goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

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.

"Perhaps not the best quality in a military leader, but he's made Marshall for a reason. He trusts our judgement. I trust his, unerringly."

Maybe he'll judge just a little. His nose doesn't wrinkle at the flask, but he does look. There's some guilt at how this is his fault. "So the first part hinges on if we are willing to see this through. We can make those decisions in the morning, bright and early, so we can set it up or set it aside."

"I'm not cleared for testing." Just gonna put that out there between swigs two and three. "You ever look at my psych profile? Or did D just tell you to play nice cuz reasons?"

"So we just sit on this until you're cleared, if you're ever cleared?" Then...then what was the whole point of telling him to let the Marshall know, of being so damned excited?

"Well we could if you're will'n to sign a waiver." He shrugs. "Doc seems to think it'll help. Right now I have no fucks to give. Which means I'm probably on a downswing which tends to happen after I have an endorphin high."

Like. Finding someone he's compatible with. Or having a great night and good morning that was just a little TOO good. "Being in the rig when the neural load surges all on you kinda fucks up your brain chemistry, apparently."

"...So you're saying now is not the best time to talk about this." But is there ever a good time? Hm.

"Nah. May as well get it over with." He nudges a pile of folded clothing off a chair with his foot and hooks his ankle around it, tugging that over for Malcolm to use if he wants. "Survivor's guilt, self loathing, some sort of weird drift induced moodswings, chemical dependency-"

He shakes his flask, finishes it and tosses it back under the bed. "And then there's the Ghost Drift issue. It's supposed to stop when the other person dies, right? Nope. I gotta be special. Apparently."

"There are positives and negatives to this. We're not the ideal candidates, clearly not the most stable of potential partnerships." He elects to stay standing mostly because he doesn't feel this is going to be a long conversation. It would also make him drop his guard some.

"Your...friend, I take it he wanted to be your partner. If you happened on one."

"It is the weirdest not quite friendzone conversation I've ever had with someone. He's- protective and possessive. Dr. Church's program kinda fucked everyone in the Dome up and he's sorta made it his mission to fix me." He shrugs, propping himself up on his elbows to look over at Malcolm, brows raised.

"What. You're too good to sit? Seriously. Door's closed. No one's gonna see. I promise I don't have designs on your virtue."

"And what does the doctor have to say about that?" Because that doesn't sound...helpful.

He glowers some at the mocking. "I prefer to stand at the moment, thank you."

"That he should have his own appointments with his own therapist but- part of what fucked us all up is that there was a psychologist kind of cracking us all open to see how we worked over there. Kinda not a good idea to mention it." Oh good, glowering. Some kind of reaction.

"Right. Cuz keeping a professional distance is really gonna help us with this."

Malcolm just 'hm's at that. He's not a doctor of any kind, and he doesn't like seeing therapists for anything other than standard psych evals, so no judgement there.

"Right now it's helping me. Obviously I wouldn't choose to be like this if we tried to drift."

"Superior-subordinate dynamic. Awright, I can work with that." Pegging down how they'll work is more important than getting caught up in feeling whole again.

They're soldiers. There's a war that they need to win.

Anything else is kinda superfluous.

"Permission to get wasted, sir?" There's another flask around here somewhere.

"I'm not going to get drawn into another argument, Taylor, and so help me if you're hungover in the morning," he snaps crisply. This isn't...where he thought all this would be going, but then again, he has no idea where it's supposed to go. "I am not your superior. Knock it off."

"You outrank me." Till he's back in the pilot rig, he doesn't really HAVE a rank. And he's been fine with that, fell back into the familiarity of it with a comforting ease and it shouldn't bother him. He has to roll over and feel around under the bed to find his next flask, shirt hiking up on his ribs from how he's hanging, the edges of his scars a sharp reminder of how this all goes so wrong so quick.

"Then what are you, Mal? An instructor? A friend? I know exactly dick about you other than you're good at your job, like fruity drinks, and are a pretty sorry dancer without coaching."

"You know that isn't the point." They both know it. But fine, if York wants him to sit so badly, he'll bloody well sit. There. Happy now?

"Aren't we just going to find out the answers to all of our questions once we get in the drift? Assuming we can get in the drift. We'll know everything about each other inside and out."

"Flying blind sucks, no matter what's happening. Sigurd and Maine didn't know jack shit about each other before they drifted and they both seized hardcore for the first drift. Carolina and I have known each other for years-" he catches the elusive flask and rolls back over, staring at the ceiling.

"...had. Had known each other for years. Didn't get so much as a migraine."

"So you want this to be a bonding moment. Evening. A bonding evening. Put in a few years of getting to know each other in a few hours? Because if so, you'd better be sharing that flask."

"Or you can walk out now and tell the Marshall I'm unfit. Either way." He shrugs and salutes with the Flask, handing it over.

"It's not my call to make. That's between you and the doctor." He unscrews the flask and takes a swig from it, coughing briefly. Definitely the strong stuff. "Did you put bloody petrol in this thing?"

"What, you've never had jeager blood before?" He swings his legs over and props his elbows on his knees, brows lifted. "Last flask from Lockdown, right there."

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