#AYO SORRY THIS GOT LONG LMFAAOO

[finaldisorder]

🐦————— @popularmxnster

Malcolm had always managed to find his way into delicate and risky situations. When he had met Billy Loomis, the profiler could pick his type and design out in any crowd; it was just like his father. What parts were similar and what parts were different were yet to be determined, but since the very day Malcolm had met the other man, that all-too-familiar nausea in the pit of his stomach had snapped and snarled and rolled.

It was terrifying in only the way he knows with Doctor Whitly. It's thrilling and exciting in that way, too. It makes the tremor of his hand cease when they make eye contact. It makes the breath punch out of him in a heavy exhale. It makes Malcolm do stupid, stupid things. Like ask for Billy's number, just in case, just in case he needed to reach him, just in case Billy needed a sponsor for anything, just in case...

Just in case Malcolm wanted some company with the only type of person who wouldn't just humor him and who would talk shop without shame.

People like his father, like Billy Loomis, like various other serial killers he had spoken with both behind bars and within their own homes. Reformed, they say. Not for psychopaths. There was no fixing anything because there was nothing broken. It was simply the way they were wired. Malcolm fears that he was wired this way too.

The rap on his door snaps him out of his thousand-yard staring contest with the far wall. Malcolm lifts himself from the stool at his kitchen island, taking the few short strides toward the door and unlocking it - he opens it quickly, husky blues settled on the other immediately with an attentive once-over. It's purely precaution - Malcolm surveys every visitor of his for weapons, or off vibes.

Just in case.

"Hey, glad you could make it." Malcolm steps aside, extending an arm lazily to welcome Billy inside. He had simply wanted to chat - about anything, everything, whatever came to mind. He wanted to pick apart Billy's brain and he wanted to compare it to others he'd spoken to in the past. He wanted to compare it to his own. "Whiskey? Would you like some whiskey?"

Stepping back toward the island, door kicked closed with the toes of his foot, Malcolm offers the other a small smile before reaching for a glass. The detective's glass is already half drunk on the island where he'd been sat moments before; Forensic Files is playing on the unnecessarily large television in the sitting area, volume so low it's barely a whisper. The silence is only broken up by the occasional tweet from his bird in the corner. "I don't know if you've eaten, but I could order in."