Backstory

Sep 12, 2006 08:35

For the history meme

“It’s not your fault, y’know.”

Jack was leaning in the bedroom doorway, slouching, really - though, Anthony mused silently from where he sat at his desk, presumably studying the text in front of him, did Jack ever do anything but slouch? - and Anthony didn’t give him the merit of looking up. “What are you talking about?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Guy left an hour ago, and if you don’t think I know exactly what’s going on ‘round here, you haven’t been payin’ much attention for the past fifteen years. They’re not coming back, are they?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you,” Anthony shot back, cool and unconcerned. “And if you’re so astute, you already know the answer anyway.”

“Oh, for Christ…” The other man sauntered in and sat on the desk, then slid over so he was directly in front of Anthony, allowing the book that had sat there before to slide off the desk and thump onto the floor. The glare the blond sent him was met with no concern. “You weren’t really reading it.”

“Of course I was.”

“No you weren’t. If you were actually reading it, you’d be writing something, too, you always are. Nah, you’re thinking about the fact that you’re best friend is a drunk and a mess, and now he’s off to Moscow, and you’re the one who got him into this business in the first place.” Jack rested his elbows on his knees, feet resting on either side of the seat of the chair Anthony was sitting on. “When are you going to learn that you’re not and never were Guy Burgess’ mother?” Anthony scowled and picked his cigarette case from his desk, but Jack plucked it away and took one for himself instead. “It’s not your fault he had to run.” The words were kinder this time.

Blunt’s gaze skittered away. “We were supposed to stick together, all four of us. I was supposed to hold us together.”

“You were s’pposed to save the world, and I don’t see much of that goin’ on. I’ve still got rent that’s due.”

“You don’t-”

“I’d still have rent that’s due if you weren’t fucking me,” Jack corrected dryly, then shrugged and took a drag from the cigarette. “Get off your pedestal, Anthony. Guy and Donald didn’t get into your little spying game because you told ‘em to. They got into it ‘cause they wanted to. And the lot of you were good at it. Look at me, will ya?”

And when Anthony finally did, he couldn’t entirely hide the pain from his eyes. “I’m worried about him.”

For all his roughness, Jack’s smile was soft and fond. “ ‘course you are. But that don’t mean it’s your fault he got into it, or that he had to run. If you gotta blame someone, how about the Russian sods who told him to go? Never did trust ‘em anyway.” Anthony snorted, a smile flickered, and Jack grinned. “You’re a bitter old sod, Anthony, and you know it.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Anthony shot back with a vaguely amused raised eyebrow.

“Told you, makes paying the rent easier.” He took Anthony’s chin his hand and kissed him, then slid off the desk, stuck his hands in his pockets, and walked backwards towards the door. “I’m going out. You coming?”

Anthony shook his head, and Jack scoffed, but then he was gone. He stared at the wall in front of his desk, not bothering to return to the pantomime of reading, but only thought in serious, sad silence.

Tomorrow, he’d go to Cambridge. Pay his respects, settle his debts. For Guy’s sake. For all their sakes.
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