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"A person might," Malcolm concedes. "But I was visiting my dad at Claremont in that dream because... I visited my dad at Claremont, where he's serving a life sentence without possibility of parole in a maximum security hospital for the criminally insane for twenty-three counts of murder in the first degree. And he didn't just kill those people. He... did things to them first. Experimented. They all died in agony. And when I started to see things, he chloroformed me so many times that it began to lose efficacy. I don't know how many times you have to chloroform a ten year old child for it to lose efficacy, but I'm going to guess... a lot? And I don't forgive him for any of that, Walter." Malcolm leans on the counter. "But he's still my dad. And I'll always be his son, whether I acknowledge it or not. And, you're not wrong: he's the worst dad. The worst. Did I tell you he escaped from prison shortly before I came here?"

"That would explain why you had the opportunity to stab him," Walter says. The man being out of prison and in public, that is. He does wonder if the notoriety from the incident is yet another reason he'd rather stay here for a long time. "But... There are different kinds of love." Though Walter wouldn't want to invalidate, in his personal taxonomy he wouldn't say that Malcolm is describing love, but rather the aftermath of abuse that required acknowledgement and closure. "My grandma never hurt me, once, ever. You know how I was as a dumb kid, I honestly didn't like her being locked up one bit. Well, now I know better. Life doesn't work that way."

Here he is. Locked up. Separated from the one he loves.

"I... actually stabbed him in Claremont before, but that... was a whole different situation. The Marshals couldn't find him, they wouldn't listen to me, so I found him on my own, but he kidnapped me, so they assumed I was helping him and alerted the press.... then I was able to call it in and I turned him in again and he tried to kill me. I guess some part of him really thought we'd just... go on the run together or something."

Malcolm studies Walter for a moment.

"If your grandmother really killed someone, then... it's correct that she was in prison. But it's not incorrect of you to love her. And maybe you even understand why she did it but that doesn't make you a bad person. Having killed someone doesn't even automatically make her a bad person. Do you know why she did it?"

That sure was a thing, as they say in those superhero movies. It's actually also kind of like Misty, the ghosts of Malcolm's past coming to haunt him all over again, and him doing the best to help.

"It never mattered to me." He's never been honest about that with anyone else. He's never looked more like Lydia than in that moment. "Even though the victim was Grandpa Joe. Isn't that crazy? But I only ever had one grandma." He recites with a distant pleasantness: "I can tell you she wasn't acting in immediate defense of her life or dignity or that of another. Oh, yeah, also no criminal insanity."

"So what happened? One complaint too many? One demand too far?" Malcolm asks curiously

"He popped his gum too much ala Cell Block Tango?" Walter leers. "No, don't think so. I really can't tell you. She was close to-" as in nearly "-the only member of my family who wouldn't complain to a kid about something like that."

"I guess it doesn't really matter, in the end," Malcolm concedes. It's just his morbid curiosity. "How often did you visit her?"

"Oh, never," he says nonchalantly. "After the sentencing, I never saw her again. We exchanged letters and cards about five or six times a year. I was a kid. By the time I could drive a car or what have you, it was too late." He shrugs and adds, "I don't think she was neglected, considering the preexisting conditions that was pretty normal."

"Never? ...You were visiting her in the dream. You only... wished you could?" Malcolm asks.

"Yeah. It was like a breach for me. That's why all of it meant a lot to me." A lot of things that he has mixed feelings about, but still.

Edited 2024-07-10 18:42 (UTC)

"Oh. It was just... basically a normal dream for me. Except for having someone my age to talk to," Malcolm tells him.

"It's the barge, so I might as well ask: is he that strong in real life?" (God he did not have enough people his age to talk to.)

“Not… superhuman. Just your run of the mill gleeful predatory psychopath. Dangerous, though. I don’t actually visit him in the visitation room most of the time. He lives in a cell where he’s tethered to the wall at all times and cuffed when a visitor is entering and you’re warned not to cross the line on the floor because it would put you within the length of his tether,” Malcolm tells him. “Even so, a professional assassin tried to strangle him in his cell a couple years ago and… well. He should have kept his butt on the right side of the red line.”

It seems like an outright smile on his face, and Walter isn't sure if it's a nervous smile? Or a got-what-he-deserved smile? Or a story where he at least has the comfort of knowing how it ends? "Let me guess, the strangler became the tether-ligature-stranglee?"

Walter really doesn't think it's too wild to be waiting for Malcolm to say of his own accord "it was special", "it was nice", anything. But maybe he doesn't think things could have been different. Maybe it could have been decided all that time ago in the past, when the crimes of their forefathers were already committed.

He holds up the basically empty cup of hot cocoa. "You know, I don't think I was really prepared to savor this one, but my medicine has kicked in now. If there's another round to be had, can the next one have marshmallows?"

It was terrifying to witness, but so much murder has gone under the bridge since then. It's just matter of fact, now. A thing that happened once.

"He didn't strangle him," Malcolm says, taking Walter's cup and standing up. "We were trying to get in in time to save him... me and two homicide detectives I worked with. But while JD was looking for a guard with a key to open his cell door, I was watching through the window. He saw me and bashed the guy's head into the wall, threw him on the floor and gouged out his eyes with his thumbs while grinning at me." He puts a saucepan on the stove and gets the milk from the fridge.

"Not to be confused with John Doe, I take it," Walter throws in, because hey, if he's given up on getting emotional validation out of this, maybe his restrained state can be useful for gathering info instead. "That's haunting, dude, what do you think it means? I'm watching you? Or maybe... Justice is blind?"

“No. The guy murdered my girlfriend. For money. My dad was pleased with himself because he thought he was helping me,” Malcolm explains. He looks over. “What do you mean ‘John Doe’? What about him?”

"You know, I just wondered if it was the same guy for a second. Maybe he's got a magical lifespan and you met him in the future after whenever Arthur's from." Walter no longer thinks asking this was inconspicuous. Time to go for Concern. He sits up a bit to get a better view into the kitchen. "Your girlfriend? That's terrible. Yet another reason it's good he was out of your life before you got too much older. Most of the time."

“Out of my life? I visited him twice a week until I applied to Quantico. Are you asking if the assassin was John Doe?” Malcolm asks.

...Whitby is a scumbag, he's a scumbag, he's a scumbag, Walter is not jealous, he's a scumbag...

"No, J.D. Your coworker?"

If it’s any consolation, every adult in his life regrets allowing it.

“Oh. Yeah. You know what?” He stirs actual chocolate into the warming milk. “I never could get him to tell me what it stood for. Do you like full sized marshmallows crammed in there or a bunch of the little ones?” Malcolm asks.

Huh, a mystery even Malcolm didn't solve. Maybe he really isn't a file reader. "Little ones but I absolutely love your creative vision," Walter says automatically. "You know what would be really epic is chocolate stuffed big marshmallow."

"S'more hot chocolate?" Malcolm ventures. "When I make it for Willa, I put a few pumps of hazelnut coffee syrup in there and then it tastes like Nutella," he tells Walter.

He pours the hot chocolate into the mug and gets a bag of mini marshmallows from the cupboard, throwing a generous handful in, then brings it back over to him.

"My sister likes it with mint," he adds. "She says it tastes like an After Eight."

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