"Do you ever wonder what our lives would be like if one thing had been different?" Mickey sucked hard on the cigarette between his lips. Sweat slipped down his neck and Ian wasn't sure if it was because of the heat or the sex.

Ian rolled his shoulders and heard a pop. "Like what?"

The silence that followed made him regret his words. Because Mickey liked to talk – he really did, he just didn't like to be pushed.

Mickey breathed out slowly and he tried to measure the seconds. "Like if my dad didn't want to fucking kick my face in."

His eyes shifted and flitted over Ian's face momentarily. More quickly than that, they went back down to the ground where his sneaker kicked violently into the dirt.

He wondered what was so offensive down there.

In all his time of knowing Mickey, Ian can pinpoint the exact moments when he has looked entirely at peace. He can recite them to you in chronological order – there aren't that many.

The first time had been the most fleeting and Ian will admit that he missed it. He only was able to understand after seeing that look in Mickey's eyes for a second time. Could only then realize that he had seen it before, like a ghost.

So he has it down to a science now– the precise moment when serenity both invades and escapes Mickey. The calm that cloaks his eyes the moments after they've both gotten off, still connected lingering and panting; the laughter that falls out of his mouth like something that's been kept hostage – when he sleeps and dreams and they're not nightmares.

Those are the moments that Ian understands, that he wants to save and gather together and help him build a new man out of. He wants to salvage Mickey's peace.

And that's why, right now, he knows that Mickey is not asleep. Because his eyelids are scrunched and twitching and would be just as convincing if they were wide open.

Ian lights up another cigarette and puffs out a stream of smoke aimed closer to Mickey's face than anyone would ever dare. "Why are you doing this?"

His eyelids jumped in attempted stillness, he was trying too hard. It didn't look natural.

The phone next to Ian's thigh binged intrusively loud.

Todd : Can I come over?
 Ian: No.

He rubbed the heels of his hands hard over his eyes and sucked in a sigh. The urge to cry became overwhelming as he shakily put his still lit cigarette into the ashtray and went back to his room.

Ian watched from the crack in the door as Mickey rolled over and continued smoking it.

The worst thing about waking up in Gallagher's apartment wasn't that he was there; it was that he had definitely lost a lot of blood and was no doubt not going anywhere.

Mickey's entire body ached in a way that only something connected with your heart could manage to accomplish. Each limb heavy while being frail and light and skinnier all at once - it was bullshit.

He didn't want to open his eyes. Some asshole had left all the shades open in the living room. He couldn't fucking understand people who did that, it's like locking the door behind you when you leave. You just do it.

So now he was sure he was going to be paler than normal because of the blood loss and the goddamn sun that was shining far to bright and happily than necessary was going to make him pink.

A sick pink ghost with a gut wound. That's what he'd been reduced to.

"Look at us, working together like respectable psychopaths."

Mickey heard the clatter of a plate in the sink and winced. His head was pounding without the added noise.

Mandy's voice hissed in a half whisper. "We are not working together. This is all your fault anyways!"

"What?" The older Gallagher fired back. "My fault? You're the one that stabbed your own brother."

"Just shut up and make him some toast." She sniffled, Mandy was still crying.

He didn't want toast. Those fuckers were wasting bread and time and breath and butter and electricity for the goddamn toaster because he wasn't going to eat their pity toast.

He was just fine, he just needed to remake some blood and then he'd be gone and out of their lives forever.

Aka, watching from upstairs.

Mickey heard the fridge open and the shake of orange juice. Lip started to speak again, quieter this time – more concerned. "Is Ian still sleeping?"

The sink turned on and then off. "Yea."

"I'm worried about him."

Mickey hesitantly opened one of his eyes to a slit, but he still couldn't see them. The back of the couch blocked his view just enough.

Mandy shuffled around to the table next to him and he quickly went back to fake sleeping. Her hand reached out to touch his side and he tried hard to not inch away from her.

"He seems okay. Just a little surprised. I mean I am too we haven't seen him in years." Her words trailed off at the end of the sentence making him feel enough like their mother he could have puked. Abandoning just to show up again – maybe it was genetic.

Lip dropped a plate down on the table callously and without consideration. "He said something to me last night that's got me – I don't know."

What? "What?"

He sighed and Mickey strained his ears. "He brought up that night, you know when your dad—He asked me if Fiona ever came clean about what happened."

"What's that supposed to even mean?" Mandy took a step back away from Mickey and he was thankful. Because he understood the tenderness in her touch but it still hurt like a bitch.

"I don't know. He thinks she's hiding something that went down between her and Mickey." Lip paused and he could hear his thoughts pounding against his brain. Being a genius sometimes isn't enough now is it? "I don't know it's all weird. I thought he would have gotten over it by now but, I guess not."

They stopped talking and went back to fussing around the kitchen. He didn't want to be taken care of, especially by any one of the 3 people currently in the apartment.

Mickey had felt dizzy after smoking Ian's cigarette the night before. The contact – however indirect – had been intoxicating. And it made him sick. Because how is he supposed to ever get over that? It was terrifying, knowing how out of control he was to himself. The cause and effect of pain and misery. How can you kill what you're made up of?

Cutting Ian out of him would be suicide, but keeping him situated and leaching from his blood – unrequited – it was far worse.

Even the mention of his name was getting to him

"Did you ever find out where he was that night?" Mandy's voice sounded again, smaller and more nervous this time.

"Who Ian?" Lip questioned. "No. He never said."

"He was hurt pretty bad."

"Yea I know."

Mandy cleared her throat. "Do you think it's bad?"

"I woke up that night you know." Lip paused and Mickey could imagine him checking to see that Ian wasn't listening. "I heard the shower going and Ian was –" He took a steadying breath. "I don't know what happened to him but he was really messed up. Blood everywhere – covered in bruises. I've tried to not think the worst this whole time but I just can't help it." He paused again and poured another glass of something. "I scrubbed the bathtub after he passed out on the couch. Tried to play it cool the next morning but he's definitely hiding something. Has been for a while."

Mickey bit his lip hard to try and stop the inevitable but it wasn't enough. The images of Ian bruised and bloody blinding him as he rolled off to the side of the couch and threw up on the floor.

The toast eyed him mockingly – bitch I bet you want me now.

He did.