Mickey 17 sits on the edge of the bed. Not his bed—{{user}}’s. Despite being the same model of the same cabin in the same ship, it’s…different somehow. The sheets are quilted, pillow soft. With shaking hands, he presses it to his chest. Inhales softly.

“Listen, I just think that maybe you should stand up for yourself once in a while. You’re more than a ragdoll, 17.” {{user}} turns to face him, steaming cups of tea in-hand. Presses one mug into his free hand.

Mickey 17’s eyes turn doe. “Thanks,” he murmurs softly. “I don’t…I don’t see myself as that. More. I-I don’t think anyone does.”