goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

"Pizza recipes? You didn't tell me you were a pizza wizard. We could've eaten some of that instead."

"If you two are done," cuts in the voice of the Marshal over the comm, wryly, "everything's green on this end."

A breath. Two breaths. Malcolm gives a thumbs up. "Ready, sir." Though he turns his head to York nevertheless. "I'm serious, make us some pizza next time. We'll celebrate today." But okay, now he's ready. Ready and serious and battleready and ready to go and. ready.

"Yessir Marshal Dad Sir." There's snickering on the other end of the line- York is probably buying himself trouble but hey, if it breaks the tension. He gives his own thumbs up and breathes through the slow glide of the damn neural gel filling up the helmet, coating his face. Jesus.

Okay. Just. breathe. Don't chase the rabbit. Breathe.

"Initiating in-" And of COURSE Delta's announcing this shit, like that'll put him in the best mindset. Oh well, nothing for it. Breathe. "Three. Two. One-"

He's him and he's not and he's HER and he's him? it's. A mashup of images. His shit he can pack away and ignore, he's used to that. Carolina's- half of him wants to bury himself in the memory of her arms and her laugh and her smile, in jogging, fighting, breathing, LIVING as her and he manages just barely to shove himself back into alighment just in time to tip headfirst into Malcolm.

God.

It's all- sound and sensation and precise, orderly lines of thought, a logical progression based not entirely on chronological progression but of subject and sentiment and it's- overwhelming in how fucking COMPLICATED he is. Clair had been easy, a soldier like him, a soldier like him. All adrenaline and faster harder stronger stand and hold and beat them down so we get another sunrise not- tactics. Movement. Calculation and velocity and he's staggered by the depth of it, flowing along for the ride.

It feels like the first drop of a rollercoaster, but...not, like dipping into a deep, deep ocean (from a great, great height), like--like he can't describe it in any way possible. One moment, he's him, in his own head, but next he's sliding sideways into a blur of what makes him up (memories thoughts feelings and part of him wants to fight but another part knows not to), whirlwinded about.

And then there's York. He's still in there, somewhere, but York takes the centre stage, laughter and lines of code and wires and locks, the warmth of a summer stroll and the warmth of Carolina in his-York's-their arms and the warmth of family and the warmth of life. He's warm. There's warmth, and it keeps him frown drowning, but...

But she's there, too. Another presence, despite being dead. Like a part that's missing and ripped away but also clinging on and a flash of red hair and a flash of turquoise and a flash of bright green eyes and she's tempting and distracting and Not York. She's Not York and she has a new set of memories that aren't him, blonde and military fatigues and an older man with a defeated look and seeing York from her eyes and a lighter and a club the music pumping pumping pumping just like with their club but it's her and it's him and it's--it's--

He feels like dancing away with them both. He feels like he's overheating. Don't chase. Don't chase her, don't chase anything about her let her go let her go. (But she's always there. Can't let her go. She feels so real even though she's far and away and gone.)

God the lighter. The dance. The click spark and flame that had him burning, hand them burning forever. The bass pumping and the vodka sweet and he's there and she's there and MALCOLM is there and they need to not. They can't get caught here so he pushes. Shoves. Drags Carolina back away and Mal to a different club. No lighter. Different music. The night before the night before that lead to the morning of. The mats. Fighting sparring pinning.

Kissing Malcolm and feeling like he's come home. Being kissed BACK and feeling like he's whole.

Like he can see again.

Like he can breathe.

He lingers there for a moment, phantom hands of Carolina curling in his curling in Malcolm's hair. Lips on his ear murmuring encouragement that he, she, they all hear before he draws himself back to the present. In the pod.

Someone with him. Breathing. Whole. He can see.

I'm good. Warm like sunshine, like laughter, like that first shot of bourbon. You with me, Mal?

No no no don't take her away it feels like compulsion have to find her have to keep her so she doesn't get taken away again but he doesn't even know her but is her is her partner is the partner of her partner and the lines are so blurred. Sees York kissing sees him kissing hears her? Processing all the everything. Can't process it all. Too much for one mind and that's why they have three.

Two. Why they have two. He thought he'd get caught up in York, or more terribly, maybe himself, but it's their backseat driver that has him dizzy. Think of something else. Think of doing lines at school think of combat training think of wind in sails on calm waters.

Malcolm? Out of alignment. One or both or all of them (two there's only two the ghost of her doesn't count as a third pilot) both of them are just off center and he streatches. Lines in school (not like how he did them what is this shit maths math doesn't have an s it's not a plural it's arithmatic and it's awesome-

combat training drills drills so many fucking drills and there's blood in his teeth but he's got this they've got this-

sailing is new.

Sailing he's got nothing for.

Wind and canvas and he settles here, staring up, staring out. FOr all that he fights in it all the damn time he never really- enjoyed the Ocean before. Ever. You with me?

She's with you. He's calming down, remembering what breathing is like. Feels the sea breeze on his face despite the helmet, memory sense. I'm...somewhere. Here. I think I'm here. Where 'here' really means is...unclear.

Us. She's with us. He reaches out to find Mal's shoulder in and out of the memory. Squeezes it and there's some chatter over the comm that he's ignoring. They got this. They can do this. Open your eyes, man. Need you in the pod with me.

This is nicer. And it is, even if other memories and thoughts filter by, it's still a day his father let him steer the boat, feel like a little sea captain, before things went sour.

But the others need him. The Marshal needs him.

Taylor needs him. He shifts. Fades. There is a momentary sensation of falling. Lets go of the sunlight and lets York's warmth back in.

His eyes flutter open. There's a moment of near panic, maybe this is another memory, maybe he's York and when he turns his head there she'll be--

It's York.

Did we pass?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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