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Their lead was a relatively average man, with nothing significant or overly odd about him on paper, save for his relationship to all five of the victims. Of course, a university professor had relationships with hundreds of students, so Gil wasn’t entirely sure whether he was definitively their man. But Malcolm had said otherwise. While Gil hadn't understood why, he also hadn't questioned the kid's judgement: it was rare Malcolm’s gut was wrong. He had a knack for reading people, and an eye that caught the finer details that others missed. Decades ago, Gabrielle had told him it was hypersensitivity due to his PTSD. Gil had instead settled on his kid merely being observant. Very observant.
And it served them in good stead, after all, so Gil chose to label it a blessing rather than a horrendous curse caused by his father.
The drive to the place was filled with Malcolm’s chatter as he discussed their bodies - five college kids, ranging from freshman to graduate students - and covered the MO. They were all connected with one of the head professors of the English department, Terry Fischer. The man hadn’t seemed dangerous, standing around Malcolm’s stature plus a couple pounds natural with age. He was mousey, and with what little hair he had on his head grey and wispy, it appeared as if a small breeze could sweep it all away.
In all pictures of Terry Fischer, he was pristine. That was what had drawn Malcolm to the man, or so Malcolm told Gil. “He’s got OCD; obsessive-compulsive disorder. Diagnosed in ninety-nine.” Malcolm had explained, only hours prior in the conference room. “And the murders have been extraordinarily neat. Now, it may be a stretch, but I think he’s someone we should check out. I’ve never seen a crime scene that... clean before.” And it was true. Upon arriving to the first scene, Gil had been creeped out by the victims, which had been laid to rest on top of their beds, the sheets made underneath them, their bodies in perfect order. The rooms had been dusted with store-brand cleaners, and everything had been spray-painted either white or red. Everything was unbelievably organized and neat.
Save for the strangulation marks.
“It’s rope, likely,” Edrisa had informed them as she examined their first body. “But the lab can check into it for sure.” Later, they had confirmed it had indeed been rope, and when the other murders came, they, too, were strangled in the same fashion.
So, upon clambering into the car to head for Terry Fischer’s house, Gil had sworn that anything out of the ordinary was warranting an immediate call for backup. Especially if he were with Malcolm, because the kid had a knack for getting into situations he didn’t belong in. And while Gil didn’t necessarily promote the idea of going to a strange man’s house after dark with no backup, no warrant, and no reason for even being there, he certainly wasn’t going to leave Malcolm to do it alone.
As they pulled up to townhouse, it was near offputting how neatly every bush, every flower, every blade of grass was trimmed. The shrubbery mirrored its counterparts on the other side of the sidewalk leading up to the front door, all the same height, the same shades, the same look. It was so symmetrical it was almost disturbing to Gil, as if they were rolling up to a movie set.
Malcolm didn’t hesitate. He popped the door handle and stepped out into the winter chill, holding his overcoat closed. Gil quickly followed after him, deepening his strides to catch up. They approached the front door, both shivering in the snow-speckled wind. Flakes salted Malcolm’s dark hair. The cold turned his cheeks pink. He was shaking, rubbing his hands together as Gil knocked hard on the door.
It flung open without hesitation.
Malcolm and Gil straightened as they came face to face with their prime suspect. He looked nonthreatening in a bathrobe and simple pajamas, but Gil knew looks could be deceiving. Sure, the John Watkins’ existed, appearing to be precisely what they were, but the Martin Whitly’s were crawling around, too.
“Terry Fischer?” Gil asked, eyebrow raised.
“It’s, uh, doctor. Doctor Terry Fischer.” The man scratched at the side of his face. He ran a hand through his barely-there hair. “Who is asking?”
“Lieutenant Gil Arroyo. NYPD.” He flipped his badge to Fischer. “And Malcolm Bright, a consultant.”
“Consultant?” Fischer’s eyes lightened. “Consultant of what?”
“Psychology.” Malcolm said.
Some of the tension in Fischer’s shoulders loosened as his expression widened with excitement. “Psychology? So you are a man of academia as well?”
Malcolm huffed out a laugh. A whirl of steam fled into the frozen night air. “I do have a PhD, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I do as well!” Fischer nodded. “In English. I-I have a PhD in English and philosophy!” Malcolm’s face lit up, as if he hadn’t read the extensive case file on the man. Fischer continued, “I-I am actually a professor at a community college down the way! You may have heard of--?”
“Then you’ve heard of the murders of five students on that campus, right?” Gil stepped a bit closer, towering over the man. Malcolm stayed neutral as he assessed the situation with a quiet eye. Fischer shrunk a bit under Gil’s gaze, looking as if he were holding in a sneer. “Maybe we can come in. Talk about it. After all, these were your students, Mr. Fischer.”
Malcolm added, “You must be devastated.”
“I am a doctor .” Fischer glared up at Gil. He hesitated, but eventually mumbled, “B-But of course, yes, come in. I-I am devastated, yes. Terrible, terrible thing that happened.” He side-stepped for them to cross the threshold into the too-warm townhouse. Inside, it was just as pristine as the outside. Everything was immaculate, from the starch-white furniture to the symmetrical set-up of the miscellaneous items. There was at least two of everything, all in even numbers for a perfect equilibrium.
They wandered further into the house inch by inch, and Malcolm got comfortable, shrugging off his coat and unlooping his scarf. Fischer took the clothes with a wry smile. He didn’t extend the same courtesy to Gil.
As they reached the living area, Fischer stopped, his feet nearly hitting a bright red carpet covering half the floors. He cleared his throat. "Wait here. I will grab water." He walked the edge of the carpet, never touching it, never stepping off the wood. After hearing the hush of a faucet and a clank of glasses, Fischer shuffled back into the room, along the same imaginary line he had walked earlier. The coat was gone, as was the scarf. Gil frowned.
Fischer shoved a glass into Gil's hand, then extended the other in Malcolm's direction. "Here. Doctor Bright." Fischer mumbled.
Malcolm smiled sheepishly. "Oh, I'm...I just go by Bright, actually." Nonetheless, he plucked the drink from the man's hand. "Thank--"
"But you are a doctor, yes?" Fischer's eyes were bugged out, sharp with a wildness that sent a shiver down Gil's spine. He flinched against it.
Malcolm blinked fast, flustered. "Well, technically, I--”
“Where did you study?” Fischer took a step closer to Malcolm, licking his lips in anticipation.
“Harvard.” Malcolm said.
Fischer’s grin widened to his ears. “Exquisite. I had always dreamed of Harvard. Alas, I was... too intelligent.”
Malcolm nearly spit out his drink. He choked a bit, silently, before swallowing and asking, “Too intelligent?”
“Yes.” Fischer nodded grimly. “Yes, they...they feared what I could bring to the table. So they rejected me, under the false pretense of ‘bad grades’. Can you believe that?”
Gil sighed. “Yes.” Malcolm chuckled.
Fischer shot them a glare. His gaze fixed on Gil. “ Well , lieutenant. Where did you study? I am sure nowhere better than... community college .”
“Nothing wrong with a good two-year.” Gil took a sip of the water. It tasted salty, almost, and it fizzed on his tongue. He smacked his lips a bit, but managed a curt, “NYU.”
“NYU?” Fischer sputtered. “ Well ...that is interesting.”
Malcolm mumbled, “And you? Did you...Did you attend where you, uh...where you currently work?” He was swaying on the spot, blinking fast. Gil reached out to steady him, but found his arm to stretch impossibly far, his hand distorted and swimming in and out of focus. Before either he or Fischer could speak, Malcolm said, “You drugged us.”
“Apologies, gentlemen.” Fischer cleared his throat casually. As Malcolm began to tip backwards, unsteady on his feet, Fischer pulled the glass from his hand. He did the same for Gil, setting them both on the floor against the wall. “I do not normally act so... brash . But I can not have officers snooping.”
Gil wanted to retort, to fight back. He wanted to spit in Fischer’s face, and tell him that killing two officers would definitely raise suspicion. But he couldn’t move. He could hardly keep his eyes open, a fog dragging his lids down, darkening his vision, as if a black veil were dropped overhead. Gil stumbled to his hands and knees. The floor swam. His stomach roiled.
“You…” Malcolm’s voice reverberated. Gil managed to turn, to crane his neck enough to see Malcolm still standing, albeit wobbly. “Why’re y’...Wha’...?”
“You are quite the resistant one. Most of your stature would have been long-since unconscious.” Fischer wrapped a hand around the back of Malcolm’s neck, guiding him close. “It is a pity, doctor Bright. We could have been good friends were you not with this disrespectful little cretin.” Fischer snarled down at Gil. He reeled Malcolm in a bit closer. Malcolm resisted, but weakly, planting his hands on Fischer’s shoulders to try and shove himself backwards. “Alas. You cannot be left alive.”
A dull crack echoed throughout the foyer as Fischer rammed his knee into Malcolm’s head. Gil jolted. He collapsed in a boneless heap. Malcolm sagged in Fischer’s arms. His head drooped to Fischer’s shoulder. The man cooed. “Pity, pity. You know,” He poked his eyes around Malcolm, finding Gil. Gil blinked hard against the cotton-fuzzy feeling stuffing his brain. “He is a bit older than my son. My son, who respected me. Who loved me for me.” Fischer licked his teeth, turning away from Gil. “Until some punks , some brainless monsters--”
Fischer choked.
The man stared off for a moment, but Gil must have tapped out, must have slipped, because when he peeled his eyes open once again, he found his cheek was smushed against the cold floor of a basement.A white-painted stone wall met his gaze. His limbs were free of restraints but numb, as if they had fallen asleep. Gil fumbled a bit to get his arms up, to get his hands planted on either side of his head.
Nothing made sense.
A groan behind him had Gil whipping around, stumbling back onto his ass and scooting away until his vision began to clear, his thoughts began to breathe, and the crumpled form of Malcolm came into focus. Gil stiffened. It took an embarrassingly long time for him to realize that he was staring at Malcolm, as in Malcolm Bright , as in the son he thought he’d never have and Gil cursed under his breath. He forced his body to cooperate as he shimmied towards Malcolm.
“Br’ght…” Gil’s speech was slurring, but manageable. He clumsily wrapped a hand around Malcolm’s shoulder and guided him to be flat on his back. Blood matted his hair, smearing the floor underneath. “Jesus... Kid?”
“Gil…?” Malcolm hummed. “‘M head…” His fingers twitched at his sides, but never made a move to touch. Gil shuffled closer, inspecting what his foggy brain supplied as one helluva knock to the head. A useless diagnosis, but one they’d have to work with. When Malcolm squirmed to sit upright, Gil offered a flimsy arm behind his shoulders and an incessant amount of worry.
“Kid, look’t me…” Gil cupped Malcolm’s jaw with both numb hands, both feeling too big and too far away to be real.
Malcolm’s eyes fluttered open. The clear seagreen-blue was accentuated by bright red veins, his whites bloodshot, the sockets already beginning to bruise. “Hey...Gil?”
“Yeah, kid?” Gil checked his pupils as much as he could in the dimmed lighting. From what he could tell, they both looked even, or even enough. There wasn’t anything drastically different about their sizes, and both seemed normal given the brightness of the room.
Malcolm chuckled bitterly, “I can’t see…”
Gil’s heart froze. He could have sworn that, just for a split second, his pulse stopped as he pulled back a bit, looking Malcolm over, and seeing the tremor to his hands, seeing his unfocused gaze looking through him, beyond him, or maybe not even seeing him at all. Malcolm’s breaths picked up, but only subtly. Gil whispered, “You can’t see me? At all?” He removed one hand to wave in front of the kid’s face.
Malcolm’s lower lip trembled, but he kept his voice steady. “Nothing. I-I can feel you...your hand.” He grabbed for Gil’s wrist, catching him mid-wave. “But I can’t see.” He spit out a laugh, but it died in his throat as a whimper. The situation settled heavily over both of them before Malcolm choked out, “I-I can’t see…” Defeat laced his voice. Defeat, and fear, because Gil just now remembered that they must have been locked in the basement of a serial killer , and the last time Malcolm was in a basement with a killer, he was tortured , was stabbed, was--
Well, at least he didn’t know he was in a basement.
Yet.
“Where’re we?” Malcolm swallowed thickly. He reached out, a seemingly pointless gesture, but managed to find Gil’s neck with the tip of his fingers. His hand fisted in the collar of Gil’s shirt. “Help me up?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gil grabbed Malcolm by the elbows, hauling him up and to his shaky legs. They steadied one another, then Gil whispered, “We...I don’t know where we are…” It wasn’t entirely a lie, but Gil didn’t need Malcolm under any more distress.
Malcolm frowned. “Th-The floor was cold. And it smells like mildew ...Is it a basement?” But of course, Malcolm wasn’t stupid, and Gil rolled his eyes for that.
“Yeah.” Gil nodded. He mentally slapped himself, stilled his head, and said more firmly, “It is. You going to be okay?”
There was a beat of hesitation on Malcolm’s part, but he quickly remedied it with a choppy smirk. “At least my hand’s in-tact this time.”
“Yeah, thank God .” Gil huffed. He glanced around the rather large room, squinting to see the staircase in the far corner. He slowly began to guide them, taking a step, then tugging on Malcolm’s arms. Malcolm got the hint fast, shuffling alongside Gil. While walking, Gil said, “I really don’t need that visual.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” Malcolm flexed his left hand. Whether reflexively or as a demonstration, Gil wasn’t sure. But his fingertips twitched in a way that told him he had just pictured the same thing Gil had: Malcolm, bringing the hammer down on his thumb, shattering the bone, splitting the skin, blood pooling from the wound within seconds. It made Gil’s stomach protest to just imagine it.
When they had recovered Malcolm, with his smashed hand and sluggishly-bleeding stab wound, his voice had been hoarse. It had been ruined from use, from screaming at both Watkins and from the pain, no doubt. A piece of Gil had caught fire that day, smouldering in the background, a constant flame that burned his ass whenever Malcolm could even potentially be in danger.
He had never considered himself to be a helicopter parent, even after Jessica’s drinking had gone downhill. While she had faltered, mourning and suffering in her own way, Gil had vowed to himself that he would give his kids as normal a childhood as he could. Ainsley had followed after her mother to every party, every festival, every opportunity to be ‘normal’ in their world. But Malcolm had fallen in step with Gil and Jackie. He had never done stupid things, save for the occasional slipping out or underage drinking, but Gil had thought that normal. He had thought that a normal teenage thing for a normal teenage boy. And so, he hadn’t hovered. He hadn’t crowded Malcolm.
But goddamn , after rescuing from Watkins, Gil wanted nothing more than to hover. He’d be content with being a fucking fly that was buzzing in Malcolm’s face, annoying him to no end, so long as he was able to see every threat and every monster. Because while Gil could chase after bullies and school kids any day, it wasn’t like he could condemn serial killers to the principal’s office for kidnapping his surrogate son. And if there was one thing Malcolm was good at, it was getting into a little kerfuffle with every serial killer on the block.
“Careful.” Gil ushered. “Take a step.” He held Malcolm tight as they took the stone steps one at a time, an agonizingly slow pace. Gil realized, then, that once they reached the top of the steps and were at the door, they would have no plan. What would they do? The door was undoubtedly locked, but Gil had no pins to pick it. And even if he could, would he have the time?
Their shoes hit the third step when the doorknob rustled. The scrape of metal on metal had both Gil and Malcolm cursing quietly. Gil slid his arms under Malcolm’s, dragging him up off the step and down the three before Malcolm could protest. Gil lowered Malcolm’s feet too the basement floor and they split, with Malcolm diving rightwards and Gil slamming his back against the left wall. The basement door slammed open.
A warm light streamed down the steps, illuminating only a few feet off the basement landing. A scrawny shadow blocked out some of the light.
“Lieutenant? Doctor? You are awake, yes?”
Fischer, the slimy rat. If Malcolm wasn’t plastered to the wall, hands out to blindly protect himself, Gil would be rushing up the stairs to tackle the man. With every step Fischer took, descending closer, Malcolm’s posture tightened, going rigid but emotionless. He slid to his feet, using the wall as a guide. Keeping one palm flat to the wall, Malcolm reached out, mouthing, ‘Gil’.
Gil’s heart sank. He ground his teeth. Malcolm groped air, sweeping around to his right, smacking the wall on his left. Gil could see the moment Malcolm knew he was alone, because Malcolm’s face contorted, only briefly, before he sank back into the corner, his trembling picking up intensity so much so that Gil was worried he’d give himself a seizure.
Fischer’s feet slammed against the second-to-last step.
There was a fifty-fifty chance he would look Gil’s way first. A fifty-fifty chance he would look to Malcolm, giving Gil the element of surprise, enough to tackle the tiny bastard. But if he looked to Gil, if he turned left instead of right, then it was hopeless. Gil slowed his breaths. He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, one in, one out, trying to relax his fists, to shake out his muscles should he need to fight.
Fifty-fifty chance.
Fischer dropped into view.
His wide eyes scanned over Gil, a pistol tucked against his side. His pistol, Gil realized. That style glock was NYPD approved only, save for the rare street gangs that got them on the black market, stolen from an officer, likely. “Lieutenant?” Fischer raised his brow high. He began to turn.
Gil rushed forward to tackle.
Malcolm got to him first.
Fischer smacked the ground hard with Malcolm straddling his upper back, grabbing wildly at his clothes and throwing punches at random. One hit Fischer’s eye. Another scraped the concrete. Gil grabbed Malcolm’s hand and Malcolm screamed, lashing out. Despite a third punch cracking against Gil’s rib, he ignored it and hauled Malcolm up off the floor.
Gil threw Malcolm towards the stairs. He whipped around in time to stare down the barrel of the gun but caught Fischer by surprise, smacking the glock from his hand. Fischer bolted for it. Gil flipped back and grabbed Malcolm, dragging him up the remainder of the staircase.
They fumbled out of the basement and into a different area of the townhouse, gasping, shaking hard. A pop split the air and a painting on Gil’s left shattered. Malcolm ducked instinctively. Gil jolted. He snapped to reality, dragging them away from the steps despite Malcolm’s stumbling. Malcolm reached out to feel where he was going, but Gil had him fast; one hand held his shirt collar, the other his shoulder. There was no way Malcolm would crash into something.
It didn’t make the scenario any less terrifying, Gil knew.
He rounded into a narrow hallway as the slam of the basement door flinging shut ripped throughout the house. Gil picked up the pace. Malcolm must have trusted him, must have truly believed in him, because he ran in tandem, not breaking pace, only skidding when Gil abruptly changed direction. He brought them to another staircase. Six stairs away was the foyer, and a dozen steps from that was the front door.
“Steps!” Gil shouted. He didn’t give Malcolm time to adjust. “One! Two! Three!” Malcolm nearly stumbled as they dropped down the first few. “Four! Five! Done!” He jerked forward to take another step, but Gil yanked him upright and to the front door.
Gil released Malcolm. Malcolm flung himself forward, against the door, as Gil reached for the handle--
Locked.
It was locked.
“Son of a bitch!” Gil grabbed Malcolm’s wrist, dragging him into the living room as another shot ricocheted off a copper vase near the front door. He swung them around and into the kitchen: a dead end. Malcolm sagged at his side. He gagged, no doubt concussed now that Gil was thinking straight, but he didn’t have time for an apology. Instead, he swung around, back to the doorway, and held Malcolm by the shoulders. “Listen, kid,” Gil sucked in a breath. “Take this…” He reached behind Malcolm, pulling a wide pan off the dish drying rack. “And swing when I say. Got it?”
“Yeah…” Malcolm nodded.
Gil twisted around as Fischer threw himself into the kitchen, arm raised, gun poised. Gil rammed into him, shoulder to his stomach, slamming Fischer into a wall. He grabbed Fischer’s wrist, aiming the gun down as low as he could get it as Fischer writhed. The man scowled. Gil headbutted him. The gun clattered to the ground and Gil kicked it before Fischer could stomp on it.
He flipped them around, wrestled him backwards, and screamed, “ Now! ”
Malcolm reared back and swung hard. A solid smack had Fischer crumpling to the floor. Gil jerked back and Malcolm staggered away. His arm nudged the handle of the fridge and he flinched, blinking fast, breathing faster. “Gil…?”
“Here. I’m here.” Gil stepped around Fischer’s body. He scooped up his gun on the way. “Come on, kid.”
Gil guided Malcolm around Fischer’s limbs, maneuvering them at a slow, easy pace as Malcolm shook in his equally-shaky arms. The adrenaline was wearing off, and Gil winced with every new ache and pain. He steered them out of the kitchen, around the bend, and back to the foyer with the locked door. Malcolm stumbled a bit, swallowing hard, then again, before he jerked away to vomit.
“Shit…” Malcolm spit. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t--”
“It’s not my house.” Gil chuckled. His nose crinkled at the smell.
Malcolm laughed softly. His sightless eyes leapt around the room. “Where’s… Is Fischer down?”
“Well he isn’t here.” Gil said. He glanced behind Malcolm, to where the bend leading towards the kitchen was. He half-expected to see Fischer hovering nearby, but he was greeted with silence, save for Malcolm’s heavy breaths. Gil reached over to grab Malcolm and pull him closer, away from his sick. Malcolm stumbled into his side, holding tight to his shoulder. It would probably bruise.
Malcolm mumbled, “And the door?”
“Locked.” Gil said. He checked the bullets in the gun, then slowly backed them up. “But if I shoot, eventually someone will show up, right?”
Malcolm rolled his eyes despite his situation. “I mean, they’re already on their way, so--”
“What?” Gil glanced behind him, lowering the gun.
Malcolm frowned. “You don’t hear the sirens?”
Gil paused a minute. The house went dead silent. Distantly, over his own thrumming heart, Gil could make out the wail of approaching units. “Damn, kid,” He holstered his gun. “You sure you don’t want to keep this little arrangement?”
Malcolm scoffed. “Hell no.”
Gil chuckled into his hair. He dragged Malcolm closer, wrapping an arm around him, then two, wanting desperately to squeeze the air out of his kid because they were alive, they made it. But he didn't want to hurt Malcolm further. Malcolm stayed close, head to Gil's chest and fists tight in his shirt, as the sirens squealed and stopped in front of the townhouse.
Gil couldn't stop bouncing his leg. While he knew the chances were in Malcolm's favor, it still didn't quell the fear of realizing that his kid could be blind for the rest of his life. Sure, at least they were alive, but it was a terrifying thought nonetheless. By the time Dani, JT, and the others had arrived to toss Fischer into the back of a squad car, Gil had almost forgotten. He had been so caught up on surviving, on living, that he had actually forgotten Malcolm had taken a knee to the head. It had completely slipped his mind until Dani had asked, "Bright? You good?"
Then it all had come crashing back into him.
Malcolm was blind. He could stay blind.
"Stop fidgeting." Malcolm mumbled from across the room. He had a thick layer of bandages underneath a rather ridiculous pair of chunky sunglasses, his vision completely obstructed. With a gown over his scrawny frame and a needle poked into his hand, he looked like the symbol of pity as he shrunk back against the hospital bed's pillows. "You're making me nervous, Gil."
"You're always nervous, kid." Gil huffed. He stilled his shaking leg. "You good, Bright? I mean...considering."
Malcolm sighed. He faced the blank wall, thrumming his fingers against the sheets. "Well, being blind for this long hasn't exactly been fun, but all things considered, yeah, I'm good." He shrugged dramatically. "I could be dead, so..."
The door slid open. A doctor smiled tightly at Gil before stopping at the foot of the hospital bed. "I've got good news." Gil waited for the pause, for the tense, 'and bad news, too', but it never came. The doctor's smile brightened a bit more and he continued, "Looks like there was no long-lasting trauma, from what we could see on the scans. You have what's called a vitreous hemorrhage." He moved to flip through the chart at the foot of the bed, pulling out a pen and marking a few things down. "It's not unheard of with head trauma, but it can be scary. Luckily, it should clear up on its own, given enough time."
"It's not permanent?" Malcolm's voice sounded far sturdier than Gil had expected.
The doctor set the clipboard down. He pursed his lips in thought, for a moment, before saying, "No, it's unlikely it's permanent. Now, how long it'll last depends. So I can't say anything for certain. But we'll monitor you closely, and have you check in daily to track your progress."
"All right." Malcolm licked his lips. "Thank you."
"Sure thing." The doctor flashed another tight smile Gil's way. He slipped out of the room, submerging them into silence. As he left, Jessica and Ainsley came in as a swoop of hollering and questions, the women practically shrieking as they demanded answers to their questions of, "are you okay" and, "how do you feel" and, "what happened" amongst others. Gil rose from his chair stiffly, the purpling bruises on his stomach and back leaving him to wince with every movement. He inched his way to the door, using the furniture as leverage for his aching body.
"Hey, Gil," Malcolm's voice cut through the women's chatter. They all went quiet. Gil's heart fluttered in anticipation. He steadied himself in the doorway for something deep, for something meaningful as Malcolm sighed slowly, his shoulders dropping. After a long, drawn out moment, Malcolm asked, "See you tomorrow? Eight? I'll try and get the early release papers in a few hours but you know how the nurses can be--"
Gil scowled, "Hell no." He jabbed a finger at Ainsley and Jessica. "Keep him here, please? Until he's cleared?
He didn't hear their replies nor their further questions for Malcolm as he softly shut the hospital door behind him with a smirk.