Chapter Text
I always thought that I knew where
I came from
And I always thought that I knew how
And I was wrong
It ain't over now, yeah
No it ain't over now, yeah
Imogen; Nick Mulvey
Jessica
She hears the click of teeth knocking together, his chin resting on her shoulder, right before Malcolm’s weight goes slack in her arms. Ainsley lets out a squeak of surprise, arms tightening around his shoulder as Jessica grabs him around the middle and slowly lowers him to the ground. It happens in a matter of seconds, Jessica silent as her daughter cries out in surprise, panic thick in her voice as she calls out her brother’s name. She allows it, for a second, too consumed with the condition of her oldest child to chide her youngest for the lack of grace under pressure.
Her hand slowly — slowly! — slides from behind Malcolm’s head, gentle as it rests on the plush carpet of the spare bedroom they’d taken refuge in. His head falls in her direction, eyes slivers against bloodstained skin, and now she’s the one who can’t handle herself. Jessica gasps and tries to cover with a hand over her mouth, but fails. Knows she does when Malcolm grabs her arm with his right hand, frowning.
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. It’s okay. You’re okay,” she says, running a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face, out of his eyes. It’s thick under her fingers, sticky in places, and she feels pain deep in her chest, somewhere past her ribs and lungs, sharp enough to pierce her heart if she lets it.
No. She’s a Milton. There are things that Need to be Done and if there’s anything Jessica Milton Whitly is good at, it is getting difficult things done.
“Ainsley,” she calls, voice stronger than she thought it could be. The girl is kneeling next to her, swaying slightly. Jessica places her hands along the girl’s cheeks, and smiles at her. “Ainsley, I need you to be very brave right now. I need you to go downstairs and find a cell phone to call 911 for your brother.”
“Mom, but...what,” Ainsley blinks.
Jessica swipes at the tears on her cheeks. “I know, baby, but right now I need you to do this. Your brother protected us, and now we need to help him. You can do this.” And she can. Jessica knows she can. She has always had faith in her children to survive, to thrive despite the monster that once read them bedtime stories and apparently brought protégés into her house. Malcolm’s hand on her arm is proof of that. 18 hours, God.
Ainsley finally nods in her hold and gathers her feet under her, as steady as a doe and why, why is it she is forced, as a mother, to watch her children go off into dangerous situations all the time.
“Damn you, Martin,” she curses under her breath. Then, wipes her face with her free hand and turns back to Malcolm, poor Malcolm, his eyes closed and the hand on her arm slack.
“Malcolm! Malcolm, you need to stay awake!” She shakes him, perhaps a bit frantically at first, but he groans and cracks open dull eyes, beautiful eyes as bright as her mother’s. “There you are.”
There isn’t much light coming in through the gossamer curtains, streetlights refracted through fabric to land on them, soft and warm. She spots the huge stain of blood on his left side and is up on her heeled feet in an instant, grabbing a corner of the bedspread as she does, not caring past needing cloth to stem the bleeding. Her knees hit the floor and she pulls up his shirt, peels back the bit of dress shirt he must have torn off himself — she feels herself fold in on herself, just a bit, a can crushed under unbearable weight — gathers her thoughts with a deep breath, and tries not to blanch at the deep red and jagged stab wound —
“I’m so sorry,” is all Jessica gets out before she pressing the duvet into it.
Malcolm’s reaction is instantaneous. He lets out a groan that turns into a moan and starts moving, head lolling to the left and right. She keeps up the pressure with one hand and places another on his cheek, hoping he knows she’s here.
Jessica doesn’t realize she’s crying until the tear hits her skin.
“Oh, Malcolm, I am so, so sorry for everything,” Jessica Whitly mutters over and over, rubbing her thumb over his hot, fevered skin. How did he even go after Watkins in such a state? Attack the man and render him —
The though hits Jessica so hard, she stills like a statue.
“Malcolm,” she asks, leaning forward, “Malcolm, what happened to Watkins?”
She would never fault him. When the ax was busting through the door, swing after swing bringing him closer to where she was protecting her injured daughter, Jessica would have gladly stabbed him in the eye and let the man bleed out on the ground. But as she sit there, trying to keep her son hanging on until help arrives, she thinks of so much of what happened, of the struggle Malcolm has fought for years.
Malcolm licks his lips and his voice is rough and soft but strong. “Locked in a truck.”
Jessica frowns. “My burgundy Italian leather one? Malcolm,” she laughs, “that’s for decoration!”
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Needed to make a statement.”
“To him? Or...”
“An impression. On him. He’s alive.”
Jessica nods, feeling that pain deep inside, that crushing weight, abade just a bit. “You are a mess, my love.”
He lifts his left hand, face pinched with pain. “Gonna need a cast.”
“Oh God,” she intones, remembering the last time he needed one. His anxiety had him picking at the thing two weeks in.
“Mom,” he says softly, eyes more open than before, the conversation keeping him with her. But his use of the colloquialism surprises her. A tear escapes and hits the hand still on his cheek. He nestles into her touch and begins to break, lips pressed together in a thin line. He’s about to say something, but decides against it, just burrows against her touch and cries as she tries to keep his blood in his body. As if he didn’t just take down a serial killer trying to kill them all.
Jessica leans down and presses her forehead against his and wonders where the fuck the calvary is.