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Mickey’s fumbling around in the kitchen, helplessly trying to work out the complexities of the Ian’s recent purchase, an advanced coffee machine. What a bright idea that was. Mickey enjoyed the simple things in life, like being able to pour a hot cup of coffee without having to press about a trillion buttons just to get hot water. Ian demanded on buying the thing; exclaiming that it was the future, that it somehow made coffee taste better.
Just as Mickey finally presses the correct buttons, he hears several grunts escape from the door of their bedroom, followed by more disgruntled curses and hisses. For a moment, he thought Ian was jerking himself off without him. Selfish prick, Mickey thought to himself.
“Jesus, fucking Christ!” Ian yells.
Mickey agrees with Ian’s outspoken thoughts. Jesus fucking Christ this stupid coffee machine was still not giving him what he wanted.
Giving up, he grumpily strolls towards Ian’s groans, intrigued but simultaneously annoyed.
Reaching the door, Mickey grunts, “Fuck you doing, Gallagher?”
To his surprise, it wasn’t Ian jerking off, or hiding a man under sheets, or failing to set his hair straight like he groaned about most mornings. Ian was laid on his back, shirt off with sweat gleaming off his pale chest, as he scrambled to pull a pair of pants on.
You’d think that putting on trousers was easy enough. Not for Ian Gallagher. The idiot had broken his foot a week ago causing the doctors to cage his leg in an ugly, white cast. Mickey wants to burst out laughing, Ian looked like a flailing child.
“I can’t—” Ian spits, attempting to yank his pants up, “this fucking—”
Raising his brow, Mickey leans against the door frame, amused, “Need any help?”
With that, Ian’s annoyance and frustration builds, his eyes darting to Mickey’s direction. “Fuck off, I’m not a total invalid.”
Mickey enjoys Ian’s sharp tone, way too much apparently. “Hm, sure looks like it.”
Ian ignores Mickey’s passing comment, pulling harder at his pants, his teeth bearing with determination. Watching over, bubbling laughter at the tip of his lips, Mickey storms through the bedroom. He rummages through a pile of stray clothes, finding a pair of sweatpants.
“You insist on wearing the tightest fucking pants in Chicago,” He chucks the sweats towards Ian, hitting him the face in the process. “Put those on.”
Ian pushes the pants away, his anger worsening. “Yeah,” he breathes, trying to keep up his bravado, “and go to work looking like some fucking hobo? No thanks.”
With a shrug, Mickey believes it’s the best time to try the robot coffee machine once more. “Suit yourself.” He walks towards the door, smile brimming at his lips as he relishes in the sound of Ian’s whimpering grumbles. Ian was such a drama queen.
Mickey reaches the evil coffee machine, finally getting the thing to give him some hot water. As he pours a cup, he can sense Ian beginning to give in. Ian had a habit of wanting to fix, or do things on his own, but there would be times, rare times, that Mickey would have to assist.
This was one of those times.
“Mickey!”
Mickey takes his time, sipping at his coffee, basking in the morning sunlight that fled through their shitty, apartment blinds. He’d make Ian wait. This rarely occurred so why not enjoy it?
“Mickey! Get the fuck in here!”
Mickey tells himself to wait until the third yell. If Ian was so determined to be a one-man band, able to do anything, strong enough to do anything, surely, he could pull up a pair of fucking pants.
Hearing a bang, a lot of shuffling, Mickey expects the third yell, “Mickey? Please can you just—”
Taking his previous position, he leans against the frame, “Don’t need my fuckin’ help, remember?”
Ian sighs, dropping his arms dramatically at his sides. “Can you just stop being an arrogant prick for once in your goddamn life.”
Mickey grins, overjoyed with the pathetic display, “You’re the one shouting me like some fuckin’ girl.”
Gently moving his head to the side, face softened and totally in despair, Ian pleads, “Mick, can you just—” he lifts his leg up a little, all tangled in sheets and ruffled trouser leg, “I can’t do this on my own.”
Ian had a way of making Mickey do anything he wanted. Mickey immediately gives in, despite his internal protests that wanted him to watch Ian squirm a little longer, and he perched himself at the end of the bed. Grabbing Ian’s leg, he lifts it lightly away from the crumpled sheets and began the process of dressing his man-child of a husband.
In Ian’s defence, the cast was a big fucking obstacle to overcome. Mickey with all his strength, his tattoo-splashed knuckles going white, couldn’t win this battle.
“Fuck,” he mutters, trying his chances once more. “Could always wear those goddamn ugly booty shorts?”
Ian lifts himself up onto his elbows, “You’d like that, huh?”
Mickey slaps Ian’s chest, “Fuck off, man. We’re trying to get your pants on not off.”
Giving Mickey a flirtatious giggle, Ian reaches over to play with Mickey’s hair, “What if I want them off now?”
Mickey glares towards him, his hands still gripped to the pants, “I’m getting these suckers on you whether you want them on or not. Now, lie the fuck down.”
Ian obliges, still giggling. “Who would have thought, eh. Bad boy Milkovich getting all flustered over a pair of pants.”
“Say another word and I’m strangling you with them.” Mickey loosely threats.
The truth was Mickey was getting flustered over a pair of goddamn pants. After twenty minutes of yanking, cursing, and shoving Ian’s wandering hands away from him, they finally made some progress. Mickey had cracked the code, eventually pulling the pants up Ian’s thighs.
Seconds later, to his ultimate annoyance, Ian had already pulled them back down.