Chapter Text
When Bright stepped into the precinct, focus having shifted back to the case at hand after he’d drank too much with his medications (if Mother could day drink when she was stressed, he was allowed to day drink when he was bored) and come to an epiphany: all the feet had the same callouses and they’d all been recovered outdoors. They were all a part of the same recreational activity. More than casual hikers, they knew what they were doing and they did it often. Maybe even together. Malcolm was starting to get some Greatest Game inklings, and his heart was already beginning to pound as he slid seamlessly back into his consulting role. After exactly fifty six entire hours away, he was practically giddy to get back to work.
So much so that he almost forgot about his prank until he saw that JT was still wearing his old jacket. Malcolm pressed his lips together, hard, to keep from smiling. It wasn’t going to be nearly as satisfying if his composure cracked now.
He let a few hours drift by before making it a point to cross paths. It wasn’t hard to submerge himself. Reviewing the photographs again to match the callouses with different types of shoes wasn’t the most glamorous thing he’d ever done, but the glee of his return made it sacred. It was entirely likely he’d end up with his own pair of every hobby shoe that was inevitably going to be advertised on his laptop over the next few days out of sheer curiosity. He didn’t even care about his weapons as a material collection, he’d just picked up a book about the evolution of the sword one day and things had spiraled from there. Or earlier than that, Dr. Witly’s voice whispered from his cell miles away, from the space he always occupied in Malcolm’s brain every waking moment, every boy needs a good knife.
No. Malcolm imagined putting on noise cancelling headphones to block out that voice, something Dr. Le Deux had worked with him on. Sensory imagery as a coping technique. Malcolm couldn’t shut Dr. Witly out, his night terrors were proof of that. And trying to exorcise him was, as Dr. Le Deux had put it, going in the wrong direction. It’s too violent, and that’s the opposite of what we’re trying to achieve here. So the most effective thing to do was block it off if he could, distract himself doing something else.
Like heckling detectives.
He made sure he ran into JT during his break; if he was working, he wouldn’t want to be disturbed. He didn’t want to be disturbed either way, but better to bother him when he wasn’t actively working to save lives. And whatnot.
“Didn’t like my jacket?” He asked, beginning with half his back to the detective, ostensibly making himself a cup of coffee. It wasn’t entirely ostensible, since he was due for lunch, but it was too good a position to take up. Impeccable planning. Dad would be proud of you, a smug thought informed him.
Shut up, Malcolm said back.
“It was Gucci, Bright.” JT hardly spared a glance from the newspaper he was holding captive between his thumb and four fingers spread across the back to keep it upright. His eyes weren’t moving slowly enough to indicate he was actually reading. Either he was just skimming or trying unsuccessfully to ignoring him.
“Exactly!” Bubbles of nervous, giddy energy floated pleasantly in Malcolm’s chest, making him feel light. Untouchable, like he always did when he swayed on the edge of banter and argument. “It’s Gucci! You strike me as the type of guy who enjoys the finer things in life.” He held up a hand before JT could interject, his mouth already open and expression already turning stormy, “I’m not profiling you. If I’m wrong, maybe you need to be introduced to the finer things in life.” He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep laughter at bay. Picturing JT in that jacket had been one of the things that kept him sane over his leave, but it was so much easier to do it now that the detective was in the room with him. “Either way, Gucci was the obvious answer.”
JT released his hold on the newspaper and crossed his arms over it instead, elbows unapologetically on the table in a way Mother would hate. “The obvious answer to what, Bright?” His voice was measured, almost patient, but his eyes…
Say it, they said, I want to see if you can.
And the bubbles were gone, replaced by a hollow sense of well-worn embarrassment. Don’t apologize for your anxiety, Malcolm, Dr. Le Deux had practically drilled into him, don’t apologize for what you need.
“How to apologize.”
JT shifted, not looking nearly as smug or as irritated as Malcolm had been expecting. He seemed to soften, almost, which was startling enough that Malcolm’s first response was to glance at the nearest exit and wonder how far of a head start he could get before JT caught up. His legs were longer, but if Malcolm was quick–
“Jesus, Bright, sit down before you pass out again.” The chair scraped across the floor as JT nudged it out from under the table with his foot, a touch of exasperation darkening his expression. It was more familiar that way, but only by a little. Malcolm prepared himself to bristle, to reject pity, but that wasn’t what was on JT’s face. Malcolm frowned and sat.
JT leveled him with a stare, unblinking, and just as Malcolm’s collar began to feel too tight, he shifted, leaning back to cross his arms over his chest. “I told you I’ve seen people with PTSD before.” His voice was measured, too measured. Someone he knew had PTSD, then. Probably multiple someones. With cases bad enough that Malcolm’s outburst hadn’t shaken him. “You don’t need to apologize to me for that.”
Malcolm opened his mouth, came up blank, and shut it. This wasn’t fun anymore. Why had he thought it was going to be fun?
“Well–alright, but let me take care of the dry cleaning, at least.”
JT scoffed, looking almost entertained, and part of the knot in Malcolm’s chest untangled and melted away. “It’s leather, Bright, it washes off easy. That thing barely has any blood stains, and you think I’m worried you wiped your nose on it? You don’t need to worry about it.” His expression shifted again, and suddenly he wasn’t talking about the jacket. “Seriously.”
Malcolm blinked, not sure how it was possible for him to feel embarrassed, relieved, incredulous, and a bit infatuated all at once. He could his face begin to heat and desperately willed it away, all the while knowing it was only worsening at JT’s slight, knowing smile. “I got something for you, too,” He said after a moment’s huffed laughter, planting his hands on the table and standing. “I couldn’t drop eight grand on it, but you could definitely use it.” He returned a moment later, brandishing an unopened tissuebox.
Malcolm giggled before he could stop himself, and was halfway to feeling petrified about the sound when JT joined in with a single laugh from his belly, an actual laugh, a real one. It was the most emotion of any kind Malcolm could remember seeing on him, and though it vanished quickly, the smile suited him.