Work Text:
XXX
Malcolm steeled himself at the door to his father’s cell, still out of sight. His father had given Gil the clues to find Malcolm and had been rewarded with being removed from solitary and reinstated in his posh room. It hadn’t been fast enough to save Malcolm torture. His knee and ankle ached horribly, ligaments torn and twisted. He’d gotten away from Watkin’s dungeon after breaking bones in his hand to slip through the handcuffs but he’d fallen during his flight through the woods. Watkins easily got him back.
He set his cane against the wall and David glanced at it. Malcolm shrugged. He didn’t want his father to see the cane. His limp would be weakness enough, not to mention the 3-D printed cast over his left hand. He hadn’t been rescued before damage had been done, so much of it but he couldn’t be honest about that, not even with himself. The mental torment John Watkins had inflicted on him would leave bad scars but not yet. No, they were still open wounds leaking infection everywhere. He wasn’t safe in his own home because of the uptick in night terrors.
Colette and the rest of his former coworkers had tried – as Dani accused them of more than once in Malcolm’s hearing – to bury him, to hook him to Watkins’ killings, to blame him for the death of a disgraced cop. Gil hadn’t been able to pull him out of that fire but he got the upper brass to do it. As far as the NYPD was concerned, no one would put themselves through the physical damage he’d suffered. However, it hurt, one more mental laceration, that his former coworkers had mistrusted him so badly they would go to these lengths. Thankfully with his rescue and the end of Watkins’ reign of terror, they’d been sent packing but it would be weeks before the brass would allow Gil to hire him back.
He wanted back on the job now but knew deep down he wasn’t ready. He was too bruised, but only in doing the job did he find any solace. Malcolm had no idea how to deal with this conundrum. He had to take it slowly, hoping just to make it through. At least here he wasn’t alone even if Mother’s way of helping him often was more frustrating than helpful but he knew she meant well. Same for Ainsley though she fared little better than their mother in keeping his spirits up. Gil and Dani were his life lines, Edrisa too. Even JT reached out but that man wasn’t comforting by nature, at least not for Malcolm. It was the night time that was the worst, when he was alone, that the horrors revisited him.
Malcolm struggled to put a silver lining on it. His lack of sleep allowed him to leave early and get to Claremont just as visiting hours started. His phone was off. Mother would be pissed, especially since it was his birthday and she probably had a breakfast planned that he didn’t want. Thinking she might panic if she couldn’t reach him, he texted her that he was out and had his phone off, that he’d text her when he turned it back on. He did the same for Gil who also might call early for his birthday. He had to be where he was now and he didn’t want either of them trying to stop him.
“Should you be here?” David asked.
Malcolm shook his head. “Not at all but I plan to make it quick.”
David made a face but he unlocked the door. Malcolm slowly walked inside barely moving in enough for David to follow. He leaned against the door once it was closed. The remains of the breakfast tray was still on his father’s desk and Martin beamed widely when he glanced up from the paperwork.
“Malcolm, my boy. You look awful.”
“And you look particularly well rested for someone who’s been in solitary,” he shot back as David carried over his own chair and offered it to Malcolm. He hated needing it, to lose the psychologic advantage of looming over his seated father but what did it matter? Martin Whitly was hardly threatened by him so Malcolm sat, taking the weight off his abused joints.
His father shrugged. “Being alone can be peaceful.”
No, Malcolm thought, he’s faking it. He needs an audience. He decided to let his father lie. “Depends on your situation.”
Martin shot him a sly look. “I suppose that our mutual friend didn’t have you in the nicest of accommodations.”
“He’s not a friend and no, he didn’t. But he’s no one’s problem anymore.” Malcolm forced himself to smile. Let his father think he was happy about it, to think he was one step closer to being Malcolm Whitly, prodigal son come home. “I don’t plan to be here long, sir. I do have plans.”
“With your Detective Arroyo?”
Thankfully Gil had told him about going to see his father so the question didn’t startle him. “No, with Mother.”
“Ah yes, it is your birthday, isn’t it, son?” His father stood and walked to the end of his tether, staying down at him. Malcolm could feel his gaze penetrating all the cracks Watkins had left in him. His father saw right through into the heart of him whether or not he wanted him to. Martin Whitly was a predator and they could always smell when blood and fear were in the air. Martin could easily guess just how wounded Watkins had left his son but would he take pity or would he move in for the kill? Malcolm knew he’d find out soon.
Malcolm nodded.
“And have you come for a present? It’s a little hard to do shopping from here.” His father flashed that careless, charming smile that probably disarmed each of his victims before he slaughtered them.
“You can easily give me a present.” Malcolm gestured to his father’s small TV with his casted arm. No one was going to miss his electric blue plastic cast. Why couldn’t they have given him a black one?
“Oh?”
“You’ve probably have seen Mother’s Christmas eve plea for information on the girl in the box. Watkins gave me her bracelet.”
“I’ve seen your mother offering up an awful lot of money for answers. If I tell you, will you have her put that in my account here?” His father waggled his eyebrows.
Malcolm sighed rolling his eyes. “I don’t know why I bothered coming here.” He stood up but it took two tries to get there.
“Her name was Laura,” Martin said in a rush. “If you sit back down, I’ll tell you everything.”
Malcolm plopped back down and leaned forward. “I’m listening.”
“You’re right. This is an appropriate birthday gift. Have your mother give you the million dollars, go treat yourself.”
“I don’t need…”
“Take a vacation while you heal. The NYPD is never letting you back in the field looking like that. You’ll be weeks healing up all those injuries.”
Malcolm just raised an eyebrow at him.
Martin sighed, not getting the rise out of him he obviously wanted. “I met Laura at the hospital.”
Malcolm listened and absorbed all the details, hating that this was a birthday gift he actually wanted. No one should want this, but if it helped them find the girl in the box, it was worth the drag through his father’s hell.