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There's not much call for private security on Thisavrou, but York managed to find work as a locksmith. His days are generally slow -- life is far more peaceful than he's used to and he's not sure if he likes that. Without the constant distraction of action, it's... lonely. He finds that his favorite times of the day are when he's training in the mornings, back in his armor, and the downtime after work when he goes to see Angela or Kurt. Especially Angela, and not just for the coffee anymore. She's kind and smart and sassy and beautiful and he's been lingering around her more and more recently. It's embarrassing if he thinks about it too much. He feels like he's back in basic with a crush and no idea how to act on it. That's about how long it's been since he was with anybody, anyway. The hell is he supposed to do? Buy her flowers?
And that's how he wound up standing outside her clinic with a bouquet, feeling ridiculous.
Might as well go inside, though, she knows he comes by about this time for coffee. He waves to the receptionist and heads for Angela's office to wait if she's with a patient somewhere, but when he gets there she's sitting at her desk looking over a chart. York raps his fingers on the open door.
And that's how he wound up standing outside her clinic with a bouquet, feeling ridiculous.
Might as well go inside, though, she knows he comes by about this time for coffee. He waves to the receptionist and heads for Angela's office to wait if she's with a patient somewhere, but when he gets there she's sitting at her desk looking over a chart. York raps his fingers on the open door.
Angela doesn't take terribly well to the peace either, but the missions to other planets have kept her busy in waves— if not directly by tending to some herself, then by the influx of patients that followed such outings, bruised and broken or clawed up from some alien monster or another. The highlight of those slow days was the promise of good company and luxurious coffee breaks, but emphasis on good company. And she was just about due her usual visit, she notes.
Beyond those from home occasionally swinging by or messaging her over the network, Ahab was a scheduled presence that either came by or hailed her every couple of days, and David was on the daily— he had been since the first week she'd arrived on the Moira, finding the quiet hours of the gym together and sharing mission after mission. Shiro was also fairly regular with his biotic arm, scheduled checkups— and then more recently there was Kurt. And more frequently, York. She's rather spoiled by those who surround her, well aware that she's blessed in her friendships and their presence in her day to day.
It's a pleasant surprise, then, when after one more patient there's a knock at her office door and she glances up after a brief moment to finish jotting down a sentence and she's greeted not only by York's familiar face, but the brightness of flowers in his hand— and she's quite clearly delighted to see him (and such lovely flowers, here in space) if her bright smile is any indication. They don't even have to be for her; Angela hasn't seen flowers so vibrant in some time and they're a visual treat even in passing.
"York; you've changed it up today, I see."
His name is spoken with fond warmth, pen set down and chart slid up to the corner of her desk before she rises in greeting to move her coat from her other chair.
Beyond those from home occasionally swinging by or messaging her over the network, Ahab was a scheduled presence that either came by or hailed her every couple of days, and David was on the daily— he had been since the first week she'd arrived on the Moira, finding the quiet hours of the gym together and sharing mission after mission. Shiro was also fairly regular with his biotic arm, scheduled checkups— and then more recently there was Kurt. And more frequently, York. She's rather spoiled by those who surround her, well aware that she's blessed in her friendships and their presence in her day to day.
It's a pleasant surprise, then, when after one more patient there's a knock at her office door and she glances up after a brief moment to finish jotting down a sentence and she's greeted not only by York's familiar face, but the brightness of flowers in his hand— and she's quite clearly delighted to see him (and such lovely flowers, here in space) if her bright smile is any indication. They don't even have to be for her; Angela hasn't seen flowers so vibrant in some time and they're a visual treat even in passing.
"York; you've changed it up today, I see."
His name is spoken with fond warmth, pen set down and chart slid up to the corner of her desk before she rises in greeting to move her coat from her other chair.
When he's acknowledged York steps into the room, heading for the chair she's freeing up and circling around her desk to offer her the bouquet. A flush rises to his face as their fingers brush when she takes them -- a raucous arrangement of color and shapes that neither of them have probably seen before.
"I passed a market with flowers on the way here -- first I've seen them in this world, I couldn't not get you some. Brighten up your office."
He sits, then, folding one leg up, ankle over his knee. "How's your day been?"
"I passed a market with flowers on the way here -- first I've seen them in this world, I couldn't not get you some. Brighten up your office."
He sits, then, folding one leg up, ankle over his knee. "How's your day been?"
The flowers are offered to her and her smile brightens even further, teeth flashing and shoulders drawing up as they're scooped graciously from his hand and brought to her face without a modicum of fear— she should be wary with alien flora, perhaps, but they already smell lovely and her nose is lost to sky blue petals, soft lavender brushing one cheek and white against the other with splashes of sunny yellow peppered throughout in charming puffs of unopened buds. They almost smell of citrus and honey and some are even spicy, trying not to hug them to her chest. It hadn't taken much to fluster him, but she isn't particularly trying to tone it down, either. Angela is observant beyond her years and the color in his cheeks only corroborates what she's noticed before; she's fairly certain he may be courting her.
"They're beautiful, thank you süässli. I haven't seen any since we left the midway hub with the thistle plants. Let me get some water for them."
Her office is formally an exam room with an added desk, and the glass pitcher gathered up from the opposite end is filled with water from the tiny sink while he arranges himself, taking her time to snip the ends at an angle beneath the running water before placing them in the pitcher. They're arranged with care to maintain the bouquet's color balance, and she returns to set it on her desk with a fond smile, returning to her chair (stool, really, as all doctors seem to favor) as she edges closer. The cross of one leg over her other nearly brings them knee to knee, holding a hand out for one of his to squeeze appreciatively.
"And they'll do just that. It's significantly better with your company, as always. The clinic's been quiet so I've been able to catch up on some research. How about yours?"
"They're beautiful, thank you süässli. I haven't seen any since we left the midway hub with the thistle plants. Let me get some water for them."
Her office is formally an exam room with an added desk, and the glass pitcher gathered up from the opposite end is filled with water from the tiny sink while he arranges himself, taking her time to snip the ends at an angle beneath the running water before placing them in the pitcher. They're arranged with care to maintain the bouquet's color balance, and she returns to set it on her desk with a fond smile, returning to her chair (stool, really, as all doctors seem to favor) as she edges closer. The cross of one leg over her other nearly brings them knee to knee, holding a hand out for one of his to squeeze appreciatively.
"And they'll do just that. It's significantly better with your company, as always. The clinic's been quiet so I've been able to catch up on some research. How about yours?"
Some nights the pillow just doesn't work.
It helps having something physical to focus on, but that's assuming he's in a state to focus in the first place. And tonight he's just not. He traces the ornate embroidery without actually feeling it on his fingertips, too overloaded by the crashing in his ears, the crawling on his skin, the lights flashing behind his closed eyelids. Stubbornly he keeps trying but the anxiety ratchets up, getting worse as he fails to control it, until it's choking him. Pushing his pulse hummingbird fast and spinning the room around him when he opens his eyes, searching desperately for anything to ground himself.
And of course the only thing he finds is Ratchet in the bunk across from him. York moves slowly, carefully, quietly, sitting up in bed and struggling to keep his breathing even as he crosses the space between their beds. He wakes his friend with a shake instead of just crawling in under the covers -- he's a bit too far gone for that, too worried about waking the others with his impending panic attack. His grip on Ratchet's shoulder is just slightly too tight, the shake just a bit frantic. Wake up, Ratchet. Help.
It helps having something physical to focus on, but that's assuming he's in a state to focus in the first place. And tonight he's just not. He traces the ornate embroidery without actually feeling it on his fingertips, too overloaded by the crashing in his ears, the crawling on his skin, the lights flashing behind his closed eyelids. Stubbornly he keeps trying but the anxiety ratchets up, getting worse as he fails to control it, until it's choking him. Pushing his pulse hummingbird fast and spinning the room around him when he opens his eyes, searching desperately for anything to ground himself.
And of course the only thing he finds is Ratchet in the bunk across from him. York moves slowly, carefully, quietly, sitting up in bed and struggling to keep his breathing even as he crosses the space between their beds. He wakes his friend with a shake instead of just crawling in under the covers -- he's a bit too far gone for that, too worried about waking the others with his impending panic attack. His grip on Ratchet's shoulder is just slightly too tight, the shake just a bit frantic. Wake up, Ratchet. Help.
Ratchet's whole body is tense in an instant when York grabs his shoulder--he'd barely been dozing and it takes him no time at all to come fully awake and, thankfully, recognize York immediately to keep from elbowing him in the jaw.
"York," he says, his voice low and rough with sleep, half-sitting up but not really pulling out of York's grip, reaching up to close a hand around his elbow and squeeze reassuringly. "I've got you, c'mere. You all right? Talk to me."
"York," he says, his voice low and rough with sleep, half-sitting up but not really pulling out of York's grip, reaching up to close a hand around his elbow and squeeze reassuringly. "I've got you, c'mere. You all right? Talk to me."
There's a little bit of guilt in this, in waking Ratchet from what little sleep the other man manages to get. But he's offered countless times, has outright told York to wake him on purpose rather than accidentally by letting it get too bad, so here he is. Shaking and hyperventilating but here, and he holds on for a moment before just standing up, catching Ratchet's hand and tugging. Not in here. He's not going to wake anyone else.
"Common room?" he manages to keep his voice quiet, swaying on his feet as the room spins again. "I can't stop it..."
"Common room?" he manages to keep his voice quiet, swaying on his feet as the room spins again. "I can't stop it..."
"Yeah." Ratchet just nods and pushes up without hesitation, keeping a grip on his hand as they make their way to the common room. He relaxes a little once they're in relative private, turning back to York and searching his face intently, closing his free hand on York's shoulder.
"S'all right. You're all right. Walk me through what's going on, okay?"
"S'all right. You're all right. Walk me through what's going on, okay?"
York just shakes harder once they're alone and he doesn't have to keep such tight control over himself, leaning forward to press his forehead to Ratchet's shoulder, his other hand coming up and gripping his shirt desperately. "It's... like I'm misfiring," he gasps out, not sure how else to describe it. It's an overload of sensation that he knows isn't really there, but that threatens to drown him anyway. He's not sure whether he needs to be distracted from it or just watched until it passes, but Ratchet helped the last time. York grits his teeth and focuses on putting it into words. He doesn't beg to be knocked out this time, but there's a hopeless edge to his voice.
"Everything's too loud. And bright. And moving, it's like I'm falling or exploding or--" Fuck. He just wants it to stop. He can't hack it-- "It's not real. Why is this still happening?"
"Everything's too loud. And bright. And moving, it's like I'm falling or exploding or--" Fuck. He just wants it to stop. He can't hack it-- "It's not real. Why is this still happening?"
"Okay. All right, come here." Ratchet pulls York down to the nearest couch and sits back against the arm, pulling York's back to his chest again and just settling him there, his palm pressed over the too-fast beat of York's heart against his rib cage. He tightens his grip a little, anchoring him, and his voice is low in York's ear.
"Just breathe slowly, with me. It's still happening because this place messed with your brain and it's taking you time to heal, York. Close your eyes for now--you're not going anywhere, and you're going to be okay. I've got you."
"Just breathe slowly, with me. It's still happening because this place messed with your brain and it's taking you time to heal, York. Close your eyes for now--you're not going anywhere, and you're going to be okay. I've got you."
He's stiff with tension as he leans back against Ratchet, but he does lean back, reaching up to hold on to the other man's wrist instead of his shirt. Just needing to hold on to something. Ratchet's breathing is slow and steady, almost rocking him with each inhalation, and that helps. He can try to pace his own breath to that.... and manages it, eventually. He squeezes his eyes closed and grits his teeth and stubbornly focuses on syncing up with Ratchet until it actually happens. Listening to the other man's voice to drown out the other noise. His breaths are still deep and shuddering but they even out, and with that his pulse slows, the attack passing. The stimuli that brought it on remain, but he can ride through that if he's calm again, and he's getting there.
Slowly, his shoulders uncoil and his head falls back against Ratchet's shoulder. "Sorry," he murmurs, suddenly feeling embarrassed that this happened again, that he couldn't fight it off on his own.
Slowly, his shoulders uncoil and his head falls back against Ratchet's shoulder. "Sorry," he murmurs, suddenly feeling embarrassed that this happened again, that he couldn't fight it off on his own.
"Hey, none of that," Ratchet says, sounding unperturbed as he shifts York more comfortably against him, just relaxing back into the couch as he feels York's heartbeat slow under his palm. "There's no way a reasonable person would ask you to just sit through a sudden cascade of hallucinations with no anchor and no help, which is why I told you to get me and you did as I asked, so there's nothing to apologize for." His free hand squeezes York's shoulder briefly, warm and companionable. "Don't worry about it."
"Sure, be a reasonable person," York jokes weakly, his thumb tracing the line of scarring on Ratchet's wrist without really realizing it. His other hand unclenches from where it was balled into a tight fist in his lap, and lands on Ratchet's leg. Which might not be the most appropriate place, but he doesn't care all that much. They sleep together regularly enough that his hands have wound up worse places on accident -- he just reels them back and ignores it, and Ratchet's never seemed to mind.
"Thank you, though. Without you Daryl would probably be knocking me unconscious every couple nights."
"Thank you, though. Without you Daryl would probably be knocking me unconscious every couple nights."
Ratchet reaches up to press a hand over the the one sliding along the scar tissue at his wrist, squeezing brief censure before he draws back again, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't appear perturbed by the hand on his thigh in the slightest.
"Yeah, well," he says, his voice bone dry. "While regular concussions are certainly a novel treatment for altered brain function, they're not necessarily one I'd recommend, so it's just as well. I don't mind."
"Yeah, well," he says, his voice bone dry. "While regular concussions are certainly a novel treatment for altered brain function, they're not necessarily one I'd recommend, so it's just as well. I don't mind."
York's hand stills -- right, the scars. Ratchet still hasn't told him about those, and he's not going to ask. Even if he's curious.
"I know you don't. It's still... a lot." It means a lot to him, anyway. He's not sure he'd be able to look after someone the same way and really, they don't even know each other that well. Maybe this is a decent time to fix that -- he wouldn't mind if Ratchet kept talking. "Have you ever had to do this before? Keep someone sane?"
"I know you don't. It's still... a lot." It means a lot to him, anyway. He's not sure he'd be able to look after someone the same way and really, they don't even know each other that well. Maybe this is a decent time to fix that -- he wouldn't mind if Ratchet kept talking. "Have you ever had to do this before? Keep someone sane?"
Ratchet makes a low noise of acknowledgement in his throat and shifts a little. When he speaks again he sounds thoughtful, a little less guarded than he usually is talking about himself.
"Not quite like this, no. I've helped people recover from brain injuries before, but I usually have a more extensive set of tools to be able to fix things like that, particularly if the issue is a mechanical problem and not a psychological one, though obviously there's some overlap sometimes. But... I don't know." His voice slows, his grip on York shifting a little. "I've been a combat medic pretty much my whole life. Part of that job has to be keeping everybody sane, to a certain extent, so I guess I'm sort of used to it, too. It's not that much of a stretch."
"Not quite like this, no. I've helped people recover from brain injuries before, but I usually have a more extensive set of tools to be able to fix things like that, particularly if the issue is a mechanical problem and not a psychological one, though obviously there's some overlap sometimes. But... I don't know." His voice slows, his grip on York shifting a little. "I've been a combat medic pretty much my whole life. Part of that job has to be keeping everybody sane, to a certain extent, so I guess I'm sort of used to it, too. It's not that much of a stretch."
"A mechanical problem?" That's an interesting way to put it, most people would say physical. He guesses that's sort of what's happening to him, though, since it's the implant (or sudden lack of it) giving him trouble. Maybe people in Ratchet's fleet had similar tech.
York tilts his head on Ratchet's shoulder, shifting back so he can see the other man. "...who keeps you sane, then? If your job's to look after everyone else."
York tilts his head on Ratchet's shoulder, shifting back so he can see the other man. "...who keeps you sane, then? If your job's to look after everyone else."
Ratchet huffs a soft laugh, looking right back at him.
"Everyone else, I guess. It's--" He almost moves to touch one the scars but checks himself, settling back. "I don't know. It's necessary, what I do. It's grounding, to have something like that. A... function, I guess." He pulls a slight face, then sighs. "Keeping everyone else sane is what keeps me sane, most days." Ratchet grins, his eyes lighting a little. "Barring that I'll go and get drunk, but I usually have way too much to do for that sort of nonsense."
"Everyone else, I guess. It's--" He almost moves to touch one the scars but checks himself, settling back. "I don't know. It's necessary, what I do. It's grounding, to have something like that. A... function, I guess." He pulls a slight face, then sighs. "Keeping everyone else sane is what keeps me sane, most days." Ratchet grins, his eyes lighting a little. "Barring that I'll go and get drunk, but I usually have way too much to do for that sort of nonsense."
York catches that, and again he wants to ask, but doesn't. Eventually, Ratchet will tell him. Maybe. He just listens, for now, his mouth curling up into a matching grin at the mention of getting drunk to cope. He's been there too. Some of the best bonding times he ever had with the other Freelancers were shore leave, actually.
But here... "I guess it's kind of... not having a purpose here makes everything harder to deal with. I've definitely got too much time on my hands."
But here... "I guess it's kind of... not having a purpose here makes everything harder to deal with. I've definitely got too much time on my hands."
"It's excruciating," Ratchet agrees, easing back against the sofa. "I'm used to being buried up to my eyes in stupidity-inflicted injuries and paperwork just on a regular day, let alone if there's a fight or something else catastrophic happens. Having nothing to do is just disorienting. Sometimes I thought it might be nice to have a break, but I've changed my mind, I hate it." He's laughing, but there's an underlying frustration there, simmering under the surface.
"Honestly, I think, mmm. I think that might be why I haven't been sleeping as well as I should." He hates admitting it, but he knows York knows--he could hardly miss it when he shares Ratchet's bed half the time. "I'm used to working either until there's no more work, which is never, or I'm exhausted, and then I rest and get back up and do it again. All this... nothing is just messing with me."
"Honestly, I think, mmm. I think that might be why I haven't been sleeping as well as I should." He hates admitting it, but he knows York knows--he could hardly miss it when he shares Ratchet's bed half the time. "I'm used to working either until there's no more work, which is never, or I'm exhausted, and then I rest and get back up and do it again. All this... nothing is just messing with me."
Edited 2017-02-10 21:33 (UTC)
York nods -- he feels the same way, so used to being run ragged that all this free time and rest is having the opposite effect he'd thought it would.
"It's not like I want them to force us to join the war, but at this point... having it loom over us while we do nothing is definitely worse. Even working in the labs, doing patrols for them, it's too much nothing. I sleep better the days I train to exhaustion but that takes forever and it's boring as hell." He huffs, but there's no amusement in the sound. "And it's not like we've got many other options."
"It's not like I want them to force us to join the war, but at this point... having it loom over us while we do nothing is definitely worse. Even working in the labs, doing patrols for them, it's too much nothing. I sleep better the days I train to exhaustion but that takes forever and it's boring as hell." He huffs, but there's no amusement in the sound. "And it's not like we've got many other options."
"Yeah. I wouldn't even mind working in medical too much, but they're cagey as all hell about their equipment and they seem to go out of their way to make sure to let me know I'm underfoot." Ratchet huffs a little, wriggling in agitation before he settles. "I'm used to running my own damn medibay, not mopping somebody else's. Not that I don't do mopping back at home, but at least that's not all I do, dammit."
"That's all they'd let you do," York agrees, speaking from experience now. "They've just got me doing math and equipment maintenance in the labs. Nothing engaging. I'm hoping if I keep my head down and play the good little worker they'll let me in on what's happening in R&D, but..." It's unlikely and everybody knows it.
"I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not like I don't understand--I wouldn't want some random tool I picked up in a blizzard mucking around with my delicate medical instruments either." Ratchet drops his chin to York's shoulder, some of the fight draining out of him to leave him deflated. "That doesn't keep it from driving me up a wall, though."
"They could at least teach us, so we could be useful somehow. I wouldn't want a bunch of freeloaders, either. Which means they're going to make us fight for them sooner or later." And by his tone, he's not okay with that -- but that's no surprise. He's already expressed his issues with the colonization, and how much propaganda the Cetagandans are spouting to support it. There's just nothing he can do, not yet.
Ratchet's chin dropping to his shoulder brings them even closer together than usual, and he can feel the other man's breath on his neck. The little shudder at that is involuntary but hopefully Ratchet will just think it's the nerve damage.
Ratchet's chin dropping to his shoulder brings them even closer together than usual, and he can feel the other man's breath on his neck. The little shudder at that is involuntary but hopefully Ratchet will just think it's the nerve damage.
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