Malcolm hated society events with a burning passion. In his — decidedly jaded — opinion, they were largely attended by a bunch of fake people who flashed their fake smiles while putting on their fake airs just to prove themselves as superior to everyone else.

He only attended tonight's Black Cat Ball because Gil needed someone who could walk among the high society sect without attracting the wrong sort of attention.

Not that the son of The Surgeon attracted the right sort of attention.

"Bright," Gil said in his earpiece. "Harlan Davis just entered the building with Monroe Spencer."

"If Spencer is really planning on killing Davis at this Ball," Malcolm replied as he moved through the crowd gathered around a table with a painting perched on it, "he will make sure to do it at a moment that will create the largest reaction."

"Any idea when that might be?"

"Ah, if I had to take a guess?" Bright looked at all the items on display. "Right after the last item is auctioned off."

"The last item up for auction is a ruby and diamond necklace." Dani's voice replaced Gil's in his ear. "Opening bid is six hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars."

"Only six hundred and eighty-five thousand?" A snort came from JT. "Should buy two."

"I'd prefer spending that kind of money on repairing the LeMan's."

"You could fix ten LeMan's for that, Boss."

Malcolm wisely chose not to say he could buy twenty LeMan's for the price of that necklace. Thankfully, Dani saved him from inserting his foot into his mouth.

"Who even wears something like that nowadays?"

"People with too much money," JT told her. "That's who."

"The necklace is believed to have been given to one of the many mistresses of King Edward the VII, actually."

Why Malcolm told them that, he didn't know. He had been perfectly content to let their conversation buzz in his ear as he made his way from the small room where the items being auctioned off that evening had been placed on display to the ballroom.

"Your rich ass knowing that should shock me but it doesn't."

"What can I say?" A smile flittered across Malcolm's lips. "I like obscure facts."

"Yeah, we know, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce Wayne is a billionaire," Malcolm retorted cheekily. "I am not."

JT snorted a laugh. "Could've fooled me."

Malcolm skirted a group of women chattering away like magpies. He caught the scent of them — orchids, jasmine, and other smells he couldn't readily identify — but didn't experience any type of visceral reaction.

Not like he did whenever he was around Sorcha.

Malcolm reasoned the deep emotional connection between them played a large part in why he reacted differently to her. That, he reasoned, as they burst into giggles, and the fact I know she won't use me for her own gain.

"Hey, handsome," one of the women called. "Save me a dance?"

Malcolm kept right on walking.

Women in groups were dangerous.

Not that he had much luck one-on-one with them.

"Look at Romeo go."

"Hardly qualify as a Romeo."

Especially since his last official date with a woman ended with him almost stabbing her with a knife.

"Focus." Amusement coated Gil's tone. "Have you spotted Davis or Monroe?"

"No."

Malcolm didn't bother to mask his frustration. The clock was ticking. If they didn't find Monroe and Davis, and soon, there'd be another death on their hands.

"Keep looking, Bright. They have to be there."

The unspoken question was where. It wasn't like there was a great many places they could hide. There was the ballroom, the foyer, and the small viewing room next door. Unless...

"Are we sure it was Davis and Monroe who entered the building?" Malcolm's eyes narrowed as he swept the immaculately attired people. "Monroe used a series of decoys last time."

Allowing him to hang a righteous man.

Monroe said this time he'd poison a pillar of the community to teach the high and mighty sect a lesson. Three days of exhaustive searching for such a paragon led them to Harlan Davis.

A man who served the neighborhood of Mott Haven by feeding the hungry and giving the homeless a warm place to sleep when the shelters were overcrowded.

"Facial recognition confirmed it was them."

Well, that idea went out the window. Malcolm released a sigh and turned to make his way back towards the foyer when a familiar scent — jasmine and orchids — curled itself around him.

Subtle but intoxicating, familiar but unique, soothing but intriguing.

A scent Malcolm would recognize even in his most delirious state. Sorcha? He stepped around some people and saw her just as she exited the dance floor. That look, his first after almost two weeks of court appearances, this case, and other situations keeping them apart, sliced Malcolm into a thousand pieces.

Her floor-length gown, white with gold threads, made her seem ethereal. Other worldly. A goddess descended from Olympus to walk among mortals. Athena, he mused as he watched her. That's who she'd be if she was a Greek God.

Her dark hair was piled atop her head. His only minor complaint about her appearance. Soft curls framed her face, caressed the long line of her throat, and bounced off her bare shoulders.

Taunting him, tempting him.

Beckoning him to move closer.

To touch her if he dared.

Sorcha wore no jewelry save for a gold charm bracelet around her wrist. Two charms adorned the thin chain. A heart and key to represent she, and she alone, held the key to his heart.

The band started to play. The haunting melody made him think of lovers always separated by circumstances beyond their control. Fated to always be apart. As he and Sorcha were, he realized as couples stepped around him to join the others already gathering on the dance floor.

Malcolm decided dancing to that lovely, sad song was the most marvelous idea he had all day. The one, and only, time he danced with Sorcha had been right after he got his acceptance letter from the Academy. And that wasn't dancing so much as I swung her around in my excitement at getting accepted into the program.

There wasn't any chances for dancing after that. Nothing they planned for after they graduated Harvard came to pass, he realized as Sorcha let out a soft laugh that pooled heat in his belly. They didn't move to Virginia, they didn't go through the Academy, they didn't become profilers.

Well, I did, he amended, face scrunching up. Until I screwed that up.

Same as he screwed everything up with Sorcha.

Not that she'd agree.

Unsurprisingly, he thought as he came to a stop behind her. Sorcha wasn't afraid to express her thoughts, feelings or opinions. She didn't hesitate to tell him what she wanted or needed. Why then, he wondered as he let his gaze drift over the trail of cheetah spots tattooed across her right shoulder, are we stuck in this friend-zone?

Was it his fault? he wondered as more couples stepped out onto the dance floor. Was he the reason why they were stuck in this never-ending loop?

Sorcha would say no.

Like she always did.

Malcolm didn't agree.

Like he always did.

He thought they were moving out of the friend-zone before Watkins kidnapped him. He even admitted as much to Owen Shannon.

"Girlfriend?"

"Uh, yeah." Malcolm slid his phone back into his pocket as he stared back at the dark house across the street. "You could say that."

They reverted back to the friend-zone while he sorted through the psychological quagmire his kidnapped caused. Sorcha said it was because he needed to heal from the physical wounds he suffered as a result of his ordeal.

He wasn't so sure.

No, he believed that joining a cult and allowing them to give him electroshock therapy was why they were back in the friend-zone. Sorcha had been beyond angry with him for making such a choice without consulting her about it.

Something he should have done. He admitted that now. He should have sat down and discussed what he planned with her. Like with any medical procedure there were risks. And I didn't give her the right to discuss those risks or come up with a better plan.

Malcolm being forced to stab his father by a man driven to the extreme to exact revenge on his family not long after that incident didn't help them resolve their issues.

Neither did his father threatening to reveal who really stabbed him if he didn't agree to see or talk to him whenever he called.

Nor did finding out who the girl in the box was, Eve Blanchard's connection to her, and the trial of John Watkins.

She told me I needed to decide what I wanted. That it was up to me to make that move. Well, he decided as he reached out to take hold of her hand, I'm making it.

Gil said something in his ear as Sorcha turned, face filled with delighted surprise, and a smile that banished the dark things back to the corners of his mind.

"Well, hello there, stranger." Her eyes twinkled with pleasure and a hint of mischief. "Long time no see."

"Sorch..." His mind blanked as that haunting scent of hers enveloped him in its sinewy arms. "You, uh, look amazing."

"So do you." Her fingers slid between his. Comfort and support and desperately needed reassurance. "Imagine JT got a few James Bond jokes in after he got a look at you in a tux."

"Maxwell Smart, actually."

"I think more like Bruce Wayne, myself."

Malcolm breathed out a soft laugh. "You would."

"Well, I'd say you can be my Obi-Wan." Her lips twitched. "But Jedi don't wear tuxedos."

"More Anakin Skywalker than Obi-Wan Kenobi, anyway," JT said in his ear. "As he mighta been if he hadn't gone all screwy and lightsabered a bunch of kids."

Malcolm ignored him.

"What are you doing here at the Ball?"

"Well, your mother had tickets..." she started to say but Malcolm cut her off.

"My mother's here?"

Last thing he needed was his mother finding out he was there.

"She left a few minutes ago to take a call, actually."

Malcolm breathed out a sigh of relief. Dealing with his mother was hard enough without the added weight of searching for a man killing people by spinning a roulette wheel.

"That's one thing less to worry about, thankfully."

"You can thank me," Gil said dryly, "by finding Davis or Spencer."

"Aren't you working the Roulette Killer case?" Sorcha queried as the song ended. "Or am I mistaken?"

"No, I, uh, am working the Roulette Killer case."

Sorta, he amended as Gil sighed in his ear.

"Bright, focus. We're running out of time here."

He was focused. The problem was he wasn't focused on the case. Not as he should be, anyway.

"If you're working the case, why are you here?" Sorcha made a face. "Oh, don't tell me..."

"Catwoman's figured out why Batman's at the Ball."

"We need Batman to remember why he's at the Ball," came from Dani. "And that it's not for Catwoman."

"Come on, Bright," was Gil. "The auction starts in twenty minutes. We need you to find Monroe and Davis."

All that Malcolm heard was he had five minutes to do something he should have done a long time ago.

"Dance with me?" Malcolm asked as the band started to play another song. Back at One, he realized as his ears picked out the unsung words. Fitting. Since they always ended up at the beginning rather than the end.

Sorcha glanced at the man to her left. Malcolm almost didn't recognize Former Deputy Commissioner Hoyt Brannigan. Not with his hair and goatee now snow-white. The last time he saw him had been at the memorial held for Sorcha's father.

"Off with you two," the former Deputy Commissioner commanded in a soft brogue that reminded Malcolm of Ian Corbin. "You've entertained an old man enough for one evening."

"I wasn't entertaining an old man." Sorcha leaned up to brush a kiss to his cheek. "I was dancing with my favorite uncle."

"Don't let your Uncle Jamie hear that." He smiled then at Malcolm. "Go on, kiddo. Dance with your girlfriend."

A scream rang out before Malcolm could lead Sorcha onto the dance floor.

More quickly followed.

"Bright?" Gil demanded. "What's going on?"

"Ah, people are screaming?"

"I can hear that. Why?"

Sorcha grabbed his arm and pointed towards the stage.

"Mal, by the stage!"

Malcolm turned in the direction she indicated as a dark-skinned man stumbled in front of the makeshift stage, clutching at his chest, and looking around with wild, panicked eyes.

"Gil, call for an ambulance!" He pushed through the throng of people exiting the dance floor. "I found Davis!"

Of Spencer Monroe, there was no sign.

Not that Malcolm expected one.

He caught the older man as his knees buckled.

"It's okay," he told him as he lowered him to a seated position on the floor. "Help's on the way."

The man clutched at his hands, wheezing with every breath, lips puffy, and face mottled by a series of red blotches. Malcolm ran through every list of possible poisons or toxins Monroe could have used.

The possibilities were endless.

Time, on the other hand, was not.

If Davis didn't get medical attention, and soon, he'd die.

"Gil? How long on that ambulance?"

"Three minutes," came the reply. "JT and Dani caught Spencer as he exited from the back of the building."

Malcolm breathed a small sigh of relief as he let Davis rest against him. Spencer being caught was one less thing to worry about. Especially since he had no idea what Davis had been given or how to slow the progression of the poison.

"Here." Sorcha pressed something into his hand. "Jab this into his thigh."

Malcolm looked at the long cylindrical shaped tube in his hand with a frown. "An EpiPen?"

"Yes." She knelt beside him. "Have you ever used one?"

"No." Malcolm looked at her as Davis's wheezes became louder. "We don't know what Monroe gave him."

"Peanut butter."

Malcolm's eyebrows winged up. "Peanut butter?"

"Can't you smell it?"

"I can't smell anything but you."

"Well, I'll take that as a compliment." She took the EpiPen from him and pulled off the blue end. "After we stop him from going into anaphylactic shock."

Malcolm watched, transfixed as she jabbed the orange end of the EpiPen into the outer part of Davis's right leg at mid-thigh level. He thought he heard a click but couldn't be sure. People pressed close but someone — he thought it was Sorcha's uncle — barked at them to, "Get back!"

Sorcha straightened after about ten seconds.

"He'll be okay until paramedics get here."

"How'd you know what to do?"

"Uncle Hoyt is allergic to peanuts." She wrapped the used EpiPen in a napkin. "As is my cousin, Megan."

"And they carry an EpiPen with them," Malcolm said as his heart started to slow down. "Just in case they come in contact with something that has peanuts in it."

"I carry extra EpiPens, actually." Her lips twitched. "Something I learned to do after becoming friends with you."

"But I don't have food allergies. Not like this," he clarified as Davis's wheezes slowly started to subside. "I just don't like the taste and texture of most foods."

"You take medications, though," she said as paramedics started making their way towards them. "And I learned to carry a weeks supply of them in case something happened and you couldn't get to them."

Such as a freak winter storm stranding me in her apartment, Malcolm recalled as he helped her to her feet.

It seemed so long ago since she learned about his dependency to benzos and mood stabilizers.

About the night terrors controlling his life.

About everything.

And she's still here, he thought in amazement. Never judging, always supportive, refusing to see me as the damaged goods I am.

They moved out of the way so the paramedics could work. Malcolm watched until he spotted Gil at the edge of the crowd.

"Sorch…"

"Go on." She touched his hand before moving to join her uncle. "I'll catch up with you later."

"I'm sorry," he said as he walked over to Gil. "I lost focus on the case. Let myself get distracted. I promise it will never happen again."

"You being distracted by Sorcha saved me from having to give you another lecture about waiting for backup, actually."

Malcolm sent him a wry look. "Funny."

"I'd be worried if you weren't distracted by her, kid."

"I'm always distracted by her." Malcolm glanced over to where Sorcha was talking with one of the paramedics. "But it seems like we're never going to be more than we are."

"Why do you think you'll never be more than you are?"

"Because something always prevents us from moving beyond this friend-zone we're stuck in."

"Only you can get yourself out of that friend-zone."

"I don't know how, Gil." Frustration coated his voice. Sang in his veins. "That's the problem."

"I'd speak up, kid." Gil cupped the back of his neck. "Before someone comes along and steals her away."

He left Malcolm then to brood. How to get out of this spot he was in, he didn't know. Not knowing how to verbalize his wants and needs had been a problem since he met Sorcha.

He was too nervous, too inexperienced, too awkward to simply ask her to take that next step with him. Put up or shut up is what JT would tell me to do.

It was easier said than done.

When Sorcha joined him a few moments later, Malcolm found his heart in his throat and ready to spill out onto the floor at her feet.

"Sorch—"

"The paramedics say he will be fine."

"Great!" he said quickly. A bit too enthusiastically, he realized as one of her eyebrows lifted. He dialed his tone down before speaking again. "That's great. I'm glad Davis will be okay."

And it was great, he told himself. Davis not becoming another victim of Monroe had been their goal, after all.

It was just not what was weighing on his mind at that moment.

"Sorch—"

"Shame we didn't get that dance." She took his hand. Squeezed his fingers. "Another time, maybe?"

Malcolm met her gaze, kept his voice steady despite his heart beating a hard tattoo against his rib cage.

"What are you doing later?"

"Changing out of this gown, feeding a pretty bird, and watching Ghost Adventures while waiting for my best friend to get home from work." A quizzical frown pulled at her brow. "Why?"

"How about you keep the gown on, we go home to feed the pretty bird, skip Ghost Adventures, and have that dance we didn't get earlier?"

It was, for him, a huge step. Not quite asking her if she'd be his girlfriend but close as he could get to it. He didn't need to worry about if Sorcha got it.

Course, she did.

She got him.

And Malcolm was ridiculously pleased she did.

A/N: Hello, all, and welcome! This is set after my open WIP, Tremors. It's also set after season 1 ends to leave whatever happens in these last episodes ambiguous.

This is my second entry on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card for the prompt Racing Against The Clock.

Please, follow/favorite if you enjoyed this piece. Comments are also welcome! Thanks for reading!