#this only took me a million years ???? jesus i am so sorry alkdfhalsasdf

[lindsohalloran]

the sounds of maisie humming and singing to herself from the next room over provide a soothing sonic backdrop that seems to keep his thoughts just this side of dismal, brief scraps of choruses pulled from disney songs and radio hits, some of which he recognizes even in her tiny, warbling tones and others that present to him a musical mystery ; she's taken to decorating her new room with an assortment of drawings and crafts, crayon portraits of new friends and colorful, construction-paper chain garland. and what a relief that is! that she'd been able to find some sense of normalcy in the chaos ― he has birdie to thank for that, he knows, how swiftly she'd shielded his kin from the horror of the situation as it unfolded ― is more of a blessing than lindsay would've ever felt he could ask for.

he's sat near the large bay window, his gaze fixated on an indistinct point somewhere out on the skyline ; the throbbing in his hand has been reduced to a dull ( but feckin' persistent ) ache that radiates up his arm and past his elbow, but the kind folks of the wexley have assured him ( and ensured via generous medical attention ) that infection is not a concern. what would've become of the two of them if something like that had happened back at the elementary school? or on the way to the wexley? his attention is derailed from a runaway train of hypotheticals by the sound of a knock on the door, the call of a familiar voice. mal.

lindsay does not pretend to possess more than minimal knowledge of the building's young caretaker. in spite of the kindness extended to him by the folks of this camp, he's hardly made himself social. in fact, if anything, he's made himself more scarce after his lapse in judgment managed little more than costing them supplies ― and costing him nearly half his hand. it was foolish, uncharacteristic. unlike him. he thinks back to the instruction they'd given him, how quickly he'd written it off in favor of a half-formed plan to protect his own. to protect maisie. in the moment, nothing made more sense, and he's still struggling to understand the why of it all. ( he's not used to having his hand forced by emotional reaction. )

he rises to his feet at the sound, admittedly a bit surprised by their presence. ❝ ach, haud on, i'm comin'! ❞ locks are unlatched with a little more struggle than usual but the door is pulled open after only a few seconds. his features are hardened in concern by the time they land on theirs. ❝ is somethin' wrong? ❞ why else would mal be at his door, after all?

⋙ WHEN? march 24th, around noon ⋙WHERE? #501 ⋙WHO? @lindsohalloran

The first place Mal heads to after their own lingering injury is checked out by the Wexley's newly acquired doctor is the O'Halloran studio. Her first actual conversation with Lindsay had been about his niece, Maisie, and the possibility of getting her enrolled in the PE classes Mal saw a need for -- currently just for the kids, but perhaps in the future for other survivors who needed a boost to their... potential. Aside from that, Mal hadn't really given him a second thought. Perhaps mean, but there were already so many people to consider, and he seemed like a big boy who could take care of himself.

The events of a few days ago put him in a new light in Mal's eyes. They worked well together, and in a situation where someone had to take charge, there was not a second of hesitation to fall into step from him, no arguing; if the roles had been reversed, Mal knows they would've done the same. If everyone's standing there with their dick in their hands, there's no point arguing with the person that starts giving direction.

Of course, all up until Beau Clary had come in with news of the 8th floor. Mal understood. She still understands perfectly, she doesn't know a lot about the man, but what she does know is that that little girl is his life. But regardless of the fact that she understands, it doesn't make what he did any less fucking stupid.

And so, Mal bangs the squish part of their fist on the door that reads '501'. "Mr. O'Halloran, open up."