New Year, New You [OTA]

[abrightboy]

Who: Malcolm Bright and YOU
When: The first half of January.
Where: B1, ADI offices, around town.
Summary: Malcolm is aware that he has problems. Time to get rid of them for good! Because mental health works like that, right?!
Warnings: mental health struggles, vomit


There's a TV playing in the cafeteria at ADI when he goes down to get lunch after the new year. He's going to order soup; he already knows this. He's not even paying attention to the TV. He's lost in his own thoughts. But, as he waits in line, he changes his mind. Maybe he won't have soup after all. He's going to have a hamburger! And fries! Time to do like his mother says: stop all this nonsense. It's all in your head, Bright, he tells himself. That admonition is in a lot of people's voices from throughout his life.

He spends most of the afternoon in the men's room on that floor throwing up.

But Rome wasn't built in a day.

Back at B1 a few days later, he's staring at the tidy line of pill bottles on the kitchen counter. He's considering just throwing them away. He has to force himself to be normal; he can see it now.

At the coffee shop down the street, on another day, he orders his usual mocha and a big slice of chocolate cake. He'll try not to throw it up on the street but no promises. It takes time for a body to get used to new habits, is all. And if he's a little jittery, anxious, more unraveled than usual, well it's probably because he quit his meds cold turkey but he'll adapt. It's not to worry. He'll adapt.

Maybe he should stop relying on the restraints to sleep.

Maybe he should start going out to bars to meet people.

Maybe he should break curfew and crash with friends at Bonnie's.



Somebody stop him.

Comments

[graveyounglady]

"Mr. Malcolm? You all right?" The question comes from Mercy, her brows furrowed when she spots the man looking... jittery in the cafeteria. Is he shaking? "Getting cold in here, ain't it? Reckon we should ask them to crank up the heat?"

The poor man looks... bad. She should do something about that. She needs to do something about that. What sort of things can she do to him? For him. What can she do for him?

[abrightboy]

"Cold? Oh. No. It's fine. I'm fine. Just. Starting the new year with some new habits. It takes time. It takes time to get used to things."

Does he come across like a junkie going cold turkey? It doesn't occur to him, but maybe.

"It's, um. It's not cold. I'm a little too warm, actually."

[graveyounglady]

That just makes Mercy frown at him. "That's sounding like you got a fever. Why don't we head down to medical? You need a proper look-over. You feeling anything else apart from too warm? Coughs or headaches or the like?"

Maybe it's bad form to try diagnosing someone when she's still working to learn all this modern medicine, but she's been here for half a year! That's ages, and she feels like she's ready for some basic ailments.

[abrightboy]

He holds up a hand, but it’s shaking, so he puts it in his pocket.

“I’m really not sick,” he promises as evenly as possible. “I’m just… transitioning away from some medications I’ve been taking for a long time.”

[graveyounglady]

"Why are you transitioning away from them? Was there something wrong with them? I'm sure we can still find something to make it easier." He's a nice, if peculiar man, and he shouldn't be suffering for whatever change is going on.

[cacophonish]

Jeff's wrapping up an absolutely fucking abysmal set at the only dive that'll even have him at this point, when he catches a familiar face in the hostile, unwelcoming crowd.

("Crowd." That's a word to be used loosely here. There's hardly anybody in the bar, and the ones who are, clearly aren't here to watch Jeff perform, judging by the heckling.)

Malcolm's here. That's new. Does the guy even drink? Jeff doesn't think he's ever seen him have a drink before. And if he did, he'd probably do it at someplace fancy, with a nice (overpriced) cocktail menu and fewer "you'll probably catch tetanus" vibes.

The guy so obviously stands out, and Jeff's definitely not the only person to notice. A couple of creeps he recognizes from the docks are surrounding him, all fake smiles, full of that "friendly" kind of mockery. Yeah, they're... definitely gonna mug him the first chance they get.

So, he wraps the night with a little spell wrapped up in an improvised song.

"This one's called, um. Malcolm Cover Your Fucking Ears."

Is Jeff about to curse the bar with a head full of fear? You bet. Is the chorus of this song just "Stop listening, Malcolm, cover your fucking ears, Malcolm, I'm serious, Malcolm, this song's for you"? Yes. It is.

But you know what? It's actually pretty good. Fucking catchy.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm does remember Jeff describing his magic, how it works, and - initially - he does slam his hands over his ears, even in mid-explanation of the sinister origins of the phrase 'pleased as punch' to the gentlemen that came over to talk to him.

But he can see that Jeff is singing something and he does like Jeff's music and Jeff did describe the effect it had on people as 'euphoric' and a bit of euphoria isn't so bad...

He's kind of transfixed on the performance and doesn't notice the hysteria starting around him and he pulls his hands a little way away from his ears, thinking he can back up if it's too intense.

But he doesn't even remember that option a moment later when the man standing nearest to him, looking at him with what seems - to Malcolm's mind - murder in his eyes, steps closer with all six feet and three inches of his muscled, tattooed frame.

And Malcolm punches him in the throat, knocking him to the ground gasping.

[cacophonish]

Okay, so.

That's...

This is going... differently than anticipated.

It's funny, for as much fear as Jeff's been causing since his arrival (feeding, always feeding that swirling emptiness inside), he's never tried causing it outright. It's always mania, hysteria, despair, the highest highs and the lowest lows. Fear was always just a byproduct of a sudden onset of irrationality. This is the first time (ever?) that he's sang with fear as the primary intention of his magic. The way he figured: everyone would get scared, leave Malcolm alone, and they could just leave. No harm, no fuss.

Jeff never accounted for the whole... fight or flight thing. He never listened to the wise words of Yoda during the Prequel marathon: fear leads to anger, et cetera.

He also never accounted for the possibility that Malcolm knows how to fight. A big biker looking motherfucker steps the profiler, and-- it happens so fast that Jeff almost thinks he imagined it, or like, just experienced some weird time skip or something. The guy's on the ground in an instant.

The chorus of Malcolm Cover Your Fucking Ears cuts off with a very anticlimactic: "Oh."

And as the barroom blitz breaks out, Jeff's unplugging his guitar and rushing to shove it back into its case in record time. Slinging the case over his shoulder, he pushes his way out of the performance corner and heads for the exit.

"Malcolm! Dude, come on, let's go!"

[abrightboy]

Nobody ever thinks Malcolm can fight. He's a rich boy and a talker, all expensive suits and soft hands and too many facts about blood and blades and psychology.

Malcolm was a nerd long before he dropped a dime on Martin Whitly.

He danced ballet after school. He got beat up a lot as a kid, both before the Surgeon's arrest and even more aggressively afterwards, when his playground nickname switched from variations on Twinkletoes to variations on Psycho. He learned how to defend himself in time, but he preferred to stop people with language and psychology. The throat punching side of him was something he developed as a last resort when cornered and was still largely used that way.

Malcolm blinks when the music stops, faintly confused, but then Jeff is ushering him towards the exit and, in fading adrenaline and disorientation, he follows.

"What's... going on?" he asks as crisp night air hits him in the face.

[cacophonish]

"I thought some guys were going to fuck with you, so I, um. Tried to. Help?" Yeah, that's a perfectly thorough and coherent explanation. "Anyway, it's no big deal. What're you doing here?" Look at that smooth subject change. "That didn't seem like your kinda scene, man."

[bossyboiler]

They work for the same people and yet they always seem to meet up at the coffeeshop, Any Beans Necessary. After ordering her latte, she walks over to where he is sitting at. Kate then sits down opposite him. The seat hadn't looked taken.

"Hi Malcolm." She notices the cake but doesn't comment on it. She is under the impression that he doesn't like rich foods but it's rude to comment on someone's eating habits so she doesn't. "How are you today?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm nods at her but swallows the big bite of cake he's taken and washes it down with a swallow of coffee before answering.

"Hi. I'm good. Super good. What's better than chocolate cake?"

Anything. Anything is, his insides are telling him right now. He ignores them.

"How are you?"

[bossyboiler]

"Several things, Malcolm." Chocolate cake is good but it doesn't hold a candle to a properly baked strawberry cake with real strawberries. There are other things that are better than chocolate cake but some of them cannot be said in polite conversation. Kate is nothing if not polite. "You seem to be enjoying it."

Is this the same person that had a few slices of apple at the beach bonfire and couldn't eat any of the turkey at Thanksgiving? "I'm okay. I have nothing new to report." A pause and then, "Are you sure you're okay?"

[abrightboy]

He looks at her skeptically. "Why do you think I'm not?"

She must have had a reason to ask twice.

[bossyboiler]

"I've never seen you eat such heavy food."

[oldbookshop]

In the long span of human history, this is not the first time Aziraphale's wound up in the vicinity of someone getting ill.

Realistically, going by the far-flung hope that he and Crowley will be able to get back to exactly where they'd left off and figure something out, it won't be the last time. Suppose it's a lucky thing that this poor fellow made it to the restroom.

After some internal debate regarding proper etiquette for the situation, Aziraphale's penchant for well-meaning nosiness wins out. When the sounds at hand seem to have come to a lengthy enough lull, he very gently knocks on the stall door.

"Terribly sorry to disturb you." Things that are extremely honest. "Just, um-- wondering if you needed anything."

Ah. What are things humans do about getting sick. That takes some recollecting. He's out of date.

"Water? Mint? Or there must be some sort of medical staff on the premises, I'm sure I could find you someone qualified."

[abrightboy]

“No, no medical staff,” comes a voice raw from retching. “I’m not… I’m fine.”

He manages to lever himself up enough to unlock the stall door and push it open.

“Just ate something that disag…”

He sees the man’s face and instinctively scrambles back, squeezing his small frame between the toilet and the wall of the stall. Then he blinks and looks at the man again. He’s seeing things. He must be seeing things. His mind is imposing certain features on someone else’s face. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and then looks at the man again, staring like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

[oldbookshop]

Aziraphale, though nowhere nearly as alarmed, takes a startled step back of his own.

Oh, dear. This is still a human corporation, isn't it? Hasn't started cracking at the seams all of a sudden? He looks down at himself and then back up when it all seems in order. Takes another step back just to be polite.

"I'm so sorry to have, um. Startled you. Imposed. Whichever one. Last thing I intended, I assure you."

This is what he gets for-- something. Probably. He's sure. Standing too close to the door, maybe. Not studying up on blending in better.

[abrightboy]

"Oh, no. No. I just. Have this problem where I... see things sometimes." He squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, then opens them again, blinking. "I'm... Malcolm. Hi."

Akwardly, he tries to lever himself up from the floor beside the toilet.

[oldbookshop]

"Ah. Sorry to hear it."

The thing about this world people keep getting drawn into is, it's quite spooky and defies traditional reality conventions. He can't imagine it's a wonderful place to have that sort of problem.

"Would you-- is it alright if I help you up? Less time on the floor, the better."

[conning]

Neal is getting coffee, because of course he is. He's even considering getting something that isn't his usual medium black light roast. He's been feeling edgy. Been feeling wrong in his own skin. The feeling has only intensified since Abby broke the news that she and the gremlin were going to Bonnie's.

For a second, Neal had considered moving with her, but he'd talked himself out of it. He's not that needy. Yes, Thackery seems to have vanished and yes, there's a small little piece of him that genuinely trusts Abby, but he's meant for creature comforts, not a flophouse. Not when there's a choice. That's just who he is.

Maybe that should change.

He spots Malcolm in a corner of the cafe with a much larger mocha than he usually gets. ...And a giant slice today's advertised specialty, Sour Cream Coffee Cake with Cinnamon-Walnut Swirl and Melted Cream Cheese Frosting Drizzle. Neal has to keep watching for a moment to be entirely sure he's actually seeing Malcolm and not having some kind of loneliness-inspired psychotic break.

He weaves his way over, fast, and sits down opposite Malcolm without invitation. "What are you doing?"

[abrightboy]

Malcolm looks up, sees who it is, looks pleased… delighted even. At the question, he gestures to his plate with his fork.

“Eating lunch.”

He hasn’t, in truth, felt well at all since he dropped his meds, but he just needs to power through. Maybe it’s, like, 9:30 in the morning, but that’s lunchtime when you’ve been up since 4.

“Have you eaten?”

[conning]

Neal has to take a moment for his brain to reorient. "Not yet but--do you feel okay? You really shouldn't eat that, right?"

Is this like the mold? Is there something else going on? He's suddenly paranoid about getting too close, but he's not about to leave and let Malcolm make himself sick.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm shrugs and looks at his plate. He doesn’t feel okay. Not at all. But he has to just power through.

“According to who, though? Maybe I’m just being… picky. It’s often suggested this is all in my head. I can change it if I just power through. A new year calls for a new you.”

[conning]

A new year calls for a new you.

Alarm bells.

He saw that commercial, too. (He saw it right before he started to berate himself for being needy, too attached, too dependent, not that he sees that connection himself.)

"Malcolm. When did you start... trying to be a new you? What happened right beforehand?"

He reaches out to put a hand on Malcolm's wrist, keeping him from raising his fork to try and take another bite. "Did you see something? Hear something?"