Work Text:
The chores list is written two weeks in advance, and updated every Wednesday. It comes with a little flexibility, in case of missions or injuries, and has some bias for interests and talents. Everyone is supposed to do something, amounting to a couple of off-call periods week; one or two each will involve assisting the kitchens, the rest could be anything from laundry to grocery runs to cleaning. Tech repairs come under usual duties for the engineering team, and the scientists clean their lab, but there's a whole damned airship, and fifty-odd people's worth of living.
It's a little like prison chores, except not in a prison, and everyone from the lowest to the highest is on the rota, and it is Felps not Cellbit who gets priority on kitchen duty.
So, maybe more like the orphanage.
Mike is yet to work out who actually writes the schedule, but thinks it might be one of Tubbo's engineers from the constant grease stains on the papers. Whomever it is, they do at least know to keep him and Pac close. Sometimes they share grocery runs, or kitchen shifts, or assigned cleaning the same, large room. Or adjacent smaller ones.
This week, it is laundry instead; Pac has the linens and other domestic laundry, while Mike has the clothing.
It is the best job, and also the worst job. The ship itself has no laundry room and only just enough water for life, tech, and showers; laundry, like groceries, involves a trip down to the land. One of the resistance camps - not one of the important ones, really - is in the ruins of an old industrial unit. One of its prized possessions? A full sized industrial launderette.
The Order's engineers maintenance it and their scientists provide detergent, and in return they can make use of the equipment. The equipment was loud when new, and needs ear defenders now it is old. One of the locals taught them how to operate it, and supervises the pair, but otherwise its the two of them, and two trolleys full of laundry.
At least Mike's with Pac, though; they're the only two people who can talk without sign language in the place.
While they are split as clothes and domestics, most of the machinery takes two to operate anyway. It's a little different to the equipment for the prison launderette, the place they learnt to use these sorts of things; there, you needed four people to operate the machinery, and a guard to every team breathing down your neck.
It is just before dawn when Rosaline lets them in. She doesn't stay, knowing they know what they're doing and being needed on the farm, but she gives Mike the keys as she leaves. The trolleys are upended in the sorting area, where Pac gets to work. Mike leaves him to it, already over and prepping the machinery; there was a mission recently, so there is more bloody clothing than normal. Everything for the infirmary has to go separately, as does the lab equipment. Jumpsuits all get thrown in as one - or at least sorted by staining not colour - though people's nightwear, underwear, and off-duty clothing still need sorting.
They try not to pay too much attention to what belongs to whom, but sometimes it is obvious
As he thinks that Pac, with cracking, elbow-high rubber gloves, mentally laughs and nudges him. Mike turns, and looks, and sees him holding up one of Roier's jumpsuits, utterly soaked in dried mud.
That's going to be a bitch to get clean.
But, the memory of him falling face first into the bog is pretty funny.
Pac gets a little shove back, the memory attached, and they laugh together. With the machinery Mike cannot even hear things played in his ear defenders, but Pac's are wired up to an old MP3 player. Practiced at this, Mike slips into Pac's mind as he works, the pair of them both humming along to whatever music the original owner was into; they had found it in some rubble one time, and kept it about since. They added some of their own music, sure, but leave the original playlist intact. A little tribute to the owner, or something.
By the time the washers are ready for use, Mike has a long set of safety keys on a lanyard, and the mp3 player is playing some old Korean pop music. He double checks everything is working, then does a quick maintenance check for the other machines they'll need later, and heads back to Pac.
Pac gives him a wave, barely even thinking as he gestures Mike towards the largest pile. It is already more than even these machines can take so Mike splits it, weighs it, and dumps it on a cart. He drags it back through and loads up the first machine, measuring out the detergent for the combination of weight and soiling.
The bed linens are some of the most annoying, but also the easiest; standard formula for the cleaning products, and just blast them on the highest heat.
With a couple of trips all of linens are washing, and Mike is caught up to the finished piles. So, he sits opposite Pac, presses their toes together, and helps.
Each piece gets checked, and judged, stain remover gets applied to the worst of the damage, and a few stitches so damage will not tear more. Someone else will fix it up, but they mark the damage in bright threads just to be sure someone will.
With each load added to the machines, things get louder and louder. The launderette draws water from the river, at least, so there are no worries about that.
Still, they are Pac and Mike - they settle into one another, not gossiping so much as resting into one another's memories. Pac starts examining the upgrades Mike and Tubbo made to the propulsion system - Mike feels him turn it over and curiously examine the changed in the memory even as he swims in the thoughts of laughter, and sparring with Etoiles, and tales of nonsense after. They are not apart often, but even when they are, those parts of themselves remain shared.
They share it anyway. It is easier, like this, not to fall into memories of before, of the same work on different machines and with a guard breathing down their backs. Where if they were too slow they would be punished, but too fast and... Well, Pac was not the only person they knew who lost a limb in prison.
And the military wasn't much better; nobody breathing down your back, but surrounded by idiots who had no idea how to operate anything instead.
Here, though, just them, and with the launderette all day? The heat might be a lot, and the sound is loud, but they can go just as fast or as slowly as they want. Safety first, unlike with chores before.
Soon all of the machines are full. There are still a few more runs worth of laundry, but nowhere to put it yet. They pile it up in its groupings, and Mike scribbles notes on the whiteboard with the chemical maths.
With a bit of time between loads, but unable to leave the machines unattended, they take the one bit of time they will have to rest. There is a bench by the entrance where they sit, hand in hand, and watch the machines go.
It is hot - extremely hot - in here. They both have masks and ear defenders for safety, and neither is helping with that. Mike shoves a straw under his mask, using it to sip at his already warm water, while Pac just sits, and sweats, and Mike can feel Pac's mind drift into nothing but a slight ooze.
Stupid Pac.
Mike flops against his side, tucking his head onto his shoulder. Pac startles a little, drawing himself back in.
Back in, and then he rests his head atop Mike's, and shuts his eyes.
It's five minutes. They have nothing to tell each other that they do not already know, having swum in one another their entire remembered lives. Instead they just rest, preparing for the work to come as sweat drips together, and they press their heads together. Mike wraps himself around Pac and Pac wraps himself around Mike, and they float in the nothing between. Not one, not two, some combined sum of their parts which overlay and shift and rest.
And then the first of the washing machines pings to say it is done - washed, spun, and drained.
It is not the first they loaded, but rather one of the sets of clothing; bedlinens take a longer, hotter cycle, and hospital or lab gear even hotter still. Bleach, too; nothing like bleach and boiling water to sterilise clothing.
Neither Pac nor Mike open their eyes, but they stare at each other nonetheless.
It is Pac's body which rises, driven by an amalgamation of them both, dragging themself over to the washing machine, swaying slightly to the music in the headphones even as the other machines try to drown it out.
They collect up the laundry, moving it to the dryers. It is not a tumblr dryer here, not really, but first a press and then a heat rack.
Mike pulls himself out of Pac, and pulls himself to his feet. As Pac untangles the laundry, he grabs another of the piles, and sets it up to start washing.
It is loud, it is so loud, and gets only louder as more and more of the machinery is turned on.
The press and the rack take two to safely handle; it's another safety key needed. Pac is the better height for it, but still dancing; Mike nudged him over to the other body, and takes over.
Pac takes Mike's body to the other side, soul dancing too much to be trusted to keep his fingers from the rollers; Mike in Pac's body feeds the items in, and Pac in Mike's body collects them on the other side. Once collected they are laid out to, for better words, bake on a rack over a heated plate; there are tumble driers here, but they need the clothing to last. And, well, it's only fifty people's worth of laundry, not an entire hotel.
They are the two most dangerous jobs, and so Mike turns off the music. Pac keeps singing in his mind - music to focus is common, for sure - while Mike zeroes in with absolute intent.
There is also the other bonus of doing this in each other's bodies; Pac and Mike might be reckless with their own health, but they would never dream of getting each other hurt.
By the time one load of pressing is done, another few machines are ready. Running all of the machines should really have a fleet of people on the press and rack, but there are only the two; Pac and Mike pick up the pace.
Then, once there is space, Mike takes Pac's faster body to collect and change over the laundry, while Pac uses Mike's to take the dry items from the racks.
This is not a launderette with machinery to do everything, but a set of metal frames and levels helps keep the folding neat.
And, once folded, it gets put back in the trolley; lab and kitchen and lab wear get their own bags, but everything is tossed in to sort later.
It takes hours. By the time everything is clean and folded and dry, Mike has no idea which body he is in, only that it is dizzy and thirsty and tired, and he even feel the sweat in his shoes. The other body catches him, and they curl up on the floor by the trolleys.
"... I should get everything turned off," Mike says, not moving. "You up for it, bro?"
Pac in the other body groans, and shakes his head. Pain spikes and flashes, and Mike eases himself back together until he is entirely contained within only his body - then nudges Pac out of it.
Back in his own body, Pac curls up and sips at another bottle of water; Mike leaves him to sort himself out, and picks back up the keys.
Turning things off is much faster than turning them on. Checking everything is correctly turned off and returned to its proper place takes longer, but not so long.
Upon returning, Pac looks a little more alive. Mike accepts the water bottle, finishing it off as Pac double checks his working, and also that they have everything loaded up.
And then... Niki will come get them when she comes and gets them. The laundry stays - loaded back onto the trolleys - in the storage room, while the two head outside. Rosaline takes back her keys, and the two of them find somewhere quiet to sit.
Not that anywhere in this camp is exactly quiet, but away from the machinery it could not possibly be called loud.
"I prefer groceries," Pac says.
"Hm?" The statement does not confuse Mike so much, rather than the fact there is talking at all. "We actually get to see sunlight then."
"Right, not in a warehouse all day. Again."
"At least we do daytime missions, usually; Bad doesn't see the sun on missions or on chores."
"Pretty sure he never saw sun before the invasion either, though."
Pac giggles, Mike grins, and they sprawl themselves out across the decaying tarmac to wait.