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I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be. --Douglas Adams
Mickey Smith had a very clear idea of who he was. Who he'd always been. Mickey Smith-- Rose's friend. Rose's boyfriend. A bit useless, but a good bloke at heart. Mickey Smith, mechanic and football supporter. Mickey Smith, second best. Second best to Jimmy Stone, that bastard. Second best to the Doctor and to Rose herself. Mickey Smith, the tin dog.
Rickey Smith had never defined himself as a subset of Rose Tyler. Rickey Smith was no one's second best. Rickey was manly in a way that Mickey, with his power tools and football dreams and cowardice had never been. Thought he could never be. Which is why Mickey never gave a second thought to Rickey's relationship with Jake. All blokes together, saving the world. That's what it was all about.
The saving the world bits were a bit of alright, though. He was actually good at it, something he and Rickey had in common, and it didn't take him long to learn to use the big guns he and Jake confiscated in Paris when they shut down the Cyber factory there.
It was the night they'd blown that factory to bits, the orange flames lighting the famous Paris skyline (and Mickey'd only lived in that world a few weeks and already he saw the zepplins as part of the cityscape) that Mickey realized there were other things than weapons and courage and self-respect that set Rickey apart from him.
In the midst of cheers and champagne popping and the hefting of guns and glasses alike in victory, under the orange sky, Jake, blokey, competent, deadly Jake, kissed Mickey full on the mouth. It wasn't a friendly kiss, or some sort of new world bloke to bloke kiss. It was a kiss with intent.
The worst of it was that just when Mickey unfroze, Jake pulled away. The look on his face-- pained, horrified-- made Mickey want to reach out to him with a compassion that trancended blokeness. But Jake took a deliberate step back. His voice was rough and would have been lost in the chaos around them if Mickey hadn't been so focused.
"I forgot. Sorry." He shook his head and disappeared into the crowd.
Mickey had never felt so alone. Or so confused.
He tried to reconcile his image of Rickey, butch, brave Rickey, with this ideas of men who kissed men. Like Jake had kissed him -- him, Mickey, but also, apparently, Rickey. Mickey felt his world tilting a little more and resented it; he had just found his feet and once again he was off balance.
He faded into the crowd, giant gun held loosely in his hands. He needed advice. He needed to talk to someone who could straighten the world out again, who could define him. In this world, though, there's no one. No Rose, and he was questioning all of his assumptions about Rickey. There was no one but himself to consult, and that scared Mickey even more than being kissed by his de-facto best mate.
He walked through the streets of Paris all night. When he made it back to the van in the dim first light of a smokey dawn, he had decided. Mickey wasn't Rose's shadow here, but he wasn't Rickey's either. He was his own man, and he set about to find out who that man was.
The van was cold and empty when Mickey unlocked it and crawled into the back, stowing his weapon and collapsing, exhausted, on the sleeping bag he hadn't bothered to roll up the night before. Jake's sleeping bag was rolled, neat and un-used and while Mickey stared at it, he couldn't help but think about weeks of sleeping less than a foot away from a ... a what? Mickey thought of and rejected several words he knew his mates back at the pub in the other world would have used. They sounded petty and hurtful and overall inaccurate when used to describe Jake. Jake who was one of the deadliest people Mickey knew.
Pretty though, he had to admit, and wondered if he would have noticed without the kiss. He would have. If he were honest with himself, he would have admitted he already had.
He drifted off before he could come to any conclusions and was only roused when the van shook with the sharp sound of the driver's side door shutting. He grumbled and rolled over to stare blearily at Jake-- definitely pretty, though he looked like hell. The smell of coffee filled the van and Mickey struggled to his feet, clomping through the back of the van to drop into the passenger seat.
Life-altering realization or not, you didn't stop saving the world over one exuberant kiss. Jake passed him a coffee and a croissant and started the engine without a word. Mickey felt a surge of relief that some rules of blokedom held true, and that Jake apparently had no intention of talking about kisses or feelings.
Paris led to Brussels (they got to that factory before it was activated, and a few well-placed broadcasts and bombs took care of it with no fuss at all) and then to Amsterdam, where it took days to even locate the Cyber factory.
They took a break from the van and found a hostel-- it was dorm-style, but clean and relatively empty; the manager told them that people for the most part were saying out of cities after watching the news out of London. He had little advice for where to find a conversion facility, and looked askance at them for asking.
They hit the streets and while travelers might have been staying out of the city, it was clear the locals were making the most of life. Mickey felt awkward and out of place with his grim face and dark thoughts. He also found himself noticing men everywhere, hyper-aware of them. He had to struggle not to glance at Jake whenever he saw men walking closely, kissing in doorways, touching casually, and, sometimes, with intent. Rickey wouldn't, he was sure, have gotten distracted by such things when there was serious work to be done. Then again, and he risked one long look at Jake, who was determinedly marching along the pavement, sloping jaw set, maybe Rickey would have been utterly distracted.
They left Amsterdam in a blaze of burning circuitry and Mickey felt like it was becoming a habit, dashing to the van and tossing their guns before authorities could get organized to chase them. He ignored the spike of anxiety in his stomach when Jake grinned at him, all teeth and flushed cheeks and dancing eyes. "Preachers, 4, Cyber-losers, 0" Mickey quipped to remind himself of the important things, and they're off again.
Cities blended together in Mickey's memory as weeks became months and the tally of cities liberated from the threat of Cybermen grew. They abandoned the battered van in Rome (Cybermen in the catacombs, and Mickey almost felt bad about the underground firestorm that destroyed relics and metal men alike. Almost.) By then they were official Torchwood agents and the solider boys on their military transports looked at them with awe and called them "sir." It made Mickey feel both ten feet tall and shockingly, stomach-turningly terrified all at the same time. It was a feeling he was getting used to.
Jake, of course, took it in stride with a charming smile and a smart remark and Mickey tried not to want to punch the corporal who smiled back and laughed a little too hard.
When they got to Athens, Mickey went on the pull with a group of UNIT soldiers. The dark-eyed Greek girl who took him home to her flat was the hottest bird Mickey'd ever slept with, and he was happy to realize that still mattered to him. Still, he determinedly didn't look at Jake the next day when one of his drinking buddies brought it up with good natured ribbing and a punch to the arm. It was all he could do to smile back and say something appropriate about the man's mother and his chances with her.
They trained the UNIT platoon while liberating Tel Aviv, and by Cairo, they were ready to head back to London when Pete had some important global warming something or other to tell them about.
When the plane stopped in Madrid to refuel, they snuck away to end it like they began, running like hell from an explosion, their guns lit by orange flames and no one to report to before they hit the bars.
There was hell to pay from UNIT command, of course, and Mickey could see Pete on the screen looking torn between pride and exasperation. When the UNIT captain turned to address Director Tyler, Jake caught Mickey's eye and his stoic warrior mask cracked into Mickey's favorite impish grin. He returned Jake's wink and considered that maybe he was in real trouble when it came to his fellow Preacher.
Working for Torchwood in London was nothing like the year they were gone. Pete had really made something of their-- and when did it become his, Mickey's, and not Rickey's?-- resistance movement. He and Jake had an office with desks and computers and went home each night to separate flats and after two months of hacking Lumic's systems while Jake prepared reports and presentations on how dangerous the Cybermen were even without Lumic in charge, Mickey was really starting to miss the van.
Over Friday drinks one night at the pub, he and Jake decided to request a transfer to a field unit. Pete put them in charge of one, and, to Mickey's shock, he officially outranked Jake. It was easy not to think about it, though, as they threw themselves into training the new team (codename: Preachers).
When Mickey went undercover at the other Torchwood, it didn't even occur to him to want to stay in "his" universe. He did take Jake to a football game and his favorite old pub during their off-time, though. He ran into a couple of old friends and stumbled over how to introduce Jake, settling on "partner" and wincing when Jake looked at him sharply in surprise before turning on the charm and explaining that he and Mickey were cops, which amused the hell out of Mickey's school friends. They left after a few pints, not nearly enough to explain how frequently their shoulders brushed on the walk or how close they sat on the tube ride back to Torchwood Tower.
After it all went to hell and the dust settled, Mickey realized that he had never in his life been so happy to see Jackie Tyler. It only took him a moment to realize that he was happier to see Jackie than he was to see Rose. Rose was, on average, a much better listener, but Jackie had always listened to Mickey, even when Rose was off traveling around the universe. Anyway, Rose was in no state to care about Mickey's problems; even weeks after her arrival, she'd barely left her room and Mickey had to work hard to be upbeat around her. Rose might not have been the center of his world any more, and wasn't that a hell of a thing, but she was still his best friend.
It took Mickey two weeks of regular after-work visits to the Tylers' mansion before he worked up the courage to pull Jackie aside after talking to Rose-- at Rose, really-- about his day. Jackie took one look at him, shifting from foot to foot in her drawing room doorway, and went to put the kettle on. Familiar, comforting minutes later, she handed him a mug of tea and said, "Mickey Smith, I've known you since you were knee high to a cat. Whatever it is, just have out with it and we'll figure it out after."
Gratitude loosed his tongue and he blurted, "I think I'm in love with a bloke."
He fumbled with one of the fancy linens that came with the tea, dropping it twice before handing it to Jackie, who was glaring at him in between coughing fits. Once she recovered, he shrank into his chair as if he were five again under the strength of her glare. "Next time, wait for me to put my tea down!" He knew he'd gone round the bend when even Jackie's sniping was comforting.
"Sorry, Jackie, I just," he shrugged helplessly, "don't know what to do."
"First," she grinned conspiratorially, "tell me all about him."
Mickey groaned and dropped his head into his hands, speaking through his fingers. "I knew this was a bad idea."
"Alright, I'll lay off, though," Jackie looked at him sharply, but her mouth was twitching in barely-restrained laughter, "this makes me feel a lot better about all that time you and Rose spent at your flat."
"I'm not gay!" Mickey protested, "but I think Rickey, who was me in this universe, might have been. His boyfriend is my field partner and I--" he paused and then rushed through it, "understand what he saw in him."
He almost missed Jackie's brief look of compassion he was studying his tea so closely.
"Oh Mickey, you know you don't have to be him. That's the first thing Pete and I had to agree to. We're not replacements."
"I know that. But you're with him anyway-- don't deny it, I can tell."
"But not because we have to be," Jackie protested, and later Mickey would remember the blush on her face, showing through her foundation, and feel smug.
"Exactly. Jake and I have been saving the world for the past three years. He was the first person to stop calling me Rickey. I like him, and," his face was hot, "I don't know what to do about it." He stumbled through the words, trying not to think about how gay it was to ask your best girl's mum for advice about men. "I'm ok with girls, especially now," he indicated his field agent fatigues, "but I don't know the first thing about," he could feel himself self-combusting with embarrassment, "dating men."
"So you thought you'd ask an expert?" Jackie said sharply.
Mickey wished he could say it was bravery rather than his brain having melted out of his ears that prompted him to respond immediately, "Yes-- no! I mean--" he jerked his gaze up to her, figuring it was best to meet death head on, only to find her grinning at him.
She waved off his protest. "Can't deny it, can I? I figure it can't be too different from asking out a girl. Dinner, movie, and then snog him at his door. If he offers you coffee, you did alright. If not, pretend you were practicing mouth to mouth." Mickey looked at her incredulously and she shrugged, "Works for me."
On the way home, Mickey realized that just saying it out loud had been way more helpful than Jackie's advice. He took it to heart anyway, and, though his heart was in his throat the next day at work when he asked Jake if he wanted to grab a bite, he must have pulled off casual because Jake didn't hesitate a moment before agreeing.
His cool exterior was almost certainly blown when he showed up at Jake's to walk him to a restaurant with actual table service, but Mickey was too worried about the snogging portion of the plan to spare any anxiety for the calculating look Jake gave him when he answered the door and saw Mickey in a shirt with a collar. Thankfully, conversation over dinner was as easy as it always was with Jake, and he didn't mention the bottle of wine Mickey ordered except to say how much he liked it. It turned his mouth red by the second glass, and Mickey had a hard time not staring.
They chose an action movie, something with lots of explosions, and Jake kept his knee pressed to Mickey's the whole time. Mickey's breath caught every time their hands brushed in the tub of popcorn. Thank god action movies are the same in both universes, so Mickey had no trouble keeping up critiquing the fight scenes and realism of the explosions on the walk back to Jake's flat.
Mickey hesitated on the step and took a deep breath, steeling himself for the big finish. "Jake, I--" he looked up and caught the smirk on Jake's face just before he was being thoroughly kissed.
It was nothing like that first kiss in Paris-- it was slow and deliberate and, Mickey thought, a little bit hesitant. It was the hottest thing he could think of, and he threaded his hand into Jake's hair and tilted his head just so that when he opened his mouth he could lick Jake's lower lip and, no, that groan was the hottest thing he could think of. He couldn't resist taking half a step forward and pressing his body against Jake's. He was rewarded with Jake's tongue in his mouth and hands on his hips pulling him closer, not at all hesitant with Mickey an active participant in what may have been the best snog of his life.
When Jake pulled away, Mickey made a noise that had to be called a whimper, but he opened his eyes to Jake's flushed face and dark pupils and decided he didn't mind.
"Mickey," Jake's said, voice gratifyingly rough, "Mickey, are you sure?" He was flushed and beautiful, thoroughly kissed, but Mickey knew this was serious.
He pulled back a little so he didn't give into the temptation to rock his hips against Jake as an answer. Instead, he trailed his thumb over Jake's cheek and said, "I'm not sure I've ever been more sure and," he grinned sheepishly and lifted one shoulder, "less sure, too."
Jake's smile lit up his face and Mickey let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"In that case, want to come up for a coffee?"
Much later, Mickey brought Jackie a whole box of chocolates along with his weekly gift for Rose, and didn't even mind her cackling and teasing about his high-necked jumper.