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Thursday night. Just after 6.
Him bent over the edge of his side of the bed, still in his suit. Her in the kitchen, in a weathered grey tank and a pair of his sweatpants, rolled over at the top of her hips.
Him with his head propped up by a splayed hand, fingertips soothing worry lines. Her humming slightly off-beat with the obscure classical song playing on his stereo. The piano drips a soft, calm melody that slows her heart rate, but makes his take off at a pace that bangs against his chest.
There’s smoke in the air that she just can’t smell yet: a small, velvet box, burning a hole in his bedside dresser.
____________
Today had been a day filled with paperwork, or as JT would say, “administrative bullsh- I mean, bullcrap; sorry, Boss.” They’d wrapped up their case the night before, leaving report writing the only step left untouched, so Malcolm excused himself from coming in. All he did during paperwork days was park himself in a rolling chair beside Dani’s desk and read through scholarly articles on his phone; not coming in would give Dani a chance to focus, and JT a reprieve from their “so subtle, it’s gross” PDA.
In reality, he’d been waiting for this day to come for a while; he even helped pull the strings. It had been him who suggested that they all go home last night, and save “the bullcrap” for the morning. Gil had been one cup short of coffee and too wiped to disagree.
When 5am came, he’d watched (and often distracted) Dani as she got ready, hiding the pair of jeans she’d laid out the night before around the apartment in “the most sexually frustrating game of 'Capture the Flag' I’ve ever played, you asshole,” as she put it before surrendering to his lips once more. She’d left him with a cup of coffee and an affectionate middle finger lingering in the doorway before heading to the precinct, before his day truly began.
Ainsley had been practically skipping the entire walk down the Diamond district; she might’ve flown away if Malcolm hadn’t kept a fist on her sleeve. Her expression was so elated when they’d walked into James Allen that the associate who greeted them thought they were picking something out for her.
“Oh no, I’m his sister. I came here with him last time when he picked it out, just to make sure he didn’t screw anything up.” She’d clapped his back as they took off their coats; Malcolm hadn’t been sure if it was to let him know that her words were in jest, or to remind him to breathe as they approached a viewing counter.
And there it was. Personalized and shimmering and waiting inside a crimson, velvet box.
Dani's engagement ring.
_____
Ainsley had spent their whole trek home begging him to do it tonight. “The sky’s going to be clear,” she’d pleaded, “so take her for a walk! You can, I don’t know, find a bench or something. Break out into song, tap dance around a pole. Just do it, Malcolm; you can’t leave that sitting forever in your crusty underwear drawer.”
His face furrowed in disgust. “Ains-”
“You know she’ll find it if you wait and hide it in there.”
“How do you know that?”
“So you were going to put it in your underwear drawer.” Her nose crinkled. “Ew, bro.”
He’d thrown his hands up, rolled his eyes. “Why not? What reason does she have for going through my underwear drawer?”
“Malcolm,” Ainsley had tussled her hair with a sigh before turning back to him, her eyes serious over playful this time. “Just do it tonight, okay?”
She must’ve noticed the thoughts that were taking over his face, because of the way she’d squeezed his shoulder through his peacoat. “I know this is a big deal for you,” Ainsley murmured, begging his eyes to meet her own. Malcolm had stared ahead at his feet anyway, trembling fingers fumbling with the small box in his pocket. Hearing her words but trying not to process them.
“Actually,” she’d started as yanked them both to a halt, “I know what’ll help. You have 48 hours, otherwise I’m telling Mom first.” She blew a kiss in response to his panicked gasp, leaving him frozen as she continued on down the cool grey sidewalk. “Uh-uh, I mean it. Bye! Make sure you take pictures!”
____________
He’s pulled back to the present by the whirring of the electric kettle, and the soft pattering of Dani’s barefoot feet as she dashes over to shut it off.
The kettle pours, steam in contrast to the smoke emanating from the dresser drawer where the box now sits.
She’s probably making tea to go to bed, Malcolm’s mind muses. He looks up at the semicircular window before him, at the clear night sky.
He swallows. That doesn’t mean she can’t make some later. So he tries.
“It’s nice outside,” he speaks.
For a half second, she doesn’t register his voice over the keystrokes of piano music. Malcolm wets his lips to try again, but she turns, steeping a packet of chamomile.
“Wanna open a window?” She calls back. “I can change into a warmer shirt.”
Nevermind. “Oh, no- No, it’s fine. I was just looking at the sky, that’s all. It’s clear for a December night like tonight.” He offers a lackluster smile, no dimples, and turns back to stare into the grooves of the floor. Gritting his teeth behind closed lips, picking at his nails.
Something is fighting at his eyes- tears? Why tears? Because you can’t do it, his own thoughts retort. You never really could bring yourself to pull the trigger.
He hears the faucet turn on as Dani rinses out the kettle, and surmises that he’s lost tonight. She’ll settle in next to him with her book and sip her tea until sleep takes her. The sun will rise nearly 12 hours from now, and another case will take up their time. Dani will go back to the life she’s known these past few months, with nothing new in her life to speak of. He’ll go back to hiding, to locking parts of himself up, because nothing is better than everything he throws at her when he opens up.
The memories flash, scenes from a movie of his life before his mind’s eye. Confessing his tainted lineage to her with a lethal injection grazing his skin. His gallows humor about the horror movies (about himself, of course) that occupy his thoughts, unless he has a murder to keep him sane.
“Malcolm?”
He jolts.
Dani’s hand is warm from clutching her mug. He feels her run her palm across the planes of his shoulder through his suit jacket, crawling closer to him on the bed. “You okay?”
Another memory: the morning she’d asked him that, staring at what she’d dubbed his “never better shaky hand.” The one wrapped in a bandage, because you got explosive in therapy, he reminds himself. Remember how you told her about how fucked up your day was going? No much has changed since then, has it?
A breathless laugh escapes him. “I’m fine,” he lies as he feels her frame settle against his back.
Maybe fate is doing you a favor by not asking her out on a walk with you tonight, he tells himself as her chin rests behind him on his shoulder, as she massages his arm. Are you really sure you want to do this to this poor girl?
“The problem is me, and I can’t be fixed.”
He feels the pressure of her hand against his chest and gives in, falling backwards as she shifts to let him lay in her lap. Closes his eyes and helps her discard his suit jacket, his vest, his tie. When he finally looks up Malcolm finds nothing but adoration, albeit with some concern, gazing back down at him. Lithe, gentle fingers threading through his hair. The twinge of a smile on her face.
I love you, Dani. I’d do anything to make you happy. Anything.
“You wanna talk?” She questions, tapping his nose with her fingertip. Neither of them able to fight back a smile.
That’s why I can’t do this to you.
“You’re so good to me.” Malcolm softens, and her lips meet his before he can lift his head from her lap. He’s been with her so long that he forgets what kissing anyone else feels like, yet his stomach still jumps each time their lips lock. He could get used to feeling that way forever… If he could follow through on it.
“Well thank you,” Dani breathes when they finally (reluctantly; damn the need for air) pull apart. “Is that all?” She perks a brow, and finds the answer she needs in his reddening face and soft chuckle. “Hmm,” she tilts her head, brushing her curls back. “Thought so.”
He remembers being speechless in front of her while holding that landmine long ago, being evasive and prickly when she’d offered him comfort after he, unbeknownst to her, stabbed his own father. And yet she returned to him both times. She returned to him every time.
His laughter dissolves into a sigh. “You’re too good to me, Dani.” He passes a hand over his face, but still glimpses Dani’s features falling in response.
“Oh.” She turns her head back towards her mug for a moment, eyeing the steam drifting into the air on her bedside table. Her expression is so resigned that his heart squeezes with guilt.
This is why you can’t do this to her. All you do is draw her in, make her feel something, and then hurt her.
And yet…
“I’m sorry,” Malcolm squeaks. The pad of his thumb rubs up and down against the flushing color of the veins in her wrist. “I do this constantly to you, and you don’t deserve it. I…” He inhales. “I don’t know why I do the things I do sometimes. I’m still trying to figure myself out. Still trying to do better.” Her gaze is still averted, so he keeps trying. “Because I never really am doing better for you. I.. I don’t think I ever have.” He presses butterfly kisses into her wrist with his eyelashes, shielding his face from her. From his honesty.
At least now you know. Why this feels impossible. Why I’ll take this ring with me to the grave.
The wrist he hides behind lifts, and Malcolm feels Dani brush tears away from the rims of his eyes.
“Sit up,” she begs, her voice thick. “Look at me.”
When he does, his chest tightens at the pink, puffy corners of her doe eyes. Great, he chastises himself, now you’ve really done it. But rather than continue to berate himself, his demeanor changes, desperate to console her. One hand falls to the bed to help push him closer to her, the other reaching to capture her face. He hates himself, but he hates seeing her cry more.
Dani senses his plan, though, and stops him, trapping his hand on the bed into her own and curling her fingertips around the other that he’s extended out to her. She brings it against her cheek, giving him butterfly kisses of her own against his pinky and ring finger. Malcolm all but dissolves into liquid.
“Doing better,” she starts, “doesn’t mean you have to be at your best.” She brings the same hand away, staring at his palm before pressing her lips into it. “I don’t expect perfection from you, Malcolm. You’re already perfect enough for me.”
She sees him begin to crumble, so she scoots closer this time, bringing both his hands up to envelope her as she molds herself against him. She feels hot tears tickle her back as they fall, and wonders if he can feel hers through his shirt.
“And as to whether you’ve ever done better at all?” She speaks, taking a moment to kiss his neck and compose herself. “You seem to forget the man who gave me a lollipop at a horrific crime scene. Who was vulnerable enough to introduce me to his bed with chains, parakeet, night terrors and terror of a father.” They both laugh. “Who has been brave enough to disagree with me, and smart enough to level with me; who has listened to, comforted and consoled me through some of the most trying times we’ve ever been through.” She squeezes him into a tight hug as he lays his head against hers, their burning ears touching.
“And I’m no saint either. You tell me you love me even when I’m on the edge of my wild, PMS-induced rage, clean my hair out of the shower drain without complaining, and somehow you still don’t judge me for leaving my tea mugs sitting half-empty almost every night.” She bumps her nose with his. “So me, too good for you? Do you need glasses?”
They dissolve into giggles, foreheads together, staring at one another through their tears. Her arms come up and wrap around his neck as his hands slide down the slope of her curves, resting at her waist. They remain this way for a moment, limp but cradled around each other. Passive and quiet, intertwined and in love.
You’re forgetting something.
Malcolm clears his throat, kisses Dani’s hairline. “I want to take you out soon… I’m just too tired to tonight.” He pulls back to look at her, bridging her hands with his. “Is that okay?”
The memories resume their slideshow in the back of his mind: lying to her face about escaping house arrest. Displacing his anger onto her after Eve died. Begging him to believe her when he said he wasn’t a murderer.
He ignores them. Her response-both now, and someday soon when he takes her out- is more important.
____________
Saturday evening. Almost 8.
Malcolm’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he reluctantly breaks the kiss to check it.
Time’s up, loser, reads Ainsley’s text. I’m on my way to Mom’s now, Château ‘n’ all. A sidewalk selfie featuring her devilish grin and the handle of the wine bottle sit beneath the message.
A few minutes later, he responds back.
Too late, Malcolm replies, before following up with a selfie of him, and Dani, and the new ring on her left hand. They’re under the light of a street pole, wisps of falling snow surrounding them. He immediately follows up by dropping the same picture into the group chat he shares with his sister and mother, before locking his phone and shoving it back into his left pocket.
Dani elbows him. “You’re diabolical,” she teases, before bringing her left hand- she’s using this hand a lot all of a sudden, and he can only guess why- to pull his face into a kiss.
He grins against her lips. “I am not.” He ushers them onward, keeping her left hand entwined with his as he shoves both into his right coat pocket. There’s no way in hell she’s putting that glove back on now- not that he minds. “I just liked it, so I thought I’d put a ring on it.”