Ian chuckles, lacking any humour. “I didn’t mean to lead him on, or whatever. I just- I know it sounds fucking selfish but I just wanted to be with him for a bit. I wanted time with him. We never really got that.”
He swallows, seeming to finish. He’s emotional, but he’s not crying.
Kim takes a moment, gathers herself. She’s heard this myriad of reasoning from Mickey over the phone, but it feels more real to hear Ian say it himself. Maybe Mickey does have stars in his eyes, but maybe his vision isn’t as blurred as hers has been in the past.
“I get it.” She says, soft. “I get why you didn’t go with him. I can- I can sort of understand why you didn’t visit.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
when ian gets home from his trip with lip, he expects mickey to be all up in his business because it's mickey and it's them and it's true, after a lifetime of fighting for it, when they're not glued at the hip, shit just feels off.
so he expects mickey to b-line it to the front door when he finally steps in. he expects the way he helps himself into ian's space, his hug literally and beautifully immediate. and he expects it to linger - wants it to, frankly. getting to hold his husband again after a week apart is damn near orgasmic. he's been counting down the hours for this very moment.
what he doesn't expect is for mickey to not let go.
it's not a bad thing. ian will gladly hug him until the earth stands still. it's just...
"hey..." he softly chuckles, rubbing mickey's back as he tries to duck his head to get a good look at him. beside them, his luggage lays as forgotten on the floor as when he ditched it on impact. which is good. he's sick of it. it's just... "missed ya..." he smiles, abandoning the impossible task of trying to loosen mickey enough to see his face, and committing instead to a full back rub. "damn baby, you been workin' out while i was gone...?"
because mickey is fucking squeezing. his man is taking this shit seriously, both arms snuck under ian's jacket and wrapped around him so snugly that there's nowhere else for his face to go than pressed firmly into ian's chest. "mm..."
it's not a bad thing. ian loves it. it's just... "wanna hear about whatchya got up to," he says, in hopes of coaxing them into a little movement. "gotta fill me in." as if they haven't been texting at every reasonable, waking hour in his absence. (and as if lip hasn't had something to say about it.)
mickey does this little hum of affirmation into ian's chest. which is...oh so cute. fuck, he really missed him. but they're still not moving. and...
"okay," he chuckles again, kindly and very very gently trying to take a step. and mickey lets him! he does. it's just...he comes with him. takes the step backward with him, still vacuum-sealed to his front. "mick..."
"what..."
"you okay?"
"fuckin' great," he states, and he absolutely means it. it's obvious. and ian's fucking great too, now that he's with him again, it's just...
"feel like i got a layer of airport grime on me," he admits, suddenly very conscious of the fact that he's still in his jacket and plane sweatpants. "gonna let me take a shower?"
"no."
"real quick."
"mm."
a grumble! face pressed possessively into him. staking claim again. "you can come with..." ian floats, his tone lifted high at the end in suggestion.
and...
"fine."
they make it into the shower. their beautiful, familiar shower with their beautiful, dogshit water pressure and ian kinda daydreamed their reunion fuck to be in bed, but he'll definitely accept some slippery, soapy sex.
they don't fuck. literally not an issue. romantic, nasty reunion sex in bed is still on the table because instead of pouncing on him like he thought he would, mickey actually lets ian shower. lets him get all the airport gunk off from his spot standing behind him, warming his back like a perfect little jetpack as ian tells him about his flight in.
it takes longer than necessary but it's not bed. ian loves it, actually. he'd almost feel bad about putting an end to it if he wasn't already coming to a couple conclusions. connecting some dots. about his husband.
because when they're all dried off and clean and comfortable, ian barely has to reach a hand out to him from his spot on the couch before mickey is dropping down into his lap and assuming position.
he wraps his arms around ian's middle, shoving them between his back and the couch. slots his thighs up nice and snug a little lower. buries his face in ian's neck, and he stays there. he commits, his body melting into ian's like it's supposed to be.
and in hindsight, ian feels like a fucking dumbass to not expect this. maybe it was the rush of the trip. the stress of traveling. it had him all one step removed from what was happening at home. but the signs were all there.
all of mickey's texts. 'when you in for the night?' and 'the fucks he got you doin' and 'yo big guy whats the plan for the day' and 'call me when youre back'.
how most nights when they would hang up their facetime call, ian would barely get his phone down before it was lighting up again, mickey on the end with some thinly veiled thing he forgot to tell him, just enough light from their nightstand lamp revealing which of ian's shirts he's wearing that day.
when it was happening, he just thought it was endearing. felt his own sentimentalities validated. but now...
ian wraps his arms around mickey, one hand smoothing up his spine before holding the back of his neck. holding him close. "love you, baby..."
in his lap, mickey makes no moves. but he doesn't need to. he's getting exactly what he needs. and ian wants to give it to him. "glad you're home..."
"yeah... me too..." he's felt that edge of discomfort. that panic. it's not fucking fun. and he's about to do whatever he needs to get his husband feeling right again. "kinda planned on taking you out tonight, but... how'dya feel if i just ordered something in for us...?"
not leave the house.
not leave this bubble.
stay velcroed onto each other, soothing over everything that needs to be soothed over. filling everything that's been emptied.
in his lap, mickey hums in thought. and this time, ian doesn't miss it. he sounds pleased as fuck. "pizza..."
there he is. "yeah?"
"yeah..." he murmurs against his neck. "fuckload of meat..."
and wow, it's got ian smiling. has his chest filling up with this warm, satisfied light. "sounds great, mick..." even as he slides his hands down to support him under his ass. "come get the menu with me, huh..?"
as if mickey has any plans to move from his spot until the pizza gets here. as if ian isn't prepared and eager to carry this man around baby koala style for the rest of the evening.
and as ian hauls his husband up and into the kitchen - as he casually sifts through the junk drawer with one hand, the other holding him up - he can feel it pressing into his neck.
Opening my messages and wishing I knew what to say, ever. I like you and I wanna talk to you pls I hope you still like me but you stopped replying and I don't wanna bother and and and
Yeah it's hard out there anyways I open the messages, do a lil existential crisis, close them
Ian groaned, eyes closed. He was so, so comfortable. Maybe if he just ignored him...
Why had Ian been so dead set on marrying this bastard again?
"Hey, Ian."
Poke.
Motherfucker.
"Hey. Ian. Red. Firecrotch. Sugartits."
Poke poke poke poke-
"What?" Ian groaned, raising one heavy arm to swat at him. He had been dead asleep when Mickey had shaken him awake.
"C'mon," mickey said, "You have to see this."
Ian sighed, forcing his eyes open. He would've ignored him, really, but Mickey sounded so earnest, and they were three days into their ridiculously long awaited honeymoon to Mexico, so Ian was feeling particularly sappy.
When they'd gotten off parole, finally, three long years after leaving prison, Mickey had been the one to suggest they visit the little village he'd settled in. It was close enough to a big city for mickey to work, back when he lived here, but out of the way enough to hide from the feds and any cartel members that were looking for him. The little old lady who had rented mickey his apartment here was still kicking, by some miracle, and had spent the last three days gleefully whacking Mickey with a shoe every time he was in reach, yelling at him in Spanish.
("She actually really likes him," her son, Luca, who was apparently mickeys singular friend from his time here, had told Ian. "They only ever got along by yelling at eachother, but Mami thinks he's hilarious and was really worried when he disappeared off the face of the earth.")
Still, the last few days had been paradise -- the beach, meeting the members of the community who surprisingly thought mickey was amazing, the food -- and Ian was feeling sappy.
He heaved himself out of bed, sleepily letting Mickey lead him out of the small motel room and down to the beach.
"Okay," mickey whispered, "look up."
Ian did - and his breath caught in his throat.
There were so many stars.
"Were far enough from the city that the light pollution isn't so bad," Mickey explained, "I cried like a baby the first time I saw it."
Yeah, Ian thought he might cry too.
They spread out a blanket and sit there for a long while, just staring. It was gorgeous -- Ian almost thought he could see the milky way.
"It's beautiful," Ian said, "worth getting out of bed for."
"It always is," Mickey said, so tenderly that Ian didn't need to look to know his husband was looking at him, not the sky.
the whole family has sunday night dinners and lip’s every week. but, eventually ian and mickey get their own little house and ian reallyyyy wants to host everyone a couple times a month. mickey is pretty indifferent and would prefer if the whole gallagher clan didnt invade his one space without them bUT he knows it would make ian happy so he complies. he’s annoyed by it at first, but once he sees ian getting all frantic before everyone arrives and the smile he wears the whole night as everyone is all together in his home…mickey suddenly thinks it’s the best idea ian’s ever had and wouldn’t mind it becoming a weekly thing
"To be a father is to discover your own heart walking around outside your body, to guide and protect while allowing the space for another soul to grow."
— John Eldredge
And I'll use you as a makeshift gauge
Of how much to give and how much to take
I'll use you as a warning sign
That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be
Right in front of me
Talk some sense to me(x)
vaporwave
areudirty
theartofmadeline
pixelskylines
janainaart
