He didn't know what to do with his quaking hands so he shoved them between his knees. As much to stop them from shaking as to hide them from Gil and Dani.
Not that it helped control the violent tremors.
No, those got progressively worse with every second that ticked by on the clock.
If Malcolm was being honest, really honest, he'd admit nothing stopped the tremors. Not once they got started, anyway. Even the handful of anxiety meds he swallowed on a daily basis only worked to keep them at bay for a small amount of time. They don't do much to quiet the noise inside my head, either.
He learned to live with the white static, though. The dark things that taunted him, laughed at him, shouted obscenities at him were a comfort to him.
They reminded him he was real.
He existed.
He had a purpose in this world.
A gift.
He chose his line of work for that very reason. To separate himself from Martin Whitly. From what he had done as the Surgeon. He took the things he learned and used them to help people, not harm them as his father had done.
Ainsley, as well as their mother, frequently expressed her desire for him to give up his obsession with murder and murderers. To do something else with his life. Something that didn't connect him with Martin Whitly in any way. He accepted her concern, understood it even. That's why he didn't get angry with her whenever she lectured him about being too focused or obsessed.
Ainsley, as much as their mother, didn't understand how working on homicide investigations helped him more than hindered him. They had no idea the voices tended to quiet down while he was investigating a crime scene. The voices were mostly background noise while he worked for the FBI. They had, he was forced to admit, come back louder and more persistent than ever since his firing.
No, Malcolm corrected as Gil took a seat beside him. They returned after seeing my father for the first time in ten years.
He managed to keep the voices mostly under control while helping Gil and the team to solve a murder. Working cases was about the closest he came to feeling normal.
To being sane.
Human.
Granted, he took more risks than was necessary while searching for a suspect. He didn't call or wait for backup. He rushed into situations that frequently saw him needing to seek medical attention afterwards. Maybe, just maybe his superiors at the Bureau had a bit of reason for concern about his behavior. Punching that sheriff, while still totally justified, wasn't acceptable behavior from an FBI agent. That still didn't warrant their firing him as they did. Or justifying it by using an incorrect diagnosis of my behavior.
Profiling was what he knew.
Piecing together puzzle pieces, figuring out what was missing, what didn't make sense, seeing the how and why was the one thing he was actually good at.
That he didn't question or doubt.
Not that it helped him with controlling his tremors.
No, he had to deal with those even while working cases.
His methods for coping with the issue varied based on how bad they were and who he was with at the time. Sticking his hands in his pockets, curling and uncurling his fingers, wrapping them around a cup, file or book, and squeezing the stress ball he kept in his pocket were a few of his go to methods for dealing with his tremors.
Keeping his hands in motion also tended to help with the more violent episodes. Gesturing wildly p served to keep people from seeing just how badly his hands twitched and jerked. The less people saw, the less he was required to explain. Prevaricating, deflecting, deceiving was easy with strangers. People saw and heard what they wanted. A quip about too much caffeine or sugar typically satisfied most people.
When it came to his mother and sister? Gil?
That didn't work.
They saw through his excuses, knew them for what they were. Hiding the tremors was also more difficult when he found himself sitting in a crowded hospital lounge, waiting for a doctor to come and tell him whether the one person to care for him outside of his mother, sister, and Gil was going to survive their hellish ordeal or not.
"Hey, kid." Gil set a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention away from his hands, and from the fear and anxiety doing jumping jacks in his stomach. He lifted his eyes to Gil's warm ones. "She's gonna be okay. The doctors said you found her and got her to help in plenty of time."
Time. He found her in time. Just as she said I would. Sorcha's faith and trust in him didn't bring Malcolm any sort of comfort whatsoever. If anything, it accomplished the exact opposite. Nervous energy traveled through his hands, into his wrists, and rattled up into his elbows. Gil must have sensed his feelings because he squeezed his shoulder.
"You were there for her when she needed you, Bright."
There for her.
He was there for her.
What if he hadn't been, though?
That question played over and over through his mind as paramedics pushed a stretcher by. It was quickly joined by others.
What if he hadn't been home when that courier tried to deliver Sorcha's package?
What if he hadn't managed to figure out what was going on from the clues she provided him?
What if he hadn't figured out that the man they were after was her boyfriend, Robert?
What if he hadn't figured out Robert was bringing his victims to his former nightclub?
What if he hadn't been there for her as she'd been there for him the dozens of times where he almost took his own life?
She'd be dead is what she'd be.
Fear wrapped itself around his throat and cinched tight as that damning thought set the dark things inside his head to laughing and jeering.
His heart pounded; his blood pumped.
His breath came in short, shallow pants. His vision frayed at the corners. He needed to get out of there but couldn't. Not with so many people milling around. He might be able to fend off those in the waiting area with stammered apologies and half-baked reasons for his agitation. Many of them were here for the same reason: someone they loved or cared about was being treated by hospital staff.
The reporters outside the hospital with their camera crews and microphones would be more difficult for him to avoid. They'd chase after him, shouting their questions, and expecting him to stop and answer. Especially his sister, who had already sent him over twenty text messages in the last hour asking — no, demanding, an exclusive.
Something he couldn't give her.
Not when Sorcha was part of that exclusive.
He had to protect her. Even from Ainsley. At least until she was capable of deflecting these things for herself. Malcolm ordered himself to calm down. To focus. Losing it wouldn't help Sorcha.
And it'd only alert Gil and Dani to how bad off he was.
Even as Malcolm told himself to breathe, slow and steady, the air wheezed in his lungs, clogged there until he was almost gulping for it. Any moment he thought he might pass out from the lack of oxygen.
"How'd you know she was gonna be his next victim?"
Malcolm barely heard Dani through the dull roaring filling his ears. Sweat ran cold and clammy over his skin, and he smelled his own fear. He couldn't avoid Dani's question, though. Not without raising her suspicions up more than they already were. What to say, though? His only friend in the world dating a serial killer seemed like a conversation to have when they weren't sitting in a crowded waiting room.
"She told me."
"Told you?" Surprise and a bit of doubt coated Dani's voice. Not that Malcolm could blame her. He wouldn't have believed it if he wasn't the one who received the package. "How'd she know she was gonna end up as his next victim?"
That, though, wasn't something he could tell her.
"You'll have to ask her," was all he said. "Then we'll both know."
Then he resumed sitting there, waiting for the doctor to come out and tell him Sorcha would be alright, praying the tremors would stop, but knowing they wouldn't.
Malcolm was willing to bet they never would.
A/N: Hello, all, and welcome!
This wasn't supposed to be more than a one-shot about Bright's hand tremor but… giving a setting here for where this takes place, this is before the Junkyard Killer case starts (say mid-September).