goddamngrenades | Voicemail 2.0

"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."

"We can call a service. Put Duke in the yard till we get back home. Harry'll follow us." He always ends up where they don't want him, the damn cat. His hand drops down to Malcolm's to squeeze. "It's okay. It'll be okay."

"Okay." He squeezes back, just a little, enough to acknowledge the comfort, before slipping away, a little distracted. A little numb. Make himself somewhat presentable, go digging for information. A job, a duty, something to focus on.

Elena is on the network with a very important announcement to make, and things begin falling into frightening place. How much should be trusted? He can't be sure, but sitting around doing nothing isn't going to help, either. Aggression, ha, well, that certainly was an aggressive display, wasn't it? Lost time--even just a minute of it, a complete blank where he lost himself, the evidence foreign. He's a danger to himself and everyone around him. Even his boyfriend.

"Malcolm..." There's more he should be saying but- he's got calls to make. Sitter for Duke. Service to clean the kitchen. A note to set aside money to fix the oven and the fridge. Mal slipping out of his fingers and he doen'st know what he needs to do to fix this.

But it needs fixing.

"You ready?" He's- got his shoes and his coat and he's scrubbed the worst of the blood of his face.

No, that's worse, somehow. Like erasing what he did. He'd like to reach out, to soothe it away--but doesn't. There isn't anything he can do.

It's old clothes he wears. Well, 'old', more like casual, comfortable, doesn't matter if blood gets on them. "It's," he starts with a little cough that might be a symptom of just clearing his throat, "spreading. In the city. In the water, apparently. There might be something to give to keep it from getting any worse." He rolls his shoulders in a shrug.

"I don't know if my symptoms can get much worse."

"There's got to be something." Mal can't- won't turn into one of those things. And if it's spreading- why doesn't he have it? Why is it selectively targeting Immune? Natives- natvies can't do anything but they're supposed to be resistant. And Mal's got scales and lost himself and-

Deep breaths. His fingers twitch for want of his knitting before he steps in close, looping his arm around Malcolm's waist. "It'll- we'll figure it out. Okay?"

To know that York still cares and still loves him and forgives him is one thing, but the physical affection just seems much. Somehow too much. More than he should have. Malcolm flips up the hood of his sweatshirt and lowers his face.

"So long as I don't hurt you again."

"Not your fault." Sure he threw the mug and kicked his leg but it wasn't something he did on purpose. Not quite a PTSD episode but it was something other, something else in him that he didn't want. That he didn't mean. He'll take his lumps as long as they're not maliciously intended. "I'm alright. Ain't nothing I haven't bounced back from before."

"I am getting really very tired of being excused from things I've done because I wasn't myself." That this is something that's happened on multiple occasions is...distressing.

"Losing time and aggression are...symptoms. Among others." He pulls in on himself. It all just feels like a damn excuse.

"So I should hold this over your head and blame you for things you did when you weren't driving?" Because that's the alternative he sees and that's kind of- no. So much no.

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