting at and fuck, Mickey’s really gonna have to say it isn’t he? Lay it out there in black and white.
Mickey looks at Jax. Really looks at him.
“My boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Jax’s face is blank, not a thing Mickey can read from it. He holds his breath while Jax seems to do a quick scan of the room, checking the temperature.
Is it actually as eerily quiet as Mickey thinks it is or are his ears just ringing?
Then, after a beat, like it’s a very conscious decision, Jax just shrugs, crinkles his forehead in this whatever sort of way, and says, “So he got a nice set of tits or…?” before he cracks, busting up laughing and follows up with, “Nah, just fuckin’ with ya. Good for you man.” He slaps his hand lively on the table, his rings clicking against the surface.
“He better bring a nice gift,” Opie adds, pointing a stern finger Mickey’s way, but he catches the proud little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Ha! I did it!” Rat celebrates from his place in the back. “Kept the secret. Bam!”
“Told that guy?” Tig scoffs.
“God, my sister’s dating a dumbass,” Mickey mutters and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Wait, Mandy’s with him?” Clay questions.
“Place falls apart when we’re gone,” Bobby chimes in, shaking his head.
Grumbled agreement fills the room — “prospects, what idiots” — as everyone starts pushing in their chairs and filtering out the room. Not a second thought paid to Mickey, already moved on to the next thing.
Mickey looks around the room at his brothers. At nothing. Absolutely nothing unusual. Ribbing at each other, joking, ruffling Rat’s hair, lining up shots at the bar. Just another day in the clubhouse.
He’s frozen in his place, still too stunned to move.
He did it. It’s over. The thing he’d built up in his head for years. The moment he’d feared. Avoided at all costs. Thought would be the end of it all. It passed. It happened. And he’s still here. His family is still here. Ian. Ian is still here. And welcomed.
“Fuck. You did it.” Juice’s voice startles him. The room has cleared but Juice still sits in his chair beside Mickey’s.
Mickey looks down at him. Takes his first deep breath all day. It stings in his tension-sore lungs but his light head sucks up the oxygen that rubs away at the haze.
“I did,” he marvels. Maybe to Juice, maybe to himself.
“This Ian kid’s really got ya whipped, huh?” Juice jokes but Mickey can hear something else in his voice. An uncertainty of sorts? Probably stirs up a bunch of his own shit. His own secrets.
“Not all him,” Mickey says. “Just…time, I guess.”
“Happy for ya.” Juice stands and hugs him, the familiar sounds of a hand clapping against the leather on his back.
“Glad you’re home,” Mickey mutters as they separate and finally make their way out of the chapel.
Gemma spots him when he walks out and she smiles. Somehow she already knows. Maybe someone told her, maybe the relief he can feel all the way to his bones is showing through his skin. But she looks at him like a proud mother and gives him the damn sappiest hug. And he hates how good it feels.
Most of the guys are still mingling around the clubhouse. Piney’s at the bar. Jax is bouncing the baby while Abel runs around. Bobby’s already got his head buried in a pair of tits on the couch.
Absolutely normal.
He knows everyone will stick around for a while longer. He should stay and hang with them. It’s been a long time since they’ve all been together. Had any conversations that weren’t hovered over by a roomful of inmates and nosey guards.
But there’s only one place he wants to be right now and it isn’t here.
His head is empty the whole ride home. Blank. A huge weight was removed and this emptiness has been left in its place. But not the dark kind of looming emptiness Mickey’s familiar with. Just space. Space cleared and cleansed. Ready to be filled with something new. New experiences. New memories.
He makes his way up the apartment stairs. Opens the front door.
Ian’s at the table, already standing. Anxious and waiting, a barely touched plate of food in front of him.
He doesn’t say anything. He just watches. Waits for Mickey to make the first move. He’s always been so patient. Never pushed him even when he had every reason to.
Ian deserves this. Deserves for all that waiting to pay off.
But even more than that, they deserve this. Mickey deserves this. Deserves to finally let himself enjoy this, all of it, everywhere. To show it off. Because Mickey never imagined he could have something like this and he wants the whole fucking world to know it happened.
Maybe he didn’t do it for Ian, but he certainly wouldn’t have gotten here without him. Without a reason to want to.
Ian stares and Mickey just stands there, no idea what to say. His mind is exhausted from the marathon of thoughts racing through it all day. He’s pretty sure he’s used up all of his coherent words for the week.
Then finally their eyes meet and it’s like a straight shot of energy. A smile starts to spread across Mickey’s face. Grows and grows and he watches it relfected back at him from Ian’s face and fuck, that empty space left behind is already filling. The first light moment to replace the heaviness.
“How did it— Did you actually—” Ian finally asks.
Mickey nods. He tries to bite back the ever-growing smile. Why, he has no idea. One, it’s futile, and two, he has every right to be happy now. Old habits, he guesses. But looks like old habits actually can be changed.
“So fucking proud of you, Mickey.”
Mickey lets the smile go. Pretty proud of himself, too.