Happy Halloween ^____^
Oct. 31st, 2007 06:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrThree stories for you peeps, the first one in two parts.
An SMP story -- Sammikins said I should do a vampire, and we latched upon the perfect idea ^__^ Well, I think she mostly did. I'm only to blame for the poor thing's name.
For some reason, Malcolm could just hear the sarcasm in the title of the ad. Maybe it was in the handwriting. Anyway, he knew whoever had written wanted a bit more competency than that.
Had to.
The rest of the ad went on to request someone to catalogue an entire library – a private library, but still. If it was small, wouldn't the guy do it himself?
At that, wouldn't he find a better place to post an ad than the Board of Everything in the campus HUB?
Maybe it was desperation and not sarcasm he was reading in the title. He pushed his glasses up his nose and read it again. 'Must be able to use computers'.
Yeah, maybe it was desperation. With a note of sarcasm. Somehow, he could not escape a feeling of sarcasm.
He yanked the ad off the thumbtack that had stuck it to the board, deliberating.
It sounded interesting, and promising – and surely a job like that would pay well?
Lord knew he was flat broke with no chance of pennies coming his way anytime soon. Not with a stingy ass stepfather who'd rather give the time of day to a fly, and a mother who was too busy flying to all the world's shopping malls to give him any of her pennies.
Hell, she hadn't even answered any of his six messages – and his pride would not tolerate a seventh.
Well, the worst he could hear was no, so it was worth at least a phone…except there was no contact number. Just a 'please apply at' and an address.
For rather an old part of the city, really. Old as in historic, as in expensive, as in the job would pay really well or pay nothing at all because if there was one thing he'd learned from his mother and stepfather it was that a fool and his money were soon parted, but only because the rich man stole it from him to hoard.
If he was going to try for a job, weird as it was, he should probably not wear his usual school clothes. Yeah, if his mother cared at all about him she'd probably screech.
Heaving a sigh, he folded the slip of paper and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, then trudged his way back to the small studio he rented just off campus. Seven hundred a month for a hole in the wall, but loads cheaper than a dorm on campus.
Even if he did feel sort of removed from everything. But wasn't that always the way?
Rolling his eyes, deciding that he really needed to stop eating sugar late at night because it always meant he was moody the next day, Malcolm pounded up the creaky steps to the second floor, striding rapidly down the hall before ol' Ms. Thatcher could catch him and start yammering.
Inside, he flicked on the light and strode immediately to the little area that had his bathroom and closets. Shoving open the sliding closet door, he considered his options.
T-shirt, T-shirt, or…T-shirt.
He really needed to go shopping. Didn't he have something with buttons around here somewhere? He was pretty sure. It was blue or green or something like that. Damn it. Had he spilled something on it?
Aha! He crowed a victory as he pulled it from the very back of the closet – and double plus bonus points, there were good black slacks beneath it. Sweet. Tossing the clothes on his bed, Malcolm stripped and headed for the shower, singing old eighties stuff at the top of his lungs until Asshole Jenkins pounded on the wall for him to knock it the fuck off or he'd call security. Which he wouldn't, because otherwise Malcolm would report him for all manner of less than legal dealings in the parking lot late at night – and Asshole Jenkins knew it.
Turning off the shower, he grabbed a towel and dried off, then quickly got dressed, emptying his book bag of the stuff he wouldn't need, packing it with whatever he thought he might.
Glasses, wallet, keys. Oh – the ad. Snatching up his jeans from the floor, he pulled out the scrap of paper.
Food would be good too – but he just bet if he got anything to eat or drink, he'd wind up spilling it on his clothes.
He checked himself in the mirror one last time – blue shirt, not wrinkled, check. Black slacks, not wrinkled, check. Shoes…dark sneakers, not so great, but his only other option was sandals which he was pretty sure was a lot worse.
Hair combed, more or less.
As good as he was going to get, and hopefully someone else hadn't snatched up the job.
Of course, the way his luck ran…
Better not to think about. Shouldering his bag, he double checked he'd grabbed all the important small stuff, muttering to himself 'spectacles, testicles, wallet, watch.' Yep, all accounted for.
It took him the better part of an hour to actually get to the place, and it was well after dark when he finally got there. Of course, this time of year that wasn't saying much – it was only six thirty, and the ad had said something about applying only after five…
Still.
Well, beggars didn't get to choose, right? Smoothing down his blonde hair, hoping his shirt 'brought out his eyes' or something equally worthy of extra points, he knocked on the door of a house he could only describe as probably being rather choice real estate for a ghost.
The door opened and Malcolm forgot what it was he wanted to say.
Prissy. That was the only word for the man.
Who the hell wore starched clothing at this hour? Dude, it looked like the tie had been starched. At least twice. It looked good with the guy's pale brown eyes, sort of made them look that one color, what was it? Amber, that was it. Black slacks; he hadn't known stupid dress slacks could fit that nicely.
Delicate glasses perched on the guy's nose – freaking perched – and the long black hair was pulled back by what looked suspiciously like a ribbon. Nah, couldn't be.
"Um—" Malcolm stopped himself, took a breath, then tried again. He held out the piece of paper. "I'm here about your ad? I'm a computer science major and I work part time in the college libr—" His words were choked off, and he let out a garbled squeak, as the man yanked him inside and then slammed the door.
Prissy and weird, possibly violent.
Not much worse than the head librarian really. Malcolm looked around to try and spy any axes or chainsaws.
Nothing but lots of extremely shiny surfaces. Like someone had gotten a little over enthusiastic with the window cleaner and furniture polish. Malcolm was glad he wasn't a dust bunny.
That was it, no more sugar and no more caffeine.
"You know how to do what I require?" the man asked, voice frosty – but there was an underlying caution to it, as if the man did not dare hope.
Weird. "Um. Well. You just need someone to bring your library into this century, right? Catalogue it and stuff."
"That sounds correct," the man replied. "I merely want to ensure I can keep thorough track of my books and that I can find them again should they get misplaced by these confounded moving companies who insist on losing everything." He stopped, glaring briefly at whatever moving company had clearly annoyed him.
Malcolm wanted to cheer. "Hey, I can take care of all that. Piece of cake, really."
"Good. You are hired on a trial basis. This way."
Say what? Malcolm blinked. "Hey—um. Not that I'm complaining, but are you sure? Don't you have others to interview?" He huffed. "Oh, screw it. Have you at least got a name, uh, boss?"
The man whipped back around. Malcolm realized belatedly that it really was a ribbon in his hair. A fucking ribbon. In his hair. Boggle. Well, he'd boggle later. Right now the man was glaring at him, and those amber eyes were actually kinda pretty and he so did not need to be thinking that right now.
"My name is Paisley Eastgate."
Paisley? That was a name? Wasn't it a really ugly color? No, that was puce. Paisley was an ugly pattern. And a name, apparently. "Paisley?"
That got him a glare dark enough Malcolm found himself backing up a step. "Uh – Malcolm. My name is Malcolm Daviess."
"This way, then, Mr. Daviess."
"Uh, Malcolm is fine," Malcolm replied, but Paisley was already walking away, leaving him to talk to the ribbon and chase after. The man was quick for someone who wore ribbons in his hair and was called Paisley.
Though he should really be calling the guy Mr. Eastgate, and if the man was going to employ him Malcolm didn't care if his name was Sparkles.
"Here we are," Paisley said, pushing open a set of massive double doors at the back of house.
Malcolm whistled. "Damn."
It was a library. Like, a real library. With shelves made of wood and everything. A desk, one of those large globes that libraries always had in the movies. A fireplace. Jeez, how old was this house? He felt like he was lost in one of those classics he'd had to read in high school.
The shelves were all empty though, and if there was any furniture in the room it was hidden by all the massive crates – the kind you needed a crowbar to actually open, and they were stamped with all kinds of weird crap. Some of it looked Chinese or something. Most of it he had no clue.
What space wasn't covered by the crates was covered by boxes he did recognize. Man, he wanted to fucking drool. The University didn't have equipment half that nice.
Paisley was glowering at everything and nothing. "I assume you know how to…" he motioned with a grimace to the boxes of computer equipment. "Deal with all this?"
Malcolm was dying of curiosity, but in his experience curiosity got the cat fired. "Yeah, sure." He stared at the boxes some more, fingers twitching with a need to touch. "Uh, where do you want everything set up? Any preferences on—"
"I do not care what you do, so long as six months from now my library is thoroughly and perfectly catalogued," Paisley interrupted. "How long will it take you to get started?"
"Um—" Malcolm wondered if his mouth was hanging open. "Man, it'll take me at least the night just to set everything up and make sure I did it right. Assuming you've got everything I need to get it all set up."
Paisley scowled. "If not, then I will be taking that idiot at the store to task." He grimaced. "Inform me if anything is missing and I will see you are supplied with the monies you require to purchase additional—" He motioned to the boxes. "Equipment. I will leave you to it for now. Move things as you see fit, only do not harm my books. Your pay will be generous."
Malcolm tried again to speak, but before he could figure out what he even wanted to say – beyond where was the door out of the twilight zone, cause he sensed Paisley would totally not get that reference – the sound of the library doors closing put an end to the bizarre…conversation? Job interview?
Generous pay, huh? Well, whatever. If nothing else, he'd get to play with some sweet toys for a few hours. Paisley looked as though he loathed computers. Maybe he feared them. Was there a something-phobia for computers? Did it fall under technophobia or something?
He shrugged and set his book bag down, then set to work.
The novelty of a clock striking midnight broke him from the trance induced by hours of clicking 'I Agree to the Terms and Conditions.'
Yawning, Malcolm forced himself to stand, groaning as his stiffened muscles protested. He glanced at his watch. Hells bells, it really was midnight. Whacky. Glancing at the program still nicely installing, he moved around the desk and stretched with another groan, wincing at all the pops and cracks that resulted.
"Everything is going well?"
Malcolm yelped. "Jeez, where did you come from?" He blinked at Paisley, who stood in the doorway, watching him. Of course, the way he stood, Malcolm wondered if it shouldn't be described as skulking or looming or something equally House of Dracula.
He so needed to go to bed.
Question. Paisley – was that really his name? – had asked a question. Question. Answer. See him process thoughts at three after midnight. "Nearly done. Sorry it took so long, your stuff got a little bitchy for a bit there."
"It is of no matter, so long as it is nearly ready. The sooner this ordeal is over with, the better." Eyes narrowed at him, and it should have looked ridiculous but somehow didn't.
Really it would have been cool in an almost hot sort of way if Paisley wasn't also frowning in such an awful way. "You have been working a long time. Probably you are hungry?"
Starving. He hadn't had anything since the last of his poptarts that morning. "A bit, yeah. Beating software into submission can be draining."
"Of that I have no doubt. There is food in the kitchen, if you desire to partake of it."
Desire to partake? What the hell? Did Paisley slip through some portal into the wrong century? Was he a ghost?
That would certainly explain the ribbon. And the name Paisley.
"Is there something wrong?" Paisley asked.
Oops. Got caught staring. Why didn't that ever work for him like it did in all the pornos? In those the guys got asked backed to Hot and Studly's room or the back alley. He only ever got glared at and or threatened. Life was cruel. "No, sorry. Um. I'll go get that food now, if you really don't mind."
Paisley grimaced, and Malcolm thought suddenly that he finally understood the phrase 'turned up his nose'. "I have no interest in the contents of my kitchen. Take what you like." With that he turned and left, leaving Malcolm blinking and shaking his head.
Finally he shrugged and left the library, pausing in the hallway before shrugging again. He didn't know where the hell he was going, but the kitchen couldn't be too hard to find, right? Kitchens were always on the first floor, so that narrowed things down a bit.
Still, the house wasn't exactly small. It wasn't even medium. It was super size with two fries and a jumbo coke on the side.
He did, at last, stumble across it – though only because it was the only room in which a light was on. Sheesh, the place was bigger than his apartment plus the one next door. What the heck did one person need with all this space?
Though considering the number of crates in the library, and the size of them, maybe he was going to turn the whole place into a Holy Shrine of Literature or something. Temple of Paisley the Book Loving Ghost.
Malcolm rolled his eyes at himself. He so needed to go to bed. Food first…then he'd figure out how the heck he was going to get home at this hour. He was pretty sure the buses ran all but nonstop, but he'd never tested the theory.
Cautiously he entered the kitchen, whistling at everything in it – no slack kitchen, this. It looked like Paisley the Ghost knew how to cook, or had someone that knew how to cook. Except…for all the food and spices and cooking bowls and pots and stuff…there wasn't a single electronic device anywhere in the room minus the gas stove and the fridge.
It had taken him a second to figure out what was off, but once he noticed man was it flaring. No mixers, no blenders, not even a microwave.
Aw, crap. How the hell was he supposed to make dinner without a microwave?
Malcolm stood in the center of the kitchen, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the island. It was a pretty kitchen, he supposed. A mixture of blues that went well with the slate countertops. The floor was blue and white checkered tiles, the curtains over the window sink plain blue.
At the far end was what his mother had always called a 'breakfast nook'. A squared off window with benches beneath it, a table, and chairs on the open end. Between the nook and the kitchen was a wide bar.
If he was the cooking type, probably this kitchen would have him hard.
For better or worse, he wasn't. Home Ec had ever been his mortal enemy – after gym class, anyway.
Ugh. Bad memories. Back into the dark corners of his mind those memories went.
Food, food…there had to be something to eat. He opened the fridge. Meat. Fruits. Veggies. Oh, beer. Probably not a good idea. Damn. Okay, he knew how to make…wait, there was no toaster.
Maybe he should just hope there was a diner still open.
The sound of footsteps stirred him from his forlorn contemplation of the fridge, and Malcolm turned to look at Paisley.
He wondered if the man did anything but frown and glower – and the way he popped in and out like that was not helping dissuade the idea he was a ghost. "Is something wrong?"
Malcolm shrugged. "I'm kitchen stupid, don't mind me. Without a microwave I'm at a loss. I'll figure it out. Didn't mean to bother you."
Paisley's brows furrowed. "Microwave? What is that?"
Was this guy for real? "Uh…dude…are you from some third world country or something?"
The confused frown turned into a nasty glare. "If it is one of those idiotic modern devices that make a mockery of the world, it does not belong in my house. Certainly not in my kitchen, even if I do not use it!"
Ooookay. Back away slowly from the freaky ghost man with the weird name and a hatred of anything that involved a plug and socket.
Man, if he was going to be stuck in the Twilight Zone, they could at least cue the cool music.
Paisley stalked toward him – there was no other way to describe it, the man stalked and it was actually kinda really sexy or would be if Malcolm thought he'd get pounced in a going to score kind of way and not in a going to be dinner shortly kind of way.
"You do not know how to cook." Statement. Not question.
Malcolm replied anyway. "No. 'Fraid not. I can put together or fix damn near anything, I can code in my sleep, but things like cooking are way beyond me. If it can't be cooked in 3-4 minutes set on high or ordered at a counter, I'm pretty much doomed to starve."
The man actually looked pained. Like Malcolm had just stuck a knife in him. "The world has gone to ruin, I swear it. If I had only known then…" Paisley sighed and shook his head, staring off into the distance for a moment.
Abruptly he turned back to Malcolm, who startled at just how wow those eyes were. Seriously. They popped. Man, if the guy looked like this over hearing he couldn't cook, what would he do to learn Malcolm couldn't dance?
Paisley drew himself up. "Are you interested in retaining your employment here?"
"Yes?" Malcolm replied, blinking. "Money is good. I like books. Your house is cool but creepy. Are nights good, cause I have class during the day."
"Nights are perfect," Paisley replied, "but that was not my issue. If you are going to work for me, you will not be an incompetent idiot. I tolerate enough outrage in this hellish day and age, I will not fall so far as to employee a nitwit."
Malcolm bristled. "Hey! Just because you don't like computers and phones and—"
"I will not tolerate one of those bloody devices in my home," Paisley snapped. "If you possess one of those detestable phones that travels on your person, you will not use it on these premises. And if you are going to work for me, you will do as I say and I say that in addition to all that cataloguing nonsense you will take up those skills all men should possess."
That was it. "Did you just say I wasn't a man?"
"There is no mistaking your gender, certainly, but gender is not everything."
Malcolm wondered his chances of throwing a punch. "I don't think I'm the idiot in the room, you asshole. At least I'm not afraid of a fucking computer! I don't need this. I'm sorry my presence offends you. Find a different geek, and if you're going to be that picky then you might want to tack on 'must be able to cook' to your ad. Like a guy named Paisley has any damned room to talk about masculinity. See ya."
Shoulders hunched, all but shaking with angry humiliation, Malcolm stalked from the kitchen and back toward the library to retrieve his book bag. He would have preferred to just leave, but he needed some of the shit in that bag.
Like he didn't have enough problems with people taking potshots at his masculinity or supposed lack thereof. He'd heard fuck everything, from girl to sissy to loser to fairy and all the shit in between. To hell with all of them, even hot ghost man who had only turned out to be a jerk.
He snatched up his book bag and turned around – and crashed hard against something that was both soft and hard. Rubbing his nose, he glared up at Paisley. "What?" he snapped.
"I apologize," Paisley said. "My behavior was inexcusable and my words unfairly callous. I am afraid I took out on you many frustrations which have been building."
Malcolm frowned, hesitating on all the angry things he would have liked to say. He could understand taking out frustration on the wrong target. Heck, everyone did that. It wasn't very nice, of course, but nobody was perfect. All right, he wasn't quite ready to give up on leaving, but he wasn't the type to hold a grudge either – especially when the guy actually apologized. "You really don't like technology, do you?"
Paisley frowned – like, really frowned, as though he were almost heartbroken or, um, what the hell was that phrase snooty people used to describe themselves? Oh, world weary. Like he was honest to god tired of breathing. "No," he said at last. "I am…what you would call eccentric, I suppose. Extremely old fashioned. I detest what all this modern frippery has done to the world. I tolerate only what I must and not a smidgen more. So many skills are neglected…and…well, it matters not. It does not excuse the way I treated you, especially after all the work you have done for me." He looked at the computer equipment as though it were a poisonous snake.
It was almost cute, how vehemently Paisley hated technology. Definitely the most interesting guy he'd ever met. Which, he realized, meant he'd forgiven the guy. "Hey, I'm sorry I don't know how to cook. I grew up with a mother who had no time for it."
"No…" Paisley shook his head. "I should have held my tongue. Return to the kitchen with me and I will prepare something for you. I am less than sociable these days, but not entirely without manners."
"You, uh, speak better than anyone I've ever known," Malcolm offered. "You sound like the guys in all the old books. Elegant and stuff."
Paisley looked at him in surprise – then smiled. Like oh my god what a difference that made smiled. "Thank you," he said.
"Um." Speak. Move the tongue, form words. Oh god he shouldn't be thinking about tongue right now. Bad images! Stop! Heel! "No problem," he managed. "Uh. Lead the way?" He followed Paisley from the study, not really minding he got to stare at the man's ass the whole way. He spared a brief glance at his watch, groaning at the hour. Man, he was so screwed for class tomorrow. He should have been in bed hours ago.
He was motioned to the bar at the far end, and obediently sat on one of the stools, watching with genuine fascination as Paisley set to work. Man, it was so weird and cool how easy he made it look – the chopping, the cooking, the tossing stuff seemingly at random…
If he tried that, the fire department would be giving him dirty looks in an hour tops.
The plate that was shortly set in front of him was damn near the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. "Whoa. Real food. Boggle." He thought about asking if Paisley was going to have any, or something, but it was just too distracting. Eggs with all sorts of magical things in them.
Sadly, it was all shortly gone. "Um. Wow." He grinned at Paisley. "Now I see why people propose marriage on the spot to people who know how to cook. You're amazing. I'm kinda depressed I can't do this now, and I never really cared before."
Paisley gave him another smile, and Malcolm was finding it harder and harder to think of the guy as scary. "Cooking is not that difficult. Most skills require only patience and practice."
Malcolm grinned. "Including how to use a computer?"
That got him a scowl.
"Teasing, teasing," Malcolm said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Thanks for the food, uh, boss."
Paisley sniffed at him, doing that nose in the air thing again, but a smile was still teasing at his mouth.
Malcolm wished he stood a chance. It was a brief thought, he shoved it away almost before it could finish forming, but the wistfulness and longing were true – but reality was much stronger and louder. Bosses were, as a general rule, off limits and a guy like Paisley probably had the prettiest girl in the city on his arm. Someone who thought his old-fashioned ways were charming and endearing. She probably wore long skirts and those shirts with the billowy sleeves and had long pretty curls and blue eyes…
It was so past time for bed. What sort of idiot started fantasizing about his insane stuck in the past boss even after said boss questioned his masculinity? Then again, said boss cooked like a fiend.
Bed time. So bed time.
He pushed the plate away and repeated his thanks. "I'll be back tomorrow to finish setting up and get a start on the work itself. Any particular time you want me here?"
"You are leaving?"
"Um." Malcolm blinked. "Yes. I need to get back home to sleep and stuff."
"Ah. Sleep. It is a poor hour to be traveling the streets."
Malcolm shrugged. "Anyone who tries to jump me is going to find himself with a whopping two dollars and twelve cents. Maybe ten bucks in my checking account."
Paisley gave one his frowns. "You will stay the night here."
"Uh – I have to get to class and stuff. Clothes. Books." Fuck, his homework. Oh, man. He totally hadn't thought he'd be here all night. Hell, he hadn't expected to get the damned job. He did have a job, though. That realization made him plenty happy, even if he was going to wind up turning in his homework late. "Look, I would love to stay, trust me. Not looking forward to seeing what sort of Dark and Scary skulk on the busses at this hour – but I have to go home."
"No," Paisley said firmly. "You will stay the night here, and the morning will take care of itself."
Malcolm started to get annoyed again, but when he opened his mouth to start arguing, it came out a yawn instead.
And just like that he crashed, more than happy to sack out right there on the countertop. Screw it. "Okay, boss, you win. Point me to the nearest comfortable surface."
Something like amusement flickered in Paisley's eyes, and his lips twitched ever so briefly. Malcolm wondered suddenly what it would take to get the guy to laugh, and if he would look just as hot doing that as smiling.
Probably. Which meant it was time to stop thinking about it.
He stumbled obediently along as Paisley led him through what seemed an endless maze of stairs and hallways, finally stopping in a room that seemed predominantly brown. He thought there might be other colors, but was too tired to see for sure.
It was all fancy and stuff, he noted hazily. He heard Paisley murmur a good night, and hoped he said it back, but once he heard the door click Malcolm stripped down to his boxers and climbed into the massive bed.
Malcolm walked quickly down the street from the bus stop, humming cheerfully even as a cold wind bit at his exposed face. Smiling, he tugged up his scarf and picked up his pace. New scarf, new coat, new snow boots for when the weather finally turned nasty. His new job paid generously indeed.
He thought he'd love it even if it paid a pittance, though.
Seriously. Six weeks into the job and he was pretty much in heaven.
A heaven lined with sexual frustration, but he guessed everything had its downside. Though as a rule heaven shouldn't…
Shaking his head at himself, Malcolm crossed the street and jogged up the walkway to the house, fumbling briefly to pull his key from his coat pocket before finally managing to stumble his way inside.
Most nights, the house was quiet and he found Paisley either in the library going through his books with a devotion akin to a religious fervor or in the kitchen cooking something that was the equal of sex. Or nearly, anyway. He still kinda wanted rather badly to compare Paisley's food to having sex with Paisley, but he wasn't going to push his luck.
Library or kitchen, his night was pretty much the same routine – work for a few hours, eat a really late supper, then he either trudged home or sacked out in the bedroom he was thinking of as his more and more often.
Hell, three weekends running now he'd wound up drinking too much wine – wine of all things – and then spent the majority of the weekend with Paisley.
Well, sort of. Paisley kept the weirdest damned hours and Malcolm would kill to know what the hell he did for a living. Sadly, he was likely never going to find out. Paisley ranted and raved about some things, and more than once Malcolm had gotten hints of a really strict upbringing…
His meandering thoughts broke off as he heard something he never had before – voices.
One he recognized immediately as Paisley – but angry. Not like 'how dare you not know how to cook' angry but like really angry. Like going to stab you in the face with a rusty knife angry.
The other voice was about as pleasant.
He dropped his bag by the door and followed the sound of the voices. That he could hear them in the House of a Thousand Hallways was rather freaky in and of itself. Pinpointing the exact source was a bit difficult, but he at last followed it up a flight of stairs and down the first hallway on the right. From there it was easy; second door down, the only one lit – and open.
It was strange seeing light spilling from a door in a place where there was usually no light at all. Paisley never turned on lights that weren't strictly required. Malcolm had wondered more than once if he sat around in dark rooms casting curses on technology.
As he reached the open door, it belatedly occurred to him that this was none of his business.
He started to withdraw when the source of the strange voice came into view – a man with platinum blonde hair that fell halfway down his back. It should have looked stupid, but like Paisley the guy somehow made it work. His features were…icy, except for the part where he was shouting furiously at the still-unseen Paisley.
And…uh…
Malcolm blinked, not believing what he was seeing for a second.
Then Paisley came into view. Whoa. His hair was down. Oh, damn. All those fantasies hadn't even come close. It made no sense. Guys with long hair usually looked stupid to him. Man, he hated when his own got long enough he could grab a handful of it.
What they were saying was beyond him. He'd been so struck by the concept of Paisley shouting that it had until now escaped him they weren't speaking English.
Malcolm stood rooted to the spot, unable to help gawking like an idiot. His circuits were most definitely fried.
Paisley bellowed at the blonde guy and for the second time that night Malcolm refused to believe what he was seeing. Cause there was no fucking way…
The blonde drew back and Paisley's anger increased, barely dodging a fist that would have likely left a nasty bruise.
Malcolm's eyes widened, cause okay maybe he was seeing that but there was no fucking way. Paisley's eyes were all wrong, they looked too…too…animal or something. But he didn't give a fuck about the eyes no the eyes were fine it was the fangs that were kinda freaking him out like a whole lot because people didn't have fangs except on Halloween and in movies where they were playing vampires except vampires didn't really exist and people didn't have fangs so maybe…
The door slammed abruptly in his face, and he caught a brief glance of the blonde man – complete with more fangs that he didn't have.
Um.
Malcolm blinked.
Shook his head.
He should probably, uh, get to work. Or something. Yeah. Though if he was starting to see his boss with fangs and weird eyes then maybe he was working too hard or something. Maybe he'd read a book or something.
Just not anything by Bram Stoker or Anne Rice.
He heard a crash and the wall shuddered, like something heavy had been thrown against it.
Moving without thought, something in his head just snapping, Malcolm turned and bolted back the way he'd come. He meant to go to the library and work, he really did, cause after a bit Paisley would show up and make sense out of everything.
His feet had other ideas, clearly, and the rest of his body had obviously sided with them. Before he knew it he was out of the house and running for the bus stop – and hopped on the bus there, even though he could see at a glance it wasn't his usual. Well, anywhere was better than the house of the Dueling Draculas, right?
Ugh.
Safely on the bus, he began to feel like a moron.
Obviously whatever he thought he'd seen couldn't have been reality. No way. The lesson here was not to eat stale poptarts, clearly.
He rode the bus blindly for what seemed ages, but when he glanced at his watch it had only been forty-five minutes. Where the hell was he, anyway? His knowledge of the city did not extend beyond Paisley's house in this general area. He'd gotten on the #47, which meant nothing to him.
Great. He imagined his boss was a vampire and got himself lost.
Sighing at himself, not looking forward to the apology he would have to make for racing from Paisley's house like a bat out of hell, Malcolm yanked on the cord. The bus stopped at the next corner and he clambered out, looking dismally at his surroundings.
Great. He'd gone from Ye Olde Historic District to Ye Olde Ghetto. Not a place a lone skinny white boy wanted to be, especially when said skinny white boy was also a geek who had gotten the snot beat out of him in gym class for more years in a row than he felt like remembering.
Blah. He looked up at the bus route list attached to the telephone pole. Urgh. None of his usual suspects came this far. Well, he could just take #47 back to familiar territory and get home from there. Not hard.
He should just go back to Paisley's house anyway and make that stupid apology. Ugh. 'Sorry, I thought you were a vampire' sounded twenty kinds of stupid in his own head, which meant it would sound about fifty kinds of stupid once he opened his dumb mouth.
Resettling his bag, he walked to the intersection and punched the button, trudging across the street when the walk sign flashed. Across the street he walked down the sidewalk to the sad-looking, heavily graffitied bench and sat down hard.
The sound of shoes on sidewalk struck him right as a hand clapped over his mouth, and for a single moment he knew what it was like to be a sack of potatoes. Everything went all spinney, then he found himself looking down a dark alley.
He stumbled around to inform his assailant he was flat broke and a waste of time – and stopped short. "Uh—" His assailant was the platinum blonde. Complete with fangs. Oh shit. He took a step back, catching his heel on something and hitting the ground hard. Ugh, he so didn't want to know what the hell he'd landed in that it went squish like that. Yuck yuck yuck. "You're—uh—"
"I'm none of your business, and maybe this will teach that fool the lesson he has been avoiding," the blonde snarled, then stooped and fisted a hand in Malcolm's coat, yanking him up. "I see his taste hasn't improved over the years."
Malcolm frowned at that, momentarily shaken from his ohmyfuckinggodvampire freak out by the man's statement. "I think you're being mean enough without calling me ugly too, don't you think?"
"Shut up," the man snapped. "I am willing to do this the easy way—"
He wondered if terror made other people stupid. "Wouldn't the easy way have been to sneak up behind me and drain my blood so that I wasn't aware until too late?"
The man smiled. It made Malcolm think of a snake getting ready to strike. "A little fear makes the blood taste nice."
Malcolm thought to say he was more than a little scared, but in the next second everything went surreal and extremely painful and eventually kinda gray and dim like a bad rip of an old black and white film.
Everything was beginning to resemble a silent film when the freaky quiet was broken by a furious shout. It was like nothing he'd ever heard. Pain flared anew at his throat and then it was gone and he was once more sitting in a pile of questionable squishy stuff and he noticed absently his hand was trembling as he lifted it to his sore throat.
Wet and warm and sticky, but at least the world had some color to it again and…
He looked up hazily as he saw feet, to see Paisley standing over him with a weird expression on his face. It was like the real version of the tormented expressions those stupid beatnick poets at the café always wore when they abused the microphone on open mic night.
It was weird. Everything else was still dim around him, like a washed out water color painting or something. Paisley, though…he was positively bright.
Malcolm passed out.
on to part two
An SMP story -- Sammikins said I should do a vampire, and we latched upon the perfect idea ^__^ Well, I think she mostly did. I'm only to blame for the poor thing's name.
Must Be Able to Use Computers
For some reason, Malcolm could just hear the sarcasm in the title of the ad. Maybe it was in the handwriting. Anyway, he knew whoever had written wanted a bit more competency than that.
Had to.
The rest of the ad went on to request someone to catalogue an entire library – a private library, but still. If it was small, wouldn't the guy do it himself?
At that, wouldn't he find a better place to post an ad than the Board of Everything in the campus HUB?
Maybe it was desperation and not sarcasm he was reading in the title. He pushed his glasses up his nose and read it again. 'Must be able to use computers'.
Yeah, maybe it was desperation. With a note of sarcasm. Somehow, he could not escape a feeling of sarcasm.
He yanked the ad off the thumbtack that had stuck it to the board, deliberating.
It sounded interesting, and promising – and surely a job like that would pay well?
Lord knew he was flat broke with no chance of pennies coming his way anytime soon. Not with a stingy ass stepfather who'd rather give the time of day to a fly, and a mother who was too busy flying to all the world's shopping malls to give him any of her pennies.
Hell, she hadn't even answered any of his six messages – and his pride would not tolerate a seventh.
Well, the worst he could hear was no, so it was worth at least a phone…except there was no contact number. Just a 'please apply at' and an address.
For rather an old part of the city, really. Old as in historic, as in expensive, as in the job would pay really well or pay nothing at all because if there was one thing he'd learned from his mother and stepfather it was that a fool and his money were soon parted, but only because the rich man stole it from him to hoard.
If he was going to try for a job, weird as it was, he should probably not wear his usual school clothes. Yeah, if his mother cared at all about him she'd probably screech.
Heaving a sigh, he folded the slip of paper and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, then trudged his way back to the small studio he rented just off campus. Seven hundred a month for a hole in the wall, but loads cheaper than a dorm on campus.
Even if he did feel sort of removed from everything. But wasn't that always the way?
Rolling his eyes, deciding that he really needed to stop eating sugar late at night because it always meant he was moody the next day, Malcolm pounded up the creaky steps to the second floor, striding rapidly down the hall before ol' Ms. Thatcher could catch him and start yammering.
Inside, he flicked on the light and strode immediately to the little area that had his bathroom and closets. Shoving open the sliding closet door, he considered his options.
T-shirt, T-shirt, or…T-shirt.
He really needed to go shopping. Didn't he have something with buttons around here somewhere? He was pretty sure. It was blue or green or something like that. Damn it. Had he spilled something on it?
Aha! He crowed a victory as he pulled it from the very back of the closet – and double plus bonus points, there were good black slacks beneath it. Sweet. Tossing the clothes on his bed, Malcolm stripped and headed for the shower, singing old eighties stuff at the top of his lungs until Asshole Jenkins pounded on the wall for him to knock it the fuck off or he'd call security. Which he wouldn't, because otherwise Malcolm would report him for all manner of less than legal dealings in the parking lot late at night – and Asshole Jenkins knew it.
Turning off the shower, he grabbed a towel and dried off, then quickly got dressed, emptying his book bag of the stuff he wouldn't need, packing it with whatever he thought he might.
Glasses, wallet, keys. Oh – the ad. Snatching up his jeans from the floor, he pulled out the scrap of paper.
Food would be good too – but he just bet if he got anything to eat or drink, he'd wind up spilling it on his clothes.
He checked himself in the mirror one last time – blue shirt, not wrinkled, check. Black slacks, not wrinkled, check. Shoes…dark sneakers, not so great, but his only other option was sandals which he was pretty sure was a lot worse.
Hair combed, more or less.
As good as he was going to get, and hopefully someone else hadn't snatched up the job.
Of course, the way his luck ran…
Better not to think about. Shouldering his bag, he double checked he'd grabbed all the important small stuff, muttering to himself 'spectacles, testicles, wallet, watch.' Yep, all accounted for.
It took him the better part of an hour to actually get to the place, and it was well after dark when he finally got there. Of course, this time of year that wasn't saying much – it was only six thirty, and the ad had said something about applying only after five…
Still.
Well, beggars didn't get to choose, right? Smoothing down his blonde hair, hoping his shirt 'brought out his eyes' or something equally worthy of extra points, he knocked on the door of a house he could only describe as probably being rather choice real estate for a ghost.
The door opened and Malcolm forgot what it was he wanted to say.
Prissy. That was the only word for the man.
Who the hell wore starched clothing at this hour? Dude, it looked like the tie had been starched. At least twice. It looked good with the guy's pale brown eyes, sort of made them look that one color, what was it? Amber, that was it. Black slacks; he hadn't known stupid dress slacks could fit that nicely.
Delicate glasses perched on the guy's nose – freaking perched – and the long black hair was pulled back by what looked suspiciously like a ribbon. Nah, couldn't be.
"Um—" Malcolm stopped himself, took a breath, then tried again. He held out the piece of paper. "I'm here about your ad? I'm a computer science major and I work part time in the college libr—" His words were choked off, and he let out a garbled squeak, as the man yanked him inside and then slammed the door.
Prissy and weird, possibly violent.
Not much worse than the head librarian really. Malcolm looked around to try and spy any axes or chainsaws.
Nothing but lots of extremely shiny surfaces. Like someone had gotten a little over enthusiastic with the window cleaner and furniture polish. Malcolm was glad he wasn't a dust bunny.
That was it, no more sugar and no more caffeine.
"You know how to do what I require?" the man asked, voice frosty – but there was an underlying caution to it, as if the man did not dare hope.
Weird. "Um. Well. You just need someone to bring your library into this century, right? Catalogue it and stuff."
"That sounds correct," the man replied. "I merely want to ensure I can keep thorough track of my books and that I can find them again should they get misplaced by these confounded moving companies who insist on losing everything." He stopped, glaring briefly at whatever moving company had clearly annoyed him.
Malcolm wanted to cheer. "Hey, I can take care of all that. Piece of cake, really."
"Good. You are hired on a trial basis. This way."
Say what? Malcolm blinked. "Hey—um. Not that I'm complaining, but are you sure? Don't you have others to interview?" He huffed. "Oh, screw it. Have you at least got a name, uh, boss?"
The man whipped back around. Malcolm realized belatedly that it really was a ribbon in his hair. A fucking ribbon. In his hair. Boggle. Well, he'd boggle later. Right now the man was glaring at him, and those amber eyes were actually kinda pretty and he so did not need to be thinking that right now.
"My name is Paisley Eastgate."
Paisley? That was a name? Wasn't it a really ugly color? No, that was puce. Paisley was an ugly pattern. And a name, apparently. "Paisley?"
That got him a glare dark enough Malcolm found himself backing up a step. "Uh – Malcolm. My name is Malcolm Daviess."
"This way, then, Mr. Daviess."
"Uh, Malcolm is fine," Malcolm replied, but Paisley was already walking away, leaving him to talk to the ribbon and chase after. The man was quick for someone who wore ribbons in his hair and was called Paisley.
Though he should really be calling the guy Mr. Eastgate, and if the man was going to employ him Malcolm didn't care if his name was Sparkles.
"Here we are," Paisley said, pushing open a set of massive double doors at the back of house.
Malcolm whistled. "Damn."
It was a library. Like, a real library. With shelves made of wood and everything. A desk, one of those large globes that libraries always had in the movies. A fireplace. Jeez, how old was this house? He felt like he was lost in one of those classics he'd had to read in high school.
The shelves were all empty though, and if there was any furniture in the room it was hidden by all the massive crates – the kind you needed a crowbar to actually open, and they were stamped with all kinds of weird crap. Some of it looked Chinese or something. Most of it he had no clue.
What space wasn't covered by the crates was covered by boxes he did recognize. Man, he wanted to fucking drool. The University didn't have equipment half that nice.
Paisley was glowering at everything and nothing. "I assume you know how to…" he motioned with a grimace to the boxes of computer equipment. "Deal with all this?"
Malcolm was dying of curiosity, but in his experience curiosity got the cat fired. "Yeah, sure." He stared at the boxes some more, fingers twitching with a need to touch. "Uh, where do you want everything set up? Any preferences on—"
"I do not care what you do, so long as six months from now my library is thoroughly and perfectly catalogued," Paisley interrupted. "How long will it take you to get started?"
"Um—" Malcolm wondered if his mouth was hanging open. "Man, it'll take me at least the night just to set everything up and make sure I did it right. Assuming you've got everything I need to get it all set up."
Paisley scowled. "If not, then I will be taking that idiot at the store to task." He grimaced. "Inform me if anything is missing and I will see you are supplied with the monies you require to purchase additional—" He motioned to the boxes. "Equipment. I will leave you to it for now. Move things as you see fit, only do not harm my books. Your pay will be generous."
Malcolm tried again to speak, but before he could figure out what he even wanted to say – beyond where was the door out of the twilight zone, cause he sensed Paisley would totally not get that reference – the sound of the library doors closing put an end to the bizarre…conversation? Job interview?
Generous pay, huh? Well, whatever. If nothing else, he'd get to play with some sweet toys for a few hours. Paisley looked as though he loathed computers. Maybe he feared them. Was there a something-phobia for computers? Did it fall under technophobia or something?
He shrugged and set his book bag down, then set to work.
The novelty of a clock striking midnight broke him from the trance induced by hours of clicking 'I Agree to the Terms and Conditions.'
Yawning, Malcolm forced himself to stand, groaning as his stiffened muscles protested. He glanced at his watch. Hells bells, it really was midnight. Whacky. Glancing at the program still nicely installing, he moved around the desk and stretched with another groan, wincing at all the pops and cracks that resulted.
"Everything is going well?"
Malcolm yelped. "Jeez, where did you come from?" He blinked at Paisley, who stood in the doorway, watching him. Of course, the way he stood, Malcolm wondered if it shouldn't be described as skulking or looming or something equally House of Dracula.
He so needed to go to bed.
Question. Paisley – was that really his name? – had asked a question. Question. Answer. See him process thoughts at three after midnight. "Nearly done. Sorry it took so long, your stuff got a little bitchy for a bit there."
"It is of no matter, so long as it is nearly ready. The sooner this ordeal is over with, the better." Eyes narrowed at him, and it should have looked ridiculous but somehow didn't.
Really it would have been cool in an almost hot sort of way if Paisley wasn't also frowning in such an awful way. "You have been working a long time. Probably you are hungry?"
Starving. He hadn't had anything since the last of his poptarts that morning. "A bit, yeah. Beating software into submission can be draining."
"Of that I have no doubt. There is food in the kitchen, if you desire to partake of it."
Desire to partake? What the hell? Did Paisley slip through some portal into the wrong century? Was he a ghost?
That would certainly explain the ribbon. And the name Paisley.
"Is there something wrong?" Paisley asked.
Oops. Got caught staring. Why didn't that ever work for him like it did in all the pornos? In those the guys got asked backed to Hot and Studly's room or the back alley. He only ever got glared at and or threatened. Life was cruel. "No, sorry. Um. I'll go get that food now, if you really don't mind."
Paisley grimaced, and Malcolm thought suddenly that he finally understood the phrase 'turned up his nose'. "I have no interest in the contents of my kitchen. Take what you like." With that he turned and left, leaving Malcolm blinking and shaking his head.
Finally he shrugged and left the library, pausing in the hallway before shrugging again. He didn't know where the hell he was going, but the kitchen couldn't be too hard to find, right? Kitchens were always on the first floor, so that narrowed things down a bit.
Still, the house wasn't exactly small. It wasn't even medium. It was super size with two fries and a jumbo coke on the side.
He did, at last, stumble across it – though only because it was the only room in which a light was on. Sheesh, the place was bigger than his apartment plus the one next door. What the heck did one person need with all this space?
Though considering the number of crates in the library, and the size of them, maybe he was going to turn the whole place into a Holy Shrine of Literature or something. Temple of Paisley the Book Loving Ghost.
Malcolm rolled his eyes at himself. He so needed to go to bed. Food first…then he'd figure out how the heck he was going to get home at this hour. He was pretty sure the buses ran all but nonstop, but he'd never tested the theory.
Cautiously he entered the kitchen, whistling at everything in it – no slack kitchen, this. It looked like Paisley the Ghost knew how to cook, or had someone that knew how to cook. Except…for all the food and spices and cooking bowls and pots and stuff…there wasn't a single electronic device anywhere in the room minus the gas stove and the fridge.
It had taken him a second to figure out what was off, but once he noticed man was it flaring. No mixers, no blenders, not even a microwave.
Aw, crap. How the hell was he supposed to make dinner without a microwave?
Malcolm stood in the center of the kitchen, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the island. It was a pretty kitchen, he supposed. A mixture of blues that went well with the slate countertops. The floor was blue and white checkered tiles, the curtains over the window sink plain blue.
At the far end was what his mother had always called a 'breakfast nook'. A squared off window with benches beneath it, a table, and chairs on the open end. Between the nook and the kitchen was a wide bar.
If he was the cooking type, probably this kitchen would have him hard.
For better or worse, he wasn't. Home Ec had ever been his mortal enemy – after gym class, anyway.
Ugh. Bad memories. Back into the dark corners of his mind those memories went.
Food, food…there had to be something to eat. He opened the fridge. Meat. Fruits. Veggies. Oh, beer. Probably not a good idea. Damn. Okay, he knew how to make…wait, there was no toaster.
Maybe he should just hope there was a diner still open.
The sound of footsteps stirred him from his forlorn contemplation of the fridge, and Malcolm turned to look at Paisley.
He wondered if the man did anything but frown and glower – and the way he popped in and out like that was not helping dissuade the idea he was a ghost. "Is something wrong?"
Malcolm shrugged. "I'm kitchen stupid, don't mind me. Without a microwave I'm at a loss. I'll figure it out. Didn't mean to bother you."
Paisley's brows furrowed. "Microwave? What is that?"
Was this guy for real? "Uh…dude…are you from some third world country or something?"
The confused frown turned into a nasty glare. "If it is one of those idiotic modern devices that make a mockery of the world, it does not belong in my house. Certainly not in my kitchen, even if I do not use it!"
Ooookay. Back away slowly from the freaky ghost man with the weird name and a hatred of anything that involved a plug and socket.
Man, if he was going to be stuck in the Twilight Zone, they could at least cue the cool music.
Paisley stalked toward him – there was no other way to describe it, the man stalked and it was actually kinda really sexy or would be if Malcolm thought he'd get pounced in a going to score kind of way and not in a going to be dinner shortly kind of way.
"You do not know how to cook." Statement. Not question.
Malcolm replied anyway. "No. 'Fraid not. I can put together or fix damn near anything, I can code in my sleep, but things like cooking are way beyond me. If it can't be cooked in 3-4 minutes set on high or ordered at a counter, I'm pretty much doomed to starve."
The man actually looked pained. Like Malcolm had just stuck a knife in him. "The world has gone to ruin, I swear it. If I had only known then…" Paisley sighed and shook his head, staring off into the distance for a moment.
Abruptly he turned back to Malcolm, who startled at just how wow those eyes were. Seriously. They popped. Man, if the guy looked like this over hearing he couldn't cook, what would he do to learn Malcolm couldn't dance?
Paisley drew himself up. "Are you interested in retaining your employment here?"
"Yes?" Malcolm replied, blinking. "Money is good. I like books. Your house is cool but creepy. Are nights good, cause I have class during the day."
"Nights are perfect," Paisley replied, "but that was not my issue. If you are going to work for me, you will not be an incompetent idiot. I tolerate enough outrage in this hellish day and age, I will not fall so far as to employee a nitwit."
Malcolm bristled. "Hey! Just because you don't like computers and phones and—"
"I will not tolerate one of those bloody devices in my home," Paisley snapped. "If you possess one of those detestable phones that travels on your person, you will not use it on these premises. And if you are going to work for me, you will do as I say and I say that in addition to all that cataloguing nonsense you will take up those skills all men should possess."
That was it. "Did you just say I wasn't a man?"
"There is no mistaking your gender, certainly, but gender is not everything."
Malcolm wondered his chances of throwing a punch. "I don't think I'm the idiot in the room, you asshole. At least I'm not afraid of a fucking computer! I don't need this. I'm sorry my presence offends you. Find a different geek, and if you're going to be that picky then you might want to tack on 'must be able to cook' to your ad. Like a guy named Paisley has any damned room to talk about masculinity. See ya."
Shoulders hunched, all but shaking with angry humiliation, Malcolm stalked from the kitchen and back toward the library to retrieve his book bag. He would have preferred to just leave, but he needed some of the shit in that bag.
Like he didn't have enough problems with people taking potshots at his masculinity or supposed lack thereof. He'd heard fuck everything, from girl to sissy to loser to fairy and all the shit in between. To hell with all of them, even hot ghost man who had only turned out to be a jerk.
He snatched up his book bag and turned around – and crashed hard against something that was both soft and hard. Rubbing his nose, he glared up at Paisley. "What?" he snapped.
"I apologize," Paisley said. "My behavior was inexcusable and my words unfairly callous. I am afraid I took out on you many frustrations which have been building."
Malcolm frowned, hesitating on all the angry things he would have liked to say. He could understand taking out frustration on the wrong target. Heck, everyone did that. It wasn't very nice, of course, but nobody was perfect. All right, he wasn't quite ready to give up on leaving, but he wasn't the type to hold a grudge either – especially when the guy actually apologized. "You really don't like technology, do you?"
Paisley frowned – like, really frowned, as though he were almost heartbroken or, um, what the hell was that phrase snooty people used to describe themselves? Oh, world weary. Like he was honest to god tired of breathing. "No," he said at last. "I am…what you would call eccentric, I suppose. Extremely old fashioned. I detest what all this modern frippery has done to the world. I tolerate only what I must and not a smidgen more. So many skills are neglected…and…well, it matters not. It does not excuse the way I treated you, especially after all the work you have done for me." He looked at the computer equipment as though it were a poisonous snake.
It was almost cute, how vehemently Paisley hated technology. Definitely the most interesting guy he'd ever met. Which, he realized, meant he'd forgiven the guy. "Hey, I'm sorry I don't know how to cook. I grew up with a mother who had no time for it."
"No…" Paisley shook his head. "I should have held my tongue. Return to the kitchen with me and I will prepare something for you. I am less than sociable these days, but not entirely without manners."
"You, uh, speak better than anyone I've ever known," Malcolm offered. "You sound like the guys in all the old books. Elegant and stuff."
Paisley looked at him in surprise – then smiled. Like oh my god what a difference that made smiled. "Thank you," he said.
"Um." Speak. Move the tongue, form words. Oh god he shouldn't be thinking about tongue right now. Bad images! Stop! Heel! "No problem," he managed. "Uh. Lead the way?" He followed Paisley from the study, not really minding he got to stare at the man's ass the whole way. He spared a brief glance at his watch, groaning at the hour. Man, he was so screwed for class tomorrow. He should have been in bed hours ago.
He was motioned to the bar at the far end, and obediently sat on one of the stools, watching with genuine fascination as Paisley set to work. Man, it was so weird and cool how easy he made it look – the chopping, the cooking, the tossing stuff seemingly at random…
If he tried that, the fire department would be giving him dirty looks in an hour tops.
The plate that was shortly set in front of him was damn near the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. "Whoa. Real food. Boggle." He thought about asking if Paisley was going to have any, or something, but it was just too distracting. Eggs with all sorts of magical things in them.
Sadly, it was all shortly gone. "Um. Wow." He grinned at Paisley. "Now I see why people propose marriage on the spot to people who know how to cook. You're amazing. I'm kinda depressed I can't do this now, and I never really cared before."
Paisley gave him another smile, and Malcolm was finding it harder and harder to think of the guy as scary. "Cooking is not that difficult. Most skills require only patience and practice."
Malcolm grinned. "Including how to use a computer?"
That got him a scowl.
"Teasing, teasing," Malcolm said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Thanks for the food, uh, boss."
Paisley sniffed at him, doing that nose in the air thing again, but a smile was still teasing at his mouth.
Malcolm wished he stood a chance. It was a brief thought, he shoved it away almost before it could finish forming, but the wistfulness and longing were true – but reality was much stronger and louder. Bosses were, as a general rule, off limits and a guy like Paisley probably had the prettiest girl in the city on his arm. Someone who thought his old-fashioned ways were charming and endearing. She probably wore long skirts and those shirts with the billowy sleeves and had long pretty curls and blue eyes…
It was so past time for bed. What sort of idiot started fantasizing about his insane stuck in the past boss even after said boss questioned his masculinity? Then again, said boss cooked like a fiend.
Bed time. So bed time.
He pushed the plate away and repeated his thanks. "I'll be back tomorrow to finish setting up and get a start on the work itself. Any particular time you want me here?"
"You are leaving?"
"Um." Malcolm blinked. "Yes. I need to get back home to sleep and stuff."
"Ah. Sleep. It is a poor hour to be traveling the streets."
Malcolm shrugged. "Anyone who tries to jump me is going to find himself with a whopping two dollars and twelve cents. Maybe ten bucks in my checking account."
Paisley gave one his frowns. "You will stay the night here."
"Uh – I have to get to class and stuff. Clothes. Books." Fuck, his homework. Oh, man. He totally hadn't thought he'd be here all night. Hell, he hadn't expected to get the damned job. He did have a job, though. That realization made him plenty happy, even if he was going to wind up turning in his homework late. "Look, I would love to stay, trust me. Not looking forward to seeing what sort of Dark and Scary skulk on the busses at this hour – but I have to go home."
"No," Paisley said firmly. "You will stay the night here, and the morning will take care of itself."
Malcolm started to get annoyed again, but when he opened his mouth to start arguing, it came out a yawn instead.
And just like that he crashed, more than happy to sack out right there on the countertop. Screw it. "Okay, boss, you win. Point me to the nearest comfortable surface."
Something like amusement flickered in Paisley's eyes, and his lips twitched ever so briefly. Malcolm wondered suddenly what it would take to get the guy to laugh, and if he would look just as hot doing that as smiling.
Probably. Which meant it was time to stop thinking about it.
He stumbled obediently along as Paisley led him through what seemed an endless maze of stairs and hallways, finally stopping in a room that seemed predominantly brown. He thought there might be other colors, but was too tired to see for sure.
It was all fancy and stuff, he noted hazily. He heard Paisley murmur a good night, and hoped he said it back, but once he heard the door click Malcolm stripped down to his boxers and climbed into the massive bed.
*~*~*
Malcolm walked quickly down the street from the bus stop, humming cheerfully even as a cold wind bit at his exposed face. Smiling, he tugged up his scarf and picked up his pace. New scarf, new coat, new snow boots for when the weather finally turned nasty. His new job paid generously indeed.
He thought he'd love it even if it paid a pittance, though.
Seriously. Six weeks into the job and he was pretty much in heaven.
A heaven lined with sexual frustration, but he guessed everything had its downside. Though as a rule heaven shouldn't…
Shaking his head at himself, Malcolm crossed the street and jogged up the walkway to the house, fumbling briefly to pull his key from his coat pocket before finally managing to stumble his way inside.
Most nights, the house was quiet and he found Paisley either in the library going through his books with a devotion akin to a religious fervor or in the kitchen cooking something that was the equal of sex. Or nearly, anyway. He still kinda wanted rather badly to compare Paisley's food to having sex with Paisley, but he wasn't going to push his luck.
Library or kitchen, his night was pretty much the same routine – work for a few hours, eat a really late supper, then he either trudged home or sacked out in the bedroom he was thinking of as his more and more often.
Hell, three weekends running now he'd wound up drinking too much wine – wine of all things – and then spent the majority of the weekend with Paisley.
Well, sort of. Paisley kept the weirdest damned hours and Malcolm would kill to know what the hell he did for a living. Sadly, he was likely never going to find out. Paisley ranted and raved about some things, and more than once Malcolm had gotten hints of a really strict upbringing…
His meandering thoughts broke off as he heard something he never had before – voices.
One he recognized immediately as Paisley – but angry. Not like 'how dare you not know how to cook' angry but like really angry. Like going to stab you in the face with a rusty knife angry.
The other voice was about as pleasant.
He dropped his bag by the door and followed the sound of the voices. That he could hear them in the House of a Thousand Hallways was rather freaky in and of itself. Pinpointing the exact source was a bit difficult, but he at last followed it up a flight of stairs and down the first hallway on the right. From there it was easy; second door down, the only one lit – and open.
It was strange seeing light spilling from a door in a place where there was usually no light at all. Paisley never turned on lights that weren't strictly required. Malcolm had wondered more than once if he sat around in dark rooms casting curses on technology.
As he reached the open door, it belatedly occurred to him that this was none of his business.
He started to withdraw when the source of the strange voice came into view – a man with platinum blonde hair that fell halfway down his back. It should have looked stupid, but like Paisley the guy somehow made it work. His features were…icy, except for the part where he was shouting furiously at the still-unseen Paisley.
And…uh…
Malcolm blinked, not believing what he was seeing for a second.
Then Paisley came into view. Whoa. His hair was down. Oh, damn. All those fantasies hadn't even come close. It made no sense. Guys with long hair usually looked stupid to him. Man, he hated when his own got long enough he could grab a handful of it.
What they were saying was beyond him. He'd been so struck by the concept of Paisley shouting that it had until now escaped him they weren't speaking English.
Malcolm stood rooted to the spot, unable to help gawking like an idiot. His circuits were most definitely fried.
Paisley bellowed at the blonde guy and for the second time that night Malcolm refused to believe what he was seeing. Cause there was no fucking way…
The blonde drew back and Paisley's anger increased, barely dodging a fist that would have likely left a nasty bruise.
Malcolm's eyes widened, cause okay maybe he was seeing that but there was no fucking way. Paisley's eyes were all wrong, they looked too…too…animal or something. But he didn't give a fuck about the eyes no the eyes were fine it was the fangs that were kinda freaking him out like a whole lot because people didn't have fangs except on Halloween and in movies where they were playing vampires except vampires didn't really exist and people didn't have fangs so maybe…
The door slammed abruptly in his face, and he caught a brief glance of the blonde man – complete with more fangs that he didn't have.
Um.
Malcolm blinked.
Shook his head.
He should probably, uh, get to work. Or something. Yeah. Though if he was starting to see his boss with fangs and weird eyes then maybe he was working too hard or something. Maybe he'd read a book or something.
Just not anything by Bram Stoker or Anne Rice.
He heard a crash and the wall shuddered, like something heavy had been thrown against it.
Moving without thought, something in his head just snapping, Malcolm turned and bolted back the way he'd come. He meant to go to the library and work, he really did, cause after a bit Paisley would show up and make sense out of everything.
His feet had other ideas, clearly, and the rest of his body had obviously sided with them. Before he knew it he was out of the house and running for the bus stop – and hopped on the bus there, even though he could see at a glance it wasn't his usual. Well, anywhere was better than the house of the Dueling Draculas, right?
Ugh.
Safely on the bus, he began to feel like a moron.
Obviously whatever he thought he'd seen couldn't have been reality. No way. The lesson here was not to eat stale poptarts, clearly.
He rode the bus blindly for what seemed ages, but when he glanced at his watch it had only been forty-five minutes. Where the hell was he, anyway? His knowledge of the city did not extend beyond Paisley's house in this general area. He'd gotten on the #47, which meant nothing to him.
Great. He imagined his boss was a vampire and got himself lost.
Sighing at himself, not looking forward to the apology he would have to make for racing from Paisley's house like a bat out of hell, Malcolm yanked on the cord. The bus stopped at the next corner and he clambered out, looking dismally at his surroundings.
Great. He'd gone from Ye Olde Historic District to Ye Olde Ghetto. Not a place a lone skinny white boy wanted to be, especially when said skinny white boy was also a geek who had gotten the snot beat out of him in gym class for more years in a row than he felt like remembering.
Blah. He looked up at the bus route list attached to the telephone pole. Urgh. None of his usual suspects came this far. Well, he could just take #47 back to familiar territory and get home from there. Not hard.
He should just go back to Paisley's house anyway and make that stupid apology. Ugh. 'Sorry, I thought you were a vampire' sounded twenty kinds of stupid in his own head, which meant it would sound about fifty kinds of stupid once he opened his dumb mouth.
Resettling his bag, he walked to the intersection and punched the button, trudging across the street when the walk sign flashed. Across the street he walked down the sidewalk to the sad-looking, heavily graffitied bench and sat down hard.
The sound of shoes on sidewalk struck him right as a hand clapped over his mouth, and for a single moment he knew what it was like to be a sack of potatoes. Everything went all spinney, then he found himself looking down a dark alley.
He stumbled around to inform his assailant he was flat broke and a waste of time – and stopped short. "Uh—" His assailant was the platinum blonde. Complete with fangs. Oh shit. He took a step back, catching his heel on something and hitting the ground hard. Ugh, he so didn't want to know what the hell he'd landed in that it went squish like that. Yuck yuck yuck. "You're—uh—"
"I'm none of your business, and maybe this will teach that fool the lesson he has been avoiding," the blonde snarled, then stooped and fisted a hand in Malcolm's coat, yanking him up. "I see his taste hasn't improved over the years."
Malcolm frowned at that, momentarily shaken from his ohmyfuckinggodvampire freak out by the man's statement. "I think you're being mean enough without calling me ugly too, don't you think?"
"Shut up," the man snapped. "I am willing to do this the easy way—"
He wondered if terror made other people stupid. "Wouldn't the easy way have been to sneak up behind me and drain my blood so that I wasn't aware until too late?"
The man smiled. It made Malcolm think of a snake getting ready to strike. "A little fear makes the blood taste nice."
Malcolm thought to say he was more than a little scared, but in the next second everything went surreal and extremely painful and eventually kinda gray and dim like a bad rip of an old black and white film.
Everything was beginning to resemble a silent film when the freaky quiet was broken by a furious shout. It was like nothing he'd ever heard. Pain flared anew at his throat and then it was gone and he was once more sitting in a pile of questionable squishy stuff and he noticed absently his hand was trembling as he lifted it to his sore throat.
Wet and warm and sticky, but at least the world had some color to it again and…
He looked up hazily as he saw feet, to see Paisley standing over him with a weird expression on his face. It was like the real version of the tormented expressions those stupid beatnick poets at the café always wore when they abused the microphone on open mic night.
It was weird. Everything else was still dim around him, like a washed out water color painting or something. Paisley, though…he was positively bright.
Malcolm passed out.
on to part two
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Date: 2007-10-31 10:41 am (UTC)So thanks for your contribution to SMP newsletter (the whole was great reading).
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Date: 2007-11-01 08:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-01 10:14 pm (UTC)*snicker*
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Date: 2008-01-22 10:40 am (UTC)