Ian Gallagher (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
justlikemom) wrote2015-01-30 01:01 pm
justlikemom) wrote2015-01-30 01:01 pm
6th Idea // Not So Restful
[ Spam ] [ Forward dated through 3 days after the flood ]
[ The first night that Ian is capable of uninterrupted sleep, he sleeps uncharacteristically long--the better part of the day. Though this is to be expected, given the last five days. He doesn't leave his cabin unless absolutely necessary.
The second night, he sleeps just as long. He manages to venture out, but he doesn't go for his usual run. He made it to the dining hall, but not much of anywhere else. He seems incredibly lethargic and despondent, not at anything at all like the bright and vibrant ball of manic energy he had been before.
By the third night, he's not leaving his bed at all. Nor is he responding to anything on the network. He just pulls his blankets tighter around him, not moving from his bed. ]
[ The first night that Ian is capable of uninterrupted sleep, he sleeps uncharacteristically long--the better part of the day. Though this is to be expected, given the last five days. He doesn't leave his cabin unless absolutely necessary.
The second night, he sleeps just as long. He manages to venture out, but he doesn't go for his usual run. He made it to the dining hall, but not much of anywhere else. He seems incredibly lethargic and despondent, not at anything at all like the bright and vibrant ball of manic energy he had been before.
By the third night, he's not leaving his bed at all. Nor is he responding to anything on the network. He just pulls his blankets tighter around him, not moving from his bed. ]
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The second day, he does the same thing, but a rising suspicion makes him jittery and irritable all day -- even more than usual. He snaps at everyone, Ian included, and when he tries to make it up to him later that night he just winds up tense and miserable when Ian pushes him away with a muttered excuse.
By the third morning, he knows what this is.]
Hey.
[He's been lingering in bed for a while, much later than Ian gets up and later than even he usually gets up, watching the slow rise and fall of Ian's back. He rolls onto his side and touches his shoulder, then tentatively kisses him on the same freckled spot.]
Still dreaming?
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No.
[ His response is delayed and terse. ]
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Really: what else is he supposed to do?]
You wanna go get some breakfast? Think they could maybe do us up some pancakes. Or, shit, I could try it -- just don't blame me if the place burns down.
[Fiona had done this, her and Debbie, he remembers. Just talking to him like this. Coaxing. It hadn't helped at the time, but they must have had a reason for doing it, he thinks desperately. Some reason to think it would do something. With no sisters around to help, Mickey's voice has never been softer or sweeter.]
You feeling okay?
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Because, on the surface, those offers and the hovering and the prodding grates on him in ways he can't describe. Like someone digging nails into raw skin. The conflict between the two just makes it so much worse, and he just doesn't want to deal with it at all.
He muttered something that was practically incoherent, even to himself. An attempt to say he was okay. So he tried again. ]
Just go away.
[ Not exactly what he intended, but he didn't have it in him to try again. ]
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You know I can't do that, man.
[He could end up suicidal, Fiona snaps in his head. We're taking care of him here, he shoots back. And that's all well and good, except she's not here, so the we is just him, and apparently they did it at least once before but he has no idea how. He hasn't wanted to pry too much into it, how Ian wound up on the Barge coming from some point after him, but now he wishes he had. They'd done something to fix him, obviously. He'd been better. How? Why?
He sits up and draws his legs up against his chest, biting his lip as he looks Ian over.]
Look, so you're feeling kind of--
[Sick. He's sick. Mickey swallows.]
Whatever, it happens. What'd we do last time?
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He just cared that Mickey was still there. Still trying to talk to him when he just wanted to be alone. He curled up tighter, just keeping quiet. Because all he wanted to do was yell and scream and make Mickey leave. He knew it was wrong and knew it would hurt both of them. But he still wanted to do it. The effort of not doing it made his eyes hurt, as if the angry words were threatening to come out as tears instead.
He pressed his lips hard together, curling a fist around a handful of blanket. Maybe Mickey would get irritated enough to leave on his own. ]
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[He starts to try again, but then he sees the blankets tighten around Ian as he curls deeper into them, and he cuts off in frustration.]
Fuck.
[He breathes it more than says it, letting his head thump back against the wall, eyes lifting to the ceiling as if it would hold the answer for him. There's definitely a familiar jittery edge taking him over, but Ian's wrong about what it is: he's not irritated but distressed, helpless, growing increasingly desperate by the second. He's trying not to panic. He realizes that his vision is starting to blur and he scrubs at his eyes hastily.]
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He couldn't remember what last time. Those days after the fight with Terry in the Alibi were so fuzzy. How long had it been? What ended it? It never seemed to really end though. Just one day it was easier to get out of bed. And then he came here, and everything was different. But he was having trouble seeing how? It had been temporary. It had been the drugs from the club making him feel this way. And now it was just from those awful dreams. Wasn't it? Why did Mickey even care, anyway? He had those stupid friends, now. Like Chris. He should just go bother them instead. ]
Go away.
[ The words came out a barely coherent mumble. He just wanted to be alone. At least then he could sleep and not have to think about any of this. ]
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[That much he does know. He's not going anywhere, and neither is Ian. They're stronger together; he knows that now, he can see that now.]
Where the fuck would I even go, man? I live here now.
[He loved his house once upon a time, but it had been surprisingly easy to ditch when the Gallaghers' became the only one between them with a working shower, and now... He can't imagine going back to his cabin without Ian coming along. The bed is too big and too empty, and it's too easy to imagine Svetlana there instead.]
You wanna just lie around all day, fine, but I'm not leaving.
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JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!
[ The moment the shout was out of him, he wanted to recall it immediately. It sounded so angry and raw and furious. Far more than he'd thought he felt. He clamped down again, wishing he could recall those words. ]
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He's never outright cried in front of Ian, and he's not going to start now, but there's a dangerous moment where the world wavers in front of him and he's oddly grateful Ian's got his back to him. Then he shakes his head and grits it back by sheer force of will, giving in and getting out of the bed to start looking for his clothes.]
Fine, bitch. Whatever. I'll be downstairs.
[He yanks on a pair of jeans and the first shirt he finds. As an afterthought, he storms across the tiny room to grab Ian's Bowie knife as well.]
And this is coming with me.
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Fine. Leave. Be angry. What did he care? He didn't so much as lift his head to see what "this" was. It didn't really matter. Maybe it was his notebook, something he shouldn't let Mickey have. Or any of the weapons. Maybe it was the gun from Boyd's dream. Whatever it was, just didn't have anything in him to care. No drive to find the energy required.
He just pulled the blankets tighter around him. Waiting for the ache in his chest to go away. Not even trying to will it gone, or even hoping it would stop feeling that way. Just waiting for it to stop. ]