Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts on Friday afternoon. Some light coughing, a little sniffling and a lot of zoning out.

'You okay, Mick?' Ian asks, taking his eyes off the road for a brief moment to study his husband.

He's looking out the window, seemingly lost in thought and that in itself is enough to raise some flags. Usually they're laughing and teasing each other, going through the highlights of the week and making plans for the weekend. Now, though, there's no answer and Ian frowns.

'Mickey!' 

'Huh?'

'I asked if you're okay.'

''Course I'm okay,' he scoffs, voice unusually nasal. 'Why?'

'Dunno. You seem.. off.'

'M'fine.'

'You sure? Kinda look like you're getting sick.' 

Mickey rolls his eyes and purses his lips. 'S'just a fuckin' headache,' he says and then immediately starts coughing. 

'Riiiiight, cause people cough when they have headaches.' 

'Somethin' got stuck in my throat,' Mickey grumbles and Ian barely stifles a snort.

'Like what?'

'I dunno, man, spit! The fuck you askin' stupid fuckin' questions for? Told you m'fine.'

And Ian would probably buy it if Mickey didn't use sniffles as punctuation marks. His husband is nothing if not stubborn, though, so Ian drops it for the time being. Before bed, though, he brings Mickey a glass of water and two Tylenols.

'Christ, Ian, will you give it a rest?'

'Won't hurt to take them,' he shrugs. 'Just in case.'

'Fuck, no! I ain't poppin' pills just for the sake of it.' 

'Gonna regret it in the morning.'

'Doubt it. Now come on, I'm tired,' Mickey yawns loudly and then sneezes. Three times in a row. Ian just shakes his head resignedly.

All throughout the night Mickey sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning and whimpering whenever he switches positions. In the morning he looks, for lack of a better word, like shit - his eyes are glassy and a bit murky and his skin is even paler.

'How're you feeling?' Ian asks softly, pressing the back of his palm to Mickey's forehead. No fever, that's good.

'Like I've been hit by a train,' he moans, gravelly and broken and buries his head in Ian's chest. 'I'm gonna fuckin' die!'

'Well, this is new,' Ian mutters under his breath, right hand moving to the back of Mickey's head to lightly scratch at his scalp.

And the thing is, he’s always known his husband tends to be slightly overdramatic and more often than not, this leads to Ian wanting to punch him in the face. This time, though, with his hair sticking up at odd angles, curled into Ian and voice muffled by his skin, he looks like a kitten abandoned in the rain. It's absurdly endearing.

'Not on my watch,' Ian murmurs, gently kissing Mickey's hair before pushing the cover aside.

'Where're you goin'?' Mickey whines and Ian raises his eyebrows incredulously.

'To take a leak and get you the pills. No fuss this time, okay?'

'Just hurry back,' comes the mumbled reply and Ian actually does a double take - is this a parallel universe?

Because they've been together for close to a decade. On and off, true, but Ian prefers to round things up. And yet, it seems like there's always something new to discover, something he didn't know about Mickey and, on rare yet special occasions, something that really leaves him dumbfounded. Like the fact that, apparently, sick Mickey equals whiny and clingy Mickey. Ian thinks it's obscenely adorable.

It doesn't take him more than five minutes to return to the bedroom and when he does, the sight he's met with is enough to make him melt into a puddle. His husband, the toughest, most badass guy he knows, who can turn literally anyone into a whimpering mess just by glaring at them, is now curled up on his side, blanket pulled up to his nose and sporting a forlorn look that would be absolutely perfect in a dictionary next to the definition for the word "misery".

Ian finds himself genuinely torn between bursting into laughter and gathering Mickey to his chest and squeezing the life out of him. He settles for handing him the pills and the glass of water and barely suppresses a snort when Mickey heaves himself to a sitting position with a long-suffering sigh. He grimaces after he swallows the pills, mumbling something about them being too big and getting stuck in his throat. Ian figures this is not the best moment to remind him that under more… heated circumstances it's something Mickey seems to be actively seeking. He will do it at some point, though, because he's a little shit and that's that.

'You'll feel better in no time,' he says soothingly, taking the now empty glass and watching Mickey flip dramatically onto his back.

'How long?' he moans.

'Give it an hour or so.'

'An hour?! What am I s'pposed to do till then?'

Ian wants to roll his eyes but stops at the very last moment. He rifles through his memories, trying to figure out if he's ever seen Mickey with a cold or a stomach bug but he quickly comes up short, which explains why Mickey's feeling like it's the end of the world. Patience is the key here.

'Well, we could have breakfast. I'll make you some tea, too and then you can go back to sleep.'

Mickey grimaces and throws his right arm over his face.

'I don't feel like eatin',' he whines. 'And I hate tea!'

'You need to eat something, Mick. And tea will help with the sore throat.'

'I don't have a-' he goes to protest, only to be interrupted by a traitorous coughing fit. 'Fine,' he grumbles, then clears his voice when Ian just stares at him completely unimpressed. 'What kind of tea?'

'Chamomile works best.'

Another grimace, another painful sigh.

'I'll put honey in it, you won't even feel the taste, I promise. As for food, you up for some grilled cheese sandwiches?'

This time a shudder goes through him, visible even from a few feet away.

'Okay, plain toast it is. You sit tight, I'll be right back,' Ian says lightly and turns to leave the bedroom. He only manages to take two steps.

'Wait, aren't you gonna take my temperature?'

Ian turns around, eyes narrowed and head slightly tilted to the left.

'You don't have a fever.'

'How do you know?'

''Cause I felt your forehead when you woke up, remember?' he says slowly.

'So what, you got a built-in thermometer in your hand that I don't know of?'

For someone who claims to be dying, there's a surprising amount of snappy energy in his sentences. Ian stifles another eye-roll and reminds himself that his husband has now turned into a giant, grouchy baby, so he needs to stay patient. Wordlessly, he turns around and heads back to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

Mickey has the expression of a martyr while he waits for the thermometer to beep the verdict, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling and lips pulled into a little pout. It doesn't take more than half a minute but in that time he manages to sigh at least ten times, which has to be some fucking record.

'So?' he asks as soon as Ian plucks the thermometer from under his armpit, eyes wide with concern.

'106.'

'What?!'

'I'm kidding, you big baby! You'd be fucking dead if you had 106.'

'S'not funny, asshole!' Mickey crosses his arms and turns his head to look out the window, pouting even harder.

'You got 98.2, which is perfectly normal. Next time trust me, okay? I was a fucking EMT.'

Mickey just huffs in annoyance, still not meeting Ian's gaze.

'Right. Can I go make breakfast now?'

'Whatever.'

Ian sighs too. Looks like it's going to be a fun day!

Breakfast turns out to be a complicated affair because Mickey starts bitching from the get-go. The toast is too burnt. The tea's too hot. There's not enough honey in it, so Ian brings the whole jar to the bedroom along with a teaspoon and raises his eyebrows in invitation. Mickey pours directly from the jar and then of course the tea is too sweet. In the meantime, the toast gets cold. And all the while Ian feels like grabbing a pillow and smacking him over the head with it. Repeatedly.

Two Tylenols, that's all it would've taken and Mickey would've felt brand new. But no, Mister I'm-too-much-of-a-badass-to-get-sick had to be a fucking mule about it and now it seems they're both paying the price.

Thirty minutes, two coughing fits and an unnecessary amount of drama later, Mickey finally finishes his tea, grimaces yet again as if he's drunk poison and scoots further down the bed with a little moan. Ian throws an extra blanket over him and leans to place a kiss on his forehead.

'Glad you survived the ordeal,' he mutters. 'Try and get some more sleep, kay? I'm gonna run to the pharmacy.'

'What? Why?'

There's the slightest hint of panic in Mickey's voice that would go completely undetected by anyone who doesn't know him very well. Which is basically everyone other than Ian.

'To get you some cough syrup and some more Tylenols.'

'Later.'

'Really?' Ian sighs. 'Why are you being difficult? I just wanna take care of you, that's all.'

Mickey at least has the decency to look sheepish as he averts his gaze and fiddles with the edges of the blankets and fuck if it doesn't melt all of Ian's frustration away. He then says something but it's so quiet that Ian can't make a single word out of it.

'What's that, Mumbles?' he asks and then chuckles when Mickey's lips lift in a tentative smile.

'I said, can you just hold me for a little while?'

Yeah, the pharmacy can wait.

''Course, baby,' Ian smiles softly and slithers under the layers.

As soon as he lies down Mickey all but climbs on top of him, throwing his left arm and leg over him and settling his head on his shoulder with a contented sigh. And it makes Ian's heart burst at the seams.

It's absurdly hot under the covers, Mickey's skin even hotter and slightly sticky with sweat but Ian wouldn't move a single inch, not even if the whole building went up in flames. Because this version of Mickey, no matter how whiny and clingy, has to be his favourite version so far. So Ian just strokes his hair and places small kisses on his forehead and who knows, maybe they'll both get lulled to sleep by the peace and quiet that's only occasionally interrupted by light sniffling. 

'Ian?'

Mickey's voice only goes this quiet when he's about to say something he'd never thought he'd say out loud and Ian briefly wonders what it'll be this time.

'Mm?'

'D'you think we could maybe take a bath? Together?'

There it is! The honest and probably painful admission that he is indeed this gay. It only takes Ian a split second to decide whether he's going to be a little shit about it or not. 

'I'm sorry, what?'

'You heard me,' Mickey grumbles, somehow gluing himself even more to Ian's body.

'Okay, lemme get this straight. You.. want me to draw a bath.. and you want us both to get in the bathtub.. at the same time.'

'Yes, asshole, s'what I said.'

Ian pulls back a little to stare at him, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration and teeth chewing on his lower lip. Mickey's evident confusion only spurs him on.

'What did you tell me when I tried to kiss you after the first time we fucked?'

'What?!'

'Only the real Mickey would know the answer and right now I'm not sure who you are, but you're definitely not my husband.'

'Fuck you, man, forget I asked!' Mickey mutters, trying to extricate himself from Ian's arms and failing splendidly when Ian just tightens them around him to hold him in place.

'I'm just messing with you.'

'Yeah, well, pretty sure you're not s'pposed to make fun of sick people.'

'Says who?' Ian laughs and places another kiss on Mickey's forehead.

'Says me.'

'So touchy- Ow!'

Sometimes it feels like Mickey doesn't know his own strength, so the poke to the ribs ends up hurting more than probably intended.

'S'what you get for bein' an asshole,' Mickey grumbles dispassionately.

'I gotta ask, though,' Ian starts after a couple of minutes of silence and maybe he should have checked if Mickey had fallen asleep because his slurred what? makes it seem like he'd been on the verge of dozing off.

'What gives?'

'What d'you mean?' he asks around a yawn.

'Not that I'm complaining and I totally mean it but… I wasn't expecting you to be such a drama queen about a measly cold.'

Mickey stays quiet, so Ian rushes to elaborate.

'I mean, I get that it doesn't happen often and- Actually, I was literally trying to remember earlier if I've ever seen you sick and I don't think I have, so I get the-'

'Couldn't afford to be sick when I was a kid, man,' Mickey cuts him off, voice once again quieter than usual. 'For various reasons,' he adds and Ian doesn't need spelling out to understand what those reasons were. It makes his eyes prickle a little and his lungs constrict in his chest.

'I know I like to give you shit for bein' all sappy and soft and whatever but the truth is… It's one of my favourite things about you,' Mickey carries on, voice close to a whisper now. 'And I guess I'm tryin' to learn to let my guard down a little more. 'Cause you understand me and you make me feel safe. Plus, it's real nice to have someone take care of you, you know? Never had that until I met you. You're tearin' up on me right now, aren't you?' he finishes with a breathy chuckle.

'Shut up!' Ian replies, hoping Mickey will ignore the way he too has started sniffling a little.

'Whatever, man. Anyway, take the piss all you want but you're still runnin' that bath. We clear?'

'Crystal, baby.'