Chapter 9: Ian's Questions
Ian Gallagher appeared at 8 PM, just as Ben was locking up for the night.
The kid hovered at the garage entrance like he was considering running. His hands were shoved deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the February cold. He hadn't knocked, hadn't called out—just materialized from the darkness and stood there, radiating uncertainty.
Ben recognized the body language immediately. Someone who needed to ask something but wasn't sure they should.
"Shop's closed," Ben said carefully. "But if you need something..."
"It's not for me." Ian's voice was quiet, measured. "It's for a friend."
Oh.
Ben understood instantly. The classic deflection. The safety of third-person distance when talking about things too raw to claim as your own.
"Come in," Ben said. "It's freezing out there."
Ian stepped inside with visible reluctance. Ben left the main door open—exit available if the kid needed to bolt—and turned on the space heater. The garage was warmer than outside but not by much. His breath still misted when he spoke.
"What's going on with your friend?" Ben asked, keeping his tone neutral.
Ian stayed near the door. His eyes tracked the garage's interior—tools, workbench, the ordered chaos of Ben's workspace. Cataloging escape routes, probably. Or just buying time.
"He's thinking about joining the military," Ian said finally. "Wants structure. Purpose. Something bigger than..." He gestured vaguely. "Than what we've got here."
"Makes sense. Military's good for that."
"Yeah. But there's something that might complicate things."
Ben waited. Didn't push. His Danger Intuition was quiet, which meant no immediate threat, but he could feel the weight of this conversation settling like snow. Whatever Ian was about to say mattered. Changed things.
"He's..." Ian stopped. Started again. "There's stuff about him that the military might not... that people don't..."
The words dried up. Ian's frustration was visible in the tension of his jaw, the way his hands clenched in his pockets.
Ben made a choice. "Your friend's worried about fitting in. About whether who he is will be a problem."
Ian's eyes snapped to his face. "Yeah. Exactly."
"And he can't ask his family about it."
"They wouldn't understand."
"So he's asking someone who might not judge him." Ben leaned against the workbench, keeping his posture open, nonthreatening. "What does your friend actually want? Not what he thinks he should want. What does he want?"
The question seemed to surprise Ian. He was quiet for a long moment, processing.
"He wants..." Ian's voice was barely audible. "He wants to stop hiding. Wants to be himself without... without having to pretend."
"Then why the military? If he's worried about hiding there too?"
"Because at least there'd be a reason. A purpose behind it. Right now he's just hiding because it's easier than telling the truth."
Ben's heart twisted. He knew Ian's story. Knew about Don't Ask Don't Tell, knew about the coming struggles with bipolar disorder, knew about Mickey and the pain that relationship would cause. Knew all of it like scenes from a movie he'd memorized.
And he couldn't say any of it.
"Has your friend researched military policies?" Ben asked carefully. "About personal lives? About what they expect from soldiers?"
"Some."
"Because there are rules. Official ones and unofficial ones. And those rules can make life complicated for people who don't fit certain expectations."
Ian's expression shuttered slightly. "You mean gay people."
The word hung in the air between them—naked, honest, terrifying.
"Yeah," Ben said. "I mean gay people."
"My friend isn't—" Ian stopped. The lie wouldn't come. "How'd you know?"
"Context clues. And I've known people who went through similar decisions." Ben chose his words with surgical precision, aware his Danger Intuition was pulsing softly now. Warning him not to push too hard. "The military has Don't Ask Don't Tell. You know what that is?"
"Policy about not revealing sexual orientation."
"Right. Which sounds reasonable until you think about what it actually means. It means hiding. Constantly. It means watching everything you say, everyone you interact with, every moment of your life, because one slip could end your career. Could get you discharged, maybe dishonorably."
Ian absorbed this, face carefully neutral. "But if my friend is careful—"
"Careful means lying. To everyone. Forever. It means never being yourself, never relaxing, never trusting anyone enough to be honest. Is that what your friend wants? Trading one kind of hiding for another?"
"At least there'd be purpose behind it."
"Maybe." Ben softened his tone. "Or maybe it's just a different cage. Look, I'm not saying don't join. The military offers real benefits—education, training, structure, healthcare. Those are valuable. But your friend needs to go in with eyes open. Needs to understand the cost."
Ian was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was smaller. "What would you do? If you were him?"
"I don't know. I'm not him." Ben met his eyes. "But I'd probably ask myself: am I joining because I want to, or because I'm running from something? Because if it's the second one, you'll just be running in a uniform."
"And if it's both?"
"Then your friend has to decide which matters more. The running or the wanting."
Ian nodded slowly. Looked down at his feet. "He's scared. Of what people will think. What his family will say. Whether he'll lose everyone if he tells the truth."
Ben's chest ached. This wasn't about a friend anymore—hadn't been from the start—and they both knew it.
"He deserves better than this. Deserves to not have to code his pain in hypotheticals."
"Your friend should do what makes him happy," Ben said quietly. "Not what makes him safe. Because sometimes those are the same thing, and sometimes they're not. And only he can figure out which is which."
Ian looked up. His eyes were bright, threatening tears he was too proud to shed.
"Are you gay?" he asked.
"No."
The answer created space. Ian relaxed fractionally—not disappointed, just reassured that this wasn't ulterior motive.
"But I know people who are," Ben continued. "And they deserve better than hiding. Better than living in fear of being themselves. Your friend deserves that too."
"Even if being himself means losing everything?"
"Especially then. Because if you lose people for being honest, you didn't really have them in the first place."
Ian wiped his eyes quickly, angry at the tears. "You don't know that."
"You're right. I don't." Ben straightened. "But I know hiding eats you alive. Slowly. And at some point, your friend will have to decide if survival is worth the cost of never being real."
They stood in silence. The space heater hummed. Somewhere distant, a car alarm went off and was quickly silenced.
Finally, Ian moved toward the door. Stopped at the threshold.
"It's not a friend," he said quietly. "It's me."
Ben froze. The admission cost Ian everything—Ben could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hands trembled slightly. This kid had just handed him a weapon that could destroy him in this neighborhood, and Ben felt the weight of that trust like physical pressure.
"Then you should do what makes you happy," Ben said, keeping his voice steady. "Not what makes you safe. Because sometimes those are the same thing and sometimes they're not."
Ian nodded. Didn't say thanks. Didn't need to. Ben saw it in his eyes—gratitude, fear, relief, all mixed together in a complicated mess of emotion.
He left, disappearing into the February night. Ben stood in his garage doorway and watched until Ian turned the corner, heading back toward the house where Frank was probably passed out, where Fiona was probably doing bills, where the other kids were probably fending for themselves.
I know what's coming for him. The bipolar diagnosis. Mickey. The struggle with his sexuality. The military disaster. I know all of it and can't warn him without revealing impossible knowledge.
Ben closed the garage door and locked it. His hands were shaking.
He'd just had a conversation where every word mattered, where one wrong phrase could have pushed Ian away or pushed him too hard. Had used his Silver Tongue not to manipulate but to create safety, to let a scared kid talk about things he couldn't say to his own family.
And Ian had trusted him enough to drop the pretense. To admit the truth.
That trust felt heavier than any lie Ben had told.
He spent the rest of the night unable to sleep, cataloging the ways he might have just helped or hurt someone he desperately wanted to protect. Ian was on his own path now—toward the military, toward coming out, toward all the pain and growth that waited. And Ben could only watch, offer advice when asked, and hope he hadn't just made everything worse.
"I can see the pain coming but can't stop it without destroying the person he needs to become."
The truth settled over him like a shroud. This was the cost of foreknowledge—watching disasters approach while knowing that preventing them might create worse outcomes. Knowing that sometimes people had to suffer to grow, and interference might rob them of necessary lessons.
Ben added Ian to his mental list of people he was desperate to protect. Right next to Fiona, Mrs. Rodriguez, Tommy with his rebuilt bike, and all the others he was slowly accumulating.
The weight kept growing. And he still had no idea if he was strong enough to carry it.
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