
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8402617.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, No_Archive
      Warnings_Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Shameless_(US)
  Relationship:
      Ian_Gallagher/Mickey_Milkovich, Mickey_Milkovich/Svetlana_Milkovich, Lip
      Gallagher/Mandy_Milkovich, Mandy_Milkovich/Mickey_Milkovich, Mickey
      Milkovich/Yevgeny_Milkovich
  Character:
      Mickey_Milkovich, Ian_Gallagher, Svetlana_Milkovich
  Additional Tags:
      Mickey_needs_a_hug, mickey's_moving_on, ian's_sad, deservingly_so
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-28 Chapters: 1/? Words: 2955
****** Moving Forward ******
by mickeyscrotch
Summary
     Mickey’s fresh out of prison, and he’s doing good. He’s working,
     moving on with his life without Ian Gallagher. But when the redhead
     comes down from the Northside with a working boyfriend and is
     seemingly happy whilst Mickey’s still working in Patsy’s Pies,
     Mickey’s determined to leave Ian in the past.
     No matter how much Ian tries to convince Mickey he won’t be left
     behind.
Notes
     This is my first story on here. Pray it doesn't suck as much as I
     think it will.
Mickey’s skinnier than he was before he entered prison. If there’s anything he
could or would say about the big joint, is that it was a lot different than it
was in juvie—and he’d rather stick a shiv up his ass than go back there again.
If it wasn’t enough that he was placed in the same prison as his dad, he was
the one to shove a plastic knife through the old man’s eyeball when he finally
had enough of Terry Milkovich’s homophobic slurs. Suffice to say, his friends
weren’t happy that their leader was taken down by a fag, but Mickey was
immediately hauled into isolation and Terry’s boys were hauled into another
block. When the life left Terry’s eyes—or, eye, in this case—he didn’t know
what to make of it. Shouldn’t he have felt guilt? Or sorrow, what with his
father being dead? But he didn’t. Instead he felt this immense amount of
relief—like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Mickey Milkovich took
shit from nobody; nobody but Terry Milkovich, his own personal demon.
 
And he had slayed his demon.
 
Word of Terry’s death got ‘round, of course, but after that, no one really
tried to avenge him. Like it or not, nobody really liked Terry—just thought he
was scary as hell. Besides, what idiot would mess with a heartless
motherfucker? What type of son would stick a plastic knife in his own father’s
eye?
 
Nobody wanted to mess with that Hannibal Lectar shit.
 
So Mickey left the prison a new person. It wasn’t just in his appearance.
Anybody that knew Mickey before would notice the drastic, and dramatic change.
His walk wasn’t a swagger as much as it was this air of power. In prison, he
had to act like he knew what the fuck he was doing—where the fuck he was going,
and what the hell he was doing there. Everybody wanted to pick on the weak
ones, and Mickey had proved himself that he wasn’t a weak ass bitch whatsoever.
 
He also hadn’t had sexual intercourse in like, months, because the last person
that he had fucked got so scared that he might stick a plastic knife in his eye
if he went too rough.
 
What the fuck ever.
 
He’s not really sure what to do when he steps out of the gates. There’s nobody
outside waiting for him—he didn’t tell anyone; not even Mandy. He sure as hell
wouldn’t have contacted Gallagher, and Tony was kind of in the can with him.
Iggy, well, he wasn’t sure where Iggy was. He isn’t mad, though, that his
brother isn’t there—the Milkovich family isn’t the type to bail each other out
of jail, or hug and kiss, or exchange Christmas presents.
 
Their way of bonding was to take out a hit together, or commit grand theft
auto.
 
Brothers or no brothers, Mickey’s happy as fuck to be out of the big house for
good. The first thing he does is grab a pack of cigarettes from the Kash n
Grab. His eyes momentarily drift to the backroom where he and Gallagher had
hooked up when they were nothing but small kids, and he tells himself no, the
fuck you’re going back, and keeps moving.
 
He holds the cancer stick between his fingers like somebody will take it from
him. If the case was in prison, then yeah, someone would’ve; whether it be a
guard or another prisoner, Mickey would’ve beat the shit out of them. Chicago’s
different—Southside’s not as crappy anymore. It’s flooding with hipsters as far
as Mickey sees, but one thing that doesn’t change is the Alibi Room is still
standing, looking as sleazy as ever.
 
Mickey pushes in the door, and somehow, he’s greeted with a sense of
familiarity—besides the fact that there are way more man buns here than he
wants to see, but he doesn’t care.
 
“As I live and breathe,” Kev Ball says from behind the counter. He sets the rag
down on the counter, crossing his arms across his chest. “If it isn’t Mickey
fucking Milkovich!” he exclaims. Vee comes out from underneath the bar and she
looks equally as surprised, but there’s no hostility.
 
“Shit,” she says, quietly, but Mickey can still see her mouthing the words.
 
“Yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up,” Mickey says in the crass way he always does,
waving a gloved hand in the taller man’s direction. He slides into the barstool
beside Kermit, who’s looking as dead and drunken as ever. “What’s a man got to
do to get a fucking drink around here?”
 
“On the house, man,” Kev says as he slides Mickey a glass of beer straight from
the tap. “Didn’t think you’d be out in like… five more years?”
 
“Overcrowding and good behaviour,” Mickey shrugs, taking a gulp from the glass.
Holy fuck does beer taste good. He’s missed alcohol.
 
“Good behaviour? Now that I don’t believe. Heard you were the one to stick a
plastic one right in Terry’s eye,” Kev says. He doesn’t see a change of
expression, and his eyes widen. “No shit, I thought it was a fucking joke!
Fuck, he’s really dead? You did it?”
 
“Yeah, I guess,” Mickey shrugs.
 
“Damn… that’s—that’s some scary shit, my brother,” Kev mumbles.
 
“Ain’t nothing scary about that shit. It’s fast and quick, and easy. Stab him
right in the—“
 
“Okay!” Vee interrupts, “Let’s not talk about murder in my bar, okay? Mick,
have you see Svetlana at all since you got released?”
 
“I got released like, fucking fifteen minutes ago. Give me a break, fuck,”
Mickey says as he gulps down the beer. “I doubt she’d be at our old house
anyway. Did she make a break back for fuckin’ Russia or some shit?”
 
“Nah man, Svetlana’s staying with us,” Kev says.
 
Mickey’s eyebrows almost touch his hairline.
 
“The fuck? You’re mackin’ on my wife?”
 
“Technically, we’re mackin’ on your wife,” Kev says.
 
Mickey responds with a middle finger.
 
“The point is, Svet’s gonna want you to see your son. You know, Yevgeny? He’s a
cute one,” Vee says, refilling Mickey’s glass with more beer.
 
Right. Yevgeny. The product of his worst nightmare. What had happened between
Ian, Terry, Svetlana and him continuously haunt his dreams. He doesn’t want
Yevgeny—he never did. He doesn’t think he’d be able to look the kid in the eye.
Fuck, before this, he never really did. But with Ian gone, and his family
missing, what choice does he have?
 
He has potentially no one besides his whore wife and his mistake of a kid.
 
“Whatever,” Mickey grumbles, downing the beer easily. “How’s uh… how is he?”
 
Mickey doesn’t want to say his name, because he knows that when he does, it’ll
make it all too real. Kev and Vee exchange glances. Mickey’s eyebrow raises
higher than the other. Kev sighs and slings the towel over his shoulder.
 
“He’s got a boyfriend now. Moved out. Lives in the Northside,” Kev says.
 
Mickey purses his lips, but he doesn’t feel jealousy or discontent. He always
had a feeling that Ian, if not Lip, or both, would make a life out of this shit
hole. Despite Ian breaking his heart in ways he didn’t know he could, he was
happy for him. Ian had wanted to be a fuckin’ soldier at one point, fighting
for a country where there were people that hated him for who he loved.
 
“Really?” Mickey asks. He nods after awhile, “That’s good. He happy?”
 
“Yeah,” Vee says, quietly. “Yeah, I think he is.”
 
“You think or you know?” Mickey’s back to his old self now, and Vee scowls at
the Ukranian man before flicking the towel at him. He covers his face before it
could do any serious damage and laughs.
 
His laughter follows him throughout the Alibi Room and when he leaves, and he
suddenly remembers what the pleasant feeling in his chest feels like when he
walks towards Kev and Vee’s house, a determination in his heart to see the
child he had always hated.
 
He stands outside the door longer than deemed necessary. A new cigarette is lit
up and he’s smoking, taking his sweet time. A part of him wonders if Svetlana
can see out the upstairs window, but the curtains are closed and he makes an
internal excuse that she’s asleep and he can come back later.
 
 
 
***
 
 
 
Fate hates him, though, because as he turns on his heel the door swings open,
and there stands the mother of his child, with said child in hand.
 
“Stupid Ukranian shit,” Svetlana says. Nothing’s changed about her, except that
she has shorter hair and she looks better—and happier—than she did with Mickey
and her whores. “You are out of prison?”
 
“I’m fuckin’ standing here, aren’t I?” sneers Mickey as he turns to look at the
whore that he knocked up.
 
“You are not going to say hi to baby? Or did you come here for Orange Boy? If
you are here for him, he is not here—he is gone,”
 
“I fuckin’ know,” Mickey rolls his eyes. “I’m uh—I’m here to see the baby, I
guess.”
 
“You guess or you want to see baby?” Svetlana asks.
 
Fucking damn if Svetlana wasn’t a Milkovich woman. The women in his family,
whether by blood or married in, are usually tough bitches, and strong ones too.
Svetlana was kind of the epitome of strong, when it came to Mickey. Kind of a
bitch, but strong nonetheless.
 
At the mention of his child, Mickey’s eyes slink towards the little critter
Svetlana’s holding in her arms. He’s bigger now, and he’s peering at Mickey
with those classic Milkovich-ice-blue eyes. He has one arm looped around
Svetlana’s neck and the other just dangling mindlessly. Mickey doesn’t know if
Yevgeny remembers him, but he swears he can see a flicker of recognition in his
eyes.
 
If kids his age could even recognise people.
 
“You want to hold him?” Svetlana asks.
 
And just like that, one step forward becomes ten steps back. Mickey shakes his
head immediately—no, he doesn’t want to hold him. He’s not ready for that yet.
Not now, anyway. He feels like he doesn’t have the right to hold Yevgeny. The
baby’s only seen him behind the glass in prison and when he was bustling around
like an idiot for his boyfriend that wasn’t loyal to him.
 
Svetlana nods, like she understands, but she really doesn’t. “You want to come
in?”
 
Mickey bites his lip, pondering at first, before thinking, what the fuck.
Svetlana steps aside and Mickey’s surprised at how clean the house is despite
having, like, a whole fucking parade of babies. Svetlana fits in this house,
surprisingly—she’s good for domestic life. She signals for Mickey to sit down
at the dining table across from her and sets Yevgeny in the chair beside her.
 
“Pretty sweet setting you’ve got here, huh? Leaching off Kev and Vee,” Mickey
comments as he relaxes slightly, realizing that Svetlana means no threat to
him. She never was.
 
“I am not leach. I pay my share, I help at the bar. You underestimate me, but
is okay, because you are piece of shit,” Svetlana says. “I am Kev and Vee’s
wife.”
 
“That sounds weird as fuck,” Mickey states pointedly. “Besides, you can’t be
their wife if you’re still fuckin’ married to me.”
 
“You will sign divorce papers once I get them filed, yes?” asks Svetlana.
 
Mickey nods. He doesn’t care that much for their marriage anyway, and anybody
with two working eyes can see that. Svetlana nods. Yevgeny makes a sound beside
them, and Mickey turns to see the blonde kid reaching out for him. Yevgeny’s
blubbering and salivating and disgusting, but Mickey’s heart warms, just the
slightest, when he says dada.
 
“You will try?” Svetlana asks, gesturing towards the toddler.
 
Mickey wills his hands to stop shaking as he reaches one out. Yevgeny responds,
wrapping his chubby fingers around one of Mickey’s. He’s slobbering all over
it, but in a nice way. Mickey kind-of smiles, and tries to hide it, but he
knows Svet sees it. The former prostitute doesn’t comment.
 
“You will try to be good father to Zhenya,” Svetlana states. She doesn’t even
phrase it as a question. Mickey finds no room to object as he nods. “You think
that you are only one in pain, but you are not. Remember that your piece of
shit father pointed that gun to me, too. It is my job. Yevgeny is good boy,
good child.”
 
“I fucking get it,” Mickey says, exasperated. He pulls his finger away and
wipes the saliva off on the kitchen cloth. “I’ll try and be a dad, or what
fucking ever.”
 
Svetlana accepts his argument.
 
 
***
 
 
 
 
The next stop he makes is Patsy’s Pies, because he’s hungry as fuck. He doesn’t
know if Fiona still works there, hopes she doesn’t, and just pushes his way
inside. Patsy’s isn’t that full, and there seems to be some weird smell coming
from the booth across from him—but when he passes he just realises it’s a
family of squatters that are dining on pancakes.
 
“Mickey?”
 
His hopes betray him; he recognises Fiona’s voice immediately. He turns, and
he’s greeted with the same doe eyes as Gallagher’s, frizzy hair and frazzled
looking expression. Fiona doesn’t look to be too surprised that he’s
here—Mickey assumes that Vee must’ve told her when he left.
 
“Wow, guess Vee wasn’t bullshitting when she said you were out,” Fiona says.
“Come on, sit.”
 
Fiona tries to rest a hand on his shoulder but he flinches, an act that he’s
gotten used to in prison—touches don’t come soft, there. When people touch you
it was because they had a problem with you, or you were about to get fucked
without consent. Fiona doesn’t seem to take it to heart, much more with an
understanding look as she settles him into a booth.
 
“What’re you up for? It’s on the house; family discount,” Fiona says, a half
smile on her face.
 
Mickey snorts, “I ain’t your family.”
 
“After what you did for…” Fiona trails off at the look Mickey gives her. She
nods and swallows thickly, “After what happened with him; what you were doing,
Mickey—that’s family to me.”
 
Mickey’s suddenly emotionally exhausted, so he just nods. “Cherry pie, and
coke.” He says.
 
Fiona nods and bustles off to get his order, and Mickey’s finally left alone.
He didn’t think that his old stomping grounds would change much, and judging by
the fact that Kev and Vee are still together, Fiona’s still here, and the
Gallagher household’s still in tact, he’s confident that despite the hipsters
that have taken over—nothing much has changed.
 
Fiona slides, uninvited, into the chair across from him as she pushes the
dessert in his direction. At first, he thinks she’ll go away, but she doesn’t,
and he asks, “The fuck are you still doing here?”
 
She smiles, like she finds it funny. “It’s just weird to see you again.”
 
“Yeah, well,” Mickey grumbles through a mouthful of pie. “Hey, are any of my
brothers still here? Mandy?”
 
“I think… Iggy? Is he the one with blonde hair? Yeah, he’s still here. Moving
drugs and shit. Seems to be the only one of your brothers upright. Mandy, I
haven’t heard from her. Haven’t seen her around,” Fiona says.
 
He isn’t surprised about Mandy—she left a long time ago. Besides a few letters
to prison, she hadn’t made an attempt to visit him. He’s glad Iggy’s still in
the house though, seeing as he has somewhere to go. Fiona’s still staring at
him with those doe eyes, and it takes all he can not to yell and ask just what
the fuck she was staring at.
 
“Listen, Mickey, if you need help getting upright… you know, need a job or
whatever, we’re one waitress—waiter—short. We could use you,” Fiona says.
 
Mickey’s surprised by her offer. It registers on his face. He pokes at his pie,
like he’s not willing to say anything else, but he surprises even himself when
he nods and says, “Okay. I get a steady pay check, though? None of that work
for free shit?”
 
“Those are called interns, Mickey, and yeah, you get a steady pay check. I’ll
make sure of that—I’m the fuckin’ manager,” Fiona says. Mickey doesn’t want to
question what happened to Sean, because judging by the blue in her hair and the
tattoo on her forearm—it didn’t go well.
 
“Then yeah,” Mickey nods.
 
Fiona leaves.
 
 
***
 
 
 
 
The Milkovich house is still standing. It doesn’t look any different, still as
dark and holding as much bad memories as it did before. He shoves his hands
into his pocket and isn’t surprised when he finds the door unlocked. No sane
person, even drunkards, would try to break into the Milkovich house. Not with
those many weapons lying around.
 
“Iggy?!” Mickey calls into nothing. No response. “Iggy! Shithead!”
 
A stumble sounds from Iggy’s room and the stupid piece of shit staggers out of
the room. His eyes are red rimmed and Mickey’s glad that Iggy hasn’t changed.
His brother didn’t give a shit about anything unless it messed with his high.
He grins, “Mick!”
 
He throws his arm around his brother and Mickey scrunches up his nose at the
positively ripe smile. He shoves the idiot away, and Iggy almost falls over,
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you’re riper than a motherfucker. How many days it been
since you took a shower?”
 
Iggy falls to the floor, holding up both his hands. Mickey simply shakes his
head—it’s good to be home.
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