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And the Mind Follows

Summary:

Malcolm Whitly has simple goals: convince Gil he’s stable enough to work as a consultant and stay far enough from his past for that to be true. A new case gives him the perfect chance to prove himself: find out who is killing members of New York’s elite, without sabotaging his mental health. But as Malcolm spirals deeper into the chase; chilling parallels to his own rediscovered memories emerge.

With a killer on the loose and the past clipping at his heels; Malcolm risks forgetting the most important goal of all: don’t let his serial killer father back into his life.

Notes:

Here we go! 8 months to the day from when I started the draft in Word. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing

Canon divergence from Season 1 Episode 4 Designer Complicity

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: An Unexpected Call and an Unexpected Guest

Chapter Text

“Genetics is crude, but neuroscience goes directly to work on the brain, and the mind follows.”

~ Leon Kass

 

MALCOLM

Malcolm can’t read the title of the book, but he knows it says Ainsley Whitly with the same bone-deep knowledge he has of its contents. The book contains words and phrases such as sister and driven, liar and lovely, fierce and must-be-protected.  The tome is small, no longer than his wrist to his fingers, (such a slight book to hold the depth and breadth of their relationship) and cornflower blue; blue like the dress she ripped when they hid, tiny and giggling under the linen draped tables of one of Jessica Whitly’s famous soirees.

Jessica’s book is a deep pink turning red, as large and ornate as the jewelry she favors. Set next to Ainsley’s, the contrast is striking, like Jessica done up for dinner, like wine spilled across a flawless carpet. It sends him stumbling when he tries to lift it from its perch, heavy with words like Mother and drunk and fear.

The books are aligned, equally spaced, centered on dark wood pedestals strong with family and familiarity. Behind them extends a wall of uncertain height. It doesn’t seem like a tall wall, but no matter how Malcolm strains his eyes, he can’t see the top of it. He can’t tell what color it is either, something like white; but looking closer just makes his eyes burn. The effect isn’t so bad where the pedestals have cast their shadows, enough for him to decide he’s right about the white. That satisfaction quickly dies when looking around he can’t find any light source strong enough to cast shadows at all. That’s not to say the space is dark, he can see the bookshelves to his left and right quite clearly. They sit in rows on either side, forming some kind of narrow alley and, like the wall, they have no definitive height.

Turning back, he is struck by how impeccably balanced the whole scene looks. Despite the books being such different sizes, the display seems perfect and complete in all ways; so perfect that Malcolm doesn’t understand the sudden overwhelming urge to search, nor the skin-crawling anxious certainty that something is missing. He scans fruitlessly through the bookshelves, one after another, title after title of names he knows but can’t read, before stopping as a sudden vertigo takes hold. For one endless moment he is somehow above the wall and can see a labyrinth of bookshelves opening out below him. Mile after mile, the shelves are arranged with the same kind of haphazard order found in cities built atop towns formed over villages. The moment stretches, till, with a jolt, he finds himself in his own body, back amongst the stacks. He reaches out to trail a hand over Gil’s book, certain that if he opened it, he would find safe scrawled across innumerable pages. It’s almost enough to calm the persistent anxiety, but then he spots the faded tome reading Jackie just below it, and the impulse to search rises back up in him.

He turns and hurries out of the alley, into a hall of more shelves. From here he can see the lights, floating wisps of ever-changing colors that hang in the darkness above, softly illuminating the entire corridor. It doesn’t have what he’s looking for, so he moves on. A gust of wind surges as he turns down a new path, sending pages rustling like leaves. Turning back reveals three paths where he was sure there were only two. Despite this, he’s not frightened. The knowledge of the books is tucked up right next to the certainty of his safety; nothing will harm him in this place. The wind follows him into the next hall, sending a chill up his spine; though maybe the chill is from how the corridor seems to change behind him once again, to the side and never in his sight, as shifting as the lights above. He has the idea that it doesn’t matter which path he takes; the labyrinth is evolving to get him where he needs to be.

He takes a left, then the second right, and finds himself amongst piles of books. Stacked on the ground, cover to cover, they spiral up into the darkness that lies beyond the lights. They loom in infinite towers, like ancient trees that made their home here long ago. Strangely unwilling to touch them (to pry open these books seems a violation) he skirts between them, getting farther and farther from the sprawling city of shelves. Ducking around one stack with what looks to be manuscripts tucked between the tomes, he turns, and nearly hits a tower directly ahead of him. It’s wide enough he couldn’t fit his arms around it (even if he could get past the aversion to touching it). Its balance is precarious, heavy with titles like Claude Springer and Carter Berkhead. It’s leaning against a similar tower, both on the edge of falling and spilling a flood of words like killer and made and conditioned across the floor. Uneasy, he slides through the gap between the towers and finds himself standing in front of the book.

Martin Whitly .

There is no pedestal, though the book sits at the same height, and the walls… there are no walls, just the same darkness from above filling in around until it bleeds into the floor, a stretch of familiar burning white. The twisting lights seem faded here, as if the atmosphere itself was warned to stay away. Malcolm reaches out a trembling hand to the deep red cover, fearful and anticipatory, drawn in, like bird to snare, with the knowledge that this is what he’s looking for. There is a flash of something like clarity, and he tries to pull back; but he finds his hand remains hovering in the air, unable to stop but unable to continue. He knows the path behind him is gone. If he turned there would be nothing but him, the book, the floor and the black. There is no use. The wind hisses to a stop as he opens the cover.

He can’t read it. The words twist and blur before his eyes. He thinks they must say Father or killer, but the unspoken knowledge he’s received since he arrived is gone. He turns the page, desperate to find just one recognizable word, but even as he searches the marks start to fade, getting lighter, as though some inexorable force is draining them away. He flips through page after page, then recoils in horror, seeing the ink now staining his hands in dark smears. Every page he turns, it gets darker, pulling from the page to coat his hands, thick and wet and suddenly red. With every page turned, every symbol that fades, the certainty of his safety fades with it as the book relentlessly leaks its unknown knowledge. The lights have gone red and heavy, and Malcolm can now hear voices coming from the book. They say no words, just make a horrible, unintelligible sound; desperate cries for help that emerge only as screams. In the grip of sudden terror, he slams the book shut only to see the new title:

Malcolm Whitly .

 

---        ---        ---        ---        ---

 

Malcolm jerks upright, awake now. He spits out his mouth guard and fights the urge to check his hands for ink. Or blood. Or whatever. A few racing heartbeats later he gives in, there’s no one else in his apartment to judge him for it. He looks down and… nothing. Same old hands, soft palms, clean nails, leather restraints round each wrist. The sweat-soaked sheets welcome him as he thumps back, staring at the ceiling while his breath evens out again. His dream has soured the possibility of more sleep, surprising, considering its relative mundaneness. But despite the lack of blood and gore and fighting for his life, the dream leaves him oddly unsettled, like something is miss—No.

He reaches a hand to unhook his restraints. It’s easy enough, even with the lingering shakes; both the tremor and the cuffs are long familiar bedfellows. Sitting up, the rustle of the sheets mimics the phantom rustle of book pages; he turns on the radio to drown both out.

Yoga is next; there’s a spot in the middle of his apartment where the sun bathes the wooden floor in creases of light. His back deliberately to his wall of bookshelves, he settles himself there. Soaking in the sun like a cat, pushing back the remnants of his dream with deep and steady breaths through the crown of his head, he grounds into the warmth of the floor. The lingering, uneasy tension reluctantly loosens its claws. By the time he takes his pills, Malcolm feels almost human enough to attempt a proper breakfast.

The fridge is not as barren as usual, thanks to Ainsley. Fresh fruit (hard-earned by listening to his sister gripe about being sent to report on a farmers’ market, of all things) is crisp enough to tempt even Malcolm’s still churning stomach. The pantry is less useful, but he scrounges up some bread and a half empty bottle of syrup. Perfect.

French toast in the pan; the golden smell of it makes a pleasant backdrop as he reaches for his daily affirmation. “I have the power to choose how the world affects me.” He reads the little card aloud. He repeats it as he cuts the fruit, running it over and over until it sticks. “I have the power to—” the ringing of his cell cuts him off. He glances over to where the screen is flashing, too far for him to see the caller id. Few people would call him in the morning, and even fewer of them would he want to talk to. Desperate for a delay, he ignores the incessant vibration against countertop, and finishes plating the toast.

Toast on plate. Buzz. Pan in sink. Buzz. Breakfast on counter, ready to—Buzz. Caving, he finally looks: Unknown reads the caller id, but the number underneath is one he recognizes. He hadn’t known what to put as the contact (Dr. Whitly? The Surgeon? Dad?) so instead he memorized the number. He debates not answering, but he knows the phone will continue to ring until voicemail forces it to stop; and arranging and re-arranging the fruit until his plate looks like something his mother’s chef could be proud of only provides so much distraction. His gaze falls to the little affirmation card sitting innocuously on the counter. I have the power to choose how the world affects me. “Ah, screw it.” He lunges for the phone. The silence on the other end when he picks up throws him; did he miss the call after all? He slumps in something not unlike relief.

“Hello, my boy!” His father’s voice rings across the line, genial, cheerful, not at all alarming. Malcolm jerks hard, smashing his hip into the counter. He bites down on a string of curses, pulling at his sleep pants to see if there’s a bruise. A pause. “Malcolm, you there?”

He tugs his pants and his focus back into place. “Why are you calling Dr. Whitly?”

“Oh, come on now. Don’t act all distant on me. Can’t a man call his son now and then?”

“I guess it depends on whether the prison gives him phone privileges.” His voice sounds far steadier than he feels.

“Ah, you always had a sense of humor… don’t remember it being so sharp though.” A dramatic sigh kicks up static, Malcolm pulls the phone away from his ear with a grimace. “Must’ve been that damned FBI.”

“I am well aware of your opinion of my—” A odd noise cuts him off, “Are you eating?”

“Yes? It is breakfast time; us killers eat the same as everyone else. I do hope you’re eating; you’ve been looking rather thin.”

To the left of Malcolm sits the untouched plate; to his right, his hand starts up its familiar shaking. “Why are you calling?” Malcolm grabs for his affirmation card and taps the edge repeatedly against the counter. I have the power to choose how the world affects me.

“You know we had a visitor the other day,” Dr. Whitly says instead, “A prison evangelist. The place was all astir, few like to bother with us crazies.” A laugh, until his voice turns serious, intent. “He spoke on the book of Luke, a series of parables; the lost sheep, the lost coin… and then a lost son.” A pause, then deliberately casual. “Interesting stuff.”

Malcolm hesitates, wary of taking the bait. “The prodigal son is an allegory. The rich man welcoming his wayward son home to symbolize the way the Lord welcomes all sinners who repent, with open arms.”

“As any father would,” Dr. Whitly says, intense and all-consuming, like dark clouds forcing themselves over a clear sky, “No matter how far his son has strayed, even if it took ten years.”

Malcolm snorts. “Everyone knows of the doctor’s tendency towards god-complex, but isn’t this taking things a bit far, Dr. Whitly?”

A grumble comes over the line. “I see you haven’t lost your tendency towards deflection.”

“And you still haven’t answered my question.” Malcolm waits; then, “Why are you calling?” No answer. Three times Malcolm has asked, and yet… As the silence stretches stark and probing, Malcolm is the one feeling pressure to answer. Every conversation with Dr. Whitly is a test (how do you respond to this, what if I mention that, can you rate your level of pain?) a sick puzzle to piece together patterns of behavior, how a person works. It’s a game, a game where the Surgeon wrote the rule book and refuses to give anyone else a copy; and the only way to win is not to play. “Goodbye, Dr.—”

“You know you can’t avoid it.” Dr. Whitly’s voice hangs heavy with something that Malcolm associates with red light and screaming pages. “You can try to hide, but deep down, you know we’re the sa—”

Click.

Malcolm stares down at his perfect plate of breakfast. It looks good, delicious. His stomach twists.

“Well, I guess I’m skipping breakfast today, huh, Sunshine?” From over in her cage she stares her bird stare as he sweeps his plate into the trash. “Don’t look at me like that.” Her little yellow head cocks, green feathers rustling as she sidesteps, but her black eyes keep staring. “This has nothing to do with him. I just…” He sighs and buries his face in his hands, “Felt like throwing out perfectly good food, Christ, I’m a mess.”

A loud sound startles him. For one wild, insensible moment Malcolm’s convinced his thoughts summoned him, like the proverbial devil, before reason catches up. Just a knock on the door. All very normal, if unexpected. He clatters down the stairs, uncertain of who’s waiting for him. His mother wouldn’t have knocked, she’s far fonder of busting in whenever she pleases. Ainsley would have texted (a hard-earned lesson for both of them), so who else is there? Maybe someone stumbled against the door? Either way, he reaches for the knob.

“Gil! Hi.” His mentor stands in the doorway, rubbing ungloved hands to ward off the chill. Sweater and coat, solid and reliable, eyes bright and looking at him with a fond amusement.

“You going to let me in?”

“Of course!” Malcolm leads Gil up the stairs, twisting his mind in loops, trying to think of why Gil is at his apartment. “So…”

“You have no idea why I’m here, do you kid?” Gil walks past him, sharp eyes roving over his apartment, cataloging and noting everything. It’s a practice Malcolm is familiar with, though he usually sees it at a crime scene. But why Gil would do it now…   

“What makes you say that?” Malcolm leans, very casually, against his counter. Gil shoots him a sardonic look, gaze traveling over him top to bottom: bedhead, shirtless, sweatpants, one bare foot rubbing against the opposite ankle. Malcolm flushes, realizing his state of undress.

“Let’s try this.” Gil gets right up in his space and crosses his arms. “Your continued employment consulting with the NYPD is contingent on…”

Malcolm points at him. “Therapy!”

Gil raises an eyebrow. “And I’m here because…”

 “You’re overprotective and don’t trust me to do it myself?” Malcolm tries.

Gil gives him a gentle cuff to the back of the head in response. “To show support and solidarity.” He steps back. “You’ve got five minutes to get ready or I’m dragging you out like that.”

In the end, it takes more like nine before he’s bounding back to Gil, washed, dressed, and overall, much more presentable. “Sorry to leave you here so long, I just—” He trails off, “Gil?” In the space he’s been gone, something in his mentor has shifted. It’s Detective Arroyo standing in his kitchen, incongruous with the morning sun and previous light atmosphere. Gil opens his mouth to speak, and it feels nothing like the man who offered a scared kid some candy and—Wait, candy. “Crap! I almost forgot, hold on just a minute.” He roots through his cabinets and emerges victorious, clutching a shopping bag. Expecting at least some teasing for buying something from a store with plastic bags (his Mother would be appalled), he braces himself but nothing comes. Disconcerted, Malcolm tries to change the dark mood that seems to have settled over his mentor.

“You know, you really don’t have to take me.”

“No.” Gil smiles, dark eyes intense and searching. “I insist.”