goddamngrenades | Voicemail 2.0

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voicemail

Voicemail 2.0

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Mess." It's a mess. Nobody's going to be able to find anything, and he hates a messy room, a messy living area, a messy workspace.

At first he gets them all in one pile, by date, oldest to newest, all straightened out in a stack, meticulous. Good. ...Then he frowns. Would it be easier if it was newest to oldest? He has to take it apart, restack it. There.

...No, no, but that's too big. He has to sort it out by topic, style, publisher. Take the stack apart again.

"...What are you doing." Less a question more a- something to say because this doesn't make sense. It's not bothering anyone but it is worrying. Mal's tidy, sure, mal keeps a clean house, runs a tight ship but this?

this is bizzarre.

If he could stop, he would, because he knows this is ridiculous. It's one thing to want something to do with his hands that isn't scratching, but really? Really, now is the time for one of this obsessive little bouts to crop up? (Maybe it's stress. Maybe inordinate amounts of stress brings it on. He might have to bring it up with Whiskey.)

"Tidying." Obviously. "Sorry."

"Is this normal?" He hasn't been- no he has but he hasn't seen things quite like this before. What hasn't he seen?

"No." At least he's cognisant of the fact that this is some unusual cropping up of his damnable obsessive side-effect at the worst possible time. The past few times he hasn't been entirely aware until it's gone on longer.

Someone bored of waiting and uncaring of his antics tries to take one of the tablets away. He freezes and makes an undignified noise, reaching for it. They're going to mess up his system--

"Mal-" He reaches out, squeezing his shoulder. "Let the man read."

Everyone's tense, everyone's bored, but that noise was- he hates crowding Mal right now. he does. But he tugs him back anyway, tryign to get him to sit still.

"They'll be out of order. Date and topic. It's a system." He motions to the pile and straightens one of them. Straightens again, even though it's already straight. But is it? He has to make sure, and what if he made a mistake and something's out of order? Maybe he needs to go through them again.

But York's trying to ease him back. What if it's not right? If this is what his stupid fucking leg reduces him to, maybe they should just take the damn thing when they look him over. "Easier to find everything," he mumbles.

"Breathe, boo." He tries to tug him back, tries to get him into the chair so they can sit and wait and be miserable without causing a scene. "It's a very nice system, but what point is there to trying to find something easy if they can't take what they want when they find it."

"But it's easier." He's pulled back. Into his seat. But he can't sit still. He's twitchy, squirms in his seat, squirms and is unsettled. "You might want to keep hold of me until this passes. Just in a subtle way?"

"Define subtle. You don't really like- contact when you're not in the mood for it." Hence the very light albiet firm grip on his shoulder and nothing else.

"What I like," he says through grit teeth, closing his eyes and mentally shuffling through them, hands making the motions, "and what I need don't always overlap."

"...I don't want to be something you don't- like." But fine. He puts an arm around Malcolm's shoulders, holding him in the chair, eyes on the far wall.

"...Thank you." This sucks. This is all pretty terrible. He's cringing inwardly, and he might be cringing outwardly, and he might just have to bury his face in York's shoulder even through all of his squirming and attempts to leave and go back to organizing organizing organizing the mess can't have a mess fix the mess put it all in order god damn it these thoughts need to go away.

"Deep breaths, boo." he murmurs, reachign around to curl his fingers around Malcolm's. Squeezes them. "Remind me to teach you how to knit later. It might help. It might not."

"Later," he echoes. He's starting to think that 'later' isn't a very good measurement of time. But every time he moves, York is there to reel him back in. Until it passes. He slumps. So much energy gone to waste today. And he hasn't even had lunch.

"I'll make a nice big supper for both of us." Wait. ...Shit. "Once I rebuild the kitchen. I'm sorry. The oven door was sticking, and I--don't...know." That he doesn't know a lot of things that go on with or in his own body is getting real fucking old now.

"We'll order in." Like it's nothing. Like he's not wincing back what is probably a mild concussion or worrying about the swelling in his knee. Like it's all gonna be okay because if he acts like it is, he will be. "Some veggie stir fry from that place you like."

"Maybe." It'd be better if he hadn't put them in this situation at all, but apparently he's just not allowed to control his body. "What a waste all this is. I'm sorry."

"We'll fix it. Needed to redo the kitchen anyway." Put in some new tile, get some new appliances. It'll be fine.

"It was just the damn door." And now it's the damn door, some other appliances, a good deal of dishware... There are a lot of reactionary, terrible thoughts formulating in his head, none of which should ever let go of his tongue. But it's tempting.

"They should just sedate me for a time. So I don't do anything like...any of this for that while."

"Is this a 'they should' or an 'i would be more comfortable if' because if that's what you want? I'll talk to who I can to make it happen. If it's a 'keep you safe from me' thing then bite me." He snorts, pulling his arm off Malcolm now that he's calm and settled.

"The point is that I don't want to bite you. Biting in this context," as opposed to some other contexts he can think of, "is bad. If they could just put me under until there's a cure so I'm not a danger to anyone..." And it sounds comfortable. He won't have to think. He might not even dream, depending.

"Didn't answer my question." Malcolm is, now that he thinks on it, really fucking good at dodging straight questions. "Do you want to be sedated? Yes or no."

"If it's possible, then that would be wonderful." Sure, it'll probably be possible. But that's not really the question. "They won't find a medical reason to do it. Maybe something for any...future fits of rage, to drug me down. But they aren't going to just knock me out for god only knows how long until they can cure it." His voice goes quieter, more for the sake of not panicking people around him. "What if there isn't a cure? Like dystrophy? What if they don't find it, or it takes years and years of research?"

"Yes then. Okay." That he can work with. "I'll talk to the doctors."

Hell, it might slow the progression of the illness. It'd- be hell watching Mal all cold and still like Claire, like North, like everyone else that twitched and went still because of the ports but he-

If that's what he wants? York will make it happen.

Voice low and head tipped down, he murmurs. "Work's half done. I heard that someone had been working on it down below."

A fear grips him, a possibility he hadn't considered until just now. "What if something else can move me while I'm under? Something that isn't me. Something that slips between the cracks, while I'm...not exactly home. Is that crazy? Do I sound crazy? I sound crazy right now, don't I? But that's what they are, they're...crazy and beastly and ghastly. What if putting me under just lets whatever's inside of me take over?"

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