goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

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."

Now see, that would seem decidedly more real if that seemed like a York thing to say. But it doesn't. His eyes scan for Carolina, but she seems to be nowhere near. He doesn't stop, doesn't turn around. Actually increases his pace some.

"For fuck's-" He whirls, glaring at Mal. "Back. The fuck. Off."

Nope, no chance, at least not at the moment. He's going to step right up to York, cocking his head. Looking distant. Reaches out and touches his palm to York's chest, and it's...

Solid, that's not the part that concerns him, it's like the floor, it's there but that doesn't mean it's there. Warm. Warm is what it is. Warm is what York is.

"Stop it." He takes a step back and it's all of ten feet to his room and he wants to be alone. Needs it despite Carolina shaking her head behind Malcolm like this is something to be ashamed of and- he should be. Because Mal's not all there. Mal's still DRIFTING without drifting and it shouldn't be his fucking responsibility but-

Caro had held onto him after. When he'd been floating. When he'd been confused. "Just-"

Go away. Leave him alone. Let him drink himself stupid. "Why are you following me?"

There's a crease of confusion between his eyes, hand still out against now empty space. This dream seems wrong. He's not going with any flow, doesn't feel compelled. He's just...here. He's just here, and he's not sure where 'here' is.

Maybe this is actually happening? Hold on. No, that can't be. Can it? He takes a step back himself, blinking, slowly lowering his hand. This...needs figured out. Turns and starts to walk away. He can do that now. He can walk away. There's no flow of events here.

RIght at Carolina. Right THROUGH carolina if he lets him keep going and- jesus. He stalks after Mal, hooks an arm around his waist and starts dragging him back to his room. "We are gonna sit and drink coffee until you're sane again."

Maybe he'll feel less out of his own head then. Maybe he'll not crash so damn hard.

That feels more real. Like there's actual weight to the world, weight to York, and warmth. It catches his breath for a second, but he doesn't fight it. Doesn't let his feet drag, either. Fine, this way. Yes. He'll do that. It's direction. Something like comfort?

Back down the hall and to his room. He sits Mal down on the bed and starts working the plating off the test suit, working from his feet up, setting it in a very neat pile. He'll drop it off with a tech later. Coffee on drip, Mal down to his suit and he's- still floaty. Ish. "Talk to me Mal."

He can't trust his own voice. It's been everyone's voice at one point or another, her laugh, his scream. He opens his mouth, and nothing comes out on its own. Silent protagonist? He's not Carolina. He isn't York. Must be his own voice he should use.

Thinks the words. Thinks them and thinks they should be transferred directly into York's brain as before.

"We're out of the drift, Mal." He murmurs, hands on Malcolm's knees like being on skin with how damn thin the undersuit is. "You gotta use your words. Okay? This is real. I need to hear your voice. I need you to talk to me."

But it doesn't seem to be clicking. There's a disconnect going on here.

He hasn't spoken a single word since before the drift started. That fact only seems to start to register now; he hadn't even tried before. Hadn't seemed necessary. They were talking by thought, the speed of thought alone. Words, verbal words, are clunky, slow. He feels clunky and slow.

Malcolm's hands slide over York's, feeling the ridges where veins pop out, reveling in the warmth. That seems grounding. This might be reality after all.

"Mal-" He can't think of anything else to bring him out of it. Nothing but a weird impulse that Carolina- the traitor, encourages with a half chuckle.

Of course she'd like to watch.

It's a bad idea- but there's not a lick of hesitation with how he leans up and in, pressing his lips to Malcolm's. Something to ground him. To bring him back.

This is much, much better than the restless dreamemories he was having. It's like feeling starts to seep back into him, something not unlike consciousness. He makes a small noise at the back of his throat and leans into the kiss. Reaches again, sliding fingers into hair, back of the head.

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