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It takes them, like, four fucking tries to find someone who will actually help them. By the time they do, Mickey’s ready to punch someone in the god damn face. He’s always ready to punch someone in the god damn face, but he’s actually gonna do it to that stupid bitch behind the counter if she doesn’t take these rotten teeth out of his fucking mouth.
“Mr. Milkovich —“
“Gallagher. It’s Gallagher.”
“It says—”
“I know what it says, but it’s fucking Gallagher, okay?”
Ian reaches around to cuff him on the shoulder, shooting him look and turning half a smile towards the lady whose name tag says SHELIA. “He’s just in a lot of pain — wisdom teeth,” Ian leans in like they’re the best of pals, and he’s letting her in on the big secret. It’s not charming, but it’s close. “Is there anyone we can see?”
Sheila looks reluctantly down at the clipboard on the desk in front of her, glancing at Mickey one more time as he bounces from foot to foot and crack his knuckles inside the pockets of his jean jacket.
“You gotta chill out, or they’re not gonna help us,” Ian says, leaning over and whispering in Mickey’s ear. He squeezes his shoulder again and presses a little kiss to his temple. Mickey shrugs, but not enough to throw Ian off of him, and Ian takes it as a win when his husband is this fucking grumpy.
“No one’s fucking helping us,” Mickey says, but he keeps his voice low enough that Shelia can pretend she didn’t hear him.
“Dr. Shinaz has an opening in an hour. Best you’re gonna get today.”
“Shinaz? What’s he, a—”
“We’ll take it,” Ian cuts off Mickey before he gets them kicked out of the office. “Thank you.”
Ian pulls the hood of Mickey’s sweatshirt until he’s walking backwards, manhandling him until he’s sitting in a cracked plastic chair, hand pressed to his jaw as he scowls at every living thing he can see, and a couple very unlucky office plants. “An hour wait? This is bullshit, this fucking hurts.”
“I know.” Ian knocks their shoulders together. “You want some oxy? Carl had extras.” Ian reaches into his pocket and pulls one out, blowing off a stray piece of lint.
Mickey takes one look at it and flicks Ian’s fingers closed over the little pill. “Save it. They’re gonna give me the good shit in there, anyway.”
“Aw, you gonna tough it out, Mr. Gallavich?” Mickey glares at him and snorts, rolling his eyes at the stupid nickname. But then he smiles and he pulls a fisted hand out of his pockets to intertwine his fingers with Ian’s. He runs his thumb across Ian’s wrist as Ian reaches out and runs his fingertips across the silver and black ring on Mickey’s fourth finger.
“You’re a fucking dork, you know that right?”
“Yeah, yeah. I thought your mouth hurt?”
“It does, you gonna kiss it better?” Mickey leans over and presses his lips to Ian’s, a slow press that gets harder as his tongue reaches out to swipe across the seam of Ian’s lips. He hisses, though, and pulls back, pressing his hand to his cheek. “Fuck.”
Ian laughs and presses a kiss to his forehead before tucking Mickey under his shoulder and leaning them both back into the wall to ride out the next 45 minutes.
*
When Mickey walks out of the back, his cheeks are round and swollen and he’s got something tucked under his upper lip that makes his smile crooked until he grins so big the damn thing falls out.
“IAN!” He shouts it across the small office, and everyone snaps their head to look at him as he throws his arms up and barrels out of the nurses grip, lurching across the room until he’s slamming into Ian’s chest and nuzzling his nose against Ian’s sternum.
“Hey,” Ian says, laugh on the edge of his voice, as his arm wraps around Mickey’s shoulder and he makes eye contact with the nurse over Mickey’s head. He’s laughing at them, and shaking his head, arms crossed.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” the nurse said, sounding bemused as Mickey’s hands begin to wander up and down Ian’s arm, doing a little walk and tap rhythm that’s making Mickey giggle and Ian distracted. “He did fine. He’s going to be a little sore for awhile, and you’re going to want to get this filled,” he holds a prescription across to Ian, who takes it and slips into his back pocket. “No straws, no sucking, nothing that could give him dry socket,” he holds out another bright blue half sheet of paper and Ian slides it into his other pocket. Mickey is playing with the string on Ian’s jacket hood, running the frayed little ends over the tip of his nose while he makes puppy dog eyes at Ian.
“They took my teeth,” he mumbles through the gauze, and Ian runs a hand up and down his back.
“Yeah they did.”
“Doc said I did good. Where’s my prize?” His hand drops to the front of Ian’s fly and Ian pulls back, blushing furiously as the nurse chuckles and looks away.
“You going to be able to get him home okay?”
Ian looks down at Mickey and rolls his eyes, smiling fondly. “Yeah, I think I got it.”
“Just make sure he keeps everything clean, okay? You don’t want to have to come back here with dry socket, trust me.”
“We will,” Ian nods and pushes Mickey towards the door. Mickey slides a hand into Ian’s back pocket and presses up against him, leaning way more than he needs to for someone who had surgery on their mouth, not their knees. “Thanks,” Ian throws over his shoulder as the door closes, and then he’s wrestling a disoriented, affectionate, post-wisdom teeth Mickey Milkovich down the street and towards the El.
“Oh, can we get a burger? I want a fucking burger.”
“You’re not supposed to eat, according to this,” Ian waves the half paper in Mickey’s face, glancing it over now that they’re sitting on the train, in between fending off waves of Mickey’s wandering hands.
“You smell good,” Mickey says for the third time, pressing his lips against the smooth stretch of skin right beneath Ian’s ear. “Like the fucking forest or some shit.” Ian shivers and fidgets in his seat, pressing a palm to the front of his jeans. Fucking Mickey. “And you taste like pennies,” Mickey says, his tongue darting out in little jabs at the spot where Ian’s neck meets his shoulder, and it tickles. Ian snorts and shrugs Mickey’s face out of his neck.
“Alright, alright, that’s fucking weird,” he says, but the smile on his face is only growing as Mickey giggles, a high pitched, feminine little sound that makes all of Ian’s defensive insitincts flare to life. He wants to wrap up this version of Mickey, this smiling affectionate fucking horny little version of his husband and keep him in a bottle for when life inevitably goes to shit again. “I love you, though,” he adds, because it’s true and he can say it so he should say it so he does.
“Looove me. You fucking looooove me, Ian Gallagher.” Mickey draws out the word, adding as many extra sing-song syllables as he can while he pulls on Ian’s hand, each one of his fingers, from thumb to pinky, stretching them and popping the knuckles before he kisses the center of Ian’s palm. “Can we get burgers? I would fucking kill for a burger.”
Ian just groans and lets his head fall on to Mickey’s shoulder, scooting down in his seat until he can. Mickey reaches a hand up to Ian’s cheek, letting it fall liquid and heavy, his thumb brushing across Ian’s cheekbone like it’s his favorite thing in the world. Ian smiles and Mickey can feel it, the edge of it pushing against Mickey’s palm like the world’s softest razorblade.
“I fucking love you, you know that?” His voice is low and gravelly but there’s a smile in it, just for Ian.
“Kinda figured when you married me.”
“No but, like. I really fucking love you. You and your stupid ginger alien face and fucked up head and ugly scars and —”
“Hey! At least I don’t have a tattoo with my husband’s name spelled wrong.” Mickey laughs, and the sound is a rare bird Ian wants to grab the sound out of the air before it’s gone, wants to tattoo it across his chest and write it in the sky.
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you too, Mickey.”
And when they say it, they both know they mean ‘I love you’.
The six block walk from the El to their new place takes three time as long as it ever has, mostly because Mickey just keeps wanting to stop at every corner bodega to buy cigarettes, a breakfast burrito, a family-sized box of condoms they’re not gonna fucking need, no pun intended.
“For the last time, Milkovich, get your ass out the door and let’s. Go. Home.” He takes the pack of snoballs from Mickey’s hand and puts them back on the shelf, pulling him by the lapels of his jacket back out into the sunshine. Mickey turns his face up to feel it.
“Yeah, yeah. What’s your rush, Ian? Stop and smell the flowers and all that shit.”
“My husband the poet. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a sewer backup at 79th and South and all I smell is actual shit, so for the love of Christ Mickey can we just go home?!”
“Home,” Mickey repeats, the word coming out soft and tender and maybe even a little sad. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”
And it’s so much easier after that, like now that he remembers it exists, Mickey can’t get home fast enough. They manage to navigate the trip up the stairs with minimal distraction and then they’re pushing open the door and doing the ritual of coming home — Mickey’s jacket tossed on their busted futon, Ian tossing the key into the little ashtray on the table beside the door, shoes kicked off so hard they crash against the far wall and fall into a heap. Mickey throws himself onto the futon on top of his coat, stretching long like a cat and making a little groaning sound.
“This couch smells like cat piss,” he says, his face still muffled in the cushion.
“But it was free!” Ian trills from the kitchen, where he’s buried in the fridge. He comes out, two beers in hand, and pops them both open. Mickey sits up at the sound, Pavlovian for Pabst. He holds out his hand, and looks at Ian, eyes so wide and so hopeful it makes him look a decade younger. Ian just pulls out the oxy from earlier and slips it there instead.
“We’ll get your script later, but oxy now, beer tomorrow. Deal?” Mickey grumbles but dry-swallows the oxy and smiles at Ian.
“You’re mean.”
“I care about you.”
“Aw, you do?” And they’ve been together long enough that Ian knows when Mickey is taking the piss out of him, and he’s not doing that right now. Something sincere is looking at Ian out of Mickey’s eyes and Ian hears it like a ghost:
Does he ever look at you like that?
“Yeah, you dumb ass. I do. I married you, didn’t I? For better—”
“ —or for worse,” Mickey finishes, leaning into Ian and pressing a long, gentle kiss just below his ear.
“Or wisdom teeth,” Ian says, his smile filling his face as he stretches his neck a bit further, letting Mickey trail his lips and teeth and tongue up over his pulse point, along the underside of his jaw, all the way to his lips. When they kiss, it tastes like blood and antiseptic and the length of a million summer afternoons wrapped up in the sheets together.
Luckily for both of them, that little blue paper didn’t say anything about fucking.