kids, strollers, play days at the beach. those weren’t supposed to be in his future.
1.2k // @gallavichthings (i usually post over on @oforamuse – but i’m thinking of shaking things up and bringing it all over here).
Things are so good right now that Mickey has to remind himself sometimes that this is really his life and shit isn’t changing any time soon.
Franny hangs off his wrist as they stumble back to the car, sun drunk and skin warm. Ian follows behind, babbling nonsense to Freddie as the kid falls asleep in his stroller.
When Lip had called them up that morning, desperately seeking someone to take Fred for the day and Ian agreed, Mickey was one step away from googling the nearest divorce lawyer – especially as they’d already said yes to watching Franny.
“You’re killin’ me.” He’d moaned into the pillow once Ian had hung up and turned towards him sheepishly. “Fuckin’ killin’ me.”
But, much to his surprise and well, enjoyment, he’s had a pretty solid day.
They piled the kids into Tami’s car and headed off towards the beach after Ian had vetoed Mickey’s suggestion of sticking them in front of the Netflix for the day back in their apartment.
“Fine. But if you get sunburned, I’m not dealing with your ass complaining.” He grumbled, watching the road in front and all Ian did was grin and turn the music up on the car’s stereo as he drove.
Mickey knew dragging him along for a day at the beach with the kids was his idea of heaven.
And it was. A hot, sweaty sand filled heaven with vanilla ice cream that dripped down Mickey’s fingers and sea foam that got between his toes on the shoreline. Ian’s freckles became more prominent as the day went on, littering his nose, cheek and eyelids, and Mickey fought the urge to place his lips on each of them.
A good day – hell, even a great day in fact.
Now as they walk, Franny is rattling off a story about another kid at school and in her young, girlish way, he knows it’s the most important thing she’s ever told someone.
“Someone pickin’ on you kid?” Mickey asks, only vaguely listening but catching up somewhere around hair pulling and tattle-taling.
“Elizabeth tries.”
“Well, if she tries again. You tell me, okay?”
Franny beams, her wide eyes meeting a toothy grin and in that moment, Mickey swears to himself he’s going to do everything in his power to protect this kid from harm.
In all the ways no one protected him.
He didn’t have days under the afternoon sun, beach hut vanilla ice cream and seafoam between his toes aged five, but this kid will – she always will.
Ian catches up with them, pushing Freddie on Mickey’s right side and smirks.
“Good day then, Mick? Better than Netflix?”
Mickey rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. Only joy.
“Never said we were gonna be the ones watching it.”
They get to where they left their car, parked in a lonely corner of the lot underneath a tree to avoid the sun’s heat and once he’s got Freddie safely settled, Mickey gets to loading up the trunk with their belongings, miraculously finding a way to fit the stroller in so it’ll remain in one piece by the time they get back home.
“Those things are way too fuckin’ complicated.”
Ian doesn’t look up from where he’s strapping Franny into her car seat, but gives him a head nod of acknowledgment.
“Tami said those go for a couple hundred.”
And way too fuckin’ expensive.
“Well, we ain’t gettin’ one of them.”
It falls out before Mickey can stop it and by the time he’s caught up, Ian’s already met his eye, his mouth parted in what could only be read as surprise. He doesn’t know what it is – maybe he’s delirious from a day by the sea and all the sun, but Mickey finds himself hesitating on the urge to back track.
Ian holds his stare and clearly there’s something there he wants to press further, but he doesn’t.
“Or whatever.” Mickey says with a swallow, dropping his gaze down to the keys in his hands as he hastily gets them prepped for ignition. It’s his turn to drive, but now it feels his gut might fall out into the pedals below.
“You’ve got sand in your hair, Fran.” Ian says, ducking down to run a hand through her blonde curls, a move that makes her giggle. His voice is cheery, purposefully so and Mickey can tell he’s trying to move the moment along. “Gonna have to give you a bath before we hand you over to your mom, otherwise I’ll be on her shit list.”
His forehead instinctively hits the wheel and a headache blooms between his eyebrows.
Kids, strollers, play days at the beach.
Those weren’t supposed to be in his future. Not when he was seventeen and fucked for life, not when he was behind bars with a heavy prison sentence on his head.
Not even when Ian held him in his arms and whispered, you’re gonna be a great dad.
But now?
The thought makes his stomach churn and he doesn’t know if that’s a good thing.
Or a bad one.
Ian’s not pressed the issue, there’s been no pillow talk about their future of two point five kids, a dog and white picket fence, but Mickey knows the look his husband gets when he watches him play liquor store robbery with Franny or bounce Fred on his knee.
He knows what Ian wants for them both, but Mickey doesn’t know if he can give it to him.
The car dips when Ian slides into the passenger side and Mickey keeps his head down, listening to Ian close the door and buckle himself in.
“Hey.”
Ian’s voice is soft. A delicate contrast to the childish garble he’d been playing with earlier around the kids. There’s a hand on his thigh, a comfort through the fabric of his knee length shorts and Mickey takes a moment to breathe, before he twists his head to meet his husband's eye. A soft voice, coupled with a soft gaze. His hand finds Ian’s and it’s the most natural thing in the world, to be held and intertwined by this man.
Ian squeezes his hand, a gentle pulse of it’s okay, take your time. I’ll meet you when you’re ready.
They’ll talk about it one day. They’ll sit down at their kitchen table after work one evening and over a bowl of tomato spaghetti, it’ll spill out between them. They’ll breathe together, meet with a kiss and plan their future.
Kids, strollers, play days at the beach.
But today, Mickey’s husband is giving him an out. He’s giving him it's okay, take your time. I’ll meet you when you’re ready.
Keeping their hands together, he moves his forehead away from the wheel and looks at the road ahead of him. They’ll go home, drop the kids off and have an evening to themselves. They’ll drink beer, fuck and sleep until their alarm the following morning. They’ll go to family dinners at Lip’s, share a beer at The Alibi and a cigarette on their balcony. Days, weeks and months will go by.
Ian will meet him when he’s ready.
Mickey twists the key in the ignition, presses a firm foot down on the pedal and they take off, moving forward.
Ian was just getting ready for the long ride, neatly storing his belongings under the bottom bunk, when a commotion from the outside corridor distracted him, and the door to the cabin was basically being ripped from its already fragile hinges and—would you look at that. That same rude fuck was now sneering at him, rolling his eyes into the stratosphere before throwing his ratty backpack on the top bunk. “Of-fucking-course it’s fucking Annie.”
(In which Ian is an artist, Mickey's on the run from something, and the train they're both on breaks down in the middle of nowhere.)
Read “Back on Track (Off the Rails)” here!
Submission for Gallavich Week Day 7 run by the awesomesauce @gallavichthings!
Palmer and Cash money amongst 5 gamers you require in advance of GW21
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I’m on the executive board on GWU Students Against Sexual Assault and while we are raising awareness around a statistic (21% of college students report dating violence from a current partner) and what dating violence is we also wanted to talk about what makes a healthy relationship.
