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Mickey didn’t know what had gotten into Ian, but he wasn’t sure he liked it.
It started small, and simple. “Pass the remote, babe,” when Mickey was too busy stuffing his face to turn up the TV. “Come back inside, honey,” when Mickey had been out on the balcony for too long, smoking and staring at their neighbors.
Nothing crazy, nothing to raise eyebrows over. Just a man using pet names for his husband. And if Mickey was honest, maybe he didn’t even mind it.
But then Ian pulled an Ian, and things got…weird.
“Hey Mickey, have you seen my scarf?” he asked on a cool fall day, rummaging through an old box of winter clothes.
“The old green one you stole from me like, ten years ago?” Mickey asked, passing through the living room on his way to the kitchen. “You put it on a hangar in the back of the closet, remember? Something about good memories, you didn’t want to pack it up.”
“Oh, right!” Ian said, straightening. He beamed at Mickey, and brushed past him on the way to the bedroom. “Thanks hedgehog, you’re a lifesaver!”
“No problem,” Mickey murmured to his husband’s retreating back, somehow still caught off guard at every compliment that left the man’s lips.
Then he realized what else had left them.
“The fuck do you mean, hedgehog?” he muttered, but Ian was already gone.
It happened again a few days later. Ian had convinced Mickey to join him for a run, and Mickey was regretting every moment. He finally forced them to a stop, bending over with hands on knees and gasping as sweat slid from his face to the ground.
“You’re a fucking madman,” he choked out once he had the air. “There’s no way you do this everyday.”
“It’s not that bad,” Ian argued, jogging in place as he waited. “You’re just not used to it. Bet you could get up to speed in no time if you came with me more often.”
“Fuck that,” Mickey said, and heaved himself back up straight. “Nobody’s that fit.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, FitBit,” Ian quipped. “Now come on, we aren’t even halfway.”
“Thought he had a Garmin,” Mickey mused, half to himself, then shrugged. He was too preoccupied with chasing Ian down to worry about it.
The next time, they were out with Ian’s family. Sitting around a fire in the Gallagher’s backyard, drinking beer and shooting shit while the kids played. Mickey laughed at some stupid joke Debbie made, and then Ian was smiling at him, all sappy-eyed, and asking:
“You want another beer, windchime?”
Mickey’s laugh tapered off, his nose wrinkling.
“Uh, sure man,” he accepted, and handed Ian his empty when the other man walked past. “Thanks.”
“Windchime?” Lip repeated, barely hiding his smirk. “You let him call you weird shit like that?”
Mickey wiped his frown away with a hand.
“None of your fucking business, Phillip,” he muttered, and tried not to think about it too much.
The grocery store two days later wasn’t much better.
“Sorry ma’am, I can’t help you,” Ian was saying as Mickey rounded the corner of the aisle with an armful of snacks. “I’m looking for my—”
He saw Mickey, and smiled.
“There he is!” he said, skirting around an older woman to greet Mickey with a quick kiss. “I just need one more thing,” he said, lifting their shared basket so Mickey could drop his stuff inside. “I’ll meet you at the register, okay floorlamp?”
Mickey mouthed the word to Ian’s back as he dashed back the way Mickey came.
“Why, what an odd thing to say,” mused the woman Ian had been speaking to before. “Do you suppose he thinks that’s romantic?”
“I have no fucking clue,” Mickey muttered. Then she tutted, and he looked over to see her watching him with pity.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. He pulled away, and she let it fall without comment. “It must be hard to—”
“Don’t you have your own man to gossip about by now?” Mickey cut in, jaw set. “If you don’t you better fuck off and start lookin’,” he added to her horrified face. “Don’t seem like you got much time left.”
He stomped right past her, right past the registers, and out the door. Ian could deal with buying their shit; he needed a fucking smoke.
And to think about Ian’s new little hobby.
It came to a head at work the next day. They were meeting up with a client to hand over the day’s cash, and Mickey had run to the back to use their bathroom before he and Ian started the long drive home.
He was coming back out, bag slung over his shoulder, when he heard Ian say it.
“Hey, where’s my trainwreck?”
And Mickey saw red.
“Okay, that’s it,” Mickey snapped, storming over. “You,” he said, pointing to their client, “take your shit.”
He threw the bag of cash at the man’s chest, ignoring the muffled “oof” as he tried to catch it.
“And you,” Mickey said, voice getting colder as he glared at his husband, “take me home.”
“The fuck is with all these nicknames, Gallagher?” he asked once they had made it back to the ambulance. “You tryin’ to make me look stupid or something?”
“What?” Ian asked, brows furrowed. He paused in putting on his seatbelt to look over the console at Mickey, confused. “No, of course not.”
Mickey huffed. Tore off his stupid little army hat, turned to throw it into the back.
“Then why are you callin’ me random words?” he pressed. “You forget who you married all of a sudden?”
“Mickey, I—”
“You what?” Mickey interrupted, leaning back to fold his arms over his chest as he glared. “Thought it was a good idea to call me a goddamn trainwreck in front of a client?”
“I didn’t—”
“It was bad enough when you were going for fuckin’ housewares,” Mickey went on, ignoring him, “but I draw the line at insults, Ian.”
“Mickey.”
Just that, just his name. Mickey shook his head.
“Uh uh,” he said, working himself up further. “You ain’t talkin your way out of this. I’ve half a mind to—”
“It’s a strain.”
Mickey stopped. Blinked.
“What?”
Ian sighed.
“He got a different strain in, and offered us some samples,” he said quietly. “Thought you might want to try it tonight; you’ve been kind of tense lately.”
Mickey deflated.
“Oh.”
“Didn’t know the names were bothering you,” Ian said, shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop.”
Shit.
“No, you don’t have to—” Mickey started, eyes stuck on the way Ian was gripping the steering wheel. The tightness of his hands, the slight tremble of his fingers. He stopped himself, and rubbed his eyes.
“Look,” he started over, “they weren’t really botherin’ me, okay? I just…” He shook his head. “Don’t get why you want to use ‘em.”
Ian shrugged. His kept his eyes forward as he spoke, gaze focused on something far away through the windshield.
“I thought it was funny, I guess?” he tried. “And kind of cute?”
“But why that weird shit?” Mickey pressed. “Callin’ me stuff like floorlamp ain’t exactly normal.”
Ian looked at him then, eyes wide. Bright.
“But you light up my life,” he said simply, and fuck.
“Fuckin sap,” Mickey whispered, and Ian’s lips twitched up just a smidge.
“They all had reasons, you know,” Ian told him, and took one hand off the wheel to reach for him. Mickey took it.
“I called you windchime because your laugh is like music,” Ian said, stroking the back of Mickey’s hand with his thumb. FitBit because you’re more than a bit fit.”
Mickey snorted.
“Clever,” he quipped, and Ian’s upturned lips became a real smile.
“I thought so,” he agreed, and Mickey squeezed his hand.
“And I called you hedgehog,” Ian went on, “because you always were prickly.”
Mickey starts to pull back his hand.
“But also soft, and sweet,” Ian finished, holding tighter.
“Okay, okay,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes. “I got it.” Then he looked up through his lashes, and smiled, and added, “Lover.”
Ian laughed.
“I know you are but what am I?” he asked, and Mickey tugged his hand away to smack him on the back of the head.
“Shut up and drive, garden hose,” he said, and Ian shifted into gear with a grin.
“Wait, why garden hose?” he asked as they pulled out of the parking lot.
Mickey smirked.
“Cause if you get us home quick,” he explained, “I’ll give you a chance to—”
The rest was drowned out by Ian flipping on the sirens and speeding into traffic.