goddamngrenades | Voicemail 2.0

He's not well. Well, he had a good run there, but it was only inevitable that he'd get sick again. Although the dry rash spots are new; hasn't seen that since flying into a very unfortunate part of space leaving dry cracks 'like old oil paintings' he'd heard... The itchy eyes make him think allergies, and lord, that would be terrible if they'd made a return.

It's worrying, but it certainly isn't keeping him in bed. Malcolm hates being inactive even when sick. Besides, lunch won't just make itself, and he's not about to have York go get something for him. Just whip something up, pop it in the oven...no big deal. He's still got an appetite. Even if it still isn't for meat.

The problem starts with the sticky oven door. He's been meaning to get that greased up and seen to since before heading down into the sewer, but, well, then the sewer happened. Damn thing doesn't want to open. And takes a good deal of tugging to wrench open.

When it persists on sticking, he lets out an exasperated sigh, thinks he should just go get a little oil, and--

--something else takes over, something mindless and aggressive and willing to take out such aggression on the first annoying thing it sees. The oven door? Gets a robotic leg through it. Sweeps an arm across the nearest counter, knocking spices, a container of to-be-baked goodness, a knife rack to the floor. Cabinets get ripped open, fragile plates and glasses grabbed and thrown. Whatever is inside him is angry, but at what, nobody could say. Stepping on the broken shards doesn't help any when it beats the toaster into submission, or when he goes a little nutty at the shiny fridge and the reflection in the chrome surface. Whatever it is is about to take a good swing at the fridge and start making their food situation pretty nasty when--

--grease that damn door up. ...Wait...what...just happened...?

He'd heard the initial clatter. The damn oven door sticking again and he sighs, rolling off the sofa to go help. He really needs to grease the damn thing up but then there's more than a clatter, there's a goddamn cacophony and Mal is not so quietly losing his SHIT in the kitchen. Duke's scrabbled his way under the sofa and York- he's never seen Malcolm like this. It doesn't make sense it's just a goddamn door and he manages to duck the first thing thrown.

Tries to get in close, tries to calm him down, all open hands and soft voice and shh, boo, shh, it's okay come on just talk about this-

Which is how he gets the mug right in the face and the follow through kick (not with the bionic leg thank god) that knocks his legs out from under him. Swearing on the floor he shoves himself away till, well. Till it passes. Pressed up against the wall, arms up, bleeding from a cut on his hairline and just- saying everything that he's been saying the whole time.

"-onna be okay, it's okay you're home, you're safe, there's no one else here Malcolm it's just you and me, okay? You're safe, I promise you're safe."

"Wha..."

The kitchen is a disaster area, as if some particularly nasty tornado had torn the room apart, or at least part of it. His hands and his feet have cuts, and there aren't many safe places to stand. But he was just--wasn't he just--?

Is that York? He has to swallow down the rising panic, the fear bubbling up, or try to at least when he turns to York. York who's on the floor against the wall and defensive, and hurt, and talking to him.

"Taylor?" His voice is quiet, questioning, urgent, while he flexes his fingers, brings them to his chest. All of a sudden afraid to move.

"You're home, you're safe, it's just us okay? It's just us- and duke but he's in the other room it's okay it's-" It's okay. It's gonna be okay because he won't let it not be okay because they're fine. It's fine. Whatever has Malcolm all wound up they can talk through and it'll be. it'll be fine. He lowers an arm to get a good look at him, blood blinding one eye in a red smear, the rest of him made as small and harmless as possible.

He goes still.

Swallows.

"...Malcolm? Are you with me, boo?"

York looks scared and damnably helpless. He's looking at Malcolm like that. Everything is cold. "You're hurt." That's the most important thing, everything else be damned, he's going to come over and smudge some of that blood off on his shirt. "How did you get hurt? What happened here?"

"Yeah." Only training keeps him still instead of flinching. It's mal. It's really Malcolm this time and- they're fine. "You kinda. Threw a mug at my head."

The remnants of which are shattered on the floor. He'd liked that mug too, one he got for the office.

Blink. He pulls back a little, startled. "I did what?"

"Threw a mug at my head. And trashed the kitchen." He blinks at Malcolm, slowly unwinding from his crouch to slump against the wall instead. "you okay?"

"I di--" His head swivels, eyes darting around the kitchen, before the horrified look settles back on York. York who he hurt. Who he would never hurt. "I did this?"

"You need a recording?" he blinks once, twice, and a holographic projection of a York eye view of the past thirty some odd seconds plays, from getting up from the sofa to the mug to the face to the rest of the destruction.

He's so startled that he skitters backwards along the floor, mess be damned. That's him. That's him, but he doesn't remember that happening, and he doesn't know why it happened, but it's him. It's him but it's not.

"I'm..." He doesn't have the words. Especially not for how sorry he is.

He needs to pull himself together. God damn it, get up and make something of yourself. But his body doesn't move except to curl in a little on itself.

"Going to a hospital. Or a therapist. Or something. Because that's a fucking disassociative episode if I've ever seen one." Which he kind of hasn't until now but he's seen one now and that's all that matters okay? okay. It feels a little - well a little wrong and unfair that he has to push up from the wall and crouch back down in front of Malcolm and try to comfort him after taking a MUG TO THE FACE and-

well shit he can't move one leg all that well. Shit. Okay. Limping over the floor and crouching. "Breathe, Mal."

No no no no no he did this to his own boyfriend. He moves perhaps too quickly when he curls an arm around one of Yorks and gets up. "Sit. Sit, you need to sit and rest and get looked at." Steers him toward a chair. "Just sit." There's a smear of blood where he touches York. Why did this happen? "Please."

"I'm fine. Scalps bleed like a bitch but I'm fine." The leg he's worried about but it might just be a cramp and he's. He's fine. Still there's no fight in him as he gets steered down, leaning against the counter. "Are you okay, Mal?"

"Apparently I'm not," he snaps, not quite hysterical but edging very very close to it.

"I didn't mean--I don't remember doing any of that. I don't know why I would have done that. I would never--" But he had. "I am...so sorry. I am sorry; I would never hurt you; I would never try to hurt you, I don't know what happened." Breathe. Have to breathe. He resists the urge to pace and instead settles for idly scratching at his rough patches down one of his arms.

"Okay-" He holds his hands up, going still and quiet until Malcolm talks again and is- well. malcolm. "Okay. We're okay. You're okay."

The itching, though. That's weird. "...lemme see your arm?"

He'd like to snap something about not patronizing him, but that might not go over so well. At the request, he holds his arm out. It's not the only place with dry, scaly spots, but there are a few there. "Reaction to something," he mildly mumbles, "or getting sick with something." That's not important.

"...Mal these are scales." Little hard scales. Not scabs. Not just dry skin. And now that he looks him in the eye he can see how red they are and- jesus. He was in the suit the entire time. "Mal I think- I think you got what they had."

Which he'll echo. "I was in the suit." If he got it, then doesn't that mean York has it? That Carolina-- "They tested Clair, and she was down with them, got hurt by them."

"...some of us are Immune." Which- they're all supposed to be Immune but- no. NOt worrying about what this implies right now. Not at all. "We gotta get you to a hospital."

"We're immune to the dysthrope virus. This isn't the same." Dysthropes sure didn't look like that. Not quite. "It's not the same." But hospital...doesn't sound bad. Not with his cuts all over, and he'll have to get some very irritating shards of glass and porcelain out of his feet, and York needs looks at in the head and his leg.

"Boo?" He reaches up to rest a hand against Malcolm's jaw. Rubs his thumb in slow passes along his cheekbone. "We're okay. This wasn't- You didn't do this."

To the kitchen, to him. "We're good."

It means York will feel the way his jaw sets. Maybe it wasn't him, but that does nothing to make him feel any better that it happened in the first place. It means something worse is hijacking him. "None of this is good."

He has to collect himself, and it's not happening very well. "Are you okay with your bike or should we take some more public transportation? No, no, shouldn't have me in public. If I'm infectious, if we both are--" Is there any good way around this? He scratches a little more. "We should go. I'll...I'll see if anything's happening. News. I'll check the news on the way."

His chin's doing the thing. The little crumply thing and he doesn't think twice about leaning in to kiss it. A quick press against skin before he tips up the last of the distance to press their lips together. Nothing long, nothing lasting- absolution if he can offer it.

Forgiveness.

"Not your fault." Even if his head is ringing and he's still bleeding. "We'll fix this."

That feels like too much. Look at this mess. Just look at all of this. "Don't leave the animals with this before we clean it up." He tries to remember to breathe. "I'll put...something more suited for travel on. And we'll go. Sorry. Just--sorry."

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