#btw if there's any triggers anyone wants tagged in future drop me a line and i'd be happy to

[arrowflier]

Prompt for you my lovely 😊: Ian having a bad bipolar day/really depressed and Mickey taking care of him while they still live with the Gallagher’s, maybe outsiders perspective on the way Mickey can translate Ian when he’s nonverbal or that he tries to coax Ian into eating dinner by pulling him into his lap and sharing his plate, that sort of thing and maybe someone is about to tease them but Mickey gives that glare all protective like and then they shut up:) (also can Ian be wearing Mickey hoodie or some along those lines, he’s skinny it would fit)

Thank you for the prompt! Standard disclaimer that as much as I've been writing about bipolar disorder lately I still have a lot to learn, and always want to know if it makes anyone uncomfortable.💖

Content Warnings: bipolar disorder, depressive episode, food

It had been two days since Ian left the room he had Mickey had taken over once they were both out of jail. Two days of Debbie worrying, trying to talk Mickey into taking him somewhere (The fuck are they gonna do, Raggedy-Anne, sedate him? He’s already out like a light), sending Franny up with toast and coffee like they used to do for Monica (I don't like it when he's sad, mommy), and checking the bottles of meds on the bathroom sink that Mickey swore he doled out each morning.

And Debbie remembered what it was like, with their mom. It had been scary then, too. But Monica had never been stable, and Ian…

Well. It was a lot scarier when the person that wouldn’t get out of bed was the same person that had taken you to school, and been there to pick you up. Had taught you to swim, and to fight, and to never give up.

When the person who had shown you what strength was lost their own, what were you supposed to do?

So when Ian stumbled down the stairs that morning, thin and pale and dead-eyed, Debbie wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or force-feed him pancakes until he choked on them.

She went for none of the above, and hid her wet eyes by turning back to the stovetop instead.

Franny had no such compunctions, and was out of her chair and barreling into Ian’s legs before Debbie could even think to warn her.

“Uncle Ian!” she greeted excitedly. “Are you feeling better now?”

Debbie bit her lip, turning just enough to keep an eye on them from under her hair. She hated that she felt like she had to, but it was what it was.

And right now, what it was was her older brother letting his hand fall weakly onto Franny’s head, tangling in her red hair as she pressed her face into his leg.

“Hey, Fran,” he said, voice soft and scratchy from two days not speaking in anything but a whisper. He didn’t answer her question, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Franny pulled away, Ian’s hand falling limply back to his side until she grabbed it and tried to lead him to the table.

“You must be so hungry!” Franny was saying. “Mommy, can you make Uncle Ian breakfast too?”

Debbie looked at Ian, still standing there fidgeting as Franny swung their linked hands back and forth. His face was tucked down into a hoodie that didn’t look like it belonged to him—too loose in the chest and too short on his torso, barely even hanging to his hips—and he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I don’t know, Franny,” she hesitated. “Does Uncle Ian want breakfast today?”

No response. With a sigh, Debbie quietly added another egg to the bowl she had yet to whisk, and hoped for the best.

Franny had given up on getting Ian to the table, hugging him again before taking her own seat, and he was left standing there awkwardly and alone. Debbie wondered what she should do—Should she talk to him? Ask him to sit down? Tell him it was okay if he wanted to go back upstairs?—when the back door opened, Lip coming through with baby Fred in his arms.

“Hey Debs,” Lip greeted with a nod. “Got enough food for two more?”

Like he hadn’t just marched in after almost a week of not being home, off with Tami in their new place while Debbie took care of everyone and everything else. Still, she added another egg even as she rolled her eyes.

“Depends,” she asked dryly as she did it, “Got some money for me?”

“Nope,” Lip answered, then finally noticed Ian in the corner. “Morning bro,” he started, then did a double-take.

“Are you wearing Mickey’s shirt?” he asked, smirking. Knowing him, something rude was right on that comment’s heels, so Debbie threw an eggshell at the back of his head.

She widened her eyes at him when he turned to glare, trying to gesture without Ian noticing. But Lip didn’t seem to catch on, raising his hands like he needed an explanation, and Debbie wondered, not for the first time, how someone so smart could be so fucking stupid.

Thankfully, Ian didn’t seem to notice that the question was less than genuine, and just let his face pop out from the collar to whisper, “I like the way it smells.”

“Fuck yeah you do.”

Mickey was suddenly there on the stairs behind Ian, who seemed to relax a little more when he heard his voice.

“You keep fuckin’ stealin’ it when I’m not lookin’,” Mickey accused, coming up behind Ian to wrap an arm gently around his waist.

“Better watch out,” he warned, “or one of these days it ain’t even gonna smell like me anymore, you sap.”

Ian didn’t answer, but he did lean back just a little into Mickey’s hold. It was a far cry from the way he had pulled back from Debbie’s hand the last time she tried to check on him, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved at the change or annoyed that once again, Mickey was the only one that could seem to influence him in this state.

She was glad Mickey was there for Ian, don’t get her wrong. But she wished that she was enough to help her brother without him, sometimes. They were family—she should be enough.

“Hey,” Mickey was whispering into Ian’s ear as he held him. “You wanna eat something for me?”

There was no spoken answer, and Debbie sighed, mentally recalculating the egg count yet again. Then she looked up just in time to see Ian nod, the slightest, slowest movement, and almost dropped the plate of bacon she was about to bring to the table.

“Alright,” Mickey said simply, “that’s good, Ian.”

He caught Debbie’s eye over Ian’s shoulder, and she nodded at him. Of course there was enough.

Mickey took the same hand that Franny had released minutes ago, and led Ian to the table. He glared at Lip until he got up and moved over a chair, finally having caught on to the fact that something was up, then sat down and pulled out the chair on his other side for Ian.

But Ian didn’t sit.

He stood there, hand still in Mickey’s, eyes wandering around the room like he wasn’t sure where he was. Franny waved at him from her seat when he looked past her, and his eyes caught on her smile, but moved on without returning it.

“Hey,” Mickey said softly. “C’mere.”

He tugged at their linked hands, raised his other one to clasp Ian’s elbow.

“Sit down, man,” he urged. “Come on, sit with me.”

Ian’s legs bent, and his body followed. And instead of sitting in the chair Mickey had chosen for him, he landed on Mickey’s lap, curling into his body like a child and tucking his head under Mickey’s chin.

It might have been comical, any other morning, Ian’s tall frame trying to hide within the confines of Mickey’s smaller form. It might have been sad, right now, the way he looked more like a scared little boy than the grown man they all knew he was.

Might have been, but wasn’t. Because Mickey just pressed his lips into Ian’s hair, stroked a hand down the back of the stolen hoodie Ian wore, and gestured to Debbie for a plate.

She didn’t try to speak to them when she brought it over, or when she returned with a second plate piled just as high. She didn’t try to argue when Mickey freed up his arms to grab a plate in one hand and a fork in the other, Ian still nestled in between, and dumped the entirety of Ian’s breakfast onto the same plate as his own.

And when Mickey got Ian to sit up enough to take a single bite from the fork he held to his mouth, held eye contact with Ian until he swallowed and went back for more, Debbie finally settled on something to feel.

Because Ian was alive, and out of bed, and eating. He was sitting at the table with them, at least sort of, and wiggled his fingers a little at Franny the next time she caught his eye.

Watching her daughter beam at her favorite uncles; watching her see what a real adult relationship was supposed to be like for maybe the first time; watching Lip and Fred too as they stared at Mickey taking care of Ian without concern for who might see…

Well. Mickey was there, and Mickey was family. Maybe they could be enough together.

#daily speedwrite #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #debbie gallagher #franny gallagher #lip gallagher #POV: Debbie #bipolar disorder #tw: mental health #tw: food #btw if there's any triggers anyone wants tagged in future drop me a line and i'd be happy to