Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mickey’d never been a fan of Christmas.

Between the annoyingly saccharine songs that played nonstop everywhere he went, total strangers constantly saying “Merry Christmas”—expectin’ him to smile like an idiot and say the fuckin’ thing back—and his childhood memories of gifts given only to have them stolen by that asshole father of his, Mickey wasn’t remotely interested in the season of joy. Fuck that.

Add insult to injury, he now was chained to a husband on a mission. Ian’s annual “Make Mickey Love Christmas” campaign had become more intense with each passing year, and Mickey was just happy Christmas had come and gone. He had survived yet another year.

He had awakened the morning after Christmas, in the Gallagher home, incredibly stiff from a long night without the warmth of blankets or his husband’s arms around him. Instead, he’d had tiny feet kicking him at all hours of the night. Debbie had picked up a late night shift waitressing so when Franny had woken up in the wee hours, she was completely unwilling to return to her own bed—stubbornly determined to sleep with her uncles.

This was by no means the first time it happened. Franny made any number of excuses to spend time with her “favorite” uncle Mickey, and as much as he wasn’t a fan of Christmas, he was definitely a fan of the littlest redhead.

Eventually, he and Ian relented and the determined little girl climbed in right between them. And throughout the night, little by little, she somehow managed to steal most of the sheets, kick Mickey relentlessly, and almost push him off the bed.

So as Mickey headed down the stairs to the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes with one hand while scratching his balls with the other, he was in a mood. A mood which didn’t improve when his eyes fell upon an empty coffee pot.

“Did you seriously take the last cup?” he groused at his husband who was scrolling on his phone while happily drinking away from a mug in which Mickey could only presume was the last of the precious coffee.

“Well good morning to you too, my grumpy grinch.” Ian was a little too cheerful for this early in the morning as far as Mickey was concerned. And if Ian didn’t give up that coffee—what was meant to be Mickey’s coffee—then he was a dead man. Devoted husband be damned.

“Hand it over, Ace,” he said, grabbing for the cup.

“Sure Babe, whatever you want,” Ian placated as he passed the mug on over, and grabbed Mickey’s tank to reel him in for a quick kiss. “But there ain’t a lot left.”

“Haven't even had my Goddamn coffee and you're startin' up with that babe bullshit. Which we agreed was a no-go.”

“Just drink the stupid coffee. It’s not worth tryin’ to talk to you when you’re like this, Babe.”

Mickey just grunted, more than a little annoyed but without any more energy for an early morning bickering session. Instead, he set his sights on downing the dregs of his elixir of life, realizing that when Ian said there wasn't a lot left, he actually meant there was, at most, three cold gulps. Three gulps that were, worst of all, without milk or sugar, which in and of itself was sacrilege.

And all of a sudden, the energy he needed for an early morning bitch fest was solidly in place.

“You fuckin’ serious? That was nothin’. And it tasted like piss! So I’m gonna need you to stop lookin’ at your phone, put some fuckin’ clothes on, and go buy me some coffee pronto.” He finished it all off with a wave of his hand to indicate Ian’s dismissal.

“How ‘bout you head back upstairs, put on some clothes, and I’ll make you something to eat before we start shoveling.” A bemused smile plastered across Ian’s face.

“This isn’t even our house. Why are we fuckin’ shovellin’? Goddamn Chicago winters. Remind me why we live here, again.” Mickey knew full well he was acting like a petulant child but he was tired, and he’d kept it together for all of Christmas, and was it really too much to ask for a hot cup of coffee?

“Mick, go look out the window, would ya?”

The know-it-all look on Ian’s face was not lost on Mickey as he headed over to the window by the kitchen. And all he saw was white. Snow had blanketed every surface as far as the eye could see. He might have noticed the beauty of it if he hadn’t been so pissed that it meant he would be waiting for his coffee for the foreseeable future.

“Open the door, Mick. You'll get a better view of all the snow we actually got last night.”

Mickey grunted once again before stomping over to the front door which he aggressively flung open. Dismay hit him in the gut as he realized he couldn’t see any of the porch stairs—they were all completely buried. His best guess was there was at least three feet of that stinkin’ white stuff on the ground. Fuck, he hated shoveling. This was all Christmas’s fault!

Stomping his way past Ian, he headed back upstairs, yelling over his shoulder, “Get off your ass and put some clothes on. We have work to do.”

*******
Fifteen minutes later both men were bundled up in their winter coats, beanies, scarves, and gloves. Grabbing a shovel, Mickey went to work clearing off the porch stairs while Ian started the process of locating the walkway. The snow was even higher in the front lawn than either had realized, the wind apparently having blown it so it was higher on their side of the street.

“Better stay up there, Mick. Snow’s so high I might lose ya in it.” That finally got a smile out of his husband.

“Fuck off. I ain’t that short. You’re just the Jolly Green Giant.”

“Yeah, yeah. We both know I am only a giant where it matters. And that doesn’t help with shovelin’, does it?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, feeling the weight of the wet snow tug at his shovel. “Fuckin’ cold man. Why the fuck haven’t we moved down South already?”

“‘Cause you don’t actually like the heat and I burn like a motherfucker—your words, not mine.”

“So maybe we move North then?”

“Mickey, do you know what’s north of us? Canada’s north of us.”

“Gotta be warmer than here.”

“No, it doesn’t ‘gotta’. Canada’s colder than here. And it's another fuckin’ country. Ya know we’re ex-cons so they won’t just let us move on in.”

“Well fuck those Canadians then. We’re fuckin’ lovely.”

Mickey paused to watch the material of Ian's coat pull against his shoulders, trying to decide if he could coax his husband into abandoning this fool's quest in favor of some morning head. It seemed a far better use of their time and energy.

“Just keep shovelin’—you’ll be hot n’ sweaty in no time,” Ian said, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. “And ya know how much I love it when you get sweaty.”

“Yeah, you know your sniffin’ me when I’m rank is weird, right?”

Ian rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond. Mickey was full of shit—he loved it.

Mickey rubbed his gloved palms over his cheeks. “Why the fuck are we doing this again?” he grumbled. “This is why we don’t live in a damn house. I hate this shit. And where the fuck’s the rest of your family? It’s not like you don’t have a million of 'em floatin’ all over the fuckin’ place.”

Ian put a gloved hand up to stop his husband’s rant.

“Lip and the family left right after dinner—you’d remember if you hadn’t gotten wasted on eggnog.”

“Not my fault that shit’s good.”

“And Carl and Debs both worked late for holiday pay—so they're still sleepin’. Got no clue where Liam is though.”

“Still don’t explain why we’re doin’ it.”

Ian started ticking off the reasons on his fingers.

“Well, first of all, our ambulance is totally buried so we can’t get home without shovelin’. Second, you don’t do mornings without coffee, so we’re shovelin’ so I can get your stupid coffee.”

“Don’t be dissin’ my coffee,” Mickey groused.

“I’m not dissin’ your coffee, Mr. Crankier-Than-Shit-Until-You’ve-Had-Some.”

“But I do got one more reason for ya—best one yet.” Ian waggled his eyebrows. At least that’s what he seemed to be trying to do. His eyebrows weren’t nearly as flexible as his husband’s perfectly shaped ones.

“Okay, Carrot Top,” Mickey said dryly, “give it to me.”

“We can work off last night’s dinner.”

“Exercise? Fuckin’ exercise?" His own eyebrows shot up, putting Ian's to shame. "The best reason you got is exercise in the freezin’ cold? Shit, Gallagher, I think the fuckin' cold melted your brain.”

“Yeah, burn off all that fat and calories so we can be energizer bunnies tonight.” Ian pretended to wink lasciviously at Mickey.

Only his husband would want to shovel so he could get his exercise in. Not that he was complain’ really, since he loved those muscles wrapped around him, poundin’ him, and…

“So y’er tryin’ to tell me that the sex’ll be better ‘cause we’re shovelin’. Maybe for you. For me there’s only one reason for shovelin’—so you can get me my coffee.”

“If that’s your one and only reason, then stop being a princess, hurry your ass down from the porch and start workin’ on this walkway with me.”

“Whatever” Mickey grumbled, rolling his eyes, before remembering that as much as he didn’t like snow—or shovelin’ it to be more precise—it made a fuckin’ awesome weapon. And he just so happened to be perfectly positioned on the stairs to pummel his husband before the dumbass even knew what hit him.

“What the fuck!” Ian shrieked, as at least a half a dozen tightly packed snowballs pummeled his back like machine gun fire.

Whipping around, Ian barrelled towards Mickey, bellowing, “You’re a stinkin’ asshat Mickey Milkovich.” He then scooped Mickey up over his shoulder and proceeded to toss him like a small child into one of his newly created snow piles.

Mickey lay stunned for a second, getting his bearings before launching his next attack at his husband. But Ian was ready this time.

It had been a while since they’d had a good wrestling match and they put their all into it. Mickey was faster, meaner, and sneakier in his attacks. While Ian was just stronger. A lot stronger.

And neither had let their fists fly in a long time—so they reveled in it. Battering each other's bodies the way they had when they were teens. But as was so often the case with them, a little blood and a lot of testosterone rapidly morphed into a makeout scene (and not a PG one) in the middle of the snow-covered front yard. Lips aggressively crashed together, tongues breaching the depths of each other's warm, impatient mouths. Gloves went flying as hands dove into jeans that were suddenly way too tight and confining. It was not long before two very pasty asses were seeing the light of day.

It was Debbie, standing on the front porch in her ratty robe, hands on both hips, who brought them back to reality. “Will you two idiots finish up the shoveling? And pull your Goddamn pants back up. Franny and me gotta run some errands.”

Breathing heavily, but with a big ole smile on his face, Ian yelled, “Yeah Debs, shouldn’t take too long,” and got back on his feet. And then, like a gentleman, Ian reached a hand down to drag his panting husband back to his feet.

But Mickey wasn’t havin’ it—he wasn’t done mauling his husband. So instead of letting himself be pulled to his feet, Mickey reached out two grabby hands to pull Ian back to him. The momentum of Ian moving towards him sent Mickey, who had almost been upright, into a freefall backwards onto the section of the walkway that had already been shoveled.

He went down ass first, hands holding tight to his husband’s jacket. And Ian, with all of his hard earned muscle, crashed right on top of him.

It was then that the pain started. A lancing pain shot through Mickey’s tailbone, so intense that he didn’t immediately make a sound, just gasped. If Ian hadn’t been an EMT in a previous life, he might have been phased. But he’d seen this kind of injury plenty of times.

Pushing himself onto his hands, and raising his body up above his husband’s, Ian leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Mickey’s forehead, “Well that’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“Fuuuuuuuuck you,” Mickey groaned. “Why are you always injurin’ me, man?” The words came out in a whimper—a sound Mickey would only ever let Ian hear.

“You're gonna be fine, Mick. It’s not like you haven’t gotten yourself fucked up plenty.”

“Yeah, but I think you broke my ass this time.” Mickey stared up at Ian, eyes filled with pain, looking for some serious consoling from his husband.

“You probably just bruised your tailbone, Babe. We’ll get you some pain meds and you’ll be good to go. You got plenty of padding,” Ian’s hand reached out to grab a meaty chunk of his husband’s ass.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Mickey batted Ian’s hand away and curled himself into a ball. “Keep your fuckin’ big ass paws off me. What part of ‘broken ass’ does your idiot brain not understand? And stop calling me fuckin’ Babe or I’ll rip your Goddamn tongue out.”

It had been a decade since Mickey and Ian had first started hooking up. A decade of learning what made the other one tick, what made the other happy, what got the other pissed. When Mickey was hurting, all he wanted to do was be babied. Because he never had until he met Ian. And even though he’d never admit that to anyone, the redhead had figured it out a long time ago.

As he rubbed his husband’s back gently, Ian asked, “Ready to get up, Mick? Get ya back into the house?”

“You ain’t touchin’ me,” Mickey growled.

“Gonna lie out here and freeze your ass off, are ya? Should I pick you up and carry you through the front door like a blushing bride?”

“I don’t fuckin’ blush like your dopey ginger ass. An’ you ain’t carryin’ me anywhere. Don’t trust you not to drop me.” He gave Ian the evil eye, knowing he was being more than a bit ridiculous. But sue him, he was in a shitload of pain.

Ever the patient partner, because there had to be one, Ian continued to rub his husband’s back, which always seemed to calm Mickey down. It was practically a Pavlovian response.

“Why don’t we do this?” Ian cajoled. “I help you get to your feet, we hobble you into the house, and then I run a nice warm bath. And if you’re a good boy, I’ll even grab you some of your favorite “funny” gummies so you can chill. How does that sound, Baby?”

Mickey’s eyes practically bugged out. “Fuck you Gallagher, I ain’t no one’s baby, an’ ya know that. Why are you tryin’ to start shit when I am lying here in pain? Just remember how you treated me the next time you want to get on me!”

Ian heaved a great sigh before squatting down so he could look his husband right in the eye. Pointing a finger into Mickey’s chest and using his sternest voice, he ordered “You either let me pull you up right now or I’m haulin’ your little munchkin ass over my shoulder. Do I need to start a countdown?”

Mickey rolled his eyes but finally conceded. The pain, and the reality that he had been lying, pretty pathetically, on the frozen ground for the better part of ten minutes, had leached away any semblance of pride he had left.

“Fuckin’ fine, I suppose you can pull me up, Gallagher. Feel like a Goddamn popsicle.”

The full-on moans and groans that followed heedlessly from Mickey’s mouth, as he was hauled gracelessly back to his feet, were only moderately embarrassing. Ian’s joke, meant to distract his husband from pain as they hobbled back in, was a whole other story.

“You know I really like popsicles, right Mick?”

“Stop your yappin’ Gallagher,” Mickey grumbled as they slowly made their way up the porch stairs.

Ignoring his husband’s words entirely, Ian continued, “Well, since it's not summer, I don’t think there'll be any popsicles in the freezer.”

“You gotta point?”

“You could be my popsicle, Mick. I could give you a good lickin’.” Ian goofily ran his tongue over his lips and wiggled his eyebrows.

For a second, Mickey paused and thought about it. It was a rare day that he’d pass on Ian’s incredibly flexible tongue at his beck and call. But today was that rare day. The pain he was feeling wasn’t goin’ anywhere fast.

“Nah, gonna pass on that. Ya broke me and now you gotta fix me. Now, run me a bath so I can start meltin’.”

And that’s just what Ian did.

********

After a nice long soak in the more or less clean Gallagher tub, and having eaten far more gummies than was advisable—one of the growers had gifted them quite the collection of “holiday” treats—Mickey passed out on his stomach in the bedroom he and Ian used to share before they moved to the West Side.

When Mickey woke back up it was dark outside. For a moment he was confused, and automatically reached a hand across the bed with the expectation of finding his husband’s perfect-for-him body next to him. Instead he found the other side unsettlingly empty.

Disoriented and having forgotten his embarrassingly inelegant fall, Mickey started to roll over. The high-pitch screech that followed, as he was flooded with a pain he truly believed was akin to childbirth (it wasn’t), was one he would hear about for years to come.

Though it felt like a lifetime to Mickey, Ian appeared in the doorway almost immediately. While Mickey would never admit it to a soul, he loved the concerned look, albeit mild, that had finally appeared on his husband’s face. About Goddamn time, Mickey thought to himself.

“How ya’ feelin’ Mick?” Ian asked, as he carefully sat on the edge of the bed, and began running his hand through Mickey’s hair, just the way he liked it.

Letting out a huge sigh to make sure it was clear to Ian that he was suffering, Mickey responded morosely, “What do ya think man? Feel like shit.”

Mickey was expecting the onslaught of babying to begin. But apparently, he was failing at sounding sufficiently injured because Ian’s eyes began to roam over his body. Those green eyes honed in on Mickey’s backside, a common occurrence in their household. And while said backside was completely hidden under a sheet, Mickey knew full well his redhead was appreciating the plump outline his currently broken ass presented rather than focusing on the fact that Mickey was in pain.

Normally, Mickey would have preened but he was still very much in pain and his husband didn’t seem to get that. “Those beady little eyes of yours need to stop staring at my ass. Think you really fucked somethin’ up—and not in the good way.” While Mickey’s voice had been pissy initially, it now sounded plain pitiful. As far as he was concerned, it had been a crappy day from start to finish.

Ian looked a tad guilty, but only a tad, when his eyes found their way back to Mickey’s face.

“Come down and eat then?” Ian suggested. “Finished the shovellin’ and picked up your favs. Got ya coffee, snickers, and pizza rolls. Or I can make you a plate of leftovers.”

Mickey sighed, feeling exhausted even though he had just woken up. “Can’t we just head home? I want to be in my apartment, in my bed, without your crazy-ass family always comin’ and goin’.”

Mickey felt the bed dip as Ian laid down next to him, placing a hand on Mickey’s upper back and rubbing absentmindedly. It was as much of a habit as it was a comfort. “Can’t go home ‘til tomorrow. Roads aren’t plowed yet.”

“This fuckin’ day. This is why I hate Christmas. Everything sucks,” Mickey said, as angry exhausted tears started to flood his eyes. He shoved his face into the pillow before turning his face away from Ian.

“It's not even Christmas, Mick. The holiday has come and gone. And you survived it.” Ian leaned over to lay the sweetest of kisses on the back of Mickey’s neck. “I know Christmas brings up tons of shit for you. And I know my family’s a lot. But each year gets a little bit better, right?”

Mickey harrumphed loudly. But a few seconds later, he turned his head so he could look into his husband’s loving green eyes. “I only put up with this shit for you, you know. Only you.”

“Yeah…yeah,” Ian’s voice was soft and sweet, “I know that. And I love you, Mick. And since we’re doing this whole sickness and health thing, I feel like I need to get you downstairs, drug you up, so I can dick you down later.”

Even though just two seconds earlier Mickey had been having a serious pity party, his eyebrows shot up in excitement. “What kinda drugs were you thinkin’?”

“Ibuprofen. I was thinkin’ ibuprofen.”

“Well, I ain’t gettin’ out of bed for that.”

“Nope, you’re gettin’ out of bed so I can take care of your broken ass.”

“Are ya talking about takin’ care of just my ass—’cause it ain’t up for that right now—or takin’ care of all of me?”

“Baby, I will do anything you want me to do,” Ian said, more than a tad too sweetly, carefully getting Mickey back out of the bed. The fucker probably knew if he irked Mickey a little—which really didn’t take much—he wouldn’t be able to focus so much on the pain.

“For fuck’s sake Ian, how many fuckin’ times do I need to tell you that I ain’t never been—and won’t ever be—your ‘baby’?”

“Yes, Baby.” A devious smirk was now firmly planted on Ian’s face.

But Mickey was movin’, even if he was bitchin’, and they made their way slowly downstairs where Ian fed him, pampered him, and reminded him how much he was loved.

********

Mickey woke up the next morning to sticky little hands not so gently squeezing his face. “Wake up, Uncle Mickey. Momma says you needa get up.”

Mickey started to speak but all that came out of his mouth was a groan. Ever his protector, Ian reached over his husband to bat Franny’s hand away. “Tell your Mom we’ll be down soon. I’ll get Uncle Mick up.”

“Promise?” Franny asked, “Don’t want Momma angry.”

“Tell her we’ll be down in fifteen. Now let us get up, kiddo.”

“Is Uncle Mickey okay?” Franny was more than mildly in love with him, and though he would not have admitted it to anyone, he was pretty enchanted with her too.

“Fine, squirt,” Mickey said, his voice gruff. Shaking himself in an attempt to wake up only resulted in more embarrassing groaning. “Just hurt my back a little.”

“I’ll make it betta!” Franny said, reaching her hands toward him.

Mickey’s eyes bugged out with alarm as those little hands headed straight for his back.

“I’ll rub it like Momma rubs mine,” Frannie crooned excitedly.

But before Franny could even touch Mickey again, Ian’s hand surged forward, and a firm “Hands off, kiddo,” stopped Franny in her tracks, her face confused and her eyes welling up with tears.

Before the sobs could start, Ian popped out of bed and shepherded Franny back out of the room. “Maybe you can rub Uncle’s Mickey’s back later. We’ll have to see, okay?”

“I just wanna make Uncle Mickey feel betta.” Franny implored, still looking like tears were just a heartbeat away. There was nothing like tears to make her uncles want to run for the hills.

“I know, kiddo. But you might hurt him by accident and you don’t wanna do that, right?”

Carefully nodding her head in response, Franny asked worriedly, “Am I in trouble?”

“No, kiddo, just tell your mom we’ll be down soon.” With that, Franny raced back down the stairs.

Since Ian had successfully garnered a fifteen minute reprieve from dealing with the realities of the day, he carefully crawled over to his side of the bed, slipping back under the covers and moving his hand to the top of Mickey’s back.

“How ya’ feelin’?” There was a soothing lilt to Ian’s voice that made Mickey feel a tiny bit better. Maybe his husband was finally starting to take his injury seriously.

In a plaintive voice, he responded, “Fuck Ian, how’d ya think I’m feelin’?”

“Better than yesterday?” Ian asked hopefully.

“Don’t think so. Don’t wanna get up and find out.”

Ian started to move his hand down Mickey’s back to test how much pain Mickey was really in.

As soon as Ian’s hand got right above his tailbone, Mickey started to scramble away, with a harsh, “Keep your fuckin’ hands off me!” falling from his lips. And then, with a complete lack of awareness of where his body was in relation to the edge of the bed, Mickey hurled himself ass-first out of it, crashing onto the floor with a dull thud—an embarrassingly dull thud.

Tears flooded his eyes as pain shot through his body and he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. Mickey didn’t think he’d ever felt so much pain in his life—and he had been fuckin’ shot two or three times, had the shit beat outta him so many times he’d lost count, and done plenty of idiotic things that had left countless scars over his body.

“Mick, you okay down there?” Ian’s head popped out over the side of the bed, actin’ all innocent as if he wasn’t the reason Mickey found himself writhing in pain. Sickness and health, what a crock of bullshit. His husband was clearly out to get him.

“Moanin’ down here. What the fuck do you think?”

“Can I please look and see how bruised you are?”

“Fuck no.”

“At least pull up your shirt so I can see.”

“Not movin’.”

“Should I get ya some drugs?”

“‘Course you should, dumbass. And ibuprofen don’t count. Don’t you even think of bringin’ me that shit.”

Completely ignoring his husband, Ian headed to the bathroom where he proceeded to grab some ibuprofen—and prepared to lovingly bully Mickey into taking it. But when he returned to the room, he found Mickey passed out on the floor.

Anyone without a parent like Frank would surely have found the situation unsettling. Instead, Ian clearly saw it as an opportunity to see what his husband’s backside actually looked like under his shirt.

“Mick,” Ian’s voice was quiet as he put a hand on Mickey’s shoulder and gently shook him.

Jerking awake, Mickey’s eyes quickly darted about until his blue ones connected with green. “What the fuck happened?”

“You passed out Mickey…”

Mickey looked at Ian confused.

“...after you fell out of the bed….”

Mickey continued to look like he wasn’t following.

“...from pain…” Ian finished. “I think you’ve been in more pain than I realized.”

Mickey shook his head. “Nah, Milkoviches only pass out from alcohol. I ain’t no pussy. I haven’t had any of the good stuff. Come to think of that, why haven’t you given me any of the good stuff? What kinda husband are you?” he whined pathetically.

“I’m the kinda husband that takes care of you even when you are bein’ a total pain in the ass.”

“Aye, it's not my fault my ass is in pain,” he said looking at Ian pointedly.

“Doesn’t matter whose fault it is, Mick.”

“Sure does, Smart Guy. You broke me, now ya gotta fix me.”

“And how you suggestin’ I do that?”

“You bein’ a fuckin idiot? Grab me some more of those ‘holiday gifts’ we got.”

“Think gettin’ you x-rayed at the walk-in is a better idea. You gotta lot of bruising and swelling.”

“But I ain’t gonna be walkin’.”

“Ha, ha. That’s a horrible joke, Mick.”

“You broke my ass, Ian. What do you expect of me?”

Rather than focus on the ‘he said, he said’ of who caused the ass-breaking debacle, Ian committed himself to getting his husband dressed and dragged out the door to see a doctor—or whatever medical professional he could find. “Come on, Baby,” he said, “Let’s get that ass of yours fixed…so I can break it in the way it deserves to be broken.”

********

Unfortunately, and much to Ian’s dismay, the surprise snow-storm had more or less shut down the City as far as the South Side was concerned. Even though it was two days after the snow had finished falling, the streets of the Gallagher hood still hadn’t been plowed and their ambulance was well hidden under a mountain of the frozen stuff. So getting to a walk-in wasn’t going to be any “walk in the park”.

But Ian was feeling guilty. He hadn’t realized quite how much pain Mickey was in. And after all of these years, he figured he probably should have read his husband better. He should have seen beyond the grumpiness that the holidays brought—which he knew all too well was really trauma and pain—and realized that in most regards, Mickey was tough as nails. So if he was saying he hurt, then he must really fuckin’ hurt.

That’s why instead of accepting that they couldn’t get to a walk-in today, Ian decided that even though the sidewalks were still in ridiculously shitty shape, they were gonna go old-school and start hoofin’ it.

Only problem was that Mickey could hardly walk—not because he was whimpering in pain anymore—but rather because he had taken things into his own hands. By the time Ian was ready to head out, he had a seriously stoned Mickey to manage. Getting him to consistently put one foot in front of the other was unrealistic at best and plain dangerous at worst. But man was he flirty!

Stoned Mickey was completely transfixed by everything Ian—his “stupidly pretty curls”, his “freckled alien skin”, his “9 inches of penis perfection”. Not only did words flow like water from Mickey’s loquacious lips, his hands were constantly on the move—grabbing Ian’s ass, trying to manhandle his dick, shoving gloved hands under Ian’s clothes to “ravage” his husband.

And Mickey was more than amenable to being carried, like a child, on Ian’s back where he could continue to let his hands wander where they may, with Ian thankful to the powers that be that his husband was still a tiny little monster.

********

After hauling Mickey’s “broken ass” on his back for eight long city blocks, Ian was tired. Mickey had been more than a handful. After the first three exhausting blocks, his husband made it abundantly clear that he had zero interest in walking and his enthusiasm for being handsy quickly morphed into off-key shout-singing. “Shot through the Ass, and You're to Blame,” a mutated rendition of Bon Jovi’s anthem, sprang forth with “Ass” being loudly—and appropriately—substituted for “Heart”, and Mickey making sure Ian was fully aware of the changed lyric by pressing his lips to Ian’s ear each time Mickey reached the chorus.

A couple of days with an unusually grumpy husband wasn’t Ian’s cup of tea or what he was used to, so he was completely enamoured with the ridiculousness of Mickey’s antics and found himself shout-singing right along with him. Just as loudly. Just as off-key.

After what seemed like hours, but was more like forty-five minutes, both men finally crossed the threshold of the crowded walk-in center. Even though the place was packed, Ian lucked out when he found the front desk clerk was someone he knew from his paramedic days.

They were quickly shepherded into a tiny exam room where Mickey could lay down on his stomach. Basic information was collected, vitals were checked, and an exam gown was provided with instructions to strip all the way down and not bother to tie it at the back. Mickey wasn’t remotely helpful at answering any of the questions, and when asked, Ian was embarrassed to admit that he honestly had no clue how many “holiday treats” Mickey had managed to inhale behind his back.

Once they were alone, Ian helped Mickey remove all his layers and get into the gown. “Like what you see, Big Guy?” Mickey practically batted his lashes in a blatant—and failing—attempt to seduce his highly entertained spouse.

“Never banged in a fuckin’ doctor’s office.” Mickey’s eyes floated around the room appraisingly. “Might as well cross that off the bucket list while we’re here.” Mickey wiggled his perfect eyebrows, his version of come hither, “An’ you can play the doctor,” Mickey continued, “you just gotta be thorough… got it? Want you to get those big mitts of yours all over me. Each and every fuckin’ inch.”

Ian carefully placed his hands at his husband’s waist—nowhere near any danger zone–and smiled down sweetly at him. “So explain to me how that ass of yours, you know the one that I supposedly broke, is gonna handle that, huh?”

Whatever Mickey was about to say was cut off by a quick rap on the exam room door, as a purple-haired, nose-pierced nurse entered. “Mr. Milkovich?” she said quickly, eyes down on her tablet as she pulled the door closed efficiently behind her.

It was a moment before she looked up to see that neither man was situated on the examination table and instead, they were embracing. She was not quick enough to school her face—her confusion was obvious, but she nonetheless barrelled on. “Which one of you is Mr. Milkovich?” she asked rapidly, glancing quickly between the two of them.

Mickey had instinctively started to pull away from Ian when the nurse entered the room, but Ian had immediately tightened his hold. It had become a longstanding pattern with them—both automatically stepping apart when they were no longer alone. But Ian had become determined to change that. He knew, sure as shit, that if he had a wife instead of a husband, he would never step away from them—would always keep his person as close as possible. And Mickey was his person, so Ian wasn’t going anywhere.

In response to the nurse’s question, Ian tipped his head toward his husband, “This is Mickey.”

“And who are you?” she asked pointedly. It probably was not the norm to find two adult men in an exam room together.

“The guy that bangs me six ways to Sunday,” Mickey responded cheekily, reaching out to grab Ian’s ass while winking at the more than mildly bewildered nurse.

Quickly swatting his hand away. “I’m Ian. His husband.”

If the nurse was surprised, she didn’t let it show on her face.

“So what brings you in, Mr. Milkovich?”

“Mickey, my name is Mickey. And my ass is broken–’s why I’m here. It’s his fault,” he said, looking accusingly at his husband.

“What do you mean by your ‘ass is broken’? You have issues with constipation?” Her look was hopeful—that would be an easy fix. His quick shake of the head led her to ask, much more cautiously, “You stick something in it?”

Mickey’s morose shake of the head was nothing short of comical. “Wanna stick something in it—actually I want him,” he pointed at his husband, “to be stickin’ somethin’ in it. That’s the problem.”

Looking profoundly confused once more, the nurse looked beseechingly at Ian in the hopes that he could shed some light on this situation. “What my husband means is he fell on his butt and hurt his tailbone. Think it’s probably just bruised but he has a lot of swelling and could use an x-ray to make sure he didn’t actually break—,”

Before Ian could finish, Mickey jumped in, “This fucker over here pushed me when we were shovelin’—and it ain’t even our fuckin’ house. Then the idiot insisted on touching me,” he looked at her conspiratorially, “because he can’t keep his hands off me, and I fell out of bed.” But he wasn’t done there. “And just so you know, ain’t the first time he’s hurt my ass. See that scar there—that’s from a bullet wound. His fault too. So you tell me, what’s he got against my ass? Seriously, for a gay man, there is some fuckin’ confusion at work here.”

Putting a hand over his husband’s mouth in an attempt to bring a halt to the nonsensical ravings, Ian calmly explained to the nurse, “You gotta excuse him. He really isn’t like this all the time—like really, ever,” he muttered distractedly, as Mickey tried to pry the hand away from his mouth, “pretty sure he ate a bunch of edibles, good ones, so he’s pretty toasted. But yeah, anyway, I think he could use an x-ray and maybe—-”

The nurse cut him off before Ian could finish his thought, “Well, let’s start out with an exam and see what’s—”

“I just wanna make sure he gets everything he needs,” Ian was speaking to the nurse but his eyes were trained on his husband’s the entire time. “Didn’t realize he was in so much pain and I feel bad and I probably should have brought him in sooner but the roads are a mess and I thought he was just whining and…..” Ian rambled, his guilt bubbling to the surface, the regret so clear in his voice it was impossible for Mickey to miss, even as stoned as he was.

“‘M fuckin’ fine, Carrot Top,” Mickey said gently, as he reached up to pat Ian’s cheek. “If my ass is fucked, we’ll just have to start usin’ yours.” Mickey’s voice was soft—a voice he only used with Ian. But then, without missing a beat, he made another handsy grab for his husband’s ass. And the hand swatting resumed once more in earnest.

The nurse cleared her throat loudly to get their attention, “Boys, boys! I am going to have to ask that,”...she looked at Ian trying to remember his name but coming up short instead said, “Carrot Top leave me to give Mr. Milkovich his exam.”

“But, I really think he needs an x-ray, and maybe a steroid injection, and…” Ian asserted, not willing to let Mickey out of his sight.

“If Mr. Milkovich needs an x-ray, we’ll get one ordered.” The nurse had none-to-gently begun the process of shepherding Ian back out of the exam room.

“But, I wanna be where he is…” Ian complained, clearly wanting nothing to do with leaving Mickey.

And Mickey could do nothing but watch as Ian was escorted back out of the exam room.

********

It was the middle of the afternoon by the time Mickey was brought out to the waiting room where he found Ian—totally zoned out as he scrolled on his phone. He hadn’t noticed Mickey had joined him, until Mickey tapped him on the shoulder.

“Let’s get goin’ man,” Mickey’s voice gave away his impatience. The gummies’ effects were long out of his system. They’d been at the walk-in for hours at that point and he was tired.

“Mick!” Ian exclaimed, jumping up to his feet, and wrapping his arms around his husband. Mickey’s impatience dissipated as he melted gratefully into Ian’s arms.

“Did they x-ray you? Do you have a fracture? Why didn’t they get me…been going nuts out here waiting.” Ian pulled back from Mickey a bit so he could look at his pale, exhausted face.

“Yeah, they x-rayed me. Will that make my balls shrivel up or somethin’? That shit can’t be good for ya… anyway, was waitin’ fuckin’ forever. Guess there wasn’t any actual damage—they just gave me a prescription that’s a bit stronger. An’ told me to not let your dumb ass touch me for a bit.”

“That’s it? Are ya sure? Should I go try to track down the nurse?” Ian’s eyes studied Mickey’s face intently, as if they’d been apart far longer than a couple of hours. Even though their years of separation were long behind them now, every time Ian looked at him like that, Mickey felt so seen—so loved–-so grounded in who they were together. There had been times over the years when Mickey'd wondered if Ian was as invested in their relationship as he was. But when Ian looked at Mickey like that, there never was a question.

“Nah, don’t need to,” Mickey said, snuggling in closer even though they couldn’t have been further from alone. “Now, how the fuck are we gettin’ back home?”

“Carl will be outside in a couple of minutes. He’s takin’ us back to our place. One of the many perks of having a cop in the family—he doesn’t have to wait for the roads to be cleared. And if I know you, Babe, you want nothin’ more right now than gettin’ into your own bed.”

Mickey pulled back in Ian’s arms.“What the fuck, Ian...fuckin’ stop calling me Babe, Baby, Babe-il-icious, Sir Babe-A-Lot!”

“Don’t think I’ve called you Babe-il-icious or Sir Babe-A-Lot. Addin’ them to my list.” Ian teased.

When his phone pinged a moment later, Ian announced, “Our chariot awaits!” And grabbed Mickey’s hand in his own, interlacing their fingers and steering them out the door. “Let’s go home, Babycakes.”

********

A week later.

“Mouth’s fuckin’ tired, Mick,” Ian grumbled, as he pushed himself back on his heels and wiped away the saliva dripping down his chin. Between the blowjobs, hand jobs, and eating his husband out (because Mickey loved it no matter what that pie hole of his claimed), Ian was tired—he figured he might get lockjaw any day now.

“That’ll teach ya, Tough Guy.” Mickey wiggled his brows jokingly, having initially taken full advantage of Ian’s determination to do all the work in the bedroom department until Mickey’s “pain in the ass” was well and truly gone. And since Ian’s favorite place to “cum home to” was off limits, Ian’s mouth had been working double-time.

“Told you I was good to go two days ago, but you ain’t been listenin’.”

“Hey, you haven’t exactly been complainin’,” Ian groused.

Ian had been working relentlessly to assuage his guilt over Mickey’s “broken ass” from the minute they walked back through their front door. He’d cooked Mickey his favorite meals, run him warm baths, read up on massage therapy techniques to help reduce pain, and spent lots and lots of time on his knees. And Mickey had liked being babied and pampered—loved it really—for the first few days. Until he didn’t.

Sighing loudly, but with a warm smile on his face, Mickey rose up onto his knees to kiss his husband soundly, before getting out of bed and pulling on some more-or-less clean clothes.

“Got shit to do today. Mandy wants me to come over for a bit and I need to run some errands,” he said as he shrugged his coat on, grabbing his scarf, beanie, and gloves.

“It’s fuckin’ freezin’, Mick. You sure you wanna go out?”

“Been a week, Ian—you tryin’ to trap me in here forever? I mean I love you, man, but this shit is feelin’ a bit like a Stephen King novel.”

“Well fuck off then,” Ian said, a secretive grin creeping onto his face as he grabbed Mickey’s scarf to pull him in for a quick peck on the lips. “And give my love to Mandy.”

Once the door closed behind his husband, Ian got down to business. He didn’t know exactly how long he’d actually have the place to himself, so he intended to spend his time wisely. Mandy, as was usually the case, had volunteered to serve as his partner in crime. As soon as Ian felt safe letting Mickey out of his sight, Mandy’d made up a bullshit excuse to lure Mickey out of the apartment for several hours. And off Mickey went—as happy as Ian that he’d made his escape.

Knowing how much his husband struggled to get through Christmas, Ian had spent weeks planning for a post-holiday celebration—intending to make December 26th its own holiday, one just for the two of them.

A stupid number of candles in Mickey’s favorite scent had been purchased—it had taken years for Mickey to admit that candles weren’t “too gay” and that he actually loved them. A cozy robe and slippers were bought as well—things he knew Mickey would appreciate but would never “waste” money on.

Quite an assortment of lube, a collection of exciting/mildly-disturbing toys to play with, and even good old-fashioned chocolate had all been procured in preparation for their very special— no-one-else-but-Ian-and-Mickey-will-ever-be-invited—post-Christmas celebration.

All carefully tucked away in their shared closet, with strings of twinkle lights that would be hung throughout their tiny space.

What it really came down to was Ian had planned to bring Mickey Valentine’s Day—with all of its cheesiness—a little bit early and without the Hallmark card trappings but some of the Pornhub ones. Because even though Mickey hated to admit it, he ate that shit up. So Ian wanted to give it to him.

But that had all gotten shelved when they’d returned home with a battered and bruised Mickey.

Now Ian found himself racing through the apartment stringing silly lights all over, placing candles that would be lit once Mandy let him know Mickey was on his way back, hiding toys to be found throughout the night, and even doing a little tidying “down under” in preparation for the evening ahead.

********

Mickey sauntered back through their front door, arms overflowing with all the shit he knew would make his husband swoon. The sight of a bag from Whole Foods was enough to make Ian hard! But he also had flowers, dinner from their favorite Italian restaurant, and a fancy dessert from that bakery that Ian always raved about.

His eyes were met with twinkling lights, nose with the scent of his favorite candles, and ears with the sound of moaning. Ian must have downloaded something seriously filthy to get ready for him.

Quickly depositing all his goodies on the table, Mickey feverishly removed all his outer layers before stripping down to his birthday suit and practically sprinting to their bedroom. Unconsciously, the tip of his tongue darted out to lick his lips in anticipation—he was so ready to get railed by his redhead.

As he entered the room, Mickey expected to find all six feet of sexy splayed out across the bed, ready and willing to be worshiped in any way Mickey so desired. But Ian wasn’t there.

Instead, in the center of the bed Mickey found a bag filled to the brim with all his favorite dirty delights—a treasure trove of kink and pleasure. Clearly Ian was ready to play—and Mickey was hornier than a 40-year-old virgin just thinking of all the ways that they could get into trouble together.

But where the fuck was Ian?

The moans were getting louder and sounded more desperate by the second. Mickey was so fuckin’ turned on—he was worried he might bust a nut before the evening got started. And then Mickey heard a loud thud and a clearly different kind of moan.

As he charged into their attached bathroom, the only other place the moans could possibly be coming from, he expected to find Ian raring to go—and man was Mickey ready.

Instead, Mickey found his stunningly handsome husband folded up at the oddest of angles in their bathtub—giraffe legs jutting out every which way. Mickey would have found it comical— in a macabre sort of way—if it wasn’t so clear that his man was hurting.

Upon hearing Mickey’s footsteps, Ian looked up, meeting Mickey’s own. A pained and embarrassed half-smile on his face, “Hey Mick,” he mumbled in a voice both small and pitiful.

Squatting down next to the tub, Mickey reached out a gentle hand to his husband’s cheek. “For fuck’s sake, Gallagher. What the heck happened?”

“What do you think happened? I just fuckin’ slipped,” Ian responded, aggrieved.

“What do you mean you just slipped? Not exactly your first time takin’ a shower. Somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me?”

“I just slipped, Mick,” Ian grumbled morosely. “Was tryin’ somethin’ stupid, doesn’t matter now.”

“Well, can’t just leave you in there forever,” Mickey said, placing a quick kiss on Ian’s cheek, before haulin’ his giant ass of a husband out of the tub—and since said husband was as buck-ass naked as the day he was born, Mickey got a perfect eyeful of his favorite part of Ian’s anatomy along the way.

In the process, Mickey noticed that some questionable changes had taken place to Ian’s nether region. “Fuckin’ hell, Ian—why’d you do to my firecrotch?” he barked out, and then proceeded to be overcome with laughter at the sight in front of him. “There’s barely a bush fire at this point.”

“It ain’t funny, Mick,” Ian muttered, as he hobbled very slowly into their bedroom where he flopped onto their bed, flinging his one arm over his eyes and grabbing a pillow to cover his crotch.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Mickey lifted Ian’s arm off his face and placed the sweetest of kisses on his lips.

“So you gonna tell me why your pubes are in the shape of a fucked up heart?” Mickey asked, quirking an eyebrow and trying, but not fully succeeding, to keep the amusement from his voice.

“I, ahhh… thought you might like it if I ‘readied the runway’,” Ian made a vague motion toward his crotch, his face completely beet red.

“Ya mean, ‘trimming the hedges’? Mickey waggled his brows.

Ian nodded his head, his eyes darting away in embarrassment.

“But why a heart? You couldn’t just trim it up like a normal twink? Ya know I don’t give two shits ‘bout stuff like that anyway.”

“I know you don’t care—I mean ya barely showered when we first started hookin’ up—but trimming down there makes it nicer for blowies, don’cha think?”

Mickey wasn’t about to deny that—he’d even been known to allow Ian to use a razor on him every now and again—though fuck was it itchy when the hair grew back.

“Askin’ again here. Why a fuckin’ heart?” Mickey said, tilting his head to the side to study his husband’s handiwork. ”Well, not really quite a heart—but looks like that’s what you were goin’ for, right?”

“Ummm… I guess I just wanted to do somethin’ special today. I know you hate the holidays and it brings up all sorts of shit. But I figured we could just make up our own holiday. Come up with our own traditions and shit that we do every year.”

Ian gave a big sigh before he continued on. “And I thought it would be kinda cute if when you went to give me a blowie, you saw that heart there. At first, I was thinkin’ about trying to make an ‘M’ but thought that might be a bit much.”

“Sure, Carrot Top, makin’ it into an M instead of a heart would definitely have pushed it right over the top.”

“Shut up—just wanted to do somethin’ sweet for you. So you ain’t allowed to make me feel bad about it.” Ian’s hand darted out to none-too-gently pinch his husband’s side.

Mickey knew enough to get out of Ian’s reach—this wasn’t his first rodeo. “Wanna tell me why you were all twisted up like a fuckin’ pretzel in the tub? And moanin’ to boot?” he asked gently.

Ian’s face got three shades redder—if that was even possible. “Sometimes…well sometimes I kinda…enjoy getting tidy down there. You know, let my hands do a little bit of explorin’. A bit of playin’. Guess you heard that yourself when you came in. I maybe got a bit too distracted—forgot my mission for a moment there.” Ian looked chagrined for a minute-–but just a minute.

“Tryin’ to make a heart for you to find was kinda like a special challenge—but you have to get into a bunch of weird positions if you’re doin’ it on yourself. Anyway, I definitely was enjoyin’ myself a little too much ‘cause I fuckin’ managed to slip. All of a sudden I was fallin’, and the whole time I just kept thinkin’—Mickey will off me himself if I break my dick!.”

“But you didn’t break your dick, right? ‘Cause, I don’t see that workin’ for me,” Mickey said, concern clearly etched on his face. He loved his husband, and he totally believed in sickness, health and all that shit. But he wasn’t even thirty!

“Feelin’ the love right about now, Mick,” Ian said grumpily. “But pretty sure I just pulled something down there—or I guess I could also have a muscle tear. It’s fuckin’ throbbin’. And not in a good way.”

“Should I getcha a bag a peas, bring you some Ibuprofen?” He couldn’t help but curl his lip at that last word. “Can ya tell me what I need to do to take care of ya?” Mickey’s hands were trying to remove the pillow covering his husband’s crotch to get a better idea of what they were workin’ with.

Ian quickly grabbed Mickey’s hand, holdin’ onto it tight.

“Grab me my loosest sweatpants and then get me dressed—though you ain’t treatin’ me like a doll or nothin’,” Ian said pointedly. “And then we’re headin’ right back to the walk-in because come hell or high water, I still am gonna be fuckin’ you tonight.”

********

It was less than an hour later when both men found themselves waiting, impatiently, in an eerily similar looking examination room in the walk-in right around the corner from their apartment. It was Ian’s turn to be in a dressing gown; the design of which Mickey was picking on mercilessly.

“Don’t understand why they design these stupid things so everyone's asses are always hanging out? I mean, I fuckin’ don’t wanna look at a bunch of geezers’ wrinkled old anything.”

“Mick, you know not everyone has a gorgeous ass like yours,” Ian said as he shoved his hands firmly into the back pockets of Mickey’s jeans and started squeezing, dropping his head onto his husband’s shoulder.

Mickey preened at the compliment and leaned in a bit closer to Ian—still being careful to keep their crotches sufficiently far apart.

“How you feelin’ Tough Guy?” Mickey asked softly.

“I fuckin’ hurt,” he responded honestly. “But I also think I am about to be really fuckin’ embarrassed the minute a nurse comes in and checks out my handiwork.”

“You never know, your nurse might see that heart and start swooning. It could be ‘love at dick sight’.”

“That makes no sense, Mick.”

“Makes nuff sense, Gallagher. It’s what happened to me back in the day. And I ain’t the idiot that fucked around with my pubes in the first place.”

“I told you I was tryin’ to make a special holiday just for us. So you could forget all the Christmas shit.” Ian looked at Mickey beseechingly, willing him to understand.

“And this holiday that you been makin’ up in that weirdo head of yours—it includes a competitive injury challenge? Cause I already fuckin’ won that.”

Whatever argument Ian was about to make was cut off by a quick rap on the exam room door. A familiar purple-haired, nose-pierced nurse entered the room only to stop dead in her tracks.

She looked back and forth, and back and forth again, before tilting her head to the side and wondering aloud, “Am I having deja vu right now?”

“If you are, so are we,” Ian piped up, looking just as perplexed at the nurse who was already a bit too familiar with them.

“Well I’m lookin’ for a Mr. Gallagher… wouldn't be one of you two, right?”

“Carrot Top’s right here,” Mickey said helpfully, tipping his head to his husband. And then, pretending to speak conspiratorially, he added, “That’s Mr. Gallagher.”

“Well, nice to see you again Carrot Top…and uh…….?” she inquired politely.

“Mickey. His husband. The guy he rails until the cows come home…well usually.”

“Oh yes, how could I possibly forget,” she muttered to herself. “But I saw you gentlemen at our facility on the South Side, right? What are you doing over here?”

“Our place is a couple of blocks away—we were just on the South Side ‘cause of the storm. How ‘bout you? Why are you here?” Ian politely inquired.

“I’m a floater. I fill in wherever they need me. But enough about me, why am I seeing you both again today? Feel like I just saw you.”

“His dick’s broken–’s why we’re here. And it’s his fault too.” Mickey said, looking accusingly once more at his husband.

“What do you mean his “dick is broken”?” A very confused look appeared on her face.

Remembering that Ian was her actual patient, she asked, “Is your husband trying to tell me you are unable to have a penile erection? Are you experiencing pain in your penis? How often has this happened?” she briefly paused before embarrassingly asking, “You didn’t stick something in it, right? Please tell me you didn’t stick something in it!”

Even though the questions were directed at Ian, Mickey just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“This fucker over here was tryin’ to do somethin’ seriously sexy and sweet for me. But he can be clumsy as fuck so he ended up slippin’ in our shower and now his junk ain’t workin’. And this is a real problem for me because, as you know, he broke my ass last week and I am finally healed and I just really need him to fuck me good and hard. You know, get his big ass hands all over me and give me a serious nailin’. So I am gonna need ya to fix him right quick, if you know what I mean.”

Mickey looked over to his husband with a soft smile, “Does that sound about right, Tough Guy?”

“Well, other than the fact that I think I just pulled a muscle in my groin, and my dick’s actually just fine, I suppose that sounds about right.”

Looking directly into his husband’s eyes, Ian said, “Head out to the waiting room so they can give me an exam. I’ll be out soon.” And then Ian kissed Mickey’s head before attempting to send him away.

“If his dick ain’t working when he comes back to me, we gonna be havin’ a conversation,” Mickey warned the nurse before closing the door behind him.

********

It was close to another hour later by the time Ian hobbled back out to the waiting room to find his napping husband completely out cold, the tiniest bit of drool rolling down his chin.

Ian tapped his shoe gently, waiting for Mickey’s sudden jerk back to life. Eyes darted around the room nervously before landing on the safety of Ian’s face, as a slow and easy smile crossed Mickey’s lips.

“The verdict?” he asked gruffly as he rubbed at his eyes and slowly rose to his feet. Blue eyes carefully assessed his husband for signs of pain.

“Ya doin’ any better?” he asked gently, reaching out for Ian’s hand and purposefully lacing their fingers together.

Holding hands wasn’t remotely the norm for them—never had been. Mickey didn’t like the feel—“makes me uncomfortable”—he’d admitted once. It was only late at night, when their bodies were intertwined that Mickey tolerated it. But if it was up to Ian, Mickey’s hand would be superglued to his—even when it got sweaty and gross, even when people would give them the side eye. So tonight, as Mickey looked into green eyes filled with pain, he held on tightly to his husband’s hand.

“Not really. They don’t think it’s more than a pulled muscle,” Ian mumbled morosely, gazing down at their hands.

“Well, that’s good, right?”

“I guess. Hurts like a bitch though, even with whatever shit they gave me. You won’t be gettin’ railed, at least not by me, anytime soon,” he said, sighing.

“Ya tryin’ to tell me I got a couple of days to play the field? Find myself a replacement model.” Mickey stuck one finger between his lips and raised his brows suggestively. “That would make a great ‘holiday’ present,” he continued, nodding to himself, “really start this year out right.”

“You can fuck off with that idea,” Ian said, with zero bite behind his words.

“Already fucked off with that idea,” Mickey laughed quietly, “you know there’s no one else for me. Only ever been you, man,” he said, squeezing Ian’s hand.

“So, guess it's my turn to take care of you,” he said, licking his lips. “What ya thinkin’ we should put on the menu?” Mickey asked, knowing full well there would be plenty of blow jobs in his future. And probably cookin’, cleanin’---all that bein’ a good husband shit. He was ready for it.

But Ian didn’t answer Mickey’s question—instead, he was looking down at the floor despondently. “You okay, Ian?” Mickey asked carefully

“You know I just really wanted to do somethin’ special for you during the holidays—give you some memories. So you aren’t thinkin’ about everything from when you were growin’up---that you aren’t just rememberin’ shit.”

Mickey stuck a finger under his redhead’s chin, tilting it up until his husband was looking right into his eyes. “If making new memories was your goal, you nailed it, man. I will never forget the holiday season this year. It will live on in infamy—become legend in the Gallagher-Milkovich clans.”

“Not really what I was aimin’ for, Mick.”

“Don’t matter what you were aimin’ for, I fuckin’ hate the holidays, but I fuckin’ love you.”

********
Mickey’d been a good husband. A patient husband. He’d taken care of his man—no skimpin’ on the small stuff. Even let the term “babe” slip past his lips every now and again. Just so Ian’d know he was loved.

Mickey’d given as good as he’d gotten and now, here they were, all the “parts” finally in working order. Who woulda thought a groin injury would’ve taken Ian down for close to two weeks? Sure as fuck not Mickey.

Between their two injuries, they’d been out of action for three weeks. How was that even possible? They’d never gone three fuckin’ weeks without bangin’ since Ian’d shown up in his jail cell. No matter how pissy they’d gotten with each other or exhausted from the shitstorm that sometimes was their life. Even when they were sick as dogs, they’d still go at it—-stomach bugs and coughing fits be damned.

When Ian struggled with a bout of depression, that’s when Mickey would swing into action, knowing that the endorphins from sex would help lift Ian back up. And since he hadn’t had a major medication change in years, the whole limp dick thing had been a non-issue.

So three weeks felt like a fuckin’ lifetime to Mickey. But for some reason, even though Mickey was rarin’ to go and Ian seemed to feel the same, something felt a little different. Not off. Just different.

A shyness or maybe awkwardness had somehow set in with both of them—that all of a sudden they realized they were breakable—that they weren’t teens anymore. That after weeks of going without, maybe it wouldn’t feel quite as right as before. Quite as earth-shatteringly good.

It was weird really—they had never hesitated before when it came to bangin’. For fucks sake, he’d had stitches in his ass and they’d still gone at it like rabid animals, insatiable for each other.

And it's not like Ian’d been a no-go-zone for the past two weeks either. Mickey had made sure his husband had gotten off plenty. He practically had calluses on his hands and a perpetually sore jaw as proof of his efforts.

Unlike two weeks earlier, when Mickey and Ian had both made plans to rock each other’s world, by tacit agreement they weren’t making any big deal about it this time around. They’d headed to bed as usual, watched tv in their darkened room for a bit, before getting bored and turning it off.

As they lay side-by-side in the dark, both silently staring up at the ceiling, Mickey made the first move. He unceremoniously dropped an upturned hand onto his husband’s bare stomach and waited. A moment later Ian reached out and interlaced their fingers.

“You gonna get on me or what?” Mickey’s words were just as blunt as normal, but with a gentleness that he’d rarely used—that was utterly foreign to them both. At least when he’d been this ready to be dicked down.

“It’s just...,” Ian paused, seemingly unsure of himself.

“Spit it out, Firecrotch. Whatcha tryin’ to say?”

“It’s just it…feels different. You feel it too?

Mickey didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned his head towards Ian, so he could look into those questioning eyes. “I don’t know, man. Do we really gotta talk about it?”

“So, not just me then.”

“Nah, not just you.”

“Kinda stressin’ that it might not feel right.”

Mickey sighed. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it feel right? ‘S always felt right between us.”

“Yeah…yeah, it has.”

“Then I think we gotta get out of our heads, man. We’re good.”

Mickey let go of Ian’s hand so he could cradle Ian’s head in both of his own. He placed gentle kisses on Ian’s forehead, his eyelids, his nose, before finishing on Ian’s smiling mouth.

Ian didn’t say anything. He just pulled Mickey fully on top of him, sliding his hands down Mickey’s boxers and grabbing tightly onto his ass. Two dicks that hadn’t seen nearly enough action lately, ground slowly together, both hardening quickly.

Before he knew it, Mickey was on his back staring up into eyes that looked just as desperate as he felt. “You missed me?” Ian’s voice betrayed his lingering doubts.

“You’ve been fuckin’ here the whole time. What’s to miss?” The words were gruff, but the tone sweet.

“You know what I mean, Mick.”

“Course I know, Babe.” He was pretty darn sure throwin’ that one single word out there would chill his husband out.

“And what exactly have you missed, Mick?” The flirt was finally making an appearance.

“Ya know I’m a pretty big fan of that tool ya got down there.”

“Is that you tellin’ me you want me to drill ya?”

“Stop your yappin’ and fuck me like a porn star.”

And that’s exactly what his husband did.