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Entry tags:
FIC: Seen to Be Done
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: Seen to Be Done
Ship(s): Gen (Chris Bryant/William Hague friendship)
Word Count: 821
Rating: G
Summary: As William Hague weathers the Christopher Myers scandal, he receives support from an unexpected quarter. 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.
Seen to Be Done
“May I join you?”
William is sitting by himself in the Members’ Dining Room, nursing a cup of tea and staring blankly at a report on Afghanistan. In times of scandal, it’s important to show yourself, to demonstrate that you’re not afraid of what may be found. When a politician goes to ground, surrounds himself with loyalists, and refuses to be seen in public, it’s nearly certain that he’s doomed.
William wants to hide. He can feel the eyes of the Dining Room on him, even here in this relatively safe place; even here, where no press are allowed.
The questioner takes William’s silence as assent, and sits down across from him. “I wish the weather wasn’t so dismal. I’d planned on a run this evening, but that rain just looks so discouraging.”
William marshals his courtesy, puts a pleasant half-smile on his face. “Surely a little rain will not discourage such a dedicated runner as yourself.”
Bryant laughs, throwing back his head like William’s told a joke. Eyes turn; William can feel them burning on the back of his head. “Even dedicated runners can be discouraged. Perhaps especially dedicated runners. I’ve run in the Welsh hills – after that, I find the grey skies of London pissing down on me to be singularly unattractive.”
The polite smile on William’s face has turned into a real one, albeit small. He misses the days when Bryant’s sense of humour was directed at him on a regular basis. Unlike Nick Clegg, who has been heard to whinge about ‘that bastard from the Rhondda’, William rather enjoys its wicked edge, and the way it throws up barbed tails. William likes to think he sent back as good as Bryant gave.
Now, of course, William is the Foreign Secretary, and Bryant is in opposition, shadowing political and constitutional reform. Bryant still asks questions in the House, particularly about Russia, but it’s just not the same. William’s almost forgotten the way his mouth turns up, sharp and amused, and the way his eyebrows fly, expressive and free.
“It’s true, Wales is a beautiful country,” William says. “I have only happy memories from my time as Welsh Secretary.”
Bryant’s teeth flash as he smiles. “I think more than just the country is responsible for that.”
“True,” William concedes, feeling the soft smile pull at his mouth, as it always does when he thinks of Ffion.
Bryant’s eyes watch him shrewdly from over the rim of his teacup.
“So,” Bryant says, putting the teacup down and leaning in, earnest and concerned, “does that toilet in the loo on the fourth floor still overflow once a month?”
William is startled into a laugh, a real laugh that wells up from somewhere inside and rings out into the room. “It does,” he manages. “We’ve had a plumber in three times, but it never stays fixed for long.”
Bryant shakes his head sadly, but the mirth in his eyes gives him away. “David Miliband had a suit soaked once. We should have warned him, but well, we didn’t.”
Around them, MPs flow ceaselessly by, talking to each other and fumbling with their iPhones and carrying their lunches. William can still feel the eyes on his back, but they’re farther away, as if they can’t quite touch him. Bryant continues to tell the story of David Miliband, the Foreign Office Toilet, and the Day of Great Wrath, and William listens, a smile on his face, and the Commons pass them by.
No longer is he a wounded animal, sitting alone, the object of critical stares and the subject of whispered gossip. He is the Foreign Secretary, chatting amiably with an opposition MP who clearly thinks he’s going nowhere. He is a middle-aged man, laughing over his tea with a friendly opponent. He is a fighter, and he is not going to be brought down by the putrid slime of rumour.
Bryant finishes his story, and William laughs with him. They sit in companionable silence for a few moments, sipping their tea.
“Thank you,” William says, abruptly, as he begins to gather his papers.
Bryant leans back in his chair, observes him from under arched brows. “I may not agree with you on policy, but I’ll be damned if I let innuendo and sleaze win the day.”
William swallows, throat suddenly scratchy. “You’re a good man.”
“I try to be,” Bryant says; and his fingers trace a shape on the table. “I know something about how ridiculous scandals can be, and how little some of them matter.”
William sees the picture in his mind’s eye, remembers the fortnight when Bryant looked like a sickly ghost, the laughingstock of the political world.
He doesn’t look like a laughingstock now. He looks whole, and rested, and happy.
“If you ever need…” Bryant hesitates. “If you ever need someone to talk to, you have my number.”
“Thank you,” William says, matching Bryant’s undertone.
They leave it there.
~//~
Title: Seen to Be Done
Ship(s): Gen (Chris Bryant/William Hague friendship)
Word Count: 821
Rating: G
Summary: As William Hague weathers the Christopher Myers scandal, he receives support from an unexpected quarter. 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.
Seen to Be Done
“May I join you?”
William is sitting by himself in the Members’ Dining Room, nursing a cup of tea and staring blankly at a report on Afghanistan. In times of scandal, it’s important to show yourself, to demonstrate that you’re not afraid of what may be found. When a politician goes to ground, surrounds himself with loyalists, and refuses to be seen in public, it’s nearly certain that he’s doomed.
William wants to hide. He can feel the eyes of the Dining Room on him, even here in this relatively safe place; even here, where no press are allowed.
The questioner takes William’s silence as assent, and sits down across from him. “I wish the weather wasn’t so dismal. I’d planned on a run this evening, but that rain just looks so discouraging.”
William marshals his courtesy, puts a pleasant half-smile on his face. “Surely a little rain will not discourage such a dedicated runner as yourself.”
Bryant laughs, throwing back his head like William’s told a joke. Eyes turn; William can feel them burning on the back of his head. “Even dedicated runners can be discouraged. Perhaps especially dedicated runners. I’ve run in the Welsh hills – after that, I find the grey skies of London pissing down on me to be singularly unattractive.”
The polite smile on William’s face has turned into a real one, albeit small. He misses the days when Bryant’s sense of humour was directed at him on a regular basis. Unlike Nick Clegg, who has been heard to whinge about ‘that bastard from the Rhondda’, William rather enjoys its wicked edge, and the way it throws up barbed tails. William likes to think he sent back as good as Bryant gave.
Now, of course, William is the Foreign Secretary, and Bryant is in opposition, shadowing political and constitutional reform. Bryant still asks questions in the House, particularly about Russia, but it’s just not the same. William’s almost forgotten the way his mouth turns up, sharp and amused, and the way his eyebrows fly, expressive and free.
“It’s true, Wales is a beautiful country,” William says. “I have only happy memories from my time as Welsh Secretary.”
Bryant’s teeth flash as he smiles. “I think more than just the country is responsible for that.”
“True,” William concedes, feeling the soft smile pull at his mouth, as it always does when he thinks of Ffion.
Bryant’s eyes watch him shrewdly from over the rim of his teacup.
“So,” Bryant says, putting the teacup down and leaning in, earnest and concerned, “does that toilet in the loo on the fourth floor still overflow once a month?”
William is startled into a laugh, a real laugh that wells up from somewhere inside and rings out into the room. “It does,” he manages. “We’ve had a plumber in three times, but it never stays fixed for long.”
Bryant shakes his head sadly, but the mirth in his eyes gives him away. “David Miliband had a suit soaked once. We should have warned him, but well, we didn’t.”
Around them, MPs flow ceaselessly by, talking to each other and fumbling with their iPhones and carrying their lunches. William can still feel the eyes on his back, but they’re farther away, as if they can’t quite touch him. Bryant continues to tell the story of David Miliband, the Foreign Office Toilet, and the Day of Great Wrath, and William listens, a smile on his face, and the Commons pass them by.
No longer is he a wounded animal, sitting alone, the object of critical stares and the subject of whispered gossip. He is the Foreign Secretary, chatting amiably with an opposition MP who clearly thinks he’s going nowhere. He is a middle-aged man, laughing over his tea with a friendly opponent. He is a fighter, and he is not going to be brought down by the putrid slime of rumour.
Bryant finishes his story, and William laughs with him. They sit in companionable silence for a few moments, sipping their tea.
“Thank you,” William says, abruptly, as he begins to gather his papers.
Bryant leans back in his chair, observes him from under arched brows. “I may not agree with you on policy, but I’ll be damned if I let innuendo and sleaze win the day.”
William swallows, throat suddenly scratchy. “You’re a good man.”
“I try to be,” Bryant says; and his fingers trace a shape on the table. “I know something about how ridiculous scandals can be, and how little some of them matter.”
William sees the picture in his mind’s eye, remembers the fortnight when Bryant looked like a sickly ghost, the laughingstock of the political world.
He doesn’t look like a laughingstock now. He looks whole, and rested, and happy.
“If you ever need…” Bryant hesitates. “If you ever need someone to talk to, you have my number.”
“Thank you,” William says, matching Bryant’s undertone.
They leave it there.
~//~