Malcolm awoke the next morning, disoriented, but without any of his usual dread and panic. Things had changed in the last few days. His dreams were no longer centered around the girl in a box. Mostly because he not only figured out who the girl was, but that she was alive, and related to the ghostly figure hovering around the front of his bed. Most of his dreams centered around Eve. Not unusual given the circumstances surrounding her death.

He was accustomed to dreaming about things related to his father, murder, and his sketchy childhood. When he didn't dream of those things, his dreams were often about unusual things like running through grocery stores in search of Twizzlers or being trapped in a room filled with the wrong flavored Jello.

He never dreamed about... this before.

Not in this fashion, anyway.

He had the usual assortment of dreams about children while working for the FBI. Dreaming about missing or murdered children was par for the course. Even Gil admitted to being haunted by cases dealing with children. Malcolm wasn't dreaming about lost or dead children here, though.

No, he was dreaming about a living, breathing child.

One with dark eyes and curls framing a face like burnished bronze.

A little girl with a smile that chased the shadow creatures back to the dark chasms they belonged.

Jacqueline.

The name rolled through Malcolm's head as he slid his thumb over the release mechanism and freed himself from his restraint. The details of the dream remained firmly etched in his mind. As did the conviction his dreaming about a baby wasn't coincidence.

It meant something.

He just didn't know what.

Children weren't something Malcolm envisioned for himself. Genetics, a tricky childhood, and his dependence on a cocktail of drugs to make him relatively functional were all valid reasons for why he wasn't suitable parent material.

Not that his mother agreed.

No, she routinely pointed out to him how he needed to settle down and have children.

Maybe that's why he dreamed of this child. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility. His mother's constant reminders about his familial duties and obligations had surfaced in other dreams. This could just be the latest one. Malcolm considered that as he reached to free himself from his other restraint. He froze when his arm did not encounter the warm body of the woman who had been asleep beside him.

I'm alone, Malcolm realized, eyebrows arching. Sorcha's not here.

The question was: where was she?

Malcolm's brow furrowed as he studied the bed for any clues as to her whereabouts. The covers had been neatly straightened, the pillow smoothed and plumped. A hand on the blankets revealed they were cool to the touch. Sorcha had been gone, and for quite a while from the looks of it.

How long did I sleep? It couldn't have been long. Three hours was his customary amount. Five, if he was lucky. A glance at the window showed him the hour was somewhere between when deepest night had ended but sunrise not yet managed to turn the sky crimson.

So, where did she go?

A glance at the nightstand revealed the burner phone her uncle Jamie gave her was still plugged in. His, on the other hand, was missing.

Sorcha liked listening to music or audiobooks while relaxing in a bath. One way to find out if that's where she is. Malcolm kicked the covers off, stood, and padded across the room. Panic formed an icy ball in his belly when he saw the bathroom door, as well as the door to her bedroom were open. A quick check of her room revealed Sorcha's clothes still in the closet, her bottles of perfume and lotions neatly set atop the dresser, and her makeup bag next to his shaving kit in the bathroom.

She hadn't left him.

She was just... missing.

"Maybe she has gone down to your father's murder room," Eve's ghostly voice whispered behind him. "See for herself where your father brought his victims."

Like her sister had been before being placed inside that trunk and taken to that cabin in the woods. Where his father planned to kill her until Sophie convinced him she had files on Endicott and his secret operations worth letting her live. His father, in turn, used that information to obtain his private cell and the luxuries he enjoyed at Claremont. Malcolm found himself wondering if the files Sophie took were about Endicott's involvement with the Court of Owls.

It was a question he planned to ask Raya. For now, he needed to focus on finding Sorcha. Malcolm padded downstairs to see if she was in the kitchen. Cooking was her other outlet when she couldn't sleep. The kitchen, however, was also empty. A glance at the stove showed the kettle sitting in its spot. Coffee had not been brewed.

Nerves bunched, pulsed as every corner he checked turned up empty.

"Where are you?" he breathed aloud.

"Check your father's hobby room," Eve suggested again.

"Sorcha wouldn't go in there."

She promised him she'd never enter his father's hobby room. Not without him there with her. Why he made Sorcha promise that, Malcolm didn't know. His father couldn't find her in that room. He couldn't hurt her.

"Your father can't harm her physically," Eve said as she floated before him. "But he can hurt her, Malcolm. He hurt me." A sad smile curved her lips. "And you."

"You hurt me." The words lacked the bitterness they once carried. "And I hurt Sorcha."

Over and over, he hurt her.

Used her.

Pushed her aside.

All because he believed he deserved pain and rejection because of what his father was, for all he had done.

A sound, like the clacking made by those needle-thin stilettos his mother favored came from the foyer. That, he realized with a frown, made no sense. His mother wouldn't be up for hours and Ainsley elected to return to her own apartment after her broadcast. Louisa didn't wear heels. That left Sorcha. Malcolm immediately dismissed that possibility. Sorcha abhorred heels. She wore them only when necessary. The sound came again, skittering along Malcolm's already frazzled nerves, fraying them further.

Did she go for a walk?

In the middle of the night?

With Endicott and Talons out there?

Malcolm frowned as he exited the kitchen and made his way towards the front entrance. The sight of the snow-white dog by the front door caused him to skid to a halt. Where the dog came from, how it got inside the house, Malcolm didn't know. His heart hammered against his rib cage as he studied the dog. It was a mixed breed from the looks of it. German Shepherd and Labrador, maybe. Hair on the longish side. Red collar. Non-aggressive he hoped. The dog's tail thumped against the floor as Sorcha entered, indicating familiarity.

Had she gotten a dog after what happened with Tammy Lynn in his loft? He wouldn't blame her if she had. Gabrielle had suggested him getting one after that but he rejected the suggestion. Dogs required significantly more than food in their bowl and fresh water. They needed a lot of time and attention. Malcolm had wanted a dog when he was younger but his mother had refused for a litany of reasons, the mess they made being the largest one. He opted for snakes, instead. They were significantly less work, kept Ainsley out of his room, and didn't annoy his mother. Much, he amended as the dog bounced around in front of Sorcha, tail wagging, and barking excitedly.

"Quit that," Sorcha ordered softly. "You'll wake everyone up and then we'll really be in for it."

"You're going to be in for it soon as my mother finds out you brought a dog into the house."

Sorcha started. "Mal!" Her face flushed guiltily. "Did we wake you?"

"No." The dog sat in front of her and stared at Malcolm with eyes that seemed to peer into his soul. "Sleep issues, remember?"

She shrugged out of her jacket. "You were soundly asleep when I snuck out."

Malcolm chose to ignore that for the moment. He waved to the dog. "Who's your friend?"

"Krypto." At hearing his name, Krypto, as Sorcha called him, sat up straighter, chocolate eyes shining brightly, tail slapping the floor in one rhythmic motion, and his great big tongue hanging out one side of his mouth. "Krypto, that's Malcolm."

Krypto let out an excited sound and waved a paw at Malcolm, who felt a smile tugging at his lips despite the panic bouncing through his veins. "He's friendly it seems like."

"Only to those he's charged with protecting." Sorcha turned to hang her jacket on the coatrack. "I have a feeling he will be less friendly with those who try to attack us."

Malcolm's brow furrowed as confusion rolled through him. "He's not yours?"

"No."

"What's he doing here then?"

She hung her scarf up with her jacket before crossing the foyer towards him, Krypto at her side. "Seems Raya instructed him to stay here and keep watch after she and Nightwing left."

"He belongs to Raya?"

"Her son, Christopher, actually." A yip came from Krypto. Sorcha placed a hand on his head. "Hush or else you're going to get us in trouble."

"Is that why you're up so early?" Malcolm asked as he slowly held a hand out to Krypto. "He was making a fuss?"

"No." She made for the kitchen. "I couldn't sleep so I decided to take a walk."

"Why didn't you wake me? I'd have gone with you."

"I know." Sorcha paused, her hand on the door jam. "I know you'd have gone with me..."

"But?"

"But I fell back into the pattern of repressing my own needs," she admitted without looking at him. "Focused on you and what you needed… which was sleep."

Patterns and routines. Malcolm had more than a passing familiarity with them. Much of his life was centered around maintaining routines. Some healthier than others. Breaking the toxic ones was somewhere he, too, struggled.

"You…"

"—have so much coming at you right now between your girlfriend's—"

"Ex." Malcolm flinched at the harshness of his tone. "Sorch, I'm..."

"Eve was your girlfriend, Malcolm." The eyes that met his over her shoulder were achingly, brutally sad. "And she was murdered. By the man you're currently accused of murdering in retaliation."

Truth, Malcolm was forced to admit, tasted foul. "She left me."

"Doesn't take away from the fact that for a little over eight weeks she was your girlfriend." No heat. No anger. No censure. Just simple logic. Something Malcolm couldn't deny no matter how much he might have liked too. "She lived in your loft. Shared your bed. You were building a life with her."

"I was building a life with you."

Sorcha hummed a quiet laugh. "Our life resembles the Winchester Mystery House."

"You were watching Ghost Adventures, I see."

Her lips curled at the corners. "Look at the man who doesn't think he knows me figure out what I was doing before I decided to go for a walk."

"Why did you go for a walk?" Sorcha's face remained coolly composed. The product of growing up with a profiler for a father. However, little ticks and tremors gave away her anxious state. "You had a nightmare."

She refused to meet his eyes. Telling him louder than words he guessed right. "Yes."

"Why didn't you wake me?" Her wry look was all the answer Malcolm needed. "You should have woke me, Sorch."

"Raya said the same thing."

"You called Raya?"

It hurt, Malcolm realized, knowing she turned to others in moments of fear or pain. He only had himself to blame, though. If he was normal… well, there'd be lots of things he'd be able to do.

"Not about that," she said with a sigh, "but yes, we talked about my dream."

"Your fears, you mean."

He sounded petulant. Like a child denied a toy. Like his father when he didn't say or do what he wanted.

"This isn't Watkins or Richard or Tammy Lynn," Sorcha said quietly. "Hell, this isn't even about your father anymore. We're playing with a dangerous organization here, Mal. Even Dad feared the Court of Owls." She folded her arms about herself. As she did when she was cold. "So, yeah, I'm having nightmares about blood and death and assassins with yellow eyes. And I needed someone to talk to about it. So, I called Raya."

"You should be able to talk to me about this."

"You're right, I should." The raw, naked vulnerability in the eyes that lifted to his hit harder than a train under full power. "So, let's talk about it then."

It wasn't a huge step, Malcolm realized as he moved closer to her, but for them it was an important one. "Okay," he said as Krypto rubbed against his legs. "I'll make tea." He slowly took her hand. "Peppermint, this time."

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

I just want to send a special thank you to Duchess of Lantern Waste for their lovely reviews!