"It's my fault."
The words came out so softly he didn't believe he heard them at first. It took three seconds before Gil realized he had heard them. Another two before it dawned on him that they came from the figure huddled beneath a pile of blankets in the middle of the bed.
"What, kiddo?" he asked, turning back into the room. "What's your fault?"
A soft hiccup came from the mountain of blankets. Followed by a sniffle. Gil resumed sitting in the spot he vacated less than a second before Malcolm chose to speak. The one he spent twenty minutes sitting in while trying to get the kid to talk.
To no avail.
Until now.
"It's my fault," came again. Was followed by another hiccup. Another sniffle. "It's all my fault."
"What is?" Gil kept his tone light, friendly, not wanting to stop the boy when he finally got him talking. "What's your fault?"
"Everything."
The single word throbbed with misery.
With guilt.
As if the kid had anything to feel guilty for.
"Why don't you come out from under the covers?" Gil made the invitation with no expectation the kid would accept it. "That way we can talk about this face-to-face."
The blankets shifted as the kid shook his head.
A rejection.
Not a surprise.
Getting this much out of Malcolm after two months of silence was nothing short of a miracle.
"Okay," he said. "Why don't you tell me what's your fault then?"
Not that Gil didn't have a good idea about what the kid was blaming himself for. There was only one event in the kid's life that could be causing him to feel this much guilt.
This much stress.
"I told you," came Malcolm's quiet reply. "Everything."
"Kid, none of this is your fault."
"It is! It's all my fault!"
Gil rocked back at hearing such vehemence come from the normally reserved and quiet boy. They had been warned about the possibility of angry outbursts by his therapist. Healthy and normal, they replied. Better than the stone-faced silence and red-rimmed eyes staring at nothing.
The majority of Malcolm's outbursts tended to happen at school. Something Gil had been against but Jessica Whitly refused to bend over. She believed the only way her son would get over what happened was by forging ahead.
By going on with his life.
By pretending everything was okay.
By making himself forget about Martin Whitly.
Soft footsteps in the hall drew Gil's attention. Jackie peeked around the corner of the doorframe, one brow lifted, face bright with concern.
"Is everything okay?" Her questioning gaze shifted to the mound shaking beneath the covers before returning to his. "Is he...?"
"Everything's fine," he assured her with a soft smile. "We were just discussing the possibility of going for a drive."
"A drive?" Her other eyebrow shot up. "It's almost midnight."
"We wouldn't be gone long," he told her. "Maybe an hour or two at most."
"This isn't another stakeout, is it?"
He could always count on his wife picking up on his subtle clues. He sent her a small grateful grin.
"Can't go on a stakeout without my favorite partner, can I?"
"Mhm, well," Jackie said as she turned to head back to bed, "if your partner is going with you he needs to make sure to wear something warm. It's chilly out."
The sheets rustled as the head beneath shifted back and forth. Listening to the conversation and debating whether or not to come out of his nest, Gil realized.
He held his breath as he waited to see if the offer of going on a stakeout would prove too tempting for the kid to ignore.
He was rewarded when a tousled head slowly emerged from the cocoon he built around himself.
Red-rimmed eyes followed, punching a hole in his gut.
Until finally all of the kid's pale face became visible. Tears wet his cheeks and his nose was red and puffy. Gil longed to pull him into a hug but knew the boy would protest. The most he was allowed was an occasional hand to the back of his neck.
"Are we really going on a stakeout?"
A brief glimmer of hope brightened those sorrowful eyes. Seeing, knowing that going on stakeouts was the only thing that brought the kid any kind of happiness tore thin slivers in Gil's heart. A cold fury pulsed beneath his skin.
All of it for the man sitting in a cell as he awaited trail on twenty-three counts of murder.
Gil didn't let anything show on his face or creep into his voice, though. No, he simply plastered a gentle smile on and told the kid, "Only if you hurry up and change."
Malcolm scrambled out from under the covers like an excited puppy. It was the most animated Gil had seen him in days. The ball of fury in his gut burned hotter as he watched Malcolm quickly exchange his pajamas for jeans and a sweatshirt.
Martin Whitly stole more than his victims lives.
He also stole his son's ability to trust.
To feel happy.
Worthy of love and friendship.
Filled him with shame and doubt.
Made him feel responsible for the people he hurt.
For turning him in.
Gil was determined he'd give Malcolm those things back. He wouldn't let Martin Whitly destroy his son more than he already had.
And if the way to start the kid's healing was to take him on stakeouts? Well, that's what he'd do. He swore to Jessica he'd do whatever was necessary to see Malcolm get through this situation.
To heal.
To live a normal life.
"I'm ready."
Gil shook himself from his dark musings and looked over at the doorway. The kid positively vibrated with energy. How quickly Malcolm could go from being
listless and lethargic to hyperactive never ceased to amaze him.
"Let's go then," he said as he pushed to his feet. "We can stop for tea on the way."
Since hot chocolate was associated with Martin Whitly. One massive meltdown was all it took to make he and Jackie see that anything that connected Malcolm with his father was taboo.
"Earl Grey?"
His lips creased as he joined Malcolm at the door. "You like that one, huh?"
"It's the smell," Malcolm said. "It's comforting."
"Well, then." Gil set a hand to the back of the kid's neck. "Earl Grey it is."
He walked the kid out to the car and got him tucked inside before glancing back at the house. Jackie stood in their bedroom window, watching like she always did, waiting for him to give her the signal that said everything was okay. Her lips curved as he sent her a thumbs up before climbing into the driver's seat.
She'd remain in the window after he drove off, watching, and biding the time until they got back. Waiting for his signal that said everything was fine.
That they got through one more night.
And got Malcolm one step farther away from Martin Whitly.
A/N: Hello, all, and welcome!
This is for my sixth entry on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card, prompt being, "It's all my fault."
Please, if you like this piece, favorite/kudo/bookmark it! Thanks for reading! Take care!