The way Sorcha spun on one spiky heel and started to make her way from the observation area reminded Gil so much of Jessica. The two have been spending more time together of late, he mused as his lips twitched. To clearly scathing effects.
He contained his amusement, however. He couldn't show he approved of what Sorcha said. JT on the other hand, didn't feel such a need. No, he grunted a sound that mixed amusement with approval. That the gruff detective had taken a liking to Sorcha wasn't lost on Gil. He imagined the reason for that was because of how forthright and honest she was.
Sorcha Corbin wasn't one to mince words.
Got that from her father.
Without a doubt, she'd carry out her threat to ruin Swanson if she hindered them in any way whatsoever. Swanson was also concerned enough about Sorcha's threat that she didn't offer one of her caustic replies.
Part of him wondered what was said during the first conversation the two had. Something told him this one was way more polite than that one had been. The hostility between the two had been evident in the Whitly foyer.
And all of it over Bright.
Most people thought like Colette Swanson did. That because Bright was the son of a serial killer that he either must be one or would eventually become one.
He didn't lie when he told people the kid was an acquired taste. He took getting used too. He did things different. He could be a handful. Especially when he's having a manic episode.
The kid idled between moderate and intense. He swung high or low without a moment's notice. Bounced off walls because he had a surplus of energy he couldn't rid himself of.
Not many people wanted to deal with all that craziness. Those who tried burned out, tapped out, ran away as fast as they could. Gil could count how many friends and supporters Bright had on two hands.
And four of them are in this room.
"I will remind you that you are only here at Lieutenant Arroyo's request," Swanson said, tone cool. "At any time that your services are no longer needed, I can and will ask you to leave."
"I'll leave when Malcolm is home safe."
Gil decided it was time he stepped in and put an end to this squabbling. He needed Sorcha and Swanson focused on Bright. On Watkins. The clock was ticking, as Sorcha pointed out in his office. Every second was one more Watkins could use to torture the kid.
His kid.
"Fighting among ourselves isn't going to help us find where Watkins took Bright," he told them in a soft, but firm voice. "Finding Bright is our primary objective."
"Catching Watkins is our primary objective," Colette corrected. "Bright is merely an accessory to that."
"Meaning you're going to treat Malcolm as an accessory."
Swanson's gaze cut to Sorcha. "Until I find evidence to suggest otherwise, yes."
"You have evidence to suggest otherwise," Sorcha shot back. "You just refuse to accept it because of your pettiness."
Bright, Gil decided as he sent an imploring look up at the ceiling, is a lot easier to deal with than these two will be.
"And you refuse…" Swanson began but Gil cut her off.
"Enough!" He aimed a look at the frowning agent before swinging his head to include Sorcha in it. "You want to help Bright?"
"You know I do."
"Then you need to stop arguing with each other and start working with each other."
"You know I'd work with Martin Whitly at this point."
Gil sent her a mildly amused smile. "It might come to that."
"All I need is two minutes alone with the man."
Swanson scoffed.
"You think getting answers from a man like Martin Whitly will be that easy?"
"I assure you, Agent Swanson." A feral gleam passed through Sorcha's eyes. Put Gil's instincts on edge. "I have no intention of saying one word to that man."
No, she planned on letting a fist do her talking for her. Gil almost, almost was tempted to let her in Dr. Whitly's cell just for the satisfaction of seeing his reaction.
"Was beating up incapacitated suspects to get answers something your father taught you, Miss Corbin?" A malicious smile twisted Swanson's lips. "Or did you learn that from Bright?"
"That's crossing a line, Agent Swanson," Gil said, voice like tempered steel. "You can either leave my precinct now or you can apologize to Sorcha."
Swanson's dark eyes lifted to his. Gil expected her to refuse his request and was not disappointed when she said, "I have nothing to apologize for, Lieutenant Arroyo."
That was a matter of opinion. Gil opted not to press it. For now.
"You want to catch Watkins?" He nodded towards Sorcha. "You need Sorcha."
"I do not…"
"Sorcha understands Bright." An edge to JT's voice indicated how little he liked the agent. "She knows how he thinks. Insomuch as anyone can know how his skinny ass thinks."
"Thinking like Bright isn't going to help us, Detective Tarmel."
"Right." Sorcha snorted. "He's only the one who came up with the profile here."
"How do we know we can trust his profile?" Swanson waved off one of the other agents when he tried to hand her a file. "He could easily have created a fake profile."
"Bright wouldn't do that." Dani spoke this time. "He has no reason to do it."
"He would if he's working with John Watkins."
"The second to last person that Malcolm would work with is John Watkins."
"And would his father be the last person he'd work with, Detective Powell?" Swanson folded her arms in front of her. "Because it seems like he's worked with Dr. Whitly plenty since joining the NYPD."
"That's enough." He looked at JT. "Take Sorcha back to my office. Start going over everything we know at this point."
"Sure thing, Boss."
JT lumbered from the room, Sorcha and Dani a few steps behind him.
Gil waited until they were gone before he turned to Swanson.
"You insult Ian Corbin's name and memory again and I will kick you out of my precinct." Swanson opened her mouth to retort but Gil held up a hand to stop. "Is that understand?"
Resentment wafted off Swanson in thick waves. Not that Gil cared. Sorcha and Bright could defend themselves.
Ian Corbin couldn't.
"Yes, Lieutenant Arroyo."
"Good."
He left the agent then to fuss and fume in silence. He didn't care so long as she got her head together and helped them with finding Bright.
Before it's too late.
…
Fatigue and blood loss finally caught up with Malcolm. He drifted in and out of consciousness. Rode on the waves of white noise filling his head. Listened to the taunts and jeers, the slippery insinuations and accusations, and the words that had damned him since he was ten.
"Those are the words of a manipulator, Malcolm."
Malcolm blinked open blurry eyes. Turned his throbbing head. Barely made out the figure seated in a chair across from him. His heart throbbed as he took in those craggy features. The more salt than pepper hair, the thin goatee. Lips curved into a smile so achingly familiar that it brought tears to eyes.
"You're not here," he managed around his swollen tongue. "You're another hallucination. Like Gabrielle."
"It's your minds way of telling you what you know deep down." Ian Corbin leaned forward into what little light illuminated the dark chamber Watkins left him chained in. His eyes, the same rich shade as Sorcha's sparkled with conviction and confidence. "You need to listen and do what you need to not only get yourself out of this situation but protect those that mean the most to you."
"How?" The words throbbed with every ounce of the pain and frustration inside him. "How do I protect them?"
He didn't care about protecting himself.
"That's the problem. You don't care about you."
The ghost of a smile flickered across Malcolm's battered face. "You sound like Sorcha."
"My girl believes in you. She loves you." Ian pointed upwards. "She's out there fighting for you."
"I don't deserve her," he whispered. "I'm broken. I can't be fixed."
"You're not broken." Ian sat back in his chair and regarded him with eyes that seemed to penetrate the walls he had built around himself. Seeing all the ugly things inside him but not damning him for them. "You're much stronger than you credit yourself for being."
"My father—"
"Manipulated you from the time you were a small child," Ian cut in, the words familiar ones. "He used you just like he used his surgical tools. Abused you in ways you refuse to acknowledge. All to mold you into his perfect partner."
Malcolm wanted to deny what he said, like he always did, but he couldn't. His father had been grooming him. He knew that. Same as he knew his father continued to hope that he'd finally snap. That he'd finally become a killer.
Like him.
Again those words, those damning words slid between the static. His father in his red sweater, smiling his warm and loving smile, telling him they were the same as detectives led him away.
"You're not the same, Malcolm. You've proven time and again how different from Martin Whitly you are." Ian aimed a finger at him. "That's why Watkins kidnapped you. Why he brought you here."
"Watkins wants to break me."
"He wants revenge."
Malcolm's forehead creased at those words. "Revenge?" His hand drifted to the wound still seeping blood. "He got it. He stabbed me like I stabbed him."
"If all Watkins wanted was to get even with you for stabbing him, he could have done it plenty of times now. This isn't about you stabbing him. It's not even about breaking you, Malcolm. It's—"
"About my father," Malcolm whispered as realization dawned, bright as the midday sun. "He wants revenge because my father didn't fulfill his promises to him on that camping trip."
"The question is, son, are you going to let him use you? Or are you going to fight back?"
"How?" He jingled the chains holding him to the floor. "How do I fight when I'm chained up like an animal?"
"Fight smarter, not harder," Ian said as a soft humming filled the room with a calming sound. "Isn't that what my girl always says?"
"She could have taught me how to escape these cuffs."
"You know how to get out of those cuffs."
Malcolm went to reply but the humming grew louder, turned into words from a song. One taught to a daughter by her loving father and shared by that daughter with him. Ian's velvety baritone mingled with that lilting one that belonged to Sorcha.
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
…
"Let's grab some coffee on way back to Gil's office," JT said once they were out of the observation room. "Gonna be a long night."
"Spike mine with a shot of bourbon, please."
"Wouldn't have taken you for a whiskey girl."
"Only when I'm extremely stressed." Sorcha waved a hand behind her. "Or have to deal with that woman."
JT grunted a silent agreement about. "Figure you need a drink or two after dealing with Bright."
She hummed a laugh as she followed him into the break room. "He requires something a bit more physical than a few shots of whiskey, actually."
"Couple of rounds with a punching bag comes to mind." He aimed a look down at her. "Or kickboxing."
"I swim a hundred laps in his pool, actually."
"Bright has a pool in his place?" Dani's eyebrows drew together. "I thought it was just a loft?"
"No, it has multiple floors to it."
"He didn't give me a tour the night I took him home."
"Come by when he's not stoned," Sorcha joked. "We'll show you around."
Dani was about to say something but Swanson stalked by, glowering at them.
"She really hates, Bright, doesn't she?" Dani leaned back against the wall while JT grabbed mugs and filled them with coffee. "Why?"
"I don't know the entire story." Sorcha perched on the edge of the counter. "Malcolm isn't always clear when it comes to these sorts of things."
"We know."
Sorcha lips twitched. "Figured out he's Gregory House but with less caustic wit and a deeper ingrained set of morals?"
"House would club him with that cane to get him to sit still," JT said as he passed Sorcha her mug.
"Mal has a high threshold for pain."
"We know."
She reached for a couple of creamers in a box set beside the coffee pot but stopped. "You've given Mal something that he hasn't had in a long time."
"Friendship?" Dani guessed.
"That," Sorcha said with a nod, "and being valued on his own merits."
"Things didn't start out that way," JT admitted without shame or remorse. "Didn't know what to make of his crazy ass in the beginning."
"You gave him a chance." Sorcha's eyes met his. Open. Vulnerable. Brimming with worry and concern. Her face, however, remained coolly composed. Like Tally, she was focused on solving the crisis. Then she'd fall to pieces. "That's what important."
JT didn't know what to say to that so he pointed to the tattoo on the back of her neck, instead.
"Army?"
"My brother," she explained as he passed Dani a mug. "He did two tours of Afghanistan before coming home with both his legs blown off by an IED." JT flinched. He knew many who came back missing limbs because of IEDs. "You'd like Sean, actually."
"Cause we were army?"
"More because you both think Malcolm is a walking disaster."
JT grunted. "Bright was a state, he'd be Florida."
"During a hurricane."
A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well during these trying times.
I just want to send a special thank you to Rookblonkorules and the guest for their lovely reviews!
