Author's note: This story has been edited. I would recommend reading from the beginning as plot points and storylines have been changed for a better flow.
Wondering the empty streets of the city that never sleeps. Malcolm was searching for just that...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
-Morning at Joy's Funeral-
“How’s it going, kid?”
“As good as it gets.” Malcolm breathes. “Just giving him some space.” Malcolm answers watching Austin from afar.
Standing stiffly at the podium with his Father by his side. Shaking hands accepting hugs from friends and family who attended. Malcolm’s breath hitches as a hand clasps his shoulder. Looking up to see Gil with his brows pulled together by concern.
“I was talking about you.” he clarifies.
“All those years ago,” he mumbles. “I wished I could save her.”
“You did the best you could, Bright. Even when I told you she wasn’t real, you followed your gut and brought her home and now we all can heal.” he nods.
Malcolm hums. “Would’ve made a damn good cop.” he chuckles causing his surrogate son to scoff at the thought.
A buzzing of a phone sounds as Gil pulls it from his pocket.
“A case,” Malcolm answers without even looking at the Lieutenant.
“Yeah, Remington Academy.”
Malcolm grimaces shaking his head to keep the memories he managed to block out up until now away. “No, thank you,” he answers coldly.
“I’m gonna head out. If you need anything, Bright.” he trails off pulling the shorter man into a welcoming embrace.
“I know.” Bright replies with a sure nod.
Watching Gil strut up the aisle giving Patrick’s hand a firm shake before stepping over to Austin bringing him in for a hug. From the looks of it, the lieutenant was most likely telling him the same comforts he did him. Walking past Malcolm, patting his shoulder on the way out.
Malcolm sighs taking a seat at the bar. Smoothing his hands over his head.
“Care for anything?”
he sees a paper coaster placed before him.
“Burdon neat,” he answers resting his head on his bent elbow on the countertop. Watching the glass sit on the paper square. The clink of ice cubes dropping into the glass being bathed with amber liquid. “Thank you.” he raises his glass to the bartender. Taking a large sip.
“How can I help you, little lady?”
“I’m having a pretty rough day.” Grace sighs folding her hands on the countertop. “Do you have a potion to help my big brother not be sad anymore?” she asks looking to the wall of bottled liquors.
“Sorry, miss.” the bartender shakes his head sadly. “Only time and being surrounded by loved ones can heal loss like this,” he explains. “When you see your big brother sad you walk over and hug him as tight as you can and tell him you love him,” he instructs.
