Archive of Our Own ^beta

FRIDAY

It's been a long day.

A long week, really.

The case has been consuming them. It's always hard when children are involved, which means they've been all but sleeping at the precinct, hoping to find something, anything, to lead them to the killer before he strikes again.

Which is why, at ten minutes past midnight, a heavy sense of pride and guilt swirl together and make a home in Gil's chest as he looks over to see Dani, JT, and Malcolm in the conference room, still slogging through the case files. He knows they care, but perhaps they care too much. They put their everything into the job, every moment of every day, and while Gil really couldn't be more proud of the team he's created, he sometimes wonders if the job is holding them back, keeping them from living their lives to the fullest.

JT has Tally at home, but in the years Gil has known Dani, she's never had a serious partner. Boyfriends and girlfriends that come and go, that keep her occupied and entertained, sure, but never anyone that she truly lets in.

And Malcolm…

Well, Malcolm is another case entirely. Gil knows the kid is happy when he's working, and the last thing he'd want is for Malcolm to become another Omega who is defined by his Alpha, but if anyone deserves to fall in love, to be worshiped and adored, it's Malcolm Bright. And Gil spends more time than he ought to worrying that Malcolm's dedication to his work is keeping him from finding a partner to share his life with.

Truthfully, Gil spends more time than he ought to thinking about Malcolm in general.

So he gives his head a shake as he stands in his office and gets back to the task at hand. They are all in desperate need of a caffeine hit, and the brown sludge that passes for coffee in the break room is not going to cut it.

Once again, Gil thanks God for the twenty-four hour coffee shop across the street.

Now if only he could find his scarf.

He's sure he wore it today, since he decided to forego his regular turtlenecks in favour of a burgundy half-zip pullover, but after looking through his entire office, he starts to think maybe the late nights and early mornings are finally catching up with him.

Maybe he wore it yesterday and he's just getting confused?

After a few more seconds searching, he decides the case of his disappearing scarf will have to wait another day. For now, he can just tug up his collar against the wind and go get those much needed drink orders.

As he walks out of his office, he catches Malcolm's eye through the window, only to find him looking just a little sheepish. The expression sets off something inside of Gil that makes him want to walk over and wrap a hand around the back of his neck to help settle him in his skin.

The kid had offered to make the coffee run, but he was on a bit of a roll with his profile, so Gil told him to keep going and decided to fetch their drinks himself. After all these years, though, Gil knows Malcolm still has trouble accepting anyone doing anything for him. A part of Gil wonders if that's just part of Malcolm's more subservient Omega nature or if it has everything to do with his father. Not for the first time, Gil is struck by the urge to throttle Martin Whitly.

Malcolm deserved so much better than that monster.

Malcolm deserves the world.

But whatever the reason behind Malcolm's sudden bashfulness, the end result is the same and Gil has learned not to dwell on these things for too long anyways.

So he offers a small wave as he heads to the elevators, a quick signal to let Malcolm know that it's all good, that he'll be back in a moment with their drinks.

Honestly, it feels good to get up and stretch his legs. With any luck, the fresh air — crisp as it is — will clear his head enough to offer a fresh insight while he's out.

Or, if he's very, very lucky, Malcolm may just have a breakthrough while he's gone.

So when Gil gets back with hot drinks and a cold neck, he's beyond happy to find Malcolm on his feet with a blinding smile on his face.

Apparently it is their lucky day.

"I know who the killer is!"

MONDAY

He's running late. Again.

He's spent just a little too long searching for that cream-coloured turtleneck that he loves so much for cool autumn days like today. With its thick weave, it almost feels like being wrapped up in a blanket. A very, very soft blanket.

Unbelievably and inconceivably soft.

When Malcolm gifted it to him on his birthday a few years ago, Gil tried to insist it was too much. Malcolm, however, refused to take it back and when Gil finally tugged it on, he knew he'd never be able to give it up anyways. Partly because it was amazing and by far the nicest thing he'd ever owned, but mostly, if he dared to be honest with himself, because it was a gift from Malcolm.

He's treasured it ever since.

But now, just like with the grey tweed dress pants he was looking for earlier in the week, it seems to have vanished into the ether.

He tears apart his closet, checks the laundry hamper, the washer and dryer, even the gym bag he keeps in his trunk with a change of clothes for those times when an investigation goes sideways and he winds up with blood, or worse, splattered on him.

It's nowhere.

After fifteen minutes of searching, he declares defeat and pulls on his trustworthy black cable-knit turtleneck. Which is fine, really. He's certain that his favourite sweater will turn up eventually. It's not like it grew legs and walked away.

So as he hurries out to his car, he shoots the team a text telling them he'll be a few minutes late, and then he quickly eases himself into the neverending traffic of New York City. Hopefully, once he stops focusing on it, his mind will provide him the answer as to where he last saw it.

THURSDAY

The case they caught this afternoon is…bizarre.

Gil decides there's really no other word for the two bodies that have washed up on the shore within two hours of one another, both weighed down in waterlogged duck costumes with orange-painted flippers glued to their feet.

"And here I thought I'd seen everything," Gil says as he cautiously skirts the second body of the day. The first was found on the East River just after lunch and is already at the morgue, but Edrisa has joined them for this pick up on the Hudson as well, and is currently checking for any overt signs of trauma.

"Right?" Edrisa half grins up at him.

She and Bright really are two peas in a pod when it comes to macabre crime scenes, Gil thinks. He keeps that to himself, though, even as he considers calling Malcolm in for the case.

"I won't know for sure until I get her back to the morgue, but I'm noting the preliminary cause of death as drowning," Edrisa says after a moment. "Like our other Jane Doe, our vic's ankles were tied together with fishing line."

With photos already taken, Edrisa cuts the invisible line from around the orange and yellow striped leggings.

Bizarre, Gil thinks again.

"I don't want to remove the costume yet," Edrisa says sympathetically. Their first victim had been naked beneath the yellow padding and Gil suspects the same is true here. "But it looks like her hands were tied behind her back with the same line, just like our other vic."

With no way to move their arms and legs, and sure to be weighed down by the saturated padding of the duck suit, the killer made sure they wouldn't last long in the river.

But before Gil can say any of that, the roaring hum of a speedboat cuts through the cool air of the overcast day.

Gil looks up, expecting the regular looky loos that are drawn in by flashing lights and police tape, but he's not expecting to see a woman in a duck costume sitting on the side of the boat, far from shore.

She calls out for help only a second before the man steering the boat slows to an almost stop, then uses a bullhorn to call out to shore.

"Quack quack, mother fuckers!"

Then he pushes the woman overboard and speeds off down the river.

Gil doesn't hesitate.

He pulls off his jacket as he runs to the water and only pauses for half a second to kick off his shoes and yell for JT to call it in before he dives in head first.

The water is freezing.

His lungs spasm, punching out all of his air before his head even breaks the surface, but Gil forces himself to keep moving. The second he can gasp in a shuddering breath, he starts swimming to the yellow blotch on the waterline.

The yellow blotch that's getting smaller and smaller by the second.

Gil's heart hammers in his chest like it's trying to break free, an irregular beat that makes him feel strangely off center, but he doesn't stop. With breaths coming too shallow and too fast, he pushes harder than he's ever pushed before.

And he gets there just as the top of the costume dips underwater.

He dives down and grabs hold, hauling the would-be victim to the surface. He's not sure he's ever been quite so happy to hear someone cough and splutter.

"I got you," Gil calls out breathlessly. "Just hang tight."

The woman is definitely an Omega, and even hidden beneath layers of sodden fabric, her terror rolls off of her in waves that are infinitely more powerful than the water surrounding them. It ignites Gil's Alpha instincts to protect so suddenly that he actually gasps at the sensation.

He needs to save her.

He wants to find the man that just tried to kill her and rip him apart limb from limb for hurting her in the first place.

Instead, he focuses on the combination back/side stroke he's using to cut through the water.

Swimming back to shore is infinitely harder with the added weight of another person and the costume, but the entire CSU team is there to help haul them ashore and wrap them in blankets as soon as they arrive.

Gil's teeth chatter through Edrisa's lecture about the dangers of diving into freezing water 'at his age' and Gil thinks he must be shivering pretty hard if she doesn't even notice the glare he shoots her for the comment.

Soon enough, though, their almost-victim has been loaded into the back of an ambulance, headed off to be checked out at the hospital with JT by her side to take her statement and hopefully discover who's behind these murders. Gil, meanwhile, heads to the trunk of his car to grab a dry set of clothes to change into, only to discover that his sweatpants and NYPD t-shirt are missing from his bag.

He's too exhausted to be angry. Or even surprised, at this point.

All he can think as he pulls out the hoodie that's still there, is 'bizarre'.

FRIDAY

It's not that the kid doesn't deserve a day off — Gil's pretty sure Malcolm Bright could use a day of rest and relaxation more than anyone he's ever met — it's just that when Gil called him this morning to come consult on their duck case, Malcolm had actually said no.

He never says no.

And what's more, there was something in the way he spoke, tight and clipped, that set off alarm bells in Gil's mind. Fortunately, even without Malcolm's insights, the team managed to catch the killer not long ago, just as he was trussing up his next victim.

Which is why, at just past two in the afternoon, Gil finds himself pulling up in front of Malcolm's building, free for the weekend without so much as a slip of paperwork to worry about. He doesn't bother calling — if there is a problem, Gil knows Bright will downplay or shrug it off completely — so he parks the car and lets himself into the building at the main floor.

It's several stories to Malcolm's apartment, and as Gil makes the climb, his knees quietly bemoan the lack of an elevator in the aged building.

He's getting too old for this.

Not that he'll ever admit that out loud. Especially in front of Edrisa.

Though really, the bigger issue is the cold he seems to be coming down with from his impromptu swim in the Hudson yesterday. He hasn't been coughing — yet — but his stuffy nose is certainly slowing him down. As a matter of fact, once he reaches the landing outside of Malcolm's door, he has to pause a moment to catch his breath before he knocks.

"Uh. Who is it?"

Malcolm clearly isn't expecting company, and Gil feels just a little bad about dropping by unannounced, but he truly is worried about him.

"Hey, city boy. It's Gil." There's a sudden rustle inside followed a few seconds later by the loud slam of a door, and Gil is even more worried than he was a moment ago. "You okay in there?"

"Um. Yeah! Yeah, I'm good. Just, uh. Give me a second."

It's really about all the time Gil is willing to give him. It's clear something rushed and hurried is happening inside and, while Gil can't quite pinpoint why, his Alpha instincts seem to be kicking up a notch or ten.

"Kid?"

"Coming!" Malcolm answers just a fraction of a second before the unmistakable sounds of the deadbolt and chain rattle his front door. What surprises Gil, though, is that Malcolm only opens the door enough to poke his head out. "Hey, Gil. What's up?"

Gil's gaze sweeps over Malcolm — or, at least, what little he can see of him — to find his hair mussed, a zippered sweatshirt done up all the way to the top, and bare feet poking out of the bottom of sweatpants that seem a couple sizes too big.

"Thought I'd swing by. You sounded…tense, earlier." He doesn't want to come right out and say he's been worried all day, but Malcolm's odd behaviour certainly isn't helping to quell his fears.

And the fact that Malcolm's cheeks flush a rather lovely shade of pink only piques Gil's curiosity even more.

"Oh. Sorry about that." An apologetic smile accompanies the words. "I was just…in the middle of something."

A strangely tense stalemate seems to follow the statement, both men staring each other down, before Gil finally decides to break the silence.

He leans in just a little bit closer and drops his voice to a whisper, so quiet it barely even carries between them. "Are you safe? If there's someone there that's threatening you—"

Malcolm's eyes shoot open so wide he almost looks like a caricature of himself as he interrupts before Gil has a chance to finish. "No! No, nothing like that, I swear."

Gil must not look convinced because Malcolm takes a deep breath and steps back, opening the door with him as he goes.

"Come on in."

Feeling a little out of step with whatever is happening, Gil takes the invitation and walks inside. Besides Malcolm's bed being stripped down to the mattress, there's nothing out of the ordinary as Gil makes his way through the apartment. Most importantly, there doesn't appear to be any signs of an intruder.

But now that Gil is inside, he's hit by a wave of need so strong it almost knocks him on his ass.

And he has no idea what's happening.

"Gil?"

Malcolm's voice comes from behind and sends a zing of pleasure through Gil's veins, one that, despite his best efforts to tamp down, Gil just can't seem to ignore.

"What…?"

And then it hits him.

Gil can't smell a damn thing, and it's been years since he's experienced the feeling, but he knows this reaction. He spins around to find Malcolm looking more than a little unsure and Gil is struck by an overpowering urge to pull him into his arms.

"Are you in heat?"

Malcolm nods.

"I…should leave?"

He doesn't want to. God, he doesn't want to.

But he sure as hell shouldn't stay.

"Right," Malcolm says slowly. "Or…you could stay?"

They've been dancing around one another for a few years now, looks that seem to pierce the soul, touches that linger just a little too long. But neither of them has ever made a move to do anything about it.

Not until now.

Which, frankly, is the worst possible timing in the whole damn world.

"Kid, you might not be thinking straight. I know I'm not." It takes every ounce of willpower he has to say that, and Gil knows, even still, it's not exactly a no.

"And I'm not suggesting we…" Malcolm trails off but he doesn't look away. He bites his lip, though, and Gil practically growls at the sight. "We don't need to do anything. Although, I'll admit, I wouldn't mind at all if that's the direction things go. But for now, just. Be here with me. At least, for a little while?"

It's what Gil's been dreaming of, really. What he's been wanting for years.

"You sure about this?"

"I am. My heat is just starting. I shouldn't get too…desperate until tomorrow. I can take care of the urges that come up in private until then. But Gil. It would…" A light flush sweeps over Malcolm's cheeks, "it helps. You being here. I already feel so much more settled. You have no idea."

The thing is, when it comes down to it, if Malcolm says it helps, Gil's going to do it. There's really no ifs, ands, or buts.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, kid. Okay."

A slow smile spreads over Malcolm's face, genuine and heartfelt, and Gil knows in that instant that he's made the right choice. And no matter how difficult things get for him, he will stay until Malcolm tells him it's time to leave.

So he shrugs his coat off and lays it over a stool at the breakfast bar, since he'll be staying put for a while. "How can I help?"

Malcolm seems to debate with himself for a moment before he finally speaks. "Would you mind laying with me?"

Something in Gil's chest blooms. He remembers this with Jackie. Whenever her heat was starting, that instinctive need to nest and cuddle and be scented would descend on her in full force.

He always loved that part best.

"I would be honoured," Gil murmurs. But as he looks over to Malcolm's bed, he's struck by a sudden sense of confusion. "Where are you nesting?"

He knows that many Omegas have a separate space just for that, but he remembers Malcolm saying something once, probably a decade ago, about preferring to just use his bed. There had been a sense of longing in his voice as he'd explained that it's not like he ever had to share the space with anyone, anyways.

But when he looks back to Malcolm for an answer, he finds that adorable flush has spread over his whole face, the tips of his ears, and, when Malcolm turns his head to glance at the bedroom, Gil finds that hit of red even descends down the back of his neck to disappear into his hoodie.

"Uh. About that."

Gil's pretty sure he hasn't seen Malcolm shuffle in place, wringing his hands like this, since he was a teenager. Hell, even as stuffed up as he is, he can abruptly smell the wave of embarrassment that's emanating from him.

Without even consciously making the decision, Gil steps forward to close the distance between them. At the same time, he reaches out to cup the back of Malcolm's neck the same way he's been doing since Malcolm was a confused and terrified ten year old that just called the police on his father.

Only this time, Gil can feel the heat of his embarrassment beneath his palm.

This time, Malcolm actually whimpers and melts into the touch.

"Whatever you need, kid. No shame." Gil uses his grip to pull Malcolm into a gentle hug, and the proximity seems to be enough that, even through the congestion, Gil gets his first true whiff of Malcolm's heatscent.

It's intoxicating.

He doesn't mean for it to happen, but suddenly he's nosing at Malcolm's neck, breathing him in, searching for more, all while rubbing against his skin, scenting him as best he can while they're both clothed.

It takes a moment or two to come to his senses and realize exactly what he's doing, but even then, he can't seem to pull back right away. He has to stop and drink Malcolm in for just a few seconds longer before he can pull back with a warmth in his own cheeks.

And elsewhere.

His hand never leaves Malcolm's neck and he doesn't even pretend to take a step back, but he smiles sheepishly as he apologizes. "Sorry."

It doesn't mean he doesn't want to do it again.

And from the looks of it, Malcolm wouldn't mind if he did. The kid's eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, and it seems as though he has to give himself a firm mental shake before he can speak. When he does, his voice is hardly a whisper, beautifully breathy. "No shame, right?"

Gil isn't sure how long they stay like that, a silent conversation passing between them as they gaze into one another's eyes, but eventually Gil realizes that they were supposed to be working their way to Malcolm's bed.

"Right. So. Your nest?"

The embarrassment seems to have faded but there's still something adorably bashful about the way Malcolm takes Gil's hand and leads him towards his closet. After one steadying breath, Malcolm opens the door.

And at first, Gil doesn't quite understand.

There's a pile of sheets and clothes and blankets in a heap on the floor. Malcolm wouldn't be the first Omega to use a closet to nest in — from what Gil understands, many of them find a closet the ideal spot, since it's warm and cozy and more likely to retain the scents they've chosen — so it's certainly nothing to be ashamed of.

But then he looks closer.

This isn't a carefully laid out nest, designed to comfort and settle. This is a haphazard mess, half wrapped up in the corners of his fitted sheet.

It's like Malcolm heard Gil at the front door and quickly stripped his bed — his nest — and tossed it into his closet. Which, he realizes, is exactly what he heard while he was waiting in the hall for Malcolm to answer.

But why?

He looks from the pile to Malcolm, but Malcolm's gaze is dropped to the ground, even if he hasn't released Gil's hand for a second. So Gil spins back to the debris of Malcolm's nest, this time looking a little closer.

And then he sees it.

Amidst the sheets and blankets, tucked in here and there and spilling out over the edges, is a surprisingly large portion of Gil's wardrobe.

His scarf.

The sweater he'd searched so hard for the other day.

The sweatpants from his car.

Undershirts and cardigans and t-shirts. Even a pair of his pyjamas that he thought was in the laundry and the throw blanket from the back of his couch.

"Oh."

Malcolm's hand twitches in his own, but Gil isn't upset, and he certainly doesn't think any less of Malcolm.

"You could have just asked, sweetheart. I would've scented everything for you." The pet name falls from his lips without thought and Gil thinks he maybe needs to dial it back a little, but it feels so right and the sentiment holds true. He'd give Malcolm every article of clothing in his closet if he asked for it.

And when Malcolm looks up at him with wide eyes, earnest and full of love, Gil realizes he'd find a way to give him the whole damn world if he asked for it. "Really?"

"Of course. I meant what I said. Whatever you need." More than anything, Gil wants to make sure Malcolm understands just how fiercely he means it. "Now, do you want some help getting this set back up, or do you need to do that on your own."

It's well known that nesting is…personal for an Omega. That there's often a reason for the way they arrange the items they've chosen, whether it's because some pieces are softer, or hold more scent, or just have more sentimental value. And the last thing Gil wants is to overstep or make Malcolm uncomfortable.

"If you don't mind, I could use a hand," Malcolm half-smiles.

He's absolutely beautiful.

Gil allows himself just a second or two to take him in, and then he gathers up the bundle from the middle of the floor and hauls it over to the bed. With the two of them working together, it doesn't take long to get everything set up, though even as Malcolm directs Gil where to put everything, he goes to the trunk at the foot of the bed and pulls out two more blankets to ring around the edges of the mattress.

"It looks cozy," Gil admits, although the sight of all of his clothes in an Omegan nest has him feeling some kind of way that has nothing to do with how comfy the setup looks.

"Care to join me?"

Gil's never been more sure about an answer in his life. "Nowhere else I'd rather be, kid. How do you want me?" He's not expecting the waggle of eyebrows Malcolm sends his way, but it leaves him chuckling as he toes off his shoes at the end of the bed. "I meant do you want me fully clothed."

"Whatever's comfortable for you," Malcolm laughs, suddenly more lighthearted than Gil has seen from him in…far too long. "Although, if you don't mind parting with that sweater…"

The turtleneck is tugged off before Malcolm even finishes asking, leaving Gil in a pair of grey trousers, a white t-shirt, and a pair of striped New York Yankees socks. When he hands the sweater to Malcolm, there's already a part of him that's expecting it when Malcolm immediately pulls the fabric up to his face and breathes in deep, but it still makes Gil smile. Even more when Malcolm gently lays it out over his pillow.

And because of that, Gil doesn't even need to ask which side Malcolm wants him on. He rounds the bed so that he's on the side next to the window — the side that doesn't have Gil's sweater as a pillowcase — and he carefully crawls in, doing his very best not to disturb the layout Malcolm has created.

"I, um," Malcolm shifts from one foot to the other as he stands next to the bed, absently zipping and unzipping his hoodie. "I like the look of you in my bed."

Gil grins. "I like the look of you in my clothes."

He'd suspected Malcolm was wearing a pair of his sweatpants, but with his hoodie half unzipped, Gil can also see his faded NYPD t-shirt wrapping up Malcolm's body like the perfect little present.

Malcolm's breath catches in his throat as he looks down, but he's quick to recover, turning those fathomless blue eyes on Gil. "You might like me out of them better."

Gil doesn't doubt that for a second, but now is not the time for that. Malcolm's heat is likely to hit good and proper sometime in the middle of the night and they'll certainly need to discuss what to do before then, but for now, it's probably best they get accustomed to one another first.

"Why don't you come join me for now. We can shed clothes a little later."

As cheeky as he is — something Gil has always loved — Malcolm is quick to see the wisdom in Gil's words. He abandons his sweatshirt on the floor and climbs into his nest, shifting things here and there until he's satisfied, and then he plops down in front of Gil and shimmies forward, until he has a leg pressed between Gil's, his arms wrapped around his waist, and his face buried in the crook of Gil's neck.

Impossibly, Malcolm's scent seems to bloom and grow as soon as they're tucked together, until it's replaced all of the air in Gil's lungs and the blood in his veins and it honest to God feels like his heart is tapping out a staccato rhythm of MalcolmMalcolmMalcolm. He can't even tell if he's still stuffed up because his entire world has narrowed down to the man in his arms and Gil wouldn't have it any other way.

He knows they'll need to talk soon, while Malcolm is still lucid and hasn't been completely taken over by the hormones that are about to flood his body, compelling him to be mated and bred and knotted and claimed (and oh, isn't that a lovely thought, Gil thinks to himself as he unconsciously rolls his hips just a fraction of an inch). But for now, for these few minutes in time that they've been gifted, Gil just hugs Malcolm close and whispers promises and reassurances into his hair that he means with every fiber of his being.

And even through the arousal that's slowly building deep inside of him in response to Malcolm's pheromones, even with the slightly hazy, almost-drunk fog that's spreading in his head, Gil's not sure he's ever felt quite so at peace as he does now.

It feels like he's right where he belongs.

That they are where they were always meant to be.

And Gil couldn't be happier.