Chapter Text
It starts on a Thursday.
Mickey’s had a long day — contractors were late, the guy upstairs flooded the damn hallway again, and he’d forgotten to eat lunch, which always turned him into the worst version of himself. The kind that wants to punch drywall and crawl into Ian’s hoodie at the same time.
He stumbles in at 6:42 p.m. to find the apartment suspiciously spotless.
Too clean.
Candles are lit. Something smells like vanilla and smugness. And Ian’s just sitting on the couch with that smile — the one that means mischief and affection and he’s up to something, Mickey knows it.
“What’s with the face?” Mickey mutters, toeing off his boots.
Ian sets down a mug of tea like it’s part of a ritual. “No face. Just happy you’re home.”
“Yeah?” Mickey narrows his eyes. “You clean or something?”
“I did, actually.” Ian pats the cushion beside him. “Come sit. You look like you got hit by a truck.”
Mickey shrugs off his jacket and grumbles, “Felt like it.”
He sinks down onto the couch, letting out a long sigh — and that’s when he sees it.
The box.
Small. Innocent. Sitting on the coffee table with quiet menace.
“What is that?”
Ian grins. “A full-body shiatsu massager. And… bonus,” he reaches behind a pillow, “the head-scratcher 2.0.”
“No.”
“I haven’t even asked anything yet.”
“You don’t need to. That thing’s dangerous.”
Ian leans in. “Dangerously relaxing.”
Mickey groans. “Last time I went limp in the middle of the goddamn hallway and you laughed for like twenty minutes.”
“I did not laugh,” Ian says, already crawling closer. “I was concerned. And deeply entertained.”
“You’re not putting that spider thing on my head again,” Mickey insists, even as Ian gently swings a leg over to straddle him on the couch.
Ian cups Mickey’s face. “You’re so tense.”
“No shit, Gallagher. The water bill was a crime today.”
“Then let me fix it.”
Mickey squints. “With toys?”
“With love.”
Mickey snorts. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re letting me sit on you while you grumble, so.”
Mickey goes quiet.
Because yeah. He is.
And it’s kind of… nice. His thighs ache, his neck is stiff, and Ian’s weight feels warm and grounding. Like an anchor that doesn’t ask for anything but to be held.
“…Fine,” Mickey mutters.
Ian lights up like a golden retriever handed a stick twice his size.
He grabs the box and starts unwrapping things like it’s Christmas morning. Mickey watches him with the weary gaze of a man who’s lost this battle before.
First, Ian presses the back massager gently behind Mickey’s shoulder blades and turns it on.
Mickey stiffens… and then lets out a shocked breath. “Shit.”
“Told you,” Ian whispers smugly.
The thing moves in little circles, heat rising under it, like a tiny army of warm thumbs working through every knot Mickey’s ever had. Ian guides it down his back slowly, and Mickey lets his head fall back against the couch with a low groan.
“Goddamn.”
Ian beams. “You’re not even ready for the next part.”
“Oh, there’s a next part?”
There is.
Ian gently sets the full-body massager down on Mickey’s lap, guides his legs to stretch out along the couch, and turns on the foot rollers.
Mickey makes a sound that is, frankly, not human.
“Jesus—fuck, that’s—”
“Nice?” Ian grins.
“Weirdly nice,” Mickey pants, eyes fluttering half-shut. “I hate that you’re right.”
Ian leans in like he’s sharing a secret. “And now… for the finale.”
“Oh no.”
He pulls the head massager from behind the couch cushion like a magician with a wand.
“Mickey Milkovich,” Ian says solemnly, “you are about to know peace.”
“Don’t you—”
It’s too late.
The little metal legs hit Mickey’s scalp and slide down gently.
And Mickey shatters.
His back arches, legs twitching, mouth falling open in a gasp he barely gets to finish before a second pass makes him let out a noise that’s somewhere between a whimper and a sob.
“Ian—Ian—”
“Uh-huh,” Ian says, smug and way too pleased with himself.
“I—my—fuck—”
His voice cuts out. Like his soul just bailed mid-sentence.
Ian presses a kiss to Mickey’s forehead. “You okay, baby?”
Mickey is fully nonverbal now. Eyes glassy. Body limp. There may or may not be tears.
Ian catches him just before he slumps completely sideways.
“Whoops,” he murmurs, guiding Mickey into his lap like a ragdoll. “There he goes.”
Mickey clutches his shirt weakly, face half-buried in Ian’s neck.
“I’m gonna destroy that thing,” Mickey mumbles hoarsely, which would be more convincing if he didn’t sound like he’d just been blessed by an angel and hit by a truck in the same breath.
Ian strokes his hair, grinning into the crown of Mickey’s head. “Sure you are.”
⸻
Ten minutes later, Mickey is tucked under a blanket, foot massager still running, face slack with the softest expression Ian’s ever seen on him. Like someone who just transcended space and time.
“I hate you,” he mutters sleepily.
Ian kisses the tip of his nose. “You love me.”
Mickey sighs. “Unfortunately.”