Memories Of Us
A Gallavich FanFiction
A portrait of Mickey's scars
:-:
Mickey had a bad habit of stretching out on any available surface, however inconvenient or unhygienic. For Ian it was hardly the hygiene that bothered him – years in the Gallagher house had made him immune to such concerns – but Mickey always stretched out just where Ian need to be.
At the moment this meant he was lying across the counter in the kitchen, feet in the sink, dropping cigarette ash into the dog bowl on the floor. Ian was late for work, but that was hardly news these days; since moving in together Ian had lost several hours at the Kash and Grab, wrapping himself up in Mickey instead. But breakfast was still breakfast and he would be damned if he was skipping it for the second day in a row because Mickey was using their kitchen as a sofa.
"Mick, move your ass."
"No," Mickey dropped the cigarette butt to join the others in the bowl, defiant as ever. Ian had to resist the urge to run his tongue over that now vacant mouth, and instead dug his fingers into Mickey's thigh while reaching up for the cereal in the cupboard above them.
But in the process his hand fell on the scar on Mickey's leg and the pads of his fingers couldn't help but trace the familiar circles where the bullet had hit.
"I love this scar," Ian murmured, finding Mickey's eyes with his own.
"You're a fucking sap, you know that?" Mickey responded, lifting a sceptical eyebrow and reaching for the packet of cigarettes on the windowsill. Ian stopped him with a hand to Mickey's wrist.
"Can't you stop smoking for one minute so I can just look at you?!"
"Jesus Gallagher! Haven't you had your fill of me already?!" But he pushed up on his elbows so that Ian could see him better, "Want me to take my boxers off too...?"
"Well that's not fair, you know I wouldn't look anywhere else then…"
Mickey laughed at him and he lay back down, feeling Ian dip his tongue into the bullet wound.
"Wanna make out with the ones on my ass too?" His fingers no longer itched for cigarettes but for Ian's skin. He settles for his hands on the back of Ian's neck.
"Every one of these says how much you love me," Ian grinned into the scar.
"Firecrotch – they say just what an idiot I am."
"An idiot in love?"
"An idiot trying to deny it." He gripped tighter to Ian's skin, pulling him further up Mickey's torso, "See, I like this one best," He added when Ian was level with it.
Ian then ran his tongue up the long thin scar on Mickey's stomach and tasted the sweat of him.
"Yeah, I kinda like this one too." Against his better judgement, Ian climbs up onto the sideboard and lies flush to Mickey. His t-shirt rides up in the process and an identical scar on his stomach rubs against Mickey's.
Mickey's fingers slid between the scarred skins to rest there, Ian breathing against his neck. These scars were theirs and theirs alone. They marked the second time Terry had caught them, and this time come at them with a knife. They marked the memory of Terry's brains splashed all over the bedroom wall, gun loose in Mickey's hand. Self-defence the jury ruled.
These scars told the story of freedom, of just how much Mickey loved Ian. Each scar screamed out "You're mine."