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SHAMELESS FIC: like a bullet through a flock of doves
Title: like a bullet through a flock of doves
Pairing: Ian/Mickey
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~2,600
Summary: In which they actually talk.
Notes: This is a coda/fix-it for 10x08. Spoilers for the episode and for the 10x09 promo. Warnings for canon-typical language/slurs and canon-typical alcohol/tobacco/drug use. There is a brief, vague reference to the bad stuff in 3x06.
[AO3]
like a bullet through a flock of doves
"Mr. Gallagher," the doctor says brightly. She closes the door behind her and flips his chart open. "I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"
Ian just shrugs. He doesn't really care.
She waits him out for a couple seconds. Then: "It's a greenstick fracture, so you don't need surgery or pins. But you'll need to stay off it for at least three months. After that, we'll take another x-ray and reassess."
Ian's cheek is throbbing. He nods and says, "Yeah, Okay."
+
Lip's waiting for Ian outside the clinic. He does a double-take when he sees Ian's crutches and cast, asks, "What the fuck happened?" around a cloud of rootbeer-scented smoke.
Ian's leg is killing him, and he—he doesn't want to talk about it. He says, "It's a long story," and starts hobbling toward the car.
"A long story," Lip repeats. "Like… an actual long story? Or a 'Mickey' long story?" When Ian doesn't answer, he continues, "I mean, first you tell me you think he killed someone, and now you're—" He waves at Ian's cast and puffs out another cloud of smoke.
A transport van pulls into the parking lot, rocking as it scales a speed bump. Ian says, "I fell down some stairs, alright?"
"Fuck. And Mickey just left you there?"
Ian bats an empty beer can out of his path with one of his crutches. "Yeah. Something like that."
"Jesus Christ, Ian. You—"
"Just—" Ian huffs. "Shut up and help me get in the car."
+
The house is quiet when Lip and Ian get back. Franny's playing on the couch; she waves a doll at Ian as he stumps through the living room. In the kitchen, Debbie looks up from the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she's making.
She asks, "What happened?"
"He broke his leg," Lip replies, deadpan.
Debbie says, "Yeah, I can see that," and licks peanut butter off her fingers. "How did he break his leg?"
"I fell down some stairs," Ian mutters. The rubber tips on his crutches squeak against the linoleum. "Is Mickey here?"
"He was," Debbie says slowly. She's dressed like she's going out, has her hair curled and pulled over one shoulder. "You just missed him."
Something twists in Ian's gut—anger, hurt, he doesn't know. He asks, "Did he say when he'd be back?" with a lump in his throat.
Debbie screws the lid back onto the peanut butter jar, sets the sticky knife in the sink. Then: "I don't think he's coming back. He took all his stuff."
Lip says, "Ian, look—" but Ian just waves him off and hobbles back into the living room.
He doesn't feel like tackling the stairs, so he sits on the couch with Franny. Judge Joe Brown is on the TV; he grabs the remote and flips around until he finds some cartoons. A car drives past the house, its engine whining. The fridge opens and closes, and Lip murmurs something to Debbie that Ian doesn't catch.
A beat later, she says, "Franny, come get your sandwich."
Ian piles two pillows on the coffee table and props up his leg. He takes the stuff out of his pockets—his discharge instructions, an analysis of his x-rays, an appointment card for March, and an Oxy prescription he'll probably let Lip sell because opioids don't mix with his meds.
The last thing in the stack is the marriage license form. He stares at Mickey's signature for a moment, then folds it up and shoves it between the couch cushions.
+
Mickey doesn't answer his phone.
And doesn't answer his phone.
And doesn't answer his phone.
And doesn't answer his phone.
+
Ian ends up just camping out on the living room. Frank isn't around to bitch at him about it, and it's easier than hiking up and down the stairs. The couch is lumpy as fuck and smells like stale beer and bong water, but Ian doesn't want to sleep in his bed if Mickey isn't there with him.
The first night, he eats way too much White Castle and binges the last six hours of a Ghost Adventures marathon. He cuts the leg off an old pair of sweats, and he unbends a wire hanger so he can scratch the itchy spots under his cast. He calls Mickey two more times.
The second night, he drinks three and a half beers, which is more than his meds can handle. He doesn't puke, but he gets sloppy enough to tell Lip the whole fucked-up story.
After, Lip asks, "You really almost married him?"
"Yeah," Ian says, rubbing his face. He's so drunk that the light from the TV is making his head spin. "I mean—I love him."
Lip huffs under his breath. Then he stands, says, "Let me ask you something," as he heads into the kitchen to get more coffee. "Do you love him because you love him? Or because you've been banging him since you were fifteen and don’t know what else to do?"
"I love him," Ian insists. His eyes sting; he tips his head back and blinks at the ceiling. "So much."
"But not enough to get you over the finish line."
"It wasn't that. I just—I didn't—" Ian sighs. "I don't know."
Lip's quiet for a long, excruciating moment. He sits back down and grabs his cigarettes off the coffee table, takes his time pulling one out of the pack and groping around the couch for his lighter. Once it's lit, he takes two quick drags and passes it to Ian.
Then: "Mickey shouldn't have fucking hit you. That's not okay. But backing out on him at the last minute like that was a dick move. You get that, right?"
"Yeah," Ian says quietly. "Yeah, I get it."
+
Liam says, "Hey, Ian," as he walks through the front door. It's early afternoon; a shaft of yellow-white sunlight slants inside behind him. "Mickey's outside."
"Yeah?" Ian grabs his crutches and levers himself up. "Is he coming in?"
"I don't think so. He flipped me off when I asked."
"What?"
Liam drops his backpack on the chair and opens the curtain on the front window. He says, "He's busy flirting with some guy."
"Some guy?" Ian barks. That's—fuck. "What's he look like?"
"Blond. Twinky."
Ian doesn't know what to say to that, so he hobbles over to the window. The guy's wearing leggings and a pink hoodie and standing next to the gayest scooter Ian's ever seen. He leans into Mickey a little—not close enough to touch but close enough. Jealousy stabs under Ian's ribs like a knife. With Liam's help, he clumps over to the door and throws it open.
"Nice, Mickey," he calls out. "Real nice."
"Fuck you, Gallagher."
"No, fuck you."
Mickey must not have warned the guy; he darts Mickey a nervous glance before offering Ian a wave. "Hi. I'm Byron."
Ian says, "Fuck you too," and slams the door.
+
"Hey, you talk to Mickey yet?" Lip asks.
Huffing, Ian leans back in his chair. "Mickey's a punk."
"What?"
"He's dating a glittery twink named Byron," Liam explains.
"Shit. Really?"
"Whatever," Ian says, shrugging. "Two can play that game."
+
Ian hasn't used Grindr since before Trevor; unearthing his account takes nearly half an hour. He resets his password and tweaks his bio and uploads a new profile picture.
His matches are all uptight Northside pricks; there's zero chance that any of them would drive down to Canaryville to get fucked by a hood kid with a broken leg. Still, he swipes through their profiles while nursing a beer and half-watching an episode of Jeopardy. He pauses over a Wicker Park bartender named Jack for a couple minutes, figuring he can at least get some dirty texts out of it. Then it clicks that Jack is short and dark-haired and has a smartass quirk to his mouth.
Ian barely stops himself from throwing his phone across the room.
+
Nightfall brings a rainstorm that's been lurking on the other side of the river all day. Water pounds against the roof and wind lashes at the windows. Ian gives in and pops an Oxy, less because his leg hurts and more because he's never going to fall asleep by himself, not with the house creaking and groaning around him and his brain going a mile a minute.
His dreams are weird at first: he's chasing Frank through a cemetery; he's climbing a staircase made out of feathers and bones; he's fifteen and fighting Lip under the El, but they're both green-skinned and twelve feet tall and Lip nearly takes off his head.
Then he's back in prison, alone in his cell because Mickey's been hurt. No one will tell him how or why, and he can't find his way to the infirmary, gets lost in a maze of dark tunnels and twisting, unfamiliar hallways.
That wakes him up in a cold sweat. He lies there for a long time afterward, staring up at the ceiling as lightning flashes outside the window, his mouth dry from the Oxy and his blood rushing in his ears.
+
Ian's half-awake and staring at a cup of coffee that's still too hot to drink when Sandy comes in the back door without bothering to knock. She snags a sleeve of Pop Tarts from a box on the counter on her way into the living room.
"What the fuck happened?" she asks.
She probably doesn't mean his leg. Still, he says, "I fell down some stairs."
"Fuck off." The Pop Tart wrapper crinkles as she peels it open. "What happened with Mickey? A week ago you bitches were ready to buy a dog and move to Humboldt Park."
Ian's coffee is still too hot. He shrugs, says, "Yeah, well. Shit happens."
"Really? That's all you got?"
"I don't wanna talk about it." When she just stares at him, chewing, he sighs and says, "Ask him if you wanna know so bad. If he's even back from his date yet."
"Date? You mean that fairy with the scooter?" Sandy snorts and swipes at a Pop Tart crumb caught in her lip ring. "I'd bet my ass he didn't even get his dick sucked."
Ian's jaw tics; the thought of anyone else touching Mickey makes him want to punch shit. "Whatever."
"Look, you're pretty much the only thing he's ever wanted." She studies Ian for a moment—long enough that he shifts uncomfortably. He hasn't showered in a couple days, is wearing a shirt with a grapefruit-sized hole in the armpit. "I have no idea why."
Ian can't help laughing a little. "Fuck off."
She balls up the Pop Tart wrapper and lobs it at his head. "Just go talk to him."
"I don't even know where he is."
"He's at Iggy's girlfriend's place, over on Parnell."
"How's that working out?"
"Not great." Sandy helps herself to one of his cigarettes, lights it as she continues, "That skank barely tolerates Iggy. Pretty sure they're only still together because he spends half his time in the joint." She streams smoke through her nose and nudges his good foot with the toe of her boot. "Hurry up and get dressed and I'll give you a ride."
+
It takes Mickey a long time to answer the door. When he finally does, he only opens it enough to stick his head out and say, "Fuck off, Gallagher."
"No," Ian says, shifting his grip on his crutches. "I'm not leaving 'til you talk to me."
Mickey chews his lip for a second, then mutters, "Whatever," and moves out to the porch. He looks tired, like he hasn't slept much in the last few days. Ian wants to touch his jaw, kiss the hollow of his throat. "Well? The fuck do you want?"
"You."
"Yeah? 'Cuz you got a funny way of showing it."
Ian points to the bruise on his cheek. "Yeah? So do you."
"I—" Mickey glances away. "I shouldn't've done that."
"You're right. You shouldn't've." Ian's arms ache from holding his crutches, so he shuffles over to the porch wall and sits. "Why did you?"
A siren wails a couple streets over. Mickey grabs his cigarettes from his pocket, thumbs the pack open and fumbles one out. His lighter sparks three or four times before making a flame.
He says, "I was angry, alright? And I—" he cuts off, drags on the cigarette, and blows smoke from the corner of his mouth. Then: "I figured maybe I should end it."
"End what? Us?" Ian swallows hard; he thinks he might puke. "Is that what you want?"
Mickey snorts out an ugly laugh. "What I want doesn't fucking matter. It didn't matter when you let your mom talk you into dumping me, it didn't matter when you left me at the border, and it didn't matter when I signed that paper and you didn't."
Ian pulls the form out of his pocket, unfolds it. It's wrinkled from its time between the couch cushions. "I signed it."
"Why? I told you I didn't off that bitch."
"And I told you she wasn't the only reason I asked."
Another siren: Mickey waits it out before saying, "Yeah, but she's the reason you backed out."
"I love you," Ian says quietly. "And I want to marry you. I wanted to marry you when we were at the courthouse. But once it wasn't about protecting you, I started second-guessing myself, and I—I fucking panicked."
Mickey mutters, "Right," around a cloud of smoke. "'You got cold feet 'cuz your parents were a mess." He takes a final drag from the cigarette and flicks it onto the sidewalk. "The fuck makes you think my parents were any better?"
"Mick—"
"My mom was a fucking coke down payment," Mickey continues, his voice rough. "She had Jamie when she was like… thirteen. Terry kept her strung out and knocked up and he smacked her around every chance he got." He closes his eyes for a second, sucks in a shaky breath. "And then—then there's me. You wanna know how much I loved being married to the hooker I had to fuck to keep Terry from blowing your brains out?"
Ian says, "Mick," again and reaches for his arm. He catches Mickey's sleeve but Mickey jerks away.
"You didn't trust us?" he asks. "Is that it? You didn't think we'd be able to figure it out?"
"I trust you," Ian says honestly. His throat is so tight he can barely breathe. "I just—sometimes I don't trust myself."
Mickey tenses. "Are your meds screwy?"
"No," Ian says, shaking his head. "But they could be. What are you gonna do, if we're married, and I kidnap another kid? Or blow up another van?"
"Like I'd even let you do something like that again."
"But what if I do?"
Mickey waves that off. "I told you years ago that I don't care about that shit. If you wanna let your crazy mom's crazy ghost make your decisions for you, I can't stop you. But I'm in this. Sickness, health. Whatever."
"You ever gonna hit me again?"
"I—" Mickey shakes his head. "No."
"Okay," Ian says, standing. He folds the form back up and stuffs it in the pocket of Mickey's shirt. "Let's get married."
Mickey makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Ian, don't. I'm—"
"Look. I'm gonna head to the courthouse. If you still want this, meet me there before it closes at five."
"And if I don't?"
Ian smiles at him. "Then I'll come back here tomorrow and ask again."
+
4:46.
4:47.
4:48.
The door creaks and Mickey walks in. Ian grabs his crutches and heaves himself to his feet.
"Yeah?" he asks hopefully.
Mickey says, "Yeah," and kisses him.
Pairing: Ian/Mickey
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~2,600
Summary: In which they actually talk.
Notes: This is a coda/fix-it for 10x08. Spoilers for the episode and for the 10x09 promo. Warnings for canon-typical language/slurs and canon-typical alcohol/tobacco/drug use. There is a brief, vague reference to the bad stuff in 3x06.
[AO3]
"Mr. Gallagher," the doctor says brightly. She closes the door behind her and flips his chart open. "I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"
Ian just shrugs. He doesn't really care.
She waits him out for a couple seconds. Then: "It's a greenstick fracture, so you don't need surgery or pins. But you'll need to stay off it for at least three months. After that, we'll take another x-ray and reassess."
Ian's cheek is throbbing. He nods and says, "Yeah, Okay."
+
Lip's waiting for Ian outside the clinic. He does a double-take when he sees Ian's crutches and cast, asks, "What the fuck happened?" around a cloud of rootbeer-scented smoke.
Ian's leg is killing him, and he—he doesn't want to talk about it. He says, "It's a long story," and starts hobbling toward the car.
"A long story," Lip repeats. "Like… an actual long story? Or a 'Mickey' long story?" When Ian doesn't answer, he continues, "I mean, first you tell me you think he killed someone, and now you're—" He waves at Ian's cast and puffs out another cloud of smoke.
A transport van pulls into the parking lot, rocking as it scales a speed bump. Ian says, "I fell down some stairs, alright?"
"Fuck. And Mickey just left you there?"
Ian bats an empty beer can out of his path with one of his crutches. "Yeah. Something like that."
"Jesus Christ, Ian. You—"
"Just—" Ian huffs. "Shut up and help me get in the car."
+
The house is quiet when Lip and Ian get back. Franny's playing on the couch; she waves a doll at Ian as he stumps through the living room. In the kitchen, Debbie looks up from the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she's making.
She asks, "What happened?"
"He broke his leg," Lip replies, deadpan.
Debbie says, "Yeah, I can see that," and licks peanut butter off her fingers. "How did he break his leg?"
"I fell down some stairs," Ian mutters. The rubber tips on his crutches squeak against the linoleum. "Is Mickey here?"
"He was," Debbie says slowly. She's dressed like she's going out, has her hair curled and pulled over one shoulder. "You just missed him."
Something twists in Ian's gut—anger, hurt, he doesn't know. He asks, "Did he say when he'd be back?" with a lump in his throat.
Debbie screws the lid back onto the peanut butter jar, sets the sticky knife in the sink. Then: "I don't think he's coming back. He took all his stuff."
Lip says, "Ian, look—" but Ian just waves him off and hobbles back into the living room.
He doesn't feel like tackling the stairs, so he sits on the couch with Franny. Judge Joe Brown is on the TV; he grabs the remote and flips around until he finds some cartoons. A car drives past the house, its engine whining. The fridge opens and closes, and Lip murmurs something to Debbie that Ian doesn't catch.
A beat later, she says, "Franny, come get your sandwich."
Ian piles two pillows on the coffee table and props up his leg. He takes the stuff out of his pockets—his discharge instructions, an analysis of his x-rays, an appointment card for March, and an Oxy prescription he'll probably let Lip sell because opioids don't mix with his meds.
The last thing in the stack is the marriage license form. He stares at Mickey's signature for a moment, then folds it up and shoves it between the couch cushions.
+
Mickey doesn't answer his phone.
And doesn't answer his phone.
And doesn't answer his phone.
And doesn't answer his phone.
+
Ian ends up just camping out on the living room. Frank isn't around to bitch at him about it, and it's easier than hiking up and down the stairs. The couch is lumpy as fuck and smells like stale beer and bong water, but Ian doesn't want to sleep in his bed if Mickey isn't there with him.
The first night, he eats way too much White Castle and binges the last six hours of a Ghost Adventures marathon. He cuts the leg off an old pair of sweats, and he unbends a wire hanger so he can scratch the itchy spots under his cast. He calls Mickey two more times.
The second night, he drinks three and a half beers, which is more than his meds can handle. He doesn't puke, but he gets sloppy enough to tell Lip the whole fucked-up story.
After, Lip asks, "You really almost married him?"
"Yeah," Ian says, rubbing his face. He's so drunk that the light from the TV is making his head spin. "I mean—I love him."
Lip huffs under his breath. Then he stands, says, "Let me ask you something," as he heads into the kitchen to get more coffee. "Do you love him because you love him? Or because you've been banging him since you were fifteen and don’t know what else to do?"
"I love him," Ian insists. His eyes sting; he tips his head back and blinks at the ceiling. "So much."
"But not enough to get you over the finish line."
"It wasn't that. I just—I didn't—" Ian sighs. "I don't know."
Lip's quiet for a long, excruciating moment. He sits back down and grabs his cigarettes off the coffee table, takes his time pulling one out of the pack and groping around the couch for his lighter. Once it's lit, he takes two quick drags and passes it to Ian.
Then: "Mickey shouldn't have fucking hit you. That's not okay. But backing out on him at the last minute like that was a dick move. You get that, right?"
"Yeah," Ian says quietly. "Yeah, I get it."
+
Liam says, "Hey, Ian," as he walks through the front door. It's early afternoon; a shaft of yellow-white sunlight slants inside behind him. "Mickey's outside."
"Yeah?" Ian grabs his crutches and levers himself up. "Is he coming in?"
"I don't think so. He flipped me off when I asked."
"What?"
Liam drops his backpack on the chair and opens the curtain on the front window. He says, "He's busy flirting with some guy."
"Some guy?" Ian barks. That's—fuck. "What's he look like?"
"Blond. Twinky."
Ian doesn't know what to say to that, so he hobbles over to the window. The guy's wearing leggings and a pink hoodie and standing next to the gayest scooter Ian's ever seen. He leans into Mickey a little—not close enough to touch but close enough. Jealousy stabs under Ian's ribs like a knife. With Liam's help, he clumps over to the door and throws it open.
"Nice, Mickey," he calls out. "Real nice."
"Fuck you, Gallagher."
"No, fuck you."
Mickey must not have warned the guy; he darts Mickey a nervous glance before offering Ian a wave. "Hi. I'm Byron."
Ian says, "Fuck you too," and slams the door.
+
"Hey, you talk to Mickey yet?" Lip asks.
Huffing, Ian leans back in his chair. "Mickey's a punk."
"What?"
"He's dating a glittery twink named Byron," Liam explains.
"Shit. Really?"
"Whatever," Ian says, shrugging. "Two can play that game."
+
Ian hasn't used Grindr since before Trevor; unearthing his account takes nearly half an hour. He resets his password and tweaks his bio and uploads a new profile picture.
His matches are all uptight Northside pricks; there's zero chance that any of them would drive down to Canaryville to get fucked by a hood kid with a broken leg. Still, he swipes through their profiles while nursing a beer and half-watching an episode of Jeopardy. He pauses over a Wicker Park bartender named Jack for a couple minutes, figuring he can at least get some dirty texts out of it. Then it clicks that Jack is short and dark-haired and has a smartass quirk to his mouth.
Ian barely stops himself from throwing his phone across the room.
+
Nightfall brings a rainstorm that's been lurking on the other side of the river all day. Water pounds against the roof and wind lashes at the windows. Ian gives in and pops an Oxy, less because his leg hurts and more because he's never going to fall asleep by himself, not with the house creaking and groaning around him and his brain going a mile a minute.
His dreams are weird at first: he's chasing Frank through a cemetery; he's climbing a staircase made out of feathers and bones; he's fifteen and fighting Lip under the El, but they're both green-skinned and twelve feet tall and Lip nearly takes off his head.
Then he's back in prison, alone in his cell because Mickey's been hurt. No one will tell him how or why, and he can't find his way to the infirmary, gets lost in a maze of dark tunnels and twisting, unfamiliar hallways.
That wakes him up in a cold sweat. He lies there for a long time afterward, staring up at the ceiling as lightning flashes outside the window, his mouth dry from the Oxy and his blood rushing in his ears.
+
Ian's half-awake and staring at a cup of coffee that's still too hot to drink when Sandy comes in the back door without bothering to knock. She snags a sleeve of Pop Tarts from a box on the counter on her way into the living room.
"What the fuck happened?" she asks.
She probably doesn't mean his leg. Still, he says, "I fell down some stairs."
"Fuck off." The Pop Tart wrapper crinkles as she peels it open. "What happened with Mickey? A week ago you bitches were ready to buy a dog and move to Humboldt Park."
Ian's coffee is still too hot. He shrugs, says, "Yeah, well. Shit happens."
"Really? That's all you got?"
"I don't wanna talk about it." When she just stares at him, chewing, he sighs and says, "Ask him if you wanna know so bad. If he's even back from his date yet."
"Date? You mean that fairy with the scooter?" Sandy snorts and swipes at a Pop Tart crumb caught in her lip ring. "I'd bet my ass he didn't even get his dick sucked."
Ian's jaw tics; the thought of anyone else touching Mickey makes him want to punch shit. "Whatever."
"Look, you're pretty much the only thing he's ever wanted." She studies Ian for a moment—long enough that he shifts uncomfortably. He hasn't showered in a couple days, is wearing a shirt with a grapefruit-sized hole in the armpit. "I have no idea why."
Ian can't help laughing a little. "Fuck off."
She balls up the Pop Tart wrapper and lobs it at his head. "Just go talk to him."
"I don't even know where he is."
"He's at Iggy's girlfriend's place, over on Parnell."
"How's that working out?"
"Not great." Sandy helps herself to one of his cigarettes, lights it as she continues, "That skank barely tolerates Iggy. Pretty sure they're only still together because he spends half his time in the joint." She streams smoke through her nose and nudges his good foot with the toe of her boot. "Hurry up and get dressed and I'll give you a ride."
+
It takes Mickey a long time to answer the door. When he finally does, he only opens it enough to stick his head out and say, "Fuck off, Gallagher."
"No," Ian says, shifting his grip on his crutches. "I'm not leaving 'til you talk to me."
Mickey chews his lip for a second, then mutters, "Whatever," and moves out to the porch. He looks tired, like he hasn't slept much in the last few days. Ian wants to touch his jaw, kiss the hollow of his throat. "Well? The fuck do you want?"
"You."
"Yeah? 'Cuz you got a funny way of showing it."
Ian points to the bruise on his cheek. "Yeah? So do you."
"I—" Mickey glances away. "I shouldn't've done that."
"You're right. You shouldn't've." Ian's arms ache from holding his crutches, so he shuffles over to the porch wall and sits. "Why did you?"
A siren wails a couple streets over. Mickey grabs his cigarettes from his pocket, thumbs the pack open and fumbles one out. His lighter sparks three or four times before making a flame.
He says, "I was angry, alright? And I—" he cuts off, drags on the cigarette, and blows smoke from the corner of his mouth. Then: "I figured maybe I should end it."
"End what? Us?" Ian swallows hard; he thinks he might puke. "Is that what you want?"
Mickey snorts out an ugly laugh. "What I want doesn't fucking matter. It didn't matter when you let your mom talk you into dumping me, it didn't matter when you left me at the border, and it didn't matter when I signed that paper and you didn't."
Ian pulls the form out of his pocket, unfolds it. It's wrinkled from its time between the couch cushions. "I signed it."
"Why? I told you I didn't off that bitch."
"And I told you she wasn't the only reason I asked."
Another siren: Mickey waits it out before saying, "Yeah, but she's the reason you backed out."
"I love you," Ian says quietly. "And I want to marry you. I wanted to marry you when we were at the courthouse. But once it wasn't about protecting you, I started second-guessing myself, and I—I fucking panicked."
Mickey mutters, "Right," around a cloud of smoke. "'You got cold feet 'cuz your parents were a mess." He takes a final drag from the cigarette and flicks it onto the sidewalk. "The fuck makes you think my parents were any better?"
"Mick—"
"My mom was a fucking coke down payment," Mickey continues, his voice rough. "She had Jamie when she was like… thirteen. Terry kept her strung out and knocked up and he smacked her around every chance he got." He closes his eyes for a second, sucks in a shaky breath. "And then—then there's me. You wanna know how much I loved being married to the hooker I had to fuck to keep Terry from blowing your brains out?"
Ian says, "Mick," again and reaches for his arm. He catches Mickey's sleeve but Mickey jerks away.
"You didn't trust us?" he asks. "Is that it? You didn't think we'd be able to figure it out?"
"I trust you," Ian says honestly. His throat is so tight he can barely breathe. "I just—sometimes I don't trust myself."
Mickey tenses. "Are your meds screwy?"
"No," Ian says, shaking his head. "But they could be. What are you gonna do, if we're married, and I kidnap another kid? Or blow up another van?"
"Like I'd even let you do something like that again."
"But what if I do?"
Mickey waves that off. "I told you years ago that I don't care about that shit. If you wanna let your crazy mom's crazy ghost make your decisions for you, I can't stop you. But I'm in this. Sickness, health. Whatever."
"You ever gonna hit me again?"
"I—" Mickey shakes his head. "No."
"Okay," Ian says, standing. He folds the form back up and stuffs it in the pocket of Mickey's shirt. "Let's get married."
Mickey makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Ian, don't. I'm—"
"Look. I'm gonna head to the courthouse. If you still want this, meet me there before it closes at five."
"And if I don't?"
Ian smiles at him. "Then I'll come back here tomorrow and ask again."
+
4:46.
4:47.
4:48.
The door creaks and Mickey walks in. Ian grabs his crutches and heaves himself to his feet.
"Yeah?" he asks hopefully.
Mickey says, "Yeah," and kisses him.