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What if…they went to Sizzler?

What if Ian refused to let Mickey borrow a clean shirt, and they bypassed the Gallagher house, heading straight to Sizzler where they could continue their happy, playful evening? Would it change the course of events?

Season: 5

Episode: 10

Time: 49:16

 

“I still wish we’d a stopped to changed shirts. This here’s a real date, for fuck’s sake. Clean shirts are a necessary component if you wanna make this shit official.” Despite his words, Mickey still has the cheek splitting grin on his face that’s been there all evening.

“I think you’d need more than a new shirt, Mick. Wouldn’t really camouflage all the blood and shit on your face.” Ian reaches to the back of Mickey’s head. “And looks like there’s grass in hair.”

“Yeah, you look like you’re dolled up for the red fucking carpet yourself, asshole.” Mickey pulls open the heavy glass door of Sizzler and shoos Ian inside with a flick of his fingers.

They’re led by a slightly reluctant server to an empty booth in the back corner away from civilized society. Mickey slides onto the bench beside Ian, grabbing the menus out of the server’s hand. He passes one to Ian, who looks wide eyed at Mickey then glances over at the empty bench across from them.

“We’re on our first real date,” Mickey explains to the server, like announcing his social plans is second nature. “Whatcha gettin’?”

Ian opens his menu at Mickey’s inquiry, glancing between the food selections and Mickey’s arm pressed against his. “Uh, um, double mega bacon burger with fries and a Coke.”

“Fuck that, New York strip, man. Rare. And a Budweiser.” He hands the menus back to the server.

“Moooooo,” Ian grins at Mickey and slides over, closing the gap between them. When in Rome.

“We’re also gonna need your best god damn utensils.” At the server’s confused look, Mickey continues, “Forks, knives, you know, the works.” Adding a quick eyebrow lift and nod for confirmation.

At a loss for how to respond, the server just returns the nod and walks away.

Ian chuckles softly. He runs his fingers along the inside of Mickey’s thigh as he leans in close to his ear. “Let’s go to the salad bar; I’m really hungry,” he whispers, making sure his breath falls heavily in Mickey’s ear.

“Ian,” Mickey warns.

Dropping their coats on the empty booth bench, they bump shoulders repeatedly as they pass the other booths oblivious to the stares their bloody, disheveled selves are getting.

After a quick stop to the restroom to clean up somewhat, they arrive at the over sized salad bar. The trip around the bar is fraught with curses, head shakes and tentative poking. Mickey seems especially offended by the quinoa and avocado dish despite its claims of local freshness. “Fuck is this?” Poke, poke.

Eventually, Mickey carries his plate of carrot sticks, bacon bits and lime Jello back to the table, where the pair reconvene on their side of the booth.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Ian lifts a forkful of seafood salad to Mickey’s lips, a challenge in his eyes: “Mmm.”

With one lifted eyebrow, Mickey glances down at the sauce covered shrimp and closes his lips around the fork. His eyes lift to Ian’s as he slowly, slowly, slowly slides his lips over the fork, his tongue licking sauce from his bottom lip: “Mmm, yourself.”

With great exaggeration, Ian reaches across Mickey to grab a carrot stick from his plate, making sure to rub his thigh along Mickey’s hip. He leisurely slides the whole carrot into his mouth. Then back out. His tongue remaining on the tip of the carrot. He can see Mickey’s throat muscles tighten. As he slides the carrot back in, he closes his eyes and hums under his breath. Snap! He bites the end off, smirking at Mickey’s jolt of surprise.

Accepting the challenge, Mickey narrows his eyes, heat and purpose tracking Ian. Without breaking eye contact with Ian, he picks up his Jello and swipes the whip cream off the top with his forefinger. He opens his mouth making room for his finger. He slides his tongue out, deliberately licking some of the whip cream off. The remaining cream begins to slide down his finger, his tongue follows it until his entire finger is in his mouth. He closes his lips around it. And sucks.

“Uh, sorry. Your, um, food?”

Ian’s mouth, which was hanging open, snaps shut as the server breaks the spell. She thumps the two plates on the table and darts away.

Mickey stabs his knife into the 12 oz steak like they are engaged in a deadly battle. Ian bites his lip hard to keep the smile off his face. Resting his chin on Mickey’s shoulder, Ian whispers, “Sexy motherfucker.”

 

As they work on cleaning up their plates, Ian peppers Mickey with “date questions” lightening the mood.

“Do you come here often?” Ian flicks a ketchup covered fry indicating the general area around them, a red glob landing on Mickey’s arm.

“Do I look like I’m made a fucking money?”

“Not in that shirt.”

“Hardee har har.”

 

Ian loudly slurps soda through his straw. “What’s your sign, sexy?”

Middle finger salute.

“Of course. Silly question.”

 

Ian grabs a hunk of steak off Mickey’s fork. “So, do you put out on the first date?”

“Considering I’ve fucked you in back alleys, abandoned buildings, moving vans, under the L and a convenience store freezer, I’d say I’m a sure fucking thing.”

“Wow, you’re really easy.”

“A walk in the fucking park.”

 

Ian takes the biggest bite of hamburger that he can manage. “Are you seeing anyone?” Tiny pieces of hamburger, bacon and bun sprinkle the table in front of Mickey.

“Yeah, but he’s a real pain in the ass, nosy, gross motherfucker.”

“He sounds like a real catch. Is he handsome?”

“As hell.” Mickey wipes barbecue sauce off Ian’s chin with his thumb.

“Is it serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

 

Ian leans forward resting his chin in his hand, all big eyes and silly grin. “Did it hurt?”

“Did what hurt?”

“When you fell from heaven?”

“Jesus,” he silences the questions with his lips.

 

Ian pulls back from the kiss, seriousness in every angle of his face. “I’m sorry.”

Mickey frowns in confusion.

“For this.” He rubs his lips over a scrape on Mickey’s knuckle.

“For this.” He presses his lips to a bruise on Mickey’s temple.

“For this.” He slides the tip of his tongue over a cut on Mickey’s lip.

“For this.” He slips his hand under Mickey’s shirt until his finger tips rest on Mickey’s pounding heart.

Once more he brings his lips to Mickey’s ear, breathing heavily and running his tongue along the grooves. “And you can suck my dick any way you want. Soft, hard, fast, slow.”

Mickey turns until his forehead rests on Ian’s, warm breath mingling. "Ian," he whispers, the word coming straight from the place under Ian's finger tips.

“I’m not, however, sorry for this.” The fingers of his free hand slide along the zipper of Mickey’s jeans.

“Check!” Mickey bellows at a random server taking an order at a nearby table.

 

 

The L jostles their bodies slightly as it speeds through the city. The two riders at the rear of the car are staring straight ahead, immobile and silent. Their hands gripping each other’s thighs, waiting for the elderly couple to reach their stop before allowing their fingers to grip their final destination.

Ding.

The couple exits as a scruffy, inebriated fellow enters taking a seat three rows in front of the frustrated riders. The man’s head lolls to the side before the doors close.

Unable to stop themselves, they lower the zipper on each other’s jeans. Hands searching under fabric, moving, gripping, sliding. Heads resting on the back wall of the car, eyes squeezed shut, breath uneven. The speed of the train matching the speed of blood pumping in their veins.

As their movements become more desperate, their lips and tongues can’t resist each other. With a thud, they come together, sucking, biting, pushing, eventually swallowing their satisfied grunts.

They pull apart, flopping back against the car wall again, unable to think beyond the moment.

Ding.

Frantically, they wipe and tuck and readjust as best as they can.

“The list of places where you are willing to put out is getting pretty long. Gonna need a spreadsheet to keep track of them all.”

Head shake. “Fucking nasty.” Mickey indicates the front of his jeans. “Where the hell are we?”

“Heaven.”

“Dumbass.”

“Yeah, yeah, we should probably figure out how to get home and get you that clean shirt.”

 

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What difference would it make ultimately?

Season: 7

Episode: 11

 “This isn’t me anymore.”

 

 

What if…they got a dog from Tommy?

What if Ian was able to get out of bed that day to go with Mickey to get a dog from Tommy? Would it change the course of events?

Season: 4

Episode: 12

Time: 18:30

 

“Eh, man, it’s noon. Rise ‘n fucken’ shine, Cinderella. I’m heading to Tommy’s to get a dog. Mandy said she’d watch the baby meat for a while.”

Mickey opens the curtains. “Yo, sleepyface, get your ass up. Time to roll.”

Laying on his side under the sheets, Ian’s reply is muffled: “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, or a bar stool. Why don’t you come under here and get me up…oh, too late.”

“What’s that mumbles?” Mickey lifts the bottom of the sheet and crawls under, taking advantage of the view all the way up.

Lips to thigh.

Lips to hipbone.

Lips to belly button.

Lips to nipple.

“Hi.” The sheet settles on their cheeks.

“Hi. Yum, minty freshness.”

“Can’t say the same for you.”

“You afraid to kiss me?”

“Take me out and shoot me with my Glock 19 if it ever comes to that again.”

Lips to lips.

Free.

“A dog, huh?”

“Yeah, this shit is getting domestic as fuck. Might as well get a fucking dog to bring me my slippers.”

“Can we get him a little sweater?”

 

 

From his prone position on the bed, Ian yanks Mickey’s shirt over his head before sitting up and tossing it on the floor. “Help me get my shirt off, Mick. Come on.”

Mickey smiles, tightening his knees around Ian’s hips. The shirt hits the floor and lands on top of Mickey’s.

They fall back to the bed kissing, Mickey’s chest pressed against Ian’s. “Mmm, bare chests,” Ian moans, pulling his tongue out of Mickey’s mouth to kiss his way along his neck toward his chest. “Oh, that feels good, Mick, your tongue is so hot.”

“That ain’t my tongue, man.”

“What the FUCK?!?” Shocked green eyes open to meet soft brown ones.

The Jack Russell terrier puppy flops down on Ian’s chest, running his tongue over Ian’s nipple. “Jesus, he’s a pervert.”

“I can’t really blame him,” Mickey chuckles. “Should I leave you two alone?”

“Put him over there.” Ian indicates a chair in the corner of the room. “And get back up here.”

The puppy laps happily at Mickey’s chin when he picks him up, but pouts pathetically when he gets dumped onto the chair.

Mickey crawls back on top of Ian. They kiss once and glance over at the puppy who looks even sadder than he had a moment ago.

“Ignore him,” Ian says. “Close your eyes.”

They try again.

“Fuck,” Ian grumbles.

“Doesn’t look like it.” Mickey grins.

“How do you get a dog to stop staring into your soul?”

“Fuck if I know. I’ve never had a pet.”

“All we ever had was an empty fish tank. Pretty straight forward pet care.”

“We could blindfold him.”

“Here, pull the blanket over top of us.” Ian grabs the sheet and flips it over Mickey’s back. “That’s better; where were we?”

“I think you were giving me a blow job if I ain’t mistaken.” Mickey flips over to prove it.

Ian rolls his eyes but concedes. He slides down Mickey’s body and grabs the waistband of his boxers freeing Mickey’s erection. “Hello.”

Sniffle, sniffle. The sheet moves beside Ian’s head. He glances up and meets Mickey’s eyes, then lifts the corner of the sheet. “Hello.”

The puppy lowers his forelegs and slinks under the sheet toward Mickey’s junk. “Hey, hey. Stop him! Fuck, Ian!”

“This dog thing was your idea, Einstein!”

“Well, fuck.” He sits up, back against the headboard reaching for his smokes.

Ian lays his head on the pillow. “Well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

The puppy couldn’t agree more. He makes three quick rotations between the boys and plops down with a contented sigh.

“You think we’ll ever settle on a name for him?” Ian asks.

“I don’t know, but we’re not gonna let Svet anywhere near this fucking name conversation.”

Ian smiles, stroking the puppy’s soft fur. “I hear Fuck You is a popular name this season.”

Mickey gives Ian the side eye. “How about cockblocker?”

They hoot with laughter.

“Sleepyface?” Ian suggests, watching the puppy twitch through a dream.

“Firecrotch?” Mickey counters.

“Tough guy?” Ian smiles into Mickey’s eyes. The stare turns forceful.

Mickey closes the gap and touches Ian’s lips with his own. “Ian, I…” he stutters, stops.

“I know, Mick.” Ian curls around the puppy, pulling the covers over them. His fingers slide over Mickey’s thigh and he closes his eyes. “Me too.” The tender little grin slipping off his face as he falls asleep.

Mickey reaches under the sheet to wind his fingers around Ian’s, a worried frown creasing his forehead. “Forever. I promise. No matter what.”

 

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What difference would it make ultimately?

Season: 7

Episode: 11

“This isn’t me anymore.”

 

 

What if…they talked about IT?

What if, in the abandoned building, Mickey was able to accept comfort from Ian and open up a little to him about how Terry’s attack affected him? Would it change the course of events?

Season: 3

Episode: 7

Time: 26:00

 

“Would you at least look at me?” Ian cries, frustration and fear strangling each syllable.

Angry silence.

Bang.

With a tense shrug, Ian pushes off the window ledge to leave. “Fine.”

His indignant stride halts as he passes behind Mickey and hears him quietly speak.

“I was so fucking scared he’d hurt you.”

Painful silence.

Bang.

“Still fucking am.”

Bang, bang.

Ian turns his body toward Mickey’s, placing his right hand on Mickey’s hip, applying pressure to the hipbone in an effort to get Mickey to turn around.

“No.”

Ian relents but moves a little closer, placing his other hand on Mickey’s hipbone and resting his forehead on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Mick.”

“For what?”

“That it hurts so much.”

Mickey’s shoulders tense as he aims at the sad excuse for a teddy bear.

Click.

“FUCK!”

His arms drop heavily, the now useless gun hanging at his side.

“Fuck,” he whispers, scrunching his eyes closed.

“Fuck,” Ian whispers, pushing his lips into Mickey’s shoulder blade.

Mickey’s head turns toward Ian’s almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough for Ian to feel the slight movement.

They stay like that for a long moment. Ian’s hands gripping Mickey’s hips, his lips pressed into his shoulder, his searching eyes locked on Mickey’s closed ones.

When Ian feels Mickey’s body tense and shift, he steps away waiting a beat to see if Mickey will turn around, but instead he moves toward the box of shells and begins to reload the gun.

Ian walks out.

As he makes his way down the stairwell, he pulls out his cell phone, locating Mickey’s name among his text messages. He types:

-- I was so fucking scared I’d lose you

Before he hits the pavement outside the building, his phone vibrates.

-- fuck

He replies:

-- Still fucking am

Waiting.

-- get yer ass back up here

He races up the stairs so fast, he’s out of breath when he reaches the top.

“Mickey,” he breathes, tears pooling in his eyes.

Mickey dips his chin toward his shoulder. “C’mere.”

Ian can’t help himself, he throws his arms around Mickey’s neck and presses himself into Mickey’s body. At first Mickey stands stiff, but eventually his left hand rubs Ian’s lower back.

Ian sniffs loudly into Mickey’s neck. Mickey slides his right hand to Ian’s upper thigh. Ian slips his fingers into Mickey’s hair. Their game of chess continues until Mickey pulls back.

“Enough. For now. I gotta meet that motherfucker Terry and his Russian,” his jaw clenches, “hooker. Some shit is going down.”

“I’ll come with you!”

“No, you fucking won’t. Stay the fuck away. I gotta do what I gotta do to keep you safe.”

“But Mick—“

“This conversation is over.”

 

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What difference would it make ultimately?

Season: 7

Episode: 11

“This isn’t me anymore.”

 

 

What if…they looked for Frank together?

What if Ian decided to help Mickey kill Frank? Would it change the course of events?

Season: 2

Episode: 8

Time: 10:56 & 38:00

 

“We got nothing to be ashamed of.” Ian’s eyes plead with Mickey.

“What fucking world do you live in?”

“You can’t…you can’t…I don’t want you to…” He reaches for Mickey.

“What did I just say? Done is done. What do you think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend here? You’re nothing but a warm mouth to me. Sorry, I gotta go kill your dad, but I’m doing a lot of people a favor, including you.” Mickey reaches the door.

“Wait! I’ll help you find Frank.”

Mickey stops, looking sceptically over his shoulder.

“I’ll stop by your place after my shift.”

Nod.

 

Ian bangs on the Milkovich front door, while nervously chewing on a hang nail. The door flies open and Mickey glares at him. “You better not be fucking with me.”

“I know where Frank is.”

“Where’s that?”

“Alibi.”

Mickey disappears back inside before stepping onto the front porch and pulling the door behind him, all the while looking suspiciously at Ian. “Why the change of heart, Gallagher?”

“Because you’re more than a warm mouth to me.” Under his breath, “dickhead.”

Mickey closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip for a moment before replying, “Whatever, man.”

“Nothing strengthens a relationship like killing a parent together.”

“If you’re gonna run your mouth,” he glances at Ian, “then you can go home. I can take it from here.”

“Nope, I figure you’ll need a hand with your kill plan. Let’s see,” he holds up his hand and begins ticking off items on his fingers, “gotta find him, shoot him in the head, dump his body in the river and drop his teeth off at your uncle’s foundry. Got a plan for how we’re gonna get Frank’s body to the river?”

“Change a fucking plan. We’ll just make it look like a random mugging gone fucking wrong.”

Ian nods, thoughtfully. “Yeah, that’s good. I’ll keep look out, while you pop him.”

“Fuck.”

“We’re almost there. We gonna do this like cowards or are we gonna look him in the eye?”

“Shut the fuck up, fucking asshole. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Ian stops suddenly. “There he is. Let’s do this.”

He crosses the street, Mickey a few paces behind. When they reach the sidewalk, Mickey pulls the gun out of the waistband of his jeans. They watch Frank light a cigarette and sway a little as he heads away from the bar.

Mickey stops abruptly. Ian pauses and turns to him, a question in his eyes.

“Fuck,” Mickey mouths under his breath. He drops the gun in the trash bin and turns toward the cops arresting a drunk up the block.

“Hey officer! Oink, oink.” He snaps his fist into the jaw of the first cop.

As he’s pushed to the ground, Ian stares, his hand on his heart and his heart in his eyes, glad he didn’t pussy out.

Looks like he’s going to be spending the next few months visiting juvie again.

 

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What difference would it make ultimately?

Season: 7

Episode: 11

“This isn’t me anymore.”

 

 

 

What if…they didn’t fight over the gun?

What if Mickey wasn’t home when Ian snuck into his room to demand the gun back? Would it change the course of events?

Season: 1

Episode: 7

Time: 29:30

 

Ian opens the door to Mickey’s room, slipping inside quietly. The bedroom is empty; the bathroom is empty. He drops the tire iron onto the bright red comforter in frustration.

“Fuck it. Kash can grow a pair and solve his own problems,” he mumbles.

Back on the front street, he frowns at the Milkovich house uneasily, as though there is something important he needs to remember.

 

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What difference would it make ultimately?

Season: 7

Episode: 11

 

“Could I see that gun?” Ian pulls his hand back in surprise. “Mickey Milkovich, is that you? It’s Ian—.”

“Fucking Gallagher.”