Just a little look into the mind of Ian Gallagher...
Read here on AO3
These Pieces of Me You’ll Never See
Your face is different. It’s nothing new. You’ve still got so many goddamn freckles that a day in the sun means they blur together, one nearly indecipherable from the next, but it’s not the same. Your eyes look older, still the same green, and if you’re backed into a corner, you’ll admit they’re kinda pretty, but they know things now. Things you can’t remember; things you wish you could forget, but most importantly, things that make your heart skip a beat. People that hold your life together, memories that make you whole…that bring you back when you’re lost, and you do get lost, but never for long. Your cheeks are more defined now where they were once soft, childlike and no wonder cause that’s what you were then. Not like you would’ve admitted it, though. Being a child meant being vulnerable and that’s not something you could afford; not when your “parents” sucked the life out of anything and everything they made contact with. Your hair’s still red and your ears are still goofy, and why the fuck is your chin crooked? How’s that a trait you inherited of all things? You’re still you, but different and you think you’re okay with that most of the time.
Your body is big now, broad shoulders and long limbs that you think still look gangly, but whatever, you’re tall and strong and what’s not to like about that? Your belly is a little softer now where once it was lean and more defined. It worked back then. That’s what was on the menu; soft skin, rock hard abs, a babyface just dying for corruption; it worked. This works now. A man, a fucking man is what you are. Not some twink looking for a daddy. You’re a motherfucking man now with a husband and an apartment and a job that doesn’t make your skin crawl. A man who wants kids and a dog and maybe a house one day with a backyard for those kids and dog to play in while you watch from your patio with your husband while your kids have a goddamned childhood.
Mickey’s coming around. He still doesn’t see what you see when you look at him. He still thinks he’s that thug that he pretended to be for so long, God bless him. You’ll show him though, shove it down his throat every day like you do the fucking pills to your own if you have to. No one underestimates your man and gets away with it.
Mickey’s different now too. He’s still got his babyface the lucky bastard. He still can’t hide a thing from you even though he thinks he does and you play along sometimes until you just have to call him on his bullshit. Husband privileges and all that. Long gone is that scared little menace that you fell in love with against a backdrop of dairy products and cheap beer. Mickey has changed in ways that no one but you and maybe Mandy could ever see. He’s so fucking smart; you tell him all the time cause you love to see the way his eyes light up and his cheeks turn pink before he flips you off and changes the subject. He’s the best man, no, the best person you know and you’ll die on that hill.
He's soft, with you anyway. It’s always been that way. He’s always shown you what’s underneath. Even when he tried to hide it. He fell just as hard and fast as you did with no net. Two damaged kids from the southside who were too damaged to understand that what they had was so fucking special, so rare to find that Shakespeare probably rolled over in his grave to write it all down.
He still calls what you do fucking. Well, to be more accurate, boning, banging, getting plowed, getting railed, etc., and to be fair, sometimes it is. You’re a man, after all and you love it when it’s hard and desperate and dammit Mickey’s hot, so yeah, you fuck sometimes. Mostly though, you take your time and so does he. He kisses you like you were built just for that, refusing to let go for longer than it takes for him to moan your name. You move together like it’s choreographed; his fingers in your hair or holding your face like it’s fragile, sometimes linked above his head and even if you wanted to, he wouldn’t let go. His thighs grip your hips like a vice; always holding tighter and pulling you closer, heels digging into your ass like he’s trying to link you permanently, as if you aren’t already. When he takes control, when he climbs on top and moves like he has some kind of erotic ballet on loop in his mind, the world around you ceases to exist, all but the beautiful creature blowing your mind with every swirl and bounce of his otherworldly ass. He makes love to you and you to him. You let him call it fucking, but a rose by any other name…
He's quiet right now. Maybe asleep, maybe not. Your med alarm is loud, but necessary and he complains just about every morning when it wakes him too, but he’s always waiting with a soft smile and open arms to welcome you back when you crawl in beside him to grab a few more winks before officially starting the day. His arms are necessary just as much as the meds. One just doesn’t work without the other and you’re well aware of how codependent that sounds, fuck you very much.
Your life is different. Your brain is still a threat to your well-being and the well-being of everyone you love by proxy. You take the meds and you go to the doctor and you eat right and exercise, and do all that shit that you’re supposed to. You put in the time and effort and you make it work. You do the things and go to the places and take the pills, always the pills, always the fucking pills. And you hate that part, but you do it. You’re still damaged, but repaired; the cracks show, but you don’t leak.
Your face is different. Your hair is lighter as well as your freckles. Your jaw is crooked and so is that one tooth, but you smile with your whole heart now. You dance in the kitchen with your husband to Lizzo, and Gaga; no flashing lights or grabby hands other than the tattooed ones that you gave permission to a million lifetimes ago. He’s different, but he’s not because you always knew who he was. You get lost sometimes and he leads you back; searches for you and leaves the light on so you can find your way home. Back to him where your heart and mind are safe. Yeah, you’re codependent as fuck and so is he, but it’s good, it works. You’re just different that way.
if you didn’t hear dc pulled gretchen felker-martin’s red hood book for posting about charlie kirk on bluesky and silencing of a politically outspoken trans woman aside it’s really unbelievably sad we aren’t gonna get to read a jason todd book written by a woman who posts like this:
“big two comics can be a medium for radical politics” my ass. Grow a spine and stand up for this woman
