The downshift is the worst. Post drift depression. Even though it went well. Even though every scrap of his attraction to Malcolm was laid bare and they're curled up together all he dreams of is the fall. The fall and the ocean bearing down on him, falling, drowing, dying. Screaming with Carolina's mouth in Carolina's voice and watching his own eye get shredded by shrapnel as she's torn away.

Down, down, down and what's the point of waking? What's the point of trying? He wakes slow and blinks against the hard casing of Malcolm's suit, can't be fucked to move. Or sit up. Or anything.

Don't be like that. And she's always so worried. But she shouldn't be, if she'd worried more about herself she'd be HERE and he'd be- well. He'd be under the ocean and she'd be here with Malcolm. They'd be compatible in so many ways. He knows it.