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CHAPTER TITLE: Malcolm Danvers
AUTHOR: Relala
BETA: lady of scarlet
FANDOM STATUS: Fanon/Canon
SPOILERS: For Men Of The Otherworld
BRAVADO
"I have something you don't: Control. While you're off losing your temper like some deranged animal with a rabies problem I'll be shoving my fist so far into your throat that you'll choke on it. You say that you're following your instincts, Malcolm, but we both know you're not. You're merely letting your emotions devour your sense of self. I'm relying on instincts...they tell me no matter how cocky you are, you're just a snot nosed Pack brat."
False bravado is a wonderful thing when someone can't call your bluff.
This is the only time Malcolm lets a mutt live.
DAYDREAMING
Malcolm Danvers never told a single living soul about it, but when he was little - maybe six or seven - he used to dream about getting married. While all the other boys in school were busy with the timeless subject of "What Will You Be When You Grow Up?" and thinking of being ninjas or astronauts, he was busy dreaming of the towering white church with his bride running down the stone steps towards him, laughing behind a white veil which always hid her face. This dream was so vivid, so deeply rooted inside his brain, that even fifty years later he can still hear the imaginary church bells ringing in his head.
If it had just been a dream about marrying a woman, he could have gritted his teeth and told his Pack brothers about this silly fantasy. Many a man had made himself a fool for the mating instinct...but Malcolm had always wanted the whole deal. The white picket fence in front of the house, the blushing bride falling into the manly arms of her husband, the sweet faces of his sons and even his daughters...the human blood within his veins.
He was never a werewolf in these dreams.
DRAINPIPE
The sky is bleeding like a son of a bitch when Malcolm Danvers dies, a sudden downpour of freezing cold tears the colour of rotted grey flesh. He's lying in some parking lot outside the double doors of some shitty strip club named Diva's with his blood creating a puddle beneath him. The streetlamps glow butter yellow and golden orange and he closes his eyes against their burning light and they are the last thing he sees because he cannot summon up the will to force his stone eyelids open.
He just lies there in the empty parking lot with Raymond hovering over him, his old Pack brother savoring every last dying moment of his life and soon-to-be murder.
If he were to be honest, he had known this was coming. He had known Raymond would kill him from the moment he'd killed Andrew. This, however, was not what he had been expecting. Somehow, he thinks this is a nice way to go out. Peacefully. Knowing he deserves so very much worse.
The rain washes away his blood, sweeping it into the river of water and escorting it down the drainpipes and Raymond, watching, thinks that Malcolm has finally found a place where he truly belongs.
FRIENDSHIP BEFORE FALL
Dominic's life is a schedule of events with not a hair out of line: Breakfast in the morning with his brothers and his Poppa, some offhand Pack duties before lunch, training in the afternoon and into the early evening and free time in the later hours. He is the eldest Sorrentino heir, after all, and he cannot truly afford to be a loafer.
Sometimes, however, Malcolm manages to seduce him away from his duties and together they make off into the night to go terrorize a few mutts. They make a good team: The older wolf and the newly Changed Malcolm who isn't quite much of a wolf yet but is starting to play the part. One day, there will be a horrible rivalry for Alpha that will destroy their friendship forever and separate the Pack...but for now they are both young men seeking friendship.
THE HUNT
Confusion. Malcolm wasn't honestly able to think "normally" in his current four-footed body but even as a human, things had become obscure for him. Everything had been perfectly normal; Malcolm had been going about life as the typical werewolf would. Hanging with his Pack brothers, hunting during Pack Meets, running through the woods at Stonehaven on his own, chasing off the few humans who dared enter his territory. It had all seemed so like the usual events that he never even thought about it. By the time he realized he was actually hunting the humans, it was much too late to fix anything, really.
HOLDING HANDS
Malcolm and Dominic are both more than a little drunk as they stumble out the doors of the little pub with their arms wrapped around each other to steady themselves. The streetlamps cast an orange puddle of light upon the empty road as they make their way back to the Sorrentino estate, leaving the Danvers' family shit-box of a car in the parking lot. The only sounds are that of the gravel which crunches under their heavy footfalls, and occasionally their clumsy laughter when one of them trips; Their hushed, nervous, breathing.
The next time Malcolm trips it's Dominic's hand in his own which yanks him to his feet, whirling him into the older man's muscled chest. His hand which mysteriously had been in Malcolm's grasp since they left the pub.
HIS SON
Malcolm forced his hands to the child's throat.
The infant's dark eyes shimmered under the lighting, peaceful in the arms of the strange new man who held him. Curious. Content to gaze into the fiery hatred in Malcolm's eyes (not knowing what the look meant) and to feel his father's large warm hand upon his naked skin.
"Stop! He's your son!"
The words echoed inside the man's head as if he were standing in a cave. His son. As much as he was terrified to admit it, the words had a beauty to them. His son. His child, made from his own flesh and blood. A tiny little thing held within his arms, so easily breakable, so silent it was terrifying. But nonetheless, his son.
SKILLS OF A LEGEND
At seventeen-years-old Malcolm is already the best fighter in the Pack's younger generation of late teens and junior members. He hasn't even had his first Change yet; a much talked about fact when it comes to the fact that he has already fought fully Changed werewolves and come out as the victor. Already, his fighting skills - skills he has learnt in the schoolyard of his boyhood and the backdoor bars and dark alleys as he grew older - have earned him rumours, whispered at night to scare the new wolf children. He has killed a wolf with his bare hands, they say. He enjoys the death, they mutter. He's the underdog rising behind Dominic's back, they whisper. He's a living legend, he knows.
THE BOOGIEWOLF
The amber coloured wolf skidded into the hall before he smacked into the brick wall, panic causing his eyes to widen as the echo of paws hitting gravel sounded behind him. Snarling in terror he tried to think. This was the same old game he'd always played: The hunt, the chase, the catch. Only this time, he was the one being chased.
A loud, bone chilling howl.
The amber wolf turned slowly to meet the officially spoken Challenge in terror. This was every mutt's nightmare. This was the boogieman of the werewolves. A black form as swift as shadows with eyes as yellow as the sun. Malcolm, his mind supplies, before the world fades.
LOVE ME
Malcolm placed his hard-knuckled hands over his Father's cold ones and gazed into the old wolf's eyes as his life slowly slipped away. The breath rattling in his chest, his heartbeat slowing, his body immobilized on the bed. Dying.
Their eyes locked. Connection.
Father and son sank into another realm, a realm made of their thoughts and images only they knew of. A world created by faded pictures and blurred memories of long ago. Images of saddened faces and disappointments and shame.
Love me, they thought together. You were supposed to love me.