Mickey leaned against the kitchen counter, watching, amused, as Ian tried to fry up some eggs while balancing Liam on his left hip. He laughed as the toddler knocked the spatula out of Ian’s hand.
“Fuck you,” Ian muttered, turning around to glare at the ex-con. “I could use your help, y’know.”
“I’m sure ya could.” Mickey smirked, blue eyes taking in Gallagher’s frustrated expression. “Too bad for you I’m not the helping type.”
Which was true. Mickey wasn’t there to help Ian babysit the rugrat, he was there because aside from the toddler they had the house to themselves. And though he wouldn’t admit it, Mickey was glad to fuck in a bed for a change.
“Mickey,” Ian’s patience was wearing thin already, Mickey could tell. “Can you like, not be an asshole right now and just fucking help me?”
Biting at the corner of his mouth, Mickey gave in, albeit begrudgingly. Pushing himself away from the counter, he moved next to Ian. “What do you want me to do? ‘Cause I ain’t holdin’ the kid.”
“I figured that.” Ian rolled his eyes. “Just make the biscuits, okay?”
“Well, where the fuck are they at?” Mickey grunted, arms crossed.
“In the fridge. Where the fuck else would they be?”
Mickey scowled as he made his way over to the refrigerator. Pulling the door open he grabbed the can off the middle shelf. Slamming the door shut, he set the can down, scowl intensifying.
He hated these types of packages. They freaked him out; they always had since he was a little kid helping his Mom bake.
Ian turned around to ask what was taking so long when he saw Mickey staring at the can like it had personally offended him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Mickey raised his eyes from the Pillsbury dough boy and glanced at Liam wiggling happily in Ian’s arms. “Why don’t I hold the kid and you do this?” He suggested, hoping Ian wouldn’t question him.
Of course the redhead always had been too curious.
“Why would you rather hold Liam?” His eyebrows were furrowed in that way Mickey secretly thought was cute, but would never say aloud.
“Does it fuckin’ matter why?” Mickey opened his arms. “Just hand him over.”
Ian scrunched his face up in confusion before switching Liam to his other hip and shaking his head. “No. Just open the can, Mickey. It’s not hard, all you have to do is place them on a baking sheet.”
Huffing, Mickey looked back to the can, knowing there wasn’t a way out of this now –Not with Ian’s curiosity peaked.
He picked up the can and held it in his hand lightly. He wasn’t sure why these bothered him so much, he just knew that they did. Maybe it was because he didn’t know when they were going to pop open, or if they would at all. They weren’t fucking trust worthy, Mickey decided as he started picking at the edge of the paper.
“Any day now, Mick.”
He glanced at the redhead out of the corner of his eye. He knew Ian was watching him avidly now that he’d displayed such odd behavior. “Fuck off,” Mickey muttered half-heartedly.
Slowly, he started to peel back the paper, eyes going a little wide as more and, more of it was removed.
This was ridiculous. He’s been shot before for fucks sake, he wasn’t going to let a can of goddamn biscuits get the–
“Shit! Fuck! Fuck!” Mickey jumped and let go of the can, watching, wide-eyed as it rolled on the counter, the dough busting out. “I hate those things, I swear to god.”
Willing his heartbeat to slow down, Mickey was brought out of his panic as laughter rang through the small kitchen.
“Oh my god, Mick,” Ian said, amusement thick in his voice. “I-I didn’t know you were afraid of-”
“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher.” And shit, even the rugrat was laughing at him.
“Sorry, it’s just,” Setting Liam down on the counter, far away from the stove, Ian crowded Mickey against the fridge. “I’ve never seen you afraid of anything before, really. Especially nothing as funny as this.”
Mickey sneered up at Ian, placing his hands on Ian’s chest as though preparing to shove him away. “It’s not something I go advertising, y’know?”
“Mmm.” Ian pressed in closer, his mouth hovering by Mickey’s ear. “You know, you look really fuckin’ cute right now, Mick.”
Mickey bit his lip in an attempt to contain his smile; it didn’t work. “You wanna talk some more, or you wanna get inside me?”
And Mickey would never admit how much he loved that shit-eating grin that Gallagher gave him in return.