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It was a rare lazy morning in the Gallagher-Milkovich household. Ian was sprawled out on the couch, still in his boxers, sipping on a cup of coffee while scrolling through his phone. Mickey, meanwhile, was making breakfast — or at least attempting to, the clatter of pans and a string of muttered curses echoing from the kitchen.
“I swear to God, Ian,” Mickey’s voice called, “if you don’t get in here and explain why we’re out of butter, I’m divorcing your ass!”
Ian didn’t look up from his phone. “It’s on the grocery list. You could’ve picked some up yesterday instead of standing in the snack aisle for half an hour arguing with yourself over candy flavors. Besides, we’re not out of butter, Mickey. There’s almond butter in the cabinet.”
The sound of a drawer slamming shut was followed by Mickey storming into the living room, a spatula in one hand and a jar in the other. He held it up like it was evidence in a trial.
“This?” Mickey asked, shaking the jar for emphasis. “This isn’t butter. This is a crime.”
Ian finally looked up, barely able to hold back his grin. “It’s healthier. I got it for smoothies, remember?”
“Don’t try that oh-but-it's-healthier bullshit with me, Gallagher.” Mickey pointed the spatula at him like it was a deadly weapon. “Fuckin' almond butter, really? What are we, a couple of goddamn yoga moms?”
“Oh, come on, Mick. You can’t even taste the difference once they’re cooked.”
“I bet I could!” Mickey huffed. "Whatever, this is not going in my pancakes.”
Ian stood, making his way over to Mickey with that grin that drove the man absolutely nuts. “So… what’s the plan, then? You gonna run out and buy real butter for your pancakes?”
Mickey’s glare hardened. “Don’t be fucking stupid. I’m just saying you could’ve gotten the good stuff instead of this overpriced hippie garbage.”
Ian strolled into the kitchen, leaving Mickey to follow him like a storm cloud. “Alright, fine,” Ian said. “You make one with the almond butter, one without, and we’ll see if you can tell the difference.”
Mickey scoffed. “What is this, a fuckin' cooking show? I already know the difference, Gallagher — it’s that one tastes like a pancake and the other tastes like cardboard and sadness.”
Ian chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m not dramatic,” Mickey snapped, setting the jar down with a loud thud. “I’m realistic. Pancakes are sacred. You don’t mess with them.”