He's supposed to be in bed. That was the fact drilled into him, over and over and over again, by his children, and Lucy, and Claire, and Z, and the other rangers and his brothers- some of which were in just the same if not worse shape and still going about their business. He's supposed to be in bed. Laying around. Letting his knee recoup.
Sitting in one place makes him fucking insane.
So Mal Romero is not in bed, sat instead at the piano in his front room, bare chest bandaged in strips of white- the bloodstains finally fading from shirts worn over them- the extra laundry still not worth the option to wear one of his usual button-ups, absently plucking away at a piano piece more contemporary than the ones he'd been raised on. More somber than the jazz and country he'd played for Ophelia to sing along to at parties. It's enough to distract him, from the sound of the front door opening, from the footsteps approaching. "...so flood me like atlantic, bandage up the trenches..." He doesn't quite know the words, he doesn't have to. It's on the pause, between a breath, and a key, that he notices a shadow cast on white keys- turning perhaps a bit harder than he should and hissing in a short, pained breath.
"Fuck- Hey, Z. I um. Listen, I know I'm supposed to be in bed but I just..." He smacks fingers on the keys, discordant. "I need a break from taking a break."
@callofthxvoid