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For as long as Gil knew Malcolm, the kid had been horrendous at listening. For a long time, in the beginning, Gil had figured it was one of two things: either he was directly disobeying authority figures due to his father's rather unique occupation and subsequent arrest, or he had a learning disorder that miraculously spared every bit of him save for the part of his brain activated only when Gil gave him a direct order.
"Stay here" would become, "go over there" and, "don't do anything stupid" was translated to, "do something absolutely moronic". Or, at least, that was what Gil figured had been running through the kid's head.
Over the years, what had really been going on slowly revealed itself. Whether or not Malcolm had intended for that to happen, Gil wasn't sure, but it was quite obvious once Gil knew what to look for.
Malcolm's issue wasn't disobedience, nor was it adolescent aggression. Rather, it had been the simple fact that he needed to move. The kid couldn't sit still. Couldn't wait around for long without becoming restless.
Gil had figured it had something to do with his incessant night terrors, his overactive brain producing a hyperactive workaholic. Malcolm didn't listen, but it had been something Gil knew how to work with. Occupy the hands and the brain, and his kid went quiet. Keep him busy and he was content for sometimes upwards of days until his puzzle was solved. But being unable to listen had a fatal flaw, one that would never have been exploited if Malcolm would have chosen literally almost any other profession.
A listening issue was horrendous to have when facing off with a serial killer holding him hostage.
"Quit fucking squirming!" the man hissed, rattling Malcolm's skull from where he had his fingers fisted at the crown of his head. He snapped Malcolm's head back, enough to make the veins of his neck stand. "Just--" Another jerk in the opposite direction had Malcolm slowing his relentless fidgeting.
Malcolm had been cuffed and silenced, judging by the bruise purpling his jaw and a lack of a gag in broad daylight. Their killer had been a cocky bastard who played with his food, but that had been dependent on two things: his victims being scared and listening.
And Malcolm was neither scared nor listening, it seemed.
A moment after he stilled, Malcolm began thrashing again, ripping at the handcuffs their killer had stolen from the cop he had killed only hours prior. Gil kept his gun raised as he glanced around Malcolm's trashed apartment. His kid had put up a fight, that was for sure, and if Gil hadn't ran up to give him the pen he had left in the Le Mans, he could have very well been killed...
The thought had Gil's chest tightening. He focused his tension to his stance, tightening his shoulders as he glared down the body of his gun. "Let him go," Gil spat. "Or I'll put you in a body bag."
The killer shook Malcolm's head again with the handle in his hair. "Him too?" His eyes flicked down to Malcolm as sneer curled his lips.
Malcolm thrashed some more. He pulled at the cuffs. A clean crack split the air and Malcolm went rigid. If his jaw hadn't been broken, Gil figured they'd strangled sound that left him would have been a scream.
Damnit, Gil just needed a clear shot.
One fucking shot. He could take the son of a bitch out as soon as Malcolm was out of the way.
Gil's finger cramped around the trigger. He choked down every breath he could get. Panic would do him no good, but even the notion of missing hitting Malcolm made him lightheaded with anxiety.
The killer shrieked, "Hold still, for Christ's sake!"
Malcolm slumped forward--
Gil pulled the trigger.
He went down in a spray of gore as the bullet tore through his forehead, just above his eyebrow. The man hit the ground as Malcolm stumbled away on his knees.
Surging forward, Gil dropped his safety-locked gun and caught Malcolm by the shoulders. Up close, he could see the tears glittering in his eyes, could see the dislocation of his jaw and the tear in his hand from where he had snapped the bone in his thumb. It had been the same damn place he had broken it when with Watkins...
"Bright, just stay still, okay?" Gil wrestled to free him from his cuffs. "Hang on, hang on." As soon as they unlocked, Malcolm's good hand flew to grab Gil's jacket. He dropped his forehead to Gil's chest and let out a heavy sigh. It deflated his whole body, leaving him half-boneless against Gil's chest.
Gil wrapped an arm around him. "You're okay."
Malcolm nodded minutely. He swallowed a groan of pain. Gil patted his back gently. The red and blue lights of backup eased his aching heart, his fear that made him both too hot and too cold.
Slowly, he gathered Malcolm closer. "Come on, kid." Gil hauled them to their feet. "Let's go."