A/N: OK, before you all start yelling at me, I know I should be working on the stories I already have written, but I live to piss off. Well, not really, I just figured that went with this whole situation…
Anyway, I really haven't seen a lot of the episodes, and I'm awful at characterization(please, correct me if I'm wrong here. It will help my already huge ego) so forgive me for the awkwardness that you are about to read.
I have no idea where this would fit into the actual show, except that it's when Francis is still in military school. And it's around Christmas time, but it won't follow any of the episodes, because I've only seen a few. Also, this is Francis – centered cause he's awesome and really hot.
Disclaimer: If I owned this, I'd have a lot of better things to do than write fanfictions for a show I own.
Late
Chapter One
~~~~{Francis}~~~~
"Dammit, Francis, you said that you'd be here twenty minutes ago! Explain yourself!"
On the other end of the phone, at a snowy, windy, horror-movie empty gas station, Francis Wilkerson held the crappy, falling-apart phone away from his ear, mildly lowering the volume of all the curses and nags bursting from his mother's mouth, and sighed. Only once they quieted, well, quieted as in his mother shouting his name, demanding a response, did he return the phone relatively close to his ear.
"Mom, I know what I said, but–"
"Then why aren't you here yet?" she interrupted, for about the millionth time in this conversation.
Dear God, she was annoying, he thought, once again withdrawing the station's payphone from the general area of his ear. Bringing it closer, but keeping the upper end far from his ear should she start yelling again, he half-shouted into the phone, "Look, Mom. I got stuck in traffic. And the taxi ran out of gas. Not. My. Fault!" Slowly, he brought the phone closer to his ear. Maybe he shouldn't have yelled. a part of him thought. Now she'll just be uber-pissed. But that was for weenies. No, Francis preferred to handle his mother like a man, and not like his father or brothers; always getting pushed around with no voice whatsoever. She was grumbling something, to his father, maybe, probably repeating what he just said. Shaking slightly – from the cold, mind you, not his mother's wrath –, he shuffled his feet, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder to try and warm his nearly-numb hands.
"Alright," said his mother into the phone, so suddenly and sharply that he jumped and nearly dropped it. Grabbing it with his hand again, he held it a small distance from his ear. "Maybe this one thing isn't entirely your fault," she began, leaving Francis to wonder how traffic and the taxi running out of gas could be possibly connected to him, "But," – There was always a but. Heh, always a butt – "I – we – expect you to get over here soon." She put extra emphasis on the word "soon", letting him know that lateness – well, even more than he already was – would Not, capital N-O-T, would Not be tolerated. At all. Despite this, he breathed a slight sigh of relief, watching as the white little cloud burst from his mouth and vanished into the foggy, frigid night. He smiled, distracted, and blew air from his mouth again, watching as the longer cloud faded away as well, blown sideways by the tuneless whistling rush of the wind. Finally, he returned his attention to the phone, where he could practically feel his mother's impatient face radiating through the phone, making the quietness of the empty station seem not so quiet at all. He was lucky to have gotten off so easily. Hal and his brothers probably calmed her down a bit – but since that seemed very unlikely, they probably just somehow convinced her to give him a break.
"Okay, Mom. I'll be there soon."
"Humph."
Click.
Smiling, Francis plopped the phone back into its rightful place, and approached the taxi. The driver, a heavy, dark-haired man with bright green eyes, was finished getting gas – ha, getting gas! –, and waiting patiently in the cab. Quickly, Francis approached the cab and entered it, relieved to escape the biting cold and freezing wind. And glad to be getting out of that gas station, which reminded him so much of a horror movie. He shimmied over to the other side – probably because his right side got all the blasts of wind – and buckled himself in, nestling the right side of his body against the heaters in the door.
"Parent troubles?" questioned the man in a gravelly voice, looking at him in the rearview mirror. Amusement glistened in his friendly green eyes. Obviously, his mother was so loud and obnoxious he could hear her side of the conversation. But that was just Francis's opinion. He smiled, a small, kind smile, and nodded. "Mom's a real dictator. I'm lucky I didn't get her full wrath standing out there in the cold," he replied to the driver, whose nameplate stated LOUIS in big, not-so-elegant letters. Francis wondered if he pronounced it Lou-ee or Lou-is, exactly the way it was spelled. Francis imagined that, while practical and much, much easier, the latter would be considerably more boring. But either one would be hard, he realized. People would never know how to pronounce it.
But he was getting distracted, as always. Lou-ee or Lou-is, Francis still couldn't decide, was chuckling, a warm and hearty sound, while pulling out of the gas station. "I hear you," he said, in that gravelly, gravelly voice of his, "My own mother was the same way. Always pushing me around, but I'm doing just fine, thanks to her."
Francis didn't think that ending up as a fat taxi driver was "doing just fine". He hoped he would not end up as a taxi driver. And a fat one, no less. Pushing the mean and unpleasant thought away, he decided to question the driver on a matter that was bothering him profusely, and would obviously keep him up for nights and nights if he doesn't find out the answer.
"Hey, do you pronounce your name Lou-ee or Lou-is?"
Lou-ee or Lou-is paused for a moment, and then laughed, quickly driving down a long, lonely road. Francis realized he must have interrupted him in the middle of a ramble, but as distracted as he gets, who expected him to notice him still talking about his dictator mother and the "doing just fine"-ness of being a fat taxi driver? "Well, young man, let me tell you something," he began, Francis beginning to wonder how someone could have a voice that gravelly, "So many people ask me that a day, I almost get tired of saying my own name. Sometimes I even consider changing it to something simple, like James or Frank, or just getting a new nameplate saying LOU. No one asks how you say Lou, now do they?" – Neither did I. – "It's simple, you say it like it's spelled – but as you know, Louis, can be the same way, depending on how your mother decides to say it. But sometimes it's Lou-ee, and so people never really can tell how you want your name said until" – how can somebody talk for this long? – "you say it, like "Hi, I'm Lou-ee," or "Hi, I'm Lou-is". But still, my name is a fine one," – Francis seriously considered jumping out of the cab right now. – "and the one my mother gave me, so I stick with it, even on the nameplate,"–Francis was beginning to wish he hadn't asked–"but sometimes I just ignore those people, like if I'm having a bad day." – I didn't ask for your life story, man. While we're young, please. Or, while I'm young – "you're a nice kid though, or it seems that way to me, so I'll just shut up and tell you." – FINALLY! – "I started out pronouncing my name," – NOOOOO! – "Lou– JESUS!"
In the back of his mind, Francis wondered how you got Lou-Jesus out of Louis. But in the next split-second, things got bad, horribly bad and loud and bad, bad, bad, and he stopped caring about Lou-ee or Lou-is or Lou-Jesus.
He swerved, and there was a horrible screeching noise, so, so loud. The smell of burnt rubber reached his nose, and he was pulled to the side, slamming his shoulder and head against the door with a loud crack. A ringing noise filled his ears, and over Louis' – see? He just didn't care anymore. – scream, he heard something snap in his shoulder, and felt the stinging pain shoot up and down his right arm and collarbone. He felt a sick feeling of terror in his gut and chest, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. But this wasn't just that silly childish terror you get when you're very young and naïve and you've done something bad. No, this was the most sick, most horrible, most extreme terror he'd ever felt in his entire life. A scream tore itself out of his throat, masking Louis', and he realized he hadn't done something with this much passion in years.
CRASH!
~~~~{Malcolm}~~~~
The clock read 8:52, and for this reason, Malcolm observed, Lois was pissed.
"Mooooom," it was Reese, speaking in a high, whining voice, "can we eat yet?"
Lois glared at him – honestly, a glare Reese should have seen coming. You don't whine to her – with such furious intensity he turned a faint shade of green and nearly hid under the table.
Or fainted, Malcolm thought. Almost fainted seems like a much more realistic reaction to Mom's wrath. Malcolm swiftly averted his gaze, appearing to be suddenly quite interested in the small, mundane marks and blemishes on the – damaged, he noted – table. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Dewey take on a frightened expression, and do the same as him. Hal, nervous and jittery as ever, which Malcolm thought was ironic because, traditionally, the male was tough and bossed around his wife and kids, but anyway, he somehow summoned enough willpower to look in the general direction of his wife and stammer, "Lois, honey –" Lois interrupted with a long, loud string of profanities. Malcolm was shocked the neighbors weren't calling to complain. Hal turned about the same shade of frightened green as Reese, and shut his mouth, which was hanging open. Well, at least he tried. Reese, next to Malcolm, smirked, pleased that he was no longer on the receiving end of their mother's anger. Still drilling holes into the table with his eyes, Malcolm was half-hoping Francis wouldn't show up. He would hate seeing his brother get his ass handed to him on a silver platter again. But mostly because if Francis showed up, Lois would get on his case, screaming and yelling, and Francis would get all in her face as well, and they'd be kicked out of the room, no food for anyone.
Either way, he suddenly realized, no one was getting food. At least if Francis miraculously showed up no one else would have to worry about being on the receiving end of Lois's anger. Well, except for Francis. And if he called and cancelled, Lois would be so pissed that she'd yell at anyone who moved too much – too much being the amount of movement it takes to breathe or blink – and so everyone would get yelled at, and get sent away without food. Finishing these thoughts, Malcolm found himself praying for Francis to show up already, so he didn't have to worry about Lois getting in his face about something trivial and stupid.
But if Francis doesn't come, Lois will have to feed them something – but probably after a considerable amount of time and yelling. But still, the food… So was he back to praying Francis wouldn't show?
Sometimes, even a genius has trouble figuring things out.
Malcolm tried to bury that train of thought in the back of his mind, bombarding it with other thoughts. Right now, he found himself not caring weather Francis shows or not, just as long as they get fed.
"You know, boys," Lois's voice shocked him, and he instantly forgot what he was thinking of, all three – wait, four – of their heads shooting up at the same time. Funny, he was so absorbed in avoiding her gaze; he didn't realize the others were in the exact same position as him, including his father. They looked similar now, he noticed, wide-eyed, pale, and fearful of what she might have to say. "This is all Francis's fault. We're all starving, blame him, not me. I certainly am. And when he does get here –"
Ring! Ring! Ring!
His mother turned sharply, vulture eyes aimed at the phone. "For his sake," she said, barely restrained anger threaded in her voice, face, and posture, "he better have been in some sort of horrible accident." She stood up sharply, and strode over to the phone. Picking it up in a violent manner, she began yelling into it, not bothering to hear what he might have to say.
"FRANCIS!" she screamed, and Malcolm could practically see his brother cringing from annoyance on the other end, holding it a distance from his ear, patiently waiting for her to finish while he concocts an excuse for his lateness. "YOU TOLD ME – what?" her voice suddenly quieting to a normal speaking volume, her expression changes from one of terrifying fury to intense confusion. Malcolm exchanged looks with his family; first, a confused one to Reese and Dewey, and a questioning one to his father, who shrugged. "Yes, he is. Who is this?" his mother was saying into the phone, as Malcolm and the others leaned closer, hanging on to every word, straining to hear what the mystery person on the other end was saying. "Why are you – What? Is he alright?" She sounded a bit panicked now, but Malcolm could tell she was trying hard to hide it. "We'll be right there," she said sharply, almost as if she was cutting the other person off, and swiftly hung up the phone.
She turned to her family, worry and what almost looked like a little bit of guilt in her eyes, but when she spoke, her voice was strong and steady.
"That was the hospital," she said, Malcolm and the rest of them immediately tensing at the word 'hospital', fearful of the falter in her strong, steady voice, "Francis was in an accident."
It was chaos after that. Hal, immediately getting up, was shouting something that sounded like he was going to get that car started, and we all need to hurry up and get there, but since Hal wasn't the assertive type, maybe it was just a bunch of worried gibberish that sounded an awful lot like words. Reese's eyes widened and his jaw dropped, and Malcolm could see the questions swirling in his brother's mind – What happened? Is he okay? How bad was it? Why, why, why? – The same questions swirling in his brain, plus the one, unspoken, unwanted question then even thinking about brought a sick feeling to his stomach, all swirling in his brother's head as well as his own, blocking out anything not related to this. Dewey said something to the degree of "So, we don't get to eat?" before he fully processed his mother's words, and when he did, about three seconds after, his eyes glazed over, stunned, and he began mouthing the words "hospital" and "accident" and "Francis" over and over again. Lois remained strong and silent; desperately trying to conceal the worry etched into her dark eyes and determined face.
"Come on," she said, but Malcolm didn't hear her over the ringing in his ears, only saw her lips move. He sat there, dumbfounded, shocked, worried, staring at his family as Dewey began to rock himself, Reese was breathing deeply, grasping the table hard, and Hal was standing, looking so much like Lois and so different that usual. Lois walked calmly out of the room, though Malcolm could see her hands shake, and got up to follow. His knees wouldn't stop shaking, nor would his hands, and his legs felt like jell-o. Unable to stand on his own, he gripped the table, hard, and closed his eyes tight. Maybe it was a dream, he thought. Maybe I can wake myself up. But whenever he had a bad dream, or any dream, he could never tell until that one moment right before he woke up – when he tries his hardest to cling onto the good dreams as they slowly slip away, and fights to wake up on the bad, while they cling to him like a lost, scared child.
So when Malcolm opened his eyes and saw everyone in the exact position they were in before, except for him mother, who was in the car, he knew this was reality. This was sick, senseless reality. Releasing the table from his anaconda-like grip, he walked, shakily and unbalanced, not nearly as contained as Lois, out the door and to the car, weakly calling out for his family to hurry up and follow him.
~~~~{}~~~~
The darkness was suffocating him. He couldn't breathe, could barley move. He tried to open his eyes, desperate for light, for movement, for anything but this painful blackness, but at the same time, he could sense his eyes were closed. Pain shot through him, pain like no other he had ever felt. Lungs, burning for air, he opened his mouth wide, but at the same time, it stayed shut tight, and air was rejected from his starving organs.
~~~~{}~~~~
Sliding into the backseat, he stared ahead in some sort of hypnotic gaze. His mind was working hard, hard, hard, but he couldn't make any sense out of the jumbled mess inside his head, the whirring and ringing in his ears. The loud, fast pounding of his heart. Lois was sitting like a statue in the driver's seat, white hands gripping the wheel. All the better, because in his current condition, Hal was likely to get them in… in an accident…
~~~~{}~~~~
Air, sweet, cool air, came rushing into his lungs. Breathing deep, something in him snapped, a soundless, painless shifting of something inside him, and horrible pain masked the relief of air. Loud coughing sent his broken body into violent spasms, and he could feel blood bubbling in the back of his throat, bursting from his mouth, dribbling down his chin. But at the same time, he did not move.
~~~~{}~~~~
The rest of his family had piled into the car, and he could only guess how hard it was for them to clamp down on their jell-o legs and shaky knees. Glancing back at them once, only once, Lois looked so different, so worried and heartbroken. His heart skipped a beat – no one should ever see her this way. No one ever had.
~~~~{}~~~~
Voices. Voices; voices yelling, voices jumbled up. Voices. Please, oh please, he begged, gasping for air past the pain, please help me! His voice echoed in the darkness, his mind, so, so, loud, but the voices did not respond. The voices did not hear him. Sporadic beeping filled his ears, and more yelling. The beeping got louder, louder, too loud… Please, don't block the voices! I need… I need someone…
~~~~{}~~~~
She was driving, fast, so fast, too fast. He clung to his seatbelt, eyes shut tight. He felt a pressure building up in his eyes; tears. No, no, no, fight the tears, fight them… He would not let himself cry. Not now. She was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, he was already having one. Do not make things worse…
~~~~{}~~~~
He clung to the voices, every jumbled, illegible word. He held tight to the Hiblupresdrog-s and the soptebeeleng-s. Every letter, he wrote out under his closed eyelids, every nonexistent word, he read over and over, trying to make sense of this, trying to find something, anything he could understand. The voices themselves, he savored the sound of them, the tone, the lightness or gruffness of the mixed-together tones, praying to hear someone familiar.
~~~~{}~~~~
There was no noise, nothing except for the uneven, ragged breathing, the tuneless moan of the wind, and the rushing of rubber tires on hard asphalt. The crunching of loose stones beneath the speeding car, the relentless pounding of blood in his ears, and the telephone-like ringing accompanying it.
~~~~{}~~~~
It was too loud. The beeping, the yelling, the rustling of movement, the banging of doors. Somehow, he was aware of both everything and nothing. He heard it all, but never saw a thing. All the feeling he had was he pain, the only tastes and scents were blood. But he heard everything.
~~~~{}~~~~
He wasn't surprised in the least when the sirens appeared. Red and blue lights materialized behind them, and they all looked back so fast, he was certain they must have broken their necks. Next to him, his brother whimpered, and then sunk back down into his seat, somehow looking both perfectly relaxed and perfectly tense. He must have thought it was an ambulance. He must have thought it was him.
~~~~{}~~~~
The voices were getting louder, the beeping faster, more urgent. He tensed. Something was about to happen.
~~~~{}~~~~
He could tell that she did not want to slow down. That she did not want to stop. But, by some amazing feat of pure will, she did.
~~~~{}~~~~
The beeping was no longer fast and urgent. Now, it was long, continuous. It was painfully and excruciatingly mournful.
~~~~{}~~~~
The officer walked up to the window, which she rolled down with a shaking hand. Before the officer could utter a word, she said, in the most broken, mournful voice; "Please, ma'am. My son is in the hospital."
~~~~{}~~~~
The tense, suffocating blackness dispersed. In its place, there was a room. He was standing in the middle of a grey-walled room, with a floor of clear glass. He looked down.
~~~~{}~~~~
They had never heard her sound that way before. A tear slipped down his younger brother's cheek. The officer offered them an escort to the hospital. She nodded. They drove.
~~~~{}~~~~
It was him. Laying there, on a table surrounded by people who must be doctors. He dropped to his knees, pressed his hands against the glass. He was dead. "No…"
~~~~{}~~~~
They finally got there, and he thanked the young policewoman, his voice sounding a thousand miles away. His brother grabbed him by the shoulder, dragging him after their rushing family.
~~~~{}~~~~
"NO!" he screamed, banging against the glass with his fists. "Help me! HELP ME!" The doctors took out a device, put the paddles against his bare chest. Defibrillator. He banged on the glass again. "HELP ME!"
~~~~{}~~~~
She walked to the front desk. Demanded to see her son. The receptionist put a hand on her shoulder, tried to calm her down, but there was no calming her. Not now.
~~~~{}~~~~
They pressed the paddles to his chest, and he saw his body jerk. A shocking pain shot through him, and his arms gave out. His face slammed against the glass, and he could hear a crack. The glass was breaking.
~~~~{}~~~~
A doctor had appeared, prying her hands off of the desk. She was yelling, demanding to know where her son was.
~~~~{}~~~~
He pushed himself back up and banged on the glass again, bringing his fist down on the crack. It widened. Again, again, he slammed his fist against the widening lattice of cracks. He had to get out of there. He had to get back.
~~~~{}~~~~
Finally, he grabbed his mother's arm, yelling at her to calm down. She stared down at him, slack-jawed, and did.
~~~~{}~~~~
Another shock. He fell again, hearing the cracks spread across the glass. Pushing himself up, he punched the glass as hard as he could. He felt it give. He punched it again. His arm went trough.
~~~~{}~~~~
He asked calmly about his brother, and the doctor said that they'd have to wait and see. He nodded, and escorted his mother to a chair, sitting her down. She didn't say a word.
~~~~{}~~~~
He screamed, not out of pain, or fear, but out of joy. They shocked him again, and the glass floor completely fell away. He tumbled forward, back into his body. The beeping resumed.
~~~~{}~~~~
They waited. Tensely, silently, and far from dry-eyed. He could take it no longer. "I'm going to the bathroom," he blurted out, louder and faster than he would have liked, and shot off in the direction the sign pointed him in.
~~~~{}~~~~
The voices were relieved. So was he. The pain was sharper now, the darkness harsher. But he didn't care.
~~~~{}~~~~
He roughly kicked open all of the stalls, making absolutely sure he was alone. Rushing into the last one, he locked the door. He put down the toilet's lid, sat down, put his head in his hands, and cried.
~~~~{}~~~~
The pain was fading, the voices and sounds becoming more distant. He relaxed, let out a sigh, and slept.
A/N: Holy crap. Do you know how long this took me? FOREVER! So you people had better be thankful. No, this is not a oneshot, but it will probably be a while before my next update, as I'm really not sure about the plot.
And yes, he is alive at the end, the anesthesia just kicked in, but I will probably write alternate ending to this chapter where he does die, focused on everyone accepting this, including Francis. Let me know if that's something you want to see. Also, I have another Francis-centered MitM story, unrelated to this, with the plot all planned out, so I'll try and get that one out soon. And if you read my other stories, I'm working on them, so chill.
BTW, in that whole part with the text separated by the ~~~~{}~~~~, it's switching from Malcolm and Francis's POV. But you're all smart, so you probably knew, although Malcolm's part could have been interpreted as Reese or Dewey.
See ya in a million years, which is probably when my next update will be.
~CNoel