fair/unfair

10.

       The fingers of Mal's left hand dug into Reid's neck as he held him up against the truck, the tip of the knife pressed just barely into his skin. Any wrong move would nick him, blood pouring from the wound before he had time to gasp for breath.

       Mal seemed unconcerned he held a man's life literally in the palm of his hands. "What are you doing here?"

       "Are you going to kill me?" Reid gritted out, lifting his chin slightly so he met the dark green eyes staring back down at him.

       Mal pressed the knife harder against his throat in response and Reid was stupid enough to laugh, the sharp blade catching the movement just barely. A drop of blood beaded up around the silver and then slid a line down his throat.

       Reid winced. "Not what I asked."

       It was a full minute before Mal pocketed the knife and his hand slid from Reid's neck to his chest to hold him firmly in place. As calm and collected as he tried to appear, Reid's chest betrayed him, heaving faster than his heart was beating.

       "You're fucking stupid," Mal said. He applied pressure to Reid's torso, stay there, and then he backed up a couple of steps. He eyed the blood now dying a dark stain into Reid's brown skin. "Scratch that, you're a dumbass."

       Reid pressed his fingertips gently to the wound, and they came back stained. He pulled his shirt up over his stomach and wiped the small amount of blood from his neck. "I knew you weren't going to use that thing."

       Mal stared. "I'm still contemplating."

       "No, you're not."

       He didn't agree or disagree; instead, he continued to frown at Reid from where he was now standing, a couple of feet away. "Go home, Reid."

       "Not until you tell me what the hell is going on." His voice came out more desperate than he intended. "I mean, Jesus, Mal. Do you live here?"

       Reid pushed off from the truck so he could get a good look down the path they just came from. The image of the dumpy camper, of Mal kneeling on the stained carpet, was still seared into his brain. It wouldn't go away, no matter how much he blinked. He looked back at Mal helplessly, like that would give him the answers, but the Fox was standing there looking just as wrong. None of this made sense.

       He hadn't even realized he'd started towards Mal instinctively, like the boy's gravity was pulling him, until he was being shoved back towards the truck. Mal jabbed a finger his way. "Don't fucking look at me like that."

        Reid stared at him, bewildered. "Like what?"

       "Like everything you know about me is wrong. I'm still a Fox. You're still a—"

       "A what?" Anger flared at the unspoken words, and Reid knocked Mal's hand away as moved closer. "A mutt? So are you! You live in a fucking trailer, Mal. You're just as much of a mutt as the rest of us."

       Mal ignored him. "Leave. Now."

       He started to walk away but Reid snagged the sleeve of the dark t-shirt he was wearing, knuckles brushing against the heated, pallid skin beneath his grip.

        "Not until you tell me what I need to know," he snapped.

       Mal brushed off Reid's grip. "I don't have to tell you anything."

       "No," Reid agreed. "But you will."

       He raised an eyebrow as if to say do enlighten me, dumbass.