Malcolm woke up to a strange figure standing over him.

Okay, it wasn't really a strange figure; he just couldn't tell at first, since it was—he checked the alarm clock—3:45 in the morning, but as his eyes adjusted to the night and everything slowly swam into view, he could see Reese, just standing, staring at him, his hand on Malcolm's face, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

"Reese?" Malcolm said, still half-asleep, "what the fuck are you doing?"

Reese didn't say anything, which was even weirder, just continued… so softly and oh-so-tenderly. Malcolm half-wondered if he was dreaming, 'cause this was definitely not Reese—Reese, the family expert on punching? Yes, he was definitely dreaming, he had to have been. But blinking didn't solve anything, and neither did pinching himself, so.

"Reese," Malcolm said again, this time a little louder, "what—"

"Huh?!" Reese said, jumping away from Malcolm as if he was literally the plague. "What—what are you doing up?"

"Um…" Malcolm's eyes darted to the corner of the room, then back to Reese. "Isn't that something I should be asking you?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, laughing nervously.

"What do you mean what do I mean? You had your hand—"

"I don't know what you're talking about?"

"Reese! It was like two seconds ago! I was literally awake for that!"

Dewey stirred in his sleep, and Malcolm panicked for a second—if Dewey was to hear about any of this—how the hell was he supposed to explain it? Either he really did imagine the whole thing, or Reese… Reese… Honestly, he didn't know what was worse. Is worse the right word? Or would you be happy with the second one? said the small part of his brain he always tried to ignore, the one that always had some "words of wisdom" to share with him about a certain someone that Malcolm wasn't interested in hearing.

"…Dude, you must have some really weird dreams," Reese said, slowly, walking away and closing the door to the bathroom behind him. Reese couldn't see or hear him anymore, as far as Malcolm knew. He ran his hand down the cheek that Reese had ("allegedly") caressed—if that was the right word for it. It was still warm to the touch, and closing his eyes, he could still feel Reese, his warmth, his gaze, the way it made Malcolm's heart…

"…You're such a bad liar," he whispered, to no one.

He didn't go back to sleep for the rest of the night.

its been like 40 years sorry but im Back On My Bullshit