Laundry Day
Sandrine Shaw

Tuesday

Ray frowns at Constantine. "So, when you say 'end of the world', you mean that in a metaphorical kind of way, right? Like, there's a bad situation and we have to pull together as a team so we can stop —"

"No, lad, what I mean is, the world's literally gonna end in five days. The whole apocalyptic shebang. No metaphors about. We're talking actual brimstone and hellfires and demons rising up to consume mankind." He sounds impatient and mildly disgruntled, which to Ray doesn't seem to be an entirely appropriate reaction to the situation. Then again, Constantine doesn't strike him as the type who'd run around screaming and waving his arms in a panicked frenzy.

"But we can prevent it from happening, right?" Sara has that look on her face that implies there is only one answer to her question she's going to accept and no-one should dare voice the wrong one if they value having their limbs remain attached to their body and their bones unbroken.

Maybe that's why Constantine looks vaguely uncomfortable when he says, "I mean, I guess you could always try? No harm in that, aye?"

Ray doesn't like how the confirmation of their real and existing chances to save the world appears to come with a question mark at the end.

Zari seems to have picked up on that, too. "That sounds reassuring," she mutters, in between shoving Doritos into her mouth.

Nate looks worried, and Wally voices what they're all thinking: "So, we're all fucked, right?"

Constantine makes an affirmative sound, wincing at the glare Sara directs at him.

Everyone is rooted to the spot, which is the reason why the sudden shuffle of footsteps disrupting the quiet, steady whirr of machinery makes every head snap around to where Mick is on his way to leave the bridge.

"And where do you think you're going, Mick?"

He turns back with a blank stare, like it's a stupid question. "Trenchcoat here's sayin' we only got five days left. Gotta finish my novel."

Sara pinches the bridge of her nose. "Mick. No one will be reading your novel if we can't stop the apocalypse. Everyone will be dead."

Mick shrugs. "So what? Not like I was gonna have it published anyway."

They can't argue with that kind of logic, so no one stops Mick when he shuffles off, the doors making a smooth hissing sound as they slide open and shut behind him again.

"Well, I'm glad we're all taking the impending doom so well." Ray tries to infuse a cheerfulness into his tone that he doesn't really feel. He doesn't think he succeeds very well, judging from the pitiful looks it earns him.

Sara sighs a long-suffering sigh. "Ray, the world's not going to end. No apocalypse is going to happen on my watch," she says firmly. Her confidence would be soothing, except Ray can't help but feel that she sounds a little like she's daring the apocalypse to defy her. If he were superstitious, he'd say that's an epically bad idea. He may be too much of a scientist to be superstitious, but something in Sara's tone still makes his spine tingle uncomfortably and the hair at the back of his neck stand up.

Ray hammers his fists against Mick's door four times before it slides open to reveal Mick's hulking form blocking the doorway, annoyance written all over the furrowed forehead and in the tense line of his jaw. He's wearing a pair of glasses that give him a stern, distinguished look that shouldn't go as well as it does with the burly thug appearance Mick likes to cultivate.

Ray spends a few seconds too long appreciating it until Mick clearly gets impatient waiting for him to speak.

"What?" he snaps, which Ray chooses to interpret as 'why are you bothering me?' rather than 'why are you staring at me?'. He doesn't think the latter is a conversation either of them wants to be having.

"Um. Hey Mick. How's the book coming along?"

It's hard to interpret Mick's noncommittal grunt. It could mean 'really well, thanks for asking' or 'I'm suffering from the worst kind of writer's block and am considering smashing my typewriter against the wall'. Mick certainly doesn't look happy, but if Ray thinks about it, he can't remember ever having seen Mick look happy about anything that didn't involve fire, alcohol, sweets or violence, or any combination thereof.

"I was just about to go and do laundry, and I was wondering if you wanted to come along?" He offers a hopeful smile.

The irritation on Mick's face turns into confusion. "Why would I wanna do laundry now?"

"It's Tuesday. We always do laundry on Tuesdays."

Truth is, Ray never really cared for doing household chores. They were necessary if you didn't want to live in a sloppy mess, especially when you were sharing close quarters with a handful of other people, the way the Legends were practically living in each other's pockets on the Waverider. But Ray never particularly enjoyed it. He does like laundry day, though; getting to spend some quiet downtime with Mick that's unlikely to result in anachronisms and explosions and running for their lives. Most of the time, anyway.

There's something about the companionable silences, occasionally littered with inane small talk (Ray's) and half-hearted insults (Mick's), that Ray has grown fond of over the past few months, to the point of timing his laundry schedule to overlap with Mick's. It's become a tradition that he's come to treasure, and Mick has never altered his schedule before, so Ray doesn't understand why he's not ready with a basket of dirty clothes now.

Mick keeps staring at him until Ray feels awkwardness creep up to his face in a hot flush.

Before he can ask what's wrong, Mick sighs. "Haircut, the world's ending in five days. 'm not gonna waste my time waiting for my undies to dry."

Oh. Right. Put like that, Mick might have a point. Ray hadn't really considered the practicalities of it, the actual 'doing laundry' part of laundry day.

He's still deciding whether to excuse himself and leave Mick to his writing or propose any other kind of joint activity that Mick might consider less of a waste of time, when Gideon's clear, soothing voice fills the room. "Mr. Rory, Dr. Palmer, Captain Lance asks you both to join her and the others on the bridge."

Mick frowns. "That about the damn chore wheel, too?"

"I believe that Captain Lance and Mr. Constantine have a plan on how to stop the impending apocalypse and would like to assemble the team," Gideon smoothly explains. "I'm leaving it to the Captain to fill you in on the details."

"Fine," Mick grumbles. He steps out of his room and almost into Ray, who's still in the same spot he was when he knocked. Mick gives him a little shove that's probably supposed to pass for gentle. "Tell Blondie we're on our way."

The mission to stop the apocalypse isn't entirely disastrous. That's to say, no one gets killed, no one gets stranded in time, no one accidentally causes a major aberration or anachronism or breaks apart the fabric of time itself.

Ray firmly believes in focusing on the positive.

Of course, there's also the not entirely insignificant issue that they fail to actually seal the doorway to the demonic dimension, so the apocalypse is still on.

You win some, you lose some.

Ray watches Zari pull some demon goo out of Nate's hair, the dejected look on Wally's face, Sara brushing past them towards the captain's office with Constantine at her heels, Mick popping a beer bottle open. Ray feels a strange tug on his heart, fond and sad and comforting at the same time. If the world's really ending and these are his last few days, he thinks he doesn't mind spending them with these people.

There are much worse ways to go.

Wednesday

Ray tracks Mick down in the cargo bay, sitting propped up against a crate among an assortment of empty bottles and burger wrappers. He eyes Ray's approach suspiciously.

"Still not gonna do laundry, Haircut."

"I wasn't going to ask," Ray lies.

He tentatively sits down next to Mick, half-worried that he's infringing on the other man's alone time or will at least get told off for moving the sparse remains of the six-pack aside.

Instead, Mick shoves a burger under his nose. It looks delicious and smells wonderful, and Ray's stomach rumbles. More than that, he appreciates the gesture. Mick is notoriously territorial about his food. Ray can't count the number of times Mick pulled the heat gun on him for stealing something off his plate. He's reasonably sure Mick wouldn't shoot him over a couple of fries, but it's hard to muster up that same certainty when facing down the orange glow at the muzzle of the gun.

So for Mick to share his burgers with him is... nice. It's almost too nice to turn down, never mind the stomach cramps he's going to get, but he doesn't particularly want to spend his last remaining days on the sick bay.

"Thanks." He tries to put all his gratefulness into his smile to take the sting out of the rejection. "I can't actually eat it because, you know, allergies. But I really appreciate that you —"

Mick interrupts him. "'s fine. You can eat it. Gideon made it without the — whatever it's called. The stuff that makes you sick."

"Oh, that's... That's really thoughtful of you. Thank you."

Warm, grease-stained fingers brush against his as he takes the burger from Mick. It tastes as good as it smells, making Ray wonder if Gideon has switched off her healthy food protocol in the light of the approaching apocalypse. He supposes it would make sense. The risk of dying from a cardiovascular disease is infinitely smaller if the world's barely going to last the week.

Now would probably be the perfect time to take up some high-risk hobby like skydiving or heli-skiing, but those kind of lose their appeal when you operate a size-altering flying exosuit that fires energy blasts and spend your days on a time ship from the future.

"What're ya thinkin' about?"

Mick's question throws Ray out of the morbid line of thoughts.

He forces himself to stop fiddling with the paper wrapper of his burger and turns towards Mick with a smile that's just a little too tight. "Taking up a hobby. No time like the present, right? I mean, there's literally no time left because we're —"

"I get it," Mick cuts him off gruffly. He frowns, like he's trying to picture Ray doing some recreational activity and can't quite warm up to the idea. "You bored or somethin'?"

"No, of course I'm not — Well, maybe a little? It's just... usually I'd be in my lab now, trying to fix this. Engineering some kind of protection or a weapon we can use against whatever we're facing or working a formula. You know, something. But this..."

He has trouble putting it into words, but luckily, Mick seems to get it, seems to get him.

"'s not science."

"Exactly! The whole occult thing... it's fascinating, but there's really nothing I can do. It doesn't follow any laws of nature or physics. I mean, time travel, anachronisms, future tech, keeping an angry T-Rex off my back... I can work with that. But demons? It makes me feel pretty much useless."

Mick actually rolls his eyes at him. "Y're an idiot."

"That's what I'm saying."

"No, you're bein' stupid 'bout this. Just 'cause you're not good at one thing doesn't mean you're useless." He glares at Ray, daring him to contradict him. "Even if that one thing's gonna kill us all. 's just dumb luck, that's all."

It's weird, how Mick can at the same time show unfailing confidence in Ray and call him on his shit. For all that Mick usually displays the tact and delicacy of a sledgehammer, the absolute precision with which he manages to cut down Ray's insecurities stumps him, time and time again. He can remember so many occasions when he was lost in a cloud of self-doubt and Mick pulled him out. Well, maybe more like pushed him out, but the result's the same. He can't say what's more surprising – that Mick of all people can get Ray out of his own head, or that he cares enough to even try.

"Thank you."

Ray keeps his eyes firmly on what's left of his burger, but he can still see Mick's awkward shrug out of the corner of his eyes.

"Didn't do nuthin'." There's rustling as he bundles up another wrapper to a little ball he then throws against the opposite wall. It bounces off a little and rolls away. "Maybe Trenchcoat can fix this. Seems like his kinda thing."

"Honestly, I'm not sure he's even trying. I walked in on him and Sara in the galley earlier. They..." Ray flushes and stops himself, suddenly weirdly hot under the collar of his shirt. "Let's just say they didn't seem to be busy working on stopping the apocalypse."

He tries to get his point across with a gesture, but aborts the idea halfway through because. No.

Mick clearly gets the drift anyway. He snorts. "Maybe they got the right idea."

Something about the way he says it, low and a little appreciative, makes the flush creep higher up Ray's neck. It doesn't help that he can feel Mick's eyes on him, heavy and tangible like a physical touch. And he wants, with an intensity that feels like a punch, sudden and overwhelming and almost painful.

His breath catches when Mick leans towards him, and he can already feel Mick's chapped lips on his, can already taste the kiss, anticipation going to his head like alcohol on an empty stomach, making him feel dizzy.

Except Mick doesn't look at him, not even as the space between them shrinks and shrinks. It takes Mick reaching across Ray's legs to realize that he's trying to grab the beer Ray moved aside when he sat down. The butterflies in the pit of his stomach wither and die, turning into a tense, awkward mix of disappointment and embarrassment that startles a self-conscious laugh out of him.

Mick gives him a weird look as he pops open the bottle. "What?"

"Nothing, I just —" He can't come up with an excuse fast enough, so he just shrugs. "I'm just a little stressed. End of the world and all."

Mick's grunt sounds like agreement, or at least sympathy. "World's gonna end whether you stress about it or not, Haircut. More drinkin', less panic." He lifts the bottle in a silent toast before chugging it back.

His tone is firm and unapologetic, and Ray wishes he could get to that place. He doesn't think drinking would help. He could down the whole six-pack and all he'd get would be a terrible hangover and a bad flare of his gluten intolerance, and none of that zen outlook on life and death Mick seems to have.

Thursday

Ray almost misses out on the apocalypse on account of nearly getting himself killed two days before it's supposed to happen. They're in England, 1497, stopping one of hell's recently escaped demons from eating Young Henry Tudor years before he'd be crowned king, when things go sideways.

The mission sparked some... debate about its necessity before it even happened. As Zari pointed out: "If the world's ending this weekend anyway, I don't see why we have to go and stop that demon." Mick was in agreement, and despite his desire to finally make himself useful again, Ray could kind of see their point.

"We can't just let him kill Henry VIII," Nate argued.

"Her." Everyone turned to Constantine. He shrugged. "The Ancient One is female. Scary lass, too. Looks a bit like a cross between a scaly snake and a fire-spitting dragon."

Mick perked up, instantly looking a lot more willing to go off to Tudor England and save a would-be king, and Wally's, "I mean, Henry's wives would probably thank us if we didn't step in," was mostly ignored as the Waverider set a course to the late 15th century.

Afterwards, Ray wonders how any of them could have missed it, how he could have missed it: Mick's fatalism the day before, his sudden gung-ho attitude, the way his eyes were gleaming when he watched the demon set an entire village aflame.

Ray and Wally are busy saving the scared villagers who shout and scatter in all directions as their belongings burn to ashes when Ray catches sight of the Ancient One stomping towards Mick with wide, earth-shaking steps. Mick, who doesn't even raise his gun, who just stands and stares as the creature comes closer and closer like he's been hypnotized.

"Mick," Ray shouts, but his voice gets lost in the cries and the roar of the fire and the chaos that surrounds them while Mick remains transfixed by the giant fire-breathing dragon demon that's charging at him.

Ray changes course and flies right towards them, right between them, hovering in the air in front of the demon's face in the hope of distracting her until Mick gets his act together. It works.

It works a bit too well.

The Ancient One turns towards him, steam rising from her nostrils, and Ray barely has time to realize that his plan might have a fatal flaw before a spurt of flame comes right at him, enclosing him in heat and stealing his oxygen.

He hears Mick shout, "What the hell, Haircut?!", hears Sara's worried voice over the comms, and then he tumbles from the sky. The ground comes towards him too fast. He can't engage his suit, can't do anything to soften the fall, and when he crashes down with a crack that he hopes comes from a part of his suit but is more likely a breaking bone, it drives the air out of his lungs.

"Ow," he says miserably.

The last thing he sees before the world goes black is Mick rushing towards the big-ass dragon with a pitchfork.

"The fuck's wrong with you, Ray?"

Mick glowers at him like Ray has personally ruined his day and he would very much like to punch him, if he wasn't currently laid out in the med bay, probably looking as pathetic as he feels.

Ray frowns. "Nothing? I mean, I still have a few bruises and cuts and maybe a mild concussion, but Gideon says I'm fine."

He doesn't think he's seen Mick quite this angry before, which is impressive, because during his time with the Legends, Mick's been through pretty much all the stages of anger, from his default mood of mild annoyance to murderous rage. But there's something about the way Mick is advancing on Ray now, his jaw set and his gaze burning holes into Ray, that makes him want to hop off the cot and flee. It doesn't help that he's only wearing a pair of boxer shorts, feeling weirdly on display. He wishes Gideon would let him leave. She's fixed him up, but he's supposed to stay overnight for monitoring anyway.

Maybe the meds are messing with his head, because he could swear Mick called him by his name just now. The last time that happened, it had been Mick on this very bed, telling Ray not to let him turn into a zombie. His desperation made sense then – Mick's fear of becoming a mindless shell of himself stirring up memories of his time as Chronos.

Now, though, Ray can't quite wrap his head around it. Mick had seemed oddly ambivalent at the idea of the apocalypse before, and all things considered, fighting the Ancient One had gone well. Ray's memories from the showdown may have a few holes, but judging from the splatters of demon blood covering Mick's torn shirt and his skin, it's probably safe to say that they won. He'd imagine that Mick would be happier. Violence usually puts him in a good mood.

Not today, apparently.

"Only reason you're alive is because you're the luckiest son of a bitch on this shitty tin can. What were you thinkin', flying right towards that fucking dragon like a dumbass?"

Ray fights the urge to slump down in the face of Mick's outburst by doing the exact opposite, sitting up a little straighter. "She was charging at you and you just stood there. She was going to burn you alive."

"So, you... what? Thought you'd get yourself killed instead?"

That's... Yeah, that's pretty much what he was thinking, except he didn't actively try to get himself killed. But he'd be lying if he said he hadn't factored in the possibility and accepted the risk.

He shrugs. "If we're all gonna die the day after tomorrow anyway, what does it matter?"

He's aware that there's a fatal flaw in his argument, because if it doesn't matter, then Mick almost dying shouldn't have mattered either. But Ray never said that his decision was a logical one. He reacted on instinct – Mick was in danger, and he was going to save him, no matter what.

Mick frowns. "It matters because you're not supposed to die. You're s'pposed to beat the odds, make it out alive. Build a brighter future and all that shit."

"Um. I'm pretty sure the apocalypse is not going to make an exception for me when it erases all sentient beings."

Mick stares at him, his eyes still a little too wild and intense.

He doesn't say anything, but his mouth twitches into an unhappy downwards curve, and it's plain to see the tension inside him building up again. Ray expects some kind of outburst, but it doesn't happen. Instead, it's like resignation settles over Mick. Or not even that – more like he's been wrestling with a choice and he's come to a decision, all that strain bleeding away at once.

Mick steps up to him, and Ray wonders if he's going to get punched. He isn't quite sure if almost getting himself killed warrants that kind of reaction in Mick's world. Maybe? Except he can't quite wrap his head around the fact that Mick would care that much.

He swallows. "Look, I'm sorry, I —"

"Shut up, Haircut," Mick cuts him off. His tone is mild, though, and soft. If it were anyone else, Ray would call it gentle. It doesn't at all fit the borderline furious expression on Mick's face or the way Mick is towering over him aggressively, and Ray is still contemplating the dichotomy when Mick's blood-stained hand curves around the back of his neck and he pulls him into a kiss.

It's rough and a little angry, and Ray instinctively responds before he even realizes what's happening, that Mick is kissing him.

Mick is kissing him.

His brain stutters to a halt as he becomes all too aware of the sensations: Mick's large, warm hand against his skin, Mick's teeth pulling at his lip, Mick's tongue insistent and possessive in his mouth.

Mick seems to be everywhere around him, smelling like kerosene and fire and copper.

Ray's hand comes up to clench in Mick's shirt, tugging. He doesn't fool himself into thinking he could move Mick, not unless he was wearing the A.T.O.M. suit and Mick was caught in surprise. Luckily for him, though, Mick seems inclined to indulge him, letting himself be pulled in until he's halfway on the bed, on top of Ray. One of his hands is still steadying Ray's head, fingers curling pleasantly against his hairline, but he uses the other to prop himself up so he doesn't crush Ray underneath him. Ray is both touched by the consideration and strangely disappointed, wanting, needing Mick's weight on him, the reassurance that this is real and not just a painkiller-induced fever dream he's having.

He arches into the kiss, pressing himself up against Mick.

There's a desperation burning under his skin that almost scares him, the acute sense of a ticking clock as time is running out. If this might be the only time they have, he wants to make most of it. At the same time, there's the prickling thought at the back of his mind that Mick's only allowing this to happen because the world is ending, and it only serves to amplifies Ray's frenzy.

He pulls at Mick's shirt, trying to move the dirty, damp cotton out of the way and get to the skin beneath.

Mick breaks the kiss and moves back a fraction, but only as far as he can without breaking Ray's hold on him. "Sure you're up for it?"

Ray laughs quietly, a little too hard. He rubs his groin against Mick's hips, letting him feel his erection through the double layer of clothing. "I don't think you need to worry about that."

He knows Mick didn't mean it like that, that he was asking about Ray's injuries, about the bruises that are still tender to the touch and the way his lungs can't seem to get quite enough oxygen and his head feels like it's stuffed with cotton wool. But his response is enough to distract Mick, eyes darkening with arousal and fingers tightening in Ray's hair before retreating. Ray instantly misses the touch, even when the only reason Mick pulls away is to strip off his ruined shirt, balling it up and throwing it into the far corner of the room.

Under the bright white lights of the med bay, the burn scars that run from his shoulders down his arms stand out in horrifying beauty. Ray wants to touch them, wants to trace the labyrinthine patterns and lines with his fingers one by one. He wants to put his hands on Mick – so he does, and he's almost a little surprised when Mick lets him, when he doesn't pull back or flinch. The skin is warm to the touch, almost overheated, and the scar tissue feels firm and rough. He can't get enough of it.

He didn't think he'd get to have this. And maybe it's okay that the world is ending. It almost seems like a fair exchange.

"Mick." It comes out as a breathless, needy whine. He swallows, trying to make his voice sound less desperate, but it's only working so well. "I need —"

"I know what you need, Haircut." Mick's low grumble resonates in the pit of Ray's stomach, the gruff confidence going straight to his cock. "I'm gonna take care of you, don't worry your pretty head."

"I'm not worrying," Ray argues.

Mick chuckles. "Y're always worrying."

And then finally – finally – Mick touches him. Ray's senses go into overdrive at the feeling of those rough, callused fingers running down his sides with something that almost feels like appreciation. They leave a smear of demon blood in their wake, stark red under the neon lighting, which he should probably find disgusting, but he can't bring himself to care, not when the sensation of Mick's heated hand trailing down his cool skin is so mind-numbingly wonderful.

Ray's mind goes a bit fuzzy then. He knows that at some point, Mick's pants come off – turns out he wasn't lying about not wanting to wait for his briefs to dry and decided to go commando instead – and so do Ray's shorts, and then it's all gloriously naked skin against skin. Ray remembers trying to sit up and Mick pushing him down again, forceful but not without care, and something about that only serves to make the desire coil tighter deep down in Ray's gut.

He can't recall ever having felt so frantic and touch-starved, and when Mick reaches down to bring their cocks together and jerk them off, a litany of pleas and broken sounds escapes Ray's throat. He pulls Mick down into another kiss just to stop himself from talking, but he only ends up gasping Mick's name into his mouth.

The calluses on Mick's palm are just the right kind of rough against his over-sensitized skin.

"That's it, Ray, c'mon," Mick grates out, a breathless, low rumble.

Orgasm hits Ray like a shock of electricity, a burst of blazing lights exploding behind his closed eyelids – except, he could swear that it actually comes from around them, like an explosion in the med bay but larger, more all-encompassing, as if the entire universe wobbles and flashes brightly for one short moment before settling back on its regular course. It's like every ridiculous bad romance novel cliché, apart from the weird, uneasy sense that it's something almost tangible, beyond a mere feeling brought on by endorphin rush and emotional overload.

He lies back and keeps his eyes shut, waiting for his lungs to fill up with air again and his head to stop spinning.

Mick starts moving first, climbing off the bed. The abrupt loss of skin-on-skin sensation leaves Ray feeling cold and bereft. He cracks his eyes open with some effort and watches Mick pull up his pants, ignoring the way the distance between them makes him ache in a way that's almost physical. He swallows the feeling down. Mick doesn't seem to be the type to tolerate clinginess, and Ray doesn't feel brave enough to test his luck.

"Did you feel that?" he asks before he can stop himself.

Mick gives him an odd look. "'course I did. 't was good."

Ray flushes. Of course Mick would take it that way. "No, not the — I mean —"

How can he put in words what exactly he means? Did you feel the universe light up too? sounds like the worst kind of post-sex line.

Ray grimaces. "Never mind."

Mick's forehead furrows. "You sure you're okay? You look like you're goin' to be sick."

He does? There's no mirror, so Ray can't see his face, but looking down on himself, he appears absolutely wrecked, bruises from the fight mingling with fresh, finger-shaped ones. The bedding's rumpled; there are stains of drying cum and smears of red demon blood everywhere.

He wrinkles his nose. "I'm fine. I think I need a shower and fresh clothes, though."

Something about Mick's chuckle sends a rush of warmth through Ray.

"Get some rest, Haircut," he says, before he slips out of the med bay.

Friday

Ray misses the beginning of the meeting because Gideon insists on giving him a final check-up before officially discharging him, and even when he and the rest of the world only have a day to live, Ray won't risk pissing off Gideon. No one can make your final hours more miserable than an all-knowing, all-seeing powerful AI that controls the air conditioning in your quarters and the food generator.

Except, it turns out that it won't his final hours after all because apparently, as Constantine is in the midst of explaining when Ray joins the others, the apocalypse has been stopped permanently — or at least temporarily.

Ray is still trying to wrap around Constantine's ramblings, longing for some kind of scientific explanation that doesn't include phrases like 'sex magic' and 'using the Ancient One's life force' and conjuring up a bunch of very unpleasant mental images.

Judging by the disgusted face Zari pulls, Ray's not the only one who's a bit weirded out. "Are you saying someone had sex with a dead demon? Urgh, that's —"

"Gross," Wally finishes for her.

Everyone nods in agreement. Well, everyone but Mick, who doesn't seem perturbed or interested. He's sitting on Sara's desk, busy pulling the label from his beer bottle, and doesn't appear to be listening.

"Aye." Constantine shrugs. He's the only one who doesn't seem to be at all bothered by the concept. "Or, well. That's not necessarily what happened. Technically, I guess it would have been enough if it had involved blood from the demon and it mingled with — "

Ray stands a little straighter, because suddenly Constantine's interpretation of how the apocalypse was prevented sounds a lot less far-fetched, familiar in a way that makes his stomach drop.

Before Constantine can finish the thought and confirm Ray's suspicions, Sara interrupts him, holding up a hand. "You know what, John? I don't think we need to know."

She grimaces and shakes her head, like she's trying to stop herself from visualizing Constantine's words. Ray wishes he had that luxury.

"Though it might be helpful knowing for the next time?" Nate chimes in, curiosity clearly winning out over mortification.

Zari gives Ray a wide-eyed look, mouthing 'Next time?' like the mere idea is making her want to return to the dystopian nightmare of 2042 instead of sticking around to wait for the next demonic uprising. Ray can sort of sympathize, even if he's a little distracted at the moment.

"Maybe we can use your magical mumbo-jumbo to track down whoever it was and find out what exactly they did," Nate is suggesting.

"Can you do that?" Wally asks. He sounds too curious for his own good, and Ray already hates himself for speaking up, but there's no way he can not, not when everyone is already speculating.

He clears his throat.

"Um. Guys..."

Every head in the room snaps towards him, expressions ranging from annoyance to mild curiosity. Constantine raises an eyebrow, his gaze sharp and hawk-eyed, and Ray can tell that he's close to drawing some conclusions of his own.

Ray's eyes flicker towards Mick, who's still not paying attention. When he ignores Ray's increasingly pointed stare, Ray awkwardly pokes his shoulder until he looks up.

"What?"

Ray swallows, all too well aware of everyone's eyes on him. "You had blood on your hands. Yesterday? In the med bay?"

Mick frowns. "I guess. So what?" He looks around the room, suspicion manifesting on his features. His voice drops to a growl. "Haircut. Why's everyone looking at us like that?"

All Ray can do is shrug helplessly, wincing when Mick fixes him with a 'what did you do now?' expression.

With a sigh, Sara pinches the bridge of her nose. "Well, I guess you successfully averted the apocalypse. Well done, Mick, Ray. I will spare you the lecture on unsanitary behavior and inappropriate use of the ship's public areas since you kind of saved humanity. And also for my own peace of mind."

She reaches out as if to pat Ray's shoulder but pulls back before she can, shaking her head again and walking off. The others follow her one by one, each of them pointedly not looking at Ray or Mick.

Constantine lingers. He seems suitably impressed. At least that's the way Ray chooses to interpret the way his eyes flit between Mick and him. "You know, even if it was entirely accidental, that was some powerful magic you two handled there. If you ever wanted a repeat performance, I may not have the life force of the Ancient One, but I got some tricks up my sleeves, too."

It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Ray to realize that Constantine isn't merely offering them some weird potion to spice up their sex life. "Oh. I don't think —"

"Why'd we wanna do that, Trenchcoat?" Mick asks. "You said it yourself. World's not gonna end."

He sounds like he's firmly closing the lid on the matter, and even though Ray knew that Mick wouldn't have slept with him if it hadn't been for the imminent apocalypse, his stomach still drops at hearing him confirm it. He forces himself not to turn and follow Mick's retreating form with his eyes.

The world's not ending. Not this week, anyway. It should be cause for celebration. So why does Ray feel like someone sucker-punched him and blew up his suit?

Ray listlessly pokes at the somewhat tasteless, rubbery muffin he had Gideon quickly throw together for him. It turns out Zari had finished up all the good stuff when she thought they had mere hours to live, and now Gideon's rigid health food regime is back in place.

His head snaps around when the door opens, but it's only Nate.

"Oh, hey Nate." He tries to find his normal chipper tone again and misses by miles. The small frown on Nate's face tells him that he noticed, and Ray's glad that Nate is too nice to point it out.

He pulls back the chair next to Ray's and sits down. "I don't think anyone said it, but thanks. For, you know, saving us all from death and hellfire."

"You're welcome. Even though it kinda feels wrong to take credit for something that happened mostly by accident. I mean, not that actual — you know. Just the sex magic part. We didn't actually set out to stop the apocalypse." He puts the muffin aside, his appetite waning as he remembers Mick's expression on the bridge earlier, shooting down Constantine's suggestion of a repeat performance.

Nate nods like he understands, stealing a piece of muffin from Ray's plate. He pulls a face at the taste, shoving the plate to the far end of the table.

"So, you and Mick?"

Ray isn't sure if it's a statement or a question. It seems to be some weird hybrid of both, inviting Ray to talk about it if he wants to or just move on.

He definitely doesn't want to talk about, or think about it even, but seeing as he's done nothing but think about it all day – and, if he's honest with himself, for a hell of a lot longer than that – and he feels as if he might go out of his head if he doesn't talk about it, he might as well take the lifeline Nate threw him.

"It was just, you know... the kind of thing you do when you think you've only got a day to live. Affirmation of life, the adrenaline rush. It's not a big deal. I don't think it's gonna happen again."

Nate gives him a long, hard look. "You like him." He shakes his head. "It's like the Nora thing all over again. Ray, man, haven't you learnt your lesson?"

"What? No? That was totally different." Ray has no idea where Nate's fixation with him and Nora comes from. Sure, he thought Nora deserved a second (or third, or fourth, or even tenth) chance. He thought she had the capacity to be good. But he wouldn't have done stupid household chores just to spend time with her, and he wouldn't have wanted to spend his final days with her, and he certainly didn't want her to hold him down and fuck him or learn about all her scars or fall asleep with her wrapped around him.

"I wasn't in love with Nora," he argues, and he only realizes what he's said when the words are out.

Nate doesn't look shocked. If anything he looks a little smug, like he got exactly what he was looking for.

"Did you just —"

"Sorry, man." Nate doesn't look sorry at all. "You were doing the whole manly, stoic 'it didn't mean anything' routine and I needed you to see that you were full of shit."

Ray swallows against the lump in his throat. It's not like it should be much of a revelation, really.

He always knew that he liked Mick more than he should, ever since Mick risked his life carrying his reckless, unconscious ass out of a Russian gulag. Turns out too many not-quite-chance encounters in the galley after nightfall when they couldn't get any sleep and quiet mornings bickering over their laundry and all those times when Mick came through for them even if his first instinct had been to throw them to the wolves turned Ray's appreciation of him into something a little more intense and emotionally fraught.

"What am I supposed to do?"

He hates being out of his depth like this, hates not being able to go down to his lab and engineer a scientific solution for the problem. Numbers and formulas and engineering, that kind of thing he's always been good at. Human interaction... not so much.

Nate offers him a sympathetic look and clasps his shoulder. "I hate to break it to you, buddy, but I think you need to talk to Mick. Unless you want to avoid him until it goes away, but from personal experience... I really wouldn't recommend it."

He has a point, and yet...

"I'm reasonably certainly that Mick is the one avoiding me," Ray says. "I don't think pushing it would go particularly well. The A.T.O.M. suit isn't really resistant against the blast of the Heat-Gun for a prolonged period of time."

"Come on, he wouldn't shoot you."

Ray sends him a dead look.

"Okay, yeah, he might. He'd probably regret it, though."

Ray isn't so sure.

Saturday

Ray wakes up and tries to appreciate for a little moment that it's Saturday and the world is not ending before he notices the continuous banging at his door. It's still early; his alarm isn't scheduled to go off for another half-hour, and Ray is sure that Gideon would have woken him if there was a situation. Unless Gideon is down.

The surge of adrenaline has him wide awake and hyper-alert at once. He rushes to pull back the covers, swings his legs off his bunk and hastens towards the door, undoing the locking mechanism. His stomach does a funny little thing somewhere between somersaults and nausea when the door slides open to reveal Mick.

"What's wrong? Is it an anachronism? What's going on with Gideon? Please don't say the apocalypse is on again!"

Mick frowns at him, his eyes trailing up and down Ray's form in a slow once-over that instantly triggers Ray's self-consciousness about the way he must look, all sleep-rumpled and tousle-haired and barefoot. Unprofessional, he thinks, but what he really means is vulnerable. Mick might have seen him in worse conditions and further states of undress, but that knowledge doesn't do anything to alleviate Ray's embarrassment, or to stop the heat rising to his cheeks.

"Stop babbling, Haircut. Everything's fine."

There's a calm in the gruff tone that's oddly soothing, and Ray's racing pulse calms down a little. No crisis. That's a good thing. So why is his stomach still clenched so tightly that it hurts?

Mick is still eyeing him a little warily. "I was gonna do laundry. Thought you wanted to tag along."

It's only now that Ray notices the basket with the messy tangle of clothes in Mick's hands.

He blinks, wondering if he's still asleep. However he had expected this morning to go, this... wasn't it. "I — Yes, sure, of course. I mean, it's not Laundry Day, but we skipped that with the whole end of the world thing, so there's no reason why we should wait until next Tuesday. Let me just go get my things."

He gestures behind him into the room, where his dirty clothes are sitting in an identical basket, neatly folded.

Mick huffs and makes a get-on-with-it motion, so Ray throws him a brief, unsteady smile and rushes back inside to grab the basket. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winces, quickly smoothing his unruly hair down with his hand. Getting dressed would be the smart thing to do. Ray considers it, but he's half-afraid that Mick will get impatient and leave without him, so he opts against it and just slips into his shoes.

"I'm ready! We can get going."

Mick grunts again, and if Ray didn't know him half as well as he did and hadn't become good at identifying some of the nuances in his nonverbal reactions and the subtle shift of his expressions, he'd think Mick was annoyed. But by now, he knows that this is what passes for mellow in Mick's world. It's the same look he had lying back in his sun chair at Aruba, or when he was feeding Axl, or when the team's gathered in the mess hall after a successful mission with plenty of food and drink to distract themselves from the way the fabric of time is falling apart around them.

Ray follows Mick down the corridor, trying to keep up with the other man's quick strides. Casting furtive glances at Mick from the corner of his eye, he struggles to come up with something to talk about. Comfortable silence has never been a concept he could buy into. He's always felt the need to fill up every lull in conversation, and it's infinitely worse with someone like Mick who's taciturn by nature and whose appreciation Ray can't help seeking out.

At the same time, he's startlingly bad at innocuous small talk. As he grapples with a conversation starter, he finally settles on, "Are you going to write another book?"

Is that too intrusive? He winces, but it's too late to take back the question.

"Gotta finish the other one first," Mick says just as they're rounding the corner into the supply room. It's infinitely harder to read his mood when Ray only sees the back of his head.

"Oh. I thought you had. Didn't you say you were going to before the apocalypse? I mean, you still have time to finish it now that it didn't happen, but we all thought it would."

Mick lifts a shoulder in a one-sided shrug, like it's not a big deal. "I just didn't get around to it. Kinda got distracted."

Despite the nonchalance, belying the urgency with which he took off to get to his typewriter when Constantine announced the impending doom, Ray instantly feels guilty. If the world had ended, Mick wouldn't have got to finish writing, and it would have been Ray's fault. It was his fault.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?" Mick barely pays attention to Ray, bundling up his clothes and throwing them into the washer with no care for colors or fabric. It's tempting to give him another speech about the advantages of separating laundry, but Ray bites his tongue. Now's not the time.

"Distracting you from writing?"

Mick turns to him, looking genuinely confused, and Ray realizes that as much as he doesn't want to, Nate's right. They need to talk about it. He braces himself and starts. "Look, Mick, I know you regret what happened. I know you wouldn't have kissed me or, you know... had sex with me if you hadn't thought we were all going to be dead in two days. But now we're not dead and — I just don't want things to be weird."

Mick slams the lid of his machine shut and hits the start button, probably boiling everything. It's a miracle he has any clothes left. "You're the one who's acting all weird."

Ray frowns. Is he? Oh God, he is acting weird, isn't he? It's just, he's so worried that having sex did irreparable damage to that semi-comfortable almost-friendship they've been settling into. As much as he would like for them to be more than that, he's realistic enough to be content with what he can have. Though at this point, he isn't even sure if he can still have it. He tries to take heart from the fact that it was Mick who sought him out, but his hope deflates in the face of Mick's sullenness.

"I'm sorry," he says again, without entirely knowing what he's apologizing for. Being in love with Mick. Acting all awkward. Wanting more than Mick is willing to give.

Busying himself with filling up the machine next to Mick's, putting in one item at a time, he carefully doesn't look at Mick. It doesn't help that he can feel the other man's eyes on him, the intensity of his stare prickling at the back of Ray's neck like a sunburn.

"Stop apologizing, Haircut." There's enough annoyance in his tone to make Ray flinch. But when he stands and turns to Mick, his expression is mild. "I don't do regrets. I take what I want. I'm a thief, remember?"

"You're much more than that," Ray begins earnestly, prepared to list all of the good things Mick's done until he finally believes it, but Mick only rolls his eyes at him.

"You can save the 'you're a good person' speech. I'm tryin' to tell ya that what happened wasn't a mistake." He grimaces. "Well, the creepy blood magic part was. But it saved the world, so whatever."

"You just don't want to do it again. I get it." It's a struggle to keep the resignation out of his tone, and Ray knows that he fails.

"When did I say that?"

"Um, yesterday? When Constantine asked us?"

Mick looks at Ray half-pitiful, half-annoyed, like Ray's completely missing the point. "Trenchcoat asked 'bout joining us. You wanted me to say yes?"

"What? No. Of course I don't. I just — You kind of implied that you only had sex with me because the world was ending. And before, when I brought up Sara and Constantine, you said it was a good idea for how to spend our last few days before the end. And I didn't think — You didn't seem to be keen on spending time with me." It all spills out at once, and Ray's helpless to stop it, even if he's aware that it sounds pitiful and kind of pathetic and too needy. "Sometimes I'm not even sure if you like me."

As soon as the words are out, Ray wants to take them back. Wants to go back to his lab and lock himself inside until Mick is drunk enough that he's forgotten all about this entire cringe-worthy conversation.

For a long moment, Mick just looks at him, while Ray's desire to flee intensifies. Shifting uncomfortably under Mick's intense stare, he wonders if he's going to get himself punched, or if Mick will just turn and walk away.

The moment builds up for so long, tense like a rubber band about to snap, that it feels almost anticlimactic when all Mick does is huff out a sigh and shake his head. "You're being an idiot again."

"I... am?"

"Yes," Mick says emphatically. He squints at him. "Do we really gotta talk about feelings?"

He looks a little pained. Ray is sure he has seen Mick remain more stoic even when he was bleeding profoundly from multiple bullet wounds, and it makes him feel bad that he's the one bringing out that kind of uneasiness. He doesn't want to be the one to make Mick this uncomfortable, but he also kinda needs to know.

"Are there... feelings?"

Mick fixes him with a hard stare that appears to convey 'yes, you dumbass' without the need for words.

"Oh." Ray doesn't understand, though, not really, not until Mick pushes the empty basket aside with his foot and steps into Ray's space, and the meaning of Mick's words sinks in. "Oh."

The heated flush spreading on his face is fifty percent embarrassment for getting it all so wrong and fifty percent anticipation. Well, maybe more like thirty-seventy. A slow, happy smile stretches his lips, accompanied by a rush of giddiness not even the warning look Mick gives him manages to combat.

"We ain't gonna talk about it," Mick says with an air of finality. He crowds Ray against the washing machine in a way that would be intimidating if his eyes didn't keep flickering down to Ray's lips.

Ray nods enthusiastically. A pair of muscular, scarred arms are caging him in, pressing him against the washer that's vibrating gently against his back. He can't seem to stop smiling. "Absolutely. I mean, we don't have to. Not if you don't want to. Talking is totally overrated. We should —"

He doesn't get to finish the thought, because Mick's mouth seals his, his stubble rasping against Ray's cheek. His hands settle on Ray's hips, holding him in place as Mick's knee pushes between his legs, rubbing against his groin in a way that draws a low, resonating moan from deep in his throat.

There's an appreciative grin on Mick's face when he pulls away. "That's the spirit, Haircut. Less talking —"

"More making out?" Ray finishes for him, wiggling his eyebrows, still giddy with relief now that it's finally starting to sink in that yes, he gets to have this.

Mick's guffawing laughter makes his body shake against Ray's. One of his hands comes up to angle Ray's face towards him again, his thumb pressing down against Ray's lip, tasting like leather and gun oil. Ray chases it, closing his mouth around the digit and sucking experimentally, and Mick's eyes darken. The amusement bleeds from his face, but the fondness lingers.

"Knew a smart guy like you would get it eventually," he rumbles.

It's the last thing either of them says for a while.

End.