Chapter Text
A week went by before Malcolm got the call; they had a case.
Surprisingly, one that had nothing to do with the Surgeon. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the Surgeon had vanished completely off the face of the Earth; as far as everyone knew, he wasn't even in New York anymore. As far as Malcolm Bright was concerned, however, his father was very much so on the Earth, in New York, and at the current moment in time that Gil called Malcolm telling him they needed him for a case, Martin Whitly was in the kitchen, still in his pajamas and flipping pancakes while Malcolm sat at the counter and thumbed through his pills. He was in the process of dry-swallowing them when his phone rang, but it took him a second to answer because he had a glass of water shoved into his hand when he reached for it.
He shot his father a look, which he received right back, but eventually swallowed down a few mouthfuls of the water before he pushed himself up and grabbed the phone. Martin offered a satisfied smirk and turned back to the food, while Malcolm flipped the phone around to check who was calling. "It's Gil," he warned - so Martin knew to keep extra quiet - before he answered.
"What's up?"
"Feel like coming in?" Gil asked at once. "We've got a case."
Malcolm startled, sinking back down onto the stool at once, and shot a wide-eyed look up at Martin when the man turned back to him with a concerned expression written across his face.
He must have been silent for too long, because Gil pressed, "kid?"
"Sorry-" Malcolm stammered, shaking his head. "Uh, yeah, I can come in." He set his jaw and swallowed, struggling to stifle the anxiety steadily building, and ended up taking a few more sips of the water - mostly to have something to do. Martin turned his attention away from the food completely, looking even more worried and a little curious, but he remained as quiet as a mouse. "What kind of case?" The profiler finally managed, keeping his eyes rooted to his father.
"I'll come get you-"
"No!" Malcolm gasped, and Martin flinched slightly in surprise, looking stunned. The silence on the other line implied Gil was just as shaken, but nobody spoke for nearly a minute after that while Malcolm struggled to reign himself back in, sucking in a shaky breath through his teeth. "Um- … no. I meant- no. That's okay, Gil. Really. I'll get a cab and meet you at the precinct." He rubbed a hand over his mouth, letting his elbow fall onto the counter and dropping his head into his hand with a sharp, shaky sigh. He could practically hear Gil hesitating on the other end.
"Alright," he finally said, and Malcolm screwed his eyes shut with a low, relieved sigh, turning the phone away slightly so Gil wouldn't hear. "Just, stay safe, okay? Until we get any news on the Surgeon…" He trailed off, and Malcolm nodded, stifling a bout of hysterical, nervous laughter.
"I'll be there soon." He hung up, dropped the phone on the counter, and let out a groan. "Shit."
"Language," Martin murmured. Malcolm lifted his head to glare at him, then let it drop into his arms, burying his face into the fabric of his sleeves with another quiet groan. He heard his father sigh - a sound that was equally concerned and amused - and felt a hand pass through his hair not too long after, gentle fingers carding through the smooth locks. Malcolm found himself leaning into the touch, some of the tension draining from his shoulders, and tipped his head upwards a little bit so that he could peer up at the man through his lashes. "What's going on?"
Malcolm shook his head a little, sighing, as Martin brushed his hair out of his face, tucking it neatly back into place before pulling away again. "It's… he's got a case. They need me at work."
Martin frowned. "Are you sure you should go in?"
"I told him I would," Malcolm sighed. "Trust me, I'd rather stay here. But…" He offered a one-shouldered shrug and pushed himself to sit up a bit more, crossing his arms tightly over the counter and leaning his head back. "Hopefully it'll be a quick thing. I can't just stay locked up here forever anyway. And until we figure… something… out that…" He gazed at his father for a moment, another rush of anxiety swelling up in his chest, and swallowed it back with a sigh.
"I know, my boy. But…" Martin turned away briefly, snatching the pan off the stove and swinging back around to set it on the counter, and Malcolm allowed a brief smile to curl at his lips as he stretched up to peer at the pancakes. "You're having a hard enough time lying to them as it is."
"I've been lying to them for Ainsley for nearly a year," Malcolm pointed out.
Martin's smile turned darker, bitter; "Ainsley isn't a known serial killer."
"No," Malcolm agreed hesitantly, swinging his legs briefly before tucking them close and wrapping them backwards around the stool. He plucked at the glass, picking at the rim for a moment before curling his fingers into it a little to drag it closer to him. "But she is my sister. And you're my father," he finally said, as Martin set down two plates and stopped to stare at him. "And I'm tired," Malcolm added, a little quieter, and flicked his gaze back up to meet the Surgeon's. "But this- you- I'm the reason you're out. I let you escape. And I've been lying to them about that for the past four weeks as it is, knowing what I did. Letting you keep that card. And I'm dealing with that. And now you're here, and we're-" He couldn't finish, didn't know how to say what he wanted to say. "And if I'm actually- if I'm actually content with my life for the first time in years-" He couldn't bite back a quiet, shaky laugh in time, ducking his head against his chest. "Then that's just a bonus. I can do this. If you're worried about me slipping up, or-"
"That is the last thing I am worried about," Martin interrupted sharply, and Malcolm raised his head slightly, gazing up at him. "I'm worried about you. I don't want this taking a toll on you."
"It's going to take a toll on me," Malcolm said quietly. "But I'm trying to tell you that it's worth it."
Martin softened, staring at him silently for a few seconds. Malcolm met his gaze, trying to appear as open as possible, letting Martin's gaze flick across his face, watching his eyes search his own until the man seemed to find whatever it was he was looking for, just enough to reassure him. Because he relaxed, the tension draining from him all at once as he sank down into his seat across from Malcolm. "You say that now," he mumbled, but a faint, soft smile was tugging at his lips as he started to scoop the pancakes from the pan onto the plates, and Malcolm allowed his own lips to tug upwards as he downed the rest of the water and stood up.
"I'll be back as soon as I c-"
Martin tutted at him, throwing him a dubious look and arching his eyebrows, and shoved one of the plates in his direction across the counter. "Without breakfast? I don't think so, young man. You're not skipping the most important meal of the day to solve a murder. Sit down and eat."
Malcolm squinted at him, then dropped his gaze to the pancakes. "You're lucky I'm hungry."
"And I don't want you skipping lunch either," Martin warned. "Full meals, Malcolm."
"I know, Dad."
"Good boy," Martin teased, and Malcolm threw him a glare, but he couldn't bite back a grin in time. His father returned it easily, laughter and warmth sparkling through his eyes, and Malcolm realized for the first time how much he genuinely, truly didn't want to leave. To leave, and let go of all of this for even a second; he was getting his father back, little by little, letting himself take him back and give himself back to the man in return - and interrupting that at all just felt wrong.
Putting up an act for the team wasn't going to be easy, either. But he could think about that later, cross that bridge when he got to it. The good thing - and what honestly made lying to them a little more painful - was that they wouldn't expect this from him, not in a million years. Especially not Gil, Malcolm thought with a flicker of guilt. Gil, who had seen how Martin had destroyed him.
"I could pack you a lunch," Martin commented suddenly, tearing Malcolm from his thoughts abruptly, and the profiler blinked a few times as he processed that, huffing out a quiet chuckle.
"As much as I appreciate that, I don't tend to show up to work with food. Too suspicious."
Martin looked put-out. "Suspicious or not…"
"I will get lunch. I promise," Malcolm assured. "I'll get… I don't know, takeout or something. Order something quick or pick it up while I'm on the road. Speaking of eating, though-" He paused to check his phone, checking the time, before he turned back to his food, cutting off a piece of the pancake to pop in his mouth before he continued, "I'll need you to feed Sunshine."
His father stared at him for a moment, then looked toward Sunshine's cage, uncertain.
"Right," he began hesitantly, "yes, I can do that."
"I'm trusting you here," Malcolm warned, and Martin's gaze flicked back to him in an instant. The profiler inclined his head, giving him a pointed look. "So if anything happens to my girl…"
"I'll feed her, I'll take care of her," Martin sighed, looking resigned. They were silent for a moment, just eating, and Malcolm settled back down again with a content smile. He was halfway through his pancakes when his father suddenly spoke up again, grinning. "'My girl'?"
"Oh, don't start-"