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Ian still can't process how their lives turned upside down, just months into their near happiness. It was a shock really, watching Mickey puke his guts out into the toilet bowl every morning, hearing him get snappier each day like a bomb ready to go off, the disgusting taste of cheese and pickle each time they kissed, the stomach aches from hell. Ian hadn't even noticed it at first, Lip had been the one to suggest Mickey go to the clinic to get him checked out. So they did, and they never expected the news they received.
“You're pregnant Mr Milkovich, six weeks.”
“I'm fucking what-”
“He's what?”
The doctor had that false smile, the kind she'd have to give over twenty times in a day. “You're with child.”
And after all the books, the leaflets, the late nights searching up possible reasons of how this rarity had been sprung upon them, Ian gave in, just letting nature choose its way.
It wasn't that easy for Mickey though. It was his body, his life too, he was going to have to sacrifice nine months with a child growing inside of him, it was reasonable to think against it. That's why Ian had to talk him out of not getting an abortion, that's why Ian cried numerous nights alone wondering how their lives could flip so much.
But it was theirs. And Ian had to keep reminding Mickey of that.
Still, seven months in, he started to notice something else. Mickey never liked his bump; it made him feel fat, ugly, and even worse, weak. It didn't stop Ian catching him speaking to it, speaking to their child.
1)
2 months earlier...
Ian woke up to a cold breeze against his back, the wind sweeping through the room due to Mickey's over load in heat just a couple of hours before. It was still dark out; just the street lamp outside shedding through the blinds, and into their small apartment bedroom. “Mickey...” he mumbles, trying to smack the place beside him.
“Hey, Mick.” He mumbles again, hand searching the sheets for the body that kept him warm at night. Once he realises that the space is empty, he shoots up, frantically searching for his pregnant boyfriend. There's a slight noise, only little, but audible, and Ian slides out of the blankets to check it out.
Just as he reaches the door, he hears a voice, one he knows too well. Creaking the door open a little, he peers through the gap, eyes latching onto the figure sprawled against the couch, the little bump against his stomach visible through the darkness. Ian's throat clogs up, his hands gripping against the door frame. Was Mickey talking to his bump? Was he speaking to their child?
Listening in further, he's catches. “...me and Ian were just going fine, he was back on his fucking med's, not going out and pulling batshit crazy stunts. We moved out here, got a life together, and then – then you.” Mickey's voice is barely audible, but through the silence of their apartment it was clear enough. He's not sure if Mickey's angry, tired or maybe scared, but he knows that his tone is shaky, that his hands are hesitating to touch his bump.
“Like some fucking alien, invading our lives and messing it all up. I mean, I'm not even ready to have a kid, I need to look after Ian, not some shitting, crying and spewing baby. I can't- I just,” Mickey's voice breaks, his gasp between breaths hitting Ian like a punch to the gut. “You chose the wrong fucking time, man. The wrong fucking time.
“That doctor said that males getting knocked up was only a two percent chance, and I happen to be in that fucking percentage. There's rarity and then there's fucking rarity.” Mickey groans into a chuckle, eyes locked to his bump. From the beginning Ian knew Mickey didn't really want to have a child, that it was all to big of shock for them, but he also knew that Mickey secretly wanted it. All of it.
The panic begins to rise in Ian's chest, like a bullet through his lungs, he can't breathe. He wasn't ready either, hell – no one is ready to bring a kid into their lives. But, he was more scared that Mickey didn't want the kid, that Mickey would leave and never come back, that he'd want nothing to do with their baby when it finally entered the world.
“I can't do it.” Mickey whispers lightly, his voice delicate and a little shattered. Ian knows at this point, its pretty evident, that Mickey wasn't angry. He was scared. Just like he had been when Ian was taken away, when they broke-up, when he was sent to that ward.
“Fuck.” Ian hears, louder this time. He can see Mickey rubbing a hand against his forehead, trying so hard not to reach down and touch the smooth skin that elevated from his skin. He's not sure whether to go through, tell Mickey that he doesn't have to feel alone, and that they were in this together. The thing he knew, Mickey needed some time to think about it, he needed to realise that this was his body, this was his child, and that everything would change.
So he steps back from the door, leaving it open as he heard Mickey breathing heavily. Slowly, but reluctantly, he slides back under the covers, laying face up towards the ceiling. He waits in the dark, waits for Mickey to walk through into the room. Closing his eyes, he follows the man's footsteps, his breathing, his hitch of gasp. Ian feels the dip of the bed, as Mickey slides in next to him, grumbling at the coldness of his side.
Still pretending to sleep, Ian curls into the warmth, resting his hand around Mickey, pulling him closer. Mickey doesn't think anything of it, at first his tenses but immediately relaxes under the touch, sighing as Ian's hands absently rub at the small bump forming.
Ian knew he couldn't say something in the morning, but he could sure show Mickey that he wasn't alone in this.
2)
Shutting the shower off, Ian steps out of the tub and reached for the towel that rested on the lid of the toilet. They had covered the mirrors, after Mickey's sudden explosion of how he hated himself and if he saw his own reflection again he wouldn't think against shooting the thing off the wall. Ian still felt guilty, still wanted to reassure the older man that he still was beautiful, that even with a bump he was still the rocking, hot fucker Ian fell for. He pulls the towel from the mirror, running a hand through his soaked hair.
After wrapping his towel around his waist, he emerges from the bathroom, his feet padding towards their bedroom just down the hall. Then he's stopped in his tracks, water trickling from his back and down to the floor. Mickey's talking, and giggling, his voice oblivious to the fact that Ian was just behind the wall. Ian feels his heart swell, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Fuck you and your fucking hunger.” Mickey laughs, his mouth full with the cheese and pickle sandwich Ian had made prior. “I'm eating this shit and I actually like it. Pickle and fucking cheese, who would have thought it?” Ian leans to the side a little, eyes catching onto his boyfriend sprawled out against the sheets, the plate resting at the top of his bump, sandwich stuffed into his mouth.
“It's disgusting.” Mickey scowls, swallowing half of his mouth-full. “Like, really disgusting. I'm pissed off with your eating habits, kid, they are pretty shitty.” Ian grins as he watches Mickey take another huge bite, his head thrown back in pleasure of the delicious taste. He's ready to walk back in, when Mickey starts talking again.
“You better have better tastes than this when you come out, Ian would die if he knew what we ate.” Mickey laughs to himself, planting the last corner of the sandwich onto the plate and shifting it to the side. Ian couldn't get his head around it, he couldn't help but smile helplessly every time he saw Mickey spread affection over his bump.
Mickey rubs the bottom of his belly, letting out a burp that most likely echoes through the whole apartment. “Where is that fucker, anyway, I'm hungry. Are you hungry?” Mickey directs towards his bump, snorting back his softened tone that Ian knew he only used in emotional situations or moments of utter affection.
Ian's face breaks into a smile, cheeks flushing red as he listens to Mickey all over again, “You're fucking hungry, what a surprise. Hey, Ian?” Mickey calls, hands leaving his stomach as Ian pops his head through the door, hand clasped to the towel still around his waist.
“Jesus, where the fuck did you come from?” Mickey flinches, pushing his hands to the side of him.
“Er, the shower.” Ian tilts his head, narrowing his eyes, as he walked through into the bedroom and let the towel drop from his hips. He hears Mickey groan and a clang of a plate, and as soon as he pulls on his sweats, the makes an unappreciative nod. “Pickle and cheese?”
“What else would it be?”
3)
It was 3am and they were in the hospital. Mickey had a fall, within the hours in which Ian was at work, so when the redhead got home he was greeted with the shock of his life; Mickey sprawled out against the floor, hand clutching to the retching pain from his lower stomach. Ian thought of nothing else, he called the ambulance, sat and held his hand tight, waited for three hours before they actually would let him see him. Then finally, they came out and told him about the false alarm, the fact that the blood within his body had been low and it was crucial for him to stay the night. Ian wasn't leaving, not for work, not for anything, so he sat by the side of Mickey's bed all night, hand in hand, head resting against the blanket.
It wasn't the voice that woke up, it was the emptiness of his hand that did it. When he twitched his fingers, he couldn't feel Mickey hand anymore, he felt that increasing panic rise in his chest just before he heard Mickey's whispering voice above him.
“Hey, kid.” Mickey spoke softly, the sheets rustling as his hand moved to round the bump. Ian didn't lift his head, he wanted to hear this. Mickey swallows loudly, hand absently stroking against the bump like he would in secret most of the time. “We had a close shave, huh?” Mickey asks his bump, their child, and when Ian turns his head just slightly, he can make out the tears building in Mickey's eyes.
“They said you were meant to die, well – not them exact fucking words but they can't lie to me. Fucking doctors.” Mickey rants on, nearly making Ian laugh with his snarly tone he always used. “I guess you're a little fighter, yeah? I mean, you've fucking gotta be in this world, especially when you've got two gay dads. Man, you may love it but other kids won't.” He wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand, glancing over to Ian a couple times before reaching back to the bump. “Don't worry, kid, I'll show you a few things, Ian will definitely kick my ass but he'll probably do the same.”
Ian feels himself wanting to burst, wanting to curl into Mickey's side and hold him there. It was beautiful really,; Mickey teaching their child life lessons, a little early, but that was Mickey. And Ian could see the bond they had, the way Mickey's eyes lit up each time he spoke to it, the way his was so fond, affectionate and soft, something that didn't really revolve around the Milkovich name. Sleepily, Ian shifts his head in his awkward position against the sheets, and he feels Mickey physically tense beside him, his hands stopping suddenly against his bump.
When the silence finally draws over, only Mickey's breathing echoing through the four walls, Ian feels his hands run through his hair, fingers tangling with the red strands. He thinks that's Mickey's talking done for the night, until he hears in a laboured whisper, “But that's your dad for ya.”
That's when Ian feels suddenly awake at Mickey's choice of endearment. Mickey had never called either of them that before, but he wouldn't mind hearing it again.
4)
Holy shit.” Ian hears as he walks down the hallway of their apartment, he thinks Mickey's watching some immense action movie, or he's talking to him, until he realises that the brunette is talking to his bump again. Ian was ready to confront Mickey with an apology for their earlier fight, but stops before he can walk into the living room, waiting by the door to hear Mickey carry on. Even if the older boy wouldn't do it out in the open, or in front of him, he'd never get over when Mickey would talk to their child, it was a rare, amazing thing that he'd never expect to adore.
Mickey's back is to him, his arms cradling his bump protectively. With a groan of annoyance Mickey grits through his teeth, “Stop kicking me you little shit.” Ian wants to laugh, his grin beaming against his face, he knew Mickey both hated and loved it when the baby kicked. Usually, Ian would sit behind him, rub against the sore skin, whilst relishing in the feeling of their baby kicking, their child showing them that it was there and it was finally real.
“Is this your revenge for me yelling at your dad?” Mickey asks, a chuckle brimming his words. “I don't care, he's still a dick.” He rubs around the skin, wincing each time the baby decided to kick against his stomach. “You'll see,” He starts again, scanning the room cautiously for Ian, before adding. “He'll make you eat them grass fucking sandwiches, feed them you till the day you die.”
Ian giggles, muttering. “Fucking grass sandwiches.” with knowledge that Mickey was talking about the healthy food he had begun buying. Mainly for the purposes of a healthy baby, and he hated it when Mickey stuffed himself with shit for the fun of it. Didn't stop Mickey, he'd always be the stubborn basturd he was since the start. Not that Ian would change that. (Would he balls)
Listening in, he can hear Mickey laugh again. “Jesus – you're just like your dad, aren't you? So fucking persistent.” Shaking his head, Mickey lolls his head to the side of the couch, hands still rolling over the hard but soft skin of his bump. With a grin, he bites at his lip, looking back towards the hallway that he believes is empty. “Fucking fine. I'll talk to him, but you can't tell him about this, kid, not one word.” He pushes a finger to his lips, that rare genuine smile echoing towards his bump.
Ian's heart nearly bursts.
5)
Ian's late from work, maybe a couple of hours late, they had kept him on for two extra shifts because they were low in staff. Despite his job in the firm, he still worked double shifts in the diner now Mickey couldn't fix up cars in the garage. In a tired manner, he manages to push the key into their apartment door, yawning into the back of his hand when he pushes it open slowly.
The television set is off, the room filled with darkness. Mickey was no where to be seen and Ian knows he probably puking in the bathroom or sleeping in their bedroom. Quietly, he makes sure he doesn't stomp his shoes against the wooden floor, he walks over to the bathroom. As quickly as he can, through tiredness, he cleans his face, showers, and dries himself off, replacing his work clothes with a pair of Mickey's boxers, some sweats and an old t-shirt of Lip's that he found lying in the laundry. He's ready to wrap himself up in his boyfriend, sleep in the warmth of their bed, before he hears a voice. Not just a voice, a singing voice.
It's a little off-key, and lightly too low, but Ian feels himself falling in love with it. It's not surprising when he learns its Mickey's voice, his low but soft tone that fled through the rooms of the house. It's obvious he hadn't heard Ian come in, and he's laid with the lamp dimly lighting up the room. Ian's not sure what song it was, but he's sure Mickey had told him a couple of months back that his Mom used to sing it to him during a thunder storm.
Mickey has his eyes closed, hands unmoving against his bump as he starts to sing the next line, “...I've told every little star, just how sweet I think you are...” his voice wavers with sleep, his thumb stroking along the lower part of his bump. Ian can't breathe, his body falling numb, eyes glazing with tears as he takes in the rarity before him. He remembers a couple of nights before, when he had sung to Mickey's bump – the brunette had scoffed, and protested, but when the little one stopped kicking he couldn't be more silently grateful.
“Why haven't I told you...” Mickey sings in a whisper, his words barely in ear shot. The brunette finally opens his eyes, directing his gaze towards his own hands wrapped around his stomach, his own eyes widening with surprise at his actions. Ian watches in a trance, his heart beating wildly at his chest. Mickey's features have softened, crinkles smoothed out, smile tugging at the corner of his lips, before the last line rides out stronger than the rest, like it meant it. “...maybe you may love me too..”
Ian can't describe what he's feeling; it's become more real than he could imagine. Just two months before Mickey was unsure, was scared,was pretty angry that Ian had ended him in that state, but now he was singing to his bump, their child, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
+1
Mickey hadn't noticed the little hiccups in Ian's behaviour, he hadn't realised the short sentences, the grumbles, the tiredness, not until he walked into their bedroom and Ian's back was facing the door, the blanket pulled over his head to shield himself from the world. Mickey knew this; he had seen it many times since it triggered, he had dealt with it and cried over it, just as many times as Ian had. Each time it kicked him in the stomach, he still couldn't cope with the sight of the person he loved scared to face the world, shivering against the sheets.
The first thing he does is batch him up some food; to sandwiches and a glass of water. Ian's pills were effective, but over time the dose wouldn't work as well as it used to and that's when a call to the clinic would be needed. Mickey had already called them up, book an appointment, described the situation, ensured that no one needed to come out to help him. He grabs the plate and glass and shuffles to the bedroom, with the awkwardness of his bump blocking his speed.
“Ay, Gallagher.” He calls out, kicking the door shut painfully slow. Ian mumbles something from under his blanket, and Mickey could guess what it was. “You need to fucking eat.” He walks around the bed, placing the plate and glass against the side-table beside Ian. Leaning down, wincing at the heaviness of his weight against his legs, he pulls back the blanket from Ian's face. “Ian?” He asks again, hand holding against his bump.
Ian's pale as snow, his eyes rimmed with red, puffy rings that Mickey knew were from crying. The redhead shakes his head, pulling the blanket over his head and burrowing himself deeper into the fort he had made. “Just leave me alone.” Mickey hears, the voice gruff and barely understandable. It shatters his heart, and scares him a little each time, but with a deep breath he steps up from the floor, hand squeezing at Ian's calf which immediately rushes from the touch.
He could call Ian a selfish prick, going on a low when he could barely move himself with a life form growing inside of him, but he knows what this is about. Ian was scared too. More than him, probably. It wasn't because of the late nights, the diaper changes, the weeks on end of getting used to have a child; they both had their own fears over it. Mickey feared that he'd turn into his father, because it was thoroughly predictable that one of his fathers genes would stay intact. But Ian always reassured him that he'd kick his ass if he showed any signs of his father. Ian's, well that too was thoroughly predictable, he didn't want to pass on his mothers genes, his genes. It was the fear of giving an innocent child the disorder that fucked up his life, the disorder that ruined the lives around him. Even though Ian hadn't said him, or even hinted that he was scared, Mickey knew him too well not to get the idea through Ian's stone, shaking body, his eyes flooded with tears.
Mickey contemplates leaving the room, letting Ian have some space, but this time he knew he had to do this. For weeks he had been hiding it, doing it when he thought Ian wasn't paying attention or around, in fear that he might look like an idiot, or worse – that someone would call him out and tell him he was wrong. Instead, he shifts onto the bed, grunting through the heave on his legs as he struggles to lay down against the sheets left. Ian shuffles further to the edge, making a noise from his throat that Mickey's heard many times before.
Once he's face up to the ceiling, catching his breath from the sort walk around the bed (The worst part about being knocked up was the fucking weight, he felt like he was carrying around a ten ton bus) he pulls up his top, letting his bump catch a little air. The thing that Ian still didn't know yet, was that Mickey already knew the sex of the baby – he had asked during their scare, their scan, what the sex of the baby was, but he hadn't told Ian yet.
Clearing his throat, he rests one hand on his bump, the other reaching to Ian and stroking against his back that wasn't covered by the sheets. “Hey, little guy.” Mickey starts, unsure of what to say at this point, a little nervous because this was the first time he had spoken to their child in-front of someone. “I need your help.” He whispers, watching as Ian's shoulders rose in tension.
“See, your dad is sick. Sometimes he's honky dory and running around chasing the fucking sunrise, and other days he lays in bed all day sleeping.” He glances over to Ian, sorrowfully. “You've gotta look after him, just like I do, you've gotta help me make him those sandwiches I know he likes, fucking glasses of water every morning. Most importantly, we've got to show him how much he means to us.” Mickey never uses this tone, never speaks like this, but he's so used to Ian lying facing away from the world, that he knows he needs to hear it.
“I know why he's scared.” Mickey starts, flinching at any reaction that Ian might bear, but he just sniffs, the blanket shadowing the sound. With his hand smoothing over the skin of his stomach, his heart starts to contract – at the start he didn't want to baby, he was scared of the fucking baby, but Ian helped him through that. Even through the fights, the storming out, the smashing of plates, Ian stuck by and helped him believe that this was something good. Ian did that – he drops his hand from Ian's back and uses both of them to cradle his stomach.
Breathing in, he builds up again, “He thinks he's going to fuck up, and really, if anyone was going to fuck up between the two of us I'd guarantee it'll be me.” Ian makes a protesting groan from underneath the blankets, the white slipping a little from over his head.
“It's true.” Mickey nods, directing his gaze to his bump – the one thing he could hate but love tenderly at the same time (Of course, Ian too – but the hate was never there, even when he had pretended it to be.) “Your dad has this care-giver shit where he literally looks after anything. If he sees an old lady trying to cross the street, he'd help her across, I mean – she could have a gun in that basket and he'd never know because he doesn't think before he cares.” Ian shifts a little, still not turning or lifting his head from the blanket – it was a start.
“I tell ya, when you come crying through our fucking place, he'll be up in a flash. He's like that. Me? Well, I could teach you how to shoot, I guess.” He taps his chin, trying to think of other things to say. By the lush snort, that was too quiet but loud enough, that came from underneath the blankets, he knows it's helping. “Okay, I won't teach you how to shoot, you probably already know how to fucking unload one, kid, because it's been implanted in your genes.”
He waits for Ian to say something, or even just laugh, but still nothing. Mickey shifts to a sitting position against the headboard, groaning and cursing through the immense struggle of such a simple action. Finally against it, he palms his bump. “Shit, I need to stop calling you kid. Surprised your dad hasn't kicked my ass for calling you that. How about Jerome?” He suggests, laughing to himself. Ian shifts a little more, his foot kicking bag under the blanket.
“No.” He hears a whisper, that he knows is Ian's.
Mickey starts to grin, hands automatically rubbing against the bump. “Nah, okay, whatever you say wise guy. I think you'd make a good Hercules, all big and strong, beating all the bad fucks off with your bare hands. Yeah-”
The suddenly, Ian's body twists against the bed, the quilt wrapping further around his body. He's still shaking, still pale as anything, but at least he's uncovered his head from the blankets. Mickey watches wide eyed, hands still around his stomach – he wants to flinch, tense, or just walk away because Ian had never seen him hold the bump like this, talk to their child like this.
Ian's expression remains emotionless whilst he looks up through his lashes and says, “We are not calling our kid fucking Hercules.” And even though Ian's voice is still cracked, still a little broken, Mickey's face splits into a grin, one hand reaching a far and threading itself into Ian's hair.
Just as he's about to make a comeback, the little shit starts to kick at his stomach, harshly this time. Mickey's damn sure it's because he's heard Ian's voice, somehow Ian always managed to get the baby to stop kicking, either with his fingers or his velvet voice, but he also managed to get the baby to rectify Bruce fucking Lee and kick the shit out of Mickey. “Here.” Mickey beckoned, hand falling down towards Ian's hand.
The redhead flinches, beginning to shy away again, until Mickey's warm hand slips into his. “Don't worry kiddo, he's here.” Mickey pulls on Ian's hand, gently, bringing it up to his stomach, he places his own on-top of it, placing around the area in which the kid was kicking, he smiles over to Ian.
And through it all, Ian finally smiles back.