yule_balls_mod (yule_balls_mod) wrote in hp_yule_balls, @ 2008-12-27 12:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2008, character: charlie weasley, character: draco malfoy, fic, pairing: charlie/draco |
Fic: Almost Crimes, 2/3 (Charlie/Draco, NC-17) for the community
Author: magnus_leo
Recipient: The Community
Title: Almost Crimes
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Charlie/Draco, Charlie/OMC, Charlie/Fleur
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All characters engaging in sexual activity are 16 years or older.
Summary: The war is over and Charlie is left languishing in Romania. Like every good veteran he's haunted by the things he's left behind, the people whose shapes are filled with the ruddy flesh of escapism. Just as the spiral reaches its end, Charlie stumbles on a half-familiar face from home. A story with too much vodka.
Warnings: mild D/s, spanking, rimming, orgasm denial, power play, racial slurs, lots of swearing, heavy alcohol use, dark themes, the palest whiff of incest, self-pity.
Word Count: 28,035
Author's Notes: I really hope you like this fic. I was really walking on thin ice with this one. For reference's sake, major inspiration came from Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union and Sondheim's Company. A million and a half thanks to T for guiding me through this one when I thought it would eat me whole. You are a very good muse, it must be said.
The sun was just shy of the dawn when the phone rang.
"What?" Charlie demanded.
"Charlie?"
"Bill?"
Bill coughed. "I thought you were dead."
"You didn't," Charlie said sharply, settling back on the kitchen counter in his boxers, running a hand impatiently through his hair. He flicked the button of the coffee machine. "What do you want?"
"Right." Bill paused, and there was quiet chatter along the line. "Well, you haven't written."
"I did," Charlie said off-hand.
"You didn't."
"It got lost in the post."
"No it didn't."
"What time is it there?" Charlie asked.
Bill grunted. "I don't know. Three."
"Are you drunk?"
"Fleur's birthday," Bill offered.
"Oh." Charlie paused for a moment. "So, what do you want?"
"To hear your voice."
"I was trying to sleep."
"I'm sorry," Bill said, with great gravity. "I'm sorry. I am."
"So how's life?" Charlie asked darkly. "Did you catch a matinee? A Pinter play? Maybe a piece of Mahler."
"Chuck, please," Bill said quietly. "You know I don't want a picket fence."
Charlie laughed bitterly. "Shell Cottage."
"Is temporary," Bill said.
"Stolen."
Bill stuttered. "From you?"
"We've had this conversation," Charlie grunted. "Is that it then?"
"No," Bill stammered. "Chuck."
"What?"
Bill's voice wavered, a bow string pulled too taut, the arrow twitching in its holster. "Chuck. Come home."
Charlie paused. "I've got my job."
"You don't."
Charlie's voice was tight. "Dad told you?"
"Dad told me. He sent you a letter. You should get it this morning." Bill sighed a heavy sigh. "Oh, Chuck."
"Don't oh Chuck me, Bill," Charlie said, spitting his brother's name like a curse.
"Chuck, I just want you to come home. Dad wants you to come home. He can get you a job. I can get you a job. We miss you."
"We?"
"I."
Charlie nearly laughed. "And when I come home? What then?"
"Come here. Fleur misses you. She talks about you a lot. I miss you too." Was that a choked sob, a wrenched shiver along the line? "Please, we've got room."
"Bill. I came for the wedding. I was your best man, like I said I would be when we were kids. You never thought about how that made me feel, but I did it for you because – because. But that's it. I washed my hands of her – and you – at the wedding. After that night. Honestly, after that stunt you pulled, did you really think I'd stay? Can we not pick at the scab?"
"She loves you." A pause. "She still loves you. I still love you." Another pause. "It can be three of us. We can take care of you. You know you love us."
"Take care of me," Charlie echoed hollowly. "Oh, fuck you."
"What?" Bill's shock was rending, and Charlie's anger had its claws sunk deep.
"Get fucked, Bill. I don't need you, or fucking Fleur to take care of me. I'm your brother, I'm not your bitch anymore –"
"I never said – you were never my –"
"I've had a lifetime of being – controlled, by mum, by you –"
"Chuck, I'm just trying to help –"
"Get fucked."
Charlie slammed the phone down. The coffee started percolating, dripping a tar-like resin into the stained basin, and Charlie slid down from the kitchen counter, slid down the face of the cabinets to fall to the linoleum kitchen floor, head tucked between his knees, naked arms drawn tight around them.
"The fuck?"
Charlie looked up. Draco was coming to under his knot of blankets, twisting slightly on the sagging couch and wincing awake.
"The fuck am I?" Draco coughed, blood still soft on his lips. "Fuck, fucking Ron Weasley? What the –"
"Charlie," he said, standing up, wiping his cheeks quickly, settling his lips into pale indifference. "I couldn't get at all the cuts. I'm not great at healing."
"You're that – that fucking Weasley."
Charlie shrugged and tossed a small white bottle. "Paracetamol."
"The fuck am I doing here?" Draco said, waking to his surroundings, to his bare chest and bloody hands. "What did you do to me?"
"I did nothing," Charlie shrugged, sitting on the couch across from Draco, on a pile of dirty clothes. "You met some Romanians."
Draco winced, spread white hands over his dishevelled hair. "The fuck am I doing here, then?"
"You'd rather wake up in a ditch?" Charlie shrugged. "I'm making coffee. Have a cup, then go. That's what I'm offering."
"Where's my shirt?" Draco said, throwing off his blankets and twisting to sit on the couch in his pale blue briefs. Morning light revealed a spectrum of bruises painted liberally over Draco's sides, though most of the damage was superficial, even pretty.
Charlie tossed Draco the white Oxford cotton and his pinstripe trousers. He watched Draco dress quickly. "Your coat was a lost cause," Charlie said off-hand, observing the tremor in Draco's fingers as he slipped closed the buttons.
Draco popped open the bottle and took three white pills, dry swallowing them easily. "I'm not going to ask why," he said.
"Good. I wasn't going to tell you."
Draco watched Charlie, another aspect of his red-headed foe, with curiosity bordering on amusement. And then he pulled out his wallet, withdrew twenty thousand Romanian lei. "I'm not beholden." He extended it to Charlie.
"I don't want your money."
Draco shook it sharply. "I said I'm not beholden. Take the fucking money. You're a Weasley, I know you need it."
Charlie narrowed his eyes. "Get out, you fuck."
Draco threw the bills on the ground. "Your problem." He turned to the door, froze in place. "Where are my shoes."
He could almost hear the satisfaction in Charlie's voice. "I'll trade you. Shoes for the money," Charlie held carefully a smirk at the corner of his lips, letting it play easily across his mouth.
"Fuck you. Just – fuck off." Draco stuffed the cash back in his pocket. "Give me my fucking shoes. They're Italian leather and worth more than this whole fucking house." He put them, hopping from one foot to the other. "Thank you," Draco bit off shortly, somehow turning the words toxic.
"No laces," Charlie remarked, noting the shining gold buckle on Draco's shoe.
"What of it?" Draco said, turning around slowly.
"It's very." Charlie chose his word carefully. "Effeminate. But I suppose someone like you could get away with it."
Draco stared at Charlie, his lips twitching in swallowed anger. A million phrases flashed through his eyes in a clever code of lustre and fury. "Get fucked," was all he managed.
Charlie closed the door behind him.