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Malcolm will admit he’s still reeling from his dismissal from the FBI.
Who wouldn’t be? Ten years of service and he’s dropped at the snap of some snooty higher-up's fingers. All those years of hard work, cases solved, murders brought in. Malcolm’s keen mind solving cases at record speed; seeing things others generally miss.
It was a derogatory and bordering on slander dismissal, if Malcolm's honest.
Almost wrongfully fired depending on which angle you looked at the situation from.
They’d been waiting patiently in the shadows, waiting and watching for him to screw up; for him to give them a reason to let him go. It had been rocky since they realized who his father was, the FBI was powerful, and he honestly hadn’t expected to hide behind ‘Bright’ as long as he had.
There was a shift when the Whitly name was brought up, and from that point on, he believed they were just waiting for him to dig his own grave.
They’d been lenient with him—well, up until now. But, who’d have thought it would’ve taken a right-hook across a sheriff’s jaw for them to finally shove him backwards into the pit of unemployment.
He wasn’t sure they really had a right to fire him as they did. The incident was one thing, but what they’d said—comparing him to his father. He wasn’t being fired for almost breaking a Sheriff’s jaw, he was being fired for who he was.
The punch could’ve easily been overlooked—it wasn’t like the sheriff was an innocent party. Malcolm had watched the man shoot a nearly unarmed man. That was against some rule somewhere, he was sure.
He could see his dismissal for what it really was; the FBI using anything they could to shove him out the door. To rid themselves of the man who was frankly a bit too crazed about murders, who happened to be directly related to one of the most notorious serial killers of the century.
Because everything always gravitated back to that cruel connection to his father. It didn’t matter that he’d tried for twenty years to sever his ties to his father. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t even seen the man in ten years. It didn’t matter that Malcolm had chosen to be Dr. Martin Whitly’s son.
Family relations just always have a bitter vengeance that comes back and finds a way to bite you in the ass no matter what.
It’s really their loss, letting him go as easily as they had.
Malcolm knows he’s good at what he does. There’s hardly a profiler in the country as good as him, and he’s sure they’re going to suffer greatly after letting him go. And that’s not even his ego talking—it's the logic behind how much he put into every single case he was on. How their success rates climbed off the charts when he started working their cases.
Afterall, they probably never would’ve found Claude Springer without him—without the connections he’d made. No one else thinks like him and is on the correct side of the law. He’s especial, and no one can deny the fact.
So, yeah, he’s still reeling. But he’s not really angry. It’s more of a fizzing annoyance in his stomach. But definitely not anger.
He does, on some insane level understand their reasoning. He’s peculiar about how he goes about things, and even if he’s the best profiler New York has to offer, that doesn’t always outshine his quirks. And yeah, fine, he’d punched a sheriff, but the man kinda deserved it.
Call it what you will, but shooting a man who’s putting his weapon down, who’s surrendering, serial killer or not, is still murder in its own way. In Malcolm’s eyes, at least.
Malcolm blows out a breath as he steps out of the café by the park he’s meeting Ainsley at. He remembers his sister always commenting about how much she liked their coffee, and he thought it would be nice to have something warm to sip on while on their stroll.
He’s got two to-go paper cups in his hands—one for her, who he’s supposed to be meeting in the park in a little under ten minutes, and one for himself. He barely has a moment to even think about taking a sip as he hurries down the street to be on time to meet Ainsley.
She’d a bit of a stickler about being on time like their mother. And he’d rather not get chewed out for being late—even coffee couldn’t save him from his sister’s wrath.
It had been a while since he’d seen her—since Christmas, at least. She’d been the first (and only so far) that he’d informed about him being back in New York. He wanted a few hours of sanity before his mother was helicoptering around him, and he was planning on getting into touch with Gil after his mother.
Ainsley had wanted to meet up, and he was sure this get-together would end with her ranting about their father and his ability to rip Malcolm’s life apart, even from his cell at Claremont.
He’s in a hurry to meet with his sister, but he can’t help but slow to a stop. His profiling isn’t something he can turn on and off; it’s always there, and always watching. And he can’t help but notice the two people across the street from him.
They look ordinary enough, a man and a woman. They’re talking, voices hushed. He can’t hear them over the hustle of the New York foot-traffic, as well as the actual traffic lining the streets.
He can’t hear them, but he can definitely see that there’s something just not quite right about their conversation. About their body language.
Malcolm can spot it from a mile away.
The uncomfortable look in her eyes.
How she shifts from foot to foot and leans away from the man when he happens to step closer or lean into her own space. The man’s face is relaxed, talking easily like he doesn’t even realize his conversation counterpart’s body is tense and the smile so unbelievably fake even a child could spot the difference.
Malcolm isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at— an ex who won’t take no for an answer, or possibly a stranger taking a far too friendly interest in the woman, but he can definitely see the feeling in not reciprocated.
Malcolm furrows his eyebrows as he watches her try to brush the man off with a tight-lipped smile that’s far too strained to be real, muscles tensing as she leans away and takes small, hardly noticeable steps back but the man doesn’t seem to catch the hints that she’s not interested.
Malcolm hates when men aren’t observant enough to realize when their attention isn’t wanted. When they’re so full of themselves that they don’t notice the tells of a woman being uncomfortable in a situation—when they don’t take no for an answer.
The decision’s made before he can really stop himself. He’d been a special agent whose sole purpose was helping people in need and catching criminals. In Malcolm’s eyes, this man who’s ignoring the tells a woman who isn’t comfortable in his presence is just as dangerous as the people he deals—dealt—with.
There’s no harm in helping, and it’s not like he’d never made a fool of himself before even if she chooses not to accept the help.
“Hey,” Malcolm calls brightly, crossing the street towards them, calling both the woman and the man’s attention. They both look towards him in surprise as he joins them. “I got your coffee--” he settles at the woman’s side, hoping his eyes and similar tight smile convey that he’s trying to help.
The woman’s eyes settle on him, mouth curving in the faintest surprise as her own eyebrows furrow in hesitance. She studies him in a cautious manner for a little less than half a second before her attention’s briefly shot to the other man before settling back on him.
Malcolm can see the exact minute she’s pieced his ploy together.
Her lips curl into an almost offended way and she raises an eyebrow at Malcolm. He’s not sure she’ll go along with it—accept the help. But either way, at least he tried. He knows in good conscious he’d tried to help the woman.
He’d been the son of a serial killer long enough that any humiliation just rolls off his shoulders at this point. Middle and high school with a murder father hadn’t gone over very well.
She doesn’t say anything.
So, he continues.
“--oh, who’s this?”
Malcolm looks between the woman and the man in false confusion; the woman’s features have smoothed over just the slightest and she’s stepped just a bit closer to Malcolm. It’s definitely not for protection, Malcolm notices—it's to send a message to whomever this guy is, and Malcolm’s all for it. He loves putting douchebags in their place—even if he’s just a pawn in this specific game.
He can tell by how the woman is holding herself that she doesn’t need the backup, but is taking it with a grain of salt. An easier out than putting this man in his place by any other means, which Malcolm can see she could easily do if it came to it.
He wouldn’t doubt this woman could lay the both of them out flat on the ground if she wanted.
He’s worked with a lot of strong and powerful women—was raised by one of the strongest, and his sister is no different. He’s surrounded by women he knows could drop him to the floor like a sack of potatoes if they wanted.
He knows she has it handled, believes in her wholeheartedly, but he wants to help. Too many women are subjected to this sort of stuff and even if they do need backup, no one takes a second to help. Too many people look the other direction just because it’s easier, but he’s not one of those people.
Malcolm is not the type of man who could just walk on past, even if he’s technically supposed to be meeting up with Ainsley in the park now. Oops. He hopes she doesn’t mind too much.
In contrast to the small ounce of hidden relief he’s picking up from the woman, the man’s face wrinkles into one of irritation, stance tightening like some sort of dominance battle is about to take place between them. Malcolm has no intentions of playing into his games, and refrains from rolling his eyes at this typical alpha-dog type.
If you can’t tell the difference from a woman, and a possession, you’re not grown up enough for a relationship. Any man who thinks himself better than women, or who thinks they need to battle for dominance over a woman like wolves over a piece of meat, is an automatic douchebag in Malcolm’s book. A man who wasn’t raised right.
Malcolm knows for a fact should he have ever acted like this man is currently-- crowding around a woman who clearly has no interest in him-- all the women in his life would’ve smacked him upside the head. Because he was raised to be respectful of people’s, especially women’s, boundaries.
The man narrows his eyes, sizing Malcolm up before his attention settles on the woman. He catches her eyes easily, because she’d waiting for him to do just that. Face blank, shoulders squared and her eyes narrowed in return.
“Who’s he?” The man’s voice is low, distasteful. Deepening in some sort of attempted threatening way that Malcolm’s not afraid of in the slightest—and the woman isn’t either if by the way she raises her eyebrow is anything to go off.
Malcolm stands for a second before offering up his own coffee to the woman. He doesn’t mind sacrificing his own, but he doesn’t want to show up to meet his sister without her coffee. It’s just coffee after all.
The woman studies his outstretched hand in silent question, hesitating, before taking the cup into her own hand. She stares down at the coffee before lifting her attention back up to Malcolm.
Next Malcolm subtly offers his hand to her. It’s subtle enough that he can just drop it back to his side should she chose not to take it, but the offer is there.
A silent question of what she wants him to be to help.
She takes it casually, fingers tucking loosely against his. A show for the other man, a message to him.
A significant other.
“I’m sorry. I interrupted. Do you two know each other?” Malcolm tilts his head at the other instead of answering. It seems to piss the alpha off, puffing his chest out in a way that almost looks ridiculous. The woman beside him shifts where she’d standing, squaring her shoulders even tenser as if squaring up for a fight as she shoots the man a glare.
“We broke up, Khalil. I told you we’re done.”
“So what? You’re just done with me? You’re leaving me for this guy?” He gestures to Malcolm uninterestedly. If this was Malcolm’s fight, he’d probably follow that up with the fact he’s a lot tougher than he looks, and has years of martial arts and FBI training under his belt. And throwing in the serial killer father couldn’t hurt either.
Malcolm could lay this man out faster than the man could blink. Easily.
But it’s not his fight.
This is the woman’s fight, and he’s happy to just stand here with her for emotional support even if they don’t even know each other’s names. He’ll back her up until she makes it clear he should go, or until this douchebag leaves her alone.
“I already did,” the woman snaps, tugging Malcolm closer by his hand. He goes easily, settling by her but remains silent. She doesn’t need backup, but she has it if she does. “We broke up months ago. We’re over. I’ve moved on-” the woman lifts their hands as if to prove she’d moved on, “-and you should too. We’re finished.”
“C’mon, Babe, you can’t honestly tell me you prefer his scrawny ass over me? Remember all those nights together?” The man’s tone drops, smile curling into a grin that doesn’t appear to phase the woman.
“Yeah, I do.” she replies blandly. “It wasn’t that good.”
The man’s face drops like she’d just punched him in the stomach before his expression hardens again. Malcolm would almost feel sorry for him had he not witnessed the guy refuse to accept that this woman’s not interested in him anymore.
“We both know that’s not true. You’re just playin’.” He takes a step closer, into the woman’s space, and reaches to touch her arm. “You’n’me were so good together, Baby.”
Malcolm shuffles his feet where he’s standing, giving the woman’s hand the slightest squeeze.
It spurs her on, “No,” she recoils from him, tugging Malcolm back with her a step, “what’s playin’ is you leaving me for some other girl and thinking you can just come back when you’re done with her too. You’re the one who left this; left me, Khalil.”
“And I’m sorry,” the man pleads. “I messed up.”
“Damn right you did,” the woman snaps. She has no sympathy for the man, and even though Malcolm doesn’t know her, or him, or even the full story—from what he’s pieced together, he’s proud of her. “You lost your chance when you slept with someone else. I’ve moved on. I’m happy. So, you should too.”
“I don’t wanna move on,” the man grumbles. Malcolm’s nose wrinkles. It sounds immature, like this man isn’t used to being told no. He still doesn’t say anything.
“Well, too bad for you. You should’ve thought about that before taking some other woman home then. We’re finished, I don’t have time for a man like you. And you’d better stay away this time, I’m serious. We both know I won’t have any trouble filing for a restraining order. Leave me—” she casts an uncertain look back at Malcolm, “--us alone.”
“Fine,” he snarls, taking a measured step back, “ya’ know what, whatever. I don’t need you, there’re so many other women who’d beg for a date with me. You’re missing out.”
“Good luck then,” the woman dismisses, she watches the man over the tip of her nose, uninterested in him. It appears to be the first thing he really pick up from her. He huffs angrily, spinning on his heels before he’s marching (angrily sulking) away.
The woman turns away too, leaving in the other direction and pulling him along too to keep up the façade of them being a couple. Malcolm follows along, falling into step beside her.
“Thanks,” the woman turns to Malcolm when they’d around a corner and the ex is out of sight, probably still pouting over the loss and his wounded pride.
She pulls her hand back from his and he releases as soon as she tugs. Her shoulders sag in relief now that she’s away from the man, and it feels like a victory to Malcolm. She looks down at the coffee in her hand before handing that back too. Malcolm takes it back into his hand easily. She frowns at him, continuing in an even voice, “even though I didn’t need any help.”
“Oh, yeah, no doubt,” Malcolm agrees as he sips his returned coffee. It’s lukewarm now, but he hopes Ainsley won’t mind too much, as he’s sure her’s isn’t much better. “I could tell you had it handled from the beginning. You definitely didn’t need any back up.”
The woman furrows her eyebrows in confusion, opening her mouth to question him, but he already knows what she’s thinking. Why help if she didn’t need it? Why put himself out there if she had it handled? Why get in the middle of their quarrel if he didn’t have too?
“Just because you didn’t need it, didn’t mean you didn’t deserve it.” He tells her with a friendly smile, “I figured even if you didn’t necessarily need the assistance, it couldn’t hurt to be in your corner anyways. Some men just don’t take no for an answer.”
The woman snorts something that sounds like ‘you’re telling me’ out, but he’s sure she didn’t mean for him to hear her.
Malcolm pauses before shooting her a grin and adding an attempt at humor, “you could’ve shooed me away. It was all in your hands.”
“I thought about it,” the woman admits with a mischievous glance in Malcolm’s direction. He gives a light laugh and she grins in return.
They’re both quiet for a moment, as she eyes him up and down before her head ducks in a nod just seconds later. He’s not sure she really understands where he’s coming from, but that’s fine. It was just as much for his peace of mind as it was to aid her.
She’s quiet for a second longer, “really though; thanks. Not a lot of people would do that for a stranger. You'd think he would’ve given up by now. Hopefully this new boyfriend of mine finally gets the message across.”
“Hopefully,” Malcolm echos earnestly. He lulls his head in her direction, giving her a light smile, “he kinda seemed like a piece of work.”
“You have no idea,” the woman gave him a small, real smile. “I shouldn’t keep you any longer—the coffee is obviously for someone else, right?”
Malcolm flashes a guilty smile. She huffs a light laugh, “I’ve gotta get to work anyways. Thanks for the help, your presence helped settle that way faster than I could’ve alone.”
“Don’t mention it,” Malcolm promised, “glad I could be of assistance, even though you totally could’ve taken him.”
“Right?” the woman grins, she pats Malcolm’s sleeved arm as she passes by him, turning a corner before she’s disappearing into the foot-traffic.
He wonders if he’ll ever see that woman again as he continues on towards the park entrance where he can see Ainsley waiting for him.
“You’re late.”
He pauses before her, shooting her a light smile as he offers the cup of lukewarm coffee as an amends to his tardiness.
“Dani Powell, this is Malcolm Bright,” Gil introduced as they stepped into the elevator together. He smiled at her, but she didn’t quite return it. “psychologist, forensic profiler, acquired taste.”
He’d noticed the woman the moment she’d joined him and Gil at the doors. How could he not? It had been, what? A half an hour since they’d parted ways?
She’d noticed him too, at least judging by the uncertain raised eyebrow she’d shot at him when they made eye contact.
Malcolm hadn’t thought he’d ever really see the woman, no, Dani again. Not quite so soon, at least.
What a small world.