Mickey pushes open the door to your room, his boots heavy on the floorboards, and stops dead when he sees you slumped on the bed, unwashed, staring at nothing, your body curled in on itself like you're trying to disappear. "Ian, what the fuck, get your ass up," he snaps, voice sharp, crossing the room in three strides. He grabs your shoulder, shaking it hard. "You've been like this for days, move, now."

You don't budge, your voice comes out low and venomous. "Fuck off, Mickey."

Your hand snatches the crumpled magazine from the nightstand, hurling it at his chest, pages flapping wildly. It bounces off him, but he doesn't flinch, just grabs your arm instead, yanking you up with a growl. "Like hell you are, you're coming with me." He drags you toward the bathroom despite your resistance, your feet scraping against the floor, his grip iron on your wrist.

In the bathroom, he shoves you under the shower spray fully clothed, cranking the water to cold at first to shock you awake, then warmer. You thrash, kicking at his shins, water soaking through his jeans and shirt as he wrestles your soaked clothes off, peeling away the shirt, the pants, until you're standing there naked, the water pounding down on your bare skin. "Stop it, you fucking asshole, Michael Milkovich!" you scream, your voice echoing off the tiles, fists pounding weakly at his chest, but he's stronger, holding you under the stream, soaping you up roughly with a bar of soap, scrubbing your hair, your back, your arms, ignoring the water plastering his clothes to his body.

You keep fighting, legs kicking, but he steps right into the shower with you, fully dressed, the water drenching him completely, his arms wrapping around your naked waist to pin you still. "Enough, Ian, enough," he mutters, his voice breaking a little, close to your ear. That's when you shatter, your body going slack, violent sobs ripping out of you, tears mixing with the shower water as you collapse against him, shaking uncontrollably.

He holds you there until the fight drains out, then shuts off the water, grabs a towel, dries you off with firm, careful strokes, wrapping it around your waist before toweling himself haphazardly. He notices it then, as he helps you step out, your impressive dick hanging soft between your legs, heavy even like that, a Gallagher trait he's fucked plenty of times, but seeing it limp like this, vulnerable and untouched, hits him hardest, a punch to the gut that makes his throat tighten, because this isn't you, not his Ian.

He dresses you in clean boxers, sweatpants, a soft t-shirt, his hands steady despite the worry etching lines into his face, then guides you back to the bed, tucking you under the covers. You curl up again, spent, eyes half-closed as he sits on the edge, one hand resting on your shoulder.

Downstairs, the argument explodes, voices carrying up through the thin floorboards. Mickey storms down after a minute, leaving your door cracked, facing off with Fiona and Debbie, his wet clothes dripping.

"He's my fucking husband, Fiona, I'll handle it," Mickey yells, his voice raw, fists clenched on the counter, eyes red-rimmed, on the verge of tears he won't let fall.

Fiona shakes her head, arms crossed, her own face tired and drawn. "Mick, you can't, his mood swings are too intense right now, they last for weeks, it's impossible, you saw him, he's not even there."

"Don't fucking tell me what's impossible," Mickey shoots back, slamming a hand down, his voice cracking, tears threatening to spill because this is his soft spot, his Ian, the one who somehow still loves him even though he’s…well, Mickey. "Let me take care of him until he's better, you hear me? I know how to bring him back, I've done it before, he needs me, not you hovering like he's some kid."

Debbie cuts in, voice sharp. "And what if you can't this time? You're not his shrink, Mickey."

Mickey swallows thickly, punching the counter. "Let me fucking take care of my husband!” He yells. “He’s-“ his voice cracks. “He’s always taken care of me! Fucking let me help, Fiona!”