1 - 20 of 154 Works by Twice_before_Friday
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The funny thing is, he's pretty sure he shouldn't feel as pleasant as he does, but it's hard to care when his blood is champagne and his head is full of helium and the air is whispering secrets against his skin and he just wants to take his shoes off and let his feet melt into the ground so he can feel the bass again.
"I haven't been to a club in years. Are they all like this?"
°°°
Or…a slight rewrite of The Trip
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Negotiating, however, is slightly more difficult when they don't know who the man is or how he's connected to the two bodies six floors down. All they know as they step out onto the roof is that he's clearly desperate.
And he has a gun.
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It's not like he's unaccustomed to being alone. He spent the latter half of his childhood and most of his teenage years in solitude. Hell, even through Harvard and his tenure with the FBI, Malcolm often found himself isolated from his peers. It's only been since he joined Gil's team that he's started to become reacquainted with companionship, maybe even with friendship.
Which means that one Christmas alone isn't the end of the world.
And Malcolm is quite certain that, if he tells himself that enough, he might actually believe it.
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"What the hell happened, Bright?"
The apartment is dark but JT reaches out to flip on the lights as they pass through the living room and again once they move into the kitchen, illuminating the cozy space with a warm glow that reminds Malcolm just how cold he is.
"Caught a lead," Malcolm mumbles, but it's cut off by a groan as JT lowers him down into one of the wooden chairs that surround the small table tucked beneath the kitchen's single window.
"And you went alone?" It's obviously a rhetorical question because JT holds up a hand, forestalling any answer Malcolm might give. "Of course you went alone."
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"They also have the tendency to be egotistical risk-takers, both in their personal lives and on the job." There's maybe a little more enthusiasm in the words than Malcolm intends but it's been a quiet spring and he hasn't been asked to consult on a case in over a month. Waylaying Gil in the middle of the afternoon as he left a meeting with the brass was probably showing more of his hand than he'd like, but he's going to lose his mind if he doesn't get back to work soon.
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In an ironic twist, it's not the pain that hurts the most.
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The thing is, he can't even tell them he's fine. That incessant pounding in his head is almost unbearable now and as he reaches up to squeeze his temples, hoping to relieve the pain, he finds that the tremor which occasionally plagues his hand seems to have spread and is now jolting through his entire arm.
He's not okay.
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It's getting harder to make his mouth work. Or maybe the problem is his brain. He's really not sure about that either.
"I think you've had enough to drink tonight, don't you?"
The answer is yes, but Malcolm is suddenly having trouble responding. Or keeping his eyes open. Or even holding himself up.
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Plumes of dust cascade from the wooden beams overhead as a tactical team storms the house, and the part of Malcolm's brain that isn't bracing for imminent agony idly wonders if his team is up there, too, breaching the old cabin along with the SWAT team, or if they're following procedure and waiting outside for the all clear.
God, he hopes they're outside.
He doesn't want them to see this.
Doesn't want them to watch him die.
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"It's a set up," Malcolm breathes out as the pieces finally fall into place. The voice in his head, always there, always waiting, whispers idly, ’Too late, my boy’, even as Malcolm opens his mouth and screams, "Run!"
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He hates the yellow walls that were probably meant to be cheery when they were last painted in 1993.
He hates the stupid curtains on the stupid ceiling tracks that are supposed to provide a degree of privacy in the shared room, where four patients are overseen by a nurse that's always there, solely focused on the patients in the ward who need the most monitoring. The most care.
And he fucking hates, more than anything, that Gil is one of those patients.
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They always underestimate the human.
Every. Damn. Time.
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Stiles is forced to watch as the man steps forward and kicks at dad's stomach and ribs and chest over and over, until there's a sickening snap and dad curls up on his side, hacking up blood all over the floor as he tries to protect his core, eyes squeezed shut against the pain.
"Fuck! Stop!" Stiles screams so loud the words crack and break but the arm around his throat just squeezes tighter. Tight enough to cut off his air and his screams all at once and leave him light-headed as the blood flow to his brain slows to practically nothing.
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"I need your help, my boy."
"With what?" Exasperation, fear, shock, relief, they're all rocketing through Malcolm's system as he sits there, staring at the man he spent the last two years believing he'd killed.
(For the bad things happen square: bounty on their head)
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With the one year anniversary of his father's death rapidly approaching, Malcolm thinks their newest case might be exactly what he needs to keep his mind occupied.
But when things turn very personal, very quickly, Malcolm must rely on the family he's chosen to see things through before it's too late.
(For the bad things happen square: Scarpia Ultimatum)
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JT thinks he probably should have seen it coming. Their cases always seem to go just a little bit sideways when Bright is involved.
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"Oh, Malcolm, you know they don't need your consent for a 72 hour hold," Martin tsks from his left. The twinkle in his eye makes Malcolm's stomach churn. "You've injured yourself, attacked a police detective, and are quite clearly hallucinating. You're the poster child for an involuntary commitment."
(For the bingo square: Forced mental hold in a hospital)
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Memories of his childhood flood his mind, that fateful night he left his father's study only to be waylaid by a strange noise down the hall. The trunk in the middle of the room had drawn his attention completely, had seared itself into his memory so wholly that it haunted his dreams for decades.
But now, instead of some unknown girl trapped inside, he's somehow become the boy in the box.
(For the bad things happen square: Locked in a closet and/or car trunk)
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Everything goes white for just a second, his whole world sort of drifting into an indistinct brilliance, and by the time he comes to, the bear is back on all fours, circling around to his front. Malcolm instinctively curls inwards, trying to protect his torso, but the second he does, Martin's voice is shouting in his head.
Don't play dead, boy! You know this!
(For the bingo square: Mauled by a bear)
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It starts off like every other murder investigation.
A body is reported, Major Crimes and CSU techs are sent out to contain and process the scene, unis begin to canvas the area in hopes of finding a witness.
But the second the victim is identified, everything goes pear-shaped.
Fast.
(For the bad things happen square: Betrayed by a loved one)
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