"He's fuckin' family," Mickey says and she doesn't get it then.
She can see the desperation in his eyes, sure. She can hear the crack in his voice. And the pieces start to drop into place, one by one, slowly and then all at once. But she doesn't really get it until later.
And maybe she didn't think it was possible, but who could blame her? Who could blame any of them for not seeing what was right in front of their eyes? It was hidden by a veil sure, but it wasn't a very thick one when she looks back. She can realise all that now.
She should have known when Mickey first started camping out on their floor. When he'd watch Ian like a hawk from across the room, always watching. And not like he was wary or Ian needed keeping an eye on. Like he couldn't bear to look away. Like Ian was a flame and Mickey was a moth.
She can recognise it all now of course.
But it doesn't truly click until she sees him. Until she comes over for one of her daily check-ups on Ian, walks past the Russian whore and the screaming baby and she finds them. The room's still dark, the curtains drawn, but the door's open.
The door's open and there they are, curled on the mattress. Or well…. she supposed curled is probably the best description of it.
Ian is lying stiff, eyes unseeing as he stares in front of him, seeing right through Fiona where she stands. His hands are gripping the covers tight, pulling them half up over his face, like if anything so much as twitches wrong around him, he'll try and shut out the world.
And there's Mickey, fitted around Ian's back like a glove. He's got one arm slung over Ian's body, pressing them close together. And he's pressing his forehead into the side of Ian's neck, blinking sleepily.
He tenses when the floorboard creaks under Fiona's foot, but Mickey doesn't look up. He doesn't look away from Ian, his fingers never stopping the slow stroking motion against the short hairs on the back of Ian's scalp.
He's so tense though, like a coil wound too tight, a band ready to snap. There's worry set deep into the lines of his face, dark bags sitting like smudges under his eyes. Fiona doesn't think he's slept in days.
There's one of the baby's bottles on the beside table, filled with water. And a plate of toast that she knows will have long since gone cold. Still it's partially eaten, the water half gone as well.
Fiona doesn't know how Mickey forced Ian to eat it. She would say coaxed, but she thinks forced is probably the better word. She can picture him, pinning Ian to the bed, fingers forcing open his mouth and shoving in the nipple of the bottle like he's a child.
She'd complain, but if it worked it worked. And it wasn't like they were getting Ian to any sort of doctor any time soon.
Still, it wasn't any of that that clued her in. She'd seen Mickey be gentle with him, seen him be patient and seen him scream. She'd even seen him cry once. Just once.
All of that said he cared. Said he gave something of a shit. But none of it said quite the same thing as what she saw.
Because when she takes another step forwards, floorboard creaking again, Ian jumps slightly. His eyes skirt over her, unseeing and his body twisted in time with his head. He mumbles something that Fiona couldn't hear, pressing his pale face into Mickey's chest and shivering.
Ian folded himself into Mickey's arms, letting go of the covers only to latch on to the other boy's shirt. And Mickey, Mickey just breathes out.
It was like he'd never exhaled before, all the tension sliding out of his body along with his breath. He grips Ian's shoulder and his side so tightly that his knuckles turn white under the tattoos. He presses his face into Ian's hair, eyes screwing shut and he just breathes.
And Fiona knows. She knows just from the short, sharp moment of relief that she can see written all over Mickey's face. She knows that this is a Frank and Monica. This, what she's looking at is something that is never going to end. They would always dig each other up, find each other no matter where they hid. They'd make every best and worst mistake that they could, together. And they wouldn't regret a thing. They would be a disaster, Fiona knew; but unlike Frank and Monica, she could see this being something of a good one.
A good disaster, if there was such a thing.
Kind of like, how after a riot, the community bands together to clean all the shit up. To sort everything out.
Ian and Mickey would destroy each other and everything around them, but they'd also be the ones to stick around to pick up the pieces.
They were all just pieces, broken and fragmented, tattered and frayed. But Ian had found someone with whom his piece slotted.
It was love. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was too fucked up to be love. Maybe it was something a whole lot worse. If Fiona had a clue what that was.
She doesn't suppose it mattered. All she knows is that she's sort of jealous. Jimmy, wherever he is, he never would have that look on his face for her. He loved her, sure. But she didn't ever think he'd burn down the whole world just to see her roll over and mumble a few incoherent words.
She'd never made him forget how to breathe.
She'd never made him forget how to exhale.
She'd never made him remember again.
But Mickey had, could and will do all of those things. Do everything. Anything. She could see that now.