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For several long, agonizing moments after Paul strolls away from him, Malcolm doesn’t do anything but lay there on the ground and try to breathe without feeling like he’s being stabbed. His first instinct, once he’s sure he isn’t going to die then and there, is to call Gil. But then he remembers the locked door at the entrance to the tunnel, and realizes his…whatever Gil is to him now, won’t be able to get to him there anyway. Not any time soon, at least. He came down this tunnel alone, foolishly, and he’ll have to get himself out of it.
It’s slow going. Painfully slow, literally. He has one hand against the wall, holding him up as he staggers his way out, and one wrapped protectively around his middle. For all the good it does. Each step jars his battered body, each breath setting fire to his lungs.
Once he’s near the exit, he calls Gil.
It doesn’t go well. He should have been thinking about what he was going to say, but he’d been distracted by the pain, and when Gil answers he doesn’t have any excuses or explanations or lies to tell to blur the lines of how bad the situation really is.
“I think I need help,” is the first thing that slips out of his mouth, interspersed with some painful wheezing.
He can hear the flurry of movement as Gil rushes out of his office. He yells a bit, fear and anger evident in his voice as he gets Malcolm’s location from him, voice softening only when Malcolm assures him that he’s okay, he’s really okay, he isn’t bleeding or shot or concussed. Just bruised.
By the time he makes it to the door Gil is there waiting for him. He practically stumbles right into the other man’s arms, and he’s never been more relieved to feel Gil’s strong arms wrap around him, hold him up, hold him close. Safe. Gil has always meant safety to him.
“Jesus, Malcolm. What the hell happened to you?” Gil demands even as he gingerly wraps an arm around his waist. Malcolm throws an arm over his shoulder, and together, they manage to get back to the precinct. The going is much faster with Gil there to support him, and as they walk he tells Gil of his chase and capture in the turnstile, brushing over the fact that Paul had intended to kill him. He also brushes off the suggestion of an ER visit as soon as Gil mentions it, explaining that he’s waiting for a call from Paul and can’t risk being in the hospital when it comes. Gil counters by insisting that Malcolm is, at the very least, seen by a medic. Gil calls for one as they reach the precinct steps.
The medic is already waiting outside Gil’s office by the time they arrive. Malcolm watches Gil with a small, grateful smile as he goes around the office, closing the blinds between them and the bullpen, giving Malcolm some privacy as he starts to strip out of his jacket and shirt. The medic’s questions are direct and to the point, and Malcolm answers them as honestly as he can, knowing that if Gil—who isn’t trying to hide the fact that he’s watching—will bench him if he thinks that Malcolm is trying to hide a more serious injury.
Gil helps him out of his jacket and shirt, folding them carefully over one of the armchairs in front of his desk. Malcolm gets his first glance at the copious amount of bruises already spreading over his midsection, and casts Gil a furtive glance, carefully watching his reaction.
Gil’s jaw is working back and forth, his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest, even as he leans back against his desk, trying to act unaffected. Malcolm watches his eyes travel slowly over his body with a focus that would usually inspire much more pleasant thoughts. Malcolm shivers beneath Gil’s gaze; his brown eyes, normally filled with warmth and affection, now flat and hard. He wilts a bit, ducking his head. He knows he messed up, knows he was rash, foolish, needlessly self-sacrificing. And, while Gil has always cared about his well-being, it’s different now. There’s more between them than there ever has been before—more love, more worry, more to lose.
The medic seems to be a little off-put by Gil’s continuing, obviously displeased, presence in the room. He casts him confused little glances and even attempts to maneuver himself between Malcolm and Gil’s steady gaze at one point.
“It’s okay,” Malcolm whispers finally, “I don’t mind that he’s here.” He risks a quick glance in Gil’s direction, but his stony expression hasn’t changed.
The examination isn’t pleasant, but it’s quick. Some poking and prodding and the medic declares none of his ribs are broken outright—though he can’t rule out cracked. They’re heavily bruised, and he cautions Malcolm against any activities that might put more stress on them, which could lead to a break. He gives Malcolm some heavy duty painkillers and an ice pack that he wraps in a few layers of bandages, holding it in place over the worst of the bruising. Then the medic is packing up and scurrying out.
Gil follows, shutting the door behind him, and Malcolm thinks he hears the click of the lock engaging. He sighs, preparing himself for a lecture, and starts to shrug back into his dress shirt. The sharp pains that had been coming with each breath dull into an all over, constant ache that he can mostly ignore, but his movements are still slow, and he can’t quite hide a grimace as he works his way back into his clothes.
Malcolm is focused on doing up his buttons and doesn’t notice Gil’s approach until the other man is standing directly in front of him, brushing away his hands from where they’re starting to do up the buttons of his shirt. Malcolm glances up sharply at Gil, surprised, especially as the other man flips loose the two buttons that Malcolm had managed to do and pushes the two sides of his shirt back from his chest.
“Gil?” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. The other man’s silence is…unexpected. With the way Gil had been fuming earlier, Malcolm expected that he would have started laying into him by now.
Gil doesn’t meet his eyes, not at first. He brushes the tips of his fingers across the bruising on Malcolm’s chest, following the touch with his gaze until he slides his hands up to rest on Malcolm’s mostly unbruised shoulders. At last, he snaps his eyes up to meet Malcolm, searching his face. His expression is softer, now, and filled with too much emotion for Malcolm to decipher.
“Malcolm, what were you thinking?” he demands, though there’s no real heat to the words.
“I needed answers,” Malcolm replies, immediately going on the defense, ready to argue his point.
“You could have been killed!” Gil exclaims, meeting Malcolm’s stubborn glare with a frustrated glare of his own. “Why didn’t you call for backup? Why do you never call for backup?”
“I didn’t have time, and he wouldn’t have talked to me if I had,” Malcolm insists, but he’s losing steam, his argument sounding flat, even to himself. The deep concern etched across every line in Gil’s face as he looks down at him slices through Malcolm’s defenses, and he starts to feel the weight of exactly what he’d done.
“He wouldn’t have caught you and nearly killed you, you mean,” Gil counters, giving him a gentle shake.
Malcolm grunts, neither agreeing or disagreeing, and drops his gaze back down, reaching to start on his buttons once more.
Gil catches his hands in both of his, stilling them and pushing them down to Malcolm’s side. Malcolm looks up at him, confused, as Gil steps in even closer, dropping his hands to rest on Malcolm’s hips.
“Kid, if he’d killed you, I don’t…I don’t think I’d survive that,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.
“Gil, he has—” Malcolm begins, trying again to steel his resolve and brush off the older man’s concern, but Gil shushes him with a quick, gentle kiss pressed to his lips, catching him by surprise.
Before Malcolm can recover, Gil presses another kiss to his chin, where Malcolm knows the skin is rubbed red and raw. Gil moves on, dipping his head lower to pepper kisses across the bruises that spread across his collarbone.
“Gil, what…what are you doing?” Malcolm gasps out, mind racing as Gil continues to kiss his way across his chest, sucking just a little when he reaches Malcolm’s nipple because he knows just how sensitive Malcolm is. Malcolm sucks in a startled breath, exhaling with a soft moan.
“You, are more, important, than answers,” Gil tells him, pressing a gentle kiss to each and every bruise he comes across between the words. Then, Gil lowers himself to his knees, and Malcolm’s mind goes blank at the sight. Gil keeps his hands wrapped gently around Malcolm’s hips, tightening his grip to hold him in place when Malcolm instinctually tries to squirm away from the scrape of Gil’s beard as he peppers kisses across Malcolm’s stomach that tickle and nearly draw a giggle from him, despite the gravity of the situation.
“Jesus, Gil. What if someone comes in?” Malcolm asks, bringing his hands up to press weakly at Gil’s shoulders. Their relationship isn’t a secret, though they’ve always kept it professional at work. He knows exactly how their current position looks, and can only imagine the reaction if someone were to walk in to find the head of Major Crimes on his knees in front of his half-dressed consultant.
“Let them. Let them see how much you mean to me,” Gil replies, and Malcolm can see just how much he means it. “Let me show you how much you mean to me,” Gil insists, looking up from his knees to meet Malcolm’s bewildered gaze. His eyes are full of emotion—anger, terror, sorrow, frustration, and so much love it makes Malcolm’s chest ache with the intensity of it. How can he say ‘no’ to that?
Malcolm leans back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed as Gil presses his lips to the narrow strip of skin visible between the bandage and his waistband. Malcolm huffs out a laugh as Gil kisses his way along the very edge of his pants. “I’m not going to be decent enough to go out there if you keep this up.”
“Good,” Gil replies, and he drops his head to press one lingering kiss against Malcolm’s fly, right above where he’s starting to fill out under the attention. “If this is what it takes to keep you from rushing off into danger, I’ll happily do it more often.”
Malcolm gasps, and even though Gil moves away immediately, the arousal remains. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to put the image of Gil on his knees before him, mouth hovering just above him out of his mind and concentrate on anything else. “Gil, ah, Gil. Wait. There’s…what about Paul? He said he’d call—”
“Later, Malcolm. Just give me ten minutes. Ten minutes to remind you why you shouldn’t go throwing yourself into danger,” Gil says.
“Gil,” Malcolm begins, but his protest dies on his lips as soon when Gil nips at his skin, then kisses away the sting.
He works his way across Malcolm’s belly, leaving soft kisses over every inch of skin he finds, and Malcolm can feel when his lips pull into a smile when Malcolm giggles when it tickles. When there’s bandages in the way, Gil just kisses over them, carefully pressing a kiss against each of Malcolm’s bruised and battered ribs.
Malcolm sighs and feels himself relax ever so slightly, the remaining vestiges of adrenaline and fear fading away beneath Gil’s touch. He runs his hands idly across Gil’s shoulders and neck, sighing in pleasure when Gil finds particularly sensitive spots. With each kiss, Malcolm can feel the depth of Gil’s care for him, and he notices that Gil begins to relax as well, the tension fading slowly from his shoulders.
Gil rests his forehead against Malcolm’s sternum and lets out a long, heavy sigh. He presses one more kiss against Malcolm’s stomach, then slowly pushes himself back up to his feet, running his hands up along Malcolm’s sides as he does.
Malcolm’s eyes begin to fill with tears when Gil pulls him into a careful hug, cupping the back of his head and whispering “I love you so damn much, kid,” into his ear.
“I love you too, Gil. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Malcolm replies, and he is. He’s careless with his own life because stopping a killer seems vastly more important than his own safety. But now there’s more at stake than ever before, and he has more than just himself to live for.