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I'm Scared as Hell

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No guns.

It had been said before, hadn't it?

Before being shot in the ass, before the Gallaghers got split up, before Sve—

And now, it was being said again.

No guns.

Though a different reason this time. Before, it had been "No guns, it's just a passed out old lady", now it was "No guns, I don't want you going back to prison".

He supposed there was a difference, even though he definitely wasn't getting rid of his gun. Gallagher worried too much.

(A small part of him realized he was pushing Ian too far. That comment about his meds, calling him Bitch all the time, the way he'd acted the other night by literally throwing dollar bills at him like he was a fucking stripper

again.)

He'd agreed to the No guns policy when Ian decided he'd work for him. Though, mostly Mickey was just taking advantage of being able to order him around a little, he had no intention of letting that joke run its course.

He thought the No guns policy was stupid. Mickey had always used guns, he was good at them. So, he never actually got rid of the (illegal) gun.

Which was his biggest mistake.

He entered their room, head pounding from the stress of having his fucking dad next door (on both sides because of course Terry Milkovich wasn't going to let the Gallaghers have a moment of peace — and yes, Mickey did include himself in that. And Sandy, sort of.)

He was about to suggest some stress relief, for both of him, when he froze in the doorway.

"Ian…" He said, heart caught in his throat at the sight.

Ian, sitting on the bed, that fucking gun in his hand, with the barrel pressed right against his chest.

With all of his gloating about having a good paying job with no idiot interaction, he'd somehow forgotten the very real symptoms of Ian's illness.

"He could end up suicidal." Fiona had said once when Mickey had been scared out of his mind because Ian wouldn't get out of bed.

"Then we hide the knives until he perks up." He'd replied, desperate to not lose Ian. "I can— I can take care of him. Okay, let me take care of him until he's better."

And he was failing.

"Ian, put down the gun."

Ian didn't respond.

Mickey could hear the other Gallaghers downstairs. Debbie was saying something about the pageant thing she'd forced Franny into.

"Ian, I'm coming into the room. Just gonna close the door behind me." He didn't turn away from Ian, but stepped in, closing the partition so that the other Gallaghers wouldn't have to see their brother with a gun pointed at himself.

This was Mickey's mess, he'd clean it up. Even though he desperately wanted someone else to fix this so he didn't have to. What if he failed?

"Talk to me, Ian." He tried to demand, to be in control, but his voice shook as much as his hands did. He was scared.

Ian didn't move, didn't speak. But he didn't fight when Mickey got closer to him, and didn't hold onto the gun when Mickey took it from him — quickly making sure the safety was turned back on and tossing it behind Ian on the bed before he took Ian into his arms, burying his face in Ian's neck as one arm wrapped around his back and the other ran through his hair.

"I got you," Mickey said. Ian didn't cry — because of course, he didn't. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Ian cry.

Ian did, however, press his forehead against Mickey's chest, letting Mickey turn to kiss his forehead.

"I got you," Mickey repeated.

He didn't know what had triggered this, and he was afraid to ask (because, what if the answer was him?)

He didn't even know what to say. He didn't even talk Ian down from anything, he had no way of knowing Ian wouldn't just turn around and grab the gun again or down a bottle of pills.

He looked at the window sill where Ian kept his pills, a full bottle stood out.

Fuck, when was the last time Ian had taken his meds?

Was this Mickey's fault?

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I love you so much, I really do. You're the only thing that matters to me, Ian. I'm so fucking sorry."

Ian still didn't speak, but Mickey felt the way Ian shifted in his arms. Slowly, Ian wrapped his own arms around Mickey, hands coming to rest on his shoulder blades.

Which felt like acceptance.

"Do you want to lay down? Or we can go downstairs and watch Harley Quinn? I'll make everyone leave the house if you want me to."

Ian shook his head.

"Let me go for a second and we'll lay down."

Ian nodded, then let him go.

Mickey reached behind Ian to grab the gun. He checked it again to make sure the safety was on (because it hadn't been in Ian's hands), then tossed it into a drawer.

He was definitely getting rid of that thing in the morning, or the moment he could get out of bed without waking Ian.

He laid down first, then pulled Ian on top of him, letting the redhead use his chest as a pillow. He carded his fingers through Ian's hair, massaging his scalp. He wrapped his other arm around Ian's shoulders, keeping him close. He pressed another kiss to Ian's head.

"As soon as you wake up, you're taking your meds. I don't care how much they cost. Those? I'll sell a fucking kidney before I let you run out of them. Don't stop taking them."

"I'm sorry," Ian mumbled into his chest.

Which just made Mickey feel worse.

"It's not your fault," Mickey said. "You're sick and I haven't been helping. I'm gonna do better, for you."

He hoped he could keep that promise.