Chapter Text
After the fight of epic proportions with his mother, Malcolm determined that if she wouldn't tell him the truth, and Gil wouldn't let him see the tapes from that night, then there was only one thing left to do. He was going to see Martin again.
He got on the first cab he could catch, settled down in the upholstered seat, and rattled off the address to the driver. He gazed out the window and tried to relax.
Yeah, that wasn't happening.
Malcolm felt like he was drowning.
No-- more like he was being smothered with a chloroform soaked cloth, just like when he was a child. He could practically feel the large, strong hand holding it over his small face,telling him everything would be alright. It left him trying and failing to catch his breath, to push past the all-consuming darkness and struggling to break free of the imaginary hands holding him still.He could still hear the soft voices hushing him,telling him it was all going to be okay. That it was only a dream. He felt the same urgency as then to tell someone about the girl in the box, to help her. But it was too late. He was too late.
Be careful Malcolm....How long did it take you to make that call?
Malcolm shuddered at the memory. He huffed out a breath, trying to shake it off but to no avail.
How many other people died?
And why can't you remember?
Perhaps it's better that way.
The cab ride was all too quick, and before he knew it he was walking into the building that contained the source of his nightmares. He checked in at the front desk, and walked with determination towards his father's cell.
“What are you doing here?” the confused guard asked, standing up from his post.
Malcolm didn't bother to glance over at the man. “Just give me five minutes,” he replied, leaving no room for argument. The guard looked at him suspiciously, but gave up and stood by, letting Malcolm do his thing.
Malcolm slammed his palm against the protective glass, gathering Martins attention from where he was currently reading at his desk.
Martin threw his hands up, looking bewildered.
“What is the point of a visitation list if we're not gonna respect it?” He got up from where he was sitting and sauntered over.“You're mother's gonna kill me.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his prison uniform.
Malcolm glared at him. “Why did you agree to help her?”
Martin shrugged and stopped in front of the other side of the door. “Well, first rule of co-parenting is listening to your partner's needs.”
Malcolm's hand shook violently, catching the attention of his father. He clenched his hand into a tight fist, aggravating the injury he had obtained earlier that day. Pain shot through his hand and radiated up his arm. He didn't care- he just needed his father to tell him if his mother knew.
If the woman who raised him, who he loved, who he had spent hours as a child and some as an adult crying on her shoulder, begging her to make the nightmares go away, might have been involved in putting them there in the first place.
“Oh dear. Oh, you feel rejected. Oh, I, I should have known,” Martin admonished himself as he peered through the glass at his visibly disturbed son. Martin appeared like any concerned parent, eyebrows drawn together and worry evident on his face. Like he cared.
However, Malcolm knew better. He thought he even heard some slight sarcasm in the statement.
He was angry that his father changed the subject. But he was even angrier at the idea that he would feel rejected by a damned serial killer, that he might miss his murderous, insane father. That was insane, he thought.
He shook his head. “You're a profound narcissist. You have no idea how I feel.”
Martin tilted his head. “I think, Malcolm, I may understand you a bit more than you give me credit for.” He shrugged, smirking slightly and examining his son's face. “I mean, you do keep coming back.”
Malcolm grimaced as he felt a bit nauseous at that statement, but quickly tried to move past it.
He swallowed down a bit of bile and got back to the original reason he was here.
“Did she know about your murders?” he asked, staring intensely at Martin, as if he could pry the answer right out of his father's grey-blue eyes, which he unfortunately shared genes with. He often told himself he actually got his eye color from his mother's baby blues, but now, he wishes he would have just been born with brown eyes.
Malcolm awaited anxiously for the answer as Martin stared at him unblinking for what seemed like an eternity, before turning his ear towards the window that divided them.
“Come again?” He asked in a raised voice, mocking, pretending not to hear what Malcolm had very clearly said. Malcolm's blood boiled even more, and he had to take a quick, calming breath before responding once more, this time in a loud voice matching his father's, barely holding it steady as he spoke.
“Did my mother know you were a serial killer before your arrest?” he asked again.
From the look on Martin's face, he had heard him this time. He snapped his head back from the glass. “Ooh,” he breathed out, like he had just seen someone make a dangerous blunder on tv. “Now that's a big accusation...And it presents a bit of a conundrum. If I say yes,” he said, pausing slightly to study Malcolm's reaction, “you wont believe me.” He tilted his head. “If I say no, you'll be relieved. Still, a part of you,will remember that I've been accused of being a pathological liar. You tell me, which answer do you wanna hear?”
All the while Martin was speaking, every ounce of anger that was brewing inside of Malcolm suddenly drained out of him, and all that was left was disappointment, exhaustion, and hurt. He was tired. He just wanted the truth. Was that so much to ask?
“The truth,” he replied, disbelieving just how twisted up his father's mind was, and too tired to keep up his angry front.
“Oh the truth, well, that takes time,” Martin explained.
Of course. Malcolm was not surprised his father wouldn't tell him, but he had hoped.
“And it can't be shouted,” Martin continued, emphasizing by tapping on the window, “through protective glass.”
As Martin slowly backed away from the door, Malcolm felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over him. He closed his eyes momentarily, trying to keep himself from losing it.
“Listen, you and your mother need to sort out your issues first,” Martin said as he backed himself deeper in his cell as he talked. “I don't wanna get in the middle of that.” He chuckled at the thought of his stubborn son and erratic ex-wife bickering. “No, thank you.”
Malcolm just stared at his father, the anger that had abandoned him earlier returning once more. He decided there was nothing left to say, so he turned on his heels and briskly walked out of that suffocating building, leaving his father in his cell, smiling after him with his hands folded calmly in front of him.
Once he was out of the prison, he caught his breath he hadn't realized he was holding and ran a shaky hand through his hair.
Back in the cell, Martin serenely settled back into his recliner and flicked on the news, a smile of self assurance on his face. Oh, he'll be back. He always comes back.