To any of my Supernatural readers, I am into this new ship but I promise Twinchesterangel wouldn't let me forget about Sam and Dean even if I wanted to (which I definitely don't!) To Shameless fans, I am an experienced fanfic writer but a recent addict of the show and of Ian&Mickey, so I may not have their voices down quite right yet. Bear with me. :)

Takes places after the Season 4 finale, warnings for spoilers and show-level language.

Mickey stands in the kitchen for a long time, leaning against the counter-top; frozen by fear and the way his head spins in uncertainty over what to do next. Mandy sees the Gallaghers out and then comes back into the room; stands there across from him for a few minutes, watching him. Mickey doesn't look at her. He can feel her eyes on him but he can't return her gaze. He doesn't know what he would find in her eyes – worry, pity, anxiety – but he doesn't want to see it, whatever it is. He couldn't handle it right now. Ian is important to her too, somewhere deep inside Mickey does know that. He's important to so many people, none more than the family members who just reluctantly left him in the care of a guy they barely know. Fiona looked terrified. It made Mickey go numb down to his toes. But right now, all Mickey can think of is Ian. Ian is his. Fiona and Lip and all of them can care about him all they want, but he belongs to Mickey. And now he's falling down and Mickey has no idea how to help him back up.

His Ian, his sweet, passionate, wild, annoying Ian, lying in that bed, stuck in the worst moment of his life and Mickey feels paralyzed. He feels like he can't breathe. Like the room is getting smaller around him, walls closing in, air disappearing.

"Is he alright?" Svetlana's heavily-accented voice asks from far away.

"Ian?" Mandy's voice responds softly, and then there's just silence.

Mickey tries to inhale. It doesn't work.

A small hand touches his shoulder. "Mick?"

"Get off," he mutters, but doesn't move. Can't move.

"Are you okay?"

It's Mandy, right there in front of him, black hair and down-turned mouth, panic in her dark eyes.

"I'm fine," Mickey says. It's a lie and they both know it.

"Breathe," she advises him.

"Fuck off." He does take a deep breath, though, and then rooms stops spinning just a little.

"He's gonna be fine. You know that, right?"

Mickey wants to tell her to fuck off again but he can't. She's just as scared as he is and he hates that he almost needs her right now. He never needs anybody. He resists the urge to shove her away from him, but steps around her and paces across the room, running his hands over his face.

"Fuck."

"It's manageable. I'm not saying this isn't gonna be hard …"

"Yeah, like how his mom managed it?" Mickey snaps, whipping around and glaring at her.

"What did he tell you about her?"

"Nothing! He never talks about her because he hates her for whatever she did to their family! And now he's got this thing too?"

Mandy just presses her lips together and shakes her head, tears swimming in her eyes, and Mickey can't deal with her. Can't deal with the sadness on her face, or the way his Russian whore of a wife is watching them from the other room while she gently bounces their baby on her knee – the baby Mickey can barely look at because when he does all he can see is Ian's heartbroken face while Mickey fucked her with a gun pointed at his head.

"I can't fuckin' do this right now," Mickey grinds out between clenched teeth. He leaves the room, ignoring Mandy's wavering voice calling his name.

He doesn't know where to go. Ian is in his bed and doesn't want company. He's made that clear over and over again in the last 48 hours. But Mickey can't just leave him there. Alone, drowning. He opens the door slowly; is greeted by the same sight they closed the door on fifteen minutes ago, when even Fiona couldn't get Ian to speak, let alone get up. Ian's bare back, turned toward the wall, legs pulled up and arms wrapped around his chest like he's trying to disappear in on himself. Mickey's had some shitty days – hell, he's had a shitty life, at least until Ian – but he's never known what it's like to feel that low.

He shuts the door behind himself. Maybe then Ian will let him stay, if it's just the two of them. For a while, he just looks at the pale skin stretched over Ian's muscled shoulders and chews on the inside of his cheek – no idea what the right thing to say is and so fucking terrified he's going to say the wrong thing and make it worse. Eventually he walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, tentatively reaching out and touching Ian's arm.

"Go away." One of the two sentences he's managed to get out since yesterday morning, along with leave me alone.

"Where'm I supposed to go? You're in my bed," Mickey points out.

He isn't really expecting an answer, and he doesn't get one.

"Did you hear all that?" he asks, gesturing toward the hallway outside even though Ian isn't looking at him to see where Mickey's pointing.

Ian still stays silent, and Mickey doesn't know if that means yes or no. He stands up, rubbing at his face again. He's starting to sweat with his winter coat still on, so he shrugs out of it and lets it fall to the floor.

Ian's quiet voice mumbles something Mickey doesn't catch. He sits back down on the bed, a little closer to Ian this time, resting his arm on Ian's hip and leaning over him. Ian turns his face into the pillow, hiding his eyes.

"What's that?" Mickey asks softly, not positive Ian's going to repeat himself anyway.

"Don't wanna be Monica," Ian whispers brokenly, and Mickey doesn't know much about Ian's mom but he knows enough.

Tears burn behind his eyes and he blinks them away. The last thing Ian needs right now is Mickey being a pussy about all this. At least one of them has to stay strong. Because it's the only thing he can think of to do, Mickey gets up, pulls his shirt and jeans off, and crawls into the bed behind Ian. He tugs the sheet up over himself and moves in until he's pressed up against Ian's back.

"What're you doin'?" Ian asks weakly.

Mickey slides his arm over Ian's waist and rests his forehead on the back of Ian's neck – reversing their positions from just yesterday, when he woke up with Ian wrapped around him, so damn happy. Mickey should have known better than to think it would last. "If you're not gettin' outta this bed, I guess I gotta get in with you."

"No you don't."

"Don't bother tellin' me to go away again. I'm stayin' here, I don't give a fuck what you want."

Ian shakes his head back and forth and then his shoulders shudder, and Mickey feels him crumble.

"Would you just c'mere?" Mickey pleads, pulling at Ian's waist, wanting him to turn over. "Stop bein' so god-damn stubborn."

Like he's too weak to resist, Ian does roll over, and Mickey only catches a glimpse of his tear-streaked face because Ian hides it again – this time against Mickey's neck. He feels it as Ian just breaks, falls apart right there in Mickey's arms. Mickey is so far out of his comfort zone, lost and unsure and still so scared he's going to make it worse, but he hugs Ian tight and fights to keep inside how much it hurts to see him like this.

"I don't wanna be Monica," Ian says again, his voice rapsy and unused.

"So don't be."

"How?"

Mickey wishes to a God he doesn't really believe in for the right way to answer that question. He kisses Ian's forehead and closes his eyes because they're stinging again. "I don't know."