One-shot title: "Times We Shared"
Warnings: T for language.
Pairings: Cynthia/random guy, implied Mal/Sandra
Word Count: 1,604
Disclaimer: I don't own Cause of Death…but my life would be really awesome if I did.
To him, the girl with the dark ringlets and cerulean eyes was much more than a sister.
She was…well, he didn't know what she was. She was more than a best friend, he knew that much. She was more than a life saver, he knew that also. So what did that make her? A sisterbestfriendlifesaver?
No. She was even more special than that.
"That's not fair, Cyn," he groaned in protest. "You got to have the last slice of lemon cake last time. It's my turn!"
She frowned and stuck her tongue out at her brother. "Yeah, but it's my birthday tomorrow. So that automatically means that I get the last slice."
He stomped his foot. "You're a dummy, you know that? I'm telling on you."
Sure, they had their share of arguments…which was a lot. But they had more good times than they did bad, and that's what mattered, right?
"Mal!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "I'm scared!"
"Cyn, it's not that high of a hill! Just pedal down a bit, and ride the rest of the way down. It's a lot of fun!" her brother yelled from the bottom of the grassy hill.
She swallowed hard. "Mal, I…I can't. I'm too scared!"
Mal sighed and walked with his bike back up to the top, where his little sister was nervously chewing her lip. "Cynthia," he sighed. "I'll push you down. It's so fun. I promise."
Cynthia let out a deep breath. "Do you swear it? Cross your heart and hope to die?"
Mal nodded quickly and motioned crossing-his-heart with his fingers. "I swear it."
His sister sighed. "Well, fine then…you can push m—AHHHHHH!"
She erupted into screams and giggles as she zoomed down the biggest hill she'd ridden in her life. "MAL! MAL!"
Her brother grinned wildly and rode down the hill as well, meeting her at the bottom. Her ponytail was messed up from the wind, and her cheeks were burning red. She was gasping and panting like she'd seen a ghost.
"Mal…" she swallowed hard and fell from her bike, her desperate sighs turning into giggles again. "That…was…the…most…fun…I've…EVER…h—had…"
"Told ya, Cyn," he grinned, revealing two missing front teeth. "Didn't I say it was a lot of fun?"
Cyn. That was what he called her out of kindness. She called him Mal, short for Malachi, but everyone called him that, so there was nothing too special about it.
They had other funky nicknames for each other, too. When Cyn got her first Barbie doll, Mal called her "dollface." When Mal broke his leg, Cyn called him "bad bones." When she had her hair curly from pin curls, Mal called her "ringlets." When he got braces, Cyn called him "tinsel teeth."
"Ugh…" he groaned, clutching his mouth as pain soared through all parts of it. He flopped onto the couch, moaning even more about the aches when he heard a familiar, mocking voice.
"I bet that feels bad, Tinsel Teeth," Cyn grinned wildly. "It makes you look funny, too. You look like somebody just glued train tracks onto your mouth!"
Mal would argue, but his teeth hurt too much. "Shut up, Frizzle," he motioned to her rather messy curls. "You look funny too."
"Do not."
"Do too."
"Do not."
"Do too."
Now, twenty-five years later, they still called each other silly things, even though it seemed a bit childish. Mal called her a "mother hen" because she had a daughter and stepdaughter, and constantly looked after them. Cyn called him "Mr. Invincible" because no matter how many times he was shot in the line of duty, he still managed to pull through.
They also shared everything with each other while growing up. Cyn would always drop the gossip with her brother, even though he wasn't completely interested. Mal would rant on and on about an unfair baseball coach to his sister when she didn't care. But they both were willing to listen.
"Mal," Cynthia stormed in his room. "I almost got kicked off the cheerleading team today."
"What'd you do this time?" he looked up from the baseball equipment catalog he was browsing through.
Cyn frowned. "Nothing, Mal. Absolutely nothing! I don't even see why I'm on the cheer team in the first place. I hate it. I thought it would be a way to get more friends, but I have to grit my teeth and deal with the most annoying girls I've ever come face-to-face with."
Mal shrugged. "I dunno, Cyn. The cheerleaders in my grade are pretty fine."
Cynthia groaned. "On the outside, yeah. But on the inside, they're monsters. At least the ones on my squad are."
"Well, you're not the only one with problems," Mal tossed his catalog to the side. "My English teacher gave me a flunking grade on today's quiz because she thought I was cheating with Ronan. All he did was lean over and ask me for a pencil, and she gave us both zeroes."
Cynthia rolled her eyes. "School is shit."
"It sure is, Cyn. School is shit," he repeated.
They also dealt with mutual problems. Some were small, like missing the bus in the morning, but some were big, like...
"Mom."
Mal broke the painful silence and looked over at Cyn, who had her knees curled up to her chin as she sat on her bed. Her usually beautiful face was streaked with tears.
"I can't believe it," Cynthia found her throat hoarse and raw. "She can't be gone. She was here a few minutes ago."
Mal understood her feelings. "I know," he sighed and brushed the tears from his face. "And…she was calling for dad."
"Stop it!" she buried her face into a nearby pillow and sobbed. "Don't…mention…him."
"Cyn," Mal gently whispered. "He's our dad. We have to mention him."
"No we don't," she argued. "I don't even want to think about him. He went off and did his own thing, wound up in jail, and now we have to pay the price."
"I know, but…"
"Forget it, Mal. Obviously he doesn't love us if he got himself into a situation like this."
"Cyn, did it ever occur to you that maybe he was only getting the money so that he could support us?"
"Still, he's a criminal," Cynthia spat. "I'm ashamed to have him as a dad."
And then there were better, happier times that didn't involve tears, angst, and fighting. Both Mal and his sister were grateful for days like that. They'd peel off their fears and worries by laughing and having a good time, which always ended quite nicely.
And in the end, those happy moments strengthened their relationship as siblings...or best friends…whatever you wanted to call them.
"Here comes the bride," Mal chuckled as he watched her make her way through the doorway.
Cynthia smiled and walked up to the mirror, letting out a slight gasp when she noticed the way she had been primped and premed for the first time. Her dark hair had been beautifully swept back into an elegant bun that was fastened with a silver hairpiece and a veil. Her dress seemed to emit little sparkles of radiance all throughout the room as she spun once, admiring the way the silk moved gracefully.
"Mal…I love it," she broke into a huge grin. "This is exactly how I've always dreamed I'd look on my wedding day."
Mal returned a smile. "Yeah, I know. Back when we were kids, you'd always blab on and on about your princess-y dress that you swore you had to have."
Cynthia smoothed out her dress and glared at her brother. "Your bow tie is crooked."
He looked down and put on a fake pout, sticking out his plump lower lip in dismay. "Darn. Thanks for pointing that out."
"No problem," she laughed. "You can't be a top-notch usher if your bow tie's not in perfect shape."
"Too late," Mal shrugged sheepishly. "Most of the people are in the church already, and I have to say—I was a fabulous escort."
"I'm sure you were."
"You'd better believe it, Cyn."
Now, Mal sits and looks at a photograph of himself from that day. Sure enough, his bow tie was crooked again, but he smiled radiantly as if nothing was wrong. So did Cyn. She had her arm draped around her brother's shoulders as she lit up the photograph with her pearly grin.
He smiles and places the photograph down, looking at the next one. It's of him on his wedding day, which happened a few years before his sister's, but Cyn isn't wearing a bridal gown this time—she's dressed in a dark violet knee-length dress that all bridesmaids wore. Next to her, a friend of Mal's wears the same thing as she smiles radiantly for the camera. Blaise Corso—that's her name. She and Mal were good friends, and still are.
Mal places the photographs down and looks around for something else to do this drizzly Saturday morning. He considers going to the Drunk Tank to play a few rounds of poker with Diego, but remembers that his car is almost out of gas. Then he thinks about going over to Ken's to watch TV, but he recalls that Ken's out of town to visit his relatives.
So he does what he always does when he's at home with nobody talks to.
He leans over, picks up his cell phone, and begins to dial a familiar number.
"Hello?"
"Cyn?"
"Mal! How are you?"
"Just fine, I guess. How's my favorite sister?"
"Mal, I'm your only sister."
"But you're still my favorite one!"
"Oh, brother…"