goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

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.

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.

"Shh. You're good. You're good. You did good." He peels off his glove with one hand and combs his fingers through Malcolm's hair. Pets the sweat slick patch at the nape of his neck. Pretty much what Carolina did for him the first time. "Hey. Hey- you didn't pass out! Good job man."

He takes this opportunity to wiggle a hand for York, because it hits him that he didn't do that like requested. Better late than never?

It's really empty up here in his head. There's room to breathe, but maybe there's too much room. There's so much he saw. Everything's bouncing around. No, don't think of bouncing, god. Sit up slow. Slow slow slow.

He wiggles his hand. He wiggles his fucking hand and that? That has him cackling with laughter. Bent over and gasping through it, goddamn tears dripping down his face from laughing so hard because he. He wiggled his hand.

"oh my god you're awful."

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