FIC: Send Me On My Way (Part 2/2)
Title: Send Me On My Way (Part Two of Two)
Pairing: Ang/Ellen, Mal/Linda (NO SLASH D8 C'EST UNE DISASTRE)
Rating: PG-13/R for Mal's naughty swearing
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Warnings: Fluff, mentions of the wives them women they just happen to live with, tinsy bit of swearing, old!Youngs, death, angst
Summary: Set out a bit like the Time-Traveller's Wife. Tells little stories of their later adolescence/adult life/twilight years.
A/N: This sucks. Seriously. (Wow, I'm really sellin' it here! XDDD) And, they're even shorter this time. (The stories. Not Mal and Ang. If those two got any shorter, we'd need a magnifying glass! -shot-)
Send me on my way, on my way
Send me on my way, on my way
Malcolm is 17, Angus is 15
“Your School Certificate’s comin’ up soon, ain’t it?” Malcolm asked, bent over his guitar and fiddling with the tuning pegs. Angus grunted noncommittally and went back to drawing his brother, bright green eyes flashing up to look at Malcolm every couple of seconds. The straight, gentle line of his nose; the curve of the full lips all of the Youngs shared, heavy dark brows over equally dark eyes, partially obscured by the curtains of cocoa-powder-coloured hair brushing his elder brother’s shoulders, thin dextrous fingers weaving over the fretboard and curled around the tuning pegs...
“Ain’t it?”
“Not f’r a couple of months yet,” Angus replied, eyes focussed on his drawing. He glanced up at Malcolm again, just long enough for his brother to steal said artwork away and inspect it.
“Wow,” Malcolm whistled softly, taking in the exquisite details of his own nose for a moment, “this is really good, Ang.”
“Gimme it back, it ain’t finished!” Angus protested, trying to grab the drawing back.
“Not on your life... Can I use this?”
“What for?” Angus asked suspiciously. No doubt Malcolm had some nefarious purpose in mind.
“For a gig flyer. Pony’re needing a decent artist to draw ‘em for the latest poster and this is a really good drawing of me, squirt.” Malcolm ruffled Angus’ tousled curls, noting immediately that the scowl on Angus’ face at having his hair mussed was belied by the excitement and pride in his green eyes.
“Um, yeah then. I suppose. It’s not brilliant -”
“You know it is. I ain’t got time for modesty, Ang,” Malcolm grinned, eyes scanning the picture again. Angus must have been concentrating so hard... even the most random things, like the summer freckles that were so faint on Malcolm’s usually tanned nose were there, the slight nick in his top lip that was the product of a fight with his bassist, Joe, and the eyelash on one gently-curved cheekbone - which he hadn’t even noticed himself - were all there. Angus had such an eye for detail; it came in handy when in checking Malcolm’s French essays - “Whaddya mean, it’s the wrong form of avoir?! ... Oh, arse!” - and showed in his guitar playing, manipulating his slim fingers into chords using even the tiny, stupidly narrow frets right at the bottom of the guitar neck.
Malcolm was awestruck.
Send me on my way, on my way
Malcolm is 20, Angus is 18
Angus’ band, Kantuckee, had been given a gig at Roscoe’s near the promenade, so with a couple of hours to kill before they had to start setting up, Malcolm took his brother to the beach. They ran in the water like little kids, splashing and dunking and spluttering up salty seawater from burning lungs, many a good-natured glare being thrown back and forth like a game of catch as they each tried to hold one another under. Malcolm was the worse off; his hair, being longer (although Angus was really, really starting to catch him up now), had seaweed, sand, grit, shells and even a hermit crab tangled in its long tresses before they slumped, exhausted, back onto the rocks, still giggling like schoolboys.
They lay in companiable silence for a moment or two before Malcolm spoke up.
“You know, Ang, we should partner up.”
“You what?!”
“Not like that, Jesus! No, we should make our own band. You’re always tellin’ me how much of a cunt Neil is, and I hate that prick Joe, and Sam can’t play for dollars nor pussy - we should get our own band t’gether. George was sayin’ we’d be brilliant.”
“I dunno, Mal... What if we fight?” Angus’ eyes were wide - worried. He hated fighting with Malcolm, although their hot tempers made it damn near impossible to keep the peace for too long (their father William having famously commented that he’d give it “a week” before they brutally murdered each other with whatever was to hand). But he knew Malcolm had a point, and with the two of them behind a singer like Lobby Lloyde, a drummer like Snowy Fleet and a bassist like Mark Evans, a boy from their old school, they’d be laughing.
So he agreed.
Angus wondered how long it would take them to have their first argument.
Well I would like to hold my little hand
Malcolm is 24, Angus is 22
Angus knew his brother was terrified. That much was obvious; it was a big day, a big promise, and a big thing to give - the entire of your life, until death do us part - to another person. But Angus had seen the way Malcolm looked at Linda, his eyes shining like he’d never seen anything more beautiful. Angus grinned at his brother, pulling him into a hug.
“My little brother,” he crooned, affecting the manner of an old maiden aunt of theirs living in Edinburgh, “my little Malcolm, about to get married!”
“Watch who yer callin’ little, half-pint!” Malcolm retorted, beginning to forget his nerves. He grinned goodnaturedly at his brother, his face open and nervously excited.
“Midget!”
“Titch!”
“Shortarse!”
George came through the door, rolling his eyes at their exchange. Malcolm immediately sobered up, still smiling although in a slightly more strained manner.
“You ready?” George asked gently, knowing how frightened Malcolm was from the memory of his own wedding day.
“As ever,” Mal replied, taking a deep breath.
Angus grabbed Malcolm’s hand tightly and squeezed, a silent sign of reassurance. Brown eyes turned to meet his own green ones, a nervous half-smile lighting Malcolm’s face. The doors at the other end of the church opened, and there stood Linda in all of her white-laced glory. Malcolm beamed.
Angus smiled proudly. His brother was... well, his brother was his brother. There were no words.
How we will run, we will, how we will crawl, we will
Malcolm is 27, Angus is 25
“You coping alright?”
“If I don’t die of these pterodactyls in me stomach, yeah.” Angus’ face was ashen.
Malcolm pulled him into a hug, just as Angus had done three years ago at Malcolm’s own wedding. He rested his chin on his little brother’s shoulder, holding onto him tightly and whispering as many reassuring words as he could into the delicate whorls of Ang’s ear.
“Ang?”
“Uhhh!” It seemed terrified whimpers were all the response he was going to get, so Malcolm took “Uhhh!” as a sign of recognition of Angus’ name and carried on speaking.
“No matter what - whether you’ve argued, or had a fucking full-on me’n’you bust up, or had bad news or you dunno what’s goin’ on or whatever - no matter what, I’ll be here to talk to, right?”
“Bros before hos?” Angus smiled weakly. Malcolm chuckled.
“Yeah, little man. Bros before hos.”
Ellen appeared as the huge oak doors swung slowly open, ethereal in white silk with her long blonde hair flowing down her back like a Middle Earth-ean elf. Angus’ jaw dropped, and Malcolm grinned, gently tapping it closed for him. The front rows snickered.
As the vows were read, Malcolm stood proudly to one side opposite his wife, who was Matron (married Maid, apparently. Not that, being a man, he gave a shit) of Honour. Looking on at Angus, speaking as clearly now as he had in jumbles before, Malcolm smiled proudly.
His little brother was getting married.
I would like to hold my little hand
Malcolm is 28, Angus is 26
“S’a girl, Ang,” Malcolm was sobbing on the end of the phone, voice thick with tears and excitement. “She’s blonde, like her mum, with my dark eyes. And she’s so beautiful, Ang, really. I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
Ellen was listening eagerly to the conversation as well, gesturing silently for Angus to pass on her congratulations. He did so dutifully - “Ever the obedient husband,” Ellen teased - and enquired as to what this new baby was called.
“She’s called Cara.”
“I’ll come say hello right now. Ellen, grab your coat. We’re going to meet the niece.”
***
Angus bowed to the tiny baby in Malcolm’s protective arms. The very fairest dusting of blonde hair covered her tiny head like peach fuzz, but her bright brown eyes - the exact chocolate/sienna shade of Malcolm’s - gazed imperiously back at him. He reached out his hand and her miniscule fist shot out to wrap around his pinkie finger. Angus smiled and shook very gently, his expression as serious as if he were addressing a queen.
“Hello, Cara.”
Cara yawned and let go of him, turning to snuggle into Malcolm’s chest.
Angus fell in love with her immediately.
How we will run, we will, how we will crawl
Malcolm is 35, Angus is 33
Rehab was doing Malcolm a world of good, but he was beginning to get extremely stressed out by a) the lack of alcohol and b) the fact that he needed to be back on tour with the rest of the guys, instead of stuck “with a fuckload of stupid cunts, in this godforsaken shitheap of a place, having sweet fuck all to do, and being told off by said fuckload of stupid cunts for not doing anything!” here in the facility. Angus smiled patiently at his brother who glowered bad-temperedly back from his bunk bed.
“You can’t run before you can walk, Mal.”
“You could draw before you could write!”
“You gotta take it a step at a time. Crawl, walk, run.”
“Fuck off.” But the smile betrayed the lack of real animosity.
Angus hoped Malcolm would be back with them soon. Things weren’t the same without him.
Send me on my way, on my way
Malcolm is 79, Angus is 77
Malcolm stayed beside the bed, watching Angus sleep. Reassuring himself that his chest was still rising and falling. That he was still here. Malcolm allowed tears to glaze his eyes, alone in this cold, clinical room with the single most precious person in his entire existence wasting away on the bed in front of him.
“Mal,” Angus’ voice was thin, papery as his skin, and Malcolm was afraid to touch him for fear he’d break into a thousand irreparable pieces, like glass.
“Y-yeah?”
“Don’t cry.” Angus had always hated to see Mal cry.
He tried to wipe away the tears from his cheeks, but the stiff wet feeling betrayed the fact that he had indeed been bawling like a baby.
“Sorry, Ang.”
Angus laughed, needle-fine and grating on Malcolm’s ears. He should be saving his breath.
“And don’t play Highway to Hell at my funeral.”
Malcolm had to laugh at that. “But it’s so fitting!”
“I said no, Mal,” Angus giggled.
The melancholy washed over Malcolm again and a new flood of tears tracked Niagara-like down his cheeks. Angus gazed at him silently, concern only for Malcolm in those deep, dear green eyes.
“This ain’t f-fair,” Malcolm spluttered, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve again, “I’m the eldest. You oughta be sayin’ goodbye t’me!”
“Imagine what a state I’d be in,” Angus whispered, a faint, cracked smile on his ashen face. Malcolm nodded.
“Cry like a child, you would. But it don’t make it fair. I can’t stand havin’ you be the one to die first.”
And shit, dying was not a subject they were meant to mention. Fuck, fuck, fuck -
“It had to happen some time,” Angus said, voice fainter than ever, nodding his head sagely. He leant back on the pillows, closing his eyes - fuck, this was it! No! Not now, not now! - and repeated, barely a breath:
“It had to happen some time.”
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
Send me on my way
“Bye, Ang.”
END.
Pairing: Ang/Ellen, Mal/Linda (NO SLASH D8 C'EST UNE DISASTRE)
Rating: PG-13/R for Mal's naughty swearing
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Warnings: Fluff, mentions of the wives them women they just happen to live with, tinsy bit of swearing, old!Youngs, death, angst
Summary: Set out a bit like the Time-Traveller's Wife. Tells little stories of their later adolescence/adult life/twilight years.
A/N: This sucks. Seriously. (Wow, I'm really sellin' it here! XDDD) And, they're even shorter this time. (The stories. Not Mal and Ang. If those two got any shorter, we'd need a magnifying glass! -shot-)
Send me on my way, on my way
Send me on my way, on my way
Malcolm is 17, Angus is 15
“Your School Certificate’s comin’ up soon, ain’t it?” Malcolm asked, bent over his guitar and fiddling with the tuning pegs. Angus grunted noncommittally and went back to drawing his brother, bright green eyes flashing up to look at Malcolm every couple of seconds. The straight, gentle line of his nose; the curve of the full lips all of the Youngs shared, heavy dark brows over equally dark eyes, partially obscured by the curtains of cocoa-powder-coloured hair brushing his elder brother’s shoulders, thin dextrous fingers weaving over the fretboard and curled around the tuning pegs...
“Ain’t it?”
“Not f’r a couple of months yet,” Angus replied, eyes focussed on his drawing. He glanced up at Malcolm again, just long enough for his brother to steal said artwork away and inspect it.
“Wow,” Malcolm whistled softly, taking in the exquisite details of his own nose for a moment, “this is really good, Ang.”
“Gimme it back, it ain’t finished!” Angus protested, trying to grab the drawing back.
“Not on your life... Can I use this?”
“What for?” Angus asked suspiciously. No doubt Malcolm had some nefarious purpose in mind.
“For a gig flyer. Pony’re needing a decent artist to draw ‘em for the latest poster and this is a really good drawing of me, squirt.” Malcolm ruffled Angus’ tousled curls, noting immediately that the scowl on Angus’ face at having his hair mussed was belied by the excitement and pride in his green eyes.
“Um, yeah then. I suppose. It’s not brilliant -”
“You know it is. I ain’t got time for modesty, Ang,” Malcolm grinned, eyes scanning the picture again. Angus must have been concentrating so hard... even the most random things, like the summer freckles that were so faint on Malcolm’s usually tanned nose were there, the slight nick in his top lip that was the product of a fight with his bassist, Joe, and the eyelash on one gently-curved cheekbone - which he hadn’t even noticed himself - were all there. Angus had such an eye for detail; it came in handy when in checking Malcolm’s French essays - “Whaddya mean, it’s the wrong form of avoir?! ... Oh, arse!” - and showed in his guitar playing, manipulating his slim fingers into chords using even the tiny, stupidly narrow frets right at the bottom of the guitar neck.
Malcolm was awestruck.
Send me on my way, on my way
Malcolm is 20, Angus is 18
Angus’ band, Kantuckee, had been given a gig at Roscoe’s near the promenade, so with a couple of hours to kill before they had to start setting up, Malcolm took his brother to the beach. They ran in the water like little kids, splashing and dunking and spluttering up salty seawater from burning lungs, many a good-natured glare being thrown back and forth like a game of catch as they each tried to hold one another under. Malcolm was the worse off; his hair, being longer (although Angus was really, really starting to catch him up now), had seaweed, sand, grit, shells and even a hermit crab tangled in its long tresses before they slumped, exhausted, back onto the rocks, still giggling like schoolboys.
They lay in companiable silence for a moment or two before Malcolm spoke up.
“You know, Ang, we should partner up.”
“You what?!”
“Not like that, Jesus! No, we should make our own band. You’re always tellin’ me how much of a cunt Neil is, and I hate that prick Joe, and Sam can’t play for dollars nor pussy - we should get our own band t’gether. George was sayin’ we’d be brilliant.”
“I dunno, Mal... What if we fight?” Angus’ eyes were wide - worried. He hated fighting with Malcolm, although their hot tempers made it damn near impossible to keep the peace for too long (their father William having famously commented that he’d give it “a week” before they brutally murdered each other with whatever was to hand). But he knew Malcolm had a point, and with the two of them behind a singer like Lobby Lloyde, a drummer like Snowy Fleet and a bassist like Mark Evans, a boy from their old school, they’d be laughing.
So he agreed.
Angus wondered how long it would take them to have their first argument.
Well I would like to hold my little hand
Malcolm is 24, Angus is 22
Angus knew his brother was terrified. That much was obvious; it was a big day, a big promise, and a big thing to give - the entire of your life, until death do us part - to another person. But Angus had seen the way Malcolm looked at Linda, his eyes shining like he’d never seen anything more beautiful. Angus grinned at his brother, pulling him into a hug.
“My little brother,” he crooned, affecting the manner of an old maiden aunt of theirs living in Edinburgh, “my little Malcolm, about to get married!”
“Watch who yer callin’ little, half-pint!” Malcolm retorted, beginning to forget his nerves. He grinned goodnaturedly at his brother, his face open and nervously excited.
“Midget!”
“Titch!”
“Shortarse!”
George came through the door, rolling his eyes at their exchange. Malcolm immediately sobered up, still smiling although in a slightly more strained manner.
“You ready?” George asked gently, knowing how frightened Malcolm was from the memory of his own wedding day.
“As ever,” Mal replied, taking a deep breath.
Angus grabbed Malcolm’s hand tightly and squeezed, a silent sign of reassurance. Brown eyes turned to meet his own green ones, a nervous half-smile lighting Malcolm’s face. The doors at the other end of the church opened, and there stood Linda in all of her white-laced glory. Malcolm beamed.
Angus smiled proudly. His brother was... well, his brother was his brother. There were no words.
How we will run, we will, how we will crawl, we will
Malcolm is 27, Angus is 25
“You coping alright?”
“If I don’t die of these pterodactyls in me stomach, yeah.” Angus’ face was ashen.
Malcolm pulled him into a hug, just as Angus had done three years ago at Malcolm’s own wedding. He rested his chin on his little brother’s shoulder, holding onto him tightly and whispering as many reassuring words as he could into the delicate whorls of Ang’s ear.
“Ang?”
“Uhhh!” It seemed terrified whimpers were all the response he was going to get, so Malcolm took “Uhhh!” as a sign of recognition of Angus’ name and carried on speaking.
“No matter what - whether you’ve argued, or had a fucking full-on me’n’you bust up, or had bad news or you dunno what’s goin’ on or whatever - no matter what, I’ll be here to talk to, right?”
“Bros before hos?” Angus smiled weakly. Malcolm chuckled.
“Yeah, little man. Bros before hos.”
Ellen appeared as the huge oak doors swung slowly open, ethereal in white silk with her long blonde hair flowing down her back like a Middle Earth-ean elf. Angus’ jaw dropped, and Malcolm grinned, gently tapping it closed for him. The front rows snickered.
As the vows were read, Malcolm stood proudly to one side opposite his wife, who was Matron (married Maid, apparently. Not that, being a man, he gave a shit) of Honour. Looking on at Angus, speaking as clearly now as he had in jumbles before, Malcolm smiled proudly.
His little brother was getting married.
I would like to hold my little hand
Malcolm is 28, Angus is 26
“S’a girl, Ang,” Malcolm was sobbing on the end of the phone, voice thick with tears and excitement. “She’s blonde, like her mum, with my dark eyes. And she’s so beautiful, Ang, really. I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
Ellen was listening eagerly to the conversation as well, gesturing silently for Angus to pass on her congratulations. He did so dutifully - “Ever the obedient husband,” Ellen teased - and enquired as to what this new baby was called.
“She’s called Cara.”
“I’ll come say hello right now. Ellen, grab your coat. We’re going to meet the niece.”
***
Angus bowed to the tiny baby in Malcolm’s protective arms. The very fairest dusting of blonde hair covered her tiny head like peach fuzz, but her bright brown eyes - the exact chocolate/sienna shade of Malcolm’s - gazed imperiously back at him. He reached out his hand and her miniscule fist shot out to wrap around his pinkie finger. Angus smiled and shook very gently, his expression as serious as if he were addressing a queen.
“Hello, Cara.”
Cara yawned and let go of him, turning to snuggle into Malcolm’s chest.
Angus fell in love with her immediately.
How we will run, we will, how we will crawl
Malcolm is 35, Angus is 33
Rehab was doing Malcolm a world of good, but he was beginning to get extremely stressed out by a) the lack of alcohol and b) the fact that he needed to be back on tour with the rest of the guys, instead of stuck “with a fuckload of stupid cunts, in this godforsaken shitheap of a place, having sweet fuck all to do, and being told off by said fuckload of stupid cunts for not doing anything!” here in the facility. Angus smiled patiently at his brother who glowered bad-temperedly back from his bunk bed.
“You can’t run before you can walk, Mal.”
“You could draw before you could write!”
“You gotta take it a step at a time. Crawl, walk, run.”
“Fuck off.” But the smile betrayed the lack of real animosity.
Angus hoped Malcolm would be back with them soon. Things weren’t the same without him.
Send me on my way, on my way
Malcolm is 79, Angus is 77
Malcolm stayed beside the bed, watching Angus sleep. Reassuring himself that his chest was still rising and falling. That he was still here. Malcolm allowed tears to glaze his eyes, alone in this cold, clinical room with the single most precious person in his entire existence wasting away on the bed in front of him.
“Mal,” Angus’ voice was thin, papery as his skin, and Malcolm was afraid to touch him for fear he’d break into a thousand irreparable pieces, like glass.
“Y-yeah?”
“Don’t cry.” Angus had always hated to see Mal cry.
He tried to wipe away the tears from his cheeks, but the stiff wet feeling betrayed the fact that he had indeed been bawling like a baby.
“Sorry, Ang.”
Angus laughed, needle-fine and grating on Malcolm’s ears. He should be saving his breath.
“And don’t play Highway to Hell at my funeral.”
Malcolm had to laugh at that. “But it’s so fitting!”
“I said no, Mal,” Angus giggled.
The melancholy washed over Malcolm again and a new flood of tears tracked Niagara-like down his cheeks. Angus gazed at him silently, concern only for Malcolm in those deep, dear green eyes.
“This ain’t f-fair,” Malcolm spluttered, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve again, “I’m the eldest. You oughta be sayin’ goodbye t’me!”
“Imagine what a state I’d be in,” Angus whispered, a faint, cracked smile on his ashen face. Malcolm nodded.
“Cry like a child, you would. But it don’t make it fair. I can’t stand havin’ you be the one to die first.”
And shit, dying was not a subject they were meant to mention. Fuck, fuck, fuck -
“It had to happen some time,” Angus said, voice fainter than ever, nodding his head sagely. He leant back on the pillows, closing his eyes - fuck, this was it! No! Not now, not now! - and repeated, barely a breath:
“It had to happen some time.”
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
Send me on my way
“Bye, Ang.”
END.