Work Text:
Jamie MacDonald wanted to go to fucking sleep. It was arse-end of midnight and he had a long day ahead of him verbally and maybe even physically maiming the cunts that made up the Labour party as well as making sure the media didn’t get a hold of the various scandals plaguing virtually every government department. (What the fuck was up with cocaine and prositutes? Who the fuck does either of those thing while working in a position where the media is tugging at the leash to fuck you over with anything they can get their hands on?)
This was not helped by the fact that some fucker (he knew exactly who and would be making sure her husband found out about what exactly had happened at the 2006 Christmas party) had decided that the set of adjoining rooms would be assigned to him and Malcolm. And the wall that separated them was managing to be the thinnest substance known to man.
Jamie could hear every fucking noise which meant that he could hear Malcolm pacing, shuffling papers and muttering to himself about the days ahead.
This had been going on for the past 3 hours and was showing no sign of stopping since Malcolm apparently thought sleep scored pretty fucking low on his list of priorities, beaten out for last place by eating something other than Fanta and crisps and being a good person.
Jamie finally had enough when the shitty alarm clock on the bedside table cheerfully glowed 01:00 am. He was seriously considering using physical force to get the cunt to go to bed. There was a fifty-fifty chance Jamie would win that altercation.
He’d acted on worse odds.
He shoved back the covers and pulled on a faded Al Jolson t-shirt before walking to the door that connected the two rooms. He shoved it open and it slammed into the wall with a crack that suggested they might have to spend some of the ‘Drunk Cunts being Cunts’ budget on a repair charge.
Malcolm whirled to glare at him and stopped halfway through opening his mouth the start a stream of personalised and especially cruel insults. His eyes trailed up and down Jamie’s body and apparently short circuited at the fact he was wearing just tartan pajama shorts and a t-shirt.
Jamie seized this once in a lifetime opportunity of Malcolm shutting the fuck up to assess the room. The bed was covered in speech drafts and timetables. Not going to work, Malcolm would dispose of his dead body in the lake they passed on the way up if he even slightly disorganised the papers.
That left Malcolm to sleep on the floor, a couch in the lobby or share a bed with someone.
What Jamie did next could be attributed to the not insubstantial amount of alcohol he’d enjoyed with dinner and his general disregard for personal safety.
He walked over to where Malcolm was still standing and in one smooth motion scooped him up into his arms in the most dangerous bridal carry in the history of the world. Malcolm’s arms automatically closed around his neck.
Then the part of his brain that made interns piss themselves when he walked by kicked back into action.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you psychotic cunt? Did being drop kicked as a baby finally fucking catch up to your fucking pea brain?” Malcolm roared and began to try and squirm free. Jamie remained unperturbed. Malcolm might be taller but he was fucking skinny and Jamie had spent a lot of time wrestling stronger people than him out of midnight mass.
Jamie strode through the dividing door, not bothering to close it. “Can’t fucking sleep ‘cause of your fucking pacing. Going to fucking drug you if you don’t stop, I know that cunt from the Standard has some less than legal substances in his room and she’ll be more than happy to help.”
On the last few words Jamie reached his bed and dumped Malcolm onto the mattress before cheerfully clambering over him to lie down on the opposite side. He tugged the duvet over the two of them, yawned and rolled over to face the wall.
“Why the fuck am I in your bed then, you looking for a shag to knock you out for the night?” Malcolm sneered. He tried to sit up, presumably to leave and/or punch Jamie in the nose. He didn’t move too quickly though and Jamie grinned.
“Nah, too tired. Just want to make sure you stop fucking making so much noise,” Jamie muttered and rolled over again. He shuffled closer to the bundle of rage and energy drinks moulded into human form, draped an arm across Malcolm’s chest, pressed his face into his neck and snuggled as close as he could. “Thought trapping you might help.”
A terrifying silence followed.
“Also ‘m really fucking drunk.” Jamie muttered weakly into Malcolm’s neck, making him shiver slightly.
Malcolm began to move and Jamie tensed. Shit, that was too far. Jamie was about to get fired and probably be desperately in need of a blood transfusion.
Much to his relief and giddy surprise Malcolm just curled closer and brought one hand to gently card through Jamie’s hair.
“Tell anyone about this and I’ll send the Daily Mail that picture of you in that Halloween costume. 1994, the fucking Rocky Horror one.”
Jamie smiled and pressed even closer. They could unpack this in the morning.
Feeling very smug he pressed a quick kiss to Malcolm’s cheek before moving to use his chest as a pillow. “Sure, sure. Go to fucking sleep.”