Misc.

prodigal son 9

the final straw for mo was lunch at the cafe. the door had slammed shut, the little bell ringing in the background, but mo didn't bother to look back, just wanting to go back to his hotel room. 

he slept the day away, too tired to deal with any of the anxiety or worry that kept shooting him in the chest. it was beginning to hurt to breath, and he couldn't take much more.

when he woke up a few hours later, guilt was gnawing at his conscious. showering didn't make it go away, nor did supper. he spoke to his mother for a while, asked about the farm and cleaned the bedroom, but his stomach was still filled with butterflies that wouldn't stop chewing on his insides, chronically starved. 

the generically black alarm clock flickered 1:30AM and mo was still awake, and still ashamed, so he decided to just do something about it. he grabbed his phone, his shoes, and his coat, and left the hotel room quietly empty in the late late hours of the black and silent night.

the city that never slept guided him to the address he had been told malcolm lived at and he stood at the front door clicking the buzzer a couple of times, hoping someone would answer. the night owl detective opened the door a few minutes later, for some reason still in his suit.

they locked eye contact and somewhere in the distance the fight from earlier in the day replayed quietly before it was drowned out by a siren screaming by.

"can i help you?" malcolm said, the politeness in his voice liberally sarcastic.

"i just..." mo began, clearing his throat, trying his best to not let his pride inhibit whatever he was about to say, "i just wanted to apologize for earlier today. i understand if you don't want to talk to me, and you don't have to apologize back, i'm just tired of fighting and arguing." 

mo felt breathless after he finished talking. his eyes were trained on the ground and he was too scared to look malcolm in the eye, fearful he might see martin instead.

"no," malcolm replied after a moment. "we should talk about this. there's no point in staying at a stalemate. you should come in, it's cold outside." he offered tentatively, moving out of the way and opening the door wider.

mo frowned, but accepted the invitation and entered. 

upstairs, malcolm began putting away dishes and mo sat silently at the island, waiting for something to happen. his heart was hammering in his chest, and he couldn't stop bouncing his leg, taking every last ounce of energy to not allow himself to fly completely into a panic attack. perhaps malcolm would launch into some sort of rage, or use the knife set that sat pristinely on the counter. maybe he would shout insults until mo was deaf, or do some other horrible thing-

"i accept your apology." malcolm said rather gently, putting the last plate away.

"what?" mo asked, looking up.

"i accept your apology, and i figured you deserve an explanation. you obviously know about the twenty-three victims martin whitly notoriously murdered, but i recently discovered that i might have been victim number twenty-four. my own father tried to kill me on a camping trip when i was eleven, a week after your family had come over for dinner. i guess...i'm having trouble processing it, and it wasn't my intention to take my anger out on you. you're the closest person to the whitly case that i've spoken to in a long time, and i guess i didn't know how to talk to you."

it was silent for a long time. mo continued to stare at the ground, biting his lip, shaking. dead silent tears dropped from his eyes, but he didn't dare make a sound.

"mo?" malcolm asked after a drawn out period of silence. "are you ok?"

"twenty-five."

"i'm sorry?"

"twenty-five... i'm supposed to be dead." he got out, his voice more of a whimper than a solid tone.

now malcolm had gone wordless. a can of worms had been cracked wide open and they were crawling, inching all the way across whatever cadaver they could find, ravenous.

"what are you talking about?"

"you um," he said, shaky, trying to control the tears still sliding down his cheeks, swallowing the lump in his throat. "i don't know if you remember, but i stayed back to play with ainsley after supper that night. we were up in her room, i don't even think we saw you. martin was supposed to drive me home, but he told me my parents were coming to pick me up. when they didn't come, he said i could stay the night. i don't know what happened, but i woke up in the basement, and it was cold and dark and he was there, and he wouldn't stop hurting me and i was down there alone for weeks and i was only five malcolm-" mo got out crying and heaving. he was standing, his hands still trembling and his chest felt like it was on fire. he backed up, hands laced together behind his neck, his eyes screwed tightly shut. "i was only fucking five and the only person that knew about it was martin. that's why i stopped talking to you, that's why we moved, it's why i never reached out, and im sorry." he sobbed. 

malcolm took a step forward holding out a hand, eyes worried.

"mo, please open your eyes and look at me." he asked carefully. the redhead shook his head, drowning in panic, too afraid to do anything. 

"i'm sorry- i'm sorry this isn't about me, this is about you. i'm sorry. i shouldn't have said those things to you, you were right, i don't know what you went through and i should have just stayed out of your way."

"no, maurice, listen, you're just having a panic attack. you're experiencing fight or flight response. most people think it's just those two, but there's actually four. fight or flight, and then freeze and fawn. you're just freezing right now, i can help you, just take my hand and listen to my voice. ground yourself." malcolm instructed slowly, taking the other man's hand, his eyes opening at the contact. 

"malcolm? oh my god- i think the world is ending." he gasped, squeezing the hand holding his.

"i promise you, it isn't. you're in my apartment, and you're safe here. i'm with you." malcolm continued, speaking in an easygoing voice. "hey, look at me? we're safe here and you're okay." he added, grabbing mo's shoulder. 

the redhead repeated malcom's last phrase, instinctively pulling malcolm close and hugging him, leaning over and sobbing into his shoulder. they crumpled to the ground, holding each other crying. mo gripped the fabric of malcolm's suit, somewhere in the back of mind guilty he might be staining it with tears. he allowed himself to feel and hold and be held, allowed himself to accept that malcolm had nothing to do with his childhood, or the surgeon. a warm blanket of care and love covered them and they stayed on the ground until mo finally pulled back minutes later.  

"are you okay?" he asked malcolm, who's cheeks had become wet as well. he wiped his eyes and nodded tearfully.

"yeah, are you?"

"i will be." mo nodded, sniffling. "i'm sorry again, i was immature and stupid and-"

"no, i'm sorry as well, and i apologize for anything i said, you didn't deserve that." malcolm cut him off, hugging him close once more.

"god, if i'd just known i never would have said anything." mo whimpered.

"we didn't, but we're both ok now, it's all out in the open."

mo breathed in and found that malcolm smelled like aftershave and some sort of old spice shampoo, and he cradled the back of malcolms head with his hand worn with callouses and dirt under his nails from his farm back home, a far cry from the luxury malcolm had known his whole life. the redhead kissed malcom's shoulder apologetically, squeezing him one last time. he looked back and malcolm who cupped his face with his own hand now, smiling sympathetically through stray, lingering tears. 

"friends?"

"friends."