Archive of Our Own

There used to be a time where Ian hated the fact that he couldn't really get drunk anymore.

Well, that isn't to say he's unable to get drunk, he's proven that time and time again. What he means is: there used to be a time where he hated the fact that it was highly advised that he shouldn't get drunk anymore.

Mixing medications and alcohol doesn't end well for anyone involved. Especially when the outcome can be rendering mood stabilizers ineffective.

In any case, it took a while for him to actually listen to his doctor's, family's, friends' recommendations that hey Ian, don't drink alcohol with your meds, it might send you on another spiral. For one, he hated being told what to do. He also hated being treated like a basketcase. He also hated the fact that he used to be able to get away with pretty much anything (the perpetual middle child invisibility act), and that now, he was being hounded over every single aspect of his life.

Now, he doesn't drink because he decided it was best not to. Not because of what other people told him to do, but because he chose to. It's a crucial distinction.

He's stable, taking his meds every day like clock-work, keeping up his routine. He's doing better for himself, and to Ian, that's the most important part of staying balanced.

So no, Ian doesn't drink anymore. Sometimes, he'll indulge in a single, low-percentage beer, but usually he'll stick to a can of Coke or whatever other pop's on hand. He's also trying to maintain a good diet, trying to eat healthier now that he can afford to, so honestly it's better that he doesn't have alcohol as a vice. Cheaper and better for his liver. Win-win.

Another unexpected positive aspect of sobriety is how much fun it is to observe his drunk family members make absolute fools out of themselves.

He shares this new-found joy with Lip, who has taken up the fun (if only slightly morally questionable) hobby of filming every stupid thing their siblings do while hammered, as a way to remember fun times, and also for blackmail purposes when he needs someone to babysit so he and Tami can get a nice weekend away. Ian doesn't film himself, he leaves that to Lip, but he does enjoy bringing up stories at family gatherings just to hear them groan in betrayal. What else are older brothers for?

Like that one time that Carl got wasted on some nice vodka one of his co-workers got him as a gift, after he won an award at work, and he spent the entire night recreating the events of the award-winning arrest, progressively getting more and more clumsy as he went along. He ended up falling head-first onto the floor after mimicking a tackle, and now everyone asks him to show another demonstration whenever a bottle of vodka gets passed around.

Or another time, when Debbie drank an entire case of White Claw, and she started sobbing about how much she loved this one brand of eyeshadow that got discontinued in 2016. No one could make out what the name of the brand actually was, the syllables all muddled and slurred together, and when asked the next morning, she couldn't even remember wearing a specific brand of eyeshadow back then. So now, every Christmas, they'll all pitch in and get her a random kind of eyeshadow and ask "was this the one?" Nevermind the fact that, according to sobbing Debbie, it's been a long time since it's been sold in stores.

Mickey's the only person Lip hasn't gotten a truly embarrassing clip of. In all honesty, Mickey doesn't really let himself get full-on, can't-remember-the-night-before drunk, except for when they're alone in their own apartment. He'll get tipsy, he'll get lightly drunk, but he doesn't let himself go too far. Lip is incredibly annoyed by this, which amuses Ian to no end, because he essentially begs for Ian to tell him one measly story to tease Mickey over.

Ian never tells, of course. He's a loyal husband.

Well, okay, maybe he doesn't tell Lip for another reason too.

Like the fact that Mickey gets soft when he's drunk. Really soft. Sappy, too.

And Ian doesn't really want Lip to know that. He's sure Mickey doesn't either, somehow having a kind of sixth-sense for whenever Lip tries to needle Ian for details, which leads to some thinly veiled threats to Ian (so that he doesn't blab) and some very uniquely colourful name-calling for his older brother (for trying to get stories in the first place).

If he's being honest with himself, though, which he tries to be more often than not, he just prefers to keep drunk, soft Mickey to himself.

Like he is right now.

It isn't often that Mickey gets this drunk. It isn't often that he drinks too much at home anyways, since he still has some hang ups about drinking when Ian doesn't anymore. Or at least, drinking to get drunk. He usually has a beer or two after work or during supper most days, but drinking just for the hell of it? Those days have mostly been left behind.

So it's become a special treat for Ian when Mickey really lets himself go.

He can't quite remember Mickey's reasoning for doing so tonight, knows that he went out for a few beers with some old neighbourhood acquaintances (Ian didn't even know he still kept in touch with some other people from South Side, but apparently he's known these guys since his juvie days, and they've also turned over a new leaf), and apparently he's decided to keep the party going at home. If drinking some nice whiskey alone is considered a party these days, anyways.

Ian, on the other hand, was out with Carl and Liam. The youngest Gallagher sibling had a school event, some kind of award show, and Liam had won a little trophy for his good grades. While the other Gallagher siblings were busy, Carl and Ian had found the time to go watch the whole thing. Seeing Liam's face light up with rare childish glee at seeing two of his older brothers there made sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs for over two hours worth it.

They took him out to an ice cream parlour afterwards, got him a cone with three whole scoops on it, before Ian drove the two back to the Gallagher house and made his own way home after making sure they made it inside safe and sound.

So colour him surprised when he makes his way inside their apartment and gets greeted by an absolutely plastered Mickey.

"You're ho-ome," he hears as he walks into the living room, sees Mickey leaning his head backwards over the couch's armrest, a goofy smile on his face.

He quirks his eyebrow. "Having fun there?"

"Hi," Mickey says instead of answering, voice absent of its usual gruff. He sounds younger when he gets like this, and it never fails to make Ian's heart squeeze with tenderness.

"Hey," he smiles, walks over when Mickey raises his arms above his head, bottle of whiskey swishing precariously in his grip. He gently removes the bottle from Mickey's hand (without any protest from his husband, which shows him just how drunk he really is right now) and sets it on the coffee table, before Mickey inevitably spills the whole thing onto their nice couch and rug.

"C'mere," Mickey slurs out, hands still stretched out behind his head and over the armrest, doesn't stop clumsily waving him over until Ian steps closer and between his open arms. He isn't sure what Mickey's asking for until he tilts his chin upwards, head still upside-down, and he huffs out an amused breath before leaning down and kissing him gently. He can still faintly taste the whiskey on Mickey's lips.

"Spider-man style," Mickey grins against his mouth, which makes Ian laugh as he gives him a peck on the forehead.

"Have you had any water lately?" Ian asks, knowing the answer is probably no. Drunk Mickey doesn't usually think about basic human necessities, which later Mickey usually suffers for.

"Mm-mh," Mickey hums a no, as expected, and shakes his head slowly, the room probably spinning with the motion.

"Lemme go get you some," he goes to head into the kitchen, doesn't want Mickey to get too dehydrated, but pauses when Mickey makes a slightly pathetic noise of disagreement.

"No-o," Mickey's voice breaks slightly down the middle, a whine by every definition of the word, "come back."

"I'll be right back," Ian placates, heart going all gooey at the pout on Mickey's face. "I'm just getting you some water, 'kay?"

He rushes to get the cup, doesn't want to risk upsetting Mickey any further, smiling to himself. Mickey's so cute when he's like this. Some people might think that dealing with someone this drunk would be a chore, that having a really clingy partner would be annoying to deal with, but Ian revels in it. It's rare for Mickey to let his guard down, rare for him to show this much raw affection, even now that they're both publicly out and married. He knows Mickey loves him, never doubts the fact, but it's still nice to see this version of him from time to time. He likes to be reminded of just how much Mickey can't get enough of him. It's sweet.

"Here you go," he says as he helps Mickey sit up and take a few sips of water. He sits down on the couch facing Mickey, who's tilted sideways against the back of the couch, as though sitting up is too much of a hassle. He looks slightly disheveled, hair a bit wild and sticking up in random places, a strand of hair falling in front of his eyes. His pupils are dilated and a bit hazy from the booze, his cheeks a bit rosy, and his movements are slow. He looks absolutely adorable.

"Where'd you go?" Mickey asks, blinking heavily and staring at him, wide-eyed. He can't quite seem to focus, gaze flicking all around Ian's face and sliding downwards towards his neck every so often, like keeping eye-contact is physically taxing.

"I was at Liam's school thing, remember? He won that excellence award," he says as he brushes the hair out of Mickey's face. Mickey squints like he's trying to do just that, but can't seem to grasp the memory.

"How were your friends?" Ian asks, but Mickey just waves a hand dismissively.

"Missed you," Mickey says instead, dropping his head against Ian's chest. He has to restrain himself from doing something stupid, like biting his fist from the sheer adoration he feels surge through him for his husband. Mickey's hair is tickling his collarbone, and he places his hand on the back of Mickey's neck.

"You just saw me a few hours ago," he says, can't quite keep the smile out of his voice.

Mickey grumbles, attempts to slap Ian's thigh but only manages to give it a light pat. "Don't fuckin'…make fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you!" Ian says, but he's laughing as he says it.

"You're laughing' at me!" Mickey whines out, lifts his head and Ian's heart nearly gives out at the way his eyebrows are furrowed but his bottom lip juts out in a truly, insanely adorable pout. Fuck, he loves soft Mickey. He can't help but peck at the pout, how could he not?

"I'm not laughing at you," he says between quick pecks. "You're just cute like this."

"I ain't fuckin' cute," Mickey denies, which is immediately contradicted by the way he tilts his head against the back of the couch once more.

"Mm," Ian pretends to think, "I think you are."

"Nuh uh," Mickey says petulantly. He slurs out some other words, he hears "tough guy" in there somewhere, but the rest are incomprehensible. He must've gone hard with the drinks tonight, had more than just some beer and whiskey. Ian feels pity for future Mickey, and makes a mental note to leave out some Advil on the nightstand.

"Yuh huh," Ian nods. "I'm your husband, I have first-hand experience."

He expects Mickey to continue denying the (very true) fact, having already gone through this exact conversation the last time Mickey was this drunk, but instead, Mickey's face softens and his eyes go all tender as a giddy little smile lights up his face.

"You're my husband," he breathes out in a near disbelieving whisper. He reaches forward and places a hand on Ian's cheek, soft as anything, head still tilted against the couch and looking up at him like he can't quite believe Ian's here.

Ian feels his heart flip in his chest, knows his cheeks must be scarlet if the heat he feels emanating from them are any indication, butterflies erupt in his stomach. He feels like he's fifteen again, seeing Mickey smile at him for the first time. He knows Mickey gets soft when he's drunk, but he's never seen him this soft before. He doesn't really know how to react, not with the way Mickey's looking at him right now, not with the way he's stroking his thumb against his cheekbone so lightly he can barely feel it.

"Uh," Ian clears his throat, flustered, "Yeah. Yeah, I am. Got the rings and everything."

Smooth.

They're quiet for a moment, Mickey staring at him with barely concealed wonder and Ian trying to get a grip on his racing heartbeat. It's a moment Ian isn't inclined to break. The room's quiet except for the faint humming of the fridge emanating from the kitchen, dark except for the lamp on the side-table next to the couch, which sends a warm orange glow across the room.

"You've got so many freckles," Mickey murmurs, thumb moving from his cheek, across the bridge of his nose, to his other cheek.

Ian laughs softly, tilts his head into Mickey's hand. "So I've been told. You gunna try counting 'em?"

He watches with amusement as Mickey furrows his brows, that little divot he loves to tease his husband about making an appearance, his blue eyes narrowing.

"Don't tell me you're actually trying," he laughs, then sputters as Mickey (with surprising agility) lunges forward and grips his face with both hands, making him fall onto his back with an oof. "Hey! What the fuck are you doing?"

"Countin' 'em," Mickey says, wiggles against him. "Stop fuckin' moving!"

"Stop squishing my face!" Ian yells out, but he's smiling as he says it, grabbing at Mickey's hands with his own.

"Fuck you," Mickey complains, "I lost count, now I gotta restart."

"I don't think you'll be able to keep track with how drunk you are," Ian teases, eye twitching as Mickey's thumb touches right beneath his eye. "Watch it, don't blind me!"

"I love your eyes," Mickey says, shifting slightly, which makes Ian try not to wince as his elbow digs right between his ribs. "They're so green."

Moved on from the freckles, Ian guesses. "I love your eyes too."

"You're really pretty, y'know that?" Mickey asks, patting Ian on the head like he's trying to play with his hair, but not quite succeeding with his lower than usual dexterity. "You've always been so pretty."

Ian's pretty sure Mickey can feel the way his heart-rate amps up, sees the way his face goes all red again, but he doesn't mention it. Maybe he doesn't notice, which Ian is grateful for, because he doesn't think he'd be able to handle some drunken teasing right now. Mickey thinks he's pretty. Fuck. He knows that Mickey finds him attractive, but the onslaught of compliments tonight are overwhelming.

"You're pretty too," Ian squeaks out and feels faint when Mickey grins wide and unabashed.

"You always look so good," Mickey continues, and Ian feels like he's going to die. "It's unfair. Everyone's always fuckin' lookin' at you like you're a goddamn steak…"

He lifts his head briefly, glaring without any real heat. Any real anger would've been lost anyways, with how hazy his eyes are, blue dimmed slightly to a gentle pale hue instead of the usual icy shade. In any case, his messy hair and pink cheeks take away from any attempted intimidation efforts, and Ian only smiles in response.

"You don't gotta worry about anyone else," Ian says, strokes a thumb against Mickey's cheekbone. "I'm all yours, baby."

"Damn fuckin' right," Mickey says. "You're my husband."

It's Ian's turn to smile, giddy and overflowing with sheer aggressive adoration as he kisses the tip of Mickey's nose. He loves soft Mickey. Absolutely smitten.

"Alien lookin' motherfucker…" Mickey mumbles after a second of silent observation, which startles a very unattractive snort out of Ian.

"Alien-looking? You just said I was pretty!"

"Yeah," Mickey groans out dramatically, letting his head fall onto Ian's chest. "You ruined me."

His heart twists painfully in his chest. "Yeah, well," he murmurs after getting a hold of himself, "you ruined me too."

They lie there quietly, Mickey comfortable on top of Ian, while Ian taps his fingers on Mickey's back. It's cozy, and Ian's pretty sure the two of them could fall asleep if they stay put, but he'd much prefer if they'd go to their bed. But he can't quite bring himself to disturb Mickey just yet.

It's Mickey who breaks the comfortable silence a little while later, but whatever he says is completely muffled by Ian's chest, which he's apparently decided to use as his own personal pillow.

"What was that, Mumbles?" Ian says quietly, kisses the top of Mickey's head.

"'M dizzy," Mickey complains, burrowing his head further down, presses his forehead harder against Ian's sternum.

Ian hums in sympathy, rubs a hand down his husband's back soothingly. "Why don't we head to bed then?"

Mickey shakes his head and makes a noise that he would probably vehemently deny as being a whine, if he were sober. "'M comfy here."

"Well," Ian starts, lips quirking upwards, "I'm sure our bed is much comfier."

Mickey just grumbles and doesn't move an inch. Ian resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"C'mon, Mick," he cajoles. "It won't take longer than two minutes."

It takes a bit more convincing, but eventually, he gets Mickey into their bedroom and changed into some pjs. He leaves briefly to grab some Advil from their bathroom and the glass of water off their coffee table back in the living room, because he's a good husband and he doesn't want Mickey to feel like shit for too long after he wakes up. He quickly changes into his own sleep shorts and jumps into bed once he's put everything on Mickey's nightstand.

"Where'd you go?" Mickey grumbles where he lies prone, giving Ian some déjà-vu from earlier.

"Had to go get changed," Ian says, leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to Mickey's forehead. "Put some water on your nightstand, too. You're gunna need it in the morning."

"Mm," Mickey hums, eyes closed, body going heavy against the mattress. "Love you."

"I love you, too," Ian says, feels the way his expression melts into something gooey and unmistakably sappy. He can't help but pepper kisses all over Mickey's face, smiling slightly as he listens to Mickey grouse below him.

"C'mere," Mickey whispers, grabbing Ian by the chin and giving him a proper kiss, lips slow against his own from drowsiness.

He cradles his husband's face in his hands, inhales and continues to press closer and closer until he can't tell where his body begins and Mickey's ends. Eventually, they separate, press their foreheads together and listen as the other breathes. Ian continues to listen until Mickey's breathing gets deeper, body going lax with sleep, and gently, gently brushes hair that had fallen over Mickey's forehead.

He loves his husband, so much.

So no, even though he takes great joy in teasing his siblings for their drunken actions, and loves bringing them up for months after the fact, he won't ever snitch about how Mickey acts when he's drunk out of his mind. He won't tell Lip what happens when Mickey truly lets himself go with booze, won't tell a soul, because this Mickey? The soft, sappy, affectionate Mickey that gives compliments and loving touches freely?

That Mickey is for Ian alone.