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"Ian," Mickey decidedly does not whine. He doesn't. Whining is not something that he does. The way he grew up- you whined, you got hit. Simple as that. He does not whine. He's stuffy, is what it is. That's why his voice sounds like that. That's the only reason.
"What's up?" Ian asks as he bounces into their bedroom. Damn near skipping, because somehow he's still fucking healthy. Bastard.
"Head hurts."
Ian frowns and sits down on the edge of the bed and cards his fingers through Mickey's hair. It feels nice, feels even better when he presses the pads of his thumbs to Mickey's temples and rubs them in a slow circle.
"How's that?" Ian's voice is low, calming. Mickey hums and settles a little further down into his blanket, letting it cover up his face to block out the fucking light coming in through the windows.
"It's too bright in here," he gripes.
"I'll put a blanket up over the window."
Ian's up and moving before Mickey can tell him not to worry about it, tacking an old sheet up and banishing a good amount of sun. It's an immediate relief, but Mickey still hurts all over.
"How's that?"
"S'good. Tylenol?"
Ian's up again, bounding off to the bathroom. He comes back with a couple of pills and a glass of cool tap water. He waits patiently for Mickey to untangle himself from the bed and pull himself up into a sitting position, handing off first the glass and then the meds.
"Can I take your temp again?"
Mickey groans, but nods anyway. EMT Gallagher isn't going to give him anything less than the best of medical care- at least within his scope of practice. Mickey lifts his tongue and takes the thermometer before dropping back down and letting Ian manipulate his pillows into something more comfy.
"Still a little high," Ian informs him.
"Can I have some Sprite?"
“Sure, be right back.” Ian’s off like a rocket, pounding down the hallway to their itty bitty kitchen, in their itty bitty apartment. It’s not much, but it’s theirs. The first thing that belongs to them and them alone, and Ian loves it. Almost as much as he loves Mickey.
“Here you go,” he says when he gets back and hands off the glass of spicy water.
Mickey doesn’t answer, but he takes big gulps until it’s gone and hands the glass back over, never once opening his eyes.
“I’ll be out in the living room if you need anything,” Ian says and kisses Mickey’s sweaty hair.
“Maybe a sandwich or something?” Ian hears behind the muffle of a face-blanket.
“Sure,” he says. “Turkey or ham?”
“...ham. And a little mayo. Don’t wanna fuckin’ puke up a bunch of it.”
Ian doesn’t think mayonnaise sounds good for a fever. And he tells Mickey so.
“But I want it.” Ian can hear the sound of a pout, even though he can’t see Mickey’s face, and he rolls his eyes. “And cut the crusts off?”
Ian makes the fucking sandwich. Splats down three pieces of ham. Spreads the fucking Mayo. Cuts the god damn crusts. Thinks of laying down gold leaf on the bread for his highness’ pleasure. Wonders if Mickey would appreciate Ian feeding him grapes and fanning him with giant leaves.
“One ham sandwich. No crust. Smear of mayo.”
Mickey’s hand shoots out from the blanket and fumbles around blindly for it, grabs it and tucks himself back under.
“Anything else, Sickey? I mean Mickey?” Ian laughs at his own joke, and Mickey’s middle finger comes out from under the blanket. “Yeah, you’re welcome asshole.”
Ian’s got a few peaceful moments of solitude on the futon in the living room. He’s made a sandwich of his own, with the crusts in tact because he’s a god damn adult, and he flips through the small amount of channels that their antenna offers. He’s just settled in to an episode of Judge Judy, when he hears it.
“Ee-yan!”
“Je-sus,” Ian mutters and tosses his food down on its plate.
“What is it, Mick?” He tries his best to sound cheerful, to channel his inner care taker and not throttle Mickey where he lays.
“Stomach hurts.”
“Uh huh. Probably the fucking mayo” he mutters.
“What was’at, mumbles?” Mickey asks and dislodges himself from his cocoon.
“Said, you want some water?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
The thing about it is, Mickey’s lucky he’s cute. He’s all rumpled and small looking and very, very pitiful. Ian smiles when he sees him, his hair all wild from the pillow and the blanket and just being sick in general.
“The fuck you lookin’ at?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all, Mickey. Be right back.”
Ian comes back and Mickey, Mickey fucking Milkovich, makes grabby hands at him. Ian full on laughs, even as he gets a fierce fucking scowl in return. He hands over the glass of water, but Mickey shakes his head.
“Can you- fuck, I dunno, can you lay in here with me or something? I’m freezing my fuckin’ balls off in here.”
“S’at all you want me for? My body heat?”
“Will you shut the fuck up and get under the god damn blanket, Gallagher? Jesus Christ.”
Mickey scoots back and holds the blanket up. When Ian doesn’t immediately move, too struck by the sheer vulnerability of it all, Mickey’s eyebrows dance up his forehead, and Ian smirks down at him. It doesn’t take long for him acquiesce, doesn’t wanna get sick, but can’t ignore Mickey when he’s looking like a soft, wounded little puppy.
As soon as he’s in and settled, Mickey scurries over to him like a moth to a flame. He flops, rather ungracefully, on top of Ian. His head goes to the crook of Ian’s neck, chest to chest and lined up everywhere Mickey’s shorter body reaches. He goes loose and pliant, soft and sweet and very un-Mickey.
“Thanks for takin’ care of me,” Ian hears long after he thought Mickey had finally fallen asleep. Mickey’s weight increases, finally fully relaxing when Ian runs a hand up and down his spine.
“Yeah, well, sickness and in health, all’a that shit, right?”