FIC: Q.E.D.
May. 13th, 2011 09:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zaubraTitle: Q.E.D.
Ship(s): Jeremy Browne/William Hague
Word Count: 1,257
Rating: PG, for implied sexual situations and profanity
Summary: How Jeremy Browne learned to stop protesting and make his move. Includes Sarah Teather and Julian Huppert as supporting cast.
Disclaimer: All works posted on this journal are creative works 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.
Q.E.D.
- or, how Jeremy Browne learned to stop protesting and make his move
‘You fancy him,’ Julian says, in a tone of dawning comprehension. ‘You fancy him.’
Jeremy thinks about denying it, but he can already feel the hectic blush in his cheeks – damn his fair skin – and he’s too drunk to wiggle out of this one. ‘Shut up,’ he mutters, kicking Julian’s ankle savagely.
‘Fancy who?’ Sarah says, looking up alertly. Far too alertly for someone that tiny who has three beers in her already, Jeremy thinks.
‘Nobody,’ Jeremy says, giving Julian a significant look. ‘Jules is making things up again.’
‘Am not,’ Julian says indignantly, waving an arm expansively and almost knocking over a drink. ‘You stare at him all the time, and you go all funny looking when you say his name, and I caught you checking his arse out earlier. Q.E.D.’
Sarah makes a face. ‘Keep your maths to yourself, Huppert, some of us are trying to get drunk here.’
Julian frowns sulkily. ‘Let me put this another way…’
‘I’ll get you another beer, Sarah,’ Jeremy says, although he has a sinking feeling that he’s doomed. Once Julian gets his teeth in something, he’s damned hard to shake.
Sarah raises an eyebrow at him. ‘This one’s still mostly full. If you’re deflecting, he must be on to something.’ She turns to Julian. ‘Go ahead.’
Julian perks up. ‘When you’re in the House for Education Questions, and Gove is speaking, do you ever find yourself watching him and imagining what he’d be like in bed?’
‘Hey,’ Jeremy protests. He so did not need that image.
‘When did this become about me?’ Sarah says, taking a swig of her beer. ‘I thought we were humiliating Jeremy.’
‘Well, the answer’s no, right?’ Julian asks. ‘Most people don’t think about their Ministers that way. Most people,’ and he elbows Jeremy, ‘most people don’t imagine bending their Minister over the despatch box and having their wicked…’
‘Shut up, Julian,’ Jeremy says, his face on fire now. He and Julian start a short but brutal kicking war under the table.
Sarah looks at them for a moment, then shrugs. ‘Ogling never hurt anyone. Sure, I’ve imagined Gove over the despatch box. Without fantasies, life would be a lot less fun.’
Both Jeremy and Julian stare at her, momentarily struck dumb.
She lets that sink in, leisurely finishing her beer. ‘Don’t start a conversation about sex, Julian, unless you want me to finish it.’
Julian’s face is a picture, his eyebrows up near his receding hairline. ‘But Gove!’
Jeremy raises his beer to his lips. If they’re going to have a conversation about Gove as a sexual being, he needs to be a lot drunker.
Sarah smiles, showing her teeth. ‘Never mind that now. If you’re talking about Jeremy’s massive crush on Hague, well, that’s something else entirely.’
Jeremy chokes on his beer.
‘Why?’ Julian asks, leaning forward.
‘Because my fantasies about putting Gove over my knee are just fantasies,’ Sarah says, and grins as they both splutter. ‘I think Jeremy actually wants to do something about his.’
They both look at him, and he feels his face reddening again. Fuck.
‘I hate you both,’ he says.
~//~
All right, so Julian isn’t far off.
The problem is, what is Jeremy going to do about it? Sarah’s right, the days where ogling and fantasising were enough are long past. He wants to make a move – he’s forty years old, he’s been a playboy for twenty years, he’s had plenty of practice at making moves on humans of all genders, races, ages, sizes, and professions.
But how does one make a move on William Hague? Those amused, shrewd eyes intimidate Jeremy on the best of days. He can just see himself making an utter pig’s breakfast of it all -
‘So, uh, remember that time when the press crucified you for sleeping in the same room as your male aide? Well, uh, I just thought, you might be gay, or bisexual, even though you denied it and talked about your wife’s miscarriages, and uh, I’m interested in fucking you, if you are gay. Or bisexual. So, uh. Let me know.’
No. Certainly not. Jeremy’s flushing just to think of it.
He could just march into Hague’s office and go for it, crowd up into his space and telegraph the kiss, see if Hague lets him or punches him.
But perhaps Hague wouldn’t punch him, perhaps Hague would just look at him with ironically raised eyebrows, like he was a silly child acting up. Or perhaps Hague would sabotage his career, undermine him in Cabinet. Or perhaps – horrifying thought – Hague would go to Nick, tell him to keep his Members in line. Jeremy remembers how Nick lectured them all after Bercow caught Duncan and Jo ‘celebrating their engagement’ in the House after hours; Jeremy had never seen Nick quite as stern. He doesn’t particularly want that ire directed at him.
It’s torture, working with Hague the next few days, as he tries to decide what to do. Hague’s right there, and Jeremy wants, and Jeremy is not at all used to not getting what he wants.
It doesn’t help that Julian smirks at him every time he sees him – it’s definitely time to start bringing up the old ‘you left your canvassing materials in a pub’ story again – or that Sarah makes a point of ogling Gove whenever Jeremy runs into them. Jeremy thinks Gove notices and doesn’t mind, and that’s possibly the most disturbing part of all of that.
Hague making a statement on Libya in the House is the last straw. Jeremy has to sit there, let that voice wash over him, pretend to be professionally interested and attentive. Meanwhile, his miserable brain refuses to do anything but imagine that voice saying filthy nothings to him, that voice breaking and falling apart because of him. He’s half hard; luckily he’s not sitting next to Hague, but still. This is the last straw. Something has to change.
~//~
In the end, it’s easy.
Jeremy lets Hague see him looking.
Their eyes meet.
After a minute, Hague smiles. Jeremy finds himself breaking out into a breathless smile himself, relieved beyond measure that he isn’t about to be humiliated.
‘Is this why you were embarrassing yourself in the House yesterday?’ Hague asks.
‘Yes,’ Jeremy says.
Hague sits down at his desk, steeples his fingers under his chin. He’s still smiling faintly. ‘It stays in Westminster. My wife’s rule. Leak it to the press, and you’re finished in politics.’
Jeremy feels a shiver run down his spine, at the way Hague has so completely taken control of the situation. He’s always been the dominant partner in his relationships, but Hague takes him apart and puts him together again in a way he’s never known he’s craved so much.
Hague’s smile turns sharp, and Jeremy knows he’s seen. ‘Is that acceptable to you?’
‘Yes,’ Jeremy says again, and crosses the room to the desk.
Hague kisses like he talks, wry and masterful and oddly magnetic, and Jeremy loses himself in the kiss, lets himself be crowded against the wall, wraps himself around Hague and feels his blood race.
Later, he’ll have to go borrow a dress shirt from Julian – Hague isn’t careful with buttons – and perhaps some makeup from Sarah, if the stinging feeling on his collarbone turns into a hickey the way he thinks it might. They’ll never let him live this down. Perhaps, Jeremy thinks suddenly, it’s time to play matchmaker and create a distraction...
Hague shoves a thigh between Jeremy’s legs, and Jeremy stops thinking.
***
A/N: Comments are very much loved (and anon commenting is on), but never required. <33
Ship(s): Jeremy Browne/William Hague
Word Count: 1,257
Rating: PG, for implied sexual situations and profanity
Summary: How Jeremy Browne learned to stop protesting and make his move. Includes Sarah Teather and Julian Huppert as supporting cast.
Disclaimer: All works posted on this journal are creative works 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.
Q.E.D.
- or, how Jeremy Browne learned to stop protesting and make his move
‘You fancy him,’ Julian says, in a tone of dawning comprehension. ‘You fancy him.’
Jeremy thinks about denying it, but he can already feel the hectic blush in his cheeks – damn his fair skin – and he’s too drunk to wiggle out of this one. ‘Shut up,’ he mutters, kicking Julian’s ankle savagely.
‘Fancy who?’ Sarah says, looking up alertly. Far too alertly for someone that tiny who has three beers in her already, Jeremy thinks.
‘Nobody,’ Jeremy says, giving Julian a significant look. ‘Jules is making things up again.’
‘Am not,’ Julian says indignantly, waving an arm expansively and almost knocking over a drink. ‘You stare at him all the time, and you go all funny looking when you say his name, and I caught you checking his arse out earlier. Q.E.D.’
Sarah makes a face. ‘Keep your maths to yourself, Huppert, some of us are trying to get drunk here.’
Julian frowns sulkily. ‘Let me put this another way…’
‘I’ll get you another beer, Sarah,’ Jeremy says, although he has a sinking feeling that he’s doomed. Once Julian gets his teeth in something, he’s damned hard to shake.
Sarah raises an eyebrow at him. ‘This one’s still mostly full. If you’re deflecting, he must be on to something.’ She turns to Julian. ‘Go ahead.’
Julian perks up. ‘When you’re in the House for Education Questions, and Gove is speaking, do you ever find yourself watching him and imagining what he’d be like in bed?’
‘Hey,’ Jeremy protests. He so did not need that image.
‘When did this become about me?’ Sarah says, taking a swig of her beer. ‘I thought we were humiliating Jeremy.’
‘Well, the answer’s no, right?’ Julian asks. ‘Most people don’t think about their Ministers that way. Most people,’ and he elbows Jeremy, ‘most people don’t imagine bending their Minister over the despatch box and having their wicked…’
‘Shut up, Julian,’ Jeremy says, his face on fire now. He and Julian start a short but brutal kicking war under the table.
Sarah looks at them for a moment, then shrugs. ‘Ogling never hurt anyone. Sure, I’ve imagined Gove over the despatch box. Without fantasies, life would be a lot less fun.’
Both Jeremy and Julian stare at her, momentarily struck dumb.
She lets that sink in, leisurely finishing her beer. ‘Don’t start a conversation about sex, Julian, unless you want me to finish it.’
Julian’s face is a picture, his eyebrows up near his receding hairline. ‘But Gove!’
Jeremy raises his beer to his lips. If they’re going to have a conversation about Gove as a sexual being, he needs to be a lot drunker.
Sarah smiles, showing her teeth. ‘Never mind that now. If you’re talking about Jeremy’s massive crush on Hague, well, that’s something else entirely.’
Jeremy chokes on his beer.
‘Why?’ Julian asks, leaning forward.
‘Because my fantasies about putting Gove over my knee are just fantasies,’ Sarah says, and grins as they both splutter. ‘I think Jeremy actually wants to do something about his.’
They both look at him, and he feels his face reddening again. Fuck.
‘I hate you both,’ he says.
~//~
All right, so Julian isn’t far off.
The problem is, what is Jeremy going to do about it? Sarah’s right, the days where ogling and fantasising were enough are long past. He wants to make a move – he’s forty years old, he’s been a playboy for twenty years, he’s had plenty of practice at making moves on humans of all genders, races, ages, sizes, and professions.
But how does one make a move on William Hague? Those amused, shrewd eyes intimidate Jeremy on the best of days. He can just see himself making an utter pig’s breakfast of it all -
‘So, uh, remember that time when the press crucified you for sleeping in the same room as your male aide? Well, uh, I just thought, you might be gay, or bisexual, even though you denied it and talked about your wife’s miscarriages, and uh, I’m interested in fucking you, if you are gay. Or bisexual. So, uh. Let me know.’
No. Certainly not. Jeremy’s flushing just to think of it.
He could just march into Hague’s office and go for it, crowd up into his space and telegraph the kiss, see if Hague lets him or punches him.
But perhaps Hague wouldn’t punch him, perhaps Hague would just look at him with ironically raised eyebrows, like he was a silly child acting up. Or perhaps Hague would sabotage his career, undermine him in Cabinet. Or perhaps – horrifying thought – Hague would go to Nick, tell him to keep his Members in line. Jeremy remembers how Nick lectured them all after Bercow caught Duncan and Jo ‘celebrating their engagement’ in the House after hours; Jeremy had never seen Nick quite as stern. He doesn’t particularly want that ire directed at him.
It’s torture, working with Hague the next few days, as he tries to decide what to do. Hague’s right there, and Jeremy wants, and Jeremy is not at all used to not getting what he wants.
It doesn’t help that Julian smirks at him every time he sees him – it’s definitely time to start bringing up the old ‘you left your canvassing materials in a pub’ story again – or that Sarah makes a point of ogling Gove whenever Jeremy runs into them. Jeremy thinks Gove notices and doesn’t mind, and that’s possibly the most disturbing part of all of that.
Hague making a statement on Libya in the House is the last straw. Jeremy has to sit there, let that voice wash over him, pretend to be professionally interested and attentive. Meanwhile, his miserable brain refuses to do anything but imagine that voice saying filthy nothings to him, that voice breaking and falling apart because of him. He’s half hard; luckily he’s not sitting next to Hague, but still. This is the last straw. Something has to change.
~//~
In the end, it’s easy.
Jeremy lets Hague see him looking.
Their eyes meet.
After a minute, Hague smiles. Jeremy finds himself breaking out into a breathless smile himself, relieved beyond measure that he isn’t about to be humiliated.
‘Is this why you were embarrassing yourself in the House yesterday?’ Hague asks.
‘Yes,’ Jeremy says.
Hague sits down at his desk, steeples his fingers under his chin. He’s still smiling faintly. ‘It stays in Westminster. My wife’s rule. Leak it to the press, and you’re finished in politics.’
Jeremy feels a shiver run down his spine, at the way Hague has so completely taken control of the situation. He’s always been the dominant partner in his relationships, but Hague takes him apart and puts him together again in a way he’s never known he’s craved so much.
Hague’s smile turns sharp, and Jeremy knows he’s seen. ‘Is that acceptable to you?’
‘Yes,’ Jeremy says again, and crosses the room to the desk.
Hague kisses like he talks, wry and masterful and oddly magnetic, and Jeremy loses himself in the kiss, lets himself be crowded against the wall, wraps himself around Hague and feels his blood race.
Later, he’ll have to go borrow a dress shirt from Julian – Hague isn’t careful with buttons – and perhaps some makeup from Sarah, if the stinging feeling on his collarbone turns into a hickey the way he thinks it might. They’ll never let him live this down. Perhaps, Jeremy thinks suddenly, it’s time to play matchmaker and create a distraction...
Hague shoves a thigh between Jeremy’s legs, and Jeremy stops thinking.
***
A/N: Comments are very much loved (and anon commenting is on), but never required. <33
