Malcom was good at therapy. Practically a professional. If it were a competition he'd have the gold. A triple crown and title belt. He'd have an entourage and a book deal. He'd be able to retire early and get a beach front home. Maybe never look at a dead body again.

But therapy—as his increasingly dour therapist reminded him at least once a session—was not a competition. There was no gold medal. Only shitty participation trophies.

And Malcom knew there were no shortcuts. He wasn't stupid, he knew healing took hard work. Nearly constant hard work. But what he wouldn't give to get out of doing that work, just for one night. One measly night. To be able to climb neatly out of his own head and find some kind of peace. He hadn't yet found a force powerful enough to pull him completely out of a downward spiral—except maybe his sister.

"You know your milk is expired?" Ainsley was in the kitchen doing something…noisy. "Like closing in on scary expired."

"The door." Malcom didn't move from where he was curled on the couch. His mother would be downright appalled at his lack of hosting skills, but he wasn't about to move a muscle if he didn't absolutely have to. His face was numb from where he'd mushed a frozen bag of peas against his bruised eye. His arm hurt. His whole body hurt. He probably hadn't dislocated his bad shoulder again, but he wasn't going to push it by reaching for anything above waist height. Ainsley could make her own coffee. "I put the newer carton in the door."

"Yeah, dude. Your new carton expired two weeks ago."

Shit.

"And your eggs." There was a pause that meant she was probably making some gesture. "When was the last time you cleaned this thing out? That yoghurt back there looks like my 4th grade science fair project."

"You sound like mom."

"Rude, Malcom. I'm only trying to help, don't be rude just because you're cranky."

"Ainsley."

"Fine." She closed the fridge. "I'm just saying. Mom doesn't let a banana go overripe at my place before she goes on and on about that cleaning service again. Does she not do that to you?"

"Can you go back to talking about work?"

There had been people in and out but mostly in his apartment all damned day. Not that he wasn't grateful for the company, but he would be a lot happier without his sister pushing buttons. His migraine had been steadily escalating since his mother had stopped by, and it showed no signs of easing up.

"Please."

"You asked for it." She retrieved her coffee mug and went back to shuffling through her files, the contents of his kitchen momentarily forgotten. "Where did I leave off?"

"Something about…" He pushed the sliding ice pack back up his face. "Your next interview?"

"Right." More rustling papers. "So the bastard rescinded his statement. Changes everything, right? Huge. Malcolm, do you get how huge this is? Do you even understand what that means?"

"Please don't make me guess."

"I mean, if you don't want to help I could always go back talking about how you're going to get scurvy if you don't change your diet."

"Stop talking about my fucking refrigerator. My head hurts, just tell me."

"Okay, okay. It means the interview is on. Guaranteed, one way or another."

"Yeah, I get that. But I thought you said it was scheduled to happen before the 14th. So what's the issue? Why do you sound so nervous about it?"

"I mean," She huffed. "I have a contact working on getting eye-witnesses. But it doesn't give us much time. The sooner we get evidence against him, the better I'll feel. And what better way than using his own words against him. Genius right? But if I softball the questions he won't give us anything useful. But if I back him into a corner he won't talk at all. I need something to throw him off, or get him so comfortable he puts his guard down and rambles too much. He just has to give us something."

Malcom frowned. "You might be overthinking it."

"No. I'm thinking about it the perfect amount."

"Ains, I've seen people try to get away with murder on less thoughtful planning. That guy's a second-rate politician who'll never know what hit him."

"Not a clue as long as I play my cards right." She set down her coffee mug a little too loud and Malcom knew what she was about to say before she even opened her mouth.

"Can you tell me any—"

"No."

"Oh come on."

"No!"

"We talked about my work, I just want to ask about yours."

"You just want to squeeze a headline out of me." She wouldn't be doing her job right if she at least didn't try, but understanding why did little to keep it from being annoying at the best of times.

"Okay, fine. Off the record."

"Oh. You think the murder from this morning might be related."

"No. I'm asking if you think the murder from this morning is related to my case. The location alone makes it worth looking in to, and the guy's got power enough to silence people. It's not such a stretch. Right?"

"No."

"No they're not related?"

"No I don't wanna talk about it."

"Malcom."

"I don't wanna talk about it because I freaked out today. Lost my shit and hid under a table. Ok? Lay off." He was too tired to even sound mad.

"Alright. Sorry." She sounded sincere but he didn't really relax until she had gone back to rattling around the kitchen. She refilled her coffee and then for a long time the only sound was the turning of pages.

When it started to get dark, Malcom turned on the TV. So quiet it was almost muted, he flipped through channels until he found one that was showing infomercials. He was really glad she was here.

A squawk from sunshine signal Gil had arrive just a moment before he knocked at the door. Ainsley popped up to answer it while Malcom sighed and forced himself to sit up. Slowly. He could have a few moments just to sit here with his head between his knees while Ainsley interrogated Gil in the name of due diligence. Usually he was harder to crack than Malcom, but if she sweet talked him at all he'd give in. And people thought Gil had too much of a soft spot for Malcom. Hah! Wait until they met his sister.

He only opened his good eye when Gil deposited a clatter of things on the coffee table nearby. The sight of a takeout bag made his stomach flip so he ignored it, reaching instead for the case file behind it. Gil got to it first.

"Five minutes." He waved the file before handing it over. "You get five minutes with that thing."

Malcom snatched it. Then uncapped the nearest pen with his teeth. That knife was definitely important. Maybe the balloons, too. Five minutes was all he needed.

And Ainsley might have actually been on to something. The more she told him about the upcoming interview the more he felt in his gut that whatever it uncovered it was going to be something big. And this case might have nothing to do with it. But if they were related it would be massive. Smart to ask the question. And if she turned out to be right? He'd let her take all the credit she wanted.

Malcom tossed the melted bag of peas onto the table and set to work scribbling notes. Gil had long ago given up on fixing his handwriting, and just learned how to decipher the chicken scratch. He didn't slow town until his hand cramped so tightly he was forced to. Filling the margin of page after page as fast as he could think.

He stopped, when on the next page he grabbed a low-resolution photo of the kitchen crime scene stared back at him. The sight of it made him feel sick to his stomach even more than the idea of food. So he shut the file and tossed it back across the table.

"Malcom?"

He turned to see Gil looking over at him. Oh joy there it was. His concerned face.

No part of tonight was going to be pleasant

"What."

"Broken glass?" Gil sounded a bit like he was trying not to laugh, but he was face was still 100% serious. "What, I don't have enough to worry about without your dishware getting added to the list? Do you need plastic cups? Cause I'll overnight you things to drink out of aren't glass if it means this stops happening."

Malcom put his hands up. "I didn't do it on purpose!" He'd wanted to, sure. Had spent the better part of the afternoon consumed by the desire to fling the glass at a wall and hear it shatter. But he hadn't. "I didn't!"

"Butterfingers over there dropped it."

"Mom was mom about it, she'll be fine."

"Oh! And then you managed to elbow one into the sink and damn near crack it in half. Two of them! Her favorite!"

"You and I both know those ugly blue ones are her favorite." Which is why he never uses them. "I broke cheap ones. It's no big deal."

"No dumbass, you're clearly mom's favorite. That's why she didn't blow a blood vessel."

He fixed her squarely in his best death stare. Ainsley just stuck her tongue out and began scooping her papers off the counter. Two could play at this.

"Rich coming from you. Gil you know she used to make me cry by calling me dad's favorite?"

"It was once!" She looked so genuinely horrified he couldn't help but laugh.

"Jesus Malcom. I was 12!" He just laughed harder as she stomped off and pretended to be angry while putting on her coat. "And I apologized! You promised you'd stop bringing that up!"

"Go home, Asins." He sunk back into the couch. She'd get him for that, he knew. Still worth it. "Kick ass at your interview."

"You better be watching. I expect notes." She was dialing her cell before she had even opened the door. "And call your therapist back! I'll find out if you don't! Love you!"

"Love you too." Malcom felt her take the energy from the room. Let his head fall back against the couch and watched half-lidded as Gil made tea. Some very complicated tea that involved lots of weighing tiny spoonfuls of things and waiting for water to boil.

Finally, he set his mug on the table and joined Malcom on the couch.

"So, what are we watching?"

"Dunno." Malcom put his feet up. The remote was around somewhere. "Some nature thing. Oceans. Icy." God he missed being articulate.

"Icy." Gil nodded, and reached into the takeout bag. When he found what he was looking for he handed it to Malcom, who took the Styrofoam cup slowly. Hopefully it was coffee.

"So." Malcom sniffed his drink, then took a sip and jackpot. It was coffee. "How was your day?"

Gil was staring. Not even being polite about it, just staring straight at him.

"Knew I should have given that bitch a shiner of her own. Let me get a look at you—"

Malcom ducked his face away, swatting at Gil's hand. "Not being a very good pacifist, Gil."

"Have you seen yourself?" Gil grumbled but leaned back. "Looks like you got kicked by a horse."

Malcom grimaced. He hadn't gotten up the courage to face a mirror yet. "JT said it wasn't that bad!"

"JT was lying to you, kid."

"Great." Maybe Ainsley could teach him how to cover it with makeup.

Gil was still staring. Malcom slumped down in his seat and cradled his coffee close. Pretended to watch the TV. "So I take it you talked to them? Fielding and her partner?"

Gil sighed, put his feet up and pretended to watch TV too. "I was there. But to say I did much talking was a stretch."

"I trust you didn't actually try to punch anyone, did you?"

That didn't even get a fake smile from Gil. Damn.

"JT did a wonderful job keeping me out of most of it. Which was the right choice, but Malcolm you have no idea how annoying it was."

"At least tell me your case went better."

"Yeah. Oh yeah thank Mother Mary it did. It was close for a bit, but we got the guy. It's finally over."

At least something had gone right.

"Does this mean team vacation? Cause JT has personally put in a vote for Fiji, but I prefer the Bahamas."

Gil laughed. "That's what you guys talked about? I know you had quite the day, but really?"

"Yeah well." Malcom shrugged. "When the day started JT already thought I was the weirdest person on the planet. And then it just kept getting worse. I punched someone, cried in front of him, and that motherfucker still CHOSE to watch Jeopardy with me. It was…" Malcom rubbed at his eyes. "Very confusing."

"Wow." Finally, Gil smiled about something. "You guys watched Jeopardy together?"

Malcom nodded. "He said we were friends."

"Yeah, Malcom. You guys are friends."

"I think I scared him, today."

"He's a tough cookie." Gil grabbed a takeout container and a pair of chopsticks. "He's got a talent for adapting in tough situations. That's exactly why I wanted him on the team."

"He was so nice to me all day. It was…" Malcom made a fist, looking for the word. "Not like he's been anything but kind to me on other days. Y'know? Just…" He swallowed.

The words were right there but Malcom couldn't quite get any of them. He tried for a few moments, face screwed up in concentration until Gil put a hand on his shoulder.

"Malcom, he's worried about you. You should have heard the tirade he went on. Those officers are terrified of him. He kept listing different ways he knew to destroy their careers. Got real loud and angry. But if you don't want it turn into a big fuss, he said he'll drop it if you say to."

"Sounds likes JT."

"He even found your phone."

"Silver lining." Malcom held out his hand.

"I um." Gil scratched at his stubble.

"What. Gil.

"I might have. Um." The rest of the words came out in a rush. "broken your phone I'm sorry."

Malcom blinked, mouth hanging open just a bit. After a moment he couldn't help the manic sort of laugh that launched from him. "That'll stop my father from calling me for a while!"

"Listen, I just saw the Clairmont number and just picked up without really thinking."

"You picked up?" The mere idea of that conversation sent Malcom giggling again. Sunshine squeaked indignantly at the noise and flapped to the far end of her cage. "So what, you can tease me about breaking glass when you going around cracking top of the line cellphones in half?"

"I didn't throw it at anyone. For the record. But yeah. We're both working on stuff, alright?"

"Just when I thought this day couldn't get any weirder. Gil, has JT ever mentioned this 24/7 pizza place? Cause that was some of the best pizza I've ever eaten and I need to know why JT has been keeping it a secret."

Gil does his best fake laugh, but Malcom's seen his worried look towards the takeout the longer Malcom goes without touching any of it.

Gil put his food down. "You wanna tell me what happened, today?"

"You know what happened. JT and I ate pizza, you broke my phone. It was weird." He shrugged and Gil sighed and they sat in stubborn silence while pretty argued on the TV.

It wasn't until Gil went back to eating that Malcom spoke.

"I don't…really know." Which wasn't a lie. "I mean, sure I was nervous, working with new people and even with JT. But I've sleeping enough, honest. Things were fine. And then I just…" His hands went up again, but he still couldn't latch onto anything else to say.

Gil prompted him after a moment. "Wasn't?"

"Wasn't fine. Wasn't there anymore. And next thing I know JT is sitting next to me on the ugliest kitchen floor I've ever seen."

"I didn't know he was that protective of you, to tell you the truth. He started to sound like Dani, the way the he carried on. And I had to spend a good forty minutes talking her out of keying a couple cars. You know, protectively."

"My mother was dead set on pressing charges. Protectively."

Gil let out a low whistle. "Did you try to talk her out of it?"

"Told her I needed to think about it." Malcom actually intended to not think about it for a very long time, but she didn't need to know that yet.

"A balloon." He scowled.

"A balloon?" Gil repeated, and Malcom almost lost it at how ridiculous the word was in such a tone.

" Just some noise, and I freaked out. It's not even like I have specific balloon related trauma! At least that I know of, that that's an entirely different thing." He waved a hand.

"I'm sorry."

"Hey. If I don't get to apologize for punching someone you don't get to apologize for not being there."

"How bad is it?"

"Bad." He would have to sleep eventually. "Bad."

"Like," Gil glances at his phone. "Are we talking Christmas last year, kind of bad?"

"Bad" Malcom repeats again, then groans and shakes his head. He can't think of a single other word to say. Can only stare down at the TV remote, which turns his face, bearing the bruised side of at Gil. He gets his hands up enough to form a word this time, flicking one thumb under his chin, then pulling it away with his other thumb. Not far.

Malcom buried his face against his own shoulder, dizzy at how fast what he wanted to say has been washed out from under him. His head felt like it was collapsing.

Almost. He put his hands together palms up, and flicked up upwards. Then put up just one hand, showing five fingers.

"Okay." Gil sighed. "Almost five. We know how to get through this."

Malcom hummed, trying his best to makes a thumbs up. Last Christmas he'd given Gil more than a few gray hairs. To Malcom the whole thing was pretty blurry and that's probably for the best. But he'd seen a lot of Gil's worried face, wrinkles set deeper and deeper each time. Damn his own observant mind. Guilt flooded his chest, sharp and electric like 70,000 volts down his spine. Fresh in a way that made him flinch back from even the memory of it.

And there went Gil's worried face again. The winkles of which Malcom felt personally responsible for. His resolution at the New Year had been to never put Gil through anything like that ever again.

Sorry He signed.

Before the motion was even really complete, Gil pulled him forward into a hug. Malcom made some embarrassing sound, then found his balance and hugged back.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Malcom nodded against Gil's shoulder, feeling heavier and more tired by the minute.

"Tonight might be bad, but I'm staying until I know you're okay. I'm prepared, I brought a book. And the sequel."

Gil didn't release him for a long time. When he finally pulled back his eyes searched Malcom's face again. "How you feeling now?"

"I…" He paused, and took a few measured breaths. They did nothing to clear his head. Malcom reached for the closest Chinese takeout container instead.

The smell hit him even before he had the lid open. Fuck he was hungry. Where were the chopsticks? When had he gotten so hungry? He shoveled some into his mouth and…froze.

"It's my order." Malcom waved the container in Gil's direction.

"Well…yeah. It's from our regular place. You don't like mushrooms."

Of all the small details that could have tipped him over the edge, it just had to be something stupid like mushrooms. But he took another bite and it tasted like exactly what he needed without having to ask for it. Thinking about the stupid mushrooms had made his head spin again.

"Gil?"

"Yeah?"

"Six, I think." Malcom managed to rasp, before burying his head in his hands and crying.

Gil nodded, grabbed his book and sat closer as Malcom broke down. Gil just let him, rubbing one warm and steady hand over his back while Malcom cried into his noodles.

/

It turned out to be a mistake to let JT learn sign language. It wasn't like Gil had a justifiable reason to stop him, but it didn't take long to cause more chaos than it rightfully should.

But Gil didn't say anything. Even when JT used it mostly to distract Malcom. Leave it the pair of them to cause property damage over something like this. JT had shoved half a bagel in his mouth and signed good morning to Malcom, who proceeded to spit his coffee over Dani's desk. The frankly impressive mess had taken them over and hour to clean up, but no one complained. Entertainment like that could be hard to come by in their line of work.

It was actually surprisingly helpful. Malcom would JT on stakeouts, and anything that kept them out of trouble was valuable. And it helped their communication on missions. Only logical. And if somedays Malcom slipped into mostly sign language, it was no big deal. Hardly anything had to change.

Then the two chuckle heads started teaching Dani and the whole thing went to hell quick. Gil was this close to handcuffing all three of them to the table just to stop them gossiping during meetings.

Once, on the tail end of particularly stressful case Gil caught the trio in some heated debate using only their hands. The office was almost never silent, but the sight of his team screaming at each other in sign language had sent him cackling with laughter. He couldn't stop until he got tunnel vision and had to sit. Malcom joined him, a laugh breaking free from whatever serious face he'd been making. Then Dani had dissolved into giggles and JT couldn't even pretend to be stoic after that. They'd all ended up on the floor, collapsing back into laughter anytime someone tried to say something for a good five minutes. Gil wanted to freeze that moment, stay on the floor forever where there was nothing to worry about and Malcom's smile was so wide and real.

Gil kept that memory close, tucked somewhere safe for the next rainy day when he really needed it.