The Adorable Poem
Title: The Adorable Poem
Pairing: Clameron
Rating: PG
Notes: Someone leaves a love poem on David Cameron's desk. Can David discover the mystery writer of the terribly romantic poem and get his very own happy ending? My apologies for the godawful poetry, I am not a poet (thank heavens!)
I toyed extensively with having the author of the poem write his name on the back of the paper, but decided against it as it would have been too cruel a thing to do to poor David, especially since he has to go through so much to find out who had written it.
I also did research for this fic. 0_0 I got the list of the cabinet members from here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/interactive/2010/may/12/election-2010-new-cabinet (and I lolled at the ability to sort by 'sex'. Oh, meme, you have corrupted my brain.)
Fic also features a cameo by PETER BONE
Disclaimer: I own none of the politicians within, and I beg forgiveness, but these two ship themselves.
Prologue
As quietly as he could, he opened the door of the Prime Minister's office and crept inside. It was empty, as expected. Moving swiftly he crossed the room to the desk and silently slipped the small piece of paper among the stack of files, before making his way back out of the room. Mission accomplished.
*****
Your blue eyes like pools of deep water
I feel your look like a touch
That reaches to my very soul
I am fallen
Gazing up at you
Hoping for rescue
David read the words scribbled on the paper again, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A love poem? A bad love poem, at that. But who would...?
David's brow creased, his thoughts wandering through a mental list of all the people he had daily contact with and attempting to locate some kind of clue that would lead him to whoever had written the adorable poem.
'Adorable...' the word caught in David's mind. No, he didn't mean that, not at all. Nevertheless, David quietly opened the top drawer of his desk and slid the poem inside.
'For safe keeping,' he told himself.
*******
The next day at the Cabinet Meeting, David looked around at the assembled group, searching their manner for anything out of place. His eyes flicked from person to person, falling briefly on each of their faces.
Eric Pickles: God, he hoped not.
His eyes scanned the faces again, and landed on Andrew Mitchell, who was watching David closely. Maybe a little too closely, David noted.
Had Andrew Mitchell left the adorable poem on his desk?
David chastised himself again, whilst also making a mental note to speak with Andrew Mitchell in private as soon as was possible, 'NO! Not adorable, awful. Definitely NOT adorable.'
*******
Okay, so the meeting with Andrew Mitchell had not gone well. David had started a conversation about poetry and Andrew was obviously on a different page. He had started to quote Byron, a look his face that was a mixture of mild amusement and obvious confusion.
David had quickly resigned himself to the fact that Andrew Mitchell was not the one who had left the awful (that's right) poem on his desk. He sighed heavily and dismissed Andrew back to his duties. Who else could it be?
He took a fresh piece of paper from the notebook on his desk and quickly scribbled the names of the Cabinet on it. Then, with careful and considerate strokes, he began to pencil firm lines across the page.
Eric Pickles: No way.
Andrew Mitchell: Apparently not.
Theresa May: A shrew that could not stop screeching long enough to have feelings. Nope.
Gideon (no, George) Osborne: Maybe. Gids had always had a secret crush on him, although what might have made him act on it now was a mystery.
William Hague: His bald head did give him a sexy Patrick Stewart kind of vibe. Possible.
Kenneth Clarke: No. A firm and concrete no. The man frowned on anything remotely resembling less that traditional relationships, and it was not the kind of homophobia that hid a secret desire. He was simply a bigot.
Patrick McCloughlin: Far too in love with his wife to notice anyone else in that way.
Caroline Spelman: Married, happy, too involved in biotechnology to have time.
Michael Gove: Strange head. Strange head. Strange head.
David continued through his list of cabinet members and narrowed the collection of names down to four people he thought might have left the poem on his desk. George Osborne, William Hague, Danny Alexander, and Jeremy Hunt.
Now to find a way to find out which of them was the guilty party.
********
He frantically searched through the drawers of his desk, first on one side and then the other. Not finding what he was looking for he got up, strode across to the bookcase and began searching between the pages of random books.
Oh, where had it gone? Surely he hadn't thrown it away?
He sat down, desperately trying to remember where he had last seen the hastily scrawled poem.
--
David looked around with the air of a man who was about to commit a crime as his hand stole toward the top drawer of his desk, where the awfully adorable (it had been a compromise) poem rested atop a stack of files. He allowed himself to read it once before sliding the drawer shut again.
A week had passed since he had found the poem mixed in with the files on his desk, and he still did not know who had written it. After the awkward conversation with Andrew Mitchell, David had vowed to be as discreet as possible whilst trying to find out who had written the poem.
He had a meeting with George in half an hour and he hoped to ascertain whether George had left the poem for him to find. It would be easy enough. He'd just casually slip 'Hey, Gids, did you leave a note on my desk a week ago?' into the conversation and see how he reacted. Simple really.
He opened the top drawer to read the poem one last time before leaving.
*****
'Stop looking at him!' his brain was saying, but it was no use, he couldn't tear his eyes away. It was all right, though, David was speaking and it was perfectly normal for him to be looking at David when he was speaking. Looking at David and smiling, on the other hand, would just be foolish, so he made a mental check of his expression. Mild interest. Good.
--
'It wasn't George,' David thought distractedly as he pencilled out the name. When he'd asked his question George had simply replied, "No," before carrying on with the discussion about the budget. David read the list again. Three left. Only three people who could possibly be the author of the adorable poem. He'd decided, in the end, that there was nothing wrong with calling the poem adorable, nor was there anything wrong with his reading the poem if he was alone in his office; sometimes more than once, or twice.
David's eyes settled on 'Danny Alexander' and David remembered a dim memory of having read somewhere that there where some photographs where Danny was quite obviously looking at him. So it seemed logical that the next course of action should be to speak to Danny. But first he would read the adorable poem one more time, just to check that he could remember what it said.
David stared at the piece of paper in the drawer and then resolutely picked it up and shoved it into the pocket of his trousers. There was nothing wrong with keeping the adorable poem with him. After all, he'd need it to confront Danny Alexander.
*****
He had, by now, developed a mental checklist of things he was not allowed to do around David. Sitting, chin in hand, with a goofy smile plastered on his face was definitely one of the things on the list. Yet that is what he had found himself doing during this morning's Cabinet Meeting. He'd managed to escape with only mild smirking by saying that he'd been thinking of his wife, but dear God that had been a close one.
--
Oh dear.
It had all gone so terribly wrong.
David sat at his desk with his head in his hands, cringing inwardly as he remembered the events of the previous evening.
It had all started out innocently enough. He had been talking with Danny, just friendly banter back and forth, nothing serious, and then it had just... slipped out. "You know, I've always found ginger hair to be very attractive." He'd regretted it even before Danny had hastily excused himself, looking absolutely terrified.
He felt a hot flush creeping to his cheeks. All of this was because of that stupid, stupid poem. He yanked it from his pocket meaning to rip it in two, but stopping just as the paper started to tear. His eyes consumed the words yet again and he convinced himself that he was probably being too hasty. He might need it to explain his behaviour.
It had now been two and a half weeks since he'd found the adorable poem. He desperately needed to know who had written it, if for no other reason than to stop himself going silently crazy.
Only William Hague and Jeremy Hunt left on his list. It had to be one of them. It just had to be.
*****
Everyone was talking (not in front of David, of course) about the 'incident' with Danny Alexander. He'd already heard several hushed jokes about 'David loving ginger' this morning, along with some speculation over whether Danny would dye his hair. He tried hard not to pay attention to it, but by midday he'd felt overwhelmed. Storming into his office he had slammed the door behind him and stood, back pressing against the wood and tears brimming in his eyes.
--
David had resolutely refused to acknowledge the hushed conversations that stopped as soon as he entered the rooms of Westminster and after a few days the talk had died down, turning instead to the apparent news that William Hague had been caught in a 'compromising position' with one of his aides. This of course meant only one thing. If William was not the author of the adorable poem, then clearly it must be Jeremy Hunt.
David took the note from his pocket and read the words for what felt like the first time, but which was, in reality, probably nearer the hundredth. The edges of the paper were frayed and tiny specks of white attached themselves to David's fingertips. Truth be told, David had always thought of Jeremy as a bit of a womaniser, but maybe that was a clever ruse to distract everyone from the fact that he harboured a secret love. There was no denying that he was an attractive fellow.
David nodded; Jeremy Hunt it was.
*****
He sat at his desk with the blank piece of paper in front of him and his face turned slightly upward. He was so deep in concentration that he didn't notice that David had knocked on his door twice and was now tapping his foot with furious impatience. It wasn't until he head David speak his name that he snapped back to the present, jumping out of his chair and trying not to look too flustered. When David smiled at him he reminded himself that looking dreamily at David was on the list of things not to do and then he offered David a seat.
--
David clutched the adorable poem in his hand tightly. Since the previous day his mood of wild optimism had disappeared completely, replaced by an empty despair. Jeremy had not written the poem after all - and the less said (or thought) about how David had found that out, the better. David crumpled the poem with his hand, squeezing tightly until it was completely concealed within his fist. Bitter disappointment twinged in his chest.
Who would be so cruel as to leave such an adorable poem on his desk and then watch him suffer through mishap and near-scandal? Had they known this would happen? Had they planned it? Did they secretly want to see him become an emotional ruin; obsessed with finding a person who perhaps did not exist as anything more than a practical joke?
Still, something within him would not let his hand drop the crushed ball of paper into the wastebasket. He gently smoothed it out and put it back in his pocket.
*****
It was getting ridiculous. A month had passed since he had slipped the poem into the Prime Minister's office. David Cameron had not discovered the identity of the writer, but was, instead, wandering around Westminster like a bumbling, love-struck fool and making moon-eyes at practically every member of the cabinet. It was no use. Left to himself, the Prime Minister would never figure out who his secret admirer was. It was time to take matters into his own hands.
*****
David became aware of two things simultaneously as he sat in his (now) usual place on the green benches of the Commons. The first was that he was absentmindedly toying with the piece of paper in his pocket and the second, more startling revelation, was that Peter Bone, Conservative MP for Wellingborough, was staring at him with a strange look on his face. Well, no, David considered, Peter Bone's face always looked like that, but usually the terrifying gaze was not directed at David.
David gulped involuntarily as a shudder of fear washed through his body. Why was Peter Bone staring at him so intently? Had David done something to displease him? He certainly hoped not!
Harriet Harman's voice was droning from the other side of the chamber, but David's attention was focused on the penetrating stare coming from Peter Bone. It really was most disconcerting.
A thought stuck him like a blow, and David tried valiantly to stop his features stretching into a look of abject horror, but instead ended up looking like he was being strangled by invisible hands. It seemed unlikely, but his other lines of investigation had lead nowhere, so perhaps he'd better consider the possibility, however gruesome, that Peter Bone was the author of the poem.
David found himself at once captivated by the way Peter Bone's domed forehead caught in the lights of the Commons. If Peter Bone had written the adorable poem, perhaps that horrifying face was really disguising a gentle genius with a heart of gold.
'Arrange to meet with Peter Bone,' he noted quietly.
*****
When David returned to his office, clutching the red covered folder under his arm, there was an open newspaper sat on his desk. 'Funny,' he thought, 'I'm sure they took all of the papers to be recycled.' He sighed and reached out his hand to pick it up, but stopped short when he noticed the headline on the open page.
From bad to verse: Nick Clegg's teenage love poem unearthed
'What the...?'
David lifted the page containing the article and read onward.
My love blasted you from my mind
Your skin too silken to be seen
Your voice slipping through my brain
Your movements fluttering from within.
But now. Yes, I can see you now,
Too dumb, squatted in my eyes,
Poisoned like a dying pearl,
A killer's vengeance - twisted.
"What an awful poem," David said out loud, his lips twisting into a smirk. He threw the page carelessly back to where he had found it.
He was just about to sit down and go through the contents of the red covered folder when the idea entered his mind. It started as a distant voice, whispering something that, deep down, David had already known. Flitting its way through his thoughts it coaxed forward a collection of half-forgotten memories; a smile that was out of place; a handshake that lingered just a little longer than it should; a look in the eyes and a twitch of the lips. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out the now tattered piece of paper on which the adorable poem was written, staring down at it in disbelief.
No, it couldn't be. David's stomach fluttered wildly and his heart beat faster as uncertainty gave way to understanding. He walked purposefully around his desk and yanked the lower drawer open, retrieving a small sheath of papers and flicking through them until he found a scrawled note. He held the two scraps side by side and examined the handwriting.
It was a perfect match.
Eyes beginning to go decidedly misty and hands starting to shake, David realised that he had discovered, at last, the identity of the mysterious poet.
It was Nick Clegg.
David pocketed both the notes and lifted the receiver on the telephone.
*****
'He wants to see me,' Nick thought, 'Have I done something wrong?'
He ran a hand over his face and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair where it laid, pulling it on swiftly. He checked his appearance in the mirror, going through the usual mental list of things he could not do whilst around David. When he was satisfied that he was sufficiently in control he left his office.
David started visibly even though he had been expecting the knock at the door. He jumped to his feet, calling out, "Come in," in a voice he hoped sounded normal and then waiting breathlessly as the door opened and revealed the face of....
Peter Bone.
'Oh shit.'
David had completely forgotten he'd asked for Peter to come and see him when he had a moment. He stepped forward and cringingly offered his hand, wondering how on earth he had ever considered that the ghoulish creature before him could have been capable of writing such a beautiful thing. "Ah, Peter, good to see you," he said amiably, retracting his hand as soon as he could without seeming impolite.
"Prime Minister," Peter replied, his face falling into that familiar expression. "You wanted to see me?"
"Ah, yes, well I..."
A knock at the door interrupted, and David turned to see Nick, writer of the adorable poem, standing in the doorway. David felt his stomach flutter and he turned to Peter, seizing the opportunity to rid himself of having to invent a fictitious reason as to why he had summoned him. "Peter, do you think we might reschedule?" he asked, "I have business to discuss with Mr. Clegg that is quite important."
"Certainly, Prime Minister. I will have my secretary arrange a meeting." Without waiting for David to reply Peter Bone turned and swept out of the room, nodding to Nick Clegg as he passed, and closing the door behind him.
"Nick," David began, noticing how attractive Nick was and admitting silently to himself that it wasn't the first time he had thought it, "I think we need to discuss something of the utmost importance."
"Yes?" Nick replied, his voice a little tense.
David put a hand in his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Nick. "I think we should talk about this, Nick," he said, trying to sound official.
Nick looked down at the note, eyes scanning the words, and then answered, "Uh, David, we talked about this months ago. I thought we were already agreed on electoral reform?"
David was puzzled. Electoral reform? He stared at the note, his mind taking far too long to realise that he had given Nick the wrong piece of paper. "Oh, sorry," he mumbled, shaking his head and reaching again into his pocket. This time he checked that he was actually holding the creased and frayed piece of paper on which the adorable poem was written, before handing it to Nick's waiting hand. "I meant this. We should discuss this."
Nick's face fell immediately when he realised what David had handed him. A hot flush crept onto his cheeks and he began to shuffle from one foot to the other. "David, oh, I mean, Prime Minister, uh, I can explain."
"Do you think it is appropriate to be sending me little love notes, Nick? David asked, painfully aware of how uncomfortable he was making Nick feel.
"No, I don't, but you see, uh...." Nick's voice trailed away and he hung his head, looking down at the floor.
David could stand it no longer, the sight of Nick, his adorable poet, looking so utterly deflated was more than he could take. He moved toward Nick, reaching a hand up to cup Nick's chin and lift his head. Nick shivered beneath the touch, his eyes flicking upward and meeting David's own. "Nick," David whispered as he leaned his head forward, "You should have just told me."
And with that David pressed his lips against Nick's, his free arm wrapping around Nick's waist to pull him closer.
**********
Epilogue
Peter Bone stood outside the door of David Cameron's office, his ear pressed lightly to the panelled wood. From within came the sound of muffled moans, and Peter stepped lightly away from the door and walked off down the deserted corridor, a thin, almost sinister smile appearing on his face.
'Exactly as planned.'
Pairing: Clameron
Rating: PG
Notes: Someone leaves a love poem on David Cameron's desk. Can David discover the mystery writer of the terribly romantic poem and get his very own happy ending? My apologies for the godawful poetry, I am not a poet (thank heavens!)
I toyed extensively with having the author of the poem write his name on the back of the paper, but decided against it as it would have been too cruel a thing to do to poor David, especially since he has to go through so much to find out who had written it.
I also did research for this fic. 0_0 I got the list of the cabinet members from here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/interactive/2010/may/12/election-2010-new-cabinet (and I lolled at the ability to sort by 'sex'. Oh, meme, you have corrupted my brain.)
Fic also features a cameo by PETER BONE
Disclaimer: I own none of the politicians within, and I beg forgiveness, but these two ship themselves.
Prologue
As quietly as he could, he opened the door of the Prime Minister's office and crept inside. It was empty, as expected. Moving swiftly he crossed the room to the desk and silently slipped the small piece of paper among the stack of files, before making his way back out of the room. Mission accomplished.
*****
Your blue eyes like pools of deep water
I feel your look like a touch
That reaches to my very soul
I am fallen
Gazing up at you
Hoping for rescue
David read the words scribbled on the paper again, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A love poem? A bad love poem, at that. But who would...?
David's brow creased, his thoughts wandering through a mental list of all the people he had daily contact with and attempting to locate some kind of clue that would lead him to whoever had written the adorable poem.
'Adorable...' the word caught in David's mind. No, he didn't mean that, not at all. Nevertheless, David quietly opened the top drawer of his desk and slid the poem inside.
'For safe keeping,' he told himself.
*******
The next day at the Cabinet Meeting, David looked around at the assembled group, searching their manner for anything out of place. His eyes flicked from person to person, falling briefly on each of their faces.
Eric Pickles: God, he hoped not.
His eyes scanned the faces again, and landed on Andrew Mitchell, who was watching David closely. Maybe a little too closely, David noted.
Had Andrew Mitchell left the adorable poem on his desk?
David chastised himself again, whilst also making a mental note to speak with Andrew Mitchell in private as soon as was possible, 'NO! Not adorable, awful. Definitely NOT adorable.'
*******
Okay, so the meeting with Andrew Mitchell had not gone well. David had started a conversation about poetry and Andrew was obviously on a different page. He had started to quote Byron, a look his face that was a mixture of mild amusement and obvious confusion.
David had quickly resigned himself to the fact that Andrew Mitchell was not the one who had left the awful (that's right) poem on his desk. He sighed heavily and dismissed Andrew back to his duties. Who else could it be?
He took a fresh piece of paper from the notebook on his desk and quickly scribbled the names of the Cabinet on it. Then, with careful and considerate strokes, he began to pencil firm lines across the page.
Eric Pickles: No way.
Andrew Mitchell: Apparently not.
Theresa May: A shrew that could not stop screeching long enough to have feelings. Nope.
Gideon (no, George) Osborne: Maybe. Gids had always had a secret crush on him, although what might have made him act on it now was a mystery.
William Hague: His bald head did give him a sexy Patrick Stewart kind of vibe. Possible.
Kenneth Clarke: No. A firm and concrete no. The man frowned on anything remotely resembling less that traditional relationships, and it was not the kind of homophobia that hid a secret desire. He was simply a bigot.
Patrick McCloughlin: Far too in love with his wife to notice anyone else in that way.
Caroline Spelman: Married, happy, too involved in biotechnology to have time.
Michael Gove: Strange head. Strange head. Strange head.
David continued through his list of cabinet members and narrowed the collection of names down to four people he thought might have left the poem on his desk. George Osborne, William Hague, Danny Alexander, and Jeremy Hunt.
Now to find a way to find out which of them was the guilty party.
********
He frantically searched through the drawers of his desk, first on one side and then the other. Not finding what he was looking for he got up, strode across to the bookcase and began searching between the pages of random books.
Oh, where had it gone? Surely he hadn't thrown it away?
He sat down, desperately trying to remember where he had last seen the hastily scrawled poem.
--
David looked around with the air of a man who was about to commit a crime as his hand stole toward the top drawer of his desk, where the awfully adorable (it had been a compromise) poem rested atop a stack of files. He allowed himself to read it once before sliding the drawer shut again.
A week had passed since he had found the poem mixed in with the files on his desk, and he still did not know who had written it. After the awkward conversation with Andrew Mitchell, David had vowed to be as discreet as possible whilst trying to find out who had written the poem.
He had a meeting with George in half an hour and he hoped to ascertain whether George had left the poem for him to find. It would be easy enough. He'd just casually slip 'Hey, Gids, did you leave a note on my desk a week ago?' into the conversation and see how he reacted. Simple really.
He opened the top drawer to read the poem one last time before leaving.
*****
'Stop looking at him!' his brain was saying, but it was no use, he couldn't tear his eyes away. It was all right, though, David was speaking and it was perfectly normal for him to be looking at David when he was speaking. Looking at David and smiling, on the other hand, would just be foolish, so he made a mental check of his expression. Mild interest. Good.
--
'It wasn't George,' David thought distractedly as he pencilled out the name. When he'd asked his question George had simply replied, "No," before carrying on with the discussion about the budget. David read the list again. Three left. Only three people who could possibly be the author of the adorable poem. He'd decided, in the end, that there was nothing wrong with calling the poem adorable, nor was there anything wrong with his reading the poem if he was alone in his office; sometimes more than once, or twice.
David's eyes settled on 'Danny Alexander' and David remembered a dim memory of having read somewhere that there where some photographs where Danny was quite obviously looking at him. So it seemed logical that the next course of action should be to speak to Danny. But first he would read the adorable poem one more time, just to check that he could remember what it said.
David stared at the piece of paper in the drawer and then resolutely picked it up and shoved it into the pocket of his trousers. There was nothing wrong with keeping the adorable poem with him. After all, he'd need it to confront Danny Alexander.
*****
He had, by now, developed a mental checklist of things he was not allowed to do around David. Sitting, chin in hand, with a goofy smile plastered on his face was definitely one of the things on the list. Yet that is what he had found himself doing during this morning's Cabinet Meeting. He'd managed to escape with only mild smirking by saying that he'd been thinking of his wife, but dear God that had been a close one.
--
Oh dear.
It had all gone so terribly wrong.
David sat at his desk with his head in his hands, cringing inwardly as he remembered the events of the previous evening.
It had all started out innocently enough. He had been talking with Danny, just friendly banter back and forth, nothing serious, and then it had just... slipped out. "You know, I've always found ginger hair to be very attractive." He'd regretted it even before Danny had hastily excused himself, looking absolutely terrified.
He felt a hot flush creeping to his cheeks. All of this was because of that stupid, stupid poem. He yanked it from his pocket meaning to rip it in two, but stopping just as the paper started to tear. His eyes consumed the words yet again and he convinced himself that he was probably being too hasty. He might need it to explain his behaviour.
It had now been two and a half weeks since he'd found the adorable poem. He desperately needed to know who had written it, if for no other reason than to stop himself going silently crazy.
Only William Hague and Jeremy Hunt left on his list. It had to be one of them. It just had to be.
*****
Everyone was talking (not in front of David, of course) about the 'incident' with Danny Alexander. He'd already heard several hushed jokes about 'David loving ginger' this morning, along with some speculation over whether Danny would dye his hair. He tried hard not to pay attention to it, but by midday he'd felt overwhelmed. Storming into his office he had slammed the door behind him and stood, back pressing against the wood and tears brimming in his eyes.
--
David had resolutely refused to acknowledge the hushed conversations that stopped as soon as he entered the rooms of Westminster and after a few days the talk had died down, turning instead to the apparent news that William Hague had been caught in a 'compromising position' with one of his aides. This of course meant only one thing. If William was not the author of the adorable poem, then clearly it must be Jeremy Hunt.
David took the note from his pocket and read the words for what felt like the first time, but which was, in reality, probably nearer the hundredth. The edges of the paper were frayed and tiny specks of white attached themselves to David's fingertips. Truth be told, David had always thought of Jeremy as a bit of a womaniser, but maybe that was a clever ruse to distract everyone from the fact that he harboured a secret love. There was no denying that he was an attractive fellow.
David nodded; Jeremy Hunt it was.
*****
He sat at his desk with the blank piece of paper in front of him and his face turned slightly upward. He was so deep in concentration that he didn't notice that David had knocked on his door twice and was now tapping his foot with furious impatience. It wasn't until he head David speak his name that he snapped back to the present, jumping out of his chair and trying not to look too flustered. When David smiled at him he reminded himself that looking dreamily at David was on the list of things not to do and then he offered David a seat.
--
David clutched the adorable poem in his hand tightly. Since the previous day his mood of wild optimism had disappeared completely, replaced by an empty despair. Jeremy had not written the poem after all - and the less said (or thought) about how David had found that out, the better. David crumpled the poem with his hand, squeezing tightly until it was completely concealed within his fist. Bitter disappointment twinged in his chest.
Who would be so cruel as to leave such an adorable poem on his desk and then watch him suffer through mishap and near-scandal? Had they known this would happen? Had they planned it? Did they secretly want to see him become an emotional ruin; obsessed with finding a person who perhaps did not exist as anything more than a practical joke?
Still, something within him would not let his hand drop the crushed ball of paper into the wastebasket. He gently smoothed it out and put it back in his pocket.
*****
It was getting ridiculous. A month had passed since he had slipped the poem into the Prime Minister's office. David Cameron had not discovered the identity of the writer, but was, instead, wandering around Westminster like a bumbling, love-struck fool and making moon-eyes at practically every member of the cabinet. It was no use. Left to himself, the Prime Minister would never figure out who his secret admirer was. It was time to take matters into his own hands.
*****
David became aware of two things simultaneously as he sat in his (now) usual place on the green benches of the Commons. The first was that he was absentmindedly toying with the piece of paper in his pocket and the second, more startling revelation, was that Peter Bone, Conservative MP for Wellingborough, was staring at him with a strange look on his face. Well, no, David considered, Peter Bone's face always looked like that, but usually the terrifying gaze was not directed at David.
David gulped involuntarily as a shudder of fear washed through his body. Why was Peter Bone staring at him so intently? Had David done something to displease him? He certainly hoped not!
Harriet Harman's voice was droning from the other side of the chamber, but David's attention was focused on the penetrating stare coming from Peter Bone. It really was most disconcerting.
A thought stuck him like a blow, and David tried valiantly to stop his features stretching into a look of abject horror, but instead ended up looking like he was being strangled by invisible hands. It seemed unlikely, but his other lines of investigation had lead nowhere, so perhaps he'd better consider the possibility, however gruesome, that Peter Bone was the author of the poem.
David found himself at once captivated by the way Peter Bone's domed forehead caught in the lights of the Commons. If Peter Bone had written the adorable poem, perhaps that horrifying face was really disguising a gentle genius with a heart of gold.
'Arrange to meet with Peter Bone,' he noted quietly.
*****
When David returned to his office, clutching the red covered folder under his arm, there was an open newspaper sat on his desk. 'Funny,' he thought, 'I'm sure they took all of the papers to be recycled.' He sighed and reached out his hand to pick it up, but stopped short when he noticed the headline on the open page.
From bad to verse: Nick Clegg's teenage love poem unearthed
'What the...?'
David lifted the page containing the article and read onward.
My love blasted you from my mind
Your skin too silken to be seen
Your voice slipping through my brain
Your movements fluttering from within.
But now. Yes, I can see you now,
Too dumb, squatted in my eyes,
Poisoned like a dying pearl,
A killer's vengeance - twisted.
"What an awful poem," David said out loud, his lips twisting into a smirk. He threw the page carelessly back to where he had found it.
He was just about to sit down and go through the contents of the red covered folder when the idea entered his mind. It started as a distant voice, whispering something that, deep down, David had already known. Flitting its way through his thoughts it coaxed forward a collection of half-forgotten memories; a smile that was out of place; a handshake that lingered just a little longer than it should; a look in the eyes and a twitch of the lips. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out the now tattered piece of paper on which the adorable poem was written, staring down at it in disbelief.
No, it couldn't be. David's stomach fluttered wildly and his heart beat faster as uncertainty gave way to understanding. He walked purposefully around his desk and yanked the lower drawer open, retrieving a small sheath of papers and flicking through them until he found a scrawled note. He held the two scraps side by side and examined the handwriting.
It was a perfect match.
Eyes beginning to go decidedly misty and hands starting to shake, David realised that he had discovered, at last, the identity of the mysterious poet.
It was Nick Clegg.
David pocketed both the notes and lifted the receiver on the telephone.
*****
'He wants to see me,' Nick thought, 'Have I done something wrong?'
He ran a hand over his face and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair where it laid, pulling it on swiftly. He checked his appearance in the mirror, going through the usual mental list of things he could not do whilst around David. When he was satisfied that he was sufficiently in control he left his office.
David started visibly even though he had been expecting the knock at the door. He jumped to his feet, calling out, "Come in," in a voice he hoped sounded normal and then waiting breathlessly as the door opened and revealed the face of....
Peter Bone.
'Oh shit.'
David had completely forgotten he'd asked for Peter to come and see him when he had a moment. He stepped forward and cringingly offered his hand, wondering how on earth he had ever considered that the ghoulish creature before him could have been capable of writing such a beautiful thing. "Ah, Peter, good to see you," he said amiably, retracting his hand as soon as he could without seeming impolite.
"Prime Minister," Peter replied, his face falling into that familiar expression. "You wanted to see me?"
"Ah, yes, well I..."
A knock at the door interrupted, and David turned to see Nick, writer of the adorable poem, standing in the doorway. David felt his stomach flutter and he turned to Peter, seizing the opportunity to rid himself of having to invent a fictitious reason as to why he had summoned him. "Peter, do you think we might reschedule?" he asked, "I have business to discuss with Mr. Clegg that is quite important."
"Certainly, Prime Minister. I will have my secretary arrange a meeting." Without waiting for David to reply Peter Bone turned and swept out of the room, nodding to Nick Clegg as he passed, and closing the door behind him.
"Nick," David began, noticing how attractive Nick was and admitting silently to himself that it wasn't the first time he had thought it, "I think we need to discuss something of the utmost importance."
"Yes?" Nick replied, his voice a little tense.
David put a hand in his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Nick. "I think we should talk about this, Nick," he said, trying to sound official.
Nick looked down at the note, eyes scanning the words, and then answered, "Uh, David, we talked about this months ago. I thought we were already agreed on electoral reform?"
David was puzzled. Electoral reform? He stared at the note, his mind taking far too long to realise that he had given Nick the wrong piece of paper. "Oh, sorry," he mumbled, shaking his head and reaching again into his pocket. This time he checked that he was actually holding the creased and frayed piece of paper on which the adorable poem was written, before handing it to Nick's waiting hand. "I meant this. We should discuss this."
Nick's face fell immediately when he realised what David had handed him. A hot flush crept onto his cheeks and he began to shuffle from one foot to the other. "David, oh, I mean, Prime Minister, uh, I can explain."
"Do you think it is appropriate to be sending me little love notes, Nick? David asked, painfully aware of how uncomfortable he was making Nick feel.
"No, I don't, but you see, uh...." Nick's voice trailed away and he hung his head, looking down at the floor.
David could stand it no longer, the sight of Nick, his adorable poet, looking so utterly deflated was more than he could take. He moved toward Nick, reaching a hand up to cup Nick's chin and lift his head. Nick shivered beneath the touch, his eyes flicking upward and meeting David's own. "Nick," David whispered as he leaned his head forward, "You should have just told me."
And with that David pressed his lips against Nick's, his free arm wrapping around Nick's waist to pull him closer.
**********
Epilogue
Peter Bone stood outside the door of David Cameron's office, his ear pressed lightly to the panelled wood. From within came the sound of muffled moans, and Peter stepped lightly away from the door and walked off down the deserted corridor, a thin, almost sinister smile appearing on his face.
'Exactly as planned.'