It wasn't usual for both of them to feel cranky by the time nighttime rolled around because they wouldn't allow it. If Ian disagreed with Lip, which was happening more often than ever before, Mickey would make his green tea and put on Narcos. If Mickey felt uncomfortable after grocery shopping because, "why the fuck is a pear so expensive, I used to fucking steal those," Ian would grill him a big steak, wash the dishes, do the laundry, and let him fume on the couch until he would ask for his company. They were never cranky at the same time because nobody knew what to do to make things better, but, well, each other, and they didn't want to find out what would happen if that wasn't the case.

They ran out of luck that Friday.

Ian had, again, endured a two-hour phone call where Lip had been whining about Tami and how they were barely making ends meet. When Ian tried to switch topics by asking about Liam, he indulged Ian in a ten-minute tantrum about how careless he was about everyone but himself and Mickey since he moved out. The fuck?  As if he already wasn't Lip's therapist.

Mickey, well, he hated their landlord and her stupid ass poodle who had, for some fucking reason,  peed on the laundry he left for two fucking seconds by the doormat as he was getting his shoes to go downstairs. That, paired with having had the most unprofitable week in a while, had him feeling very much irritated.

They would not have chosen to cook together that night if they knew just how pissy they both felt. 

The tension was palpable since they settled on making a casserole. Mickey was standing by the sink, over-scrubbing the three utensils they had finished using. Ian, who loved to talk Mickey through the cooking process in hopes that he would learn, was dead silent. He stared at his husband, who had been cleaning the same fork for five minutes, and felt the itch to break the tension.

"What are you doing?" Ian stated, glaring at Mickey. He didn't meet his gaze back.

"What does it look like I'm doing? Washing your fucking mess." He mumbled.

Silence, again.

He could let it go. Mickey was always snappy, but today, he wasn't having it.

"The mess that gets food on your table while you jerk off the fork, you mean?"

Mickey gave him the middle finger. Why was he such a child sometimes? 

Deep breath. "Why don't you make yourself useful and cut the onions, please." His voice was tainted with a sense of authority that had no humor or teasing nature behind it.

Mickey looked up, frowning.

"The fuck you speaking to me like a housewife for, huh?" He spat back. The last time they went back and forth like this was weeks ago, and the memory was bitter in his mind.

"Mickey," He stated, harshly putting down the knife by his side and turning his entire neck and face towards his husband, who was already staring back. "Get your ass out of the sink, and pick up the onions so you can be helpful for once. Fucking, please. "

Mickey stared back for a moment before clenching his teeth.

"What the actual fuck is up with you, asswipe?"

Ian could not be having a longer day.

“You.”

“Me?”

"Yes, you, not being helpful, ever," Ian mumbled while trying to grab the utensil he put down. Mickey beat him to it to get his attention.

" Not helpful ?" He looked at Ian incredulously.

Ian shrugged—he wasn't in the mood to elaborate.

"You want to lecture me about helpfulness ?" Dropping the fork, he took two steps towards his husband. "Alright, how helpful were you exactly last week when you were too much of a pussy to ask those assholes to pay us the full week for the delivery?"

“ That was n-“

"Because thanks to your kindness and helpfulness—we won't be getting paid weekly now, but monthly. How's that for being helpful, huh?" It came out so sour, petty in the worst way possible—Mickey knew how much Ian hated when he got condescending.

Ian took the towel by the stove, wiped his hands, and attempted to turn around and walk away because he needed to cool down. Deep down, he knew the bickering would not stop there. He just had to lie down.

On his way out, Mickey quickly grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Don't fucking walk away on me, Ia-"

He shook away his hand as it stung.

"Don't touch me." Ian barked.

And he didn't know what he meant because, of course, Mickey could touch him; hell, if he couldn't, who could? But if Mickey didn't give him space, he was going to fucking burst. He just had to be a repressed asshole about communicating that, is all.

"The fuck?" It was all Mickey would muster, and Ian saw it immediately— the drop of his shoulders, the frown, the confusion. Their arguing was always filled with casual insults, but Ian always managed to hit right where it hurt.

He could've kept his mouth shut, but Lip's voice was ringing in his head, and his husband's accusations were too much, so he did not think twice before opening his mouth.

If Mickey wanted him to say something, he would say something all right.

"I said, don't fucking touch me, Mickey."

Silence.

"Order takeout, leave, I don't give a shit. You know what I want? For you to stop nagging me and acknowledge the fact that you rarely do shit around here instead of blaming me for getting a different, legal payment method to live—" he went on furiously.

“Ian...”

"No, don't fucking start, " he groaned loudly. "for fuck's sake—I can't with everyone annoying the shit out of me every single day of my life," he shouted.

The room echoed. 

"Can you, for the love of god—can you make my life a little easier right now and fuck off somewhere? It's not like you giving me more shit helps, all right? You wanna to call me a pussy? Fine. Don't forget that while you are out there doing whatever the fuck it is you think good money is, I'm in here busting my ass cleaning our house, cooking, and working too. So yeah, call me a bitch  all you want—at least I know my damn place and what I bring to it." 

And well, It might've as well been venom.

It sure as hell stung Mickey everywhere.

Ian's hands lingered on his temples in exasperation because his head ached, and he wanted to scream at Lip, not at Mickey; he just needed to change his number or something and-

“I’ll leave.”

Ian clicked back into reality right there.

His hands fell from his face. "Look, man, listen, let's just—" he started in a more amicable tone, but it was useless; Mickey was already halfway gone to their bedroom and slamming the door by the time he made sense of it all.

Fuck. 

A few minutes after just standing there, frozen, he realized Mickey was giving him the space he had asked for, not so nicely, a few screams back. He sat on their couch and calmed down after a few seconds— it wasn't long before regret started flooding him. He rarely spoke to Mickey like this anymore.

It's ok, he thought. They've fought before, things have been significantly worse. Screaming can't hurt more than punching.

Right?

It would be only fair to wait for him to come out of the bedroom to talk it out and explain. A nice steak would help; he meant to get Mickey's favorite cut this week.

What he didn't expect was to see Mickey carrying a small bag out of their room, packed with most of his shit, less than five minutes after he started brainstorming apologies.

His stomach dropped.

"The fuck are you doing?" The taller man immediately stood up from the couch, and his legs almost gave out because what the fuck was he doing?

He hadn't bothered to change from Ian's jumper but had changed from slippers to sneakers and was wearing their shared green coat.

Mickey said nothing, not making eye contact with Ian, who was losing his mind in the five seconds that followed as his husband headed towards the door. Ian almost fell on his face trying to get to Mickey fast enough, but thank god for ROTC; he managed to stop him and block the way.

The older man sighed like he had encountered the biggest fucking inconvenience.

"Mickey," Ian's chest was heavy, "what the actual fuck are you-"

"Don't bother, asshole. Made friends in prison—sure as hell won't stay where m' not wanted." he attempted to move past Ian's figure, which was towering in front of him.

The food was sitting uncooked in the kitchen, the candle they had lit in the afternoon was mostly burnt, and everything looked like any other day in their house—except for the fact that Mickey was standing with most of his belongings meters away from the door frame, trying to leave, not for some space—not for anything Ian could bare to say out loud. 

"Mickey, listen to me—sit down, please."  He begged. Ian tried to meet his gaze, but his husband refused to look at him.

His reluctance made it so painfully obvious.

All this wasn't about the insults, or the bickering, or the financial bullshit. Mickey was just, well, extremely uncomfortable. Not with Ian, but with everything he had to learn and adapt to be with Ian. He was still getting used to the West Side, to cooking with his husband, to owning a fucking house and taking care of it—he was trying so hard all the damn time. And what had Ian given him in return? A speech about how his presence was not just useless but irritating.

When they fought, they fought dirty (not that he was downplaying anything — if he had an award for being the most clueless asshole in the world, that would undoubtedly be something well-earned.)

So when he tentatively took a step closer, and Mickey flinched, he immediately understood getting him to put his walls down after this wouldn't be easy.

"Mickey," Ian tried. "I didn't mean it literally, "

He really didn't.

“Shut the fuck up.”

"Mick." Ian tried again, his voice close to breaking. 

God damn it.

He tried to reach towards Mickey's hips, which caused him to back away again—as if the position was unnatural to them. Ian was starting to get terrified of the lack of impact his touch had on him; that was never the case. 

“Baby, sit down, please…”

The shorter man muttered a pained fuck and looked at Ian with glassy eyes for the first time.

"No, you asshole, you don't get to just—" Mickey burst as he threw his bag on the floor, sprawling poorly folded boxers and his toothbrush. His attention remained on icy blue eyes as his husband firmly shoved him backward.

"You don't get to—to tell me I'm worth shit and I do nothing when all of my life, all I've done— all of me,"— shove—" I've given your ginger ass. I've given up everything, hell I—fuck, " one last shove, breaking in a bitter chuckle.

Ian hated himself right then and there.

Mickey had played his part in the fight but never suggested leaving. And well, Ian, he needed a lifetime to make up for the reputation he had earned for doing just that.

They were married. They were safe. They couldn't afford to be kids about these things anymore. Ian didn't want to leave or Mickey to go, well, ever. He just happened to be a dumbass and sometimes bad at this whole marriage thing.

He took all the extra shoving that came shortly after he stayed quiet.

Mickey was ready to keep shoving and insulting him, to keep hurting him like Ian had done him yet again. Ian swiftly grabbed his tattooed knuckles before the following impact, catching Mickey by surprise.

"I know, breathe—I know," Ian stated slowly.

Mickey looked exasperated. That's all he was getting back from his piece-of-shit husband?

No fucking way. He had to leave before he beat the crap out of something.

"You know what, bitch? You know nothing. "

Mickey took a giant step back. He was about to say something too painful, anything to stab back, but the words couldn't leave his lips. Instead, he looked back at Ian with those eyes. The ones that made Ian understand he had fucked up, again, deeply.

The ginger's stomach dropped—he hadn't seen that stare since he chose not to cross the border.

“Fuck this.”

Mickey reached down to get his bag and attempted to storm off once and for all.

He wasn't fast enough.

Ian swiftly grabbed him by the waist with one hand, keeping him in place. It was embarrassing how easily he would swoon into his husband's touch.

He tried to squirm away with little success. Ian was significantly taller, so he was at a disadvantage.

"The fuck, Gallagher?" 

He was so pissed off, yet, Ian led him. His husband kept a stronger hold on his waist and guided him to the kitchen. Despite Mickey's cursing, huffing, and punching at his chest, he was maneuvered on top of a kitchen counter. He tried to protest one last time by closing his legs, but Ian had already wiggled his way between them. Motherfucker.

"Fuck you—" Mickey spit out, but it came out softer than intended.

“Mickey.”

"You fucking asshole," he hissed. "I'm going to kick your-"

Ian had to be fast. He took hold of those thighs he adored, pulled them forward so they wrapped around his waist, and pressed him impossibly close to his chest. The kicking stopped.

"Gallagher —" he groaned.

Content with his grip on his husband, he traced his hands back to Mickey's back, took the coat off of him with little resistance, and lifted the back of his oversized tee, hands meeting the skin. The initial grumble forming in Mickey's lips turned into an involuntary whine within seconds. Whatever resistance Mickey had left seized as soon as Ian pressed him forward by his behind so that he was sitting at the border of the counter, centimeters away from him.

His palms rubbed soothing circles on Mickey's lower back, causing the smaller man's face to soften significantly. The feeling of Ian's palms against the little trail of hairs on his back had him tingling.

"E—," it was clear defeat.

Taking advantage of this newfound calmness, Ian allowed himself to rest his forehead against Mickey's. It was no secret that he adored the closeness. It felt so intimate yet so banal. The smaller boy closed his eyes to regain a little power; any of his senses back would do.

He found himself sighing instead.

Ian was determined to give him everything he needed to make him safe again. The thought of Mickey leaving had erased every single thought on his mind. His heart was racing, aching to make him understand—he couldn't leave their home, their marriage, their story, over a knife?—there was no fucking way Ian was going to let that happen.

The silence turned warmer, but Mickey's heart was still beating so fast that Ian didn't lift his head from his forehead, and his hands didn't stop those tingly circles until he felt his husband's heartbeat begin to slow. Neither dared to open their eyes just yet— it would mean talking, and there was no clarity as to what that would lead to. 

Minutes later, Ian couldn't bear the growing worry and looked up to find his husband with mellow eyes already open.

He had to say something.

"Please hear me out, don't just pack a fucking bag and—" 

Yeah, he couldn't even finish the thought.

Mickey said nothing, didn't move or stare at Ian either. It was unbearable.

“Look at me, Mick.”

Their faces were close enough that Mickey could feel him breathing. Mickey wanted to fight, to leave. Anger still ran through his veins, but Ian knew precisely how to calm him down, and he could not do much about it.

"What if I don't wanna look at your stupid face?"

Ian smiled at that. Because there he was. His eyebrows were scrunched, and he was pale. Ian couldn't call victory, but this was his sign that he wanted him to keep pushing.

"That's ok, "soothing, "love staring at you anyways."

Mickey rolled his eyes. Got him.

He got closer, close enough that one hand remained on his waist, but the other moved to his jaw. It was tight against Ian's hand— but he did not attempt to pull away. The grip made Mickey face him momentarily.

"You wanna know something?"

Maybe, he thought.

"There is nothing worse that could happen to me, ever, than you choosing to walk out on me."

And, for the first time, icy eyes met darker ones— gentler intentions behind both.

"You wanted me to leave. You said you would leave; spare me the bullshit, Gallagher. "

Ian felt the strain of his vocal cords against his palm. His words felt real, but Mickey was leaning in and not away from his touch, so he continued giving him that reassurance he knew he was asking for.

"Mick…y'know I didn't mean leaving like this," his thumb extended from the hold on his jaw and softly grazed his lower Lip. "I've loved you all my life; why would you think that?"

He was playing all his cards.

"Don't—you know why."

And yeah, ok, he deserved that.

"Hear me out?" 

Nothing. 

"Please?"

A nod, non-committal. Whatever.

"I meant a walk, some space, going to a different part of the apartment—not to pack and leave me, baby." 

The endearing term wasn't used lightly, but when it was, Mickey's knees would turn to jelly.

The ginger's lips pursed up as he settled on pushing Mickey's hair back for a few seconds.

"Proud of you for packing a bag, though."

Mickey shuffled on the counter, his cheeks turning rosy. He parted his mouth slightly at Ian's soft touch. A slight trace led to his chin, which turned into unavoidable eye contact yet again.

Ian saw so much of his younger self right there: the bravado, the eyebrow scrunch, such a familiar and distant memory of the version of his husband he once loved. Mickey was so fucking beautiful.

"I need you with me, you know that, right?"

Mickey nodded—again. It wasn't a secret that it took a lot to build his trust but very little to break it.

Ian's thumb returned to his bottom lip, and his other hand moved to his jaw.

It had him melting. 

"I will simply not survive it. I can't do anything, I can't—if I don't get to have you. Need your insufferable ass always to come back home to me—I will give up everything, fucking everything— don't give a shit about anything else. "

And there was no denying he meant the absolute shit out of it.

"You're my husband, Mickey."

And maybe it was the sun beaming behind his grown-out ginger hair, his fuzzier beard, or the eye bags from early delivery shifts he took so Mickey could rest. He looked so scared—so wrecked at the thought of Mickey ending things. 

This fucker. 

"I know, jerk ." the smaller man mumbled. His hands were freezing. His lips felt chapped. When was the last time he had a conversation with Ian that wasn't sexual or work-related? He couldn't remember.

Ian brushed his nose against his temple, where some ebony hair rested. The ginger looked so hazy—ethereal under the sun.

Mickey couldn't fight the constant urge to want him everywhere. 

Ian knew, felt that need, and moved to press his lips softly against his husband's forehead, healing. Lips reached down his eyelids and cheeks, trailing down to his neck, "m'sorry" being mumbled against all over his skin. His knuckles whitened against the marble tiles when Ian's hands crowded his waist and belly.

When his husband started moving down, hissing against the most tender spot under his jugular, a moan betrayed him. Ian knew how hard Mickey got when he got him to submit like this. His touch was always so electrifying when he held the power, even when they were still fighting.

He was a simple man—not long after Ian settled on his neck and started marking him, he reached out instinctively to unzip his pants.

"Get this shit off—"

Ian stopped him.

"No, hold up, mick-"

"The fuck you mean no-" a grip on his waist shushed him.

Grounding.

"Wanna take you slowly, make it feel good— take my time with you, yeah?"

And god, did the husky tone do things to him. He was feeling extra sensitive, so he complied. Ian thanked him and kissed the right side of his mouth.

"Y'know how much I love you?"

Hot breath mumbled against his mouth.

“Mmh?”

He hummed as he traveled down and peppered soft kisses on Mickey's collarbone— holy shit, he was so deliciously heavy against him.

"Need you to know," kiss, "so sorry I said all that," nibbling, "didn't mean that shit, let me take care of you—wanna take care of you, can I?" fingertips clenched to his waist.

They were both entering that subspace that was so uniquely theirs, so when Mickey spread his legs further and Ian palmed at his crotch, whispering how he loved him this needy, he accepted that he wasn't winning this one. 

The fuck was he supposed to do? 

Ian jerked his pants down, boxers with them, biting milky thighs, making it deliciously overwhelming. When he tried closing his legs at the exposure, the taller man forced his legs open, pressed them against his chest, and started lapping at his rim. That was it for putting up a fight. 

The afternoon was just them and skin, pulsing and needy.

Ian showered him with compliments, eating him out through his first orgasm. Fucking him so good on top of the counter, praising him as he came untouched. Moments later, when he came inside, he indulged in how deliriously full he was—no thoughts, just them. Whatever composure he had left was lost when Ian proceeded to manhandle him into all fours fully and fingered him while he was filled with cum.

"Arch that pretty back for me, baby, that's right, ass up, so good for me—can't live without seeing my cum drip down your thighs like this". 

The praise echoed through his brain. 

He came again.

They went to bed only after multiple rounds. Mickey apologized for his shitty comments on the delivery situation; Ian ranted about Lip, and he laughed his ass off when he heard what happened with the poodle.

By midnight, they both tried to stay on their side of the bed, not out of pettiness but out of comfort; Ian was sweatier than usual. The moon seemed to have something against Mickey because that bitch was shining so bright again that it was blinding him—he couldn't sleep. That and Ian's toss and turning had him fully awake past midnight.

"Why are you so warm, E?" 

A few seconds went by. The heating grumbled, a few cars honking before Ian spoke up. 

"Don't know, guess'm kinda anxious."

Mickey turned towards him. Ginger locks were facing the ceiling. He stood up instinctively to get a cold towel— maybe his husband had a fever. But Ian stopped him; he didn't look sick, he looked disheveled. Mickey reached out to cup his face.

"Want me to turn down the heating for a bit?"

Compromise.

“Want you.”

Above anything, devotion.

Mickey shuffled to the middle of their bed and landed on Ian's chest. Fucking after every fight wasn't as efficient as it was when they were kids.

“All good?” Ian held him so close he could barely make out the muffled response by his hair. "Repeat that, mumbles." 

"—love you so much, Mick."

It was one of the only things Ian Gallagher was sure of in his lifetime.

"Love your needy ass too, E, y'know that."

It was the only thing Mickey Milkovich was sure of in his lifetime. 

He reached for his husband's hand; they intertwined on instinct. Mickey recognized his grimace—he shuffled a little closer. 

"Won't leave my home, man. Can't do that shit, hasn't worked before."

Despite popular belief, Mickey could provide his fair share of reassurance. It was a promise he had kept for years. 

"You were about to leave our house."

"Who's talking about the house? Home. I mean you, dipshit."

And that was precisely what their journey had proven to both of them. They were so afraid of having to go through it again.

They might've both been cranky, Ian might've been an asshole, and Mickey, at times, was overly sensitive, but they would never leave what they got.

They could try—hell, they had tried to—but it was useless. It was everything they had fought for, sobbed for, and ached for; nothing would take that away from them. So, when he didn't let Mickey move out of his chest or sight for much of that night, they both understood why. It brought back memories they wanted to bury so deep in the ground, hoping the smell of soil would one day erase.

When he woke up the following day, Ian had already unpacked his back. Breakfast was on the table. He kissed him good morning.

It would be ok.

He could get used to the post-fight pampering occasionally, though.