Karla Trilogy, Toby Esterhase/Peter Guillam, Belgian Small Arm Dealers, PG
TITLE : Belgian Small Arm Dealers
FANDOM: Karla Trilogy (Pre-Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy)
PAIRING/Character: Implied Peter Guillam/Toby Esterhase, Bill Haydon
GENRE: implied pre-slash
Prompt: A for Aphrodisiac table #10
RATING: Pg
WORD COUNT: 922
SPOILERS: Pre-Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, but nothing in the books unless you don't know about Peter and Toby in Bern before Smiley's People
SUMMARY: Peter wondering about the oddities of Toby Esterhase while in Bern, Switzerland.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Takes place pre- Karla trilogy but not AU.
DISCLAIMER: All belongs to John le Carre
Peter never was sure what to make make of him. The strange Hungarian with a stiff upper lip but too much life in his eyes to be truly British. Too much life in the highly controlled muscles, the highly controlled emotions - or so Bill had said over coffee with a shrug, the day before Peter was to go to Bern. He had seen him in Vienna, he said, should have left him there, too.
“Different,” Bill murmured with a laugh as Peter asked, all veiled curiosity. “There's a reason his ties are so bright.”
“He's living vicariously through his ties?” Incredulous.
“You could say that.” Nonchalant. A shrug. “He's not British though. Have fun in Bern with him,” it was said with a cheeky grin. “Heard he had a run in with the Swiss police in his youth. Something about the Hungarian mafia overstepping its bounds.” A yawn and the mug was filled. “Could be all hogwash though.”
“Yes,” Peter agreed with a frown. “Quite.”
And Bill laughed, telling him not to be petulant. Perhaps he'd learn a thing or two - after all con-artists have tricks spies would give their souls to learn.
“Another drink, Peter?” Toby asked, eyebrow lifted, a muscle around his mouth twitching. Too much life in the highly controlled - “It's after five.” It was said with a slight lift to the shoulders, not even a shrug.
Peter sucked in a breath to reply, but only let it out through his nose. He pressed sweating palms against the cool arms of the chair, wondering exactly what he was doing in Bern. Belgian small arm dealers aside. Those too dead, too alive, eyes shouldn't be on him in quite that way. There was a warmth in the pit of his stomach that he was blaming on the alcohol. The wine was making him, making him something. Something.
Toby smiled, uncomfortable. Peter reminded himself that the smaller man wasn't used to it. And small teeth were just visible from behind thin lips, thin nose, high cheek bones, and white hair. Slicked back. “I'm going to have another, if you don't mind.” A hand was raised, lazy, practiced aristocrat. Pygmalion.
“Course not,” Peter replied, voice gruff, letting his eyes linger on the waitress. Nice breasts, pretty waist, fine hands, pink lips, too much make up, hair brown and braided. Young.
“Not your type,” Toby clucked when she had gone, chuckling to himself. Peter blushed, feeling like he had betrayed someone. And it wasn't his pretty musician back home. What was her name? He looked up and found Toby watching him, face drawn and lips pursed. Like a fish. Peter stared back, determined to win whatever game the other man was playing. Toby Esterhase never looked without purpose, without intent, without already having answers. Knowledge was the man's lifeblood. Too many wars for it not to be. It reminded Peter of George and he smiled, except George was more human than Toby, more British, more warm, more accessible.
“If you say so,” he said, forcing a smile. Toby barely returned it. His glass was empty and there was a slight flush to his cheeks. He reminded Peter of '56, sitting with rapt attention by the radio, newspaper in hand, and listening. Listening as his father had taught him to, listening to the fall of Budapest to the rebels, Rakosi gone - forever. Listening to his father's mutters of “the bloody bastard deserved it” and “damn right the communists fell”. With such rapt attention he heard the crash of Stalin's statue, built where a church had been, with such rapt attention he heard the claims of the revolutionaries, the fires of their guns, and the entrance of the tanks, and the death. He hadn't understood it when someone on the radio begged Britain for help. Begged anyone who would listen for help. Didn't understand it when Eisenhower sent well wishes and the best of luck but nothing else. Didn't understand it when his own government did the same. And he listened with rapt attention to the silence on the other end after the twelfth day, and the silence of his father as he moved about the kitchen, listless.
Toby shrugged, eyes closing as the sun fell on him, and the warmth in Peter's stomach spread. Spread like spilt water, making him lick his lips and look away, a bead of sweat sliding down his side, tickling.
“We should go.” Toby's voice shattered his forced revere. “Before nos amies arrivé.” He was standing, hand offered to him with palm out, lines clear and deep.
“Your French is worse than your English,” Peter bit back, ignoring the hand and everything else, willing the head rush away. Jamming his hands into trouser pockets he strode past Toby, ignoring the muttered reply, wishing he were anywhere but Bern with anyone but Toby. Perhaps Bill was right, perhaps they should have left him in Vienna where they found him. Would have saved him a world of confusion, would have saved him a world of twisting pain as Toby placed his hand on his shoulder, wanting to know what was wrong. He wasn't his usual self. The clipped East European accent made him tremble.
“Fine,” he muttered as he jerked away, walking on and willing his mind to order. Toby watched for a moment, he could feel the smaller man's eyes on him, before following, keeping whatever thoughts he had to himself. And Peter wondered, as they rounded a corner, what exactly he was doing in Bern. Belgian small arm dealers aside.
FANDOM: Karla Trilogy (Pre-Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy)
PAIRING/Character: Implied Peter Guillam/Toby Esterhase, Bill Haydon
GENRE: implied pre-slash
Prompt: A for Aphrodisiac table #10
RATING: Pg
WORD COUNT: 922
SPOILERS: Pre-Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, but nothing in the books unless you don't know about Peter and Toby in Bern before Smiley's People
SUMMARY: Peter wondering about the oddities of Toby Esterhase while in Bern, Switzerland.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Takes place pre- Karla trilogy but not AU.
DISCLAIMER: All belongs to John le Carre
Peter never was sure what to make make of him. The strange Hungarian with a stiff upper lip but too much life in his eyes to be truly British. Too much life in the highly controlled muscles, the highly controlled emotions - or so Bill had said over coffee with a shrug, the day before Peter was to go to Bern. He had seen him in Vienna, he said, should have left him there, too.
“Different,” Bill murmured with a laugh as Peter asked, all veiled curiosity. “There's a reason his ties are so bright.”
“He's living vicariously through his ties?” Incredulous.
“You could say that.” Nonchalant. A shrug. “He's not British though. Have fun in Bern with him,” it was said with a cheeky grin. “Heard he had a run in with the Swiss police in his youth. Something about the Hungarian mafia overstepping its bounds.” A yawn and the mug was filled. “Could be all hogwash though.”
“Yes,” Peter agreed with a frown. “Quite.”
And Bill laughed, telling him not to be petulant. Perhaps he'd learn a thing or two - after all con-artists have tricks spies would give their souls to learn.
“Another drink, Peter?” Toby asked, eyebrow lifted, a muscle around his mouth twitching. Too much life in the highly controlled - “It's after five.” It was said with a slight lift to the shoulders, not even a shrug.
Peter sucked in a breath to reply, but only let it out through his nose. He pressed sweating palms against the cool arms of the chair, wondering exactly what he was doing in Bern. Belgian small arm dealers aside. Those too dead, too alive, eyes shouldn't be on him in quite that way. There was a warmth in the pit of his stomach that he was blaming on the alcohol. The wine was making him, making him something. Something.
Toby smiled, uncomfortable. Peter reminded himself that the smaller man wasn't used to it. And small teeth were just visible from behind thin lips, thin nose, high cheek bones, and white hair. Slicked back. “I'm going to have another, if you don't mind.” A hand was raised, lazy, practiced aristocrat. Pygmalion.
“Course not,” Peter replied, voice gruff, letting his eyes linger on the waitress. Nice breasts, pretty waist, fine hands, pink lips, too much make up, hair brown and braided. Young.
“Not your type,” Toby clucked when she had gone, chuckling to himself. Peter blushed, feeling like he had betrayed someone. And it wasn't his pretty musician back home. What was her name? He looked up and found Toby watching him, face drawn and lips pursed. Like a fish. Peter stared back, determined to win whatever game the other man was playing. Toby Esterhase never looked without purpose, without intent, without already having answers. Knowledge was the man's lifeblood. Too many wars for it not to be. It reminded Peter of George and he smiled, except George was more human than Toby, more British, more warm, more accessible.
“If you say so,” he said, forcing a smile. Toby barely returned it. His glass was empty and there was a slight flush to his cheeks. He reminded Peter of '56, sitting with rapt attention by the radio, newspaper in hand, and listening. Listening as his father had taught him to, listening to the fall of Budapest to the rebels, Rakosi gone - forever. Listening to his father's mutters of “the bloody bastard deserved it” and “damn right the communists fell”. With such rapt attention he heard the crash of Stalin's statue, built where a church had been, with such rapt attention he heard the claims of the revolutionaries, the fires of their guns, and the entrance of the tanks, and the death. He hadn't understood it when someone on the radio begged Britain for help. Begged anyone who would listen for help. Didn't understand it when Eisenhower sent well wishes and the best of luck but nothing else. Didn't understand it when his own government did the same. And he listened with rapt attention to the silence on the other end after the twelfth day, and the silence of his father as he moved about the kitchen, listless.
Toby shrugged, eyes closing as the sun fell on him, and the warmth in Peter's stomach spread. Spread like spilt water, making him lick his lips and look away, a bead of sweat sliding down his side, tickling.
“We should go.” Toby's voice shattered his forced revere. “Before nos amies arrivé.” He was standing, hand offered to him with palm out, lines clear and deep.
“Your French is worse than your English,” Peter bit back, ignoring the hand and everything else, willing the head rush away. Jamming his hands into trouser pockets he strode past Toby, ignoring the muttered reply, wishing he were anywhere but Bern with anyone but Toby. Perhaps Bill was right, perhaps they should have left him in Vienna where they found him. Would have saved him a world of confusion, would have saved him a world of twisting pain as Toby placed his hand on his shoulder, wanting to know what was wrong. He wasn't his usual self. The clipped East European accent made him tremble.
“Fine,” he muttered as he jerked away, walking on and willing his mind to order. Toby watched for a moment, he could feel the smaller man's eyes on him, before following, keeping whatever thoughts he had to himself. And Peter wondered, as they rounded a corner, what exactly he was doing in Bern. Belgian small arm dealers aside.