i would give you all of my dollars to talk more about The Breakup. especially in relation to canon. i'm in the thick of season 2 vibes and needing some 6/7 in my life.
Oh, the forever unwritten Hotchgan divorce story, my beloved.
In s6e13, it's the newlywed serial killers. Aaron and Derek are at the scene together, which of course has to be Aaron's choice since he's SAC. (It's a choice that's repeatedly made through the next several episodes, and ends abruptly after Emily's death in episode 18.)
It's Derek who's with her when she dies. It's Aaron who ducks out of the waiting room in the hospital almost immediately after JJ shares the news. It's Derek, in the next episode, who's checking in on Penelope and Spencer, who's mentoring Seaver.
Aaron doesn't talk to anyone until let's say early April (episode 20 airs April 6th), and it's for the assessments. Everyone sits in the chair across from him except Derek. (The chair isn't pulled out. Aaron doesn't know what to do with Derek, has been avoiding him at home and now has to do grief assessments--he volunteered to protect the team from Strauss, of course, but Strauss wasn't interested in most of them, wouldn't have wasted much time. Derek, on the other hand? Derek, who Strauss would occasionally prefer to Aaron as SAC? Derek, who watched his friend die? Strauss says she wants to see Derek in her office weekly and Aaron has been taking files home just to avoid going to bed but he can't leave Derek to Strauss’s callous questions ... He would catch a flight to the moon before he’d share space with Derek’s grief, his own guilt rising like bile in his throat, but. But Derek is his husband, and Aaron is the kind of man who believes in the letter of his promises, and he vowed to protect and cherish Derek, and that means protecting him from Strauss.)
Derek sits on the office sofa, starched dark button down that he wears again a few episodes later, the color for mourning and the stiff lines of the shirt his own armor against the fact that he only sees his husband at work or when they put Jack to bed.
"So where does that leave me?" he asks, and Aaron whispers, "Angry," and they both pretend that Doyle is the only man Derek is angry at. He speaks to Derek after hours, but he doesn't offer him a drink the way he does Dave. Derek leans forward, but Aaron doesn't unlace his fingers and reach out. He wants to. He sees Derek struggle for his composure and he wants to fold both Derek's hands under his, wants to embrace his husband for the first time in weeks.
He keeps his hands folded on his own lap. Stay, Haley had always begged him, and Aaron had offered the same sympathetic look and boarded the plane.
(The problem, Derek thinks, one night when they get back to Quantico after midnight, and he goes to his office instead of heading home to Jack and Jess, and sees the lights in Aaron's office flick on - the problem is that Aaron never thinks he's leaving. He says that Haley left him, and Derek can see him curling in and waiting on Derek to do the same, but Derek stood by for years and watched Aaron's beautiful wife come to the office. He watched Aaron kiss her on the cheek and walk away.
The problem, Derek thinks, is that he promised Aaron he wouldn't run. But he never promised to try to catch Aaron when he fled.)
Derek says he's angry and Aaron has nothing to say, and they both know that Aaron never learned how to deal with anger except to take it and nod.
"Where does that leave you?" Derek asks, because this uncomfortable office loveseat is his only chance to corner his husband and he knows it. Because even before they were anything, he's been the person willing to pry Aaron's thoughts and feelings loose.
Aaron deflects. He doesn't do the assessment and Strauss calls him on it, and Dave calls him on it (but Dave always assumes he knows Aaron so well that he hardly needs to ask, and they share a toast), and Derek calls him on it.
But Derek doesn't push. For years--after Boston, after Gideon, after Haley's departure, after Foyet's torture, after all of it--Derek's always pushed. What's going on with you? he'd ask, wait for the dark and the quiet and refuse to let Aaron nod and hide away.
This time, Aaron deflects and Derek allows it, even though Aaron set up the dark and the quiet and maybe, maybe, was hoping that Derek would do what he always does and refuse to let him slip away.
(Aaron vowed to treat Derek as his equal. And that meant confiding in him, but could it be his fault if Derek didn't pry? Derek had sworn to trust Aaron, more for Aaron's sake than his, because he'd trusted Aaron for almost a decade. Only now, he doesn't trust Aaron not to spin and spin and spin and spin away; and so he buttons up his armor and he doesn't ask Aaron to come home, because the asking would leave him vulnerable to the tuck of Aaron's chin, the soft shake of his head.)
Aaron walks into two serial killer situations and Derek allows it, barely protests, keeps his sunglasses on and his armor intact. Aaron asks Dave to help coach soccer and Derek doesn't protest, helps wash Jack's uniform and stays away.
A few episodes later Aaron gets them all up before dawn to say they should consider their options. The only person he gives an option to is Derek (the New York office is still interested, they'll call) and then gets the call from the Virginia police and sends Derek there to get him as far away as possible.
Derek goes. They promised not to let their personal feelings interfere with work, and he's too much the middle child of an overworked single parent to make a public fuss. (He's wearing the same shirt he wears into the grief assessment, starched and buttoned to the top. Aaron woke him for the meeting at four am: Derek was asleep on their sofa at home, and Aaron stood over him and said, "Wake up. Derek, wake up," still wearing his suit--already wearing a new suit?--his hands gripping the top of the sofa cushion and not his husband's shoulder. He never touched Derek. He never came close.)
The problem is, Jess thinks, watching Derek starch and iron his shirts in long methodical strokes, watching Aaron down the hall pack his bags for an overseas assignment he didn't bother to mention until it was time to go -
The problem is that they love each other. Aaron buys toiletries for his flight and stocks the medicine cabinet with the high-strength painkillers that Derek claims not to need and eats like candy when his knee acts up. Derek washes all his lightest long-sleeved shirts, packs them gently into Aaron's bag because Aaron is always stealing Derek's clothes, because he'll need the protection from the sun. Derek walks down the hall and Aaron stares at him like he's the most incredible thing Aaron's ever seen in his life, glances away before Derek can catch his gaze. Aaron hefts his bag onto the rolling suitcase and Derek offers to drive, and Aaron is too busy shaking his head to notice the hand Derek stretches out to catch him in one last embrace.
Aaron runs. Derek digs his suits out of the closet, buttons his shirt.
Where does that leave us? Derek doesn't ask him, and so Aaron's never forced to answer. Derek doesn't stop him from running, and so Aaron keeps his wedding ring in his wallet and tucks his chin and doesn't answer, spins and spins and spins away.
I often wonder about how and when the team learns about Roy and Jamie’s special training arrangement. In 3x04, Roy and Jamie are just getting started; in 3x05 they’re not keeping it a secret but who knows what they team is or isn’t picking up; in 3x06 everyone is obviously aware of their new and predictably unhinged deal.
There’s a lot of ways the revelation can play out and I’m in love with all of them, but my favourite version (tonight, at least) has one of the other players just stumbling on some candid posted on the site formerly known as Twitter a few days after Zava’s left for his avocado farm. Roy having Jamie pull his bike is a little too late for this grand reveal, but I crave that same level of insanity; say it’s Jamie doing push-ups in the middle of the Richmond Green with Roy standing next to him and keeping a foot on his back, or some such.
“Guys, have you seen this?” Sasha might ask, rushing into the dressing room with his phone held high.
They haven’t. They’re all suitably awed/astounded/alarmed.
“Did Jamie piss Roy off again?” Colin wonders aloud, leading to a smattering of yeah, must have and nah, Jamie’s been minding himself, hasn’t he? and says here the chick who posted it sees them every morning there’s more pictures look and the discussion runs loud and agitated with no clear consensus, and then Jamie walks in, and they immediately swarm him, like the fuck is going on here, bruv?
“Uh, yeah, Roy’s been coaching me, hasn’t he? Like, privately.” Jamie’s doing a fair job of playing it cool, like it’s no big deal, like it’s just a thing, no particular reason for it. It’s nice to be the focus of the team’s attention once more, but he suspects they wouldn’t be best impressed if they realised it’s all to make him better than Zava ever was. (Which is bullshit, really, because Zava’s a right knob, yeah, and he fucked them over too, like properly.)
“He can’t actually force you to do that shit, can he?” Jeff asks, his silly brow furrowed in concern, and he’s sounding just a little uncertain, because he knows that technically he’s right, but this is Roy they’re talking about and… who the fuck knows what Roy can or can’t do, really?
“Yeah, mate, you should talk to the gaffer,” someone else chimes in, and there’s nods and yeah, Ted’ll say something, right, he’ll sort Roy out and stop him from torturing Jamie further.
Jamie waves their concern away. “No, lads, listen, I want him to do it,” he tells them. “It’s to make me better, right?” It’s already working, too; he can feel it, his endurance building, his strenght growing. He’s better than he’s ever been, and he’s only getting started.
The team contemplates that for a few moments, in hushed silence. “Man,” Van Damme eventually offers, “you couldn’t pay me to do that shit.”
“Yeah, well,” Jamie says, with a wink and a smirk, “no one’s offering to pay you, mate.”
And that’s that, really. The teams murmurs and shrugs and moves on. Just Roy and Jamie doing Roy and Jamie stuff, innit?
(Roy steps into the coaches' office, and Beard looks up from his book. “What?” Roy asks, because he knows all of Beard’s completely blank faces, and knows this one for the pointed interest it is. “You and Jamie, huh”? Beard asks. “Yeah, well,” is all Roy says, but Beard nods because yeah, that makes perfect sense actually.)
ian is 19 and spending his nights dancing in one of the clubs in boystown to earn enough money for his GED course, his family's squirrel fund, and the world's tiniest AND shitiest apartment that he came to rent recently.
it's also in the club where he becomes completely and hopelessly infatuated with their ukrainian bouncer who everyone calls mickey.
mickey is a man of little words. his english vocabulary consists mostly of expletives, his eyes are hard and piercing, and he looks like he's always ready and willing to fight. and yet, ian can't help but be utterly charmed by him.
for weeks, he's been seeking out mickey's company during his evening/early morning shifts, and more often than not, he's found himself sharing a silent smoke with him in the back alley of the club. well, mickey's the one who would mostly stay silent, while ian would make an absolute ass of himself by going on and on about something random and silly.
at the end of one of those stories, it becomes almost impossible for ian to tear himself away from the little smile that mickey's trying to hide in another drag from his cigarette. but ian's shift is over, and he should really head home if he wants to be any useful that day, so he picks up his backpack with a sigh and tells mickey he'll see him tomorrow--well, shit, today, i guess.
and it's just like any other day, them saying goodbye for a little while, before mickey bows his head and says, his voice uncharacteristically small and vulnerable:
"no tomorrow. i go home tomorrow."
"oh? you got the evening free?"
"no, no chicago home. ukraine home."
"you're going home-home? what? why?"
"i must go."
"says who?"
"america."
mickey rubs at his nose angrily, and his hard r's are the most adorable thing ian's ever heard in his life, and he just panics, shouts out his first thought like a complete lunatic:
"marry me!"
mickey's face hardens again, and the fist ian's seen him use to punch the lights out of so many guys clenches into a fist.
"what the fuck."
"listen, it would be completely innocent and purely transactional--"
"you wanna rub dicks with me, orange boy? you touch my dick, i break both your arms."
"what? no, no! that won't be necessary, believe me. i'm not gonna touch you, i promise. it'd just be a paper, so they'd let you stay here. because if we marry, you get to stay. you understand what i'm saying?"
"yes. i understand," mickey replies slowly, his expression still deeply distrusting. "but. you wanna marry me. why?"
ian's mouth uselessly opens and closes. after some deliberation, he answers, "because i think you deserve a chance. and i... enjoy your company." he shoots mickey a tentative smile. "don't know if you're aware of this, but you're quite the conversationalist."
mickey looks at him for a minute, then shakes his head, mutters something under his breath in ukrainian, and huffs out a laugh.
"you use big words and confuse me, orange boy."
ian's smile grows wider. "is that a yes, i'll marry you, ian, that i hear?"
mickey rolls his eyes. "yes, i marry you," he says, then adds a mumbled, much quieter, "orange idiot."
it turns out actually saying those words out loud is not the craziest thing ian will have to do that day. because once mickey's shift ends and they sit down in a diner for an early breakfast to put their plan into motion, ian has to convince his brother lip to help him fill out and backdate some necessary documents--and also borrow his suit.
when ian passes his siblings in the gallagher house kitchen with a pair of suits in his arms, he just blurts out, "i'm marrying a ukrainian bouncer called mickey, so that he can get a green card and stay here and fall in love with me. don't ask!" by way of explaining, and runs out of the house before they can stop him.
---
"we'll have to look like we're in love. and we'll have to kiss."
ian tries to sound casual about it when they sit in the courtroom hallway, but his bouncing knees give away his nerves.
mickey lands his hand on ian's thigh with a smack, catches ian's eyes.
"one kiss is fine. but no tongue. you touch me with tongue and i--"
"yeah, i know. you break both of my arms."
"no. i break your face," mickey corrects him with a smile.
the ceremony goes off without a hitch. and when ian cradles mickey's face in his palms and gives him a gentle kiss, he realizes he's in deep, deep shit.
---
their first marital spat is over the fact that ian's tiny apartment only has one bed and no couch, so they have no other choice but to share it.
"you try rubbing dicks with me while i sleep?" mickey accuses ian after he gives the place a quick scope.
"what? no, of course not! in fact, there'll be no dick-rubbing in this bed whatsoever," ian assures him. "i'll do all my dick-rubbing... in the bathroom!"
mickey nods and empties the trash bag full of his earthly possessions on the floor, muttering something in ukrainian. ian thinks he clearly hears him say orange idiot in there somewhere.
ian heats them two dinners for one in the microwave, and they eat it seated side-by-side in the bed. then, they both go to work, sporting a pair of matching rings.
---
after ian catches mickey supposedly learning english by watching trashy reality tv on his laptop, he starts leaving post-it notes with english names for the things in their apartment.
mickey hates it--and hates even more than it's actually helpful.
still, one morning, ian wakes up with a post-it stuck to his forehead that simply says dikhed.
---
and while ian helps mickey with his english, mickey does his best to prepare ian for his GED exam.
like, seriously, he tries.
"what is capital of ukraine?"
"uh, minsk?"
"stupid american. kyiv."
"hey. you don't know that much about america, either."
"i know more than i want. who is ukrainian president?"
"none of these questions are going to be on the exam."
"do not care. what is my name?"
ian pauses. turns his head to give mickey, who's lying next to him on the bed, a confused look. "mickey?"
"no, stupid american. is mikhailo."
"oh. why don't i call you that?"
"my father called me that. you are not my father."
ian can't say that he totally understands what that means, but he still promises to never call him by that name.
---
a guy called gerry or harold or maybe walter drops ian off at the club one night in his lexus, and it sure looks like mickey, who's minding the front door queue that night, doesn't like what he sees, because he catches up with ian not too long after that in the locker room and his fist is clenched into a fist again.
"you like gray pubes, yes?" mickey asks him point-blank.
ian shimmies into his gold shorts, giving mickey a curious look. "think i like platinum credit cards a little more than those, frankly."
mickey stares at him, his teeth scraping his bottom lip.
"you end things with gray pube and his credit card. now. you are my husband, i take care of you. okay?"
"okay," ian replies after a while, his heart pounding in his chest.
---
they prepare hard and long for the imminent immigration police visit.
"what will you say if they ask you when you fell in love with me?" ian asks mickey as they share a cigarette in the back ally of the club one night.
mickey seems to think about it for a bit. "i say i see you dance your little prostitute dance, and i go hard in my pants."
"mickey."
"what-ever. what is you say?"
"i'll say i liked you from the start. that i immediately saw through your tough person act and fell in love with the caring, funny person that you actually are."
"is good lie."
ian wants so badly to tell him that it's not a lie, not at all, but instead, he asks, "so, what will you say?"
"i say you are kind to me. is surprise, not many people is kind. but i also say you are orange idiot and you talk too much stupid, you make my brain hurt."
ian snorts. "okay, good. it's always more believable to mix a lie with a truth."
"is not lie," mickey shrugs before he stubs out the cigarette on the wall behind them and leaves ian standing there alone.
---
the check-in with the immigration police goes a lot smoother than they both expected--even when you take into consideration the fact that somewhere around the half an hour mark, mickey gets frustrated with all the questions and starts yelling:
"what is you want to know, huh? he takes my dick in his mouth, i take his in my ass, and we both love it. in ukraine, i take dick in my ass, my dad breaks both my arms and legs. here, i am safe. i am safe with ian. is it not enough?"
ian thinks he's got it all wrong, but doesn't know whether it's good or bad, and what it means for him.
---
later, when they get home, mickey is quiet. he goes to grab a beer from the fridge, but ian stops him when he stands behind him and draws him in a tight embrace.
"i'm really glad you're here. and that you're okay," he says into the fabric of mickey's jacket. "my husband."
he feels mickey's hand cover one of his, giving it a light squeeze. "my orange idiot."
they get drunk together after that. they sit on their bed and crack jokes and ignore the outside world, and ian really needs to kiss mickey right then and there.
he decides to do the second-best thing. he puts his bottle away, then takes mickey's and does the same with his.
"if i suck you off right now," ian starts as he strokes up and down mickey's thighs, "will you break my arms?"
mickey's face morphs into a bright smile. "no. i will not."
ian reciprocates the smile before he gets to work.
---
mickey doesn't mention anything, but it gets pretty obvious when he starts being bothered by the attention that ian gives his customers at the club.
god knows ian doesn't know what he spits at them as they pass him in the door, but he sees the looks and the clenched fist.
"you're scaring away my customers," ian admonishes mickey when he finds him nursing a drink at the bar later.
"so? get better customers. no scared little shit-in-their-pants when mean ukrainian looks at them."
ian has about enough of this.
he grabs mickey by his shirt, drags him to one of the leather sofas, and pushes him to sit down on it. then, he straddles him, his hips hovering over mickey's crotch, moving into the beat.
ian puts one of mickey's hands on his ass and holds his gaze. the moment feels intense, sparkling with suppressed sexual energy, and it calls for a kiss.
and believe it, ian is hungry for it. actually, he's positive they both are, but it would not be right. and ian wants to do right by mickey.
so instead, he leans down and says into mickey's ear:
"fake marriage or not, out of all the people here, there's only one person that i want to fuck. and when i finally get to do it, i'm gonna do it in the bed that we share, in our tiny ass apartment, after he calls me an idiot and i kiss him senseless. is that alright with you?"
ian pulls back slightly to see mickey nodding his head.
"good. because i'm done jerking off in the bathroom every day just because i find my own husband hot."
he feels mickey's snorted laugh as a huff of breath on his neck.
the song changes and ian promptly jumps off mickey's lap.
"okay, now give me 25 bucks, so we don't look too obvious. i didn't really think this one through."
Was watching 10x12, as all reasonable people are wont to do at regular intervals, and now I'm wondering abou the fact that when Mickey runs off to grab his gun and go a-Terry hunting everyone rushes after him and yet it's only Ian – limping Ian with his broken leg in a boot – that eventually (almost) catches up with our murderous boy in the Gallagher house?
I mean, sure Ian is a decent runner and he's stubborn as all hell but again: broken leg. No way he actually outran Sandy, Debbie and Carl. And still, it's only him coming up the stairs after Mickey – which rather suggests that the others deliberatedly hang back, letting Ian initilly confront his husband-to-be all on his lonesome.
I mean, I don't blame them? That's an enraged Mickey fucking Milkovich, that is, and Ian's the only certified Mickey fucking Milkovich tamer in the entire world, so sensible course of action, really. But it amuses me to think of it – all of them coming to the quick and quiet realization that if they don't pace themselves they'll soon leave Ian behind and if they leave Ian behind it'll be them that comes up on Mickey and maybe they should just go a tiny bit slower 'cause Carl's foot is actually hurting a little now that he thinks on it and Debbie can't go as fast as she likes because the stupid bathrobe keeps getting in the way and Sandy... well, Sandy probably just figures that it's Ian's job to sort these things out now and he better step up.
Ian is probably too busy worrying over what Mickey is planning to do to pay much attention to his siblings and in-law-kinda suddenly kinda just jogging along next to him, but if he did I think it's a toss up between him getting annoyed at their cowardice and getting pretty pleased about being able to keep up with them in spite of having a busted leg, great work, Gallagher, you still got it.
Or maybe Carl, Debbie and Sandy get to the house right on Mickey's heels only to notice that Ian's no longer with them and they pause below the stairs, eyeing each other a little sheepishly. Neither of them is keen to be the first up after Mickey; neither of them is keen to admit that.
Debbie, ever the big sister ready to order her baby brother about, gestures for Carl to get a move on. ”Go after him!”
”Why don't you go after him?”
”I have a kid to think of! And you're the wannabe cop!”
Carl doesn't point out that not going after a Milkovich alone is pretty much South Side policing 101. He turns to Sandy instead: ”You're his cousin, you should talk to him.”
”Yeah, I don't think talking's gonna do much at this point.”
Aaaand then Ian shows up and they all breathe a sigh of relief as he hobbles past them. Only, Ian's Mickey whisper magic only really works when he can actually get his hands on Mickey so in the end Sandy has to tackle her cousin (possibly muttering under her breath about Gallagher incompetence) and all is well that ends with Mickey in handcuffs*.
*Put on him by Ian. Not put on him by pesky police or anyone else, obviously.
I’m imagining Lip walking into the house with Fred and a bag of groceries that Debbie asked him to pick up. They’re all eating together tonight because his kitchen is in full-on renovation mode, and Tami can’t stand another day of takeout.
On the couch are Ian and Mickey, doing what Ian and Mickey do. Namely, making out. Nothing heated, just some casual “alone” time.
“Baby in the room, guys,” Lip casually points out on his way to the kitchen.
Mickey surfaces long enough to retort, “We live here. You don’t, asshole.”
“Still a baby in the room.”
It doesn’t matter, though. He’s unloading groceries; they’re back to it as if he’s not there. It works.
Until he hears, “Jesus, again?”
“Fuck off somewhere else then, huh?”
Carl comes into the kitchen shaking his head and mutters, “When’s it gonna stop?”
Lip smirks. If he thinks this is bad, he should have seen Ian back when he was a kid. That goofy grin didn’t leave much to the imagination.
“Give it time, Carl. Newlyweds, you know?”
“It’s been nine months,” he deadpans. “That’s not new.”
Leaning around the door jamb to see one black-and-orange blob on the couch, Lip replies, “With how long it took to get there? It’ll probably take a couple years to get it out of their systems.”
#'show me how you made that chick fall in love with you mick' as he pokes his ribs
its your own fault that i now need a flirty fic with this :( you really have the best ideas
... fine. have some more silly dialogue! (i don't seem to be able to quite pull off flirty with the two of them)
"... what the fuck?"
"mick, come on. humor me."
"why?"
"because i wanna see your technique."
"fuck you. you've seen plenty of my technique."
"i don't think you can exactly call point-blank asking someone wanna bang? a method of flirting."
"yeah, because i'm not tryna flirt with you, asshole. we're fucking married."
"so? i could do with some flirting from my husband from time to time."
"jesus christ--"
"hey, i'm not trying to start an argument here. i'm just intrigued. you didn't actually make that prison guard fall in love with you just by showing her your dick, right?"
"...no."
"okay, so. show me, you prick. i wanna hear you smooth-talk me for once."
"for on--? you know what, fine."
"...what's happening right now?"
"fucking--gimme a second here."
"oh. OH. is this it? is this you getting in the zone?"
"a fucking hey, mick? that was your big get-out-of-prison move?"
"the circumstances were kinda different back then."
"oh yeah? did you compliment the weather then, too? OW!"
"'s what you get for still talking! now. pay attention to the master at work."
"ha, is that right? ...wait a second. i know this look."
"do you now?"
"yes! the lip-biting, the eyelash-batting, the fucking finger in your mouth! son of a bitch. it's your fuck me look!"
"i have no idea what you're talking about, man."
"yes, you do! damn, i can't believe i never realized it before. you've been flirting with me all these years just by licking the fucking corners of your mouth!"
"took you long enough to figure out, but i knew you'd get here eventually."
"you're unbelievable. you know i could never-- ...oh. is sticking my hand in your pants a part of it?"
bed-sharing + sleep intimacy (what a wonderful combo 😈)
---
it's the night before carl says he's in your bed, and it starts by mickey waking up with a start to a not-so-gentle kick to his backside.
the room's pitch-black, and he's at gallagher's, he's safe, and there's a pointed pst! pst! coming from ian's bed.
"what the fuck," mickey grumbles, tired and confused.
the answer he gets is a quiet and firm, "get over here," and it explains shit.
mickey scrambles to his knees, the borrowed duvet tangling around his legs, and stops when he reaches what he thinks is the silhouette of ian's head, suddenly realizing, "i'm not gonna fit."
"yes, you are. you're like half my size," says the amused voice from the dark.
mickey climbs up next to ian, faintly aware that he should be punching him but too exhausted to remember what for.
as soon as his back touches the bed and his head settles into the pillow, his eyes close again. he feels a soft blanket being dragged over him, covering most of his legs and all the way up to his chest, and then the hand stays, heavy and warm on mickey's shoulder, keeping him close. it's an entirely new sensation and it's almost too much.
a weak protest bubbles inside him, fighting against the thick layer of sleep.
"what if someone sees?" mickey asks, the words mumbled.
"let them."
"okay," he agrees after no contemplation, his body relaxing with the easy decision.
ian shuffles carefully, and then a pair of lips touch mickey's shoulder over his t-shirt.
"if you kick me in your sleep, you're dead," mickey mutters after a while, last warning.
It was stupid of them to invite the family into their new house for Christmas Eve. It was even more stupid of them to get into a huge fight before everyone arrived.
Come hour three, Mickey was officially done playing the good host with no back-up. He gulped down his glass of wine (who was he???) and went to hide in the closet, shooting a curt, nothing-to-see-here smile to Debbie as he passed her in the hallway.
He closed the door to their bedroom as quietly as he could, then just as quietly moved through the room towards the closet room right next to the bathroom. But when he opened it, his eyes immediately fell down to the person already sitting there on the floor, his arms holding his knees to his chest.
"Occupied," Ian hurled out, looking equally surprised and angered by the sudden intrusion. His face softened a bit when he saw it was Mickey standing in the door.
Mickey quickly assessed his options. There was always the garden shed... Nah, fuck that. He wasn't gonna freeze his ass off just because Ian had the same idea first.
"Shove over." He gestured sharply with his chin.
Ian complied, scooting closer to the wall so that Mickey could step around him and sit down with his back to a perpendicular wall. He waved his arms around annoyedly when his head came in contact with some of the clothes hanging down from a rod, eventually managing to get them away from his face.
He relaxed against the wall. It was then that he finally noticed that Ian's back was propped up by an empty crib, crammed into a corner all those months ago after being stuck under piles of coats and jackets for even longer in their old apartment. Mickey let out a scoff and shook his head.
How fitting that they both ended up hiding in the same spot where they'd been hiding the motherfucking stainless steel elephant in their marriage.
Mickey opened his mouth to make a snarky comment, but the words were cut short when he heard the bedroom door creak open, and then heavy-shoed footsteps come towards them.
As the light came on with a click in the bathroom and another door closed, they both let out a sigh of relief. They listened as the toilet seat went up and someone started humming the Bad Boys theme as they took a piss.
Fucking Carl, Mickey thought with a roll of his eyes. They had a bathroom downstairs, too.
He waited patiently for the incoming flush, noting the lack of running water when Carl's footsteps started retreating again. Mickey just hoped the pig wouldn't touch any of his shit on his way out.
After he and Ian had sat in the silence for a while, Mickey asked, ever-so-casually, "Who you hiding from in here?"
"My husband," Ian replied as he cleared his throat, still looking anywhere but back at him.
Mickey hummed in acknowledgment. "What did that prick do?"
"How much time do you have?"
"Got it."
Ian leaned forward and chewed on his thumbnail.
"Who you hiding from in here?" he asked curiously, sneaking a little glance at Mickey, who laughed.
"As a matter of fact, my husband, too."
"Oh yeah?" Ian said, cautious. "What'd he do?"
"Asshole invited his whole family out here, made me dress up and shit, and then left me with them all alone. Hid in the fucking closet."
"What a pussy."
"You said it, man."
Mickey rubbed at his forehead, lost in contemplation.
"Probly for the best, though," he added in a low mutter. "This way, I don't have to see that look on his face."
Ian's eyebrows furrowed. "What look?"
"The fucking--"
The closet door suddenly opened, and Carl stood there, the stupid Christmas tie that Mickey hated swinging loosely around his neck, and looked between them.
"This a sex thing?" he asked them after a beat, his expression passive.
"No," Ian said.
"Fucking could be," Mickey said at the same time.
Carl took one last look at them, his eyes jumping from Ian to Mickey, and then he shut the closet door again.
"It's hard for him. I can tell," Mickey started when they were alone again. "Seeing each and every one of his siblings popping out kids, putting them in matching fucking outfits."
"That's not--"
"Can't blame him. He wanted a family, and all he got was a husband with daddy issues." Mickey stretched out his legs, fitting them under Ian's ass. "Doesn't talk about it anymore. There's just that fucking look on his face."
When Ian spoke, his voice was gentler than before. "That doesn't sound like an actual thing."
"Oh, it's a thing!" Mickey said, a sad smile playing at his lips. "Others might not see it, but I do. Can't hide this sorta thing from me."
"My husband didn't want to buy this house," Ian said in return.
"He sounds like a piece of work."
"Thought it was too big for just the two of us. Too nice. Still thinks there are things he doesn't deserve. I know that's bullshit, so I bought the house behind his back, not taking his feelings into consideration. Not the first time I did that, either."
Mickey reached out, taking Ian's hand in his, interlacing their fingers.
"I'm sorry your husband's a dick," Ian said earnestly, giving Mickey's hand a squeeze.
"Same here," Mickey replied, watching as Ian took their hands and started leaving tender kisses on the faded F, U, C, and K letters on Mickey's hand. When he looked up and gave Mickey a hopeful smile, Mickey happily reciprocated it.
