MBC #2: 'Maladaptive Tendencies' (Waitress 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 she agree to this again?

As if in answer to her question, Alek'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 she sits in a secluded booth, smiling softly in a way that could get her to agree to most anything. You and Alek wanted to go out together without the hassle of Jane's worrying or the Verner's ultra-high standards, so picking this seedy bar is what the dollop of sunshine proposed. He 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 her nickname again, more of a prompt this time. "That's a lot of nuts."

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

You appear unconvinced by her 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. She parts her legs in invitation for you to step even closer to her.

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

She 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 she 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 her favorite colors. It must've been planned. You're perfect.

This is too perfect.

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

Your soft smile turns a touch sinful, prompting her to kiss it away before she 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 she wants any and all of the space in between you to be erased. She wants it annihilated. She'd lay down on the cheap leather cushions that smell faintly of aged whiskey for you. Her jacket remains zipped up with your fingers teasingly tracing one of its many tracts before they tangle in her hair. Mal leans back to urge you forward, deepening the kiss after you press flush up against her. It's what she wants.

"I know."

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

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

"You're being pathetic again."

Glass shatters in her gloved fingers to overtake the echo of your voice that burrows itself into her mind. She 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. He asks if she needs the first aid kit while wiping down the counter because her drink was full, left untouched. Mal simply smiles.

"No, thanks, Don. 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."

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

"Hey, what's wrong?"

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

"Why don't we go somewhere quieter?"

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

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

You've got a gentle grip on her wrist. The sliver of skin between her glove and jacket's sleeve has been parted for your touch. Mal lets you lead, only because she's thinking about the earlier verbal barb that seemingly came from your mouth. You wouldn't. She musters up a charming smile when you glance back at her, 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," she 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. She isn't swayed by you, or at least it appears that way from the way she leans against the wall. "No."

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

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

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

Mal presses her spine against the wall once you come closer to embrace her, holding her without any expectation of her arms raising. She doesn't return the false comfort. You seem to be murmuring something sweetly; however, she's focusing on the screaming undertones in the music that sound familiar. If it was you—your voice repurposed into a tormenting soundtrack—she would've violently stopped this by now. After a beat, she recognizes it as her 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 her colors because you're wearing her leather jacket. Your smile holds a hint of misguided empathy. She's never this merciful towards herself. She has to glance away to the bar. "Daydreaming isn't a crime," she 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 her 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 herself at needing a break—an escape—now of all times.

. . .

. .

.

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

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

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

"Are you feeling unwell?"

She had almost forgotten about Jane being the only other person to remain mostly in the corner booth aside from herself. Mal didn't anticipate her seemingly concerned question unless it's simply for your and Alek's benefit. It is harder to brush off the detective among you, especially when she can feel Jane's careful observation in contrast to how Beckett slides a glass of water in her direction, still so tentative around her. 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.

She doesn't want to disappoint you.

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

She can't lose you.

"I might get some air," she replies after a pause, nodding her thanks to Jane. "It's a little hot."

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

She hasn't even responded, yet her disdain for the idea must've flashed across her usually ever-pleasant disposition. That warped fantasy might have shook her. She 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 herself to thank him, but she does offer Beckett a more genuine quirk of her lips.

It's something.

She slips out of the corner booth while her 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, her expression isn't meant to put anyone at ease, far too intent and piercing. It's effective. Her palm greets the cool metal of the door's push bar in a matter of seconds before she 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 her from those you've befriended.

She's on a secluded landing, possibly a rarely used back entrance, that's flanked by a rail that invites her to grip onto and enjoy the breeze. It doesn't take long for her thoughts to wind back to you considering you're their central axis. Her little 'disappearing act' shouldn't mess up your night out. Mal knows this, but she 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 she grins some to herself at how you pause before stepping outside. It's only when you're directly behind her that she pivots to lean back against the railing, letting her elbows rest on it. "Whoever came up with that must've never truly missed someone," she concludes. There's a biting certainty to her words which prompts you to drift closer because she can't romanticize that away. You offer your left hand before she reaches out. Mal's answering hold is intractable. "I didn't mean to worry you, Sweetheart. I can see it, you know…"

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

"I was concerned, not worried."

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

"I didn't mean to do that either," she 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 waitress at the Fernweh Diner, what is she? Even you don't completely realize all that entails. "It's different with you."

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

"You being yourself is everything to me."

. . .

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

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

And you simply let her.

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

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

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

Your soft smile is answer enough for her.

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

For now.