Neither Man A Martyr
by Silvia
There's a final battle because there's always a final battle.
You're not there, but you hear about it. The strangest people pick the most unexpected times to turn brave. Better him than you, you think, and then: oh, bother.
You know what's coming.
--
Two years, and then he's knocking loudly until you answer.
You tell him to come in, and he says no, he couldn't, and it's said like an insult but could be excused as politeness by someone who's never met Malfoy, ever, in their entire life.
He's still so polished. His hair's longer, and if his lip curled tighter he could be his father. He's wet all over, and that's how you know he's not a ghost.
"You want money?" you say, and blink.
He sneers, "Wouldn't you?" shaking out the hail in his coat all over your doorstep, and so you give him some.
--
You give him a lot, and he laughs straight up into your face for it. "Merlin, you're that easy?"
"You may have saved my life," you say, simply, and you get him a job.
--
It has good hours and the salary is better than yours. His assistant is pretty enough that rooms seem to brighten when she enters, and she'll let him talk the whole time and pretend to listen. He says he'll call if he needs another good word in.
He calls.
He wants you to invite him to stay for a while, until he settles in. He also, and he lets you know this over supper, wants to see you naked. On his bed.
You cough and point out that he doesn't even have one, if you're to be putting him up for a month or so, and he points out that you don't have to be so damned literal all the time -- it's terribly annoying.
You say, "I could have won, you know. Didn't need you to do it for me," and he says, "I know, but it's much more fun this way," and you can't help it -- he's just so outrageous. You snort.
You don't want to say, "Well, fine," because that sounds so crass, even if it really really is, so you lean across the table and kiss him.
You kiss the softest parts of his neck and strip off his trousers to kiss his hipbones and the inside of his thigh. He spreads you out on cotton sheets that stick to the sweat on your back and bites at the oddest places, like the backs of your wrists and the tip of your chin. You suck a bruise into the side of his throat and he presses his cock against yours, slides, and the rush of blood to the top layer of your skin is hot and makes your mouth unable to close for some reason.
--
It feels like it's over when he leaves, but then he comes back for breakfast. He brought bread and it's warm. It's wonderful with butter.
It feels like it's over when he doesn't kiss you for a week, until it's good, terribly good, when he finally does. And you figure you shouldn't have waited -- you do what you want.
It feels like it's over when you fight, and it's awful, and you shout, "I don't owe you anything."
"You're right," he says, calmly, "You never did."
And. It's something to think about.
--
You think, and you finally say, "Maybe I didn't show up for a reason."
"Maybe you didn't," he agrees, and makes the tea exactly how you like it and hands you a cup.