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Last night I had a wicked case of insomnia, so what did I do? I started writing fics. xD

Didn't fall asleep until 7 AM, didn't wake up until 2 PM. Ah well, at least it's Sunday.

Fandom: UK Politics
Title: Amidst the Roses
Ship(s): David Cameron/Nick Clegg
Word Count: 1,259
Rating: PG
Summary: David Cameron is acting strangely, and Nick Clegg knows what that means. (Inspired by a passing comment on a political programme.) Can also be read here at the meme.
Warning: Spoiler, so only read if you must: (highlight to read) Character death.]
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. If you've found this by googling yourself or someone you know, stop playing on the Internet and go run the country.

Amidst the Roses


He knew, somewhere inside.

He knew, by the way David’s tie hung, distracted and rumpled.

He knew, by the way David’s eyes wouldn’t meet his, skittering off to the corners of the room.

He knew, by the way David’s phone calls mysteriously ended upon sight of him.

He knew, by the way David’s schedule suddenly had no time for assignations – or even for more than a quick word, snatched in a corridor.

He knew, because he is not stupid.


“Don’t worry,” Nick says. It’s a rather odd silence, but he’s grown used to odd silences from David lately. “I can handle Harriet. Maybe Bercow will even let us keep it to half an hour, instead of drawing it out as long as he can.”

David’s eyes are on his papers. His fingers drum soundlessly on the rim of the desk, as if dancing to a phantom tune.

Nick tries again. “Bercow really isn’t a Tory any more, is he?”

But David is not to be drawn. He murmurs something noncommittal; Nick has obviously been dismissed.

Nick knows he shouldn’t take it seriously. David’s preparing for the White House trip, and he must be nervous and excited. A little shortness is hardly here nor there. He’s a Lib Dem in a government of Tories – he’s had worse.

Yet time was that David couldn’t look away from him; time was that David’s eyes dropped only as far as Nick’s lips; time was that David’s laughter, David’s attention, David’s joy was all his.

Nick’s a professional politician, a man who’s worked his entire life to get to where he is now. He’s not about to act like a jilted lover, crying over snubs and arrows, weeping over the way David shoves his work into drawers upon seeing him, whinging over the way David has used this American trip to keep him at arm’s length for weeks, obsessing over the way David hushes his phone calls when he sees him – drops his voice low and intimate before hurriedly hanging up – shoves the mobile (one to which Nick hasn’t the number) into his pocket, too quickly and too casually.

Nick blinks, and the room comes back into focus.

David’s head is turned away.

“Are you done with me, then?”

The question hangs in the air between them, where Nick regards it with a mixture of relief and horror.

David’s spine stiffens at that, under the damp white shirt which Nick longs to pull off and throw across the room.

“Just tell me,” Nick says.

David’s voice is tired when it comes, and somehow remote; Nick hardly recognises it as the voice which used to shout his name in the night and caress it gently during the day. “I can’t do this right now.”

“When can you do it?” Nick says, and now he is truly launched. “When you’ve finished destroying my party by forcing us to take apart our souls piece by piece? When you’re back from this precious vanity trip to oh-so-special America and the oh-so-special Americans? When you feel like ridding yourself of a minor inconvenience called me?”

David’s shoulders are taut, but Nick has the strangest feeling that if he pushed, they would collapse. But he cannot have pity, for David has no pity for him.

He leans against the wall, suddenly tired. “I wish we’d never started this.”

It’s the noise that makes him look up.

Later, he will realise that it was David’s pencil, snapped in two.

Now, he has eyes only for David’s face, finally turned to him.

“Don’t say that,” David says, and the intensity in his voice still makes Nick’s blood thrill, even as his brain takes in David’s eyes, shuttered and remote. “Whatever you think of me, don’t say that.”


He comes to say goodbye on the day David leaves for the States, because he’s a glutton for punishment.

David is standing in an out-of-the-way corner in the garden, shoulders hunched against the wind, talking into his mobile.

Nick knows he should make himself known, but he finds himself stepping closer on silent feet.

“I can’t,” David is saying, low and urgent.

Not far from here, they stood together for the nation – was it so very long ago?

“You can’t make me do it,” David says, and Nick can hear the anguish in his voice.

He feels a sudden irrational rush of hope. That is the voice of a wounded man.

David puts a hand to his forehead, and Nick resists the urge to rush to him. They are not lovesick teenagers. And he must protect himself – if David casts him off, as he looks increasingly likely to do, he must be able to keep their political relationship together, even as their personal relationship dies.

The pleading in David’s voice, however, nearly breaks Nick’s resolve. “Nadia, please,” he says, so quietly that Nick barely catches it, caught on the wind.

He leans closer, and something about the lean catches David’s attention, his head flying up, his shoulders snapping back.

“Sorry,” Nick says, putting on his best clueless manner. “Sorry to interrupt.” (But they know each other too well for poker faces. Office and bed, politics and passion…)

David’s eyes are unconvinced, even as he hangs up unceremoniously.

“So her name’s Nadia,” Nick says, abandoning the pretense.

They stare at each other, there in the garden. Is there anything left, there in the silence? Affairs come to a close, politics divides…could they have thought it would come to anything but this, in the end?

“Prime Minister,” a young voice says from behind him, apologetically.

“Duty calls you,” Nick says, all politeness, knowing David will read his tight lips and the jump in his eyelid nonetheless.

He looks away as David passes him, so the hand on his arm takes him by surprise. His name in David’s mouth sounds unfamiliar, which he would hardly have thought possible.

“Can we talk about this when I get back?” David says.

Nick’s smile is not his real one, although close enough that most people wouldn’t know the difference. (David winces, tiny movement in tired face.) “Of course.”

For a moment, Nick thinks David is going to say something else. But his assistant is waiting patiently, and the moment passes.

“Goodbye,” David says, and leaves him standing amidst the roses.

Their smell sickens him.


He resolves not to call. He makes it a whole day.

It rings through to voicemail.

He shuffles through the papers on his desk, hardly seeing them.

David’s handwriting catches his eye.

He pulls out a single sheet of notepaper.


You’d think, given that he’s the Deputy Prime Minister, that he’d be one of the first people they came to.

But no, he finds out from the telly, moments before one of Hague’s researchers bursts in to the room.

Moments of chaos and uncertainty, the excited eyes of the news reporters, impossible rumours.

He leaves them to go with her.

Behind him, the notepaper flutters in the sudden draft from the door, and falls to the ground.


He knew, somewhere inside.

Yet he did not know what he knew.

How could anyone?


They never find Nadia.


It’s a quiet funeral. Understandable, under the circumstances.

Sam looks surprised to see him there.

In the end, he couldn’t stay away.



I’m sorry.



Barack Obama was pronounced dead at 2:45 PM today. In a shocking development, we can now confirm that the assassin was David Cameron, who was shot by security personnel at the scene. Stay with us for our continuing coverage of this tragic day.



A/N: Here's the comment which inspired this fic. From 10 O'Clock Live, in context:

(talking about Cameron flying on Air Force One with Obama)

Jimmy Carr: "Do you think there was a security check before he got on? Do you think there was the standard 'Did you pack your bags yourself? Have you got any liquids on you? You can't bring that on, sorry.' Or do you think they just go, 'You'll be fine.'"

David Mitchell: "I think if you're willing to become British Prime Minister, then they probably say, 'Well, fair enough. You kill the American President, fair enough, that was a good plan.'"

Jimmy Carr: *giggles*

Lauren Laverne: "All right, it's time for a break. We'll see you shortly."



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