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This is going to look amazing when the real thing is in front of him. (Hell, on him. It's a little baffling to think that this is for him even if he's known about the idea for quite a while now.) He's attentive, reaches to turn it here and there when York's not fiddling with it.

Then the colour comes on, and the Starfleet delta is emblazoned clear on the arm, and he feels more than a little suckerpunched. He still has his uniform, tucked away in his room. Hasn't worn it for some time when before it had been like a second skin. And the red on the arm is just like that bloody rave when York painted it on him. Back when Jim was still around. That York remembers these details has him swallowing back an unanticipated emotion.

Nothing will ever be like home again, but the reminders--the good reminders--can keep them grounded to where they came from. He clears his throat after a long moment. "Upgrades?" Are they really doing that?

He gives Malcolm a moment to look. To take in the details, even slides the data pad over so he can flick through, zoom in and turn things around on his own time. Mal's military- having a uniform means something. Having a unit. Having order. The Project ended in chaos without any of that. Malcolm being involved isn't just expected, it's a requirement. They need someone that understands how shit SHOULD have gone, someone to reign them in.

Someone to keep them orderly.

"If they're viable. Right now we're just working on the theory. Nothing that requires an AI to run so that takes care of most of the more dangerous shit anyway. None of it gets implemented until we're absolutely sure they're not going to get anyone hurt if we test them. Right now we're just getting the armor made and calibrated." He's been talking to a guy about getting a warehouse set aside in D4 for them to train in but the price is woah even for him. He'll have to tap in on Clair for that. "Then it's...learning how to be a unit again. We all kind of forgot at the end of it. Having you is gonna be a big help, Mal. You remember how to do this the right way. And that's what we need. The right way."

"Me, sir?" He glances up sharply.

And then he regrets what came out of his mouth. All of the military talk, the thoughts of home, it just--happens. It just comes out as if he'd always called York sir.

But York isn't the captain. They're on a level playing field here. He clears his throat again, continues as if it hadn't happened. "I understand your perspective. I have plenty of experience prepping a team and leading them where to go, as a unit, and how to work as a group in combat. We never--well. I can hardly say we never had anything like Freelancers, but then, I wouldn't know, would I? To my knowledge, we didn't. The Coalition of Planets was to work together." Nevermind how that barely happened in any sense of the word. "Starfleet is a unit, each group of ships together a unit, every crew on a single ship a unit. Sometimes things come down to one person..." Sometimes people behind the scenes, sometimes a crazy hail mary or act of sacrifice-- "But you can't win a war alone."

Still, the fact that York trusts him enough by going on basically hearsay as to Malcolm's skills and knowledge, that's high praise and honour. And it's all touching, from that to the armour and back again.

"No leaderboard. No competing against each other. No rewards for doing better than one another. Work to our strengths. No live ammo in training." He figures York will appreciate that one.

"Sir?" One tiny word. Sir. He hasn't been sirred since, well, the MOI. There were subordinates, soldiers and security that weren't freelancers and he'd gotten Sirred by them once or twice but it didn't ever have the same ring to it that this did.

Maybe it's the accent. Maybe it's the habit that's quick and clean. Maybe it's how absolutely certain he sounds. That's- highly irregular.

It twists in his stomach with an odd mix of heat and chill that he's not sure he knows how to do with. Right. Sir. Him. Mal- okay no.

"See? Already miles ahead of who we had before. You'll be a great number 2." He pats Malcolm on the back and, yeah. He should be Sirring Malcolm. He can't even remember his old rank before the project anymore. It's not relevant.

Nope. Ignoring the sir. Ignoring it. There is no sir here. Nobody's a sir. Although someone has to be a sir if he's going to be--"Number two to who? Carolina?"

She'll want armour, sure, but is she going to want this a cohesive group? "We have to make sure we aren't Freelancers. It can't happen, and we'll have to...be as dissociated from that as possible. I'm not sure that armour and upgrades help with that, but...it's an edge."

"Yessir." Okay maybe he's poking at it a bit. He'd liked it. Liked how mal looked and sounded. He looked- like he was home. comfortable. It's not something that happens often enough. "I was only number 2 because my scores were so high. We need a second in command that can reign her in and actually knows what the hell they're doing."

Morale, he can do. Improv? Sure! But leading a squad? Nope, not even from the number two slot. Malcolm it is. "The suits and upgrades are tools more than anything else. We need to distance ourselves from the..language of the project, I think. Call Ourselves something different. New code names. We're a group that's choosing this, knowing exactly what's going on when we sign up this time. No surprises."

He might even dust off the uniform for a rare appearance. For old times sake. Malcolm smiles a little, embarrassed and looking back at the display. "Shush, you."

He was on his way up in rank. He's pretty sure that promotions were going to start going around once the war had settled, and people would go to new ships. Funny that he isn't sure how he'd feel on another ship. He'd deal, but it would never quite be home in the end. Just a different version thereof.

"Everyone will need to get together to discuss this. Especially if there are some who might oppose being a group in the first place. And those who might have concerns about...non-Freelancers in the group." There might be objections to an outsider running SIC. "After Christmas. After the surprise. Is everything going to be done in time?"

"You love it." He nudges Mal with his elbow, pleased to get him just a little happy. Thinking of home in a good way. It's- worth everything. And that thought tells him that he's not quite back to platonicaly thinking of him just yet. Damn.

Still it's good. It's better. They both need better.

"That's what I figured. First I have to see how D feels about South. She's- doing better here, I think. Without direct competition. I don't expect him to like her, they never really got along before that mess, but if they can't work with each other it might be a wash." They need to function as a unit. Delta should be able to see the logic in that, right? Right. "Mine, Clair's, yours, Delta's, and North's. South's is about half done. Theta's- we have to scale everything down for him. Tex just needs the rewire on hers and Church can suck it."

The good reminders are best. York needs that, too. Focus on here, yes, but he should also not forget where he comes from. There must have been some good in the project before things went to hell, or why stay? Besides, he supposes, Carolina.

"Are you sure you want Tex part of this?" There's no question that the Alpha won't be. Not if he can't shoot, and not with York's reaction. God knows how anyone else might react.

"At first? No. She needs the space to sort her own head out. I'm not gonna pull her in just yet. She and Church can handle themselves for now." Later, though, if everyone else is alright with it? Maybe.

"If she wants in later and everyone else is on board, we'll make it happen. But until then...I think she needs time. She's earned it."

"...Okay. Time and space first."

He hands the padd back over, feeling much more elated and full of emotions than he had at the start of this conversation. "Thank you." And he means it, deeply. He's touched. "You're...sweet. The details. They're very kind of you. You didn't need to."

York takes the pad with a smile, something smaller, sweeter and far more sincere than the usual bs grins he's been tossing around lately. Mal's pleased- that's good. He hasn't fucked this up. "You're welcome."

Really.

And then he keeps talking and he's not- he is not getting choked up or anything. Shrugs it off like it's just what he does. Because it is, really. "It's important to you. The emblem, the uniform colors. Just because you're with us doesn't mean you're not from the 'Fleet too. It means something."

"A bit like dual citizenship," he jokes lightly. He's trying not to let how moved he is creep into his voice. But on the other hand, they're trying to be a little more open with each other, aren't they? "It does mean something, even if it only means something to me."

Strange to have something that is his and his alone that means so much. It's almost enough to beat back any remaining feelings of loneliness compared to the Freelancers.

"And now I won't have to borrow your suit anymore. You can have your own colours back. I'll stop masquerading as you." Maybe something as small as colour might be good enough to draw some more pleasant connections to home for York?

"It means something to you, and that's why it's important." He also may have wired the house to sound the 'tactical alert' as designed by Malcolm awhile ago. Not that it's ever gone off. Still, small things. Home's important. Maybe he should try to be a little more optimistic about that, here.

"Also- got the rough sketches from Jim forever ago so I'll need you to confirm if this is right, but-" Phase rifles. THey're nowhere near ready for production but the design he pulls up is wholly fleet inspired, sleek, and more efficient than the current models on the market. "Look that over, see if we got it right? I don't know the tech and my guy's just guessing on some of the details."

A beat.

"Aw come on, you know you like look'n like me."

They are most certainly fleet inspired, he can see it in the basic design. Better, though. More advanced. "I'll crunch out some numbers for you and get back to you on it. It won't be quite as accurate as what Jim could've provided, but if there's one thing I can bloody well figure out, it's weaponry."

This is work that he can do that means something. A long time coming in production doesn't matter. "To think I'm spending time playing a long con in modeling," Malcolm scoffs at himself. This might be the most normal he's felt in some time.

"It's better than what I got. I'm not used to this format and my guy's kinda stumped." Seriously. It's bugging the hell out of both of them.

"It's a good con. Seriously. I'd be too twitchy to do it but they like you and you can handle not giving up the game easily. I couldn't." There's that other thing he'd said while being an absolute bastard. "...I shouldn't have- yeah. That was way out of line, what I said. About you and..."

"Bit out of line, yes," he agrees easily enough but with a casual smile. It's all forgiven. "Especially when you knew what I was doing. Pretty sure you don't want to put 'sneaky weapons dealer' on a resume."

Malcolm gives a little sigh, setting the schematics aside and patting York on the knee. "Look, I don't care that you called me a navy brat, because I am one through and through. It was the whole phrase. It hit close to home. I was going to be a naval officer, and, well, what kind of officer can't swim, either? It just...brought up some memories of things people have said to me. And things I thought of about myself. That's why it stuck, and that's one of the items that got me so...emotionally bent out of shape. Obviously the, ah, panic attack," might as well use the real name for it, with a bashful look down, "didn't help matters."

"People gave you shit because you 'react poorly'," Finger quotes included, he caught that earlier Malcolm. "to something that was directly connected to a traumatic event in your life. Seriously?"

He'd been incredulous but- that he was supposed to be in the navy and wasn't, and it was because of this? Made him feel five kinds of an asshole. Knowing they're good is good but- jesus. Who the hell was Mal thinking of when he heard it like that all over again? "Trauma's trauma, triggers are triggers. Technically- you can swim. You'd just really fucking rather not due to a shitty experience and that is completely valid."

York's hand drops to cover Malcolm's for a moment, giving it a squeeze. "I'm sorry."

"I had a relative, a great-uncle, who was terrified of drowning, too. He ended up saving his submarine crew." Malcolm gives a shrug, though is thankful for the contact York gives. Fingers curl, just a little, to keep the hand there. Just for now. "Compared to that, I didn't have an excuse."

And it's hard to talk about the truth, about himself, his personal life, but York deserves that. He deserves a lot. "Nothing's your fault. I just...want you to know where I'm coming from."

"...Mal you realize that is a specific brand of crazy, right? Phobias may be irrational but fear in and of itself isn't. Putting yourself in that kind of position when you're supposed to be in charge is fucking stupid, I'm sorry. If he had it as bad as you did and decided to go down anyway? I wouldn't have wanted to serve under him. That is a shit choice for him and his crew." He squeezes Malcolm's hand just a bit tighter, trying to get him to look him in the eye.

"You made the right call. Obviously you made the right call, you make history according to Jim. Isn't that worth more?"

"I know I did. I've had a good deal of time to realize that. Still, some things unexpectedly stick with us. Like phobias." His mouth twitches into a more sardonic smile. "I told that story to my captain once because he's chatty and really had had enough of not knowing much about me." That gets a laugh. "There's more to it than that. I was pinned to the hull by a live but damaged mine, he was trying to disarm it, we were...chatting about why I wasn't in the navy and this all came up."

Let him take a breath and shake it off. "Sorry, I'm...rambling a bit. Not very like me, is it, to ramble. The point is, I tried. I wanted to. I was going to be in the navy if it killed me, but I couldn't, and then I made a different choice for myself, and things, well...things happened as they did. It was the right call in the end. I'm glad I stuck with it."

"...I think we're going to have to double back a bit to the part where you were pinned to the hull by a space mine while chatting away with your captain." Because- what? What the FUCK even? "How- but. Space. Space ship. How were you pinned? Do I want to know?"

He's concerned. That sentence is concerning. Malcolm's being concerning. It's- wow. "No, you're not rambling. You're talking about yourself, which you don't really do and that's fine. I don't mind it. Ramble some more. I'd like to know about your life, your captain, your ship. A force for good. It's- nice to think that there's a place where humanity meets aliens and it goes well."

He scoffs, looking up at York for once. "Not always. I can't even tell you how many times we got into fights with first contacts. Not the friendliest bunch out there. Or sometimes too friendly. Remind me to tell you about the time Trip got impregnated."

Good times.

But right, mines. "I was pinned because I went out to dislodge it, and one of the spikes it used to attach to the hull decided to do so straight through my leg. The captain had invited me to breakfast to get to know me--which was predictably a disaster--so when he came out to help, he wanted to continue the conversation. He said it helped to settle his nerves." Another scoff. "And it didn't calm mine, but what was I going to do about it, get up and walk away? Add to that was that the minefield was generally invisible and there was some kind of cloaked ship that wanted us out of the territory as soon as possible, and they didn't really care who was still out on the hull so long as we went to warp. Do you want to know what happens to a person if they're outside a ship and that ship goes to warp? You don't."

"....what." No, no, he'll come back to that later. For now? Mine. Mine with a spike through his LEG. That's both incredibly hardcore and horrifying because space obviously he lived but jesus christ.

And he's so nonchalant about it. 'Oh a spike through my leg, bit of a bother'. If anyone ever questions how much Mal would fit with them in the new group he'll just mention that. A casual disregard for personal safety in the midst of explosives is a requirement. Damn.

"How did you- I mean. You didn't die. Obviously. How?"

That's what space drugs are for. Delicious, tasty space drugs. "Well, after trying to disarm the mine failed spectacularly--it was too damaged, and we didn't have the time to go about it the right way, not with that angry ship looming. So the captain decided to detach the plating of hull the mine--and, subsequently I--was attached to, cut me loose to set the mine on the ten second countdown, grabbed some reinforced shuttlepod doors, and we used them to shield ourselves from the blast while being flung back toward the ship in time to get snatched up by the transporter and warp away."

There's a thoughtful pause. "If in the very unlikely event that Captain Archer ever shows up here, he's going to argue it was twenty seconds, and he is respectfully wrong."

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Re: Day 131 - evening - action

Day 131 - evening - action

Day 131 - evening - action

Day 131 - evening - action

Day 131 - evening - action

Day 131 - evening - action