Malcolm stared at the ceiling of his underground prison as a flurry of things spun through his mind at nauseating speed. He put his hands to his head and prayed for the images, thoughts, and searing pain to stop.

Just five minutes, he begged whatever gods might be listening to his pathetic pleas. Just give me five minutes of nothing in my head so I can try to figure out what to do here.

It didn't seem like all that much to ask for really.

Not that he deserved their pity.

Or their mercy.

Malcolm found himself relived when the pulsating pain behind his eyes subsided to a low, dull throb. His thoughts stilled.

Only the images took their time in going away.

He learned to live with them as he did the dark things tearing at his steadily fraying nerves.

Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief for the same reprieve. It wasn't much but it did allow him to force his messed-up brain to function.

The vacant expression on Owen Shannon's face swam across his visual field and disrupted what little calm he found.

The longer he was imprisoned in this stone playground of Watkins, the less confident he became at his chances of escaping.

Of surviving.

The long cold fingers of death crawled over him, pulled at him, lured him to follow them down into the dark abyss that waited for him.

Part of him considered giving in, giving up. Following those fingers to whatever one of the nine levels of Hell they'd take him too.

He was tired, so tired.

Tired of fighting the memories, the dark things inside his head, and the father who quite likely tried to kill him while on a camping trip with the man who now held him.

"Am I worth fighting for?" he heard from the shadows. "Is Gil? Ainsley? Your mom?"

"Not you, too," he groaned. "Wasn't my hallucination of your father enough?"

"My father is the side of you that is the former FBI agent. Me? I'm your heart."

"Funny," he said as he rolled to his side.

"I'd have thought you're my profiler side."

A soft laugh sounded before Sorcha floated from the shadows. Her grace and simple beauty stunned him.

As it always did.

Her dress, a rich crimson shade, fit her loosely, left those long legs of hers bare from mid-thigh to her feet.

She wore no shoes and no jewelry.

He hadn't given her first charm bracelet to her when she wore this dress the first time.

Malcolm picked out the faint blue and gold threads among the scarlet as she drew closer to him. Such a color normally was his subconscious mind issuing warnings about something being potentially dangerous.

With her, though, it was less a warning about her being a threat, and more a memory of the first time she took his breath away.

"You thought I was dangerous that night."

"Because you got Tad's car towed and humiliated Leslie by insinuating I never planned to go with her to that Valentines mixer."

"I planned to do a lot more to her than that."

"That's why I got you out of there as quickly as I could."

"Party pooper." She pouted prettily. "I just wanted to throw her champagne in her face."

"Right." He groaned as pain shot across his chest. "You wanted to hit her."

"I wanted to scratch her eyes out for what she did to you."

And she'd have done it if he hadn't ushered her from the restaurant.

"Why do you hold yourself back from me then?"

"I don't hold myself back..." Malcolm frowned as he looked up at her. "Do I?"

"Yes, you do." She sunk to her knees beside him, her exotic scent wrapping itself around him, and bringing much needed calm. "You allow me close to you but still keep a part of yourself from me."

"Because I don't want to hurt you."

Like I almost hurt Eve.

"You've never hurt me. Not once."

"I could, though."

"I've been through countless night terrors." Her sigh cruised over his clammy flesh. "I've been there for the hallucinations. Have you hurt me during any of them?"

"I almost killed..."

"Do you think Eve is the first woman you've lashed out at while you were in the grips of a hallucination or night terror?" She shook her head. "You've lashed out at Mandy and I." She fisted her hands on her hips. "And we're still here, you dope. We still love you."

Malcolm stared into eyes that on first glance seemed an ordinary shade of brown. When a beam of light hit them, they changed to amber. Became pure honey around the iris. His favorite, though was when she looked up at the sun.

Then her eyes became almost green.

Like they did when they were in Hawaii.

"Stop remembering our island getaway and start thinking of a way to get out of this predicament."

"I don't think I can get out of this," he admitted with a soft grunt. "Watkins—"

"Is doing this to get revenge on your father."

A cold, hard truth. One Malcolm routinely denied every time she suggested it. Now, though? After what Watkins revealed to him about their plans for him on that camping trip?

He couldn't be so sure.

His anger and bitterness over his father not fulfilling his promises to him on the camping trip drove his motive. As had his fury over his stabbing him with that knife. Something he still didn't understand his doing.

"He threatened you. That's why you stabbed him."

"I don't remember that, though."

"You don't need to remember it. You just need to trust yourself."

He gave her a wry look. "Wouldn't it be simpler to wish for the moon or stars?"

Sorcha frowned at him. "Focus… what does Watkins want?"

"He wants to break me." His breath hitched. "He wants to turn me into them. Make me into a killer."

"Right. Why? What does breaking you accomplish? What does it give him? It's not like he wants or needs a partner to work with. He's done just fine for twenty years. So, why does he want to break you?"

"To deny my father the pleasure of being the one to do it."

"Because the ultimate way of getting back at a malignant narcissist like Martin Whitly is by shattering his fantasy." A small smile graced her lips. "By taking his toy away from him."

"I'm not a toy."

"Martin Whitly sees you as a research project he's invested years in." The words hurt. Not because they were a lie but because they were the brutal truth. "You're a lab rat he's conditioned to respond to his commands. Same as Pavlov did his dogs."

Classical conditioning. The sort of grooming techniques a man like his father would instead of using the technique to break a hostage and get them to do things they wouldn't ordinarily do, he used them on him.

His own son.

"We're the same." The words poured from him as the image of his father, handcuffed but smiling, filled his vision. "He made us the same."

"You're not the same, though." Velvet steel coated every word. "That's why Watkins wants to break you. Because you're not the same as Martin Whitly. Not yet."

"I don't know what Watkins has planned." His vision fractured as his voice broke. "What trials he has in mind for me."

"He's going to make you kill someone."

"No." The word came out breathier than he liked. "I won't."

"Then fight, Mal."

"I can't." He blew out a breath as pain rippled across his chest. "I'm not strong enough to fight him."

"You're stronger than you think you are."

"No, I'm not."

"I believe in you." Sorcha stroked a hand over his hair. "You need to believe in you. You need to fight, Mal. For me, but especially for yourself."

"I can't..."

"Yes, you can." Her face set. "If you don't, I will do the one thing you don't want me to do: confront your father."

"No!" Malcolm surged to his knees, heedless of the white hot agony that ripped across his chest or the fresh blood that flowed. "No! I don't want you going anywhere near him!"

"Martin Whitly knows where you are." Her hands framed his face, thumbs stroking away the tears that stained his cheeks. "He can tell us where Watkins is holding you."

"Stay away from my father," he implored her, reaching up to grasp her hands in his shaking ones. "Promise me, Sorcha." His hands trembled against hers. "Promise me you'll stay away from my father."

"Fight then, Mal." She rest her forehead against his. "Find a way to let me and Gil and JT and Dani know where you are so we can come and help you."

"How?" Frustration blistered the air between them. "He's chained me up like an animal."

"Fight smarter..."

"Your father used that one." He stared into her eyes. "It hasn't helped."

"Because you listened to what I had to say about Batman but you've never applied the knowledge to yourself."

"I'm not a superhero is why."

He always told her he was more an antihero than anything. More Gregory House or Jack Sparrow than Batman or Captain America.

"Still not applying what I told you."

"Get out of my head."

"Considering this is all in your head?" Her lips brushed his skin in a feathery kiss. Set off aches that had nothing to do with what Watkins had done to him. "That's a bit of an oxymoron."

"You're not helping."

"I've done exactly what you needed me to do, actually." Sorcha leaned back to look at him. "That's why you conjured me. Because it's let you refocus your mind. Pushed the panic and fear back. Allowed you to start thinking rationally and sensibly again."

Malcolm rattled the chains holding him in place.

"Haven't figured out how to get out of these."

"You know how to get out of those cuffs, Mal." Her hand came up to rest against his cheek, those quick clever fingers stroking over his cheek. "You know the answer. You just have to let yourself process the information and work up to it."

"I don't have anything to break these chains with."

"Remember in Goblet of Fire when Harry said to Mad-Eye he didn't have a broom? What did Mad-Eye remind him that he did have?"

"A wand."

"Look for your wand, Potter."

"Sorch…"

"Time's running out, Mal. Find your wand and get yourself out of here or I'm going to confront your father."

She made to get up then but he grabbed her in a hard embrace.

"Don't!" He pleaded. "Don't leave me!"

"I've never left you, you danger prone idiot. I'm always with you. I'm your heart, remember?" She indicated her dress with a sweep of her hand. "Why else do you think you're seeing me in this? With my hair long and loose?"

"That Valentine's is one of my favorite memories."

Next to the first Christmas he spent with her and her family. The one where Ian Corbin told him he didn't believe people were born broken.

That he wasn't broken.

"You kissed me that night."

Under the street lamp outside her apartment. Malcolm remembered it. He also recalled being terrified after he stepped back. Sorcha's head cocked to the side, her gaze curious.

"Why?"

"I figured you'd either laugh at me or hit me."

"Hm, I recall kissing you back."

"You did." A small smile curved his lips. "Then your dad called."

She hummed a laugh.

"He had as good a dad-mode as Gil does. Always called when we were doing something fun."

"He should have told you to stay away from me."

"He loved you." She took his quaking hand between her own. "Same as Gil loves you."

Gil, he thought as her thumb stroked over the back of his hand. "He has to be going out of his mind right now."

"He's got me he's dealing with." Her eyes crinkled at the corner with her smile. "You're a picnic compared to me."

"Is that supposed to inspire me to get myself free?" His lips trembled, slightly curved. "So I can save Gil from you?"

"I love you." Sorcha leaned in to kiss him. Warmth flooded his system. Thawed his frozen bones. "Is that enough of a reason to get yourself free?"

"Sorch, I..."

She placed her fingers across his lips. Shook her head.

"Tell me when you get out of this mess you're in."

"I will," he vowed as he heard something — a door? — open in the distance. "I will."

Malcolm just hoped he'd be sane enough to keep that promise.


A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well!

I just want to send a special thank you to Rookblonkorules and my guests for their lovely reviews!