hi ilysm i wish you would write a fic where ian overhears mickey talking to someone and just saying the nicest and most loving shit about him (yknow, in his matter-of-fact mickey way of saying heartwrenchingly profound things with a completely indifferent expression and tone of voice). feat ian getting a confidence boost and reassurance that mickey loves him So Fucking Much and mickey being completely oblivious as to why his conversation partner is getting either teary eyed or majorly uncomfortable and why his husband is looking at him all gay and lovey-dovey and shit
elias 🥰 thank you I love you so much TOO and I love this prompt. okay okay okay I’m gonna try.
(update: this took longer than expected bc my mind honed in on “heartwrenchingly profound” and then I spiraled while trying to come up with something that level of special akshakdhajf 😐 I did not quite get there, but I hope you can enjoy this anyways 😓)
- - - - -
“The fuck’s with that look?”
Ian hesitates when he hears Mickey’s voice, gruff and deflective, from somewhere beyond the front door. He pulls one headphone from his ear slowly, tipping his head closer and pulling back from the handle he’d already reached for. Pressing his ear to the laminate, slowing his breath, he tries to catch the voices from the other side.
He’d left forty-five minutes ago to go for a run, and Mickey had still been sound asleep. Who could he possibly be talking to, this early in the morning?
“Nothing,” a woman’s voice answers quickly, light and amused. It takes Ian a moment, but as she goes on — “No look here, I promise. Keep going?” — he’s able to place it as one of their neighbors from down the hall.
Sandra? Samantha, maybe? S-something, he’s almost certain. Or maybe R. Or T?
He hears Mickey huff out a breath, and as he continues, Ian places his hand back on the doorknob very, very carefully.
“Whatever,” Mickey mutters, and even though it’s low, muffled through the walls, Ian can hear that it’s all rough edges. “Anyway, yeah. Been tryna find this… organic fertilizer, or somethin’? For his garden? But he won’t tell me what brand it is. Says it’s too much money. Pain in my ass.”
“Good fertilizers can be expensive,” SRT sympathizes, and Ian starts to turn the knob slowly. Most days, he has to hound Mickey about remembering to lock it — today, he’s grateful for his husband’s perpetually bad habit. Having to unlock it himself, putting the key in and jiggling the deadbolt, would’ve certainly given him away.
He knows he shouldn’t be spying, but, well. He’s never claimed to be perfect.
“Don’t care ‘bout the money,” Mickey fires back, almost grumbling. “Shoulda seen the look on his fuckin’ face, when his tomatoes came out all sad and wrinkly. Nah, imma get him the good shit, this time.”
Quietly, slowly, with his heart skipping a beat in his chest, Ian pushes the door open. Just a little, just enough to peek inside — a feat that never would’ve been possible back at the house, with all it’s screeching hinges and creaky floors.
Mickey’s perched on the kitchen island, wearing black joggers and one of Ian’s long-sleeved Henleys, nursing what Ian guesses is a cup of coffee in his hands, swirling it around. On one of the stools sits their neighbor, cradling one of their other mugs between her hands, and with a face attached, her name comes back almost instantly.
Ian mentally kicks himself, because ‘Jen’ doesn’t start with an S, an R, or a T — apparently Mickey has been right all these years, and he’s just an idiot.
Mickey goes on, unbeknownst to Ian’s open ears, and the words he says — out loud, to this veritable stranger sitting at their kitchen island and drinking their coffee — makes Ian’s heart do little flip-flops in his chest.
“He just wants to grow some fucking tomatoes. ‘M not gonna let him lose that.”
Jen, from her seat, smiles up at him, while Ian’s chest goes all warm. His heart sits in the base of his throat, skipping.
A sharp exhale, like an irritated huff, cuts out of Mickey’s nose. “There’s the look again.”
“Don’t got a look, Mickey.”
“Want me to take a fuckin’ picture?”
“I’m just teasing. Relax. Tell me more about Ian? He’s got a garden?”
Mickey rolls his eyes, and Ian’s hit with it so, mind-bendingly sudden.
Did Mickey… make a friend?
Was Mickey friends with this late-thirties Westside woman that lives down the hall?
Ian watches as his legs swing idly thought the air, socked heels bumping back against the island. It’s unbearably cute, though Mickey might actually divorce him if he ever said it aloud.
“Yeah,” he says, still huffy. “Keeps tryna get me to eat, like, veggies and shit? Which I’ll do, ‘cause it makes him happy, but. Sometimes you just want a pizza, right?”
“And then he keeps askin’ me to go for runs with him, too. I suck at distance running. Who runs five miles for fun?”
“Your husband, apparently.”
“Yeah.” A beat passes, a slight break in the dialogue, and Mickey drops this gaze to his coffee, swirling it around again. He smiles, in a way Ian can’t fully see from his current angle, but in a way he can hear in his voice plain as day when he mumbles a fond, “Dumbass.”
Another moment passes, and Jen takes another sip of coffee, clearly suppressing a smile of her own.
Mickey sees it too, and in a move that does not surprise Ian at all, flips her off. “Oh, fuck off.”
Jen doesn’t take it to heart. If anything, she seems to be growing more and more amused by the second. “You’re married to the guy. It’s okay to say you love him, you know.”
“Whatever.” Mickey runs a thumb at his bottom lip, dropping his gaze back to the depths of his mug. “Obviously. Shut up.”
“He makes you happy?”
Ian doesn’t know why he holds his breath, a little, at that — why his heart hammers a little louder, why something itches under his skin like nerves. He knows the answer is yes.
Mickey sniffs. Shrugs. “My favorite fucking person,” he admits, and it’s easy, simple. “‘Course he does.”
Ian exhales. Feels like he might cry, just a little bit.
“Didn’t know people could laugh this much?” Mickey goes on, without much pause. “We’re just laughing, all the time. Never used to get that, but it’s so fucking easy, now. Dunno how he does that. He just — makes everything good.”
And — yeah, that’s definitely a lump, forming in Ian’s throat, a heat prickling at his eyes. Jen, from her stool at the counter, has also fallen silent.
Mickey rubs at his nose, takes another sip of coffee, swallows, and shrugs again. “Y’know he comes home from his stupid runs and asks me what I’ve been doing? Like, fucking… checks in, all the time. Wants to know what I did, just ‘cause it’s me. Asks if I’ve eaten breakfast yet, which is dumb, ‘cause he damn well knows I wait for him to get back.”
Jen opens her mouth, looks as if she’s finally found her voice, but Mickey cuts her off, apparently on a roll.
“He tells me about this dog he always sees down the street? And he says it like it’s the best fucking thing in the world? Just makes him happy, seeing this stupid little dog every day. Soft motherfucker.”
And then, a breath later: “He came at me with a tire iron, when we were kids. Best thing that ever happened to me.”
That warmth in Ian’s chest spreads further, and he blinks quickly at the heat in his eyes.
Mickey takes another sip of coffee, a long, full gulp, and sets his mug down to the counter. When he catches the look on Jen’s face, something soft and wide-eyed and a little unreadable, he levels her with a glare.
“Okay,” he gripes, and hops down from the island, circling towards her. Easy, casual, as if he hadn’t just said a million things in a row that are melting Ian into a puddle of goo on the carpet outside their front door. “Get outta my apartment.”
“What are you—”
“If you’re just gonna sit there and stare at me like that, I’m tappin’ out. ‘Sides, Ian’ll be home soon, anyway.”
Jen raises an eyebrow as Mickey beckons her up, out of the chair. It’s hard to see, and Ian has to blink a lot, eyes a little wet.
He wants to cry. He wants to laugh. He wants to hold Mickey and kiss his fucking face off.
Mickey waves off the look, taking the coffee mug from her hands. “It’s Thursday. He does recovery runs on Thursday, so they’re shorter.” Another pause, where no one moves. “Stop lookin’ at me like that. Get out.”
Jen grins again, but makes her way towards the door anyways, slinging a sweater over her arm she’d apparently been sitting on. “You ever gonna tell him you made a friend?”
“What, and let the two of you start bonding and shit? Hard pass.”
“You just don’t want me to tell him I caught you pouring half a bag of Tide pods into your wash.”
“You didn’t catch me doing nothin’. Also — I don’t ever remember sayin’ we’re friends.”
“Hmm. Bye, Mickey. Thanks for the coffee.”
Ian realizes, belatedly, that he’s about to get caught in the act.
He tries to scramble back, releases the doorknob like it’s burned him, but the gig is up and the door swings the rest of the way open before he can take more than two steps.
Jen yelps a little in surprise, and Ian squeezes his eyes shut, wincing. He hears a heavy sigh, and for a moment, no one speaks.
Ian cautions one eye open first, and then the other.
Mickey’s pinching his nose, eyes shut, like he’s suddenly been burdened with the worst headache ever. “You’re such an idiot,” he mutters, and Ian can’t help but smile at him. Mickey opens his own eyes, and his brows draw down into a heatless glare. “What? The fuck’re you smilin’ about?”
“Nothing,” Ian assures, and wants to kiss him. Because he wants to make sure Ian can grow his tomatoes, and he eats vegetables to make Ian happy, and waits for Ian to have breakfast. Because he called Ian his favorite fucking person, and laughs with him, and said Ian makes everything good.
Mickey makes everything good, too. Makes it so easy to laugh.
“Nothing,” he repeats, and sniffs. Swallows hard. “Just kinda love you.”
Mickey rolls his eyes, but it’s all fond, all soft. “Would you get in here, then? Fucking starving, man.”
Ian smiles, and looks at Mickey’s apparent friend from down the hall. He has questions, what was he doing with the Tide Pods? and How long have you been coming over for coffee dates with my husband, exactly? but he doesn’t ask either.
Instead, all he says is: “You wanna stay for breakfast? Gonna make pancakes.”
Jen’s eyes brighten, and Mickey groans.
“Never shoulda opened the door this morning,” he mutters, turning on his heel and stalking back inside.
Ian doesn’t bother fighting back a smile, only gestures for her to follow him in. “Let the ‘bonding and shit’ commence.”
- - - - -
I wish you would write a fic where…