goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

"We'll get tested when I'm cleared for duty. We both know that's not happening." Not with Clair haunting him. Not with him clinging so damn hard to her ghost. "Forget it."

"I refuse to be the one to...to hold you back when I'm supposed to be helping you. I just didn't expect my help would be to this extent." He's still feeling like a replacement, but if this is what they both know deep down what it is, then this is a chance for both of them, and a rare one at that. Shouldn't squander it.

Malcolm grabs his towel to briefly dab off the sweat. "You kissed me." And he kissed back, but, main issue here.

"Get back on my feet, get back in the rig. Rah, rah, fight to save humanity." It used to matter. It still does in a small way but right now he's just too wound up and frustrated and jittering in his skin from a connection that's too new and too raw and-

What the fuck does he know about Malcolm? Really. Honestly. Next to nothing. He'd at least Known Carolina so.

Maybe they're not compatible. Maybe he just really wants to sleep with Malcolm. Which- well not unusual but not appropriate.

"I was happy." It's as good of an explanation as any.

"It...fit." He laughs at himself. "It fit when any other time it would have seemed inappropriate." It's thrilling and terrifying. "If that's what it's like without even being in the drift..."

"You see everything. You feel everything." He shrugs, walking back to where he'd dropped his shirt earlier and hauling it on. "You feel whole without ever knowing you were missing pieces of you to begin with."

"It's one thing to be taught that, to read about it, be told. Feeling is...something else altogether. Aren't you scared?" He looks to York. "I suppose you wouldn't be, if you've done it before."

"...I didn't just feel her fall, Mal. I felt her die. That's all I ever really feel anymore and- It's not fair. I know it's not fair but i'd give my good eye to have something there that's not-" He scrubs at his face before looking back over to Malcolm. "Death. I'm more afraid of that being my only real memory of her than I am of anything else."

"You have a lot more memories than that in there, and I can say that as a fact. You use her memories to help yourself out whether you realize it or not."

"Echos. Ghost Drifting." He waves a hand. "Different flavors of the same Koolaid."

"Still, it means you have more than just death."

"I'm sorry is this where we get into what is and isn't a rational fear? Am I suddenly in my therapist's office instead of on the mats?"

"...No?" He blinks, head pulling back in startled confusion.

"Then quit trying to tell me my fear's wrong or irrational. I already know that. Doesn't stop it from being a thing, okay?" Maybe they should just go find the helmets now and fire up the system and be done with it so Mal can get it.

"...Okay." Strange how incompatible they seem off the mat, but then, it's the fighting that matters, in the end, right?

"Go talk to the martial. I'll talk to my therapist." God help whatever team they get stuck with. As long as it's not a shitty jeager, though, he'll adapt.

"All right. We'll talk about this later." When they've both calmed down and the Marshall has an idea of what to do with them both. "Are you going to be fine?" Silly question.

"I'm going to talk to my therapist and then I'm gonna get a drink." Maybe ten drinks. "What do you think?"

"I thought you were on water, not alcohol?" He can still look after York; that's not weird.

"And I thought you were ignoring this. We're both fulla surprises." The best kind, the worst kind. The kind that really annoys him. He's already grabbing his boots and heading away from the mats, not even gonna grab a shower. Just. gonna get this over with and hide in his room with a bottle.

"Ranger Murray--Taylor--"

All right then. All right. This is a thing. Just face it with more dignity than he's faced in the past few days...and with more decorum, more pride.

He scrubs up quick, a true navy shower, puts on something more respectable, and heads for Marshall Archer's office. Malcolm is stiff, militaristic, crisp as he delivers his report, eyes ahead, because deviating might lead to slipping might lead to other things slipping out. Like emotions or fears or doubts. This is no time for that. But Archer's always had this habit of being interested in what his subordinates think and feel. Something like drift compatibility is not to be taken lightly. Murray was a damn good ranger they could use back on the field--if he's ready. Reed's a good teacher with fighting and tactics in his blood but no practical experience outside of simulations.

He knows this. He knows this all too well. This could be a disaster, or it could be the new dream team of the dome. It depends on them.

He goes to seek out York afterward, knocking on his door in a plain black undershirt and crisp trousers, looking entirely too sheveled (as opposed to dis-).

Right. Found a potential partner and he does just what he says he does. No scrubbing up, no time to think about what it means, right up to his doctor's office. Flops down on the carpet and lets everything tumble out. Last night. This morning. How it felt to be human. His misgivings, his certainties, his quiet terror and his absolute resolution that this is going to end badly. that this whole thing was a mistake.

That he should've died and Carolina should've walked away.

Survivor's guilt is an old friend and they end up spending more time on that than his resolution to get absolutely wasted later. He'd mentioned it and got nothing.

Course when he leaves there's Delta just. Waiting for him. That won't leave him alone, that ends up shoving his way into York's room while he's showering (and drinking yes he had a flask stowed in the bathroom that Delta didn't find no he isn't ashamed) and they may or may not still be arguing about that and other things when there's a knock on the door. Any distraction is better than none even if it's Malcolm and York doesn't so much open the door as wrench it open, teeth clenched and snarling around his last line of the argument. "-just upset it's not fucking YOU! So either be here and be fucking compassionate about it or take your codependent ass and fuck off!"

D, for his part, is sheet white. Angry, mortified, or hurt- Right now? York doesn't much care. The thin tech mumbles- something- and shoves his way past Malcolm to scurry back to his room.

He'd anticipated yelling, but yelling directed at him. Not one of the techs bolting out and the tail end of an argument. To his credit, he manages to close his mouth and retain some posture until it feels safe enough to speak.

"I would offer to leave, but it doesn't appear that you're in the middle of something anymore."

For a moment he just stands there, staring at Malcolm all. Put together. Calm and clean and neat and precise. Fucking- there's a word that he can't think of right now. Shevled? Something like that. Meanwhile he's clean, sure, but his shirt's an old ratty one he borrowed or stole from someone larger, his sweats are covered in paint, his hair's a mess and he's got stubble from not having shaved.

A hot mess. Carolina would say. She's not wrong.

York sighs and holds the door open, motioning for Mal to come into his room with the photos of his last crew, places he's been, selfies in the rig and on top of his Jeager with the dead Kaiju in the background. Shit like that. Yarn and knitting needles on one nightstand, combatboots and a pile of clothing under his desk. It's not tidy or orderly but it's his. "Fine. May as well judge me too."

Everyone's at it today.

Malcolm takes in the room with a sweep of his eyes as he steps inside. At least the door wasn't shut in his face. It'd be deserved. "I'm not here to judge." At least, it isn't the plan to do so.

He turns, practically on his heel, to face York. "I spoke with the Marshall. If we're willing to try drifting, then he's all for it. No guarantees that we'd be immediately suited up to a jaeger, but it would be a positive step in that direction if drifting is successful."

"Yet." That's all he says as he hauls the door closed and, well there's LT Reed, all military precision. It's- normally it's endearing, comforting. Stability. Right now it's just grating. The reminder he doesn't know anything about Malcolm is more than a little frustrating. Time for the bottle.

"Archer's always had a thing for longshots." It's how he and D ended up transferring here in the first place. Otherwise they'd be a waste of resources. He sighs and flops back down on the bed, fishing a flask from his pocket to take a deep swig.

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