#but ainsley would just straight up tell martin what she expects and wants from him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bagelbright-tok · 3 years

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Aspire To be

Hi honey!! I saw that your request were open and I had an idea. I really liked the imagine about Malcolm Bright and having an aunt. I was wondering if you could do more of that, but maybe this time Malcolm does know her and they actually like each other and maybe she helps him on a case instead or with Martin? If not it’s completely okay, I love your work tho!! Thanks sweets ❤❤

Requested By: @atjafshelby

A/N: Thank you so much for your support! I really appreciate your comments and request! That aunt fiction is one of my least popular fics. I hardly expected anyone to enjoy it and even be inspired by it! Again, thank you! I decided to do a similar thing I did for that last imagine. This is a one-shot and does not really correlate with any other Prodigal Son episode. Hope you enjoy! Thank you for your patience as well! I apologize if it seems sloppy at the end. I just wanted to get this out for you and tended to get sidetracked. _

Finally getting themselves a line of suspects for this crime, Malcolm realizes he might need more than his own profiling skills. Malcolm also has a person in mind who could help… Gil doesn’t agree with Malcolm’s decision, especially when the profiler’s mind has been altered recently. How could Malcolm Bright not go to the person that inspired him?

Malcolm Bright/Whitly x Aunt!Reader [Platonic]

Word Count: 3289 Warning(s): Mentions of murder, mind fog, insomnia, mentions of trauma, attempted murder, drug abuse, swearing, did not double check anything __

Some Good Things in Life __

“Whaddya got kid?” Gil nodded towards Malcolm, hands on hip, and a grin plastered on his already smug face. Gil was already confident in Malcolm’s ability. This would be a piece of cake for the profiler.

Malcolm shook his head. He was confused. This murder took two weeks to have suspects. Even then, they only had four suspects. There was something wrong, though. Malcolm couldn’t get a read on any of them. Their tones and words led Malcolm to many different directions. Malcolm also did not have the right state of mind, having skipped almost a week’s worth of sleep. “Nothing..”

Even he was surprised by his incompetence.

Gil lightly extended his head out towards Malcolm, eyes wide and mouth agape. “What?” He crossed his arms and returned his head to his shoulders. Gil’s eyebrows were now knitted together in concern and were no longer widened. “What do you mean?”

“I… I can’t get a read on them.” Malcolm finally admitted, his shoulders falling down in defeat. He left out a deep sigh and brought his hands to his eyes to rub. Why couldn’t he think straight? “It’s like my mind is just- just covered in fog.” Malcolm motioned to his head, wildly using his index of his right hand to press into his temple.

Gil sighed, looked down at the floor, and unfolded his arms. Taking a few steps towards the NYPD Profiler, Gil placed his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Go home, kid. It’s late and you need to sleep.” Gil was always the father figure that Malcolm needed. Malcolm understood the lieutenant’s concern, but couldn’t help not sleeping. Especially as of late.

Malcolm couldn’t say no. He shrugged his shoulder and peered into Gil’s eyes with his own tired and hazy blue ones. He nodded lightly, closing his mouth and shaping it into a half smile. “Alright..”

*** And with that, the insomniac ventured restlessly to his humble abode. Despite his hazy mind, he drove himself back to his place. On the way over, going through New York’s evening traffic, Malcolm had an idea. Recklessly, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he reached who he wanted. Tapping and putting the phone up to his ear, waiting for them to answer, he shook his leg anxiously. “Hello?” The voice came through, asking curiously.

“Hey! Long time no talk.” Malcolm was smiling, but the person on the other end couldn’t possibly see it. However, it was obvious that they could hear his happiness to be talking to them. “Malcolm? Hey! Where the hell did you disappear to?” They chuckled. “Thought there was a new Bermuda triangle only taking the cool people.” They stated sarcastically.

Malcolm laughed at their joke, shaking his head. “No. I actually got back in New York a couple of weeks ago. Sorry I forgot to tell you.” Malcolm cleared his throat and before the person on the other end of the call could respond, he continued. “Anyways, I could use some help…” “O-Oh? Help? Of course, what do you need?” Malcolm could hear them move from one spot to another. “Some… Some advice. You are still a body language specialist, right?” “Yeah. Need me to do some interrogating?” They chuckled, joking.

“Uh- Yes. Yes, actually..”

“Oh-”

“Could you meet me at my place? I’ll send you the address. If you get there before me, you can let yourself in. There’s a spare key buried in the plant outside.” Malcolm explained, stopping at yet another red light. Traffic had been bad due to another accident happening nearby.

“Of course!” It was obvious that Malcolm and this person were besties and hadn’t encountered one another in a long while. “I’ll get my bag and head out once I have the address.” “Thank you, so much. I’ll see you in a bit.” Malcolm gave a quite breathy chuckle. “Cya!” And with that, the call ended. Malcolm felt a little better. His mood improved, for sure. Malcolm’s shoulders were no longer held up but instead were slouched down. His neutral and tired face was now a happier tired face. Malcolm took note of how he would just have to tell Gil when he got home that he’d be getting some help. Help from someone they both knew. ***

Damn this headache. Malcolm could feel a dull pain in his head as he entered his home. Despite the pain being dull, he felt it making him weaker and even slightly dizzy. Malcolm simply shook the pain away and shut the door behind him. He tried to reach the door, but couldn’t. When he looked behind himself to see why, the door was already shut. His eyes burrowed in confusion. Again, he shook away the confusion and began to text Gil about what he was doing. Now, though, Malcolm couldn’t just shake off whatever was happening to him. He felt nauseous and he felt out of breath. He tried getting back to his phone to call Gil instead. Malcolm instead found that his vision had blurred. He blinked and blinked, even rubbed his eyes, but his blurred vision only got worse. He began to panic now. Something was definitely wrong. Malcolm tried to identify what could be going on, but still, his mind was elsewhere. Malcolm could barely even hear as someone entered his home.

“Malcolm?” The familiar voice could barely be heard as it echoed in his house and in his head. “Malcolm!”

This exclamatory statement of his name was not that of excitement. It was of concern, confusion, and despair. As far as Malcolm knew, he was standing. As far as his visitor was concerned, he was on the ground, unconscious. ***

“What did you do?” Gil asked angrily and accusatorily. He pointed at [Y/N], who responded by leaning back away from his finger. “Me?! Excuse you. I called an ambulance! Maybe next time, I shouldn’t?” [Y/N] argued back, leaning forward into Gil’s finger and raising her hands to her sides, palms up and fingers spread out. Her face was scrunched with anger. Her usual glowing and calm [E/C] orbs were now burning a hole into Gil. Her graying [H/C] hair was standing up due to the sheer frustration she was feeling. This wouldn’t be the first time someone accused her of something horrific due to her past. [Y/N] Bright [L/N]. Also known as [Y/N] Whitly, younger sister to Dr. Martin Whitly. In other words, Malcolm’s favorite aunt and the individual he had called for help in the case. The lady that had found him unconscious in his own home and called authorities. It was because of [Y/N] that Malcolm was in a hospital and not dead. It wasn’t just Gil there for Malcolm, there was also Jessica and Ainsley. Jessica had refused to talk to [Y/N], she never understood how or why Malcolm had taken a favorability to her. Ainsley wasn’t anything but rude to her, and made it clear she did not like her. Summary; All of [Y/N]’s fans were gathered in one place where they were called in an emergency because someone dear to them had almost died. “What were you even doing in Malcolm’s place?” Ainsley’s hollow eyes stared at [Y/N] with pure hatred. Like someone with unlimited darts, trying to get a high score.

“He called me to come over. Sent me his address and told me about the spare key in some weird ass plant outside his place.” [Y/N] swiftly explained herself, keeping her arms open. Her feet however, were closed and pointing away from both Gil and Ainsley. She really did not want to be there, being questioned. “He wanted me to help with some interrogating.”

“You-?” Gil erected his index again at [Y/N], now eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re the help Malcolm called for?” “Why would anyone go to you for help?” “I feel extremely uncomfortable right now!” [Y/N] declared, slapping her hands down to her sides. “I am just here to help with whatever Malcolm needs!” “Just drop it you three!” Jessica finally whisper yelled at them. “My son could have died and you are worried about-.. Her.”

The disdain in her voice as she referred to [Y/N] really set it in for the body language specialist. Nothing she could say would make them think any better of her. Not even if Malcolm were to explain the same thing she did. So, [Y/N] easily decided it would be easier to just sit down and give up the arguing. She felt like a kid once again, forced to keep quiet when faced with authority. She hated it. Gil would never allow for her to help unless Malcolm really made a good pitch to the lieutenant. Then again, when would Malcolm wake up? *** Malcolm was given a diagnosis fairly quickly. Carbon Monoxide poisoning that had been going on for over a week. It was a miracle he had gone so long without anyone noticing the symptoms. Despite the supposed long sleep he was to be put under, Malcolm found a way to wake himself up with his own brain. Waking up with a loud scream as a nurse ran out to get a doctor, and Gil and [Y/N] rushed in with concern. “Malcolm!” Both older individuals shouted at the once unconscious profiler. While the relief was mutual, so was the concern.

“Gil? [Y/N]? Where am I? What happened? How-” Malcolm was confused but mostly scared as well. One moment he was home and the next he was isolated by white walls and repetitive beeping.

[Y/N] made the first move. She steadily and smoothly moved closer to Malcolm’s bedside. She took a deep and obvious breath, straightening her back and lifting her hands with her as she inhaled. A similar action was taken during the exhale; obvious, she lowered herself back onto her feet, and lowered her hands. Although Malcolm was not having a panic attack, it could escalate and [Y/N] wasn’t having it. Gil followed afterwards. Malcolm mimicked [Y/N] in taking deep breaths and calming down. “Are you okay, Malcolm?” [Y/N] asked in a calmer voice.

“Yeah. I mean, I feel okay.” Malcolm buried his face into his hands. “Was I poisoned?”

With his brain working fine, he was able to remember his symptoms. It was unnatural.

“Yeah, in a sense.” Gil responded this time. “A week long exposure to carbon monoxide.”

“A week?” Malcolm removed his hands from his face and peered at Gil and [Y/N]. “Isn’t that around the time this case started?”

Now both Gil and [Y/N] were horrified. What was thought to be an accident, a simple leak in the home, now was a potential case of attempted murder. Whoever was the murderer in their case, knew Malcolm would be a problem and so tried removing him as an obstacle. [Y/N] and Gil took a glance at each other. Despite their… awkward relationship, they knew they had to work together on this one. Malcolm couldn’t leave the hospital, and couldn’t work on the case. His life was in danger and the safest place would be where he was.

***

“I’ll be keeping a close eye on you.” Gil told [Y/N] with a threatening tone.

“Why not two?” [Y/N] chuckled, entering the observation room sat right next to the interview room. Gil just gave a harsh squint. “Not a time for jokes, got it.”

“It was hard to get the suspects back. We’d released them last night because we had them held for too long.” Gil changed the subject swiftly, viewing into the room where they had the suspects. “We were only able to get them back in because Malcolm almost died last night, when he released them all.”

“It’s clear that all of them are upset that they are back. No profiling is needed for that.” [Y/N] noted this behaviour. “All of them are anxious and nervous. Crossed arms, tapping feet, rapid blinking.”

“All of them are suspicious?” Gil pondered curiously.

“Not necessarily. They are just nervous about being back. The idea of being falsely accused looms over them.” [Y/N] continued to scan the room, finally noticing some odd behaviour. She pointed at a man slightly separated from everyone else. “He, however, is a lot more confident than everyone else.”

“His arms are crossed too.” Gil pointed out, looking at [Y/N] with suspicion.

“Yes, but he is leaning against the wall. He is more relaxed. His lips are slightly parted, unlike everyone else’s compressed or pursed lips.” [Y/N] began her analyzing out loud, forgetting anyone was in the room. “His breathing patterns are very alike to everyone’s. Their breathings are picked up due to their nervousness. His picked up pace is because of excitement, though.”

“He’s leaning against a wall. How in the hell did you get all of that off of him?” Gil was just as curious as he would be if it were Malcolm profiling. It was just as mind boggling as when he profiled Carter Berkhead.

“A magician never reveals his secrets, Gil.” [Y/N] chuckled. “Was Malcolm in the interrogation room when they were all interrogated?”

“Yeah. He wanted to be close to profile.” Gil answered, not as confused now knowing that every question and answer would help.

“Splendid. This will make it far easier.” [Y/N]’s [E/C] orbs glimmered in amusement. Her smile was one that Gil had seen before. It was Malcolm’s smile, but it was one he’d seen on Martin’s face too. “I need you to repeat what you did yesterday. Question them in the same order with the same questions.”

Gil nodded. Just as he was warming up to her, some thought came in and set him back to his place. First and foremost, officers came and rounded everyone up. The interrogation began again. This time, it was just Dani, JT, and Gil. Malcolm wasn’t there. If [Y/N] was correct, the one she was suspect of most would give off more of a reaction than the others. Answers would likely remain the same from each person as well. They all want to get out as soon as possible. If Malcolm’s current profile was correct, the killer was arrogant and would show it. If the killer saw that Malcolm wasn’t there, they’d have some sort of mention or bodily reaction to this.

In the case scenario that she was wrong, [Y/N] was sure to make note of everyone’s reactions. Most did not even acknowledge Malcolm’s absence. Their moods had remained the same, anxious and nervous. Finally, it came to the man that [Y/N] came to know as James Lukai. Most of his answers remain the same, worded slightly different than before. [Y/N] compared his last interview, to this interview. The first showcased this man as nervous and anxious. Now, he wasn’t as much anymore. He looked around, as if to make sure his suspicions were right. He gave a quick smirk when he saw that Malcolm wasn’t there. His answers had remained mostly the same, but the tone had drastically changed. It was clear as night and day, it was this man. Just to prove a point further, [Y/N] straightened herself out and left the observation room. Much to Gil’s dismay, she entered the interrogation room afterwards.

“Heya Gil! Sorry I’m late. The call to replace Malcolm was just too soon!” [Y/N] announced with a large grin on her face.

Gil looked at [Y/N], only to respond by rubbing his face. “Don’t let it happen again.” He played along.

The man in question- James- was now shocked. “I thought you didn’t have a profiler anymore.”

“And what would make you say that, James?” [Y/N] immediately jumped on it. “Malcolm is just taking a little break. Family business.”

“What? He-?” James caught himself before he could say anything more.

“You’re too obvious, James.” [Y/N]’s smile immediately dropped.

“What’re you doing, [Y/N]” Gil questioned, only to get an answer through the raising of the lady’s hand to silence him.

“Want to know how we know, James?” [Y/N] confidently asked, not waiting a moment for his answer. “You are far too confident for this. You thought you had gotten rid of Malcolm, the only one who would have caught you.”

The man was speechless. He was caught. He rested his elbows on the table and put his hands through his brown hair. He was hunched, unsure of what to say now.

“What the fuck did you just do?” Gil wasn’t angry, but just extremely confused.

“Caught the bad guy. My job, Gil.” As confident as before, she exited the room.

Soon after, James confessed to the murders and the attempt on Malcolm’s life. Another day saved by [Y/N] Bright [L/N].

***

“Did you get him?” Was the first thing to exit Malcolm’s mouth that night when [Y/N] went to visit him. Fortunately for Malcolm, he had gotten the all clear, so was able to return home.

“Nice to see you too.” [Y/N] chuckled, entering his home. “Yeah. It was obvious. That poisoning really fucked with your brain if you couldn’t see it.”

“Speaking of which, the place was aired out and my heater was fixed.” Malcolm shut his door. “Inspectors had a nifty device and gave the okay.”

“That’s great!” [Y/N] clapped her hands together. “You plan on trying to get murdered again any time soon?”

Malcolm chuckled again, and sat down at his counter. “Ah, no. I don’t plan on it.”

“Good. Shouldn’t have to attend your funeral when I’m older than you.” [Y/N] glided over and sat with him at the counter. “So- Malcolm Bright. When did you change your name?”

Malcolm gave a small, “oh,” and nodded his head. “Several years back when I went to Quantico. You know, to become a profiler..”

Though [Y/N] knew the story, Malcolm felt obligated to tell her how much she inspired him.

“Couldn’t think of a name until the lady there suggested going with someone who I aspire to be. Then I remembered.. You.” His smile was soft and genuine.

“Really?” She smiled back, surprised by her effect on Malcolm. “I.. I’d never guessed I’d have that sort of influence.”

“I hardly say this, but you’re probably one of the more normal and stable members of this family.” Malcolm gave a light laugh, instigating a laugh from [Y/N] as well. “You prove to me that there are some good things in life.”

“I think there is more than just me that does that, Malcolm.” [Y/N] smirked. “You have all those folk at the NYPD! You have Gil, Dani, JT, and Edrisa.”

“Of course. They’re my friends. I trust them.” Malcolm explained. “But you were the first. You helped a lot when Dr. Whitly was arrested. I still remember that day. Even when mother yelled at you, it didn’t stop you from helping me.”

[Y/N] could only nod lightly. “Yeah, Yeah.. I- I remember that day too. I remember the days before and after that day too. I felt like I had to apologize for my brother. He couldn’t be there, so I tried to be. But Jessica never had a good opinion on me, even before Martin was arrested.” She chuckled at that sentiment. “Then Gil got caught up in all the gossip that I had something to do with Martin. At least Jess was skeptical towards all of that.”

It was dead silent after that until Malcolm decided to clear the air. “Anyways, you want some water, or something?”

“Sure!”

Boy. What an odd and bizarre family.

___ E N D

A/N: So sorry for taking so long! Hope you enjoyed it. I had a bit of a hard time trying to get an end for it. Sorry if it is abrupt.

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queenbrightwhitly · 4 years

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Trust You (Pt 2)

A/n: should I continue this story?________________________________________

The investigation was full of dead ends. You missed your team, you missed Gil, JT, Dani, and mostly Malcolm.

When you finally had a chance to escape the FBI you headed straight home to get ready for tonight’s Christmas dinner. You baked your special homemade Christmas cookies and picked out the best wine you had. Correction, the only wine you had.

You were certain Mrs. Whitly had a much better tasting and far more expensive wine, but she insisted you bring something you liked. This was also the first time you would be meeting Ainsley as Malcolm's girlfriend, making it two people who knew about your and Malcolms' relationship.

You finished getting ready, putting your shoes on, and headed straight for the door. Malcolm hadn’t texted you to say he was on his way, so you figured he was still with Gil and would hopefully not take too long. Although knowing Malcolm you knew those chances were slim.

Once you arrived you lightly knocked on the door, trying your best to ignore the press that was crowded in front of the yard. Most of the press didn’t seem to have internet in you but some were still trying to ask you questions about your relation to the Whitlys and if you were involved in the investigation. You were grateful once Jessica opened the door; greeting you with a smile she stepped aside and let you in.

“Oh Y/n, so glad you could make it.” her smile slightly fell though checking to see if anyone was behind you.

“He’s not here yet I assume?” You asked, knowing she was probably expecting Malcolm to be with you.

Jessica sighed, shutting the door. “No, and he hasn’t called me yet so I can only imagine he's with Gil.”

You smiled sadly at her, knowing she must have been frustrated with Malcolm and his absence. He did promise to be on time and although he still had half an hour it was best to bet that he wouldn’t be coming anytime soon. You pulled out your phone to send him a quick text to not forget about the dinner, hoping he would see it and make an effort to be just a little late.

“Well, now who is this?”

You looked up to see Ainsley walk toward you, looking you up and down curiously. You smiled, putting out a hand to shake.

“I’m Y/n, L/n, I was hoping Malcolm would be here to introduce me but I’m his girlfriend. Also part of Gils team.” Ainsley's eyes lit up, she smiled wide at you now looking very interested.

“I’ll be damned, so Malcolm actually found someone whos crazy enough to put up with him.” Ainsley turned to her mother now. “So, what? I’m the last to know?”

“Actually,” you spoke up. “Malcolm and I haven't really told anyone about us. You and Jessica are the only ones who know.”

Jessica smiled, taking a hold of your hand and pulling you towards the dining room. She set your cookies and wine down on the table and walked over to sit on the couch. “Since Malcolm is still going to be late we might as well relax until he shows up.”

Malcolm was certainly going to be late, about 3 hours late. After waiting on him, Jessica finally just said to sit and eat without him. You had a feeling this would happen, but it didn’t make it any more disappointing. Once you finished your food, talked, and had a few glasses of wine you decided it was getting late and it was best you head home to rest for another day of FBI torture.

The next morning you got ready quickly and made your way to work. Malcolm hasn’t messaged you at all last night, which wasn’t two uncommon for him. Especially when he was up to something he probably shouldn’t be.

When you walked inside the prescient, it was just as crowded as it was yesterday. Everyone seemed to be moving around as frantic as the day before, too much for your liking anyways. You noticed JT standing next to his desk, he was having a conversation with Dani and whatever they were talking about didn’t look like it was good.

“Y/n.”

Turning around you saw Gil standing in the doorway of his office. His arms were crossed and he looked like he hadn’t slept all night. He raised his finger in a come here motion, turning around to walk inside his office.

Making your way over you followed him inside his office, closing the door behind you. Gil was deep in thought and motioned for you to sit down.

“Gil? What’s going on?” You asked, watching as he paced back and forth.

“It’s Malcolm.”

Your heart stopped, instantly thinking upon the worse. “What happened?” You managed to get out.

“The junkyard killer took him.” Gil sighed, rubbing his hands down his face. “We have his grandmother in the interrogation room-“

“The junkyard killer has a grandmother?!” You spoke up, barely able to comprehend the situation.

“Malcolm was running a lead with a former detective, they went to his childhood home. The detective didn’t make it and he took Malcolm, I know he’s still alive I just haven’t gotten anything out of her as to where he could’ve taken him.” Gil looked down to you, he seemed to contemplate asking you something.

“Gil, what else? What are you not telling me?” You leaned closer to his desk. “Whatever you wanna say, say it.”

“I need a favor.”

“Okay?” You urged him to keep going.

“I’m going to try another person who might know something. I want you to come with me, but it’s got to stay between you and I.” Gil waited but when you didn’t respond he continued. “Dr whitly.”

Your eyes widened. “You want me to go and interrogate Dr. Whitly with you?” You thought it over carefully, you knew Malcolm didn’t want his father meeting you, he was scared about him finding out about your relationship and didn’t want him to use you against him. “I can’t.”

“What?” Gil asked confused. “Why?”

You sighed. “I know Malcolm wouldn’t want me to meet his father, I can’t just-“

“Y/n I know.”

You looked up shocked. Gil didn’t make any sudden movements. “You know?”

“You and Malcolm.” Gil stated. “I’ve known for about two weeks now.”

“How?”

“Malcolms not the best liar, despite being a genius, he’s an idiot when it comes to you.” Gil sat down across from you. “I’ve known him for a long time, it’s okay.”

You looked at him nervously, fidgeting with your fingers you looked up questioningly. “It’s... okay?”

Gil smiles softly, nodding his head you knew that was a silent approval from him. “Now, are you coming or not?”

Gil and you walked to Dr. Whitlys room, the tall man who you learned was named David escorted you both, opening the door. “Martin, you’ve got visitors.”

Turning around Martin looked shocked to see Gil standing there instead of Malcolm. “Lieutenant Arroyo,” Martin spoke, his voice sounded worn out. “Aren't you a sight for sore eyes? You know the last time you surprised me like this-” Martin stopped for a moment before continuing. “I still owe you that cup of tea, don't I?”

“I switched to coffee.” Gil shrugged nonchalantly.

You flinched slightly at the sudden laughter coming from Martin His breath was wheezing and he looked to be enjoying himself. He then stopped once he noticed you standing behind Gil, you hadn't spoken a word since you walked in.

“Who’s this? She apart of your little team? Oh! Do you work with my son! “ Martin pipped up, but before he could continue Gil put a handout.

“Never mind her.” Gil took a look at Martin saying the same thing you were thinking. “You need a chair? You don’t look so good.”

Martin sighed heavily. “Oh, are we saying all of our inside thoughts now, Gil? Cause there's a few I could say.” He quickly took a look back at you.

Gil nodded, “I’m here to talk about John Walkins.”

Martin looked impressed. “So, Malcolm figured out his name, that didn’t take too long. What was the final piece that pulled it all together- Where is Malcolm?’

“I said I’m here to talk about Walkins. You want to stay out of that hole they pulled you from, I can’t be the only one talking.” Gil threatened.

After that Martin continued to ask questions about the case and everything John had done. You were starting to get impatient, just wanting to figure out where Malcolm was and stop playing these games with his father. You noticed Gil himself was starting to get irritated, he kept asking about Malcolm, but before Gil could get any further he proceeds to talk aloud thinking Malcolm might be listening.

“But I-I can still help you and your sister! Your mom's probably a hard one to sell.” Just like that his demeanor changed looking back at Gil. “Where is my boy?”

“You don’t get to choose who questions you!” Gil said. You watched as Martin walked toward Gil slowly.

“But I can choose who gets the answers.” He looked down at you then back up at Gil. “Where is my... boy” He asked his voice taking on a darker tone this time.

“John Walkins has him.” Martin looked down at you this time. You thought this might have been the first time he actually took interest in you. You took a step forward continuing. “We need your help Dr. Whitly-”

“No, no, no.” He spoke over and over, his expression falling, you knew you were losing him.

“Roughly 12 hours ago Malcolm was kidnapped by Walkins. We don’t know where he is.” You watched as Martin just kept shaking his head over and over.

“He- If John had him he's dead. Hes dead.”

Gil Stepped in this time. “Focus-” Gil urged. “We are running out of time-”

“No, there's no time it's over. My son is gone.” Suddenly Martin started gasping, falling to the ground with a thud his whole body started shaking.

“Mr. David get a medical!”

As soon as everything died down with Martin Gil told you to head on back to the precinct. You couldn’t help but dwell on Martin's words, he really seemed to believe John Walkins had already killed Malcolm, but you didn’t wanna believe it just yet. You had hope for Malcolm, that he would be okay and get himself out of whatever situation he had himself in. Instead of going back to the precinct, you thought it best to check up on Jessica and Ainsley. Jessica had been messaging you all day, asking for updates, if you found him yet. She mentioned that Ainsley was coming over to help find Malcolm.

Knocking on the door you waited as Jessica opened the door, smiling brightly at you she stepped aside to let you in. “Y/n! oh please come inside! Ainsley is in the dining looking over the evidence of the junkyard killer.”

Walking inside you saw Ainsley was indeed looking over the photos from John Walkins' case. Although something was off, she seemed to be frozen in fear. “Ainsley?”

Her hands were shaking violently. “Oh my god.” Getting up quickly Ainsley ran towards the basement, both Jessica and you looked at each other before quickly following her.

You found her searching through old boxes, frantically looking for something. “It’s here somewhere I know it.”

“What is it?” Jessica asked, her tone was obviously fed up with her ignoring her.

“Mom, I need to tell you something.”

“Oh, now you're scaring me.”

Ainsley quickly looked up. “Good. Do you remember Mr. Boots?”

Confused, you stood by Jessica watching her still search the boxes. Not exactly sure where this was going.

“Your imaginary friend?”

“Yes. What do you remember?”

Jessica stuttered for a moment. “You invented him right before they took Martin away. Child Psychologist- and we had a fleet of them, said that it was perfectly normal for a girl your age to have an imaginary friend. Especially in a time of trauma.”

Ainsley stopped for a moment, unwrapping a cloth to pull out a figurine of an angel. “How can he be imaginary if he gave me this?” She held it up for both you and Jessica to see.

Looking at it, you knew you had seen this before but you couldn't remember where. Jessica sighed, “You’re confused. That figurine was from your father. It's one of the last things he gave...”

Ainsley got frustrated. “An angel? No! Dad got me books on Marie Curie. This? This was from Mr. Boots.”

“John Walkins...” You slowly whispered, everything coming together now. You couldn't believe it. Jessica still hadn’t caught on though.

“This photo is from John Walkins' house. The angels, they're just like mine. John Walkins was Mr. Boots.”

“And you didn’t tell me there was a strange man in our house?” Jessica's voice trembled at the horror of what was possibly their reality.

“No! No! I thought... I thought he was a ghost. Because when I followed him down here to dads hobby room, a-and I would turn the corner, he had... he disappeared.”

You thought about what Ainsley was saying, all the thoughts running through your head, going through the ways John could come in and out, without being noticed. He disappeared? A sudden lightbulb went off in your head, your eyes widening in horror. “Oh my god.”

Before you could say anything else all three of you heard a sound from behind you and Jessica. A wood board being moved from inside Martin's old hobby room. You watched as John proceeded to come out, with an axe in hand. “Run,” Jessica whispered.

“Jessica go!” Pushing her forward, you watched as they both ran up the stairs. Reaching for my gun, John had already made his way to you, before you could aim he swung the axe at your hands.

The gun flew and you cried out in pain as the axe graze your skin cutting deeply causing you to bleed. John Walkins pushed you up against the wall, your back and head taking the hardest impact. “I’ll save you for later, but I gotta go take care of some business first.” Letting go, he watched you drop to the ground. He kicked you once in the stomach making you spit out blood, ensuring you wouldn’t get back up.

You laid on the floor, watching him go up the stairs. Struggling to get up you tried to find your gun but you couldn’t find it anywhere. You knew this wasn't the time so you dragged yourself up the stairs, feeling every bit of pain through your ribs as you moved. You suddenly heard the cries from ether Ainsley or Jessica, making your adrenaline kick in and hustle to them. Your head was pounding but you knew you had to do everything to keep them safe, you would never forgive yourself if something were to happen to them.

As you were making it upstairs the power went off. A loud crash was heard and you bolted yourself up two steps at a time. You instantly took notice of Ainsley on the floor her head was bleeding. Jessica threw a lamp at John, instantly turning around and basically picking up Ainsley, she looked over at you. “Y/n!”

“Go take Ainsley, I’ll hold him off!” You looked over to the fireplace, picking up one of the metal fire irons.

John looked at you, whipping his hair from his face he flipped his axe in the air as he grinned wickedly at you. Stalking towards you as you stepped back with every step he took forward. “You’re an ambitious little girl, I see why Malcolm likes you.”

“What did you do with him?”

John shrugged. “I showed him the truth, made him see what I and Martin saw all along. After I kill his family, I’ll kill him, but maybe not before I force him to watch me kill you. If you can live that long.” Taking a swing, you ducked as the axe went crashing near you, breaking a vase and pictures.

You used the opening you had to hit him in the back, he screamed out and used his empty hand to backhand you, making you stumble backward. He put all his weight on your right hand, hearing a gross sound you felt the pain shot throughout your arm, you had no doubt that it was broken. You tried to scream out in pain but he used the axe to choke you, instantly cutting off any sounds you tired to make. The pressure on your neck was blocking any oxygen, your vision was starting to fade to black. Thinking this was all over, a sudden door slam from upstairs made him pause his movements. He grunted, taking the axe off your neck and instantly made his way towards the sound.

“Don’t worry, I’ll come back to you.”

You tried to respond but your voice only came out in raspy breaths. Dragging yourself across the floor you managed to pull yourself up the wall, not doing anything but hearing the sounds of his axe breaking a door and Jessica and Ainsleys screams. You felt tears fall down your face as you shut your eyes tight, one last attempt to get up, but that only brought more pain, making you hit the floor again. You wanted to cry, scream, anything to take the attention off of them and back onto you.

Suddenly you heard footsteps come closer to you, and it was the sound of feet and not shoes. Getting closer and closer, you opened your eyes to find the owner dragging himself in the dining room, the sound of metal clanging against metal along with it.

“Malcolm.” You managed to gain your voice a little to get it out, it was raspy, hoarse, and painful but you were thankful that got his attention.

He turned around, his eyes instantly found yours. His eyes widened at your state in front of him instantly making his way over, he bent down and hunched over you. “Y/n, oh god. I’m so sorry.” His hand went up to cup your cheek. His eyes were starting to tear up as he looked you over.

“N-not...F-F-Fault.” You smiled weekly at him, he gently took you in his arms, carrying you to a corner of the room. He then rushed to grab you a blanket and pillow, resting it behind your head.

“I need you to stay here, don’t say anything okay?” Malcolm looked into your eyes finding an understanding. “No matter what, don’t say anything until I get you.”

“Fam-ily....Up-s-stairs.” You warned.

Suddenly Malcolm heard a crash, knowing full well what you were telling him. His expression was unreadable, but you could tell he had a plan. Kissing you on the head he whispered a quick “I love you.” Before he stood up and you watched him move to the middle of the dining room.

Being so disoriented, you didn’t really focus on what Malcolm was doing, only that whatever it was made lots of movements.

“Walkins!” Malcolm shouted. The noise upstairs stopped, you knew he got his attention. You smiled upon hearing Jessica yell his name back. They were alive.

“I know you're here!” Malcolm yelled. “This is my house. My family.” Again Malcolm yelled his name, you couldn’t tell where from this time though. “I’m gonna find you...and lock you in the dark.”

You could see John from where you were in your corner, hoping he couldn’t hear your rough breaths. You watched as he slowly walked towards a box, one you hadn't notice there before. He started to really fight with himself, struggling with whatever he was thinking of.

Then you saw Malcolm come from behind, walking up to him, hitting him on the back with something, causing John to yell in pain as he went down.

“This is my house.” You had never heard Malcolm talk like this before, his voice was something you didn’t recognize. You tried to focus your hearing but your head was pounding like crazy. Everything seemed to be quiet, calm even.

Then just like that Malcolm was in front of you, his hand reaching out for you. “Hey, it’s me, it’s over. You’re okay.” Malcolm rubbed his thumb across your cheek, his warmth instantly invading your skin. He slowly helped you stand up, watching you carefully with every motion you took to ensure he wasn’t hurting you too badly. Malcolm placed your arm around his shoulder holding you against him as close as he could. You finally noticed Malcolm's other hand that was wrapped in white bandages. You tired to ask him what happened but your voice was gone at this point and you didn’t try forcing the question out.

Malcolm walked you to his mother and Ainsley, taking every step slow, for both his sake and yours. You both made your way to the bedroom; looking up, you saw Jessica holding a pair of scissors, instantly she set them down and rushed over to Malcolm. You saw this coming and took a step back out of Malcolm's arms, walking towards the bed you sat down watching both Malcolm and Jessica.

“Oh god.” Jessica tried to hug him but he instantly groaned out in pain.

“Watch the hand,” Malcolm said.

“What happened? Are you okay?” She checked him over. Worried, she gently grabbed his arms.

“I’m alive,” Malcolm responded.

Jessica sighed in relief. “Wheres Walkins?” She suddenly asked. “Is he... did you?’

Malcolm shook his head no. You smiled softly, you saw how tired he was, how much he just needed a break. You wanted to take all the pain away but you knew this would take some time.

“No. But he’ll never be able to hurt us again.” Malcolm said softly.

Jessica sighed out in relief. At that moment Ainsley had appeared from the bathroom, smiling she ran towards Malcolm, taking him in her arms. Malcolm grunted a bit but held her close to him, hugging her back. Jessica instantly joined them, all three hugging each other tightly.

Malcolm glanced over at you, his eyes tearing up just the slightest. He looked so relieved and tired. You smiled sweetly at him, mouthing an ‘I love you.’ to which he smiled back. That smile didn’t last long as he was holding Jessica and Ainsley. He began to look deep in thought, his eyes glossing over not showing much emotion. You wouldn’t forget that look and would have to remind yourself to talk to him about it later. Eventually, his eyes closed and he squeezed Jessica and Ainsley in more.

The next couple of mornings was you arguing with your doctor. You had been in the hospital for almost two weeks now. You hadn’t imagined that your injury’s were that big of a deal, besides your broken hand. Apparently you had two broken ribs, a concussion, along with a damaged vocal cord that of course kept you from talking. Which only made it just as frustrating when trying to talk back and forth with your doctors. The one thing you were not excited for, was the stitches in your hands from when John swung his axe. Even if it was your own hand, you still had trouble looking at it.

Malcolm was being taken care of himself somewhere else. He protested at first that you two should be in the same ambulance, than leading to him trying to get a room together. Nevertheless doctors and his mother thought it best you two get your own room, probably to keep from trying to break out of here at the same time.

You missed him though. You hadn’t seen him in almost two weeks. From what Gil told you it sounded like Malcolm was going to be just fine, at least for Malcolm standards that is. Watching tv in your room the sound of the door caught your attention.

Looking over you saw the person you’ve been waiting to see these past two weeks. Malcolm walked in smiling as he shut the door behind him. You smiled back, using your wrapped up hand to motion for him to hurry up.

Malcolm laughed, making his way toward you. “You certainly seem to be doing better.” Malcolm said. Sitting down on the right side of your bed next to your leg. Resting his hand on your thigh he started to draw random shapes with his thumb.

Leaning over you picked up the white board and black expo pen that was resting on your table. Quickly writing, you turned the board to face Malcolm.

“You okay? I missed you.”

Malcolm smiled softly, taking your hand in his. “I should be asking you that. According to Gil, even though you didn’t look as bad as me, your internal injuries were much worse than any of us.”

“Eh, been though worse.”

Malcolm laughed, but it was short lived. “I’m so sorry Y/n.” Before you could write anything he continued. “I don’t understand how I didn’t figure it out sooner. He was right under our feet the whole time. Literally! Because of it my mother, my sister, you. All the people I love had to pay the price.”

You started shaking your head frantically. Malcolm didn’t need you to write what you were trying to tell him. He already knew.

“It is my fault, Y/n. You could’ve gotten killed, my family-“ before Malcolm had a chance to finish you took the white board and hit him with it. “Ow, what the- Y/n?”

Grabbing a hold of Malcolm face, you made him look at you, refusing to let him move as you forced his head to lean against yours. Malcolms eyes were beautiful yet so much damage was behind them. Without even taking your eyes off of Malcolm you took a hand away and scribbled something down on the white board. Shoving it in his chest you watched as he looked at you confused, than moved the board to see what you wrote.

“Stop.”

Malcolm looked down at your whiteboard, his eyes softened as he looked it over. You reached over to take back the whiteboard to erase it, now writing down something else.

“I’m sorry.”

“Malcolm looked down at you confused.

“Your mom and Ainsley. Are they okay?”

Malcolm nodded. “My mother is back to herself, which means my apartment is now in lockdown mode. Ainsley on the other hand is already getting back to work. Just another day with the Whitlys.” Malcolm laughed lightly, noticing how you didn’t react he look hold of your hand. “Why the long face? Whats wrong?”

You shook your head, brushing him off as you tried to put on a reassuring smile. Malcolm of course didn’t buy it. “Y/n, you trust me right?”

You nodded, scribbling more on your board. “I thought I lost them. I couldn’t do anything to stop him.” Quickly erasing what you wrote, you continued. “I’m sorry.”

Malcolm frowned, he tried to look at you but you were looking down messing with your white hospital blanket. “Y/n, you can’t honestly believe what happened was your fault?”

When all you did was shrug Malcolm moved closer to sit right beside you. His arm brushed against yours and he raised his hand to your chin, gently moving your face towards him. “Darling, you did everything you could. Guessing by all your injuries I would say you just about sacrificed yourself to protect my family. My mother and my sister are alive because of you. My mother made that very clear to me the other day.”

“She did?”

Malcolm nodded, laughing lightly as he looked to be remembering something. “She told me how you gave her time for her and Ainsley to make a run for it, you held him off as they ran upstairs. If it weren’t for you, they both could have came out of this a lot worse.” Looking you over his smile slightly fell. “However, this definitely wasn’t my favorite outcome.”

“I love you.”

Malcolm smiled, moving some hair from your face he leaned over and kissed the side of you cheek lightly. Moving downwards to your shoulder he kissed you gently over and over.

After awhile of you and Malcolm going back and forth, he got up to go and talk to one of the doctors about when you could leave. He wanted you to stay longer but you were very eager to get the hell out of here, and he knew you would probably end up going yourself if he didn’t.

As soon as he left you started scrolling on your phone. A few minutes pass before you heard your door open again. Looking up, you expected to see Malcolm but was shocked upon seeing Cholete instead. She walked in, closing the door behind her and walked towards you.

“Surprised to see me?” She smiled. “Heard you were feeling better.”

If you didn’t know her you would’ve thought she was actually here to check over your well-being, and maybe that was a small part of it but it certainly wasn’t the main reason. Grabbing your white board you started writing.

“More or less. Not why you’re here though.”

She laughed a bit. “You caught me, I must be slipping up or you must be getting good at profiling.”

“Learned from the best.”

She nodded knowingly, taking a seat on the bedside chair she leaned back, her arms folded. “Saw Malcolm at the nurses station, didn’t bother telling him I would be leaving today.”

“But you’re telling me?”

“Believe it or not Y/n, I actually don’t mind your company. You work hard, act on instinct, don’t really let much get in your way. To put it simply, you’re pretty damn good at your job.” She said it so monotone you would’ve thought she was being sarcastic, but you knew she probably didn’t do that much.

“Where are you going with this?”

She smirked, getting up from her chair she pulled a card out from her pocket. “I don’t trust Bright, I don’t think I will anytime soon. If I was you, I wouldn’t get too caught up with him. Get out while you still can, and before it gets you killed, like it almost did this time.”

You furrowed you’re brows, you wanted to say something so bad but you both knew you couldn’t write fast enough.

“Malcolm does things without a second thought sometimes, he acts without thinking about what happens to him. You honestly expect me to believe that he didn’t know what could happen upon entering the childhood home of that monster.” She didn’t say it as a question. “One of these days those actions are what’s going to get him killed, or worse, someone else.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“If you’re smart enough to use your head and not your heart. You’ll leave him.” She than set her card on your bedside. “If not, well than I hope my next visit won’t be at your funeral.” Before she walked out she looked back to. “You can’t trust him, not completely anyway. If you don’t wanna take my advise, that’s on you, but at least do yourself the favor of asking him.” When you looked at her confused, she sighed a sad smile present. “Ask him if he knew John would come, even it was a thought in the back of his mind.”

Just then the door opened and Malcolm walked in, he froze as soon as he saw Chlote. Looking between you both he was certainly confused, but you could also see a part of him get protective. “What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too.” Colette smiled.

Malcolm scoffed. “You and I both know you never like to see me.” He looked back at you. “You okay?”

“Relax, I was just about to leave. I was only checking up on a friend.”

“You two are not friends.” Malcolm quickly responded. You knew he was trying to play nice when she first came to the station, but now it seemed Malcolm wasn’t going to act anymore. The only other person he seemed to act this way about was his father, which reminded you, you never did tell him about meeting Martin Whitly.

Colette rolled her eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.” She looked back to you. “You were right by the way.” Opening the door she smiled knowingly at you. “You did learn from the best.” Just like that she was gone.

Malcolm looked back at you, confused about what she meant. “Learned from the best? What is she talking about?”

Even though Malcolm was confused you understood perfectly. Malcolm was the best, so if even Colette knew the chances of John going to his home, why wouldn’t Malcolm. But that was her point, Malcolm did know, he just pushed it in the back of his mind, because Malcolm always did stuff to find out more, it was always to find out and study more even if it gets him in toruble.

“Hey, are you okay?”

You jumped, finding Malcolm right beside you. Nodding slightly you kept thinking about what she said. Even though you didn’t wanna admit it you couldn’t help this back of the mind curiousness that you had. Then again, this wasn’t the time. You couldn’t write out what exactly you wanted to ask him right now, and you wanted to make sure you didn’t give him the opportunity to come up with the excuse of you needing rest to drop the conversation.

You grabbed your bored and quickly wrote something down. “Talk about it later.”

Judging by Malcolms face, he wasn’t satisfied with that. However you also knew he wasn’t one to push you on a topic if you didn’t want to talk about it. Rather he would ask you about it later.

The rest of the day consisted of Malcolm getting you out of the hospital and back home. Although the deal was you had to stay with him, no argument. He wasn’t going to take you out of his sight for a few days, and you would say that was a bit extreme and annoying, but if it meant Malcolm would stay out of trouble because he was taking care of you. All the better.

When you both finally made it back to his place it was already almost 2am and your voice had come back for the most part. Although when you spoke it sounded groggy and it burned a little bit.

“Take a seat, I’ll get you some water. You need to take your medicine.” Malcolm walked over to the kitchen. Following him you took a seat at the island stool, watching him walk around the kitchen.

Handing you your water and medicine, you nodded and forced yourself to swallow it down. You coughed slightly from the sting that came from it going down your throat. Malcolm smiles sadly at you, he put some hair behind your ear as he watched you take all your pills.

“Hey.”

You looked back to him, he had a far away look in his eyes. “Malcolm?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He huffed out. “I feel like you wanna say something to me, and I know pushing you isn’t the way to go but I feel like this is about something else. Something you’re feeling guilty about?” He said it as a statement, which just made you feel worse. Before you could say anything Malcolm continued. “Please don’t be mad I profiled you.”

“I’m not mad. I do need to tell you something but, I don’t think you’ll like it.”

Malcolm scoffed. “Can’t be any worse then Cholete saying you two are friends.” He meant it as a joke but you weren’t laughing.

“When Gil and I were trying to find you, he became... desperate. He asked me for help on something.” You waited for a response but he didn’t say anything waiting for you to continue. “I visited your father.”

#malcolm bright #malcolm bright x reader #malcolm bright x y/n #malcolm whitly #malcolm prodigal son #prodigal son #prodigal son imagine #prodigal son fic #prodigal son fandom #ainsley whitly #jessica whitly #martin whitly #x reader #reader insert #fanfic #my story #my wiritng #malcolm whitly x reader #malcolm whitly x y/n

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themachiavellianpig · 4 years

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“I’m Telling My Story”: Ainsley Whitly, The Prodigal Daughter

Throughout the first half of season one, we can see a great deal of how Martin Whitly’s actions affected his wife and son, both of whom are still actively struggling with the guilt of having been in some way intimate with such a man. Ainsley, in contrast, seems relatively unaffected by the situation and even describes herself as “lucky” in comparison to her brother- she is at least five years younger than Malcolm and seems to remember little of her father, giving her a significant emotional disconnection from his crimes. In direct contrast to her brother, she can hold down a steady job, engage in close relationships, and doesn’t appear to be in any kind of therapy. Unlike her mother, she isn’t even shown to be self-medicating in any way - she simply does not seem to need such coping methods.

This relative stability is a gift, one for which Jessica explicitly gives herself credit: “Do you sleep at night? ...When you close your eyes, do you find peace? That peace is because of the choices I made. You can thank me any time you like.” (1x03)

And it’s a gift which, arguably, Ainsley squanders over the course of the first half of season 1.

“I don’t remember my dad. I was forbidden.” In the first ten episodes of Prodigal Son, we get to see some of the time immediately before and after Martin’s arrest, all from either Malcolm’s or Jessica’s point of view. We see nothing at all of Ainsley, except for a brief shot of her being held by her mother during Martin’s arrest. Given that Ainsley was only five years old at the time, this is admittedly unsurprising. Her memories of that time, so far as we know, are limited to Malcolm’s reassurances (“I was only five when Dad was arrested, I don’t really remember it. But I remember you. Telling me everything was going to be okay when you knew it wasn’t.”, 1x01).

But she would certainly remember what happened afterwards, in the twenty years between Martin’s arrest and the first episode of Prodigal Son. We do not know exactly how Malcolm and Ainsley grew up following Martin’s arrest, but we can make certain deductions.

Malcolm, as the person who discovered Martin’s true identity, as the one who was clearly and obviously traumatised by the discovery, would likely have been the focus of Jessica’s attention - in the same way that any child in crisis would be. Jessica’s active concern for Malcolm continues into the present day, clearly signposted in the first episode: Malcolm: “I assume you don’t break into Ainsley’s place like this.” Jessica: “God, no! She’s perfect. You’re my only concern.”

Additionally, we know that Martin Whitly, perfectly understandably, becomes something of a ghost in his former home. All reminders of him are packed away - there are no photos of him, his private study in the basement is walled up and forgotten, leading Malcolm to hide certain reminders of happier times in a shoebox under his bed. We don’t know exactly how Jessica navigates this particular transition from well-to-do nuclear family to tabloid fodder - how she told Ainsley the truth about her father or, quite frankly, if she ever did explicitly. Did Martin become something which simply was not spoken of in polite company, or indeed any company at all?

Ainsley’s choice of words in 1x03 (“I was forbidden”) suggests a harsher line than simple silence, potentially indicating that questions about Martin were not only frowned upon but actively discouraged. Martin Whitly, loving father, was gone for good; the Surgeon was all that remained, and the Surgeon was not to be discussed. As early as 1x03, Ainsley even says that she has no idea what being back in contact with Martin will do to her brother’s mental health because she has no knowledge of who or what Martin Whitly really is.

Just like Malcolm and Jessica, Ainsley seems to be struggling with having a connection to a monster. Regardless of the fact that she doesn’t remember having a familial relationship with Martin, he is her biological father - and if her mother and brother can’t give her the answers that she needs about him, she’s going to go straight to the source instead.

“Martin Whitly is your biggest fan.” Ainsley’s decision to meet with Martin in episode four is prompted, I would argue, by a combination of curiosity and, let’s be fair, the sort of spite that springs up when a controlling parent tells you not to do something - after all, she only goes to visit Martin after both her mother and her brother have done the same thing, all while maintaining that nobody should ever go and speak to the Surgeon. But I find it very interesting that she only makes the decision to visit him after her mother lets slip a brand new piece of information:

Ainsley: Thanks to both of you, he doesn’t even know I exist. Jessica: He knows all about you. He watches you every day. He daughter, the ace reporter. Martin Whitly is your biggest fan.

This information, it should be noted, is only news to Ainsley. We, the audience, see Martin watching one of Ainsley’s broadcasts in 1x02; in episode 1x03, he asks Malcolm to “Please tell your sister that her diction is impeccable!” and, in the same episode, he compliments Jessica on her excellent childrearing (“You did well, Jessica. I am so proud of him, and of Ainsley, and of you, for raising our beautiful children.”).

And, from my perspective, this information is also profoundly creepy. A convicted serial killer obsessively watches all of a homicide journalist’s broadcasts? That’s a two-parter of Criminal Minds right there.

But to Ainsley it’s a link, a connection, to a part of her life which she has never really been allowed to engage with. The trauma of Martin Whitly is written large on her mother and brother, but her trauma is second-hand and reactionary, which is admittedly a great improvement on the alternative, but would Ainsley see it that way? All children want to do is feel like they belong, and being the one left out - even the one left out of trauma - is never pleasant.

Now, through an offhand comment from her mother, Ainsley knows that her father is interested in her, and in her work - in direct contrast to her mother, who supports her work idly, never really watching her reports (“Not with the sound on!”, 1x01), who finally starts to tell her something real about her father and his opinion of her and then immediately tries to shut the conversation down (“Can we please talk about something else?”, 1x04).

And so Ainsley heads off to see her father for the first time in twenty years.

“You made him out to be just a monster.” We, the audience, had a full two weeks to wait between seeing Ainsley in Martin’s cell and hearing anything of the conversation that they shared, which was genuinely one of the most infuriating cliff-hangers I’ve seen for a while.

The meeting with Martin undoubtedly rattles Ainsley, albeit not in the way she expected. As Jessica points out, Ainsley went to that cell to meet a monster, and instead found a seemingly loving father (1x06). A man who regretted his absences in his daughter’s life and had filled the gaps with daydreams of “birthdays, piano recitals, dancing with [her] at the debutante ball” (1x06), daydreams in which, judging by the fantasies shared with Ainsley, he plays the starring role of Devoted Father. This conversation could have been repeated between any father-daughter duo separated in television plotlines around the world - the cause of that separation is so overlooked by Martin’s little fantasy to be actually hilarious.

And, by this point in the series, we’ve seen both Malcolm and Jessica be taken in by Martin’s acts, not to mention all the people that Martin had fooled during his days as an active serial killer, so it’s hardly surprising that Ainsley is at least a little taken in as well. The split between Martin-the-father and Martin-the-serial-killer is also one that has preoccupied Jessica and Malcolm throughout the twenty-years and it’s one that Ainsley, through her lack of memories about Martin, has been spared up until the moment she comes face to face with him, and asks him the “most important question”: ” “Was it real? … Did you love us or was it just some psychopathic act?”

The surviving members of the Whitly family may never really know the answer to that question - and it’s a question which has no easy answers. Which would truly be worse - being an unwilling cover story for a monster, or genuinely being loved by a monster?

But, for Ainsley, the question is no longer about what her relationship with Martin was; it’s about what it could be - or, more precisely, about what it could do for her.

“Ambition is not a dirty word.” The decision to interview Martin is one which, full disclosure, makes perfect sense from a professional point of view; an interview with a notorious serial killer, particularly one who had never spoken publicly about his crimes before, would be a feather in the cap of any crime journalist. She is also arguably the best choice to conduct such an interview from a creepy mercenary perspective - her familial relationship to the Surgeon gives the interview a sensationalist angle which would be impossible for any other network to easily duplicate - and, unlike the rest of her family, Ainsley has not yet been traumatised by Martin Whitly.

Of course, it's the ‘yet' in that last sentence that has Jessica and Malcolm so worried about Ainsley - her visiting Martin might be less immediately damaging that Malcolm or Jessica coming face to face with their own personal demon, but it's still very unlikely to be healthy.

Interestingly, Malcolm's concerns about the interview seem to be extremely focused on Ainsley's immediate personal safety ("You’re putting yourself in his cross hairs"), and his reaction on learning that she's already seen Martin is to ask if she is okay. Jessica, as the only member of the family who really remembers the immediate media aftermath of Martin's arrest, becomes far more focused on the potential PR concerns:

Jessica: Ainsley, if you do not have a plan to make him look bad, he will look good. Tell me you understand. Ainsley: Mother, these are the questions I sent. Not the questions I’m going to ask. Jessica: Alright. I see what you’re doing. Ainsley: Good. Can you stop worrying? Jessica: I am far more worried now. Ainsley: What? Why? Jessica: Thinking you are more clever than Martin Whitley, that’s the worst mistake you can make. He’ll exploit that. He’ll find a way to come off sympathetic and you will be sitting there like- Ainsley: Like what? Jessica: His accomplice.

Jessica, as we learn later in the season, was herself questioned by the police about her role in Martin's crimes, and I am sure that the media speculation around the Wife of the Surgeon would have been horrific and heartbreaking. She clearly does not want Ainsley to put herself through the same thing - and she certainly does not want Martin to have any opportunity to manipulate the wider population, as he has so easily manipulated his own family in the past.

This is not to say that Jessica has no concern for Ainsley's safety - her immediate reaction to the potential interview is to get the entire thing blacklisted by the network itself. It's only when Ainsley reveals a willingness to outplay her mother at that particular chess game that she relents - not to give her blessing, but to step back and allow Ainsley the dignity of her own choices.

And, potentially, Ainsley does take some of her mother's fears seriously - she insists on keeping Martin in his restraints during the interview, despite technical concerns from Jin the Cameraman, and she makes sure that the red safety line on the cell floor is in shot. She even refuses Hair and Makeup the chance to make Martin look anymore physically presentable before the interview begins.

The interview itself, however, does not go exactly as Ainsley had clearly wanted it to - first, Martin neatly sidesteps her attempts to throw past crimes in his face, then her brother interrupts with police business, then her cameraman gets stabbed. All in all, hardly a good day at the office.

The interplay between Martin and Ainsley hashes out the timeless question of what really makes a person - Ainsley focuses on the lives her took, complete with grisly details ("Billy Franklin, age 23. Aced his LSATs, wanted to become a civil rights lawyer. You removed his heart to see how long he could live without it. He died a gruesome, agonising death. My question is why?", 1x07), Martin fights backs with the lives he saved ("How about Corey Goldstein, age 10? A brutal car accident left him with a surely fatal aortic rupture. Until he landed in my OR, where I saved his life.") and the medical procedures he developed ("Did you know they named a medical procedure after me? ...I’ve heard a rumour that doctors still call it the Whitley, in hospitals all around the world", 1x07).

It's a far more complicated portrayal of evil that Ainsley had prepared for - she has no good response prepared for the accusation that Martin did some good in the world, unlike her pithy retorts about particular victims and what Martin did to them. We don't get the chance to see if Ainsley would have been able to retake control of the interview, given Malcolm's interruption, as his arrival gives Ainsley a very different line of attack - the only line of attack, it must be said, that ever seems to really rattle Martin. Ainsley is the only character in the first part of season 1 to really get under Martin's skin - but she can only do it by using her own brother as bait:

Ainsley: So. I mentioned a number of your victims earlier, but I’d like to discuss one more. Malcolm. Malcolm Whitly. Martin: I’m not sure I understand Ainsley: You claim to care about your son, but what you did twenty years ago harmed him irreparably. Martin: Well, that’s not true. Ainsley: Isn’t it? He’s been diagnosed with complex PTSD, generalised anxiety disorder, night terrors. Dr Whitley, do you know what happens to the human body when it withstands that much stress for that long a period of time? Martin: I’m not sure that’s relevant- Ainsley: He was fired from the only job he was ever good at. He hasn’t been in a stable relationship for years. And the ten years he went without seeing you were by far the happiest, healthiest of his life. Martin: Well, that’s absolutely not- Ainsley: What does that say about you, except for you’re an absolutely terrible father? Martin: I’m not. Ainsley: He just wanted to love you. And you caused him so much pain. Martin: Stop it. Ainsley: What kind of a father does that? Martin: Stop it! I was a good father, damn it!

This interaction goes on to form a crucial part of the interview - Martin's loss of control is featured in the introduction to the actual broadcast (as seen in 1x10) - and it was not at all discussed with Malcolm beforehand. We, the audience, are not entirely clear on how much information Martin had about his son's condition prior to Ainsley’s disclosure- he would have known some things, noticed symptoms such as the hand tremor, but that is still potentially miles away from Malcolm's having his mental health history spelt out like that in front of Martin and, potentially, in front of everyone who watched Ainsley's interview.

It's a successful and potentially satisfying manipulation of Martin, to be sure, but it's also a heart-wrenching violation of Malcolm, and Ainsley never seems to notice.

In a matter of hours, Ainsley double-downs on the notion of violating the privacy of others when she films Martin perform surgery on Jin the Cameraman, stabbed in the patient-uprising which Martin himself engineered. We never get to see Malcolm's reaction to his violation - he doesn't seem to challenge Ainsley on it directly in any way - but Jin does (1x08). Jin, when he wakes in the hospital to find that Ainsley filmed the surgery and didn't tell him about it, has a very simple and understandably reaction.

Jin: What is this? You filmed my surgery? Ainsley: I was going to tell you. I just- I- I- I got so caught up in the adrenaline and it was so compelling- Jin: Oh, was it? Was it compelling when I almost died? Ainsley: We went there to get a great story and we got one. I was doing my job! Jin: I understand. This is who you are. I just don’t think that’s the kind of person that I want to be with.

And Ainsley doesn’t try to apologise to her boyfriend, or try to explain herself any further - she leaves Jin in the hospital, taking the interview footage with her instead.

“I’m telling my story!” The interview, despite the various dramas around it all, is eventually broadcast. Thanks to Jessica’s well-thrown shoe (seriously), we never get to see the interview in its entirety (which is a great shame, seeing as we only see Ainsley get a few minutes of usable footage in 1x07), but we do get to see the introduction: “Dr Martin Whitley murdered 23 people as the Surgeon, making him one of the world’s most deadly serial killers. I’m Ainsley Whitley for American Direct News and the Surgeon is my father.”

The clips that we see include Martin's lose of control at being called a terrible father, which strongly implies that at least some of the section concerning Malcolm was kept in; we have no idea if the footage of Jin was used, although I'm assuming that he would have had to give permission for his own surgery to be shown on national television and, given his reaction in the hospital to the footage, I'm equally comfortable assuming that he would not have given such permission.

While Malcolm tries to watch the interview, possibly to support his sister, possibly to torture himself futher, Jessica is adament that she will not. Her initial plan seems to have been to pretend that it never happened; she only speaks to Ainsley about it when Ainsley pushes past her joking “no comment” to challenge Jessica on her perceived lack of support for her daughter's professional accomplishment.

This pushes Jessica to have perhaps the most genuine and honest conversation with her daughter about Martin and their past which they had ever had (1x10): Jessica: Your father destroyed us. Your brother and me. You put him on television and let him talk about it. You have gone and soaked yourself in blood. The press devoured us twenty years ago, and now they are at it again.

This information is given calmly, perhaps even dispassionately: for Jessica, the destruction of herself and her son is a simple matter of fact. Not to be spoken of, of course, but ever-present and utterly undeniable. She does not even become angry until Ainsley accuses her of "playing the victim": "I am not a victim! But there are victims. Real ones. How do you think those twenty-three families feel when they see you on television? And why is the story never about them?"

The story is not about them, of course, because for Ainsley, the story is currently about her. Ainsley's newfound 'ownership' over the Surgeon story is clearly spelled out in the interview's introduction ("the Surgeon is my father"), her reaction to the paparazzi outside her mother's home ("Any breaking news about my family is mine to report") and, finally, in her retort to Jessica's challenges over the entire interview: "I'm telling my story!"

But, as we've discussed earlier, Ainsley doesn't actually have a story with the Surgeon. In the real-crime biography of Martin Whitley, she's a footnote at best. Jessica, who married a monster, Malcolm, who unveiled a monster, the twenty-three or more people who died at the Surgeon's hands, the hundreds of people, including Jin, who had their lives saved by the Surgeon, they all have a story with the Surgeon. Ainsley simply does not. And in her attempts to create one during the first half of season 1, she only really gets anywhere when she uses the stories of others - her casual retelling of the horrific things the victims went through, her reveal of Malcolm's mental health diagnoses, her filming Jin's surgery.

Ainsley’s lack of personal connection to the Surgeon was her greatest asset in a very broken family at the beginning of the series; her attempt to create such a narrative when none organically existed has been the cause of pain for plenty of people other than herself.

All that remains to be seen is how this narrative - either genuine or manufactured - continues to develop in the second half of season 1.

#prodigal son #ainsley whitly #character profile #halston sage #themachiavellianpig overthinks

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shineonmalcolmbright · 4 years

Text

Shine On, Bright :Chapter Four

Table of Contents

Past

Martin Whitly felt as if the moment called for the urgent sounds of Satyagraha. Something about it screamed while blaring over the station wagon’s speakers. Jessica sat in the passenger seat, silent. Ainsley slept. Malcolm picked at the lock in an attempt to let it rise and fall to the beat of the opera. Their vehicle slid along sidewinder roads in the mountains heading towards a single destination, a new life.

At some during the ceaseless clanging of instruments, Martin glanced at the rear view mirror to focus on Malcolm who paused, the door was left unlocked as they headed straight on a road. “My son, are you familiar with Rabindranath Tagore here? He was a poet”

Jessica side-eyed him. “Martin, he’s seven. Seven-year-olds don’t read poetry.”

“I’m ten,” Malcolm corrected.

“Close enough.” Jessica looked out her window instead.

“I read The Raven. It was for school on Halloween. We even watched The Simpsons because they made fun of it.”

None of this information pertained to Martin. He skipped it to go right into what he wanted to say because it was more important. “He wrote this one poem I want you to remember, he wrote it about his daughter but this one is instead for you, repeat it after me: Foolish boy, my son who gave you the strength to make such a statement, so bold, so self-assured-- ‘I won’t let you go’? Whom will you, in this universe, with two hands hold back. . .”

“Martin. . .that’s a lot of words. How could anybody repeat them after you?” Jessica interrupted.

“Jessica.” A tightness fastened itself to Martin's vowels. “I’m speaking to Malcolm here, not you.”

Malcolm attempted some sort of smile, it was a pretty crooked little smirk. “I won’t let you go.” The only words he remembered from whatever that all was.

That time Martin glanced back at him despite Jessica screaming for him to watch the road while driving along toward their new life. “I won’t let you go.”

The music raged.

“MARTIN!”

“Jessica! We’re fine.”

Of course, Martin returned to paying close attention to the road, it curved revealing a large building that looked cute into a mountainside. One wrong move would send them plunging into the rocks underneath. It looked as if the hotel had two arms using its fingers to crawl forward at them. There wasn’t anything welcoming about it, but still hung out ready to grab onto anybody who happened to close.

“Would you look at that?” Martin pointed it out. Music still pounding over the speakers, singers who made no sense but their words somehow became I won’t let you go. Beside him, Jessica groaned. “Wake Ainsley up, Malcolm. Make sure she sees this.” He nudged Jessica who groaned and rolled her eyes. In the back, Malcolm tapped on Ainsley’s shoulder. Everybody looked right on out at the building as Martin said over the music, “The Overlook Hotel.”

###

Martin pulled into a loop real close to the hotel. He parked the car and was already out of the car commenting on how he might be late. Jessica looked at the clock before she rolled the window down to yell out, “Martin! You’re early!”

“Early is late,” Martin smiled at her.

Jessica lost her words. She watched him disappear before looking back at the dashboard. Keys still in the ignition with the music still playing. She kind of smiled, but truth was, this was all wrong. Still sitting in the car, she flicks out a lighter and a cigarette box. Before popping it open, she slapped the volume off.

“Enough of that, right?” Jessica looked back at Ainsley and Malcolm who sat in the back not really reacting to her question. “Right.” She pulled a cigarette out, lighting it.

“Second-hand smoking. . .” Malcolm started to say but Jessica’s door opened causing her to scream. The cigarette fell into her lap, burned her. She yelped, flinging it from herself. Malcolm leaned forward to get a better look at a security guard who knelt on the curb looking at them. A name tag on his uniform just said Arroyo. He looked at all of them there but Malcolm ended up speaking up. “Hello.”

“Hello,” said the security guard while hanging out there. “Are you checking in?”

Jessica shook her head ready to start smoking for real this time around. “Unfortunately, no.” She lit it, took a drag, and looked over at the guard. “We’re moving in.”

The man was at such a loss of words, but he made an attempt to find them.

Malcolm continued to lean into the back of his mother’s seat. “We’re the new caretakers.”

“The new caretakers?” He managed to say. He put out a hand to help Jessica from the car before opening the door for Malcolm. “That’s a pretty huge responsibility.” As Malcolm climbed out, he paused giving Malcolm a quick, direct glance with a half-smile. “You all can call me Gil.” After that, he added, I work security here during the busy seasons.

Malcolm’s toes clipped the curb and he almost fell face-first into the pavement but Gil caught him. What?

“I’m Jessica.” She pointed at Malcolm. “That’s Malcolm and then this here. . .” Her pause wasn’t meant to be dramatic, she needed to reach in and help Ainsley out. Jessica held her cigarette in one hand and hoisted Ainsley up in the other. “And this here is Ainsley.”

Gil smiled at Ainsley. “Well, hello there.” And he made sure Malcolm was standing there fine. And a hello to you, too.

Malcolm did everything in his power to act like this is normal, this had to be normal, this was normal, nothing about this was strange. But how?

Already Jessica was setting Ainsley down while attempting to smoke.

“You know that’s not healthy for the kids,” Gil told her.

Jessica glared. “It’s not even healthy for me.”

“When you say moving in? Do you mean you’re moving into the Overlook or close by?” Gil kept walking with them as they headed toward the big doors. He ends up holding one wide open for them. “I hope not, unusual things tend to happen here.”

Jessica and Ainsley entered first. Malcolm pretended he wasn’t about to initiate a conversation with Gil. What do you mean by. . .unusual?

The lobby opened up, the ceiling raised up so high and a single woman argued with the person at the main desk. Whoever worked there looked exhausted. Malcolm acted as if he were observing the argument while Jessica crushed her cigarette into an ashtray. There was no sign of Martin.

Maybe I should speak with your parents about it, but. . . Gil ended up falling a few steps behind Jessica. She was saying something about the building with Ainsley coming close to wandering away from her. If you ever need help, you give me a shout.

Malcolm offered no response. He waited for Gil to explain. No sense in asking questions when he can tell by Gil’s expression, he’s ready to add more information.

It’s called the shining or at least that was how it was first introduced to me.

That time around, Malcolm ended up asking, What do you mean by the shining?

Gil pointed at the side of his head, enough of an answer. See how we’re talking now, just give me a real loud shout and I’ll come running. Give it a try.

Whatever Jessica said next is lost on Malcolm. She looked out the windows at their moving truck as it joined the station wagon in the loop.

HELP!

Gil collapsed attracting all attention especially Jessica’s. Her attention though darts straight to Malcolm. “Malcolm! What did you do?!”

“Nothing,” retorted Malcolm, glad Gil is already getting up. He offered him a hand. Gil does not look well. I didn’t mean. . .”

It’s ok, kid. Gil let go of Malcolm’s hand now that he was standing there. Just didn’t expect you to shine so bright. Where I’m going, there’s no way I’ll miss that call for help from you.

Going?

“Malcolm, watch your sister,” Jessica said without looking at him or Ainsley. Instead, she was already out the door yelling at everybody opening the moving van.

But Malcolm looked around, Ainsley was gone. “Ains?” he whispered, but he spotted her looking down a regular hallway in the hotel. Her feet remained planted in the lobby. Good. Where are you going?

Back home to New York, but if anything happens, and I mean anything, you shout for me. Just like that, maybe even louder.

Gil made his way back toward the door to help Jessica and the movers. This left Malcolm there staring at him. He reached for the door but Malcolm couldn’t let him go just yet.

What do you mean by anything? What kind of weird things happen here?

But Gil only smiled. The truth was: Malcolm’s life would’ve been a lot better if he never understood what Gil meant by that anything. It was worse than he could imagine because it was never something he could make up. He waved to Gil yet Gil was already gone, his back to him.

Malcolm stood alone in the lobby where the angry woman’s voice echoed. Rather than eavesdrop on their conversation, Malcolm decided to chat with Ainsley to make sure she was already. He could hear the hotel worker’s mind buzzing about everything other than what the woman was screaming about. Then the woman kept thinking all about how she needed to get out of there before it snowed because once it snowed, there was no turning back only there.

“Ains?” Malcolm looked back at where she stood before the hallway except, the spot was empty. The rest of the lobby was empty. “Ainsley?” Malcolm couldn’t move. He felt rooted to the ground, a tremor sprinted through his heart. Nobody else stood around. It was him and the other two. No Martin. No Jessica. No Gil. And most important, no Ainsley. “AINSLEY!”

#shineonbrightfic #prodigal son #prodigal son fic #prodigal son fanfic #malcolm bright #martin whitly #jessica whitly #ainsley whitly #Overlook Hotel #The Shining #alternate Universe #prodigies

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elliebartlets · 4 years

Text

3.14 Night Five

Episode:

• I don’t get why they’re so concerned if Stanley knew anyone on the plane...if he flew commercial with a bunch of people how are they gonna know if he’s going to the White House??

• so Bartlet hasn’t slept for 4 nights straight?? cause how is he talking/acting normally?? I would die

• I love how they transition to the next scene of CJ in the briefing room by showing her on tv and then zooming out to reveal the press room

• oh yeah the dead reporter :(

• ugh ok I really don’t wanna talk about the sexual harassment plotline with Ainsley/Sam/Ceia because it’s exausting, but I will.

I think it’s ok that Ainsley was fine with Sam’s comments. They have a flirty relationship anyway, and they probably flirted even more off screen, so it makes sense that she took it as a compliment/more flirting. When she tells Celia she would’ve said something if she was uncomfortable with the comments, I believe her. (Unlike when she was harassed with the ‘bitch’ flowers, where she probably wouldn’t have done anything because she was new and didn’t know the two guys well.) But in this case, she knows Sam well enough to call him out. (Whether Sam would take her seriously or not, I don’t know. Probably not.)

The problem I have is that it made Cia uncomfortable. And when she told Sam privately that what he said to Ainsley was, in general, rude and offensive, he could’ve just been like “ok well I’m sorry I offended you”, asked Ainsley in private if what he said offended her and left it at that. But instead, he brought it up again to her in front of Ainsley and Charlie. And while I agree with Ainsley’s “all women don’t think alike, you shouldn’t tell me how to feel” spiel, I don’t like that it gave Sam relief and probably just made him think all girls should respond well to comments like his.

• just went to capitolscoop.com. it’s not a real site. much like lemonlyman

• I really like how CJ gets worked up at the Congolese...ambassador? attaché? and Leo doesn’t say anything to stop her and then when the he tells Leo “I can’t speak to this woman” Leo just repeats the same question CJ asked to him. like yeah buddy what were you expecting?

• “you can’t be thinking about taking a job that might not be around a year from now.”

“this job may not be around a year from now.”

ouch

• both Bartlet and Donna want their money back lol

• “For $375 an hour, you ought to be able to bring your own damn lingerie.”

• “Screw around if you want, but it’s your money, it’s about to be my money and I sleep fine.”

• Damn the look on Bartlet’s face after he said “my father didn’t like me at all” 🥺 hello I’m SAD

• ugh I love Donna! I saw an unpopular opinion thread on the West Wing Reddit and the OP said they didn’t like Donna and I just...couldn’t comprehend. I never not liked Donna, but I like her so much more on this rewatch.

Podcast:

• Emmy nominations for Martin Sheen or Richard Schiff

• really? CJ and Leo are “rude” to the Congolese attaché because they’re pressed for time. Also CJ isnt just doing her job. She’s taking it personally. Donna said to the wife of the reporter: “She battles with them every day, but she loves reporters. She's very protective of them.” so her emotions got a little away from her because this guy could be dead. like helloooo. Does Josh even watch these episodes?

• I’m not gonna listen to the rest. I wanna watch the next episode. The rest of the podcast is just them talking to lawyers about the sexual harassment scene, which I don’t feel like listening to.

#the west wing #tww #night five #the west wing weekly #tww weekly #rewatching tww

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notgonnarememberthis · 3 years

Text

Honey

Hello!! After last week’s sequence I just couldn’t get this idea out of my head and had to write it down but I promise I am working on the next chapter of fywbym. Hopefully this angsty little one shot can keep y’all happy until then!! Enjoy!!!

Jessica spins in the mirror for the hundredth time, reassessing the dress Ainsley picked out all over again. Not that she doesn’t trust her daughter’s decision, no, her intuition is normally on point. However, absolutely nothing can go wrong tonight. She has worked 21 years to have this night.

When Gil asked her to dinner out of the blue she’d almost dropped her tea. Sure they’d unofficially been dating for a couple weeks but dinner felt solidifying. A public statement would be made, tabloids would explode with headlines how The Surgeon’s ex-wife has a new man in her life. It will be all over the news by tomorrow.

Oh, Martin would be so furious.

The thought makes her smile even wider.

Almost on cue her phone begins to ring, with her tongue pressed behind her teeth she checks the caller ID. Relief spreads through her at the picture that pops on the screen. She picks it up, holding it to her ear. “Couldn’t wait to see me?” She teases with a flirtatious lull.

“Nope.” Gil pops the end of the word and she can hear the giddiness in his tone. It fills her chest with a warmth that has been so rare over the past few months. It leaves her feeling like she should be dancing through the hallways like a drunken teenager. So carelessly free that her happiness can’t be contained.

Even Malcolm and Ainsley have joined in on the feeling. They’ve shared family dinners with Gil at the table more than a few times now. Ainsley bouncing with glee at their hands clasped together and Malcolm sitting a little taller with each exchanged glance. Her family, at last, feels complete.

“I was just calling to let you know I’m running a little late. We’re polishing off a case but I will be there as soon as I can.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I haven’t even left yet. I want to make sure I look perfect.” She passes by a mirror and checks her hair once again, fluffing the curls with her free hand.

“You would look beautiful in pajamas.”

“You say that because you have the dream of me in one of your turtlenecks.” His chuckle sends fire running through her veins and she bites her bottom lip.

“I prefer you with nothing on, actually.” She stammers thoughtlessly, her brain short circuiting after being beaten at her own game. His laugh sends a blush across her chest and she coughs trying to pull herself together. “Did I actually just make a Whitly speechless?”

“Hardly.” She purrs making a swift recovery from being thrown off track. “Just didn’t know if you wanted everyone at your work to know.”

“I don’t care. Let them know.” Now she really feels like dancing across the room.

“Oh, you’re definitely getting a treat tonight.”

“Promise?” Her laugh cuts off when she hears a door close from the other room. She pokes her head out the door of her bedroom and listens for a moment. “Jess?” She hears the line call out to her at the sudden silence. Sure enough she can hear footsteps coming from the main hall.

“Malcolm!” She calls out, “You really should have called to let me know you’d be coming. I was just about to head out!” She shakes her head when her son doesn’t respond. She huffs pulling the phone back to her ear. “Sorry about that.”

“Jess, Malcolm is still here.” Gil’s voice sounds apprehensive. “I’m looking at him right now.” Her heart thumps heavily in her chest. She knows he has a window in his office and it makes sense that Malcolm would be there at least until he left, determined to see these cases all the way until the end.

“Well it can’t be Ainsley, she goes on air in an hour.” She tries to laugh away the anxiety pooling in her stomach. Something doesn’t feel right. She shakes out her hand grabbing her clutch from her vanity. “It must be Adolpho. I have been taking much longer than usual.” The half hearted noise Gil makes is indicative that he’s not convinced. Truth be told, she isn’t either. Adolpho had only ever come inside to check on her once and it was when Ainsley was so sick that she had to cancel attending a gala all together to take care of her.

She’s just overreacting though, it has to be Louisa. Or maybe Ainsley forgot a file and came back to the house to retrieve it. Surely she’s imagining that the footsteps sound heavier than she’s familiar with.

Surely.

“Jess, stay there. I’ll be there soon. Don’t hang up.” She could hear him gathering his things over the line and barking out an order to another officer about finishing up the file. He should bring Malcolm, she thinks absentmindedly. Just in case something were to happen.

She shakes her head trying to will the dark thought away. She’s just anxious, is all. Maybe she hadn’t heard anything at all. She rounds the corner of the dining room trying to compose her best annoyed look to mask her deepest fears. However it fell as quickly as it appeared when she laid eyes on the person standing there.

Martin stands in the middle of the room, his eyes tracing over the walls with an almost gleeful smile on his face. A brown jacket covers his white psychiatric ward uniform. Briefly, she recognizes the jacket from his office in the basement. It should have gone up in flames with the rest of his things; it made no sense for it to be there.

This has to be a nightmare.

That’s it. This is a sick twisted nightmare from her subconscious. She just needs to wake up. Yet when he turns around to face her with that smile she stumbles back all the same. She crashes into the bar cart sending the glasses and bottles crashing to the floor with her weight. The pain that echoes through her side is a horrific confirmation.

This isn’t a dream.

“I have to go.” Her voice is thick, betraying the fear in her tone. She hears Gil try to fight but she hangs up anyways. Martin has always been jealous of Gil. It was probably safer to keep him busy until Gil arrived. Not let him know. However, when her eyes meet his she instantly regrets every choice she made.

“Jessie!” The nickname alone makes her feel sick to her stomach. She should have trusted her intuition. Run to the back and hid there until Gil came to get her. She should have listened, fuck. “It’s remarkable how different it all looks. Love what you’ve done with the place.”

“Martin-” Her voice barely comes out in a whisper. She swallows before trying again, “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m home!” Now she really feels sick, gripping onto the cart for the support her heels are denying her. He spreads his arms like expects something; what a hug? She shuts down the expression of disgust before it crosses her features. She stands up straight, steeling herself with a cold gaze. All the while her hand reaches behind her for something, anything to protect herself with. She feels a sense of calm when her fingers successfully wrap around the heavy metal shaker. “I wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?”

‘No,” She sighs. “That was just Malcolm.” The lie spills off her tongue effortlessly. In any other setting she’d tell the truth and revel in rubbing it in his face. He tilts his head with narrowed eyes. If he senses that she’s being anything other than truthful, he doesn’t say. But he senses the lie regardless, of course the pathological liar would. She would need to do better than that.

“You’re awfully dressed up to be spending the night alone.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh,” His face darkens and she stumbles to find a new purchase.

“I have a meeting with the new investors of the Sanders’ Foundation. I made a promise to Malcolm that I’d carry on Eve’s charity after she passed. We’re officially signing tonight. It’s a celebratory dinner.” It’s not entirely a lie. She had that meeting last week, not tonight. When his posture straightens up she lets herself breathe a little easier.

“Well you look beautiful. Personally I’ve always preferred you in red, but the green is lovely too.” She weighs her options as he steps closer. The shaker is heavy and if she’s accurate she can stun him at least. From there her plans are null. Where can she run to where he wouldn’t know about, that he wouldn’t suspect from her. One of the guest rooms would work but she’s outmatched if she gets caught.

It’d be safer to play along. “Can I make you a drink?” He glances down at the shattered bottles with a raised eyebrow. “I have more in the kitchen.”

“Where is my boy?”

“Finishing off a case. Surely he talked to you about the-”

“The Candyman, yes I’ve been keeping up with Ainsley’s broadcasting. Riveting stuff.” He smiles, an empty one devoid of all emotion. “Where is she? I’ve been wishing to speak with her for,” He sighs. “Well for ages.”

Absolutely not. Her protective instincts shift into high gear. At least at the precinct Malcolm is safe from him, however she doesn’t trust Ainsley’s studio enough. She would not send him directly to her. No matter what it cost her. “Surely trying to get a closing argument from her brother that’s actually on the record.” Martin guffaws at that, the harsh sound causing her to jump. The sound stops as soon as it started when his eyes land on something new.

“Who’s that from.” It’s not a question. His eyes are trained on the bracelet on her wrist. It’s a simple thing, far less attention grabbing than anything else she’d worn in the past. A simple gold chain with two birthstones intertwined, Malcolm and Ainsley’s. It’d been a birthday gift that she wore fondly.

From Gil.

“Jessie.” The tone comes out as a warning. His eyes are trained on her but with his head tilted upwards his eyes are focused down. Like he’s looking down on her. As if he has any right to the truth, much less to her.

A lie here would be pointless. He knows it’s nothing either of the children would have gotten her. Gifts between the three of them rarely ventured outside of an expensive bottle of alcohol. Who needed them when they could buy anything they could possibly want? Truth be told, the bracelet having been the first gift she’d received in over 15 years brought tears to her eyes.

Of course she had to pick tonight to wear it.

“It’s from Gil.” She’s proud that her voice doesn’t shake with the statement. Her entire body is doing enough of that just standing a few feet from this man.

“You have a date.” The last word spits out like venom. She tightens her jaw, anger blossoming beneath her chest. How dare he? As he steps forwards again she makes the split second decision.

She swings the cup with all of her might, ready to bolt as soon as she makes connection with his head.

She almost did. He, however, seemed just as prepared for the attack catching her wrist in his hand with ease. The cup clatters loudly to the ground as she drops it, all the momentum of her anger dissipating in a split second.

For a frightening moment they are chest to chest. She can feel his breath fanning her face while his unreadable gaze traces over her features. This close she’s almost certain he can feel how fast her heart is beating, that he can read the fear beneath her rage, he can feel the tremor of her wrist clasped tight in his grip.

Three swift knocks stop whatever he planned to say or do. Strong, heavy raps indicative of the police at her doorstep. For a moment she’s not certain that he will even react. His face an absolutely terrifying blank slate. Then a lighter, much more frantic knock.

“Mom!” She can hear Malcolm calling out to her. “Mom, open the door!”

She watches the switch in Martin’s eyes, a teasing laugh escaping his lips. “Our children have always had horrible timing.”

“I should get that.” She whispers side stepping out of his way. Yet as she walks, he pulls her wrist back spinning her to face him again. He’s making a decision, she recognizes in horror. Whether to take her with him or let her go. She bites her cheek so hard that she can taste copper on her tongue.

She would put up a hell of a fight.

She would lose.

He draws her hand to his lips pressing a kiss to it with a smile. “I’ve missed you. I’ll see you soon.” And he let’s go.

She doesn’t hesitate to see where he goes. In all honesty, it doesn’t matter to her in the slightest as she rushes to the door. Safety is so close but the hallways feel like they stretch forever with Malcolm’s pleading tone getting farther and farther.

Wrenching the door open to see Malcolm and Gil staring at her terrified feels like waking up from a nightmare. Malcolm crashes into her with a quick hug that she barely has time to return before he’s rushing off to see what the hell had spooked her over the phone. Gil’s face is stone, looking at her with a mixture of worry and annoyance.

He knows. Only one person in the world can scare her that much.

“Jess,” He sighs, relief and comfort soothing her fears. “Are you alright?” She shakes her head, almost indecipherably as the tears finally slide down her face. All the rage, terror, and anxiety of the past few minutes crashing over her as she falls into his arms. Gil is the only thing holding her upright as she slips into the cascade with Martin’s threat still ringing in her ears.

I’ll see you soon.

#prodigal son #gil arroyo x jessica whitly #jessica whitly x gil arroyo #gilica #gilssica #jessica whitly #gil arroyo #martin whitly #prodigal son spoilers #prodigal son AU #martin whitly is a bitch #and one day i will let a character stab him #inspired by 2x03 #notgonnarememberthis fics #fanfic

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deepfriedtwinkie · 6 years

Text

Kingsman: A Trainee’s Mission (Pt. VIII)

PREQUEL FIC, this section ~2,300w

It’s four of them left at the end. Harry, Hamish, and their final hurdles, Derrington and William. He thinks back to the moment they stood there, proposing agents at their shoulders, and listened to Arthur inform them they’d reached the final stage.

Everything had rung in his ears for the remainder of the night. Possibly it might’ve had a thing or two to do with being drugged, but there’s plenty reason enough to doubt it was only that. Surreality, for one thing. Utter surreality.

One sentence, and his goal was within reach. No other candidate craves this the way he does. They haven’t had the chance.

He’s finally reached the stage that’s going to change his life forever. One way or another.

Harry glances anxiously around the drawing room where he was told to wait, kneading his hands, minding Mr. Pickle at his feet. He’s trying to conjure up a focused mental review of his past twenty-four hours with Martin. There’d been plenty of advice, he was sure. Peppered with years of a seasoned field agent’s wisdom, cautionary tales, and all sorts of things like that. The problem is, the only thing he can seem to remember is the proper way to make a martini. Ice, gin, vermouth, shake, pour, garnish. It’s not very helpful at the moment.

His gaze jumps up when the door opens, expecting Arthur. Instead, it’s Hamish, Ainsley loping obediently at his heels. He shuts the door behind him and comes to sit, settling on the far end of Harry’s divan.

The two hold a shared look for a beat or two, capped off with singular nods. It’s a heavy moment, and that’s acknowledgment enough of that.

Until it isn’t, because who are they to kid themselves at this point.

“Are you nervous?” Hamish asks quietly. It’s the most pensive Harry’s ever heard him.

He can’t give that anything but honesty. He lets his head bob. “Yes. Very much.” Then he looks left, watching his friend contemplate his hands. “You?”

The silence lasts far longer than he expected it to. Hamish doesn’t look up. He hardly moves at all, in fact. It lasts until Harry is tempted to ask what the matter is.

Then, without preamble, he doesn’t have to.

“My aunt died three years ago,” Hamish says.

Immediately, Harry’s empathy is lead in his stomach. He wouldn’t dream of prodding this time.

“I was just a tyke when my parents’ car wrecked in the highlands. Didn’t even think twice before she took me in.”

He has to pause. Harry’s overwhelmingly compelled to let him off the hook.

“You don’t have to tell me any of this,” he insists softly.

Hamish’s head shakes. His hands cover his knees, and his glance finds the window. He continues. “We lived in Edinburgh. Got by all right on her pension, and she’d patch up the neighbors’ clothes for a discount whenever we needed a little extra. Worked her fingers to the bone for me, she did. Then, one day… Pneumonia. Ten days in hospital, and that was it. It was foster homes after that. Four, maybe five of them. Shit ones, mostly.”

The more of this he says out loud, the more vulnerability his stoic face betrays. Harry knows what’s coming. It doesn’t take a genius to get there.

“I turned eighteen a week ago,” Hamish reveals, and it’s the softest part of all. His eyes drift somewhere far away. “If this…”

He doesn’t say any more. They both know he doesn’t have to. Harry works out the rest on his own. There won’t be another foster home. Or any funds to follow his intern work to Berlin, either.

There’s nothing left for Hamish out there. Nowhere to go.

Maybe he’s not the one who wants this the most after all.

Harry wracks his brain for something to say. It takes several moments, but he lands on something he thinks might hit the right note. His inspiration licks her paw.

“Is Ainsley named after her?” he asks.

Hamish nods again. It’s hard to spot at first, but one side of his mouth shows signs of twisting toward amusement. “What’d you study at Oxford, anyway? Let me guess: psychology?”

“Political science major with a minor in entomology, specializing in lepidoptery.”

“Lepi-what-the-fuck?”

“It’s the study of butterflies.”

“I was right, you’re something the fuck else.” Grinning faintly now, Hamish sighs, and he retraces his mental steps, idly scratching behind his bloodhound’s ear. “Mrs. Ainsley. Her and my mother’s maiden name. That’s what she liked everyone to call her. God help the sod who didn’t. It was Aunt Ainsley to me, too, no exceptions.”

Hopefully it’s in good taste to ask questions again, because he can’t resist poking at the pattern he’s seeing. He’s a shit, after all. “Why was that?”

“Oh, her first name was Agathe. She fucking hated the thing.”

Harry’s urge to laugh slips free before he can temper it. Slowly, it catches, and by the time Arthur appears in the doorway, the two of them are confusing the hell out of the dogs, employing sleeves to rid the tears from their eyes.

“We’re ready for the both of you,” Arthur says. “If and when you’re quite finished.” He gives nothing more to their antics past a single peaked eyebrow. It’s very evidently not his first foray, but he looks like he’d love for it to be the last. Harry straightens quickly, aware of Hamish doing the same.

The adjacent doors have opened as well. One to the right, the other left. Lamorak is framed in one. Lancelot in the other.

There’s one order of business left before he takes his summons. Standing tall, Harry protrudes his hand to Hamish.

“Good luck, friend.”

Hamish clasps it, shaking heartily.

“And to you.”

Whatever awaits, may we both be Kingsman when it’s through with.

Turning apart, they go their separate ways. Harry hears the shutting of doors behind him, comforted by Mr. Pickle’s loyal trot as he meets Agent Lamorak, entering a sunlit parlor. It’s the sort of room he’d love to read a book in. Maybe he will, once he’s an agent. Because he’s going to be an agent. He’s going to be.

“Have a seat,” Martin instructs. Harry does, and so does Mr. Pickle. Just look at you. You couldn’t possibly be better behaved. I hope you know how much I appreciate you making me look good on this.

After all this time, he knows better than to expect his instructions straightforwardly. He knows to wait for them. He’s still waiting when Martin reaches into his jacket, pulling out his handgun. Extending it to him.

“Take it,” he says.

The sinking feeling in the pit of his gut knows something that he doesn’t. He wishes it would tell him sooner than later. Harry takes the weapon cautiously, eyes plastered to the agent’s face, seeking out the answer.

“That’s a full clip.”

It seems a little obvious to point out. You don’t say? I’d have expected most Kingsman to carry around empties for the fun of it. The fact that he’s deflecting even in his own head is a fairly severe warning sign.

Something is wrong. Something awful is coming. He just doesn’t know what.

Until Martin calmly finishes his sip of liquor.

“Shoot the dog,” he says.

Harry’s world narrows to a single frame, zooming nauseously to a point, and that point is Mr. Pickle’s trusting face. He wants to retch. He wants to turn the gun on Martin, just for the suggestion, and fuck all he’s done for him. All he can do is stare at him in shock.

How can this be what you want from me? How can this be what you’re asking?

He wonders if his mother would fault him if he left this room and never looked back. He wonders how long it would take him to fault himself.

He rips his appalled gape away from Lamorak, landing it where it belongs, letting it soften to something between pure love and despair. Mr. Pickle shifts his weight patiently to new paws, unaware of any of this. Unaware that he… That this could…

He can’t even think it. He can’t imagine a world in which obeying that order is okay. In which he can live with himself in the aftermath. Every suit would be blood red to him. Every one of his triumphs tainted with the sickest form of selfishness, the murder of something that had unconditionally loved and trusted him, who hadn’t done a thing to anyone. A completely–

Harry’s mind reboots itself.

A completely innocent being.

A Kingsman only condones the risking of one life to save another.

Things begin to click faster than he knows what to do with them.

The net in the gorge.

The bombs that stopped at zero.

Why specifically tell me the gun was loaded, unless…?

The danger was never real. All this time, it was never real. We were only meant to think it was.

Martin isn’t asking mindless obedience. Kingsman aren’t killing machines, and they don’t want them. He’s asking for comprehension. He’s asking if he’s understood.

Harry bolts to his feet, hands quivering. He has to do it before his nerve fails him. He has to do it now. It has to be now.

His trembling aim rises. Then steadies, by force. Mr. Pickle’s amber eyes glint up at him from over the barrel. His revelation didn’t end his insides’ churn, and neither does that.

Please, please God, let me be right. Don’t let me hurt this dog. Please, I beg of you, don’t let me have gotten this wrong. Don’t let me be wrong…

He fires.

The pellet bounces off Mr. Pickle’s fur. He staggers backward with a whimper.

Nothing more.

The gun is on the ground and Harry’s dog is in his arms before he registers, even remotely, that the sound of his gunshot was doubled by the room across the way.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetheart, did that nasty thing hit you?” Mr. Pickle is wriggling like mad, stretching to reach his face and lick every inch of it, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Laughter bubbles out of him with tears, and it’s hard to tell which came first. “Oh, yes, I know. I know. I would never hurt you. I would never, ever hurt you, Mr. Pickle. Not for all the money in the world. Not for a thing.”

Martin rises while Harry’s still pressing soothing kisses to Mr. Pickle’s scruff. After another half-dozen or so, he finally senses he should pay attention, and looks over in time to see Martin replace his weapon, straighten his jacket, and offer his hand.

It’s then that it happens. He’s unprepared to commit it to memory, but he’s going to anyway.

“Welcome,” says Martin, “to Kingsman. Agent Galahad.”

Welcome to Kingsman.

Gently, Harry plops Mr. Pickle back to the floor. His eyes are full this time, and he makes no excuse for them. Reflex takes Martin’s hand for him. He barely feels his arm move.

Thank you, sir. His brain sends the command to his mouth. “And Derrington…?” is what incredulously comes out instead.

Please don’t let there be a chance of losing this. Don’t let there be an asterisk.

“Shot the dog, too,” Martin says, pumping his hand. Harry’s heart nearly stops, and so does the handshake. It’s Martin’s look that saves it. “Then thought the blank must be some mistake. Tried to take Geraint’s sidepiece and finish the job. I hear Molly bit him. No one stopped her, either. He’ll be on his way home once the dart wears off.”

Harry exhales so heavily his lungs might as well be raisins. Never in his life has he been so grateful a human being turned out that depraved.

“You’ve done it, Harry,” Martin confirms with a grin. “We all knew you could. Your mother will be extraordinarily proud.”

Mother… He’s got to phone her. He’s got to get to a telephone. He’s got to…

No, not yet. Not yet.

There was a second gunshot.

He grabs his mentor’s hand again, rattling away at his elbow like a lineman in a lever factory. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, I’m honored. I… May I be excused?”

There’s something knowing in Martin’s expression, and he nods. “Go on.”

Scooping up Mr. Pickle, Harry all but throws open the door. The one on the other side is already open, framing Lancelot again, only this time, smiling in the background. Hamish is already charging to the middle of the drawing room.

Grinning ear-to-ear.

“William?” Harry demands.

“Couldn’t do it; Kay sent him home.”

“Ainsley?”

“She’s all right.”

If there’s anything his memory allows him to keep about this day, anything that holds its clarity instead of fading to the blur of awe and adrenaline, Harry wants it to be this. The moment that he extends his hand again, this time brimming with the glee of a ten-year-old boy, standing tall in a Kingsman agent’s shoes.

“It’s an honor to be working with you, Merlin.”

No one else knows the relief on his friend’s face like he does. Hamish shakes, blinking back tears of his own. “And with you, Agent Galahad.”

“Agent Galahad!”

There’s no parrot in the room. It’s Martin again, emerging from the parlor holding a sheet of fax paper, radiating alarm.

“Don’t get comfortable. I’m going to need backup. Come with me. Your suit’s on the plane.”

“Merlin, to the control room, quickly. Arthur will meet you there,” Lancelot orders.

There’s only time for a sharp nod each, and Hamish claps Harry’s shoulder. Then the two of them are off down the corridors, scored by the sound of a piped-in radio broadcast.

For those of you just tuning in, the date is Wednesday, twenty-nine July, and what a beautifully clear morning for the wedding of the century…

pt. IX

#Kingsman #Harry Hart #Agent Merlin #Kingsman: The Secret Service #Kingsman: The Golden Circle #fanfic #oh look Aud did a thing #p.s. nobody asked but in case anyone's wondering: his mother's Peggy Carter of SHIELD and his other one is Angie Martinelli #it's @faeriviera's fault and now it's law so there #I leave it vague in this on purpose so y'all can speculate however you want but there it is so have fun

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shineonmalcolmbright · 4 years

Text

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Twenty-Four

Table of Contents

Present

How does one mentally prepare themselves for a family get together? Ainsley runs her own news story in her own head. There has to be answers to such a question then again it sounds closer to Buzzfeed clickbait for the regular family, not the Whitly family. It’s a question for people who needed to wrestle with the fact their uncle is a racist or their grandma has too much pent up internalized misogyny.

How does one mentally prepare themselves for a family get together after you interview your serial killer father despite your mother’s wishes? You come bearing gifts and pray to the heavens you can survive a night of consistent passive-aggressiveness.

Reporters crowd the front door as if there’s story to share. She pries her way past them, steps up to the door, and looks out over them. Everybody there comes closer ready to eat her alive. Jokes on them. Her fears are none, it’s what happens when you’re a young girl who befriends ghost kids and never really gets to know her dad because he killed people.

All of the reporters act as if she’ll throw them a bone and let them know the truth, a truth about the Junkyard Killer and The Surgeon. Instead, she looms above them with a smirk and a prepared comment in her mind.

“Any breaking news about my family is mine to report, thank you.”

The gall of them to think she’d answer a single question other than the words that just fell out of her mouth. Please. This is her life, this is her story, she herself is a reporter and it's her narrative to tell.

The reporters call after her begging for more but she whisks herself away into the house. There are bigger sharks to battle. Her mother being the main villain of the day. Her and all her disappointment locked up inside her castle.

Piano music plays, it adds to the play-acting of a happy holiday. Maybe for somebody who eats up nostalgia, they’d be happy to hear it in the air. Christmas lights decorating note one tree, but two. The first being smaller and near the doors where Jessica stands looking at ornaments. None of which were really dedicated to their lives because what was there to say about the lives of the Whitlys?

Each would have a different answer.

Malcolm would say their past haunts them.

Jessica would say she half remembers laughter in barbiturate induced sleep.

Nobody was going to ask Martin.

And Ainsley also did not have an answer.

“Hello?” Ainsley calls out as she enters their not so humble abode. Her fingers are crossed that Malcolm beat her there. Please let Malcolm already be there.

Jessica turns to face Ainsley armed with her trademark smile (if she were so allowed to file for on). She acts as if she isn’t lost in some thought. To be honest, Malcolm’s the only one who’s right: Their past still haunts them. Either way, Ainsley reaches out her gift of wine pretending nothing’s wrong. It’s a regular family about to have a regular family Christmas dinner! A game they both could play all day and night if she so chose. Jessica says no greeting but an Ah as she continues her charade of a smile. For most families, charades is a game where you have a partner and guess what the other is acting out. For them, it’s “What the hell is on [insert Whitly in Question]’s mind?”

Taking the wine bottle she looks at it and by look, it really is a glance. “You. . .brought a twist-off.”

Still no hello, Hi, There you are!, Malcolm’s on his way, or Glad you could make it.

Jessica is the first to lose at their game of charades, sarcasm enters her chuckling as she pulls the wine away leaving Ainsley there holding onto nothing but air and not ready for this, not any of this.

Jessica: 0 Ainsley: 1 Malcolm: TBD

She should’ve taken her advice to mentally prepare for this night. And where the hell is Malcolm? He needs to be around, right there at the moment, but no, he’s probably too far gone obsessing over murder forgetting his family remains in the land of the living.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Ainsley grumbles, looking at the pristine tree.

There were little white birds perched on branches. The only current statement of Malcolm in the house. How odd something like that is what lasted in their decorations. A not so bad Whitly past, Malcolm loved birds for whatever reason. Then again only a child like him could be obsessed with ornithology and forensic psychology or whatever it was he loved.

Ainsley fumbles with her hands and turns to watch her mother drop the bottle of wine off with snow globes and other miscellaneous Christmas decorations, each and every one curated to look the best as if people wanted to visit their murder abode.

For someone so careful about spearheading the correct questions, Ainsley slips. Her hands slip free from one another as if she can casually grab onto some parental approval. Somehow the words just happen to fall from her mouth, “Did you watch it?”

Really? Really? She had to ask her mother that? Today was not going to end well.

Jessica faces Ainsley with such an exasperated sigh. “No comment.”

Again with the slipping, all of the slipping. Somehow something knocks something loose and Ainsley needs her mother and her brother and needs them to be there for her. She wants their support, she wants their compliments, she wants instant gratification and for a chance to not let a past haunt any of them.

“Can’t you at least try and be happy for me?”

It’s another wrong question to ask and so obvious by the way Jessica stares at her. Charades no more.

####

Malcolm fidgets with a present in his hand. He’s picking at the edges of the bow on the box knowing it’ll mess it up but he can’t stop. His other hand starts a beat on the edge, he scans the area around him. Making sure he’s safe. Tries to convince himself he’s safe as his brain protests: Danger, danger.

It’d be great if danger actually lurked behind corners. Instead, there’s people walking by him, lost in fits of giggles or chuckles as holiday spirit does its best to eat them all up inside. There’s a part of his brain that for some reason doesn’t accurately compute situations right leaving his brain to protest again and again: Danger, danger.

He grips the present a little too hard but doesn’t want to ruin it. Somehow this gift needs to survive its journey to his mother’s, but he can maybe spare some time to purchase something new if tragedy befalls. Only she’s expecting him soon. But anxiety rings in his brain, it swells up with its warning: Danger, danger.

Danger grabs his shoulder, whirling him around with one loud grunt of a Hey. It’s Owen right there. Shoving his shoulder as he glares at him. Malcolm’s stuck in fight, flight, or freeze all over again at the sight of him. Whatever happens, he can’t fall back in time. It’ll let more danger sink in especially with Owen snarling at him right before so many people casually moving around on all sides. Not that anybody looks up and away from their holiday cheer.

“Malcolm Whitly,” Owen spits out at him. His boozy breath is stale, he’s not drunk but he’d been drinking for some time that day. So much anger is built up in those words, his name. Malcolm Whitly. “I always knew that you were a liar.”

Anger is seething through Owen’s brain, it’s coursing through his veins. It’s as if somebody created him from the raw emotion itself. Even with being in the open and the world ready for Malcolm to run, he feels as if he’s stuck in a corner or stuck in a room like so many years ago, trapped. Trapped, trapped, trapped. He’s trapped in his tracks all over again with Owen sizing him up, volcanic and without any chance for cheer.

“And I didn’t recognize you till I saw your hand.”

Malcolm looks down, his handshakes. He covers his movement as if he doesn’t quake.

“You can change your name, but you can’t change who you are.”

The words slice straight through him. It’s enough of a push to start the slow fall, him falling out of the present and into the past. Then again, the past and present are always happening at once, two timelines wrapped up with one another, both of which he can’t escape, not at all. Trauma can turn anyone into a time traveler, but if only it were half as romantic as it sounded.

Malcolm clenches his teeth letting pain break apart his thoughts, Don’t fall, don’t fall back, don’t fall, don’t fall out of time again. . .

Except there’s two of him and two of Owen. A Young Malcolm stuck inside the Overlook again and again, it’s like he picks up the phone daily to make the call, all after the hotel got to him, his father that is so there’s him making the call about his father after he wants to hurt Gil then the local police showing up.

Not that Colorado is halfway across the world, but it seems like it really does even with Young Malcolm there and here in New York City with Younger Owen who is all fury, more so then Now Owen.

Younger Owen with Young Malcolm inside a room with so many memories of his father moving at his fingertips across the table while Younger Owen demands: Tell me the truth. Tell me what you did. Are you Daddy’s little helper? You Know more than you are saying. His words sped up, full of fire, nonstop. Tellmehowhedidit. TELLME!

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw is cracking under such pressure as his headache grows. The ringing in his ears block all the cacophony New York. Younger Owen and Young Malcolm may be gone but he still has Owen to worry about in the present as he teeters off balance. Maybe he can fall into a car and let it break him away from the situation thanks to a necessary ride to the ER.

A small voice reminds him.

Inhaaaaale. . .

One.

Two.

Three.

He doesn’t even make it to four out of the five seconds he needs and looks straight at Owen who’s keeping a close eye on him. But something about Owen has changed. The ringing’s too loud for Malcolm to parse through any of his thoughts. Maybe it’s for the better. He doesn’t want to really go there.

“I’m not my father,” Malcolm informs him, he shakes his head like it’ll get the ringing to start. It hurts, hurts his brain and his jaw clicks as he speaks.

Owen doesn’t laugh out loud but Malcolm can still hear it, his thoughts becoming either clearer or louder. Either way, there’s laughter. Owen points at himself, “Are you trying to convince me?” Then he points at Malcolm. “Or are you trying to convince yourself?”

Malcolm hangs tight to the present letting it weigh him down in the present where he belongs. His jaw pops, pops, pops while Owen won’t shut up. He looks at the way the ribbon frays feeling the urge to pick it apart again.

“‘Cause if you’re trying to convince me, save your breath!” The last word Owen shouts, spittle sprays with each letter b-r-e-a-t-h. Each covered with the stale alcohol of Owen’s morning. He grabs Malcolm’s coat and Malcolm continues to hang there. His jaw pop, pop, popping in an attempt to breath. “‘Cause I was right.” Owen’s fingers dig into his chest. Feels as if bruises are already blooming there. Malcolm kind of, sort of, looks up at him while still avoiding eye contact with Owen to watch the fraying ribbon of his present. “There was someone else.”

There was someone else.

“But you always knew that,” Young Malcolm says while he’s standing off to the side, one step off the curb and watching the scene unfold. Malcolm glances at him, it’s more or less of an accident because Owen might be mad if he looks anywhere else. “You always knew there was someone else.”

Malcolm returns his focus to Owen finding words for the present. “I know why you’re angry. You dedicated your life to The Surgeon’s case.” He pauses allowing a moment to survey any change in Owen’s expression. “You were right.”

He hesitates again even though Owen’s not really registered yet what’s been said for Malcolm to read. “I did know something. At the Overlook, my father had-had a person. . .who stayed with us and I forgot about him, but I have reason to believe he was or he is The Junkyard Killer.”

Some reason Malcolm keeps closing the space between them. His jaw is popping and his hand is quaking. It’s a lot, so much. “All I have are-are fragments of a memory.”

11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.

The past is back, intertwined with the present. Young Malcolm with a knife as he runs through the hedge maze sinking deep into snow with madness chasing after him. My boy! Come on and take your medicine!

11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.

Him trying his best to journal and to remember as he keeps falling through time and waking up, waking up, waking up in strange places. Yet with so many stories about death at his fingertips and ghosts whispering all about him. A woman who threw her children off the roof and hanged herself in the basement. A girl last seen in the elevators only to go missing. Mob violence as shooters took out a hit on somebody in a room. A man who lost it and annihilated his entire family because the hotel told him it’d be better for all of them. There was a man stuck inside a bear suit, he died of asphyxiation. A woman who slit her wrists in her bathtub and then another woman without a story who he found in a tub in Room 217. (Maybe he could’ve saved the woman he found in Room 217.)

11/09: Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something about taking a pill to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep.

Owen is hanging onto each and every single one of Malcolm’s words. This is what he’s known and waited for all his life. It’s bouncing all around him as exclamation marks, Malcolm tries to ground himself into the present still letting his Christmas present weight him down.

11/10: Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? Feels like haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it.

“Only The Surgeon and Paul Lazar know what happened. . .” The words are coming so fast. He can’t stop any of them now. They’re falling right in the open for anybody to collect but especially for Owen to piece through.

11/11: Woke up in bar, heard music, heard voices. Father found me, we talked, said to talk to him, didn’t hear all the noise. Ask him about it later?

Malcolm’s practically shouting at Owen. “. . .But my father is in solitary and when I tried to find Paul, the FBI kicked me off the case for being too. . .”

Before Malcolm can finish his own words, Owen butts in finishing his sentence for him. He knows, he knows, he knows. “Obsessed?”

11/12: ????

Malcolm stares at him at such a loss. There’s nothing else to say because Owen said it all and he’s still saying it. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

“Unhinged? Making it personal?” All the anger of Owen has since peeled away, his hands dig deep into his pockets as empathy becomes him. Malcolm nods. “I kind of know the feeling.” They stop talking for a split second. Owen looks him up and down with a new emotion crossing his face, one Malcolm can’t quite read. There’s a softness to him. “Where are you in the Turner case?”

11/13: Woke up in bed. Last thing I remember, boiler room. Looking at newspapers. Then nothing. Is there something wrong with me?

Malcolm sighs unable to make eye contact again. “We think the killer has something to do with one of his old cases, but we haven’t found anything yet.” Words that probably should have stayed locked up in his mind and not out in the open as puzzle pieces for Owen to play around with. But he knows, he knows, he knows.

Owen kind of smiles, it's a brief thought, a memory that’s just out of reach for him. Good thing he explains out loud though, Turner had a-a place where he kept everything that he didn’t want to release to official case files. I can take you there.”

He means it, too. Malcolm doesn’t even know how to emote because Owen really means it, too. His brain is working its way already across the city to this location, ready to dig into some research to help Turner out, not Malcolm, but Turner. He huffs out a Come on, which is so easy to miss. Maybe Malcolm imagined it or heard it in Owen’s thoughts because he’s already walking away forcing Malcolm to half walk-half run after him to discover the secrets Turner hid.

11/14: Woke up in the bathroom. Don’t remember falling asleep there, but I tracked mud all across the floor. There were leaves in my hair. I was able to hide my notes before mother found me in the bathroom. She was furious asking me where I had been and didn’t like that I kept telling her: I don’t know. Because I don’t, I don’t know where I was or where I went and I don’t know what’s happening to me.

#Prodigal Son #The Shining #shineonbrightfic #Malcolm Bright #Owen Shannon #Gil Arroyo #Prodigal Son fic #Prodigal Son fanfic #Prodigies #Malcolm Bright Whump

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