Work Text:
“Do apples go with chicken? ‘Cuz we’ve got fuck all for food except for your gentrified fuckin’ produce, man,” Mickey grumbles from the depth of their fridge.
Ian rolls his eyes from his seat at the dining table. Mickey has been complaining about Ian’s “gentrified produce” ever since their Whole Foods trips had become a near-weekly occurrence.
Their attempts at cooking are still rudimentary, at best. It’s been six months since their anniversary, and since then Ian has become increasingly aggressive in his efforts to cook at home. At first it was to save them money on take out, but their business has been doing well. Now Ian’s motivations are, secretly, to try to get his husband to eat a little healthier (sue him for wanting to grow old with the stubborn asshole) and, not so secretly, to spend some time with Mickey in their version of domestic bliss.
Ian watches Mickey putter around the kitchen opening cabinets, his eyebrows furrowed and his nose wrinkled as he mutters to himself about “gross-ass Kind bars” and “freaky petrified veggie chips.” Ian loves him.
Mickey has been… withdrawn lately, if Ian had to describe it. Ian is hesitant to describe his husband’s behavior as anxious or depressed – Mickey is one of the most resilient people he knows. He’s Ian’s rock. When the family learned of Frank’s passing, Mickey was there for him, just like he had been there for him in prison and all throughout Ian’s diagnosis.
It seemed like nothing could keep his husband down for long – not his childhood trauma, not the rockier parts of their relationship, and not the death of his asshole father. Mickey would be upset, and then he wouldn’t be. He had the ability to let things roll off his back, whereas Ian tended to let things fester.
But lately Mickey has been off. He still laughs and jokes with Ian, seeks out his company and his affection. It’s only when he thinks Ian doesn’t see him that he withdraws into himself, staring at the wall like it’s a problem he can’t solve and chewing his lip until it bleeds.
So either Mickey has been hiding his discontent incredibly well up until this point, or there’s something on his mind he’s not sharing with Ian.
Ian glances up from his musing to see Mickey still eyeing the pile of apples speculatively.
“I don’t know, Mick,” Ian sighs. He reaches for his phone only to find it’s died after playing games on it all afternoon, so he grabs Mickey’s off the table instead and goes to enter his husband’s query into the Google search.
He makes it as far as ‘do a-‘ before the recent search history stops him in his tracks.
‘do abused become abusers’ is listed just below his blinking cursor, and Ian feels like he’s swallowed a golf ball.
Ian checks to see that Mickey still has his back turned before clicking on the search. The first answer makes his nose sting.
‘Abused children who came from families where violence was common were more than three times as likely to become abusers as were those who experienced maternal neglect and sexual abuse by females.’
The link is titled “Child Abuse Victims Don’t Always Become Adult Abusers – WebMD,” and Mickey clearly clicked on it because the text is purple. Ian scrolls through the rest of the results and finds that Mickey had, in fact, visited several of the links, including some of those under suggested searches like ‘What causes someone to become an abuser?’ and ‘What are the characteristics of an abuser?’.
The screen blurs as Ian’s eyes fill with tears, and he carefully backs out of the search and puts the phone back on the table. He has to cover his face, fingers scrubbing at his eye sockets, and take slow, shaking breaths to keep himself from making any noise.
Ian knows that Mickey has concerns about being a dad. That was made clear on their anniversary during The Crib Conversation. Since then, Ian has tried to give Mickey space to think about it. They still aren’t very good at having difficult conversations with each other, though it has steadily improved since they’ve been married.
Ian couldn’t help but test the waters every now and then, though. Maybe once a month, Ian would drop some hints about a baby to see if his husband was ready for another conversation about it. Every time, Mickey had steamrolled right past it, so Ian wasn’t sure if his husband wasn’t picking up on his hints or if he was being ignored.
Clearly, his hints had been received.
Ian tries to imagine his husband sitting at this same table, or in their bed, googling ‘do abused become abusers’ and reading that he is ‘three times as likely to become an abuser’ because of the trauma he’s faced.
Ian knows Mickey. His husband is protective, subtly sweet, and so, so loving. Franny adores her Uncle Mickey. Her eyes light up when her favorite uncle comes over for dinner and sneaks off with her to play ‘Bank Heist.’ Ian loves to watch his niece chase his husband around the backyard with an airsoft gun, see Mickey dramatically roll around in the grass after he gets ‘shot,’ only to playfully grab Franny and attack her with tickles when she gets too close.
The idea that Mickey could ever be anything less than an amazing parent, cursing and questionable games aside, is frankly ridiculous to Ian.
But Ian knows Mickey. So, he knows that his sensitive husband probably made that search after one of Ian’s not-so-subtle hints and read that he was too fucked up to be a parent. Read that he was three times as likely to become just like his father.
Because Ian knows his husband, he knows, without said husband having to tell him, that Mickey doesn’t realize how compassionate he is, doesn’t see that his capacity for love is so big, and struggles not to hate himself the way his dad made him think he should.
Ian looks up to see his husband standing in front of the fridge. Mickey has the freezer door wide open and is standing in front of it with a bag of Pizza Rolls in his hands, a satisfied grin on his face. His hair, which he has begun to let grow out on top, is falling from where he gelled it back this morning and his tank is rucked up a little in the back, just so Ian can catch a glimpse of the dimples there. He looks soft and domestic, and Ian feels his heart swell in his chest.
Ian sniffles one last time and rubs his eyes again to make sure he’s in the clear before approaching his husband. He wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist, his front pressed against his back. Ian tucks his face into Mickey’s neck, pressing a kiss just behind his ear and running his nose along his hairline to inhale his husband’s scent.
“You fuckin’ smellin’ me again?”
Ian smiles against Mickey’s neck.
“You smell good.”
Mickey snorts, but doesn’t shrug Ian off as he closes the freezer door.
“Yeah, okay Dracula. You good if I just make some Pizza Rolls? Cuz I’m pretty sure I ain’t ever heard of chicken and apples together, I think it’s like… pork that’s supposed to go with apples or some shit, so we’re S.O.L..”
Ian clings to Mickey’s back as he takes the couple steps to drop the bag onto the counter by the oven.
“Yeah, Mick,” Ian croaks, and clears his throat of emotion before adding, “you make the best Pizza Rolls around. No competition.”
“Asshole,” he says, a smile in his voice, “you gonna let me go so I can grab a pan, or are you trying to be a giant ginger sloth today?”
Ian squeezes him in response and presses a few more kisses to his neck and shoulder. He feels Mickey relax against him, like he always does when Ian shows him physical affection now, remembering a time when that wasn’t the case.
Ian knows they should have a conversation about what he saw on Mickey’s phone. He knows there’s still baggage they haven’t unpacked -- baggage that’s still weighing Mickey down.
But Ian knows this isn’t the moment, so he gives his husband one more squeeze, rubs his hands along Mickey’s sides, and whispers, “I fucking love you Mick.”
Mickey puffs out a quick breath through his nose, “fucking sap.”
One of Mickey’s hands comes to rest on Ian’s forearm where it’s still tucked around him. Ian moves his other hand to rest on top of it.
“Yeah, I guess I am a fucking sap. I love you, and you make me so, so happy, baby.”
Ian can hear Mickey’s throat click when he swallows. Mickey threads their fingers together and clears his throat.
“Yeah, me too, Ian.”
There’s a pregnant pause before Mickey sniffs and gently disengages from Ian’s hold. He grabs the Pizza Rolls again and nods to the oven.
“Get to it, man. Turn that thing on, I’m fucking starving.”