Work Text:
It was hot in Chicago.
It was always fuckin’ hot in Chicago, but especially in August. In August, in Chicago, the heat felt like bad news draped over your neck and dragging behind you with every step.
Which is why it was especially odd that the new employee at the Kash N Grab was still dressed in a long, black, leather trench coat.
A fuckin’ grocery is supposed to have air conditioning, probably, but again, this is Chicago. Rules like that don’t apply here. The walk-in was faintly cooler than the egg-frying sidewalk, but not by much.
Ian wiped itchy, burning sweat that was threatening to drip from his forehead into his eyes. The movement didn’t help, just moved the wetness around without really solving anything.
He looked at the new guy. Mickey fuckin’ Milkovich, who he knew by reputation if not by name. Everyone knew a Milkovich, had some horrifying story of trauma or crime committed upon them by a family member. Mickey hadn’t offered any specific violence yet, but Ian was keeping a very close watch.
The trenchcoat Mickey wore did nothing to disguise his height, or lack thereof. And the black material made his pale skin seem even more stark, dark hair sticking up in sweat-soaked spikes.
The whole business woulda been skeazy as fuck if the guy smelled. If he’d never heard of deodorant or showers, but there were small kindnesses in the universe. Ian knew, because he made a point of sniffing whenever they passed too closely in a crowded aisle. Surprise, surprise, the be-leathered imp smelled –pleasant. Good, even. An oddly familiar ambergris, like Ian imagined grizzled cowboys must have smelled. Maybe pirates at dock after a long bathing. Whatever the case, Mickey didn't stink; he wafted goodness.
Kash had, in his infinite wisdom, before fucking off to the only place on earth hotter than Chicago in August, the literal Death Valley, ordered some extras. Maybe trying to save money out of season, or just fully delusional, the aisles were stocked full of incongruous snow shovels and 50-lb bags of salt.
Which is to say that aisles were especially narrow right now, and Ian had a great many opportunities to check the new hire’s personal hygiene.
Immaculate, he was happy to report. Bar the now constant mist of sweat that seemed to seep from his (tiny, unfairly perfect) pores.
“Look, just take the coat off,” Ian groused. “No one’s here to see your gnarly prison tats.”
That earned him a bark of laughter. “You seen my knuckles; you think I care what people think of my ink?”
Well, that was a point. Ian frowned.
“It’s hot as balls, you wanna sweat like a pig, be my guest, but if you get heatstroke-“
The guy was already waving away Ian’s concerns with a flip of his fingers.
Fine. Fine! Ian resolved to mind his own damn business.
—
The weekly delivery truck was due at 3. 3 was good, the shadows of the nearby buildings would block the worst of the direct sunlight in the loading dock, making the onerous chore of lifting and carrying more useless boxes of bullshit marginally less painful.
Today, however, the truck was early.
Like, really early. Two whole hours early, to the point where Ian ignored the rapping at the back door of the shop, convinced it had to be kids goofing off.
The rapping changed, turning into banging, and Ian and Mickey exchanged a weary, wary glance.
The look said You wanna go?
Fuck no. You go.
Ian sniffed and headed out back. He had the seniority, even if Mickey was older, but he also didn’t want the guy walking off the job over a dumb pissing match.
Bruno was out there, frown and cigar firmly in place. Ian had never seen Bruno look anything other than deeply pissed off, and surrounded by the funk of a well-aged Cuban.
“You’re early,” he remarked, glancing at the shipping receipt.
“You’re my last stop,” Bruno retorted. “Get yer shit and then I’m taking off, takin’ my kids to the ocean.”
“That’s a lake, Bruno,” Ian corrected the man absently, flipping through to the last page and scrawling his signature.
“I said, I’m takin’ my kids to the ocean, ” the driver repeated with irritated emphasis.
“What’s that, like six hours?”
Ian nearly jumped. He hadn’t even heard Mickey come out to the loading bay.
Bruno looked Mickey up and down once. “Yeah, ‘bout that.”
The two exchanged a nod that Ian couldn’t, or didn’t care to, parse. He merely strode out into the blazing sunlight and pulled open the truck door. Ian and Mickey began unloading the many unwieldy boxes as Bruno looked on, arms crossed and cigar puffing away.
After a few minutes, Ian paused, leaning over his knees in the shade.
“This might go faster if you helped us out here, Bruno.”
“Nah.” The big man’s answer was simple and killing. Ian resolved to push Kash to try a new supplier when he got back. Even though he’d stopped sleeping with boss years ago, he knew he still held power and sway over the man. You say blackmail, I say potato.
Appearing bored by the prospect of watching the two employees perform physical labor in the blistering heat, Bruno soon wandered off.
Bitterly determined, Ian continued the routine his body knew so well. Bend, grab, lift, walk, turn, bend, repeat. There were reasons he rarely had to hit the gym these days: he got paid to build muscle.
The boxes were so heavy and damp from condensation that even the few shaded steps into the store remained a misery.
And at every cycle and turn, Mickey remained doggedly at Ian’s heel, just a step behind but perfectly in sync, even as his breath became more ragged and hectic.
Served the asshole right.
Ian was just floating to himself, when he turned to grab another box and was disturbed by what he didn’t hear.
He did not hear the scuff of Mickey’s boot, either on the pavement of the shop flooring. Nor could he hear the quiet susurrus of the flapping length of the leather coat. Ian left the box where it was and turned, expecting at worst to catch Mickey taking an unscheduled break.
A quick glance was in vain, his employee was not immediately evident. Ian stomped to peer around the truck, only finding Bruno in the cab, running the air full blast, windows tightly shut, and clearly in the midst of a heated discussion on a Bluetooth device.
Maybe Mickey’d stopped to take a piss? That was certainly allowed: it wasn’t like Ian demanded Mickey ask permission to use the bathroom.
Nonetheless, something felt hinky to Ian. That was the only way he could describe it: hinky. Weird. Off.
After another two repetitions of the bending-lifting-walking routine and no Mickey, Ian was getting annoyed at the guy’s shirking his work.
On the very off chance that Mickey was, ya know, doing his job and ringing up a customer, Ian went back into the main store area and glanced around. No customers at the counter, no Mickey at the register.
Just as he was ready to let loose a stream of curses, Ian saw a boot, peeking out from the candy aisle, toe up.
Ah, shit.
He rushed over and crouched; Mickey was crumpled limply, skin pale and clammy when Ian grabbed his wrist.
“Fuckin’ heatstroke, I fuckin’ warned you, asshole,” Ian muttered as he began to yank the coat roughly off. He knew if he could get Mickey cooled down, he’d probably be fine, and the first step to that was getting the goddamn parka off his body.
Even in his semi-conscious state, Mickey moaned and weakly tried to fight Ian, but his strength was sapped and Ian easily was able to lift his upper body and peel back the heavy, black, leather coat. He hoped Mickey had something more sensible underneath, a tee shirt or a wife beater maybe.
When he noticed the puff of white, that’s exactly what Ian thought he was seeing: a bunched up cotton shirt, weirdly scrunched around Mickey’s neck and shoulders. A second glance destroyed that perception. The white down was erupting from the gray tank top Mickey indeed wore under his coat.
Ian rocked back on his heels, dragging the coat the rest of the way from Mickey’s body. The pulling turned Mickey, slowly coming out of his dazed swoon, to his side, giving Ian a full view of…
“Wings?” He whispered the word to himself, mostly to see if saying it out loud made any more sense than what he was seeing it.
It didn’t.
Without the insulating effect of the coat, Mickey was already coming around, feeble attempts to bat Ian away becoming stronger.
Ian didn’t retreat- if anything, he leaned closer. With his face nearing the pale column of Mickey’s neck, that ambergris smell was stronger, along with a hint of cinnamon and pine. Mickey’s flailing was only serving to make the wings more visible.
And broad, white wings they were, unfurling to a surprising degree, covering the whole of the aisle’s dingy floor.
“Fug- fuck off !” Mickey was snarling and staggering to his feet before Ian could process. Still unsteady on his feet, the winged man reached out to grab a rack as a hand hold.
Alas, the unsturdy rack he chose was one of the ones, and the light pressure only caused the whole thing to come crashing down, ice scrapers and snow shovels scattering the floor.
Still off balance, Mickey looked like he might fall, so Ian reached up a hand, purely out of instinct, to try to help.
Mickey didn’t need any help. With one huge arcing beat of his wings, he regained his stability, glancing around wildly, looking for … what?
“Is he still here?” Mickey’s voice was alarmed and demanding.
Ian, mystified, “Who, Kash? He’s still-“
A dramatic eye roll told Ian he had it wrong. Heatstroke or no, wings or no, Mickey still a manger to convey a deeply human disdain for Ian with every expression and gesture.
“Bruno,” he finally deigned to explain. “One a’ you fucks is bad enough, don’t wanna shake my tail feathers for the whole damn city.”
Ian giggled, helpless to restrain himself at the thought of Mickey, his gruff and snarky co-worker, shaking his ass, be-feathered or otherwise, for anyone.
He quickly sobered. “No, he was on his phone in the truck last I checked.”
Mickey bent to pick up his coat, beginning to beat the dust and grime from the soft leather. “Good,” he assessed, beginning to slip the coat back on like a second skin. Or a suit of armor.
“Hey, wait, no!”
Pausing with the coat on one shoulder, other wind still at full extension, Mickey looked at Ian.
“No?”
“No,” Ian repeated more softly. “Can I- can I look?”
“Already lookin’, ain’t ya?”
Ian’s mouth twisted. “Fine. Can I touch ?”
Mickey looked at him. Really and truly looked at Ian, studying him for something.
“You gonna be weird about this? Tell your blabber mouth cunt of a sister? Or the freaky brain one?”
“Lip?” Ian let the jibe against Fiona slide because, yeah, she kinda did have a big mouth.
Mickey waved a hand. “Whoever. Gonna tell ‘em?”
Ian raised three fingers, thumb across his palm. “Scout’s honor.”
“You ain’t no Boy Scout,” Mickey observed, but the promise appeared to satisfy him, because he gave a quarter turn, just enough to bring his bare winged shoulder nearer to Ian, folding the many imbricated feathers and joints like an accordion.
Wanting to take his chance while it was offered, Ian began by lightly tracing his fingertips over the outline of the wing. They felt exactly as they looked, like giant feathers, the same as ones he’d felt on feather dusters and the occasional Halloween accessory.
“How-“ he began, but Mickey cut him off.
“Said you could touch, not asking stupid questions.”
Ian shut up and concentrated on touching. On letting his fingers thread and trickle through the feathers. Feeling the silken flow over his skin, the way the tiny bits of down and vane seemed to warm as he passed them by.
It wasn’t until Mickey pulled away and yanked his coat on fully that Ian realized he’d been in a semi-dazed state, lost in the sensuous pleasure of touching Mickey’s wings.
Upon the back of that realization came two more, nearly simultaneously. He wanted to touch Mickey’s wings again, and he was desperately hard in his jeans, dick surging with blood.
He saw the moment Mickey clocked it, too, the quick flick down of eyes and then the smirk of satisfaction.
“It’s like that, huh, Gallagher?” His tone was teasing. “You into weird shit like this?”
“I’m into you,” Ian answered honestly. It was true: surly, rough, good smelling, hard working, mouthy, and bewinged seemed to be doing it for him.
“Hmm,” Mickey smiled a little, considering. “Well, get Bruno to fuck off, and then let’s go into the cooler, see what else you’re into.”
Ian immediately spun, made it all the way to the back door, before a thought occurred to him and he turned, fixing Mickey with a questioning look.
“You won’t- you’re not gonna leave, right?”
“Jesus, Gallagher, what am I gonna do, fly away?”
Mickey’s smirk as he said it was assurance enough.