STEALING, malconnor

two.

Malcolm had never really liked running. Well, he used to like it.

But now, instead of the pure exhilaration he used to feel, nothing but fear ran through his body. Running, which used to bring joy to the son of Athena, now brought only flashbacks. He remembered running across the expanse of the city, desperately leading his siblings to 59th Street Bridge, slashing at monsters as they went. He remembered running to his fallen comrades, not daring to think that they were truly dead. 

The memories of the war always seemed to slip back into his mind. Torn, bloodied clothes. Broken spears. The remains of monsters laying on the roads. Lifeless bodies.

The aftermath was worse though.

Malcolm could still smell the smoke. They'd burnt shrouds, as they all sat around the campfire, Chiron's face still and stoic. The shroud burnt up in flames, sizzling and charring. The aftermath was always worse. 

From then on, Malcolm Pace refused to run. Instead of all the joyous memories of running through Camp Half-Blood and playing Capture The Flag, all the memories which crept into his mind when he ran were ones he wished to leave in the past.

Malcolm pulled his sweatshirt closer to himself, his pace slowing, as he started to walk. He watched as campers ran around camp, going to their classes, or playing in the snow, laughing and talking. Winter had always been beautiful at Camp Half-Blood. 

Malcolm smiled a little, looking around for any sign of the two troublemaker brothers. He couldn't see anything, just little Harley and Nyssa fiddling around on the porch of the Hephaestus Cabin, with some new invention. Butch and his cabin-mates were making snowmen and decorating them. Katie and Miranda and their brother were sobbing over their plants — the Demeter kids were dramatic. But Malcolm loved them, just like he did all of his other fellow demigods.

He sighed and made his way over to the Hermes cabin, hoping that one of the Stolls was inside. Preferably Connor. Travis had always been more high-strung than Connor and honestly he didn't want another run-in with Travis and his fucking green slime. At least Connor was more chill — he wasn't actually but whatever. All Malcolm really wanted at this point was his blueprints back.

He tucked his hands into his hoodie and looked over in the direction of the Hermes Cabin. Sighing, Malcolm walked over, the snow crunching beneath his feet and knocked on the door.

Immediately, it swung open, the tall, lanky figure of Connor Stoll blocking the doorway. He leaned against the frame of the door, his arms crossed.

Malcolm couldn't help but peek inside the cabin.

He'd never been inside before; except for the few days he'd spent here before Athena claimed him. But he didn't remember that and the Hermes Cabin had been rebuilt quite a few times over the years. The inside of the cabin looked, for lack of a better word, brown. The interiors were quite simple; a good number of bunks, wooden floors and — Holy —

Was that a catapult? And balloons? And slime? Where did these kids get all of this from?

Connor wagged his finger in front of Malcolm's face. The blue-eyed boy stepped forward to cover up the cabin door, "No peeking, Malcolm."

Malcolm nodded, though he was rolling his eyes on the inside. "I, uh," Malcolm said, shuffling around, tucking his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, "was wondering if you could give me my blueprints back." It sounded more like a question than a statement but whatever, Malcolm thought.

The right side of Connor's mouth lifted up in a smirk. "And you know I have your blueprints how?" he leaned against the doorway, the smirk still painting his face. Connor was wearing a full-sleeve shirt, and the khaki shorts he seemingly wore all year and how he wasn't yet freezing his ass off, Malcolm didn't know.

"Because I can't find them and if anyone at camp has them, it's you and your troublemaking brother." Malcolm smiled cordially.

Connor chuckled, his throat bobbing with the sound. "Right," he chuckled again, a grin on his face, "and if even if I do have your blueprints, what's the chance of me giving them back to you?"

Malcolm's brain whirred. Connor was right — the Stoll brothers would never give something back, unless...

He made a trade.

Could work. They were Hermes kids after all, and if Malcolm could trade something which Connor wanted— "We make a trade," he said firmly.

Connor looked at him for a few seconds as if he were joking, and then straightened up and raised an eyebrow at the son of Athena. "We make a what now?"

"A trade," Malcolm repeated, putting emphasis on the word.

Connor nodded slowly, and Malcolm could almost hear the gears in his brain turning. The son of Hermes contemplated it for a few seconds and looked  at Malcolm, the smallest smirk on his face and said, "What are you trading then?"

"Whatever you want." 

Malcolm should not have said that. Not to a Stoll.  Never to a Stoll. 

Connor's smirk only grew wider.