coming up for air

Trevor comes outside to stand next to him at one point -- but Ian doesn't even register his presence -- not when there's a cop right here right now asking him about Mickey.

But the silence goes on for so long, it triggers Lip to speak up from where he's sitting next to Fiona on the front steps. "What's this about, detective?"

The detective relents, finally.

"He escaped two nights ago with his cell mate. Led us on a merry chase across Illinois. Almost made it to Paducah when his getaway car T-boned into a truck. The vehicle caught fire. He didn't make it."

Ian almost stops breathing.

Doesn't hear a word the detective is telling him now -- something about a notebook filled with Mickey's scrawls about escape plans and bank robbery to get some money and crude maps of various routes into Mexico, with Ian's name thrown into the mix in that notebook here and there -- "It looks like he was planning to get you roped in, did he contact you before--?" but . . .

. . . But--

Mickey can't be dead.

He can't be.

This isn't how things are supposed to go.

---

Unbeknownst to Ian, the detective, or even Damon the cell mate (who miraculously survives the car crash and is again in police custody, but is otherwise as clueless as the rest of them), Mickey Milkovich is alive and well and is -- in fact -- watching the whole thing unfolding in the front porch of the Gallagher house. Because no one would pay attention to a beat-up, nondescript van parked across the dark street.

"You seen enough yet, lover boy?" Iggy asks from the driver seat.

"Shut the fuck up," Mickey shoots back, although there's no heat in his words.

He watches as Ian just stands there on the front steps. His mouth hangs half-opened with disbelief written all over his pale face.

He watches as Fiona Gallagher gets on her feet to put a comforting hand on Ian's shoulder.

Lip gets up too. But he steps between the detective and his siblings, as if trying to give Ian some space.

Ian, who's still petrified on his front porch.

As Fiona hugs him, Mickey thinks he can see tears in Gallagher's eyes.

He finally turns away from the scene, sniffing and rubbing at his nose as he does so.

“whaddya want,” mickey grunts, smacking his lips against the terrible taste in his mouth. 

“so fuckin’ thirsty,” ian whispers. “you got any water over there?”

mickey, eyes still shut against the harsh morning light, slaps his hand around his bedside table, feeling for anything he can offer ian. he wraps his hand around the bottle of gatorade he’d left out for himself last night and flings it over his shoulder. it sails past ian and lands on the floor on the other side of the bedroom. 

“the fuck was that?” ian groans. “mickey, i’m dying.”

“i can't even open my eyes, man. did the best I could.”

he feels ian roll over, groaning again with the effort. mickey wants to turn and face him, but he’s pretty sure he’s cemented to the mattress as he is. 

“never drinking again,” ian says, voice cracking. “this is the worst.”

“you say that every time mandy comes to town,” mickey reminds him. “then she shows up ready to party and you can’t help yourself.”

“it was her birthday,” ian insists. “what was i supposed to do?”

“maybe not tequila shots?”

“you’re one to talk. i’m pretty sure i saw you chase a shot with an entire beer.”

“carl’s idea.”

“and that didn’t bring up any red flags for you?”

mickey finally rolls over, taking in ian’s wild hair and bleary eyes. “you look like shit,” he says, and ian just sticks his tongue out. 

they lay in silence for a moment, both breathing heavily through their alcohol-soaked discomfort. the sun is still too fucking bright. they’d flopped into bed without closing the curtains last night, and mickey feels like his eyes are going to boil out of his skull. 

“what do i have to do for you to make coffee?”

the idea of getting up, even for coffee, is so abhorrent that mickey wants kick ian out of bed just for suggesting it. he’s going to lay in this bed for the rest of time; ian can get his own damn coffee. 

he rolls over again, pulling the covers up to his neck. ian huffs and snuggles close, shoving his icy feet between mickey’s legs. 

“this isn’t helping your case, asshole,” mickey snaps. 

“if you get up and make coffee right now, i’ll order you your favorite breakfast sandwich and blow you once we don’t feel like dying anymore.”

mickey chews on his lip, considering. he can’t think of anything worse than attempting to stand right now, but - fuck, he wants the bacon. the grease is the only thing that can heal him. ian chuckles behind him, clearly knowing he’s won. 

“two sandwiches,” he mumbles, “and extra hashbrowns.”

“deal.” 

2. 

the apartment looks like the end of the fucking world. 

ian steps gingerly around legos, toy cars, and freddie’s coloring books on his way to the couch. mickey’s already there, stretched out with his arm over his face. 

“they were only here for a few days,” mickey sighs, “but i think those kids shortened my lifespan.” 

“i know,” ian agrees, flopping down beside his husband and curling into his side. “i’m fuckin’ beat.” 

“still want some of your own? after all that?” 

“some of our own, and yes. debs and lip were so happy to pick them up this morning.” 

“they were happy because they just had a week with no kids,” mickey argues. ian can see him grinning beneath his arm. 

“yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, “you’ll see one day.” 

“maybe,” mickey admits. “but today,  i wanna do absolutely nothing. uncle mickey has earned that privilege, don’tcha think?” 

ian hums in agreement and burrows further into mickey’s side. mickey brings his arm down from his own face and sinks his hand into ian’s hair, scratching lightly. 

“you did good this week,” ian murmurs after a few quiet moments. “they love you a lot.” 

“they love getting ice cream for dinner,” mickey says, waving him off. “they’d love anyone who let them eat a fucking sundae for supper.” 

“and lets them stay up way past their bedtime.” 

“and gets them every single toy in the goddamn store, even though they have hundreds of toys at home.”

“yeah,” ian sighs. “we did do that.” he makes a stunted effort to sit up. “guess i’ll start picking up so we don’t twist an ankle in this minefield.”

mickey yanks on ian’s arm, pulling him back towards the couch. “i don’t think so, red. that seems like a later problem. or a tomorrow problem. for now, we do nothing.”

ian raises an eyebrow. “alright. but that means you don’t get to complain when you’re laid up for a week because you tripped on franny’s firetruck.” 

mickey snorts in amusement, pulling ian closer still. “all i’m hearin’ is a week off of work while you bring me shit. no complaints from me, man.”

they stay on the sofa for the rest of the morning - napping on and off, enjoying the quiet and the closeness. 

one day they’ll chase the pitter patter of other tiny feet. they’ll pick up these same toys, repurposed for their own children, only to find them on the floor again later. there will be such noise, little giggles and shrieks and the smacking of kisses on cheeks. 

but today, they do nothing together. 

3. 

mickey wakes up able to breathe through his nose for the first time in days. he swears with relief, and vows to never take his nostrils for granted again.

both mickey and ian had spent the last few days knocked the fuck out by franny’s cold. they laid in bed, shivering and sniffling, only leaving their room for soup or to hold each other up in the bathroom. 

ian appears in the doorway holding a couple of steaming mugs, and mickey is relieved to see some color in his face. 

“it’s just tea,” he says, handing mickey a cup. “my throat’s still a little bit scratchy.”

mickey hums in thanks, even though he doesn’t really like ian’s tea, and nods for ian to join him in their bed again. 

“thought we could migrate to the living room today,” ian suggests. “i’m kinda sick of this bed.”

“it could use an airing out,” mickey agrees. “definitely time to wash these germy sheets.” 

“okay,” ian says bracingly, “you toss them in the wash and i’ll throw out all these fuckin’ tissues. then - couch.”

the apartment is still messy, a shrine to their days-long illness, but it’s a start. mickey feels a little lighter when they collapse on the sofa together. his head still aches and it hurts to swallow, but he thinks they might be ready to work again by the time monday rolls around. 

ian brings mickey close, gently situating him so his head rests in ian’s lap. they spend the day giving each other little comforts. ian plays with his hair for a while; later mickey rubs at ian’s stiff and aching shoulders. mickey heats up tomato soup for lunch, ian wakes mickey from a nap with a mug of hot chocolate. 

neither of them feel particularly well still. it’s hard, feeling this weak for so long. but it’s a luxury to let himself feel it, to let himself be cared for. to care for ian. and they’re both grateful to at least talk with each other again. 

to come alive together, just a little bit.

the relief at seeing ian’s eyes brighten again - and seeing that same relief mirrored on his face - is enough to carry mickey through until he’s well enough to kiss his husband senseless again. 

4. 

for the first time in a long time, ian wakes up on his own. no alarm, no mickey shouting that they’re running late, no wayward gallaghers shaking him awake for a favor. 

he smiles into his pillow, stretching out under the covers. ian doesn’t even know what time it is, and his body is warmed through when he realizes that he doesn’t care. he’s in no hurry to find out. 

it can’t be very early, because mickey’s side of the bed is cool and empty. ian doesn’t have time to pout about his absence before mickey’s voice sounds from the doorway. 

“sit up, bitch, i got eggs incoming.”

ian rolls onto his back, pulling himself upright to see mickey cross the room carrying a tray laden with breakfast. he places it in ian’s lap before crawling back under the covers.

“what’s all this?” ian asks, popping a stray blueberry in his mouth. 

“no work,” mickey says happily. “no gallagher crises, no errands to run, no nieces or nephews to wrangle. i’m keeping your ass in bed all day.”

“if i need to get up, should i leave my ass here?”

“yeah, actually, you can go if ya want.”

ian snickers, reaching for a piece of bacon. “okay then. i’ll leave my ass as a thank you gift for this breakfast. you outdid yourself, mick.”

“we earned it,” mickey shrugs. “wanted some time with you. and your ass.”

“time,” ian sighs. what a thing. empty hours, nothing to rush them along before they’re ready. “we got plenty of that.” 

 5.

they don’t have a party this time, even if mickey thinks they deserve one. 

their second year of marriage was calmer than the first. it was less about scrambling to find their way, and more about settling into their life. into each other. it was less of a battle, but still a victory. 

mickey feels fucking triumphant as he blinks awake on their second anniversary. 

ian is kissing and nipping at his neck, grinning and humming against his skin. mickey pulls his hand from the covers, pulling lightly at the hairs at ian’s neck. 

it shouldn’t still blow him away, how easy it is to wake up like this. to feel perfect fucking bliss while still at the edge of consciousness. it shouldn’t still surprise him that ian wants to wake him up with pleasure. 

but it does. 

mickey marvels at it every day. 

sometimes as he brushes his teeth, and ian stumbles in to press a kiss to his cheek and hop in the shower, he’s astounded by ian’s presence. by his permanence. or when they’re cooking dinner, and ian wiggles to a song as he chops the veggies, mickey wonders at the constant proximity. 

it’s mundane. and in that way, it’s goddamn miraculous. 

two years of building this secure life, this comfortable fucking life, and mickey still gapes in the face of his own happiness. he trusts it, finally, but he refuses to take it for granted. he wants to feel this amazement, this awe at ian’s lips on his skin. 

these little joys that dot his days. 

he sighs and sinks back against his pillows, throwing himself into the sensation as ian moves down his body, licking and teasing as he goes. renewing their vows with his tongue. 

they’ll spend hours here, wrestling between the sheets, sighing and laughing and crying out. they’ll dress slowly, taking their time as they get distracted by each other. and they’ll go out together, grinning over drinks and a nice meal, utensils a given at this point. 

and mickey will fall asleep, like he now has hundreds of times before, wrapped in two strong arms and a promise. that tomorrow will bring the same mundane joy he felt today. that there will be a tomorrow, and he’ll never face it alone again. 

+1

ian perches on the toilet of the church bathroom, blowing smoke through the cracked window by his head. he still feels weird in churches. it feels like he shouldn’t be here, celebrating under the stained glass. 

but it’s a good day - or it will be, once all this fucking work is done. when lip asked ian to be his best man, he’d agreed without question. standing next to his brother on this day means everything. 

but jesus christ, he forgot how much work weddings are.

there are flowers to arrange and tables to set up, chairs to organize, family members to wrangle, caterers to hunt down and a cake to keep from toppling. at his own wedding, ian had been so consumed by mickey that it felt like everything had just magically come together. 

he realizes now just how much of the day had actually come down to lip. 

ian should be out there now, working through tami’s pre-ceremony to-do list, or at least making sure lip isn’t crawling out of his skin. but he needs a minute, just one fucking minute to himself, or he’s going to lose his mind. 

there’s a knock at the door and ian bites down on his tongue, trying not to snap at whoever’s jiggling the handle. 

“ian,” mickey hisses from the other side, “i know you’re in there. let me in, asshole.” 

sagging with relief, ian scrambles to let mickey in. he smiles a little shakily at his husband once they’re safely hidden behind the locked bathroom door. 

“jesus fuck,” mickey groans, reaching for ian’s cigarette. “was it this insane when we got hitched?”

ian shrugs, plucking the cigarette from mickey’s lips. “it was definitely busy,” he says diplomatically. “but at least aunt oopie didn’t descend on our day.”

“god,” mickey groans, leaning against the tile wall, “i’m gonna end up stabbing her, aren’t i?”

“please don’t stab anyone today, mick. don’t think it’ll make for a nice wedding video.”

“fine. for you, i won’t stab anyone.”

“not for lip or tami?”

“okay, for you and tami. lip better be glad i haven’t stabbed him yet. he didn’t take any of my advice about the chairs.” 

“i’m sure he’ll regret that.”

mickey smirks up at him, nodding in agreement. “what else is there to do?”

“god,” ian groans. “we gotta double check the sound system, make sure the programs are ready to go, get freddie set up with the rings, and lip wants to practice his vows before it all starts. you seen tami?”

“cool as a cucumber,” mickey informs him. “she’s way better at getting married than we were.”

“i was good at getting married,” ian insists, offended. 

“you’re good at being married,” mickey corrects. “we botched the process a little bit.”

“hmm. maybe so. i think being married is a more important skill, though, don’t you?”

“yeah, yeah, you’re the best at being married, where should i send your medal?”

ian’s about to respond with something both sexual and nonsensical when there’s a rapid knock on the door. 

“ian,” lip begs, “you gotta let me in there.”

he ushers his brother inside, all three men shuffling to make room in the tiny lavatory. 

“you good?” 

“yeah, 'course,” lip breathes, doing nothing to convince ian. “you got another cigarette?”

they smoke in silence for a moment, passing the cigarette between them and taking turns blowing smoke through the window. 

“is getting married always so fucking hectic?” lip asks, running a hand through his hair. “i don’t think i know half the people here, but they all keep fuckin’ hugging me.”

“yes,” mickey answers simply. “having had more weddings than the both of you, it’s always fucking insane.”

“worth it?” lip wonders, fiddling with his tie. ian reaches out and straightens it.