Archive of Our Own

Mickey can't sleep, and it's very quickly becoming a problem.

It's been happening for a few days now, and it's showing no signs of going away.

He'll fall asleep, tired as shit from a long day, and then wake up for no good reason in the middle of the night, awake as anything. It's really pissing him off.

He'll usually try and pass the time by doing those stupid brain games, like counting sheep, or trying to name as many words as possible that start with the letter D (drugs, dick, drunk…he really needs to expand his horizons), even attempting meditation of all things, but he gave up on that real quick 'cause he has no fucking clue how to meditate and he felt like an idiot just laying there going ohm in his head. He'll toss and turn, usually, try to get a new position that pleases his mind enough to drift off, but he'll stop eventually when Ian starts to stir at his restlessness, usually end up on his back or on his side, looking at the ceiling or wall.

Then, he'll start to think of all the shit they have to do the next day, or shit they have to do next week, shit they already did, try to remember if they sent that message to that client, did they remember to do the laundry, how much food do they have left, should they get groceries this week, when's that family supper again? On, and on, until his limbs feel jittery and his mind feels like it's trying to vibrate out of his skull.

It isn't stress. Clearly, his brain is trying to do something productive while it isn't sleeping like it's supposed to be doing.

After the fourth night of waking up at whatever o'clock (1:52 am, he checks the digital clock they keep on the nightstand, the green glow of the screen lingering behind his eyelids when he tries to close his eyes again, but gives up after another three minutes of not falling asleep) and glaring at the wall when his brain refuses to shut off, he caves and takes his phone from the nightstand, squints against the bright as hell screen.

How to fall asleep?

He clicks on the first link he sees, a website talking about some tips and tricks on how to sleep better. He skips over the shit that talks about what to do before bed, because he ain't going to bed in a few hours, he needs to go to bed now. Preferrably in the next few minutes. They've got an early day tomorrow, and he'd like some fucking shut-eye, please.

His eyes catch on a few of them though.

Cut back on alcohol and nicotine before bed.

Yeah, fuck no. He isn't doing that. His post-work smoke and beer are a tradition, and if he doesn't smoke, he can't relax. He knows it's a problem, knows that sooner or later Ian's going to try and force him to quit, or at least cut back, but that's a later Mickey problem. Not a current Mickey problem. His current problem is sleep, not his vices. Honestly, if he tries to cut back on either of the two right now, he's sure his sleeping problems are just going to get worse. The nicotine makes all the tension go away at the end of a long day, the beer is more of a comfort than anything, and how the hell is he supposed to sleep if he's got the shakes from withdrawal?

So, he tries the next option. Sleep somewhere different. Sometimes your brain needs to be somewhere else.

Might as well try.

He manages to get out of bed with little fanfare, grabbing his pillow to bring with him. Ian stays sound asleep in bed, and luckily he wasn't doing his usual octopus grab where he keeps Mickey wrapped up in his arms the entire night (he never complains about it, until he has to take a piss and Ian's arm wrap tighter around his middle, which really doesn't help at all). He makes sure to pull the blankets back up though, since the apartment can still get pretty cold at night during the winter. And because he's a sap, and doesn't want his husband to wake up from the chill.

He lies down, pulls one of the blankets over that they put over the back of the couch on top of him, shuffles around a little to get comfortable. Hopefully, this helps his brain go to sleep.

…

The couch is lonely and cold, and Mickey hates it.

No position he chooses feels natural or comfortable, he can't decide whether he wants to face the wall (bad) or the back of the couch (worse), it's slighty and irrationally claustrophobic since he can't really move all that much without almost falling off of the damn thing, and — don't make fun of him for this, okay? It's all Ian's fault anyways — it's impossible to sleep without his husband sleeping next to him.

He huffs as he turns onto his back (again) and glares at the ceiling.

He's not sure what this…sleep issue is, but it's really fucking annoying. Sure, it's possible for him to run on minimal hours of sleep, but with all the shit they get up to in a week, it's going to be more trouble than it's worth. He needs to be sharp. A few bad nights he can deal with, but this? This is shaping up to be something that lasts a bit longer than two or three nights, and he really doesn't want that shit to happen. He needs to figure out a way to sleep, and fast. They've got work to do, and he can't be lagging behind and dragging his feet.

He doesn't need Ian noticing his fatigue, can't have him worry over stupid shit like this. Can't have him thinking that Mickey's getting too lazy to do their job, can't have him think that he's just trying to get out of doing work. He knows, logically, that Ian wouldn't think that if he just told him that he's been struggling these past few nights, but he isn't really thinking straight right now. Sue him, it's the ten hours of sleep he's managed to steal when he should've been getting over twenty.

He'll be fine. Eventually.

Once he figures out how to sleep.

-

"You okay? You've been pretty quiet today," Ian says while they drive to their first client, eyes glancing at him before focusing back on the road, and Mickey can tell by his tone he's trying not to be too nosy. But it's Ian, so he's failing at it quite drastically.

"Slept like shit," Mickey says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. No point in lying about it, he saw himself in the mirror when he woke up. Not exactly the fairest of them all, right now.

"Again?" Ian asks, frowning as he lowers his to-go cup of coffee from the cafe they always stop at when they have to get up real early. That seems to be happening more and more now, which isn't doing anything to help with Mickey's fucking sleeping problem.

"Yeah, I dunno," Mickey sighs. "Tried sleeping on the couch and that didn't help for shit."

"Really?" Ian says, frown somehow getting deeper. "I didn't even notice."

"That's 'cause I didn't wanna wake you up," Mickey says. "Just 'cause I ain't sleepin' doesn't mean you can't."

Ian says nothing at that, but Mickey can tell he isn't a fan.

"It's fine," he says, because it is. "Now that I know the couch fuckin' sucks ass, I'll probably sleep like a baby tonight in our bed. Shit's way comfier."

"Hm," Ian says, turns when the light changes to green. "Hopefully."

"Let's just get the day over with," Mickey looks out the window, mentally calculates how long it'll take to get to their next few clients, how long it'll take for their work day to end. "I'll go to bed early tonight."

The day isn't too long, thankfully, and they manage to get home before supper time. Ian makes some soup, which is perfect after driving around in the Chicago winter all day, and Mickey feels warmed right to his toes as they head to bed (slightly earlier than usual) that night. He's out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow.

-

He's awake again at around 2:45 am. He holds back a groan as he checks the digital alarm clock on the bedside table, hoping against all hope that it's somehow just an incredibly dark morning. No such luck.

Ian's sound asleep next to him, his back turned, and Mickey presses his forehead against the space between his shoulder blades in a valiant attempt to try and force himself back asleep. A minute passes, then another. Then he loses count of how long he tries to fall asleep for, but when he checks the clock it's only 3:08 am.

He feels the fatigue, the ache behind his eyes from so few hours of sleep. It's been what, almost a week now that he's been working with four hours a night? Maybe five if he's lucky? He used to be able to deal with this kinda shit back at the Milkovich house, or when he was on the run in Mexico, but it's been a while since then and damnit, he needs eight hours of sleep now.

The only reason he probably even survived so little sleep back then was probably because he was running on adrenaline and was in constant survival mode. He's lucky he doesn't live like that anymore, but clearly, it comes with its own downsides. Like needing to fucking sleep. They've got a business to run, family to help out with, personal shit to do like groceries in what little gaps of free time they have, he needs those precious hours of shut-eye.

He turns onto his stomach, then onto his other side when he doesn't fall asleep after a few minutes. He glares at the clock, shining that irritating 3:35 am right at him, eyes burning.

Fuck this. He grabs his phone and searches up I can't fucking fall asleep how to fall asleep quick?

He disregards the websites he's already been on, fat load of help they've been, and scrolls until he sees "I couldn't sleep for days until I found this!" Obviously a scam. But also, Mickey's running on three hours of sleep right now so he's ready to try pretty much anything.

The website loads and he's immediately bombarded with pastel colours, sparkly effects, and big swooping font that says Heather's Blog. He blinks a few times against the bright screen, squints as he tries to read the post titled Sleep Problems? Absolu-TEA-ly easy!

There's no way this chick is for real.

Whatever. Might as well pass the time since he's awake anyways. Maybe the blog'll be so boring he'll manage to fall asleep.

Heather (and Mickey can just imagine what she looks like from the way that she types and the way that she writes) talks about how she was struggling with sleepless nights, and how no amount of naturopathic solutions were helping her (again, Mickey knows exactly what this lady would look like), until she stumbled across a kind of tea that was recommended across several different websites called Lavender Dream.

This stuff works like magic! The blog says. I immediately drifted off to dreamland after practically just one sip!

Is Mickey really going to try some hippy drink, just on the off chance that it helps him sleep? Has he really gotten to this point so soon? He does look up the tea, just to cross-reference, because he isn't about to trust some random woman's opinion over, y'know, the tea brand's official website and some other reviews.

The brand looks legit at least, has some other flavours he's seen around in the grocery store close to their apartment, so they probably aren't trying to rip him off (as much as a company that tries to sell medicinal teas with names like Lavender Dream and Chamomile Sleepy-Time even could, that is). Some other reviews of the stuff talk about how soothing the "aroma" is or whatever, so Heather can't be too far off base, even if the way she's describing about the tea makes it seems like she's writing about a fucking magic potion.

Yeah, fuck it. Alright Heather, Mickey thinks to himself. She's lucky that he's desperate enough at this point to try tea of all things. He doesn't know how hot leaf water can soothe and relax someone enough to make them pass out, but he's run out of ideas on how to make shit better by himself, so. Lavender Dream it is. Might as well give it a try.

-

Ten fuckin' dollars?!

He stares at the small as shit box of tea sitting innocently on the grocery store shelf. Ten bucks for this? He isn't even sure if this is going to work, and he has to drop this much money on it? He continues to stare, trying to gauge if this is actually worth the effort, moving back a few steps when someone awkwardly asks if they could grab another box right below Lavender Dream.

He's still glowering at the box when the person shuffles away as quickly as possible. He wants to sleep, so badly. He doesn't want to wake up in the middle of the night anymore, wants to wake up with the irritating sun shining in his face, or to Ian shaking him awake so they can get ready for work. He doesn't want to spend an insane amount of money on some tea of all things.

…But what if it does work?

He shoves the box of tea into the grocery cart like it's personally offended him, the obnoxious pale purple box very noticeable compared to the rest of the shit in there, and quickly walks towards the cash register. This better fucking work, or he's going to leave a very strongly worded review on this lady's sparkly fucking blog.

-

The tea tastes like shit. He immediately gives up after two sips, and mentally flips off fucking Heather for saying this stuff worked. Now he's out ten dollars, and his mouth has an absolutely awful aftertaste.

"Not good?" Ian asks through a yawn, coming into the kitchen with half-closed eyes, leans against the opposite side of the counter where Mickey sits.

"Dogshit," Mickey says, glowering at the mug like it personally insulted him. It basically did.

"Lemme try," Ian grabs the mug and takes a tentative sip, before turning towards the sink and letting it fall out of his mouth. It manages to make Mickey snort when Ian just goes pleh.

"Fuck, that's awful," Ian says. "What flavour is that trying to be?"

"Lavender," Mickey says drily. "Apparently it's supposed to soothe me. All it managed to do was make me think I was bein' fuckin' poisoned."

Ian hums, leans with his arms on the counter, but his eyes are mostly closed. He looks exhausted, and Mickey feels a pang of guilt for having woken him up, even if he didn't mean to.

"You should go back to bed," he says. "You look like you're about to keel over."

"Hm," Ian says, shakes his head. "Not if you're out here. Can't sleep."

He smiles faintly, exhales in amusement. "Okay big guy, let's go back to bed then. Maybe the tea's supposed to taste like shit and then knock me out."

"One can hope," Ian says, dragging his feet back to bed with Mickey in tow.

The guilt comes back as he watches Ian fall back into bed and gesture for him to join, his arms immediately wrapping around his waist and his face tucking itself into his shoulder. He doesn't want Ian to ruin his schedule, he needs the consistency of his routine to keep steady, and all of this bullshit with Mickey not being able to fall asleep is disrupting it.

He plays idly with Ian's hair, which gets him a satisfied hum that vibrates against his collarbone, before Ian's breaths even out and his body gets heavy with sleep not long after. He presses a kiss to the top of Ian's head, sighs because he knows he isn't falling asleep tonight. He can just tell. He closes his eyes anyways, tries to ignore how they sting from how tired he is, and breathes.

And breathes.

And breathes.

And doesn't fall asleep.

-

Mickey's running on fucking fumes.

The next "sleep tip" he found online was that he had to avoid taking naps, and it's proving to be simultaneously the most effective method, and also the worst.

He's been taking power naps after work so he can get the energy to start on supper, sneaking in some quick five minute ones before and after the niece and nephews come over for their shift of babysitting, trying to cram in some naps during their lunch break in the truck. Apparently, that shit isn't conducive to good and healthy sleeping, so he stops doing it. The problem with this is the fact that he is so Goddamn tired now he can barely think straight.

It does help him fall asleep, if passing out at the end of the day counts. By the time they actually go to bed, somewhere near midnight, he's out like a light almost instantly. The only issue is that now, he'll still wake up way too early or he'll wake up and still be exhausted. It's like there's a constant fog over his brain, his muscles ache for some reason, and the urge to just close his eyes during the day is so strong that he has to actively fight against himself to stay awake. At least like this, he can sometimes last during the night. He doesn't disturb Ian anymore, which is an added bonus. Just last through the day, that's all he has to do now.

He tries different ways of keeping himself alert.

Bouncing his leg so that he's always moving, pinching his arm to focus, tapping at his face to clear his head, blasting music in headphones or on the radio (which Ian doesn't like that much, but he doesn't say or do anything other than frown slightly as Mickey turns up the dial — although, Ian's been the one driving more and more recently, which Mickey hates but can't really fight against. He'd probably crash the fucking truck into a fire hydrant or something if he had to do more than a two minute trip somewhere), and whatever other little trick that comes to mind. Ian only stopped one trick that he tried when he started cracking his knuckles obsessively.

He's even taken to bringing a travel mug of coffee on their deliveries now just to keep a little bit of energy, and Ian has definitely noticed the change. For one, because the travel mug is insanely big and very noticeable, and the other reason is that Mickey never fucking uses a travel mug. They're stupid, and Mickey hates carrying them around, and he almost constantly spills coffee on his shirt while they're driving due to the pitiful state of the roads around here.

"Are you stressed?" Ian asks out of the blue during their normal delivery route, and Mickey definitely does not have enough coffee in his system (or maybe, too much?) to do this right now.

"Fuck off, no," he says shortly. He isn't stressed, they've just been really busy lately and he's trying to stay on top of everything.

"'Cause I was doing some research last night," Ian continues like he didn't hear him, because of course he does, "and apparently you can develop insomnia if you're stressed."

"Insomnia?" Mickey scoffs. "I don't have fuckin' insomnia. I've just had a few shitty nights."

"Insomnia is defined as continuous difficulty in falling asleep or staying asleep," Ian says like he's reading from a script. "I looked it up."

"Of fuckin' course you did," Mickey sighs. "Look, man, I'm just tired, alright? A few bad nights doesn't mean anything."

He doesn't have to know that this has been happening for over a week now. Mickey's dealing with it.

Ian looks at him like he doesn't quite believe what he's saying. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure," Mickey says, and takes another sip from his travel mug (still stupid), blinks heavily at the passing scenery that's really just an incomprehensible blur now. Fights against a yawn.

He just has to last until night. He just has to stay awake and he really will be fine.

-

So maybe Ian was onto something when he was talking about insomnia, Mickey thinks to himself as he stares at the ceiling. He refuses to look at the digital clock, the green glow of it taunting him in his periphery. It only frustrates him more when he sees how late (early?) it is. So, he stares at their ceiling instead. It isn't even like the ceiling in the Milkovich house, which had stains and cracks and bumps all over it that he could observe and make tiny little mold constellations with. This ceiling is blank, and smooth, and boring as fuck, and Mickey feels like he's losing his mind.

Well, maybe not losing his mind, but definitely losing some sort of control.

Ian had to call his name three times today before he realized he was being spoken to. That shit's never happened before, and it freaked him out as much as it probably freaked Ian out.

He's so tired.

Nothing he's doing is working, safe for the passing out at the end of the night, but he isn't even sure if that's helping or making things worse. His hands keep shaking from the amount of caffeine that he's ingesting, but it isn't doing anything to keep him awake, it just serves to keep him somewhat functional as they go through their daily tasks. He dropped the truck keys three times until Ian dipped down and picked them up for him, lips pressed into a fine line as the told Mickey to get into the passenger seat.

He can barely remember what happens throughout the day, only flashes of getting dressed, leaving the apartment, driving in the truck, and then staring at the ceiling at night.

Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat.

They have so much to do. He can't afford to be this tired. They've got deliveries, new clients to take care of, fucking taxes to keep track of (he knows it isn't tax season, but he likes to be prepared, okay? Owning a business makes things a bit more difficult. He's gotta keep track of receipts, transactions, business fees, and way more that he can't remember right now), family to help (driving Franny and Liam to and from school, helping out Lip and Tami when they're in a bind, on, and on, and on). How's he supposed to do all of that shit if he's like this?

What if Ian needs a meds adjustment? What if he needs Mickey and he's stuck with this useless, sleep-deprived version of him who can barely function?

Whatever. Mickey will push through, he's been doing it since he was born. This is a minor, temporary problem that will eventually go away.

He closes his eyes so he isn't staring at the stupid pristine, boring ceiling anymore, takes a deep breath.

…

He's so tired.

Over the next few days, Ian notices more.

Worries, more.

He doesn't think Mickey's getting any rest. Actually, he's sure that Mickey isn't getting any rest.

The bags under his eyes keep getting deeper, the way he moves is slower, like his limbs are too heavy to use properly, and it looks like he can't focus on anything. His eyes are hazy, almost constantly zoned out now, and it takes Ian a few tries to get his attention whenever he's trying to talk to him before he even reacts, which is nothing like the husband he knows.

Mickey's always been on high alert ever since they were kids, always keeping an eye on their surroundings. It's something that Ian's been hoping goes away the older they get, because they're safe now, no need to have eyes on the back of their heads. But still, it's a part of Mickey he doesn't love any less, and he understands why his husband acts the way he does when he's in an unfamiliar environment with people he doesn't know. It isn't like a South Side upbringing can just be let go, especially not with how Mickey grew up.

But now? Now, it's like Mickey's just trudging through the world. He barely flinches at loud noises, blinks heavy and stares unseeing as they drive to their clients, and it's worrying Ian. It's like it takes three whole seconds before he'll realize Ian's said something, or Ian'll have to cut into a conversation with a client when all Mickey does is stare at them, uncomprehending that the client is talking to him.

And it's not just the fact that Mickey isn't noticing things anymore. He isn't even talking as much anymore. His incessant snarky comments, sarcastic comments, teasing comments, gone. It's like he can barely string sentences together anymore, getting lost halfway through one, forgetting what he was going to say, or just keeping to hums whenever Ian talks to him. He isn't even bickering with him anymore.

He's quiet, now.

It's almost like he's lost any and all fire in him.

He's not himself.

Whenever he wakes up in the morning (and Ian hesitates to say wakes up, he's pretty sure Mickey's just been passing out these past few nights and barely gets any energy back in return), it takes him a while to get out of bed. He has to sit, hunched over, head in his hands as he gets his bearings, shoulders curved inwards, before heaving himself up like he's got physical weights on his shoulders keeping him anchored to the bed. He keeps sighing, rolling his shoulders as he tries to crack his neck, but the movements seem leaden, and Ian watches with his eyebrows pulled together and lips pressed tightly from their bathroom, from their kitchen, in the truck while they work.

Mickey doesn't even seem to notice for the most part, which is the scariest part.

There aren't any complaints anymore, no eye-rolling and an I'm fine, Ian, lay off. Just heavy silence and mostly one-sided conversations. Ian hates how quiet it is when they work now, hates how quiet it is in their apartment. He misses his husband's chatter.

Another thing that sets Ian's teeth on edge: Mickey's eyes are constantly closing.

They'll be driving around all day for work, and while Mickey sits in the passenger seat (Ian's refused to let him drive these past few days. With the way Mickey can barely focus on walking, he has no confidence in his ability to drive them around safely. The fact that Mickey doesn't even argue when he holds his hand out for the keys anymore just reinforces Ian's incessant, constant, worry. Mickey always prefers to drive) his head will dip briefly before shooting back up, before it dips down again, chin against his chest, then back up. His eyes close behind the sunglasses he fruitlessly wears to hide the fatigue (Ian can still see the shadows under his eyes, it isn't like they're blocking the side of Mickey's face) before fluttering open when they stay closed for more than a second or two.

Or they'll be at home, sitting on the couch and unwinding after a long day, and Mickey will actively fight against his drooping eyes while they watch a show, no matter how many times Ian says he doesn't mind if Mickey takes a quick nap. Sometimes, it seems like he doesn't even realize he's about to pass out. He'll be eating, for God's sake, and look two seconds from face-planting into his plate.

He's somehow holding on, but Ian doesn't think he'll last much longer if he keeps going on like this. He's one bad day away from crashing completely, and Ian's at a loss on how to help, other than just knocking him out himself and forcing him to stay in bed.

Whenever he even tries to hint at resting, going so far as to try and convince Mickey that he didn't sleep well the night before and really wants to go to bed early (he didn't fall for it. He might be cognitively compromised by sleep deprivation, but Mickey isn't stupid. He knows when Ian's lying, especially if it's for his sake. It frustrates Ian to no end), Mickey clams up, slaps his face a few times and says he's good. Please, as if Ian would believe that.

The only times he seems to relax at all is over the weekend, but even those meagre two days barely allow for extra rest. Someone in the family needs help, chores have to be done, personal errands need to be run. As much as Ian pleads for him to just stay home, Mickey'll put on his coat, grab his wallet and phone, and head out the door with him. Won't let you do all this shit on your own, Mickey will say with a yawn.

He hates this. Hates seeing Mickey like this. He's sure Mickey does too, as much as he'd refuse to admit it.

But he doesn't want to fight over Mickey sleeping, because he knows it won't lead anywhere. If they argue and Mickey's sleep deprived, it'll only serve to make things worse. Especially since Mickey's somehow convinced that everything's fine (or, maybe not. Maybe he knows this isn't healthy, but Ian knows he'd never admit that to him, because he hates to worry Ian with that kind of stuff. Too bad, Ian'll worry anyways, it's his job as his husband), that it'll somehow magically pass like this isn't something deeper than just a bad night's rest.

This has clearly been building for a while (and Ian feels so guilty he hasn't noticed until he's practically passing out every few minutes). He doesn't know how to make Mickey believe him that if this keeps going on, it's going to start impacting his physical health. Maybe it already has, with the way he's rolling his head and shoulders every so often.

He stares from across the couch as Mickey startles again, eyes shooting open where they had just started to droop closed. He knows his expression is pinched, but Mickey doesn't seem to notice as he just vigorously shakes his head in a poor attempt to wake up. The lighting of the show that they're watching seems to enhance the deep bruising under his eyes, the pallor of his skin. He looks exhausted.

He doesn't think he'll be able to hold his tongue anymore, not as he watches his husband seemingly fade in front of him.

Mickey needs to rest.

He needs to sleep.

-

"I'm home!" Ian calls out, carrying a few bags of groceries in his arms and kicking the door close behind him.

The trip had taken a bit longer than he thought it would (apparently, every single family in their neighbourhood decided to go shopping at night for some reason, which made waiting in line to check out take ten times longer than usual), but at least they have food now. Thankfully, he had actually managed to convince Mickey to stay home this time. He may have bent the truth a little when it came to how many groceries they needed ("I just need to grab like, three things Mick. It'll be quick,") but it was worth the effort of bringing all the bags back and climbing up the stairs to their apartment, so long as it let Mickey relax a little.

He puts the bags on the kitchen counter, goes to check on his husband. He sees him laying down on the couch, eyes closed, which makes Ian's lips quirk up in a small smile. A nap would do him some good, he's glad he's resting a little, but it's nearing eight o'clock now, and it'll only make him stay awake longer tonight if he doesn't get up now.

"Wakey wakey," he says, walking over and brushing a hand through Mickey's hair. "Come help me put the groceries away."

Mickey doesn't stir, doesn't even show any signs of acknowledgement. Ian frowns.

"Mickey," he says, puts a hand on Mickey's shoulder. "Wake up."

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

"Hey," a few pats, a bit harder, "Mick."

Again, no reaction. His face is still completely lax, body unmoving. The bags under his eyes are stark against his pale skin, hair flattened against his head, lips slightly parted.

He looks dead to the world.

Ian instantly feels a rush of fear so powerful he thinks he's about to fall over from the amount of adrenaline coursing through him at once.

His stomach drops to the floor, heart twisting in his chest as fear grips his throat in a vice, dropping to his knees in front of the couch and moving the hand from Mickey's shoulder to his jaw, pressing his fingers against his pulse point. He puts his other hand on Mickey's chest, his own heart beating so fast that it's the only sound he hears other than the rushing of his blood, his stomach lurching, and he has to take a deep breath to focus on trying to feel Mickey's inhales, feel his chest expanding outwards, feel for his pulse.

His lungs feel brittle as he inhales shakily, immediate urgency dissipating as he feels Mickey breathing, feels his heart beating, but worry still making him unsteady because Mickey isn't waking up.

"Mickey," his voice strained, shaking him lightly now. "Open your fucking eyes."

A small twitch. Barely anything at all.

"Wake up!" he says, louder, shakes him forcefully, and he swears he's going to slap him if he doesn't react, Ian's two seconds away from calling the fucking crisis line if he doesn't wake the fuck up.

Just as he starts to look for his phone, desperation clawing at his ribs and up his throat, Mickey gives a little jerk, and Ian's gaze snaps back onto his face as his husband's eyes open way too slowly for his liking.

"Ian?" Mickey slurs out, eyebrows knitting together, gaze unfocused and a bit glazed over from being wrenched out of sleep.

"Fuck," Ian breathes out, hand drifting back down to Mickey's chest, he needs to feel his heartbeat, needs that assurance. "Fuck."

"What's wrong?" Mickey's words bleed into each other, barely understandable, and it just sends another ping of worry through Ian's entire body.

"You weren't waking up," Ian says, his hands are shaking from where he still has them on Mickey's shoulder and chest, and he grips at Mickey's shirt just to feel a bit more grounded. Mickey's awake, he's okay.

No, he isn't okay. He wouldn't wake up. Ian couldn't wake him up.

His heart gives another kick of fear at the thought. What if Mickey didn't wake up? What if he stayed unconscious, and Ian couldn't do anything? What if this had happened in public? On the road? A miriad a possibilities, all of them bad. All of them leading to Mickey potentially getting hurt, or worse.

"Just closed my eyes for five minutes," Mickey murmurs, eyes still squinting, blinking heavily.

"Fuck," Ian gets out, throat tight and eyes burning dangerously as he drops his head down onto Mickey's chest with a thump.

"'M okay," Mickey says, but he still sounds a bit out of it, hand landing heavily on Ian's back, but it's like that's all the energy he can muster.

"You scared the shit outta me," Ian says, fingers gripping tighter onto Mickey's shirt, focuses on the heartbeat he can hear with his head this close to his chest. "I couldn't wake you up."

"Just…passed out," Mickey murmurs, which doesn't do anything to help Ian calm down at all. He pulls his head off of Mickey's chest, leans back a bit and watches his husband try and get his bearings.

"Maybe we should rest tomorrow," he says, looks as Mickey rub at his eyes, rolls his shoulders and neck.

"C'mon man," Mickey says, yawns. "We've got shit to do tomorrow."

He watches as Mickey struggles to sit up, movements heavy, shoulders slumped, eyes still fucking hazy as he looks around the room.

"I'll help with the groceries," Mickey looks at him, bags under his eyes. He looks like he didn't get any sleep at all.

Ian stands on shaky legs, rubs his hands down his face. That's it.

"We're taking the day off," he says, tone firm.

"Ian," Mickey says tersely, exasperated and frustrated, fatigue clear when he look at Ian, bags heavy under his eyes, shoulders slumped.

"We're taking the fucking day off," Ian repeats, voice shaking slightly near the end, and he just out his chin to cover for it as he stares Mickey down.

He can't keep watching this, he can't. Mickey looks like he's two seconds from passing out, constantly. He isn't sleeping properly, he isn't acting like himself, and Ian's fed up. He's tired of it, too. If that means he has to force his husband to take a day to rest, then so be it. Even if Mickey gets mad, even if Mickey gets irritated and takes it out on him. Mickey needs to sleep, he needs to take care of himself, and Ian will make sure it happens. He's putting his fucking foot down.

He's worried, he just got the scare of his life not five minutes ago, and Mickey needs to sleep.

He's not sure what Mickey sees on his face, because he's trying really hard just to seem stubborn right now, but he knows that he's practically vibrating from leftover adrenaline and fear, worry probably emanating from him in waves.

The defeat that appears on Mickey's face a moment later makes Ian's stomach turn, but he doesn't back down. He needs this as much as his husband does, and if that makes him selfish, whatever. He needs Mickey to take a breather, to recuperate.

"Fuckin'…fine," Mickey mutters, dragging a hand down his haggard face. "Fine."

Ian exhales, a bit shaky, and nods. Calms down a little. "Let's get ready for bed then, yeah?"

"Ian, for fuck's sake it's only eight—" Mickey starts to argue, but Ian just levels him with a hard stare. Not quite a glare, but not not a glare either. The groceries can fucking wait, he didn't get anything that has to go in the fridge anyways. He'll leave them on the counter for now, this is more important.

"Christ," Mickey bites out, but it lacks the usual ferocity, and it just makes Ian feel a bit sick. He tries not to waver as Mickey stares at the floor, clearly struggling to accept the help Ian's now forcing on him.

Mickey looks back up at him, weariness clear in his posture as he rubs his hands over his face, resignation visible in his dimmed eyes when he puts them down on his lap in acquiescence. "Fine."

It feels like a death sentence as they walk into the bedroom.

This entire time he's been trying to hold it together, push through whatever stupid fucking thing this is, and all he managed to do was worry Ian to the point of forcing him to go to bed. Like a fucking kid.

It's humiliating.

He feels like he's failed, somehow, that he's had to cave and get Ian's help. He should be able to take care of himself, to make himself sleep. It's his fucking body, why won't it listen to his basic human needs? It's sleep. Everyone fucking sleeps. Ian shouldn't have to deal with this bullshit—

"Stop it," Ian says, interrupting his thoughts. "I want to help."

"You a mind-reader now?" Mickey mutters, moving towards their dresser to get a pair of pjs on.

"No, you were muttering out loud," Ian says, giving him a small flicker of a smile. It's still shaky, like he's still afraid from the whole fiasco that just happened in the living room, and Mickey's stomach twists with guilt, mouth pulling downwards.

He doesn't answer, tries to quell the embarrassment. Whatever. Now he doesn't even have control of his mouth, apparently.

"Maybe it'll help if we just go to bed when your body is telling you to," Ian offers as he pulls on a pair of pyjama shorts (fucker always runs warm, even in winter. Mickey's only slightly jealous). "You keep trying to keep yourself awake."

"Yeah, but I'm always fuckin' tired," Mickey says, pulling on his own pair of pyjama pants. "Doesn't mean I'm fallin' asleep at the kitchen table."

Ian sends him a sidelong glance. Mickey ignores the fact he almost did yesterday, ignores the fact he just admitted that this has been happening way longer than he's been letting on.

"Still," Ian continues, gives him some grace for the slip up, "it might work."

"I can't promise that I'll actually sleep, Ian," he frowns, presses his lips together as he moves towards his side of the bed. He's been trying to figure out how to sleep this entire time, not that any attempt fucking worked.

"Then we'll go to a doctor," Ian says, like that isn't the worst possible outcome of this entire thing.

"I'm not goin' to a fuckin' doctor—"

"You can't keep fucking trying to push through it!" Ian's voice rises in volume, making Mickey's mouth snap shut.

"D'you know what sleep deprivation does to the human body?" Ian asks, running a hand through his hair. "It fucks you up, Mickey. And I can't keep watching you force yourself to stay awake just to pass out later. It isn't healthy."

He looks at him, and Mickey's throat goes embarrassingly tight at the helpless expression he has on his face. "I want us to go to bed early, because you clearly need to, and because I'm tired too," he says before Mickey can interrupt, "and if that doesn't do anything, if it just ends up with you tossing and turning all fucking night again, if you still wake up tired as shit, we're going to go get help. We'll try meds, or that fucking Melatonin shit.

"I'm worried, Mick," Ian says, borderline pleading for Mickey to understand as he moves closer and puts a hand on his face, and Mickey knows he's staring at the bags under his eyes by the way his gaze flickers down briefly. "Just—please."

His heart squeezes as Ian looks at him, eyebrows knitted upwards, green eyes wide and desperate.

"Yeah, okay," Mickey says softly. "Okay."

Ian closes his eyes for a second, lets out a shaky breath. "Thank you."

"I've been tryin' though," Mickey says, needing Ian to understand that he hasn't just been passing out on a whim, that he has been looking up weird tips and tricks on how to sleep. "Nothings been workin'. Just can't get my brain to fuckin' shut off."

"I know," Ian says, "I've been doing some research too."

He walks towards their nightstand and unplugs the digital clock, moves it towards their dresser instead and leaves it disconnected.

"Don't look at the clock anymore," he says. "I know you have been, but it doesn't help reminding yourself that you're awake. Gimme your phone."

Mickey hands it over. Once his husband gets like this, he's learnt not to argue (too much, at least). Also, he's too tired to argue right now, and honestly, letting Ian take control and help him try and fall asleep already makes him feel ten times better. Their phones also end up on the dresser.

"Keep them out of reach," Ian explains, "we won't go and grab them as often and destroy our fuckin' eyes with the blue light."

Mickey shrugs. He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about, but sure. If he thinks it'll help. He watches as Ian putters around the room, placing a fan a little distance away from their bed ("When did you get that? Also, it's fucking winter." "Kept it from the old house. It's supposed to help, jackass"), turning it onto a low enough setting where the breeze isn't too cold and strong, but still emits a low woosh noise. It's…soothing, Mickey guesses? He isn't quite sure what the point is, but sure.

"Are we gunna end up in bed at some point?" he asks, weary and shuffling in place as Ian continues to move around the room, closes their curtains tight (not that it'll do much, they are white, so the sun shines through them pretty easily. It's the thought that counts), fluffs their pillows.

"There," Ian says. Mickey goes to get under the covers, before: "Wait! One more thing."

"Holy shit, what?" Mickey asks. He just sat down.

"If you don't fall asleep in fifteen minutes," Ian says, all serious, and it almost makes Mickey crack a smile, "you gotta stand up and leave the room for a bit. Go like, read a book or something. No lights or screens though, or smokes."

"Read a book," he says drily. "In the dark?"

"Or just sit there, I don't fuckin' know," Ian huffs, drops down into bed with him. "You gotta reset your brain into thinkin' our room is for sleeping."

"I know our room is for sleeping."

"Your brain, smartass," Ian flicks his forehead. "All it's doing right now is connecting our room to, like, stress or whatever. Keeps you up. You gotta remind it that you're in bed to sleep."

"Alright, Doctor Gallagher," Mickey smiles, presses a light kiss to his husband's lips. "Thanks," he says, softly.

Ian's expression melts, a deep breath escaping him as he reaches between them and moves a strand of hair off of Mickey's forehead. "I just want to help."

"You are," Mickey says, because he is, even with just a few small changes. He's already tired from earlier (and from the past week and a bit, let's be honest here) and his eyes feel heavy. He's not sure if he'll manage to sleep through the night, but he's damn-well ready to try, if only to make Ian feel better.

They shuffle around, Ian curling himself around Mickey like a vice, wrapping his arms around his waist and tugging him close, until every inch of Mickey's back is pressed to Ian's front, the furnace-level heat emanating off of his husband contrasting nicely with the cooler breeze of the fan.

"Love you," Ian whispers, squeezing him lightly.

"Me too," Mickey whispers back, eyes closing, the weight of them too heavy to bear any longer.

His limbs feel heavy, the comforter and sheets cool against his skin but it only makes him feel cozier in that way that winter always does, and Ian's body against his does wonders to stave off the chill he'd otherwise feel if he were on the couch. He listens to the hum of the fan, the sound of Ian's breathing, tries to match it with his own, soaks in the warmth and the care that his husband so readily provides him.

And sleeps.

Ian wakes up drowsy, blinking around in confusion before he notices the tickling sensation just below his nose.

Christ, he didn't realize how tired he was, too. His eyelids are still heavy, feeling slowly coming back to his limbs the longer he lays there.

He realizes when he goes to move slightly that they're in the same position they fell asleep in, which means they both were in some deep sleep, since the two of them usually move a shit-ton during the night. His arms are still wrapped around Mickey, legs tangled together, with Ian's face half-buried into Mickey's hair. He can't help himself, presses a light kiss to the top of Mickey's head, inhales deeply and lets his eyes close for another few seconds. This is nice, he thinks to himself. It's been a while since they've been able to do this.

They immediately shoot back open when he realizes.

Mickey's asleep.

Like, still asleep.

When Ian risks peeking, lifting his head slightly to get a better look at him, he feels a smile break across his face. Mickey's breaths are deep and steady, eyes closed and face completely relaxed. Not pinched, not frowning, not rolling around every few minutes trying to get comfortable. He's still got a pretty tight grip on Ian's forearm, the one wrapped around his waist, but other than that he's boneless against the mattress. Completely and utterly out. Dead to the world, but in a good way this time.

He knows he has to go get his meds, probably the reason he woke up on his own, but he can't help but stay there a bit longer.

He feels like it's been an age since he's gotten to wake up before Mickey. These past few weeks (and especially just the last few days) have been chock-full of steady concern, watching his husband become more and more of a shell for some unknown reason. He knows it happens, some form of insomnia or anxiety (not that Mickey would ever accept those options, knowing him), but it wore on him that he couldn't do anything to help. Standing there, practically useless, as his husband walked around like a zombie all day.

It made him think of his own downswings, how Mickey will just sit next to him in bed when he can't get up, bring him food, water, help him even though he can't drag him out of his own head, most days. How helpless he must feel, when it happens.

He unconsciously squeezes Mickey tighter at the thought.

It's enough, for Ian, that Mickey's there when he's like that. Hopefully, Mickey feels the same way, that even though Ian couldn't necessarily cure his inability to rest, it was enough for him to be there and offer support (it probably also helped that Ian put his foot down yesterday, unable to watch his husband continue to torture himself by trying to stay awake so he can pass out easier at night. There's only so much Ian can take, in that department. In any case, Mickey puts his foot down during Ian's depressive episodes too, when he has to. Ian's sure he'll let it slide).

He shakes himself out of his morose thoughts. There's no need to focus on that right now. Mickey's sleeping, finally resting, and that's what's important. He presses another kiss to the top of Mickey's head.

The need to go take his morning pills rises to the forefront of his brain not long after, knows that he can't put it off any longer.

And so starts his task of extricating himself from not only their bed, but Mickey's grasp too. It's a task Ian never gets tired of.

He slowly starts to pull his arm out from Mickey's iron grip, pauses when Mickey's fingers twitch against his skin, before slowly starting back up again. After he manages to pull his arm out, promptly pulling the other from out beneath where it was squeezed between Mickey's side and the mattress (the pins and needles from his arm falling asleep are torturous, but definitely worth it), he goes to slide out of their bed, freezes when Mickey makes a vague noise.

He turns to look, sees the way Mickey's eyebrows twitch downwards briefly, that stubborn little dip between his brows appearing as he makes another noise, fingers twitching like they're trying to find Ian's arm again. Ian's expression softens from overwhelming fondness, leans back towards Mickey's side of the mattress. He kisses his shoulder, runs a hand down his bicep.

"I'll be right back," he murmurs against Mickey's skin, squeezes his arm lightly.

He watches as Mickey's face relaxes again, still deep asleep, but somehow hearing him. It makes Ian smile helplessly, knowing that even when unconscious, Mickey still wants him near, still listens for his voice.

He presses one last kiss to Mickey's forehead, then his temple.

He finally does get out of bed after that, carefully moving out of their bedroom to get to the meds he keeps in the kitchen (he can't have them on an empty stomach, so why not keep them close to the food?) and closes the door behind him. The sun always shines directly onto their bedroom door, and he'd prefer if the sunrays don't hit Mickey just yet. God knows it'll immediately wake him up, since the man can barely sleep in their room because of the brightness of the moon most nights (although that hasn't been much of an issue lately. He just likes to tease Mickey about it. It's the same moon as the one on South Side, there's no way it's brighter).

He quickly takes his meds and swallows them down with some water, grabbing a granola bar to settle his stomach afterwards. He doesn't quite scarf it down, but it's a near thing. He just wants to get back to Mickey as quickly as possible, sleep in a little more. Wrap himself around his husband and rest, like they should've been doing days ago.

He throws out the granola bar wrapper, wipes his hands and drinks the rest of his water.

The only mandatory chore he had to get done today, finished. He smiles. Back to bed.

Back to Mickey.

Mickey comes to slowly, eyes still closed, eyebrows twitching downwards as his thoughts try to form into coherent sentences.

His limbs are heavy, sinking into the mattress, and he can't quite fully feel them just yet, doesn't really want to, wants to stay in the in-between of being awake and asleep for as long as possible. He's still sleep-warm, knows that the moment he moves it'll become too warm, and he'll have to move out from under the sheets, but he's so cozy that he stays still for a moment longer.

He's not too sure why he's awake, not immediately aware of any danger (old habits die hard), until he notices the lack of any weight beside him, no arm around his waist, no furnace-like heat emanating from behind him. Ian isn't in bed anymore.

There was a time where Mickey would loathe to admit the fact that he couldn't sleep without him anymore, but that time has long since passed. Truth is, without his husband laying there in bed with him, Mickey can't for the life of him stay asleep for long.

And Mickey would really like to be asleep right now. So where the hell is his husband?

He turns to face his husband's side of the bed (always closest to the door, because Ian has this thing where he wants to keep Mickey safe, no matter how much Mickey tells him he can damn-well take care of himself. He only relented when Ian gave him that look, the soft one that he can never really fight against. He's always preferred the left side of the bed anyways), cracks open his eyes just a smidge, and looks around blearily.

It must be early as hell, since their bedrom door is doing that thing where it looks like the golden lights of heaven are shining through the space between the door and the doorframe, makes it seem like if he were to open it he wouldn't see their living room, but a dimension of pure light. He squints against it, shimmies an arm out from under the blankets, pats a confused hand on the still-warm sheets where Ian usually is, before the door opens and he's immediately blinded by the force of the morning sun.

"Agh—" he makes the noise without meaning to, immediately screwing his eyes shut and burrowing his head into his pillow.

"Oh shit," he hears Ian whisper, before hearing the click of the latch as his husband quickly closes the door. "Sorry, I didn't know you were awake."

Mickey just grumbles, lifting his head just enough to very slightly peek open one eye, watches as Ian climbs back into bed. He makes an unhappy noise when he lifts up the sheets, cold air seeping in and making him curl into himself, before immediately clinging to Ian when he finally lays down.

He feels the way Ian huffs in fond amusement, his hand coming round to rest on his back, gently rubbing up and down as Mickey presses his face onto his shoulder, resting his own arm around Ian's chest. Ian's so warm, has always run hot, and Mickey's especially thankful for it during the frigid Chicago winters, where he can press close and stay warm for the entire night while ignoring Ian's complaints about his cold fingers and toes.

"Gunna go back to sleep?" Ian murmurs, hand drifting towards his neck, scratching lightly at the base of his head.

Mickey hums in approval, before shrugging at the question. He's not sure if he'll be able to now, but he doesn't really want to start his day just yet. Doesn't even have the energy to tell this to Ian, but knows his husband will understand what he means anyways. For now, he just wants to stay in bed for as long as he can, suck up all of Ian's warmth, and keep the nice haze over his brain for a little bit longer.

"'Kay," Ian says as he presses a kiss to the crown of Mickey's head, keeps his face there afterwards, and Mickey knows he's doing that weird smell thing, but it still makes his lips twitch upwards.

They lay there together, until their room brightens with the pale winter sun shining through their white curtains, until the sound of traffic manages to reach through the apartment walls as more people crowd the streets (though still mostly muffled), until Mickey can blink open his eyes and think clearly for the first time today. Maybe, even, for the first time in days.

He shifts from where he's still laying, comfortable by Ian's side, until he gets his head propped on his hand, the other one drifting to Ian's chest as he drums his fingers in a steady rhythm.

He looks at his husband, let's himself really look, the day allowing for time to pass by freely (and really, could it be considered a waste to admire somone you love? He scrunches his nose at the thought. Jesus, that was corny. Ian's turning him fucking soft) as he flits his gaze over Ian's features.

His eyes are still closed, probably just on the cusp of sleep, which means that Mickey doesn't feel as awkward as he probably would, if Ian were also watching him. It lets Mickey see his eyelashes, just as red as his hair, but somehow even lighter with the faint sunshine coming through, resting over freckled cheeks that always fade slightly in the winter, but at least Mickey can still count most of them, his eyebrows are relaxed, lips slightly parted, curly ginger hair a mess on his head.

Mickey's heart aches at the sight, that feeling of sheer disbelief that he gets to have this, a husband and an apartment and a life outside of the one he thought he'd be stuck with. Pressed together like they aren't sure how to be apart, letting themselves admire how gentle sunlight makes certain strands of hair glint, finding the small amount of white hairs at each others temples and crowsfeet sticking around even when their faces are lax with sleep. Realizing that they're growing old together.

He's been so tired recently, unable to stay asleep or unable to fall asleep, or he'd manage to sleep through an entire night but still wake up exhausted, and for the first time in a while, he feels like he has energy to spare. Has a drive to get up and start the day now, do something, even if it's just staying in their apartment and watching shitty comedy show reruns. They don't have to start big, they can start small. Maybe they can go on a walk later, get some fresh air.

He smiles as Ian's eyes open, hazy green meeting bright blue, and it widens when Ian smiles back.

"Rest well?" Ian asks, voice rough from sleep.

"Mhm," Mickey says, his fingers continuing their little tap dance against Ian's chest. "Best sleep I've had in a while."

"Good," Ian says, voice slightly strained as he stretches, bones popping from the position he'd been laying in for who knows how long, and Mickey makes a face when his shoulders creak as he rolls them. "You needed it."

"Sure did," he presses his forehead against Ian's shoulder for a split second, letting the last little wave of tiredness fade, before he replaces his forehead with a small kiss. "Hungry?"

Ian makes a long humming sound, like he's considering it, before his stomach answers for him with a long growl. He grins as Mickey huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, I could eat."

"Ya think so?" Mickey deadpans, before heaving himself out of bed with a groan. Not an I'm so tired I can't think straight groan, though. The usual I'm getting old groan that Ian usually makes fun of him for, but this time he just gives him a fond smile.

He flinches as his feet hit the floor. Christ, it's cold. They'll have to put the heat on, something they both hate to do, but at this point it's worth the extra bit of money they'll have to spend on their next electric bill. They have all of the perks of the stupid luxury apartment building, so why not use 'em?

Still, he beelines for their dresser (practically overflowing with clothing, the two of them having long-since given up on separating their stuff, so now they just randomly reach in and put on whatever they grab first. It's lead to a few days where Mickey's wearing some too-long jeans, but who cares?) and grabs a pair of socks, before throwing on a (Ian's, by the looks of it) slightly too-large dark blue sweater.

Ian's still in bed, sitting up now, watching him as he shivers and complains about the cold. He makes no move to get out of bed, which makes Mickey turn towards him with a raised brow.

"You gunna get off your ass and help me make some pancakes?"

"Mm," Ian hums, "in a sec."

Mickey rolls his eyes without any real annoyance, mutters under his breath about annoying husbands and doin' everythin' around here by myself, I ain't no fuckin' housewife. It doesn't stop him from going into the kitchen and start taking out all the ingredients, though. He knows Ian'll join him in a bit.

Now, where the hell did he put that spatula?

Ian grins as he watches his husband leave the bedroom, yawning and scratching at his hip.

Mickey slept. Finally, actually, slept.

The relief that courses through him is like a breath of fresh air, the tight knot in his chest finally unwinding.

For the first time in weeks, Mickey looks well-rested. Not one hundred percent, granted, but better, like he isn't carrying the weight of the world anymore. Ian feels like his heart is singing, watching his husband get out of bed without slumped shoulders and half-opened eyes, but with his usual sharp wit, joking around, complaining about menial things that don't really matter, and going to make breakfast for the two of them. Pancakes. He can't remember the last time they've had some. It makes him smile giddily to himself, listening as Mickey mutters not-so-quietly to himself in the kitchen, the clanging of various pots and pans audible even from the bedroom.

The urge to go join his husband in the kitchen grows too strong after another minute of basking in the joy of Mickey being himself again, and he practically leaps out of bed to go join him. Maybe Mickey'll let him help bake this time, let him measure the dry ingredients while Mickey deals with the wet ones.

(Mickey's always been particular about how pancakes —of all things— are made, usually banishing Ian to the kitchen stool to watch instead of actually letting him participate. It isn't like it's completely unwarranted. As much as Ian's good at cooking, he isn't quite that good at baking, and unfortunately, the copious amounts of burnt pancakes that have laid slain at the bottom of their compost bin is proof enough of that. So maybe Mickey's onto something when he doesn't so much as let Ian lift a single finger when it comes to his iconic —his words, not Ian's— pancakes.)

He pauses when he reaches the entrance to the kitchen.

Is it cheesy to say it feels like all of the air gets stolen from his lungs? That his heart squeezes? That his breath hitches audibly, like he's never seen the sight in front of him before?

Fuckin' obviously, Mickey would probably say.

Mickey's standing in the kitchen, squinting down at a recipe he wrote down by hand on a crumpled piece of lined paper from who knows how many years ago, ingredients lined up in front of him. His hair is sleep-mussed, some strands standing straight up, others stuck to his forehead. He's got those little creases on his cheeks from resting his head on Ian's t-shirt for so long. The sweater he's wearing is clearly Ian's by the way it droops a little past his hips, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, pajama pants probably also Ian's, mismatched socks poking out from the pooling fabric on the ground.

The sun's shining through the kitchen window, making everything seem brighter, light reflecting off of the sink and fridge, everything looking just that little bit warmer, like a home-video or a worn, well-loved photograph.

Mickey looks well-loved.

There was a time that Ian wouldn't have been able to say that, the environment Mickey grew up in cold, dark, and isolated. Where he had to hide, pretend to be someone else, anyone else, just to get by. Where baking was considered a woman's job, too much of a pussy activity for him to indulge in, where it was better viewed to drink a beer and eat some leftovers from three nights prior than to bake something fresh.

Where wearing your boyfriend's (husband, now) clothing was a death sentence.

But now? Now, Mickey's puttering around the kitchen, spatula in on hand, bowl of batter held in the other, wearing Ian's pyjamas, humming a song under his breath while the pan heats up and the oil starts to sizzle.

It's a good look on him.

A great one, actually. Ian's kind of in love with him.

"The fuck're you lookin' at?"

Ian grins when Mickey fixes him with a stare, eyebrows high on his forehead. If he were actually trying to intimidate him, the effect is completely lost by the hand on his hip, wielding the truly frightening plastic spatula.

"You," Ian says, leaning against the doorway, crossing him arms.

He doesn't miss the way Mickey's cheeks go a bit pink when he scoffs. "Okay, Sap, stop fuckin' dawdlin' and get your ass over here. You're on scoopin' duty."

He walks over gladly, taking the quarter cup out that Mickey extends over to him, and starts scooping circles of batter onto the pan.

"Okay, Jesus! Not that big, are you insane?" Mickey yells, immediately wacking his arm.

"What? They're better big!"

"Uh, fuck no," Mickey says, splitting the circles into two with his spatula, moving them around so they don't stick. "They don't cook properly if you do that. The middle'll stay raw, dipshit."

"Why'd you put me on scooping duty then?" Ian complains, but he's got a smile on his face. Mickey's bickering with him again.

"'Cause I thought you'd have finally learnt somethin' by now, but clearly I was fuckin' wrong," Mickey says, ushering him out of the way. "You've officially lost scoopin' privileges. Get the fuck out."

"Aw," Ian whines, wraps his arms around Mickey's back. "Don't kick me out. I wanna hang out with you."

"Hang out with you," Mickey mocks. "You see me every day."

He doesn't shove Ian off, though, so Ian stays glued to his back, presses his face in the crook of his neck, moves with him as he scoops more batter into the pan, as he takes off the baked pancakes and puts them onto a plate.

"Missed you," he says after a moment of companionable silence.

It doesn't really make much sense, since it's not like Mickey's been anywhere, but he's still missed him. Because he hasn't been Mickey these past few days, maybe even the past week or more. This is his Mickey. This is his husband. And he's missed him.

He feels more than he hears Mickey take a deep breath, before letting it out and relaxing back into Ian's hold. He tightens the grip he has around his back, presses a soft kiss to his shoulders.

"Missed you too," Mickey says, quiet as anything. A rare piece of vulnerability.

They stay like that for a bit, barely swaying together as Mickey turns off the stovetop and places his arms on top of Ian's, leans his head back against his shoulder.

"Food's ready," Mickey murmurs, fingers tapping against Ian's forearm. "Should eat before it gets cold."

"Hm," Ian hums back, squeezes him tighter, "in a sec."

They stay in the same position until Mickey jabs him lightly with his elbow and moves to bring the plate of pancakes to the kitchen table. Ian wordlessly grabs two smaller plates for them both and a bowl of fruit he knows Mickey'll scrunch his nose at, before walking to the fridge and getting the maple syrup Ian's been trying to get him to stop eating by the buckets.

They sit next to each other, idle conversation flowing, talking about family, friends, the business. Ian spends half of their entire breakfast trying to stifle his smiles by shoving more food into his mouth, just…happy that Mickey's feeling better now.

Once the conversation lulls, and Mickey starts to pick up their dishes to wash them in the sink, Ian broaches the topic he isn't sure his husband will want to talk about. But still, it's important.

"So," he starts while putting the maple syrup and leftover fruit back in the fridge, "d'you think we should…take some time off?"

"Of what?" Mickey asks, scrubbing at their plates.

"Work," Ian says. "Like, we barely have any time for ourselves now. It's kind of…a lot?"

Mickey stays quiet for a second, which Ian knows means that he knows what Ian's hinting at, but isn't quite sure how to answer.

"It's just," Ian struggles.

He doesn't want Mickey to think that he thinks that Mickey isn't capable, because he knows that's where his husband's mind will go, that he'll probably think that Ian recommending they relax a little means he thinks that Mickey isn't able to handle this, that he's weak. He doesn't want to try and talk about how this is something Ian needs either, because he knows Mickey'll call him out if he tries to blame it on himself instead of Mickey. Not that he's blaming anyone. He does think they need to slow their roll, at least a little. This little adventure has shown Ian just how tired he is too, not just Mickey, although his husband seems so have gotten the brunt of it recently.

"I want to relax a bit more," he settles on. "Get some days off, stay in bed or go do little chores instead of constant deliveries. Sleep in—"

He hears Mickey sigh, and rushes to continue before Mickey starts talking. "And this isn't just for you! Okay? I want to chill. I wasn't lying earlier when I said I miss you. I do just want to hang out and shoot the shit sometimes, instead of going to work and coming home exhausted."

Mickey turns, leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks hesitant, unsure of himself and vaguely ashamed, which makes Ian's heart ache. He thumbs at his eyebrow, bites at the corner of his mouth while his gaze flicks around the room before landing on Ian.

"Are you—I mean," Mickey huffs, frowns. "I don't want you to think I'm fuckin'…lazy, or some shit."

"Why would I think you're lazy?" Ian asks, genuinely confused. He's seen how hard Mickey's been working lately. He's been right there.

"Man," Mickey presses his lips together briefly, "I've been draggin' my feet around this past week. Ain't exactly been helpin' that much."

"Not helping out—what are you talking about?" Ian says. "You've been working your ass off! Figuring out all the numbers, seeing if we can hire some extra help, trying to file fucking taxes," he lets out a small laugh. "Working so hard you can't sleep properly."

"You've been workin' hard too," Mickey tries to argue, but Ian just shakes his head.

"I know I have, we both have, that's why I'm suggesting we slow down," he puts his hands on Mickey's biceps, squeezes slightly as he smiles down at him. "We're doing good money-wise. We don't have to live like we've got a bill that we can't pay comin' up. We can take a break."

One hand moves up Mickey's face to stroke a thumb gently, right beneath Mickey's eye. The dark shadows aren't as bad as they were before, but still too dark in Ian's opinion.

"We need a break."

Mickey's eyes dart between Ian's, going back and forth like he's trying to gauge how genuine he's being, and Ian tries to tell him without words that he's being as honest as he possibly can. That he wants Mickey to sleep, to rest, and that there's nothing wrong with that. That Ian would never think he's being lazy for taking care of himself, even if that means he's just going to be vegging out on the couch all day.

"Okay," Mickey says, quietly, a moment later.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, fuck it," Mickey says with a big exhale. "Let's take a few days off. The world won't end."

Ian smiles brightly, kisses his forehead with a big smack that has Mickey shoving at his chest. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Mickey replies, turning to finish washing their utensils, "you're the one who's gotta cancel all of our deliveries tomorrow and Thursday."

It does nothing to erase the smile off of Ian's face. "I always do that kinda stuff anyways."

"Well, better get too it, Red," Mickey drawls. "I ain't gunna go take a nap by myself."

Ian rushes to go get his phone, already formulating some kind of excuse as to why they can't to their deliveries tomorrow, sorry, something came up and there isn't anything they can do. He's also starting to form a plan to make sure he and Mickey don't overwork themselves in the future. Maybe they can work four days a week instead of five? A half day on Fridays?

Who knows. That's something they can figure out after their days off.

Because right now, he's got nothing to do except for wrapping his husband in his arms, closing his eyes, and letting their shared body warmth shield them from the Chicago winter cold as they drift of into settled, restful sleep.