AN: TW for scenes of a suicidal nature. Mind yourselves!

Gil's heart was beating so hard it hurt. It throbbed in his throat, threatening to cut off his air. Please, he begged anything that was listening, please let him be here.

"Bright?" His call echoed through the empty floor, the unfinished walls throwing it back as though mocking. "Kid, come on. Where are you?"

The office building was half constructed, worktables and tools left abandoned like the unhinged doors and unpainted walls. It was silent save Gil's careful footsteps, crunching delicately on flakes of plaster. Gil adjusted his grip on his gun and swallowed hard. If he was wrong, if Bright wasn't here ... if he was too late. He'd never forgive himself. Never.

He called out again and was rewarded by a muted thud, then footsteps. Bright stepped out of the end office and the relief almost made Gil faint. He was okay. Unhurt. But there was a wariness to his eyes, a dark determination that made Gil's stomach drop the three stories to the ground floor.

He pushed the unease down and smiled, relaxing his defensive posture. "Kid. I'm glad I found you."

Bright shook his head, his gaze never leaving Gil.

"You shouldn't be here."

Holstering his gun, Gil stepped forward with a laugh. "Kid, my place is with you whether you think it is or not."

Bright's expression tightened – with pain?

"Listen, Bright," Gil continued, approaching slowly, hands raised. "I know it's been one hell of a week. I know you feel trapped –"

"I am."

"You're not. There's a way out of this. I know there is. We've just got to figure it out, that's all."

A humourless laugh fell from Bright's lips and it struck Gil how alien the kid looked. The way he was holding himself, like he was ready to run, to strike out, to flee.

"And how many more people am I supposed to let suffer while I 'figure it out', Gil?"

Gil shook his head slowly. "What happened to JT wasn't –"

"He shot him, Gil. Because of me. Because I was too scared to act. I'm not letting anyone else get hurt. Not because of me." These last words were a whispered promise, dripping with sincerity and hatred that prickled along Gil's skin.

"Bright, listen to me, this killer is not your responsibility –"

He laughed again, a high, hysterical sound and Bright stepped back, away from him, hand shaking by his side. Sweat beaded his brow. "Gil, his terms were clear."

Gil halted, stymied. I will kill every one of your family, the killer had promised, every one of your team. Until you make amends. Until Malcolm Bright is dead. A life for a life.

Three days, and they were still no closer to catching him. Three days, and JT had a bullet in his shoulder, a bullet that had missed his heart through sheer luck and Bright's nervous reflexes. Three days and over three dozen candid photos of Jessica and Ainsley, in their homes, on the streets, in work. Several in colour, just to show off the tiny red dot playing on their foreheads.

JT was the last warning they were going to get and Bright knew it. And Gil knew, with a certainty that sickened him, that the kid would not allow anyone else to be harmed over him.

"We can't play into his hands," Gil reasoned, his voice level, calm. Persuasive. "We can't just give him what he wants."

Bright snorted, shrugging. "It's just math, Gil. Just math. One life, to save four. It's a no-brainer."

Gil's heart sank as Bright avoided his gaze. When he looked back up from his loafers, that morbid determination was back in his eyes and a fear unlike anything Gil had felt in years gripped his heart.

"You shouldn't be here, Gil."

Bright lashed out, startling him, landing a solid punch on his temple that dazed him. He overbalanced and fell, but Bright caught him, hauling him over to one of the radiators hugging the wall. Gil fought, flailing, trying to get his arms around Bright, but the kid moved quickly, lashing out with an elbow that stunned him. He could only blink and scream inwardly at himself as he watched Bright take his own handcuffs from his belt and lock Gil's wrist to the radiator. Before he had his wits back, Bright had slipped the gun and keys from him too.

"Bright," he slurred, desperation forcing himself to sober. "Bright, we can talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about, Gil," Bright said sadly, squatting in front of him, just out of reach. There were tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry you came here. I didn't want you to see this. It's the only way."

"Bright, no!"

Bright stood and looked down at the gun. Weighed it in his hands.

"Don't worry, Gil," he said, his voice shaking as much as his hand. "It'll be quick. I won't feel a thing." He looked up to meet Gil's blurring eyes. "It'll be okay."

"Bright, you can't do this, you can't! We can think of another way out of this, we can – we can talk, just don't – don't!"

A muscle fluttered in Bright's jaw and it struck Gil how young he looked. How small.

"I want you to know," Bright said quietly, not looking at him, "that I know you'd do anything for me, Gil. You've always been there for me." He swallowed. Gil was too scared to breathe. With a deep breath, Bright met his gaze. "Whenever I think of my father, Gil, of what a father should be, I see you. I love you, Gil. And I know you'll never be able to forgive me for this. And I'm sorry."

As if in slow motion, Malcolm turned away.

"No! Bright, please! Don't do this – don't do this!"

But he didn't stop. Didn't hesitate. Just walked calmly down the corridor, hesitating on the threshold to the last office on the left. His hand was a fist on the doorjamb when he looked back, one final time.

"Goodbye Gil."

He disappeared.

"No! No! Bright, I'm right here! We can fix it! Bright I love you! Don't do it!"

He scrambled for his phone, praying for time. Shouting for Bright as he waited for the call to connect.

"You find him?" was Dani's greeting, worry biting through the words.

"Get JT and get to the building site on Forty-First – now, Dani! There's no time!"

If the raw panic in his tone scared her, she didn't let on. The line clicked dead and Gil twisted, getting to his knees as he shouted for Bright.

"Remember when you were twelve, Bright? You were over visiting and you broke one of Jackie's figurines? Remember how scared you were, how I told you it was gonna be fine and you didn't believe me? And then," he said, unshed tears choking him as he reached for an abandoned screwdriver just out of reach. He reangled himself and caught it with his foot, dragging it closer. "And then Jackie came home, and you were so upset, but she just kissed your forehead and said, there's nothing you could do that I couldn't forgive. She meant that, Malcolm, and so do I! Please, don't do this! Just give me time! I can find us a way out of this, I know it! Think of Jessica – what is losing you gonna do to her? She won't survive it, kid, she won't. And Ainsley! She needs her big brother, Malcolm, she needs you. I need you!"

The screwdriver barely fit into the cuff's keyhole, but Gil was beyond caring. This had to work. He was running out of time.

"I promise, kid, I promise, I won't let anything –"

The gunshot split the air like a canon blast. Its echoes seemed to go on forever, a hundred extra horrors floating down the hall to lash against Gil's heart. He stilled.

"No," he gasped, eyes wide and staring at the point he'd last seen Bright. "No."

There was no sound from the office. Only silence. Dead silence.

"NO! MALCOLM!"

His scream ripped his throat and he wrenched the screwdriver with savage strength, breaking the cuffs and slicing his wrist. He didn't even feel the blood slip over his skin, he was already on his feet, already running, already begging –

He froze in the doorway. Breath vanished in his throat. A hand scrambled for the doorjamb. The world tilted, warped, and he was on the floor. Ice stole through him, burning away all memory of warmth.

Malcolm lay on his back, sprawled, one arm reaching to the side, the other crooked so the muzzle of the gun was angled toward his ruined temple. His eyes were closed, mouth slightly open. Blood and bone and brain matted the other side of his head, splattered across the unplastered walls.

It took Gil a long moment to understand the odd rasping sound was coming from him. Air was sawing through him with a ferocity that physically hurt, not stopping long enough to ease his lungs. Unsteadily, he got to his feet and half-walked, half-fell the few steps to Malcolm, a litany of denial falling like secrets from his lips.

He knelt by Malcolm's side. Watched as too fingers moved slowly to his neck. Waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

No pulse. No tremor. No wild energy bursting at the seams. Malcolm was still. Silent.

Dead.

The sound that left Gil then did not sound human. It was the sound of a scarred heart being ripped bloodily in two. It was the sound of love as it twisted into grief. The sound of losing one of your reasons to live.

Tenderly, shaking, Gil scooped Malcolm into his arms, tucking his head under his chin and holding him close, rocking him back and forth as ragged sobs clawed their way out of his chest. Tears tumbled down his cheeks in disarray, desperate to escape the agony inside him, or maybe just to touch Malcolm one last time, to see him. He clutched him close as though Malcolm was his only link to air, to life. As though to let him go, even an inch, would be to die himself. Would be to make this permanent.

Jackie, he pleaded, take care of our boy.

He didn't know how long he held him, the smell of blood warring that of tears. Eventually, he heard footsteps. Heard his name being called. Dani. JT. His team. Who still needed him. Needed him to be their leader, their anchor. Needed him to let his son go.

Dani skidded into the room first, gun drawn. Whatever she was saying died on her tongue as she saw Gil, hunched over Malcolm on his knees. Gil was forcing himself to take great, heaving breaths, desperate for oxygen, for control. For an ounce of cold in the fire ripping him apart.

"G-Gil?"

With a supreme effort, Gil looked up. Dani was pale, kneeling on Malcolm's other side. There was confusion in her gaze, but also a tiny flicker of hope. She hadn't seen it yet, how bad it was, how final. Gil wanted her to have that moment, that last instant where Bright was still alive ... but her eyes fell to the blood congealing in Malcolm's hair. And she knew. Gil saw the moment she understood and a fresh wave of despair threatened to drown him.

A low thud as JT fell to his knees beside Dani, his arm still slung across his chest.

"Bright," he muttered, as though surprised. "No."

"What – what happened?" Dani managed, tears thick in her voice.

Hating himself, Gil laid Malcolm gently back down on the floor. Dani had taken his hand in hers. Gil laid his over Bright's forehead.

"He did it," he croaked, "to save us."

Dani shook her head. "No, no, no, no, no, he wouldn't, he would've found another way, he –"

Utterly spent, Gil looked up at her. "You know how he's been ever since Watkins, Dani. Since Claremont. This ... this was one step too far." How could his voice be so steady when the chattering genius that was his rock, his constant ever since Jackie died, was gone?

They didn't say anything for a long time. They just knelt there, Dani holding his hand, Gil stroking his hair. Then JT spoke, quietly, as though trying to make the words as unobtrusive as possible.

"We should call Edrisa."

Gil closed his eyes. "No." He couldn't bear that, not now. He couldn't see Malcolm zipped into one of those bags, laid on that slab like just another victim, waiting to be cut open and examined.

"Gil," JT urged, "we can't ... we can't leave him here. And if we don't move, he'll have – it'll be in vain." His voice shook and he cleared his throat. "We need to catch the bastard that did this before he goes after Bright's family."

Dani nodded once, a tear skipping from her lashes. "We have to. For – for Bright."

Too exhausted to speak, unable to tear his gaze from the eyes that would never open again, Gil nodded. He was distantly aware of JT making the call, of Dani speaking softly to him, but it didn't register.

When Jackie died, Malcolm had been there. Visited him every chance the FBI gave him. Called twice a day, at least. Talked to him about cases and types of swords and old cars. Malcolm had kept him above water as work had slowly brought him back from the yawning chasm he'd been lost in. He'd only made it out because of Bright.

He looked to the familiar face, peaceful now, in permanent sleep. How was he going to survive this? How was he going to tell Jessica Whitly that after everything they had survived, after everything Malcolm had been through, that he was gone?

How could he look her in the eyes and see the mirror of his own grief?

How could he ever look himself in the eye again? He had sworn to himself to protect that little kid that'd saved his life. Who'd traded the security of having a father for a complete stranger, shattered his own world to save someone else's. Gil had failed Malcolm many times over the years. But never like this. This, he could never come back from.

He ran his trembling hand over Malcolm's hair, smoothing the delicate frown with his thumb.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm."