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It was embarrassing, to put it simply.
A few months ago, Minnie had accidentally found out more about Mickey’s more… childish tendencies, the type of tendencies he couldn’t possibly have blamed to be due to his job as a children’s cartoon character.
If it were Goofy, or Donald, or any other one of his friends, maybe Mickey could've convinced them enough that what they saw was a figment of their imagination.
But Minnie? How was he supposed to explain to her why her adult boyfriend was sitting on the floor of his room alone at night, cross-legged in a hotdog onesie, Duffy in his arms, a coloring-book on the carpet in front of him, and— worst of all —a pacifier in his mouth?
To put it simply, it was embarrassing!
“I… It’s not—” Mickey sputtered, before realizing his words were being muffled by the very damning binkie he put in his mouth, tearing it off immediately, “It’s not what it looks like I was just…” Mickey trailed off, panicked.
What was he doing? He couldn’t possibly talk his way out of something like this! This… heinous behavior.
Oh, surely Minnie might’ve been thinking about 10 different ways to cut ties with him after witnessing such a horrid sight. Then, she’d likely later tell the press of how much of a pervert and weirdo the face of Disney, Mickey Mouse, was! His career and future had just been ruined right then and there. Goodbye, everybody, surely they wouldn’t want to be associated with such a terrible person after Minnie breaks the bad news to them!—
“Mickey, are you alright?” She asked, her voice gentle, as if she didn't want to risk breaking him like glass if she raised it any higher.
Mickey stared down at the coloring book in front of him, the crudely colored picture of a house blurred in front of him dangerously “Minnie, I’m…”
Mickey was then interrupted by a pair of gentle gloved hands tilting his head upwards to meet her worried gaze, gingerly wiping a tear that had trailed down his cheek.
“Oh, my dear… Why are you crying?” She said, her voice sweet and gentle, like a lullaby made to comfort.
Despite this, Mickey found himself choking out a sob anyways, “I… I thought you’d… hate me,” he whispered, “Don’t I look absolutely ridiculous, Minnie?”
Mickey could see the blurred form of Minnie through his tears, shaking her head and leaning closer towards him to touch her forehead towards his, “Now, when have I ever said I thought you looked ridiculous, my love?” She asked.
“Just look at me…” Mickey said, ashamed, “I’m s’posed to be an adult— the face of a global company, for crying out loud, but…” Mickey’s gaze travelled back down to avoid Minnie’s, now focusing on his hands fidgeting with Duffy’s fur, “I can’t even be a normal person.” He sniffled.
“Mickey…”
“—Just look at me, Minnie! I’m playing with dolls and toddler books like I’m five!” Mickey suddenly yelled, not paying mind to the ink now dripping down his forehead, “Don’t lie to me and say you don’t see me differently, I—“
Mickey curled into himself, his face buried into his hands and his shoulders trembling as he failed to suppress his tears, “…I know I’m disgusting I just— I want to be left alone, please. I’m sorry.” He pleaded, his voice wavering, now fully surrendering to allow ink to fully melt down his body.
Mickey fully expected to hear the thumps of her house slippers against the floor sound away from him, and later hear the telltale click of his room door closing shut. Instead, he felt the soft fabric of her gloves gently pry his hands away from his face, dripping with ink.
Mickey tried so hard to keep his eyes shut— to keep himself from seeing the disappointed look he was sure to see if he did —but when he finally did, all that met him was a gentle, pained gaze filled with nothing but worry.
Surely that wasn’t what he saw. Surely she hated him just as much as he hated himself for indulging in such a strange act?
“Mickey, I’m not going anywhere,” she said as she wiped the dripping ink on his forehead, not paying mind to how it stained her previously pristine white gloves.
A vague memory graced Mickey’s mind on how much she usually insisted on keeping it clean.
“And I would never think you’re disgusting, my love. I’ll never let such a word grace my mind when I think of you,” she reassured, now both her gloved hands cupping his cheeks, “not then, not now, not ever. Do you hear me?”
Mickey felt his throat tighten up with shame anyways, “Even when—” he choked out a sob, embarrassed at having Minnie not only discover his shameful tendencies, but also witness him in such a pathetic state, “Even when I’m like this?”
Mickey felt the pressure of a kiss on his forehead, “Even when you’re like anything, Mickey.”
Mickey was then pulled into a sudden embrace into Minnie’s arms, and while wound tightly around his stiff body, still held a sense of tenderness that reminded him of the feeling he got when Oswald would hug him after the arguments they had as children, where he would be upset for Mickey’s safety and stubbornness, rather than Mickey himself.
“Don’t you forget it.” She said, hushed by his ear.
After Minnie had wiped the rest of the ink dripping down Mickey’s face with her skirt and gloves— in which Mickey had repeatedly insisted she let him clean himself up instead of having her ruin her clean dress and gloves, but was firmly told to ‘hush up’ and ‘let her take care of him’ —he found himself curled up on the living room sofa, still fidgeting with Duffy’s fur and sucking slowly on his binkie, staring at nothing in particular ahead of him.
Mickey had previously been wearing his onesie while coloring on his own: a red hotdog footsie that Donald had mockingly bought him once for a secret-Santa that was surprisingly a perfect fit on him. He didn’t want to admit it to Donald, but as brash and obnoxious the patterns were, it held itself as one of Mickey’s most prized possessions, joke gift or not.
Regardless, Mickey was almost on the way to changing out of it before moving to accompany Minnie in the living room, as he had the tendency to stain his clothes with his own ink if he didn’t manage his emotions well enough, such as previously, and Minnie was about to let him change back into casual wear, but when he offhandedly expressed to Minnie that he had no other footsies to wear, she suddenly started insisting that the ink marks weren’t as egregious and that he should keep it on.
Against Mickey’s conscience, then internally screaming that he should change out of his clothes and be the adult he should be, he listened and kept it on anyway.
Mickey felt the couch dip beside him, and he turned to face it, gazing at Minnie as she sat.
He took note of how beautiful it was that despite the darkness of the room, the light of the television flickering across them allowed him to only properly focus on her.
Minnie casually clicked on a children’s cartoon before shifting away to fumble with something Mickey couldn't quite see from where he sat.
He chose to not pay too much mind into the soft, lighthearted music playing from the children’s cartoon, and instead leaned curiously to watch Minnie, only to see a….
Baby bottle. Filled with milk.
Mickey sounded a hum of confusion (though it was more like a choked noise of surprise), trying not to redden at how Minnie had picked specifically a baby bottle with his face plastered on it; another one of Donald’s purposefully provocative gifts made to poke fun at Mickey, but while being completely unaware of his secret acts of regression at home.
Was she teasing him for this too or not? Was what he couldn’t properly tell.
Minnie caught his flustered expression and giggled, “Sorry, I know this was Donald’s but I think it’s quite cute, don’t you think?”
‘No, no, no!!’ Was what Mickey thought, ‘Stop that!’
The bottle’s design was cute but it was specifically one that tacked on an illustration of himself as a baby on its side. Mickey always found himself a little shy whenever he had to approve such merchandise ideas, which was exactly the very reason why he had so much memorabilia of it at home, as once Donald had caught onto this flaw of his very quickly, he did not let Mickey forget.
“Don’t be shy, my dear,” Minnie reassured, gently coaxing him to lay on her lap, which was met with very little resistance, “Just let me take care of you, you work too hard for us.”
Minnie shook the bottle a couple of more times on her hand as she gazed affectionately at Mickey, her free gloved finger tracing along his cheek lightly. Mickey did his best not to lean into her touch and failed, opting to nuzzle into her hand.
Mickey then felt a tug on his pacifier, whining quietly when Minnie popped it out of his mouth, “Shh… I know, Mickey, but I promise you’ll have it right back after you’re fed, alright?” Minnie reassured, and guided the bottle to Mickey’s mouth, where he hesitatingly took it.
‘This is wrong’ Mickey thought as he drank, gazing longingly up at Minnie’s gentle eyes, ‘…is it?’
“Hm…” Mickey hummed, his gloved hand reaching to grab onto Minnie’s free hand.
Was it wrong for him to be taken care of by someone he loved? Was it wrong for him to indulge in particularly childish behaviors for comfort? Normally Mickey would dwell on such thoughts to the point of tears, but having Minnie be so open and gentle with him made it all too insignificant to be worried about.
Why should he care? She doesn’t, and that’s all that matters right now to him.
Mickey feels his eyes slowly drift shut as he feels Minnie’s finger trace shapes into his palm as he continues drinking.
He thinks about how nice it would be if everything would stay like this forever.