goddamngrenades | Voicemail 2.0

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voicemail

Voicemail 2.0

You have reached the voice mail system of Officer Taylor Murray.

When you are finished recording, just hang up or press pound for more options.

To request a locksmith or report a crime, press one.

To hear these options in Spanish, press dos.

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For delivery options, press five.

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Thank you for calling, have a nice day.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"...I'll try." It's quiet, barely above a whisper. There's no way he can get his mind geared up for that sort of thinking, not with how jumbled up he is. In fact, he's at the very opposite of optimistic.

He normally would shy away from all of these little public displays of affection, but it seems monumentally important to him that York see that he still cares. That there's still love. That he appreciates York's very presence.

"I know you are. S'good." No one can just shut off that part of their brain- Malcolm has always been his kind of paranoid. If he wasn't asking these things, York would've been. it's a little easier that he gets to be the one not stewing on this shit.

But he'll keep the rest of his questions mostly to himself. Sit and wait. Wait and sit. At one point, he snaps, loudly, about the wait, shoots something about incompetency and a poorly constructed medical system to not be able to handle the load, even growls, but he doesn't destroy anything this time. Doesn't lose the time, either. Although once he settles back down again, he does recall the inclination to throw his entire chair at reception.

Best he can, York reins him in. Acts as a buffer- as a target so he won't upset anyone else. Makes light of it as much as he's able so no one else really- it's a powderkeg, everyone is irritable and the last time that happened Malcolm lost a leg so he's- so so damn grateful when they finally get called in.

The first thing--the first thing that Malcolm says when they get settled in is that York should get looked at first. Head injuries, have to be careful, after all. Just in case. York isn't even here for the bardo disease. He's just a - casualty. He's very clipped about it, short and to the point and doesn't want to look the doctor in the eye. Doesn't want to look York in the eye, either. All the little wounds between them can get tended to, all the cuts and the scraped below dried blood. The damage under it all.

They have to take him to the side to tend to him but, York gives Mal's hand one last squeeze before he's lead away. To Malcolm there's just the usual drawn blood, lotion for the scales, a scan- a shot.

A little regeneration for all the nicks on his hands, his feet. The damage to the synthetic flesh of his leg (from putting it through a god damn oven) is fixed up to the best of the nurse's ability with an address of a good touch-up mechanic to make it look brand new fresh on the body.

His stomach rolls. It's starting to appear that there's less and less of himself to his own body and his own mind. There's a weight that only gets heavier, a burden to everything that's happened, everything seen and done. How fucked up is it that he'd rather go back to a galactic war than be here, and be himself, right now?

Is this how it's going to be for the rest of his time here? The rest of his life? Isn't it more likely that it's going to get worse?

He's very tempted to go rooting around in all the drawers to find some needles or a scalpel or by some miracle a chem cube he can overclock--he doesn't move from where he's seated on the bed, but the temptation is there. He's stuck inside himself.

York gets his head regenerated and his leg patched up, a prescription of painkillers that he'll probably ignore. He'd rather be clear and ready than muzzed up and useless.

It is what it is. Mal's sick. Mal's sick, again, because of this place. Because the suit wasn't good enough or damn near antyhign else and this might not have a cure. This might be a stopgap. He might have to put a bullet in him.

They give York some time alone to breathe. To think. To shake out everything before he shuffles to Malcolm's room, knocking on the door. "Hey, boo."

There is only the barest inclination of his head as response. Everything's too cluttered, somehow too loud and too quiet, tense and hard to breathe. There's some lotion slathered down the spots that can be seen and the spots that can't. The lightest shade of a small bruise just beginning to form at the injection site. He is too small and greyscale compared to York's big bold light.

"...hey." He takes those few steps forward, reaching out for a moment before letting his hands drop back down to his side. Crouches instead to look up into Malcolm's face. Get a bead on how he's feeling. "You wanna go home?"

He can't quite manage frustration at the feeling of tears prickling. Never been one for tears, always one to hold them back even if they do come. Always have to suck it up, stiff lip, chin up.

Nothing comes out when he first opens his mouth. Yes is a possible answer. But how does he articulate what he wants in this moment? "I-" Take a breath, breathe. "Do you ever think," he starts again, carefully, though not without a waiver to it, "about stopping?"

"...Used to." He murmurs, voice low and soft and gentle. "And then I remember what it was like. Being stopped."

A lot of nothing.

A lot of cold. A lot of dark. A lot of numb- nothing. You are or you aren't. It's an absolute absence of everything that makes a person a person and he'd unwound in his own suit. The place he'd always expected to be in the last way he thought it'd ever happen.

"It's still...stopping. Stopping sounds nice." Maybe he can try again in another life. Maybe, with the kind of technology that's here, they could rebuild a new body, upload a fresh copy. Try again, but with everything untainted.

"Mal..." He dares to reach up, now. Curl his fingers around Malcolm's, a sole line of contact. "How about a hotel instead? Just- somewhere different. Somewhere quiet."

"So I can lose my mind somewhere else?" His laugh is wet, coughs out of him. "Until something else happens to keep me from being me?"

"We're working on the- the port thing. They're fixing a cure for this." Still it's that question. The one he'd responded to on the way here. He swallows back- everything. Every fucking little thing and tips his head forward, resting it against Malcolm's knee. "...are you sure?"

He didn't want to freak York out, but this is the opposite reaction he expected. He's so...soft. Doesn't accuse, doesn't--doesn't judge. Malcolm bends, curls over him, cradling both of them.

"I don't want to leave you alone. I don't want to do that to you. I should be stronger, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, we can--go somewhere." He wants to stop and he wants these tears that have slipped out to stop, but he'll try to put those disquieting thoughts aside. This is temporary. Everything is...well, some of it is temporary. He just has to get through to the other side. Even if he can't see it. Even if it sounds like a fairytale.

He's been there. Yelling, asking, begging- it doesn't- it wouldn't have helped him. He cant' imagine what it's been like for Malcolm and he just-

he said he would. He said he would if Malcolm was sure. And he's keeping his end of the bargain, making sure that Malcolm is sure. No gun here but he can- he can take him home and make it quick. God then the apologies. The fucking apologies that Malcolm can't help and he sucks in a shuddery breath. "Home. Hotel. Spa. Fuck'n- I don't care. As long as you're with me and you- whatever you want, Mal. Whatever you need."

"I need to be myself. I don't-I don't know who I am." He's too angry, he's too happy, he's got voices in his head telling him what to do. He does things without realizing. He loses limbs, replaced with fakes. He can't handle meat because all he can think of is fucking cannibalizing monsters who were once people, and those monsters feasting on those who still are people. He thinks about turning, the feeling of turning, even once upon a dream. Craving people around him. "Who the hell am I?"

"Malcolm Reed, Tactical officer of the USS Enterprise. You love pineapple even when it could make you sick, love explosions even when you're more concerned with discretion. You're terrified of water but are the bravest man I know for looking at that and going 'fuck drowning, i'm going into space.' like it's nothing." He leans back to look Malcolm in the eye, his own bright. "You're a soldier first, a tactician, a spy, a fighter."

These are all facts. Facts that are true or were once true about him. He wants to go back, how everything was when he got here. How things were before that. How things were before the war. Forever ago. Too much looking at the past. Trying to remember the last time he gave an honest smile.

"Sounds like someone I'd get along with. I hope to meet him again one of these days."

"We'll get him back." Nevermind that he's technically been with this warped version of Mal longer than he's been with the original. Nevermind that he's quietly terrified that when, it's gonna be a when, they get everything fixed Mal won't- want anything to do with him anymore.

Nevermind any of that.

"You're my best friend, here."

He holds his breath for longer than he'd care to admit. Swallows around the massive lump in his throat. "More than that. Right?"

"I love you." Easy as breathing. Honest as anything. "You know that."

"I'm bad at saying--I don't express--" So many excuses. He's full of bloody excuses. "I'm sorry I'm doing this. Putting you through this. You've had worse. I shouldn't--" no, do not go there, he doesn't want to go all compliance in the middle of all of this. "Thank you."

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