Summer Camp AU + Everybody Knows/Mistaken for Couple
The Summer Program is held every year from June-- when all the crummy Chicago schools finally give up on plan ahead test prep-- to August. But this is Franny's first year.
Even with her Uncle Ian having spent every summer she can remember up at the northside camp, she's only been as close as letters and homemade post cards made from index cards. But now she's finally twelve. Old enough for mom to sign her up and hug her tightly good-bye before she climbed into the passenger seat of Uncle Ian's beat-up Jeep.
When she gets there, it isn't exactly what she was imagining. It's not like all the movies and TV shows she seen about summer camps. There is a lake and her cabin mates range from syrupy sweet to rich and stuck-up. And there is a cute boy, Lucas, she met at Archery, with shiny braces bright blue eyes. But there's also poison ivy and communal showers that are always a little slimy and Uncle Ian keeps saying a bonfire will happen, but she hasn't seen one. She's covered in misquotes bites, too. At least the food's okay.
"Ew. What the hell is this?"
Franny doesn't bother to hide her eyeroll at her cabin mate-- Chloe's-- voice.
"It's hash brown casserole," Marisa replies helpfully, as if Chole was actually curious and not just being her usual snotty, self.
"It's gross," she corrects, flipping her glossy brown ponytail over her shoulder and wafting them all with the scent of Victoria Secret body spray and the coconut tang of suntan lotion, "I can't believe they're making us eat this shit, if my mom knew she'd--"
"Probably have something to say about you're language, yeah?"
Franny shovels a huge bite of potatoes and cheese into her mouth to keep from smirking. Uncle Ian is all smiles and floppy red hair as he winks at Chole. Franny wondered at first why someone as snooty as Chole even wanted to share a cabin with her to begin with, but now as she watches her flutter her black caked lashes up at Uncle Ian and make giggly excuses to him, she understands.
Franny continues to eat while her cabin mates giggle and watch Uncle Ian walk away, trying not to retch as they whisper about his arms and his butt.
"Shhh!" Jamie interrupts, pointing her fork at the swinging kitchen door at the other end of the long dining hall, "Look!"
They all do. Watching as Uncle Ian shoves his hands in his short pockets almost bashfully as he talks to the main cook at the camp. Clad in an apron and a backwards White Sox's cap instead of a hairnet, the cook raises an overly expressive eyebrow at something Uncle Ian says. It causes Uncle Ian to smile, wide and toothy, while the cook smirks and thumbs absently at his eyebrow-- the dinosaur band-aids wrapped around his knuckles on full display.
"They're totally together," Jamie says, lifting a carton on orange juice to her lip gloss tacky lips, "They've gotta be."
"Says who?" Chole demands, her doe eyes turning sharp and jagged like broken beer bottles. Franny looks away as the cook punches Uncle Ian gently on the arm, grinning with the corners of his icy blue eyes crinkled and pleased.
"Says everyone," Jamie rolls her eyes, "Look at them. Making moon eyes and touching and stuff. Everyone knows they're together."
"Do they?" Franny can't help but ask. Three pairs of eyes swivel towards her with such speed and force they feel like snow prickling her cheeks.
"Oh, totally," Jamie nods sagely. Even demure Marisa shrugs a bit helplessly. Only Chole's intense glare seems to sharpen into a needle like press.
"So, is he?" she demands, before scoffing, "Does he have a girlfriend? There's no way he's gay,"
Franny shrugs, popping the last forkful of her breakfast into her mouth. She could tell the truth. It's no secret that Chole giggles and talks shit behind her back. Franny's quiet. But she's not a pushover. Gallagher's don't back down. But... then again, watching Chole make an idiot of herself is entertaining.
"Nope," she says, settling in to make her summer camp experience just a little bit more like the shows she watches with Aunt Tami, "But he does really like brunettes and younger girls..."
+
The bonfire isn't like Franny was hoping. It's nice and she doesn't have to deal with Chole at least, who's sitting with her skinny thigh pressed right into Uncle Ian's despite the sticky heat. But she was hoping to sit next to Lucas. Ask him about what he likes to do on the westside or maybe about his school or does he think she's pretty, maybe?
But he's sitting next to another girl. She's pretty. With braces and name brand shorts, not old cut-offs like her. No one's really looking at her, no one even probably notices her. So, she gets up and walks. Listening to crickets and owls and the snapping or twigs under her ratty converse. She likes it. It's peaceful and nice and nothing like home. She misses home more than she thought she would. Even her mom who's always yelling about the dishes or the laundry or her cutting her own hair (again).
Without much thought, she finds herself drawn by the familiar smell of cigarette smoke. Following the whitish gray cloud to the back of the dining hall. There, under the buzzing yellow light, is the cook. His hair shaggy and greasy black from being trapped under a hat all day. The dinosaur band-aids are gone now that dinner is long over and lights out is creeping ever closer, the dark ink there stark against his pale skin.
"'Sup?" he says when he sees her watching him. She shrugs, examines her bitten down nails and the peeling sunburn on her overly freckled arms. Finally she comes closer, so he'll hear her.
"Uncle Mickey? How did you get a boy to notice you?"
Mickey snorts, tugging affectionately on one of her reddish braids.
"Have you tried pushing him into the lake?" he asks, laughing at Franny's glare.
Alright, so imagine. Grumpy, mechanic Mickey. He’s friendly (ish) with his coworkers, but he never joins them on lunch breaks or smoke breaks or like after work for a beer. He’s out (ish). But other than an occasional Grindr hookup, he doesn’t date. It’s not because he’s scared or ashamed (Terry died in prison, as he should). And it’s not like Mandy and Iggy don’t know. It’s just that he doesn’t want to date. He doesn’t need to. He’s not lonely. That’s for pussies and bitches and even though he likes a good pounding, he’s not like that. Basically cue the ‘I don’t need friends they disappoint me’ vine.
So, he’s doing, y’know, machinic stuff, but he pulls a muscle and it hurts. Like really bad. Like worse than any sucker punch or kick he ever received from Terry. Like it hurts so bad he has to go to a doctor. But the doctor is practically useless (as most prompt care doctors are). He won’t give Mickey any pain killers (it’s the knuckles tats. Like he can smell the drug pusher on him maybe), but he recommends a massage.
Mandy’s a new hippie-witchy bitch now, so she recommends the place she gets massages at and its this new age wellness place which Mickey does not want to go to, but he hurts so. He gets a massage with his blonde bitch named Karen, who plays an instrumental version of Dust in the Wind and Carry On My Wayward Son and uses coconut oil and fucking lavender oil on his ass and he’s never felt so good before in his life.
He feels light-headed and so warm afterwards. Like the best post-fuck feeling in the world, so now he’s a grumpy mechanic who gets massages. Which is fine. It’s not like he talks to the dudes he works with or the lady down at the corner store where he buys cigarettes and Old Style about them. He doesn’t talk to anyone. Which he likes by the way.
So, he’s going in for his usual massage. He budgeted for aromatherapy this time and he’s got some fucking thoughts. Only Karen isn’t there. Instead he gets put with some dude. He’s annoyed tbh. He and Karen have an understanding y’know? She mean and sorta preppy and always remembers to massage his hands and scalp. He likes her. Knows her. But he doesn’t know shit about this dude.
All thoughts fly out the window when he sees him though. He’s tall and built with just a hint of tummy under his black top. He’s got red hair and freckles on his eyelids and a dorky smile and Mickey almost pretends he had a sudden bout of food poisoning so he can leave. He introduces himself as Ian and is leading him back before he can even pretend.
The massage is… fine. He thinks? He has no idea. Ian’s hands are huge and wide and he sweats and sports a semi through the whole thing. Afterwards, when he’s paying Ian thanks him for being so cool. Mickey, card out and itching to go home and jerk off, is understandably confused. It’s then Ian revels he’s not exactly the best masseuse. He’s trained. He’s got a license and shit, but he was just covering for Karen. His real job here is cuddle therapy and Mickey’s still pretty tense and hey, he has male clients all the time and maybe it would do him some good.
It's not the army, but overall it's not a bad job. He's had worse. Much worse. Whole Latte Love is the kind of place that would never belong anywhere except on the westside-- where people wear beanies and Doc Martens in the summer and always make sure to tell Ian how valuable they think he is for working a cash register and pouring espresso. He makes a killing in tips, though, so he can't really complain.
He can't complain about the classic rock and 70's music constantly playing, either. Nor the artfully distressed sofas and armchairs that look like some of the furniture in his childhood home. Or even the vinyl records and vintage concert posters decorating the walls that he has to tell people at least fifty times a day are not for sale. But he can complain about him.
The latte artist with an eyebrow ring and sleeveless flannels and knuckles tattoos who called Ian a "fuckin' dipshit" on his first day when he asked if there was steamed milk in an Americano.
His nametag says "Mickey" but it should say asshole in Ian's opinion.
And because it's a universally upheld truth that luck is never on a Gallagher's side, it makes total sense that his first shift after his latest depressive episode he walks into work to see Asshole Mickey already grinding beans. He looks up when he he hears the door open, dark eyebrows arched and poised for an attack like the spine of a hissing cat.
"I work here, remember?" Ian snaps, shutting the door and shucking his scarf as he stomps around the counter to shove his coat haphazardly away. Asshole Mickey snorts, and Ian feels his jaw harden with such a sudden force his teeth creak with it.
"You were gone for a while, dude. Just checkin' in," he huffs under his breath. Ian clenches his jaw so hard he feels a tiny pop somewhere, but otherwise doesn’t say shit. His boss knows. His boss doesn’t care. That’s all that matters. As the shop opens and the passes with a steady stream of customers, the tighter Ian clenches his jaw. He’s distracted (not for the first time) by the way Asshole Mickey’s hands move when they carefully pour drinks or the way his butt looks good in his black skinny jeans.
But that’s not new. But in the three months he’s worked here, Asshole Mickey’s never bothered to say more than a tight ‘sup’ to him or call him anything but ‘Red.’ He’s never chatted with Ian between costumers. Never offered to do anything more than scoff at Ian calling out orders so he can make them. But now he’s offering to help.
Offering to wipe tables between lulls, or stocking cups and sugar packets before Ian can get there. Even offering to man the register for a second if Ian needs a smoke, which he never does. He’s an asshole to all, apparently, including costumers. So, the owner and the manager have mutually agreed to keep him strictly as a barista. When Ian asked a coworker why he hadn’t been fired yet, she just shrugged, guessing maybe it was the fact that his latte art was damn near perfect and he’s never ever missed a shift.
It’s clear as the day winds down, that it’s all a ploy. It’s some sort of scheme to get Ian fired by proving he’s an lazy and incompetent nutcase. Ian’s been quite about it so far. Giving short, clipped answers to his weird and awkward attempts at chatting or just glaring at him pointedly until he huffs and goes back to making cat faces and cartoon characters with caramel sauce. But he finally breaks when he comes back from his last smoke break, shivering with the cold and sees Mr. Asshole Never Missed A Shift is stacking chairs-- something that is definitely Ian’s job.
“What are you doing?”
Asshole Mickey jerks in surprise, the chair he was pulling out to stack dragging with an angry squeal across the floor. Mickey takes one, shifty-eyed look at him before pulling the chair out again and smoothly flipping it to rest on the table along with the others.
“What’s it look like I’m doin’ Red?”
“My name’s Ian,” he snaps back, stalking forward, “And it looks like you’re doing all my work for me,”
Mickey snorts again, loud and rude before he turns to meet his fiery glare with one of his own.
“I’m helpin’ you, you fucking moron,”
“For what?”
Mickey blinks at him, acting surprised and a touch offended before his glare returns, somehow icer than before.
“Because you were sick?” he arches an incredulous eyebrow, “What? You want me to be an asshole or something?”
“Yes!” Ian explodes, stomping forward to stand toe to toe with him. Close enough to see the cute smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and smell the warm cinnamon and cigarette scent of his skin. It infuriates him.
“You’re always an asshole!” he challenges, “Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?”
“‘Cause I like you, you dumb shit!”
The silence that follows overpowers everything. It presses down, heavy and tense. Smothering the steady drip of the espresso machine and the Clash still playing over the speakers and both of their heavy breaths. Finally, Ian swallows past the huge lump in his throat.
“What?”
Mickey huffs, the apples of his cheeks sprinkled with a pinkish flush. He toys idly with his eyebrow ring as he speaks.
“I like you,” he enunciates like Ian really is stupid. Maybe he is.
“I thought maybe you quit. ‘Casue, y’know,” he mumbles, he makes a vague gesture with his hand.
“You’re an asshole?” Ian suggests, his lips quirking into a smile. Mickey’s cheeks flush a little deeper and he rolls his eyes before looking up at Ian.
“So, we square now?” Mickey asks. Ian’s no stranger from boomeranging between emotions. Highs and lows and higher highs. But this sudden and unexpected giddiness feels good. It makes him feel bold and a little reckless in the best way.
“No,” he says back, keeping his voice flat. The color in Mickey’s cheeks drains and he looks back down at the floor like a little kid. It pulls too tightly at his chest, so even though he’d like to drag it out for all the shitty behavior from the past, he doesn’t.
“You gotta take me on a date,” he says, causing Mickey to look up sharply, his cheeks flooding with color once more, “Then we’ll be square.”
He’s expecting a punch to the jaw. A threat of death or of a sexual harassment complaint. But instead he’s treated to a small, almost shy smile on his usually scowling face.
Howdy Anon! Short answer? The context is that I fucking hated how that scene ended (even though I love Svet). The long answer? Check this snippet!
He’s not cleaning.
Because only bitches clean before the dude they’re fucking comes over to fuck them and Mickey isn’t a bitch. He’s just clearing up space. Like the coffee table which is covered in half empty beer bottles and a few overflowing ashtrays and some of Iggy’s crack, for fuck’s sake. And the living room has clothes piled around that he can still see blood stains on and there’s whole stacks of old pizza boxes growing their own little populations in the dusty corners. His bedroom, too. Sorta. After pizza rolls and maybe a shitty movie, they’ll be spending most of the time there (hopefully naked). Maybe the kitchen. He’ll do the dishes at least.
After he clears up as much space as he can, he takes a quick shower. Thankful it's still warm enough that the cold water doesn’t leave him shivering too badly. He’s still scrubbing his hair when there’s a knock at the door.
“Hey,” Ian greets him, lips already quirked in a half-smile as he steps into the Milkovich house and shuts the door behind him.
“Hey,” Mickey parrots, tossing the towel somewhere near his door and combing the wet strands of his hair back.
“I’ve never seen your hair like that,” Ian mentions, the backpack over his shoulders slipping down to land beside the couch with a small thud.
Mickey snorts, walking into the kitchen. “What? Clean?”
“No, shithead,” Ian laughs, following him and getting two beers from the fridge like he owns the place. Something warm zips up his spine at the sight.
“Hanging down like that,” he explains, twisting both caps off with the hem of his shirt. Showing off the stripe of ghostly white skin and the band of his boxers. Mickey looks away, feeling himself flush with something other than the sticky summer heat.
“I ain’t some long-haired girl, man. The fuck?” he says, and then, “You ate?”
Gallagher shakes his head and Mickey’s glad he thought to preheat their stone aged oven an hour ago. “I’m not saying you’re Rapunzel. I’m just saying I’ve never seen it not slicked back or whatever.”
Mickey looks back to him—pizza rolls dumped onto a freshly washed sheet tray and shoved into the oven.
“So… clean,” he says slowly. “You’ve never seen my hair clean.”
Ian laughs, bright and filling the dingy yellow space of the Milkovich kitchen with light. He kicks half-heartedly at Mickey’s shin.
“Sure. Whatever you say,” Ian grins at him, huge and so happy it makes his stomach bubble with something he can’t name.
“It looks nice, y’know?” Ian says, still smiling at him in such a soft way that Mickey would break his jaw if he didn’t feel frozen to the dirty floor.
“My hair?” he asks like a moron. But Ian just shrugs, the corners of his mouth quirking further.
“Your hair. Your face. You in general, yeah.”
Mickey feels the same swoop in his gut he gets when he runs from the cops at Ian’s words. It’s the same punch of something right behind his belly that leaves him winded yet full of enough adrenaline to run. Ian looks at him—long body leaning against the counter, head tilted just slightly as he regards him steadily—like Mickey might start running. They don’t do this. The compliments thing. The sweetness thing. The affection thing. The closest they ever get is during sex. Ian has a mouth on him (no surprise there) and when he gets real keyed up, compliments well up in his mouth like blood. How tight Mickey is. How perfect his ass is. How good he looks taking his cock.
Mickey’s shitty with words—always has been and always will be—and even worse at saying anything even remotely nice. But count on Ian fucking Gallagher to be able to wring the little he has out. It’s not often, but other than demands for Ian to go faster, harder and “right there,” Ian will get him to where all he can do is chant a constant stream of how good Ian is or how full he makes him. How well he fucks him. Usually, Mickey bites his arm to stop that shit. But the times Ian somehow holds his arm out of reach, he can’t really help it.
He would be lying if Ian didn’t look nice all the time either—clean haired or not. But they don’t say that shit to each other. Ian knows he’s not supposed to and Mickey doesn’t because once he starts, he knows he’ll hemorrhage—bleeding out all the things about Gallagher he likes more than he should until he’s laid dry and vulnerable at his stupid, clown huge feet. He can’t have that. He wouldn’t survive it.
He should tell Ian to get fucked. Get out of his shithole house and get words like nice and his name out of his mouth or Mickey will yank his teeth out one by one. He should call him a fag or a pussy or a fucking bitch. He should beat him into a pulp for making him feel like he actually likes him past his ass.
“Yeah?” he says instead, his voice strangled in a way he loathes. “Well you look like an alien. Freckly, carrot-top motherfucker.”
Ian’s grin is blinding him with such blatant happiness he has to shove him from the counter.
“Go the fuck away,” he says. “Pick out a movie or something, you ugly fuck.”
Ian does, laughing the whole time. Hearing what he’s saying without his actually having to say it. It should horrify him—how easily Ian can read him. But instead, he finds himself grateful that he just knows. Knows all the shit swirling around in Mickey’s head that he can’t say.
It was actually my first try at a Gallavich fanfic. I think I even started it before I finished the series (whoops). It's also a fake marriage AU too, because I think of tropes as cheese on a pizza-- we pile it on baby! And just for you, here's a snippet!
In an apartment right on the edge of New City and Fuller Park, a telephone rings. The shrill noise startles a recovering and hugely annoyed girl out of an afternoon nap. Mandy Milk—Gallagher had finally been sleeping peacefully. Finally, she was able to rest without the ever-worried gaze of her dweeb of a husband making her feel too jumpy with guilt to sleep. Not that she should feel any guilt—no matter what anyone says—but still. Mandy tugs her housecoat closer around her skinny shoulders. All the childish excitement of having an apartment with a real-life rotary phone wears off quickly as it continues to trill loudly in the once peaceful apartment.
“Hello?” she answers, not bothering to cheekily answer, “Gallagher residence. Mrs. Gallagher speaking!” like she does when Ian’s family calls or when other random folks somehow ring them.
“Is this Mrs. Amanda Gallagher?” the staticky voice of a male asks.
“Yes? How can I help you?”
“This is Officer A. S. O’Brien at Stateville Correctional Center,” he says and Mandy rolls her eyes. They’re always so self-important. She hums for him to spit it out so she can go back to napping before Ian comes home and watches her like she might start bleeding out again.
“This call is on behalf of Mr. Mikhailo Milkovich. You’re listed as his main contact?” The note of suspicion in his voice sets her teeth on edge. It's as if he can’t believe a nice Irish girl such as herself would have contact with someone with such a Soviet sounding name. Not only did this prick interrupt her nap, but now he’s bothering her about Mickey?
“My brother, yes,” she snips, getting more and more pissed off, “This is not a social call on his end, correct, Mr. O’Brien?”
“Apologies, ma’am,” he blusters a bit. “This is simply a courtesy call to let you know that Mr. Milkovich will be released Friday next rather than his original release date.”
“He’s coming home?” Mandy asks, feeling her face split into a wide grin. “What about Iggy?”
“Well, erm…” he seems to falter then, clearly unsure why she’d be concerned about not only one convicted bank robber but two.
“It seems Mr. Igor Milkovich will remain here until his original release date—barring any other incidents,” Mandy doesn’t waste time stressing on his nasty emphasis on ‘other incidents.’ She’s too excited at the prospect of seeing Mickey after three years.
“Fine, fine,” she brushed him off. Iggy’s always had a taste for “incidents.” Causing them or just being in the middle of them. As long as he lives and isn’t too badly hurt, she knows it won’t do her any good to worry about it.
“But Mickey? He’s getting out? What time next Friday? I’ll pick him up,” she knows she’s talking quickly, but she’s happy. Excited to see Mickey again as Terry never let her visit him once he was locked up. It was half punishment to him for botching a job, and half punishment to Mandy as Terry must have known she’d break and say something about the abuse. As much as the Milkovich siblings all were terrified of Terry, they’d never let him get away with hurting her like that—Mickey and Iggy, especially.
“Yes, ma’am. But I must encourage you to bring a male escort as correctional—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mandy waves her hand, she could write the book on this. She’s probably been in more scrapes than him and the poor sucker she’s finally taking to meet her family.
“My husband will be with me. That is if you finally tell me where I’m to pick up my brother?”
“Yes ma’am. Of course.”
Mandy has to admit, as she scribbles down the details on the notepad they keep near the phone, even if her husband was wholly unattracted to her as a woman (the first man ever, seemingly) there are some wonderful merits to being a missus.
