Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After 4 and a half years of travel, the ship has finally landed on a (hopefully) habitable planet.

Of course, no one really knows how human-friendly it is, but the research sector has assured everyone that even if it isn't , they'll find a way to change that. Everyone knows that the only way they can do that is with Mickey.

Mickey Barnes. The sole 'Expendable' on the voyage. The man that makes this whole expedition possible . And the most disrespected and ignored person on the ship.

For 4 and a half years, you've been infatuated with the soft-spoken man. Sure, you've barely held a handful of conversations with him, but you want him nonetheless.

You have a pretty low-key job on the ship. You started in the janitorial crew, but as time has gone by you somehow ended up as a security agent. Apparently, people have been dying for unexplainable reasons a few years into the journey so they needed someone to fill the role.

You aren't necessarily qualified to be an agent, nor should you be handling a gun, but the 'promotion' came with more rations and a better dwelling room, so how could you refuse?

You don't have much of a job since you can't fight for shit, so you spend most of your time outside the laboratory "guarding it" -- though the things inside the lab seem to be more dangerous than the people outside of it.

The first time you caught a sight of Mickey was during orientation. He was introduced and celebrated as the 'Expendable' for the trip, shaking hands with Kenneth Marshall on the stage with a slightly confused look on his face. He was dressed nicely but his posture was timid, making him look smaller than he is.

Marshall, the narcissist he is, barely looked at the man, choosing to face the cameras instead, shifting every so often to get the best angles of himself. Mickey didn't seem to mind, if anything, it looked like he wanted to get down from the stage as soon as possible.

As cameras flashed and hands clapped, he cracked a small crooked smile at the crowd, just happy to please those around him -- even if he had no idea what he was getting himself into.

Already, you thought Mickey was cute. And afterwards, you couldn't get him off your mind.

---

Life on a ship gets old. Fast .

And starting out as a janitor, a position at lowest rung on the ladder, didn't help either. Everyone saw you as the trash you threw away.

Everyone except him .

You were placed in the residential floors, picking up trash from dwellings and transporting them to the incinerator. You'd think with advanced technology like human-printing , they'd at least have a trash chute for each occupant, but no, they want you to get your hands dirty.

Mickey was placed on the bottom floor so he would be one of the first people you'd see during your shift (if he was alive at that time, of course). He'd always have his wastebasket sitting near the door, so it would be easy for you to pick up.

Each bag would be neatly tied together in a cute bow, never overfilled so they don't spontaneously combust like some other bags you've dealt with before. Even when you could do the job yourself, if he was in, he'd always help, placing each bag in your cart with a gentle touch.

He'd greet you with a smile but his eyes would always be shifting around, unable to make eye contact for longer than a few seconds. Sometimes there'd be a cut, bruise, or abrasion on him, but his smile was always the same.

He'd adorably attempt to start a conversation, asking how your day is -- even though it had just started -- and rambling about his own before apologizing for taking up your time as you have a job to do. You'd always lag behind, wanting to continue the interaction, but you never could.

The company tablet would start to beep once you've spent more than 3 minutes at a door, scolding you for being behind, and you'd have to move on.

Your free-hours were during his work-hours and lunch was a chaotic period of goopy-food and crowded tables. You'd look over to see Mickey sitting with his friends, while you sat across the room, shifting your goop from one side of the plate to the other. You never had the guts to approach him...and he never looked back at you.

---

You somehow started to interact with him less as a security agent than you did as a garbage trolley. Well, scratch that, technically you did see him more often, but your interactions were cut short to passing greetings when he'd go in and out of the lab.

There was no time to say anything, he was constantly being transported from one place to another.

The worst part of your job was hearing the horrible sounds from the lab. Not just the screaming, groaning, and whimpering, but the small voice struggling to describe what he was feeling in the moment -- human suffering reduced to data . The things they'd do to him for "the greater good of humanity" is insane.

All you wanted to do was rush in there and protect him, take him away from the pain and remind him of the good things in life. You'd probably both be shot dead immediately if you tried that though.

Well, you'd die and he'd be recycled again.

So you kept your mouth shut and endured it with him, waiting to build up enough courage to finally seek him out, not as a soldier but as a girl.

---

Your mouth gapes as you look up at the projected screen, your name flashing right next to Kenneth Marshall's stupid veneered face.

"Congratulations to our lucky winner!"

Everyone in the crowd claps and hoots enthusiastically as your future is announced to the world.

"Your fabulous genetics mixed with our loyal 'Expendable' will make for a Marshall-approved child. A child of God."

"C-child?" You whisper to yourself, "With Mickey?"

When you heard about this Baby Making Protocol (the actual name Marshall came up with) you thought people were sending in applicants to be part of the Fertility Squad (also coined by Marshall) to populate the planet. You had no idea he was just picking names from a hat!

You're barely able to process what just happened before you're pulled out of your thoughts. Your tablet makes a noise on your bed, alerting you of new unread messages.

You have been summoned to meet Mr. and Mrs. Marshall in their quarters for dinner. You have 5 minutes. Please be punctual.

5 minutes?! Their living quarters are across the ship!

You quickly collect yourself before rushing out the door, hoping to god this was a joke.

---

It's not a joke.

You sit stiffly in a dining chair next to a very confused Mickey and across from the two terrors that run the spaceship. Food sits untouched in front of you as you listen to the complete idiocy that flows from their lips.

"You see, there comes a time when a man and woman must... fraternize for their people." Ylfa, in all her blonde glory, strokes his arm and nods as he speaks, occasionally cutting in with other fluffy and borderline disgusting verbiage to sell the mission to you.

"I don't understand..." You finally speak up, "Why were we chosen out of all the eligible candidates on the ship?"

"Well..." The couple looks at each other before turning back at us, "We first want to see what would happen if a child were to be born on a planet like this one. Just to make sure it's safe. You know how it is." The last part is directed at Mickey, who shifts in his seat uncomfortably.

Another experiment. Of course.

"Why? Is there an issue?" He asks, eyes friendly yet stern, "Mickey?"

The timid man has been silent all dinner, barely lifting his gaze from the fake meat on his plate. His body tenses when he hears his name and he lifts his head to look at everyone nervously.

His voice is soft as he responds to the failed senator, "U-um...well we barely know each other--"

"And that's why from now on, you'll live together!" Ylfa interrupts, "I convinced Kenneth that the baby needs parents, not just a couple of co-workers!"

"This seems like a big change -- how will we be able to keep up with our duties if we have a child?"

"Oh, that's easy, we'll just make another Mickey." Kenneth chuckles, "If you want, we could make two more so you can have a babysitter."

Another Mickey?

"B-but that would imply having multiples on board..." You murmur.

"And?" He looks at you critically, "I made the imperative decision to allow for multiples in a dire situation such as this one. We can't have this protocol slowing down our research sector now, can we?"

Does he not hear how insane he's sounding?

You resign from the conversation, "I suppose not."

"Good, then you understand." He seems satisfied by the answer, "Then you and Mickey...18 was it?"

"S-seventeen, sir."

"Right, 17 will start right away in your new room. Your iPad thing will have all the information."

You look over at Mickey who looks as confused and terrified as you feel.

An impatient voice severs the brief interaction between the two of you, "You are dismissed." 

Chapter Text

Mickey didn’t make it to the new room with you. 

Halfway through your journey, he collapsed in the hallway and puked up the small pieces of artificial meat he had at dinner along with the usual slop he had earlier in the day.

At first, he tried to downplay it:

“O-oh…” Mickey looks down at the mess he made, face flushed, “Um, my bad. I must’ve gotten too worked up after eating or something.” His eyes are bleary, his hands are shaking, and his jaw is tense like he’s fighting back pain. You can already tell that this is more than just food poisoning. 

“...Mickey, what did they feed you?” 

You attempt to approach him, but he quickly stops you.

 “No, I’m okay,” He struggles to prop himself up, “y-you don’t have to come any closer.” 

“Let me help.”

“I-it’s–” 

He starts convulsing.

And as any sane person would – You start freaking the fuck out. 

In the end, someone from the lab was alerted about his reaction and came to collect him. Apparently, it was a test to see how safe a new type of imitation meat was. 

And you watched defeatedly as he was dragged away like a piece of livestock.

—

The room they assigned to you both is only slightly larger than the single room you had before. Instead of a double bed, a queen-sized mattress is awkwardly wedged into the corner, resting on a metal frame that also serves as storage – you suspect they included it because there's still barely enough room for one person's belongings.

The room sticks to the same monotonous blue-grey palette that you’re used to – accented by metal piping carelessly painted over, jutting from the walls in a way that seems almost hazardous. It really leans into that “landlord special” aesthetic that nobody asked for. 

The usual exposed wiring that hangs over every dwelling is visible here too, snaking across the ceiling from all sides. Now that you think about it, you’ve never figured out exactly what the wires are connected to…for all you know, they could just be there for decoration. It’s truly remarkable how far Marshall goes to offer his crew nothing more than the bare minimum.

On the multi-purpose table sat a sheet of instructions, a vase of plastic flowers, and a fake candle boldly emblazoned with the words, “Happy Baby-Making!” – If this was their idea of setting a romantic mood, you have serious doubts about the success of this mission. 

You scoff at the vibrant petals of the fake roses, running a finger over the fraying polyester threads that stick out from them. These are going straight into the incinerator after tonight . 

You turn your attention to the sheet of paper, curious why they bothered to print out the instructions when a digital memo had already been sent.  

The instructions were fairly straightforward: 

• Get to know your partner: Ask simple questions like “What’s your favorite color?” or “How old are you?” to build a connection. 

• Practice proper baby-making etiquette: No protection allowed—make sure to fulfill your duty at least once a day. 

• Stick to your assigned partner: This isn’t a free-for-all; we’re building a sacred community, not a random collection of individuals. 

• Attend all scheduled appointments: No skipping! 

• Most importantly, have fun!

At the bottom of the instructions are some suggested sex positions – some of which you’ve never seen before and, frankly, don’t believe are anatomically possible. You can’t help but laugh at the exaggerated stick-figure genitalia that distinguishes the man and the woman as they fuck ‘for the sake of humanity.’ 

There's one called “Straddle the Laptop” (essentially just cowgirl — but since it takes place on a desk, they’ve thrown in some tech-inspired terminology for flair), that sparks your interest. Not only does it require the man to be at the bottom, helpless to the ministrations of the person on top, but also forces the couple to look into each other's eyes. 

You could just imagine the way Mickey would fall apart for you, staring at you in awe with those pretty blue eyes as he whines for more. How his hands would clumsily grope against the contours of your body as he braces against pleasures he’s never known before. 

You clutch the page of instructions enough to crumple the edge as the scene plays in your mind. 

You mustn’t get ahead of yourself. 

It’ll probably be a while before you get to that point in your relationship with Mickey anyway.

You set the piece of paper down and look around at the empty room. So this is your life now. 

—

He didn’t come back until the following night. 

You assumed the delay was due to the printing process, which takes about a day, so you braced yourself to meet Mickey 18. After all, each new Mickey is an exact copy of the last—yet subtle differences always emerge. 

For all you know, the next Mickey could be a freak… but you’re sure that no matter how he turns out, you’ll probably fall for him too. 

It’s still Mickey , after all.

But as it turned out, you didn’t have to worry about that. The Mickey returning to you was still 17.

After he was taken away, he was given an experimental medication that successfully counteracted the effects of the lab-made meat. Of course, after barely ten minutes to recover, he was immediately sent to the back storage room of the ship to fix a collapsing corridor—because why not?

Which is why, despite coming back as the same Mickey 17, he still bore bruises, scratch marks, and a slight limp.

Trust the science sector to throw Mickey into a mission the second he recovered from food poisoning!

You expected to return to an empty room – one cluttered with unpacked boxes, your few belongings, and an unmade bed. But instead, Mickey was sitting on the bed, printed-out instructions in one hand and the flimsy bundle of gaudy roses in the other.

There’s a palm-sized bruise on his neck – probably from the indelicate syringe that the scientists like to poke him with – and a few scratches on his forehead and arms. 

He looks up from the paper as you enter, wearing the same confused expression he had at dinner the night before.

“So the fake meat didn’t make me hallucinate this…” He mumbles in disbelief, eyes bouncing between the paper, the roses, and you. 

“Mickey, you’re…” Still alive? Still 17? Still – “...here.” 

“Yeah – I-I’m sorry you had to see that yesterday.” He’s suddenly sheepish as he recalls the last time he saw you. “The experiments are usually more isolated, but I guess they just wanted my authentic reaction to the food or something.” 

You walk over and sit next to him on the bed. He subtly scoots over to give you more space, eyes widening at the sudden loss of distance between you. You wish he wouldn’t, but you don’t say anything.

“No, don’t apologize. I’m just… happy to see you.” You offer him a small smile. “The same you.”

“You noticed?” He looks surprised, like no one has ever really paid attention to him before. 

“I always notice you, Mickey.” Your voice is soft, yet the words carry so much weight.

Again, those pretty blue eyes widen, silently asking about every layer of meaning in your admission—so close to you. Then, he breaks eye contact, preferring to look at the floor as he turns your words in his mind. You notice subtle blotches of pink coloring the base of his neck and the tops of his cheeks.

Oh no. Maybe he’s uncomfortable…

“I-I mean…I saw that you still have that one healed cut from the other day…” Amid your rambling, you miss the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. “...not that I’m watching you or anything, I just guard the lab most of the time and see you–”

“Thanks.” He interrupts you with a soft voice – quiet enough that you would have missed it if you weren’t so intent on noticing his every move.

“...Thanks?”

“For looking out for me. You’re the only one who treats me like a human being and not some…lab rat.” He looks down at the paper in his hand, “I’m actually…kinda glad we were paired together for this protocol.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words.

He’s glad? To be with you?

“Really?”  

“Yeah. We’ve known each other for a while…and you’re a lot nicer than anyone else on this ship…” His eyes flick up to meet yours, “I’m sorry you got roped into this though…”

“It’s okay, it was bound to happen at some point.” You shrug, still riding the high that he likes you enough to endure this twisted experiment by your side, “It’s what we all expected when going on this voyage.” 

He rubs against the blotchy bruise on his neck thoughtfully, “But we’re the first ones to…you know…”

“Procreate?” 

He blushes when you say it. “Yeah.”

“If it makes you feel any better, we can start slow.” 

“But don’t we have a schedule to keep up with?”

"Okay then, we can start slower ." You take the paper from his hand and glance over the list. "The daily check-ins don’t start for a few days, so… how about a date?"

“A date?”

“Unless you want to jump right into it.” You tease.

“N-no,” he stammers, “I didn’t mean–”

You rest a hand on his thigh, and he instantly falls silent, eyes fixed on where you're touching him. “Tomorrow let’s do something, just the two of us.”

“O-okay.” He immediately agrees.