Impudent Secretaries and Spanish Puppets

I'm answering my own challenge. I suspect I might have posted that challenge just so I could write about puppets *grins*

I just wrote this on the train today, so it's a bit silly and raw, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Title: Impudent Secretaries and Spanish Puppets
Pairing/Characters: Draco/Ron, Malcolm
Rating: PG-13, for some language (Edited to change rating: Originally at R, but I think I was on crack when I wrote that. R? Not really.)
Word Count: 1,040
Summary: Malcolm Baddock is bored out of his mind. Fun with a sock puppet. AU, non-magic, written for the Strange Boys challenge.

Impudent Secretaries and Spanish Puppets

“Hola, Señor.”

Draco glanced up, pinned the raggedy puppet with a death glare, then went back to his papers.

“Señor Malfoy?” the sock puppet queried in a faux horrendously bad Spanish accent, voice pitched high and annoyingly grating.

The blond executive reached out and flicked the thing between the eyes. “Mal, you complete, blithering idiot, get the fuck out.”

“Mal? I know no Mal. I am El Toro, the mighty bull.” If possible, the puppet bristled, and Draco narrowed his eyes at it.

“Do you want to die, Baddock?”

The puppet swiveled its head and peeked downwards. “Señor Malfoy es muy pissed off,” it mock whispered.

“That’s it.” Draco lunged across the desk and grabbed hold of the gray sock, ripping it off Malcolm’s hand. “You’re dead, Baddock, if you don’t get your arse out of my office right now.” Honestly, who the fuck had even let the man into the building?

“Pansy brought me,” Malcolm said, as if reading the blond’s mind, popping up from the floor and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Hell, this place is boring. How can you stand it?”

Draco pointed towards the door. “Out,” he said tightly.

“Fine, fine,” he held up his hands defensively, backing up. “You’re not fun at all, Draco.”

He flipped him off, then settled back into his chair with a sigh. Where was he? Ah, right. Going over the budget summary for next quarter. Boring as fuck.

Unbidden, his eyes drifted towards the sock puppet, and he fingered it idly, curling one lip up in distaste. He hoped it hadn’t come off Malcolm’s foot, but he certainly wasn’t going to sniff it and find out. Scrunching it up in a fist, he leant over to toss it into the rubbish bin, but paused at the last moment, curious…

Swiftly, he hopped up and strode towards the door, sending a furtive look up and down the hallway before pulling it firmly shut. He shook out the sock, and slowly slid his left hand into it, wiggling his fingers around until the two black-markered eyes were correctly placed.

“Hello,” he tested, opening and closing the puppet’s mouth. A slow, delighted grin spread across his face. “Hello,” he repeated, pitching his voice almost as high as Mal had. “I am Lucius Marion Malfoy the Third, and I am a pompous arse.”

Moving back to his chair, he slipped down and positioned the sock right above desk level. “I’m a self-absorbed prick with freakish hair, and thank god my perfect, devilishly good-looking son inherited his mother’s shiny blond locks.”

“Now, now,” Draco said in his normal voice, “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Father. You’re a very important man.”

“I know fuck-all about this company,” puppet Lucius said. “And live so far up Riddle’s bum I might as well build a house there.”

“But, Fath—”

“Ahem.”

Draco shoved his hand under the desk so fast that he scraped his knuckles viciously across the varnished wood, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. Pansy’s new secretary stood in the doorway, shifting back and forth on his feet, a few loose papers in his hands, looking disturbingly handsome and suspiciously amused.

“Don’t you know how to knock?” Draco snarled.

“Um. I did. I.” The redhead swallowed thickly, and Draco was fairly sure that his face was bright pink from contained laughter, and not from fear of a harsh reprimand.

“You what, Weasley?”

“I thought you said come in, but,” Weasley stumbled over the words, pausing to bite his lower lip, and Draco definitely saw a telltale twinkle in the bloke’s eyes, “but you were just.” The secretary waved a hand towards where Draco’s was still stuffed under the desk.

He quickly shucked the sock puppet and brought his hands up to rest on the ink blotter. “So what did you want?” he ground out tightly.

Weasley lifted the papers, lovely arm muscles flexing under his short-sleeved shirt - didn’t they have a dress code? – and said, “Pansy needs some signatures.”

“Give them here,” Draco waved him forward, hand outstretched.

The redhead offered him a grin. “I suppose Malcolm was pestering you with that puppet. Was driving me batty earlier. I don’t know why Pansy brought him in today.”

Draco arched an imperious brow. “I didn’t ask for conversation, Weasley.”

The man’s jaw tightened perceptively, some of the good humor leeching from his deep blue irises. “No, I don’t suppose you did.” His grin was just a little wolfish. “Good thing I wasn’t looking for your permission, eh?”

He leant in close and Draco’s breathing hitched, because damn… He was large and even more handsome up close, despite the plebeian freckles that gathered across his cheeks and swept over his nose.

Why did Pansy get the big, brawny assistant, when he was stuck with a beastly battle ax, who was highly efficient, of course, but did little more than grunt?

Draco was caught by the redhead’s eyes, unable to look away, mind flashing fantastical scenarios. Such as Weasley pulling him across the desk and sliding wide palms up under his shirt, latching his hot mouth onto the underside of his jaw. But the secretary just grabbed the signed papers from Draco’s blotter and straightened back up, grin morphing into something knowing and slightly mocking.

Draco almost growled. The bloke was too impudent by half. “Listen here, Weasley—”

“Got to go, Malfoy,” Weasley said loudly, cutting him off. He was halfway out of the office when he paused and poked his head back around the jamb. “If you promise to bring the puppet, I’ll treat you to dinner tonight,” he quipped lightly, then was out the door, off-key whistle carrying down the hall.

Draco gazed at his empty doorway dumbly. “I believe I’ve just been canoodled into going out with that bloke,” he murmured to himself, then dropped his eyes down to the flattened puppet on his desk. “This is entirely your fault.”

The puppet didn’t answer, of course. And really, it was Malcolm’s fault, not his sock. Stupid, idiotic, dumb fuck.

Weasley did have a rather nice bum, though. And apparently a slightly kinky bent. Bring the puppet, indeed. Office life just got a tad bit spicier.