Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1317052.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Shameless_(US)
  Relationship:
      Ian_Gallagher/Mickey_Milkovich
  Character:
      Ian_Gallagher, Mickey_Milkovich, Therapist_-_Character, Colonel_Barker,
      Other_Military_Superiors
  Additional Tags:
      Rape/Non-con_Elements, Gang_Rape, Violence, Sexual_Violence, Humiliation,
      Objectification, Drug_Use, underage_sexual_abuse, Implied/Referenced
      Underage_Prostitution, Therapy, Angst
  Series:
      Part 1 of Therapy_Sessions:_Ian_Gallagher
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-15 Words: 1903
****** Therapy Sessions: Ian Gallagher ******
by boundxdoll
Summary
     It's been months since Mickey brought Ian home that night from the
     club and Ian is just now ready to start talking about what happened
     to him in basic training.
Notes
     Severe trigger warnings.
It all started when I asked this guy to buy me a drink.
He had been staring at me, it should have been some kind of warning sign, maybe
I should have listened to my gut telling me he seemed creepy. I'm a Gallagher I
should have seen the con. I should have known it was coming. Should have...but
didn't.
One drink led to two, and two led to three, the more I drank the looser I
became with my lips and the more I started to open up to the guy. I didn't tell
him anything important, I didn't tell him that my real name was Ian, but I let
it be known what my sexuality was, and they didn't make the rule 'don't ask
don't tell' for nothing. I always thought you were supposed to be able to trust
the people you were serving with in the military, thought that it was a safe
and structured environment. I couldn't have been more wrong.
I had noticed since my arrival that my moods had been becoming a little out of
control, sometimes I would be fine, and the next I was feeling depressed.
Things only got worse after I started talking to this guy. His name was Colonel
Barker, he was stationed here for something or other I don't remember, because
I try to forget as much about him as possible. For an older guy he had been
attractive, then again that had been my sort of thing. I liked either older
men, or the troubled fuck you up type that made me run away in the first place.
Needless to say I thought sticking to older men might have been a better route.
Might have saved me some heartache.
One thing that should have stuck out to me was the fact that we weren't
supposed to drink, so when he had invited me to the bar on post, even telling
my superiors he was taking a special interest in me due to my MOS to get a
waiver to take me away from the barracks. None of this registered because
foolheartedly I had laid my trust in the arms of the military, with the people
I would be fighting with overseas.
I remember it all very vividly... the way his hands felt on my skin, rough,
calloused from the repeated use of heavy artillery. He was divorced, three kids
he never saw, and he had a nice house on post all to himself, all because of
his rank. I remember the way he told me that I looked too pretty to be in the
military, the way it felt when he touched me. I remember the smell of whiskey
on his breath when he kissed me, how his hands got rougher when I tried to push
him away.
Most of all I remember what it felt like when my ribs were cracked as he shoved
me over the island counter in his kitchen. The parts I don't remember are after
he slammed my head into the hard granite counter making me lose consciousness,
I guess it helped my body relax for him, so he could force himself on me. I
guess it made me more pliable. I guess that it stopped me for screaming for
somebody to help me. I guess...
When I woke up, when I came to with blood drying on the side of my face I heard
voices in the other room, there were more people at the house now and I was
still trying to gather my senses. With blurry vision I pushed myself into a
standing position, and as I wobbled I grabbed onto the counter for stability.
Stability, what I came to the military for in the first place. I didn't need to
look to see the blood coating my inner thighs from the brutal act he had forced
upon me. With shaking limbs I tried to find my clothing, but they were nowhere
in sight.
I tried to be silent, I tried to listen to the voices in the other room and see
if I could hear anything. There was one voice I recognized aside from my
attacker's, the Drill Sergeant in charge of my platoon. He was here too, along
with what sounded like four other people. That would make six. I felt sick to
my stomach and part of me hoped they were here to check on the situation, maybe
arrest Barker for what happened.
I can taste the bile in the back of my throat as double over emptying the
contents of my stomach onto this man's polished kitchen floors. Before I have
time to react I feel myself being grabbed again and pulled into the next room
where the others are.
"Told you he was too pretty for the Army." I hear Barker say as he shoves me
down onto the floor, I'm on my knees when I feel the cold muzzle of a gun
pressed to the back of my shaved head. My Drill Sergeant tells me that if I
want to make it out of this room alive I'll do what they say.
"You're not going to get away with this." I tell them giving them what's left
of my bravado, but one of them looks like Terry, those eyes like vultures, the
pointed nose, all of it and I'm remembering part of why I left in the first
place.
"Who are you going to tell that will believe you huh? You're just some no name
private blaming a group of your superiors, they laugh at women for that sort of
thing." Barker laughs as he pats my cheek mockingly. His eyes are colder now.
"So, I'll tell you what--" he begins only pausing to suck his teeth, the sound
makes me cringe and that makes him laugh. "You're going to do everything we
say, whenever we say it. If your Drill Sergeant tell you to suck his dick,
you're gonna say 'yes sir' and get on your cocksucking knees and do it. Fucking
faggot, it's what your good for. Say it, say 'I'll suck your dicks anytime you
want', go on say it."
I don't want to, but the hand that snakes around my throat leaves me little
choice. "I--I'll suck your dicks anytime you want." I struggle on the words
that taste like poison as they fall from my lips. Their pleased laughs disgust
me further, they make me feel dirty and there isn't enough bleach in the world
that can wipe this feeling away.
I'll spare the gory details of what they do to me, I won't tell you how much my
body hurt, how their words cut into me leaving scars so deep I didn't realize
they'd fester and start to really change who I was, my line of thinking. I
won't tell you how much it hurt to run the next morning, to do my push ups, my
sit ups --they were the worst; or how much it hurt to move in general. I won't
tell you how raw my throat was, how swallowing water hurt, how nothing could
soothe me and I couldn't even find comfort in thinking about Mickey anymore. I
most certainly won't tell you that they all made me kneel for them. That they
all found me throughout my day and made me do what I said I would.
It went on and on for weeks and I tried to be strong, just tell myself it would
be over in eight weeks time, that I'd get through basic and never have to see
them again for as long as I lived. I tried to tell myself all of those things
but my pride was broken one night when Barker made me dance for them. When he
made me put on some skimpy outfit and put on a show for them.
The words still ring in my head whenever I find myself in some strangers lap
letting him feed me pills to take away the ache, to make me numb to my constant
humiliation. To make me enjoy being nothing more than eye candy, an easy fuck
in the back room of a club. One pill away from feeling nothing and that's what
kept me grounded.
He said that this was all I would ever be good for, and after four weeks of
enduring this torture I had started to believe it. That's why I'm here, well,
partially. I want help, I want to be the Ian I was before, I want to look at
the man I know that I still love and feel something more than resentment.
-------
Ian sat back in his chair, looking at the therapist after having just said the
root of it all, telling her what had really sent him running away, trying to
steal a helicopter, a missile, just anything to make the abuse stop. It took
him months even after Mickey brought him home for him to get to a place where
he could say what happened.
"I just want to be me again." Ian sighed looking up at the ceiling before
dropping his gaze to the woman across from him.
"It's going to take some work, Ian, but we're going to do the best that we can
to make that happen." She offers him a weak smile, she can't begin to fathom
how all of that must have felt, aside from the fact it had churned her stomach.
"You're a strong young man. We'll get through this." Her voice was assuring,
almost motherly. "How have the meds been working for you?" Concern in her tone,
as she prepared herself to jot down any problems.
"They're working alright, still adjusting, but I don't feel like I'm going back
and forth too much, I still have mood swings, but other than that I've mellowed
out a lot, my family has been a big help, and so has Mickey." The name caused
Ian to smile like he used to, there were still issues there, but that's why he
was here at this therapy session, to help himself, to fix the problems that
were causing them problems.
"Good, good, I'm glad." Her smile is genuine, but it falters when she looks at
the clock. "I'm afraid we're out of time, I'll see you next week right?"
"Wouldn't miss it." Ian replies looking down at the journal in his lap. "Next
time we'll talk about this." He tucks it away in a messenger back and slings it
over his shoulder. After shaking her hand and thanking her for her time he
leaves, greeted by Mickey who was waiting for him in the lobby.
"How'd it go?" Mickey asked, pushing up out of his chair.
"I actually talked this time...feels...better. A lot better." Ian smiled
leaning down to kiss the corner of Mickey's mouth. "Let's go home, I kind of
want to tell you some of the things we talked about...I think I'm ready to do
that." Ian sounded confident, the real kind, no illegal drugs this time.
"I'd like that." Mickey wraps an arm around his waist leading him out to the
car. He wasn't sure he was ready to know what happened, but he would listen. He
wanted to help Ian as much as he could.
--the ride home was silent, but the conversation upstairs was anything but.
To be continued.
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