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Ian woke up from a thick, dreamless sort of sleep to a dark room and no alarm.
He frowned -- he rarely woke up before his first alarm, his night time meds usually knocking him out pretty thoroughly.
Then he heard Mickey whimper and -- yeah, okay, that made sense.
Ian sighed softly, saddened by the idea that he couldn't love Mickey's demons away. He shifted up onto his left elbow, watching Mickey's scrunched face and sweaty brow. Mickey didn't always like to be woken up from his nightmares, didn't even remember them sometimes. Plus, if it was a particularly violent dream he'd come up swinging. Ian had gotten bopped on the nose or the chin once or twice.
Mickey's whimpering got more consistent, almost sobbing . He squirmed, not fighting back, but shifting, every inch of his body afraid. Ian's heart fractured in his chest.
"Mick," Ian whispered, "Mickey, babe, come back to me."
"No," Mickey mumbled, turning his head into his pillow. "No, no-"
"Mickey. Mickey, honey, it's just a dream." Ian said, growing louder. "Mickey-"
"No, no! Ian!"
"Mick, wake up!"
Mickey's eyes flew open, and his whole body jerked. His terrified shout was cut off as his breath catching in his throat. His stares at Ian without really seeing him, chest heaving as he tried to breathe.
Ian didn't try to touch him, but he curled on his side, face a foot or so from Mickey's, eyes locked on his. "It's February of 2022, we're in our apartment. I'm your husband, and you are safe, Mickey."
Mickey's chest rose and fell twice more, and then he went an odd pale color, and he rolled out of bed to run to the bathroom.
Ian listened to him retch for a minute, then padded into the kitchen in his boxers to get him some water.
He went back into the bathroom to find Mickey leaning his head against the glass door of their shower, toilet flushed and face stained with tears. Ian sat in front of him, setting the cup between their knees.
Mickey didn't go for it right away, taking a few more deep, measured breaths. Then he sniffed, opened his eyes, and took the cup in one shaky hand, bringing it to his lips.
Ian waited until he'd finished it before refilling it at the tap and passing it back. "Can I touch yet?"
Mickey nodded, shifting closer, letting Ian wrap him in a hug. He pressed his face into Ian's shoulder, snuffling. He was still crying.
"What was it this time?" Ian asked. Usually it was Terry, or Mexico, or some other fucked up thing the world had decided to throw at the person who deserved it the least. They'd gotten pretty good about sharing their bad dreams, their negative moments, their emotions, even the bad shit.
Which was why, when Mickey stiffened in his arms and started to pull back, it was a little weird.
"Don't wanna talk about it," Mickey mumbled, looking away and wiping his face on the collar of his shirt. Ian frowned as he got up and went back into the bedroom, taking the cup with him.
Ian followed him slowly, watching him climb back into bed and grab his phone, clearly not intending on going back to sleep. Ian was still tired, could feel it tugging him back into his warm, safe bed to get more sleep. But his worry for his husband was outweighing that.
Ian sat on his side of the bed, watching Mickey carefully for a few more minutes.
"You sure you don't wanna talk?" Ian asked. "You haven't had one that bad in a while-"
"I said I don't wanna," Mickey snapped. And then he looked -- guilty. It was just a flash, just a few moments of guilt before he looked away again, mumbling a sorry.
Ian's worry grew. But he knew that he couldn't force Mickey to talk, that he was clearly disturbed by his dream.
So he grabbed his cigarettes and lighter from his nightstand he lit one over the ashtray next to him, then passed it to Mickey.
They smoked it down to a butt in silence, and Ian lit another one. Mickey quietly turned his phone to the side, opening their HBO max account and tapping on the first classing loony toons episode he saw. They leaned on each other and watched the coyote chase the roadrunner until the sun came up.
Fridays were their busiest day of the week, with most of their dispensaries wanting fresh supply before the weekend and the weekly family dinner on Friday nights.
They trudged into their kitchen once they couldn't justify staying in bed anymore, uniforms on and eyes tired. Mickey started the coffee while Ian made toast and took his meds. Mickey slid him an ibuprofen to take with his morning round, and took his own dry.
"I'll never understand how you do that," Ian grumbled, getting his Nalgene from the fridge so he could take his own meds. "It's disgusting."
"It's 'cause you're a pussy." Mickey grinned, and it was the most normal exchange they'd had in hours.
"Or that you're a slut with no gag reflex." Ian said, waggling his eyebrows. Mickey rolled his eyes, grabbing their go mugs and filling them with coffee, stirring creamer into his. Carl had gotten him into the fancy thin mint creamers they sold at whole foods. Ian still preferred his black.
Ian swiped his out of Mickey's hands like every morning -- it was a little too full today, Mickey was probably tired and going on autopilot, so it splashed over the rim and onto his hands and-
"Jesus, Ian!" Mickey snapped, grabbing the coffee back and setting it to the side, then grabbing his hands to run them under the sink. "Maybe wait a minute for it to cool?! Or put the fucking lid on?! What the fuck?!"
"Mickey," Ian rolled his eyes. "It's coffee. It barely hurt me."
Mickey didn't listen, keeping Ian's hands under the water like they were about to fall off. His eyes seemed hollow. Ian sighed.
"Mickey. Hey, Mick."
Mickey finally looked at him, and Ian tugged his hands back.
"I won't push about the dream," Ian said, "but whatever it was, I'm fine."
Mickey stared at him, then shoved the lids on their go cups and stomped out, grumbling under his breath.
Ian sighed again. It was going to be a long day.
Mickey insisted on driving, and watched as Ian put on his seatbelt. He did the speed limit the entire time, used a blinker, stopped at every red light, and didn't even ride anyone's bumper.
Ian was worried about him.
Seriously, whatever he dreamed about must've messed him up, because Mickey was never this careful. And on any other day, Ian would appreciate it. Would take it as a sign of Mickey finally realizing that they weren't kids anymore, and they should be more cautious so that they could live a long happy life together.
But Mickey was clearly tense, and he kept drawing his lower lip into his mouth and chewing on it. They didn't talk and joke the way they usually did, no matter how many times Ian tried to draw Mickey into conversation.
He really hoped this would pass. It almost didn't feel like Mickey.
They arrived at their third stop of the day -- it was Ian's favorite grow house, because one of the gardeners here always took the time to chat with him about his vegetable plot. Mickey liked xim because xe always set aside some free samples for them.
Sure enough, when they walked in Shaun greeted them with a big grin and a "there's my favorite army men! Hows it hanging today, fellas?"
"Hey Shaun," Ian said to xim, shaking xir hand. "Same old, same old."
Mickey grunted, and Shaun laughed. "Sociable as ever, ey Mick? Yo, e, I got a new strain for you to try today. S'posed to be real relaxing shit, bro."
Xe bent down to grab their usual Tupperware box of free samples out from under the counter. "This stuffs specially made for folks with mental illness, y'get it?"
"Fucking what?" Mickey growled, but Ian was too busy examining the box, intrigued. "This following up from our talk ?"
"Hell yeah, man, you made some excellent points." Shaun grinned.
"Talk!?" Mickey looked between the two of them, visibly pissed. "The fuck you know about my husband's mental shit, fuckhead!?"
Shaun didn't even flinch, since xe were twice Mickey's size and used to him being an angry little gremlin. Xe pushed xir dreads over xir shoulder, cool as a cucumber. "Me and E were talkin' bout natural foods, how they can help with shit. Gave him some suggestions for what to plant in the spring. Folic acid and omega threes and shit."
"And you think this is a good fucking idea!?" Mickey asked, rounding on Ian.
Ian's brow furrowed, confused. "Mick it's just weed."
"It's-" Mickey bit down on his lip hard enough that for a second Ian worried he was bleeding. That same hollow look was back, like he wasn't really seeing what was in front of him.
"Man, what crawled up your pants and died today?" Shaun snorted. "Maybe you need some Omega threes, brother."
That snapped Mickey out of his state, and he glared at Shaun. "Fuck you, dickhole."
He stomped out with their bags of weed, and Ian looked back at Shaun, apologetic. "Sorry he's -- I don't know what's up with him today."
"It's fine, man, we all have rough days." Shaun shrugged, then frowned. "But, uh, tell you what."
He grabbed a little baggie from next to him and walked over to one of the plants, carefully snipping some leaves into it. "Here, some of our most relaxing strain, for better sleep. On the house, Your husband looks like he needs it."
"Thanks Shaun, I'll report back about the new stuff." Ian asked, then ran after Mickey.
He found him leaning against the back door of the bus -- they'd painted it navy, so that it looked less like an ambulance, but it was pretty clear what it used to be. Close enough that most people still didn't think to fuck with them.
"Mick, what the fuck was that?" Ian asked, exhasperated. "And don't say nothing!"
Mickey took a drag from the cigarette in his hand, staring at Ian. He exhaled.
"You taking your meds?" Mickey asked and -- what the fuck?
Ian felt a surge of anger, and he clenched his jaw. "Considering you haven't stopped staring at me like a caged animal all day and you saw me take them, I'm gonna have to go with yes."
"Good." Mickey took another drag. "They workin'?"
"Are they- yes, Mickey, they're fucking working! What the fuck!?"
Rationally, Ian knew Mickey wouldn't be asking without reason. He never did, hated it when people bugged Ian about his bipolar over and over again. But Ian wasn't having any symptoms. He was sleeping great, nothing felt too fast or too slow. He felt really, truly stable and that combined with Mickey's stubborn insistence on not telling him what the fuck was wrong made him pissed off.
"Just wanted to make sure," Mickey shrugged, like this was normal. "Thought that if you were looking for other stuff, maybe your dosage wasn't working."
It was a genuine point, but it only made Ian more pissed off. "I'm not looking for other stuff, I made a comment to my friend and he did something to help me!"
Mickey didn't react, and Ian threw his hands up. "Oh fuck this, let's go, we're gonna fall behind."
He climbed back in the bus. A few moments later, Mickey climbed in after him, starting the engine and pulling out.
He waited a few minutes, then mumbled "sorry."
Ian looked at him, because that was the most genuine he'd sounded all day. Mickey was looking at the road, still doing the perfect speed limit.
"I just, I want you to feel like you can tell me stuff about it," Mickey said, voice low and almost quiet. "I've looked into folic acids and that shit too- I know I'm not a non binary hunk with a nose ring, but I just-"
"I tell you everything about it." Ian cut him off, and he did. "Your my husband, Mickey, I'd tell you the moment I felt off."
Mickey didn't reply to that. They kept driving in silence.
A few stops and lunch later, and Ian was calmed down and apologetic about snapping. Mickey had barely talked to anyone since their impromptu argument earlier. His exhaustion was clearly getting to him, and he was on his third cup of coffee.
Ian watched him drive, wishing Mickey would smile for him. "Hey, want me to put on a podcast?"
After prison, Mickey had rediscovered a love for listening to things. Music, audiobooks, podcasts -- shit he could listen to while he moved around, so he didn't have to stare at a tv to follow the story. They were working their way through the Critical Roll backlog, but Mickey loved true crime stuff. He'd been playing L ore, his most recent find, while they were making pickups and deliveries the last few days.
Mickey shook his head. "Could do the radio. Maybe not rock though?"
Ian nodded, putting on some top forty station and humming along with the words. Mickey didn't touch the dials, even when a song Ian knew he hated came on.
Ian sighed and turned the radio off again. When Mickey looked at him curiously, Ian shrugged. "Headache."
Mickey frowned. "Carsick? Need me to pull over?"
"Nah," Ian said, leaning against the window. "Just tired."
"... Want me to drop you off at home?"
Ian frowned, picking his head up again. "What about the deliveries?"
"I can do 'em," Mickey shrugged. "We're not far from Debbie's. Why don't you go crash on her couch? You can go pick Franny up and play with her till dinner. I know you didn't sleep much last night."
"... No, I'm good." Ian said, mystified. "Since when have you ever wanted me to skip out on work?"
Mickey rolled his eyes. "We've both taken sick days, genius. It's fine if you're tired, I know I kept you awake with my bullshit."
"You having a nightmare so bad you got sick isn't bullshit, Mickey, it just means you're even more tired than me." Ian protested. "And we've stayed up all night fucking before, you really think I can't do my job after losing out on a few hours of sleep?"
Mickey looked at him. His face was so serious, so concerned. He looked like he thought Ian was dying
"I just worry, man." Mickey said. "I'm your husband. It's my job."
Ian didn't have a reply for that -- he was fucking worried too.
They arrived at Debbie's at their usual time. Friday dinners switched houses each week, and used to be on Sundays, but everyone was dreading the week ahead too much to enjoy them, so they switched to Fridays. Each sibling was responsible for a different thing every week based on age order -- whoever hosted didn't have to provide anything, the next youngest had to do the main course, the next had to do dessert, next was drinks, and whoever was left had to clean up after. They started out skipping Liam in this pattern, combining desert and drinks into one sibling, but Liam insisted he could handle it, and so the rotation was set. Lip always came after Liam in the rotation, so it was Ian's week to clean up after.
Mickey parked the car while Ian went inside, crouching to catch his niece in a hug as she charged at him.
"Uncle Ian!" Franny squealed, squeezing him tight. Ian laughed. "Hey ladybug, listen- I have a super special secret mission for you tonight, okay?"
Franny picked up her head, eyes wide. Ian leaned in close to stage whisper; "uncle Mickey is really really sad today. I need you to give him your biggest and best hugs, okay?"
Franny nodded seriously, visibly determined to do whatever she could for her favorite uncle. Ian smiled and kissed her forehead. "That's my girl."
He let Franny go and went to greet his sister, smiling to himself when he heard Mickey's oof as their niece launched herself at him. Served Mickey right for worrying him all day -- if he wouldn't let Ian take care of him, he'd recruit someone who could.
Dinner was normal as ever, mostly. Carl had brought burgers from this new place downtown that Arthur swore by, and Ian had to admit they were decent. Mickey was relaxing, even told a story about the Yucta Fries that he became obsessed with in Mexico.
So of course, Lip just had to wait until he and Mickey were washing dishes to ask. “Hey Mick, Ian mentioned you saw your new therapist this week?”
Ian glared at him behind Mickey’s back, but Mickey just patiently dried the cup in his hands, not even flinching.
“Yeah, she was fine.” Mickey shrugged.
Ian frowned at him. “You said you hated her.”
“So?”
“So, you won’t have a successful experience if you hate her.”
“He should know,” Carl laughed, and Debbie smacked his arm.
“I’m serious, Mick.” Ian frowned, hip checking him. “You didn’t like her, we’ll find someone else.”
“It’s fine,” Mickey huffed. “She’s affordable.”
“You said she was terrible.”
“I’ll get used to her! Look-” Mickey set the glass down and turned to Ian, plucking the soapy knife out of his hands and rinsing it. “This shit is optional for me, okay? But it ain’t for you. We’re doing real good now, I don’t need a fancy therapist.”
“At least you admit you need one,” Carl chortled, taking another swig of his beer. “I mean, shit, Ian had to be institutionalized before he admitted it!”
And then he slapped his hand over his mouth, horrified. Lip and Debbie both shot to their feet, shouting his name.
“Carl, the fuck?” Lip spat at him, and Ian would be mad, he really, really would.
But Mickey was still holding the knife, still drying it.
Or he had been, before he clenched his hands.
Now Ian watched as the knife fell to the ground, and Mickey hissed in pain, staggering back to stare at the towel turning red.
“Oh fuck!” Debbie shrieked, and Mickey bolted.
“Fuck, Mickey!” Ian shouted, running after him. The front door slammed behind him, and by the time Ian made it out of Debbie’s apartment and down the stairs, Mickey had disappeared.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck-” Ian ran back up, throwing open the door and tearing through the pile of coats on Debbie’s arm chair.
“Ian,” Carl sobbed from the doorway to the dining room. “Ian I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I had to do a wellness check on a schizo today and I’m drunk, I’m really fucking drunk-”
“I’ll get mad at you later,” Ian said, even though he wasn’t really mad about Carl’s comment. “I gotta -- I have to go find Mickey.”
“We’ll come,” Lip said, rising with Tami on his heels, but Ian shook his head.
“No, he’s- he’s off today, something’s off. It’s gotta be me.” Ian grabbed his coat and Mickey’s, digging through the pockets till he found the keys. “I gotta go, I love you guys-”
“Text us when you find him!” Lip shouted at his back, but Ian was already gone.
It took about an hour, but finally Ian found a park with a familiar figure on a bench, a towel tied tight around his left hand.
Ian parked the bus and walked over to him, shivering in the windchill.
"Hey," Ian said when he got close, "you okay?"
Mickey grunted once.
Ian chuckled -- yeah, that was his husband. "Can I take a look at that hand?"
Mickey held it out silently. The towel was knotted tight, and it looked like the bleeding had stopped.
"Good job," Ian praised, and Mickey finally cracked a smile.
"Yeah, my husband's this badass EMT, taught me a few tricks."
"Oh yeah?" Ian grinned. "Well, uh, he can't beat my husband."
"Bet he could."
"Bet he can't. Mines an ex con."
"Sounds like a real piece of work." Mickey snorted, looking away. Ian gently grabbed his chin and turned his face back.
"You need a hospital? Stitches?"
Mickey shook his head. Ian looked between his hand and his face.
"Tell you what," Ian said, stroking his cheek. "I won't take you to a hospital if you tell me what the hell is happening in that head of yours."
Mickey looked at him for a long moment, then slid over on the bench. Ian sat next to him and wrapped Mickey's coat around his shoulders.
"The last time I was in this park, you were with Monica." Mickey said. "I was calling you, and you weren't answering. Tried to fuck some cupcake I found on a bench, couldn't get it up because I was so worried about your ass."
"We both made some stupid decisions back then," Ian said diplomatically, thinking about the day after.
"You remember stuff before that?" Mickey asked, looking away again. "Like… like the..."
Mickey didn't need to finish.
"... It's a bit hazy," Ian hummed. "I remember Disney world… Jesus taking my baby… then waking up in the hospital."
Mickey didn't say anything. Ian touched his arm.
"And you," Ian said softly. "You hugged me. You held me close. And I knew…"
He waited for Mickey to look at him.
"I knew you would never let anything hurt me," Ian said, leaning forward to bump his head against Mickey's. "And it gave me the bravery to do what I needed to do."
"But I hurt you," Mickey closed his eyes, looking pained. "It- that was the worst day of my life and it was all my fault-"
"Hey," Ian said firmly, cupping his cheek again. "We both didn't want to admit what was going down. You did the best you could, took such good care of me-"
"I had to have you admitted-" Mickey nearly snarled. "It was the hardest fucking decision of my life, nothing else has been harder. I am so- so fucking-"
A tear crawled down Mickey's cheek, and Ian swiped it away with his thumb. "Don't you dare apologize."
"I'm scared," Mickey sobbed, "I'm scared I'll have to make that choice again. I'm so fucking scared Ian-"
"I will do everything," Ian promised, "every fucking thing to make sure you never have to do that again. You have to know that."
"But what if we slip up?" Mickey sniffed. "And they- they lock you up or take you away, I cant-"
"Mick-" Ian started, but Mickey was finally talking, babbling even-
"And I heard this awful shit about like fuckin, fucking lobotomies and shit they used to do in mental hospitals, and I had this fucking nightmare-"
"Oh baby," Ian shook his head, pulling Mickey into a hug. "Mickey, sweetheart, they don't- they never hurt me."
"I know," Mickey groaned. "I know, but this stupid dream -- they were hurting you, and I couldn't fucking do anything."
He sounded so angry, that Ian couldn't help it, he laughed. Mickey punched him on the arm, and Ian laughed again, kissing his head.
"Well that's bullshit," Ian muttered, "you'd never let anything hurt me."
"That wasn't the bad part," Mickey said into Ian's chest.
Ian sat back. Mickey's eyes were puffy and wet.
"You were enjoying it," Mickey whispered. "like you thought you deserved it. And I just -- when this started, you hated it so much…"
"Sounds like a really bad dream," Ian said, rubbing his back.
"That shitty therapist got me thinking about fucking self destructive behaviors," Mickey shrugged. "Plus the podcast it was just…"
"Too much," Ian sighed, shifting to look at him again.
"So, here's what we're gonna do," Ian said, cupping the back of his neck. "We're gonna get you a new therapist, and you're gonna stop listening to scary shit before bed."
Mickey laughed, and Ian smiled at him.
"And your gonna trust me," Ian said softly, "and I'm gonna trust you. You don't have to protect me all the time, you keep me honest just by existing, Mickey."
"I love you," Mickey said, "I love you so much…"
"I love you too," Ian said, "and that's why I'm gonna make sure to stay right here, spend my whole fucking life with you. I promise."
Mickey nodded, then kissed him.
Ian drove them home.
Ian woke up the next day to the alarms shut off, and sun streaming through their windows.
Mickey was still snoring softly, fast asleep. He had a little smile on his face.
Must be good dreams.