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FILL: The Heart of Conference
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: The Heart of Conference
Ship(s): Ed Balls/Andy Burnham
Word Count: 736
Rating: G
Summary: She keeps the Labour 2011 conference running. No matter what happens. 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.
The Heart of Conference
If they’d left it up to her, she’d have issued a strongly worded communiqué advising senior delegates to abstain from the consumption of alcoholic beverages during conference. Not that she likes authoritarianism, but put delegates and free-flowing alcohol together and all sorts of things start happening. Sooner or later a reporter (or worse, a photographer) is going to get a screamer of a story.
Perhaps literally, given the amount of bed-hopping that has been known to take place.
But there, she can’t be an overbearing mother. She’s responsible for keeping things running smoothly during the daylight hours, she can’t be responsible for what goes on when the lights go down.
Still, for future reference, if it had been up to her this would not have happened.
This, of course, being a tipsy Andy Burnham outside her hotel room door at an ungodly hour in the morning.
“You don’t understand,” Andy says, blinking earnestly. His eyelashes really are ridiculously long.
“I do,” she says. “You should find your own room.”
He blinks again, rather owlishly. “But I know you feel the same way!”
She leans her head against the door frame and looks at him through the crack. “Right now, I feel that I want to go back to sleep.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at me!”
Oh God, is he pouting? “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“On the podium,” Andy says, and now he looks like he’s about to cry. “When I gave my speech, you said how fantastic it was, and I could see the way you were looking at me.”
She raises her eyebrows. “How much alcohol have you had tonight?”
“What?” Andy says. “Oh. Just some beer.” He scuffs his toe against the carpet. “Ed said I was right. Ed said you really did like me, and you were teasing me so I would say something.”
“And Ed suggested you might want some beer to work up your courage,” she says. If Andy knew her better, he might have heard the dark edge behind her normal flat tones.
Andy looks at her, adoration shining on his flushed face. “You’re so smart!”
“Wait here,” she says.
As she picks her mobile up to dial, she can hear Andy tell her door, “It’s not fair.”
“Ed,” she says, keeping her voice level.
“Hello,” Ed says – or half-shouts, rather, over the pounding beat of the music. “Did Andy find you?”
“Yes, Andy found me,” she says. “Could you come collect him now?”
“Aww,” Ed says. “Now?”
“Now,” she says, quite firmly.
By the time Ed arrives, Andy has collapsed into a sullen heap, murmuring sadly to himself. She’s keeping an eye on him through the wary crack in her door, to make sure he doesn’t go wandering off and find a lurking reporter.
Ed has reached the boisterous stage of the evening. “Andy!” He reaches down and hauls Andy to his feet.
Andy looks up at him, his bottom lip trembling. “We were wrong. She doesn’t love me.”
Ed looks torn between amusement and chagrin. She’s glad to see that chagrin seems to be winning. “Ah. Well, we can’t win them all, can we?” He slips an arm around Andy’s waist, holding him up.
“Nobody loves me,” Andy says, leaning heavily against Ed. She rolls her eyes. Who gives this man alcohol? He’s much more attractive sober.
Ed’s eyes flick up to the crack in her door, and she stares back at him through it, unamused.
“Now you know that’s not true, Andy,” he says.
Andy sniffles. “Is too.”
“Andy,” Ed says, softly – and Andy looks up, catches sight of Ed’s face, and flushes.
“Well,” Andy says, hushed, “there is that, I suppose.”
“There is that,” Ed agrees, his voice fond, and steals a kiss.
She gives them a few moments before finding her dressing gown and stepping out into the corridor.
They move apart slightly, Andy still flushed, Ed smiling.
She levels a gaze at Ed, whose ability to function she trusts more, under the circumstances. “You two should go back to your room.”
“And what are you doing?” Ed says, cheekily.
“I,” she says grimly, “am going to check the corridor for reporters.”
Despite all the difficulties - debates and speeches, delegates and MPs, television feeds and auto-cues, reporters and alcohol and bed-hopping and karaoke, and something called Twitter - conference will never fall apart.
Not while Norma’s on the job.
~//~
Title: The Heart of Conference
Ship(s): Ed Balls/Andy Burnham
Word Count: 736
Rating: G
Summary: She keeps the Labour 2011 conference running. No matter what happens. 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.
The Heart of Conference
If they’d left it up to her, she’d have issued a strongly worded communiqué advising senior delegates to abstain from the consumption of alcoholic beverages during conference. Not that she likes authoritarianism, but put delegates and free-flowing alcohol together and all sorts of things start happening. Sooner or later a reporter (or worse, a photographer) is going to get a screamer of a story.
Perhaps literally, given the amount of bed-hopping that has been known to take place.
But there, she can’t be an overbearing mother. She’s responsible for keeping things running smoothly during the daylight hours, she can’t be responsible for what goes on when the lights go down.
Still, for future reference, if it had been up to her this would not have happened.
This, of course, being a tipsy Andy Burnham outside her hotel room door at an ungodly hour in the morning.
“You don’t understand,” Andy says, blinking earnestly. His eyelashes really are ridiculously long.
“I do,” she says. “You should find your own room.”
He blinks again, rather owlishly. “But I know you feel the same way!”
She leans her head against the door frame and looks at him through the crack. “Right now, I feel that I want to go back to sleep.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at me!”
Oh God, is he pouting? “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“On the podium,” Andy says, and now he looks like he’s about to cry. “When I gave my speech, you said how fantastic it was, and I could see the way you were looking at me.”
She raises her eyebrows. “How much alcohol have you had tonight?”
“What?” Andy says. “Oh. Just some beer.” He scuffs his toe against the carpet. “Ed said I was right. Ed said you really did like me, and you were teasing me so I would say something.”
“And Ed suggested you might want some beer to work up your courage,” she says. If Andy knew her better, he might have heard the dark edge behind her normal flat tones.
Andy looks at her, adoration shining on his flushed face. “You’re so smart!”
“Wait here,” she says.
As she picks her mobile up to dial, she can hear Andy tell her door, “It’s not fair.”
“Ed,” she says, keeping her voice level.
“Hello,” Ed says – or half-shouts, rather, over the pounding beat of the music. “Did Andy find you?”
“Yes, Andy found me,” she says. “Could you come collect him now?”
“Aww,” Ed says. “Now?”
“Now,” she says, quite firmly.
By the time Ed arrives, Andy has collapsed into a sullen heap, murmuring sadly to himself. She’s keeping an eye on him through the wary crack in her door, to make sure he doesn’t go wandering off and find a lurking reporter.
Ed has reached the boisterous stage of the evening. “Andy!” He reaches down and hauls Andy to his feet.
Andy looks up at him, his bottom lip trembling. “We were wrong. She doesn’t love me.”
Ed looks torn between amusement and chagrin. She’s glad to see that chagrin seems to be winning. “Ah. Well, we can’t win them all, can we?” He slips an arm around Andy’s waist, holding him up.
“Nobody loves me,” Andy says, leaning heavily against Ed. She rolls her eyes. Who gives this man alcohol? He’s much more attractive sober.
Ed’s eyes flick up to the crack in her door, and she stares back at him through it, unamused.
“Now you know that’s not true, Andy,” he says.
Andy sniffles. “Is too.”
“Andy,” Ed says, softly – and Andy looks up, catches sight of Ed’s face, and flushes.
“Well,” Andy says, hushed, “there is that, I suppose.”
“There is that,” Ed agrees, his voice fond, and steals a kiss.
She gives them a few moments before finding her dressing gown and stepping out into the corridor.
They move apart slightly, Andy still flushed, Ed smiling.
She levels a gaze at Ed, whose ability to function she trusts more, under the circumstances. “You two should go back to your room.”
“And what are you doing?” Ed says, cheekily.
“I,” she says grimly, “am going to check the corridor for reporters.”
Despite all the difficulties - debates and speeches, delegates and MPs, television feeds and auto-cues, reporters and alcohol and bed-hopping and karaoke, and something called Twitter - conference will never fall apart.
Not while Norma’s on the job.
~//~