#and spiraled so hard danny panicked and promised not to leave again

[little-pondhead]

I’m Not The Sun

—

Y'know, when Kon ‘died’, do you think a grieving Tim could have mistaken Danny for his best friend? Do you think that, in a moment of desperation and exhaustion, he might've kidnapped a floating Danny in an attempt to bring Kon home? And when he realized he kidnapped a random civilian, do you think he still kept Danny for a while as a replacement for Kon?

Do you think Danny got tired of being called 'Conner' after the first week but was too distressed himself to correct Tim? Trying to leave or tell the fellow teen his name was Danny was obviously sending the kid into a spiral. He seemed to think Danny was the dead spirit of his best friend. Maybe if he played along, this Conner guy would show back up?

Hopefully, before Tim completes his cloning research. Danny's been doing everything he can to sabotage the equipment, but even with ghost powers on his side, Tim is a smart person. Every time Danny sets him back one step, Tim takes two steps forward. And since he's well outside of his haunt, Danny is starting to feel weak and ill from lack of ectoplasm. He's running out of time.

Do you think Kon would feel upset that his best friend replaced him?

#dpxdc #pondhead blurbs #like #crack can happen #but i just want a gut wrenching story about tim's emotional breakdown #and he's smart but everything he's doing is making everything worse and worse #danny doesn't know he's red robin #he can't leave the nest or where ever tim took him to #he just knows he's getting weaker by the day #using invisibility has never been harder #the one time he tried to sneak out #tim found him in an hour #and spiraled so hard danny panicked and promised not to leave again #well guess what ghost boy? #promises are important to ghosts :) #he physically cannot leave tim now even tho it is causing him harm #tim is just off the rails with grief #he eventually realizes danny isn't kon but keeps calling him such to keep a thread of sanity #and continues with the cloning attempts #danny is just horrified and doesn't know what to do #i'm opening this up for some super angst on danny's side too #like imagine he had a bad reveal and he messed up with this powers #and now tim thinks he's the dead spirit of fucking superboy come to reincarnate into the shell of an empty clone #danny's powers are getting weaker and his control is slipping #so it's not exactly helping his case #queued post

[throwaway-sinfulwriter]

The Same - Chapter Three - Prodigal (Interlude) 1/2

The tension inside the NYPD building was similar to an overheated sauna.

At least, it seemed that way to Malcolm Bright.

It was the morning after the case had closed, the morning after his breakdown.

He didn't get any sleep (real shocker there) and was running pure on cynical thoughts and self-hatred.

Nonetheless, he needed something to distract him from his too big, emotionless apartment and his broken family.

The NYPD had several different floors, all assigned to different ranks and positions. The primary detectives were on the fourth floor, and so Malcolm had to travel past the gossip circle of what he mentally referred to as "paperwork officers."

Unfortunately, gossip traveled in New York, and it was no different in the police department. He was already a popular topic, after the night terror that ended with several pistols pointed at his head.

However, he had an inkling the truth of his heritage had leaked.

It was probably that man, JT. He obviously didn't have much of a professional filter, Malcolm wouldn't be surprised if he blurted out his dirty secret.

Thankfully, his true secret would never be revealed. He made sure of that.

Getting into a tight elevator to travel, he closed his eyes as he pressed the button for the fourth floor and tried not to think about how it resembled a cell. A box.

The girl in the box..

A cold sweat broke on his forehead, and he wiped it away as the elevator began to head up. Malcolm didn't do well with small spaces.

His toes curl in anxiety in his dress shoes. Inside, his heart was bouncing in his ribcage. Nowhere to go.

It stopped 2 floors up, and he inhaled sharply between his teeth. Malcolm had hoped, vainly, that it would be a straight shot to the fourth floor.

Of course, things never seemed to go his way. Several people entered the elevator, and he tried not to pant openly as he had to move, trying to stay close to the door.

His hair was damp, as he stared at the buttons of the elevator, trying to think of anything but his situation.

Not for the first time in his life, Malcolm wanted to escape his own mind.

Two of the people in the elevator shared a glance behind him. He could see them out of the corner of his eye, mouthing words at each other.

Did you hear.. His father.. The Surgeon..

They met his gaze, and looked away from him (and each other), panicked. Malcolm's jaw clenched, and he turned from them fully as the doors opened.

Finally.

Malcolm pulls a handkerchief out of his suit jacket ("A gentleman always carries a handkerchief, Malcolm." His father's soft, loving voice as he wiped tears from Malcolm's face..) wiping the sweat from his forehead and composing himself.

He looked around, scoffing at the way people staring at him ducked their heads down, tried to hide their gawking.

Malcolm was so sick of being the freak.

He headed over to what he dubbed the "refreshments counter", something the police and the FBI both had. A place with coffee, pastries, and water.

He eyes the food. When had he last eaten a meal? Malcolm didn't quite remember.

If he thought harder, it had to have been with his mother and Ainsley.. His mother pouring a tumbler as she disgraced his father with words, heading out without looking at him. Goodnight!

He sighs. After that, he had left, the food turning to ash in his mouth. Last night, before heading to his apartment, he had ate a hard candy. The same kind GIl had given him as a child. But even that had tasted bitter.

His father was vegan now. Maybe he should follow his advice. Would it make him feel better? Dr. Whitley sure looked quite well.. too well, considering.

Too alluring. Even after 10 years.

He stops his trail of thought there, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and opening them with an expression of indifference. Why was he here again?

Oh, right.

While being here was not very high on his list of enjoyable things (Number one was going to Central Park and feeding the ducks) it was much better than being alone in his apartment. Thoughts running wild.

Even thought they tended to do that everywhere..

A hand on his shoulder made him nearly jump out of his skin and into the ceiling.

His mind automatically takes him back to that moment, his father's hand heavy like lead on his shoulder, telling him he needed him.. I won't let you go.. Remember, we're the same.

Whipping around in panic, his battering heart is going a mile a minute, seeing Gil with his hands in a universal surrender gesture.

"Woah, hey, it's just me." Gil said, eyebrows furrowing together in concern.

"...Sorry." Malcolm said after a long pause, calming his stance and giving a shaky half smile at the man he considered a mentor. Trying to calm himself.

"You're still on edge, I see." Gil gives an attempt at a laugh, hands dropping, but it doesn't sound quite genuine. He was worried. "No sleep, huh?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Malcolm raises an eyebrow, falling into the banter easily.

"No, I guess not." Gil reaches out to him, patting his shoulder once and putting a hand on the back of his neck to comfort him.

Even though Malcolm is extremely uncomfortable with the physical contact, he lets Gil touch him. A few moments of discomfort was better than seeing the hurt in Gil's eyes when he pushed him away.

"Listen, uh.." His hand leaves, and Gil looks around for a moment before leaning in. "Did you go see him? Again?"

Malcolm nods sharply, and Gil looks displeased. "I had to. I told him I would tell him how the rest of the case went."

Gil sighs. "Malcolm, you know better than to make any promises with... that man." He whispers those last two words like a secret, even though it's anything but.

Everyone in the building must know who his father is by now.

"Gil, I'm not a child anymore." He glares at Gil, hands tremoring at his sides.

"I know, Malcolm, but.. you know how your father is. I don't want him to drag you in that spiral again."

Malcolm opens his mouth to respond, but stops as he sees JT and Danni approach the refreshment counter.

They both look at him, wary. Everyone is silent, however the chatter on the floor continues around them.

JT is the one who breaks the silence, unsurprisingly. "Sooo.. The Surgeon, huh?"

Malcolm sighs as Danni whacks her partner on the arm, scolding him as he rubs the spot where she hit.

"Sorry about him, Bright. He doesn't know when to shut his big mouth." The last part is said pointedly at JT, the female detective's eyes narrowed and glaring.

Malcolm nods, giving her a small upturn of lips. The prodigal son didn't trust anyone in his life, not even Gil or his sister.

But Danni had been fairly kind to him, only giving him a few disbelieving glances when he was profiling.

At Nico's apartment, she had checked on his well-being before Nico's, and made sure he didn't get his brains blowed out after his night terror.

This made her a good contact at the NYPD, and she smiled back at him, nodding once and leading JT away from the refreshment counter.

Malcolm sighs, turns his gaze back to Gil. "Have any cases for profiling?"

He returns to his apartment with a manila folder of cases and a complimentary hard candy in his pocket, setting it down at his dining table and putting his coat up on his rack, near the door.

His suit jacket comes off next, dress shirt rolled up to his elbows.

Thankfully, his trip out of the NYPD occurred without incident, his feet carrying him back to his place.

Not home, never home.

Malcolm didn't like taxi's, preferring to walk or ride a bicycle places he needed to go.

Though bicycles usually made him feel emotional..

He sighs, opening a top drawer in the living room. Pulling out his profiling notebook, made of leather and crisp, durable pages.

His eyes trail down the drawers, staring at the bottom one with the key in it. All of his father's case files, photos, and personal belongings he had kept from their family home.

He could take a break, look through it.. Think about the way his father laughed, the slight smile on his lips as he was cuffed.

Malcolm shakes his head firmly, turning on his heel and refusing to think about it. Though the drawer seems to mock him from far away, even when he leaves the room.

Several hours later, when all of the profiles are written down and organized to be turned in, Malcolm looks up from his work. Out of the big windows, at the city.

It's dark already.

He hadn't noticed, even though the only light in his apartment was the overhead in the dining room.

Rubbing his temples, Malcolm sighs heavily. His stomach is woefully empty. He can't eat though. All he can think about is the drawer, the countless pictures of Dr. Whitley.

The cologne is in there. He can't help but smile fully when he thinks of it. A real one.

His father had always worn the same cologne, as long as he could remember.

Malcolm had remembered the exact brand, exact scent, how much it was on the market when his father was arrested. How much it was now.

It was his fondest memory of the man, warm hugs and how good he smelled when he held Malcolm after a bad dream.

He stands, picking his cell phone out of his pocket and letting his feet take him to the drawer.

Malcolm sits on the floor in front of the drawer, staring at it. He reaches out, turning the key and pulling it out.

Sticking his arm in the empty cavity, it's eerily reminiscent like the cavity in his chest that formed the night his father was taken.

He pulls out the box, black and plain on the outside. It doesn't reflect what's on the inside.

Feeling his breathing speed up, Malcolm fumbles for his phone. He turns it on, quickly putting his thumb on the home button so it would open.

Opening his music app, he stares blankly at the search bar. His father loved music.

Classical, that is.

They had a piano in their home, and sometimes when Malcolm couldn't sleep he would sit at the bench with Dr. Whitley. He was particularly fond of Igor Stravinsky.

He searches 'prodigal', and many songs come up. Malcolm thinks that first song is quite fitting, until he realizes it's a gospel song.

His lips turn into a sneer. Malcolm absolutely, positively, does not believe in God.

The second song is just the same, and he nearly gives up hope for a geninue song. But, he begins playing the third song, and oh.

Yes, this will do nicely.

The song is quite melancholy, and he listens to the lyrics as he opens the box. It holds much more items and pictures than it looks like it can.

He removes the top layers of mugshots and case files, his eye catching the sight of the list of victims.

Malcolm had blacked out all 23 of their names. (It was possibly 24, 20 years and still the police were uncertain if The Surgeon was connected to the last murder. They were still on the list, though.)

He didn't need a text record of their names to remember them. His mother had engrained it into his mind, their names, their ages, the way they died. Their families..

He sets the papers aside, staring at intimate family pictures and items.

We say goodbye,

I turn my back,

Run away, run away,

So predictable.

Malcolm's tremoring fingers pick up a photo of just him and his father, taken by a camera set on a timer.

Dr. Whitley is sitting in the foyer of their house, his clothes neat and formal. A young Malcolm sits next to him, holding his father's hand and beaming a huge smile at the camera.

He's missing a front tooth, quite young. His mother is nowhere in the picture.

Not far from here,

You see me crack.

The next photo is a family photo, himself and his sister sitting next to each other with their parents standing behind them. Each of them has a hand on the children's shoulders.

Malcolm is signficantly older in this picture, a young Ainsley likely being held still with his mother's hand on her shoulder.

Dr. Whitley is mirroring her position, and if Malcolm closes his eyes and thinks he can nearly remember this time. A flash of the camera (a professional photographer, this time) and his mother picking up Ainsley and taking her away.

His father's hand lingering on his shoulder. ("You did wonderful, my boy..") Malcolm's own, tiny hand coming up to touch his fathers and stroke his fingertips over his wide nailbeds.

Turning his head up to mirror his father's smile.

Like a bone, like a bone,

I'm so breakable.

The police were uncertain where Martin Whitley found the time to perform such precise and drawn out murders while being a devout father.

Staring at a (personally laminated) newspaper cutout of his father in a crisp suit at a gala, Malcolm's feels the first sign of tears burning behind his eyes.

Their theory was that most of them happened at his home.

It put a whole new perspective on Malcolm's childhood.

The pain of it caused him to repress most of his memories, and so large chunks of his time with his father were now black, empty space.

Standing in a white lab coat, his father smiles with the rest of his surgical team. Looking so sinister, so appealing.

Malcolm despises him.

And I take everything from you,

But you'll take anything,

Won't you?

The next thing that comes out of the box is a tape recorder, his father's voicemail message at the time of his arrest.

Young Malcolm had taken many, many precautions to save and preserve his father's things. Even as his mother burned and threw them away.

He always preferred it when she threw things away, because Malcolm could retrieve and hide them.

Like he hid everything else.

#my fics #my writing #the same #prxdigal sxn #malcolm bright #malcolm whitly #martin whitly #malcolm/martin #im so sorry #going to hell for this #things get.. intense this chapter #prodigal - OneRepublic