Work Text:
Malcolm knew he was on short time. The burning in his limbs kept him awake, fighting the current of exhaustion and starvation in his body. He kept running, running into a direction he couldn’t focus on the thought of. He was in his boxers, the echo of rough hands ripping his clothes open screeching against his skin and making his eyes burn.
Help me.
He doesn’t remember how long he’s been running, or how far he’s run, or how much distance he’s put between himself and his captor who's likely stalking him as he runs, just toying with him just when he starts to get hope. They’ve played this song and dance before. Both of them know what comes after Malcolm gets caught.
Gil?
His feet are cut up from the forest floor, making every drumming step painful, yet he doesn’t dare to stop running. He’ll deal with the pain later, as with everything else. Bruises littered his skin, with matching scars from burns and cuts and whips scattered about. He doesn’t understand how he’s still conscious, let alone running at a full sprint.
Mommy? Ainsley?
The wind is flowing through his greasy, muddy hair. He feels like the world is stopped, that peace is all he could ever know. He doesn’t even notice his footsteps slowing, or when he stills. He sways in the trees, looking up at the stars. The light pollution doesn’t reach out here. He can really see them. He smiles, memories of camping fluttering through his broken mind.
Dad?
He hears a branch snap behind him and the shine of a flashlight around his silhouette; his smile falls. He keeps his eyes on the stars, not daring to look and see the eyes that haunt his every moment. No longer is sleep a comfort, nowhere is safe.
“I got further than last time, didn’t I?” He whispers, his arms gently cradling his beaten torso. Maybe he’ll break a rib this time, the man hasn’t done that in a bit. “Maybe next time I might even be able to escape.”
“What?”
Malcolm freezes.
That isn’t John’s voice.
He turns around quickly, his body shivering in the cold as the wilderness finally gets to him. What he spots is a younger boy, maybe around 15, holding a flashlight. He looks to be in his pajamas, and the boy looks absolutely horrified. Malcolm stares. He doesn’t say anything more, just observes.
Is this what the victims feel like when I save them?
Malcolm suddenly chokes on the air. The boy stumbles closer, panicked, words coming and going from Malcolm’s mind without a care as he realizes.
I’m free?
He laughs all of a sudden, a manic giggle that echoes into the trees. He hugs himself tighter as he falls to his knees, only registering the sound of the boy stepping back with some parting words that Malcolm still can’t make out before the boy heads backwards into the woods. Malcolm doesn’t follow, he doesn’t feel the need to. The boy will come back. He could see the concern in his eyes.
When his laughter brings tears to his eyes, he clutches himself tighter, until he realizes that he’s sobbing. The sticks and pine needles and leaves digging into his raw knees and mutilated legs hurt, but he can’t even begin to focus on the sensation. Not when he can finally breathe fresh air, laugh, cry, live.
The boy comes back. Malcolm isn’t surprised. His mother and father follow behind, shocked but strong-willed. The woman gives Malcolm a change of clothes and the man gives Malcolm water. He’s never drunk something so fast. They lead him to their campsite, to their truck, and he sits in the back seat as they pack up. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, just slips into his subconscious.
He wakes up in a sterile room, monitors beeping and his body wrapped up. He closes his eyes to avoid the bright lights, until he hears the door open. Steady footsteps from boots thunk over to him, and he knows he’s caught once again. He scrunches up in the hospital bed, balling up to make it harder for John to kick at his stomach. But all he feels is a gentle hand on his shoulder, and the sound of his name being called.
He doesn’t open his eyes. He’s hallucinating again. It’s something he’s been doing for a long time, since his dose of antipsychotics wore off the day after he was taken. There is no way he isn’t down in that cellar, chained and beaten and mangled-
“Kid.” He hears close to his ear, the voice sending a wash of comfort through his aching bones. “It’s Gil. You’re safe now, okay?”
Malcolm shakes his head. It’s all he can do. He knows that the man isn’t real. But the sound of the small sad chuckle sounds real; the warm hands pulling him to sit up feel real. He pulls the man closer, gripping the back of Gil’s shirt as he hugs and doesn’t let go.
“You’re okay. You’re safe. I got you.” The circles on his back burn, burn with the blaze of a thousand wounds, but he doesn’t say anything. He’ll take that if he can stay with Gil a little longer.
“Stay?” Malcolm croaks out, his voice even sounding foreign to himself. Gil pulls back just enough to look at his face, to smile and kiss the top of his head like he used to when Malcolm had a nightmare as a boy. He shuffles around the bed, laying to Malcolm’s left. Malcolm lays his head on Gil’s chest, leans into him more when Gil’s arm comes around his torso.
“Always.” Gil mumbles, resting his face on Malcolm’s head. Malcolm’s asleep before he even realizes he’s closed his eyes again.
He wakes up eventually, surrounded by his family, both blood related and not. He’ll never have to think about the year he’s spent in captivity ever again.
He doesn’t feel it when John finds his body, frosted and cold on the forest floor. He doesn’t realize he’s never waking up, either.