[Gallagher]

We are very good at not finishing what we should be.

We are not proud of this fact.

We have something from a different character this time! Not only that, but also involving characters that aren't my own.

This fella has a... let's say limited emotional range. And a fondness for forcing his version of justice on people.

Something About Him

There was always something about that boy.

He went through the items in his bag, one by one, making sure that everything was there and in place. His tools were always the same, no matter what the occasion, but he knew they would be put to different use. As tedious as it was, reorganizing before he arrived would make everything smoother.

Logically, there shouldn’t have been. There were plenty like him in the school alone. There was nothing special about him. Nothing that made him stand out at all.

He grasped a small mirror by its edges, his hold firm enough for him to feel it biting into his skin, but careful enough to make sure that no blood was drawn. He tilted it just so, checking for imperfections on its smooth surface. The reflection of the boy, sitting on his bed just behind him, made his movements stop for the briefest of moments.

His talents were few and unrefined. His demeanor left something to desire, to say the least.

Dean looked away when he saw that he’d been caught watching, his attention falling to the cold bugne in his hands. More were in a box on his desk, treats sent from home, an apology from the family that quite obviously had no intention of paying a visit on the one day they were allowed to.

The fact that they were brothers was trivial.

He shifted the mirror just slightly, a subtle movement that allowed him to glance at the other bed. The heavy boy upon it was scowling to himself, a rather hefty bruise visible on his arm as he flipped through a magazine. Malcolm tucked the mirror away. “Comment vas-tu?1” he asked suddenly, neither of the others in the room questioning who it was directed to.

Clayton looked up from his magazine to eye the small boy, who didn’t fail to take notice. This conversation wasn’t for Clay’s ears, and they both knew it. Dean swallowed audibly, swinging a foot just off the edge of the bed. He seemed to have more trouble finding the words than his brother did, though it may simply have been because of his nervous nature making things more difficult. “Co-comme ci, comme ça.2”

No, there had always been something else that fascinated Malcolm and made him feel for the boy where even blood bonds could not.

When the eldest offered only a grunt of a reply, Dean fidgeted in place, an unasked question clearly on his mind. “Qu’est-ce que c’est, Sprog?3”

“Tu vas où?4” the boy asked suddenly, only looking at his brother for a second before he averted his gaze.

Perhaps it was the sense of innocence he managed to maintain, despite the sorts of people that were usually around him.

Malcolm shook his head as he closed his bag, casually slinging it onto his shoulder. “T'inquiète pas. Je serais de retour.5” He turned, taking the few short steps to stand just beside Dean. As he set a hand lightly on his shoulder, the boy only looked up as far as the man’s chest. “Quelle heure est-il?6”

Or, perhaps it was the natural kindness he held, something which Malcolm, more often than not, could only pretend to have.

“Heure?” Dean repeated, thrown off by the abrupt redirection. He frowned, looking for the nearest clock, until he remembered the watch on his wrist. “Right. Quarter of seven.”

It was something he didn’t want to lose, even if it wasn’t his to begin with.

“Good.” He leaned down and, without warning, placed a kiss on the boy’s head. Despite being the closest person there was to Malcolm, Dean was visibly surprised by the tender gesture. Though he heard a less than pleased scoff from behind him, the man’s attention remained on his brother, who by now was positively beaming. It brought a small smile to his own lips.

Perhaps that was why he went out of his way to protect it, even when Dean didn’t even know something was amiss.

“I’ll be back soon,” Malcolm assured again, heading out the door. No sooner had he shut it that he heard Clayton’s voice, muffled behind the wood and apparently none too happy. Either way, a quick kick back against the door managed to shut up the young man inside.

It was a job he’d grown to love.

Bonus: translation

1. How are you?
2. So-so.
3. What is it?
4. Where are you going?
5. Don't worry. I'll be right back.
6. What time is it?