Openness and Transparency - Pt.3
George gives Danny a tense smile then whips round to where Peter must be.
“Now shh. Find somewhere out of the way and just... stay put.”
Peter weaves his way through the crowd, looking for a spare seat. Eventually he gives up and sits, cross-legged and awkward, on the floor between the treasury bench and the opposition bench. It feels like a terrible breach of procedure - and it is, he supposes - but after all, it’s not as though anyone can see him.
The Wizard Bercow makes his way up to the speaker’s chair, muttering to himself animatedly. Peter rolls his eyes; the bloody idiot is completely mad, can’t shut up for five minutes. They don’t call him the “speaker” for nothing.
“Order, order”, Bercow calls, glancing around the room enthusiastically and bobbing up and down on the end of his seat. It’s so unnecessary, thinks Peter scathingly, though in truth he feels a little of the same excitement at being back in the House of Commons. The hubbub dies down and Peter runs his eyes along the front bench; his George is sat with the ridiculous Danny on one side of him and the Prime Minister on the other. David is flanked on the other side by Vince Cable and then William Hague, and both David and Vince are looking around anxiously, no doubt wondering where the Deputy Prime Minister is.
Remembering the earlier events in David’s office, Peter watches David curiously; once again, he is fiddling with his tie and he seems to be worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. All of a sudden, a look of complete relief floods across his face as Nick scoots surreptitiously in through the door, carrying a pile of red folders. Nick mouths a quick “Sorry I’m late” to the room in general and then makes his way towards the front bench.
David is gazing at him eagerly but Nick seems to be avoiding his eyes, at least until he’s standing right in front of him, whereupon he blushes, half-drops one of his folders and then squirms his way into the small space left between Vince and the Prime Minister. He crosses his legs quickly, as if determined to get as far away from David as possible, and then stares wild-eyed at the folder in front of him.
Peter almost laughs in disbelief; they’re so obvious, he doesn’t know how the media haven’t picked up on it. Then again, he supposes, they half-have, and are just treating it as though it’s some ridiculous joke. He wonders how long it will take for this particular scandal-in-waiting to break. Then again, he and George have managed to keep things private for over a year now, though how they’ve managed it he isn’t sure.
He breaks from his reverie to realise that Jack Straw has started blathering on about something or other; he knows he ought to listen to the man since he’s from his own party but has always struggled to keep his attention on that monotonous voice. Besides, he reminds himself with a wicked grin, that isn’t why he’s here.
More to the point, no one else seems to be listening either. Harriet Harman is nodding along but seems to have a slightly glazed look on her face, and the Milibrothers seem to be engaged in some sort of stealthy ankle-kicking match, David glaring at his younger brother as Ed hides giggles behind his hand. Peter watches them affectionately, nostalgic but bittersweet - after all, none of them seem to be particularly missing him.
Bercow cuts Jack Straw short, reminding him that they’re going to try to keep things a little briefer “after last time”, and Nick stands up to answer whatever points Straw raised; Peter has no idea to be perfectly honest. He’s too busy watching Vince watch David watching Nick and trying to work out what exactly’s going on here; suddenly Vince leans across the gap and mutters something in David’s ear. David looks shocked, and then slightly flustered, and begins whispering into Vince’s ear whilst gesticulating slightly towards Nick’s back.
Overcome with curiosity, Peter scrambles to his feet and covers the few metres to the front benches, leaning in as far as he can without touching them to try and hear what’s being said over the buzz of the crowd.
David is talking under his breath.
“-think I’m going mad, Vince, and I just don’t see that he could possibly-”
“Order, order!” shouts Bercow sharply. Vince and David break off from their hastily muttered conversation and turn to look at the speaker expectantly; Peter does too, infuriated at the interruption.
Bercow has a curious look on his face, and for a moment Peter thinks he’s looking straight at him, but then realises he must be looking through him to where Vince and David are sat behind him.
“Never mind”, says Bercow, raising an eyebrow slightly, “My mistake”.
Nick resumes talking after a slight pause - it seems to be about Afghanistan - but the moment seems to have passed, and Vince and David don’t pick up where they left off. David picks up one of the folders next to him and starts taking notes on what Nick’s saying, and Peter is left cursing the idiot Bercow once more.
He walks back over towards the patch of floor he started at, pausing en route to tiptoe his fingers up George’s inner thigh. He’s rewarded by George having an instant coughing fit, spluttering and clawing at air. David gives him an odd look, along with most of the opposition front bench.
“R u ok?” Danny whispers, patting his shoulder in concern. George nods, waving his hand and trying desperately to compose himself.
Snickering, Peter makes his way to his piece of floor and sits down again, just in time to see Nick do the same; half on the bench and half on David’s lap. The backbenchers erupt in catcalls and laughter, and Nick reseats himself, flushing violently and hiding his head in his hands.
Vince nods almost imperceptibly over his head at David, who meets his gaze but doesn’t give any sign of recognition. Jack Straw stands up again and the backbenchers immediately quieten down, some of them seeming to fall asleep immediately.
George has his head tilted towards Straw, but his eyes are darting around the room and Peter can tell that he’s trying to work out where he is. The effect of having an invisible boyfriend somewhere in the room but not knowing quite where seems to be having exactly the desired effect, and the thumb of his right hand is stroking at his left wrist unconsciously in a way Peter knows he only does when he’s horribly turned on. His eyes are slightly glazed over, and it’s all Peter can do not to rush over there and take him right against the bench.
Swallowing heavily, Peter drags his eyes away from George. There’ll be time for that later.
The Prime Minister seems to have finished making notes in the folder he’s holding - which Peter realises too late is one of the red ones Nick staggered in with earlier - and passes it to the Deputy Prime Minister. Nick opens it unseeingly and begins jotting his own notes in the margins, before seemingly double-taking at the contents of the folder. His scans the page, wide-eyed, then starts flipping through the pages with an expression of disbelief.
Vince is watching him under his eyelashes, and Peter suddenly realises what it is that Vince reminds him of. It’s a tribal elder, he thinks, who organises everything around him to his liking; a bit like Rafiki, he thinks, in that ridiculous cartoon film about lions that George loves so much.
Nick raises his eyes, stunned, from the final page of the folder, and for a moment he and David just stare at each other. Then Nick points down at the folder, and then gestures at David, looking incredulous. David nods, wetting his lips anxiously, and watches Nick as though waiting for an answer. Somewhere, about a million miles away, Jack Straw’s voice is still droning on, and Peter realises that somehow - god knows how - most people in the room are completely oblivious to the silent drama going on in their midst.
Then Nick lowers his head slightly - a nod - and David breaks out into wide grin, wriggling from side to side happily like a child. Nick rolls his eyes, shrugging as though to say “Well, obviously”, jots something quickly on the last page of the folder, and hands it back to David.
Jack Straw has stopped talking, Peter realises, and the whole House is staring expectantly at Nick, who quickly stifles the expression of panic that arises on his face. He stands, grappling for words.
“The honourable member raises some important issues...” he begins slowly, obviously no idea what said issues are, “...which I think may be better dealt with one on one, so if he could arrange an appointment with my secretary, we will certainly go over these matters and report back to the House”.
There are noises of dissent from the opposition benches, but Nick sits down again next to David, who gives him an approving but slightly sarcastic pat on the knee. And doesn’t quite remember to remove his hand as quickly as someone normally would, Peter notes with amusement.
Finally the speaker calls on George, who has a bit of a far-away look on his face and is still stroking at his wrist absent-mindedly, but shakes himself back to reality and stands up at the dispatch box.
As he begins to speak, Peter smiles predatorily and glides over to the box, until he is standing directly opposite George but unbeknownst to him. He can tell that George is nervous, though, as his eyes are still darting around the room. He watches him for a moment, savouring his sense of power over the boy; something he hasn't felt in a while, but hasn't forgotten.
“...British people rightly ask how this new coalition Government will learn from the mistakes of their predecessor. The coalition agreement commits us to-”
Peter blows softly in George’s face, and George falters, shivering a little. Peter notices a pinkish flush spreading up his neck, a rosy glow that looks very fetching on his pale skin.
“The c-coalition agreement commits us to... commits us to reform the regulatory, regulatory system for financial services...” George continues bravely, stammering over every other word in a way that Peter frankly finds quite adorable, though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone.
Peter moves slowly around the dispatch box, running one finger along the back of George’s hand and up his wrist. At the first initial touch, George gives a slight yelping sound under his breath, then swallows repeatedly before carrying on.
“in order... in order to avoid a r-repeat of the financial crisis, and that- that is precisely what we will do.”
Having soldiered on to his first full stop, he pauses and gulps at his glass of water, loosening the tie around his neck. His hands are shaking slightly. Peter takes advantage of this to step forward and murmur quietly into George’s ear.
“You’re doing very well, my dear boy”.
Peter’s breath is hot and tickly in George’s ear and he shudders against him, the red flush making its way right up his cheeks.
“First”, says George, his voice coming out a little high, “onnnn the structure of regulation, our plan is t-to hand over to the Bank of England-”
Peter leans in closer and bites softly at George’s earlobe, scraping it gently with his teeth, and he hears George’s breath hitch in his chest.
“-the responsibility for, mmm-”
Peter runs his tongue slowly along the edge of the ear, enjoying the effect that he is having on him; George’s knuckles are white where he’s gripping the sides of the dispatch box.
“-mmacro-prudential supervision, which should... should never have been taken away from it.”
George glances furtively round the room, evidently checking whether anyone has noticed how strangely he’s acting. He suddenly tenses, grabs a pen and writes with urgency on one of the pieces of paper in front of him.
“BERCOW CAN SEE YOU”.
Peter freezes and whips his gaze up to the end of the hall. The Wizard Bercow is staring right at him, eyebrows raised to the heavens and his face a perfect picture of glee.
Peter takes a step backwards, his eyes widening. Ever professional, George continues with his speech, but Peter can barely hear the words now, his gaze locked with Bercow’s.
And then, suddenly, dreadfully, the Wizard Bercow throws back his head and laughs, an enormous guffaw that seems to ring from the very walls. Peter turns and stumbles out of the Commons, ignoring the people whose toes he stands on and the aide that he almost knocks over in the doorway, running blindly out into the hall.
Back in the House, everyone is gawping up at Bercow as though he’s gone mad. George looks more than a little frazzled.
“Sorry, sorry”, Bercow says eventually, wiping his eyes and calming himself, “Something just tickled me, that’s all. I suppose I’d better call myself to order. Order, order! The Chancellor must be heard!”
George takes a deep breath and continues with his speech.
* * *
Peter runs unseeingly along the corridors of the House of Commons, winding his way through the maze of passages he knows so well before finally coming to a stop, trying to calm himself down. He leans against the wall, panting. So Bercow was watching them, so Bercow knows now about his affair with George. No, he thinks, more than an affair; to call it that is to belittle it, but he can’t quite find a better word. It’s times like these that he has to admit to himself it’s quite possible he loves the boy. God!
Bercow knows, was watching, saw everything. Peter’s thoughts run round and round his head in confusing, embarrassment, dismay, and mostly humiliation as Bercow threw back his head and laughed at him - laughed! He can’t get the sound out of his head, the way it ricocheted off the walls, the way everyone in the Commons turned to look, and saw - nothing.
This could be the end of George’s career, if people find out. Oh, it could be the end of his too, but he doesn’t mind that; he’s washed up already, worthless. But to cut George down in his prime, at the most important time of his life - just unacceptable. Unbearable. He cannot allow it to happen.
So he’ll do a memory spell on Bercow. Make him forget. But then, no, he thinks, he can’t do that, the Wizard may be an utter buffoon but he has powers enough to block a simple memory charm, powers enough by far and more besides. Peter rakes his hands through his hair, feeling himself spiraling further into panic.
He can hear the murmuring of voices from afar as people drift out of the commons; the session seems to have ended. How long has he been stood here like this? It could be minutes, or hours, he has no idea. A few people drift past him, but most take the main way out; the corridor he’s on is slightly quieter and out of the way, obviously chosen unthinkingly by his feet as he ran.
Then, hideously, horribly - his breath catches in his throat - the Wizard Bercow comes around the corner, almost as though he’s been summoned by Peter’s thoughts. He hasn’t noticed Peter yet, and is once again muttering and gesticulating to himself as he walks. Peter tries to shrink back into the shadows of the wall, hoping in vain that he won’t see him. But apparently a terrified-looking Lord dressed only in underpants and vest, quaking against the wall in the House of Commons, is difficult to miss, and Bercow raises his eyebrows as he spots him.
"Ah, Peter!” he says jovially, “Just the man I was looking for”.
Peter says nothing.
“I must say I enjoyed the show”, continues Bercow, oblivious to Peter’s discomfort, “Though I rather think you could have chosen a more appropriate venue. And poor Gideon! Honestly, you ought to apologise”.
There is a small silence. Peter furrows his brow.
“...I’m sorry”, he says finally, in a small voice.
Bercow shakes his finger at Peter chastisingly.
“Not to me, lad, although if see any more of those types of shenanigans and tomfoolery under my watch again... well, I’d just better not see any, that’s all. It’s bad enough having young Clegg and young Cameron making eyes at each other all the time, but we have a responsibility to the public, we must remember they are watching and this is certainly not what they want to see”.
“Actually, I think that might be what some of them want to see”, remarks Peter, earning himself a stern glance from the Wizard.
“As I was saying”, continues Bercow, “It’s poor Gideon that needs an apology, not me! The child looked quite discomfited. Fancy you disrupting his special speech, and he’d been practising it for weeks.”
Peter hangs his head in sudden shame.
“Now, by all rights I should make you write lines, but if you can apologise to young Gideon, and settle it between yourselves, then I don’t see any reason for the matter to go any further”.
Peter looks up, sudden hope dawning.
“You mean you aren’t going to tell on us?”
Bercow laughs, his eyes crinkling at the sides.
“Of course not,” he replies, “God knows Sally and I have been guilty of our fair share of indiscretions. Why, there was this once, right at the top of Westminster Tower we were - we like to roleplay that it’s Notre Dame, she’s Esmerelda of course - and this simply enormous group of tourists came up the st-”
“My dear boy”, Peter interrupts smoothly, “That is quite enough information”.
The Wizard suddenly draws himself up to his full height, which somehow seems much taller than it actually is. Peter shrinks back a little.
“MY dear boy”, Bercow says, “Considering that you are currently in my debt, you will listen to whatever information I see fit to impart”.
“…Yes, Mr Speaker”.
“And it is this: come to me when you are ready. Order will know where to find me”.
With that, the Wizard nods courteously at Peter, and draws back. Turning, he puts his hand out at his side as though guiding the small of someone’s back beside him, and wanders off in the opposite direction, chattering animatedly to thin air.
Peter shakes his head to himself, savouring the sense of relief flooding through him.
“Total buffoon”.
After Bercow disappears, Peter makes up his mind to find George and heads back in the direction he came. If he’s lucky, George will still be hanging around near the chamber and won’t have headed by to the treasury yet; he’ll probably be looking for him, Peter supposes. Not that he’d be able to see him, Peter reminds himself, grinning as he rounds the corner.
And stops in his tracks again. Right in front of him, the Prime Minister is in conversation with Zac Goldsmith, a handsome Tory MP who Peter must confess he’s noticed - oh ,noticed quite thoroughly - but never really spoken to. Just off to the side of them but not involved in conversation, the Deputy Prime Minister is stood awkwardly, alternating between looking down at the red folder (which he’s still clutching tightly) with a shell-shocked expression, and glancing across at the beautiful man that David is currently deep in discussion with. He looks distinctly nervous.
Peter chuckles drily and leans himself against the wall to enjoy the show. Zac seems to be asking the Prime Minister about the free schools scheme, and David is answering politely and thoroughly, the picture of professionalism; except that his eyes keep drifting over to his Deputy, raking him up and down with a sense of longing so palpable that Peter’s surprised Zac hasn’t noticed it. The air is positively thrumming. He supposes they haven’t quite yet had a chance to discuss the contents of the red folder - something which Peter too is rather keen to hear more about. He isn’t quite sure at what point he got caught up in this...this... ridiculous soap opera, but he’s completely addicted now and in need of his next fix.
“...which will be set out over the course of the coalition, I’m sure”, David is saying to Zac, “Once Nick and I” - his voice breaks a little at that - “have had a chance to go over the details. Speaking of which… I need a little time alone with my Deputy, if you would be so kind.”
Peter can hear the possessiveness of the pronoun there; Nick does too, he realises, as he glances up from his folder suddenly and meets David’s eyes. Zac is nodding acquiescently and shaking the Prime Minister’s hand, but it’s a Prime Minister that’s no longer looking at him or paying him much heed, so he shrugs vaguely and wanders off in the direction that Bercow went earlier. Nick and Dave are still staring helplessly across the corridor at each other.
“David, this folder-” begins Nick, gesturing towards it, “What you wrote, I mean, is it-”
A gaggle of aides suddenly traipse round the corner, giggling and discussing something from the Commons earlier. Nick clears his throat and takes on a forced air of professionalism.
“My stance is this. As to the points you raise in these documents, David, I’m on agreement on most of them, but I think there are certainly some that need further discussion, especially in regards to... how they affect the nature of our coalition”.
David raises his eyebrows, looking amused.
“Of course, Nick, I agree that there are certain issues that require some... elucidation, and I’m very keen to get your input on the matter. As to our coalition, we’ve been working together for some time now and I feel that the relationship has been blossoming very well, and I’m looking forward to us - and our parties - becoming closer in the future”.
Nick shivers a little, then nods fervently. The aides have almost passed.
“As to the future”, he says, “I’ve always said there’s no time like the present. On my part I have to say that there are certain... unresolved frustrations with working alongside you, but I’m confident that we can move together to find a solution.”
“I’m confident that I can make you beg for it”.
Nick’s eyes widen in astonishment. Suddenly David is in front of him, and Peter barely has time to leap out of the way before David shoves Nick backwards against the wall, crushing his mouth to his and kissing him desperately. Peter glances around, suddenly half fearful for them, but the aides seem to have completely disappeared around the corner.
Nick lets out a muffled moan and lets the folder slip from his fingers, using his hands instead to run up David’s arms and into his hair. They kiss with an urgency Peter well remembers and is almost envious of, David breaking off now and again to nip and suck his way down Nick’s slender neck. Nick pulls at the bottom of David’s shirt, sliding his hands up underneath it; desperate to find skin, to make that first shivering contact. The muscles of David’s stomach twitch at Nick’s initial touch, nervous, brushing fingertips across skin. The men are both gasping for breath now, seemingly unaware of their surroundings as David begins to pull at Nick’s tie, feverishly, trying to tear it off him.
Nick puts up a hand to stop him and pulls back, shaking his head, his hair ridiculously tousled and his lips pink with stubble rash. Peter feels almost as disappointed as David looks, as the Prime Minister backs away and starts stammering.
“I- I’m sorry, I thought you wanted- there must be a-”
Nick shuts him up by pressing his lips to his once more, and chuckles softly.
“Don’t be daft, Dave. I just thought... perhaps this is just a little inappropriate?”
David looks crestfallen.
“But I thought that was what we liked about it".
“I mean the surroundings.”
David still looks blank, then glances around him, reality coming back to him slowly.
“I see what you mean.”
“Perhaps we could go somewhere a little more... private?”
David breaks into a wide smile, looking stupidly hopeful and puppy-like.
“You mean... you want to carry on?”
“Mister Prime Minister, I always follow through on my coalition agreements, as you well know by now”, says Nick with a grin. David returns it.
“Downing Street?”
“Downing Street.”
Of one accord, they raise their hands and each flatten out the other’s hair, combing it through with their fingertips and straightening collars and ties.
“Will I do?” asks David.
Nick surveys him thoughtfully and then grins.
“You know, I rather think you will.”
They make their way along the corridor, giggling and shoving at each other like school children. Peter finds himself feeling rather uncharacteristically endeared, and represses it quickly. He turns to head back towards the Commons, and then spots it - Nick’s red folder, still lying on the floor where he dropped it just a few minutes ago. He grins wolfishly. If he has that, he has everything he needs to blackmail the Prime Minister and his Deputy.
Curiously, Peter picks it up and opens it on the first page. As expected, it’s notes on the budget, written in David’s tight hand and Nick’s more flamboyant, sprawling script. Then he spots it in the margin, unmistakably in David’s writing.
“Nice tie.”
And then underneath:
“I’d like to rip it off you.”
Peter laughs delightedly, remembering the Prime Minister trying to do that moments ago. He turns a page.
“I love the way you bite your lip when you’re worried about something.”
And another.
“When you came in my office earlier with chocolate smeared all over your face, it was all I could do not to lick it all off.”
And another.
“I actually really fucking like the colour yellow.”
On and on it goes, pages and pages, and now Peter understands Nick’s incredulous face as he flipped through the folder earlier in the Commons. The notes range from simple observations about Nick (“You love peanut butter”, “I think you are one of the wisest and most passionate men I have ever met”) to saccharine drivel (“I’d agree to AV just to see you smile”) to lustful obscenities (“Whenever I hear you talking Dutch I become suddenly & outrageously horny”) and extensive details of things he’d like to do him, preferably on the front bench, preferably now.
Flipping through to the last page, Peter finds the question that he watched David asking Nick wordlessly in the Commons earlier. It is tentative, frightened, perfect.
“Is that ok?”
And underneath, in Nick’s brief scrawl.
“It is more than ok.”
Before Peter can help it, a little “aawwwww” escapes him as he gazes down at the folder. It’s honestly quite adorable. Then he notes with disgust that Clegg has drawn a little smiley face next to his reply and shudders slightly.
“Bloody Lib Dems”, he says, for the second time that day.
With that, he snaps the folder shut, hides it behind a nearby drapery to collect later, and stalks off down the corridor to find his Gids.
* * *
Peter finds George right outside the House of Commons chamber, where he left him, pacing up and down and looking worried. He walks up behind him, slipping his arms around his fragile frame and murmuring in his ear, “Boo”.
George starts and looks around anxiously; finding nothing, he relaxes into Peter’s hold, sighing with relief.
“I thought you weren’t coming back”.
“Don’t be silly, my boy, I was just... thrown, that’s all. But I’ve spoken to the Wizard Bercow and sorted everything out.”
“You have?” George says, high-pitched and surprised, “I thought you were refusing to speak to him?”
“Unfortunately he spoke to me. And he isn’t going to tell anyone about... well, us”.
“Well that’s brilliant! And can he change you back?”
Peter sighs lazily, waving an airy hand, “Honestly, I didn’t ask. I told you, his help is the last thing I want”.
George scowls petulantly.
“I don’t see why you can’t just put whatever happened in the past behind you. And I do wish you’d tell me”.
“Gideon, I have told you. We just had differing views. He took my rightful place at the top of the class in magic school because of that dreadful Professor Dimblebydoor, and it’s his fault I only got a B grade in Transfiguration - otherwise I might not be in this mess in the first place! He always resented me for my father’s riches, would always undermine me in Potions class... it’s petty, George, I know that, but I cannot ask for his help now.”
George sighs. He finds Peter’s stubborn refusal to ask the Wizard Bercow for help frustrating, but can’t help thinking back to his own schooldays, spent mostly being shoved around in the playground and dangled upside down over toilets. Would he accept help from any of the people who jeered at him, tripping him up and calling him ridiculous names? He supposes not, so he can’t blame Peter for doing the same.
“I have discovered several illuminating things on my travels, my boy”.
“Mm?” says George, letting his head loll against Peter’s shoulder and closing his eyes sleepily.
“Well, for one. It is quite certain that the Prime Minister and his Deputy are currently engaged in acts of absolute and definite frottage - and beyond”.
George’s eyes fly open.
“Nick and Dave?! They’re doing...what?”
“Probably everything under the sun, going by the looks on their faces the last time I saw them. And there’s no need to wince, my dear, at least you haven’t been privy to a rather delicate phone call between one Theresa May and one Nick Griffin over the course of the day”.
George makes a strained choking noise, his eyes bulging out in disbelief.
“Theresa and Griffin?! You cannot be serious , Peter”.
“Joking is not part of my repertoire, as well you know, George.”
There is a silence for a while, as George contemplates this new information. Peter traces shapes with his finger against the back of his hand, idling away the time. He wonders whether he ought to have told George about his findings; when he uses them for blackmail, won’t it be completely obvious to George that it is he who is doing it? But then again, he supposes, as long as he’s discreet, there’s no reason for George to ever find out about it at all.
“Are you going to tell anyone?” asks George finally, his brow furrowing, “Because it could affect the coalition, you know. I mean, I think people could accept David and Nick, because the media’s been implying that anyway - but Theresa and Nick Griffin? I’m having trouble coping with the thought myself”. He looks a little nauseous.
“Of course not”, Peter soothes, crossing his fingers, which of course George can’t see anyway, “The comings and goings of the current government are nothing to do with me, I’m sure”.
He feels a sudden rush of guilt at lying to George, but represses it quickly.
“I must wait here until BONE time so I can invoke the BONE. You should leave, you don’t want to get yourself caught up in that sort of thing”.
George cringes, unable to keep the worry off his face.
“You don’t need to do this. You don’t have to face him. Just... please, Peter, just go to Bercow”.
Peter is silent, but presses a firm kiss against George’s neck, then lets him go. George feels the release of his arms; hears his soft footfalls as he walks away from him, but cannot find the right words to call after him, even though he knows this could be the last time he sees him.
Raising his eyes to the ceiling, George gives a small prayer in its general direction, though he’s not exactly sure who he thinks might be listening.
“Please, if anyone’s up there. Just let BONE be gentle with him”.
Part 4
“Now shh. Find somewhere out of the way and just... stay put.”
Peter weaves his way through the crowd, looking for a spare seat. Eventually he gives up and sits, cross-legged and awkward, on the floor between the treasury bench and the opposition bench. It feels like a terrible breach of procedure - and it is, he supposes - but after all, it’s not as though anyone can see him.
The Wizard Bercow makes his way up to the speaker’s chair, muttering to himself animatedly. Peter rolls his eyes; the bloody idiot is completely mad, can’t shut up for five minutes. They don’t call him the “speaker” for nothing.
“Order, order”, Bercow calls, glancing around the room enthusiastically and bobbing up and down on the end of his seat. It’s so unnecessary, thinks Peter scathingly, though in truth he feels a little of the same excitement at being back in the House of Commons. The hubbub dies down and Peter runs his eyes along the front bench; his George is sat with the ridiculous Danny on one side of him and the Prime Minister on the other. David is flanked on the other side by Vince Cable and then William Hague, and both David and Vince are looking around anxiously, no doubt wondering where the Deputy Prime Minister is.
Remembering the earlier events in David’s office, Peter watches David curiously; once again, he is fiddling with his tie and he seems to be worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. All of a sudden, a look of complete relief floods across his face as Nick scoots surreptitiously in through the door, carrying a pile of red folders. Nick mouths a quick “Sorry I’m late” to the room in general and then makes his way towards the front bench.
David is gazing at him eagerly but Nick seems to be avoiding his eyes, at least until he’s standing right in front of him, whereupon he blushes, half-drops one of his folders and then squirms his way into the small space left between Vince and the Prime Minister. He crosses his legs quickly, as if determined to get as far away from David as possible, and then stares wild-eyed at the folder in front of him.
Peter almost laughs in disbelief; they’re so obvious, he doesn’t know how the media haven’t picked up on it. Then again, he supposes, they half-have, and are just treating it as though it’s some ridiculous joke. He wonders how long it will take for this particular scandal-in-waiting to break. Then again, he and George have managed to keep things private for over a year now, though how they’ve managed it he isn’t sure.
He breaks from his reverie to realise that Jack Straw has started blathering on about something or other; he knows he ought to listen to the man since he’s from his own party but has always struggled to keep his attention on that monotonous voice. Besides, he reminds himself with a wicked grin, that isn’t why he’s here.
More to the point, no one else seems to be listening either. Harriet Harman is nodding along but seems to have a slightly glazed look on her face, and the Milibrothers seem to be engaged in some sort of stealthy ankle-kicking match, David glaring at his younger brother as Ed hides giggles behind his hand. Peter watches them affectionately, nostalgic but bittersweet - after all, none of them seem to be particularly missing him.
Bercow cuts Jack Straw short, reminding him that they’re going to try to keep things a little briefer “after last time”, and Nick stands up to answer whatever points Straw raised; Peter has no idea to be perfectly honest. He’s too busy watching Vince watch David watching Nick and trying to work out what exactly’s going on here; suddenly Vince leans across the gap and mutters something in David’s ear. David looks shocked, and then slightly flustered, and begins whispering into Vince’s ear whilst gesticulating slightly towards Nick’s back.
Overcome with curiosity, Peter scrambles to his feet and covers the few metres to the front benches, leaning in as far as he can without touching them to try and hear what’s being said over the buzz of the crowd.
David is talking under his breath.
“-think I’m going mad, Vince, and I just don’t see that he could possibly-”
“Order, order!” shouts Bercow sharply. Vince and David break off from their hastily muttered conversation and turn to look at the speaker expectantly; Peter does too, infuriated at the interruption.
Bercow has a curious look on his face, and for a moment Peter thinks he’s looking straight at him, but then realises he must be looking through him to where Vince and David are sat behind him.
“Never mind”, says Bercow, raising an eyebrow slightly, “My mistake”.
Nick resumes talking after a slight pause - it seems to be about Afghanistan - but the moment seems to have passed, and Vince and David don’t pick up where they left off. David picks up one of the folders next to him and starts taking notes on what Nick’s saying, and Peter is left cursing the idiot Bercow once more.
He walks back over towards the patch of floor he started at, pausing en route to tiptoe his fingers up George’s inner thigh. He’s rewarded by George having an instant coughing fit, spluttering and clawing at air. David gives him an odd look, along with most of the opposition front bench.
“R u ok?” Danny whispers, patting his shoulder in concern. George nods, waving his hand and trying desperately to compose himself.
Snickering, Peter makes his way to his piece of floor and sits down again, just in time to see Nick do the same; half on the bench and half on David’s lap. The backbenchers erupt in catcalls and laughter, and Nick reseats himself, flushing violently and hiding his head in his hands.
Vince nods almost imperceptibly over his head at David, who meets his gaze but doesn’t give any sign of recognition. Jack Straw stands up again and the backbenchers immediately quieten down, some of them seeming to fall asleep immediately.
George has his head tilted towards Straw, but his eyes are darting around the room and Peter can tell that he’s trying to work out where he is. The effect of having an invisible boyfriend somewhere in the room but not knowing quite where seems to be having exactly the desired effect, and the thumb of his right hand is stroking at his left wrist unconsciously in a way Peter knows he only does when he’s horribly turned on. His eyes are slightly glazed over, and it’s all Peter can do not to rush over there and take him right against the bench.
Swallowing heavily, Peter drags his eyes away from George. There’ll be time for that later.
The Prime Minister seems to have finished making notes in the folder he’s holding - which Peter realises too late is one of the red ones Nick staggered in with earlier - and passes it to the Deputy Prime Minister. Nick opens it unseeingly and begins jotting his own notes in the margins, before seemingly double-taking at the contents of the folder. His scans the page, wide-eyed, then starts flipping through the pages with an expression of disbelief.
Vince is watching him under his eyelashes, and Peter suddenly realises what it is that Vince reminds him of. It’s a tribal elder, he thinks, who organises everything around him to his liking; a bit like Rafiki, he thinks, in that ridiculous cartoon film about lions that George loves so much.
Nick raises his eyes, stunned, from the final page of the folder, and for a moment he and David just stare at each other. Then Nick points down at the folder, and then gestures at David, looking incredulous. David nods, wetting his lips anxiously, and watches Nick as though waiting for an answer. Somewhere, about a million miles away, Jack Straw’s voice is still droning on, and Peter realises that somehow - god knows how - most people in the room are completely oblivious to the silent drama going on in their midst.
Then Nick lowers his head slightly - a nod - and David breaks out into wide grin, wriggling from side to side happily like a child. Nick rolls his eyes, shrugging as though to say “Well, obviously”, jots something quickly on the last page of the folder, and hands it back to David.
Jack Straw has stopped talking, Peter realises, and the whole House is staring expectantly at Nick, who quickly stifles the expression of panic that arises on his face. He stands, grappling for words.
“The honourable member raises some important issues...” he begins slowly, obviously no idea what said issues are, “...which I think may be better dealt with one on one, so if he could arrange an appointment with my secretary, we will certainly go over these matters and report back to the House”.
There are noises of dissent from the opposition benches, but Nick sits down again next to David, who gives him an approving but slightly sarcastic pat on the knee. And doesn’t quite remember to remove his hand as quickly as someone normally would, Peter notes with amusement.
Finally the speaker calls on George, who has a bit of a far-away look on his face and is still stroking at his wrist absent-mindedly, but shakes himself back to reality and stands up at the dispatch box.
As he begins to speak, Peter smiles predatorily and glides over to the box, until he is standing directly opposite George but unbeknownst to him. He can tell that George is nervous, though, as his eyes are still darting around the room. He watches him for a moment, savouring his sense of power over the boy; something he hasn't felt in a while, but hasn't forgotten.
“...British people rightly ask how this new coalition Government will learn from the mistakes of their predecessor. The coalition agreement commits us to-”
Peter blows softly in George’s face, and George falters, shivering a little. Peter notices a pinkish flush spreading up his neck, a rosy glow that looks very fetching on his pale skin.
“The c-coalition agreement commits us to... commits us to reform the regulatory, regulatory system for financial services...” George continues bravely, stammering over every other word in a way that Peter frankly finds quite adorable, though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone.
Peter moves slowly around the dispatch box, running one finger along the back of George’s hand and up his wrist. At the first initial touch, George gives a slight yelping sound under his breath, then swallows repeatedly before carrying on.
“in order... in order to avoid a r-repeat of the financial crisis, and that- that is precisely what we will do.”
Having soldiered on to his first full stop, he pauses and gulps at his glass of water, loosening the tie around his neck. His hands are shaking slightly. Peter takes advantage of this to step forward and murmur quietly into George’s ear.
“You’re doing very well, my dear boy”.
Peter’s breath is hot and tickly in George’s ear and he shudders against him, the red flush making its way right up his cheeks.
“First”, says George, his voice coming out a little high, “onnnn the structure of regulation, our plan is t-to hand over to the Bank of England-”
Peter leans in closer and bites softly at George’s earlobe, scraping it gently with his teeth, and he hears George’s breath hitch in his chest.
“-the responsibility for, mmm-”
Peter runs his tongue slowly along the edge of the ear, enjoying the effect that he is having on him; George’s knuckles are white where he’s gripping the sides of the dispatch box.
“-mmacro-prudential supervision, which should... should never have been taken away from it.”
George glances furtively round the room, evidently checking whether anyone has noticed how strangely he’s acting. He suddenly tenses, grabs a pen and writes with urgency on one of the pieces of paper in front of him.
“BERCOW CAN SEE YOU”.
Peter freezes and whips his gaze up to the end of the hall. The Wizard Bercow is staring right at him, eyebrows raised to the heavens and his face a perfect picture of glee.
Peter takes a step backwards, his eyes widening. Ever professional, George continues with his speech, but Peter can barely hear the words now, his gaze locked with Bercow’s.
And then, suddenly, dreadfully, the Wizard Bercow throws back his head and laughs, an enormous guffaw that seems to ring from the very walls. Peter turns and stumbles out of the Commons, ignoring the people whose toes he stands on and the aide that he almost knocks over in the doorway, running blindly out into the hall.
Back in the House, everyone is gawping up at Bercow as though he’s gone mad. George looks more than a little frazzled.
“Sorry, sorry”, Bercow says eventually, wiping his eyes and calming himself, “Something just tickled me, that’s all. I suppose I’d better call myself to order. Order, order! The Chancellor must be heard!”
George takes a deep breath and continues with his speech.
* * *
Peter runs unseeingly along the corridors of the House of Commons, winding his way through the maze of passages he knows so well before finally coming to a stop, trying to calm himself down. He leans against the wall, panting. So Bercow was watching them, so Bercow knows now about his affair with George. No, he thinks, more than an affair; to call it that is to belittle it, but he can’t quite find a better word. It’s times like these that he has to admit to himself it’s quite possible he loves the boy. God!
Bercow knows, was watching, saw everything. Peter’s thoughts run round and round his head in confusing, embarrassment, dismay, and mostly humiliation as Bercow threw back his head and laughed at him - laughed! He can’t get the sound out of his head, the way it ricocheted off the walls, the way everyone in the Commons turned to look, and saw - nothing.
This could be the end of George’s career, if people find out. Oh, it could be the end of his too, but he doesn’t mind that; he’s washed up already, worthless. But to cut George down in his prime, at the most important time of his life - just unacceptable. Unbearable. He cannot allow it to happen.
So he’ll do a memory spell on Bercow. Make him forget. But then, no, he thinks, he can’t do that, the Wizard may be an utter buffoon but he has powers enough to block a simple memory charm, powers enough by far and more besides. Peter rakes his hands through his hair, feeling himself spiraling further into panic.
He can hear the murmuring of voices from afar as people drift out of the commons; the session seems to have ended. How long has he been stood here like this? It could be minutes, or hours, he has no idea. A few people drift past him, but most take the main way out; the corridor he’s on is slightly quieter and out of the way, obviously chosen unthinkingly by his feet as he ran.
Then, hideously, horribly - his breath catches in his throat - the Wizard Bercow comes around the corner, almost as though he’s been summoned by Peter’s thoughts. He hasn’t noticed Peter yet, and is once again muttering and gesticulating to himself as he walks. Peter tries to shrink back into the shadows of the wall, hoping in vain that he won’t see him. But apparently a terrified-looking Lord dressed only in underpants and vest, quaking against the wall in the House of Commons, is difficult to miss, and Bercow raises his eyebrows as he spots him.
"Ah, Peter!” he says jovially, “Just the man I was looking for”.
Peter says nothing.
“I must say I enjoyed the show”, continues Bercow, oblivious to Peter’s discomfort, “Though I rather think you could have chosen a more appropriate venue. And poor Gideon! Honestly, you ought to apologise”.
There is a small silence. Peter furrows his brow.
“...I’m sorry”, he says finally, in a small voice.
Bercow shakes his finger at Peter chastisingly.
“Not to me, lad, although if see any more of those types of shenanigans and tomfoolery under my watch again... well, I’d just better not see any, that’s all. It’s bad enough having young Clegg and young Cameron making eyes at each other all the time, but we have a responsibility to the public, we must remember they are watching and this is certainly not what they want to see”.
“Actually, I think that might be what some of them want to see”, remarks Peter, earning himself a stern glance from the Wizard.
“As I was saying”, continues Bercow, “It’s poor Gideon that needs an apology, not me! The child looked quite discomfited. Fancy you disrupting his special speech, and he’d been practising it for weeks.”
Peter hangs his head in sudden shame.
“Now, by all rights I should make you write lines, but if you can apologise to young Gideon, and settle it between yourselves, then I don’t see any reason for the matter to go any further”.
Peter looks up, sudden hope dawning.
“You mean you aren’t going to tell on us?”
Bercow laughs, his eyes crinkling at the sides.
“Of course not,” he replies, “God knows Sally and I have been guilty of our fair share of indiscretions. Why, there was this once, right at the top of Westminster Tower we were - we like to roleplay that it’s Notre Dame, she’s Esmerelda of course - and this simply enormous group of tourists came up the st-”
“My dear boy”, Peter interrupts smoothly, “That is quite enough information”.
The Wizard suddenly draws himself up to his full height, which somehow seems much taller than it actually is. Peter shrinks back a little.
“MY dear boy”, Bercow says, “Considering that you are currently in my debt, you will listen to whatever information I see fit to impart”.
“…Yes, Mr Speaker”.
“And it is this: come to me when you are ready. Order will know where to find me”.
With that, the Wizard nods courteously at Peter, and draws back. Turning, he puts his hand out at his side as though guiding the small of someone’s back beside him, and wanders off in the opposite direction, chattering animatedly to thin air.
Peter shakes his head to himself, savouring the sense of relief flooding through him.
“Total buffoon”.
After Bercow disappears, Peter makes up his mind to find George and heads back in the direction he came. If he’s lucky, George will still be hanging around near the chamber and won’t have headed by to the treasury yet; he’ll probably be looking for him, Peter supposes. Not that he’d be able to see him, Peter reminds himself, grinning as he rounds the corner.
And stops in his tracks again. Right in front of him, the Prime Minister is in conversation with Zac Goldsmith, a handsome Tory MP who Peter must confess he’s noticed - oh ,noticed quite thoroughly - but never really spoken to. Just off to the side of them but not involved in conversation, the Deputy Prime Minister is stood awkwardly, alternating between looking down at the red folder (which he’s still clutching tightly) with a shell-shocked expression, and glancing across at the beautiful man that David is currently deep in discussion with. He looks distinctly nervous.
Peter chuckles drily and leans himself against the wall to enjoy the show. Zac seems to be asking the Prime Minister about the free schools scheme, and David is answering politely and thoroughly, the picture of professionalism; except that his eyes keep drifting over to his Deputy, raking him up and down with a sense of longing so palpable that Peter’s surprised Zac hasn’t noticed it. The air is positively thrumming. He supposes they haven’t quite yet had a chance to discuss the contents of the red folder - something which Peter too is rather keen to hear more about. He isn’t quite sure at what point he got caught up in this...this... ridiculous soap opera, but he’s completely addicted now and in need of his next fix.
“...which will be set out over the course of the coalition, I’m sure”, David is saying to Zac, “Once Nick and I” - his voice breaks a little at that - “have had a chance to go over the details. Speaking of which… I need a little time alone with my Deputy, if you would be so kind.”
Peter can hear the possessiveness of the pronoun there; Nick does too, he realises, as he glances up from his folder suddenly and meets David’s eyes. Zac is nodding acquiescently and shaking the Prime Minister’s hand, but it’s a Prime Minister that’s no longer looking at him or paying him much heed, so he shrugs vaguely and wanders off in the direction that Bercow went earlier. Nick and Dave are still staring helplessly across the corridor at each other.
“David, this folder-” begins Nick, gesturing towards it, “What you wrote, I mean, is it-”
A gaggle of aides suddenly traipse round the corner, giggling and discussing something from the Commons earlier. Nick clears his throat and takes on a forced air of professionalism.
“My stance is this. As to the points you raise in these documents, David, I’m on agreement on most of them, but I think there are certainly some that need further discussion, especially in regards to... how they affect the nature of our coalition”.
David raises his eyebrows, looking amused.
“Of course, Nick, I agree that there are certain issues that require some... elucidation, and I’m very keen to get your input on the matter. As to our coalition, we’ve been working together for some time now and I feel that the relationship has been blossoming very well, and I’m looking forward to us - and our parties - becoming closer in the future”.
Nick shivers a little, then nods fervently. The aides have almost passed.
“As to the future”, he says, “I’ve always said there’s no time like the present. On my part I have to say that there are certain... unresolved frustrations with working alongside you, but I’m confident that we can move together to find a solution.”
“I’m confident that I can make you beg for it”.
Nick’s eyes widen in astonishment. Suddenly David is in front of him, and Peter barely has time to leap out of the way before David shoves Nick backwards against the wall, crushing his mouth to his and kissing him desperately. Peter glances around, suddenly half fearful for them, but the aides seem to have completely disappeared around the corner.
Nick lets out a muffled moan and lets the folder slip from his fingers, using his hands instead to run up David’s arms and into his hair. They kiss with an urgency Peter well remembers and is almost envious of, David breaking off now and again to nip and suck his way down Nick’s slender neck. Nick pulls at the bottom of David’s shirt, sliding his hands up underneath it; desperate to find skin, to make that first shivering contact. The muscles of David’s stomach twitch at Nick’s initial touch, nervous, brushing fingertips across skin. The men are both gasping for breath now, seemingly unaware of their surroundings as David begins to pull at Nick’s tie, feverishly, trying to tear it off him.
Nick puts up a hand to stop him and pulls back, shaking his head, his hair ridiculously tousled and his lips pink with stubble rash. Peter feels almost as disappointed as David looks, as the Prime Minister backs away and starts stammering.
“I- I’m sorry, I thought you wanted- there must be a-”
Nick shuts him up by pressing his lips to his once more, and chuckles softly.
“Don’t be daft, Dave. I just thought... perhaps this is just a little inappropriate?”
David looks crestfallen.
“But I thought that was what we liked about it".
“I mean the surroundings.”
David still looks blank, then glances around him, reality coming back to him slowly.
“I see what you mean.”
“Perhaps we could go somewhere a little more... private?”
David breaks into a wide smile, looking stupidly hopeful and puppy-like.
“You mean... you want to carry on?”
“Mister Prime Minister, I always follow through on my coalition agreements, as you well know by now”, says Nick with a grin. David returns it.
“Downing Street?”
“Downing Street.”
Of one accord, they raise their hands and each flatten out the other’s hair, combing it through with their fingertips and straightening collars and ties.
“Will I do?” asks David.
Nick surveys him thoughtfully and then grins.
“You know, I rather think you will.”
They make their way along the corridor, giggling and shoving at each other like school children. Peter finds himself feeling rather uncharacteristically endeared, and represses it quickly. He turns to head back towards the Commons, and then spots it - Nick’s red folder, still lying on the floor where he dropped it just a few minutes ago. He grins wolfishly. If he has that, he has everything he needs to blackmail the Prime Minister and his Deputy.
Curiously, Peter picks it up and opens it on the first page. As expected, it’s notes on the budget, written in David’s tight hand and Nick’s more flamboyant, sprawling script. Then he spots it in the margin, unmistakably in David’s writing.
“Nice tie.”
And then underneath:
“I’d like to rip it off you.”
Peter laughs delightedly, remembering the Prime Minister trying to do that moments ago. He turns a page.
“I love the way you bite your lip when you’re worried about something.”
And another.
“When you came in my office earlier with chocolate smeared all over your face, it was all I could do not to lick it all off.”
And another.
“I actually really fucking like the colour yellow.”
On and on it goes, pages and pages, and now Peter understands Nick’s incredulous face as he flipped through the folder earlier in the Commons. The notes range from simple observations about Nick (“You love peanut butter”, “I think you are one of the wisest and most passionate men I have ever met”) to saccharine drivel (“I’d agree to AV just to see you smile”) to lustful obscenities (“Whenever I hear you talking Dutch I become suddenly & outrageously horny”) and extensive details of things he’d like to do him, preferably on the front bench, preferably now.
Flipping through to the last page, Peter finds the question that he watched David asking Nick wordlessly in the Commons earlier. It is tentative, frightened, perfect.
“Is that ok?”
And underneath, in Nick’s brief scrawl.
“It is more than ok.”
Before Peter can help it, a little “aawwwww” escapes him as he gazes down at the folder. It’s honestly quite adorable. Then he notes with disgust that Clegg has drawn a little smiley face next to his reply and shudders slightly.
“Bloody Lib Dems”, he says, for the second time that day.
With that, he snaps the folder shut, hides it behind a nearby drapery to collect later, and stalks off down the corridor to find his Gids.
* * *
Peter finds George right outside the House of Commons chamber, where he left him, pacing up and down and looking worried. He walks up behind him, slipping his arms around his fragile frame and murmuring in his ear, “Boo”.
George starts and looks around anxiously; finding nothing, he relaxes into Peter’s hold, sighing with relief.
“I thought you weren’t coming back”.
“Don’t be silly, my boy, I was just... thrown, that’s all. But I’ve spoken to the Wizard Bercow and sorted everything out.”
“You have?” George says, high-pitched and surprised, “I thought you were refusing to speak to him?”
“Unfortunately he spoke to me. And he isn’t going to tell anyone about... well, us”.
“Well that’s brilliant! And can he change you back?”
Peter sighs lazily, waving an airy hand, “Honestly, I didn’t ask. I told you, his help is the last thing I want”.
George scowls petulantly.
“I don’t see why you can’t just put whatever happened in the past behind you. And I do wish you’d tell me”.
“Gideon, I have told you. We just had differing views. He took my rightful place at the top of the class in magic school because of that dreadful Professor Dimblebydoor, and it’s his fault I only got a B grade in Transfiguration - otherwise I might not be in this mess in the first place! He always resented me for my father’s riches, would always undermine me in Potions class... it’s petty, George, I know that, but I cannot ask for his help now.”
George sighs. He finds Peter’s stubborn refusal to ask the Wizard Bercow for help frustrating, but can’t help thinking back to his own schooldays, spent mostly being shoved around in the playground and dangled upside down over toilets. Would he accept help from any of the people who jeered at him, tripping him up and calling him ridiculous names? He supposes not, so he can’t blame Peter for doing the same.
“I have discovered several illuminating things on my travels, my boy”.
“Mm?” says George, letting his head loll against Peter’s shoulder and closing his eyes sleepily.
“Well, for one. It is quite certain that the Prime Minister and his Deputy are currently engaged in acts of absolute and definite frottage - and beyond”.
George’s eyes fly open.
“Nick and Dave?! They’re doing...what?”
“Probably everything under the sun, going by the looks on their faces the last time I saw them. And there’s no need to wince, my dear, at least you haven’t been privy to a rather delicate phone call between one Theresa May and one Nick Griffin over the course of the day”.
George makes a strained choking noise, his eyes bulging out in disbelief.
“Theresa and Griffin?! You cannot be serious , Peter”.
“Joking is not part of my repertoire, as well you know, George.”
There is a silence for a while, as George contemplates this new information. Peter traces shapes with his finger against the back of his hand, idling away the time. He wonders whether he ought to have told George about his findings; when he uses them for blackmail, won’t it be completely obvious to George that it is he who is doing it? But then again, he supposes, as long as he’s discreet, there’s no reason for George to ever find out about it at all.
“Are you going to tell anyone?” asks George finally, his brow furrowing, “Because it could affect the coalition, you know. I mean, I think people could accept David and Nick, because the media’s been implying that anyway - but Theresa and Nick Griffin? I’m having trouble coping with the thought myself”. He looks a little nauseous.
“Of course not”, Peter soothes, crossing his fingers, which of course George can’t see anyway, “The comings and goings of the current government are nothing to do with me, I’m sure”.
He feels a sudden rush of guilt at lying to George, but represses it quickly.
“I must wait here until BONE time so I can invoke the BONE. You should leave, you don’t want to get yourself caught up in that sort of thing”.
George cringes, unable to keep the worry off his face.
“You don’t need to do this. You don’t have to face him. Just... please, Peter, just go to Bercow”.
Peter is silent, but presses a firm kiss against George’s neck, then lets him go. George feels the release of his arms; hears his soft footfalls as he walks away from him, but cannot find the right words to call after him, even though he knows this could be the last time he sees him.
Raising his eyes to the ceiling, George gives a small prayer in its general direction, though he’s not exactly sure who he thinks might be listening.
“Please, if anyone’s up there. Just let BONE be gentle with him”.
Part 4