#terry Milkovich it’s on sight

[mickeym4ndy]

might share a face and share a last name but we are not the same

#mickey milkovich #mandy milkovich #terry milkovich #ian gallagher #gallavich #shameless #shameless edit #shamelessedit #milkovich family #milkovich siblings #conan gray lyrics #family line #poor little blue eyed babies #terry Milkovich it’s on sight #Mickey Milkovich edit #Mandy Milkovich edit #my stuff

[sgtmickeyslaughter]

67 for the drabble challenge:>>

Hey Jade! Thanks for asking, hope you don't mind that i turned your bloody ask into something a little more domestic

67. “You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

Ian had just run out of Lip and Tami’s housewarming party for more soda, he’d barely been gone five minutes but the scene he returned to was far from the relatively banal Sunday afternoon barbecue he'd left behind. 

“Oh Jesus, I think it’s broken” Debbie was shrieking. 

“It’s not broken,” Lip argued dismissively. “Mickey, lean your fucking head back.” 

“I think he has to go further back, like lean his head back off the edge of the table to keep the blood in” Carl chimed in.

“I’m not fuckin’ doing that” Mickey’s muffled voice snapped.

“Yeah, definitely don’t” Liam said nervously.

“Mickey, shut up. Every time you open your mouth you’re bleeding all over my carpet!” Tami snapped. 

“What the hell happened?” Ian interrupted, taking in the scene in the living room. Lip had a bloody cloth pressed none too gently against the lower half of Mickey’s face, everyone else was crowded around the couch eyeing him curiously, especially Franny, who was trying to get a peak around the cloth. 

For a second, all the heads in the room snapped to him and no one said anything. The perfect stillness was broken by Freddy’s barely stifled sniffles finally pouring over into real tears, as he dropped the baseball he was holding and brought both chubby kid hands up to cover his eyes.

It was pretty easy to put together what happened, he had been so thrilled to start his first tee-ball season, for a second Ian worried that this would ruin the sensitive kid’s excitement. 

“I’m so sorry,” he wailed. Mickey shrugged Lip off of him, revealing the path of blood gushing from his nose and down the front of his mouth and chin. Someone drew in a harsh breath at the sight, but Mickey just leaned forward towards where Freddy was watching him pitifully.

“Look kid, you don’t gotta’ apologize to me. It was an accident, accidents happen. I’m a little bloody but I still have all my teeth” Mickey started, showing off his teeth, blood stained but thankfully intact. 

He sniffed and winced slightly but recovered quickly. “Just be more careful where you throw that thing, got it?” He said, nodding at the baseball and the small red stain it left on the beige rug Tami was so worried about. 

“I’ll be careful Uncle Mickey,” Fred agreed hastily, watching him with wide, tearful eyes. 

“Okay, go get me some frozen peas, you know where they are right?” Mickey said easily, leaning back with the towel back on his face.

Freddy ran back into the kitchen excitedly, happy enough to have a sense that he could help make it better. Everyone dispersed from there, and Lip walked over to join his bother.

“The worst thing you’ve ever done to me was make Mickey Milkovich my kid’s favorite Uncle,” Lip joked as he took the soda out of a shocked Ian’s hand, freeing him from his spot in the entry way so he could intercept Fred on his way back to the living room. Ian took the cold peas with a ruffle through his blonde curls and sent him off gently with Franny. 

“He got you good, huh?” Ian said, wrapping the ice pack in a towel and pressing it gently against the damaged area slowly turning purple.

“The kid has an arm like Greg fuckin’ Maddux” Mickey groaned quietly, finally dropping the brave face he was putting on for Fred. “This shit hurts like hell.” 

Ian settled next to him on the couch, hold the bundle to his enflamed skin. “You were very nice, might have saved his future professional career” he joked.

“What am I going to do, give him the Terry Milkovich special?” Mickey shrugged uncomfortably after a beat. 

“Nah,” Ian said lightly, tipping Mickey back gently with a hand on the back of his neck. “Come on, we can get you in a dark, air-conditioned room with extra strength Tylenol. Let’s just grab a couple plates of food, they owe us.”

“Sounds great” Mickey responded sarcastically. “Nothing goes with the taste of blood like your sisters shitty potato salad.”

Ian ran off to collect some food before returning to the living room and guiding Mickey out.

"-was an ugly fucking carpet anyways."

hope you liked it!

Prompt game fun!

#shameless #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #gallavich fanfic #sgtmickeyslaughter #prompt game

[astaraels]

perhaps fem gallavich wedding?

(this ran away from me omg but it was too much fun to write thank you so much for the prompt)

The morning had started off well enough. Ian took her meds—and subsequently informed everyone who asked that yes, she'd taken her meds—and kicked her brothers out of her and Mickey's room so they could fuck in peace before they had to get dressed. What was the point of an afternoon wedding if you couldn't get one last round in before you made it official, after all? Mickey's hair was a wild mess, and she grinned when she came, a sight that Ian never tired of. But then there was loud shouting coming from down the hall, Sandy yelling something about a fire? And Ian knew Sandy well enough that she didn't get worked up for nothing.

She tossed Mickey some boxer shorts as she grabbed her own robe and tied it on, shoving her feet into a pair of Debbie's shoes that were by the door. The two of them rushed down the stairs to follow Debbie and Sandy out the door, Carl right on their heels. In the distance they could see black smoke rising up into the air. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck—Ian couldn't believe it, her heart sank with despair, but they had to find out—

There was no mistaking it, though. Once their haphazard little group made it to the wedding venue, they knew exactly what had happened. As if the graffiti on one of the few standing walls didn't make it completely obvious, anyway. Ian glanced at Mickey, her fiancée's hair a wild tangle of dark waves around her face, a furious scowl crossing her features. "Motherfucker," she muttered. And then she stormed off, too-big combat boots pounding against the pavement of the sidewalk.

"Shit, no—Mickey!" Sandy yelled, but Mickey had already taken off down the street and back toward the house. Carl and Debbie both looked at Ian, who nodded at her siblings and raced off after Mickey. But unfortunately the other woman had enough of a head start that she was already out of sight. By the time they got back to the house, Ian could see Mickey storming out the back door, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Terry Milkovich!" she screamed, her shotgun in both hands as she stormed down the back stairs. "You fucking pig fucker, I'm gonna goddamn blow your brains out-!" But before she got any further, Sandy tackled her cousin to the ground, the two of them grappling for the gun. "Goddammit, Sandy, let me go-! I'm gonna fuckin'-!"

But then Ian caught up to them, Carl and Debbie still trailing behind; Mickey and Sandy fought like two junk yard dogs scrambling for a scrap of meat, and as soon as Ian got there the shotgun went off, the bullet thankfully only breaking through the back window of the broken down van.

"Mickey, calm the fuck down!" Ian shouted, trying to grab for the gun. Instead she yelped in surprise and pain as Mickey's teeth clamped on her wrist. "Fuck!" Out of instinct, she punched Mickey right in the eye, then pinned the other woman's wrists hard to the ground. "You fuckin' done now?!"

"Gonna make me hit you again? Or we done?" Ian demanded.

"Fuck you, Gallagher!" Mickey snarled, glaring at Ian. Her blue eyes blazed with barely controlled anger, but she nodded, going lax in Ian's grip. As soon as Ian let go, however, Mickey flipped her over and reached for the gun again. Ian hit her in the jaw this time, and the punch seemed to knock the fight out of her this time.

It took a moment, but Mickey finally nodded, her head falling back against the grass. With a relieved sigh, Ian threw the shotgun to Carl, who caught it easily. "Go get your cuffs," she told her brother, "and put this thing away." He nodded and hurried back into the house.

—

"Why is Mickey handcuffed?" Lip asked, as if it was an afterthought. Mickey took a long drink from her can of beer as she sat on top of the washer, as if the handcuffs were only a mild—and temporary—inconvenience.

Ian sighed in frustration. "She wants to kill her dad."

"Will kill her dad," Mickey corrected her. "I'm gonna get that shotgun, go to his house, and blow that fucker's brains all over the goddamn kitchen wall—maybe then he'll finally leave us the fuck alone."

Debbie scoffed as she hung up from the call she'd been making. "Or you'll get arrested again and you and Ian will be getting married in prison, ever think about that?" Ian gave her little sister a grateful look; Debbie knew her worst fear was Mickey behind bars again. But Mickey only scowled at Debbie's words and took another drink from her beer can.

"Look—Ian. Ian, look at me." Mickey set the can down next to her. "I love you. I love you, but that bastard is never gonna let me be happy. You know he won't. We find another place to do this, who's to say he won't find out from someone yappin' and come burn it down again?! I want to marry you—more than anything—but this is fucked. We are fucked. Just call it a goddamn loss."

Before Ian could reply to that, Debbie shook her head and slammed her phone on the kitchen counter. "No!" she yelled, eyes blazing with fury. "No, this is bullshit—you're just gonna give up? Let hate win? Let Terry and his nazi friends beat you?"

Mickey shook her head, her nose stud glinting in the light. "Yes-"

"Fuck, no!" Debbie said, smacking her hand on the counter by her phone. "We're not giving up! There's gotta be another place that can take us in a hurry."

"It's done! It's over!" Mickey started to say, but Debbie shook her head. After all this time, Ian thought, they should know better than to try and hold Debbie back when she was on the warpath. Mickey might be an immovable object, but Debbie was definitely an unstoppable force.

"We're not gonna let hate win, you dumbass!" Debbie said. "We're Gallaghers! And if you're gonna be part of this family, you better woman up! We're gonna white trash this shit!"

—

Three hours and a whirlwind of chaos later, Ian zipped up the back of Mickey's dress as the other woman held her hair up out of the way. Debbie and Vee had fixed Ian's unruly mess of ginger hair into an updo, but Mickey had let Sandy give her a fishtail braid. Ian touched Mickey's hand and said, "Okay, you're good," and Mickey let her long, dark hair falling down the middle of her back. Without realizing what she was doing, Ian reached out to trace her fingers along Mickey's braid, smiling softly even when Mickey turned back around.

"Damn," Ian said, her breath catching in her throat. "You...are one ugly fucking bitch."

Mickey grinned, a flush crossing her cheeks. Her makeup was just the way it always looked, winged eyeliner and dark purple eyeshadow to cover the slowly forming black eye that made Ian wince to look at. Things would be different from now on—they were done hurting each other.

"Yeah, well, at least I don't have to hide in a coffin until the sun goes down," Mickey shot back, fighting back a laugh. She tilted her head up and looked at Ian, nothing but love and caring in her beautiful blue eyes. Ian thought her heart would just about burst with how full it felt, just from looking at this woman that she was about to pledge the rest of her life to.

"Ready to do this, Milkovich?" she said, cupping Mickey's cheek with her hand.

Mickey nodded, leaning into the touch. "Damn straight, Gallagher."

—

"I, Mykhaila, take you, Lillian, to be my lawfully wedded wife. For better or worse, for richer or poorer-" Mickey paused for a moment, then continued, "in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live."

Ian stared at her for a long moment, unable to keep the smile off of her face as she said, "I, Ian, take you, Mickey, to be my lawfully wedded wife—for better or worse, for richer or poorer-" and here she squeezed Mickey's hands, remembering that awful day so many years ago, knowing why Mickey had hesitated at this part in her own vows, "in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live."

The minister beamed at them both, saying, "Now that Mykhaila and Lillian have pledged themselves to each other, it is my great pleasure to pronounce you as wife, and wife."

Ian looked at her, a little stunned. "Now?"

The woman nodded, grinning. "You may kiss the bride."

Ian pulled Mickey into her arms, closing her eyes and kissing her wife—her wife—as their friends and family clapped and cheered all around them. Mickey's lipstick was smeared a bit when they finally pulled away, and Ian could feel herself tearing up as she cupped Mickey's face in her hands.

"I love you so much," Ian murmured, and Mickey tapped her tattooed knuckles against Ian's collarbone.

"You're such a sap, Gallagher," she teased, voice thick the way it got when Mickey was trying not to cry. They took each other's hand, walking back down the aisle and past all their guests. Ian hugged Debbie close with one arm as she passed her sister, briefly clapping her free hand with Carl's, and she and Mickey raised their entwined hands together as they walked back down the aisle.

"Glad we made it in time," came a familiar voice from their left, and Ian thought she was dreaming when she saw Mandy and Fiona standing there, both of them grinning from ear to ear.

"Mandy?" Mickey said with disbelief.

"Fiona?" Ian said, almost at the same time.

Fiona threw her arms around Ian, and Ian couldn't help bury her face in her big sister's shoulder. "I'm so happy for you two." Mandy had pulled Mickey into a hug, as well, and it said something about the day that Mickey didn't even try to fight it.

"Glad you made it, bitch," Ian heard her wife say, and Mandy laughed.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

————

for reference, Ian and Mickey's dresses <3

#fem!gallavich #leinth writes fic #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #rule 63 all the things #gallavich wedding #shameless fanfiction #shameless

[crestfallercanyon]

Fic: he's got a pretty dream for the two of us Fandom: Shameless (US)  Length: 4,135 Rating: Mature Status: Completed   Warnings: Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings Relationship: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich Additional Tags: Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Abusive Terry Milkovich, Protective Gallaghers, Protective Mickey Milkovich, Sad Ending

Summary: 

Mickey’s father is looking for him. Has been, ever since he found out that his first attempt to beat the gay out of Mickey didn’t take. This time it’s a crusade, Mickey can’t make himself out-of-sight, out-of-mind. He’s been hiding out at the Gallaghers for a few days. Hasn’t left once, not since he was hurried inside by Ian, palm on the small of his back, his other hand wrapped under Mickey’s bicep hauling him through the door. They've been protecting him ever since. But Mickey can't stay forever.

Read here on ao3. To go to my profile, here. 

#myfic #my fic #Shameless (US) #gallavich #maybe one of these days I won't write something angsty #but today's not that day #Ian Gallagher #Mickey Milkovich #Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich #The Gallaghers are mentioned

[depressedstressedlemonzest]

Not me coming up with another Gallavich fic based on the movie Heartbreakers.

I can't write it now.

Will I ever?

No damn clue.

Con artist Gallagher family, enough brothers and sisters to match any sexuality and marriage pairing.

Fiona and Ian just finished a con with a bisexual (insert wealthy job here) and she won in the divorce settlement after finding her new husband cheating on her with Ian.

Ian wanting to branch out more on his own, wanting to really stop the cons and do something else.

Ian goes behind the family's back to try and con a rich boat owner he sees when they get into Palm Springs and goes to wait for him at a bar.

Wealthy but chill ass Mickey owning a bar with Mandy and Iggy, after Terry leaves it to him when he dies.

Free to be himself Mickey sees a hot redhead enter the bar, after trying to determine his sexuality on looks alone he decides to say fuck it and go talk to him.

The redhead is distracted and tries to blow him off but Mickey's chill enough to give him shit right back. Something sparks in the redhead's eyes while they're talking, but then someone walks into the bar that Mickey recognizes from some bullshit magazine cover.

He watches from the bar as the redhead fails at flirting, even going as far as fake choking on an olive from a martini.

The dipshit guy is ignoring him and then Mickey notices he actually starts to choke, he goes to help and dislodges the olive.

Simultaneously Fiona is working a con and Ian is supposed to set up something to fuck up the dude's car and she calls him.

He gives Mickey a fuck you before leaving and hurries to set up the trap for Fiona's mark. He leaves something behind and the bar owner goes to chase after him and return it.

When he's pulled over to do this the bar owner sees that Ian's pulled over and gets out to help with his car and give back whatever he left behind. Ian tries to get him away but the bar owner is persistent in helping.

Ian sees headlights of Fiona's mark and decides to shove Mickey down into the ditch quickly rolling out of sight after him.

The mark hits the tire popping thingy.

Ian lands on top of Mickey and they kiss.

Shit happens with Fiona and her mark.

Ian runs away.

Next morning he realizes he left whatever he left with Mickey again and he goes to the bar.

"Give me my (idfk) back asshole."

"That's not what you say, now how about you leave and come back in and try it again?"

"You stole (whatever) so i'd have to come in here and see your ugly ass face again."

"No you left your (wtf) for the second time after pushing me down a hill and leaving me stranded"

"give it back, or do you want me to shove my boot up your ass?"

"How'd you know I'm into that?"

blah blah rest of movie.

I could also see it work with Ian as the bar owner and the Milkoviches doing the conning, but there isn't another sister to take down the straights, oh I guess Sandy could.

Well reverse everything I said then and make the Milkoviches the con artists and the Gallaghers the bar owners.

Though I do like Mickey delivering the line about liking things in his ass.

#gallavich #shameless #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #gallavich fanfic #will i write this? who the fuck knows #but I'll put it in my ever expanding gallavich fics to write notes #which reminds me i need to keep writing #ugh

[gallavichfanficlibrary]

OMG YOU GUYS ARE BAAAACCCKKKK. missed u. so much. hey:) anyways wondering if u had any recs for fics centered around mickey healing / going to therapy etc. i am a sucker for character development. thank u 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

Hii, thank you so much <3 Here you go:

In broad-shouldered beasts series Mickey gets to deal with his traumas after he’s released on parole. He does his best to build a “normal” life and a relationship with his son while juggling the scars of his past.

Etherized Against the Sky - A canon-divergent story from 1x09, in which Tony Markovich suspected foul play and coerced an unwilling Mickey Milkovich into revealing the truth about Kash Karib.

You Deserve Good Things - Mickey’s holding down a job as a mechanic, going to court appointed therapy, living in his own place, and maybe even has a friend, until a new parolee walks through the door, bringing with him some of Mickey’s demons that he thought he’d long since buried.

The Words He Doesn’t Say - Mickey is released from prison before Ian and has to attend court-ordered therapy with a shrink that’s probably as grumpy as he is.

What if Mickey Fuckin' Milkovich had a journal - where instead of going to juvie Mickey ended up having to do anger management and write about his feelings in a journal.

There are a couple of fics where Mickey doesn’t exactly goes to therapy but just lets himself get some help, for example:

The Question of Normal - Ian is a prison counsellor and Mickey is an inmate assigned to him. Ian tries to find a way to get him legal help.

Legal help: Our Freedom in My Sight - Mandy Milkovich has been attacked by her father for the last time. She finds the strength to report his crimes and reaches out to her brother, opening up the door for Mickey to return to Chicago in exchange for testimony that could put Terry away for good.

Medical help: Experiential Avoidance - Mickey’s headaches get worse with age, so Ian convinces him to let a doctor look into it.

#therapy #mickey centric #au #trauma and healing #Emotional Hurt/Comfort #hurt/comfort #ianstummy

[ardent-fox]

Hey lyds ! Feel like answering some headcanon questions today? (:

Headcanon challenge:

1. Besides “Mick” and “Mickey”, what’s Ian nickname for Mickey? From all the nicknames Mickey calls him , what’s Ian’s favorite?

2. What’s the story behind Mickey’s knuckle tattoos? (When / how / by who) When Ian gets a tattoo for Mickey, what is it / on what occasion?

3. Random turn-on for Mickey and a random turn-on for Ian? (Bonus: something that really shouldn’t be a turn on but is)

4. What’s their Instagram @ ? When did they start following each other?

5. If they get a pet, is it a dog (who walks it more often?) or a cat (who cuddles with it more often) ? 

Hello there! 🤗 Ooh, what a fun idea, thanks for including me in these 😍

1. I think Ian keeps it fairly simple with his nicknames for Mickey. "Baby" is obviously a big one and I think he says it quite frequently, I can also see him blurting out "sweetheart" or "love" during some intense, emotional sex and proudly calling Mickey his husband and the love of his life to other people. As for Mickey's nicknames for Ian, "tough guy" is the oldest and therefor Ian's favorite, along with "red" or "freckles", since he adores Mickey loving on the physical attributes that he might have been teased for as a kid, they're like a shot of confidence and serotonin every time. "Sleepyface" is also still a part of their lives, but since their nieces and nephews/possibly their own kids end up liking it so much, Mickey uses it on them later on instead, and Ian doesn't mind one bit.

2. The knuckle tatts were definitely a part of a "you're a Milkovich man now" initiation process that was led by Terry when Mickey was around 13-14 years old, done at home by a family member. I do think Mickey wanted to get them, but for all the wrong reasons. He had his own idea of what a "real man" should act and look like at the time, which was greatly manipulated by his father, and he used them as a part of his defense mechanism to look tough and keep people out for a long time. Once he let go and embraced his sensitivity, he was still okay with the words he picked out, but let them fade away naturally when the time came, symbolizing distancing himself from Terry's influence. As for Ian, I see him getting something symbolic that they can both share, perhaps stargazer lilies for their 10th wedding anniversary, or they both get a shape outline with their kids' initials inside if/when the time comes, and Ian includes Mickey's "M" inside it on his version.

3. Crime/gun kink aside, Mickey loves to see Ian get pissed off once in a while and verbally defend them against random assholes, something about that rough energy sparks the need to get Ian on him while his blood is still boiling. Also, once they move in together and Ian takes on cooking, he surprises Mickey with preparing his favorite meals, and this new love language ends up speaking not only to Mickey's tummy, but also his dick, prompting spicy moments in the kitchen. For Ian, it's the sight of Mickey calculating their finances with his glasses on (we support glasses!mickey on this blog), nibbling on his pen every once in a while, mouthing out the words as he goes over his notes. Ian tries his best not to stare as he hangs around him, handing Mickey the cup of coffee he made and pretending to scroll down his phone while he waits, clothes flying everywhere as soon as Mickey is done.

4. Although my knowledge of Instagram is pretty poor, I don't think Mickey particularly gravitates towards social media, so Ian is the only one who has an Instagram in their home. It's the same one he's had for the last few years, a simple handle with just his name. It used to be a place where he posted hot pics of himself, but now it's mostly artsy photos of his and Mickey's joined hands in bed, his little tomato sprouts and other pretty stuff Mickey would surely tease him for if he knew they were on there.

5. Mickey finally gets the Pitbull he always wanted and 100% names it after a brand/type of gun (I vote for Heckler), thinking it will be the toughest dog in the world, only to realize over time that it's the exact opposite. Ian wants a cat, a sweet, orange kitten so they can be twins, and they end up getting both pets from the local animal shelter. However, since Ian is the early riser and more active outdoors, the dog ends up attaching himself to him more, and the originally not-that-cuddly ginger cat takes a liking to Mickey and starts sleeping on his chest while he watches TV, making it clear that their pets also have a say in the matter. Ian and Mickey just shrug and roll with it, and both of them end up loving the crap out of each of their fur babies in the long run.

#these got kind of long but were tons of fun #headcanon #lyds answers

[caretkr]

@eachdraidhs      sent         :            ＂         everyone   in   this   bar   is   talented   at   one   thing   or   another.         ＂

SKEPTICAL   EYES   TAKE   ANOTHER   GLANCE   AROUND   THE   ALIBI.         it’s   hard   to   believe,      given   the   state   of   local   patrons;         tommy   sat   in   his   usual   stool,      kermit   right   beside   him,      while   terry   milkovich      &      his   𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍   𝚘𝚏   𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚜   keep   control   over   the   pool   table.         frank   is   here   somewhere   too,      but   thankfully   not   in   sight.         probably   𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝   𝐨𝐮𝐭   in   the   bathroom.         hard   to   believe   any   of   them   are   dripping   in   talent,      but   fiona   supposes   she   ADMIRES   the         (      𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢   𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍,      in   her   experience      )         positivity.               ＂         i’m   guessing   this   is   your   first   time   in   the   south   side.         don’t   worry,      you’ll   learn   soon   enough         .   .   .         half   the   people   around   here   don’t   even   have   strong   personal   hygiene   values,      let   alone   anything   else.         ＂               and   she   doesn’t   mind   saying   it   out   loud   for   them   to   hear   either.         they’ve   no   doubt   called   her   worse.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒   𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄   𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.               (      still   accepting!      )

#eachdraidhs #out of character. ⸻ answered meme. #universes. ⸻ verse tbc.

[arrowflier]

huge fan of all your work! i was wondering if you could write something post season 11 of the boys talking about having kids and mickey sorta opening up about his insecurities about it and ian comforting him (kinda like the show but more in depth and better lol)

It had been an amazing night. The party, their family. Some guy’s car burning right on the street under a sky full of shooting stars. Crashing in the back of the ambulance, too drunk to drive home, too handsy to go to the house. Cramming onto the edge of their old mattress, covered in an old sheet no one would miss and a ratty blanket that had seen better days, trying not to roll over onto the boxes propped up on the other side.

Coming together in the small space, whispering love in sensitive ears, forgetting the world outside the doors.

Yeah, it had been good. Great. A night to remember, a night for the books, and Mickey should be sleeping off the sex and the alcohol and everything else in the arms of his husband of one whole year.

But he wasn’t.

He wasn’t, because every time he tried, every time he relaxed, his leg straightened far enough to touch the foot of the crib Ian had crammed into the back with them.

It was dark, and the crib was covered, but it didn’t matter. The metal of the base was cold against his toes, and try as he might to forget, he knew that it was there.

Ian stirred behind him. Shifted under their shared sheet, warm as he pressed his chest to the curl of Mickey’s back. Moonlight flickered through the tinted windows of the back doors, skated over them, over it, and Mickey tucked his head down as if it made a difference to get the thing out of his sight.

“We can get rid of it tomorrow,” Ian whispered, breath hot on Mickey’s neck. Sudden, unexpected. A hand snuck between them, stroked the stretch of skin where Mickey’s shirt had ridden up along his spine, and Mickey leaned back into it even as his shoulders tensed.

“I’m sorry I pushed,” Ian said next, voice fading at the end as he let the words sink into Mickey’s skin. “I shouldn’t have taken it.”

Ian kissed the back of his neck. Soft, sweet, sorry. And Mickey stared at the crib in the dim, silvery light, the posts sticking out over the multi-colored crochet blanket that used to adorn the Gallagher family sofa. The gaps in the fabric were large enough to see through, showing glimpses of worn slats and a threadbare cushion inside.

“I know it’s a big deal, for you,” Ian continued. Leaned his forehead into the nape of Mickey’s neck, whispered like he was telling a secret.

“I know you’re afraid you won’t be good at it, or we’ll fuck it up somehow, like our parents did.”

He was right. Mickey was afraid. And you know what?

He fucking hated it.

“It’s all bullshit,” he said suddenly, voice loud compared to Ian’s quiet murmurs. The words seemed to echo in the darkness, and Ian stiffened, at the height of a full breath.

“What?” he breathed out, more air than sound, and Mickey rolled over as best he could in the narrow space they shared.

Ian’s eyes were wet. Hurt. And Mickey hated that, too.

“Not talking ‘bout havin’ kids,” he clarified, then stopped. “I mean, I am, but…”

He stopped again. Cursed quietly as Ian pulled away, not that he could go far with the mattress not even laying flat behind him, propped against the inside of the van.

“It’s bullshit,” Mickey tried again, scooting into the tiny gap Ian had left between them, closing it with his body, “that Terry fucking Milkovich still makes me—”

He cut off. Swallowed hard. And Ian came back, rolled over him, laid his weight down like a blanket over Mickey’s not trembling, shut up frame.

“Yeah,” Ian murmured, soothing, quiet. Let Mickey tuck his face into his shoulder, pressed his own to short black hair.

“It’s all bullshit,” he agreed, not commenting on Mickey’s tight hold around his back, the way his fingers clenched at Ian’s shoulder blades like they alone could keep him afloat.

“’Cause you’re better than that, Mickey,” he said. “And you know you are.”

Mickey clenched his eyes shut. Pulled his foot away from where it had once again slid down to touch cool metal.

“You’re great with Franny,” Ian went on, ignoring the way Mickey shook his head against him. “Her favorite uncle, even if it kills me to admit it.”

Mickey snorts against Ian’s skin. Rubs his face against it to clear the wetness his eyes left behind.

“And Freddy reached for you yesterday,” Ian continued. “Don’t think I didn’t see the way you waved at him, all wiggly fingers and smiles.”

“Shut up,” Mickey muttered, half meaning it. “He’s a good kid, not his fault he’s got your brother for a dad.”

“Not your fault you had Terry,” Ian countered, and yeah.

Okay.

But…

“Still not ready,” Mickey whispered, holding even tighter. “Even if it’s stupid.”

And Ian—Ian who wanted kids, Ian who wanted everything—Ian didn’t let go.

“I know,” he whispered back, even quieter. “It’s okay.”

“Might never be ready,” Mickey added, hating himself for it, but Ian didn’t hesitate.

“That’s okay too,” he said, and kissed Mickey’s head. “We’ll find something else together.”

Something else. Something together. Not what Ian wanted, but he would do it anyway.

“Okay?” Ian asked, and Mickey nodded into the curve of his neck.

“Okay,” he answered, and promised himself it would be.

And as Ian slipped back into sleep, his body rolling to the side but hanging onto Mickey all the same, Mickey relaxed. Relaxed, and let his leg stretch out, until his toes touched metal.

Okay.

#hello I've had wine #and now I have EMOTIONS #daily speedwrite #gallavich #fanfic #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich

[bravemikhailo]

ok so the milkovich cat post got me thinking and now I’m imagining a small tiny mickey (12/13 years old maybe) sitting somewhere in front of the kash&grab, in the dead of winter, waiting for the scary lady to leave the shop so he can go steal something from that stupid idiot of her husband’s nose, and he’s a bit freezing, feeling the cold winter air through the holes on the cuffs of his pants, and he’d rather be somewhere warm than here but his stomach rumbles. he’s hungry, and their fridge is empty, so here he is, and he waits, chain smoking and rubbing his hands together every few minutes

and then there’s a meowing sound right beside him and it startles him a bit, and when he turns his head he isn’t expecting a cat to be looking at him with expectant eyes. he looks back at it, waiting for the moment it will run off in the opposite direction and far away from him, a dirty milkovich, but then it just hops all the way to him, rubbing its head on his ankles

and mickey’s just completely taken aback, looking at this small creature as if it had three heads, wondering why would it do that to him of all people. but it’s cute, he thinks, and he figures that it’s gonna be ok if he just gives it a small pat in the head, but then the bell to the kash&grab rings, reminding him why he’s here. to get some food, not to play with a cat. so he stands, ignoring the look the cat gives him, and stomps towards the shop

but when he comes out again, carrying a box full of goods under his arm, the cat is still there, and the sight pulls at mickey’s heartstrings but he’s got to get home soon or terry’ll get mad and the last thing he wants is to have to deal with an enraged terry. so he turns and starts walking down the street in the direction of home

it’s just that the cat follows him all the way to the milkovich house, and when he tries to shoo her away, the cat stays put, sitting on the porch. mickey sighs, and decides to deal with it later, leaving her there for now

a couple of hours later, when terry’s laying wasted on the couch and the house is immersed in silence, he peeks through the window to see if the cat’s still there and he smiles when he recognizes his furry friend. he opens the window, and the noise catches the animal’s attention, who immediately stands and jumps on the windowsill, purring like a goddamn machine. he lets her inside, and watches as she inspects his room, sniffing all around

chips is all he has in his room and he tries give her one but she just sniffs it and then goes back to look around, so he leaves her there and goes to the kitchen to get some milk. he pours some in a bowl and carries it back to his room with some leftover chicken and the cat is so happy when he gives her the food and it warms his heart and he decides to let her stay inside the night

he finds a small ball and plays with her for hours and when he gets in bed she follows him, curling beside his head but he’s tough isn’t he so he won’t sleep with a cat like a baby and he gently pushes her away until she jumps on the floor, but after a few minutes she jumps back in, this time settling on mickey’s belly and, well, mickey guesses it isn’t that bad after all and he gently scratches her head as they both fall asleep

and afterwards the cat will come and go but mickey will always leave her something to eat on the porch and will always let her inside at night if she’s there, and if she’s not he hopes she’s somewhere warm at least

dedicated to @milkovichy and @vintagelacerosette my beloveds since they so kindly asked 🥲🥰

#I love the idea of mickey taking care of a stray cat whenever he can and i think he’ll tell ian about her someday and ian will be like 🥺🥺🥺🥺 #and he’ll get mickey a cat and he’ll melt every time mickey cuddles her and talks to her in a stupid voice #*things i wrote

[emsemotional]

trust and bad dreams

mickey let out a sigh as he checked his watch. it had been 9 minutes since ian had gone next door to borrow a wine opener from kev and v, and he still wasn’t back. his chatty ass husband must have gotten caught up talking about dispensary runs, or amy’s school play or some other dumb shit. he glared down at the half opened bottle of pino grigio- beer didn’t give you this much trouble, damn wine with its stupid fucking cork. his thoughts of cracking the bottle open were interrupted by a creak on the stairs, accompanied by a soft sniffle.

mickey turned to see his niece standing on the bottom step, clutching her blanket to her chest. he softened at the sight of franny’s pink, tear stained cheeks.

“hey kiddo, what’s wrong?”

franny let out a wet cough between sniffles. “is mommy home yet?”

he shook his head, “she hasn’t gotten back yet. s’just me and uncle ian- he went over to borrow something from v. you okay? bad dream?”

franny nodded her head, messy braids flopping against her neck. her tears resumed in full force as she managed to choke out a response, “a scary dream, uncle mickey.”

mickey scratched at his eyebrow, weighing his options. he could wait for ian to get back and let him take the lead, but it looked like franny needed comfort now. he sent a silent ‘fuck you’ to terry, in whatever afterlife he got stuck in, for not giving him any frame of reference for how to deal with this. none of the milkovich kids would’ve dared to approach their father after a nightmare. they learned from an early age that a pissed off, startled awake terry was way worse than any bad dream.

mickey thought about what ian would do in this situation- he’s seen ian comfort franny over skinned knees and arguments with those little third grade bitches at the pool.

he lets out a breath, following his gut and grumbling out a quiet, “c’mere, kid.”

franny shuffles around the couch, climbing up into the seat next to mickey. without a moment of hesitation, she’s wedging herself under mickey’s arm, curling into his side. he feels her tears start to soak through his shirt from where she’s pressing her face against his chest, still sniffling. he runs a hand over her hair and wipes her tears away, allowing her to cuddle against him.

“s’okay franny, it’s just a dream. It’s over now.”

“can I stay here with you uncle mickey?”

mickey’s heart clenches at his niece’s trust in him. he’s been living with her for over a year, he’s put franny to bed before, he knows that she likes cuddling, stories about pirates and the ratty patchwork blanket she’s currently holding. even so, it never fails to shock him that he makes this kid feel safe.

“‘course you can… as long as you want.”

they born turn their attention back to the shitty made for tv movie that ian had put on, and settled into a comfortable silence. only a few minutes had passed before mickey heard franny’s breathing even out, her body fully relaxing against him. he pulls the blanket off the back of the couch to drape over her, sheltering franny from the house’s ever-spotty heating.

after significantly longer than it takes to borrow a wine opener, ian returns. he softens his greeting to a whisper upon seeing his niece asleep, face still resting against mickey’s chest. mickey rolls his eyes at the fond grin on his husband’s face.

“she had a nightmare.”

“she okay?” ian asks, eyes warm and searching, still giving him that damn soft smile.

mickey hums in affirmation, nodding gently, as to not jostle the sleeping kid at his side. ian, brandishing the borrowed wine opener, finally manages to uncork the bottle and pours two healthy glasses.

“want me to get her off of you? take her to bed?”

mickey glances down at franny, her tears had dried and her flushed cheeks had faded.

“nah man,” he replies. “she’s fine, she can stay down here for a while, right?”

ian settles onto the cushion next to mickey, kissing the top of mickey’s head.

“sure, mick.”

#softest uncle on the southside #mickey milkovich #uncle mickey #uncle ian #franny gallagher #ian gallagher #shameless #shameless headcanon #shameless hc #shameless headcanons #shameless fanfiction #shameless fanfic #shameless fic #gallavich fic #my fic #my writing #gallavich

[abundanceofnots]

a little (just under 2k) playground scene with Lip and Ian as dads, as per @pink--and--white's request. i apologize to all actual parents in advance.

“How the fuck did we get here?” Lip asks through a huff of incredulous laughter.

Ian shades his eyes from the sun, turning to his older brother with a look of mock concern. “Your memory that bad already, old man? We drove here.”

It earns him a stinging smack on his thigh.

“Asshole,” Lip retorts back. “You know what I mean.”

Ian’s eyes flit back to the scene before them. “Yeah, I do,” he confirms a beat later, his voice more earnest this time.

This, by far, isn’t a new feeling. Lip’s had the exact same thought pass through his mind countless times in recent years, always in a momentary flash of warmth that filled up his whole chest. It happens all the more often now over the most mundane shit, though.

The first time was, probably, when Freddie was born. Then Ian got married, and Al came along, and Liam got to a good school—and after that followed every other quiet (not literally) evening when the whole family gathered up in the kitchen.

In those instants, Lip would stall himself for just a second, getting lost in the overwhelming sounds and visuals, and think, what the fuck.

He’s getting soft. That’s it, most likely. He’s getting soft and sentimental, going on with his extremely unexceptional life, wondering how in the hell did a piece of shit like himself get so lucky, and slowly becomes someone he’d gladly punch in the face not too long ago.

It hits him hard again, this strange sense of pride and wonder, as he sits next to his baby brother on a bench overlooking a kids’ playground.

This one’s the real deal. Everything here is child-proof and clean, with no syringe or dogshit in sight. Frank or some random homeless guy aren’t lying in a drunken coma by the swing sets. There’s not even one bullet hole in the slide. And maybe it’s not so hard to admit that this is actually pretty nice. That this is them now.

Still, the whole thing is, without a doubt, totally ridiculous. Here they are, Lip and Ian—the college dropout and the ex-con, the true sons of the South Side—sneakily munching on their kids’ packed afternoon snacks.

“Dumb luck, I guess,” Ian answers Lip’s question after some musing and takes a sip from Toe’s pink-colored juice box.

Lip hmms before he bites into a baby carrot. “For us, or them?”

“For us. Definitely.”

They’re just two regular dads who carry around lunchboxes and always have a wet wipe or a pack of tissues at hand, ready to blow noses and wipe off residue chocolate from chins and hands. There aren’t enough words in the English language that would describe how incredibly ridiculous this is, because once upon a time, not too long ago, still, Ian wore a jumpsuit with Dav on the nametag and believed this was it for him, and Lip thought the only way to get through life was by drinking himself through the ordeal.

How the fuck did they get here?

“Freddie! Hey, Freddie!” Lip calls out to his oldest, who hangs upside down from the monkey bars, effectively ignoring him. “Fred!” he tries again with an annoyed sigh, and the boy finally remembers how his ears work. “Can you help your cousin on the slide?”

“Okay!”

With a swift motion, Freddie pulls himself up again to grab hold of a bar, unhooking his knees in the process, and jumps down into the sand with practiced ease. He then immediately gets into a run, coming behind the red-headed girl in black overalls who’s been trying to climb the gentle ramp on her own.

“What was that about?” Ian inquires amusedly.

“Early puberty, I think. He doesn’t want us to call him Freddie anymore. It’s Fred. No Fredster, no Fredtastic, definitely no Fredosaurus. Just Fred. Apparently, I went to bed, and my son turned into a middle-aged man overnight.”

“Oof. That’s rough.”

“Yeah. The next thing I know, he’s gonna get a neck tattoo and his first STI. Al, buddy!” His younger son Alvin, at least, seems to have no trouble with hearing. “You need help? Want me to push you?”

“No, I’m good!” the blond kid shouts back from the swing, and to prove his point, he pushes himself harder off the ground to gain momentum.

Lip scratches his forehead. “They don’t need me anymore,” he comments darkly. “I am officially a bother.”

“You’ve always been a bother,” Ian notes before he stuffs his mouth full of grapes. “Come on, Lip. Freddie’s eight. He’s not exactly packing his bags to leave home. He’s still very much a daddy’s boy.”

“I don’t know, man. When I remember what I was already doing when I was his age….”

“Yeah, but that’s different. They’re not like us. They don’t need to be, and that’s a good thing.”

Ian’s right, but the concept of normal as something desirable, something he doesn’t necessarily need to rebel against, is something Lip may never fully come to grasps with. And neither does Ian, even if he says otherwise.

“We might be getting a dog,” Lip says after a while, pausing before he sinks his teeth into a cheese stick.

“No way!” Ian smirks at him. “Look at you, perfect American family and shit.”

Lip snorts at that. He and Tami are pretty damn far from perfect. “You not thinking about getting a pet? A friendly rottweiler for Mickey, perhaps?”

“No. First, I gotta talk him into having another kid.”

That takes Lip by surprise. He knows Ian absolutely adores his little girl, his mini ginger twin that everyone got to call Toe, short for Tomato, but he also knows the whole story behind how she came to be.

“Oh, yeah? You’d like another?”

“Yeah,” Ian admits, and as his eyes drop to his lap where his fingers fiddle with a paper straw, Lip realizes he sounds ashamed about it.

“Not as easy as poking holes in condoms with you guys, huh?” he jokes to release the sudden tension.

“Hah. No.”

“You told Mickey yet?”

Meeting his brother’s eyes again, Ian gives a noncommittal shrug. “I hinted.”

From experience, Lip knows that hinting in Ian’s case almost exclusively means Mickey is fully aware of his intentions and just chooses to ignore them before Ian confronts him head-on.

“Hopefully, you’ll have another girl,” he tells Ian after a quiet moment filled with children’s high-pitched screams and the steady screeching of a swing set. “It’s a lot more physical with boys. These two are already fighting like we used to.”

“Doesn’t really matter when you’re raising a Milkovich,” Ian remarks before yelling: “Hey, Toe? You wanna have a sip of your juice for me?”

The girl waves at them eagerly as she slides down the bendy chute. Getting to a run right as her feet touch the ground, she comes to a jolty halt in front of them, taking a good, hard look at the juice box as if only now realizing what’s expected of her.

“No, thank you,” Toe then peeps and skips off again.

“Polite,” Lip appraises.

Ian gives a low chuckle. “Fuckin’ weird, huh?”

“With Mickey as her dad? A little.”

They watch the kids play for a few minutes. Ian offers to exchange a cheese stick for three grapes, and Lip negotiates it up to five before agreeing.

“You think he’d be against it? Having another kid?” he asks Ian mid-chew.

“I mean, I wouldn’t blame him, after all the shit with Terry. Maybe with a second kid, he’d think there’d be twice the damage he could do. Dunno,” Ian surmises uncertainly. “I know how hard it was for him to even want a kid, and I get why he was scared. Don’t get me wrong, I’m shitting myself every day when I think of the ways I could fuck this up. But he’s a great dad. You saw him with Toe. She’s obsessed with him. The way she laughs at everything he says makes you think he invented comedy or something.”

Lip’s aware that their conversation turned sort of serious once again, but he can’t help not breaking into a smile. “Sounds like you’re kinda jealous of your husband there, Ian.”

“Oh, I hate his guts,” his brother confirms, only partially kidding. “I’m a fun dad, too, you know.” As if on cue, a figure coming their way catches his attention, and Ian nods to where his daughter’s playing, telling Lip: “Okay, watch this.”

Mickey gestures at Freddie with a finger to his lips, coming around the slide just in time to catch his daughter in his arms with a victorious roar.

“Daddy!” Toe announces the good news to everyone around with a loud squeal.

Ian gives his brother a pointed look.

“Fuck, man,” Lip huffs with mock seriousness. “You tellin’ me she loves her dad? What a nightmare.”

“Yo, lunch ladies.” Mickey suddenly approaches them with Toe at his hip. “How ’bout less chit-chatting and more kid-watching? Think I’d remember if I left my kid with a giant fuckin’ bruise on her forehead this morning.”

“Yeah. She’s had a bit of a scuffle with Alvin earlier,” Ian says, reaching out to soothingly rub Toe’s calf as if said scuffle and the tears it brought weren’t already long forgotten.

“The hell’s he doin’ fightin’ someone half his size?!”

“She started it!” Lip counters weakly.

“Okay.” Mickey’s mouth hangs open for a minute before he finds his figurative footing again. “I guess she had her reasons for that. And you should teach your kids to not fight dirty.”

“I go play now,” Toe informs him then, putting a stop to his rant and his bad mood in one go.

“Yeah! You do that!” Mickey replies as he puts her down, matching her level of enthusiasm. She heads for the extensive pirate-ship-like construction this time, watchful cousin Freddie already on her heels, and Mickey drops heavily next to his husband, letting out a prolonged groan into his hands.

“Tough day?” Ian asks needlessly.

“Igor’s a fuckin’ idiot.”

“Told you he was.”

“And I agree, so drop it, a’ight? Hey, by the way.”

“Hey,” Ian echoes before they exchange a quick kiss.

Mickey notices the juice in his hands then and perks up. “That raspberry?” he checks after he’s already snagged the box for himself, taking loud slurps from it to get every last drop. He finishes off with a belch. “Fuckin’ love raspberry.”

Lip finds that anything he’d say at that moment would only spoil the natural fucking beauty of it, so he just appreciates with a private snicker.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Toe yells from the top of one of the pirate ship’s smaller slides. “Come play!”

Mickey pats at Ian’s thigh. “That’s on you, man. I’m beat.”

Putting his fun-dad face on, Ian heaves himself up without a complaint. “Hey, jellybean! Do you think your dad can fit on the slide, too?”

Toe shakes her head vehemently, giggling as she watches Ian jog toward her. “No, daddy! No! No!”

“What, you don’t think I can?” Ian asks again, halfway through his climb up on the board. “Well, take off your socks now because they might get blown off! I’mma fit!”

“Daddy!” Toe howls with laughter as he bumps his head on one of the low railings.

Beside Lip, Mickey imitates the reaction, both his hand and the phone he’s holding with it to record a video visibly shaking. When he notices Lip staring, his grin falters a little.

“These two jokers,” Mickey complains after he ends the recording. “She always laughs at everything he does like he invented comedy or some shit.”

Lip answers with a knowing smile, his chest feeling full of warmth.

Seriously, how the fuck did they get here?

#toe fic 🍅 #my fics #gallavich fic #shameless fanfiction

[callivich]

I love the idea of time travel and I just couldn’t get this idea out of my head, so here’s a little time travel story! Reworked this so it’s slightly different and longer! Planning on a part two soon.....

———

Ian had been standing in the kitchen of his and Mickey’s new apartment. He had been about to make some coffee and take it to his husband who was still sleeping. Everything had been normal and fine - he’d been idly thinking about what they were going to do that day. It was Saturday and Mickey had, the night before, demanded not to be woken early, but other than that, they had no plans. Maybe a dip in the pool? It was sunny, but not too warm, which was good because the slightly cool weather meant less people in the pool.

And, just as he was imagining swimming lazily in an empty pool with his husband, it seemed like he blinked and the whole world had shifted sharply. He felt dizzy and his vision swam, his body felt weak and he collapsed against a nearby wall, trying to catch his breath. It was like no feeling he’d ever experienced.

Blinking furiously, he noticed something alarming - he was not leaning against his kitchen wall, he was somewhere else. Somewhere he never thought he’d ever go again. Somewhere it was impossible to go again, but he recognised it immediately. The Milkovich house. He glanced around at his surroundings, struggling to understand how he could be standing outside Mickey’s old bedroom. What the fuck?? Was he dreaming? Or, worse, hallucinating? If he was dreaming or hallucinating, it was the most realistic thing he had ever experienced, there was nothing dreamlike about it. Everything looked exactly the same as he remembered - the signs on Mickey’s door, the dirt covered carpet, the dimly lit hallway - it even smelled the same - that stale mixture of smoke, beer and sweat.

It was too much - this situation he found himself in, it couldn’t be real, and yet, apparently it was. He felt a sharp burst of panic, his chest felt tight, and he reflexively clenched his hands, trying to calm himself. It was then he realised he was holding something. It was heavy and solid in his hand, and as he stared at it, it took him a few seconds to understand what he was seeing - it was a tire iron. And then everything began to click into place - he noted his worn, hand-me-down clothes and when he reached up to feel his hair with his free hand, his fingers found bangs. An overwhelming feeling of familiarity washed over him, he remembered these clothes, he remembered holding the tire iron and he remembered why he was holding the tire iron. Most importantly, he remembered this day. It was the day that everything changed between him and Mickey - the stolen gun, the fight, the sex - and he was in his teenage body. Shit.

Ian didn’t know what to do. This was impossible. There was simply no way it was possible. And yet, here he stood, years in the past. His mind began to race with possibilities - should he leave? and go where? back to the Gallagher house? or should he stay here and wait to see what happens? would anything happen? would he blink and be back in his kitchen? or was he stuck here in the past forever? He wanted to go home, to his apartment with Mickey, he wanted his husband. Mickey. A thought occurred to him - maybe Mickey, his Mickey, was here too? Not that would automatically fix everything, but at least Ian wouldn’t be alone. He stared at the door, he needed to know either way - either Mickey was also, somehow, here in the past, and they could figure this out together, or he was about to run into angry, teenage Mickey, who perhaps didn’t hate Ian as much as Ian had assumed at the time, but was definitely not his friend.

He paused outside the door, and as he took a deep breath, his hand tightened on the tire iron - unsure if he should just leave it on the floor. He definitely wasn’t going to hit Mickey with it, but if it was teenage Mickey in there, then Ian hoped the sight of the tire iron would stop Mickey from hitting him. Ian pushed open the door, and softly shut it behind him with a click. There was Mickey, laid out on the bed, face down, asleep, just as Ian remembered. It was bizarre seeing this again, at the time he had no idea how this day would change his life, but here it was - the moment that their lives began to become entwined.

This wasn’t the time to reminisce though. Ian gently, much more gently than he had done so originally, poked Mickey in the back with the end of the tire iron. Perhaps too gently, because Mickey didn’t move. This was promising - teenage Mickey was a light sleeper, but in the safety of their apartment, adult Mickey had began to sleep heavily, and Ian hoped that the fact Mickey didn’t move immediately meant that this was his husband.

“Mickey. Wake up.” Ian moved closer to the bed, and tapped him on the back with his free hand.

That did it, there was an annoyed groan, and Mickey turned his head, so Ian could now see his dirt-smudged face, but didn’t open his eyes, only muttering a tired, “No.” This was different to what had happened before, but Ian still wasn’t sure if this was his Mickey or teenage Mickey.

“Wake up.” Ian tried again, this time giving his shoulder a shake.

“Fucks sake, Ian, it’s the weekend....I wanna sleep in.” Mickey mumbled, sleepily. Still, he didn’t open his eyes, just reached out a hand, and when he didn’t feel anything but an empty space, he continued, “Come back to bed.”

It seemed like Mickey thought Ian should be in bed with him, and relief flooded through Ian. This was his Mickey! Now he just needed to actually wake the fuck up.

Feeling more confident, he sat down on the bed next to Mickey, dropped the tire iron on the floor, and ran a hand down his back. “Mick. Open your eyes. But don’t freak out.”

“What am I gonna freak -” And then he was speechless. His eyes were finally open and he looked at Ian in shock. “What the fuck?”

“I know.”

Mickey’s eyes darted around the room, back to Ian, down at himself, and then settled on Ian. He reached a hand out to touch Ian’s face softly, running his fingers over the freckles. “Fuck. What’s going on? How...”

“I don’t know?! I was in the kitchen, I was going to make coffee, and then suddenly I was here and shit, I thought I was dreaming, or hallucinating, but this is all so real. So it must be real?” The words tumbled out and Ian was so glad that he wasn’t going to have to deal with this alone.

“I don’t....the last thing I remember was going to bed with you.” Mickey sat up, and swung his legs around to sit close to Ian. “This is fucked up. It’s fucking impossible.” He ran a hand down his face, before turning to stare at Ian again in disbelief. And Ian couldn’t help but do the same back - he still couldn’t believe his eyes.

“What are we going to do?” Ian broke the silence, they couldn’t sit here staring at each other all day.

“Shit. I don’t fucking know.” Mickey frowned for a moment, as if considering something and then pinched Ian on the arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“In case it’s a dream.”

“You’re supposed to pinch yourself.” Ian grumbled, as he pinched Mickey on the arm. “There. Feel real?”

“Hardly felt that, but yeah.” He looked around his room. “So, I guess we’re in the past. That means -”

Mickey didn’t have time to finish his sentence because the door opened and a ghost entered. Or rather, not a ghost, someone who was very much alive. Terry. Mickey instantly tensed up, his hands balling into fists. Terry made his way into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Ian didn’t think, he just pulled Mickey close, hugging him tight.

“Fuck. Shit.” Mickey let out a shuddering breath. “Ian, we can’t.” He moved away reluctantly. Ian felt his heart clench but nodded, shifting away to the end of the bed. Of course they couldn’t hug, not here, not now. Fuck. Ian wanted to punch the wall. Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, “I can’t fucking be here, man.” He jumped up and threw on some more clothes and some shoes.

Terry stumbled back out of the bathroom, and Mickey froze, his eyes wide, still unbelieving of what he was seeing. He kept staring at the door after Terry left. It was surreal seeing Terry alive, walking around like normal. And if Ian thought it was surreal, he couldn’t imagine what Mickey was thinking. Or rather, he probably could guess. His mind drifted to thoughts of Monica - she was alive here, what would it be like to see her again? Would he felt strange? Horrified? Upset? And Frank....shit, Frank had only just died, but right now, he was alive.

He pushed the thoughts away, they needed to leave. This was all too confusing. Mickey had only just finally come to terms with Terry’s death and this....this fucked up situation was only going to cause him pain. And Ian was still going through some pretty strange and surprisingly upsetting emotions about Frank’s death, it was all still so raw. Neither of them needed to be confronted by their dead fathers (did anyone ever?), especially not so close to said fathers deaths. The room felt too small, too hot, Ian knew they needed to leave. It was impossible to think here.

“Let’s get out of here.” Ian tugged on Mickey’s hand, squeezing it gently, before dropping it.

“Where?” Mickey questioned, shrugging on a coat.

“One of the abandoned buildings? At least then we know we’ll be alone. And we can try and figure out what we’re going to do.”

Mickey gave a whispered “yeah” and flung open his bedroom door, hurrying towards the front of the house, causing Ian to jog behind him to catch up. He was about to reach him when Mandy appeared. Ian’s stomach did a pleasant flip when he saw her - he’d missed her so much and here she was, looking exactly the same as he remembered. He fought the urge to hug her tightly.

“Ian? Are you ok?” Her eyes searched his face curiously, like she could tell something was wrong. But that was stupid, Ian thought, even if she could, she would never guess it was that Ian and Mickey had somehow time travelled from the present back to the future.

“Uh...yeah. I just...” He couldn’t help it - he glanced at Mickey who had paused by the front door, looking over his shoulder at Ian. “I gotta go home.”

“Ok. But-”

“Everything’s fine, Mandy. I’ll see ya.” He could hear the tremble in his voice and he could tell from the slight frown on her face that she was concerned. She looked back and forth between Ian and Mickey, her eyes narrowing and noticing Mickey’s hand on the door. “Where are you going, shithead?”

“Out.” And with that, Mickey practically flung himself through the doorway and made his way onto the sidewalk. Ian waved a hand in Mandy’s direction, wishing he could explain to her but knowing he couldn’t, and headed out, shutting the door behind him. He felt guilty brushing her off, but Mickey was his priority.

“Mick.” He called out as he caught up. He bumped his shoulder against Mickey’s and they began to make their way to one of the more isolated abandoned buildings, both knowing which one they should go to. They walked in silence, both of them struggling to make sense of where, and when, they found themselves. So, it was no surprise that neither of them noticed the figure that followed them.

——

Ian watched Mickey as he climbed the old, battered stairs in front of him, he could see the heavy tension in his shoulders. It was familiar but not something he had seen in awhile. Mickey was relaxed and happy, most of the time, they were finally settling into the West Side and things were good - safe and stable - and their days were filled with kisses and laughter, they just were enjoying being together. But, now, they had been thrown backwards to a time when things were dangerous and unstable and complicated.

There was a splintered door, which Mickey kicked open with his foot. He sighed heavily and Ian grasped his hand, leading him towards one of the walls. They sunk down onto the floor, backs against the cold brick. Ian moved to cuddle Mickey close, but it was awkward. He was used to being able to hold Mickey easily, but here, now, as they were a similar height, it was different. He had never had the luxury of being able to hug or be close to Mickey like this back then, so he wasn’t used to trying to hold him like this. Eventually, with some fumbling, they managed to find a good angle. Mickey slumped down a bit, and Ian put his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, they were pressed close, and Mickey threw one leg over Ian’s, and rested his head close to Ian’s neck.

“This isn’t fucking fair.” Mickey whispered. “What the fuck is this shit and why is it happening to us?”

“I’m scared.” Ian replied, using his free hand to grab one of Mickey’s. “What if we’re stuck here?”

“Your meds.” Mickey squeezed Ian’s hand. “What are we going to do about your meds?”

“I don’t....” Ian faltered. He hadn’t even considered that. What was he going to do? He hadn’t been diagnosed back then, now, so what did that mean in terms of his illness? The fear that had been bubbling under the surface suddenly began to overflow. What the fuck was he going to do? “I don’t know. Shit. Mick. I don’t-”

“We’ll figure it out.” Mickey put his free hand on top of his and Ian’s clasped ones. Ian wanted to believe Mickey but he didn’t feel convinced, and as confident as Mickey sounded, Ian could hear the worry.

“Ok. Yeah. We’ll figure it out. But, what are we going to do, like right now? We can’t stay here tonight.”

“I can’t go back there. I can’t see-”

“I know. I know. We’ll stay at my house.” Ian cut him off before he could say his father’s name. It felt strange saying that - my house - because it wasn’t, not anymore. His house, his home, was the apartment he shared with Mickey.

“And how the fuck do we explain that? And what about Frank? You gonna be able to deal with seeing him again?”

“Don’t care.” He heard Mickey snort. “I don’t care Mick, you’re my fucking husband, and I love you and we need to-”

“Holy fucking shit! What the hell is this?” A shocked voice cut through the air, startling both of them.

Ian and Mickey jerked their heads up at the same time to see Mandy standing in the doorway, a look of complete and utter disbelief on her face. They had been so wrapped up in their problem, that they hadn’t noticed her following them or heard her making her way up the steps of the building. They slowly disentangled from each other in a way that Ian noted would not have happened in their teenage years. Mickey would have shoved Ian off back then, but now, he was so used to not hiding or feeling afraid that he didn’t. As much as Ian would like to focus on the growth Mickey was showing, he knew he couldn’t. Because right now, the stakes were too high.

Ian’s heart pounded, he knew they needed to say something. He could trust Mandy. He had done so before. But fuck, there was so much more he knew in hindsight. So many more terrible, violent things that he knew he could not let any of them go through again.

Which is why he blurted out the first thing he thought of, “It’s cold. We were cold, so we were just warming up.”

Ian didn’t need to look at Mickey to know he was probably rolling his eyes.

“Cold?” Mandy folded her arms and leaned against the wall. “Thank fuck I’m not a cop Ian because you would not last-”

“What the fuck are you doing here? You follow us?” Mickey interrupted. “Go away.”

“No. Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Mandy pushed off the wall and walked to towards them. “Ian, what’s going on? I thought you and Kash-”

“Fuck him.”

“Shut up, Mickey. I’m talking to Ian.”

“Mandy, please. This isn’t what it.....can you just forget you came here? Please? And please don’t say anything. To anyone.” Ian pleaded. He needed her to go. He loved her, and he loved seeing her again, but fuck, this was not the time. He couldn’t think with her here. All he kept thinking of was when Terry found him and Mickey - that horrible morning that always made his stomach churn when he thought about it. He didn’t think Mandy would tell. But in that moment it felt like it was too much - someone else knowing - he just couldn’t handle it right now. He just wanted to be with Mickey. “I’m begging you, Mandy. Please.”

Mandy bit her lip, in the same way Ian had seen Mickey do a thousand times. She looked back and forth between them, uneasy and suspicious, Ian realised he had tears in his eyes and he could see the exact moment Mandy noticed. “Fine. But you owe me an explanation Ian. And so do you Mickey.”

“Yes.” Ian breathed in relief. And he watched her turn on her heel and leave. They stood in silence until they were sure she was gone.

“So, what now?” Mickey pulled Ian close, his arms winding around his waist.

“Maybe if we fall asleep, we’ll wake up back home?” Ian hoped more than anything that would be true.

“Thought you were awake when you came here. Back? Now? Whatever.”

“I was but....who the fuck knows right? It’s worth a try.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But we can’t sleep here.”

#gallavich #gallavich fic #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #shameless #headcanon #as always feel free to continue this or add to it!! #I think this idea would be great written by someone who is good at multi-chapter fics #I’m not great at that #so very happy if anyone wants to take this idea and do their own thing with it #or remix it or use parts of it #btw sorry but I’m probably not going to continue this #but they definitely get home safely

[gallavictorious]

Outsider POV Gallavich Fic: Captive Look

For a while there this spring, I was mildly obsessed with the CO in 10x03: you know, the good-looking guy who seems so completely unfazed by finding two armed inmates stabbing an old man, and then for whatever reason doesn't report it? (He can't have; Ian's parole wouldn't have happened so soon after something like that.) I also really dig his beard... Anyway, IMDB identifies him as Raymond and I've had this short little piece about him and his interactions with two certain dumbasses sitting almost finished in my draft doc for months and months and months, so... you're welcome? 2882 words, to help pass the time until the new episode!

You can read it below or on AO3.

---

It's half past eight on a Thursday when Raymond catches sight of them across the bar at South Side Social. He’s there to celebrate his baby sister’s birthday, familial obligation overriding personal preference, but after an hour of politely chatting with her increasingly wasted college friends over obnoxiously rustic-only-because-it’s-trendy food, he’s ready for a break. Catching Tina’s eye, he mimes lightening a cigarette; she raises an eyebrow at him and smirks. She’s a clever kid, his sister – the first in their family to go to college – and she knows him only too well. Knows, for instance, that he gave up smoking years and years ago.

Offering her a rueful grin, he gets up and gets out and spends the next few minutes breathing in Chicago’s poisonous evening air. It’s December, but unusually warm for the season, and somewhere underneath the dusty stink of exhaust fumes and concrete there’s a faint trace of melting snow.

On the way back to the table Raymond stops at the bar to order another beer, and that’s when he spots them, just three feet away. Two men in their mid-twenties, casually dressed and apparently in the middle of a not-very-serious argument, complete with waving hands and mock-scoffs. It takes a moment for the vague feeling of familiarity to click into actual recognition, and when it's does it's not so much their faces as the way they pause to look at each other.

It's not the sort of look you see a lot, especially not in prison.

So, well, he’ll be damned. It’s Milkovich and Gallagher. Cellmates, lovers, and occasionally a goddamn pain in his ass. Released, as improbable as it sounded, within days of each other less than half a year ago, and now laughing over drinks in a half-way decent restaurant in downtown Chicago. It’s not the sort of place he’d expected to find them in – but then again, there’d been a lot of unexpected things about that pair.

Not them hooking up, necessarily, not once they’d ended up sharing a cell; trading sexual favors for protection (whether voluntarily or not) was common enough. Frowned upon in theory, of course, but in practice –

Well. You didn’t have to like it, but it was what it was. Idealism didn’t survive long at Beckham. Raymond himself had never harbored any grand notions about the redemptive potential of his work, but he’d seen his fair share of fresh-faced new CO:s have their illusions crushed after a week or two caught between the often violent offenders who despised them, the indifferent malice of many seasoned CO:s, and the stifling drudgery of the American penal system in general. Not Raymond, though: he did his job, did it well, and went home and didn't spend waste moment of thought on it. You did what you needed to do to pay the bills; no need to dwell on it.

So no, Gallager getting in bed, quite literally, with Milkovich hadn’t been a surprise. The nature of their relationship, though...

Sure, it wasn’t unheard of for inmates to fall for one another, or for established couples to end up in prison together. Didn’t happen a lot, and actual homosexuality was still more likely to get you beat up than laid, but yeah, it did happen. What, in Raymond’s experience, never happened was having to people look at each other the way Milkovich and Gallagher sometimes did, whenever they thought no one else was watching: there was a kind of wonder to it, both staring at the other like they’ve been handed a goddamn gift and couldn’t quite believe their luck.

Particularly on Milkovich’s face the look was baffling.

Ever since the young man arrived at Beckamn he'd moved down the gray corridors and among the yellow-clad crowds like a man born to it. Raymond supposed he was; his father Terry had spent much of his adult life in the very same prison, as had a great many brothers, cousins and assorted associates. Though Raymond didn't know any details, and didn't really care to know them, he'd bet dollars to donuts that Mickey Milkovich's criminal career had had both an early start and a sense of inevitability to it. Various stints in juvie, followed by a real prison sentence for... attempted murder, wasn't it?... followed by a widely publicized jailbreak and an eventual and far less publicized return to Beckman.

Milkovich was tough enough to make others back down when he had to but smart enough not to start any unnecessary fights, not with the other inmates and not with the ones set to watch over them. Knew how to work the system, too: how to get things in, get things done, which guards could be bribed. Raymond didn't play that game himself, but he wasn't getting paid enough not to turn a blind eye when others do. And Milkovich had been pretty smooth about it, especially since his return; careful not to cause a stir.

Gallagher, on the other hand... He'd been the kind of inmate Raymond would've been seriously worried for, had he been inclined to worry and had Milkovich not been there to watch his back and show him the ropes. Not because Gallagher struck Raymond as even remotely helpless, but he so very obviously did not belong in prison, and so very obviously did not really have a clue about what was what in here. The nastier inmates would have eaten him alive long before he'd had the chance to navigate the intricacies of prison politics and find the friends needed for protection. He'd have ended up someone's bitch, or ended up in the infirmary, or dead.

But he'd ended up with Milkovich, and as unlikely as it had seemed at the time, that had worked out. (There were moments when Raymond wondered about that, wondered about them: apart from the looks, there were little touches, too, casual things that spoke of a familiarity far beyond what they could possibly have developed in their short time in a shared cell.)

That wasn't to say that their relationship had been all rainbows and lollipops, and it sure as hell hadn't been fun for everybody. They’d driven half the cellblock insane sometimes, as well as occasionally one another. Other prisoners had complained about their bickering and their fucking (though never officially complained, because you didn't, not unless you wanted to go looking for your teeth in the shower drain), and Raymond recalled vividly the time when not one but both of them had gotten roped into Chester Russom’s endless quest to spend the rest of his life behind bars –

He'd been passing by the infirmary when he'd heard the screaming and come running. Hadn't been surprised, exactly, to find what he found, but that didn't lessen the urge to smack both Milkovich and Gallagher on the head for being so damned stupid.

Neither of them had seemed particularly concerned about getting caught stabbing another inmate. In fact, they'd fallen over themselves to take the blame, which Raymond might have taken as an unselfish attempt to save the other – if he'd been a complete idiot and if the two of them hadn't been sniping at each other all the way from the infirmary, to the point where he felt like his head would explode.

“Imma murder you two if you don't stop talking,” he said, glaring at them as they sat chained outside the small office. Thankfully, they did stop, looking neither at him nor at each other.

Raymond waited for a moment, deliberating.

“What did Chester promise you?” he eventually asked. Gallagher might have agreed to help the old man out of the goodness of his heart, but Milkovich sure as hell hadn't.

Neither man answered. They were studiously avoiding looking at each other.

“You're not going anywhere until you tell me,” Raymond warned them. “If I have to leave your sorry asses chained to this bench all night that's no skin off my back.”

“We needed a break,” Gallagher offered eventually, reluctantly. Milkovich gave a little snort at that, but – wisely – kept his mouth shut. “So we thought that if one of us got sent to solitary... “ He trailed off, shrugging half-heartedly.

Oh, for the love of God - ! “Why did both of you have to stab him if the goal was to get one of you to solitary?”

Again, there was a protracted silence, and somewhere in it – in their earlier insistence that each of them had been the first to stick the shiv into Chester – Raymond could just about make out the shape of it.

“You are both idiots,” he said, moving to uncuff them from the bench, making a decision. “Come on, let's go.”

“Wait,” Gallagher said, not rising. “You're not reporting us? What about solitary?””

“You don't get a damn reward for stabbing someone, so no, you're not going into solitary, you're going straight back to your cell – where you will hand over all contraband you've hidden there.”

“Now, wait a minute – “ Milkovich began, but he faltered when Raymond fixed him with a hard stare.

Raymond had no illusions about intimidating this particular inmate, but Milkovich really did know how this worked; knew better than to ever be friendly with a guard, not even the ones he bribed – but knew when not to push too.

He had kept their hands cuffed for the walk back to the cell, which was policy, but was him making a point too. While there were extenuating circumstances – primarily the fact that Chester had asked them to stab him – by all rights they should be going down for this, and Raymond wasn’t one hundred percent sure why he wasn't letting them. Save himself the paperwork? Yeah, sure. Why not? As good a reason as any.

“Now, am I going to have to search the cell or will you give it up voluntarily?” he asked once they'd made it to the cell. “You make me look, I won't be too careful with your shit.”

A lot of the guards would be deliberately careless when they tossd a cell, either to prove a point or just for the hell of it. Raymond usually didn't bother with that sort of power trip bullshit, but he was prepared to make an exception if these morons proved stupid enough to give him any more trouble. He was already cutting them considerable slack here, and neither of them have the brains to appreciate it.

They had shared a look, and then Milkovich gave an imperceptible nod. Without a word they set to bring forth an array of cigarettes and foodstuff, little things that would have been commonplace and unremarkable in the real world but was made precious by its scarcity on the inside.

Raymond wasn't naive enough to believe they actually gave him everything they'd got in there, but enough of it to inconvenience them, which would have to do. He grabbed the the items, then fixed them both with a firm look.

“Either of you cause me any more trouble, I'm taking your books,” – he pointed to Gallager, then to Milkovich – “and your pens and paper. You think you have it bad now? Imagine sharing a cell and having nothing else to occupy you.”

He had hoped to God he wouldn't have to make good on his threat, though. The other prisoners would probably riot if they have to put up with more of ´bickering from these two.

“I catch either of you with a shiv again, you'll be fucking sorry,” he continued. “Talk it out, or agree not to talk, or whatever. Split the cell into his and his, I don't give a damn. But sort your shit out.”

Maybe they had, maybe they hadn't; the point became moot just a few weeks later, when Gallagher was released. Milkovich had soon followed him – and how exactly that had happened, Raymond still didn't know, because there was no way in hell anyone actually thought releasing that one back into society was a great move – and that had been that. For now, at least; he fully expected to see Milkovich again. Guy like that wasn't going to quit, and sooner or later he'd get caught and find himself back behind bars. Rinse repeat, until he got himself killed or locked away for good.

Only now here Milkovich is, but in front of a bar rather than behind them, and with Gallagher right by his side, laughing like they'd never stabbed a man just to get away from each other.

Raymond hesitates. There's some small part of him that actually wants to step up and say hello, and that throws him a little. He's got a rule about never getting emotionally invested in the fates of the inmates; that way lies nothing but heartbreak, because most of those who find themselves at Beckman will find themselves there again and again, for longer and longer. Don't abuse the prisoners, but don't care too much either: it's been Raymond's private policy for the past five years, and it's worked out so far.

Except now he's actually considering chatting with a couple of convicts, just 'cause he really is a little bit curious about how this unlikely pair is doing.

But nah. Forget it. His rule aside, it'd be pretty uncool to intrude on their evening out. They're free men now – kind of – and having a CO check up on them can't be high on their list of wants. But before he can move away, they both look his way; sees him. Recognizes him, too, from the way they freeze.

Okay. Call it fate, then. “Hello,” Raymond says, going for neutral good and a little nod; I come in peace.

A beat. Milkovich is eyeing him with a wariness he doesn't bother to conceal and it's Gallagher who speaks first:

“Officer Reese,” he says, managing a polite smile. “Hi.”

Raymond notices the way they glance down at the beers they technically shouldn't be having.

“I'm not your PO,” he assures them. “I don't give a damn if you drink. Might want to take it easy, though,” he can’t help but add. “Getting shitfaced is a quick way to get into trouble.”

Milkovich opens his mouth, but after a quick glare from Gallagher he closes it again. Probably for the best; Raymond can’t imagine him playing even remotely nice now that he doesn’t have to.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your evening,” he says. “Looks like you’re doing all right.”

“Yeah, yeah, we've got jobs and... “ Gallagher pauses to glance at Milkovich again, as if asking his permission. Milkovich rolls his eyes but says nothing, and Gallagher turns his gaze back to Raymond. There's a real smile on his face now, small, but filled with something akin to disbelieving delight: “We got married. Couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh, wow. Congratulations.” Raymond isn’t quite sure what surprises him more: the fact of their marriage, or the fact that he is genuinely happy for them. Maybe he’s getting soft in his old age… Or maybe it’s just that there’s so very few happy endings for those who find themselves at Beckman, whether as inmates or as guards, that they need to be treasured whenever you find them.

“Ian!” someone calls across the room, and Gallagher turns his head to look at a blonde woman gesturing wildly. “Where are those drinks?”

“Shit,” Gallagher mutters. “Better get this to Tami before she has a fit.”

Another smile, and Gallagher is gone. Milkovich, however, lingers, seemingly debating whether to say something more. Curious against his will, Raymond does his best to look approachable. Evidently, it works, because Milkovich clears his throat:

“You’d reported us when we stabbed that old fucker in the infirmary, Ian wouldn’t have gotten his release.” He pauses, looking uncomfortable, then forces out: “Appreciate it.”

Raymond merely nods. Maybe he should say something about being glad taking a chance on them had paid off, that he is glad to see them doing well – but he’s pretty sure Milkovich wouldn’t much appreciate the sentiment.

“Your boy doesn’t belong in prison,” he says instead.

Milkovich face immediately collapses into a scowl. “Well, I didn't fucking put him there,” he growls.

But Raymond isn’t intimated; just hold his gaze. “Gonna keep him out of trouble then?” Gonna stay out of trouble, he doesn’t ask, but Milkovich isn’t stupid, so he'll hear it all the same.

Milkovich still glares, but something in his eyes seem to soften ever so slightly. “You betcha. Won’t have anything on us ever again,” he promises ambiguously, with a cocky grin and one eyebrow raised.

When he walks away, swagger in every step, he is every bit the unrepentant gangster – but Raymond keeps his eyes on him and sees the way he relaxes as soon as he stops next to Gallagher. Reaches out to touch him lightly on the arm, catching his eye. That same wondering smile on both of their faces.

Raymond thinks that maybe he won't actually see either of them again.

He is glad of it.

#gallavich #fic #my stuff

[gallavichfanficlibrary]

hi! can you rec some fics that are have terry die in different ways than he did?

Hi! :) Terry dies in a lot in future fics, mostly offscreen x) This is what I could think of. I didn’t write how Terry dies if it’s not in the fic summary not to spoil the fun :D

Our Freedom in My Sight Mandy has been attacked by her father for the last time. She finds the strength to report his crimes and reaches out to her brother, opening up the door for Mickey to return to Chicago in exchange for testimony. 

I didn't kill him...did you? Now, they were married. For real. Like they did it in front of a shit ton of people and had a piece of paper with their names on it. (...)  Nobody could get between them now. Not even Terry fucking Milkovich.

Bury The Hatchet Mickey gets a request from Terry in prison and goes looking for closure.

The Ghost of Laura Milkovich laura milkovich learns her son is getting married and wants to meet the groom.

Terry Dies in This One Prompt: Mickey is alone at home and suddenly Terry is there and they have a huge physical fight while destroying half of the Gallagher inventory in the process.

Someone to Hold Me Up Just beside the shattered front window is a man, lying flat on his back, a pool of blood growing from his left side. Ian shouts to Sue. The man’s been shot. More than once. It’s Terry Milkovich.

'til our compass stands still Mickey just assumed they'd have smooth sailing from here on out. It never occurred to him being in prison together might be the easiest part of their relationship.

Trust me Mr Milkovich is a certified weirdo, but he also happens to be a certified accountant and not half bad at his job, considering his relatively low rates. So Ian guesses he can live with the weird midnight meetings and the abrasive correspondence.

Grow for Me A Little Shop of Horrors AU.  While working at South Side Florists, Ian discovers a strange and interesting plant that can help him get everything he’s ever wanted.

#terry milkovich #tw death #tw violence #minor character death #canon divergent #au #lists

[cloudygeorge]

blind

pairing: lip gallagher x milkovich!reader

Summary: could i request a Lip Gallagher x Milkovich!reader where she’s had an argument with Terry and needs to get out of the house so she goes to the Gallagher’s cause Ian is her best friend but Lip is the one that’s there so she talks to him and ends up confessing her feelings?

warnings: mentions of violence, feelings

I don’t know how to feel about this one

You were never the type to just sit around take whatever people threw at you, which could easily be the reason you and Ian worked so well as best friends. Because here you are, knocking loud as hell on his front door when you didn’t even know he was home, but you knew that if he found out, he wouldn’t be mad. In fact, he’d be more mad if you were upset and didn’t come over.

There were tears making a messy path down your face as you started to knock again but you were far from embarrassed as the first thing on your mind at the moment was the argument you had had with your dad just moments ago.

“Y/N?” Lip answered the door instead of your best friend. He frowned at the sight of you crying. “Are you okay?”

You wiped the tears off your face, turning your head to face away from him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Is Ian here?”

You weren’t majorly fond of the idea of letting Lip see you cry, especially not once you remembered to consider the way you feel about him. He looked concerned as he shook his head, but he still moved aside for you to enter the house. “No, he’s not. I’m the only one home.”

You bit your lip. “Oh, then I should probably go-”

“No, wait!” He stopped her from leaving. “I mean, Ian’s not here, but I am. If you, uh, wanted to talk about it or anything, I’d listen.” His voice was quieter than what you were used to, and for a second it made you wonder if something had happened to him, too, but when you looked at his face all you saw was pure concern. He moved further to the side, kicking the door all the way open as a welcoming gesture.

You hesitated before following him inside. “So what happened?” You heard Lip ask as he plopped himself down on the couch. “Mickey just being an asshole again?”

“No. I haven’t cried over jerk brothers since I was a baby,” you let out a chuckle, but it sounded painful. Lip watched you sit down beside him and tilted his head. It was true, though. You grew up tough because your brothers were demons and messed with you relentlessly.

“If it’s not your brothers, then what’s got you crying?”

You sighed. It probably should have felt weird for you to let out all of your current feelings to your best friend’s brother, who just so happened to also be the guy you had feelings for, but it didn’t. It felt like you were talking to anyone, it felt comfortable and he was listening to you. He listened to your rant about your dad intently, not speaking until you threw your hands up in frustration, as if to signal that you were done. “I just don’t understand why he’s so-”

“He’s an asshole,” Lip stated. It was firm, as if he was just stating a fact and that was it. “You’ve known that for years, don’t let him be the reason you cry. I hated seeing it.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s because you don’t know how to handle your own emotions, much less someone else’s.”

“I just hated seeing you cry. You shouldn’t be crying.”

You shrugged, “I cry a lot, and most of the time it’s because I’m angry, I just never cry to you.”

“Yeah?” Lip looked interested. “What have you cried to Ian about?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t cry to Ian.”

“I thought he was your best friend.”

“He is, but do you know how weird he’d feel if he had to hear me complain about having feelings for his brother?”

You didn’t even realize what you said until you realized Lip had been quiet for a little too long and looked over to see him staring at you, jaw dropped. Then you tried to play it off. “I mean, I-“

“Does Ian know you feel that way?”

If you were walking you would have fallen. “I mean, yeah. He knows everything, he’s my best friend. What the hell does Ian have to do with-”

“Oh my god, I’m going to kill him,” Lip groaned out. “He knew I liked you and that you liked me and he didn’t bother to tell me?! That’s so fucked.”

“What, Lip what are you talking abou-” He cut you off by grabbing your face and pulling you closer, slamming his lips against yours. His lips moved with yours in perfect sync, and his hands drifted until he was dragging you into his lap, holding you as close to him as he could possibly get. Your hands drifted into his hair and he let his grip finally settle on your hips.

“Yeah,” Ian scoffed from the doorway. “This is exactly what I wanted to happen.” He shook his head, turning to leave again. “You two are so blind.”

#aimee grace writes #shameless #shameless x reader #shameless imagine #shameless us #shameless us x reader #shameless us imagine #lip gallagher x reader #lip gallagher imagine #lip gallagher