Archive of Our Own ^beta

Out of the many things they never imagined they’d be doing in their 20s—growing up as they did—standing in line to meet Santa has got to be first on the list.

Of course, the list is constantly getting items crossed off these days. Trying yoga together, spending a day playing paintball, going to a wine tasting event, doing an escape room—the list goes on and on. Teenage Ian and Mickey would laugh in your face if you’d told them this would turn out to be their future, but…here they are.

Sure, not every activity they’ve tried has been a success. But they’re open to new things, that’s the point. They have a bit of money saved up now, and they’re not afraid to spend some on what they would have previously thought of as ridiculous, bougie bullshit. Just for the hell of it, just to say they’ve tried it.

Like that pitch black restaurant they went to last month. Weird as fuck, but hey. It’s an experience. Plus, they got to feel each other up under cover of darkness, which was pretty hot.

Today, though, it’s all about Franny.

She’s been excited to meet Santa since just after Thanksgiving, when her friends at school started talking about their parents taking them non-stop. Of course Franny didn’t want to miss out on the experience.

Debbie had been too busy, so naturally Franny used her best puppy eyes on her favorite uncles, and…there was just no way they were going to say no to her. Their work allows them to take random days off at the moment, and the nearest mall is only a ten minute walk from their apartment. So that’s how they all find themselves here right now, waiting to meet the man himself, to the little girl’s delight.

“Uncle Mickey, did anyone ever take you to meet Santa when you were little?”

Ian’s heart does a little jump at the question. Then he hears Mickey chuckle softly. When his husband starts to speak, his voice is tinged with the usual sweet tone he reserves for their niece.

“Nah, Fran. My family wasn’t really into the whole Christmas deal back then.”

Franny frowns a little. “Oh. So you missed out on all the Christmas fun?”

Mickey shrugs. “I guess. But that’s okay. I get to have that with you guys now. You and your Uncle Ian can be, like, my Holiday Guides or some sh—or something. How’s that sound?”

The little girl beams and nods her head enthusiastically. Mickey smiles back at her, before turning his head to grin at Ian, whose eyes are shining with fondness and a little bit of sadness for his husband.

As much as the Gallaghers too had to abstain from a lot of the more expensive holiday traditions, they could always rely on each other—and on Fiona especially—to remind them that they were loved, no matter what. Ian knows the Milkovich kids weren’t quite as lucky.

Ian takes Mickey’s hand in his and holds it tight, smiling at him a little. Proud. Mickey locks eyes with him—sporting that look, the one that teenage Ian was always searching for all those years ago. They share no words, but both know what the other is thinking right now. They love being able to have whole conversations with just their eyes like this.

They move along with the other people in line, Franny excitedly jumping in place and trying to sneak a glance at where Santa is sitting on his red chair with a little kid on his lap. Mickey catches on to what she’s doing and offers to let her sit on his shoulders so she can see better.

Ian can barely contain the huge smile on his face while looking at Mickey with Franny. His husband, who is so reticent about the idea of them having their own kids because he’s terrified of fucking it all up, is in fact incredibly good with children. The bond he has with Franny is an amazing thing to see, and Ian knows how great a father Mickey would be. He doesn’t want to pressure him, but he really hopes Mickey will come around to it someday.

As Mickey and Franny make little comments about Santa and the elves while Ian just continues watching them, Ian starts hearing fragments of sentences coming from the people in line in front of them. His bubble of love and joy suddenly bursts when he starts paying more attention to the grumbly words.

“That poor kid… I wonder where her mother is… Sure hope he’s not the little girl’s father… I certainly would never leave any child related to me in the care of a damn Milkovich, of all people… Absolutely disgraceful…”

The older man is directing his speech to his wife, talking in subdued tones but loud enough to be heard by Ian, who starts grinding his teeth at the words.

“I mean, what sort of example can he possibly set for a child? A person like that belongs in a prison—not in a place like this, with impressionable children all around… For goodness sake, those tattoos alone…”

The man occasionally turns his head back towards them, eyeing Mickey and Franny with an ugly snarl on his face.

Ian looks to his left now too, finding that while Franny is still happily staring at Santa and his helpers from atop her uncle’s shoulders, Mickey is looking down towards the floor, biting the side of his lip, his hands tightening on Franny’s knees on either side of his head.

A confirmation that Mickey is hearing exactly what Ian is.

Ian sees red. Mickey is getting visibly more and more upset by the man’s words, which makes Ian quickly turn the sadness he’d been feeling earlier about his husband’s upbringing into pure, unadulterated anger.

How dare this asshole say shit about Mickey?

Ian tries to rein in his emotions. When he was younger he probably would have decked the fucker. But he’s more mature now, and there are children here, for fuck’s sake. Franny’s here. He can’t throw punches, he can’t yell at the piece of shit—he can’t even fucking swear at him.

But goddamn it, he is going to say something.

“Um, excuse me.”

He plasters on his best fake smile and waits for the older man to turn around fully.

“Yeah, um… Couldn’t help but overhear you talking about my husband.” At the man’s slightly taken aback frown, Ian tightly side-hugs Mickey and continues. “You know, Mickey Milkovich? And you are…?” He still has that same saccharine smile on his face, turning his head a bit and grinning at the man’s embarrassed-looking wife for good measure.

“I—My name’s Roger Binckley. I was an elementary school English teacher when, uh…Mister Milkovich was attending.”

Ian’s fake smile widens and grows more sinister. “Oh, so you’re someone who should’ve helped and encouraged young kids to make something of themselves and thrive no matter their upbringing… Instead, you’re standing here right now blatantly judging a man because of his last name—something he has no control over—and what? Because he wasn’t the easiest child to teach back then? When maybe you should’ve done your job properly and focused on him more, rather than dismissing him in favor of kids who had it easier?”

Ian stops for breath enough to let Mr. Binckley stammer out a reply. “I—I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

“For your information.” Ian tightens his grip on Mickey’s side. “Mickey Milkovich is a wonderful man and an amazing husband. He’s phenomenal with kids. They absolutely love him. Like Franny here…”

Franny takes her eyes off Santa for a second to smile at her uncle when she hears her name mentioned, then goes back to clapping her hands excitedly all while still sitting on Mickey’s shoulders.

Ian keeps going. He is nowhere near finished.

“Mickey is brave, strong like you wouldn’t believe—he’s been through things you can’t even imagine and he’s still here. He’s by far the best person I know.” He turns his head to look at Mickey and finds him looking back, shining eyes full of fierce love, just like Ian’s. “You may dismiss him as just another Milkovich, but that’s not who he is. He’s my Mickey.” When Ian turns his gaze back to the seemingly trembling Mr. Binckley, his voice goes harder again. “He’s nothing like his father. He’s kind, despite often not having been shown any kindness. You know. By people like you.”

The fire in Ian’s eyes looks like it could burn a man to a crisp in a matter of moments. Mr. Binckley recoils, trying to once again find words to say, his English degree very much useless at the moment.

“I—That’s—I mean, I didn’t, uh—Well, I’m—”

Thankfully for him, Mrs. Binckley pulls at her husband’s sleeve right then. “Come on, Roger, it’s Joey’s turn to go meet Santa! Joey, dear, hold your grandpa’s hand. Time to go! Are you excited?!”

Saved by the fucking bell—and by Mrs. Binckley—Roger awkwardly takes hold of his grandson’s tiny hand and turns to go, not before seeing more of Ian’s vaguely threatening grinning and hearing Mickey ask his niece, “Hey, Franny! Say ‘Goodbye, Mister Wrinkly!’”

Franny, even more excited now that her turn with Santa is coming so soon, loudly complies. “Goodbye, Mister Wrinkly!”

Mickey chuckles and she laughs along with him. Uncle Mickey’s right. It is a funny word to say.

Mr. Binckley, head kept low, quickly escorts his grandkid to climb on Santa’s knee, followed by his ever-embarrassed wife.

Ian and Mickey are left to grin at each other. They finally focus their attention back to Franny, with all her adorable, excited energy.

A bit later, once the Binckleys have fucked off and it’s finally Franny’s turn to sit on Santa’s lap, Mickey is ready with his phone out, taking plenty of pictures of his niece telling the bearded dude what she’d like for Christmas.

Ian is smiling, his gaze moving from Mickey to Franny—the negative emotions from earlier slowly receding to make space for nothing but peace within him.

“‘Ey.”

Ian turns to look at Mickey, whose eyes are still fixed on Santa and Franny in front of them. He speaks in a low, soft voice.

“You didn’t have to say all that shit, y’know. Before, to that fucker.”

Ian smiles. “Yes, I did. He was nothing but a judgemental prick, he needed to realize he can’t just say shit like that about people and get away with it. Plus, I wanted you to hear that stuff too.”

Mickey’s eyes fall down. His teeth come out to bite at his lip.

Ian continues, “You already know that’s how I feel, but I think you need to hear it as often as possible. You’re amazing with kids, Mick. Look at how happy you make Franny, how much she loves you!”

Mickey grins, looks in Franny’s direction. “Kid makes the job easy.”

Ian lightly elbows Mickey, who turns his head toward him again. Ian looks him deep in the eyes—and there’s no way for Mickey to escape that gaze. He bites his lip again, nods. It’s going to take a while for him to fully get there, but deep down he knows he should believe what Ian said about him—what he always says about him. He should believe in himself.

After a while, he tries to lighten the mood, while still not breaking eye-contact. “Y’know, we used to call the asshole Wrinkly even back then. Though he musta been only like, forty or so, back in the day.”

Ian chuckles, mostly because that’s not what he was expecting would come out of Mickey’s mouth after the moment they just shared.

“Seemed older to us kids, though. ‘Course, what we really used to call him was Wrinkly Dick. But I couldn’t tell Franny that, y’know.”

Ian snorts a laugh and shoves Mickey’s shoulder playfully. Just then they see that Franny’s all done with Santa and is excitedly skipping her way back over to them, eager to tell her favorite uncles all about it.

—

Later on that evening, when they’re at home and Ian’s watching Mickey carefully set Franny’s presents under their tree, he thinks back to what that man had said earlier.

He feels anger bubbling up again, but manages to keep it in check. There’s no place for that here, not in their beautiful home.

They may have been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Fuck You today, but none of that could faze them. Not really.

The past can be a painful thing to revisit for them both, it’s true, and it still haunts them at times. But they find strength in each other. Always.

There are few things Ian knows for certain in this world. Definitely among them are the fact that Mickey is a good man, that he’s great with children, and that he would make an amazing dad to their own kids, if he ever should decide he wants that.

As Ian gets up from the couch and goes to join Mickey in front of the tree, intent on kissing the hell out of his husband, he’s convinced that no matter what happens, one thing’s for fucking sure.

Mr. Wrinkly Dick doesn’t know shit.