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Gil has always been there for Malcolm.
When he was a kid, that meant being a safe harbour when the storm of Malcolm's memories became too much, when his brain could no longer separate dream from reality, when misplaced guilt from his father's deeds rained down on Malcolm so heavily that he thought he might drown.
As a teenager, that meant being a nurse and confidante when the bullying got so bad that Malcolm couldn't cope anymore. On those days, when Malcolm would come home from school bloodied and bruised and wholly broken-down, Gil would sit him down on the edge of the tub and gently swipe the blood away, begging him to say who hurt him, respecting his wishes when he refused. Then he'd hold him tight when Malcolm inevitably fell apart, his massive intellect failing to provide an acceptable explanation as to why his classmates hated him so damn much.
When 'Whitly' became 'Bright', Gil's role evolved into a friend and a mentor. He helped settle Malcolm into his dorm at Harvard, supported him as he narrowed down his options to decide on a major, and provided insights into law enforcement that helped Malcolm decide exactly what he wanted to do with his future. He was there, cheering louder than anyone, the day Malcolm walked the stage to accept his degree, and he was there to pack Malcolm up and move him to Quantico when the time came, too.
During Malcolm's time with the FBI, Gil was a touchstone, a voice at the end of a line to keep him grounded when Malcolm couldn't solve a case quickly enough and began to spiral out of control. At one particularly terrible outcome, when the fugitive Malcolm was pursuing managed to set off a bomb in a crowded mall before Malcolm could stop him, Gil even flew out to the west coast to talk Malcolm off the proverbial ledge that his guilt had left him stranded on.
That was the night their relationship evolved into something entirely different. Something neither of them saw coming, but that both of them immediately recognized was special and fragile and needed to be handled with care.
Malcolm was only with the FBI for a little over a year after that case, and during that time, Gil and Malcolm spoke almost every night, only skipping out when a case required it. They visited each other as often as they could — which usually meant when Malcolm was back in Virgina between cases. A quick and easy flight, or a slightly longer train ride, meant a weekend together when their schedules aligned.
Their relationship burgeoned in the course of that year, growing into something infinitely complex and yet surprisingly simple.
Something that meant everything to them both.
Gil realized he was in love with Malcolm after only a matter of months, and told him so during a long weekend spent locked inside Malcolm's apartment in Virginia, locked inside Malcolm's tight little body. Gil had gone out to help him unwind from a case that had sunk its talons into Malcolm and refused to let go. It took four days to bring him down, but those three little words seemed to make a world of difference.
Malcolm needed nearly two months to work up the nerve to say it back, which he did in a manic run-on sentence that Gil couldn't break into even if he wanted to — a seven minute phone call that Malcolm ended abruptly after finally saying the words he'd been keeping barricaded inside of him. Gil's only contribution to those seven minutes had been the four seconds at the beginning of the call when he picked up the phone with a, "Hey there, city boy. I've missed you."
By the time Malcolm moved back to New York, they had worked out the kinks and knew each other from head to toe, from body to soul. Working together was a natural progression in their relationship and they seemed to move in tandem on almost every case, anticipating one another's movements and maneuvering themselves accordingly.
Days at work and nights in bed, the months bled into one another, saw them forging an even stronger connection, becoming one in a way neither man had ever felt.
Until one bleak December afternoon while chasing a suspect through Central Park, Malcolm zigs when he should have zagged.
And Gil gets hurt.
It isn't terrible, in the grand scheme of things. Gil ends up with a flesh wound — the shot, thankfully, fired by a man with no experience handling a firearm. The metal shell just barely grazes Gil's bicep, ripping through equal parts sweater and skin, before tunneling into a nearby tree. His shout is more of surprise than pain, but Malcolm freezes at the noise, eyes wide and looking more terrified than Gil has ever seen, and Gil has seen him in the throes of more night terrors than he can count.
Dani and JT continue the chase, apprehending their suspect before the man can do any more damage, while Malcolm stays a good ten feet from Gil, refusing to come any closer. Gil can see him shutting down, can see the start of a spiral that's going to take Malcolm to a very dark place, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.
Not yet. Not here.
Gil keeps a wary eye on Malcolm as he sits on the back of the ambulance, allowing the medics to dress the wound but refusing the trip to the hospital to have it properly tended. He knows he doesn't have time. He can see the tremor that's racking Malcolm's body, can see the kid fighting the urge to run.
He thanks the paramedics as they finish things off with a bandage wrapped around his arm, and then he slowly makes his way with slightly raised hands towards Malcolm.
"Sweetheart, it's okay," he says, knowing it's not going to help Malcolm feel any better, but hoping he'll let him close enough to allow Gil to hold him, just for a moment, before he takes him home and gives him what he needs. "I'm okay."
With a relieved sigh, Gil gets close enough to wend a hand around the back of Malcolm's neck, tugging him in for a quick hug and hoping that the feeling of their bodies pressed tight is enough to hold Malcolm together for just a little bit longer.
The anxiety ratchets up on the car ride home. Malcolm's leg bounces, his hand shakes, his breathing becomes too fast and too shallow for Gil's liking. When Gil parks the car about a block from the loft, Malcolm is off like a shot before the tires have stopped moving.
"Bright!" Gil shouts, fumbling with his seatbelt in his haste to get it off, tugging the keys roughly from the ignition.
By the grace of God, Malcolm actually heads to the loft instead of hitting the ground running, and by the time Gil races up the three flights of stairs and bursts through the door, Malcolm is pacing wildly from entrance to bathroom and back while he tugs at his necktie like it's a noose, keeping him from getting a decent breath.
"Bright," Gil tries, hands raised to shoulder height once again in an effort to prove to the overwrought and panicked part of Malcolm's brain that's taken control that he's not a threat.
Malcolm continues to pace as though he doesn't even know Gil is there. He does finally manage to loosen the tie enough that he can pull it with a fierce tug over his head, throwing it to the floor next to the bed.
Gil's not sure if Malcolm's legs give out or he just gives up on standing, but on Malcolm's next pass by the front door, he's suddenly sliding to the floor, barely managing to angle himself so his back is pressed to the brick wall behind him, just beside the door.
His panting breath is ending on a whimper with each exhale and Gil can't wait anymore.
"Bright!" He nearly shouts, needing to capture the kid's attention. "Hands. Now."
Gil undoes the zip of his slacks as he marches over to Malcolm, pulling out his flaccid cock and giving it a few strokes as he waits for the order to sink in. It's only a matter of seconds before Malcolm raises his hands straight up over his head and Gil takes a bruising hold immediately, wrapping a hand around Malcolm's crossed wrists and pressing them hard against the brick wall behind him.
Planting his feet on either side of Malcolm's hips and leaning into his grip on Malcolm's wrists, Gil guides his cock into Malcolm's mouth. He rocks his hips slowly at first, allowing the heat and moisture to cause him to grow harder in the confines of Malcolm's mouth. It doesn't take long until he's filling Malcolm's mouth entirely, stretching his jaw wide and nudging the back of his throat, cutting off the whimpering noises that are still occasionally bubbling up from Malcolm's chest.
Gil brings his second hand up to Malcolm's wrists for an unyielding hold that tells Malcolm in no uncertain terms that he's no longer in control of his body. He stretches Malcolm's arms up far enough that Malcolm is hyper-aware of the strain on his joints, and then he begins to thrust his hips in earnest, pushing down Malcolm's throat with every snap of his hips.
The fly of his slacks rubs up against Malcolm's face every time Gil buries himself in Malcolm's throat, holding still while Malcolm chokes and sputters around his length, only pulling out when Malcolm jerks beneath his hands. Then he starts thrusting again, in and out, in and out, quick jerks of his hips so Malcolm has no time to focus on anything but his breathing and the feel of Gil's cock on his tongue.
Slowly — so, so slowly — the tremor that's been coursing through Malcolm's body like an electrical current begins to die down. Gil can feel it beneath Malcolm's skin, can see it in the way his body releases some of the tension, and as the tremors abate, Gil slows his hips, switching to long, languid strokes into Malcolm's mouth, without the intensity he started with.
Eventually he pulls out completely and crouches down in front of Malcolm, lowering his arms to his side with a gentleness that makes Malcolm begin to whimper again.
"It's okay, sweetheart, I'll take care of you," Gil says and wraps an arm around Malcolm, tugging him to his feet.
Malcolm is always exceptionally pliable when he gets like this, and it's the work of seconds to have him stripped from his suit and laid out naked on the bed. Malcolm is so hard he's leaking precum over his belly and Gil wants nothing more than to drop between his legs and suck him off to relieve the pressure.
But that's not what Malcolm needs.
Gil hurries to shuck his own clothes as he notices Malcolm begin to tremble once again.
"Shh, you're okay," Gil says, leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on Malcolm's lips, but it only seems to make the tremor worse, leaves him keening and grasping at the sheets below, and Gil suddenly understands that merely tying him down and fucking him hard enough to override the emotions that are consuming him isn't going to cut it tonight.
So he leans over and rolls Malcolm onto his stomach, roughly manhandling him until he's in the middle of the mattress with his arms and legs spread out to the four corners of the bed.
Malcolm doesn't move.
Even still, Gil grabs the much-loved restraints from the trunk at the base of the bed. He starts with Malcolm's left foot, placing a kiss to his ankle before wrapping the sturdy leather around it, and then attaching the other end to the leg of the bed. He moves to Malcolm's left hand next, once again dropping a gentle kiss to sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist before strapping him in.
He repeats the process on Malcolm's right side, pulling the restraints as snug as he can without hurting him.
That will come later.
Even just being strapped down has helped to calm Malcolm down. He no longer has the ability to make decisions about what is done with his body. To his body. And Gil understands that taking Malcolm's autonomy from him is the best way to give him back control.
Gil grabs the rest of the supplies he'll require, tossing them in a pile at the foot of the bed between Malcolm's splayed legs. He starts with the ball gag, plucking the simple black item from the pile and sitting next to Malcolm to carefully slip the leather beneath his cheek before pushing the ball in his mouth and bucking the leather around his head. Malcolm closes his eyes as Gil finishes with the gag, relaxing even further into the bed.
Malcolm's words are, and have always been, his greatest weapon, and Gil has just disarmed him.
Gil moves to do some quick prep work next, taking the bottle of lube from where it's rolled between Malcolm's thighs to drizzle a stream onto Malcolm's exposed asshole before slicking up his fingers as well. He moves the bottle to the nightstand to prevent more of a mess then brings his fingers to Malcolm's hole, using a firm pressure to rub the furled muscle there.
From experience, Gil knows he doesn't have long before Malcolm becomes restless. He can't handle a gentle touch when he's like this, though Gil is hesitant to push too far, too fast. He dips his fingers into Malcolm's body when he notices him tensing up and quickly and efficiently begins to stretch him open, avoiding contact with Malcolm's prostate as he pumps his fingers. Two fingers becomes three in short order, and soon Malcolm is stretched enough to take the butt plug that Gil's selected for him.
Gil reaches over and grabs the jet black plug from the end of the bed and runs the toy along Malcolm's crack, slicking it up before pushing it in with one firm thrust. The sound of Malcolm's moan, muffled through the gag, shoots straight to Gil's cock and has it twitching eagerly, anxious to be buried in the tight heat of Malcolm's body.
Instead, he stands up and goes to wash his hands, unwilling to let the slick endanger his grip on the flogger for what comes next. He talks to Malcolm the entire time he's gone, a stream of useless reassurances that he knows damn well Malcolm isn't absorbing but that he keeps up regardless, because he needs Malcolm to know that he hasn't abandoned him.
By the time he gets back, Malcolm is practically vibrating on the bed, and Gil can't quite make out if it's impatience to get started or if he's losing the battle against the thoughts in his mind, the 'what-ifs' taking over and taking him down. It's probably a bit of both.
"Okay sweetheart, here's what's gonna happen." Gil reaches down and grabs the leather flogger, the handle fitting perfectly in his hand, formed to his grip and feeling like an extension of his own body. "I'm going to hit you until I feel like stopping. And you're going to lay there and take it, because I told you to."
The shiver that shoots through Malcolm this time is most definitely one of pleasure and a small smile tugs at Gil's lips, knowing he's taking care of him exactly the way Malcolm needs.
"If you need me to stop, I want you to snap your fingers twice, okay sweetheart?" Gil asks. It's their standard signal when Malcolm's mouth is unavailable, but he needs to know that Malcolm remembers. "Can you snap twice for me right now to let me know you understand."
Malcolm does and Gil feels a warmth wash through him at the trust Malcolm so willingly places in him.
"Good," Gil says, resisting the urge to plant a trail of kisses along Malcolm's spine to let him know just how much he loves him like this.
There will be time for that later.
He doesn’t give Malcolm any further warning. He brings the flogger down hard on the top of his thighs, the falls landing with a heavy thud on Malcolm's skin, making him cry out and then immediately rock his hips into the mattress beneath him.
With a jerk of his arm, the falls come down again, even harder, on Malcolm's ass. Gil pulls his hand back slowly, lets the dozens of soft leather tails trail off the curve of Malcolm's ass. His skin is already turning the most stunning shades of red where the flogger has landed, and Gil suddenly can't wait to mark up Malcolm's entire body.
The kid is beautiful like this.
He takes his time, alternating powerful blows with small flicks of his wrist that, judging by the way Malcolm sucks in a sharp breath through his nose with each hit, must really pack a sting. He walks around the bed, ensuring he works as much of Malcolm's body as possible, focusing the forceful hits on Malcolm's thighs, ass, and upper back, landing blow after blow until he's bright red and Gil can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
The flesh wound on Gil's arm throbs with each hit, a biting sting every time he raises his arm that's washed out by a dull burn as he swings the flogger down. He embraces it as an echo of what he's doing to Malcolm. For Malcolm.
Because he'll give that kid anything he wants and everything he needs for as long as he possibly can.
So he lets the blows rain down until his arm aches and Malcolm's skin is fire red, until he can tell that Malcolm is teetering on the edge of orgasm and that it won't take much of anything to push him over. The way he's rocking his hips against the bed, searching for the smallest hint of friction signals that he's ready to move on, to find his release, to start coming down.
Gil lands one last thud on Malcolm's ass then flips the flogger around in his hand and uses the end of the handle to nudge at the butt plug in Malcolm's hole, knowing that it's nestled dangerously close to his prostate.
Malcolm tosses his head back and howls, his entire body tensing as he comes all over the sheets below him. Gil continues to rock the plug until Malcolm groans, overstimulated and completely spent. Then he drops the flogger next to Malcolm's side and crawls on the bed between his legs, pulling out the plug in one quick movement and dropping it on Malcolm's other side.
With no give in his bindings, Malcolm can barely move but that doesn't stop him from trying to angle his ass up, pushing towards Gil.
Gil doesn't need any further encouragement and sinks into Malcolm's body in one smooth stroke. Malcolm yelps around the gag when Gil's body presses up against his achingly tender flesh, which only spurs Gil on to bend himself around Malcolm even further, creating as much contact between them as he possibly can.
The heat coming from Malcolm's body is intense and seeps into Gil's skin as he curls around him and begins a series of shallow thrusts to fuck into Malcolm while keeping their bodies pressed together, putting pressure everywhere he's bound to be most sensitive.
Exactly like Gil expects, Malcolm moans and buries his face in the sheets, submitting his body for Gil's pleasure, prepared to endure whatever Gil dishes out, growing harder as Gil uses him.
Gil can't maintain the position for long, needing some leverage, some space between them to fuck into Malcolm like he wants to. He plants his hands on either side of Malcolm's chest and nudges his knees up against Malcolm's thighs, setting himself up so he can thrust down hard into Malcolm's hole.
And then he does just that.
Malcolm looses a keening cry that echoes through the loft and makes Gil grateful once again for the soundproofing that Malcolm had installed when he moved in to spare the neighbours from both his night terrors and their nightly adventures.
Gil pumps hard and fast, beads of sweat forming on his face and chest and dripping onto Malcolm's back. A tiny part of Gil's brain expects the droplets to sizzle as they fall on Malcolm's hot skin.
The way Malcolm squeezes around his cock every time Gil hits his prostate has him picking up the pace, his own orgasm building deep in his gut. Judging by the way Malcolm's moans are getting louder and more desperate, he's getting close to coming again, too.
Gil does his best to hit Malcolm's prostate with every stroke, and as Malcolm's moans become one long cry, as his hands are balling into fists and his toes are curling up, Gil shifts one of his hands to Malcolm's back and scrapes his nails down the tender skin between his shoulder blades.
Malcolm goes suddenly silent, but the way he clenches down with a vice-like grip on Gil's cock tells Gil everything he needs to know. He barely manages to fuck Malcolm through his second orgasm — Malcolm is so tight all of a sudden that Gil isn't sure he can keep going — and then quickly shoots his own load deep inside of Malcolm before the kid has even found his voice again.
Gil lets himself collapse onto Malcolm for just a moment, just until he can see straight again. Then he hauls himself up to his knees, carefully pulling his softening cock from Malcolm's puffy hole, and moves to undo Malcolm's restraints. He starts with the ankles, since he's down there anyways, and rubs his hands gently over the skin as it's freed from the leather straps, recognizing the beginning of the bruises that will be darkening Malcolm's skin in lurid shades of blue and purple come morning.
Even once his legs are free, Malcolm makes no move to shift or adjust on the bed, seemingly content to remain sprawled out on the bed, leaking Gil's come from his well-used hole.
Gil crawls over Malcolm's thigh to kneel beside him and free his right hand. He gives the wrist the same treatment as his ankles — a gentle massage to help promote blood flow and ease the ache, a lingering kiss to the bruising skin.
After placing Malcolm's hand a little closer to his body — taking the strain from his overtaxed joints — Gil gets off the bed and walks around to the other side, next to the window, next to where Malcolm is staring almost vacantly ahead. They've been together long enough that Gil no longer worries when he sees Malcolm like this, knows that this is just a part of how Malcolm comes down.
So Gil merely removes the gag and then uncuffs his hand, crouching down to kiss along his wrist before tucking his arm into his body. Once Malcolm is fully unrestrained and ready to be cared for, Gil slides the kid's leg over, giving himself enough room that he can crawl in next to Malcolm. He pulls the blanket from the foot of the bed over them both before wrapping an arm over Malcolm and waiting for him to come back to him.
It's not long before Malcolm begins to rouse, eyes blinking sleepily as he curls into the heat that Gil's emitting next to him.
"Hey there, sweetheart," Gil says quietly as he pulls Malcolm half on top of him, smiling as Malcolm melts against his chest with a contented hum. Gil runs his fingers along Malcolm's spine as he waits for him to speak, giving him the time he needs to find his balance. To find his words.
"I'm sorry," Malcolm whispers eventually, so quiet that Gil feels the puffs of breath on his chest more than he hears the words themselves.
He knows there's no point telling Malcolm it's not his fault. Not yet. Tonight, Gil knows, Malcolm is too raw to accept forgiveness or absolution, immersed too deep in the guilt he feels to hear the words that Gil is dying to whisper into his skin over and over until Malcolm can feel them in his heart.
For now, Gil settles for holding him tight and quietly assuring, "It's okay, kid. I'm okay."
And it's enough.
For now.
Tomorrow, they'll curl up on the couch together and Gil will make Malcolm understand that he did nothing wrong. That sometimes, bad things happen and they have close calls. He'll remind him that the job is dangerous, but worthwhile. He'll tell him that the flesh wound on his arm was not Malcolm's fault, then keep saying it until Malcolm can look him in the eye and say it back to him.
Because Gil has always been there for Malcolm.
And always will be.