Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Barren feet slap against the hardwood floors of the loft, the noise echoing throughout the space, clashing with the early morning bustle of the Manhattan streets.

He can’t hear it.

The sound of his frantic pacing is faint compared to the deafening cries of Eve, berating him for the unspeakable things he’s done to her sister and the pain he’s caused her. Ever since that night, her voice has been on an endless loop in his mind, replaying the scene like it was yesterday, each time becoming more difficult and distorted. He can still feel the sting of her hand across his face, nails and all, leave a red mark that disappeared with an ice pack but left traces of affliction deep within his skin.

His chest constricts under the weight of her words. The same ones that have been on repeat for weeks, pouring salt into a twenty year old wound, lighting his body on fire until it dissipates into a dull ache around his heart. Malcolm can’t remember anything, and it’s been two weeks since Eve vowed to never see him again.

The most he can recall is from four days ago.

His eyes are bloodshot from the restless nights. His tremor shakes with vigor throughout his body that is impossible to miss. His clothes are four days old; four days since he’s left his apartment, four days since he’s curated any kind of hygiene, four days of total isolation because he absolutely cannot stand the sight of anyone right now. He doesn’t recall when he broke his phone but he doesn’t bother to pick up the shattered pieces by his bedside.

She called him a monster.

Not his convicted serial killer father – no, him, the man who she slept with. The man who she willingly gave herself to in their most private, only for him to wave a knife in her face right when she woke up. Not the man who is responsible for putting her sister in that godforsaken trunk in the first place, but the man who allowed her into his home, cooked for her, and shared his horrific trauma that has kept him up at night for so many years.

Gabrielle told him to stop.

Stop looking for the girl, stop piecing together fragments, digging holes so deep that he would fall in and get buried in the throes of his own living nightmare.

He is paying the price for it.

Except, he isn’t exactly aware of how he got here.

In this moment where the wood under him melts like a stream, Malcolm isn’t sure why he hasn’t sunken into the floor yet. Or, why the girl in the box – Sophie – is extremely persistent ever since he took Eve to Martin’s cell for answers. She’s with him at every meal, in every conversation, at every street corner and at the foot of his bed to watch him as he sleeps.

At least, when he was sleeping. Running on fumes felt ten times better than being stuck in a surge of a night terror, fighting for his life the second he realized he was stuck in his own head as if he were sedated. Sophie made sure of that.

All while Eve became his voice of reason, his fear response. Her, his father, along with others that he’s never seen before though equally disabling. She disappeared from his life, but just like his father, it’s as if she never really left.

He stands at his dresser in a daze, his mind too foggy for him to form a coherent thought. He knows he needs to put on clothes but he can’t will his body to move. One minute he’s staring at his options, the next minute he’s in the bathroom, grasping a pair of sharp scissors as Eve starts to yell again.

She’s so infuriatingly loud that he can’t hear himself think.

“How could you?”

It starts off red hot, a boiling wave of anger coursing through his entire being before it cools off, chillingly numb, and her disappointment leaves him paralyzed with guilt. Malcolm instantly drops the scissors when he feels the sharp pointed end break the skin of his palm and blood swells from the accidental puncture wound. It’s enough to break him out of his haze and focus on a single task: getting dressed.

Malcolm is a mess.

He takes one quick glance at himself in the mirror. He does a once-over of his face and immediately pales at the person that stares back at him. The first thing he notices is the dark circles living under his eyes with matching heavy bags to go with. His stubble is noticeably thicker but he doesn’t think to shave it. His hair is unwashed and greasy with loose strands out in every direction, unkempt from the endless tossing and turning in his sheets. He doesn’t recognize the ghost in the mirror.

“Pathetic,” she snarls.

He relies on muscle memory; every layer he puts on fits like a glove, the gray suit tugging on his skin with familiarity and black shoes to match the accents. Even with his armor, he doesn’t feel like himself. A person in a suit. Malcolm doesn’t know what he’s doing exactly or why, but his instincts guide him toward the door, and before he knows it, his feet move on their own.

Or maybe it’s the shadows that tug at him, making him flinch and tremble whenever they got too close or too loud. Maybe not his instincts, but the determination to shut them out. The temperature in the room increases and suffocates him in his clothes, his breathe evolving to panicked hitches with a hand on the knob too shaky to open the door. He rams his head into the frame on impulse with a growl of frustration behind gritted teeth as he rubs his throbbing temples. He just wants to leave.

“Need some help with that?”

Eve rests her hand on his shoulder and he immediately jumps back at her cold touch, knocking the wind out of him, eyes blown wide with fear. How did she get in? He watches her every move from a distance like prey against a predator, avoiding her space while guilt tears its ugly head and slows him down. She laughs as she reaches for the locks and undoes each bolt as she hums to herself.

Malcolm recognizes the tune of ‘Killing Me Softly’.

Eve leans on the frame when she opens the door grinning as she stares at him, only a few feet separating them.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

He whips his head around when he hears his phone ring. Even though he knows it’s broken, he can’t ignore the sound that comes from the edge of his bed.

He’s dizzy with confusion. Malcolm struggles to keep his balance as he stands but something just isn’t right. When he finally admits to himself that he’s completely and utterly lost in confusion, a small groan escapes his lips. The throbbing in his head isn’t subsiding; he bends at the hips with his palms pressed above his eyes trying to concentrate on something – anything – but the floor is moving again when he stands back up. Bile burns at the back of his throat but he quickly swallows with deep grimace, disgust written all over his face.

The ringing in his ears fades into whispers so smoothly that Malcolm doesn’t even notice until Eve starts to giggle, her hand over her mouth like it isn’t obvious. With no time to react to the fire, they grow louder and louder by the second, all shouting at him in a violent rage, locking him to the floor as they hold on tight and beat down on him relentlessly. He tries to cover his ears but the intensity starts to break him down, glass-shattering screeches so piercing it rips a guttural scream from him as his knees buckle beneath him and he crashes onto the floor in pure agony.

Her giggles turn into harrowing laughter, filling every crevice of the loft while she watches him crumble before her.

Something deep and instinctual has Malcolm scrambling towards the door, legs weak and unsteady on their own. He trips and stumbles a couple of times before he can manage a graceless escape from them, jutting out of the loft as their voices echo in the background and spill into the frozen streets of Manhattan.

Blurs of time only exist.

His feet move on autopilot, that same instinct driving him forward to a place he isn’t even aware of. Malcolm is out of it by now – he stumbles into people he passes on the street, steps off into traffic without bothering to look both ways, keeps his eyes trained on the ground to avoid all eye contact with whoever stared him down. He doesn’t have his coat with him but the blistering cold is an afterthought. Shadows weave into the crowds effortlessly, mocking him as he tries to ignore them by turning corners, his breath short and ragged as his lungs stiffen from the chilly air.

Some heckler eggs him on for a fight when Malcolm makes the mistake of accidentally running into his shoulder, but he keeps his head down, hands in his pockets, and ignores the ringing in his ears and the strange looks he gets from a handful of cops when he enters the bullpen unannounced.

He marches straight towards Gil’s office. Unfortunately, the door is locked and he has no way in. He huffs in frustration as he yanks on the handle and impatiently knocks a few times, impatient for a response. His feet have led him here, the least he can do is open the damn door and let him through.

The shadows aren’t far behind.

“Bright?” His head snaps up in the direction of the voice and his eyes land on a head full of curls with a look he can’t quite decipher. There’s tension in her shoulders as she stands with knitted brows and something akin to hostility, her body language making Malcolm feel strangely unwelcome. Maybe he’s not supposed to be there. “What are you doing here? I thought Gil said –”

“Where is he?” he demands, causing her to raise her eyebrows and scoff at him.

“What the hell’s gotten into you, Bright?” Dani isn’t a fan of inconsistencies. “I know the whole Eve thing didn’t end so well and sure, you have every right to be pissed at her. But you can’t keep lashing out just because you feel like it. You really upset Gil the other day.”

Four days.

All he can remember is from four days ago.

What happened then? And where is Gil now?

His face drops at the mention of her name and sends shivers down his spine. He becomes silent. Dani watches him intensely through a frown, taken aback by the sudden change in his tone and the faraway look in his eyes. She has seen that face a thousand times, and nothing good ever comes from it.

He’s eerily still. Her irritation morphs into concern when his eyes are no longer on her, but instead glance at something past her shoulder. Malcolm’s hand starts to tremble at his side, the air abruptly leaving his lungs like he’s been hit in his chest; the world comes to a complete standstill and he knows what’s about to happen.

He knows what’s about to happen, and then he doesn’t.

Her brows knit together even tighter. She takes a cautious step forward, close enough to make a slow reach for his hand. "Seriously, Bright. You know you can talk to me, right? What's going on?"

Time stops, and sound ceases to exist.

Floating between the here and now, burning fingers scratch at his throat like hot needles, reaching out to grip and squeeze the life out of him. His vision blurs with the shadows as they start to consume his entire being, bleeding into every crevice, filling every pore, and settling in the darkest parts of his mind that bring him closer to The Surgeon with each passing day.

Consciousness is dwindling.

Martin is there to catch him when he falls, cradling a much smaller, younger body into his chest like he would a baby, something so tender and intimate. Malcolm feels the weight of his father, his soothing voice doing their best to console the terrified child in their arms. Dirt under his small fingernails claw at his father, the feeling of being smothered only makes him breathe faster and less controlled until he works himself into a panic.

“Let it out, my boy, let it out. Everything’s going to be alright. You did it, Malcolm,” he says softly, moving the sticky hairs from his forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”

He doesn’t know when he got to the conference room or who brought him there. The floor is real enough to process but not the three pairs of eyes gawking at his frantic body on the ground. One thing is for certain: the hammer in his chest hasn’t stopped beating on his ribcage and everything has gone completely silent. Gil is in his face but no sound comes from his lips. Malcolm’s attention leaves his to focus on the figure that is starting to emerge from the shadows in front of his very eyes, a gruesome shifting mass of a nightmare.

"Sophie."

His stomach is in knots when he eyes a knife in her hand, the exact same switchblade he took on the camping trip, slowly dripping with blood. The crimson splotch on her jacket doesn’t go unnoticed. Despite the distance that separates them, Malcolm has no trouble feeling her pain; the agonizing fear of what Martin is going to do to her, the fear of never being found, the fear of him.

Just like Eve, Sophie is scared of him.

Or for him.

Tears well up at the corners before they fall on his face, hot and ugly.

There are no words to describe the crushing guilt he feels in this moment. The guilt of not knowing what he had done all those years ago, of what he and his father did to an innocent woman; how his past came to life in the form of Eve, a haunting reminder of the life he cut short. A reminder of who he is.

The monster in his nightmares. The person who he was afraid of.

“I’m so sorry...” he cries out, letting the dam of misery wash over him, burying him under the waves. The whispers come rushing back through the tide, shouting the most foul and obscene, prompting him to face her, really look her in the eyes and take responsibility for what he did.

There’s only one way out of this.

After all, he deserves it.

One way to finally stop the madness, this life forced upon him, a life he didn’t ask for, a life of endless suffering and torment at his expense by the hands of his devious father. It’s the only way.

An eye for an eye.

A life for a life.

Sophie lingers before she meets his eyes and gives him a small nod.

Permission.

Something inside Malcolm breaks.

Amongst the messy fractures held up by the thin lining of his psyche, the rope gives way and snaps, the weight of all his bearings too heavy, too complicated, too violent to keep bottled up. It lights him on fire and sets ablaze everything he’s ever known, the life that he’s built for himself gone in an instant and reduced to ashes. He can’t suppress it anymore.

Malcolm loses control.

A blood-curdling scream rips from his body.

Suddenly he’s pinned against the floor by a strong pair of hands and the world starts to spin again and he can hear the all of the shouting in the conference room flare up. He kicks and screams and thrashes underneath the body recklessly, shredding his lungs in attempt to communicate something deeper than words could ever make out. The warmth seeping through his coat is undoubtedly blood, but he can’t tell where the origin is – the pain is all the same.

“Call a bus!”

His arms and legs can’t get free.

“Boss, they’re ten minutes out!”

He starts to bash his skull against the concrete with fervor, shadows still clawing at his throat as he wails into the void in protest. He needs to finish this.

The black spots in his vision don’t slow him down if his heart continues to hammer away in his chest. Gentle hands cradle his wet, sticky hair in their palms and force him to keep still but it’s no use. He deserves this. It’s the only way.

As his eyes begin to close at the tug of unconsciousness, and in this moment of clarity, he sees Sophie looking back at him again, staring.

And he stares.

And stares.

Right into her cold, dead, lifeless eyes.

Gradually, beat after beat, the hammering stops.

Chapter Text

“Bright?”

Dani knew something was wrong when she caught Bright storming his way through the precinct looking for Gil.

Last she recalls, Gil had gotten into it with Bright on the phone the other day. They were working another homicide case at the time but Bright was constantly on edge, going off on his own, grilling every eyewitness and suspect – he even snapped at Gil a few times and the tension just made everyone extremely uncomfortable.

Behind closed doors, when Malcolm wasn’t there, the team chalked it up to one thing: Eve.

There were lapses in his concentration. He was noticeably skittish around the team, unable to stand directly close to anyone, even shrugging off Gil’s soft touches whenever he started to zone out of the conversation. His hallucinations were more prevalent than what they were used to, making it harder for Malcolm to even be present when he was completely distracted with whatever he saw.

A couple of times, he would excuse himself and never come back.

Until four days ago when Malcolm didn’t show up for work, Gil called him around noon, worried that he might’ve come down with something or hurt himself during one of his nightmares. Dani came back with a written report to hand off but just as she was about to knock on his door, she overheard Gil yelling at someone on the phone.

It didn’t take long for her to figure out it was Malcolm he was talking to. At one point, Gil choked up, telling Malcolm how worried he was for him, that he needed to stay home so that he could properly take care of himself but of course, Malcolm wasn’t having it. He must’ve hung up the phone because Gil kept calling his name to no avail.

Dani quietly stepped away into her cubicle, eyeing his door to see if he would step out at some point. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave his office until later that night, looking more stressed and worn out than when he walked in that morning. She told JT what she heard and made him swear to never mention it to Gil.

They know Bright was off his game but they couldn’t help but worry about him. When JT asked where the profiler was, Gil simply said, “He made it clear that he wanted to be left alone.”

Nobody mentioned him again.

So, when he shows up in the middle of the day, shivering from walking in the cold without a coat, Dani quickly moves towards him before Gil gets to him first. His presence catches her completely by surprise, but it gets replaced with indifference, remembering how hurt Gil’s been.

“What are you doing here? I thought Gil said–”

“Where is he?” he demands, brows knitted in anger. He looks like hell, to say the least. Everything about him is frayed and in disarray from his hair to his suit, the total opposite of the eccentric charisma he typically carries.  

Though he may seem angry, his eyes are wide with impatience, desperate to find the man he’s looking for. Gil has let his behavior slide for weeks now but Dani isn’t having any of it. He’s been snippy all week and it’s really starting to piss her off.

“What the hell’s gotten into you, Bright?” She folds her arms as her face scrunches up in irritation. He huffs in frustration, ignoring the door to look at her, visibly agitated.

“I know the Eve thing didn’t end so well and sure, you have every right to be pissed. But you can’t keep lashing out just because you feel like it. You really upset Gil the other day.”

In an instant, the blood drains from his face and Malcolm stills, all of the anger leaving his features. They stand there looking at each other, neither of them moving. His body goes frigid and things start to change.

He’s quiet, too quiet.

His eyes are unfocused, lazily drifting off to the side, stopping when something catches his eye, something that makes his hand start to shake. His chest depresses, slowing as he takes shallow breaths. Dani quickly shelves her personal feelings when she realizes Malcolm’s hallucinating.

She gages the severity by cautiously reaching out to him, gently resting her fingers on his trembling hand, looking for any sign that he’s still with her. "Seriously, Bright. You know you can talk to me, right? What's going on?" Her voice is low and reassuring, trying to downplay her own anxiety.

Then he starts to heave, choking on fast, shallow breaths as he slowly starts to step away from her as it steps closer. His brows arch upwards at the eerie silhouette staring back at him with intention, a promise to always be by his side.

Eve cocks her head to the side, completely oblivious.

“What’s the matter, Malcolm?”

Dani reaches for him again, this time clenching onto his sleeve but her touch is unwelcome. His breath hitches when he yanks his arm away to free himself from her. He stumbles back on his heels feeling lightheaded, paralyzed at the sight of her.

Malcolm begins to hyperventilate, succumbing to a panic attack.

The looks from the other officers forces her to drag him into the conference room. She grips his arm again and pulls him down the hall without much of a fight.

JT and Gil stand over a pile of photos from a crime scene, quietly debating between themselves about possible suspects. Dani gets him in the room and plants him right next to her but he doesn’t stay put. She locks the door behind her and immediately closes the blinds. Gil and JT stop what they’re doing to watch the commotion. She has her hands up and starts talking before either of them get the chance to ask.

“He came looking for you, Gil. Told him to chill out, he saw something, and now he’s out of it and I don’t know what to do.” It’s unlike her to panic, but she knows that the longer she stands there doing nothing, the faster she loses him. Dani looks to Gil for help, desperate for him to do something.

Gil senses her urgency and straightens up from the table. He stops short of Malcolm, looking him up and down at the mess that just entered the room. Every hurtful thing he said over the phone becomes a distant memory, his paternal side taking over in place of his Lieutenant. Gil puts his hurt aside, it’s irrelevant now – Malcolm needs him.

“What the hell’s going on?”

He paces by the wall, arms wrapped around his stomach and fingers digging into his sides. He’s doubled over like he’s in pain, taking in big gulps of air as he keeps walking in back and forth. Dani chews at her bottom lip. “Something happened to him, Gil, I don’t know. I think I might’ve said something.”

Before he can respond, Malcolm collapses on the floor on his knees, gasping for air as if he were drowning, holding onto every little breath he can grasp as his body trembles trying to keep up.

Gil hates this part. The part where Malcolm loses track with reality, stuck in a memoir of where it all went wrong, trapped somewhere along the lines of his father, making it an exhausting feat to try and bring him back. Every night terror, every panic attack he’s helped Malcolm down from broke something in him, every setback a reminder of how he will never be able to erase all of the shit Martin put him through.

Gil approaches him carefully with his hands up, walking slow enough not to scare him off. He crouches down on his knees to meet him at eye level, waiting for the pained noises coming from Malcolm to die down. “Hey, kid,” he starts, gruff but comforting. “Everything’s going to be alright. You’re safe. It’s just us here, no one else.” He carefully places his hand on the back of his neck, holding him close like he always does and waits for any sign of discomfort.

Malcolm picks his head up, his breathing starting to slow at the familiar touch. His eyes find Gil and Gil smiles softly, eyes crinkling. “You alright?” Malcolm doesn’t move. Instead, his eyes track the looming figure standing over Gil’s shoulder. They widen with terror, followed by a pained noise that escapes his lips as he tries to back away.

Gil realizes that he’s losing this fight and fast. He’s desperate to get him to focus forward but his mind is so fixated on tearing him apart that it’s impossible to concentrate on anything else. He slips from Gil’s hold into a seated position falling back on his elbows, looking up at the figure standing behind Gil.

“What are you seeing, Bright?” he tries, anxiously searching his face for any recognition. JT and Dani watch from either side of the room, nervously waiting for something to happen.

In the silence of the room, one word escapes Malcolm’s lips.

“Sophie.”

His breath hitches and his expression starts to crumble. His scrunches up as his eyes water and his lip starts to quiver. A sob wretches its way out of his throat like a child in pain, a drawn out cry of agony and his entire body shakes as the tears start to fall. He bows his head in shame, crying into his chest, pulling in shaky breaths.

“I’m so sorry...” he chokes out and Gil’s face falters.

Malcolm breaks down into gut-wrenching sobs. His futile cries engulfs the conference room in an instant, drowning out the noise of the precinct and stunning the team to silence. He sits up in a seated position with hands pulling at his hair, apologizing over and over, rocking back and forth on his heels in distress.

Gil wracks his brain to think of something, anything to calm him down and take the edge off. Malcolm’s inconsolable. He’s falling apart, upset more so than he’s ever seen in twenty years and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Then his face scrunches up again, grimace taking shape.

“What’s he doing?” JT asks, not really giving thought to the question.

The sobbing doesn’t slow for a second; Malcolm stills. His hands fly to his ears, frantically shaking his head, shoulders hunched away from Gil, stammering on words that won’t come out.

“Bright, you have to talk to me,” he begs over his cries, “you’re safe here, kid, no one else is in the room but us. Please, Bright, you have to let me in.” Frustration edges as he’s forced to watch, his pleas falling on deaf ears.

Like a switch, Malcolm’s cries come to an abrupt stop and the team goes still.

For a few seconds, he doesn’t move. His hands fall from his ears and a single tear slips down his cheek and under his chin. His eyes are stuck to the floor. They’re blurred with tears, glossed over as he stares at the empty space.

Gil is caught off guard. Malcolm snatches his gun from his holster and everything moves too fast for either JT or Dani to react.

Gil was slow.

Too slow.

Too slow to prevent the pull of the trigger-

"Bright, no!"

-but quick enough to grab his arm and redirect the barrel from his throat.

A bone-chilling scream rips from Malcolm’s lungs.

“Malcolm!”

Gil’s eyes widen at the hole in his son’s abdomen, red seeping profusely through the layers of gray, immediately coating Gil’s shaking fingers.

Malcolm starts to wail in agony on the floor, his face twisting in misery with fresh tears sliding down his neck. He starts to spasm in front of him, clawing at his own throat as his voice rips through his chest, ruthless and unwavering, shaking Gil down to his very core. The kind that will haunt Gil until he’s six feet under.

The wound’s spreading.

Gil’s first instinct is to hold him down, so he does. He grabs onto his wrists and straddles him, keeping most of his weight on his legs to stop him from moving his lower body. He’s scared that he’s going to tear a hole too deep to recover from if he keeps moving.

Malcolm won’t stop thrashing under him. He’s breathing heavily under him, trying to pull away from Gil but it’s no use. His breaths turn into panicked gasps when he has nowhere else to go. He persists to no avail.

Gil’s voice shakes when he yells, “Call a bus!”

JT curses, shaking off his initial shock and moves from the wall and pulls out his phone, brows knitted as he runs past Dani to get to the bullpen.

Dani stands by the door paralyzed, unsure of what to do. She watches him in horror, rattled by his agonizing screams, frightened by the writhing body on the floor. Something’s completely and utterly wrong with him, something so frightening that she's incapable of processing. She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to be near him. This isn’t Bright.

The bleeding won’t stop.

“Boss, they’re ten minutes out!”

Suddenly, Malcolm stops resisting. He squeezes his eyes shut and starts yelling at the ceiling in frustration. He shrieks as Gil grips tighter around his wrists so he finds another way.

He lifts his head off the ground and smashes it against the concrete.

Again, and again, and again until he feels something crack, screaming something unintelligible in Gil’s face. Malcolm coughs and gasps, crying out till his throat goes hoarse.

Gil grips him even tighter, “Stop, Bright, stop!”

He pushes through the spreading pain, not settling until he feels completely numb, until the world has gone completely black.

“Dani, get your ass over here! JT, get something to stop the bleeding or else he won’t make the ambulance!” His blaring voice snaps her out of her haze and she wills herself to move, sliding down to her knees behind Malcolm.

Her shaking fingers make her clumsy at first, but she carefully grabs his head and forces him to stop moving as she places his head into her lap. The tears come again, rolling down his face when he’s forced to stop, his breath hitching on every intake as he sobs into her hands, completely delirious.

Her heart pounds against her chest when she feels something sticky leak onto her palms. Her breath catches in her throat. The wind gets knocked out of her and she looks at Gil with striking fear in her eyes.

“He’s bleeding...”

Gil looks over to her lap and sees the rush of blood starting to pool in her hands.

Seven minutes.

It seeps through her fingertips and under her fingernails.

He’s trying his hardest to remain calm, to detach his feelings from the body under him but with every passing second, Gil loses his resolve. Malcolm’s still trembling under Gil’s weight, crying to himself, face contorted in misery and despair. He doesn’t want this.

Six minutes.

JT comes back with a handful of spare towels and quickly drops to the floor to apply pressure on the gunshot wound. Gil lifts from Malcolm so JT could get to him but he stays right by his side.

Malcolm cries out when his body lights up with a wave of white hot pain from the pressure. A few more tears fall down his neck, wailing at the fire spreading throughout his body. Dani takes one from JT and gently applies it to the back of his head, her eyes fixed on him as if he were the only person in the world.

He continues to sob while the team watches.

Nobody dares to speak.

The tension is eating them alive.

Five minutes.

Malcolm finally stops shaking. His body starts to go limp under JT, slowly giving into unconsciousness, eyes fluttering in and out. The air gets sucked right out of the room when they realize he’s no longer crying.

“Bright?”

Gil can see him fading out, his eyes glossy and unfocused as he stares off into nothing. “Come on, kid, stay with me.” Gil reaches out to cup his hand on his cheek, frantically caressing the warm skin under his palm and stroking with his thumb.

“Stay with me, Bright. I need you to stay awake, kid, I need you here.” He’s begging, desperate, holding out for a sign as the team watches the light in their profiler slowly start to dim.

No response. Gil’s heart drops to his stomach.

“Bright? Bright!”

Four minutes.

JT’s towel is soaked through. He grabs another and continues to apply pressure, but a part of him says it’s useless, that he’s going to bleed out before the EMT’s get there. He’s stubborn enough to keep his hands still and heavy, refusing to give up on one of the few people he called a friend.

“He’s not breathing...”

Dani’s voice is small. She can’t hold the few tears anymore. There’s no reason for a façade, no reason to pretend that everything is going to be okay, no reason to pretend that her friend isn’t dying on the floor of their precinct. He’s as quiet as he’s ever been.

Gil scrambles to find a pulse. From his wrist to his neck, his pulse is fading, barely recognizable under his trembling fingers. CPR is out of the question – it would worsen the internal bleeding.

His hands are tied. He’s forced to sit back and watch.

Waiting.

Three minutes.

Slowly, his pulse disappears under his skin.

Gil keeps trying but it’s no use. Dani can tell by the ashen look on his face but she shakes her head, denial keeping her from the ledge. JT wants to tune them out by keeping his hand on his stomach but for a second, for one small moment of weakness, he almost lets go.

It sinks into the floor. Coats the walls, staining their clothes.

Doubt.

It dawns on them, gradual and brutal, forcing them to accept a reality they weren’t ready to deal with. A reality without Malcolm Bright. They collectively stop breathing.

The room is hauntingly silent.

Two minutes.

Some higher power must’ve heard their pleas.

EMT’s start to fill the room, several pairs of hands reaching for the lifeless body on the floor, going through their routine to stabilize him. Gil attempts to recall everything that’s happened. JT and Dani are forced to step away to make room. Neither want to leave his side, eyes glued on the EMT’s struggling to resuscitate him.

Malcolm isn’t responding.

They’re pushing air into his lungs yet his body won’t give. The wound is being tended to, same with his head while another pair of hands work to get a pulse before it’s too late. Judging by the looks of it, the team can’t help but think that their efforts weren’t enough.

Then, in the dead of the room, there’s a pulse.

Gil exhales aloud, shoulders slacking as his nerves tamper away. JT’s expression only hardens into something unreadable with his lips pressed in a tight line and Dani swallows hard, running a soaked hand through her hair.

They stand with each other at the end of the table as Malcolm is carefully lifted onto a stretcher and rushed out of the precinct. An EMT keeps a mask over his face pumping oxygen, hanging on by a thread.

Dani’s eyes are on her hands. She’s quiet but her shallow breaths give her away. His blood on her fingers is still fresh, still wet and warm. The stains on the floor and the ghost of feeling his jagged fracture scraping her palms makes her stomach turn.

“Excuse me,” she mutters, and walks out to the bullpen.

A long and heavy sigh escapes Gil. Dozens of eyes are on him, searching for an explanation. People are going to want answers. Word travels fast around the office which means if this were to get out to their Commissioner before Gil addresses it, Malcolm could be out of a job. That is, if he lives to show up for it.

He looks back at the floor and then to JT, taking in his stifling silence.

“You good?”

JT relaxes a bit, exhaling, tension leaving his body. He shakes his head, “No, not really.” He takes a beat for himself to get his words right. “I just saw some guy bleed out in front of me. The guy who happens to be Bright bleed out right in front of me. So no, I’m not good.”

Gil sends him an apologetic look, “Sorry.”

They’re all covered with Malcolm’s blood one way or another. If he dies on the operating table, it’ll be on them, and his blood will stain their hands permanently. It won’t wash off in the sink, it won’t run down the shower drain or wash off their clothes – his death will be a failure on their part.

He can’t stand the attention. Gil moves away from JT and heads for his office. “I’ll get someone to clean up. Another team can take our case for now. Get Dani, I want you two up there to get updates on Bright. I need to make some phone calls.”

JT gives a curt nod before heading towards the bathroom. Gil watches him go, pensive and serious, the parent in him wanting to drop everything just to see Malcolm to know if he’s okay.

It’s an itch he can’t scratch that he hides under authority, demanding that everyone gets back to work while he shuts himself in his office, slumping against the door. He exhales and swallows the lump in his throat.

He immediately wipes the tears as they start to fall, huffing another sigh. He refuses to let his emotions get to him.

Malcolm needs him. Crying won’t fix anything.

Gil plops down in his chair and pulls his cell from his pocket, resting his hands in his lap. The red stain on his sweater catches his eye, and he quickly decides he’s going to trash it as soon as this is over.

His thumb hovers over a name for a few seconds. He clears his throat and presses down, cringing the moment he hears her sweet voice on the other end.

Dani and JT waste no time getting to the hospital. The lady at the front desk could only give them so much information, so they begrudgingly wait for his doctor to see them.

He’s in the OR, she said. Judging by her tone, Bright’s chances aren’t looking good.

They take a seat in the furthest corner of the waiting room. JT leans back in the stiff chair pulling out his phone to send a text to Gil while Dani’s leg shakes, glancing at the double doors every few seconds. Not five minutes later, Jessica Whitly storms in, the click of her heels announcing her presence as she grips her bag in anger, demanding answers the second she gets to the front desk.

JT shakes his head, signaling that he isn’t going to be the one to talk her down. Dani groans, stuffing her hands into her pockets as she gets up from her chair and walks over with caution.

“Mrs. Whitly?”

Jessica snaps her head at the voice behind her but she immediately softens when she recognizes Dani. “Detective Powell,” she sighs, her expression hardening again. “Where the hell is Malcolm?”

Dani hesitates to answer, gaging her reaction. “He’s in surgery.”

Jessica wilts. “What happened? Gil wasn’t making any sense on the phone. Though, I suppose that was because I hung up on him before he could finish.”

Dani looks back to JT who’s still in his phone, assuming he’s talking to Gil. She turns back to her with a slight frown. “I think you should sit down first.”

Jessica follows behind Dani over to JT, sitting on her left with her purse in her lap. Dani shares an awkward smile, trying to get comfortable in her chair as if it was even possible. She dreads this.

She doesn’t want to think about what happened – she’s still trying to make sense of it herself. Malcolm is fighting a war they will never have to face, and a part of her fears that it’ll be too late before they get the full story. Before they truly understood him.

“Bright came into the precinct looking for Gil, I’m not sure why. One minute he’s fine, the next minute he’s completely out of it. Gil tries to calm him down but it doesn’t work. He was really upset about something, kept saying how sorry he was. Then he reaches for Gil’s gun and he–” she pauses.

She’s not sure how much Gil was able to tell her over the phone but from the looks of it, this is news to her.

Dani takes a shaky breath, trying to pick her words carefully. She takes a moment too long because Jessica frantically looks between the two of them, eager for a response.

“And he what?”

The memory makes them feel uneasy. The empty look on his face still haunts her; tormented by the fears plaguing his mind, his expression twisted in fetid anguish, screaming at the top of his lungs like someone or something was hurting him, and maybe this was his cry for help. His cry to make it stop – to make it all go away.

There’s no easy way to put it. Dani purses her lips and shelves her discomfort and turns back to Jessica, keeping a neutral look on her face.

“I think he tried to kill himself.”

Jessica pauses. Then, little by little, her expression crumbles. She sits back in her chair, shoulders slouching. Her initial disbelief is overshadowed by the cruel, crushing reality that made her eyes sting. Everything felt too real, too difficult to process, too uncomfortable for her look Dani in the eyes and ask if it was true.

“I know he’s heartbroken about Eve. He’s been kicking himself ever since we found out who she really was,” she sucks in a shaky breath, “I didn’t realize just how much he was hurting.” She sends a sorrowful smile to Dani but it falls as she ducks her head, guilt pulling at her.

The regret in her voice makes Dani falter. As much as she wants to reach out, she doesn’t allow herself to get too close. Instead, she keeps her hands tucked in her pockets.

“He told me about Eve,” she starts, trying to shift the conversation. “He never mentioned her, though.” Jessica straightens up in her chair to listen.

“What do you mean he never mentioned her?”

“He said “Sophie”, not Eve. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Her eyes start to widen and Dani realizes she’s struck a chord. She’s not sure if that’s a good thing. The gears turn in her head to draw the connection between the two, and Jessica’s heart breaks when it all starts to make sense.

Dani holds out for an answer; even JT shifts in his chair to hear what she has to say. “Sophie was the girl in the box, Eve’s sister – he never told you her name?”

JT and Dani look at each other, frowning as the pieces align themselves. His distractions – hallucinations – weren’t just about Eve. Dani remembers that night when he told her about Eve, that he found out she was related to the girl he’s been seeing for years, swearing up and down she was real. She could only imagine how he must’ve felt when Eve told him.

It explains why he was constantly on edge. Why he lost his temper at the smallest things, why he slaved over every single case the second a body dropped. From the moment he told Dani about Eve, Malcolm has been struggling ever since, falling further down into the mess his father made.

This whole time, every day leading up to this, he saw her, the face of the girl that’s haunted him for as long as he could remember.

Sophie.

He’s been seeing her this entire time.

It all makes sense. Dani’s breathing is slow and shallow, eyes connecting to JT who has gone stiff in his chair.

It takes too long for it to sink in for Jessica, because the longer they stay quiet, the more irritated she becomes. “What else are you not telling me?”

JT is the first to meet her gaze. Her brows knit in confusion, sensing there is something deeper to the looks on their faces. He glances at Dani for confirmation. “Go ahead JT,” she croaks out.

Jessica waits for an explanation. “Bright’s been off his game for weeks. He ran himself into the ground working on cases. He kept seeing things that weren’t there, didn’t like it when people got near him. He snapped at Gil a few times before Gil benched him and told him to take a few days off. When he showed up at the precinct, he kind of just lost it.”

Her expression morphs into worry, then to anger, annoyed that she felt like isn’t getting the full story. “What do you mean he ‘lost it,’ detective? Care to elaborate? Because she just told me Malcolm tried to kill–”

Before JT can counter, a short woman with her hair tied back in navy scrubs emerged from the double doors with a clipboard in her hands. “Family of Malcolm Bright?”

Jessica practically falls out her chair when she stands up to meet the woman. Dani and JT are right behind her.

“Yes, I’m his mother,” she extends her hand with a nervous smile. “Jessica Whitly. How is he? Is he going to be okay? Can I see him?”

The woman firmly shakes her hand and keeps her expression neutral.

“Hello, Mrs. Whitly. I’m Jeanine, an ER nurse here overseeing your son. He’s in critical condition at the moment. Right now, he’s in surgery for the GSW to his abdomen. He’s receiving a blood transfusion for the extensive blood loss, as well as stitches for his head injury. Thankfully, it was only a mild concussion, no intracranial hemorrhaging of any grade.”

Jessica pales. Dani and JT share a worried look, anticipating her reaction. They failed to mention the gory details on purpose. “He was shot?” she asks, voice low. Jeanine nods.

“It was self-inflicted, according to the report. It’s a miracle that the bullet missed his vital organs, but because of the awkward angle of the bullet entry, he sustained significant damage to the surrounding tissue which could affect said organs. The internal bleeding is another issue we’re concerned about. They’re running a laparotomy to seal any vessels and try to repair the damage. Luckily, he’s stable right now. Earlier, he crashed in the middle of surgery, so we’re moving as quickly and carefully as we can.”

Dani buries her hands deeper in her pockets, keeping her head down as she listens to the nurse talk to them Bright. JT is back to texting Gil with updates but he can’t hide the sour look on his face. Jessica stumbles, her mouth opening and closing as if she’s trying to say something but nothing comes out.

They’re all quiet.

Jeanine gently places her hand on top of Jessica’s, tilting her head to look at her, expression soft and reassuring. “We have a great team of surgeons working to save your son. He was in pretty bad shape when he got here, but one thing’s for sure: he’s a fighter.”

Jessica smiles to herself. Her eyes start to water as her smile fades, dread taking place. She grimaces at the pang in her chest.

All those years she spent ignoring his feelings, she’s been trying to make up for it ever since he came back to New York. It’s starting to feel like it was all for nothing; that no matter how hard she tries, she’ll never be able to heal what’s broken in Malcolm. Now, there’s proof of that.

“I just want him to be okay,” she chokes out quietly, tears at the rim. They don’t fall but the message is clear.

She holds her clipboard between her hands, sharing another sympathetic smile. “We’re doing everything we can, Mrs. Whitly.”

She nods, wiping her eyes with her knuckles and composing herself. “Someone will come get you when we have more information. Until then, just sit tight.” She takes her leave and disappears behind the double doors.

Jessica takes a shaky breath. She stands in her thoughts for a minute before returning to her seat with her purse in her lap, looking defeated.

Dani looks over to JT, avoiding the inevitable. “Has Gil said anything?”

He shakes his head, “Not a word. Probably trying to file the report.” JT shoves his phone back in his pocket. “What are we gonna do about her?” he whispers, eyes darting from Jessica back to Dani.

She shrugs. “She was going to find out one way or another. I didn’t want to be the one to tell her.” Dani sighs as she looks at her, now typing away on her phone. Her eyes don’t leave her. “We were there, we saw what happened. For now we should just get comfortable. Strap in and hope for the best.”

She doesn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. She doesn’t know why she’s trying to save face, either.

JT sighs, “We both know how this ends.”

They know they’re putting on an act, neither of them wanting to show their cards. Not wanting to show how much they care for Bright even though they never express it out loud. The thought of losing him is more painful than they’ll ever admit.

Dani nods as JT moves past her to sit with Jessica, trying to give her some words of encouragement. She watches them talk, JT doing his best to level with her.

Dani looks at the double doors.

Somewhere back there, Malcolm is on an operating table dying alone.

It makes her chest tighten.

She stood there, watching everything happen around her while she did nothing. Her anger morphs into shame, kicking herself for not acting sooner, for not seeing the signs, for wanting to run when things got ugly.

Maybe if she wasn’t so harsh with him earlier, all of this could’ve been prevented. She wouldn’t be at a hospital waiting for results. She would be back at the precinct, trying to find Gil so that Malcolm could talk it out with him, instead of being bombarded with questions from her.

She had no reason to intrude, no reason to pry and assume when all he wanted to do was see Gil. Even then, she’s grateful that he came in at all. A part of her wondered what would’ve happened if he was left alone in that loft any longer. What happened in those four days he was gone?

She pulls out her phone to check the time and sees a message from Gil. Dani puts her phone away without opening it, too bothered by her growing anxiety. Her eyes sting as she chews on her bottom lip.

It doesn’t matter. She should’ve just left it alone.

Malcolm would still be here.

Alive.

Chapter Text

“It was quite a story.”

He shouldn’t be here. He should be back at the precinct solving a homicidal poisoning case of a famed ballet dancer but instead, he’s at Claremont, and Martin is running circles around him.

“A story?”

Eve, standing to his left with her fists clenched, was in disbelief. “What does that even mean? I just want to find her body.” She’s tired of the mind games and Malcolm can sense it. He’s weary of his father too, but they came to get answers about the girl, about Eve’s sister.

He stares his father down, trying to take some of the tension away from her. “Tell us what you did with Sophie.” He’s starting to get impatient.

Martin pauses for a moment, a small frown of confusion as he looks between the two. What were they not understanding?

“Oh, well, I thought it was obvious, she – she convinced me to let her go.”

No, that’s not right. This isn’t how the conversation went.

“Your sister was very persuasive.”

He turns back to Martin with an incredulous look. He had so many questions: why did he deny her existence – why did he lie, manipulate, and drug his own son to bury a body that was alive all these years?

Martin swears he’s a good father but that’s not true in the slightest. None of this is true. He doesn’t remember walking out of that cell with Eve and he doesn’t remember his failed attempts to stop her from leaving him.

His memory has gaps. Time lapses, moments in his past that get confused with something completely unrelated.

“Why can’t you remember?”

Eve wasn’t a bad person. Why does he remember her as such?

Why does he remember a fight that never happened?

She kissed him on her way out. He could tell by the tears in her eyes that she was upset and desperate to find her sister but hurting Malcolm was not her intension. If she walked out of that door that night, why can’t he remember?

He’s not even sure if Eve really loved him. She had a purpose for being there – it wasn’t just some chance of fate that they met. She got what she needed and left. If her sister was in fact dead, would she have stayed?

Sophie is alive. Sophie is alive. Sophie is alive.

Why can’t he get that through his thick skull? Twenty years of his life are shattered in an instant. His clarity on the girl in the box came from two serial killers. Two who have made it their mission to ruin his life, break him and mold into something he’s not.

If Sophie is running around alive, free from the pain and torture his father put her through, then what else happened on that camping trip that he doesn’t know about? How can he trust that this is all there is to it? What was the tipping point that made him call the police? Were there more victims running around? What did he do?

He’s confused.

None of it makes sense.

It’s been three days since the operation. Three days of being kept in the ICU with a tube down his throat, IV lines sewn to this body, and leaky gauze that is constantly being changed every shift. Three days of being unconscious, dead to the world and completely unaware of the chaos he’s left behind.

The sun is setting on another uneventful day. The clouds are starting to roll in as the night air cools with rain in the distance.

Ainsley gingerly steps out of a cab onto the wet pavement with a newspaper over her head when it starts to pour. She gives a little extra to the man up front and awkwardly waves, rushing to get her purse on her arm before she’s soaked. She shuts the cab door and hurries inside the building with a crack of thunder trailing her. The soggy paper is thrown away in a nearby trashcan.

The waiting room is empty.

She straightens herself up a bit. She’s accustomed to the lady at the front desk so she doesn’t have to say much to get clearance. They exchange somber smiles.

A nurse walks her through the back and down a long stretch before making a right then a left into another section of the hospital. Her heels are as loud as her perpetuating anxiety but she stays quiet. Her mother hasn’t texted her since her lunch break which meant no new updates. No new updates weren’t terrible but they weren’t great; the longer he remains under, the more they panic and fear the worst.

Ainsley knocks, waits, and gently turns the handle to push the door open.

She peeks her head in to find her mother perched in her chair next to Malcolm’s bed. Outside of the consistent beeping, Jessica is softly snoring next to him with a blanket wrapped around her legs. Ainsley shuts the door and quietly walks over to pull it over her body.

Jessica stirs. She frowns and slowly pulls her head off her hands and groans. Her wrist aches from holding the weight of her head and there’s a consistent throbbing behind her eyes that suggest a migraine. She peels her eyes open to see her daughter standing over her. “Ainsley?”

She crouches down next to her, “Hey, mom.” She gently rubs her leg as Jessica lays her head back on her hand with a sigh, closing her eyes again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to doze off.” “It’s okay. I can call Adolpho to take you home so you won’t have a crook in your neck tomorrow.”

She waves her off, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Ainsley purses her lips, not wanting to argue. Between her and Malcolm, their stubbornness often came at the expense of their well-being and she didn’t want to get in the middle of that.

She sits in a chair at the foot of the bed to give her some space. Rather than stewing in her own emotions, Ainsley hides behind her phone to keep herself distracted.

Her mother has been a complete wreck for three days straight. Ainsley’s never had to deal with her antics on a scale like this. It’s a new reality for them both and she’s not used to being the bigger person; to be so vulnerable and honest not just with her mother but with herself as well. It’s uncomfortable in every sense of the word.

Jessica watches him with a sorrowful expression. She reaches over from her chair to Malcolm’s bed to hold his hand in hers. The other gently caresses his face, barely brushing over his skin.

“He’s so pale now,” she whispers.

His skin looked a lot lighter than it usually does under the muted hospital lights. Though he’s alive, Malcolm seemed deathly ill. His skin still felt cold to the touch despite Jessica’s insistent pestering that he’d be given enough blankets to keep his body warm. He’s consistently fed by a tube; though he’s receiving meals regularly, it made no difference to how small he looked compared to the bed itself. It’s as if he’s gradually sinking into the sheets.

Ainsley doesn’t comment. Jessica squeezes his hand a little tighter than before and moves her other hand to carefully smooth his hair back away from the bandages. It brings her back to a memory of happier times.

She always tucked her children in before bed, often reading them a short story until their eyes were drooping and they had stopped listening.

On this particular night, Jessica was in bed reading over some of her magazines when Malcolm peeked his tiny head into their bedroom asking if he could sleep in there. His father was probably still working in the basement so it was just the two of them, talking alone. He had a bad dream and he didn’t want to be left alone so he begged her to stay for the night.

So, she agreed and moved over so he could slide his little body under the giant plush covers and curled up next to her. She gently stroked his hair until he stopped shaking. He grabbed onto her waist with his short arms and kept her close to protect him from the monsters hiding under his bed. Eventually, he fell asleep.

Her touches have lost their effect over the years; they don’t mean much anymore. She can’t take his pain away like she used to and even if she could, it wouldn’t change what Martin did. Jessica wasn’t the most affectionate to her children when they got older but seeing them in pain stirred her instincts to protect them. It’s absolutely maddening to feel so helpless and it brings her to tears.

“I’m so sorry, Malcolm,” she whispers, feeling her throat tighten and her voice shake. “I’m so sorry.” As seconds go by and the more she dwells on it, Jessica puts her head in her hands and slowly starts to break down.

She wants to be strong for her family, to be the mother they needed all those years ago because Malcolm and Ainsley are all she has left. The thought of losing Malcolm has kept her up for three days straight. As the hours go by, Jessica can feel her strength fading, losing faith in a quick recovery.

A comforting hand gently rubs soothing circles on her back as she quietly cries to herself. Once she started, she couldn’t stop.

There were so many things she wished she should’ve said, so many things she wished she could take back because maybe they wouldn’t be where they were right now. Maybe if she did her job as a mother, Malcolm would still be alive and not strapped to a dozen IV’s fighting for his life. Maybe if she cared a little more, he’d come to her for help instead of looking for murder to bring him some peace.

“He’ll be okay, mom,” she says looking over at the still body of her brother. “He just has to wake up.”

Sniffling, Jessica wipes her cheeks with a small nod, turning back to her son. Ainsley rests her hand on her shoulder when she stops crying and Jessica grabs onto it while the other is grabbing onto Malcolm’s.

Together, they waited, holding out for a miracle.

Progress. If she didn’t know any better, that was probably the word of the day in Newsday’s daily crossword. Progress. Jessica hates it – though not as much as the stiff ache in her neck that spreads through her shoulders down her lower back. Maybe she should’ve taken up Ainsley’s offer.

The doctor (whose name she’s already forgotten) came to check on Malcolm’s vitals early in the morning. Her long hair’s tied back into a ponytail, dressed in blue scrubs with a white coat on top. Jessica doesn’t have time for pleasantries.

“He’s in stable condition. Which is still good, all things considered.”

Jessica sat back in her chair with an accusatory look with Ainsley standing beside her, both in the same clothes they wore the night before. “I want to run another CT scan to make sure there hasn’t been any developments we might’ve missed. The swelling’s gone down, leading me to believe there shouldn’t be. Still, I want to get some tests in just to be sure.”

Jessica practically scoffs to the side. Ainsley sends her an apologetic look. “Doctor Ali, is it?”

She nods, “That’s right.”

“So,” Ainsley starts, fumbling on her words, “how come he hasn’t woken up yet? You said he’s stable, everything looks fine; why is he still unconscious?” Dr. Ali glances over to Malcolm’s motionless body, running through her thoughts to try and word it correctly.

“Well, there are a few things that are at play here that contribute to his unconscious state. This is not uncommon after severe trauma surgery, Ms. Whitly. So far, we haven’t seen any signs of infection from the wound. Typically within a week, we can remove the stitches but in his case, I’m not advising that. It’s healing, just not at the rate we were expecting.”

Ainsley nods as she’s explaining, and Jessica keeps her eyes on Malcolm, still listening. “What about the concussion, the bleeding? Would that have something to do with it?”

“As I mentioned earlier, there weren’t any signs of external swelling and his previous scan didn’t detect any cranial hemorrhaging. I still plan to run another CT scan today and I’ll be sure to run an MRI as well. Continuously remaining unconscious for an extended period of time, however, is a cause for concern.”

Dr. Ali walks back over to his bedside and leans her hip against the bedrail, scanning the monitor. “He’s under heavy sedation. There’s a note on his file that was made about the use of sedatives, I have it in my own personal notes as well. While I do understand the extensive psychological trauma that your son has experienced, I also know that he relies on a ventilator. Sedation is mandatory. I want to start him on a weaning trial as soon as he’s awake and can move on his own.”

She turns back to Jessica and Ainsley with a somber smile. “His numbers are within the normal range, and my staff are keeping a close eye on him. For right now, my advice would be to continue being there for him, talking to him. Unfortunately, I have no control over when he wakes up. He has to do that on his own.”

To put it simply, they were back at square one. A couple of tests, sure, but who’s to say they won’t show what they already know? Jessica can’t say anything to that. She’s so exhausted from being told the same thing over and over – no improvements, just unwavering consistency.

She wants to hear his voice again. To hear him speak, to ramble on about some grizzly homicide he’s working on, to complain about her meddling in his life, to talk about the things that bothered him. Jessica needed to hear her son again. The silence is eating at her every waking hour and she desperately wants this to be over with.

Life was getting better. All those years they’d lost to petty arguments, the cruel things they said that they can’t take back, not loving one another when they needed it the most; they were getting better. They were starting to mend their broken relationship, and they were making so much progress.

There it is again. Progress.

Now it’s ruined, all of their hard work gone up in flames and the ashes have become but a distant memory.

Ainsley keeps her distance from her mother to give her space. She thanks Dr. Ali for her input and closes the door behind her when she leaves. She stands with her hand still on the handle staring at the floor. She grips it a little tighter as she leans into her frustration. They were getting nowhere. Three long, agonizing days without updates, solutions, any clues that would explain why he hasn’t so much as twitched in his sleep.

She eases off the handle and turns to Jessica sighing, knowing that she was feeling the same way too. She wants to say something. The words sit on her tongue but she hesitates. They need to think about – no, they need to acknowledge something crucial and necessary, the very thing that has kept them tossing and turning at night. The painful reality that they continue to deny.

“Mom, I think–” Ainsley pauses, grimacing as she tries to pick her words carefully, “I think we need to start calling some people.”

She regrets it the second it slips out. Her mouth opens and closes as she tries to say something else to take back what she said but it’s no use. Jessica doesn’t budge from her chair and Ainsley slowly starts to panic. Maybe that was a bit too harsh, too insensitive. Perhaps she overstepped and spoke out of turn. Her silence continues, and Ainsley can sense her mother closing herself off again.

She carefully walks up to her, head tilted to the side, testing to waters. Ainsley stretches her arm out like a warning. “Mom, I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean, I just, you know, I think we should start being realistic here and I just meant that maybe–”

“Not right now, Ainsley.”

Jessica’s tone is cold, cutting her off. Her voice is low but it’s loud enough for her grief to suffocate her. Ainsley leans back on her heels, with her arms falling to her side, dejected.

Just last night they were hopeful, as grim as it was. Ainsley was the one who said they shouldn’t give up, that by some twist of fate, Malcolm would wake up from his slumber happy, and ready to live again.

“Today is going to be the day, I can feel it!”

Maybe it wasn’t about being hopeful; maybe they were simply naïve.

She’s not giving up on her brother. He deserves better than that. If the roles were switched, he would grill every nurse in the ICU for answers and find the best doctor in Manhattan to figure out what was wrong with his sister. Malcolm would continue to lose sleep if it meant that she was going to be okay and survive through this.

He remains lifeless while they do nothing.

A twinge of motivation gets her moving towards the door but her hand rests on the handle, staring down at the floor again. Then she turns to face his mother whose back is still turned, facing the still body of her son. Ainsley purses her lips with a frown, determined, body rigid with her free hand balled into a fist. Jessica can’t see her but it doesn’t matter, she doesn’t need to be seen to get her point across, not now.

“I’m sorry, mom, I am. I’m not trying to jump to conclusions here, I just think we should look at our options. But that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on him. You shouldn’t either. Malcolm’s too stubborn for his own good, he’ll be just fine. We just have to wait a little longer.”

Jessica takes her hand and runs it through his hair again, absentmindedly twisting small pieces in her fingers, not really paying any attention to her daughter. Ainsley falters. Her mother’s resignation was always final. Even if she couldn’t blame her for it, her silence feels too familiar, a sense of rejection that she’s used to.

Her emotions can wait. They’re irrelevant like they’ve always been, and a bitter thought crosses her mind as she watches her mother look over Malcolm.

It’s been this way for as long as she can remember. What did she expect?

“I’m going to find someone who can help him. I can’t just sit around and wait for some miracle to happen.” She turns the handle, lingering in the doorway, “I’ll text you if I find anything.”

She stands for a few more seconds, waiting for any kind of response. It doesn’t come. Disappointed, Ainsley drops her head as she pulls the door shut, letting go of the handle when she hears the click.

It’s around two in the afternoon when the clouds start to roll in. The air becomes muggy and humid in the overcast, and Gil presses his foot down on the gas to avoid getting caught in the rain. It’s a wet week in New York which meant more traffic than usual since people tend to forget how to drive when it rains. Thankfully, it’s only a drizzle by the time he parks in the visitor lot.

He locks the door behind him and stuffs his keys into his pocket, looking both ways before crossing and hit with a cool breeze walking through the sliding doors. Gil hates hospitals. He’s all too familiar with them by now, haunted by the endless visits up until about three years ago. Almost four, now.

He messes with his ring on his finger while he sits in the waiting room. He’s gotten a couple of texts from Ainsley about Malcolm’s situation, what the doctors were saying, and whether or not he’s expected to make a full recovery. She’s kept him in the loop for the past three days but that’s about it. Jessica hasn’t said a word to him.

It makes him nervous. It’s never a good sign when Jessica is quiet.

Ten agonizing minutes later, his name is called and a nurse in navy scrubs waits for him. Gil takes a breath, trying to quell his bubbling anxiety. He stuffs his hands in his pockets to fiddle with his keys, smiling as he approaches the short woman.

She grins, her demeanor not quite matching the atmosphere. “Hi, Mr. Arroyo. How are you today?”

He walks past her as she holds the door open for him. Gil turns on his heels to face her, not really focused but flashes a quick smile. “I’ve had better.”

She gives him a sympathetic smile as the door closes behind her. “I can only imagine.”

Gil gives her a curt nod before turning to the empty space in front of them.

“If you would just follow me down the hall,” she says, shifting the clipboard under her arm. Gil follows her in silence as she walks, taking in all of the activity of the hospital, avoiding a trip down memory lane. Dwelling on the past won’t bring him comfort, so he keeps his focus on Malcolm, the one living memory of her he has left.

He blinks and they’re standing outside his door. His throat tightens, hands clenching in his pockets, unprepared for what he was about to see. He’s not sure if it’s the rain that casts the cloud over him but he can feel something weighing down his shoulders and his chest constricts with stifling anxiety. Gil’s expression hardens, sighing to relieve some of the pressure.

The nurse must’ve sensed the tension. She tries, her voice small and comforting, “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

He glances at her then turns back to the door, mouth agape. Gil purses his lips in a line and closes himself off, hating the fact that she could see right through him. He buries it under a cold gaze. “Do you need to take a minute?”

Gil shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. Can I see him?”

“Of course,” she nods, reaching for the handle. Nothing could’ve prepared him for what lies behind that door.

The door opens up and Gil’s world comes crashing down. In the middle of the room is Malcolm, trapped under wires and tubes with bandages wrapped around his skull and bruising underneath his eyes. His body already  looks thinner than what he remembers, even if he’s only been in the hospital for four days. He looks peaceful laying there, and Gil’s just thankful that he’s no longer in pain.

He takes a few cautious steps towards him but he doesn’t quite close the gap. The beeping from the monitor is somehow louder than it seems and the soft whirring from the ventilator drums on in the background, breathing life into Malcolm. A cap is secured over his mouth and the tube stretches down his throat to force air in, a soft hiss at the exhale. Gil winces at the sight of it, thinking about how uncomfortable it would feel if he were awake.

He pulls his hands from his pockets to hold Malcolm’s but they never make it there. Gil stops short of touching him in fear of disturbing his sleep as if he isn’t already unconscious. He resists the urge by keeping his hands at his side and watching the slow rise of his chest under the beige blanket that keeps him warm.

Gil’s so enamored that the sound of the door clicking behind him is startling. He turns back with a sigh, shoulders slumping from the pent up anxiety gripping his nerves. He spots a chair by the bed and walks over it to, gently sitting down despite feeling his bulky coat squeeze him at the creases.

He stares for what feels like hours. Listening to the steady beeping of the monitor to pass the time while he sits alone with the one person who he considers to be his son.

The thought brings up memories of Malcolm when he was just ten years old, fragile and untrusting, forced to grow up faster than any kid should have to. He never had the chance to be normal or had the chance to make real friends, living in fear of others and himself. It wasn’t fair.

Looking down at his calm, pale face, Gil mourns for him.

He takes his hand in his and mourns, grieving at the life he could’ve had, cursing that it had to come to this, left in a room that smelt of antiseptic and rubber. In some selfish way, Gil knows that if Malcolm didn’t make the call on that very night, they would have never met.

Who knows what Martin would’ve done to him?

Would Malcolm be more broken than he already is?

The click of the door drags him from his thoughts again. Over his shoulder stands Jessica, dressed in black and pearls, staring at him with not much to say. Tension seeps through the vents when the door shuts behind her. Feeling unwelcome, Gil lets go of Malcolm’s hand and stands up, nervously fixing his coat.

Jessica just stands there. Gil takes the hint that she’s not in the mood to talk to him.

“What are you doing here?”

Her voice is cold, low, and he hates the way it buries him. He clears his throat and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I wanted to see him. I haven’t been able to step away from the office.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s always a case to be solved. Ones that don’t involve attempted suicide under your watch.”

Gil grimaces, ducking his head as he rubs the back of his neck. She’s upset with him, understandably so. She’s protective of Malcolm, and Gil let his guard down. He can’t run from this forever; he’s responsible for keeping him safe.

“Look, Jess, I–”

“Don’t Jess me. My son nearly died because of you.” She walks closer to him, expression full of anger. “You’re supposed to watch him, Gil. You are supposed to protect him no matter what. I asked you to do one simple thing when he started working for you, and you can’t even do that.”

Her words are like salt to his open wounds, pouring into every cut and scrape she can find because he knows she’s right. She’s right and he hates himself for it.

”Whose gun was it?” It catches him off guard for a moment, leaving him speechless – how much did Dani and JT tell her? “Answer me.”

His heart beats out of his chest when he comes to the realization that there’s no going back after this. A gun and a careless mistake. He takes a beat, and his face hardens with guilt. “It was mine.”

Jessica’s eyes widen in horror. Her grip loosens on her purse, overcome with something akin to hurt and betrayal. He can see her thoughts running a mile a minute, making up assumptions and assuming the worst, so he panics and tries to cover his tracks.

“Jess, it’s not like that, I would never do anything to hurt him! He just – I wasn’t paying attention and he pulled it from my holster and–” He can see the tears form at the corner of her eyes and his heart drops to his stomach. She stares at him with a hand over her mouth in disbelief. He immediately gets closer to her with his hands out but she quickly backs away from him.

“Please believe me. I had no idea how bad it was. I didn’t know he was having thoughts. I didn’t know that he stopped taking his medication weeks ago. I knew he was in a bad place but I never thought–”

“Save it. I don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

Jessica wipes the stubborn tears from her cheeks. As much as he wants to hold her and tell her he didn’t mean it, he can’t, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to. It’s completely inappropriate but not being able to comfort her when she needs it the most is killing him. Now it’s no longer his place.

Gil stays quiet after that. She puts her purse down in the chair and stands over Malcolm, gently caressing his face. He vaguely wonders if he should go. It’s obvious he’s not helping the situation so what’s the point of staying?

It’s settled.

Gil finally surrenders and turns to leave. He stands by the door and looks back at her as she pays him no mind. “I’m really sorry, Jessica.”

His hand lands on the handle but he doesn’t turn it. In the quiet of the room, Jessica sighs and drops her hand, facing Gil. “I am too.”

He frowns at that. “What is there to be sorry for? I’m the one who let it get his far, I’m the one who didn’t step in when I knew something was going on. You didn’t know.”

“That’s the problem, Gil. I’m his mother, I’m supposed to know these things about my kids. I spent so much time pushing his problems to the side because I thought that if we never spoke about it, those problems would magically disappear.”

She feels her eyes getting misty the longer she stands there. “I’ve tried to do better. But I was careless of his feelings for so long and look at where that’s gotten us.” The tears start to fall and Gil instinctively moves away from the door to get to her but leaves enough room to not intrude on her personal space.

“Jessica,” he starts, voice soft and comforting, “This isn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong.”

She practically whines, frowning as she tries to wipe her face. “I should’ve been there for him. I should’ve taken the time to listen him, to hear everything he had to say.”

Gil closes the gap between them, cautious to not push her away but adamant to keep her close. “We can’t dwell on the past. All we can do is be there for him in the future. I’m sure when he wakes up, this will all be over, and we can get him the help he needs.”

He swears he sees a hint of a smile on her face but he doesn’t push his luck. Gil keeps his distance, still unsure of where they stand at this very moment. She fixes her face as best as she can, sniffling in between her quiet cries. She feels so goddamn guilty. She can’t believe that she ended up here – that Malcolm ended up here, strapped to a bed in the ICU after doing the unspeakable.

There was so much that they needed to discuss but Jessica shelves it for now. She’s not even sure if he’ll ever wake up.

“I just need some time.”

It’s not an invitation to stay, Gil recognizes. He knows he can’t stay but she needs her space to grieve and deal with this on her own terms. He nods and takes his hands away from her. “Of course.”

Then the monitor starts blaring.

It startles them both. Their heads whip around to the bed as the wires move on their own, swinging in the air like vines, drawing them to the body under the blankets. A low groan sounds in the room and when Jessica hears it, the sound of her heels clash with the frantic beeping as she runs over to his bedside. She’s gripping the bedrails tight and Gil stands right behind her completely helpless.

“Malcolm? Malcolm, sweetie, it’s me,” she spits out, eyes searching every inch of his face for recognition. He moans in discomfort, trying to physically move away from the pain but he’s trapped to the bed with no choice but to endure it. Jessica slams the nurse call button but she’s impatient and turns her head to Gil, panic in her voice. “Get the nurse! He’s choking!”

His legs feel like lead and he can’t move fast enough.

Gil runs out of the room and frantically shouts for a nurse in the nearest hall. Two abandon their spots and immediately rushes to his aid. He runs through as many details as he can as they rush into his room, taking over the situation. Seconds later, two other nurses flood the room and Gil has to forcibly pull Jessica away from the bed so they could work.

“Are you crazy? I can’t just leave him!”

He guides her out the room with his arm around her waist as she ushers her forward. “Let them do their jobs, they don’t need you standing in the way.” She pushes off of him but she’s still in his face, pleading.

“But I–”

“Stay right here and let them work, Jessica.”

She opens her mouth to argue again but she closes it. Begrudgingly, she leans her back against the walls of the hallway, slumping in defeat. Gil does the same and continues to keep his distance. The shock slowly starts to wear off the longer they wait.

The door clicks and Jessica and Gil immediately lock eyes with one of his nurses. She closes the door behind her with the most apologetic look on her face. She starts taking off her gloves and the small speck of blood isn’t hard to miss.

“Mrs. Whitly?”

Jessica feels sick to her stomach. Her heart founds in her chest, bracing to hear the worst news she’s heard all day. She feels herself start to spiral.

“How is he? Is everything alright? What’s going on?” She’s afraid to hear the answer. It could be so many things and they’re not out of the woods just yet – and the way the nurse looked at her made it feel like maybe Ainsley was right after all. She should’ve made some calls.

“May I speak with you alone?”

Chapter Text

This is it.

This is how it happens.

Her worst fear is about to come true. Jessica can feel her heart skip a beat, pulsate out of rhythm, breaking the cycle for the second time in her entire life. Martin’s arrest, and now this.

Nothing good came from it, last she remembers. It was a reminder of everything she lost. She’s had to grieve the loss of her husband, the loss of their love, the loss of her life and the loss of the woman she was supposed to be.

It’s happening all over again, and the looming dread that follows starts to coil around her neck and suffocate her.

The world comes to a stop. The noise of the hospital dissipates into nothing as she stands motionless, her hand loosely gripping the handle on her purse. Her body won’t move from where she stands, and her heart is caught in her throat, preventing her lungs from pulling in air.

Mouth agape, staring wide-eyed at the woman in blue, frozen in fear of what she might say. Her heels are glued to the floor because she can’t go, she can’t afford to hear it right now, she doesn’t want to hear what some nurse has to say about her son who is in fact alive.

Alive. Living, breathing, and probably wondering where his mother is.

Her heart yearns to hold him like she used to. She can’t now, especially if it’s the corpse of the body that belongs to those soft, beautiful blue eyes.

A hand on the small of her back pulls her into focus. She doesn’t want Gil’s gentle touch but her body needs to be held and cared for in the event of the inevitable.

“Jessica?” comes his soft, soothing voice. Underneath the cheap coat she loves so much stands a man who cherishes her, and as much as she wants to punish him for what he’s done and failed to do, she’s not exactly in the mood to play executioner.

“It’s okay,” he tries, both hands gently rubbing her arms. “I’m sure Malcolm is just fine.” Her eyes stare into his, searching for the confidence in his words. She’s not sure if he truly believes what he’s saying, but Gil has enough strength for the both of them to push through whatever is thrown their way.

From his eyes, she then looks to the nurse, who is probably lining up her automated phrases of how she sympathizes with her or going through the easiest ways to let her down and tell her that her son has died.

She can’t stall this any longer. Time won’t change the outcome.

Reluctantly, Jessica grasps onto any morale that she has left. She gives the nurse a silent, awkward nod and swallows the lump in her throat. The nurse follows, and turns her body towards the open hallway. “Can you walk with me?”

Her choice of words feel like a death sentence. Jessica recalls just about every movie she’s seen with this exact plot point, the ones where there’s no sound on the screen except a melodramatic piano in the background. The family member of that patient breaking down after the doctor presumably tells them their loved one didn’t make it.

She’s seen this before.

As her feet start to move on their own, she can feel the certainty of what the nurse is going to say. They walk a few yards away from the room until they’re in another area of the hospital, standing just outside of one of the mini café’s that’s conveniently empty. The tan walls are boring and plain but she assumes that’s the point – they’re a dull reminder of why you’re there in the first place.

Jessica remains quiet. She continues to walk aimlessly forward until the nurse gently stops her with a hand on her shoulder. She meets Jessica’s nervous gaze with a neutral smile of her own. “Let’s sit down for a minute.”

With a faint nod, Jessica allows herself to be gently pulled into one of the stiff hospital lounge chairs while the nurse sits next to her with only the arm rests separating them. She’s sitting up straight, poised with her purse in her lap as the nurse turns to face her with her hands clasped together.

This little game of suspense she’s playing is starting to irritate her. She wants this nightmare to be over so she can go home and mourn by herself and break every expensive vase in the mansion until she’s too drunk or too tired to care. Just rip the Band-Aid off and she’ll deal with the scabs later.

The nurse lightly places a hand on top of Jessica’s but her cold fingers are unwelcome. She starts off soft and low, trying to create a calm atmosphere like she’s trained to do. It only makes her nerves even worse. “I wanted to bring you to a space where we could talk. There was a lot going on and I wanted to make sure you could hear me.”

“Just get to the point.”

The nurse pauses. Jessica snatches her hand from under hers and stuffs them in her lap behind her purse. She fidgets with her fingers, her pent up anxiety spilling out in short agitated bursts. The woman visibly relaxes beside her despite the action.

“I understand what you’re feeling right now and why. It’s not easy when you witness a loved one, especially your son, fight for their life in a place like this. What you saw was horrifying, and it probably terrified you. That’s why I took you away, just so you can have a moment to yourself,” the nurse smiles, slightly tilting her head. Jessica stares off to the side.

She hears every word, feels every syllable, and it makes her eyes sting as she continues to talk. Jessica purses her lips as if she’s trying not to cry but it’s no use; she misses Malcolm so much.

This is probably the end for him and she’s already accepted that. Her last memory of him is going to be of a struggle, of Malcolm still fighting like he did in that precinct almost a week ago, still suffering.

Even with her head turned, the nurse can see through the cracks on the polished surface she has crafted for decades.

“You don’t always have to be strong, you know. I can see how much you love your son, Mrs. Whitly, and I admire that.” Jessica sniffles. Her eyes gloss over, a few tears sliding down her cheeks but she immediately wipes them away, turning to face the nurse again. She wipes under her nose with the back of her palm, shying away when she catches the nurse watching.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles again, face heating up. “It’s not like me to cry in front of people.”

“It’s okay, no need to hide it or try to be cute. Your pain in real and there’s nothing wrong about expressing that.” She nods as she tries to do her best impression of a brave face.

Vulnerable isn’t for strangers to see; it’s too intimate for her, especially when she’s not sure who she can trust. Even then, the presence of the nurse made her want to collapse in her arms and pour her heart out until she cried hard enough to fall asleep.

“Please,” she begs, teary blue eyes meeting the nurses’, “enough about me. I need to know – I need,” her voice wavers as she tries to stop herself from crying again, “I need to know if my son is going to be okay.”

Despite the early rejection, the nurse lays her hand on Jessica’s again, and Jessica has never been so needy for someone else’s touch until now. Her face is kept neutral. Jessica searches for any sign on an answer, any hint that would clue her in on her son’s state.

Every second feels like an eternity.

The longer she waits, the more she realizes she doesn’t want to hear the answer and she panics, wanting to get out of there before any words leave her mouth. She regrets her impatience, she wants to take it back and forget this ever happened, but she can’t and it’s plunging her back into the sea of her deepest fears.

With a small reassuring shake of her hand, the nurse looks Jessica dead in the eyes.

“Malcolm is going to be just fine.”

A few long, quiet seconds pass before Jessica lets out a soft, “oh.”

The shock grips her and keeps its hold. She’s looks at the nurse with wide eyes, lips slightly parted as she takes in measured, shallow breaths.

Then, ever so slowly, the tears start to form again. Her lips close into a frown. She can’t find the strength to hide it so she falls forward, leaning heavily into the arms of the woman in front of her. She buries her face into her blue scrubs, exhaling as if the weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders, and Jessica can finally breathe.

She can’t stop her quiet sobs that wretch their way out of her throat. For a moment, Jessica forgets who she is.

She forgets about the prowess that came with her family name, or the stain left by Martin’s; she’s not concerned with titles and façade’s. She’s a mother. A mother who just found out that her son is alive – not dying, not dead, but awake and alive.

It brings on another wave of quiet sobs. There’s no need to assume the worst anymore.

Her son is alive.

Alive and waiting for her.

The calming thought ebbs her cries and pulls her back to the surface. She sees the mess she’s left on her blue scrubs her eyes go wide, gasps and covers her mouth. “I am so sorry! Oh my gosh – how rude of me, I–” Jessica instantly tugs at her purse and unzips the top and starts digging to find some tissues.

The nurse looks down at her scrubs and chuckles at Jessica’s flailing. “It’s just some water, it’ll dry. This is nothing compared to some of the stuff I’ve had to wash out, trust me.”

Her cheeks flush when she stops her rummaging, a slight pout on her face. It’s unlike her to let her guard down like this, and to make a mess while doing it is downright shameful.

Her head falls to her chest with her eyes closed as she tries to get her bearings. Jessica takes a deep breath in and lets out a shaky exhale. She glances over to the nurse with a soft, tearful smile.

There’s so much she wants to say, so many things she wishes she had the courage to admit but now isn’t the time to feel bad for herself and marinate on where she failed. Feeling sorry for herself is such a waste of time and right now, she can’t afford to lose more than what she’s lost over the years.

Her son needs his mother.

“Thank you,” she whispers, trying to hold back another wave of tears. “You saved his life. There has to be something I can do to repay you – you’ve been so kind and patient with me. And,” Jessica waves her hands to vaguely portray something, “I’m such a mess right now, I don’t know how you do this every day,” she says, forcing a short laugh.

“I’m just doing my job, Mrs. Whitly.” They share a sincere smile and a warm, fuzzy feeling spreads through Jessica, a kind of calmness she hasn’t felt in days.

“But,” the nurse starts, “if you really want to make it up to me, then promise me you’ll take care of him. Moving forward is not going to be easy, so please just stay with him, be patient, and give him time to heal. Just be there for him and everything will be okay. A boy needs his mother, after all.”

Jessica nods with a faint chuckle as she wipes her eyes with her palms.

Malcolm is going to be just fine.

The hallways are quiet again.

Leaning against the faded tans covering the wall, Gil keeps checking his watch to take note of how long Jessica has been gone. He hasn’t heard anything and the nurses are still working in Malcolm’s room. Worry eats at him as he stands there completely helpless.

On one hand, he can’t go in because they need to tend to Malcolm – whatever is wrong with him – and on the other hand, the nurse took Jessica away and they left together about ten minutes ago.

He isn’t allowed in the room and a nurse dragged Jessica to talk to her in private. That can only mean one thing.

Gil’s heart skips out of rhythm. He chokes on the breath he didn’t catch and turns to his watch again. It’s been eleven minutes now. Eleven long, agonizing minutes of silence and no update on the kid. He suspects the worst – you learn a few things when you’ve been in law enforcement for so long. No news meant something bad, and dragging the family of the victim away to talk to them in private usually meant their loved one was a victim of some unfortunate accident.

At least with Jackie he knew. He could anticipate the missteps and he had the medicine to fix it or the right person to call whenever she was in pain. He stood by her side and cared for her until her last breath and he prayed for a miracle up until her very last day. He couldn’t stand to see her hurting, dying, withering away in her bed like it was her fault.

She was gorgeous on their wedding day, and even then, lying under a sheet of white, trying her best to smile at him, she was still gorgeous.

Now, he’s flying blind on his own, hoping that he can find a smooth landing. Hoping that Malcolm doesn’t end up like Jackie.

Checking the time won’t make his life go any faster.

Gil stuffs his hands in his pockets and huffs out a heavy sigh. Impatience is getting the best of him, he knows this, but it’s not enough to quiet his racing mind. His foot taps anxiously against the tile floor emitting a soft clacking sound among the background noise of the hospital.

Gil decides to move and paces the hallway, eyes tracking the ground as he walks. His chest tightens the more he waits, and even though he put his watch away, he’s counting the seconds in his head as he goes.

Bordering on thirteen minutes now. No sign of Jess, no sign of the nursing staff.

Thankfully, his phone chimes before his mind can plummet to those dark corners and jump to conclusions. He digs his phone out of his back pocket to see who it is. To his dismay, it’s Dani.

Where are you?

He wasn’t supposed to be out of the office this long. It was supposed to be a quick trip to visit Bright, make sure he was okay, get an update for the team and leave, that’s it.

He doesn’t know enough detail right now to give her an update; he’s not even sure if Malcolm is alive. Running on nothing but anxiety and unease, Gil locks his phone and puts it back in his pocket. He was hoping for a distraction, not another reminder of their current situation.

Gil paces some more. The heels of his shoe are probably driving curves into the floor at this point with how heavy he turns on them. There’s a familiar click of the door that makes him look up from the floor but he falters when he sees a nurse walk out of the room across the hall. He resigns himself to the floor again.

At this rate, he’s probably passed the fifteen minute mark.

On that mark, he hears the sound of heels clonking against the hard tile and the sweet voice of Jessica walking beside the nurse that pulled her away. In his daze, his eyes eagerly search for hers until she finds him – until they find each other.

“Jessica...” She approaches him with a neutral look to her but he’s been in the force long enough to recognize when someone’s in distress. He can see how puffy her eyes are despite not showing any tears, her eyeliner is smudged beneath her waterline, and overall, she looks exhausted. She’s uncharacteristically quiet for her nature, and it’s scaring Gil into thinking the unthinkable.

Like a freight train, the guilt hits him full force, and regret starts to make him weak. He should’ve been more careful, he should’ve noticed the signs, he should’ve stepped in when he had the chance but he didn’t and now Malcolm is–

An apology is already forming on the tip of his tongue but he can’t bring himself to speak out of turn. He knew this was going to happen. He’s been dreading this day ever since the arrest, ever since Jackie, ever since Malcolm started seeing his father again. It crushes him where he stands, right across from Jessica, knowing that he just killed her son.

God, why wasn’t he more careful?

“Jessica, I’m so sor–”

“He’s okay, Gil.”

The apology dies on his lips.

He finds that clarity that he’s been so desperate to find in these fifteen minutes he spent alone. Its here, and Jessica’s here, too, witnessing a chapter in their lives come to close.

Gil lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His eyes slide shut as he bends down with his head to the floor as if the wind just got knocked out of him, trying to establish a breathing pattern he can follow. “Oh god,” he mutters to himself.

A hand brushes over his back in calming small circles, coiling his nerves until they loosen their grip on him and dissipate into nothing. Eventually he comes back up for air.

Jessica’s hand falls from his back but she remains by his side. There are so many things they need to talk about if they want to move forward, but for right now, there’s an unspoken agreement between the two to save it for a later time. Malcolm’s health is their priority.

“If you will excuse me,” the nurse standing beside Jessica gives her a soft smile before she goes back into Malcolm’s room, leaving the two of them alone.

The air feels colder around them. There’s a chill that runs through Gil but he doesn’t make it obvious. They’re alone again to speak freely among themselves and yet there’s an underlying tension that prevents Gil from getting anywhere near her. He doesn’t feel like it’s his place to talk, he doesn’t have the right to – not after everything that’s happened.

If things were different, if Malcolm wasn’t saved, if Malcolm never made it off that table, if Malcolm never came into the precinct that day, none of this would be happening, and no one, the team included, would have to deal with the reality they’re grappling with now. If Gil wasn’t so careless, Malcolm wouldn’t be relying on a machine to keep him alive.

“Whatever you have to say or think you have to say can wait. I’m not in the mood to deal with you right now.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Gil nods. That’s fair. She sighs, clearly tired and withdrawn. She takes out her phone from her purse and open it, flipping through her contacts and presses down. “I need to call Ainsley.” Jessica places the phone to her ear and walks away from him into the nearest cafe so she’s out of earshot.

It’s awkward again. Instead of sitting around in his own filth, Gil takes Jessica’s tip and pulls out his own phone. Unlocking it, he finds Dani’s name and pulls up their conversation from earlier and starts to type.

He’s fine. Getting treated now. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back to the office.

Gil locks his phone before he puts it away again. A part of him believes it’s best if he left now to give Jessica her space and remove himself from the picture. He also feels responsible to stay and see him before he has to leave again. He needs to know how bad it is.

The click of the door sounds and two nurses leave Malcolm’s room, one with a clipboard in their hand. Gil doesn’t see the nurse that was with Jessica so he catches the door before it slides shut and cautiously peeks his head in.

It’s risky to do this before Jessica has the chance to see him and he knows he’s being incredibly selfish for intruding their space.

Still, he has to see it for himself.

Gil slips through the crack of the door and stays right where he is. From across the room, he can see the other two nurses tending to Malcolm. They’re so gentle with him as if he were some delicate porcelain doll that would fall apart if they were to drop him. He’s unconscious again and the tube is no longer down his throat, now replaced with a nasal cannula.

Judging by the steady beat of the monitor, Malcolm seems to be doing okay. He’s not in any noticeable distress anymore. Gil can’t really see his face from where he’s standing but he imagines he actually looks peaceful and content, undisturbed from his unruly nightmares. It’s better this way. Malcolm can finally get some sleep.

Bby The nurse who was with Jessica notices him standing in the doorway. She moves away from the bed but stays close, no longer blocking his view of him. She beckons him with a wave of her hand, “It’s okay. You can come see him.”

Untrusting, Gil stays put.

His hands are in tight fists by his side as he tries to decide what he should do. Even though it’s a smart move to leave now, he feels bad for making her wait on an answer and playing coy like he doesn’t want to see him.

He slowly makes his way over to the bed. The sounds of his shoes against the floor are quiet compared to his mind screaming at him to walk away.

It takes forever to get over to Malcolm’s bedside.

Staring down at the body laying before him, Gil looks him up and down as if to check for any other injuries or if he hurt himself again. Thankfully, there are none that can see outside of the blankets laying on top of him. His face is still the same, purple under his eyes to match his bags, but nothing different than what he saw earlier.

Gil knows he doesn’t deserve their forgiveness. He’s not expecting it.

The Whitly’s have been through enough in their lifetime and to add to their staggering pile of misery is cruel and careless. He wasn’t there when Malcolm needed him the most and he’ll be repaying the debt until he’s six feet under.

Until that time comes, he’ll stand here, watching over him with a careful eye, not letting him out of his sight ever again.

Laying there, he’s visibly relaxed.

No one is chasing him, he’s not seeing the girl, and his father is locked away without getting the chance to hurt him.

He doesn’t look like he’s in pain anymore.

That’s all Gil needs to make it through the day.

Malcolm drifts in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day.

At some point, Ainsley ditches the studio after her mother hung up the phone when she was told that he’s awake. She pays the man in the taxi double for making him speed through Manhattan traffic in the middle of the day. Ainsley snatches her purse from the backseat of the cab and practically sprints to get inside the hospital.

Despite the number of people in the waiting room, Ainsley practically begs to see her brother to the woman at the desk. It was the longest eight minutes of her life. Her leg wouldn’t stop shaking in her chair and her phone can only do so much to pass the time.

A nurse comes to get her from the waiting room and escort her to Malcolm’s room. Ainsley almost walks on the nurse’s heels the whole way there but she respectfully keeps her distance, even though she’s just about ready to run down the hall to get there. They round the corner where Malcolm’s been placed for the last week.

Ainsley can see the room number on his door from the end of the hallway. It doesn’t make her speed up – instead, she gradually slows her pace and forgets how to breathe. Malcolm was awake when she got the call. What if he’s awake now? How can she face him after all this time, after what he did?

With four soft knocks on the door, the nurse slowly pushes the door open, and Ainsley quickly shoves her thoughts into the farthest corner of her mind.

Jessica sits by the bed intensely watching over her son. Dr. Ali is there talking to her, presumably about his condition while she quietly listens. To Ainsley’s disappointment, Malcolm isn’t awake. She turns around to the nurse and gives her a curt nod and a ‘thank you’ before the door slides shut on its hinges. It’s loud enough to draw Jessica from the conversation.

She turns at the sound of the click of the door and finds her daughter standing there.

“Ainsley...”

Jessica immediately gets up from her chair and strides towards Ainsley with her arms out, ready to receive her. Ainsley takes one small step forward before her mother pulls her in and wraps her arms around her, holding onto her in a tight embrace.

Ainsley lays her head in the crook of her neck, sinking into the feeling. Her body’s warm, and her skin is softer than she remembers. She can feel a gentle push on the back of her head as Jessica brings her closer and her arm wrapped around her waist squeezes her a little tighter. She twists her hips and sways them from side to side, a trick she used to do when the nanny couldn’t get her to stop crying.

Now, the tears won’t come. Ainsley won’t cry here, not where people can see her. Keeping her emotions in check is part of the job, and she’s learned that everything isn’t about her. Malcolm needs his family more than ever and she’s already committed to being there for him every step of the way. He always looked after her when they were kids; now, she gets to return the favor.

“Are you okay?” Jessica whispers. She nods, head still laying on her shoulder. As much as she doesn’t want this to end, she knows that her mother can’t hug her forever. Ainsley nods again as she tries to remove herself but Jessica keeps her arms around her. She tugs a piece of her brown hair behind her ear and lowers her head to get a good look at her. “Are you sure?”

Ainsley’s smile disappears as quickly as it came. “I’m fine, mom. I’m okay.”

“Okay,” she says, finally letting her go with a sad smile. She can’t help but rub the arm of her blazer and Ainsley doesn’t have the heart to tell her to stop. The moment’s gone and there are more pressing matters to deal with.

“Dr. Ali,” Ainsley starts but leaves it open.

“Welcome back, Ainsley. It’s been quite an eventful day, wouldn’t you say?”

“One would assume,” she moves from her spot by the door to get closer to Malcolm. “How is he?” she asks, looking at her clipboard. Jessica is right behind her, hands resting on the bedrail.

“Well, he’s defying all odds right now. I have his test results but it kind of feels off to report them now that he’s conscious and breathing on his own. We ran him through a CT scan and an MRI just to be on the safe side. Both tests showed promise. No fractures that we should be concerned about, his GSW is healing better with time – though, I’m told the stitches came undone during his fit earlier, but that’s an easy fix. No signs of internal bleeding, cranial hemorrhaging, skull fractures or fluid buildup. His tests came back clean, Mrs. Whitly,” she turns away from Malcolm to face Jessica. “It was just a matter of time.”

Both women stare at each other in complete silence. Then, Jessica sighs with a chuckle and clings to Ainsley almost as if she was going to fall. She holds her mother up in her arms with the biggest grin she’s see in days and breathes a big sigh of relief to match hers.

Dr. Ali gives them a reassuring smile. “He’s going to be just fine.”

Jessica’s watery smile matches Ainsley’s excited grin as they pull away to look at each other, arms still wrapped around the other. They’ve been dying to hear those words from the moment he came out of surgery just days ago. This is the miracle they needed, and Jessica is so overwhelmed that she almost loses it.

“For now, I’ll focus on the numbers. Then, when he’s conscious and able to communicate effectively, we will work on the rest.” Her words have enough optimism to distract them and weight to pull them back to earth from whatever grace they’ve been given from above. The fight isn’t over, not by a long shot. She’s simply being realistic.

They know exactly what she’s referring to. Ainsley solemnly nods. Jessica tries to quietly clear her throat and pulls to get some of the creases out of her dress, staring down at the floor with her eyes adverted. Unfortunately, she has a point. There are so many unresolved questions that need answers and Malcolm seems to be the only one who can clear the air about what happened.

Sensing the change in the room, Dr. Ali walks closer to the pair and softens her approach. “I don’t mean to sound harsh. You should enjoy this. You’ve had a long week and finally you get some good news. Don’t worry about the future; right now, you should focus on the present and think about what Malcolm needs right in this moment. Judging by what I’m seeing,” she looks down at the bed with a smile, “is a good night’s rest.”

Hearing those words conjures a warmth that spreads throughout her chest. Looking down at Malcolm, Jessica can’t remember the last time he looked so peaceful.

The night terrors have robbed him of normalcy and love at the expense of his sanity – Martin has robbed him of so much more. If he could only find peace under heavy sedation in a frigid ICU bed, then so be it.

The back of her hand lightly touches his cheek, smoothing over the unshaven stubble that brushes against her skin. As peaceful as he is, she knows it won’t last.

Eventually, everything will come to an end, and she’s unsure if she’s ready for the changes that’ll come when he wakes up again.

She decides that until that moment of clarity comes for him, when the days of sleeping in chains are over, she’ll make sure to treasure the small victories along the way.

The precinct is unusually quiet.

It’s the end of the work week which typically meant a spike in petty crimes, enough to keep officers busy and the precinct humming with paperwork. People go out on the weekends and the criminals break in, thieves snatching purses from unawares and hoarding candy bars from local convenience stores.

A handful of homicides catch the attention of the 16^th precinct’s lieutenant but upon further investigation, they were cut and dry cases that were completely isolated – there was no link between the victims.

Outside of the expected, the humming of the bullpen seized, becoming less of a steady hum and more of an inconsistent, dull ringing of the ears that slowed the pace of everyone around each other. Boredom is apparent. So is the burning, nagging question of what became of the erratic consultant.

From the commissioner down to the unfortunate janitor that had to mop a couple of pints off the floor, everyone in that building knew of what happened one way or another.

Apparently, it’s gained enough traction to spread to other stations like the plague. The story kept changing through clerks and officers as they played a giant messy game of telephone, personal bias and perception distorted the truth, becoming a false narrative on every floor, desk, and breakroom.

Gil hated gossip. It’s one of the only sources of entertainment at the precinct to keep one going after slanging crooks all day. It’s fun and (supposedly) harmless. But this was Bright, a professional profiler who is an important asset to their team, helping Gil crack down on suspects with such clear precision and accuracy he’s not accustomed to. His psychology is valuable, there’s no question about it; and yet, in the eyes of every single person in that building, Bright is seen as a liability.

He can feel it too.

Gil makes it back to the precinct just as the rain begins to subside. He hurries up the soaked steps to avoid getting his hair wet and swings the wooden doors of the bullpen open. A chilly breeze greets him at the door along with the faded ringing of what seems to be a lull of no new cases.

The monotony isn’t lost on him. Neither are the several pairs of eyes that stare him down as he walks through the precinct.

It’s been four days of constant staring, how people got quiet or completely stopped their conversations whenever he was nearby, and the string of off-handed comments made about Malcolm. Keeping his feelings professional was difficult as the days went on, now that Bright is the main topic of the NYPD’s breakroom discussions.

Gil hated gossip. He especially hates it when people repeatedly slander Malcolm’s name – he’s already dealt with enough domineering to last a lifetime.

He locks his office door behind him and walks over to the windows to shut the blinds. He’s had enough of the prying eyes. The space of his office feels foreign to him now. Just four days ago, his back was pressed against the door with tears in his eyes and blood on his hands.

Now, he’s no longer praying over his desk in hopes that Malcolm would pull through his injuries or extremely anxious to the point that he never finished his food. He’s living in the moment, holding onto the little things with a better sense of clarity than he’s felt in years. His sleepless nights might come to a close without the added weight that laid with him as he tossed and turned, wondering if he was bound to bury his son.

Now, he can breathe.

A quiet knock on the door pulls him from his thoughts. He takes a few seconds to gather himself, putting on a steeled face to mask the tidal wave of emotions rolling through him. “Come in.”

The door creeks on its hinges, and following the sound are Dani’s boots and the scuff of JT’s heels digging into the floor behind her. He knows why they’re here. He loses the front and relaxes his posture into something more comfortable.

Gil doesn’t say anything. He half expects Dani to speak first but neither she nor JT seem like they want any part of this conversation. He sighs through his nose and folds his arms. “Shut the door.”

The door closes as he walks over to lean on his desk. JT takes his post by the door and Dani stands in the middle of them by the sofa, practically squirming where she stands. Her hands are clasped in front of her but she rocks back and forth on her heels with her gaze trained on the floor. JT stays poised while looking elsewhere. No one makes eye contact with the other.

Naturally, Gil assumes the bigger role. “I take it you got my message,” he nods to Dani, eyes resting on his folded arms. “Kid’s alive. He had some trouble breathing but as far as I know, he’s going to be okay.” He looks between the two of them for a reaction. Instead, they’re quiet in thought, both trying to figure out how to respond when the only news they’ve been given about Malcolm’s state is a single text.

“When can we see him?” she asks, finally looking up at Gil. Looking back at her, he can see the determination under her worry and somehow, it calms him. He glances over to JT and his eyes are there too, staring back at his.

“Edrisa’s been clamoring me for information on Bright. It’d be nice to get her to stop, you know.” Gil almost cracks a smile at that, knowing that there’s no real bite to his words, only his show of genuine concern for Malcolm in the best way he knew how.

Gil returns to his folded arms. “I don’t know. Jessica’s kept a tight lid on him, and I can’t say I blame her. I can try to ask Ainsley but don’t get your hopes up. They’re dealing with a lot right now.”

Dani ducks her head with a quick nod, trailing her eyes back on the floor. As much as she wanted to see him, she understood the need for personal space. JT shifts his feet by the door to draw attention without having to say something. “What about his dad? Does he know what happened?”

Gil’s eyes widen. He’s never thought about that.

How would Martin Whitly react if knew? If he knew what he did to his son? Jessica isn’t one to keep secrets but she isn’t one to jump to conclusions when it came to Martin. He doesn’t believe that she would tell him, though it’s likely that she might have if there were enough wounds to drive her to him – if there was a really good reason why she felt the need to explain his attempt in all of its glory and ill repute.

Then again, Gil knows how protective she can be when it comes to talking about his health. Why would she hand over Malcolm’s fragile state to the absolute last person he wants to see? To be seen by him in the way he is now?

Jessica would let him have more dignity than that if he were going to die. Gil can’t imagine that she would give Martin Whitly any sort of closure, the chance to properly grieve over his damaged mold of clay he never finished – his own flesh and blood.

“I don’t know,” he quietly admits.

JT waits for an addition. Seconds pass without another word, and JT realizes there’s nothing more to it. Gil doesn’t know any more than they do.

“So,” JT starts, shuffling his feet out of discomfort, “what are we supposed to do now?” He stops moving to avoid looking antsy, keeping his arms folded. “Are we just going to sit around and wait for the ball to drop? What happens when it’s not just a false alarm?”

Gil rubs his face with a groan, mulling over his words, frustrated from being put in the position he’s in. A position where he isn’t the one calling the shots.

Gil drags his hands down his face until they fall heavy in his lap. He’s at a loss, and frankly, he’s too exhausted to find an excuse that would satisfy all three of them. “I don’t know, JT. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

“Maybe it’s better this way.”

Ever so slightly, the room grows cold, and all of the energy drain from them with those few bitter words. Her voice is quiet, but loud enough to stop their train of thought to focus on her. She knows she’s poked the hornet’s nest; she doesn’t speak after that, silently anticipating the backlash that’s bound to come.

“Hold up,” JT pauses, sharply turning to face her, frowning. “Just a second ago, you were the main one asking if we could see Bright. Now you’re saying its better if we don’t?”

Dani wants to remain as civil and patient as possible, but the fact that they’re not acknowledging the elephant in the room and dancing around the reality of the situation irritates her to no end. “Think about it, JT – what reason do we have to see him?” He opens his mouth to retort but Dani immediately cuts him off. “None. Bright is in that hospital because we failed to do our jobs. His mom’s already pissed at Gil, showing up is only going to make it worse.”

Her words effectively shut down their attempts to speak, cutting deep where it still hurts to even talk about it. It leaves them empty and useless, standing there with nothing to say, failing to protect Malcolm because getting close meant doing more harm than good.

The solemn looks on their faces make Dani wilt with shame, suddenly uncomfortable in the mess she made. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” she mutters.

Guilt is there, enveloping Gil for a second time that day. As much as it pains him to relive it, he had as much responsibility as they did, if not more. What right did he have showing up unannounced and uninvited? Regret quickly sobers him. Dani has a point.

“Yeah,” Gil sighs, resigned, “maybe it’s better this way.”

It’s completely black.

No sight, no sound. Just a long stretch of black with no direction.

A faint ringing in the background draws him in. He chases the sound till it brings him to the present, searching for more than just a noise.

His eyes open ever so slowly.

His vision in fuzzy, his immediate sight cascaded in blotches of color with nothing solid in his sightline. His eyes aren’t adjusting fast enough, making him frown as he’s flooded with too much sensory input to process. The light around him is dim but it’s sharp enough to make him close his eyes again. He can feel the beginnings of a powerful headache coming on, strong enough to keep him where he is.

Where is he?

His body feels heavy. Heavy under the tan cotton blanket, thin bed sheets, and the soft fabric clinging to his sweaty back. His fingers twitch, moving them with little strength to brush them against the wool, his fingertips tracing patterns until they collide with a wall. Malcolm tries again. He cautiously opens his eyes to see what’s stopping him.

Tubes catch his attention; an IV drip tapped down to his left hand and another tube in his peripherals, trailing down his face behind him.

Everything hurts.

It’s a dull throbbing that’s too close to unbearable. His joints are incredibly stiff as if they were glued shut, and every little movement, every little turn flares up a nagging soreness that forces him to abandon the idea of sitting up on his own.

He can’t get his hand off the bed to look at it further.

A bed.

He’s lying in a bed that’s not his own under sheets that aren’t his, clogged up to a loud machine instead of his leather restraints. His vision gradually comes into focus but he shuts his eyes again when the ringing in his ears agitates his growing headache that drains him of whatever energy he had.

He slowly moves his head to try and turn it to the side but the ache in his neck catches him. He jerks back and hisses from the pain from not moving it in so long then drops his head into the supple pillow with a huff.

Wait.

“No...” he croaks.

He swallows as much spit as he can but grimaces at the soreness in the back of his throat. It immediately clicks.

He’s in a hospital.

If he’s in a hospital, then that means he survived.

He’s alive.

A pit in his stomach opens, filling with a crushing sense of dread, driving the air from his lungs until he freezes, not breathing. The monitor slows a bit as the feelings come crashing in from the last moments of when he was awake. The feeling of the cold precinct floor pulls him from the warm blanket he’s under and brings him back to where it all happened, to where to should have ended.

He slams his fist against the bed.

Hot tears of frustration well up in the corners of his eyes and fall on their own as he curses himself for being weak in every sense of the word, too pathetic to finish what he started. He shouldn’t be here – he shouldn’t have survived what he did.

Malcolm made sure of it.

He made certain that he would never wake up again. He knew that only in death could he finally be free from the life his father has created for him.

He’s so caught up in his own misery that he almost misses the soft sniffles of the woman sitting next to his bed.

It halts his train of thought.

He attempts to look out the corner of his eye but he can’t get a good look at her, only the cuff piece of the gray coat she’s wearing. He pulls in a shaky breath loud enough for her to know that he’s awake and listening. The last thing he wants right now is to see anyone but judging by her crying, it’s not like he has a choice to ignore her.

Moving his head takes too much effort. Malcolm grunts when he tries to turn to the left but he gets nowhere. He tries to move his arms so he could sit up but they’re too sore to budge. He groans in frustration when he eventually gives up, more tears leaking out by gravity, feeling completely and utterly helpless just lying there with a migraine that won’t quit.

“Malcolm?”

Her voice grates against his ears. He’s too dizzy and disoriented to figure out who it is so he doesn’t try. The shuffling of her clothes suggests that she’s moving closer to his bedside. “Malcolm?”

He can see her hand rest on the bed rail, not quite in his line of sight. “It’s me, I’m here,” she sniffles, and he doesn’t have to move to see the smile on her face. “I’m here, now.”

He shuts his eyes. He’s annoyed more than ever, unable to be alone and wake up in a cold hospital bed in peace. Everything’s still a bit fuzzy so he doesn’t even try to make an effort to see her. His eyes stay closed as he concentrates on relaxing his mind.

There’s a burning in the back of his head and a weird tug of skin below his gown that feels abnormal to the rest of his body and he can’t seem to make it go away. He can’t seem to make her go away.

She’s insistent, that’s for sure.

Through his closed eyes, he can see the shadow of her silhouette hanging over him now. “Malcolm? It’s okay, everything’s okay now,” a tear pelts his cheek and falls down his neck, mixing with his. “I’m here.”

He really doesn’t have a choice now.

He cracks his eyes open at a snail’s pace, mindful of the blinding light in the room. He can see the grey coat around her shoulders hiding a dark blouse underneath. Light catches the thin gold necklace, obscured by wavy blonde hair that’s soft enough to run your fingers through. Her skin is smooth from what he could see, and her lips were a natural hue of red.

The picture comes into focus, and Malcolm’s eyes grow wide.

Her smile could light up a room if she was elsewhere, but right now, it dims the light in his. Tears start to flow freely when Malcolm seems to recognize her and she reaches to comb a hand through his hair. “Hi,” she chuckles through a watery smile. “I’m so happy that I finally get to see you.”

Malcolm can’t turn away.

Her hand lands on his head and he flinches at her touch but his stiff muscles keep him rigid in place, immediately crying out in pain. There’s no strength left to push himself away from her when she follows his every move, trying to get a close as she could even if he was uncomfortable. “No,” he moans, fighting off another wave of tears.

She listens. She backs away but stays put by the railing, clearly not taking the hint to leave him alone. “What’s wrong? Do I need to call someone?” He manages a small shake of his head, squeezing his eyes shut at her constant intrusion. His face scrunches up in pain the longer she stands there and he simply can’t get comfortable.

“I can call a nurse? Or do you want me to stay?” She searches his face for an answer but it’s contorted in agony, feeling a flare up in the base of his skull and a burn in his abdomen. “Malcolm? Malcolm, please, you have to answer me. I want to help you but,” her eyes dart to the nurse call button, voice laced with growing anxiety, “I can’t do that if you won’t let me.”

The monitor picks up speed as he starts squirming under the covers but getting nowhere. He can feel his temperature rising and his head spinning, stomach rolling into knots but not enough to make him sick. He lifts up his hand with the intent of sitting up. He only manages to pull himself a couple of inches off of his bed before he collapses on it, chest heaving with exertion and muscles spasming in protest.

He can’t escape this.

The dam breaks, and the tears roll down his cheeks as he starts to cry. It throws her off for a second but she’s there in an instant, taking his hand at his side and holding it in hers, rubbing his palms with her thumb to soothe him. “Shh, it’s okay,” she coos, leaning in and pressing a small kiss to his knuckles, “you’re okay, Malcolm. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Go away,” he cries, not loud enough to startle her. It’s quiet enough to hear how miserable he is and her brows knit, suddenly confused. His throat scratches when he tries to get louder, “Go away!”

The clicking sound of the door is drowned out by the quiet sobs of Malcolm. She whips her head around and enters Jessica, running in her heels at the sounds of distress coming from the hospital bed. “Malcolm!”

His head is turned slightly away from the railing, eyes bleary, softly whimpering in between long drawls of crying. “Sweetie, what happened? What’s wrong? What hurts?” Her eyes fervently scan his body for any obvious injuries but she comes up short, nothing more obvious than her son being in pain.

“Malcolm,” she calls to him softly, gently cupping his cheek with her hand. “Tell me what hurts, sweetheart.”

He hiccups, trying to stop the flow to get an answer out. His face twists in pain again, and he forces himself to swallow the lump in his throat so he could talk. “Eve,” he whines. The mere mention of her name brings even more tears to his eyes.

Jessica pauses. “Eve was here?”

He just nods. Jessica stares at him with a puzzled look. Then she turns her head and faces the door for a moment, turning back when she’s made up her mind.

“Did she leave?” He shakes his head. Jessica does a double take and looks at the door again. She goes through the possibilities in her head, trying to make sense of what he was telling her.

“Oh, honey,” she wilts, voice softer than before. She cups his face and wipes his tears with her thumbs, watching him with a sad smile. Malcolm relaxes into her warm touch. His lip quivers as he stares into her eyes, silently pleading to her to make it all go away. She knows exactly what he needs. Though, she’s pretty sure it’ll do more harm than good.

“Malcolm?”

He blinks up at her, listening.

“Eve was never here.”

Chapter Text

Two weeks.

It’s been two weeks since the incident at the precinct, and eight days since he was cleared of his cranial exams.

Eight days since he woke up from an apparent coma, drifting in unconsciousness as his world fell apart without any knowledge of the damage that had taken place.

Eight days since he saw Eve again.

As the days go by and the around-the-clock checks come in, Eve has remained tied to his room as a heavy presence that won’t let him go. Like a ghost attached to an object moving through space. He hasn’t left his bed in days; if it’s not to use the restroom or to scrub down, then he’s tied down and helpless, waiting for the next staff rotation to circle in.

He dreads sleep. The constant loop of horrific night terrors feel like a nightmare of a rollercoaster he can’t get off of, and the threat of sedation lingers in the minds of his caretakers who are probably tired of him already.

He can’t get rid of her.

Not her, not her sister, and not his father.

Some nights are better than others. Though it seems like time blurs together more often than not, it’s getting progressively harder to read the clock on the wall in front of him.

The nursing staff is ordered to tie him down to the bed whenever he’s awake. They are never too sure if or when he is going to doze off into another night terror, so as a precaution, they keep him bound in place so he can’t hurt himself should something happen.

Jessica’s eternally grateful for it.

Ainsley tries to spend time with her family as much as she can. The news is ever-changing, and she is the best in her field as far as her producers are concerned, plus, anything with the Whitly name attached to it is bound to garner a few extra views with consistent ratings. She never discloses in detail why she requests a change in her time slot unless it catches the attention of the higher ups, but even then, calling it a family emergency is enough to grant her some leeway.

With everyone’s accommodations to make sure he has around-the-clock care, Jessica and Ainsley taking separate shifts when they can, it’s not enough to release him from the tight grip of his subconscious state of mind.

He anticipates the moment they show up. Always lurking in the corners of the room with a dark look in their eyes, or they might sit next to him on his bed just so they can whisper sweet nothings while he tries his hardest to fall asleep. Cold, clammy hands leave their residue, making him want to tear his skin off completely.

It leaves him on edge, anxious.

Enough that one day, right before he is cleared to be released from the hospital unit, his muscles go stiff, and his mind and body shut down completely.

“Akinetic catatonia would be my guess,” Dr. Ali starts. She stands right outside of Malcolm’s room with a mortified Jessica and a worried Ainsley staring at her, clueless, yet incredibly frustrated. In the span of several days, his recovery has taken a turn for the worse, much further than a strip of stitches across his stomach and staples in the back of his head.

Muscle fatigue has taken over from his increased immobility. What they initially believed to be a moment of dissociation slowly became a period of complete withdrawal from both the staff and his family. His unresponsiveness mirrored that of a younger, quieter Malcolm, except no exercise could actually engage him, and eventually, they had no choice but to render him catatonic.

He lies in bed helpless and completely unrecognizable.

“I want answers, not guesses,” Jessica grumbles, then immediately softens with regret. “I just –” she takes a breath, “– he was making progress. Good progress. I thought you said everything was okay and he could be released to go home.”

Dr. Ali sends her a sympathetic smile and quietly opens the door to his room to let them in. She sets her clipboard aside and leans against the doorframe and allows her hands to move while she speaks. “I said he would be cleared to start receiving psychiatric care. However, things can change when we least expect them to. There’s a reason why I kept him an extra night just for observational purposes. His mental state has not improved over the course of his stay, and he refuses to comply with our staff in his daily routines. There has to be some level of cooperation for me to sign off on any further care.”

Ainsley folds her arms over her chest, the wheels turning in her head, trying to churn out a solution. “The plan was to move him to another section of the hospital, right?”

“Correct. I want to move him to a psychiatric care unit.”

“So, why can’t we do that now?

Dr. Ali lends another regretful smile. “Catatonia is not so black and white. He’s not eating the meals that are brought to him, he’s not speaking, he’s not responding to the staff in any capacity – this difficulty of moving him from laying down to sitting is not normal. Mrs. Whitly, your son experienced an acute psychotic episode, and for him to develop this level of immobility in a matter of days is a major concern.”

“So what can you do?” Jessica exasperates.

“I want to begin treatment as soon as possible. All I’m asking is for your patience. For now, we just have to persist and continue with his routine and adjust accordingly. I’ll start him on benzodiazepines and will monitor his response to the dosage. For some, higher dosages are acceptable while others may not require more than the average dose. I imagine with the current prescriptions he takes, it might be a difficult adjustment.”

Dr. Ali breaks off on a tangent about scheduling and visitation hours, and a laundry list of probabilities neither Jessica nor Ainsley want to hear. She bids them goodbye and exits the room, clipboard in hand, and tries her best to remain optimistic for the both of them.

Jessica and Ainsley are left to their own devices. The steady beat of the monitor is much louder than before, drawing their attention to the rigid body lying underneath a pile of blankets. The last thing Malcolm ever wants is to be pitied. They spare a glance at each other, a silent conversation not worth the effort having out loud despite being the only ones in the room to hear it.

Ainsley’s mouth opens to say something, but Jessica already has her hand on the handle and her foot out the door, leaving Ainsley behind to face her brother’s diagnosis alone.

It’s raining again.

Malcolm knows because Ainsley told him. Not because of her soaked blazer and her water-logged flats she complains about.

He also knows that the team will stop by his room after their shifts. He knows because Ainsley told him, not because of the subtle hint of hesitation in her voice.

“I don’t want to leave you alone.” Her words seem to fall on deaf ears. It draws no reaction from her brother, but she continues anyway. “I know they’re your friends, and Gil might be here too, but mom and I won’t be. I don’t know, it just feels weird leaving you by yourself.”

He knows that this is a bad idea. He knows because Ainsley talks in circles around the notion, not because he understands this will be the first time the team has seen him since the incident.

A sharp chuckle breaks through her, the humor lacking in it. “Is this how you felt when we were kids? Always watching over me when I couldn’t be independent no matter how hard I tried?”

The room is so quiet, she can hear the air circling from the vents above her head. Blows high enough against the invisible wall she’s talking to. Silence stirs a nagging uncomfortableness in her gut, eerily reminiscent of those nights she spent alone in the manor. Talking when her family was there, yet no one had the patience to listen to her.

Her brother didn’t ask to be strapped to his bed, unable to move, or to have his freedom taken away. Trapped in his own body with no way out, stuck on a loop of constant suffering.

He just wanted it all to stop.

Ainsley wonders if he’s bound to try again, should he have the chance.

“Malcolm?”

His eyes are so far away. Gone, distracted, burning a hole into the tile floor at the corner of his bed. He can’t look at her – at least, according to the internet, he physically can’t – and she feels horrible sitting in the chair close to him. Not when he is unable to get away from her. She’s so used to his haste to leave, or his ability to change the subject on a dime when the conversation borders on painful. Now, he simply exists.

It garners no reaction from him.

Ainsley lets out a frustrated sigh and drops her head in her hands, and buries her fingers in her hair. Fingernails dig into her scalp as the frustration surges, nearly swallows her whole until it disappears in a flash. Traces of her anger drag her shoulders down as she sighs, and buries her face in her hands again while the slow beep of the monitor slows her thoughts.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She ignores it for now. “Hey,” she calls, sitting up in the stiff chair, running her hands over her legs. “We’re not going anywhere, okay? We’re going to fight this, and we are going to get you out of here.”

She reaches over to grab his pliant hand that rests on his leg. She hides her grimace at the cold touch of his skin under her palm. “I know you’re scared. But you won’t have to go through this alone,” she says, and firmly grips his hand in hers. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, what you see, or if you can even hear me. But I’m here for you, Malcolm. Mom and I are going to get you through this, and everything’s going to be okay, you hear me?”

Her eyes desperately search for any sign of movement, or a sound to let her know that he understands what she’s saying so she’s not talking to thin air, that he is listening to every single thing that comes out of her mouth. She’s desperate for a sign to let her know that her brother is still in there somewhere.

Unfortunately, Malcolm’s frame never sways, and he remains perfectly still in his bed.

Hopelessness is not in her vocabulary, but she can’t help but feel stagnant where she stands, as if she is praying to a god that won’t hear her pleas. She can’t get through to him, and the distance between them widens even further.

She reaches over his body to grab the tan blanket on his lap and drapes it over his chest, and gently cups the top of the hem across his shoulders. Once he’s somewhat tucked in, straps still wrapped around his wrists and torso from this morning, she stands up straight and watches him lie completely still, smothered by cotton.

Her throat tightens, and her heart continues to ache. No one would have anticipated this; not her, their mother, his therapist, or even Gil. Everyone knows just how open Malcolm is when it comes to discussing his father’s torment and what came of it. Even then, there are moments, days, weeks when he wouldn’t so much as mention the night of arrest in effort to distance himself as far away from that memory as possible. Rarely did it ever offer any significant reprieve.

She’s always looked up to her brother, admired his strength and resiliency ever since she could talk. But now, she doesn’t know what to think, or what to make of this. She wonders what’s going to happen next; both her and her mother have been cautioned about patience, told over and over recovery isn’t a sprint, but a journey with many bumps and roadblocks ahead of them.

Her mind drifts to the conversation from this morning and examines every phrase, every symptom, and every detail that could possibly lead to an answer, or give her family the tiniest speck of hope, but she comes up short with nothing but a visitors badge to show for it.

What can they do, if there is anything to do at all?

Is it permanent?

Will he be able to speak again?

Would he ever walk on his own?

What if recovery is just another falsity in which her brother will be among the few that won’t make it out?

The thought of permanency sparks a negative pang in her gut, and she grimaces as she tries to physically shove it away as soon as it rises. She inwardly curses at herself, nails digging into her palms, quietly frustrated for allowing her emotions space to grow weeds where she walks. She takes a deep breath through her nose and out her lips, and settles her eyes on her brother, his own eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

Feeling suffocated by the sheer weight of her heartbreak, Ainsley slings her purse over her shoulder, places a hand on the edge of the bed to bend down, and press her lips to Malcolm’s damp temple.

She stands back up, turns her back to him, and heads for the door.

The stagnant weather is fitting.

Dark, cloudy, and muggy. Gloom settles over the morning sky in Manhattan, no light in sight excerpt for the illuminated storefronts and red tail lights from the early traffic jam.

The sounds of inpatient drivers bounce off the walls of the hospital, muted, loud outside of the sliding doors but ever makes it past the armor of their caregivers.

The beep of the monitor is present when he wakes up, along with the soothing voice of Eve that grates against his ears. His eyes peel open without much fight, his body singing to the tune of the emptiness in his mind, stuck in place, and no motivation to move it. Taffy for muscles, Malcolm remains in bed with his back flat against the bed and his wrists stuck in his restraints as he lies motionless under the sheets, victim to the world around him.

“Good morning,” she says sweetly, like nails to a chalkboard. “Did you sleep well last night?”

He can’t face her, even if he wanted to. So, she does the work for him.

Eve gets up from her chair seated in the corner of the room to his right, heels clicking behind every step. Her warm smile feels colder with every passing second.

“Pathetic.”

She practically giggles, clearly amused at the sight laid out before her. The lack of reaction from Malcolm is expected, and she marvels at just how pliant and quiet he’s become, so enamored by him that she doesn’t hear the knock on the door and the click of the door handle.

“Good morning, Mr. Bright!” A male nurse dressed in teal scrubs with a wide smile and a pep in his step strides in and shuts the door behind him. “How are we feeling today?” he asks, energy bursting at the seams as he picks up the clipboard left at the foot of the bed.

No nurse can deter her from his daily routine checks. Like a saint, Eve takes her seat back in the corner and crosses her hands over her raised knee.

“I heard we slept through the night. You’re responding well to the dosage, so I’ll make a note of that.” After he skims the clipboard in total silence, he places it back down in the slot at the end of the bed and clasps his hands together. “So! Let’s get you started, hm?” The nurse washes his hands as he speaks. “I’ll start with your vitals, jot them down for your doctor, and then we’ll see about getting some food in you. Oh, and your favorite PT instructor will be here any minute now.”

Eve scoffs at that.

He grabs a chair from under the sink and wheels over to Malcolm’s bedside, and grabs his chart again with a pen. “Luckily for you, the bed moves with a push of a button.” Though he’s lying flat against the bed, he is brought up to a sitting position under the watchful eye of the nurse. “Doesn’t hurt too much, does it?”

Malcolm remains quiet. After a few seconds of stilled silence, the nurse makes a note on one of the back pages of the clipboard, then continues to speak. He makes small conversation in hopes that a phrase, a word, or a story will conjure the smallest response while they wait for his PT instructor to walk in, but so far, the nurse comes up empty handed.

It’s to be expected, so he continues to hold out for a miracle.

A handful of minutes later, a knock comes to the door, and it opens to the sound of heels that is probably familiar to all of the nursing staff.

“It’s a beautiful day outside, my love. Perhaps a nice stroll around the garden outside?”

Except this one nurse in particular. He frowns at her misplaced grand entrance into the hospital room and stops his scribbles altogether. Maybe this woman walked into the wrong room on the wrong floor. “I’m sorry – can I help you?”

She dismisses him with her hand on her way over to his bed. “I’m his mother,” she simply states, and immediately inspects the body of her son as if something has changed overnight. To her dismay, other than Malcolm in an upright position, nothing seems different or out of place, crushing whatever expectations she had when she woke up this morning. Jessica keeps her gaze tight. “How is he?”

“He’s in stable condition,” the nurse hesitates, but continues on despite her odd demeanor. “First round of benzodiazepines went out yesterday evening, and he slept through the night. Not that there is any correlation between the two.”

Jessica hums as she traces invisible patterns over his dry scalp and through the base of his skull. She’s gotten used to dancing over the healing, jagged scar in the center, a patch not worth a cosmetic consultation but painfully obvious to those who stare long enough. Jessica tightens up her expression. He is still her son, imperfections and all. “What’s the plan for today?”

“You will have to ask his doctor about that.” The nurse tucks the pen in between the metal folds at the top of the clipboard. “But, any minute now, his PT instructor will be here and his doctor will monitor his progress. When they are finished with their assessment, they will discuss what kind of plan is appropriate going forward and–”

“Can you give us the room, please?” Her eyes meet his. A silent plea in her blue irises, one to put a stop to the noise so she can focus on what’s important for right now. Rest hasn’t come easy in weeks; a moment of silence might stop another headache from forming.

Despite the interruption, the nurse closes his mouth and slowly nods. “Sure thing.”

“Thank you.”

He pivots on his heels without further comment. Her muscles relax at the soft click of the door behind him, and it briefly takes her by surprise how much tension she’s been holding. She slides off her purse into one of the chairs by the bed and sits on the edge next to Malcolm. Eve takes offense to the bag propped next to her.

“Don’t waste your time. He’s stiff as a board, there’s no way you can get through to him.”

Hands in her lap, Jessica watches him in silence. He blinks ever so slowly like the dryness doesn’t bother him, pauses, and repeats the process. Staring at broken clocks isn’t on her schedule today.

Eve fixes her attention on Malcolm, grinning when a short wave of electricity floats through his subconscious.

“She pities you, Malcolm. She hasn’t done a single thing to help you, and yet she keeps coming back.”

Her throat tightens and her eyes water. She wipes them away with the bridge of her knuckle before they have a chance to fall and ruin the mascara she spent too long putting on this morning. A bone-deep weariness washes over her body and she loses that perfect posture and tips her head back to the sky, not sure if she is looking toward a higher power or attempting to stop any further tears from forming.

“Can’t you see it?” Eve sighs against the chair and crosses her arms against her chest. “It’s sad. She really believes she could’ve saved you from this. From yourself.”

Jessica looks to her son for answers. The back of her hand brushes against his clammy skin like he’s precious ivory, cautious not to break it but strong enough to stop the pieces from falling apart. A worn down safety net with holes and tears too thin to hold up the weight of her children.

She scans his figure one last time for any visible signs of life, but there are none, and the few strings of hope she has left start to diminish into thin air.

Her head falls to his shoulder in defeat.

Another imperfection at the hands of his father.

Chapter Text

Dani can’t stand the rain. The drizzle of the evening shower is not strong enough to use her wipers, but creates an annoying mirage of traffic lights and attracts wet fallen autumn leaves on her windshield. Any other day, this would’ve been okay.

Not when she is at the wheel with JT by her side, covered in rain and riddled with tension underneath their coats. The entire car ride to the hospital is spent in silence. Just the sound of windshield wipers scraping away stray rain drops, the screech of the rubber a dull reminder of the atmosphere around them.

They don’t want to talk about it, but Dani knows they can’t go in there with nothing to show for it.

She puts her signal on and grips the steering wheel as she waits. “We’re almost there.”

JT hums in response, content with leaving it at that.

Her grip on the wheel loosens and she leans back in her seat, huffing out a sigh. “Can we be real for like, two seconds? And talk this out?”

He shifts in his seat, eyes still on the road ahead. “What is there to talk about?”

“Everything. We haven’t talked about it, and I know it’s been bugging you ever since we left the hospital.” Dani keeps her eyes on the road, steadying her palms on the wheel in fear of glancing over to find the same dark look in JT’s eyes.

The guilt has never weighed any heavier than it does now.

Night after night, Dani couldn’t get the image of Malcolm on the floor of their precinct, screaming and crying, staring at something that wasn’t there like it was going to kill him. It was jarring; left a hole in her heart with nothing but residual anxiety to fill it. Sleep is no longer a delicacy. She considers herself lucky if she can bypass the screams and trade them for a few hours of rest.

The remnants of the dry, cracked skin under her palms from scrubbing her hands clean still scars, even after she washes them. Hot, scaling water won’t erase the traces of blood left on her hands. She can’t go to bed without picking the dried blood under her fingernails that isn’t there.

Working on cases without their token profiler has set the team off balance. A rhythm disturbed they’ve grown accustomed to over the course of a year – destroyed and replaced with an emptiness so thick and yet so hollow.

JT hasn’t mentioned what happened to Malcolm to his wife. As far as Tally is concerned, Malcolm is running around Manhattan tearing up the streets, searching for the next killer while trampling over witnesses and potential suspects. She doesn’t know that her husband is one of the reasons why Malcolm has air in his lungs right now, or that he and his team failed to do their jobs and deescalate the situation in time.

He never told her about the blood seeping through old precinct wash cloths, he never showed her the shirt stained with Malcolm, nor the feel of him bleeding over his fingers until the fabric couldn’t contain Malcolm’s life. A quick, cold shower in the locker room and a change of clothes left in his duffle bag to destroy the evidence.

To destroy every trace of Malcolm’s blood on his hands.

It weighs him down like a rusty anchor with the pressure of the lie he has to keep up. He learned a long time ago not to keep secrets from her, but he can’t trust what may come out of his mouth if he spills.

Their destination nears as they ride in silence. They’ve taken this road to the hospital many times before, only now does it feel like a sentencing rather than a quick stop to check on their friend. “I just think we should say what’s on our minds. You know, the thing that’s bothering us.” A pinch of sarcasm to keep him close, but just enough push for a response. “Come on, JT. We give Malcolm shit for not telling us what he’s thinking all the time.”

“Are we really having this conversation right now?” There’s a bite to his voice, one he immediately regrets, but doubles down on it anyways.

Unfazed, Dani continues to drive with her foot hovering over the brake as she pulls into the visitors’ parking lot and shuts the car off. “Yes, we are.”

The quiet pelts of raindrops against the car fills the space like white noise.

“Why can’t you just be honest with me? Gil isn’t here, if that’s what you’re worried about.” JT remains silent, staring out towards the windshield to avoid her eyes. He knows if he turns his head and faces her, he won’t be able to maintain the wall he’s kept up. “Talk to me. Badge aside.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he grumbles. The air is tight and suffocating. He weighs the consequences of reaching for the handle on the car door.

Frustrated, she unclips her seatbelt and shuts the car off. Her annoyance is enough to keep her warm. “We’re both at fault here. All three of us. We didn’t handle the situation like we’ve been trained to, and we nearly lost him because of it. That’s it, that’s the bottom line.” She can’t help but feel like she’s talking in circles. “Just talk to me.”

The hint of desperation doesn’t do unnoticed.

It only irritates him further.

“We’ve taken lives with our own hands before. Bright could’ve been on that list.” With that, JT unbuckles himself and hooks his fingers around the door handle and pushes with his knuckles. He steps out into the drizzle with his hands in his pockets. The door slams behind him, leaving Dani to sit at the wheel with nothing but the empty space around her. She hops out right behind him as her frustration flares again behind the audacity of him to bring that up.

“Where did that come from? He’s not even–!”

“He could’ve been!” His sharp turn and thunderous outburst startles Dani to a complete stop. Fist balled up at his sides, the cold air emphasizes how hard he breathes through his nose, and his face scrunched up in frustration, guilt not too far behind. His chest heaves underneath his coat like he’s been holding onto that for a while, as if the truth made it harder for him to breathe at all. “He could’ve been, and you know it.”

She’s had enough of the pity parties between both Gil and JT. She forgoes the cruel response sitting on the tip of her tongue and breezes right past him toward the entrance, hands stuffed in her pockets to fight off the cold. Yelling in the bitter cold gets them nowhere.

JT walks silently behind her.

They’ve never gotten accustomed to the smell of antiseptic. It’s as subtle as it is poignant, hanging in the air while nurses dart in and out behind the double doors through the crowded waiting room. JT breaks off and takes a seat furthest away from the entrance with his eyes on the door. Dani shakes off her damp coat as she walks over to the front desk with her ID in her hand, her badge and gun tucked nicely on her hips.

Once she’s told to wait by the lady at the front desk, Dani gives her thanks and heads over to the corner JT is tucked in and takes the chair to his right. Stiff chairs and low whispers in the waiting room drives a wedge between them.

Their own walls prevent them from seeing eye to eye. Personal fears and vulnerabilities rarely make an appearance in conversation because their own unique experiences won’t allow it. Times like these are where nightmares come true, and not everyone is keen on sharing what terrors lurk in the shadows and hide under neutral gazes and a badge.

A woman emerges from the corner, clipboard in hand. Both of their heads snap up in her direction, a silent prayer on their lips that it’s not a call for them.

“For Malcolm Bright?”

The door to his room stands like a tower, a giant wall they aren’t ready to climb over just yet. Dani bitterly thinks they might never be. She’s thankful that the nurse led them here without comment; both her and JT are treading turbulent waters with every step they take, becoming closer to the fate they’ve avoided all this time.

“Right this way.” The nurse knocks before her hand falls to the handle and unceremoniously pushes the door open. “Mr. Bright? I have some visitors for you.”

JT lets Dani walk in front of him so he can catch the door, and the nurse strides toward the limp figure sitting up in the bed draped in sheets and a hospital gown. After a quick check of his vitals, the nurse rounds the bed to stand at the foot. “How are we feeling today?”

The world comes to a screeching halt, and the air is sucked right out of their lungs.

Dani’s fingers go numb at her side, invisible thorns like prickly needles dance under her skin.

JT can’t look away despite his instincts screaming at him to head for the door.

The gown he wears is nearly two sizes too big as it hugs his thin frame, noticeably smaller than they last remember him to be. Hair unkempt and thrown to the side without a proper wash. His hospital wristband dangles like they didn’t tighten it enough so it can’t fall off. A faded beard has taken the place of his stubble, and the bags under his eyes have never been heavier. Deep dark circles to accommodate how sick and pale he looks under the warm lights strung above him.

They breathe to the steady beep of the monitor, cemented by the door in complete shock.

Not quite skin and bones, but the way the bone under his wrist juts out against his skin drains the color from their faces, today’s lunch on the brink of coming back up.

The nurse doesn’t seem bothered by his lack of response. “Well, according to my sheet here, you’re holding up better than you did yesterday. I heard you got through your session today without any complications, and the doctor said you did amazing. We should celebrate! What do you think?”

Malcolm blinks, slow and monotonous. Eyes stuck on the wall past her shoulder.

“Dinner should be here in an hour.” Even with the lack of response, the nurse remains annoyingly enthusiastic as if the silence isn’t the loudest thing in the room. With a small grin on her face, she leans over the railing and into his space, and brings her hand up right next to her mouth. “A little birdie told me that lemon jello is your favorite. I can put in a good word if you’d like – how does that sound?”

It’s just painful to watch.

A life reduced to nothing but a monitor and IV strips, the shadow of their profiler is nowhere to be found. Only his skeleton remains.

Dani can feel the buzzing under her skin and the need to remove herself from this room. She stubbornly plants her feet in the ground because she has to, because she owes Malcolm this much after everything they’ve put him through. Yet, she can’t shake the burden of the responsibility that weighs her down by her shoulders.

Judging by the stoic body next to her, neither can JT.

It’s all happening too soon, too fast for them to catch up. Maybe they jumped the gun too early. Maybe this is a mistake – they shouldn’t be here. They have no right to be here.

They caused this.

They are responsible for this.

If we didn’t–

If we just–

Why didn’t we–

The questions swirl around in their minds, becoming harsher and bitter until they can’t breathe comfortably or stand up straight.

“Dani,” JT breathes out quietly in the shared space between them. It sounds like a warning.

“I can’t,” she cuts off, shaking her head. “I can’t do this.”

She’s out of the room before JT gets a chance to catch her. In seconds, she’s out of the room, blindly stalking down a hall without thinking, the heels of her boots digging into the floor and her curls bouncing on her shoulders.

Anywhere but here.

At some point, Dani reaches a dead end. She abruptly stops her track in front of a cold window and leans her back against it, the bite of the cold a shock to her system versus the nagging heat right beneath her skin. Box breathing comes to mind. Malcolm swears by it when he can, a quiet reprieve from the thoughts racing across his mind when they make themselves known in the most annoying ways possible.

She deems the timing of her anxiety inappropriate. Anxiety enhanced by an emotion she knows all too well, yet deafened by the cold resignation she refuses to endure.

Malcolm was dying, and she froze. She froze instead of helping him.

In those crucial seconds she wasted standing at the door, Malcolm was dying.

Ounces gone by the second, Gil’s stained sweater and JT’s creased brow lined with sweat and fear, she froze, and he lost time. Valuable seconds that could’ve saved his life.

The essence of forgiveness flashes across her mind, then vanishes in an instant. Her eyes squeeze shut and her head hits the back of the window. He’s not even capable of forgiveness right now, and she’s not sure if she’s earned the right to be forgiven.

“What did I do?” she utters to no one, her chest tightening and her throat swelling. Dani’s hand splays across her burning chest as the panic in her bones overwhelms her, and a tremor akin to Malcolm’s shakes to the beat of her frantic heartbeat. She’s useless even now. She gasps into her hand and chokes on her spit, and nearly loses herself in her panic. “Fuck, what did I do?”

Tonight is not the night to swallow hard pills, but she might not be able to if she gets the chance to breathe again.

Gil has stopped counting the days since the incident. Instead, he counts them in minutes, hours, every second Malcolm is not with them breaking down his profile at the white board. Ever since then, the team has neglected to use the room and opted out for Gil’s office if he wasn’t busy answering calls, or all of his attention occupied with another important case. If all else fails, they discuss it over manila folders and compact cubicles.

He has stopped counting the days since the incident, and relies on the sparse information given to him by Ainsley. From what she’s sent him in the last twenty four hours, any dash of hope for a speedy recovery no longer remains, and the daunting possibility of permanent, lasting damage is now the topic of conversation. Doesn’t mean it will happen, doesn’t mean he can’t walk out of the hospital on his own next week, but it’s unlikely, and they have no choice but to consider the hard choices.

Drowning in nothing but black coffee and the agonizing thought of losing the other piece of his heart, getting back into Jessica’s good graces is the furthest thing from his mind.

Having to submit the incident to the Commissioner was painful on its own merit.

It required witness accounts from both Dani and JT and a written report detailing what went down at the one-six under Gil’s watch. Writing that it was his own gun that went off was embarrassing enough; to submit the report just to have the Commissioner call him in to speak with him privately and rip him a new one was simply humiliating. He’s lucky only a suspension was on the table.

Gil knows that he’s great at what he does as Lieutenant and how he runs his precinct. In all of his years on the force, in the streets and hassling his officers to stand in line, he never predicted this.

Malcolm’s blood on his hands is a memory he keeps buried for close calls and rough nights. Not attempted suicide. That is something he can’t seem to shake.

Suffice to say he’s seen better days.

Slack and lethargic, Gil walks into his office with a piping hot cup of joe in hopes that it might give him an extra boost to sift through the ever-growing stack of case files on his desk. With his team working on their own difficult assignments and the fresh wound of his boss’ words under his skin, Gil plops down in his chair and sets his cup aside and gets to work.

Nearly half of the stack disappears by sundown. Shades of orange, yellow, and blue color the sky by the time he drops the last file in his hand on his desk next to the coffee that’s long gone.

He leans back in his chair, exhausted but alert, trying not to think about the one thing that has been on his mind all day.

A knock on his door sounds. “Come in,” he calls.

The door swings open, and to his surprise, it’s Edrisa. She fidgets with her hands at her side and her gaze to the floor, unsure of how to approach him.

“Is this about the case?” he asks, knowing damn well it isn’t. He might as well prompt her with a better question.

She shakes her head and keeps her gaze far away, staring off in the space of the office to keep the nerves underneath her skin at bay. Edrisa knows she’s never been the best at hiding her emotions, not by a long shot. Her mind has been active for weeks now, churning out worse-case scenarios so gruesome that have left her distracted on the job, occupied with the thought of what might happen to her life if her favorite profiler was no longer in it.

It didn’t take long for Edrisa to find out what happened to Malcolm. Word travels fast around the precinct, so when she caught wind of the commotion by one of her coworkers, she abandoned her station and ran to the scene, completely disregarding the crowd of officers gathered by the conference room.

Gil guesses she didn’t hear the gun go off when it did.

Luckily for her – or, so he thinks – she caught the tail end of it, and was left to survey the bloody mess sprawled out on the tile floor by her feet. She remained out of sight from the crowd gathered around the room, on her tiptoes for a better view through the sea of navy, and to her horror, she witnessed the sticky pile of Malcolm’s blood alongside the distraught looks on the faces of Gil’s detectives. The pieces came together like a jagged jigsaw puzzle she never wanted any part of, leaving her to walk back to her station with a heaviness she wasn’t accustomed to, and an unbridled fear kept hidden beneath a smile and witty off-hand comments.

Ever since then, Edrisa has kept to herself in her office. Not once did she ever talk or mention Malcolm, let alone ask if he was okay or still alive. She never talked about him, but Gil reluctantly filled her in whenever they could spare a few minutes for a private conversation.

Now, she stands at the front of his door, clutching the sides of her lab coat between her fingers with bottled up words left unsaid. Gil sighs and sits up in his chair. “Close the door, Edrisa.”

The door quietly shuts behind her and she takes the liberty of locking it too.

Gil leans forward and rests his elbows on his desk and rests his chin on his clasped hands, worry evident on his face. “What’s up?”

Anxiety steals her breath away before she can even speak. “I just–” she catches herself, then sighs, and takes a short moment to think about what she wants to say. The moment passes in silence, then she looks directly at Gil with a hardened resolve. “I want to talk about Bright.”

Gil blinks, takes a beat, then his shoulders slack with a shrug. Perhaps not everything is better left unsaid. “Okay. We can talk about Bright.”

She sighs as if that took more courage than she’s capable of. Edrisa promptly plops down on the sofa in front of the blinds and crosses her hands in her lap and keeps her gaze to the floor. “Where is he?”

“He’s still recovering in the hospital. I’m not sure when he’ll come back to the precinct.” If he ever makes it out, he absently thinks.

She deflates at the response. Bottom lip between her teeth, Edrisa fidgets with her hands some more, hesitant. Even if she wanted to, after witnessing the horror of that fateful day, disturbed by the amount of blood coating the tiles, she couldn’t bring herself to voice the fears in her mind. A part of her wants to keep this thinly veiled separation of professionalism, but Gil knows better than anyone just how dire the situation is.

She remembers the team soaked in his blood too, all gathered around the table until they went their separate ways. The kind of crime scene that leaves investigators ill and put off by its gruesomeness. The streaks left behind from his body being dragged off the ground were more nauseating than any autopsy reports she’s had to mark up.

Those who have been touched by him were left scarred in a million different ways. Ways no one wants to admit to themselves out loud.

She has to know.

Swallowing her fear, Edrisa slowly raises her head and looks at Gil. “Is he going to be okay?”

The age-old question. One that he’s tired of hearing, and one that he’s tired of answering.

Supposedly, the truth will set you free. He’s wallowed in enough self-pity to last a lifetime over the course of two weeks, the least he can do is confront his guilt head-on.

Gil heaves a breath so heavy, it does nothing to release the tight bands that grip his chest. He often wonders how Malcolm felt in those two minutes right before he had stopped breathing. “I don’t know.” He wears a tight expression, one too complicated to sort through. His hands break apart under his chin with a slight shrug, defeat sewn into his body language. “I don’t know.”

If Malcolm were here, he would see right through Gil; right through the poise he struggles to maintain, the dark circles under his eyes to match his lack of appetite and concentration. But he’s not here, so it doesn’t matter how horrible he appears to those under him.

“Oh,” she falters. “Okay.”

Fearing this is the end of the conversation, Edrisa pries some more. There are too many unanswered questions floating around in her head for her to leave it at that.

“How is he?” Gil sends her a slight frown. “Well, the last time he was hurt this bad, I pulled his medical records from the hospital – I know, very bad idea, won’t happen again – but your team doesn’t talk about him anymore...and I just wanted to know. I wanted to see what was going on, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” She shakes her head, and purses her lips. “I just couldn’t, not after–” she vaguely gestures in the air, “–everything.”

Gil takes a second to think of a response. He could sympathize with her, ease some of the pain she’s buried for who knows how long and shoulder the misplaced burden of being the beacon of light for his team. His mouth opens to say something, but Edrisa anticipates what he’s about to say, and cuts him off before he gets a chance to dig a hole too deep and uncomfortable to come out of.

“Bright’s strong,” she interrupts, more confident than she was just minutes ago. “He came out on top after the Junkyard Killer and he’s good at his job, so I know he can beat this too.”

Gil hums, brows raised in agreement. “He’s one hell of a fighter, that’s for sure.” He shoots Edrisa a half-cocked smile, one not too confident in his own words as if he’s trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t exactly believe in. Then again, he’s learned time and time again that in the field, there are some things you can’t control no matter how quick you respond or how much you pray for things to be easy.

For now, this is enough.

“Is that all?”

Edrisa eagerly nods then adjusts her glasses. “Yes, sir.”

It might not be the answer she is looking for, but her chest feels a whole lot lighter and a fraction of her resilient optimism beams brighter than it has in days. She will take any shred of hope in a heartbeat; now she can focus on the dead bodies before her, free of the image of Bright’s body taking up space in her morgue.

Edrisa promptly exits the room without looking back.

The walk through the automatic doors is starting to feel oddly familiar. Gil doesn’t want to think of it as such. Shuffling through the breeze that splashes his face followed by his body adjusting from the humidity from outside, he makes his way to the front desk then over to an empty chair. He opens his phone to a few unread messages, flipping through the small amount of apps to keep himself occupied while he waits to be called.

Nothing works.

It’s been nearly two weeks of radio silence, leaving him to believe everything is okay and that he is not needed to meddle in their familial affairs. As close as he may be to Malcolm, he knows he screwed up, and has accepted the consequences that came from it. In the back of his mind, no updates on Malcolm feels inherently cruel and pettier than anything; then again, he knows there’s no reason to argue with Jessica over the health of her son when he was the one who put his life at risk.

He considers himself to be lucky Jessica even reached out in the first place.

A chill runs up his spine at the thought. Several sleepless nights later, the warm tingle of Malcolm’s blood on his skin and the soaked sweater he threw away still haunts his waking thoughts. His kid’s absence is a constant reminder of that.

“For Malcolm Bright?”

His meaningless clicking through his phone eventually comes to an end when he’s called to the double doors. He wishes he had more time to keep scrolling.

The walls of beige are just as daunting as they were the first time. The nurse allows him through, and he keeps his anxiety under a tight smile and fruitless pleasantries. The walk to his room feels longer than it should, every second reminding him of just how serious this really is – how much work there is to be done, therapy, medications, and every test under the sun to scan for any surprises they might find on their way out.

No one likes to face the mess they’ve made; Gil feels he is no exception.

They turn another corner and not too far away stands a rather calm Jessica, dressed in black as always, too deep in her phone to notice the world around her. Clutch hanging off her forearm, Gil takes a mental image of what could be if they manage to make it out of this okay.

He approaches her with caution and keeps his cool, quietly thanking the nurse as waits for her to retreat back down the hall. Gil leans on the wall next to the door. “You said you wanted to see me?”

“I did,” she murmurs, still typing away on her phone. “God, why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?” Her phone falls to her side in exasperation. “I asked Ainsley to do one thing and that is keep her brother’s name out of that studio. Claims she’s looking for help but all those vultures want is a story.”

“You really think they’d go through with that?”

“For his safety, Gil.” Her deadpan expression stirs further confusion. Jessica groans when she picks up on the fact that he’s not following, stuffing her phone on her clutch with a frustrated sigh. “He changed it for a reason. The least I can do is try to respect the fact that he threw the family name in the garbage for some stupid alias.”

Gil silently nods, offering nothing else to say.

Some of her frustration slowly ebbs away along with the tension in her shoulders. “He can’t know about this,” Jessica breathes. Her voice is low in that tone Gil is accustomed to, the hint of fear of what could become of Malcolm if Martin were to find out. It’s an unspeakable agreement between those around him that keeping him from his father in whatever capacity is for the best, even if he’s kicking and screaming.

Gil bites back his tongue on a grimace. It’s true and no one wants to say it, but the ugly truth of the matter is that Malcolm is much safer strapped to a bed in a hospital than roaming free in his own loft. “Not like he can just walk out of Claremont and see him.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Defensive, Jessica starts to walk away from him until she stops on the wall across from his room, unconsciously mirroring Gil. “It was hard enough to get him to stop going, and now that he hasn’t been showing up, Martin is starting to notice.”

His gaze darken, a protectiveness hidden beneath his skin. “How? Something going on?”

“He keeps calling the manor. I only answered him once but never again. He’s caused enough damage as it is.”

If there’s one thing they can agree on, it’s that. Somehow, some way, everything that happens to Malcolm always leads back to Martin in an exhausting cycle that no one, not even Malcolm can break. To this day, Gil feels partially responsible for reopening old wounds to solve a murder he probably could’ve cracked on his own, but Malcolm went straight to the source of his being and hasn’t been able to find peace since.

They’ll just have to deal with Martin another day.

“What are we going to do?” Jessica crosses her arms, eyeing a nurse that walks by instead of facing Gil. “I’ve never seen him like this, Gil, or heard of this–” Jessica vaguely waves her hands around in the air. “–thing. Catatonia, I think that’s what she called it? He is acquiring illness after illness and I thought...” She takes a moment to breathe. A somberness sits on her shoulders and drags her down, the familiarity of the weight makes her want to reach out for comfort again. “I thought we were done with this.”

“There isn’t much to do, Jess. I don’t like that we have to sit on our hands either, but what can we possibly do?”

“They have him on so many medications I can’t keep count. They said it’s working, but he hasn’t said a word in days. What if this is the arrest all over again?”

“Then we just have to wait for him to open up.” Gil turns toward her with a warm smile meant to be comforting, but to Jessica it feels solemn and resigned. Still, she takes the hand he offers her and closes the gap between them, shelving whatever resentment she hangs over him. The weight on his chest lifts and allows him to breathe again. “We’ve done this before.”

“We have, haven’t we?”

The question feels slightly rhetorical with no expectation for a response, so Gil keeps it simple with a hum and a nod.

He realizes they don’t have enough time to talk about their fears. To reminisce on the life before this and what’s come if or when this entire situation works itself out. Dwelling on what they can and can’t change only ruins the mood and Malcolm is a priority that needs their undivided attention, not decades worth of regrets.

“Is it alright if I see him?” Gil asks, voice not as strong as he wants it to be.

Jessica takes a second too long to think about it. Gil understands, rationalizes it, even. It’s a miracle they’re standing in the same spot sharing the same air, let alone having a conversation regarding Malcolm’s health. She ponders the idea some more. Teeth chew the inside of his cheek; pushing his luck might work in the field but not when it comes to her.

“Fine,” she mumbles, caving in like a house of cards. She lets go of his hand with an exasperated sigh and takes one long look at the door behind his back. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Jessica steps out in front of him and knocks on the door three times before twisting the handle and pushing forward. “Malcolm?” she starts, peeking her head through the slit in the door. “There’s someone here who wants to see you.”

She leaves the door open for Gil to slip through and he carefully closes the door behind him, quietly taking in the sight before him. His unruly hair and thicker stubble doesn’t compare to the awkward position he’s sitting in; his back may be straight but his right hand is balled into a fist and his left arm is bent horizontal to his body, fingers sprawled out in a half-fist.

Gil can only imagine the kind of torment that keeps him from speaking.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says. The ease into a one-sided conversation should come natural to him since he’s had plenty of time to grieve over Jackie and find peace in the silence, but it’s not. Not with Malcolm. “You look...good.” A fist strikes his side almost discreetly, so he clears his throat and tries again. “It’s nice to see you, kid. I missed you, know? Everyone does. Even Edrisa came by to ask about you.”

Jessica sends him a sympathetic smile, a small consolation for trying while she is painfully aware of how hard it is. As much as she wants to hover and protect Malcolm from everything that enters the room, deep down she knows it’s a cruel order to keep him from Gil. So, she steps back and allows him the space to say what he wants to say.

Walking across the way, Gil sits on the edge of the bed right by Malcolm’s feet, overly cautious of hurting him. He takes one look at the frail frame before he averts his gaze to the tan blanket swallowing his legs.

They always seem to find themselves here, right back at the start.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, then hesitates. If Jackie were here, she’d know exactly what to say and how to say it. A million things destroy his confidence altogether, but it’s a hurdle he needs to get over, and anything is worth the pain if it means he can hear Malcolm’s voice again. “We could go for lunch. Get you outside so you can sit in the sun, eat in the garden, and just talk for a while like we used to. Can’t take you around on a stakeout like we used to, but I’m sure hearing about our latest case might be good, you know? Something to take your mind off of this place. What do you say?”

Suddenly Malcolm’s eyes land on Gil’s, and for a brief moment in time, the world comes to a complete stop.

His eyes break from Malcolm toward Jessica, wondering if she’s seeing this too. When he sees her eyebrows raise to the ceiling, there’s no doubt this is happening right now, so he looks back at the pair of blue eyes staring back at him.

“Hey, kid,” he breathes out.

Malcolm blinks, blank expression unchanging. Gil tracks his face for recognition, any sign that there is hope beyond the horizon for him and his family, that he can sleep at night knowing Malcolm is not just alive, but aware and conscious of his surroundings. The ability to communicate – to talk to him. To let him know how sorry he is, to shed his own tears for the life he almost cut short, to beg him for forgiveness because he knows his one mistake – his one failure would have broken his promise to both Jackie and Jessica, and destroyed his one good reason to keep on living.

Gil holds his breath for something, anything.

Then Malcolm blinks again, and instantly disrupts life itself.

“Hi.”