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"Yer fuckin', like, cute or some shit, d'ya know that?"
Mickey is drunk.
They'd gone out to a bar near their apartment, some new (to them) joint, part of a deal the two of them had made when they'd moved: at least once a month they'd branch out and try a different bar, breaking away from their favorite, a place called Richard's that made them both think fondly of The Alibi (before his own brother had the gall to fuckin' turn it into a cop bar).
So tonight they'd gone to a place called Third Rail Tavern, and while Ian himself had had his one beer, Mickey...
Well, there'd been one of those big chalkboards hung up right at the entrance, and in eye-searingly bright letters it had proclaimed:
Half-price AMF's, today only.
"The fuck is an AMF?" Mickey'd said just loud enough for a passing server to hear.
"Adios Motherfucker," she'd supplied before Ian had gotten the chance, continuing on her way with ease, unaware of what she'd just set in motion.
The speed at which his husband's face lit up in excitement was both delightful and fucking terrifying.
—
"Goddamn, Gallagher, you're a pretty motherfucker, you know that?"
It starts around drink number three, the little compliments and sweet talk, more than Mickey usually does in public, and while Ian had been told before that a drunk Mickey was a love-sick Mickey, he'd never seen it himself.
(Ian couldn't, and didn't, really drink like he used to, and now Mickey didn't really either, an adorable sort of silent solidarity with his husband that Ian found so fucking sweet he could barely handle it sometimes. They split joints all the time and had started to dip their toes into the wild world of edibles once Illinois recreationalized shit, but Drunk Mickey was a rarity these days.)
Ian arches his brow, a habit he'd picked up from Mickey. "That so, Mick?" His lips are twitching with barely suppressed delight at the idea that he might be getting to see Sappy Mickey for himself tonight.
Mickey takes another big gulp of his drink, not even bitching about the metal straw it had come with. ("The fucks wrong with plastic? You think me and my occasional use of fucking plastic is gonna make or break the earth? Go after the people making the goddamn things if they're so shitty for the planet or whatever.")
Mickey nods vigorously, eyeing Ian and breaking out his Flirty Look, eyebrows high and tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth where he was biting it, pretending to bite back a smile. Ian is as much a sucker for it now as he was at fifteen when Mickey used to flash it to him across the Kash N Grab, angling to get turned the fuck out in the cooler. "Mmmmhmmm, always been so fucking pretty, baby face an' all."
And so it goes, compliments getting more and more specific as the drinks kept coming, and Ian has never been more in love with his husband in his life, all the praise lighting him up like a Christmas tree, helping to settle the ever-present seed of worry that some version or part of him would be too much or not enough or just not what Mickey wanted.
Fucking hell, was that doubt getting shut the fuck down tonight.
Mickey is toying with his hands now, having relocated to Ian's side of the booth so he can press in close, adhering himself to Ian's side like cuddly Velcro. "'Member when these hands couldn't palm mosta my ass? 'Member?" He nibbles on a knuckle, tracing the bulge of it with his tongue and staring Ian full in the face while he did, pupils blown out by liquor and lust. "Thought my ass was gettin' smaller at first till you wrapped these big fuckin' paws around my hips one day and I could feel your thumbs on my back even with your fingers mosta the way to my dick."
Ian slides his free hand around Mickey's lower a back, fitting his thumb in the dimple there and splaying his fingers wide, watching as Mickey's breath hitches before sucking hard on Ian's finger. "Like that?" Ian asks with a smirk, delighting in the effect he has on his husband even now.
"Uh huh," Mickey sighs, nodding his head so hard Ian's worried he'll make himself dizzy. "'Ve always been smaller'n everyone, but you're the only one I like it with. Like being small with you."
Ian's dick twitches hard in his jeans, both from the frankly indecent way Mickey is licking at the webbing between Ian's fingers and from what's coming out of his mouth.
He leans in to nuzzle at Mickey's neck, exaggerating how far he has to bend down to do it, grins when he feels the stuttering exhale against his throat. "Safe to be small with you," Mickey murmurs into the thin skin of Ian's neck, and Ian shivers at the sensation of those perpetually bitten lips. "Your the only one I ever felt fuckin' safe with, Ian."
Ian has to kiss him then, and they make out for a little bit right there in their booth, not giving two fucks who can see them, and if Ian's mouth was free he'd be fucking cheering at how far they've come.
They break apart eventually and Mickey keeps drinking, getting looser and handsier with each sip. "I wanna fuckin' bite you sometimes, y'know? But cause I fucking like, love you and shit and it's too much and I just gotta—” and then Ian finds his forearm being chomped gently between Mickey’s teeth, a laugh punching out of him when Mickey makes the most fucking adorable growly nomming sounds, chewing gently on his husband's arm.
He's halfway through drink five when Ian's freckles finally get mentioned, and Ian can honestly say he's surprised it took so long. "D'you know y'got eyelid freckles?" Mickey clumsily grabs at Ian's face, tilting it down and Ian closes his eyes in preemptive protection so Mickey doesn't feel the need to try and close them himself and accidentally getting his alcohol-clumsy thumbs in Ian's eyes. "How does that even happen?" Mickey wonders, tilting Ian's head jerkily back and forth as he studies the eyelids in question, Ian biting back a laugh the whole time. "An' why the fuck do I wanna kiss 'em?"
They're outside after Mickey finishes his sixth and final drink, Ian's arm around Mickey's shoulders and Mickey's around Ian's waist, hand tucked snugly in his back pocket, copping a feel every few steps and giggling to himself when he does, like he's sneaking it in and doesn't have free reign of Ian's body whenever he wants.
Halfway home, Mickey sighs deeply and rests his head on Ian's shoulder, closing his eyes for a moment, trusting Ian to keep them uptight.
"Sometimes when you look at me," he starts, eyes fluttering open and glancing upwards, the blue of them even brighter in the dim yellow street-light glow. "Its like my blood gets all fizzy 'n' shit and I don't know what to do with that." He rubs his face against Ian's denim-covered bicep. "S'always been that way. Used to scare the fuck outta me cause I knew it meant somethin'."
Ian hums, tucking Mickey more firmly against him. "And now? Still scary?"
Mickey stops them suddenly, not caring that they're in the middle of a West Side sidewalk, and stares at Ian with the kind of serious earnestness that only incredibly drunk people ever manage. "No," Mickey says firmly, now with both hands firmly in Ian's back pockets, holding him close. "Nothin' 'bout us is scary anymore." He frees a hand and rubs vaguely at his chest, knuckle tats standing out starkly in the muted yellow light. "No room to be afraid, ya know? There's like, too much love 'n' shit now." He waves his hand around, gesturing wildly at his torso. "Takes up all the space."
Ian backs him into the closest wall and they spend the next twenty minutes leaving no space for anything but all that love between them.