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Pain, pain, pain, pain, pain, pain, painpainpainpainpain-
Adrenaline pounds through Malcolm like fire, breathtaking, dizzying, beautiful.
He's in so much pain right now, an unbelievable amount of pain. That's beautiful, too - but only because it's accompanied by the pounding of his heart and the unmistakable energy searing through every vein and cell and organ in his system. He's alive, bright, sparkling and burning like a flame, like a shooting star. Didn't quite keep him from huffing out a whimper through his nose, clenched teeth chattering furiously as his jaw trembled, pulling himself through the maintenance door and out of the elevator shaft. His mind still reels from the threat of death he'd just barely, narrowly escaped - if it were the first time, he'd probably feel a little more afraid. If he wasn't living at that moment, high on the adrenaline he'd needed in order to get himself up on his feet and stop himself from dying in the first place, he'd be afraid right then, too. He'd be afraid of the tiny little crawlspace he'd just managed to force himself into. With shuddering breaths, he stops for just a second and slumps himself back, half on his knees and tilted sideways against the wall beside him. He's small enough that he doesn't fill the entire crawlspace, but there's still only a few inches of space between his shoulder and the other wall.
His head leans sideways against the wall, forcing a huff, a sharp, heavy breath of an exhale, from his lips. It almost becomes a sob toward the end, so much pain splitting through his head in just the span of a few seconds that he almost wishes that he'd let the elevator crush him.
He doesn't dare touch. He keeps his hands, gloved and shaking, folded firmly around the skull just to remind himself not to touch. Further examination of his head wound could wait another time. Malcolm needs to get himself out of this elevator shaft. Clenching his teeth, he swallows, throat convulsing furiously, and forces in a whistling breath through his nose as he lifts his head from the wall and peels his eyes open one after the other, the world coming back blurred, tilted.
Malcolm takes another breath that comes out in a whimper and forces himself forward.
The adrenaline is quick to fade, leaving behind pain and fear in its wake. The fact that he's in a tight space doesn't help much either. He does manage to get back up on his feet once he gets deeper in, but where the height changes, the width does not, and it's just uncomfortable enough to keep him on edge. On the other hand, however, he realizes maybe he should be a little thankful for it. More than once, his feet almost give out underneath him and his legs threaten to buckle from a particularly sharp burst of pain, and he realizes that his head isn't the only thing that hurts. He ends up having to catch and support himself against the wall until he's all but collapsed against it and dragging himself forward with his shoulder, trying not to collapse.
He also realizes with a swell of anxiety that he doesn't even know where this is taking him. It was a maintenance door, though, and the only exit down there - so it had to be the way out. The man closed his eyes, moving along somewhat absently now, and nearly let his head smack sideways against the wall before he remembered that it was probably not a good idea to do that.
He doesn't know how far he walks. He only knows when he slams forward into a wall mid-step, thankfully only smashing his chest and shoulder and managing to keep his head intact, that he'd reached the end. Once again, he just stops for a second to rest, letting himself melt sideways against the wall and curling himself up a little as he presses his cheek to the concrete and squeezes his eyes shut, warm and stinging with tears. He can't believe how painful this is. His head, his sides, his legs, his back. Everything hurts. His head is, by far, the worst off; the agony is constant but wavering, fading out for a few seconds at a time before hitting him at full force. Every breath tightens his chest up and makes his back ache, spine tingling, sides bursting with agony. And his legs - god, his legs. The pain alone is bad enough. It doesn't help that they're steadily going numb, a tingle spreading from his ankles up to his kneecaps and still climbing.
The man let his mouth fall open, crumbling sideways against the wall, and exhales a breathy moan as his eyes slip shut again. Instinctively, his body curls in on itself, hugging his arms around his abdomen while his hand trembles around the skull, pressed tight into his ribcage.
He should move. He should keep going.
He doesn't want to.
He doesn't, not yet. But he does finally force his eyes open again to look around without lifting his head from the wall, letting his gaze trail and flicker around numbly. The space he's in now is bigger, thankfully, but still a little too small for comfort. Clearly only made for one person to come and go. He's small enough that another person might be able to squeeze in with him, but the room is small enough that him and someone else his size would still fill up the entire area. It's also dark, which doesn't bode well for him considering his vision is already screwed to hell and back, blurry and jumpy. Everything around him looks like it's shaking, trembling like an earthquake, but he knows well enough that his head injury is the cause for that. He wouldn't be surprised if his skull was cracked, fractured, even the smallest bit. It certainly hurts bad enough.
His gaze locks on a ladder and a groan forces its way from his lips, a sob quick to follow as despair quickly replaces the exhaustion that had been weighing down on him. He moans again, heaving out a whimper through clenched teeth. "No… god…" He's never getting out of here. He almost considers just giving up right then and there, just slumping back against the wall, curling up and accepting his fate. The skull seems to weigh a little bit heavier in his hand in response.
Right. Because he can't. And he doesn't want to.
And he's never been one for acceptance.
With a breath that feels like he's inhaling fire into his lungs, he finally, shakily, manages to lift his head from the wall, replacing it with his hand to give him enough leverage to push himself away. The motion alone is dizzying, and he has to clamp his jaws shut around another whimper as pain winds through his skull again, slow and steady and vibrant, violent, and terrifying, and-
"Fffffuck," Malcolm gasps, and sinks sideways again, suddenly unable to support himself.
He can't do this. He can't get out of here. He can't climb that fucking ladder by himself. The mere thought of trying to alone made his legs go numb again, tingling as they buckled underneath him. He doesn't know how high up it is, how far he'd have to climb to get out, but he does know that if he attempts to, he's going to fall. Again. And he doesn't think he'd survive another fall from any height - how high up had he been anyway? Three floors? He doesn't even remember falling. He doesn't even remember landing. He remembers being at the edge, peering down into the elevator. He remembers footsteps. He remembers turning, seeing a figure coming toward him, feeling hands on his chest as he was shoved backwards. He remembers feeling the floor disappearing from underneath his feet, remembers the adrenaline, the terror.
Desperately, he acknowledges that he should have waited. He should have waited for Dani to show up. He should have waited for backup, like everyone tells him to do. That sentiment had never been as emphasized as it is in that moment. If he'd stopped and waited, and didn't let himself get so caught up in this case, if he'd thought, even for a second, of the consequences… the man huffed out a groan and ducked his head, curling his fingers tighter around the skull.
He should have waited.
He wishes he'd waited.
… but she should be here, right?
A flicker of hope replaces the terror pinched in his heart, leaving him breathless for a moment as he tilts his head up toward the ladder. He takes a few shallow breaths, trembling, then sucks in a deep one, holding it for a moment. Then, as loud as he can, he forces himself to scream.
"HELP!"
It's simple, and short, but it still makes his head throb. He moans in response, huffing out a sharp sob and whimpering as he twists against the wall, pressing himself back hard and forcing his head back. He sobs again the moment it makes contact with the wall, throbbing and aching and pounding even worse than it had when he'd woken up. Tears sting his eyes, blurring his vision, and he wonders briefly if it's even worth it screaming for help if it might end up killing him in the process. Malcolm shudders, breath hitching, chest heaving in short, sharp bursts as he inhales and exhales through his nose, and opens his mouth only to breathe out a quiet whimper.
For a moment, it's all he can think about. Creeping down the back of his neck, trickling all the way down across his spine. Oh, his spine. His spine hurt. All the way from his neck to the base. Given how hard it was to breathe, he's also willing to assume that he's probably got a few cracked ribs. With a prickle of fear, he recognizes that it's a wonder he didn't break his spine.
With his heart in his throat, Malcolm realizes two things.
One, he's an idiot.
And two, nobody's coming for him.
This isn't a fantasy, after all, he thinks with a pinch of bitterness, an indescribable feeling like something akin to inadequacy. This isn't his perfect life. Nobody's coming for him.
Nobody knows to look, his mind shoots back, don't confuse them with your old 'team', Bright.
He heaves out a laugh into the darkness, but it trails off into a whimper, and then silence.
(He wishes he knew how to stop.)
He's not sure how long it takes him to move. It feels like an hour before he finally struggles to his feet, slipping and sliding against the floor and using the wall to brace himself one-handed while the other one clutches the skull tight to his chest, like a child holding a toy, a security blanket. The only thing that drives him to want to climb out in the first place, to finish the job. To close the case. Nothing else matters more, and that has never been screamed at him so loudly. Koll was right. His old partner had always been right. The case comes first. Always comes first.
Malcolm shudders, sniffles to clear his nose, and shuffles toward the ladder, grabbing onto one of the rungs with his free hand and leaning forward against it to stuff the skull in his pocket. Only when he's sure it's safe and secure and won't fall out, even if he falls off, Malcolm finally dares to move, stretching his arms up as high as he can, grabbing onto the highest rung he can reach - and huffing out a quiet sob in the process as pain rockets through his abdomen, his sides, his back, in response - and lifts up a shaky leg to scramble for a good enough hold on the bottom rung to pull himself up onto it. He almost screams as he does, taking a breath only to let it out in a high-pitched whine, sobs bubbling in his chest and ripping themselves from his throat as he heaves himself up and forces his feet up onto the bottom rung, stopping to steady himself.
His jaw works, clenching his teeth through a groan. He's glad he's wearing his gloves, though. The grip he has on the rung he's holding with both hands is tight, grinding down hard, but he's sure that without the fabric of his gloves against the metal, he'd have slipped right off at once.
He teeters for a moment, breathing heavily through huffs and sobs from his nose.
With slow movements, and as much precision as he can muster, he forces himself upwards.
More than once, he almost falls. More than once, his life flashes before his eyes in quick, steady bursts, visions alone that almost make him want to let go and let himself fall. But he continues, heaving himself up rung by rung, until he reaches the hatch. He's lucky enough that his hand bumps against it first when he reaches up to grab onto another rung, rather than his head.
With trembling fingers, he unhooks it, shoves it open, and crawls out. Hand. Leg. Hand. Leg. His shoe scrapes against the side of the hatch before he finally breaks free of it completely, steady against the floor, and lets himself collapse under his own weight. He crumbles to his stomach, softly but rather unceremonious, and slowly lowers his head down to touch his forehead to the cold floor. Tears find their way to his eyes again, but it doesn't matter this time. Doesn't matter how blurry his vision gets, how much his head hurts, how much he wants to just lay down and curl up and not move and just let himself crumble completely under the weight of his own relief.
He's out.
He's fine.
(Not fine.)
It's fine.
(Not fine!)
He's sure it's-
(NOT FINE!)
He heaves, groans and sighs, and forces himself onto his side. Shakily, he manages to reach into his pocket and grab for the skull, only further gratified the moment his fingers curl around it.
Now it was time to go. He had to go. You have to go, Bright.
With shaky, jerky muscles, stomach clenched tight with anxiety and relief at the same time, just glad to finally be out of that crawlspace - out of the elevator shaft, out - he manages to heave himself to his feet. He's frighteningly unsteady, and having the space to stagger and stumble and waver doesn't make things any better. He walks in zigzag motions all the way to the door, pushing it open with his shoulder and stumbling out. His arm hangs loosely at his side while the other one holds the skull close to him, eyes tracing the patterns on the floor numbly as he walks.
Fumbling, stumbling, unsteady, painful and uncertain. The world spins and spirals around him with every step, and his stomach clenches with stifled sobs every time he staggers a little too far to the side, every time his legs threaten to buckle under his weight and send him to the floor.
"Bright?!"
Malcolm heaves out another whimper through his teeth, audible only to him, and looks up.
Dani and JT are rushing toward him, concern written across their faces.
"You okay?" JT's eyes were wide with worry, his voice startlingly soft, tinged with disbelief and confusion and a surprising amount of fear. Malcolm breathes in through his nose, creasing his eyebrows together wordlessly for a moment. He stumbles again, another gasp and a sob ripping itself from his lungs as he almost topples off balance, almost rockets himself to the floor. The second he feels the floor disappear from under his feet, however, he feels himself lift up again immediately, falling forward into a pair of strong, steady arms, as JT catches and holds him up. "Bright? Bright. Hey, talk to me, man, are you okay? What happened?"
Malcolm shakes his head. His free hand lifts, drops against JT's shoulder, curls into his jacket briefly before he tips his head back. His stomach clenches with another whimper, jaw wobbling.
He squeezes it tight and rolls his head to the side, focusing on Dani.
Her eyes are wide, as urgent and concerned as JT sounds. "Are you okay?" She presses, sidling forward, brushing up against JT briefly and reaching around him toward Malcolm. Her hand hovers near his head, fingers brushing but not quite touching. Malcolm finds himself flinching back instinctively, a rare sense of self-preservation setting off the warning bells in his head that are usually oh-so silent, because he knows even the lightest touch will hurt like hell.
"Man…" JT starts, brows creased with worry. He turns to Dani after a moment, and seemingly because Malcolm is more or less unresponsive, insists, "we gotta get him to a hospital."
Malcolm forces a groan through clenched teeth, rocking his hand against JT's shoulder.
When they turn back to him, he finally lifts the skull and croaks, "I know who the killer is."
The looks on their faces are dubious at best.
Later that night, he sits with Gil, staring numbly at his hands while the man packs up his things. He's leaving for the night, with their killer locked away, another case solved, another job well done. He'll sleep easy tonight, knowing there's one less murderer out there. Malcolm, however, doesn't expect to get an ounce of rest. He'd cleaned up nicely for the most part, locked himself in the bathroom and scrubbed the dried blood from his head, using the running water to drown out his pained sobs every time he came into contact with the wound, head pounding and throbbing with pain. He hadn't been able to leave the bathroom for at least a half hour after that. It still hurt now, not as viciously or as vibrantly as it had ached before, but now it was more of an ache, an underlying simmer of agony under the surface, just strong enough he couldn't ignore it.
"Another job well done, kid," Gil murmurs, turning to face him as he turns his lamp off. Malcolm manages to lift his gaze back to him for a second before he looks down again. "Hey, you okay?"
He's not okay. He's never been in this much pain before, not for so long.
He's not fine.
And he's scared.
"Bright," Gil calls, moving closer. "Malcolm, hey - talk to me. What's going on? What's wrong?"
Malcolm only blinks a few times down at his hands, vision blurring and focusing again as he does, and folds them together as the right one trembles. He folds his fingers around it, squeezing slightly, and forces in a breath through his nose before looking back up to his mentor.
Barely above a whisper, he tells him, "I think I need you to drive me to the hospital."
Gil's expression shifts. Shock and worry clash for a second, flashing across his face rapidly. But it only takes him a moment to straighten up again, pulling his keys from his pocket. "Let's go."