Thank you! I kinda took this prompt and ran with it.
P.S. I love Iggy
21. a chaste kiss given to each other because they are in mixed company.
“I gotta head down to the Alibi,” you say, shoving your phone, wallet, and keys into your pockets. You eye Ian, sitting on the couch and flipping through channels, and carefully continue. “You gonna be okay?”
“I’ll be fine, Mick.”
“Are you sure?” You can’t fucking stop. “Because I can call Mandy, or go later –“
“Mickey.” He looks at you, eyes open, honest, definitely not as sad as they have been. “I’m okay.”
And you believe him. Because he’s not not okay. Not okay was lying in bed for days, not eating, not drinking, sleeping too fucking much. You lost track of how many times you had to half carry, half drag him to the bathroom, just so he didn’t piss the bed. And you don’t resent that, despite whatever the fuck Lip fucking Gallagher keeps telling you, but the relief you felt when he got up a week ago and took himself for a piss was fucking profound.
A week. Since then he’s been … okay. Not good, but not not okay. And that’s something. Fuck, that’s everything.
With Terry locked up and Svetlana having eased off a little, okay is fucking great. Taking himself to the bathroom turned into stealing sips of your coffee while you ate your breakfast. Drinking coffee turned into nibbling at meals. Being up for dinner turned into sitting on the couch with you while you watched some shitty movie.
It took a week to get from pissing alone to channel surfing, but it could have taken two, three, four, and you still would have half carried, half dragged him to the bathroom three times a day.
When you don’t respond to his assurance, he gets off the couch and walks towards you.
“I swear, I’m okay now,” he says, hands on your hips.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You meet his gaze, chew at the corner of your bottom lip, nod slowly. “So long as you swear –“
“I swear.”
You smile. “Didn’t even let me finish.”
“Whatever it is,” he says, “I swear to it.”
And that’s good enough for you. “Yeah, yeah, you want anything while I’m out?”
He frowns in consideration, but the door opens before he can answer. You turn, not expecting anyone else home for another couple of hours, and when Iggy walks in … fuck.
Fuck.
Instinct kicks in. Fight or flight.
A part of you wants to run, wants to shove Ian away, call him Gallagher and scowl at him like you haven’t done in months. A part of you wants to slide away from him, as though you were never that close to him in the first place, pretend that whatever Iggy thought he saw he didn’t fucking see.
Because Iggy’s been locked up for the last two months.
Because Iggy wasn’t around when you came out.
Because Iggy probably knows you’re gay, but he hasn’t seen you be gay.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, walking right into the living room, taking off his coat, and dumping it on the floor.
Your body braces for whatever’s about to come. Ian removes his hands from your hips – so fucking slowly that you wonder if it’s because he doesn’t want to let go, or if he’s trying to be subtle, hoping Iggy doesn’t see.
“Hey, Iggy,” he says, and his voice is too soft, too careful.
Iggy laughs, walks right up to Ian, and claps him on the back. His gaze is stuck on you, though.
“Fuck, Mick, I heard you were into dudes now, but no one told me it was a fucking Gallagher!” He laughs again, gives Ian a once-over. “At least it’s the hot one, man, that Lip is fucking weird looking.”
“You’re fucking weird looking,” you mutter because it’s the only stupid comeback you can think of.
Iggy just laughs again, and you think he must be high. Already. Fucking idiot.
“Hey, you got any beer in this shit hole? I’m fucking parched.”
“How the fuck do you even know what parched means?” you ask, because Ian’s staring at you and Iggy’s being normal and you choose to side with normal. Normal is giving Iggy shit.
“I’ll have you know I worked on my vocabulary while I was in the joint.”
You ignore him. You look up at Ian. He looks back and it’s not like in the past, not like at the club when he basically dared you to kiss him, not like at the Alibi when he maybe slightly coerced you into coming out. It’s soft. Easy. He’s making this easy for you.
“I gotta head out,” you tell Iggy, dragging your gaze away from Ian. “You hangin’ around for a bit?”
“Yeah, man.” He takes a drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his arm. “Yo, Gallagher, feel like playin’ some GTA?”
“Ian doesn’t wanna play video games with you, Ig –“
“Sure, I do,” Ian interrupts.
You look at him and he’s soft, he’s okay, he’s Ian. You nod. You keep nodding, a little longer than necessary while searching through your thoughts, trying to piece together what’s happening. Finally, you sigh.
“Okay, well I’ll see you guys in a bit.”
“Bring me home a whore!”
You flip Iggy off behind your back and raise an eyebrow at Ian. He nods. He’s okay. You nod – again – and you’re okay. Terry’s still away, Svetlana’s not as bitchy as she used to be, and Iggy’s back. Iggy’s back and he seems cool with everything.
“Go,” Ian says. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.”
But you still don’t leave. You look at his face – his eyes, his freckles, hips stubble – and then you lean up and press a brief, close-mouthed kiss to his lips. He kisses back just as you pull away, just as Iggy tell you to get a fucking room, but all that matters is the light in Ian’s eyes and that, for a second, he looks more than okay.
Just a correction, according to the modern census, Asian Indians are considered Asian, but previous court cases (which have since been overturned) did qualify Asian Indians as “Caucasian.” But yes, this is entirely based on a racist Eurocentric perception. I was a census worker this year, and on several occasions I interviewed people who were very confused about the race question and forced to self indenting as groups they don’t personally identify with.
This isn’t remotely helpful but as far as I can tell, Noel and Cam aren’t wearing any sort of recognizable military uniform. I mean I could totally be wrong, but I don’t think that camo pattern is being used in the US atm. I cannot for the life of me figure out why they’re dressed like that 😂
ok this is a lil old 😅 i remember reading from the spoiler people that they were trying to break into something?? i can't remember now but if i find the tweet I'll post it!
I can’t believe I never saw this before, but when the party’s over by Billie Eilish is such a Gallavich S6-8 song “tore my shirt to stop you bleeding but nothing ever stops you leaving” makes me think so much of Mickey I’m going to CRY
ahh it really is, isn’t it????
“Don't you know too much already? I'll only hurt you if you let me” is exceptionally painful if you consider the context of ian pushing mickey away because he thinks he’s destined to ruin mickey’s life with his mental illness and that mickey will just let him like??????/ no thank you???????????
A prompt idea: Mickey being out and proud, in public, with coworkers, with or without Ian around, you decide, I’m just weak for unashamed gay Mickey.
Ooh, this is such a good one! Thank you for sending it in! I thought a little slice of happily married life would make for a nice way to fill this! I hope it’s out and proud enough!
It's Mickey's day off, and by some stroke of luck, it's Ian's too. These days it's rare, that their days off line up like this, but every so often it happens, and those days are Mickey's favorites.
Rather than a rude, eight in the morning wake up call from the alarm on his phone, this morning Mickey's wake up call doesn't come until late morning, and there's nothing rude about it. His husband plastered to his back, arms curled tight around Mickey's waist, and his warm lips leaving a trail of soft kisses over his jaw and down his neck— Mickey wishes he could start every day like this.
Shared days off usually mean Mickey and Ian like to go out for breakfast— if it can still be called that by the time they finally let go of each other and stumble out of the bedroom.
More often than not, they go to Patsy’s. Despite Fiona’s not so great departure and any remnants of bad blood that may exist, the place still makes the best damn stack of blueberry pancakes Mickey has ever had— sorry, Ian— and he’ll be damned if the eldest Gallagher’s screw up deprives him of them. (It doesn’t, thank god.)
They waste a little more time in the shower, then dress, and finally make it to the L to head over to the diner. Once there, they’re led to a booth towards the middle, and Mickey orders his stack of blueberry pancakes and a coffee, with a little bit of cream and sugar, because that’s how he takes it these days (Ian’s been teasing the shit out of him since he made the switch from black), while Ian asks for a Denver omelet and a, what do you know, black coffee.
It doesn’t take long for the food to come out, and when it does, they dig in.
Between bites, Mickey rattles off some story about something that happened at Liam’s school that Liam had been telling him after he’d picked him up the other day (because he does that now, chauffeurs children to and from school. Willingly too). Ian hadn’t heard it yet, and Mickey knows he’d get at least a little bit of a kick out of the fact that his kid brother is hustling other ten years olds— and he does.
“... kid must be takin’ after his big brother, if what he says is true,” Mickey snorts. He’s nearing the conclusion of the story when the bell above the door jingles as a new patron enters the diner. He’s so used to the sound, what with the door constantly opening and closing during the later-morning rush, that it doesn’t even register anymore. But as he makes a comment about how he hopes Liam will be smarter than Lip with his school scams, the jab at Ian’s brother goes unheard and Mickey notices that Ian’s rapt attention has waned, his eyes flickering over Mickey’s shoulder, towards the noise, to linger there.
“Then he wrote ‘fuck you, bitch’ across his test and turned it in before socking his teacher in the face,” Mickey embellishes, just to see if Ian’s even listening anymore.
Ian nods on instinct and murmurs a flat “uh huh”, confirming Mickey’s suspicions that his words are clearly not reaching him. That he’s too distracted by whoever the fuck just walked in.
Mickey scrapes his fork through a puddle of syrup, the prongs screeching against the ceramic, and even that doesn’t get Ian’s attention. He shakes his head and lets out a short huff before dropping the fork to his plate with a clatter.
The annoyance is simmering just beneath his skin, and he’s doing everything in his power not to let it bubble over and ruin their morning, but he can’t help it.
“What?” Mickey finally barks out, rapping his knuckles against the tabletop between their plates. “The fuck are you lookin’ at, huh? Your PO walk through the door or somethin’?”
He doesn’t wait for Ian’s reply and starts to shift in his seat so he can get the answer himself. But Ian’s hand settles over his forearm before he can, and Mickey pauses long enough to meet Ian’s eyes. He lifts one eyebrow, simple and demanding.
“It’s nothing,” Ian reassures, eyes earnest and open as he says it. “I think one of the guys you work with just walked in, s’all,” he clarifies. “Wanted to be sure before I brought it up,” he adds, and Mickey relaxes.
That’s… pretty thoughtful, Mickey guesses. Ian knows Mickey doesn’t like having to deal with anything or anyone work related on his days off. He’s always very adamant that they pay and hurry the fuck out when he sees a coworker at a restaurant or store, or that they head to the bathroom now instead of later when he spots one of them at a bar.
Ian slouches over, sinking lower in his seat so as to not draw as much attention to himself, and Mickey can’t stop himself from softening at the gesture, an appreciative little smile playing on his lips.
“I think it’s Pete,” Ian supplies. He’s never actually met any of Mickey’s coworkers yet, but Mickey knows he’s seen photos on the website, so he must be going off of those.
Mickey twists in his seat to look, and sure enough, Pete is standing at the front counter, speaking with one of the servers. The waitress nods at whatever Pete says, calls something to the cooks in the kitchen, waits for an answer, then recites it back to Pete, who flashes a thumbs up and leans up against the counter as he waits.
Hoisting himself up in his seat a little, Mickey sticks two fingers between his teeth and gives a short, sharp whistle before calling, “Ay, yo, Pete!” across the diner. It earns him a few dirty looks from the patrons around him, but Mickey reciprocates the glares and they return to their food quickly.
Pete, thankfully, hears it too, and he looks up at the call of his name. It takes him a second of scanning before his eyes land on Mickey, but once he spots him a grin breaks out across his face, and he points right at him.
Mickey waves him over, and Pete pushes off of the counter and starts to weave his way through the booths.
As Mickey faces forward in his seat again, he catches the curious way Ian’s regarding him, and he narrows his eyes in response. “What?” He asks gruffly, bristling a little under the stare.
Ian purses his lips and shakes his head, like he isn’t going to say anything. But then a second later he opens his mouth. “You’re inviting him over,” he says, and Mickey blinks at him for stating the obvious. “You must be in a really good mood this morning,” he adds, leaning back in his seat as the left corner of his mouth quirks up in that half-smile thing he does that Mickey can’t get enough of.
Mickey huffs out a laugh, but he doesn’t deny it. He is in a good mood; he got to wake up in his husband’s arms, get pounded into the mattress and get sucked off in the shower, and now he’s chowing down on his favorite meal with his favorite person. Yeah, a good fuckin’ mood just about sums it up.
“Guess I am,” he agrees, sliding his hand across the table to take Ian’s and give it a squeeze.
Ian beams at him and squeezes back, but before he can say anything else, Pete sidles up to the table.
“Milkovich!” He greets brightly, thumping Mickey’s shoulder in a friendly way.
Mickey isn’t bothered by it, having been subject to that very greeting hundreds of times now. “Hey, Pete,” he replies in kind, and he jerks his chin at him.
He’s aware that his and Ian’s clasped hands still rest on top of the table, and normally he’d take his hand back now that they aren’t alone. It’s more out of habit than anything else, at this point. But it’s a habit that Ian is well attuned to, so even though Mickey makes no move to actually let go, Ian takes initiative and starts to draw his own hand back. Mickey tightens his hold before Ian can slip out of his grip, and he can see, out of the corner of his eye, the way Ian studies him for a moment before a bright, happy smile settles over his lips.
“Fancy seein’ you here,” Pete says, glancing around the joint before focusing back on Mickey. “Didn’t take you as a brunch kind of guy,” he laughs.
Mickey immediately sours, face screwing up in disgust. Across the table Ian stifles a laugh.
“Fuck that, this ain’t brunch.” Mickey practically spits the word. “I look like some prissy North Side rich bitch to you?” He scoffs. “I’m sittin’ down to a greasy breakfast at a cheap diner. Ain’t nothin’ about this that says fuckin’ brunch.”
Pete holds up his hands in surrender, but he laughs good-naturedly. “Alright, alright,” he says, cutting off Mickey’s continued griping. “Got it. Not brunch.”
“Damn right,” Mickey says, giving a curt nod.
This time Ian doesn’t bother stifling his laughter. Mickey knows the ease with which he’s riled up, especially about stupid shit like brunch, is highly amusing to Ian— he’s had his fair share of fun poking the bear himself— so he’s sure Ian’s having an absolute field day with this. The fucker. Mickey kicks at Ian’s shin beneath the table. “Bitch,” he grumbles, which just makes Ian laugh harder.
“Grumpy ass,” Ian shoots back, and he retaliates with a kick of his own.
Their little exchange has Pete’s eyes shifting from Mickey to Ian, and the amused smile on his face turns sly as recognition dawns on him. Pete opens his mouth, and Mickey knows he’s about to make some truly embarrassing comment, so he cuts him off before he can.
“Guess I should introduce you,” Mickey says, then turns to Ian. “You already know, but this noisy fucker’s Pete from the garage,” he tells him, jerking his thumb at his coworker. “And, uh, Pete,” he turns towards Pete and gestures at Ian, “this is—”
“You must be Ian,” Pete interrupts, grinning like a shark. “The husband,” he adds in an almost taunting drawl, and Mickey’s miffed that he didn’t get to say it. It always gives him a little thrill to introduce Ian as his husband, so fuck Pete for taking that away from him.
The friendly smile on Ian’s face disappears, though, and he bristles at the way Pete says husband. His fingers tense around Mickey’s, and he sits up a little straighter. If they weren’t in a restaurant, Mickey’s almost positive Ian would have stood up to tower over Pete. He puffs out his chest a little and his jaw juts out as he clenches it. It’s obvious he’s trying to make himself as intimidating as possible. That he’s readying himself for a fight, if it comes down to that.
There’s no reason for that, though. Pete’s harmless. And even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t stand a chance against the two of them— hell, he wouldn’t stand a chance against just one of them, especially if Ian was the one to jump him. For all of Ian’s attempts to talk Mickey down and keep him from dealing with every asshole that so much as looks at them funny by bashing their face in, Ian certainly has no qualms about throwing the first punch when someone he loves is threatened.
It makes Mickey swell with love for the man sitting across from him, and he’s sure he looks a little ridiculous right now, making his version of googly eyes at Ian as he sizes Pete up. But he loves Ian, dammit, and he loves that they’d go up to bat for each other like this, no matter what.
Mickey rubs his thumb over Ian’s knuckles, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze in hopes that he’ll get the message that that’s not necessary this time.
Ian reluctantly takes his eyes off of Pete to meet Mickey’s pressing stare, and they exchange a series of looks until Ian visibly relaxes and gives Mickey a short nod.
Mickey feels a little exposed as Pete watches their silent, semi-private exchange, but he also kind of likes that someone else gets to witness this. That someone else gets to see how Mickey and Ian are so intertwined that they don’t even need to use words to understand each other.
Pete must sense the tension, and he holds his hands up again. “Oh, fuck, no, no. I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I ain’t homophobic, shit.” He quickly backtracks, trying to correct his mistake. “It’s just, I know who you are ‘cause Mickey here won’t shut the fuck up about you,” he laughs.
And, there it is.
All hostility disappears from Ian, and his eyebrows fly up to his hairline. He looks between Pete and Mickey, surprise written all over his face. “He what?” He asks, a pleased sort of disbelief coloring his tone.
“God dammit, Pete, shut the fuck up,” Mickey groans, shaking his head at the other man.
Pete doesn’t look the slightest bit sorry, though. He fixes Mickey with a shit-eating grin and then turns back to Ian. “Oh yeah,” he continues. “It’s always my husband this, and my husband that. Fuck, I was half convinced the only name that got changed after the two of you got hitched was yours to husband. You do still go by Ian, right?” Pete jokes.
Ian’s answering laugh is loud and bright, and he looks absolutely delighted by this new information. Already Mickey knows he’s never going to hear the end of this once they’re alone again.
So he brings Ian up a lot at work. So he likes to pepper in the fact that he has a husband now. So what. Mickey never really expected he’d ever get to have a husband. Hell, once he’d realized he had feelings for Ian, he’d expected that to be the end of it. That he’d be dead before he could ever get the chance and work up the courage to do anything about it. But look at him now! He has Ian, as his husband, he has a steady, legal job, he has coworkers he actually likes and can even call friends.
Sue him for finally getting what he wants out of life and enjoying it to his fullest.
Mickey’s cheeks burn from the attention, but he can’t be too irritated with Pete for giving him up if Ian’s smiling that big at him. He looks so happy about it, and call him a soft bitch, but Mickey wouldn’t trade that for the world.
“I didn’t know you talked about me at work,” Ian says once his laughter has died down. It’s softer, directed just at Mickey, and there’s a softer sort of smile resting gently across his face. He stretches his arm over the table again, holding his hand out, letting Mickey choose if he wants to take it or not.
The choice is easy. Mickey presses his palm into Ian’s and lets their hands fold around each other. “‘Course I do,” he says with a shrug. He drops his eyes down to the table briefly before they flicker up to find Ian’s again. “You’re important to me. That’s not something I’m interested in hidin’ anymore.” He shifts in his seat, still not entirely comfortable having such a serious conversation like this around other people. It’s something that needs to be said, though, so he says it. He clears his throat a little, and decides to cut the serious shit short for now. “‘Sides, I gotta brag about the hot piece of ass wearin’ my ring, don’t I? Gotta make everyone else wish they had what I have, right?” He breaks out in a grin that mirrors the one spreading across Ian’s face as he snorts out a laugh.
“Fuck, I love you,” Ian says, eyes sparkling.
“I love you,” Mickey parrots. It still makes him a little uncomfortable to say those three important words around other people, especially if they aren’t inside his immediate bubble. But that’s because, to him, those words are meant for Ian and only Ian. Mickey loves the way Ian lights up when he does say it in front of other people, though. It’s a comfort zone he’s willing to step out of, if it means proving to Ian that he’s not that scared little boy he once was anymore. He’s proud to be with Ian, and there’s not a whole lot he wouldn’t be willing to do to make sure Ian knows it.
The words are barely out of Mickey’s mouth before Ian lifts himself up and leans across the table, curling his fingers into the front of Mickey’s shirt so he can drag him forward and bring their lips together. It’s a chaste kiss, nothing too wild in front of their company and in such a public place, but it’s sweet enough to have Mickey momentarily forgetting about Pete, and everyone else around them, long enough to melt into it a little, hand coming up to cup the back of Ian’s head and hold him close.
Pete’s wolf-whistling breaks them apart, and Ian settles back into his seat with a satisfied grin on his face. Mickey shakes his head fondly, but he’s still smiling at him like they’re the only two people in the world.
“Should I call you a cab, or…” Pete trails off, sniggering like a child.
Mickey rolls his eyes and sticks his middle finger up at Pete. “Fuck you, I’ll mack on my husband as much as I fuckin’ want to.”
“That’s fuckin’ cute, you two are fuckin’ cute,” Pete says, chuckling as Mickey wrinkles his nose at the sentiment.
“Yeah we fuckin’ are,” Ian agrees, quirking an eyebrow at Mickey as if daring him to challenge that.
And, fuck, Mickey wouldn’t be caught dead saying it out loud, but yeah, yeah, they are pretty fuckin’ cute. He’d never admit this either, but he kind of wishes he and Ian had been that couple and squeezed into the same side of the booth. Right now he wants nothing more than to press up against his side and curl his arm around Ian’s waist. He settles for sliding his foot up against Ian’s beneath the table and hooking their ankles together.
A ding sounds out from somewhere near the kitchen, then one of the servers in the front calls out Pete’s name.
“Ah, that’s me,” Pete says, nodding towards the front where his to-go meal is waiting. “Well, hey, it was nice runnin’ into you, Mickey, and it was really great to finally meet you, Ian.”
“It was nice meeting you, too,” Ian replies, and Mickey can tell he genuinely means it. He had a feeling these two would get along.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at the garage,” Mickey tells Pete, giving him a two finger salute.
Pete raises a hand in a parting wave as he turns to head back up front.
He’s barely even out of earshot before Ian’s putting his elbows on the table and leaning closer, a conspiratorial glimmer in his eyes. “So,” he starts, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Heard there’s this super great guy you just can’t shut up about,” he goads.
Mickey rolls his eyes and swats at Ian’s face. “Fuck,” he laughs, “you don’t waste a damn second.”
Ian’s smug grin grows. “Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p’. “I don’t. But it’s okay. My husband loves that about me,” he adds, snickering.
Mickey groans and shakes his head. “I’m never gonna live that shit down, am I?”
Ian tosses his head back and laughs brightly. “No,” he replies, “ no you are not, husband.”
sold! but with the caveat that ian and mickey aren’t troy and gabriella (instead troy and gabriella are like. jimmy and fiona?) but chad and ryan asdfghj. and yeah, they do in fact have a scene in which a baseball game is a metaphor for them courting each other, which ends with a bang (if you know what i mean). i’m just saying that disney might be homophobic but chad and ryan DID have their clothes switched in the next scene #chyanwasreal
