#post prison

He’d looked so worn down. Completely broken, and it broke your heart. You never imagined seeing him like that. Not the nerdy, sweet and intelligent man you’d loved so dearly. He became an entirely new person, but you didn’t treat him as such. You’d been your bubbly, cheery self as always. The happy mask slipped onto your face almost too easily considering your boyfriend was in a maximum security prison, and Spencer knew that. He knew you weren’t being genuine, but he didn’t have the energy to call you out on it. When you’d returned back to your shared apartment after the visit, you’d broken down that night, sleeping in his shirt and drinking from his favourite Doctor Who mug. He hated it when anybody else used his plates, cups or cutlery, but with you, he never seemed to mind… not when he was around, anyways. It was no different to a kiss, you’d supposed.

But that was two months ago. Now, Spencer had been free from prison for a month, and he was still adjusting to normal life. He was constantly on edge, and he couldn’t take showers by himself anymore. Not unless you were there. Whenever he ate, he wolfed his food down like he was afraid somebody would take it away - like somebody was about to tell him that lunch time was over. His life had been completely flipped around when he’d gone to prison, and you’d wanted to make sure everything was the same when he returned home. You wanted his surroundings to feel familiar. No more unnecessary change. But you were starting to think it wasn’t working.

Trying to keep so happy all of the time was taking a toll on you, but you were trying to do it for Spencer. He had enough on his plate, and the last thing he needed was to deal with your struggles, right? You thought that he was too absorbed with his own issues to notice yours, which you’d decided were much less serious in comparison, but he had noticed the darker side to yourself that you tried to keep under wraps.

You were reading a book on the sofa, glasses perched on the tip of your nose, hair thrown up into a ponytail and one of Spencer’s sweaters hanging off your frame when he approached you. 

“Honey?” He said softly, sitting down next to you on the sofa and drawing your attention from your book. You looked up to him quickly, eyebrows slightly furrowed as you hummed in response. “Can I talk to you?” He continued, placing a hand on top of yours comfortingly. Just from his tone, you could tell it would be a serious conversation. One that you weren’t sure that you were prepared to have, but you accepted anyway. If he needed you, you’d be there for him. No matter what. 

“Of course. Anything.” You nodded, unintentionally releasing a deep sigh.

"Are you okay?" He said simply, his hazel eyes showing concern. You bit your lip, unsure of how to answer. He was a profiler, after all. If you lied to him, he'd be able to tell instantaneously. But you didn't want to worry him. That was the last thing he needed right now. You didn't trust your words, and so you nodded sheepishly, not seeming too sure. You used to vent to Spencer all of the time before he went to prison, but now you were aware that he had problems of his own to deal with, and to you, your own seemed far less important in comparison, so you bottled up your feelings and acted like you were fine, even if you weren't.

Truth be told, you didn't even know why you felt so down. It had just been a tough few weeks with Spencer returning and being so different, but that wasn't his fault. Life in general was catching up to you, and it was exhausting.

"Words?" He sighed, "Look, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. You know that I won't make you, but.. I'm worried about you, okay? I know that you're not okay, and I'd appreciate it if you could stop acting like you were." Spencer said, with warm eyes and a soothing tone. Somehow, he always knew exactly what to say, and it always managed to surprise you even though he had an IQ of 187.

You didn't want to talk about it, not right now. You weren't ready to. But you were fully prepared to remove the mask that you'd been wearing in front of him for months. You looked to the side, and then back at him with your bottom lip trembling, not wanting to speak and instead letting your actions do the talking by shifting towards Spencer and leaning into the warmth of his body, where he opened his arms and wrapped them around you tightly, resting his head on top of yours so he could smell your sweet vanilla scented shampoo. Some things never changed. You tucked your head into the crook of his neck, and he could feel the dampness of your tears that you were finally able to let loose.

The dam had finally burst, and you cried it out. You cried it out in Spencer's arms for a good half hour, and he let you, whispering sweet nothings and stroking your back comfortingly, not letting you go.

Eventually, when you were ready, you pulled away slightly but not fully, one of Spencer's arms still around you as he looked down at you, your eyes swollen, red and puffy. Your cheeks were tear-stained, but he was quick to wipe them with his thumb.

"Are you ready to tell me why you've been bottling up your emotions lately?" Spencer asked, although he had an inclination as to why.

You sniffled and nodded, wiping your runny nose with the sleeve of your sweater Spencer's sweater. It was probably gross, but he'd seen you at your worst, and this wasn't even close to it.

"I'm sorry, okay? I just.. I-.. you've had so much going on lately, and you don't need my problems on top of your own-" You said, but he quickly cut you off.

"Don't say that," He shook his head, "I will always be here for you to talk to. I don't care if you think I have too much going on, okay? That isn't your decision to make. We're in a relationship, sweetheart. I understand that you're trying to do what's best for me, and I love you for that, but what we have is mutual. That means we share things with each other. We communicate our feelings with each other. You don't keep them bottled up just because you think that what you're doing is right. I know that I've been through a lot in these past months, but I don't want us to change because of that." He stroked your cheek with his thumb, his words soft-spoken and gentle, like he always was with you.

You let out a teary chuckle. "You always see right through me."

"I can see through almost anyone, honey. You can't bottle up your emotions forever with a profiler as a boyfriend." He teased.

You smiled a little before your tone grew insecure and serious once more.

"...you're sure you don't mind?" You asked, wanting reassurance.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, giving him a look.

“Don’t start.”

That only made him grin.

Wide. Cocky. Dangerous.

“Oh, I’m starting.”

Behind you, a low whistle cut through the moment.

“Yeah,” Jax called, leaning against the truck like he had all the time in the world. “We’re just gonna… give you two a minute or—?”

You didn’t even look back.

Opie did.

Still holding you like he had no intention of putting you down anytime soon.

“Nah,” he said easily. “We’re good.”

Tig snorted. “Don’t look like it.”

A couple of the guys laughed, already catching the energy.

Opie just adjusted his hold on you slightly—like it was nothing, like your weight didn’t even phase him—and leaned in closer, voice dropping just for you.

“Tell me we’re going home,” he muttered.

You didn’t hesitate.

“We’re going home.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

That grin came back—slow, knowing.

“Yeah,” Jax cut in, pushing off the truck. “Go ahead. Before you break something out here.”

“Or someone,” Tig added under his breath.

You finally turned your head just enough to shoot them a look—but there was no heat behind it. Not really.

Because they were right.

And they knew it.

Opie didn’t even bother pretending otherwise.

“Been locked up too long,” he said plainly, meeting Jax’s gaze without a hint of shame. “I’m not waiting.”

The garage erupted in a mix of laughs and groans.

“Man—” Jax shook his head, smirking. “At least take it outta here first.”

Opie just shrugged, already turning with you still in his arms like you belonged there.

Like you always had.

“C’mon,” he said low against your ear.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt.

“Been waiting for you,” you whispered.

His grip flexed—just a little.

“I know.”

Water is already filling the bottom of the tub, pouring out faster than it can drain through old, clogged pipes.  But it’s warm when Mickey steps in, as it swirls around his aching feet, and if he closes his eyes he thinks it might feel like the ocean had back in Mexico.

He doesn’t, though.  He keeps them open.  

Open, so he can see where he is.  Not for safety, but to make sure it stays real.  He tugs the curtain closed, a flimsy thing covered in childish patterns that barely even keeps the water inside, and feels more secure than he ever had with three guards watching and a wall at his back.

The stream from the shower head is weak.  He ducks his head into the spray, lets it trickle down over him like rain.  Light, and soft, and welcome, and so unlike the hose-like cleaning he’s come to expect that his shoulders relax despite the lack of pressure.

His eyes do close then, despite himself.  Just for a moment, one single blissful second when nothing else exists.  Then there’s a voice in the hallway, someone walking, and they’re open again in an instant.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t need to.

He does, however, need to get clean.  Needs to wash of the stench of prison, the remnants of the past.  The bits of roadside gravel still stuck in the scrapes on his hands.

And his options seem extensive, all of a sudden, as he eyes the brightly colored bottles that line the edge of the tub.  So much more than the shared bar of soap he’d been using for months.  There’s something pink and flowery, the label faded from overuse; an organic wash for “baby-soft skin” that looks like something out of a magazine ad; a half-used bottle of blue dishsoap with suds running down the sides; a bar of Irish Spring that’s been used down to the last misshapen sliver and then stacked on top of a new one rather than wasted.

Mickey reaches out.  Hesitates with his hand over the soap he knows is Ian’s, before it veers left.  He pours out a healthy dollop of creamy organic bullshit onto a faded washcloth—he never thought he’d be so glad to see a rag that hadn’t been bleached beyond the very concept of color—and works it into a lather.

Even taking his time, it goes quickly.  He’s too used to rushing, too used to making the most of every second.  But the wash feels good on his skin, the grime rinsing off with the soap to stain the water around his feet like sand, and eventually even the puddle he stands in is clear again.

He swipes the washcloth once more over his chest, eyes scanning lazily over a bottle of shampoo, a child’s chipped bath toy, and woman’s razor, a worn loofah, a—

His eyes go back to the razor, washcloth slowing.  Suds cling to the hair on his chest, clean but mussed.  Dark over the ink he knows is there, no matter how many times he thought it might be better to forget.  Ink that’s more part of him than parts of his own body.  Ink that he trapped there under his skin and never let free.

He grabs the razor, and a can of girly shaving gel.  

-

The water has been running a long time.  It’s fine, Ian told him to take as long as he likes.  Is glad that he’s taken him up on it, that he’s comfortable enough to do so in a house that’s apparently full of strangers.

But he knows the hot water will run out soon, and he doesn’t want Mickey to get cold.  So he grabs a change of clothes, a fresh towel, and sneaks through the door as quietly as he can to leave them.

“Who’s there?” Mickey calls out anyway as Ian sets the load carefully on the closed lid of the toilet.  A dark head pops out from behind the curtain, rosy-cheeked from the heat, blue eyes narrowed under wet lashes.

“Ian?” Mickey asks.  “What’re you—“

“Sorry,” Ian rushes to apologize, backing up with both hands out.  “Not trying to interrupt, I know what a big deal that first shower is when you get out.”  He chuckles a little, and adds, “First time in a year without keeping your back to the wall, it’s kind of weird, right?”

“Ian,” Mickey says again, softer.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” Ian rambles.  “Let you have some time alone for once.  And if you need anything just let me—“

He tries to back out the door.  But Mickey steps one foot out of the tub, reaches out with a dripping arm to grab Ian’s wrist.

Ian stares at the point of connection.  Pink skin on pale, water beading along the seam.  Mickey’s hand slips, slides away, and Ian clasps his own tight just in time to catch the very tips of his fingers.

Mickey tugs them back.  Slowly, gently.  Bringing Ian with him through that tenuous connection.

“Come on,” he murmurs, stepping back into the standing water at the bottom of the tub.  

Ian follows mindlessly.  Steps in without even taking off his socks, his sweats, his shirt.  Lets Mickey move his hand up to a broad shoulder, lets it slide down when he lets go.  Settles it over the familiar shape of his own name standing out proudly on suddenly smooth skin.

Mickey reaches up, rests a hand over Ian’s on his chest.  Then he turns around.

“Could use some help with my back,” he says quietly, and Ian swallows back a million words.  A million little phrases to show that he gets it, that he knows what that means.