Work Text:
“Tried to get a job today. Didn’t work out.”
Ian, feeling stiff as a board as he settled beside Mickey on their bed, let out a tight breath. “I know,” he replied after a moment, trying to be patient. He shifted to lay on his back, pointedly not looking to the man beside him, instead staring up at the dark ceiling. “I was there, remember? With the other minimum-wage earning, rotten-pig-smelling bozos.”
Alright, so maybe he was hitting petty a little more than patient, tonight. Sue him.
“In my defense,” Mickey griped, “he was asking some stupid fucking questions.”
“In his defense,” Ian shot back, “you don’t really need to weaponize a packing plant, Mick.”
Mickey scoffed, as if Ian was the one being ridiculous. “Well clearly they should,” he bit out. “Lifted an entire dumpster of expired food outta there. If he’d hired me, I never woulda let that shit fly.”
Ian sighed and rested his hands on his chest. All he wanted was to reach out and touch him, but his looming sex-strike had them both on edge, and touching him meant giving in entirely because his self-control when it came to Mickey was shit. And he’d be damned if he was going to crumble that easily.
Keeping to his own space felt wrong, though, and the bed felt cold. Like there were a million miles between them instead of a few measly inches. He hoped to keep how much it bothered him out of his voice. “Mickey.”
“I tried to make it work,” Mickey insisted quickly, defensive, and turned where he laid so that he was facing Ian. “I thought I nailed those questions. Not my fault that asshole didn’t like what I had to say.”
Ian rolled his eyes. Irritated and vindictive, he didn’t return the half-gesture of facing him, instead keeping his face lifted and his hands to himself. “He asked you what assets you could bring to the workplace. He meant skills, Mickey. Not guns.”
“Well then he should learn to be a little more fucking specific, then, shouldn’t he?”
Ian took in a breath. He didn’t really want to fight. He was frustrated, and tired, and he’s long since recognized his decade-old pettiness streak but he didn’t actually like the fighting.
Well. Sometimes he did. Sometimes his best memories come from their fights. The big ones and the small ones that more often than not they sorted out first with fists, then with sex, and then eventually with words as they held each other close and cleared their eyes to remember that they do, in fact, love each other.
It wasn’t a healthy way to solve their issues at all, and they both knew it, but. They never claimed to be perfect.
Ian let the situation mull over for a moment internally. What assets could you bring to the workplace? It seemed like an obvious question, but maybe that’s because he’s had legitimate job interviews before. Maybe it wasn’t obvious to Mickey. Mickey, who for his entire life, probably considered assets as monetary things, business tools, chess pieces for an illegal side hustle that was the standard in the Milkovich family.
Feeling a bit of that irritation fade, he tapped his fingers against each other before sighing and shifting slightly, reaching a hand to brush across Mickey’s arm. Crumble away, he thought. “I appreciate that you tried,” he eased, and he really did mean it. He’d seen that earnest look cross Mickey’s half-masked face during the interview as his gaze had searched for Ian’s. Man, I really wanna make this work, here. He knew that Mickey had tried.
After a long moment Mickey let out a sigh, and he seemed so, so tired. “Why are you on my case so much about this shit?” he asked, and it would’ve felt like a purposely antagonistic question because they’d already had this conversation, but Mickey looked so miserable. “You know I’m good for it. We need money, I’ll get us some damn money.”
Ian inhaled slowly, trying to tame that flammable energy still coiling under his skin, threatening to clench his jaw and unravel his carefully-crafted patience. “I know you would,” he assured calmly, “I just — I really don’t wanna see you back in prison. Why am I the only one of us worried about that?”
“Because I know what I’m doing. Been scammin’ to get by my entire life, this shit ain’t new.”
“Yeah,” Ian acknowledged in a huff, and nodded. “Been doing it your whole life. How many times have you been to prison, again? Juvey?”
Mickey exhaled sharply, pulling away from his touch and turning away again, back to Ian. “I only ever got caught because I turned myself in, fuck you very much. Usually lookin’ out for your pasty ass.”
They love each other, Ian reminded himself, and took a calming breath, ignoring the sting from Mickey’s words. Mickey was the most important person in his life. He didn’t want them to fight, not like this, and he hated constantly going to bed angry. “I’m just saying,” he pressed forward. “I know it might be different, going legit. But we just got married. Is it bad I don’t want to throw a wrench in it yet? Because you going back to prison is a pretty big fucking wrench.”
He paused, trying to gauge Mickey’s reaction, but there was no response from the other side of the bed. Sighing, Ian turned to his side, finally shifting to see Mickey working his jaw in that way he did when he was thinking too hard, visible even though his back was turned.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” Ian continued, when it was clear Mickey wasn’t going to speak. “We’re solid, Mick, really solid. In a way we’ve never been before.”
“Yeah, well who’s fucking fault is that?”
The words, sharp and honest in a way so characteristically Mickey, cut through the air between them like a knife. Ian felt his breath catch, but Mickey was sitting up abruptly, leaning back against the wall, and it was like getting whiplash, the change in demeanor.
“You wanna talk about track records?” Mickey steamrolled on, heated. “You’re not so fuckin’ clean, either, man. The fuck was with that whole monogamy thing? You think after all our shit that I want us to fuck other people? I’ve been all-in on this for years. You’re the one that always has to fly around in fuckin’ circles figuring out what you want from me. How do I know you’re not gonna change your mind ‘bout that, too?”
Something in Ian’s chest sank, something old and sharp and heavy, and he felt his throat tighten. A flicker of emotion passed across Mickey’s face, dropping in surprise followed quickly by guilt, and he shut his eyes, lips twitching slightly. Remorse, maybe. Regret. Maybe a little bit of relief, for finally saying it out loud.
Absently, some stunned, far removed part of Ian wondered how long Mickey’s been sitting in that particular shade of resentment – and that’s what it was, Ian knew with a lurch. Since the promise rings? Since Mexico? Since Svetlana paid me? Since sickness, health, all that shit?
A beat passed in silence as Ian sat up, too, listening to Mickey’s slow, controlled breathing beside him. Finally, after what felt like forever, Mickey sighed, rubbing at his eyebrow. “That’s not — I didn’t mean that.”
But it came too immediately, too instinctually from his lips, almost reflexive, and Ian had felt the honesty in the words like a brick to the chest. “Is that what you’ve been thinking?” he tentatively pressed, trying to keep the hurt from bleeding in. This wasn’t about him, and if he let that old, sharp, heavy thing into his voice, it would become about him. “Is that why you don’t want to settle into something steady, like a job, or our own place? You think shit’s gonna go sideways and I’m gonna leave?”
Eyes still closed, Mickey shook his head, exhaling sharply. “No,” he denied, and said it again. “No. We’re married. I know that fucking means something.”
“It means everything,” Ian agreed, and ducked his head a little, wishing Mickey would look at him. He searched for his gaze. “I — I know my track record’s shit, Mick. I’m not denying that.”
Mickey pushed out a breath, forceful and heavy. “Yeah, well, mine ain’t so shiny either. I didn’t—“ he broke off, opening his eyes to look at Ian only briefly before looking away again. “Fuck, man, I didn’t mean it like that. I just…”
Mickey trailed off, leaving his thought incomplete, and though Ian could take an educated guess what Mickey was trying to say, he didn’t want to take it over. Mickey’s never been a talker, always preferring actions over words, and he sometimes needed a bit of time to translate what he was feeling.
It was painful, sometimes, to think about Mickey’s reputation as some emotionless thug, and compare it to the man Ian knew him to be — someone who feels so much, so deeply, that he drowns in it.
“We’re solid,” Mickey parroted back Ian’s words, gesturing between the two of them. “Just wanted to enjoy it while we can. Extend the goddamn honeymoon for a while before life starts kickin’ us in the balls again.”
“Life’s always gonna kick us in the balls,” Ian sighed, because it would. “We can’t just… ignore it until we’re ready for it. Especially not right now. There are things we have to do.”
Huffing a bitter laugh, Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Like pay the fucking bills?” he fired back, and there was that lace of irritation back in his voice, again. “Yeah, I know. You’ve mentioned that a few times, now.”
Ian reached across that gap between them, taking his hand before speaking. “What if someone gets sick, Mickey?” he wondered aloud, and really hoped he was listening. “There’s a pandemic. People are dying. The economy is in the gutter. And we can’t afford something like hospital bills on top of everything else with only one steady income.”
Mickey rolled his eyes. “No one’s getting fuckin’ sick, man. Relax.”
“You can’t know that,” Ian fired back, Mickey’s more blasé attitude toward the virus an old and worn point of contention. “But we should try to be prepared for shit like that, right? For emergencies? Have some kind of savings, because all life does is kick us in the balls? And I know — ” he sped up, wanting to get it out before Mickey could interrupt, seeing his mouth open with an indignant draw to his brows, “— I know you have ways to get that money if we need it. I do. And I get that the nine-to-five life isn’t your thing. I just don’t want to rely on you doing illegal shit for us to scrape by, especially if that illegal shit might get you taken away from me.”
Mickey let the silence stretch on for a moment, and Ian was grateful, because it seemed like he was truly turning over his words. They’d spent so much time recently just arguing, saying hurtful shit to each other without really hearing anything, and it was exhausting. They needed to start listening, both of them. Ian wasn’t exempt — he needed to do better, too. He wanted to do better. They both deserved better, after everything they’ve been through.
After a bit, Mickey pushed out a long breath. “Shit, man,” he swore, irritation gone, leaving something heavier in its wake. “I’m not cut out for the straight and narrow, y’know? No one’s gonna hire me. The fuck do I have to offer?”
Ian blinked. The words sounded like the Mickey from so long ago, fucked for life anyways, man, and it was like a punch to the gut. It kind of made him want to cry. “Are you kidding me?” he asked, and his voice was almost breathless. “Mick, did you forget that you ran your own fucking business for like two years? That’s incredible.”
Mickey rolled his eyes. “I was a fuckin’ pimp, man. Hardly consider that reputable work experience. Can’t put that shit on a resume.”
“Well, no,” Ian agreed, “maybe not, but. You got all the financial shit out of it, right? From the moving truck stuff, too. Might’ve been a scam, but it was a good scam. You’re great with sales. Numbers. Scheduling. Profit margins. Those are things employers look for.”
“Yeah, sure,” Mickey said, and it was clear he was humoring him, a slightly mocking edge to his voice. “Until they ask me about it. What should I tell ‘em if they want fucking references, huh? Want me to give them Terry’s number, see if he’ll set the homophobia aside real quick and put in a good word for me?”
But Ian wouldn’t take the bait, wouldn’t rise to the challenge Mickey was setting. “Fuck no,” he denied, because he was grateful Mickey was playing along, even if he did so bitterly. Playing along was better than arguing, or shutting him down entirely. “Give them mine, or Kev’s. We can make something up, talk you up real nice. You’re good at logistic shit, Mickey, especially when it comes to money. We can make up a position, say whatever the fuck we need to to help employers see that.”
Mickey’s eyebrows shot up, but there was less tension around his mouth, a hint of a fondness there that had been sorely lacking all day. “What happened to Mr. Law-Abiding-Citizen?”
“Not illegal to fake a reference, or smudge the truth on a resume,” Ian answered, shrugging it off. Hoping they were finding their footing again, he allowed himself a small smile. “Plus, it’ll be easy, since I know how good you are. I was there, remember? Seen you in action.”
Mickey scoffed, but that hardness in his eyes faded just a little bit more, something less overtly-hostile taking its place. “Yeah, I remember you. Bouncing off the fuckin’ walls, how could I forget?”
And he was so glad — so relieved — that they seemed to be heading back towards their normal banter rather than this serious, heavy stuff they’ve been doing all week. Ian rolled his eyes, and it felt easy, and familiar. “Just ‘cause I was manic at the time doesn’t make me wrong. You killed it, Mick. All the logistic stuff. If we play on that, we’ll be sure to get your foot in the door somewhere.”
“Sure,” Mickey agreed. “And then the rest ‘a me will come waltzin’ through and they’ll realize I got shit to offer. Send my convict ass packing by the end of the day.”
“And then,” Ian corrected, because Mickey was always so hard on himself, “you can showcase that big fucking brain you have up there. Make them see how much you have to offer.”
The doubtful look on Mickey’s face betrayed his disbelief as he snorted and muttered a half-hearted, “Yeah, okay.”
A small swell of urgency grew in his chest. No matter how much encouragement he gave, Mickey might never truly believe it. Ian shifted closer, rested his hand on his thigh. “Hey,” he chided. “You’re not a piece of shit, Mick. You’re good. And so fucking smart.”
“You have to say that,” Mickey shot back quickly, shifting uncomfortably, but not pulling away from the touch. “You’re my fuckin’ husband.”
Ian smiled a little, ducking his head to try and catch his gaze. “I’ll keep saying it until you get it through your thick skull, too. Just want you to... I dunno, have something to be proud of. You’re fucking incredible at hustling. So imagine how good you could be somewhere legit, where it’s actually legal. That’s all business is these days, you know. Hustling people outta money, one way or another. You could find something you might even like.”
Mickey hesitated, biting on his lip idly, but there was a distinct slump to his shoulders now, an honest intensity in his eyes. After another moment, he looked down slightly, averting his gaze. “I got shit to be proud of, man,” he said gently, like a confession. Like he couldn’t say it too loudly or it would disappear. “This. Proud of this.”
Proud of us, the subtext screamed, and Ian knew it was Mickey’s way of extending an olive branch. Calling a truce, because they had what mattered most locked down.
Ian lifted his hand to cradle against his cheek, fingers curling around the back of his neck. “I am, too,” Ian assured. “So fucking proud. That’s not what this is about. I just — ” He pulled in a long breath, let it out in a rush. “God, Mick, the thought of you getting arrested again scares the shit out of me. It makes me want to blow up another fucking van, just to go down with you.”
Mickey looked at him for a second, as if gauging his seriousness, before relaxing slightly against the wall. “No one’s goin’ back to prison, dumbass,” he promised quietly, and put a hand to Ian’s face too, shoving him bodily away with a small, long-overdue smile. “Not on my watch.”
“Mm,” Ian hummed, but caught his hand as he pulled back and curled their fingers together. He brought them towards his face, kissing one tattooed knuckle, then the next, and the next. “You saying you’ll think about it? Dunno if I can successfully spin another insanity plea with the State of Illinois, Mick.”
Mickey let out another small half-laugh at that, but otherwise stayed silent, brushing his thumb along the back of Ian’s hand. He could practically see the walls Mickey was mentally destroying in real-time as he watched him, and knew it was a brick-by-brick kind of demolition, no wrecking ball in sight. Just Mickey, his bare fucking hands, and a whole lot of grit. Mickey had spent so much time fortifying those walls, they never came down easily.
After a while, Mickey took in a quiet breath, as if bracing himself. “You like feeling, y’know — fulfilled, or whatever, by a job. I know that, and that’s cool. But I didn’t grow up like that, man. Don’t need a job to make me happy, not like you do. So maybe I wasn’t seeing it as such a big deal, because it’s never been a big deal to me. As long as we’re good, I’m good. The rest is just fuckin’ extra.”
Ian felt Mickey’s fingers tighten around his as he spoke, and he felt something swell in his chest. It wasn’t always good for him, but Ian really did consider his career as an extension of himself, a part of his character. The army, being an EMT — they’d practically become part of his personality. Losing those dreams and ultimately landing as an expiration-date-checker had left him floored and floundering, but even in this new bullshit position, he still prided himself on being a hard worker.
“I always just got money as we needed it,” Mickey continued, when Ian couldn’t muster a response. “Never had the whole fuckin’ Brady Bunch to think about, y’know? It was always every Milkovich for himself. I wasn’t trying to be a dick about it.”
Ian’s throat tightened. It was engrained in him, to have a job and provide for his family through that job. The longest he’d been without one was that weird limbo after his diagnosis when the world still hadn’t felt real and the meds had sucked the color out of everything, after he left the club but before he started working at Patsy’s. He’d always been working and, healthy or not, part of Ian had always defined himself a little bit by that work.
But Mickey had a point, and it made any long-lost dregs of his irritation fade into wisps. Mickey had never built ‘career’ into his sense of self, not like Ian had. He provided for himself through other means, and Ian was trying to take that away. Trying to change that without taking the time to understand it. And while he may have his reasons for pushing so hard, that wasn’t what a marriage was. It wasn’t chiseling parts of each other away until they were staring at some new person — it was standing together, as partners, and figuring out a way to make all the different parts of themselves work. Because they love each other. And they can love each other and still be whole fucking individuals.
As long as we’re good, I’m good, Mickey had said, and Ian couldn’t find it in him to resent that. All Mickey needed was for them to be solid. Everything else would be okay, as long as they’re solid. He couldn’t fault Mickey for that, when it had been so damned hard to get to solid in the first place.
He leaned forward, and felt the rest of his waning resolve crumble as he caught Mickey’s face in his hands once more. “We’re good,” he murmured, closing that distance at last and pulling Mickey’s lips to meet his. He felt Mickey melt into it with him, all the tension between them from the past few weeks draining out of them both. Mickey brought one hand to Ian’s face and the other to his neck, opening his lips and diving in deeper, and Ian felt all the breath leave him, moving one hand down to wrap around Mickey’s waist. Pulling him in tighter, Mickey made a pleased sound, deep in his throat, and Ian felt a warmth begin to pool low, low, low.
“I’m not tryna change you,” he murmured against Mickey’s lips, before pulling away, breathless. Mickey made a small noise of protest and opened his eyes to glare softly at him, but Ian had to set things straight before things devolved entirely. “I get what you’re saying. And I wasn’t trying to be a dick either, you know? We just... we’ve never existed outside of this giant fucking pressure cooker. We’re still figuring out how to do this without some disaster hanging over our heads. And I think we gotta stop keeping score and start fucking talking to each other again.”
“Again?” Mickey asked, half-amused and half-breathless. “You say that like we’ve been A+ communicators the past ten years.”
Ian ran his fingers up and down Mickey’s back, feeling along the well-defined muscles hiding under his t-shirt. “We’re good at a lot of things,” Ian agreed. “Fighting, fucking. Not so great at just talking shit out, though. We gotta work on it, okay?”
Mickey rolled his eyes, but his smile shrunk a little, and his fingers tightened. “Yeah, okay,” he feigned, like a joke, but Ian could hear that he was serious and sincere. “We’ll be a fuckin’ Lifetime movie in no time.”
Ian felt a smile twitch onto his lips, and he shook his head. “The day we’re anything less than a dramedy is the day we’re getting divorced.”
“The fuck is a dramedy?”
Ian shifted, laughing. “You know — like, a drama and a comedy combined. A dramedy.”
“Well we sure as shit know which one of us the drama is coming from.”
“Yeah,” Ian teased. “You.”
Mickey kicked him in the shin from under the covers, but he was laughing a bit too, those creases around his eyes soft and fond. “Aye, fuck you, I’m totally the comedian, here. Could do stand-up, I got so much comedy in me.”
Ian grinned, the mental image clear and hilarious in his mind’s eye, relief making his breath feel all bubbly. “Oh, I’d pay to see that. Make sure they get a step stool for you, too. To reach the mic.”
Mickey flipped him off, muttering something intelligible and probably rude, but they were both smiling, and Ian felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. They were okay. They had shit to work on, but they were okay.
“I really am sorry,” he repeated, because he’d said it in passing but he needed Mickey to know that he meant it. “For pushing so hard. The job, and the wedding money, and the bills. I’m not trying to... change the way that you care. I know you can take care of us, and I trust you. I just worry.”
Mickey placed a hand on his thigh, rubbing up and down slowly as he sighed. “I know,” he admitted. “S’okay. Not like I wanna go back to prison, either. I just...” He trailed off, hesitating for only a short moment. “I’m no good at it, Ian. Job shit. Only real jobs I’ve ever had were with you at the Kash and Grab, and then the security gig for do-gooder Larry, and I didn’t even get either of those myself. Don’t know where the fuck I’d even start.”
“I know,” Ian acknowledged, and reveled in Mickey’s honesty. Mickey, who always tended to lash out rather than admit his own uncertainties, or that he might need help with something. That he might not know what to do. The fact that he could say this, now, with Ian — well, it meant they were still doing something right, despite all the fighting. It made something warm spread in Ian’s chest, knowing they were safe. “It’s okay.”
“But if it’ll stop you from fucking worrying so much, I guess I can try again.”
Ian blinked. He wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t expecting Mickey to fold. He wasn’t really fishing to get his way — not anymore, anyways — and he had been happy enough to finally be back in calmer waters with his husband. That was enough. “You kidding?”
Mickey hesitated before continuing. “Don’t like you getting so stressed all the time, man. It ain’t good for you. And I sure as shit don’t like this whole I go to prison, you go to prison ultimatum. Never wanna see you in those ugly-ass yellow jumpsuits again. So I guess neither of us are going, and I’ll just suck it up and get a damn job.”
Still, Ian didn’t want Mickey to feel cornered into it, didn’t want him sucking it up every day only to grow to resent him for it over time. There were plenty of other things Mickey would probably grow to resent him for, and he really wasn’t looking to add to the list.
“You don’t have to,” Ian sighed, and shook his head. “I’ll — I’ll drop it, okay? We can figure it out. Just promise me you’ll be careful, okay? If you keep up the scamming?”
Eyeing him carefully, Mickey chewed on his lip, and Ian would give anything to be able to read his mind. Sometimes, they could convey so much to each other just with a glance – so much more than they ever could with words. But there would always be times where Mickey, despite knowing Ian inside and out, would be totally unreadable.
After a moment Mickey shifted, squaring his shoulders a little. “No.”
Ian blinked. “No?”
“No.” Mickey shook his head. “You’re the one always saying marriage is about compromising, or whatever, to make shit work. So we’ll compromise.”
Blinking again, Ian felt his expression tug into a small frown. “Okay,” he agreed, slow and patient and listening, but completely unsure where Mickey was headed. “Generally ‘compromise’ means both sides lose a little bit, though. You getting a job — that’s not a loss for me at all, Mick.”
“I know,” Mickey acknowledged. “But not getting our own place is. You wanna move outta this shithole, and I get that. But I’m not — ” he cut himself off, his voice wavering slightly. A few seconds passed before he trudged on, as if steeling himself. “I’m not ready for all that shit. Not yet. Not with the world the way it is right now, not with my fucking dad still on the hunt for our gay asses, and not with all the little ones flyin’ in and outta this place. Okay? So we — we can compromise. You stop pushin’ so hard on that, we table it for now, and I look for a job. A boring, legal one. We stick around for a bit, okay?”
As Ian turned his words over, he caught himself lingering on the last point, the one about the kids. Liam, and Franny, and now Freddie. He and Mickey both knew what it was like to grow up without stable adults in their lives, but even then, their situations were so vastly different. Ian at least had Fiona — Mickey hadn’t had anyone. And Ian knew, though he’d never admit it out loud, Mickey took his new role as an adult in the Gallagher family — a brother-in-law to Liam, Uncle Mickey to Franny and Fred — seriously. He gave a shit about them, didn’t want them growing up like he had. He wanted to be steady for them, the way he had always wanted when he was a kid. The thought made Ian’s skin warm, his heart full.
And Ian loved his house. He did.
But every morning he passed by the bat he almost bashed Debbie’s head in with. Went down the steps where he ripped Mickey’s heart out. Walked through the living room where Frank broke his nose not once, not twice, but a handful of times in a drunken stupor. Got food out of the fridge three feet away from where his mother tried to kill herself, bleeding out all over the floor.
His house was full of his family and that made him love it, but there were so many ghosts. So many clingy fucking ghosts that he couldn’t wait to be rid of.
But it was where his family was. Where their family was. And aside from Mandy, Mickey had never had anyone to keep close before, not in a way that was real. Ian couldn’t fault him for it now, for finally considering himself family with Ian’s family, with their niece and nephew — couldn’t be angry with him wanting to hang onto that for just a bit longer.
“Okay,” he breathed, and nodded, feeling a smile grow because yeah. They could probably do this marriage thing. “That sounds fair, Mick.”
Mickey huffed, but it didn’t seem as annoyed as he was probably trying to make it sound. “Don’t look so happy,” he chided, like a warning. “If I’m doing this job hunt shit, so are you. Last condition.”
Tilting his head, Ian searched his gaze. “But I have a job.”
“Yeah,” Mickey scoffed, “checking expiration dates and throwing perfectly good food into dumpsters. You can’t tell me that’s somethin’ you actually find fulfilling, Army.”
And it would never cease to amaze him, how perceptive Mickey is. Because he’d gotten tangled up in his thoughts about it, before, that dense kind of weight dragging him down one lost dream at a time, but he’d never actually admitted it out loud. Never talked to Mickey – or anyone, really – about how tired he was.
West Point. Army. EMT. He’d never been able to vocalize what it felt like, to carry that type of loss around with him — to feel it all over again, every time he put on that damn fluorescent work vest. To swallow it down twice a day with a mouthful of pills.
But Mickey knew, because Mickey always knew. Because no one has ever cared as hard as Mickey, no one has ever seen him as clearly as Mickey. Even though they’ve been at each other’s throats for weeks, Mickey saw him.
Still, feeling grateful and loved, he couldn’t help but sigh. “Not a lot of options out there,” he mourned quietly. “For severely mentally ill ex-cons, during a global shutdown and the worst recession since the Great Depression. Hauling boxes might be the best I can get.”
Mickey, having built up some definite resolve, shook his head. “Bullshit,” he denied, seeming adamant. “There’s lots of clinics out there looking for help, ‘specially now. Might not be EMT work, but you’re telling me you wouldn’t rather be an office monkey there than putting more money in Jeff Bezos’s fuckin’ pocket?“
Ian sighed again, squeezing Mickey’s fingers gently. “I tried, remember? After the wedding. They won’t hire me, Mick.”
“Maybe not then,” Mickey acknowledged, knowing full well what a shattering experience it had been. “But they might now. Frontline workers are in high demand.”
“Great,” Ian replied wearily, because that was true and terrifying, but he still didn’t have much hope. “A pity job because of a deadly virus. Like a last resort hire. That’s exactly what I want to build a career out of.”
Rubbing along his leg again, Mickey’s expression softened, something sad behind his eyes. Ian wondered if he, too, was thinking about the boy with a buzzcut in the ROTC fatigues, bursting from the seams with wide-eyed ambition. “I’m not saying it’s fuckin’ fair,” Mickey said, almost gently, almost like an apology. “But it’s a way to get yourself back in the scene, right? You got the training, you just need to show ‘em how good you are at it.”
“You mean, I need to show them I’m not gonna lose my shit and set the patients on fire.”
Mickey pushed out a breath. Tilted his head a little. “If anything, you’d set the building on fire, not the patients. You’re dramatic when you’re manic, not homicidal.”
Ian searched his gaze, took in the comforting warmth of Mickey’s hand on his thigh, and felt himself fold. He wasn’t sure how he’d handle another rejection, but how was he supposed to say no, with Mickey looking at him like that? Like he genuinely thought he was good enough? “Fuck it,” he exhaled after a long beat. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
It seemed to take a second to sink in, but once it did, Mickey smiled. It was that soft kind of smile reserved just for him, the kind that made warmth bloom in his stomach and thaw him from the inside out. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he agreed, and felt himself smile too, a little bit stunned. “We stay here. I try to get a better job, and we look for something for you that won’t make you want to strangle everyone, and won’t get you sent to prison.”
Mickey crunched his nose a little, as if in distaste, but he tilted his head to the side nonetheless in consideration. “Didn’t totally hate those security gigs,” he admitted, and Ian’s heart leapt. “Kinda fun, I guess, gettin’ paid to scare people away. Or maybe auto, or something. Like working with my hands. Could definitely talk some poor saps into paying for some unnecessary shit, too.”
And idea flashed through Ian’s head. “I think the garage Lip works at is opening back up soon. Maybe they have some kind of opening.”
Eyebrows shooting to his hairline, Mickey blinked. “You really want me workin’ with your brother?” he asked in disbelief.
And if they were younger, if this was their first trip around the Southside and they were still in that godforsaken pressure cooker, Ian’s answer would most certainly have been no. But they were married, and Ian leaned forward again, dropping his forehead to Mickey’s. “Your brother, now, too,” he reminded him. “Brother-in-law, anyways. We’re married.”
Mickey snorted. “Okay, corn ball.”
Shifting, Ian slung himself over to straddle Mickey, ducking to catch his lips again. They were pliant, ready to meet him, and Ian kissed him deeply and slowly, flashes of memories — the club, the dock, prison, that God-awful honeymoon suite — playing in his mind. He let out a rush of air, fingers tangling in Mickey’s hair. “Can’t believe you’re my husband.”
Mickey grabbed his face and pulled him back to him. “Mhm,” he hummed, suddenly too preoccupied to speak with words, tongue darting in through parted lips, arms dropping to loop around Ian’s waist and pull him in closer, fingers digging in firmly at his back.
Still, it’s been six months, and Ian couldn’t get over it. “We’re husbands, Mick,” he whispered, breathless.
Mickey broke away after a moment, and Ian could feel him growing hard beneath him, skin heating up. “You gonna keep talking all night, husband, or are you gonna get on me?”
“Get on you,” Ian assured, pulling his shirt off as Mickey grinned. “Definitely get on you.”
“Thank fuck.”
“And in the morning,” Ian continued, breathless, leaning close to Mickey’s ear as he tossed the shirt to the floor, dropping his voice to a velveteen whisper, “we can revise our resumes together.”
Mickey groaned, but when Ian pulled him in for another kiss, he was smiling into it.
They were solid.
The rest, as Mickey so eloquently put it, was fuckin’ extra.