A Prodigal Son fanfic by IzzIsAnAuthor (izzygrace07)
References to memories discussed in 2x03 - "Alma Mater"
Malcolm's fist pounds against the door as he hyperventilates, body trembling with fear. The closet walls suffocate him without moving an inch. It's such a familiar feeling, the exact one he felt during his time trapped in the janitor's closet at Remington Academy. His rational and irrational thoughts fight for dominance in his head, and right now, the nonsensical ones are winning and fill his mind with death.
It's not like anyone would hear his knocking; it's nearly midnight, and the precinct is empty. The murder case he is investigating is similar to one that went cold thirteen years prior, and he needed to grab those files and run them by their current information. Malcolm hadn't thought much of it when he walked into the closet of old case files and rummaged through a few boxes. He didn't know that the door would close on him, shrouding him in darkness.
Malcolm had frozen immediately, unable to comprehend the situation before him. When reaching blindly for the doorknob, he had been shocked to discover that the knob was missing, leaving only the rose behind. Pushing on the door did nothing, and he didn't have the space he would need to kick it open. With nobody left in the building and the doorknob missing, Malcolm was experiencing his biggest fear first-handed: alone in the darkness, trapped in a box with nobody around to hear his cries for help.
The Remington Incident hadn't been this bad. At the very least, there was minute light that helped him see. Yes, he was dangerously dehydrated, starving, and soaked in his sweat, tears, and urine, but Nicky had been merciful enough to let him see. Now, Malcolm can't help but imagine the same scenario; only now, he'd have to survive those three days with his vision inhibited. Dying in darkness, in pain and disgusted with himself, and with nobody around to find him for days was undoubtedly terrifying.
Eventually, Malcolm's sobs turn into silent tears. He leans his body against the door and continues to knock, not nearly as forceful as before, while his free hand trembles wildly at his side. The resignation takes over much faster than the last time he was stuck like this, taking only a few minutes instead of the first six hours of his Remington captivity. This feeling must be what defeatism is, the feeling of complete resignation. He doesn't experience this very often, only ever falling into it when a killer manages to elude him, manipulating the profile and taunting him as more victims get claimed. During those times, he had Gil, Ainsley, or even Dani talk him through it, reassuring him that everything would turn out fine, that profiling isn't an exact science; Malcolm isn't to blame.
Except he is, so his abusive mind tells him, and this is his punishment. He's let so many lives slip through his fingers because he wasn't good enough, fast enough, or intelligent enough to find the monsters responsible. If he had only said the right thing or noticed the essential details a little sooner, he wouldn't have to watch parents lose their children or kids become orphans. He's killed more people than the Surgeon, the man who he promised never to become. After his father's arrest, Malcolm refused to let himself go down the same path, dedicating his life to saving lives instead of taking them. With how much he's failed, he deserves to wither away in isolation, to rot in this cell, like the murderer he is.
Malcolm takes a couple of steps back and leans against the shelves of case files, sliding down to the floor. Every breath is shaky and laborious. He knows that the room walls are secure in the back of his mind, and he has plenty of oxygen. The precinct would open tomorrow, someone would come into the closet to look for files, and Malcolm would be free from his prison. It's not wishful thinking; it's a fact. Yet, at this moment, all he can see is the ceiling collapsing above him, ready to crush his body under the rubble. His breathing feels too heavy, wasting away his air supply. Worst of all, he imagines the precinct opening tomorrow and having plenty of people present, yet nobody notices that he's missing. Even if they did, it's not like anyone would care enough to look. He could bang on this door for hours and catch their attention; they might even figure out that he's in there. They could leave him locked in the closet like Nicky did, knowing fully well that he's suffering behind the door.
When the door opens and the room floods with light, Malcolm doesn't notice. Tears blur his vision, and all he can hear is his own hyperventilating. His fingernails dig into his wrist, desperate to stop his hand from shaking. Somewhere in the distance, he can make out words, but they're impossible to comprehend.
"Bright? Kid, what happened to you?" The voice is familiar, and Malcolm can almost put a name to its owner. "It's okay, Kid. You're okay. Come on, let's get you in the open. Malcolm, can you hear me?"
His first name is what shocks him back into reality. Nobody at the precinct calls him Malcolm except for two people, and only one of those two calls him Kid.
Malcolm blinks away the tears as much as he can, the blur fading from his sight. It isn't easy to see the man before him, the light from the hall making silhouettes out of his features. However, he can see the outline of facial scruff and well-maintained hair, and the recognition finally sets in.
"Gil," Malcolm breathes. A hand takes his own and gently pulls him to his feet. He staggers, his head spinning from the lightheadedness, and nearly falls over. When the throbbing of his head calms, he nods to show he's okay. Gil places a hand on the back of Malcolm's neck, guiding him out of the closet and into the light of the precinct.
He's led to a random desk nearby, practically throwing himself into the chair. The clean air that comes with the open space is heavenly, as if it is a gift from God himself. Gil grabs another chair and pulls it over to Malcolm, sitting across from him.
"So," Gil starts, "are you gonna tell me what happened, Bright?"
"There's not much to say," Malcolm mumbles, a slight waver to his voice. "I walked in the closet, and the door closed on me. That's it."
Gil sighs. "That's not what I mean."
When they found Malcolm in that closet at Remington, the shame erased any sense of relief. New York society already thinks that the Whitley family is dangerous, and that's just with Doctor Whitley's reputation hanging over his head. Malcolm should have known what Nicky would do, just like he should have known what his father was doing to those women. There are so many horrific things that Malcolm could have prevented, but he didn't because he wasn't good enough.
So, when Malcolm was found three days after Nicky trapped him, he told the doctors and police officers that the door shut on him. It was just a freak accident, and nobody was to blame but himself. With that story, nobody thinks of him as a failure or a weak man.
"...Do you remember when they found me at Remington?" Malcolm asks hesitantly.
Gil nods, his eyebrows furrowing. "You could have died in there," he laments. "I can't believe it took the police three days to find you. It was your damn school! We should have looked there first."
The guilt weighs heavy on Malcolm's shoulders. His disappearance worried so many people, and even now, it's obvious how blameworthy Gil feels about the whole thing. But it's not Gil's job to know that kind of information; that's what Malcolm is supposed to do.
He falls into silence upon hearing Gil's words. The worst thing he can do for Gil is to tell him the truth behind the incident.
"I knew you were claustrophobic," Gil continues, "but I didn't think it was that bad. I haven't seen you cry like that in a long time, Kid."
Malcolm lets out a soft chuckle and directs his gaze to the ground, wiping his palms against his slacks. "That was pretty embarrassing."
He jumps when Gil's hand rests on his knee, squeezing comfortingly. Malcolm glances up and finds Gil watching him with protective eyes. It nearly makes him shrink in his seat, overwhelmed by the sudden change in demeanour.
"Bright, you were traumatised," Gil states. "You were on your death bed. If that happened to me and I had been the one stuck in there, I would have freaked, too."
Malcolm gives a slight nod. He doesn't mean to, but he lets Gil's words go through one ear and out the other. They've been said before by anyone who has ever had the displeasure of seeing him in this state. It's bittersweet to have their sympathy when they have no idea why he's terrified.
"...Nicky Covington." He doesn't hear himself say the name, but he must have, seeing Gil's confused reaction.
The trembling of Malcolm's hand worsens with the question, and he slams his stable hand over it, squeezing his wrist. Gil grabs both hands and pulls them apart, holding onto them both. It gives Malcolm a sense of security, keeping his mind down on Earth.
"It's okay," Gil says tenderly. "You can tell me, Malcolm." The earnestness in his words makes Malcolm's heart skip a beat. All these years, he's kept the truth behind the Remington incident quiet, choosing to exact revenge on Nicky in such a psychopathtic manner. He should have told Gil the truth back then; Gil would have been there to help him through the shock. He would have gotten Nicky put behind bars, unable to hurt another man.
Instead, he acted as his father would have and tried to kill him. Now, he's tired of having that skeleton in his closet.
"Nicky Covington, he..." Malcolm clears his throat. "The door didn't close on me. He locked me in there when he found out about my father." He looks down shamefully, refusing to meet Gil's eyes. "I lied to the police about the whole thing."
The silence is deafening and sends Malcolm's heart racing. He can feel his pulse clogging his throat, making it difficult to breathe. The usual berating voices he hears are abnormally quiet, waiting anxiously for Gil's reply.
Malcolm blinks a few times and intelligently replies, "...What?"
"Kid, did you think I didn't investigate at Remington after they found you?" Gil says incredulously, shaking his head. "The janitor was bribed by the Covington family to lie about the locks. They didn't automatically lock like he said they did; an outside force would have to do it. They paid off the courts to keep quiet, of course, but at the very least, I got a good idea of what happened." He sighs, rubbing his thumbs over Malcolm's hands. "You know you're not The Surgeon, right?"
Malcolm nods halfheartedly. "I know. I do, really, but... Those women--"
Out of his peripheral, he sees Gil lean forward, trying to catch his eye. "You were a kid, Bright. No kid wants to believe their dad is a bad guy. It wasn't your job to catch him; it was ours, and we did."
When Malcolm opens his mouth to argue, Gil sticks up a finger, silencing him. "As a consultant for Major Crimes, you're bound to see people die. It's just a fact. But when you see people die, Malcolm, you want to catch the killer and lock them away. That's what makes you different from Martin Whitley; you do your job to protect people from criminals like him."
Malcolm feels a smile forming on his face. He squeezes Gil's hands. "Thanks, Gil."
Gil stands up, pulling Malcolm up with him. "It's late. We've got a case to work on tomorrow, so get some sleep, alright?"
"Never," Malcolm says, beaming. He may not believe Gil's words to the fullest, but at the very least, he can try to accept them: he isn't the Surgeon. He's Malcolm Bright, and he isn't to blame for what happened to him.
