Work Text:
The doorbell rings and she immediately rushes (well, as fast as she can, she is over 70 after all) to answer it. She can barely wait to lay eyes on her only son. She falters slightly however as her eyes fall on the face of the man at the door. Even for a Scottish person, this man is pale, he is too thin and has shadows under his pale eyes. He looks tired, she half expects him to full asleep at the threshold.
“Malc!” she exclaims anyway and pulls her poor son in for a hug. Her face is buried in his chest, he’s as tall as his father but thankfully that’s one of the very few similarities.
He is slightly stiff in the embrace, like a school boy being hugged by his mother in front of his friends at the school yard, but he squeezes back slightly as his arms fold around her.
“Hey, ma.” He says softly. She pulls out of the embrace and stares at his face close up. He smiles back at her and for a moment she can see the young boy who was always so desperate to impress her. She can see the young boy who had his innocence spoiled by her bastard of a husband. She can see the young man who stepped up to be ‘the man of the house’ when that bastard finally disappeared off the face of the planet.
She ushers him into the house, rambling as she leads him by the hand, as though he’s never been there before. Not that he’s been there that often. One of the first things he did when he was earning a decent wage was get her a house in a nicer area. She refused to leave Glasgow, it had been her home all her life, and she could certainly handle herself. However it was nice to have peace of mind in ones older years.
“Look at the size of you for goodness sake. Have you been eating right? You were always like that as a boy, y’know? Never used to eat your packed lunch, you’d eat the tangerine and attempt the biscuit. But the sandwiches were always left. Here sit down, I’ll make us some tea.” Malcolm is standing there with his mouth open, clearly unsure which part of her speech to protest against first. “I said sit, Malcolm.”
She gives him a gentle shove. Once he’s sitting down she potters off into the kitchen. Several moments later she returns with tea and biscuits.
“Thanks ma.” He picks up his cup from the table and reluctantly takes the biscuit she shakes violently at him. “Where’s Susan?”
“Ah, your sister will be down with Graham and the little ones tomorrow. I wanted a day with my son. After all it’s not like you often visit. Christmas seems to be the only time I can force you to come see your poor old mum.”
She is serious, they both know that, but it is wrapped in humour. That still doesn’t stop Malcolm looking stricken, and she remembers the sensitive teenager that looked at her the same way.
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It had started as an unimportant argument about homework. She told him he needed an education to get anywhere. He told her he was trying his best, helping round the house; he didn’t think it was too much to ask to have a night with his friends. It escalated from there until they were shouting abuse at each other, which didn’t seem that bad until that phrase had fallen out of his mouth.
‘Don’t be such a fuckin’ bitch!’
The silence at that moment was deeply uncomfortable. He seemed stricken, devastated and angry at himself for saying it. She was remembering another tall man, who had spat those words at her. She couldn’t help the tears that fell. She couldn’t help the flinch as he reached for her. She couldn’t bring herself to care as he looked horrified with himself. She had fled the room at that moment, locked herself away in her bedroom.
The next morning she had come down to find him waiting at the kitchen table with red rimmed eyes and a tear streaked face. He had looked up like he expected her to hit him, like he expected her to sink to the level his father had on a regular basis.
It had only taken seconds before she realised how foolish she had been. How foolish they had both been. This wonderful, intelligent boy could never be his father. This wonderful son of hers, who did his utmost to care for the family, who had never really had a proper childhood, would never stoop so low. In moments he was gathered in her arms as he cried, asking for her forgiveness, pleading with her. She had hushed him, told him it wasn’t his fault, he was her precious boy.
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She saw that in his face as he looked horrified.
“No, mum, it’s not like tha’.” He was stuttering, quick to reassure her. “It’s just work-I just-I have to-I didn’t mean to leave it so long...”
“Shut up Malcolm. I’m just joking.” He does go quiet but she can tell he’s still not happy about it. “I know you work hard, I know you love your party.”
She knows that he works hard. She knows that’s an understatement.
He is buried under the work, buried under his job. She knows that he says he is lost, replaced by his job. She knows that Jamie MacDonald (who calls her to keep her updated when Malcolm is too busy) worries that Malcolm is actually gone and only his job remains. But she knows better, she knows that he is under there somewhere.
She can tell at times like this when he comes home for Christmas. When he spends a night slowly unwinding with his mother. When she confiscates his phone (and he complains about not being a fucking child, and she tells him to mind his language) she can see the smile on his face hidden in a scowl. When her daughter, son in law and granddaughter come down the next day, and her granddaughter spends all of Christmas dinner in awe of her uncle Malcolm as he impresses her with stories and colouring ability.
She can tell when she sees her son curled up on the couch asleep with a protective arm curled around his niece. When she sees him joking and laughing (actually laughing!) with his brother in law at his sisters expense. When she hears her two kids bickering like children.
She knows her son is still in there, he’s just buried deep.