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hackthis_archive) wrote2005-05-17 09:40 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2005-05-17 09:40 am
Entry tags:
Trade – Chapter IX (2 of 2)
Previous sections here
part one
There was blood smeared on the back of Draco's hand that he was only vaguely certain wasn't his. He paused outside 28 St Edmunds Terrace to take a deep breath and collect himself.
For the first time he also noticed the mud smeared into the right thigh of Blaise's jeans, and when put alongside the grass stains and the bruises, Draco made quite the wrong impression. That made his teeth ache.
Everything in his life was about appearances: the appearance of a united family, even when Draco was ready to choke Julian with his bare hands. The appearance of sanity, even when he was cracking from the inside out, and had taken to sticking his hands in his pockets rather than risking anyone seeing the tremors.
Looking this untidy just wasn't on at all, and the fact that Draco hadn't noticed it en route from the Heath was a truer testament to his state of mind than the calm façade that he was attempting to put together for his mother. As someone who had been raised to think of nothing but appearances, his dishevelled state was tantamount to being seen in last season's fashions at Ascot's opening day.
In short, he was failing miserably.
Julian was gone, again; Draco had just threatened an agent of Her Majesty with death if he came near Blaise, and also, in a neat hat trick, he was bleeding. He couldn't even recall having bitten his tongue, but apparently, he had. Plus, the stupid blood on the back of his hand had stained the fine blonde hairs and was refusing to go away no matter how hard he scrubbed with his fingers or rubbed his hand against Blaise's worn denim.
The hysterical bubble that had taken up residence in his throat as of late was almost welcome, although he was starting to feel like Lady sodding Macbeth.
It didn’t help that his heart was beating erratically in his chest as though he'd run a long distance, when really, he'd stalked most of the mile and half from the Heath.
He felt fairly certain that he'd meant to get back to Blaise, but his feet had begun to irritate him something dreadful, which was obviously what he got for wearing shoes half a size too small. So while under normal circumstances, the distance would've been nothing, today, Draco could feel the blisters forming on his little toe, and his mind seemed to be dangerously close to fracturing all over the kerb.
It would've helped if just one fucking taxi had decided to do its job while he'd been on Adelaide Road, and come past, but there didn't seem to be one around for love nor money nor a tenner to go half a fucking mile, which was unheard of.
He could feel the bruises coming up from his earlier grappling session with Mr Potter, and he twitched violently when his mobile went off in his back pocket.
The tiny silver device seemed indicative of everything that was wrong at the moment, too new and sleek and shiny, too much like that fucking bastard. Fucking bourgeoisie.
It never actually occurred to Draco to answer the shrill ring tone, and it was only after he'd unceremoniously thrown the phone in the road and watched it get run over by an appallingly purple Daewoo, that he wondered who might've been on the other end.
He prayed it hadn't been Blaise, and then promptly told himself it didn't matter overmuch, since he would see Blaise again soon enough, but it still niggled at the back of his mind. Regardless, he was -- he was his mother's son and they didn't let other people affect them this way. Taking a deep breath, Draco took the steps one at a time, and true to form, Dobson had the front door open before Draco could even remove his keys from his pocket.
"Good afternoon, Master Draco." Dobson had the same placid visage he'd worn for the last twenty years, and not a muscle in his face twitched despite what Draco felt certain was his wretched appearance. "I've been expecting you."
Draco didn't think he had it in him to be surprised anymore, and he simply nodded as he stepped into the immaculate, cream-coloured foyer. Draco's stomach growled loudly as Dobson shut the door behind him, but Draco couldn't even find it in himself to feel embarrassed in the slightest. Instead, he held onto Dobson's supporting arm so he could kick off Blaise's trainers.
"Is my mother about?" Draco inquired tiredly. He wasn't knackered in the sense of needing a lie-down, but he was weary as though he'd aged rapidly in the last few hours.
There was a part of him that insisted that he'd done something great by warning Potter off, and now, life would be fucking brilliant with Blaise. Except that Draco knew better. If Draco had learned nothing else, it was that things never came up roses and runway shows and all that tripe. He had Blaise, but he'd lost his brother, again.
He never seemed to have everything he needed; there was always something missing.
Dobson interrupted his train of thought. "I'm afraid the mistress is away for the day."
At first Dobson's answer didn't make any sense to Draco, why would his mother leave the day Julian was set to depart and then it struck Draco that his mother had most likely gone out so as not to be alone. Of course that was all well and good for his mother, but it did fuck all for him. "I don't suppose it would help to ask you who told you to expect me?"
"Now you know it's never been my place to tell one Malfoy what another Malfoy is doing," Dobson said reproachfully.
"Julian," Draco surmised, but Dobson's face remained enviably blank. Clearly he could teach Draco a thing or two about not showing emotion, or even showing anything at all, and again, Draco felt himself at a loss. No brother, no mother, that just left one option.
"Perhaps the young master would care to wait in the sitting room while I draw him a bath?" Dobson had long ago learned the art of giving an order and making it sound like a suggestion.
Draco nodded his head and hobbled down the marble hall. "That's the best idea I've heard all morning," he said unable to suppress a sigh. He paused for a moment and turned back to find something terribly close to fond regard on Dobson's face. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to fix me a few cucumber sandwiches as well?" he said.
Dobson merely raised an eyebrow and gestured towards the lounge, and Draco couldn't help the smirk that crossed his features. "Let me guess, you've already got those ready as well."
"It would never do to be unprepared," Dobson said pointedly. "I shall bring down your dressing gown so you can change out of those -- garments. And if I'm not mistaken, Master Julian left the rubbing alcohol and the cold compress in the rosewood credenza."
Draco just chuckled. Whatever Dobson thought had happened, or knew had happened based on Draco's appearance, he didn't seem inclined to judge, and Draco found himself staring after the wizened old man long after his shoes had clickety-clacked away.
Shaking it off, Draco paddled into the lounge and paused in the entryway to shield his eyes. The sun was streaming in through the large bay windows and reflecting off of the large mirror, which hung over the fireplace. The entire room was done in pale shades of grey, sky blue and sage with various accents, all chosen for their tasteful ability not to detract from his mother's pride, a Turner that Severus had bought her for her fortieth birthday. How much Severus had had to shell out for such a present, Draco didn't know. He and Julian had agreed over six bottles of Moet Cuvee that one didn't pay millions of pounds for a solitary canvas and oil painting for just 'a friend.' That was as far as they'd reached in trying to sort out the relationship between their mother and Severus Snape before they'd both decided that what they didn’t think too hard about couldn't possibly scar them for life.
Shaking his head, Draco squinted as he padded across the room towards the coffee table and the silver tray stacked high with sandwiches and lemon barley water.
There was also a copy of the morning paper on the table, and Draco glanced briefly at the headlines about The Fake Trade Murders. He stuffed two sandwiches in his mouth unceremoniously, grimacing at the dirt embedded under his nails and the dried smear of blood on the back of his right hand. His mother would be appalled that he hadn't washed his hands first, but Draco was ravenous.
Chewing seemed much more laborious than normal with the cut inside his mouth, and Draco just stopped himself from dropping down onto the sofa in his soiled state. Every muscle in his body seemed disoriented as though not certain whether to ache from rolling on the ground or be relaxed from the previous evening's vigorous sexual activities. Still, his mother would've flayed him alive for sullying her Edwardian antique in his current state.
Glancing around the room, Draco decided what he really needed was a drink. There was a large decanter of Severus' favourite brandy in the drinks cabinet, and Draco was only mildly surprised to find the cold compress and a box of plasters alongside the brandy.
His brother knew him well. Draco almost thought it was too well, but after twenty-five years he knew better. They were twins; they were always going to know things about each other that other people didn’t. Julian was always going to be a part of Draco and as such that meant he was always going to worry -– they -- were always going to worry. But soon Draco would have Angelina watching over Julian, which was encouraging, and he had Kingsley and Neville, and his mother had everyone, including Severus, so apart from his father's corpse in the middle -– they would be all right.
At the very least no one would be spending the night in gaol.
Pouring himself three-fingers of brandy, Draco took several ice cubes from the perennially stocked ice bucket and dropped them inside the compress. He really did need to sit down if he were going to self-medicate and get himself together, and he found himself spreading out the Daily Telegraph on the sofa so he could let his feet rest for a brief moment.
His brain had quietened down rapidly once Draco had begun to eat and drink, and the cold compress numbed his face nicely with help from the brandy. So it was with some dismay that he glanced down at the paper and saw a photograph of Blaise, looking very wrinkled and undone, with Damon Albarn.
And Thom Yorke.
Together.
Outside Brown's.
Theoretically speaking, Draco understood that the photograph had been taken in the last 48 hours, which meant before the shagging but after the row. Which meant that, really, Draco had no reason to put his fist through the newspaper and rip a large hole, including the photograph, out. However, the rather large, green possessive streak -- roughly the length of the A1 -- that ran through Draco's mind didn't really care.
That was his. Blaise was his, and he was not supposed to be looking fucking molested while having a fag with Thom fucking Yorke and Damon bloody Albarn outside some fucking nightclub.
Blaise had said -– he'd said if Draco wanted to know about Thom he'd have to ring his solicitor -– and now this. His Blaise was not supposed to fuck the mangy lead singer of Radiohead.
This was not going to be tolerated.
There were rules for a fucking reason.
Of course, the fact that they'd broken all the rules at this point didn't really matter; Draco was not supposed to be the rational one. Brandy sloshed all over his hand when he slammed the glass down on the coffee table, and he ignored the tractionless newspaper as he stuffed the piece of paper in his back pocket and climbed over the sofa to grab the phone from the end table.
The phone was an enormous gold detailed number because his mother loved her antique phones, but Draco found the rotary dials impractical. He had to ring Blaise twice since the first time he apparently dropped a number.
The phone rang and rang at Blaise's flat, but he didn't answer, and Draco scowled into the receiver as the answer phone picked up. "I don't know where you are, Blaise Zabini," he began heatedly, "but I am going to track your arse down, and when I do you are going to answer for-–"
The answer phone cut Draco off again and he slammed the phone down in a rage. "Fucking answer phones!" he shouted.
It was difficult to threaten one's lover when the tape kept running out on him. He picked up the phone to dial Blaise's mobile, but abruptly rang off when he realised he didn't actually know the number by rote. That was what he had his mobile for, to store all the numbers he couldn't bring himself to remember, but since it was currently in pieces out on the street it was fucking useless.
"Damn, damn, damn," he cursed as he dialled the office. Blaise had to be there, or at the very least Neville would have Blaise's mobile number and then Draco could ring him up and yell until his heart's content. How dare Blaise be seen tarting it up with, well, his mates? Not that Thom Yorke was Blaise's mate. No. He was the fucking competition. Draco knew all about Blaise's massive crush on Thom fucking Yorke, and he'd seen that bastard actually respond to Blaise, but he couldn't fucking well have him.
Blaise was his fucking property.
"Thank you for calling Malfoy Limited, how may I be of service to you today?" Draco had never noticed quite how salacious Neville made his greeting sound, and he blinked rapidly as his mind went decidedly off track.
His hormones seemed willing to respond to anyone and that simply wasn't on. "Neville, it's Draco. Put me through to Blaise at once."
There was a noticeable pause from Neville, which, in turn, gave Draco pause. He realised he hadn't actually spoken to Neville since the incident at the warehouse with the pushing and yelling and the threatening with disembowelment by spoon. Ah. Draco'd forgotten about the soup spoons, but Neville was all professionalism. "Mr Zabini's not here right now, sir, may I take a message?
Draco found himself looking around the lounge warily for no reason at all, except that Neville was calling him 'sir' again. "Neville, about the other day, I know..." Draco died off as he tried to figure out what to say.
"Sorry for threatening to kill you, even though you lied to me for six years, you traitorous bastard," just didn’t quite have the right ring to it -- but it came out regardless.
Draco was slightly awed by his own candidness -- it was so unlike him; he really was going to have to visit Dr Pomfrey directly.
"I was out of line," he amended eventually and there was another pause. "You're not sacked by the way."
When Neville spoke again he sounded much less tense, but he still gave Draco great pause. "No, sir, I'm afraid Mr Malfoy's not in either, however, Madam Malfoy is in if you should care to speak with her."
Draco blindly grabbed up his glass of brandy and tossed back the remaining two fingers. It went down the wrong way and he found himself coughing out his response. "Madam Malfoy?" Cough. "Neville, are you taking the piss?"
"No, sir." Draco could just detect the hint of amusement in Neville's voice, and he scowled at the receiver, and then at his empty brandy glass. He needed another drink.
"Do you mean to tell me that my mother is at the office, my office, the offices where you are right now?" Draco inquired as he attempted to juggle the phone, the compress, his brandy glass and getting to his feet.
"Yes, sir," was Neville's only reply, but it certainly explained a lot. God only knew why his mother was at his office, but the possibilities were endless. Pansy had rung his mother to grass him up; she was trying to keep busy with Julian gone again; she -– she -- bugger.
Draco's mind fizzed and whirred as he tried to carry the phone over to the drinks cabinet. This was why his mother needed a cordless phone. Carrying a sixteen-pound phone all over the room was not on at all. It explained, however, why she never complained about carrying he and his brother around when they were small.
"Why is my mother at work?" Draco hissed, abandoning the compress so he could carry the phone in one hand and the glass in the other.
"Well, it was my understanding that she happened to be in the neighbourhood and –"
Draco didn't buy that for a minute. "Did Pansy ring her?"
"No, not to my knowledge."
"Don’t play silly buggers with me," Draco threatened mildly. "I know you have all sorts of spy capabilities that you're not telling me about."
"I'm sorry, sir," Neville said placidly. "I really don't know what you're referring to."
"Then it must've been Julian," Draco huffed, abandoning the glass too as he realised he would need both hands for the phone. Perhaps he would just stand in front of the cupboard and drink there.
"Well, sir," Neville hedged. "Would you like to speak with Madam Malfoy?"
"What? No! I mean, yes, err, bollocks." Draco could just imagine the tiny smirk on Neville's face. God only knew what he was thinking. Draco would have to ask Theodore. Speaking of which.
"No more 'sir' business," Draco said, finally making his way to the drinks cabinet, "and while we're on the subject of my twin and how much trouble you are in for lying to me-–"
"Sir, I can explain that." Draco looked away from the brandy when there was the sound of a throat clearing on his right. Dobson stood in the doorway, face as impassive as a magistrate, holding a white cotton robe.
Draco sighed and crossed the room, carrying the bloody phone. At least the length of the cord allowed for some freedom of movement, and he felt certain it said something about his exhibitionist tendencies and how well he'd been trained that he knew Dobson wouldn't release the dressing gown until Draco had removed his filthy clothing.
True to form, Dobson didn't bat an eyelash as Draco set down the phone's base before unzipping Blaise's jacket and handed it over.
"Don't interrupt," Draco told Neville distractedly. "As I was saying, since my brother seems so inclined to take all my employees away, I understand there will be an opening at the reception desk shortly; and seeing how I prefer my escorts not to engage in relationships while working for me, perhaps you should see if your Mr Nott is interested in a job change."
There was a dead silence over the line and for a moment, Draco thought Neville had rung off. "Neville? Neville, are you still there?"
"Sir, yes sir."
Draco nodded even though Neville couldn't see him, and it was only after he'd unfastened Blaise's jeans and began to shove them down that he recalled he'd gone without pants. He hesitated briefly as flashing the family servants wasn't really on, but he knew Dobson well enough to know he wasn't going to get his robe without giving them over. "Jesus, no more sir business, Neville. You sound as though you've been working for the SAS."
Draco dropped the receiver as he tried to hand over Blaise's jeans and take the dressing gown without giving Dobson a full show. He pulled on the cotton dressing gown as he bent down to pick up the phone, except there was only shallow breathing on the other end, and Draco groaned when he realised what it had to be about. "You're having a laugh at my expense aren't you? SIS and SAS and Special Branch and the whole lot of you are just trying to made me mental."
"I worked in communications," Neville confessed. "The pay was shit; now I work for Malfoy Limited. There's really nothing else for it. Let's just say that I feel better suited to this line of work."
Draco groaned and scratched his head with dirty hands. He was probably getting flakes of dried blood in his hair. Disgusting. "That's lovely; I'm glad to know Her Majesty is training all my future employees. Now, if we're all sorted here, would you please have Blaise ring me the minute he comes in. He and I need to have a wee chat about an item in today's paper."
"That wouldn't be --," Neville cut himself off as though he'd thought better of whatever he was going to say.
"Exactly," Draco finished, "so it would be in his best interests for him to ring me before I find him first."
"I'll pass the message along, but as you haven't answered your mobile all morning, perhaps that might be a problem."
Draco was this close to calling Neville on his cheek –- but he had a valid point. "My mobile had an accident."
Neville didn't seem surprised. "Those can happen," he said calmly.
"I know. Now, if Blaise rings—-"
"I'll have him ring you directly."
"And if my mother inquires—-"
"I've not heard from you."
"Good man," Draco said. "Perhaps Julian was right to hire you after all."
Draco was somewhat taken aback by Neville's laugh. "I'm glad you think so."
Draco rang off without any sort of further comment, leaving the phone on the floor. Dobson was gone, off somewhere to magically remove the stains from Blaise's clothes as part of his inexplicable capabilities; his mother was in his office, which meant he really didn't have to go into work today. His brother was off, doing whatever he did to earn a living, and Blaise was somewhere, but he'd forgotten to ask Neville for the buggering phone number. And he was just -– well, he couldn't earn a living in the state he was in anyway.
He needed a bath. And then he could get back to his life.
Taking care of the blisters on his feet, he paddled across the room, emptied the decanter of brandy into two large glasses, and headed upstairs to cleanse himself of the remaining layer of filth that the day had left all over him.
It was only after he'd stubbed his toe on the phone that he realised almost half an hour had passed and he hadn't thought of He Who Must Not Be Named.
It wasn't a complete cleansing of his brain, but it was a start.
Draco's course of action had been very simple: bathe, dress, eat again, ring the office, find Blaise, drag Blaise to the closest tattoo parlour and have him marked with the Malfoy seal and the words: 'Hands Off! This Means You Thom Fucking Yorke!'
It was a rather admirable plan of action -- however, like most of Draco's plans it lost a certain something in translation. For starters, Dobson had brought Draco his favourite dish, risotto with porcini mushrooms, while he was in the bath, and Draco had lost nearly an entire hour eating, relaxing and deep conditioning his hair.
He'd meant to be rather quick about the whole process, but when he'd gone to have a quick shave, he'd been so appalled at his primal state, that he'd climbed back out of the bath and spent twenty minutes tracking water all over the upstairs while searching for various products to make himself presentable.
The copious amounts of brandy probably hadn't helped his coordination.
There'd been scrubbing and washing and repeated shaving, and then he'd had to tend to his various bruises and contusions, and well, it'd taken him almost two hours just to get his trousers on.
Conditioner really did make a world of difference to the quality of one's hair, and Draco stood before the mirror in Julian's room for several minutes arranging his hair with the vast quantity of products that his brother had acquired in the last month.
The sun shone brightly through Julian's west-facing windows, making the white walls almost blinding, but Draco still felt the chill in the air, and he shivered minutely. The sun only served to highlight the bruises that were coming up on his face and shoulders, and he considered himself thoughtfully in the reflective glass.
A rather spectacular bruise was starting to form on his cheekbone, and while his vanity was appalled, he had to admit it gave him a slightly rakish air. He couldn't stop probing the cut on the inside of his lip with his tongue, either; he hadn't been in such a state in years. He reckoned, however, that standing about, shirtless, in a pair of Julian's trousers was not helping to stave off the memories either.
It was either that or the plethora of framed photographs that went from shared baths and no teeth to Boxing Day two years prior.
He'd intended to clean himself up in his own room, but it had seemed so barren and dark, and Julian's room, well, it was Julian's room. At least it had been lived in recently, and it didn't hurt that his mother had had her personal shoppers looking after his twin, which meant he would've had the latest of everything.
Draco was nothing if not fashion conscious, and there was no way that Julian would've taken so many clothes with him, which was obviously why Draco was lucky enough to find a brilliant navy-coloured Tom Ford suit, which hadn't even been worn yet.
The suit jacket was a bit loose in the shoulders, but the trousers were brilliant, and they went well with the threadbare grey Cambridge tee shirt that Draco was actually contemplating wearing underneath the entire ensemble.
It was an outfit much more suited to Blaise's style sensibilities, but Draco could be flexible, and if he was going to be manhandling people to keep them away from Blaise then he needed to be comfortable, which was obviously where the Prada trainers came in.
It also helped that Julian had the same size feet, and Draco was just pulling on his socks when there was a knock at the door. "Yes?" He looked up curiously when Dobson entered the room.
"A phone call, Master Draco," Dobson said, holding out the only cordless phone in the entire house; it was the one Dobson kept in the kitchen and used for his own ease. "It's the Mistress," he added, answering Draco's unspoken question.
Draco took the phone reluctantly. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak with his mother; he was in her house, obviously he'd sought her presence, but he could only imagine how she'd found him. Neville was a horrible spy.
He called Dobson back before he vanished. "Dobson, could you have Mr Prang bring the car around. I need to run an errand."
"Mr Prang has taken your mother out; I shall have Mr Shunpike bring the Aston directly if you prefer."
Draco grimaced. Stan Shunpike was one of Severus' discarded drivers that his mother had taken a liking to, and while he was a perfectly amiable fellow, he was apt to talk too much. And if Draco drove somewhat erratically, Shunpike drove like the devil.
Draco sighed. "Very well," he said, nodding his head and dismissing Dobson.
Sighing deeply, he put the phone to his ear. "Hello, Mother," he began, pushing himself off the bed and going back over to Julian's wardrobe for another inspection.
There was no point in perfectly good bespoke gathering dust.
"Darling, wherever have you been? I've been ringing you all day, and you've not returned one of my calls." The crispness of his mother's accent was soothing to Draco's abraded nerves; there was something very comforting about her immense capability.
"My phone had an accident," Draco hedged, as he considered a black three-button Valentino. One could never have too much Valentino, and there was no need to mention that he'd been the cause of said accident.
"I'm sure it did," his mother said placatingly, and instantly every brain cell that Draco still possessed was alert. His mother was many things, but she was not known to coddle, which meant she was extremely out of sorts over his brother leaving, which was understandable. Or she'd seen the Daily Telegraph.
Draco was betting on both. Not that he blamed her –- it was the sort of thing that under other circumstances would've made him want to be coddled as well. He waited to see which tack she was going to take -– in true Malfoy fashion, she took neither.
"Severus and I were talking of going on holiday to the Easter Islands; anything to get away from this appalling weather." Draco opened and closed his mouth. His mother and Severus were going on holiday together.
He was perfectly accustomed to his mother jetting off here and there with his Aunt Bella, but this had to be a first. "I see," was all he could manage without loosening a deluge of questions.
His mother was still talking, but Draco's brain could only focus on one thing at a time and at the moment it was reading and re-reading the note attached to the white bag hanging in Julian's wardrobe. In a fine slant it read:
So you can play Super Spy should the urge arise.
- Julian
P.S. Do try to keep the body count to a minimum.
If his fingers were trembling, Draco wouldn't have admitted to it under penalty of death, but it took him several tries to actually unzip the bag in question. He cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, exhaling sharply as his fingers spread the sides of the bag and brushed against the black leather.
His brother... had exquisite taste.
But Draco was still going to throttle him for leaving again.
He could hear his mother clacking away on the keyboard in the background; she was telling him some tale of having taken he and his brother to the 1990 World Cup in Italy, and he could easily envision her sitting behind his desk, well, really her desk -– and ruling with an iron fist. A bit like his brother. And him.
This was his family. Nothing else really mattered.
Draco felt a momentary pang of something moderately close to inadequacy, but shook it off just as quickly. His mother wouldn't have left him the company if she didn't believe he could run it. His brother wouldn't have left if he didn't have confidence in Draco taking care of their family. "Feeling nostalgic today, Mother?" he asked lightly as he pulled the black motorcycle jacket off its hanger and slipped it on.
It fitted perfectly, and there was nothing better that the smell of new leather -– unless it was the smell of lots of sex. Or Blaise. Or victory. Or some version of all four.
"Call it a mother's intuition," Narcissa replied just as casually. "I felt that you should have a day off."
Draco couldn't contain his snigger -– 'day off' meant a mental health break before he had no mental health to speak of. The last time Draco had had a 'day off'' his mother had stepped in wordlessly, and upon his return from Scotland had said nothing whatsoever about his absence. She'd been quite upset about his missing hair though. "I'm sorry about tea the other day," he said.
His mother made a noncommittal noise. "These things happen, darling, now, what exactly are you planning to do about-–"
Draco never heard the rest of his mother's question, because there was another rapping on the door, and when he turned around, Blaise was leaning against the doorframe with that omnipresent smirk. "So this is where you skived off to."
There was a noticeable silence as Blaise took in Draco's appearance. "Fucking hell, what happened you?!" he said, the worry line between his eyebrows creasing dramatically as he pushed himself upright.
Draco felt certain there were many things he should’ve said at that moment 'How did you find me?' 'Where have you been?' 'If you fucked Thom Yorke I'll kill you and him' -– but that bastard was wearing a goddamn Radiohead tee shirt that didn't meet the waistband of his trousers, and that wasn't right at all.
"Mother, I have to go," Draco said ringing off rather suddenly. "Today's Page Three just walked in."
The phone bounced off the bed when Draco dropped it, but he was rather distracted with yanking Blaise inside the room and shoving him against the wall. Blaise stumbled slightly at the ferocity of Draco's man-handling, and the look on his face when Draco tried to pin him to the wall was anything but amused. His brown eyes narrowed menacingly when Draco fisted his shirt, but Draco cut him off with a sharp kiss.
Blaise's eyes were open when Draco pressed his mouth against Blaise's lips, but they fluttered shut when Draco nipped at his top lip and then soothed it with the tip of his tongue. Draco made an encouraging noise as Blaise's fingers threaded through his damp hair, but his eyes watered when Blaise's fingers tightened and yanked his mouth away.
"This is not how I expected this to go," Blaise said pointedly, his tongue flickering out to graze the spot where Draco had bitten. "It's not every day I send my partner out for the newspaper only to find him hiding out hours later looking like he had a run-in with a lorry."
Draco's fingers were entangled in Blaise's shirt rather tightly, and it took him a moment to extract them. "Yes, but I'm not the one who was in today's paper," he said, slipping his hands down Blaise's stomach and hooking his fingers into Blaise's belt loops. "With him."
Blaise rolled his eyes and slipped his fingers free of Draco's hair. "So you decided that it would be best to run to your mother because I'd had a drink with Thom?" he inquired, his amusement evident even as Draco kicked his legs apart. "Why do you look like you got on the wrong side of Vinnie Jones?"
Draco scowled; he was not amused. "No, I only decided to kill that pasty-faced, wonky eyed twat after my solicitor kidnapped me, but before I met up with my bastard ex."
"You saw that man?" A muscle in Blaise's left temple twitched and his jaw clenched. Draco had never really noticed how extraordinarily hot Blaise was when he was irate. This was rather enticing. His fingers stroked the skin above Blaise's waistband soothingly.
"I certainly didn’t do it on purpose," Draco said. "I didn't have much say in the matter as my brother was leaving, and he'd had to make a deal with He Who Shall Not Be Named to avoid the lot of us ending up in Wormwood Scrubs."
In a flash, Blaise's features softened. "Julian left again?"
Draco sighed as he dropped his head on Blaise's shoulder and Blaise's left hand rubbed the nape of his neck. "That does seem to be what he does."
Blaise's breath against the shell of Draco's ear made him shiver. "Well, that would explain your mother at the office then."
"You went into the office? I specifically told you—"
"You told me you would meet up with me at work, but when I got there Narcissa was there, and Neville said you were at home. So I went home."
"But I rang you at your flat," Draco protested, lifting his head up and fixing Blaise with a glower.
"Yes, but I went to your flat," Blaise said.
"Ah."
"Exactly," Blaise finished. "So, Julian is gone and Severus kidnapped you, and then you decided that you would have someone knock you about and worry the piss out of me because you just needed to ruin today entirely?"
Draco flinched. He deserved that, but that didn't mean he had to take it. He'd been trying to get back to Blaise the entire fucking day –- he wasn't at fault here. For once. "It seemed the thing to do," he said bitterly. "It's not every day that someone is willing to leave MI-5 for me. Naturally, I didn’t believe a word of it since he hasn't told me the truth since the moment I met him; however, there is something to be said for having a spy as a brother and another as a lover. Severus would never be able to worry again, and the amusement factor alone –"
Draco's world went awry when Blaise's leg hooked behind his knee and sent them both sprawling on the floor. Draco's tailbone complained loudly about his missing the rug underneath Julian's bed, and he pushed himself onto his elbows as Blaise straddled his waist and pinned his wrists to the floor "I hope you told him 'no'," Blaise said placidly.
"Obviously I didn't tell him yes," Draco snipped. "Or I wouldn't have spent most of the day trying to get back to you."
"And that's how you came to look like a raccoon?"
"Some people can't take no for an answer."
"Just so we're on the same page here." Draco watched Blaise curiously as his eyes took in Draco's appearance. Something made Blaise's cheeks colour, and since it could hardly be Draco's flawless visage, that left it to the leather jacket or the way Draco's shirt was riding up his stomach.
Or quite possibly the erection that Draco felt pretty certain was pressing against Blaise's backside. Just to test his theory out, Draco thrust upwards slightly, and Blaise's cheeks flushed fully. It was extremely enticing. "Thom Yorke can't have you," Draco warned.
Blaise released Draco's wrists to investigate the lining inside his jacket and then the hem of his shirt. "You are a fucking idiot," Blaise said cheerfully, dragging his fingernail along the outline of Draco's tattoo, which apparently was visible over the waist of his trousers.
Draco snort degenerated into a strangled noise. "Yes, I have been told this once or twice today."
"I wonder why." Draco sucked in a sharp breath as Blaise's fingers dipped underneath the waistband of his trousers and brushed against the head of his cock. "Do you really think I would put up with your insufferable behaviour if I were angling for Thom?"
"I have no idea," Draco said, collapsing onto his back and seeing stars as Blaise's fingers teased his foreskin. "I have no brain cells left because you've ruined them all. It's all your fucking fault; I can't figure out when you're just looking at me to look, or when you're looking because you want to fuck, or when you're just –"
"Oh dear," Blaise mocked. "You're starting to sound as though you care."
Draco growled and grabbed at Blaise's wrist to still his movement. "Do you think I don't?"
Blaise's eyes widened. "You're not going to say something hopelessly sentimental are you?"
Draco made a derisive noise. "Don't be dim -– I was going to offer you this partnership you're so keen on, but if you'd rather I win you over with cheap chocolates and cards from Boots, that's certainly more cost efficient for me."
It was Draco's turn to be taken aback when Blaise leaned down and snogged him fiercely, but he winced slightly as Blaise's weight pressed his bruised body against the floorboards.
"I'm not changing the name of the company," Draco cautioned, even as his fingers slipped under the hem of Blaise's shirt and he tugged at it disdainfully. "Just because we're fucking doesn't mean it should affect the business –- and for God's sake take this fucking thing off. I'm not going to be cuckolded by a fucking tee shirt."
Blaise laughed, pushing himself up slightly to remove the Radiohead shirt. "Everything we do affects the business," he said tossing the shirt onto the bed, "Why do you think it's been around so long? Do you think it would've lasted if you and I weren't whatever we are, or if your mother and Severus--"
"Do not finish that sentence," Draco interrupted.
Blaise just raised an eyebrow. "You're not still in denial about them, are you?"
"I am not in denial, because there's nothing to know."
"Spoken like a true Malfoy," Blaise laughed. "If I don't acknowledge it then it doesn't exist."
Draco's glare of derision was hampered by Blaise's jean-clad backside rubbing against his erection. "Are you planning to insult me all day or are you going to get me off?" he said, dragging his short nails down Blaise's ribs.
"I thought we were going into work," Blaise gritted out as Draco's hands clamped down on his backside and pulled them closer together.
"Work isn't going anywhere." Draco's tone was all sureness, and when his tongue flittered out to lick his dry lips, he thought momentarily of his Kiehls -– but that didn't seem worth moving for. Nor did the perfectly serviceable bed right by their heads. There were too many layers of clothes between them, and Draco was ruining a perfectly good leather jacket, but for once it didn't seem to matter either.
None of it did.
Harry Potter was irrelevant and so was Inland Revenue. The papers would always be looking for the next salacious story, but they wouldn't break Draco or Malfoy Limited on their best day, and Draco didn't need to kill himself working every day of his life. Blaise would never stand for it, and even the Queen and her Secret Intelligence Services didn't matter.
Draco finally got it: what he did to make a living wasn't who he was. It was a part of who he was, but it wasn't what made him Julian's twin or his mother's son.
Strangely enough, Potter had been right after all.
His surname was just another word for what was really the most important thing in his life: his family.
Everything else was irrelevant.
"Any time you care to join me here." Blaise gripped Draco's hair to get his attention, but he stilled his hips and his hands when Draco grinned up at him. "You're smiling a lot for someone who hasn't gotten off yet," he said curiously. "What do you know that I don’t?"
Draco batted Blaise's hands out of his hair and pushed himself up with his hands to kiss Blaise messily. "It's not about what I know," he said, brushing his mouth against Blaise's teasingly. "It's about what I've got."
"Your egotism is amazing," Blaise said good-naturedly, kissing Draco back. "And what is that you've got that everyone else doesn't?"
Draco raised his eyebrow as thought it were obvious. "You," he said. "I've got you."
Blaise eyed him warily. "Did you hit your head recently? You seem dangerously close to emoting."
"Yes, I know. Kindly don't let it get out." Draco chuckled when Blaise threaded his fingers through Draco's hair and began rubbing his scalp with the tips of his fingers, presumably looking for bumps and dents.
"Well, I don't know. I suppose if you made it worth my while, we could come to an agreement."
"Blaize Zabini, are you attempting to blackmail me?"
Blaise rolled his eyes and stopped his exploration of Draco's scalp. "Obviously. You wouldn't love me if I were above such a thing."
Draco thought about Julian and Potter, both spies, and his mother, who'd gotten her children and a small empire out of his father with a single threat. There was something to be said for all the people in his life with dubious morals. "That must be it," he said, nodding his head firmly.
He ignored the dazed look flittering across Blaise's face. He'd heard what Blaise had said; he felt no need to deny it. He wasn't going to say it, but it was there. Blaise knew it.
"You thought this was about your sparkling personality," Blaise mocked eventually.
"Actually, I'd thought it was about the business –- but apparently not."
"No, that's not it at all," Blaise firmly, tugging on Draco's hair to establish eye-contact. "That's just your job."
"Yes, I get that now."
"It took you long enough."
"So I'd gathered."
"Yes, well, don't let it happen again."
"I don't think you have to worry about that anymore," Draco smirked, his eyes crinkling at the corners under Blaise's appraising gaze.
"Lovely –- I was just checking," Blaise said.
"I know," said Draco. "So was I."
Trade: The Soundtrack: Sections I-VIII; IX – Embrace 'Ashes'; Blur 'Coffee & TV'; Radiohead 'Nobody Does it Better' (the theme). Plus, a bonus track, because you can't talk about spies without talking about the man himself: The James Bond Theme
ETA: I forgot a song from chapter V: The Verve 'History'
+ First and foremost I have to thank my betas:
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ethrosdemon, oxoniensis and serialkarma. I learned a long time ago that you are only as good as the betas you have whipping your sorry ass into shape, and I've been very fortunate to have some of the best betas anyone could ask for. Thank you so very very much for working with me, ordering me around, being supportive when I was feeling tetchy, and doing everything in your superhuman powers to make certain that this didn't suck the big one. Like the song says, I am nothing without you.+ I'd like to thank everyone who made art for this series:
circe_tigana (icons and business cards); hugglebunni (icons); oxoniensis (icons, the roster & business cards), random_flores (the splash), ravurian (story art), starstillwonder(icons) and zoetrope (cover art). Art inspires me in ways that I'd be here talking about all day, so really all I can do is thank you from the bottom of my very depraved heart. + To my cast: Goddamn you are some hot people.
+ To everyone who read this series, recommended this series, took a moment out to comment and let me know they enjoyed it, hated it, or thought I needed rehab: THANK YOU
+ This series is dedicated to my betas, obviously, because really, they put so much into it that it's really their story too. Also, to
kattiya for picking up the phone when I called to yell at her for putting up those inspirational D&G ads in the first place; and circe_tigana for again, being the best cheerleader a writer could ask for. Your enthusiasm kept this going when I was ready to call it a day, and on behalf of myself and all my boys we thank you very, very much. Shit man, the thanks are almost as long as the story!
Last, but never ever least, it's not every day that you get to write a story that has all your favorite things: London, sex, music, clothing, London, partying, sex, London -- yeah, you get the point. So here's to the city that makes everything possible. Cheers.
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