Debbie and Carl walk side by side down the slushy sidewalk, making their daily pilgrimage. They've already dropped Liam off with Sheila and Sammi, said a perfunctory hello to Frank, and picked up more bread and peanut butter for tonight's dinner. The Aldi bag is thumping against Debbie's thigh as they navigate around piles of dog crap and the stained snow that could be spilled drinks or could be vomit or could be something even worse. There's more land mines along the sidewalk as they turn on to the Milkoviches' block which is an even worse block than the one the Gallaghers live on.
Mickey's already outside when they arrive and his face lights up when he sees them.
"Hey, man," he calls out to Carl, "You bring it?"
"Yeah," Carl replies, pulling the empty revolver out of his bag.
Mickey gives it a quick once-over and nods approvingly. "Ain't bad. Come on, I'll show you how to load it and clean it." He starts to lead Carl around to the alley, then pauses and says to Debbie, "Ian's inside."
"I know," she says and watches as they disappear around the back of the house. She knows that Fiona and Lip don't like how taken Carl's become with Mickey, but the two of them seem to genuinely enjoy hanging out together, talking about weaponry in the same way that Ian and Lip used to hang out and shoot the shit about sports with Kev. As usual, Debbie thinks, Fiona and Lip are being weird just because it's the Milkoviches. They're always weird and judgey when it comes to the Milkoviches.
The front door isn't locked and Debbie lets herself in. She's surprised to find that Ian isn't in his usual spot on the couch. It's been several weeks that he's been staying here and ever since he went to the clinic to start getting on meds, he's spent most of his days in the Milkoviches' living room, waiting for his body and his brain to adjust to one medication after another. The pills give him headaches, make him nauseous, and leave him with any number of other nasty side effects depending on whether his doctors have decided to add another medication to the mix or fool around with his doses again. Ian's tried to make a joke of it, referring to himself as a lab rat and downplaying just how "off" he really feels, but Debbie can tell it's a Herculean effort for him these days just shuffling between the living room and the bathroom and the bedroom. So every day when she visits they mostly just sit together and stare at the TV.
For the first week or two, Ian barely said anything at all, just sat slumped on the couch and gazed blankly at whatever flitted across the TV screen. She knew he appreciated her company, though, because sometimes he reached out and held her hand. More recently, though, he's been more talkative. Talkative by Ian standards, which isn't all that much, admittedly. Fiona used to tease him about that, saying that every conversation with Ian was like playing Twenty Questions. Until he came back from the Army and couldn't seem to stop chattering, which was funny...until it wasn't. But when Ian talks now, he sounds more like the Ian she remembers. Even if he's mostly just commenting about whatever shitty program they're watching, it's been a relief to hear his voice again. It helps Debbie feel like Ian's really still in there, buried as he is right now beneath a haze of medication and discomfort.
Debbie stands there in the empty room, uncertain what she should do next. Maybe Ian's being sick in the bathroom again or, worse, maybe he's gone back to bed. He's been good about not spending whole days in there again since that really bad crash, but maybe he's decided to stop trying. Maybe he's back to where he was all those weeks back, not seeing any point to anything. That thought makes her stomach uneasy and Debbie decides to put off finding out by going to the kitchen first to drop off the bread and peanut butter.
In the kitchen, however, she's relieved and shocked to find Ian sitting at the table, giving Yevgeny a bottle. "Hey, Debs," he greets her as if nothing is at all unusual.
Debbie drops the Aldi bag on the counter and makes a beeline for the baby. She's seen him around a few times, usually being carried by Svetlana or one of her Russian friends, but those women intimidate Debbie so she's kept her distance. This is the first time she's been free enough to actually have a good look at the baby.
"Oh, he's so sweet," she coos, running her index finger down his pink little arm, "Are you babysitting?"
"Sort of," he says. "Carl come?"
"With Mickey."
Ian half smiles at this, silently making fun of both Carl and Mickey but not disapproving of their odd new friendship either. Carl's been a little uneasy around Ian since he got sick and Debbie suspects that Ian can tell. And that Mickey seems to be operating as a mutually accepted proxy between the two brothers.
Ian and Debbie sit in companionable silence for a few minutes as Yevgeny finishes his bottle. Debbie tries to just watch the baby and not look around her. The Milkovich house is gross when she looks too closely, and it makes her sad to think of Ian here all the time instead of at home, in their cheery yellow kitchen or safe in his old bed with the sheets Fiona got him for Christmas when he was twelve. Debbie never felt like the Gallaghers had a nice house until she spent so much time at the Milkoviches' house.
Then, without a word, Ian hands Yevgeny over to Debbie for burping. Debbie can't keep from grinning as she takes on his warm weight and thumps his back. How can anyone not like babies? "I can watch him sometimes, you know," she offers, "Then you and Mickey could go out, or whatever."
"Like a date night?"
"Sure."
Ian smiles and sips his beer. Debbie has brought up several times that Ian shouldn't be drinking alcohol with his medication, but every time she's been met with cool silence, so she doesn't even bother to say anything anymore. As she watches him, though, it occurs to her that he looks substantially better today than he has in a long time. As if he can hear what she's thinking, he offers up further evidence. "I went for a walk today," he says.
"Really?" Debbie sounds far more excited than she means to, but this is good news. Just a couple days ago, Ian had muttered something about how he was turning into Batty Sheila and was probably never going to leave the house again.
He shrugs. "Couple blocks. Not exactly running eight miles before breakfast these days."
"You have to start somewhere," she says.
He doesn't say anything in response to that, just takes Yevgeny back. He walks him around for a bit, then deposits him in his bassinet which stands in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room.
"You see the TV's gone?" Ian asks as he returns to his chair and his beer.
"No."
"Yeah. Iggy took it. Mickey's having kittens."
"He's not going to kill him, is he?" Debbie asks, concerned.
"Not yet."
Debbie's not quite sure if Ian's joking, so she decides to change the subject. "I brought dinner. Did you eat?"
He shakes his head and Debbie gets to work making him a sandwich. Every single afternoon she makes him a sandwich. And sometimes he actually eats it. They both know the sandwich-making is more for Debbie than Ian anyway. Maybe it's all the years running the summer daycare, maybe it's too much babysitting or too much of Fiona's influence, but Debbie can't not look after everybody. She's pretty sure that if she ever left the Milkovich house without making sure there's a plate of food for Ian, her conscience would find a way to strangle her in her sleep.
As Debbie starts laying out slices of bread in the familiar assembly-line style (she doesn't remember a time when she has ever needed to make just one sandwich), Mickey bursts in through the back door and grabs a beer from the fridge. He stands there, gulping it down while both Ian and Debbie turn to stare at him.
"Tell me you didn't just leave Carl alone with a loaded weapon," Ian says.
"Nah, man," Mickey scoffs, pulling a handful of bullets from his pocket, displaying them briefly, and then dumping them back, "He's gotta earn that privilege."
Both Gallaghers breathe identical sighs of relief and Mickey takes another sip before continuing. "Respect for the gun," he announces, holding his beer bottle up in reverence to the notion, "That's what he's gotta learn."
Debbie's lips can't help but curl into a little smile as she catches Ian rolling his eyes. Then she's startled as Mickey turns to her.
"You make me one of those?" he asks.
She nods as she spreads the peanut butter across three slices, hurriedly taking her eyes off him. Mickey still makes her a little nervous just because he seems so intense about everything. She's starting to realize, though, that that's just how Mickey talks; he only sounds angry. He's like the pitbull that used to live in the house four doors down from them: snarling and scary for strangers, but waggy and kissy if you know him and can get past being afraid of his teeth.
Debbie's grown to like Mickey and is reminded of this once more as he gives Ian a playful little cuff and turns back to Debbie with an affectionate smile, as if seeking her approval. "Looking more like himself today, ain't he?" he says.
"Yeah," Debbie agrees.
"Went for a run even," Mickey adds, practically beaming as he takes a seat across from his boyfriend.
"Walk," Ian corrects him.
"Still better than my lazy ass did today."
Debbie places the tops on all three sandwiches, slices them, and sets two of the plates down in front of Ian and Mickey. Then she opens the back door and hollers out, "Carl! Dinner!"
"In a minute!" comes a faint reply from the alley.
"You ain't eatin' with us?" Mickey asks as Debbie joins them at the table, taking the seat without a plate in front of it.
"No. I'm having dinner later."
"With Matty?" Ian asks around a mouthful of sandwich.
"Maybe."
"That the old guy?" Mickey asks and Debbie feels her cheeks go scarlet. If Mickey knows about Matty, that means he and Ian talk about her when she's not there. For some reason, it has never occurred to Debbie that this was a possibility. She feels suddenly self-conscious, even more so as Mickey notices her blushing.
"What's with you Gallaghers and geriatrics?" he laughs.
"He's twenty!" she protests.
"And you're what-sixteen?"
"Thirteen."
Mickey's eyebrows are practically jumping off his head. "What the fuck's he want with you?"
Debbie turns to Ian, looking to him to defend her, but he's sitting very still with his eyes closed. Without a word, he stands and makes his way quickly to the bathroom. She glances at Mickey, who's wearing a pained expression on his face as he watches him go. "Shit," he mutters.
The three of them have an unspoken understanding that when Ian goes to puke, they let him alone-the only modicum of dignity they can really give him in that situation-so Debbie brings the conversation back to her and Matty. She's now determined that if Mickey knows about her relationship, he sure as hell isn't gonna judge her about it.
"Ian dated an older guy," she says, considering this a masterstroke in the argument. She doesn't think Mickey could ever find fault with anything Ian does.
She's surprised at the look that earns her. It's some strange combination of barely contained scorn and outrage. He sits back hard in his chair and cocks his head at her. "You think any of those old fuckers gave a shit about him?"
Debbie is startled to hear that Ian had more than one "old" boyfriend. She's also surprised at the seething anger Mickey's projecting. It seems like more than just jealousy. "Well," she stammers, "If Ian was okay with being with them and he liked it too, what's wrong with that?"
Mickey shakes his head dismissively. "Cause he's like you, all soft and needy and shit. Fuckin' assholes eat that up like it's a goddamned buffet."
"I'm not needy!"
Mickey almost laughs at her. "You two walk around like you're just begging everybody to love you, like you're fucking puppies looking for a home."
Debbie scowls. "There's nothing wrong with wanting people to like you. It's called being nice."
"It's called thinking it matters what other people feel about you. Thinking you don't count 'til somebody out there tells you you do."
Mickey's expression seems to soften a little as he watches Debbie think about this. "Anyway," he says, "Those older guys, they get off on that power shit and use it to get what they want. They don't give a shit if they leave you messed up."
"Ian didn't get messed up. He dated Dr. Lishman and he was fine."
Mickey looks at her in disbelief. He leans forward and gestures toward the bathroom. "That kid in there thinks the only thing he's got to offer the world is his fucking body. He thinks that's all he's good for. And why does he think that? 'Cause those fuckers taught him that."
They're both quiet for a minute. Mickey resumes eating his sandwich and Debbie gazes at Ian's abandoned plate and considers what Mickey's just told her. She thinks about all the dedication Ian put into perfecting his body the past couple years, and how he complains the most lately about not being able to run or work out and looking like crap. He was always strong and fitter than anyone else she knew, but it's strange to view that now as coming from a place of insecurity.
"Yeah," Mickey says, "Blame your brother and sister too for that shit. Think they're so much better and smarter than the rest of you. No wonder you're so fucking needy."
This is now more than Mickey's ever said to her maybe the whole time she's known him, but apparently he still hasn't said his piece yet. He seems to be fired up, as if he's been wanting to say these things for a while. Debbie's not surprised that his ire has turned to Lip and Fiona. For as much as they obviously dislike Mickey, the feeling is clearly mutual. Lip flat-out declared weeks ago that he wasn't going to see Ian anymore until he didn't have "Fucking Mickey Milkovich hovering around him like his bodyguard," and the couple times Fiona's been by, it always ends up with her and Mickey butting heads and arguing about what's best for Ian and which one of them has more right to decide.
Mickey seems to take Debbie's lack of a response as a sign of her doubt. "You think he doesn't notice that they don't let you bring Liam by? You think that don't break his fucking heart? How many times Lip been by here? Once? Your sister? Twice, maybe? You think that don't make him feel like shit? Like he don't matter? Man, he never mattered to them. Where the fuck were they when those sick old bastards were molesting his fuckin' fifteen-year-old ass? Why they lettin' you get in the same situation? Huh? Fuckin' redheaded stepchildren is why."
Debbie doesn't know what to say to this. As she's trying to process her thoughts, Mickey continues:
"Why the fuck was it me who had to drag his ass home from that crack house he was sleeping in? They too busy with their own problems? Your sister, she's his legal guardian, right? His fucking Ma in the eyes of the law? She likes to tell me that a lot, throw it around like it means something. If she's his Ma, why the fuck was she okay with an underage kid shaking his ass for dollars and getting used by every fucking faggot over the age of forty in the goddamn city? I don't think she ever shook her ass for cash. No? Coulda brought in a lot of money to support all those kids if she wanted to. But she's too good for that, right? But not the kid she's supposed to be taking care of? It's all right for him? Fuck that."
Mickey stomps his feet under the table for emphasis, "Fuck that redheaded stepchildren shit."
Debbie just sits there, puzzled, as he finishes his tirade with an angry swig of his beer. Gallagher pride makes her want to defend Fiona, to defend Lip, but, seeing it from Mickey's point of view like this, she finds she doesn't totally disagree with him. Even before everything got messed up with Liam and Fiona going to jail, Debbie couldn't understand why Fiona and Lip weren't trying to find Ian. She kept asking if they should do a search for him like they used to do for Frank, but they kept brushing it off. For a while it felt like Carl and Debbie were the only ones who remembered Ian even existed. It still feels a little bit like that now. Maybe Mickey's right and it always was like that.
But all Debbie can bring herself to say to this is, "What do you mean 'redheaded stepchildren'?"
Mickey takes another sip of his beer, then tips the bottle in Debbie's direction and says, "You're not Frank's kid either, right?"
Debbie furrows her brow. "What?"
"You and Ian. You're both that other guy's kid, right? Frank's brother?"
Debbie suddenly feels naked. Ever since finding out that Ian was Clayton's son and not Frank's, she's secretly wondered if Clayton was her father too. She and Ian look more like each other than they do any of their siblings, and they've always shared a similar temperament-as even Mickey's pointed out. She's never once breathed a word of this to anyone, though, not even Ian. "Did...did Ian say that?" she manages to ask.
"Nah," Mickey shrugs, "Fuckin' obvious, though, right?"
"I don't know," she admits.
"It's like me and Mandy. Nothin' like the rest of them 'cause they got a different Ma."
This is news to Debbie, but it makes sense. From what she's seen of the other Milkovich brothers, they don't look anything like Mickey and Mandy. And they seem a lot more dumb and lumbering. "And Molly too," she adds, making the connection that Terry's had kids with a lot of different women.
Mickey makes a face at the mention of Molly and doesn't say anything about her, just takes a deep swig of beer.
They're interrupted then as Carl trudges in and takes a seat. "Is Ian barfing?" he asks.
Mickey and Debbie confirm this by not saying anything. "Can I have the rest of his sandwich?" Carl asks.
"No," both Mickey and Debbie reply at the same time.
Carl sighs and takes a bite of his own sandwich reluctantly.
Ian emerges from the bathroom then. He pauses to peer into the bassinet and check that Yevgeny is still sleeping, then he returns to his seat at the table.
"Can I have the rest of your sandwich?" Carl asks.
"Take it," Ian says, scooting it off of his plate and on top of Carl's sandwich.
"Thanks!"
Ian turns to Debbie apologetically. "It's not your sandwich, it's just me."
"I know."
Mickey and Carl continue eating their sandwiches for a few minutes until Carl takes a breather and announces, "Mickey's a really good shot."
"Be pretty sad if he wasn't," Ian replies.
Mickey grins and points his thumb at Ian. "He shoots better than me. Fucking precision, man."
Carl scoffs. "You're just saying that 'cause he's your boyfriend."
Debbie catches Ian smiling at that, but Mickey is scoffing right back at Carl. "You think so?" Mickey asks him. Then Mickey turns to Ian. "You gonna let that stand?"
All three of them look at Ian expectantly while he just looks back at Mickey. "I'm a better shot than Mickey," he says finally.
"Prove it," Carl says and Debbie is a bit alarmed. She's not sure how wise it is to be challenging Ian right now, if it's just gonna upset him or make him close up and disappear into his head again, but to her surprise Ian smiles.
"Okay," he says and stands up.
There's a moment of hesitation before everyone else follows his lead. Before they head outside, Mickey unlocks what Carl's started referring to as "the arsenal cabinet" and removes a fresh human-shaped shooting target because of course the Milkoviches keep a personal supply of shooting targets. While Ian and Carl take the target out to the back alley, Debbie watches as Mickey carefully locks the cabinet and slips the key back into his pocket. She's pretty sure he only put a lock on that cabinet once Ian got sick-she heard Iggy complaining about it a couple weeks back-but she's pleased to note that Mickey seems to be the only person who has a key and that he keeps it on him at all times.
With the cabinet secured, Debbie follows Mickey out to the alley where Ian and Carl have already set up the new target and taken a position several yards back from it.
"You ready?" Mickey calls to Ian.
"Need some bullets."
"Right." Mickey accepts the revolver from Ian and loads the bullets from his pocket. As he hands the loaded gun back to Ian, Debbie tastes tinfoil panic in her mouth for a moment, but she swallows it down as Ian positions himself and focuses intently on the target.
"Call it," Ian says.
"Chest!" Carl calls.
"Which part?" Ian asks.
"Uh, heart."
Ian shoots the target cleanly through the heart.
"Left shoulder!" Mickey calls.
The bullet pierces the target's left shoulder.
"Brain!" Carl calls.
Ian hits the target through the center of its temple.
"Dick!" Carl shouts.
Ian hits the center bottom of the target since the target ends at what would be a man's waist.
"Eyes!" Debbie calls, unable to help herself.
Ian fires off two shots in a row, bullet holes now staring back at them from the target's previously featureless face.
"Badass," Carl murmurs approvingly.
"Hold up," Mickey says. He goes over to a pile of rubbish, rummages around for a few seconds and produces an empty whiskey bottle. Giving Ian a sly smile, he chucks it into the air. Ian fires off a single shot and shatters the bottle midair. As they cover their heads to guard against the falling shards, Debbie and Carl cheer.
Ian turns around with a bit of a swagger and hands the gun back to Mickey, who immediately empties the remaining bullets back into his pocket. Ian's beaming and Debbie sees a glimpse of his old confidence, still intact, just buried somewhere inside all this time. It's beautiful to see.
"Can you teach me to shoot like that?" Carl asks.
"Sure," Ian replies.
"Yeah, another time, though," Mickey says, swooping in protectively but making it look casual as he slings an arm over Ian's shoulder and starts leading them all back to the house. "You did good, sharpshooter," Debbie hears him say softly to Ian.
Back inside, Debbie and Carl start bundling up for the walk home. Before they leave, Ian catches them both in a hug and kisses the tops of their heads. It's been so long since he did that little gesture. He used to do it all the time. Debbie finds there are tears starting in her eyes when he lets them go.
"Maybe I'll go see you guys tomorrow," he tells them.
Debbie blinks back the tears to smile at him. "That'd be nice," she says, even though she knows it probably isn't likely.
Debbie and Carl start to head for the door, but Ian reaches out and stops Carl by the shoulder. Ian puts out his hand for the gun that Carl's somehow managed to get a hold of under his coat.
"It's not loaded," Carl says, "Mickey took the bullets."
"Yeah, but it's not registered if cops or Social Services find it. You don't need anymore trouble in that house."
Reluctantly, Carl passes the revolver to Ian. "We'll keep it here for you," Mickey says.
Carl gives Mickey a nod of appreciation and adds, "This place is awesome. Our house sucks right now."
Ian tilts his head and frowns. "You giving Fiona a hard time?"
"No."
"Good. Don't."
"Bye, Ian!" Debbie says over her shoulder, hustling Carl out the door.
"Stay away from perverts!" Mickey calls after her.
That night at Matty's apartment, they're watching Monty Python and eating enchiladas when Debbie asks him, "Why do you like me?"
Matty is sipping his Mountain Dew and raises his eyebrows. "Huh?" he asks, tearing his eyes from the TV.
"Why do you like me? It's not a hard question."
"Uh, 'cause you're smart. And fun. And pretty."
Debbie feels a warmth rising in her chest when he says this-Matty is so cute and she can't believe he actually finds her pretty-but Mickey's implanted an uneasiness that Debbie just can't shake. "You don't like me just for my body, right?" she asks.
Matty blushes. "No. No, Debbie. I mean, I like your body. But I like everything else about you too."
Debbie kisses Matty's cheek and scoots closer to him, satisfied. She is nothing like Ian after all. She's doing it right and she won't be messed up at all.