goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

"No- no mal no you're- it was funny. The hand. You wiggled your hand you REMEMBERED what I asked you to do when we got out. Usually the last fifteen seconds are static when you disengage and you remembered. You're fucking amazing." He hooks his arm around Malcolm's shoulder and nuzzles his cheek, squeezing him. "You're magical."

He's not convinced this isn't still making fun of him. That York's just pulling his leg trying not to make him feel bad. Patronizing. Nothing feels amazing or magical right now, least of all himself.

"Mal. Mal. Lookit me Mal." He gives him a shake and turns enough to look Malcolm in the eye. "We did it. You did amazing. You did fantastic. You didn't seize or anything= shit, my first drift? I passed out afterward. For like. An hour. I didn't even disengage I just passed right the fuck out."

~~Okay...that sounds fake but okay.~~ Malcolm shrugs his shoulders. Maybe this is good. Maybe next time will go worse. Maybe the second he gets up he'll pass out. Maybe he's having a seizure right now. Maybe he's dreaming. This could be a dream. Maybe in an hour he'll realize that this was good.

"You wanna try standing up?" He holds his hand out for the bottle of water Delta's offering over, cracking the top to hold it for Mal.

He'll take the water first, a tentative sip, but it's so refreshing. Not as much as the sea breeze on the open waters, but still. He's careful to keep to small sips. Then gets his legs under himself to try standing. A little dizzy. Okay, a lot dizzy. He throws a hand out to lean on something, but like hell he's going down.

York's there, right there, slipping under his arm to help him stand. To help him stand and to help him get his feet under him. "We're gonna head to medical, awright? Awright. Quit hovering D, I got this."

The Marshall might call after them and he might tell him to shove it but for now he's more interested in getting Mal somewhere quiet and private and calm.

He shakes his head, a little bit. Medical? No, no, just...let him lie down and sleep forever. Doctors are just going to poke him and prod him and he is not a huge fan of doctors. But he'll go where York leads.

To medical. To a quiet room with someone that'll give him a hand scanner and fuck off. He lays Mal out on the cot, they can worry about getting them out of the suits later. He turns down the lights, closes the door, and settles in a chair next to him, curling their fingers together. "You did good."

He sees that York is suffering no ill after effects. He's done it before, though. Many times. Many times with Carolina. So maybe it just comes with all that practise. Malcolm panicked. And the only reason he didn't chase anything was because York willed it away, like he physically pulled Carolina back.

York's too busy fretting over Mal to notice his own blinding migraine behind his bad eye. To pay attention to how his hand's shaking, or the adrenal crash that's already rolling on down. The nausea he swallowed past sits thick in his stomach and he wants a drink more than anything else in the world. "You did good."

God, it's like a crash from a high. Not the slow release and let down from last night. A crash he can feel in his bones. He sweeps a hand, making a motion to--is there another bed in the room? York needs to lie down. They all need to lie down and sleep. That's definitely Carolina standing over there, though, leaning against the door, arms lightly crossed. As if she's really there. He doesn't even question it. Of course she'd be there, worried about her partners. Her stupid dumbasses.

Lina leaning by the door and murmuring to York to lie down, you idiot and he waves her off, waves her off and sees Mal looking at her. Looking at her and SEEING her and that sort of. Hits him right in the chest that he's not alone in that.

That she's real enough for Mal to see. To feel.

For a moment he's not sure if he's about to throw up or pass out and of course his body opts for the most mortifying option possible and does neither, hot tears welling up in his eyes instead and spilling over before he can stop them.

No. No, no. No come here. He tugs on York's hand, tugs and tugs and either he's going to sit up or you're going to come here, mister, because it's the most natural thing to him right now to want to hold York close, let him hide his face in Malcolm's shoulder and neck, because he needs it and needs support and York is his partner and that's what partners do.

He fights it for half a second. One of them needs to be okay and he's the one that's used to this shit so it should be him but- another tug and Mal looks like he's gonna sit up and he can't-

He stumbles his way into the cot. Curls around Malcolm and buries his face against his suit, sucking in shuddering breaths. It's more than Malcolm holding him close, it's the ghost of her fingertips combing through his hair. Mal's hair. Murmuring that they did good. That it's okay to rest. She'll keep watch.

Oh. Oh York's just joining him completely in the cot. That works, too. No complaints. None. Despite his emotional rollercoaster since disengaging, this feels more natural, and he feels like he knows what to do. And that's be there for York. Let them cling together to each other. Let it out. It's okay. It's just family here. Rest now. Rest.

Sleeping in the suits is not a good idea- it'll give him a crick in his neck and the whole spinal connection thing but- he doesn't wanna move. Just wants to rest, to ride out the crash and the migraine and the everything with Malcolm. Holding on and listening to- it's either Mal or him or Clair humming. Soft and slow and aimless.

It's soothing.

Malcolm definitely drops off, despite the suit, to the sound of York's breathing, however hitched it might be. Limbs all tangled up with York. It is not a soundless sleep. His subconscious is still churning in overdrive to sort through all the memories dumped into him, then tried to slosh back out. It's dreams that are memories that are mixed of all of them, and giant beasts tearing at them, and all he wants is York's warm, warm, warm, but it's nothing but cold. The cold loss of a parental death, cold loss of innocence, cold water engulfing. It's a lighter flickering out and the feel of a link fence under his hands of a place that's most definitely restricted.

And when he does wake, no idea how long or how short it may have been, none of it feels real, and could just be another memory when one of them woke up here. Assess. Assess the situation...

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.

He feels floaty and disconnected and dry in the mouth. Scrapes his hands along York's suit audibly, testing his clinging. Feels...mostly real, but he can't be sure. He could be her for all he knows. How will this dream-memory end, then? Will someone die, or just feel like dying? Coughs, stretches, stiff, doesn't want to necessarily detangle himself. Not sure that it's real. Not sure.

HE doesn't want to move- but he doesn't want to be here with Malcolm right now either. Doesn't want Carolina murmuring soft, kind, comforting things in the back of his head like she can change anything that's happened. Like she can fix this, fix him. The migraine is pounding behind his bad eye again and- he sits up. Drags himself off the cot and staggers away, works at the plating of his suit. He needs it off. He needs a drink.

That gets him to take notice. Blinks, pushes himself up with an arm. Watches. Watches quietly. Something's wrong here. York's in pain. Carolina...is made of blurred lines and is fuzzy to perceive. Strange dream. Touches his feet on the floor, and he's aware that they're on the floor but he might as well be floating.

Gloves, thigh pads, back piece, chest piece. New fit and model but the catches are all the same. They don't rivet you in to test suits. Bit by bit he sheds it all till he's in the undersuit and he feels that much more- not better. Not better at all. But less lost between then and now. He'll tell a tech where he left his shit. They know he's been here. Right now he just needs to leave.

Fairly steady on his feet he heads for the door, walking right through Carolina.

She's not really there anymore. Why bother going around?

He's curious where this one is going. It'll end or shift eventually, and something horrible or surreal will happen elsewhere, but Malcolm, suit and all, follows. He's vaguely aware of being uncomfortable, but it's far and away. Sensory memory, something the dream wants him to feel.

"Quit it." When he remembers what words are he mutters that- of course he's out of the infirmery, leaving a note for the nearest tech that his suit's in the room and on his way to his room. Where he wants to be.

Alone. "Go to your own room, Mal."

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