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FIC: Old Friends
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: Old Friends
Ship(s): Tony Blair/Gordon Brown
Word Count: 731
Rating: G
Summary: A chance meeting, in the aftermath of power. For my 50-fic party at the meme.
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.
Old Friends
It’s an accident.
Gordon runs into him in a hotel corridor, stale and sterile. Physically runs into him, very nearly; stops himself, and stands back, and stares.
Gordon is alone. Tony is accompanied by a rabbity-looking young man, who Gordon promptly dubs Not-Alastair.
Not-Alastair wants to rush Tony on. Gordon can see him reach out, lay a tentative hand on Tony’s elbow. Tony, however, is still looking at Gordon.
“Hello,” Gordon says. He knows it comes out gruffly, but it’s just his voice. He’s been out of power for sixteen months now, and he feels ten years younger; Tony’s been out of power for three years now, and he looks twenty years older. Gordon’s not any less angry with Tony than he’s always been, but it’s a far away anger, buried under exhaustion and layers of scar tissue.
“Hello,” Tony says - sounding half shy, half awkward, looking like an old man but sounding like the young man who opened Gordon’s office door, all those many years ago; except that young man had never sounded shy and awkward, but excited and friendly, like a puppy eager to please.
By mutual, wordless accord, they turn into an empty meeting room. Not-Alastair stays outside, to guard the closed door.
“So,” Tony says into the silence, hand already reaching up to cup the back of his neck, and Gordon knows that tell. Gordon knows all of Tony’s tells. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been spending time with Sarah and the boys,” Gordon says. “And you?”
Tony laughs, aiming for casual but finding short and clumsy. “You know me. I keep busy. Never a moment’s peace.”
“Yes, I know you,” Gordon says.
Tony meets his eyes, and a bit of the strangeness fades.
“And peace comes, I think,” Gordon adds, “to those who seek it.”
“That’s almost Biblical,” Tony says.
They stand in silence, watching each other. Gordon wonders what Tony sees when he looks at him. Does he see the young man he knew, so long ago, during those years when they worked together, dreamed together, breathed together? Does he see the young man who was his lover, that one sun-touched summer? Does he see the man he stabbed in the back? His Chancellor? His successor?
Or perhaps he sees the man Gordon sees in the mirror every morning: a washed-up politician running to seed, grey in his hair and laugh-lines around his eyes, well-rested and well-loved; a man at last at peace.
“What do you think of what the kids have done with the place?” Tony asks, and his tone is still full of forced lightness, but the tiredness has started to shade in.
Gordon considers. “I think they have a difficult road ahead of them.”
“Your Miliband brother won, of course,” Tony says, trying to joke. The muscle in his jaw jumps.
“Yes,” Gordon says, simply, “and Balls is Shadow Chancellor. But Miliband has your people as well.”
“One big happy family, as it were,” Tony says, and he’s losing his grip on his mask, because Gordon can clearly hear the bitterness. “I wonder if Balls hates Miliband as much as you hated me?”
“I doubt it,” Gordon says, because he doesn’t lie, if he can help it.
Tony’s a professional, and Tony’s good at what he does. Gordon doesn’t think there are four people in the world who would have seen the flinch in Tony’s eyes; perhaps only Alastair and Peter, besides himself.
If Gordon has found peace, Tony has not. Tony is old, and broken, and brittle; he wears the old smile and charm like a threadbare overcoat, shrugged on against the rain because there is no money for anything better.
“It was never just hate,” Gordon says; he doesn’t have the words, he never has the words.
Tony laughs, and the sound is tinny. “Next you’re going to say that you love me, that you’ve always loved me.”
“Not precisely,” Gordon says. “But…in a way, yes.”
Tony looks at him then, meets his eyes properly.
In another world, Gordon would go to him, kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, Not-Alastair and the world outside be damned.
In this world, Gordon watches as a real smile edges onto Tony’s face, small and bittersweet and exhausted.
“And that’s why we’re a tragedy,” Tony says.
Gordon thinks that’s too dramatic a term. But then, Tony has never been anything if not dramatic.
~//~
Title: Old Friends
Ship(s): Tony Blair/Gordon Brown
Word Count: 731
Rating: G
Summary: A chance meeting, in the aftermath of power. For my 50-fic party at the meme.
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.
Old Friends
It’s an accident.
Gordon runs into him in a hotel corridor, stale and sterile. Physically runs into him, very nearly; stops himself, and stands back, and stares.
Gordon is alone. Tony is accompanied by a rabbity-looking young man, who Gordon promptly dubs Not-Alastair.
Not-Alastair wants to rush Tony on. Gordon can see him reach out, lay a tentative hand on Tony’s elbow. Tony, however, is still looking at Gordon.
“Hello,” Gordon says. He knows it comes out gruffly, but it’s just his voice. He’s been out of power for sixteen months now, and he feels ten years younger; Tony’s been out of power for three years now, and he looks twenty years older. Gordon’s not any less angry with Tony than he’s always been, but it’s a far away anger, buried under exhaustion and layers of scar tissue.
“Hello,” Tony says - sounding half shy, half awkward, looking like an old man but sounding like the young man who opened Gordon’s office door, all those many years ago; except that young man had never sounded shy and awkward, but excited and friendly, like a puppy eager to please.
By mutual, wordless accord, they turn into an empty meeting room. Not-Alastair stays outside, to guard the closed door.
“So,” Tony says into the silence, hand already reaching up to cup the back of his neck, and Gordon knows that tell. Gordon knows all of Tony’s tells. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been spending time with Sarah and the boys,” Gordon says. “And you?”
Tony laughs, aiming for casual but finding short and clumsy. “You know me. I keep busy. Never a moment’s peace.”
“Yes, I know you,” Gordon says.
Tony meets his eyes, and a bit of the strangeness fades.
“And peace comes, I think,” Gordon adds, “to those who seek it.”
“That’s almost Biblical,” Tony says.
They stand in silence, watching each other. Gordon wonders what Tony sees when he looks at him. Does he see the young man he knew, so long ago, during those years when they worked together, dreamed together, breathed together? Does he see the young man who was his lover, that one sun-touched summer? Does he see the man he stabbed in the back? His Chancellor? His successor?
Or perhaps he sees the man Gordon sees in the mirror every morning: a washed-up politician running to seed, grey in his hair and laugh-lines around his eyes, well-rested and well-loved; a man at last at peace.
“What do you think of what the kids have done with the place?” Tony asks, and his tone is still full of forced lightness, but the tiredness has started to shade in.
Gordon considers. “I think they have a difficult road ahead of them.”
“Your Miliband brother won, of course,” Tony says, trying to joke. The muscle in his jaw jumps.
“Yes,” Gordon says, simply, “and Balls is Shadow Chancellor. But Miliband has your people as well.”
“One big happy family, as it were,” Tony says, and he’s losing his grip on his mask, because Gordon can clearly hear the bitterness. “I wonder if Balls hates Miliband as much as you hated me?”
“I doubt it,” Gordon says, because he doesn’t lie, if he can help it.
Tony’s a professional, and Tony’s good at what he does. Gordon doesn’t think there are four people in the world who would have seen the flinch in Tony’s eyes; perhaps only Alastair and Peter, besides himself.
If Gordon has found peace, Tony has not. Tony is old, and broken, and brittle; he wears the old smile and charm like a threadbare overcoat, shrugged on against the rain because there is no money for anything better.
“It was never just hate,” Gordon says; he doesn’t have the words, he never has the words.
Tony laughs, and the sound is tinny. “Next you’re going to say that you love me, that you’ve always loved me.”
“Not precisely,” Gordon says. “But…in a way, yes.”
Tony looks at him then, meets his eyes properly.
In another world, Gordon would go to him, kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, Not-Alastair and the world outside be damned.
In this world, Gordon watches as a real smile edges onto Tony’s face, small and bittersweet and exhausted.
“And that’s why we’re a tragedy,” Tony says.
Gordon thinks that’s too dramatic a term. But then, Tony has never been anything if not dramatic.
~//~
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