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In the course of the investigation into their latest case, Malcolm discovers a lead. A very promising lead. And listening, for once, to the voice of reason in his head (which sounds suspiciously like Gil), he actually calls for back-up.
So he isn't even alone when he shows up at Nicole Mathison's brownstone at 9:30 at night to ask her some very important questions.
"Bro, why is it you always seem to have these epiphanies after sundown?" JT grumbles as he drags himself from his car to where Malcolm is pacing the sidewalk in front of Ms. Mathison's home, hands slung low in his pockets.
Malcolm honestly debated about calling JT at all. The detective should be home with Tally, spending as much time with her as he can before the baby comes and their lives are turned on their heads. But Gil isn't due back to work for a couple weeks yet, and things have been...tense between him and Dani for months now. So really, it came down to calling JT or questioning Nicole solo.
Based on JT's scowl, though, he's starting to wonder if he should've just gone it alone.
"Sorry," Malcolm winces, shrinking into himself. "I probably could've done this myself. I still could, really, if you want to head back home."
JT's gaze rakes over him for just a moment, his lips pursed as he scrutinizes Malcolm, before he reaches some sort of conclusion and says, "I'm here now. Might as well do this."
It doesn't seem like JT is too terribly put out about being there, so Malcolm takes it as a win and leads them up the concrete steps to the ornate, double-panelled front door. With a quick glance to make sure JT is ready, Malcolm raps on the rich wood and then takes a step back, rocking on his heels while he waits for Nicole to open the door.
JT stands stock still with his arms crossed over his chest, arching an eyebrow at Malcolm's constant movement. "You good?"
"Me?" Malcolm asks. "Great. Never better. It's a beautiful night and we have a lead."
"It's thirty-five degrees and I don't know why we're here or how this woman is connected to this investigation."
Which. Is fair. Malcolm hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the trail of clues he followed (or the mental leaps he made to connect them) when he called JT and asked him to come. He probably should have offered a little more information, but he was so eager to get to Ms. Mathison's house that he ended the call as soon as he'd given JT the address.
"Right. Sorry about that," Malcolm offers sincerely. "Ms. Mathison is a co-owner of one of the transport companies employed by—"
His explanation is cut off as the door swings open, the darkness of the stoop giving way to a warm glow and a handsome fifty-something woman in leggings and an oversized sweater.
"Hello, Ms. Mathison?" JT asks as the woman eyes them suspiciously. At her hum of affirmation, he holds out his badge and introduces them both. "I'm Detective Tarmel, this is my associate, Mr. Bright. We're sorry to bother you so late, but we were hoping you might be able to answer a few questions for us?"
It takes her several seconds to come to a decision, and in that time, a dozen fleeting expressions pass over her face, so subtle that Malcolm nearly misses them. When she finally speaks, it's with an artificial smile on her face. "Of course. Please, come in."
Malcolm can't help but notice the lavish decor of the rooms they pass; furnishings and artwork he's sure Jessica would procure for the Milton family mansion, given the opportunity. It makes him wonder if Nicole comes from family money and her business is merely a hobby, or if there's more to her transport company than meets the eye.
They only make it a few steps into the dining room before those thoughts are brought to a screeching halt.
Nicole gestures for them to take a seat at the antique oak dinette set, but while Malcolm and JT are pulling out their chairs, Nicole pulls a gun from the hutch beneath the window, waving it back and forth between JT and Malcolm with a clear lack of experience in handling a firearm.
"I'm sorry," she says softly, and Malcolm thinks she actually means it. There's an expression that many criminals seem to share — a look Malcolm has witnessed more times than he can count when dealing with perpetrators working in groups — that screams that they're in over their head. That they followed the wrong leader. Nicole has that look etched deep into her face as she gestures with the gun to the entranceway they'd just come through. Malcolm knows, though, that the regret and uncertainty don't make her any less dangerous. If anything, they make the likelihood of something going wrong infinitely more possible. Her hand and voice both tremble ever so slightly as she says, "But I'm going to need you to walk that way."
Malcolm's gaze darts to JT, trying to get a quick read as to where the detective stands on the predicament they've found themselves in. The expression he's met with is as unflappable as always, but an almost imperceptible nod of the head is enough to convey JT's thoughts. It looks as though they agree that cooperation is their best move. For now.
Nicole seems inexperienced enough in handling the weapon that it could easily go off if they do anything that spooks her. So Malcolm mimics JT's actions, raising his hands to shoulder height to prove he's not a threat, and both men walk slowly towards the hallway. With a shaky wave of the gun, she leads them back towards the front of the house, halting them halfway down the hall.
"Okay, stop," she says, just outside a door covered in an oak panelling to match the wall around it. "Get in there."
"Listen, Nicole—" JT tries, a clear start towards talking the woman down, but she jerks the gun to his chest, aiming center mass and he cuts off immediately.
"Please. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you leave me no other choice."
Even through her fear and panic, Malcolm can tell she's sincere in her wish not to hurt them. More than likely, he thinks, she intends to lock them in this room and make a getaway.
At the same time, he's absolutely certain that the danger is real. She will fire if she feels threatened. And Malcolm would never forgive himself if JT doesn't make it home to Tally and their unborn child.
"Okay," Malcolm says calmly, ensuring that she understands she has his full cooperation by keeping his expression as open and honest as possible. Keeping eye contact with Nicole the entire time, he slowly reaches for the antique glass doorknob and pulls the door panel open.
When he turns to face their soon-to-be accommodations, he's expecting a closet. Perhaps a storage room.
He is not expecting to be met with a second door, this time a thick slab of steel that gleams in the light of the nearby chandelier.
“Uh.” JT looks to Malcolm, at the unexpected reveal, clearly wondering if this was part of whatever profile Bright had worked up that led them to Ms. Mathison. “What is this?”
“This is where you’re going to sit tight,” Nicole says simply. “In. Now.”
Malcolm pulls down the industrial latch handle and swings the door out, revealing a set of stairs leading down into what must be the cellar. There’s a light switch on the wall, and Malcolm continues his slow, measured movements to reach out and flip it on, illuminating the stairwell and the space below.
“You’ll be fine down there,” Nicole assures them, gesturing for them to head down. Malcolm gives an almost imperceptible jerk of his head to signal JT to go first. He knows JT is expecting Malcolm to be concocting some grand plan, but honestly, Malcolm just wants to make sure that if Nicole ends up firing as they walk down the stairs — whether intentionally or by mistake — that JT won't be in the path of any stray bullets. “Look, I just need enough time to get away. That’s all. Once I’m out of the country, I’ll let them know where to find you.”
JT starts to walk down the stairs, moving cautiously as he tries to keep an eye on Nicole and Malcolm while still taking stock of the room that comes into view as he edges down the steps.
“Nicole, you don’t need to do this,” Malcolm says calmly as he takes the first step down. “You don’t want to live a life on the run. Trust me. Carrying those secrets? The guilt will eat you alive.”
He’s three steps down before she moves towards the thick metal door, still aiming the gun down at him as she starts to swing it shut, intent on sealing them in. She looks almost afraid as she tilts her head and says, “You don’t understand.”
Malcolm doesn’t have the chance to ask her to elaborate. The door swings shut with a resounding clang, and is followed quickly by the distinctive notes of a tumbler falling into place, locking them in the cellar.
It sounds far too similar to the locking mechanism at Claremont for Malcolm to feel anything but dread.
"What the hell just happened, man?" JT is only a couple of steps from the bottom of the stairs, but he's currently standing in place with his back against the carved oak banister, staring at Malcolm as he awaits an explanation.
"I'll be honest. That did not go the way I was expecting." Malcolm flushes at having missed something so vital in his assessment of Nicole's connection to their case. "I thought she would have information about our killer. Not that she's somehow connected."
"Well. I'd say she's definitely involved," JT mutters, eyebrows furrowing as he looks past Malcolm to the unbreakable door behind him.
Malcolm still isn't sure just how Nicole is connected, but standing in the stairwell isn't getting them anywhere, so he starts walking down the stairs, ignoring JT's less than impressed gaze as he skirts past him and steps into the cellar itself.
For the second time in a matter of minutes, Malcolm is completely taken by surprise.
The entire cellar is filled with row upon row of industrial racking.
And every shelf is stacked high with...everything.
It's mostly food, he discovers quickly as he wends his way through the sturdy metal shelving units. Non-perishable items in cans and vacuum-sealed containers, military-grade MREs, and a surprisingly large cache of peanut butter and honey.
There's an impressive supply of alcohol and instant coffee in one of the rows and a pallet of bottled water at the back of the room. Malcolm thinks there must be provisions enough that a person could survive at least a couple of years, if necessary.
It's not just foodstuff, either. There are shelves of first aid supplies and medication, batteries, clothes and blankets, camp stoves and extra fuel. There's even a cot set up on one side of the room and a compostable toilet in a small, boarded off space.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think she's a doomsdayer, but that doesnt fit with the profile of our killer," Malcolm muses as he wanders through the large space, searching for an alternate exit.
Unfortunately, he comes up empty on that front. It seems that the only thing they don't have in their makeshift prison is a way out.
Or a cell signal, he discovers as he pulls out his phone.
"No signal?" JT's voice floats up behind him, and when Malcolm turns around, he sees JT tucking his own phone back in his pocket.
"Unfortunately not," Malcolm grimaces as he pockets his cell. Trying to lighten the mood, he cheerfully points out, "On the bright side, we know we won't starve down here."
"I don't intend to be down here long enough for that to be a problem," JT grumbles before walking away, searching the room for a way out, a radio, anything that could be used to free them. Malcolm silently joins the hunt, as well, hoping to discover something he may have missed on his first pass through.
But even after performing a deep search of the room, they come up empty-handed. There are no windows, the air vents are small enough that even a child couldn't fit through, and there's no sign of anything that could be used to contact the outside world.
After exhausting all other options (and ignoring Malcolm's caution against it), JT even tries shooting at the thick latch on the door. All it serves to accomplish is nearly taking him out when the bullet ricochets, ripping back through the air so close to the detective that it manages to take a piece of his sleeve along with it.
JT comes back down the stairs looking slightly shaken, but his expression immediately hardens as he looks at Malcolm. "I swear, if you say 'I told you so'..."
Malcolm mimes locking his lips and then turns back to the room, determined to find something to help with their situation. He sorts through every shelf one item at a time, but eventually concedes defeat. It's nearly one in the morning before he heads over to the small 'bedroom' section of the room, finding JT sitting on the cot with his back against the concrete wall and his eyes closed.
"I, uh. I think we might be trapped."
"No shit," JT murmurs without even opening his eyes. There's no malice behind the words, but Malcolm can't help but feel a little guilty for calling the man to accompany him in the first place.
Malcolm looks around the room once more, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his disappointment and regret. If he'd just come alone, JT would be home with Tally right now, instead of trapped in a doomsday bunker with Malcolm.
"I can hear you thinking," JT says quietly after a moment, and when Malcolm looks back to the man, he finds warm brown eyes locked on him. "This isn't your fault, man. You called for back-up, just like you're supposed to." JT appears to think for a moment before adding, "Gil's never gonna believe it."
Some of the burden pressing down on Malcolm floats away with the chuckle that falls from his lips.
"Look. They're gonna realize we're missing in the morning," JT says, leaning forward on the cot, enough to make sure Malcolm is truly listening. "In the meantime, we're not in any danger. We have plenty of food and even a working toilet. I've definitely made camp in worse places."
JT has a point, Malcolm realizes. They're safe. They're even relatively comfortable. Things could be much, much worse.
Except…
"Uh. One small problem," Malcolm says, rubbing the back of his neck as he prepares to deliver some bad news. When JT merely arches an eyebrow, he says, "No one knows we're here."
Malcolm had been following a hunch as much as he'd been following the clues when he started looking into Nicole. She's so tangentially related to the case that Malcolm knows the woman is not on anyone's radar, which means that no one will be looking for them in her house.
JT's face falls for a moment, but he scrubs a hand over his beard and gives himself a brisk nod before looking back up to Malcolm. "It might take a little longer, but they'll make the connections. Good old detective work will lead them here. We just need to be patient."
Patience. The first rule of police work, according to Gil.
Malcolm never did develop that particular attribute. Ultimately, though, he doesn't have any other choice. Which means he's going to need to learn the art of patience in a quick hurry.
Unfortunately, and entirely unexpectedly, he turns out to be a horrible student.
The first night is fine. JT takes the cot and Malcolm stays awake all night, working the profile, trying to form a connection between their victims and Nicole Mathison. Trying to figure out exactly how she's involved. He doesn't make much leeway, but it at least gives him something to do and keeps his mind occupied.
Sleep is absolutely out of the question. Not only is he far too wound up to try, but he has absolutely no intention of admitting to JT that he usually sleeps in restraints and could pose a danger to both of them. JT thinks he's strange enough as it is; he certainly doesn't need to add fuel to that particular fire.
So he focuses on the case and even takes a break to attempt some mindful meditation. He even uses up a good portion of time by wandering through the room again, making a mental index of everything that's been stored in the space.
And there's a lot.
By the time morning rolls around and JT wakes up, Malcolm has a full catalogue in his head, should they need to know just how many boxes of baking soda they have.
(Sixty-four. There are sixty-four boxes of baking soda, and Malcolm has no idea why anyone would need that much baking soda in a bunker.)
"You sleep at all, man?" JT asks as he sits up, scratching at his beard as he shakes away the vestiges of sleep.
"I managed a little," Malcolm lies smoothly. "Hopefully we'll be out of here soon enough that it won't matter, anyway."
JT eyes him suspiciously but doesn't call him out on his white lie, and Malcolm appreciates it more than he can say.
One nice thing about being trapped in a well-stocked bunker is that they have everything they need to start the day. Each of them opens a toothbrush from the bin full of dental hygiene products and then share a tube of toothpaste to brush away their morning breath. There's a French press, a kettle, and a rather absurd amount of coffee, though if Malcolm is honest with himself, he can understand the need to keep caffeinated, especially in whatever situation leads to surviving in a bunker for months or years at a time.
JT opts for a protein bar for breakfast, choosing one from the dozens of boxes of assorted flavours that line one shelf. Malcolm chooses to stick with just the coffee, black. Breakfast is not often his friend and now more than ever, he'd like to avoid anything that might interfere with his delicate digestive tract.
"How long do you reckon it'll take for them to find us?" JT asks as he pops the last bite into his mouth, chewing as he speaks.
Malcolm arches an eyebrow, but JT just smirks and keeps chewing.
"Honestly? I have no idea. It's not as if we left a lot of clues as to our location. Our best hope at this point is a uni spotting your car once they report us as missing."
Whether Gil and Dani make the same connections Malcolm did, or whether it's JT's car that leads to their rescue, Malcolm had a sinking feeling that it won't be a quick process. He doesn't voice the thought, but he's starting to expect it may be several days before they're found.
And sometimes — more often than he'd liked to admit — he hates being proven right.
The first two days are fine. Mostly. Frustration and anger rear their ugly faces once or twice, but for the most part, they get along well enough. Most of their time is spent alternating between searching (again and again and again) for a way out, and playing every two-person game of cards they can think of (the deck of cards JT discovers tucked in between a case of baking soda and an impressively stocked first-aid kit is an absolute blessing).
Speed, kings in the corners, rummy, slap jack, even a three hour game of war that Malcolm suspects they both want to call quits on but can't stand the thought of being the one to wave the proverbial white flag. Malcolm is so happy when the game finally ends, though, that he doesn't even care that JT is the victor.
There's even one hand of go fish.
("We're never discussing this outside of this room," JT threatens as he agrees to the game.
Malcolm massacres him.
They don't play it again.)
All in all, though, those two days pass by easily enough.
Day three is when things start to get a little dicey.
Malcolm starts feeling ill partway through the day; exhausted, nauseated, hit with a chill that racks his entire body. He tries to hide it, of course — the last thing he wants is to appear weak in front of JT, especially now, when it's his own fault they're trapped in the first place — but by the end of the day, there's no way to keep it under wraps.
"Dude. What's your deal?" JT asks as Malcolm's shakes become so severe that he can't even hold his bottle of water, spilling it all over himself and the concrete floor as he sits in the folding metal chair. Malcolm isn't sure if he's imagining it, but he'd swear there's a vein of concern running through the words.
He mentally debates the merits of lying, of suggesting that it must've been the canned soup from lunch, but then he realizes that things are about to get so much worse. As much as Malcolm despises the admission, JT deserves to know what's coming. He keeps his eyes locked firmly on the spreading puddle of water on the ground as he says, "Withdrawal."
Peripherally, Malcolm can see JT's eyebrows shoot up at that, his mind likely turning to the obvious source of withdrawal.
"My meds," Malcolm clarifies before JT can ask, or worse, speculate any further. He even manages to lift his gaze from the floor, though he can't quite force himself to meet JT's eye. "They're meant to be weaned off of. Going cold turkey is...inadvisable."
Dangerous.
A deep furrow appears in the middle of JT's forehead, but he stays quiet for a moment, clearly thinking through Malcolm's statement before he asks, "How bad?"
"It's manageable for the time being."
Now that Malcolm has said it out loud, though, it's like he can feel his blood rebelling in his veins, protesting the sudden disappearance of the chemicals that have been providing a delicate balance to his battered psyche all these years.
It's decidedly unpleasant.
He'd be lying if he said he hadn't considered going off his meds in the past. There's just so damn many of them.
They've built up over time — a new prescription here, an increased dosage there — and he's wondered what it would be like to just...stop. To ease off each prescription until the chemicals in his body fall back to their default levels.
Would he still be him? Would he cease to exist at all? He's been on some of them since he was eleven years old. He's been on the full cocktail his entire adult life. He sometimes wonders if he'd even recognize himself without them.
So yes, he's thought about it. But he never intended for it to happen like this.
"You sure about that, bro?" JT asks, not unkindly. "Because you're looking a little green around the gills."
And now that JT mentions it…
He swallows down on the nausea that snakes through his stomach and crawls up his throat, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing until the feeling has passed.
"Um. Yeah. Just a little queasy." Malcolm says through teeth that chatter ever so slightly. "And a little cold."
He opens his eyes when he feels a warm weight settle over his shoulders, looking up to find JT towering over him as he wraps the lightweight wool blanket over Malcolm's shoulders. The fabric is scratchy where it rubs up against the back of Malcolm's neck, just above the collar of his dress shirt, but it's gloriously warm and he's quick to grab hold of the edges and tug it tight around himself.
"Thank you."
JT hums a response and suddenly the back of his fingers are pressed against Malcolm's forehead, just like his mother used to do when he was a boy, checking for a fever. Something in Malcolm’s chest tightens at just how gentle the touch is, how JT's expression pulls into a concerned scowl at the heat pouring from Malcolm's skin. It's been a good long while since someone has treated him with such kindness, and honestly, up until a second ago, Malcolm still wasn't entirely convinced that JT even liked him.
"You're pretty hot, man," JT says, shifting his hand from Malcolm's forehead to his cheek, the worry lines on his face becoming impossibly deeper.
"Thank you," Malcolm smirks, but the effect is ruined by a shiver that rips through his body. Still, JT removes his hand and swats Malcolm's shoulder for the teasing response, the concern bleeding from his face just a little. Malcolm spares a brief thought as to if this is what it feels like to have a brother, but then JT is tugging him to his feet with a hand wrapped loosely around his bicep.
Malcolm tries to ask what he's doing but the words are lost as the room tilts and sways around him. JT never lets go, guiding him to the cot, and before Malcolm's world has even righted itself he's being gently lowered to the bed.
"JT, I'm fine," Malcolm protests, trying to push himself back up, but an embarrassingly light shove from JT has him tipping onto his side and as his head hits the pillow, he can't deny that it feels pretty damn good to be horizontal.
He hasn't slept for more than an hour or two since they were locked in the room, though, and the minute he's sprawled out on the bed, his body decides it's time to sleep, whether he wants to or not. It doesn't matter how hard he fights to keep his eyelids open, they keep fluttering shut, and by the time JT lays the second, heavier blanket on top of him, Malcolm has already started slipping away.
The universe, for once, takes pity on him. He sleeps — restless, but free from night terrors — for nearly seven hours. Practically a record.
His rise to consciousness, though, is hardly as pleasant.
He bolts from the cot, still tangled in the blankets as he tries to run for the bathroom, scaring the hell out of JT as he collapses midway there. His muscles ache, fatigued from the constant tremor that stayed with him even through his sleep.
"What the hell, dude!" JT rushes over and drops to the ground next to Malcolm, making sure he's mostly uninjured before carrying him back to the cot, clearly recognizing that Malcolm isn't going to get anywhere on his own.
"Gonna be sick," Malcolm mumbles before clapping a hand over his mouth. JT moves faster than Malcolm would have thought possible to grab a nearby pail, dumping the contents on the floor and shoving it in front of Malcolm.
It takes the better part of an hour for his stomach to settle enough that he can try laying back down again, the emptied pail of 'emergency food supply' next to the head of the cot for when he vomits up the last of the stomach acid left inside of him.
His other symptoms become progressively worse over the next few hours, too. His muscles spasm so hard at times it feels as though they're going to rip apart, leaving him aching all over when all he's done is lie still. The fever seems to spike as well, leaving his skin blisteringly hot, though he feels like he's been dunked in a tub of ice water. The chill settles into his bones even as sweat drips from every pore, leaving him alternating between burrowing so deep in the blankets he can barely breathe, and tossing them off to try and cool down.
Worse than all of it, though, is the effect it has on his mind. His nightmares follow him from sleep, hallucinations that can't be shaken off by screaming himself awake. The only saving grace is that the apparitions that visit him as he lays in bed are not all bad.
Gil comes to visit for a while, the compassion in his eyes warming Malcolm far beyond what any blanket could ever hope to accomplish. He sits on the edge of Malcolm's bed and speaks with him in hushed tones, soothing him back to sleep with a comforting hand pressed warm to his shoulder.
Even Jessica makes an appearance. And not the version of his mother that puts on a face for the public, either. It's the form of Jessica from before their lives were flipped upside down. One that doesn't mask her pain with a false smile and cutting comments. She sits with him sometimes, in the same spot as Gil, carding a hand through his sweat damp hair and singing quietly. It's the same song she sang when he was sick as a boy, something melancholy and beautiful that he'd forgotten all about and never did learn the name of in the first place.
Those moments with Gil and Jessica are a balm to his soul, even if his chest aches a little more each time they disappear.
Now and again, in between visits from the spectres of his mind, he vaguely becomes aware of JT swiping a damp cloth over his forehead. Occasionally, he's even lucid enough to carry on a brief, disjointed conversation with the man, trying not to focus on the fear in JT's voice as he tells Malcolm to hang in there, reminds him that help is coming.
Unfortunately, that help doesn't arrive soon enough.
His nightmares become violent, sinking their talons in, the overwhelming pain through his body seeping into his dreams as rotting corpses seek revenge, tearing him apart limb from limb, ripping flesh from bone. He screams until his voice gives way, until the bitter tang of blood floods his mouth, but still they don't stop.
It gets so bad at one point — the pain so pervasive that his world is nothing but an inescapable blinding agony — that Malcolm begs JT to let him have his gun. To put an end to his suffering, because he can't take it anymore. Can't handle the all-consuming pain, can't deal with the ghosts that are haunting him, can't possibly throw up one more time without his stomach crawling out of his throat and vacating his body altogether.
Instead of providing Malcolm with that simple mercy, JT climbs on the cot with his back pressed to the cool concrete wall and pulls Malcolm into his body, holding him tight as his body twitches and spasms.
Malcolm fights against the hold until he breaks down and clings to JT's button-down shirt, cries into his chest, and lets himself fall apart as completely as his mind has already done.
And then he throws himself forward and dry-heaves into the bucket until he loses consciousness.
It's his father that creeps through the blackness this time. His candy-apple red sweater shining like a beacon, drawing Malcolm's gaze, but the inky blackness of his eyes has Malcolm's heart slamming against his ribcage, like it's trying to escape the coming threat. There's a cloth in Martin's hand, a damp square of fabric, and Malcolm would swear he can smell the chemical notes beneath the sweet scent that drifts his way, and his stomach churns as fragments of memories break through, terror overrunning his body.
He tries to back away, but Martin moves closer and closer, his pace steady and never faltering. It's when his father lifts his hand, reaching out to cup the cloth over Malcolm's nose and mouth, that Malcolm finally finds his feet.
And he runs.
Something holds him back at first, but he breaks free, ignoring the hands that try to pull him back, running and running until he slams into something cool and hard and unforgiving.
He hits the door hard enough to jerk him from the nightmare, to give him the hazy knowledge that he must've tried to escape by running up the steps only to be stopped by the thick metal door, but by then he's already falling backwards, bouncing off the door hard enough that he has no hope of catching his balance.
His arms windmill uselessly as the stairwell tilts around him until his body hits the stairs with a thud and a snap as his left arm catches beneath him, trapped for a moment between his back and one of the steps.
A scream echoes through the stairwell, and he has just enough presence of mind to realize that it might be his own, but then he's tumbling down the stairs at a frightening pace. It feels like every inch of his body slams into every single step, sharp spikes of pain that begin to throb as soon as his body shifts and slides and continues to plummet down the stairs.
It feels endless, but soon his body stops, and suddenly JT is standing above him with a split and swollen lip, the low grade worry that had been lurking beneath his expression now dialled up to eleven as his hands hover over Malcolm's battered form.
Malcolm stays conscious just long enough to watch JT suppress that fear and call forth the soldier that always lies dormant just beneath his stoic exterior. Before JT can even finish feeling Malcolm's scalp for injuries, though, Malcolm slips into a darkness so profound that not even his hallucinations can follow him there.
He's not sure how long he's out.
There's a vague recollection of hearing voices (but he's been hearing so many voices the past couple days that they don't really stand out), and he distinctly remembers trying to pull away from hands that prodded and poked and lifted him from the ground, but nothing becomes clear until he wakes up at the hospital hours (days?) later.
It feels like he's been hit by a bus. His muscles throb from head to toe, and he can feel the bruises forming on his back from where it impacted the steps. His left arm, wrapped in a white plaster cast, is most assuredly broken, the pain still gnawing through his flesh despite the meds being pumped through his veins by the IV in his other hand. His mind, however, is blessedly clear and he nearly cries with relief when he cautiously opens his eyes and isn't met with visions of Martin or the victims that Malcolm was unable to save from his father's twisted 'hobby'.
"Hey, bro. How you feeling?" JT's voice, quiet as it is, startles Malcolm and he jerks his head to the side to find the man sitting next to his bed, looking exhausted, but freshly showered and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a button down.
"Not bad, all things considered," Malcolm rasps around a too-dry throat. JT is kind enough to pass him a glass of water, which Malcolm drinks greedily. "Did they catch Nicole?"
"Not yet," JT grimaces, "She pulled a runner. Crossed the border into Canada. We're working with the RCMP up there to track her down. She's up to her eyeballs in fraud and money laundering with the numbered company our vic was involved with. Doesn't look like she's our killer, though."
Makes sense, Malcolm thinks to himself as his eyelids become too heavy to keep open any longer. She had the opportunity to kill them but didn't. She's not a murderer. But as fragmented memories of their time in the bunker float through Malcolm's mind, Nicole's involvement suddenly seems a little less important than making sure JT can forgive him for everything he said and did when they were trapped.
It takes more energy than he can truly spare, but he forces his eyes open and turns to the detective.
"I'm sorry," Malcolm barely whispers. Before he can elaborate, though, JT takes hold of his hand (the one not encased in the cast) and cuts him off.
"There's nothing to apologize for, man. We're good. I promise." JT sounds so sincere that Malcolm almost even believes him. But the man's lip is still swollen, scabbed over now, rather than dripping blood down his chin, and Malcolm's gaze drops down to the injury sending a wave of guilt flooding through him.
It's minor, in the grand scheme of things, but Malcolm still feels the phantom sensation of his fist slamming into a tooth, and he knows that he must have done it during one of his hallucinations.
"Bright. Seriously. We're good," JT insists when he catches Malcolm staring at his lip. "Honestly, it's good to know there's some power behind those scrawny arms of yours. Makes me feel a little better about having you in the field."
It draws a quiet, but genuine, laugh from Malcolm.
Punching him in the face isn't the only thing Malcolm is apologizing for, though. Calling JT there in the first place, not leaving a trail for the team to follow in case something went wrong, putting JT in the position to watch Malcolm fall apart as he went through withdrawal, begging for the man's gun…
"Bright. Stop thinking. We both made it out okay, docs are leveling out your meds, and your lead broke the case." JT says earnestly, giving Malcolm's hand a light squeeze. When Malcolm just looks at him in surprise, wanting to know more about the case, JT rolls his eyes and says, "Now that we know about Nicole's involvement, we're already following new lines of investigation to find out who's really behind the murders. You opened a can of worms, man. This is a huge criminal organization and we wouldn't have even known they existed if it wasn't for you."
Malcolm actually feels just a little bit better after hearing that. JT is right. They both made it out alive, and that in itself is a win, especially if they're dealing with an unknown criminal enterprise. And Malcolm has certainly learned a lesson about leaving a check in, regardless of who he's questioning or how uninvolved he thinks they are.
Gil will be thrilled.
Malcolm's lips tug up at the corners at that thought, and the worry that was still sitting heavy on JT's face eases at the sight.
"You should sleep, bro," JT says with something that sounds an awful lot like affection. He gives Malcolm's hand a quick pat before letting go, but instead of getting up to leave, he just settles himself more comfortably in the visitor's chair. "Gonna need you healed up and back to full Bright to bring these guys down."
As exhausted as Malcolm is, he can still read the microexpressions that flit across JT's face. Can still analyze the man's body language as he settles in for a long night of sitting in that hard plastic chair.
And JT means it.
Despite everything that happened in that bunker, JT still wants him to heal, still wants him back at work.
So as Malcolm falls back asleep, it's with a lighter heart than he's felt in...far too long, and the feeling that, just maybe, he's found a friend in the reserved man sitting next to his bed.