wait for me?

I've read fic for years but never thought I'd write my own! Anyway, here's a little something I randomly wrote early this morning :) Apologies for any mistakes, I'm not great at proofreading.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

2:46 PM 1st March 2019

INT. Beckman Correctional Center

Chicago, Illinois

The room is almost silent. The clock is teasing. Tik Tok. He’s waiting on his counsellor to complete his weekly evaluation. Such a tedious process by this point - but necessary, of course. That’s what you get for committing a felony in the name of Gay Jesus. Sigh. His eyes wander across the room - anything for a distraction. He zones in on his counsellor's incessant chewing - distinctly of the Nicorette kind, as he types away. Ugh . The room smells of burnt coffee and floor cleaner. Tik Tok . He leans back in his chair, plays with the cuff of his jumpsuit and bites his nails. He hears Mickey's voice inside his head telling him to Stop it. He smiles, Mickey Mickey Mickey.

The counsellor's cough snaps him out of his daydream. The never-ending typing has stopped. The staunch man across from him take a long sip from his styrofoam cup.

“I think that will be all today, Mr Gallagher. As always, remember the steps. Keep journaling. Any concerns with the new dosage, you alert someone immediately and we’ll be in touch.”

Ian jumps almost excitedly from his seat. Thank god that’s over with. He straightens himself out.

“Sure thing, Johnson. Good talk. Till next week.” He taps his knuckles against the desk twice, as a way of parting - he turns, puts his hand on the door -

“Ay. Keep your head down. Keep Milkovich in tow. I mean it - I don’t wanna be hearin’ anymore bout you guys scamming some meatheads outta their commissary. Card games are all fun til there’s a rigged wager. Causin’ uproar in the yard. Play fair-

“Okay, okay. We got bored with that little scheme over a week ago. There’s no more tricks up my sleeve, scouts honor. Lyin’ low until these CO’s get off my ass.”

“I’d like to think you’re lyin' low until the end of your sentence, Mr Gallagher.”

“Of course. Could be worse, you know. Could be smuggling meth instead of waging on a couple of Snickers bars. God forbid.”

“Alright, alright - get out.” Johnson snorts and shoos him away with his hand.

Mickey is sat on the top bunk. One arm hugging his left leg, bent, whilst the other hangs off the bed. Engrossed in his comic book that he snuck out of the library one afternoon. Almost child-like. It’s so endearing, Ian feels warm all over. The familiar ache in chest follows, along with the Mickey-induced brain fog - like a magnet, he gravitates and locks in on his man.

His white vest hugs his toned torso, jumpsuit wrapped around his waist, hugging his figure, cuffed at the bottom - his dangling foot swaying slowly - eyes never leaving the pages. His hair has grown out a little, to the point where he is often found off guard like this, mindlessly running his fingers through it, attempting to tame the unruly hairs that fall across his forehead. Ian can hardly stand it, he moves across the cell floor - mickey lifts his head once and back down to the book - Ian jumps up.

“Move up.”

“Hello to you too.” Mickey snorts.

Ian slips behind Mickey’s slouched backside, and rests himself against the cell wall - he takes over the motion of Mickey’s hand - massaging his lover's stray hair back into place, encouraging Mickey to lean back a little. Mickey closes his eyes for a second and almost purrs in contentment.

Ian slips his other hand into his own jumpsuit and waves a packet Twizzlers in front of his face before ripping the packet open with his mouth. Mickey frowns as if disgusted by the sight, “Nah I’m good”.

A silent minute or two go by. It’s normal . It’s their normal , it’s nice. Until, of course, Ian gets slightly antsy with the need for attention. Always the puppy. He sticks his nose into the crook of Mickey’s neck for some over-exaggerated sniffing and nipping, soothed with a kiss here and there - almost animalistic in its execution. Blame the pheromones. It’s a playful onslaught that Mickey welcomes wholeheartedly underneath his half-exasperated, half-amused demeanour. Still somewhat focused on the comic in front of him. Normal .

(Ian and Mickey never leave marks on each other. There’s been a couple of slip ups but nothing too incriminating. Most people in their wing know of them but still, no ones fucks with them - for the most part - you can never be too careful)

Ian still doesn’t have Mickey’s undivided attention. Mickey knows the game.

“You think you’re cute, huh?” Ian whispers into his ear, in that fake frustrated voice that so obviously comes from a place of total adoration and an intense need to almost smother the man.

“Fuck off.” Mickey smirks. He slaps Ian’s cheek from behind. It’s playful. It’s them .

“Ow! Asshole. You really still mad?”

“Nope.” Mickey emphasises the P sound and arches his amazing eyebrows. He turns another page. Feigning his ‘unbothered’ attitude. Before Ian’s appointment with Johnson, they had a run in with one of Ian’s old ex-Gay Jesus disciples in the cafeteria. Or rather, ‘admirers’. After his attempts to lure Ian into a ‘one-on-one game of ball’ outside the foyer (his ulterior motives were obvious), Mickey abruptly put his foot down by throwing grape juice all over his head before storming off to cool down.

The rest of their morning consisted of Ian ‘making up’ to Mickey and having to remind him of the time a couple of weeks ago when Ian discreetly tripped over an old “juvie friend” of his, (more like fuck buddy) on the court after some crude gestures were made behind his man’s back. Ian was practically shaking with rage from the near constant antagonization, wanting nothing more than putting him in his place but instead opted for some strategic combat that ultimately led him to fall face flat on the ground. His bloodied nose was enough to cheer him up.

Both men had sworn themselves to stay out of any brawls for fear of separation and isolation, not least to mention the more serious consequences. Getting into trouble meant more added time on their sentences. Neither could afford that kind of punishment. So yes, as much as it hurt Mickey at times - physical retaliation was off the table.

Ian leans back into the side of his neck, just below his ear, he softly speaks - “You know you’re the only man for me.”

“Mhm. You say that to all your boyfriends?” Now, he just knew that would push Ian’s buttons.

Ian grabs and turns his face by wrapping his hand around his jawline and squeezes his cheeks. Mickeys eyes are light, there’s teasing behind those irises. Still, he takes the bait. He knows this song and dance. They’d been doing it since they were just a couple of boys who grew up a couple blocks away from each other. Chips on their shoulders. tightly wound. Always looking for a release.

“Ha ha. Very funny. Cut that shit out. Now.” He responds in a completely unamused tone. He let’s lose of his grip on Mickey’s face - his smirk now in full bloom - he snickers and turns back around to his comic book. Ian lets out a deep sigh and decides to let it go.

“What is that?” Ian asks, referring to the comic that’s somehow stolen his attention away from him. Mickey picks up the book and shows him the cover. He leans over, Ian reads aloud,

“Hellboy. Seeds of destruction. Hm. Any good?”.

Mickey had not long started it, but the whole redemption arc of it’s protagonist coming to terms with his own dark origins, summoned to the Earth by Nazis, rejecting his roots to join Allied Forces in hopes of protecting the world and its forces of evil -- kind of did it for him. It’s a no brainer. He’s very into it. After all, who doesn’t love a redemption tale?

As Mickey dives into his summary of sorts, Ian looks out to the cell door window while listening. They’re safe. He gently massages Mickey’s shoulders for a moment or two, moves his hands down his biceps and rests them on his waist - he kisses his shoulder. Moves up along his neck. Finally, his target - the sensitive spot behind Mickey’s ear. Mickey’s jerks his shoulder up in reaction and hits Ian in his mouth.

“Ow! Mickey! What the fuck.” Ian half winces, half laughs.

Mickey turns his body on the bed and settles himself opposite Ian, facing him.

“You think you’re so slick. Dumbass.” He laughs and slaps his thigh, and just so happens to leave his hand there. The comic book set aside, with the other he goes for Ian’s packet of Twizzlers.

In a slightly softer voice, Mickeys asks him, “So… how was it?” He begins to slowly move his hand in soothing circles. Ian knows what he is referring to. His appointment. He always asks him without fail.

“Good. I mean - same shit, different week, y’know. It always about the steps, ‘follow the steps Ian, take the meds, take a breather, do your journal, lie low, yadda yadda’”.

“Uh, huh. Well, if it works - it works. You do that, Ian. You follow the steps.”

“He’s pretty adamant on making sure I won’t find myself in some other crazy shit by 'utilizing my time' here to learn how to predetermine my actions with some ‘cognitive behavioural skills’ or whatever, to stop myself ahead of time from getting into trouble.”

“Behavioral skills, huh? I can get on that. Keep you in your place and shit”

Ian snorts, “Don’t need too. Already got you watchin’ me like a hawk, huh” his tone is teasing.

“Yeah. For now. You gotta think about it long term. Learn from it, right now, y’know.”

Mickey’s face remains the same - neutral, with a slight lift of his lips - an almost-smile, but that’s not it. Ian can sense it. He can see the exact moment the light dims behind his eyes. There’s something there that neither of them are fully acknowledging. It’s the elephant in the room. Pain and Fear. The air feels a lot thicker now and Mickey begins to fidget, he looks away briefly and returns his eyes to Ian - resolute, as if nothing bothered him to begin with. Typical Mickey. Ian knows better.

Their sentences. It’s not a topic that sticks around often. It sneaks into the conversation but the dwelling and discussing on their difference in time to be spent in Beckman was, obviously, a sore spot.

“Don’t worry. I got you. You’re not gonna get into trouble while i’m here. You’ll be outta here in no time”, Mickey balls up the scratchy prison bed sheet below into his fist and then releases it. It’s a pattern, something tangible to focus on as he diverts his attention away from Ian’s eyes.

Ian swallows around the lump inside his throat, the atmosphere has completely shifted now. “Got about 8 months or so--”

“33 weeks.” Mickey interrupts.

“Y-yeah.” Ian wonders how Mickey got that so quickly when he realized that he too, was counting their days together.

They’ve been skirting around this for weeks. They just don’t know how to approach it.

“Let’s not. That shit is fucking depressing”, Mickey snaps him out of his thoughts. Ian knew that it couldn’t be the end of that particular conversation. Sure, they’ve had many tough discussions whilst locked up together, of course, they have - about their relationship, about the things they did wrong, the things they wish they could change. However, neither of them got to that part. What was the endgame here? What were their plans? Ian didn’t want to put Mickey in a position to confront the logistics of their relationship between prison and the outside. So he let it go, for now.

Mickey’s voice had snapped Ian out of his thoughts - “Twizzlers? Really, Ian?” His scowl as piercing as ever, there’s a hint of a pout there too which Ian can’t help but find adorable. The energy in the room has lifted a little.

“I’m sorry! They were all outta the good stuff.”

“Shit’s like chewing on unseasoned plastic”

“Not sweet enough, huh? Nothing's ever sweet enough for you. Spoilt brat.”

“What was that? Say that again, tough guy.”

“I’m just saying, you’re getting a lil needy, Mick. Gotta search high and low for the finest confectionary of Beckman Correctional to keep you happy. BJ’s and foot rubs just don’t make the cut anymore, huh? ”

Mickey lets out a disbelieving laugh. Yep, they’re back to full blown teasing. “You’re going down, Gallagher.”

They wrestle around on the bed for what must of been three whole minutes, until Ian manages to pin his man down, flushed, eyes bright, smile wide. Butterflies. Ian can’t stand it any longer -

“C’mere” he whispers.

Mickey’s guard goes down, he knows what’s next. Ian’s smothering his face with kisses. His chin, lips, nose, cheeks, forehead.

A series of bangs against the cell door interrupts them, it slides open abruptly, the couple fly apart--

“MILKOVICH! GALLAGHER! No one wants to see that shit! Up and at ‘em! You’re on separate duties in 5!”

Both boys make their way out, and reluctantly depart ways. At least for the next couple of hours.

“I oughta hose that fuckin’ cell down.” The C.O grumbles under his breath.

Later, both men lay in their separate bunks. Like clockwork, Ian sits up. It’s finally ‘lights out’ and he not-so-gracefully climbs his way into Mickey’s bed. Mickey laughs at the sight. Such a Dork.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Who’s the needy one now?”

“Shut up.”

Both boys settle into comfortable positions - as comfortable as you can get in a prison bunk bed. An hour of mindless conversation ensues. Cracking a joke here or there. Teasing. Gossiping about other prison antics from when they’re not in each others vicinity 24/7. Keeping each other informed. 33 weeks to go. Pillow Talk.

Just as it seems like both men are about the lull themselves asleep, Mickey speaks softly--

“Ian?”

“Yeah?”

30 seconds of silence go by, before Ian's tries to inquire further- he hears Mickey's shaky breath and then finally -