![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
FIC: Beginning
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: Beginning
Ship(s): None
Word Count: 1,692
Rating: G
Summary: David watches Ed's Q&A at conference, which includes a question about when he's going to return from "political Siberia". For this prompt.
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.
Beginning
David knows he shouldn’t watch.
If Louise were here, she’d pull him away, her voice full of forced cheerfulness. She’d remember something they needed to be doing, or one of the boys would be asking for him, or one of their old friends would have just rung up. If worst came to worst, she could always have him take out the rubbish, and by the time he came back in she’d have thought of a way to distract him.
For a long time, David didn’t mind her protection. In fact, he loved her for it – for the way she could make it clear where her loyalties lay, for the way she could say and do things he couldn’t, for the way she could be hurt and show it. She kept the name “Ed” out of their home as much as she could; she reminded David every day that he was loved, in word and deed; she managed both career and children while nursing her husband through depression, ennui, and frustration.
But the protection has begun to grow stifling, and David feels a bit like a child being watched by an overbearing mother. He isn’t mortally wounded, or in danger. He’s a middle-aged man who has lost the job of his dreams, true, but he still has his intelligence, his experience, and his family. It’s been a year. Is it time to move on?
He watches Ed move about the stage in Liverpool. Ed’s so much more comfortable, here in this setting, rather than presenting a set-piece speech. There’s the earnestness David knows so well. There’s the dry humour which has so often startled a laugh from David’s lips, even in the dark days when it seemed that Tony and Gordon would kill each other before morning, with their advisers as collateral damage around them. There’s the passion, raising its head from behind the cover of Ed’s natural mild manners; there’s the wonk side, coming out when a 17-year-old wants to know why he should vote Labour and Ed says the biggest issue for young people should be climate change.
David finds himself blinking hard. There are no tears. There never have been, not from the beginning. There was disbelief, and betrayal, and rage – frustration, and boredom, and depression. But never tears.
He shakes himself. Enough is enough. He’s not a masochist, and continuing to subject himself may venture into that territory uncomfortably soon.
And yet…
He loves politics. He loves Labour. He loves the thrill of fighting, the joy of intellectual engagement, the fulfillment of knowing that one is making a difference in the world. He can see that same love in Ed’s eyes – oh, he always knew it was there, but now here it is for all the world to see, as Ed calls for hard questions and commands the stage.
He misses it all, misses it with an ache that surprises him with its suddenness and strength.
A man walks out on Ed, and David finds himself clenching his fists unconsciously. That man never intended to listen to Ed’s answer, David would lay money on it. And now he’ll be interviewed on countless television stations before the hour is out, shaking his head sadly and saying that Ed Miliband doesn’t have the answers for people like him. David knows how it goes.
It’s been a long time since David has allowed himself to watch Ed for this long at a single stretch. He tried to watch Ed’s speech last night, but couldn’t manage to get through more than ten minutes. What the advisers are euphemistically calling “presentational issues” made him want to scream. He knows he could do a better job. He knows it. He knows he could have had that conference on its feet. He knows he could have made the papers glow. He knows he could have delivered a triumph of a speech – meanwhile, Ed stumbles, and reads, and looks like a little boy called up to the principal.
But this, this…David has forgotten what Ed looks like, when Ed is happy and excited and in his element. His eyes shine, his hands wave about, his voice rings out loud and clear. He’ll never be Tony Blair, he’ll never be David Cameron – hell, he’ll never be David - but here, in this moment, he’s himself. Ed the man, Ed the politician, Ed the leader.
A young woman has the microphone, and over the rushing in his ears, David hears his own name. Ed doesn’t make out the question, smiling and asking for it to be repeated. David waits for that smile to falter, even infinitesimally, as the young woman asks if it’s time for David to come back from political Siberia, time for the Labour Party to unite once again.
Ed’s smile doesn’t falter. Perhaps it’s David’s imagination, though, but it sounds like his voice is a bit sad when he answers. "Look, I'll give you the answer, which is the answer I give because it's the honest answer," Ed says. "Which is David is a massive asset to our politics and our party. And I’ve always said I’d be happy to have him back, I want to have him back, but in the end he’s got to decide what is the right thing for him to do. And, it was a difficult leadership contest that we had, it was difficult for us." Back to the hand waving, and the picture on David's laptop seems a bit blurry. "In the end, he’s got to decide whether he wants to play a role on the Shadow Cabinet or not, so the answer doesn’t change on that. But he’s been incredibly supportive to me for this speech I gave on Tuesday, and throughout the last year.”
David turns it off after that, as Ed calls for more questions, asking for them to be harder.
He sits on his hotel bed quietly. The shades are drawn.
A year ago, his dreams turned to dust, as Ed won the leadership. Some people portrayed his subsequent withdrawal from the political world as wounded pride, but they were wrong. His pride had never been wounded. He had felt betrayed, sickened, angry, depressed – but he had never put himself in a position where he would have to swallow his pride and admit defeat. Wordless smiles for the cameras (contorted grimaces that fooled no one), meaningless words of support (immediately undermined by action or inaction), those he could give; but true, sincere acceptance - no, this had never come.
He sits on the hotel bed for a long time.
When he finally reaches for his mobile phone, his hand seems almost like a foreign object. He watches the fingers dial. The phone rings.
When it picks up, he can only hear breathing on the other end of the line for a long moment.
Then, familiar and wrenching, cautious and hopeful, “David?”
It is the first time he’s reached out to Ed himself since that day a year ago. Since then, Ed or his people have always called his people, who have passed it on to him.
He swallows.
“Ed,” he says.
“David,” Ed says, warm and awkward, too fast and too eager. “How are you? How’s Washington?”
“I…” He clears his throat. “Washington’s great.”
“That’s great,” Ed says, and there’s a smile on his face, David can hear it.
“You’ll never believe what this professor said to me, though.” He can hear the frayed edge in his own voice, but it holds steady.
“What?” Ed asks immediately.
He tells the anecdote. His fingers ache from the way he grips the phone.
Ed laughs, and makes wry comments about the prevalence of colourful characters in academe.
“I’ll let you go,” David says finally. “I know you’re busy.”
“Not at all,” Ed says, but David has heard people try to interrupt them twice, only to presumably be shooed away.
“I just wanted to say,” David says, and clutches the phone harder, “and I should have said it before…”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ed interrupts.
David shakes his head mutely, even though Ed can’t see him. “No, it does.”
Ed waits through the pause.
“Congratulations,” David says. “You’re doing a wonderful job.”
“Thank you,” Ed says, and he must have heard something in David’s voice, because his own wobbles. Not enough that anyone would notice, except for a brother.
“I mean it,” David says, and it’s his turn to talk too quickly. “You’re taking the fight to Cameron and not letting him get away with things, and you’ve tamed the Ed Balls threat somehow.”
“Aiming him at George Osborne helps,” Ed says. “And Yvette still has a soft spot for me.”
“She always did,” David says.
Ed hesitates, and David can picture him, perched on the edge of a chair, in some small, empty room – because he will have tried to find a quiet place when he realised who was calling – hunched over the phone. “David, I don’t mean to…I just…” He clears his throat. “When you’re ready, you know that you…”
“I know,” David says.
He closes his eyes. What should he do? What should he say? What will Louise say?
But for the first time in a long time, there is a spark, somewhere deep in his belly, that deep formless political hunger; for the first time in a long time, he has thought about the situation without the helpless urge to punch something; for the first time in a long time, he has laughed and joked with his brother.
“Call me tomorrow?” he hears himself saying.
“Are you sure?” Ed asks quietly.
“Yes,” David says, and opens his eyes, and finds them wet. “Don’t call my people. Call me.”
It’s only a beginning. There have been words said, words unsaid, that can perhaps never be forgotten; there has been action and inaction, rage and betrayal, depression and frustration. David is not blind to the fact that Ed has every reason to distrust him, or to the fact that Ed’s Shadow Cabinet is unlikely to think much of him for a great while to come.
But it is a beginning.
And when Ed says “I will,” David smiles.
~//~
Title: Beginning
Ship(s): None
Word Count: 1,692
Rating: G
Summary: David watches Ed's Q&A at conference, which includes a question about when he's going to return from "political Siberia". For this prompt.
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.
Beginning
David knows he shouldn’t watch.
If Louise were here, she’d pull him away, her voice full of forced cheerfulness. She’d remember something they needed to be doing, or one of the boys would be asking for him, or one of their old friends would have just rung up. If worst came to worst, she could always have him take out the rubbish, and by the time he came back in she’d have thought of a way to distract him.
For a long time, David didn’t mind her protection. In fact, he loved her for it – for the way she could make it clear where her loyalties lay, for the way she could say and do things he couldn’t, for the way she could be hurt and show it. She kept the name “Ed” out of their home as much as she could; she reminded David every day that he was loved, in word and deed; she managed both career and children while nursing her husband through depression, ennui, and frustration.
But the protection has begun to grow stifling, and David feels a bit like a child being watched by an overbearing mother. He isn’t mortally wounded, or in danger. He’s a middle-aged man who has lost the job of his dreams, true, but he still has his intelligence, his experience, and his family. It’s been a year. Is it time to move on?
He watches Ed move about the stage in Liverpool. Ed’s so much more comfortable, here in this setting, rather than presenting a set-piece speech. There’s the earnestness David knows so well. There’s the dry humour which has so often startled a laugh from David’s lips, even in the dark days when it seemed that Tony and Gordon would kill each other before morning, with their advisers as collateral damage around them. There’s the passion, raising its head from behind the cover of Ed’s natural mild manners; there’s the wonk side, coming out when a 17-year-old wants to know why he should vote Labour and Ed says the biggest issue for young people should be climate change.
David finds himself blinking hard. There are no tears. There never have been, not from the beginning. There was disbelief, and betrayal, and rage – frustration, and boredom, and depression. But never tears.
He shakes himself. Enough is enough. He’s not a masochist, and continuing to subject himself may venture into that territory uncomfortably soon.
And yet…
He loves politics. He loves Labour. He loves the thrill of fighting, the joy of intellectual engagement, the fulfillment of knowing that one is making a difference in the world. He can see that same love in Ed’s eyes – oh, he always knew it was there, but now here it is for all the world to see, as Ed calls for hard questions and commands the stage.
He misses it all, misses it with an ache that surprises him with its suddenness and strength.
A man walks out on Ed, and David finds himself clenching his fists unconsciously. That man never intended to listen to Ed’s answer, David would lay money on it. And now he’ll be interviewed on countless television stations before the hour is out, shaking his head sadly and saying that Ed Miliband doesn’t have the answers for people like him. David knows how it goes.
It’s been a long time since David has allowed himself to watch Ed for this long at a single stretch. He tried to watch Ed’s speech last night, but couldn’t manage to get through more than ten minutes. What the advisers are euphemistically calling “presentational issues” made him want to scream. He knows he could do a better job. He knows it. He knows he could have had that conference on its feet. He knows he could have made the papers glow. He knows he could have delivered a triumph of a speech – meanwhile, Ed stumbles, and reads, and looks like a little boy called up to the principal.
But this, this…David has forgotten what Ed looks like, when Ed is happy and excited and in his element. His eyes shine, his hands wave about, his voice rings out loud and clear. He’ll never be Tony Blair, he’ll never be David Cameron – hell, he’ll never be David - but here, in this moment, he’s himself. Ed the man, Ed the politician, Ed the leader.
A young woman has the microphone, and over the rushing in his ears, David hears his own name. Ed doesn’t make out the question, smiling and asking for it to be repeated. David waits for that smile to falter, even infinitesimally, as the young woman asks if it’s time for David to come back from political Siberia, time for the Labour Party to unite once again.
Ed’s smile doesn’t falter. Perhaps it’s David’s imagination, though, but it sounds like his voice is a bit sad when he answers. "Look, I'll give you the answer, which is the answer I give because it's the honest answer," Ed says. "Which is David is a massive asset to our politics and our party. And I’ve always said I’d be happy to have him back, I want to have him back, but in the end he’s got to decide what is the right thing for him to do. And, it was a difficult leadership contest that we had, it was difficult for us." Back to the hand waving, and the picture on David's laptop seems a bit blurry. "In the end, he’s got to decide whether he wants to play a role on the Shadow Cabinet or not, so the answer doesn’t change on that. But he’s been incredibly supportive to me for this speech I gave on Tuesday, and throughout the last year.”
David turns it off after that, as Ed calls for more questions, asking for them to be harder.
He sits on his hotel bed quietly. The shades are drawn.
A year ago, his dreams turned to dust, as Ed won the leadership. Some people portrayed his subsequent withdrawal from the political world as wounded pride, but they were wrong. His pride had never been wounded. He had felt betrayed, sickened, angry, depressed – but he had never put himself in a position where he would have to swallow his pride and admit defeat. Wordless smiles for the cameras (contorted grimaces that fooled no one), meaningless words of support (immediately undermined by action or inaction), those he could give; but true, sincere acceptance - no, this had never come.
He sits on the hotel bed for a long time.
When he finally reaches for his mobile phone, his hand seems almost like a foreign object. He watches the fingers dial. The phone rings.
When it picks up, he can only hear breathing on the other end of the line for a long moment.
Then, familiar and wrenching, cautious and hopeful, “David?”
It is the first time he’s reached out to Ed himself since that day a year ago. Since then, Ed or his people have always called his people, who have passed it on to him.
He swallows.
“Ed,” he says.
“David,” Ed says, warm and awkward, too fast and too eager. “How are you? How’s Washington?”
“I…” He clears his throat. “Washington’s great.”
“That’s great,” Ed says, and there’s a smile on his face, David can hear it.
“You’ll never believe what this professor said to me, though.” He can hear the frayed edge in his own voice, but it holds steady.
“What?” Ed asks immediately.
He tells the anecdote. His fingers ache from the way he grips the phone.
Ed laughs, and makes wry comments about the prevalence of colourful characters in academe.
“I’ll let you go,” David says finally. “I know you’re busy.”
“Not at all,” Ed says, but David has heard people try to interrupt them twice, only to presumably be shooed away.
“I just wanted to say,” David says, and clutches the phone harder, “and I should have said it before…”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ed interrupts.
David shakes his head mutely, even though Ed can’t see him. “No, it does.”
Ed waits through the pause.
“Congratulations,” David says. “You’re doing a wonderful job.”
“Thank you,” Ed says, and he must have heard something in David’s voice, because his own wobbles. Not enough that anyone would notice, except for a brother.
“I mean it,” David says, and it’s his turn to talk too quickly. “You’re taking the fight to Cameron and not letting him get away with things, and you’ve tamed the Ed Balls threat somehow.”
“Aiming him at George Osborne helps,” Ed says. “And Yvette still has a soft spot for me.”
“She always did,” David says.
Ed hesitates, and David can picture him, perched on the edge of a chair, in some small, empty room – because he will have tried to find a quiet place when he realised who was calling – hunched over the phone. “David, I don’t mean to…I just…” He clears his throat. “When you’re ready, you know that you…”
“I know,” David says.
He closes his eyes. What should he do? What should he say? What will Louise say?
But for the first time in a long time, there is a spark, somewhere deep in his belly, that deep formless political hunger; for the first time in a long time, he has thought about the situation without the helpless urge to punch something; for the first time in a long time, he has laughed and joked with his brother.
“Call me tomorrow?” he hears himself saying.
“Are you sure?” Ed asks quietly.
“Yes,” David says, and opens his eyes, and finds them wet. “Don’t call my people. Call me.”
It’s only a beginning. There have been words said, words unsaid, that can perhaps never be forgotten; there has been action and inaction, rage and betrayal, depression and frustration. David is not blind to the fact that Ed has every reason to distrust him, or to the fact that Ed’s Shadow Cabinet is unlikely to think much of him for a great while to come.
But it is a beginning.
And when Ed says “I will,” David smiles.
~//~