hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2005-04-06 09:53 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2005-04-06 09:53 am
Entry tags:
Trade - Chapter III
Previous sections here
Chapter III
The car keys dug into the palm of Draco's hand as he waited outside Waterloo station, hovering near Blaise's BMW to make certain it didn't get towed for his extremely illegal parking job on Cornwall Road.
The London sky was the de rigueur immutable grey, and his tie whipped around in the strong wind underneath the overhang. He'd left the office in such a hurry he'd forgotten his jacket, and now he was freezing his arse off.
He was going to kill Julian.
He was going to stand about planning to kill his twin and then -– "Taxi?"
Draco spun around, lips pursed to cut someone off at the knees. Did he look like a fucking taxi driver? When he stopped he was pointy face to pointy face with his brother.
The Malfoy smirk was firmly etched in Julian's features, although his eyes were hidden by a pair of entirely-too-dark-for-London sunglasses; Draco took a long look at the black leather jacket and the slim cut black trousers before pronouncing his verdict. "You look fucking terrible."
This remark was then complemented by a sharp slap to the side of Julian's head, knocking his sunglasses askew. Julian removed the glasses and slipped them inside his jacket without any sort of comment, sarcastic or otherwise, which served to aggravate Draco even more.
"Where the fuck have you been!" A year's worth of tension splintered at the sight of his fraternal twin, and Draco, unable to keep a tight rein on his voice, found his words cracking. "Mother's at the end of her rag over you; I was reduced to hiring some incompetent fuckwits who couldn't tell me anything, and your sodding employers wouldn't tell me anything! How was I supposed to explain that you just fucking vanished one day?"
Julian rubbed the side of his head. "I missed you too."
'Don't talk to me right now," Draco commanded, yanking his brother into a brutal embrace. "If you say something about Queen and country, I might have to kill you."
"It's always good to be missed," Julian confided, his hold just as crushing as Draco's own.
"Next time, I'll go missing and then you can pine," Draco said, breaking free and using the remote to unlock Blaise's car before walking around to the driver's side.
"I don’t pine," Julian said disdainfully over the roof of the car. "I just kill people instead. It's very therapeutic; you should try it."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't tempt me."
The drive north to Primrose Hill from south London was not one of the more pleasant experiences Draco had ever had. He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, and more than once Julian had to remind him that there were other people on the road, to which he disdainfully replied that if they didn't see him coming it was their own fucking loss.
He repeatedly stripped the gearbox, crunching the gears and nearly mowing down several white-socked tourists on Kingsway. In short, the trip to pick up his brother and ferry him to their mother's home in north London exposed in glaring colours the real reason that Draco didn’t possess a car in London: he was a horribly aggressive driver. Cutting people off and running lights left, right and centre were the least of his offences.
He nearly caused three pile-ups at various roundabouts and shaved several flakes of paint off Blaise's car when he cut a lorry off on Woburn Place.
Julian didn't bat an eyelash the entire ride, which was wise on his part as Draco was in no mood for commentary from the passenger seat. It was only as Draco turned onto Euston Road that he began to loosen his death grip on the wheel. He didn't even notice the rather smug look on his twin's face until he stopped at a traffic light, strains of Radiohead wafting between them.
He looked once, twice, the third time Julian raised a slim eyebrow. "Yes, brother dearest?"
"Nothing."
Julian's eyebrow moved up fractionally. Draco knew that look. He gave it to people all the time. "Of course not," Julian said.
"You still look like shit," Draco said after a pause.
"I believe we've already covered that –- sadly the gaols in America don't come with fitness spas. I tried to keep my figure, but American food and I just don’t agree."
Draco could feel the corners of his mouth wanting to turn upwards, but he couldn't -– wouldn’t -- let them. He was having enough problems not breaking Blaise's steering wheel; all the anxiety he'd been storing up had bled all over the interior of the car.
"Stop fanning about like you've just done something exceptionally clever," he snapped as the light changed.
Julian licked his lower lip. "This from the man who announced to our entire year that he'd managed to slip into headmaster's office while he was at tea and superglue all his desk drawers shut?"
Draco blinked. Julian was sitting next to him, looking as calm as you please, while Draco was going out of his fucking mind with worry. Julian had been in gaol. In a fucking American gaol. Draco had seen Oz on Sky, and his brother, his younger brother, had been in one; apparently, no one had done anything to get him out.
It was not on at all.
Draco could feel his composure crumbling all around him. He kept expecting some dodgy Americans in raincoats to show up and take his brother away, again.
"Don't –- don't do that," he said quietly, letting go of the wheel and looking at his hands, clenched in fists that rested on his thighs.
"Sorry?" Julian leaned towards Draco, the smirk on his lips disappearing slightly.
"You -- you don’t get to do that!" Draco roared, rearing out of his seat, his fist catching Julian across his left cheekbone. Draco's adrenaline surged as the bones in his right hand howled in protest; the only thing that prevented him from climbing across the car was his safety belt.
Julian's blue eyes widened, and as he rubbed his jaw gingerly. "Point taken."
Draco, vibrating with anger, shouted over him. "You don't get to fucking disappear for a year, and then show up, happy as a fucking hooker, and get to act like everything is fucking all right! It is not all fucking right!"
It took a full minute for the pounding in Draco's ears to subside, and only then did he realise that car horns were blaring all around him. Sticking his sore hand out the window, Draco flipped the driver behind him the V, before shifting into first and taking off just as the light turned red again.
He felt much calmer as he turned onto Albany Street; and he focussed on getting to St Edmund Terrace in one piece, stealing only the occasional glance at Julian, sitting ramrod straight beside him.
"Feeling better now?" Julian asked as Draco pulled onto the street where their mother lived.
Draco said nothing as he parked the car, but instead of turning off the engine he unfastened his safety belt and turned to face Julian. The swelling was just beginning to start, and Draco flexed his hand experimentally, curling it back into a fist to hide the tremors. "It's not a matter of feeling better," he said perfunctorily.
"You want another go?" Draco pursed his lips when Julian offered his other cheek. "I assure you they do much worse to you in America."
Draco's stomach clenched violently, and he doubled over onto the gearshift, certain he was going to be sick in Blaise's car. His brother, the only person he loved more than his mother and Blaise, had been left to rot in America for a whole fucking year, and he hadn't even known.
He twitched at the feel of Julian's hand smoothing the hair on the back of his head. "If you're sick in Blaise's car, you realise you'll have to buy him a new one, don't you?"
Draco sat up fractionally. "What makes you think this is Blaise's car? It could be mine."
Julian met Draco's look with a full-on smirk. "Have you seen the way you drive?"
Draco bit back a grin of his own. Instead he sat up and rubbed his chest where it'd been pressed against the gearstick. "You took the train in –- you came from the continent, didn't you?"
Julian gave an elegant approximation of a shrug as he looked somewhere over Draco's left shoulder.
"You could've just flown in. I would've bought you a ticket –- mother would've rented you a fucking jet -– you didn't want to go through customs."
"Have you ever noticed how trying flying can be?" Julian asked vaguely. "Being cooped up in a tiny space with all those insufferable people?"
Draco lowered his voice to a very unpleasant hiss. "Do not change the subject –- what are you hiding from? And what is the fucking point in you working for fucking MI-6 if they leave you in a fucking American gaol for an entire year?"
Draco refused to blink when Julian finally met his eyes. "I did not ask to be sent up for a year," Julian's tone was acidic. "I did not ask for a lot of things -- however, like everything we do -– this is complicated."
"Of course it's fucking complicated," Draco retorted. "I can understand that -– but this year of nothing. This can't happen again, Julian, it just can't."
For the first time since he'd seen his brother, Julian actually looked tired. "Do you think I asked to go to gaol for a year? Do you think I enjoy the lying and the bloody paranoia and not seeing my family for fucking ages?! I didn't ask the CIA to kill the woman I loved. I didn't ask for this assignment, Draco –- it just. It happened."
Draco sighed and pinched his nose. The engine was still rumbling underneath him and he felt entirely too warm. "I would ask you why you don’t just leave, but--"
"People don't just leave the Secret Intelligence Service," Julian finished. "This is not like stacking shelves at Boots. I can't just turn up at Vauxhall Cross and say, 'No more elaborately constructed fake murder scenes! No more hits! No more covert operations! I fancy a respectable job; I'm off to work for the family escort service.'"
Julian's profession was a rather difficult subject at the best of times, but when viewed alongside the family business, the waters went from murky to downright opaque.
Years of not talking about what Julian did had created a protective barrier that didn't always help matters. "Is it all double-crossing and back-stabbing?" Draco asked.
Julian raised an eyebrow. "The clothing's not bad."
Draco returned his twin's tired smile. "I don't understand why they didn't extract you. I don't -– why couldn't we find you?"
"Because I was in America."
"Bullshit. That's complete and utter bullshit."
Julian fixed Draco with a wry grin. "Yes, well, that too, but remember, I was there as a guest of the CIA. I hardly think my employers would've wanted me to ruin their investment after all this time -- plus there was the matter of that name issue."
"What name issue? You think I don't know your name after twenty-five years of mother looking at me and calling me the wrong name?"
"While that is always entertaining, I meant that you were looking for the wrong name."
"I was not!" Draco said heatedly. "You think I don't know your name, Julian Adrian Malfoy?"
"Sark."
Draco blinked as Julian leaned back against the door. "What's a Sark?"
"My surname. Julian Sark is my name while undercover."
Draco rubbed his face. It was beginning to throb in the exact place where he'd punched Julian – sometimes he really hated the twin thing. "I couldn't find you because of a bunch of American bureaucracy and a fucking name change?" he asked, unable to keep his voice level.
Julian reached over and turned off the car. "You wouldn't believe what a name can hide – now can we get out of this bloody car so I can go use the toilet and see my mother?"
Draco reached out and rubbed Julian's hair into a staticy mess. "Not necessarily in that order I hope," he said.
The walk from Primrose Hill to Camden was a lovely, brisk affair that took 20-30 minutes on foot. This suited Draco fine since northwest London at three o'clock on a Thursday morning was incredibly peaceful -- if you didn't mind the fog, and the chill, and the occasional glare of headlamps in your face.
And if you hadn't walked halfway to Camden before realising that you had to return someone's car.
Draco had actually left his mother's home shortly before two in the morning, after an evening full of excellent champagne, very dry wit, and very little discussion of Julian's whereabouts.
Once Narcissa Malfoy had gotten over the shock of opening her front door and seeing her missing son, she had ushered both her boys into the sitting room, and called for Dobson, her faithful manservant, to arrange a feast fit for a king, or several kings.
After sending Julian upstairs to 'wash that filth from his body and his mouth,' Draco had watched his mother phone an entire infantry worth of personal services -- everyone from her hairdresser to her personal shopper at Harvey Nichols had been rung up to make certain Julian would be well looked after and well turned out.
When Narcissa Malfoy rang, people jumped, and house calls were made. Severus had even shown up shortly before dinner, looking as though missing Malfoys popped up all the time.
In between enjoying entirely too much Perrier-Jouët champagne and mocking his brother's post-gaol physique, Draco had been unable to have a moment alone with Severus to discuss certain details of Julian's return –- but there would be time for that in the morning. Julian would be there in the morning -– Draco had rung Kingsley and requested that he come round and keep an eye on 28 St Edmund's Terrace to make certain of that.
Draco had even authorised Kingsley to bring along his working partner, Mad-Eye Moody, as well. Draco would spare no expense to maintain his brother where he could keep an eye on him. The underlying unease hadn't left him in the most agreeable spirits, but Malfoys were nothing if not able to retain excellent facades.
Nevertheless, after several hours of laughing in the right place, and listening to Julian's various anecdotes about the ineptitude of the American Central Intelligence Agency, Draco was absolutely knackered and wanted to go home.
It was only once he'd promised his mother he would pop around for breakfast in the morning, and hugged his brother a minute too long, that Draco realised the last thing he wanted was to go home alone -– which had led him to Camden. Both times.
Camden at three in the morning had considerably more activity than Primrose Hill, and Draco found himself consciously watching people as he drove past to make certain no pissed teens suddenly fell under the wheels of Blaise's car.
The headlines on something like that would be horrific:
Intoxicated, Escort-Service Running Twin Of Missing SIS Agent Runs Down Defenceless Teen in Beemer
Laughing to himself, Draco parked around the corner from Blaise's flat, locked the car doors, pocketed the keys, and then promptly forgot all about them as he wandered over to 250 Camden Road. He'd perhaps had a bit more champagne than was advisable, but he was a Malfoy and could obviously handle it.
The lights were out across the front of the building, but that didn't necessarily mean that Blaise was asleep. Still, Draco pushed the buzzer several times without any sort of response.
The idea that Blaise might not be at home had never crossed Draco's mind, even though he now began to realise it was a great possibility. Blaise was not the sort of man to go without company unless he wanted to, and Draco –- Draco didn't want to think about that. He'd known Blaise forever and had met enough of Blaise's dalliances and 'partners' to last him several lifetimes.
It wasn't the drinking with rock stars (Blur and Supergrass) or the dating of supermodels (Helena Christensen and Boyd Holbrook) that vexed Draco as much as being introduced to people Blaise was actually serious about. The Thom Yorke episode alone made Draco's palms itch; Blaise had no business with some wonky-eyed, pasty, short rock star. It didn't even matter that Thom Yorke was straight; Blaise had an unsettling effect on people's sexuality.
He probably could've made Jude Law come out the closet, if he really wanted to.
Shaking off such thoughts, Draco crouched down, hiccupped, and picked up several loose pebbles. Squaring off, he threw them one by one at the window of Blaise's bedroom, which, thankfully, overlooked the street. If he'd been throwing rocks at the kitchen, he might've had to do it all night.
He stopped when there was a sudden burst of light from an on-coming car, and he glanced over as a hatchback of some sort cruised by slowly. There was an occupant, who looked male, although one really couldn't tell these days, especially at night and after a case of exquisite champagne. It struck Draco that perhaps loitering about Camden by himself, somewhat pissed, wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done. Camden was completely safe, he had no doubt about that, but Severus was worried about that murder issue –- and if anyone took him for trade...
The idea alone shocked him.
He wasn't fucking trade!
Scowling at the passing driver, Draco turned on his well-shod heel, and went back to throwing rocks at Blaise's window.
If Blaise didn't let him in immediately, and Draco was propositioned by some punter, Blaise would he bailing him out of gaol in the morning for GBH.
Draco was on his third handful of pebbles and beginning to grow extremely distraught, and progressively more unsteady, when there was curtain movement from Blaise's flat and the window slid up. "Let me in now," Draco hissed, stepping forward into the hedges.
A dark head leaned out, followed by a bare torso. Blaise had clearly been in bed, shirtless. Draco couldn't begin to understand why this made bits of him go hot -– well, that wasn't strictly true, but the truth wasn't the point.
Draco had seen Blaise naked –- several years ago now though, unfortunately, and apparently he'd filled out since then.
"Draco?" Blaise rubbed his eyes before peering down at Draco in confusion. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, his breath escaping in white puffs.
Draco hadn't thought it that cold -– but he suspected that was down to the drink. "I," he started and then stopped. "I brought the car back. It's in one piece."
Blaise gave Draco a fuzzy smile, and Draco's knees went a bit weak. "If you'd broken it—-"
"I'd've bought you a new one," Draco interrupted, "I know."
Blaise rubbed his head. "It's a bit cold out here right now, was there something else?"
Draco blinked. "The keys -– I wanted to give you the keys."
"Right," Blaise said around a yawn.
"Right."
Blaise peered down at Draco and his mouth twisted into a sleepy smirk. "You're completely smashed aren't you?"
"I am not," Draco said hotly, stepping out of the hedges. "I'm -– I'm –- fuck. What am I doing again? Were you sleeping?"
"I don't know what you were doing, Draco; I doubt I want to know either, but I was sleeping. It's what people do at night," Blaise said pointedly. "Look, I'm freezing my arse off, are you coming up or what?"
Draco scowled. "I would if someone would bloody well let me in."
Draco could see Blaise's eye roll from the second floor of the building. "You've got the fucking keys, you idiot," Blaise said. "What were you planning on using them for? Decoration?"
"Fuck off, Zabini," Draco called, patting down his pockets for the keys; perhaps he was a bit more than pissed if he couldn't remember that he had them to start with.
Walking over to the door, he slipped a large brass key in the lock, only to find the door already unlocked. The brightly lit entryway hurt Draco's eyes as he took the stairs two at a time, all the while muttering to himself about safety hazards. By the time he'd reached Blaise's flat he had the right key and was just reaching for the lock when the door cracked open.
"We don't want any," Blaise said, peering through the opening.
For the first time in hours, Draco relaxed and found himself smirking without tension. "Of course you do," he said, leaning against the doorway as Blaise opened the door wider.
Blaise wore a pair of dark blue boxers and not much else, to the great interest of Draco's dick and various other parts of Draco's anatomy. Like his mouth, which felt a bit dry, and his hands, which thought groping Blaise sounded like a brilliant idea. The bastard even had elegant feet.
Draco then wondered about Harry Potter's feet -- and Harry's thighs, and his backside and his cock and everything Draco hadn't seen yet -– but Blaise wasn't Harry.
"So, really, what do I owe the honour of this night-time call?" Blaise said, pointedly ignoring Draco's staring. "I told Terry if he ever wound up in the papers again, being sacked would be the least of his worries."
Draco exhaled softly through his nose and felt his body slowly begin to unwind. He closed his eyes; he could feel the heat escaping from Blaise's flat as they tarried in the doorway. His skin prickled as he realised exactly just how cold it must've been outside.
"Draco... Draco... Draco?"
Draco leaned into the warmth of Blaise's hand on his forehead. "Are you all right? You smell like Moet Cuvee, and you're acting like, well, not you."
"Perrier-Jouët," Draco corrected hazily. "Also, the car."
"What about the car?" Blaise's hand left Draco's forehead, and Draco leaned forward blindly to follow its warmth until it was reapplied to his temple, brushing his hair aside. "Did you have an accident? Is anything broken -– fucking hell, are you broken? Did you drive here pissed? What the hell is going on?!"
Blaise's voice was sharp with panic, and Draco moved easily as Blaise patted various bits of him, ostensibly to check for blood and broken bits.
When Draco opened his eyes again, Blaise was close enough to snog. "Not me, I'm all right," Draco began again, grabbing Blaise's wrists to still his motions. "Julian. I took the car to get Julian."
Blaise froze; the shadows under his eyes standing out in dark contrast to the lurid florescent lighting from the hall. "Julian's home?"
Draco stood up straight and scrubbed at his face. "The wayward twin returns."
"Ah."
Draco raised an eyebrow when nothing further was forthcoming. "That's all you can say? 'Ah'?"
Blaise gave another elegant motion with his shoulders that Draco didn't think should be called a shrug. "He's home; there's no point in worrying about him right now. If you're falling down with exhaustion and champagne you won't be any good to anyone anyway; you need to sleep."
Draco nodded, even as Blaise turned around and walked back inside.
"You coming?" Blaise called out from the recesses of his flat.
Draco stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
--Chapter IV---
Author's Note:
Americans have the CIA for international matters and the FBI for national matters, the British have MI-5 (domestic, i.e. national security) and MI-6 Secret Intelligence Service (foreign). For a better idea of the umbrella of British intelligence read here or go here for more about MI-6. Also, GBH =Grievous bodily harm.
+ I suppose also, you'll be wanting to see these people: The Cast of Trade
Betas by
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
ethrosdemon -- Footnote hater and lover of all things tattoo related; oxoniensis -- artiste extrordinare and all around smart biscuit, and serialkarma -- who has punk'd me by going MIA today. I see how it is – I know where you live and I'm holding your tape hostage!Music provided by Thom Yorke and Co: Karma Police and Blackstar (acoustic)
+ Posted on a Wednesday for
circe_tigana. You know this means you only get one chapter next week, right?![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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