A/N: Chapter titles are taken from Heavenly Father (Justin Vernon)

Forty.

Forty-one.

Forty-two.

His ceiling is a map of fault lines.

Ian wonders if the previous tenant of his apartment had moved out after becoming aware of the obvious fragility of the ceiling. His eyes have adjusted to the dark and the flickering light of the vacant sign across the street casts pillars of neon against his wall. Hour six of reading branches of jagged black on the plaster of his ceiling has passed just as quickly as the last five hours, and Ian wonders how many more times he can read this road map of cracks before the morning light hits him.

Ian had always been an expert on reading maps and compasses and directions- which made the entire situation all the more frustrating to him – for someone who could read any coordinate, on any map, he certainly hadn't seen any of the recognizable signs that told him danger was up ahead. Or maybe he had been too distracted – by first love, by Monica, by the other five Gallaghers whose problems always seemed more important than his. Not that he minded – they often were- but maybe that's why he hadn't seen the cracks that had started to form along his own right and left hemispheres.

If he had, he would have known, from just a glance, where too rapid a movement would cause a catastrophic event. Like this damn ceiling. Ian is seriously hoping his neighbour that lives on the floor above him is particularly light on his feet- he doesn't really know how many more cracks this ceiling can take.

The neon on his walls have shifted into a hazy grey, and without looking over at the clock on the table beside his bed, he knows that it is morning. He knows that he has approximately thirty minutes before a reminding alarm will echo through his apartment, and will have nearly fifteen minutes after that before receiving a worried phone call from Fiona. But the light is slow to change and he figures he has time to retrace his steps along faulted lines once more, without causing any noticeable damage.

One. Two…

Ian begins to wonder if it's actually the cracks on his ceiling that he has been counting all of this time.

It had been quiet at first- a whine in a dusty corner of his mind, a barely there sound that could be overlooked when enough of the world was playing past his eyes. He had ignored it at first, refused to look it directly in the eyes – how do you summon the courage to raise your eyes to meet the face of a broken version of yourself?

But he had known, even then. With the same ability that a world class entomologist possesses when asked to identify an insect, Ian could identify Monica's genetics anywhere. He had seen too many huddled covers, brought up too many butter sandwiches, gently pleaded too many times, not to be painfully familiar with the direction that the tides in his mind were turning. Yet, the thorn that had embedded itself into Ian's chest since Mickey's foot left its damage onto his face had blocked the quiet whine in the back of his mind. The pain of having his chest twisted and shredded into a mass of muscle that barely came close to resembling tattered rags used only to soak up the blood that a beating organ used to hold, was loud enough to block out most of the noise that wasn't heartbreak or disaster.

But even with the acuteness of the pain in his chest, distracting him from the beehive that was beginning to form between his ears, the quiet buzz grew slowly into a roaring crescendo that Ian needed to get away from.

Looking back, it had been stupid to think that all he needed to quiet the buzz was to leave the town that held all of his memories. It had been stupid to think that running across state lines, while the beat that fueled the thud of his heart stayed in a house of horrors would help him feel any better. Nevertheless, he had left, soundlessly with his face still holding the imprint of Mickey's shoe and his ROTC pack full of his meager belongings and maps of the East Coast. That was three years ago. And somehow he ended up here, in a cheap apartment with a ceiling full of fragmented cracks and a mind full of fissures.

"How are you today?" Fiona's voice, tired and worried, crackles through his poor phone connection.

"Good. Better." It has been nearly nine months since the phone call and Ned and a New York emergency room. It has been nine months, and Fiona has insisted on calling every morning since then and Ian doesn't have the heart to tell her that a phone call isn't going to stop his heart from hurting, and that her voice is simply not enough to stop the occasional freight train of thoughts that race through his mind.

"And Mandy, how is she?"

Ian's love for his sister overwhelms him in that moment. Her concern for a Milkovich convinces him that Mickey could always come back, convinces him that he is yet to come back.

"She's good. Better."

"Ian… you're going to have to give me more than good and better one of these days, ok?" Her voice is chiding and light. Ian figures the coffee she was undoubtedly drinking during their conversation has made its way through her system by now. All traces of sleep and worry are gone now from her voice.

"Ok."

"Ian…"

"Thank you for calling Fi. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Wow, more than three words. Thanks."

"Bye Fi."

"Was that your sister?" Mandy's in the kitchen in a t-shirt and nothing else, holding two coffee cups in her hand.

"Uh huh"

"You sleep?"

"Nope"

"You ok?"

"Not you too, Mands."

"Fine. Guess what Tony wanted to talk to me about yesterday?" The concern leaving her voice so quickly, Ian forgets it was there.

It was less than seven months ago that Mandy had shown up at his door, a garbage bag filled with all of her possessions at her feet, face hidden by matted dark hair, hands wrung out.

And after four nights of no explanation and no questions, Ian had come home to Mandy passed out in a puddle of her own vomit, her body sprawled on their bathroom floor, empty bottles scattered in sixteen different games of spin the bottle. It was after four nights, that Ian sat with her; a hot pack against her stomach, and a cold compress against her head.

He had gathered fragments of the story that night then; Mickey leaving, Mandy being the only target Terry knew how to focus his frustration on, Mandy leaving to find Ian. And it was only when he had heard the words come from Mandy's lips that he had realized that they had both been chasing a shadow all of this time.

It had hit him that it hadn't been away from the buzz in his mind that he had been running, but instead he had been running towards something the thud-thud in his chest called out nightly for. And as much as Mandy insisted she had come to New York to look for Ian, he knew it was the brother that people had always mistaken for as her twin that she was silently hoping to find instead.

And suddenly it is far too quiet, and Ian realizes Mandy has stopped mid-sentence and is staring at him with expecting eyes.

"You fuckhead. You weren't listening again were you?"

She states the fact so simply, Ian can only imagine how easily his face must have been to read. He is attempting to pay attention to Mandy rave about a promotion at work, but he is slowly realizing the truth that her words hold.

Because he hadn't really been listening – not now, not then – he had never been very good at listening to things he didn`t want to hear. He had always been too stubborn to allow himself to listen in any other way that wasn`t the conventional call and response of a spoken conversation.

But maybe because it has been so long and Ian's imagination has always been his strongest suit, Fuck Off and Warm mouth have morphed into silent beats that hold Don`t leave and I love you. And even after all of the time that has passed, Ian swears he can still hear a response to the thud-thud of his beating heart in the silences of his nights.

Mandy is still talking, now about a bar and celebratory drinks and Ian is drinking what is left of his lukewarm coffee. It's bitter and smells pungent, and he wonders how fun a night surrounded by all of Mandy's work friends could possibly be sober.

Mandy's quick to answer his silent question. "So you're coming right?"

He wants to say no, but how do you tell the sister of the man you used to love – your best friend- that you spend all of your waking hours living for the moment when you can sleep, just so you can catch a glimpse of him in a foggy dreamland, but can't because all of your sleeping hours are wasted on the simple act of just trying to sleep without him.

But she's smiling, and it's the only time when Ian's memory of Mickey is vivid and real, and he is desperate to keep that smile on her face – so he knows he has to agree. It's just another compromise, another welcome distraction from the beating silence that keeps him up at night.

"I'll be there Mands."

Her smile grows and he's almost positive that he can see Mickey in the familiar space of her face.

For a small second, the tightness in his chest loosens.

For a small second, he forgets to remember it all.