Work Text:
God bless whoever invented coffee, Ian thinks as he takes a sip from a company-branded mug. He winces at the bitter aftertaste as it goes down, then sighs in appreciation at the warmth that filters through him. Closing his eyes, he leans back in his creaky plastic chair and cradles the mug to his chest.
“Am I interrupting something?” Comes a high voice to his left.
“Yes,” he says without opening his eyes. “I’m with a very important client right now, you’ll have to come back later.”
There’s a snort, then the screech of another cheap chair being pulled across the tile.
“I don’t think inanimate objects count as clients, Ian.” A body thumps into the chair, close enough that the pointed toe of a high-heeled shoe nudges Ian’s calf.
Ian opens one eye, just a slit. Enough to make out the curly red hair and rosy cheeks he knew he’d see.
“You shouldn’t talk about Mr. Joe like that, Ari.”
“Please,” Ariana drawls. “Mr. Joe can eat my—"
Footsteps echo through the break room as someone else enters, and she cuts herself off to peer at whoever came in. Ian ignores the interruption, taking another sip of coffee, then almost chokes on it when Ariana slaps him across the stomach. Twice.
“What the hell, Ari?” he sputters, but her eyes are fixed behind him.
“Speaking of morning joe,” she whispers, “get a load of short, dark, and bitter over there.”
“That’s no way to talk about…”
Ian trails off as he twists around to get a glimpse of the newcomer. His words stick in his throat like the honey being stirred into a mug by strong looking hands across the room. They belong to a man he hasn’t seen before, whose dark head barely reaches the cabinets above the coffee maker.
“Where’d he come from?” Ian asks, copying Ariana’s furtive whisper.
“New IT guy,” she tells him, leaning closer. Her hair brushes his cheek, wispy and cool. “He just started today. I’ve got him for on-boarding all morning.”
“First day on a Friday?” Ian muses absently. “Kinda weird.”
Weird like the inky smudge over the man’s knuckles when he wraps his fingers through the handle of his mug, taking it up and out of sight. That dark head bends, and Ian can hear the faint sound of blowing from across the room.
“You know how desperate we are with Kyle gone,” Ariana is saying. “The powers that be didn’t want to take the chance that he’d change his mind over the weekend.”
“Yeah,” Ian mumbles. “Totally desperate.”
And damn, he can see why. Broad shoulders bunch under the man’s short-sleeved polo as he reaches up to open a cabinet, muscled back stretching. He has to lift onto his toes to reach it, just a bit, just enough to draw attention to the clench of a truly amazing ass.
“I can send him your way if you want,” Susan offers, voice low in his ear. “He’s not here long today because he’s getting settled into his new place, but come Monday I’m sure he could use a helping hand.”
The man settles back down onto his heels, packet of sugar in hand. His hair flops to the side as he uses white teeth to tear open the packet.
“Yeah, alright,” Ian agrees, focused on the way black strands curl around a pale ear. From the corner of his eye, he catches Ariana pumping a fist in the air. He snaps out of it, tearing his gaze away from the new eye-candy to narrow his eyes at her.
“Wait, what’s the catch?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Ariana says airily, leaning back. “You just have to put your name in for countdown to—”
“No.”
Ariana pouts and crosses her arms.
“Oh come on, please?” she begs. “This is the last day to sign up, and if I don’t get better participation than last year Susan will never let me be in charge again.”
“Tough luck.” Ian buries his face in his coffee, grimaces as he realizes it’s cold.
“You know how much this means to me, Ian.” Ariana drops her arms, reaches out to clasp Ian’s wrist. “Why won’t you just do it?”
“Do you not remember what happened last year?” Ian asks, shaking her off. “No one needs that again.”
“Ned isn’t participating this time, promise,” Ariana says, placing a hand over her heart. “Not even Susan would let him after the panty incident.”
Ian groans. “Do you really have to call it that?”
“I won’t call it anything ever again if you do this for me,” she promises. “Just give me the okay. I’ll even rig it for you, make sure you get something nice.”
He leans forward with a sigh, bracing his elbows on the table.
“Or some one nice?” Ariana emphasizes, trying to sweeten the pot.
Ian scrubs a hand through his hair, glances through his fingers at the man now walking away from the coffee maker. There’s a swagger in his step, knees wide and hips swaying, that speaks of confidence and…other things.
“Alright,” Ian finds himself saying. Ariana squeals, and he adds, “But you’d better make this worth it.”
*
Ian’s in a good mood when he gets home that night. He’d gotten a ping on the office slack channel before he left with a note of congratulations for joining the “Countdown to Christmas Secret Santa Cheer Squad”—how eloquent, he’d have to give Ariana shit for that later—and the name of his assigned giftee for the following week.
Mickey Milkovich, IT. Likes: Snickers, cigarettes, beer. Favorite holiday tradition: minding my own business.
The attached link took Ian to the company staff page, where a photo greeted him with bright blue eyes and dark, expressive brows. Ariana had come through.
He only hopes she’ll come through on the other end, too. The last thing he needs is another year of Ned.
The thought of it sours his mood just a little. Last year really had been a shit show. He’d been so happy to be part of a new team, to make new friends, that he’d missed all the warning signs he used to know by heart. All week he had been excited by the little gifts left for him, not realizing what they would add up to. The socks were kinda nice, the reindeer ears were all in good fun, but the second he opened that last box at the holiday party and saw red lace—
Well, if he hadn’t been worried about getting fired a month into the job, Ian would have hit Ned as hard as he’s currently hitting the elevator button in his apartment complex.
Maybe it would have had more of an effect than it’s having now. Ian jabs the button again, but it stubbornly refuses to light up. Belatedly, he realizes that there’s a hastily scrawled sign on the still-closed doors:
Reserved for freight use. Please take stairs.
Damn it. He’d gotten so caught up in his memories that he forgot someone was moving in today.
Trekking up seven flights of stairs is never fun, and by the time Ian gets to the top his good mood is well and truly gone. He just wants to sit down, grab a beer, and start the weekend off right by browsing Amazon for cheap gifts that will get his new coworker's attention.
Instead, he starts it by twisting his elbow when the stairwell door won’t open.
“Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing the joint before trying again with the other hand. That doesn’t work either. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Kicking the door does nothing but make his foot ache, and it’s remarkably resistant to the increasingly creative curses he spews. He can feel his blood pressure rising as he fits his shoulder against the door and shoves, gaining a few inches as something scrapes against the floor on the other side. No matter how hard he pushes, the door won’t open any further.
Smacking the door one more time for good measure, Ian squeezes his stomach in and just barely slips through. Then he promptly trips over a shin-high cardboard box.
Because there are boxes everywhere. From the open doors of the elevator, stopped and waiting, to the door to Ian’s own apartment. The door he had carefully decorated just last night with wrapping paper—now torn; tinsel—now shredded; stocking—hanging precariously from a single 3M hook that was slowly losing the fight with gravity.
Ian’s Christmas cheer is fading quickly, and it’s going to take more than a beer and some shopping to bring it back.
The door to the next apartment over is open a crack, just enough to hear what’s going on inside. Several voices, all male, arguing at volume. The bang and clatter of kitchen tools being put away chimes out over the heavy drumming of an 80s hair band. Whoever is inside clearly has horrible taste and a complete disregard for anyone else in the vicinity.
Ian nearly trips again before he makes it near enough to pound his fist on the door. The noise inside doesn’t halt, and neither does the angry heat rising in his chest.
He breathes deeply, trying to bring it back down. It’s okay, he thinks. There’s still a light at the end of the tunnel. He just has to get through this, and then he can spend the rest of the night relaxing and thinking about how to woo—
The door opens just as he goes to knock again, putting him off balance. He catches himself against the wood, inadvertently pushing it wider until he finds himself looking into bright blue eyes.
“Can I fucking help you?” Mickey Milkovich asks from the other side, plush lips screwed up in a scowl.
Well. Fuck.
*
Their neighborly relationship does not improve from there. Mickey doesn’t apologize at all for taking over the hall and ruining Ian’s decor— it’s paper and plastic, man, I’ll buy you new shit —nor does he tell whoever’s helping him to keep it down. They were dragging boxes around and putting together furniture until the early hours of the morning, the sound of ripping tape and torn cardboard echoing through the thin walls.
They’ve barely even cleaned up the hallway by the next morning, when Ian forces himself out of bed for an early jog. With the elevator still locked, he trips his way to the thankfully unblocked staircase and starts off his cardio with a bit of extra frustration-fueled aerobics.
The cold air outside calms him down a little, at least. Enough to burn the anger out of his body as he pushes through the pain of iced-over lungs. He's almost over it by the time he trudges back up to his apartment with sore legs, keys jingling in hand and his portable speaker crooning Taylor Swift’s ‘tis the damn season.
He doesn't catch the snick of a different door opening until someone asks, “The fuck is all this racket for?”
Ian fumbles his keys, catches them as he spins to face his new neighbor. His new neighbor who’s standing in the open doorway of the apartment next door in a too-big band shirt and threadbare sweatpants, bare toes sticking out under the hem. He looks soft and confused, a puzzled tilt to his eyebrows under the worst case of bed-head Ian has ever seen.
It’s an image only ruined by a grimace as the fading beats of the song are replaced by something peppier and the words: “Taylor Swift, really?”
Ian flushes. Not in embarrassment; he’ll stand behind Swift any day. But even after years of learning to embrace the things he likes, the judgment inherent in the other man’s wrinkled nose still gets to him.
“Better than the shit you were playing all night,” he says back. But his run has done its job of calming him, and the barb comes out without teeth.
It makes his neighbor smile, of all things. A quick flash of teeth hidden behind a bitten lip, a tiny shake of his head.
“Yeah, okay, tough guy.” Mickey steps backward into his own apartment, shoving one hand into the pocket of his sweats while the other trails lazily over the edge of the door. “Just thought a guy like you would have better taste.” He flicks his eyes down, up again. “Guess you like what you know, though.”
The flush rises higher on Ian’s cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing bad,” Mickey says lightly, but then follows it with, “You just look like a guy that’s left a lot of lovers behind.”
And maybe that hits a little closer to home than his neighbor could possibly know. Ian scowls to hide the prick of shame growing in his chest
“Only the ones that didn’t deserve me.”
It’s bitten off in the way he hadn’t managed before, sharp like the edge of the keys pressing into his palm. He turns and jams them into the lock, using the force of the motion to shove his door open.
Mickey laughs behind him. Ian slams the door shut. And behind it, muffled by the cheap wood, he can hear Mickey’s voice.
“Next time keep it down, will ya?”
Ian’s ears roar with rising blood and the opening beats of rock music starting up next door.
That. Hypocritical. Bastard.
*
By the time Monday morning rolls around, Ian is done. He’s pulling on his pants to the sound of a heavy metal drum solo vibrating through the shared wall, his phone laying before him on the bed as he waits for his call to be picked up.
"Ian? Is everything ok?"
Ariana's tinny voice rises up from the phone, muffled by the quilt. Ian snatches it up right as a guitar riff starts on the other side of the wall, and plugs his other ear with a finger. The ends of his undone belt clack together as he carries the phone into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him in a desperate attempt to mute the morning serenade.
It doesn't do much, but at least he can hear his own voice when he says, "I need you to cancel Milkovich.”
There's a pause on the other end of the line.
“Um, what?"
“Our agreement," Ian pushes on. "Cancel it. Don’t send him over today.”
“Why the hell not?”
Ian sighs, and leans against the sink as he rubs a hand over his face. His reflection looks tired.
“Because he’s awful, that’s why.”
He sounds whiny. He hates it. But there's a headache budding behind his left eye with every vibrating beat from next door, and Mickey Milkovich needs to go.
“Ian, you sound crazy,” Ariana says flatly. “Are you on drugs or something right now?”
“I’m on drugs that make me less crazy, Ari, not more.” Ian would roll his eyes if they didn’t already ache. “Please just save me.”
A sigh on the other end.
“Okay, okay,” Ariana relents. “But I’m gonna need you to back up and tell me what’s going on here, it’s too early in the morning to translate your drama.”
“My drama?” Ian starts. “What about your—” He cuts himself off. Shakes his head, winces as the movement. “Never mind. What’s going on is that Mickey Milkovich is the devil, and he just moved in next door.”
Ariana squeals loud enough that Ian has to set the phone down, switching it to speaker.
“Wait, you’re neighbors now?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for confirmation. “You’re in a romcom, Ian, that’s so cute!”
“No it isn’t!” The denial comes out way too loud, the room suddenly silent as the music cuts off next door. Ian grabs up the phone immediately, turning off the speaker. “He’s rude,” he whispers furtively into the microphone, “and he’s a slob, and he’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of downtown.”
“He was so sweet in the on-boarding meetings though,” Ari says. “I really thought you’d like him. Are you sure you—“
“I’m telling you Ari, this guy is a menace.”
Her hesitation is palpable. But just as Ian is about to try again, she relents.
“Shit, okay. I’ll call it off.”
Ian closes his eyes with relief, a little bit of tension dissipating.
“Thank you,” he breathes.
She breathes in with him, but doesn’t let it out. Ian’s head falls, eyes still closed.
“Yes, Ari?” he asks, and the dam breaks.
“You still have to get him stuff for the countdown, okay?” she blurts. “I pulled strings for you, you know, and I can’t get a complaint or—“
“Or Susan will never trust you again. I know, I know.” The apartment is still quiet, but his headache is returning with a vengeance.
“Do you have something for today?” she asks.
He does not. She can tell.
“Ian, do you need me to—“
“No, no I’ve got it,” he promises. He looks around for anything useful, and—
Got it. He grabs a crinkled pack of cigarettes from the window ledge that’s been there since his last neighbor moved out and made the balcony fair game again.
“No worries.”
“Ian…”
He slips the pack into his pocket, does up his belt one handed.
“See you in twenty,” he says. “You owe me coffee.
*
5 days until Christmas : get your giftee something useful !
The reminder sitting in Ian’s work inbox taunts him with bright colors and comic sans font. He rubs the bridge of his nose as he clicks the little x in the corner and watches it woosh away.
“Cigarettes are useful, right?” he thinks. He doesn’t want to care about the little newspaper-wrapped bundle he’d left on Mickey’s desk that morning. Well, he assumes it was Mickey’s—it was the only desk in IT that wasn’t yet covered in WarHammer figures or pictures of family.
And he really doesn’t care, honestly—except that Ariana is counting on him not to screw her over.
Speaking of Ariana…
He picks up the little box that had been waiting for him when he got in, tied in a red ribbon and sitting next to a festive Starbucks cup. She wasn't even trying to be subtle about keeping their bargain—she probably didn't trust anyone else to come through.
The ribbon around the box is too tight to slip off, and he has to fight with it for a minute before the bow comes undone. Inside is a small plastic pod with a lid of its own, colored sky blue. His favorite. It pops open with the barest press of his thumb to reveal sleek new wireless earbuds.
So you don’t have to subject everyone to your sad taste in music, said a small, typed note taped to the inside of the charging pod.
Ian laughs. He’d gotten in trouble with Ariana more than once for playing his music too loud after hours, when they were the only two left. She’d made him promise to at least include something that’s main audience wasn’t teenage girls, and been blasted with 90s boy bands for two weeks solid as a result.
It’s a good gift. So is the coffee when he finally takes a sip: black with just the right amount of sugar. Ian leans back in his chair as he drinks, casting his eyes around the slowly-filling office and savoring what little quiet time he’ll get.
"Uh, hey."
And little was right. Ian breathes deeply, takes one more sip of his coffee for fortitude.
"It’s Ian, right?"
He turns to look at who he already knows is there. He must have gotten to Ariana too late this morning.
“Can I help you?” he asks Mickey Milkovich. A very different Mickey than the one he’d seen all weekend, coming and going from his apartment. That Mickey was rude, and loud, and a little bit sloppy. This Mickey is soft-spoken, clean-cut, and smiling .
This Mickey is a lie.
"Sorry to interrupt,” Mickey says when the silence drags on too long. “Are you busy?”
Ian looks at his empty computer screen, the coffee in his hand, and then to Mickey. Raises an eyebrow.
"Uh, right.” Mickey laughs a little, the sound stuck in the back of his throat until he swallows. “They told me to come talk to you if I needed anything?”
Ian waits. Mickey scratches the back of his own neck.
“Said you were the guy to know around here,” he continues. Smiles again, like they’re sharing a joke. “I told them that was good since I already kinda—"
"What do you need?" Ian interrupts.
Mickey blinks. His eyes are a pale blue, like the earbuds sitting idly on Ian’s desk.
"Oh,” he says, clearly caught off guard. “I was just..." Mickey coughs into a fist, looks away, then back.
"Some pens?" he says like a question. Then, more firmly, “I need some pens.”
"Supply room is at the end of the hall on the right,” Ian tells him, already spinning his chair back around. “Take what you need."
He moves his mouse to rewake his computer screen and busies himself opening up his calendar. Mickey is quiet behind him, standing still, until finally Ian hears a faint sigh and the sound of footsteps retreating.
Good. Crisis averted.
::Morning sunshine.
The message pops up in the lower corner of his screen with a quiet ping. He doesn’t have to check to know who it’s from.
::You didn’t cancel him . Ian types back.
The reply is nearly immediate.
::Sorry! :( Jackie had already talked to him.
Of course she had. Just Ian’s luck. Except…
::Since when does Jackie get here before you?
::Since I had to go get coffee for his royal highness.
Ian takes another sip of still-warm coffee. Okay. That was fair.
::Everything okay though?
The message comes in on the heels of the previous, like she couldn’t wait to ask, and Ian takes pity.
::Yeah . He types. :: At least my present was good.
::You liked it? Yay!
Ian smiles at her clear enthusiasm. Regardless of what’s happening with Milkovich, it’s clear that his friend is doing her best to come through for him.
::I told you this would work out. You’re just such a pessimist!
Ian snorts.
::You got lucky.
::Luck had nothing to do with it. ;)
No, he thinks, it really didn’t. Except in making Ariana his friend.
Ian tugs his new earbuds out of their case, and gets them synced to his phone. He navigates to Spotify through the cracked screen and puts on a Christmas playlist.
The office disappears as he settles the buds in his ears, and he gets to work.
*
He doesn't take a break until it's almost lunchtime and his lungs are crying for a cigarette. But by the time he stumbles outside, patting his coat pockets, he realizes he doesn't have any. That with his pockets already occupied with the old pack he'd pawned off on Mickey, he hadn't grabbed his usual off the table
He groans as the door to the courtyard clicks shut behind him. Starts to turn back.
"I'll give you a cig if you give me a light."
Mickey. Of course.
He's leaning against the bricks a few feet away, just out of sight from the recessed door. The building casts his form in shadow, but the sun has somehow found his face. His face, and his gloved hands: one holding the crumpled pack of cigarettes Ian had left wrapped on his desk, the other an old plastic lighter that fails to spark with every snick .
Ian almost leaves anyway. But his fingers itch in his hand-me-down gloves, and he can’t turn down the offer.
He doesn’t accept it, either. Just fishes out his lighter, gets a flame going on the first try, and holds it steady.
Mickey grins, tapping one cigarette out of the pack. He tucks it between his lips, pursing them around it, and leans in.
The light of the flame is softer than the sunlight that fills the space he left. It flickers over a sharp nose and defined brows as Mickey cups his hand around it, taking a deep drag that lights up the end of his cigarette.
Mickey tilts his head back, blows smoke up to the sky, then laughs.
"Fuck, I needed that." His face is still upturned, a pale triangle of skin showing between scarf and jacket.
Then his eyes fill Ian's vision instead, and Ian realizes he's been staring.
"You look like you need it, too," Mickey comments with a wink.
Ian takes offense at that. He looks great, thank you very much. But he’s not too offended to take the cigarette offered, even if he does step away as soon as he can.
“Thanks,” he says, fully aware that his tone is a little bit gruff. He gets the cigarette between his teeth, re-sparks the lighter.
And completely fails to get the cigarette lit.
“Damn it,” he mutters, trying again. But a breeze has started up, and it cuts right through the holes in his overworn gloves. The hand he uses to spark the flame is shaking, and it sputters out again as soon as his thumb slips.
Warmth suddenly envelops the hand with the lighter. Mickey’s hands are on either side, gently removing it from his grasp.
“I got ya,” he says. Despite the backward step Ian had taken, he’s close enough for Ian to see the white fog that escapes his lips. To almost breathe it in.
He watches that fog as Mickey holds the lighter steady, forcing Ian to lean in.
“There ya go,” Mickey mumbles. He hands the lighter back without stepping away, eyes on Ian’s fingers as he reclaims it.
Ian tucks his free hand into his pocket with the lighter, very aware of how threadbare his gloves are. Mickey doesn't comment.
They smoke in silence. Ian keeps his eyes carefully averted, even as he feels the heat of the other man's gaze wandering over him. It's both uncomfortable and not, and he's not sure what to do with that.
The door creaks open before he can decide.
“There you are Ian!” Ari exclaims, head poking through the gap. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Tim is asking for those numbers!”
Ian takes one last quick drag, then grinds his cigarette out under his sneaker.
"Right, let me get that for you," he says. He hears a huff of breath from beside him, but doesn't look. He doesn't say a word to his accidental smoking partner as he grabs the door to open it wider.
“Have you still not gotten new gloves?" Ari asks as he slips through, leaving Mickey outside. "I have to do everything for you, don’t I?”
"Not everything," Ian mutters, catching the way she glances back at the now-closed door. "Don't get any ideas."
*
4 days until Christmas : get your giftee something warm and cozy !
The next day starts off on a much better note for Ian. He wakes up feeling rested for the first time in days, there’s no noise coming from next door, and he even has time to grab a coffee from the corner store before catching the train.
He picks up a cheap lighter, too, tossing it down on the counter. The clerk gives him a weird look when he asks if it can be gift-wrapped, but whatever. It’s the thought that counts, and Ian thinks a two-dollar piece of plastic is plenty to keep Mickey Milkovich warm.
Besides, he knows Mickey needs one.
Ian doesn’t even want to risk seeing the guy and ruining his so-far peaceful morning, so he doesn't bother to slip by the IT office. He drops the crudely wrapped package at reception instead, with a note to pass it on and a promise of a favor for the trouble.
Ian’s own holiday gifter has already come and gone when he gets to his desk. There’s a simply wrapped rectangle sitting front and center, a tiny typed note attached.
Can’t work if you have frostbite , it reads, and Ian grins as he sits down to unwrap a brand new pair of gloves.
“Christmas fairy came early, hmm?” Ariana’s hands land on his shoulders, squeezing twice before she lets go. “Thank god,” she adds, peering over his shoulder. “Maybe you’ll actually get some work done now that your fingers won’t fall off every morning.”
“Funny.” Ian leans his head back to look her in the eye, albeit upside down. “That’s almost exactly what the note said.”
“Ooh, there was a note?” Ariana flexes her hands in a gimme motion, then pouts at the paper thrust into them. “Aw, it’s typed. That’s no fun.”
Ian laughs at the show she's putting on.
“Guess they were worried about me recognizing their handwriting,” he says. “That, or they can’t write for shit. I know there are few people here with worse handwriting than a doctor in space.”
Ariana slaps the back of his head, then his hand for good measure when he reaches to take the note back.
“I’ll have you know that I haven’t had any complaints since—“
“Hey Ari,” someone calls from across the open office. “Can you come explain this note you left me?”
“Since now,” Ian finishes for her, smirking.
“Oh shut up,” she grumbles. “You know Chad’s basically illiterate.”
“He’s also pretty impatient,” Ian reminds her. “I’d get on that, if I were you.”
“Fine.” She hands back the little typed card that came with his gift. “I hope you appreciate having a good gifter this year,” she says, pointing at him. “All I’ve gotten so far is a stapler and a tea cozy.”
“A stapler? Did they not get the memo that you can’t be trusted with dangerous objects?”
Ari flips her hand over, switching index finger for middle, and spins on her heel. Ian chuckles under his breath as she saunters away with a pointed “What now, Chad?” that the entire office can probably hear.
Turning back to his computer, Ian shifts the mouse to wake it up. He moves the box holding his new gloves off to the side so he can log in, brushing fingers over the knit fabric.
It’s incredibly soft. The kind of soft he’s only ever felt when Monica splurged on matching cashmere sweaters one winter when he was a kid, the ones they didn’t get to wear before Fiona exchanged them for a year’s worth of school clothes. So soft that the calluses on his hands catch at the fine fibers as he strokes them.
He kind of wants to put them on, just to feel them. They’re a rich, dark red that will clash terribly with his army green coat, but gives off a sense of warmth that the canvas coat never could.
His computer beeps, and he jolts. Hands fly from gloves to keyboard, only to stop still as he registers the message on the screen.
Unable to connect. Contact help desk.
Ian groans. So much for his morning. Picking up his office phone, he dials the extension for IT.
“Mickey Milkovich,” comes the voice on the other end, because of course it does. “What’s broken?”
Ian leans back in his chair, phone braced between neck and shoulder. “They let you answer the phone like that?”
“Nah, they gave me a script,” Mickey admits. “But internal calls aren’t recorded, so…” There’s a shuffle of paper, a faint thunk. “Anyway, what’s up?”
“I can’t log in to my computer.”
Mickey hums. “Have you checked that caps lock isn’t on?”
Ian pulls the receiver away from his ear to glare at it before settling it back against his shoulder.
“Of course I have,” he says. “If it were that simple, I’d fix it myself.”
“Are you sure?” Mickey asks, his tone irritatingly knowing. “Because the most common login error is—”
“I’m sure,” Ian cuts him off. “It took my credentials, but now it says it’s ‘unable to connect’.”
“Ohhh,” Mickey draws it out too long, turns it into a multi-syllable word. “So you can log in.”
There’s a pause. Ian runs the conversation back in his mind, shakes his head halfway through.
“Will you just get down here instead of arguing about semantics?” he complains. “Some of us have work to do.”
Mickey snorts. Loud, right into the mouthpiece, so that it comes out like a strangled elephant.
“Yeah yeah, take it easy,” he drawls. There’s the sound of a chair rolling back, a creak as he stands. “I gotta stop by the front anyway for a package, be there in a jiff.”
*
“So you’re having some computer trouble?” Mickey asks when he gets to Ian’s desk, like they hadn’t just gone over it all on the phone. He’s turning something over in his hands, a small item in familiar light blue paper that’s already ragged at the corners.
“Yes,” Ian answers sourly as Mickey tucks the thing into his back pocket. “For the last twenty minutes.”
Mickey makes no apology for his tardiness. “Lemme see the error,” he demands, leaning over Ian’s desk. It puts his head far too close to Ian’s, his hair brushing Ian’s cheek as Mickey hums and hits a few keys.
“Have you tried turning it off and back on again?”
Ian wonders if he can make the other man go bald by glaring at the side of his head. It might take some time; his dark strands are annoyingly luscious.
“I’m not stupid.”
Mickey glances at him from the corner of his eye without moving away.
“Didn’t say you were,” he remarks. His breath tickles Ian’s nose, smelling sweetly of mint and chocolate. “I just asked if you had tried rebooting.”
Ian grinds his teeth, and wheels his chair back. It puts Mickey off balance, but gains Ian some much needed space.
“Yes,” he answers shortly, and Mickey nods.
“Alright, lemme check somethin’ out then. Hang tight.”
That’s all the warning Ian gets before Mickey is dropping to his knees on the old, frayed carpet. He shoves his chair back farther, but it only gives him a better view as Mickey crawls under the desk on hands and knees.
He tries not to look. He really does. He doesn’t want to look at the ass of a man he hates as much as Mickey, even if that ass is… Well…
Really very nice.
Very full, too. Mickey’s pants are too big for him, clearly held up by the belt that Ian can see peeking out under his shirt, but you wouldn’t know it from his current position. The denim is pulled taut as Mickey stretches to reach something beneath the desk, snug enough that the shape of the cheap, still-wrapped lighter in his back pocket is apparent.
Ian focuses on that. On the movement of crinkled paper as Mickey’s hips sway, and not at all on those hips themselves. It gives him a good warning when Mickey starts to scuttle backward, enough that he can be carefully staring at his blank computer screen when the other man rises.
His formerly blank computer screen, that is. It's already halfway through loading now, programs popping up just as they should with quiet little pings.
“Found your problem,” Mickey says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Network cable came unplugged. Probably happened while you were plugging in that new cord down there.”
Ian frowns. “I think I would have noticed that. I haven’t touched anything down there in—"
Mickey leans down and grabs the end of the charger for Ian’s new earbuds, waving it back and forth. Ian flushes.
“Oh. Right.” His hand rises to the back of his quickly warming neck before he forces it back down. “Uh, sorry.”
Mickey shrugs and tucks the end of the cable between the edge of the desk and the lip of the drawer beneath.
“Nah, no worries man,” he says. “Easy fix.” He fiddles with the cord for another second before tucking his hands in his pockets. “You need anything else?”
Ian shakes his head, trying to ignore the burning in his cheeks.
“All set then.”
Ian waits for Mickey to leave so he can wallow in embarrassment. He doesn’t.
“Hey,” Mickey says instead, like something just occurred to him. “I’m about to take a smoke break if you—“
“I have a lot to do, actually,” Ian interrupts. He wheels his chair back to the desk, nearly crushing Mickey’s feet on the way. “Gotta make up for lost time, you know.”
He wills Mickey to walk away and leave some of his pride intact.
“Right.” There’s an odd tone in Mickey’s voice as he puts space between them, body heat fading as he backs away. “See ya round.”
“Sure,” Ian mumbles, and has absolutely no intention of doing so.
*
Intentions or not, Ian can’t avoid Mickey for long. Despite staying late at work to finish up some documents for a new client, he manages to get home at exactly the same time as his new neighbor.
“Long time no see,” Mickey greets as Ian steps up next to him at the mailboxes. “You weren’t kidding about making up time, huh?”
Ian grunts in reply, fishing out the tiny key to his cubby.
“Everything go okay after I got your computer fixed?”
“Peachy,” Ian answers flatly. “You’re my hero.”
“Oh yeah?" Mickey sounds weird again. "Your boyfriend okay with that?”
Ian stops.
“What?” he asks, turning to face Mickey for the first time. “What are you talking about?”
Mickey shuffles a few letters, tucks a magazine under his arm. Then he nods at the table where packages are dropped off for residents when they won’t fit in their cubbies.
“Figured those were from him.”
Ian spins around. Right there in the center of the table, in a dainty cut-glass vase, is an arrangement of red and blue lilies.
“Oh,” he whispers, and steps toward them. There's a card tucked between the stems: Merry (early) Christmas, Sweetface .
"Fiona," Ian says fondly, and tucks the card in his pocket.
“Who’s Fiona?” Mickey asks, close behind him. “Thought you were gay.”
Ian is too taken by the flowers to bother caring about the question or the blunt assumption. The artificial lights in the atrium take the color out of everything else on the table, but the lilies bloom like tiny captive sunsets.
“My sister,” he answers absently. The edges of the vase are cool and smooth under his hand.
“Your sister sends you flowers?”
"She sends me a lot of things.”
He reaches out to touch the petals. They’re soft to the touch, silky, like the new gloves that sit in his coat pocket. Like the socks Fiona had sent him from Florida last week with a reminder to stay warm.
“She feels guilty about not being here. She—“
He stops. Swallows. He's suddenly very aware of where he is. Of Mickey’s presence behind him, silently watching.
“Nevermind," Ian says. Then adds, as if in explanation, “She knows I like plants, that I want to start a garden once I have the room.”
“My sister knows what I like too,” Mickey shares. His voice is quieter than before, and vaguely rueful. “But forget music and beer, I’m lucky if she sends me proof of life.”
Ian doesn’t know what to say to that. So he doesn’t.
“See you tomorrow,” he offers instead, carefully picking up the vase. He needs to find a good spot for them. He needs to refresh the water. He needs to call Fiona, and—
“Or maybe later tonight?” Mickey calls after him, but Ian is too lost in thought to respond.
*
3 days until Company Christmas: get your giftee something special!
Ian wakes up not to an alarm, and not to his neighbor’s obnoxious music, but to the insistent playing of his phone’s default ringtone. He groans, misses it twice, and finally manages to swipe it off the bedside table.
“I need you to take Franny today,” Debbie says as soon as he answers.
“Hello to you too,” Ian yawns into the phone, head flopping back down. He catches a glimpse of the time as he goes to put the phone on speaker: 5:47 AM. Ew.
“I don’t have time for hellos.” Something bangs in the background, echoing through the tinny speakers. “Lisa called in sick, Tom is still out, and I have a very angry client whose pipes just burst all over her living room.” A door slams. “Franny, you’d better be getting dressed!” Debbie yells, barely muffled by turning away from the phone.
“I have work,” Ian manages to say, thoughts muddled by morning fog, but Debbie is having none of it.
“Didn’t you say your sick days don’t roll over?” she asks. “It’s almost the end of the year, Ian, you’re not going to need them now.”
“I might.”
“You won’t,” she insists. “You haven’t had an episode in months.”
“Debbie…”
“Ian…” she echoes, then pulls out her trump card: “Don’t you want to spend time with your niece?”
Ian sighs. “Give me twenty minutes,” he relents. “I need to make a few calls.”
“You’re the best!” There’s a clatter as Debbie sets the phone down without hanging up. “Franny, did you hear that? You’re going to Uncle Ian’s!”
Ian hangs up to the sound of his niece cheering.
The next person he talks to isn’t nearly as happy with him.
“Why are you calling me at this ungodly hour?” Ari whines into the phone the third time he tries her. “You’d better be dying.”
“I need a favor,” Ian says, and has to hold the phone away from his ear until Ari stops cursing.
“What?” she finally asks, a thump indicating that she’s fallen back into her pillows.
“I need you to cover for me today.” The groan that garners is pretty impressive. “Just one day, I promise,” Ian coaxes. “Tell everyone I got a 24 hour bug or something.”
“Let me guess,” she says. “Is it a five year old bug with big green eyes?” Ian doesn’t answer. “You’ve got to stop letting your sister use you like this, Ian.”
“She’s not.” There’s a snort. “Okay, she is,” he admits. “But it’s my niece, Ari.”
“Fine,” she says with a sigh. “I’ll come by on my way in. Just have your shit ready.”
“Thank you, seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”
Ian takes the phone away from his ear. Pauses, brings it back.
“Have what ready?”
“Your gift?” Ari reminds him. “For countdown?” At his silence, she adds, “Ian, you didn’t forget, did you?”
Of course he had.
“Of course I didn’t,” he lies. He shoves his covers down, kicks to free his feet. “It’ll be downstairs, okay?” he promises as he swings his legs off the bed. He lurches up, nearly losing his balance as his vision grays out for a moment. “I’ll leave it by the mailboxes.”
“At least put a note on it or something if you’re not handing it to me,” Ari demands as he flicks on a lamp and stumbles toward his closet. “I don’t need people thinking I stole someone’s present.”
“Will do. Thanks Ari.”
“Whatever. You owe me, mister.”
“I always do,” Ian agrees.
He’s answered by a beep. She’s already hung up.
Ian opens the closet door, stares into the abyss of boxes with bleary eyes. Somewhere in there lies an appropriate last-minute gift. He just has to find it in the next fifteen minutes.
*
Arranging a decent I-totally-remembered-what-are-you-talking-about gift turns out to be surprisingly simple, once he wakes up a little. “Music and beer,” Mickey had said, and he’s in luck—one of Ian’s recent ex-boyfriends had similar hobbies. There’s a box at the back of the closet labeled Jason that’s full of options.
Well, not so full of work appropriate options—he tosses aside a Bluetooth butt plug that vibrates to the beat of any song—but there are at least a few.
Most of them definitely wouldn’t be to Mickey’s taste, Ian thinks as he also discards a handful of EDM CDs. Then he picks them up again. It might be kinda funny to give them anyway, see if he could get his neighbor to play something different in the mornings.
Soft strains of guitar start to play through the wall as Mickey apparently wakes. It’s gentler than the hard rock and hair bands of the weekend. More musical. More real .
Ian tosses the CDs into the back of the closet.
Mickey had been real with him last night. Ian had been too preoccupied to listen at the time, but he remembers now. And as much as he doesn’t like the guy, no one deserves to get nothing for Christmas.
There’s something stuck at the very bottom of the Jason box, worn edges pressed tight to cardboard walls. Its paper sleeve tears a little as Ian teases it out, but it’s otherwise unharmed.
Unharmed, and unused. Jason had bought it for display, just because he could; he’d enjoyed filling his space with things he didn’t actually like.
Mickey would like it, Ian thinks. Mickey would play it. Mickey would make it real again.
There’s a bang from across the apartment, followed by a more cheerful rat-a-tat-tat .
“We’re here Uncle Ian!” Franny calls through two walls and a door, and Ian scrambles to his feet. He grabs a pair of pants off the floor to throw on over his boxers, and tucks the vintage Queen vinyl under his arm. He’ll get Debbie to drop it downstairs for him on her way out; it’s the least she can do.
*
Debbie’s “ just a few hours, Ian, I promise ” turns into four, then six, then eight. By the time she updates him that they’re on their own for the evening, he’s watched three Disney movies, let Franny paint his nails, and barely kept her from diving off his balcony into a snowdrift.
Twice.
So when she asks if they can bake Christmas cookies, of course he says yes.
“I think I’ve got the stuff,” he muses in front of his open pantry. “Flour, sugar, sprinkles,” he checks off as he gets them out. “I know I have eggs in the fridge.”
“And chocolate chips?” Franny asks, head pressing into his hip as she tries to peer around him.
Ian looks. Frowns. Looks some more.
“Uh, sorry kid.” He moves a box of pasta just in case there’s a bag hiding behind it, but all he finds are dust bunnies and a lone, stale cracker. “Looks like I’m out.”
“We can’t make cookies with chocolate!” she whines. “Uncle Ian, what are we gonna do?”
There’s no way in hell Ian is dragging her to the store. But there is one other option.
“Let me go ask my neighbor,” he says, closing the pantry door. “Mrs. Johnson loves to bake, I bet she wouldn’t mind if we borrowed some.”
“I’ll do it!” Franny volunteers.
“No, you stay here,” Ian orders, turning to find his shoes. “I’ll take care of—”
Franny tears out of the kitchen before he can finish his sentence. She struggles with the front door for a minute, but not long enough for Ian to catch her—he should really childproof this place at some point—and is off into the hallway before he can say another word.
She’s already next door by the time he makes it to his, little hands reaching up to tap on painted wood.
“No, Franny,” he tries, reaching out a hand like he can stop her from five feet away. “Don’t—“
Too late. She had already knocked.
On the wrong door.
Maybe he’ll get lucky. It’s only five o’clock, chances are his neighbor is still—
“Hey there little red.” He hears from the doorway. He ducks back into his own apartment, heart racing. “Where’s your mama?”
“Laying pipes,” Franny answers, not technically incorrect, and Ian smacks a hand over his mouth to muffle his groan of embarrassment.
“Oh yeah?” Mickey says. “Good for her, I guess.” There’s a pause, and Ian hopes that will be it. That Mickey will close his door and forget about the tiny redhead in the hallway.
“You got somebody watchin’ you?”
But of course he isn’t that lucky. Of course Mickey chooses now to be a decent person.
“I’m not a baby,” Franny tells him, her small voice heated.
“‘Course not,” Mickey agrees. “My bad. You need somethin’?”
Ian peeks around his door frame. Franny is pulling herself up tall, hands on hips, and staring up with determined eyes.
“I’m on a mission,” she declares with an earnestness only children can manage. “And I need chocolate. Lots and lots of it.”
Ian hears Mickey chuckle, low and soft.
“A mission, huh?” he asks. “Does the world depend on it?”
Franny nods vigorously. “Christmas depends on it!”
“Then let’s see what I can do.” There’s shuffle, the creak of a door opening wider. Mickey’s voice is farther away when he asks, “How much is lots?”
“Uncle Ian!” Franny yells loud enough for him to hear from the afterlife. “How much chocolate is lots?”
Ian ducks back behind the open door, closing it quietly until there’s only the barest crack. He can just pretend he’s not there, right?
Everything is quiet for a moment. Then there are footsteps in the hallway, getting closer, closer. Stopping.
Tap-tap-tap
Ian closes his eyes. Then he opens them, and opens the door.
“Hi Uncle Ian,” Mickey says with a smirk. “How much chocolate is lots?”
“Um.” The door opens wider as Franny pushes through to stand by him. “A couple of cups?”
Franny tugs on Ian’s pat leg, but he ignores her. Mickey looks down, his smirk turning into a real smile.
“Don’t worry kid, I got more than that,” he promises in response to what he sees. “I like em’ sweet.”
He turns to head back to his own apartment, presumably to fetch the aforementioned chocolate, but Franny switches her grip from Ian’s sweatpants to Mickey’s jeans.
“You should come bake with us!” she tells him, trying to pull him inside. “We like sweet things too!”
Mickey looks at her hand, clenched in denim, then at Ian’s face. Ian gives a minute shake of his head, and Mickey’s grin fades as he bites his lip.
“Oh,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, I’d love to kid, but…”
He looks at Ian again. Ian waits for Mickey to ask, to make Ian be the bad guy.
“But I don’t think I’d be any good at it,” Mickey says instead, and there goes Ian’s resolve.
“It’s pretty hard to mess up Christmas cookies.” He shrugs at Mickey’s surprised glance. “We have a big family; we could use the help.”
“Alright then,” Mickey says slowly. “I’ll just…” He points over his shoulder.
“Bring all the chocolate!” Franny orders him, and he laughs as he goes to obey.
*
An hour later Ian has five trays of cookies cluttering the counter, a sixth already in the oven, and an entirely new take on Mickey the menace Milkovich.
Mickey hasn’t complained once about the upbeat Christmas tunes playing from Ian’s speaker, Taylor Swift included. He even sings along when ‘tis the season comes on this time, smirking at Ian from across the counter as he gets every single lyric right. His icing skills are immaculate, his sprinkle placement meticulous, and he kneads every new batch of dough like a man on a mission.
“Thought you weren’t good at this?” Ian asks under his breath when Mickey places the final gingerbread man on the appropriate tray. Franny is at the other end of the counter, happily pressing a fork into balls of rice krispie dough and completely oblivious to both of them.
Mickey shrugs, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. It leaves a smear of flour over his pale skin.
“Only done it a couple times,” he admits. “Christmas wasn’t big in our house growing up, but I’ve always had steady hands. Kinda necessary for my old line of business.”
There’s an undercurrent in his voice that feels familiar to Ian. He knows he shouldn’t ask.
He does anyway.
“What did you do?”
“This and that,” is the canned response. Mickey busies himself with tidying the leftover ingredients, not meeting Ian’s eyes. “Let’s just say my dad wasn’t the best role model.”
Ian wants to say something. To commiserate, maybe. To ask for more details he has no right to know about how Mickey got where he is.
“You’ve got something there,” he says instead, gesturing at Mickey’s forehead, and checks on Franny while Mickey grabs a dishcloth.
“Think we’re done, kid,” Ian says, leaning over Franny’s shoulder. “I’ll get these all baked tonight, bring them to the house later.”
“Will it be enough?” Franny asks. She tilts her head to look at all the trays, her mouth moving as she counts to herself.
Ian musses her hair, then grabs a ball of dough from her hand. “It will be if you stop sneaking them, cookie monster.”
“Okay.” She swings her feet happily as he pulls her stool out, then grabs onto the counter at the last minute. “Wait, we didn’t make your favorite!”
“You’re my favorite.” He kisses her head, and pries her hands off the lip of the counter. “Now go get ready, your mom will be here soon.”
She jumps down from the stool and runs toward the bathroom. Ian watches her go.
“Need help cleaning up?” Mickey asks from behind him.
Ian turns. The other man has crammed as many dirty dishes as he can into the sink, and is wringing a dish towel between his hands. The flour is gone from his face, but now it’s in his hair, turning black strands various shades of gray.
“No,” Ian answers, pushing down the urge to brush back Mickey’s tinted fringe. “Thanks for playing along.” He hesitates, then adds hopefully, “And thanks for not telling my boss?”
Mickey’s eyebrows climb into his flour-highlighted hair. “I’m no narc,” he says. “Besides, she seems like a good kid, and you’re…”
He coughs, and doesn’t finish his sentence.
The oven dings, first tray of cookies done.
“You want one for the road?” Ian offers, but Mickey shakes his head.
“Nah, I’m good. Keep ‘em for the family.” He wipes his hands with the cloth again before tossing it over the edge of the sink. “You need anything else to make the other kind? Kid said you didn’t make your favorite.”
Ian shakes his head. “Oh, I’m not making them. They’re just something my sister used to make, kind of her specialty.”
“She not give you the recipe?” He doesn’t ask why Ian’s sister isn’t making them this year, and for that Ian is grateful. He’s already gone down the Fiona rabbit hole once this week, after all.
“She did,” Ian answers. “But they’re these crazy sweet layered cookies that I used to beg for—chocolate, butterscotch, pecans. Fully loaded. And we just found out my nephew is allergic to nuts, so.” He shrugs. “It’s a no go.”
“Just ‘cause one person can’t eat ‘em?”
“Seems silly just to make them for myself, I guess,” Ian admits. “Not really worth the effort.”
Mickey licks his lips, then opens his mouth to speak.
A knock on the door stops him short.
“Mommy’s here!” Franny shrieks from further inside the apartment.
“Guess that’s my cue,” Mickey says, thumbing over his shoulder at the door. He makes his way over from the kitchen, then stops and looks back. “You gonna be at work tomorrow?”
Ian nods.
“Alright.” Mickey nods back. “See ya then, I guess.”
He opens the door just as Debbie knocks again, and brushes past her without saying anything. Ian and Debbie both watch him go.
“Who was that ?” Debbie asks as the door to Mickey’s apartment clicks shut.
“He used to be the neighbor from hell,” Ian tells her. “But now I’m not so sure.”
*
2 days until Christmas: get your giftee something sweet!
He’s even less sure the next morning, when he wakes up to the faint strains of Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy floating through the walls.
Or when Mickey smiles at him in the elevator on the way down, and offers to buy him a coffee.
“I’m good, thanks,” he says, and wants to kick himself for turning it down. On the other hand, the choice is a blessing in disguise, because he’s once again forgotten to buy a gift for Christmas Countdown.
Snickers , he remembers as he ducks into a store two blocks away from his usual. The original email had said Mickey liked Snickers.
A single candy bar hardly seems like a good gift, and Mickey had said he liked things sweet…
He checks out with a King-sized Snickers, a caramel hot chocolate mix, and a jar of organic honey. And when he gets to work and sees what’s been left for him, he’s glad he got a little bit extra.
“Isn’t this a bit over the price limit?” he asks Ariana when she comes by to loudly proclaim how glad she is that he’s feeling better.
“Everyone really seems to be going all out this year,” she says with a shrug. “What can I say, they must be inspired.”
“Inspired to spend fifty bucks on a module garden?” Said garden sits in its box on his desk, labeled with the previous day’s date and a note reading: until you have room for a real one .
“And to bake, apparently,” Ariana adds, pointing to a second package he hadn’t even noticed. A foil-covered plate with a blue bow on top, its own note half tucked underneath.
You’re worth the effort.
He opens it carefully, Ariana watching over his shoulder. Inside is a single layer of Fiona’s famous everything cookies.
“How did…” Ian trails off as he stares at the cookies.
“Just a bit of Christmas magic, I guess,” Ari tells him, and squeezes his shoulder. “You deserve some.”
It was too much. All of it was too much. She must have found Fiona’s info in Ian’s file somewhere, called her up for instructions, just to bake Ian something that he wouldn’t have made for himself.
“You’re amazing,” he whispers.
“I know,” she says happily, then pauses. “Why am I amazing right now?”
Ian laughs. Of course she’s still playing coy.
“Nevermind,” he says, and pulls the foil back over the cookies. “What have we got today?”
*
What they have, it turns out, is a whole lot of nothing. All of their clients are officially on holiday, offices closed, and there’s very little that can be done without their input.
Instead, everyone is catching up on emails, taking long lunches, or, in Ian’s case, being volunteered to help set up for Friday night’s party.
“Remind me why this is my job?” he asks, holding up a string of garland while Ariana decides if it’s straight enough.
“Because you’re tall,” she says, motioning for him to raise the right side. “And because I am, as you said yourself, amazing.”
“Amazing at getting other people to do your work,” another voice chimes in, and Ian almost falls off the chair he’s standing on.
Mickey.
He’s standing in the door of the conference room, shoulder leaning against the frame. In one hand is a steaming mug, in the other a familiar half-eaten Snickers.
“What can I say,” Ariana shoots back without bothering to turn around. “Some of us are just born leaders. Right there, Ian, that’s perfect.”
Ian obediently tapes the garland in place while Mickey enters the room. Ariana turns and hugs him.
“Thanks for showing up,” she says, unfazed by the way he shimmies out of her hold. “I could use another hand.”
“You could use another brain,” Mickey counters, an ease in his tone that surprises Ian. When had these two gotten so close?
“I actually really could,” Ariana admits. “See, I kind of told Martin I would pick up the cake today…”
“Say no more,” Mickey says, drowning out Ian’s “Really, Ari?”
“Thanks for understanding, you two are the best!” Ariana shuffles over to the corner to grab her bag. “All the decorations are here, and I made a diagram of how I want it, so all you have to do is—”
“Everything,” Mickey finishes for her. “Yeah, whatever. We got it.”
She’s gone before Ian even steps onto the floor.
“We’ve got it?” he echoes, and Mickey shrugs.
“Sure we do.” He wanders over to the table that Ariana had moved into the corner, sets down his mug to pick up her aforementioned diagram. Then he tosses it back down.
“We ain’t doin’ any of that, though,” he says, waving at it. “She’s got weird-ass taste.”
“That’s my friend you’re talking about,” Ian warns, and Mickey throws him a grin over his shoulder.
“Mine too. That’s the point.”
*
They do end up following Ariana’s plan over the next few hours, but not in its entirety. The garland goes up around the room, and the lights too, but Mickey draws the line at the mistletoe.
“Nobody wants to see these fuckers get drunk and kiss each other,” he claims, tossing each sprig back in the box as fast as Ian gets them out.
“Ari might,” Ian counters, and the next clump of fake leaves hits him in the face.
“Seriously though,” Mickey continues while Ian spits out plastic. “Can you imagine actually doing that? Just going up and planting one on a coworker with everybody watching?”
He closes the box of mistletoe as Ian returns the last piece, bends over to grab the next box in its place.
“Maybe,” Ian murmurs, then tears his eyes away as Mickey straightens.
Mickey gives him an odd look, then focuses on opening the box.
“Well it sounds like a fucking nightmare to me,” he says, tone turning serious. “That shit should be private.”
Ian watches him sort through a pile of paper snowflakes, separating them by size. His hands are steady, his head bowed with focus.
“Not a fan of PDA?” he asks.
“It hasn’t been long since PDA would’ve gotten me killed,” Mickey offers absently, then freezes.
“Forget I said that,” he tries. He tosses a roll of masking tape at Ian, who fumbles it.
Ian doesn’t bother to pick it up off the floor. There’s something heavy in his stomach, and if he bends down he’s not sure it will let him back up.
“What do you mean?”
Mickey stops again. Huffs. Braces his hands on the table and doesn’t meet Ian’s eyes.
“Remember how I said my dad wasn’t such a stand-up guy?” he prompts. Without waiting for Ian to answer, he adds, “He was pretty old-fashioned, too.”
Ian swallows. “Old-fashioned like…”
“Old-fashioned like he’d put a bullet in me himself if he knew that I liked cock.”
The words hang heavy between them, out of place in this cheerful space they’ve created. They coat the festive walls with something like fear, like sadness.
Like understanding.
Ian picks the tape up off the floor. “Hand me one of those, will you?” he asks Mickey, gesturing to the table covered in snowflakes.
Mickey does. Ian takes it, and walks to the wall.
“I always liked snow,” he says as he tapes the snowflake under the tinsel. “It’s so clean, you know? Like a fresh start.”
Silence. Then,
“You must not have lived in Chicago very long if you think snow is clean.”
Ian laughs. Too bright, too loud. It covers up Mickey’s words in a new layer of cheer, and together they hang every single snowflake in the box.
*
“This was kinda fun,” Mickey says when they’re almost finished. “Even if Ariana did completely abandon us.”
Ian looks at the clock. It’s half past four, and time to go home—Ari was not coming back.
“She really did, huh?”
“We make a good team though.” Mickey closes the last empty box, chucking it under the table. “Wanna do it again some time?”
It’s a good thing he’s not looking at Ian when he says it, because Ian’s brain short circuits. It’s still coming back online when Mickey turns to face him, and he can obviously tell something is up.
“Hang out, I mean,” Mickey clarifies with a crooked grin. “Not—” He gestures at the room. “Not all this.”
Ian doesn’t know what to say. He’s hated this man since the first day they met, and now he wants to hang out? Sure, they’d been doing better. And sure, Ian kind of liked him. But recalibrating a week’s worth of ill will wasn’t something that happened after a single afternoon at work together.
“When were you thinking?” Ian asks instead of giving an answer.
“You should come over this weekend,” Mickey offers. He lifts a foot to scratch at the opposite leg with his boot. “I’ve got Diehard on BluRay and a case of cheap beer.”
“I have family stuff all weekend,” Ian says, completely on autopilot. It’s true, at least—Saturday at Lip’s, Sunday at the house, a video call with Fiona—he’s going to be plenty busy.
“Tomorrow then,” Mickey tries instead. “We can celebrate Christmas early.”
And Ian almost agrees. Really, he does. He kind of wants to try, wants to see where this goes. If he can stand Mickey for longer than it takes to make cookies or string Christmas lights. But…
“But tomorrow is the party.” The party Ariana has worked so hard for this year. That she begged Ian to be part of. She’s gone to so much trouble to make up for Ian’s past experience with the whole thing, shelling out for better gifts than Ian’s family ever had.
Mickey shrugs. “We could do it after.”
“After the party?” Ian questions. “It’s gonna be, like, midnight by then.” Later if he stays behind to help with cleanup, and he really should offer to—
“Yeah, you’re right.” There’s something sharp about the way Mickey says it. “Never mind.”
Ian frowns.
“What about—”
“I said never mind, man,” Mickey cuts him off. “Look, I gotta get goin’. See you around.”
“See you—”
Mickey is already gone, his back disappearing into the mostly dark office.
Ian frowns after him, but doesn’t follow. He makes a last round of the room, fixes a couple of things. Adds a single sprig of mistletoe in a corner just for Ari, and turns out the light as he leaves.
He wasn’t sure what had Mickey so grumpy, but they could figure it out tomorrow.
*
1 day until Christmas: get your giftee a clue for tonight’s big gift!
Mickey doesn’t show up to work the next day.
Ian leaves Mickey’s gift on his desk—a handful of guitar picks he had bought the night before from a local music shop—and an envelope in the conference room for the big reveal that night. It looks a little sad next to the wrapped gifts other people are bringing in, but Ian thinks Mickey will like it.
“You ready for tonight?” Ari asks him. She’s straightening the pile of presents as people add to it, making sure everything is labeled. “I bet you’ll get something good.”
“I bet I will too,” Ian says with a smile. “Which one is it?”
Ari shrugs. “How should I know?”
“You wrapped it, didn’t you?” Ian starts to poke the boxes, evading Ari’s hands as she slaps him away.
“What are you talking about?” She gets in a solid slap that has him recoiling, shaking out his hand.
“You can come off it, Ari.” Ian laughs at the confused face she puts on. “Come on, I know it’s you.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Really? She’s going to deny it on the very last day?
“Of course it is,” he insists. “I know you don’t want it to look like you’re playing favorites, but come on. The earbuds, the gloves, the garden, Fiona’s special cookies.” He ticks the gifts off on his fingers. “Who else would get me all that?”
“Ian,” Ari says. Her hands have stilled on the present pile. “I honestly don’t know.”
Her eyes are wide. Her voice is soft. Ian stops.
She’s not lying.
“Ari,” he asks, feeling weirdly calm. “Who got my name?”
She just shakes her head. Lifts her hands and shrugs.
“You have to have a list somewhere,” he says. “Someone assigned the names.”
“I had IT do it,” she admits. “I wanted it to really be anonymous, so every assignment was randomized except for you.”
That doesn’t make any sense.
“I barely know most of the people here, Ari,” he says slowly. “How would any of them have known to—”
He blinks . Oh.
“Mickey.”
“What’s Mickey got to do with it?”
Ian doesn’t answer. He’s too busy remembering.
Mickey, standing in the hallway making fun of his music. Mickey, eyeing his worn out gloves as they smoked. Mickey, commenting on Fiona’s flowers; Mickey, knowing he didn’t have space for more. Mickey with Franny, baking cookies and asking why making his favorites wasn’t worth it.
Mickey, right here in this room, deciding that he was.
“Earth to Ian.” Ari waves a hand in front of his face, a concerned frown on her own. “I asked what Mickey has to do with this?”
Ian breathes in, out. In again, and whispers, “Everything.”
The envelope at the edge of the table no longer seems like enough of a gift. He takes it back anyway, shoves it in his pocket, and starts lifting boxes from Ariana’s pile.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Then, “Ian, stop it!”
He’s got two boxes in his arms already, and he’s scooping up two more.
“Sorry, no time to explain.” He’s breathless as he shoves one last wrapped gift into his pocket, balancing the others against his side. “I’m gonna need these,” he says, and makes a run for it.
“Ian!” Ari screams after him. “Susan will have my head!”
“I’ll make it up to you!” he shouts back, not pausing. Then the building doors are closing behind him as Ari shrieks:
“How?!”
*
Bang bang bang
The cheap wood of the apartment door vibrates as Ian pounds his fist against it. No one answers.
Bang bang bang
He tries again. His breath is coming in short pants, his calves burning from running up the stairs, and his knuckles are starting to hurt.
Bang bang—
The door wrenches open.
“What the fuck is it?” Mickey demands, scowling. His hair is bedraggled, the skin around his eyes dark, and an old AC/DC t-shirt is slipping off his pale, unwashed shoulder.
It’s the cutest fucking thing that Ian has ever seen.
“Mickey,” he breathes. Then he swallows, and keeps talking.
“I brought you your last gift,” he says. He digs the envelope out of his pocket with the hand that was still raised to knock, holds it out.
Mickey doesn’t take it.
“Yeah, it’s kind of shit,” Ian agrees, tossing the envelope at Mickey’s feet. “I don’t even know if you play guitar, and if you do, why would you want lessons?”
Mickey is watching him. His eyebrows are low, his arms crossed.
“I brought you some other gifts, too,” Ian offers. He holds out the pile of boxes nestled in his other arm, catches the one that falls off the top. “I don’t know what they are though,” he admits as Mickey’s eyebrows start to lift. “At least one of them has to be good, right?”
He drops the small box that he’s holding, starts to tear paper from the next.
“I think this one is from Martin,” he says, trying to see inside it. “He likes to wrap things in terrible colors. Last year he got Margo tickets to the Sox, so maybe—”
It’s a desk lamp. Ian tosses it down the hall.
“Chelsea always gives good stuff,” he says as he tries to rip the ribbon off a bright pink box. “I bet you’ll like whatever—”
A pastel serving tray. It goes over Ian’s shoulder.
“How about this one?” Ian’s down to one box. It’s small, wrapped in blue. A pale blue, like Mickey’s eyes. Ian’s favorite.
“That one’s yours,” Mickey finally says. His eyebrows, which had climbed higher and higher with every one of Ian’s attempts, have settled over a soft expression. “Why don’t you open it.”
Ian swallows.
“I don’t really deserve it,” he babbles. “You’ve been so great, and I’ve been terrible. I was rude when you moved in, and I gave you shitty gifts, and I—”
Mickey takes the box out of his hand.
“I said bad things about you to Ari, and once I wished you would get fired—”
He unfolds the edges of the careful wrapping, and slides the paper away.
“I thought you would be terrible to Franny, and then you were so nice, and—”
The box opens with a whisper. Mickey takes the thing inside and holds it up over his head.
“And you’re fucking perfect , aren’t you,” Ian whimpers as he sees what it is. “And you should probably kill me now, because I—”
Mickey's index finger is warm under Ian's chin as he presses up, closing Ian's mouth. It's soft as it guides his head forward under the mistletoe.
Mickey’s lips are softer.
*
Merry Christmas Everyone !
We hope everyone had an amazing time at our Christmas Eve party! A big shout out to everyone who made the event possible: may you all have an amazing New Year!
Due to unforeseeable circumstances, a number of final gifts were unable to be distributed: please file claims with Ariana in HR.