Work Text:
Mickey had been awake for a few minutes now, but it was only now that he opened his eyes.
There was a brief flicker in his mind that he was a new iteration: here was Mickey 19 fresh out of the printer. He always had dreams. But that night he’d had a dreamless sleep—something that only ever occurred when he was reprinted.
Then he realized the ceiling was covered in those glow-in-the-dark star stickers, back to its color of cream as the sun poured its warmth through the window. The walls of the room were made of the same metal as the ship they arrived in, but now painted a quaint sky blue, with paintings and photos stuck to the walls. This wasn’t the ship—there wasn’t that low rumble it emitted, or the noisy footsteps of late shift guards making early morning rounds.
There was the light. There was quiet. They were deep in spring. He rolled over, and saw he was next to a sleeping Nasha. Eyes closed tight, soft breaths, clinging to a bolster pillow he remembered her gushing about early into their relationship.
They were in their bedroom.
In their home.
The printer had long been a thing of the past. Nasha—while not running the whole show (yet!)—had been at the helm of construction projects. With the help of the Creepers, they’d already built a residential space that didn’t intrude on their territory. And now she was focused on other infrastructure within the area they’d been given: research facilities, recreational facilities, the works. In short: she was working, and working, and working.
She would often arrive home later than Mickey, and sometimes he’d wake up without her by his side, only left with the warm indent of where she would have been laying mere minutes before. She wasn’t gone all the time—he still was able to be with her for most mornings, even if briefly. But her presence was undoubtedly missed once those work days began.
As much as he missed having her around all the time, he didn’t whine about it; she was a pillar of the community now, and it would have been selfish to try and pull her back just because he wanted kisses. Though there was still that awful thought in his mind that she had a tendency to overwork herself. So to see her at rest still—rather than already getting ready just as he woke up—brought a sense of relief within him.
He reached over, stroked her cheek. The early morning’s sunlight flitted against her skin, and it was like she glowed. He hadn’t known who was out there, handling the universe. But he wished to thank them for sending him someone he swore was an angel. He always told others she was perfect, inside and out—it was clichéd, but he didn’t care. What else could he say about her other than the truth? Her skin was soft to the touch under the rough skin of his palm. Even in her sleep, she smiled. Part of him prayed she was dreaming of him.
“Good morning,” he murmured, the widest of smiles spreading across his lips as she shifted in her sleep, and it was like she nuzzled against his touch.
While she’d been busy trying to keep Niflheim running, Mickey had become some odd sort of ambassador between the humans and the creepers. Even with how he fumbled over his words, he was the best of their communicators. But his presence wasn’t required daily, so he became a househusband of sorts. He wore that label with pride.
He kept their home running while she kept the planet chugging along. The residential spaces built maintained the same layouts, but could be changed within reason. So he’d been in charge of customizing their home and he took everything she said into account, making their home a mix of everything they’d ever want, need.
They hated the drab colors and sharp edges of the ship, so he’d made sure the home was decked in soft hues and furniture with rounded corners, light, inviting. She hated how claustrophobic having no windows felt, so he was sure the home had windows tall enough to let the light in. He knew that while they adored each other, they both liked their space to work, so he asked for one room to be cut in half: one space for his own hobby space, the other to serve as her office. She just about started crying seeing the plans when they were figuring out the home and its layouts.
And with imports from Earth and other nearby colonies being more readily available, they made sure their old lives had a presence in their home.
He kept a multitude of scented candles around the home, the same ones his grandparents had around when they’d taken up the reins to take care of him. The candles smelled like the sea, like roses, like petrichor. Those were all scents he missed.
She made sure each wall had paintings of the flora and fauna they couldn't maintain on Niflheim. Her childhood home always had fresh flowers in a vase, all sorts of art all over the walls. She wanted to ask if R&D could develop a method to grow proper gardens.
It had only been a a few weeks since they were able to move in. They were the last of the ship’s residents to be able to move into a home, upon Nasha’s insistence that everyone else was a priority. He’d be a liar to say that, even amidst this cushier life, there weren’t hits of paranoia of the past. He always had dreams, though the truth was some were nightmares of the past coming back to haunt him. They were unavoidable a year ago. Were a rarity now. But each instance of it always had him waking up with a jump.
Maybe he’d see another one of him running around, wreaking havoc. Maybe some Marshall-esque figure would take over and bring everything crumbling down. Or worse—the most possible to happen—he’d see everyone he knew turn against him.
He hated what his mind could conjure.
But one thing was for sure: what had happened before was done. They had moved into a home and were easing into the comfort that other residents of Niflheim had found. This was a space neither of them envisioned waiting for them all those years ago.
Though sometimes he wondered if maybe it wasn’t the space that made his existence seem like he’d floated up to heaven. Maybe it was the mere fact that everyday, he’d know Nasha was with him, even if she wasn’t in bed. With the sound of the sink in the bathroom; with the noise of her rummaging around in their refrigerator in the kitchen; or even her walking out the door in her loafers. Each noise was her, each noise was perfection, each noise he savored.
Mickey pulled his hand back and sat up with a groan. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. He was still in one of those grey pajamas they had to use during their voyage, just because he thought spending more on a new pair was a waste. Meanwhile, there Nasha was in some simple but more bearable-looking navy blue pair.
Rubbing at his eyes as he slid off the bed, he realized he may as well go through the motions of his morning. And he did: went to the bathroom, did small stretches in their living room (a space taken up by beanbags, his choice), and went on to the kitchen to make himself his favorite treat: black coffee.
It wasn’t the average person’s idea of a treat, but no one from the colony was living an average life. Only having caffeine patches on the ship had just about driven him to near insanity. This time, he reminded himself to make two cups.
He was quiet, listening to the soft whirr of the coffee machine brewing away, the scent in the air like caramel. Rationing had been a lesser issue on the colony, as many of the fast-growing crops had been feeding them well. They were no longer eating things that Nasha and him would always call slop. But that never stopped this morning routine he’d just started from being so special. As he watched the deep liquid drip into the pot, he thought of what he could cook for breakfast. They still ate a lot of gruel-esque meals, but now he was considering all the side dishes he could make with what they had in the fridge. Maybe some radish, bok choy, zucchini…
“You’re up early.”
Mickey jumped as he turned around, huffing as he murmured, “You scared me” to a grinning Nasha with still-tired eyes that managed to glimmer. There she stood, in one of his robes judging from how loosely it hung from her. He was still jumpy, but he didn't want to be too grumpy. Even then, his expression hadn't shifted beyond that pout—he found it difficult to smile when he'd barely been awake.
But then she pulled him into a hug while she uttered a sing-song, “Good morning, Mickey”. Relief flooded his being as he sank into her grasp. He hugged her back, held her close, tight to the point she was giggling. When she pulled away, she pressed a quick peck to his lips, stayed close as he held her by the waist.
“Could you make me some coffee?” Nasha asked, tilting her head to take a glance at the still-filling pot.
“I already made enough for the two of us,” he said as he began to rock the two of them, side to side as if a soft tune began to play. She raised an eyebrow expectantly, and he sighed before he said: “I made your two cups, and one of mine. You drink too much coffee, you know.”
“I know, I know,” Nasha replied, pouting. He swore his heart skipped a beat at the sight. “How about we half the pot instead, hm? Is that a better compromise?”
“Yeah, that’s better,” Mickey said, relieved that she’d at least been receptive to his concerns. On crankier mornings, he couldn’t pry the pot of coffee away from her. “D’you need to go out early? So I know what to make for breakfast…”
Nasha shook her head. “They told me I’ve been working too hard. Don't need to show up until the afternoon,” she said, followed by a glance that said, You were right all along, and Mickey hummed as he recalled every instance where he practically begged her to kick back and relax.
For a while, it was the tranquility of the morning. From the outside, their neighbors had begun to stir, some already off to do construction, guard-duty, farming. The noise of people scurrying on had become their background music as they rocked in silence.
There was a brief pang of doubt in Mickey’s mind. There Nasha beamed up at him. Caressed his arms, said a quick “I love you” which he said back. There they stood in their clean kitchen. But he wondered if he deserved to live in such a beautiful home, or if he deserved to be with such a loving woman. The Expendable label had been a thing of the past. But who knew what would happen to him? There was still the possibility of this life crumbling before his very eyes. He could be thrown aside like any of his past iterations. The ‘why’s never mattered; the ‘what if’s were what got him.
He took a deep breath.
But he pushed that aside. He knew his doubts didn’t matter.
Maybe the ghosts of the past would continue to haunt him. Maybe the old Mickeys would stay in his mind, whisper of their existences. Maybe this pure joy wouldn’t last as long as he wanted it to. But what mattered was now. Today, a pot of coffee had finished brewing. Nasha was in his arms.
He pressed a kiss onto her forehead before moving aside. He opened a cabinet, and metal clinked against ceramic as he rummaged for their mugs.
Two mugs, same as it ever was.
Same as it would ever be.