Redheaded Stepchildren

by Zebra Wallpaper

A story about Debbie and Ian's relationship in the months following the end of Season 4 (and some flashbacks to their relationship in years prior). There's some Ian/Mickey in the background, but this is primarily a story about Debbie and her brother.

10. Strangling Doesn't Make Much Noise

Carl's in the bathroom when Debbie gets up, and as she waits in the hall for her turn, she peeks into the boys' room. Ian's still sleeping, face to the wall. Despite the summer heat, he's wrapped up tight with the sheet pulled nearly to his chin. Considering it's almost seven-thirty and Ian's usually up with the sun, this doesn't bode well. She knots her hands together nervously as Carl emerges from the bathroom.

"Move," he grumbles, pushing past her.

Debbie's concern is replaced momentarily with annoyance. As she stomps into the bathroom, she hears Carl say in a much gentler tone, "Ian? You getting up?"

She doesn't wait to hear the response to this question, afraid that there will actually be no response. Instead, she turns the water on full-blast and brushes her teeth as fervently as possible.

When she comes out of the bathroom, Carl's getting dressed and he slams the boys' room door in Debbie's face. She heads downstairs, muttering to herself.

It's just Fiona and Liam in the kitchen, but this is already more people around than Debbie's been used to in mornings this summer. Fiona must have bailed on her breakfast shift and decided to keep Liam home as well. Despite the circumstances, it's kinda nice not being greeted by an empty kitchen and cold dregs at the bottom of the coffee pot.

Fiona's frowning at her cellphone as she texts something and doesn't acknowledge Debbie, but Liam grins at her with a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Debbie wiggles her fingers back at him and pours herself a cup of coffee. The rest of the scrambled eggs are heaped in a sad little pile on a plate beside the stove and Debbie fights the urge to poke at them. She's never seen sorrier looking scrambled eggs before.

"I'd offer you some," Fiona says, setting down her phone, "But we only had two eggs and you wouldn't believe how much milk I had to use to stretch 'em that far. I'm kinda hopin' to entice Ian."

Debbie doubts you could entice anybody but Liam with those eggs, but she only says, "I'm not hungry anyway."

"You should eat," Fiona declares, "Want me to make some toast? We got cereal too."

Debbie's about to protest, but is saved from having to because Lip comes in then from the living room and Fiona's attention instantly switches to him.

"All right," Lip announces, "Called him in sick to work. Emailed my professor. Got them to squeeze us in with his doctor at one." He sets down his phone and resumes eating a bowl of cereal he'd apparently left on the table.

"Still no word from Mickey," Fiona says, "I'm starting to get worried about him."

"Fuck him," Lip replies as a he spoons some cereal hurriedly into his mouth and then talks around it, "Ian put him in charge of everything, chose him over us, and this is what he does when shit gets real? Just disappears? Fuck him."

Debbie opens her mouth to tell Lip that he's being a complete asshole, and he doesn't know what's really going on because he's never around anymore. But Fiona speaks before Debbie can and surprises her by saying almost exactly what Debbie was going to, only a little nicer.

"That isn't fair," Fiona says, "You're not here. You don't see how it is."

"Apparently, being here doesn't mean shit. How did you miss this happening again?" Lip snaps back.

Fiona's jaw drops with the accusation. "Excuse me? You've seen Ian as much as I have this summer. How'd you miss it?"

"I got alotta shit on my plate, okay?"

"And I don't?"

Debbie watches them glaring at each other and just feels exhausted. "It's not like how it was before," Debbie says, hoping this will let them both off the hook and make peace because she can't take them fighting with each other right now, "It's not as obvious."

Lip tears his eyes away from Fiona and nods at Debbie. "Yeah," he says, gesturing emptily with his hands, "I think that's the drugs. Think they're…dulling it, or somethin'."

"So, you think they are working?" Fiona asks, happy to forget Lip's attempted guilt trip and trade it in for reassurance.

"Obviously not enough if they are," Lip replies. He resumes eating his cereal then says, "Maybe they just need to change the dose or add something to it. I don't know."

It's weird hearing Lip say 'I don't know' about something. It makes Debbie think that he's feeling in over his head a bit, maybe even scared. In a way, though, this almost makes her feel better. It's somehow heartening that she's not the only one afraid.

Fiona sighs then puts a hand on Debbie's shoulder and says, "This is normal. This just happens sometimes. It's okay."

"I know," Debbie scowls over the rim of her coffee mug. She's read the same material they all have. She'd been reading it since back when it was just Monica who had it, and the rest of them couldn't have cared less about the books Debbie hauled home from the library. Plus she got the same song and dance from Lip last night. She really doesn't want any more empty assurances. She just wants everything to actually improve.

"Hey," Fiona says as Carl comes downstairs, "Got our shifts covered for tonight."

"Cool," Carl replies as he sits down to put his shoes on.

"Where you going?" Lip asks him.

"Out to look for Mickey."

Lip doesn't say anything to that, thank god. Carl finishes with his shoes and heads for the door, but Fiona reaches out to stop him. Carl looks back with annoyance, but he accepts the banana she holds out to him. He peels it, bites off half of it and then takes the rest with him.

"Mark my words," Fiona says after he's left, "That banana peel is gonna be out there on the back sidewalk, rottin'."

"Maybe Frank'll slip on it and die," Debbie says, thinking about Ian shoving him down the back steps the other night.

"We'd never be that lucky," Lip replies.

For a couple minutes after this, they slip into the rhythm of what a normal morning used to look like. Fiona chats with Liam as he finishes his eggs, then she shoos him to go watch cartoons as she cleans up his mess. Lip eats the rest of his cereal while gazing into space, plotting something out in his head. Debbie sips her coffee and finds herself, despite everything, wondering about Joaquin—where he was yesterday, whether he'll be back at the pool today, whether he'll even notice that she's not going to be there.

Then they hear the toilet flush from upstairs and Lip, Fiona, and Debbie all freeze.

A moment later, Ian clomps downstairs, frowning and cradling his injured right hand in his left. He's in a clean uniform, though he's unshaven. He looks exhausted despite having slept for nearly twelve hours.

"Morning, Sleepyhead," Fiona greets him, covering up the fact that the three of them have all have just visibly relaxed at the sight of him up and about.

"I can't find any goddamn Tylenol," he grumbles, throwing himself onto one of the barstools, "My hand's killing me."

"Must be out," Fiona says, "Want some eggs?"

Ian doesn't respond, but she sets the plate in front of him anyway.

Debbie rummages in her purse until she finds a little bottle and offers it to Ian.

"I'm not taking Midol," he replies after he's stared at it for a second.

"It's the same stuff," Debbie says.

"Yeah, but with added ingredients for bitchiness," Lip jokes, "Might not hurt."

Ian ignores him and says to Fiona, "There's nothing in the medicine cabinet. Like, nothing. What are you doing with all that money?"

"All that money," Fiona laughs, "Yeah, I'm really rakin' it in servin' two-dollar slices of pie."

"No, no," Ian says, putting a hand to his head and closing his eyes, "The money I gave you. Jesus Christ, I could really use it if you're just gonna waste it anyway."

Fiona tilts her head. "What money?"

Debbie watches apprehensively, waiting to see if Ian's going to tell Fiona about his backdoor contributions to the squirrel fund. Debbie catches Lip watching him too. It's easy enough to get things past Fiona, but not Lip.

Ian seems irritated as he realizes his slip-up. "Never mind," he lies clumsily, "I'm…thinking of something else." Then he switches topics, eager to take Fiona's eyes off him, "I think Carl ran off with my razor. I don't know what he's up to, but it's probably not good."

Fiona hesitates just a beat too long before she nods, and realization dawns on Ian's face as he figures out why his razor is missing and why the medicine cabinet is completely empty.

"Shit," he says, standing up, "Guys…don't…just…just forget about yesterday, okay?" He goes to put his untouched plate in the sink, but he slops a bit of scrambled egg onto the linoleum in his agitated movement. He drops to his knees and scoops the spilled egg back onto his plate, awkward with his bandaged hand. Somehow more egg tumbles off the plate in the process, and they can all clearly see Ian's hands shaking as he attempts to corral all the watery blobs of egg while continuing to try and deflect their attention. "I was just really tired," he says, "Don't—you don't have to worry about me. I'm fine."

Lip squats down to help, but Ian stands up abruptly and sets the half-filled plate on the counter.

"I gotta get to work," he says.

Ian hurries toward the door and Debbie and Fiona both glance at Lip who grimly hustles to position himself in Ian's path.

"You're not going into work today, man," Lip says, taking on a familiar tone of authority, "You're seeing the doctor."

Ian sets his jaw tight in annoyance and says, "Mind your own business."

"No."

Ian grows visibly more irritated as Lip shakes his head and continues:

"No. I already did the whole minding my own business part. I'm done with that. I'm not letting you go through this shit alone anymore."

"Screw you," Ian mutters and he turns away, having apparently decided to leave by the front door instead.

But Lip calls after him, "I called you in sick at work and made an appointment with your psychiatric guy."

Ian's expression goes from annoyed to murderous as he spins back around. "What the fuck?" he demands.

Lip steals himself and puts his shoulders back, attempting, consciously or not, to appear larger. "Punch my goddamn lights out if you want," he says.

Ian shakes his head wordlessly, his Bambi eyes narrowed almost to slits. He has never looked so tall or broad as he does now, moving toward Lip slowly, looming over him.

"Just tryin' to help, man," Lip says, not taking his eyes from Ian's.

"Ian—" Fiona says, just as it looks like he might be about three seconds from decking Lip.

At the sound of her voice, Ian takes a step back. He continues to glare at Lip, though, and growls, "You didn't have any right to do that."

"You're right," Lip agrees, "But I did it. You see somebody bleedin' on the sidewalk, you don't stop and ask 'em first before you call an ambulance."

"You're not in charge of me," Ian says carefully, as if he's just barely holding onto his temper, forming his anger into words like little lead bullets, "You don't get to decide anything about my life."

"Yeah," Lip nods, angry now too, "You took care of that, didn't you? Running off and puttin' Mickey in charge of everything? Makin' it real loud and fuckin' clear that you're your own man now, and Mickey's your family, and we're just supposed to stay far the fuck away and never say anything unless you tell us we're allowed to. Well, fuck that. Mickey's not here. I'm steppin' in. I'm fucking helping you."

"I don't need help," Ian shouts, finally losing all semblance of composure. Then he amends this statement, "I don't need your help. I can get help myself. Okay? I don't need your help or Mickey's help or anybody's help. I'm not a kid. I can take care of myself."

"Jesus Christ, Ian," Lip shouts back. Debbie is shocked to see that there are tears in Lip's eyes. His voice is hoarse as he continues, "I know you're not a kid. I know you're a big, fuckin' adult. And I know you don't want anybody's help. But I don't believe you that you're gonna get help. 'Cause you don't give two shits about yourself right now. When were you plannin' to get help, huh? Tomorrow? Next week? When you lose your job or you hurt yourself worse than you already have? When it gets so bad you think starvin' to death in your bed's a better option?"

Lip's voice breaks at that and he pauses for a moment before he whispers, shaking his head, "Stop being so fuckin' selfish and let me help you. Let me do something."

"Let you boss me around," Ian mutters, almost to himself. But then his entire posture seems to change. He sinks from big and menacing to the broken, exhausted person he was last night. "I'm not trying to be selfish," he says quietly.

"I know," Lip replies, "But, Jesus. How would you feel if it was Debbie you saw in the kind of pain you were in last night. That you're still in now. Or Carl. Or Fiona. Or Liam. You wouldn't just stand by like a dummy while they were suffering. You'd do anything you could to help them, and you sure as hell wouldn't stop and wait for them to ask."

And suddenly the tears from last night have returned. Ian is tilting his head back and grimacing, trying to stop them.

Lip, always one to seize on a moment of weakness, continues forcefully, "How 'bout how you're goin' behind Carl's back, trying to pull strings to get him on the football team this year, huh? You're only doin' that 'cause you don't want him in the Army anymore than I do. You don't want those sick fucks anywhere near him."

Fiona cringes slightly, visibly guilty that her big mouth has been revealed. Ian doesn't appear to notice, though. He's still blinking back tears as Lip talks at him.

"Carl would be royally fuckin' pissed if he knew you were doin' that," Lip says, "But you don't care if he ends up pissed off, right? 'Cause it's a lot more fuckin' important that those bastards not get their goddamn hands on him. It's a lot more fuckin' important that Carl's safe."

Ian says nothing, closes his eyes as he loses the battle with his tears of rage and fatigue.

"Come on, man," Lip says gently, "You'd have done the same thing if you were in my position."

Ian seems to sink. "How would you feel?" he says to Lip, his voice small and trembling. It's his last grasp at autonomy, and he knows he's not going to win.

"I'd hate it," Lip says, "I'd hate it as much as you do. But I hope to hell somebody would give enough of a shit to help me anyway, whether I liked it or not. 'Cause I'd probably really need them to."

Ian wipes his face with his sleeve and turns away from Lip. He doesn't look at Debbie or Fiona as he trudges toward the living room in defeat. "Do whatever you want," he says, his voice strangled nearly to death, "You're the one who knows everything."

Lip stands there, glaring at Ian's wake. Then he wipes away his own tears roughly with the palms of his hands.

"Lip, don't—" Fiona starts to say, but cuts herself off as he pushes past her and stomps upstairs.

Alone in the kitchen, Debbie and Fiona look to each other uncomfortably as the newfound silence settles around them.

"That actually went better than I thought it would," Fiona says.

"They're gonna kill each other someday, aren't they?"

Fiona sighs and holds up her hands helplessly. Then she rests them on her hips and asks, "You gonna stay in your pajamas all day just 'cause you're off work?"

Debbie rolls her eyes but goes upstairs to dress, artfully sidestepping the eggs still spilled on the floor.

---

Fiona comes upstairs not long after Debbie, and they end up sharing the bathroom mirror while they do their make-up. When Fiona drops her mascara wand into the sink, Debbie hands it back to her without missing a beat and when Debbie begins to apply a new, cherry red lip balm she's never worn before, Fiona wordlessly hands her a more neutral, pinky balm instead.

As Debbie finishes her make-up and re-ties her ponytail, she asks, "How come you're not at work?"

Fiona smirks and she recaps her mascara. "Remember how I said yesterday that I didn't care if they canned me for bein' late?"

"They fired you?" Debbie says, feeling her stomach sink a little.

Fiona shrugs. "It was a shitty job anyway. And I still have my regular shift at Patsy's. That'll hold us 'til I get somethin' else."

"Sorry," Debbie says with some guilt. She doesn't think she could count the number of jobs Fiona's walked out on or lost because of them. And pretty much all of them she's taken because of them. Debbie thinks about the conversation she had with Lip last night about college, how he'd talked about how Ian and Debbie could use it to get someplace better, how yesterday they'd all seemed to acknowledge that it was something Carl and Liam and even Yevgeny Milkovich should try and shoot for too. Nobody had said anything about Fiona.

Debbie finds herself wondering, for possibly the first time ever, what Fiona would choose to do with her life if she didn't have the rest of them to worry about, if she didn't have the felony riding around on her back, if she'd never had to drop out of school back when Monica flaked off for good. Debbie wants to ask her this, but can't think of a way to put it that doesn't just remind Fiona of how much less of a future she's always had than everybody else. Still, it bothers Debbie that she has no idea what Fiona's answer to this question might be. What did Fiona used to dream about before it became clear that dreams were not something meant for her?

"Go keep an eye on Liam, okay?" Fiona says then.

It's clear to Debbie that Fiona's giving her a task because it's obvious that Debbie's worrying about something, and Fiona wants to distract her. Debbie bristles at this parental manipulation, but she tamps down on the urge to rebel. Instead, she decides to take the distraction. Fiona's not always wrong.

Debbie finds Liam sitting on the living room floor, entranced by Busytown Mysteries. Ian's on the couch with his arms folded and his head bowed. His eyes are closed, and Debbie thinks that he is sleeping until she takes a seat in the armchair and he looks over at her.

"Why aren't you in Lincoln Park?" he asks.

"Elisa's got the day off," Debbie replies. It's only a partial lie. Elisa did take the day off, but only after Debbie called her in desperation last night. Debbie says nothing about this to Ian, nothing about how kind Elisa had been about the whole thing, how she'd offered to help, to drive them anywhere they needed to go, to put them in touch with anyone who could be of assistance. Debbie's not sure what Elisa thought was going on—even in her rattled state, Debbie had been careful not to give details—but Debbie was taken aback by how oddly important Elisa's offers made her feel. It's stupid, maybe, but it felt nice to have her situation taken seriously, like she wasn't just being some worrywart little kid.

Ian's eyes are already closed again. Debbie can't tell if he's sleeping or trying to imagine himself away from everybody or if he's in pain or just in deep thought. She takes the opportunity to get a good look at him, though. It's weird seeing him unshaven—Ian's always been meticulous about his grooming—and his face is still mottled and puffy from all the crying. Since he left the kitchen, he's discarded his uniform shirt and now is just wearing his uniform pants with his undershirt. The undershirt looks a little dingy for Ian's usual standards, and she suspects he's finally run through the clean clothes he's brought with him from home. Debbie squints her eyes and tries to determine if, dishevelment aside, he looks less healthy than he did earlier this summer, if there were other signs she should've picked up on. It's hard to tell, though.

Feeling the weight of Debbie watching him, Ian opens his eyes. Debbie turns her attention swiftly to the television, embarrassed at having been caught.

After a minute, she hears him speak. "Sorry if I scared you all."

Debbie looks back at him, surprised. She wants to assure him that he didn't scare them, but she also doesn't want to lie. Instead she says, "Sorry you're feeling so bad."

Ian deflects her sympathy by turning his eyes to the television. Debbie follows suit.

They watch the show without saying anymore for a while. Debbie's seeing the little characters singing and doing things, but her mind is not on solving whatever incredibly obvious preschool-level mystery it is that's playing out onscreen. She's thinking instead about what's going to happen when Ian goes to the doctor today, if it's really going to be as simple a fix as Lip seems to think. She's also remembering those weeks when Ian was adjusting to medication the first time, when he'd been capable of little more than just staring at the TV, how that had almost seemed to make him more ashamed than getting diagnosed with the actual disorder had. She's trying to decide if it's foolish to hope things might go a little easier this time. It doesn't seem fair that everything always has to be so hard.

"It's always Mister Fix-It," Ian says out of nowhere.

Debbie doesn't understand what he's talking about, then she realizes he's referring to Liam's cartoon. Mister Fix-It is indeed often at the center of the show's mysteries.

"Mmm," Debbie agrees.

"You'd think they'd catch on after a while," he says, "That should be the first person they check out."

And Debbie laughs at this. "But then there'd be no show," she replies, "It'd be done in, like, three minutes."

"Save everybody some time," he says.

Debbie grins, delighted at the normalcy of this conversation, then she looks up as Fiona comes in from the kitchen. She's carrying a couple pill bottles and a glass of Sunny Delight. She sets them on the coffee table and sits down beside Ian.

"Found the Tylenol," she says, "Also some Advil if you'd rather have that. And I think I can scrounge up a Vicodin instead, if it's hurtin' that bad."

Ian hesitates, as if this is some sort of trap laid out before him that he can't figure out. Then he says, "Tylenol's fine."

He picks up the bottle and starts trying to unscrew the safety top, clumsy with his bandaged hand.

Fiona leans forward to help him, but changes her mind. She sits back and lets him do it himself. It takes a bit, but he manages to get the cap off and shakes out a couple capsules.

As Ian swallows these, Fiona pats the couch cushion and says, "Here, Debs. Ian sandwich."

Debbie doesn't look at Ian's expression first to test the waters; she just does as she is told and wedges herself in on the other side of him. Fiona presses in tighter from the opposite end. Between the two sisters, they squeeze him enough that he is helpless to escape.

"Can I take ya to lunch before your appointment?" Fiona asks.

"No," Ian grumbles.

"Wanna go grocery shoppin' with me?"

"No."

"Hardly ever have a day off with you. Wanna go get our hair did at Vee's mom's place? You're lookin' a little scruffy."

"No."

Debbie gets in on the game and suggests, "We could go roller skating."

"Oh, that's an idea," Fiona says.

"Come on," Ian complains, "Stop."

Fiona stops pressing against him quite so hard but she doesn't scoot either. Debbie too remains tight between his side and the arm of the couch. She can feel his heart beating through his undershirt, unexpectedly slow and steady, like everything inside him is just fine.

They all gaze in the general direction of the TV for a bit until Fiona asks, casual as casual can be, "So, when you plannin' on goin' home?"

It's so obvious Fiona's trying to ask him about Mickey. Debbie tenses, waiting for Ian to blow up at Fiona or to go cold with her.

Instead, he asks in a small voice, "You kicking me out?"

"No, no," Fiona assures him, wrapping her arm around his arm and resting her chin on his shoulder, "You can stay as long as you want. Just…you gotta go home at some point, kid."

Ian's quiet for a bit, and Fiona doesn't push him. Debbie watches the two cartoon pigs arguing over something on the TV, takes note of how Liam's bobbing up and down in amusement at this.

Then Ian says, "Gotta find a new place to live, I guess."

Fiona interprets this as brightly as possible. "You guys gettin' a love nest all your own?"

"Nope."

"Ian…" Fiona starts to admonish him, but he stops her.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

Fiona sighs. "Well, anyway," she says, "you better put your damn wedding ring back on before he sees you without it. Otherwise, you're gonna turn this into a much bigger spat than I think you bargained for."

"Too bad," Ian replies, "Can't."

"Why not?" Debbie asks, "You didn't lose it, did you?" She thinks about how proud Mickey had looked at City Hall when he'd surprised Ian with the rings, so pleased with his own romantic gesture.

Ian's jaw shifts from defiant to uneasy. He looks away from them and mumbles, "I pawned it."

Debbie and Fiona gape at him, in shock. Then Fiona slaps Ian upside the head.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she cries.

Ian just sits there, eyes practically burning a hole into the carpet as his sisters' eyes, in turn, burn holes in him.

"Don't worry about it," he manages to say eventually, "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters," Fiona says, aghast, "Why would you even say that?"

"'Cause it's over," Ian says, struggling to maintain his indifference, but his wavering voice gives him away, "Mickey and I are done. There's no point trying to fix it."

"Oh, please," Fiona says, "Stop being dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic," Ian declares.

Debbie can tell that, once more, he's on the verge of tears. She went her whole life without ever really seeing her brother show any kind of extreme emotion, and now over the past few days it's like he's constantly on the brink of drowning in feelings. Debbie's not sure how much of that is coming from his disorder and how much of it is the result of everybody pushing him to reveal so much more than he has ever been used to.

"I left," he says, "It's over. We're done."

"Ian," Fiona chides him, "You're married now. You don't get to lose your temper and walk away. You don't get to just disown Mickey 'cause you're pissed at him."

"Forget it," he says, closing his eyes gravely, "It's too fucked up, so I killed it. It's over."

"Please," Fiona scoffs, "I don't know much about marriage, but I think it takes more than walkin' out for a couple days to ruin one. Though I wouldn't start makin' a habit of it."

Ian puts his head back and stares at the ceiling. Fiona ventures a tentative cheerfulness.

"Mickey'll forgive ya," she says, "Don't worry."

He acts as if he hasn't even heard her. He's quiet so long without giving any indication of a response that Debbie shoots Fiona a nervous glance. But then he speaks up.

"I don't care if he forgives me. I don't wanna go back." He closes his eyes and admits, less icily, "I can't stand him worrying about me all the time. I can't take it anymore."

"What?" Fiona asks, "You can't take somebody caring about you?"

"It's not…it's…it's different. You don't understand what it's like."

"Yeah, I know I don't understand. None of the assholes I ever dated gave enough of a crap about me to love me like that. I'd kill to have somebody wanting to look after me."

"No, you wouldn't," Ian says softly, "It feels like shit."

Fiona reaches out to pat his hair in sympathy, but he jerks away from her touch.

"He doesn't treat me like me anymore," Ian spits out furiously, "I'm just another fucking baby he has to take care of. It's all he ever talks about now. 'Ian, you gotta be careful, Ian, that's too much for you, Ian it's time for bed, Ian, did you take your meds, Ian, let me use the fucking scissors for you, maybe you should take a nap, maybe you should slow down, maybe you should stay home, maybe you shouldn't get your hopes up, maybe you're pushing yourself too hard, maybe you shouldn't try to do anything, maybe you should let me wipe your ass for you 'cause you might get hurt…'"

He looks back at Fiona and says, "I don't wanna be with somebody who sees me like that. I don't want to be anybody's fucking responsibility. I wish we hadn't gotten married. I'm so stupid. Now he thinks he's stuck with me."

All Fiona's bossiness is gone. "Oh, sweetie," she sighs. She reaches instinctively to touch him again, but stops herself and sits back, at a loss for how to help.

Ian drops his hands into his lap. "It doesn't matter," he says resolutely, "He—it doesn't matter." He closes his eyes again and adds, "I'm so tired…"

"Ian?" Debbie asks hesitantly, having sat quiet this entire time.

He sort of grunts a response. Debbie takes it as the go-ahead.

"Maybe Mickey doesn't know how to treat you because you don't tell him what you want him to do. You never tell anybody anything."

Ian is silent.

"She's got a point," Fiona says. "How the hell's Mickey supposed to know what to do?"

It's unclear if Ian's listening or not. He seems to have crawled inside himself once more. Then he appears to come to a conclusion about something because he starts shaking his head and says, "I'm not going back. You can't make me."

Fiona exhales a deep breath. "Okay," she says, "Nobody's forcing you."

While her voice is gentle and reassuring, her mouth is settling into a hard, tight line. Then she climbs to her feet, signaling that the interrogation is over.

She turns back to him, and asks, businesslike, "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"The pawn ticket. I know you still have it."

Ian glares at her, but he sits forward and takes out his wallet. He rifles through a couple small bills and business cards until he finds a slip of yellow paper. He hands it over.

She unfolds it and smiles. "Surprised ya got fifty bucks for it," she says. Then she holds out her hand, but Ian looks puzzled. "Where's the fifty dollars?" Fiona asks.

"Oh," Ian says sheepishly, "I don't have it anymore."

Debbie sits up straighter, suddenly recalling the wad of cash Ian had given her the other day when he first showed up at the house, a fifty among the rest of the bills. It's all still stuffed under her mattress upstairs. She hadn't had any idea at the time how to sneak a fifty-dollar bill into the squirrel fund without Fiona noticing, so Debbie had stashed it, then she'd promptly forgotten about it.

"What'd you spend it on?" Fiona asks.

"I dunno."

Fiona continues to stand there, as if deciding whether or not to say something more to him. Then she tilts her head, indicating the direction of the kitchen and says to Debbie, "Come on. Help me run some errands."

Debbie extricates herself awkwardly from her place between Ian and the couch arm. She trips over his big, stupid legs and just narrowly manages to catch herself from falling, though she steps hard on Ian's foot.

"Fucking hell," he roars, "Can everybody just leave me the fuck alone for a while?!"

"Sorry," Debbie snaps, "You know, just because you're sick doesn't mean you get to act like an asshole."

"Debbie," Fiona says sharply, "Leave him alone. Now."

Fuming, Debbie stomps to the kitchen. Behind her, Fiona's voice is all sweetness as she says, "Liam, get your shoes on, baby. We're going to the store."

When Fiona follows Debbie into the kitchen, however, all that sweetness has evaporated. Her face is the picture of barely contained irritation as she slams open the cabinet door and takes down the squirrel fund canister.

"I'm sorry," Debbie says, assuming that Fiona's mad at her for losing her temper with Ian.

"For what?"

But Fiona doesn't seem to actually care about a response so Debbie doesn't offer one, glad to be off the hook for a reprimand.

"Do me a favor," Fiona says as she pulls out a bunch of ones and fives and starts counting, "Learn to appreciate it when you've actually got somethin' good going on."

Debbie watches, bewildered. She has no idea what Fiona's talking about.

"Goddammit," Fiona mutters as she ends up at an unsatisfactory number of bills. She reaches back in the canister for more.

"What are you doing?" Debbie asks because Fiona keeps the grocery money in a separate envelope taped behind the fridge. They're not supposed to take anything out of the squirrel fund canister until the school year starts again and the first heating bill comes due.

"I gotta buy back Idiot's ring," Fiona explains impatiently.

Fiona counts out more bills, loses count and starts again. Debbie tries to decide if she should tell Fiona that probably half of those dollars actually came from Idiot, if it's time to finally tell her about Ian's backdoor contributions these last few months. On the one hand, the unknown source of all Ian's extra money is now striking Debbie as worrisome. Maybe he hasn't just been skimming it off the top of his paycheck like she'd assumed. Pawning the wedding ring might have been a one-time impulsive decision done out of spite, but maybe not. On the other hand, it's been clear from the start how important being able to contribute has been to Ian; Debbie doesn't want to take that away from him, no matter how dubious the origins of his funds, no matter how frustrating he can be sometimes.

Debbie takes a deep breath and decides it's time to lie.

"Ian gave the fifty to me," she says, carefully looking at the floor instead of her sister, "I asked him for money and he gave it to me."

"Debbie," Fiona hisses, appalled. Then she asks, "What did you need the money for?"

Debbie keeps her eyes anchored to the floor as she thinks up an answer. It has to be something that she'd be embarrassed enough about to keep a secret, but not something serious enough to alarm Fiona and turn this into a thing. With deep annoyance, she realizes she has no choice but to play the dumb thirteen-year-old girl card.

"I needed new bras," Debbie says, hating Ian just a little bit for driving her to this, "The bras you bought me are all cheap and crappy. You can get away with wearing stuff like that 'cause your tits are good. I hardly have anything. It takes better quality bras to do them justice."

Fiona stares at Debbie as if she's just sprouted antennae from her scalp and started dancing the Macarena.

"You asked your brother to pawn his wedding ring to buy you a push-up bra?"

"I didn't know that's how he got the money," Debbie says, defending her ridiculous story. Then she realizes she needs to cover Ian's ass as well and adds, "And he didn't know that's what I was going to spend it on. He didn't ask; he just gave it to me."

"Jesus, the two of you and your secrets," Fiona says, "You're exactly alike sometimes, you know that? What is it? Some weird middle kid-redhead-voodoo rule, or somethin'? 'Must never tell anybody anything'?"

Debbie looks back at her, perplexed. Red hair aside, Debbie and Ian are clearly nothing alike.

Fiona throws her hands up in disgust. "Why wouldn't you ask me? I'm your sister."

"I didn't want to offend you," Debbie replies, despising every new lie that comes out of her mouth so effortlessly.

"But why on Earth would you ask Ian for the money?"

Debbie shrugs. "He makes more money than any of the rest of us do."

"Yeah, but, Debs, Ian's got a lot of medical bills and stuff he's gotta pay. Even with insurance, that ain't cheap. And don't think for a second all those Milkoviches and whores over there aren't using Ian as their meal ticket."

"But he likes to help."

"Don't take advantage of that," Fiona scolds, wagging a finger at her little sister, "Shame on you."

Debbie glowers and, ready to be done with this humiliating exercise, says, "Anyway, I didn't spend it yet. I still have the fifty dollars."

The instant relief on Fiona's face almost makes Debbie feel like the stupid lie was worth it. She can almost see the financial burden lifting from her sister's shoulders.

"I'll go get it," Debbie says as Fiona starts happily scooping up the bills and stuffing them back in the can.

In her bedroom, Debbie falls to her knees and shoves her hand between the mattress and the box spring, rooting around for the cash.

"What're you doin'?" Lip asks, leaning in the doorway.

"Nothing."

She locates the money and pointedly ignores Lip as she sits on her heels and peels off the fifty. Then she pushes the rest back under the mattress.

"Ian's been paddin' the squirrel fund, hasn't he?" Lip asks.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You his agent?"

Debbie looks at him coolly and says nothing.

Lip frowns. "Give me the money."

"No."

"I'm giving it back to him. He can't afford it."

"No," Debbie says, "And don't tell Fiona."

"Debs, come on. Hand it over. No more of this bullshit."

And Debbie loses it. "Can't you let him have anything?" she cries.

Lip is taken aback at this question. Debbie uses the opportunity to push past him, saying as she goes, "You're not in charge."

When Debbie comes downstairs, Liam's hopping on the kitchen floor, keeping each foot squarely in the center of each vinyl tile then jumping to the next set of tiles.

"You got it?" Fiona asks.

Debbie hands her the bill and takes Liam's hand. "Come on," Debbie says irritably, desperate to get out of the house, "Let's go."

---

As they walk in the direction of the neighborhood pawnshop, Fiona's mood seems to have lifted. Perhaps it's the relief of not having to eat into the already-skimpy squirrel fund to pay for Ian's rash decision, or perhaps it's just having gotten out of the house. Debbie herself certainly feels lighter getting some distance from Ian and Lip. She couldn't have stood one more minute of either of them's bullheadedness.

"I'll never understand where that comes from," Fiona remarks, shaking her head in wonder, "Ian was always the most even-tempered kid in the world, real patient with people, you know? But then every once in a while he goes full-on drama queen about somethin'. Like when he ran off with Carl? Remember that?"

"What?" Debbie asks.

Fiona looks disappointed. "I guess maybe you were too young to remember," she says.

"When was it?"

Fiona tilts her head back as she considers this. "Carl was just out of diapers, so I guess this would've been when Ian was seven? Eight? Got mad at Lip about somethin' and decided to run away from home."

Debbie frowns as she watches Liam skipping along a few paces ahead of them. She's not entirely surprised to have never heard this story—it's a period of Gallagher family history they don't talk much about. Things were really bad then.

"He took Carl with him?" Debbie asks.

"Yup. Made it pretty far too. Security picked them up at Lincoln Park Zoo, caught them tryin' to hide at closing. He had a whole plan worked out how they were gonna live there 'cause nobody would think it was weird to see kids there during school hours. They were gonna swipe food from the cafeteria and sleep in the reptile house 'cause it was the warmest…" Fiona looks amused as she makes a connection to the present, "Ian and his plans, huh?"

"Why'd he take Carl?" Debbie asks. This strikes her as the most bizarre element of the story, not that even at age seven Ian was already planning his escape. That part seems wholly believable.

Fiona smiles at the memory. "Said he didn't want to be a little brother anymore, just wanted to be a big one."

Debbie feels oddly hurt. "Why didn't he take me too?"

Fiona laughs. "I think Monica had taken you off with her somewhere. She was really into cartin' you around like a living doll at that point. You were way better at being a little girl than I ever was."

A vague memory of frilly dresses—way too many dresses, and someone complaining about how much money Monica had spent and Debbie feeling guilty—flits through her mind just then, but Debbie pushes it away. Instead she tries to picture her two brothers attempting to set up camp at the zoo. She remembers pretty well what Carl looked like when he was little, but her memories of Ian are suspect. She always remembers him having been very big and sophisticated and grown-up, yet anytime she sees a picture of him from their childhood, she is unnerved to find that he was just a skinny little freckle-faced kid. She wonders if someday she will look back on this period of their lives and realize something similar. Maybe eighteen isn't all that different from seven in retrospect. Maybe you're always just a kid.

They reach the pawnshop then. Debbie hangs back uncomfortably and observes a display case of religious-themed jewelry, keeping both Liam's hands in hers so he doesn't break anything. There are crosses and crucifixes (each one bigger and bloodier than the last), bejeweled Virgin Marys, and saints' pendants. There's also a dozen sets of rosaries made out of various materials including what looks like gold, pearl, and jade. They're all much more elaborate than the plastic beads on Debbie's rosary at home, given to her free by the Church when she had her First Communion.

Debbie's the only one of the Gallagher kids who had a First Communion, thanks to Monica having been on a religious kick the spring that Debbie was seven. Debbie went along with it for the promise of getting to wear a veil and a kid-sized wedding dress, but she'd also taken a strange bit of pride in the ritual, believing that it made her a bit morally superior to her siblings. She hasn't felt that way in a long time, though. Jesus and Mary have never appeared to give a damn that she took communion, or collected saints' candles, or begged for their assistance on any number of occasions. So Debbie gave up expecting a response, even though the instinct to pray under duress has never fully left her.

When the pawnbroker comes out from the back room, Fiona shows no unease. She lays the fifty-dollar bill and the pawn ticket on the counter and says, "I need this ring back now."

The proprietor barely glances at the money. He pulls a binder up from behind the counter and flips through it lazily until he finds the entry that matches the number on the ticket.

"Eighty dollars," he says.

"Uh, no," Fiona replies, pointing at the ticket, "The loan was for fifty."

"Interest and fees."

"Oh, come on," Fiona scoffs, "Interest? It was three days ago."

"Interest and fees. Eighty dollars."

"It's a shitty ring. I don't even know if it's real gold."

"Eighty dollars."

Fiona glares at him. Then she turns to Debbie and says, "How much you got on you?"

"I dunno."

Debbie and Fiona both take out their wallets and start pooling their cash. In the end, they come up with sixty-eight dollars including Ian's fifty and Debbie's Ventra card that still has five dollars on it. Fiona slides the pile across the counter.

The pawnbroker raises an eyebrow. "That's not eighty dollars."

Fiona sighs and removes her earrings. She lays them beside the cash. They're real gold hoops that Jimmy gave her, and Debbie knows they're worth a lot more than twelve dollars.

The pawnbroker examines one of the earrings then sets it back down. With a heavy sigh, he takes a box out from under the counter, unlocks it, and checks the numbered tags on several rings. Then he sets Ian's wedding band on the counter.

Fiona snatches it up and instructs Debbie, "Take your Ventra card back."

Debbie does so, and grabs Liam's hand to lead him out. Fiona gives the pawnbroker the finger as they depart.

"Hey," Debbie says as they're walking away from the store, "Don't you want to get a pawn ticket for your earrings?"

"Nope."

"But Jimmy gave them to you."

"Yeah, and look at that—bastard finally came through for me on something."

Debbie frowns as they continue on. When Jimmy gave Fiona those earrings, Debbie had found it terribly romantic. Sometimes when Fiona wasn't home, Debbie would sneak into her room and try the earrings on, pretend that she was older and beautiful like Fiona with wealthy suitors falling over each other to give her fancy gifts. Debbie hasn't done that in a long time, of course, but it still depresses her a little to see her childhood symbol of love discarded on a pawnshop counter, never to be retrieved again. If Fiona doesn't believe in it anymore, what's the point in Debbie even trying to?

Fiona must notice Debbie's dismay because she says, "To be honest, I'm not really that interested in rememberin' Jimmy these days. Glad I could trade 'em in for a good cause, you know?"

Debbie looks down at Ian's ring as Fiona takes out a fresh Kleenex from her purse and wraps it up.

"You think that's a good cause?" Debbie asks.

Fiona places the makeshift package in her pocket and smiles. "I do."

Maybe Fiona still believes in love after all.

---

The house is empty when they get back, and Amanda's car is gone, Lip having evidently taken Ian for his appointment. Debbie makes macaroni with hot dog slices and they settle in for lunch in front of the TV.

They're just finishing up when Carl comes in the front door. Following right on his heels is Mickey, carrying Yevgeny on his hip. He plops the baby unceremoniously into Debbie's lap as he demands, "The fuck's Ian?"

Fiona sits back in surprise. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Police station. Where's Ian?"

"Oh, shit," Fiona says, dropping her fork into her macaroni, "They close you guys down?"

"Huh?"

"The rub 'n tug."

"What? No. Fuck that. We got an understanding."

"Then what'd they pick you up for?"

Mickey looks at her like she's insane. "I didn't get arrested."

"Then what were you doin' at the police station?"

Mickey seems completely exasperated by Fiona's questions and he answers in a slow, sarcastic voice, "Somebody dropped a dime on my old man. They brought me in for questions."

At the mention of Terry, Fiona makes a face. "What he do now?"

"Supposedly," Mickey says with absolute contempt, "he drowned a guy who didn't pay up on some coke."

"I thought he was still locked up?"

"This was before. 2004 or some shit. Think he pissed somebody off inside and they ratted him out."

"So, what'd you tell 'em?"

"I didn't tell 'em shit. They dragged my ass up to fuckin' Green Bay and let me sit there all goddamn night. Wisconsin pigs, Chicago pigs…How many sets of fat-ass cops I gotta say 'I don't know nothin' to, huh?"

"Green Bay? Why'd they bring you up there?"

Mickey scowls at her continued stupid questions. "Cause that's where it happened."

"So, did he do it?" Carl asks.

Mickey shrugs. "Probably."

"You tell 'em that?" Fiona asks.

"I didn't say shit," Mickey replies with almost a bit of pride in his voice, "But I don't think he's coming back anytime soon. Not if they can use 'em to clear up their books. Sounds like they already got enough to do it."

Fiona smiles. "Well, that's good news, right?"

"Yeah, throw a fuckin' parade. Where's Ian?"

Fiona seems reluctant for a second then decides to tell him anyway. "He's at the doctor with Lip."

Mickey goes paler than usual, if this is even possible. "He okay? Carl said he was pretty fucked-up last night."

Fiona gestures helplessly with her hand. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, he's in one piece. He's not doing great. You know that. But he's okay."

"Where they go?"

"Uh, Northwestern Memorial, I think. Where his regular guy is."

Debbie can tell that Mickey's running the calculations in his head, trying to determine how long it'll take him to get up there, if he'll be able to get there before they leave to head back down here.

"They should be back soon," Fiona says, "Why don't you wait here?"

Mickey seems disinclined to just sit around and wait, so Fiona sweetens the offer. "How 'bout ya have some lunch?"

It's clear by the look on his face how hungry he is. Still, he's hesitant. So Carl takes charge.

"You got more of that?" Carl asks Debbie, indicating her plate.

"On the stove," she replies.

"Come on," Carl says. Mickey follows him obediently into the kitchen.

Debbie sets Yevgeny down on the floor to play with Liam's toys and gives Fiona a stern look.

"Ian's not gonna be happy when he gets back and finds Mickey here," Debbie says.

Fiona shrugs. "Ian's not gonna be happy today period." Then as she gets up from the couch she nods toward Yevgeny and says, "I should probably get him some lunch too."

All six of them end up finishing lunch in front of the TV together. Nobody says much as they sit through Inside Edition and then Jeopardy. The only real source of entertainment other than Alex Trebek is the fact that Liam's decided that Yevgeny is a living toy and keeps insisting on playing with him as such.

It's just before 4 when a car doors slam outside and they all faintly hear Lip lecturing Ian about something. Debbie peers out the window and sees them both walking up from the curb, Ian with his head bowed, the way he always does when Lip's been yammering on for ages.

Mickey's on his feet and out the door in a flash, shoving Lip out of the way as he reaches the front walkway. Ian freezes immediately upon seeing him and the two have a stand-off for a moment, glaring at each other. Lip sidesteps them and heads into the house, shaking his head.

Then the screaming starts.

"The fuck you think you're doin', pullin' this shit? I ain't playin' no more. Time to get your ass home!"

"Fuck off! All right?! Leave me the goddamn fuck alone!"

"No fuckin' way, asshole. No fuckin' way!"

"Go fuck yourself!"

"Fuck you!"

"No, fuck you!"

"What the hell's your problem, man? You gone off your meds? You know you ain't 'sposed to be fuckin' around with that shit."

"Go to hell, Mick. Just fuck off and go to hell!"

Fiona takes the remote and turns the volume all the way up on the TV, drowning out their voices, except for the occasional most outraged 'fucks.'

"Sure is fun mindin' our own business, huh, guys?" she shouts cheerfully, pulling Debbie and Carl back toward the couch.

Lip takes a seat on the arm of the sofa, keeping an eye on the fight as he lights a cigarette. Fiona doesn't even bother to tell him to take it outside to smoke.

"They should get some word games or somethin' on their phones," Lip remarks over the roar of the television, "Build their vocabularies."

The glass in the window shakes as either Ian or Mickey shoves the other one into the front wall of the house.

"Shit," Carl says in awe.

"Think we should intervene?" Fiona asks.

Lip shakes his head, still watching out the window. "They're pretty evenly matched." He sits back sharply in vicarious pain and says, "Ooh! Ian just landed a really good right hook."

"Is Mickey okay?" Debbie asks.

Lip looks impressed as he continues to watch and says, "He's a scrapper."

Lip turns away from the show outside, observes the commercial on the TV and asks, "What're we watchin'?"

"Final Jeopardy," Fiona replies, doing her best not to notice the sound of somebody obviously getting thrown against the railing on the front steps.

"What's the category?"

"Uh…" Fiona is unsuccessful in trying to remember.

"Civil War Battles," Debbie helpfully supplies.

Lip smiles a little at this and settles in with the rest of them as the show returns and Alex gives the clue.

Since none of them actually know the answer, they start shouting out responses that are obviously wrong. They get caught up with trying to top each other until Fiona starts desperately shushing them. She turns down the volume of the Jeopardy 'thinking' music and they all hear the same thing at once: silence.

"They strangling each other?" Carl asks, "Strangling doesn't make much noise."

Lip returns to the window and they all wait anxiously for his report.

"Shit," he mutters.

"What?" Fiona asks, "What's happening? Somebody get hurt? Is Ian okay?"

"Maybe I'm misreading the body language," Lip says, "But I'd say they're about twenty seconds away from bare-ass humpin' on the front lawn."

Debbie and Carl scramble to the window, ignoring Fiona's objections.

Outside, Ian has Mickey backed up against the fence. Their hips are locked into each other and they are, from the looks of it, devouring each other's mouths while both attempting, with varying levels of success, to tear each other's clothes off. Ian's undershirt is hiked up around his shoulders. Mickey's belt is half pulled-out from his belt loops, and he's lost a shoe somewhere along the way. Mickey's struggling to get Ian's shirt off with one hand, using the other to fumble with Ian's belt. Ian seems to be under the impression that if he just pulls down on Mickey's tank top long enough, it'll simply fall off. Debbie goes hot with embarrassment and brings her hand to her mouth as Mickey grabs Ian's ass.

"Enough!" Fiona cries, yanking Debbie and Carl away from the window by the back of their collars. "You too," she says to Lip. "Give them their privacy."

"They're on the front lawn," Lip protests, but does move away from the window, not especially eager to see his brother getting it on with his brother-in-law.

They all settle sort of uncomfortably back onto the couch as Fiona turns the volume back up. Jeopardy has ended without them ever finding out the correct answer and ABC Eyewitness News is now on. Fiona takes a fork away from Yevgeny and sets it on the coffee table where he immediately tries to grab for it again.

"Does this mean they made up?" Carl asks.

"Who knows," Fiona replies.

Debbie sits between Carl and Lip and thinks about how Ian's seemed constantly on the brink of tears for the past couple days, practically vibrating with more emotion than he'd ever asked for. She wonders if his passion for Mickey is the same thing. Is it more now, like how everything is more for him right now, or is it always like that, just under the surface, always ready to bubble over? Is there a line where Ian's brain stops and his heart begins, or is it all just forever a jumble? And is he the only one who gets to feel something like that? She doesn't think she's felt anything quite like that for someone else yet, but she thinks now that she'd sure like to know what it feels like.

The front door slams open and they sit up to attention. Mickey marches in, pulling Ian behind him. They're both red and raw around the mouth and have hastily shoved their clothes back into place. Debbie's pretty sure they didn't get to where it seemed like they were heading. Maybe they actually remembered they were on the lawn.

"Um," Ian says, eyes lowered, "I'm going home." His face is streaked with tears and Debbie could swear he is trembling a bit, but he looks more awake than he has in days.

"You sure?" Fiona asks, ignoring Mickey's dagger eyes.

"Yeah," Ian replies. "I'm gonna get my stuff."

He heads up the stairs and Mickey stands there looking uneasy.

"You call us if things aren't going so well, okay?" Lip says.

Mickey frowns at him.

"Gimme your phone," Lip says and, surprisingly, Mickey obliges.

"I'm puttin' in my number," Lip explains as he types, "And Fiona's and Debbie's. You got Carl's already, right?"

Mickey cocks his head slightly, indicating in the affirmative.

Lip hands the phone back to him, then takes out his own phone and hands it over. Mickey continues to look confused. "I want your number, man," Lip says.

Mickey gives him a sardonic smile and types the number in. Then he hands it back and says, "We free to go now? Or is there a questionnaire I gotta fill out too?"

"That should do it," Lip says as Ian comes down the stairs with his kit bag over his shoulder.

Ian seems surprised when Lip catches him and hugs him. Lip says something into Ian's ear that Debbie can't hear. Ian nods.

Then Ian holds a hand up in weak farewell and says, "See you guys later."

Mickey puts his arm around Ian's shoulder, leads him out the door and, just like that, they're gone.

The news is still blaring at top volume behind them, but nobody says anything, not even Liam. Then the door opens and Mickey hustles back in. He steps purposefully across the room, scoops up Yevgeny, and, ignoring them all, heads right back out. It would be funny if they weren't all suddenly feeling so depressed.

Having Ian gone again seems to have the same effect it did the first time. It feels immediately like there is a gaping absence, and the sibling unit, as if on cue, begins to disperse. Carl wanders upstairs, texting someone along the way. Lip says something about needing a drink and takes his schoolbooks with him as he heads out to the Alibi.

Fiona busies herself with stacking up the dirty lunch plates, and asks Debbie, "Would you watch Liam if I went over to Vee's for a bit?"

"Sure," Debbie shrugs, not really having anywhere else to go. She's not any more eager than the rest of them to sit around here, though, thinking about the fact that Ian's gone again, his life once more completely out of their hands.

But Fiona straightens suddenly and says, "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"The ring."

"Oh, crap!" Debbie says. She jumps up. "Give it to me. I'll catch him."

"Shit," Fiona repeats as she digs the ring out of the pocket in her cut-offs and hands it to Debbie, "Don't let Mickey see."

"I won't."

Debbie propels herself out the front door and down the steps. She pounds down the sidewalk, the soles of her cheap gym shoes doing little to make it feel like it's not her bare feet slapping against the pavement. She runs the length of Wallace Street, careens around the corner, and finally catches sight of them two blocks up.

"Ian," she tries to shout, but she's out of breath and it comes out a whisper. She continues running, closing the distance between them, but then she can't run anymore. She bends over and puts her hands on her knees, feeling like she's going to puke.

He must have heard her footfalls or maybe her panting because Ian's turned around and he and Mickey are walking toward her. "What're you doing, Debs?" Ian asks.

Debbie's momentarily glad she has no breath to speak with because she also has no cover story prepared yet. She tries desperately to think of some pretense for being able to slip Ian the ring without Mickey seeing what she's doing or being suspicious. "I need to tell you something," she manages to squeak out after a second.

That seems to do the trick, because Ian steps closer toward her while Mickey holds back, repositioning Yevgeny on his hip.

"What's up?" Ian asks, leaning down as he reaches her.

Debbie dithers briefly, all too aware of the fact that Mickey can clearly hear them from where he's standing.

Once more, hating herself a little, she improvises. "I…I love you," she says.

She gives Ian the most awkward hug she's ever given him as subterfuge for pressing the ring, still wrapped up in the Kleenex, into his hand.

Ian is stiff in her embrace, but answers back, somewhat puzzled, "Love you too."

"Jesus Christ, you Gallaghers. Fuckin' Hallmark movie out here."

Ian walks back toward Mickey, and Debbie can see his thumb tracing the hard object in his palm, trying to figure out what she's given him without looking at it. As he realizes what it is, Ian bounds back to her and hugs her for real this time.

"Thank you," he says, kissing the crown of her head.

"Thank Fiona," she says as he steps back.

He nods and gives her a weak smile. As Ian returns to Mickey once more, Mickey rolls his eyes and says, almost tenderly, "Come on, Asshole."

"I love you too, Mickey!" Debbie can't resist shouting after him in the most saccharine voice she can manage.

Mickey turns back around specially to give her the finger, and Ian actually laughs.

Debbie takes her time walking back to the house. She keeps hearing Ian's little, unforced laugh in her head, and she feels…not exactly triumphant, but perhaps hopeful. They have done what they could today, even if it feels like nothing. It might, for now, be enough.

---

That evening, Debbie sits on the couch, fooling around on the laptop while she listens to some of the music Matty gave to her. He might be a dipshit, but she has to admit that she really likes a lot of the stuff he's introduced her to.

Liam's chattering to himself while playing with the Fisher-Price train set Amanda bought him, and the house feels cozy. It's actual more normal not having Ian here or having everyone home and in a state high tension. Debbie's almost glad to return to the boringness of babysitting even if it is a Friday night and, according to everybody from school's Facebook updates, there's a couple of killer parties Debbie ought to want to be at.

Debbie's in the midst of trying to determine if Joaquin is at any of these parties when a loud, reverberating thud causes her to almost drop the laptop. Liam's knocked over the guitar Matty gave Debbie. It's just been sitting in the corner of the room for the past few days and Debbie had forgotten all about it until now.

"Liam, be careful," Debbie says as she goes over and leans the guitar against the wall again.

"Play a song!" Liam demands, having now realized what the guitar is.

"I don't know how," Debbie replies.

"Play like The Wiggles," Liam explains, looking confused as to why Debbie hasn't figured this out.

Debbie giggles at this. "It's not that easy," she says.

She returns to the couch and Liam, only briefly disappointed, returns to his train. But then an idea occurs to Debbie. She opens a new tab, turns off the music, and goes to Youtube. She types in "Learn to Play Guitar."

She lands on a pretty good series of videos after a bit of searching and re-watches them several times before she works up the nerve to set up the laptop on the coffee table and bring the guitar over to the couch. But when she attempts to play the first chord—C again, like Matty had tried to teach her—the guitar sounds terrible. So she spends another twenty minutes looking up a good video on tuning your guitar and following the steps until her guitar sounds a lot closer to the one in the video.

By this point, Liam's gotten sleepy and passed out on the carpet beside his train. Debbie doesn't have to worry about disturbing him, though, because it's an electric guitar and she's got no amp so it's hard to make it do anything remotely loud. She ends up watching videos, playing along haltingly, watching more videos, and playing along less haltingly for several hours. She doesn't realize how late it's gotten until Fiona lets herself in and seems surprised to see Debbie up.

"Were you just plannin' to let Liam sleep on the floor all night?" Fiona asks accusingly, heading over to pick him up.

Debbie ignores the question and says, "Fiona, look."

Debbie then proceeds to play a terrible rendition of You Are My Sunshine rife with errors and multiple starts and stops. Fiona appears unimpressed.

"That's great, Debs," she says, helping a sleepy Liam to his feet, "Hey, Little Guy. Let's go up to bed, okay?"

As Fiona leads Liam up the stairs, Debbie sets the guitar aside. It was a stupid idea anyway and her fingertips are throbbing. She picks up her phone and starts scrolling through all the Instagram party updates, feeling lonely and ugly and crabby.

After a bit, she's not sure even how it happens, but Debbie's got the guitar back in her lap. She's playing You Are My Sunshine over and over again, determined to get it perfect. She actually reaches a point where she's got it down pretty good and is wondering why Fiona couldn't have walked in now to hear her. As if she's willed it into happening, the front door opens, though it's not Fiona who comes home this time; it's Lip.

He kicks off his shoes wobbily, throws his backpack onto the armchair and collapses onto the couch beside Debbie. He reeks of whiskey.

"That you playin'?" he asks stupidly, as it would've been someone else he heard playing guitar while he was unlocking the door.

"Yeah," Debbie says.

He does a 'continue' motion with his hand and slurs, "Show me what you got."

"I only know one song so far."

"I don't care."

So Debbie plays You Are My Sunshine. She only has one false start and this encourages her so much that she goes from simply humming the melody under her breath to actually singing the words softly. Lip lays his head back and smiles as he listens.

When she finishes playing, he asks, "You learn that because of Monica?"

Debbie frowns. She's only picked this song to learn tonight because it happened to be what the geeky folk guy in the guitar videos was using as a demonstration. How had she completely overlooked the fact that this used to be Monica's song of choice when singing her babies to sleep?

"It was just easy to learn," Debbie says.

Lip nods. "Play it again," he says.

She does as he asks. She plays it pretty well this time and sings the whole thing, although now she feels a little self-conscious about the song and its unintended memories. Lip wears an expression on his face while she's playing, though, that indicates this is the loveliest rendition of the most beautiful song he's ever heard. He is very, very drunk.

Debbie finishes her encore performance and sets the guitar down, hoping to discourage him from requesting more.

Lip is quiet, though, thinking to himself about something. Then he turns his head toward her and asks, "Why's life gotta be so fuckin' sad all the time, huh?"

"I don't know."

They don't say anymore for a while until Lip plants both his hands on the couch cushions, as if bracing himself on a lurching ship.

"I don't think I'm gonna make it upstairs," he says, "Mind if I take the couch?"

"Nah," Debbie replies. She closes up the laptop and gingerly lays the guitar back in its corner.

As she approaches the stairs, however, she has a change of heart. She retrieves the guitar and carries it up to her room with her. She might just want to try learning a different song before she gets too sleepy.

---

The next morning is Saturday and Debbie and Carl head over to the Milkovich house. They've found one of Ian's uniform shirts half-under the couch at the Gallagher house, and the pretense of their visit is the need to return it.

One of the Russian girls lets them in. There's a brand-new TV where the old one used to be and a couple of the girls are eating in front of it, watching that show where stupid rich people cry over wedding dresses. Debbie notes that there are at least six more identical TV sets still in their boxes stacked behind the sofa. Somebody intercepted a shipment.

They find Mickey at the kitchen table, frowning over a pile of print-outs with tiny type from the doctor's office and several pill bottles he's sorted into groups. Mickey's got reading glasses on like the kind they sell in the bin at Osco, and Debbie has to stop herself from giggling at the absurd sight. Carl apparently has seen them before because he doesn't even crack a smile.

"He ain't up yet," Mickey says in greeting and takes a swig from his coffee cup.

"It's almost noon," Carl says.

"Yeah, I know." Mickey glances up at them both briefly, and his eyes look a little defeated. He returns his attention to the paperwork and flips over one of the pages. His forehead accordions into a series of wrinkles as he finds still more tiny print covering nearly every inch of the page.

"I'm getting him up," Carl announces. He doesn't wait for permission or discouragement, just turns on his heel and makes his way to Ian and Mickey's bedroom.

Mickey watches him go, then gets up from the table. "Want coffee?"

"Sure," Debbie replies. She accepts the cup that Mickey pours her and asks, "So, how was last night?"

Mickey leans back against the sink with his arms crossed and doesn't look at her as he speaks. "He took his meds, ate some dinner. Coulda been worse."

"That's good."

"Yeah." He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. Debbie wonders if Mickey even slept or if he sat up all night to keep watch over Ian. Somehow she suspects the latter.

Debbie wraps both her hands around the mug now, appreciating the warmth even though she doesn't want to drink the coffee and only accepted it be polite. She's steeling herself for the next question, afraid that Mickey's going to bite her head off because it's none of her business. She can't not say something, though, because it's really important, and she doesn't trust that Ian will say something.

"So, um," she asks, "Did you guys talk at all last night? Like, about…everything?"

Mickey glowers at her. "Don't know if you noticed, but your brother ain't really been in a chatty mood lately."

"I know," Debbie sighs, trying to figure out how to push this without telling him things that Ian really needs to say to Mickey himself, "But you guys really need to talk."

"Yeah, no shit," Mickey agrees. As he makes his way back to the table, he continues, "It's fucked-up. He ain't got no problem saying 'I love you' and all that shit, ain't go no problem telling me stupid stories and yakkin' 'bout you guys for hours, but you try and ask him what's going on in his head, and he turns into Fort Fuckin' Knox. Then when somethin's really bothering him? Adios, man."

Debbie bites her lip as she thinks. Then she asks, "You ever talk to him with somebody else? Like, go with when he goes to therapy?" She knows from what she's read that sometimes they encourage patients to bring family members and partners with them to therapy. Maybe if Ian's already being forced to open up, he can tell Mickey all the things he's not willing to say normally.

Mickey glances at her from under his brow, and Debbie can tell he's measuring out what's safe to tell her and what might be more than Ian would want. It's probably all more than Ian would want, really. Mickey seems to come to the same conclusion and decide that if he's in for a penny, he might as well be in for a pound.

"Went with him a few times," Mickey admits, "Stopped 'cause he said he didn't like me bein' there while he had to talk about all that personal stuff. I didn't mind going. You know, whatever it takes. But he didn't like it. Kept makin' a big fuckin' deal about it, then we'd go and he'd sit there like a dummy the whole time, not say anything, so what's the point? I stopped going just so he'd start talkin' again." Mickey shakes his head, bewildered, "Okay to say all that shit in front of strangers, but not me."

And Debbie doesn't have an answer for that. She doesn't know how to fix Ian and Mickey. She just hopes they can stick it out long enough to figure out how to fix themselves.

She changes the subject and asks, "You think he can go back to work on Monday?"

"Worry about that on Monday."

Debbie nods.

After an awkward minute of silence, Mickey returns his attention to the paperwork, but he asks, "What's up with you? Still holdin' hands with that pervert?"

Debbie's eyes go involuntarily wide. Mickey Milkovich is attempting to make small talk with her by inquiring, as politely as seems possible for him, about her love life. If she'd been told a year ago this would happen, she would've laughed herself silly.

"We broke up," she says.

"Good."

"Thanks," Debbie says. She can't help but add, even if it's not quite true, "For your information, I'm sort of seeing a lifeguard now. He's sixteen."

"Yeah, well, make sure you use your girl shit, all right?"

Debbie cocks her head in confusion. "Girl shit?"

Mickey waves his hand over the paperwork. "You know," he says, "The pill."

"Oh my god," Debbie says, utterly mortified.

"Hey, I ain't sayin' it for me," Mickey clarifies, "Brother of the Year's convinced you're gonna get knocked up and drop outta school."

Debbie is appalled. "Why would he think that?" she asks.

"Cause you're all innocent and shit, and you like babies too much."

"That's ridiculous," Debbie scoffs. Then she adds with petty bitterness, "Ian likes babies more than I do."

"Yeah, and he ain't in danger of poppin' one out anytime soon."

"Oh, my god," Debbie groans again. She doesn't remember the last time she was this embarrassed.

Mickey, the shit, seems amused by the whole thing. Smiling, he inclines his head in the direction of the bedroom and says, "Should go check on your brother."

Debbie's not certain which brother he's referring to, but she takes her coffee with her and heads down the hallway anyway. A bit of dread is boiling up in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't want to see Ian if he's at his worst. She doesn't want to see Carl trying and failing to get a response. She doesn't want to see it, but she goes anyway because she has to.

In the bedroom, the curtains are drawn and it's dim. Ian's lying on his side under the covers, his back to the door. She doesn't see Carl at first, then realizes that he's on the other side of the bed, sitting on the floor so that he's eye level with Ian. Holding her breath, Debbie walks around the bed and squats down beside Carl. To her surprise, Ian is awake and making eye contact with them. He looks sleepy, but his eyes don't have that frightening empty quality they did all those months ago.

"Hey, Ian," Debbie says, holding up the mug, "I brought you some coffee."

"I don't want any," Ian mumbles, closing his eyes. Then he adds as an afterthought, "Thanks."

Debbie looks to Carl with her eyebrows raised. He smiles back at her. Ian is communicating with them, at least. It feels like a minor miracle.

"You wanna come watch TV with us?" Debbie asks, "The Little League World Series is starting in a bit."

"Shit, yeah," Carl adds with enthusiasm, "Jackie Robinson West versus a bunch of dumb white kids from Nevada. It's gonna be a bloodbath."

Ian doesn't respond for a bit, but then he says, "I'm pretty tired, guys."

Debbie looks to Carl again, but he doesn't know what to do anymore than she does. So she just puts her hand on Ian's shoulder and says, "Don't sleep too long, okay? Please?"

Ian doesn't respond or open his eyes again, and it's unclear whether he's already drifted back to sleep or whether he's just unwilling to commit to that promise.

Debbie's at a loss for what else to do, so she and Carl leave him alone.

Back out in the living room, the whores have made themselves scarce, perhaps shooed off by Mickey. Mickey's sipping a beer and flipping channels with practiced nonchalance, though he looks at them with intense inquiry as they emerge from the hall.

"He wants to sleep," Carl says, answering Mickey's unasked question and being met with swift disappointment.

Mickey returns his attention to the television, as if he couldn't care less about any of these damn Gallaghers.

"I'm starving," Carl announces. Then to Debbie he says, "Go make lunch."

Debbie would protest, but she also would much rather eat lunch she made than anything Carl would put together. She goes into to the kitchen to see what's available. The best she can accumulate is the end third of a loaf of bread, a few slices of pathetic lunchmeat, and mayonnaise. She turns it into four of the saddest sandwiches ever created, stacks them on the only clean-looking plate she can find, and brings it back to the living room.

"Here," she says, plopping the plate down unceremoniously on the coffee table next to somebody's hash pipe and lighter.

"That looks like ass," Carl says.

Mickey has no such compunction. He grabs one of the sandwiches and tears off a huge bite.

Debbie sits down beside Mickey and takes a sandwich as well, though she only takes one small bite before she decides she's not really hungry. Why does everything in this house have to be so gross?

They watch the pre-game commentary, and then the event itself begins. It's not quite the Southside massacre they'd expected, but it's a pretty exciting game nonetheless, and it's novel seeing kids their age from their side of town playing baseball on national television. Debbie finds herself far more engrossed than she expected to be.

About thirty minutes in, they all look up as Ian shuffles out from the bedroom. He walks to the bathroom first, and when he comes back out, he stands in the hallway for a moment, clearly torn between returning to the safe cocoon of bed and joining them in the living room. He chooses to join them.

He's moving in a vaguely zombie-like fashion and cradling his injured hand. He sits down on the other side of Mickey and announces, "I want the Tylenol."

"All right," Mickey says, patting Ian's knee. He gets up and goes into the kitchen where they can hear him unlock the gun cabinet. For a moment, Debbie fully understands Ian's irritation with them all. It's fucking Tylenol, and this is the second time in two days Ian's had it kept away from him by concerned family members. It must be humiliating.

Mickey returns with the Tylenol, but he's also carrying the other pill bottles and the paperwork. He dumps it all onto the couch and starts rifling through it.

"What time is it?" Ian asks.

"Almost one," Carl replies.

Ian plucks one of the orange prescription bottles from the mess, glances at the label, and says, "I'm supposed to take this one."

"You sure?" Mickey asks, grabbing up the papers, looking for confirmation.

"Yeah," Ian says. There's a tone to his voice that's clearly telling Mickey to stop.

Mickey doesn't catch the message at first. Then he does. He gathers up the bottles and the papers to return them to the kitchen, but he can't help but ask, "Just that one?"

Ian meets his eyes and holds them for a second. Then he says, "For now. Yeah."

Mickey carries the pile of stuff back to the kitchen while Ian takes one of the prescription pills out, as well as two Tylenol. Mickey returns with a bottle of beer and Ian takes his medicine. Mickey settles back in between Ian and Debbie and they all watch the game.

Ian doesn't react to the game the way the rest of them do: shouting, cringing, pumping their fists into the air every time Chicago makes a particularly good play. He sits there, looking a little glazed and a lot tired. It's clear he would rather be in bed. And it's also clear that he is making a valiant effort not to give in to that desire.

At one point, Mickey, who is thoroughly enjoying the game, turns to Ian and asks, "Remember when we played against each other in Little League?"

There is a bit of a delay before Ian responds, like his reactions are being brought to them via satellite. Then Ian raises an eyebrow. "I remember," he says, "Thought you didn't remember."

Mickey takes a sip of beer and smiles. "I remember," he says softly.

When a commercial break comes on, Mickey offers Ian the plate of sandwiches. Ian holds up his hand and pushes it away.

"Yeah, those sandwiches suck," Carl says.

Debbie flips him the bird.

"I don't know what your problem is," Mickey remarks, taking another sandwich and biting off a third of it. As he chews, he gives Debbie a nod of appreciation for her effort.

Someone starts rapping on the front door and Mickey gets up to answer, eating his sandwich as he walks over and lazily pulls open the door.

Suddenly Fiona, Lip, and Liam are there, crowding into the Milkovich living room with the cheeriest smiles anyone has ever smiled. Lip's got a tote back of Liam's toys slung over his shoulder and he and Fiona are both carrying bags of food from Popeyes.

Liam scampers over to greet Ian, who's sitting up in confusion.

"What're you guys doing here?" Ian asks as Liam hangs off his neck and slides down to sit beside him.

"Thought we'd go over to our brother's house and watch the game," Lip says.

"How we doin'?" Fiona asks as she starts unpacking the food. She moves the plate of misfit sandwiches over to a discarded box in order to make room for the chicken, red beans, and biscuits. It smells amazing. Debbie understands exactly why Fiona's brought it; this is a far better enticement to Ian than those terrible scrambled eggs. Fiona's learning from her mistakes.

"Neck and neck," Carl replies.

Mickey's been standing by the vestibule as the Gallaghers have taken over his living room, as if uncertain where he fits now. He steps forward, tosses the remainder of his sandwich onto the abandoned stack, and crosses his arms.

"You guys, uh, want a beer or somethin'?" he asks.

"Beer'd be great," Lip says, plopping himself down beside Carl and reaching for a drumstick. To Ian he says, "Want a breast?"

There's that delay again, but then Ian manages a wan smile. "Sure," he says.

Lip hands him the biggest piece from the box and shoots Fiona a private look. Mission accomplished.

"I'll take a beer too," Fiona says to Mickey.

Mickey seems momentarily frozen, watching Ian eat the chicken. Then he snaps back to attention and replies, "Okay."

"I'll take one too," Carl says.

"You get pop here and you know it," Mickey mutters as he heads to the kitchen.

Debbie laughs a little at how obviously worried Mickey is that Fiona's going to think he lets Carl drink beer when he comes over. Debbie's pretty sure that Mickey does let Carl drink beer when he comes over, but she's certainly not going to be the one to get Mickey in trouble.

Fiona pulls out a stack of plates and plastic forks brought from home and starts distributing them. They really have come prepared for everything.

Mickey returns with the drinks, and they set to work filling their plates. The game comes back on and, remarkably, it all feels…normal.

Fiona and Lip tag-team to keep up a steady stream of chatter while they watch the game and the food seems to put everyone in a pretty good mood. Ian doesn't say anything, and Debbie notes that they don't push him to either. He does eat some more chicken and a biscuit and finish his beer, which is more than she's seen him eat in the last three days combined. Debbie begins to relax and forget that there is anything wrong with him at all. He just seems like Ian again. Quiet and maybe not feeling great, but Ian nonetheless.

Liam falls into a post-lunch food coma and snores lightly against Ian's chest. The warmth of the preschooler atop him seems to lull Ian into the sleep he's been fighting off. For a good thirty minutes of the game, the two of them nap and everyone else does their best to keep it down and let them rest.

Until the final minute of the game, that is, when Mickey, Fiona, Lip, Debbie, and Carl all leap from their seats to scream in joy as the Jackie Robinson kids make their spectacular winning play.

Ian and Liam both startle awake as the crowd on TV and the crowd in the room roar. Debbie's jumping up and down and clapping her hands together. Fiona's planting a kiss on Mickey's cheek and hugging him like he was the one who tagged the last Nevada kid out. Lip punches the air with his beer bottle and shouts, "Fuck yeah!"

"Did we win?" Ian asks.

"We kicked their asses!" Fiona replies.

Sleepily, Ian holds up his hand for a high five and he smiles when Liam slaps him back.

The Gallaghers stick around for a little while after the game, chatting about nothing all that important. Fiona and Lip keep making awkward attempts to draw Mickey into the conversation, the shared magical experience of the baseball game having faded a little. This has the unintended effect of making Mickey clam up more and sit there with a look on his face as if he's being interrogated. Ian seems to appreciate the effort, though. Or at least Debbie thinks he does. He mostly just seems really sleepy, though.

He nods off and startles himself awake twice before they start making their excuses to go. Fiona and Carl both have to work tonight. Lip's got a paper he needs to finish. Debbie's babysitting Liam.

Like a reverse receiving line, all his siblings pass by Ian on the couch to bid him farewell. Fiona leans down to give him a hug, and Debbie does the same. Carl gives him a friendly punch and Liam hangs off his neck again to give him a kiss.

Lip shoves his hands in his pockets and says, "Give you a ride to work Monday, huh? I got Amanda's car again for the week."

"Sure," Ian says.

Fiona remembers her manners and offers to clean up the mess from lunch, but Mickey waves her off.

"Don't worry about. I got it," he says.

Then he hustles them to the door, not unfriendly, but seeming eager to have his house back to being free of extraneous Gallaghers.

Nobody says much as they walk home, but the mood is not nearly so bleak as it has been.

"You hear Terry Milkovich might be gone for good?" Fiona asks Lip.

"Yeah. Kev mentioned it last night."

"Word gets around fast."

"Yeah." Lip pauses to light a cigarette and they all wait. After he takes his first puff, he starts walking again and says, "Still wish they'd get outta this fucking neighborhood."

They're about halfway between the Milkovich house and the Gallagher house when Debbie realizes she's forgotten her purse.

"Should I just wait and get it tomorrow?" Debbie asks.

"Not that I think Mickey'd take anything out of it," Fiona says, "But I wouldn't trust those whores not to run off with your phone and your CTA card."

"Okay," Debbie says, reluctantly agreeing. Already she's wondering if one of the girls has come across her purse yet, if they've left her anything of value. "I'll see you guys at home."

She breaks away from her siblings and starts heading back to the Milkovich house, walking quickly, thinking about how annoying it'll be if she has to get a new phone. She'll probably have to downgrade to something even crappier than what she had, and she'll have lost all her pictures…Maybe she can get Mickey to shake the girls down and get it back. He's their boss, right?

Debbie gets back to the house and is not surprised at all to find the front door unlocked—no one ever locks the door at the Milkovich house. She lets herself in quietly in case Ian's sleeping on the couch.

Her purse still sitting on the floor just inside the door apparently untouched. She double-checks the contents and sighs with relief.

Then she pauses as she hears a voice from the living room.

Ian is talking. He's speaking too softly for her to make out exactly what he's saying, but his tone is different than anything she's heard in a while. He doesn't sound guarded or defensive. He doesn't sound angry or upset. He just sounds determined that whomever he's speaking to understand what he is saying.

She glances around the side of the little vestibule space. Ian's leaning against Mickey, head atop Mickey's chest. Ian's eyes are closed, so he doesn't see Debbie as he continues to talk. Mickey sees her, though he doesn't say anything.

Debbie holds up her purse to show Mickey why she was here, then waves one hand to show that she is leaving. He nods slightly, careful not to disturb Ian or alert him to his sister's presence.

She pulls the front door shut behind her as discretely as possible as she leaves. Once outside, she hesitates, though, and stands there on the porch with her hand still on the knob. For some reason, it feels like if she lets go of the knob right now then that is it; she's letting go of Ian. She'll be severing the link between his life and hers once and for good.

This is not true, though, she realizes. There is life inside the house, and there is life outside the house. But it's all part of the same world. And Ian isn't alone anymore.

Debbie lets go.