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Part 5 of Tale of Two Dopes
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Bad Things Happen Bingo
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2020-04-27
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2022-07-01
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Holy Water

Summary:

It happened in a flash. One second Malcolm was searching for the oblivion promised him at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, the next Gil stood before him, accusing him of murder as Dani slapped him in cuffs and JT read him his rights. None of them had any idea this was only the beginning or that the people Nicholas Endicott is involved with are a far greater threat.

Notes:

Hello, all, and welcome! This starts off within the realm of events happening in episodes 1x19 into 1x20 but I am expanding and building on things to expand the story. I have decided to take this story into a crossover territory as of chapter 24 and combine it with one I was intending to tell at a later date. Events here are linked with Mirror, Mirror, where I started connecting Endicott with a greater organization. That organization is called the Parliament of Owls, an elite group who controls the world and employs a group of assassins called Talons. This is also going to explore the finale of season 1 but not in the way the show went with season 2 (which doesn’t happen here).

This is also for my twelfth Bad Things Happen Bingo card, prompt: touch starved.

Please, if you like this story, follow/bookmark/kudo/favorite it. Comments are also dearly welcomed!

Thanks for reading!

Take care!

Chapter Text

It all happened in a flash.

One second he was sitting, alone, at his desk, trying to find the oblivion the bottom of the bottle of whiskey promised him while begging the ghostly figure who replaced her sister in his hallucinations to leave him alone, and the next his door was getting busted open.

Startled, he looked up to see officers in full riot gear in his doorway.

Everything after happened in slow motion.

JT and Dani entering his loft.

Gil, face serious, telling him he was under arrest for the murder of Eddie.

Sunshine screeching her denial.

Led out of his loft in cuffs.

Photographed, fingerprinted.

Shoved in a holding cell.

Waking up from a dream of himself seated across from his father in a matching orange jumpsuit.

The humiliation of being fitted with an ankle monitor and being told by his mother he was, "Grounded."

Walking out of the jail and feeling anything but a free man.

The ride home took forever.

Malcolm allowed himself to zone in and out, too exhausted to listen to his mother's lectures and angry sighs, and too drained from everything to bother offering her any sort of reply.

Not that she seemed inclined to want one.

For once.

The car pulled up to the curb and Adolpho got out to open the door for them. Malcolm followed his mother into the house, ignoring the microphones and cameras jabbed in his face, not bothering to respond to the overzealous reporters demanding to know why, "He did it."

He hadn't done it but there was no convincing any of them of that.

Not when he couldn't even convince Gil he hadn't done it.

That, more than anything, cut him the deepest.

The one person he never wanted to let down, that he trusted with his entire being, thought him a murderer.

Treated him as he did his father the night he arrested him in the house Malcolm now was confined too.

"We're the same." His father smiled at him from the opposite end of the foyer. "Never forget that, my boy. We're the same."

The bands that formed around his head, his chest after finding out Eve was dead, tightened further. It took what little control he had to not fist his fingers in his hair and scream until he was hoarse.

"Vultures," his mother snapped as she discarded her purse on the coffee table and headed to the sideboard to pour what would be the first of many drinks. "I should send cease-and-desist orders to all their networks."

"You can't silence the news media, Mom."

"Watch me, dear."

Ainsley got up from the chair she had been waiting in. "They're only doing their job."

"By furthering this disgusting narrative that your brother is a murderer?" She scoffed as she poured whiskey into a tumbler. "I think not."

"We have to turn the narrative to our favor."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

Malcolm let them drone on in silence. He simply didn't have the energy this sort of argument took.

What he wanted really was the quiet solitude of his loft.

Soft nuzzles from Sunshine.

The comfort of the familiar.

Being released to his mother's custody put a stop to all that.

It also put a wrench in his plans to get out there and work the case.

Prove his innocence.

With his mother watching his every move and his team now not his team, figuring out what happened to Eddie would be especially difficult.

He couldn't sit in his mother's house and do nothing, though.

He had to validate his stance that he did not kill Eddie.

He couldn't have.

"But you don't know for sure, do you?" His father said from the couch. "There's a, uh, rather large amount of time missing from you arriving at the hospital and talking to my would-be killer and returning to your loft. What could you have done in that time?"

Malcolm couldn't answer that.

He didn't kill Eddie, though. He was positive of that.

There'd be scratches to corroborate the DNA finding.

He had none.

"What happened then?" Martin Whitly hummed a soft laugh. "Besides me gouging his eyes out, of course."

That's what Malcolm needed to find out.

Ainsley snapped her fingers in front of his face to get his attention. "Hey!"

Malcolm pulled himself from his dark musings to look at her. Harder to clear away was their father in his red sweater with that paternal smile of his while Eve stood by the window in her white gown.

An angel and a demon.

The summation of his entire existence.

"Malcolm?"

"I'm fine."

He did his best to smile reassuringly. The frown on Ainsley's face said it was anything but.

"Did you hear a word I just said?"

"No." Malcolm heaved a tired sigh. "What is it, Ains?"

"I said you should go upstairs."

"I'm fine down here."

"No, bro." Ainsley made the face she did whenever she was trying to tell him something but he was being too dimwitted to catch on. "You really need to go upstairs." She rolled her eyes upwards. "To your bedroom."

"My bedroom?" One brow quirked as he followed her gaze. "Why?"

Ainsley stomped her foot and gave him her I'm-completely-exasperated-with-you look.

"You need to go to your bedroom." She enunciated every word for maximum effect. "There's something up there that you need to see."

His other brow winged up to join the first. Something in his room he needed to see? What could...

His breath whooshed out of him as he realized what the something — no, someone, he amended — was. Everything inside him quieted with the realization Sorcha was waiting for him in his bedroom.

He didn't know how or why and he didn't care.

She was there.

It meant she still cared.

Not that he deserved it.

"When did she get here?"

"She showed up while mom was working on getting you out of jail."

"Mother knows she's here?"

"Who do you think called her, bro?"

That rocked Malcolm to the core of his being.

"She called Sorcha?" His heart slammed against his chest, hard enough he swore it'd burst out of his chest. "And she answered?"

"Yes, she did." Ainsley moved closer to him and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "No matter what happened between you, she's still your friend."

"I'll always be your friend," Sorcha whispered as she stroked a hand over his hair. Her soft sigh bounced off the bathroom walls. "No matter what happens, I'll always be here for you."

Too late.

He realized what he had too late.

Sorcha pegged him right as a borderline masochist. Someone who thrived on the flash and burn. Who believed he deserved pain because of what his father did.

"Still blaming me for all your problems, I see." His father sighed as he leaned back. "You really are a broken record, my boy."

Malcolm's hands fisted at his sides. He wanted, desperately, to lash out at his father, tell him how he was the cause of all his problems, but Ainsley's next words stopped him cold.

"Sorcha wants to help you clear your name and stop Endicott."

Endicott.

Who had Eve killed for getting to close to the truth about her sister.

Who got an assassin into Claremont as his father's orderly to kill him.

Who framed him for the murder of same said assassin as a warning to not dig too deeply or else.

Who wouldn't think twice about hurting anybody he cared about if it meant protecting his secrets.

Malcolm's breath came in short and shallow pants as his overwrought mind showed him the people he loved: Gil, Ainsley, his mother, Sorcha, Dani, JT, Edrisa lying in caskets all lined up in a row.

"A bit melodramatic for my taste, but then, you are like your mother." Another smile appeared through the thick bristles covering his mouth. "Though, I guess I should, ah, thank you for not including me."

"Malcolm?" Malcolm barely heard Ainsley through the noise filling his head. "Did you hear me? I said Sorcha wants to help you stop Endicott."

He didn't offer a reply.

He couldn't.

Not when panic was an icy poker jabbing him in his belly. He ordered himself to breathe, slow and steady, but the air wheezed in his lungs, stuck there.

He needed Sorcha.

Desperately so.

He could admit that without shame or reservation.

After finding out about Eve being murdered and her apartment bugged, his father nearly being killed by her killer and watching as he shoved his fingers deep into Eddie's eye sockets, and his team busting down the door to his loft to arrest him, he needed a friend.

Someone who believed him.

Who trusted him.

Not say they did while giving him suspicious looks from beneath lowered lashes or the corners of their eyes.

Sorcha would.

More than that, she'd give him the one thing he denied himself these past weeks: human touch.

It wasn't a need for sexual intimacy as much as it was a craving for the feel of her body warm and real against his, her uniquely exotic scent wrapping around him, her soft, lilting voice singing in his ear, "It's all right."

However, he feared that by accepting her comfort and help, her friendship and support that she'd meet the same end Eve had.

He couldn't let that happen.

He couldn't lose Sorcha, too.

His fingers rattled hard enough to bounce off his thighs.

"Go see her." Ainsley set a hand on his arm. "I'll deal with mom."

Before Malcolm could stop himself, he went.

 

Chapter Text

Malcolm took the stairs two a time, uncaring about the lecture he'd get from his mother. He couldn't care less about things like rules or decorum. Not when his body vibrated with the force of the emotions pent-up inside him.

He felt... to much.

Any second he anticipated exploding from the pressure.

Wouldn't his mother really be upset if he became a huge stain on her pristine walls and carpet?

Malcolm cleared the final stair and raced down the hall to his old bedroom. He burst into the room, startling Sorcha, who jumped up from his bed with a tiny gasp.

Seeing her sent a fresh fireball of shame, guilt, and longing through him. He hadn't realized how much he missed her until she stood less than a foot away from him.

"Mal—" was all she got out before he lurched forward to grab her in a hard, desperate embrace. She let out a surprised squeak but it was less about him latching onto her like an octopus and more how hard he squeezed her.

He didn't let go of his hold, though.

He couldn't.

"You're here." He released a shuddering breath as he buried his face into her neck. Curled his fingers into the soft folds of the sweater she wore. Anchoring himself in the present to avoid falling into the hands of the past. "You're here."

"Of course, I'm here." Sorcha shifted, settled herself more firmly against him before she started rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. The touch he craved giving the comfort he needed. "Did you think I wouldn't come if you asked?"

"After everything that happened between us..." Malcolm took a moment and allowed himself to breathe deep of that uniquely haunting scent that was hers and hers alone. Felt it slide down to where all his hurts gathered into one gigantic ball. His fingers quaked so he dug them deeper into the folds of her sweater. "I wasn't sure if you'd come or not."

"Mal, you should have reached out to me the second you found out your girlfriend had been murdered." Her arms tightened around him. "You shouldn't have gone through that alone."

"I didn't want to burden you."

"Your girlfriend was murdered." Mild exasperation coated her tone. "You weren't burdening me."

"Ex."

"Semantics." Those quick, clever fingers of hers drifted to the back of his neck. Lightly kneaded at his taut muscles. "Your girlfriend is dead." The fingers on his back stilled. "And you were arrested on suspicion of having murdered her murderer."

Malcolm's world tipped. If not for her arms around him he might have collapsed at her feet.

Much as he had that night at Gil's.

She couldn't believe he killed Eddie, could she?

No, that was impossible. Next to Gil, Sorcha was the one person who knew him best. She's the one who says I'm not my father. That I'm not broken.

"I didn't..."

"I know you didn't kill him." Softly, firmly. "I know you. I know you're not a killer."

"Gil—"

"Doesn't think you're a killer, either." Her fingers resumed their gentle ministrations. "He's got to play this hand as it was dealt to him, though. His orders came from the top. He couldn't disobey."

"Endicott..."

"Is framing you." She released a shuddering breath. "We know that. The problem is proving it."

He waved to the bracelet fixed to his ankle. "This thing doesn't help."

"As if you don't know how to get out of that ankle monitor," she scoffed. "Please, Mal."

"I studied fugitive trade craft with the Marshals Service in Glynco," he admitted with a small smile. "But I don't exactly have the tools here I need to disable the alarm sensor."

"Well, I guess it's a good thing I stopped at your loft before coming here then, huh?"

"You stopped at my loft?"

"I did." Sorcha waved a hand at the bed. "Grabbed your clothes, meds, and that FBI bag of yours at the bottom of the trunk in front of your bed..."

A smile, his first real one in weeks, curved his lips.

"You broke into my loft?'

"Not exactly."

Malcolm's brow furrowed. "What do you mean not exactly?"

"Technically, my police escort broke into your loft." Sorcha's eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. "And he let me in for the sole purpose of getting your clothes and medication."

"Police escort?" His head tilted slightly to the side. "Who was there with you?"

"Gil."

"Gil?" Malcolm's eyes blinked wide. "That's why he wasn't there when I was released."

"He had a feeling I'd head to your place before coming here so he sat on your loft."

"He knows you grabbed my bag then."

Sorcha harrumphed as she stepped back.

"I'm a little sneakier than that, thank you."

That had him curious.

"How did you sneak it out?"

"Stuffed it into my purse."

Malcolm turned to look at the white bag fixed to the handle of his travel case. "It's in there? Seriously?"

"Told you I had a good reason for why I always carry large tote bags."

"I just thought it was your addiction to Hello Kitty."

"Sanrio," she corrected as she moved to the bag and unzipped it. "They make the best purses."

"I'll keep that in mind when I'm looking to buy a purse."

She glanced at him in amusement.

"There is one I have had my eye on for the last few months..."

Malcolm hummed a small laugh.

"Is that a hint as to what you want for your birthday?"

"You free is what I want for my birthday." She pulled out his blue backpack. "But the purse can be a bonus for helping you figure out this mess you've gotten yourself into."

"You deserve more than a purse for helping me with this."

'She deserves someone to love her unconditionally and without any of the reservations you have,' a loquacious voice whispered in his ear. 'Someone who won't push her aside when someone comes along and tempts you to walk a dark, dangerous path.'

Malcolm shut the voices out as he took the bag from her and stashed it under his bed.

He didn't need them reminding him about his many failures.

He remembered them all on his own.

Nor did he need them telling him he didn't deserve Sorcha.

He knew he didn't.

Not after the way he hurt her. And this isn't the first time I did this to her, he thought as he straightened.

"If we don't figure out how your DNA got on that body it won't matter what I deserve." Sorcha's eyes met his. "You'll be going to prison." She made a face. "Or Claremont."

Neither a place he wanted to end up. Before Malcolm could tell her that a knock sounded at the door.

"Gil's downstairs," Ainsley called out. "He says he wants to talk to you and Sorcha."

Much as he wanted to talk to Gil, to try and explain he had nothing to do with Eddie's death, he wasn't ready to face him.

Not after what happened in his loft.

Not after Gil told him he was under arrest.

"Tell him I don't want to talk right now."

Petulant, sure.

He didn't care.

"And do I tell him Sorcha is up here sulking with you?"

"You can," Sorcha said as she moved to set a hand on his shoulder. "He'd believe it."

"And then come up here and talk to you through the door."

"She has a point," Sorcha said. "He's done it before."

"I know." Malcolm made a face. "And I need to talk to him. I'm just..."

"Not ready, I know." She squeezed his shoulder before stepping back. "I'll go and talk to him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She smoothed her hands down the front of her sweater. "Ains, tell Gil I'll be down in a minute."

"Okay." Ainsley's heels made only a whisper of sound as she walked away. "I'll also tell him Malcolm's busy sulking and won't be coming down."

Malcolm rolled his eyes as he took a seat on his bed. "I wonder what he wants?"

"Probably realized he didn't confiscate all my electronic devices."

Malcolm looked at her inquisitively.

"He took your phone?"

"And my laptop." She waved to the bed. "You still had my iPad at your loft so he didn't take that."

She left many things at his loft when she walked out on him.

Not walked out on me, he corrected as she walked over to retrieve the iPad she dropped when he burst into the room. Realized I was about to walk out on her and left to spare herself the added pain and humiliation.

"I'll take this with me in case it's what he's here for."

"You don't have to give it to him."

"Yes, I do." Sorcha stroked a hand over his head. "He said if Endicott could have Eve Blanchard's place bugged that he could do the same to any of us. And installing software on our electronic devices nowadays that allows him to monitor our calls, texts, emails is amazingly easy to do."

He hadn't considered that.

Course, there hadn't been much time between getting home and watching Eve float around his loft and being arrested for him to process what little information he had managed to gather.

"Does Gil think my loft has been bugged?"

She nodded. "He's having it swept tomorrow to see."

Malcolm pondered that as he stared at the woman floating in the corner of the room.

Murdered because of her desire to find out what happened to her sister.

Murdered because his father kidnapped Sophie and planned to kill her until suddenly deciding to let her go.

Murdered because of her association with him.

"You see her, don't you?" No bitterness tinged Sorcha's tone. No hurt or resentment. Just a quiet sadness and sympathy. "Your girlfriend?"

"Ex." He heaved a sigh. "And yes."

"Semantics." She moved to the door. "She was your girlfriend and she was murdered. You need to grieve for her. For the relationship." She glanced back at him. "You also need to get her justice, Malcolm. That's the only way you and her will find peace."

"Sorch—" he broke off, not sure what he wanted to say. Not able to say what he wanted. Knowing she wouldn't believe him if he told her all the things he desperately wanted to tell her. He finally settled on, "Tell Gil I'm sorry."

"I will." She opened the door. "Oh, and Mal?"

"What?"

"Take a shower." Her dimples winked. "You smell like the jail."

His lips kicked up at the corner. "Least I don't smell like the subway this time."

"One step above, actually."

"Won't have to burn my clothes."

"You burned a ten-thousand dollar suit?" Sorcha leaned back against the door, one hand to her heart while she fanned herself with the other. All theatrics. All for the purpose of making him smile. "And your mother didn't skin you for it?"

"I didn't tell her."

"Ah." She nodded. "Wise move, grasshopper."

She surprised a laugh out of him. Like she always did.

Because Sorcha understood his moods, his needs.

She just understood him.

And he pushed her away for a woman who walked away once she got what she wanted.

"Sorch—" he began again. "I..."

"Don't." She softened her brusque tone with a smile. "This isn't about us. It's about getting justice for your girlfriend and putting a stop to a terrible man."

"We have to talk about this," he said quietly. "About us."

"That's just it, Mal." Sorcha opened the door but didn't exit. "There is no us. There's never been an us. There can never be an us."

She left him alone then with the floating figure staring at him with her sad eyes.

An angel in white.

While the devil attended some charity function or dinner in a twenty-thousand dollar suit.

 

Chapter Text

"Gil." Jessica plastered a pleasant smile on her face as she sailed into the living room. Regal as a queen. Or a mama bear about to shred the predator threatening one of her cubs. Gil had a feeling he was the predator she longed to tear into. "I'd say it's a pleasure to see you but given how you just arrested my son..."

"Jessica, I had no choice." Gil took his life into his hands as he pushed to his feet and walked towards her. "My orders came from the top. I had no choice but to arrest him. As of this moment, he's our prime suspect."

Jessica, predictably, scoffed.

She didn't slap him, though.

She didn't let him off the hook, either.

"You had no choice but to bust down his door and treat him like some common animal?"

"I didn't arrange for SWAT to be there when we went to arrest him." He had to wait for his fury to pass before continuing. It was difficult to think in logical steps through anger. However justified that anger might be. "They were there when we got there and already in process of breaking down the door."

Something he had not been happy about. Fury, a raging flood of it, swept him as he recalled seeing the outer door to Bright's loft open and SWAT lined up in the inner stairwell, ready to kick the front door in and rush him.

"What?" Her eyes glittered with a mixture of anger and concern. "On whose order was that permission given?"

"I can't answer that." He wished he could. "All I know is it came from the top."

One dark brow arched. "From the top?"

Gil nodded.

"It came directly from the commissioner's office."

Jessica's mouth dropped open. If not for the seriousness of the situation, Gil might have teased her about it. She recovered quickly. A testament to her strength.

"The order came from the police commissioner?"

Gil didn't want to believe the order to bring Bright in came directly from the commissioner but he had no proof it hadn't. All he could say was, "If not from him then from someone in his inner circle."

He had a few good guesses there about who in the commissioner's inner circle the order might have come from. He just couldn't prove that either.

Not yet, anyway.

Soon, though.

He'd find out who it was and make them pay for the trauma they inflicted on Bright.

"Nicholas is behind this, isn't he?"

Gil wished he could tell her no.

He did.

More than anything he wanted to tell her everything was going to turn out alright, he'd fix things.

He couldn't.

Gil wasn't sure how to go about setting things right. Not given the enemy they were dealing with. Every move was under scrutiny. One misstep could see any of them end up on a slab in the morgue.

If their bodies were even found.

That's why he needed the kid to not do what he typically did: run off on his own.

They had no idea how many assassins Endicott had on his payroll.

They didn't have a clue how far or deep his reach went. If it extended to Washington like Sorcha suggested earlier when she told him, "I think Malcolm's firing had a bit of a helping hand."

It wasn't impossible for him to believe that.

It never sat well with him, the kid's ousting from the bureau. It seemed to much of a coincidence that it came at the exact same time Carter Berkhead started repeating The Quartet killings. Almost as if someone was pulling strings from behind the scenes to make sure Malcolm resumed seeing his father.

He could even see Doctor Whitly calling in such a favor in return for his continued silence about Sophie Sanders. Bright's firing from the FBI ensured he'd have to return home to New York. Returning home meant resuming visiting him. And that, Gil knew, was the only thing that mattered to Martin Whitly.

"Gil?"

"Yes." He let his fingers brush against hers. The most he could allow himself until things with Nicholas Endicott had been resolved. Their kiss lingered in his mind. Fed his determination to make things right before thinking about taking things any further with Jessica. "That's why Malcolm can't go off on his own. Not with everything going on."

"Malcolm won't be alone, Gil," a voice spoke up. "I'm here to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, remember?"

Gil turned a bemused look on the woman framed in the doorway. "He doesn't need you going off to do something stupid for him, either."

"As if he'd let me go alone."

That's what concerned him.

"Bright doesn't need you enabling him."

"I've been enabling him for years." Sorcha tossed her shoulder as she headed for the couch. "That's part of the problem."

"It's something you need to work on, kiddo."

"I'm going to help Malcolm however I can, Gil." Determination toughened her voice. "I'm not letting him get sent to prison or Claremont."

"Malcolm cannot leave this house," Jessica stated in a voice like velvet steel. "He knows that."

"He knows it," Gil told her, "but he won't listen."

Like always, he added silently.

"He's wearing an ankle monitor…"

"That he learned how to remove while training with the Marshal Service during his stint at Glynco."

Gil kept his eyes on Sorcha's. Waiting for a twitch or a blink that'd give away that removing the monitor was what the kid planned to do.

Her eyes were huge, dark, unreadable.

Face glacier calm.

The perfect poker face.

He should have expected it from her, though. Loyalty and support. They were a religion with this woman. She had been the kid's rock since they were eighteen. His unwavering line of support. No matter what problems were between them she'd stand by him.

Offer him the comfort he needed while he grieved for Eve Blanchard.

Help him with figuring out how he got framed for the murder of Eddie.

Work with him to figure out Endicott's endgame and put a stop to it. To him.

It not only made her the kid's strongest ally but also his. Her family connections could help him in finding out how deep Endicott was in the pockets of the commissioners office.

"Malcolm doesn't have the tools necessary to remove said ankle monitor."

Gil slanted a look at her.

"You snuck his FBI bag out of his loft in your purse."

"Maybe I did." Her shoulders lifted into a shrug. "And maybe I didn't."

"Plausible deniability doesn't apply here, kiddo."

"The way I see it?" A slight smirk twisted her lips. "I'm neither confirming nor denying I snuck his FBI bag here."

"I checked the trunk in front of his bed after you went into the bathroom to get his shaving kit." He folded his arms across his chest. "The bag was not there."

"So, I grabbed it." Sorcha took a seat on the couch. "Given what's going on, I felt it a good idea to bring it to him."

"His service revolver is in it?"

"I won't confirm what's in the bag, Gil. That," she said as Jessica let out a small distressed sound, "you will need to ask him about."

"When and if he decides to talk to me."

"It's the 90s all over again." Jessica made for the sideboard. "At least his father languishes in a prison cell." She let out a small sigh. "Finally."

"Malcolm just needs time to process everything."

"We should call Gabrielle." Jessica reached for a decanter. "Make an appointment for him to see her since he will not make one on his own."

"I already made one."

Jessica glanced at Sorcha over her shoulder. "You already made one?"

"Yes, I did." Sorcha tucked her hair behind her ears. "He'll deny it but he's in crisis and needs proper counseling to help him."

"You think he's in crisis?" Jessica's expression was pained.

"His girlfriend has been murdered and he's been framed for the murder of her killer." Sorcha set her iPad on the coffee table. "Beyond that, his greatest fear has come to life as the man he idolizes and looks upon as a mentor is the one who arrested him on suspicion of that murder."

Guilt formed a lead ball in Gil's belly. If he had things to do all over again, he'd have found some way to let Bright know what was going on.

Tell him he believed him.

Trusted him.

He didn't have that option, though. He hadn't been given that choice or chance.

"I had no choice but to arrest him," he repeated as he moved to take a seat in one of the chairs. "My orders were clear."

"I know that, you know that, and deep down, Malcolm knows that." Sorcha accepted the tumbler Jessica handed her with a nod. "However, knowing is also wrapped up in the importance of the facts." She took a small sip of the amber liquid. It was one of the few times Gil ever saw her drink alcohol. Given the situation, he couldn't fault her need for it. It had been a hard night for all of them. "What he knows is that his team busted down his door, cuffed him, took him to central booking, put an ankle monitor on him, and essentially don't believe him when he says he didn't do it."

Gil shook his head at Jessica's offer of a drink. As much as he'd love a shot of liquid courage at that moment, it wouldn't mesh well with the pot of stale coffee he consumed while trying to figure a way to get Bright out of the mess he was in.

"I know he didn't do it."

"You need to tell him that." Sorcha rest the glass on her knee. "He needs to know you believe him. That you trust him."

"I will tell him that once I know what we are up against." Gil blew out a breath and sat forward. "That's why I'm here. I need your help."

"My help?" One eyebrow winged up. "With what?"

"Finding out who inside the commissioner's office might be on Endicott's payroll."

Sorcha's made a small, speculative sound deep in her throat.

"Uncle Hoyt'd be able to help you with that," she said. "He still has many friends in the commissioners office." She took another sip of her drink before setting it on the table beside her iPad. "You should call him."

"I can't contact him myself." At her quizzical look, he explained. "It'd raise too much suspicion if I reached out to the former deputy commissioner."

"Good point." She blew out a heavy breath. "I'll call him on Uncle Jamie's phone and ask if he knows anyone in the commissioner's office who could be in Endicott's employ."

"Your uncle gave you his cell phone?" He didn't know why he was surprised but he was. "What else did he give you?"

Because he didn't believe for one minute that was the only thing Lieutenant Jamie Brannigan gave his niece.

"He also gave me my dad's service revolver and a stern lecture about obeying you."

"He gave your dad's service revolver to you?"

Unease slithered into Gil's belly. Brannigan wouldn't have done that if he wasn't worried about his niece's safety.

"Yes, he did." Sorcha sat back on the couch with a sigh. "He said that someone willing to hire an assassin to kill Eve Blanchard won't have any problem whatsoever in taking out whoever else he feels is a threat."

And his niece could be viewed as a threat given her connections with the department.

"You have your carry permit with you?"

"Always."

"Gil." Jessica's soft warble got him to look at her. "You don't really think Nicholas could send someone to kill us, do you?"

He pushed to his feet and moved to her. "I think Nicholas Endicott is willing to do anything at this point." He set his hands on her shoulders. "Especially if it achieves whatever he has planned."

"My god…"

"I'll fix this, Jessica." Somehow, some way. "I promise."

She lifted wide, fearful eyes to his. "Just be careful, Gil."

He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before stepping back. "I'll be careful." He looked over at Sorcha. "Stay close to Bright."

"I plan to be his shadow."

That's what worried him. Gil made a mental note to call Lieutenant Brannigan once he got home. Somebody needed to keep an eye on the kids and there was nobody he could think better suited for the job than her uncle.

 

Chapter Text

There was no point trying to sleep.

Not when every time he closed his eyes he ended up across from his father in an orange jumpsuit.

Of course, that particular dream only came when he wasn't flipping through the rolodex that contained his every memory of Eve.

He needed a distraction.

No, what he desperately needed was comfort.

He couldn't go to Gil for it.

Not this time.

Not after what happened.

Sorcha, of course, was in the room across from his but was it fair to turn to her and ask her for comfort?

He didn't think so.

And Eve... well, she was the reason why he needed comfort in the first place.

"I'm still here, Malcolm," her voice whispered in the dark. "I haven't left you."

"You left me as soon as you got what you wanted from me." His bitterness pierced the air. Soured his heart. "You didn't have feelings for me. You were just using me." His voice broke. "I let you use me."

"That's not true." A hand reached out towards his but he jerked it away, terrified of what'd happen if it — because he couldn't rightly call this thing she— touched him. "You know that isn't true. I had very real feelings for you."

"Someone with very real feelings would have come back after they found their sister."

"I was trying to protect you."

He laughed, the sound hollow even to his own ears. "No, you weren't. You had what you wanted and didn't have any further need for me."

Like so many others.

"Malcolm..."

"Go away," he pleaded as he curled into a ball. "Please. Just go away."

"You don't really want me to go away, though."

"Yes, I do." Nausea rolled through his belly and he thought any minute he'd be sick. "I want you to go away. Now. Please."

The bed dipped as if someone crawled into it but that was impossible. There was nobody here save for him.

"Let me comfort you." Sinewy arms curled around him and held him tighter than the restraints he strapped himself into before trying to sleep. "Like I did whenever you had a bad night."

"No," he whimpered, feeling himself waver and hating himself for it. "Go away. Just go away. Please."

A cold hand settled on his roiling stomach, shocking him. Malcolm let out a yelp and went to bolt out of the bed but his restraints kept him firmly in place. Tears slicked his cheeks, pooled in the corner of his mouth so he could taste the saltiness of them every time he opened his mouth to tell her to leave.

"Leave." He begged now. "Please, just leave."

A soft knock sounded at the door before she could again refuse. Malcolm pathetically hoped it'd be Sorch at his door but figured it was his mother.

"Go away," he managed around the thick lump in the middle of his throat. "Just go away."

"I'm not moving from this spot."

It wasn't his mother.

It was Sorcha.

Malcolm heard her, he angled his head, stared at his closed bedroom door, but he hurt so badly he couldn't form the words necessary to answer her.

"Malcolm, I'll sit outside this door until you answer. See if I don't."

He swore she learned the knack of issuing commands from his mother. Her simple words held the same echoes of authority, and the same undertones of compulsion his mother's could.

"Why are you awake?" he asked as a ghostly breath blew across his clammy skin. "You should be sleeping."

"Sleep issues." He could almost see the smirk screwing up the corner of her mouth. "I developed them because of my dope for a best friend."

His stomach twisted into greasy knots. A combination of guilt, grief, and a never ending wave of regret.

"You know you don't have to knock."

"Given how things are at the moment…" Sorcha opened the door and stepped inside. "It seemed like the appropriate thing to do."

He hated that she felt like she had to ask his permission to enter his room.

Hated himself for being the cause of this divide between them.

How to fix it, though?

He had no clue.

"You never worried about knocking before."

"You weren't talking to your dead girlfriend before."

There was no heat in her tone. No bitterness. Just a soft understanding that hurt beyond description.

"I want her to go away." His hand trembled so hard he swore the bones would crack. "I told her to go away."

Sorcha came and sat on the edge of the bed. Another change, Malcolm realized as a shudder rolled through him. Before she'd have crawled into bed with him, curled herself around him, singing softly until he found his balance. His calm.

"She won't ever go away, Mal." Her lips curved into a sad, sweet smile. "Some part of Eve Blanchard will remain with you even after you figure out why she was killed." She heaved a quiet sigh. "It's how grief works. Even if you get over her death she will still be between you and whatever women you date."

She said as much to Gil a few weeks ago. That she couldn't be with him because she'd never trust, never believe he was with her because she was the one he wanted.

"That won't happen."

"Mal, no woman will ever live up to the illusion of her you've created of her. You've turned her into a paragon."

"She's not you."

Sorcha's face went blank as stone. "We really shouldn't discuss this right now."

"Why not?"

"Because I've got enough whiskey sloshing around in my gut at the moment to not be shy about what I say."

"You've been drinking with my mother?"

Sorcha quit drinking after the night they went out with Mandy and he got attacked. For her to indulge now shocked him to the core of his being.

"I needed a drink after finding out your girlfriend was murdered by the same man who tried to kill your father and that you were arrested on suspicion of killing in retaliation." She stared down at the hands she folded neatly in her lap. "Now, I suggest we focus on that subject instead of one that will cause us to hurt each other more than we already are hurting."

"We can't avoid this subject forever."

Not if we hope to ever get back to what we were.

"There's nothing for us to discuss, Mal. I told you, I'll be your friend. I'll be here for you as you grieve your girlfriend. I'll help you with finding out why she was murdered. I'll help you figure out how you were framed for Eddie's murder. I'll even help you with stopping this man, Endicott. But I won't be your replacement for her. We both deserve more than that."

"If I can't fix things with you, how can I solve how I was framed or why Eve was killed?"

"Because solving murders is what you are good at." Her lips curved, warm with affection and amusement. "It's relationships you suck at."

She wasn't wrong.

Murder and murderers he understood.

Relationships? Made about as much sense as current fashion trends.

"I need you, Sorch."

"You needed me so much you choose a woman who lied to you from the moment she met you, ghosted you for months after a disastrous first date, never once checked on you after your ordeal with Watkins, and who continued to lie to you even after your mother got you back together."

Malcolm flinched as every word hit home. Every one was the absolute truth.

And he pushed her into speaking them.

"I'm—"

"Sorry?" Sorcha pushed to her feet so she could pace in small, tight circles in front of the bed. "You keep saying that, Mal. And I believe you mean it," she said with a small nod. "I do believe you mean it. But the reality is you chose superficiality over substance. Fantasy over reality. Lies over truth."

"I don't think I wan—"

"You wanted to pour the contents of this jar out on the table." She spun on one heel and stalked towards his bookcase. "You can't un-tip that jar now that those contents are in front of you and you don't like them."

She was right. He had asked for this. Pushed for it despite her warning he wasn't ready to hear what she had to say.

"You're right." Malcolm pushed himself into a seated position as Eve left him to float by the window. Proof that Sorcha was right and Eve would always be there. Always lurking at the fringes of his mind. Always a ghostly figure between him and the person he desperately wished would fold him in her arms and comfort him. "I did push you into discussing this. I thought I was ready to discuss this."

"But you're not." Again no heat. No bitterness. Just a weariness he knew went deep down into her soul. "Same as you were not ready for a relationship after what Watkins did but you pushed at me until I gave in, believing you, trusting you."

"You're right." His shoulders bowed under the weight of his guilt. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You did, though." Sorcha folded her arms about herself. "You couldn't leave things with Eve alone despite my telling you to do so. At first, I tried to understand. Told myself that making amends was just your way. After a while, though, it started eating away at me. You were calling and texting her even when it was our time together. When you told me she was coming over for dinner I knew you were going back to her."

"Why did you never point out what I was doing?"

That question had been plaguing him for weeks. When he did other things that annoyed or upset her she confronted him about them.

Except when it came to him constantly pushing her away when someone else came along.

"Ed said it was an extreme case of mudita. That I took such delight in your happiness that I overlooked my own."

"You shouldn't forsake your happiness. Not for me. I—"

"— will wallop you with a pillow if you complete that sentence."

He frowned. "Why would you hit me with a pillow?"

"Because you were about to say you don't deserve it."

It was galling sometimes how well she knew him.

Why wouldn't she, though?

Sorcha had fourteen years with him. They'd gone from inexperienced college kids to knowledgeable and capable adults. Well, reasonably capable, Malcolm amended as Eve floated behind Sorcha to linger by his bookcase.

He wasn't capable of navigating the waters he currently found himself. JT and Gil both offered him advice on what to do, but he hadn't listened.

And look where that got me.

"I don't deserve you."

"I'm inclined to agree." He winced, ducked his head to prevent her from seeing how much those words stung. "Yet, I'm still here, Mal. Still fighting for you and with you. Still believing in you. Still supporting you."

"I keep trying to tell you I'm—"

"— gonna get walloped if you finish that sentence, too."

"I'm—"

"—not broken," she bit out each word.

"I know you believe that but..."

"Nope."

"Sorch..." it came out almost a whine.

"We can argue over anything you like but not that," she said, tone firm. "I won't concede my stance now anymore than I would back in school."

Malcolm sucked in a breath as he lifted his head to look at her.

In the dim shadows, her eyes were huge, dark, unreadable.

Her face a porcelain mask formed from fierce determination and ironclad resolve.

His most loyal supporter.

The one person he didn't have to wonder if he could trust.

Rely on.

Reach out to when the world was coming down around him.

That he didn't have any right to ask for comfort from after he hurt her so deeply but which he couldn't stop himself from requesting, anyway.

"Would you hold me?" Raw, naked vulnerability coated every word. He didn't call them back, though. He couldn't. Not when everything inside him hurt. He shut his eyes. Not wanting to see the rejection he was sure to receive. "Please?"

The bed dipped but he couldn't bring himself to look.

Too terrified it'd be his vision of Eve and not Sorcha.

Tears leaked out the corners of his eyes when warm arms folded around him.

Drew him back against a body made of soft curves and pliant flesh.

One small hand curved over his bruised heart while the other rest on his cramping belly.

A soft sigh tickled the hair at his ear as jasmine and orchids enveloped him in a heady, intoxicating cloud.

Then she started to hum and Malcolm knew, he just knew, it'd be alright.

'Sun, sun, sun, here it comes…'

 

Chapter 5

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Malcolm awoke to early morning sunlight filtering through a crack in the drapes. A frown furrowed his brow as he stared at the thin slit in the rich blue material. He never slept curled on his side. He usually slept on his back.

A warm body against his back, soft breath tickling the back of his ear, and an arm curved protectively around his middle provided him with the reason for why he slept on his side.

Must have fallen asleep while she was signing, he reasoned as he attenuated to the sound of her breathing. Deep and even.

The sleep of the slightly inebriated.

Malcolm didn't fault her for her indulgence. He had been seeking the oblivion at the bottom of the whiskey decanter when SWAT bust down his door.

That the day before hadn't been a good one for either of them was a gross understatement. Malcolm couldn't claim he wasn't culpable for some of what happened, though.

He poked the bear by taking Eve to see his father. Getting him to tell them about Sophie. He caused her death by not leaving things alone as his father insisted.

He was in this mess because he put what he needed ahead of the case. Instead of smartly and wisely investigating Eve's death, he pushed full-throttle ahead and got himself arrested on suspicion of murder. He needed to take the logical route if he wanted to prove himself innocent.

He just didn't expect to have to do it alone.

Not alone, he realized as Sorcha's hand twitched where it lay atop his. She's here to help me.

Like she always was.

Guilt mingled with the rest of the emotions souring his stomach. If it took the rest of his life, he'd make up for being such a terrible friend to her.

Not just a friend, he amended as he made to free himself from his restraints. Also...

Surprise stopped him from finishing that thought. A frown creased his brow as he held up his arm.

His restraint had been removed.

"I removed them," Sorcha murmured against his shoulder. "Wanted to get comfortable."

"You know better than to remove them."

"Malcolm." She bit the word out in much the same way his mother did when she had enough of his crap. "I'm a tiny bit hungover, emotionally wore out, exhausted from lack of sleep, and in no mood to go round and round with you about this."

"You know why I need them."

"Also know I've spent fifteen years learning your breathing and body movements, teaching myself to wake before you go into a full attack, using classical conditioning techniques to combat the anxiety and paranoia."

"You've been using classical conditioning techniques on me?" More intrigued than annoyed, he looked over his shoulder at her. "What made you decide to try that?"

"Seeing how my singing calmed you after that first night terror inspired the idea to try it before you go into one."

Malcolm shifted onto his side to face her.

"Is that why you always sing Here Comes the Sun?"

"Dad always sang it to me because of how much comfort it brought me." Sorcha stretched her legs out against his. A familiar action that brought comfort and a wealth of good memories. "So, I decided to share it with you for the same reason. And I keep sharing it with you because I love you."

"Even if I'm a terrible friend."

"You're not a terrible friend." She made a face. "You just have moments where you're a complete and utter ass."

"I'm going to make it up to you, Sorch." He made that promise even as Eve floated back and forth in front of his bookcase. "I'm going to make it up to you."

"I don't want you to make up anything, you dope."

"But—"

"Some things you can't make up for." Her hand took his. "You just do your best to never do those things again."

"I want to be a better friend than I have been."

"Well, I think proving your innocence and taking this Endicott down needs to come before that promise." She squeezed his fingers. "Won't be able to do much if you end up behind bars. You know they won't put you in the vulnerable prisoner wing."

He'd end up in general population.

Same as his father.

Only, he'd have a larger target on his back being a former federal agent and the son of the Surgeon.

"Dr. Tanaka is who we need to talk with first."

Malcolm agreed with her.

"Edrisa can tell us about Eddie's body."

"The blood is what I'm more interested in."

"It's not mine."

Sorcha rolled her eyes. "No shit, Einstein."

"It's too early for sarcasm."

"You woke me up by fidgeting."

Instantly contrite, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Go back to sleep."

"No." She pushed herself up with a groan. "We have a small window to work with here before charges will officially be brought against you."

"They can't formally charge me. The evidence they have is fabricated."

"And damming." She moved to sit on the side of the bed. "Grand jury will see that and call for charges. We have to prove it's fake or planted before then."

"Fake?" Malcolm sat up. "Do you think that's possible?"

"Dad worked a case a few years before his death where a doctor was brought up on charges of murdering his wife and children. He claimed he was innocent. Turns out he was telling the truth and that his partner had a fake DNA sample made by a couple of students at Berkeley."

"That doesn't explain how my skin and hair fibers got on Eddie."

"Malcolm." The faint edge of irritation worked its way into her voice. "It really be nice if you'd remember you were a federal agent at some point."

"I've never forgotten I was a federal agent."

"Try thinking like one then."

"I am thinking like one." He frowned. "Why do you think I'm not?"

"Because the case involves you."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"You don't do you." She twisted around at his scoff. "You've admitted yourself that when you're working a case that you don't focus on yourself. Well, you have to do that here because you are the main focus. Not Eve, your dad, Endicott, you."

Much as Malcolm wanted to, he couldn't deny any of that. He didn't think about himself when working cases. His safety and well-being didn't matter when he was trying to find a missing person or stop a killer.

This time, though, he was the primary focus. It was his innocence he had to prove. Eve, her sister, his dad, and Endicott were all part of the problem. They were also part of the solution. He had to find the pieces. Connect all the dots. Arrive at the conclusion that'd see him exonerated.

"You're right." Malcolm drew one leg up and placed his arm across it. "I don't worry about myself or my well-being when working cases. And," he said before Sorcha could interject with her typical no, shit comment, "I can't do that this time. Not if I want to prove I didn't kill Eddie."

"There's just one problem with that."

"What?"

"You're an adrenaline-junkie. You crave the high you get from running into dangerous situations. That's why you pick superficial relationships. There's some form of risk involved. Some element of danger. The potential for pain. And before you say it..." Her lips twitched. "I know your thoughts on Jung and masochism. Doesn't change the fact that you're a borderline masochist. Only, you believe you deserve the pain because of what your father did."

"I am to blame. If I had—"

"Nope."

Malcolm frowned.

"What?"

"Not getting into that." She blew out a breath as she combed her fingers through her hair. "Not until I'm not so hungover, anyway."

"Sorch, everything that's happened in my life has been a direct result of what my father did."

"Yes, it screwed you up, but you're why you can't settle in and be happy with someone like me."

"I was happy with you."

"If that was true, you wouldn't have gone back to Eve." No heat, no rancor, just a weariness Malcolm understood all too well. "Things with us are easy. There's no thrill. No spark. No danger."

"I don't tend to recall our sex life being boring."

"Sex has strong energy, when it's done correctly." Her lips curved, almost affectionately. "We never had a problem in that area. It was everywhere else that we struggled."

"Sex is easy." God, his life had been so much simpler when he was just trying to infiltrate an undercover sex club. Second he decided to try doing normal things was when everything came apart. "Love is dangerous."

"Love is dangerous because it requires us to open ourselves up, make ourselves vulnerable, make us susceptible to being hurt, and to hurting others."

"You've never hurt me."

"I've hurt you plenty of times over the years, Malcolm."

"No, you haven't."

"Sure, I have." She set a hand on his ankle. "You just don't see it."

"I don't see it because it isn't true."

"Just because I'm the healthiest relationship you have had with a woman doesn't mean I haven't done things to hurt you."

"Not arguing about this."

Her words when she didn't want to get into his reasons for why he was broken and couldn't be fixed. Something she didn't appreciate by the scowl she gave him.

"I've been petty, jealous, spiteful, and bitchy in the last twenty-four hours alone."

"Don't minimize your feelings." More of her own words. "They're valid and important."

She harrumphed and turned her back on him.

"Don't parrot my words at me."

Malcolm's lips trembled.

"You use them on me all the time."

"You tend to minimize your feelings to avoid dealing with them."

"You need to go back to sleep."

"No, I need coffee." She flicked a look at him from over her shoulder. "Gimme your shirt."

"Why?"

"Because the reason for why you like how I smell is the same reason why I like how you smell."

It calms her when she's not settled, he instantly translated. Well, there was something he could do to help with that.

"Come lay back down," he coaxed softly. "I'll rub the back of your neck."

"I'm disappointed," she lightly teased as she scooted back in the bed. "Figured you'd suggest sex as a better headache relief than caffeine."

Malcolm hummed a laugh. "While sexual activity has been proven to provide almost complete relief from most cluster headaches and migraines... my mother being down the hall puts a stop to it."

"Your mother suggested using sex when we couldn't get you to stay home to let your hand heal."

Malcolm gaped at her.

"My mother suggested sex as a means to keep me at home?"

"Mhm." Sorcha tucked her head under his chin with a small, content sound. "Tend to recall you were quite happy to stay home, too."

"I was also trying to avoid Gil."

"Well, you did crush his car."

Malcolm hummed softly as he sifted his fingers through her hair to her nape. "Quiet or I won't sing to you."

Her hand curved over his heart. "You haven't sang to me since the night you got drunk and locked yourself in your bathroom."

"I have no memory of that."

"You were completely shit-faced."

"What did I sing?"

"Barbie Girl."

Malcolm grimaced. "I'm surprised you didn't kill me."

"I considered it."

"Why didn't you?"

"Gil said I'd miss you too much."

Malcolm hummed a laugh as he rubbed her neck in the same slow, soothing circles she and Gil did when he was out of balance.

"Well, I'm going to sing something better this time, I promise."

"I Don't Want To Miss A Thing?"

It wasn't his original choice of song but it was what she requested. So he sang it, committing the moment to memory, as he had every time she sang Here Comes The Sun to him.

Notes:

Tom Singing
Link being fussy: https://youtu.be/2o9yQah0juA

Chapter Text

"I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come out of your room."

Malcolm frowned at his sister as he slid into a chair across from her at the dining room table.

"Sorcha needed to sleep," was the only explanation he gave.

"Sleep." Amusement twinkled in the depths of Ainsley's eyes. Trembled in the curve of her lips. "I can't imagine why."

"She's a bit hungover."

Because she decided to have drinks with our mother last night, he added silently.

Something he still hadn't quite managed to wrap his head around. Sorcha refrained from touching alcohol after the hell Robert put her through last year. That Watkins put them through at Christmas.

That he put them through after he went out a window right before a bomb could make purée of Bright, got electroshock therapy, stabbed his father, and essentially pulled their lives apart when he chose to resume dating Eve.

She reached her breaking point with my getting arrested on suspicion of murder.

Another ball of guilt joined the rest bouncing around in his belly.

"Sorcha was hungover?" One flaxen brow quirked. "I thought she swore off drinking after the night you got attacked?"

"She did." Malcolm kept his gaze trained on the pristine tablecloth covering the table. "She reached a breaking point last night and decided to have a drink or two."

Or three or four.

"You've been through a lot." Ainsley took a sip of her coffee. "Her ex-boyfriend tried to kill her, you got kidnapped by a serial killer, you stabbed Dad, her ex tried to get revenge on you two, and now this. Kinda can see why she had a few drinks last night."

"That's why she needed to sleep."

"Sleep isn't the only thing that works to cure a hangover headache."

Malcolm rolled his eyes as he reached for the silver coffee pot set in the middle of the table.

"Why are you here?" he asked as he poured the hot liquid into a cup. "I figured you would be busy reporting the latest scandal to engulf our family."

"Mom called a meeting."

Malcolm tamped down his frustration. Harder to control was the tremor that rocked his hand.

"Of course, she did."

Why wouldn't their mother call a meeting? Their family was under attack by a man with more resources at his disposal than any of them could have imagined.

"You're in a lot of trouble here, bro."

"I'm perfectly aware of how much trouble I'm in, Ains."

The electronic device cinched around his ankle reminded him how much trouble he was in with every move he made.

"So..." Ainsley looked at him expectantly. Waiting for an answer to a question Malcolm couldn't figure out. When he arched a brow in return, she huffed, and asked, "What's your first move going to be?"

Malcolm considered his answer as he poured coffee into a second cup.

"I need to find a way to see Eddie's body."

That was his top priority, he decided as he carefully set the pot back in the middle of the table. He could figure out how and when Eddie died once he got a look at his body. Harder to prove was the blood not being his. Sorcha has an idea on that, though.

"Why do you need to the body?" A quizzical frown pulled at Ainsley's brow. "What does seeing it do?"

"It will tell me how he died for starters." He spooned sugar into one of the cups. Added enough cream to turn the coffee an almond color. "If I can figure out how he died... what?" he asked when he caught the smile on Ainsley's face. "Why're you smiling at me like that?"

"Isn't sugar and cream how Sorcha takes her coffee?"

Embarrassed color filled Malcolm's cheeks. He ducked his head to avoid seeing Ainsley's smile stretch into a knowing grin.

"Yes, it is."

"So, is it safe to say you two are back on the same page?"

"No." He stirred cream into his own cup. "We're nowhere near being on the same page."

Not with Eve's ghost floating between us and me likely heading to jail for a murder I didn't commit.

"She handled things with Eve better than I would have," Ainsley said as she reached for a piece of toast. "I wouldn't have packed my things and left."

"You'd have made a scene."

"Oh, I'd have made a huge scene," she confirmed as she spread a bit of jelly on the toast. "I would have burst in on your dinner party and made it clear I was your girlfriend and that I wasn't going anywhere."

Malcolm curled his fingers around his cup but did not lift it.

"I wish Sorcha had done that."

"She needed you to make that declaration." She waved her piece of toast at him. "To establish what her place in your life was."

"And I didn't because I'm an idiot."

Ainsley took a bite of her toast and smiled at him. "It's part of your charm." Pit vipers had more charm than he did in his opinion. "Seriously, bro, don't screw things up with Sorcha."

"You mean again?"

"What do you mean again?"

"Ains, I've been screwing things up with Sorcha since we met."

"I like to think you didn't screw things up until second year." Sorcha slid into the chair next to his, smelling of jasmine and orchids, and wearing one of his shirts. Something that Ainsley's smile confirmed she hadn't missed. "That was when you asked Cathy Morrison to go to that mixer being held off campus."

"Cathy Morrison?" Ainsley pursed her lips. "Why do I know that name?"

"She owns and operates Femme Fatale."

"The private, members only sex club?"

"That's the one."

Malcolm bit down on his lip, tasted shame as he recalled Cathy Morrison drug him to an underground sex club instead of going with him to that mixer. Told him she was going to teach him about "sexual freedom" and introduce him to a "bona fide sensual utopia."

What he ended up with were traumas piled on top of the plethora of others he already had. Sorcha discovered a set of half-healed bruises and whip marks on his back and torso after he tweaked his back in a boxing session. She questioned him about them but he refused to answer, too ashamed to tell her what was going on.

Not that his refusal to talk about how he got the injuries stopped Sorcha from finding out. No, she'd simply confronted Cathy and made clear what would happen if she came near him again.

Not that his spiral stopped there. After Cathy came Lori who convinced him to stop taking his medication. That resulted in Gil flying up to get him and bring him home for a thirty day stay in the hospital.

The only reason he didn't fall behind in his classes was because Sorcha taped the lectures on a recorder and brought them to him every weekend.

"You saved me." He hadn't meant to say those words out loud. He wished he could call them back. He couldn't, though, so he glanced at Sorcha from the corner of his eye. "Like you always do."

Her hand settled on his knee under the table, gently squeezed. "We've been saving each other all these years, you dope."

"You saved yourself from Robert."

"I'd be dead if you hadn't figured out where he took me and got Gil and paramedics there in time."

His hand took hers under the table. Needing that comfort and support despite telling himself he didn't deserve it.

"You'd have found a way to save yourself."

Sorcha held up the arm Robert slashed with a knife.

"My arm was useless, Mal. If you hadn't found me when you did, I'd have bled to death."

Twenty stitches, he thought as he stared at the scar running from her wrist almost to her elbow. The doctor who sutured the wound closed told him it was a miracle no muscle or nerves had been severed. Sorcha covered the scar with two hummingbirds drinking from the same orchid. To represent them, she told him the day she got it done.

"You aren't a mess like me, Sorch."

"We're all a mess in our own ways." She side-eyed him. "And if you try to give me the broken and not fixable spiel, I will pour orange juice on you."

"Grape juice stains better."

Malcolm grimaced as he recalled the many times Ainsley poured grape juice on him because she got mad at him for something.

"Oh, I know." Sorcha hummed a laugh. "I poured an entire jug of grape juice on my brother."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty-one."

Ainsley laughed softly.

"Were you mad at him?"

"I was aiming for your brother, actually."

Ainsley blinked her eyes wide. "What did he do?"

"Said I was broken." He slid his fingers between Sorcha's. "Moved before she could get me."

"I got you back later."

The words were low, intimate. Skittered along his every nerve, electrifying them. As she intended them, too.

"Go upstairs, you two," Ainsley teased.

"This feels like 2005 all over again," his mother said as she sailed into the room. "Only, my son wasn't suspected of murder."

"Mother, I assure you, I am innocent."

"I'm perfectly aware of that, dear." His mother took the cup of coffee that Ainsley poured for her with a small smile. "Now, your therapist will be here at ten."

"Don't even think about refusing to see Gabrielle," Sorcha chimed in before Malcolm could launch a protest. "You'll see her or I'm out of here."

As far as threats went, it was an effective one. He'd do anything to keep Sorcha with him. Which she knows, he groused as Ainsley snickered softly. He wished they were kids again. Then he could kick her under the table and be rewarded by getting sent to his room.

"I can see Gabrielle after we figure out how to keep me from going to jail for murder."

"You'll see her today, tomorrow, and any other day that is deemed necessary." Sorcha shifted to face him. "I've let you be lax about seeing her, Mal. No more. You needed to see her after Watkins, after you stabbed your father, after Robert sent that lunatic after us and didn't. Not this time. You're seeing Gabrielle and that's final."

"When did you get so bossy?" He furrowed his brow and poured himself another cup of coffee. "Don't remember you being so bossy."

"Always been bossy," she said as she set a piece of toast on the plate in front of him. "You just didn't mind it."

"I was completely oblivious to it, you mean." He eyed the toast and then her. "Not hungry isn't going to work here, is it?"

"You haven't eaten anything substantial since the day before yesterday."

"I did, too."

"Pretzels and licorice sticks don't count as substantial."

Malcolm inwardly cursed. Of course, she'd predict what he ate. Why wouldn't she? Sorcha knew everything about him.

"They're substantial," he pointed out. "And filling."

"Try eating the toast." She leaned over to brush a kiss to his forehead, his cheek. "For me."

The ends of his lips curled. "That's not manipulative at all."

"I'll get you jello and won ton soup for lunch."

His lips inched up another fraction of an inch.

"Bribery now?"

"If she was going to bribe you," Ainsley popped in to say, "she'd need that nurse outfit I saw in the back of your closet."

"Ains!" Malcolm glowered at his sister.

"What?" She blinked her eyes. The picture of innocence. "It's not like it's some big secret here, bro."

Malcolm wished the floor would open up and plunge him into the basement.

"Ains," Sorcha said with a small kernel of amusement. "You're embarrassing your brother."

"I know." Ainsley smirked. "That's why it's so much fun."

Malcolm shot her a dirty look. Before he could reply, Louisa entered, and placed a platter of eggs and some fresh fruit on the table. The sight of both curdled his stomach.

"Just the toast." Sorcha squeezed his fingers. "Please?"

He broke a piece off and offered it to her. "Only if you have some, too."

"2005 all over again." The fond tinge to his mother's voice, to her smile surprised Malcolm. If he hadn't seen her say the words he wouldn't have believed they came from her. It wasn't like his mother to speak fondly of the past. He was about to ask if she was okay when she sighed and said, "Only your father wasn't rotting in Rikers like he is now."

Malcolm took a bite of his toast and refrained from saying anything. He didn't want to break the relative good mood surrounding everyone.

Especially since it wasn't going to last long.

 

Chapter Text

"It seems like you and Sorcha have worked through a few of your problems."

"We haven't worked through them." Malcolm looked up from the spot in the rug he had been staring at since begrudgingly following Gabrielle into the living room, and sitting down for this mandated session. He couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. Focused, instead, on a spot over her right shoulder. Cowardice or insecurity, he didn't know which. "We've talked about a few of our issues but we have not worked through them."

Not to a point where they reached any sort of resolution, anyway.

Why not?

Because every time they started to work through their issues something came along to interrupt them to interrupt them before they managed to reach any sort of understanding.

First, it was trial preparation for John Watkins and Robert Harwood keeping Sorcha busy.

Then came the Xenophobic Killer to distract him.

Sorcha text him the day they closed that case to tell him someone left a severed thumb in her mailbox. That spiraled into multiple bodies, their private life exposed, and him getting stabbed.

Again.

Now, he had been arrested on suspicion of murder, framed by a man with an endless array of resources at his fingertips.

"You are not back together then?"

Malcolm's brow feathered as he pondered how best to answer that question. If Sorcha were there she'd point out they'd never really been together. Because I've never allowed us to really have the chance, the opportunity to become more than just friends.

Because he always chose superficiality over substance. Fantasy over reality. Lies over truth. Pain over pleasure.

"Malcolm?"

"Sorcha and I are not back together, no." His fingers trembled so he clenched them into fists he stuck between his knees. "We've never been together. Just..." he broke off, wet his suddenly dry lips. "Friends."

The word sounded as hollow as he felt.

Dating but not dating.

That's what Gil told him the day he bought the charm bracelet intended to replace the one Robert Harwood took from Sorcha.

The bracelet she tossed at him the night she stormed out of their loft.

The one currently tucked away in his pocket because he hadn't found the right time or place to give it back to her.

"If you have never been together than why is she here?"

"Because she's helping me with figuring out how I was framed for murder."

"Yes, the murder of the man believed to have killed your girlfriend." Gabrielle sat back in her chair, balancing a notepad across one knee. "How are you coping with Eve Blanchard's death?"

"Fine." The lie tasted foul. "Well, moderately fine." He looked back down at the rug, a frown between his eyes. "Okay, I'm reasonably fine."

"Have you been having any hallucinations of her? The Girl in the Box?"

Malcolm didn't want to discuss his hallucinations.

Not when everything inside him was so raw, tender.

How could he tell Gabrielle he wasn't seeing Eve, though?

Especially when she was currently floating around the room, smiling her sad smile, and gazing at him with eyes full of accusations.

"I see her all the time." He swallowed back equal amounts of guilt and regret. "She doesn't go away. No matter how much I beg her, too, she doesn't go away."

"You need time to adjust to your loss, Malcolm. To grieve. That's the only way you will disengage from Eve and move on to form new relationships."

He didn't want to move on to form new relationships.

He wanted to fix the relationship he broke.

There was just one gigantic concrete block standing between him and his goal.

"Sorcha said I need to get justice for Eve before I can move on from her death."

"You don't believe she has gotten justice with the death of her murderer?"

Malcolm folded his quaking hands together between his knees. Not that it helped control the tremors. Nothing controlled those.

Not for long, anyway.

"The man who had Eve killed is the same man that's framed me for murder."

"I see." Did she? Because Malcolm didn't think so. Especially since half the time he thought he was looking at things through a magnifying glass turned backwards. "Malcolm, you've already gotten justice for Eve. You found the man responsible for her death. Why can't you accept that and move on?"

"Because the man who hired him to kill her remains free." He raised his head, stared at a point on the wall just to the right of her face. "He needs to be stopped. That's the only way Eve will get justice."

And the only way I can move on with my life.

"Malcolm, we've talked about your masochistic tendencies before."

"Yes, we have," he allowed with a small nod. "And I admit I have done things intended to cause myself pain because I believed I deserved that pain." Gabrielle's small hmm made him squirm. "Okay, I've done a lot of things to cause myself pain because I believe I deserve that pain."

Sorcha hadn't been wrong when she called him an adrenaline-junkie. He did crave the high he got from running into dangerous situations. He did pick superficial relationships because of the potential possibility there was for pain, humiliation, degradation. He did ignore his own safety and well-being while working cases.

He deserved that pain for failing to turn his father in.

For letting twenty-three people die.

"Looking to get revenge on the man responsible for your girlfriend's death could exacerbate those self-destructive tendencies you have." Gabrielle's voice was soft but firm. "You are walking a dark and dangerous path here, Malcolm."

He was fully aware how his wanting revenge on Endicott could cause his masochistic tendencies to spiral out of control.

That it could lead him farther down the path than he ever went before.

That it could push him into stepping over that line he spent the last twenty years doing his best to avoid.

The one John Watkins and Martin Whitly wanted him to cross.

To prove he was the killer they were.

"I don't have any choice," he said somberly. "I have to stop this man."

Before he hurts someone else I care about.

...

"So, are you and my brother going to finally figure things out between you or are you going to continue dancing around each other like you have been?"

Sorcha had been asking herself the same thing while sitting on the bottom stair and waiting for Malcolm to finish his session with Gabrielle. It wasn't an easy question to answer. They had so many things they needed to worry about at that moment.

Keeping him from being sent to jail for a murder he didn't commit being the biggest one.

However, there was also the matter of Eve Blanchard.

A woman Sorcha never met, did her best to not resent or blame for what happened between her and Malcolm, but still found herself jealous of despite her best efforts. She tried to reject her bitterness but it only made her anger burn hotter.

Become more toxic.

Isolating herself away from Malcolm and saying it was so she could set boundaries between them didn't make things better, either. Least of all after he showed up on Gil's doorstep in the middle of the night, a complete emotional mess after Eve walked out on him, and clinging to her like moss on an oak tree.

Staying away from Malcolm while he was in the middle of his crisis had been the hardest thing she had ever done. So many times she wanted to go to him, put her arms around him, and tell him it was gonna be alright.

Like she always did.

She couldn't this time, though.

Malcolm had to learn he couldn't hurt her and she'd just shrug it off.

Accept it as part of his innumerable issues.

Robert deciding to launch a full scale attack on them put them back inside each other's circles. They had to work together, support each other, and especially comfort each other after their private life got exposed.

She hadn't lied to Malcolm when she confessed to doing things that hurt him. Many of those things hadn't been intentional. Just byproducts of situations and events out of their control. Some, though, she had done intentionally. Trying to hurt him as he hurt her.

And only hurting herself in the process.

"I don't know," Sorcha finally settled on saying. "I'd like to think that we will sort this mess out and find some way back to how we were before we tried dating for the millionth time."

"But?" Ainsley's lips quirked. "I smell a but here."

Sorcha snorted a laugh. "Those investigative reporter skills are serving you well, Ains."

"Well, I am a better detective than my brother." Ainsley playfully tossed her hair. "I mean, I did figure out Eve wasn't all she claimed to be."

"I recall you came to me for help with that."

A playful grin tugged at Ainsley's mouth.

"I don't recall anyone saying it mattered how an investigative reporter comes by their information."

"Touché."

"Tell me something," Ainsley said as she joined her on the bottom stair. "Why didn't you stand up to Malcolm when you realized what was about to happen with Eve?"

There was the million dollar question.

The one she'd spent weeks in therapy trying to find an answer too.

Might have, too if her therapist hadn't been kidnapped, his thumb removed, and the rest of his body turned into ashes.

"I tend to put Malcom's needs ahead of mine is partially why." Sorcha lowered her gaze to the pad of paper she'd started jotting notes on. "I always think of what's best for him. What his particular issues require to keep them from spiraling out of control."

"You sacrificed yourself to make him happy."

"Yes."

"Now, neither of you are happy."

"No, we're not," Sorcha agreed, sending her a small smile. "And before you ask, no, I don't know how to fix things between he and I. We can't simply move on like we have in the past. Not this time."

"Why not?"

"Because Eve Blanchard was murdered. She's a ghost haunting us."

"She doesn't have to, though."

"Eve Blanchard will always be between your brother and I." Sorcha lifted her eyes to the closed living room door. "He won't let her go. And I don't know how to forget that he brought her into the place we were making our home."

"Make him move then."

Sorcha gaped at her. "Make him move?" Was Ainsley serious? "Your brother doesn't handle things like moving well."

His move back to New York had resulted in ten meltdowns.

Three, of which, had been quite severe.

The last of which resulted in her flying down to Washington to make sure he didn't do anything harmful to himself.

"Tell him you want to remodel his loft then," Ainsley said. "Make it yours as much as his."

Sorcha went to point out how that wouldn't fly with Malcolm, either, but stopped herself.

Considered.

That… isn't a bad idea, she realized as Ainsley stretched her legs out in front of her. Malcolm hadn't fussed when she wanted to remodel his kitchen. In fact, he purchased everything she lamented his not having for her as a surprise.

They weren't talking a few pots, pans or a stand mixer here, though.

This was adding the little things that made a place home. Knickknacks, pictures, items of sentimental value and comfort.

A merging of his eclectic taste with hers.

Adding elements of herself that'd establish the loft as hers.

"I think he'd agree to that," she finally said with a slow smile.

"Agree to what?" Malcolm questioned as he exited the living room. He cast a suspicious look at them. "What have you two been plotting while I was talking with Gabrielle?"

"How Sorcha needs to remodel your loft," Ainsley cheerfully informed him as she got to her feet. "Make it less your bachelor pad and more a home the two of you share."

Malcolm's gaze swung to Sorcha's. A raw, desperate hope filled his face. Her heart fluttered at the naked vulnerability turning his eyes from blue to green.

A crossroads, she realized as nerves jumbled. That's what we're at.

The only question was: did she open herself up and tell Malcolm what she wanted, needed from him or did she keep quiet like always?

Accomplishing nothing and keeping them stuck in the same never-ending circle.

Firming her resolve, Sorcha set her notepad on the stair and made to grab the railing to help pull herself up. Malcolm was there before she could grab the bannister, offering a hand. She looked at it and then up at him.

"You asked me what it'd take to convince me that you were all in." She set her quivering hand in his, let him pull her to her feet. "This is it." Sorcha kept her gaze on his. "This is what I need. To have a place in your life and not have to question that it's mine."

She waited for him to refuse, to say she asked for too much, that he couldn't give her what she wanted, needed.

Malcolm surprised her, though.

Much like he had when she asked him to stop seeing his father in their second year at Harvard.

He rest his forehead against hers and said, "Okay."

It wasn't a huge step but to Sorcha it was an important one.

Chapter Text

"Bright's crazy, skinny ass didn't do it." JT glared at the report he had been reading through the last ten minutes. Every word only added to the fury on a slow simmer in his gut. "Just no way he did it."

He refused to believe Bright murdered that piece of garbage in cold blood. It didn't fit with who Bright was. Not that Dani seemed to agree.

"DNA says otherwise."

JT shot a mildly reproving look at her. "You telling me you believe Bright killed this Eddie in cold blood?"

Dani looked up from the laptop she had been watching hospital security footage on. Stress lines at the corner of her mouth and eyes were JT's only clue as to her inner turmoil. Dani wanted to believe Bright was innocent but her trust issues and her desire for objectivity made it difficult for her too.

"Bright had a motive." She ignored his scoff. "He went to the hospital despite everyone telling him not too." She turned back to the computer. "It's his blood and hair on Eddie's body."

"Guy is a former FBI agent." JT folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his seat. "Don't think he'd be so careless as to leave behind anything that'd link him to a murder."

"He was emotionally distraught," Dani said. "Not thinking clearly or rationally."

"Sounds like Bright being Bright there." Guy idled at emotionally distraught in JT's mind. "Still don't think he'd be so careless as to leave behind any trace evidence that'd link him to a murder."

"Yeah, well, he did."

"Then why are there no scratches to corroborate the blood we found under Eddie's nails then?"

"I don't know why Bright has no scratches on him. I can't explain it." Dani turned her head to stare at the white board with narrowed eyes. "Not yet."

"You believe Bright killed Eddie." JT couldn't mask his surprise or his irritation. "You actually believe his scrawny ass murdered this guy."

"DNA doesn't lie, JT."

"No, it don't, but we both know it can be fabricated. Planted. Seen it happen before."

"This wasn't fabricated and it wasn't planted." Dani's lips pursed. "Bright was angry, he wanted to know why Eddie killed Eve, and he decided to get revenge for her. Case closed."

That's what she thinks, JT thought as the phone rang in Gil's office. This case will only be closed when we prove Bright didn't do it.

"You were willing to give the guy a chance to prove himself, to become part of the team before Gil told us how he called the police on his pops." JT cocked his head to the side. "But you believe he killed Eddie?"

"Facts say he did it."

"Yeah." JT unfolded his arms and pushed to his feet. "Faith says he didn't."

"You believe Bright's theory he's being framed then?"

"I believe Bright, yeah." JT grabbed his mug and headed for the door. "Guy might be a pain in the ass," and that's a huge understatement, he added silently, "but he's pretty much right when it comes to this stuff."

"Say he is right and he's being framed." A frown formed between Dani's eyes. "Why? What does framing him for Eddie's murder accomplish?"

"Keeps his scrawny ass from interfering in whatever game this Endicott is playing for one." JT ambled towards the door. "Bright can't profile or investigate if he's behind bars." He held up his mug. "I need a refill. You want anything?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Back in ten then."

Hopefully, with some idea of how to pull Bright's ass from the fire.

Otherwise, the kid was gonna be joining his old man in prison.

And that, in JT's opinion, was the last thing that Malcolm Bright needed.

"Were you serious about wanting to redecorate the loft?"

Malcolm hadn't meant to ask that question. Not in the middle of them organizing a list of things to accomplish in the next few hours, anyway. He just couldn't get his brain to wrap around what he needed it too.

Not until he knew for sure if Sorcha was serious about redecorating the loft.

"What?" Sorcha looked up from the notepad she had been jotting notes on, a frown between her eyes, and her lips pursed in concentration. "I'm sorry, I was busy adding what you just said to the list. What did you ask me?"

There was no doubt in Malcolm's mind that Sorcha heard him. She was simply pretending she hadn't to avoid answering his question.

A defense mechanism, he reasoned as he traced circles on the inside of her right knee with the tip of his finger. Prevaricating. Trying to deflect his attention away from the question he put to her to avoid having to make herself vulnerable again.

Not that he intended to let the question slide.

This time, anyway.

He had fallen for that ploy many times in the past without even realizing it.

I let myself fall for it, he corrected as Sorcha shifted the notepad in her lap so she could continue writing on it.

Malcolm freely admitted he could be oblivious to the feelings of others. He tended to forget about or ignore the thoughts and emotions of others while working a case. Or involved in a crisis of my own, he added, grimacing slightly.

Sorcha had been right when she said he acted like an ass.

He did.

Frequently.

Dani was the latest example of his being an ass to a friend. She opened up to him about burying her dad at sixteen because that's what friends did but he couldn't reciprocate.

He couldn't tell Dani he was the one who stabbed his father in order to lure out the Carousel Killer.

Not because he didn't trust her but because he needed to protect his mother at any and all costs.

I never apologized to Edrisa for what I said to her in Dev's apartment, either. He went to the morgue after realizing something had been off in their phone conversation, not because he intended to apologize for having unintentionally hurt her while they deliberated over how to save Dev's life. Once Leanne had been subdued he hadn't the heart to tell Edrisa his words hadn't been meant for her. He simply hadn't wanted to hurt her a second time. I should do something for her, he decided as Sorcha let out a soft sigh. Show her my appreciation for her continued friendship and loyalty.

For now, he focused on the woman pretending interest in the things she had written down.

The one trying to feign how she hadn't heard his question when he knew perfectly well she had.

Well, two can play this game.

Only, he planned to win.

"I asked if you're serious about wanting to remodel the loft?"

"Oh, that."

Airily, dismissively, as if the question bore no significance whatsoever.

Malcolm wasn't falling for it.

"Yes, that." His lips quirked. "Are you serious about it?"

"It was just something Ainsley suggested."

"Yes, I know it was. Now, were you serious about it?"

"It was merely a way of opening a line of dialogue between us." Sorcha reached for the cup of coffee she set on the floor before they started making notes about what they needed to do. "A negotiation tactic if you will."

"Did you mean it, though?" he pressed. "Do you want to redecorate the loft?"

"Mal—"

"Prevaricating."

Her brow furrowed. "Am not."

"Are too." He squeezed her knee. "Now, answer the question."

"I did."

"No, you said it was something Ainsley suggested as a way of opening a line of dialogue between us."

"Which is all it was."

"Sorch..."

"What?" Innocent as she took a sip of coffee. Cool as a cucumber as she lowered the cup. Malcolm didn't buy it for one minute. "She did suggest redecorating the loft as a way of opening a line of dialogue between us."

She's being difficult now, Malcolm groused as he stared into her dark eyes. Evading the answer by saying the one she gave is the answer.

Part of him suspected this was payback for all the times he had been difficult.

A taste of his own medicine.

He didn't especially like it and let her know so with a look.

Not that Sorcha was impressed by it.

Malcolm heaved a frustrated sigh.

"Do you want to redecorate the loft?" He stopped her before she could repeat her earlier answer. "Tell me the truth this time."

"I have been telling you the truth."

"No, you've been telling me a part of the truth." He sent her an imploring look. "I want you to tell me the other half of it now."

He thought she was gonna refuse when her face scrunched up in that way it did whenever she was about to say no.

"Yes, okay?" She set her cup back on the floor with a disgruntled sigh. "I want to redecorate the loft. Add things that are me. Make it as much mine as yours. Like our apartment at school was."

Malcolm remembered the apartment they shared their final year at Harvard. The bits and pieces of each other that had been all over the place.

The afghan Sorcha crocheted in undergraduate year over the back of the couch they bought at a yard sale.

The drapes her mom sewed covering the front window.

The bed they built from the wood pallets they talked a guy at the dock into giving them.

Pictures of family, places they had gone, things they had seen on the walls, shelves, nightstands.

Books and other odds and ends stashed wherever there was space in the cabinets they bought.

The cat-post they bought after Harvey decided to stay with them in a corner of the bedroom.

It created a place of comfort and security.

A home.

Something his mother's house stopped being after his father's arrest.

A place he only experienced when he'd go stay with Gil and Jackie.

Somewhere his loft no longer felt after the intimate pictures taken of him and Sorcha by Robert Harwood's partner, Tammy Lynn had been seen by his supposed friends.

It could be a home again, he realized, belly tightening with a mixture of hope and anticipation. If we work at it.

Slowly, and steadily.

"We have more stuff now than we did back then."

Sorcha hummed a laugh.

"I have less clothes than you do."

"You have more shoes than me."

A grin tugged at her lips. "I have less shoes than your mother, though."

"That you do." Malcolm chuckled softly. "And not all stilettos, thankfully."

"Yeah, your mom is deadly with a stiletto."

"Just ask my television."

"Mal." Sorcha again reached for her coffee. "Admitting what I want doesn't mean you have to give it to me. It's just an opening for us to talk. Reallytalk," she stressed before he could interrupt her. "And not just half-ass it like we have been."

"I want to make the loft our home." His eyes met hers. "I want you to come home."

"Well." Sorcha finished the last of her coffee and returned the cup to the floor. "The first thing we got to do is figure out this mess you're in. But to do that..."

"We need to talk with Edrisa."

"Right."

"I can get my ankle monitor off..." A frown feathered his brow. "Sneaking in to talk with Edrisa without Gil or the rest of the team finding out is going to be the problem."

"Not if I cause a scene that keeps them distracted."

A grin tugged at Malcolm's lips as he considered what kind of scene she could cause. "Think you can distract them for ten minutes?"

"Mal." Sorcha's smile was smug. "I can keep them busy for as long as you need."

"Ten minutes is all I need."

"Go get your bag then." She slid her legs off his lap. "We only have a few hours before orders will come down to arrest you."

And the clock is quickly counting down, Malcolm realized as he headed upstairs to get what he needed.

 

Chapter Text

Malcolm couldn't stop himself from grumbling, "Did Gil have to show up right as we were leaving?" as he snuck out of the house with Sorcha.

He tossed a look over his shoulder as he followed Sorcha to where her car was parked, half expecting to find Gil standing on the front stoop, hands on his hips, and a look of annoyance on his face.

To Malcolm's relief, he found Gil wasn't standing there.

"I think his showing up was a stroke of luck."

"It stole time we don't have to waste and could have stopped me from getting my ankle monitor off."

"Gil showing up made getting out of your ankle bracelet a bit trickier but it didn't stop you from slipping your tether or exiting the house."

She has a point, Malcolm realized. Gil showing up was an inconvenience, but it hadn't stopped him from getting his monitor off or leaving the house.

"Have to hope Leonard won't say anything to him if asked."

Sorcha sent him an amused look from over her shoulder. "I think Leonard was to hyped up over your offer to sleep in your room to rat on you."

"Right." Malcolm searched the line of cars parked on the street for anyone who appeared suspicious. Nobody leapt out at him but that didn't mean anything. Endicott had an unlimited number of people at his disposal. "I don't see anyone watching us." A frown creased his brow as another thought occurred to him. "I also don't see JT or Dani."

"They're back at the station."

"How do you know they're at the station?"

"My cousin, Mia was assigned to the precinct after she graduated the academy. She text and told me they're there."

Why hadn't he known her cousin had been assigned to the precinct? A voice instantly replied, Because you don't pay attention to anything that isn't related to murder or murderers. Malcolm chose to ignore that voice. Last thing he needed was a reminder about how oblivious he was to the world outside of murder and murderers.

"I still don't understand why Gil came by. Didn't he say everything he needed to say last night?"

"He was checking on your mom."

"Checking on my mother?" Malcolm shot a surprised look at her. "Why?"

"Because they have feelings for one another is why."

"They do?"

How had he missed that?

Because you're an ass is why.

Malcolm chose to ignore that voice, too. True as the words were, he didn't need to hear them.

Not while his neck was currently in a noose and the executioner moments away from hitting the button that would drop him to his death.

"Yes, they do." Sorcha unlocked the passenger door of her car before walking around to the drivers side. "They've had feelings for each other for a long time but have never acted on them."

His brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"They have a lot of emotional baggage between them they haven't worked through for one." Sorcha opened her car door but didn't immediately climb inside. "Your father, Endicott turning out to be a real creep. Plus, Gil hasn't dated anyone since Jackie died. He felt he'd dishonor her memory if he did."

"Jackie wanted him to move on. I was there the day she made him promise to not remain a widower for the rest of his life."

"Promising is easy," Sorcha said. "Much harder to move on. Look at my mom."

"She started dating again, though."

"Yes, but it took her five years. And even then," she said as a motorcycle whizzed by, "she felt guilty. As if she was betraying Dad by going out with another man."

"She wasn't, though."

"No, she wasn't," she agreed with a slight nod. "But it still felt like it to her. Thankfully, Harry understood, having lost his wife around the same time we lost Dad."

Malcolm remembered Harry Wilson. He had been the surgeon to remove his appendix and tonsils. He had gone out of his way to help reduce his anxiety after they told him about his night terrors and his not liking feeling trapped inside his mind with his memories. He even recorded Sorcha singing to help keep me calm during surgery.

He liked him, thought him a kind, and decent man. Harry shared common interests with him and Sorcha. He enjoyed crime novels and World War II docuseries. Going to museums and traveling. Comics and video games. Ghost Adventures and medical shows.

Erin Corbin and Harry Wilson were part of the medical field. They shared a similar social background. Had many of the same friends. Enjoyed many of the same things.

Unlike his mother and Gil.

"Do you think my mother and Gil can overcome their differences?"

"Can we?"

The question caught Malcolm off guard. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to figure out what answer wouldn't get him in trouble.

"I've always seen us being equal socially."

"You have, yes." Her lips curved. "High society doesn't. They look at me and see an opportunist. A fortune hunter. Someone looking to climb up the social ladder."

"I don't care about high society."

"Neither does Gil. The only approval he needs is yours. You are the other reason why they haven't acted on their feelings for one another."

"Me?" His eyebrows shot up. "What do I have to do with them not acting on their feelings?"

"Well, kids tend to get weird when they see their parents dating someone other than their other parent." She climbed into the car and closed the door. "Look how weirded out you were about your mother dating Endicott."

"Yeah." Malcolm settled himself in the passenger seat before shooting her a wry look. "Clearly no reason there for why I got weirded out by her dating Endicott."

"You were weirded out before finding out what a douchebag he is."

She has a point, he realized as she started the car. It had been extremely uncomfortable to have Nicholas Endicott join him and Ainsley at the breakfast table the other morning. Sure, he made a small quip to ease the tension after Endicott left but he couldn't deny how his mother dating the man bothered him.

Malcolm didn't believe it was because he had any childish hope about his mother and father getting back together. As far as he was concerned, that was a ship sitting at the bottom of the Atlantic with the Titanic.

His father was never getting free and his mother would sooner stab him with one of her stiletto heels than resume their marriage.

He also wanted his mother to stay as far away from Martin Whitly as she could. Nothing good ever came from a relationship with his father. He was a prime example of how corrosive a relationship with his father was.

Malcolm had already decided that his father was a toxin he needed to flush from his life once this situation with Endicott was put to rest. It was time to take control of his life and his mental well-being. To start building a life with Sorcha that was free of his father's manipulation and control.

His mother also deserved to start her life over with someone. To find love and happiness. Especially after everything she had been through because of his father.

Because of me.

Malcolm put his mother through a lot after his father's arrest. Not talking for months, the nightly terrors, refusing to eat because the medicines doctors put him on made him sick, the panic attacks, changing schools multiple times because of bullies, the stays in the hospital because he allowed himself to get dehydrated, the multiple commitments because he allowed things to spiral out of control.

The suicide attempts.

The last shamed him the most.

His first attempt had been at thirteen. He swallowed a handful of the medications he had been put on. Chased them with a couple of his mother's sleeping pills.

Louisa found him and got help.

His mother took control of his medications after that. Made sure he only received the prescribed dose at the specified intervals.

His next attempt came when he was sixteen and the girl he thought he was dating revealed she had only been using him as part of an initiation into an elite club of their peers.

He used a razor that time but hadn't cut deep enough.

Jackie found him that time and kept him together until paramedics arrived. Gil brought someone, a girl his age, and whose father had traumatized her as much as his to see him while he spent another seventy-two hours in a psychiatric hospital for the rich.

Raya hadn't judged him. Didn't condemn him or call him a coward. No, what she told him was to take the anger he turned inwards and turn it outwards.

"Use it to seek justice, Malcolm," she said as silvery moonlight cast her in shadows. "Be the voice of the silenced. The champion of the lost. The defender of the helpless."

He took Raya's suggestion and turned the anger he aimed inwards, outwards. He pursued a career in law enforcement, got his degree in psychology and criminology, used his unique skills to help those victimized by men like his father and John Watkins.

His mother hadn't approved of his choice to apply to Quantico but she supported him.

In her own fashion.

Anything that kept him away from his father she approved of.

That's why she deserved a chance at finding happiness for herself. At finding love again.

Malcolm also freely admitted his mother being involved with someone would keep her from trying to control and dictate his life. She had largely left him alone while she dated Endicott.

Of course, he had also been dating Eve at the time, which thrilled her.

And look how well those relationships turned out.

Eve ended up dead and Endicott turned into the man with a network of serial killers and assassins at his disposal.

Gil wasn't Nicholas Endicott.

If there was anyone he'd approve dating his mother, it was Gil. Still, Malcolm couldn't deny how the thought of his mentor and his mother being intimate didn't creep him out some.

"Were you and Sean weirded out when your mother started dating Harry?"

"A bit, yeah." Sorcha turned left at the corner. "I mean, we were cool with it and all, but it still weirded us out. Harry made it easy for us, though."

"How?"

"By telling us he wasn't our dad. That he wasn't trying to replace him in our lives. That he just wanted to be a part of our lives."

"Gil already is part of my life."

"And has filled the role your father abandoned since the night he answered what was believed to be a prank call." She stopped at a light. "Doesn't mean it's not still gonna be weird seeing them as a couple."

"Does it weird you out?"

"No." She sent him an easy smile. "But I'm not you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've seen the sparks flying between them since before Christmas and have secretively been hoping they'd get together."

Malcolm's eyes blinked wide. "What?"

"Mhm." The light turned green. "Unlike you, I've seen all the subtle touches between them. Unlike you, I've seen all the glances they send each other when they think nobody is paying attention."

He got her point.

"I admit it, I don't pay attention to the things that I should."

"Yeah, you definitely suck in that area." She reached over to set a hand on his knee. "But that's what makes you good at what you do."

"Being oblivious to the needs of the people around me makes me good at profiling murderers?" He sent her a skeptical look. "I seriously doubt that."

"It does, Mal." She squeezed his knee. "It allows you to focus on what's most important: victims. And while it's frustrating as hell and makes us want to beat you with a pillow quite often, it's also admirable. You give justice to the people the monsters hurt with their madness."

"It also hurts the people I love." Malcolm set his hand atop hers. "You. Gil. Ainsley and my mother. Your mother. Mandy and Sean. Jackie. I've hurt all of you."

"Love means opening yourself to being hurt."

His father said those exact words to him a few weeks back. Malcolm hadn't wanted to hear them.

Not from him.

Sorcha wasn't his father.

No, she was someone his actions, his poor choices almost cost him.

"Love means making yourself vulnerable."

"Yes, it does." Sorcha squeezed his knee again. "It also makes us strong, Mal. It's the reason we keep fighting despite everything inside telling us to give up."

"I'm not giving up. Not this time." His hand trembled atop hers. "I almost lost you this time. Not again." His fingers gripped hers. "I can't lose you."

"Not me here we have to fear losing." Sorcha pulled into the parking garage a few blocks from the precinct. "It's you if we don't figure out how Endicott framed you for Eddie's murder."

"We'll figure it out."

Malcolm was confident of that. They'd figure out what Endicott was up too and put a stop to it.

Together.

 

Chapter 10

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He always considered Martin Whitly a malignant cancer.

All serial killers were, really.

Whitly just managed to prove himself more useful to him than many of the others he had in his employ. When he met Martin Whitly, he had been an up and coming cardiac surgeon. A man who found himself accepted into high society because of his marriage to Jessica Milton.

A little digging revealed him as a man with a dark side. One that wasn't afraid to experiment on humans in order to obtain the answers to his questions.

He thought Whitly a visionary. One who wasn't limited by things like ethics. Whitly's views on ethics were similar to his own. They limited the scope of what he, as a doctor, could accomplish. Whitly also believed boards and committees hindered research more than supported it.

Their partnership proved quite profitable.

Whitly tested the drugs he needed to get the FDA's approval on before he could offer samples to his eager clientele. He also helped him apply for the patents that allowed him to corner the pharmaceutical market.

As he wanted.

Whitly also aided him by testing the medical and surgical instruments his company designed. The ones he deemed superior to those already available were packaged and delivered to those willing to pay his price. Whitly also used his connections to get his equipment into medical schools.

In return, Whitly got to research to his hearts content. What exactly the man was researching didn't matter to him. Long as he received the data he needed, he could care less about what Whitly was doing and to whom.

Not that it mattered.

John Watkins took care of disposing the bodies once Whitly finished with them.

Everything had been going perfectly until Whitly decided he wanted to turn his son into a juvenile serial killer. He expressed his concerns to the good doctor, warned him of what could happen should little Malcolm inadvertently reveal daddy's hobby, and what he stood to lose if the police managed to connect them together.

The good doctor repeatedly assured him he had everything under control.

"My boy will not reveal anything," Whitly assured him. "He would never betray his father."

Nicholas hadn't believed him.

Children were unpredictable, uncontrollable, and completely unnecessary in his opinion.

That was why he never bothered having any.

He didn't believe Whitly had the boy under control as he claimed. Wanting to protect his interests, as well as his image, he told John Watkins to keep an eye on Malcolm.

"If the boy becomes a problem," he told Watkins, "get rid of him."

"What about Whitly?" Watkins rasped in his ear. "Want me to get rid of him if he becomes a problem?"

"I'll handle Dr. Whitly myself."

Watkins failed to take care of little Malcolm as he ordered. Nicholas didn't know what exactly happened on that camping trip, but clearly, something had happened.

Something involving Sophie.

The girl who thought she could steal from him and get away with it.

His hand curled around the armrest of his chair, squeezed so tightly his knuckles cracked.

For twenty years he allowed Whitly to thrive in his plush cell, content his secret was safe, that Sophie was dead and couldn't make trouble for him.

More fool he.

He only learned Sophie was alive after that foolish woman little Malcolm became so enamored of showed up and started asking questions about her sister.

The Girl In The Box.

Instead of lying, as serial killers so often did, Martin Whitly told her and Malcolm the truth.

He told them he allowed Sophie to live.

That he let her go.

And that, Nicholas decided, was the man's final mistake.

Not only had Whitly gotten himself turned in by the son he swore would never betray him, he also jeopardized his operations by letting Sophie go. He further complicated matters by revealing the secrets Sophie shared with him with Malcolm and his girlfriend.

Martin Whitly was a tumor that now needed excising.

Before Nicholas was done with him, however, the good doctor would learn he couldn't go back on his word.

He already accomplished the first part of what he told Martin he'd do should he betray him. Jessica was well and truly enamored with him. He also ruined Malcolm's career and reputation by framing him for murder.

Not that he was done with the boy.

Nicholas had plans for him.

Plans that had been in motion for years. Why else had he used his contacts at the DOJ to get him fired from the FBI? Got him clearance to work with the NYPD as a consultant?

All that was left was the truly delectable Ainsley Whitly. Oh, he had plans for her. He'd start by discrediting her in the news field, ruining her reputation socially, and then offering to make it all go away if she agreed to marry him.

Martin Whitly needed to go.

His death served two purposes.

One, it made sure that the subject of Sophie was never brought up again.

And two?

It'd break little Malcolm completely.

Something John was supposed to have done when he kidnapped Malcolm at Christmas. Had he not chosen to play around, Malcolm would have broken, and been well on his way to becoming what Nicholas desired him: the perfect killer.

John failed, much like he had when he didn't succeed at killing little Malcolm before he could call the police and tattle on his daddy.

Well, killing Martin Whitly would fix both of those mistakes.

He just needed to handle one other little problem, first.

"Has Miss Corbin been located?"

He poised the question to the woman standing silently beside his desk. To the outside world, Mercy Sleeves was nothing more than the woman who had been serving him, faithfully, as his personal assistant for over two decades.

Yes, Mercy handled all of his day-to-day business affairs for him. She scheduled meetings with his partners and investors, handled his online media presence, and organized his social calendar so he attended all of the right events and galas.

He did have an image to project, after all.

Besides, it wouldn't do for a man of his wealth and status to attend the wrong functions or cultivate relationships with the wrong people.

However, Mercy also handled his private business affairs for him. She kept an eye on the handful of serial killers he employed for those situations where the finesse a contract killer tended to possess were unnecessary.

She also oversaw all shipments and deliveries. Made sure he only offered the best to his exclusive clientele. Mercy ensured the right palms were greased, the right screws twisted, and the right people employed. She also made sure his less... savory investors and partners lived up to the promises they made him.

Any who didn't keep up their end of their bargain, well, Mercy sent one of the handful of contract killers he kept on retainer to deal with them.

Unless she chose to handle things herself, of course.

Mercy Sleeves was, after all, a contract killer herself.

Not quote as good as the Nightingale but leaps and bounds ahead of a moron like Eddie.

He'd only hire the best to protect him, after all.

"The girl arrived at the Whitly home yesterday evening." Dark eyes met his in the frosted glass of his office window. Glinted with secrets and amusement. "After making a stop at the Whitly boy's apartment to pick up clothing and other necessities for him."

"Did she now?" Nicholas found that particular little tidbit interesting. "And was anyone with her while she retrieved those particular things for Malcolm?"

Mercy's lip curled before one word left her mouth.

"Arroyo," she sneered. "He escorted her up and walked her back down."

Nicholas wasn't surprised. Lieutenant Arroyo was quickly becoming a thorn in his side. Not only was the man standing between him and Malcolm, but he was now keeping the Corbin girl from him.

He'd have to get rid of him. There was really no other choice. Not if he wanted to see little Malcolm finally become the killer his daddy always wanted him to become. And not if I want to find out how much the girl knows about her daddy's investigation into the Surgeon.

Something she'd have no knowledge of if not for Ainsley Whitly telling her about it.

He thought he managed to convince the girl to quit investigating him during their discussion at the bar.

Clearly, his veiled threats had gone unheeded.

Something that didn't please him.

Before he and Ainsley were married he would have to make sure she understood that he expected her compliance in all things.

"Do you know where Miss Corbin was before scampering to her boyfriend's side?"

"She was upstate." A smirk curved Mercy's fleshy lips. "At her childhood home."

Of course, Nicholas mused as he stared out the window at the Manhattan skyline. Where else would the girl go but home?

He had ordered Mercy to go and search the house for Ian Corbin's files on the Surgeon. Since she had not handed them over to him on her return led him to assume she had not found them. The question plaguing him now was if the Corbin girl had.

And if so, what is she planning to do with them?

The rumor of those files ultimately ended up getting Deputy Commissioner Ian Turner killed.

Sure, the world believed the Junkyard Killer killed Ian Turner to keep him from revealing the connection between him and the Surgeon.

Not so.

No, John killed Ian Turner on his orders. What choice did he have? Turner and his now former partner, Owen Shannon, had been closing in on Whitly prior to little Malcolm calling the police. After Whitly's arrest, Turner and Shannon continued to investigate, believing Whitly had someone getting rid of his victims.

Owen Shannon ruined himself, saving him the trouble.

Turner quietly continued to pursue his investigation. Nicholas hadn't cared until he enlisted the help of Ian Corbin.

A man nicknamed The Bulldog because once he got involved with a case?

He didn't stop until he solved it.

Corbin gave Nicholas serious pause. He wasn't someone money could buy or who'd bow to threats. His reputation was above reproach. Trying to muddy it would only risk exposure.

Thankfully, the man died before he could uncover anything.

Ian Turner continued to investigate, however. He refused to listen to reason. To threats. To demands. To keep him from revealing his connection to the serial killer ring operating right under the nose of the NYPD, Nicholas ordered John to get rid of him.

If only he thought to have Mercy check the man's will.

Ainsley would never have discovered the existence of these files and passed the information onto the Corbin girl.

"Do you know if Miss Corbin has found the files her father put together before his death on the Surgeon?"

"Ian Corbin's files on the Surgeon remain lost."

Nicholas nodded, pleased. "Good."

Those files needed to remain lost.

Which meant one thing: Sorcha Corbin needed to meet the same fate as Eve Blanchard.

And I know just the man for the job.

"Mercy, I think it's time for John to redeem himself."

"And how should he do that?"

"By getting rid of the Corbin girl."

One brow arched.

"Are you sure you want to trust John with such a task?" Mercy shifted to face him. "He has failed you before. He could fail you again."

"Oh, I think this is one task that John can handle. If he can't..." His lips crooked upwards. "Well, then you have my full permission to retire him."

A slow, catlike smile curved Mercy's lips.

"I shall look forward to doing so."

He was sure she would.

"Leave me," he commanded. "I have some calls to make. A few favors to call in to get John released from his cage."

Mercy strolled from his office without a word. Every move reminded Nicholas of a jaguar stalking through the jungle in search of its prey.

And if John Watkins fails me a third time, he will be her prey.

Nicholas found himself almost hoping he'd fail.

Almost.

 

Notes:

This is extended from a piece I originally wrote in my Discord collection for the prompt malignant.

Chapter Text

"Are you positive you can keep Gil and the others away long enough for me to talk with Edrisa about Eddie?"

Malcolm didn't doubt Sorcha's ability to create a scene.

He had seen her cause quite a few public disturbances over the years.

Never because she was covering for him after he illegally took off his ankle monitor so he could snuck in to speak with the medical examiner about the body of a man he was accused of killing, though.

Malcolm's hand spasmed at his side as the weight of what Sorcha was doing for him settled on his shoulders.

She was taking a huge risk by helping him sneak into the medical examiner's office to see Edrisa.

If he was caught, she could be charged with aiding and abetting.

A crime punishable either by a fine or time in prison.

Neither something he wanted to see happen. He thought about telling her to go back to his mother's and wait for him to avoid that possibility.

He discarded the thought as quickly as it came to him, however.

Sorcha would refuse to go and head inside with or without him.

"Trust me," she assured him as she joined him on the steps that led into the precinct. "I got this."

"I trust you." He blew out a heavy breath. "You're the only one I feel I can trust at the moment."

Her fingers brushed his in silent offer. He latched onto her hand. Gripped it as tightly as he would a rope tossed to pull him back to shore.

"You can trust Gil. And Dani and JT and Edrisa." Her fingers curled around his. "They have your back. They just have to play the roles assigned to them because they don't know who is on Endicott's payroll."

Part of Malcolm wanted to believe Sorcha.

To believe Gil, Dani, and JT were on his side.

That they didn't think him a murderer.

Like his father.

The other side of him couldn't forget the disappointed look on Gil's face as JT read him his rights and Dani clapped him in cuffs.

Nor could he forget the distrust and suspicion stamped on Dani's face after she and JT came to retrieve him from the holding cell they placed him in. Being stabbed hurt a lot less than seeing that mixture of doubt and hurt in her dark eyes.

JT was the only one who hadn't looked at him as is he had suddenly grown horns and a tail. Course, that was because he didn't have as far to fall in the eyes of the gruff detective. Things between him and JT — Jordan, Jonathan, Jetter? — started off rough. He thought they reached a point where they were more than just co-workers. More even than teammates.

Friends.

He had thought they were becoming friends.

Wrong again, he thought, stomach curdling.

Not that it was any surprise.

Friends were not something he had the pleasure and privilege of.

Outside Sorcha.

"You ready to do this?"

Mal glanced again at the precinct sitting larger than life in front of him. Everything inside him hurt at being here on the steps to the place that became home after his firing from the FBI and knowing he couldn't simply walk inside.

No, he had to sneak into the building.

Like a criminal.

"We'll fix this, Mal." Sorcha's thumb drifted over his knuckles. Stalwart support and silent comfort. Each desperately needed at that moment. "I promise you that we are going to find a way to get your life back."

"I believe you."

He did.

He really did.

They'd find a way to prove he hadn't killed Eddie in a fit of rage and grief.

That the blood on the dead man wasn't his.

That Endicott framed him to keep him from uncovering his secrets and exposing them to the world.

"Let's do this then."

Malcolm gave a small nod before he walked with her into the building.

...

The Whitly kid entered the police precinct with the Corbin girl a little after eleven. What the kid was even doing there given the fact he was on house-arrest puzzled Thomas.

Not that the reason why overly mattered in the end.

He hadn't been hired to figure out why the Whitly kid did the things he did. Way above his pay grade and outside the scope of his training.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder at what drove the kid to do something so damn stupid.

Course, the kid made his career out of doing high risk and dangerous things.

It was one of the reasons why the bureau fired his ass.

And why the higher ups are constantly climbing all over Arroyo.

Thomas Gray set the digital camera he had used to snap some photographs of the couple in the passenger seat so he could enter the time they walked into the precinct into his little notebook. It joined a dozen of other times and things he had jotted down since being hired to follow the Whitly kid and his girlfriend.

This job was by far the easiest one Endicott had ever given him. Follow the kid and his girlfriend around, take some photos of them, and make note of what they were doing, and with whom.

Easy, peasy.

Thomas finished marking down the time and dropped the notepad next to his camera. reached for his phone. His boss made it clear that he wanted to know not only when the kid slipped his ankle monitor but where he went.

"Endicott."

"Kid and his girlfriend are here at Major Crimes."

There was a small, speculative sound from the man on the other end of the phone. Thomas didn't much like Nicholas Endicott. The only reason he started working for him was because his daughter wanted to go to graduate school.

Something that cost money.

A lot of money.

More than a man like him could make as a cop, in fact.

Loans, scholarships, and grants would cover books, lab fees, and most but not all her tuition costs.

Sure, Mackenzie planned to work to help pay for some of her expenses, but part-time at a diner would only cover so much.

They needed money.

Working for Nicholas Endicott was the solution to their dilemma.

Wasn't like he was being asked to kill the kid or his girlfriend.

Just follow them around.

Take some pictures.

No harm, no foul.

"Don't let them out of your sight."

"Of course." It was Endicott's standard order whenever he called to report on the kid or his girlfriend's doings. "Anything else?"

"Notify me as soon as they leave the precinct." Again, his typical orders. Follow the two, take some pictures, jot down where they went and who they talked too. "And let me know where they go next."

"Alright."

The call ended. Thomas placed his phone back in its stand on his dash and sat back to wait for the two to emerge from the building.

As far as job assignments went, this one was easy. Only, Thomas started to suspect there was something more to this job than met the eye.

Not that he'd dig into it.

No, no.

Nicholas Endicott wasn't the sort of man to cross.

He had powerful allies and a host of contract killers at his disposal.

None of whom Thomas wanted to find himself on the opposite end of.

He saw what happened to those who did.

It was enough to convince him to do as he was told.

No harm, no foul, he told himself as he waited.

Easy, peasy.

Lemon squeezy.

...

JT exited his cubicle at the same time Bright-Light strolled into the bullpen. He didn't even need to look at her to know she was a woman on a mission.

A Bright-related one was his guess.

"Cavalry has arrived in ripped jeans and one of Bright's less expensive shirts."

Dani glanced up from the footage she had been surfing through on her computer, one eyebrow arched.

"What?"

JT jerked his head in the direction of the woman making her way in their direction. Dark eyes briefly met his. Burned with questions and speculation. One brow tilted in silent question.

One he didn't need a fancy degree in psychology to figure out.

Was he on Bright's side or did he believe the bullshit going on?

He didn't but had to admit the stack of evidence against Bright's scrawny ass wasn't looking good.

"Got five feet, five inches of trouble coming our way."

Dani leaned up to look over the divider. Soon as she saw who he was talking about, her brow furrowed. Wasn't like JT couldn't guess why she wasn't happy to see Light-Bright.

The bullpen still echoed with the remnants of the heated discussions Collette Swanson and Sorcha Corbin engaged in over Bright following his kidnapping by John Watkins.

"What is she doing here?"

JT shrugged.

"No clue."

And he wasn't about to tempt fate by going over to ask her, either. Marriage taught him one lesson: when a woman walked with a purpose?

It was best to stay out of her way.

"Did Gil say anything to you about her coming in this morning?"

"Nope." JT reached for the half empty cup of coffee on his desk. "And Boss ain't come in yet so we can't go and ask him."

Not that JT would go and ask Gil. Way he saw it? Mini-Bright being at the precinct could either be a good thing or a bad thing.

He was hoping for a good thing.

They damn sure needed it.

"She shouldn't be here." Dani pushed back from her desk. "She needs to leave. Now."

"Don't know if she was called in." JT watched as she stopped to talk with a rookie officer. Brannigan, he recalled the officer's name being. One of Bright-Lite's cousins. "Can't kick her out if she was asked to come in."

"She can't help with this investigation."

"Why not?"

"She's too close to Bright."

"Yeah, that's my point."

"No." Dani shook her head. "Not this time. We can't jeopardize the case."

"Can you think of anyone else who is gonna figure out how to get Bright's skinny ass outta this mess?"

"She's not objective."

"Oh, I disagree, Detective Powell." Bright-Lite's voice dripped honey. "See, I think I'm quite objective, actually."

Dani turned to look at her, a calm, but determined expression on her face.

"You are blinded by your personal feelings for Bright and can't see he did it."

"My personal feelings for Malcolm are exactly why I know he didn't do it." Mini-Bright folded her arms across her chest. A battle stance if JT ever saw one. He moved back into his cubicle, not wanting to get caught in the fight brewing between the two. "If you weren't blinded by your massive trust issues, you'd see that for yourself."

"The facts—"

"Are completely made up." She cocked her head to the side. "Something you'd have figured out if you were objectivelylooking at them and interpreting them as they should be rather than how Nicholas Endicott wants you too."

"There's no other way to interpret the evidence." Frustration throbbed in Dani's voice. Echoed in JT's heart. "Blood can't be—"

"Fabricated?" A small, tight smile curved Light-Bright's lips. "Oh, now, Detective we both know that's false. Plenty of cases where blood evidence has been manipulated to seal a conviction against a particular suspect."

"And hair fibers?" Dani's lips pursed. "How do you explain those getting on Eddie?"

"Well, I'm no detective here," sarcasm dripped from every word, "but I'd say the hair fibers were taken from Malcolm's hairbrush here at the station and planted."

"You think someone here broke into Bright's locker and stole his hairbrush?"

"Most definitely." Bright-Lite shifted her gaze to JT. "Hair follicles don't lie."

"So." Dani's tone was cool, controlled. There was a bite beneath it JT knew all too well. "You think a cop planted evidence."

"No, I don't." Stark disapproval furrowed Light-Bright's brow. "I think a cop broke into his locker and stole the hairbrush. Which they gave to—"

"Someone at the hospital who planted it," JT finished for her. "Makes sense."

"I'd look into those working the floor the night Eddie died." Mini-Bright turned away. "But I'm not looking at this objectively." She started to walk towards Gil's office. "I'll wait in Gil's office for him."

JT looked at Dani once Bright-Lite was out of earshot.

"And you said Mini-Bright couldn't help with the investigation," he couldn't resist saying.

Luckily, his phone rang at that moment.

Not that he wasn't aware of the dirty look Dani aimed at the back of his head.

Nor did he miss her quiet, "Dick."

He just wisely chose not to tempt fate twice in a row.

"Tarmel," he said into the receiver.

Chapter Text

Gil sensed trouble brewing the second he walked into the precinct. The air around him crackled with tension.

The kind that only happened when the kid was around.

He swept the bullpen with narrowed eyes, half-expecting to find Bright fluttering around with his usual exuberance, a sheepish grin, and a reason for why he broke out of house arrest to come to the one place he shouldn't have.

The kid wasn't there.

Thankfully.

Gil couldn't ignore, however, the sour note in the pit of his stomach at Bright's not being there to help them work this case. He should be here kept rolling through his mind. The kid should be sitting at the desk outside his office and putting together a profile for them to work from.

He wasn't, though, because of one person: Nicholas Endicott.

A man out to destroy the Whitly family because of the other man Gil loathed with every fiber of his being: Martin Whitly.

The whys of it all still made no sense to Gil.

So much had happened in the last forty-eight hours that he hadn't had a chance to really process everything Bright told him.

Not that it mattered.

Endicott was a monster that needed stopping.

And we will stop him.

There was no doubt in Gil's mind about that.

They'd stop Nicholas Endicott before he could cause any more damage to Bright or the rest of the Whitly family.

With a weary sigh, and a strong want for a hot cup of coffee, Gil started to make his way towards his office. He was about to issue a greeting to Dani and JT when JT jerked his thumb in the direction of his office.

"Bright-Lite's waiting for you."

That brought Gil up short. What would Sorcha be doing there? He'd expressly told her to stick to Bright's side. To not allow him... of course. His brow furrowed as the reason why Sorcha was there occurred to him. He glanced sharply at JT.

"Is Bright with her?"

"His skinny ass is sitting at home according to the last ping from his ankle monitor."

Gil doubted that. Where one of his wayward and willful children was?

The other was never too far behind.

I should have gone upstairs and made sure Bright was in there.

That he was pouting in his room as...

Jessica said he was.

Gil swallowed a groan and a few choice curses. Duped, he realized. He had been duped by not one Whitly, but two.

Three, he corrected as he shot a look at the woman he could make out through the slits in his blinds. If Sorcha was going to toss her lot in with Bright and his mother than he'd count her as one of them.

"This family..." he muttered as he wiped a hand over his face. "I swear if they ever did what I told them..."

"You'd die of shock if they ever did what you told them to do."

Gil huffed a laugh. "You're probably right." His eyes narrowed as he saw Sorcha pull out her phone to check it. A message from Bright, he assumed. "Should have put an ankle monitor on her."

He was tempted to do just that, in fact. Really put a wrench into whatever the two were up too.

Not that they wouldn't figure out a way around it.

Like aways.

"You thinking Bright's slipped his ankle monitor?"

Thinking? No. More like knew he had slipped his ankle monitor. Something he conveyed to Dani and JT.

"She's here to distract us so Bright can do whatever the hell it is he shouldn't be doing."

JT heaved a sigh that sounded as exhausted as Gil felt. It had been a long forty-eight hours for all of them between Eve being identified as the woman found in the river to Bright being arrested on suspicion of the murder of her killer.

"Knowing Bright, he's heading down to talk with Edrisa about Eddie's body."

"Makes sense," Dani said as she stood. "He'd need to talk with Edrisa if he wants to find out how they got his blood onto Eddie's body."

JT nodded in the direction of his office.

"Mini-Bright gave us a plausible explanation for how the blood got on Eddie."

Gil wasn't surprised to find out that Sorcha offered a theory on how the blood and fibers got onto Eddie. He had been anticipating she'd offer one after she got over being annoyed at them arresting the kid.

"A theory," Dani stressed. "Not concrete proof."

"I'll take a theory at this point." Gil turned to head towards his office. "We can check out a theory."

They couldn't check out nothing.

Which is what they had: a whole lot of nothing piled up in front of Bright.

"You want us to go down and see if Bright's skinny ass is where it don't belong?"

"We'll go down and bust him after I talk with his co-conspirator."

Because while Gil fully believed Sorcha was there to distract them while Bright spoke with Edrisa, he also suspected she was there for an ulterior reaaon.

He just had to find out what it was.

Then he'd consider slapping an ankle monitor and a tracking device on her before returning her and Bright to his mother's house.

Where they'll damn sure stay if I have to sit on top of them to see they do it.

He opened his office door right as Sorcha slid her phone back in the pocket of her jeans. Seeing her without makeup, her hair tossed up into a ponytail, in jeans and one of Bright's shirts sent Gil back fifteen years.

Solving problems had been so much simpler when they'd been eighteen.

A drive in the LeMan's, gelato or a hot pretzel, walking through Central Park, a late night phone call, even something simple as a hug worked to get through whatever crisis the two found themselves.

Bright a suspect in a homicide wasn't something he could solve as easily as he could test anxiety, relationship issues or the multitude of other growing pains they experienced.

"I know Bright is downstairs talking with Edrisa."

If Gil thought that'd get Sorcha to confirm his suspicions about her and Bright working together on this bit of subterfuge?

He was sadly mistaken.

That glacier calm didn't melt even a tiny bit. One eyebrow arched and a small smirk screwed up one corner of her mouth. If not for the fact they were in it up to their eyeballs, he'd have been impressed with how good Sorcha's poker face was.

He'd also have booked a weekend in Atlantic City.

"Is he?" Cool, calm, disinterested. "And why do you think Malcolm is downstairs and talking with Doctor Tanaka?"

"Because you are here in my office."

A slight roll of the shoulders. A tilt of the head. A mildly interested expression on her face.

She should have gone with Bright to Quantico, Gil thought as he made his way over to his desk. They'd have made a formidable team.

Bright with his chaotic and frenetic unconventional approach to handling suspects and Sorcha with her cool, calm rational way of figuring out how best to deal with situations.

These two working together to stop Endicott was his ace in the hole. He expected them to find the pieces to this puzzle and align them so they made sense.

He just needed them to do it smartly and safely.

"I'm here for my own reasons and not because Mal needed to speak with Doctor Tanaka."

Gil took a seat behind his desk. "And what reasons are those?"

"Ian Turner."

One of his brows winged up. "Ian Turner?" That wasn't a name he expected her to say. "What about him?"

"He left me something in his will."

His other eyebrow joined the first. "Ian Turner left you something in his will?"

Sorcha nodded. "Something given to him by my father."

"Your father?" Gil frowned. "I wasn't aware Ian Turner knew your father."

Not that it should have surprised him they knew each other. Ian Corbin had been a cop before joining the FBI. And Turner came up through the ranks when Hoyt Brannigan was still chief of detectives.

"I knew they knew each other." Sorcha sat back in her chair. "Dad worked a few cases with him in the 90s and early 2000's. I wasn't aware they were still working together, though."

Neither had Gil. He assumed, like everyone, Ian Turner quit working cases once he became chief of detectives. That had been wrong, of course. Ian Turner had continued working on one case.

One that eventually got him killed.

"What case were they working?"

"The Surgeon."

Gil's brow knit. "The Surgeon? Why were they working a closed case?"

"Because Ian Turner always believed Martin Whitly was working with a partner."

"John Watkins." Which they now knew after Bright and Owen Shannon figured out the connection between the Junkyard Killer and the Surgeon. "We know he and Martin Whitly were working together."

"Well, Dad also believed he was working for someone." Sorcha dropped her tone an octave. A conspiratorial whisper. "Someone with lots of money and a lot of influence."

"Working for someone with money and..." The answer dawned on Gil. "Endicott."

"Yes."

"Your dad was investigating Nicholas Endicott before he died?"

She nodded. "He gave his files to Ian Turner to continue the investigation right before he died."

Pieces of that puzzle he hoped she and Bright would find fell into place.

"Turner wasn't investigating who was working with the Surgeon," he said slowly, thoughtfully. "He was working out who the Surgeon and the Junkyard Killer worked for."

"I think he figured out Endicott was the connection between Malcolm's father and the Junkyard Killer," Sorcha said. "And Endicott dispatched Watkins to shut him up before he could reveal it."

"Makes more sense than Watkins murdering him to keep him from revealing he was the Junkyard Killer."

"Especially since Watkins was the cleanup man while he and Martin Whitly were busy killing people."

And grooming Malcolm to become a killer like them, Gil added silently.

Watkins was just as guilty as Martin Whitly for the trauma that left Bright psychologically damaged.

Something he vowed to see both pay for even if it killed him.

"Can we prove Nicholas Endicott was behind Ian Turner's murder?"

"I think we can prove that Nicholas Endicott has been behind a number of unsolved murders over the years."

Gil's eyebrows shot up. "How?"

"My father's files."

"Your father's files?" He frowned his confusion. "Don't you have them?"

"No." Sorcha blew out a small breath. "Ian Turner had a feeling Endicott would send one of his contract killers after him so he hid my father's files."

"How do you know Endicott doesn't have them?"

"Because Turner left them to me in his will."

Gil's heart stopped. "He left them to you?"

Placing a huge bulls-eye on her back in the process, Gil realized, stomach twisting into knots.

"With a note in his will that said he buried the files where it all began."

"Where it all began?" His brow furrowed. "It began at the Whitly home."

With a child finding a girl locked inside a trunk.

"I thought that, too, but Ainsley and I searched the house and cellar and we didn't find anything."

"You and Ainsley?"

"She's who discovered Ian Turner left the files to me."

Of course, she did, Gil thought as he ran a hand over a face. Nothing this family did surprised him anymore.

Well, almost nothing.

"Does Bright know about these files?"

"Not yet." Sorcha pushed to her feet and walked to the window. "I plan on telling him tonight."

Gil didn't have to wonder at what the kid's reaction would be once she told him about these files. Stopping Bright from finding those files would be about as difficult as stopping a runaway train under full power.

No, he amended as he stared at the pile of paperwork on his desk. Stopping the train would be easier.

There'd be no stopping Bright.

"Do you have any idea where Turner might have hidden them?"

"One." Her expression became grim. "And you won't like the where any more than I do."

Gil had a feeling she'd say that.

 

Chapter Text

Malcolm found the morgue empty when he entered it. He had no idea where Edrisa and the rest of her staff could be. It being empty was a good thing, though. The fewer people he encountered, the better.

It meant less explaining he'd need to do if he found himself discovered by the wrong person.

It also lessens the chances of me getting caught by Gil.

That, most of all, was what he wanted to avoid. If it was just him who'd get in trouble would be one thing. It wasn't, though. It was Gil, Dani, JT, Edrisa, Sorcha, Leonard, and his mother who'd be in the most trouble if he was caught having slipped his ankle monitor.

What choice did he have, though?

The only person who could explain the DNA evidence found on Eddie was Edrisa. Granted, he could have called her and asked her what he needed to know. He could even have invited her to come to his mother's so they could talk face-to-face. There was no doubt in his mind that Edrisa would have been agreeable to either offer.

It just felt... wrong.

As if he was abusing her friendship to serve his own agenda.

Talking to her in the morgue made it seem more professional. Courteous. A callback to when they were two colleagues discussing the evidence of a case.

We still are discussing the facts of this case, he reasoned as he slowly made his way over to the table where Eddie's body lay. I'm just was the primary suspect.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the man responsible for Eve's death. Nothing about his body explained how hisblood got on Eddie. The majority of his physical injuries could be linked back to his attempt on his father's life.

Another order issued by Nicholas Endicott.

Only, this one didn't turn out the way he intended.

Malcolm's hand spasmed as images from the fight between his father and Eddie surfaced.

The garrote around his father's throat.

His father struggling before slowly going limp.

The fear and desperation that shot through him that compelled him to cry out, "Dad, no!" like some ten-year-old child.

A switch flipped on inside Martin Whitly at that moment.

He went from prey to predator after Malcolm addressed him as Dad instead of Dr. Whitly. He overpowered a shocked Eddie, pinning him to the floor before sinking his thumbs into the man's eye-sockets.

No thought, no hesitation.

The feral gleam in his father's eyes while he gouged the hitman's eyes out imprinted itself on his mind.

Another in a long line of traumas.

One more nightmare for him to have on repeat as he tried to sleep.

A movie theater that played a never ending horror movie. That's what he saw his mind as.

A movie theater that never closed.

That never stopped playing the same movies over and over.

A theater that had a new movie goer joining him for the show.

Malcolm lifted his head as Eve drifted close to him.

She was one more sin he had to atone for. Another in a long line of bodies who'd follow him into the afterlife. Who haunted him awake and asleep. At least he could bury her. Give her a marker to remind the world she had once been a living, breathing, vibrant human being.

There were twenty-three other bodies they couldn't bury because nobody knew where they were or what their names might be.

Nobody but his father, anyway.

And John Watkins, he added as Eve slid her hand over his, the coldness of her flesh chilling him to the bone.

Watkins also knew where those bodies were buried.

What those names were.

Not that he'd tell him or anyone else about where they were.

Or who they were.

"He deserved to die for what he did." Her fingers trailed over his arm. Left a trail of ice that curled its way to his heart. "To me. To us."

"There was no us." Malcolm stepped away from her. Knowing he couldn't get far. Knowing she wouldn't let him get far. Not until he repaid his debt to her. "You saw to that when you broke up with me via voicemail."

"I was going to come back." Her eyes were soft, pleading. "Didn't you realize that I always planned to come back?"

"You mean you would have come back when you needed help with protecting your sister."

"Malcolm…"

"No." Bitterness melted the ice around his heart. Stirred the miasma burning in the pit of his belly. Quaked in the fingers he curled into fists. "You used me. Took advantage of me. Said you had real feelings for me but walked out the moment you had what you needed from me."

"I had to find my sister."

"I would have helped you find her."

"It wasn't for you to do."

"I had as much a need to find her as you did."

"I was trying to save you from more pain."

Another lie to go with the dozens of others she fed him the last few weeks.

Lies he allowed her to tell him because he was hopelessly pathetic.

Craving the forbidden.

Wanting the flash and burn.

Needing the pain like an alcoholic needs one more drink.

Eve trapped him in her spindly web by convincing him she had real feelings for him.

That she accepted him for who and what he was.

All lies.

He had been foolish and shortsighted.

Believing he could have a normal life.

I had a normal life, he realized as Eve placed a cold hand on his shoulder. I had someone who did accept me for me. Who hasn't ever lied to me. And I tossed it away. Tossed her away.

For what?

Nothing.

Malcolm blew out a breath. Blame, excuses, reasons, none of it changed what happened to Eve. None of it changed how it was Nicholas Endicott who had this done to her. It was best to bury it all and go on as he always did.

Work the case.

Catch the bad guy.

Rinse and repeat.

"Oh, Mr. Bright!" Surprise tinged Edrisa's voice. "I didn't realize you were here."

Malcolm turned and smiled at the medical examiner.

"Hello, Edrisa."

Curiosity replaced her shock at finding him there.

"What are you doing here?"

"I needed to talk with you about the blood you found on Eddie."

"Oh!" Her eyes popped wide behind the rims of her glasses. "Well, you know that..."

"I'm asking you to reveal information to the prime suspect in this case?" Malcolm nodded. "I know. And I'm sorry I'm putting you in this position. I wouldn't if there was any other way. I have to prove that the blood is not mine."

"Oh, uhm." Edrisa pushed her glasses higher up on her nose. "That is going to be difficult to prove, I'm afraid. The lab results say it is your blood." She made a face. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't be." Malcolm gave her a gentle smile. "You can only follow the evidence."

"I know you didn't do this."

So did Malcolm. Knowing and proving it was too different things, though.

"Do you think it possible that the blood was faked?"

"Faked?" Edrisa cocked her head to the side, considering. "As in someone took a DNA sample and created a blood profile with it?"

"Yes."

"It's... possible." Her brow creased. "But how would they have had the time to plant the sample on Eddie?"

"That's the question I still need to answer."

Edrisa opened her mouth to say something but voices outside stopped her.

"See?" Malcolm flinched as he recognized Sorcha's droll tone. "I told you Malcolm isn't here."

"His skinny ass could be hiding."

"Malcolm doesn't like small, dark spaces so the mortuary cabinets are out."

Malcolm swallowed a curse and glanced around for a place to hide.

"Over there!" Edrisa pointed. "You can hide in the space between the two cabinets."

Malcolm darted over to where she indicated a second before JT entered the morgue. Dani followed a step behind, her brow creased, and mouth thinned into a hard line.

"She's lying about Bright."

JT heaved a soft grunt. "You see Bright's crazy ass anywhere?"

"Doesn't mean he's not." The distrust in Dani's voice, on her face, hurt. Not that he could fault her for how she felt. The evidence against him was overwhelming. "Bright's too emotional right now. Too unpredictable."

"Yeah, he is," JT agreed with a nod. "And being that way is what makes Bright good at his job."

"It's also what makes him good for this."

JT half-turned towards her as Edrisa made a small, distressed sound. "It's also what this Endicott is counting on everyone thinking. He wants us doubting Bright."

"I know." Dani sighed. "And I hate thinking he did this. It's what the evidence says. And we have to follow the evidence."

Gil entered the morgue then.

Seeing him hurt.

One bright ball of pain in the middle of his chest.

The last time Malcolm had seen Gil had been when SWAT busted into his loft so they could arrest him. He'd never forget the look of disappointment on his face or the way his voice throbbed as he told him he was under arrest.

Sorcha says he believes me. That he knows I didn't kill Eddie. That this is all an act to make sure he and the others don't get kicked off the case.

Malcolm wanted to believe her.

Wanted to think this was all an act designed to fool the man orchestrating everything from behind the scenes.

He just... couldn't.

It'd destroy him if he allowed himself to believe and it turned out he was wrong.

Like always.

"You send Bright-Lite home?"

"Yes." Gil heaved a weary sigh. "For all the good it'll do." JT snorted a laugh as Gil looked at Edrisa. "What've you got for us, Edrisa?"

"The bruising on Eddie's neck indicates he was held down. Perhaps with the assailant's forearm. That's not the cause of death, though." She clutched the file she held tighter to her chest. "Trace cotton fibers confirm he was smothered with a hospital pillow. Which, I mean, right there

you know it wasn't Bright because where's the pizzazz in a pillow?"

A small smile curved Malcolm's lips at Edrisa's defense. She was the one person, outside of Sorcha, he could be sure believed in his innocence.

"Suffocation required our killer to get close," Dani murmured, her brow creased. "This was intimate. Personal, even." She looked at Gil and then JT. "This fits with Bright. Our vic was tied to the murder of his girlfriend and an attempt on his father's life."

Every word stuck the knives in his heart deeper. He couldn't deny her profile was spot-on. If he was the one making it up, he'd have said the exact same thing.

"Finding Bright's DNA on Eddie doesn't help our boy either."

Malcolm wanted to leap out and tell them it wasn't his blood on Eddie. That it had been planted on him. Not that he needed to worry. Edrisa again had his back.

"You're wrong." She let out a small, pained sound. "I mean, you're right, but you're also wrong. You're so... so wrong."

"I hope that we are, too," Dani said. "But... if Bright was here, he would lay out the same profile."

Which was exactly what Endicott was counting on.

He wanted the profile to point to him.

Finger him as the one and only suspect.

Discredit him.

Ruin him.

What Endicott planned after he destroyed him remained a mystery.

One more puzzle he needed to solve before he could move on with his life.

"Everybody, take a breath," Gil said. "Focus on the job." Words he told Malcolm a thousand times. Words he did his best to live by. "Thanks, Edrisa. We'll circle back."

They left the morgue then, leaving Malcolm with his wildly chaotic thoughts, the ghost of the woman at the heart of the mess he was in, and desperately wishing Sorcha was there to help ground him.

"What did you hear?"

"Enough."

"And to think, I was just about to start a meaningful female friendship with Dani."

Edrisa let out a small sigh. "Maybe."

"Her profile's correct."

Much as he hated to admit it. Edrisa shot him an incredulous look.

"Don't tell me you think you did this?"

"No." Malcolm shook his head. "I've been framed. What I can't figure out is the DNA." His brow furrowed as he studied Eddie's body. "How did they get my skin and blood under Eddie's nails?"

"Maybe the killer planted it on him after the murder."

Malcolm supposed that was possible.

"Planting DNA isn't like planting a gun," he said softly, thoughtfully. "It would take time. The kind you don't have in a busy hospital." He looked over at her. "When did you swab his nails?"

"Back here at the lab."

"I take it you trust your team?"

"I do," Edrisa affirmed with a nod. "With my life." A small smile curved her lips. "They're also super fun at karaoke."

"So," Malcolm murmured thoughtfully. "That just leaves Corbell Laboratories."

Edrisa nodded.

"They processed the results."

An outside lab, he realized. A place where we have no control.

"What do we know about them?"

"Well, we do most of our work through them. They've worked the city since the '90s." A frown puckered her brow. "There's no way a single employee could swap out the results."

"I'm not worried about an employee." The niggle of suspicion curling through Malcolm grew in intensity. "I want to know who owns it."

Because he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

"All I can find is a number for their outside counsel."

"That's it." Excitement streaked through Malcolm as the pieces finally connected together. He turned to leave. "I have to go."

Edrisa stopped him by crying out, "Bright!"

Malcolm had less than three seconds to prepare himself before she launched herself at him, latching onto him like an octopus. He stood frozen, unsure what to do or how to respond. The only logical thing he could think of was exactly what he did. He cupped the back of Edrisa's head with one hand and folded his other arm around her.

"Sorry," she whispered against his shoulder. "Don't die."

"I won't." He leaned back to give her a reassuring smile. "I promise."

He left then to find Sorcha.

Because they had another stop to make.

This time to see the man his mother called, "The Devil."

Chapter Text

"You're positive this Sterling will know who owns Corbell Laboratories?"

"Sterling is the outside counsel for Corbell," Malcolm replied as he stopped at the crosswalk with her. He felt Sorcha's gaze on him but his remained fixed on the building sitting across the street from them. The fact that the man his mother called The Devil represented a man who could oust Lucifer from Hell wasn't lost on him. "Sterling will definitely know who owns it."

"Will he tell you is the thing."

Malcolm blew out a heavy breath. That question had been plaguing him since leaving Edrisa.

"Willingly? No."

It'd be easier to get blood from a turnip than a lawyer like Sterling. Sorcha shifted closer and dropped her voice to a conspirator's whisper.

"You're hoping to trip him up enough to get him to indicate that Endicott owns part or all of Corbell Laboratories, aren't you?"

"Either that," he said, sending her a small smile, "or someone we can connect to Endicott."

She was, Malcolm noted, concerned and anxious. Understandably so.

"This is a dangerous game we're playing, Mal."

"I know it is." His fingers bumped hers. Silently offering comfort. And asking for it. "What other choice do we have, though?"

"I don't like you going in there alone." Her fingers slid between his. "You don't have Gil or Dani or JT to back you up here. You don't even have a weapon to protect yourself should you find yourself in trouble."

"I won't get into any trouble."

Sorcha's snort said she didn't believe him. Rightfully so, he realized as a messenger on a bicycle stopped next to him.

"Let me call Uncle Jamie," she offered. "His precinct is only a block away."

"If you call him, he will have to come and arrest me for breaking house arrest." He smiled at her sigh. "And then he'd arrest you as my accomplice."

"Fine," she grumbled. "Let me call Uncle Hoyt then."

"I'd like to keep our list of accomplices to a minimum." They were already more than he intended. "If possible."

"Any one of us will willingly go to jail if it means keeping you from being prosecuted for a murder you didn't commit."

"I'll be..." he broke off, grimaced. "It's better this way," he said, instead. "Trust me."

Sorcha hummed a soft laugh.

"Learning about how that fine word doesn't work finally, are we?"

"Yes." The light changed. Malcolm let the messenger cross, first. "It doesn't sound as good out loud as it does inside my head."

"No, it doesn't," she agreed as she started across the street with him. "Least of all with how dangerous this is." Her fingers trembled against his own. A sign of how nervous she was. "Endicott is coming at you with everything he has. I wouldn't put it past him to hire a contract killer to kill you."

"I don't think he wants me dead."

"What do you think he wants?"

"I don't know." He moved out of the way of a group of businessmen hurrying in the opposite direction. "There's more to this than we know, though. A deeper purpose. Something we're missing that explains why Endicott has done everything he has."

"He's trying to prevent his serial killer ring from being exposed."

"His serial killer ring?" Malcolm stopped and turned to her, one brow arched. "What are you talking about?"

"I told Gil I'd tell you about this..." Sorcha grimaced and pulled him over to a quiet corner. "I just figured it was something we could talk about after we got back to your mother's."

Panic and dread curdled in his already sour stomach. Mingled with the bite of betrayal that burned in his blood. Malcolm ordered himself to calm down, be patient, give Sorcha a chance to tell him what she already told Gil.

"Tell me about what?"

Indecision warred with uncertainty on her face. Malcolm was about to ask her again when she blew out a breath and said, "My father was working with Ian Turner before his death."

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. That, he realized as he stared into her dark, expressive eyes, isn't what I expected her to tell me.

"He was working with Ian Turner..." he said slowly. "Why?"

"Dad always believed your father had more than twenty-three victims."

"I know he did." He and Ian Corbin had talked many times about there being more than twenty-three bodies to the Surgeon's name. "He and I talked about it a lot after I graduated Quantico. You and I talked about it."

"Yes, but what I didn't know was that Ian Turner asked my father to join him on his investigation into the Surgeon's victims."

"Turner was trying to uncover who the rest of my father's victims were?"

"That," she said with a small nod, "and they were looking into Martin Whitly having a partner."

"Which we now know was John Watkins."

"Correct." Sorcha shifted closer to Malcolm and dropped her voice an octave. "However, Dad may have uncovered that your father and Watkins were part of a serial killer ring operating here in New York."

"A serial killer ring? Operating here in New York?" Excitement drummed in Malcolm's veins as more of the pieces started to come together inside his mind. "Are you sure?"

"Turner's letter was pretty specific about how they had isolated a serial killer ring to here in New York."

"What else did his letter say?"

"That Dad linked twenty serial killers operating in the 70s, 80's, 90's and early 2000's to this ring."

Malcolm was floored.

Not that Ian Corbin worked a case despite his cancer prognosis. That was the type of man he was.

No, what astounded him was how he never told anyone about what he uncovered.

"Why didn't he turn what he found out over to the bureau?"

"Because he gave his files to Ian Turner so he could continue gathering information." She blew out a breath. "My guess is Ian Turner figured out the man behind the serial killer ring when he connected the Junkyard Killer to your father."

"Meaning Endicott had him murdered by Watkins to keep him from revealing his involvement in this ring."

"That's what I'm thinking, yes."

"Where are your father's files? They weren't in that storage shed that Owen Shannon took me too."

Where they discovered Paul Lazar was John Watkins.

A man they tracked to his grandmother's house.

Where Owen Shannon got his throat slit and Malcolm kidnapped and tortured. The area where Watkins stabbed him throbbed as memories of those twelve hours he spent in the dungeon Watkins and his father took their victims too played through his mind. Only Sorcha's hand in his kept him from spiraling back into that deep, dark web.

"Well, the files weren't in the shed because Turner knew they wouldn't be safe there."

"He was right," Malcolm said as a group of people exited Sterling's building. "They wouldn't have been safe in that shed. Endicott would have sent someone to investigate it soon as he became aware of its existence."

"I'm pretty sure Endicott knows about Dad's files."

"How?"

"I don't know how," she admitted with a tiny sigh. "I just have a feeling he does based on the warning Turner put in his letter to me."

"Wait." Malcolm's eyes popped wide as realization dawned, brighter and hotter than the sun shining down on them. "Turner left your father's files to you?"

"Yes, he did." A delivery man entered the building, momentarily distracting them. Danger was all around them. Being cautious, trusting nobody outside their immediate circle, suspecting strangers of working for Nicholas Endicott was the only way they'd stay alive. "There's just one problem."

"You don't have the files," Malcolm guessed with a small sigh. "Right?"

"No." Frustration simmered in that solitary word. "Turner says he put them somewhere safe."

"And you have no idea where that could be."

"Not a one." Her mouth turned down at the corners. "All I have is a clue as to where the files mightbe."

"What's the clue?"

"The files are somewhere only I would be able to figure out because of the connection it has to you, me, and Dad."

One place jumped out at Malcolm immediately.

"Your parent's house upstate."

Sorcha shook her head, though.

"Sean and I were there last week to make some repairs and paint. The files are not there."

Malcolm pondered places Ian Turner could have hidden those files as an ambulance went screaming by.

"What about that beach house your Dad rented every summer in Long Island?"

Some of his favorite memories came from the weeks spent at that beach house. Even his mother relaxed and allowed herself to enjoy being away from the headaches of Manhattan and high society.

Nobody cared they were the Whitly's there on Long Island. Nobody associated them with the Surgeon or his twenty-three victims. They were just a family looking to get away from the city for a few weeks.

"Uncle Hoyt suggested that when I text him earlier."

A grin tugged at Malcolm's lips.

"Did he also tell you to go back to my mother's house?"

"No, he said I'm as hardheaded as Dad, and wouldn't listen, anyway, so I'm to be careful." Malcolm's heart lightened at seeing the stress lines around her eyes and lips soften. The last few weeks hadn't been easy for either of them. Her regaining some of that spark he loved eased the tension creeping along the back of his neck. "He also told me to tell you to call for backup and wait for backup to actually arrive."

"Gil needs to stop talking with your family."

"Your propensity to not call or wait for backup is well known, Mal."

"Especially after what happened with Watkins." Malcolm grimaced. "Gil still doesn't let me forget about that one."

"Or going and getting electroshock therapy without telling anyone."

Malcolm made a face. "That's you who won't let me forget about that."

"With good reason." Sorcha rest her forehead against his. "I happen to like your brain un-fried."

Immediately, the hauntingly familiar mix of orchids and jasmine rose up to envelope him in its floral web. Malcolm allowed himself to drift on that floral wave, allowed it to soothe away his anxiety and nerves. To chase back the dark things that taunted and tormented him every moment of his life.

"I don't know why you put up with me."

"I don't put up with you." Sorcha's eyes stared into his. Open. Honest. Soft with things he had never thought to see again. "I love you, you danger prone dumbass." She slid her other hand into his. "I always have, and I always will."

The words were on the tip of Malcolm's tongue.

He wanted to say them to her.

He ached to tell her what was in his heart.

Something kept him from doing so.

Him, Malcolm realized, fingers quaking in hers. He prevented himself from telling her he loved her.

He always loved her.

He would always love her.

Instead, he said, "I should go see Sterling."

"Kay." Sorcha pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"It's me, remember?"

"Exactly my point."

Chapter Text

Thomas found himself developing reservations after he ended his phone call to Endicott. He didn't feel he told the man anything that should have sparked the reaction from him it did.

All he told him was that the Whitly kid and his girlfriend left Major Crimes and were now outside the office building of his overpriced shyster of a lawyer.

It isn't so much what the man said, he told himself as he watched the couple talk in front of the building, but how he said it that has me twisted into knots.

How else was he supposed to take a statement like, "Don't worry, Thomas, I'll take care of the situation personally."

Thirty-three years on the force screamed at him the man had something planned for in case the kids showed up at his lawyers office.

Thomas tried his best to ignore his gut.

Told himself to not think about what a man like Endicott could have in mind for the oblivious couple.

Told himself he couldn't get involved no matter how much he might want too.

Whatever Endicott planned for the Whitly kid and his girlfriend was none of his business.

The reason he didn't dig into the affairs of Nicholas Endicott was because of the repercussions an investigation could cause.

Ian Turner found out the hard way about looking into Endicott's business.

Thomas didn't want to end up like the former chief of detectives.

Found in a hotel room with a dead call girl from an apparent self-inflicted gunshot to the head.

So the report went, anyway.

Many, Thomas included, suspected there was more to the situation than brass wanted revealed.

Owen Shannon, Turner's former partner getting killed right before the Whitly kid got kidnapped never sat well with him.

The official report said the Junkyard Killer had slashed Shannon's throat before luring the kid into a trap.

Thomas suspected he killed Ian Turner on orders from Endicott because he got too close to discovering the truth about the man's criminal empire.

Turner's career ruined, reputation shredded, his life over meant he was no longer a threat.

Yeah, Thomas absolutely could see Endicott ordering Turner murdered by this Watkins.

He wasn't the sort of man to cross, after all.

He not only had powerful allies down at 1PP, but he also had a rolodex of killers he could send after someone at a moment's notice.

Men and women who'd gladly take the money he offered.

Men and women who'd not blink as they took care of whoever Endicott told them too.

Thomas had no desire to find himself or his daughter on the wrong end of those men and women.

He saw what happened to those who ended up as one of their contracts.

Dumped in the river, an apparent suicide, just another dead girl people forgotten about soon as phones buzzed or newsfeeds updated.

He couldn't get involved, he again told himself as he watched the kid bury his face into his girlfriend's hair.

His gut refused to heed his request, though.

More he watched the two, the more he realized he couldn't sit by and allow something to happen to either one.

Thomas ran a hand over the back of his head and released a weary sigh.

This assignment wasn't supposed to have been complicated.

Follow the two around, snap some photographs of them, mark down where they went and who they saw, call Endicott, get paid.

Easy, peasy.

The longer he sat there, though, the more bothered he became by what Endicott said.

How he'd "take care of the situation."

That could mean only one of two things in his mind: he'd either have the Whitly kid or the Corbin girl killed.

Neither something Thomas wanted to see happen.

Much as the Whitly kid caused chaos wherever he went, he was a good kid. He helped clear some difficult cold cases. Found clues that eluded other detectives. Put away some serious scumbags. Animals like John Watkins and Robert Harwood.

And the Corbin girl?

Thomas couldn't allow any harm to come to her.

Not without feeling like an even bigger pile of dog shit than he already did.

He graduated from the Academy with her uncle, Jamie. Worked under her uncle, Hoyt before he was made Chief of Detectives. Hell, her mother, Erin was one of the nurses who helped save his partner after she got shot in a robbery gone wrong.

No way was he gonna sit back and let Endicott snuff either kid out.

Murder wasn't what he signed up for.

Surveillance, yes.

Photographing the pair, yes.

Allowing any physical harm to come to them?

Hell no.

Thomas Gray was a scumbag for agreeing to work for a class-A asshole like Nicholas Endicott, but he was still a cop under it all.

And cops take care of their own, he decided as he shoved open his door and exited the vehicle.

...

A rap on his office door broke Gil from the fugue he sunk into after leaving Edrissa.

He straightened in his chair and waved them in, knowing it was JT by the way he knocked on his door.

"What is it, JT?"

Please, he silently prayed, have something we can work with here.

Because as it stood, they had a whole lot of nothing.

Well, he amended as JT crossed to his desk, we have a whole lot of nothing that points at Bright as prime suspect in a homicide.

"I just got done checking the traffic cams like you suggested."

Intrigued at what JT might have found, Gil set down the pen he had been using to fill out the mountain of paperwork the higher-ups demanded he do before leaving the precinct.

"Where did you find them?"

Because there was no doubt in his mind that JT wouldn't find Bright with Sorcha. If there was one thing Gil could be absolutely certain of, it was that those two wouldn't be far from the other.

Least of all while the kid's neck is in a noose.

One thing had become abundantly clear during both of his conversations with Sorcha: the two had their Batman & Robin act down pat.

If he wanted to bust his Dynamic Duo?

He'd have to outsmart them.

Checking traffic cam footage for Sorcha's Mustang, a car easily as recognizable as his LeMan's until Bright used it as a cushion, occurred to him right after they left the morgue.

A picture was not something either Batman or Robin could casually refute.

Though he expected they'd try.

He'd be disappointed in them if they didn't.

The only thing keeping his anxiety and frustration under control was knowing the two were working together. If Bright had been out there and working this alone, Gil wouldn't be half as calm as he was.

No, he'd be out there hunting the kid down so he could forcibly drag his ass back to his mother's.

Sorcha wouldn't let anything happen to Bright. She'd make sure he didn't do his usual and run headfirst into danger. If they did happen to find themselves in trouble, he was confident she'd actually call for backup. Either from him, her uncles or her brother and his friends.

"Got 'em as they pulled into the parking lot around the corner." A glimmer of mirth crossed the younger man's face as he set a couple of glossy photographs on Gil's desk. "And again as they left."

"You didn't find them before they reached the parking lot?" One brow tilted as he stared at the two captured in the still photos. "How did they manage that?"

"Bright-Lite is smart."

The level of respect and admiration in JT's voice amused Gil. Few ever earned that level of regard. Not because JT had trust issues, but because he reserved that for people who truly deserved it. Sorcha won it by staunchly defending Bright from Colette Swanson and everyone else who doubted him.

"She'd have been smarter not to drive that Mustang."

Not that Gil could blame her for driving it. Not only was the convertible a connection to her father and days gone bye, but it was also one sweet ass ride.

"Thinking she drove it 'cause it is so recognizable."

"As a way of letting Endicott know she's helping Bright?"

"Girl ain't subtle when it comes to Bright."

Gil made a low sound of agreement as he picked up the photographs to study them. Bright hadn't even bothered to try and disguise his features.

Not that it overly shocked Gil he hadn't.

His kid had seemingly forgotten everything he learned during his ten tears working for the FBI.

I'm to blame for that, he realized as a phone rang outside his office. I opened Pandora's Box when I went to him with the Quartet case. I knew he wouldn't say no. That he'd want in on the case once he saw how the victims had been killed. I'm why he resumed seeing his father. Why he ended up kidnapped by John Watkins. Why he's in the mess he now is.

Bright had scored a direct hit when he said he was the way he was because of his father. Watkins. Him.

That was why it was up to him to fix things.

To see the kid cleared of these ridiculous charges.

To get him to finally make a life for himself outside of murderers and murder.

"Did you see if they headed back to Jessica Whitly's after leaving here?"

"Can already tell you they weren't heading back to Bright's mom's place." JT set a few more photographs in front of him. "Camera caught them about five minutes ago outside the office of Everett Sterling."

"Everett Sterling?" Gil's brow furrowed. "The scumbag attorney who got Martin Whitly his plea deal?"

Opening the door for Endicott to give him his nice, cushiony cell in exchange for his silence about Sophie Sanders.

The former Girl in the Box.

Sister of Eve Blanchard.

Bright's dead girlfriend.

Murdered by Eddie Smith.

A man who worked for Nicholas Endicott.

Who framed Bright.

"One and the same."

"Why are they going to see Everett Sterling?" It made no sense. Unless... "They're trying to track down who owns Corbell Laboratories."

A frown creased the skin between JT's eyes.

"Why would they be trying to track down who owns Corbell Laboratories?"

"To see if it's one of the subsidiaries owned by Nicholas Endicott."

Dawning realization crept over JT's face.

"If they can prove that Endicott owns the labs where the blood was tested than they can prove the blood on Eddie Smith wasn't Bright's." JT grunted. "Fits what Bright-Lite was saying to me and Dani before you came in."

"Get Powell." Gil pushed to his feet. Reached for his jacket. "We need to get to Sterling's office before those two get in trouble."

If they aren't already, he thought as he followed JT from his office.

These were his kids, after all.

Danger magnets.

Both of them.

 

Chapter Text

Malcolm entered Sterling's office fully expecting getting answers wouldn't be easy. The man earned his reputation by being a shark inside the courtroom and out. By manipulating the law to his and his affluent clients advantage. By doing whatever it took to see them beat the charges leveled against them.

The photographs lining the wall opposite of where Sterling stood told a different story. Those pictures showed a man in complete contrast to the one his mother called The Devil.

That Sterling stood proud among people at protest rallies. Who fought diligently for civil rights. Who shook hands with men like Jesse Jackson.

Those images told Malcolm that Sterling had been a man of principle.

That he once held himself to a high standard.

Wanted to use the law to fight injustice and right wrongs.

That Sterling wouldn't have helped men like his father, John Watkins or Robert Harwood evade prosecution.

He wouldn't have helped get them placed in Claremont Psychiatric.

No, he'd have seen them punished for the crimes they committed.

Made sure their victims got the justice they deserved.

That their voices were heard.

So, what turned that activist into The Devil? Malcolm pondered that as he and Sterling stared at each other. Did Endicott discover something in his past that he used to compel the man to trade in his principles and become an attorney for serial killers and junk bond traders?

Asking him straight out if that's what happened wouldn't get him an answer. No more than it had gotten him the truth about who owned Corbell Laboratories. Appealing to the man Sterling had been before Endicott got his hooks into him was the only way Malcolm could get him to tell him what he needed.

"What happened to that man?" Malcolm nodded towards the pictures on the wall. "What made that activist give up his intention to use the law to help people?"

Indecision broke through the stone mask Sterling habitually wore. He wanted to talk. Malcolm could feel it. Something or someone held him back. And I have a good idea who that is.

"I think that man hates what he's become." There was a faint flinch. One Sterling did his best to hide. "I also think he hates the man who did it." He stepped forward and dropped his voice to a low, conspiratorial tone. "Come on, Sterling." He again indicated the pictures. "Be that guy and tell me about Endicott's lab."

Malcolm fully expected Sterling to deflect his questions with more legal jargon. He was surprised when the man sniffed softly and said, "It's funny, twenty years ago, I advised against that acquisition."

Malcolm's brow knit. "Why?" he asked.

"There's no money in DNA analysis." Sterling set the paper he had been about to put through the shredder on the edge of his desk and faced Malcolm. "Of course, profits have never been what Nicholas was after."

"He wanted power."

Power and control were the only things men like Endicott enjoyed.

"He's kept a lot of important people out of jail. And his price was..." A faint hint of bitterness coated his voice, the curve of his lips. "Almost reasonable."

Malcolm didn't even have to guess what that price was.

"He demands absolute loyalty."

"No," Sterling said. "That is the one thing you never tell Endicott."

"Why kill Eve?"

The question caught Sterling by surprise. For a minute, Malcolm almost believed he didn't know Endicott ordered her killed.

Almost.

"He must've been afraid she'd find her sister and the files Sophie stole from him."

"The files are real then?"

Excitement coursed through Malcolm. If he could find those files, he could bring Endicott down.

"If you want to prove your innocence, Malcolm?" Sterling came forward so he and Malcolm stood face-to-face. "Get your father to tell you where those files are. That's the..." A sound came from outside Sterling's office. A frown creased his brow as he lifted his head. "Did you bring someone here with you?"

Sorcha was waiting downstairs for him but there was no way he was going to reveal that to Sterling. Just because the man chose to help him didn't mean he trusted him.

Not completely.

"I didn't bring anyone with me."

Malcolm turned just as a bullet shattered the window behind him, sending glass to the floor in a waterfall of shards. He readied himself for the bright bite of the pain as the bullet entered his flesh.

Only, it never came.

He assumed the delivery man missed, but there was a sound, much like the one a wet mop made as it slapped onto tile. Puzzled, Malcolm turned towards Sterling, but froze when he saw the large red stain blossoming across the front of the lawyer's white shirt.

They shot Sterling and not me? was the first thought that went through his mind. But... His brow creased. That makes no sense.

Not unless...

Malcolm's heart slammed against his ribcage and his breath wheezed out from between lips that felt like they were frozen together as the awful truth of what happened slowly dawned on him.

Whoever had been sent here had not been hired to kill him.

No, they were there to make sure Sterling didn't talk.

My fault, he realized as what color drained from Sterling's face. This is my fault.

He got Sterling killed.

Same as he got Eve killed.

By sticking his nose in where he shouldn't have.

Sterling started to fall backward then.

Malcolm leapt forward and caught him, eased him to the floor.

"Sterling!" Malcolm pressed his hands to the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood but failing. "Hold on! You'll be okay."

Sterling groaned and groped for a fistful of his jacket. The eyes that raised to Malcolm's were blown wide with a deluge of shock, fear, and agony.

And acceptance, Malcolm realized as his hands became sticky.

Sterling knew he was gonna die and saw it as his penance for all the men and women he helped elude justice.

"You need... your dad," Sterling managed in a wet whisper. "He's the only one... who can end this."

Then he was gone, leaving Malcolm with bloodstained hands, and no way to logically explain what happened that wouldn't land him in hotter water than he already was in.

...

Malcolm had been inside for ten minutes.

A lifetime given the amount of danger surrounding her danger prone dope.

And he's up there without backup or a weapon to defend himself.

Nerves tingled, hands trembled, and thoughts whirled as Sorcha paced in front of the building.

Part of her hoped, prayed, Gil would catch wind of where they were, what they were doing, and show up to stop them.

The other part of her hoped, prayed he didn't because if he did, he'd be obligated to arrest her and Malcolm.

Not that Sorcha cared if she ended up going to jail. Long as they proved Malcolm's innocence and brought down Nicholas Endicott? She was fine with going to jail.

I have to find those files of dad's, she realized as car horn's bleated and people shouted around her. They're the only way to stop Endicott.

Turner said he hid the files in a place that had significance to her, Malcolm and her father.

The question was: where?

"Miss Corbin?"

Sorcha spun around, body taut, and hands clenched. Trust nobody not in their inner circle. That was what she and Malcolm agreed. However, the man who stood there looked vaguely familiar.

"I'm sorry," she said warily. "Do I know you?"

A faint smile curved the man's fleshy lips.

"Been about fifteen years since you saw me last." He held out a large hand. "Detective Gray. I know..."

"My uncle, Jamie." Sorcha nodded as she finally recognized the grizzled detective. "You graduated from the police academy together."

"Worked together in the 2-3 until he got transferred to special victims." Sorcha swore a faint hint of wistfulness shot through Detective Gray's pale eyes but it was gone so fast she was left wondering if she had seen it. "Those were good days. Worked with a lot of good men and women back then."

"Uncle Jamie speaks highly of you."

"He's a good man, your uncle. Both of 'em are."

"My Mom would agree with you."

"Fine woman, your mom." A small smile curled the ends of his lips. "Sure you've heard enough about how much you look like her but damned if you aren't her spitting image."

"She claims I look and act more like my dad."

"Well." Detective Gray chuckled softly. "I tend to recall the Brannigans are as ornery as the Corbins."

"Uncle Jamie's the most even tempered member of the family."

"Until you rile him." His eyes twinkled with fondness. "Then he's like an Irish Terrier."

"He'd say he's more like an Irish Wolfhound."

"No, that'd be your uncle Hoyt."

"You're right." Sorcha hummed a laugh. "He and dad were a lot alike there."

"Your dad, Ian," Detective Gray said quietly. "He's why I'm here, actually."

"My dad?" A puzzled frown feathered Sorcha's brow. "What about him?"

"Because." Gray watched a delivery man enter Sterling's building through narrowed eyes. "If there's one man Nicholas Endicott fears, it's Ian Corbin."

"But my dad is..."

"Dead." The detective nodded. "I know he is. I was right sorry to hear of his passing." He raked his thick, callused fingers through his more gray than brown hair. "Things might never have gotten this far had he lived."

"This far?" Curious now despite her gut telling her she shouldn't be, Sorcha moved closer to him and dropped her voice. "You know about Endicott's serial killer ring?"

Detective Gray's expression caused a chill to run down her spine. Warned her things were far worse than she or Malcolm imagined them.

"Endicott's running an entire criminal empire, kiddo. One he's operating with the cooperation and knowledge of many in law enforcement, government, and other influential circles."

Sorcha suspected, as had Gil and Malcolm, of Endicott having aligned himself with people in position to further his goals and ambition. The man used money and manipulation to get the power and control he craved.

He also isn't afraid to kill those who threaten him with exposure.

Something Ian Turner and Eve Blanchard both did.

Turner with her dad's help and Eve with her sister's.

"Endicott fears the files my dad gave to Ian Turner."

"He knows Turner left those files to you." Gray let out a pained sigh. "That's why he hired me to follow you and the Whitly kid around. To see if you came up with those files."

Sorcha had to wait for her fury to pass before she could speak. It was difficult to think in logical steps through anger. However justified it was.

"You've been following Malcolm and I?"

"Yes."

Her nails curled into her palms to keep her from planting a fist in his craggy face. Last thing Malcolm needed was her assaulting an officer.

Even if that officer was a corrupt one.

"How long?" She demanded in a low hiss. "How long have you been following us?"

"Since November."

"Nove…" She trailed off as the blood drained from her face. "You took those photos of Malcolm and I. The ones that got delivered to the station house a few weeks ago."

The ones that exposed their private life. Something nobody had a right to do.

"I took them but Endicott delivered them to Robert Harwood."

A chill ran through Sorcha as realization dawned.

"Robert worked for Endicott." Another, more damning question occurred to her. "Did he also influence my meeting him?"

"My guess?" Gray blew out a breath. "Yeah."

"Did he also get Malcolm fired from the FBI?"

Before Gray could reply, Malcolm came hurdling through the front door. Blood covered the front of his jacket and shirt. Darkened his hands.

"Sterling's dead," he panted out. "A man in a delivery uniform shot him."

Behind them, Gray cursed. Long and viciously.

"Endicott," he growled. "He's covering his ass." He reached into his jacket and pulled out his service revolver. "You two get back where you belong and wait for either Arroyo or your uncles to come to you."

"Who are..." Malcolm began but Gray cut him off.

"Go!"

Sorcha grabbed Malcolm's hand and did as the detective ordered.

They were in enough hot water.

They didn't need to drown in it.

Chapter Text

A battalion of cop cars and news vans were parked outside Sterling's building by the time Gil got there. Great, was his only thought as JT parked behind some squad cars.

Reporters shouted questions at him as they made their way to the entrance.

"No comment," he heard JT bark at one. "Now, back up!"

If not for how serious things were, Gil might have smiled at how fast the reporters scrambled out of JT's way.

Not that he could blame them.

JT was built like a linebacker.

And barks like a Pit Bull.

A Uni waved them on inside. Something they wouldn't need if Bright would have stayed at Jessica's.

Dammit, Bright, he thought as he headed for the elevator. Why couldn't you do what I asked just this once?

Because it wouldn't be Bright was why.

The kid wasn't the sort to sit on the sidelines. Least of all when it was his neck on the line. Didn't mean he couldn't wish Bright would let him figure out how to get him out of the predicament he was in.

"Gil."

A grin split Gil's lips as he spied Jamie Brannigan coming towards him. He clasped the hand offered, relieved to have someone he could trust working with him to figure out what the hell happened.

"Managed to rope you into this mess, too, did they?"

Jamie snorted a soft laugh and jerked his head in the direction of a man talking with JT and Dani.

"Gray called me in on this mess, actually."

"Gray?" Gil vaguely remembered the veteran detective. "He worked the 2-3 with you back when you were rookies, didn't he?"

"He did, yeah." Jamie nodded. "Transferred over to the Detective Bureau about ten years ago, though."

Gil didn't have to ask why such a transfer appealed to a detective like Thomas Gray. The Detective Bureau's main responsibilities included the prevention, detection, and investigation of crimes. Most cops who wore a badge wanted to see crimes averted when and where possible.

Those that didn't?

Well, they didn't deserve to wear a badge in his opinion.

"So." He waved towards where Edrisa was examining Sterling's body. "What the hell happened?"

And please tell me Bright wasn't involved.

Not that Gil had any hopes of the kid not somehow being wrapped up in this mess.

He just wasn't lucky enough for that.

"Best I can tell..." Jamie heaved a sigh. "Your boy was in the office and talking to Sterling when a delivery man came out of nowhere and fired a single shot through the window."

"At Bright?"

"No, Gray said the target was Sterling."

"Sterling?" Gil's brow creased. "Why would the target be Sterling?"

"Likely to keep him from revealing anything to Malcolm."

"Attorney-client privilege prevents that."

"Malcolm's more than capable of getting around that, Gil."

He's right, Gil realized as a sheet was placed over Sterling's body. Bright would know how to get the answers he wanted from Sterling without breaking confidentiality.

Endicott couldn't take the chance the attorney would develop a conscience and help Bright prove his innocence.

So, he had one of the dozens of contract killers on his payroll take care of him.

Same as he hired Eddie Smith to get rid of Eve Blanchard.

And almost Martin Whitly.

The man's unerring ability to walk away from danger unscathed impressed, as much as it frustrated Gil.

"Where are Bright and Sorcha now?"

"Gray said he sent them back to the Whitly home with express orders to wait there for us."

Gil snorted a laugh.

"Like Batman and Robin actually obeyed."

Jamie's lips twitched.

"Would you expect anything less from them at this point?"

"No." Gil watched Edrisa chatting animatedly at Dani and JT. The two wore similar expressions of frustration. He hid a smile as he turned back to Jamie. "Them doing their own thing is the only constant I have right now."

Jamie's brow furrowed.

"Things are that bad with Malcolm's case?"

"Bad enough."

Gil couldn't imagine things getting any worse than they currently were. Jamie blew out a breath as crime scene techs moved around them categorizing evidence and taking pictures.

"Hoyt is reaching out to his contacts at 1PP to see if he can't get a bead on who might be on Endicott's payroll."

Gil hoped he'd find out before orders came down to charge Malcolm officially with murder.

"Arroyo, Jamie," Thomas Gray said as he lumbered up to them. "Wish we coulda met under better circumstances..."

"Best time as any," Gil replied as he shook the detective's hand. "Especially given the circumstances in question."

"I'm just glad you were here, Tom." Jamie raked a hand through his hair. "Hate to think of what might have happened to them two had you not been here."

"Yeah, well." A shadow passed over Gray's face. Set off bells inside Gil. "Don't thank me, yet, Jamie."

"Why not?"

"Because the only reason I was here is because Endicott has had me following the kids since last November."

Fury almost consumed Gil. Before he could react, though, Jamie grabbed Gray by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. A couple of uni's came forward to break up the fight but a look from Gil got them to back off.

"You work for Endicott?" Jamie growled, eyes flashing. "You're telling me you're actually on this asshole's payroll?"

"Yeah." Gray remained completely docile in Jamie's hold. Something Gil knew the man wouldn't be if not for the respect he had for him. "Yeah, I started working for Endicott in 2018."

"Why?" Jamie's fingers curled into Gray's white dress shirt. "Why would you work for a man like Nicholas Endicott? Christ, Tom, you're a cop!"

"To pay for Kenzie's tuition." Shame and sorrow filled the older man's face. "That's the reason I started moonlighting as a private investigator. We needed the money after Diane got sick. Everything we had went to her medical bills. We had nothing left to pay for Kenzie to go to school."

While Gil didn't approve of Gray working for a man like Endicott, he couldn't fault the man for doing what was necessary so his kid could go to college. Not everyone had the kind of money Endicott did.

Something the man used to his advantage.

How many other cops does he have on his payroll for the same reason as Gray?

Hoyt Brannigan was looking into that number as they spoke. Trying to find the person responsible for Bright being arrested.

Gil suspected it'd be someone they never anticipated.

Like Thomas Gray.

Only higher up the division chain.

"Why didn't you come forward sooner?" Gil asked as Jamie stepped back. "Why wait until Sterling's dead before coming forward with what you know?"

"Because I didn't agree to murder when I started working for him." Gray straightened his mussed shirt before looking at Gil. "I might be a shit cop for working for a man like Endicott but I'm still a cop at the end of the day."

"This goes public and you won't be," Jamie said. "Your career is over, Tom."

"If losing my badge keeps those kids alive?" Gray fished his badge from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Jamie. "Then have it."

"Which one?" Gil stepped towards him. "Which one does Endicott want killed?"

"My guess?" Gray glanced at Jamie, his expression grim. "Your niece."

"Over my dead body," Jamie rumbled. "I'll kill the son of a bitch before he gets anywhere near Sorcha or Malcolm."

On that, he and Gil were in perfect agreement.

"I'll handle Batman and Robin," he told Jamie as he signaled for JT and Dani. "If you and Gray can handle the rest of this mess."

"You got it." Gray's jaw clenched. "Anything I can do to help at this point, I will."

"I'll meet you at your squad later," Jamie said. "Have a few things to say to Batman."

"She'll be there," Gil promised before exiting with JT and Dani.

...

"Who was the man you were talking with outside Sterling's office?" Malcolm asked once they were back in the car. "I didn't recognize him."

"Thomas Gray." Sorcha glanced over her left shoulder before switching lanes. "He graduated with Uncle Jamie from the academy."

"Ah." Ten years brought about many changes. Especially to people. Kids became teenagers, teenagers became adults, and so on. "What was he doing outside Sterling's building?"

"He works for Endicott."

"What?" Malcolm's heart dropped into his already violently cramping belly. Only sheer perseverance kept him from emptying the bits of toast and coffee he managed at breakfast all over the floorboard. "He works for Endicott?"

"He's apparently been reporting to him on our comings and goings since November." Her fingers gripped the steering wheel hard enough her knuckles cracked. "It was Detective Gray who took those photographs of us."

Malcolm didn't have to ask what photographs. He knew what ones she meant. Ones that should never have been taken in the first place because of the private moment they captured. Fury replaced the fear and anxiety fighting for dominance inside him. Spasmed in the hand clenched atop his thigh.

"He gave them to Tammy Lynn?"

"No, he gave them to Endicott." Sorcha turned at the corner. "Who gave them to Robert."

"Who, in turn, gave them to Tammy Lynn."

"Mhm."

Malcolm absorbed that as Sorcha stopped behind a delivery van. Part of him wanted to rant and rail about their being followed. At their privacy being invaded.

The other realized there was little point in being upset. Endicott was a man who bought information and used it to gain the only things he craved: power and control.

Sorcha wasn't done with her bombshells, however. She still had one more to hit him with.

"Robert worked for Endicott."

What breath he managed to draw in whooshed out of Malcolm.

"He what?" He shifted in his seat to stare at her, eyes wide.

"Robert, Watkins, your father, they all worked for Endicott."

Who knows how many others there are, he thought as Sorcha pulled up in front of his mother's house.

"We need to tell Gil about this."

Sorcha cut the engine and sat staring out at the street, eyes pensive, mouth set in a hard line.

"We need to find Dad's files is what we need." Her hands dropped to her lap. "They are the only thing that will help us prove Endicott is the monster he is."

"Turner left you no clue about where they could be?"

"Just that he left them where it all began."

"Where it all began?" A frown knit Malcolm's brow as he tried to decipher the clue. "Where what all began?"

Sorcha shook her head. "I don't know." She blew out a breath. "There are any number of places he could mean. Where your dad was born. Where he committed his first murder. Where the first body he and Watkins killed together is buried."

"Any of those are possible but have no connection to you, me, and your dad."

"Maybe, maybe not." She turned to him. "There could be a connection there but we can't see it. Not yet."

"You're right." Much as Malcolm hated to admit it. "We need to figure out that connection."

Sorcha reached over and stroked the back of his neck. Equal parts comfort and support. Desperately needed given the situation they found themselves.

"We will." She indicated his mother's house with a slight nod. "Get inside and cleaned up. If we want to keep you out of jail a little bit longer, we can't have Gil finding you off your leash, and covered in Sterling's blood."

"Where are you going?"

"To check on Sunshine."

He had not forgotten his little budgie was alone at his loft. Ainsley, though, promised to check on her before they snuck out to see Edrisa. Which meant…

"You're going to meet your uncle Hoyt, aren't you?"

"No, I'm going to check on Sunshine." Her lips edged up into a smile. "Uncle Hoyt will just be there supervising as I pick up a few things for you."

Malcolm snorted a laugh. "Right."

Sorcha leaned over to kiss his cheek. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Just be careful."

I can't lose you, he added silently.

Not I love you.

As he desperately wanted to say.

Because he couldn't make himself say the words despite how much he wanted too.

One day, though, he swore as he stepped from the car. One day, I'll find a way to tell her everything I've kept locked down deep inside.

Hopefully, it be before he ended up in prison.

Or dead.

 

Chapter Text

Sunshine greeted her with happy chirps and tweets the moment she opened the front door of the loft.

"I'm here, pretty baby," she said as she moved to the budgie's cage. "We'll get you a little bit of freedom before we get you into your carrier and over to Malcolm, how's that?"

More chirps and tweets came from the little bird who fluttered down from her perch to stand in front of her cage door.

"Kiddo, I still don't think it's wise to talk here," Hoyt Brannigan rumbled behind her. "Endicott has eyes and ears everywhere."

Sorcha smiled at her uncle from over her shoulder. "TARU did a sweep and found all the cameras and audio devices Endicott had installed in Malcolm's loft."

A frown darkened her uncle's brow as he closed the loft door behind him. "So, the place was bugged?"

"Yes." Her stomach knotted with the familiar bite of betrayal and invasion of privacy. "Endicott likely had the place bugged before Malcolm moved back to New York."

"Have you placed a call to Adam to ask him if Malcolm's firing from the bureau had any outside influence from this Endicott?"

Sorcha nodded as she opened the cage door and reached her hand in for Sunshine, who hoped onto her fingers, gladly. "Adam says he found multiple phone calls between Endicott's assistant, Mercy Sleeves, and Malcolm's boss the week he got fired."

"I'll kill the bastard if I get my hands on him," her uncle growled. "What the bastard deserves after everything he's put you and the kid through."

"Killing Endicott won't get Malcolm out of this mess he's in."

"But it'll damn sure put an end to the son of a bitch's empire."

"Maybe." Sorcha gently rubbed Sunshine's neck between her fingers. The little budgie leaned into her touch, clearly needing, and enjoying the attention. It hadn't been an easy night for her, either, she realized. Her nest broken into by strangers and her nest-mate taken out in cuffs in front of her. "But I don't think so."

"You don't think Endicott dead will put a stop to his power and control?"

"I think there are a number of people who are more than willing to take his place."

"You're likely right." Uncle Hoyt heaved a sigh as he walked over to take a seat in one of the chairs at the kitchen island. "The only way to fully stop this is by exposing Endicott and as many of his cronies as we can."

"We need to find the files Dad left me." Sorcha moved to the sink and turned it on. Sunshine tweeted happily and bounced down to play in the thin stream of water. "That's the only way to put a stop to this."

"You have no idea where Turner might have left them?"

"No." Sorcha moved to the drawer where Malcolm kept his prescriptions. "All he said was he left them in a place that has importance to Malcolm, myself, and Dad."

"You checked your folks place?"

"With Sean, yes."

"Harvard?"

"Has more significance to me and Malcolm than Dad."

"Good point." A frown knit Uncle Hoyt's bushy brow. "Turner said the files were in the place where it all began, though?"

"Yes." Sorcha set the prescription bottles on the counter and moved to the closet. "Why?"

"Because I have an idea about what he meant by the place where it all began."

"Okay?" She selected shirts and pants, choosing items of comfort and leisure over Malcolm's usual suits of armor. "Where?"

"The FBI."

Sorcha stopped and half-turned to look at her uncle. "You think Turner handed the files to Adam?"

"Adam is the only person your dad would trust with files like these."

"Wait..." she said as an idea dawned. "You said the only person he would trust. Not that Ian Turner would trust."

Uncle Hoyt turned his head to look at her, a questioning look in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"This whole time I have been looking at things from the perspective of Turner meaning me, Malcolm, and Dad." She carried the clothes over and set them next to the pill bottles. "What if Turner isn't referring to Dad when he says dad?"

"Who could he be referring too?"

"Gil Arroyo." She shut the water off. "He became Mal's dad after Martin Whitly's arrest and has filled that void left inside me after Dad's death."

He filled that position while Dad was still alive, she realized as she grabbed a handful of Dum-Dum's from the cookie jar on the back counter. When Dad wasn't there for a hug, advice or just to talk about things bothering me, Gil was.

And she never thanked him for it.

I will, though, she decided as Sunshine chirped and shook out her damp feathers. Soon as this is over, I am going to do something to show Gil how important he is to me.

"Arroyo would have given you the files."

"Not if he doesn't know he has them."

Surprise crisscrossed her uncle's craggy face. "You think Turner hid them somewhere in Arroyo's office?"

"Only one way to find out."

"After he rips your butt for disobeying his orders."

Sorcha harrumphed and moved to collect the rest of Malcolm's things. "His orders were to stay close to Malcolm."

"Without getting into trouble."

She sent her uncle a cheeky grin. "I must have missed that part."

"Yeah," he replied as he started packing the things she set on the counter into the travel bag she brought up with her. "Your dad tended to, too."

"I am just like him."

"No, kiddo." He took the armful of socks and underwear she carted over and set them in the bag with the rest of the clothes. "You're the best parts of Ian."

Sunshine chirped her agreement as she hopped into the bag and snuggled up in one of Malcolm's sweaters.

"Don't worry, baby," she told the little budgie as she got her travel carrier and set it on the counter. "We're taking you with us."

Sunshine flew up to land on the bag, tweeting and chirping as she waited for the carrier door to open. Her uncle grunted softly.

"Is that Here Comes The Sun?"

Sorcha smiled as she unzipped the carrier. "Yes."

"Kiddo, do me a favor when this is all over."

"What?"

"Marry that boy."

Sorcha's lips curved, warm with affection. "Only if you promise to walk me down the aisle."

Uncle Hoyt covered her hand with his larger one. "Deal."

...

"Gil!" Surprise was the only thing on the kid's face when he walked into Jessica's living room half an hour after leaving Sterling's office. "What's going on?"

Gil frowned at him to let him know he was onto him.

Bright, to his credit, merely stared curiously back at him.

Robin is channeling Batman here, I see, Gil thought as he came to a stop in front of the couch. Well, time to trim his tail feathers a bit.

"Did you go see Everett Sterling?"

"No, of course not." Cool as a cucumber. If Gil wasn't wise to the truth, he'd have been impressed. Especially since the kid was normally as easy to read as a book. "Why? Has something happened to him?"

"What's the meaning of this?" Jessica demanded as she rounded on Gil. "My son has been here all day."

Gil didn't have the heart to call her out on her lie. Not that he could blame her. She was trying to protect her son, after all.

"You promise you didn't leave?"

If Gil thought Bright would break and admit to Dani that he had been at Sterling's building?

He was sorely mistaken.

"Dani, I promise you." Sincerity coated every word. "I did not leave at any point whatsoever."

"Okay."

"Since you're here, update me on the case." Malcolm tossed aside the magazine he had been pretending he had been reading when they came in and sat forward. An eager puppy looking for treats and attention. "Have you made any headway with Eddie's killer? I have some thoughts..."

"Sorry, kid, you got to sit this one out." Frustrated dismay darkened Bright's face. "We're handling this."

Gil made to leave but Bright called out to him.

"W-Wait! I can help!" The kid waved to his ankle monitor. "Uh... but not if I'm stuck here." He looked pleadingly at Gil. "Please, take me with you. I-I have to help."

Gil wanted to give in. He wished he could. He didn't, however. He couldn't. Not when there was so much on the line.

"We can't."

"I-I went to see Sterling." Dani and JT both stared incredulously at him. "He, uh, got shot right in front of me."

Gil, on the other hand, wasn't surprised the kid confessed. Bright simply wasn't as good as his partner at maintaining his poker face.

"You are a real piece of work, I swear."

Not that Bright seemed to hear him. No, the restless energy he barely kept contained on a good day leaked out of him in electric streams.

"I used the extraction kit," he pointed to a blue bag peeking out from under the sofa, "in that bag over there to free myself."

"Malcolm," Jessica hissed. "What in the name of all things holy are you doing?"

"He's making them take him, Mom," Ainsley said, frowning at her brother. "That's what he's doing."

Gil just wiped a hand over his face as Dani reached for her cuffs.

"This family, I swear..."

One of them was going to give him a stroke and he wasn't rightly sure which one of them it'd be.

House odds were on Bright but Gil had a feeling Jessica would be giving her son a run for the money.

"Let's go," he told JT and Dani. "We still need to go and round up Batman from the Batcave."

"Gil, no!"

Gil quieted Bright with a look.

"C'mon." JT took the kid by the arm. "Let's go."

Bright went without another word. Gil made to follow but stopped to look at Jessica.

"Jessica..."

She turned away from him.

"Just go."

Gil nodded, understanding they'd talk once this was all over, and exited the room.

...

Sorcha walked out of the kitchen at the same time JT and Dani led Malcolm out of the living room.

Shit, was her first thought as she ducked back behind the kitchen door. That quickly changed as she realized what Malcolm being in cuffs meant: they either found out he slipped his ankle monitor or charges had officially been filed against him.

Either way, it was bad news.

And means I need to work harder at finding those files if I want to keep his danger prone ass from ending up with his father in prison.

To do that, though, she needed to disappear before Dani and JT had a chance to spot her. Sorcha made to slip back into the kitchen but a hand hooked the back of her shirt before she managed to take one step.

"Oh, no, you don't."

Sorcha schooled her features before she lifted her eyes to Gil's less than amused ones.

"What's going on?" Cool, calm. As if she had simply been in the kitchen. She glanced around him at Malcolm. "Why is Malcolm in handcuffs?"

"Because Bright is coming with us downtown." Gil kept one hand on her while taking Sunshine's carrier and handing it to Ainsley. "And so are you."

"Why?"

"Can it." Gil steered her towards the front door. "Bright told us everything."

"You did not." Sorcha shot an incredulous look at Malcolm, who had the good sense to at least look sheepish. "Tell me you didn't."

"Ah." He ducked his head. "I, uh, did."

"Did we not come up with a plan in the car?"

"A bad plan," Gil interjected. "One that could have gotten either of you killed."

"The shooter wasn't aiming at me," Bright offered, darting a look at Gil. "He was there to kill Sterling."

"Mal..." Sorcha frowned at him. "Have you ever heard of the right to remain silent?"

"Of course," he replied, indignant. "I have been there when suspects were read their rights."

"Try using it."

"That's like his skinny ass calling for backup," JT rumbled as he steered Bright to the door. "And actually waiting for it."

Sorcha hummed a laugh but was prevented from replying by Gil who said, "Let's go." He walked her down the steps. "You two take Robin back to the station. I'll bring Batman in the Batmobile." He steered her over to the car parked at the curb. "Keys."

Sorcha handed them over without a word.

She figured now wasn't the time to push her luck.

Not when searching Gil's office for those files was at the top of her to do list.

 

Chapter Text

The only sound filling the interior of the car was the soft purr from the V8 engine under the hood. Not that Gil minded the silence. It gave him a chance to process everything that happened and formulate what their next move should be.

Not that he had any idea what move they could make. That Nicholas Endicott had been one step ahead of them the whole time was an understatement. How far his reach went, how many pockets his money lined, what agencies he controlled remained a complete and total mystery.

His only hope for finding out who Endicott had on his payroll down at 1PP was Hoyt Brannigan. Gil trusted he'd find out before word came down to arrest Bright and formally charge him with the murder of Eddie Smith.

Gil pulled to a stop behind the SVU with the kid in it. He told himself he chose to follow JT back to the precinct over taking his usual way because it allowed him to keep an eye on Batman and Robin.

Spying Bright glancing over his shoulder through the back glass, face lined with worry, and eyes blown wide convinced him he followed JT simply so the kid wouldn't have a full-on panic attack.

Separating the two hadn't been intended as a punishment. Well, he amended as the woman beside him fidgeted in a manner similar to Bright. I hadn't intended it to punish them.

Not that they didn't deserve it after what all they pulled.

Finding out Bright was at Sterling's building at the time the man was shot frayed Gil's already frazzled nerves to the point of snapping. He hadn't believed for one minute that the kid was responsible for Sterling's murder.

No, he put the blame for Everett Sterling's death on Everett Sterling and the man he worked for: Nicholas Endicott.

Gil's jaw clenched as the number of bodies connected to Endicott rolled through his mind.

Eve Blanchard, Eddie Smith, now Everett Sterling.

Three people who threatened Endicott's empire.

All dead because of one man's ambitions.

His vendetta with another thorn in Gil's foot: Martin Whitly.

Part of Gil, one he kept hidden from everyone wished Eddie had been successful at killing Bright's father. Much as losing Martin would devastate the kid, it'd also help him to finally break free of his hold.

Ten years, Gil realized, fingers clamping the steering wheel. Ten years he was away from Martin. Away from his control. His manipulation.

Then Malcolm got fired from the FBI. Something Sorcha believed Endicott had a hand in. Maybe after a desperate call by Martin Whitly to help him get his son back in exchange for his continued silence about Endicott's underground business.

Gil didn't know.

Maybe now was a good time to find out.

Sorcha again fidgeted in her seat. From the corner of his eye he saw her hand go to her left wrist. To where the charm bracelet she used to wear would be. Gil secretively had hoped Bright would return it.

The love it represented, the memories, were all things the two needed at that moment. For them, as much as those around them. A menace circled them, taunted them at their every move, threatened them with every breath. Having that small bit of light kept that darkness at bay.

For now, he amended as he turned at the light. Sorcha sighed softly before turning towards him.

"Gil..."

"Anything you say had better start with an explanation about why you and Bright were at Sterling's office."

She turned back in her seat with a small harrumph.

"You know the answer to that."

"I'd still like to hear it."

Instead if answering, as Bright would have, Sorcha said, "I think I know where Turner hid dad's files."

"You think you..." Gil shot a look at her from the corner of his eye. "Where?"

"Your office."

"My office?" His eyebrows winged up. "Don't you think I'd have noticed something like a huge stack of files suddenly appearing in my office?"

"Not if he hid them somewhere you wouldn't think to look."

"Such as?"

"The couch, behind the file cabinets, in one of the boxes stacked behind your desk."

Gil considered that as he braked at a stop sign. Ian Turner had been in the precinct a few days before his murder to speak with a couple of his other detectives about an ongoing investigation. He remembered he had a file box with him. It was possible, he realized, hope burning a hole in his gut, that box contained the files he and Ian Corbin put together on Nicholas Endicott and Martin Whitly.

"Why would he leave them in my office?" That was the part that Gil couldn't figure out. "What purpose does leaving them there serve?"

"Why do you think he left them in your office? Because you're dad. You have been since you answered what was thought to be a prank call twenty years ago." Her lips curved at the corners. "You stepped up to be dad when Dad couldn't be dad."

Gil softened, as he always did when it came to his frequently troublesome brood. Just because he did, didn't mean he let her off the hook. Batman aided and abetted Robin. Something he couldn't allow.

"You're not trying to buy yours and Bright's butts out of trouble with flattery, now, are you?"

"No." Sorcha blinked those big brown eyes. Picture of innocence. Complete bullshit in Gil's books. "I'd never do something so underhanded and dirty as that."

"Right." Gil chuckled softly. "You're not manipulative like your partner."

"Nope, not at all."

"Mhm." And if he bought that he'd need to hand in his badge. "Explain what you were doing at Sterling's building."

"We were trying to get answers, Gil. Trying to prove Endicott's behind this frame-job."

"You're supposed to be keeping Bright out of trouble." Gil shot her a look, had the satisfaction of seeing her squirm in her seat. "Not helping him get into more."

"Yes, I know that." Sorcha blew out a breath ripe with the same exhaustion and frustration weighing heavy on him. "He's fighting for his life here, Gil. The first time that danger prone dope has ever done that."

"He could have been killed today." His fingers clenched the wheel, hard enough the knuckles bled white. "That bullet could have hit him."

"I agree with Malcolm in that the target was Sterling."

"Imagine that," he kidded. "I'd be more shocked if you didn't agree with him."

"I also think the shooter was Endicott."

Gil almost slammed on the brakes at that revelation. "What?" His tone was sharper than he intended so he softened it. "Are you sure?"

"Not one hundred percent, no." Sorcha's brow creased. "But I am eighty-five percent certain that the delivery man I saw exit the building right after Sterling was shot was Nicholas Endicott."

"We can get traffic cam footage from outside the building to see if it was him or not."

And if it was him who shot Sterling, Gil decided as he pulled into the space next to JT in the precinct parking lot, I will personally slap him in cuffs and haul his ass down here.

He exited the vehicle as Dani helped Bright from the SUV. His feet barely hit the pavement before he moved towards Sorcha. Dani holding his arm was all that kept him from going to her side. He stared at Sorcha, frustration and worry warring for dominance on his face.

"It's okay." Sorcha sent him a reassuring smile. "Trust me."

"No." Bright's brow furrowed. "This isn't okay." He turned then to Gil. "Sorcha is here because of me. This is my fault. All of this is—"

"Kid." Gil took Sorcha's arm and walked her towards the street. "You need to practice the ability to remain silent right about now."

Especially since Gil couldn't be sure who under his command wasn't working for Endicott. There were a number of detectives in his squad he inherited after Lieutenant Harrison retired.

Many had been on the force as long as him. A few, like Samson and Garret, longer. Some were like Thomas Gray. Men and women who found themselves with medical bills and tuition they couldn't afford to pay on their salaries.

"I have the ability to remain silent," Bright retorted indignantly. "I just am refusing to do so at this moment because I don't want Sorcha arrested."

"Your skinny ass can't keep your lips closed for longer than thirty seconds." JT led Bright towards the front steps of the police station. "Only time you're quiet is when you're knocked the hell out."

"I don't want Sorcha charged with anything."

"She's not being charged with anything at this point," Gil told him. "She's a person of interest in an ongoing homicide investigation."

Whatever Bright replied with was lost as people started to scream and race for cover. Gil frowned, unsure what happened until he spied a uniformed officer named Markinson stumble back, clutching at his right arm. Blood soaked through his shirt and stained his fingers. Instincts quickly kicked in and Gil yanked the confused officer to safety before shouting at JT and Dani.

"Shooter!" He pulled Sorcha down beside him. "Get down!"

JT instantly dropped down to one knee, pulling Bright down beside him.

"We need to get Bright and Mini-Bright inside the precinct!"

"Not with that shooter on any one of the roofs," Dani said as she crouched beside him. "They've got us pinned down."

Gil reached for Markinson's radio. They had only one option and it was the one he continually lectured Bright about: calling for backup.

Only, they'd actually wait for backup to arrive.

"Dispatch, we have a code 30 outside the 1-5," he began as another shot shattered a car window. "Shots fired. One officer injured. Need air assistance and a bus."

"Copy that," came crackling through the radio. "Air support has been notified and an ambulance is en route now."

Gil hoped they'd get there before anybody else was shot.

Or worse…

 

Chapter Text

A sniper taking shots at him from the roof of an adjacent building was a situation JT had more than passing familiarity with. He had dealt with snipers frequently while in the army. Sniper took out two of his buddies on the same day. Searching roofs and the roads became key to his and his squad mates survivals.

He thought he left the world of snipers behind when he finished his service but discovered he was wrong when six months after leaving the academy he and his partner were fired on by a man with a grudge against police.

JT had been fired at a number of times by people who hated the police.

Things like that came with the badge.

He accepted it, worked through it, dealt with the fallout from it, considered it the price he paid to do what he did: catch bad guys.

Then there was Malcolm Bright.

His chaotic, over-the-top, couldn't-keep-his-mouth-shut-if-he-tried ass got him shot at — or nearly blown up — a number of times since the first case they worked almost a year ago.

Never while the guy was handcuffed, though.

And never when his skinny ass stood a good chance at going down for murder.

Something JT believed, without a shadow if doubt, Bright hadn't done.

The guy was many things, and he had a list he could give anyone who wanted to see it, but a murderer wasn't one of 'em.

Malcolm Bright just didn't have it in him to kill.

Guy might have the instinct to kill, he thought as his finger tightened on the trigger of his gun, but he lacks the ability to carry it out.

He didn't need Bright's FBI file to know the guy never fired his gun in his ten years as an agent.

Swanson insinuated as much in a few of the conversations they had while she was helping them with the Junkyard Killer case.

JT considered himself a pretty good judge of character, and while he completely admitted to not trusting Bright in the beginning, he liked to think he had a grasp now on who the profiler was.

The first, and by far most important thing he learned about Captain Danger Magnet was the guy never thought about his own safety or well-being.

Bright always placed others ahead of himself.

Took risks so others didn't have too.

Placed himself in harm's way so others wouldn't be.

That's why it came as no surprise when the shooting started that Bright instantly moved to shield Lite-Bright.

Not that JT faulted him any there.

He'd do the same thing if it was Tally.

Protecting your own was the law of the land.

To do that, however, one needed the use of their hands.

Something Bright didn't have since his were currently behind his back. Can fix that, JT decided as another shot chipped away the asphalt near the precinct steps.

"What're you doing?" Dani hissed as he pulled the keys to the cuffs from his pocket. "You can't unlock Bright's cuffs."

"Guy's gotta right to protect his girl," was all he said.

And for JT it was that simple.

Bright might be suspected of murder.

He hadn't committed it.

More, his skinny ass was still part of their team.

He deserved the benefit of doubt.

More, he had earned it.

JT understood why Dani struggled with believing Bright was innocent. Her trust issues were about as massive as Bright's. A number of people she allowed inside her inner circle let her down. Hurt her in ways she didn't talk about with anyone, even Gil. Working undercover hadn't helped any, either.

Deep down, though, Dani knew Bright hadn't murdered Eddie Smith. She was just doing what the job taught her: following the evidence.

Which all pointed to Bright, unfortunately.

"Sorcha is capable of protecting herself," Dani said as someone screamed. "And Bright."

"Not about who can protect who here."

"What's it about then?"

"Guy's already lost one woman he cared for because of Endicott." Another bullet shattered one of the car windows. "Imagine how he'll be if he loses Mini-Bright."

Who ranked higher on the guy's list.

"It'll likely push him over the edge," she admitted begrudgingly. "Which won't help him or us with proving he didn't kill Eddie."

"Yup."

Dani blew out a heavy breath. "Let him go. For now," she added as more screams pierced the air.

JT twisted around and grabbed hold of Bright's right wrist to unlock the first cuff. Bright sent a panicked look over his shoulder but relaxed when he realized what JT was doing.

"Thank you," he mouthed as JT unlocked the other cuff.

JT nodded towards Bright-Light. "Protect your girl."

Not like he needed to tell Bright that.

The guy sucked at social cues and interactions.

Relationships?

He was a complete and utter disaster.

If the two didn't end up back on the same page after this, well then, he'd handcuff them together until they did.

Bright needed someone who not only understood his quirks and idiosyncrasies, but could put up with them, as well.

Needs someone to keep his skinny ass from bouncing off the walls.

Someone like Lite-Bright, in fact.

Kept telling his scrawny ass he was making the wrong choice.

Not that he had anything against Eve Blanchard. He only met the woman the one time. It was enough, though, for even Tally to have formed the opinion that she wasn't right for Bright.

"She's hiding something," Tally said moments after Eve and Bright left the pool hall. "Not sure what, but she's definitely hiding something."

That something was her being related to who Bright and Gil called the Girl In The Box.

Someone they believed had been murdered twenty years ago by Bright's crazy ass father and his equally nutty partner, John Watkins.

Both of whom were connected to Nicholas Endicott.

A guy with enough money and social connections to do whatever the hell he pleased.

Include frame Bright for murder.

"Where is that damn helicopter?" Gil grumbled as another bullet pinged off the car's roof. "It should've been here by now!"

"I'll get an ETA on it," Dani offered, reaching for her radio. "How's Markinson?"

"Needs to get to the hospital sooner rather than later."

JT translated that bit of Gil code as the young officer was fine.

For now.

Bullets hurt, though.

Anybody who said they didn't was either a masochist or fifty cards short of a full deck.

Most gunshot wounds to the arm resulted in minimal injury. Clean the wound, bandage it up, walk around in a sling for a few days, good to go.

Some, though, depending on where the bullet entered the arm, could cause extensive nerve and tissue damage.

Required more extensive care.

Additional surgery and physical therapy.

Some left behind permanent damage.

They wouldn't know how badly Markinson was injured until a doctor could take a look at his arm and assess the damage.

Hopefully, it was a through-and-through.

Good news if the bullet didn't fragment.

Bad news if it did.

JT went to look through the window but a drop of red on the step leading up to the entrance of the precinct caught his attention. He stared at the nearly perfect splotch, noted the shape it made on the concrete, the viscosity.

It didn't get there by chance.

Wasn't caused by someone waving an injury around.

No, that drop of blood got there one way, and one way only: dripping.

Like from an arm wound similar to the one Markinson had.

Only, Markinson wasn't shot on the steps, he realized, brow furrowing.

He'd been hit standing beside the police cruiser they now took refuge from the sniper.

A quick look revealed other blood drops leading away from the first instead of heading towards the wounded officer.

It's not Markinson's blood, he realized, gut twisting.

"Someone else was the target."

"What?" Dani glanced over at him. "You say something?"

"Look."

Dani followed his finger to the blood trail. Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed as she stared at the series of drops.

"That makes no sense..." she murmured slowly. "Markinson stumbled towards us after he was shot." She indicated blood near Bright's right foot. "That's his blood there."

"Means someone else was the target," JT said again. "Not us."

"But if the shooter isn't aiming for us... who were they shooting at?" Her brow furrowed. "And why're they shooting at us?"

"Diversionary tactic." Something else JT was more than passingly familiar with from his days in the military. He and his buddies had faced this sort of situation a number of times. Always with one purpose: "They're keeping us distracted so we can't focus on figuring out who the real target is."

"Giving them a chance to get to them."

"Mhm," JT grunted as another shot pinged off the trunk lid. "Two shooters were probably up there. One has gone after whoever they were here to kill while the other..."

"Is keeping us busy."

Another bullet shattered the taillights on the police cruiser. JT's finger tightened on the trigger. It wasn't like the gun was of any use. Even if he could spot the shooter from this distance, he couldn't shoot 'em.

"Who do you think they were after?" Dani glanced over at Gil, Bright, and Light-Bright. "If it's not one of us?"

It was a good question.

One JT fully planned to delve into once they were out of danger. For now, he grunted and rumbled, "No clue," as an ambulance screamed to a stop a few cars from where they crouched. The EMTs didn't leave the cab, though. Not after another shot from the sniper blew out one of the headlamps.

"Where is that damn helicopter!?" Gil snapped.

"Chopper should be here in a few," Dani told him. "They were five minutes out."

As if on cue, a police helicopter swept over the top of the precinct and headed for the buildings across the street. JT spotted the sniper perched in the opening seconds before they took aim. He counted the number of seconds between the lifting of that M24 and the single shot that rang out.

Less than five seconds.

Quick, clean.

"Suspect down." The radio Dani rest on the ground beside her buzzed. "Repeat. Suspect down."

The street became a flurry of activity then. Cops poured out of the precinct as EMS raced over to check on the injured. JT stood and holstered his gun while looking around.

Thankfully, the street not been as busy as usual. With the exception of Markinson, the worst injury he saw was a woman with a cut across her cheek.

"JT," Gil said as he stepped back to let the EMTs check on Markinson. "You and Powell get Batman and Robin inside." He aimed a look at the two in question. "Sit on top of them if you have too."

"You got it, Boss." JT hooked Bright's arm and steered him towards the entrance. "Let's go."

"Gil..." Bright started but Gil shut him down.

"Go, Bright."

Bright went, only after Bright-Light took his hand, though.

Chapter Text

"Mr. Bright!" Malcolm turned to see Edrisa push her way through the crowd gathered in the bullpen to where he stood with Sorcha, Dani, and JT. "You're okay."

Her round face shone with relief and joy. The examiners concern over his well-being touched Malcolm. As it always did when someone showed him an ounce of concern. He tended to appreciate anyone who didn't view him as a nuisance, problem or annoyance. Especially given how his list of supporters was rather on the small side at that moment.

"I'm fine, Edrisa." He smiled as warmly as he could given the tennis balls bouncing around in his stomach. "Thank you."

"When I heard there was someone outside shooting..." Edrisa's eyes behind her glasses went wide as saucers. "Well, I had a feeling they were shooting at you."

A snicker sounded behind him. Malcolm shot Sorcha a look over his shoulder. "Why are you laughing?"

"'Cause most of the shootings in this department have involved you."

"Not all..." he protested.

"Nope, not all." Her dimples winked. "Just most."

"The number of shootings went down while you were on vacation," Edrisa pointed out. Unnecessarily in Malcolm's opinion. "It was really quite boring while you were gone. No exciting cases happened while you were on vacation. Well, I mean murders still happened and all but they were nowhere as interesting as the ones that happen when you aren't on vacation."

"That wasn't a vacation." The words were bitter on his tongue. "It was more a forced lockdown than a vacation."

One imposed on him by his mother and Gil. Neither listened to his pleas. They decided — jointly or separately, it didn't matter to Malcolm — what was best for him without consulting him.

"I know it wasn't Hawaii." Sorcha's fingers curled around his quaking ones. His anchor in the middle of this crimson ocean they found themselves adrift in. Offering comfort and solace. Easing the balls of anxiety and pushing back the miasma wanting to rise into his throat. "But it was still a small slice of paradise to me."

Until he screwed things up between them.

Like he always did.

"Sorch..."

"We can discuss us later." Her fingers squeezed his. Full of promise and silent reassurance. "For now we need to focus on who that shooter was."

"And how they knew to wait here at the precinct for the opportunity to shoot Bright." Dani's face tightened. "Or you." Her gaze met Sorcha's questioning one. "We can't discount you as their target."

"Me?" Sorcha's brow puckered. "Why do you think they'd pick me over Gil, you or JT?"

"Because losing you would hurt Bright the most."

Just the thought of Sorcha being taken from him almost sent Malcolm to his knees. The idea was simply unbearable.

Unimaginable.

Unthinkable.

Unacceptable.

"Losing any one of us would hurt him," Sorcha predictably countered with. "Especially so soon after losing Eve."

That she believed losing her would simply hurt him annoyed Malcolm as much as it stung. Why wouldn't she think that, though? He hadn't exactly put her first for much of their relationship. He routinely pushed her aside for work or people like Eve, who used him for their own advantage and then cast him aside.

He pushed her into the arms of a predatory sociopath.

Almost got her killed.

Had their intimate life exposed.

Almost got her killed... again.

The guilty Malcolm already carried took on more weight. His fault, he realized as phones started ringing around him. It was all his fault. His dad killing twenty-three people, Watkins, Endicott, Robert and Tammy Lynn... all of them came into their lives because of him.

Because he hadn't the sense to stay away from New York.

Or end it once and for all.

Malcolm's head buzzed. His chest constricted. The pit in his stomach burned hotter. None of the things that happened in the last seven months would have if he hadn't been such a coward.

'Fix it now.' The shadow creatures smiled at him from within the caverns of his mind, beckoning him with razor-sharp claws, their red eyes promising the oblivion he sought the other night before Gil showed up to order him placed in cuffs. 'Free them. Free yourself.'

It be easy to do, he realized. So easy.

A few too many of his battalion of pills.

A slice of the wrist from a sharp knife or piece of glass.

A scarf around a doorknob or ceiling fan.

Walking in front of a bus, throwing himself off the roof of a building, taking a nosedive off a bridge.

There were multiple ways he could think of that'd see Sorcha, Gil, his mother and sister, Dani and JT all safe from Endicott.

He just needed the guts to finally see it through.

"The sniper wasn't shooting at either Bright's skinny ass or Bright-Lite."

JT's voice snapped Malcolm back to himself. For the moment, anyway. He freely acknowledged he only had a tenuous grasp on sanity most days. That thread, though, had been steadily unraveling since Watkins told him he and his father planned to kill him on that camping trip.

Any second he expected it to snap and plummet him down into the arms of the dark things waiting in the abyss for him.

"Wait, are you saying Malcolm wasn't the target?" It was a toss-up between which of them was more surprised, him or Sorcha. A frown creased her brow. "The shooter wasn't shooting at him?"

"Or you." A look was all JT needed to part the throng of people still milling around the bullpen. He headed for his and Dani's cubicle once a path opened up. "Not this time, anyway."

Malcolm translated that as meaning another shooter could aim for her next time.

Not happening, he decided as Sorcha's hand tightened on his. I won't let anyone hurt her or anyone else. Not because of me.

"You're positive the shooter wasn't shooting at Malcolm?"

"Or you." JT flicked a mildly amused look at her. "You keep leaving that part out."

"She's like Bright." Dani didn't smile but there was a slight softening to her lips. "Doesn't consider her own safety and well-being."

"I assumed Endicott hired them to kill Malcolm."

Malcolm had assumed the same thing. It made no sense they wouldn't be shooting at him. Not when Endicott was doing everything in his power to keep the truth about his empire from being revealed.

"How do you know for sure they weren't shooting at me or Sorcha?" he questioned JT. "It was chaos out there. How can you know for sure they weren't shooting at us?"

"Cause there's a blood trail outside missing a victim."

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up. "There's a blood trail?"

"By the stairs."

"Only Markinson was shot..." Malcolm frowned. "And he wasn't by the stairs."

"Nope." JT dropped into his chair with a soft grunt. "Means someone other than you and Mini-Bright was the target." He didn't need to add, for once. The look he gave Malcolm said it for him.

"If they weren't shooting at me or Sorcha..." Malcolm's frown deepened. "Who were they shooting at?"

And what is their connection to all this?

"Oh!" Edrisa exclaimed, startling all of them. "I think I might have the answer to that!"

"Edrisa," JT rumbled. "Keep the explanation short for a change."

"Don't be a dick," Dani scolded as Edrisa scurried over to retrieve something from Malcolm's desk. "Every lead we get brings us one step closer to figuring out what the hell is going on."

"Yeah," JT said as he typed something into the computer, "but the clock is ticking."

Edrisa returned, waving a small yellow packing envelope. "A man delivered this for Miss Corbin right before the shooting began."

"For me?" Sorcha's eyes blinked wide. "Who would deliver something to me here at the precinct?"

JT grunted. "Think the better question is why did they deliver it and what is it."

Dani eyed the envelope with a mixture of distrust and disdain. "Last time something was delivered here to the precinct in a yellow envelope..."

"They turned out to be pictures of me and the dope here." Sorcha's face filled with embarrassed color, but she showed no shamed. Unlike Malcolm who prayed for the floor to open up and swallow him. "Not forgotten about those."

"None of us have." JT took the envelope from Edrisa. "Hoping this ain't any appendages..."

"Maybe it's another thumb," came from Edrisa. "Would have a pair then. Of course, they wouldn't be from the same person..."

"Edrisa," came from Gil as he joined them. "Not the time."

"Oh, sorry."

Gil shot a look at the cops who inched forward to see what was in the envelope. Malcolm found himself envious of his ability to command without having to say a single word. Even his mother was more intimidating than him.

"Was there a note with the envelope?" Gil's hand rest on the back of Malcolm's neck, lightly squeezed. Comfort and reassurance. "Anything to suggest who it is from or why they delivered it to Sorcha?"

"Nothing on the front but Mini-Bright's first name."

"Just her first name?" Dani's eyes narrowed. "That suggests they know her."

"Or only know her by her first name," JT pointed out.

Malcolm held his breath as JT slowly peeled open the envelope and looked inside. "Huh." He shook the contents out into his hand. "It's a couple of vials."

"Vials?" Malcolm inched closer despite Gil's fingers tightening on the back of his neck. He couldn't stop himself, though. He needed to see them for himself. "Of what?"

"The blood used to frame you for murder." Sorcha picked up one of the vials. Held it up for them all to see. "My money is on one of these vials containing Eddie Smith's own blood. The other is..."

"The blood they planted to make it look like Mr. Bright did it," Edrisa finished for her in a hushed voice. "Oh, that's good. It'll definitely prove he's not guilty."

"We need to get that blood tested as fast as possible," Gil said. "Edrisa..."

"Not here." Edrisa's sighed as she stared at the vial Sorcha held. "The blood would be sent to an outside lab to be tested."

"It can't be sent out," Malcolm said as he stared at the vials. "Endicott owns the labs we use."

"I know a laboratory we can send the blood too." Sorcha's eyes met Malcolm's. "So do you."

Malcolm's mind stilled as he realized what laboratory she meant. "You think we should ask Raya to test the samples?"

"I don't think we have any other choice, Mal." Her mouth thinned into a cold, hard line. "We don't know how many laboratories Nicholas Endicott owns or has financial stakes in. Pretty safe bet he doesn't have his hooks in either her or the man she was mentored by."

Malcolm was pretty sure he didn't have them on his payroll, too. Asking Raya to run the samples was the only way they could guarantee the results were accurate. Still, he didn't like it. Sending the samples to her officially brought her into the fight.

Not that Raya would mind.

Why would she?

She took down men like Nicholas Endicott on an almost daily basis.

Gotham, after all, had plenty of megalomaniacs running criminal empires.

"She's our last resort option."

"No." Sorcha took the second vial from JT and slid it back into the envelope with the first. "She's our secret weapon."

"Secret weapon?" Dani looked between them, a frown between her eyes. "What're you talking about?"

"They're talking about Doctor Raya Kean." Gil guided Malcolm towards the conference room. "Capable Bright as I call her."

JT snorted a laugh. "She's not a danger prone dumbass?"

"Raya Kean is the danger," was Gil's reply.

 

Chapter Text

"So, you said Malcolm's in trouble." There was a hint of wry humor in that voice — a low, lovely voice. A calming one. Soothing. Desperately needed after everything that happened the last few days. Last few months, really, Sorcha clarified as she closed the door to Gil's office. "How much trouble is the dope in?"

"I'm calling you for help." Sorcha slowly scanned the room, searching for anywhere Ian Turner might have hidden the files he and her father put together on Nicholas Endicott and Martin Whitly. "Is that any indication of how much trouble my dopes landed himself in?"

"So, Bright-Boy's in it all the way up to his pretty little eyeballs, is he?"

"Yeah," Sorcha breathed out as she made her way over to Gil's desk. "You could say that."

It was by no means an understatement. Her dope was in the middle of a pit of quicksand and sinking, fast. Her and his team were keeping him afloat, but the rope was steadily fraying. Any second he'd go under and they'd have no way to pull him back up.

"Well, I have to give it to Malcolm." Raya's sigh sounded as exhausted as Sorcha felt. "He's at least a consistent disaster."

Being a disaster was one of a handful of things Malcolm Bright was consistent at. Still, Sorcha felt compelled to point out, "He's never been in this kind of trouble before, though."

"He hasn't been the prime suspect in a murder investigation before, no."

"Well, he has been in his own mind." Sorcha checked the cabinets behind Gil's desk. When that turned up nothing, she moved to looking inside the drawers. A definite long shot given how Gil used the cabinets on a daily basis. She could leave no avenue unturned, however. Those files were somewhere in this office. She was sure of it. She just needed to find where. Quickly. "You know as well as I that he holds himself accountable for every one of the murders Martin Whitly committed."

"Yeah, well, I keep telling him he's wrong about that." Sorcha empathized with the resignation in Raya's tone. "Not that that bird brain listens to me any better than the rest of my bird brains when I tell them anything."

Sorcha's lips twitched. "Yours giving you problems, too?"

"Mine are always huge pains in the asses."

"Well, there's a difference between yours and mine." Sorcha checked inside the cabinets. There were plenty of files but none bearing either her father's handwriting or the names she searched for. "Yours aren't accused of murder."

"For once."

Sorcha shut the cabinet and turned back towards the rest of the office. Frustration burned beneath her skin, but she tamped it down. Anger wouldn't find those files or help Malcolm out of his predicament. Something she conveyed to the woman on the phone.

"If we don't prove Mal's innocence in the next few hours he will be joining his father in prison."

There was no need to add how Malcolm wouldn't survive a place like Riker's. Raya was as aware as she about what he'd face if he got sent to prison. No protection from the guards or staff, his father's legacy adding to the bullseye on his back, Malcolm would be lucky to survive an hour.

"Wait..." Raya couldn't quite mask the surprise in her voice. "Martin Whitly is in prison?"

Sorcha couldn't blame her for her reaction. She had been equally as surprised when Gil told her he received word of Whitly being transported to Riker's after attempting to break out of his cell at Claremont.

Raya, her uncle, and her grim mentor had tried to get him transferred to Blackgate for the murder of six Gothamites for over fifteen years.

All to no avail.

Everett Sterling blocked each and every attempt with ruthless precision and cold calculation. Same as he had to squash their every attempt to arrest and charge Raya's father with the murder of her mother.

"He's sitting in Riker's as we speak." Sorcha crouched to check under Gil's desk. A long shot, sure, but it wasn't like she had anything to lose. Every place she looked was one less on the list. "Surprised you didn't hear about it before we did."

"Things have been chaotic here."

"Another prison breakout?" Sorcha grimaced. "Or is the Joker running amuck?"

"More like our moronic mayor has decided to build a supermax prison in the middle of the city."

"He does remember he's the mayor of Gotham, right?"

"Sharp used to be warden of Arkham." Raya harrumphed. "He should know better than any of us how dangerous locking up our criminals in one section of the city isHow he got voted in is beyond all comprehension."

"Friends in low places?"

"Even the roaches hate Sharpie."

Sorcha chuckled softly. "Smart roaches."

"So, how did Doctor Whitly end up in Riker's? Not that it isn't where a monster like him belongs," Raya clarified. "I'd have locked him up simply for what he did to Malcolm if I could have."

"Me too."

She'd love to put the needle in the man's arm for what he did to Malcolm. For what he continues to do to him, Sorcha amended as she checked the bottom drawer. The half-full bottle of whiskey and matching glass tumblers made her smile. She didn't fault Gil for needing an occasional drink. Cops didn't have easy jobs despite what the media and certain groups tried to say. They saw the ugliest of human nature. Dealt with the worst situations. Were there bad cops? Of course. There were bad people in all wakes of life.

Nicholas Endicott a prime example of that. A man of wealth and privilege who used his money and position for evil instead of good.

"We couldn't have made those charges stick any better than we could murder charges."

"You wouldn't have gotten Whitly into Blackgate, anyway."

"Because of his lawyer?"

"Who is now dead."

"Sterling is dead?" Sorcha imagined the shock in Raya's voice was also on her face. "When? How?"

"Thanks to the same man who put Martin Whitly in Riker's." A man who hid his predatory nature behind a smooth, sophisticated facade, and five-thousand-dollar suits. "A man he was working for while he operated as the Surgeon."

"Martin Whitly was working for my father during the time he was the Surgeon..."

Martin Whitly's partnership with Raya's birth father, Matthew Berkeley was how Malcolm ended up meeting Raya and her unusual family in the first place. Well, that, Sorcha amended as Gil entered his office and because Matthew Berkeley tried to have Malcolm killed as revenge for Martin failing to kill Raya and her mother.

"Who is also dead."

A catastrophic earthquake claimed the life of Matthew Berkeley. With his death went any and all possibility of them proving Doctor Whitly was an agent of Berkeley's. The cataclysm also made it impossible for Batman, Commissioner Gordon, and Gil to investigate where the bodies were hidden. The United States government decreeing Gotham as No Man's Land further complicated matters. The only good that came from that was Malcolm being trained in a variety of different fighting styles and weapons by the woman on the other end of the phone.

Not that her danger prone dumbass used any of that training to help save himself.

Sorcha heaved a sigh as she moved to check under the couch for anything resembling a batch of files. "Apparently, Whitly was also working for Nicholas Endicott at the same time he worked for your father."

"Nicholas Endicott? As in the head of the Endowment for the Arts?"

"Yes." Sorcha ran her hand on the underside of the couch, feeling for any bulges. There were none. She sat up, disappointed but not defeated. "I'm going to guess you know him?"

"Bruce does. They're on a number of committees and chair a few different projects, in fact."

Sorcha wasn't surprised about that. Many of the upper crust of society pursued philanthropy as a means of creating a caring, compassionate social image. Jessica Whitly assuaged her guilt over what her ex-husband did by donating money to various charities and organizations.

Nicholas Endicott used his to conceal what a monster he was.

"I believe he's the head of a serial killer ring."

Gil made a sound that was equal parts resignation and amusement. Sorcha shrugged, not seeing the point in concealing anything at this point.

"Why do you think he's head of a serial killer ring?"

"Malcolm's father, John Watkins, Robert Harwood... they all worked for Endicott."

In her ear, Raya made a low, speculative sound. "And they're all serial killers."

"They're just the three we know about." Sorcha had a feeling her father had other names to add to the list. Names none of them would expect to find.

"Uncle Jim believed there were others involved with my father. Never could prove it, though. Not with Sterling acting as legal representative."

"Your father trafficked women, didn't he?"

"Drugs, women, weapons." Raya's voice dropped an octave. "Children."

"So, it wouldn't surprise you to find out your father was part of a serial killer ring."

"My father likely started the damn ring and invited Endicott to join it."

That wouldn't surprise Sorcha.

Nothing involving Martin Whitly, Nicholas Endicott or even Raya's father could shock her at this point. Well, Sorcha amended as keys clacked on the other side of the phone. If we found out the son of a bitch actually has horns, and a tail might freak me out a little...

It just wouldn't come as that big of a jaw-dropper.

Not after everything Endicott had done.

"My father was helping Ian Turner investigate this serial killer ring." Sorcha put the phone on speaker and set it on Gil's desk so she could rummage through the last filing cabinet in the room. Another long shot but one worth taking given the importance of the files in question. "Turner figured out Endicott was connected to it. That's why he was killed."

"Chief Turner came to see me and my uncle, Jim, a few weeks before he was murdered."

Sorcha spun away from the filing cabinet, excitement chasing away her frustration at not finding the files.

"Turner was in Gotham?" Gil placed a hand on his desk as he leaned forward. "Raya, are you sure?"

"I was at the meeting, Gil," Raya replied. "He wanted help with an open investigation that had stalled. Came to ask us to take a look at the evidence and see if we couldn't help him find something to go on."

There was only one open investigation happening at that time that Ian Turner would have been interested in.

"The Junkyard Killer." Sorcha lifted her eyes to Gil's surprised ones. "He brought the Junkyard Killer case to you, didn't he?"

"How did you guess?"

"Why?" Gil asked, frowning. "Did he think there were victims from Gotham attributable to the Junkyard Killer?"

"He had two potentials and one that we could confirm as being one of the victims."

"Who was it you connected to the Junkyard Killer?"

"Marian Carter."

"I know that name." Gil's frown deepened. "I've heard it somewhere before."

"She was the final victim that we believe my father had Martin Whitly kill," Raya supplied. "Marian's remains were found in her missing BMW in a junkyard in your neck of the woods."

"That's how Turner figured out Watkins was working with Martin Whitly," Sorcha said to Gil. "And that Nicholas Endicott was involved." Excitement fired her blood. "He pieced it together through the connection to Gotham."

"Raya," Gil said, face hopeful. "Did Turner have any other file with him?"

"I believe so, why?"

"Because Ian Turner said he left files on Martin Whitly and Nicholas Endicott in a place that has importance to Malcolm, myself, and Dad. Where it all began, he called it." Sorcha took a seat on the edge of Gil's desk. "I translated dad as meaning Gil." Her eyes moved to a photograph sitting on a corner of the desk. "What if dad was simply a code word and the place he means as to where it all began as Gotham? Gil, James Gordon, my father, Bruce Wayne... they all connect to one person."

"Malcolm." A, "Hmm," sounded. Amusing Sorcha and Gil. "You're thinking Chief Turner gave your files to my uncle?"

"I'm thinking he gave them to your uncle to give to the one person even Nicholas Endicott can't intimidate."

"Well, he can certainly try and intimidate Batman." There was humor again in that low, lovely voice. "I just guarantee it won't go well."

"For him."

"Precisely."

"You go ask your mentor if he has those files," Gil ordered as he straightened. "Call me if he does."

"I'll bring them with me when I come to collect your blood samples."

"You're coming to New York?" Gil heaved a sigh. "I'll fill out the paperwork."

"Already done. Check your top drawer."

Gil shook his head, a smile playing about his mouth. "You're just like your mentor."

"Which is good for you… bad for bad guys like Endicott."

"We need something good to happen," Sorcha said with a sigh. "God knows the last few days have been anything but."

"We'll get Malcolm out of this." Every word was coated in velvet steel. "Now, can one of you tell that danger prone dope something for me?"

"Stay out of trouble?" Gil joked. "Bright can't do that any better than you."

"Funny," Raya replied dryly. "No, I want you to tell him something else."

"Sure." Sorcha picked up her phone. "What?"

"Rise."

The call disconnected. Sorcha looked at Gil. "You want to tell him what she said or shall I?"

"I'll let you tell him what she said after I get done skinning his hide for ignoring my orders." Gil headed for the door. "You can take him home in ten minutes. Straight home," he clarified, shooting her a stern look over his shoulder. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Dad."

 

Chapter Text

Gil allowed his mind to wander as the conversation between Bright, Powell, and JT droned on. It wasn’t he found the topic unimportant. Getting the kid out of his predicament was important. Just as figuring out how far and deep Endicott’s reach went. The only way to do either rest on the files Ian Turner and Sorcha’s father put together.  

Files, Gil learned before joining everyone in the conference room that had quite possibly been placed in the hands of a man he met after someone else from Martin Whitly’s past tried to destroy his family. He had worked with Batman on a number of off-the-book cases over the years. 

Like James Gordon, the police commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department, he came to rely on Batman’s help with cases the line of the law refused to allow him to cross. Batman could do what he was blocked from doing, investigate the places and people he couldn’t, focus on suspects in ways he wasn’t able to.

Gil hadn’t considered the former Deputy Chief might also have turned to the Dark Knight for help. I should have though, he realized as JT grunted softly at something Bright said. It made sense for Turner to place such important files into Batman’s hands. Not only was the man the World’s Greatest Detective but the resources at his disposal allowed him to protect the files in ways the rest of them couldn’t.  

If anyone could figure out how Endicott framed Bright, it was the Dark Knight.   He could work the case without worry or fear of reprisals or retaliation from Endicott or any of his henchmen. Raya was correct in Batman being the one person Endicott couldn’t intimidate or control. He wouldn’t be able to use his money, social standing or retinue of associates to bring the grim hero to heel. Batman, and more specifically, Bruce Wayne , was equal in terms of power, money, and control.  

Bruce’s decision in 2011 to announce himself as the Dark Knight’s financial backer surprised him. At the time, Gil thought it a colossal mistake that’d come back to bite Bruce on the ass. Now, though, he could see the benefits that came from publicly announcing Wayne Enterprises as not only supporting Batman but aiding his endeavors by creating the tech he uses in his war on crime.  

While Nicholas Endicott also had an unspecified number of politicians, high ranking government officials, law enforcement, business people, and assassins at his disposal, Batman had his proteges, friends, and a host of associates he could call on for support.  

If Gil was a betting man, he’d call Vegas and put his life savings, meager as they might be, on Batman.  

Having Batman, and, by extension, the rest of his family involved with Bright’s case bolstered Gil’s confidence greatly. Gave him a spark of hope they’d not only bring Endicott to his knees, but put a lot of corrupt men and women in jail cells right along with him.  

Maybe, just maybe, they’d finally put Martin Whitly somewhere where he couldn’t get access to a phone or computer. An excited grunt from JT snagged Gil’s attention. He had no clue what had been said to cause such a reaction, deep within his thoughts as he had been, but clearly it was something he should have been paying attention too.

“Eddie being dead before Bright got there opens up our suspect list to doctors, nurses, even a few techs.” JT glanced around the table with renewed vigor. “All of them came through earlier that evening.”

Any one of which could have killed Eddie. Excitement coursed through Gil as he pushed to his feet. Finally, after days of nothing to work with, they had something they could actually go off of.  

“We can make a list of everyone who went in that room.” His eyes met Bright’s warily optimistic ones. “This is good, kid.”

It was beyond good, actually.

“But...” Bright paused; frowned. “What was Endicott doing?”

“You said it before, Bright.” Dani’s tone was as somber as her expression. “Endicott only fears one man.” Gil steeled himself for when she said, “Your father.”  

Last person Gil wanted involved in this case was the man who created the situation in the first place. He didn’t dare tell Bright that. Not after what happened at Claremont between Eddie and Martin Whitly.  

“Problem is,” Bright said somberly. “Nobody can talk to him. Claremont's cut off all comm...”

“No, no,” Gil interjected. “He’s not at Claremont.”  

“If he’s not at Claremont...” JT said slowly. “Where is he?”  

“They moved him to Rikers about thirty minutes ago.”

What color was in Bright’s face drained away.  

“Gen pop?” Gil nodded. Fear burned in the kid’s eyes. “That's Endicott,” he said.He's breaking their deal.” Bright silently begged him for his help. Something Gil couldn’t give him. Not even if he wanted too. “Gil, this is serious.”

As if he didn’t know how serious things were at this point for Martin Whitly. There was just nothing he could do for the man. He used up all his favors to get him hired as a consultant. Something he tried to convey to Bright. “Kid...”

“My father has the answer and he might not...” Bright wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. A clear indicator of his rising anxiety. “He might not last long in Rikers.”

Least of all since they had no idea who Endicott had on the inside of the prison.

“I know he won’t.” Much as Gil wanted to see Martin Whitly removed from Bright’s life once and for all, the man getting killed in prison wasn’t the way he wanted to see it happen. The stale coffee Gil drank before coming in to skewer Bright sloshed around in his belly as he walked around the table to unlock the kid’s cuffs. “All right, I can cut you loose for now. Say we don't have enough to charge you. But...” he firmed his voice. “I can't get you into Rikers.”

“Don't worry.” A small smile flitted across Bright’s face, worrying Gil. “I know someone who's good at getting into all the wrong places.”

“I know I’m not about to hear you say you’re going to go see your father in Rikers.”  

Gil didn’t need to glance at the clock above the door to know they had surpassed the ten minute mark. She’s at least patient , he mused as he looked over to see Sorcha framed in the doorway of the conference room, a look on her face he recognized as one of Jessica’s, and her arms folded across her chest in a way that said, loudly, she wasn’t open to discussing the matter.

“Oh, I know that look,” JT muttered as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Seen it after I said I was gonna go somewhere or do something Tally didn’t agree with.”

“What look?” Bright asked curiously.  

“The your ass best think again look that’s on your girl’s face.”

Not that Bright would do that. When it came to Martin Whitly, his kid was blind. Gil tried to tell himself he understood why. The man was technically his father. Twenty-three bodies and years of manipulation and control couldn’t erase the ten years of hot cocoa, hugs, bedtime stories, and camping trips.  

Much as he might wish it would.  

“There’s nothing to think twice about here, though,” Bright predictably said. “My father...”

“No, Malcolm.”  

“Sorch...”

“The answer is no.” Soft, but firm. “I’m not budging on this. Not this time. No way.”

“He’s the one with the answers,” Bright tried. As if that’d sway Sorcha to his side. “He’s the only one who can tell us what Sophie had on Endicott.”  

“Or we wait for Raya to see if my father’s files are in the hands of her mentor.”  

That worked to distract the kid. As she knew it would , Gil mused, hiding a smile. If anyone knew how to get Bright’s mind off his father, even for a few minutes, it was Sorcha.  

“Raya thinks Batman has your father’s files?”  

“She says Turner gave a set of files to her uncle when he was in Gotham, yes.”  

Bright’s brow furrowed. “Ian Turner was in Gotham? When? Why?”  

“He asked for their help with the Watkins case right before he was murdered.”  

“Why would he take a New York case to Gotham, though?” Dani asked. “All the victims were from New York.”

“Not all,” Sorcha replied. “One of the bodies found in the junkyard belonged to a cold case in Gotham.”  

“Who?” Bright didn’t bother to mask his excitement. “Who did they find?”  

“Marian Carter.”

“I remember that case,” JT said. “Wife of Andrew Carter , owner of Hill Bros. Went missing in 1996.”  

“How’d you know about that case?” Dani asked, one eyebrow tilted.  

“Tally watched a movie based off her disappearance.”  

Gotham by Gaslight: The Marion Carter story ,” Sorcha said. “Malcolm and I watched it, too.”  

“Color me shocked,” JT deadpanned.  

“We watch more than movies about murder and murderers,” Sorcha shot back with a twitch of her lips. “There’s also wholesome old school classics like Harvey in there and Batman, of course.”  

“Bright always reminded me of Red Hood.”  

“Well...”  

“Focus,” Gil interjected before they got too far off topic. “Marion Carter.”  

“Whose body was found in the trunk of a BMW from another of Gotham’s cold case files.”  

“Which one?”  

“Helen Rochester.” Sorcha laid her phone on the table so they could all see the photo of the crushed luxury vehicle. “I went down and talked with Dr. Tanaka while waiting for you to free my dope. She got the license plate from the photograph. Matches the missing BMW that belonged to Helen Rochester.”  

“Turner linked Watkins to these murders.” Bright’s eyes met Sorcha’s across the table. “To my father.”

“He also figured out Endicott was somehow involved.” Sorcha picked up her phone and slid it back into her pocket. “Something he couldn’t risk having exposed.”  

“That’s why he had Watkins kill him.” Bright positively vibrated from the energy pulsating through him. Gil couldn’t blame him. He hummed with the need to get out there and do some old fashioned detective work himself. “He had to prevent Turner from exposing how far back his involvement was and who he was connected too.”

“We can use that information to locate who else he might be working with.” Gil placed his hands flat on the table to keep from curling them into fists. “Put together a possible list of his allies and associates by looking at those connected with Matthew Berkeley.”  

“Which could help in locating who got into Eddie Smith’s room and killed him.” JT made for the door. “I’m on it.”  

“Me too.” Dani pushed to her feet. Hesitated before looking at Bright. “I want to trust you, Bright, I do,” she said. “But...”

“The evidence points to me until we prove otherwise,” Bright finished for her. “I know, Dani. If I was working the case, I’d be thinking like you.”

“Bright, you’ve been working this case the whole time.” Something Gil hadn’t been enthusiastic about the kid doing because of the dangers involved. “Now, you need to let us work this angle.” He halted Bright’s objections before he could launch them by adding, “Go home with Sorcha. And go straight home. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he grumbled.  “We’ll go straight home.”

“Guess we can’t stop for won ton soup and gelato...”  

“Straight home,” Gil repeated. “After you pickup dinner.”  

“Yes, Dad.”  

Gil pointed to the door, unamused. “Go.”  

They did, Bright still sputtering protests and Sorcha refuting them as she pulled him along.  

Chapter 24

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Do I remain here in New York as planned or do I find somewhere else to go? 

Horacio Caldera pondered that as he entered his study a little after ten that night. Should he stay here in New York City, where he stood a good chance of being found by one of the Court’s expertly trained henchmen or should he leave the city, heading for somewhere with less potential for discovery? 

To many, the answer would seem like a simple one. For Horacio, it was anything but. Leaving the city not only came with the question of where to go but where to go that was safe. The possibilities of what places filled both criteria played through Horacio’s mind as he took a seat at his antique desk. 

The Court had eyes and ears everywhere. Government, law enforcement, business, and finance, there wasn’t a bureaucracy, organization, or institution in the world the Court didn’t have members or associates. 

That the ruthless cabal hadn’t managed to find out he was hiding here in New York amazed him. He chalked it up to luck more than anything. The risk of discovery had always been high. The potential ramifications of his decision heavy on his mind. Horacio had no choice, though. He couldn’t continue working for such a ruthless bunch. 

He had to run. 

The protection offered him by the city’s inept police department if he talked guaranteed death. Not even the venerable Dark Knight would be able to keep the Court from sinking their talons into him. 

No, his only hope for survival was to find somewhere the Court didn’t have any influence or member representation. A task made increasingly difficult because there were few places the Court didn’t have some form of representation or control. Here in New York, alone, they had over two dozen associates and seated members, the most dangerous being Nicholas Endicott. 

Horacio thankfully had only dealt once with the man. Cold, calculating, cruel. Those were the words that sprang to mind whenever he thought about Endicott. A man one did not cross. Ruthless in business and his personal life. Failures were dealt with swiftly and brutally. Betrayals a death sentence. 

The systemic decimation of the Whitly family proved how far Endicott would go when seeking vengeance. Of course, Horacio also knew this was about more than teaching Martin Whitly a lesson. No, Endicott was also acting on orders from the Court. What those orders were, he couldn’t be sure. Horacio suspected, though, they stemmed from the events that happened seventeen years ago. 

Where my service to the Court began. 

Horacio clicked on his desk lamp as he recalled the cataclysmic earthquake that rocked Gotham. The devastation of the quake and subsequent actions of the United States government in declaring Gotham as No Man’s Land threatened the Court with exposure. 

The Court called on him to erase their involvement with Matthew Berkeley and Nicholas Endicott. He destroyed the books, got rid of the paperwork that proved the organization funded a secret network of killers, hired the man who worked with the Surgeon to get rid of the bodies the Talons left in their wake. 

What choice did he have, though? When the Court calls on you, they not only expect you to answer but to comply with their request, as well. 

His biggest mistake was believing he’d be free of the Court once he finished with what they asked of him. Nobody left the Court’s service. 

Not alive, anyway. 

The few before him who tried all died horrible, excruciatingly painful deaths. A shudder ran through Horacio as he remembered the ways some died. Electrocuted, suffocated, burned, drowned, eviscerated... avoiding any of those as his own fate was his top priority. 

To do that, though, he needed to find a place where the Court couldn’t find him, and Talons couldn’t easily invade. Ittoqqortoormiit, Kerguelen Island, Oymyakon, Easter Island... where can I go they can’t find me? There were not a whole lot of places for him to pick from that the Court couldn’t dispatch one of their many Talons. 

Perhaps I should be considering places like Antarctica or Siberia...

Yes, he realized, excitement pulsing beneath his skin. Talons couldn’t function in extremely cold climates. Their physiology didn’t allow it. Freezing them was one of the few ways, next to incinerating them, to stop the bastards. Yes, perhaps a cold climate is my best bet for surviving...

The question was: where? He needed somewhere Talons couldn’t get to him, but which wasn’t completely isolated from anything resembling society. Horacio got up to retrieve a book from his bookshelf but froze when an icy voice spoke behind him. 

“Horacio Caldera.”

Fear crashed over him in great big waves, sucking the air from his lungs, and almost folding his legs beneath him. No, was Horacio’s first thought after his mind started functioning again. It can’t be Talon. It can’t be. I was so careful! 

Clearly, he hadn’t been as cautious as he believed. 

Foolishly, almost desperately, Horacio hoped; prayed it was Batman or one of his winged brats here to take him back to Gotham so he could answer for his role in the deaths of so many innocent people. He stood a chance of surviving the night if it was any of Gotham’s costumed do-gooders come for him. They could be reasoned with. 

Talons didn’t listen to reason. 

They didn’t listen to anyone but the Court. 

“Turn around,” the assassin ordered. 

Horacio wet his dry lips with his tongue as he slowly turned to face the ominous figure. “Why are you here?” 

A bluff, sure. Dangerous given the figure lurking in the shadows behind him. A being deadlier even than Deathstroke. 

And that’s saying something given how dangerous Slade Wilson is... 

“The Court has sent me to express their disappointment with your decision to terminate your services.”

Horacio’s heart dropped into his stomach. Terminate his services. He had known this would be their decision once his defection became known. There was no negotiating with the Court of Owls. There’d be no reprieves. 

Once the Judge of Owls decided my fate... 

They dispatched this expertly trained assassin to carry out their sentence. 

Horacio stared at the object standing between him and his only real means of escape. 

The double window behind him the other, less desirable option.

Metal-rimmed goggles with yellow, circular lenses and a black cowl with a jagged beak for a nose gave the imposing figure an eerie, owl-like visage. 

Who was beneath that cowl? 

Horacio didn’t know. 

Not that it mattered in the end who his executioner was. 

It wouldn’t save him from the deadly fate awaiting him. It wasn’t like they’d answer to their former name if he used it. They were called Talon. 

It was all they responded to. 

As they had been programmed to do. 

Talon wore his black body armor with the same comfort and ease Batman wore his. That protective outer layer rendered the gun in the top drawer of his desk useless. Even if he could get a decent shot off, the rapid healing ability his nocturnal visitor possessed would only grant him a few extra seconds. 

Seconds that he couldn’t use to either buy himself any sort of a reprieve or make an actual escape.

The black-leather bandolier slung diagonally across his would-be assassin’s chest bore testament to what his likely end would be if he tried to make a run for the door. A half-dozen gleaming metal throwing knives with one more in a sheath at his hip sent chills down Horacio’s spine. 

Two scabbards crossed each other atop Talon’s back, the hilts of the swords forming an X above his shoulders. Steel gauntlets with razor-sharp claws resembled the talons of the particular bird the Court chose for its mascot: an owl

One didn’t live in Gotham without acquiring a working knowledge about the city’s infamous menaces. He could name dozens of times where the likes of the Joker, Poison Ivy, and Scarecrow terrorized the city. They had nothing on the Court who used architecture and assassins like these to wield their power and influence. A nursery rhyme passed down through generations gave the clandestine cabal an almost fairytale-like quality:

Beware The Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head.

And a Talon they did send. 

“Sit.” Talon indicated the high-backed wood chair in front of the desk. “Now.” 

Horacio dropped into the chair without qualm or complaint. What else could he do? It wasn’t like he could stand up and fight this merciless killer. Even Batman had difficulty against these mercenaries. 

“I-I don’t understand what you mean by terminating my services.” Prevaricate. Deflect. Feign confusion. A gamble, sure. It wasn’t like Horacio had anything to lose. His life hung in the balance either way. “I never left the Court’s service.”

Talon didn’t reply. He simply paced back and forth behind his chair, further unnerving Horacio more than he was already. 

As the bastard intended.

His mouth went dry as a fingernail scraped the back of the chair. His limbs turned to rubber. He was acutely aware of how empty this house was. There was nobody to hear him scream. 

His wife, Marta, divorced him over ten years ago. His only other family was his son, Miguel. Miggy was safe, though. He lived in Brooklyn with his wife, Sunny, and their newborn baby, Jackie. 

“Please,” he whimpered as Talon bumped his chair. “Just make it quick. That’s all I ask.” 

“We’re going to have a conversation before I carry out your sentence.” The avian mask concealed the man’s expression, but not his harsh tone. “About your son.”

“Miguel?” Horacio blinked in surprise. “What does he have to do with this?” 

A dry chuckle escaped Talon. “Don’t you know? The Court has figured out another way to bring Barbatos from the Dark Multiverse.”

Horacio didn’t understand what Miguel had to do with the centuries-old prophecy. Something he conveyed to the dark figure looming over him. “Miguel cannot help the Court bring Barbatos here.”

“He is your firstborn son.” A long finger tapped the silver frame. “As your granddaughter is his firstborn daughter.”

Tears slicked Horacio’s cheeks as his gaze strayed to the silver frame perched on the corner of his desk. Miguel smiled back at him as he held his wife and newborn daughter. Happy, carefree, unaware of the judgment passed down on him.

That his son and granddaughter would be killed by this diabolical assassin so the Court could bring the Bat-God here scraped away what little remained of his nerves. 

“Please, no.” As if pleading with this figure would accomplish anything. Still, Horacio tried. For Miggy and for the granddaughter he had never even met. “They don’t need to die to bring the Bat-God here. I will do whatever the Judge asks of me if he will spare their lives.” 

“The Judge disagrees.” Talon drew one of the knives from his bandolier. “The Judge’s word is final.” 

“Fenix!” he screeched. “She can bring Barbatos here!” 

“How?” 

“She’s a descendant of Lydia Doyle.” 

Horacio didn’t know if that was true or not, but he recalled a conversation he overheard between the Grandmaster and Matthew Berkeley. About his daughter being descended from a woman with the ability to harness what he called the “burning sickness.”

“I shall inform the Judge.” 

“No, pleas—!”

He didn’t get the chance to finish that final plea.

 

Notes:

Hello, all! As I explained in chapter one, I have decided to take this story in a different direction by turning it into a crossover/AU. I'm doing this largely in part because of what is going on currently in season 2, and not being sure where the show will end up is where I want to end up. So, I'm introducing Batman into things and working with a group of villains I have never gotten to work with before: the Court of Owls. Hopefully, I am tying things between the universes together and building a larger scale scheme that aptly suits both universes. For the curious, my story Mirror, Mirror establishes a lot of the relationship between Malcolm and the Batman family. I don't think it is necessary to read one to understand the other but it's there for those who find themselves wondering at aspects. As always, thank you for reading, take care!

Chapter Text

The house was dark by the time he and Sorcha arrived back... well, Malcolm wouldn’t call it home because it wasn’t home to him. It stopped being home after his father was arrested for killing twenty-three people. Home for Malcolm had become a menagerie of places over the years: Gil and Jackie’s, Wayne Manor, the apartments he shared with Sorcha and Mandy at Harvard, her parents house upstate, his apartment while he worked for the FBI, and finally, his loft. The last of which had been invaded by a woman twisted by a serial killer obsessed with revenge, and a detective on Endicott’s payroll who took pictures of them intended to incite rage and fan his desire for vengeance.

Part of Malcolm resented being forced to take up residence with his mother as the investigation into Eddie Smith’s murder was underway. There was only so much of his mother and her micro-managing of his life he could take before he needed to get away. Work used to provide him with the perfect way out. He didn’t have that at that moment because of two men: his father and Nicholas Endicott. 

Malcolm silently thanked whatever gods influenced his mother to call Sorcha, tell her what happened, ask her to come because he needed her. He didn't know why she did and he didn't care. She was there, supporting and helping him as she always did. As much as he didn’t deserve it or her. 

“You’re sure you don’t want to go get gelato?” he asked as he closed the door behind them. “Polosud’s twenty minutes away. We could get gelato and cannoli.” 

Sorcha wrinkled her nose. “Food is the last thing I want right now, actually.”

“Stomach bothering you?” 

“Head and stomach.” She flashed him a wan smile. “Product of too little sleep, too much stress, and too much anxiety.” All caused by him, Malcolm realized, grimacing. “Also haven’t eaten more than half a slice of toast in the last thirty-six hours.”

“You’re picking up my bad habits.” 

“Not eating because of anxiety is a habit I had before you.” 

“You did?” Malcolm’s brow furrowed. “I don’t remember that...”

Why didn’t he remember that? 

Ah, that’s rather easy to figure out, my boy,’ his father said from his spot at the opposite end of the foyer. ‘You tend to, uh, ignore what doesn’t interest you. Miss social cues. Fail to take the feelings of others into consideration. Oh, and, uh, blame everyone else for your problems.'

Malcolm couldn’t deny the truth in his father’s words. He did tend to ignore what didn’t interest him. His understanding of social cues ranked up there with his knowledge of how to build a car or boat. Dani was a prime example of how poorly he did at taking the thoughts, opinions or feelings of others into consideration. Well-adjusted and emotionally stable people succeeded at forming happy and healthy interpersonal relationships. 

His healthiest relationships were by no means perfect. Relationships only thrived if the people involved put in an equal amount of work. Sorcha had been doing all the work the last fifteen years because he didn’t know how. He had no clue what the right moves were. He should, but he didn't. 

His life changed after his father was revealed as the Surgeon. His chances for forming friendships among his classmates, navigating social circles, and dating became riddled with taunts, physical attacks, and bouts of isolation. His romantic relationships before Sorcha were not healthy by any means. Well, he amended as he slid his keys into his pocket. My relationship with Raya was healthier than most of my others had been

Again, because she made all the moves. 

Murder and murderers were what Malcolm best understood.

Relationships made about as much sense as coding a video game. Less than, he mused as Sorcha crossed the foyer to the stairs. I could probably learn how to code a video game before ever figuring out all the things involved in dating

“It happened mostly when we were bogged down with papers, tests, and other homework,” she said. “Yanno, the typical life choices made by frazzled college students.” She took a seat on the third stair with a small, tired sigh. “Forego food and sleep, live on coffee, attend class in the clothes you fell asleep in.” 

Malcolm hummed a laugh. “Or that you stole from me.” 

Her dimples winked. “Well, you always knew where your clothes were.”

She surprised a laugh out of him. As she intended. It sometimes galled him how well she understood his moods, his needs.

Course, she just got him.

More, Sorcha accepted him. 

Didn’t consider him an acquired taste. 

See him as a freak or monster. 

Refused to accept him as broken. 

Never believed he was the same as his father. 

They experienced more together in fifteen years than most people married the same length of time. 

You, uh, still pushed her away, my boy. Chose the woman who walked away after she got what she wanted from you,” his father said. Again, words of bitter truth. “Not exactly the foundation for a happy, healthy relationship.

Malcolm chose to ignore him. 

Not because what his father said wasn’t true. It was. Malcolm freely admitted he didn't know how to handle the intricacies of interpersonal relationships. He barely functioned as a friend and co-worker. Something he swore to become better at once this mess with Endicott was resolved. With her help, he decided as he moved to sit beside her. 

“Do you remember the day we met?” 

“Of course.” Her lips curved, warm with affection and amusement. “You were sitting in the fight-or-flight seat looking so lost and lonely it broke my heart.” 

Malcolm ducked his head to hide his smile. “You know what I remember about that day?” 

“Knowing you,” she teased lightly, “everything.”

“I remember the smell of your perfume.” That hauntingly exotic mix of jasmine and vanilla that always settled and soothed him. “It kept me from running out of the room in a panic.” 

He also hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her legs. He didn’t share that part with her, though. Why, he couldn’t say. It wasn’t like she didn’t know. Right? A frown creased his brow as he wondered at the answer.

“Why do you think I’ve never changed it?” 

Malcolm blinked and looked at Sorcha. “Because of me?” 

“Mhm.”

He could only stare at her, stupefied. It never occurred to him that why she didn’t change her perfume was because of him. He should have realized it, though. Especially since Ainsley and his mother changed perfumes based on what was in style and suited their particular tastes. This year, in fact, was Chanel for Ainsley, and Yves Saint Laurent for his mother. Something Malcolm only knew because Sorcha bought them bottles of perfume for Christmas. 

“You know so much about me.” He stared down at the polished floor, wishing it’d open up and suck him down into the dark abyss where the shadow creatures waited to torment and torture him. “You know my likes, dislikes...”

“I chose to learn those things.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Didn’t what?” 

“Learn those things.” Moisture gathered in the corner of his eyes, blurred his vision. “I didn’t learn any of those things about you.”

“Malcolm.” Her fingers closed over his trembling ones. Gently squeezed. Quiet comfort and support. Neither which he deserved. “You know lots of things about me.” 

“Not like what you know.” His stomach twisted into greasy knots. A combination of guilt, grief, and a never ending wave of regret. “You put everything into this... into me. And all I’ve done is hurt you.” 

Over and over he hurt her. Chose superficiality over substance. Fantasy over reality. Lies over truth. Sorcha called him an adrenaline-junkie. She wasn’t wrong. He needed the excitement that came from chasing after suspects, running down leads. He needed to take risks, face the possibility of danger. More than that he needed the bright bite of the pain so he could feel something other than empty. 

“Loving someone means opening yourself to the possibility of being hurt.” 

His father said the same thing a couple of weeks back. The words then had been about Eve and his suspicions about her keeping secrets. “You deserve better than me.”

“I’m a borderline masochist.” Her lips curved, warm with affection and amusement. "Got it from this danger prone dumbass that sucks at relationships.” 

The ends of his lips curled. “You’ll develop a tremor next.” 

“Mine is in my knees, actually.” Her smile was wry. "Easier to hide."

“You fidget when you’re nervous.” 

“See?” Sorcha slid her fingers between his. “You know things about me.” 

“Not as much as I should.” 

“You know more about me than you think.” 

“Not enough.”

“Are you terrible at reading cues or saying the right thing? Yes.” Her thumb lightly traced the back of his hand. Seeking comfort as much as giving it. “Are you unaware of when you’ve hurt me? Yes.” Simple truths that stung worse than a bee. “Do you know how to respond when I have been hurt? Yes. You took care of me after Robert.” Her fingers tightened on his. “And after Tammy Lynn.”

Guilt swirled as Malcolm recalled the emotional hell Tammy Lynn put them through. Hurting him was one thing. He deserved it after everything his father had done. Sorcha was innocent, though. She hadn’t deserved the pain and humiliation Tammy Lynn inflicted on her. 

Because of him

“It wasn’t hard to take care of you. You lived on peppermint tea.”

“And jelly beans.” 

Malcolm hummed a quiet laugh. “Only black licorice. Anything else is a crime.” 

Sorcha nudged him gently. “That’s you about red and green Jello.” 

“There’s only one acceptable flavor of Jello.” 

“Lemon.” Sorcha slid over next to him. “I know.”

“You know me so well...” His fingers spasmed in hers. “Understand my quirks.”

“And your kinks.” That hauntingly exotic scent of hers wrapped itself around Malcolm as she rest her head against his. “Don’t forget I know those, too.”

“You’ve never judged me.” No matter what asinine thing he said or did. “You believed me about Sophie when others didn’t.”

“Because it wasn’t something you’d make up.” 

Malcolm turned his nose into her hair, breathed deep. “I wondered sometimes if I hadn’t made it up.” 

“It was real,” Sorcha said firmly. “Sophie is real. You didn’t make her up.” 

“We have to find out what she had on Endicott.” He wet his lips with his tongue. “My father is the only one who can answer that, though.” 

“Malcolm...” Her sigh tingled along his sensitive flesh. “No.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, we do.” Soft, but firm. “We can wait to see if Batman has my father’s files.”

She had a point. Malcolm couldn’t deny that. They could wait to see if Batman had those files. Use them to put Endicott and everyone on his payroll in jail. A part of him, one he was ashamed of, wanted; needed to see his father. As if he was a child instead of a grown man with a degree in psychology. 

“Please, Mal.” 

Her soft entreaty undid him. Sorcha asked for so little. He owed her this much. 

“We’ll wait and see if Raya brings the files with her tomorrow.” His phone vibrated in his pocket but he chose to ignore it. His luck it be his father calling him from Rikers. He couldn’t afford to lose this phone as he did the last one. Not even if throwing it against the door would make Sorcha feel better. “Okay?”

“Thank you.” Her lips whispered over his forehead, his cheek. Setting off a different set of aches. “How about I go and make some tea? Think we could use it after today.” 

Malcolm’s lips curled. “Earl Grey?” 

“Earl Grey.” Sorcha huffed as she got to her feet. “Just for you.” 

Malcolm waited until she disappeared through the doors into the kitchen before pulling his phone from his pocket. His brow furrowed as he read the message splashed across the screen:

[little things matter to women like her and Raya]

An escrima stick was the only clue Malcolm needed as to the identity of the messenger. It didn’t surprise him to find out they had one of Gotham’s guardians standing watch. Or that they installed cameras in the house, he mused as he opened his phone and typed a reply.

[roped me into sitting watch?] was the reply from the man perched somewhere outside. [she’s in your kitchen and talking with your girlfriend]

His body quaked as realization crashed over him in icy waves.

Raya was there.

In his mother’s house.

That could only mean one thing…

Batman had the files and she brought them.

Malcolm lurched to his feet and stumbled wildly towards the kitchen, breath an icy sludge in his chest, and his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. He burst into the kitchen, surprising the women seated at the counter. 

“Mal?” Sorcha questioned, one brow tilted. “Something wrong?”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman seated across from her, though. Amusement and mischief shimmered in those green eyes that lifted to his, curved those pale lips. Was so achingly familiar.

“You’re here.” Malcolm’s breath shuddered out of him as all the anxiety, fear, and despair inside him settled. “You’re actually here.”

“You doubted I would be?” Raya slid off the stool and crossed to him, every step reminding Malcolm of a jaguar stalking its prey in the jungles. “You’re family, Malcolm. And you know how I am when it comes to my family.”

Malcolm did know. He watched firsthand as she burned Gotham to the ground to save her best friend — husband, he realized as she came to a stop in front of him. Dick Grayson was not only her best friend, but her husband now, as well.

“Ah, Gil won’t like you blowing up buildings to get to Endicott.”

“I don’t need to blow up buildings to get to him.” Raya tossed her head. Folded her arms across her chest. A warrior ready to go to war. “Ian Corbin’s files will bring him to me.”

“Batman had them then?” He looked over at Sorcha. “They’re real?”

“And damning.”

Chapter Text

“Damning?” Malcolm’s hand spasmed against his thigh. Excitement more than nerves or stress. Things were finally starting to go in a positive direction. Finally. “The files are that detailed then?” 

Not a surprise given the three men involved. All three tended to pay close attention to details; facts. Were nothing but thorough, leaving no stone unturned or theory unchecked. Once they found a trail to follow, they followed it to the end. That’s what made them formidable adversaries to men like Nicholas Endicott.

“I can see why Endicott wants to get his hands on these files.” Sorcha’s small, delicate fingers lightly touched the tablet set before her on the counter. Malcolm imagined them stroking his hair, his face. “If this information ever gets out, he’s done for.”

“Are there lists of those who are in his pocket?” Anticipation of what the files contained chased away Malcolm’s fatigue. “What organizations he’s affiliated with? His shell corporations?”

“It has all of that.” Sorcha got up to remove the kettle from the stove before it started whistling. “And more.” 

“Why didn’t Batman use this information to stop Endicott?” He aimed the question at Raya while watching Sorcha move about the kitchen. “What was he waiting for?”

“Malcolm, you have to understand that this isn’t just about Endicott. There’s a group Endicott’s involved with that are a far larger threat that Batman has been working to destroy.”

That... didn’t sound good. Malcolm hadn’t spent much time in Gotham in recent years. His obligations to the academy, the FBI, and then the NYPD kept him busy.

‘That’s a, uh, bit of a lie, isn’t it, son?’

Malcolm hid a grimace by ducking his head. Much as he didn’t want to admit it, his father spoke the truth. The FBI and his consulting job weren’t the main reasons he avoided Gotham and the people who were another family to him. The biggest reason was the woman staring at him, head slightly tilted to the side, mouth pursed. Her eyes, though, were what held Malcolm’s attention. They were green. Not hazel green, not emerald, not green flecked with hints of gold or brown or blue. 

Just a pure and hypnotic shade of green. 

They were the eyes of a predator, farsighted yet focused on her chosen prey. That being him, Malcolm realized, fingers rattling against his thigh. Sorcha wasn’t the only one with the ability to see through him. Raya could, too.

To a more accurate degree.

If anyone understood the dark things inside him, it was Raya. The same shadow creatures dwelled within her that did him. Her traumas were also tied to her father. A man who hired his father to kill her and her mother. And when my father failed to kill them, he thought as a sound came from upstairs, he shot her mother in front of her.

Matthew Berkeley then tried to get revenge on his father by kidnapping him and Raya. The only thing that saved them was a cataclysmic earthquake. Raya’s father died during the initial tremors but his hold on her remained.

Much like his father’s did him.

Raya had thus far remained quiet about a few of his... questionable choices of late. Meaning she was waiting for her moment to lecture him, remind him he had family and friends who loved him, and be heartbroken if something bad happened to him. She’d also insist he stop seeing his father, and after he refused, enlist the rest of the family to press her point. 

Subtle, Raya was not. 

Especially when it came to the people she cared about. 

“Malcolm?” Raya’s hand brushed his. “You okay?”

“I’m—”

“No,” her and Sorcha said in unison. 

His brow furrowed. “But—”

“Use that word.” Raya’s tone was like tempered steel. “I dare you.” 

Malcolm relented. What choice did he have? It wasn’t as if he stood a chance against either of them. “I thought Endicott was head of his criminal emperor?” 

“He is head of his own empire.” Raya moved back to her seat. “He is not, however, the head of the entire empire. That position belongs to someone else.” 

“Who?” 

“All we know is they are called the Judge of Owls.” 

“Owls?” Malcolm’s hand spasmed as images of people in owl masks flashed through his mind. “You’re not talking The Court of Owls?” 

“I’m afraid so.”  

That, Malcolm realized as Sorcha poured hot water into mugs he had never seen before, is not good

Not that things had been all that great before she revealed the organizations involvement.

The Court of Owls added a complication they didn’t need. Added to the danger already surrounding them. Malcolm first learned of the Court while attending Gotham Academy. One didn’t live in the city without hearing about this mysterious group of elites who proceeded over Gotham. Whispers of the secret society reached the ears of the FBI a few months after he graduated the academy. Because of the years he spent in Gotham, and his close relationship with the Wayne family, Malcolm was dispatched to work alongside Batman and his specially chosen task force. What they found went beyond anything Malcolm anticipated. Multiple “John Does” with bodies crucified by antique throwing knives, all marked with the image of an owl. 

Strix varia,’ his father said. ‘They readily grab whatever prey they can find but one of their favorites is...’ 

“Bats,” Malcolm murmured. “They prey on bats.”

“Hm?” Sorcha set a mug of tea in front of Raya. “What about bats?” 

“Owls hunt bats.” Malcolm wet his suddenly dry lips with the tip of his tongue. “They’re the natural enemy of bats.” 

“One bat in particular.” Raya folded her fingers around the steaming mug. “The Court has become obsessed with destroying Batman.”

“Why?” Sorcha questioned. 

“Batman threatens their control over Gotham for one.” 

The Court, and specifically their Talons, pushed Batman almost to his limits. Malcolm recalled the injuries he sustained while trapped in the Court’s underground labyrinth. Scars added to scars from previous contests he narrowly won. Malcolm suspected Batman endured a wealth of emotional trauma while fighting his way out of the Court’s stronghold. Things he knew firsthand would never heal. Not that Batman would acknowledge it if directly asked. 

“Are the stories about the Court true?” Sorcha handed a mug to Malcolm but he turned it down with a shake of his head. His hands shook hard enough now he feared he’d dump hot tea all over himself. Sorcha set the mug next to her own and returned the kettle to the stove. “Or are they embellished to make them seem more fearsome than they are?” 

“Snyder likes to think he created a new league of villains with the Court of Owls.” Raya lifted her mug to take a careful sip of the fragrant brew. Mint. The only kind she drank. Like Sorcha. “He merely took some of the lore and designed a comical rendition of it.” 

Sorcha’s lips twitched. “Not a fan, I take it?”

“I was of the original story he released.” Her mouth thinned into a hard line. Full disapproval and disdain. “But Snyder then took it too far when he introduced the Batman Who Laughs and his retinue of psychotic Robins. All to fulfill his desire to have Batman kill.”

“Gee,” Sorcha lightly kidded, “Tell us how you really feel.”

“Don’t get her started,” Malcolm warned. “She’s like me about the wrong flavor of Jello.”

“Nobody’s as bad as you about the wrong flavor of Jello, Bright-Boy.” The fondness in her pet name brought a smile to Malcolm’s lips. “Even Alfred stocks only your favorite flavor.”

“And Twizzlers.”

“Bruce bought him black licorice once,” Raya said. “Ten minute diatribe on how terrible it is. And he supported his stance with honest to god facts.” She smiled at him over the rim of her cup. “Bruce wanted to adopt you right then and there.”

“Because I made an argument about black licorice being terrible?”

“Because you made an argument he couldn’t argue against.” Raya set her cup down. “Let’s focus on the Court of Owls, though, shall we? They’re the present threat we need to worry about.”

“Are we talking Cartel or Taliban level here?” Sorcha asked. 

“Let’s say the Court of Owls makes the League of Assassins look like a street gang.”

Malcolm wished Raya was overstating things but she wasn’t. If he had to choose between the Court or the League, he’d pick the League. They only had to worry about expertly trained assassins, bat-human hybrids, and the fanatical Ra’s al Ghul with the League.

Talons were deadlier and more formidable an enemy. 

“They’re that massive an organization then?”

Raya nodded. “The Court has operations on every continent, agents in nearly every organization around the globe, and a slew of Talons they can awaken at any moment to carry out their orders.” 

“And Endicott is one of them,” Malcolm said. “Right?”

“As was my father.” Raya’s face remained cool; composed but her eyes told a different story. A wealth of things Malcolm understood far too well darkened those green depths. “I will assume a member of the Milton family was too.”

“Don’t tell my mother.” Malcolm grimaced. “You’ve seen how well she handled my father being a serial killer.”

Alcohol, pills, sarcasm, and helicopter parenting barely scratched the surface of how well his mother coped with what his father was.  

“I’d be surprised if Jessica doesn’t know about the Court, actually.” Raya glanced at her phone when it buzzed. Malcolm assumed it was her cousin letting her know she was almost finished with whatever modifications were being made  to his mother’s security system. “Not the corrupt organization with a retinue of undead assassins part but the compromised of only the crème de crème of high-society one.”

“How does Martin Whitly fit into this?” Sorcha brushed her hair back behind her ears. Glanced at Malcolm when he sighed. “We know this has something to do with him. It always does.”

“Your father wondered that, as well.” Raya waved towards the tablet. “It was what he was working on before he passed away.”

Sorcha’s eyes widened. “My father was looking into the Court of Owls?” 

“The Court became your father’s focus after Deputy Turner took over the Watkins-Whitly case.”

“Why, though?”

“I’m not sure,” Raya admitted with a small, sheepish smile. “Batman didn’t allow me full access to the files until tonight.”

“You didn’t have full access to them?” Malcolm couldn’t mask his surprise. “Why not?”

“Because I was barred from investigating anything related to your father, my father, Inceptive, and the Court while I was pregnant.”

Malcolm’s eyebrow tilted. “And you obeyed?”

“Unlike you, Jason, and the dope I married, I listen when my mentor tells me to back off.”

Malcolm shot a look at Sorcha when she snickered. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m not.”

“Right.” Malcolm looked back at Raya. “I also know you. You only pretended to listen.”

“I did listen, Malcolm. I did not investigate. I did, however, ask Calvin Rose to see if he could figure out where the Court had bases of operations, who the presiding members are, and what Talons they might awaken. The Court of Owls instructed Endicott to put together his ring of serial killers. Calvin obtained documents from the man who helped cover their connection.” She indicated the tablet with a nod. “Something else your father was also looking into. He just couldn’t figure out why given the Court have Talons at their disposal.”

“And Batman hasn’t figured out why, either?”

“Oh, he has a theory.”

Malcolm had only been feeling moderately grim up to that point. Something told him that was going to change once Raya revealed Batman’s speculations as to why the Court allowed the use of men like his father.

Like John Watkins.

Like Robert Harwood.

He couldn’t shy away from the truth, no matter how bad it was or how hurtful it turned out, though. Neither could Sorcha, who sighed, and said, “You're about to tell us something we’re not going to want to hear, aren't you?"

"I’m afraid so, yes."

Sorcha slid out of her chair to move closer to him. “Alright.” She slid her fingers between his. Strength and support. Comfort and solidarity. None of which he deserved after how he treated her. “Tell us.”

“Batman believes this has to do with a prophecy.” Raya’s expression was as grim as her tone. “One about a demon who was created at the dawn of time.”

“A demon?” Sorcha frowned. “What demon?”

“He’s called Barbatos.” Raya’s sigh shivered through Malcolm. “He’s the…”

“Destroyer of the Multiverses,” Malcolm whispered, hand spasming in Sorcha’s.

“Yes,” Raya said. “And the Court wants to bring him here by killing all firstborn children of Court members.”

Chapter Text

“Bruce,” Jessica said as they exited his private box at the Lincoln Center, “you really didn’t have to invite me to tonight’s performance.”

A smile curved Bruce Wayne’s lips as he escorted her through the throng of people to the stairs. “It was my pleasure, Jessica.”

It wasn’t a lie. He managed to enjoy the evening despite his initial reluctance to it. ‘Or a reticence to having fun,’ as Alfred accused on the ride into the city. Bruce dismissed that notion. As he had Dick’s unnecessary quip about him not knowing how to have fun. He had a passing familiarity with the concept. His public lifestyle necessitated his having fun. Driving his fancy sports cars at inappropriate speeds, flying off to wherever when the mood struck him, squiring around a different woman every night, attending exclusive parties and events, buying restaurants because they refused to do something he wanted... it was all part of the playboy facade he maintained to conceal his nocturnal career.

It wasn’t he was averse to spending an evening at the ballet with Jessica. Far from it, actually. He delighted in her company. Any other night and he’d have been thrilled to spend the evening with her. The Court of Owls and their involvement with the man trying to ruin her and her children prevented him from being able to fully relax and enjoy himself. He spent most of the performance searching every face for either Court members or their associates. 

Facial recognition software picked out a few individuals he’d research once he returned back to his penthouse. Nicholas Endicott not attending the ballet surprised him, though. He, as well as Raya, suspected he’d attend the second half of the performance once word of Jessica arriving at the ballet with Bruce reached him. Endicott not doing as they anticipated either meant the Court called him to a private meeting or he was busy with another part of his plan. 

Neither good. 

“You typically attend the ballet with Raya.” Jessica’s fingers curled around his elbow as they descended down the stairs. “I don’t remember you or her missing a performance once in the last sixteen years.”

“We’ve missed a few.” Those cancelled by the earthquake that ripped Gotham apart when she was sixteen being one example. His being lost in the Omega Sanction, another. “Not often, though, you’re right.” 

“Does she still dance?” 

“Yes.” Bruce’s lips curved. “Ballet is how Raya copes with her anxiety.” 

“Oh, I wish Malcolm had not given up ballet,” she said wistfully. “Dancing was the only thing, outside of solving every homicide in New York, that made him happy.”

“Malcolm still dances, Jess.” 

“He does?”

“Malcolm filled in as Raya’s partner a few times during the 2017-2018 season.” He smiled at an elderly couple standing to one side of the staircase. If they reminded him of his mother and father, he didn’t dwell on it. Bruce learned not to acknowledge many things over the years. “I have the footage from their performances.” 

He recorded every performance, speech, and presentation. A fact only Alfred was privy too. Bruce didn’t classify himself a sentimental man. However, he wasn’t an uncaring one. His children, and grandchildren, were the greatest joys in his life. He had momentous and keepsakes like any parent. Treasures that reminded him of when his children were small and their problems easy ones to solve. 

A frown feathered her brow. “I wasn’t aware he even owned a pair of ballet shoes much less still danced.”

“Raya nettles him until he gives in.”

A trait Dick claimed she got from him.

“That’s why it surprises me Raya did not want to attend tonight’s performance. She lives for the ballet.”

“There was no convincing her to attend tonight’s performance after she found out about Malcolm’s being arrested on suspicion of murder from his girlfriend.” 

He decided to not tell Jessica it was Raya’s idea for him to invite her to attend the performance in her stead. He hadn’t been able to fault her line of reasoning. She was the best choice to talk with Malcolm. She could explain the Court and Endicott’s involvement. Where his father fit into things. Handle his questions, his anxiety, assuage his concerns.

“Sorcha isn’t Malcolm’s girlfr...” Jessica broke off with a sigh. “Yes, she is. She’s been his girlfriend since the two were at Harvard. Though neither one seems able or willing to admit it.”

“Dick and Raya were the same way about their relationship.” Denying the truth, saying they were only friends; partners. Scoffing whenever any of them pointed out they were more than friends. “It was easier for them to not admit what everyone else was telling them.” 

Bruce partially blamed himself for Dick and Raya denying their feelings for as long as they did. They learned to compartmentalize from him. Some called it a defense mechanism. Bruce tended to view it as a means of keeping their private lives separate from their public ones. 

“They’re married now. They have an adorable son.”  

“Only because my youngest son, Damian, decided to do something about it.” That something being to get himself licensed as a wedding officiant and marrying the two before John Richard Grayson the Third came into the world precisely at 11:59 PM on the anniversary of the death of Ellen Rae Berkeley. Five pounds and six ounces with arms waving frantically, legs kicking wildly, and red face scrunched up as he protested his rude eviction from the warm cocoon that sheltered him for eight months and fifteen days. “If he hadn’t interceded, I believe Dick and Raya would still be like Malcolm and his girlfriend.” 

“Denying they’re a couple?” 

“Yes.”

“They have a child, though.” 

“They have two children, actually.” Bruce caught her quizzical look from the corner of his eye. “Dick formally adopted Raya’s oldest son, Christopher, when he was a year old.” 

A move that had not shocked Bruce or anyone else for that matter. He had suspected Dick would chose to step up and become Kai’s father, not only because he loved the boy, but because he felt a responsibility to seeing him raised in the manner his father would have wanted. A small surge of guilt and regret shivered along Bruce’s spine. Had he only realized what the Joker was planning sooner...

“I wasn’t aware Raya had more than one child.” 

“Christopher was born after her first husband was killed by the Joker.” 

Bruce heard his bitterness same as Jessica. He didn’t apologize for it. There was no need. If anyone could understand his feelings, it was her. Her husband was almost in the same league as the Clown Prince of Crime. 

“A shame we can’t lock him in the same room with my ex-husband and see which one walks out the survivor.” A small, tight smile curved her lips. “Perhaps the fates will finally smile on us and they’ll end up killing each other.” 

Bruce doubted they’d be so lucky as they exited the building. Throngs of paparazzi lined the front entrance of the center, snapping shots for dozens of society columns, magazines, and various social media outlets. Flashes went off in rapid succession, practically blinding the people as they waited for drivers to pick them up. Bruce skirted the throng, knowing they waited to snap pictures of him and the woman he attended that evening’s performance with. Jessica was considered hot news because of Malcolm being brought in on suspicion of murder. 

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been arrested and formally charged with anything. The sheer fact a former FBI profiler was the primary suspect was enough for the court of public opinion to convict him. Headlines all over labeled him a killer. Some editorials compared him to his father while television journalists like Anderson Cooper wondered if there were not more bodies out there. 

Every word a falsehood that rankled deeply but which Bruce could not change. No more than he could the opinions of those journalists who labeled Batman a menace instead of a benefit. The only thing he could do for Malcolm was exactly what he had done: he sent Raya with the files that’d help prove his innocence. 

He also instructed Dick and Tim to sweep Jessica’s house for bugs and cameras before updating her security system to the latest software. He didn’t trust either Nicholas Endicott or the Court. Monitoring the house was his only option since convincing Jessica to leave New York until they could stop both stood about as much chance of happening as him officially retiring as Batman. 

Alfred waited with the car door open. “Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said as he waited for Jessica to slide inside the dark interior. “Has there been any trouble?” 

“None, sir.” 

“Good.” 

Not that he expected any problems to arise while he attended the ballet with Jessica. He trusted his children. Acknowledged their capability to deal with whatever situations were tossed at them. Recognized their strength and abilities. Even if they didn’t always feel like he did. Bruce was immensely proud of the children he raised. They grew into capable, compassionate, considerate adults despite the adversity they faced. 

Alfred shut the car door behind him before walking around to the drivers side. They left the throng of paparazzi behind a few minutes later. Bruce settled comfortably back against the seat and stared out the window, searching for a figure distinguishable by his ebony body armor and gleaming blades. An uncharacteristic chill swept through him when he thought he saw a pair of round owl-like goggles peering down at him from a rooftop. 

For a moment, he felt as if he was back in that underground labyrinth again, desperate, driven to the limits of his endurance, and afraid of what the consequences would be should he not manage to find his way out. He succeeded in escaping but the battle took an immense toll on him physically, as well as mentally. His phone buzzed and he reached into his pocket to retrieve it. His lips twitched as he scanned the short message his imp sent him. 

“Raya says to assure you Malcolm is home, will be remaining at home for the duration of the evening, and has promised to stay at home until she comes tomorrow morning for breakfast.” 

Jessica huffed a frustrated laugh. “If my son had remained home as he was supposed to, he wouldn’t have been at that office when the Devil was shot, and wouldn’t have had to go down to the police station to be interrogated.” 

“Malcolm wants to clear his name.” 

“That’s what the police and lawyers are for.” 

“They can only do so much against Nicholas Endicott.” 

Bruce didn’t tell her about the Court. Jessica had been put through enough by her ex-husband. Now the first man she allowed herself to become romantically entangled with in years turned out the head of a criminal empire with an affiliation to a secret society that made the Cartel look like a street gang.

“That man.” Fury tightened the skin around her eyes and mouth. “I’d shoot him if I knew I could get away with it.” 

Bruce didn’t doubt that for one minute. “Killing Endicott won’t solve anything.” It’d only guarantee the Court sending one of their Talons after her in retaliation. Bruce wanted to avoid that at all costs.  “It won’t prove Malcolm’s innocence or benefit him emotionally.” 

“This is all Martin’s fault.” Jessica’s voice throbbed with anger and regret. “How I wish I never met that man.” 

“You wouldn’t have either your son or daughter if you had not met Martin Whitly.” Bruce rest a hand atop hers. “They’re the good that came from your marriage, Jess. Never forget that.” 

A soft sound came from the man up front. Bruce didn’t need to look in the rearview mirror to know Alfred’s eyes were shining with repressed humor or his lips carried a faint hint of a smile. Alfred wasn’t shy about expressing his opinions on him needing more in his life than Batman. 

“I want that man removed from Malcolm’s life once this is over, Bruce. Malcolm does not need his father in his life.” 

Bruce had a feeling that was one wish that’d come true. 

Especially if his imp had any say about it. 

 

 

Chapter Text

Malcolm awoke the next morning, disoriented, but without any of his usual dread and panic. Things had changed in the last few days. His dreams were no longer centered around the girl in a box. Mostly because he not only figured out who the girl was, but that she was alive, and related to the ghostly figure hovering around the front of his bed. Most of his dreams centered around Eve. Not unusual given the circumstances surrounding her death.

He was accustomed to dreaming about things related to his father, murder, and his sketchy childhood. When he didn’t dream of those things, his dreams were often about unusual things like running through grocery stores in search of Twizzlers or being trapped in a room filled with the wrong flavored Jello.

He never dreamed about... this before. 

Not in this fashion, anyway.

He had the usual assortment of dreams about children while working for the FBI. Dreaming about missing or murdered children was par for the course. Even Gil admitted to being haunted by cases dealing with children. Malcolm wasn’t dreaming about lost or dead children here, though.

No, he was dreaming about a living, breathing child. 

One with dark eyes and curls framing a face like burnished bronze. 

A little girl with a smile that chased the shadow creatures back to the dark chasms they belonged. 

Jacqueline

The name rolled through Malcolm’s head as he slid his thumb over the release mechanism and freed himself from his restraint. The details of the dream remained firmly etched in his mind. As did the conviction his dreaming about a baby wasn’t coincidence. 

It meant something

He just didn’t know what. 

Children weren’t something Malcolm envisioned for himself. Genetics, a tricky childhood, and his dependence on a cocktail of drugs to make him relatively functional were all valid reasons for why he wasn’t suitable parent material. 

Not that his mother agreed. 

No, she routinely pointed out to him how he needed to settle down and have children. 

Maybe that’s why he dreamed of this child. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. His mother’s constant reminders about his familial duties and obligations had surfaced in other dreams. This could just be the latest one. Malcolm considered that as he reached to free himself from his other restraint. He froze when his arm did not encounter the warm body of the woman who had been asleep beside him. 

I’m alone, Malcolm realized, eyebrows arching. Sorcha’s not here

The question was: where was she

Malcolm’s brow furrowed as he studied the bed for any clues as to her whereabouts. The covers had been neatly straightened, the pillow smoothed and plumped. A hand on the blankets revealed they were cool to the touch. Sorcha had been gone, and for quite a while from the looks of it. 

How long did I sleep? It couldn’t have been long. Three hours was his customary amount. Five, if he was lucky. A glance at the window showed him the hour was somewhere between when deepest night had ended but sunrise not yet managed to turn the sky crimson.

So, where did she go?

A glance at the nightstand revealed the burner phone her uncle Jamie gave her was still plugged in. His, on the other hand, was missing. 

Sorcha liked listening to music or audiobooks while relaxing in a bath. One way to find out if that’s where she is. Malcolm kicked the covers off, stood, and padded across the room. Panic formed an icy ball in his belly when he saw the bathroom door, as well as the door to her bedroom were open. A quick check of her room revealed Sorcha’s clothes still in the closet, her bottles of perfume and lotions neatly set atop the dresser, and her makeup bag next to his shaving kit in the bathroom. 

She hadn’t left him. 

She was just... missing

“Maybe she has gone down to your father’s murder room,” Eve’s ghostly voice whispered behind him. “See for herself where your father brought his victims.” 

Like her sister had been before being placed inside that trunk and taken to that cabin in the woods. Where his father planned to kill her until Sophie convinced him she had files on Endicott and his secret operations worth letting her live. His father, in turn, used that information to obtain his private cell and the luxuries he enjoyed at Claremont. Malcolm found himself wondering if the files Sophie took were about Endicott’s involvement with the Court of Owls. 

It was a question he planned to ask Raya. For now, he needed to focus on finding Sorcha. Malcolm padded downstairs to see if she was in the kitchen. Cooking was her other outlet when she couldn’t sleep. The kitchen, however, was also empty. A glance at the stove showed the kettle sitting in its spot. Coffee had not been brewed.

Nerves bunched, pulsed as every corner he checked turned up empty. 

“Where are you?” he breathed aloud.

“Check your father’s hobby room,” Eve suggested again. 

“Sorcha wouldn’t go in there.” 

She promised him she’d never enter his father’s hobby room. Not without him there with her. Why he made Sorcha promise that, Malcolm didn’t know. His father couldn’t find her in that room. He couldn’t hurt her. 

“Your father can’t harm her physically,” Eve said as she floated before him. “But he can hurt her, Malcolm. He hurt me.” A sad smile curved her lips. “And you.” 

“You hurt me.” The words lacked the bitterness they once carried. “And I hurt Sorcha.” 

Over and over, he hurt her. 

Used her. 

Pushed her aside. 

All because he believed he deserved pain and rejection because of what his father was, for all he had done.

A sound, like the clacking made by those needle-thin stilettos his mother favored came from the foyer. That, he realized with a frown, made no sense. His mother wouldn’t be up for hours and Ainsley elected to return to her own apartment after her broadcast. Louisa didn’t wear heels. That left Sorcha. Malcolm immediately dismissed that possibility. Sorcha abhorred heels. She wore them only when necessary. The sound came again, skittering along Malcolm’s already frazzled nerves, fraying them further.

Did she go for a walk?

In the middle of the night?

With Endicott and Talons out there?

Malcolm frowned as he exited the kitchen and made his way towards the front entrance. The sight of the snow-white dog by the front door caused him to skid to a halt. Where the dog came from, how it got inside the house, Malcolm didn’t know. His heart hammered against his rib cage as he studied the dog. It was a mixed breed from the looks of it. German Shepherd and Labrador, maybe. Hair on the longish side. Red collar. Non-aggressive he hoped. The dog’s tail thumped against the floor as Sorcha entered, indicating familiarity. 

Had she gotten a dog after what happened with Tammy Lynn in his loft? He wouldn’t blame her if she had. Gabrielle had suggested him getting one after that but he rejected the suggestion. Dogs required significantly more than food in their bowl and fresh water. They needed a lot of time and attention. Malcolm had wanted a dog when he was younger but his mother had refused for a litany of reasons, the mess they made being the largest one. He opted for snakes, instead. They were significantly less work, kept Ainsley out of his room, and didn’t annoy his mother. Much, he amended as the dog bounced around in front of Sorcha, tail wagging, and barking excitedly.  

“Quit that,” Sorcha ordered softly. “You’ll wake everyone up and then we’ll really be in for it.” 

“You’re going to be in for it soon as my mother finds out you brought a dog into the house.” 

Sorcha started. “Mal!” Her face flushed guiltily. “Did we wake you?” 

“No.” The dog sat in front of her and stared at Malcolm with eyes that seemed to peer into his soul. “Sleep issues, remember?”

She shrugged out of her jacket. “You were soundly asleep when I snuck out.”

Malcolm chose to ignore that for the moment. He waved to the dog. “Who’s your friend?” 

“Krypto.” At hearing his name, Krypto, as Sorcha called him, sat up straighter, chocolate eyes shining brightly, tail slapping the floor in one rhythmic motion, and his great big tongue hanging out one side of his mouth. “Krypto, that’s Malcolm.” 

Krypto let out an excited sound and waved a paw at Malcolm, who felt a smile tugging at his lips despite the panic bouncing through his veins. “He’s friendly it seems like.” 

“Only to those he’s charged with protecting.” Sorcha turned to hang her jacket on the coatrack. “I have a feeling he will be less friendly with those who try to attack us.” 

Malcolm’s brow furrowed as confusion rolled through him. “He’s not yours?” 

“No.” 

“What’s he doing here then?” 

She hung her scarf up with her jacket before crossing the foyer towards him, Krypto at her side. “Seems Raya instructed him to stay here and keep watch after she and Nightwing left.” 

“He belongs to Raya?” 

“Her son, Christopher, actually.” A yip came from Krypto. Sorcha placed a hand on his head. “Hush or else you’re going to get us in trouble.” 

“Is that why you’re up so early?” Malcolm asked as he slowly held a hand out to Krypto. “He was making a fuss?”

“No.” She made for the kitchen. “I couldn’t sleep so I decided to take a walk.” 

“Why didn’t you wake me? I’d have gone with you.”

“I know.” Sorcha paused, her hand on the door jam. “I know you’d have gone with me...”

“But?”

“But I fell back into the pattern of repressing my own needs,” she admitted without looking at him. “Focused on you and what you needed… which was sleep.”

Patterns and routines. Malcolm had more than a passing familiarity with them. Much of his life was centered around maintaining routines. Some healthier than others. Breaking the toxic ones was somewhere he, too, struggled.    

“You…”

“—have so much coming at you right now between your girlfriend’s—”

“Ex.” Malcolm flinched at the harshness of his tone. “Sorch, I’m...” 

“Eve was your girlfriend, Malcolm.” The eyes that met his over her shoulder were achingly, brutally sad. “And she was murdered. By the man you’re currently accused of murdering in retaliation.” 

Truth, Malcolm was forced to admit, tasted foul. “She left me.” 

“Doesn’t take away from the fact that for a little over eight weeks she was your girlfriend.” No heat. No anger. No censure. Just simple logic. Something Malcolm couldn’t deny no matter how much he might have liked too. “She lived in your loft. Shared your bed. You were building a life with her.” 

“I was building a life with you.” 

Sorcha hummed a quiet laugh. “Our life resembles the Winchester Mystery House.”

“You were watching Ghost Adventures, I see.”

Her lips curled at the corners. “Look at the man who doesn’t think he knows me figure out what I was doing before I decided to go for a walk.”

“Why did you go for a walk?” Sorcha’s face remained coolly composed. The product of growing up with a profiler for a father. However, little ticks and tremors gave away her anxious state. “You had a nightmare.”

She refused to meet his eyes. Telling him louder than words he guessed right. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Her wry look was all the answer Malcolm needed. “You should have woke me, Sorch.”

“Raya said the same thing.”

“You called Raya?”

It hurt, Malcolm realized, knowing she turned to others in moments of fear or pain. He only had himself to blame, though. If he was normal… well, there’d be lots of things he’d be able to do.

“Not about that,” she said with a sigh, “but yes, we talked about my dream.”

“Your fears, you mean.”

He sounded petulant. Like a child denied a toy. Like his father when he didn’t say or do what he wanted.

“This isn’t Watkins or Richard or Tammy Lynn,” Sorcha said quietly. “Hell, this isn’t even about your father anymore. We’re playing with a dangerous organization here, Mal. Even Dad feared the Court of Owls.” She folded her arms about herself. As she did when she was cold. “So, yeah, I’m having nightmares about blood and death and assassins with yellow eyes. And I needed someone to talk to about it. So, I called Raya.”

“You should be able to talk to me about this.”

“You’re right, I should.” The raw, naked vulnerability in the eyes that lifted to his hit harder than a train under full power. “So, let’s talk about it then.”

It wasn’t a huge step, Malcolm realized as he moved closer to her, but for them it was an important one. “Okay,” he said as Krypto rubbed against his lips. “I’ll make tea.” He slowly took her hand. “Peppermint, this time.”

Chapter Text

The steam drifting lazily out of the opening of the travel mug perched on Malcolm's knee carried a scent that brought back memories of marathon study sessions and college anxiety, middle of the night conversations after he had one of his night terrors, and above all, the quiet comfort and support of friendship. Peppermint tea wasn't his favorite but he couldn't deny it didn't contain the same restorative power Earl Grey did. Malcolm breathed deeply, absorbing the fresh, minty smell, finding calm inside the chaos, and the familiarity of one of his healthier routines.

"You should have told me about your dream," he said once Sorcha finished. "You shouldn't have hidden it from me."

She shouldn't have felt like she needed to keep it from me, he amended silently. Malcolm freely admitted he was completely clueless about things like relationships. Even he knew, though, couples shared things like bad dreams with each other. They worked through difficult times together. Supported and comforted the other when things became challenging.

Not that he and Sorcha were a couple.

Officially, anyway.

And the reason for that is me. Because he believed he deserved pain and misery for all the people his father hurt. Malcolm admitted he couldn't allow himself happiness because of the families out there grieving the loss of their loved one. Many found a connection with the Whitly's as socially unacceptable.

His mother suffered years of social isolation for having married his father. Ainsley encountered people who didn't believe she should have the same opportunities as other journalists because she was the daughter of the Surgeon. Malcolm feared he'd end up ruining whoever he was with socially simply by being with them.

Fixing things between he and Sorcha wouldn't be easy, though. Especially when the woman he let come between them in life haunted them in death. Malcolm didn't have to turn his head to know Eve floated by the window, gazing at him with her sad eyes, and the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"I did tell you about my dream." Sorcha smiled at him from over the rim of her mug. "So, technically, I didn't hide it."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "You only told me about it after talking with Raya about it."

"I didn't talk with Raya about it first, actually." Sorcha lowered her mug to her knee. "I actually talked to Dick about my dream before I did Raya."

"You talked with Dick?" Malcolm's brow creased at her nod. "Why'd you talk with Dick about it before Raya?"

"Well, Raya was busy running that blood sample so I talked to him while she focused on that." One corner of her mouth kicked up. "Kinda figured it was more important than her talking to me about a dream."

"It is," he agreed with a slight nod. "But she'd also tell you not to minimize the dream or how it made you feel."

"Dick covered that." Mischief shimmered in her eyes. "Have a feeling he plays therapist a lot because the therapist gets obsessed with her cases." Her lips twitched at his snort. "Gee, can't think of who that reminds me of..."

"Gil calls her Capable Bright."

"Because she actually uses the skills she was taught." Sorcha's tone was wry. "She doesn't run blindly into danger."

A sound, almost like a chuckle, came from the dog asleep on the floor. Malcolm shrugged that idea off. Krypto might be from the planet of Krypton but that didn't mean he possessed the ability to laugh.

"Raya runs into dangerous situations all the time."

Dangerous situations were the specialities of Gotham's silent vigilantes. They could do what the police couldn't. Enter the places they were barred from. Investigate where they couldn't. As they are now with Endicott.

"She hasn't chased a serial killer into a service tunnel and gotten her ribs crushed in a turnstile."

Malcolm had one word in response to that: "Joker."

Sorcha was ready with a rebuttal, however. "The Joker didn't take her to her father's murder room where she got stabbed and had to break her own thumb to get free from her cuffs."

"She has been gassed by the Scarecrow." Multiple times, Malcolm added silently. "She left a charity ball a few years ago with him to keep him from gassing those in attendance."

"Raya trusted her team would not only stop him from gassing those people but also there to help her get free of him." Malcolm was forced to concede she had a point there. There was an extraordinary amount of trust among the members of the Batfamily. Even when they were angry at each other they were there to protect and defend each other. "Raya also trusts in herself, Mal. The greatest lesson Batman taught her was she doesn't need anyone to save her. She can save herself."

"I trust in myself," he said. "To much Gil would say."

"You trust in your ability to profile someone," Sorcha agreed with a nod. "You also trust in your ability to talk a suspect out of causing you or others harm. Physical confrontations is where you struggle, though. You don't fight when it is you under attack."

Again, Malcolm found himself forced to concede. He didn't fight unless he was protecting someone. He feared losing control, going one step too far, killing someone.

"What you, uh, fear, my boy, is killing someone and finding out it's the ultimate thrill."

Malcolm didn't acknowledge his father's words despite the truth in them. He asked instead, "Was Dick able to help you with your dream?"

"He helped me make sense of it, yes." She lifted her mug but didn't take a sip. "He mentioned you had a dream similar to mine after you started at Gotham Academy."

Malcolm had forgotten about that dream. Most of his memories from his time in Gotham were happy ones. Gotham Academy had been the only other school he attended where he hadn't been singled out for being the son of The Surgeon. The majority of those who attended the prestigious private school simply considered him as one of their own. His blood was as blue as theirs, his pedigree as pure. Plus, he lived with Bruce Wayne. Was friends with both of his sons, his female ward, and her cousin, Barbara. Their friendship and support garnered him the acceptance he hadn't achieved in places like Remington.

Not that Malcolm didn't encounter bullies while attending Gotham Academy. He just didn't suffer in silence. He had people there who supported, defended, and comforted him. The same people coming to my aide now against a different sort of bully.

One who didn't simply have a group of peers to aide him in his attack. No, Endicott had an entire cabal of faceless individuals with power, money, and a retinue of undead assassins to help him achieve his end goal.

"My dream wasn't about thousands of Talons descending on New York."

"He didn't share what the dream was about. Just said you had one that was similar." Soft tweeting came from Sunshine. Sorcha handed her mug to Malcolm before getting up and walking over to where her travel cage sat on top of his bookshelf. "Okay, pretty baby, we'll let you out to stretch your wings."

"Do you think letting her out with Krypto here is a good idea?" Sunshine chirped from her cage as if to say she had no problem with it. Not that Malcolm expected his little budgie to think otherwise. She proved how fearless she was with the way she attacked Tammy Lynn.

Something which continued to amaze Malcolm all these weeks later. He would've expected such an attack from Krypto instead of a parakeet. Sunshine became an eagle, zipping through the air with determination and devotion, attacking with her talons and beak, beating at Tammy Lynn's face with her wings. Never once concerned for her own safety and well-being, ignoring him when he told her to fly away, chirping her indignation as she continued her assault.

"Pretty sure Krypto has been around cats, bats, and birds his whole life."

Malcolm swallowed a laugh along with his mouthful of tea. "You left out Supermen."

"Implied under birds."

"Pretty sure Superman would not agree with that analogy."

"He flies so he's a bird." Sorcha opened the cage door to let Sunshine hop out onto her hand. "Here we go, pretty baby."

Happy chirping came from Sunshine. Snoring, on the other hand, came from the dog asleep on the floor. Malcolm sent Krypto a wry look. "I see I worried for nothing."

"You typically do."

He ignored that. "Do you know if Raya got results from the samples?"

"They came back just as I was heading back here."

"And?"

"And they prove what we knew all along: the blood on Eddie isn't yours. It wasn't even blood from what Raya said."

Malcolm frowned. "Fake blood?"

"Raya called it theatrical blood." Sorcha walked back to the bed. "Perfect base to create a sample to frame someone with."

"Will that be enough to stop the grand jury from indicting me on murder charges?"

"Proving the blood was fabricated should be enough to stop a grand jury." She settled on the bed beside him and let Sunshine hop down onto his knee. "However, Raya is erring on the side of caution and speaking with someone she knows about representing you should they indict you."

"My mother has..."

"Hired a retinue of attorney's who have never dealt with an organization like the Court of Owls or a man as ruthless and vindictive as Endicott."

She has a point, Malcolm realized as he ran a finger across the top of Sunshine's head. His mother's attorneys were not criminal attorneys. Most of them never defended a client suspected of murder. The sort of attorney he needed should this end up going forward was someone like Sterling. Only, he was dead. Possibly murdered by the man he worked for to keep him from talking.

"Who is Raya talking with about taking over as my defense attorney?"

"Harvey Dent."

The air whooshed out of Malcolm. A roaring filled his ears. His blood pumped. Stomach twisted. Harvey Dent, he thought, mind going numb. The former district attorney who became one of Gotham's criminal kingpins after acid was splashed into his face, disfiguring him.

Harvey Dent, the proclaimed White Knight.

Gotham heralded him as Apollo.

Until his psyche fractured and he took the law into his own hands, acting as judge, jury, and executioner.

"Harvey Dent?" Tea sloshed out of his mug onto his spasming hand. He pushed the button down to seal it before splashing any on Sunshine. "She's asking Harvey Dent to represent me?"

"Can you think of anyone else who won't be afraid of taking on Endicott or the Court of Owls?"

"Dent's psyche..."

Was worse than his.

Way worse.

"Raya assured me Dent has been completely cured of his secondary personality and all homicidal tendencies."

That only brought Malcolm mild comfort. His father appeared genial and non.-homicidal until something caused the monster to surface. "This is dangerous, Sorch."

"Yeah?" Sorcha reached over to rub Sunshine's neck. "And? Am I supposed to run away and hide because things have gotten dangerous?" She shook her head. "I'm not. Neither is anyone else. We're all in. No matter what happens, we're all in. We'll take Endicott and the Court down together."

"He killed Eve because she got too close to figuring out what he's involved in." He lifted his eyes to hers. "You have your father's files. That makes you the most dangerous person to him now."

"Yeah, well, I'm not Eve. I don't rush into situations recklessly." She slanted a look at him. "Unlike you."

Malcolm had the sense to look mildly abashed. "I don't think about me in situations like that."

"Obviously."

"Sarcasm isn't necessary."

"I haven't slept much in over forty-eight hours," she retorted. "That I'm capable of sarcasm is amazing to me at this point."

Sunshine chirped and nibbled at his finger. "She wants her morning treat."

"I'll get it." Sorcha swung her feet to the floor. "I'm better when I'm moving. Helps me think."

"Keeps you awake."

"Sleep issues," she called over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "Remember?"

"I have sleep issues," he replied as Sunshine flapped her wings and twittered happily. "You just have picked up bad habits."

"Yeah." She sent a teasing smile over her shoulder. "Got them all from you."

Malcolm wisely choose to ignore that.

Chapter Text

JT lumbered into Gil's office, two venti-sized cups of coffee from the coffeeshop down the street clutched in his hands. Gil couldn't fault him for needing a caffeine boost. He had swallowed the last of the cup he poured some time ago and it barely touched his exhaustion. This case had them working around the clock. Proving Bright's innocence, though, kept them going.

The shooting outside the precinct opened an avenue they could finally pursue. Especially since it wasn't any of them the shooter aimed at. Who they were there to shoot, though, remained a mystery. JT and Powell worked through the night, sifting through traffic footage, running plates, checking hospital admissions, and searching databases for the person that sniper was aiming at.

To no avail.

They couldn't find anything that led them to whoever left that blood trail outside.

Whoever it was had seemingly dropped out of existence.

Almost as if they were a ghost.

Given how Endicott was involved, it was entirely likely they were. Gil gave up any hope of finding them when the sun started turning the sky from midnight blue to varying shades of crimson and gold. The colors of the phoenix, he mused as he looked up from the email he had been trying to read for the last half hour.

It seemed almost prophetic.

Or some twisted Arthurian legend.

Good triumphing over evil, hope being restored, and everyone living happily ever after.

Gil chuckled to himself as he sat back in his chair. He hadn't thought himself much of a believer in things like fate and prophecy. He lost much of his faith after Jackie died. Blamed her cancer on himself, the job, God. Completely normal, the department therapist assured him when he attended his mandatory sessions.

"Part of the grief process," he said.

Once he moved through the steps, clarity would allow him to see there was nobody to blame for her cancer, and accept it.

Gil told him that would never happen before walking out that office.

He leaned back in his chair and regarded JT.

"Went on a coffee run?"

"Dani did." JT passed one of the cups to Gil before perching on the edge of the chair in front of his desk. "Had no choice since the coffeemaker went on the fritz around ten minutes ago."

Gil was shocked the damn thing even worked given the workout it got the last few months.

"I'll put in a request for a new coffeemaker."

JT grunted as he took a hefty swallow of coffee. "Might get it in six months."

"If we're lucky."

Supplies was the part of his job Gil detested most. His weekly meetings about the erratic and dangerous behavior of his profiler weren't as stressful as dealing with the officer in charge of fulfilling supply requests. Thompkins had a grudge going back to their days walking a beat. As if it was his fault the guy couldn't cut it as a cop.

"Dani worked out a deal with that Cory chick Bright made friends with last year to have coffee delivered to the precinct."

The fact the kid's circle of friends was largely female amused Gil more than surprised him. Bright's issues with trust had all been caused by the man he had trusted most: his father.

Martin Whitly continued to compound those issues by repeatedly lying too and manipulating his son. Offering him fatherly advice while subtly criticizing him for choosing to become a profiler instead of a killer. Gil suspected a bubbling resentment lurked beneath that genial facade. One born the night his son turned his father in so he'd stop hurting people. The damage Martin Whitly could do, on Bright, his mother and sister, and the city if he escaped his cage left Gil chilled to the bone.

"Any word from Not Bright but is Bright?"

JT giving Raya a nickname wasn't something he'd have done before Bright joined the team. The kid's manic energy and propensity to run into danger annoyed the living hell out of him — and everyone else — but he thawed considerably from the Berkhead case.

"Agent Kean..." Gil paused; considered whether he should address Raya as Agent or Doctor. Knowing her, she won't insist on being addressed as either one. Raya Kean wasn't one for formalities or titles. "Raya emailed me earlier with the results of the blood found on Eddie Smith."

"Not Bright's."

Short, simple. The same stalwart faith and support he had shown when Agent Swanson accused Bright of working with Watkins instead of suspecting he was being held prisoner by him.

"It's synthetic blood. The kind used in movies, stage productions," he explained when JT arched a brow. "Also sold online and at any prop or party store."

"Making tracking down who might have bought it pretty much impossible." JT heaved a sigh. "As if shit with this case hasn't been difficult enough."

"That's why Sorcha decided to call in reinforcements."

The secret weapon as she put it yesterday. Gil hadn't asked her where she had been when she showed up at Bright's loft. He suspected now she had been in Gotham. After what happened between her and Bright, he couldn't fault her for getting out of the city for a while. Or going to someone who understands Bright for some advice.

"When is Not Bright but is Bright supposed to come in?"

"Not until sometime later this morning." Gil's email alert sounded. He ignored it. He had had enough of the higher ups for the moment. "Probably come in with Bright despite my order for him to remain home."

"Or," a familiar female voice drawled from the doorway, "she'll come in without Bright because she wants to introduce herself to his teammates and assure them she's not here to step on any toes or take his place."

Gil shifted in his chair to look at Raya. The woman standing there with an amused tilt to her lips and a multitude of secrets in her expressive eyes was no longer a teenager. Gone was that gangly girl with the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the clear braces on her teeth. In her place stood a woman of polish and sophistication. One perfectly suited to walk in the posh social world of the Whitly's and Endicott's.

Raya rebuked the jet-set lifestyle many of those from her social class chose as their path. She pursued a career in the civil service field because charity balls and lavish social functions held no more interest for her than her grim mentor. She became a cop largely because of the influence of her uncle and Batman.

Each man dedicated their lives to serving their city and its people. Something he suspected played a large factor in why JT more willingly accepted Raya than he had Bright. He had made it quite clear he disliked the kid because he thought he lacked respect for the bridge. Raya, on the other hand wore the badge, and had worn it in Gil's opinion, long before she decided to disobey her uncle's order for her not to join the police academy. Her nocturnal career paved the way to the badge she now carried. Taught her skills it took other rookies years to acquire.

Not that Jim was pleased when he found out she went behind his back and joined the police academy in Blüdhaven with her partner-in-crime-turned-husband.

Jim had been doubly angry after he found out Gil not only pulled strings to get both kids transferred into the NYPD, but his unit, as well. His only regret was the temporary strain it placed on his and Jim's friendship. He'd make the decision again, though. Those kids helped a lot of people and closed cases that would otherwise have gone cold.

"Believe me, Powell and Tarmel are going to wish for Bright back after working with you."

"Are you implying I'm difficult to work with?"

"Implying? No." Gil's lips twitched. "I'm stating."

"You must have me confused with my husband." Her eyes shimmered with mirth. "I'm the professional one who follows the rules."

"There's only two times you're professional." Gil pushed back his chair and rose. "When you're up to something or have done something that's going to require lots of paperwork."

"Why, Lieutenant Arroyo..." Those green eyes blinked wide behind the lenses of the glasses she wore. Innocence personified. A look that worked on Bright. This woman? Not at all. "I know not what you mean."

"Mhm." Gil crossed his office to engulf her in a fierce hug. "Wasn't expecting you to come in this early."

Or without Bright right behind her. Tingles of dread and unease slithered through Gil. Something was up. Raya would have gone to Jessica's otherwise. Last thing they needed was any more surprises. They already had enough to contend with.

"Sleep issues, remember?" Her smile teased out her dimples. "All acquired before I met Bright."

All acquired after she watched her father murder her mother, Gil added silently.

"Did you get any sleep?" He ignored JT's snort. He was fully aware he was using his Bright-voice. He couldn't help it. This woman became part of his mismatched family the night she and her now husband saved Bright from the group of men her father sent to kidnap him. "Or did you work all night?"

"Now, Gil, you know my dope for a husband doesn't allow me to pull all nighters."

"You're a cop." And a crime fighter. "You pull all nighters all the time."

"Technically, I'm still on maternity leave so not allowed to pull all nighters." Her dimple winked. "Traded homicide for diapers and bottles."

"You got a newborn?" JT asked, keeping his tone nonchalant. "And you're a cop in a place that makes New York look like Mayberry?"

"I do, yes." Raya's gaze drifted to JT. Warm, friendly, mildly curious. "Detective Tarmel, isn't it?"

He nodded. "Hear you're Capable Bright."

"Oh... Gil's introducing me as Capable Bright..." Raya grinned. "Means Captain Dangerboy's gone and done something stupid or insane."

"Captain Dangerboy is a whole ass state of crazy."

"Oho," she said with a laugh. "Sounds like he's been a busy boy."

"Yeah, you could say that."

"Guessing he also hasn't shown off any of those bad ass martial art moves I taught him."

Surprise flickered across JT's face. "You taught Bright's skinny ass martial arts?"

"It seemed like a great idea at the time." She grinned. "Now, if the dope would actually use what I taught him..."

"I'd have even more paperwork to fill out than I do already." Gil perched on the edge of his desk. "So, why are you here and not with Bright?"

Raya made a face. "I wish I could say it was simply to hand off my results to your medical examiner."

"But?"

"But, I come with a case." Raya dug a folder out of her bag that she passed to Gil. "Male, mid-50s, murdered in his midtown apartment late last night."

"Cause of death?"

"You sure you want me to tell you that?"

Gil realized he had only been feeling moderately grim up to that moment. That was going to change once Raya revealed how the man died. He never shied away from the truth, no matter how bad it was or how hurtful it turned out. Nor had he ever shirked doing his duty. He spent his entire career making the decisions nobody else wanted to make, fighting the fight everyone else was too afraid of, and doing whatever he thought necessary to see killers brought to justice. Like working with a troop of costumed vigilantes from another city.

"You're about to use the words, Court, Talon, and Endicott aren't you?"

"You missed two." There was a hard glint to those catlike eyes that only came about whenever Raya talked about two men. "Martin Whitly and the sperm donor an earthquake thankfully got rid of."

Gil grimaced as he flipped open the file. "Horacio Caldera?"

"He called himself an eraser. Said he was called on by the Court years ago to conceal their involvement with Matthew Berkeley and Nicholas Endicott. He destroyed the books, got rid of the paperwork that proved they funded a secret network of killers here in New York and around the globe. He even hired the man who worked with the Surgeon to get rid of the bodies."

There was only one man Gil knew that worked with Martin Whitly in that capacity.

"Watkins."

Adding one more spider to the deadly web being weaved around them.

"Yes."

"Why did they need an eraser?" JT questioned as he took the file Gil handed him. "Seems like this Court has no need to fear the police or government."

"The devastation the earthquake that hit Gotham caused and the actions of the United States government in declaring Gotham as No Man's Land threatened the Court with exposure. They couldn't chance discovery. They operate in secret because that's how they prefer it."

"Why'd they kill him then?"

"Because Horacio Caldera chose to leave their service. Nobody leaves the Court's service," she explained when JT lifted a brow. "Not of their own volition, anyway."

"So, a Talon was dispatched to kill him." Gil heaved a sigh. "And is now loose in the city."

"This shit just keeps getting better and better," JT muttered. "Next, we'll find out Watkins has been freed from whatever hole he was being kept in."

"He has been." Raya's expression was as grim as her tone. "He disappeared from Arkham about an hour ago."

"And will be after Bright's skinny ass." JT shook his head. "All we needed."

"You go to Jessica's," Gil ordered Raya as he stood. "Watkins will likely try to go after them there."

"Krypto is keeping watch until I get there."

Gil didn't even question why she'd trust Bright's safety to a dog. Raya always had a reason behind her motives. Something she learned from her mentor.

"Don't let Bright out of your sight."

"I won't." Raya pulled another file from her bag that she handed Gil. "Before I go."

"What's this?"

"A lead," was all she said.

Chapter Text

"Raya managed to track down our missing victim." Gil didn't offer an explanation for how she had done it, he simply dropped the file she handed him before exiting his office on the conference room table. "Evan Chambers, a doctor at the hospital where Eddie Smith was taken following Martin Whitly's counterattack on him."

The only time the man attacked someone and in self-defense was not lost on Gil.

"Evan Chambers?" JT's brow creased. "I remember that name from somewhere."

"He was Eddie's doctor." Dani slid the file to her and flipped it open. "He was on shift at the time Bright went to see Eddie."

Her tone indicated to Gil how much she struggled with accepting the kid had nothing to do with Eddie Smith's death. Gil understood why she was having a hard time believing Bright innocent of any wrongdoing. Past instances of the kid doing questionable things coupled with hard to refute facts.

Dani's trust issues also ran as deep as Bright's. She had to work through things on her own, though. It wasn't something Gil, JT or anyone could do for her. He had faith she'd come around once everything was said and done.

"He could have planted that blood and Bright's hair on Eddie after Bright left." JT leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Nobody would have thought his being in the room was odd since he was the guy's doctor."

They hadn't initially considered the possibility of a doctor or a nurse being the one to plant the blood and hair fibers on Eddie because the evidence pointed to one person: Bright. The suspect pool opened up with the possibility of Eddie being dead before Bright arrived. While it didn't help exonerate Bright, coupled with the results Raya delivered to Edrisa, it did provide reasonable doubt.

"We need to find Evan Chambers before any of the other killers in Endicott's employ are sent to dispose of him." Gil placed his hands flat on the table to keep from slamming them into the wall at his back. Bruised and bloody knuckles were the last thing he needed what with Watkins and a Talon on the loose. "He is the only one who can tell us who hired him to plant that blood and hair on Bright."

And if he names Endicott as the one who hired him to frame Bright... Gil would personally clap the cuffs on the son of a bitch himself.

"We'll go to the hospital." Dani closed the file and stood. "See if we can find out anything about Evan."

"Should hit up Mini-Bright's stepdad." JT pushed back his chair. "See if he can't give us a phone number or address."

"Why would Sorcha's step-dad have Evan's phone number or his address?" Dani's brow furrowed. "Did I miss a connection between him and Evan?"

"Her step-dad is Chief of Staff at the hospital he works." JT pushed to his feet. "Took Bright there after his skinny ass re-broke his thumb. That's who treated him."

Gil hadn't known Bright re-broke his thumb or that JT took him to the hospital. He also hadn't been aware that Sorcha's step-dad had been promoted to Chief of Staff. There hadn't been a lot of time between Watkins kidnapping Bright to Bright being accused of killing Eddie Smith to discuss things like promotions or family events.

"How do you know he's the hospital Chief of Staff?" Dani questioned, one brow tilted.

"Lite-Bright gave me her step-dad's card for whenever Bright gets injured."

Whenever the kid gets injured, Gil mused, hiding a smile, not if.

"Harry Wilson's a good man," he said. "And a great doctor."

"You know him?" Dani looked at him. "Personally?"

Gil nodded. "Harry Wilson is one of the few doctors Bright trusts to take care of him when he's injured."

Harry had been called on to treat the kid a number of times over the years and so understood his... issues. Appendix, tonsils, a broken wrist after he hit a wall ice skating, neck injury after being tossed from a horse, torn rotator cuff, dislocated knee... and those were only a few of the injuries and illnesses Bright had.

All before he turned twenty-one.

There were dozens of other times where Harry Wilson stepped in to treat Bright. Especially after his ordeal with John Watkins. The kid wouldn't let any of the emergency room staff treat him. The anxiety and paranoia he dealt with on a daily basis had been dialed all the way up to ten. Dehydration, blood loss, and exhaustion didn't help matters, either.

Sorcha even struggled to calm Bright down enough for her mother to get an IV in. Harry Wilson stepped in and got the kid to quiet enough to allow him to take care of him. How he did it, Gil didn't know. He was simply glad he had.

Now, Watkins was back on the loose and free to finish what he started in December.

Not that Gil planned to let anything happen.

To Bright, his mother and sister or anyone else for that matter.

"Tell Harry about Watkins having gotten out of Arkham," he told them. "He can warn the rest of Sorcha's family just in case Watkins tries to go after them instead of Bright and his family."

"You think he'll go after someone in Sorcha's family?" Dani cocked her head to the side. "Not Bright or his family?"

"Lite-Bright makes sense," JT said. "Losing her will hurt Bright the most."

Gil agreed. "That's why I sent Raya to Jessica's. She can keep an eye on both Sorcha and Bright."

"Gonna deserve a medal for keeping Bright outta trouble." JT headed for the door. "Full-time job right there."

Gil's lips twitched. "Raya's familiar with the job requirements."

"What're you going to do while we run down Evan's location?"

"I'm going to work on finding Watkins."

With the help of the man who just strolled into the bullpen. Dick Grayson had shot up nine inches since the night they met, packed on a ton of muscle, gained a ton more knowledge and experience, and got rid of the god-awful mullet he sported when he joined the NYPD as a new recruit.

"Guessing that's Not-Bright's better half."

"She'd probably tell you I'm her annoying half." Dick flashed a wide grin as he held out a hand to JT. "Dick Grayson."

"Tarmel." JT nodded towards Dani. "That's Powell."

"And we're on our way to follow up a lead your wife gave us." Dani glanced at Gil. "We'll let you know what we find out."

"Just be careful."

"We're not Bright," JT said as he started walking towards the exit. "We call for backup."

"And wait for it," Dani added before leaving him and Dick alone.

"See Bright still hasn't learned how to call for backup," Dick joked.

"A habit he acquired from your wife."

"She got it from Batman."

Gil didn't doubt that. "Come on, let's talk in my office."

Dick followed without a word.

...

"So, tell me, Nicki..." The ghost of a smile appeared through the thick whiskers surrounding John's mouth. "What is it you want me to do in exchange for your..." a pause. "Help?"

Nicholas's fingers curled around the arm of his chair. The only physical reaction he allowed himself to being called by that despicable nickname. He might not have objected so vehemently to the name if it wasn't what his bastard of a father called him until a lifetime of drinking caught up with him.

Nicholas held onto his temper, however, and appraised the man seated across from him. Insolence shimmered in the depths of John's eyes. A taunting smirk screwed up one corner of his mouth.

He clearly relished this little game he was playing.

Well, he'd let John have his fun.

Soon as he outlived his purpose, he'd get rid of him. Same as he had gotten rid of all the others who were no longer of any use to him.

As he should have gotten rid of Martin Whitly.

A mistake he dearly regretted but would soon remedy.

To John, though, he said, "I want you to finish what you started in December."

A smile appeared through those thick bristles. "You want me to break little Malcolm."

"I want you to do more than break Malcolm." Nicholas leaned back in his chair. "I need you to turn him into the killer he would have become if not for that rigid morality instilled in him by Arroyo and Batman."

A code Malcolm might never have developed had his father not been so confident in his control over him. Martin Whitly's ego prevented him from turning his son into his mirror-image.

"What about Miss Corbin?" John steepled his fingers on his chest and cocked his head to the side. "She's preventing little Malcolm from reaching his full potential. Her and Doctor Kean."

Nicholas's mood soured. If there was anyone he hated with a passion, it was Raya Kean. The woman had been a thorn in his side for almost two decades. It was because of her that he fell out of favor with the Court.

Her and Martin Whitly.

Two problems he'd soon take care of.

Three counting Sorcha Corbin.

The other thorn in his side. Her and her father, Ian. The man continued complicating his life despite being dead for nearly a decade. The information Ian Corbin put together on him and his secret operation concerned Nicholas for obvious reasons.

When he learned Corbin left his files to his daughter, he sent Mercy to retrieve them. When she failed to find them in either the Corbin home or Malcolm's loft, he sent John to question the only man who might have knowledge of the files whereabouts: Ian Turner.

Turner surprised him by refusing to reveal where the files were hidden. Nicholas hadn't imagined the man not caving to John's... pressure. There had been no choice but to have John kill Turner. He couldn't risk his operations being exposed or his connection to the Court of Owls discovered.

After Turner's death and John's arrest, Nicholas doubled his efforts in locating those files. He needed to destroy those files before they could end up in the hands of his daughter. Or worse, he thought as a thump sounded in the hall outside his office. I don't need those files ending up in the hands of Batman.

Another man making his — and the Courts — life hell for the past few years. Corbin's files in the possession of the self-professed World's Greatest Detective was the worst possible thing that could happen. So much was on the line. He couldn't afford any mistakes.

Not when the Court had yet to forgive him for his past failure.

"Get rid of her." The how of it didn't interest Nicholas so long as Sorcha Corbin was no longer a barrier to Malcolm finally becoming the killer he needed. "Do it after you get from her where the files her father has on our operations are hidden."

"I think it should be little Malcolm who kills her."

"Oh?" One eyebrow lifted. "And why do you think he should kill her?"

"It's... symbolic." A gleam passed through John's eyes. "His first kill should be someone special. Who better than the woman he loves?"

The idea has merit, Nicholas conceded silently. Malcolm killing his girlfriend was exactly the push he needed. It will completely break him mentally, he realized as a door down the hall opened and closed. It wasn't like he didn't know who his visitor was.

He just had no idea what they were doing there.

"Yes." A small smile curved his lips. "Yes, I agree. Have Malcolm kill Sorcha Corbin. Only," he stressed as John made to get to his feet, "after you find those files."

"Sure." The man stood. "Anything else you want me to do?"

"Yes," Nicholas said. "I want you to get rid of Gil Arroyo, as well. The man has become a nuisance."

The feral gleam in John's eyes was the only confirmation Nicholas needed to know his order would be carried out.

Happily.

John turned and exited his office. Nicholas watched him go, confident the man wouldn't fail him this time.

If he did?

Well, he'd have Talon take him out.

As he planned to have him eliminate Martin Whitly.

Something he should have done after the man failed to kill Ellen Rae Berkeley and her daughter.

Nicholas wasn't the kind of man who lived his life in hindsight, though. When one of his business's was no longer profitable, he cut his losses, and moved on.

Martin Whitly had, by his estimate, outlived his purpose. Even the Court finally decided his skills were of no further value to them. The Surgeon had evaded judgment before because the Court found themselves in need of his surgical talent.

Not anymore, though.

Their new doctor served their needs quite well.

And has a working knowledge of who the man under the cowl is, Nicholas mused as he turned to stare out the window, and how to beat him.

 

Chapter Text

 

"So," Dick said once he and Gil were seated in his office. "Raya told you about Watkins escaping Arkham?"

"She did." Right after handing him a file on a dead body here in New York connected to a killer that made Watkins seem tame in compare. Gil didn't say that part out loud. He was sure Dick had been the one to give her the file on Horacio Caldera. Him or her uncle, Jim Gordon. "Do you know how it happened? When?"

"Specifically, no." Dick pulled a tablet from his messenger bag that he passed to Gil. "We do have Arkham footage showing Watkins being escorted from his cell last evening around seven."

"Why?"

"An appointment with his therapist, Dr. Wong is what we were told."

Gil frowned as he turned on the tablet. "Were his appointments commonly at that time of night?"

"They were typically held in the morning."

"Why was it at that time last night then?"

"Well." Dick grimaced, warning Gil he wasn't going to like whatever he was about to tell him. "There was a bit of an incident at Arkham yesterday morning that put them on immediate lockdown."

"When isn't there an incident at Arkham?" Gil asked drily.

A grin tugged at Dick's lips. "Well, incidents do tend to occur at Arkham about as often as Malcolm not doing something that requires ice packs, stitches or a trip to the hospital."

Gil only had to glance at the whiteboard JT hung after Bright got bitten by a poisonous snake to see it had been precisely one day since his last accident. The kid being sidelined hadn't prevented him from getting into trouble.

Not surprising given the kid's track record.

"Who tried to break out this time?"

And don't say the Joker, Gil added as a phone rang outside his office. The last thing any of them needed was the Clown Prince running amuck.

"More like being delivered, actually."

One brow winged up. "Delivered?"

"Waylon Jones," Dick said. "Or as most people know him..."

"Killer Croc." Another dose of trouble they didn't need. "He's been secured then?"

"For now."

The blasé way Dick spoke might have seemed odd to someone else. As if Dick didn't care. Gil, though, understood it wasn't a cavalier attitude so much as him accepting people broke out of Arkham despite all the measures put in place.

"Watkins." Saying the man's name was enough to have Gil seeing red. "Do we know when he got out?"

"We know he never returned to his cell after his therapy session." Dick raked a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. "The surveillance footage never picks him up again after he enters Dr. Wong's office."

Gil frowned. "Could his therapist have aided in his release?"

Something else that occurred at Arkham Asylum at an alarming rate. People thought he was joking when he called the Gotham justice and mental health systems a revolving door. The sad truth was Gotham had more of a problem keeping their criminals in than New York, Chicago and LA combined.

Course, they also had a different class of criminals than Gotham did.

Their serial killers had boring names like the Surgeon, Junkyard Killer, and Carousel Killer.

Gotham had criminals like the Scarecrow, and Mad Hatter.

The Joker.

A class of criminal all to himself.

"I might have thought so if they didn't find Dr. Wong in a maintenance closet a little while ago."

Gil didn't need to ask if the doctor had been found alive. The expression on Dick's face confirmed he wasn't. Just what we needed, he thought as the surveillance footage started to play. Another body.

As if they didn't have enough of them piling up.

Eve, Eddie Smith, Horacio Caldera, now an Arkham doctor. How many others will die before we can put a stop to it?

Given Endicott's host of assassins, a Talon, and John Watkins back on the loose... the numbers could hit double digits easy.

Gil's stress level, as well as his blood pressure, shot up a few degrees. He took a deep breath before focusing on the security footage. Not even the grainy footage hid the man's smirk. Incarceration had obviously not changed Watkins any. There was no evidence of remorse or regret for his actions in his step.

The man kidnapped Bright, held him for fifteen hours in the room he and the kid's father used for their murderous hobby, and inflicted psychological tortures the likes of which Gil didn't even want to imagine. Yet there the man was, leisurely strolling down the corridor without a care in the world.

The guards who walked beside Watkins, however, were another story. They kept their heads lowered so the cameras couldn't get a clear shot of their faces. Deliberate, Gil decided, eyes narrowing into thin slits. They know if the cameras can't capture their faces that we can't use facial recognition software to identify them.

Facial recognition wasn't the only way to identify them, though. Gil hadn't forgotten the good ole days where detective work required time, patience, and a keen eye to spot minute details.

The first guard was on the taller side with thick arm and leg muscles. Helpful given they work in a physically demanding place. The other guard, though, was completely opposite in terms of size and build. A woman, Gil realized with a burst of surprise. It's a woman walking beside Watkins.

That made no sense, though. Women weren't allowed to work either the ward housing the male population or the intensive treatment area where the more dangerous inmates were isolated.

At least, he thought they weren't allowed to work those wards. Policies could have changed. Well, guess there's one way to find out.

"Does Arkham have their female guards working the ward where Watkins is housed?"

"No, they don't."

He turned the tablet so Dick could see the image on the screen. "Then why is there one escorting Watkins from his cell?"

"Oracle and I wondered the same thing."

"You figured out it was a woman, too?"

Dick nodded. "Oracle pointed it out soon as she saw her."

That didn't surprise Gil given who Oracle was. The former Batgirl had made quite a name for herself in the intelligence community. Even he had retained her services a few times over the years.

"Did you or her find a reason for why this woman was escorting Watkins from his cell?"

"No." Dick blew out a breath. "And I reached out to Aaron Cash to ask him why she was there and he says she shouldn't have been down there."

"Did he have an idea about who she is?"

"Afraid not." Dick leaned forward set a file on Gil's desk. "Oracle ran a check on all the female security guards and found nobody who matched this woman's general description."

"So, she could be how Watkins got out of Arkham."

"That's our best bet at this point, yes."

Gil went back to watching the security footage, hoping the woman would do something, anything that'd help identify her. He thought he found what he was looking for a few seconds later. Gil leaned forward in his chair and rolled the footage back to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

He wasn't.

"She isn't familiar with the asylum's layout."

"What?" Dick sat forward. "What do you mean she isn't familiar with the asylums layout?"

"Here, watch." Gil passed the tablet to Dick. "The male guard corrects her when she goes to lead Watkins in the wrong direction."

A frown formed between Dick's eyes as he watched the footage. "We were so busy trying to get a scan of their faces to do facial recognition that we missed this." He set the tablet on the desk. "It explains why we didn't find anyone matching her description in Arkham's staff directory."

"Did you have Oracle check into the male guards?"

"Not at the time, no." Dick's brow furrowed. "We figured it was another dead-end given how the woman didn't match anyone on file."

"I wouldn't put it past Endicott to have Arkham security working for him." Gil picked up the file and opened it. "He was able to get one of his assassins into Claremont." Where he failed to take care of Martin Whitly and ultimately lost his life. "This man could be our way of identifying the woman."

"And connecting one or the both of them to Nicholas Endicott."

Gil itched to make that connection so he could clap a pair of cuffs on Endicott.

"We need to run background checks on all the male security guards and staff. Patients, too," Gil added after a momentary pause.

"Batman is already doing that." Dick's lips twitched. "You know what a paranoid cynic he is."

"In this instance, I'm glad he is." Gil leaned back in his chair. "Endicott was enough of a problem on his own. Knowing he's also connected to your Court?" He let out a breath heavy with frustration and fatigue. "Let's just say it adds complications that were not needed."

"Believe me, I know."

A smile tugged at Gil's lips. "You deal with this level of complicated every day."

"I can handle the regular insanity." Dick sat back with a sigh. "It's part of the life and I accepted that when I took up the mantle."

As a police officer and a crime fighter, Gil added silently. Dick Grayson didn't choose to combat crime in one part of his life. He combated it in both parts of his life. Something he admired and respected given how he dedicated his own life to fighting bad guys.

"Family is involved this time, though."

Dick nodded. "Making things more complicated."

"Does Batman have any reason for why the Court has started going after firstborn children?"

"Raya didn't tell you that part? No, of course, she wouldn't." Frustrated amusement coated Dick's tone, burned in the depths of his eyes. "She's getting more and more like Batman all the time, I swear."

"Raya is like Malcolm in that regard. Doles out tidbits of information as they become relevant." Gil's nerves, already frayed at the seams, bunched as he prepared himself for whatever Dick had to tell him. "Now, what didn't she tell me?"

That he'd blister her hide for not telling him about later.

"The Court is killing all firstborn children in order to fulfill an ancient prophecy."

Nothing was ever simple. Least of all when one of the clandestine organizations operating in Gotham was involved.

"What prophecy?"

Not that Gil wanted the answer.

"'And he, the Destroyer came to let loose his anger and hate, destroying the universe, and all with it.'"

"And who is this Destroyer?"

Not that he wanted that answer, either. He hadn't ever shied away from the hard truths or answers. No matter what Dick told him, he'd face the situation as he always did: head on.

"A demon created at the dawn of time." Dick's expression was as grim as his tone. "A destroyer of multiverses called Barbatos."

There wasn't a lot at this point Dick could tell him that'd shock him. A demon coming to destroy the universe?

Well, it was at least new.

Something, though, told Gil there was more to this than a demon coming to destroy the universe.

"Okay," he said, steeling himself. "What else aren't you telling me?"

A small grin wreathed Dick's face. "Sure you want me to tell you?"

"No," Gil admitted with a small smile of his own. "But tell me, anyway."

"Batman found something in an old journal that eluded to there needing to be a final sacrifice in order to bring Barbatos here."

Ritualistic killer, Gil thought. Right up Bright's alley.

If he was allowed to work the case.

"What is it?"

"A broken man must extinguish the fire of the burning muse."

"What broken man?" Gil's brow knit together. "And who is the burning muse?"

"Batman believes the broken man is Malcolm." A shadow passed through Dick's eyes. "And the burning muse is Raya."

"Malcolm killing Raya? Not gonna happen." Gil's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair. "Not on my watch."

Chapter 33

Summary:

For the curious, the bit about Dick is from the Forever Evil arc. The Crime Syndicate capture Dick and reveal him as Nightwing before placing him in a "murder machine" (it is a detonator for a bomb that can only be defused by stopping Dick's heart). Dick is saved by Luthor who ironically stops his heart long enough to defuse the bomb.

Chapter Text

"This is completely unnecessary."

Subtle about his displeasure over her not springing him from his gilded prison as she did Sorcha, Malcolm was not being. Raya couldn't resist nettling him further, though. Getting him to vent would, in her opinion, do a world of good.

"What isn't necessary?"

"You babysitting me." He bit out the words. "I'm not a child despite what my mother and Gil think."

"I know you're not a child." His snort made her smile. "You're the same age as Dick and I."

March placing Dick as the oldest while December marked Malcolm as the youngest.

"Then you know I don't need a babysitter."

The hint of petulance in Malcolm's tone warned Raya a shift in mood was about to occur. Over two decades with Bruce — poster boy for brooding males — her husband, younger brothers, and their friends taught her to recognize the signs.

Malcolm didn't sit in a big cave or underground bunker and glare at a computer screen, though. Nor does he have a private gargoyle to brood on. He was at his most dangerous when in this mood, though. Self-destructive behaviors, rash decisions, and running headlong into dangerous situations were all common when he got in this state. She cultivated a way to combat his moods while Malcolm lived with them.

"Who says I'm babysitting you?" She flashed him a lopsided grin. "Ever stop to think that you're babysitting me?"

Malcolm snorted. "Right."

"I swear to you I am not here to babysit you." The look he shot her said he didn't believe her. Swear he's related to Bruce, she huffed silently. "If anyone is babysitting, it's your mom."

Jessica had been beyond thrilled to babysit her infant son and two-year-old daughter, Hayley, in fact.

"She's babysitting them so you can babysit me."

"She's babysitting them because it gives her something to do."

"While you babysit me."

"I'm not babysitting you, Malcolm."

"If that was true then you'd be out there working the case with Gil, Dani and JT."

"Or I could be here working the case with you while Dick works the case with Gil and Detectives Tarmel and Powell."

That took the wind out of his sails. "Dick's working the case with Gil, JT, and Dani?"

"Yes, he is."

Malcolm's brow furrowed. "Why is he working the case with them and not you?"

"Because there's a Talon out there killing people." More than one but she kept that detail to herself. Malcolm had enough bodies to deal with. "And while I'm confident in my ability to hold my own against the likes of Cheshire, Nyssa or Talia, I am no match for a Talon."

Lady Shiva would be challenged by the Talons.

And that was saying something given Shiva was second to only one person: her daughter, Cassandra.

"Batman almost lost to Talon."

"Yes," she quietly agreed. "And on more than one occasion."

Those near losses haunted Bruce. Not because he feared death. His demise was something he accepted from the moment he chose to don the cape and cowl. No, what her grim mentor and taciturn parental figure feared most was what'd happen to the people of Gotham, and the rest of the world should he fail to stop either Talon or the Court.

"He's fought Talon more than once?"

"Yes, he has." Raya's belly cramped as she recalled his last encounter with the Court and their retinue of assassins. "He's had to fight more than one Talon at a time, actually."

Malcolm's eyes blinked wide. "There's multiple Talons?"

"I'm afraid so, yes."

His sigh perfectly echoed her own disquiet. "All we needed."

"Which is why I'm here and working this part of the case with you and your girlfriend instead of out there."

Raya didn't think it necessary to add the part about Dick and Bruce insisting she work the case with Malcolm.

"Sorcha isn't my girlfriend."

"Yeah, like Dick wasn't my boyfriend?" Raya snorted. "Try that line on someone who hasn't used it for half her life."

"She and I are—"

"Just friends?" Raya tucked her legs up beside her. "Yeah, used to say that, too."

Malcolm shot her one long, frustrated stare. "We're not like you and Dick."

"You're totally like me and Dick, actually."

"You and Dick are married."

Aha, his relationship with Sorcha is the real thorn in his paw, she mused. Getting Malcolm to discuss his feelings was about as difficult as getting Bruce to talk about his. Two decades taught her how to get each to face their emotions. One a bit better than the other.

"We are married now, yes." Something which amazed her every morning. "But we spent years running from our feelings. Told everyone we were just friends. Partners. Nobody believed us. Hell, we didn't believe us. Yet, we continued saying it until the Crime Syndicate kidnapped Dick and made us confront a world without the other in it."

"Sorcha wouldn't marry me." Malcolm's shoulders drooped. "I wouldn't marry me."

"Have you asked her if she'd marry you?"

"No." Malcolm shot to his feet and began to pace in small, tight circles. "But I know she wouldn't."

"Perhaps you should ask her if she'd marry you before assuming she wouldn't."

"Why?" A miasma of emotions wafted off Malcolm. Stung the air around them. "She's said there's no us. That there can never be an us. Not so long as Eve haunts me."

"She has a point there, Malcolm." She softened her brusque tone with a smile. "You need to grieve for one. Eve mattered to you. You also need to see her get justice. You'll never move on until you do."

"You sound like Sorcha." There was no bitterness. Just a weary acceptance. "She said the same thing."

"She and I are a lot a like," Raya said. "It's why we are friends."

"I hurt her."

"You hurt each other, I'd say. Largely because you both are scared about taking the next step." Something she had more than passing familiarity with. "Going from friends to lovers is terrifying. There's no going backwards once you do. It's all or nothing at that point."

"Sorcha isn't scared of the next step."

"She is of having her heart broken."

"I've already broken it." His shoulders slumped further. "Many times as I recently found out."

"You have, yes." Truth was truth and she couldn't avoid it any more than Malcolm. "You are terrible at interpersonal relationships. I found that out when we were not dating."

"I'm an ass."

"Yes, but an incredibly adorable one."

Malcolm hummed a laugh. "Thank you for agreeing."

"Anytime."

Malcolm sat back on the couch. "It's the truth, though. I'm an ass."

"You're not an ass. Okay, you are," she corrected as he looked at her. "But that's not why you can't have a relationship with anyone."

"I'm—"

"No."

Malcolm's brow creased. "But..."

"The words broken and fine are not allowed unless you're referring to something physically broken or that looks fine."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "I'm the problem," he insisted. "And I can't be fixed."

New tactic needed, Raya realized as she looked at him. Have to challenge his opinion of being broken in a way that makes him see he's not broken as he believes. And there's only one way to do that.

"Am I broken?"

"What?"

"Am I broken?"

"No," he said, frowning. "You're not."

"Why am I not broken?" Raya cocked her head to the side. "I'm like you, aren't I?"

The question caught Malcolm off guard. As she intended for it, too. Logic was the best way to handle him. Hit him with facts. Pose questions. Get him thinking. Redirect his energy by making him focus it elsewhere.

"Yes, of course..." His brow creased. "But you've found ways to cope with your trauma."

"Not my question." The dark look he sent her might have intimidated her had she not been raised by Bruce Wayne, Master of the Scowl. "I'm like you, aren't I? I mean, I have a few of the same disorders and take similar medications as you."

"You've managed to work through some of your trauma."

"Ah, and therein is the answer, grasshopper." Her lips curved at his sigh. "Malcolm, you've never worked through your trauma because of your fear of what you might discover about yourself. Understandable considering your father was grooming you to follow in his footsteps. However," she said as Krypto padded into the room. "Avoidance is not the way to deal with it. Neither is continuing to interact with the man who traumatized you in the first place."

Something she and Sorcha were in full agreement needed to stop. Malcolm managed to thrive in the ten years he had no interaction with Martin Whitly. Less than six months later and all the progress he made had vanished. Once we stop the Court and Endicott, I will put Martin Whitly in a deep, dark hole.

Where the bastard wouldn't see the light of day again if she had any say about it.

"You and Sorcha agree on that."

"Everyone believes you're better off having no relationship with your father. Sorcha and I are just vocal about it."

That got a small smile. "You're not afraid to speak your minds."

"Look at the people who raised us."

"Bruce isn't as honest as you about his feelings."

"Because he's as emotionally repressed as you." Bruce was more repressed than Malcolm in her mind. "Neither of you knows how to do happy."

"I do happy." Malcolm frowned at her snort. "I do."

"You only do happy when it involves murder."

"Murder is what keeps me sane."

"Sorcha is what keeps you sane, Malcolm."

"And look what I did to her." Pain pulled down the corners of his mouth. "I hurt her."

"Love means being open to hurt." Something Raya learned firsthand. "We hurt those we love. Intentionally and unintentionally. It's part of life, Malcolm."

"All I have done since I met Sorcha is hurt her."

"If that was true, she wouldn't be here." She grazed Malcolm's shoulder with the tips of her fingers, gauging his sensitivity to touch, and waiting for a response that let her know he was receptive to it before proceeding. "Sorcha moved heaven and hell to get here as quickly as she could." As she'd have done were it Dick being accused of murder. "She knew you needed her and that was all that mattered."

"She shouldn't have come." Malcolm's head lowered. "I don't deserve it or her."

"That's the depression talking."

A hint of a smile curved the corner of his lips. "That's the psychologist talking."

"Something you are but always seem to forget for some reason."

"We're blind to ourselves is why."

"In many ways, yes, we are," she agreed. "However, we are also hyperaware of ourselves." Raya set a hand atop the one that so often trembled when he was stressed, agitated or confronted by something which triggered his traumas. "We know our minds, though. Our fears and anxieties. What can trigger a stress or trauma response."

"I am starting to wonder if I know my mind."

"The psychologist in me would offer a long and lengthy discourse on why being around the person responsible for your emotional trauma is unhealthy," she said as he snorted a soft laugh, "but the friend in me is telling me you don't need to be fed textbook hyperbole at the moment."

"Gabrielle warned me about the dangers of probing into my memories."

"There are dangers, she is correct. However." She squeezed his fingers. "Getting to the root of your trauma is also key in helping you heal from it."

"Is that possible?" Malcolm lifted weary eyes to hers. "Do you believe I can heal from what my father did to me?"

Did she believe he could be normal was what he wanted to ask her. It was Malcolm's biggest issue. Craving normalcy because it had been drummed into him that it was the key to being happy.

She learned long ago normal was specific to the individual. What was normal to her wasn't to other people.

Most people didn't live in a town with men and women who liked terrorizing them for their own ulterior purposes.

Course, they also didn't have a group of costumed heroes who hunted down those men and women threatening them and the city.

"I believe you can heal from what your father did to you with time, patience, and help, yes," she told him. "A therapist who specializes in trauma would do you a world of good in helping you with your trauma."

"Gabrielle helps me with my traumas."

Raya wasn't surprised Malcolm balked at seeing someone other than Gabrielle Le Deux to deal with his PTSD. His refusal to transition from his childhood therapist largely stemmed from his inability to trust authority figures. Especially since the key one in his life turned out a manipulative, conniving bastard.

"Gabrielle is a wonderful therapist." Raya slid her fingers between his. "I know that firsthand. She's my mentor. I interned with her while she taught at Gotham University. She's done much to advance our knowledge about childhood trauma."

"But?" Mirth shimmered through the exhaustion and grief in his voice, and on his face. "Smelling a but here."

"That doesn't make her the best therapist for your particular needs." The fingers linked with hers trembled. A clear indication of Malcolm's mental state. His edges were frayed. All it'd take to send him spiraling was a little push. She'd need to proceed cautiously to avoid that from happening. "You need someone who specializes in trauma, repressed memories, and identity disorders, Malcolm. That's the way to healing."

"Maybe," was all he said. As Raya expected he would. Change was something else difficult for Malcolm. Much as it was Bruce. "Let's get back to work."

Another classic from the Bruce Wayne collection, she mused as he picked up the tablet she set on the coffee table. Tossing himself into a case to avoid dealing with problems and emotions.

If Raya didn't know better, she'd think Malcolm was Bruce's biological son rather than Martin Whitly's. Wouldn't that be a kick in the ass? The boy Martin Whitly thought of as an extension of himself, groomed to become a killer, and convinced they're one and the same... actually being the son of the man who donned a cape and cowl to bring criminals like him to justice.

It was ridiculous, of course.

Malcolm wasn't Bruce's son.

There was no way.

He couldn't be.

A tingle, however, started at the back of Raya's neck as she studied Malcolm's profile. Jessica was what she saw when she looked at him.

There were little things, though, she now realized, belly tightening.

The shape of Malcolm's face, the slash of his eyebrows, the strong line of his jaw.

The way he smiled.

No, there's no way, she decided as she reached for the yellow notepad Malcolm dropped in his earlier frustration.

Bruce Wayne wasn't Malcolm's biological father.

Her brow knit.

Right?

Chapter Text

The doctor suspected of planting the evidence on Eddie Smith taking up residency in the pediatric ward was the last thing Dani imagined would happen after she and JT left the precinct. I shouldn't be surprised he chose to run, though, she thought as JT shifted to speak with a member of the hospital's security team. People do strange things when they're facing possible jail time.

She and JT had found themselves in a number of strange situations over the years. Especially after Bright joined the team. Their first case with him as consultants was a perfect example of one such scenario. Bright not only used an axe to free their suspect, Nico, from the bomb the real killer, Carter Berkhead attached to his chair, but he offered himself up as a victim to him, as well.

Dozens of other similar situations followed. Bright joining a cult and giving himself shock therapy being one of the ones that stuck with Dani most. If there was one thing she learned since meeting the profiler, it was he had a knack for landing himself, and by extension, them in the unlikeliest scenarios.

They couldn't blame Bright for them ending up in this particular situation, though. Well, not directly, Dani amended as something, she hesitated to speculate what, banged against a wall in the ward Evan Chambers took occupancy in after fleeing from them. The reason she and JT found themselves in the middle of what potentially was a hostage situation did involve Bright, however. He just wasn't the direct cause of it.

Not this time, anyway.

Bright should be here with us, though, she silently acknowledged as she leaned around to look into the ward. He should be bouncing between JT and I and trying to talk Chambers into going back to the precinct so we can sort this mess out.

Instead of working the case with them, as he normally would be, Bright was under house arrest at his mother's house, unaware the woman, the agent from Gotham — Kean, she corrected — Sorcha called for help had brought them this potential lead when she came in that morning to meet them. Chambers was the only one who could unravel the mystery of the person who killed Eddie Smith and why. Agent Kean's notes indicated she suspected Chambers was the man shot outside Major Crimes after delivering the samples that eliminated Bright as a suspect.

If the doctor was also guilty of planting the fake blood sample and hair follicles on Eddie Smith, Dani didn't know. That was one of the things they were there to find out. Only, they hadn't managed to make an approach. Chambers bolted soon as they exited the elevator on the floor where he was doing rounds. Hence why they were situated outside the pediatric ward where the doctor sequestered himself with a group of children and handful of nurses.

"We should call Gil." Something Dani didn't want to do. Not while Gil was working with Dick Grayson on trying to locate John Watkins before the man could again get his hands on Bright. There was no choice, however. Chambers was making it clear he didn't want anything to do with them. "We need to let him know what's going on and find out what he wants us to do."

"Gil would tell us to try and get this guy talking if we can."

Dani acknowledged his point with a nod. It was what Gil would tell them. JT was right. The problem with that though...

"Chambers doesn't seem interested in talking with us."

"Guy probably figures he did his talking when he dropped off those samples to Mini-Bright."

Samples which proved Bright hadn't murdered Eddie Smith.

As she foolishly believed he had.

Guilt swirled among the frustration and fear bouncing around with the dozens of cups of coffee sloshing around in Dani's belly.

It wasn't like she wanted to believe Bright killed Eddie. When Gil told her they were going to bring Bright in on suspicion of murdering Eddie, she refused to accept it. There was no way he could have done it.

Bright wasn't a killer.

Not like his father.

Facts said different. That blood and hair sample created doubt by pointing to one person and only one person: Bright.

Endicott created suspicion. Caused mistrust and division between them and Bright. Well, she amended, hiding a grimace by ducking her head, more me than JT and Gil. Even Edrisa believed Bright innocent despite the evidence staring her in the face. Dani, though, put up a wall between her and Bright soon as the report came in. Tearing down that wall required trust. Something she struggled with.

She had to go where the facts led her, though.

Which is why they found themselves crouched outside the doors leading into the pediatric unit. Facts led them to Evan Chambers, a doctor working the night of Eddie Smith's murder. The man who either committed the murder or knew who did.

"Guy's terrified as hell." JT poked his head around the door but there was nothing to see but the same empty hallway they had been staring at for twenty minutes. "Can't rightly blame him, either. People who work for Endicott tend to end up dead once they've outlived their use."

"So do those who cross him."

Dani's belly tightened as she thought about one particular body resting on a slab in the morgue who died because she poked her nose too far into Endicott's affairs. She didn't know Eve Blanchard. Had only spoken to her a few times in passing. Her death started off a deadly chain of events. Eddie Smith attacked Martin Whitly in his cell, Martin Whitly defended himself by gouging out Eddie's eyes, Eddie was killed while here in the hospital, and Bright got framed for his murder.

Unjustly framed, she amended, by me and a lot of other people.

Soft sobs reached Dani's ears. Were followed by Chambers telling them to, "be quiet," in a thin, reedy voice. The guy was unraveling and fast. Desperate people did horrible things when desperate. She had seen that happen too many times to count. JT grunted softly as he leaned back.

"We gotta convince Chambers to either come with us or let them hostages go."

Dani agreed. There was just one thing she hadn't figured out yet.

"How?"

A frown formed between his eyes. "What'd Bright do if his skinny ass was here?"

"He'd try and talk Chambers into either coming with us or letting the kids and nurses go."

"Thinking we should try that."

Dani hummed a noncommittal reply. She didn't see either of them being able to talk the doctor into either coming with them or letting his hostages go. They needed Bright but he wasn't there to do the talking for them. He was being forced to sit on the sidelines while they worked the case. Because of the evidence Evan Chambers was either hired or blackmailed into planting on Eddie Smith to make it look like Bright was the one who murdered him.

Even if Bright hadn't been framed for Eddie's murder there was no way he could be part of this case. Not with his father and girlfriend both victims of Eddie, and by extension, Nicholas Endicott.

They didn't have Bright's particular ability to get through to suspects. Dani freely acknowledged Bright was a great profiler. She had never met someone with the ability to profile with the level of accuracy Bright had.

Course, his proficiency came from having a serial killer for a father.

Something the majority of people didn't have.

Bright's ability to profile people tended to land him in hot water quite often. Dani, as well as JT, Gil, even Sorcha had to frequently remind him it wasn't polite to go around profiling people. He tries his best not to profile people now, she mused as she debated how best to open a line of conversation with Chambers that wouldn't cause the current situation to get any worse.

The biggest issue she saw in convincing Chambers to release his hostages and come with them was they had no way to guarantee he wouldn't be shot by any of the assassins Nicholas Endicott had on his payroll the second he stepped outside the hospital.

It wasn't like they had any other option, though. They needed to defuse this situation and get Chambers to talk about his involvement in framing Bright for Eddie's murder.

"Doctor Chambers," she called out. "I'm Detective Powell. I'm with the..."

"NYPD!" Chambers hurled back. "I know who you are, Detective. I've seen you with the Whitly kid."

"Called him Whitly," JT rumbled. "Not Bright. Important distinction."

Dani agreed it was an interesting distinction for Chambers to make. Most people referred to Bright by his chosen name. That he didn't suggested a familiarity with either Bright or someone close to him. Endicott? Dani wondered. Or someone else?

"I know why you're here." A chair screeched as it was pushed across the floor. "I know what you want. You're not getting it."

"Yeah," JT grumbled as he shifted beside her, "we got that from your ass running soon as you saw us."

"All we want to do is talk," Dani told the terrified doctor. "I promise."

"Talk." Chambers barked a laugh. "That's what the detective who came here yesterday said they wanted to do. Convinced me the only way to get out of this mess was to turn over the real samples. And look what that got me! Shot!"

"Another detective came here to speak with you?" Dani's brow furrowed. "Who?"

"He said his name was Gray."

"Gray?" JT looked questioningly at Dani. "Think he means Not-Bright's husband?"

Dani shook her head. "His last name is Grayson. And I have a feeling he would have told us if he spoke with Chambers and got him to turn over the real samples."

"What was the name of that detective tailing Bright and Mini-Bright?"

It took a second for Dani to remember who JT was talking about.

"Thomas Gray."

"Maybe it was him."

Dani frowned. "Why would he convince Chambers to turn over the samples without mentioning it to either Gil or Lieutenant Brannigan?"

"Trying to do some good after the shit he put them through with those photographs he took of 'em?"

Dani grimaced. "He's got a long way to go before he can make good on that."

"I'd have knocked the guy on his ass for that shit."

"Bright's not one who resorts to violence."

Something Dani knew but still allowed evidence to convince her otherwise.

JT opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a woman screaming, "My son's in there!" Dani turned to see hospital security holding a frantic woman back. "Somebody do something! Please!"

"Guess we're standing here twiddling our thumbs."

"Don't be a dick," Dani chided as the weeping woman was led away. "She's worried about her kid."

"Gotta right to be." JT peeked into the ward again. "Don't know what this guy'll do."

Making an already tense situation even more dangerous.

"I'm calling Gil," Dani said. "We need hostage negotiation down here."

"I say skip calling in hostage situation and bring Lite-Bright here."

"Sorcha?" One brow arched. "Why?"

"Guy left those samples for her." JT glanced around the corner again. "Anybody who might get him to talk is Mini-Bright."

He has a point, Dani realized. Chambers left the samples specifically for Sorcha. He might talk to her instead of them.

"I don't know if we should call her," she said. "Not with Watkins and a Talon on the loose."

"You got any other suggestions?"

Dani made a face. "No." She pulled out her phone. "But I'm telling Gil this was your idea."

"Boss knows she's the only one who speaks Bright like Bright." JT grimaced. "Well, Not Bright speaks Bright but she's been told to sit on his skinny ass."

That was the only reason Dani dialed Sorcha's number.

 

Chapter Text

"Why did Kean order us to accompany you on a shopping trip?" Groused the ten-year-old leaning against the back of her car. "Kai and I would be better used helping to search for Talon or this John Watkins than getting apples and jello."

"Getting apples and jello is doing something useful, Damian." Sorcha raised her eyes to his glittering ones. "You're helping get foods that won't upset Malcolm's stomach. That's almost more helpful than searching for Watkins or Talon."

"Given Mal barely eats as it is," came from the boy handing her the bags in the cart. "I mean, you've seen how sad his fridge looks. Box of baking soda, bottle of water, and that's a good day."

A soft tt was Damian's answer to that bit of truth. "We could still be more useful than this."

"But then you wouldn't have gotten frozen yogurt and the latest issue of GamePro magazine." Sorcha handed a bag to the sullen boy and indicated for him to place it in the trunk with the two others. "Or selected what toppings you want on your pizza."

That mollified him.

For now, anyway.

If Sorcha had learned anything in the last two hours, it was that Damian Wayne wasn't an easy kid to pacify. Raya hadn't been kidding when she said he was ten going on forty. Little wonder given his upbringing, though. Sorcha hadn't met his mother, Talia al Ghul, but any mother who raised her son from birth to become an elite assassin wasn't high on her list of candidates for parent of the year.

"C'mon, Dami, would you really prefer being cooped up in the house all day?"

"No," was his reply.

"So…" A grin teased out Christopher Kean's dimples. "Quit complainin'."

That Christopher was a complete opposite from his cousin was the understatement of the century.

The two had the same dark hair and green eyes but where Damian possessed a lean, muscular form suited for his role as Robin, Christopher had one better suited for a dancer. Not unexpected given his mother is a dancer, Sorcha mused as she took a bag filled with fresh vegetables and fruits and set it in the trunk.

He'd grow into his kryptonian heritage, though. Her brother, Sean had been on the gangly side until high school. Then he shot up four inches, packed on fifty pounds of muscle, and tore up the football field before joining the army.

"It's freakish how alike Mom and Uncle Mal are." A lopsided grin accompanied those words. "Sometimes think they're twins who got separated at birth."

Sorcha snorted a laugh as she handed him the final bag. "They're disaster twins is what they are."

"Hey, Mom hasn't blown up anything in fifty-three days."

"Wow," she teased. "Fifty-three whole days since something went boom in Gotham."

"Hey." That grin stretched wider. "That beats her old record by two."

"Pft," came from Damian. "That's because Father forbid it."

"Forbid, my left toe," Sorcha said as she closed the trunk lid. "She allowed your father to forbid her."

A crease appeared between Damian's brow. "That sounds like Kean."

"Don't tell Grandpa Bruce that." Christopher bounced around to the passenger side of the car. As big a ball of energy as Malcolm but with less neuroses and trauma. "He doesn't like he can't intimidate her like he used too."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure your grandfather knows she's humoring him." Sorcha unlocked her car door before tossing the keys to Christopher so he could unlock his. "That's why he has her watching Mal. Figures it keeps the city safer."

"Tt, as if Kean doesn't have some type of explosive device in the bags she brought with her."

Sorcha hadn't thought about that possibility.

"She didn't bring anything explosive with her." She looked at Christopher who wore an innocent expression eerily reminiscent of the man who raised him. "She did, didn't she?"

"Explosives are like American Express with Mom." Those dimples again winked. "She don't leave home without them."

Sorcha grimaced as she settled behind the wheel. "Good thing your uncle and dad are in the city."

"Yeah, like that'll stop Mom from blowing up something."

"Father still hasn't forgiven her for blowing up the foyer of Wayne Manor."

"She wasn't going to let your mother have you. Not without a fight."

Damian hunched in his seat, arms folded across his chest, and a frown replacing his perma-sneer. "Father would have handled Mother."

"Damian, there are some fights only mothers can win."

"She's not my mother."

"She's Kai's mother. And Ritchie and Hayley's."

"So?"

"There's no switch that turns off Mom-mode." She indicated her seatbelt. "Now buckle up so we can get back."

Her phone buzzed as both boys complied.

"Bet that's Mom calling to find out where we are."

"No." Sorcha's brow furrowed as she pulled her phone from her purse. "It's Detective Powell."

Her first thought was Mal managed to slip away from his house. Christopher must have sensed her thoughts because he said, "If Uncle Mal left his house we'd get an alert from Oracle about it."

Sorcha hummed a noncommittal reply as she answered. "Dani? What is it?"

"Evan Chambers is holding a group of children and nurses hostage in the children's ward."

"Evan…" She shook her head. There was no way she could have heard Dani correctly. Evan wasn't the sort of man who'd take anyone hostage. "Are you sure it's Evan Chambers?"

"We have a positive identification, yes."

Sorcha tried to wrap her head around what Dani was telling her but couldn't. Her mind simply refused to accept Evan had taken a group of children hostage. It wasn't in his nature.

"Why would he take a group of children hostage?"

"We believe he's the one who left you those samples yesterday at the precinct."

Sorcha's heart plummeted into her stomach. "You're sure?"

"Yes." There was an audible sigh. "JT thinks he might talk to you."

"Me?" Sorcha's eyes widened. "Why me?"

"Because you speak Bright." JT's voice rumbled through the speaker. "And since Bright nor Not-Bright can be here…"

"I'm the next best thing."

"Right."

Indecision warred. Sorcha wanted to confront Evan more than anything. Find out why he helped frame Malcolm by planting those samples on Eddie Smith. However, the curious and eager faces she saw out the corner of her eye gave her pause. Dragging ten-year-olds to a hostage situation wasn't something a responsible adult would do.

These weren't ordinary tweens, though. Damian served as the current Robin while Christopher… well, he was an active member of the Teen Titans alongside both his cousins and friends.

"Give me twenty minutes," she said as excited utterances came from the passenger seat. "We'll be there."

"We'll be there?" JT questioned soon as Dani hung up. "Who in the hell is Bright-Lite bringing with her?"

All Dani could do was shrug since she had no more an idea about who Sorcha was talking about than JT.

"I have no clue who she could be bringing with her." She slid her phone back into her pocket with a frown. "It can't be Bright, though. Gil made it clear he's to stay at his mom's house."

"Yeah, like that'll stop his skinny ass from skipping out of there first chance he gets." A side smirk accompanied that statement and was followed with, "Bet you twenty bucks he was out of there before Mini-Bright hung up the phone."

He's right, Dani realized as hospital security spoke to parents and other staff about what was going on. Bright likely was out the door before Sorcha finished her sentence.

Impulsive was one word she could use to describe Malcolm Bright.

Rash was another.

Reckless.

The list went on.

JT hung a whiteboard in Gil's office to mark the days since one of Bright's spontaneous decisions led to his getting injured or into some sort of dangerous situation. He changed the number to zero a week ago and hadn't updated it since.

"Possible she will bring Agent Kean with her."

JT grunted softly. "Three profilers are better than one."

"Agent Kean is also an active officer."

Who works with a comic book hero.

Dani wasn't sure how she felt about Batman going from a character played by Hollywood actors to a live human being with military-grade weapons and vehicles at his disposal.

The practical side of her was in direct opposition to her cop side. While she acknowledged Batman served a purpose by doing things they, as cops, couldn't, he also skirted the law with what he did.

Breaking the law for the right reasons was still breaking the law.

In New York, anyway.

Gotham played by an entirely different rulebook. One designed to deal with a distinct type of criminal.

The kind requiring a man in military-grade body armor to stop.

A loud bang from inside the ward pulled Dani from her thoughts.

"Hell was that?" JT peeked around the corner. "Metal tray?"

"Maybe." Dani's brow creased. "Could have been a clipboard." She prayed it wasn't anything else. "Doctor Chambers?" she called out. "Is everything okay in there?"

"No, it's not, Detective."

A chair scrapping the floor had Dani cringing. "Everything is far from okay, in fact."

"We can't help you unless you talk to us."

"Talk!" A hollow laugh echoed off the walls. "Everyone wants to talk! Well, let me tell you something, Detective, talking is what got me into this mess in the first place!"

"With Endicott?" It was risky to ask such a charged question given the doctor's agitated state. There was no choice, however. They had to get to the bottom of things. It was the only way to help Chambers and Bright. "What does he have on you?"

"You think I'm going to tell you?" Another laugh. Shriller. "Don't think so, Detective."

Dani exchanged a worried look with JT. The doctor was unraveling and fast. If they didn't figure out a way to keep him calm until Sorcha got there, someone would get hurt.

"If you got any suggestions for how to calm this dude down," JT said as he settled back against the wall. "I'm listening."

Dani already used their only suggestion when she called Sorcha.

"We know you tried to make things right when you delivered the samples that prove Eddie Smith wasn't murdered by Malcolm Bright."

"Whitly." Doctor Chambers voice sounded closer now. "He's Malcolm Whitly."

"You know Malcolm personally then?"

"He went to Harvard with Sorcha."

"There's the connection," JT murmured. "Mini-Bright."

A sigh pierced the air. "I warned Sorcha about the Whitly's. Told her and Mandy it was dangerous getting involved with any of them."

"Why?"

"People tend to die around the Whitly's."

"Guy's got a point," JT muttered. "The Surgeon has twenty-three bodies credited to him."

"That we know of."

A grunt was JT's response. His thinking sound as she liked to call it.

"Mini-Bright and Not-Bright believe there are more victims."

"They just haven't been found."

"Not yet."

Dani frowned. "Do you think this is about stopping them from finding those bodies?"

"Rich people are willing to do anything to protect their secrets."

"Even commit murder."

"Mhm."

That brought up one question: "Is Martin Whitly a serial killer who enjoyed killing or is he a serial killer trying to protect his family?"

"Only one person can answer that question."

"Martin Whitly."

JT nodded. "And he's currently sitting in Riker's courtesy of Nicholas Endicott."

Dani blew out a breath. "Can this case get any more complicated?"

"Whitly's are involved, Detective," came from the doctor on the other side of the entryway. "It's been complicated since Malcolm Whitly was born."

"Why?"

"Cause he's the firstborn, Detective."

"So?"

A sigh was the doctor's reply.

Chapter Text

"Why did you send Sorcha to the store?" The question had been bugging Malcolm for the last hour. "My mother had groceries delivered yesterday."

"Yes, but your mother didn't think to stock Twizzlers and specifically flavored Jello."

"Orange, red, and green jello should be made a crime punishable by a minimum of one year in jail."

"It's jello, Malcolm."

"It doesn't count as jello." It was an age-old debate. A bit of normal inside the chaos they were currently engulfed in. "It's colored gelatin. Flavorless colored gelatin."

"Black cherry and blue raspberry are good flavors, though."

Malcolm scoffed. "Lemon is the only acceptable flavor of jello."

Raya's lips twitched. "I lived on black cherry and blue raspberry while pregnant with Ritchie."

"That was because you were pregnant."

"So, all bets off when pregnant?"

"You lived on lime jello when pregnant with Christopher." Memories rose up inside Malcolm as he recalled that time. Good memories for a change. The kind he needed to help keep the shadow creatures from tearing his mind apart. "I had lime jello and crackers for when you visited me in DC."

"I'm surprised Kai wasn't lime colored when he was born with how many lime flavored things I consumed while pregnant with him."

"You did have that month you switched to lemon."

"Your not-so-subtle comments about the merits of lemon flavored jello convinced me to give it a try."

"And what did you learn?"

"That lemon always makes me think of you."

The fond affection in Raya's voice sent warmth shooting through Malcolm. So few people understood, much less accepted him and all his quirks. Raya, her cousin Barbara, Dick, Jason Todd, and Tim Drake never saw or treated him as a freak.

He was simply one of them.

Even the newest member of the family, Damian had come to accept him as part of the inner circle. Even if he doesn't see me as a member of the family.

Not that he saw any of the others as family.

Not yet, anyway.

Malcolm had a feeling Damian Wayne would come around to them being family in time.

"Peppermint always makes me think of you," he admitted quietly.

"And not Sorcha?"

"Jasmine reminds me of her."

"Our olfactory senses can have a huge influence on memories." Raya sent him a coy look. "As memory can have an impact on our fondness for gelatin-flavored desserts."

Malcolm breathed out a laugh. "Lemon is the only acceptable flavor."

"Hence why I sent Sorcha to the store to buy you some."

"While I am deeply appreciative of her going to buy lemon jello…" Malcolm smiled at Raya's snort. "Isn't it dangerous for her to be out there?"

Where John Watkins, Talons, and whoever Endicott had in his employ could get to her.

As they did the ghostly apparition floating just on the edge of his visual field.

"Sorcha has Damian and Kai with her."

"They're ten."

Were they average ten-year-olds?

Not in the least.

Ten was ten still in Malcolm's opinion.

"Kai is not only one quarter kryptonian but has been training with both his grandfathers, father, and uncles since he was five." Raya shifted to look at him. "And Damian is not only a trained assassin but also the current Robin."

"They're still ten."

"And have experienced things most ten-year-olds never will."

"I know, it's just…"

"You love Sorcha and want to keep her safe." Her lips curved. "Think I don't understand that?"

"I know you do. It's just… she's in danger because of me." Malcolm looked down at his hands. "You all are in danger because of me."

"Giving yourself a bit too much credit there, Mal."

"Watkins, Endicott, the Court…"

"Would still be out there and victimizing us and other people even if you weren't involved." Raya's hand settled atop his. Warm and comforting. "They're predators, Malcolm. That's what they do."

"I know. I know they are. It's just…"

"Everything changes when it's our own who's targeted." Raya's thumb stroked over Malcolm's knuckles. "I learned that when my father targeted you just to get back at your father."

"My father is why this is happening." His bitterness stung the air between them. "He's the reason everything has happened."

"We both were handed crap cards there, Mal." An understatement if Malcolm ever heard one. "However, we also are the luckiest kids in the world because we have people in our lives who love us for us. People who gave us homes and the tools to rise above our traumas and become the people we are today."

"Despite some having problems of their own."

"Oh, Bruce is a poster boy for unresolved traumas and phobias."

Complicated grief disorder, complex post-traumatic stress disorder, depression and antisocial personality disorder being a few of the disorders Malcolm most commonly associated with the Wayne patriarch.

"Like me." Malcolm sent her a small, wry grin. "Only I don't wear a mask and chase bad guys across rooftops."

"No, you wear Armani suits and chase bad guys into old service tunnels."

"You heard about that?"

"Oh, Gil called Bruce and asked him to send one of us to talk to you."

"Why didn't you?"

"Ah, let me see… Joker on loose, Scarecrow running another of his experiments, Penguin feuding with Black Mask, oh, and we had the Court killing people."

"Business as usual in Gotham."

"Kinda quiet for Christmas, actually."

Malcolm breathed out a laugh. Desperately needed after the last twenty-four hours.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

"You didn't answer my original question, though."

"I thought I did by saying there's no Twizzlers and appropriate jello stocked in the house?"

"We could have ordered grocery delivery."

"Yes, we could have. However, that defeated the other purpose I had."

"Which was?"

"Getting two rambunctious kids out of our hair for an hour."

Malcolm snorted another laugh. "That's the only reason you sent her to the store?"

"No, I sent Sorcha to the store because she needed something to do that she was in control of."

His brow creased. "In control of? I don't understand."

"Don't you?" Raya spoke gently and all the more effectively for it. "She's a control-freak, Malcolm. Like me," she said before he could. "She's controlled everything in your relationship because she understood that maintaining a routine was critical to helping you. That's not easy to do, though, when you're suspected of murder. She can't control that situation because it's out of her hands. So, I gave her something she could control: shopping for foods she knows you'll eat."

"Is that why you always send me to the grocery store?" Dick drawled as he walked into the living room. "Along with the litany of other things you give me to do?"

"She's giving you the honey-do list, kid," came from Gil as he entered behind him. "As in honey-do this, honey-do that."

"You're telling me honey-do lists are an actual thing?" Horror filled Dick's face. "Seriously?"

"They are very much a thing, kid," Gil confirmed with a smile. "Jackie would leave mine in the glove box, in fact."

Dick slanted a wry look at the woman seated beside Malcolm. "Mine leaves mine in my boots."

"Get diapers, milk, and eggs is hardly a honey-do list."

"Still sneaky."

Raya harrumphed. "I see sending you grocery shopping as a way of giving you an hour to yourself."

One dark brow arched. "You send me to the store as a way of giving me time to myself?"

"I figure you earned it after everything you do for me, the kids, and the city of Gotham."

"You're a generous woman, Mrs. Grayson." Dick leaned down to place a kiss to the top of her head. "You find anything in Ian Corbin's files that will help locate Watkins or the other bodies he believes are connected to the Surgeon?"

"Locate Watkins, no." Raya slid her glasses back on. "I think I do know where the Surgeon's other bodies might be buried, though." She picked up her tablet and tapped the screen. "Ian Corbin mentions Martin Whitly using a slew of various hunting cabins and posits they're places where he'd take specific victims."

"Specific victims?" Malcolm swallowed around the ball of ice in his throat. "What specific victims?"

"His notes don't say but I suspect they were individuals who crossed either Endicott or the Court of Owls."

"Like Eve's sister, Sophie?"

Raya's brows arched over the rim of her glasses. "Your dead girlfriend's sister?"

"She wasn't—" Malcolm stopped; sighed. Now wasn't the time to argue semantics. Not with Talons and Watkins on the loose. "My father kidnapped Eve's sister, Sophie. She's the girl in the box."

"The one you found?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes."

"Hm." Raya tapped the tablet. "Ian Corbin makes a few mentions of the girl in the box." She touched a corner of the screen before handing it to Malcolm. "He believed she was connected to whoever your father was working for."

"Endicott." Malcolm looked down at the tablet but didn't see the words on it. "Sophie was working for Endicott."

"How do you know?" Dick asked. "Did your dad tell you?"

"Yes." Malcolm handed the tablet back to Raya. "He took Sophie to a cabin where he…"

"Intended to kill her." Gil placed a hand on the back of Malcolm's neck, squeezed gently. "We know, kid. We also know what cabin he took her."

"Where?" Dick's eyes narrowed. "It could be a place to start looking for Watkins."

"The Watkins family had a hunting lodge they used." Gil moved to sit in a chair. "We thought Watkins took Malcolm there after he kidnapped him."

Pain throbbed in the thumb Malcolm shattered with a hammer to free himself from the cuffs Watkins placed on him. His chest hurt where the knife pierced his flesh, luckily missing his vital organs. His brain exploded with images of the confrontation between him and the man who revealed how his father took him on that trip with one purpose: to kill him.

"He didn't take me there, though." A tremor snaked from the tips of Malcolm's fingers all the way up his arm. To hide it, he reached for his own tablet. "He brought me here. To the place where it all began."

"This isn't where it all began, though." Raya set a hand on his back. Rubbed in slow, soothing circles. "Ian Corbin believes this all began before either Watkins or your father were born."

"Before they were…?" Malcolm's brow furrowed. "Their fathers were serial killers, too?"

A fact he considered himself many times while trying to understand serial predators like his father. Not all children followed in their parents murderous footsteps. He was living proof of that fact. There were a large number of children who did follow in their parents, though.

Was Martin Whitly one of them?

He didn't know.

The only thing Malcolm knew about his paternal grandfather was that he left when his father turned thirteen and was never seen or heard from again.

Was that the truth or another of his father's carefully worded answers?

Malcolm suspected the latter.

"You're close, actually." Raya again handed him her tablet. "Ian Corbin suspected they were Talons."

Malcolm stared at the images on the screen. He recognized his grandfather instantly. He possessed the same wildly curling halo of dark brown hair, eyes that could spark with warm humor one second or turn to ice the next, and charismatic smile as his father.

"If the Court sticks to their usual way of doing things…" Dick took a seat next to Raya on the couch. "They'll send your grandfather after you."

"As they sent William Cobb after Dick."

"William Cobb?" Malcolm told himself he should know who that was but he didn't. "Who's that?"

"My great-great grandfather."

"Just what we needed." Gil blew out a breath. "Another Whitly killer."

"Could be worse." Dick flashed him a lopsided grin. "Could be The Darkest Knight coming after Malcolm."

"Don't jinx it, kid." Gil made a face. "We have enough going on without adding anything like that to the mix."

"I wouldn't rule it out."

"I thought Batman Who Laughs was something Snyder created?" Malcolm looked at Raya. "He's real?"

"Snyder did create Batman Who Laughs." Raya's mouth thinned into a hard line. "The Court saw his creation and decided having a Batman of their own was the way to defeat Batman. So, they traveled to another universe and found their ideal Batman."

"A version willing to kill," Malcolm guessed.

"Yes."

"Only, they couldn't control this Batman." The grim expression on Dick's face sent a chill down Malcolm's spine. "Soon as he was brought here he went after Gotham's rogues. Starting with..."

"The Joker."

Dick nodded. "They fought at Ace Chemicals. Only instead of the Joker falling into the vat of chemicals, Batman did."

"Creating The Darkest Knight."

Again a nod. "Who possesses our Batman's intelligence and physical strength but the Joker's psychopathy and warped, sadistic sense of humor."

"All we needed," Gil muttered, running a hand over his goatee. "A Batman with the Joker's violent tendencies."

"How do we stop this?"

A loaded question if Malcolm ever asked one. It needed asking, though.

And answering.

The problem was?

"We don't have the answer to that." Raya placed her hands on the tablet in her lap. "Not yet, anyway. The files Ian Corbin and Deputy Turner amassed help us put the picture together. Neither, though, realized how convoluted and complex that picture is."

"What do we do then?"

"What we have been doing: searching for answers. Detective work is…"

"Time and patience." A small smile touched Gil's lips. "Glad to see a few of the lessons you three were taught have stuck with you."

Raya's lips twitched. "We were taught by three of the greatest detectives."

"Four." Gil indicated the tablet in her lap. "Ian Corbin is still teaching us."

Malcolm only hoped they'd learn what he wanted them to know before it was to late.

Chapter Text

Mini-Bright showing up with two kids in tow wasn't what JT expected when she told Dani, "We'll be there."

Nothing at this point should come as a surprise really. Not after everything that happened the past few days. Bright's girlfriend turning up dead, an assassin trying to kill his pops in his cell at Claremont, Bright arrested on suspicion of murder of the man who tried to kill his pops, Endicott revealed as the head of a serial killer ring, Batman a real-life crimefighter, Talons, underground cabals controlling shit… what's left, honestly?

A voice in the back of JT's head warned him not to tempt shit by asking.

Less he knew at this point, the better.

So he believed, anyway.

"Damian, Christopher," Mini-Bright said when the three reached where he and Dani stood. "This is Detective Tarmel and his partner, Detective Powell."

A snotty ffff came from the boy on her left while the taller of the two flashed them a lopsided grin.

"Don't mind my cousin," the kid, Christopher told them. "He's like this with everyone."

A Tt was accompanied by a roll of eyes a rich shade of green and a crisp, "My cousin is nice to everyone." Those eyes raked JT and Dani. "Even if they are unworthy of it."

"Damian." Mini-Bright's tone was sharp with disapproval. "That was uncalled for. Apologize to the detectives."

The kid gave her a dead-eyed predator look. One that didn't impress Mini-Bright one bit.

He did not, however, apologize.

"Where's Bright?" Dani glanced behind Lite-Bright, brow creased. "Isn't he with you?"

"My danger prone dope is home." A hint of mischief flashed briefly in Mini-Bright's dark eyes. "And probably trying to convince his babysitter to let him off his leash."

JT snorted a laugh.

"You mean his skinny ass actually stayed at home?"

Bright obeying orders happened about as often as pigs flying over the Empire State Building. It was the biggest bone of contention they had with the guy. Well, that, he amended as a loud bang came from the children's ward, and the fact doesn't call for backup.

"You knocked him out and cuffed him to something, right?"

"Didn't need too."

"Yeah?" JT glared at a reporter who managed to sneak by the hospital security and uniformed officers guarding the entrance to the floor. The guy went white as the paint on the waiting room walls and beat it back without a word. "Why's that?"

"He doesn't know I'm here."

"He don't know you're here?" JT's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "How'd you manage to keep him from finding out where you were going?"

"The kids and I were just leaving the grocery store when Dani called to say Evan had taken children hostage."

"Lemon Jello." The ends of Dani's lips curled. "Right?"

An echoing smile briefly graced Lite-Bright's lips.

"And Twizzlers."

Dani hummed a small laugh.

"Of course."

"Uncle Mal can't function without Twizzlers or Dum-Dum's." A grin teased out Christopher's dimples. "They're like his spinach."

Confusion shot through JT. Far as he knew Bright had a younger sister, Ainsley. Who would have been sixteen when this kid was born.

"Bright's your uncle?" Dani asked, saving JT from doing it. When the kid nodded, she added, "How? Bright only has one sister."

"Well, he's unofficially-but-officially a member of the family."

"How is he unofficially-but-officially a member of the family?"

"Well, Grandpa Bruce hasn't adopted Uncle Mal like he did Mom, Dad, Aunt Cass, Uncle Tim and Jason, but we all think of him as family so he's unofficially-but-officially a part of it."

"I do not consider Whitly a part of my family," came from super-brat. "He is merely another of the rejects Father has taken in."

Fury pulsed under JT's skin at Bright being called a reject by this kid. Needs someone to put his ass in place. He was about to do it but Mini-Bright beat him to it.

"His name is Bright." She halted whatever the kid might have said with a firm, "Bright."

A battle of wills occurred between the two then. JT swore he could hear the clash. His money was on Mini-Bright. Girl put Colette Swanson in her place for talking shit about Bright. Damian relented, begrudgingly after a few more tense seconds.

"Fine." A sniff was given before he sneered, "Bright is not a part of my family."

"C'mon, Dami," Christopher pleaded softly. "Don't be like that. You know Uncle Mal is cool."

Damian rolled his eyes and heaved a, "Whatever," before turning to saunter off towards the waiting area. Christopher sent them an apologetic look before trotting off after him.

"Kid's a real snot." JT frowned when Dani elbowed him in the side. "What? He is."

"Don't be a dick," she chided. "He's just a kid."

"Damian's mother instilled in him the idea that he's better than everyone because his father is Bruce Wayne and his grandfather Ra's al Ghul." Mini-Bright's eyes followed the retreating duo. "Malcolm's, Raya's, and Tim Drake's blood is as blue as his own but he still views them as beneath him."

"Wayne lets him get away with treating people like dirt?"

"He tries to correct Damian but…" She waved to where the sullen boy sat slumped in a chair. "You can see how effective that's been."

JT grunted softly. "I can think of a few ways to knock that shit off."

Military school being his first suggestion.

"He's just a kid," Dani said. "He'll grow out of it."

JT had his doubts about that. He kept them to himself, however.

"We got more important shit to worry about than a kid with a bad attitude."

Who needs surgery to remove that sneer from his face.

He kept that to himself, too.

"Right." Mini-Bright turned towards the children's ward. "Evan is in there?" At JT and Dani's nods, she frowned. "And you're sure he has children with him?"

"Yeah." JT handed her the list of names the hospital administrator gave them. "Three nurses and six children from what we can gather."

"I can't believe he's holding children hostage." Mini-Bright's brow creased as she looked at the list. "Has he given any reason for why he's doing this?"

"Guy ain't said much of anything outside he ain't talking."

"Given how people who've talked have ended up dead…" Lite-Bright blew out a breath. "He has a pretty good reason to not want to talk."

"Guy mentioned earlier he told you and your sister-in-law it was dangerous getting involved with the Whitly's." Guy ain't wrong there, JT admitted silently. Danger does seem to follow the Whitly family around. "You remember having that conversation with him?"

A sound, like sneakers made on tile, came from inside the ward. JT silently prayed the doctor decided to start letting the children go. It'd not only go a long way to diffusing a tense situation but help the man avoid a lengthy prison sentence.

Nobody exited the ward, however.

Dammit, man, he silently groused. Why not make shit easier on yourself?

A small voice, suspiciously like Bright's, replied, "Because he doesn't want to end up like Eve."

Found floating in the water.

Killed simply 'cause she got to close to figuring out who and what Nicholas Endicott was.

"I remember Evan telling me how people tend to die around the Whitly's, yes," Mini-Bright said. "That I'd be next if I remained friends with Malcolm."

JT snorted a laugh. "Guy don't know you if he thought that deter you."

"Jessica wasn't able to deter me from being friends with Mal."

Malcolm's mom hadn't stopped them from becoming more than friends. Something the two tried to pretend they weren't for years. Can't deny it anymore, though, JT mused with a side glance at Mini-Bright. Girl went grocery shopping just so Bright's skinny ass would have the right flavored jello and Twizzlers.

Some people would say going to the grocery store for Twizzlers and Jello wasn't an especially romantic gesture. JT'd argue it meant everything to a guy who didn't get a lot of nice things done for him. JT himself wasn't an overly romantic sort-of guy. He did the flowers thing from time-to-time. Took Tali out to play pool, eat at her favorite restaurant or catch a movie. Even surprised her by doing things around the house without her asking him to do them. It was the little things that mattered most. They were the backbone of all relationships. Kept people together when times got tough.

Bright, on the other hand?

Was utterly clueless when it came to things like that. He learned that when the guy crashed his and Tally's date night with that girl, Eve.

Who's now dead thanks to some rich asshole looking to keep his secret just that: secret.

Bright gave generously to people. Picked gifts suited to the one receiving them. Mini-Bright deserved better than presents. Especially after everything that happened in the last few months. Girl deserves a medal for all she's put up with, really. Least Bright could do once things settled down was take her somewhere nice.

Like Hawaii.

"When did Chambers tell you that?" Dani asked. "Do you remember?"

"It was during our first year at Harvard."

"How'd you meet him?"

"Evan was doing his residency at the same hospital Mandy did hers."

"Is that how he knows Bright as Whitly and not Bright?" Dani's mouth pursed. "He met him at the hospital?"

"Yes." Bright-Lite tucked her hair behind her ear. "Malcolm and I got food poisoning and ended up in the emergency room. Evan was on call that night and treated us both."

"And told you to basically break up with Bright?"

Mini-Bright sent JT an amused look.

"We weren't dating."

"Mhm."

Mini-Bright's eyes sparked with a hint of humor. "We weren't."

"Yeah…" He slanted a knowing look at her. "Yet."

Her lips trembled, curved at the corners.

"Okay… we weren't dating yet."

"Why did Chambers urge you to cut off your friendship with Bright?" Dani's brow furrowed. "Did he give you any particular reason?"

"No."

"So, what was his motive in telling you to not be friends with Bright?"

"Mandy thought it was because he had a crush on me. Now?" Mini-Bright blew out a breath. "I'd say it's because he knew about Endicott's connection with Martin Whitly and was trying to warn me to protect me."

"He says that detective, Gray, convinced him to deliver those samples to you."

"Gray didn't mention that when he and I talked outside Sterling's building."

"Imagine that," JT grumbled.

"Maybe Gray didn't know it was Chambers who had the samples." Dani frowned at his snort. "Gray might have made the comment as a general one and Chambers took it as his way of getting out from under Endicott's thumb."

"Should have called us and let us come to him." Something more people needed to do in his opinion. "Might not have gotten shot if he had."

"He might have ended up like Eve Blanchard if he had called the police." Lite-Bright nodded towards the cops gathered by the elevators. "We still don't know how many cops Endicott has on his payroll."

JT grimaced. "Yeah… good point."

"We also can't forget he has this Court and their Talons, too." Dani glanced behind her as something thumped on the floor in the children's ward. "We need to convince him to let those kids go."

"I, uh, don't think we are going to have a problem with convincing Evan to let the hostages go." Mini-Bright's expression crept towards sheepish. "In fact, don't think we will have a problem with him at all."

"We won't?" Dani's brow puckered. "Why not?"

She waved a hand in the direction of the waiting area. "My guess is that thump we heard was Evan being knocked unconscious by one of our missing ten-year-olds."

"How the hell did they sneak in the ward without being seen?"

A soft Tt sounded from the doorway. "We went through the ventilation system is how."

Of course, JT groused. Super-brat would be the one to answer my question. He didn't need to look at his face to know the kid's perma-sneer was firmly in place. If only he was eighteen… he thought as he turned to face the smug twerp. I'd wipe that smirk off his face.

"Damian, you and Christopher shouldn't have gone into that ward," Mini-Bright gently chided. "Not without discussing it with us first."

The kid's mouth was set on rapid-fire.

As always.

"While you were busy discussing things irrelevant to the situation, I handled it."

"Damian…"

The kid disappeared back inside the ward with another Tt.

"I'm sorry…" Mini-Bright said apologetically. "He's…"

"A pain in the ass."

A royal one, JT added as he headed into the ward. He stopped short when he spied Evan Chambers unconscious on the floor.

How?

From what?

He had no idea.

A voice inside his head told him he didn't want to know the how or what.

The less I know, he decided as he ambled over to where the doctor lay, the better.

So he believed, anyway.

 

Chapter Text

"Double R will take the three locations Batman isolated upstate." Raya's tone was crisp, clear, concise. Like a general organizing her troops, Gil mused as he leaned back in his seat. She learned how to arrange her players from observing her uncle, Gotham Police Commissioner James Gordon. How to issue commands, however, came from her cowled mentor. Along with a great many other skills.

Her simple words also held familiar echoes of authority and undertones of compulsion. Gil heard them and recognized from who they came: Jessica.

He wasn't overly surprised by it. Raya came from the same posh world as Jessica. She spoke upper crust as fluently as she did Mandarin, Arabic, and American Sign Language. Navigating a ballroom in an evening gown came as easily to Raya Kean as wading into a group of armed thugs in kevlar and nomex. She's more comfortable in her body armor than an evening gown.

He learned that before Raya removed her mask and revealed her identity to the world. Jessica became a figure in her life after she, as well as her other half entered Malcolm's life. Gil rarely allowed himself to think about what might have happened if Raya and Dick hadn't befriended the kid and brought him into their world. He'd never have gone to Harvard, met Sorcha or joined the bureau.

Bright would simply not be there, period.

"What about the rest of the locations?" Dick draped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Who's going to investigate them?"

"Batman said he will take those in Gotham."

"Gee, imagine that."

Raya shot him an amused look.

"He said you can handle the two in Jersey."

"Generous of him."

Her eyes twinkled with mischief and amusement.

"I told him you wouldn't mind."

"You're right, I don't." Dick pressed a kiss to her temple. "Keeps me close in case a Talon comes here."

"Yeah, that's what he said."

Dick's lips split into a grin.

"Great minds think alike."

Raya snorted at that and turned to look at Gil.

"Can you and your team go to the location we've located here in Brooklyn?"

"Happy, too."

"Tt," came from the boy seated by his cousin and the white superdog, Krypto on the floor. "Kai and I will go to the location here in Brooklyn."

"You, Kai, and I will remain here to keep an eye out for Talons or John Watkins."

The boy shot Raya a mutinous look. "Why?"

"Because those are your orders."

"I am not a child and refuse to be treated as such."

"You will do as told, Damian."

A tense stare-off ensued between the two. If the boy thought Raya would be intimidated by his dark scowl, he was sorely mistaken. Gil had been witness to quite a few of the patented Bat-glares over the years. Damian Wayne had a long way to go before he'd reach Batman's scowl level.

"Fine," the boy relented with a small sniff. "I shall remain here as requested."

Kid sure has an attitude, Gil mused as Krypto flopped over onto his back in an attempt to defuse the situation. It worked to mollify the seething boy.

For now.

"What about the cabin my father took Eve's sister, Sophie?" Bright asked once calm was restored. "Is anyone going to investigate it?"

Gil's blood curdled at the mere mention of the cabin Martin Whitly and John Watkins took their victims.

Twenty-three of whom had been identified and linked to the Surgeon.

Watkins had been closing in on that number before killing Owen Shannon and kidnapping Bright.

How many more bodies each man might have attributed to him was a mystery.

Ian Turner and Ian Corbin also believed there were more bodies. People who hadn't been identified, were thought missing, mourned by family and friends all these years. How many bodies are buried in the woods surrounding that cabin?

Gil wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Bright, however, needed to know. It was the only way he'd finally lay the past to rest. The only problem was letting the kid go out there alone.

JT and Dani visited that murder cabin after Watkins took Bright from his grandmothers house. It had been the only place they could come up with that seemed logical for him to take the kid.

Instead, Watkins brought Bright back here to Jessica's house.

Chained him up in the murder playroom he and Bright's father brought their victims.

There he taunted him with the information that Bright desperately wanted; needed to put together his fractured memories.

Plunged a knife into Bright's chest in retaliation of the kid having stabbed him in that cabin during that camping trip.

Left the kid bleeding on that playroom floor to go after Jessica and Ainsley with an axe.

Watkins, a messianic killer who was free from the asylum he had been placed in.

Who'd likely go after Bright and the members of his family in the name of his calling.

Not if Gil had anything to say about it.

"Don't worry." Raya looked at Bright over the silver rim of her glasses. "That cabin will be investigated."

Gil knew what the kid was going to say to that and cut him off at the pass with a clear, firm, "Absolutely not."

Not that such a tone worked on Bright.

No more than Damian's scowl worked on Raya.

"Gil…" Bright started but Gil shut him down before the kid could launch into any of the reasons he had come up with to justify his going to explore that cabin.

"Bright, the answer is no."

That didn't stop the kid, either.

Not that Gil expected it would. Bright was one thing: consistent.

When it came to his father and solving murders, anyway.

"Everyone needs to help." The kid gazed at him imploringly. Begging him to understand. As if Gil didn't. "I need to help, Gil."

Bright did need something more than sitting here and going through the files Ian Corbin and Ian Turner put together on Nicholas Endicott and Martin Whitly. Gil admitted that. He freely acknowledged the kid needed something to channel that restless, anxious energy of his.

If he was being honest with himself, really honest, he'd admit he wanted to give in. Allow Bright to help with the case. Send him off to find the rest of Martin Whitly's victims.

He just… couldn't.

Not this time.

They couldn't jeopardize things by doing something stupid. Not when Bright was the one who'd lose.

"You need to stay here, kid."

Where Watkins, Talons, and anyone else Endicott had in his employ couldn't get their hands on him.

Not that Bright cared about that.

The kid never took his own health and well-being into consideration. A fact they routinely lamented over.

"The only way this ends is if we find the rest of my father's victims and connect them to Endicott."

Logic was the kid's favorite weapon. He learned how to wield it from the woman seated next to him. And she learned how to use it from her grim mentor.

Logic, however, didn't trump truth.

Watkins was out there.

Talons were out there.

Endicott had assassins out there.

All after Bright.

Before he could remind the kid of that, Sorcha shifted on the couch to face him.

"Go," she told him quietly.

Gil's head pivoted so fast he feared he gave himself whiplash. Out of everyone gathered in Jessica's living room, he expected she'd be the one in most agreement with him about Bright remaining there. I shouldn't be surprised she told him to go, though, he realized as Bright stared at her, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide as saucers. She understands him in ways I don't. Knows what he needs to keep himself grounded.

Sorcha, like the woman seated on Bright's other side, believed in him, trusted him despite the kid repeatedly telling her she shouldn't. She encouraged and supported him. Defended and protected him when others doubted him. She's here despite the hurt he caused her.

She always would be.

"Go?" Bright licked his lips. A sign his nerves, always frayed at the edges despite the medications the kid took, were unravelling and fast. "You said go?"

"I said go."

"But…" the kid's brow furrowed. "I thought you'd side with Gil about me not going out to investigate that hunting cabin?"

"I am against you investigating that cabin. Especially with Watkins, Talons and who knows what all else on the loose." Sorcha reached up to brush Bright's hair from his face. "However, I know you need to do this. And," she added with a sigh, "we need to let you."

"Why?"

Curiosity more than suspicion.

Classic Bright.

"Because you're right that this won't end without finding your father's other bodies." She waved a hand towards the hall. "So, get my keys from upstairs and go before I change my mind and have Dick tie you to your bed."

The kid was gone before she even got halfway through that threat. Gil itched to call him back but didn't. Much as he hated to admit it, Sorcha was right. Bright needed to go and investigate that hunting cabin. And we need to let him.

"Yanno," Raya teased, lips curved with amusement. "He could have at least kissed you goodbye before racing off."

Sorcha snorted a laugh.

"Yeah, my dope tends to forget things like that when he's fixated on something related to murder or his father."

"He forgets things like that when he's not fixated on something related to murder or his father."

"I see you know my dope and how his mind tends to operate."

"Your dope is like my dope there."

"Hey!" Dick's face was a mixture of insult and humor. "Your dope knows to kiss you before he leaves the house."

"That's because you're a smart dope upon occasion."

"Speaking of leaving the house..." Dick pressed a kiss to Raya's crown before pushing to his feet. "I'm going to take Krypto for a walk before going to check those locations in Jersey."

The superdog jumped up with an excited, "Woof!" at hearing those magic words.

Christopher, silent until now, flashed a lopsided grin at them before joking, "Think he really needs a walk."

A chuff came from the white superdog as he padded from the room. Clearly agreeing, Gil thought, suppressing a smile.

"I'll be back in a bit," Dick said, before following Krypto out of the room.

"How would you two like a piece of the pie I baked for dessert?" Sorcha asked as she got to her feet. "Should be at just the right temperature to melt the ice cream into the crust."

"Can we, Mom?" Christopher eyed his mother with wide, hopeful eyes. "Please?"

"I think you two deserve a bit of a reward." Raya ignored the snort from Damian. "You did end a tense situation without anybody getting seriously injured or any property damaged."

The affection in Raya's voice was unmistakeable. She doesn't just love them two, Gil realized as Christopher whooped and hollered before sprinting from the room, Damian following at a more sedate pace. She enjoys them.

Even if one of them was a bit harder to love.

"Do you want a piece of pie, Gil?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Sorcha no. However, what came out was, "How could you let Bright go?" He lifted his eyes to hers. "Especially alone?"

A hint of mischief filled those dark depths.

"Who says I'm letting my dope go out to that cabin alone?"

"You aren't?"

Sorcha shook her head. "Nope."

Gil's brow creased. "Who is going out there with him?"

"The man Raya text after I told the dope to go."

"The man who…" Gil glanced over at Raya, one brow arched. "Who did you text?"

"The only man besides you, Dick, and Batman I'd trust to go out to that cabin with Malcolm."

Who she meant slammed into Gil with the same force as a runaway delivery van: Jason Todd.

A man as dangerous as John Watkins, as deadly as a Talon, and who had no problems playing by the same cutthroat rules as Nicholas Endicott.

There was only one problem in her plan: Jason Todd was a man at odds with the world, his family, and especially his former mentor.

"Will he agree to help?"

"Yes." There was no underlying smugness in her tone. Just a quiet confidence in the brother she loved despite the problems between them. "He will."

"You're sure?"

Another, "Yes."

"Why?"

"Jason promised Malcolm a long time ago he'd help him put away the monster in the dark."

That monster being Bright's father.

"This will require him to work with Batman."

"Yes, it does," Raya agreed with a slight nod. "He'll do it, though. Not happily…" Her lips twitched when her phone buzzed. "But he'll do it."

"How can you be so sure? Your brother has made it quite clear he doesn't want any part of Gotham."

"That may be," Raya agreed with a slight nod. "However, he won't let harm come to any of us." She glanced at her phone when it buzzed again. "Especially Malcolm."

That was enough for Gil.

Let Watkins, Talons or assassins go after Bright, he mused as Sorcha exited the room. They'll have one helluva fight on their hands.

Chapter Text

His cellphone buzzed, drawing Jason Todd's attention away from the woman tearing up the small stage at the back of the bar with her rendition of Joplin's "Try".

Only two people know I'm in Gotham, he mused as he reached inside his jacket to retrieve the intrusive device. One I told and one who knows everything going on in his city because he's a paranoid cynic.

Jason was ninety-nine percent confident Batman wasn't the one contacting him. The old man wouldn't reach out to him if the world was about to go to hell in a hand-basket. He'd wait until the last Bat was hung before asking me for help.

That left Kit as the one texting him.

She promised not to call or text unless it was an outright emergency.

Given Gotham, and his family's nocturnal career choices, there likely was.

Wonder which bird's in trouble.

Part of him hoped it was Dick who needed help just so he could hold it over his head.

Another part hoped it was Kit or Babs who needed a hand with something.

Preferably non-Bat related.

Jason freely admitted he had a strained relationship with his adoptive father and brothers. Timbo especially. However, his less than warm, fuzzy feelings for Bruce, Dickie, Timbo, and the Hellspawn dumped on the family by Talia a little over a year ago didn't extend to Kit, Cass, Barbara, Malcolm or his niece and nephews.

His phone buzzed again.

Kit wouldn't bug him unless it was an emergency.

Wonder what's going on? That thought was immediately followed by, And which of the freaks is the cause of it?

Carousing the rooftops of Gotham beside his dark mentor in search of bad guys — the average sorta scum and not creeps like that pasty-faced freak — had been his greatest joy when he was Robin.

Jason couldn't imagine anything topping the night Dickie passed him the mantle of Robin and told him it was now his duty to see Batman got home safe from patrols. Pride, elation, and a sense of belonging filled him as Dick placed that half-mask in his hand.

He wasn't that orphaned mongrel Bruce took pity on. He was a full-fledged member of the family. Equal to Dickie and Raya in importance to Bruce. Held to the same standards as them. Taught the same lessons. Given the same lectures. Suffered the same consequences when he broke the rules.

Being Robin had been the ultimate thrill. He had been excited to join Batman in his goal of cleaning up Gotham. For a time Jason believed they were making a difference. Helping people who couldn't defend themselves. Doing what the coppers couldn't. Putting a stop to the corruption and lawlessness.

Then the Joker came along and…

His phone buzzing interrupted his trip down memory lane. She wouldn't be so incessant if it wasn't important. Jason tapped the screen with his thumb. His eyebrows forked as he read Kit's short message: [M in trouble].

M was code for another member of their family: Malcolm.

A kid who Kit brought into their cartoon circus world after her douchebag father sent men to kill him.

One just as damaged as the rest of 'em. Jason never forgot the night Malcolm had a night terror. He hadn't seen someone meltdown quite like Malcolm had. Not without a hit of Scarecrow's fear toxin. Mal's terror, hurt, and desperation clawed open pockets and doors inside him. Jason swore to do whatever he could to get rid of the monster haunting Malcolm.

I haven't fulfilled that promise, he realized as he slid his phone back into his pocket. Maybe now is the time to make good on that vow.

Not that the old man would approve of him killing a killer.

No, Batman would spew more of his rhetoric.

Remind him that killing a killer doesn't change the number of killers in the world.

No, it just eliminates one who is hurting someone you love.

Jason pushed back his chair and stood, stretching back muscles a bit stiff after slouching for so long in a hard wooden chair. He dropped a five on the table, winked at the blonde tending bar and turned to stroll from the bar. Not a one of the regular drunks or beatniks who occupied this dive in the heart of Crime Alley made a move to hinder his exit from their watering hole. If anything, they looked only too happy to see the back of him.

A smirk twisted the corners of Jason's mouth as he shoved open the door and stepped out into the cold night air. He couldn't blame the bums for being on edge around him. He had red in his ledger.

A lotta red.

Bodies lined his wake.

The dozen or so mobsters he offed when he returned to Gotham.

The handful of Black Mask's men just for fun.

A few of Joker's just to get the clown's attention.

Penguin's because they got in the way.

Oh, and the eighty inmates I poisoned in Arkham just to cull the population.

He couldn't forget about them.

His one-man crusade succeeded in doing more than pissing off the old man.

It also got rid of a lot of bad seeds.

It wasn't like Bruce could claim any sort of shock at his actions. He hadn't played well with others before he became the next Wayne foundling. His proclivity for delivering street justice put him at odds with Bruce often over the years. I'm just doing what you won'tbecause of that antiquated sense of morality you have, he told his absent mentor as the neon sign above the door spluttered on and off. I'm simply taking the scum out.

Traffic in this part of the East End was non-existent. Jason's footsteps echoed off the grimy brick walls as he made his way from the Aces & Eights. Frightened rats scurried across the cobblestone to find safety beneath the boxes dumped outside the backdoor of a shop with its windows and doors boarded up.

Jason took a moment and breathed deep of the smells of the East End. For him, these streets were home. He had been born and raised on these streets, knew every twist, turn and dark hole by heart. He was more comfortable here then he had ever been roaming the Gotham Heights district. Those blue-blooded snobs saw me as one thing and one thing only: Bruce's charity case.

Not Kit, though.

No, she welcomed him into the family the moment Bruce drug his sorry ass through the front door. Kit never once treated him as anything but her younger brother. She even defended him from that old crone who verbally attacked him during his first Wayne Christmas Ball. That's when I started calling her Kit, he recalled as he strolled over to where he left his bike. 'Cause Raya might look like a sleek black kitten but she has the ferocity of a jaguar.

And the single-minded tenacity of the man who also took her in and trained her, he mused as his phone buzzed again. Dickie might be the Golden Boybut Raya was Bruce's perfect little soldier.

Not that she agreed.

Jason unlocked his phone and dialed her number.

"What sorta trouble's Malcolm in?" he asked soon as the line connected. "And with who?"

"He's accused of murdering the man who killed his girlfriend." There was a weary sigh before Kit added, "Who also tried to kill his father in his cell at Claremont."

Well, that, Jason decided as the neon sign spluttered and went out, is not the trouble I anticipated Mal being in.

Though what trouble he expected the guy to have gotten into, he couldn't say. Murder, though? Definitely not. Malcolm upheld Bruce's no killing rule. Just not because of an antiquated sense of morality. No, Malcolm chose not to kill because he feared becoming a killer.

Like his father.

"He didn't do it."

"Of course not." There was another sigh. "Us knowing doesn't change the fact he's the primary suspect."

"How'd he end up accused of murder in the first place?"

"A man named Nicholas Endicott is behind the accusation." Kit's voice became hard as tempered steel. Another thing she acquired from their dark mentor. "He's a member of the Court of Owls." A pause. Never a good sign. Not in this family. "Endicott was involved with my father and Martin Whitly. He funded my father's operation and had Malcolm's father get rid of those the Court ordered killed."

He shouldn't have been surprised but he was.

"Why's the schmuck framing Malcolm?"

Not that he couldn't guess.

"Because he uncovered Endicott's secrets."

It didn't take a brainiac to figure out what Malcolm planned to do with that information. A burst of pride shot through Jason. Malcolm used his skills to bring down corrupt and dangerous men like this Endicott without needing a mask. He fought crime without having to hide in the shadows. Or resorting to lethal methods like me…

"You get Mal an attorney?"

"Dent has agreed to represent him, yes."

"Dent?" Jason almost choked on his spit. "You have Harvey Dent representin' Mal?"

"Can you think of anyone better to represent him?"

The helluvit was, Jason couldn't think of anybody better suited to defend Malcolm. Harvey Dent had been a top notch lawyer before he went berserk. The Falcones, Maroni's, and other criminal organizations operating in Gotham's seedy underbelly hated Dent. They couldn't buy him or threaten him into submission. He had been as incorruptible as Batman. Until Sal Maroni tossed acid in his face, permanently disfiguring him, and creating an alter-ego who adopted the moniker of Two-Face.

It was that side of Dent that concerned Jason most.

"You sure his volatile side won't make a sudden appearance during the trial and start shooting everyone for the sheer helluvit?"

"Two-Face is officially gone." Jason heard a Tt followed by something muffled. "Harvey went under Inceptive five months ago."

Surprise, anger, and dismay coursed through Jason at hearing Kit used her grandfather's neurological agent to rid Dent of his homicidal personality.

"You used Inceptive?" A GCPD helicopter flew overhead. Destination unknown. Not an unusual occurrence in Gotham. "After all the crap that freakazoid, Scarecrow put you and Gotham through to get it?"

"Jason…"

"Dammit, Kit, you swore never to use your grandfather's formula."

"Can we argue about this later?" A slight edge to her tone set Jason's nerves to tingling. "Malcolm's in trouble and we need all birds on deck."

"He's not the only one in trouble, is he, Kit?"

"What makes you think Malcolm's not the only one in trouble?"

A Batman-tactic.

Divert answering a question by asking the question in turn.

They were all Bat-trained.

Even Malcolm.

And some things, he realized as another helicopter swooped by, are engrained so deeply we can't shake 'em.

No matter how hard they tried.

"You wouldn't call me if Malcolm was the only one in trouble, Kit. You'd call Dickie or Timbo."

A harrumph. "They're already on deck."

"Then why do you need me?"

"He's going out to the hunting cabin." The soda in Jason's stomach bubbled and boiled as those words washed over him. "The one his father took him on their last hunting trip."

Jason could admit he was many things.

Bold, brash, volatile, and reckless, especially.

Stupid?

Absolutely not.

He knew what that cabin represented to Malcolm. He had seen how it haunted him. Awake or asleep didn't matter once the panic set in.

"Malcolm has night terrors, Jay-bean," Dick told him that night in the hallway.

The guy had more than that.

Martin Whitly was Malcolm's monster in the dark.

And I promised to get rid of him.

A deep pool of longing swirled to life inside Jason as he stared up at the smooth velvet sky. Even now, after everything that happened between the old man and him, there was nothing he'd like more than to rest his head on that broad shoulder and have that larger than life figure tell him in that velvety rasp, "We'll find another way."

Batman wasn't there, however.

And Kit was waiting for his answer.

"I'm on my way."

What else could he say?

A promise was a promise.

 

Chapter Text

"I cannot believe you allowed Malcolm to go out to that cabin!"

"Jess…" She cut Gil one of her dark looks, letting him know in clear and certain terms she wouldn't be placated. Not by him, anyway. "I didn't let Bright do anything."

He'd been against Bright going, in fact. The woman seated on the couch and the one on the phone with her younger brother overrode him.

"Why is he heading out to this cabin then?" Jessica's heels clacked on the wood floor as she paced back and forth across her living room. "What were you thinking in letting him go? Especially by himself."

"That he'd find a way to go anyway?" Gil answered truthfully. "Bright tends to do whatever he wants, Jess."

A fact the kid proved when he slipped his ankle monitor and went to see Sterling.

"Yes," Jessica huffed. Equal parts vexation and frustration. Something Bright tended to cause quite regularly. "He got that regrettable trait from his father."

Gil and Sorcha, the only other occupants in the living room at that moment, looked at each other, sharing the same thought about where Bright got his impulsive nature from.

"We can't keep Malcolm a prisoner in this house, Jessica." Sorcha utilized the tone she used whenever Bright's anxiety got the better of him. Unfortunately, Jessica wouldn't be as easily placated as her son. "We have to let him do more than sit here on the couch and go through my father's notes on his father and Endicott."

"Going through those notes keeps Malcolm safe."

"Yes, it does," Sorcha agreed with a slight nod. "Being safe is not how Malcolm tends to operate, however."

A white board and a file the size of a textbook in a cabinet in Gil's office bore testament to how the kid didn't understand the concept of playing it safe.

"Why?" Jessica spun to face her. "Why must he insist on doing things that cause him injury?"

"Because Malcolm sees it as a price worth paying if it means saving somebody from being tortured or killed."

"It's what makes Malcolm the man he is," Gil added. "Confirms he isn't like his father."

"Despite the dope being convinced he is."

The way she said it, that small verbal explosion, dredged up memories of past conversations. Malcolm thinking he was his father was a point of contention between the two. Along with the kid being broken. Sorcha never agreed with Bright on that particular opinion, either.

"I've told him he isn't like his father," Jessica said. "Same as you."

"And a part of Malcolm knows that's true," Sorcha replied. "However, the part of him conditioned by Martin Whitly refuses to accept it as truth. That little boy believes what his father told him about them being the same. That's why it's crucial for Malcolm to be involved in proving his innocence."

"How does proving his innocence help him with seeing he's not like that man?"

"Because it's not just his life and reputation that's being stolen from him here. It's also a part of his identity. The one piece of Malcolm that isn't shaped by Martin Whitly."

"Gil did more to shape that part of Malcolm than Martin did."

"And helping allows him to take back what Endicott and the Court is trying to take from Malcolm: himself."

"Isn't that what you called Raya for help with?" Jessica demanded as she continued to pace in small, tight circles. "To stop Nicholas and this Court?"

Gil understood Jessica wanted to do nothing more than protect her children from the people trying to hurt them.

Only, she couldn't keep Malcolm or Ainsley safe.

Not this time.

Her immense wealth and the Milton name and social standing weren't enough to stop Endicott. The man had the same wealth and social influence as she did. Plus he has the power of the people he's involved with to further help him in his crusade to destroy the Whitly family.

All thanks to the man sitting currently in a prison cell.

Where he belonged twenty years ago but a corrupt attorney, as well as Martin Whitly's connection to an underground cabal kept him from going.

Gil swore silently that once things with Bright were resolved that he'd let Raya do what she wanted ten years ago: transfer Martin Whitly to Arkham Asylum and throwaway the key.

The only reason he hadn't allowed her to do it was because of Bright. Gil was wise enough to know that the kid cutting all contact with his father during the ten years he worked for the FBI only happened because he knew where Martin Whitly was every hour of every day.

He could call his father or go see him anytime he wished resuming doing so. Something he wouldn't be able to do if Martin was locked away in Arkham Asylum's extreme isolation area. Cutting the connection between Bright and his father was extremely dangerous. The kid's mental state was fragile. Martin's hold on Bright was strong. Much as the kid loathed the monster, feared becoming like him, he also loved the man.

Why wouldn't he?

For ten years Martin Whitly had been a killer masquerading as a loving husband and father. The little boy remembered bedtime stories and mugs of hot chocolate as much as he did a girl in a box and running through the woods with a bloody knife. Breaking Martin Whitly's control and hold over Bright could send the kid into a tailspin.

The risk was worth it if it meant the kid would be free of his father once and for all.

"Stopping the Court and Endicott is one reason I called Raya for help, yes," Sorcha confirmed with a nod. "But it's not the only reason I called her."

"Is there something else going on I am unaware of?" Jessica heaved a sigh. "Not that that would be unusual. Malcolm doesn't tend to tell me about things until it's too late."

Guilt sloshed around with the coffee Gil managed to swallow earlier. They hadn't told her about the other reason the Court was after Bright. He wasn't sure how to broach the subject with her. Bat-Gods and a Batman Who Laughs wasn't exactly normal for New York.

He hated keeping a secret of this magnitude from her. What choice did he have, though? There was nothing Jessica could do to stop this evil version of Batman or the Bat-God he served.

"Jess," he started but she cut him off.

"If there's something else going on, Gil, I want to know about it." Her heel struck the floor as she added, "Right now."

Gil wished Raya would return from her phone call. She had cultivated the art of telling the truth without giving anything away. A skill she acquired from her mentor.

"There's nothing going on that you don't already know about," he settled on saying.

It wasn't a total lie.

They had told Jessica the Court could send Talons to kill Bright.

They just hadn't added why or that a demonic Batman could also be sent to seek him out.

"Than what other reason is there for calling Raya?"

"Malcolm himself." One of Jessica's eyebrows quirked in silent demand for explanation. Accustomed to dealing with her when she was in this mood, Sorcha complied with only a hint of humor in her voice. "Malcolm needs every bit of support he has to help him get through this situation. Especially," she added as Raya finally rejoined them, Krypto trotting alongside her, "as he finally confronts what happened on that camping trip he took with his father and John Watkins to that cabin."

"Camping trip?" Jessica's brow wrinkled. "What camping trip?"

"The one where Malcolm encountered the girl in the box," Raya said as she took a seat on the couch.

"Who we now know was Eve's sister, Sophie," Sorcha added.

"Why?" Jessica turned to pace back across the room. She paused at the sideboard where a set of crystals decanters filled with liquid courage waited. She didn't pour a drink, though. A first. Gil hoped it'd be the start of many. "There is nothing but misery waiting for him at that cabin."

"There's also healing." Sorcha calmly met the eyes Jessica shot over her right shoulder. "Malcolm has to confront his past. It's the only way he will start to heal from everything his bastard of a father has done to him."

"Then why aren't you there with him?" The accusation stung the air around them. "Or you?" She directed at Raya. "You are trained in this. You should be at that cabin and helping him deal with this."

"This is not something Malcolm needs me or Sorcha to help him with."

"How can you say that?" Jessica spun to face Raya, a look of incredulous disbelief on her face. "You of all people should know what this will do to Malcolm."

"Yes, I do." Quiet, calm. A diplomat in action. "I also know there are some things best friends and girlfriends… don't even bother saying what you're about to," she said when Sorcha opened her mouth. "You're his girlfriend. Deal with it."

A harrumph and scowl was Sorcha's reply. Not that Raya was impressed by either. The kid hadn't intimidated her with his dark scowl and they were close to Bat-level. Sorcha barely managed to resemble an annoyed fairy.

"You should have sent Richard or Timothy with Malcolm then."

"This isn't for them to do, either, Jessica."

"Than who is it up to? Gil?" Jessica scoffed. "In case you've forgotten, he's the one who arrested Malcolm."

Something Jessica was never going to forgive him for. It was the ultimate betrayal in her book. Just below killing twenty-three people and grooming her son to become a killer.

"Despite Gil being the man who has been a father and mentor to Malcolm..."

"Oh, he was really being a father and mentor as he ordered my son into handcuffs."

"Because he had no choice but to arrest Malcolm." Raya sent Gil a look of sympathetic understanding. Desperately needed after the hell of the last forty-eight hours. "The only way to protect Malcolm from those Endicott sent after him was for Gil and his team to take him into custody."

"I didn't like it doing it." Not that it dimmed her ire with him any. Time was needed for that. Something Gil hoped they'd have once all was said and done. "We couldn't risk those in Endicott's employ getting to Bright. So, we arrested him and put him in the safest place we could: holding."

Her eyes widened as realization dawned and then narrowed into thin, angry slits.

"Are you telling me you planned this?"

"It was a contingency plan Jim Gordon suggested when I spoke with him a few days ago, yes."

"You were behind this?" She directed at Raya, who nodded. "And you didn't tell Malcolm about it?"

"Only Gil, my uncle, Dick, and I knew." Raya indicated Sorcha with a nod. "We didn't even tell Sorcha."

"Why?"

"Because we needed everything to look as real as could be to conceal what wasn't."

"Malcolm had one of his night terrors while he was in that cell!"

"The man in the cell with Malcolm," Raya calmly told her as Krypto rest his chin on Gil's knee, "as well as the guards were from Arkham. All three were told about Malcolm's night terrors and what to do should he have one."

"Malcolm was never in any danger, Jess."

Not that that mollified her.

"He has been in danger his whole life, Gil." She resumed pacing. "From the man who I foolishly believed would protect him."

"Martin Whitly won't be a problem after this," Raya swore in that low rasp she reserved for her alter-ego. "I promise you that."

Jessica stalked towards the sideboard and this time poured herself a drink. She didn't pick it up, however.

Another first.

"I should have killed that man when I had the chance."

Raya's eyes shimmered with mirth behind the lenses of her glasses.

"That's really not something you should say in front of two active-duty officers of the law."

Not that Jessica cared.

"Throw him in a cell with the Joker," she said as she walked to a chair. "Let him take care of that man."

She had suggested the same thing after Malcolm was kidnapped by Raya's father. Gil hadn't disagreed with her then and he didn't now.

He just couldn't verbally agree with her.

He was an active-duty officer as Raya pointed out.

"That's not a bad suggestion," Raya admitted as Sorcha hummed a laugh. "Having Martin Whitly to entertain him might keep that clown in Arkham for an extra night or two."

"You're planning on the Joker still being there when Martin Whitly is transferred to Arkham." Gil's phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and answered without checking the caller ID. "Arroyo." He frowned as he listened to the man on the other end of the line. "Where? Alright, I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Case?" Raya asked as he returned his phone to his pocket. Unlike Bright, who'd have been bouncing with excitement, there was only mild curiosity on her face.

"Yeah." He pushed to his feet with a soft sigh. Crime never slept. Least of all in places like New York and Gotham. "Body found in the offices of Hartley and Smith. Murdered like Horacio Caldera."

Raya made a speculative sound deep in her throat.

"Jonathan Hartley was my father's business lawyer." Raya's lips pursed. "He is also the only son of Jonathan and Eileen Hartley."

"Making him a target of the Court." Gil grimaced. "Well, it looks like you're coming off the bench."

"Don't worry," Raya joked as she got up and followed him into the hall. "I'm not danger prone like certain individuals who we shall not name."

"No, you're not danger prone," Gil agreed as he opened the front door. "You're just the danger."

"Good thing I'm on your side, huh?"

On that, Gil decided as they stepped out into the cold night, we agree.

 

Chapter Text

An office in the northern part of the Diamond District.

It was a pretty long ways from where he had been.

Searching for bodies connected to the man who traumatized his son to the point he needed different medications just to reasonably function.

Gordon wouldn't have summoned him unless it was important.

He'd only have called for me if it was.

The carpet squelched beneath Batman's boots as he joined the commissioner in front of a large desk. He took a quick scan of the room. Mapping the scene so he could revisit it back at the Cave. Once he had filmed the perimeter he turned his attention to the charred remains slumped in an office chair behind the desk.

The reason he suspected Gordon had called him about.

The ceiling directly above the corpse was blackened. Closer inspection revealed scorch marks spread outwards from the body and up along the wall. Yet the bookcases and filing cabinets had not been touched by the flames. Interesting, he mused as a chill wind fluttered along the scalloped edge of his cape. Deliberate or unintentional?

The fire department drenched the room while putting out the fire. Obtaining prints and other trace evidence would be difficult. Not impossible, he reasoned as Gordon shifted beside him. Just difficult. A disturbing odor fouled the air. The smell of burnt human flesh was, sadly, all too familiar to him and the man standing beside him.

"The fire department completed their preliminary inspection ten minutes ago." Gordon's glasses glinted in the thin light from the overhead light. "Forensics is waiting for me to give them access to the room, but I figured you'd want first crack at collecting whatever evidence there might be." He glanced at the watch on his left wrist. "You've got ten minutes. Maybe more if Bullock and Judson can keep Jung back."

"Ten minutes is more than enough," Batman assured him as he moved towards the desk. "I wish I could have gotten here sooner but I was at Arkham when I saw the signal."

He had been searching the asylum's cemetery as one of the possible places the Surgeon had used to dump his bodies when he spotted the signal. A quick scan of the police frequency let him know where to find Gordon. His only regret was the firefighters had gotten to the scene before he had a chance to examine it. He understood the necessity. The fire marshal had to verify the flames were out and deem the premises structurally secure before detectives and the forensics team could get to work. How much valuable evidence had been lost was anybody's guess.

Batman tilted his head back to inspect the blackened portion of the ceiling directly above the corpse. The sprinklers put out the fire before it could spread to the rest of the room. Completing his scan of the fire's path, he turned his attention again to the body in the chair. The head was more badly burned than the rest of the body.

"They burned their face to obscure identification."

"Dental records will confirm who they are."

"He wasn't caught in the fire." Batman's stomach clenched. "He was used to start it."

"That's why I had them fire up the signal." Gordon heaved a sigh. "This was definitely no accident."

"No," Batman agreed. "This man was murdered."

"Question is why."

"I am more interested in who." Batman leaned forward to sniff the remains. "There's no discernible smell from the accelerant they used."

"If they used one."

"They had to use one to burn the body like this."

"Cremation usually occurrs at temperatures reaching upwards of 1800 degrees Fahrenheit," Gordon murmured thoughtfully. "And usually takes two to three hours to reduce a body to ash. This burned for less than that."

Batman pulled a portable vapor trace analyzer from his belt. Nothing suspicious was in the air. The melted glass on the man's watch, though, indicated the fire reached a temperature of at least 1,500 degrees Fahrenheit.

"This fire was hot enough to burn them to a crisp but it didn't burn long enough to reduce the body to ash."

"What types of accelerants can cause a fire to burn hot in a matter of minutes but not leave behind a discernible smell?"

"A study in 2019 revealed arsonists were using bags of potato chips as accelerants."

"Potato chips?" Gordon's bushy brows shot up. "Seriously?"

"They are less suspicious than gasoline and burn in a way that leaves little evidence behind."

"Great." Gordon grunted. "We have a killer using bags of Lay's or Ruffles to burn people to crisps. Just what we needed."

"New York would call him the Potato Chip Killer."

Gordon snorted a laugh. "Do you think he was dead before or after he was set on fire?"

"After."

"I figured you'd say that." Gordon sighed as he stuck his hands in the front pockets of his trench-coat. "Can't imagine someone sitting still as they're being burned alive, though."

Batman couldn't either. He moved closer to inspect the man's hands and wrists, resting still on what remained of the chair's armrests. Ordinarily, a body curled into a fetal position as the cooked muscles contracted. The fact this man remained upright in his chair suggested something prevented his body from doing what it naturally would. A soft grunt escaped him as he made a gruesome discovery. Suspicious now, he crouched down to examine the man's feet.

"He couldn't run." He pointed to the nail in the man's right wrist. "See here?" Gordon came forward to take a look at the blackened nailhead hammered into the man's wrist. "His wrists are nailed to the armrest of the chair and his ankles to the legs."

Gordon grimaced. "This is an ugly way for someone to die." He grunted as he straightened. "Even by Gotham standards."

"Whoever set this man on fire wanted him to suffer," Batman said. "They came prepared. Left nothing to chance. Meticulous and methodical."

A few possibilities as to who that profile fit played through his head as he studied the surface of the wooden chair. It had blistered, the pattern reminding him of alligator scales. Another indicator of the extreme heat that emanated from the body as it burned.

Zooming in, Batman counted at least a dozen tiny punctures wounds in the carbonized epidermis. The man had been stabbed repeatedly before being set on fire. Why? he wondered as he studied the holes. Had his attacker been trying to extract information from him? If so, what?

That's what they needed to figure out.

"From what I can tell, he was tortured and then set on fire."

"As if the man didn't suffer enough." Gordon hunched his shoulders and blew out a breath. "Alright, which of our usual suspects do you think was capable of this?"

That was the question Batman had been asking himself. The first name that popped into his head was the Joker. However, burning bodies to hide his victims identities wasn't part of the Clown Prince's usual modus operandi.

Same with Victor Zsasz.

Talons were capable of this level of violence but there was no evidence to suggest this had been one of the deadly assassins.

Something about this particular murder bothered him, though. Beyond the obvious reason of the man being killed. There was something familiar and troubling about the manner in which he had been killed. Puncture wounds made by a sharp instrument. Either an ice pick or...

A batarang

"The door was locked from the inside," Gordon said. "The chief said they had to break it down in order to gain access to the room."

A chill swept through Batman as he made another slow circuit of the room, starting a targeted examination of the room this time. Waterlogged books and papers littered the floor and lined the shelves not touched by the fire. A quick examination revealed them as mostly legal tomes and encyclopedias. A lawyer? His brow furrowed. For who? The Court?

Or someone else entirely?

"Were the windows open when you entered the room?"

"Yes." One of Gordon's bushy brows arched. "Why?"

"I'm thinking I wasn't the only one who chose the window to enter the office by."

"Explains why the door would still be locked when the fire department arrived."

Batman crossed to the sill and activated the UV lenses in his cowl. Minute traces of blood were on the outside of the window. He climbed out onto the ledge and scanned the exterior but found no additional blood to follow. Also absent were gouges in the brickwork to suggest that whoever entered the office had claws they used to scale the side of the building.

Meaning they used a grapnel line.

Like him.

"Whoever entered the office left the same way," Batman said after rejoining Gordon in the office. "Blood on the sill will also likely belong to the victim."

"So, the attacker left after setting the victim on fire." Gordon looked at the body. "Got what they were looking for then?"

Batman hummed softly as a theory started to take shape in his mind. The victim had been stabbed repeatedly with a sharp instrument. Potentially a batarang or something similar. The lack of blood splatter suggested they purposely avoided hitting a major artery. To maximize pain and prolong the torture.

The fire wasn't exactly new as Batman had seen it used before. Back when the Court had been searching for a formula that'd have granted them a power that'd have made them unstoppable.

Could that be what this is? he wondered as voices came from the hall outside. Or is that what someone wants them to think it is?

Someone, he reasoned now, blood chilling in his veins, who possesses my knowledge and gadgets and the Joker's proclivity for violence.

"What is it?" Gordon asked.

"Not sure," he replied. "Not yet."

I hope to God I'm wrong, though.

The key to figuring out who the attacker was lay in determining their reason for coming here. If the victim had been tortured for information, what sort of information did he possess? Stepping over to the desk, Batman conducted a quick sweep of the papers and files not destroyed by the fire or gallons of water.

The soaked documents seemed of little importance: mostly legal drafts, letters, bills, and other such things. Inked notes bled onto a soggy yellow legal pad. Nothing that justified torture or murder. The contents of a set of wooden drawers next to the desk were summarily unremarkable. There was a printer, but no computer or tablet in sight. If the victim was working late, he'd need one or the other to prepare and view his documents on.

"Do you see a laptop or tablet?" he asked Gordon as he straightened. "Or power cords that belong to either one?"

"No." Gordon grunted as he looked about the office for the specified equipment. "Think whoever did this made off with his computer?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Good question.

One he couldn't answer.

Yet.

Batman moved to a row of file cabinets situated along the interior wall. Each had a lock on them but opened when he pulled.

"Those weren't locked?"

"No."

"That's unusual."

Batman silently agreed as he began sifting through the overstuffed folders. Luckily, the files were in alphabetical order. Two, however, leapt out at him.

Ones marked "Berkeley" and "Whitly."

The contents of the folders, however, were missing.

"Find something of interest?" Gordon peered over his shoulder. "Berkeley and Whitly?" Surprise tinged his voice. "You think this has something to do with Matthew Berkeley and Martin Whitly?"

"I'm not ruling it out." They couldn't rule anything out at this point. Not with everything else going on. "Whoever broke in absconded with these files and only these files."

"Meaning they were after them."

"Mhm."

"What could have been in those files to warrant this level of violence?" Gordon shook his head. "Even taking into consideration who the files were about doesn't substantiate torture and murder."

He couldn't disagree. The victim having files on Whitly and Berkeley didn't quantify what had been done to them. While no place in Gotham was ever completely free from crime, this area of the Diamond District wasn't one that saw a high amount of criminal activity. Speeding tickets and parking violations were what mostly happened here.

What had this man known or been suspected of knowing that it cost him his life? Batman made a mental note to have Oracle look into the man once his identity was confirmed. The more he knew about him, the more he could deduce why the man had been murdered.

"How much more time do you think you'll need here?" Gordon pushed his glasses up. "Not trying to rush you but…"

"I'm almost done."

His cape swept the floor as he turned to examine the walls. Nails indicated where frames had once hung. Taken, he suspected, to further prevent them from identifying the victim. He finally turned to take one last look at the body sitting in the chair behind the charred desk. He wished he could conduct the autopsy himself. Protocol dictated he couldn't, however. He could watch the procedure virtually from the Cave. That left one last thing he needed to do. A test that'd either confirm or deny the doubt clawing at his insides. For that, though…

"I need a tissue sample," he told Gordon. "I wouldn't ask for one unless it was important."

Gordon obligingly turned his back. Plausible deniability. A hallmark of their decades long friendship and partnership. Batman removed a razor-sharp scalpel from his belt as he approached the body. He scraped away a few centimeters of burned tissue from the man's wrist, being extremely careful to not damage the body more than it was already. He deposited the sample in a compartment in his left gauntlet.

"Done."

Gordon turned to him.

"You have a theory about this." His eyes narrowed in the same way his niece's did when she was trying to gauge his thoughts. "Don't you?"

"A theory, yes."

"But you're not going to share it, are you?"

"No."

Gordon accepted that answer. Not happily but he accepted it.

"Any idea who's behind this?"

Batman couldn't voice his concern.

Not until the test came back confirming or denying his suspicion.

"Hopefully not who I suspect." His answer was as grim as Gordon's expression. "I really hope it's not who I suspect."

Because that meant he had everything wrong.

And placed the world in greater jeopardy than it already was in.

 

Chapter Text

The road, if one could actually call this stretch of dirt one, was extremely narrow. Maple, birch, and beech trees lined both sides. The glow from the Mustang's headlights cast eerie shadows. For a second, Malcolm imagined the smaller trees as skeletons dancing in the heavy mist creeping along the ground.

They're performing the Danse Macabre, he decided as lightning splintered the midnight sky and thunder rattled his bones. The mist slithered across the road like a snake, curled around the dancing trees, and beckoned to him with its long, vaporous tongue.

Nerves stretched taut threatened to snap when something resembling a pair of round owl-like goggles peered at Malcolm from behind a tree. His shaky hand spasmed on the steering wheel and his heart beat a hard staccato against his ribcage as he imagined those gleaming orbs belonging to a figure distinguishable by their ebony body armor and the gleaming blades that could cut through the Mustang's top as if it were butter.

Anxiety bubbled and boiled in his already queasy belly the closer he got to where those glowing eyes waited. Malcolm found himself wishing he had taken Raya up on her offer to prepare him a thermos of tea for one of those "just in case" moments.

A Talon leaping out of the shadows at him definitely constituted such a scenario in his mind. Malcolm held no illusions about his chances in a fight against one of the elite assassins. He'd lose a fight with Tickle Me Elmo.

Malcolm was honest about the fact that he rarely used any of the physical training he received from Batman. He trusted himself when in sparring sessions. Trusting himself in the field was an entirely different matter. If he lost control in a sparring session, it was only his partner who stood to get hurt.

Innocent people were who could get hurt if he let himself lose control. As they got hurt because my father had no control over his impulses.

Malcolm's greatest fear was becoming Martin Whitly. Part of him was like his father. It wasn't something he could deny any longer. Much as I wish I could. Another burst of light illuminated the sky. A half-nervous, half-sheepish laugh escaped Malcolm when he saw how those glowing owl-like goggles were actually two yellow lights fixed to a road sign warning about the area being prone to flooding.

Luckily, this wasn't the rainy season so he wouldn't need to worry about fighting a raging river while searching for his father's victims. I'll just be fighting over a decade of memories, neuroses, and traumas, instead.

Malcolm hit a dip in the road, hard enough to bounce his head against the roof of the car. For someone who drove a car as infrequently as him, this road was the least desired one he could find himself driving on.

Not that he had much choice in the matter.

It wasn't like he could call for an Uber or Lyft to drive him out to the cabin where his father liked to bring his victims to torture them before killing them.

He also couldn't ask Adolpho to bring him out here. Not that he wouldn't have if I asked him, Malcolm mused as another crack of lightning stretched across the sky. Adolpho had proven his loyalty to his family over the many years he worked for them. Malcolm was reasonably sure the man would do anything they asked of him.

Well, he amended as he hit another bump in the road, almost anything. Something told him that Adolpho might draw the line at killing someone in anything but a clear case of self-defense. Still, driving him out to a murder cabin seemed like a bit much to ask.

He also couldn't expect Gil, JT, Dani, Raya or Sorcha to do the driving. They had other tasks and responsibilities requiring their attention. Like finding Watkins before he has a chance to resume his mission.

John Watkins being released from Arkham Asylum hadn't come as a major surprise to Malcolm. Not after everything else that had happened the last few weeks. It'd have shocked him more if Watkins hadn't been freed. Malcolm was not a complete idiot. He knew exactly why Endicott had Watkins released: to keep them from figuring out any more of his dirty secrets and exposing him, as well as the Court of Owls.

Malcolm had no choice but to depend on the one person he didn't normally to not only get him where he needed to go but see his task through to completion: himself. Having confidence in himself and his abilities was a frequent topic of discussion between him and… well, everyone.

He openly admitted he lacked faith in himself and his non-profiling skills. He also didn't think about himself or his health and well-being while working a case. His sole focus was on finding the killer before they could kill again. If he got hurt in the process didn't matter.

To him, anyway.

His family, friends, co-workers, Gil, Raya, and Sorcha all tended to disagree with that particular viewpoint. Especially Sorcha. She let him know in clear terms she didn't agree with his being broken, deserving of pain and misery or being like his father.

It had been easier to trust in himself when he worked for the bureau. He had depended on his profiling skills as well as a number of the unique skills taught to him by Batman in order to bring in a number of dangerous killers. He hadn't questioned himself or found himself worrying as often about if he was straying to close to that proverbial line that separated him from Martin Whitly.

Part of it was because there wasn't always someone he could depend on while out in the field. Teams often split up while chasing a suspect to maximize their chances of catching the perpetrator. Teams also got separated when factors — such as traps getting tripped or finding themselves ambushed by partners they hadn't factored into the equation — occurred. Malcolm only had himself in those situations, had to believe he could think his way out of his predicament, and talk the suspect into giving themselves up without resorting to violence.

The other reason, though, was because his father hadn't been lurking over his shoulder, whispering to him about how they were the same, and that he was the only one Malcolm could truly depend on. He didn't deny there wasn't merit in Sorcha and Raya's stance that ending his association with his father would be beneficial to him in the long run. The ten years he spent away from Martin Whitly and his manipulations proved how helpful ending their relationship could be.

Sorcha and I could have a real relationship if I ceased calling and going to see my father, he realized as he came to a fork in the road. We could do things normal couples do like go on date nights. Vacations. Have game nights with friends.

Things he convinced himself he didn't deserve because he hadn't called the police sooner and told them about the people his father hurt. The lives Martin Whitly took for reasons Malcolm still couldn't explain despite his training and research.

That was why he couldn't sit on his mother's couch while everyone worked to find the bodies connected to his father, Nicholas Endicott, and the Court of Owls.

He needed to help.

Not only to bring justice and peace to those people his father hurt with his actions but to finally absolve himself of the guilt weighing him down all these years. I can't begin healing until I find the rest of his victims.

Unbidden came the vision of his ten-year-old self running through a dark forest similar to the one he was driving through, the pocketknife he found in the station wagon his father drove clutched in one hand, and the front of his jacket and pants covered in mud, leaves, and blood.

Malcolm used to believe the blood belonged to Watkins. It made sense it belonged to him. He had stabbed the man. Watkins told him as much and Malcolm could now recall the incident.

Lately, however, he found himself wondering if it was Watkins blood on him and the knife. His memories were, admittedly, fragmented. Events were often out of sequence. Many blended into other moments to blur what really happened. Much of his childhood was based on implicit rather than explicit memory. He couldn't recall the details autobiographically but he had an emotional recollection of particular events.

What if I stabbed someone else?

That question haunted him. Especially since he could recall his father crouched behind him, whispering instructions and encouragement in his ear as he helped guide hands holding the pocketknife he later ran through the forest clutching for dear life.

Why was his father guiding his hands?

What specifically had he been instructing him to cut? A fish? Rabbit? Quail? Deer?

If it wasn't an animal he was cutting… who was it?

That's what I need to figure out, Malcolm decided right before a sound, like nails on a chalkboard yanked him out of his dark musings. A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed the culprit was a branch from a tree. Malcolm swallowed a grimace as more branches scratched at the top and skimmed along the hood, sides, and trunk lid.

Yeeting out a window because of a bomb about to blow him into Bright-bits saved him from Gil's wrath after he crashed onto the LeMans.

A tree scratching the Mustang would see either Sorcha or Sean put a bullet in him.

Should have taken Raya's Tahoe instead of the Mustang…

Not that she'd have been any happier about hers being scratched up.

Déjà vu clawed its way up the back of his neck as Malcolm found himself deep in the heart of the forest. I've definitely been here before, he realized as lightning illuminated the world for a few brief seconds. He slowed the car to a crawl, hands shaking like a chihuahua outside in a blizzard, eyes frantically searching for the break in the trees that led to the old wood cabin his father liked bringing him on their "special" weekend getaways.

Malcolm's gaze landed on the cabin he had remembered in disjointed fragments for over two decades of his life a few seconds later. The one story log structure sat between a grove of trees, gray mist crawling across its roof, and sliding down the sides to slither across the ground. He parked the Mustang by a large oak and cut the engine. A mixture of anticipation and dread rolled through him as he sat staring at the remarkably well-maintained cabin. Flashes of other times he and his father came here played through his mind as thunder rolled overhead.

The majority of his nightmares started here.

He could only hope here was where they might finally end.

Malcolm exited the car and started up the short walk to the front door.

The wood door with a strange carving above it.

Like that of an… owl.

Malcolm's brows shot up to his hairline as the connection dawned. The Court owns this cabin and the land on which it sits. Like they did other properties and places around the world. That's why it hadn't been searched after my father was arrested. The Court had utilized their political connections to squash any search of the area.

Because there are bodies here they don't want found.

Excitement mingled with the apprehension playing ping-pong with his anxiety and fear. Suddenly, things that hadn't made sense before became startling clear to him: Sterling becoming his father's attorney. Endicott helping him secure a private room at Claremont. The privileges he was allowed. The clients he consulted for.

It was all because of the Court of Owls.

It also explained why Endicott pulled away that protection once Malcolm figured out who the Girl in the Box was. His father had become a liability after revealing Sophie's connection to Endicott and his serial killer ring. More, he'd become a danger to the Court and their underground dealings.

And they get rid of those who threaten them with exposure.

So engrossed was Malcolm in his musings that he missed the tree root sticking up out of the dirt. He hit the ground before he had a chance to catch himself, cracking his head against the bottom step on his way down.

Pain exploded behind his eyes, screamed its way across his forehead, silencing the shadow creatures as it traveled along every nerve fiber.

Malcolm's world went bright.

Then dark.

Chapter Text

JT met Gil and Capable Bright as they exited the elevator.

"You're definitely hitting the ground running with this one," he said to the woman filling in for Bright. "Guy is a mess."

"My husband would tell you that hitting the ground running is how I prefer to hit it." A spark of humor mixed with a bit of mischief in her eyes. "Especially since the other way tends to break bones and leave ugly looking bruises."

"Should remind Bright's skinny ass about that."

Not that he believed it'd do a damn bit of good. Bright's crazy ass didn't stop to think about things like safety and well-being. The white board JT hung in Gil's office after the guy got bit by a venomous snake was proof of that. The number of on-the-job accidents Bright had since joining the team hit triple digits the day he yeeted out a window onto Gil's prized LeMan's to avoid being blown into Bright chunks. That number, however, didn't include the handful of off-duty incidents or those he dubbed as shit-that-can-only-happen-to-Bright that happened, as well.

Like the bucket of paint dumped on the guy as he headed to his favorite coffee shop.

Or getting clobbered by a kid on a skateboard while sitting on a bench in the park.

Or gluing his own hand to his forehead.

The last one he continued to rib the guy over. Not out of malicious spite since that wasn't his style but more because of how Bright the incident was. JT freely admitted he hadn't liked the guy in the beginning. He had fully believed the guy didn't have any respect for the badge or police officers. He also thought Bright had a death wish. Nobody sane offered themselves up to a serial killer.

Not that Bright ever claimed he was anywhere near sane.

In fact, he stated freely he was anything but.

To Mini-Bright's frustration and annoyance.

JT's suspicions were seemingly confirmed when the guy chased John Watkins into a service tunnel without calling any of them for backup. His skinny ass didn't chase Watkins once but twice, he realized as voices came from the office at the end of the hall. First time earned Bright a couple of cracked ribs. Second time he got a concussion, busted thumb, and a stab wound to his abdomen.

Dangerous, JT came to realize after that was just how Bright operated. Guy did whatever it took to catch a killer. Even if it lands his ass in the emergency room.

"Malcolm doesn't hit the ground running," Capable Bright said. "He tends to sort-of…" She made a diving motion with her hands, "nose-dive at it."

"Something he learned from you," came from Gil.

"Moi?" Those eyes blinked wide."Why, Gil, you know I'd never do such a thing."

Bright, JT decided, could pull off the innocent act. The guy was about as intimidating as a raw egg. This woman? Danger rippled from the top of her head all the way down to the tips of her designer boots.

"You dive into groups of armed assailants in the same way Bright dives into…" Gil paused, grimaced. "Well, everything."

"You must be talking about someone else because that doesn't sound like me, at all."

"I'm definitely talking about you." Gil leveled a look at her. "Recall that I was there the night you decided to take on the LoBoys by yourself."

"They were threatening an elderly couple."

"Five armed gangbangers is a call for backup situation."

"Five armed gangbangers is just a warmup." There was no arrogance or conceit in Capable Bright's voice. Just a quiet confidence in her abilities. "Now if it had been twenty armed gangbangers I would have called for backup."

"You should have called for backup anyway."

"I must have been absent the day they taught let the bad guys terrorize elderly couples at the police academy."

"No, you were absent the day they taught call for backup and actually wait for it."

"Sounds like she got that play outta Bright's playbook," JT said.

"Who do you think Bright learned that particular play from?"

Capable Bright harrumphed.

"Malcolm learned that particular play long before he met me." One eyebrow arched. "Or have you forgotten that night at the dock when Robin rescued him from the men my sperm donor hired?"

"I haven't forgotten that night, kiddo." JT didn't wonder at the shadow that passed through Gil's eyes. Bright was involved. That was the only info he needed to explain it. "You could have taught him to do otherwise."

"Tall, dark, and broody didn't teach me that particular lesson." The ghost of a smile flittered across her face. "He taught me that if something is in my way to move it."

"What if whatever's in your way won't get out of your way?"

"Then I'm to skip step one and call him so he can move it for me." Her dimples winked. "In fact, that's what he'd like me to do all the time but I don't."

The simple affection between them was unmistakable. As was the trust and respect. It wasn't a surprise, though. Not when one factored in the nearly two decades, dozens of situations, and Bright. Who was the piece that ultimately linked them all together.

Almost like playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon but with Bright's skinny ass, instead, JT mused as he led them down the hall to the corner office where what had been a human being until something — and he was positive Capable-Bright would fill in who or what the something was — decided to turn them into a pincushion.

"Cleaning lady found the body a little after eight." JT stepped to the side to let Gil and Capable Bright enter the office ahead of him. "Edrisa estimates time of death was between 6:30 and 7. Won't know for sure until she gets the guy on the table and opens him up."

"Can we confirm the deceased is Jonathan Hartley?" Gil asked.

JT glanced at the body slumped in an office chair behind the desk. There wasn't any possible way for them to make an identification. Not with the guy's face resembling fresh ground hamburger.

"'Fraid not."

"Whoever attacked him?" Capable Bright's eyes narrowed into thin, speculative slits as she looked at the body. "They wanted to make sure we couldn't run facial recognition software."

"Why?" JT nodded to the bronze plaque situated on the front of the desk. "Pretty obvious it's Jonathan Hartley."

"Has anyone tried to contact Jonathan Hartley?" Capable Bright tucked her hair behind her ears. "He has a condo in the upper west side."

"Calls to his cell and home went unanswered," he told her. "Dani is trying to reach his secretary now."

"Has a unit been dispatched to do a home check?" Gil moved out of the way so one of the techs could collect samples of blood dotting the floor by the entrance. "We need to establish that whoever attacked Hartley didn't go after the rest of his family."

"His wife left him last year."

Capable Bright watched the tech as they moved about the office gathering what evidence there was. Not that JT imagined there'd be much to find. Especially if their killer was either one of the Talons she had told them about or one of the assassins on Endicott's payroll.

Either one bad news in his opinion.

"Any children?"

"No."

"What about parents? Sisters? Brothers?"

"Hartley Sr. died ten years ago from cancer. His mother moved to Florida to live with Hartley's older sister and her husband not long after his death." Her eyes shifted to watch as a tech placed markers near a bloody footprint. "Eileen Hartley's alive and well according to posts on her daughter's social media pages dated yesterday."

"Safe to say neither Endicott or the Court will be sending anyone after her then."

Capable Bright hummed a noncommittal reply as she took a step towards the desk. Gil detained her by setting a hand on her shoulder. She glanced at him from over her shoulder, one brow arched in silent question.

"I know you'd prefer to have access to the room so you can investigate it." Gil dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "With the scrutiny my team is currently under…"

"It's fine, Gil." She moved to the shelves situated along a short wall. "I will recreate the scene from the images I'm taking later when I'm back at Jessica's. They'll provide me with all I need to put together what happened."

"You're taking images of the room?"

"I am." A nod. "Yes."

How was she taking them was what JT wanted to know. She wasn't holding any sort of camera or digital recorder in her hands. Her cellphone was in the right pocket of her jacket. A look around the room didn't reveal anything that could function as a secret camera.

Not in his mind, anyway.

"You're wondering how, aren't you, Detective?"

"Gotta admit I'm curious, yeah."

Those dimples winked again.

"The benefits of having a parent who owns a company with its own R&D department is access to the most innovative of gadgets and the software to go with it."

"You're telling me you have an invisible camera?" One brow arched. "Seriously?"

"Digital recorder in my contacts, actually." Capable Bright continued along the wall. Scanning it, JT assumed. "They allow me to scan a crime scene in full detail, marking points of interest, highlighting areas where additional analysis is needed, perform facial recognition, detect heat signatures if there are any, as well as run fingerprints through the system." She paused in front of a set of photographs. "All the while leaving my hands free."

"You're telling me a pair of contacts is capable of doing all that?"

"Think of it as an advanced detective mode."

"And here I thought rich people spent all their money on cars, houses, jewelry, and clothes."

Capable Bright hummed a soft laugh as she moved to the open window.

"Oh, we like buying houses, cars, jewelry, and clothes." A hand indicated the bat-shaped drone that floated down to hover just above the windowsill. "But we also love buying toys like these."

"Is that thing shaped like a bat?"

"Uh-huh."

Not for the first time, and he doubted it'd be the last, JT realized they were no longer dealing with the average run-of-the-mill bad guys they normally did. Endicott and the Court of Owls were part of an elite criminal class that went way beyond mob, triads, cartels, and even plain old serial killers like Martin Whitly.

Their temporary profiler was also not an FBI trained one. No, Capable Bright had been privately trained by a man JT thought only existed in comics. And she earned her badge in a city that makes New York look like Candyland.

"Was this window open when you arrived, Detective Tarmel?"

"Yeah, it was." He had found it strange given how cold a night it was. "You think that's how the killer got in?"

"I think that's what we're supposed to think, yes."

"Supposed to think?" Gil frowned. "You don't think he was killed by a Talon?"

"Oh, he was definitely killed by a Talon." Capable Bright's tone was as grim as her expression. "He's just not Jonathan Hartley."

"This isn't Jonathan Hartley?" Surprise shot through JT. "You're positive?"

Why he asked that, JT didn't know. If anyone was going to know what Hartley looked like, it was Capable Bright.

"One hundred percent." Capable Bright waved to a picture on the wall of an older man with snow-white hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. "That's Jonathan Hartley there with Nicholas Endicott." Her mouth thinned into a cold, hard line. "And my sperm donor, Matthew Berkeley."

"If this isn't Jonathan Hartley…" JT said slowly. "Than who the hell is he? And where's Hartley?"

"Those are excellent questions, Detective Tarmel." Capable Bright's eyes became different. Sharper. Predatory. Like a hunter stalking its prey. Her voice, too, had changed. Became darker. Raspier. "I can't answer either one, unfortunately. Not yet, anyway."

She would, though.

Of that, JT had no doubt.

 

Chapter Text

Consciousness returned slowly, bringing the white noise and the shadow creatures with it. How long Malcolm had been lying there unconscious, he didn't know. His bones weren't frozen stiff so it couldn't have for more than a few minutes.

Not that being knocked out in the middle of nowhere for any length of time was a good thing.

Malcolm admitted to being many things: broken, crazy, dangerous, unfixable.

Stupid, he was definitely not. Even he acknowledged knocking himself unconscious in the middle of the woods was bad. He had zero cell service and couldn't call for help if he needed it. He also didn't relish becoming the midnight snack for some hungry predator. A dull throb started in the spot his head met the stair and spread outward. Great, he groused as he waited for the pain to subside. All I need at the moment is a concussion. A bright bite of pain shot across his forehead and pulsed behind his eyes as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Malcolm did his best to ignore it and the accompanying nausea. Harder to ignore were the shadow creatures. They laughed at him and called him all sorts of foul, vicious names.

All of them deserved given how he was in the middle of the woods, late at night, without backup, and likely with a concussion because he hadn't been paying attention to where he was going. Malcolm stumbled over to the car in order to inspect the damage. He was amazed to find it wasn't as bad as he thought it'd be.

Again, not that knocking himself unconscious was a good thing.

The pebble-sized knot would likely become a goose egg by morning. No way to cover that up, he lamented as he removed twigs and leaves from his hair. The small cut above his eye was crusted over with blood and dirt. Not wanting it to become infected, Malcolm reached into the backseat for the first-aid kit Sorcha kept on hand for his accidents.

"She's not gonna let me live this down," he muttered as he removed an antiseptic wipe and gently dabbed at the cut.

He hissed out a few choice words as the astringent liquid came into contact with the wound. He only had himself to blame for his misery. Had he been watching where he was going he never would've tripped over that tree root. What choice did he have, though? Someone needed to come here and investigate his father's murder cabin. With everyone else busy, it left him as the one to do it.

I could have asked Sorcha to come with me. Malcolm discarded that thought as he reached for a bandaid. As much as he wished Sorcha was there with him, it was imperative she dive into her father's journal. It's the key to solving all this and putting Endicott away.

A twig snapped behind him.

Malcolm froze.

A wild animal or a Talon sent to keep me from finding out what secrets are buried here?

Talon seemed far more likely than a bear.

Especially since the bear would make some sorta sound to announce its approach.

One of the elite assassins would not.

Every muscle coiled, primed.

Not that he stood a chance against a Talon. Batman struggled in each of his previous encounters with Talons. Nightwing had been grievously injured by one. He wasn't anywhere as skilled as either hero in physical combat. Didn't possess a fourth of their tactical knowledge. He wouldn't go down without a fight, though. Not when he finally realized he had something — no, someone worth living for. I have a lifetime of amends to make and promises to keep to Sorcha.

If he somehow managed to survive this encounter.

Malcolm drew in a breath and released it slowly before looking over his shoulder. He half expected to find a pair of yellow eyes peering at him from the darkness. Relief shot through him when he discovered it wasn't a Talon or bear about to make mincemeat out of him.

It was, however, the last person he expected to find standing there.

"What are you doing here?"

"Got drafted into service."

"Let me guess by who…"

"Yup." Jason waved a hand towards him. "How'd you get the knot on your forehead?"

"Tripped over that tree root by your right foot and hit my head on the bottom stair."

Jason glanced down at the root sticking up out of the dirt.

"You tripped over that?" One brow arched. "How?"

Malcolm smiled sheepishly.

"You know what an accident prone dope I am."

"I'm shocked you made it ten years with the FBI without causing yourself any serious injuries." Jason's lips twitched. "Or anyone else for that matter."

"Me too," Malcolm admitted with a small laugh before turning back to retrieve the bandaid he dropped when the twig snapped. "How'd you know where I was?"

Not that he didn't have a couple of guesses as to how.

"Tracking device." Jason jerked his head towards the Mustang. "Probably under the dashboard if I know Kit half as well as I think I do."

Malcolm made a face as he placed the bandaid over the cut on his forehead.

"Explains why Sorcha gave me the keys without making more of a fuss."

"And why she agreed to let you come out here in the first place."

"Yeah," Malcolm said with a small sigh. "That too."

"Kit probably installed the tracker while your girlfriend was staying with 'em."

"Sorcha's not…"

"Your girlfriend?" A smirk screwed up one corner of Jason's mouth. "Yeah, heard that from Dickie and Kit for years. Look at 'em now."

"They're not me."

"Kit is a mix of you and the old man."

"More him than me."

"Don't be so sure about that."

"Raya's not broken." Malcolm gently smoothed the bandaid into place. "I am."

"You're not broken." There was no underlying censure. No castigation. Just a simple refute of his statement. "And before you say it." Jason's tone was firm. "You're not your pops, either."

"Than who am I?"

Because Malcolm wasn't so sure anymore.

"You're Malcolm Bright." A hand settled on his shoulder. Squeezed gently. Comfort and support. Desperately needed given the place he found himself. "Guy who trips over tree roots and bangs his head on the bottom stair of a murder cabin."

Malcolm hummed a soft laugh.

"You sound like Sorcha now."

Did exactly what she'd have done were she there, too.

"So, you two still separated?"

"Yes and no."

"Yeah?" Jason leaned back against the car and folded his arms across his chest. "Kinda figured you'd have worked that junk out and gotten back together."

If Sorcha had been there she'd point out they'd never been together. Because I've never allowed us to have that chance, that opportunity to become more than friends.

Because he always chose superficiality over substance.

Fantasy over reality.

Lies over truth.

Pain over pleasure.

"Sorcha and I have never been together." Malcolm's fingers trembled so he clenched them into fists. "We're just..." he broke off, wet suddenly dry lips. "Friends."

The word sounded as hollow as he was.

Dating but not dating.

That's what Gil called it once. A friends with benefits sort of thing. Doing all the things couples did without any sort of understanding between them about the parameters of their relationship.

Sure, he bought Sorcha a charm bracelet in college to convey his feelings for her.

Yes, he bought another one to replace the one Robert Harwood took from her as a trophy.

A bracelet still in his pocket because he hadn't found the time or place to give it back to her. When I get home, he decided as a cold breeze slithered up his pants legs, chilling him. I'll give her the bracelet when I get home.

"You and her are absolutely like Dickie and Kit. Denying you've always been together. Even," he added as the fog grew thicker around them, "when you've been with other people." Jason slanted a look at him. "Want my advice?"

"Don't screw things up with Sorcha?"

"Yeah."

"It's me, remember?" Malcolm busied himself by putting everything back in the first aid kit and returning it beneath the seat. "I'm broken." The shadow creatures jeering at him were a stark reminder about how much. "And I can't be fixed."

"Kit doesn't agree with that."

"I know she doesn't."

Raya, much like Sorcha, made her stance about his not being broken abundantly clear. Though she's never gone to a few of the extremes Sorcha has to prove her point.

Like sleeping on top of him just to show he wasn't a danger to her.

"Kit believes in you," Jason said quietly. "She always will."

"She believes in you, too."

"Even though I tell her she shouldn't."

"I can imagine her response to that was the same one she gives me."

"No," Jason said, lips twitching. "She said a few things Alfred would have had kittens over if he'd been there to hear them."

"Ah." Malcolm closed the car door. "She was using language you'd be sure to understand."

"And vowing to clobber me if I didn't quit it." Jason stared at the dark cabin then. "So, this is the place, huh?"

"Yes, this is it."

The place where his nightmares officially began.

What happened after he stabbed Watkins? Why had he been running through the woods? Was he trying to get away from Watkins?

Or someone else?

"Where do you think we should begin searching for clues?"

"There's a basement." A tremor rattled from the tips of Malcolm's fingers all the way up his arms. "It's where my father kept his victims when we were here."

It's where he took Sophie.

Where she managed to convince Martin Whitly not to kill her.

Setting off a chain of events that encompassed multiple people and saw many lives destroyed.

"If we can find one of the others your father murdered he can be sent away." Jason pushed away from the car. "Far away."

Something Malcolm admitted as being a necessity. His mental health had suffered since allowing his father back into his life. However, he couldn't deny there wasn't a small part of him that didn't want to see his father transferred out of Claremont Psychiatric. Especially since Raya would make sure to send him someplace he couldn't manipulate staff into giving him unlimited phone privileges.

And where I can't visit him.

Something Malcolm wasn't completely comfortable with. As toxic as his relationship with Martin Whitly was, he was still his father. He didn't want to lose what little contact he had. Malcolm freely admitted the ten-year-old inside him loved his father as much as he feared him. His adult self, on the other-hand, loathed and feared him as much as he loved him.

"I know this is hard for you. He's your pops and all. But..."

"He hurt a lot of people." Malcolm wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. "And they deserve justice. Real justice."

"So do you, Mal." Jason's hand settled again on his shoulder. "You're one of his victims, too. And you deserve justice for what he did to you."

Waves of shock rolled through Malcolm. Even the shadow creatures were stunned into silence. Raya and Sorcha frequently told him he deserved justice for what Martin Whitly did to him but he never agreed with them.

He wasn't a victim, after all.

Jason saying it, however, made him realize they were right.

He was a victim.

As much as I'm a possession.

"I made you a promise a long time ago," Jason said. "Do you remember it?"

"I remember it."

As if he'd ever forget what the then twelve year old told him in the hallway outside Raya's studio.

"I will see that promise fulfilled." Jason's fingers tightened briefly on his shoulder. "I swear it."

Malcolm didn't doubt Jason for one minute.

Promises, after all, were sacred to him.

Especially when they came to the monsters in the dark.

He did, however, fear what he might do in order to see that vow kept. Jason Todd was like Bruce Wayne in many ways: bold, brash, brave. They differed, though, in one critical area: Jason had no problem with using lethal means. It was the biggest point of contention between the two. Jason saw Bruce's ways as antiquated while Bruce viewed Jason's as amoral. The only reason his anxiety didn't skyrocket was because of his faith in the woman who sent Jason to help him with his search. Raya wouldn't have enlisted his help if she believed he'd cross that line.

"Let's get to searching," Jason suggested. "We're running outta time."

Malcolm led the way to the door without a word.

The door with an owl carved into the smooth wood.

A sign they were either on the right path…

Or the wrong one.

 

Chapter Text

The inside of the hunting cabin didn't look anything like he expected it would. Though if he was being honest, really honest, he'd admit he had absolutely no clue what he thought the inside of this cabin to look like. The few memories he did have of this place came from the night he stabbed Watkins. None of them correlated with the room he found himself standing in, though.

This is the right cabin… Malcolm's brow furrowed as he turned in a slow circle. Isn't it?

Of course it was. He had the paperwork that showed the Watkins family were the owners. JT and Dani investigated this cabin with Colette Swanson after Watkins killed Owens and kidnapped him.

As he stood there, however, Malcolm couldn't help but feel as if he and Jason were somehow at the wrong cabin. Something seemed… off.

No, he corrected as he paused by the entrance into the kitchen.

Everything was different.

Flashes from the night he stabbed Watkins rolled across his visual field as he looked around the living room. The layout reflected the one inside his head but nothing in it matched his memories.

The rack with the fishing poles had been replaced with a desk that contained a laptop and two external flatscreen monitors. Shelves above the desk contained a variety of owl figurines. The cabinet where the hunting rifles had been stored was now occupied by a flatscreen television and an entertainment center containing a Playstation, an Apple TV box, and a modem.

The couch and chairs were brand new.

As were the coffee table, bookcases, and end tables.

A glance into the kitchen revealed the microwave, stove, and refrigerator were also the latest models out on the market. As was the coffeemaker and toaster oven. The cabinets and countertop looked as if they, too had been recently redone.

Those weren't the only oddities Malcolm noticed. Slip-cloths didn't cover the furniture to protect it from accumulating dust or dirt. The windows and appliances were grime and fingerprint free. No dust-bunnies crept across the wood floors, clung to the rug or played hide-and-seek in the corners. Cobwebs didn't hang from the drapes, ceiling or lampshades.

The place looked as if it had been cleaned from top to bottom.

And recently, too.

"Someone's living here," Jason said as he shined a small flashlight around the room. "Place shouldn't be as clean as this. Not if its been abandoned for as long as you've said it has been."

"It's the right cabin." At least, Malcolm thought it was. "The address is the same as the one on the paperwork Dani found."

"It's the right cabin… it's just not the one you remember."

Malcolm's brow puckered.

"You think I'm remembering a different cabin?"

Something not outside the realm of possibility, Malcolm admitted silently. Most of his memories were in huge, disjointed chunks of images and sounds. Many connected to other moments to create memories that while true, were also false.

"I think it's something we need to consider." Jason walked over to investigate a painting of an owl hung on the wall by the bedroom door. "Yes." He turned towards Malcolm. "Your team took pictures of the outside of the cabin after you were kidnapped but not of the inside, right?"

"They didn't take any photographs of the cabin."

There had been no point for them to take photographs since he wasn't found at the cabin. And they were working against the clock.

One brow arched.

"How did they know this was the place then?"

"They found old photographs of the cabin in a photo album and confirmed it belonged to the Watkins family."

"So, you have no way of knowing what the inside of the cabin looked like when your team investigated it as a potential location you were taken."

"No." Malcolm's brow furrowed further. "Why?"

"Because I think you remember how this place looked before the Court had it remodeled." Jason swept the flashlight around the room again. "Likely after your father was arrested."

That makes sense, Malcolm realized as Jason walked over and clicked on the lamp set atop one of the end tables. Soft light flooded the room and revealed even more changes. Supporting Jason's theory about the Court having the cabin remodeled after his father was arrested. Making sure nothing could be tied back to them.

"Think a Talon is living here?"

"The Court keeps them on ice between uses."

"So, it's likely someone else then."

The question was: who?

And where are they?

"Whoever has been using this cabin has likely been using it for the same purpose your pops did." Jason crossed towards the kitchen in three long strides. "To get rid of whoever the Court wanted gone."

He didn't need to add: and make sure they stayed gone. Malcolm's belly tightened at the untold horrors those who lost their lives in this cabin endured before succumbing to death. Twenty-three was the official number attributed to his father. Watkins had almost as many when he was captured. The identities of many of those victims remained a mystery despite his mother's attempt to identify them. How many there actually were was a mystery. Sorcha's father and Ian Turner believed the numbers would double or even triple once all the bodies were located and the remains identified.

Something neither Endicott nor the Court wants.

Those people being found and identified presented a threat to their operations. To the power and control each wielded. To the lofty social positions they enjoyed. Malcolm was also willing to bet that whoever lived in this cabin had been ordered to search for any evidence his father and Watkins might have left behind and destroy it.

It wasn't just those bodies being unearthed Endicott and the Court wanted to prevent. It was also stopping from whoever searched for them from asking too many questions, as well. Like Eve. Malcolm's gaze strayed to the figure floating by the window. Murdered because you wanted to find out what happened to your sister.

Who may or may not still be alive. Malcolm had no way of knowing what exactly Eve found out before she was murdered by Eddie Smith. If she found her sister or not.

"Watkins grandparents worked for the Court." Malcolm didn't have to guess at what sort of service the Watkins performed."It's why they had use of this cabin."

"Not a surprise they worked for the Court." Jason opened cupboards and drawers. Revealing basic staples and items one would expect to find. "Explains why this place wasn't investigated after your pops was arrested, too."

"And why Watkins continued to use it."

"He became their disposer until you figured out his connection to your father."

"He took over for his grandfather."

"Who the Court repaid for his years of service by having his own grandson murder him."

"The Court instructed the Watkins to groom their grandson to become a killer." Malcolm moved to the first bookcase. Nothing on the shelf gave him any hint as to who could be occupying the cabin. "As they likely instructed my father to groom me."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" Malcolm looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "You don't think they told him to groom me?"

"I think he would have groomed you had they instructed him to or not." Jason's eyes met his. "Your pops sees you as an extension of himself, Mal. You're his way of living forever."

"We're the same." The words would forever haunt Malcolm. "Never forget that, my boy. We're the same."

Only, they weren't.

Not completely, anyway.

Martin Whitly liked hurting people. He derived pleasure from causing pain. Physical and emotional, Malcolm amended as Jason moved to the refrigerator. His father enjoyed having power over his victims.

In deciding their fates.

Judge, jury, and executioner.

"There's no way he wouldn't have groomed you to follow in his footsteps," Jason continued. "His ego wouldn't allow him not to turn you into a killer."

"No," Malcolm agreed as he moved to the other bookshelf. "It wouldn't."

"You're not him, Mal."

"I've spent years thinking that." A soft knocking sounded by his left ear. He shook off the pinpricks of alarm and turned towards Jason. "The truth is a part of me is like him."

"You're also equal parts the old man and Lieutenant Arroyo." Jason touched a hand to the teapot situated on the back of the stove. "Still warm," he said. "Whoever hasn't been gone long."

"If they're gone," Malcolm pointed out as another knock sounded. "They could still be here."

Watching and waiting for the right moment to strike. A confrontation was the last thing they needed. They had no idea who the individual the Court sent here was or how dangerous they were. Jason could handle himself if a fight occurred. He had been trained by Batman and a slew of other teachers. He was also not opposed to using lethal measures to achieve his desired end result. The holsters forming an outline beneath the fold of his leather jacket didn't contain water pistols, after all.

The problem was him. He ultimately could get Jason killed. He already died once because of someone looking to hurt the family…

"This was a bad idea..." Malcolm began as another knock sounded. "We should go before whoever lives here returns."

"You need closure, Mal." Jason exited the kitchen and started examining the painting on the walls. Not that the forest scene provided any clue as to the identity of the absent cabin dweller. "The only way for you to finally get it is by searching this place for those who haven't been found."

"If my father would just tell me where they're buried..."

"He won't." Jason frowned as two more soft knocks sounded. "You hear that?"

"Yes." Unease slithered through Malcolm. "I've been hearing the knocks for the last few minutes. Figured it was a tree hitting the side of the house."

"Maybe." A grin tugged at Jason lips. "Or maybe it's the ghosts trying to lend us a hand."

"Not a fan of anything related to parapsychology."

More knocks.

From the bedroom this time.

"Your girlfriend would love this."

"She would," Malcolm agreed with a small nod. "Sorcha's gone on a ghost hunt before, in fact."

She had wanted him to go with her but he refused. Cited how the majority of paranormal claims were either bogus or hallucinations. However, Malcolm couldn't deny the tingle that shot down his spine when the knocks came again.

"I'll go check the basement," Jason offered. "You stay here."

Not that Malcolm had any intention of doing that. They'd cover more ground if they divided the rest of the cabin between them. Plus, there was something, a voice in the back of his head telling him to go into the bedroom.

Promised the answers he sought awaited him there.

Three more knocks sounded by his head.

A mocking of the holy trinity he remembered the guys on Sorcha's favorite show saying.

Given this cabin had been hell for so many…

"I'll check the bedroom and bathroom."

"Just wait for me." Jason's tone was velvet steel. "We'll check it together."

Malcolm had already crossed over to the bedroom door, however. He paused in front of it. Images swam across the smooth wood. With his mind spinning, belly curdling, spine tingling, and legs trembling, his shaky hand reached for the knob.

Turned it.

The door swung open with only a whisper of sound.

Inside was nothing but darkness and a host of memories.

Malcolm drew in a breath, released it slowly. It's now or never

He went to take a step into the room but the figure that loomed out of the shadows stopped him.

For a brief moment, Malcolm thought himself back in hell.

With John Watkins as his personal tour guide.

A small smile appeared through the thick bristles covering the lower half of Watkins face.

"Hello, little Malcolm."

 

Chapter Text

Her inability to work the crime scene as she'd like frustrated Raya to no end. It was the price for her stepping in for Malcolm, though. New York wasn't like Gotham, after all. They didn't allow their consulting profilers to gather their own private samples or process evidence. They had medical examiners and specially trained forensic personnel for such things. Her hands were further tied by her promise to not take to the rooftops as Fenix. New Yorkers were not accustomed to costumed heroes traipsing around their city and solving crimes as the people of Gotham. It was the job of the police to solve crimes and arrest those responsible for committing them. They existed solely for that purpose in many New Yorkers mind.

Much as she wanted to shed her slacks and blouse for the black bodysuit she wore underneath, she couldn't. Fenix wasn't needed here, Agent Kean was. Meaning she'd have to investigate Hartley's disappearance… discreetly. Utilize other things in her arsenal to figure out where Hartley had gone. And who the deadman in his office is.

The Batdrone proved a huge help in exploring the roof, street, and buildings around Hartley's office. As did her contacts in creating a virtual map of Hartley's office she could purview later without interruption.

Neither, though, replaced good ole fashioned detective work. The kind she learned from her uncle, adopted parent and mentor, and the man talking with Detectives Tarmel and Powell. Now's a good time to go and do some investigating of my own, she decided, edging her way to the door.

Talons, like their overlords, preferred cool shadows and burning silence to carry out their orders.

As does the Bat who hunts them.

The facts of the case, on the surface, anyway were pretty straightforward. A man had been killed at some point in the evening by a Talon. Brought to Hartley's office. Placed in the chair behind his desk.

Those facts were supported by evidence.

Indisputable.

What could be contested was how the man got into Hartley's office and how the one responsible for bringing him there, exited.

The office door had been bolted from the inside.

The window had been opened despite the chilliness of the night.

Each a ruse.

Specifically designed to throw them off the scent.

Keep them from giving pursuit.

And prevent us from figuring out what actually happened in Hartley's office.

She wasn't so easily deterred.

Raya moved out into the hallway. Nobody paid her any mind. She was the acting profiler on the case. Searching for clues was how she'd create her profile.

Not that she needed one.

Talons were diabolical, methodical, and deadlier than Lady Shiva and David Cain.

Given the only way to stop a Talon was either to freeze them in ice or immolate them.

Neither an option should she find herself engaging one of the assassins. A voice inside her head — which sounded suspiciously like Alfred's — urged her to flash Batman and let him know what was going on. There was no time to waste, though.

Not if her suspicions about what actually happened in Hartley's office were correct.

Raya entered the office on the right of Hartley's. The lack of a name on the door was her first clue about this not being an actual office. Her next one was how everything was in perfect order. Books neatly lined the gleaming shelves. Papers were piled on the desk in an orderly fashion. A place for everything and everything in its place, she mused as she moved to the wall connecting the offices.

She ran her fingers along the smooth paneling, searching for what'd confirm her theory about how the Talon obtained entry into Hartley's office. She found what she was looking for a second later. To a casual observer, the small owl would appear as nothing more than some design etched into the wood. To a trained detective like her, however, it was the Holy Grail.

She gently pushed on the owls chest. In response, a door-sized segment of the bookcase swung outward, exposing the body slumped over Hartley's desk. Detectives Powell and Tarmel swung around to look at her with identical looks of surprise while Gil fisted his hands on his hips and frowned.

"Didn't I tell you to stay in here?"

"Did you?"

"I did."

"Well, I must not have heard you when you said it."

"Oh, you heard it." Gil crossed over to her in two long strides. "You just chose to ignore it."

"I'd never ignore a direct order."

"Like hell you wouldn't." He stared into the dark office. "Whose office is this?"

"Nobody's."

"Nobody's?" One brow winged up at her nod. "Why is there furniture in it then?"

"To make it look occupied."

"This how you figure Talon entered Hartley's office with the body?"

"And exited, too."

Tendrils of guilt slithered through Raya. She should tell them what she suspected: that the Talon who entered Hartley's office and Jonathan Hartley were one and the same. She wasn't ready to reveal what she believed. All she had was her gut feeling. She lacked sufficient evidence to support her claim. I'll get it, though.

"Explains how they got in with Hartley's door locked." Detective Tarmel ambled over to where Raya and Gil stood. "Bypassed it entirely."

"That's how the Court likes to operate." Raya moved back into the dark office. "Bypass the laws, circumvent the rules, and get rid of whoever stands in their way."

"Are hidden doors like this common in businesses in Gotham?" Detective Powell frowned as she examined the books on the shelves. "Because they're not common here."

"You're not dealing with the normal criminal class here, Detective Powell." She walked the perimeter of the room, mapping it as she had Hartley's office for examining later. "The Court supersedes the mafia, the Cartel, the Taliban even in terms of threat level."

"Yeah, all we needed was some crazy ass cabal getting involved with this Endicott mess."

Raya hummed a noncommittal reply as she continued her scan. The UV filters built into her contacts detected droplets of blood starting at the chair in front of the desk. She followed them to the window, opened like in Hartley's office. This time, however, it wasn't a ruse. Whoever used that window to gain entrance into this office. And exited from it, too.

Raya moved to it. A scan of the floor under the window revealed additional droplets of blood. Ignoring Gil's less than discreet clearing of the throat, she climbed out onto the ledge and scanned the stone exterior of the building. Additional splotches of blood — belonging to the man slumped over Hartley's desk, of that there was no doubt — started at the top of the window and continued up to the roof. Fresh gouges could also be seen in the thick stone.

As if somebody clawed their way up the side of the building.

Someone with blood on their hands.

Or talons, in this case.

"What is it?" Gil poked his head out the window. "You find something?"

"Blood." She indicated a smudged handprint. "And this."

"I'll have forensics process the room." His brow furrowed as Raya drew out a length of unbreakable monofilament wire from her pocket. "Kid, whatever you're thinking about doing, the answer is no."

"I need to follow the evidence, Gil." Raya tossed the line at a stone fixture. "It's the only way to figure out what happened to the man dead in Hartley's office."

"You could use the stairs leading up to the roof access then."

"This way is faster." Her lips split into a wide, mischievous grin. "And more fun."

She scaled the building, heedless of the lecture she'd get from Gil when she returned or the headlines there'd be if she went splat. She spied a Talon, identifiable by their black body armor, cowl, and the dual swords fixed to their back in ornately designed sheaths, crossed the rooftop in long, confident strides.

Notably absent was Jonathan Hartley.

Furthering Raya's theory about him being the malignant assassin.

Her arrival didn't escape the Talon's notice. They peered over their shoulder at her, those round owl-like goggles gleaming with a feral intensity that left her cold to the marrow of her being. She imagined this was how Bruce felt while he was down in the Courts labyrinth and facing off against these rabid mongrels.

Not that he spoke of his ordeal.

Any of them.

He had no need to really.

She earned her degree in trauma long before she ever cracked open a textbook on the subject.

We all rose from the ashes. Became what the predators fear.

Most anyway.

A familiar scent — coppery and sweet — teased at Raya's nostrils as she pulled herself up onto the roof. A tremor snaked through her hands, up her arms, across her shoulders as a vase of roses — always red — tumbled across her visual field.

Not now! she silently raged as Talon shimmered before her. Not when I am facing such a diabolical fiend as this!

The world faded away despite her efforts to remain grounded in the present.

The crack of gunfire split the silence in two.

A scream she distantly recognized as her own filled her ears.

Her mother was falling, collapsing on the small table in the middle of the entryway, and upsetting a vase of roses.

They rained down upon her as she fell, pooled around her broken body, perfumed the air with their sickly sweet scent.

Bile foamed up into her mouth, almost burst from between her clenched teeth. Sweat popped out on her forehead, dotted her upper lip.

Bands formed around her head, her chest.

Tightening, tightening until she thought she might pass out.

Panic was an icy poker in her burning belly.

A shadow loomed.

A predator of a different sort.

One she feared far more than she did the Court's deadly killers.

They whispered one word: "Rise."

It snapped Raya back to the present. She shoved the memories and panic back — not away because that was beyond her — with a strength Bruce would've been proud of. She made herself focus as she confronted the hooded assassin.

She had never confronted a Talon before.

Not alone, anyway.

There was no choice, however. Even if she sent out a distress call, none of the others could reach her in time. I can't let Hartley escape. He's key to unlocking what the Court has planned and putting a stop to it.

"Hartley!" She raised her voice just enough so the assassin could hear her. "I know it's you under that cowl."

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Doctor Kean." Talon turned and resumed striding across the rooftop. "I am not Jonathan Hartley."

What the…? Raya's eyebrows shot up to her hairline as that rich, velvety baritone washed over her. He's not Hartley.

No, his voice was eerily familiar…

It can't be…

Other things leapt out at Raya as the seconds ticked by. This Talon's mask bore a distinctly familiar pattern around the eyes. They were also broad-shouldered, thickly muscled, and taller than most Talons.

They also moved with catlike grace.

Much like Bruce.

He also hasn't attacked me as other Talons would have, she realized, senses tingling with familiarity and uncertainty.

Was this a new Talon or one the Court brought out of hibernation with some other purpose than to kill all the firstborn children of their members?

Her money was on him being a new Talon.

One who shared many of the same physical characteristics as the Wayne patriarch.

"Who are you?" She called to the assassin's retreating back. "And why are you here?"

"The answers you seek, Doctor Kean?" The assassin paused on the edge of the roof but did not turn. "They await you in Jonathan Hartley's office."

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

A series of renovations over the years turned the Batcave — as his main base of operations had become known — into a fully functional and self-contained facility.

Carving out the space from which he could work was only the first step in turning the cave into a viable workstation, though. He next needed to fill that space with the equipment that'd help him in his quest.

Having his own R&D department gave him access to the computers and other tech necessary for his chosen line of work. If the tech he needed wasn't available? He hired people who could make it so.

He next added a garage full of specialty vehicles — air, land, and aquatic — and a machine shop in which to fix them.

Then came a state-of-the-art crime lab, medical wing, and a sophisticated training area complete with AR technology.

What once had been nothing but a vast underground chamber beneath Wayne Manor was now multiple levels, all connected by sturdy steel ramps, stairs, and walkways.

The only thing that remained of the cavern he stumbled on as a child was the jagged stalactites high above his head. Well, them, and the nocturnal occupants who roost among them, Bruce mused as soft chirps filled the air. The bats nested in a portion of the cave he designated specifically for them. He was determined not to evict them despite Alfred's frequent complaints about the mess they made. They'd been here first, after all. Plus, Damian made a rather compelling argument against displacing the creatures.

"It's nearly dawn, sir," Alfred observed as he joined him at the main computer station."Your winged namesakes are retiring for the night. Perhaps you might consider doing the same?"

"I'll sleep later, Alfred."

The butler's frown was visible in the holographic screen.

"I don't believe I need to remind you about the importance of getting the proper amount of rest."

"No, you don't."

It was a debate they had been having since before he became Gotham's caped crusader. Bruce's struggle with sleep started after his parents were murdered. He regrettably shared sleep issues with three of his children. He wished they didn't have such a disorder in common, though.

There were many things Bruce wished his children didn't suffer from. Like generalized anxiety and bi-polar disorder, complex PTSD, pavus nocturnus, psychogenic hand tremors, survivors guilt, grief disorder… the list went on and on.

What more he could have done, though, he didn't know. Bruce admitted he was far from the perfect parent. He made his share of mistakes. Wasn't there for his children as he should have been, didn't listen to them when he should have, placed others above them.

He wanted better for his children. As any good father would. He wanted them to rise above their traumas. Thrive and grow. Become capable, confident adults. He did his best to help them. Gave them a home and family. Warmth and comfort. Provided them with what safety and security he could. All his children received a proper education. Were taught the skills they needed to navigate the world outside the Manor's iron gates.

It hadn't been enough, though.

He hadn't been enough in the end.

"You have not slept since Commissioner Gordon gave you the files he received from the NYPDs Deputy Commissioner."

Bruce hadn't slept since before Gordon handed him those files but he didn't tell Alfred that.

There'd be no living with him if he did.

"I'll sleep once I figure out what the Court has planned and put a stop to it."

A soft sigh was Alfred's reply. Bruce was under no illusion the subject was closed, however. Four decades with the man taught him to never believe a topic had been resolved simply because Alfred chose to no longer comment on it.

"I thought you already figured out what it was the Court planned?"

"I thought I had."

"Something has changed your theory?"

More like someone, Bruce corrected silently. Aloud, he said, "I believe this situation is more complicated than we realized."

Especially if he's involved…

Bruce didn't share his fear with Alfred.

Not yet.

He needed to know he was right, first.

Bruce scanned the information scrolling by on the holographic screens in search of the answers he needed to either confirm or deny the suspicions heavy on his mind since leaving Gordon.

He checked the status of the tissue sample he procured from the charred remains. The tissue was undergoing a comprehensive spectrographic analysis — one he customized in order to search for a specific substance. The time-consuming procedure tried the limits of his patience, however. He wanted answers and he wanted them now. He had no choice but to wait, however. The other tests, while faster, were far less reliable and lacked the consistency he needed.

"Is this not part of the prophecy?"

"It is."

Bruce was saved from having to elaborate further by an electronic chime. Perhaps Gordon has an identification of the remains. He opened a new window on the central monitor but it wasn't Jim Gordon who peered back at him.

It was Raya.

The interior of the office behind her suggested she wasn't at Jessica's as he instructed. Bruce's brow furrowed beneath the cowl.

"Why aren't you at Jessica's?"

"Because a dead body deposited in Jonathan Hartley's office here required I leave Jessica's to investigate."

His brows winged up.

"A dead body was left in Jonathan Hartley's office?" Why hadn't he heard about it? "And it's not Hartley?"

"No." Raya stepped to the side, exposing what had been a human until someone — and he had a good idea who that someone was — turned them into a pincushion. "This is definitely not Jonathan Hartley."

The body slumped in the chair behind the desk. Much like the charred remains from earlier had been. This body hadn't been burned, however. Had the killer been interrupted before he could set fire to the body? Or was this an intentional oversight?

"Do you have any idea who he is?"

"Yes." Raya's expression was as grim as her tone. "Miguel Caldera."

"Horacio Caldera's son?"

"Yes."

"How do you know it's Miguel Caldera?" Bruce could barely make out any facial features through the blood and bruises. "Facial recognition software wouldn't be able to identify him with the condition his face is in."

"I didn't need facial recognition to identify him." Raya held up an item in her hand. A rattle, Bruce realized, belly clenching. "This confirmed he's Miguel Caldera."

Bruce stared at the rattle as bats chittered overhead. This development complicated matters.

Not that they weren't convoluted enough.

Killing Miguel Caldera made sense in the larger scheme of things. He was the first and only son of Haracio Caldera. However, Bruce suspected his murder had less to do with the Court's prophecy and more to do with the suspicion streaking up and down his spine.

"There's something else."

"What?"

"There was a man here." Raya dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Dressed like a Talon."

"A Talon?" He didn't growl it. Well, he didn't growl it much. Raya had orders to not confront any of the Court's diabolical assassins. Not on her own. "You were told not to confront Talon."

"I didn't have a choice," Raya said, tone cool. "I had to follow him." She stepped aside so the people from the coroner's office could bag the body. "It was the only way to find Jonathan Hartley."

"Did you?"

"No."

Bruce swore silently. Hartley missing was the last thing they needed.

"You should have called for backup."

"I didn't need it."

"You didn't need it?" His eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

"Because this man might have been dressed like a Talon but he definitely didn't act like one."

A Talon who didn't act like a Talon? Bruce had never heard of such a thing.

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't attack me for one. And…" she paused. "He knew my trigger word."

Stunned disbelief crashed over Bruce in icy waves. It wasn't possible, played over and over through his mind. Only those Raya personally selected had knowledge of that word.

A word he instilled to break her out of an anxiety attack.

"He used your trigger word?" Bruce managed around the lump in his throat. "He used rise?"

"Yes." Her eyes met Bruce's. Conveyed to him there was more she wasn't saying because she wasn't currently free to do so. "He used rise."

A flashing icon drew his gaze from hers. The results of the tissue analysis were ready for his inspection. Bruce decided to shelve the situation with this Talon for the moment. There would be time later for them to discuss what happened on the roof of Hartley's building.

After the test results either prove or disprove my theory about what's really going on...

To do that he needed to confirm the presence of electrum — a highly conductive alloy composed of silver and copper — in the tissue sample.

The metal had been prized by ancient Egyptians for its unique ability to reanimate the dead. The Court of Owls learned how to harness that ability from Doctor Leviticus years ago. It was how they reanimated their Talons when they had need of them. The Court also utilized the metal in the weapons they outfitted their Talons with. Bruce, however, had found traces of electrum in bottles of elixirs and tonics, the water in the fountain he drank from while trapped in the Court's massive maze, even in the walls of the labyrinth itself.

This discovery allowed him to develop a way to test for the presence of the metal. He could identify even the tiniest traces of electrum in organic or inorganic samples, no matter how damaged or degraded they were. If the incinerated man from earlier had come into contact with the metal, this test would tell him.

However, and more importantly, he also searched for the presence of one other material: dark matter.

Specifically, Nth metal.

"Return to Jessica's," he told Raya as he called the results up on the screen. "We'll talk more about this later."

"Gil will be tickled pink at hearing you ordered that."

Bruce ended the transmission without replying. It wasn't like Raya expected one. She understood small talk wasn't his strong suit. What he needed to say, he said. They'd talk more about this Talon once he looked at the results of the analysis. Bruce found himself shying away from looking at the answer. Such hesitation was out of character for him. He believed in facing facts head on. He could deal with facts, after all. It was rumors and speculation he couldn't deal with.

This hypothesis, though, changed everything he thought and believed.

Stalling wasn't going to give him the answer he needed. Overcoming his reluctance, he called up the results. The answer appeared on the screen in glowing green letters:

PRESENCE OF ELECTRUM: CONFIRMED

He already assumed as much.

The next box was the one that most concerned him.

PRESENCE OF NTH METAL: CONFIRMED

The temperature in the cave dropped dramatically.

There was no denying it anymore.

It's him, Bruce realized, stomach churning with a mix of fear, dread, and anger. He's here.

How, he didn't know.

He thought Diana destroyed him when she pushed him into the Death Sun.

Somehow, some way, the Darkest Knight survived.

"Damn it," he muttered, fists clenching at his sides. "Damn him."

"I take it your analysis confirmed your suspicion?"

"Yes."

Alfred stared at the results displayed on the screen through slightly narrowed eyes. He, as well as Bruce knew exactly what those results meant.

Who they referenced.

"So, the Court is not trying to call Barbatos here as you initially believed."

"No." Bruce turned and stared into Alfred's somber face. "They're not trying to call Barbatos here as I initially thought."

No, he suspected they were trying to stop an imminently more dangerous threat.

"I see." Alfred waved towards the results. "And what does he have to do with Miss Raya and Master Malcolm?"

Bruce's brow creased as he pondered that question. Everything initially pointed to The Court killing all firstborn children in order to fulfill one of their ancient prophecies. Ian Corbin even referenced the prophecy in his notes multiple times:

And he, the Destroyer came to let loose his anger and hate, destroying the universe, and all with it.

Clearly, that Destroyer wasn't Barbatos.

Nor was the Court trying to use Malcolm and Raya to bring him into their universe.

A broken man must extinguish the fire of the burning muse.

He didn't know what those words meant now.

How they factored into what was going on.

"I'm not sure how Malcolm and Raya figure into this," he admitted grimly. "The Darkest Knight being involved changes everything."

"If I may ask, sir, what are you going to do?"

Bruce already knew the answer to that question, Darkest Knight or no Darkest Knight.

"My job."

 

Chapter Text

This isn't real, raced through Malcolm's mind as he stared into Watkins whiskered face. It isn't real.

It couldn't be.

There was no possible way Watkins could be there.

He's not here, Malcolm decided as the shadow creatures laughed and jeered. He's not here.

He repeated the words until they became just another in a long line of never-ending loops he couldn't shut off no matter how hard he —and the litany of drugs he swallowed on a daily basis — tried.

This was just another of his hallucinations.

A byproduct of his grief over Eve's murder, stress from being arrested, and cracking his head on the stair outside.

John Watkins wasn't standing in front of him.

He was locked away somewhere he couldn't escape from.

Even as he tried to convince himself there was no possible way Watkins stood framed in the doorway, smiling that smile Malcolm saw whenever he closed his eyes, he knew it was a lie.

Watkins was there.

He wasn't imagining it.

Watkins was there in the cabin his father and him had brought Eve's sister, Sophie.

The same cabin they brought him.

Bands formed around Malcolm's head.

His throat.

Chest.

Tightened, tightened until he could barely form a coherent thought, much less draw a decent breath.

A simple camping trip they told his younger self.

Only, it wasn't.

They brought him there to that cabin for the same purpose as they did Sophie.

He wasn't a plaything, though.

No, his father brought him there with the intention of getting rid of him.

Why?

Because he had become a liability to them.

Poised a danger to them and their murder games .

I'm still a threat, Malcolm realized as Watkins took a step forward. To him, Endicott, and especially the Court of Owls.

The ones behind it all.

"See, I had a feeling you'd come here, Malcolm." Bile foamed, hot and frothy into Malcolm's mouth. Sheer will was all that kept it from bursting out from between his clenched teeth and splashing across Watkins boots. "Knew you couldn't resist…" Watkins paused; grinned, "temptation."

Malcolm's hand, the one with the psychogenic tremor, shuddered from the tips of his fingers all the way up his arm in one long, continuous ripple. He buried it against his thigh and did his best to school his features.

"I need to know what happened here." Flippancy was excruciatingly difficult but the only weapon he had to wield. "And since you refused to tell me…"

"You're still a broken record." A shadow of annoyance passed across Watkins face. "Fixated on things rather than appreciating them as a whole. Last time you were fixated on the girl in the box. This time you're fixated on what happened on that camping trip." He cocked his head to the side. "Tell me, little Malcolm, is this fixation because of what you did…" another pause. "Or did not do?"

Slippery innuendo coated that lethal purr.

Hinting at the answers to the multitude of questions swirling around inside Malcolm's head.

Offering them to him in the same way a fisherman tempted fish with bait on a hook.

A deadly trap.

One Malcolm fell prey to before.

The first time resulted in cracked ribs.

The second time?

He barely escaped with what little sanity he possessed intact.

"What did you do on that camping trip, little Malcolm?"

The million dollar question.

One Malcolm longed to answer despite fearing what those answers might be.

"We have time to discuss what happened that night. Get a few details ironed out." Watkins stepped closer, only a few inches taller than Malcolm but towering above him. "Then you'll finally take your trials."

Malcolm shot a wild look over his shoulder, hoping; praying to see Jason burst through the front door, guns drawn, and aimed at Watkins head.

He wasn't there, though.

Nobody was there.

It was him and Watkins.

Alone.

Same as they had been down in his father's murder room.

"Ah, but you weren't exactly alone down there, now were you, my boy?"

He wasn't but he didn't have time to revisit what happened in that murder room.

He had to keep himself here in the present.

Focused on Watkins.

On getting himself out of this situation.

Without getting stabbed or any bones broken, preferably.

"Why don't we start by discussing the Court of Owls?"

"There you go again." There was a bite to Watkins tone. A dangerous one that told Malcolm clear as day that this was a sore subject with Watkins. "Fixating on one subject rather than seeing things as a whole."

"What can I say? When I get fixated on a subject, I get fixated on it."

The words were light, airy, nonchalant even. Opposite of the emotions threatening to immolate him. Malcolm did his best to keep the blaze contained. Becoming the Human Torch wouldn't get him the answers he craved with every fiber of his being.

Not that Watkins was inclined to give them.

No, he did what he had the other times they had spoken: stirred the conversation to what he wanted to discuss.

"Have you accepted your father was going to kill you, Malcolm?"

The question knocked him off balance.

As Watkins intended.

Images whirled around Malcolm with the force of a category five hurricane before he could stop them.

Scenes from his childhood intersected with ones from his years at the boarding school he got expelled from, Harvard, the FBI, to his conversation earlier with Jason.

Other images followed.

His father and Watkins arguing over something his father promised they'd do together.

Him stabbing Watkins for reasons unclear to him.

Running blindly through the woods, a bloody knife clutched in his fist.

Surrounding those images were Watkins crushing his ribs in that abandoned service tunnel.

Owen Shannon bleeding out before his eyes.

Chained like an animal in that murder playroom.

Your father was going to kill you.

Those words played through Malcolm's mind as he stood there, hands spasming at his sides, legs threatening to buckle beneath him, and belly cramping violently.

Of all the things he expected Watkins to reveal to him while they were in that murder room, his father killing him hadn't been one of them. It had made no sense to Malcolm at that time. The one thing he had always been reasonably sure of was his father's love.

The Court being involved, however, changed everything.

"Was it because of the Court and their prophecy?" Malcolm managed around the shards of ice jabbing him in the throat. "Is that why my father was going to kill me? Because the Court ordered all firstborn children killed so they could bring Barbatos here?"

It was the only logical explanation Malcolm had for why his father would actually go through with killing him.

"They are killing all firstborn children to fulfill a prophecy," Watkins said, smirking. "But that is not why they want to kill you specifically."

"Why do they want to kill me then?"

"Malcolm. Malcolm. Malcolm." Watkins made a soft tsk-tsk sound. "Haven't you figured out the Court has chosen you for a sacred mission?"

That sent pinpricks of alarm cruising along Malcolm's already frayed nerves. Watkins had told him while holding him hostage that he had plans for him. Trials, he called them.

What those trials were, Malcolm didn't know.

He was sure to find out, though.

"What sacred mission have they chosen me for?"

"The broken man will extinguish the flame of the burning muse to keep the Darkest Knight from destroying all creation."

"Burning muse?" Malcolm's brow knit. "What burning muse? And who is this Darkest Knight the Court wants to stop?"

Watkins eyes became sharper.

His smile predatory.

Then he tore Malcolm's heart from his chest.

"The burning muse is Doctor Kean."

His world, already tilted, threatened to topple completely.

"No." His hand spasmed against his thigh. Hard enough to rattle his femur. "I will never kill Raya."

"Oh, you'll fulfill your sacred mission." A small smile creased Watkins lips. "After passing your trials, first."

"No." Fury rose up to smother the fear twisting his insides into knots. "I won't."

"You'll fulfill your mission, little Malcolm. You'll kill Doctor Kean just as the Court demands."

"Why?" Malcolm demanded. "Why does the Court need me to kill Raya?"

"Haven't you guessed?" A small smile curved Watkins lips. "They've chosen you as their perfect Talons."

It's the ultimate revenge, Malcolm realized, belly churning. Turning Batman's protégés into Talons.

Well, it wouldn't happen.

He wouldn't allow it.

"Yeah?" Malcolm squared his shoulders and cocked his head to the side. "Well, I'm not much of a team player. As you already know from our previous encounter."

"Oh, you'll fulfill your mission." A feral gleam passed through Watkins eyes. "I guarantee it."

Malcolm opened his mouth to issue another heated denial but something whistled by his ear, stopping him.

A sound, like that of a wet mop as it slapped on hard floor, broke through the static buzzing between his ears.

What was that? he wondered, brow furrowing.

A small, black perforation in the middle of Watkins forehead provided the answer.

Shot.

Watkins had been shot.

Malcolm didn't have to guess by who.

There was only one person there who could've shot him: Jason.

Watkins eyes widened in a mixture of shock, anger, fear and pain. His mouth formed soundless, inarticulate words. He took two stumbling steps towards Malcolm, fingers trembling as they stretched outwards, seeking his throat.

Malcolm tripped over the corner of the rug as he backed away.

His head bounced off the floor as Jason's gun barked once more.

Again came the sound of the mop as it slapped onto the floor.

A large red stain blossomed across the front of Watkins chest.

Came from a small, black perforation in the center of his chest.

A kill shot.

Watkins stared at the wound with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"No," he mumbled before he slumped to the floor, arms and legs akimbo.

Malcolm thought him a marionette who had his strings released.

Watkins wasn't a puppet, though.

He was a flesh and blood man.

Who was dying right before his eyes.

Part of Malcolm wanted to do… something.

To help Watkins.

Save him some how.

Another part, the one he feared with every fiber of his being, accepted Watkins dying as the only way to keep the people he loved safe.

A wet rasping sound emanated from the man lying there in a growing pool of blood.

Then his body went limp.

John Watkins was… gone.

"Well, uh, glad to see someone was willing to do what needed to be done to protect their family," his father said from the bedroom doorway. "As I told you to do back in December. But, well, you." His low chuckle caused Malcolm's already frayed nerves to snap. "You're a, uh, well, you're a work in progress still."

The stress of everything that happened over the last seventy-two hours mingled with the miasma flowing through him until he thought he'd explode.

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out his father, and the world around him.

His breath came in icy rasps, loud to his own ears.

His body shuddered in one long, violent roll.

Malcolm felt himself slowly descending into the darkness where the shadow creatures waited to torture and torment him.

What he deserved after everything he had done.

Suddenly, Sorcha's voice was there in his ear, singing the words he desperately needed in order to ground himself back in the present.

"Here comes the sun…"

Everything inside Malcolm shifted.

His breathing eased.

The tremors ceased.

Even the shadow creatures slithered back to the depths of his mind.

Taking his father with them.

Everything became alright as he listened to Sorcha sing their special song.

He was alright.

Well, moderately alright, Malcolm amended as he slowly lifted his eyes to Jason's.

"Raya had you record that on your phone just in case something like this happened, didn't she?"

"Your girlfriend, actually."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say Sorcha wasn't his girlfriend.

He didn't, though.

What was the point?

Nobody believed him.

Even he didn't believe him.

Not anymore.

"We need to call Gil." Malcolm pushed to his feet. Glanced to where Watkins lay unmoving in a pool of crimson. Part of a nightmare ended. Yet, the rest was only beginning. "Tell him what happened."

"Already did." Jason's hand settled on his shoulder. Warm and comforting. "He said to wait outside for him and Kit."

All Malcolm could do was nod.

 

Chapter Text

Dawn found Malcolm seated on the bottom stair in his mother's house, exhausted physically and emotionally, but way too keyed up to actually attempt sleep.

Not that that was all that unusual.

He tended to forego sleep a lot.

Something Gil, his mother, sister, and Sorcha all frequently voiced frustrations over.

This time, however, Malcolm felt justified in his decision to avoid sleep for as long as possible.

He still needed to work through what happened at the hunting cabin, process what Jason did, and accept it as the only viable outcome there was.

He also had to come to terms with John Watkins being dead.

Not as in Joker-dead, he amended as a door opened upstairs. But permanently so.

Something Malcolm couldn't get his hyperactive brain to wrap around.

The part of himself, the one he feared was like his father, accepted Watkins had to die. It was the only way to keep the people he loved, as well as the public, safe.

The rational side of himself, the one he used to profile men like his father and Watkins, fixated on how he'd not get the answers he needed now Watkins was dead.

Well, I could get them still, Malcolm acknowledged as he released a shaky breath into the silence. There is still one person I can ask about what happened on that camping trip.

Not that Malcolm believed his father would give him the answers he craved.

He refused to answer the other times he questioned him about the camping trip. Only now Malcolm understood it wasn't simply another of his father's manipulative games.

No, a dangerous group of people were also involved.

The kind who employed serial killers and undead assassins to get rid of those they determined posed a threat to their organization.

"You're their perfect Talons."

The words played through Malcolm's mind as he sat there, hands trembling between his knees, gaze focused on the marble floor.

Why the Court wanted him as a Talon made absolutely no sense.

Raya, yes.

Him?

Not in the slightest.

Granted, he had been trained by Batman.

Dick and Jason, too.

Sure, he had also trained with other sensei and acquired additional skills while working for the bureau.

That didn't make him a suitable candidate for Talon.

Not to his way of thinking, anyway.

Why then, Malcolm wondered as a chuff came from upstairs, does the Court want me as a Talon?

"I figured you'd be down here and brooding over things rather than upstairs with Sorcha."

Malcolm watched Raya descend the stairs from the corner of his eye. She had exchanged her suit jacket and slacks for a faded gray sweatshirt he suspected belonged to Bruce and black yoga pants. Her feet were also bare. Something she only did if she planned to either spar or dance.

Part of Malcolm hoped it was the latter.

"I don't brood," he said as he scooted over to allow her room to join him.

"Oh, please. You almost brood better than Batman."

The affection in her voice, on her face was unmistakable. It soothed the fire in Malcolm's belly, stilled the tremors rattling his bones, and quieted the shadow creatures tormenting him since they left the cabin.

"I don't brood in a cave, at least."

"One of you doing that is more than enough for this family."

"He did trade the cave for the roof of the old GCPD building during No Man's Land."

"Only because an earthquake made the cave inaccessible."

"Meaning he'd have brooded in the cave if he could have."

"Oh, yeah."

A comfortable silence fell between them. Malcolm broke it by asking, "So, why are you up?"

"Sleep issues, remember?"

He breathed out a small laugh.

"Having a three-and-a-half month old doesn't help."

"A baby is a great help for sleep issues, actually." Her grin teased out her dimples. "Ready made reason for why you haven't slept in three days and look like shit when you stumble into work the next morning."

Her insinuation wasn't lost on him.

"Not dad material here."

"Oh?" One brow arched. "And why do you assume you're not dad material?"

"Tricky childhood for one…"

"Yeah, you did have a tricky childhood," she agreed with a slight nod. "However, I'll counter that with my sperm donor murdered my mother when I was nine. I was then taken in and raised by a caped crusader who allowed me to traipse around with him and my best friend fighting crime. The sperm donor then tried to murder me and my other best friend in retaliation for his serial killer father not murdering my mother and me. And," she continued as Malcolm sighed, "I'll conclude with Gotham isn't exactly the best city to raise a family to tie everything up into a nice pretty bow."

Malcolm sent her one, long frustrated stare. "I'm also wildly dependent on benzos."

If he thought that argument would work on Raya, he was sorely mistaken.

"Sorcha isn't."

"Raya…"

"Malcolm." She placed a hand atop his arm, squeezed gently. "None of those things disqualifies you as dad material. They're elements you'd have to work around, yes. They don't stop you from loving a child or giving them a home, though."

She's right, he realized. None of those things disqualify me as dad material. They're things I'd have to work through. Deal with.

Same as she and Dick did.

"I've been dreaming about something other than the Girl in the Box and that camping trip the last few days."

"Oh?" was all Raya said.

Not pushing or prodding or cajoling.

Giving him the space to decide whether to tell her about the dream or not.

"It's about a baby," he said. "A girl."

"A baby girl?" Raya sat up straighter. "Alive or…?"

"Alive." Malcolm confirmed. "Thankfully."

"Hm." Her brow furrowed. "You worked the case about the mommy blogger whose husband was murdered, right?"

"Yes." Malcolm frowned. "Why?"

"Well… it could be the reason for why you dreamed about a baby girl."

"I thought that," Malcolm admitted quietly. "Only…" He grimaced. "Her name was Jaqueline."

"Jacqueline…" Raya's eyes narrowed into thin, speculative slits. "Long form of Jackie."

"Yes…" Malcolm looked down at the marbled floor. Seeing but not seeing the thin gold streaks in the black and white pattern. "I don't know why I'm dreaming about a baby named after Jackie with everything else going on."

"Well, Jackie Arroyo was an extremely important person to you." Logic was Raya's weapon of choice. She wielded it as capably as she did the bo-staff, katana, and sai. Malcolm appreciated it, especially in those times where he couldn't see a pattern or reason why. "Makes sense you'd dream about a baby girl named after her." She sent him a look from beneath lowered lashes. "Or Sorcha."

Malcolm ignored that well-laid trap.

"A dream is sometimes just a dream."

"Well, yes, sometimes a dream is just a dream." Raya's fingers tightened on his arm. "However, your subconscious could also be telling you it is time for a new beginning. To move on from the past and live here in the present. Build a future for yourself. A life that is full and rich and happy." Her lips curved at the corners. "All things I remember Jackie saying to you before she died."

Logic, again.

As well as that eidetic memory she and her cousin, the former Batgirl turned Oracle, had in common.

"How about I make tea?" Malcolm suggested while pushing to his feet. "Think we could both use a cup after what happened last night."

"You offering to make me tea is kinda funny."

Malcolm frowned. "Why?"

"Because I actually came down here to offer to make you a cup of Earl Grey."

Malcolm's lips twitched. "Not mint?"

Raya's eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief behind the lenses of the spectacles she wore when not wearing her contacts. It brought Malcolm back to when they were sixteen and on their own in No Man's Land. The city was divided into territories ruled by Gotham's underbelly, people were fighting for their survival, death was all around them, but a glimmer of hope remained because Gotham's guardians remained to stand between them and those who wanted to destroy them.

"More like Mediterranean Mint for me." Raya rose to her feet with the grace and elegance instilled in her during her years as a dancer. "Earl Grey for you."

"Ah." Malcolm chuckled softly. "Your magic cure-all."

"Actually, Earl Grey is Alfred's magic cure-all. I just found Mediterranean Mint accomplishes the same restorative qualities."

"Sorcha would agree with you."

"Smart girl."

Malcolm hummed a quiet agreement. "Surprised she didn't come down with you."

"She lost the coin toss."

Malcolm's eyebrows quirked. "You did a coin toss to decide who'd come down here and make tea?"

"No, we initially drew cards until it was just Sorcha and I left." She sent him a playful grin. "Damian was quite put out he lost."

"I can imagine."

"You should feel honored."

"That he hasn't killed me? Believe me, I am."

"No." Raya took hold of his hand. His shaky hand, Malcolm saw, mildly amused. "That he was put out he couldn't make you a cup of Alfred's tea." Her fingers slid between his. Squeezed gently. "He doesn't articulate his feelings verbally all that well… totes got that from Bruce, and he isn't all that good at showing them, either." Her dimples appeared again. "Totes got that from Bruce, too."

"I'm not that good at it, either."

"Yeah, you do tend to suck at it."

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

Malcolm rolled his eyes and allowed her to tug him down the short hallway to the kitchen. A tingle started at the back of his neck and shivered along his spine when they passed the entrance that led down to his father's hobby room. He ignored it, chalked it up to his over-anxious state.

A mistake he regretted a second after he found himself shoved through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Fear exploded inside Malcolm, burned hot in his violently cramping belly.

His breath congealed in his throat.

His heart twisted in his chest.

Through the kaleidoscope of thoughts racing through his head was one: a Talon was inside his mother's house.

And they have Raya.

Tremors shot from the tips of Malcolm's fingers, up his arms, and down his spine into his feet.

He forced himself to focus, to think.

Help.

He needed to get help.

Gil was forever reminding him about calling for backup.

Damian was upstairs.

So was Christopher.

The rational part of Malcolm balked at pitting them against one of the Courts trained assassins.

Tim.

Jason.

Dick.

Bruce.

They were who he needed to call for backup.

They wouldn't get here in time.

Leaving him.

He was there and he could do something to help Raya.

Keep Talon from taking her back to the Court.

Or worse

Fueled by his decision, Malcolm pushed through the kitchen door and raced towards the foyer.

Neither Raya or the Talon were there.

Inspection revealed the front door was shut.

The windows were unbroken.

The alarm hadn't been tripped.

There could only be one place Talon took her: the murder room underneath the house.

A place so many others had been taken.

None of whom, save for Eve's sister, Sophie, survived their ordeal.

Memories from the last time he was in that portion of his mother's house assaulted Malcolm as he headed to his father's hobby room.

Waking up chained to the floor…

Watkins stabbing him…

Twirling an axe he intended to use on his mother and sister…

Him raising up the hammer he used to break his thumb so he could escape his restraints…

Malcolm pushed through, raced on.

Two seconds later, he burst into the underground dungeon Watkins brought him.

Where he found himself greeted by the unexpected when the Talon turned.

Stared at him with eyes a familiar shade of blue.

From a face he knew as well as his own.

Chapter 50

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It can't be him, rolled through Malcolm's mind as the man slowly turned to face him.

There was no way it could be him.

He was in Gotham.

"Just like it wasn't John back at the, uh, hunting cabin?" A smile creased his father's lips. "You were wrong then, my boy, and it appears you're, ah, quite wrong now."

Malcolm ignored him.

Well, he did his best too, anyway.

Shutting Martin Whitly out wasn't something he managed often. More he tried, louder his father, and the shadow creatures tended to get. Malcolm once told Dani how the inside of his mind was like a movie theater. One he couldn't escape from. It hadn't been an exaggeration. Every traumatic event, horrific moment, and terrifying second of his life played out on that screen while the shadow creatures tossed popcorn and malt balls at him.

His father was wrong, though.

This… Talon wasn't Bruce Wayne.

Malcolm refused to believe, to accept how the man who served as Gotham's silent guardian all these years and this one were one and the same.

Granted, the men were identical.

Had the same height and weight.

Bone structure.

Even the way this man carried himself, from the way he turned his head to the graceful way he moved was the same as the Wayne patriarch.

That didn't mean he was Bruce.

This wasn't the first time someone tried to impersonate Bruce. Bruce's childhood friend, Tommy Elliott surgically altered his voice and face and masqueraded around Gotham as Bruce Wayne a few years back. Elliott, however, hadn't worn a black-leather bandolier slung diagonally across his chest with at least a half-dozen gleaming metal throwing knives. Nor was there a curved blade in a sheath at his hip and another stuck into the top of his right boot.

Most alarming to Malcolm, however, was the twin scabbards crossed across the man's back.

He didn't doubt for a minute how sharp those broadswords would be.

Steel gauntlets ended in a set of razor-sharp claws that resembled the talons of the owl the Court adopted as their signature emblem.

Imposing, intimidating, and incredibly lethal.

Same as Batman.

Only, this man killed.

Batman did not.

"Malcolm Whitly," the man — Malcolm refused to think of him as Bruce but couldn't bring himself to call him Talon — rasped. "At last we meet."

"He's Malcolm Bright here, actually."

"Bright?" Dark brows furrowed. "He is not Malcolm Whitly?"

"He changed his name to distance himself from Martin Whitly years ago." Raya didn't cower when not-Bruce shifted closer to her. She merely angled her head back to meet his penetrating gaze. "Same as I changed mine to distance myself from my sperm donor."

"He's still a Whitly then."

Malcolm flinched and his hand spasmed against his thigh. No matter how many times he heard those words, they still caused his belly to twist and turn.

"I'm still a Berkeley."

Fury tightened the man's face. "You are a Wayne."

"Not here I'm not." Raya moved to Malcolm's side. "I was born a Berkeley here."

"You were raised by the Bruce Wayne of this Earth."

"Yes, I was," she agreed with a slight nod. "Malcolm was, too."

His brows shot up. "Wayne helped raise the boy?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"He took Malcolm in when he was sixteen."

"Did Wayne train him?"

"Yes." Raya side-eyed Malcolm. "Even though he tends to forget that training when chasing serial killers."

"The boy hunts serial killers?"

"Malcolm is a profiler, yes."

Not-Bruce studied Malcolm now through narrowed eyes. "He's not a killer?"

"Malcolm's not a killer." Soft but firm. Her cajoling voice as Dick often called it. Meant to placate or keep a spiraling situation from getting too far out of hand. "He never once used his weapon during the ten years he worked for the FBI." Raya knowing his service history didn't surprise Malcolm. Keeping tabs on her family and knowing everything she could about them was something she got from the man who raised her. "He doesn't use extreme measures to bring in suspects. He talks them in."

"He's still the son of a killer."

"He's the son of a cop and a man who has dedicated his life to stopping the monsters in the dark." Raya matched his steely tone with her own. "Same as I am."

The man grunted softly. "You're not the same."

"Given I'm a girl and he's a boy…"

A scowl greeted her wry comment. "Your comment is unnecessary."

"My God," Raya said with a dramatic sigh. "You are exactly like Bruce."

Taken aback, Malcolm jolted and whipped his head around to look at Raya so fast he gave himself whiplash.

"He is…" he trailed off, blinked. "He is actually Bruce?"

"He's a Bruce Wayne, yes." Raya's fingers skimmed his. Offering Malcolm desperately needed comfort and sorely needed strength. "But he's not our Bruce Wayne, no."

"I don't understand…" Malcolm's brow creased. "If he's Bruce Wayne…"

"He's Bruce Wayne from another Earth."

"I'm sorry…" Malcolm wet his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. "Another Earth?"

"Yes." Raya's tone was ripe with sympathy and understanding. "This Bruce is from Earth-77."

All this multiverse stuff was causing Malcolm's head to throb like a bad tooth. He sorely wanted to go upstairs and lay down. He couldn't so long as this man was here and potentially a threat.

"Is that Earth like our Earth?"

"Mostly, yes."

"Mostly?" Thin, sharp-edged bands of steel locked themselves around Malcolm's temples. Poked at his violently cramping belly. It took everything he had to keep from curling up in a ball at their feet. "What do you mean by mostly?"

"Well, Dick, Jason, Tim, Barb, Damian, and I are dead there." Raya's fingers tightened on his quaking ones. "As are the members of the Justice League and the Titans. Laughs killed all of us. Save for..." She indicated the man standing across from them with a wave of her hand. "Bruce."

"Why wasn't he killed with everyone else?"

"Because I came to this Earth to stop the Darkest Knight from destroying this Earth as he's destroyed others."

"I thought the Court of Owls wanted to bring him here?"

"The Court wants to bring Barbatos here so they can rule this Earth. What they do not want…" Earth-77 Bruce took a menacing step forward. "Is a repeat of what happened on my Earth."

"What happened on your Earth?"

Not that Malcolm didn't have a good idea.

"Same as on this Earth, The Court decided to fulfill their prophecy. For them to do that, they needed you to follow in your father's footsteps." Earth-77 Bruce Wayne took another step forward. Looming over Malcolm. Subtly intimidating, suitably menacing. "And you did, Malcolm. You became just like Martin Whitly: a killer."

Malcolm's breath expelled from him in a whoosh. It was his greatest fear come to life. He — well, another Earth version of him, anyway — had become a killer.

Just like his father.

Who chuckled softly as tremors rocked Malcolm from head to toe.

"Well, it's ah, good to know you finally went into the family business. Even if it wasn't, uh, here on our Earth. Well, not yet, anyway." His father waggled his bushy brows. "A father can always hope, though, right?"

There were times, Malcolm discovered where a slap across the face was preferable to words. The sting from the slap lasted a few seconds, at most.

Words?

They tended to last forever.

"That was Earth-77's Malcolm." Raya squeezed Malcolm's fingers again. "Our Malcolm would never kill. He's incapable of it."

"You cannot be sure of that."

"I have never been more sure of something in my life."

Ridiculously loyal, deeply passionate, and fiercely protective were three of the ways he'd describe Raya.

They were the things he most admired and respected about her.

With Raya, he never had to question whether she'd have his back in a fight, be there to support him if he got arrested for murder, or just sit there and quietly listen as he told her about his dream.

Things like trust, honor, and respect received the same reverence from her as others gave to their religious beliefs.

"He is the reason I lost everyone I cared about."

"That won't happen here."

"How do you know it won't?"

"Because I know Malcolm."

A shadow of annoyance flashed through those magnetic eyes. "You knew him on my Earth, too." He shifted closer to her. "And he killed you. As he will kill you here if Nicholas Endicott is successful in breaking him."

"Endicott will not succeed in breaking Malcolm."

"He has ordered John Watk…"

"Watkins is dead," Raya stated bluntly. "He was killed a few hours ago by Red Hood."

Earth-77 Bruce closed his eyes. More a long blink than anything else. Striving for patience or calm. Malcolm wasn't sure which.

"He will find someone else to break Malcolm then."

Who that person could be worried Malcolm.

Raya?

Not so much.

"Whoever he sends will have to go through my Robin." Cool, confident. Regal as a queen. "And trust me, they'll find that no easy feat."

"It is not a matter of if he will break and become a killer," Earth-77 Bruce stated, "but when."

"Martin Whitly tried to break him, John Watkins tried to break him…" Raya retorted in measured tones. "Malcolm didn't break any of those times and he won't now."

"This is not up for debate."

As if that'll end the discussion, Malcolm mused as Raya harrumphed beside him.

"You're right. It's not up for debate." She crossed her arms over her chest and splayed her feet apart. Her stubborn stance as everyone jokingly referred to it. Malcolm thought it a perfect representation of the man who raised her. "I believe in Malcolm. Trust him explicitly. I know he'll never kill anyone."

"I refuse to take that chance."

"Why?" Malcolm managed around the shards of ice in his throat. "Why did I kill Raya on your Earth?"

Those eyes cut to him.

Malcolm was shocked he didn't burst into flames from the heat in that glare.

He didn't squirm, however.

Well, not much, anyway.

Anyone with half a brain would tremble under that penetrating stare.

Malcolm admitted he was batshit crazy.

Stupid?

No way.

"The Darkest Knight has only two known weaknesses," Earth-77 Bruce rasped. "Nth Metal and the blood of the Burning Muse."

"And Raya's the Burning Muse?" Malcolm guessed. "Right?"

"Yes."

Malcolm's headache entered nightmare territory. He desperately wanted Sorcha to materialize behind him, crooning softly, and filling the stagnant air with her comforting scent.

She wasn't there, though. She was upstairs.

Safe.

As if she sensed his distress, Raya slid a hand to the back of his neck and gently rubbed the throbbing muscles.

"I'm taking Malcolm upstairs and putting him to bed."

"No."

"No?" One brow arched. "And may I ask why not?"

"Because you're coming with me."

"Where?"

"Somewhere safe. Where you will remain," he added in a tone that said he expected her full and immediate compliance, "until this situation has been resolved."

"I'm not going anywhere but upstairs with Malcolm."

The tic in Earth-77 Bruce's jaw pulsed harder.

It was clear he didn't like her arguing with him.

No more than their Bruce did.

Not that Raya cared.

"You're going to do as you're told."

"No, I'm not."

"Raya." Earth-77 Bruce took a step towards her. "Let's go."

"I said no."

His face was a series of hard angles and incarnate. Malcolm mentally calculated how much farther she could push him before he'd lose what patience he had and forcibly remove her from the murder room.

"Raya."

Raya didn't fidget or cave to his demand. She merely tossed her head and calmly said, "You can quit trying to intimidate me into complying. I'm not changing my mind."

Earth-77 Bruce looked down at her, then stepped closer, towering over her and Malcolm, who curled away from him.

"And I'm telling you to change it." He took another step. "Quickly."

"My wife said she's not going with you." Malcolm breathed out a relieved sigh as Dick appeared behind Raya, dressed only in sweats and with his hair damp still from a shower. "I'm here to guarantee she's not."

Malcolm swore he heard swords clash as their gazes met.

"Do you think you can stop me from taking her?"

"Well, if he can't?" An audible click sounded a second before Jason stepped from the shadows where his father had been lurking. "I guarantee you I can." Another click pierced the air as Jason aimed a second revolver at the scowling man. "And will."

Notes:

Hey, all! This story has hit a milestone for me as it now has eclipsed my longest story yet by five chapters! When I started writing fan fiction back in the dark ages, I barely could manage one shots. I upgraded to multi-chapters I never finished until I started writing in the Batman fandom. I managed to complete five chapters, then ten, and finally worked my way up to 45. Fifty is a massive milestone and puts me in the home stretch of finishing this story… which has taken longer than PSon was on the air, I know 🤣 Thank you to everyone who has commented, followed along, and kudo’d this story! I appreciate all the support and thank you all! 🥰

Chapter Text

The call came across the radio a little after seven.

Body found in an alley.

Not an unusual occurrence in Gotham.

A night where a body wasn't found in an alley, dumped outside a hospital or left in a building happened about as often as the Joker remaining in Arkham. Hell, Gordon grunted as he navigated his way through the dark city, it's more likely that son of a bitch will stay in his cell than it is we won't get a call about a dead body. Thankfully, the Joker chose to winter in Arkham. A fact Gordon was immensely thankful for. Got enough going on without him adding to the chaos.

Gordon made a turn at Davidson. It was the quickest way to reach the scene. He chose the route soon as dispatch revealed what alley the body was found in.

Of course, it'd be that alley.

Why wouldn't it be?

Many of Gotham's elite class of villains thrived on symbolism. Some, like Calendar Man were obsessed with it. Even the Joker loves revisiting his greatest hits, Gordon thought as he screamed through an intersection. Titles them as anniversaries.

This, though went beyond the typical symbolic representation he had grown accustomed to dealing with over his long career. Memories long buried surfaced as Gordon parked behind a row of black and whites. Is he here? he wondered as he stared out the windshield at the silent old building, sitting abandoned and alone.

As so many other businesses in this area of the city were.

The marquee above the ticket booth had long faded.

The bulbs had become a casualty during one of the gang shootouts this part of the city frequently was victim of.

Graffiti covered the walls and trash blocked the entryway into the theater.

Superseded over that disparaging image was how the theater looked on a mild June night.

He and Harvey had been called out to a scene similar to this one.

Only, it was two bodies found in the alley by the Monarch Theater instead of one.

Gordon hadn't known who the victims were until the medical examiner peeled back the bloodstained cloth covering their lifeless bodies.

Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Members of Gotham's elite.

Cutdown in their prime.

The Wayne murders had been his first case after making detective. Other, experienced homicide detectives hadn't been thrilled about the "rookie" landing such a high-profile case his first night out. Harvey even put up a fuss about us being handed that case, he recalled as he unfastened his seatbelt.

Gordon, though, never regretted taking that case.

Seeing the people whose lives had been tragically stolen from them by a madman with a gun get justice had been his only focus. Well, them, and the son they left behind, Gordon amended as his mind drifted back to that night.

"I know you aren't feeling much like talking right now." He took a seat on the lower rung of the fire escape beside the orphaned boy. "I need to ask you a few questions about what happened, though. It's the only way we'll find the man who did this to your folks."

If they'd find whoever did this. The closure rate for homicides in Gotham was three out of every ten cases. If they didn't turn up a lead in the next seventy-two hours it was likely they never would.

He didn't share that with the boy quivering beside him from a combination of fear and shock. The kid had gone through enough without him adding onto the pile by confessing it was probable they'd never figure out who killed his parents.

Another tremor snaked through the boy — Bruce, he corrected. His name is Bruce. Gordon slid out of his jacket and gently draped it around him. More for comfort and security than warmth.

"That better?"

A faint nod was all he received in response. Not that he expected much given the circumstances. Gordon watched the forensics team as he waited for Bruce to say something — anything.

The entirety of the case rest on his young shoulders.

Their only witness to what happened.

Gordon grew less optimistic about their chances of solving this case the longer the silence drug on. Child testimony was spotty, at best, when no trauma was involved. They needed to get what the boy could recall while it was still fresh in his mind.

"Why?" Gordon stared down into the red-rimmed eyes Bruce lifted to his. "Why'd he do it?"

The million dollar question.

One Gordon had only one answer for.

"It's this city," he said, heavy sigh piercing the stagnant air. "There's something wrong with it."

Forty years later and there was still something wrong with Gotham. Only now the city had a team of silent guardians to help protect those who resided within its limits from those who wanted to hurt them. Never would have imagined that boy growing up to fight crime in a cape and cowl.

Course, he never'd have seen himself co-parenting with that boy, either.

There wasn't anyone — outside Gil Arroyo and Harvey — he'd trust with his family, though. When he needed someone to protect his niece, Batman stepped up, willingly putting himself between Raya and the man who wanted to kill her in order to protect his secrets. He came to the plate again when Berkeley tried to kill the Whitly boy in revenge for his father, Martin Whitly, failing to kill his wife, Ellen. Even now he's risen to the challenge and is doing everything possible to protect those two from whatever in hell is going on.

Not that Gordon expected anything less from a man who dedicated his life to protecting the innocent.

Who the man beneath that infamous cowl had long been a subject of public debate. Most people believed Gordon had an idea about who the man behind the mask was. He never confirmed nor denied those assumptions.

They were right, though.

He did know the identity of Gotham's silent guardian. He figured it out after he discovered where Batman took his niece after he'd been shot by Berkeley and left for dead. Knowing, however, was wrapped up in the importance of the fact. Batman was a necessity in his mind. He served the city in ways the police couldn't, fighting criminals they were incapable of stopping, and going into places they weren't allowed. Gordon liked to think he played a small part in the boy's decision to become Batman. Same as the boy had been instrumental in Raya deciding to not only join Batman in his crusade by becoming one of the city's silent guardians, but a cop, as well.

Even though neither of them had been thrilled initially about it.

"Hell musta froze over."

Gordon glanced over to Harvey, slouched in the passenger seat, one bushy brow lifted.

"Why's that?"

"Yancy here before us?" Bullock plopped his fedora on his head and tugged up the collar of his overcoat. "Hell gotta be freezing over."

Gordon snorted a laugh. "His wife must be back from visiting her mother."

"As I said, hell froze over."

Gordon stepped from the vehicle without a reply. News trucks formed a half circle around the black-and-whites, fire, and EMS vehicles. A familiar redhead chatted with a cameraman as she prepared to do a live report. Vicki Vale, Gordon groaned internally. Last thing I need at the moment.

"Commissioner Gordon!" Vale strode towards him, microphone in hand, and a look of intent in her green eyes. "Can I have a word with you?"

"No."

His curt answer didn't deter Vale.

Not that he expected it would.

"The people of Gotham deserve to know what's going on in their city."

"Once we have information to share I will release a statement."

Gordon ducked under the caution tape, figuring that put an end to things.

He was sorely mistaken.

"Will you at least confirm there's a killer on the loose?"

"No, I will not."

That didn't put an end to the conversation, either.

Much to Gordon's displeasure.

"Are these recent string of killings connected to those in New York?"

"No comment."

The pad answer.

Not that it stopped Vale from trying to get answers from him. He respected her tenacity even if it exasperated him to no end.

"Commissioner…."

"I said no comment."

He'd have to make one before the night was over, though. He had been avoiding making one until they had something concrete to offer. Mayor isn't gonna accept that excuse for much longer.

Neither would Vicki Vale.

He'd take later when later came. For now, he entered the alley. A helicopter circled overhead, illuminating the garbage, filth, and decay. Gordon found the brightness almost a comfort. Especially after spending the majority of the afternoon cooped up in meetings. However, the dark figure lurking at the edge of the scene preferred the calm stillness and coolness of the shadows. Because he did, Gordon ordered the helicopters, which included the blasted news choppers, to pull back. The alley immediately became black as pitch. Gordon watched that large silhouette slither across the cobblestone. It never failed to amaze him at how gracefully a man as large as Batman could move.

It was so... smooth.

So… effortless.

"Thought about putting up the signal when the call came over the radio."

There was no need for a greeting in Gordon's mind. Their relationship wasn't dependent on bandying words around before getting down to business.

"I was already here." Batman's voice was low, dark, and somehow both warm and menacing at the same time. It was little wonder he inspired such fear in those he helped bring to justice. Gordon might have been intimidated if he didn't know the man as well as he did. "I arrived right after it was called in, actually."

"You were close-by?"

A faint nod was followed by, "I was investigating a location the Surgeon might have used while he was here in Gotham."

"Won't ask if you found anything." Another chopper swept over the scene, illuminated the cover placed over the victim. "Figure you'd have said if you had."

Batman indicated the body with a gloved hand. "The victim is Marcello Taglieri."

Gordon's eyebrows shot up. "Lucretia Taglieri's oldest boy?"

"Yes."

Gordon needed that information about as much as he needed a hole in the head.

In fact, he needed the hole more than he did this bit of news.

"Well, explains why they didn't burn the body." Gordon heaved a sigh. "They wanted us to know this was Marcello Taglieri."

"He's sending me a message."

The pit in Gordon's stomach didn't like the sound of that.

Neither did he for that matter.

Still, he didn't shy away from his next question.

"He?"

Batman shifted to face him. "Are you ready for me to tell you what's going on?"

Gordon had been feeling moderately grim up to that moment. That, though, would change once Batman revealed what was going on. He never shied away from the truth. Nor had he ever shirked his duty. He spent his career making the decisions nobody else wanted to make, fighting the fights everyone else was afraid of, and doing whatever he thought necessary to see Gotham not destroyed by the vermin.

"I'm not particularly going to like what I hear, am I?"

"There's definitely a good chance of that, yes."

"Well, guess it's a good thing I took my blood pressure medicine before I left the precinct." Gordon stiffened his spine and looked at the grim hero. "Alright, tell me what's going on."

"It's the Batman That Laughs behind these murders."

"You're sure?"

Gordon asked that despite already knowing the answer.

"Positive," came the grim reply. "The last victim tested positive for Nth metal."

Gordon wasn't overly surprised to hear the diabolical Batman was the one behind these string of murders. He would have been more surprised if it turned out it wasn't him. He pushed his glasses up his nose as he stared at the white sheet fluttering in the gentle breeze.

"How does this fit in with the Court of Owls and their prophecy?"

"He's working against them," Batman said. "Using the prophecy to further his own agenda."

More news he didn't need. "Why?"

Like he needed to ask.

"To destroy our universe as he's destroyed others."

Gordon closed his eyes.

More a long blink than anything else.

"So, the usual."

"Yes."

He nodded. "Alright… how do we stop him?"

"We keep him from getting his hands on Malcolm."

Gordon glanced up, intending to ask what he meant by that, but found himself alone.

He grunted.

"I hate when he does that."

 

Chapter Text

Gil watched Jess as she descended the stairs. That one look, coming after everything that happened in the last few hours, sliced him into a thousand pieces. He always thought her one of the most beautiful women he ever met.

Tonight, though reaffirmed it.

Her hair, a deeper, glossier shade of brown than Bright's, spilled down her back in a silken wave.

Her dress, not quite black but not exactly charcoal gray, fit her like a glove.

Showed off her legs to perfection.

Other women with sons facing indictment for murder might've come downstairs in a pair of old sweats, hair in messy buns with their faces haggard and drawn.

Not Jessica Whitly.

No, she looked immaculate, as always.

Any other night and Gil'd have complimented her on how beautiful she looked.

Tonight, however, he didn't.

Not when the reason why she looked so amazing was a dinner date with Nicholas Endicott.

The man who not only finagled her ex-husband into a prison cell but was behind her son being charged with murder, as well.

"Gil." A spark of pleasure added flecks of silver to her gray eyes. A welcoming smile curved her lips. Sent tendrils of heat coursing through Gil. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I just left Bright at his loft." Where he told the kid to run. Something the higher-ups would have his badge for if they ever found out. Gil was confident Bright's place had been throughly swept and anything even remotely resembling a surveillance device removed. "Thought I'd stop by and check on you. Make sure you're all right."

"I'm fine." Jess paused with a hand on the railing. "I only have a few minutes before I leave for Nicholas', though."

The last place he wanted her going. Something Gil told her without regret or shame.

"I don't like you going to Endicott's by yourself."

If Gil was being honest with himself, really honest, he'd admit the reason he didn't like Jess going over to Endicott's was because he was jealous.

Like hell he'd admit that, though.

Out loud, anyway.

There'd be time after everything returned to normal — or as close to it — for him and Jess to sort out everything between them out and decide where they were going to go with their relationship.

If we even have one…

"It's only dinner, Gil."

It wasn't only dinner in Gil's opinion.

He just couldn't put his finger on what it actually was.

The timing of the invitation, coming hot on the heels of the district attorney announcing they were going ahead with pressing charges on Bright, struck him as suspicious.

Opportunistic even.

Raya suspected the invitation had to do with Martin Whitly. That it was the next step in this game they were playing. Gil couldn't deny there wasn't some truth to her theory. Endicott had made it abundantly clear his partnership with Martin Whitly was at an end when he had Eddie Smith try and kill him in his cell at Claremont.

A cell they discovered Endicott obtained in exchange for Martin Whitly's silence about Endicott's connection with the Court of Owls. Something else Raya commented on as they talked in his office earlier.

"Endicott's likely been waiting to get even with Martin Whitly for years." Raya took a seat across from him. "He just needed the right moment to strike." She made a face. "Something Malcolm, unfortunately, gave him by digging too deeply into his operations."

Resulting in the death of Eve Blanchard.

"Is he doing this because Martin blackmailed him?"

"No, I think this goes back to when my father hired Martin to kill my mother and me."

Gil's eyebrows arched.

"Why do you think it goes back that far?"

"Because killing my mother and I made sure no other child from the bloodline of Lydia Doyle could be born."

"And Martin failed to do that."

"Resulting in my surviving and having children who share her bloodline."

"There's also Malcolm." Dick perched on the edge of Raya's chair with a soft sigh. "Who I think Endicott wants to make into a Talon so he can fulfill the prophecy and bring the Batman That Laughs fully here to our universe."

Gil didn't need to ask what the Grim Knight would do once he got there.

Destruction of the universe seemed pretty clear.

"That's not going to happen," Gil said firmly. "Not on my watch."

Or Batman's for that matter.

What he did ask was, "What's Endicott's motive for bringing a Batman without morals here?"

"Power." Dick draped an arm around his wife. "Control. The usual."

"He wants to take over as the leader of the Court?"

"Yes."

"Not gonna happen," Gil said again. "Not while there's breath in mine, Jim's, and your mentor's bodies."

"That's why Endicott will send his minions for you and Uncle Jim next." The worry in Raya's eyes crawled into Gil's belly. "You and he and Bruce stand in the way of what he wants."

"Let him come after me."

"It's not you they'll go after," Dick said somberly. "It's the people you love."

People like Bright, JT, Dani.

Jess.

"Gil?"

Gil pushed his thoughts aside and focused on figuring out a way to convince her not to go on her date without upsetting her.

"You're not going to Endicott's and that's final," was not the way to get her to agree not to go to Endicott's, however.

Jessica didn't respond well to strong arm tactics.

At all.

In fact, they usually had the opposite effect.

"Excuse me?" Her eyes narrowed into thin slits. "Did you just tell me I am not going to Nicholas's?"

A voice in the back of his head told him he should switch tactics.

Soothe her ire before appealing to her with calm, rational logic.

Gil decided not to do that.

Not this time.

There simply was no time to waste.

Not when Endicott and his cronies circled them like a group of hungry vultures.

"You're not going to Endicott's and that's final."

"How dare you." Fury suffused her face. Flashed in her eyes. "Telling me where I may go and who I may keep company with. Who do you think you are?"

"Who am I?" Gil shot back, tone as heated as hers. "I'm the one trying to keep you from getting hurt."

"Gil…"

"You're not going over there, Jess. It's too dangerous."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?"

"Yes." She spun on one spiky heel and stalked to where her purse sat on a small table. "It is only dinner."

"It's not only dinner." Gil's brow furrowed at her scoff. "Jess, I don't know what Endicott has planned here but I know it's not only dinner."

"Gil, all we're going to do is have some wine, eat a lovely meal, and talk." She glanced at him from over one shoulder. "That's it."

"If I believed that was all Endicott had planned, I'd let you go. I don't think that's his intention, however."

Jess scoffed again as she ran a hand over her hair. Gil ached to sink his fingers into those silken strands. He didn't dare touch her, however. Now wasn't the time for indulgence. Not while Endicott, Talons, and a Batman without any moral restraints were out there.

"Nicholas won't try anything, I assure you."

"You can't guarantee he won't."

"I've been alone with Nicholas before and nothing happened."

"I know you have been."

Something Gil hadn't especially liked but couldn't do anything about at the time. Endicott was the last man on Earth he wanted Jess spending time alone with. Well, him and Martin Whitly. If he had to pick one he trusted her with more, Gil'd pick Martin. He believed the man cared for Jess in his own twisted fashion.

Endicott?

Wanted to use her to crush her ex-husband and son.

"I don't want you spending time alone with him. Especially," he added as Jess rolled her eyes, "after everything that's happened with Bright."

Who Gil hoped had taken his earlier advice to pack a bag, grab Sorcha, and head for the one place he'd be completely safe: Wayne Manor.

"There's no reason I can think of not to go."

"I can think of a number of reasons for why you shouldn't go."

The man being a member of the Court of Owls for one.

Orchestrating the death of Eve Blanchard for another.

Sending a hitman to kill Martin Whitly.

Getting Martin transferred to prison.

Setting up Bright.

Having his own attorney murdered to silence him.

Convincing the district attorney to file charges on Bright.

Freeing John Watkins from Arkham…

"If I don't go Nicholas will become suspicious."

"I don't give a damn what he becomes. All I want is you safe."

"I am not afraid of Nicholas."

No, she wasn't and that concerned Gil the most. She was not thinking about her own well-being.

A trait Bright inherited from her.

Among a number of others he frequently lamented over.

"Jess, we don't know what Endicott has planned…"

"And that's exactly why I should go," she said. "I might be able to find out what he's got planned."

Gil closed his eyes. More a long blink than anything else. Part of him wanted to grab Jess and shake some sense into her. The other wanted to yank her to him and kiss her until they were both breathless.

He did neither.

He wouldn't obtain the result he wanted. In fact, the opposite was more likely to occur.

His only option was truthfulness.

Pure, simple, and honest.

"You potentially getting hurt isn't worth what, if any, information we might get."

"It's worth it to me."

"Jess…"

"It's my son he's having framed for murder."

Gil bit back a sigh. Jess saw her son being threatened by a bully and was doing what she needed to protect him. He couldn't fault her for that. He respected her for her dedication to her children. She gave everything she could to them, did anything to see them happy, and healthy.

Was she perfect?

By no means.

A helicopter parent?

Absolutely.

She had no choice but to become one after her husband got outed as a serial killer.

"I know you want to protect Bright." Gil stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. The only contact he allowed himself. For now. "Confronting Nicholas Endicott by yourself isn't the way to do it, though."

"I told you, I am not scared of Nicholas."

"I am, though." Gil stared into her eyes. Saw confusion and uncertainty swirl in those smokey depths with something else. Something he didn't dare define. "That's why I don't want you to go over there. Nobody will be there to protect you should Endicott try anything."

"I don't need any—"

"Jess, he's dangerous." Gil's fingers tightened on her shoulders. "More dangerous than Martin Whitly."

Jess studied him silently. Gil tried to figure out what she was thinking but her face remained a perfectly composed mask.

"He offered to help me…" she said softly. "He said he could help Malcolm. I want to find out how."

Gil had a good idea how Endicott would help Jess.

As well as what he'd want in exchange for it.

Over my dead body, Gil swore as Krypto poked his snowy head into the foyer. I could send him along with her, he realized as the superdog's ears twitched.

Something told him that suggestion would be meet with abject refusal and censure.

"I know you want to help Bright," he kept his tone tone soft, cajoling. "I do, too. Going to Endicott's, though isn't the answer."

"I want to put a stop to whatever Nicholas has planned." Her lower lip trembled. The only bit of vulnerability she allowed to slip through her calm facade. "I want to stop him before he hurts my son."

"I'll stop him, Jess." Gil'd do anything and everything possible to see Endicott locked away for good. "I promise you, I will stop him."

It was a vow he intended to keep.

Even if it killed him.

 

Chapter Text

Sorcha stared out the front windshield at the small clinic sitting alone in a small parking lot.

A mixture of anxiety and dread churned in her gut, trembled in the fingers curved around the steering wheel, and burned beneath her skin.

I have a bad feeling about this…

Not that Qui-Gon Bright would agree if she mentioned her misgivings to him.

Again.

Longer she sat there, though, more she believed coming here was by far the worst idea either of them ever had.

And we've had some real bad ideas before…

She believed her misgivings justified.

The clinic was in the middle of nowhere.

Isolated and difficult to find unless someone either had a working GPS or Googled directions beforehand.

Nearest place of business was a small diner about a block from the clinic.

Homes were tucked farther back.

She had no idea where the sheriff's office was. A sign about three miles back hadn't offered any specific details about where the station was.

Even if we can get cell service and make a call for help there's not much local police can do…

Especially if any of Endicott's hired assassins decided to show up.

Or worse, she amended as Malcolm stirred in the seat beside her, a Talon.

The location was ideal for an ambush.

A thick canopy of trees surrounded the clinic on all sides.

No street lights chased back the shadows lurking among the gnarled branches.

We're dead ducks here...

Something Sorcha felt compelled to again point out to the jittery man beside her.

"Are you absolutely positive Sophie works here?"

"Yes," Malcolm said. "The piece of paper I found in Eve's apartment had the name of this clinic on it."

"Doesn't mean Sophie works here."

"Can you think of another reason why Eve wrote down the address to a veterinarian clinic this far outside the city?"

Sorcha was forced to concede the danger-prone dope had a point.

Dammit

"No," she admitted with a sigh. "I can't."

She wished she could think of another reason for why Eve Blanchard had the address to this clinic written down on that piece of paper. One that'd get Mal to agree to do as Gil ordered and head for Wayne Manor.

Much as she hated to admit it, though, Sophie Saunders working at the clinic was the only logical explanation for why Eve had the address written down.

"This is the only lead we have at the moment, Sorch."

"I know it is." Much as it galled her to admit. "But do you honestly think it is a good idea for you to confront her?"

"Why shouldn't I confront her?"

Sorcha barely refrained from rolling her eyes. She shouldn't be surprised by his bewilderment. The dope had clearly not stopped to consider how Sophie might not be happy about being found by the son of the man who almost killed her…

"Sophie is a virtual stranger for one."

"She's a victim…"

"Who may or may not have already committed one murder." That we know of, Sorcha added silently. They had no idea what Sophie did when she worked for Endicott. "Even you've admitted there's a good chance Sophie was the one who murdered Eddie Smith."

"There is, I agree. Why did she frame me for it, though?" Malcolm's brow furrowed. "That's the part I can't figure out."

"Maybe she did it as a warning."

"A warning?" Curiosity filled Malcolm's face. "About what?"

"Finding her."

"But…"

"Mal, you have no idea how Sophie is going to react to you finding her." Sorcha's fingers curled on the steering wheel to keep them from trembling. "She could kill you to keep her location or past a secret."

"We have to risk it."

"No," she replied. "We don't."

"Sorch." Mal twisted in his seat and gazed at her imploringly. "Sophie is the only one who can tell us what she knows about Endicott."

"I know she's the only one who can tell us what she knows." Her lips compressed into a hard line. "If she knows anything." She sent Malcolm a look from the corner of her eye. "She may not as your father said. Making this a wasted trip."

"All the more reason for me to talk with her." A shadow passed across Malcolm's face. Hinted at the dark, turbulent emotions churning inside him. "My father said Sophie knows nothing. He could be lying. He has a habit of twisting the truth so it suits his needs."

"I know he does." Gaslighting his son was just one of the hundreds of offenses Martin Whitly had committed. "Sophie could still decide to kill you to keep from being found by Endicott."

"I know." Malcolm wiped his palms on his pants leg. Sorcha's only clue to how nervous he actually was. "I have to talk with her, though. It's the only way to find out the truth."

A Tt came from the backseat.

Was followed by the militant budgie muttering, "Father would not approve of this," in that grating tone of his.

"Neither would Mom," the boy seated beside him added quietly. "Nor Dad for that matter."

"Jason agreed this is the only way to find out what Sophie knows about Endicott," Malcolm pointed out.

"Todd is not someone Father would consider a reliable voice of reason."

"Sophie knows something," Malcolm insisted. "Endicott wouldn't have murdered Eve if her sister didn't know something he didn't want being revealed."

"Or she knows nothing as Corbin pointed out." Damian hunched down in his seat and crossed his arms across his chest. "Meaning we wasted time that could have been spent on stopping the Court."

"We need to find out what Sophie knows." Malcolm shifted in his seat to gaze at the scowling teen. "It could help with stopping the Court."

"Father will figure out a way to stop Endicott and the Court."

"Not before they arrest Uncle Malcolm."

Another Tt came from Damian but he didn't comment further. Sorcha knew it in no way meant he had conceded the point. He was merely regrouping. Looking for points to counter what his cousin said. He'll be back once he puts together a counterargument.

"Kai," came from Hayley. "I wanna watch Ducktales."

Christopher put on the requested show without comment. Even the militant budgie unruffled his feathers and entertained Richie when the baby fidgeted in his carseat. She hadn't wanted to bring the children along on this fools errand.

Leaving without them hadn't been an option, however.

Jessica wasn't home to keep an eye on them until Dick or Raya returned and the kids made it clear they'd call them if they tried sneaking out. Sorcha had to admit she was glad the two insisted on coming along. If something were to happen while Malcolm was inside talking with Eve's sister, well, Damian and Christopher were within range to help.

"I should go in." Malcolm smoothed his palms on his pants again. "Sophie kept the clinic open for someone with a sick bird."

"Just be careful, okay?"

"It's me."

"My point exactly."

Malcolm rolled his eyes as he made to open his car door.

He hesitated.

Sorcha hoped it was because he was about to concede his plan to confront Sophie by himself was foolish. Malcolm surprised her, though, when he lurched across the seat and planted a hard, desperate kiss to her lips.

"I promise to be careful," he told her as he leaned back. "And to call for backup if anything happens."

"Yeah, try promising that you'll actually wait for said backup to arrive."

"I will."

He exited the car then and made his way to the entrance. Sorcha watched him enter, heart in her throat, and stomach twisted in knots.

"Don't worry." Christopher spoke quietly. "I can hear everything going on in there."

"If you hear anything that seems off." Sorcha glanced over her shoulder. "You and Damian go in. Got it?"

"Tt," came from Damian. "We should have gone in with him in the first place."

Sorcha silently agreed with the smarmy little budgie.

Not that she'd tell him that.

The kid was difficult enough to deal with. Has an overinflated ego as it is...

"Sophie would have bolted if she saw you with Malcolm," she said instead. "That's why he went in alone."

Damian snorted as he jangled some plastic keys in front of Richie.

To the infant's immense delight.

"That is good as an admission of guilt."

"Guilt?" Sorcha glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "About Eddie?"

Those eyes, like his father's, met hers. "Do you think someone else killed Eddie Smith?"

"No, I'm confident she killed Eddie," Sorcha said. "This was definitely a revenge killing."

Malcolm himself cited it as the motive. It had just been incorrectly assumed the one looking for vengeance was him. Proving Sophie was the one who murdered Eddie Smith, however, wouldn't be easy. The man had been smothered with his pillow. What physical evidence had been collected all belonged to Malcolm.

Getting a confession out of Sophie is the …

"Dammit," she muttered as the reason why her dope insisted on coming here rather than doing as Gil ordered dawned. "He's here to try and convince Sophie to confess to murdering Eddie."

"I see you finally figured it out." Richie started to fuss, distracting the little wiseass. Once the baby settled, content to suck on his pacifier, Damian said, perma-sneer firmly in place, "I, on the other hand, knew exactly what Bright was up to when he insisted on coming here."

"Dami…" Christopher whined. "That was totes unnecessary."

"No, Damian's right," Sorcha said as a ffff came from the militant budgie. "I should have figured out sooner what that danger prone dope was up too."

Especially since it was her dope. Her only excuse for not seeing what Malcolm planned was sheer exhaustion. They had been going at full throttle for days now.

Batman and his protégés might be conditioned to operate under these conditions but she was definitely not.

"Uncle Mal wouldn't have come all the way out here just to ask this Sophie what she knows about Endicott."

"No, you're right." Sorcha passed a box of animal crackers back for Hayley when the toddler asked for one. "He wouldn't have come all this way just for that."

He also wouldn't have brought her and the kids with him.

No, her dope would've snuck off on his own.

Meaning he either expected something to happen and brought them along for backup or got talked into it by someone else.

Such as someone in a red hood who agreed this was a good idea…

"I would have already gotten her to confess." Damian folded his arms across his chest and stuck his nose into the air. "She would have told us everything we wanted to know soon as I walked into the clinic."

"No, Christopher's right," Sorcha said. "Malcolm needs to talk with Sophie alone."

Not only to close the lid for good on the Girl In The Box but also to get her to agree to come forward and admit she killed Eddie Smith.

Otherwise

She didn't finish that thought.

 

Chapter Text

"Gil just called," Dani announced as she entered the conference room with a fresh mug of tea. "Said the word from up top is that orders to arrest Bright are going to be issued after he's officially charged with Eddie Smith's murder."

JT grunted as he looked up from his laptop screen. "He say when his skinny ass is gonna be charged?"

Dani shook her head. "Just said it could be anytime and that we need to be ready for when the order comes down."

One brow arched. "He wants us to arrest Bright?"

Dani nodded. "Said it's best for Bright if we do it."

"He's right," came from Not Bright at the other end of the conference table. "We don't know who Endicott has on his payroll. It's safer for Malcolm if we bring him in."

"Can't believe they're charging Bright with this bullshit," JT rumbled, brow furrowing.

"Can't say we didn't anticipate them pushing forward with charges." Not Bright's other half, Grayson leaned back in his chair. "Even with Dent taking over as Malcolm's lawyer there was always the possibility they'd still charge Malcolm with murder."

"Thought this Dent guy was confident he could get the charges dropped?" JT glanced over at Not Bright. "What happened?"

"Endicott happened." Not Bright's lips pursed but JT couldn't tell if it was displeasure from the news or something on the tablet she was using. "Either Endicott used his connections in the DA's office to push the charges through or the Court used theirs."

"Or it's a combination of both." Dani took a seat on top of the table situated under the window. "The DA wouldn't pursue charges if they weren't being influenced by an outside source."

JT snorted. "Bribed, you mean."

"That." Dani's head bent slightly. "Or threatened."

"Threatened is more of the Court's way of doing things." Grayson pushed to his feet and walked over to study the whiteboard. "I'd go with bribery here because it's not going to attract attention like dispatching a Talon would."

"I think this is all Endicott, actually." Not Bright looked up from her tablet, a frown between her eyes. "I don't think the Court has had any hand in this."

"You don't?" Grayson's brow furrowed at her shake of the head. "Why not?"

"Oracle found some interesting things in her deep dive into Endicott's financials that make me think this is all his plan and not the Courts."

"We looked into Endicott's financials, though." Dani indicated a file on the table. "It's all in there, in fact. We didn't find anything."

"Endicott covered his tracks well." Not Bright reached for the folder, opened it. "Who he's paying wasn't, though. And that's where I think the separation between the Court and Endicott is."

"Who has he been paying?" Grayson questioned. "Someone we know?"

"Oh, yeah, we know him." Not Bright slid the folder to her husband. "Doctor Strange."

Grayson snagged the file and opened it. "Endicott is paying Hugo Strange?"

"And has been for years according to what Oracle uncovered."

"Great," JT muttered as a phone rang outside the conference room. "Like we needed another of your Gotham whackadoodles involved in this shit."

"Hey, it could be worse." Grayson sent him a lopsided grin. "Could be the Scarecrow that Endicott's involved with."

"Or Jarvis Tetch," Not Bright added with a small grimace. "Him or the Scarecrow would be bad news."

"I'd take Hatter over Scarecrow."

JT didn't particularly care for either one. Got enough killers running around without adding either of them freaks into the mix.

"Me too." Not Bright tapped her tablet screen with the tip of a finger. Checking messages, JT supposed. The network she and Grayson worked with far outclassed the NYPDs. Even their best were no match for Oracle. "Strange is bad enough given his proclivity for experimenting on people but Scarecrow would see this as the perfect time for one of his experiments."

"Introduce his ass to Martin Whitly," JT suggested. "Do Bright's ass a world of good if he had no more contact with his old man."

"Oh, trust me…" A hard glint passed through Not Bright's eyes. Spoke louder than words about her hatred for Bright's old man. "I'd love to toss Martin Whitly into a cell with either the Joker or Scarecrow just to see which one comes out alive."

"My money's on Joker," JT said.

"So's ours," came from Grayson.

"Why would Endicott be working with this Strange?" Dani interjected to question. "What exactly can he do for him?"

"My guess is he has been paying Strange to create his own army of Talons."

More good news to JT's consternation. As if one set of Talons isn't bad enough…

"Who he hopes to use to takeout the Court and their Talons," Dani guessed. "Right?"

"That's what it looks like." Not Bright nodded. "Yes."

"Shit just keeps getting weirder and weirder with this case…" JT grumbled. "I swear."

"Make you appreciate when you land a regular homicide next case," Grayson said. "Trust me."

JT didn't doubt that for for a minute. For now, though, he focused on the case in front of him. Gotta figure out a way to get Bright's ass outta the line of fire.

How exactly was the problem.

Endicott had eyes, ears, and fingers everywhere. None of them expected the guy to give up without putting up some sort of a fight. Guys like that don't toss in the towel 'cause they encountered a setback.

Especially after going to the lengths he had to protect his operation.

No, scum like Nicholas Endicott tended to double-down, calling in favors, and doing whatever was necessary to see what they wanted got done.

"What do we do?" Dani set her mug of tea beside her on the table. "How can we help Bright?"

"Can we help him is the question we should be asking ourselves." JT folded his arms across his chest as he looked towards the board where all the information they were able to gather was posted. "All of the evidence points to Bright being the one who did it."

"The blood evidence and testimony from Evan Chambers nullifies their forensic evidence," Grayson said. "Everything else is circumstantial at best."

"A jury could convict Bright simply 'cause of who his dad is."

"Endicott's counting on that."

"Yeah, can see that."

"Why is he doing this?" Dani looked between Not Bright and Grayson. "What's this really about?"

"Power and control."

"It's about revenge as much as it is power and control." Grayson angled a look at his wife. "On Martin Whitly as much as on you."

"Her?" Dani's eyebrows shot up. "Why?"

"Because sixteen years ago Martin Whitly failed to kill my mother and me."

"I see you conveniently left out how it's also about you managing to stop your father from killing you and Malcolm."

"The earthquake did that, not me."

"You were in control that night, Rae," Grayson retorted. "You'd have figured out a way to stop your father and save yourself and Malcolm."

"Why wait this long to get revenge, though?"

It was a good question far as JT was concerned.

One he'd been asking himself since this all started.

"Well, he had Martin under control until Malcolm started poking around with his girlfriend, Eve." A snort came from Not Bright but Grayson ignored it. JT silently agreed with her, though. Mini Bright was his girlfriend, not Eve Blanchard. There'd be time after they save his skinny ass for busting him about it, though. "Once Eve started asking questions about her sister it became evident something had to be done about her."

"She had to be silenced, you mean."

"Which created an opportunity for Endicott to kill two birds with one stone." Grayson stared at the whiteboard with his head cocked and eyes slightly narrowed. Searching for the answer that'd help them save Bright and the city. "He finally gets his revenge on Martin Whitly while bringing the Batman That Laughs here to destroy the universe."

"Ah," said Not Bright with a mischievous smirk, "Endicott might kill two birds with one stone but he's not Chuck Norris who can kill two stones with one bird."

"Hey!" Grayson shot a playfully disgruntled look over his shoulder at his wife. "I'm the pun-master!"

"You didn't take the opportunity to make the pun when it presented itself."

"Yeah, yeah…" Grayson rolled his eyes. "You're just a pun thief."

"Any of you heard about the thief who preferred robbing criminals and babysitters?"

"He cleaned out every crook and nanny." Grayson sighed. "So, unoriginal, Rae."

"What do you call a husband asleep on the couch?"

"Easy." A grin tugged at his lips. "A well-rested one."

Not Bright harrumphed. "You think you're hilarious, don't you?"

"I think I'm adorable, actually."

JT snorted a laugh as he watched their interplay. The way Not Bright and Grayson spoke to, and about each other, how they listened to the other, supported the other told him louder than words how dedicated they were to each other. It was clear as the pictures on the whiteboard they were as much best friends and partners as they were husband and wife.

Something Bright and Mini Bright would be if they ever get through their 'we're just friends' bullshit…

"Where is Bright, anyway?" Dani asked. "I figured he'd be calling us every five minutes to ask about the case."

"Gil was taking them over to Bright's loft so he could get a few things he needs before he, Sorcha, and the kids head to Wayne Manor," Not Bright said.

"Where they'll be out of Endicott's reach," Grayson added. "And the Courts."

As far as plans went, it was a good one.

Gotham had Batman and a slew of other masked heroes to keep Bright's danger prone ass safe.

There was just one fly in the ointment as far as JT could see.

"Charges being filed on Bright is gonna put a stop to him going to Gotham."

"Hopefully," Grayson said with a soft sigh, "we can avoid them filing the charges."

"Gil didn't sound too hopeful when I talked to him." Dani's lips pursed. "He was acting like it was more a case of when than if."

"Dent is downtown filing an emergency motion to get the charges halted as we speak."

"Yeah." JT grunted softly. "That's if a judge will even hear the motion."

"Luckily," was Grayson's reply. "The Wayne name carries as much weight in New York as Endicott's."

"Dent's using the Brannigan's and Corbin's, actually." Not Bright lifted her eyes to her husband's. "Don't forget Sorcha's father, aunts, uncles, and cousins are all highly respected and decorated members of law enforcement."

"Them standing in support of Malcolm has a greater chance of us getting a judge to hear the motion," he agreed with a nod. "And granting it."

"Even if Dent gets the motion granted." Dani indicated the photographs and post-it notes plastered on the whiteboard. "How do we use any of this to stop Endicott?"

Before Not Bright could answer, however, a chime came from her tablet. She touched the screen with one of her manicured fingernails.

Her eyes went wide.

Her face drained of color.

The ball of anxiety that had been rolling around in JT's belly since this nightmare started became golf balls.

He immediately sat forward, as did Dani, wondering what could have caused such a reaction from a woman who had been been nothing but cool as a cucumber since they met her.

"Rae?" Grayson immediately moved to his wife's side. "What is it?"

"Gil." JT barely could make out her words. "He's been stabbed."

 

Chapter 55

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Batman could do nothing but watch as flames engulfed Hawthorne House. The stately mansion had been built over the remains of the labyrinth the Court of Owls used to trap their victims. The serpentine maze was being crushed by the heavy brick and thick timbers plummeting into those terrible depths, sealing off what little of the tunnels survived the last cave-in, permanently.

A fitting end, Batman thought as he and Gordon watched the Gotham City Fire Department valiantly fight to contain the blaze from the roof of a nearby building.

"How much do you want to bet we will find the charred remains of Hawthorne in the ashes?"

Batman didn't need to place bets on that.

He was positive they'd find Hawthorne's remains inside the ruins.

"I was wrong about the Court's involvement in this," he said as he watched the flames dance towards the night sky. "This was never about fulfilling their prophecy."

Gordon grunted as he removed his glasses and placed them in the case he produced from a pocket in his overcoat. "You pieced together a puzzle that had pieces from other puzzles tossed in with it.”

"I still don't have the complete puzzle put together."

Which annoyed him.

He didn't like that he wasn't able to see the entire picture.

Had more questions than answers.

"You and that girl of ours will figure it out soon enough."

Despite his efforts, Batman found little solace in Gordon's words.

"I can't accept that."

"Look, you couldn't know Nicholas Endicott was working against the Court of Owls this entire time." Gordon spoke gently and all the more effective for it. "No more than you could have known the Court was, themselves, trying to stop him from bringing the Darkest Knight here to destroy our universe."

"I should have, though."

It was his job to figure out those things.

And stop them.

"You figured out it wasn't Talons killing these people but the Darkest Knight himself."

"If I had figured it out sooner…"

"Those people would still be dead even if you had." Gordon set a hand on his shoulder. "We have to take the wins where we can get them."

Gordon was right.

They had to take wins where they got them.

And those dead would still be dead whether or not I figured out what was going on sooner.

More could have been killed, in fact, he realized as a loud groan came from the collapsing building as the last of the Court's lair disappeared into the ground.

However, Batman still found it difficult to let go.

Something didn't sit right with him.

He just couldn't put his finger on what the something was.

So many people, innocent and guilty, had been murdered since the night Ian Turner handed over everything he and Ian Corbin had gathered about Nicholas Endicott, the Court, Matthew Berkeley, and Martin Whitly to Gordon.

Why?

That was the question he couldn't answer.

What was the purpose of all this?

Why murder all the firstborn children of Court members?

If it wasn't about the Courts century-long quest for the burning elixir, what was it about?

Was it about destroying the multiverses as he believed?

Or was it about something else entirely?

Surely this isn't about eliminating the only other element that can destroy him...

He'd have to kill Raya, Christopher, and Richie to make that happen.

Something Batman wouldn't allow.

Ever.

Unease crawled into his belly as the words from Percy Wright's journal again played through his mind.

The broken man must extinguish the fire of the burning muse to rise as the new servant of the Dark One.

"What if this was never about the Courts prophecy or Barbatos?" Batman murmured as a new thought took root. Gordon shifted to face him, one bushy brow tilted in silent question. "What if this has always been about Malcolm? About finishing what Martin Whitly started when he was a child?"

"Grooming him to become a killer?" Gordon frowned at his nod. "Why? What's the purpose in turning Malcolm into a killer? Especially now?"

"Not just a killer." Batman swung around to stalk towards where he left the Batwing hovering. "The perfect killer."

One The Batman That Laughs could turn into his new Robin King.

Batman wouldn't allow either to happen.

He lost one son to a madman.

He would not lose another.

"Where're you going?"

"New York."

Where he'd do whatever was necessary to keep Endicott from breaking Malcolm and Laughs from getting his hooks into him.

Malcolm's hands vibrated on the steering wheel he clutched between them. His already frayed nerves unraveled further as he exited the hospital parking garage. I shouldn't be driving, drowned out the white noise and shadow creatures he typically heard in a loop.

The words managed to stifle his father's voice even.

Something Malcolm was ridiculously thankful for.

He needed all his wits around him if he was going to make it back to his mother's house without crashing Raya's car or killing himself.

He was more concerned about crashing Raya's car than killing himself really.

A car honked at him, and a driver flipped him off as they sped around him, rattling Malcolm.

God, he loathed driving.

Well, I despise being the one doing the driving, he amended as he stopped at a red light. I love going for drives.

There had been no choice, however. He couldn't ask Sorcha to drive him back to his mother's. Not after he received the text from Ainsley demanding he come home.

Calling for an Uber or Lyft had also not been an option. Not if the niggle of suspicion crawling through his burning belly about why Ainsley had so urgently requested him to come home turned out true.

Leaving a hospital crawling with cops, Dani and JT, his mother, Sorcha, four people trained by Batman, and two kids being trained by those same protégé's hadn't been easy.

He waited until Dick took the children to the penthouse Bruce kept in Manhattan, Dani and JT left to arrest Endicott for his part in Gil's stabbing, Raya distracted by his mother, and Sorcha taking coffee up to Hood and Double R before making his exit.

Sneaking out without saying something to Sorcha left Malcolm feeling lower than a snake but he couldn't risk Ainsley's — or anybody else's for that matter — life.

He had placed them in enough danger as it was.

Malcolm took full responsibility for everything that happened.

He was the one to blame, after all.

Eve and Sterling would be alive and Gil wouldn't be fighting for his were it not for him.

My fault, replaced the words from his earlier loop. It's all my fault.

He was the one who hadn't left well enough alone.

He ignored everyone, pursued things despite the multitude of warnings he received.

His sister wouldn't pay for his inability to let things with Endicott go.

He'd sacrifice himself, first.

Malcolm parked outside his mother's house twenty minutes later. That nothing appeared out of the ordinary didn't help his anxiety any. Ainsley wouldn't have sent him that text if there wasn't a good reason.

Malcolm exited the car and slowly made his way up the walk.

The first thing he noticed was his mother's front door had been left partially open.

Something that wouldn't be allowed if she were home.

Malcolm pushed the door open and slowly stepped into the foyer.

All was calm, quiet.

Malcolm's nerves frayed further.

He inched towards the entrance to the living room, fingers bouncing at his sides, chest tight, and belly burning.

Cold fear filled him at the sight that greeted him. Ainsley, face pale and eyes wide, sat quietly beside Endicott who smiled when he saw Malcolm.

"Hello, Malcolm." He tipped his head towards the armchair to the right of Ainsley. "Come in. Sit. We have a few things to talk about."

What choice did he have?

Endicott currently had the upper-hand.

Malcolm sat.

And silently prayed one of those protégés noticed his absence and followed him here.

Batman made two phone calls as he headed for New York: the first to an old friend to let them know he was entering their city and why.

The second to Raya.

"Where's Malcolm?" he demanded before she even had a chance to say hello. "Is he with you?"

"Malcolm's here at the hospital with me, Sorcha, and Jessica, yes."

Batman's eyebrows shot up under his cowl. "Hospital? Why are you at the hospital?"

And why hadn't he been notified about it sooner?

"Gil was stabbed by one of Endicott's men about an hour ago."

Batman's fingers clutched the controls of the Batwing hard enough his knuckles crackled.

He anticipated Endicott would go after those closest to Malcolm but hadn't imagined he'd start with Gil.

Why wouldn't he, though?

Gil Arroyo had been more of a father to Malcolm than he had been.

"Is he expected to survive?"

"We don't know." Raya's sigh crackled in his ear. "He's still in surgery at the moment."

"Is Sorcha's step-father performing the surgery?"

"Yes."

Batman let out a small, relieved sigh. Harry Wilson performing Arroyo's surgery guaranteed there wouldn't be any mishaps.

Or any of Endicott's men in the operating room.

"Is Malcolm near you at the moment?"

"No, he was heading for the men's room and then was—" Raya broke off, swore in ways Jason be proud of. "He's gone. He pulled a you on me."

If not for the seriousness of the situation, Batman might've found amusement in Malcolm managing to sneak away from her. As it was they needed to locate where he had gone and quickly.

"How long ago did he leave?"

"Twenty-five minutes." More words Alfred would've had a fit over came through his earpiece. "The GPS in my car shows he's at the Whitly residence." Raya hummed. "Why would he have gone home without telling one of us?"

"Because Endicott's there."

A few more choice words — ones he couldn't rightly blame on Jason for teaching her this time — assaulted Batman's ears.

"I'll meet you there."

He could've ordered her to remain at the hospital.

Instructed her to protect Jess.

He didn't, though.

She wouldn't obey him even if he did.

"Where's Nightwing?" he asked instead. "And Red Hood? Red Robin?"

"Hood and Double R are keeping watch in case Talons or any of Endicott's men show up here to finish the job."

"Have them remain there."

Batman ended the call without waiting for her reply.

He watched as the girl plunged the knife she slipped from the drawer while Nicholas was distracted over and over into his body. Her technique was crude but highly effective to his way of thinking. Blood sprayed in an arc with each thrust, painting the boring and lifeless walls behind her in a cheery shade of red.

Perhaps, he mused as Nicholas slumped to the floor, face awash in shock and agony, I chose the wrong one to make my Robin King.

Maybe he should take the girl.

Mold her into his image.

Yes, the idea had merit.

If he couldn't have the boy as his Robin King, he'd have the sister as his… Harley Queen.

The Darkest Knight slid back into the shadows from which he had been born, giggling softly at all the chaos his Harley Queen would wreak once he molded her into the perfect servant, and the darkness that remain once they destroyed the multiverses.

"It's okay, Ainsley." Even as he spoke the words, Malcolm didn't believe them. How could things be okay? The proof of what his sister had done was laying at her feet in an ever increasing pool of blood. He had to say something, however. Had to keep Ainsley calm while he figured out what to do. "It's..."

His phone buzzed in his pocket, momentarily distracting him.

He pulled it out and looked at the caller ID but didn't recognize the number.

Something told him the caller wasn't anyone he wanted to talk with at that moment.

"Hello?"

"My boy!" he heard. "It's dad. How're things going?"

"Ah, well, they're not good, actually."

"Well, don't worry about me." As if it was a given his father was Malcolm's primary concern. "Things are looking up for me. I took Ainsley's advice, in fact."

"Yeah, well." Malcolm's eyes strayed to where Endicott's body lay. "She took yours."

"Really?" A hum of pleasure vibrated in Malcolm's ear. Was followed by a nauseating, "My girl."

Incredulity ripped through Malcolm.

"Don't you care about what she did?"

"Well, uh, technically your sister was only doing what you refused to do. So, really, you're to blame here." Malcolm closed his eyes. More a long blink than anything. "Now, you're going to have to work fast if you want to keep her from going to jail."

"Work fast?" Dread was a hot poker in Malcolm's already violently cramping belly. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, my boy, you're going to have to, ah, get rid of the body."

"Get rid of his body?" Malcolm barked a hollow laugh. "What do you expect me to do? Cut him up and ship him to Estonia in a trunk?"

"That's precisely what you're going to do."

Before Malcolm could refuse to do something so heinous, so despicable, the phone went flying from his hand. Startled, he spun around to find Bruce-77 standing a few inches behind him. How long he had been there, Malcolm didn't know. Why he was there wasn't even important. He was there and that was all that mattered.

"Whatever Martin Whitly told you to do," Bruce-77 growled as he stalked towards the exit. "You are not doing it. I forbid it."

"Whe-where are you going?"

"After the Darkest Knight," came his brusque reply.

"He was here?"

In his mother's house?

Another voice, one he immediately recognized as Batman's said, "He was watching from the shadows, yes."

Malcolm lifted his head to stare into Batman's face. He expected stark disapproval and anger but found compassion and understanding instead. He glanced over at Ainsley, found she was being led away by Raya who had arrived at some point during his conversation with Bruce-77.

"What about Ainsley?" The vivacious, outgoing, well-adjusted Whitly. "What's going to happen to her?"

"Raya will take her to the hospital and have her examined by a doctor."

"She's going to be arrested for Endicott's murder."

"Yes, she will be." The fingers on his shoulder, capable of bone-crushing force, were surprisingly gentle. "Harvey will argue it was justifiable. Evidence will support it. We'll also make sure you get the psychiatric help you need to deal with what happened here tonight."

Malcolm didn't for one minute doubt him.

Unlike his father, Batman never lied to him.

Nor told him they were the same.

When two guards came to his cell a few hours later, Martin figured he was getting transferred back to Claremont.

Where he belonged.

"I'm afraid I cannot recommend these accommodations," he joked as the guards led him down the hallway towards the exit of the prison. "Food's terrible, beds uncomfortable, and the other guests?" He nodded to where some whistled and cat-called. "Well, they're a bit rowdier than I like."

Neither of the guards replied.

Not that Martin cared.

His focus was on getting back to his cell at Claremont, reestablishing his privileges, and using them to bring Malcolm to him.

Where he'd finally teach his boy all the intricate little details he needed to know before they embarked on the grand adventure he planned for them the day Malcolm was born.

Soon as Martin spied the dark-haired woman standing beside the prison van his hopes plummeted.

There could only be one reason why she was there.

"Ah, Dr. Kean, isn't it?" Martin plastered his most pleasant smile on his face. Used his charm to try and disarm her as he worked on a way out of the situation. "To what do I owe this, ah, pleasure?"

"The only pleasure to be had here, Dr. Whitly, is mine." The eyes behind the thin silver spectacles she wore became sharp. Predatory. Martin imagined her as a jaguar stalking prey through the thick brush. And he was the quarry she hunted. "I'm finally about to fulfill a promise I made to someone sixteen years ago."

"What, uh, promise is that?"

"The one where I put you somewhere so you can no longer hurt the person you've hurt most with your lies: Malcolm."

Her words crashed over Martin.

Threatened to drown him.

She was going to take his son from him.

His boy.

She couldn't do that.

She couldn't take Malcolm from him.

Bands formed around Martin's head, his chest.

Tightened until he could barely draw a breath.

"No," he managed around the icy shards poking him in the throat. "You can't. He's my son." He jerked against the hands holding him. "He's my son!"

"He's not, though, is he?" Dr. Kean taunted with a small smirk. "He's Bruce Wayne's son." Martin reared back as if she'd slapped him. "That's why he turned you in. Because he's like his father. His real father."

"I'm his father!" Martin shouted. "We're the same!"

"No, you're a monster and monsters belong in the dark." Dr. Kean nodded to the guards standing silent on either side of him. "Get him out of here."

"He's my son!" Martin struggled as the guards led him towards the waiting prison transport. "He's my son!"

"Goodbye, Dr. Whitly." Dr. Kean walked towards a waiting SUV. "I hope you find Blackgate to your liking."

"He's my son! Mine!"

Not that the guards cared anymore about that than Dr. Kean.

No, they tossed Martin into the transports dark interior and ferried him on his way to the last place he wanted to go: Gotham.

 

Notes:

We have finally reached the end of this story. It’s taken longer than the show was on the air but we’ve gotten there finally! To those who have followed along, bookmarked and commented, know you brought a smile to my heart. Thank you from the depths of my soul.

Take care! 🥰

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