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There are three main reasons why Malcolm wears his watch like he does, the face upside down to the world.
The obvious one is that he needs it to tell the time. With the number of times that Malcolm gets his phone smashed, water-logged, or even just drops by himself and manages to break it, there’s no way he can live with that being the only way to tell the time.
Another reason is that Gil and Jackie got him this particular watch when he was 13. Jackie said that Gil had gotten it specially made as both of them had engraved their initials into the underside of the watch. Malcolm wears his watch as he does so that at least if Jackie and Gil aren’t around, there’s always there within him in some way or another.
The third reason is for Gil alone.
Jackie hadn’t lied when she said that Gil had gotten it specially made; Malcolm just didn’t figure out why until he was slightly older.
The first time he felt it, it happened only a couple of minutes after he had been given it on his 13th birthday at Gil and Jackie’s house. Malcolm had been sitting on the sofa next to Jackie as Gil had gone off to go get some drinks for them both. Malcolm had said that he could do it, he wouldn’t have to go out of the room to do it – he’d been practising trying to move things from other rooms. Gil had ruffled his hair and told him that whilst it’s a nice thought, Malcolm should practise on moving plastic first rather than trying it on Jackie’s favourite glasses. As he’d left, Jackie and Malcolm started one of the puzzles they had got him when he had felt it.
A small tug at his wrist.
At first, he thought nothing of the situation – had only looked to his wrist and fiddled with the strap slightly, wondering if it was slipping off. Jackie had looked slightly perplexed too but hadn’t said anything. But as Gil had come back, Jackie had whispered something to him which only made the other man look slightly sheepish before all three of them sat on the sofa together to finish the puzzle.
After that, the tugs at his wrist became more consistent, more familiar. An occasional tug on his wrist here and there, a couple more insistent ones and a few that barely felt like a tug at all. They had become a constant, a normality that Malcolm had adjusted to.
Until there was an incident at the precinct.
It was maybe a couple of months after his 13th birthday and Malcolm was waiting for Gil at the precinct. He was waiting in his usual spot; second chair closest to the door but close enough that he could hear the voices within the bullpen. It was enough for him to be able to see what was going on in the precinct but just enough so that when it was warm and the officers opened the doors, he could peer into the street. The precinct was usually busy – crime was always a constant – but when there was a lull in the days, Malcolm stayed by the door to watch the people outside go about their days, heedless to the crime and safety that their precinct provided for them. He also sat in that particular chair because he could attempt to get some practise in, something his mother constantly nags him about. He’s not so sure why – he does really, because they’re the same – so he sits in the seat with no one blocking his view to the outer world. Malcolm reaches out with his powers to see that he can attempt to move anything that’s outside; to see if he could move the plant pot that resided across the street a couple of feet without anyone noticing, to see if he could grasp at the plastic bags that drifted in the wind before making their way downtown. It was getting remarkably easier to do every time he sat in this seat, so maybe he would have to move down another seat to make it a little harder for himself.
But for now, he was keeping his focus on one of the empty officer desks in the precinct, messing with the pencil pot at the end of the desk. Malcolm had already moved it a couple of inches to the right without the officer noticing, and now he was attempting to take the pens out of it before lining them up on the desk. He’d gotten two out of the seven out already but it was a lot more concentration that he initially thought it would be. His hands were bunched under his thighs in an attempt not to use them. He never really had to use his hands to use his powers, it was more of a necessity to do because otherwise the other children called him “weird”, and names that his mother says he shouldn’t pronounce. Seeing things floating without anyone moving themselves tends to send the other kids in his school running for the teachers, complaining that the Whitly kid is up to satanic rituals, which clearly isn’t what Malcolm does because he’s not using candles to help him. That explanation on ends up with him in detention for antagonising the other kids when it was clear that it was the others that had started it.
So, he’s keeping his laser eye focus on the pencil pot, trying to only use his eyes and mind to move it. It’s harder than he thought it would be, his powers are an extension of himself, and he’s never really had to practise too much to use it. He’s never really struggled with his power; it’s always been natural to use. Sure, he’s had stumbling blocks but it’s nothing he hadn’t worked out by himself. Yet he knows he should practise more fine motor skills with his power just in case, hence the pencil pot and pens he wants to move.
Officers move around the floor, files in one hand, coffee in the other. Some cops are gathered at desks talking to each other, reviewing cases that Malcolm can’t hear. Most of them ignore Malcolm anyway, they’re used to his presence at the prescient by now – they know he’s waiting for Gil to finish his shift. The kid has been here plenty of times before so most of them leave him alone, abandoning their attempts to shoo him out the building, only knowing that he’ll sit on the stairs outside instead. Most of the officers are wearing casual clothes – jeans and a t-shirt, their badges clipped around their belts. Only a few are wearing their proper uniform, and that’s only because they’re being send out on shift or are off to a specific area. The smell of coffee perpetuates the floor of the precinct, a constant reminder of the early mornings and the late nights that the officers continue to work to until they’re finished with a case. The constant clunking of desk drawers slamming up and the tapping of pens are all but white noise now, other beings in constant motion as they work through the monotonous job that is paperwork. There’s a stream of swearing coming from the back but he can’t see who’s saying it, yet he can hear the photo copier jamming; probably the cause of the wearing then. There’s a hint of tuna in the air and Malcolm wrinkles his nose at it, he’s never been fond of fish, no matter how much his mother makes him try it. The precinct feels more homely than his own home, and Malcolm likes it here. It’s busy and bustling with activity and he’s never bored listening to the conversations that are deemed to be too gruesome for someone his age.
Malcolm swings his legs as he manages to get one more pen onto the officer’s table before he checks the clock on the wall. It’s coming close to the end of Gil’s shift so he abandons his task to scan the room for the older man. He can see other officers on the floor, names that quickly escape Malcolm because he’s only read them once or twice, but there’s no sign of Gil. Since Gil’s absent on the floor, Malcolm guesses that he’s being debriefed in one of the meeting rooms, getting ready to fill out the necessary paperwork that’s required after a case. It’s something that Malcolm always tries to peer in on, to see what reports Gil writes, but Gil never lets him read them, saying that he’s too young to look at the type of crimes he deals with. Gil’s getting pretty close with the Brass recently, and Malcolm suspects something but keeps his mouth closed about it – well, he keeps it relatively closed because he reports it all back to Jackie when he can because she suspects a job promotion coming up soon, but Gil’s not saying anything.
Malcolm’s musings are cut short at the sound of a low growl fills the floor but no other officer glances in the direction that it came from. Malcolm does though, and sees that coming out of one of the interrogation rooms is a man who’s flanked by three police officers. The man in the middle – the criminal – is unusually tall and has to bend slightly at the knees to walk properly under the roof of the precinct. Whilst his clothes are clean, his hair is long and matted on one side, the other having leaves and twigs sticking out of it. His face is long and drawn, a crooked nose, and his jaw looks out of alignment, so he’s definitely not a human. Malcolm looks down to the man’s hands but they’re bound behind his back but he can’t see the type of cuffs used, so he can’t guess at what species the man is.
It doesn’t seem to matter anyway because as soon as the tall man is maybe 15 feet away from Malcolm, he sniffs the air; taking long, deep inhales and exhales through his mouth. Malcolm stops swinging his legs because the man’s head snaps in his direction, black pupils bleeding into the brown of his eyes. All three officers yell at the same time but it’s too late, the man snarls at Malcolm, his jaw dislocating with a resounding crack, allowing his teeth to extend in his mouth. He’s launching himself forward towards Malcolm, his momentum making the other officers fall to the ground. Malcolm only has time for one thought – ogre or troll – before the man lunges straight in his direction.
There’s a tug at his wrist.
It’s more than a tug though, it full on wrenches him out of the chair and onto the floor. Instinctively, Malcolm flicks his hands out for anything within reach to protect himself, trying to see if there’s anything he can use to help himself. There’s sudden commotion; thunderous growling in his direction, officers yelling, and the screeching of metal. Malcolm looks up from his position from the floor, stunned. Around him, the metal chairs have completely contorted themselves to form a half dome like shape around him, protecting him. The metal is interwoven with each other so seamlessly it takes only a few seconds for him to realise who’s done it.
“Malcolm!”
He jolts at the sound of Gil yelling his name so he whips his head up to try and see around his protective barrier. He can’t see anything pass the dome though but he can hear the scrambling of people, snarling accompanied by a cry before it all falls silent. It only stays that way for maybe a minute or two and then the metal dome in front of him melts in front of his eyes. The metal ripples in place before it liquifies, forming into a puddle on the floor. The puddle then starts to shudder, metal forming together to make multiple silver snakes right in front of him. Malcolm watches, utterly transfixed, as the snakes move back to their original place, moving into the formation of chairs again before they go completely still. Malcolm’s in awe; the chairs are exactly like they were five minutes ago, no sign of them even changing into something different. Above the chairs, a large hole has been punched into where Malcolm’s head originally was.
Malcolm doesn’t get to see anything else because Gil’s arrived out of nowhere, crashing onto his knees in front of Malcolm before embracing him in a crushing hug. He can just see across Gil’s shoulder that the tall man is on the floor, five officers on his back and three on either side of his arms, pinning him to the floor. Gil draws back from their hug first, his hands running up and down Malcolm’s arms as he checks for any physical injuries, his warm eyes scanning Malcolm’s face.
“What are you doing here?” Gil asks as one hand comes to clasp at the back of his neck; a now familiar gesture that he’s become accustomed to. Yet Malcolm’s mind is firing off thoughts and scenarios all in his mind, all at once until it something becomes crystal clear to him – something that’s been staring him in the face all this time yet he’s never put the pieces together before.
“It’s you,” Malcolm blurts out. Gil stops his other hand from running up and down Malcolm’s arm but raise his eyebrows at Malcolm.
“What?” Gil asks.
“It’s you, the tugging,” Malcolm says and raises his hand so Gil looks to the watch that’s settled on his wrist, “it’s you. It’s always been you.”
Gil looks at the watch, his expression one of relief, resignation and also looking slightly sheepish too, “yeah kid, it’s me.”
Malcolm tilts his head at the older man. “Why?”
Gil sighs and pets at his neck, rubbing his thumb up and down Malcolm’s neck, “can we talk about this later?”
Malcolm frowns at the older man but both of them are interrupted by another officer.
“Arroyo,” he says and Gil looks to the man, who jerks a thumb behind him, “can you make the kid undo that?”
Gil frowns at the question but gets to his feet, using one hand to push Malcolm behind him, shielding him from their offender. Malcolm peers around Gil to see what’s happening, ignoring Gil’s hand that’s out by his side, warning Malcolm not to move. Gil winces has to crane his neck to be able to see why. It suddenly becomes cleat why there’s five officers on the suspect’s back and three on either side of his arms, pinning him to the floor – shards of wood have gone straight through his forearms and into his shins. The officers are attempting to stem the bleeding, working around the wooden spikes, but the stranger is still trying to snap his teeth at anyone in his direction, his head jerking occasionally as he gets a scent of Malcolm again.
“Ah, kid?” Gil says in a tone of voice that’s full of concern, “can you let him go?”
Malcolm freezes where he stands as he takes in the space where one of the desks used to be; wood fragmented all over the floor and the spikes through the man’s body. In Malcolm’s rush to protect himself, he’d lashed out for something to slow the man down, hadn’t even thought of the consequences behind it. He hadn’t even thought of what to do, he had just whipped his hands out and his powers to protect himself.
Malcolm’s pinned the man to the floor.
He hadn’t even consciously thought about it, had only wanted to get out of the way and protect himself. In doing so, he’s caused a desk to disintegrate into shards of wood before he’d speared his attacker, going through all of his limbs and attaching him to the floor. It had stopped the man from getting to him but now he’s bleeding all over the floor with officers on top of him. It’s messy and violent and not what Malcolm intended to do – he wanted to protect himself and slow the man down, he didn’t mean for anything like this to happen.
“Malcolm?” Gil’s voice brings him back to the present, the older man looking down to him, “I wouldn’t ask you to if they couldn’t do it manually.”
Malcolm knows that, knows that Gil would rather the other officers take the wood out by themselves rather than Malcolm doing it, but the chances of the officers taking out the wood and the man squirming underneath them, embedding splinters and wood into his limbs is too great of an issue. He swallows around the thick emotion in his throat and nods. Since there are other people around, he makes sure to use his hands, watching their reaction as he uses his power. White wisps curl around his fingers, caressing his skin as he focuses on the spikes in the tall man. His wisps don’t form in the space between them, they just form around the spikes, encircling them once before they latch on. Some of the officers are muttering to each other at the sight of it and whilst Malcolm can’t make out their words, the glare Gil gives them means that he definitely can. The mutterings turn into whispers but Gil’s glare doesn’t waver.
“All together?” Malcolm asks quietly so that Gil’s attention lands on him rather than him continuing to glare own at his co-workers.
“Can you?” another officer asks, and Malcolm flinches at the tone of voice. It’s judgemental and is seeped in something that’s probably resentment; most people aren’t fond of psionics, and it doesn’t help that Malcolm’s the son of a psionic serial killer. It’s judgemental because whilst Malcolm may be psionic, the other officers are wary of him; they know that children his age shouldn’t be this powerful, shouldn’t have this sort of control until they’re around the age of 14 or 15, but Malcolm had been named exceptionally powerful by hid father around the time his dad –
At the thought of his father, he flinches again as he can see his father’s face in his mind; full of wonder and amazement and something Malcolm couldn’t name as he had muttered, utterly magnificent. Gil must catch his flinch because he subtly moves his body to the left to block Malcolm from judgemental eyes. Malcolm’s concentration doesn’t break as he looks to the other officer.
“Sure.”
The other officer nods before taking a few steps back and Malcolm tries not to feel as hurt as he should about it. He may be the Surgeon’s son but that doesn’t mean that he’s going to use his powers to impale an unarmed officer, one who’s Gil’s co-workers. He winces at that though because that’s what he’s done, he’s impaled an offender who had tried to lunge at him, so maybe they have a right to be so wary of him. That doesn’t stop him from feeling the hurt bury inside his chest like a splinter, joining the others that are already embedded in his heart from other judgemental glares and venom coated words that have been thrown at him. Sometimes he wants to scream that he’s just like them, gifted in the same way that they are, but they don’t seem to see it in the same light.
Malcolm gently lifts his hands up so the officers can keep an eye on them, and the wooden spikes slowly come out of the man’s body. As soon as all of them are out, the officers closer to their suspect clamp down on the wounds to apply pressure, whilst they wait for the healer to finish on the other wounds. Malcolm carefully guides the spikes over to the other side of the room before gently depositing them into the bin next to someone else’s desk. Some of the officers gathered around the area are still looking to him, whispering to each other, but Gil turns his back to them as he puts his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders.
“Sit,” he says, guiding Malcolm to the newly reformed seats in the reception area.
Malcolm does as he’s told, sitting down and drawing his legs up so he can cross them. He puts his elbows on his legs and rests his head in his open hands as Gil waves away the officers that have started to come closer to him, to look at the serial killer’s son who’s just speared a man with a desk. There’s fear in their eyes and Malcolm doesn’t want to look at them any longer, doesn’t want to see how much of a freak he is in their eyes. They know of the famous Doctor Whitly and his ability, of what he can do, the damage he can inflict, and it looks like his son is following in his father’s footsteps, impaling a stranger in the ground at 13 years old.
Gil kneels in front of him again, hands clasped together in front of him as they rest on Malcolm’s leg. The older man opens his mouth to talk but Malcolm cuts him off; he doesn’t want to talk about what’s just happened, that he’s broken an entire desk in half and stuck a man to the ground with it. It may be seen as self-defence but for it to be that violent, Malcolm doesn’t know what Gil will say. So, he does what he’s good at, he changes tact.
“So it’s you,” Malcolm tries again, trying to ignore the wobble that’s in his voice, “what’s with all the tugging?”
Gil frowns at him, clearly aware of what he’s attempting to do but he runs with it anyway. Malcolm’s grateful for it.
“Is it really noticeable?” Gil asks, looking to the watch on Malcolm’s wrist again and grimaces.
Malcolm shakes his head immediately but keeps his head down so he doesn’t have to look Gil in the face, “no, I’m used to it now.”
“Good, that’s good,” Gil replies as ducks his head slightly in an attempt for Malcolm to look at him. The boy doesn’t, simply weaves his head and looks to the outside world, where the doors are still open despite all the commotion that just occurred.
Gil sighs. “It’s more of a… location thing.”
“Location?” Malcolm repeats, cursing his curiosity because that has him looking to Gil this time, and the man smiles at him, knowing that it would get his attention.
“So I know where you are, you know I had it especially made, right?”
“For my birthday,” Malcolm replies and tries to look down again, but Gil moves one of his hands so that his index finger keeps Malcolm’s chin up.
Gil smiles warmly at him, “yeah, for your birthday. I had it made so I could always feel it, even blocks away. Took a lot of work to get it right you know.”
Malcolm scrunches his noise before he replies, “whatever for?”
“To make sure you’re where you’re supposed to be,” Gil explains with a slight air of exasperation, already familiar with how Malcolm doesn’t do as he’s told. There’s a pause though, one that only Malcolm would notice because he’s beginning to know this man’s quirks and tells, and that silence was longer than usual
“And?”
Gil frowns. “And what?”
“You didn’t finish your sentence,” Malcolm says.
Gil scowls at him slightly but removes his hand from under Malcolm’s chin, certain that the kid isn’t going to ignore his gaze anymore.
Malcolm huffs, “you paused for too long, I can tell.”
Gil smirks at him and moves his left hand to rub his thumb over one of Malcolm’s bony knees, “did I now?”
“Yeah, you did,” Malcolm says and frowns, “what’s wrong Gil?”
The older man pauses again, his lips pressing into a thin line, his expression one of contemplation. Malcolm can’t tell if he looks stern or hesitant, but maybe it’s a mixture of both. It’s something Malcolm rarely sees in the older man, so he shuffles himself closer to sit on the edge of the seat and raps his knuckles against Gil’s forehead to get his attention. Gil’s expression melts away into confusion before his attention snaps back to Malcolm.
“You can tell me,” Malcolm says softly.
“Kid…” Gil runs a hand over his head, stopping to scratch at his goatee for a moment.
“Please?”
His plea makes Gil’s expression felt into one of softness and kindness – one that Malcolm is familiar with.
Gil takes a breath. “To make sure you’re safe.”
Malcolm frowns at Gil. “I’m okay though.”
“I know, kid, I know,” Gil says with a smile, but it’s not like his usual ones, it’s strained, almost hesitant in fact, “just humour me with it, okay? I’m old.”
“You’re not that old,” Malcolm says before he debates something, “does it do anything else?”
Gil shrugs. “A little.”
“Like?”
This time, Gil ruffles his hair.
“Gil!” Malcolm squawks and Gil chuckles.
“Maybe later,” Gil says and gets up from his knees. Malcolm scowls at him.
“When’s later?” Malcolm questions.
“When I say it is,” Gil chuckles, ruffling Malcolm’s hair.
“Gil,” Malcolm whines, shaking his head to try and fix his hair again, only for Gil to ruffle it again.
“You better tell me,” Malcolm says in what he hopes is a stern voice like Gil uses, but it comes out more petulant than he wants it to. He slides out the chair and hops to his feet, looking up to the cop next to him. He still hasn’t hit his growth spurt so he’s rapidly becoming the shortest in his class compared to everyone else. His limbs are becoming slightly longer though, leaving him looking out of sorts. It’s irritating yet Jackie says he looks as cute as a button. Malcolm disagrees.
Gil wavers on his feet for a moment, looking over his shoulder before he takes a step backwards. Malcolm peers round him to see that the tall man has been removed from the floor and is nowhere in sight, but the blood is still on the floor, albeit less so than there was due to different towels covering the floor. Apart from two officers moping at the floor, the majority of the officers that were around them have disbursed onto the floor of the precinct again, going around their usual day as if there was no disruption in the first place. The offender is nowhere in sight but Malcolm keeps staring at the ground of where he used to be, still seeing the man’s body impaled by wood he manipulated.
“Malcolm?”
Malcolm looks back up to Gil, “yeah?”
“Just…” Gil’s huffs out a breath before he gestures to the watch, “just promise me you’ll wear it all the time, okay? Promise?”
Malcolm smiles shyly at Gil. “I promise I will.”
Gil looks at him for a moment before he nods.
“So,” Malcolm starts, “what was he?”
Gil sighs, “let me grab my things first and I’ll explain on the drive home.”
Malcolm grins at Gil.
To this day, Malcolm still wears the watch Gil gave him for his 13th birthday. It’s a blessing and a curse.
For one, Gil always knows where the kid is – where he’s supposed to be, but it mainly helps Gil in finding the kid when Malcolm’s somewhere he shouldn’t be. Call him paranoid or a helicopter parent, but Gil’s learnt that where Bright goes, trouble isn’t too far behind. So, the watch helps – it helps him pinpoint where Malcolm is, whether it’s several blocks or several miles, or whether the kid is sitting five steps away from him. As the years passed, Gil’s gotten better at being able to locate the specific watch within seconds, easily finding Bright in busy crowds or abandoned buildings, which he has to use more often than he’d like when the kid runs headfirst into danger without backup – again. Other than that, he doesn’t push too far because if he pushes his power too far, he gets a type of whiplash that leaves him with unbearable migraines that force him to lay somewhere dark for a couple of hours.
The watch is a comfort for both of them; that both of them can always find each other despite the distance between them. It’s a promise they made at least 20 years ago now, and one both men intend to keep for a long, long time – for Malcolm to keep the watch on at all times. The kid even wears it to sleep, even if it does chaff against the restraints. Gil has to admit that he maybe should let the object go but he can’t really do that, it symbolises too much for him now. It allows him to keep a constant eye on the kid, allows him to tug on Malcolm’s wrist at any time he wants – if he needs Bright to follow him in a direction or to pull him away from something, whether he needs to find out where the kid is or just to check he’s there, the watch allows Gil to do so.
It was something he hadn’t realised that he’d taken for granted until the kid had gone off to college for months on end, and Gil was left feeling unbalanced for quite some time. He’d grown accustom to Malcolm always being there, asking him questions about cases or just being nosy in general, so for Bright to not be there, it felt odd. It still does feel odd to a certain extent to Gil if he can’t find the watch because he’s gotten used to Bright being at his side again, working with him. Without Bright being there, without the familiar presence of both the kid and the watch, it leaves Gil feeling like he’s forgotten something important at home but can’t remember exactly what it is. It’s like a tickling feeling at the back of his head all day, a nagging sensation that’s constant and he can’t seem to scratch the itch. Without really paying attention, Gil will cast his power wide to see if he can find the specific metal in the kid’s watch and when it isn’t there, it leaves Gil feeling off-balanced. Even when he’s aware that Bright won’t be there, his mind doesn’t seem to want to accept it, his power doesn’t accept it.
It leads up to the final reason for the watch, for why Malcolm Bright wears his watch the way he does, the face upside down to the rest of the world. The last reason is for Gil alone to know.
In such close proximity, Gil can feel Malcolm’s pulse against the metal.
The smooth under surface of the metal sits perfectly against Bright’s pulse, and with enough concentration, Gil can use the metal to feel the pulse underneath it. It’s constantly thrumming away, a frantic beat underneath the skin, and Gil can’t help himself. For a man who’s constantly portraying a façade of calm, Malcolm’s frantic heartbeat gives him away every time (apart from his wisps of course). The thrum of the kid’s heartbeat lets Gil know that he’s alive, and whether he’s about to have a panic attack or a night terror. It’s come in handy plenty of times, allowing Gil to quickly and efficiently manoeuvre Bright out of situations that may trigger any sudden thoughts that may link back to his night terrors. It helps Gil find the undercurrent of panic before it arises and silently threatens to drown Malcolm.
It’s a trick Gil’s been doing since he first gave Malcolm the watch too, but he’s pretty sure the kid doesn’t know about it. Gil had felt it all those years ago, when one of their wood troll criminals had lunged at Malcolm. He’d felt out for the metal in the prescient – as he usually does – and had felt that specific metal, had felt stuttering pulse underneath the metal’s smooth back. He hadn’t even left the interrogation room he was in before he tugged Malcolm wholly out of way of the perceived danger before he had felt for the closest metal objects around the kid, bending to his will to protect the boy under Gil personally got there himself. It was only when he swung open the interrogation door did he realise that he’d bent all of the metal chairs in the receptionist area in his bid to protect Malcolm. The all-encompassing fear Gil had felt for Malcolm was so overwhelming that he almost forgot to put the chairs back into their normal position until he managed to get to the kid himself.
It was something Gil didn’t want to happen again and so far so good, it hadn’t, not on his watch anyway.
Gil was aware of the fact that the kid could protect himself, he’d seen the spears of wood he’d driven into the troll that day to protect himself, yet he couldn’t let go of that one parental instinct. Malcolm Bright may now be of age – nearing his thirties in fact - but Gil would never be able to let go of that pulse he could feel under the metal, a constant beat that was as reassuring as his own heartbeat.
It was as constant as the man who wore it, a familiar person in Gil’s life that he would always seek out to protect and comfort him when the situation called for it. As long as Gil could find the watch, he could find Malcolm, and Gil could find the kid, and that’s all Gil really needed.
So, there are three main reasons why Malcolm wears his watch like he does, the face upside down to the world. That’s all you need to know.