MBC #2: 'Maladaptive Tendencies' (Waiter Version)

[Alternate Text: A header image of what appears to be swirls of red, mainly crimson, cherry, and burgundy. It's similar to a wood grain pattern, but the dark hues of red make it unnatural. The title is 'Maladaptive Tendencies' in a retro font that's centered. The 'Mal' part of the title has a shadow of red around it with a series of Mal's above and below it that become more discernible before fading back out again. It's similar to a moon phase diagram, but vertical and focusing on 'Mal'.]

(I like how this header came out! It's one of my faves. 😎)

This Alternate Perspective is from Mal!

However, it isn't from a canon scene in the TFS series, giving you a unique glimpse into our enigmatic server instead. You'll see what I mean. It's best to keep in mind not all is what it seems when it comes to Mal; this writing is meant to leave you with multiple questions and ~feels~. 

(This piece will take on new meaning as we continue through the series. 👀)

Why did he agree to this again?

As if in answer to his question, Alina's joy-filled laugh rises above the rock music playing in this dive bar. Mal's cynicism about this place and its patrons remains intact, redoubling when the soundtrack takes on a hint of metal. The shrill scream of the delivery of certain lyrics is too try-hard—too forced—too fucking irritating to—

"Mal."

The real answer appears beside where he sits in a secluded booth, smiling softly in a way that could get him to agree to most anything. You and Alina wanted to go out together without the hassle of James's worrying or the Verner's ultra-high standards, so picking this seedy bar is what the dollop of sunshine proposed. She had wanted to come here for a while, a mildly dangerous curiosity. You being you agreed without asking too much about the location's reputation. Naturally, Mal's here for the both of you as a way to ensure your fun.

"Mal?" you say his nickname again, more of a prompt this time. "That's a lot of nuts."

He slowly follows your line of sight to the pile of shelled peanuts he's amassed from a metal bucket, cracking them to free the roasted nuts inside. It has kept his fingers busy. Mal hums in agreement. "Dancing makes Alina hungry," he reasons. "Becca might want some later too."

You appear unconvinced by his reply, sliding your elbow along the ledge of the booth until you're positioned at its opening. Effortlessly, Mal slides along its leather upholstery to be near where you're standing. He parts his legs in invitation for you to step even closer to him.

"What do you want?" you murmur. "Tell me."

He has an inkling that you wouldn't normally be this bold; however, there's the barest of sheens to your skin from the heat of the dance floor that he wants to taste. You're heated through from that along with the alcohol circulating in your system. Mal reaches out for you, cupping your cheek to feel its innate warmth. What you've chosen to wear tonight is perfect for your body, even having a hint of his favorite colors. It must've been planned. You're perfect.

This is too perfect.

For the moment, he doesn't care about that.

Your soft smile turns a touch sinful, prompting him to kiss it away before he detects anything else. It's rough yet intense. Mal actually pulls you bodily into the booth, forcing you to take a knee on its edge when he wants any and all of the space in between you to be erased. He wants it annihilated. He'd lay down on the cheap leather cushions that smell faintly of aged whiskey for you. His jacket remains zipped up with your fingers teasingly tracing one of its many tracts before they tangle in his hair. Mal leans back to urge you forward, deepening the kiss after you press flush up against him. It's what he wants.

"I know."

You breathe that out hotly against his neck with a certainty that should be attractive, but he can hear its knowing smoothness, the tone.

Mal despises the distance he creates, still unable to completely let the idea of you go too far away. His caress turns punishing, just as you lean in for one last cheek kiss. He digs his nails into your throat as if to draw blood from the carotid artery, but he can't. He can't do that to—

"You're being pathetic again."

Glass shatters in his gloved fingers to overtake the echo of your voice that burrows itself into his mind. He isn't in a booth. No, Mal is really at a bar based on the bartender who is rushing over prattling about how some of their glasses are old. She asks if he needs the first aid kit while wiping down the counter because his drink was full, left untouched. Mal simply smiles.

"No, thanks, Dawn. Sorry about the mess."

"It isn't your fault. Lemme get you another after I finish off a table's order, okay? Just sit tight."

He nods once despite having no intention of drinking a sip of his next drink. Once she's left to mix frilly drinks, he migrates to somewhere else in the bar only to be abruptly grabbed by the wrist. Mal's knife resides in his boot; it'd be too generous for who would dare to—

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Any offense fades away and his coiled bearing eases up after hearing you ask that with such honest concern. There's a subtle creak of leather from his hand unclenching. Mal turns to find you standing behind him, no smile and no leading words. He's about to let his eyes rove around for Alina—even for Becca's orange hoodie—when you take a small step forward. It steals away his concentration, redirecting it.

"Why don't we go somewhere quieter?"

"It's a bar," he points out.

"No one's going to play karaoke here. Come on."

You've got a gentle grip on his wrist. The sliver of skin between his glove and jacket's sleeve has been parted for your touch. Mal lets you lead, only because he's thinking about the earlier verbal barb that seemingly came from your mouth. You wouldn't. He musters up a charming smile when you glance back at him, although the two of you come to a stop in a side hallway. There's a broken machine nearby that's been relegated to a slowly blinking prop; its musical notes dimly light up in a pattern of colors, except you pushing one of them produces a chipper chime.

"Maybe this is a nightmare," Mal cynically notes. "We aren't doing that, Sweetheart."

"I love it when you hum to me. Karaoke really isn't that bad—it's all about the song choice."

"No, it's horrible," he retorts. "Sorry."

When you peer up from the machine with a poorly affected look of being put out, Mal doesn't have the heart to question it. You're too sincere to pull off pouting; it's adorable. He isn't swayed by you, or at least it appears that way from the way he leans against the wall. "No."

"But you hate the music. It's too 'try-hard'."

The smile teasing at his lips falls away after you say—repeat—that. Mal flexes his jaw in a way that pulls faintly at his scar, teeth grinding for a second at what's happening. "I—I can be better than this," he admits. "It's just too much sometimes, so I… It isn't my fault for—"

"I know," you interrupt him. "Shhh, I know."

Mal presses his spine against the wall once you come closer to embrace him, holding him without any expectation of his arms raising. He doesn't return the false comfort. You seem to be murmuring something sweetly; however, he's focusing on the screaming undertones in the music that sound familiar. If it was you—your voice repurposed into a tormenting soundtrack—he would've violently stopped this by now. After a beat, he recognizes it as his own voice. "Let me go… I need to get back."

"You're the one who's holding on, all because you're feeling overwhelmed," you state. "The possibility."

Mal's eyes bore into you when you step away from the one-sided hug, no longer in his colors because you're wearing his leather jacket. Your smile holds a hint of misguided empathy. He's never this merciful towards himself. He has to glance away to the bar. "Daydreaming isn't a crime," he remarks. "It's a coping mechanism."

"It's a betrayal when you have the real thing, especially when your well-meaning Sweetheart is taking body shots off of the Verner heir."

Mal snaps his head around so quickly that you—well, not-you—laughs softly in response.

"Who knows what you're missing? Wake up."

Your smile turns acutely knowing in a way that sparks Mal's sharp resentment for himself at needing a break—an escape—now of all times.

. . .

. .

.

Mal's eyes open to the sight of Becca slowly waving a hand in front of his face before she chokes on a gasp and scoots back in the booth.

"Ohmy—I'm sorry! Super sorry," she hurriedly apologizes. "I was about to get [Nickname]."

"I was just resting my eyes," Mal smoothly replies while subtly angling away from your friend. He surveys the bar. "You meant well."

"Are you feeling unwell?"

He had almost forgotten about James being the only other person to remain mostly in the corner booth aside from himself. Mal didn't anticipate his seemingly concerned question unless it's simply for your and Alina's benefit. It is harder to brush off the detective among you, especially when he can feel James's careful observation in contrast to how Becca slides a glass of water in his direction, still so tentative around him. Everyone being invited to this bar—it isn't a dive one—has left Mal feeling… things.

Overwhelmed. Outnumbered. Bitter about past 'gang' outings. Tolerant, if not more tolerable.

He doesn't want to disappoint you.

He isn't like the rest of them, which is normally a source of pride, unless you believe otherwise.

He can't lose you.

"I might get some air," he replies after a pause, nodding his thanks to James. "It's a little hot."

"I could watch your jacket, if you want?" Becca offers. "Or not. That's totally cool too—I get it."

He hasn't even responded, yet his disdain for the idea must've flashed across his usually ever-pleasant disposition. That warped fantasy might have shook him. He couldn't ever let it be perfectly one-to-one to betray you, allowing those kind words to turn punishing and any traded touches to grow cruel instead. Mal can't quite bring himself to thank her, but he does offer Becca a more genuine quirk of his lips.

It's something.

He slips out of the corner booth while his eyes are trained above the heads of the bar goers in search of an exit. Among the pulsing lights and teeming shadows, there's a familiar hue of red Mal goes to after adopting a stalking walk that would make even the drunkest patron back up, if not feel a bit more sober. At the moment, his expression isn't meant to put anyone at ease, far too intent and piercing. It's effective. His palm greets the cool metal of the door's push bar in a matter of seconds before he steps out.

It's an instant reprieve.

The heavy thrum of the music vanishes along with the scents from the bar and the sensation of eyes on him from those you've befriended.

He's on a secluded landing, possibly a rarely used back entrance, that's flanked by a rail that invites him to grip onto and enjoy the breeze. It doesn't take long for his thoughts to wind back to you considering you're their central axis. His little 'disappearing act' shouldn't mess up your night out. Mal knows this, but he leans more on the rail until the door carefully opens up.

"'Absence makes the heart grow fonder.'"

Mal recites the adage without bothering to turn around, although he grins some to himself at how you pause before stepping outside. It's only when you're directly behind him that he pivots to lean back against the railing, letting his elbows rest on it. "Whoever came up with that must've never truly missed someone," he concludes. There's a biting certainty to his words which prompts you to drift closer because he can't romanticize that away. You offer your left hand before he reaches out. Mal's answering hold is intractable. "I didn't mean to worry you, Sweetheart. I can see it, you know…"

While he's already memorized your gorgeous features, that also includes the subtleties to your expressions that he hopes to master too.

"I was concerned, not worried."

He doesn't undermine your comment, though that almost seems worse than worrying you.

"I didn't mean to do that either," he quietly replies. "No matter my job description, I'm not good with people, especially when I… I'm just me." When Mal isn't a waiter at the Fernweh Diner, what is he? Even you don't completely realize all that entails. "It's different with you."

Your freely given understanding is laced with mild confusion that he won't remedy tonight in spite of noticing it. His charm, dangerous allure, and charisma may clash with what he admitted to you, muddying what you've seen of him with what you've come to personally know. If it's all worth sifting through is your choice, but he deeply hopes you'll make the right ones.

"You being yourself is everything to me."

. . .

Mal fails to temper how he's practically undone by what you said, knowing that you aren't going to judge him for his expression caving. It is absolutely lovestruck. He effortlessly pulls you closer for an embrace that hides how far gone he is when it comes to you, though you'll likely feel it in how he holds you close, bodies flush and intimately entangled in a perfect way. He doesn't trust his voice—it wouldn't be smooth or tempting, possibly catching from emotion. He doesn't want you to catch his gaze yet, so he coils into you more before kissing your neck.

It's featherlight along your pulse point, though he ventures higher before settling in for a hug.

And you simply let him.

Mal loves that you'll let him have this tender moment that chases away the earlier feelings.

"…Do you want us to leave early?" you ask.

He felt your half-whispered words as subtle vibrations from where you're pressed together, savoring each of your breaths. You're here with him. Mal minimally pulls away to properly meet your eyes. "No, I'll leave when you're ready to," he decides. "I want you close to me though."

Your soft smile is answer enough for him.

Mal leans in to kiss you before you'll be returning to your 'little gang' that isn't so bad.

For now.