A numb buzz spread across Mal's fingertips, his face flushed hot then cold. This wasn't right…it couldn't be happening. But it had been there there, written in black ink before him from a location with no return address. 'Dear Mr. Malachi Fallon. We regret to inform you that your father, Jacob Fallon, has suffered a major heart attack. He was unable to be revived.' Mal hadn't read the rest of the letter. He had received it in the mail, had thrown it down on one of the many boxes in his apartment and left for work, forgetting about it. He had a normal day, joking with Ken and Natara, working on a case with another seemingly nameless, faceless victim. He had gone home, flopping on his couch, smiling at a long forgotten joke that had been told as he recalled the event from memory. He had woken up, spotting the pile of letters on the box. He had quickly opened them, bills, letters from a divorce attorney and more bills. Finally laying eyes on the last one, a mysterious-looking He had hastily opened it, feeling his heart drop to his stomach. Feeling the world spin around him. Now he stood at a lonely graveyard, one that did not contain his father. One that never would, his father had died in Madagascar and there he would remain. But this place was symbolic, and he knew this as he let his fingertips brush the aging marble of his mother's grave. Where his father should lay also. But he did not; he was, in every way possible, separated from his son. Never having a strong relationship, except maybe as a small child. Doing everything on impulse, living on the need to be free from the prison that had put him away for his crimes. The one he had his real desire, power. It was what really drove him, knowing he was on top. But death did not care where you were, what drove you or who you left behind. It was almost merciless at times, taking before unsaid words came out. But now he was gone, forever separated from his son, his daughter and two granddaughters. He wondered if his sister had gotten word yet. Suddenly a warm hand touched him, putting their hand in his. He knew who it was. Somehow by the footsteps he heard but did not fully register. Or the waft of a certain perfume or simply because there was only one person who knew him well enough to know where he would go. "Thought you'd be here" Natara whispered. Mal did not respond. Natara remained by his side, even after a light rain had begun. Her hand remained in his. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, still not triggering response. But Mal couldn't not ignore how natural it felt, her hand in his. How their fingers met as if molded for each other.
"Mal, come one" she coaxed "It's raining harder now. You'll catch a cold." Mal did not respond. "Mal, come on" she said once again, tugging his hand as if it were a leash. He didn't budge. "Mal, I'm sorry" she said "But you know he loved you".
Mal could not suppress a smile; she always knew what he thought. And not from her job.
"He's gone" he whispered, feeling stupid for stating the obvious. But saying it out loud was like pushing a weight off his chest, as if it was trapping his heart in a cage. That now the door had opened, and he was able to take a few timid steps to freedom.
He could feel Natara nod beside him, she was close enough that her hair was laying somewhat on his own shoulder. "But now he's free" she said. Mal simply gave her a confused look. "Free from his life, from being on the run and trapped in who he is, on his impulses. And now it's time for you to be free too". Mal nodded slowly, and as if on cue, they walked hand in hand together out of the graveyard. Through the rain, they left behind the dead.