Neal makes a dismissive gesture with the hand holding his phone. "There will be other gallery openings. Trudy will use this to build up my mystique or something." Clearly imitating a well-to-do someone's tone, he says, "Image is everything."
He stuffs his phone into his pocket, crossing back to Malcolm's bedside. Dani and JT step back as he moves in, giving each other an amused glance. Neal lifts a hand to Malcolm's cheek, the other going to gently hold the ice pack in place. Or help Malcolm do it. Whatever. "I'd rather be here."
"And I know better than to argue during moments like this," Neal says dryly. He kisses Malcolm's forehead. "I'm coming with you. Hanging back like a proper civilian, but coming with."
"Yes you are," Neal says, pleased, and kisses Malcolm's forehead then his mouth. He glances Dani's way and gives Malcolm one last kiss, tone dry and a little annoyed. "Your legal partner will see you at the crime scene."
Malcolm grins and hands Dani his ice pack as he hops off the table, though he’s not quite as steady on his feet as he thought and he has to grab Neal’s arm to steady himself.
Neal is more reluctant to go with JT after that, but the other man convinces him. The interrogation of the developer is fruitful, at least, and when Dani and Malcolm walk out of the room Neal slides in next to his husband—nearly planting a kiss on the bruised side of his head before catching himself. “I probably shouldn’t touch that spot, huh.”
When they walk into the Whitly family dining room, Malcolm pauses as he spots his mother and sister. Then his father makes an entrance and it’s like a bad television signal. He stumbles backwards, against the wall and clutches his head.
“It means the normal will seem surreal for a bit.” Neal crouches down in front of Malcolm, studying his face worriedly. “Maybe we should go home. We’ve got that interview tomorrow, and I would reschedule, but it’s taken so long to get it hammered out and pulling the plug last minute because you got pushed down an elevator shaft doesn’t offer a picture of the most stable home situation…”
He straightens up, gently drawing Malcolm to his feet. Adolfo drives them home, to 220 East 72nd, the condo building glittering impressively over the street. The doorman greets them by name, asks after them, shows genuine concern over Malcolm’s apparent injury.
Neal unlocks their front door—top floor penthouse—and draws Malcolm in to a brightly-lit, open space, styled in cheerful colors in a seamless blend of old world designs and modern paintings. A young dog runs over, tail swirling in an enthusiastic wag.
“Yes, hello Sunshine, you can drool on your daddies laps in a minute.”
Malcolm stares at the dog, then glances around the room. White. No brown. Dark colours. A half circle window.... no the windows are rectangular. Tall and bright. He sways in place for a second, then closes his eyes, squeezing them shut. Bright lights above him; a mechanical whirring noise. His eyes snap open again. Still a white, warm room. Still a dog. Still Neal and his concern.
"I... need a glass of water," he says, beelining to the kitchen. Everything is in the wrong place. No, it's right where he left it that morning. He frowns and gets a glass down, filling it and turning to see a folder on the counter top. He frowns again and opens it. Adoption applications. Adoption... He looks confused, then his eyes widen. "Right. The interview tomorrow. We have the interview tomorrow," he says to Neal like it's news.
Sunshine whines as Malcolm breezes past, and Neal pauses to rub the dog’s ears before he follows Malcolm to the kitchen.
His worry—the fact that there’s suddenly a lot more of it—is obvious. “Maybe we should go back to the hospital. Get some, I don’t know, special imaging done or something.”
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He stuffs his phone into his pocket, crossing back to Malcolm's bedside. Dani and JT step back as he moves in, giving each other an amused glance. Neal lifts a hand to Malcolm's cheek, the other going to gently hold the ice pack in place. Or help Malcolm do it. Whatever. "I'd rather be here."
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“Excuse me,” Malcolm interjects, “but this guy tried to kill me. I’m not going to miss the part where we put the cuffs on him!”
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“Hold on there, Yoko.” She looks at Malcolm. “You can’t just bring your untrained civilian husband to crime scenes because you have an ouchie.”
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Malcolm holds up a hand but she ignores it.
“And if you do come with us, you’ll have to ride in the back with the perp.”
That comment does make Malcolm look upset.
“So why don’t you go to your little gala and let us work, okay?”
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Neal reaches for the bruised spot as if to touch it and stops himself. “Should I call them?”
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Malcolm looks over quickly and it makes his head swim, but he persists. “No! No, I’m coming.” He looks at Neal. “I’m going to make the arrest.”
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“He got pushed down an elevator shaft,” Neal says worriedly, wanting them to have the necessary information whether Malcolm plans to share or not.
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“An elevator shaft? From how high?”
“Only… three or four floors,” Malcolm grudgingly admits.
“Well, my boy, that explains it. You have a concussion,” Martin concludes while Ainsley checks his pupil response.
“Everything seems… wrong,” Malcolm tells them.
“That’s called Jamais Vu,” Martin supplies.
Malcolm looks confused.
“The opposite of Deja Vu,” Ainsley explains. “Where things that are commonplace seem unfamiliar.”
Malcolm looks at Neal for help.
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He’s clearly not happy making that argument.
That’s when Malcolm’s phone starts to ring.
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“No, we can’t miss that. We…”
He frowns and pulls out his phone.
Ainsley peeks at the screen. “Claremont? The psychiatric hospital? Who do you know there?”
He rejects the call. “Nobody.” He looks at Neal. “Let’s go home. Please. I just… need some rest. Before tomorrow.”
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He straightens up, gently drawing Malcolm to his feet. Adolfo drives them home, to 220 East 72nd, the condo building glittering impressively over the street. The doorman greets them by name, asks after them, shows genuine concern over Malcolm’s apparent injury.
Neal unlocks their front door—top floor penthouse—and draws Malcolm in to a brightly-lit, open space, styled in cheerful colors in a seamless blend of old world designs and modern paintings. A young dog runs over, tail swirling in an enthusiastic wag.
“Yes, hello Sunshine, you can drool on your daddies laps in a minute.”
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"I... need a glass of water," he says, beelining to the kitchen. Everything is in the wrong place. No, it's right where he left it that morning. He frowns and gets a glass down, filling it and turning to see a folder on the counter top. He frowns again and opens it. Adoption applications. Adoption... He looks confused, then his eyes widen. "Right. The interview tomorrow. We have the interview tomorrow," he says to Neal like it's news.
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His worry—the fact that there’s suddenly a lot more of it—is obvious. “Maybe we should go back to the hospital. Get some, I don’t know, special imaging done or something.”
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