fuck u-up

“Fuck off,” Ian grumbled, rolling over to face away from Mickey, and huffing out of his nose he grabbed onto Ian’s forearm and shook it a bit roughly until he had annoyed him enough to roll back over to face him. “Holy fuck, what do you want?”

Mickey glared down at his husband, offended by the immediate annoyance… as if he wouldn’t act the same if awoken in the middle of the night. “Someone’s in the fuckin’ kitchen, asshole.”

That definitely got Ian’s attention. Mickey observed as his eyebrows immediately scrunched, lips turning downwards as he also sat up, eyes shifting past Mickey to stare at their closed bedroom door, as if he could see through it.

Ever since Mickey had been sleeping in the same bed as Ian — since he finally started accepting just how much he needed Ian, since the nights where he was supposed to be on Ian’s bedroom floor were spent up against him in his bed — he had always put himself between Ian and the door. Maybe it was the assumption that there would always be danger, like he was living at home and there was always a chance of Terry barrelling through the door to hit him. But Mickey knew that he’d always want Ian further into the room than himself. Realistically, he knew that probably nothing was ever going to happen — a little ironic after he had been woken up by the sound of an intruder in their kitchen — but just in case, he would always put himself into the line of danger first.

Ian was still staring at the door. His hand had unconsciously reached out to grip onto Mickey’s leg, a light squeeze against the plush of his thigh. “I can’t hear anything, Mick.”

“You think I’m fuckin’ making it up?”

Ian turned to scowl at him. “That’s not what I said. I’m j’st saying that it doesn’t sound like anybody’s there.”

“I know what I heard, asshole-“

Another smash came from the kitchen, and instead of jumping like Ian did, Mickey couldn’t help the smug smile that formed over his mouth. “Told you, bitch.”

Ian rolled his eyes but didn’t respond, instead he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned down, grabbing a shirt from the floor and quickly throwing it on. Mickey, who cared much less about looking decent in front of a fucking burglar, instead leaned down to grab the gun that he kept tucked under his side of the bed just in case. He rounded the bed and forcefully shoved Ian beside him, reaching out with his free hand to open the doorknob. “Stay behind me.”

Ian didn’t argue, so he pulled open the door and stepped out into the hallway, his gun raised out in front of him. Within all of the domestic bliss that he and Ian had been living in for some time now, it had actually been a while since he’d held a gun — the last time was probably when he had put it under his side of the bed. The weight of it felt heavy in his hand, the metal cold against his skin — he never thought that he would be in a place where the feeling of a gun in his hand was weird to him.

With Ian still behind him they got to the kitchen, and whilst there was no intruder to be seen, there was glass and porcelain smashed all over their floor. He glanced up at the counter and noticed that there were still a few plates and a glass that had been left to clean up in the morning, and he was guessing that the ones now in pieces on the floor came from that stack of washing up.

“Aw man,” Mickey grumbled, nudging a larger piece of black porcelain with his toe. “My favourite fuckin’ mug.”

“Mick look-”

“Yeah I know, man, I can see it.”

“No,” Ian huffed, and poked one of his shoulder blades. “On the table.”

Mickey turned his head, and just blinked when he saw the little orange cat sat on their kitchen table, staring back at them with its huge bug eyes. It reminded him of one of the little street cats from back home that Mandy used to insist on feeding when she was just a kid. “What the fuck is that thing doing in here?”

“Must’ve come in through the window,” Ian nudged him again, and Mickey glanced up at the open window above the counter. “Poor guy must’ve knocked all the glasses over on his way in.”

“Poor guy? It broke our shit.”

“Yeah well I told you to close the windows at night.”

Mickey turned to shoot Ian a glare, as if to say it wasn’t his fault that the little fucker got into their home, but Ian slipped past him and sidestepped all of the glass over towards the table, where he reached down to scratch said little fucker on the top of its head.

“I’ll clean up then, yeah?” He huffed, putting the gun in the waistband of his boxers for now as he carefully dodged any glass on the floor to grab the broom they kept stood by the fridge, and started to sweep all of the shards into a pile. When he glanced up at Ian he was still fussing over the cat, and he just rolled his eyes with a shake of his head. “Aye, some fuckin’ help would be nice.”

“He hasn’t got a collar,” Ian had that dumb puppy dog pout on his lips as he turned back to his husband, and in one motion he scooped the cat up into his arms, cradling the thing against his chest. “And he’s really small. I think he’s a stray, Mick.”

“Oh yeah? Too bad, it broke my mug, piece of shit.”

Ian glared, dipping his head down to kiss the cat on its peanut head. “We should let him stay for the night.”

“Why should we do that?” Mickey rolled his eyes, leaning the broom against the counter once he had all of the shards in a pile, and instead grabbed the dustpan to collect it all to toss into the bin.

“‘Cause it’s cold out.”

“Thing’s got fur, ain’t it?” Ian was still glaring when he looked back up and he just groaned, wiping a hand over his face as he let the now empty dustpan clatter down against their counter. “Christ, you really wanna keep it here for the night?”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “Not just for the night-“

“Ain’t fuckin’ happening, Gallagher.”

Ian sighed, putting the cat down on the table gently before he moved over to him, that fucking stupid pout back on his face as he took Mickey’s shoulders in his hands with a light squeeze. “He’s just a small thing, Mick, he won’t be any trouble.”

“It’s been here for five fuckin’ seconds and smashed half of our cups.”

Ian squeezed his shoulders a little firmer, tilting his head at him. “Please?” His hands left his shoulders and went down to his hips, tugging him close enough for them to be pretty much flush against each other, before his lips quirked upwards playfully. “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you happy to see me, Mister Gallagher?”

He groaned, because his husband was so fucking lame sometimes, but looped his arms over his shoulders regardless. Mickey would never be able to resist giving Ian what he wanted to make him happy and Ian fucking knew that, but it didn’t stop him from giving his husband the worst scowl he could muster as Ian squeezed his hips again.

Fucker.

“One night, man,” Mickey told him, his façade dissipating a little as Ian gave him a little kiss, just a light press of their lips. “I’m fuckin’ serious, tomorrow night that scraggly fuck is going back to the streets, ‘kay?”

Mickey knew that the cat wouldn’t be going anywhere, Ian knew that the cat wouldn’t be going anywhere, which is probably why he had that dumb smile of his on his face as he leaned in to kiss Mickey again, for longer that time, making him all melty and fucking weak like Ian usually got him.

His sixteen year old self would be in fucking disbelief if he saw him now. Mickey often thought back on that time. The denial, the self loathing, his destructive behaviour towards both himself and Ian. It wasn’t all that long ago that Mickey had apologised for one particularly nasty thing he could remember calling Ian.

They had just gotten into bed for the night, the room dark, Ian’s hand on his thigh drawing invisible little shapes on the skin there.

Mickey had been mulling over that memory for a while in his head, a scrunched up disgusted expression on his face as he recalled calling Ian nothing but a warm mouth. It had left a vile taste on his tongue to even say it the first time, but to think back on it made his chest burn with hatred for his younger self. Ian had deserved more than him back then. Mickey was only worthy of him now that he had changed for him.

“M’sorry for all the shit I called you,” Mickey watched as Ian turned to face him, clearly confused. “Back then, man, all the shit I said,” he was slowly getting better at apologies, so he paused for a moment as Ian nodded a little, an understanding smile on his face. “You were always more than that, you know. Always meant something more to me, Gallagher.”

Which is why Mickey wouldn’t be kicking that fucking cat out, as much as the thought of having a cat around the place wasn’t that pleasing.

Ian was still smiling like he didn’t believe him, and squeezed his hips again as he pecked his lips one last time. “‘Kay.”

Mickey cleared his throat as Ian finally stepped backwards, his skin feeling a little hot, because there was a gun tucked into the waistband of his boxers, yes, but part of him was now definitely excited to see his husband.

Like he could fucking help it when Ian pulled that shit.

“Can we go back to bed now?” Mickey groaned, and even though both of them knew they wouldn’t be going back to sleep yet, Ian gave a huge smile as he nodded, hooking an arm around his husband’s shoulders as he started to walk them back to the bedroom. “And the cat’s not comin’ into our room, no fuckin’ way.”

Ian just laughed, patting his shoulder. “Sure, Mick.”

As expected, Mickey got up to let the cat into their room a little past three o’clock in the morning, and when he woke up it was asleep on his chest.

‘Once I messaged him to see where he and Ian were, and he just said ‘Out. Mickey’,’ Fiona exclaims, ‘Like I couldn’t have figured that out myself!’

Debbie jumps in, ‘I texted him for his birthday once and he responded six months later!’

They laugh. Lip shakes his head.

‘He sends me that middle finger emoji after every message,’ he adjusts his sunnies, grinning, ‘It’s almost cute at this point. Like a little signature or somethin’.’

Ian wanders over, summoned by the sounds of his family shooting the shit, and takes a deck chair from next to Fiona.

‘What’re you talking about?’ he asks, jostling around a little in the chair to get comfortable.

‘How fuckin’ bad your husband is at texting,’ Fiona replies, grinning, ‘How long does he take to reply to yours?’

‘What do you mean?’ Ian asks mildly, taking a sip of his one-a-day beer, ‘He texts me back pretty much instantly.’

He puts the beer down. Silence.

Everyone’s staring at him.

‘He texts you back right away?’ Fiona asks. Ian looks confused now.

‘Yeah, he’s pretty good at replying,’ he says. Lip snorts.

‘Ian’s his fuckin’ husband, of course he’s gonna reply to him straight away. The question is, why doesn’t he take a second to reply to our messages if he’s already on his phone?’ he declares.

‘How long does he take to reply to you?’ Ian asks. He’s startled by the chorus of replies.

‘A week and a half.’

‘Six months?’

‘Five years!’

‘Five years?’ Ian exclaims, looking over to Kev, who’s standing at the barbeque.

‘Comin’ on six,’ Kev grins, holding his beer out in a toast, ‘Asked him to do me a favour and never heard from him. Thinkin’ of holding a party if he ever sends another message.’

Ian looks almost disturbed. Lip leans over. ‘Hey, it’s fine,’ he says, ‘Your husband’s just a bad texter.’

‘He’s not!’ Ian pulls out his phone, shoots off a quick message, and places it on his lap. They all wait.

The phone beeps chirpily, not even thirty seconds later.

Lip laughs, ‘He’s so whipped.’ Ian ignores him, unlocks his phone to respond. Fiona grabs it from him before he can.

‘Ian said ‘hey’, and Mickey replied, ‘what, firecrotch’ with the fire emoji,’ she reads out, then looks up. ‘He uses emojis?’

‘Yeah, doesn’t he send them to you?’ ‘Just the middle finger.’

Fiona’s still scrolling, looking through gardening memes and little moments of banter, over-the-top cheesy messages from Ian, obviously meant to be a joke, and gruff responses from Mickey that even through short phrases and dismissive tone manage to seep fondness and affection. Every so often there's a ❤️❤️❤️ from Ian and a shy little 🖤 from Mickey in return, disgustingly sweet. And then-

‘Oh, I did not need to see that,’ she shudders, throwing the phone to Ian. He catches it in one fluid motion while she feigns wiping her hands on her shorts. He looks at the offending text.

‘Yeah, that was a good day,’ he says, lecherous grin making everyone else shudder. Lip takes out his phone.

‘Let me try getting through to the famous Mickey Milkovich, if he’s on his phone,’ he comments, typing out a message and hearing the familiar swoop of it being sent successfully.

Ian’s phone buzzes.

He picks it up.

And the best part is...

This was the flower well the day before:

They’ve only written three fics but these three fics are brilliant! Great characterisations that really feel true to canon. All are set in later seasons and beautifully capture Ian and Mickey’s married relationship.

Know When to Fold 'Em Summary: Over a late-night summer card game, the Milkoviches discuss their new domesticity.

The Downside Summary: Eventually in the next season, we're going to have to deal with Terry coming after Mickey, and this is how I think it should go.

Good old-fashioned whump because it feels good to see Ian care for Mickey for a change. Title is from "The Luck You Got" by The High Strung, aka the Shameless theme song.