Fuckin’ Paradise: Ian & Mickey on Their Honeymoon
I like to think that once they’re finally off parole, Ian and Mickey don’t romanticize the idea of a honeymoon. They just decide to go because they can. No big speech, no planning spiral, just booking something last minute and getting the hell out.
Not Mexico, obviously, but somewhere warm, somewhere with a beach. Florida, maybe Cuba. Somewhere that feels far enough without actually being complicated.
Mickey’s been waiting for this shit. He’s already packed those loud-ass colorful shirts he likes way too much, strutting around like he owns the place the second they land. Ian just watches him sometimes with that look, half fond, half “you’re ridiculous,” and says nothing because, yeah, he likes it.
It’s their first time on a plane, which goes about as expected.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared, Red. It’s just a fuckin’ plane.” Mickey grips the armrest, trying not to freak out, but teases anyway. Ian doesn’t point it out. He just takes Mickey’s hand when the plane starts moving, and Mickey lets him.
Then the turbulence kicks in.
“THE FUCK’S HAPPENING?? They don’t even know how to fly this fuckin’ thing or what??” Ian’s laughing, people are staring, Mickey’s ready to fight the pilot, and they’re still holding hands like neither of them noticed.
When they get to the hotel, they don’t waste time doing things the “normal” way. They barely make it inside before they’re all over each other. Not because it’s new or urgent, but because it’s familiar, because it’s easy, because it’s theirs. They spend hours lounging in the heat, AC blasting, half-watching whatever’s on, half-not paying attention at all, limbs tangled without thinking about it.
Ian buries his face in Mickey’s chest, half-buried, half-smiling, completely at ease. Mickey nudges him, grin tugging at his lips. “You gettin’ comfy there, huh?” he says softly, tracing slow circles in Ian’s neck, eyes on him as he drifts off. “Mmmh…” Ian murmurs, already dozing, and Mickey can’t help the small, fond smile spreading across his face. He watches him sleep for a moment, hand still threading through his hair, just taking him in.
Ian wakes up early most mornings, going for runs along the water while everything’s still quiet, before the heat hits, before the beach fills up. When he gets back, Mickey’s still in bed, buried in the sheets, half-asleep, completely unbothered by anything that isn’t immediate survival.
The days settle into something simple. The beach, mostly, even after Ian burns like a motherfucker on day one and Mickey refuses to let it go.
“You look like a goddamn lobster, Gallagher.”
Restaurants too, because Ian made a list before they even left.
“Jesus Christ, you made a schedule for our honeymoon?”
“It’s not a schedule, it’s options.”
“It’s a fuckin’ schedule.”
Mickey complains the whole time and still shows up anyway.
Ian wants to explore, see stuff, actually do things. Mickey wants the pool.
“The fuck we gotta go look at old buildings for? They’re just… buildings.”
“It’s not just buildings, Mickey.”
“It’s literally just buildings.”
It drags on like it always does, until it doesn’t. A couple things for Ian, a lot of nothing for Mickey. Neither of them says it out loud, but they’re both fine with that.
And somehow, every night, they end up on the beach. Same place, more or less. Beer in hand, shoulders touching, staring at the stars like there’s finally space to breathe. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don’t. It’s enough either way.
Mickey smirks, whispers, “Fuckin’ paradise, Gallagher.”
Ian just chuckles, shoulder pressed to his, warm, alive.
Second-to-last day, they get tattoos. Mickey gets a gun wrapped around their wedding date, both tangled together on his ass.
“Figured you’d see it every time we fuck, so… you’re welcome.”
Ian just shakes his head, smiling, and gets his own lower, at his groin, deliberate and teasing, perfectly in sync with Mickey’s.
Nothing about them suddenly turns soft or easy just because they’re somewhere nice. They’re still them, still loud, still stubborn, still getting on each other’s nerves. They just stay right there in it, sunburnt and stubborn, completely in sync. This is exactly where they're supposed to be. Together.
