Hi again!
Title: Send Me On My Way (Part One of Two, or maybe of Three)
Pairing: None (yet), although you could probably read into it as Ang/Mal
Rating: PG-13 for two instances of fairly mild swearing
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Warnings: Fluff, ickle!Youngs, tinsy bit of swearing, old!Youngs
Summary: Set out a bit like the Time-Traveller's Wife. Tells little stories of their childhood/adolescence.
A/N: This sucks. Seriously. (Wow, I'm really sellin' it here! XDDD)
Mal is 73, Angus is 71
“Remember, Mal?”
“Of course,” Malcolm grinned, ruffling his hands through short, sparse iron-grey curls.
Angus grinned back and began humming that incessant tune:
On my way, on my way
On my way, on my way
On my way, on my way
On my way, on my way
On my way, on my way
On my way, on my way
I would like to reach out my hands
Malcolm is 2, Angus is a few days old
Malcolm looked down at his brother, only just managing to peer between the bars of the cot if he stood on tiptoes. Mummy had brought him back from the hoppital (wherever that was) two days ago. Angus was tiny - really tiny, with his little scrunchy face and hands even smaller than Malcolm’s own. He was bald, like Grandad back home, with these huge blue eyes like an alien - and all he did was sleep, drink and cry. Not drink the way Daddy and Will and Stevie did, with green glass bottles that smelled weird and fizzed when they were opened and made them go all silly and red-faced and laugh a lot, but drink out of the little plastic bottles that until so recently had belonged to Malcolm. Malcolm was very proud of himself for having progressed to a tippy cup, with handles like Mummy and Daddy’s mugs. Angus was still on bottles.
Angus wasn’t sleeping at the moment. He was looking right back at Malcolm, big blue eyes peering in confusion at this strange little boy looking at him. Well, Malcolm didn’t think Angus was much of a looker himself. He was too weeny, too pink and puckered and weird. Suddenly his mouth opened in a big fat yawn (which Malcolm was very impressed by; he didn’t know babies could yawn, let alone open their mouths that wide. Angus was going to have such a big gob when he was older. That thought made Malcolm giggle and he pressed both hands over his mouth, snickering into his fingers). It seemed Angus didn’t much like being laughed at, because he started to scream, louder than anything Malcolm had ever heard, making him slam both hands over his tiny ears and run out of the room as fast as his stout little toddler’s legs could carry him.
In Malcolm’s opinion, Angus was the weirdest little alien in the world.
I may say, I may tell you to run
Malcolm is 5, Angus is 3
George was already playing football with the other fourth-graders when Mummy dropped Malcolm off at school. Angus watched forlornly as Mummy waved bye-bye to Malcolm at the school gates. Malcolm was looking very excited - frightened, but excited - his eyes glowing as he immediately spotted two other boys kicking a ball around in the yard. Angus whimpered as Malcolm ran off to join them, stretching pudgy little hands out, groping at thin air as he tried to pull Malcolm back to him. Malcolm had been his best friend, his special friend who knew just where on his tummy to blow raspberries and make him giggle, who could play Hide-and-Seek and Peek-a-Boo and ball for hours and hours with him. Malcolm knew where Mummy kept the cookies, where the milk was, where they should escape to to enjoy their yummy stolen treats, when Daddy would be home in the evening. Angus loved it when Daddy had just come home, because he could run out and Daddy would swing him up in the air and make rocket ship noises, pretending he was an astronaut. Malcolm would watch and laugh and take him back to the garden when the greetings were over, to munch the rest of the cookies and push him around in the mini wheelbarrow as though it was Angus’ private chariot.
At teatime, Malcolm always clambered into the big chair next to Angus, helped him pour his juice (and tickled him just as he had taken a mouthful, so that Angus would always snort it back out of his nose and make everyone laugh), fed him his pudding (no, really - Malcolm loved doing that. Jamming the spoon into his younger brother’s mouth, covering Angus’ entire face with whatever pudding was that day, until Angus looked like he’d been in a food fight and lost), made him giggle by pulling stupid faces, crossing his eyes and waggling his tongue.
Malcolm was, in Angus’ opinion, the best big brother in the world.
You know what they say about the young
Malcolm is 7, Angus is 5
Angus was far, far too nervous to approach anyone once inside the schoolyard. He kept a firm grip on Malcolm’s hand, palms clammy as he squinted up at his big brother. Malcolm grinned, ruffling Angus’ newly-cut hair (which he’d been complaining about only the day before, whining that “All the pretty curly bits are gone!”) and gesturing over at a small, lonely-looking little boy with sandy hair and big brown eyes like Malcolm’s own.
“Why don’tcha go say hi t’him?”
Angus shook his head vehemently, tightening his grip on Malcolm’s hand and pressing closer to his brother’s side. He didn’t like these shorts. They made his knees cold. It was April already, and despite the fact that summer was coming, it was wet and cold and made his knees stick together. He kicked at a stray sycamore leaf.
“Why not?”
Angus shrugged.
“Too shy?”
Angus nodded bashfully, burying his face in his brother’s side. Malcolm laughed and pointed out their brother George, leaning against the bike sheds with three other huge sixth-graders. Angus’ eyes widened in terror - George and his friends were so big, they might use him as a football! - and shook his head again, pressing even closer.
“C’mon, Ang, you have to let go some time,” Malcolm said gently, edging stealthily closer to the sandy-haired boy in the corner. Angus looked up at him in alarm, whimpering, “Dun wanna let go!”
Malcolm sighed. “Y’can’t come into my class, Ang. We’re all too big. The work’s too hard for you.”
Angus’ lip wobbled. He wasn’t sure he liked this school. He wanted Malcolm to be there, to help him and stop him from being frightened.
Malcolm dropped him off next to the other little boy and ran off to join his own friends, leaving a snivelling Angus gazing, utterly lost, after him.
The sandy-haired young lad said “M’Oliver.” And Angus said, “M’Angus.” And by playtime, they were thick as thieves and already planning revenge on Katie, who had tipped water from the tap over Angus when they were playing in the sandbox.
Angus decided that Malcolm was definitely the best big brother in the world.
Well pick me up with golden hands
Malcolm is 10, Angus is 8
Somebody speaking, albeit drowsily, near his head woke Angus up. “Will I have to share with him in Australia, Mum?”
“Where are we going?” Angus mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes. Mummy had just woken them up, telling them to pick up their bags - the ones they packed yesterday - and get in the car. Malcolm was looking equally sleepy, his hair ruffled as he dressed himself awkwardly (hopping around the room on one foot, trying to pull his sock on) in the clothes Mummy left out for him. By now very rumpled, having spent the night being kicked to the end of Malcolm’s bed.
Malcolm shrugged. “Australia.”
“Where’s that?”
“Dunno,” Malcolm said, voice muffled. Angus paused from pulling his dungarees on to see why Malcolm’s voice was muffled. His brother was stumbling blindly around the room, tripping over his untied bootlaces, trying to put his head through the arm hole of his jumper. Angus giggled.
“That’s the arm, Mal.” He stumbled over - one brace of his dungarees hanging down his back, tshirt crumpled and creased like Malcolm’s - and pulled the sleeve down, arranging the jumper so that Malcolm could put the correct limbs down his sleeves.
“Oh.” And Malcolm’s head suddenly popped out of the head hole, looking enormously pleased with itself.
Malcolm decided he might keep this younger brother of his around. He was kind of useful.
I may see you, I may tell you to run
Malcolm is 13, Angus is 11
Malcolm was still on holiday, unfairly. Today was Angus’ school sports day - in Australia, they held sports days at the beginning and the end of the year, and Angus had just begun the second half of his autumn term - and Malcolm, Mum, Dad and George had all come to watch him (George grudgingly, moaning about how he “dun wanna come see the kid brother runnin’ or some shit.” “George!” their mother scolded.) run the relay. Malcolm was eyeing the rest of the lineup - a ginger kid called Mark, twin girls called Emily and Evie, a dark-haired and -eyed boy called Phil and a neat, prissy snitch called Pamela. Angus didn’t like any of them much; he still missed his old best mate, Oliver, although Tom (who was next in line after Angus to run) was okay.
The flag was waved. Angus set off as fast as he could, determined that despite his dire lack of athletic ability - that was far more Malcolm’s area of speciality, not his - he would at least beat Pamela. He could hear Tom cheering him on, grinning to himself. As he flashed past, he caught sight of a chin-length mop of glossy dark hair and a call even more strident than Tom’s:
“RUN, ANG, RUN! GO GO GO!”
Angus smiled, reaching Tom and passing him the plastic quoit. Tom whooped and set off like the wind, running faster than Speedy Gonzales on Angus’ favourite Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies cartoons.
He stopped, right in the middle of the track, gazing at his brother in a world of his own. Malcolm was smiling broadly, such a wide, proud grin. Angus grinned back and trotted over to join him.
Malcolm gave him a noogie and a congratulatory slap on the back.
Yep. Best big brother ever.
You know what they say about the young
Malcolm is 16, Angus is 14
Malcolm was spending hours locked up in his room, Who and T.Rex albums playing on endless repeat loops, Roger Daltrey’s distinctive blues-feel voice and Marc Bolan’s slow, sensual singing repeating over and over until not only did Malcolm know all of the lyrics and chord changes, but so did everyone else in the family. Angus countered his brother’s Bolan by blasting Chuck Berry out of his little record player, School Days and Johnny B. Goode followed by Maybellene (including some truly dreadful attempts at singing along by Angus) and No Particular Place To Go, his absolute favourite. Picking up his SG, Angus turned Chuck up even more - Malcolm banging on the wall next door in protest, and then both of them yelling (“Oi! Cunt!”) at the sharp TWANG! of George forcibly removing an A-string on his battered Les Paul - and began joining in, matching Chuck word-for-word, strum-for-strum within seconds.
No Particular Place To Go, indeed.
Malcolm left T.Rex playing whilst he pulled out all of his folders, studying for his School Certificate. Not that he needed any qualifications other than being able to rock the fuck out of his Gretsch to be a musician, but his mum wanted him to do well so he might as well at least attempt to get his head around Mlle Durieux’s French grammar - avoir, être, the subjunctive, the imperfect - oh, what joy - and get some work done.
Two minutes of “J’ai. Tu as. Il, Elle, On a. Nous... Nous... Oh, fuck it.” later, he gave up entirely on French and grabbed his Gretsch, invading Angus’ room to pick up where Chuck was leaving off. Angus shot him a wide grin - he didn’t mind Malcolm coming into his room, because wherever Mal was, he was happy - and joined in, Malcolm singing the lyrics to No Particular Place as they jammed for the next couple of hours.
Bloody hell, he’s good, Malcolm thought. I wonder...?
* The School Certificate is an exam, compulsory for all Year 10 students, usually aged 16, and you can't enter Year 11 without a pass, can't drop out without a pass, etc etc.
Pairing: None (yet), although you could probably read into it as Ang/Mal
Rating: PG-13 for two instances of fairly mild swearing
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Warnings: Fluff, ickle!Youngs, tinsy bit of swearing, old!Youngs
Summary: Set out a bit like the Time-Traveller's Wife. Tells little stories of their childhood/adolescence.
A/N: This sucks. Seriously. (Wow, I'm really sellin' it here! XDDD)
Mal is 73, Angus is 71
“Remember, Mal?”
“Of course,” Malcolm grinned, ruffling his hands through short, sparse iron-grey curls.
Angus grinned back and began humming that incessant tune:
On my way, on my way
On my way, on my way
On my way, on my way
On my way, on my way
On my way, on my way
On my way, on my way
I would like to reach out my hands
Malcolm is 2, Angus is a few days old
Malcolm looked down at his brother, only just managing to peer between the bars of the cot if he stood on tiptoes. Mummy had brought him back from the hoppital (wherever that was) two days ago. Angus was tiny - really tiny, with his little scrunchy face and hands even smaller than Malcolm’s own. He was bald, like Grandad back home, with these huge blue eyes like an alien - and all he did was sleep, drink and cry. Not drink the way Daddy and Will and Stevie did, with green glass bottles that smelled weird and fizzed when they were opened and made them go all silly and red-faced and laugh a lot, but drink out of the little plastic bottles that until so recently had belonged to Malcolm. Malcolm was very proud of himself for having progressed to a tippy cup, with handles like Mummy and Daddy’s mugs. Angus was still on bottles.
Angus wasn’t sleeping at the moment. He was looking right back at Malcolm, big blue eyes peering in confusion at this strange little boy looking at him. Well, Malcolm didn’t think Angus was much of a looker himself. He was too weeny, too pink and puckered and weird. Suddenly his mouth opened in a big fat yawn (which Malcolm was very impressed by; he didn’t know babies could yawn, let alone open their mouths that wide. Angus was going to have such a big gob when he was older. That thought made Malcolm giggle and he pressed both hands over his mouth, snickering into his fingers). It seemed Angus didn’t much like being laughed at, because he started to scream, louder than anything Malcolm had ever heard, making him slam both hands over his tiny ears and run out of the room as fast as his stout little toddler’s legs could carry him.
In Malcolm’s opinion, Angus was the weirdest little alien in the world.
I may say, I may tell you to run
Malcolm is 5, Angus is 3
George was already playing football with the other fourth-graders when Mummy dropped Malcolm off at school. Angus watched forlornly as Mummy waved bye-bye to Malcolm at the school gates. Malcolm was looking very excited - frightened, but excited - his eyes glowing as he immediately spotted two other boys kicking a ball around in the yard. Angus whimpered as Malcolm ran off to join them, stretching pudgy little hands out, groping at thin air as he tried to pull Malcolm back to him. Malcolm had been his best friend, his special friend who knew just where on his tummy to blow raspberries and make him giggle, who could play Hide-and-Seek and Peek-a-Boo and ball for hours and hours with him. Malcolm knew where Mummy kept the cookies, where the milk was, where they should escape to to enjoy their yummy stolen treats, when Daddy would be home in the evening. Angus loved it when Daddy had just come home, because he could run out and Daddy would swing him up in the air and make rocket ship noises, pretending he was an astronaut. Malcolm would watch and laugh and take him back to the garden when the greetings were over, to munch the rest of the cookies and push him around in the mini wheelbarrow as though it was Angus’ private chariot.
At teatime, Malcolm always clambered into the big chair next to Angus, helped him pour his juice (and tickled him just as he had taken a mouthful, so that Angus would always snort it back out of his nose and make everyone laugh), fed him his pudding (no, really - Malcolm loved doing that. Jamming the spoon into his younger brother’s mouth, covering Angus’ entire face with whatever pudding was that day, until Angus looked like he’d been in a food fight and lost), made him giggle by pulling stupid faces, crossing his eyes and waggling his tongue.
Malcolm was, in Angus’ opinion, the best big brother in the world.
You know what they say about the young
Malcolm is 7, Angus is 5
Angus was far, far too nervous to approach anyone once inside the schoolyard. He kept a firm grip on Malcolm’s hand, palms clammy as he squinted up at his big brother. Malcolm grinned, ruffling Angus’ newly-cut hair (which he’d been complaining about only the day before, whining that “All the pretty curly bits are gone!”) and gesturing over at a small, lonely-looking little boy with sandy hair and big brown eyes like Malcolm’s own.
“Why don’tcha go say hi t’him?”
Angus shook his head vehemently, tightening his grip on Malcolm’s hand and pressing closer to his brother’s side. He didn’t like these shorts. They made his knees cold. It was April already, and despite the fact that summer was coming, it was wet and cold and made his knees stick together. He kicked at a stray sycamore leaf.
“Why not?”
Angus shrugged.
“Too shy?”
Angus nodded bashfully, burying his face in his brother’s side. Malcolm laughed and pointed out their brother George, leaning against the bike sheds with three other huge sixth-graders. Angus’ eyes widened in terror - George and his friends were so big, they might use him as a football! - and shook his head again, pressing even closer.
“C’mon, Ang, you have to let go some time,” Malcolm said gently, edging stealthily closer to the sandy-haired boy in the corner. Angus looked up at him in alarm, whimpering, “Dun wanna let go!”
Malcolm sighed. “Y’can’t come into my class, Ang. We’re all too big. The work’s too hard for you.”
Angus’ lip wobbled. He wasn’t sure he liked this school. He wanted Malcolm to be there, to help him and stop him from being frightened.
Malcolm dropped him off next to the other little boy and ran off to join his own friends, leaving a snivelling Angus gazing, utterly lost, after him.
The sandy-haired young lad said “M’Oliver.” And Angus said, “M’Angus.” And by playtime, they were thick as thieves and already planning revenge on Katie, who had tipped water from the tap over Angus when they were playing in the sandbox.
Angus decided that Malcolm was definitely the best big brother in the world.
Well pick me up with golden hands
Malcolm is 10, Angus is 8
Somebody speaking, albeit drowsily, near his head woke Angus up. “Will I have to share with him in Australia, Mum?”
“Where are we going?” Angus mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes. Mummy had just woken them up, telling them to pick up their bags - the ones they packed yesterday - and get in the car. Malcolm was looking equally sleepy, his hair ruffled as he dressed himself awkwardly (hopping around the room on one foot, trying to pull his sock on) in the clothes Mummy left out for him. By now very rumpled, having spent the night being kicked to the end of Malcolm’s bed.
Malcolm shrugged. “Australia.”
“Where’s that?”
“Dunno,” Malcolm said, voice muffled. Angus paused from pulling his dungarees on to see why Malcolm’s voice was muffled. His brother was stumbling blindly around the room, tripping over his untied bootlaces, trying to put his head through the arm hole of his jumper. Angus giggled.
“That’s the arm, Mal.” He stumbled over - one brace of his dungarees hanging down his back, tshirt crumpled and creased like Malcolm’s - and pulled the sleeve down, arranging the jumper so that Malcolm could put the correct limbs down his sleeves.
“Oh.” And Malcolm’s head suddenly popped out of the head hole, looking enormously pleased with itself.
Malcolm decided he might keep this younger brother of his around. He was kind of useful.
I may see you, I may tell you to run
Malcolm is 13, Angus is 11
Malcolm was still on holiday, unfairly. Today was Angus’ school sports day - in Australia, they held sports days at the beginning and the end of the year, and Angus had just begun the second half of his autumn term - and Malcolm, Mum, Dad and George had all come to watch him (George grudgingly, moaning about how he “dun wanna come see the kid brother runnin’ or some shit.” “George!” their mother scolded.) run the relay. Malcolm was eyeing the rest of the lineup - a ginger kid called Mark, twin girls called Emily and Evie, a dark-haired and -eyed boy called Phil and a neat, prissy snitch called Pamela. Angus didn’t like any of them much; he still missed his old best mate, Oliver, although Tom (who was next in line after Angus to run) was okay.
The flag was waved. Angus set off as fast as he could, determined that despite his dire lack of athletic ability - that was far more Malcolm’s area of speciality, not his - he would at least beat Pamela. He could hear Tom cheering him on, grinning to himself. As he flashed past, he caught sight of a chin-length mop of glossy dark hair and a call even more strident than Tom’s:
“RUN, ANG, RUN! GO GO GO!”
Angus smiled, reaching Tom and passing him the plastic quoit. Tom whooped and set off like the wind, running faster than Speedy Gonzales on Angus’ favourite Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies cartoons.
He stopped, right in the middle of the track, gazing at his brother in a world of his own. Malcolm was smiling broadly, such a wide, proud grin. Angus grinned back and trotted over to join him.
Malcolm gave him a noogie and a congratulatory slap on the back.
Yep. Best big brother ever.
You know what they say about the young
Malcolm is 16, Angus is 14
Malcolm was spending hours locked up in his room, Who and T.Rex albums playing on endless repeat loops, Roger Daltrey’s distinctive blues-feel voice and Marc Bolan’s slow, sensual singing repeating over and over until not only did Malcolm know all of the lyrics and chord changes, but so did everyone else in the family. Angus countered his brother’s Bolan by blasting Chuck Berry out of his little record player, School Days and Johnny B. Goode followed by Maybellene (including some truly dreadful attempts at singing along by Angus) and No Particular Place To Go, his absolute favourite. Picking up his SG, Angus turned Chuck up even more - Malcolm banging on the wall next door in protest, and then both of them yelling (“Oi! Cunt!”) at the sharp TWANG! of George forcibly removing an A-string on his battered Les Paul - and began joining in, matching Chuck word-for-word, strum-for-strum within seconds.
No Particular Place To Go, indeed.
Malcolm left T.Rex playing whilst he pulled out all of his folders, studying for his School Certificate. Not that he needed any qualifications other than being able to rock the fuck out of his Gretsch to be a musician, but his mum wanted him to do well so he might as well at least attempt to get his head around Mlle Durieux’s French grammar - avoir, être, the subjunctive, the imperfect - oh, what joy - and get some work done.
Two minutes of “J’ai. Tu as. Il, Elle, On a. Nous... Nous... Oh, fuck it.” later, he gave up entirely on French and grabbed his Gretsch, invading Angus’ room to pick up where Chuck was leaving off. Angus shot him a wide grin - he didn’t mind Malcolm coming into his room, because wherever Mal was, he was happy - and joined in, Malcolm singing the lyrics to No Particular Place as they jammed for the next couple of hours.
Bloody hell, he’s good, Malcolm thought. I wonder...?
* The School Certificate is an exam, compulsory for all Year 10 students, usually aged 16, and you can't enter Year 11 without a pass, can't drop out without a pass, etc etc.