Work Text:
She was everywhere Agent looked.
The decorations she'd picked out, the dancing shoes sitting in the closet, the crocheting supplies collecting dust from the armchair where they'd been left.
Agent couldn't walk into the apartment without being slapped in the face with memories and grief. He understood why Vic had given it up now. Mitsi was gone, but her presence was steeped in every inch of this place.
Agent shoved a dish into the microwave and pressed start. He really needed to make something else besides leftovers soon or he'd contract some sort of disease, but the last time he'd tried to do that–
Well, let's just say there was now a scorched mark on one side of the stove and he hadn't been able to get the smell of smoke out of his nose for days afterward.
(smoke burning his lungs as he ran, heart pounding, screaming filling his ears, fire everywhere, fire fire fire fire fire–)
He leaned back on the counter and sighed deeply.
Even Rocket wasn't safe. Of course it wouldn't be, it was hers, but somehow it kept startling him when he turned a corner and saw someone wearing a scarf that she made or colorful pen that'd been left behind.
Vic had begun renovations, claiming it was to expand their productions and streamline workflow, but Agent knew deep down that part of it was because he couldn't bare to see the Rocket they'd built together continue without her.
He ached to see it. That was Mitsi's legacy, she worked so hard to bring light to other people's lives and to make sure that their work mattered. To cover it all up–
The microwave dinged and Agent jumped. He pulled out his dinner and ate it standing up. The breakfast nook where Mitsi and Vic had eaten most of their meals was sad and empty now. At least the kitchen was brighter and warmer and smelled like food.
He shivered.
The winter months were truly setting in. Agent set the dish down and wandered into the living room to grab a warming layer. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and wrapped a colorful blanket around his shoulders.
Mitsi had made this, in the early days when Rocket was still operating out of a shed and he'd been nothing more then a glorified security guard. In title at least, rather then reality, since they'd latched onto him almost immediately and welcomed him into their lives with open arms.
Mitsi had taken up crocheting, and had given him two gifts in that period. One was a lumpy and misshapen hat that looked vaguely like a deerstalker. He still had that somewhere, it had made Vic laugh. The other was this blanket, a classic rectangle striped in black, pink, and blue.
He buried his face into it, his throat tight. He understood Vic's decision, he really did, but cursors he really missed seeing Mitsi's touch everywhere he went.
Mitsi had gotten better at crocheting as time went on, eventually picking knitting as well. She freely gave away her work as gifts to everyone at Rocket. You could always tell who at Rocket had had a run-in with Mitsi, because they'd be wearing a pair of gloves or a new hat, or carrying a crocheted bag. She'd even made a few plushies. Agent absently wondered what happened to those.
(he briefly thought of the sheep, with her own little room in Rocket. he wondered if she ever wondered where her owner had gone.)
But all those pops of color and softness were gone now. Barely anyone from the old days of Rocket had stuck around. It was for the best– the Rocket that Vic was building was different from the old one and it was their decision in the end, but cursors he missed it.
His food was going cold. He quickly finished it and dumped the dish into the sink. He'd wash it later. Probably.
He missed her. Everything about her.
The way her voice lilted through the halls in the morning, greeting every employee.
The way she fidgeted while standing, always swinging her arms or rocking back-and-forth as though she was listening to some far-away music.
The way her face looked when she pushed back against people who insulted those she cared about.
He even missed her handwriting, full of loops and little red hearts. There were no more notes scattered around the facility, wishing everyone a good day.
Just yesterday he'd found a little scrap of paper in an old folder. It was crumbled and folded, and stuck haphazardly on a file with a paper clip. The ink was red, a bit smudged in places, but he could still read it.
Have a good day, Agent!
– Mitsi
A little heart was scrawled beside the words.
Something so small, so simple, and yet it'd brought him to his knees. He'd clutched that little paper to his chest, careful not to crumble it further, and then tried to go about his day like he wasn't constantly thinking about it sitting in his pocket.
It was in the bedroom now, neatly laid in the nightstand drawer.
Agent curled up on the couch, the blanket draped around his shoulders. It hurt. Everything hurt. He wanted the hurt to stop, but the hurt was evidence that he'd loved her, right? And that she'd loved him?
He stifled a sudden sob.
She'd loved him.
He buried his head into his arms, feeling his throat burn. His breath hitched as tears began falling. He tried to wipe them away, but they dripped onto the blanket anyway.
He wasn't supposed to– Mitsi wasn't his to mourn.
He'd always been on the sidelines, in the shadows. It was his job to protect them and he'd failed. He didn't deserve to shed tears over her death when it had been his responsibility to keep her safe.
Agent rocked back-and-forth, trying to stifle his sobs with the blanket. He'd never deserved her kindness, and he didn't deserve to mourn her now.
He should have done better. He would do better.
He leaned back, taking a shaky breath and feeling the tears chill against his cheeks. There was work tomorrow. Vic would need him. Vic trusted him after everything.
(Vic had trusted him with her–)
Agent curled up on his side, hiding from the moonlight slipping through the curtains.
He'd never be able to atone, not truly. But maybe, maybe, he'd be allowed to try again.
Maybe this time he wouldn't fail.