The house was dark by the time he and Sorcha arrived back... well, Malcolm wouldn't call it home because it wasn't home to him. It stopped being home after his father was arrested for killing twenty-three people. Home for Malcolm had become a menagerie of places over the years: Gil and Jackie's, Wayne Manor, the apartments he shared with Sorcha and Mandy at Harvard, her parents house upstate, his apartment while he worked for the FBI, and finally, his loft. The last of which had been invaded by a woman twisted by a serial killer obsessed with revenge, and a detective on Endicott's payroll who took pictures of them intended to incite rage and fan his desire for vengeance.

Part of Malcolm resented being forced to take up residence with his mother as the investigation into Eddie Smith's murder was underway. There was only so much of his mother and her micro-managing of his life he could take before he needed to get away. Work used to provide him with the perfect way out. He didn't have that at that moment because of two men: his father and Nicholas Endicott.

Malcolm silently thanked whatever gods influenced his mother to call Sorcha, tell her what happened, ask her to come because he needed her. He didn't know why she did and he didn't care. She was there, supporting and helping him as she always did. As much as he didn't deserve it or her.

"You're sure you don't want to go get gelato?" he asked as he closed the door behind them. "Polosud's twenty minutes away. We could get gelato and cannoli."

Sorcha wrinkled her nose. "Food is the last thing I want right now, actually."

"Stomach bothering you?"

"Head and stomach." She flashed him a wan smile. "Product of too little sleep, too much stress, and too much anxiety." All caused by him, Malcolm realized, grimacing. "Also haven't eaten more than half a slice of toast in the last thirty-six hours."

"You're picking up my bad habits."

"Not eating because of anxiety is a habit I had before you."

"You did?" Malcolm's brow furrowed. "I don't remember that..."

Why didn't he remember that?

'Ah, that's rather easy to figure out, my boy,' his father said from his spot at the opposite end of the foyer. 'You tend to, uh, ignore what doesn't interest you. Miss social cues. Fail to take the feelings of others into consideration. Oh, and, uh, blame everyone else for your problems.'

Malcolm couldn't deny the truth in his father's words. He did tend to ignore what didn't interest him. His understanding of social cues ranked up there with his knowledge of how to build a car or boat. Dani was a prime example of how poorly he did at taking the thoughts, opinions or feelings of others into consideration. Well-adjusted and emotionally stable people succeeded at forming happy and healthy interpersonal relationships.

His healthiest relationships were by no means perfect. Relationships only thrived if the people involved put in an equal amount of work. Sorcha had been doing all the work the last fifteen years because he didn't know how. He had no clue what the right moves were. He should, but he didn't.

His life changed after his father was revealed as the Surgeon. His chances for forming friendships among his classmates, navigating social circles, and dating became riddled with taunts, physical attacks, and bouts of isolation. His romantic relationships before Sorcha were not healthy by any means. Well, he amended as he slid his keys into his pocket. My relationship with Raya was healthier than most of my others had been.

Again, because she made all the moves.

Murder and murderers were what Malcolm best understood.

Relationships made about as much sense as coding a video game. Less than, he mused as Sorcha crossed the foyer to the stairs. I could probably learn how to code a video game before ever figuring out all the things involved in dating.

"It happened mostly when we were bogged down with papers, tests, and other homework," she said. "Yanno, the typical life choices made by frazzled college students." She took a seat on the third stair with a small, tired sigh. "Forego food and sleep, live on coffee, attend class in the clothes you fell asleep in."

Malcolm hummed a laugh. "Or that you stole from me."

Her dimples winked. "Well, you always knew where your clothes were."

She surprised a laugh out of him. As she intended. It sometimes galled him how well she understood his moods, his needs.

Course, she just got him.

More, Sorcha accepted him.

Didn't consider him an acquired taste.

See him as a freak or monster.

Refused to accept him as broken.

Never believed he was the same as his father.

They experienced more together in fifteen years than most people married the same length of time.

"You, uh, still pushed her away, my boy. Chose the woman who walked away after she got what she wanted from you," his father said. Again, words of bitter truth. "Not exactly the foundation for a happy, healthy relationship."

Malcolm chose to ignore him.

Not because what his father said wasn't true. It was. Malcolm freely admitted he didn't know how to handle the intricacies of interpersonal relationships. He barely functioned as a friend and co-worker. Something he swore to become better at once this mess with Endicott was resolved. With her help, he decided as he moved to sit beside her.

"Do you remember the day we met?"

"Of course." Her lips curved, warm with affection and amusement. "You were sitting in the fight-or-flight seat looking so lost and lonely it broke my heart."

Malcolm ducked his head to hide his smile. "You know what I remember about that day?"

"Knowing you," she teased lightly, "everything."

"I remember the smell of your perfume." That hauntingly exotic mix of jasmine and vanilla that always settled and soothed him. "It kept me from running out of the room in a panic."

He also hadn't been able to take his eyes off her legs. He didn't share that part with her, though. Why, he couldn't say. It wasn't like she didn't know. Right? A frown creased his brow as he wondered at the answer.

"Why do you think I've never changed it?"

Malcolm blinked and looked at Sorcha. "Because of me?"

"Mhm."

He could only stare at her, stupefied. It never occurred to him that why she didn't change her perfume was because of him. He should have realized it, though. Especially since Ainsley and his mother changed perfumes based on what was in style and suited their particular tastes. This year, in fact, was Chanel for Ainsley, and Yves Saint Laurent for his mother. Something Malcolm only knew because Sorcha bought them bottles of perfume for Christmas.

"You know so much about me." He stared down at the polished floor, wishing it'd open up and suck him down into the dark abyss where the shadow creatures waited to torment and torture him. "You know my likes, dislikes..."

"I chose to learn those things."

"I didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Learn those things." Moisture gathered in the corner of his eyes, blurred his vision. "I didn't learn any of those things about you."

"Malcolm." Her fingers closed over his trembling ones. Gently squeezed. Quiet comfort and support. Neither which he deserved. "You know lots of things about me."

"Not like what you know." His stomach twisted into greasy knots. A combination of guilt, grief, and a never ending wave of regret. "You put everything into this... into me. And all I've done is hurt you."

Over and over he hurt her. Chose superficiality over substance. Fantasy over reality. Lies over truth. Sorcha called him an adrenaline-junkie. She wasn't wrong. He needed the excitement that came from chasing after suspects, running down leads. He needed to take risks, face the possibility of danger. More than that he needed the bright bite of the pain so he could feel something other than empty.

"Loving someone means opening yourself to the possibility of being hurt."

His father said the same thing a couple of weeks back. The words then had been about Eve and his suspicions about her keeping secrets. "You deserve better than me."

"I'm a borderline masochist." Her lips curved, warm with affection and amusement. "Got it from this danger prone dumbass that sucks at relationships."

The ends of his lips curled. "You'll develop a tremor next."

"Mine is in my knees, actually." Her smile was wry. "Easier to hide."

"You fidget when you're nervous."

"See?" Sorcha slid her fingers between his. "You know things about me."

"Not as much as I should."

"You know more about me than you think."

"Not enough."

"Are you terrible at reading cues or saying the right thing? Yes." Her thumb lightly traced the back of his hand. Seeking comfort as much as giving it. "Are you unaware of when you've hurt me? Yes." Simple truths that stung worse than a bee. "Do you know how to respond when I have been hurt? Yes. You took care of me after Robert." Her fingers tightened on his. "And after Tammy Lynn."

Guilt swirled as Malcolm recalled the emotional hell Tammy Lynn put them through. Hurting him was one thing. He deserved it after everything his father had done. Sorcha was innocent, though. She hadn't deserved the pain and humiliation Tammy Lynn inflicted on her.

Because of him.

"It wasn't hard to take care of you. You lived on peppermint tea."

"And jelly beans."

Malcolm hummed a quiet laugh. "Only black licorice. Anything else is a crime."

Sorcha nudged him gently. "That's you about red and green Jello."

"There's only one acceptable flavor of Jello."

"Lemon." Sorcha slid over next to him. "I know."

"You know me so well..." His fingers spasmed in hers. "Understand my quirks."

"And your kinks." That hauntingly exotic scent of hers wrapped itself around Malcolm as she rest her head against his. "Don't forget I know those, too."

"You've never judged me." No matter what asinine thing he said or did. "You believed me about Sophie when others didn't."

"Because it wasn't something you'd make up."

Malcolm turned his nose into her hair, breathed deep. "I wondered sometimes if I hadn't made it up."

"It was real," Sorcha said firmly. "Sophie is real. You didn't make her up."

"We have to find out what she had on Endicott." He wet his lips with his tongue. "My father is the only one who can answer that, though."

"Malcolm..." Her sigh tingled along his sensitive flesh. "No."

"We don't have a choice."

"Yes, we do." Soft, but firm. "We can wait to see if Batman has my father's files."

She had a point. Malcolm couldn't deny that. They could wait to see if Batman had those files. Use them to put Endicott and everyone on his payroll in jail. A part of him, one he was ashamed of, wanted; needed to see his father. As if he was a child instead of a grown man with a degree in psychology.

"Please, Mal."

Her soft entreaty undid him. Sorcha asked for so little. He owed her this much.

"We'll wait and see if Raya brings the files with her tomorrow." His phone vibrated in his pocket but he chose to ignore it. His luck it be his father calling him from Rikers. He couldn't afford to lose this phone as he did the last one. Not even if throwing it against the door would make Sorcha feel better. "Okay?"

"Thank you." Her lips whispered over his forehead, his cheek. Setting off a different set of aches. "How about I go and make some tea? Think we could use it after today."

Malcolm's lips curled. "Earl Grey?"

"Earl Grey." Sorcha huffed as she got to her feet. "Just for you."

Malcolm waited until she disappeared through the doors into the kitchen before pulling his phone from his pocket. His brow furrowed as he read the message splashed across the screen:

[little things matter to women like her and Raya]

An escrima stick was the only clue Malcolm needed as to the identity of the messenger. It didn't surprise him to find out they had one of Gotham's guardians standing watch. Or that they installed cameras in the house, he mused as he opened his phone and typed a reply.

[roped me into sitting watch?] was the reply from the man perched somewhere outside. [she's in your kitchen and talking with your girlfriend]

His body quaked as realization crashed over him in icy waves.

Raya was there.

In his mother's house.

That could only mean one thing…

Batman had the files and she brought them.

Malcolm lurched to his feet and stumbled wildly towards the kitchen, breath an icy sludge in his chest, and his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. He burst into the kitchen, surprising the women seated at the counter.

"Mal?" Sorcha questioned, one brow tilted. "Something wrong?"

He couldn't take his eyes off the woman seated across from her, though. Amusement and mischief shimmered in those green eyes that lifted to his, curved those pale lips. Was so achingly familiar.

"You're here." Malcolm's breath shuddered out of him as all the anxiety, fear, and despair inside him settled. "You're actually here."

"You doubted I would be?" Raya slid off the stool and crossed to him, every step reminding Malcolm of a jaguar stalking its prey in the jungles. "You're family, Malcolm. And you know how I am when it comes to my family."

Malcolm did know. He watched firsthand as she burned Gotham to the ground to save her best friend — husband, he realized as she came to a stop in front of him. Dick Grayson was not only her best friend, but her husband now, as well.

"Ah, Gil won't like you blowing up buildings to get to Endicott."

"I don't need to blow up buildings to get to him." Raya tossed her head. Folded her arms across her chest. A warrior ready to go to war. "Ian Corbin's files will bring him to me."

"Batman had them then?" He looked over at Sorcha. "They're real?"

"And damning."