goddamngrenades | Voicemail 2.0

"You aren't normally this...quiet. When you're upset. Worried? That." The lack of communication is what's digging into York, really. It might be a little codependant of him but he needs- wants some sort of back and forth here.

"Am I not?" News to him. Worried, he thought, makes him quiet and thinky. Is that not the norm? Huh.

It's not like there's anything to say except to apologize again, and that never goes over well.

"no there's usually more- fretting. Audible fretting." He doesn't know how to make it better.

More furrow. "And is that what you want?"

"I just- I wanna know how to help." He spreads his hands. "Cuz I feel kinda useless right now, boo."

"You're not the only one." Why the hell is York assuming he knows how to fix any of this? If he did know, wouldn't he be doing something about it already? "ER visit should assist." What else is there? It's not like York can reach into his skin and pull out whatever turns him psychotic at the drop of a hat.

"I mean help make you feel better. About this. What happened. Anything." Normally- well with anyone but Malcolm he's usually got a pretty good idea of what to do or say. Here though it is, as ever, something of a mystery if it's the right thing the wrong thing or the fucking stupid thing.

"Like I said," he says in an quieter voice instead of getting frustrated at repeating himself, leaning his head against the window. How does on feel better about this? Even if he manages to not turn into a cannibalistic monster-who-was-a-person--and the thought does make him lose a little more colour--none of it changes what happened. It's not just ('just') hitting York, or ruining the kitchen he'll have to repair, or the loss of time, but a culmination. There's a list of things wrong with him to fix. What's the bloody point?

"...okay." Start with the simple thing. The hospital will give them answers and everything else- they'll take it one step at a time. He slumps back against the seat, fingers flexing in Malcolm's hand. There should be something else he could be doing but honestly? He doesn't know. Nothing comes to mind. Maybe if the world wasn't fuzzy from the mug to the face.

Seriously why didn't he duck he saw it coming. What's wrong with him?

The silence stretches, and York feels far far away. Because Malcolm feels far away, removed from this place. Up until they pull up in front of the hospital, but Malcolm doesn't immediately move. There's an uncertainty and a fear about him when he finally, uneasily, looks to his boyfriend.

"If I turn--if I start to turn, and I can't do anything about it..." It's unfair to ask of York, but who else can he trust other than Carolina?

He'd been drifting, a little. Dazed or exhausted or something- not present. That question though has him snapping to with a blink. With the lowest, rawest, most broken little laugh that he couldn't bite back. Sure. Ask him to put a bullet in you.

That's all anyone ever fucking DOES lately. Ask him to put a bullet in them, ask him to make it end. He's fucking tired of it.

But since when can he tell Malcolm no? It's- it's hilarious in that it's not hilarious. It's awful. But he can't- hands shaking, jaw locked up and he's still laughing.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. That's all wrong, he's asked the wrong thing, and he knows it's unfair, and he's said it wrong, everything is wrong.

He wants to stuff the words back down his throat, to unspeak them, let them hang in his chest and never let them near York. It's too late. "It won't come to that. I'll ask a doctor." Something. Something to make this better. A grin comes automatically and unbidden, though the rest of his face holds more grimace. This, at least, he can fight, somewhat. But it's still part of the myriad of problems.

No. He can't ask York to put a bullet in him. That is too much. Can't ask Carolina, either. It's fine. He turns away before he can make a bigger spectacle of himself, though his hand tights on the door. Has to remember to breathe, relearn it quickly, before bailing out into the springtime air. The fake springtime air. They still need their outer wounds tended to, after all.

He laughs until he has to leave or get his ass hauled along to the next stop in the autocab, the warning beep the only thing to spur him into motion. And he's still laughing. Giggling helpless little hitches in the pit of his stomach, warbling things that have the attending at the door herding people looking at him oddly while he limps his way back over to Malcolm. It'll come to that.

For all that he's the optimisit he knows his luck. knows their luck. It'll come to that and he'll have to hug Mal close, murmur something pointless and comforting and pull the fucking trigger and-

He.

Needs to call Doctor Ramirez if this is what he's going to do at this fucking suggestion. Jesus. Maybe the mug hit him harder than he thought. "I'm f-fine." He waves off the nearest whoever, trying to find Mal. "Really. Fine. Peachy keen."

York is laughing hysterically, and Malcolm is a grinning lunatic (his boyfriend loves him, he loves his boyfriend, all is forgiven, they are happy--he wants this out of his fucking head); they must look like quite the pair. He lets the long-suffering receptionist (must be, because they barely bat an eye at them) that he's here about the bardo infection. And someone to look them both over for their cuts and other injuries.

It's only an emergency if one counts extreme violence in short, mindless bursts as an emergency. Thankfully he doesn't actually say this. Fewer words are better. The least amount, so as to not ruin anyone else's day too much. If his nails dig into the flesh of his palms any harder, he's going to have a few more nicks to deal with.

He stumbles along until they're shown to a set of chairs to sit and wait in, limps till he can fall back into one and curl his fingers in around Malcolm's. He knows that grip, he's done it to himself, they need to not. He tugs him close and just. Tries to wind down his breathing. Bury his face against Malcolm's side and still his mind like he would before a lock.

They're fine.

They're gonna be fine.

"...I will if I have to. So. Be. Be really. Really fucking sure if you ask that. Okay?"

None of this is fine, and he'd really like to stop having the urge to smile and dote and say cutesy happy things and pretend that they are fine. But at least he doesn't pull away.

Though that urge is there, too.

"You won't have to. I'll manage."

"No. I'll handle it. Just- don't ask unless you're sure."

"You aren't sure. So I'll manage." Maybe York's right; maybe he's being too quiet. A little short on words. Lord, what if he loses it here? What kind of damage could he do? They would have to lock him up if they didn't put him down. Throwing things around doesn't sound half bad now in comparison.

"What makes you think I'm not?" The laughter eases down till it's just the bare, manic twitches at the corners of his mouth. He's here. He's solid. He's in his right mind for the most part, as much as anyone can be these days.

Here, York. Have a look that says are you serious, because crazy hysterical laughter doesn't seem to indicate general okay-ness. He opens his mouth to reiterate once again that he'll manage but thinks better of it.

A beat or two later the twitching fades, all hysteria tinged amusement gone in the place of- nothing. Not even resignation. For a moment York feels terribly hollow. Voice even and low as to not disturb anyone else waiting, he murmurs. "I'm not okay with it. I will never be okay with it. But I'll do it. Because you asked me to. I'll do it. Don't doubt that."

"It's all right," he returns in a much more soothing voice than even he expected of himself. "You aren't going to need to. If there's still enough of me left, I can take care of it. And if nothing happens we can forget about all this."

"That is incredibly reassuring." If he sounded more dry he'd- well he'd sound like Carolina.

He's not sure if York really understands or not. York shouldn't have to put up with everything Malcolm goes through, and the dry spell, and literally everything. Getting a wrecked kitchen and getting hit. No significant other should worry who his boyfriend is at any given point.

He shifts, looking around for a distraction, anything to make him think of anything but how close he is to losing his control in a public space.

"...do you need air? I could use some air. Lets get some air." The hemmed up tension in Malcolm's frame is a little familiar to York. He's not sure right now if it's Mal or the thing in his veins making him tense but- outside is better than inside. Besides.

You can't smoke inside.

He pushes himself out of the chair, one hand steady on Malcolm's shoulder. "We got awhile before they get to us anyway."

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