goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

Yeah, it is. But we can't screw around. Got work to do. Even if he wants to linger. To ask more about school, about the ship, about everything. About how it feels to be on the ocean and not terrified or fighting.

To have it be something peaceful and wonderful.

It's binary. We either drift or we don't. He gives Mal a thumbs up, hand dropping away from his shoulder. Neural handshake complete. We're drifting. So. We passed. Lucky you.

"You or D gonna tell me what in the ever loving fuck this was about?" Because this is about the time he feels like he should be filled in. A little. A lot. Hell he doesn't even object to getting checked out- just goes where he's led. Even keeps his arm around her waist instead of trying to cop a feel.

Carolina is solid and strong and warm and he doesn't have to worry about keeping an eye out while she's around. He'll take that. "Smelled like rotten vanilla. Is that normal?"

She stops at his question, looking up at him with an unreadable expression that creeps slowly into annoyance - and not necessarily with him. Very much with the situation. "You honestly don't know." A statement, not a question, and her lips purse a moment, before she sighs and looks ahead. "Once we're secure."

Not before. Not when you don't know who's listening.

She'll lead him to where-ever he needs to go, until she makes him stand with one of the security guards outside the tour bus, personally checking the vehicle-home until she's happy with what she finds. Or doesn't find. "In," she informs him, offering her arm again, before grimacing at his question. "No. That usually indicates a custom job. Someone didn't want you dead."

He can feel York like a pleasant, welcome tingle down the right side of his body, can vaguely feel York's movements like his own but not in a way that's--

Okay, yes it's distracting, and yet it feels natural. Like he's been missing this part of himself since he was born.

You don't get to name our jaeger.

Well, that's as clear as it could be. Like the searing heat in Taylor's eyes isn't tip-off enough. He pulls his fingers out completely, taking it slowly, and then presses inside with three. He presses them deeper this time, seeking out that spot, because he wants nothing more to see how Taylor reactions.

Bullshit I don't get to name it, I got seniority! He smirks and he feels it like he feels that little hook of Clair's smile- like that tiny slash of Malcolm's sarcastic grins.

"From military to brothels?" Not that the latter is demeaning work, when run properly, but that hardly seems fitting for someone who summoned her, and her nature - pride and ambition both leading the charge - means she can't approve of that life style.

Her tail curled until it was settled around her knee, pointed tip occasionally twitching. Not unlike a cat's tail, really. There were plenty of uses that could be found for a summoned demon, and it was likely for the best that most of those ideas hadn't occurred to York.

Technically, he was the summoner. Her 'master'. He didn't seem likely to play that role in a traditional sense, however. And he had promised her dinner..

"At the start of the nineteenth century," is the prompt reply. Meaning she'd missed quite a few developments over the years. "It was a brief visit. I was called upon to change the stakes amidst a war for independance." In Peru, she thinks, or some southern hemispherical land. A shrug follows. "The plane and the one that you called me from do not share the same flow of time."

You'll name it something ridiculous like Pizza Lord. You owe me pizza. You owe the base pizza. Don't think I didn't see those recipes.

Is he hyperfocusing? Maybe a little bit. Something to ground him, tether him.

You get to name it IF you let me rig a jeager blood still. Or it's no deal. The crackling over the comms confirming the neural handshake is a formality. THey're good. Hell they could probably run a sim right about now if they load one up.

If it's ours, we both get a say. Wait. He's not sure on that. Do the country officials name it? Do we get a say?

...After a few moments, he realizes he did not, in fact, ask that through the comms aloud as he intended to. This is odd.

"The world's two oldest professions." He shrugs and settles back on the sofa, looking over his notes from the summoning. He got a lot right. That's- disconcerting. That he got a lot right. It's good, but it's also wrong. He's pretty sure he hadn't meant to summon anything near as big as Carolina. So it's something of a surprise.

"...wow you've missed- a lot. Mostly in the past decade, tech wise. Socially a lot of shit's the same. Lemme-" He pulls his spare tablet over and checks the battery, mostly full. Good enough. He brings up 'wikipedia' and slides it over. "You got questions you can get most of your answers from that website. Just type it in the search function. Take it with a grain of salt but they're pretty good about keeping the information accurate. When in doubt, check the books in your room."

We get a say. Also hi. Welcome to pilot to pilot connectivity. Say hi. "York- how are you adjusting?"

"Everything's green, Delta." It takes effort to say that out loud, but he manages it. "We're good for a sim drop if everhone's on board."

"No, I do not. Enlighten me." Normally he'd press. He'd bug. He'd wheedle till he had an answer but- he trusts her. She's been nothing if not honest with him and that? Well. He can take that.

Secure. Okay.

He goes where he needs to. Gets himself checked by a medic. GOes to the tour bus and waits outside till she motions him in. THen- slides up inside, locks the doors, and grabs himself a coke from the fridge. "Alright SO they don't want me dead. What do they want, and what hasn't D told me?"

Three. God three and he keens like a dying thing. High and drawn out and needy, every muscle in his body locked up against the burn. But it's good. It's hard and it's bright and it's right there where he needs it.

no nononono let me out It's like a warning spike, a continuous record scratch. no drops no drops too soon

"Or not. Belay that D." York rolls right on over D's commentary on starting up the sim. Ok. No drops. Another time, okay? Okay. Breathe with me Mal.

Part of him, the part that is York, wants to breathe easy and steadily. The part that is him is frantic. Find a happy medium. Find--or just take deep breaths that are all York, okay, that works too. It's beginning to feel a lot like failure, even though they're here, they're drifting, because it's not perfect and he's not perfect at it.

You're doing great. Really. We're not chasing rabbits, we're in alignment, we're communicating. They're perfect. They're doing so much better than he thought they would. He didn't get caught up in her. They're good. Hey. Wiggle a hand for me.

If I vomit in my helmet are you going to, too? It's an extremely pertinent question right now okay.

Let's not test that theory. Deep breaths. Slow and even and through the nose and oh hello, nausea. Where have you been all his life? How about you go away. Far. Far away.

How long does it take to disengage, we should be done by now, everything should be green.

You want out? Okay. Okay, we'll disengage. He comms through to Delta to shut the system down and it's like-

Well it's like falling. Dropping out of his bones to something small and hollow and half blind. Something broken. But it's his bones and there's still the whisper of her in the back of his mind, comforting him. Helping him breathe through it. He peels the helmet off and blinks at the lights in the test podd. Swallows back the lingering bile in the back of his throat.

Okay.

Hadn't that been extremely obvious? Dropping back into himself and out of thoughts voices memories is also disorienting. He tries not to look too desperate to get out of the apparatus, and he drops on all fours as soon as his helmet is off, retching, limbs quivering. And when his stomach is done rebelling, he drops to his side, sucking in breaths.

Sulk or take care of his partner.

Well that's an obvious choice. He disengages entirely and crouches down, hand rubbing up and down Malcolm's back. "Easy. Easy, it's okay. D, can we get cleanup in here. And a bottle of water?"

There's a crackled affirmative over the comm, but he's too busy minding Mal.

The physical touch is like an electric shock at first, but not terrible. Grounding. Grounding. Ground. Here. He's here. I'm here. But, wait, they're not connected like that anymore, are they?

Shit. He's an embarrassment. He covers his face with a shaky hand, huffing out a sigh when he's got enough breath to do so.

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