Work Text:
It’d been a real shit fuckin’ day. Ian hadn’t been feeling well, a headache and a cold had him down for the count and he wasn’t getting out of bed that day, so Mickey had to do their runs alone. He could hardly focus - worrying about Ian, worrying about the guns and the weed and the money and his stupid cousins and - ugh. He wanted to go home. One of the buyers was short on cash and gave Mickey a hard time, another got mad because they thought they’d been shorted on supply, and on top of that, Mickey realized about halfway through the day that he was coming down with whatever Ian had.
So. Yeah. Shit day.
By the time he got back to the Gallagher house, Mickey’s head was swimming. His nose was stuffed up, he was grouchy - well, grouchier than usual - and all he wanted was to collapse into bed and sleep until morning.
As he passed through the kitchen, he sent a quick thanks up to whoever the fuck because the house was empty. Absently, glancing at the fridge, he wondered if Ian had felt well enough to eat and take his meds. Just in case, Mickey grabbed a gatorade, a glass of water, and a couple of poptarts off the counter, before trudging upstairs.
He found Ian laying in bed, facing the door, eyes closed. The sun was lightly streaming in through the window, casting little rays of light over Ian’s hair, over his eyelashes, making them even more translucent as usual - alien looking motherfucker , Mickey thought, fondly. Ian looked peaceful and safe, markedly better than this morning, but still a little worse for wear. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he slid into their room and closed the accordion door behind him.
Ian’s eyes cracked open and adjusted to the light before the redhead’s face broke into a small smile. “Hey, Mick...” Ian pushed himself up into a semi-seated position, a slight grimace on his freckled face, but it slid off as soon as he relaxed against the wall.
Mickey thought Ian was beautiful most of the time, even though he’d never say it out loud. But now, especially after such a harrowing day, Ian looked more than beautiful, he looked like home.
“Hey, Gallagher. Did you eat yet, take your meds?” Mickey knew by now that Ian would roll his eyes at the question, but he also knew that Ian didn’t actually mind it, not when it was Mickey.
Ian did, in fact, roll his eyes, but he smiled shyly after and said, “No, I just woke up. Shit, I should probably go downstairs and grab-”. But he was cut off when Mickey tossed him the gatorade he’d had in his hands, and then tossed the poptart onto the bed. Ian’s eyes crinkled at that, soft, and Mickey wanted to curl up next to him and maybe never move again. “Thanks,” he said, softly. “Can you hand me -” Once again, he was cut off by Mickey, who handed him the three pill bottles that had been stashed on the bedside table.
Mickey knew Ian like the back of his hand. Knew what made him tick. Noticed that the trash can was filled with tissues, that the sheets were a little rumpled from sweaty sleep, that the bags under Ian’s eyes stood out a little more on his paler than usual skin. He could tell by Ian’s mood that he was feeling a lot better, which meant the worst of his cold was probably over. Of course, this was just in time for Mickey to probably be headed into the thick of it, but that didn’t matter right now.
Mickey busied himself with stripping off the day while Ian ate, kicking off his boots, pulling off the jacket of the uniform Ian insisted they buy, sliding down the camouflage pants that completed the ensemble. By the time he heard the rattle of Ian’s pills, Mickey had made it down to his black tank top and his boxers. He glanced up at Ian, not missing the smirk on his face as he watched his husband undress, and smirked right back. Just as Ian tossed the pill bottles back onto the table and picked up the other pop tart, Mickey dove onto the bed and stole the treat right out of Ian’s hand. Before the redhead could protest, Mickey had already rolled away and taken a bite.
Not to be outdone, Ian reached out and put firm hands on Mickey’s waist, dragging him back toward him. Mickey sighed and went easily, tossing the half-eaten pop tart, too, onto the bedside table.
Ian shuffled them down onto the bed, Mickey’s back pressed up against Ian’s front, their breathing slowly evening out and matching each other.
“Day go okay?” Ian asked, nose pressed to the place where Mickey’s neck met his shoulder. He pressed a small kiss there before burying his face.
“Nah, man, day was shit,” Mickey sighed, gripping the wrist that had snaked its way around his middle, “but s’better now”.
Ian sniffled, then Mickey felt him shift a little. “You’re all sweaty, Mick. You’re getting sick too now, aren’t you? Shit,” Ian said, making the move like he was about to sit up and give his husband an EMT-style once over. But Mickey just tightened his grip once again, and Ian hummed, slumping back down and settling his face back into Mickey’s hair.
“Just - we can deal with that later, Ian. Can we just lay here for a minute?” Mickey breathed deeply, feeling the weight of Ian, the weight of his husband because holy shit he had a husband , on his back. He felt their legs tangled together, felt Ian’s fingers laced in his.
“Sure, Mickey, we can just lay here,” Ian agreed, quietly. He pulled Mickey even closer and pressed another warm kiss to the spot just under his ear that no one knew better than him.
As Mickey was drifting off to sleep, he thought that maybe the day hadn’t been a complete wash after all.