Chapter Text
No one blamed Glenn, least of all Malcolm himself, later on, once he'd recovered. Everyone understood that a man can only be pushed so far before he snaps. Or a woman, for that matter, but in this case it was Glenn, and a comment about sexual proclivities, and an office lamp that was to hand. And, of course, the memory of the punch to the nose that Malcolm had himself delivered not so long ago.
That merely resulted in blood. That the lamp would send Malcolm to hospital with a concussion surprised everyone, most especially Glenn. That Malcolm would wake up with no memory of the last decade went beyond surprising to shocking.
Especially to Jamie. Oh, Malcolm remembered Jamie. Jamie was the only person in the hospital room whom Malcolm knew at all. It's just that he didn't remember anything important.
Jamie brought him home, a little shaky, head still bandaged, plaster on the back of his hand where they'd stuck in the IV. Just in fucking case. Because he'd been unconscious, and because they'd had him under observation. Cab from hospital to house. Jamie dealt with the driver. Malcolm fumbled with his keys, swore more quietly than could be believed, sorted them out, opened his front door. There was a moment of bewilderment, then his shoulders settled. Clarinet was familiar. Movies, books on the shelves familiar. Mostly. Malcolm wasn't completely out of his depth.
He turned to Jamie and smiled. It was a little terrifying to see, because this was not a Malcolm smiling as he went for the throat, or a Malcolm smiling the way he did in private, just for Jamie. It was a polite smile. Polite, distant. Eerie.
"I appreciate the help," Malcolm said, through that smile. "I hadn't a fucking clue where I lived."
"Yeah", said Jamie.
"Shocked we're still friends. What fucking year is it?"
"2008."
"Fuck me."
"Yeah."
"We fight every time we talk. At the paper. In Glasgow."
Jamie shrugged. They had indeed. A casual observer would say that they still did. The casual observer might have missed what had started happening shortly afterward, however.
"A decade ago?" Malcolm's hand went up and touched his head, just where the lamp had caught him. "Fuck me."
"It's all gone?" Jamie said. "Do you remember your mobile number?"
Malcolm blinked, opened his mouth, stopped. "Feel like it was on the tip of me tongue. Damn."
"Don't stress yerself. Doctor said it would come back. Give it a few days. Rest, for fucking once."
Malcolm smiled politely again. "Speaking of rest. Don't want to keep you. Now I'm here I should be sorted. You must have a home you need to get to."
"Yeah," said Jamie. "That's the thing. I do have a home."
Malcolm's polite smile remained pasted on. Jamie's heart was now more or less on fire. Burning like a fucking slag heap. Now he broke the news.
He said, "I'm home. Right now. Here."
Malcolm's mouth fell open. Snapped shut. He recovered fast, that was the thing about Malc. Fire a rock at his head and he'd be on his feet swinging a bottle at yours a second later. Or a lamp.
He said, "I don't believe you."
That hurt. Braced as he was for it, it still hurt. But he had to ride it out, the docs had said. Just show him the reality of his current life.
Jamie led him upstairs. Opened doors, showed him around his own damn place.
"There's only one bedroom," Malcolm said. Jamie refrained from mocking him for pointing out the obvious.
Jamie took him into that single bedroom. Showed him two chests of drawers, two sets of clothing. Suits in his size. Suits in Malcolm's size. Evidence. Clear evidence. Malcolm stopped arguing. Give Malcolm credit, even with his head cracked open he was still the smartest man in the room. Twice as smart as Jamie anyway, not that Jamie would ever admit this.
Silence. Malcolm paced around, all high-tension electrical wire despite the gauze wrapped around his head. Eventually he came to a halt in front of Jamie.
"I'm having a fucking hard time with this."
Jamie shrugged. "I'll kip on the sofa until you remember how we got together."
"I'm straight."
"You're bi."
Malcolm shook his head. "I'll fucking cop to thinking about it sometimes. But--"
"You switched to acting on it a few years ago. Not that you don't still chase skirts now and then."
Jamie bared his teeth in a the nicest smile he could manage. His Malcolm, the pre-lamp Malcolm, knew what Jamie would do if he strayed, with man or woman. Jamie didn't care about which one he strayed with. And Malcolm would stray, occasionally, for the fun of it, for the change of pace, and for the fucking blood-pumping danger of provoking Jamie. It was a little game they'd play.
And this man didn't remember a single moment of it.
"Look," Jamie said. "I'm shattered. My partner got hit on the head and I spent a fucking day in A&E worried about him. Gonna kip on the sofa. Okay?"
"It's your bed. You should--"
"You're the one with the stitches in his fucking head. Take the bed."
Malcolm nodded. He looked lost. Jamie felt sorry for him. Wasn't his fault he didn't remember the last ten years. Was his fault Glenn had lamped him, mind, and Jamie was going to laugh himself sick about that. Later. When his Malcolm was back. If his Malcolm ever came back.
The doctors had said it usually came back in a couple of days, assuming there was nothing the patient truly wanted to repress. Jamie wasn't normally a fretful man, but something about this had him spooked. What if he was the thing Malcolm wanted to repress? He might be.
So. Snag his fucking robe and the book he'd been reading, head back downstairs to sleep on the sofa, hope Malcolm woke up to himself in the morning. What else could he do?