By: ronans
Summary:
Mickey still lying on the floor after falling asleep there in 5x07 and Iggy coming home and finding him all cuddled in Ian's clothes. Then Iggy tries to get him to move and go to bed but Mickey refuses and has a full on (but well needed) break down
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There's still laughter on his lips from his night out with the guys down the street, but he almost instantly sobers at the sight of Mickey crumpled on the floor, half obscured by a distinctive military jacket branded Gallagher. Iggy gulps and bends down to place his half-empty beer bottle on the ground next to the couch leg.
'Mickey?' he calls. Fuck, the silence doesn't sound good. 'Shit.'
He stumbles past his brother and briskly walks down the hallway, checking every bedroom for any occupants. The house is deathly quiet bar the usual creaks of the aged foundation. He doesn't know where the hell Svetlana's fucked off to, and without her there, he doubts anyone else would be present. He runs his hand through his shaggy hair and shakes his head to try and clear the buzz of alcohol completely.
He trudges back into the living room and eyes his brother and how he's cocooned in Ian's jacket. He walks right up to him and lightly kicks him to wake him up.
'Ay. Bro, get up,' he orders, features set in a concerned frown. When Mickey doesn't move right away, he kicks harder.
Mickey lets out a low groan and bunches up the material closer to him, burying his nose under the collar and breathing in. Fuck, this isn't good. Iggy can smell the alcohol on Mickey, and he knows it's Mickey because Iggy hadn't been chugging anything other than beer tonight. The smell coming off Mickey is straight vodka. He spies a quarter-full bottle leaning against the pillar a few paces away from them.
'How much did you fuckin' have?' Iggy chuckles. His laughter soon dies down as he focuses more clearly on Mickey and how his knuckles are white with how hard his gripping the coat, how there are a few damp patches on it from probable tears, how he's still dressed in the clothes he'd put on to visit Ian. 'Jesus, what the fuck happened earlier?'
Mickey smiles slightly, but it looks more pained than anything. 'Everything's fucked, Ig.'
Iggy snorts humourlessly and kneels down next to Mickey, putting his arms around him to try and haul him up. 'Yeah, when isn't it?'
'Nnnn-nah, don't,' Mickey protests, weakly shoving at Iggy. Iggy purses his lips and tries again to lift him up. 'Fuck you, fuck off!' Mickey spits, blindly reaching behind him for his bottle of vodka.
'You're a stubborn little fuck, ain't 'ya,' Iggy wheezes as Mickey struggles as much as possible, fingers making purchase on the bottle whilst still cradling Ian's clothing to his chest. It takes a few more seconds before Mickey's protests start to simmer down until he's stopped completely, his forehead resting on Iggy's chest. Iggy clears his throat and starts to say something along the lines of getting Mickey to bed, but he starts speaking first.
'I don't know what to fucking do,' Mickey says hoarsely, his sudden grip on his brother's arm loosening, his body slackening. Iggy presses his lips together and looks down at the top of Mickey's head.
'C'mon, Mick, you gotta sleep this off in an actual bed,' Iggy says, trying once again to pick Mickey up off the ground. He hears the bottle of vodka Mickey'd been holding hit the floor with a dull thump. 'Shit. Ay, hold up,' he mutters, placing Mickey back down on the floor and hurriedly righting the spirit bottle before it's completely wasted.
He sighs as he carries the almost empty bottle over into the kitchen and waits for a moment, collecting himself and dragging a hand down his face. He doesn't know how the fuck to deal with Mickey in this shape. He's always been good with dealing punches and then stitching his siblings back up again, but this shit goes deeper than that. It's way past surface wounds, it's emotional, and Iggy doesn't know how the fuck he's supposed to make it better.
When he finally makes his way back into the living room, he allows himself to watch Mickey grip at Ian's army jacket again. Mickey looks desperate and helpless and so fucking lonely.
'Mickey,' he says quietly. Mickey doesn't respond, his only movements being the run of his fingertips over the material of the jacket. 'Mickey you gotta get the fuck up, a'right?'
Iggy's not sure he's hearing it correctly at first, but then a first sob's followed by a second, followed by a third and he knows he's not imagining things.
'Fuck.'
'He didn't even fuckin' look at me properly today, just sorta... blankly stared,' Mickey says thickly, voice half muffled through how he's buried his face in the coat. 'Fuckin' sedation, or whatever.'
'Exactly,' Iggy mumbles, gradually making his way further toward his brother's slumped form. 'He ain't all there right now.'
Mickey laughs and it's coated in hysteria. 'Where the fuck's he gone, man? He's fuckin'... gone.'
'Hey, he'll be back here in a couple days, right?'
'He's not even fucking talked to me,' Mickey growls, scrunching his fists tighter around the black fabric. Mickey curls further in on himself and Iggy has no idea how he should fucking respond. He's never really been put in the position where there's nothing that can be solved with a threat or a joke. He has a feeling a joke right now would really fuck Mickey up.
There's a long pause that's only filled with the hitch of Mickey's ragged breath and the quiet beat of Iggy tapping his foot as he deliberates. He finally breathes out deeply and takes the last few steps over to Mickey, sinking down to the floor next to him, lying flat out on his back and staring at the ceiling. He can hear Mickey shuffling about on the floor next to him, trying to get comfortable again whilst still soaking the jacket with muted tears.
Iggy fishes around in his breast pocket and draws out a battered pack of Marlboros and a lighter, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. He watches the smoke waft above him and stays quiet as Mickey finally ceases moving.
'I miss him. I fuckin' miss him.'
Iggy hollows his cheeks, sucking on the filter, holding it in and letting the smoke slowly stream out of his mouth. He decides he's going to act as just an ear for Mickey, rather than vocally responsive. He figures it'll be better on both ends; Mickey can vent as much as he fucking wants and Iggy'll listen, and Iggy will feel more comfortable not having to think up half-assed replies that probably sound stilted and fake.
'I tried so fucking hard to- We nearly got there, we nearly fuckin'... Fuck!' Mickey suddenly yells.
Iggy doesn't jump – he's used to abrupt screams – he just calmly breathes in more of his cigarette and listens.
'I wanna kill the fucking asshole because he's not fucking here, he's not fucking here!' Mickey screams before throwing Ian's jacket over his face and upper torso, the clothing rising and falling with his heaving breaths.
Iggy exhales more smoke before putting the cigarette between his lips and then gradually reaching out his arm until his hand's clasped around his brother's upper arm. He hopes Mickey gets that he's there for him and that he's trying even if he can't articulate his support. He figures the way Mickey's sobs morph into ripping, wounded moans after the contact gives him his answer, tells him that Mickey trusts himself to not be okay around him.
They don't move until the sun starts to come up and Mickey's on the cusp of sleep. After they manage to transfer Mickey to his bed, Iggy watches as Mickey arranges Ian's jacket so it looks like another person's in the bed with him. As Mickey rests the arm of the coat so it's around his waist, Iggy thinks he knows how much Mickey Milkovich fucking loves Ian Gallagher.
(Btw guys merry late Christmas and I will definitely be publishing more, enjoy)
