Work Text:
Gil doesn’t mean to eavesdrop.
Malcolm had excused himself to take a phone call nearly five minutes before from their crime scene, and Gil had started to worry, because whenever the kid isn’t directly in Gil’s line of sight he’s usually in danger.
And it’s not like Malcolm to leave for so long, especially in the middle of his breakdown of the killer’s mind.
So Gil searches for him. Roams the halls of the house until he hears Malcolm’s voice from one of the rooms. He’s about to call out to him, to ask if he’s alright, when he hears the cursed name of Malcolm’s father fall from the boy’s mouth.
“Dr. Whitly…”
Gil stops. He turns, pressing himself up against the wall, and debates leaving him alone.
And that’s when he simply starts to listen.
He can hear Malcolm pacing back and forth, can hear him breathing through gritted teeth in between cut-off sentences.
“No, I—no. Dr. Wh—I said no! Because I told you, I don’t need you. It’s nothing. No, I don’t always need—no! I have to—I have to go now, okay? I’ll—”
Malcolm goes quiet. Vaguely, Gil can hear something being said on the other line.
“Please don’t shout,” Malcolm says quietly, and he sounds so small. Gil wants to bring him into his arms and hold him. He rarely wants anything else.
“No, I didn’t—I didn’t mean...no. You’re—an asset. I—I can’t say that. No, I don’t want you to—fine. You’re valuable to the police. Yes, to me. I need to go now. Yes. I’ll come with the details. Yes. Goodbye.”
Gil trips backwards, turns around, and then faces Malcolm when he comes out of the room, staring at Gil in confusion.
“Gil?”
“There you are,” Gil says, trying to play it off as if he hadn't been invading the kid's privacy. “I was looking for you. Been gone a while."
Malcolm tilts his chin down. Gil looks him over, and asks, “Everything okay?”
“Everything is just fine,” Malcolm says, moving past him. “And you shouldn’t listen in on other people’s phone calls.”
Gil closes his eyes, heaving out a breath, and rubs at his beard. “Kid, I’m sor—”
But when he turns, Malcolm is already down the hall, and Gil is left to recover from his guilt enough to rejoin them, watching as Malcolm acts as if nothing had happened at all.
Gil does notice, though, that his right hand remains tucked in his coat pocket, the same way it always is when he’s trying to hide the trembling.
x
Gil expects Malcolm to disappear for a while as they’re all leaving to go back to the precinct, to go visit the monster, but instead Malcolm meets them there. Gil doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to quite admit that he was listening, much less encourage him to go see the man he never should again.
But Malcolm looks aggravated. He looks exhausted. He paces the conference room as Gil watches from outside of it, biting at his nail, uncertain how to proceed.
Malcolm will come to him if he needs to, won’t he?
Slowly, when Malcolm’s relentless pacing becomes Gil’s unbearable anxiety, Gil approaches the half-opened door, once again finding Malcolm on his phone.
“No,” he’s hissing, “I need to work. Hah! We are absolutely not partners, Dr. Whitly. I have my team. No. No. I don’t—I said—stop—I don’t need you!”
Malcolm slams his cell facedown on the table. He stands, pulling his coat on, and Gil thinks he’s pretty convincing as he jerks back from the door as it opens as if he hadn’t known Malcolm was on the other side.
“Hey there...where’re you going, kid?”
“Out,” Malcolm says. He doesn’t look up, so Gil can’t decide if he knows or not. “Coffee. Still working on the profile, just—need some air.”
“Is everything—”
“Everything’s fine!” he snaps, and Gil slightly recoils. Malcolm looks horrified that he raised his voice, glancing around the precinct as it quiets.
“Sorry," he whispers. "I’m sorry, Gil. Damn, I’m sorry. I didn't mean to yell."
Gil would never hold it against him, especially not while knowing what he's dealing with. “Do you want to talk?”
“That’s the last thing I want to do,” Malcolm says, so Gil lets him go.
Back inside the room, Malcolm’s phone vibrates.
And then again, and again. Gil counts three calls before he rolls his eyes and finally retreats to his own office.
Bastard of a man. Malcolm always, always deserved so much better.
Gil hates that he hadn’t been able to be there as Malcolm’s father all along.
x
Two hours later, a call comes in. Another body’s been found.
Malcolm braces himself on the conference table. He shakes his head, and murmurs, "No. That’s not—it’s the same?”
“Same method,” Gil tells him with a solemn nod. He knows more than anyone how Malcolm takes these losses to heart, to soul.
Sure enough, Malcolm looks particularly down as they look over the second crime scene. His voice is quiet, defeated. And every time Gil is close enough, he hears Malcolm’s phone vibrating in his pocket, starts to recognize the way Malcolm tenses enough to know when it’s doing so even when he can’t make out the sound.
Something has to be done about it, but he just isn’t sure what.
And then, back at the precinct, Gil notices Malcolm take a call on his desk phone. He notices Malcolm start to tremble, grasping at his hair, and Gil makes the perhaps wrong choice to pick up his receiver and press down on the line Malcolm’s using, muting his end and, a bit reluctantly, putting it up to his ear.
Martin’s voice on the other end is an unwelcome sound. “—only want to help,” he’s saying. “You know that. It’s what I do best, isn’t it? Help you solve the cases you otherwise couldn’t figure out by yourself?”
“I can do just fine without you,” Malcolm replies. His voice is rather steady, but Gil can see that he is not.
“Now that’s a lie, isn’t it? And really, it makes no difference.”
“No?”
“No, because I say. You’re behind on your visits, and I’m telling you to come. Not this afternoon. Not tomorrow. Now.”
Shaking his head, Malcolm murmurs, “I-I d—I don’t want—no. Not today.”
“Come to me, boy,” Martin says. “Or do you want more blood on your hands?”
Malcolm fumbles for a moment, and then finally chokes out, “What?”
“Your sister is quick with her updates. Best at her job. I'm proud of her. You lost another one, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t...” Malcolm trails off, shaking even harder, and Gil is horrified, hand coming to rest over his mouth.
“I didn’t mean to, I—”
“Oh, you never mean to, my boy, but you do it. If you’d just come to me in the first place, we’d have solved this case already, and that woman might still be alive. She’d probably still be alive. Isn’t that something?”
Malcolm braces himself on the desk. He looks like he might completely collapse at any moment. “Stop, please.”
“I wonder if that’s what she begged, as our killer strangled her. This isn’t the first time you’ve wasted time and caused lives to be lost, is it? All the time that could have passed between you finding that girl in the box and calling the police...hmm. Does this remind you of that, Malcolm? Of the weight of the guilt on your shoulders?”
Gil holds his breath. He watches Malcolm, waits for him to tell Martin off the way he wants to.
Instead, he hears Malcolm sob. He sees Malcolm slump over the desk, burying his face against his arm.
“Does it, my boy?”
“Yes,” Malcolm whispers, sounding more like that frightened ten-year-old again than ever. “Pl-please stop. I-I’m sorry, I—”
Gil can’t let this go on. He unmutes the line, and says, “Bright, hang the phone up. Now.”
Malcolm stands up, turning to stare at Gil with wide, startled eyes. “Gil, what—”
“Oh, Gil,” Martin says, “what a delight it is to hear your voice...but I’m afraid I was talking to my son.”
“You treat him more like a toy than a son,” Gil replies. “This conversation is over. Malcolm. Hang up.”
“Don’t you hang up, boy,” Martin says, and it sounds far too much like a threat. “Need I remind you of our deal?”
Gil frowns. “What deal?”
Malcolm whimpers. Gil never meant to make him look so afraid.
“Oh, you can’t know that, detective.”
“Lieutenant. Then don’t talk about it on the line into my precinct.”
“Now who’s getting touchy about their belongings?”
“Malcolm doesn’t belong to you!”
“Stop,” Malcolm pleads. “Please stop.”
“Come,” Martin says. “This isn’t for prying ears. Perhaps be sure Gil here doesn’t follow you inside, hmm?”
“I’d keep him away from you if I could," Gil seethes.
Martin laughs. “But you can’t. That’s my son. My very loyal boy. Aren’t you, Malcolm? My—”
Malcolm slams the receiver down against the desk. Martin tries to say something else, but Gil hangs up before he can, watching as Malcolm tugs at his hair and then runs out the door of the precinct.
Gil follows, finding Malcolm doubled over at the bottom of the stone steps outside, heaving bile onto the street.
“Oh, kid…” He reaches out, touching Malcolm’s back, and Malcolm flinches, flinging his hand out.
“Don’t touch me!” he shouts, and Gil reels back. “Don’t—just—don’t.”
“I’m sorry. Bright, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to get involved, but he was—the things he was saying to you—”
“Were true!” Malcolm gasps, spitting once more and then sinking down to sit on the curb. “They were true. They were all—”
“They were not!” Gil says, sitting beside him, and shakes his head when Malcolm starts to get up. "Wait. We need to talk, we—”
“I need to—”
“Go see him?”
“Breathe!” Malcolm whimpers, and covers his face. “I can’t! I can’t—I can’t breathe. I just need to breathe, Gil.”
“Come here—"
“No! I can't—"
“Malcolm,” Gil murmurs, grasping the back of Malcolm’s neck, and Malcolm goes limp with a quiet sob, crumpling forward into Gil’s arms.
“Gil, I’m—”
“It’s not your fault, Malcolm,” he tells him, rubbing his back. “It’s not. It’s not your fault. You were a kid. You were ten years old, Malcolm. He drugged you. He lied to you. Nothing he did was your fault, Malcolm. Please, kid...oh, please, don’t cry.”
“Can’t stop,” Malcolm chokes, face against Gil’s shoulder. “Please. Can’t—sorry. I can’t.”
“Ssh. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you, alright? Relax.”
“I can’t—” Malcolm pulls away suddenly, pushing Gil’s hands off of him. “I have to—the case. The case. I have—my profile. I can’t—”
He stands up, staggering, and wipes at his eyes.
“She didn’t die because of you!” Gil tries, and Malcolm ignores him, going off down the street to hail a taxi as Gil watches, helpless to stop him.
Always helpless, it seems, in the situations Malcolm needs him the most.
x
When Malcolm returns, he presents his updated profile to them with tear-stains down his cheeks.
Gil isn’t the only one who notices them. Dani follows Gil out into the hall and asks, “What’s wrong with Bright?”
Gil looks behind her, makes sure Malcolm is still inside the room, and shakes his head. “It’s his—”
Something shatters back in the conference room. JT calls out, “Whoa!”
Gil shoves the door open again, and finds Malcolm on his knees, doubled over himself, hands over his ears. His phone is in pieces scattered over the floor, and JT is against the wall with his hand out like Malcolm's going to attack him.
"What happened?" Gil demands, and JT gestures helplessly.
"I don't know! His phone rang and he just flipped out!"
"Bright," Dani whispers, kneeling beside him, and Malcolm shakes his head, rocking back and forth.
"Won't stop," he's mumbling, "he won't stop, he won't stop, please, I cant—I can't. He won't stop. Please. I saw him, I went, I went, make him...make him...just stop..."
"Oh, kid," Gil says, taking a seat on his other side. "What can we do?"
"Nothing," Malcolm weeps, leaning forward, pressing his face into Gil's thigh and sobbing. "Nothing. Can’t do anything, I can’t, I just can’t…”
"Bright…" Dani murmurs, starting to stroke through his hair, and JT comes closer, uncertain.
"Uh," he says. "I should...water? I'll get him some water, yeah?"
Gil smiles weakly at him and nods, gently massaging between Malcolm’s shoulder blades. JT returns with a plastic cup from the water cooler, and to Gil’s surprise, gets to one knee down in front of Malcolm and awkwardly offers it to him.
“Drink?”
Malcolm coughs and sniffles and nods, sipping down some of it with a mumbled gratitude, his trembling hand coming up to wipe his nose and then rest on Gil’s knee, fingers digging into the fabric of his pants.
“What’s going on?” Dani finally says, and Gil sighs.
“You gotta let us help, kid. Please. Please let us help.”
JT holds up the cup again, and Malcolm downs the rest and catches his breath before at last sitting up, rubbing at his eyes.
“What can you do? What can I do?” He makes a gesture with his hand and shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Gil grasps the back of his neck, rubbing it gently. He purses his lips, looking at JT, and then says, "I wouldn't say nothing."
“What…” Malcolm coughs again, clears his throat. He looks at the other two, then back at Gil.
“What did you have in mind?"
x
Martin wants to see his boy, and he wants to see him now.
He's tired of Malcolm avoiding him. He's tired of Malcolm spending his visit quietly pouting in that damn chair, with his legs so daintily crossed and his hands folded in his lap, as if he knows everything in the world when he knows nothing. Martin could have taught him so much more.
So he keeps calling. He calls. He leaves messages. Mr. David rolls his eyes every time, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't stop it.
Martin doesn't yell. He's quite calm, really.
And finally, Malcolm picks up. He sounds defeated, resigned, and Martin is delighted. It's the most perfect way his boy can sound. Malcolm should always sound like that, ready to obey Martin like he always used to.
"Hi, my boy," he says pleasantly. "Visiting hours have been going on for a bit...and I haven't seen you yet! You do want to still make up to me your awful behavior yesterday, don't you? Did we not agree on an extra visit to do that?"
Malcolm breathes out heavily, mimicking static over the phone. "Yes. We did. I'm—I'm on my way.”
That's what Martin likes to hear. Submission. “Good boy. See you soon, then.”
And so he waits.
And soon, he’s being tethered to the wall for his visitor. He hears the door open, smiling as he turns around, and then it drops from his face as he’s met with the sight of both his boy and his boy’s teammate, the big one—what was his name…?
“JT, isn’t it?” he asks. “What a surprise. I take it you have a case...I thought it was just going to be me and my son.”
“No case,” Malcolm says. His hand is shaking, but the second Martin's eyes travel down to it Malcolm shoves it in his coat pocket.
“Oh no? Then…” He tries to word himself as politely as he can, pointedly looking at JT. “Why is he here?”
JT leans against the door, arms crossed over his chest. He fixes Martin with a stare as Malcolm takes a seat in the creaking metal chair in the corner and, once again, neatly crosses his legs.
“For me.”
“For you?" It takes a moment for reasoning to set in. "Malcolm, my boy, you can’t possibly think I would hurt you...that you would need a bodyguard, do you?”
“No, Dr. Whitly."
"Then why—"
"Pretend he’s not there,” Malcolm says.
Martin can’t.
Every time he says anything at all, every time he doesn't, JT is there watching him, calculating, silent. Martin isn’t used to being stared down so thoroughly, so constantly.
It makes him very, very nervous.
“I’d prefer alone time with my boy, if you don’t mind,” he finally growls.
JT still doesn’t say a word, and he still doesn’t move. Malcolm has become more relaxed than Martin thinks he should ever be, leaned back with a little smile on his lips every time Martin hesitates or contemplates his words more carefully or, just once, stammers.
“Fine,” Martin says. “Our time is up anyways.”
“Is it?” Malcolm turns his wrist to look at the watch there. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Martin hums. He believes he understands by now.
His Malcolm, always so smart. Knowing Martin won’t say a word he really wants to when they’re not alone.
“Next time, my boy, come without a guest,” Martin says. Orders. His tone makes Malcolm’s hand start to shake again, and he’s relieved to still be in control.
Malcolm looks at JT, and then shakes his head.
“No.”
Martin absolutely seethes, trying to keep it hidden. “What do you mean no?”
Malcolm takes a deep breath. JT gives him a little nod that lets Martin know they’ve practiced whatever Malcolm’s about to say.
“Our...updated visiting schedule will continue as long as you want it to, but I’m not going to be alone.”
“Police business,” JT says at last. “You understand. Malcolm Bright is under a protective order by Lieutenant Gil Arroyo of the 16th Precinct."
“Malcolm Whitly is my son,” Martin hisses. It makes Malcolm flinch. “Gil Arroyo can—hmm. I would never hurt him.”
“We’ve heard otherwise,” JT says, and taps his index finger to his ear.
"Oh," Martin forces a laugh, "is Gil listening, too?”
JT only smirks at him. Martin wants to rip his throat out.
“Malcolm, this is nonsense. I’m not going to hurt you, I want to—”
“Whatever you want to say,” Malcolm says, shakily, “you can say in front of them. You’ll have to, unless…”
“Unless what?”
Malcolm swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles for a moment. Martin wants to fit his hand around that throat and squeeze until everything he wants to hear spills from Malcolm's mouth.
Then Malcolm takes a breath and says, “I visit on my terms. No more of this. No more harassment.”
Martin scoffs. “I’m not—”
“I had forty-seven missed calls just today, Dr. Whitly. No more of that. If I come when I want to and only then, I’ll come alone.”’
Martin sets his jaw. He smiles. “You’re my smart boy, aren’t you?”
Malcolm hides his hand again. He stays steady otherwise.
“Fine,” Martin says. He really has no other choice, and that bothers him. He’s going to have to do something about this, to put himself back in charge, but not yet. Not right now. “You win.”
“No more?” Malcolm breathes out in a rush, looking infinitely relieved.
“No more,” Martin agrees. “You come once a week.”
“Twice a month. Non-negotiable."
Martin's knuckles crack from how hard he flexes his fingers, curling it into a fist, then relaxing it again. “And you come alone?"
“Yes,” Malcolm says. “As long as you keep up your end of the deal."
“You should have told me I was making you uncomfortable, my boy,” Martin says, settling into a softer tone. “I never meant to.”
“I think you did,” JT says.
Martin will hurt them all, all in due time.
But for now, he’s polite. He pretends he’s defeated. He’s always been good at pretending.
He simply nods. He smiles a little bigger.
“Good,” Malcolm says. “Fantastic. I’m glad we had this talk.”
"As am I. Communication is key, dear boy."
JT knocks on the door, getting the guard’s attention.
“See you soon,” Martin says.
Malcolm gives him a tight-lipped grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
He thinks he’s won.
He hasn’t.
Martin will show him that he hasn't. And he will make Malcolm know it, know nothing else.
He waits until he’s untethered and alone again before he sits down at his desk, stretches, makes himself comfortable, and then starts to plan.