Title: Another Night, Another Pavor Nocturnus

Disclaimer: Not mine, Chris Fedak and Sam Sklaver owns it

Summary : John Watkins and his revelations have added an extra layer to Malcolm's dreamscape.

Notes: written for darkmoore in comment_fic for the prompt of Prodigal son, Malcom Bright, and the lyrics:

And though the nightmares should be over

Some of the terrors are still intact

I'll hear that ugly, coarse and violent voice

And then he grabs me from behind and then he pulls me back

(Meat Loaf, Objects in the rear view mirror (may appear closer than they are), 1993)

XXX

And though the nightmares should be over
Some of the terrors are still intact

Pain woke Malcolm, his head throbbing. He'd been screaming into his mouthguard and his jaw ached but that wasn't what had awoken him from the night terror. A knot rapidly swelled on his forehead where his casted hand had crashed into his skull. He spat the guard into his good hand, his heart thundering. Blood roared in his ears as the dream imagery refused to die. It wasn't the girl in the box this time, no dead girl penetrating him with a sword. Dr. Le Deux, your advice to get laid, did nothing more than to make me feel worse.

This time, he'd dreamt about going out to the Hamptons for Easter. It had been part of the family tradition. The house there had a bigger yard for running around in. Even though they weren't particularly religious, his parents liked to hide eggs for them. Malcolm had gotten a bit too old for it but he would pretend to look right past them so dramatically that Ainsley could help but find them. It had been such a good memory right up until his mind took it and twisted it until it broke. His father drowned him in the ocean, waves forcing sand down his throat. He died choking, his brain on fire. Even though he was awake now, his throat burned as if he were still fighting his dad as he held his head under the dark, crashing salt water.

Malcolm didn't know why his mind turned the actual attempt on his life in the woods to something capable of ruining what was left of his happy memories. He forced himself to sit up on the edge of the bed, fighting the restraints off his wrists. He wasn't going to sleep again, not with the terror of the nightmare coating him like a second skin. He'd been so hopeful. He hadn't been able to stop his nurse from heating his sheets with hot water bottles but it felt pretty good. He'd hoped he'd sleep the night all the way through, cradled in that warmth. He was glad at least she wasn't in his loft twenty-four seven in spite of her initial hiring to be with him through it all. He'd put his foot down and insisted she go home at night. At least he had also convinced her, he needed no help showering, no matter what his mother thought.

He didn't want anyone watching him sleep anyhow. Malcolm stood, his side pulling terribly. The stitches had been removed before he left the hospital but the scar was there, ridged, red, angry as hell, angry as he was. He felt it with every step toward the bathroom. He's awake. He might as well relieve himself. He wasn't going to sleep. He swore he'd never sleep again.

I'll hear that ugly, coarse and violent voice

Malcolm sat on the couch with the TV on but sound down low. He sipped at a glass of water, wishing it were whiskey but he didn't want to start drinking when he had a nightmare. His mother drank too much and it worried him. He had some of her tendencies and it was a path he didn't want to put a foot upon.

What Malcolm really wanted was to call Claremont, wake up his father if he was out of solitary. He wouldn't do it, even if he could. He didn't want to hear that man's voice but he needed to know. Had Watkins lied to him? Malcolm doubted it. Watkins had no reason to. He wanted to lure Malcolm into working with him. What he'd said matched what little Malcolm remembered. It made sense. He'd seen the girl in the box. His father knew it was only a matter of time before he told someone about her. Even if his mother didn't believe him, someone eventually would. His father had only one choice: dispose of him.

"It hurts," he whispered. God, did it ever. He was gutted. Part of him wanted it all gone. He had let his brain fry to free himself from that memory only it hadn't worked. If he called his father, he wouldn't be able to hide from the brutal truth. He couldn't pretend it wasn't real. Once he put that question out there – did you try to murder me – he couldn't wind it back. No matter what happened, he'd have to face the truth. He knew Watkins hadn't lied, felt it all the way to the marrow. Either his father would deny it, and surely he would because that's who he was, or he admit it and try to play it off. Malcolm would recognize the lie but hearing the truth could take him to his knees.

He should just never go back to Claremont. If he did, he'd have to ask the question. Maybe he could just let it lie for now.

And then he grabs me from behind and then he pulls me back

"You can't go yet, my boy. We're not done talking."

His father grabbed his casted hand, squeezing, the bones grinding together in spite of the cast. Malcolm twisted, looking over his shoulder. How had he gotten on the wrong side of the line? Why weren't his father's hands shackled to his waist? How could he be so strong as to keep Malcolm from pulling free? Where was Mr. David?

"I'm leaving," he said, his voice thick. He kept looking over his shoulder. "They're waiting on me."

"Who?" His father's huge, goofy smile seemed almost real. For a second he could believe again that at least his father loved him even though he knew it wasn't true.

"Mother and Gil. They're outside waiting."

His father squeezed his hand tighter, making Malcolm pant in pain. "It doesn't bother you that your mother is sullying herself with a cheap man like that?" His jealousy cut like a knife. "With a man who likes to pretend he's your father but he never will be. You know that."

What Malcolm knew was Gil was the only father he'd needed for the last twenty years but he couldn't say that here. It would only make things worse. "Mother and Gil aren't lovers. Just friends and barely that." He still hadn't forgiven his mother for not attending Jackie's funeral, for not even giving Gil a condolence call. She had been so jealous herself, and so wrong-headed about Gil guiding him into forensics that she had cut the Arroyos out of her life for years. They had only recently begun speaking again and it was because of him.

"He wants you for his own but you never will be." His father yanked him back, slipping his arms around Malcolm and holding him like he used to when he'd read to him when Malcolm was a child. "You're mine. You know this. You know we're the same."

"We're not," he whispered, the words dry and brittle as winter leaves. "I'm nothing like you. You're a serial killer."

"We serial killers are your sons. We are your husbands. We are everywhere. And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow."

"Ted Bundy said that," Malcolm said, remembering all those talks over the years he'd had with his father and then after he left Claremont he'd run to the Arroyos for comfort because they were just so much better at it than his mother was. She loved him. She tried but her own pain got in the way. Jackie had been capable of dropping everything and just hold him until he quit shaking and crying. She didn't care if he got snot on her shirt, on her neck as he wept. He wanted to hold her again, to feel her hand soothing his hair.

"You remembered. You were always so smart, my precious little boy."

A strange rattle echoed in his father's cell as Martin hauled him closer to the wall. Suddenly his father's tether was around Malcolm's neck and he fell to his knees as his father pulled it tighter and tighter. Malcolm fought but couldn't free himself not matter how hard he twisted and turned. The violence of it tore open his scar and blood gushed out. He didn't have enough regenerated yet to lose it like this. Just on the other side of the glass doors were his mother and Gil with Mr. David, fighting the lock to get in. They wouldn't make it in time.

"It's a shame you have to die this time."

Malcolm woke up slumped on his couch. His side felt so freshly stabbed, he had to hike up his shirt and check even though he damn well knew it had all been a dream. He trailed his fingers over the twisted ridge of tissue marking the spot that nearly took his life. He wasn't all right. He had even admitted that to Gil. He'd been right way back on that first case with the team. Each and every pavor nocturnus was another step toward ruining his life.

It was only four in the morning. He hated to do it but he had to. Malcolm hunted down his phone, parked his sore body back on the couch and made a call.

"I know it's so late, Gil, but I'm…struggling."

"I'll be there within the half hour."

He couldn't squeak a thank you past his emotionally tightening throat. He didn't have to say it. Gil knew it. He always did.