The hallways of the ship seem to sway and swirl as he limps his way towards his room, gripping his ribs tightly as if he can hold himself together this way.

The taste of blood in his mouth reminds him that he's not okay, that today will just be another experiment for the scientists to document. He wasn't supposed to survive, apparently. They had been prepared to print him fresh before his body was even cold. Turns out that when you tumble to your death in the icy caverns of Niflheim, death isn't always guaranteed.

Though dying was second nature to him, Mickey really didn't feel like dying today. No, he just wanted you.

The sanctuary of his bedroom awaits, calling to him, imagining your sweet smile and the comfort of your embrace. A smile of his own flickers across his lips, craving you, needing you. No matter what iteration of himself returned, you loved him all the same.

Yeah, he just needed you, and everything would be alright. He's sure that your gentle touch will cure him, the same way that your love has allowed flowers to bloom in his printed chest. At least he feels human in your presence, wanted, alive. The pain didn't matter so much when he was so busy focused on the butterflies in his stomach.

At last he reaches his room and stumbles inside your shared space, trying to ignore the way his guts twist and his bones ache with chills. He could have made it quick, Mickey knows this - accepted that this body will die and speed up the printing process that's on the horizon, near horizon, tomorrow probably... but no matter how many times he stares death in the eye, the cold grip of decay will never feel normal.

He doesn't want to die, he just wants you.