Here's chapter two. A different character POV!

After another two minutes about bitching about who cares what, Lois had abandoned her little lecture; obviously remembering there was something more important to do. Of what, Malcolm couldn't be sure.

And quite frankly, he didn't really care. When it came to their mother, the males of the Wilkerson family had long given up trying to learn what went on in Lois' head.

However, Malcolm's younger brother was not quite as difficult to psychoanalyze. Not usually anyway.

But this whole letter ordeal….

"Wonder what he didn't want me to see…." The genius boy uttered, turning the envelope over in his hand. It was a cheap brand: flimsy white paper that was easily translucent when held up to a light source. On the off chance Dewey had hidden something amongst Jamie's Christmas list, Malcolm decided to test his theory. Raising the piece of poorly made paper over his head, he nearly yelped when its inner contents came toppling over his head. It's…still open? He thought, eyes darting around to check for any….methods of surveillance his brother might have hidden that could record his near-girly shriek.

Confirming he was in no danger of black mail, Malcolm proceeded to pick up his youngest brother's letter, all the while putting his brain to work. The envelope was open. Dewey had been frantic about homework. But the envelope wasn't sealed. But his brother had been writing something down. But the stamp was already on the envelope. But he'd been attacked when he took the letter from Dewey's hands….

Malcolm gasped, bolting upright and swiveling towards the bed.

He should have realized how….unusual it was for a Wilkerson boy that wasn't himself to be worrying so much about putting his homework first….especially when it involved Jamie. Malcolm knew all too well how Dewey had made a point to look after his littlest brother—since their parents were often….busy.

So what….

He notice a half crumpled, messily written piece of lined paper lying above the covers, and hesitantly picked it up; no doubt what Dewey'd been writing before he walked in on him.

Dewey had a knack for 'throwing curve balls' at him and Reese—even Francis on a good day—so he should have expected this.

But….reading over that paper, a strange, unfamiliar feeling came over Malcolm.

It was….the feeling of regret. Of shame. And for the first time in almost ten years….of sympathy towards his younger sibling.

Dear Mr. Claus,

I know you haven't heard from me for a while….actually, I think the last time I wrote to you I was five….but I want you to know that I'm still here, and I'm sorry for not writing yearly. A kid my age feels a little silly writing to you, you know? I mean, I'm technically not even sure you really exist. My brother insist you're not, but since when do they know everything?

Actually, Mr. Claus….or Santa—can I call you that?—my brothers are kinda what I wanted to talk to you about. Well, to be honest, I'd love to talk about my whole family, but you're probably busy with Christmas and other children who are much younger than me, so I'll stick to talking Malcolm and Reese.

I'm assuming that song about you seeing everyone when they're awake and asleep is true, right? If not, I bet you've still heard about my family before. Everyone has at some point. They're….alright we're—but me only sometimes—always causing trouble. Breaking the law….terrorizing neighbors….check your naughty list, I'm sure they'll be there.

Anyway, Santa, I was hoping you could do me a favor this Christmas. I know I'm not the best of kids, but I didn't really know who else to go to. I can't call child services—we're barely under their radar as it is—and the police….well….that should speak for itself. Mom and dad do what they can but….they're a whole different issue. It's just that…well….I never get a break from my brothers anymore. I'm starting to feel like a walking punching bag, you know? Heck, I'm even used as one sometimes. They treat me like crap; they're never nice to me. You know they made me make their beds for a whole year? And they even cheated me out of my supposed reward. It isn't fair! Other families don't have brothers like they do! Why me? Why do I always have to suffer?

So….here's what I'm asking: Is there some way….maybe….you could make my brothers be nice to me? Even if it's just for a little while? I don't know the limits of your abilities: only what I see in movies. If you can't….I don't know what I'll do. Go try to live with my oldest brother? Run away? Actually make those calls I said I wouldn't?

Please Santa. Please help me. I'll do anything you want! I'll be on my best behavior until Christmas—and even some time after that if you want.

Just….please do me one favor: don't tell anyone else I wrote you this letter—not even Mrs. Claus. I know that sounds mean, but you can never be too sure who's listening.

Again, I'm sorry for not writing for all those years, but if you can do anything to make my life a little more bearable, I would really really really REALLY appreciate it.

--Dewey Wilkerson.

TAK.

The letter slipped from Malcolm's hand, fluttering to the floor. However, he hardly noticed; his brain frozen in a turmoil of emotions. He knew this should be funny—a twelve-year-old writing to Santa Claus? That was ultimate blackmail if he ever saw it—but he wasn't laughing. Wasn't even thinking of it. All that passed through the teen genius' mind were four, anxiety-strewn words: 'what have I done?'

Knees gone slightly weak, Malcolm sank back onto the bed, head in hands with disgrace at himself. Something he thought he'd never feel. All the years of causing havoc—not just to Dewey but almost everyone—and not once had he felt an ounce of regret.

So why was one ,damn, childish letter tearing at his heartstrings?

"I guess our family is that bad." He murmured, his shoulders slouching even further. I mean, if Dewey's even asking Santa for help….He couldn't finish the train of thought. It was just....too hard to comprehend. Too….painful….to think about.

"Knock knock!"

Malcolm's head shot up; then dodged sharply to the side in anticipation of Reese's fist making contact with his face. In a half-daze, Malcolm whirled around, strangely furious at his older brother; despite this being a daily thing.

"REESE!" He snapped, slamming his own hand down at his side, "What the hell are you doing?! Don't you know the effect that kind of behavior can have on people?!" His shoulders had started shaking, but he hardly noticed.

Reese blinked, taken aback by his brother's unusual behavior. "What's the matter with you?" he spat back, determined to be the aggressor. Walking until he was directly in front of Malcolm, Reese held up a once again clenched hand. "You know I hate it when I miss."

"Shut up Reese. I'm not in the mood."

Pulling away his hand, the darker-haired boy folded his arms, a cheeky half-smile on his face. "Aw what's the matter? Fail your first te—OW!" Without warning, Malcolm sprang from the bed and shoved his brother away. Hard.

"Malcolm, you jackass! What was that for?!" Reese hadn't fallen over, but he held a hand to his now throbbing chest. "Do you want a—"

"It's Dewey, okay?" The words spilled from his mouth before he even realized he'd said them. Way to be a girl, Malcolm.

Reese didn't laugh. He didn't continue ranting. He just remained standing, almost looking….concerned? Was that even possible?

"Something happened to Dewey?" Reese asked hesitantly. Okay, there was definitely a level of worry laced within his words.

Taking this as a sign he cared—somewhat anyway—Malcolm sighed, stooping to pick his younger brother's letter back up. "Yes….well no…." he began, trying to word it in a way Reese would understand. "I mean, not yet. He—"

"Dammit Malcolm, did something happen or not?! It can't be both!"

Reese's response struck Malcolm as a bit odd, but he reasoned it was actually out of genuine care. Better just show him then. "Here." Malcolm said, shoving the piece of paper in Reese's face. "Dewey wrote this. It's…." he paused, the words like barbed wire on his tongue, "it's his letter to Santa."

Reese stopped, his face a blank slate as he gaped at the piece of paper. Slowly, his eyes brightened, a devilish grin slinking across his face. Malcolm cringed.

"He's still writing letters to Santa Claus? Are you serious? Man, this is even better than the time—"

"Reese!" Malcolm cut off, waving the paper frantically, "This isn't funny! It's….it's….it's our fault! We drove him to do this!"

His older brother's smile faltered. "We…..did?" He asked, not quite catching on.

Exasperated, Malcolm grabbed Reese by his shoulders. "Think about it, Reese! What kind of horrible things have we put Dewey through so that the only person he feels comfortable confiding is doesn't even exist!?" He was only inches from his brother's face; eyes shining with apprehension and desperation. "What kind of family does that make us, huh?!"

At the word 'huh,' Malcolm managed to invade Reese's personal bubble, earning him a sharp shove in the chest. Expecting a follow-up, Malcolm tensed, his teeth grinding together. Today was certainly beginning to repeat itself, wasn't it? Indeed, his older brother's hand curled; his arm pulling back as if to swing.

Yet, instead of that all-too-familiar bone-bruising impact of his fist against Malcolm's shoulder, Reese chose to snatch the letter from the genius boy's hand.

It took Malcolm a minute to register that his brother had, in fact, missed on purpose. Something just moments ago he said he hated doing. And, well, choosing something with words on it as a substitute prize. Still in a panic—but no longer for his physical safety—he studied his brother carefully, watching with surprise as the older boy's eyes darted back and forth….as if he were actually reading the material.

It was five minutes, seven seconds and thirty-nine milliseconds before Reese spoke again.

"What…." He said slowly, locking gazes with Malcolm, "….what are we gonna do about this?"

A smile tugged at the genius' boy's mouth, but he repressed it. "I don't know." He replied, slightly shocked his older brother was actually taking this seriously, "But we'd better think of something."

Not really sure I like how I ended this chapter. I don't usually write as Malcolm and Reese….but this story got out of hand, it wasn't supposed to be that long so I'm sorta kinda not entirely sure I know what I'm doing. I know WHERE this fic is going, so don't worry, but how I'm gonna get there, well we'll see.

So yeah, your feedback is much appreciated! I've never written a MitM multi-chapter fic before!