Archive of Our Own

“Is Tami here? She said to come by.”

“Just missed her. Somethin’ about a babysitter.”

“Shit.”

The man grins. “I got time though, if you want…”

Ian inhales, embarrassed to be looking so unkempt in front of this total stranger, but says:

“Sure, why not.”

The man beckons Ian to a station in the back, spinning a black and chrome chair around for him to take a seat in.

Ian’s joints ache as he sits, stiff from lack of use, but he’s quickly distracted by the sight of thick, leather straps crossing broad shoulders.

An apron never looked so good.

“I’m Mickey,” the man says, pointing to a certificate on the wall.

It reads: Mickey Milkovich, Master Barber.

Their eyes meet in the mirror.

“Ian.”

“What’re we doing here today, Ian?”

Inked fingers card through red locks and Ian’s eyes flutter closed at the contact.

Tendrils of something sweet, and a little electric, shoot down his arms and into his fingertips, his every nerve ending singing from the haptic sensation.

It feels—Ian feels.

His eyes prickle, welling with memory, relief, and a hint of melancholy, the latter enough to bring him back to himself. 

To the gentle tugs of Mickey’s deft digits working through his tangles. 

Catch and release. Resolve and repeat.

Mickey clears his throat, softly, and Ian opens his eyes. 

A blush creeps up his neck as he watches the pink of Mickey’s tongue pass over the place where his lips meet.

“Uh, sorry, I—” Ian stutters, certain that Mickey’s regretting his decision to offer his services. He takes a breath, recovers. “Just a shape up, I guess. Tami never does anything fancy.”

Tami. 

Fuck. 

This was Tami’s coworker he was losing it in front of. Tami, his sister-in-law, the mother of Lip’s son.

“That’s a shame,” Mickey says, not missing a beat. “You’ve got great hair, man.”

If Ian’s flush had dissipated, it was back now with a vengeance.

Sorry Tami.

“Have at it.”

Dark eyebrows lift. “Tami won’t mind?”

“Nah.”

A million things dance across Mickey’s gorgeous face.

“Gotta at least take some off the sides,” he muses. His hands frame Ian’s face and push rotund curls flat. The pressure is dizzying. “Lookin’ like a fuckin’ tomato, Red.”

Ian winces, his cheeks completing the unfortunate picture.

He likes tomatoes as much as the next guy—maybe a little more if he’s honest—but despite the levity in Mickey’s voice, he doesn’t think being compared to one is exactly a come-on.

Still, he can’t deny the hunger in how Mickey’s scouring his face. Like he’s memorizing this version of Ian, while envisioning a future one.

“You like it long on top?”

“Top? Yeah.”

It’s innocent in intent, but Ian’s in his body in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. Everything’s excitable. His voice a bit raw.

Through the looking glass, blue lands on green. 

Mickey pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Let’s get you washed up.”

To survive the shampoo, Ian recounts the serial numbers of his ROTC guns.

Back in the chair, he’s desperate for distraction.

He spots a photo on the wall—clearly from someone’s birthday. Mickey’s holding a beer, his face cracked open in a wide smile. 

Beautiful. 

A charming juxtaposition from his current focused frown.

Below the picture is a framed page from a magazine. Glossy, with an image of Mickey cutting the hair of a little boy, maybe 7 or 8.

And a headline—Free Cuts for Foster Kids by Homegrown Hero.

Ian’s eyes widen.

“Hate that fuckin’ thing,” Mickey gripes quickly, thumbing at his nose, silver scissors hanging loosely from his fingers. “The stupid article or whatever, not the kids. Sister made me hang it up.”

Ian opens his mouth to speak, but then blades are blurring with tattooed threats, as Mickey cards a comb through wet, red locks and gets to work.

Ian sits mesmerized—no, hypnotized—by Mickey's swift, precise movements. Skills sharpened with time and practice.

Everything about him is alluring, from the satisfied glint in his eyes as he wields a straight razor with ease, to the way he snarls at a stray hair that has escaped its enclosure—a baby pink clip that reminds Ian of afternoons playing dress up with Franny and Fred.

Suddenly, a flash:

Mickey, bouncing a baby on his knee, grinning in spite of himself.

Ian, handing him a beer before scooping up their kid and raising them into the air, giggles escaping them all.

Their kid.

Christ, he needs to get a fucking grip. 

Still, audacious as it was, it was a future. 

It's been a while since Ian's thought about a future. 

"'Ey, I'm gonna spin you around, ok?" Mickey says, landing a timid hand on Ian's shoulder.

It’s electric.

Then, Mickey’s crouching in front of him, smelling like smoke and mint and something a little sweet.

He reaches for two pieces of hair, measuring them against each other, but also looking at Ian with such intensity that he can’t help but wonder if this is the moment people talk about—when the stars align.

“Look down for me,” Mickey instructs, and Ian drops his head down towards the floor.

Towards Mickey’s thighs—thick and straining below ink-black denim.

He hears Mickey chuckle softly, and then there’s a facile finger underneath his chin, lifting until their gaze reconnects.

“Eyes only.”

Mickey’s eyes flick to his mouth and Ian thinks he might die right here in the barber shop.

Cause of death: Overwhelming desire to drop to his knees and peel those jeans clean off.

Mickey drags his finger through red stubble.

“I can clean up this scruff, too. If you want.”

Ian nods, “Please.”

The corner of Mickey’s mouth lifts, pleased, but smug, like Ian’s making a huge mistake. 

For despite his willingness, nothing could have prepared him for the sensory experience that is being shaved by Mickey Milkovich, Master Barber.

Beyond the glint of the razor, captured in blue like a fly in amber, or the warm puffs of breath that land on his lips, nose and cheeks, Ian knows he’ll be able to conjure the spellbinding symphony of metal scraping skin for the rest of his natural born days.

And the gentleness, precision, and care Mickey offers?

Fuck, like shears through silk.

A warm towel presses against Ian’s freshly shorn jaw, meticulously wiping away what remains of the shaving cream.

Deeming him clean, Mickey tosses the towel aside, wiping his hands on his apron—white streaks across black fabric—and before Ian can wrench his mind from the fucking gutter, Mickey's bending down in front of him again.

Crystalline eyes sear straight through to his soul.

“Better,” he says. “Now that that sorry excuse for a beard is gone.”

Ian laughs, a pithy little thing. “What? I can’t pull one off?”

Mickey’s tongue swipes at his bottom lip. “Not what I said.” 

The last few moments replay in Ian’s rebounding brain, and then he’s twirling back towards the mirror. 

“Alright, man. All set.” 

And there he is. 

His cheeks are a bit sallow, with a touch of irritation from thorough attention after weeks of neglect. 

But it’s him. 

Ian. 

His eyes drift up. 

Tight, clean undercut. Red locks textured, but tamed. 

Looks good. 

Hot. 

Tears sting as he takes himself in—the whole picture. 

“Left that gray hair in the back. For character,” Mickey says behind him. 

Ian stares. 

“Kidding, just thought you could use…” His weight shifts. “You like it ok?”

Ian realizes he was trying to lighten the mood—Ian’s mood. 

Like somehow after only a haircut’s length of time together, Mickey can read him like a fucking book.

He’s quiet a beat too long, not fully processing the question asked, and then Mickey’s moving again, grabbing the corner of the cape with a yank, the snaps separating with sharp pops that zing down Ian’s spine.

His t-shirt is somehow less grungy thanks to the crisp cut.

He’s like the winter sun. Not as strong, but still shining.

“Looks fucking great, Mick,” Ian breathes almost compulsively.

Mickey’s lips twitch.

They make their way to the front of the shop.

Full circle, and yet completely different than before.

Ian feels buzzed. Tipsy. Not too far gone, but on his way to impaired. Which wouldn’t be a problem save for the incredibly attractive barber currently running his credit card.

He pulls a couple of crumpled bills from his wallet and hands them to Mickey.

“S’ok, man. Keep your cash.”

Ian frowns. “Pretty sure it’s standard to tip for a job well done.”

Mickey looks like he wants to say something—flip the script—but ultimately takes the money.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Thank you,” Ian presses, aware of their dwindling time together. “Feels like me. So, thanks.”

Mickey glances down, and Ian wants to climb inside his head and lay in the steady stream of his every thought.

Finally, “Guess Tami can’t be too mad, then.”

Ian winces. “Right. Tami.”

“Just figured—“

“I’ll call. Let her know.”

“Alright.”

The silence is deafening.

“Well. Thanks again, Mickey.”

A flash of terror, but all he says is, “Sure thing, Red.”

Ian tries to not feel too disappointed as he plucks Mickey’s business card from the counter, and with a small wave, leaves the shop.