Work Text:
Mickey was drowning in paperwork. Not the fun kind, either, like list all the gruesome ways in which this body was dismembered or include information about the latest serial killer you’ve put behind bars, but the real boring shit, like search warrants and administrative stuff that Mrs. Fisher was making Ian and him fill out about their relationship. Because she was understanding, and wanted to keep them together, because they had one of the best solve-rates in Chicago, but dating your partner still came with a whole hell of a lotta hoops to jump through.
Ian barged into his office, lab coat flying, and Mickey had definitely not been asleep, he had just been resting his eyes on a comfortable stack of paperwork. Ian raised an eyebrow when Mickey said so.
“Yeah, okay Mick,” Ian chuckled, because he was infuriatingly good at seeing through Mickey’s bullshit. “Let me know when you’re done drooling over that evidence report and we can go investigate the Caldwell case. You didn’t forget about our meeting with the sister, right?”
Mickey flipped him off. “No, I didn’t forget, asshole. Need I remind you that I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you?”
Ian scoffed. “You were here for like three months before I got the job, you fucking liar. Already had a reputation though. The Great Mickey Milkovich. I swear to god, the rest of the precinct could not stop talking about you.” He leaned down on Mickey’s desk, his elbows brushing the carefully constructed stacks of paper. “Turns out they were right.” Ian stopped and smiled. “You are pretty great.”
“You gonna keep flirting with me or change out of that stupid coat?”
Ian laughed, a bright sound that Mickey could probably listen to for the rest of his life. “Admit it. The coat’s hot.”
Mickey didn’t deny it.
---
The whole interview was a bust. The sister didn’t know anything, but at least Mickey got out of his fucking office for a few hours. Ian didn’t do much during these interviews, he kinda just sat quietly and let Mickey ask the questions, absorbing all the information and connecting the dots. In the car, he opened up, talking animatedly about a bunch of sciencey shit that Mickey only pretended to understand. Honestly, he was just a sucker for Ian’s voice, especially when he was excited about something.
Mickey’s stomach grumbled, interrupting Ian, who burst out laughing when he heard it.
“Fuck you,” Mickey grumbled. “Let’s get something to eat.” It was dark now, outside the squad car windows, the streetlights streaming in through the glass and turning Ian’s hair brassy. Except Mickey was a good driver, and definitely did not let his eyes roam over Ian in the passenger seat every once in a while. Definitely.
“Wanna go to my place?” Ian asked, looking over at Mickey. “I think Fiona’s cooking something tonight.”
“Yeah, maybe if your place didn’t include a thousand screaming kids.”
Ian huffed. “That was one time. And I promise, it’ll be quiet tonight. Carl’s at a sleepover and Frank is hell knows where. Free food, man, c’mon.” He pressed his hand into Mickey’s thigh, warm through his slacks, and okay, that’s it, Mickey was sold. Ian swept his hand up and down Mickey’s leg, slowly, his fingers just barely brushing the material.
“Fine,” Mickey gritted out, hands tightening on the steering wheel, because he was two seconds away from pulling the car over if Ian didn’t stop that right now. Ian smiled and took his hand away, the little shit. “And keep your hands to yourself.”
“Yeah, you really seem to hate it when I touch you,” Ian grinned, innocently. Mickey looked over at him, probably for a second too long, before focusing his eyes back on the road. He was a total, complete, unconditional sucker for Ian’s smiles.
Mickey didn’t even dignify that with a response. He pulled into the Gallagher driveway, because he knew where their house was now, and Ian was still smiling when he turned off the ignition and opened the door.
“What?” Mickey said.
“Nothing,” Ian replied, quietly. “I’m just happy.”
Mickey’s throat tightened, and because he was a total, incompetent idiot and had no idea how to respond to genuine confessions of happiness and sparkles and shit, he just slammed the car door and glared over the hood at Ian.
“Take the sentimental bullshit somewhere else, Gallagher.”
“Too late.” Ian was still smiling, stupidly. “You’re stuck with it.”
Mickey groaned.
---
“I brought company!” Ian yelled, when they stepped into the house, because the Gallaghers did not converse at a normal decibel level.
“Get your ass in here, we’re already eating!” called another voice back, and Mickey assumed it was Fiona’s.
They shuffled past the living room and into the kitchen. Ian’s family was sitting at a beat-up kitchen table, passing around bowls of food.
“Smells delicious, Fiona,” Ian said, pulling out the two chairs closest to them.
“Thanks,” she smiled, turning to look up, her eyes widening when she caught a glimpse of Mickey behind Ian’s shoulder. “Oh, shit,” she said. “You brought the cop?”
“Not on duty,” Mickey assured her, holding out his hands, before sliding into the seat next to Ian. “Plus, I’m mostly a homicide detective. That noise complaint thing was a one-time deal. So unless you’ve murdered anyone lately, you’re fine.”
“You’re Mickey, right?” asked the other girl at the table, a redhead who was undeniably Ian’s sister, and looked about seventeen. “Ian talks about you all the time.”
“Debbie!” Ian exclaimed, putting his hand over his mouth, making the universal sign of ‘shut the fuck up’.
“What?” she said, innocently (jesus, she gave Ian a run for his money in the fake-innocence department). “It’s true.”
“Sorry.” Ian turned to Mickey, apologetically. “That’s my younger sister Debbie. She doesn’t know how to shut up.” Debbie reached across the table and thwacked him on the arm. “Hey!”
“No really, it’s okay,” Mickey replied, winking at Debbie. “I’d love to hear about how much Ian talks about me. The dude never shuts up at work about you guys.”
“Well first, about your hair -”
“Debs,” Fiona warned. “That’s enough. Pass me the mashed potatoes, please.”
Mickey was gonna tease Ian so hard about this later.
“Well that’s Debbie,” Ian said, obviously not phased by his family’s dinner-table antics. “You’ve already met Fiona, and that dude over there is Liam.”
Liam looked a lot younger (and darker) than the rest of the family, and he waved cheerfully at Mickey.
“Hi,” Liam said, smiling broadly at Mickey. Mickey waved back.
---
Dinner was not a disaster and the food was good and Ian’s siblings were nice. He could tell they all loved each other something fierce. Mickey didn’t know how Ian survived living with them all the time, but Ian was a stronger man than he was.
Ian just looked happier around his family. It was a stupid thing to notice, but Mickey stared at Ian’s face so often it was hard not to. His face got softer, his smiles wider, his laughs louder. Mickey was scared to think about whether Ian did that around him, too, because being on the receiving end of Ian Gallagher’s affection was hard work. He didn’t want to screw it up.
Fiona made them clean up, because she had cooked, but they finished quickly (but not before having a war with the dish towels, trying to smack each other as hard as they could until the other gave up). Debbie walked in during the middle of this, gave them a weird look, and backed out of the kitchen.
“Wanna see my room?” Ian asked, when they were done, flinging the towels in the direction of the washing machine.
“You propositioning me?” Mickey raised his eyebrows. They hadn’t really gotten past some heavy make-out sessions, not for lack of trying, but they always seemed to get interrupted or run out of time before they got to the good part. It was sorta driving Mickey crazy, but he was so fucking head over heels for Ian that he didn’t care how long it took.
“Maybe,” Ian said, slyly. “Come to my room and find out.”
Mickey followed him upstairs, sliding his hand up the wooden banister, walking slowly so he could look at the picture frames adorning the walls. He picked out Ian in a few of them, laughing to himself about teenage Ian, who looked like a mess of gangly limbs, striking freckles, and bright hair.
“Yes, please, laugh at me,” Ian called over his shoulder. “It’s not like I know where Svetlana keeps those super embarrassing wedding photos.”
“Those will never see the light of day.”
“Too late,” Ian crowed. “She made copies. I’ve been meaning to frame one for your office.”
“Fuck you,” Mickey muttered.
“That’s the plan.”
Mickey quite nearly choked on air.
Ian’s bedroom was small and tidy, much like his workspace at the station, except he didn’t have a comfy-looking bed in his lab, which was probably a good thing because Mickey really didn’t have any self-control around Ian.
“You really talk about me to your family?”
“Oh yeah,” Ian said, facetiously, wrapping his hands around Mickey’s arms and pushing him back towards the bed. “I tell them all about your huge-ass handwriting.” He punctuated his words with a little push backwards. “And the way you bite your lip when you’re nervous.” Push. “And how awesome your eyes are.” Push. “And that you have a great ass (Mickey was definitely blushing now, but he just stared up at Ian, who was grinning down at him like he was having the time of his life)."
The back of Mickey’s knees hit the edge of Ian’s bed and he fell backwards, Ian tumbling on top of him.
“You trying to seduce me with half-ass compliments?” Mickey asked, a little breathless, but totally, 100% smooth, because Mickey was smooth as fuck.
“Is it working?” Ian’s face hovered above his, stupidly beautiful in the poorly-lit room, so Mickey kissed him (and also because he didn’t want to admit that it didn’t matter if Ian tried to seduce him, Mickey was so gone on him that he would probably find Ian reading the weather report attractive).
Mickey caught the back of Ian’s head, pulling him completely down onto the bed, his body flush against Mickey’s, and they were touching practically everywhere (at least, the fabric of their stupid suits was). The warm swipes of Ian’s tongue were driving him crazy, their mouths moving together slowly, then faster. Mickey felt heat curl down his spine, his blood rushing away from his head until he was dizzy, and all he could focus on was Ian, Ian, Ian.
Ian’s hands slipped up to Mickey’s shoulders, pushing his suit jacket off, and Mickey simultaneously tried to wriggle free as he went to work on removing Ian’s. They drew apart for a moment, simply breathing together, and Ian’s eyes were wild, bright, and fuck. Ian dragged his lips down Mickey’s neck, hot and restless, and Mickey let out a wholly embarrassing moan when Ian’s fingers went to work on his white button-up.
“Jesus fuck,” Mickey said, “Ian, oh god,” and Ian smiled up at him, so fucking pleased with himself, before moving back to mouth at Mickey’s clavicle. Mickey twisted his fingers in Ian’s short hair, trying (and failing) not to buck upwards.
“Been wanting to get you out of that suit forever,” Ian confessed against Mickey’s neck.
“Please,” Mickey groaned back, because yeah, sentences were so not happening right now, “please,” and then the door burst open.
“Oh, shit,” Fiona mumbled from the doorway, frozen in place. Ian sat up, glaring at his sister, and Mickey felt oddly proud about how screwed up the back of Ian’s hair was, the way his dress shirt was hanging off his shoulder, and he tried to sit up but Ian was too heavy, and there was no fucking way this was actually happening. “No way. Does Vee know about this?”
Ian sighed. “Yes, Veronica knows, we filled out all the boring paperwork, now will you please get the hell out of here?”
Fiona nodded, vigorously. “Right. Shit. Sorry. Just wanted to tell you that I made dessert, er, cookies. Downstairs. If you want. Bye.” She turned and hightailed it out of there, slamming the door shut behind her.
“Sorry,” Ian said, half-laughing, and Mickey shook his head, trying not to combust from the combination of Ian and red lips and bare chest and his eyes all crinkled up at the corners.
Mickey sat up now, too, reaching for his shirt. “It was probably a good thing,” he lied, seriously trying to believe what he was saying, but it was really hard to lie about how much he wanted to finish what they started. “There’s kids here. Plus, I could really go for a cookie right now.”
“Ah, so you get hungry when you’re turned on. Good to know.”
He threw his shirt at Ian’s head.