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[sherlockfreud]

 
 A thread for overflow when captcha rears its ugly head--

 

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[sherlockfreud]

It is not, as JT might argue, that Malcolm Bright does not understand how human affection and attention works. He's made a study his entire life of understanding how people react to other people. Exactly what makes someone the way they are--the pieces that fit together to help someone form into the person they become. The fact that his area of expertise is murderers and serial killers does not preclude the fact that someone has to understand people's interactions to be good at what he does. The problem is that Malcolm Bright has spent so long defining himself in what he is not (not his father, not like his father, not a murderer, not like them, not, not, not---) that he's--struggling with what he is.

And somehow it's harder, like this. He feels opened up, in front of Dani, and it's less like he's a specimen on display (how he felt in the FBI) and more like he's--vulnerable, with her. Like she can see inside of him and muck around with the things he keeps hidden from most people. They're all on display for her, right now, in this moment with his skin warming under her wrist and the dull ache of a forming bruise beating with his pulse.

His heart aches even as the warmth from her touch spreads up his arms, curls down his spine and rests--Dani looks away and the moment is broken. Malcolm takes in a breath and suddenly realizes he hasn't been breathing but he can't remember when he started holding his breath.

She makes him a mess, doesn't she?

"A shit Dom, that's who," He agrees, watching her stand and letting his eyes trace down her body even as he hates himself for doing it. The stretch tugs up her shirt and shows a bit of skin he chases like a man dying of thirst chases a drink. Don't worry about it, Dani, darkness doesn't help. Nothing does, when he gets really into it.

"Belts won't work--too easy to slip out of," He frowns, and then looks over toward the closet. "Ties would be best. Contrary to possible belief, I'm not my mother. I don't have a pile of Hermes scarves lying around."

[detectivepowell]

If Dani makes Malcolm a mess-- Well, it's mutual. It's been a while -- on purpose -- since anyone got under her skin like he does. There's a part of her that's just waiting for the axe to fall. Everyone disappoints you sooner or later. (Gil hasn't yet, but he's different. There's no category to hold their lieutenant.)

Dani follows Malcolm's glance over to the closet. With her eyes first. Then her feet. It's an impressive piece of furniture. About four times the size of hers. It opens with a whisper and Dani stares into the meticulously ordered depth of Malcolm's closet. Like everything else in the apartment, it's neat and precise. The absolute neatness stands in stark contrast to the near manic way he presents in person. The apartment hints at a different Malcolm, someone more put together. Or perhaps someone who tries a little too hard to be put-together. As if he can control the chaos inside if he just keeps everything on the outside neat. A tangled mess hiding beneath starched white collars and tailored suits. But, hey, she's not the profiler in the room.

"I guess if they're a killer, the shit part is pretty implied," Dani tells the contents of the closet. There's no shortage of ties in the closet, all neatly displayed right next to multiple sets of impeccable suits. She trails light fingertips over the displayed ties. The knots -- not to mention Malcolm straining against them -- are likely to ruin whichever ties she picks. Three ties for each arm, Dani decides. One to make an approximation of a cuff, and two to give it enough length to keep Malcolm's joints and shoulders from taking damage. Most men Dani's known, have a couple of shitty ties somewhere at the bottom of the closet. It's often obvious. The old school tie, the polyester blend, the bright yellow with a pink flamingo on it that seemed funny on the way back from the beach in Cancun-- There's nothing like that in Malcolm's collection. Dani's willing to bet real money that every single one of them is designer and pure silk.

Dani's fingers skip the ones she's seen him wear -- he must like those -- and the ones with hues of blue that would complement his eyes. She settles on bright reds, a burnt orange, a pale yellow-- any tie that doesn't look like him. She pulls out tie after tie, like a conjurer pulling silk scarves from a hat, until she has six. The rasp of silk is strangely centering.

"I haven't done this in a while," Dani admits as she returns to the bed, sorting through the ties and choosing the widest ones for his wrists. She sits down on the corner of the bed (it feels like one of those beds in the mattress stores, the ones that cost more than six months worth of paychecks, sort of firm and soft at the same time). Carefully, she spreads out the ties on the blanket next to her, five parallel lines. She keeps one of the bright red ones in her hands. "Stop me if you see one you like."

Normally, Dani would just tie a handcuff knot and be done with it. But Malcolm needs more range of motion, his hands can't be tied together. Any slipknots are right out of the question. No matter how much he tugs against it, the knot can't tighten and cut off his circulation. But it has to be tight enough he can't pull his hands through it on accident. It'll have to be a column tie. Dani twists on the bed to look at Malcolm. There's no way around it, she is going to have to tie it directly around his wrists. Wordlessly, she holds a hand out for one of his. Her heart stutters in her chest again and the moment seems to stretch out between them, gain more weight somehow.