Innies

sibella:

it makes me crazy how dylan really saw that he had a child and still had the strength to say that he’d be the one to stay back and activate overtime for the rest of the innies. like, it would have been so easy for him to say that he wanted to go too, ESPECIALLY sine he knew he had at least one child, but he still thought that the other innies deserved to see who they were on the outside. he didn’t even accept the offer for someone else to stay back with him. if someone had stayed back, he wouldn’t have had to hold the two switches that entire time and to do it alone. he knew he would be holding those switches until milchick caught him (and that it would have disastrous consequences for his innie). he really said i can do it ALONE and he sacrificed so much for the rest of the team. and to think that @ the beginning we only see him as comedic relief, as the snarky, sarcastic side character. he was so much more and i adore him for that. he really said mdr family first. he was the reason everyone else was able to escape. that is such a show of strength i cannot even.

*[elevator bell dings]*

the way we get by (Severance)

Mark S. suffers from a mysterious illness, and his terminal only wants to show him the kind of numbers that make him feel like crying. He just wishes he knew why.

(4000 words. Angst, hurt/comfort - okay, a lot more hurt than comfort - sickfic, grief. Warning for alcoholism and emetophobia.)

-

Mark S. opened his eyes, and he was himself again.  

Sort of.  Why did he feel like shit?

The elevator eased to its stop with a slight sway he normally scarcely noticed, but today, his head swam with the motion.  He reached out, grabbing the handrail for support and swallowing back a wave of nausea.

Am I sick? he wondered.  His head ached with a dull throb, and his mouth felt desperately, horribly dry.  He tried to remember if he’d ever been sick before.  He racked his brain for memories, though the effort tired him.  

No, he’d never been sick before, not unless you counted the elevator allergy.  He usually carried the allergy – if that’s what it was – in puffy eyes and a stuffy nose, and a hollowness somewhere beneath his breastbone.  He took a deep breath.  He did feel those things, but they had combined with something much more visceral, something roiling in his head and gut.  This was different.  New.

Perhaps it was just an extra bad attack.  The thought heartened him.  Allergy or not, the puffy eyes and the hollow feeling always tended to lift after a few minutes on the severed floor.  Mark squinted against the bright fluorescent lights as the doors opened.  Maybe he just needed a little time.

He stepped out into the white hallways, running one hand along the closest wall.  He knew he wasn’t supposed to.  The handbook was very clear that walls and other surfaces were to be kept clean and free of unsightly smudges.  Still, he felt better with his hand there for support. He made his way carefully down the hallway, the white walls and floor and ceiling blurring and swimming as he walked.

It took him twice as long as usual to reach the shelter of MDR.  He dragged himself across the threshold, hoping the others wouldn’t notice anything. 

Dylan glanced up at him and instantly recoiled.  “Wow, dude.  You look terrible.”

So much for that hope.  “I feel like ass,” Mark mumbled.  “Do I have a fever?”

“How the hell would I know?  Are you delirious?  This is weird.”  Dylan rolled his chair around to Mark’s desk, hooking one foot around the base of Mark’s chair to slide it toward him.  Mark sank onto it gratefully.

Irving came out of the restroom, bright and chipper as always.  “Hey, kids, what’s for —“  He frowned, his mustache turning down at the edges.  “Mark, what was your outie thinking, bringing you here at a time like this?”

Mark hunched in his chair, his stomach cramping unpleasantly.  “I don’t know.  I guess I didn’t want to miss work?  He didn’t want to miss work?”  He rubbed his forehead, trying to ignore the pounding behind his eyes.  He took a deep breath.  “It’ll be fine.  Maybe I just need some coffee.”

“We should tell Petey,” said Irving to Dylan.  “This isn’t right.  He can’t work like this.”

“It’s like the elevator allergy times a thousand,” Dylan agreed.  “Dude’s a mess.  Did someone kick the shit out of his outie?”

“I can hear you, you know,” Mark groaned, switching his terminal on.  It powered up with a hum, and he trawled through the files, opening up Hahamongna on autopilot.  The numbers pulsed at him like a heartbeat.  One glinted in the corner, partially obscured, but he knew what kind it was.  He scrolled away from it reflexively, breathing a little faster.  No.  He didn’t want that kind of number today.  

He narrowed his eyes, trying to limit the amount of light that came through.  Had the overhead lights always been thisbright?  He realized that Dylan and Irving were still talking.

“Mark, I know you wish to do Kier’s work, but you should rest.  We’ll try to determine the best course of action,” said Irving patiently.  He turned to Dylan.  “Would it kill you to show a littlecompassion?” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.  Dylan let out a heave of a sigh at the admonishment, throwing his hands up.

“Just calling it like I see it, man.”

Irving leaned over Mark’s desk and started fretting, nibbling his lower lip and rocking slightly on the heels of his shoes.  “I’m surprised Petey’s not back yet.  He’ll know what to do.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Mark asked. If nothing else, maybe Petey could make the others knock off the bickering for a while. 

“Weekly meeting with Cobel, remember?” Dylan said.  He gave Mark a skeptical look.  “You must be out of it.  You always remember that shit.”

“Sorry I have bigger things to worry about, like my skull trying to explode,” Mark muttered.  He got to his feet, the room swinging slightly around him.  “There’d better be some coffee left.”  He crossed the distance to the kitchenette, sniffing.  The scent of fresh-brewed coffee filled his nostrils, cutting slightly through the fog in his head.

He made a cup of coffee with cream and sugar, hands trembling badly enough to spill creamer on the counter.  He swore under his breath.  He knew he was supposed to wipe it up, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to care, no matter what the handbook said.  He took a gulp of the steaming coffee —

He felt cold.  It descended upon him, that awful hollow feeling that followed him out of the elevator so often.  It settled in his chest like it belonged there, mingling with the nausea and the headache and the cotton-mouth.  He stood there, blinking back tears, wishing that he could give it a name.

“Oh jeez, Mark, they weren’t kidding,” said Petey from the doorway.  “What the hell happened to you?  You were fine yesterday.”  Mark turned to him, moving in a daze.  How long had he been standing there?  He shook his head, trying to clear the fog.

“No idea.  Woke up like this.  I must look fucking pathetic,” Mark said, trying to crack a smile through the teary feeling that still lingered.  Petey raised his eyebrows nearly up to his hairline, clearly not impressed.

“You want me to talk to Milchick?” Petey asked in a low voice.  “He could look you over.  Maybe your outie needs to sleep it off.”

“Sleep what off?”  He felt like he knew what Petey was getting at – it was at the tip of his tongue – but the thought slipped away before he could get a handle on it.

“I don’t know.  That’s just something people say, right?  Man.  You really do look out of it,” Petey said, frowning.

“Just leave me alone,” said Mark irritably, waving a hand.  He took another drink of coffee.  His stomach rumbled again uncomfortably, and he hoped Petey hadn’t heard.

He shoved past Petey, going back to his desk.  Dylan and Irving gave him weird looks that he ignored.  Feeling like shit was bad enough, but everyone fussing over him was worse.  He dropped back into his seat, staring at the numbers.  

The numbers.

They were important, weren’t they?  He should just focus on the work.  Ignore the headache, which had settled over one eye and now drubbed rhythmically at him in the background.  Ignore the way the coffee churned in his gut.  Ignore the —

He fixated on the number winking on his screen.  This wasn’t one of the scary numbers, nor one of the sharp cruel ones that made him want to hurt somebody, nor the rare numbers that glimmered joyfully amongst the rest.  This was one of the sorrow-numbers, and it crawled into his bones.  It felt… right, and it felt terrible.

His hand jerked forward to the familiar keyboard, and he fenced it off, organized it, as quickly as he could.  The little box received its delivery willingly.  Mark watched it go, relieved, hoping he wouldn’t get another one of those today.

He took another drink of coffee, and his gut spasmed.  His eyes widened.  Oh, hell.  

He got to his feet and dashed to the bathroom, barely making it into the closest stall before he threw up his coffee and some kind of half-digested breakfast.

He stood there with his hands gripping his thighs painfully hard, hovering over the toilet in case it happened again.  He flung his tie up over his shoulder.  Sweat beaded on his head, saliva pooled in his mouth, and he threw up again, doubling over.

He leaned against the wall and slid down to his knees, breathing hard.  He grabbed a few squares of toilet paper and dabbed cautiously at his mouth, willing himself to keep whatever was left in his stomach down.  Fuck.

The bathroom door opened and he heard Petey’s voice.  “Mark, enough’s enough.  I’m getting Milchick.  Your outie needs to step up and deal with this.”  He came closer, and Mark flushed the toilet, embarrassed and not wanting Petey to see.  

The stall door he’d forgotten to lock swung open, just enough for Petey to look in at him.  “Sorry, man.  Hey, here’s some water.  Try to drink some, okay?  You just hang out here until I get Milchick.  Don’t worry about the fucking numbers today.”

Mark reached up to take the water, suddenly aware of how pathetic he must look, huddled on the floor by the toilet.  “Petey –”  

But the words stuck in his mouth, and Petey just gave him a worried smile before leaving him alone.

-

He was feeling… better.  Not great.  Not even decent. But the nausea and the stomach cramping seemed to have faded once he’d gotten sick, the water had helped, and now he felt strong enough to get back to his feet, leave the stall, and wash his face.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror.  “Fuck.”  So thatwas why everyone had known right away that he was sick.  Swollen eyes, the rings beneath them purplish under the fluorescent lights, greeted him. His face was somehow both pale and flushed, and his hair was badly mussed, the long edges that always tickled his neck sticking out at weird angles.   Overall he just looked like shit.  He splashed water on his face and tried to smooth down his hair.  

The door opened, and Mr. Milchick’s smiling face poked in.  His brows knit together with genuine concern.  “Mark S., I’m so sorry to hear you’ve taken ill.  You’ve never been sick before.”

“It’s nothing,” said Mark, fully aware of how his reflection still looked like crap.  He stood up straight, though that seemed to aggravate the headache again.

“Nonsense.  Let’s take a walk, Mark.  We can have your outie assessed by Medical.  If you’re sick, we need to take care of you.  After all, you’re part of the Lumon family.”  Mr. Milchick gave him one of those warm looks that Mark knew he couldn’t argue with, and he allowed Milchick to lead him out of the restroom.  

Irving looked as if he’d feared Mark had already died; the relief on his face was palpable.  Dylan just gave him a silent, solemn nod.  Petey smiled ruefully.  “Hope you get some rest, buddy.”

“See ya tomorrow.”

“Rest well, Mark.”

“Thanks, guys.  See you next time.”

He trailed after Milchick, realizing after a moment that they were taking the way to the stairs and not the elevator.  He wondered, not for the first time, what the building above them was like.  Was there a medical wing up the stairs?  Why wouldn’t they take the elevator?

Why didn’t innies have Medical on their floor –

But that was skating too close to forbidden thinking, and questions too big and hard for his aching head to deal with.  He let the thought fade and followed Milchick willingly into the stairwell.

-

Mark S. stepped back into the white hallway, confused.  Mr. Milchick stood before him, wearing one of those big, kind smiles he so favored.  “I’m sorry, Mark S.  I know you weren’t expecting to be back today.  Let me assure you that your outie went to Medical at my request, and they determined that your condition is neither serious, nor contagious.  In fact, you’re already starting to feel better.  When your outie heard this good news, he decided to come back and finish his shift.  Tomorrow I’m sure you’ll feel right as rain.”

“It’s not contagious?” Mark asked thickly, trying to pinpoint how he felt.  It was always disorienting, the first few seconds after entering the severed floor.  He realized that he did feel a little better, though.  The pounding headache was fading into the background, leaving him feeling sluggish and tired but not nearly as sick as before.  He tasted something minty and fresh, and his mouth didn’t feel nearly as dry.  “Then what is it?”

He rubbed his chest, swallowing.  He just wished Medical had been able to do something about the hollow part.

“I’m sorry, Mark, but you know I cannot give you private information about your outie,” said Mr. Milchick.  He raised one hand, gesturing in the direction of MDR.  “I’m sure if you just stay well-hydrated, you’ll continue to feel better throughout the day.  Won’t that be great?  Besides, I hear that you’re at twenty-three percent on the Hahamongna file.  This might be your lucky day to reach twenty-five percent.  I bet you’re dying to get that fingertrap!”

“Right,” said Mark as they began to walk.  “That’d be… nice.”  He thought of the three other fingertraps stuffed in the back of his desk drawer. What did anybody need more than one fingertrap for?

They reached MDR and Mr. Milchick came inside with him, clearing his throat for one of his announcements.  “Hello again, MDR Refiners!  Now, I know you’ve all been concerned about Mark S.”  Irving and Dylan nodded, and Petey sat back in his chair, watching Milchick.

“I’m here to let you know that he’s feeling much better, and he’ll be able to finish his day out with all of you.  We truly appreciate that your team was so attentive to him while he was feeling ill.”  Mr. Milchick beamed at them.  “This is why MDR is my favoritedepartment.  Your camaraderie is truly a testament to the benevolence we all strive for here at Lumon.”  He smiled broadly at Mark, clapping him on the shoulder.  “Keep up the great work!” he said as he left them alone.

Dylan glared at Mark suspiciously as soon as Milchick left.  “Did you really get checked out?”

“Well, I left,” said Mark, shrugging.  He let out a long breath.  “And I came back.  I figure if my outie really felt that bad he would have gone home.”  He made his way to his desk, pushing aside the half-full cup of coffee to where he didn’t have to look at it.  “Milchick said it’s not contagious, anyway.  And I do feel a little better.”

“It’s fucked that they wouldn’t make your outie go home after you ralphed everywhere,” Dylan said.

“I didn’t – come on, I made it to the bathroom,” Mark protested.

“Well, there was a little splatter,” said Petey.  He waved a hand as Mark opened his mouth.  “Don’t worry about it.  I took care of it.”

“Jeez.  Sorry.”

“All part of the glamorous side of being Senior Refiner,” Petey said sagely.  “But I agree with Dylan.  It is kinda weird.  Remember when Irv was sick?”

“My outie went back home to rest as soon as he realized, if you’ll recall,” said Irving.  “I wonder why yours did not do the same.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Mark, rubbing his head where the last of the headache lingered.  He groaned.  “Well, hell.  Maybe I’ll hit twenty-five percent today after all.”

“Way ahead of you, my dude.  Thirty-two percent.  Suck it,” said Dylan.

“No one likes a braggart, Dylan.”

“Guys, knock it off.  Let Mark concentrate.  He doesn’t need your color commentary.” 

The sound of keys tap-tapping, mixed with the regular BS of his teammates, started to put him into a lull.  He slumped low in his chair and hid behind the green walls and stared at his screen. At least he knew what to expect now.  The worst of the sickness, or whatever it was, was over and he could just focus on the work.  That’s what he was here for, wasn’t it?

The numbers ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed, dancing across his terminal.  He knew how to do this.  He focused, trying to find those flickers of emotion – fear, joy, hatred – hiding amongst the data.  He just hoped he could avoid —

The numbers coalesced, their meaning both clear and ineffable.  The hollow feeling pulled at him, constricting his chest, making it hard to breathe.  

No.  He didn’t want thesenumbers.  Not these numbers that seemed to crawl inside his skull, not these numbers that felt so raw, not these numbers he somehow knew –  Tears filled his eyes, and he let out a stifled sob.  

He clapped his hand over his mouth, hoping desperately the others hadn’t heard him.  He pushed back away from his terminal and stood up with his coffee cup.  “Time for a refill!” he sputtered, and hurried to the kitchenette, wiping his face.  

What’s wrong with me?

What’s wrong with us?

He turned the question over in his mind, breathing quickly.  You’re not allowed to think that.  You’re not allowed to knowthat. He shoved his cup under the faucet and rinsed it out, the water painfully hot on his hands.  He didn’t mind.  It felt real, at least, realer than the numbers, the fading headache, the exhaustion.

Fuck.  Five o’clock could not come too soon.  

-

Mark Scout’s hands gripped the steering wheel on the way home, his knuckles white and aching.  Not that he wanted to go home.  Not that home felt like one.  But it was somewhere to go, and he kept driving.

Sometimes eight hours just wasn’t long enough.

Especially when the relief of the day’s nothingness was interrupted with a visit to Medical.  That had been new.  His cheeks flushed at the memory.  He’d only spoken to Mr. Milchick a handful of times when he first got the job, so it had been weird to see him again, and weirder still to hear him talk about what was going on with Mark’s innie.

He supposed he should be glad that the company worried when his innie wasn’t feeling great, but he wished he’d been more careful last night.  It was just a fucking hangover, barely perceptible by now, but it sounded like it hadn’t been pleasant for his innie.  He’d told Milchick it must have been some bad shrimp or something, and they seemed to have bought it, especially when he said that he didn’t mind, that he wanted to work.  

Well. He just didn’t want to be home.

He pulled into his driveway, staring at Ms. Selvig’s wayward bins.  Batty old woman.  The bins taunted him, but he knew they didn’t mean a damn thing.  Maybe he’d care about them tomorrow.

If he could make it until tomorrow –

He’d gotten this far, though.  Eight hours closer to the end of the day.  He turned off the car, sitting for a minute in the dark, letting out a long exhale between parted lips.  A few small, shy snowflakes landed on the windshield as he watched.  

She always loved new snow –

He got out of the car and slammed the door, hurrying inside against the bitter cold.

He flicked the hall lights on, shrugged out of his winter coat and tossed it in the direction of the hall closet.  The coat landed on the floor in a pile.  What did it matter?  He used to be a stickler for making sure their coats made it into the closet; he’d been the neat and tidy one.  

It didn’t matter at all.

The mess in the kitchen greeted him accusingly, a small graveyard of open beer bottles ringing the sink.  The smell of the empties and their dregs turned his stomach.  He’d just wanted to make sure he didn’t dream.  Wanted to make sure he didn’t think about the next day, didn’t think about what it was, what it meant, what it would do to him.

He shoved the bottles into the recycling, not bothering to rinse them.  He reached into the fridge, coming out with a bottle of white wine with a pretty blue label and gleaming sea-green glass.  Pinot grigio, the one with the little bluebird on the bottle.  He stared at it, his chest hollow, his eyes pricking.

Mark, you need to expand your horizons.  We’re seniors now.  You should try something classy, not freaking PBR.  

I’m classy.  I’m very classy.  I got classy coming out of my ass.

Seriously?  Are you twelve?  It’s a good thing you’re smart.  And that you have a cute butt.  How did I ever start going out with you?

…I really don’t know.  All I know is that I love you.  And that for some reason, you put up with my terrible sense of humor and fratboy taste in beer.

That cute butt covers a lot of sins.  You’d be surprised.  Anyway, this is a white wine called –

He opened the bottle of wine, hands shaking as he reached for a glass.  He’d barely poured the first glass when the doorbell rang.

“Fuck you, Mrs. Selvig,” he grumbled into the dimly lit kitchen.  “We’re not doing this today.”

The knocking grew more insistent.  Mark took a drink, closing his eyes.  The wine was crisp and clean and smooth.  They used to have it with cheese, even though she was lactose intolerant.  She always said it was worth it.  He didn’t have any cheese, but he thought he might still have some leftover pizza in the fridge.

His pocket buzzed.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, blearily staring at the number.  The knocking kept out, loud and regular, and he heard a familiar voice.  Slowly he put two and two together.  He set the phone and the wine down and shuffled back to the front door, steeling himself before he opened it.

Devon gazed at him, hanging up her phone.  “I’m freezing my butt off.  You gonna let me in, or what?”  She muscled past him, carrying something in her arms.  Dinner.  He could smell fast food cheeseburgers and french fries, their favorite as kids.  He glanced warily behind her for Ricken, but she was alone.  That was a relief, anyway.  He closed the door and locked it.

“What are you doing here?” Mark asked as she pulled off her coat and hung it over a chair.  She set the food down on the kitchen counter, then spotted the wine.  She went to the cabinet, pulled out a glass and poured herself a serving without comment.

“Just making ourselves at home, are we?” he asked with false bravado.

She turned to face him, holding her hands in front of her, fingers knotting together.  “Mark,” she said softly.

“Don’t,” he said, his breath hitching in his throat.  He tried to look away, but she came closer.  Her eyes shone with tears.

“We knew today was always going to fucking suck –”

“Devon, don’t –”  His voice cracked.  “Please.  I can’t.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said.  “It’s here anyway.  Did you really think I was gonna leave you alone on the first anniversary?  I miss her, too, Mark.  I really do.”  She pulled him into a fierce hug, so tight his ribs ached.  “She loved you so much.  It isn’t fair.” 

“I thought I could –” he choked.  “I tried –”  

But he didn’t know how to say that the empties in the recycling and the full day at work and the pinot grigio on the counter were the only way he knew how to make this day disappear, the only way he knew how to get through it, the only way he knew how to pretend she wasn’t really gone.

He gave up.  He buried his face in Devon’s shoulder, and he remembered the way he used to hold Gemma, how she laughed, how she sneezed, how she danced, how she died.  He started crying, and he didn’t stop for a long, long time.

Another day, another set of Severance doodles, this time featuring Helly, Helena (guess which one? Hint: she’s the most unhinged), and Dylan G.

“As a reminder, Post-It notes are not to be put on faces. They clog your Outie’s pores.”

“That one’s about me. I do this beloved character, Sticky Head.”