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FIC: Sunshine and Clouds
A belated posting of a fic I wrote on Saturday.
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: Sunshine and Clouds
Ship(s): David Cameron/Nick Clegg
Word Count: 1,296
Rating: G
Summary: The Queen thinks about the present and the future, politicians and power. For this prompt 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.
Sunshine and Clouds
On days like today, she can feel every one of her 85 years.
She sits by the window and looks out over the gardens; a small figure, so unfashionable that she may be approaching fashionable. Her household knows to be discreet on days such as this one, and she sits alone for some time, unhindered and undisturbed.
This year has been the best of years. It has seen William and Catherine married, and it has seen that wedding restore not only the glamour of the monarchy, but a little of its dignity and future as well. She has no illusions about her eldest son – a deeply uncharismatic do-gooder, whose eye for out-of-favour charity projects is only matched by his neurotic worries about his popularity. He will be King after her, and she wishes him well; but he will not be a King to remember. That will be left to William, dear balding William, who wears his shy dignity with ease, and who has a popular, beloved wife at his side.
She doesn’t know, sometimes, if the monarchy will make it through Charles’s reign. He is happier than he used to be, with Camilla at his side at last, but still awkward and unpopular; still always prone to doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. If he is to preside over the end of the monarchy, at least it will be poetically just – the first Republic inaugurated with the beheading of a King Charles, the second Republic inaugurated with the symbolic beheading of another King Charles.
But she thinks – and she hopes it isn’t just an old woman’s fond doting on a much-loved grandson – that the crown will come in the end to William, and to his Catherine. He will be a good King. He reminds her of her father at times, with his quiet acceptance of his role; and in these days of being a figurehead, he will need all of that quiet acceptance and more.
For in today’s kingdom, power is vested in the man who will come to see her this afternoon, and in his government. David Cameron is her twelfth Prime Minister; each one different, each one human and fallible, determined and exhausted. She has seen the nerves and the deference, the shadows in the eyes and the long tired slumps of the necks, the fierce joy of the victorious and the quiet glumness of defeat. And each – in their best, and in their worst – has had more real power in their little finger than she has had in her entire Royal body.
This year has been the best of years – and it has also been the worst of years. The problems her current Prime Minister faces are complex and multifaceted. Many are endemic; others have no good solution. He is trying, and his government is trying, but she can trace the lines on his face, as they grow week after week.
This week the euro is cratering, and across Europe people scream and protest and run about, trying to effect change. The cheerful news of the week is that Gadaffi has been killed; but she cannot bring herself to feel very proud of an extrajudicial execution, or see that it makes much difference. Today’s headlines will fade, but the underlying problems with the economy will continue. There are protesters camped outside St Paul’s. There are petitions and marches demanding that her kingdom leave Europe. There are traders who laugh and profit off a recession that kills old women with cold and starves children.
Her Prime Minister will come, and he will look tired, as he always does these days. He will mask it, shrugging on the professional charm, but she has not lived for 85 years without learning to unmask those around her.
He will tell her about the world and its problems, the government and its plans, as she drinks her tea and listens. Perhaps they will take a walk in the garden, if it isn’t quite as cold as it looks. His report will not quite be perfunctory, because they have a history, she and he; but they also both know that she has no real power. Not these days, and not in this world.
Without power, there is only advice. Advice, she can give. Even as a new queen, so long ago, a young woman shaking with the weight of her crown, she had given advice to Winston Churchill. Perhaps it had not been very good advice; but the old man had listened gravely, and made her feel valued. She has no power, but she has a connection with her kingdom that no one else can fully understand, and she has the responsibility to do everything she can to keep that kingdom safe.
Her Prime Minister will listen in his turn, and he will smile, and promise to consider. She will note the new lines around his eyes, and the exhausted edge to his smile.
At the end of their appointment, she will smile at him and turn the discussion from the political to the personal. She will ask after Samantha, after his children. (His face will light up, the lines fading, the exhaustion banished for a moment.) And then she will ask after Nick, his lover and his helpmeet, his Deputy and right-hand-man. (His face will soften, his eyes turn modestly down, the smile gently pulling at his mouth.)
She does not know the details of their arrangement, beyond that both of their marriages remain strong. She has seen Sam smile at Nick and slip her hand into his, in a corner of William’s wedding reception; she has seen the way Nick looks at David, in moments when he doesn’t know anyone is watching him.
More than a year ago, she sat in her favourite chair during a meeting very like the one she will have this afternoon, and she encouraged her Prime Minister to make his feelings for his Deputy known. She told him the story of her own lover, lost in the aftermath of the World War, and the joy they shared. She pressed him to make decisions based on hope, not on fear; on love, not on duty.
She considers it perhaps the best advice she has ever given. Could he have survived this year, without Nick by his side? Perhaps. But could he have survived, confronted every day by what might have been, doomed to smother his love and yet continue to work side-by-side with the man he loved? Or would the relationship have broken down, becoming more and more bitter, with cutting words flung by both sides, as love turned to something more twisted?
She has seen a similar process, and all too recently. She does not want to see it again.
Her kingdom is difficult to manage, and its problems are deep and intractable. She has seen its servants burn and fall, spending their lives upon its care. If they must burn, let them burn and rise – let them strive after the impossible – let them link their hands and pursue their dreams, together. They may never reach the horizon, and they may never solve the problems; but if the lines in her Prime Minister’s face are a little less pronounced, and if the workings of her Deputy Prime Minister’s brain are a bit more incisive, then their love affair has been well worth it.
The clouds have come out, and the sunshine is gone, yet still she sits by the window, watching the day go by. She does not have many days left, she thinks; in moments of weakness, she wonders about the future. But today she will not think about the future, but about the present: about the look between two people in love, and the dreams that they share.
~//~
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: Sunshine and Clouds
Ship(s): David Cameron/Nick Clegg
Word Count: 1,296
Rating: G
Summary: The Queen thinks about the present and the future, politicians and power. For this prompt 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.
Sunshine and Clouds
On days like today, she can feel every one of her 85 years.
She sits by the window and looks out over the gardens; a small figure, so unfashionable that she may be approaching fashionable. Her household knows to be discreet on days such as this one, and she sits alone for some time, unhindered and undisturbed.
This year has been the best of years. It has seen William and Catherine married, and it has seen that wedding restore not only the glamour of the monarchy, but a little of its dignity and future as well. She has no illusions about her eldest son – a deeply uncharismatic do-gooder, whose eye for out-of-favour charity projects is only matched by his neurotic worries about his popularity. He will be King after her, and she wishes him well; but he will not be a King to remember. That will be left to William, dear balding William, who wears his shy dignity with ease, and who has a popular, beloved wife at his side.
She doesn’t know, sometimes, if the monarchy will make it through Charles’s reign. He is happier than he used to be, with Camilla at his side at last, but still awkward and unpopular; still always prone to doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. If he is to preside over the end of the monarchy, at least it will be poetically just – the first Republic inaugurated with the beheading of a King Charles, the second Republic inaugurated with the symbolic beheading of another King Charles.
But she thinks – and she hopes it isn’t just an old woman’s fond doting on a much-loved grandson – that the crown will come in the end to William, and to his Catherine. He will be a good King. He reminds her of her father at times, with his quiet acceptance of his role; and in these days of being a figurehead, he will need all of that quiet acceptance and more.
For in today’s kingdom, power is vested in the man who will come to see her this afternoon, and in his government. David Cameron is her twelfth Prime Minister; each one different, each one human and fallible, determined and exhausted. She has seen the nerves and the deference, the shadows in the eyes and the long tired slumps of the necks, the fierce joy of the victorious and the quiet glumness of defeat. And each – in their best, and in their worst – has had more real power in their little finger than she has had in her entire Royal body.
This year has been the best of years – and it has also been the worst of years. The problems her current Prime Minister faces are complex and multifaceted. Many are endemic; others have no good solution. He is trying, and his government is trying, but she can trace the lines on his face, as they grow week after week.
This week the euro is cratering, and across Europe people scream and protest and run about, trying to effect change. The cheerful news of the week is that Gadaffi has been killed; but she cannot bring herself to feel very proud of an extrajudicial execution, or see that it makes much difference. Today’s headlines will fade, but the underlying problems with the economy will continue. There are protesters camped outside St Paul’s. There are petitions and marches demanding that her kingdom leave Europe. There are traders who laugh and profit off a recession that kills old women with cold and starves children.
Her Prime Minister will come, and he will look tired, as he always does these days. He will mask it, shrugging on the professional charm, but she has not lived for 85 years without learning to unmask those around her.
He will tell her about the world and its problems, the government and its plans, as she drinks her tea and listens. Perhaps they will take a walk in the garden, if it isn’t quite as cold as it looks. His report will not quite be perfunctory, because they have a history, she and he; but they also both know that she has no real power. Not these days, and not in this world.
Without power, there is only advice. Advice, she can give. Even as a new queen, so long ago, a young woman shaking with the weight of her crown, she had given advice to Winston Churchill. Perhaps it had not been very good advice; but the old man had listened gravely, and made her feel valued. She has no power, but she has a connection with her kingdom that no one else can fully understand, and she has the responsibility to do everything she can to keep that kingdom safe.
Her Prime Minister will listen in his turn, and he will smile, and promise to consider. She will note the new lines around his eyes, and the exhausted edge to his smile.
At the end of their appointment, she will smile at him and turn the discussion from the political to the personal. She will ask after Samantha, after his children. (His face will light up, the lines fading, the exhaustion banished for a moment.) And then she will ask after Nick, his lover and his helpmeet, his Deputy and right-hand-man. (His face will soften, his eyes turn modestly down, the smile gently pulling at his mouth.)
She does not know the details of their arrangement, beyond that both of their marriages remain strong. She has seen Sam smile at Nick and slip her hand into his, in a corner of William’s wedding reception; she has seen the way Nick looks at David, in moments when he doesn’t know anyone is watching him.
More than a year ago, she sat in her favourite chair during a meeting very like the one she will have this afternoon, and she encouraged her Prime Minister to make his feelings for his Deputy known. She told him the story of her own lover, lost in the aftermath of the World War, and the joy they shared. She pressed him to make decisions based on hope, not on fear; on love, not on duty.
She considers it perhaps the best advice she has ever given. Could he have survived this year, without Nick by his side? Perhaps. But could he have survived, confronted every day by what might have been, doomed to smother his love and yet continue to work side-by-side with the man he loved? Or would the relationship have broken down, becoming more and more bitter, with cutting words flung by both sides, as love turned to something more twisted?
She has seen a similar process, and all too recently. She does not want to see it again.
Her kingdom is difficult to manage, and its problems are deep and intractable. She has seen its servants burn and fall, spending their lives upon its care. If they must burn, let them burn and rise – let them strive after the impossible – let them link their hands and pursue their dreams, together. They may never reach the horizon, and they may never solve the problems; but if the lines in her Prime Minister’s face are a little less pronounced, and if the workings of her Deputy Prime Minister’s brain are a bit more incisive, then their love affair has been well worth it.
The clouds have come out, and the sunshine is gone, yet still she sits by the window, watching the day go by. She does not have many days left, she thinks; in moments of weakness, she wonders about the future. But today she will not think about the future, but about the present: about the look between two people in love, and the dreams that they share.
~//~