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“Hey, stop!”
Malcolm truly did hate when their suspects thought they could outrun the police.
When they took off in that hopeful sprint that, more often than not, was cut short by an officer awaiting their movements. Why did criminals believe that cops were stupid-- that they couldn’t predict a criminal running to evade an arrest? Where did the complex that they were superior to officers come from? That a single criminal could escape easily from a team of cops?
It was almost funny how confident criminals were in themselves; that they assumed they’d succeed in running.
It irked him, especially when there was a team of three highly experienced detectives (two detectives and a Lieutenant) and a criminal psychologist who was studying their every move.
The chase was totally the worst part of working these cases. Overly ambitious criminals who thought they were smarter than those after them. It never ended well.
Malcolm took off after him, cursing that Gil had called for the team to fan out in hopes of finding Oliver Fields before the man caught wind that they were there and took off.
And Malcolm had done just that; he’d not sure if he’s the lucky one to find the perp, or the unlucky one, considering he didn’t have any sort of weapon in his position as the profiler. So now, he’s staring down their killer, with no weapon. The killer just several steps ahead of him.
Malcolm’s profile had been neat and specific.
There was only one person who’d fit the profile to the smallest detail of all their suspects. One Oliver Fields, the man currently on the run from Malcolm.
They’d first met him early on in the investigation. He’d been brought in for questioning, being from the same circle as all three victims. That wasn’t a lot to go off—there were quite a few men in the country club the victims were all linked together with. They’d talked to everyone in the club when they first realized the connection.
The cops were used to being sent off on wild goose chases via the blame-game and people pointing their fingers at someone else to get the police of their backs when it came to investigations—but more members than not pointed the accusation at Fields.
Their worry was for good reason, Malcolm decided after just a few second with the man.
Malcolm didn’t have to study the man for long to decide there just wasn’t something right about the man. Right off the bat Malcolm didn’t trust him. He tended to keep an open mind and work the case further past assigning blame so early in the investigation, but Fields looked good for this.
He watched close and picked the man’s actions, expressions and words apart with a find tooth comb. Even from behind the one-way mirror as Gil and Dani interrogated their suspect, Malcolm had picked up on more than a few tells.
He was lying, Malcolm knew. But his alibis checked out.
He wasn’t off their suspect list, but there wasn’t much they could do with the alibis placing him out of town on all three weekends when their victims were killed and tossed over the George Washington Bridge to be found.
As clean as that alibi seemed. Malcolm still doubted.
Come on, three business trips on the specific three weekends bodies turned up and only those three weekends? Malcolm didn’t trust this man as far as he could throw him.
It raised red flags—and not just for Malcolm. The whole team got the same weird vibe from their suspect. Malcolm could see by just how the team shared glances. None of them believed Oliver Fields was innocent.
But, even if Malcolm had known this man was sketchy—that really wasn’t evidence enough to hold the man past their interrogation, let alone charge him of murder. The profiler’s gut feeling wouldn’t hold up in court.
They’d run into a wall, but Oliver Fields was nestled snugly in the back of the profiler’s mind. Brushed aside for now, but very much not forgotten.
It was too clean. Too put well put together and planned out. Nothing was that clean. Suspects are never that squeaky clean, unless they’re hiding something.
The team’s big break in the case had come in the form of an anonymous caller reporting in what she’d thought was a kidnapping. The victim, Kenneth Burke, had been staying at the hotel whilst finalizing his divorce with his wife.
It matched up with the three others they currently had in the morgue—wealthy, divorced. Older in age. And, Kenneth was also a member of the same country club as the other three.
The car to take Kenneth had plates, which, via traffic cams, had led the team to an abandoned warehouse building leased under Oliver Fields’ name.
And from there, Oliver Fields’ perfect innocence began to crumble.
This was definitely enough to bring the man in for abduction at least. Murder was still questionable, but with the abduction charges they could hold him until they could get the evidence they needed to put him away for his crimes.
They’d found Burke held captive, chained to a metal bar in a room hidden away in the old warehouse. JT had been tasked with staying with the vic and sorting out a bus to the hospital for him. They’d split up after confirmation from Burke that Fields was still in the building.
Of course, it was Malcolm to find the man. Isn’t it always the one with no weapon to find the criminal?
He’d tried to talk him down. To relate and bring him in swiftly with his power of criminal persuasion. To understand him.
But Fields wasn’t having it.
He’d flipped the table he was behind to slow Malcolm down before turning on his heels and sprinting away. Malcolm reframed from rolling his eyes at the cliché of the criminal attempting to get away before taking off after him.
Malcolm chased after him—down a flight of stairs and out a door to the abandoned underground parking lot. Fields stumbled, tripping just the slightest amount and Malcolm used that to his advantage to take the killer down. He threw himself at the man, both of them toppling onto the concrete in a heap.
Fields fell backwards on the concrete, Malcolm landing on him. He almost cringed as Fields’ head connected with the concrete—but then Malcolm remembered who this man was.
The blow to the head barely stilled him, and before Malcolm could even think he was thrashing to get away. Shoving and throwing his body weight up in an attempt to throw Malcolm off. He wiggled below Malcolm, and the profile struggled to keep him down.
Malcolm did his best to neutralize him, flailing for Fields’ hands to trap against the concrete, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch the flurry of flailed limbs. The perp snaked a hand down, pulling up fast and before Malcolm could breathe a word to him. Fields lunged up, in a flash of strength, and then something sharp was piercing Malcolm’s side.
Oh... oh.
He’d been stabbed.
His side pulsed in beat with his increased heartrate, and for a moment, his brain was hazy about how to handle the situation. Catching the criminal won over. Especially when said criminal still had a knife and apparently wasn’t afraid to use it.
Malcolm forced away the adrenaline haze threatening to consume him—wanting to crumple to the floor in exhaustion and managed to focus everything he had left on Fields.
Malcolm choked on a breath, wincing as the other tugged his arm back, blade following out as a flood of pain washed over Malcolm. The pain was accompanied by a gush of blood now that the foreign object that had been nestled in his body was removed.
His hand twitched to put pressure on the wound, but there were more pressing matters.
Fields reared back, ready to strike again, but Malcolm was quick to slap the knife away. One stab wound was enough, thank you. They fought again, Fields trying to knock Malcolm off, and punch him, while Malcolm tried his best to keep him down, wound still steadily bleeding at his side.
His side ached with each unsteady movement, and he could already feel a steady stream of blood soaking into his shirt and suit jacket. He was so glad he’d chosen a dark suit that morning.
“You’re not going to win,” Malcolm seethed out between gritted teeth fighting against his own body begging to shut down and the criminal under him, still trying to break away, “back up is on the way, and my team is here. They’ll find us—they’ll find you.”
“I don’t see no team. You cops don’t scare me,” Fields snapped, finally getting the upper hand and shoving Malcolm backwards. He let out a sharp breath as the wind was knocked out of him, finally allowing himself to touch the wound and get a basis of how threatening it really is.
His fingers were instantly coated in blood, thick and sticky. And it felt pretty deep— definitely ached like it was deep, but he couldn’t let himself bleed out on the floor right here. Not with their criminal just at finger’s reach.
He wasn’t sure where he’d pull the energy to stand himself back up from, but he was going too. Oliver Fields would not get away. He’d not take another innocent life—and, well, preferably not Malcolm’s either.
Fields managed to roll himself over and push himself to his feet, but his steps faltered. He tripped and staggered, like he’d been drinking—but Malcolm knew it was the effects of his head bouncing off the concrete. He had a concussion for sure, it was just a question of how long he’d be able to last with said concussion before the effects really hindered his escape.
They were still on an even playing field. Head injury and stab wound—the odds were in neither of their favors.
Malcolm halfheartedly wiped his bloodied fingers on his slacks, sucking in a pained breath as he pushed himself up as well, hand slipping on his own blood as he tried to get up. It took two attempts for Malcolm to push himself, sucking in shallow breaths through his teeth as he did so, before he was moving after the other man.
Malcolm’s own steps faltered as a wave of nausea crashed over him. Maybe it was the smell of blood, or the blood loss—whatever it was, it wasn’t playing nice with his senses.
Malcolm chased the other up one last flight of stairs, adrenaline sweeping through his body at the knowledge that at the top of the stairs was a door leading to the outside world where Fields could make a break for it if the concussion didn’t get to him.
Malcolm stumbled halfway up the stairs, four or five steps behind the killer, hand reaching out to steady himself on the wall before pushing himself forwards. Up those last few steps, cringing as Fields pushed the door open, freedom just before him, because there was no way in hell Malcolm would be able to chase him any further, and--
Fields hit the ground.
Dani stare down at the man with a grim look before her attention flickered to Malcolm, bright eyes calculating as they usually were when she stared him down, “Bright, you good?”
Malcolm glanced down at himself, surprised to not see a noticeable blood stain—or it would’ve been in anything other suit than the black one he was wearing. He could see the blood, but he knew it was there. Dani probably couldn’t see it in the poorly lit stairwell.
“Peachy,” Malcolm forced out, casually tucking his hand against the stab wound where he applied what little pressure he could manage, appendage hidden behind his suit jacket. He fought back a wince, blowing out a pain breath that Dani didn’t seem to catch.
He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to think of a good way to inform his team he’d been stabbed. Was there a good way to do it?
How did one go about that? Do you just say it outright? Ease into it? Let them find out on their own?
Dani barely had a second to study his face, before her attention was stolen away when Fields groaned and moved slightly, palm planting on the ground to push himself up. The guy just wouldn’t quit, would he?
Dani reached up to touch her earpiece as she trained her gun on the withering perp, clicking the safety off as a threat that had Fields freezing in spot, “this is Powell, suspect has been apprehended. Bright was tailing him and I cut him off on the east wing stairwell when he tried to flee.”
Malcolm wavered as a bout of lightheadedness struck, managing to pull himself out of it just before tipping backwards down the stairs. He blew out a shuttered breath, turning just enough so when he tipped backwards a second time, his back hit the wall and he could slide down to a safe seated position.
His head spun as his ass hit the stair, leg stretching out in front of him for support. The wound under his hand felt gummy now, but it was still actively bleeding. He could feel the blood leaching up his white button up and pooling around his belt.
There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that his blood was starting to pool below him too, now that he was immobile. Only so much could soak into his clothes.
“Bright?”
He slowly lifted his attention from where he’d been absently staring down at his torso. His head lulled back down without a word, consciousness flickering. Blood loss wasn’t much fun.
Dani had at some point cuffed Fields and was now focused on him. She stepped around Fields, who was on his stomach with his hands cuffed behind his back, possibly even more immobile than Malcolm was, to where she crouched down beside Malcolm, pointer finger and middle finger slipping under his chin and forcing his blurry gaze onto her. “Bright. What happened?”
“We need a bus,” Malcolm mumbled out, looking up at Dani with fluttering eyes. He managed to keep eye contact as she cupped his jawline between her hands, forcing his focus onto her, “he, ah, Fields hit his head in the... uhm, the parking garage. Concussssion.”
“Bright,” Dani warned, voice bordering on frantic, “what happened to you--”
A pause. Abrupt. Shocked. Dani cut herself off.
Her attention dropped, hands leaving his face where his head sagged at the loss of support. And then she was ripping open his suit jacket and cursing under her breath as she pushed his hand away, “holy shit, Bright!”
Malcolm’s chin bumped against his chest as he stared down at Dani’s single hand putting far better pressure on the wound than he had been, even after he’d added his second hand to the mix. Her other hand was on her earpiece again, talking frantically to Gil... or JT or maybe even a 911 operator— it was far too fast for Malcolm’s blood-loss lagged mind to comprehend though. It was a jumble of words.
His consciousness came and went, and he picked up on very little of what Dani was saying. The frantic words, and the anxious waver of her voice. Nervous. Maybe even afraid.
“--shot or something--”
Malcolm caught that.
“No,” he slurred, trying to hoist himself back up from where his back had been slipping down the wall, “stabbed...”
“Doesn’t really matter Bright,” Dani growled down at him, but there was no heat behind it, “he says he was stabbed, not shot—either way he’s bleeding out. Damnit Bright, why didn’t you tell me?”
It sounded like a pretty rhetorical question, and if he’s honest, he’s not sure he could even really form any additional words. “Stop moving, you’re making it bleed more,” Dani snapped, and Malcolm gave up the fight of trying to keep himself upright.
He slipped all the way down, almost completely reclined against the wall at the top of the stairwell. His head was the only thing still upright, neck caught between the wall and his slumping body. He didn’t mind.
There was commotion after that, but Malcolm could barely follow it. He thinks he can hear Gil’s voice, and then Dani’s hands are gone and someone else’s are pressing hard against the wound. He hears JT talking Dani down, he thinks, and then the older man is taking a swearing Fields away.
Malcolm thinks he mumbles another reminder about the other’s headwound, but he’s not so sure. His own hand lifts to fall over his own injury, settling on top of someone else’s hand over the wound before his hand falls limply to the ground beside him.
The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is Dani crouching beside him by his head, her hand softly tapping his cheek. She’s speaking too, but he can’t hear anything over the thrumming of his own heart.
Malcolm spent two days in the hospital. The first, he’s barely conscious. Upon arrival at the hospital, he’d quickly been taken to the OR for emergency surgery to inspect the damage and stitch him up.
It was a clean stab, he’s told.
Ainsley, his emergency contact, sits beside him on the edge of his hospital bed listening intently to the doctor. Malcolm’s fatigued, but he tries to listen along too, not that anything the Doctor says will really change his mind when it comes to the decision between returning home to his own bed, restraints and privacy, and staying here at the mercy of the hospital staff’s ideation of his wellbeing.
The choice is obvious.
Besides, it missed all his organs, and the damage, though it bled a lot and he’d needed a blood transfusion, was a pretty straight-in straight-out kind of wound. And that was good enough for Malcolm. Nothing extremely life-threatening about that—no need to subject himself to the torture that was a hospital admittance for longer than was strictly necessary.
All in all, it wasn’t that bad.
It wasn’t good by any means, but it wasn’t bad. No real damage, and all his organs were still in working order. He’d consider that a victory—or, victory enough that he wasn’t going to sit around for however long the hospital wanted him too. Plus, he’d always though the requested observation time was a waste of both time and money.
So, yeah, it was a moderately okay stab wound.
Was... that a morbid thing to say? It didn’t matter, it was the truth.
Malcolm had signed his way out of the hospital against medical advice as soon as he could stand himself up without nearly passing out in pain. Ainsley had shot him a dirty look as he scrawled his name across the AMA form, but he ignored her effortlessly. Her attempts to talk him out of it hadn’t been unheard, but completely ignored.
They couldn’t force him to stay. And Ainsley of all people should know that—she had, after all, known him her whole life. There was no talking him out of this, even if she still liked to give it her best shot anyways.
He could understand their hesitance to let him go, considering he’d been under anesthetic in the past forty-eight hours and they generally liked to keep patients who’d been stabbed, undergone surgery and had a blood transfusion in for a bit longer than two and a half days.
But Malcolm was strong willed and... Gil wasn’t here to guilt him into staying in this current moment.
The team had been busy finishing up the case and Fields’ arrest, at least he’d gathered from the half-hour visits with Gil he had in the mornings before the older man went into work. Dani and JT he hadn’t seen yet, since only family had been allowed in the hospital room—another reason to not stick around.
Gil had been an exception, since together Malcolm and Ainsley had protested Gil’s importance and with his position in the NYPD they’d been given the slightest amount of lenience from the hospital’s family only rule.
Malcolm walked out of the hospital just after noon on that third day after he’d been stabbed. Ainsley trailed behind him, and they shared a cab. She was still irritated with him, but he was generally used to his little sister being lippy with him.
The cab dropped Ainsley off at work first since it was the closest to the hospital. She didn’t look very impressed as Malcolm ushered her back to work; he’d settled his hand on hers with a soft promise that he’d head home. She’d given him an uncertain look before sighing as she checked the time on her phone. She pressed a kiss to his cheek before finally ducking out of the car, shutting the door behind her.
It’s really her fault for believing him.
He had headed home, but just to change into clean clothes, which consisted of a pair of sweats and a long sleeve shirt. He thought briefly of dressing up for the precinct—being normal, but he couldn't be bothered. And he had a free pass considering he’d been stabbed.
Malcolm called another cab to bring him to the precinct, wincing and biting his lip as his wound was jostled on the trip. The city should fill some of the potholes. He settled his hand on the wound, managing a smile when the cab driver shot him an uncertain look and questioned if he was okay.
He was. He tells the driver as much with a lopsided grin through the tugs on his stitches.
He’s feeling a lot less motivated to be a part of the end of the case when he finally walks into the precinct. JT and Dani are both distracted at their desks, and if he stands on his tiptoes (the stretch of the stitched being tugged taut from that motion burns) he can just slightly see Gil avidly working away in his office as well.
Malcolm’s hand is still pressing against his wound as he walks towards Dani and JT, but he remembers to pull away before arriving beside them, hand dropping down onto Dani’s desk, “need any help?”
Dani’s attention settled on his hand before her gaze slowly climbed up his arm to his face, a distinct uneasy glare on her features as he eyes him. He sees anger in her eyes, but he also sees an underlying glimmer of relief.
There’s a pause, maybe of surprise, or disbelief and then: “From you? No. Do you ever take breaks?”
Malcolm pouts, leaning against the edge of her desk and blowing out a soft pained sigh. Everything’s tugging on his stitches. Maybe that’s why the hospital wanted to keep him a few more nights?
The stretch is bearable he decided.
“Uh, shouldn’t you still, y’know, be in the hospital?” JT’s standing now, giving Malcolm a onceover, eyes narrowing where he’d been stabbed. Malcolm self-consciously settled a hand over the bandage wrapped stitches and JT’s eyes lift back to his face.
“You’d think so,” Malcolm agrees, eyebrows furrowing as he lets himself settle on the edge of Dani’s desk more securely now that he knows she’s not going to shoo him away, “they tried, actually, but AMA’s are exemplary for people like me. They legally can’t keep me there, so, I left.”
“I think you mean crazies like you,” JT corrected, arms crossing across his chest. He was shooting Malcolm an unimpressed look. Malcolm stifled a laugh, one shoulder lifting in a shrug.
“We’re all a little bit crazy, Jack,” Malcolm snorted, hands intertwining together and setting against his thighs. He shot JT a playful grin, one that hopefully conveyed that he was fine.
JT’s lips quirked up in a faint smile, head tilting just slightly, “not quite it, champ.”
“There’s only so many ‘J’ names, Jeremy. One of these days I’ll guess right.”
“Not even close, and...” JT’s eyes lit up with the slightest amount of humor as he leaned against his desk, “who’s to say you haven’t already?”
Malcolm opened his mouth to retort, but it clicked shut with another pout. How many names had he already tried over the time he’d known the detective? Had he guessed right at some point? Would JT really lie about it? “That’s cruel.”
The detective snorted a laugh.
"Let’s just acknowledge that some are more so crazy than others,” Dani tilted her head up at him, head supported by her fist. Her tone held the faintest tease, but her smile delivered the playful jab perfectly. “Any guesses who’s topping that list, Bright?”
“Alright, alright,” Malcolm scoffed, his own lips curving into a smile, “point taken, I’m insane for signing myself out of the hospital so soon, I get it. Bad decision.”
“Wow, you're learning,” Dani teased, shooting him a small smile that looked more like she was baring her teeth at him, “go home and rest then. You were stabbed.”
“But the case--”
“Bright.”
Malcolm swirled his torso towards the voice, mouth drying when he caught Gil’s stiff stance. The man was stood in his doorway, a look of worry clouded irritation in his eyes. Gil’s arms were crossed over his chest in a looming sort of way, and Malcolm was sure if they weren’t currently in the precinct, his foot would be tapping an annoyed beat.
His quick movements tugged the stitches in the worst way, and he wheezed in pain before he could stop himself.
Dani’s hand settled on his hip, but he was quick to wave her, and both Gil and JT who looked seconds away from jumping him, off. “Fine... I’m fine, all, oh, all good. Just... pulled on the stitches a bit. It’s okay.”
Gil’s eyebrows furrowed in worry, arms dropping as he strode towards the team. He paused at Malcolm’s side, giving him a onceover similar to the one JT had, before narrowing his eyes, “so, any particular reason you’re in my precinct at least a week before you’re even eligible to be examined for any return to active duty, instead of tucked away in the hospital room I visited you in just this morning?”
“I’m all better?” Malcolm suggested playfully, crossing his own arms across his chest and fighting back the wince as the action tugged at the stitches.
“Those seven stitches in your side would beg to differ--”
“Hey, it’s only six stitches. Seven’s a little excessive, Gil.”
“Excessive?” Gil’s tone lightened in disbelief as he rolled his eyes. “You know what? I’ll bite. We both know, either way, six isn’t much better than seven, Kid. And how many drugs are you on right now to even be up and moving?”
“I’m always on drugs,” Malcolm scoffed, “what’s a few more to the ever-growing collection? I’m fine, Gil. Really—I mean, the hospital wouldn’t have let me go if I was on my deathbed, right?”
“Uh huh,” Gil huffed, arms finally dropping to his sides. “They’ve got no real pull there. Especially not on you. You’d sign an AMA even if you were on your deathbed--”
“Which I am not,” Malcolm insisted with a tiny smile. “It was just a little stab wound—more like a nick really—”
“That’s still a stab wound, Bro,” JT grunted from over the desk divider. Malcolm shot him an unimpressed look, and JT returned a matching glance. He really wasn’t helping Malcolm’s case. “And you’re mistaken, we all saw your battle wound, Bright. That wasn’t no nick.”
“--besides,” Malcolm continued as if JT hadn’t aided in undermining his attempts, eyes returning to Gil, where he laid on the puppy-eyes he’d learned from Ainsley when they were younger—it never failed to make Gil and Jackie putty in his hand whenever he was staying over with the two of them. He wondered briefly if he still had it, “it missed all my vital organs. I’m fine.”
Malcolm refrained from letting the small victorious smile shine as he watched Gil’s hard expression crumble. “I want to help with the case, isn’t there anything I can do?”
“...paperwork.” Gil finally sighed out rubbing his eyes with his thumb and middle finger in an exhausted sort of way, “that’s the only thing in your wheelhouse right now, Kid. Take it or leave it; and let me remind you that leaving means leaving the precinct all together until I’ve got an approved for duty medical exam on my desk.”
“Taken,” Malcolm frowned. Not overly exciting work, but at least Gil wasn’t forcing him home like he knew the older man was itching to do.
“Perfect,” Gil snorted, “anyone care to join Bright in the Major Crimes room to make sure he doesn’t kneel over or anything?”
“That’s a bit overly dramatic--”
“I will,” Dani shrugged, already standing and shuffling her case files into an organized pile, “I already saved his life once, might as well be around to do it a second time when he inevitably does something stupid.”
“I don’t always do stupid things,” Malcolm pouted, “it’s fifty-fifty--”
“Yeah, maybe where both sides of your coin say ‘stupid’.”
“You’re making it out like I wanted to get stabbed,” Malcolm scoffed, small smile on his lips. “It was just as much a surprise for me, as it was for you.”
“You don’t?” Dani teased, patting Malcolm’s shoulder with a condescending yet surprisingly gentle hand, “could’ve fooled us.”
“You know what?” JT snorted a laugh, “I’ll come too, this might be funny. So, when are the two of you getting married because ya argue like an old married couple?”
JT gave a laugh, brushing off the matching scowls both Malcolm and Dani shot his direction.
Gil gave a heavy sigh, gesturing to the Major Crimes room. He wasn’t sure how being the Lieutenant of a team of amazing detectives (and whatever Bright was) sometimes felt like he was running a daycare. He watched them disappear into the room with a light smile before making his way back to the silence of his office.
“Wait, wait, wait, he asked for a bus for... for Fields when he was literally bleeding out?”
“Yep,” Dani gave a nod. Her attention was focused on the files she was reading, but her lips quirked up.
“He hit his head,” Malcolm defended, teeth sinking into his lip as he tried not to groan, “I wanted to make sure he was taken care of--”
“While you were bleeding out.”
“Ookay, fine, yes.” Malcolm rolled his eyes, leaning back in the chair as best he could without straining the stitches in his side. His meds were starting to wear off, but he really didn’t want to pop a pill with Dani and JT watching him like a hawk, “I probably should’ve mentioned that. My bad, I’ll do better next time.”
“And you tried to tell me you didn’t intentionally get stabbed, already planning next time, Bright?”
“You know what I mean,” Malcolm scoffed fondly, “if it happens to happen again.”
“And you definitely should tell someone when you've been impaled by some baddie-- actually, give us updates if you scrape your knees on a case,” Dani agreed, eyes finally lifting from the paper. "We're going to have to bubble wrap you at this point."
“Har-har," Malcolm furrowed his eyebrows, but a smile still tugged at his lips, "let’s be honest, there’s no good way to inform your team you’ve been stabbed, is there? Besides, catching Fields was the more important thing. And we did... yay team?”
“Nah, Man,” JT shook his head, speaking before Dani could, “most important part is making sure we’re all alright. Catching the perp’ll always come second to keeping yourself and your team alive.”
JT was quiet for a second, “he’s right though, there is no good way to tell the team you’ve been stabbed.”
Malcolm shot Dani a look, gesturing to JT as he let out a relieved, “thank you!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dani rolled her eyes, before her gaze settled fondly on him, “just don’t wait till you’re seconds away from losing consciousness before mentioning it. You scared us.”
“I promise,” Malcolm agreed solemnly.
“And for the love of God, if you ask for an ambulance for someone else when you know damn well you need one yourself, I’ll be calling you a hearse instead because I’ll kill you myself.”
Malcolm swallowed, sharing a scared look with JT before giving the woman a small nod.
“Noted.”