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[personal profile] ajremix
This was something I fought with for two weeks. Couple things of note: I haven't watched the last few episodes so if this contradicts canon then oh well. Second, this was inspired when I remembered the line from season 1 about Mick having to strangle rats to survive and this fic will be partially taking place during that time so mind the warnings. Third, I had intended to pretend the rest of the team was treating Mick better than they had been but that quickly fell to the wayside so there's gonna be some salt in here.

Title: Something of Your Own
Fandom: Legends of Tomorrow
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: animal death/referenced cruelty, trauma induced by isolation and starvation, implied child abuse
Word Count: 5411
Characters: Mick, Mick's rat, cameos by other Legends
Summary: Mick always had a soft spot for rats though they never ended well before. This time, though, he'll make sure is different.

Mick didn't have a pet growing up. Not technically anyway. Their farm had no animals but it wasn't uncommon to see stray cats wandering around, chasing off rodents. They were all feral and would run off if a person tried to get close. They were never given food or water, were never taken to a vet or worried after and as such they were unreliable so traps were set around the farm and house. Mick found a rat in one once, it's tail caught and broken, squealing in pain and fear. He took it and kept it in a box while he made a rough cage out of scrap chicken wire. He named it Miss Bianca after a movie he'd seen once where mice saved a little girl. He kept it under his bed.

He had it for almost two months before his father found out. He cracked Miss Bianca's head with a shovel and boxed Mick's ears, threatening to do worse if the house got infested because of him. Mick snuck out of the house after midnight, combing the field his father had tossed Miss Bianca's body into in hopes he'd be able to give it a burial. He never found it.

He chased away every rodent he found in the house after that, unsure if he was trying to protect them from his father or from Mick's occasional impulse to keep them. In the end it was the same thing, really. If his father found them, he'd kill them and Mick's feelings on the matter didn't factor.

The impulse to have something of his own, something to look after and take care of came and went but never really stopped. He hadn't expected it to transfer to scrawny, smart-mouthed punks.


The crew treats it like an adorable joke. Like just because Mick has a pet rat now, he's no longer scary. Mick sets its cage atop the case to the- still broken -cold gun. A place of honor where Mick can watch and talk to it while laid out in his recliner. Talking to the rat isn't as calming as staring at fire but it's better than arguing with his imaginary partner.

There's a knock on the frame of Mick's open door. He rolls his head around, still absently scratching the base of the rat's skull and not caring about the crumbs on his jacket as it stuffs its little face while perched on his shoulder. Nate takes in the scene with a big grin.

"Hey, Mick!" He says cheerily. "Just checking in on the little guy."

The rat snuffles at Mick's head before continuing to gnaw on its carrot. "Well enough."

"You got a name picked out yet?"



Naming an animal, Mick figures, is like giving them a nickname and to him nicknames are important. They're identifiers, maybe ones that start out isolating a specific feature or trait but has to have enough elasticity in Mick's brain to evolve with his opinion on the person. Nicknames need to fit the person. Or rat, in this case. "One'll come to me."

"Have you checked if it's a boy or a girl?"

"Does it matter?"

Nate gives him that odd look-smile combination. The one that says he's amused that Mick doesn't know something so obvious. "Might help you come up with a name."

Mick just raises an eyebrow. "Don't think its parts really matters to anyone but the rat."

Nate opens his mouth, then closes it. After a couple repetitions he says, "Yeah, I guess that's true."


There were few things Mick liked remembering about growing up on the farm. The hunting trips were a mixed bag though having been stranded in bumfuck nowhere, the occasionally painful survival lessons had paid off. Especially given that Snart had left him here with nothing but the clothes on his back, the knife in his boot and the lighter in his pocket. When he came to in that forest, sun filtering weakly through clouds and leaves, Mick took a moment to sort through his priorities- find a water source, figure out cardinal directions, make note of potential shelters -before looking for signs of civilization or, failing that, food. After all, either he'd been abandoned or Snart could go fuck himself if he expected Mick to stay in one place.

He found a thin stream, barely more than a creek, but the water was cold and clear. Snowmelt, he'd wager. He followed its flow. Hopefully it would run into other streams or a river. If anyone lived here, that's where they would be. Along the way he found some berries and nuts he recognized, not a large supply but enough to keep him alive for some time if he portioned them right. Mick filled his pockets and kept trekking. As the sun started to fall, Mick found a clearing a little ways from the creek to settle down for the night. He found some promising looking animals tracks and set up snares using his bootlaces. He went off in the other direction to find sticks and kindling for a fire and pocketed what other bits of food he came across.

Eventually, just as hunger was starting to get distracting, there was a squeal. Mick went to check the snares and found a wiry rabbit caught in one. He killed the rodent, skinned it to the best of his memory and hung it over the creek to let it bleed while he started a fire, keeping an eye out for any predators attracted by the smell. He took out the offal he couldn't eat and tossed them a good distance away on the other side of the creek as the rest of it cooked on a make-shift spit. It was gamey and tasteless and Mick longed for even a bit of salt but at least he had some wild berries to help. He didn't have any way to carry leftovers so Mick ate as much of the rabbit as he could, tossed the remains far from his sleeping spot, cleaned his knife, hands and face in the creek, then settled in and watched the fire die down.

He fell asleep long after the stars came out, a distant part of him noticing the lack of animals noises around him.

When he woke up there was something moving in his jacket pocket, laid over him as a makeshift blanket. Mick shifted, trying to blearily peer at it and the something froze before turning around and peering back at him. It was a rat. Or a mouse, maybe. It was pretty small. It had one of the nuts Mick had picked up the other day in its mouth.

"What," Mick rumbled at it. In defiance of being caught, it's little hands wrapped around another nut. "You hungry?"

The rat stuffed the second nut in its mouth and scampered off.


The Waverider's makeshift lab isn't a place one usually finds Mick. Not that Jax is surprised to see him working on something- he's seen the man wander into the lab to grab some tools on things he tinkers on in his room -it's just he thinks Mick's idea of not working in the lab is smart. Whenever Jax is down there, he seems to have even chances either working in peace or having to deal with Stein- who tends to devolve into a lecture like he's back in a university -or Ray- who's honest 'let me show you a trick' tends to result in his taking over entirely.

Jax waits for a pause in Mick's work, the man calling to Gideon for some kind of adjustment, before speaking up. "Hey, Rory. What're you up to?" Whatever it is is tiny. Like a child's bracelet.

"A collar."

"For your rat? Why so high-tech? Putting a tracking device in it?" Wasn't that stuff a micro-chip inserted under a skin in their time?

"It'll create a miniature temporal stasis field so the rat won't die when we time-jump."

Jax has to pause to digest that statement. "Wait- what?"

"Time travel sucks," Mick says like he's saying any old thing. "Our bodies can barely handle the strain. Something that small, its organs'll rupture." He holds up the collar, peering at it critically. "Why do you think Hunter never worried about bugs getting on board? They can't survive the trip into the timestream."

Jax had not, in fact, wondered at the lack of bugs before and now with that knowledge in his head, he tells Mick, "Imma go to my room and be disturbed for a bit."

Mick just waves him off absently, instructing Gideon to scan the collar. "Have fun."


It wasn't a daily occurrence but it was pretty even odds that Mick would find the rat scrounging for food. Enough times that he designated the easiest accessible pocket its food. And it wasn't alone. It had a small family or herd or whatever a group of rats were called. A rat pack. It took a while for Mick to confirm it was the same group of rats following him on his fruitless journey to find anything.

Maybe it was because he only managed to catch one other animals after that rabbit. Or maybe he was lonely and the memory of Miss Bianca was floating around in the back of his head but Mick started dropping nuts behind them, encouraging them to follow. And whenever he thought they might've fallen too far behind, he stopped to let them catch up.

There were five all together and Mick started naming them in his mind. The biggest one he named Scarface because its left ear was mangled. Another fairly large one that walked like it had an old injury he called Splinter. The one that had initially snuck inside his pocket, the smallest and the one that tended to get shoved aside in the scramble for food, was Cinderella. The two that bullied Cinderella the most Mick dubbed Scudder and Dillon and, even though one of them had socks and the other didn't, Mick never really assigned them specific names. They were assholes and they hung out together more than not, it was fitting enough to him.

At some point the creek he'd been following had joined up with a slightly larger one. Still didn't look like fish lived in it, though, or if they did they were too small and not worth it. Mick had seen a couple frogs which made him wrinkle his nose. His family had to go frog gigging sometimes when money was tight and he'd never really like eating frog. Too much effort for the amount of meat it got and these frog in particular weren't very big. Once, when Mick had been sick during an especially bad month, his mother had brought him a frog stew. He'd gotten violently ill off it- turned out there'd been mildly toxic toad in there as well. The fact that no one else in the family had gotten sick and his mother's relationship to Mick had always been ambiguous made him question if that might have been purposeful. Mick had hated toads- and to a lesser extent frogs due to similarities -since. But, he supposed, he had a last resort if no other food source was found. And if they ended up being toxic then, well, then Mick hoped Snart was coming back so he could find his body dead from bad frog legs. Fuck you, Snart.

By the time Mick had coaxed the rats into hanging out next to him whenever he rested, the forest had thinned out and within a week of his abandonment he stepped out of the treeline entirely. The sight was not promising. There was a vast plain that stretched out farther than Mick could see, very little in the way of plantlife outside of the grass that was sparsely populated with hard, craggy rock. There were no towns, no paths, no smoke in the distance and no animals.

"If that fucker dropped me off in some pre-history time," he grumbled darkly, "I'm going to kick his ass."

Mick went back into the forest to restock on berries and nuts and managed to catch another boney and undersized rabbit while he was at it. He ate some, then stripped the remaining meat into chunks, skewered them on sticks and cooked them through, planning on eating them when he stopped for the night. The offal he wrapped up in the rabbit skin and tied that to another, longer stick. Hopefully a crow or vulture or other scavenger would come to investigate and Mick could catch them. The stream continued off in the distance so Mick didn't worry about water.

Preparations complete, Mick went on his way. He made it all of twenty feet before stopping and turning. Clustered together under a wimpy fern, the five rats stared at him as if debating if they were willing to risk the open to follow the guy that had been feeding them the last few days. Mick crouched and pulled a couple of berries from his pocket, holding them on outstretched fingers. "You coming or what?"

After some hesitating, they scuttled forward and just like that Mick had himself a rat pack.


When Stein finds them in the kitchen he immediately bristles though his rebuke gets way-sided by an incredulous, "What are you doing?"

"Training," Mick says shortly before giving a sharp whistle. His rat runs from Mick's shoulder and over his outstretched arm. Mick turns his hand over and opens it, letting the rat get at the treat hidden in his palm. He gives two more whistles and it runs back over his arm and to his shoulder where it climbs into one of the pockets at his chest. It sticks its little head out and makes grabby hands at another treat Mick gives it.

Stein boggles momentarily. "I was not aware you knew how to train animals."

"Did a stint in Opal. They got a program for inmates to train dogs and it wasn't like I was doing anything else." Another whistle and the rat clambers back on Mick's shoulder, over his arm and, when he inclines it downward, onto the counter. It turns back expectantly and gets another treat.

It reminds Stein of his initial outrage. "And why are you doing this in the kitchen? Where we prepare our meals?"

Slowly Mick raises his eyes at the older man, hand absently petting the creature. "Rat's clean. Gideon checked."

"It's hardly hygienic to have a creature shedding fur on our counter tops."

Mick just stares, arms folded. He very slowly, very deliberately sits on the counter. Stein just looks at him in a mixture of confusion and irritation. Eventually Mick asks, "No comments?"

"About what?"

"Sitting on the counter." He waves a hand out. "Not like you know where my ass has been. Coulda been working on something mechanical and gotten grease or oil on me. Coulda been wading through the septic tank, I could be wearing week old underwear with skid marks for all you know." Stein wrinkles his nose and looks like he's about to attack his own brain with a cleaning spray but Mick goes on. "So why don't you say anything? Maybe you got used to it 'cause you know just about everyone else sits on the counter sometimes- including your partner. Maybe 'cause you know the ship has automatic micro-scrubbing bubbles that activates when germs are around."

"All surfaces are coated with a microbial film of smart antibacterial nanites," Stein recites automatically.

"Ship kills all those nasty germs which is why no one's gotten sick on this boat or had to dust. So tell me, Professor. You complaining 'cause it's a rat or 'cause it's something I'm doing?"

Stein hesitates, not entirely certain what he's being accused of. "All I ask is that you please not let the rat on the counter."

Mick sneers and whistles, somehow even sharper than before. "Doubt it." Rat safely perched on his shoulder, Mick storms out.


In all honesty Mick never really cared much for animals. They just kind of existed and so long as they didn't cause him problems he didn't really care. He had a soft spot for rats though, even before he was consciously aware of it. But only rats, mice and gerbils and whatnot did nothing for him. Maybe he just related to rats, the way people hated how big and ugly they were, their reputation for being mean and vicious, the way people sneered as they called rats vermin and treated them like dirt. While all a rat wanted- all most things wanted, really -was just to be left alone to do its thing.

At least they're easy to carry, especially after a few days when Mick could consolidated his food enough to free up a couple pockets.

He managed to catch a bird scoping out the rabbit meat a couple days in, not long before Mick was going to toss it. A hawk of some sort, if Mick had to hazard a guess. He fed bits of the meat to the rats just for the irony of it. No other bird came by before he ended up dumping its remains on his trek.

At least wherever he was had some similarities to where he grew up in terms of edible plants. Mick harvested plantain plants, chicory and spatterdock wherever the stream broke off into small pools. They did little to alleviate his hunger. Mick chewed on a spatterdock root, grimacing at the bitterness of it. Cinderella, tucked in between the collar of his jacket and his jaw, pressed her nose up against his ear momentarily.

"I'll stop soon," he told it, absently reaching up to give her a scratch, "and then I'll feed you. Promise."

It squeaked lightly, then settled in.



Mick rolls his eyes but otherwise doesn't turn away from where he's installing an exercise wheel and hammock into the rat cage.

Ray steps further into his room, agog at the length of tubes running maze-like all over the walls, zig-zagging around the pin-ups and guitar and whatnot that was already up. There's a couple smaller cages set up with water bottles, food dishes and beds like way stations. The rat is in one sitting on a shelf, digging out snacks stuffed in a small wiffle ball. "You really went all out!"

"Not gonna keep it cramped and bored in a tiny cage," Mick grunts. "Can't just let it wander the ship, either."

"Yeah but... you gotta admit," Ray grins teasingly, "you're spoiling it."

"Not like I got anyone else wanting my attention."

That, of course, makes Ray's face fall. "You know the team's here for you, right?"

Could've fooled him. Instead, Mick says, "You want my attention, feel free to shrink down and get in a cage."

"Or we could do something where one of us isn't treated like a pet."

"Nope. In a pet-spoiling mood. Take it or leave it, Haircut."

He chuckles. "Later, then. When you won't try to make me drink from a water feeder." Ray pauses, half out the door, before turning around and saying, "I'm really glad you're taking care of the rat."

Mick says nothing and eventually Ray leaves. He's extra attentive as he ties off the hammock. Spoiling the rat is the absolute least Mick can do.


His lighter ran out of fuel. Mick had been careful about it, keeping from pulling it out and flicking it on no matter how much his hands shook, trying to make it last as long as possible. He reserved staring at flames for when he settled for the night and had a proper fire going. The lack of fuel was hardly anything to be alarmed by. He still had his knife- a Swedish FireKnife that his bastard former partner had gotten Mick on his last birthday -and a striking tool in one of his pockets. Worst came to worst, he also knew how to start fires with various rocks and steel as well as with sticks. Though there really wasn't too much to work with for the latter option.

Everything was still empty. Still no sign of civilization and very few creatures that Mick could only find at a distance. He was constantly hungry now and had to take breaks more often because he'd get dizzy. The sun wasn't all that strong but it was enough he could feel the heat through his jacket and could feel his skin beginning to peel along the tops of his ears and head.

Mick knew he should stop feeding the rats. They could probably survive on their own and without sacrificing for them, it would probably give him an extra day or two. Not that it would do him much good if he never found actual food.

He'd been walking through an unchanging landscape for so long Mick almost didn't realize he was coming up on a steep slope, practically marching in his sleep. It wasn't a cliff by any means but Mick would have to pick and climb his way down, leaning one hand against the ground and let gravity slide him from one outcropping to another.

Mick sat on a rock at the top of it for some time, part to catch his breath and part to scan the sprawl below him, hoping to find signs of anything useful. He must have zoned out because the next thing he knew, Scarface bit him hard enough to make Mick gasp. The sky had gone dark and he could no longer make out anything below him. Mick cursed, "Guess we're camping here for the night," and went down to his hands and knees, having to feel out for materials to make a fire.


For the hell of it, Mick's teaching the rat how to high five. It takes some time for him to realize he has to do it with a finger because if he angles his hand too much, it thinks he wants it sit in his palm. Which is good because that's a trick Mick had already taught it but not what he's going for now.

"I'm surprised how much it likes you."

He doesn't look up. He heard Amaya enter the dining area- not the kitchen, since Stein continues to be touchy about that -but didn't say anything as she seemed content to just watch.

"I feed it," he says, running the rat through a couple more tricks before doing another high five. It succeeds and gets a treat. "No surprise there."

"It's not just about food." She walks in, standing on the far side of the table. The rat's ears twitch, head shifting slightly just enough to keep Amaya in its periphery but otherwise unafraid with Mick nearby.

"Also around all the time," he adds with a shrug.

"Not that, either." Mick rolls his eyes. He doesn't know why half the crew likes being so damn cryptic. The action makes Amaya smile. "I just mean that it likes you. It's comfortable around you and trusts you. For a prey animal, that is a big thing."

Mick eyes her, not exactly mistrusting but not sure if he believes this. "What, you talk to animals?"

"No," she admits, slowly reaching out a finger and pausing as the rat hops back slightly, turning its body so it has better sight of her, "but as I'm granted to ability to use various animals' skills, it was in my best interest to study and understand them. Despite what people think, rats aren't dumb. If it thought it had reason to fear you, it wouldn't let you handle it."

As if validating her words, the rat crawls under Mick's hand, pressing its back against his fingers in a quiet demand to be tickled. Mick obliges. "I'm not one for pets," he says, as if it's some kind of defense.

"You certainly took to it readily enough. And it seems to make you happy." She gives him another smile before sweeping out of the room. "I'm glad you found each other."

Happy, he scoffs quietly. Happier maybe but it's not like he could get much lower than he'd been. It was possible- Mick's certainly had enough lows to know it -but just because Mick's been a little better off recently doesn't bring him out of the dark by any means. But it helps. The rat helps and that's more than he can say about anyone else. When Mick looks down, the rat is half asleep under his palm, quietly bruxing its teeth in contentment.


He's stuck. About seventy some feet from the foot of the slope, Mick was stuck. He'd hit a patch of loose rock and pitched forward, rolling until he hit a large outcropping. When he came to the rats were scrambling around him, squeaking and nipping at his ears. He checked them over, checked what survived the fall- not a lot though he hadn't had much to begin with -and nearly howled with pain when he tried to get up. A knee was busted, a shoulder dislocated and his back felt like a twisted mess. He lay, panting, and when the pain ebbed, Mick tried again. Slowly and carefully he pushed his way to his feet. He crawled to the rock and found the flattest surface to slam his shoulder down on it, sliding it back into place. He looked around. There was no way he was trusting himself to slide down as he'd been but there was a rough approximation of a path leading vaguely downward.

The trail took him away from the stream. His route slow going because of his injuries and slowed even more as hunger and dehydration grew. Days in, still not much closer to the ground, Mick ate his gloves in desperation. He dug into his pockets and pulled out every scrape of food he had left, likely eating more lint and dirt than anything else. He pulled up scraggly bits of grass and ate that, gnawed on the hem of him jacket, anything and everything he could think of.

Then, when there was nothing else, not even an ant crawling around at his feet, Mick turned to the rats.

They stuck with him, even though he couldn't feed him anymore, and he didn't know why. His breath rattled around his ears and he reached up to his shoulder where Splinter was. It felt like Mick was watching from outside of his body as he grabbed the rat and stuffed its head into his mouth and bit down. His other hand shoved into his pocket to trap the rat inside there- Scarface -and the other three scattered. After Splinter, Mick ate Scarface in the same way, its tiny claws drawing lines across his mouth, struggling so much Mick had to bash it against a rock to kill it first. Minutes after he finished the second, Mick vomited them both up.

He curled up on the ground, covered in blood and bile and bits of fur, jaw and teeth aching from crunching down on bone, now completely and utterly alone and he began to cry.


The others develop an annoying habit of waltzing into Mick's room whenever they feel like seeing the rat. To be fair, Mick supposes he should start keeping his door closed so they can't get in but still. They don't even pause for an acknowledgment, just come in like it's any other communal room on the ship.

It's Sara this time around. Mick's reclined in his chair, watching the rat on its wheel like it's more interesting than television- which, depending on the time period, is accurate -and Sara sits herself down on the edge of Mick's bed. "So how are things in Redwall?"

"Well enough."

"Gotta admit, I'm impressed. I wasn't actually sure how long you'd keep this up." Mick keeps his focus on the rat. Otherwise he'll have to look at Sara and then he'll start getting mad. The only reason anyone comes to see him is to make sure the rat's okay. Unbothered by the silence, she says warmly, "I'm glad you're looking after it." That gets a noncommittal grunt and Sara watches him watching the rat and comes to the wrong conclusion, voice softening, "If anything happens to you, we'll take care of it. I promise."

His jaw clenches tight, biting back the sudden flare of anger. They'll take care of it, huh? Watch out for it and soothe it if Mick can't? Does that mean Mick rates lower than a rat to them? Because they sure as hell haven't been doing that for him, haven't even tried to talk him out of getting himself killed. And what does that make Len if they're willing to take care of a rat in Mick's memory but will let Mick wallow in depression in his partner's?

Mick's long gotten used to the knowledge that few people will ever care for him, that he's next to nothing to anyone. That he's just a tool people only bother with if he screws up. It still hurts, though, from people that's supposed to be his crew. To make it worse, Mick wouldn't have actually minded warming up to this particular group. But Ray, Sara, Amaya- all of them -are so quick to turn their backs on him after a brief showing of kindness.

No, he thinks privately, he can't trust them to look after his rat if he dies. Not the way they should. Paying just enough attention to ensure it stays alive isn't nearly good enough and it deserves so much better than what any of them can give it.

He closes his eyes and settles in like he's about to take a nap. "Let's not find out if you'll make good on that promise."


Mick had stopped moving. He was hungry, hurt, exhausted and dehydrated. He had no shade from the sun, his pockets had run empty, his throat dry and didn't have the strength to make fire to help ease the slowly creeping panic and despair that was clawing at his mind.

Fuck, he didn't want to die. At least not like this. He laid there, limbs trembling and weak, and wished so damn hard for Len to come back to him. He sniffled, pitiful in his misery, dry eyed only because he didn't have any water to spare. He wanted Len. Wanted to see him so fucking bad. Beg him for forgiveness just so he wouldn't die like this.

There was a squeak and when Mick's eyes focused he saw a tiny rat- just barely larger than a mouse -peeking out from under his hand. Cinderella, he thought. He didn't know for sure, might've been making it up except he could feel its fur and heat when he grabbed it. Felt it struggle in his hand, squeaking louder.

He didn't want to but he couldn't stop himself. "I'm sorry," he told it in a broken whisper, bringing the frantic creature to his face, "I'm sorry."


Mick stretches out on his bed, the rat a curled ball in the center of his chest, contently dozing as Mick strokes a finger down its back. He'd gone through a litany of names- Ratigan, who was among Mick's favorite Disney villains, Remy because Lisa would have laughed, Templeton, just to see if someone would comment, and dozens of others just to keep from even considering some sort of reference to Len. He eventually settled on Newt. Amaya hadn't gotten the reference- she's forty years early for that -but the others either looked at him like he was a simpleton naming the creature after a completely different animal or like he'd gotten bored of thinking of a name and picked whatever word first came to mind.

Len would've gotten the reference and the reasoning behind it. Newt, the little girl from Aliens- one of the few movies both Mick and Len love -who managed to break through Ripley's caustic shell.

Newt stretches out so it can lay flat, soaking in Mick's heat and Mick watches as Newt blinks, long and slow a couple times, nose giving a final twitch before finally falling asleep. Mick thinks of Miss Bianca, of Cinderella, Scarface, Splinter, even Dillon and Scudder.

"No one's gonna hurt you," he swears quietly and Newt just gives a tiny sigh. "Not me. Not anyone. I promise."
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