Work Text:
Malcolm went for a run, ducking out of his loft as soon as the sun dropped to sweltering instead of spontaneous combustion. It was difficult to get his routine in during the mid-summer heat, but if he didn’t, he couldn’t sleep at all, the pent-up energy bouncing around his body.
Feet pounding the concrete, sweat drenched his body, running from his face, down his neck, both sides of his shirt, getting trapped in the seams of his shorts, dripping down his legs. His breaths came in on a rhythm of overworked gasps, the humidity not helping make the task any easier.
Distance. Patience. At least an hour spending time on something that wasn’t murder. He checked his smartwatch — 29:37. Only another half hour to go. Surely he could make the best of it.
He looked straight ahead, imagining a far off end point in front of him. Get there. Do it — tap tap — do it —
A car swiped at him in the corner of his vision and he swerved, his foot hitting the edge of a drain culvert, the momentum taking him sliding down the gravel.
Ow.
Malcolm curled it on himself, his leg on fire. His hand lay in wet goop on his thigh that he didn’t have the focus to take a look at yet. His whole body shook with the shock of several spikes of pain flaring at once on a high speed train to his brain.
Fuck.
He shifted onto his back and turned over, getting his injured limb off the ground. Rock and grit sprouted out of his skin in every direction. His fingers wavered above it, not seeing anywhere safe to touch. Looking at his hand, he saw the results of the fall reflected in it — blood and grime flickering on his palm.
Blood.
Too much blood covering his leg.
Debris.
Everywhere.
His damaged limb was more road rash than skin on the outside. He needed to get home, he needed to wash, he needed to —
“Ahhhh,” he yelled, getting his legs under him and pushing to standing. Vision fading, he almost passed out under the weight on his injured leg.
He took a tentative step, shuffling himself up to lean against the railing. It was going to be a long walk home.
Step — slide. Step — slide.
No one paid him any mind.
Step — slide. Step — slide.
He made it a whole 10 feet.
Only two more miles to go.
Fuck.
According to his watch, Malcolm made it a quarter of a mile before he disappeared onto the subway. He ducked into the corner of a train car, hiding his injured leg into the dark side where no one would see. Each jerk and stop of the train car brought him fresh agony. When he went to leave, a woman audibly cringed at what he assumed was the look of his leg.
It made him cringe too. He’d never done so much damage to his skin in one go.
A sweat soaked, stinky mess from running, as he kept walking, he realized she could have been reacting to that too. The exact reason he’d avoided a cab — too likely for way, way, way too many questions, and the cabbie would’ve complained about his impact on the seats.
The stairs up to his loft were a fresh kind of torture. One and two and this was the only time he ever wished he lived on the ground level. Maybe his mother would green light a guest room on the first floor for just these kind of emergencies.
That would require him telling her about events like this.
That wasn’t happening.
He pulled himself up to his apartment and went straight for the shower. Braved another look —
A patchy collection of varying levels of dry and fresh blood, pebbles, dirt, and crust were on display. There was only one way to get this over with.
Malcolm turned on the shower and waited for it to get to a lukewarm temperature. He shucked his shorts and underwear, chucking them at the waste bin instead of the hamper, not wanting to deal with getting the muck out. His shirt went to the hamper and he shuffled into the stream of water.
Not too bad on his good leg.
He turned.
Fucking flaming fire shot from his hip down to his toes, lighting him up like a demonic Christmas tree. Except the only presence was a gazillion little pieces to remove — what a gift.
His hand shook overtop the injured skin, slowly brushing away bits that clinked to the tile. A trail of crimson and brown rain to the drain and a gathering of stones crowded around the grate. He looked down —
Still more dirt.
Shit.
He put some body wash on a loofah and went back to his skin, the mix of soap and abrasion overwhelming against the broken surface. He had to rest both his hands on the wall and step out of the water a moment to recover his composure.
Lavender. Comfortable temperature. Cooling from being outside. He took a deep breath, brought one hand off the wall, and tried again.
Bit by bit, he ran the loofah over his skin, scrubbing out all the foreign matter he could. The wounds freshly bled, pinkening the streams to the drain. He followed the soap with his typical washing routine, and after a last rinse, he turned the water off.
He leaned with both hands against the wall again so he could take a steadying breath. Reminded himself that in a few steps, he could sit.
Using the wall to his advantage, he shuffled himself over to the closed toilet lid, dropped a towel on top, and lowered himself to it.
He pulled the deluxe pack of gauze off the shelf under the sink. Ripping apart one packet, he doused a large piece of gauze in hydrogen peroxide and started to run it over his wounds. Puffy and angry in shades of red with browned edges, it looked like he had made a baseball slide into a gravel pit. The liquid burned his broken skin, and though he knew he probably shouldn’t be covering such a big area with it, he considered infection to be a worse outcome and did it anyway.
He gave a few minutes for the wounds to air dry, lathered gauze in bacitracin, covered all of his damaged skin, and wrapped them in paper tape.
He felt like a mummy.
Or should he say dummy?
Both, probably.
He used the counter to take a tentative push back to standing. Pressure back on his leg, it was a tossup whether he’d make it to bed.
Clothes would be optional this evening.
He grabbed his robe and shuffled out, not bothering to try to make dinner or let out Sunshine. “I’m sorry, girl,” he called to her, lowering himself on top of the sheets.
His wet hair drenched the pillowcase, but he didn’t care. Anything that involved getting out of bed wasn’t going to happen.
He clipped himself into his cuffs and passed out with his foot propped on top of a pillow.
“What the hell happened to you?” JT asked, getting up to pull Malcolm’s chair closer so he wouldn’t need to walk all the way to his desk.
“Thank you,” Malcolm shared, sinking into it. “It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Malcolm raised his foot onto the garbage can, feeling more at ease with his leg elevated. His suit pants were tight with all the extra padding underneath, the seams of the paper tape visible through the fabric.
Gil walked behind Malcolm and rubbed the back of his neck. “What’s going on?” Gil asked.
“Not much, just got in,” Malcolm responded, shrugging his shoulders.
“You gonna tell me what you got into, or we gonna sit here and guess?” Gil prompted, looking to JT and finding his head shaking that he didn’t have the answer.
“Would you believe face off with a car?” Malcolm revealed, his hands going palm up.
“Sounds pretty tame for you.” JT’s lip considered the options. “What gives?”
“Bright versus embankment. Just some lost skin.”
“Walk to my office,” Gil directed, stepping back so Malcolm could move.
“You can’t — “ Malcolm protested.
“I’m assessing your fitness to be here,” Gil explained. “‘Cause I sure as hell know no one else has.”
“You’re not allowed to do that,” Malcolm complained under his breath as he got back up to standing.
Step by slow shuffling step, he stiffly made it to Gil’s office and lowered himself to the couch, laying his leg across it.
“You shoulda called me — I woulda picked you up,” Gil said, leaning against his desk.
“It’s not that bad — really,” Malcolm added when Gil gave him a look of disbelief.
“I can see it all over your face. That tells me something.” Gil maintained a concerned glance, expecting more of an explanation.
“Car came at me running last night, I took a spill. Skinned knee kinda stuff,” Malcolm brushed it off, closing his eyes a moment as the pain settled.
“Judging by how nimble you are this morning, your whole leg.”
Malcolm tipped one finger at Gil. “You are correct.”
“I have a folding chair for you in the car.”
Malcolm quirked his head at him.
“Since you’re going to insist on coming, I’m going to request you sit while working.”
“You’re asking me to slack off?”
“No — I am providing an ample provision so you can work and not get yourself hurt more,” Gil argued, working to convince him the offer was necessary.
Maybe there were perks too. “Can it come with a bullhorn?”
“Might come with a leash next if you’re not careful.” Gil raised an eyebrow at him.
Malcolm gave the look right back. “I might like it.”
“Bright.”
“Yeah, yeah — I’m ducking your concern to decrease my own self worth.” Malcolm bowed his head, bounced it a bit, and proceeded to go on talking.
Gil’s brow furrowed, not entirely following where the conversation had turned.
“This might be a pretty cool spot! I can be the foreman!” Malcolm realized, smiling at the prospect.
Gil caught up, “You trying to take my job?”
“No, no.” Malcolm considered again, “Second chair?”
“You gonna wrestle the two of them?” Gil pointed out the door.
Malcolm shook his head. “Maybe I’ll stick with consultant. Or Brightspot. Or Brightwatch.”
Gil pulled away from his desk, turning his back. “This is going in the direction of — “
“Not safe for work! That’s me!” Malcolm beamed.
“I should leave you here in the office,” Gil groaned, rubbing his temple.
“But then you’d miss me!” Malcolm pushed back to his feet. “Race you to the car.”
“Take it easy, kid,” Gil cautioned.
“Like tortoise. Very zen,” Malcolm said as he slowly made his way out the door.
Gil followed behind him.
“Hare can try to win, you know,” Malcolm reminded, turning his head over his shoulder.
“Hare decided to help his friend cross the finish line instead.”
“Rewriting the classics?”
“Watching out for your ass.”
“Calling shotgun today,” JT told Malcolm as they passed his desk and he joined them.
“I see what you’re doing,” Malcolm pointed out.
“Giving my friend the back seat to put his leg up? Fight me,” JT challenged, clearing a path to the door before Malcolm.
“Friend?”
“Don’t make a big deal,” JT tried to temper the statement.
“Brightlight!” Malcolm got excited over another topic all over again.
“Big City, shut up,” JT ordered.
“I’m Brightman,” Malcolm played with his voice to do his best impression of a caped crusader.
“Get in the car.” Gil held the door open for Malcolm.
“If I keep talking, I can block out the pain better,” Malcolm explained, complying at the same time.
JT got in the passenger seat. “Tell me what training at Quantico was like,” JT offered a different topic of conversation.
That got Malcolm running on a subject that was a little more manageable, and he became the background track for the ride to the scene. The peace lasted until Malcolm started giving directions from his folding chair, and Gil threatened to send him home to recuperate.
fin