Chapter Text
If there’s one thing Mickey hates more than anything in the goddamn world—well, other than brussels sprouts and people who clog up the cereal aisle at the grocery store with their leisurely browsing—it’s gossip.
Idle chatter, mindless yammering, people talking about things they have no clue about, speculating about other people’s lives. All it does is piss him off and annoy the hell out of him.
Fine, so maybe working at a high school wasn’t the best choice in his quest to avoid getting caught up in petty gossip. But he expects it from the students. He expects all of the teenage drama that comes with the territory—even though he always shuts that shit down in his own classroom as soon as it even begins to make an appearance.
What he didn’t expect, however, was for most of that shit to happen not amongst the students, but in the damn teachers’ lounge.
The only thing he ever wants to do when he enters the lounge is refill his water bottle, brew a cup of coffee from the communal Keurig, or grab his pepperoni pizza Hot Pocket from the freezer and throw it into the microwave—depending on the time of day.
What he absolutely doesn’t need is to hear faint whispers coming from around the water cooler, whispers that pique his interest no matter how much he tries to focus on eating his Hot Pocket without burning the absolute fuck out of his entire mouth.
Because as much as he hates gossip, he finds himself suddenly needing to know just what the hell these assholes are talking about in such hushed tones. It must be something good. Goddamnit.
He tries to feign disinterest, sitting at a table by himself rather than joining the chatty crowd huddled over in the corner, but he keeps an ear—or two—open nevertheless. If he just so happens to hear whatever the hell it is they’re all talking about, then it would be purely by accident. It definitely wouldn’t mean that he was actively participating in the gossip. Right?
He manages to pick up murmurs here and there, something about a new theater arts teacher getting hired. Big deal. Everyone knows the school has been looking for someone to replace Mr. Schumacher, the old dude who’d headed up the theater department for years. Mickey’s pretty sure the guy was there when he himself was a student at that very school over fifteen years ago, not that he’d paid much attention back then. Schumacher retired at the end of last school year, and the principal still hasn’t managed to find a suitable replacement, relying on a long-term substitute to fill the position temporarily.
So he can’t figure out why exactly this is such big news. It certainly doesn’t seem to rise to the level of drawing what looks to be at least ten faculty members to crowd together and excitedly whisper about the new development.
He should’ve known, though, that he wouldn’t have to wonder for long, that he’d eventually be drawn into the conversation against his will by none other than Ken Dickinson, who Mickey refers to as Dickinson—or Dick, for short—the annoying-ass physics teacher who mistakenly thinks Mickey’s his friend or that he has even the slightest inclination to engage with him.
“Milkovich,” the guy calls out, entirely too eagerly and excitedly for someone who wears a pocket protector and whose spring semester student rocket launch experiment somehow manages to fail spectacularly every single year.
“What do you want, Dick?” Mickey sighs. “I’m tryna eat my lunch here.”
“Oh,” Dickinson chuckles, clearly unfazed by Mickey’s attitude. “I thought you’d be interested to know what we were talking about.”
“Nope,” Mickey lies, taking another bite of his Hot Pocket only to find that despite the first bite having burned the shit out of his tongue, the middle is still freezing cold. Fucking hell.
“Apparently we’re getting a new theater arts teacher,” Margie Hutchinson, who teaches history, chimes in.
“Yeah? And why the fuck would I care about the new theater teacher? I teach economics,” Mickey huffs as he packs up his lunchbox and grabs his stainless steel water bottle, shoving his way through the huddle of gossip hounds so he can access the water cooler and fill it up.
“It’s supposedly a professional actor. Someone famous. A celebrity,” Margie continues, unbothered by Mickey’s supposed indifference.
Mickey scoffs as he screws the top onto his water bottle. Because sometimes he just can’t believe the shit that these people manage to conjure from their overactive imaginations. And this one certainly is a doozy. “Yeah, okay. An actor, a rich and famous celebrity, has suddenly decided he wants to become a teacher. Let’s just pretend for a second that that’s even remotely believable. Why the hell would they wanna come teach here of all places? At this school?”
Several sets of eyes stare at him blankly, as if waiting for an answer to drop out of the sky. Because really? Even if it were true, why would this person pick Lincoln Grove High of all places? A school on the South Side of Chicago? It makes no sense, and he can’t figure out where his co-workers even got wind of such a nonsensical idea.
After a stand-off that seems to last an eternity, Margie simply shrugs. “Who knows? I just heard Barb talking on the phone in her office, and I caught bits and pieces of the conversation.”
“She was eavesdropping,” Dickinson pipes in, unsolicited.
“I was not,” Margie counters. “I just happened to be walking by her office.”
Mickey rolls his eyes and starts to make his way towards the exit, deciding that enjoying a bit of peace and quiet in his classroom before the fourth period debate team meeting would be preferable to whatever the hell is happening in here.
“Anyway,” another voice suddenly enters the conversation—Higgins, one of the gym teachers—“Barb’s supposed to announce it at the faculty meeting later today.”
Mickey lets out a heavy sigh. Because those damn meetings are the least favorite part of his week. He could be using that precious hour to grade papers, to plan curriculum, to update assignments, or to work on the logistics of the next upcoming debate competition. But instead, he has to listen to Principal Barb Harris talk about things like budget cuts and the decision to eliminate staff-reserved parking spots in the front lot.
“Great. Can’t fuckin’ wait,” Mickey mutters as he pushes the door open and exits the lounge, vaguely registering a whispered, “Jesus, what crawled up his ass and died?” just as the door closes behind him.
He walks back to his classroom, lunchbox and water bottle in hand, and once inside, plops down onto his desk chair, takes off his glasses, and rubs at his eyes. Because, fuck. The last thing he needs—if the ridiculous rumors are indeed true—is some pompous ass who thinks he’s a big deal showing up and acting like he owns the place. Some dickhead with a silver spoon in his mouth strolling onto campus like he belongs there, like he deserves it. Like he worked his ass off to get there—even half as much as Mickey had to.
He manages to pull himself together once students from the debate team start to trickle into the room. Because until he hears otherwise, it’s business as usual for him.
“Alright,” he barks out, slowly standing from his chair and facing the students as they take their seats. “We’re gonna start with a warm-up. The topic is, ‘Does pineapple belong on pizza?’. Carly, you’ve got the affirmative team on this side of the room,” Mickey explains as he makes a motion with his hand to indicate the invisible dividing line in the middle of the room, “and Jarrett, you’ve got the negative. Delegate your roles as you see fit. You’ve got fifteen minutes, starting now.”
The students scramble into their respective groups, and as he sits at his desk, watching the passion and enthusiasm with which they discuss the most ridiculous topic he could think of, it reminds him of exactly why he does what he does.
*
Mickey scrapes his way through the last two periods of the day, exhaustion starting to seep in as soon as the students in his last class, AP Microeconomics, start to flood out of the classroom. The sudden recollection of the fact that he has to sit through a goddamn faculty meeting in just fifteen minutes only makes the exhaustion settle in that much deeper.
He manages to drink some water, quickly gobble down a protein bar, and make a pit stop in the staff restroom before heading back to the teachers’ lounge for the dreaded meeting.
As usual, the place smells like stale coffee and dry erase markers. What appears to be almost the entirety of the school staff is packed into the place like sardines, with five or six adults seated around each tiny, round table.
He grabs a blueberry muffin from a box that’s been set onto one of the tables, the baked goods something that Barb always provides as a way of making up for the fact that they’re forced to attend these meetings. Mickey has to admit that the muffins do help a little bit.
“Psst, Milkovich,” he hears from the complete opposite side of the room. He looks in the direction of the voice to see Dickinson waving him over. “I saved you a seat.” Wonderful.
Seeing as how there doesn’t appear to be an empty chair save for the one that’s apparently been reserved for him, he resigns himself to the fact that he’s going to have to sit next to Dick.
He weaves through the sea of tables before finally arriving at the empty seat and sits down with a heavy exhale. Barb is already standing at the front of the room, a smile plastered on her face, eyes wide as she shifts from foot to foot and buzzes with some sort of weird energy he’s never seen before. Like she downed several shots of espresso or snorted a couple lines just before walking into the room.
The wave of chatter amongst his co-workers stops when Barb suddenly claps her hands several times in succession to gain their attention, as if they’re misbehaving freshmen rather than adults with college degrees. Once the room is quiet enough for her liking, she clears her throat. “Welcome, everyone! Today’s meeting is a very important one, because I have an exciting announcement to make!”
Everyone else in the room straightens in their seats, leaning forward with bated breath for the news. Mickey simply takes a bite of his muffin and slumps back further in his chair.
“As many of you know, the theater arts department has felt a significant void ever since the retirement of Mr. Schumacher last spring. We’ve appreciated everything our long-term substitute, Ms. Finnigan, has done, but I’m happy to share with you all that I’ve hired a new theater arts teacher!”
It’s still silent. Uncomfortably so. Mickey decides to break the silence with an inelegant snort. “Cool. Tell ’em good luck with the auditorium lights. They flicker so much it feels like you’re in a goddamn Hitchcock movie.”
Quiet snickers float across the room, and Mickey smirks, mentally patting himself on the back for making at least some of the other teachers laugh.
Barb, on the other hand, shoots him a murderous glare, one that immediately wipes the smirk right off of his face. Without missing a beat, she continues. “You may recognize him. He’s… well. He’s had a successful career in film. And he’s a Lincoln Grove alumnus! We’re so happy to have him bring his professional expertise to our humble little school.”
Mickey pauses mid-chew. What the fuck? His mind reels. The gossip hounds were right. Un-fucking-believable. Before he has the chance to absorb this information, however, he hears Barb say something else.
“I’m happy to welcome Ian Gallagher back to Lincoln Grove High!”
The name drops into the room like a glass shattering. A collective gasp comes from the table around which the English teachers are gathered, and Rebecca Donnelly, who teaches creative writing and composition, whisper-shrieks, “As in the Ian Gallagher? From Midnight Dusk?” Excited murmurs travel across the space as Barb stands there proudly, that same smile still on her face.
Mickey slowly lowers his muffin.
The Ian Gallagher.
Mickey knows the name. A former soap opera actor who made it big when he starred in that vampire franchise every teenager was obsessed with ten years ago. The one who went on to do two big-budget action movies, one critically destroyed rom-com, and then vanished from red carpets after some very public “creative differences.” Rumors flying around about unreliability and unprofessional behavior on set. Crew members and fellow actors alike eventually speaking out about his reputed unpredictability.
Not that Mickey follows any of that shit. He mostly heard about it from his sister, Mandy.
Ian Gallagher, who remains one of Lincoln Grove’s most famous alumni. Who apparently went to school there at the same time Mickey did. He remembers hearing about it on some Hollywood exposé documentary about the guy, years ago, and he’d been floored by the revelation. Not that Mickey was at school enough to know anyone back then. He’d been in and out of juvie and then dropped out, and it wasn’t until much later that he ended up taking night classes to get his diploma. Mandy always seemed to remember him, though.
Ian Gallagher, who, at the apex of his career, made an even bigger name for himself when he came out publicly and became one of the most prominent openly gay actors around.
Again, not that Mickey ever followed any of it. He didn’t. Still doesn’t.
Sure, he knows exactly what Ian Gallagher looks like, how his stupid red hair sparkled in those stupid vampire movies—which he only watched because Mandy made him, fuck you very much—how the guy looked on the cover of that magazine, the one that Mickey caught a glimpse of in the check-out aisle at the grocery store. The one where the guy was soaking wet, his shirt clinging to his torso and his hand lifting the bottom of it to give a peek-a-boo view of his freckled abs. Mickey just happened to quickly glance at it, alright? He barely even looked.
So no, he’s not excited about some Hollywood prick, one that’s been so ostracized for being a pain in the ass that he’s apparently out of work and has been forced to take a high school teaching position, encroaching on his day to day routine. Not that he’ll have to interact with the guy much. Their departments are totally separate. Not that he has even the slightest desire to interact with him.
Mickey leans back in his chair again, his arms folded across his chest. “You hired a celebrity—a has-been, on top of that,” he says flatly, but loud enough to be heard over the excited mutterings floating through the room.
“He’s very serious about education,” Barb says defensively. “He has a BFA. He wants to focus on mentoring youth.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’ll start Monday.”
And at that very moment, in a demonstration of the universe’s twisted sense of humor, the door swings open, and in walks none other than Ian Gallagher.
He’s taller than Mickey expected. Leaner. No stylists, no dramatic lighting—just faded jeans, boots, and a black henley pushed up at the sleeves. His hair is still that impossible red, though a little less perfectly tousled and a little more “I ran my hands through it in the parking lot.”
And he’s smiling shyly, almost uncomfortably, as he looks around the room. Like he’s nervous. Like he hasn’t presented at awards shows in front of hundreds and hundreds of people, like he hasn’t been on the big screen for millions to see.
The room goes completely silent, and everyone stares.
“Uh, hi,” the redhead says with a half-wave. “I’m Ian. Barb said I could stop by and introduce myself, even though I don’t start until Monday.”
Barb positively beams. “So glad you were able to stop by! Everyone, this is Mr. Ian Gallagher. He’ll be teaching Theater Arts, Advanced Theater Arts, and Intro to Stagecraft.”
The redhead simply stands there, nodding along at Barb’s words, that shy smile still on his face as he scans the room, taking everyone in.
But when his eyes land on Mickey, they suddenly stop. He locks his gaze for several more seconds, and Mickey has no choice but to look right back at him, his mouth suddenly dry.
A flicker of something—interest, curiosity, something that Mickey can’t pinpoint—crosses the guy’s eyes, ones that Mickey remembers being green from the magazine photos and that look so much greener in person. Mickey doesn’t blink. He thinks he might’ve forgotten how.
His eyes don’t leave Gallagher’s for even a second as he takes another bite of his muffin, slow and deliberate. The other man’s mouth twitches as if fighting back a smile.
It makes Mickey’s face grow impossibly hot as he tries to swallow the too-big bite he’s just taken and self-consciously brushes crumbs off of his blue and grey plaid flannel.
Gallagher stares a few seconds longer before finally tearing his eyes away and resuming his scan of the room. Rebecca giggles like a schoolgirl and turns to whisper to the others at her table. Fucking embarrassing. Some people have no goddamn chill.
Once the celebrity who’s found himself in the teachers’ lounge at Lincoln Grove High has finally finished taking in his fellow faculty members and is apparently satisfied, he shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders like an awkward teenager.
“So I guess I’ll see everyone on Monday,” he says.
“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher,” Barb replies. “We’ll see you on Monday. For everyone else, that was all I had on the agenda for today’s meeting, so I’m giving you the gift of time! You can use it however you see fit.”
With that announcement, everyone stands up from their seats, Mickey included. Just as he’s brushing some residual muffin crumbs from his pants, though, he sees Barb approaching with Gallagher following close behind.
“Mr. Milkovich. Since you were so enthusiastic about Mr. Gallagher joining the faculty, I thought it would be befitting for you to give him a brief tour of the school on Monday morning before the first bell,” Barb says once she’s standing directly in front of Mickey.
Mickey’s eyes widen to what he’s sure is a comical degree. He glances back and forth between the principal and the new theater arts teacher, the latter wearing the dorkiest smile he’s ever seen.
“But… he went to school here.” At that, he notices the surprise on the redhead’s face. “I mean,” Mickey quickly amends, “That’s what you just told us. Doesn’t he already know the school?”
“A lot’s changed. And being acquainted with the school as a student is very different from knowing the place as a teacher. You should understand that as well as anyone.”
A curious expression crosses the redhead’s countenance, but he doesn’t say anything. Just continues to stand there with his hands in his pockets.
Finally, when Mickey broaches no further argument, because he can’t really think of another one, Barb continues, looking at Gallagher. “This is Mickey Milkovich. He teaches economics and also leads our school debate team. If you can get along with him, chances are you can get along with anyone.” She narrows her eyes at Mickey, and Mickey presses his lips together in a tight line, fighting the urge to flip her off.
Gallagher’s eyebrows lift just slightly. “Debate,” he repeats. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” Mickey shoots back.
“The face.”
Mickey raises his own eyebrows even higher. “You got a problem with my face, Hollywood?”
The redhead’s gaze drops to Mickey’s mouth for half a second—Mickey swears he’s not imagining it—before flicking back up. “Nope. I think it’s… expressive.”
“That so?” Mickey challenges.
“Very.”
After a charged pause, Barb clears her throat and claps her hands together. “Well! I’m sure you two will get along famously.”
“Doubt it,” Mickey mutters as the principal walks away.
The actor extends a hand anyway. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Milkovich.”
Mickey stares at the freckled hand for a beat before reluctantly taking it, ignoring the weird jolt he feels at the brief contact—because nope, he doesn’t feel anything. The guy’s grip is strong, and he gives Mickey’s hand a firm shake before finally letting go.
“Welcome to Lincoln Grove,” Mickey says once he’s gathered his wits about him. “Hope you like broken copy machines and teenagers who think TikTok holds the secret to life.”
Gallagher smirks. “I survived Hollywood. I think I’ll manage.”
“Yeah? We’ll see how long you last without craft services,” Mickey retorts.
But the guy doesn’t miss a beat. “Guess I’ll just have to find something else to snack on.”
Jesus Christ.
Having sufficiently managed to render Mickey speechless, Gallagher gives him a self-satisfied grin before starting to make his way towards the door.
“See you on Monday, Mr. Milkovich,” the redhead says, a megawatt smile spreading across his face.
“7:45 sharp. And ain’t no one gonna roll out a damn red carpet for you,” Mickey calls out to him.
“Wouldn’t expect anyone to,” Gallagher replies with a wink, just before the door closes behind him.
All Mickey can do is stare dumbly at the closed door well after the other man has made his exit.
But when he finally snaps himself out of it, he manages to walk back to his classroom to retrieve his bag, jacket, and helmet before heading home.
And he doesn’t think about that stupid wink as he drives home on his motorcycle, or when he enters his apartment. He doesn’t think about it as he heats up leftover pasta and eats it in front of the TV. And he definitely doesn’t think about it after he’s climbed into bed for the night.
Because it’s fine. If Barb wants to play that game, Mickey’ll play along. He’ll be the most welcoming motherfucker around. He’ll welcome Ian Gallagher, washed-up Hollywood celebrity—with his goddamn smile and his red hair and his freckles and his body—to Lincoln Grove High School, and he’ll do it with fucking bells on… or whatever the expression is.
He can do it. No problem.