#i forgot how to tag on tumblr im very rusty

[prodbionic]

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Secret Revealed

Mark My Sins

Alternate title: Getting Shot 101

Fandom: Prodigal Son

Word count: 3640

Summary:

Closing cases is Malcolm’s specialty. Getting injured in the process is par for the course. Ditching a hospital run afterwards is his modus operandi. But not this time, not on Gil’s watch.

After putting the perp in handcuffs, Gil catches up with the injured, run-away Malcolm at the latter’s loft. The Lieutenant is in for a shift in perspective.

Warnings: implied and referenced self harm, off screen self harm.

Read on ao3

"Malcolm!" 

Gil’s bellow rang in tandem with the loud bang of the loft’s door meeting its frame. He pocketed the keys and stomped inside, following the trail of blood. It was more visible on the floor of the semi lit apartment than it had been on the staircase, and the sidewalk outside of the building. Drops and smears, smudged in places by shoe imprints, patterned the floor in a path towards the closed bathroom; and not a straight path at that. Gil’s experienced eye picked up how the trail swerved away at least twice, distinctively, and straightened back, before disappearing through the gap beneath the bathroom door.

Goddamnit, the kid was fucking swaying!  

"Malcolm, open the door or so help me god, you’re off the team!" Gil's threat was equal portions of concern and fury. Both feelings clashed, he could not tell one from the other with the intensity of his adrenaline-fueled frustration.

Gil pounded the bathroom door. His patience had long since ended, two blocks into his drive over here, when he’d realized, helplessly, that Malcolm was not going to answer his phone. He'd thrown the phone on the dashboard and floored the gas pedal.

“Are you decent? If you don’t reply, I’m gonna barge in, even if you aren’t, fair warning.”

The older man gave it another two seconds, the absolute extent of his restraint, and that’s only because the sound of Malcolm's breathing through the door placated his panic to a certain degree.

Twisting the door knob, Gil entered.

A medical supplies box sat open, looking like it had a small hurricane ravage its contents. Bottles of alcohol and iodine, packages of gauze rolls and cotton balls, different looking syringes and many other aids he couldn't identify at a glance— all scattered on the bloody floor. Malcolm sat in his boxers in the middle of the room, back resting on the wall, a suture needle in his right, blood-slicked hand. His left held a patch of cotton dressing—soaked red and completely useless by this point—pressed against his thigh where the bullet had hit him. The suit jacket and pants were tossed and forgotten beside the sink, the light gray shirt, now wet and red, bunched under the knee, supporting his injured leg.

While Gil made his assessing once-over of the stifling room, Malcolm was looking up bleary eyed, head tipped back against the wall. He sat there, not moving, not speaking, the needle in his hand forgotten, probably never seen any action in the first place, for all the blood still seeping.

With the faint, but constant, tremor running in Malcolm’s hand, Gil doubted he'd achieved much suturing.

“Hey there, kid,” Gil murmured, all his recent fury melting like butter; there, but no longer solid. He crouched beside Malcolm’s injured side.

Malcolm blinked. “Hey,” he rasped. Gil doubted he would’ve heard it if they weren’t so close.

“I'm gonna take that now,” Gil said as he reached to take the needle out of Malcolm's weak grasp.

Surprisingly, the kid tightened his two fingers around it —insofar as a corpse would tighten two fingers around something— and dragged his hand away from Gil, breathing, “I need it.”

More awareness seemed to flutter into him as he self consciously pulled the bunched shirt from under his thigh and spread it on his lap, wincing in pain all the while.

Gil clenched his jaw, and prayed for even more patience. “What you need is an ER.” 

Looking intently at his wound, Malcolm attempted to work the needle into it. “I won’t go to one. I got this”

“Then why are you sitting there donating blood to the bathroom floor?” Gil challenged, exasperation elevating his tone. In his periphery, the trembling intensified in Malcolm’s hand. 

“I was just resting for a second. You can go, I can do this.” The dismissal was weak enough that Gil didn't bother elaborating all the ways that the kid, in fact, could not do this. Maybe if he was in a better shape, physically, or mentally. Stubborness wasn’t a new territory for Gil to knock doors on, every now and then—But there was stubborn, and there was down right stupid.

“... Malcolm–”

“Please just go, Gil. Just go.” Malcolm’s request-order surged in urgency and distress.

Gil must have missed something. Something vital.

The case they’ve been handling had dragged on for over a couple of weeks, and although they managed to capture the perp, it wasn’t until three more bodies dropped. Malcolm's mood seemed to drop significantly with each new victim, understandably, just like the rest of them. But he also was the one to figure out the pattern, the profile, and they wouldn’t have been able to put an end to these crimes without the profiler's imperative input. So why would he hit rock bottom when they’d finally put the son of a bitch in cuffs?

Under the constant barrage of ‘go-just go’ , Gil stood up and took a step back to appease the younger man and put the brakes on the Spiral Express. Malcolm removed the soaked dressing, uncovering the oozing gash, and Gil gritted his teeth, feeling in a front seat to the insides of that leg. Blood isn’t an unusual sight to him, but on people he cares about, on Malcolm? It was taking a lot of effort to hold himself back from calling dispatch, out of respect to the kid's desperation. But now Malcolm was making pathetic attempts at pressing the needle to his flesh, only to wince, stop, and try again.

“Would you at least let me help you, for God’s sake?” Gil finally exclaimed when he had enough of this second-hand torture.

Malcolm looked up and Gil tamped down the roil of emotion in his chest at the kid’s look of uncertainty and fear, giving a kicked puppy a run for its money. Gil ripped the plastic packaging of a sterile dressing and handed it to malcolm.

“Here, press this on the wound, and throw that one away. It fits better in the trash.”

Malcolm did as told. The saturated cotton piece made a squelch as it met with the floor, missing the waste basket by a couple of feet. Figuring they’re going to use it a lot tonight, Gil pulled the plastic lined bin, and plucked the dripping dressing to drop it inside. He stood to wash his hands.

“Did you take something for the pain?” 

The kid shook his head no , to which Gil shook his head in surrender. Of course. Leave it to Bright to go about this process ass-backwards. Grabbing the discarded suit jacket from the floor, Gil maneuvered Malcolm to hang the jacket around his shoulders, then gave one a gentle squeeze. Hopefully it would warm him up enough to stop his morphing into a popsicle.

“I’ll be right back.”

 

At the kitchen, the lieutenant took off his own coat in a haste so it could survive the night intact, and placed it on the counter housing the meds. After rolling his shirt sleeves to his elbows, he rifled through the med containers until he found his target. He then took a plastic water bottle from the fridge, and after a second of deliberation he also took a lone juice bottle tucked away at the back of the fridge. Like the kid that gets chosen last for team games or projects at school, though it was cranberry, so Gil understood the aversion.

Back at the bathroom, Malcolm was staring at the shower wall, head miles away it seemed. Gil leaned across him to put the juice on the nonbloody part of the floor, and gently nudged that free hand—the other still pressed weakly on the wound—with the water bottle. “Hey, Bright.”

Malcolm shifted his gaze to the chilly condensation touching his skin, and robotically clutched the opened bottle. He opened his mouth dutifully when prompted, for Gil to place the couple of pills, then chased them down with the water. Now Gil shifted his attention to the —actually pretty impressive— medical kit, and its contents. He secured a new suture kit, an iodine bottle, a couple of latex gloves and set to work.

It was only when he grabbed the rumpled bloody shirt to remove it from Malcolm's lap, that more awareness shot through the kid again. He held on to the shirt, firmly covering his thighs to the knees. Gil, though perplexed, decided to choose his battles and merely pushed it an inch upwards, to clear an area around the laceration on the lateral side of the left thigh.

“Permission to be blunt?” Gil asked, and made sure his tone brooked no argument. He was going to be blunt whether Malcolm liked it or not, who was side-eying him while resting his head backwards and sipping lazily at his bottle. "This is fucking stupid," Gil said, even as he threw away the newly soaked gauze pad, put the gloves on, dumped half the iodine on Bright’s leg and prepared the thread.

Malcolm shook his head ruefully. "Gil–"

"It is. Look me in the eye and tell me this isn't stupid. I wave for the paramedics and you bolt like it’s Death coming to get you? Since when was ‘running home to patch yourself up’ the one-oh-one of Getting Shot?"

"That’s the new update. And I wouldn’t bolt if it was Death, I don’t think…" Malcolm trailed off under the intensity of Gil's withering glare, the raised corner of his mouth gained sudden weight and fell off, erasing his smirk. Despondence took place instead as he continued, somber, "I couldn't let them–… Gil, I– 

Gil waited for him to continue, busying himself in the stitches. And waited. And waited. Nothing came. The only sounds made were the slight hitch in his drawn breaths with every press of the needle at his flesh. Gil finished off another stitch and raised his head to finally look at Malcolm, but he averted his gaze.

Gently, so gently, like treading on water, "What aren't you telling me, Bright?" 

A shuddering breath, a thick swallow, a still averted gaze later and Gil gave up on a response. He looked back down at the almost closed gash, but before he started another stitch he couldn't help but notice how Malcolm had both his hands in fists protectively over the bunched shirt covering his thighs. Gil frowned. He swiftly finished the last two stitches, took off his gloves and pitched them into the trash. Then got comfortable beside Malcolm, but opposite so he can easily look at him.

"You know you can trust me."

No response.

Gil actually felt unsure, and like he was wading into a stranger territory. "When did that stop being the case?"

One translucent drop trailed down the kid's cheek, sailed down from his chin to land in a soft splat on his stomach. 

“I… trust you,” Malcolm mumbled. He sounded unsure, himself. Like he was iterating a fact he had, a fact burrowed inside for so long that it was rusty upon retrieval.

“I'm sorry if I ever gave you a reason to doubt it, kid,” Gil said, wholly meaning it. “I'm not set out to guilt trip you.”

Malcolm shook his head, more tears leaking from under closed lids. “It's not what this is. I…”

When he got stuck on words again, Gil was resolute to bypass this hiccup.

“Look, it doesn't matter right this second. You look more white than your normal white boy white. Wanna avoid a hospital tour? I expect those two bottles to be empty before I stand to wash my hands.”

A huff of expelled air with a corner of mouth slanted upward in a soundless, wet laugh, Malcolm looked beside him then made a face. “It's cranberry, Gil.”

Gil silently cheered at the aggrieved whine, while Malcolm swiped at his wet cheek. 

“Not my problem. It's in your fridge, it's not past expiration date, you're not allergic. Drink.”

He drained the last of his water first then grabbed the offensive juice to twist the cap. “It’s mother, always sending piles of groceries.”

“Good. Left to your own devices, I doubt you’d see the inside of a grocery store.”

“Debatable.”

They share a silent minute; Malcolm sipping juice with an occasionally scrunched up face, and Gil cleaning around the stitches before covering them up in adhesive gauze. 

“You got people in your life who look out for you, kid. Don’t shut us out when you need help.”

Malcolm stared at him, clearly weighing something on his mind that Gil would pay to know, but wisely chose to stare back and wait.

“Help me up?”

Not exactly what he had in mind but Gil would gladly take it. With a hand clasped with the younger man’s and another under his armpit, Gil hauled —an entirely too heavy for Gil’s old bones— Malcolm on his swaying feet, two steps backwards, where the latter plopped on the toilet lid.

They both panted after that little exercise before Malcolm was first to break the silence in a tired mumble, "That was too exhausting. I don't know if I can manage a shower."

Gil eyed the bloody shirt on the floor. Malcolm had held it over his legs like a lifeline, but he didn't seem to notice it falling during the shift in their position.

"I can help clean you off where you're sitting."

Studiously avoiding looking at what the shirt had been hiding, Gil ran warm water with soap in the sink. He collected some face towels from a cabin and soaked them.

Malcolm looked like he wanted nothing more than to doze off, which was understandable; the kid lost what could amount to two bags of blood. His eyelids drooping, his arms and shoulders slack, the back of the toilet the only thing propping him up.

"I uh– I'm tired, Gil," he whispered, and Gil had the suspicion that what he meant was beyond the physical sense of right then. He was at a loss on how to comfort him. Being here, cleaning his kid’s skin enough that he could sleep the night as comfortably as possible, and staying with him, showing him how he cared and understood; other than that, Gil didn’t have any options. ‘You can lead a horse to water’, and all.

And so Gil did exactly that. “I’m right here, Bright,” he said. Then, methodically, wordlessly cleaned him of all the blood. The creases and divots in his palm and between his fingers, his arms, neck, and torso. He reached the part with the larger mess; his legs. Gil did not stop, or stare at all the slash marks patterning the inside and the front of his thighs. Gil did not flinch in sympathy as he wiped over them with another fresh soapy wet towel. He definitely did not look up at Malcolm as he finished with that part, and moved on to his calves and shins. He held himself together because it was what Malcolm needed of him.

The marks were different degrees of healed, some as fresh as just this morning, some as old as a week. That was how long Malcolm had needed him, needed someone, and no one had had a clue.

All done, Gil stood up. “I’ll get you some clean underwear. Stay put.”

Outside of the bathroom, Gil drew a deep breath of fresher air; no blood or antiseptics smells, no suffocation under the pressure of words unsaid. But all too soon, he was back with the clean clothes. Malcolm was exactly how Gil left him, but his hooded eyes bore into Gil with a knowing look. An apprehensive look. He knew Gil now knew what he'd kept tight under guard. What broke Gil's heart was that the kid seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop, like Gil would somehow berate him.

He handed him the clothes and yet another clean wet towel to clean anything that was missed. “I’m here if you need a hand, buddy.”

He faced the other way and crouched to gather the mess on the floor, frequently eying the shelf harboring all the shaving paraphernalia, including an open and half empty box of razors. Keeping himself busy cleaning, he also kept an ear attuned behind him for any possible slips, resisting offering assistance again when he heard the grunts of exertion. Gil was right here, and Malcolm asking for help had to start somewhere.

He would never have berated the kid. Not for something like this. His initial fury was so damningly misplaced and all he felt now was floodgates of guilt that threatened to sweep him off. What would've happened had his tirade went on a little bit longer? Or if it had more bite, more intensity than Malcolm could handle in such a delicate state? Kid could've shut off completely or worse—

His morose line of thought got interrupted out of imagining exaggerated worst case scenarios, by his name being called in a pleading tone. He twisted to find the kid somehow tangled in his own t-shirt amid the process of wearing it. Gil chuckled and swiftly washed his hands before going to the rescue.

“Can I sleep ‘ere?” Malcolm mumbled, sleepy and limp as Gil helped him put his arm and head through their right slots.

“No can do, champ. Up you go.”

They made their way slowly—Gil bearing most of Malcolm’s weight who participated by shuffling his feet in the right directions, thankfully— out of the bathroom, through the living room, and over to the bed where Gil sat him, back propped on the headboard. 

“Don’t sleep yet. You gotta get something else in you.”

He didn’t expect or wait for an answer, before hurrying to the kitchen again. Retrieving a miraculously still standing lemon from the fridge, a generous heaping dollop of honey for the sweet toothed kid, and warm water from the tea kettle, Gil thought to order some groceries first thing in the morning. The state of this kitchen could not stand. While preparing the drink he kept an eye on Malcolm, who only moved to drag a blanket from the foot of the bed and furled it around himself. Gil went back to hand him the glass—the largest one and full to the brim—under the kid’s unwavering eye-contact. It seemed like he was expecting the scolding to start any second now. Tough, for none was coming.

“Drink.”

A tentative sip, eye-contact unbroken, before, ”Why didn’t you panic?”

“I remember it differently. I very well remember panicking. You got shot and fled the scene.”

“It’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. You’re a responsible adult, despite the fact that I like to call you ‘kid’ half the time. A few shallow cuts that you have all the control over are significantly less panic-inducing than a bullet that was meant to kill you but still managed to hit you.

Malcolm rolled the glass between his hands for a minute. “Mom used to panic.”

“I bet she did,” Gil said with a rueful chuckle. Jessica had had the unenviable position of raising a very struggling teen. It had taken her years to get accustomed to rolling with the blows. He shook himself out of the memories. “I was more concerned about the fact that you were struggling that much. And that you didn’t have a healthier outlet.”

“Gil…”

“I’m not blaming you. I just wish that you’d reached out.”

“This case. It was dragging you, all of you, down enough. You didn’t need to worry about me on top of everything else. I’d stopped doing this for almost a decade but I guess my stress has been building up for some time. Don’t really remember making the decision to grab the… uhm… I just, maybe… sort of lost myself for a minute, dissociated probably. I remember coming out of it relieved. Horrified that I failed my clean streak, but relieved. So I did it again and again.”

“Why run?” And this was the pinnacle of the situation.

“Because the medics would’ve seen. And at the hospital. I didn’t want it added to some report in my file or worse,” his hands waved, his demeanor became so animated, even some of the liquid sloshed out of the glass, “that I would get a psych eval or whatever. And I don’t have a great track record with medical personnel respecting my demands, and I could've panicked and they could’ve sedated me and I hate hospitals for a reason, Gil! Multiple reasons. And, to be completely honest with you, some of these reasonings are pure paranoia. I can recognize it but I can't help it, I just… ran to take care of myself, myself.” He didn’t stop to take a breath it seemed, his tirade a steam train, blowing out at full speed. Gil absorbed all of it. He let it percolate in his mind as the kid caught his breath and gulped down the last of the glass’ contents. He stared out the window for a minute, composed himself, before continuing, “but I’m glad you came.”

 “...I’ll always come, Bright.”

Gil took the empty glass from Malcolm’s too-cold hands. The kid still looked too pale for comfort. Exhaustion was finally winning out so Gil prompted him to slide down the bed.

“Next time you’re stressed, we can hit the gym. I need an excuse and a motivation to put in more exercise.”

“You getting old, Lieutenant Arroyo?” Malcolm teased with a sly half-smile.

Gil chuckled and lightly slapped him on the top of his head, before ruffling his hair.

“Never too old to knock you on your ass on the gym’s mat, kid.”

Gil knew it wasn’t true but the laugh he drew from Malcolm was his win for the night.

[funkinmadnesss]

Hehe first post, and Its All Auditor doodles bc. I love them lmao

[lunwil]

sometimes I think about burgundian sansa stark - actually I think a lot about burgundian sansa stark