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"No, no, no," Malcolm whispers, adrenaline spiking and flooding his system so forcefully that he can actually feel his blood pumping through his veins. "I got out. I got away."
The problem is, he can't truly be sure that he did.
He was hallucinating before: letting a manifestation of Gabrielle help him through the trauma, allowing Martin to persuade him to shatter his hand to free himself from the chains keeping him locked to the floor.
But maybe none of that ever happened.
Maybe the hallucination was gaining his freedom.
Maybe he never escaped that room in the basement at all.
He tugs on the cuffs around his wrists, the cold bite of metal sinking into his skin as the chain connecting them strains against the bolt in the floor. And it feels so real, so familiar, that he wants to scream. Wants to cry.
He can't do this again.
The stab wound aches and pulses with every breath and every movement, a white hot poker in his side that threatens to burn him to ash. But that pain, at least, he knows is real. The bigger problem is his hand. The base of his thumb throbs, a phantom pain that radiates through his nerves and down his arm, a memento from a broken hand that evidently never even happened. That initial hit of adrenaline from waking up to find himself in that room again seems to fade even faster than it started pumping (faster than his body should be able to work through it) and all of a sudden every ache in his body — his head, his hand, his side, and everything in between — makes itself known at a blindingly aggressive level. And while the physical pain is nearly overwhelming, the anguish of waking up here, again, might just be what kills him.
"I can't," he sobs, giving in as his body collapses against the cold floor. His side twinges at the sudden movement, heat blooming around the ache. Blood flows sluggishly from the wound there, but he doesn't have the energy to try and stop it again.
Assuming he tried to stop it in the first place.
He can't be sure anymore. Doesn't know what's real and what his feverish and overtaxed mind invented to help see him through a trauma that he's wildly unequipped to deal with on his own. He knows he's bleeding, can feel it dripping down his side, but he's suddenly unsure if he actually ripped off a strip of his shirt to stuff into the wound or if he's been steadily bleeding this whole time.
He's not sure he even cares.
Before he has a chance to plan his next move — even if that move is to lie on the floor and watch the blood drain slowly but surely from his body until he can't keep his eyes open anymore, until the room disappears forever — the door swings open and John Watkins saunters in, flipping the axe in his hand as he walks and then catching it with an over-exaggerated flourish.
It's not until he stops in front of Malcolm and crouches down only inches away that Malcolm notices the blood coating the blade and dripping down the handle of the weapon, sees the spatter painting John's face in a lurid red that's practically pulsing on his skin.
"Well, little Malcolm, that fatal flaw of yours won't be holding you back anymore," John grins, his gravelly voice grating at Malcolm's nerves before the meaning of the words even sink in.
"What did you—" Bile rises up in the back of his throat, drowning the words in acid before he can get them out. He doesn't need to ask.
He knows exactly what John means.
"Guess you inherited your screaming genes from you mom, hmm?" John's chuckle doesn't quite conceal the rasping scrape of the blade against his cheek. But it's not just the blood that smears across John's skin that leaves Malcolm seeing red.
Losing his family, after everything he did (everything he thought he did), is more than he can bear.
The scream swells in his chest and claws its way from his throat, primal and raw and ripping him open from deep within as he launches himself forward. The chains that keep him pinned to the floor no longer exist and before he can even try to make sense of that, he's on top of John, swinging wildly with every ounce of strength he has left, determined to make him pay for what he's done.
"You're gonna have to do better than that, little Malcolm," John taunts him, laughter in his eyes as Malcolm's fists rain down on him until his mouth is bloody and the smile fades away, but even then the laughter continues, emanating from every pore and spilling into the room, echoing off the concrete walls and floor, and he won't stop, it won't stop, won't stop.
Until Malcolm wraps his right hand around John's throat and pushes down.
"Bright."
He tries to wrap his left around as well, but pain erupts like fire through his thumb at the movement, so he settles for barring his left arm over his right hand to press down with all his strength, trying to stop the goddamn laugh that's bubbling up with the blood from John's mouth, but it just gets louder.
"Malcolm."
John's eyes sparkle in the dim light of the room, an eerie humour that refuses to die. Refuses to let Malcolm go.
"Malcolm...please."
The words are choked and raw and sound nothing like John's harsh and jarring cadence, and Malcolm doesn't understand where the plea is coming from. His gaze darts frantically around the room, but no one is there. It's just him and John in this makeshift prison, ready to end things once and for all.
Except when he looks down at John again, expecting to find that mocking glee behind light brown eyes, he's met with a gaze that's so much deeper, a dark brown that's filled with worry and fear and love, and it takes longer than it should to realize that it's Gil beneath him.
Gil, whose throat he's practically crushing, with one hand squeezing as tight as he can while the cast on his other hand presses down even harder, with all of his weight behind it.
Gil, who is tugging at Malcolm's arms weakly, but refusing to defend himself even as his eyes water and his face turns a shade of red so deep it's almost purple.
He almost lets go, but the room is flickering around him and he's not entirely sure if his brain is having trouble reminding him that he's safe in Gil's living room, or if it's tricking him again, making him believe he got out when he's still locked in that hidden space.
If he's still there and he lets go, Watkins will kill him.
If he's not, and he doesn't, Gil will die.
As he looks down at the man below him, as he watches the light start to fade from Gil's eyes, his hands going lax beside him as the fight leaves him entirely, Malcolm realizes it's not even a question.
He throws himself backwards, landing hard on the floor and scurrying back in a sort of complicated crab-crawl until he hits the wall, and then he pulls himself into a ball, making himself as small as he possibly can as he waits for the world to right itself. As he waits for reality to make itself known.
With each breath, with each blink that clears away the tears that are welling in his eyes, the room comes into focus and the remnants of the night terror fade away. Concrete walls give way to the soft yellow paint that Jackie picked out all those years ago, saying it felt cheerful and made her heart happy. The blinding glare of the spotlight fades into a gentle glow from the hall light beyond the living room, bathing the space in a subtle warmth that makes his own heart falter in his chest.
Because he knows where he is now. He feels the safety of the Arroyo home seeping into his soul.
Except that, while Gil is there, like he always has been, he isn't moving.
He's sprawled out on the floor maybe a dozen feet away, caught between the couch and the overturned coffee table, looking far, far too still.
A broken sob falls from Malcolm’s lips, but he forces himself to his hands and knees and crawls over to the man who's been like a father to him for the last twenty years, ignoring the shooting pain in his hand every time the cast touches the ground, ignoring the growing ache in his side as he moves.
"Gil?" The word shatters as it's spoken, terror taking hold and gripping it so tight that it breaks into tiny shards as he takes in Gil's form. He reaches a shaky hand out, settling his fingers over Gil's pulse, nearly throwing up as he catches sight of the band of bruising that's already blooming across his throat and over his cheekbone. The whispered prayer as his fingertips press into mottled and swollen skin isn't to a higher power or a vast and incomprehensible universe. It's to the man he trusts more than anyone, the man he needs to be okay more than he's ever needed anything. "Gil, please."
The tapping beneath his fingers, rapid and gloriously strong, is such a relief that Malcolm is left lightheaded, his entire body tingling. He checks for breath sounds next, finding Gil's breathing to be slightly laboured, but steady nonetheless, and Malcolm gives into the urge to break the fuck down. He leans over Gil, dropping his forehead to his chest, waiting for him to regain consciousness.
It's only a matter of seconds before Gil's arm is wrapping awkwardly around Malcolm’s back, half pinned under Malcolm but still curling around him like it doesn't even matter.
"Shh, it's okay," Gil rasps, and Malcolm can only imagine how much it must hurt for him to speak. "I'm okay. So are you."
Gil's free arm comes up to wrap around Malcolm’s shoulders, holding him tight as his body shakes and he weeps into Gil's robe. And Gil doesn't make him move, doesn't try to get off the floor that must be absolute murder on his back. He merely holds Malcolm close and continues the litany of quiet reassurances that are whispered into the night. It's not until Malcolm finally calms down and pulls away that Gil pushes up with a suppressed groan.
"Bright?" Gil asks quietly, reaching out slowly to wrap a hand around the back of his neck, his thumb tracing gentle circles just behind Malcolm's ear as he waits for him to look up, to meet his gaze.
But Malcolm can't. He can't face Gil and he can't face what he did. Gil must have tried to protect himself from Malcolm’s blows, but the bruises and abrasions on his face are proof that at least a few of them landed. And if that wasn't bad enough, he nearly strangled him to death, too.
He fears that John Watkins may have finished what his father started all those years ago; that Malcolm may finally be broken beyond repair.
"Kid, it wasn't your fault," Gil says so sincerely that Malcolm can't help but look up, to search for the hate that he knows must be lurking beneath the quiet acceptance. But there's no trace of a lie on Gil's face, no blame hiding in the depths of his eyes. And with Malcolm finally meeting his gaze, Gil says it again, slowly, emphasizing each word. "It wasn't your fault."
Malcolm can't quite believe that — especially as blood slowly trickles from the split in Gil's lip and the light catches the livid marks on his throat — but even still, the crushing weight on his chest seems to ease just a little at the affirmation, and some of the tension starts to bleed from his muscles.
"Bright? Bright. I'm gonna lift your shirt, okay?" Gil calls out, raising his voice a little when Malcolm doesn't seem to hear him the first time. By the time the words form into something coherent in Malcolm’s brain, Gil has already shifted his hands to Malcolm’s side, tugging up his bloodstained t-shirt to reveal the gauze-covered wound beneath. "Shit. Kid, I think you pulled your stitches."
It explains the throbbing in his side, and the sticky warmth that's flowing down his skin only to be sopped up by the waistband of his sweatpants.
"It's real?" Malcolm whispers, needing to know for sure. Needing to confirm that he got out, that his family is safe. "Mom? Ains?"
"Oh, kid," Gil sighs, tugging him into a firm hug where they sit on the worn but still wonderfully soft carpet. "They're safe. You saved them, Bright. Watkins is gone."
Malcolm finally allows himself to relax into Gil's embrace, borrowing some of the strength that Gil has always been so willing to lend him. And for just a minute he lets Gil remind him that it's all over now, that they made it through to the other side.
But now that the terror has waned, now that his mind has had a chance to parse out the fragments of his nightmare from the reality of what truly happened that night, tendrils of guilt and shame begin to take root in his stomach and behind his ribs. Gil took him in after everything, offering him a safe place to rest and heal when he was too afraid to be alone.
And Malcolm nearly killed him.
"Gil. I am so sorry," Malcolm's voice is hushed in the quiet of the night, hardly daring to break the stillness around them. He pulls back from the security of Gil's arms and pushes himself carefully to his feet, swaying slightly as the injuries he aggravated during his night terror protest the movement.
Gil sighs again and opens his mouth, likely to reiterate that it's not Malcolm’s fault, but Malcolm doesn't give him a chance to speak. It's not something he's ready to hear. Not something he deserves. He hurries from the room, calling over his shoulder as he cuts off Gil's words.
"You need to ice that to keep the swelling down." His stomach lurches at the thought of Gil's throat closing up from the swelling, making it impossible for him to speak, to breathe..
The guilt is suffocating.
And the urge to run is nearly overwhelming. To hit the pavement and run until his body gives out, until he's as far from Gil as he can get. But as much as he'd like to tuck his tail between his legs and disappear right now, he knows he needs to keep an eye on Gil for a while, to make sure that he keeps breathing as his body slowly reacts to Malcolm’s unexpected attack.
There's no ice in the freezer, but there is a bag of peas buried in the back that will serve the purpose. He grabs hold of the bag and spins around, intending to take the peas back to Gil, only to find the man himself walking into the kitchen, wiping the blood from his chin with the back of his hand.
"You should be resting," Malcolm says, not quite able to meet Gil's eye. He does, however, step forward, just a little, to hold the peas out to Gil.
And just for a moment, time stands still. Neither man moves, freezing them in an awkward tableau as Malcolm stands there with his arm extended, bag of peas on offer, while Gil remains motionless just inside the doorway. The chill of the frozen veggies is just beginning to sting Malcolm’s skin when Gil finally reaches out and takes it gently from his hand.
"I have a feeling we're gonna be up for a while," Gil says, saving Malcolm from having to find something more to say. Taking a quick detour to grab a dish towel to wrap around the peas, Gil makes his way across the kitchen to the coffee maker, pulling out filters and grounds from the upper cabinet and setting them on the counter. "How about I make us some coffee to get us through the rest of the night, hmm? Then we can worry about patching us both up."
The clock on the microwave tells Malcolm that it's 4:12 am. Far too early to be up, but he knows he's sure as hell not falling back asleep and he suspects the same is true for Gil.
As a matter of fact, he wouldn't be surprised if Gil won't be comfortable sleeping with Malcolm in the house ever again.
The thought stings a little. He tells himself it's stupid; up until tonight, he hadn't slept at Gil's in nearly fifteen years. It shouldn't matter. But the Arroyo household was always a safe space for him growing up, and it makes his heart ache to know he's destroyed that sanctuary in one night, with one nightmare.
Malcolm stands nearby as Gil makes the coffee, silently watching the man for any signs of distress as he measures out the grounds and fills the reservoir with water. It's not until Gil turns to face him, leaning back against the counter and picking up the makeshift ice pack to press against his throat, that Malcolm finally speaks.
"You need someone to keep an eye on you for a while." Malcolm swallows around the lump in his own throat and keeps his eyes firmly locked on the tea towel. It's one that Jackie bought, with a row of roosters lining the edges. Roosters in the kitchen are supposed to bring luck, she said. Malcolm has to look away. "To make sure your throat doesn't swell shut. Once we're sure you're okay, I can leave."
"Kid. You're not going anywhere," Gil says, dropping the peas back on the counter and crossing the handful of steps between them. The hand that lands on Malcolm’s shoulder is chilled from the ice pack, but the comfort warms him, regardless. "Look at me, Bright."
Facing the man is the least he can do, so he swallows hard and lifts his gaze, meeting warm brown eyes as he does.
"You're staying here. We'll figure out something with your restraints to keep this from happening again, okay?" When no response is forthcoming, Gil tries again. His voice is rough and gravelly in a way that it shouldn't be, but the words are his through and through. They've done this dance before, when Malcolm accidentally socked Gil in the eye as a teenager. Gil must be thinking of it too, because he offers the same absolution now that he did back then. "This wasn't your fault, but if you need to hear that I forgive you, I do. I forgive you, Malcolm."
There's a hot prickle at the back of Malcolm's eyes only a second before his vision goes blurry with tears that he does his level best to blink back. A few escape, despite his best efforts, and he hastily wipes them away with his un-casted hand. He gives Gil a quick nod, letting him know that he's heard him and that Gil's forgiveness means the world to him, even if he can't find the words to express that just now.
"You should be icing for ten to twenty minutes," Malcolm says instead, jerking his head towards the abandoned peas. "Go sit and hold the peas on and I'll get the coffee."
It's a sort of peace offering. A small gesture of apology. And Gil accepts it with a gentle squeeze before he grabs the peas and heads to the table on the other side of the kitchen.
And so Gil sits, icing his rapidly bruising throat, while Malcolm makes them coffee. It's hours before the sun will even think about rising, but the day has already begun for them both, unrelenting and inescapable.
The guilt won't go away — Malcolm knows this from experience, carrying so much guilt through his life that some days he wonders how his shoulders haven't snapped yet — but he'll add this to the load and forge on like he always does.
When he sets down their mugs and joins Gil at the table, earning a small smile that's filled with warmth despite how exhausted and beaten the man looks, Malcolm knows that Gil will be okay. That they both will.
And Malcolm is finally beginning to understand that when the day comes that the guilt is too much to bear, when the weight of it all eventually breaks him down — because it will, and they both know it — Gil will still be there to help pick up the pieces and put him back together.