Dewey was coming to visit for the weekend, so Malcolm wouldn't be able to make a move until after he and Reese were asleep. Never mind; he could wait.
When he got home, Reese was in the kitchen turning knobs on the oven and stirring some sweet smelling liquid in a big pot.
Malcolm smiled and gave him a hug from behind. "What's that?" he mumbled sleepily into the back of Reese's neck.
Reese turned and kissed him on the cheek in greeting. "Just something new I'm trying out," he said with a grin. "Dewey just called, by the way. He said he'd be here in ten; had to stop at the store for something."
Malcolm nodded, plopping down into a chair with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes "So how was your day?" he yawned. "You were already gone when I woke up this morning."
Reese shrugged. "Yeah, there was a leak at the plant, so I had to go in early. For no reason, I might add. That's the worst part of this job."
"Cleaning up messes?"
"No, that's fun. I like that. I'm good at that. It's watching other people clean up messes that sucks. They just want someone to go in and stand there with a clipboard and nod approvingly for hours on end until the damn thing gets fixed. And no one's even watching, so there's no purpose for it."
Malcolm chuckled. "The joys of being a supervisor, eh?" Reese snorted, shaking his head. Malcolm tried to look sympathetic, but ended up grinning instead. "Look, I'm working for a government official, so you don't have to tell me about useless work. Any high-end job in any system is going to involve a lot of appearance-tailoring. It just comes with the territory. There's nothing we can do about it, so we might as well enjoy getting paid for easy bullshit." Reese made a soft noise of discontent, tasting the soupy substance in the pot with a ladle. "What? Didn't turn out well?"
Reese smirked. "Please, it's perfect. I was reacting to what you just said."
"What about it?"
"That we get paid good money to pretend to do important work." He frowned, looking for the oven mitts in the cabinet above the stove. "Doesn't that seem, you know, a little weird to you?"
Malcolm frowned as well, propping his chin up under his arm, blinking at his brother. "I don't know. Yeah, I guess so, sort of. Well, not really. I mean, I knew what I was getting myself into from the beginning. Once I started watching the news as a kid, I figured out that most of it's just putting on a show."
Reese reached into the oven, poking at whatever the hell was in there. "And it doesn't bother you?" he inquired.
"Not really," Malcolm replied, thinking it over. "Maybe a little bit, but I'm so used to it, that it doesn't really get under my skin anymore. That's just the way the world works. The working man does all the heavy lifting, and the people in charge take the credit and keep up appearances. It sucks, but that's how it is right now." He shrugged. "But I guess there's some consolation in knowing that it can't stay that way forever, you know? Things will eventually get better."
Reese paused, giving him a weird look. "But..." he hesitated. "But if the people in charge don't do any real work and they're the ones who make decisions, how are things going to change? Won't they just keep doing what they're doing the way they've always done it?"
That stumped Malcolm. One would think that by now he'd be used to Reese blindsiding him with moments of clarity and intelligence, but it still seemed foreign to him. He just couldn't quite shake the vision of his brother as the blockhead schoolyard bully he'd once been.
And truth be told, that part of Reese had faded into obscurity a long time ago. Part of it was age; contrary to popular belief, most unruly kids outgrow their viciousness as they mature, and Reese was no exception. And being able to semi-openly expressed his attraction to Malcolm had done wonders for his stress levels. Time had been kind to him; he was more handsome than ever, and while he would never match his brothers in test scores, he'd blossomed into a rather thoughtful, intuitive young man. And while Malcolm was just as surprised as the rest of the family how well Reese had turned out, he was happy with the results.
What he wasn't so comfortable with was the unattractive reality that much of Reese's newfound maturity was probably due to Francis's influence. That trauma had opened doors into his brother's soul that otherwise would most likely have remained tightly bolted forever. Reese was a new man, unrecognizable to those who were tortured by him during their school days. He was changed, and for the better. Malcolm tended to be more science-minded, but being an introspective person, his thoughts would drift to philosophy from time to time. And much of his pondering lead inevitably to the frightening implication that the abuse had been good for Reese. He didn't want to believe that was the case, but there wasn't a great deal of evidence to the contrary.
And he had to believe it to justify his own actions, both past and present.
Dewey arrived as Reese was finishing up with dinner, letting himself in with the spare key Malcolm had given him. He dropped his backpack by the door and jerked his head upward as a half-hearted greeting.
"Tired?" Malcolm asked with a raised eyebrow, looking up from the newspaper.
Dewey rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."
"Want to talk about it?" Reese asked, setting a delicious-smelling plate of charbroiled beef on the table.
"No, there'll be plenty of time for that later. Right now I just want to forget about my idiot teachers and have a fun weekend with my big brothers," Dewey replied, allowing himself to grin. Malcolm rose from his chair to give him a hug. "How've you two been?"
"Really great, actually," Malcolm said, mostly truthfully. Up until a few hours ago, his life had been as stable as it had ever been. "A few complaints relating to work, but nothing unusual there."
"Oh? You or him?" Dewey asked, glancing at Reese, who muttered darkly.
Malcolm grinned. "He had to go in early to supervise a clean up."
Dewey hissed. "Oooo..." The two of them chuckled, and Reese glared.
"It's not funny, assholes."
"Okay, okay." Dewey shrugged and dropped the subject.
The evening went well. Reese's cooking was predictably exquisite, though he refused to tell them the name of the dish because he was "still working on the recipe." Dewey regaled them with stories about idiot-savants in the music program at his school, and Malcolm shared some inside dirt that he'd heard around the office. They pulled out some deck chairs, an old white bedsheet, and Hal's old projector he'd given them as a housewarming gift several years back, and watched a movie out on the balcony with a bottle of wine. ("Don't you dare tell Mom and Dad," Malcolm warned, much to Dewey's exasperation.) The picture quality was a little fuzzy, and Reese had to tighten the close pins holding up the sheet at least three times, but it hardly mattered; it was an experience of brotherly bonding and a hark back to a more innocent time in the boys lives when things were less complicated and they could sit outside talking the night away without a care in the world.
Around 11:30, Reese was too drunk to keep his eyes open (he'd put on more muscle since adolescence, but was still the leanest of the brothers, and by far the biggest lightweight). Wobbling to the door, he leaned down to give Malcolm a sloppy kiss and smiled against his cheek.
"Come to bed soon," he whispered loudly, eliciting a soft grunt from Dewey and a snort from Malcolm. Then he tottered off back into the apartment.
Dewey cocked his head, listening to make sure Reese didn't crash into something, then sighed heavily. He looked at Malcolm meaningfully. "I swear to God, if I hear you two tonight..." he muttered, taking a swig from the bottle.
"Don't worry, he's all talk when he's drunk. He'll be passed out in five minutes. Nothing's happening tonight." He snatched the bottle out of Dewey's hand, popping the cork back in. "And you've had enough of that."
Dewey waved his hand dismissively, burping silently into his sleeve. "Whatever. You could have had some if you wanted to." His eyes rolled back for a moment, then he squinted thoughtfully. "Does it...does it ever get to you?" he slurred drunkenly, motioning between Malcolm and the door.
Malcolm frowned. "What, that we're brothers? I thought you got past that part of it."
"No, no," Dewey shook his head. "Not that. I meant the fact that you can't be open about it. Doesn't the secrecy get to you?"
Malcolm's lip quirked up in a rueful smile. "Once you start lying about important things, it gets pretty easy after a while." He popped the bottle open and took a small sip, then closed it again. "I suppose we probably would have told you eventually, if you hadn't already figured it out by yourself. But telling Mom and Dad? That's never been part of the plan."
Dewey nodded slowly, processing this. "What about...what about Francis?" he asked quietly.
"No," Malcolm said after a moment. "We probably wouldn't have told him." He shrugged, wrapping his jacket tighter around his shoulders. "He wouldn't have had the freak out reaction I'd expect from our parents, but still, I doubt he'd have taken it very well."
"Probably not," Dewey agreed, reclining back in his chair to look at the stars. He stuck his tongue out, licking a drop of alcohol off the corner of his mouth. He groaned. "Ugh...I think I had a little too much."
"You and Reese both," Malcolm sighed. He got out of his chair and reached under his little brother's armpits, dragging him to his feet. "Come on. I'll help you inside." They stumbled into the spare bedroom, where Malcolm deposited him onto the queen-size mattress. Dewey mumbled sleepily, and Malcolm leaned down to kiss his forehead. "Goodnight, you little shit."
"Night, you big gay fuck," Dewey retorted, and was snoring ten seconds later.
Malcolm shut the door quietly and stood alone in the darkness of the apartment. He took a deep breath.
Time to get to work.
Malcolm found it genuinely astonishing how easy it was to track down Eric. The old lady at the Hall of Records barely even looked at his government employee badge when he went to look up the address. Hell, he was even able to look at blueprints for the house and take notes without even having to sign his name anywhere.
He parked the car at an abandoned gas station a mile away from the residence, and gathered up his tools in a duffel bag, heading out into the woods donned in black. He arrived at the house around 12:30 in the morning, and looked around cautiously, crouching behind a tree in the backyard. The lights were all out except for a dim glow coming from the living room; most likely a lamp. Looking at his tiny sketchpad, he located the shed where the fuse box was kept. Keeping an eye on the window, he cut the wires with a pair of rusty garden shears hanging on the wall.
There was a small pop inside the house as the electricity cut off and Malcolm thought he heard a muffled noise of surprise. He needed to move quickly; if Eric caught on and used his cell phone, then he was fucked.
Pulling on a ski mask, Malcolm glanced hastily at his notes again and pocketed them, slipping around to the side door. Pressing his ear against it as he picked the lock, he heard soft rustling around inside. There was movement, but it wasn't panicked.
Good. He's not suspicious.
Malcolm felt his heart pounding in his chest. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and he willed himself to channel the thrill and fear into concentrated energy. Now was not the time to mess up.
The lock clicked softly, and Malcolm tip-toed inside. The door creaked; not loudly, but it creaked.
Shit.
The rustling in the other room stopped. Malcolm could imagine Eric standing in the darkness of his living room with his ear cocked, listening for the source of the noise. He stood dead silent, listening with all his might for the slightest sound.
After what seemed like an eternity, the motion picked up again, and Malcolm let out a soft sigh as the noise faded in the opposite direction. His relief was short lived, however, because a few seconds later he could hear the soft clapping of flip-flops moving quickly up the stairs.
Malcolm remembered very, very vividly that Eric had been in military school with Francis, and probably had a gun up there somewhere. Slipping off his shoes, Malcolm crept swiftly into the empty living room in his socks. Setting the duffel bag cautiously on the coffee table, he pulled out a hypodermic needle and filled it with sedative. Tucking it gently in his front pocket, he pulled out a taser and moved into the foyer.
The house was pitch-dark now. The only light coming in was shining dimly through the window by the door. Malcolm pressed himself flush against the wall, peeking up the stairs. No one in sight. He could hear Eric fumbling around with something upstairs. His chest clenched.
A gun? A bat? A cell phone?
He made his way stealthily up the flight of steps, a straight shoot to the upstairs hallway. At the top, he sank to his knees and, after the briefest hesitation, snuck a peek around the corner. His heart stopped for a moment as a flash of light illuminated the room ahead, but he quickly recognized that it was just a flashlight. Eric shut the drawer to his desk, muttering to himself.
Malcolm ducked back behind the wall, getting the taser ready. His hands trembled slightly, and he clenched them tight to keep steady.
He heard Eric's flip-flops clapping towards him, the beam of the flashlight shining through the doorway...
...and then they stopped. There was an electricity in the air, quite tangible and palpable. Malcolm could practically sense Eric's doubt, could very nearly see the wheels spinning in his mind.
He heard Eric backing away, and then the flashlight clicked off. The hairs on the back of Malcolm's neck stood up, and, as quickly and quietly as he could, he retreated down the stairs. There was some more rustling from above, and looking around, Malcolm decided to simply duck behind a chair, crouching in the shadows and hidden from view.
There was bumping from upstairs, sounds he couldn't quite make out. Beneath his gloves, his palms were starting to sweat.
About two minutes later, there were footsteps on the stairs. No flip-flops this time. Malcolm tensed up, pulling himself into a tighter ball as though it would make him more invisible.
His fears were confirmed when the barrel of a shotgun poked around the corner. Eric appeared in silhouette, aiming the weapon expertly, scanning the living room. After sweeping the area two times, he paused and crept in closer towards the coffee table. Malcolm felt his stomach backflip. He chanced a glance around the chair, hoping beyond hope that the ski mask was camouflaging his face well enough. Eric was leaning over the table, staring at the duffel bag.
Shit. Now or never.
Malcolm had never had the advantage of physical strength. Francis and Reese had always been the heavy lifters, the family's muscle men. He and Dewey were the intellectuals; they worked out from time to time and had a decent muscle mass, but had no intention of starting any fights. No, what Malcolm had was cunning. Quick thinking and the element of surprise.
There was no way he'd beat Eric in a full out brawl, so he had to make it count.
In a single, fluid motion, he rolled out from behind the chair as soon as he saw Eric's grip relax on the firearm. Eric's head turned sharply at the noise, but before he could react, Malcolm had propelled his body towards him and was jabbing the taser into the small of his back.
Eric let out a short, strangled yelp, dropping the shotgun to the floor. His torso arched backwards into the electric shock, and he fell with a resounding thump. Malcolm grunted in pain as Eric's back crushed his hand to the floor, but his body reacted for him, and he yanked the needle out of his shirt pocket with his free hand and jabbed it into the side of Eric's neck.
The drug worked almost instantaneously. Eric gasped, eyes going wide before rolling back. His body continued to spasm for a few seconds from the taser's jolt, then he went limp as he passed out.
Malcolm pulled his hand out from under Eric, and rolled over on the floor, breathing rapidly.
Oh my God...
He took a minute or two to steady himself before continuing about his business. He searched Eric's pockets for his cell phone. Not there. Glancing at his notepad again, he located the door to the basement and, throwing the duffel bag over his shoulder, he dragged the unconscious body down the stairs, making absolute sure not to bump his head on the way down.
He lay out a tarp on the ground and lay Eric down, tightly handcuffing his wrist to a thick water heater pipe nearby and shaking it to make sure it held firm. He stood up and surveyed his work.
Alright...almost home...
AN: And that's Chapter 2. Sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger, but I felt that the next part deserved to be a chapter of its own, so I split it up. I shall update soon! Thanks to you readers. Your support is appreciated.