A/N: Something you need to realize before you read this is that this came to me the other night while I was half asleep in bed, and when I wrote it in my head it sounded perfect. Didn't turn out that way.

I do not consider this... well, I guess you could say fanon. The way I see this particular scenario actually happening is far more traumatic and emotional and stuff. So this is really just for fun. Also, as you may or may not notice, while this doesn't really take place in the same timelines as my other fics, all of my timelines have a tendency to brush up against each other. ;D

Warnings: By now I should be infamous enough in the fandom that I really shouldn't have to warn anyone that this is Wilkercest, and that if you no likee, leave now. Zero tolerance to flaming. ZERO. Also, this is rated M for language. One three-letter 'F' word in particular tends to grate my nerves like no other, but I will use it in a fic if it works. Characters use words I don't like, and I'm not one to change their speech patterns to suit my morals.

As imperfect as this seems to me, I hope you enjoy it. Oh, and sophomore Malcolm would put this around season five.

Malcolm was used to getting insults. There were always shouts of 'smartass' or 'you little mother fucking...' coming his way. He'd even once been called a "bloody regurgitated cum bubble on a shitting man's ass," to which he'd had to give points for originality. When he was younger it had really hurt him that people didn't care enough for him to treat him nicely. But after years of abuse he had gotten used to it, and now it just seemed to slide ride off him. In fact, for the past few months he'd actually been looking forward to getting his daily allotment of insults.

It'd been Dewey's idea originally—to tally up the amount of insults they got daily and see who was currently winning. Each derogative term they could think of was given a point value according to its frequency and level of harshness. Bonuses were given for originality, first time recipiency, and daily combinations of the same word. Currently Dewey was winning with a score of 937 to Malcolm's 911.

On the particular day that this story takes place, Malcolm was walking to his locker and minding his own business. He had a text book open in one palm, reading up on Newtonian physics (which he really didn't need to do, but he sometimes had fun being nostalgic). He wasn't really paying attention to where he was walking, so it wasn't a surprise at all when he rammed straight into something tall and solidly built.

Immediately his book fell to the concrete, and he looked up a bit nervously at the jock he'd unceremoniously walked into. He recognized the guy—didn't know his name, but recognized him just the same. He was blond and had a face that reminded Malcolm of a pit bull. He was also very, very muscular.

Malcolm shook a bit, knowing exactly what was about to happen: he was short and skinny, and easily still fit into tight, cramped places such as high school lockers. He squeezed his eyes shut and cringed, just waiting for it to happen.

However, the guy didn't touch him. He simply growled, told Malcolm to "Watch where the fuck you're going," and then called him a name. Then he walked past, leaving Malcolm alone.

Malcolm was so stunned that he hadn't been physically assaulted that he nearly missed what he'd been called. When it did don on him, though, he grinned to himself. The particular word that had just been used on him was used extremely frequently; however, never on him. He was going to get bonus points, and quite a few of them, too.

He quickly snatched up his text book and ran to his locker to write down what he was sure was going to put him ahead of his younger brother.

Later in the day, after he, Dewey, and Reese had gotten home from school and were enjoying the interim before their parents got home, Malcolm asked Dewey what he'd been called that day.

Malcolm sat at his desk with his notepad in front of him, already tallying up his score. Dewey and Reese each sat on their respective beds, Dewey pulling out his own notepad and Reese flipping through a Playboy he'd found in the school dumpster.

Dewey read his list aloud: jerk, wise-ass, asshole, Busey, and even douche-nozzle.

Malcolm quickly added them up for himself: Jerk and asshole were common enough, so together they only equaled about 8 points. Wise-ass was a bit less common, so it gained a decent 6. Douche-nozzle got bonus points for originality and being even less common, giving Dewey another 15. Busey, however, really shouldn't have counted much. Not just because he was called one every single day, but because he was one—insults which were actually true didn't really count as an insult, and Malcolm always had to argue with Dewey over its point value. Today he only gave it a 3.

"So then," Malcolm said, eager to get to his list, "that's only thirty-two for y—"

"Uh-uh," Dewey interrupted him. "I'm not done yet."

Malcolm rolled his eyes at him.

"Well hurry up then."

Dewey turned around and grinned at him.

"I got called a Krelboyne."

Malcolm's jaw dropped just a bit.


"Yep." Dewey continued to smile at him. "Although I wouldn't give it points for originality because the guy was new, and I think he was confused. However..."

"Yeah, yeah," Malcolm grumbled. "First timer. But you're still not going to get much out of it—I got called a Krelboyne all the time."

Dewey immediately began to argue with him.

"Yeah, but you were a Krelboyne. I'm not. It should count as more for me."

As much as he wanted to cheat Dewey out of extra points, Malcolm had to agree that he was right. Tallying up the points for it, he came up with 34.

He scowled.

"Okay then. Your revised total for the day is... sixty-six. Dammit..."

He was starting to doubt that his prize insult was going to put him in front of his brother.

Dewey was beaming at his overall total (1,003—he'd been the first to pass the thousand mark), and Malcolm begrudgingly read off his list: buttmunch, fucktard, asshole, bitch, and jerk.

"You got called a bitch?" Dewey asked, incredulously.

Malcolm shrugged.

"Not the first time."

"Oh, good then."

Malcolm's scowl returned when he realized his mistake. Dammit...

Buttmunch and bitch were respectively rare for Malcolm, so combined they gave him a decent 20. Jerk and asshole both only gave him 4, and fucktard gave him 9.

"So then," Dewey said, feeling triumphant, "that's only thirty-three for you toda—"

"Uh-uh," Malcolm said, wagging a finger mockingly at his brother, "I'm not done yet."

This time Dewey rolled his eyes.

"Get on with it already then!"

Malcolm straightened up and cleared his throat. Then he brought up a leg to rest on his knee, and folded his hands into his lap.

Dewey looked like he was on the verge of jumping over the shelves at the end of the bed and strangling him.

"Today," Malcolm began, "I was called a fag."

Up until this point, Reese had been ignoring his brothers, not feeling their conversation important enough to eavesdrop on, and finding his Playboy far more interesting. So neither of his brothers noticed when his shoulders suddenly tensed, and he stopped looking down at his magazine, and instead looked up to stare at the opposite wall.

Dewey was looking at Malcolm quizzically.

"So what?"

Malcolm smiled back at him.

"It's my first time."

"You're lying."

"Nope, you can check for yourself."

Dewey jumped up and grabbed Malcolm's notepad from him, which contained every single insult he'd received since their game had started. He read over it quickly, and by the time he was done he was frowning.

"Fine," he said grumpily, "you get a quadruple score. But no bonus to its base score, it's far too common and not harsh enough."

Malcolm had been expecting this, and he launched into a passionate speech about how homosexuals had had to endure such language for years, and that it certainly was a harsh thing to be called. Then Dewey rebutted that, according to his logic, if Malcolm were gay then he would get even less points for it because he would actually be it. To which Malcolm countered that it would make the insult just that much harsher.

As they argued, neither boy noticed their older brother continue to grow more and more tense. The muscles in his shoulders were completely bunched up and knotted, and his fingers were beginning to tear through the edges of his magazine. When the muscles of his upper body no longer had any more space to contract, his whole body began to shake violently. There was a dark aura surrounding him as he sat and listened to his brothers argue over how many points they should get for being called a fag, and it was growing by the second.

Dewey threw up his hands in exasperation.

"I'm telling you, nowadays no one cares if they're called a fag," he said. "It's just something people do!"

Many years later, while sitting behind the Resolute desk and reminiscing about the good ol' days, Malcolm would decide that it was this fateful sentence spoken by his younger brother that would set the rest of his life in motion.

Reese shot up from his bed, every muscle in his body uncoiling and propelling him at least two feet from the bed's edge. He landed with a loud thunk on the room's wooden floor, and he glared both of his brothers down. Dewey and Malcolm stared back at him in complete shock, neither moving or speaking.

Reese turned his glare solely on Dewey.


Something about the seriousness in his tone told Dewey not to argue, and he turned and walked out without a word, shutting the door behind him.

Malcolm watched Reese for signs of sudden movement—how his mouth formed into a deeply set frown, his fists bunched at his sides, and the way he was standing squarely in front of him. He also started looking for quick exits—Reese was blocking the bathroom door, but if he was quick, he might be able to slip out the...


He'd been so focused on avoiding physical punishment that he almost hadn't been paying enough attention to hear it. He also had no idea what Reese wanted.

"Umm... What?"

Reese stared him straight in the eyes. Malcolm was very glad he couldn't shoot lasers out of them.

"Who." Reese said again.

Malcolm's face scrunched up as he contemplated that. He still had no idea what his brother was talking about.

"Who what?"

Reese's jaw set to one side and he took one full step forward, bending down and grabbing Malcolm's notepad off his desk. He held it up, gripping it so fiercely that its cardboard backing began to bend.

He jabbed it with his finger.


Suddenly Malcolm's mind began to work again, cogs and wheels spinning and spluttering as he realized what Reese was talking about. He quickly stood from his chair, his eyebrows shooting up along with his palms in a placating gesture.

"Whoa now Reese, it's not that big a deal. You don't have to—"

Reese lunged forward, his face now only inches from his brother's.


As he stared into Malcolm's eyes, Malcolm could see one of Reese's eyelids twitch. He was breathing heavily, too, and his face and neck were an extreme shade of crimson. Malcolm wasn't sure he'd ever seen his brother quite this pissed off before—in fact, he'd have gone as far to say that Reese was enraged. Extremely enraged.

Because of this, Malcolm had a conundrum on his hands. On one side of the arena was the fact that he was afraid that, if he didn't give Reese the information he wanted, he'd pummel him into next year. Far on the other side, though, was that if he did tell Reese who it'd been, Reese would probably go and either get his ass kicked, or kill the guy. And then, somewhere around where the referee would normally stand, was the fact that Malcolm really couldn't remember the jock's name, so he technically couldn't tell Reese a thing. It all made for an extremely scary situation, and Malcolm was beginning to feel the pressure.

He backed away, just slightly—just enough to have room to breathe. He thought quickly and furiously, trying his hardest to come up with something to appease his very, very angry brother, but failing miserably. All he could do was stare back into Reese's eyes and fear for his life.

"Reese, really, I... It's not that big a..."

Reese's nostrils flared at the sentence he was about to say, and he stopped abruptly.

"Why..." he started again. "Why is... Why is this such a big deal to you?"

He dropped his hands and cocked his head, genuinely curious. He'd known that Reese was protective of him, but he'd had no idea how deep it ran. One simple insult, which Reese probably used daily, could set him off so easily? That was... confusing.

That offering of sincerity seemed to crack Reese's resolve—his eyes and frown softened, he dropped the notepad to the floor, and his gaze shifted just slightly, from Malcolm's eyes to his cheek. However, he didn't say anything. He simply stood there and stared, looking more defeated than angry now—as if he wanted to be angry, but couldn't bring himself to it.

Malcolm wasn't entirely sure what was going on now. He wasn't afraid for his life any longer, but he was slightly afraid for his brother's mental state of being. They just kind of stood there, Malcolm searching Reese's face for some clue to tip him off to what was going on, and Reese staring blankly at the side of Malcolm's face.

This lasted for several minutes, and the only movement was Malcolm shifting his position from one foot to the other. And just when he thought that maybe this was getting just a little too awkward, and perhaps he should slip away to give Reese some room, Malcolm saw Reese shift, and suddenly strong arms were being firmly placed around his neck, and he was brought fully against his brother's body.

For a full five seconds Malcolm's mind didn't fully register what was happening. He could feel the firm grip that Reese had around him, but at the same time knew it wasn't anything threatening. He could also feel Reese's lips planted firmly against his right ear, and the heat emanating from him was all-consuming. He knew he was comfortable wrapped there in his brother's arms, and he knew, despite what his mind told him he really shouldn't believe, that he liked it. It was kind of nice. So after a complete five seconds of confusion, Malcolm decided to throw caution to the wind, and gingerly placed his arms around Reese's back.

They still didn't say anything—Reese seemed to be perfectly content with what he was doing, and Malcolm wasn't sure what he could say anyway. So he stood there with his brother, holding him and rubbing gentle circles into his shoulders. Despite the odd familiarity Reese was showing him, and the seemingly relaxed nature he was doing it in, Malcolm could feel that the muscles of his back were still tense, as if he expected to have to jump back at any moment.

Something deep inside him—something he hadn't even known existed—told him to fix that, and to do it fast. And another part of him, a part he had denied the existence of for years, made him gently turn his head and do something almost unthinkable—he kissed the part of Reese's neck just under the hinge of his jaw.

Immediately all the tension in Reese's body disappeared. It was as if he'd been a bundle of nerves a second before, and now he was exhausted. Malcolm could feel him sagging heavily against him, and he shifted his stance just enough to compensate for the extra weight.

For once he didn't think about what he'd just done. Under more normal circumstances he might have driven himself crazy wondering why the hell he'd just kissed his brother, but now, with Reese holding him like his life depended on it, he instead wrapped his arms firmly and tightly around his brother's middle and held him.

"Reese," he said softly, "what's wrong?"

He felt more than heard Reese's answer. His lips caressed his ear as he spoke—a sensuous feeling that sent a tingle down his spine. He felt Reese's cheek rub against his own as his jaw moved, and he felt the vibrations from his throat—deep chords that sent even more tingles to other, different parts of his body.

"You're not a fag."

At this point, Malcolm was sort of just going with the flow. And at the moment, he knew almost exactly where this flow was taking him. The feelings of adoration and gratitude that that simple sentence made swell inside of him were so overwhelmingly powerful that he did the next thing he never thought he would do. He leaned back, looked into Reese's chocolate brown eyes, and brought their lips together.

Reese melded into the kiss far more easily than Malcolm had thought he would, and suddenly it was Reese that was controlling it. His lips brushed against his brother's gently and softly, and from somewhere deep inside the back of his throat, something that sounded quite a bit like a cat mewling crept out.

Then they broke apart, Malcolm's head spinning just a little. Reese, however, returned to the serious look he'd had before, and Malcolm was almost afraid that he resented what had just happened.

What Reese said next washed that fear away.

"I love you."

Maybe it was the tone in his voice; perhaps it was one of those pieces of Malcolm that before then he'd vehemently denied existed; or maybe it was the way Reese said it without taking his gaze away from Malcolm's eyes. Whatever it was, Malcolm knew exactly what he meant.

Going with the flow seemed to be the current theme, so he went with his first instinct.

"I know."

And he had known, he thought. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he'd known that his older brother had had a huge crush on him for years, and sometime between then and now he'd fallen in love with him. He also knew, deep down inside, that he felt the same way. He didn't question it, didn't double think it. He simply knew, and he accepted it. His brother loved him in a more than brotherly way, and he felt exactly the same.

Reese was still watching him, expectantly. He looked almost scared.

"And?" he asked, actually sounding timid.

Malcolm grinned and stepped forward, reaching around Reese and enveloping him in another hug. He pressed his lips firmly to the shell of his ear, and whispered, "The feeling's mutual."

He felt Reese smile against his cheek, and turned to kiss him again. The entire time their lips were pressed together his smile grew, until Malcolm was sure he'd hurt himself. Then they broke apart again and Reese hugged him and pressed soft kisses to his neck.

That, however, was when they heard the front door slam, and knew their dad was home from work. So they broke apart, yet again, smiled at one another, and decided to go sit on the couch and watch Degrassi reruns with Dewey. They could explore their newfound... whatever it was later.

Malcolm walked right past the notepad he'd used to list his daily insults. All of it was gone from his mind, only to be replaced by thoughts of his brother. He didn't even see the final score that Dewey had quickly scribbled at the bottom of the page.


A/N: I dunno, it seems kinda broken to me. I just can't find the crack. It may be that Malcolm is just a little out of character (even though I know for a fact he can turn his uber-thoughts off). It may also be that there's really no back-history for this. Although I guess most of the back-history could just come from the show. Eh, I dunno. Suggestions?

I do, however, really like the Insult Game idea. Was quite proud of myself for thinking of it, cos it really seems like something Malcolm and Dewey would do. Might even have made for a good cold opener. XD

Reviews aren't necessarily necessary, however feedback is always nice. I get a nice number of hits on these, so I know people are reading them, but I don't know who. For the most part, that is. I know you lurkers are out there, and you can hide your identities, but not your presence. I SEE YOU. XD Still, reviewing is not necessary.

Hope you liked it.