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Jamie is not pleased. Obviously Holy Mother Church has him at her fucking disposal, he did fucking read everything before he finally signed the fucking documents. But he'd rather believed that he'd been called to make an actual difference, pull some of the slum brats out of trouble, be the only fucking Father some of those kids in the tenements had. He'd been good at his job, for fuck's sake.
And then they'd sent him here. Someone (and Jamie will kill that person, if he finds them - kill them and seek absolution later from a merciful and all-forgiving God) saw some potential in him (the thought is somewhat confusing for Jamie, he cannae quite believe it) and decided he could do better things.
Go to London, they'd told him, grinning behind elegant hands at the thought of unleashing this pintpot of distilled traditional, foul-mouthed Scottish, Catholicism on the well-bred liberal handwringers in the metropolis. Go to London, ministers of state need the Lord as much as the bairns here. More so, possibly.
Jamie had fought (he always fought), but in the end, if the Church says you go, that's it.
And that's how Jamie ended up here, at some function at what he can't quite help thinking of as the Catholic Embassy. The aim, as far as he understands it, is to encourage the government not to allow lassies to have abortions. Jamie is uncomfortably aware that somewhere, someone in the room is almost certain to remark why, if young Jamie's mother had...</i> and then he's not sure what he'll do. Kill someone, possibly.
To the relief of all concerned, Jamie is junior enough that he needs to do nothing other than circulate amongst the guests, wearing his cassock. Jamie has already had to stare down several of the posh fuckers whose eyes have lingered too long.
Jamie's used to old biddies having some kind of pathetic post-menopausal stirrings in their shrivelled-up ovaries at the sight of a nice young Father, but in many ways he's led a very sheltered life (this is what happens when you're basically adopted by a seminary at 15). He's not consciously aware of the effect large blue eyes and dark curls will have on the people he meets in London.
Jamie, as he was instructed, homes in one of the few people not already engaging in polite chit chat. He's in an expensive-looking suit, leaning against a wall, watching everything with hooded eyes. Jamie thinks he looks faintly disgusted and puts him down as one of the fuckers to be converted.
'Jamie McDonald,' he says, holding out a hand. He meets the man's eyes. 'Is there anything I can get you?'
The man starts and gives Jamie an assessing look. Strong, cool fingers grasp Jamie's hand. 'Malcolm Tucker, Press and Communications.' When the man speaks, Jamie realises with a jolt that he must have grown up mere miles from Jamie himself.
'Ye're from Glasgie?' he asks, enthusiastically. Tucker gives a very slight shudder, but nods assent. This unleashes a torrent of questions from Jamie, which Malcolm responds to more tersely each time.
'And ye're a Catholic?' Jamie finishes, with an innocent sincerity that belies his basic madness. The man disnae have the look of a proddie in this den of priests, though he scarcely looks at home either.
That repressed shudder again; the merest flicker of Tucker's fingertips. He's spared answering by the appearance of another government advisor - Jamie hadn't caught his name exactly, some posh twat English like Archibald or Hillary - who smiles benevolently at them both.
'James! I'm so pleased you found Malcolm. Always nice to find a fellow expatriate, I think. I daresay you've been reminiscing about...' he seems at a loss to think of anything traditionally Glaswegian that's suitable for repetition in company and so finishes with less of a flourish than he'd hoped, '... Scotland?'
Malcolm turns a narrow-eyed glare at him. 'Young Jamie here has just been quizzing me about my faith, Julius.'
'Really?' Julius asks, fascinated. All evening, he's worn the politely interested expression of a member of the Royal Family observing colonial natives. He managed to reduce one senior bishop to incoherent, puce rage merely by asking incredibly polite questions about how exactly his view on abortion came about - it was so important to pin these things down, so he could report and respond in the most appropriate manner - in much the same way he'd have asked someone why they drilled a hole in their head to let the gods in.
'I was just about to tell him I grew out of that about the same time I stopped believing in the monster tha' lived under my bed.
Julius, who does rather have the look of a man who still checks under a bed before getting in, nods sagely.
'But then, I'm no' pretty enough to be a bishop's bumboy, so it's probably for the best.' This earns him a warning Malcolm from Julius. 'What're ye doing in London, sonny,' he asks Jamie, with withering condescension.
'Bringing the good word tae lapsed fuckers like yourself. Helping people.'
Julius gives a tight-lipped smile. 'And what made you think this was the best way of helping people, James?' he asks, with genuine curiosity.
'Back home,' Jamie says - and Malcolm can't stop the twist in his chest at Jamie's voice saying home, 'I helped all the teenage mums with the bairns. Sorted out their money, stopped the fucking Landlord cunts stealing their money and their bastart feckless men drinking all the giros.'
Julius is muttering 'Fascinating, of course, a social support network... harnessing local communities...'
Jamie reacts immediately and Malcolm, again, can't help a wince of sympathy. 'Nae like the fucking social, Julius. Christ, you fuckers down south have nae idea, d'ye?'
'In deprived communities, Julius,' Malcolm explains, earning himself a glare from Jamie, 'the 'social' is seen as the enemy, the State coming tae steal the weans or lock away your da'. Though there are cases where locking away the da' is the kindest thing you could do.'
'Aye, if he's there in the first place,' Jamie mutters darkly. 'I've seen so many wee mams wi' no man. Cannae or willnae give a name, so even the fucking spies at social cannae track 'em down and force them tae pay.'
'It's a disgrace,' Julius says. Malcolm, who knows him slightly better than Jamie, gives him a rare half-smile. Jamie glares at what he sees as polite patronisation.
They're broken up moments later when a fight erupts between two journalists, both of whom have drunk deep of the Catholics' hospitality. Malcolm makes his excuses and leaves, more unsettled than he'd like to admit.
...
Jamie could honestly say that, until about this point in his life, he'd never found his vow to celibacy particularly difficult. If anything, it made things somewhat simpler - everyone was equally off limits. And the only women he really met while he was in Glasgow - 17-year-old smack addicts with tiny, fragile babies or eldery Catholic matriarchs - hadn't seemed to provide much in the way of temptation. And he lived with two other priests in a boarding house and socialised at the church. Women and priests were the only people he knew.
What worried Jamie most about coming to London was that he still found it easy, or no great hardship, to ignore the women, even though London was full of stunning lasses, many in very short skirts. But he'd never seen so many careful, polished, suited men in his life before. And so many of them watched him, or perhaps he was just paranoid. He had been told, quite firmly, that he should confine his mission to the upper classes around Westminster after Fr Douglas had taken him around Soho one night to talk to the working girls. And boys. It was probably the way Jamie'd talked to the boys (fascination as much as compassion or missionary zeal) that had done it. (Though quite why the Fathers thought he'd be safer wtih the upper classes is anyone's guess.)
What he thinks about most (and there was nothing wrong with thinking about it, he tells himself, nothing wrong with looking, ignoring those parts of the holy scriptures that dealt precisely with looking) is a fellow Scot, met briefly at a party. No one, in his uneventful life, had ever looked at Jamie like that. Focused, confused, snarling.
---
Malcolm thinks he's put the startling innocent (and God if even half the jokes were true, the puir lad had entered the lion's den all right) young priest out of his head entirely.
It's Julius who's been keeping up with the Catholic faction, charming and urbane as ever. Malcolm almost admires him - he's certain absolutely none of the fathers has the slightest idea quite how determined Julius is that not one jot or tittle of his Healthcare Provision Reform Act will be changed. The stupid fuckers probably think he's on their side.
But all this means it's Julius who pops his shiny head in Malcolm's office one afternoon and informs him that his young compatriot was going to be preaching on Sunday, which might be worth hearing, with an ironically raised eyebrow that's the closest Julius will come to being indiscreet about his personal feelings.
Malcolm is appalled that he knows immediately whom Malcolm's talking about.
When he enters the church, Malcolm nearly topples over as he realises what he's doing halfway through his automatic genuflection.
...
Jamie McDonald's sermon lives in folk memory for decades. He begins, mildly enough, with an exhortation to give to charity, but his accent and his message get stronger as he goes on. He harangues them, a tiny Glaswegian somehow looming over the pulpit. Fat, pinstriped, hypocrites, he calls them, sitting on their goose feather cushions and their overfed arses while out there (a wild gesture - the front row of parishioners all sway involuntarily backwards) people are starving. Wee girls wi' no' even enough money tae feed their bairns.
It is, Malcolm has to admit, impressive. All the more so for being obviously sincere.
I arrived in London, Jamie is screaming at them now, blue eyes wide and imploring, and d'ye know what I found? People who claimed they had faith in t'Almighty God but walked by his children, his fucking children...'
He looks like an Old Testament prophet, with larger eyes and no beard, Malcolm thinks before correcting himself. The little fuck looks more like a 12 year old Jesus, telling the fucking priests he was in his father's house.
At least three people have walked out. Jamie's on about money again. He'd met someone only yesterday who'd spent more on one bottle of wine than his mam had had to live on for a year. And the bottle was shite. This gets a nervous titter from a couple of listeners, and more than one embarrassed blush.
Malcolm diagnoses in the innocent, maddened blue eyes the messianic zeal that used to drive people to hack through uncharted jungles looking for souls to save. And, to be brutally honest, Jamie would have been exactly the sort who, if the souls hadn't been too keen on being saved, would have extinguished them all and trusted God to sort them out.
---
Malcolm finds Jamie after Mass (why did I stay, he asks himself, walking towards Jamie anyway) and compliments him, not entirely insincerely on his 'fiery sermon'. Jamie stares at him, shoulders shaking with aggression.
'Ach, well at least I was trying tae do something. Make things better for people. What do you do in your fucking luxury office? Write little speeches in yer heid for some junior minister to recite at some event where no-one's gonnae hear him? Fanny aboot wi' press releases?'
Malcolm's whole frame locks, thrumming with tension. Anyone except Jamie would have taken a step back at this point. Malcolm leans forward.
'I am waging a fucking war. A war, sonny. And no' a spiritual war agin principalities and powers and the wee beasties that only exist in my fucking deluded mind. A war agin the fuckers that shat on your mam and the lassies from your school, and ran the whole fuckin' country into the ground. I am keeping in government - fucking single fucking handedly - people who are at least doing a fucking good job o' pretending they care about the little guys, ok? So you dinnae get to ask me what I'm fucking doing.'
He whirls around and leaves. Jamie's left, staring open-mouthed as he goes.
....
It ends with a sobbing Jamie yelling at his assembled superiors that they can fuck it. Fuck their Church, fuck their rules and their petty hypocrisy. Fuck it all.
It begins with a rentboy on his doorstep.
In one of his visits to Soho (before he'd been banned), there'd been one wee lad he'd got talking to - quite a bit younger than Jamie himself, though he'd sworn he was legal - who'd cried into his cassock, told Jamie he didn't know what to do, who to turn to. And Jamie had given him his phone number, his address - a house owned by the diocese and shared with three other young priests - and urged him, fucking begged him, to come to Jamie if he needed help.
There's a truly ugly bruise over his eye, and a split lip. From the way he moves, Jamie'd guess at several broken ribs. Through the split lip (still oozing) he haltingly begins to tell Jamie why he's there. Jamie's housemates come downstairs and, after offering quick prayers, suggest quite insistently that Jamie do something. Preferably something that gets him out of there.
In the end, Jamie manages to wake a few of his contacts and find the lad a place in a refuge for a few nights. He comes back from taking him (he refuses to go out alone, and Jamie's menacing enough that he's hardly scared at all when the tiny psycho's next to him), and wakes up the next morning to find someone's reported him to the bishop and he has a disciplinary hearing.
(Sidenote for the interested reader: in one of life's strange coincidences, the refuge is one of several paid for by Julius Nicholson's trust fund - he lives off his not-inconsiderable earnings and uses his father's money entirely for charity.
Julius never bothered to hide the fact of these donations very well, and when the media storm inevitably broke, Julius went straight to Malcolm and asked him to handle the press. Malcolm did some of his very best work, accusing the press of everything from homophobia to blackmail, but it was Julius was came up with the line he delivered at the end of his utterly unrepentent statement. 'I can assure members of the press,' he'd said, staring them down from behind his glasses, 'that more than a few men of my age and education background' (he manages to imply that were he not such a thoroughly decent chap, he could give them a list of names) 'have in the past year spent a sum on sex workers beside which my donations pale into insignificance.' Malcolm wanted to applaud, even as he started leaking various names of these rentboy-using upper-class twats. The names have been selected from a list of people Malcolm hates on principle, people who have slighted Malcolm and a few of Nicholson's associates about whom he once or twice spoke without his customary warmth, and which Malcolm has (correctly) deduced would be on Julius's hate list, if he allowed himself to have a thing.)
...
Malcolm was aware, in the somewhat vague he was aware of not-directly-relevant things, that the new Catholic priest had... left. Luckily for all concerned, Julius Nicholson's proposed Health bill was working its way through Parliament without the need for Malcolm to dip into his drawer of 'scandals: religious hypocrisy' to aid the PR effort and so Jamie's departure was largely unremarked.
Malcolm is forced to move knowledge about Jamie into the 'directly relevant' category when Sam buzzes through on his internal line to say that there's a Jamie McDonald here, who wants to speak to Malcolm personally. At Malcolm's silence, she adds, 'He sounds like he might be someone you knew from Glasgow?' and Malcolm snaps out of his daze and asks her to show him in.
Jamie's in civvies: jeans and a cheap but brilliantly white shirt. It looks oddly incongruous on him. His curls are slightly longer, his face somewhat thinner, but the eyes are watching Malcolm with the mad intensity he remembers.
'What do you want?' Malcolm asks, as brusquely as he can.
'I've left the fuckers,' Jamie replies plainly. 'More interested in their fucking Church and their reputation and getting in the fucking papers than actually helping anyone.'
Malcolm nods, beginning to have a horrible premonition about where this was going.
'And I found it increasingly incompatible with some of my lifestyle choices.' He leans back casually against the door, hands thrust deep into his jeans pockets. He looks up at Malcolm, huge blue eyes glaring past dark curls, lips slightly parted and Malcolm wants to find whoever taught Jamie to look like that and choke the fucker with his own fucking cock.
'I'm no' really cut out fer celibacy,' Jamie adds, just in case Malcolm hasn't got the message.
'And what do you want me to do?' Malcolm sneers. It occurs to him a moment after he says it that it might prove to be a very stupid question.
'I wannae work wi' ye.' Jamie says. 'You seem to do half helping people, half shouting at braindead fuckers and half getting your own way. I'd be fucking brilliant at it.' There's the faintest shade of a question in his voice.
'That's three halves,' Malcolm says dryly.
Quick as a flash, Jamie moves up into Malcolm's personal space. 'Then I'll give ye 150 fucking per cent ok, you posh sassenach-fucking ponce.' He takes a deep breath, remembers that he's here to ask for Malcolm's help. 'I've got some money - from oor mam and that, but I cannae take more off her. And I need a job. I'm no' qualified or anything... I mean, I've got ma A-levels and that, but no' poncy degree. And,' he adds with a flash of a smile that goes straight to Malcolm's cock, 'I don't think the Church is gonnae gi' me a reference any time soon. But, eh, I'm sure I could work something out, if ye'll no' have me.'
He pauses dramatically, looking up at Malcolm and subtly shifting his stance as though to remind him of one of the few ways Jamie would always be able to scrape together some money.
'I'll work fucking hard.'
'How old are ye, even?' Malcolm says, one last attempt at dissuading himself. When Jamie replies, he realises with a shock that he's not that much younger than Malcolm himself; he'd underestimated Jamie's age by almost a decade. 'And you're still a priest,' he throws as a final shot.
Jamie gazes at Malcolm, not blinking. 'Aye,' he says slowly. 'But I'll no' mention it if you don't. Unless you want me to wear a cassock?' And the cocky little bastard winks at him. Malcolm's smiled back before he realises it and instantly wants to gouge his own fucking mouth off with his fingernails.
Almost entirely against his better judgement and in the first irrational decision Malcolm's made in a long time, he agrees. He takes Jamie outside and introduces him to Sam. 'He'll need a suit,' he overrides Jamie's protest with a significant look at Sam, 'and somewhere decent to live. I don't need to know the details. Then take him through to Frankie and tell him Jamie'll be joining us on the lowest fucking level possible. If I find he's been allowed near a phone, let alone a computer, I will fucking gut him and use his guts to strangle Frankie ok?'
Sam has to force her mind onto dates to shake the notion that Jamie's some illegitimate child of Malcolm's who's turned up on the doorstep, which is clearly impossible. She prints off some paperwork and starts to take down details. She presumes Malcolm will want this all forced through HR as soon as possible - they're fairly used to (what they think of as) Glaswegian waifs and strays being hired by Malcolm. (Though Jamie is the first genuine waif/stray, as far as Sam can tell. All the others have degrees, at least, in fearsome combinations of political/economic/computer sciences.)
For the first two weeks of Jamie's career with the Press and Communications Dept of Her Majesty's Government, Malcolm avoids him. Or rather, just so happens to be very fucking busy with his own work and leaves Jamie to settle in to his new role and familiarise himself with his new colleagues. (These phrases are straight out of Tucker's Lexicon, where 'settle in' meant 'displayed uncanny fucking skill' and 'familiarise himself' meant 'dominate and terrorise'.)
After three weeks, Frankie brings Jamie before Malcolm and says that the wee lad's a nat'ral and it's Frankie's opinion that he should be bumped up tae full salary forthwith. He also wants Malcolm to give Jamie his own fucking desk, because his views on hot-desking veer towards setting fire to anyone who's desk he wants to use.
After a month, Jamie appears alone in Malcolm's office, shuts and locks the door and, before Malcolm's drawn breath to start the epic bollocking that locking him in his office deserves, has asked if there's something he's done wrong.
'No,' says Malcolm, gazing at Jamie in his new suit (Sam really is good, it fits as perfectly as can be expected on Jamie). 'You've been fucking promoted, you've got your own fucking desk, what more do you want.'
'I wannae work with you,' Jamie says with an innocent simplicity that pulls Malcolm up short. 'Ye could do with some to watch your back. I've seen the fuckers you're dealing with - you'll have that many knives in your back your chest'll look like a fucking pincushion if you carry on like this.'
'I've managed perfectly fucking fine on my own so far. I've been spinning these fucking turds while you were still in Motherwell crying about your da'.'
Were Malcolm the sort of man to frighten easily, he'd have recoiled at the look on Jamie's face. Astonishingly he, he feels guilty about hurting the little shite.
Malcolm looks down in horror; Jamie is inches away from him, his hand on Malcolm's chest, pushing up against his tie. Malcolm's stares bores down on him - Malcolm once actually managed to make a junior minister literally piss himself with this stare - but Jamie looks no more than faintly amused. 'Am I meant to be feart? I can pretend to be feart if tha's what you want.'
Malcolm grabs Jamie's wrist and wrenches his hand free. He drops it as soon as possible and retreats a step. 'I'm no' trying anything,' Jamie insists. 'Just let me come round wi' you sometimes, scare a few of these sad sack southern fuckers. Feed the worst of 'em fucking pish and tell them it's champagne - that sort of thing. I can twat a few fucking hacks, if necessary.'
It does sound tempting. Malcolm enjoys shouting as much as the next anger-management-avoidant Scot but sometimes, perhaps when his throat was a wee bit sore... And frankly, some of the fuckers were so pathetic it was barely worth even trying a glare. He could leave them to Jamie, possibly. And the really cunty fuckers, the ones who thought that they knew more about poverty and socio-fuckynomics because they read about them in a fucking book in a fucking poxbridge quad while the fucking cherry blossom settled in their poofy hair and their wee bumchums read them poetry, well, they might benefit from Jamie's unique perspective on the issues.
...
Jamie propositions him on their third day of working together. Malcolm wishes he could work up the rage to pretend to be surprised (he's not stupid, he's seen the way the wee fucker looks at him) but he's somewhat distracted by the fact that Jamie's taken the opportunity of Malcolm looking for a file to pin him up against the filing cabinet and kiss him.
When he remembers he needs to breathe, Malcolm manages to push him away. 'Jesus, fuck. You fucking pyscho. What makes you think... I don't know what you were used to with the fucking paedo patrol-'
He's forced to stop by Jamie's fist in his face.
'Oh fuck, I'm sorry, Malc, boss, I'm so sorry.' Malcolm glares, absolute death in his eyes, and gingerly fingers his lip while gripping Jamie's wrist so hard it's gone white. 'Ground rules,' Jamie carries on, flashing his eyes at Malcolm in the sure knowledge that Malcolm won't hurt him. 'If I'm gonnae fuck you-'
Malcolm's knees nearly buckle and he fleetingly wonders where a former priest learnt to be so devastating frank about fucking.
'- the first fucking rule is that I willnae stand for fucking kiddyfiddler Catholic jokes, ok?'
'I'll make whatever fucking jokes I choose, you diminuitive, psycho cunt. I will tell them and you will fucking laugh like it's the fucking funniest thing you've heard since your wee teacher farted in assembly, d'ye hear me? D'ye think ye can boss me? March in here with your big blue eyes and your fucking choirboy moppet's hair and expect me just tae give you whatever you want? Well, think again, Jamie. Here are the ground rules.'
Malcolm's stormed forward, into Jamie's face, and it's so satisfying that he can physically tower over the miniature fuck. It's even more immensely fucking satisfying that Jamie's (finally, finally) taken a step back.
'If - and I think the fact that I'm even considering it is a sign of an incipient fucking brain tumour - but if I do fuck you, it will never be in my office. Nor in public, ever. Anywhere. You will tell no-one...' Jamie glares at this '... for the time being, anyway. We can review that situation-'
'Aye, when the fucking rainbow unicorn fucks all the bigotted wankers up their fucking arses with his glittery fucking horn. I get it, Malc. I'm no' stupid.'
'And...' Malcolm continues, ignoring him. 'I'm taking you home.'
It's this that silences Jamie and makes his eyes go impossibly wide and dark. Malcolm has an uncharacteristic urge to hug him.
They both recover fairly quickly. 'Tonight?' Jamie asks, trying to sound certain rather than hopeful. Malcolm rolls his eyes.
'No, not tonight. Christ, Jamie. I've got a meeting with fucking Tom - fucking dinner with him and his wife where we're going to plan our next 'make him not look like a fucking alien zombie freak' strategy - and it'll go on for hours.'
This momentarily distracts Jamie. 'Fucking hell, how are you going to that? Staple his fucking birth certificate to his fucking head so everyone'll see he was born here? Don't make him smile on TV, again, Malc...'
'No, that was a mistake,' Malcolm concedes ruefully. 'The stupid fuck couldn't even manage that without looking like a fucking Thunderbird puppet. No, I thought mebbe I'd wheel him out in front of someone friendly and get him to talk about his values - he can do that ok.'
'Would he cry on telly?' Jamie suggests, sounding nastily hopeful. 'I could provide some fucking incentive, if necessary.'
Malcolm considers this. 'Better save that as a nuclear option. Jesus, fuck. If I've got to work with an incompetent power-mad moron, at least give me one who can act.'
With more bravery than anyone other than Sam would show, Jamie mutters darkly, 'Aye, well look how fucking well that worked last time. Now he's fucking starring in his own fucking docudrama about how he single-handedly saved the whole fucking world.'
Malcolm smiles thinly. 'Saving the world through a mixture of advising Mossad and the fucking Ayatollahs why they just want to hold hands, when he can spare time from advising the rich fucking cunts in New York why they should give him more money for his advice...'
'So not tonight, then?' Jamie's trying to look at Malcolm doe-eyed through his fringe again.
'Don't fucking try that on me, you little psycho cunt.' Malcolm says shortly. 'I've said I'll take you home and fuck you, what more do you want? And I saw that look from the fucking original sainted lady fucking Di and it didnae work then.'
'So you didnae have her killed to cover up your fucking affair?' Jamie's hiding that that stung, a bit. Though he's consoled by the frankly fucking hilarious idea that Malcolm thinks he's going to be fucking Jamie. 'I'll stop briefing the fucking Express, shall I? And what I want, you auld fucker, is to bend you over your fucking shiny national fucking trust desk and fuck you so hard you cannae sit down and have to talk to Tom standing up and wincing. But since that's clearly no' gonnae happen, I'd like some sort of timetable.'
'A timetable? Malcolm laughs. and not just because he can't trust himself to speak for a moment. 'I'll get Sam to draw us one up, shall we?' He notices Jamie's expression and decides perhaps, just this once, he won't push it. 'Come round tomorrow, after lunch. It's a fucking Saturday and it should be pretty quiet. Taxi to the end of the road-'
'- check for fucking paps or cunting hacks and carry briefing papers obviously in view, aye, I know.'
It should worry Malcolm that Jamie is apparently reading his mind. What he is in fact thinking is how amazing Jamie's going to be at sex if he's this good at work.
--
Jamie stands in Malcolm's hallway, briefing papers placed on the one of the empty shelves. He's taken off his coat and is holding it in his arms, shuffling his feet. He looks about 12.
Malcolm has gone ahead to the kitchen; it takes him a few seconds to realise Jamie's not following. 'Jesus fuck, Jamie, don't just stand there.'
Jamie's eyes are like blue saucers. He's trying very hard to look cocky. 'Nice house.' It's halfway between awe and a sneer.
Malcolm rolls his eyes. 'For Christ's sake, Jamie. If I'd known you'd be like this...'
This seems to spur Jamie into action. His coat hits the floor as he moves in on Malcolm, trapping him against one of his pale, carefully painted walls with a hot hand on his chest. 'Is that why you wanted to bring me to your fucking house?' Jamie accuses, pushing Malcolm's wrist flush against the wall when Malcolm makes an attempt to remove Jamie's hand. 'Did ye think I'd be impressed?' His fingers are tight around Malcolm's wrist; he can feel Malcolm's pulse, strong and fast under the skin. He leans in closer. 'Did you think you'd intimidate me? I've fucked in posher houses than this, Malc.'
Jamie's not sure how it happens - it finds it literally incredible that Malcolm's managed it, but in seconds Jamie's back is against the wall. Malcolm isn't even touching him, except for an almost gentle hand on his chest. 'I've nae doubt you've fucking whored yourself round the whole fucking town - which, by the way, is going to fucking stop.' Malcolm's aiming for rage but he feels sick - a fist gripping his guts - at the thought of anyone else touching Jamie. 'And I-' he swallows. When he next speaks, his voice is low and soft. 'I don't want you intimidated.' Jamie breaks into a triumphant grin. This is going to work.
Malcolm moves away a step, amused and pleased to notice that Jamie leans forward immediately. Malcolm turns his back on him. 'Do you want a cup of tea or anything?' he asks, casually. It's probably for the best that Jamie can't see his smirk.
'Tea. Have you let Julius fucking Nicholson stick his baldy prick so far up your arse that you've been fucking assimilated. Tea. For fuck's sake, Malc-' he runs out of words, and settles for yanking Malcolm round by the shoulder, grabbing the older man's face with both hands and kissing him. Malcolm's a fucking asthmatic and needs to breathe earlier than Jamie. Jamie smirks against his lips, keeps his hands in place for a moment longer, until Malcolm's knees are trembling. While Malcolm's still somewhat staggered Jamie begins to describe, in typically lurid detail, exactly what he's going to do to Malcolm. (Malcolm feels dizzy - he's losing control and he barely cares; everything's too bright - which, if he was near a mirror, he'd see was because his pupils are blown, which Jamie thinks is one of the cleverest things he's ever done in his life so far. Making Malcolm come will be even better, as he assures Malcolm with a fervour that forces Malcolm to steady himself with a hand on Jamie's waist.)
Jamie's hands are on Malcolm's shoulders, gripping hard enough to leave bruises. There's a difficult moment as Jamie tries to crowd Malcolm back towards the bedroom - he makes it into the living room and then stalls, stranded in the centre of the endless sea of parquet floor. Not only has Malcolm recovered enough from Jamie's first onslaught to resist being manhandled, Jamie has realised he doesn't know where the bedroom is.
(He assumes up the stairs, but in this fucking designer-fucking-cube of a house, he cannae be sure).
Jamie covers his confusion by pulling Malcolm in for another kiss, tugging at Malcolm's shirt until he can get his hands on Malcolm's skin. Jamie's t-shirt disappears, falling into a heap that mars the shiny floor, and Malcolm's hands are on his shoulderblades. Jamie is almost overwhelmed. Malcolm kisses his neck, interspersing bites with murmurs against his skin. Jamie can't breathe and buries his face into Malcolm's chest. He experiments with the merest hint of nails into Malcolm's back and is rewarded with a hiss and an involtuntary outburst of Glaswegian invective.
(By the end of the evening, Malcom's back is covered with raised scratches that he only really notices when he has a shower. Jamie has a nasty mark just on his collarbone which he rubs 'absent-mindedly' whenever he catches Malcom's eyes drifting towards it.)
---
Malcolm's sprawled back on his bed, propped up on his elbows so he can see Jamie. Jamie, hair dishevelled and eyes faintly manic, runs his fingers lightly over Malcom's chest. Malcolm shivers. 'God, Malc,' Jamie says, eyes impossibly huge, 'somebody should feed you.' The care in his voice is something Malcolm really doesn't want to examine at this moment. He pulls Jamie down on top of him, as much skin in contact as he can manage and kisses Jamie, again, anchoring him with a hand in his hair, at the base of Jamie's skull. Jamie lies heavy and warm on top of him. He snakes a hand between them to stroke Malcolm leisurely, fucking Malcolm's mouth with his tongue.
For some time, it's as much a fight as a fuck. Malcolm's hand tangled so tightly in Jamie's hair that they both gasp. Jamie slowly, gently entering Malcolm for the first time (Malcolm screams at him to get the fuck on with it, bucking his hips). Jamie gazing down at Malcolm, Malcolm's heels digging into Jamie's back, Jamie's hands pinning Malcolm's wrists to the bed. Jamie moving, gasping endearments and compliments that Malcolm presumes are inspired by the heat of the moment, rather than anything Jamie can possibly believe to be true. Malcolm struggling free with a snarl, clamping Jamie to him, rolling them and pressing Jamie back down against the bed; moving on top of him and taking huge satisfaction from the way Jamie moans. Jamie's hand in Malcolm's short hair, stroking his hair. Malcolm moves his head like a cat angling for a scratch behind the ears and Jamie almost laughs with the joy of it.
Jamie's fingers tight on Malcolm's hips, hands raking his back (Malcolm arches his back into an impossible bow and goes completely non-verbal, eyes shut and muttering Jamie's name like a litany).
Jamie, slightly more in control of himself, takes the opportunity to reassert his dominance (he cannot believe he is fucking Malcolm Tucker. Finally. Malcolm is letting him- no, he has made Malcolm, through his sheer brilliance-). The feeling of Malcolm around- of being inside Malcolm.
Everything becomes very still. Jamie watches, enthralled, as something collapses behind Malcolm's eyes as he comes, whispering Jamie's name hoarsely. Jamie bends down, kisses whatever he can reach as he follows. He slumps bonelessly down against Malcolm's chest - he can feel Malcolm's heartbeat, fast, strong and erratic - and rests his forehead on Malcolm's shoulder. 'Mine,' he whispers fiercely.
Malcolm brushes trembling fingers through Jamie's sweat-damp hair. He murmurs what might have been Yours, before pushing Jamie off with a complaint that he can't fucking breathe. Jamie simply grins and curls up against Malcolm's side, a heavy arm draped possessively across Malcolm's waist. He falls asleep almost immediately and, to Malcolm's surprise, he drifts off a few minutes later. This is what Jamie has reduced him to: an afternoon fucking nap. Malcolm finds he doesn't care.