I’ll move on eventually, but for now, just hear me out: Mickey doesn’t hate being restrained, somewhat to his surprise (though not to Ian’s).
Now, I’m not sure exactly what triggers it, but I imagine it’s not entirely dissimilar to the wedding day situation, insofar that Mickey is determined to do something that might land him back in prison, and Ian is Having None Of It. Like, maybe he finds out that Mickey is in on a drug deal of some kind and about to head out to pick up the merchandise, or maybe someone’s pissed Mickey off to the point where he wants to actually murder or at least maim them. It doesn’t take all that much for Mickey to commit a crime, so it could be anything.
But yeah, Ian is not about to let his husband get his stupid ass incarcerated again, so he blocks the stairs, and blocks all of Mickeys’ attempts to push past him: ”You’ll get yourself thrown back in prison!” - ”Get out of my fucking way, Gallagher.” - ”You’re not fucking doing this.”
There is a scuffle, and while Mickey isn’t even close to feral, he’s still Mickey, pissed off and stubborn as fuck and not exactly shy about expressing it. But Ian is just as stubborn, and stronger, and it ends as you might expect, with Mickey neatly cuffed to the iron headboard of the bed in their room. Mickey is raging, Ian strugling to remain calm but visibly really fucking annoyed.
”Keep an eye on him,” he tells Liam (who rolls his eyes, because this is the least impressed child ever and we must love him for it). ”I’ll sort this out.”
And he does, and he comes back, and he closes the door to their room behind him when he enters. Mickey’s calmed down a little by now, but he’s still pretty pissed, glaring daggers at Ian.
Ian meets his stare levelly. ”It’s taken care of. Ramirez is in police custody. You won’t hear from him again.”
Mickey makes a rude noise, because police custody? That’s a real pussy-ass move. Not much he can do about it now, though, so he just drawls: ”Well done, citizen. You’re a real upstanding law-abiding motherfucker, a real fucking pride to your goddamn country.” A beat. ”So, you gonna uncuff me or what?”
Ian might smile here, but it’s tightlipped thing. ”Actually, I was thinking maybe you should just stay there for a while. Give you a chance to, you know, reflect on things.”
Mickey blinks. ”Reflect on – ! You putting me in a fucking time out?”
Ian offers a small shrug, tilts his head in that way that very clearly says yeah, that’s absolutely what I’m doing, and Mickey gives a disbelieving laugh that is half a snarl: ”You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
But Ian isn’t. Of course he fucking isn’t.
And Mickey would rage and trash and threaten, really he would, but he knows – knows only all too well, from the determined look on Ian’s face - that this won’t accomplish a damn thing, other than make him look like an idiot.
Like hell he’s giving Ian that satisfaction.
”Whatever, man,” he says. ”I don’t give a fuck.” And he looks away, projecting – attempting to project – the most pointed disinterest possible.
Ian is completely unfazed. He shrugs out of his jacket, kicks off his shoes probably, and grabs the book he’s been reading from the nightstand. Climbs onto the bed, and sits down with his back to the wall under the window, at an angle from Mickey. Puts his calves across Mickey’s, absolutely casual, and begins to read.
Mickey would ask what the hell he thinks he is doing, but he’s ignoring Ian, so he can’t.
(And Mickey isn’t stupid, so of course he gets that Ian is giving him space while at the same time staying close, keeping him company. He refuses to be touched by that. Refuses. Ian is being a fucking pain and an asshole.)
A minute passes. Ian reads. This is ridiculous. Mickey gives a huff. ”Can I at least get a fucking beer?”
Ian looks up at him, briefly. ”No,” he says before returning to his book, and there’s nothing spiteful about it. A matter of fact, that’s all.
And so they sit, Ian reading, and Mickey doing nothing much at all. The sun falls in through the window; the light is golden, and the noises from the street and the rest of the house are blessedly muffled. Out there, life goes on; in here, there is quiet.
Unexpectedly, grudgingly, Mickey feels himself starting to relax. Whatever happens beyond this room, he can’t do shit about it, and that’s… strangely freeing.
Ian turns a page. His legs pressing down on Mickey’s shins are heavy, warm. Grounding.
Mickey’s thoughts drift, becoming slow and quiet. He feels kind of empty, but not in a bad way. A tension he didn’t know he carried begins to ease. Somewhere far away, a woman laughs. The duvet is soft under his fingers.
Time passes, maybe an hour, and then Ian puts his book away, looks straight at Mickey. There’s nothing strange on his face, no anger or annoyance, no condescension or concern. He just looks at Mickey, the way he always does. ”You wanna grab dinner?”
Maybe it takes Mickey a moment ot answer. Maybe he blinks a few times, shakes his head to clear it. Then: ”Yeah. Sure.” No anger in his voice either. He can’t really remember ever feeling this… still.
Ian uncuffs him, does it unceremoniously and without comment. Once they are both on their feet, he pulls Mickey in for a long kiss that is nothing but soft, nothing but tender. His arms are wrapped around Mickey, his fist curling in Mickey’s hair.
Then they grab their jackets and head downstairs, returning to the world, with Ian’s arm slung around Mickey’s shoulders.
(The sex is going to be absolutely glorious that night, but that’s another story, for someone else to tell.)
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