Perfectionist. A word Malcolm commonly used to define the surgeon. A fact that was undoubtedly true, for not even the man himself could deny. Another word, yet one not near as common in association as one would like was passionate. Martin Whitly was a man of passion, especially when it came to his children. Often times his need for perfection clashed with his passion. However, with precise planning and convenient timing, everything went exactly as Martin planned.
It all started with Jessica's unexpected visit, a visit twenty years late no less. He knew the decision to take Malcom off the list, albeit not the easiest to make, would initiate a chain reaction. First the rejection would set in and out of desperation he knew his son would return wanting answers, presumably after Jessica broke the news. Malcolm did exactly that, even more distraught than previously anticipated. The second event to come, although unplanned, was Ainsley's visit. A pleasant surprise in which helped Martin formulate the checkmate to his plan.
Martin's plan went without a hitch. Not only had his connections lured Malcolm back to him, but he discovered something in the process. Watching Malcolm's endeavors to save that inconsequential camera man was a sight to see, the panicked look in his eyes, the shaking… All clear signs of distress. Then Malcolm's attempt to lie when clearly something was wrong. His boy needed him, now more than ever.
Post-haste, a new plan was set into motion. See, Martin's list of connections was broad and getting out of that hospital? Effortless, a little chaos didn't hurt either. Finding out where Malcolm resided? Also effortless.
A free, handcuff-less, hand brushed against the fabric of unmade sheets, eyes taking quick notice of half-assed restraints that hung on each side of the bed. "Now, Malcolm, Why would you need these?" Martin frowned at the thought. "My Malcolm…"
He did a full sweep of the apartment, shocked to find the vass amount of prescription drugs and near empty shelves. Not so much the mixed drinks, given his mother's drinking habits. It made sense that her habits would spread to his precious Malcolm. After unscrewing the only bottle in sight, he pulled out a small vial of liquid, quickly emptying its contents into said bottle. It would take some time to fully take effect but taking Malcolm would be far less strenuous as soon as it did.
The second feet were heard shuffling up the stairs, Martin slipped into the shadows. He looked on as Malcolm poured himself a glass. The events of the day was having an apparent effect, his boy's body was wearing down and his hands were shaking.
"You know, alcohol won't help. Then again, you are mother's son, and oh boy does your mother love her drinks." Martin remarked with concern as he stepped out of the shadows, caught off guard by Malcolm's immediate reaction to jump back in shock. After all, he didn't see a reason why such a loving father would warrant such a reaction. "Hello, Malcolm." He smiled softly at Malcolm.
"-You're not here, it's just my head playing tricks." Malcolm closed his eyes tightly, the glass in his hand crashed onto the ground and shattering to pieces. "When I open my eyes, you won't be here."
Every word was like a dagger piercing his heart. Truly he had hoped to have a warm welcome or at least a proper response back, but not this. Malcolm was breaking at the seams.
Martin took small, subtle steps towards his son, much like approaching a wounded animal. Until he was close to whisper softly into his boy's ear. "I did warn you about chasing memories, Malcolm. Now look at you, you're a mess. Really, I expected you to take better care of yourself."
Malcolm's body quaked instinctually in response, part of him realizing that this was just some parlor trick. That he was indeed the devil in the flesh. There appeared to be a moment of relief, Malcolm not knowing that Martin had maneuvered around him. Despite the need to wrap his arms around his boy, to keep him close, Martin ultimately decided against it. Merely aiming to avoid another undesirable reaction.
As a father, seeing his child in such a poor, fragile, condition wounded him. Perhaps more combined with Malcolm's previous words. Anger coursed through his veins. How could Malcolm allow this to happen himself? Why had his wife insisted on shoving pills down his throat instead of providing the proper love and support he needed? His wife who undoubtedly planted the idea in their child's mind that he was a monster. Their child who clearly needed a father's love.
"You know, hearing your sister call you a victim? Calling me a terrible father? That hurt Malcolm, a lot." Martin whispered softly, causing Malcolm's body to quake.
Malcolm made a move to get away but the contents of the vial finally began to kick in. Movement was hampered as a result as Malcolm stumbled forward, and would have fallen had Martin not caught him. "What did you-"
"Shh, it's okay, just relax and rest now." He murmured soothingly and wrapped an arm around Malcolm and covered his mouth with the other. There was a small struggle, but it didn't take long until Malcolm was limp in his arms. Martin quickly scooped him up, a falling against his chest.
"Don't worry, I'll take good care of you."
I might make this a two shot, but not sure. Let me know what you think!