Work Text:
As far as relationship ground rules went, Ian had a few that he would stick to almost religiously.
No nail-clipping in bed, Mickey. No guns on date nights, Mickey. No kissing if you didn’t brush your teeth for two days, Mick, you fucking pig.
The list went on, the pattern very clear.
Mickey, on the other hand, only had two rules:
- Stop nagging my ass, Gallagher.
- Wear your damn ring.
Not that Ian could go long and far without his wedding ring before Mickey would take it out on his ass. But sometimes, which was already more often than Mickey would like, he took it off and then forgot to put it back on, like when they--
WELL, THAT’S NOT YOUR GODDAMN BUSINESS WHAT THEY DID, IS IT, YOU CREEP?
Anyway.
It was a Thursday, and, at least from what Mickey could tell, there was nothing irregular about it. He was on the L to work, bored out of his damn mind per usual because like hell he was gonna bring a book to read, Gallagher, no thanks. So when he ultimately got tired of observing the neighborhoods pass by the train window, he moved to people watching.
A pair of gray-haired old-timers was sitting on the opposite side of the car, catching Mickey’s eye after a while. Not only did they look like they were basically ready to pop off any minute, but they held each other’s hands lovingly, looking out of the window in companionable silence. And fuck if they didn’t look smug about it.
Not that long ago, Mickey would find their mere presence a nuisance, one of many that served as constant reminders that his life was forever fucked. But now, he was just plain annoyed by the show-offery of their affection. Like, come on, you ancient fucks. You didn’t invent the template for marital bliss. Other people had that.
He had that.
Still, just seeing the two of them sit there together and live life while there was a life to live made Mickey go a little soft inside. There was a tug on his lips, and he found himself being drawn to the familiar tingles that were now always surrounding the ring finger on his left hand, reminding him every day of the existence of a small metallic circle that--
Wasn’t on his fucking finger.
Shit.
Shit.
Fucking. Shit.
Frantically, he searched his lap, patted his pockets, and lifted his feet up to see if the ring hadn’t somehow found itself lying on the floor of the train. He even stood up and checked that he wasn’t sitting on it, but no. Nothing. It wasn’t there.
Where the fuck was it? It’s not like it could have just slipped from his finger. He had to have taken it down somewhere, and he would never do that anywhere but at home.
So, he’d just have to wait, go to work like nothing happened, and then later search the whole damn house if he had to.
Also, he had to do all of that before Ian got home, which sure sounded lemon fucking squeezy.
—
That evening, Ian was already home when Mickey got back from work, which was highly inconvenient, but still manageable.
He was sitting in the living room, flipping through a magazine, and Mickey passed by him without so much as a hey to go up and look around their bedroom. It probably wasn’t the wisest thing as far as raising suspicions went, but he hoped his husband would simply let it go.
He was, of course, wrong.
As he paced around the room, anxiously scouring all surfaces and insides of drawers, he heard a huffed-out laugh from the doorway.
“Looking for something?” Ian asked him, his shoulder casually leaned on the doorframe.
Mickey immediately stopped, trying to come off all nonchalant as he shoved his left hand into his backside pocket.
“No,” he said pointedly like Ian was the one acting weird. “Are you looking for something?”
“Yeah.” Ian was grinning widely when he stalked closer to Mickey. “My husband. I was gonna welcome him home with a kiss, but he just waved me off like he couldn’t care less.”
Mickey wanted to roll his eyes, but Ian was already standing in front of him, in his intimate space, his classic teenage-boy deodorant fighting its way into Mickey’s nose.
His overgrown freckly hands closed around Mickey’s face, slightly tilting his head back for better access.
“Hi,” he then said softly, the smile on his lips mimicked in the glitter of his eyes.
“Hi.”
Ian shook his head. “No, you asshole. Do it properly,” he scolded Mickey mockingly. “Hi.”
Mickey really didn’t have time for this, but there was no chance he was going to just push him away.
Ian had that puppy-eyed look again, the so this was like a booty call, huh one that could once upon a time cut right through the adolescent Mickey’s tough facade and make his knees wobbly.
He took a deep breath and licked his lips.
“Hi.”
Ian flashed him a quick smirk before he latched onto his lips. He was hard and demanding, enveloping Mickey’s mouth in motion after motion. It all felt so sweet and wet--and goddamn it, Ian, he was going to kill him like this.
He didn’t even notice when Ian’s hand moved to his chest, but suddenly, he was being pushed onto the bed. He landed on his back with Ian on all fours over and around him. They crawled together up the bed until Mickey’s head hit the pillow, never stopping their kisses and moans.
Snaking his hand blindly from Ian’s chest to the back of his head, Mickey’s fingers grazed a thin chain around his neck. It swooped down from under Ian’s shirt, and with a low zipping sound, something cold and solid nudged Mickey’s chin.
Leaning back, he saw that there before him, hanging right under Ian’s self-satisfied grin, was his fucking wedding ring.
He shot Ian a panicked look, sputtering around the questions that formed in his mouth when the cogs finally clicked into place.
Yesterday afternoon, Mickey helped Debbie with her car--more like snapped at her to let him have a go, which she did after some time--and got his hands dirty. When he went to wash them in the bathroom upstairs, he took his ring off and put it on a shelf. And before he could put it back on, Ian sauntered in, wrapping his arms around Mickey as he pecked his neck, and--
Well, that was really the last time he remembered wearing the ring.
Recognition slowly replaced the wide-eyed shock on his face. “You bastard,” he breathed. “You fucking… dickwhipped me.”
Ian snorted. “What?”
“Yes, you fucking seduced me to catch me without my ring!” Mickey accused him as he pieced the whole story together.
“I would never do such a thing!” Ian replied, playing at being offended. Then, so very innocently, he shrugged. “Now you can’t complain ever again.”
“Yeah, well, you can kiss my ass.”
“I was gonna offer to kiss it better later.”
Inch by inch, the angry front that Mickey put up started to crumble down, and he had to bite his bottom lip to stop the beam from splitting his face.
“Jesus Christ.” He lightly punched Ian’s shoulder. “Just gimme my ring back, douchebag.”
Ian took the chain down, and Mickey stretched out his hand, palm up. Unsatisfied, Ian gently flipped it over and, holding Mickey’s eyes, slipped the ring back onto his finger. Then, he brought the hand to his mouth and kissed it.
Mickey knew he was staring. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of what he was going to do with this giant goof. He really was going to be the death of him one of these days.
“Soft bitch,” he said instead, a fond smile playing on his lips. “Come here.”