AN: At long last, my tag to 2x03. This one took a hot minute. Not only have I been super busy with school and wedding stuff, but there was soooooo much in this ep that I wanted to write about lol. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and please leave a review!
Out of all of Malcolm's plans, even he had to admit that this was one of his more ill advised ones. He was banking on the hope that Gil was almost there already, ready to arrest Louisa, and would quickly ascertain exactly where the fire alarm had originated from. Both were bad things to bank on. Malcolm didn't even know whether or not Gil knew to arrest Louisa. The rest of the team could have figured it out by then, but there was also a good possibility that they hadn't. Until only a few minutes earlier, Malcolm himself had thought that Professor Delaney had been the killer. There was no way that he could bank on Gil having figured out it was Louisa instead. On top of that, how on earth was Gil supposed to figure out where the fire alarm had originated from before Malcolm suffocated? Both things that Malcolm was banking on in order to save his own life, as well as the life of Professor Delaney, were completely preposterous. And yet, Malcolm still believed with every fiber of his being that Gil was going to save him. Gil always saved him.
Malcolm fought to keep his breaths even as the oxygen quickly got scarce. He couldn't panic. If he panicked, he was dead. He needed to give Gil as much time to find him as possible.
His legs buckled underneath him. Malcolm just barely caught himself on the table before hitting the ground. He quickly lowered himself the rest of the way down. It was better that way, at least then he would fall and break his nose on top of suffocating. Malcolm kept trying to breathe, to take in breaths, but moment by moment, there weren't any breaths to take. Malcolm took one final gulp of air, as deep as he possibly could, and held it. Gil was on his way, he was coming for him. He was going to be just fine, he just needed to hold on, to give Gil more time. Gil always saved him, and this time would be no different. He just had to hold on.
But his lungs were screaming. Malcolm clasped his hand over his nose and mouth to stop himself from letting his breath go or trying to breathe in air that wasn't there. It wouldn't buy him much time, but even a few seconds could make the difference. But Gil wasn't coming. The door was remaining stubbornly closed. He was alone, and the room was getting smaller. He was trapped, just like he had been in that closet, and he couldn't get out on his own. He needed help, but no one was there. Where was Gil? Where was he?
Darkness began to encroach around the edges of his vision, forcing Malcolm to finally release the breath he'd been holding in. He felt better for all of one second before he tried to gasp in another lungful, only to find there wasn't any air left to gasp in. The coolant from the extinguishers left him shivering, and he couldn't even breathe on his hands to warm them up. There was nothing. Malcolm kept trying to pull in gasping breaths, but there was nothing there. He was choking on absolutely nothing.
Malcolm was going to die. It hadn't worked. Gil hadn't come for him. Gil hadn't saved him from that closet for the three days he had been trapped there, and Gil wasn't saving him now. It was too late.
Malcolm panicked as he continued to choke. He used was little strength he had left to bang on the door, just like he had thirteen years earlier in that closet. And just like in that closet, no one could hear him.
The darkness returned, along with a bone crushing fatigue to accompany the cold. This was the end. Malcolm was going to die. His bangs on the door got softer and softer, even as the door to the library opened and Gil came rushing in. It was too late. Malcolm fell to the floor, thankful that, if nothing else, at least Gil's was the last face he ever saw.
THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER
"Nicky! Please!" Malcolm screamed after the other boy. But Nicky didn't so much as turn around. He just kept whistling, heedless to Malcolm's panicked cries. Nicky wasn't going to let him out. "Someone!" he shouted as Nicky's whistles grew more and more faint. "Someone, let me out!" Malcolm kept banging on the door, but it wouldn't budge. He threw his whole weight against it, just like Gil did when he was breaking down a door, but to no avail. The door was thick and heavy, with a lock to match, and Malcolm was too small to force his way out.
How was he supposed to get out of there? If Nicky didn't let him out, no one would. The janitors were already gone, as were all of the teachers that Malcolm knew of. He'd been staying late to finish up a project, and Nicky had been staying late for- for what? Detention? A sport? A project? Specifically to lock Malcolm in a closet like he was a dangerous animal needing to be caged like his father?
Malcolm fell to the floor, his legs no longer supporting his weight. He desperately fought against his tears as his hand began to shake. He quickly clasped his other hand around it and tried to take deep breaths. His hand hadn't shaken since he was ten. That tremor was supposed to be gone. No matter how horrifically he'd been bullied, his hand had never shaken since his father's trial. It couldn't be shaking again, it just couldn't.
Malcolm curled up with his head on his knees as he gave into his tears. How did Nicky know? Who told him? Malcolm had been so careful, he'd never let anything about his family slip. How had Nicky found out? And how could he have done this to him? The boy had always been a bit of a jerk, but he'd never had problems with Malcolm before specifically. Malcolm finally thought that he'd found a place where he could be normal, where he wouldn't have to deal with the bullying and the way that his teachers would look at him. Now, it was over. It wasn't as if Nicky was going to keep this information to himself. He would spread it all around school, and then it would be just like it had been at his old school.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't his fault that his father was The Surgeon. He'd been the one to stop the serial killer and get him arrested for goodness sake. Why did he have to suffer because of what his father did? Malcolm let out another sob as his hand continued to shake. He purposefully ignored it.
But he couldn't ignore how close the walls were. It was such a small closet, really just a set of shelves with room for a few buckets on the floor. But at least Malcolm had more room than the girl did. She wouldn't have been able to stretch out at all in that box. At least Malcolm could move his legs a bit, and stand up.
Every time Malcolm closed his eyes, he saw her, trapped in that box. He had been too late to save her, and now he was suffering a similar fate. He deserved this.
Malcolm continued to sob, harsh wracking cries that stole his breath from him. He was gasping for air, and yet, the air wouldn't come. He was hyperventilating, he couldn't breathe, he was going to pass out, and then no one was going to be able to find him and he would be trapped there and he would die just like the girl and where was Gil, Gil was always there to save him so where was he, where was Gil, where was Gil, where was Gil, where was-.
When Malcolm awoke, the light that had been shining through the thin slats in the door was gone. It was so dark, Malcolm couldn't even make out his own hand in front of his face. Was he dead? It took Malcolm another moment to remember where he was, what Nicky had done to him.
Malcolm groaned as tears filled his eyes once again. He wasn't dead, but he may as well have been. It was so dark, it had to be night. That meant that Malcolm had passed out for at least a few hours. If his mother or her driver had been looking for him at that point, he would've missed them. He would've been passed out while they scoured the school for him. He'd missed his only shot at rescue. Malcolm took in a shuddering breath as he collapsed into tears. He was going to die in there.
"Help!" Malcolm screamed on the off chance that someone had snuck into the academic buildings at night, or that a teacher was working really, really late. "Somebody, please! Let me out!" His voice broke. He wasn't ever getting out of there.
LINE BREAK
The first twenty-four hours weren't that bad. Malcolm spent a lot of time staring at the darkness in front of him, focusing on grounding himself in reality. He fended off the voices of his father and his father's victims, and was mostly able to keep himself centered in reality. The bucket in the far corner - which wasn't very far, but beggars couldn't be choosers - became his bathroom, and that was all he had in terms of small comforts. There wasn't any water to drink, dirty mop water or otherwise.
His thirst slowly grew stronger and stronger. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls, and try as he might, Malcolm couldn't produce even any saliva to wet his tongue. His head was pounding, but there wasn't anything that Malcolm could do about that either.
He slept fitfully, with no sense of time passing. It was far too dark to be able to tell what his watch read. Sleeping was just as awful as staying awake. He either slept and suffered through his night terrors, or he stayed awake and lived them. There was barely a difference. His only solace was that there was no one around to hear him when he woke up screaming, crying, and gasping for air.
"Gil, where are you?" Malcolm asked the darkness as tears streamed down his face. He knew he needed to stop crying, he needed to conserve water, but he just couldn't help it. He was so scared. No one would be in the academic buildings until the teachers started to come in to work Monday morning. It was Friday night, or maybe Saturday morning. Malcolm wasn't sure. He'd been there a full day, based on the patterns of light and darkness. How was he supposed to make it until Monday morning? By that point, he probably wouldn't even be coherent enough to call for help. He wouldn't be found until Monday afternoon, when the janitors opened the closet. There was no way he was going to make it. He was going to die in there.
Malcolm curled up as much as he could on the cold floor, and continued to cry.
The second day, things got worse. He woke up screaming, his throat protesting the treatment. As Malcolm caught his breath, he felt the familiar sensation of his stomach rolling with nausea.
"No," Malcolm moaned. He couldn't throw up. That was only going to make the dehydration worse. Besides, there was barely anything in his stomach to throw up. He barely ate anything on a good day, so there shouldn't have been anything to throw up. But this was real nausea. His palms were sweating and his tongue felt weird. This wasn't the normal nausea he felt on a daily basis. Malcolm moaned again in pain as his stomach rolled again. He pulled himself closer to one of the buckets - the one that he wasn't already using, although, now that he thought about it, he hadn't used it in quite a while, which wasn't a good sign either - and didn't fight the tears that welled up in his eyes as he began to gag, his stomach spasming without his control. A meager amount of bile came up, taking with it the little bit of water that was left in his stomach. Malcolm knew he was crying, but even his tears were becoming few and far between.
Even after he stopped dry heaving, the nausea didn't go away. It fell more into the background, but Malcolm still felt miserable. His head was pounding, his throat was screaming, and on top of it all, his body was beginning to ache. He was off his meds. Malcolm curled in on himself to try to stay warm. He didn't feel that cold, but he was shaking, so he had to be.
His father's voice drifted through the closet. Malcolm whimpered and pressed his hands over his ears, but it didn't work, the voice was still there.
"This is pathetic, Malcolm," Dr. Whitly said. Malcolm opened his eyes and looked around the room. His father was nowhere to be seen. "You're pathetic. How could let Nicky do this to you? Felled by one shove into a closet? Truly, my boy, this is embarrassing."
"Go away," Malcolm whimpered. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and held his hands tight against his ears, but it wasn't helping. "Leave me alone, please," he begged.
"If only your precious Gil could see you right now," Dr. Whitly mocked. "He wouldn't even look at you, the embarrassment you are."
"No, you're lying," Malcolm answered, despite knowing in the back of his mind that it was a bad idea to engage with hallucinations, whether they were auditory or visual. "You always lie to me, always."
"But my boy, I'm your father," Dr. Whitly said, actually sounding wounded. His voice quickly turned dark. "I'm the only one who tells you the truth. And the truth is, no one is coming for you. They didn't even look. Your mother hates you for what you've done to this family, and Gil is glad to finally be rid of you. You've been a thorn in his side for eight years, a pathetic child who needs to coddled because he's oh so fragile. You're gonna die in here and Gil will be glad to see you gone."
"That's not true," Malcolm cried. It couldn't be. It wasn't.
"At least Ainsley won't have to grow up anymore with the embarrassment of having you as a brother. She's better off without you. She's never needed you. In fact, this world doesn't need you. I'm the only one who needs you, my boy," Dr. Whitly said, his final words sickly sweet in his ears. "I'm the only one who loves you. You're worthless to everyone else, but not to me," he whispered.
Malcolm didn't respond this time. He hugged his knees close to his chest as he sobbed, and yet, no tears slid down his face. He literally didn't have any tears left to cry.
Malcolm must have passed out again, because the next thing he knew, there was even less light, and it hadn't felt like a single second had passed. He groaned as his stomach rolled in hunger, mixing with the nausea. His throat was so parched, and his tongue felt like a dried out dead fish in his mouth. Malcolm couldn't even bring himself to sit up. He wasn't getting out of there. Why couldn't he just die already?
But he didn't want to die. He was so scared. For all Malcolm had wanted to die since he was ten years old, now that death was finally coming for him, he was so freaking scared. Malcolm didn't want to die. He wanted to live. He wanted this hell to end, but he didn't actually want to die. He wanted Gil. Where was Gil?
"Help me," he tried to scream, but the words left his mouth in barely a whisper. Malcolm tried to clear his throat, but only succeeded in making it hurt more. He curled in on himself more and let out a broken sob that sounded more like it came from a wounded animal than any human. "Someone, please help me," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut against tears that weren't coming. He was never getting out of there.
Wherever he looked, he saw the girl. She look at him with dead eyes, asking him why he hadn't saved her. Malcolm closed his eyes and tried to pretend she wasn't there. He tried to block out the voice of his father calling him terrible things, and he tried to block out that whistling of Nicky's that still rang in his ears.
Malcolm wondered what would happen to Nicky. Would they find out that he was Malcolm's murderer? He'd probably go away for manslaughter, if Gil did manage to catch him. But it was Malcolm. He was the new kid, the one that no one cared about yet. They wouldn't ever care about him. No one cared about him. Had they even looked for him? Did his mother even care that he was missing? Did she even know? Gil had to know. He and Gil texted every day, and usually talked on the phone every weekend too. Gil would know that something was wrong. But maybe Dr. Whitly was right. Maybe Gil didn't care about him after all.
He let his eyes fall closed again as he laid on the cold cement floor. It was so cold. Malcolm didn't have the energy to do anything but lay there. It was pointless to do anything. He was never getting out of there. He was going to die, it was only a matter of time.
The passage of time was an interesting thing. Malcolm had no frame of reference for how long it had been by the time that door finally opened. He didn't even realize that the door was open. He could hear shouting, and faintly felt the pressure of a hand on his shoulder, but it was as if he were underwater. Malcolm couldn't recognize anything that was happening. There was no cognitive appraisal going on. He was dying.
Someone was pulling him out of the closet and into the hallway. Dimly, Malcolm could see a janitor standing over him, shouting to students at the end of the hallway. That meant it was Monday, after classes were over. That was when Malcolm figured he would be found. He just hadn't figured that he would still be alive. It didn't matter. They couldn't save him in time. Malcolm was fading and he knew it. Soon, he would close his eyes, and they would never open again. It was a shame, to be so close to rescue, and to miss it. Malcolm wished that he'd simply died in the closet and they'd found his corpse. That would've been better for the janitor. Of course, it would've been horrible for the man to have found a dead kid, but at least he wouldn't have had to deal with the what ifs, the horrible thoughts of what he could've done to save the student. There was nothing he could do, Malcolm knew that, but it was only human nature to think of the what ifs. Malcolm hated that the janitor would be saddled with that. He wished he was already dead, if only to save the man that extra emotional trauma.
The janitor was talking to him, Malcolm thought, but he couldn't decipher his words. His brain had to be shutting down. It was almost the end. Malcolm let his gaze drift around the hallway. At one of the lockers stood Nicky Covington, the one who'd done this to him. Nicky looked down at him with a smirk. Malcolm didn't have the energy to offer anything in return.
Malcolm was floating, and there was nothing that he could do about it one way or the other. In that limbo he remained, not yet dead, but not really alive anymore either. Even as people raced down the hall with a gurney, Malcolm wondered why. It was too late, they couldn't save him. Malcolm didn't even know if he wanted to be saved, much less deserved to be.
The only thing Malcolm knew was that he wanted Gil.
"G-Gil," he managed to mutter, so softly that it was likely that no one heard him. But as time continued to pass, and Malcolm stayed awake, not yet dead, he only wanted Gil more and more. He felt like he was crying, but he didn't have any tears. "Gil," he again whispered, his voice raspy and his throat protesting the action.
He could feel himself being lifted up onto the gurney, but it was like an out of body experience. All of this was happening to him, and yet, he was only an observer. Something pricked at his inner elbow, and it hurt, but Malcolm couldn't bring himself to care. He was dying, and he wanted Gil. Even if Gil hated him, he just wanted to see the man who had been his dad one last time. Malcolm could feel something, and it seemed to be emanating from that prick in his elbow, but he wasn't sure what it was.
Malcolm wasn't sure what anything was. Through dim lidded eyes, he could tell that people were watching him as he was wheeled out of the school, outside. He knew that that was bad, that it would mean something later - if later were to exist - but in the moment, Malcolm only looked for Gil. Where was he?
That strange, floating limbo was all Malcolm knew. Time didn't exist.
Pain didn't exist.
He didn't exist.
The overwhelming terror and anxiety that Gil had been feeling for three days had finally abated to just fear and worry. Malcolm was lying in front of him, alive, in a hospital bed. His poor kid had been missing for three days, and no one had had any idea as to what happened to him. He was just gone. He never came outside to the driver that Jessica had sent to take him to the Hamptons for the long weekend, and that was all they had known. He hadn't been answering any calls or texts, and no one had seen him anywhere or heard from him.
Gil's first thought had been a kidnapping, but then, as time went on, and there had been no ransom demand, the idea of the kid being kidnapped became much more horrifying. His next thought was that the kid had run away, but that was quickly dismissed. Whenever Malcolm ran away, he ran to Gil. Whenever he disassociated and got lost, he found a phone and called Gil. The kid had just been missing, completely without a trace or any sort of clue as to what had happened. Gil had been working every single moment trying to find him, working with the local police departments on the missing persons case, working against the school and their army of lawyers, and working with the DHS to investigate possible kidnapping or even trafficking angles. It had been three days of hell for Gil, but he couldn't even imagine how much worse it must have been for Malcolm.
The poor kid had been at Remington the entire time, locked in a closet. Malcolm, being eighteen, had switched his primary emergency contact to Gil rather than his mother, so Gil was the one who got the call from a panicked teacher, letting him know that Malcolm had been found and he was being rushed to the hospital. Gil had gotten there as soon as he could, and Jessica was on her way.
As far as what had happened to Malcolm, "locked in a closet" was all Gil knew. At the end of the school day on Monday, a janitor had unlocked a closet with the intention to begin cleaning classrooms, only to find Malcolm on the floor, barely alive. Gil could only assume that that was where the kid had been since Thursday afternoon. No food, no water, no meds. He was lucky to be alive.
But it wasn't as if Malcolm could've possibly gotten locked in there on accident. Someone else had locked him in there. Someone else had locked his kid in there, knowing full well that he wouldn't be able to get out until Monday afternoon. Someone had almost killed Gil's kid, and there would be consequences, Gil was going to make sure of that. No one did this to his kid and got away with it. Student or teacher, Gil didn't care. Whoever it was deserved to rot in prison for the hell they'd put Malcolm through.
The doctors wouldn't give him the details, but Gil knew that it would indeed have been hell, as he slowly got more and more dehydrated, and as he went into withdrawal from his meds. Within one day, the kid would've been suffering. Someone had done to that to him. Someone had knowingly, intentionally put Malcolm through that hell. Someone had almost killed him.
As it was, the doctors were monitoring Malcolm extremely closely. He wasn't out of the woods. Liquids were essential, and his meds needed to be slowly reintroduced. From what Gil could glean, they were most concerned about his electrolyte imbalances and something about lithium concentration in his blood being high because of the combination of dehydration and withdrawals. Gil would stay there, holding his kid's hand, until the boy woke up.
Malcolm had been completely incoherent when they'd found him. His eyes had been glazed, and for the longest time, he hadn't said anything and hadn't seemed at all aware of what had been going on. Gil was told that eventually, Malcolm had started calling out for him, his voice raspy and hoarse. That was all that Malcolm had said. At some point, he'd passed out again. Gil was only glad he'd passed out once he was in hospital custody. If he'd passed out before then, then Gil would be holding his kid's hand in a morgue instead of a hospital room.
As it was, the kid wasn't out of the woods. Gil was terrified that he would fall asleep, and when he woke, that steady beep that told him his kid had a heartbeat would turn into that tragic drone. So Gil wouldn't fall asleep. He would remain vigilant over his kid, gently squeezing his hand and praying that Malcolm would come back to him.
Gil would not be moved. Malcolm was hooked up to so many IVs and machines monitoring his condition. If he woke in a panic, as he often did thanks to his night terrors, he could tear off all the machines he was connected to. But Gil wasn't going to let the hospital staff restrain him. The poor kid had been through so much, Gil wasn't about to let him be restrained on top of all that.
At some point, Jessica finally arrived, half drunk. The hospital staff wouldn't let her stay in that condition, wealthy beyond belief or not. She was allowed to see her son, then was quickly escorted to the hotel across the street. Gil did feel bad for her, since he couldn't even imagine the pain of not being able to see his kid, but maybe this would be a wakeup call to her that she couldn't just drink her problems away. Either way, Gil would stay there with the kid. He would not be moved from Malcolm's side.
When Malcolm finally woke, it was with a low groan that had Gil's tired eyes flying wide open.
"Hey, kiddo," Gil said. "You finally feel like waking up?" Slowly, oh so slowly, Malcolm's eyes opened. Their normally brilliant blue was dulled, but Gil would take it. Gil would take anything, so long as the kid was still alive.
"G-Gil?" Malcolm scratched out. His voice was raspy, and just listening to him try to speak was painful. Gil immediately pressed the nurse call button for him. Malcolm needed ice chips, and Gil needed further assurance from the medical professionals that the kid was gonna be okay.
"You don't have to say anything, not yet," Gil assured him. He squeezed his hand and smiled when Malcolm's tired eyes finally drifted over to look at him. "Hey, kid," Gil forced out, fighting back tears. His kid was alive. He hadn't lost him. "Everything's gonna be okay. I'm here now, I'm right here, and I'm not leaving you. And your mom will be here in the morning, and Jackie will be here tomorrow afternoon with Ainsley. You're gonna be okay."
A nurse came in before Gil could say anything else to his kid. He turned to her.
"He just woke up. Can we get him some ice chips or water?" he asked.
"Of course," she replied with a smile. The woman checked a few of the machines and wrote down some numbers on the papers she was carrying, then swiftly left. She returned less than a minute later with a cup of ice. "Feed him slowly," she ordered. "I'll be back in a little bit to run some tests, if he's still awake, but for right now, just give him some ice, and let him know he's safe." She gave Gil a soft smile, then left once again.
That was an easy task. All Gil wanted to do was make sure the kid knew that he was safe. There was no more important job to him.
"Gil," Malcolm groaned out again. His eyes filled with tears. That was a good thing. He finally was hydrated enough that his body could produce tears again.
"It's okay," Gil forced out from the lump in his own throat. "You're okay, I'm here now." He got up and sat down on the edge of the bed, putting himself as close to the kid as he could. Gil began carding fingers through his kid's hair. "Do you want some ice?" he asked. Malcolm gave a weak nod as the first tear slipped down his face. "Okay, I'm gonna help you sit up, alright?" Malcolm nodded again, so Gil worked the hospital bed controls until the kid was more or less sitting up, but still horizontal enough that he wouldn't fall over.
The poor kid was so weak still that he probably didn't have the strength yet to hold himself up. He was on a liquid diet, an IV was pumping him full of fluids, and his meds were slowly being reintroduced. The doctors had assured Gil that Malcolm would be in the hospital for another two days or so. Gil just hoped to actually be able to keep him there. Since he was now eighteen, he could sign himself out AMA. He had always talked about wanted to do that whenever he was in the hospital as a minor, but this was his first time in as an adult. Gil would certainly be advising him to stay as long as the doctors recommended. It wasn't as if his family couldn't afford it.
"Gil," Malcolm repeated, closing his eyes against his tears and turning towards Gil. He reached out with another hand to wrap around Gil, who couldn't ever push the kid away. He gathered Malcolm up in his arms as much as he could, and even went to far as to get onto the hospital bed himself, more or less, in order to make it easier for Malcolm. Once Malcolm was secure in his arms, the kid fell apart, sobs wracking his shoulders as he clung onto Gil with everything he had. Gil gently shushed him and held him close, running fingers through his hair and whispering calming things. "I th-thought I was g-gonna die," Malcolm said, eyes squeezed shut despite the tears flowing down his face. "He l-left me to d-die. And he- he knew about me. He kn-knew I'm a- a Whitly. How did he know?"
"You're okay, now," Gil said. "I've got you. You're gonna be just fine. I don't know how he knew, but it's gonna be okay, I promise." He didn't even know who 'he' was, but Gil could figure it out later.
Gil's focus was divided. Half of him was laser focused on his sobbing kid, to keep him safe and secure, and the other half was focused on keeping himself strong. He couldn't let himself break down while the kid needed him to be strong. He could save his tears and anger for later. For now, he needed to be the safety raft for Malcolm to cling to.
After a few minutes, Malcolm's sobs quieted, but he hadn't fallen back asleep, nor had he made a move to remove himself from Gil's arms.
"Do you want some ice?" Gil quietly asked him. They could talk about everything else later. He could feel Malcolm nodding against him. As carefully as he could, not wanting to disturb the kid, Gil reached over and grabbed the cup holding the ice chips and a spoon. With one hand, Malcolm reached out to take it from him, but his hand was shaking. His hand hadn't shaken since his father's trial, but it was shaking that same way. Malcolm let out another sob as he clenched his fingers and brought his shaking hand back to the safety of Gil's sweater.
"It's okay, I'll help you," Gil said. He hadn't been specific, but he would help the kid with whatever he needed, with anything and everything he needed, no matter what. Carefully, Gil spooned out an ice chip, and held it up to Malcolm's lips. The kid eagerly took it, and relaxed even further into Gil's arms as he let it melt in his mouth. They continued that same routine until all of the ice was gone.
"Is there more?" Malcolm asked, his voice still raspy, but sounding slightly less painful.
"That's all, kiddo. I'll have the nurse bring some more later, but you have to go slow, alright?" Malcolm nodded against him, then shifted slightly, so that he was lying down more. Gil took the initiative to sit up more himself, then recline the bed back again, allowing Malcolm to snuggle against him and sleep without Gil having to lie down too. "It's okay, kid. You can go back to sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up. I promise."
Malcolm shifted just a little bit more in Gil's arms, then stilled. Gil continued carding fingers through his hair in calming motions, doing everything he could to keep the kid safe and secure. He loved Malcolm more than anything, and he was never going to let something like that ever happen again.
By the time the nurse came back in, Malcolm was asleep again. The woman smiled, and quietly told Gil that she would be back to check on them again later. While his kid slept, Gil let himself relax. There would be plenty of time to figure out what exactly had happened later. For now, he could just be grateful that his son was alive.
PRESENT TIME
"Malcolm!" Gil shouted out as he ran into the room. The kid was falling to the floor as a fire suppressing gas filled the enclosed space he was trapped in. Gil tugged on the handle, he banged on the door, and still, it remained firmly locked. His kid was in there, suffocating. "What's the code?! Someone get me the code!" he shouted, but everyone around him was just another cop. No one knew what the code was to open the door.
With a groan, Gil pulled out his service weapon and fired three shots at the lock in quick succession. He threw his entire body weight against the door, thankful to feel it giving way under him. Gil barely put his pistol back in his holster before he was grabbing his kid under the armpits and dragging him out of that gas filled chamber, and out into the oxygen filled library. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see someone else grabbing Professor Delaney, but Gil couldn't care less. All that mattered was the kid in his arms, the kid who wasn't breathing.
"Come on, kid." Gil laid Malcolm out on the floor and reached for the pulse point under his jaw. His heart was still beating, he just wasn't breathing. Just as he had been trained to, Gil tilted his kid's head back, carefully held his jaw open, and breathed air into his lungs. One puff, two puffs, three puffs. He sat back for a beat, then listened again. Malcolm still wasn't breathing, but Gil could still feel his heartbeat, albeit it wasn't as strong as Gil would've liked. "Come on, Malcolm, don't do this. Don't do this, please," he begged as he leaned back over his kid and gave him three more rescue breaths.
Malcolm jerked up with a gasp after the third one, pulling in giant lungfuls of oxygen that his body had been depleted of. He started coughing for a moment as he desperately tried to catch his breath. Gil could've cried. His kid was alive.
"You're okay," Gil said before wrapping his arms around his kid and pulling him close. Malcolm melted into the touch. The kid was shivering, and his skin was cold. "You're okay now, I've got you," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. That had been way too close. Gil had almost lost his kid for the millionth time.
"G-Gil," Malcolm said, his teeth chattering. The kid was freezing. Gil just held onto him even tighter, trying to give him any warmth that he could.
"Yeah, kid, I'm right here. I've got you. I'm right here," he said. He started running his hand up and down the kid's back, hoping that the little bit of friction would help to warm the poor kid up.
"D-did you ge-get her?" Malcolm asked. He made no move to extricate himself from Gil's arms.
"Louisa? Yeah, kid, we got her," Gil answered.
"Del- laney?"
For the first time, Gil glanced over. Professor Delaney was lying down, still unconscious, but from how the other cops were acting, the man was still alive.
"He's out too," Gil said. "He's still alive." He turned his full attention back to Malcolm. The kid mattered infinitely more than the snobby professor who clearly didn't actually care about the kid. That man had always rubbed Gil the wrong way. Maybe he had just been overprotective, but Gil had always been nervous that somehow, Delaney was going to hurt the kid or take advantage of him. Gil didn't know what way, but he'd definitely been grateful that Malcolm wouldn't have to see the man after his expulsion, no matter how unfair his expulsion had been.
Gil still remembered it all like it was yesterday.
THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER
Malcolm had been back at school after his attempted murder - for that was what it was, and no one could convince Gil otherwise - for all of two days when he called Gil, sobbing.
"What's going on? Where are you?" Gil asked the moment he heard those gasping sobs. He was ready to bolt out the door and go save the kid if he'd gotten locked in somewhere again.
"My- my dorm," Malcolm stuttered. The next few cries were muffled, as if the kid were crying into a pillow or his arm in an attempt to quiet the sounds.
"Are you safe?" was Gil's next question. "I'll come get you the moment you say the word."
"No, I'm f-fine," Malcolm insisted. Gil could hearing him taking a deep breath as he tried to calm himself down. When he spoke again, his words were slow and deliberate. "The headmaster expelled me. He found out that I'm a Whitly, and he expelled me." Malcolm took in another gasping breath as Gil's heart plummeted to his feet. "I have to be out of the dorms by t-tomorrow afternoon." The kid collapsed into sobs once again, muffled by his arm, or a pillow, or even the favorite stuffed animal that Gil pretended he didn't know Malcolm still had.
"Oh, kid, I'm so sorry," Gil said. But sorry didn't even begin to cut it. "I'll come right up there, and I'll let Brumback know just how big of a mistake he's making. He can't do this to you. He can't expel you because of your last name." Gil's blood was boiling, but he tried to keep his words calm. He didn't want to make Malcolm's emotions rise even higher than they already were.
"Yes he can," Malcolm replied in a broken whisper. "It's a private school, he doesn't have to give a real reason."
Gil barely held back a sigh. The kid was right, technically. But that didn't mean that any of it was okay.
"I'm gonna come get you," Gil finally said. "We're gonna figure this out. No matter what happens, I'm gonna be there, and I'm gonna help you figure it all out, okay? I'm leaving right now. I'll be there in an hour."
"Okay," Malcolm said, his voice sounding so small and defeated. Gil hated it. "I should start packing," he said.
"Don't even worry about that, okay?" Gil said as he stuck a sticky note on the counter detailing for Jackie where he had gone, then grabbed his keys and headed out the door, locking it behind him. "You just relax, read your favorite book, watch the dumbest show on TV that you can find, take a nap. I'm comin' right to you, and we'll figure this out together."
"Okay," Malcolm repeated, but his voice sounded just as broken and defeated as it had before.
"Do you need me to stay on the line?" Gil asked. "Because I can do that. I'll do whatever you need. You name it, and it's done."
"Can you make me your son instead of Dr. Whitly's? I don't wanna be his anymore. He's not even here and he's still destroying everything." Malcolm took in a shaky breath as he fought to keep himself from sobbing again.
"Oh, kiddo," Gil sighed as his own eyes welled up with tears. He pulled the LeMans out and was quickly tearing down the streets. Speed limits didn't matter when it was his kid who needed him. Gil would've gone lights and sirens if he wasn't leaving his jurisdiction. "You are my son, you know that's exactly how I think of you. DNA and blood don't matter. You're my kid, my son, and nothing can ever change that."
"I don't wanna be his anymore, I don't wanna be his anymore," Malcolm cried. Gil wasn't even sure if the kid was hearing him at this point. He just kept repeating the same thing again and again, as his breathing got much faster than Gil was comfortable with. The kid was barreling towards a panic attack and there wasn't anything that Gil could do to stop it.
"Kid, listen to me," Gil sternly interrupted. Malcolm stopped repeating that same phrase, but his breathing didn't slow. "Can you tell me that you hear me?" Malcolm's breaths finally turned from rapid to shaky.
"Y-yes," the kid stuttered.
"Good, good," Gil soothed. "Everything is going to be okay. I know it doesn't seem like it, but it will. We are going to figure this out together, and it's all gonna be okay. I can just keep on talking about anything and everything until I get to Remington if you want. Would that help?" Gil would steal the freaking Statue of Liberty if it would help his kid.
"Maybe," Malcolm replied in that voice that Gil knew all too well, the one that desperately wanted to say yes, but was ashamed to, all because his self worth was just too atrociously low. Gil could even see the kid in his mind. Malcolm would be curled up on his bed in his dorm room, knees pulled up to his chest and phone tucked right up next to his ear. He would be clutching a blanket around him, the same blanket that Gil and Jackie had given him for his first Christmas after his father's arrest. Under that blanket, away from prying eyes - despite the fact that the door would be closed and locked, and thus, there were none - Malcolm would be clutching the stuffed elephant that Jackie had given him after he had claimed he was too old for stuffed animals and gave all of his own to Ainsley, only to discover that he missed them greatly. Malcolm was such a sweet kid. He didn't deserve any of the horrible things that he was put through on a daily basis because of his last name.
"That's perfectly fine, kiddo. I'll just tell you some stories from work. How does that sound?" he suggested. All the kid needed was to hear his voice, and that was perfectly fine with Gil.
"Yeah, that's- that's fine," Malcolm answered with a sniffle. His tears had mostly stopped, which Gil would definitely count as a win.
"Okay," Gil gently replied. He then delved into the latest carjacking and robbery that he'd worked. He spared no detail on the case, going so far as to set the scene and reenact witness interviews and interrogations, complete with different voices for the different people involved. Gil heard the smallest giggle from his kid when he tried to mimic the voice of the one of the suspects. That was all the encouragement he needed to go big or go home. Gil put his all into the story, and tried to give Malcolm the greatest image of it in is his mind that he could.
Soon enough, Gil was pulling into Remington Academy. He would need to get a parking pass from administration before he could go into his kid's dorm.
"Hey, kiddo, I just pulled in," Gil said. "I'm gonna get my parking pass, then I'll be right there, okay?"
"Okay," Malcolm answered. He still sounded tired, and depressed beyond belief, but he didn't sound quite as broken as he had earlier. That was all Gil needed.
The moment they hung up, Gil walked as quickly as he could into the administration building, and wasted no time in pleasantries with getting his parking pass. Nothing mattered but getting to his kid as quickly as possible.
Gil practically ran from the admin building back to his car, and definitely went faster than he should've through campus in his haste to get to Malcolm's building. He ignored the looks of the teenagers meandering around campus as he swiftly walked up to the building and into it, then through it, until he was finally standing in front of Malcolm's private room. The kid's mouth guard only did so much to muffle his screams in the night, so a roommate had always been out of the question.
He gently knocked on the door. A few moments later, it opened up to reveal his kid, still in his school uniform, with the exact blanket wrapped around his shoulders that Gil knew he would find there, and tearstains down his face. On the kid's bed, in plain view, laid the elephant that Jackie had given him.
"Hey, kiddo," Gil said as he stepped in. Malcolm closed the door behind him. "Do you wanna tell me what happened?" Malcolm went right back to the bed, where several other blankets were laid out. He cuddled back into them, clutching the soft fabric between his fingers. Gil took a seat next to him, leaning against the wall. Without any prompting, Malcolm leaned into him, his head resting on the front of Gil's shoulder. The kid was still wrapped in a blanket.
"Headmaster Brumback called me into his office," Malcolm started, his voice low and monotone. "He told me he knew who I really was. What I really was. And he wrote my name down in his little black book for expulsions, and he wrote 'Malcolm Whitly'. He found out who I am and he expelled me for it." The kid's voice broke on his last words. His hand came up to grip Gil's chest as he took deep breaths, trying to fend off tears. "Then he told me I was expelled, and that I have to be off campus by tomorrow afternoon."
Gil sighed and pulled Malcolm even closer to him. None of it was fair. Brumback was a scumbag for what he'd done. Not only had he done oh so little to find the piece of filth that had locked Malcolm in a closet for three days, but then he expelled the kid just for being a Whitly.
"I'm so sorry, kid," Gil said. What else was he supposed to say? It wasn't as if this was the first time that unfair things had happened to him because of his last name. Malcolm had heard the same things from Gil again and again. What was Gil supposed to tell him this time that could actually help? "I can go talk to him, threaten a lawsuit, try to get him to change his mind, call your mom-."
"No," Malcolm interrupted. He buried his face further into Gil's shoulder. "I don't wanna be here anymore. After what Ni- after the closet, after Brumback doing this..." he trailed off for a moment, and Gil was about to ask him about what he had been about to say before cutting himself off when he spoke again. "I don't ever wanna see anyone from this school ever again. I just wanna go home, to you and Jackie."
Gil just held his kid as he cried. He could try to get the truth out of him about who had really locked him in that closet later - because Malcolm definitely knew who had done it, but for some reason, wasn't saying who. In the moment, Malcolm didn't need to be interrogated. He just needed to be held.
"That's okay," Gil finally said. Quickly, so not to make the kid think that he was breaking the embrace in any way, Gil reached out and grabbed the elephant that laid a bit away, and set it right in grabbing distance for the kid. That was the best way to let Malcolm know that it was okay if he needed it. "Whatever you need is okay," he added. "If you want, we can wait until most kids are asleep, and then move your stuff all out into my car. No one has to see you at all if you don't want them to."
"Okay," Malcolm replied, hand slowly reaching out to grab the elephant that Gil had set next to him. He squeezed the stuffed animal close to him, feeling the soft fur between his fingers.
Gil and Malcolm stayed right there until the sun fell below the horizon, then finally packed up and moved Malcolm's belongings out of his dorm room and into the LeMans. The drive back into the city was quiet, and sad. The kid was embarrassed, and ashamed, and devastated, and confused, and betrayed, and depressed, and in desperate need of sleep. Gil took him back to his own house, where Jackie was waiting for them with bowls of soup and warm hugs. Malcolm stayed quiet throughout the evening and into the night. Gil and Jackie kept Malcolm between them on the couch, snuggled under their love and blankets.
Finally, the kid fell asleep between them, his head on Gil's shoulder.
Jackie turned to him, asking, "is he gonna be okay?" Gil had quietly told her the basics of what had happened while Malcolm had been in the bathroom. She'd been furious, but had reigned in her anger the moment the kid came back out. She hadn't wanted to make him feel any worse than he already did.
"He will be," Gil said with a slight nod. He didn't want to wake the kid up. Malcolm was finally sleeping soundly, which was a rare occurrence. "We just have to be here, and love him, and he'll be just fine." He turned and placed a soft kiss to Malcolm's head, then turned back to whatever random show was softly playing on the TV. Just like everything else, all Gil could do was love the kid, and hope that things would turn out fine.
PRESENT TIME
Malcolm was still wrapped in Gil's arms, shivering.
"Come on, kid," Gil said. "Let's get you to the ambulance." Arms still wrapped around his kid, Gil began to stand up. Malcolm followed, allowing Gil to take most of his weight. Slowly, Gil walked them out of the library and outside, where Malcolm's shivers became even more pronounced, despite his coat.
"Why is it s-so cold?" he even asked, clutching Gil harder. It wasn't even that cold. It wasn't warm by any stretch of the imagination, but it certainly wasn't cold either.
"Let's just get you to the bus, they can warm you up," Gil said in lieu of an answer.
"But I don't n-need a b-bus," Malcolm claimed, although he did nothing to stop walking towards it.
Gil stopped immediately, turning to Malcolm. "You almost died," he said, letting just a little bit of his emotion bleed into his words. "When I dragged you out of that room, you weren't breathing. I had to breathe into you and pray that you would wake up. I was forced to face the possibility that I would never talk to you again, so don't you dare say that you don't need a bus. We're going to get you checked out, and we're going to make sure that you're not gonna stop breathing again. We've gotta get you a blanket, you're still shivering too much." Gil abruptly broke off and began walking Malcolm closer to the ambulance once again, not giving the kid time to respond. They needed to get to that ambulance, Malcolm needed medical attention, Gil wasn't about to lose the kid again, he couldn't, he wouldn't, that wasn't going to happen-
"Gil?"
Gil pulled in a deep lungful of air and attempted to regulate his breathing. It was okay. Malcolm was right next to him, alive. He held the kid even closer.
"Yeah, kid?"
"I'm okay," Malcolm replied, his voice wobbling, but only due to how cold he was. "I'm alive. You saved me. You always save me. That's why I did what I did, because I knew you would save me." Gil just held him tighter. He didn't have the time to tell the kid that maybe his trust in him was too high, that he didn't deserve that much trust. But he would be damned if he broke it.
"That's right, kiddo," he said instead. "I'm always gonna save you."
Malcolm didn't fight it as Gil got him to sit at the back of the ambulance. He melted into the blanket that was quickly wrapped around his shivering body, covering himself completely, with only his head poking out. Gil sat next to him, taking deep breaths. The kid was okay. The EMTs were checking his oxygen levels and making sure that he wasn't in any danger. He was going to be just fine.
When the EMTs cleared Malcolm to go, the kid looked between them, Gil, and the blanket that he was still wrapped in. He was still shivering. The EMTs needed their shock blanket, but Gil had one of his own in his car.
"You stay right here," he said to Malcolm. "I'll be right back, I promise." The kid looked confused, but nodded, and didn't move from his blanket cocoon.
Gil jogged to his car and quickly grabbed the massive gray blanket from the trunk. The blanket was bigger than Malcolm, and was nice and soft. It would certainly help to keep the kid warm. Blanket in hand - well, in his arms - Gil jogged back to the ambulance, where the EMTs were politely asking Malcolm to give them their shock blanket back. The kid was looking up at them, still shivering, his puppy eyes big and blue and completely irresistible.
"It's okay, kid," Gil said. "I've got this one for you." He held the massive blanket out for the kid, who quickly shrugged out of the shock blanket, and into the warm and fuzzy one that Gil was holding. Gil helped to wrap the blanket around him and looked back to the EMTs. "He's gonna be okay?" he asked them.
"He should be just fine," the EMT said with a nod. "If he has any difficulty breathing, don't hesitate to call an ambulance."
Gil nodded, then put his arm around the kid's shoulders and led him away. If he had any trouble breathing, Gil was going to get him admitted to the hospital. Malcolm was lucky that Gil wasn't forcing him to go in already.
He opened the car door for his kid, and finally moved his arm off his shoulders. Gil practically ran to the other side of the car and hopped in, quickly turning it on and putting the heat on full blast. He angled all of the vents to blow the hot air towards his kid, who still shivered.
"If you need my coat too, just let me know," Gil said. Malcolm was buckled in, the blanket wrapped around him like a burrito, as huddled in on himself as much as he possibly could in the car.
"I'll be fine," Malcolm insisted, relaxing into the heat that the car provided. Gil shrugged out of his coat anyway - it was quickly growing hot in the car - and laid it out over his kid. The more blankets, the better. Gil just wished he knew how long the kid would be so cold. He needed to warm up, and there wasn't much else that Gil could do for him. He couldn't exactly just sit and hold the kid in the car.
After another moment, Gil began to drive away. Malcolm had an hour to warm up on their way back to the precinct. Gil would let him have that hour, and save his ranting for later. Malcolm didn't need to be yelled at for being reckless yet, he just needed to get warm.
"How do you feel?" Gil asked him. "And don't give me some BS response, I wanna know the truth, kid."
After a moment, Malcolm finally replied, "grateful."
Gil sighed. "Me too, kiddo. Me too."