Page 165 of The Menagerie

Rowan laughs softly, hoping that Mal doesn’t take it for unkindness. “Dunno how to feel about being both the cause and the cure for you dropping.”

Thankfully, Mal snorts in response. “Got a knack, man.”

There’s a muffled rustling on the other end of the line, like Mal’s changing positions. Rowan imagines him lounging on his own couch, settling in after a long day at work. He wonders if Mal has a home-office setup or if he uses a laptop at the kitchen table. He wonders if Malhasa kitchen table.

“Why bring it up now?” Rowan asks, still absentmindedly wondering about Mal’s home setup.

A long exhale on the other end of the line brings Rowan back to the moment. “’Cause I don’t want it to happen again.”

“What can I do?”

“Just… talk to me. Wanna talk about it. Don’t really know where to start. This shit’s never happened to me before.”

“Me neither, if that makes you feel better,” Rowan offers.

“Tch. Thanks for the solidarity.”

Rowan hums in amusement and starts picking at the stray pieces of blue yarn on the throw blanket that Aubrey had knitted for him during one of her new hobby sprees.

“Have you been sleeping okay the past couple nights? Getting enough to eat and drink, too?”

Rowan knows how to take care of people, even if he struggles with it himself sometimes.

“Slept like a rock on Saturday and Sunday night. Not so good last night.” He laughs lightly, and it’s a beautiful golden sound that has Rowan pressing the phone against his ear harder, as if it’ll make Mal do it again. “Think you know I never have a problem eating.”

Smiling into the phone, he realizes sadly that Mal’s not here beside him to witness it. He clears his throat. “What happened last night? Like, bad dreams, or tossing and turning, or…?”

“Dreams, I guess. Sorta like… scenarios playing out in my head? I dunno. Couldn’t… couldn’t stop my brain from picturing it going down much worse than it did. Prob’ly think I’m fuckin’ crazy, hallucinating shit.”

Rowan swallows the newly formed lump in his throat. He knows all too well about crazy and about anxiety-induced hallucinations and probable PTSD. But Mal doesn’t know that yet, and now’s not the time to bring it up—not when Rowan’s supposed to be a source of comfort for him.

“You’re not crazy, Mal. You went through something traumatic. How your mind and body react to it doesn’t say anything about you as a person.”

And if Rowan’s reminding himself of that fact at the same time, that’s just a bonus.

“Yeah.”

The silence between them stretches on for a tad longer than comfortable. Rowan’s about to say something, anything, when Mal speaks again.

“How’s your hand today?”

“It’s seen worse,” Rowan says with a laugh.

“Hit the guy pretty hard if the sound of his nose was anything to go by.”

Rowan laughs lightly. “Yeah.”

“Wish I could’a seen it,” Mal laments.

“Are you… okay that I did that?”

“Hell yeah, man. Fuck that guy. Why do you ask?”

“I didn’t want you to feel like… like I had to rescue you or some shit.”

“Kinda did, though. Not like I could’a done much in the position I was in. Or the… the state of mind.”

All Rowan can say to the relief that washes over him is “Okay.”

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