Work Text:
“This sucks.”
Mickey hums as he finishes off a can of Pringles at the kitchen table. “What?”
“This is bullshit.”
Ian drops his phone on the counter, the device clanging loudly on the surface. He runs his fingers through his hair, frustrated, tugging hard on the strands.
“What?” Mickey asks again, his brows pinching.
Ian sighs. “You know how Josh tested positive for Covid, so now I have to work a double on Christmas Eve?”
Mickey nods. “Yeah. Overtime, right?”
Ever since Ian got his warehouse job, it’s been slowly chipping away at him. He works long shifts at a job he hates, but it’s the only one available to him that satisfies his parole requirements in this weird as fuck year. The pandemic is still raging across the world, with the number of infected going up instead of down around the holidays.
Ian hates his job, his boss, the soul sucking physical labor—all of it. With so many people testing positive day after day, there’s never any shortage of overtime available—which may be the only plus side to the gig, according to Ian’s paycheck some weeks—but the company refuses to hire more workers. So, in times like this, when they’re already stretched as thin as possible, it makes for some really bad news for a few unlucky people.
“Delia just tested positive too. So now I have to work on Christmas.”
Today, that unlucky person happens to be Ian.
“What?” Mickey asks. “Like, Christmas Day?”
“Yup,” Ian says, resigned. He walks over to the table, holds his phone out for Mickey to see the text from his boss.
Mickey reads it, his face falling. “Fuck. That.”
“It’s such bullshit,” Ian reiterates. He leans back against the counter, shaking his head.
“It’s fucked,” Mickey agrees. “Tell them you’re not coming in.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because they’ll fire me.”
“Fuck ‘em. Just quit.” Mickey shrugs. “Then see what they do.”
Ian sighs heavily. “I can’t.”
They’re not exactly strapped for cash these days, but they still don’t have a lot of it. Between Ian, Debbie, and Carl bringing home a paycheck every week, the squirrel find is padded and there are always groceries coming in. They don’t worry about the power bill as much as they used to, but with the pandemic looming around every corner, they still have plenty to worry about.
Ian quitting wouldn’t sink them, but it definitely wouldn’t help keep them afloat.
“Might as well work it,” Ian grumbles, not nearly as accepting to the idea as his words suggest. “Not like it’s a real Christmas anyway.”
“Hey—don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.” Ian makes a face and starts counting on his fingers. “Carl’s quarantined in the basement for another five days. Liam barely comes out of his room. Lip and Tami are staying at their place this year because they don’t wanna risk Fred getting infected. I mean—no one’s even gonna be here on Christmas.”
“I am,” Mickey says.
The quiet way in which he says it cuts through Ian’s mind like a knife, stopping him in his rant. He stares at Mickey, his features turning more sad than angry.
Mickey squirms. “And so will Debbie, which means Franny will be here, and I’m pretty sure Sandy’s coming over too.”
“Oh, yeah.” Ian leans his elbows on the counter and holds his head in his hands. “Now it’s a real family holiday.”
Mickey presses his lips together. He hates seeing Ian like this, all aggravated and upset. It kills him. But there’s nothing he can do about his shitty warehouse job, and there’s definitely nothing he can do about a global pandemic.
“You could quit anyway,” he tries. “I can get my guy at the laundromat to write you fake pay stubs too. Get your PO off your back while you look for—”
“Stop,” Ian says, exhausted.
It’s quieter in the house than it usually is. Mickey is aware of every little sound as he picks up his beer off the kitchen table, takes a sip, swallows, and puts the can back down.
Ian doesn’t move.
“C’mere,” Mickey says softly.
Ian gives him a side eye glare.
“No, come here,” Mickey says again, pulling out the chair next to him. He pats the seat. “Come sit down with me.”
His voice is so, so gentle when he says it, and he thinks that maybe that’s why Ian caves in one big shoulder-dropping exhale.
Ian sits down in the chair next to Mickey, hunched forward and almost curled in on himself.
Mickey scoots closer. “C’mere,” he says, sitting sideways in his chair and hugging him, one arm stretched across his chest and the other across his back.
Ian melts into it, leaning his shoulder into Mickey’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” Mickey says genuinely, kissing Ian’s shoulder through his t-shirt, then laying his cheek on it. He rubs his hand in circles across Ian’s back. “I wish there was something I could do.”
Ian takes a slow, deep breath. “No, I’m sorry,” he says quietly, reaching up and holding on to Mickey’s forearm. He squeezes. “I’m probably overreacting.”
“Nah, man,” Mickey reassures him. “You love this holiday shit. All that family time. I’d be pissed too if I was you.”
Ian sighs. “Yeah.”
They sit like that for a while, Ian leaning into Mickey, and Mickey holding him up, holding him together. They breathe together, both lost in thought.
Mickey keeps running his hand over Ian’s back and shoulders, trying to smooth out all the tense muscles he feels under his palm.
“You gotta fucking relax, Ian,” he mumbles against him, digging his thumb into the stiff muscles around his spine.
Ian hums. “You try relaxing when you know you have another shift in—” He picks up his phone, checks the time, “—seven hours.”
Mickey doesn’t say anything, just keeps rubbing his back.
He massages the muscles around his shoulder blades, digs his fingertips into the ones at his shoulders. He goes down Ian’s spine, then up, soothing the tense muscles all the way up at the base of his skull.
Ian almost whimpers, letting out some kind of whine in the back of his throat.
Mickey kisses his shoulder again. “Come on,” he mutters, patting Ian on the back and standing up from his chair.
“Mm.” Ian stays hunched over in his, eyeing the table like it looks like a decent enough pillow.
Mickey tugs at his sleeve. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Can’t move. Too tired.”
“Come on, Gallagher. Up.”
Ian stays still.
Mickey sighs and sits back down in his chair. “Ian, c’mon.” He squeezes Ian’s thigh. “I’ll give you a nice, long back massage. Try and help you relax enough to sleep for a couple hours before you gotta go back.”
Ian slowly—so slowly—turns his head just enough to look up at his husband. “…Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Mickey says, smoothing back Ian’s curls. “Course.”
Ian leans into his touch. “I love you.”
Mickey smiles, kisses his forehead.
“I know ya do,” he says, standing once again. “Now let’s go.”
This time, Ian follows.
It’s Christmas Eve and the house is practically empty.
Carl’s sequestered in the basement, Liam’s locked himself in his room. Debbie and Sandy went to the grocery store to get some last-minute things for tomorrow—an hour ago—and Ian’s working.
Which leaves Mickey home and able to watch Franny.
She’s coloring at the coffee table in the living room, sitting on the ground and humming the same three songs to herself as she goes, crayon after crayon without stopping. She’s happy, she’s fine.
So Mickey doesn’t feel too bad when he catches himself staring at the wall for… He doesn’t even know how long. He looks down, realizes he’s been spinning his wedding ring too.
He stops the staring, but he doesn’t stop twisting the ring.
When he comes back to himself, he blinks and finds Franny watching him, head tilted and curious.
“Whatcha doin’ Uncle Mickey?” she asks.
He shrugs, runs his hands over his face. “Just thinkin’.”
“About what?”
Mickey blows out a breath. “Your Uncle Ian.”
“Oh.” Franny tilts her head the other way, drags a crayon across the page. “I think about him too, sometimes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Mickey nods, folding his arms over his chest. He scrubs at his eyes with one hand, blinks a few times, and goes back to staring blankly at the far wall.
Franny watches him.
She puts down her crayons and stands up, making her way around the coffee table. She pulls herself up on the couch, grabs onto Mickey’s arms, and crawls onto his lap.
“Mommy said Uncle Ian has to work on Christmas.”
Mickey blinks at her, lets her play with his hands. “He does, yeah.”
She pokes at the letters tattooed on his fingers. “She said he’s sad about it.”
“Well of course he’s sad about it,” Mickey says, catching her hands in his. He leans in close, lowers his voice, and says, “He’d rather be here, opening presets with you.”
He tickles her, fingers poking at her sides, her ribs, and Franny squeals. She giggles, uncontrollably, then falls forward against his chest.
Mickey wraps his arms around her, smiling.
It’s Christmas Eve and it doesn’t feel like it, but there’s still something different in the air. That kind of kid-like innocence that makes everything a little slower, a little softer.
The tree is decorated, and the stockings are hung. At some point, Debbie will come back, and she and Franny will make cookies. There will be talk of Santa, and leaving some out for him tonight.
There’s magic in the air, the kind that makes Mickey want to create some of his own.
“Hey,” he says, nudging Franny. “You wanna help me with something?”
Franny sits up. “Yeah.”
Mickey snorts. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”
She just shrugs, like it doesn’t even matter. Like she’ll do it regardless, as long as he’s there with her.
Mickey leans in, taps their foreheads together. “You wanna help me do something special for Uncle Ian?”
Franny gasps, nodding. “Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Yeah!” she shouts, both fists pumped in the air.
Mickey laughs. He picks her up, sets her on the ground.
“Alright, let’s go.”
It’s snowing when Ian gets home.
He knew it was going to be late by the time he got back to the house, but he wasn’t expecting the winds to be whipping snow in his face on his walk home from the L. He’s already exhausted, bone tired in a way that only happens when he’s been on his feet for more than twelve hours, and the snow is only making it worse.
His nose is frozen by the time he walks through the front door, hands shoved in his coat pockets and snow in his hair.
Debbie glances at him from her spot on the couch. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says back, surveying the living room. It’s just Debbie and Sandy, watching some sort of horror-esque Christmas movie.
“How was work?”
“It sucked,” he says bluntly. “Mickey still up?”
Sandy nods, pointing to the far side of the room with her beer. “He’s in the kitchen.”
Ian nods and heads in that direction, taking a second to mess up Debbie’s hair along the way. She swats at him, only kind of annoyed, in that way little sisters always seem to be.
When he gets to the kitchen, he finds Mickey bent over the counter, leaning on his forearms and watching videos on his phone. He sips from a nearly full beer, not hearing Ian’s arrival.
Ian smiles softly.
He sneaks up behind Mickey, hands finding his hips seamlessly.
Mickey jerks a little, looks over his shoulder and relaxes as soon as he sees Ian.
“Hey,” he says, standing up and turning around. “Didn’t even hear you come in.”
Ian’s hands slide under his t-shirt, cold fingers pressed against a warm back. “Hi.”
He lets Mickey kiss him, one hand ghosting along his jaw, then melts into him completely. He leans heavy on his husband for a moment, hugging and holding him close.
Mickey’s hand snakes up into his hair. “You okay?”
Ian nods where his face is pressed into the crook of Mickey’s neck. “Yeah. Long shift.”
Mickey hums in acknowledgement, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
They stand there like that for another minute, the last dregs of energy seeping from Ian’s body as he lets Mickey hold him up. After he decompresses, he pulls himself up, kissing his husband softly before untangling their embrace.
Mickey runs his hand down Ian’s arm, squeezes his hand. “You want a beer?”
Ian takes a deep breath, thinks about it.
But Mickey’s moving before Ian can reply, grabbing another can of Old Style out of the fridge and holding it out to Ian.
Ian blinks at it. “No,” he says. “I’m good.”
Mickey raises his brows.
“I’m just…” Ian shakes his head. “I’m tired. Kinda just wanna go to bed.”
Mickey looks him up and down, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Shift was that bad?”
“I’m dead tired, Mick.” Ian sighs. He lazily rubs his eye with his knuckle.
Mickey chews on his lip. “Well…” He pauses. “Shit.”
He sets the unopened beer down next to his own. He furrows his brow at them a little, like he’s debating something in his head, then relaxes his face and turns back towards Ian.
“What?” Ian asks.
Mickey hesitates, opens his mouth, then closes it. “Nothin’,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “Let’s go to bed.”
“It’s like, nine thirty, Mickey,” Ian says. “You don’t have to come with me.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” he says, looking around, rubbing at his jaw. “Let’s go.”
He jerks his head towards the stairs quickly before he turns to go.
“Wait.” Ian’s hand darts out before he knows what he’s doing, grabbing Mickey loosely around the wrist.
Mickey stops, looks back at him.
Ian stares down at where they’re connected, trying to figure out if that hint of annoyance he heard in Mickey’s voice was real or not.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, rubbing his thumb over Mickey’s pulse point. “I’m just… I’m fucking exhausted.”
Mickey’s face softens.
“No, hey,” he says gently, moving in closer to Ian. He places his free hand on Ian’s waist. “You’re fine. I’m the one bein’ a dick.”
Ian presses their foreheads together, his eyes closing as they lean on each other. He slides his hand down Mickey’s wrist, lines their palms up, slots their fingers together. Mickey’s ring is cool against his fingers as he wiggles them around it.
He brings their joined hands up to his mouth, kisses the inside of Mickey’s wrist.
Mickey brushes their noses together, leans in and kisses him all soft and slow.
Ian hums as he pulls back, standing up straight and gazing down at his husband. “…You’ll come up with me?”
“Hell yeah,” Mickey says, voice barely above a whisper. He kisses Ian again, a quick peck, then nods his head towards the living room. “You think I’d rather hang out with the vagina squad?”
Ian huffs a laugh, cracking a smile for the first time all day.
He loves his husband. So much.
Mickey drops his hands from Ian’s body, scanning the counter as he turns away. He picks up both beer cans, stacking one on top of the other.
“I still don’t want that beer,” Ian says as he follows Mickey to the stairs.
“Good,” Mickey teases. “More for me.”
They go upstairs, and Mickey’s instantly acting weird.
Ian reaches for the light switch, but Mickey bats his hand away.
“Nah, it’s fine,” he tries to explain. “We’ll just get into bed, total darkness already. You’ll fall asleep in like two seconds, I promise.”
Ian just blinks at him, brow pinched. “Mickey. What.”
Mickey rubs at the back of his neck, the light from the hall just enough to illuminate half his silhouette. “We don’t need the light.”
“Why?”
“Look, it’s fine—”
“It’s not fine,” Ian cuts him off. He reaches around Mickey, fighting his defensive attempts to deter him. “Mickey, stop. I still gotta change and shit—”
He flicks on the light and stops mid-sentence.
Ian slowly retracts his arm, barely hearing Mickey’s sigh as he looks around.
Multi-color string lights are hung up on every wall, encircling the room in small swoops. Paper chains hang from the ceiling, red and green construction paper that make an x across the room. There’s an old lava lamp set up in the corner, illuminating the small space in a soft red.
The family laptop is laying on the bed, plugged in and ready to go. A box of Christmas Oreos, the kind with the red cream in the middle, sits next to it.
Ian looks around at all the decorations, all the set up. His mouth falls open, jaw dropped just a little.
“What… is this?” he asks.
“Nothin’,” Mickey tells him, looking everywhere but at Ian.
Ian just stares him down until he meets his gaze.
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Look, I kept thinkin’ about how down you were about having to work tomorrow, so I thought—I don’t know—maybe me and you could do our own Christmas thing tonight.”
Ian’s eyes soften, his shoulders dropping with the realization that all of this is for him.
“But I didn’t even think about you coming off a long shift today,” Mickey adds quickly. “And I know you’re tired, so it’s fine. It’s cool.” He thumbs at his nose. “We can just go to bed, and we can watch movies and shit on fucking—Boxing Day, or whatever. It’s fine.”
Ian stares at him, fighting the slight sting of tears he feels behind his eyes.
“You did all this?” he asks softly, hands reaching out and finding Mickey’s waist.
Mickey shrugs, runs his hands up Ian’s arms. “Franny helped.”
Ian laughs, his face splitting into a grin. “Uh huh.”
He loves his husband. So much.
Ian reaches up, cups Mickey’s face in both hands and kisses him, again and again. He pours every last morsel of love he has into that kiss, letting his lips say all the things his brain is too tired to find the words for.
(He’ll find them tomorrow, though, in the morning, before he has to go back to work. He’ll whisper sweet nothings in Mickey’s ear as he wakes him up, kisses pressed to the side of his face, and all his affection poured into his words.)
Ian kisses him one more time, then pulls back. His thumbs stroke over Mickey’s cheeks. “I don’t feel that tired anymore.”
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Ian—”
“Shut up.” Ian pulls him in, kisses him again. Soft and sweet. “What movie are we watching?”
Mickey smiles as Ian’s hands fall away from his face. “I don’t know. You pick.”
“A Christmas movie?”
“Yeah.”
“Hm.” Ian thinks about it for a second. “…Home Alone?”
Mickey grins.
“Fuck yeah.”
Ian changes into sweats, and Mickey ditches his t-shirt.
They settle in to watch the movie, with Mickey being the big spoon tonight. He’s propped up against the wall with pillows, and Ian’s sitting between his legs, leaning back against his chest. It’s bare skin on bare skin, Mickey’s arm wrapped around Ian’s middle.
Ian opens the laptop, clicks around on the web browser as he pulls up the movie.
Mickey tries to open the Oreos with one hand.
Ian is about to press play when he looks up over his shoulder at Mickey. “Are you gonna be pissed if I fall asleep halfway through this thing?”
Mickey makes a face. “Wouldn’t even be pissed if you fell asleep right now.”
Ian smiles at him, all tired and slow.
Mickey manages to open the Oreos with one hand, leaving the other one hooked around his husband. “Want one?”
Ian nods.
Mickey feeds him a cookie, then shoves another one into his own mouth. They crunch on the chocolate and cream, the red food coloring staining their teeth red.
Mickey kisses the top of Ian’s head, nudges him with his shoulder to get the movie started.
Ian hits play and lets the opening production credits roll across the screen.
“You still got those beers?” he asks, tracing Mickey’s hand with his fingers.
“Yeah, but they’re both mine now.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. But maybe I’ll think about sharing with you.”
“Oo, so generous.”
“I’m fucking benevolent.”
Ian huffs a laugh. He drags his finger over Mickey’s ring, turning it slowly.
He settles in against Mickey’s chest, getting comfy. “I can’t believe you did this,” he says, looking around the room again.
“Shut up.”
“No. My husband did something romantic for me. I’m never shutting up again.”
“Are we actually gonna watch this movie, or are you gonna talk through the whole fucking thing?”
Ian grins, twists his head and leans up just enough to press a kiss to Mickey’s jaw.
Mickey shoves another Oreo in his mouth, then gets both arms wrapped around Ian.
“I love you,” Ian murmurs, resting his full weight against his husband. His eyes start to droop at the opening credits.
Mickey squeezes him. “Merry Christmas.”