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"Wait. Can you fire them?"

She's seen them in his cases, sure, but she'd always assumed that they were display pieces only.

"Of course. All of my weapons are completely functional," Malcolm tells her. They approach his cabin and he tilts his head towards it. "Can you get the door?" he asks.

She pulls it open and holds it, ushering the dogs in after Malcolm and Will.

"Am I staying out here, or--?"

He gives her an odd look.

"...You can come in. I'm going to take him upstairs. Can you put the kettle on?" he asks.

She wrinkles her nose in a borderline-petulant Don't give me that look sort of way, but doesn't hesitate to follow him into the cabin, heading for the kitchen area and starting to fill the kettle.

"Yeah, what kind of tea do you want?"

"Anything from that box in the cupboard." It's all herbal; no caffeine.

He takes Will into the upstairs former master bedroom and sets him on the bed, arranging his limbs to look at least passingly like he's only asleep. He'll come back later to get him into a pair of pajamas and under the covers while trying not to think about how much it feels like dressing a corpse.

When he comes back downstairs, he slides onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.

The kettle is warming when he makes his way back down. Shaw faces it, hands braced against the counter as she looms over the stove.

"We have similar tastes in movies, too," she says. "I think. What was the one you showed in your cabin that time?"

That time…? Oh, that time.

“Robin Hood: Men in Tights?” Malcolm hazards.

She snaps her fingers; points to him.

"That's the one. You ever see Clue?"

“I love Clue,” he admits. “Would absolutely watch it again.”

"It's one of my favorites. I like comedies."

She half-turns, holding up the box of chamomile tea that she'd pulled from the cupboard. It's soothing, or so she's heard.

"This okay?"

He nods at her tea choice.

“Is that what you watch when you have movie nights with Neal and Eiffel?” he asks.

"Sometimes. Neal has pretty different tastes; I think he'd revolt if we made him watch comedy every time."

“Maybe not if they were the witty verbal kind,” Malcolm suggests. “I don’t think I’ve ever watched a movie with Neal. I watched a movie with Will before. The one someone told him about, about Hannibal Lecter. And thankfully they cast someone less attractive than the real one…. and than me. Made it easier to pay attention to everything else without…. sexual intimidation as a factor,” he muses.

Oh, god, buddy.

"Hannibal Lecter is the last person you need to be jealous of," she says, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "He's the worst."

"I know what he is," Malcolm says. "But I've also seen him, in one of Will's memories. He's really tall and moves like a dancer." He holds up his hands. "Will told me I don't have anything to worry about." A beat. "Well, not, like, nothing. Nothing in that department. If he ever shows up here or we ever run into him, he'll definitely try to kill me." Based on Malcolm's tone, that clearly does not concern him nearly as much as the man's relative attractiveness.

Which is concerning, Malcolm Bright!

"If Lecter ever shows up here, I'm putting you under armed guard," she retorts, which may or may not be a joke.

"If you feel the need to, then rest assured; I'll protect them," Malcolm deadpans.

"How about a two-way protection detail," she says dryly. "A task force. Where are your mugs?"

Or maybe, she thinks, he uses teacups. He is fancy.

"In the cupboard above the sink," he tells her, gesturing to the cupboards behind her. "I literally hunt serial killers for a living where I come from. Only one of them has actually managed to stab me. ...And one zapped me with a cattle prod. ....And I got pushed down a concrete staircase once. ......And an elevator shaft. But the point is, not one of them has managed to kill me and it wasn't for a lack of trying."

"I know; you've told me."

She stands on her tippy-toes to pull down a mug - just one - and pours it full of tea, then switches off the burner and brings the mug over to him.

"Still, though."

He takes the mug, wrapping his hands around it, then pauses. "...You're not having any?" He glances towards the livingroom, the sideboard beneath a large gothic painting. "There's scotch in the decanter over there."

"Yeah?" Oh boy, scotch is way more her style than tea. She makes a beeline, bringing the decanter back into the kitchen and pouring herself half a mug's worth. "Thanks. I could spike it with tea, I guess."

Spike the scotch with tea, not spike the tea with scotch. Naturally.

"It's top shelf; that might be a crime," he teases, almost smiling for a moment, then his expression wavers and he looks down into his tea.

Shaw lifts the mug of scotch to her nose, pauses, and then give him a nod, taking it over to the couch sans tea.

"I've had a million comas," she says, as she contemplates her drink. "They're not so bad from the inside. And I've always woken up."

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