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Mickey zips up his pants and sticks a cigarette between his lips. In a minute, he’ll have his coat and beanie on and walk out the front shop door with the bell dramatically announcing his exit like it did so many times before. And as Ian watches him in growing panic as he’s trying to find the right way into his shirt, he knows he has to stop him.
God knows what it is about tonight that makes him want to say anything. Usually, he’s pretty okay with Mickey dropping by the Kash and Grab on his downtime for a quick fuck in the backroom, sparing no more than three simple phrases with Ian—“hey,” “fuck yes, right there, Gallagher,” and “see ya”—before he leaves again.
Maybe Ian’s being sentimental, with it being Christmas and all, and he feels lonelier than he thought he would. Maybe he’s overwhelmed by the fact that Mickey actually came, after Ian so inconspicuously texted him, “pretty quiet at the store tonight. you free?”
But maybe it’s just the absence of valuable brain-cell power that left his body with that earthshaking orgasm a few moments ago.
Whichever it is, Ian finds himself trailing behind Mickey as he walks out of the backroom, asking as nonchalantly as he can (which is not much), “You wanna maybe stay for a bit?”
Mickey stops in his tracks, his puffy coat hanging halfway up his arms, and gives Ian an impassive look.
“I have some food,” Ian blurts out before he can protest.
Mickey takes a pointed look around the traditionally rather food-based grocery store in the middle of which they’re standing. “Yeah, no shit, Gallagher,” he remarks all mumble-y with the cigarette still in his mouth.
Ian grimaces, not having any of it. “I meant a proper meal, Mick. Debbie dropped off some of Fiona’s Christmas cooking earlier. There’s turkey and some mashed potatoes with gravy, a piece of a pie. And I can also toss in some—“ Ian does some rapid-fast math in his head on how much he’s actually able to splurge on this impromptu plan, “—Twizzlers, beer—” he wonders off for a beat, before his eyes land on a festive-looking container in one of the fridges, “—and this box of eggnog.”
Mickey lifts the cigarette from his lips and then uses the same two fingers to scratch his forehead.
“If there’s any alcohol in that,” he mutters after some deliberation, pointing at the eggnog, “I’m in.”
Ian bites into his lip to prevent himself from smiling too hard. “You got it,” he then says, the deal sealed.
“And dibs on the pie,” Mickey adds as he shucks his coat off.
---
In all honesty, Ian was dead set on skipping the whole Christmas celebration thing this year. That’s why he agreed to work the afternoon shift on Christmas Eve in the first place.
Plus, Linda’s paying double. She may be keeping the Kash and Grab as this weirdly comforting Christmas blind spot every holiday season with zero fairy lights hanging on the counters or nil Christmas carols blaring from the speakers, but she still understands it’s kind of a big deal for some people.
And in normal circumstances, Ian would be one of those people, too. Going all out on decorating the house and getting as many presents as he could on the little that was left of his paycheck after he put his share of money into the squirrel fund, so the kids could have a relatively normal Christmas.
But this year, he wasn’t really feeling the festive cheer. Not after what happened on Thanksgiving, when Monica—
“You’re thinking again, Gallagher,” Mickey says around a mouthful of apple pie, his eyes twinkling. “Never a good sign.”
“Sorry,” Ian replies, realizing that he totally gave up on eating his designated portion of food a while ago. He drops his fork into the mostly full lunchbox. “Guess I’m just tired.”
They’ve ended up sitting on the floor, their coats providing the unsatisfactory padding for their asses, in front of the shelves in the furthest aisle from the cash register, where the cameras don’t see.
And really, they made the experience decently cozy, considering everything—with the small heater Ian dragged in from behind the register and all the food and drinks scattered around them, so they’re easy to reach.
It’s not like Linda won’t have questions when Ian sees her next, but he can’t bring himself to care about it just yet.
“Pfft, tired? From what?” Mickey scoffs at Ian’s answer. “Think I remember doing all the freaking work back there.”
All of Ian’s blood darts right back into his junk in just the flash of memory.
Of Mickey stepping out of his jeans and facing Ian instead of turning around like he always does. Of him sitting Ian down and straddling him, taking the entire length of his dick in one too-hasty, determined push.
Mickey rode them both to completion, his cheeks a deep shade of pink and his sweater on the whole time. All Ian could do was hold onto Mickey’s sturdy thighs and try not to come in the first minute.
“Right,” Ian notes stupidly as he crosses his legs and squeezes. “That was… What you did today, I mean. Good. Like, really good,” he adds with a little giggle.
“Yeah, well,” Mickey says, blindly rummaging with his fork through the pie crumbs on the bottom of the lunchbox when he lifts his eyes to meet Ian’s, eyebrows raising in a self-satisfied manner. “My gift to you, on this fine night, firecrotch.”
Ian can’t help but snort out a laugh at that.
The fact remains that Mickey is a douchebag, but a douchebag who’s the exact opposite of Ian’s nosy family—meaning he’s not going to ask questions, like if Ian’s feeling okay or if he doesn’t regret skipping on family Christmas dinner. That’s just not Mickey’s style. And right now, Ian wouldn’t change his quiet company for anything.
Ian takes a sip from his beer and checks his watch, seeing it’s already nearing nine. One hour left till the end of his shift.
There’s a pause in their conversation filled with the low hum of freezers and the whirring of a portable heater working overtime. In those several minutes, Mickey manages to polish off the rest of Ian’s food, scarf down two Twizzlers and finish his beer, the whole thing feeling a little too dangerously final for Ian’s liking.
“Got anything for your dad?” he asks, the first thing coming to his mind as his brain scrambles for a new topic.
Mickey’s eyes widen comically. “What kinda dumb fucking question is that?”
“I just thought, since we were on the topic of Christmas presents—”
“What’s my fucking dad got to do with that?!”
Ian holds up his hands and sighs. “Forget I asked.”
He busies himself with tearing the label of his beer bottle. Maybe he should just let Mickey leave. Nothing good will come out of keeping him here against his will. If he doesn’t want to be here with Ian, then—
“Actually,” Mickey starts after a tense beat, still measuring Ian with apprehension, like it was a trick question he asked earlier, “I got him, like, this pretty neat bottle of whisky. The Macallan, 12 years old.”
“Oh, wow,” Ian says in earnest, noting the hints of pride in Mickey’s voice. “Those are like, 90 bucks. And I should know, because one of those bottles got missing from the inventory a few weeks ago.”
When all Mickey does is jut out his chin and nod in an exaggerated motion that clearly means, well, would you look at that? What a terrible, terrible world we live in, Ian slowly fills in the gaps.
“You fucking prick,” he states plainly, because of course.
“Not like you were at work the day I swiped it!“ Mickey counters with his own kind of rational explanation.
“That’s not the—” Ian catches the sudden tightness in his chest, whatever the hell’s that for. He huffs out an irritated, “You could get in serious shit for that, Mickey.”
“Yeah, well.” A shrug. “Hope the fucker appreciates it.”
Something tells Ian that there’s very little in life that Terry Milkovich can genuinely appreciate. Call it an instinct—or maybe a phantom pain from the last time Terry tried to punch the lights out of him.
He doesn’t mention that suspicion out loud to Mickey, though.
“What’d you wish for?” Ian asks as he lazily leans back against the shelving.
“Do I look like some kid?” Mickey grumbles, making his empty beer bottle spin between his open legs. “‘Sides, in this kinda life, if you want something, it’s your best bet to do it yourself.”
Ian considers it for a moment. What he eventually comes up with is that if he could choose, have it his way for once, he’d want to lean over and kiss Mickey. Taste the beer on his tongue and feel the softness of his lips against his own.
Instead, he shakes the thoughts away and asks, “Want some eggnog, at least?”
Mickey gives another shrug. “Sure.”
Ian passes the box over and watches as Mickey unscrews the cap and gives the contents a hesitant sniff before he goes in for a big gulp.
“Jesus,” Mickey makes a face. “Tastes like spunk. With some rum in it.”
Ian rolls his eyes, taking the eggnog back from him. “No, it fucking doesn’t.”
“How would you know, boy scout?”
“What d’you mean?”
Tilting his head, Mickey locks him in a challenging stare. “You don’t look like you’re exactly walking around the neighborhood guzzling jizz, man.”
Ian chokes out an incredulous laugh. “And you do?”
“ ’Course fucking not,” Mickey scoffs. “What? You never tried tasting your own come?”
“No?”
And Ian knows exactly what this is, what Mickey licking over his upper lip and raising his eyebrows just slightly means. Ian’s fully aware that he’s being played, but fuck if it isn’t the most thrilling feeling in the world.
He sets the box of eggnog down and crawls over to Mickey, positioning himself between his legs.
Merry fucking Christmas to him.
“What d’you think you’re doing, Gallagher?” Mickey says, and it’s the furthest thing from a warning.
“Something for myself,” Ian smirks up at him as he pops the button on Mickey’s fly open and drags the zipper down. “And for science.”
A little later, they’ll drink more eggnog (“It really tastes nothing like spunk, Mick.” “Well, I guess you’re the expert here now.”) and slowly start packing up their things. Ian will let Mickey out through the back and smile to himself all the time after when he’s mopping the floor.
A customer will arrive five minutes before 10 pm, confused that the shop is still open when he’s almost certain it was closed when he came by an hour ago. Ian will just move his bucket to the side and tell him to go easier on the liquor.
He’ll leave the store tasting eggnog (and something that is most definitely not eggnog), thinking about quiet afternoon shifts that are still to come—and about the excuses that he won’t have to make.
And, who knows. Maybe one day, he and Mickey won’t have to close down the whole shop three hours early to spend some time together.