Mad Dogs and Scotsmen

One

They’d been drinking when it happened, of course, because they drank a lot these days, together more often than not. Cheap lager, cheap whiskey, cheap suits, cheap cigarettes. Tonight it was a bottle of blended whiskey, pure shite, undrinkable except with a lot of ice, not that they had ice. Malcolm’s freezer was empty, and he had refused to let Jamie go to the pub. Not after that afternoon in the tenements. The corruption story was going to ignite the paper it was printed on when it was written, but to write it Jamie first had to stay out of the dock. No carving up faces with a shattered pint glass.

Not that Malcolm put it that way. He’d just grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket and hauled him home. To Malcolm’s flat. Less said about Jamie’s the better. Jackets slung onto the floor, shoes kicked off, bottle cracked open, two glasses splashed full. No ice. Fucking rotgut blended shite. The kind of whiskey journalists like him got through by the gallon.

“Ever want to do something about it?” Malcolm said.

“Other than fucking write about it?”

“Stop it. Elect somebody to stop it.”

“Fucking impossible.”

“Think I could do it.”

Jamie stared at at Malcolm. He looked perfectly sensible and calm just then, as if he were serious. Jamie waited for him to go on, but he seemed to have said all he had to say on that topic. He refilled their glasses. Jamie watched him slug it down. He’d thought he was the one on the verge today, but Malcolm might be worse off. Fucking strange man. Wire-thin, wire-tight, something innocent in his face, too fucking much hair haloed around his head. Saint Fucking Malcolm. Saint Malcolm, tied to a tree, arrows shot into him.

Wrong saint. But he was still a saint. A foul-mouthed saint. A saint whose knee was touching his.

Jamie’d had it bad for a long time, but Malcolm had been married until last year. Not that Jamie thought a man had to pick one or the other, pussy or prick, but Malcolm seemed not to notice anything or anybody any more, not after that divorce. No life, no fucking. Nothing but the work. But here he was, on the couch next to Jamie, sitting closer than he had a right to. Knees touching. And he knew Jamie liked cock.

Jamie would be the first to admit that impulse control was not one of his best features. Or any of his features. Impulse control was something for other men, ones who weren’t this angry with the world. Or carrying this much of an idiot’s torch for a man like Malcolm. Or this far down the slide with the drink. Give him the least shove and he’d do something about it. That knee was a shove.

So in the next moment the whiskey was drained and his hand was dug into Malcolm’s shirt front and his tongue was down Malcolm’s throat. And Malcolm was kissing him back. Hard. Viciously. Desperately.

A struggle, hands on throats, fingers in hair, and Jamie came out on top, Malcolm pinned beneath him on the couch. A knee stuck firmly between Malcolm’s thighs, to give him something to grind against while Jamie bit at his throat. He was aware, even as he bit, that he’d only ended up on top because Malcolm had wanted him to.

“What the fuck are you? A fucking mad dog?”

“Slipped my fucking leash.”

“Slow the fuck down. I’m not fucking going anywhere.”

Yeah, okay, he could do that. Slow down, turn it down a little bit, lose that fever pitch of desperation. He could just kiss Malcolm, hold him down and kiss him, with his knee up between Malcolm’s skinny thighs. him until Malcolm was groping at Jamie’s belt, undoing it, getting his hands in.

“Here or the bedroom?”

“Let’s fucking well be comfortable.”

Into the bedroom, then, the little hole where Malcolm slept when he slept, if he slept. Stack of books at the bedside, bed unmade, pillows all stacked on one side. Jamie pushed Malcolm down onto the bed, shoved him onto his back. Got his hand on Malcolm’s belt, undid it. Unzipped his flies. Boxers, an erection inside them. Jamie laid his hand on it. Malcolm moaned, outright moaned.

“Yeah?” Jamie said. “Like that, is it?”

“You look a right twat with your cock out,” Malcolm said.

“Gonna shove it inside something in a fucking second.” More threat than promise, but now he’d said it, he wanted that.

Malcolm’s throat worked, and his face changed. “Okay. Jamie. Jamie.”

Jamie’s heart turned over. Malc was offering him something. What he wasn’t sure, but it was something he hadn’t given to many people. Or anybody. “You’ve never done this?”

“Not this,” Malcolm said, and looked away while he said it.

“How far do you want me to go?”

“As far as you want to,” he said, gaze back on Jamie, and Jamie saw something in his face that he’d never seen before, not ever, not even when they were deep in their cups. Desperation, desire, deep longing, something he’d never let near the surface before ever. Had the poor fuck not realized he liked cock until this minute? Or had he known that and not let himself touch it? Or was it something else again?

“Get your fucking kit off,” was what Jamie said.

Clothes off. Condom on, because he’d fucked enough men to worry about it. Lube all over himself. Kneeling between Malcolm’s thighs, looking down at him. On fire with need for it, the need to take him, but God, once he did it would it be over? Malcolm was as like to throw him against the wall like that glass as let him stay in his bed.

“Get on with it, you wee mad dog,” Malcolm said. The desperation was winning.

Jamie wasn’t frothing. He was almost tender right now, looking down at Malc. Would always be thinking of this when he watched Malcolm rip into a story, drink whiskey, swear at a politician. This moment, when he took Malcolm and made him his. This sight, Malcolm on his back, heels hooked over Jamie’s shoulders. Fucking nothing to the man, nothing but Jamie’s hands holding him to this earth. Tension on his face, fear and nerves and anticipation and that something else, all on his face, no filters, no guard up. Thank God for cheap whiskey. Nobody else was ever going to get to see this, not if Jamie had his way, nobody else was ever going to get as close to Malcolm as Jamie was now, bursting through those nerves, right past it to the raw desire underneath. That something else.

“Push back,” Jamie said. “Fight me, you fucker.”

Malcolm nodded and Jamie felt him tense up for a moment and then relax. His face changed, smoothed out. “Yeah, there it is,” Jamie said to him, crooning it, soothing him. “Feels amazing, yeah? Pure dead fucking amazing.”

“Fuck.”

Malcolm’s eyes were closed now and his face intent on something. He’d better be appreciating the self-control Jamie was showing right now, not slamming into him, not just fucking that tight arse into oblivion. He wanted to do this again, though, so it had to be good. Again and again and again, with Malcolm looking like that, so open for once, no fucking insults on his lips, no bitterness, just that look of wonder.

Malcolm’s hand was on himself now, squeezing, stroking. Jamie pushed in, all the way in, and Malcolm moaned and oh fuck fuck fuck, it was taking everything he had to hold himself motionless, hands on Malcolm’s thighs. Slide out, slowly, listening to the man under him make that sound again. The man under him belonged to him, belonged here, underneath him. Jamie knew it at that moment and swore he’d always know that. He’d follow Malcolm wherever the fuck the mad taut coil of nerves wanted to go in daylight. He belonged to Malcolm when when they were out there. Here, in bed, Malcolm was his. His.

He said it. Said it again. Listened to Malcolm swear incoherently under him.

“Fucking tell me I’m wrong, fucking tell me you’re not mine and I’ll stop.”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m fucking yours, you mad dog.”

Call him a fucking sentimentalist, but that was what he’d needed to hear. Jamie let it happen at last. Slipped the leash for real, fucked him hard, watched his face change, watched his hand move on himself, watched him come, watched him forget himself, watched him let go of whatever it was that wound him up so– Then and only then could Jamie let himself go.

Two

Jamie walked, shoulder to shoulder with Malcolm. Friday night, their usual night for a quiet drink or three or five. Their night out. Malcolm had summoned him out for it with a jerk of his chin at the door. Not talking much tonight, was old Malcolm.

“Come round to mine?” Jamie said. “I’ve got a bottle. Or we could go out and drink.”

“Spend cash I don’t have.”

“What it’s for.”

“Look, don’t much feel like it. Let’s go to mine, make some dinner.”

And go to bed, was the unstated sequel. Jamie looked up, caught Malcolm’s look, nodded. Whatever the man wanted. He was in charge, as always. Smarter, faster, stronger, more desperate. Had more opinions, anyway.

Malcolm could cook, and sometimes even had the time to do so. Why he was the scrawniest thing Jamie knew was a mystery, because Jamie would eat all day non-stop if he could have Malcolm cook for him every day. But it wasn’t an every-day thing. A couple of times a week, they’d go drinking and then go home and fuck. Never entirely sober, Malcolm was, when he let Jamie into his bed, and Jamie was okay with it. The man had yet to come to terms with himself. It was something that happened. He’d seen worse.

No drink tonight. Water or ginger beer or Fanta, those were his choices. Jamie took the water, set the kitchen table for two, and sat to watch Malcolm chop vegetables. The smell of oil and butter, of onions browning, of spices and tomatoes heating. Malcolm filled a pot with water. Pasta, then.

“Was a good week,” Jamie said. “Sunday’s story will be good.”

“Needs some last edits. A wee bit of obscuring where that data came from.”

“You liked that stunt with the screwdriver in the lock? Only works with shite that’s as old as that was.”

“You’d think the greedy bastards would keep things like that under real lock and key.”

Jamie shook his head. “It’s arrogance. They think nobody can touch them. That’s until they’ve had the hide lashed off them by you. You and your writing.”

“Doesn’t do any fucking good. Nobody touches them. The sell-off of the national assets continues. I can write all the fucking stories I want. It’s all just shit without power. Fuck!”

The water had gone on the boil. Malcolm cracked the pasta and threw it in, and for the next minutes he was too busy cooking to talk. Jamie watched him move. Malcolm in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up to expose narrow wrists. Lovely hands, he had. A lovely slim body. It took him a while to relax enough to trust pleasure when it was offered, but once he’d yielded it was complete. He gave all of himself.

Probably why it took the drink to do it.

“There’s news,” Malcolm said, while he stirred the pot.

Jamie waited for it.

“Dewar needs a Media Director.”

Hand slapped down on the table, making the forks jump. “You mean needed.”

“Yeah.”

“You meant it, then. Getting your hands dirty yourself.”

“Been in politics since the moment I filed my first story. Everything’s fucking politics.”

“Politics is shit.”

“Everything is shit. Quod fucking erat fucking demonstrandum.”

“Fucking politician now. Well, congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Gon’ta buy a better suit than that? Maybe one that doesn’t hang off you like a shroud off a famine victim.”

“Fuck you.”

“After dinner.”

Malcolm stopped stirring the pasta and glared at him. He shook his head. Jamie drank his water. Water, fucking water, not even something sugary with fizz in it. No whiskey tonight. None of the water of life of his people. Was Malcolm saying that the fucking was going to stop? Was it that journalists could get buggered on the regular but politicians couldn’t have boyfriends?

Malcolm said, “I’ll buy a better suit once I’ve seen the checks into the bank.”

“Lucky bastard.”

“There’s another thing.” Jamie waited for it, watched Malcolm drain pasta. Eventually he said, “I’ll be hiring staff.”

“Staff.”

“Going to need somebody I can trust.” Malcolm’s eyes flicked to Jamie and away.

“Understood.”

“There’s some, well, possibility they might want me doing media for the main party. Not straight away.”

“Fucking London. Fucking English.”

“Yeah.”

Plates onto the table, sit together, eat. Jamie watched Malcolm shove pasta around his plate. He himself was beyond famished. He ate as rapidly as was compatible with the manners his mam had taught him. Date manners. Be on his best with this new touchy Malcolm who was moving on with his life.

Malcolm said, to his plate, “Would you come with me? In the eventuality.”

Jamie considered his answer very carefully. Tempting, fuck yes, but he had to know what Malcolm wanted. Clearly. Now. If Malcolm himself even knew. “In what capacity?”

Fork down. Malcolm wasn’t looking at him. “My assistant.”

His assistant. Not his partner, not his boyfriend, not his friend.

Then Malcolm said, “I’m not ready to be on any fucking posters.”

Jamie threw his fork at the table. “Nobody wants to be on fucking posters. What’s that mean? How do you want me? Because if we’re not fucking together I’m not fucking bothering. I’ll stay up here and drink until I fucking forget the sound of your voice.”

“Jamie. Fuck. You’ve got the wrong idea. I wouldn’t– of course we’d be together. What did you think I meant?”

“You said you didn’t want to be a poster boy. What am I supposed to think?”

“Not– not that. Wouldn’t be a fucking scandal. I’m divorced. You’re single. We can do what we want. I’m just not – not ready to be, to be out. Fucked if I know why. Don’t want it to be my defining characteristic.”

Now Malcolm focused on his food and ate. Jamie watched him. Defining characteristic. Nobody would ever define Malcolm by anything but his writing. Or his swearing. Or his temper, his oh-so-carefully controlled temper, the rage that was only expressed in those words. When Malcolm felt let down. Betrayed. By people who ought to have done better. Politics was going to fucking eat Malcolm alive, even more than journalism had. There was no way he was going to do it alone.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, on those terms, in that capacity. Okay.”

Malcolm’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled. Briefly, but it was genuine.

Jamie said, “I can see the poster. Scrawny Scot takes a monster cock up the arse.”

Malcolm shot him two fingers without hesitation. “Not yours then, you wee little man.”

“See what you have to say about that later when you’re on your back, boyo.”