Work Text:
Mal did not give himself into to smiling, whipping his cape around his shoulders with a pleasing swish! As he fastened the hidden clasp, he caught sight of the himself in the cloudy mirror hanging on the inside of his closet. The only other mirror was in the bathroom, made of metal instead of glass. On one of his less interesting days, his father had shown him how to buff it until it gleamed. It was mundane, but when they were finished and Mal's arms had ached with overuse, Corbin Underwood had slapped him on the back and declared, "Now that's a fucking shine." It had been a satisfying day, all things considered. Much more successful than the day Corbin attempted to teach Malek how to cook pancakes, in any case. Or was it bake pancakes? That day, the idea of cooking- or baking- had brought on a strong wave of homesickness. Not that Mal begrudged his father for his actions, or that Mal disliked their simple living, but cooking- or baking- reminded him so strongly of Ernest, that he had been unable to concentrate properly. He ended up mixing in too much milk and adding insufficient amounts of flour, leaving the batter watery and imperfect. He hadn't noticed his error, until his father yanked him away from the skillet, muttering darkly over the blackened crisps burnt into the pan.
But today, he was finally donning the cape and the mask. The Little Bird moniker was never officially passed to to him, but Mal believed he was fairly good at reading the subtle undercurrents of a situation. The Little Bird uniform had been folded neatly at the bottom of the armoire in his room- which Mal hypothetized had once been Marshal's old room- where it clearly meant for him to find. Earlier over breakfast, his father had eyed his barely noticeable fidgeting and given him a smirk smile and said, "Shit, kiddo, you haven't stopped twitching since I woke up." The Rook had seemed to leer at him across the table. "How's about we stretch our legs. Suit up, and we'll go for a walk."
The Rook and his Little Bird would fly again today, and Mal could barely contain his excitement. But he forced himself to relax, slowing his inhale and exhale to slow his pulse. Professionalism was non negotiable. Although the previous Little Bird was loud and frequently chatted up both civilians and opposition, Mal would take a more serious approach to his role at his father's side. He'd be a herald for the Rook, but without words, instead with action, providing a silent warning to their targets before the Rook dove into their midst. Without realising it, Mal's heart had sped up with anticipation. The idea of working alongside his father was making it hard to control his emotions.
He allowed himself to smile briefly at his reflection as he smoothed on his domino mask. He liked the way the cape fell around his shoulders. The uniform fit loosely in some places, since Marshal was physically bigger than Mal was at his age, but the Little Bird's emblem was proudly displayed on his chest. His heart swelled with pride at the sight of himself. A hero. Then he darted from his room. He practically sprinted down the stairs, leaping over the banister, turning in a neat front flip before landing lightly in the center of the entrance hall, flush with elation. A tiny part of him was still marveling that this was happening, while the rest of his brain demanded he hold his feelings in check.
Corbin stared at him. And Mal felt... taken a back. Corbin was staring at him, normal looking and in civilian clothing. Corbin was staring at him, not the Rook.
Mal realized he had made a terrible miscalculation.
Corbin seemed to flounder in the suddenly unbearable tension occupying the room. Mal felt inadequate. He must look a mockery to the Little Bird legacy. To his elder brother, as well. Shame made his cheeks burn, and the feeling dropped heavily into the bottom of his stomach. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, willing himself to speak. "Father, I-"
"Nevermind, kid," Corbin's voice was hoarse. Gruffer than usual. "I mean an actual fucking walk, not this shit. It's okay. Just go get changed." There was an unidentifiable emotion lurking beneath the forced calm of his father's voice. Ragged and exhausted. Mal couldn't bring himself to see the terrible expression that must be on his father's face.
Instead he turned and disappeared upstairs.
He didn't come back down. Nor did his father come up to get him.