Cloud no. 9
1) All fills for prompts of the earlier prompt posts go in the post the prompt was posted in. No re-posting or splitting up prompts and fills.
2) Self-prompt when you post unprompted fic. (This means posting what the fill is about in a first comment, like a real prompt, and commenting on that with your fill.)
3) Try not to get too srs business. ( Read more... )
“Peter,” Gordon said, shrugging out of Sarah’s touch, “I want to speak to you. Alone.” The others nodded, understanding Gordon’s needs, and filed out unquestioningly. Somehow, one of the side effects of fourteen years of venomous feuding had been complete honesty - there was nothing more either of them could say to cause hurt, it had all been said before, when Gordon had broken crockery and screamed that he wanted Peter dead and when Peter had spat poison into Tony’s ear like a viper and begged for Gordon to be snuffed out.
The door closed softly, and the two men were left alone. Gordon stood heavily and traipsed to the netted windows, gazing through the gauze at the clusters of journalists standing outside. Cameras were flashing and boom mics wobbled in the air.
“It was all my fault,” Gordon squeezed the black marker pen in his palm until his knuckles whitened, “the debates... you’re right. They did me no favours. And Cameron is a fucking perfect showman. If only the situation could be different. If it was 2001... I could have won in 2001.”
“It isn’t 2001. It’s 2010,” Peter said softly, “and remember... Cameron hasn’t won. He failed to win a majority, and you know how vicious the PCP is when it comes to leaders who fail.”
“You’re right.” Gordon spun around, throwing the marker vicious across the hotel room with all his might. “I have all the constitutional right to still be here! Why should I leave, hmm? I can carry on like this and just refuse to give in. I won’t give in!” His voice reached a roar, and Peter didn’t so much as flinch as he swung his fist into thin air. There were days when Gordon flung punches to maim, when he would have delighted in the cracking of Peter’s bones, his helpless cries as he was pounded into agony, but those days had past. Though Peter was physically as frail as ever, Gordon was his dependent, and he was calmly assured of his safety around the volcano.
“You can’t stay here forever. The longer you stay, the more humiliation your resignation will be.”
“So it’s over?” Gordon said, glaring up at Peter, “You think I have no choice now?”
“In the end, it’s your decision. I’m sorry Gordon... all political careers-”
“-end in failure. I know. But I haven’t failed. I’ve saved the fucking world economy and this is how I am repaid! I won’t go!” Peter nodded slowly, not bothering to argue with Gordon. He would come round. It was just a matter of time and keeping innocent aides out of the line of fire.
“Come on, Gordon,” he said, “I think you’ve been accumulating a lot of frustration over the last six weeks. You need to relieve yourself.” Gordon’s head jerked up and he inspected Peter carefully; his tall, lean figure, his brown hair that was just beginning to silver at the edges, and his soulful dark eyes. He’d aged more gracefully than Gordon or Tony, though the main difference was in his airs. Gordon remembered the hunched, skinny young creature with that terrible moustache who had twitched and gasped all those years ago. Brussels had changed him and he had become a formidable man, the most feared and respected politician to walk Whitehall, and no less than a peacock, easy in his skin, handsome and proud.
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