The sting of the needle bit into his elbow. He could feel the poison steal through him, cold and cloying. It worked quickly. His thoughts slowed, suddenly heavy. His limbs took longer to respond. It was like being held, shackled by every muscle so every movement was lethargic, weighted, dragging. But he did what he had to do. Told Gil goodbye, in case this didn't work.
He meant to thank Edrisa again, but his lips stopped working around her name. She caught his head as his body gave out. She asked him not to die and he tried to smile, unsure if he managed it. Then what resolve he had faded in a wave of alien fatigue. His eyes slid closed and, with a sigh, what control he had of his body slipped away.
Edrisa set him down so gently he barely felt it. There was a pressure in his chest, a compressing weight that burned in his lungs and shivered through his heart. He should be fighting for every breath, battling the poison with every heartbeat, but he just lay there, completely helpless as it took over. His lungs expanded with delicate subtly that did nothing to ease the fire coiling through them. He couldn't feel his heart beating when moments ago it had been a jackhammer in his chest.
For the first time, he truly understood that he may not survive this. He could barely breathe. He looked dead. Only one person knew what he'd taken, and the plan meant she wouldn't be able to intervene for hours. And what if the team didn't catch Quinley? What if Quinley didn't care about his terms, what if he went after his family anyway?
What if Malcolm had just rendered himself utterly useless while the people he loved were in danger?
He couldn't supress the fleeting wish that, if that was true, he didn't want to wake up again.
Warm liquid oozed against his temple. If he'd been capable of starting he would have. The blood was colder than he'd expected. It stuck to his skin jealously, clawing through his hair like molasses. More matted the other side of his head and he could feel the clumps of brain and bone Edrisa had added. He couldn't quite appreciate her thoroughness right then. His stomach churned.
Panic coiled in every muscle, every vein. He should be hyperventilating, heart should be racing, but his body couldn't react to it. Even his mind was sluggish, caught in a haze of wrongness, of needing to move and being unable to so much as blink. He was trapped, deep within himself. And it was his fault.
"I really hope this works," Edrisa whispered above him and he added a silent plea of his own.
He wasn't ready for the gunshot. It was so loud, disorienting, ringing through his head.
But he still heard Gil. Calling him Malcolm. In a voice more broken than he'd ever heard before.
Edrisa manipulated his hand, pressing his fingers against the gun, aimed for his head. Her movements were hurried, flustered. A droplet of warmth burst on his cheek. She wiped it away, leaving her hand there a moment and Malcolm would never be able to tell her how grateful he was for that. A final moment of companionship. Of hope. Of someone knowing he was still in there.
"Please don't die, Malcolm."
She'd never called him that before. Before he was ready, her hand was gone. Her footsteps soon followed.
He waited in the crushing, burning blackness, hoping for a miracle. Hoping Gil wouldn't have to see this. Knowing there'd be no coming back from it. No matter what Jackie had believed.
A door clicked shut. Gil's footsteps stumbled closer. They stopped with a scuff. There was a thud. Ragged, suffocating breaths. A familiar voice twisted in agony that swept through the air and burrowed into Malcolm's heart, curling in on itself and festering in guilt.
"No, no, no," Gil was mumbling, barely walking by the sounds of it. "No, no, kid, my kid, no, please, no."
His breathing sounded as painful as Malcolm's stillness. Two trembling fingers pressed into his neck. Malcolm waited for the traitorous pulse to beat against the pressure, but it didn't come. The fingers withdrew before his heart quivered again.
Something inhuman clawed its way out of Gil's throat. It tore into Malcolm, wrenching unwanted memories into painful clarity, of Gil trying not to sob on the phone after Jackie died, of a victim he saved in the FBI finding the child he couldn't. It was the sound his heart made the day he called the cops on his own father.
It was the sound of true grief. Of loss so deep it broke you as it left. The kind of wound that never healed, only grew familiar.
Malcolm fought the weight keeping him still, fought the blackness curling at the edges of his thoughts. He should have been thrashing, growling and grunting with the effort as everything in him worked to undo what he had done, to open his eyes and beg Gil for forgiveness for ever forcing him to make a sound like that. He wanted to go back.
But he could barely breathe. And he lay still.
Shaking arms curled under his neck, around his ribs. Blood dripped from his undamaged temples and then a chest was pressed against his, his head nestled under a familiar goatee. He could feel Gil's heart hammer against his shirt, feel the desperation in his fingers as he clutched him with crushing strength. What little air he could muster faded and his awareness flickered.
Gil's tears fell onto his cheeks. His sobs shook them both and Malcolm wished he could cry too, could relieve the fresh ache in his chest. Could take back what he'd done.
Malcolm didn't hear the footsteps coming. It was getting harder to stay present, to cling to this shadow of consciousness. But he heard Dani's voice, the steadiest thing in his world, shake. Felt her hand curl around his when Gil laid him gently down. Heard JT's quiet shock. Felt Gil's fingers pass rhythmically through his hair.
Their words refused to make sense. Lack of oxygen was taking its toll. He heard his name though. A few broken syllables here and there. Felt the warm gentleness as Gil smoothed his brow, whispering an apology he should never have had to give.
This was his fault. Even if he survived, there was no coming back from this. The full cruelty of his choice was choking him, silently, secretly, guilt hissing and coiling like snakes in his gut. It obliterated his tenuous grasp on the world. Blackened his thoughts. The certainty of his actions, his faith in his own intellect, wavered. For the first time, the means eclipsed the ends.
He didn't know how long they held him. Spoke to him. He couldn't understand it all. Every second increased the weight in his chest, made it harder and harder to breathe, to stay with them. But he clung to their voices with everything he had. If he was to die, let it be later. Let the autopsy show he struggled. Fought to stay with them.
He came back to his body as someone lifted him. Something slick passed under his legs. He didn't understand what was happening until he felt the material tighten around him. Fear jolted in his chest and for a moment he was sure he moved it was so strong.
The body bag.
The room came back to him, his mind straining to put the world together again. Hands shuffled him into position. The zip snarled as it was pulled. He was going to be locked in the darkness. Alone. Confined. Just like she was. He was – he was going to – they were – he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. The zip inched higher, sealing him inside something he couldn't get himself out of.
It stopped. Gil's voice rumbled through the air. His breathing was loud, shuddering, and Malcolm latched on to it, desperate not to be left alone in the dark. A hand settled on his forehead, almost steady. Malcolm focused on the contact, the last breath of warmth he would know before he was sealed in the bag. He rallied his flagging strength, willed himself to open his eyes, to take a real breath, to do anything to show them he was in here, he was alive, that he didn't want to be alone in the dark.
Please Gil, he thought with all his waning might, please, please. See me. I'm here. Please.
But the hand pulled away. And the zip crept up his chest, his neck, over his face –
The world muffled. What little impressions he had of it vanished. Cold plastic pressed against his nose, his forehead. Hugging his arms.
His terror turned to ice. Spreading through him inexorably. He was alone. Trapped.
Had it been like this for her? Had she screamed at her body to obey her? Had that moment when he'd opened the trunk been a blessing or a curse? He couldn't remember her face. Had she looked at him? Had she known he was there at all? Had she begged him as he had just begged Gil, to save her? Spare her?
But it was no comparison. She had been an innocent woman. Taken. He had done this to himself. He may deserve her pain but he would never deserve her sympathy. He never would.
Motion jostled him. Time skipped and sped, slipping away from him without pausing to make sense. He was just aware enough to feel relief when the bag was zipped off him. Hands manipulated him, settling him into place, taking his jacket. They were so warm.
People were speaking. He knew some of the voices but he couldn't place them. He could hardly think. What little air he had was so faint, so laughably inadequate, he wasn't really there. The searing burn in his lungs had changed, mutated into something he was sure was fatal, but it was distant. Separate.
He wondered if this is what dying felt like.
Heat blazed against his cheek but it was so far away. There was something else with it, something hard and cool and an odd pressure brushed passed his lips, through his nostrils.
His chest rose.
The relief was so profound, so blissfully sweet, he lost his grip on himself. More air pushed its way into his lungs and pain tingled along his veins, through his mind as oxygen finally returned. The world came back to him.
He was lying on something cold and hard. The heat on his cheek was a hand, the thumb stroking his cheekbone and the touch was so welcome, so comforting he felt the burn of tears he couldn't shed.
A needle stung his arm.
Edrisa, he realised. She had him. They'd made it somewhere safe. Thank you, Edrisa.
Dani's voice floated above him and his heart swelled. He wasn't alone. His team was here.
Maybe he wouldn't die after all.
Someone ripped his shirt open. Cold plastic stuck itself to his chest. A whining note pierced the air. They were speaking – he heard JT's baritone lilt with sarcasm – or was it fear? He couldn't bring himself to understand the words, his head still pounding as its starvation slowly ended.
More injections. Nothing happened.
The plastic on his face vanished and with it, the air. He forced himself to concentrate, to figure out what the hell was happening. The burn returned too quickly, choking him.
Gloved fingers touched his jaw. Eased it down. Icy metal slipped past his tongue and if he had any control over his body he would've gagged and bucked, jerked away, done anything to stop that thing slip down his throat, forcing its way deeper, spreading its freezing taint. Something warmer, something sharper followed it. It was smaller, less intrusive, and as it settled into the place the metal was pulled free, clicking on his teeth. Nothingness winked through him. The plastic thing jerked. He felt himself fading, slipping, falling.
A gale blew itself down the tube and into his lungs and for the first time in however long this hell had lasted he could breathe. The machine exhaled for him, then pushed in another blissful breath. He quickly forgot the wrongness of the equipment in his mouth, no longer caring if it meant he could feel his own chest rise and fall in a steady, lifegiving rhythm.
The monotonous tone he'd almost forgotten about missed a beat. Somewhere, he knew that was good.
He didn't have time to enjoy not dying. His body came back to him in a wave of acute stings, muscles ripping themselves one way and another, completely independent of his silent pleas. Convulsions gripped him and his mind faltered. He was vaguely aware of hands on him, holding his head, pinning his legs. But the touch faded to a distant tingle, like when Ainsley would hold her hand right in front of his nose and boast how he couldn't be angry because she wasn't touching him.
Ainsley. Mom.
He wanted to fight for them. For Gil. For Dani and Edrisa and JT. He had promises to keep. He had to get home and feed Sunshine.
But he had nothing to hold onto anymore. No energy left to fight. He was going to die.
He knew it wasn't real. But only when the hallucinations changed. When they skipped from his loft to the precinct to his mother's dining room with a warping he only recognised because of the Girl. But that knowledge only lasted moments. He would sink back into the lies, the truths, and be lost.
His mother disowned him. Told him he was no longer welcome in her home.
Ainsley screamed at him, crying and furious that he had broken his promise.
JT didn't acknowledge him, turning away with a finality that stung.
Edrisa was taken away in handcuffs, yelling for him to do something, to save her too.
Dani stepped away from him, shaking her head. Whispering that she could never trust him again.
And Gil. Gil's eyes changed. Looked at him with a flat, dispassionate wariness that struck like a punch. Told him he was wrong, that Jackie was wrong. That there are some things too cruel to forgive.
He lost them. Over and over. Saw them die. Over and Over.
And he deserved it.
He was warm. His throat was dry, rough. Something was stuck there. But his chest didn't hurt like before. The pain had changed from a burn to an ache, one he knew was familiar but couldn't remember why.
Movement caught his attention. Someone was stroking the back of his hand. Speech murmured over him. He tried to concentrate, pull himself out of the quagmire he'd been stuck in for hours. Or weeks. He focused on the gentle pull of someone's skin on his, letting it lull him into wakefulness. The voices sharpened. His mother. Gil.
They hadn't left him.
It took a long time for the words to make sense. When they did, they hurt.
"You know," his mother said, just feet from him. "I used to watch him so closely. Waiting for him to come home with a dead bird or to torture one of his snakes. When his friends all abandoned him I was ready for him to turn violent. To ... to turn into his father."
His heart broke along the oldest scars. She said it so casually, like it was obvious. Like the biggest surprise of her motherhood was not raising a monster like the one she'd married.
Well. He couldn't blame her.
"I don't know how he would've turned out without you, Gil. I think ... I would've only broken him more."
An old ache surged in his chest and he fought to open his eyes, to speak around the tube in his mouth. But he could barely keep up with her words.
You didn't break me, he wanted to tell her. You were so hurt and you did your best.
"But I never sang to him."
I love you, Momma.
Fingers wove through his hair and for the first time he realised the blood was gone. He wanted to lean into the contact, have it last forever.
"Well," Jessica whispered, "I suppose it's never too late to start."
Her nails tickled along his scalp and he remembered countless nights falling asleep to that steady rhythm, wrists locked at his side, her weight dipping the mattress.
"You are my sun-shine," she sang softly, her voice low and lilting and the best thing he'd ever heard. Malcolm's heart faltered, remembering another voice sing those same words. He remembered warm hugs and baking lessons, kind smiles and an untouchable sense of safety.
"My only sun-shine."
She had known. All these years she had known about that song. She had known. As much as he loved Jackie, as important and cherished as she would always be in his memory, his mother meant to him what no one else could. She stood by him through every childhood nightmare, every doctor's appointment. She fought for him when he was too exhausted to advocate for himself. She had egged him on until he'd finally found medications that let him function. She'd never understood his need to join the FBI but she had supported him, in her own way. She was steadfast. She had held him up when his strength failed him after Watkins took him. She'd been there, in the hospital, every day. There was nothing she wouldn't do for him and he would ride this surge of love back to her side if it killed him.
"You make me ha-ppy, when skies are grey."
Tears quavered through the words and Malcolm threw himself into his struggle, willing himself with all he had to wake up, to tell her how much he loved her, how sorry he was, how beautiful she sounded.
"You'll never know, dear," she whispered above him, barely singing now, "how much I love you." She sniffed, took a breath. Her lips pressed against his cheek.
"Please don't take my sun-shine away."
I'm here. Momma, I'm here.
Movement stirred around him. His mother's hands vanished. He ached for her touch as soon as it was gone.
"Malcolm loves you, Jessica," Gil whispered. "You did your best. And it was enough. You raised a hero, Jess. A hero."
Not that, Malcolm thought, still trying to wrench himself to the surface. Never that, Gil.
"I just want him safe," his mother sighed. "I want him to not hurt. I want him happy." Her voice broke. "I want him back."
I won't leave you. I promised.
I promised.
Their voices faded as he clawed his way out of the darkness, out of the hanging weight he'd been floating in. His body came back to him in a jolt of lethargic pain. Everything intensified, the beeping of a monitor, the scent of antiseptic, the raw dryness of his throat, the coarse intrusion of the breathing tube.
It all hurt. But he ignored it. Blinked his eyes open a crack, then quickly shut them as light blinded him, stabbing into his brain. He tried again, more slowly, willing himself not to fight the artificial breathing. Not sure if he was able to breathe without it.
His mother sat in a chair to his right, Gil hunched over her, arms wrapped around her. He met his gaze. Tried to smile. Couldn't.
Gil blinked at him, his expression a study of shock.
"J-Jess," he muttered, straightening. "Look."
Malcolm looked to his mother in time to see her gasp and reach for him, tears spilling over her lashes. Her hands were on his face in moments and he closed his eyes, relishing her touch. Gil was half-laughing, his hand on Malcolm's shoulder.
Malcolm reached a hand to the tube in his mouth but Jessica caught it.
"No, my love, don't touch that."
He frowned. His lungs were rejecting the mechanical rhythm. He felt ... okay. Strong enough to breathe on his own. He wanted it gone.
"I'll get a doctor," Gil said, disappearing too quickly for Malcolm's addled brain to follow. He looked back to his mother, tried to poor all his sorrow and gratitude into his gaze.
"I know, darling. I know. I'm here. You're okay. Everything's okay."
Everything? Did they have Quinley? His accomplices? Was everyone safe? Was he?
Nurses came in a bustle of movement and orders he couldn't keep up with. They ignored his weak attempts to push them away. Said things that were meant to be comforting but were strangled by business-like tones. Gloved hands gripped his chin and he tensed. His hand was clenched around his mother's, shaking. The tube was pulled out in a slow, steady motion and he wanted to scream as it scraped along his raw throat but all he could do was gag.
Weakness took him. He slumped, needing hands to hold him steady as an oxygen mask appeared over his mouth and nose. Someone asked him if he was in pain and he nodded before he'd understood the question. Something cool flushed into his arm and panic beeped into the room. The nothingness was coming for him again but he fought it. He needed to tell them, needed to say it.
He searched for them, barely able to keep his eyes open. They were by his side, their hands on him, soothing.
They still cared. At least for now.
He reached for Gil. His hands were so steady around his trembling one. His lids drooped and he blinked them open.
"Gil," he mumbled, slurring. He winced as his tattered throat worked.
"I'm here, kid. I'm right here."
"Mom."
"I'm here my love. My darling, I'm right here."
He closed his eyes. Took a steadying breath. Opened them again. Found his mother's, then Gil's.
"I'm sorry," he croaked, unsure if it was intelligible. Someone may have said something else but he was already sinking down, far away, into blackness.
Your reviews are wonderful, readers, thank you so much! Prolly just one chapter to go now.
