Notes: I don't know about this. I kind of like it, I kind of don't. Maybe I'll expand on it sometime in the future.

Warnings: I really should have a warning for this, but it'd spoil the story. Make of this what you will.

Limbo

"The president is reported to be in good spirits," was what was said on the news. He was also attributed with a quote, which rolled across the screen, black text stuck in a grey-blue box, as it was read aloud by some news reporter with a British accent: 'I came to assuage some unfortunately prevalent fears among people with whom I've never been very popular. (…) Frankly my reception went about as well as I'd expected.'

Dewey laughed in gleeful surprise at that. "It's like he's blaming the whole state for trying to take him out," he announced to his family, who didn't acknowledge him. "He's fine."

With that, Dewey started going through the channels, chasing down the words. The rapid-fire changes of his face would have been funny to watch were the situation at all humorous. He smiled again and again whenever he saw his brother's quote, frowned quietly every time they showed Malcolm pitch forward-- grabbing the edges of the podium to steady himself instead of clasping a hand to his chest like they always did in the movies, face donning an expression more surprised than hurt-- then get yanked back, pulled down and covered by someone who moved so quickly he couldn't be recognized.

"Turn that off," Reese commanded when he'd had enough of it. He turned it off himself before Dewey got a chance to respond. Dewey, holding the remote two-handed like he was a kid again, turned it back on.

Reese's jaw tightened, and even though he looked old, he seemed young, too, about to clobber Dewey for not listening to him.

"Leave it," said Francis.

Reese left it. Of course he did. They'd always listened to Francis.

Dewey kept watching.

It was the same story, over and over again, with only one alteration added early on: President undergoing emergency surgery. Other than that it remained static. There was the exact same script read by the exact same people (growing haggard but unwilling to let any possible updates go to another newscaster), the exact same news clip (with the exact same sharp gunshot-cracks and same oddly belated, unified gasp of the crowd, with a rustle-rustle as microphones dropped and cameras slid), the exact same quote (read by the exact same not-Malcolm voice that made it a little harder to imagine Malcolm had been the one to say it first), the exact same sound bite from the vice president saying that President Wilkerson was doing as well as could-- (instead of waiting around for the 'be expected', they cut him off here, but they kept playing that part anyway ,'as well as can…').

Seeing his brother get shot and the people react to it in the same way over and over wasn't desensitizing, exactly. It couldn't have been, because he still jerked a little every time the gun went off. He still half-expected Malcolm to move out of the way before he got hit the first time. Then, again, half-expected him to move before he got hit the second time. Then, somehow, strangely, half-expected him to be hit a third time instead of being yanked down out of sight. So it wasn't desensitizing. But in a sick sort of way it was soothing, watching everything continuously unfold as it had half-an-hour before; an hour before; two, three, four hours before. It made it feel like they were stuck in limbo. Maybe nothing could get better, but that just meant nothing could get worse.

:--:--:--:

None of them had to take the next day off of work.

They were all lucky, if it could be considered luck; the following day was a Saturday.

They'd all stayed even though they didn't really speak to each other. Piama was rubbing Francis' shoulders, Jamie was moving around restlessly, Reese was hitting his palm with his fist absentmindedly, and Dewey was watching the television. It could have been done anywhere. The only ones who had a designated place were their parents, who were sitting together silently in Malcolm's room--and it was Malcolm's, now, even though they had all lived there; anything they had left behind of themselves was moving unobtrusively aside for everything Malcolm had left behind of himself.

Then the words scrolled across the bottom of the television screen: PRESIDENT TO UNDERGO SECOND EMERGENCY SURGERY. Dewey's ears started ringing so loudly that he could only hear a few phrases cut through the din, "Breaking news!" "…after complications arose…" "…into cardiac arrest at 7:15 A.M…" "…downgraded from serious to critical condition…"

Reese must have been listening even though he'd said he wouldn't, because that was when he started calling Malcolm's cell phone. He hadn't expected an answer, so the disappointment he felt when it went through to voicemail was unwarranted.

The first thing he did was fill a message with saying Malcolm was an idiot and an asshole; look where his genius brain had gotten him, huh?

Dewey said that maybe calling to insult the president right after he'd been shot wasn't such a great idea; their house was probably being scoped out this very second. He wasn't willing to say aloud that he didn't want this to be the last thing Reese told Malcolm, whether Malcolm ever heard it or not.

Reese didn't bother to answer him.

Instead he kept calling and kept calling, only actually leaving three messages: the first was volatile, the second distressed, and the third loving. After that he only called to hear Malcolm's voice. Reese remembered what Malcolm had set his voicemail message as right after he'd won the election-- This is Malcolm. If you're calling to object to how I'm running the country, please hang up, step outside, and redirect all complaints to the first hapless individual you see, as this is the customary way to bitch about political figures.

But Malcolm had changed it to something with a bit more dignified benignity immediately after the excitement of his victory had subsided. And that was what Reese heard then-- This is Malcolm Wilkerson. I'm unable to come to the phone right now, but leave a message after the beep and I'll try to get back to you as soon as possible. --something lacking personality. Something everyone said on their voicemail. Reese liked it better before.

:--:--:--:

Sunday morning Francis said he had to go so he could have a shower and get back to work by Monday; he could take Jamie up to college if he wanted.

Jamie opened his mouth to reply, but that was when their mother stormed out of Malcolm's room. She was wild-haired, bare-footed, and bleary-eyed, with a crumpled Kleenex clutched in one hand.

"We're going to see him," she told their father, who was rushing behind her, without turning around.

"Honey, I just don't think we're allowed--at least put on some shoes," their father pleaded.

But she didn't, and their father managed to get on only one loafer. The door swung open with a bang, their mother was out and their father was hopping after her, trying to get on his second shoe.

All four brothers looked at each other, and it was like a light had been turned on. Of course. Of course. There had never been a single thing that was stronger than their family was when it banded together. They all ran outside. Francis was fortunately in the habit of grabbing Piama's hand, for otherwise she would have surely been left behind. They piled into the car and their mother's bare foot was pressed down on the gas before they'd gotten the door shut behind them.

They only stopped at a gas station, where Hal also bought junk food and soda. They only even idled the car when they changed drivers at the persistence of Piama; many years ago Reese had become skilled in swapping out seats while the car was still rolling, but it was admittedly safer her way.

:--:--:--:

It was Monday and their mother was in the driver's seat again. It wasn't because they'd gone through all of the passengers, so it must have been because she wouldn't have it any other way. There was something playing on the radio, maybe it was music or maybe it was news, but they weren't listening to it so it hardly mattered. There was beautiful scenery but they weren't looking out of the windows. The family was all staring ahead, too long without sleep and too anticipatory of the mission that they couldn't really put into words to be tired. Piama was tired but she stayed awake, guilted for her drowsiness by the set, determined faces around her.

It must have been a song they were not listening to, because when there was a sudden, awkward break that signified it ending where it shouldn't have, they all noticed.

There was a deep, unsure breath that didn't belong to any of them. That was when some man on the radio told them, "I've just received news that President Wilkerson has died."

They all responded instantaneously. Jamie was acutely aware of each and every one of their reactions:

Dewey's eyes went far-off and expressionless.

Francis put his elbows on his knees and buried his head into his upturned palms. He let out a long, stuttering breath.

Piama whispered exclusively to her husband, "I'm so sorry." She seemed to remember the rest of them and glanced around, including them in her regret.

Reese lurched forward just like Malcolm had, like he'd taken a blow to the chest, but he had nothing to hold onto, just the seatbelt to hold him back. "What?" he asked with disinterest, like he'd misheard.

His father's shoulders drooped slowly. He sank back into his seat and stared out of the window.

His mother reached over and clicked the radio off. "They're wrong," she said plainly.

"Lois," said his father, turning back to look at her. Putting his hand over hers.

"They're wrong."

She had never sounded surer of anything.

They had never been less sure of anything.

And so they kept driving.