It's four in the morning, and it's the first night he's gotten into bed before sunrise since... Well, it's been a while. Malcolm opens his eyes, squinting narrowly at the man lying next to him. Bastian is sprawled out, one hand pillowed behind his bed, the other draped lazily up and over his pillow.
Or Malcolm's pillow, as it were, seeing how Bastian is in Malcolm's bed. Malcolm would hit him with said pillow, but the werewolf had wandered up to his front door less than an hour ago, looking like he just lost a fight. Judging by the bite marks all over Bastian's neck, and the bruises circling his wrists, and the rumpled clothes, it must've been a sexy fight.
But Bastian isn't glowing in post-coital bliss, as he is wont to do, and there's something just slightly off about his smile. Malcolm recognizes this as fear. Whatever happened, Bastian is trying to hide, and he doesn't want to talk about it. Malcolm doesn't want to push him, either. Instead they lie side by side on the soft, blue expanse of Egyptian cotton, and Bastian waits patiently.
Malcolm makes a mental note to introduce the two of them because 1.) he has no doubt that they'll hit it off, and 2.) Bastian seems very curious about Malcolm's friend. He asks questions about him from time to time, usually right as they're falling asleep, and Malcolm always humors him. He doesn't mind talking about Wrench, not in the least, and he also gets the sense that Bastian's life has been painfully devoid of the little things like pillow talk that most people take for granted.
"Well, he's hilarious," Malcolm starts, closing his eyes as he speaks. "And of course he's good at what he does." Though Malcolm would be at a loss for words if Bastian ever asked what exactly Wrench did. Malcolm knows, of course, but it's one of those things that's hard to put into words. Or maybe that's just the man himself. Wrench is Wrench. He always has been. He's a constant in Malcolm's life, one of the few people that Malcolm will let close. He tells Bastian all of this, too, just as he has before.
When he peeks, Bastian is smiling, eyes still trained on the ceiling. Malcolm wonders why hearing about Wrench causes this reaction, and there's an uncomfortable flare of jealousy in the back of his mind when he considers that maybe Bastian has a crush or something. But he shakes the feeling off quickly and talks some more, about Wrench's smile and his laugh, and the way his nose wrinkles when he's confused.
Eventually Bastian falls asleep, leaving Malcolm to guess about all the markings and bruises. Malcolm puts and arm around his friend and holds him close and wonders what Bastian could've gotten into that was so bad that he was scared to tell him. Bastian sleeps, brow slightly furrowed.
Later, he'll wake up in the throes of a nightmare (crushing, crushing shame and a pair of green eyes staring at him, mocking laughter echoing around his head), but for now he sleeps and tries to imagine what it'd be like to be loved by someone as much as Malcolm loves Wrench.
There were a great many words in the English language, and Malcolm exercised them a great deal. In his line of work, words were almost as invaluable as any artifact he had in his possession or any spell he could cast, and he had no shortage of either.
But there were certain sequences of words that rarely passed his lips, so it was strange to him to look across the table at his potential client, shake his head, and say in no uncertain terms:
"There's nothing I can do to help you." The client seemed annoyed by this, as Malcolm had assumed that he would be, but that too was beyond his means to remedy.
"You're supposed to be able to do anything," the client snarled, his eyes rapidly changing color. Malcolm could see the shift of the skin around the man's mouth as his teeth lengthened and sharpened.
"And you're supposed to be able to control your wolf, Pyotr, and yet here we are." Most people wouldn't take such a tone with an alpha werewolf, but Malcolm was aware enough of his abilities to know that he was not most people. He sat forward, his eyebrows knitting together. His tone remained calm, but there was a sternness to his gaze. "I trust that you're not about to make any problems for me."
"Watch yourself, Shark. You may be good at magic, but are you willing to bet that you can conjure a spell before I can leap over the table and rip you to shreds?" Without hesitation, Malcolm rose from his seat, hand raised. He flicked his wrist, sending the wold flying backwards and pinning him to the wall.
"Are you?" he asked, all the levity drained from his voice. Malcolm wasn't a "shoot first, ask questions later" kind of guy, but he had quite the strong sense of self-preservation, and anyone who knew his reputation knew that he didn't tolerate threats, whether the person threatening actually meant them or not. When dealing with him, it was best to avoid using them all together.
"I've seen much bigger wolves than you, Pyotr," Malcolm said, stepping forward. "So if you think that snapping those pearly whites of yours at me will coerce me, then you're dead wrong. I don't like people trying to bully me, and I really don't like repeating myself, so I'll only say this once. Next time you better skip the threat and go straight to the action, and you better fucking pray that you kill me with the first hit, or I'll tear you apart atom by atom and scatter you to the crosswinds."
This was, admittedly, a little heavy-handed, Malcolm thought to himself, but it seemed to do the trick. The wolf quieted, his teeth shrinking back down as his eyes changed like the fade of a mood ring.
"If you can do all of that, then why can't you do what I asked?" he said softly. Malcolm's poker face held, but he did feel at least a little sorry for the wolf. From the wolves he knew personally, he'd gleaned that it could be difficult to stay in power in a pack. Pyotr just wanted to know if his son would grow up to succeed him.
On the surface it sounded a little power-obsessed, but the reality of it was that he wanted to know because if his son took the reign from his old man, then that would mean that his son would be safe. He was just a father, worried about his kid. It hit a little close to home for Malcolm. With a sigh, he let Pyotr down from the wall, returning to his seat and waving at the empty chair across from him.
"Divination is different from most other forms of magic," he explained as the flustered alpha walked back and dropped into the chair. "It requires a vast amount of power to bend time, and you have to know an exact point, otherwise you get tangled up in all the possible timelines that could have been or could still be. It's like working with wet sand."
"But there are people that can do it," Pyotr insisted. Malcolm nodded in concession.
"Yes, but those people have innate talents that lend them to the task. And even then, none of the true clairvoyants that I know can fully control their visions." Malcolm only knew one true clairvoyant, the best in the business, and though he didn't know all of the details, he knew enough to know that even Ralph Temple had to wrestle with his ability.
"Then you must tell me where to find a true clairvoyant. I will pay you everything I own," Pyotr said. Malcolm sighed.
"Even if I didn't charge you a cent for the information, everything you own wouldn't even come close to paying for a clairvoyant's services," he said flatly. "But since you're here, I'll give you some advice. Go home. Actually spend the time helping your son get ready instead of worrying about what may or may not happen. Trust me, the best thing you can do for him is to be there."
He saw Pyotr to the door, lifting the wards and securing them again after the wolf had cleared the perimeter of the warehouse. He was seventy percent sure that he'd successfully convinced the alpha to give up his frantic search for the future, but just in case he was wrong, he made his way to his office. He wanted to give Ralph a heads up.
His fingers skirted over the keys, a hesitant melody tinkling from inside the old piano. He didn't really know how to play. He'd never had lessons, and even when the opportunity to learn had presented itself, he was too self-conscious to ask.
His sister would've disapproved. After all, playing an instrument wasn't befitting the tough guy image that she thought he should have, but he had an ear for it, and as such he could sound out a simple tune here and there. Little pieces of songs that he'd heard poured from his fingertips.
"I didn't know you could play." He would've jumped at the suddenness of the other man's voice, but he'd heard him coming. Malcolm stepped lightly, but Bastian's ears were good for more than music. Bastian smirked a little, turning on the bench to meet his friend's eyes.
"I can't," he said, "I'm just pretending." Malcolm joined him on the piano bench, sitting with his back to the actual piano. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and laughed a little.
"You know you're lucky that this is just a regular old piano. There's another one somewhere in here that looks just like it. If you'd touched it, it would've hexed you so that you couldn't stop," he commented. Bastian wasn't sure if he was serious or not.Sometimes it was hard to tell with Malcolm, though if he wasn't joking, then Bastian wasn't surprised. There was no telling what he kept in his studio apartment in Brooklyn, a mere satellite of the main Warehouse.
Bastian had once barely touched a necklace that Malcolm had left out on the kitchen table and woke up two days later. He was very careful about reading the labels now. He smirked and let his shoulders rise and fall in an apologetic shrug. He'd probably worried Malcolm.
That was strange to him. People didn't really worry about him. He supposed that Vlad must've cared on some level, but he never let his worries show. He couldn't afford to; it would be like blood in the water.In Bastian's mind, that was the reason that Irene, too, was so emotionally distant from him. Maybe she would show that she cared if she could. Bastian understood that for people in their line of work, vulnerability of any kind could kill them.
"Did you ever want to learn?" Malcolm asked, breaking the silence. He was looking at the piano, his eyes flickering back to the assassin intermittently. Bastian laughed a little. The truth was that he'd wanted to learn how to play piano ever since he first heard one. It was one of his first jobs for Vlad. He'd been assigned to keep watch outside in a concert hall while his sister went in for someone in a private box.
From his makeshift sniper's nest up in the rafters, through the scope of his rifle, Bastian watched his sister work, but his focus was divided between the job at hand and the sounds of the pianist hammering away on the stage. Bastian had heard music before, but never like what he'd heard in the concert hall.
He was glad that he was up in the rafter where no one could see him. He'd heard the music (which he would later find out was an Old Times composer named Uematsu), and it had snaked down into him, stirring everything up until he'd cried.
Of course he'd never uttered a word to anyone, and he'd kept his desire to learn a secret. Malcolm was his friend, but he didn't want to revisit the issue. He shook his head. "Nah. I don't really have the attention span."
He also didn't have the right to create something beautiful. Not when he spent so much time destroying. Beside him, Malcolm sighed, and from the huff of breath, Bastian could tell that his friend knew he wasn't telling him everything. Malcolm was sharp like that. But Bastian also knew that the other man wouldn't push him. Malcolm understood the need and value of secrets.
"Well, if you're not going to sleep, let's get dressed and go out," he said, nudging his hips against Bastian's. He stood and stretched, the thin white fabric of his nightshirt lifting to show a sliver of tanned skin. It was a not-so-subtle way of changing the subject, and Bastian was grateful for it.
It was chiefly embarrassing that he let himself get this drunk. He'd been forced out of childhood with alarming expediency. He was older than his body, that was for sure. Unfortunately, alcohol didn't give a rat's ass about how old his soul was. And even if he'd been the size of a linebacker, the amount of liquor he'd taken into his body would surely have gotten him wasted.
He didn't want to call, and he especially didn't want to call her, but his uncle wasn't answering his phone, and Malcolm didn't feel nearly sober enough to try and teleport. He walked a block away from the house, far enough that no one would see him. But he was still close enough that he could hear the rager. He'd been the youngest person there, and he'd caught enough shit about it. If anyone saw his ride pick him up, he'd never be able to sneak into another party like that, and for him that just wasn't an option.
There was a distant sound that blossomed into a dull roar, and a few moments later, a silver sports car whipped around the corner, gliding to a stop. He reached for the door, fumbling with the handle for a moment before the driver reached across and opened it for him. The gesture, undoubtedly meant as a courtesy, only managed to piss him off. Rolling his eyes, he jerked the door open and spilled into the passenger seat. Making a point to not say a word, he kept his gaze straight ahead.
"I brought you some water," she said gently, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder. There was a warmth in the touch, something kind and inviting. But he wasn't having any of it. He jerked his shoulder, twisting away from her, curling up in the seat and facing the door. The truth was that he was thirsty. He could've finished off a lake. But he wouldn't take a single sip.
He could tell that her hand was hovering just an inch or so from his back as she debated on whether or not she should try again, but the rigidity of his back made it perfectly clear that he wouldn't cave to any such approach. He pretended he didn't hear the soft sigh, the crushing exhale of breath. And even as a part of him felt bad, there was a defiance in him that felt proud. She didn't deal in defeat very often. And here he was, sixteen years old, and he could best her without even trying.
The car rolled forward, smoothly and slowly. Even this irritated him. It felt too much like coddling. He grumbled, curling up tighter on the passenger's seat. A song was playing through the speakers, some old tune that reminded Malcolm of backyard picnics while an old stereo crackled across the hot air of a summer afternoon. He remember an old house that they hadn't been back to in nearly twelve years. He didn't want the memories, ones he'd been so careful to tuck away in corner of his mind.
Making a displeased noise, he reached blindly behind him, swatting at the radio ineffectively. She seemed to get the message, though, and soon there was the click of a button and the music went silent. He nearly thanked her, but he wasn't so drunk that he'd make a mistake like that. For a few minutes, there was complete silence. And then it appeared that she thought she had parenting to do or something.
"I know that you can take care of yourself," she started, "but you shouldn't drink so much. Especially if you're going out alone." He scoffed, not turning to face her.
"Yeah, sure. Don't tell the sixteen year old not to drink. Tell him to pace himself and bring a buddy. Kudos on the child-rearing," he said flatly. Another sigh. Malcolm recognized it as annoyance. It was funny to him. If anyone else had given her that kind of attitude, she wouldn't have taken it. But all he got was a tempered sigh.
"Malcolm, please, I'm just worried about---" she began, but Malcolm turned in the passenger seat, the suddenness of the motion causing his head to spin. He sucked in a breath to calm his swimming head and the ripples it caused in his stomach.
"I'm fine. I didn't ask for your worry," he snapped. His eyes were fixed in a steady glare, and there was a breath of silence that seeped through the car. She toggled her own line of vision between him and road, He could see the hurt on the features of her face, as plain as the day was long. There was a tightness to her throat, the tell-tale swallow meant to force back tears.
"You're my son," she finally said. Malcolm wished that once, just once, she would rise to the bait. If she were angry, if she pushed him, then he could just shove back. As it was, he just scoffed and slid down in his seat. But she wasn't done talking. "Malcolm, I wish that you would just speak to me. I know that things have been hard. I know how horrible it was. And I know that you don't think that I'm a good mother."
That was true, and yet it wasn't. She'd been there when he was little, and after his father had died, she'd been there. She'd been there even when he didn't want her there. He'd been the one to pull away. But she'd also gotten his father killed.
He didn't understand how she could say that she'd loved Mark Kinnear at all when she'd endangered him by dragging him into her life. He didn't understand how she could say it when he knew for a fact that she loved someone else. Had always loved someone else. He was a child the first time that he saw her with the other man, but he wasn't blind. She'd looked at him in a way that she'd never looked at his father.
"Glad that we're on the same page," Malcolm muttered, shutting his eyes, resolving not to look at her. If he looked, then the guilt would rise in his stomach, and he wouldn't be able to stay his course. She reached out then, brushing her fingertips against his upper arm.
"But I love you, Malcolm," she said. "And I will always be here for you. I will come whenever you call. You know that, don't you?" Of course he knew that. But he flinched away from her all the same.
"I don't want you to," he growled, sitting up despite the tumult in his stomach. And really he should've stopped right there. But the alcohol had loosened his lips, and he heard himself ramble on. "Jesus, it's like you'll do anything to feel needed."
"You called me," she countered, and there it was. Malcolm picked up on the indignity edging her voice, however faint it was, and latched onto it. He laughed.
"Yeah," he agreed. "I called you. It's a mistake I won't make again." He saw a split second of the look she gave him, like he might as well have slapped her. But then he shut his eyes and teleported, landing unceremoniously in the alley next to his apartment building. When he threw up, he wasn't sure if it was the guilt or the liquor.
So many close calls. Malcolm couldn't count them if he tried. He was aware of how paradoxical his behavior was. It was a way to lose himself, to run from what he was, to try and bury where he'd come from. And yet every time he fell into blessed oblivion, it always brought him face to face with exactly that.
Near-death experiences were becoming his routine. His mother worried, though Malcolm didn't know why. Once, after a particularly violent bout of alcohol poisoning, she'd asked him if he had a death wish. He'd snapped out something along the lines of, "Wouldn't that be exactly what you want anyway?"
And he'd seen the sting of tears in his mother's eyes, though he made no move to apologize. He'd told himself that he was proud of his rebelliousness, even though his gut twisted at the sight of her on the verge of crying. Maybe one day he'd stop being such a shit. But today was not that day.
---
Moira was a force of nature. She was a perfectly ordinary human being. No magic. No powers of any kind. But she was beautiful like a dancing flame, and she was equally wild and mercurial. Even the first time, he'd met her, knowing nothing about her but her name, he was sure that he could spend the rest of his life with her.
The rest of his very mortal life, he would think to himself. He wouldn't allow himself to become like his mother. He'd never wanted it. He'd wanted it less now that he'd found someone that he could settle down with. It started with Moira; it would end with her, too. Or at least that's what he told himself.
It's funny how things can change so quickly, how the best laid plans can fall to ruin in the span of a blink. Moira was a flame, their love was a forest fire, and together they burned through life like so many trees. But fire can also destroy, and one night they'd pushed too hard, gone too far. Malcolm woke up in the hospital. Moira didn't wake up at all.
---
Guilt and blame and anger and sorrow weighed down on him, crushing him slowly. He was Giles Corey, and he refused to answer to the charges levied against him, instead defiantly snarling at the universe for more weight. Perhaps one day it would crush him. One day he would cross a line that could not be uncrossed. But today was not that day, and the burn of toxins in his blood numbed the rest away.
World's End | Our world is better when it's blurry
If there were a prize for rotten judgment, Bastian Crawley guessed that he'd already won it. And if that were the case, then Malcolm Kinnear had to be the runner up. They'd met at a bar in Brooklyn, gotten belligerently drunk, and ended the night with raucous and supremely satisfying sex. In the morning, they'd both rushed out the front door of Bastian's apartment, late for a meeting. In a strange turn of events, it had been the same meeting. And their relationship had bloomed from there. Not that it was entirely conventional in any sense. The sex was a constant but it wasn't romantic. Complicated. Ain't that always the way?
Any time Malcolm was in New York, he'd get in touch, and for a few months, their wild weekends were of the same making as their initial encounter. But somehow, without either of them really intending to, the walls started to come down, ebbing away like sand under the constancy of the tide. Malcolm would actually stay at Bastian's for the entire weekend. They would go out drinking at night, but they always ended up the same way: drunk and fucked out, so tired that they fell asleep in a tangle of limbs.
And then one night they hadn't gone out at all. Bastian had come home from a hit, sporting several minor injuries. The actual kill hadn't been anything to write home about, but the get away wasn't exactly clean. He'd gone straight to his room. Malcolm knew what he did for a living, of course, but Bastian had always taken care to keep his work separated from the rest of his life as much as possible. He didn't want Malcolm to actually see him in a state. Seeing things made them so much more concrete, and sure, it was easy enough to say that you were down with murder until it was staring you right in the face.
Malcolm wasn't one for waiting idly by, however. He'd followed Bastian into the room and crossed his arms over his chest like he was impatiently waiting for something. Bastian had stared back at him, eyebrow elevated in a kind of defensiveness that spawned from the discomfort of not knowing what someone wanted. Bastian was more than familiar with that particular brand of discomfort, so it took a moment for him to say anything. When he did speak, it lacked his usual, sweeping eloquence, of which there was normally none, if that said anything to his character.
"What?" he grunted, jaw clenched as a bothersome gash across his stomach burned from under his shirt. Malcolm merely shrugged, acting as if he were used to the sight of a bloodied werewolf assassin standing in a bedroom. Perhaps he was, Bastian mused to himself.
"If you take your shirt off, I can heal that for you," Malcolm offered. It caught Bastian off guard. He didn't know anyone outside of his pack that would offer to help him without being asked. He didn't know anyone outside of his pack that gave two shits about him either, so that might've had something to do with it.
"I'll heal on my own," he blurted out. Malcolm laughed and rolled his eyes, closing the space between them and tugging at the hem of Bastian's once-white shirt.
"I know that, jackass, but you'll heal faster if I help," he said. Bastian knew better than to be offended. Malcolm was the sort of person that hid affection in barbed statements and backhanded compliments. They had that in common. He'd slowly shrugged his shirt off, watching as Malcolm put a hand to the wound, magic sparking from his palm.
"Any excuse to touch me, Kinnear," he said, lips curled at the corner in a smug smirk. Malcolm had looked back up at him mirroring the expression.
"Like I need an excuse," he pointed out. Bastian couldn't correct him on that, so he'd been content to watch Malcolm work. He could tell by the way that the dark-haired man kept glancing up at him that the question was only seconds away, so he sighed and started talking.
"I was running after a hit. One of the security goons was pretty handy with a knife. I got careless. He got lucky. The song remains the same," he explained. Malcolm had paused and pulled his hand away. The cut was gone, but Malcolm had spotted another one on Bastian's arm, so he kept working, speaking without looking up.
"You don't like what you do, do you?" he asked. "The killing, I mean." No one had ever asked Bastian if he liked it or not, so he wasn't sure how to respond. He mustered a nervous laugh.
"You don't get to be a master assassin because you get a wild hair up your ass," he replied. Malcolm fix him with a stare that was about as flat as a day-old soda.
"No You become a master assassin because you lack normal job skills. Like typing. Or filing shit. I'm not judging you man. I'm just making an observation. You don't talk about your work. Most assassins I've met won't shut up about the jobs they've pulled. And don't take this the wrong way, but it's not like you're exactly opposed to bragging about your conquests." He smiled a little at this, his hand lingering on Bastian's arm.
As for Bastian, he wasn't sure what to do. Malcolm was nudging him to share something. Bastian supposed this was a thing that friends did. Not that they'd ever officially decided that they were friends, but there are certain experiences that have a way of binding people together. If he had to guess, then he would say that constant sex and the fact that he actually looked forward to Malcolm's visits were some kind of indication. But he'd never really been much for sharing, not unless it was Vlad or Reenie. In his panic, he latched onto the first thing he could think of and blurted it out.
"My dad died when I was a kid. He was murdered," he said, unsure of why he was even bringing it up. Malcolm's eyes narrowed, not in anger but in something more akin to pensive thought. His hand slid up Bastian's arm, holding the side of his neck.
"Yeah, me too," he nodded. And while Bastian regretted that someone else knew what it was like to have their family ripped away from them, he found it an odd relief to know that he wasn't alone.
They wound up lying in bed in a strange kind of half-cuddle, staring up at the ceiling as they talked about anything they could think of. Bastian listened, smiling wistfully and fighting to keep his eyes open. Malcolm was sprawled out next to him, rambling on about a man with a smile that, according to Malcolm, could make the heavens pause and a sense of humor as sharp as a tack.
Bastian had never been in love, but he knew the look and sound of it enough to know that this man Malcolm was talking about was truly and deeply loved. Malcolm the Shark may not have admitted it, but Malcolm Kinnear, who was evidently Bastian's friend, was more than willing to ramble on. Bastian wondered, in the twilight of his conscious, if he would ever love or be loved as much as this Wrench fellow. He doubted it. The point was that Wrench, despite the fact that he sounded like he should be found lurking on aisle three of some hardware store, was lucky. And Malcolm was lucky to have found someone.
And Bastian, in a smaller way, was lucky too. Because now he had a friend, and the world didn't see so vast and lonely.
Malcolm was playing in the yard. He had a bandage wrapped around his knee from the day before, when he'd skinned it. His father could've used magic to heal it, but he hadn't. It wasn't that he didn't want him to feel pain, but he'd explained to Malcolm that sometimes you have to endure just a little bit of it because the lesson you learn from it is important. Malcolm was only four, but he kind of understood what his father meant. Besides, his knee wasn't burning like it had when he'd hurt himself, but the faint throb was enough of a reminder that he didn't want to try flying off the swingset again.
Anyway, it had scared his parents, he was pretty sure. His mother had coming running across the lawn, scooping him into her arms and stroking his hair. He's bawled at first, mostly from the shock of skinning his knee, but also because of the shock that he couldn't, in fact, fly. And his mother had been there, seemingly instantly. She was always there, always ready to hold him, pick him up when he fell. He melted into her arms, clinging to her with his small body while she told him he was going to be okay. He was, after all, her son, and he was so very brave and strong.
And while his mother had talked to him, his father had grabbed the first aid kit. The three of them huddled in the grass, his mother holding him in her lap while his father looked at his scraped knee. He'd smiled up at Malcolm, ruffling his hair playfully. It made Malcolm feel better. His father was really smart. He was a wielder, and a talented, powerful one, but he was also a nurse. If he wasn't panicking, then Malcolm was surely alright.
He was currently deeply involved with chasing leaves around the yard, using magic to try and corrale them into a pile. It was a game that his father had showed him. The trick, he'd said, was that you had to be careful. Just blasting the leaves around with magic would send them flying off in every direction. The game taught control. Malcolm's father knew many games, and they were all designed to help his son learn how to use his magic wisely. Malcolm's mother also knew many games, most of them involving toy swords and shields. Malcolm liked the shields more. The best offense was a defense, as his father liked to say.
But Malcolm's mother was in Los Angeles. Something to do with business at the Blood Bowl. So swords and shields would have to wait. As he tried to wrangle a particularly stubborn leaf, he heard the distant sound of a car approaching. This was strange. The Kinnears where the only family around for miles. They had a house in the dome, but they mostly stayed in the cozy little cottage on the outskirts. It had been in his father's family for ages, and Malcolm knew it like the back of his hand. Every nook and cranny and secret little spot. Malcolm brushed his hands off on his jeans and ran inside, where his father was making dinner. It was dinosaur chicken nuggets and carrot sticks and apple slices. Malcolm's parents weren't very good cooks, but he didn't mind.
"Dad," he said, tugging on his father's pant leg. "There's a car, Dad." Visitors, for whatever reason, always made his parents jumpy. They never told him directly, but he could remember overhearing conversations when they'd thought he was alseep. Apparently, his mother was playing hide and seek with someone. And Malcolm guessed that she was winning because he'd never seen anyone come around saying that they'd been looking for her. They didn't get very many guests at all. Uncle Fletch would show up, of course. He used to bring Auntie Bern with him, but Malcolm hadn't seen her in a while. And of course Cale had been around once or twice. Malcolm loved Cale. He was the coolest person that Malcolm knew (other than his parents), and his mother smiled so much when the fae was around. Malcolm liked it when his mother smiled.
His father glanced down at him before looking out the window. His eyes were narrowed. The car was louder now, probably close enough to see. Malcolm wasn't sure. He was too short to see out of the window. But his father could, and suddenly he was crouching, his big hands resting gently on Malcolm's shoulders. Malcolm could tell that his father was about to say something important. His eyes looked serious, and his forehead had lines in it from the crease of his brow. It was the face that he made when something was wrong.
"Mal, I need you to go hide," he said firmly. "I need you to hide really, really well. Don't make a sound, no matter what. And don't come out unless I come get you, okay?" Malcolm swallowed, eyes wide. He was scared. His father noticed this and pulled him into a hug, kissing his forehead.
"I love you so much, son," he said, smiling at him. The worry lifted from his features, and Malcolm relaxed, hugging his father around the neck the way that every small boy hugs his hero. His father slowly let him go, the movement reluctant, and he put his hand on Malcolm's shoulders, turning him on the spot and gently nudging him forward. "Now go. Hide."
Malcolm took off, heading for one of his favorite spots. The linen closet in the back of the hallway that led to the bedrooms had a little door at the bottom, and that door led into a small crawlspace. It was more like a tunnel that snaked it's way through the entire cottage floor. He could go into any room he wanted, and no one would ever know. His mother always seemed to find him, but maybe his mother was just really good cause of all the years of hide and seek.
He crawled into the space under the living room. His father had told him to hide but he'd never said that he couldn't watch, and Malcolm was curious. His father's steps creaked over him, heading to the front door. It creaked when it opened, and Malcolm could see just enough through the small spaces in the floorboards to know that his father was holding his hands at his sides, clenched into fists.
"She isn't here," he was saying, his voice calm and steady, but Malcolm could hear the underlying tone of unhappiness, like he was scolding whoever it was at the door. Later in his life, Malcolm would lie awake in bed and wonder how things had happened so quickly. His father knew magic. He'd seen him drag a car out of a ditch with just his mind. He was so strong. And later in his life, he would come to a very sad conclusion. His father just hadn't expected things to escalate so quickly. He had always been a trusting man. Trusting in his wife and his son and his friends and the basic goodness of people.
Malcolm had never heard a gun shot before, not in real life. He'd been to the Blood Bowl so many times, but guns weren't allowed there. It was loud, so much louder than on TV. He had to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep quiet. The ring of the shot died in the air, and time suspended. For a long breath, Malcolm wasn't sure what had happened. Surely, his father had stepped to the side. Or maybe he'd stopped the bullet with magic.
He heard a shaking draw of breath, followed by the loud thumping of someone hitting the floor. He shifted under the floorboards, quiet as a mouse, trying desperately to see what was going on. The only thing he could think to do was to sneak to the front door. He made it pretty close before footsteps thundered through the floor. Not his father's. His father stepped gently, as he was a gentle man. These footsteps were loud and heavy with something that sounded like anger.
"Where is she?" a voice asked, and based on the tone, Malcolm had been right about the anger. The voice sounded mean and cold. Malcolm waited, motionless, holding his breath and hoping his father would respond. The funny thing about hope is that it can be so very misguided. He'd never heard his father sound so weak in his whole life. His voice cracked, and it almost sounded like he was choking on something, like he'd tried to speaking and drink water at the same time.
"Do you think this will make her love you?" he asked. The voice snorted. Fabric rustled and Malcolm heard the connection of boot to body. His father grunted, his breath coming in wheezes. Something was wrong. Something was so wrong, and he didn't know what to do. The floorboards creaked , and there was a slightly squeak of leather, the bending of boots. The voice sounded closer when it spoke again.
"I think this will destroy her," he snarled. "And that snobby bitch deserves it." Malcolm felt anger well up in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know who the voice was, but he was being mean to his father, and he'd called his mother a bad word. He wanted to tell him off, tell him that his parents were good people, and that the voice was just a bully. But his father had told him to stay put, and anyway, he was too scared to move. Not because of the voice; Malcolm wasn't afraid of bullies, but he couldn't hear his father's breathing anymore. The voice let out a huff, like he was annoyed.
"Fucking mortals," he muttered. And just like that he was gone. Malcolm heard the slam of a car door and the roar of an engine. Gravel churned as the car sped away, taking the horrible voice with it. It was like he'd been paralyzed, and only the absence of the voice allowed him to move again. He scrambled back to through the crawlspace, emerging from the linen closet and sprinting back to the front door as fast as his little legs would carry him. His father was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Malcolm knelt by him, shaking his shoulders.
"Dad?" he asked, his little hands quivering. "Dad, he went away. It's okay." His father didn't move, save for the nudging and pushing of his son's hands. Malcolm could feel tears stinging at his eyes, and he kept pushing his father's shoulder.
"Dad, please. He's gone. Get up." He sat there, pleading and begging, tears streaming. "Dad, you have to get up. Please. Please, please, please, get up." No matter how much he repeated himself, his father didn't move. After what could've been minutes or hours or seconds, he felt the hairs on the back of his hair prickle, a tell-tale sign of magic, but he didn't care. All he cared about was his father and trying to get him to sit up. Arms wrapped around him from behind, trying to pull him away, and he struggled.
"No!" he shouted stubbornly. "No, he has to get up! He has to! I've gotta get him up!" The arms turned him around, and hugged him close. He could hear a heart hammering away in the person's chest, but he was sobbing too hard now to know who it was. He wailed, trying to wriggle away. He kicked and punched and cried out. It was no use. The arms wouldn't let him go.
"Malcolm!" The arms were saying, and Malcolm realized that it was Uncle Fletch. From the sound of his voice, he'd been trying to get Malcolm to calm down for quite some time. "Malcolm, I know you don't believe me, but it's going to be alright. We have to get out of here, okay?" The way that Fletch had gathered the boy in his arms prevented him from seeing his father's body. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bandage wrapped around his own leg. It was tan again. And somehow, Malcolm just knew. Nothing was alright. And it never would be again.
