Work Text:
The sound of heavy boots echoes throughout the quiet hallway as the door to the apartment slams open, nearly putting a dent in the opposite wall. Two men come barrelling through a second later, looking sweaty and disheveled.
Mickey walks into the apartment and immediately throws himself onto the couch, groaning loudly as he buries his face in the cushions.
Ian unlaces and kicks off his boots, then drags his weary body to the kitchen, hoping the impossible has happened and there's a hot meal ready and waiting for them both.
There isn't.
Ian makes a pathetic noise of despair before walking over and getting a glass of water and some ibuprofen for his husband. He knows that Mickey won't want to peel himself off the couch to get it himself, even though he's been bitching endlessly about his headache for the last hour.
"Long fucking day, huh?" Ian says, shuffling into the living room. He perches on the arm of the couch because there's no space on the cushions.
Micky grunts in reply and grabs the painkillers from Ian's outstretched hand, ignoring the water and swallowing them dry. How he can do that is a mystery to Ian, who shrugs and takes a long drink, his throat feeling dry and overworked from talking to clients all day. It's draining, both mentally and physically.
It's just after 7 p.m, long after their work day usually ends. One of their drivers had called out sick, and Sandy fucked off to do god-knows-what, so they had to take on the extra deliveries, doubling their workload for the day. Then, one of their growhouse clients had miscounted product and sent them away shorthanded. They didn't realize the mistake until they were halfway across the city and she called them in a panic, which meant that they had to turn around and go back to collect the rest, throwing their schedule into chaos and causing them to run behind for the rest of the day. The girl at the growhouse had felt so bad about it that she gave them some free edibles, something new that the company was working on developing.
It was an irritating mistake, but free weed is free weed.
"Hey," Ian says, poking Mickey in the side.
"Fuck off." Mickey swats his hand away. "I’m so tired I can't even get up to take a piss right now."
Ian pulls a face. "I was just gonna ask if you still had those edibles that Janelle gave us. Might help us relax a bit."
"Oh shit, forgot we had those." Mickey sits up and starts patting down his pockets, grinning triumphantly when he finds the two small bags they were given. "Fuck yeah. Let's get stoned and play some fuckin' video games."
"We still have to eat something," Ian points out.
"So order a pizza or some shit."
"We ordered takeout last night."
"So?"
"So," Ian says, sighing, "I wanna try to cook more. Ordering takeout all the time is expensive, and it's bad for us."
"Looks like you oughta get in the kitchen then, Julia Child, 'cause I ain't going nowhere for the rest of the night." He sinks further into the couch cushions, as if to prove his point.
The idea of getting up and standing over a hot stove is incredibly unappealing to Ian, and the various takeout menus piled on the kitchen counter are looking insanely tempting right now. But he's nothing if not stubborn. If he gives in and orders them something, Mickey will give him a look and he'll be all smug about it, and then Ian's pride will hurt more than his feet do.
Ian sighs and heaves himself off of the couch to go scour the cupboards for something quick and easy. They went shopping for groceries a couple of days ago, so there should be something that he can make that's quick and relatively healthy. Ian usually likes cooking, but this is not the fucking day to be trying out some elaborate creation he saw online.
He's rifling through the cupboards looking for some canned soup that he's positive they bought when Mickey pads into the kitchen.
"Here," he says, handing Ian one of the bags. "Says it's 10mg, so one should be enough for each of us."
Ian takes the bag and looks inside. He was expecting gummies or something, and he's surprised to find four little squares of chocolate.
"That ten per piece, or the whole bag?"
"Dunno. Whole bag, I think?" Mickey says distractedly, cramming two pieces in his mouth right away.
Well that's not too bad. He'll start with one piece, then see how he feels after making some food. They smoke often, but edibles aren't part of his repertoire aside from the occasional brownie gifted from V.
Ian pops a square into his mouth. It's pretty good, nice and smooth and sweet, just like a regular chocolate bar. Satisfied, he pulls a can out of the cupboard. "How do you feel about tomato soup and grilled cheese?"
"Don't see how that's any healthier than a fuckin' pizza, but yeah, sounds good," Mickey replies. Ian gives him a smack on the ass when he turns to leave the room, grinning like a fool and getting Mickey's middle finger in return.
Ian turns back to the stove and gets lost in the monotony of cooking. It's not a complex meal by any means, but it's still healthier than splitting an extra-large meat lovers pizza, thank you very much. It takes about twenty minutes to heat up the soup and make the sandwiches, and by the time everything is done and he's carrying their plates to the living room, Ian feels much more relaxed.
Relaxed, but still sober.
The floaty feeling he gets in his limbs when he's high is conspicuously absent, and his head feels crystal clear.
Hmm.
"Are you feelin' anything?" He asks Mickey.
"Think so," Mickey says, mouth full of grilled cheese. "Feelin' a little less like I wanna strangle Dave for bailing on us today."
Okay, that's definitely an improvement.
Ian knows the full effects of an edible take longer to kick in than smoking a joint, but he can't remember the exact time frame and he left his phone all the way in the kitchen. He's pretty sure it's half an hour? That sounds right.
Fuck it.
He opens up the bag and pops two more squares of chocolate in his mouth. It's not a full serving, so he figures he should feel it just enough to unwind completely. Maybe even get a solid nine hours of sleep tonight.
They play a couple levels of Halo on their second-hand xbox, and the stress of the day finally fades away. Ian loves being married, loves that he gets to have this — sharing a meal with his husband after work, playing the same video games they loved as teenagers.
After Mickey nails him with a headshot for the fifth time and wins again, Ian sets the controller down.
"Let's go for a walk. Wanna check out that new ice cream place that opened last month."
Mickey snorts. "Don't that break your 'no takeout' rule?"
"Ice cream doesn't count," Ian insists and reaches for Mickey's hand, pulling him off of the couch.
The shop isn't far, just three or four blocks from the apartment, and it feels nice to be outside. They've never been the type of couple to hold hands as they walk, but they let their fingers brush occasionally, a small reminder of shared space.
It's early September, and the oppressive heat of summer has lifted but it's still warm enough that they don't need to bundle up with coats and scarves. The sun is just starting to set, casting the street in a warm golden glow, and the chatter of people enjoying the last bits of patio season fill the air. The West Side is starting to feel more comfortable, but it'll never truly be home for either of them. Ian figures they'll give it a year, and then they'll try to find something closer to the South Side.
The ice cream shop is still busy despite the cooler fall temperatures, and the line snakes outside the door and onto the street. It's one of those trendy places that charges six bucks for a single scoop and is decorated for social media snapshots, and has weird, out-there flavors like unicorn birthday cake and frozen ube custard. Whatever the fuck ube is.
"Jesus Christ. Where the fuck did all these people come from?" Mickey gripes as they get in line. "Better be the best goddamn ice cream in city. Coulda just gone to fuckin' Dairy Queen."
Ian just smiles fondly, knowing that Micky's interest (and secret sweet tooth) is piqued when he spots a Snickers-inspired flavor on the menu.
They're next in line to order when it hits him.
Ian turns to look at the quirky hand-lettered menu and gets slapped in the face by a massive, rolling wave of dizziness.
Weird. He must have moved his head too fast. That happens sometimes. Except now he's trying to read the menu and the letters are swaying back and forth. Or maybe that's him. Swaying back and forth. He blinks rapidly, trying to get his eyes to focus.
He distantly hears Mickey ordering, the sound echoing and bouncing around his head, and then something is shaking his left arm.
It's Mickey. Shaking his arm. Looking at him expectantly. His brain buffers as he tries to figure out why his husband is looking at him like he's missing something…
Right! Ordering ice cream. He squints at the menu, hoping that'll make the letters stop moving around so much.
"I'll have uuuuhhhh… strawberry buttermilk." Pause. Squint. "Single scoop." There! Easy.
"Cup or cone?"
"Yeah." He nods enthusiastically.
Mickey and the employee look at him like he's sprouted a second head. The room starts spinning again and he closes his eyes, groaning.
"Just give him a cup, man. Long day," Mickey finally says, grabbing Ian's arm and pulling him towards the checkout. Then they're outside. When did they leave the shop? Mickey must have paid, because Ian doesn't remember getting his wallet out.
"The fuck's wrong with you?" Mickey asks, amused but also slightly concerned.
Good question! He thinks for a second. Thoughts are swirling around in his head, and trying to latch on to one feels like running through sand.
But then it dawns on him.
"What was the dose in those chocolates?" He asks. The words feel weird in his mouth, gooey and slow.
"I told ya. 10mg a piece."
Per piece.
Per piece.
Oh, fuck.
The cardinal rule of consuming edibles is start low and go slow.
Ian did not start low. Nor did he go slow. Ian inhaled 30mg of THC-infused chocolate in the span of half an hour.
He makes a high pitched sound that is actually very manly and is not a whine.
"Ian? What's wrong?" Mickey sounds alarmed now, placing his hand on Ian's shoulder, grounding him.
"Mick," Ian says miserably, "I ate three fucking pieces and I'm feeling really fucked up right now." God, his mouth is so dry. It feels like he's swallowed cotton balls.
Mickey blinks a few times and then doubles over laughing. "Shit, I thought you were stroking out or somethin', but you're just really fucking high." He wipes at the corner of his eyes where tears have gathered from the force of his laughter.
"It's not funny! My head is spinning and I can't feel my hands," Ian says, trying and failing to stick his chin out. "'S like I have no control over my limbs." He shakes his hand and a glob of ice cream goes flying off the spoon. Oops. He takes another spoonful and manages to bring it to his mouth, the ice cream cool and sweet on his tongue. It's good! Not worth six fucking dollars, but still pretty good.
"You're fine, tough guy. See, we're walking home — legs movin' and everything." Mickey grabs his hand in a comforting gesture, but he's still laughing. "Almost there."
They turn the corner and their building comes into view. Almost there.
"Wanna lay down," Ian whines as Mickey continues to laugh.
The whole situation is objectively very funny, and if it were happening to someone else he'd probably also be howling with laughter, but right now he just feels gross. He hates feeling dizzy more than anything else in the world. And sure, nobody really likes feeling dizzy, but for Ian it's an unpleasant memory that reminds him of the early days on his meds — his senses dulled and stomach rolling. The way the world seemed to move around him as he stood stationary, stuck in his own head.
He somehow makes it back to their apartment, though he doesn't remember walking through the lobby doors. As soon as Mickey unlocks their front door, Ian walks to the bedroom as fast as his spinning head will allow, and collapses into bed.
"D'you need me to stay with you?" Mickey asks. Ian can tell he still finds this whole situation fucking hilarious, but he's trying to be sympathetic. Trying.
"No, s'fine. I'll yell if I need you."
Mickey nods and closes the door softly behind him.
Ian closes his eyes and waits for the world to stop spinning so goddamn fast. He's not moving anymore, so the feeling should start to fade.
Any second now.
And he does feel better, but laying down doesn't stop the room from swirling around him. Closing his eyes just makes it worse. Ian squirms around, trying to get comfortable, but the extra movement just makes him nauseous. It's torture. Ian groans and puts his head in his hands. They come away wet — the fuck? Is he crying?
He's crying. What the fuck.
There are tears streaming down his face, and if he could pull his brain out of the syrupy trap that it seems to be stuck in, he'd probably feel embarrassed. Instead, he lets out a weird, strangled, half-laugh-half-sob and shoves a pillow over his face.
The door opens and Mickey pokes his head in.
"Heard a noise, you doin' alright in he — the fuck?"
Mickey walks over and pulls the pillow off, eyebrows nearly in his hairline when he sees Ian's red, tear-streaked face.
"Hey, Mick," he says, voice shaky.
"'Ey, shh. You're okay. Shouldn'ta left you alone in here," Mickey says softly, brushing the hair out of Ian's face. "Why're we crying?"
"I don't know!" Ian sniffs. "It just started happening! I can't control it."
Mickey threads his fingers through Ian's hair, soothing and gentle, but the amused look is back on his face. "You don't know?"
Ian shakes his head, then winces as a fresh wave of dizziness hits. "Urgh. So fucking dizzy right now. Wanna crawl outta my skin, feels so gross."
'You're just really fuckin' high. It'll go away."
"When?"
Mickey pulls out his phone and starts typing. He hums thoughtfully as he reads the search results. "Says here 'bout six to eight hours."
"I'm stuck like this for six hours?" Ian asks, horrified.
"Almost your bed time, old man. You'll be asleep for most of it. Probably have a real good sleep too." Mickey smirks at him.
Ian still feels miserable. "Can you get me some water?"
Maybe he can drink a ton, and then piss this out of his system.
Mickey nods and squeezes his hand, then leaves to fetch Ian's water bottle from the fridge, all filled and ready to go for tomorrow morning's run. Which is probably not happening now, but he'll make up for it by doing an extra mile on the treadmill.
When Mickey returns, Ian grabs the bottle and chugs, laying back against the pillows when it's empty. The dizzy feeling is still there, but not as intense, and he's stopped crying. Ian breathes a sigh of relief.
"Think I'm gonna try to go to sleep now. Come join me?" He asks Mickey, bringing out the best puppy-dog eyes that his stoned brain can manage.
Mickey chuckles fondly. "Need to do the dishes first or you'll be on my ass about it tomorrow when you feel better. I'll come join ya when I'm done, Sleeping Beauty."
Ian nods and grabs his pill organizer from the nightstand. He walks into the bathroom, fills the water bottle up from the sink and swallows his nighttime pills. He makes it from the bedroom to the bathroom and back without feeling overwhelming vertigo, so that's a win. He'll just sleep it off and feel better in the morning.
He's just drifting off, mind in that soft, hazy place between asleep and awake, when he feels a gentle kiss pressed to his temple followed by the mattress dipping and the comfortable weight of his husband settling in beside him.
***
When morning comes, the first thing Ian notices is the light. Sunlight is pouring in through a gap in the curtains, much brighter than it should be on a work day.
Fuck.
Ian jolts upright, barely registering the fact that his head no longer feels like it's filled with helium. Did he sleep through the alarm? Shit, they're gonna be late for today's first pickup. He starts kicking off the blankets that are tangled around his legs and reaches for his phone.
Mickey's hand shoots out of the blanket cocoon he's wrapped himself in, groping around before finding Ian's chest and pushing him back down onto the bed.
"Calm the fuck down. Dave's feelin' better today and I figured you'd sleep through the alarm, so I called in a favor from Sandy. They're gonna handle shit today," Mickey grumbles. "Fuckin' deserve it after the day we had yesterday."
It takes a moment for the words to register in Ian's sleepy, panicked brain.
"We're not gonna be late?"
"Nope. Now get your giant ass over here and spoon me."
And, well. Who is Ian to refuse an offer like that?
A few hours later sees them out of bed and sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and eating breakfast burritos delivered by UberEats. Mickey was smug about it when Ian pulled up the app, as predicted, but Ian's brain was not entirely back online and takeout felt like a better option than potentially burning the apartment down.
"I think I'm still a little high. I'm never fucking doing that again," Ian says around a mouthful of burrito.
"Speak for yourself, I feel great. Slept like a fuckin' baby last night."
Ian groans. "I'm so embarrassed. Who gets so high they start fucking crying about it?"
"Ey, don't beat yourself up. Can't all have awesome drug tolerance like me," Mickey says, taking a sip of coffee.
"Don't think that's something to brag about, Mick."
"Course it is. Gonna ask Janet or whatever her name is to hook me up with some more of that shit."
Ian shakes his head. "We can never tell Lip about this. He'd never let me live it down.
"Fuck no. But you handled that shit like, ten times better than that asshole could've." Mickey snorts.
Ian hums in agreement and drinks his coffee. Lesson well fucking learned.