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Mickey’s first thought when he wakes up is of Ian Gallagher.
He’s become used to it though, since it’s been like that for a long time now. It’s not exactly a new thing, especially considering the last few months of waking up to dreams of Gallagher getting his ass blown up or shot in the head; Mickey soaked in his own sweat, heart jumping out of his chest and beating a million miles an hour. His first thought was always Ian, Ian, Ian. Wondering whether Ian’s alive, whether he’s okay – whether he’s okay without Mickey since Mickey’s entirely not okay without him.
His first thought is still Ian, except this particular morning he’s wondering whether the shithead is out jogging again, or what, because he sure as hell isn’t sleeping soundly next to Mickey like he’s supposed to be. Mickey reaches around for where he left his phone on Ian’s little side table and actually groans out loud when he sees the time. 5:32 a.m.
They hardly ever wake up at the same time. The first morning Mickey had woken up at the Gallagher house, Ian was already up and about, eating breakfast and recalling the good ol’ army days to his family. Mickey remembers waking on the floor next to Ian’s bed, the sheets smelling distinctly of that washing powder Mickey had grown to associate with Gallagher. It was Ian’s loud voice that had woken him up actually, his tone had been a little off-kilter as he talked and talked and talked.
Fucking five-thirty in the morning. Mickey really shouldn’t worry so much; Ian can do whatever the fuck he wants without Mickey having to know where he is 24/7…Except, Mickey is worried because Ian’s acting all kinds of strange lately and it’s scaring the hell out of him.
Fuck, Mickey glances at his phone again and thinks about Ian last night. Ian who’d been clinging onto Mickey a little harder than usual as they’d fucked nice and slow. Ian, who’d smiled a little too wide, talking and talking about going to work.
“Don’t wait up,” he’d said, in that half-joking tone Mickey’s not exactly familiar with.
Mickey closes his eyes and tries not picture Ian passed out on the snow somewhere, or some fucking geriatric shoving his hands down Ian’s pants while he’s too tweaked-out to put up a fight.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Mickey glances at his phone again and after a few seconds of hesitation, dials Ian’s number.
He picks up after the third ring and Mickey almost swears out loud in relief.
“Mick?”
Ian’s voice is a little breathless. There’s no muffled music in the background, and Mickey is goddamn grateful for that.
“Ay, what the fuck are you doing awake.”
Ian only laughs, “What are you doing awake?”
Come home, Mickey almost replies. Instead he just asks, “Didn’t you get off work at three?” and tries not to talk too loudly since Carl and Liam are still sleeping across the room.
“Yeah, but I never came home. Needed to go out for a bit, y’know?”
No, Mickey doesn’t know. And he really fucking wants to know, he really needs to know – needs to understand. But he has no fucking idea.
Mickey doesn’t reply for a long time, only listens to Ian’s breathing for a bit, in and out, in and out, until finally Ian breaks the silence.
“It’s nice out here,” he says, and his voice is so fucking quiet that Mickey almost doesn’t catch it.
“Where are you?” Mickey asks, almost as softly.
“I don’t even know,” he pauses. “Somewhere near Lake Michigan.”
Mickey snorts. “Yeah, that fucking helps.”
Then there’s that silence again, the two of them listening to each other breathe like it’s all they want in the world.
“Come home?” Mickey hadn’t meant to make it sound like a question, but he couldn’t help the uncertainty slip into his tone.
“Yeah,” Ian says, sounding relieved. Like he’d only been waiting for someone to say that to him all along. “Okay.”
“Alright,” Mickey replies, and then pauses. “I’ll make you some fucking eggs or some shit, then.” Which is the only way he could say I’m waiting for you without sounding like a total idiot.
“Can you make pancakes instead?” Ian asks, and there’s laughter in his voice, the little shit.
“Whatever. As long as there’s mix since I ain’t making that shit from scratch.”
“There should be a little left…unless Lip finished it yesterday.”
Mickey grunts, “There better be.”
Ian chuckles lightly. “See you soon, Mick.”
“Yeah,” Mickey replies, and then hangs up before he can say anything stupid.
*
Turns out that fucking Lip did finish the pancake mix.
Mickey takes a moment to consider this, ‘cause shit, Ian wanted pancakes and sure, Mickey said he wouldn’t make any if there wasn’t any mix but Ian’s coming home after like, seven hours of doing whatever the fuck, so he sure as shit deserves to eat pancakes.
And it’s not like Mickey’s never set foot in a kitchen before; he knows the basics of what goes in pancake batter. So he gets out the eggs, the flour and the milk, and starts mixing.
Twenty minutes in, Mickey wants to smack himself with the spatula ‘cause he only just remembers that he could’ve looked up a recipe on some fucking stepford website instead of making shit up as he went along. But whatever, he’s too far along and Mickey’s having fun looking around for random-ass ingredients and putting it into the mixture.
He doesn’t hear it when Ian lets himself into the house, so Mickey almost jumps when he hears Ian’s soft voice.
“Oh.”
Ian stares at Mickey for what feels like a very long time.
“Oh, what?” Mickey answers, feeling defensive and fucking flustered.
“Oh, you’re making breakfast,” Ian replies and there’s a smile in voice.
“Said I would, didn’t I?”
Ian nods and takes off his coat, “Smells good.”
Mickey watches from the corner of his eye as Ian sits at the table and rubs a hand over his face. Shit, he looks so fucking tired. He’s still wearing his work clothes, and there are hints of eyeliner smudged darkly under his eyes.
Mickey stacks the last of the pancakes onto two plates and puts the rest of the mixture in the fridge for the other Gallaghers to eat whenever.
He puts the plate in front of Ian and tries not to sound too self-conscious, “Here.”
Ian grabs a fork and is about to dig in, before he suddenly pauses. “Wait, are these…blueberries?”
Mickey shrugs, “Found some in the back of your freezer.”
“Oh, right.” Ian takes a bite and Mickey not-so-discreetly watches closely for his reaction.
Ian chews for a bit, before swallowing. “Holy shit, these are good... What the hell did you add to the pancake mix, anyway?”
Mickey grins. “Didn’t add anything to that fucking cardboard-tasting mix. I made it myself.”
“Seriously? You made this? Wait, from scratch?” Ian waves his fork around and Mickey rolls his eyes.
“Stop asking stupid questions. Yeah, I fucking made it from scratch.”
Ian shakes his head and smiles wider than Mickey’s seen him in a while. “Who would’ve thought, Mickey Milkovich can cook?”
“Don’t get your panties in a knot, it’s only pancakes.”
“Mickey, there are like, bits of chocolates in this, and it tastes really fucking good.”
Mickey grins some more and starts eating. After a while he feels Ian’s eyes on him so he glances up. “What?”
“Nothing,” Ian says. “I just –”
“You better not start going on about these pancakes again, you dick,” Mickey laughs.
“No,” Ian shakes his head and smiles. “I was gonna say that I really feel like kissing you.”
Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Well what’s fucking stopping you?”
Ian grins and leans forward.