"Jackie mentioned you've decided on psychology at Harvard." Gil broaches the subject tentatively over a one on one dinner at their favorite hole-in-the-wall diner, concerned that Malcolm hasn't told him himself.
"Yeah—I made the decision a few weeks ago and let them know." The kid looks at the table instead of at him.
"Malcolm, is there some reason you thought you couldn't tell me?" Gil wades in deeper, encouraged that Malcolm isn't getting agitated.
"Just—didn't want to disappoint you." The kid's voice is soft, and Gil flashes back to the nervous ten-year-old he'd once been.
Gil shakes his head. "You're on scholarship to Harvard. That's the last thing on earth to be disappointed over."
"But—you know what it means," the kid adds a little breathlessly, "the FBI, if it works out. You—tried to talk me out of that."
Gil nods. "I think there are other things you could do with your talents, but that's not my choice, Malcolm. I'm not disappointed you're making your own decisions. I'm proud of you."
"Really?" Gil is used to taking Malcolm however he comes, but he's nonplussed by how much Malcolm obviously doesn't want to disappoint him. Eight years on, he's still surprised by the flashes he sometimes sees of how vehemently Malcolm is attached to him. He would never assume that his investment of time entitles him to something like a parent's rights. Gil just did what he did because a kid needed him; he's never expected anything back.
"Of course, kid. I'm always proud of you."
Malcolm visibly relaxes, and Gil wonders if he should have said it more often. He's tried his level best to be supportive, but he's no psychologist.
"My mom thinks I'm crazy, and Martin is thrilled," Malcolm adds. "That was almost enough to make me change my mind."
Gil locks eyes with him. "Son, it has to be what you want. It's your life, nobody else's. You can change your mind later if you don't like it, but that's got to come from you." Gil has only ever called Malcolm "Son" a handful of times. It seems to fit this time, when he's trying to emphasize something fundamental that neither of the kid's biological parents will say. Not Jessica, still trying to hold together the crumbled ruins of social respectability, and not Martin, always trying to replicate himself through his child. Gil sees Jessica's bravery for what it is, but it's a kind of courage that isn't always the best for the unconventional son she adores, however misguidedly.
"Jackie said you got a promotion," Malcolm flips the conversation suddenly. "Any reason you didn't think you could tell me that?" The kid half-smirks, turning Gil's words on him.
Gil shrugs. "More people under me, more homicides, probably even longer hours. Nothing for you to worry about."
"Why do you think I'm less proud of you than you are of me?"
Gil looks at Malcolm, not answering for a moment, forcing himself to realize that he's looking across the table at a man—a young one, but still, an adult. One whose intelligence and empathy genuinely amaze him. He realizes in that moment, maybe more than he ever has before, that it has all been worth it—and it's not going anywhere. He has known for a long time that his door would never be closed to Malcolm. He now dares to believe the kid might never stop walking through it.
"Eat your food," Gil says, but he can't help smiling.
"I love you, Gil."
It takes the cop by surprise. It's the thing they don't say, because it's almost too true to voice it. But as he hears it, it sounds like the perfect summation of the past eight years.
"I love you, too, kid."
He forces himself to meet Malcolm's intense blue eyes again.
"I know."
