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There were a lot of things “I’m gonna kill you” could mean. It said a lot about Malcolm Bright’s preoccupation with murder that only a narrow portion of the options had ever occurred to him.
It appeared on his chest, over his heart, when he was thirteen years old. It was a bit early in life for a soulmate mark, but he reasoned that nothing in his life had been normal for years- why should this be? He also didn’t speak to anyone for a full day.
“Oh, Malcolm,” his mother breathed when she finally convinced him to tell her what was wrong, “I’m sure she doesn’t mean it.”
It meant something more to Jessica, and he was well aware of it even at thirteen. Tattoo removal, layering ink on top of the words- nothing covered up a soulmate mark and his mother didn’t wear backless dresses anymore. He wanted to ask her what it was like to know that your perfect match was someone who had done horrible things. But he couldn’t put her through that. So he settled on trying not to talk to strangers and always wore a shirt when he went swimming.
Over the years, his mother and Ainsley reassured him as much as possible. When he came out at fifteen, they quietly changed his soulmate’s pronouns to “they” and continued trying to convince him that this unknown person wasn’t a psychopath.
The fear almost put him off going into the FBI. Surely coming into contact with actual murderers on the job wasn’t going to improve his odds of his soulmate not being deranged. In the end, his self-preservation instincts won out, proving definitively that he didn’t have any.
The words were said to him more than once. Jokingly by people who were almost friends, in exasperation by cops and other agents when he pissed them off, and sometimes, yes, by serial killers. He worked hard to make sure he always got the first word in, trying to establish an emotion connection with every killer so it at least wouldn’t be the first thing they said. So far he’d been successful.
It might have been a relief when the FBI fired him if it hadn’t been so damn unfair. When Gil came to ask for his help on a case, the idea of proving himself useful overshadowed any dread that this time he wouldn’t be so lucky.
When they arrived at the crime scene Malcolm was so busy trying to peek around him he barely heard the detective talking to Gil. Something about the housekeeper, victim descriptions, and then...
“Just my type.” That caught his attention.
“So you’re a necrophiliac?” Malcolm asked, suddenly a lot more interested in this man’s potential psychology. He was taken aback when the detective’s eyes locked on his and his face contorted with rage.
“I’m gonna kill you,” he hissed, stomping toward Malcolm as if to carry out the threat. He shoved him back with enough force that the profiler hit the wall, and he tried not to let his mind catch on how strong his newly discovered soulmate was. Instead he focused on the man himself, who was grabbing his coat lapels like he might actually throw him out a window.
“Sixteen years,” He groaned, “I haven’t been able to wear short sleeves for sixteen years and no one will date me, where the fuck do you get off saying shit like that to people?” It took Malcolm a moment to even remember what his first words had been. His eyes widened.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t-“
“No excuses,” he cut him off, releasing him before pointing a finger in his face, “You and I are gonna have a serious talk about what is and is not okay to say to people you just met.” A grin spread unbidden over Malcolm’s face. His soulmate wanted to talk to him?
The detective had returned to his boss’s side, looking apologetic.
“Sorry, Gil. That was unprofessional.” He didn’t offer any further explanation. Gil started to reply.
“JT- Kid? You okay?” It took Malcolm a moment to notice he was giggling, and when he tried to make it stop he just dissolved into full-blown laughter, doubling over. He held up a hand to stave off Gil’s attempt to come over and ask him what was going on.
“I’m sorry, I just... ahh, oh my god.” He let out a few more chuckles and took in a deep breath before straightening up to look at JT. Malcolm couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.
“I thought you might actually be a murderer,” he admitted. His soulmate frowned.
“That’s a bit... dramatic.”
“Oh my god, I know!” He wheezed before dissolving into another fit of laughter. By the time he’d collected himself, running his gloved hands over his face and through his hair in an attempt to self-soothe, Gil had figured out what was happening.
“Did you just accuse your soulmate of being a necrophiliac?” Malcolm clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle another giggle and nodded.
“And you,” he continued, pointing at JT, “just told yours you were going to kill him.” JT shrugged.
“No regrets.” Gil sighed.
“Can we please just focus on the murder that happened five feet from here? There‘s a body right there, guys.” They both looked at the body, at each other, then quickly away. Malcolm spoke up first.
“Right. Of course, Gil. I am so sorry, and I...” he hesitated. Gil glared at him.
“What, Bright?”
“I’m gonna need new gloves.”