Ian Clayton Gallagher (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sickoflivingalie) wrote2014-12-08 10:01 pm
sickoflivingalie) wrote2014-12-08 10:01 pm
Entry tags:
081.2: Quotes
"Mental illness leaves a huge legacy, not just for the person suffering it but for those around them." - Lysette Anthony @ ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival
As much as Ian wished he could have gotten a more honest job to earn a more honest and rewarding wage, all attempts at that had failed lately. His deeper desire to join the military had crashed and burned... pretty much literally. After that, he lost his self-respect and he couldn't deny that the job at the club paid well. It was money he needed to keep helping Fiona, especially after her employability had gone down the toilet with the jail time. Sometimes, there were just more important things that fucking self-respect. He was a Gallagher. Self-respect wasn't a language they spoke well.
It was back to gold spandex shorts that left nothing to the imagination, lap dances, grinding against the desperate and dateless, often twice his age or more, drugs, and booze. Lots and lots of booze. Booze and expectations. It was expected that the staff drink, flirt, indulge in a pill here or a line there. All part and parcel of the "entertainment" package. Ian usually had the ability to switch off to it all and just go through the motions. He knew the things to say, the looks to offer, the show to put on. But it was all different since Mickey had finally come out. Everything was different.
Ian also had much lower coping thresholds since he might be "mentally ill". It wasn't diagnosed and he had currently taken to it with an air of indifference, like it didn't fucking matter either way. But to him, his moods swings weren't as obvious as they were to the people around him. He was either having an okay day or a fucking shit day. Then there were the days where his brain was in overdrive and it was like he was invincible. He wanted to do everything at once and not think about why. Why didn't fucking matter.
This particular night, he was short-tempered and just wanted the shift to end so he could get home. He tried to switch off, but his brain was buzzing too much to succeed with it. A few drinks and a pill from a guy that was just a few years from geriatric age had the opposite of the desired effect. Dancing his way hazily through the remaining minutes of his shift, eyes open but not seeing to anything but a blur of smokey strobe lights and bass that seemed to be pulsing with a persistent throbbing in his head. Which was why he failed to notice that he had drawn the attention of a shady looking guy for most of the evening who had been ogling him from the bar whilst sitting on one drink, perfectly sober.
He was Ian's last 'client' for the night and it was yet another lap dance. It was this time of night when he could barely think straight that he was fantasising about doing this with Mickey. There was no other way to get through it. It was all worth it when he got his pay cheque and he could hand over cash to his sister to help out, feel like he had some sort of value again. Ian was in a bad way that night, but he didn't realise it. He let this bastard feel him up, growl dirty talk in his ear about all the different ways he wanted to fuck Ian... and hard. Ian's eyes stayed trained on the disco ball on the roof, almost mesmerized by the lights reflecting off the faceted surface.
Clocking off work and leaving, Ian was stumbling on his feet. Most nights, Mickey was waiting for him to go home with him, knowing that Ian's condition could be varying degrees of dangerous, depending on how he was any given day. He was off doing some pimp business, threatening dudes with a shot gun to pay up for services rendered or something. Ian still didn't know entirely what the pimp job entailed and he didn't want to know either. He dealt with it better not knowing and turning a blind eye, just like Mickey did with his job here at the club.
The thing about having a sober guy try to feel him up was that it wouldn't have escaped his notice that Ian was completely off his face. Leaving the club and trying (but failing) to pull his coat on, Ian suddenly found himself accosted by the guy and dragged into the alley up the side of the club. It was dark, the streetlights failing to reach that filthy corner of the world, like many corners in this part of Chicago. Ian was shoved roughly up against a brick wall with a hoarse growl that he was a dirty whore who could shut the fuck up and finish what he started in the club. Ian's fight or flight instinct kicked in, despite the drug-fuelled haze, and he tried to fight the guy off. Ian was tall, he was strong when he needed to be, but the guy had the body of a gym junkie and Ian's ailed strength was overpowered without much effort.
The attempt to fight back was met with harsh anger and Ian was backhanded across the face and told to shut up and bend over. Ian managed to get a decent enough right hook to the guy's head and kneed him sharply in the groin. Ultimately, it was a mistake to fight back. He was being beaten up, knocked to the ground, kicked, punched, the whole nine yards. And the last thought that entered his mind before he took a sharp hit to the head and lost consciousness was that if he was going to die, he didn't even care.
muserevivalAs much as Ian wished he could have gotten a more honest job to earn a more honest and rewarding wage, all attempts at that had failed lately. His deeper desire to join the military had crashed and burned... pretty much literally. After that, he lost his self-respect and he couldn't deny that the job at the club paid well. It was money he needed to keep helping Fiona, especially after her employability had gone down the toilet with the jail time. Sometimes, there were just more important things that fucking self-respect. He was a Gallagher. Self-respect wasn't a language they spoke well.
It was back to gold spandex shorts that left nothing to the imagination, lap dances, grinding against the desperate and dateless, often twice his age or more, drugs, and booze. Lots and lots of booze. Booze and expectations. It was expected that the staff drink, flirt, indulge in a pill here or a line there. All part and parcel of the "entertainment" package. Ian usually had the ability to switch off to it all and just go through the motions. He knew the things to say, the looks to offer, the show to put on. But it was all different since Mickey had finally come out. Everything was different.
Ian also had much lower coping thresholds since he might be "mentally ill". It wasn't diagnosed and he had currently taken to it with an air of indifference, like it didn't fucking matter either way. But to him, his moods swings weren't as obvious as they were to the people around him. He was either having an okay day or a fucking shit day. Then there were the days where his brain was in overdrive and it was like he was invincible. He wanted to do everything at once and not think about why. Why didn't fucking matter.
This particular night, he was short-tempered and just wanted the shift to end so he could get home. He tried to switch off, but his brain was buzzing too much to succeed with it. A few drinks and a pill from a guy that was just a few years from geriatric age had the opposite of the desired effect. Dancing his way hazily through the remaining minutes of his shift, eyes open but not seeing to anything but a blur of smokey strobe lights and bass that seemed to be pulsing with a persistent throbbing in his head. Which was why he failed to notice that he had drawn the attention of a shady looking guy for most of the evening who had been ogling him from the bar whilst sitting on one drink, perfectly sober.
He was Ian's last 'client' for the night and it was yet another lap dance. It was this time of night when he could barely think straight that he was fantasising about doing this with Mickey. There was no other way to get through it. It was all worth it when he got his pay cheque and he could hand over cash to his sister to help out, feel like he had some sort of value again. Ian was in a bad way that night, but he didn't realise it. He let this bastard feel him up, growl dirty talk in his ear about all the different ways he wanted to fuck Ian... and hard. Ian's eyes stayed trained on the disco ball on the roof, almost mesmerized by the lights reflecting off the faceted surface.
Clocking off work and leaving, Ian was stumbling on his feet. Most nights, Mickey was waiting for him to go home with him, knowing that Ian's condition could be varying degrees of dangerous, depending on how he was any given day. He was off doing some pimp business, threatening dudes with a shot gun to pay up for services rendered or something. Ian still didn't know entirely what the pimp job entailed and he didn't want to know either. He dealt with it better not knowing and turning a blind eye, just like Mickey did with his job here at the club.
The thing about having a sober guy try to feel him up was that it wouldn't have escaped his notice that Ian was completely off his face. Leaving the club and trying (but failing) to pull his coat on, Ian suddenly found himself accosted by the guy and dragged into the alley up the side of the club. It was dark, the streetlights failing to reach that filthy corner of the world, like many corners in this part of Chicago. Ian was shoved roughly up against a brick wall with a hoarse growl that he was a dirty whore who could shut the fuck up and finish what he started in the club. Ian's fight or flight instinct kicked in, despite the drug-fuelled haze, and he tried to fight the guy off. Ian was tall, he was strong when he needed to be, but the guy had the body of a gym junkie and Ian's ailed strength was overpowered without much effort.
The attempt to fight back was met with harsh anger and Ian was backhanded across the face and told to shut up and bend over. Ian managed to get a decent enough right hook to the guy's head and kneed him sharply in the groin. Ultimately, it was a mistake to fight back. He was being beaten up, knocked to the ground, kicked, punched, the whole nine yards. And the last thought that entered his mind before he took a sharp hit to the head and lost consciousness was that if he was going to die, he didn't even care.