Work Text:
Maybe some people might be happy to be coming home to a new surprise every day.
Well. Mickey goes to work. He gets up in the morning – goes through the same process of convincing himself to disentangle his body from under Ian's tight arms, almost giving up once or twice when Ian just nudges closer in his sleep – and then he washes up, gets dressed, nurses his coffee, all the while he has to fight through the intruding thoughts of getting back under the sheets, gluing himself flush back against Ian and nudging him to stop his snoring.
Ian snores now. It’s one thing nobody ever told him about domestic bliss.
But, yeah: Mickey goes to work. He goes to work everyday. He’s a security guard – a proper one, his not so glory days as a guard at the Kash and Grab long gone – and he actually does his job. He runs a lot. He weaves through the racks and the people like he’s spineless, and he would almost feel bad for busting fellow shoplifters – well, formerly, since he’s into this whole “getting your act together” gig he and Ian have going on – but he doesn’t need to get into any more shit with his PO. So, Mickey wakes up, he goes to work, he chases those poor people throughout the entirety of the mall, and he returns home, too tired to even take off his uniform before he collapses on the bed alone at noon, hours before Ian gets off his own shift.
Sometimes, Ian has days off – which his superiors force him to take, since he has this godforsaken habit to overwork himself ever since he got his job back as an EMT, like he feels the need to prove himself. Sometimes, Mickey comes home, and Ian runs him a hot bath, maybe fingers him while they soak in it.
Other times, Mickey comes home, and he can tell he’s in for some more exhaustion.
The constant buzzing is the first thing he hears as soon as he locks up behind himself. He pauses, deadly still, trying to pinpoint if somebody’s trying to cut through their walls or if it’s just a fucking bee or something; the buzzing’s coming from the hall, and Mickey faintly registers Ian’s work boots by the door. He’s home, and directly responsible, probably – he usually is – so Mickey braces himself with a deep, tired breath and he toes off his own shoes, taking his sweet time changing out of his uniform and listening to the buzz as a distant lullaby. It’s sort of calming. Mickey would kill for a nap right now.
He doesn’t lie down. He carefully walks down the hall, determining the buzz must be coming from the bathroom, and he figures something needed fixing again – Ian has proven himself to be quite the handyman in the midst of the beginning of their domestic lives, and Mickey can’t say he’s complaining. He feels kind of useless about it, having to tell Ian every time the faucet is runny, or there’s a loose screw on the doorframe – but he gets to make Bob the Builder jokes, and also enjoy the whole rugged appeal, so he’s all good.
Turns out nothing needed fixing after all. Mickey stands in the doorway, dumbfounded, staring numbly at Ian’s back towards him – slumped over the bathtub, buzzing clippers in hand, clumps of hair steadily falling into the porcelain tub.
“You’re shittin’ me,” Mickey blurts, watching Ian flinch and nearly buzz his eyebrow off. He finds himself staring at Ian’s pale face, watches him put a hand on his chest and switch off the clippers to face him properly.
“Jesus fuck, Mick, warn a guy.”
“You’re shittin’ me,” Mickey repeats, eyes glued on the numerous bald patches on Ian’s head – fucker’s not even doing it right, clumps of long, red hair among short red fuzz. “Is this a joke? Is it fuckin’ April Fool’s and I ain’t get the memo?”
Ian’s expression is amused, humorous. “You don’t like it?” he beams, turning towards the mirror to smooth a hand over his ridiculous, empty head. Dumb fucking head. So dumb.
“You trying to get me to leave you, Red?” Mickey exclaims, running a hand through his own hair – in visible distress, much to Ian’s fucking amusement. “Stop fuckin’ smiling! What the fuck?”
“Got tired of having to style this shit every day,” Ian says, stepping closer with a little grin. Mickey’s frozen in place, eyes not moving from his head for a second. “Slows me down. It’s a fuckin’ pain to get ready when I get called in for emergencies.”
“And you only think about yourself?” Mickey blurts, at which Ian laughs and smooths two hands down Mickey’s sides. “Selfish fuckin’ bastard… God,” he reaches a tentative hand up, reluctantly smoothing his hand over the spiky hairs on Ian’s head. Fuck. “Fuckin’ hell, Red. This wasn’t your decision to make.”
“And whose decision fucking was it?”
“Whose– Mine!” he yells, slapping a soft hand against Ian’s cheek. Ian rolls his eyes, letting his head sway with it. “Half of that head’s mine, Gallagher. The fuck am I supposed to get in the divorce? Half a bald fucking head?”
“We’re not married.”
“You’re making it fucking worse for yourself,” Mickey points out. Ian groans, dropping his head on Mickey’s shoulder – Mickey’s fingers keep smoothing through the spikes. “Need me to start whinin’ about that, too? Seriously. I got all day.”
Ian’s laughter vibrates against Mickey’s shoulder, and he lifts his head up, mouth touching the shell of Mickey’s ear. “You seriously don’t like it?” he murmurs, low and gravelly, and Mickey resists the urge to let Ian’s voice drip down his spine like warm chocolate.
“Jesus, Red…” Mickey murmurs, pulling back to get a better look at it. “Can’t even fucking call you Red anymore, can I? Fuckin’ orange, now.” He softly rubs his thumb over the bald patches, smiling bitterly. “Ain’t even done properly. You a fuckin’ toddler or some shit?”
“Really?” Ian moves away, observing the buzz job in front of the mirror. He tuts, running his fingers over the longer bits. “Well, I can’t fucking see what I’m doing bent over the tub. You were gonna fucking kill me if I got hair all over the sink.”
“Gonna fuckin’ kill you anyway, Uncle Fester,” Mickey stands with his arms crossed over his chest, stone cold face directed at Ian’s death glare. Eventually, he sighs, groaning into his hands before he taps Ian on the back to get him moving. “Alright. In, you go.”
Ian watches him gesture towards the tub, a small smile etched on his face. “You serious?” he muses, gnawing at his bottom lip when Mickey sighs his response. “Warming up to the army look, I see.”
“Ain’t warming up to shit,” Mickey spits, waiting until Ian is situated in the tub – long legs pulled up against his chest and his back slumped over, waiting – before he grabs the clippers back up. “But if you’re gonna be bald, you might as well be proper bald. Not look like that fuckin’ doll from The Rugrats.”
Ian pushes a finger over his eyelid. “Can’t believe you just compared me to Cynthia…” he says it quietly, like it’s a secret, waiting as Mickey tries to adjust the clippers. “You can pull at other stuff when we fuck, Mick. Don’t worry about it.”
Mickey’s quiet, figuring that if he says something he’s gonna regret it. He pointedly starts the clippers up, squeezing Ian’s shoulder as he laughs silently, and gets to work; he repeatedly slides them over Ian’s skull, listening to the lulling buzz of it, watching clumps of the red hair he loves so much miss Ian’s skin and fall directly onto the tub, trying not to shed any tears. He slaps Ian’s head once or twice, with the excuse he’s doing it to get rid of any stray hairs – but they both know.
“Wouldn’t have done it if I knew you’d be so hung up about it…” Ian says after a while, and for some reason, Mickey believes him. He can’t see his face, but he can see he’s biting his lip again from the side of his head – Mickey’s all done, so he switches off the clippers, scoots closer on the edge of the tub and softly, fondly runs his hands over Ian’s scalp, carefully removing any fallen hairs.
“Know you wouldn’t have…” he reassures quietly. Ian preens under Mickey’s familiar touch, feeling him rub down his body to get rid of all the red hair-turned-fur, pausing to get a look at him. Ian helps him, turning his head around and presenting him with sparkly eyes, and despite his disappointment, Mickey can’t help but smile. “Look good anyway, Dr. Phil. Knew you would.”
Ian smiles lazily. “Didn’t sound like it.”
“We all cope in different ways,” Mickey sighs, taking a moment to pull off his shirt. “You gonna run a bath for us or what? Got hair all over me with your bullshit.”
Ian does run a bath; he makes it hot and bubbly and he really doesn’t need to, because if Mickey stays awake much longer he thinks he’s gonna pass out, but it’s so fucking worth it because he ends up leaning back on Ian’s chest, head tipped back against his shoulder, groaning as the hot water relaxes his aching muscles.
“Do you really need to keep that?” Ian murmurs in his ear after they settle, and Mickey cracks an eye open to look at all of Ian’s buzzed off hair; it’s sitting nice and red and pretty inside a little glass bowl on the bathroom counter, slapped out of Ian’s hands when he had tried to toss it in the trash.
“I absolutely need to keep that,” Mickey says matter-of-factly. He pulls Ian’s hands tighter around his middle, smiling at the feeling of him. “I’m still in denial. Ever heard of the five stages of grief, Steve Wilkos?”
Ian huffs, squeezing around Mickey’s wrist – so much so that Mickey’s sure he leaves a bruise. “You’re such a shit starter, Milkovich,” he murmurs, spoken noiselessly against Mickey’s hair. Mickey titters pleasantly, sleepily. “It’s just hair… Grows back out in no time.”
“In the meantime, I gotta deal with walking around holding Billy Corgan’s hand.”
Ian makes to get out of the water, but Mickey goes limp before he can, anchoring him down and laughing uncontrollably as Ian gives up and surrenders, relaxing once again against the back of the tub. “You are very spoiled,” Ian begins, tutting as Mickey pulls him flush against him once more, pulling his muscular arms around him and wrapping his own over them, content and soft. “Everything I do, I do for you. Know that?” he whispers, and Mickey nods, not really paying attention – almost drifting to sleep against Ian’s comforting chest. “Leave my hair long, do it for you. So you can fuckin’, I don’t know, pull at it, play with it, whatever the fuck caused you such a fuckin’ grievance–"
“Reminded me of the first time you railed me,” Mickey slurs sleepily, casually, not seriously. Ian laughs at the absurdity of it. “When it was all long and floppy and shit… Miss that…”
“Your dad’s house?”
“Unless there was another time before that, Homer Simpson…” he murmurs. He can’t find it in himself to go all tense at the mention of his dad – that’s how Mickey knows he’s truly out of it. “Think I would’ve remembered…”
“Yeah… You’ll know when I’m railing you, you know?”
Mickey pointedly snores at that, loud and exasperated through his throat, and Ian laughs against his hair.
“Fuckin’... Everything I do,” Ian continues, undeterred. “Buzzed it all off for you.”
Mickey opens his eyes just a crack, just enough to glare at him. “In what world would I want you to do this for me?”
“Thought you’d find the whole soldier thing sexy.”
Mickey stares at him for a beat longer, settling his head back down on his shoulder with an exhausted sigh. “Yeah,” he laments. “Love me some good terrorism. Can’t get enough of it.” Ian groans. “I go a little crazy on it if I’m honest.”
“Fine,” he says. “Noted. Point fuckin’ taken.”
Mickey sighs again, accepting he won’t get his nap against a nice, hard, chiseled body – which is… the dream – unless he makes this better, so he wriggles around until he’s on his side between Ian’s legs, his shoulder supported on Ian’s chest, side of his head resting on his shoulder as he peeks up at him through wet eyelashes and hooded lids. What can he say, he knows how to get his way.
Ian decidedly melts, like Mickey had expected, and he grins up at him, eyes sliding over his newly exposed skull fondly. “Give me, uh…” he drags it out, mulling it over, fighting not to nod off. “Two to three business days. I’ll warm up to it.”
Ian rolls his eyes, and it’s somehow the softest thing Mickey’s ever seen (so far today). Ian lifts a hand up to run through Mickey’s hair, and Mickey lets his eyes fall closed once again, victim to the butterflies in his stomach – the ones that apparently are supposed to vanish once you’ve seen your partner take a literal shit in the morning, but they’ve never been conventional in any way, shape, or form.
“Mick?” Ian whispers, just as Mickey was finally about to doze off. He groans against Ian’s shoulder, frowning up at him with a slight curl to his lip.
“What?” he clips, nuzzling further into Ian’s wet skin.
He looks at him for a minute. Mickey can feel it burning his face, and he opens his eyes again, watches Ian watch him trying to sleep, watches him with that look of fuckin’ awe on his face, as if Mickey hung the moon and the stars and the sun and whatever else has ever needed to be fucking hung, ever.
“I love you,” he says simply, and Mickey’s a tad bit more awake now, but not awake enough to do anything other than let one side of his mouth pull up into an amused smile, once again closing his eyes and letting his eyelashes dust over the droplets of water on his cheeks.
“Ditto,” Mickey murmurs, and the vibrations of Ian’s laughter paired up with the rhythmic strokes through his hair lull him to sleep.