Openness and Transparency - Pt.1
Title: Openness & Transparency
Verse: Lolitics
Genre: Drama, crack, romance, slash
Pairings: Mandelborne, Clameron, hints of BurnBalls
Characters: Full cast!
Rating: NC-17 (it isn't, but I'm being cautious)
Warnings: RPS
Summary: Distraught after Labour lose the election, The Dark Lord Mandy loses confidence in himself and finds himself feeling powerless and invisible. This is the story of what happens when his powers short-circuit and he wakes up to find himself actually invisible.
Disclaimer: This piece presents real life people as fictional characters; no harm is meant and no aspersions cast.
With an exhausted sigh, George heaves his briefcase down onto the table and collapses into a chair, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to stop the tired blur that’s obscuring his vision. The plan for the rest of the night was a romantic meal for two, pasta, candlelight, and then wherever the evening naturally led - presumably to bed. Now it comes round to it, though, he wants to skip most of the evening and skip straight to the bed part, although for something far less raunchy than he had originally planned.
“My dear boy!” cries Peter, sashaying into the kitchen and peering at George over his spectacles, “You look positively ruined! Another hard day on the political highways and byways?”
George just groans in answer, dropping his head down onto his arms on the table in front of him. Peter strokes at his hair briefly, admiring the way it lies, coal black, upon his pale white skin. Almost translucent, he thinks, like mother-of-pearl. Or snow.
“There, there,” he mutters, gliding over to the worktop and uncorking the remains of last night’s bottle of red, “Politics is serious business! It’s only to be expected in the first days of any government, particularly one as confused and self-loathing as this particular… ahem, chimera.”
George raises his head slightly to glare at him, accepting the large glass of wine that Peter slides across the table at him.
“Actually the two parties are much closer than many would-”
“Oh, spare me the party line, darling,” Peter interrupts dryly, rolling his eyes and sipping haughtily at his own glass.
“-and in matters such as social-”
“You know I’ve heard it all before.”
“-well I think you’ll find that what David really wants-”
“Is to get into his new Deputy’s pants, I suspect. Which, presumably, are yellow. Unless they’ve had a nice pair of his n’ hers made up…. matching coalition stripes…”
George blushes a little and pushes the very vivid image this suddenly conjures up to the back of his head, promising himself that he’ll revisit it later. Tomorrow, perhaps, whilst he’s listening to Jack Straw ramble on ad infinitum.
“I assure you there is nothing going on between David and… that man”, he tells Peter forcefully, “Just because you happen to be involved in a secret tryst with another man, and one of a different party nonetheless, there’s no reason to suspect the same of the entire cabinet!”
“Aha! That’s not what they were saying on Loose Women this morning!” says Peter, gleefully, jabbing his finger at George as though this settles the point.
George frowns, not entirely sure what Peter is talking about, “I was given to believe that you didn’t have much interest in women, loose or otherwise?”
“Oh my dear boy no”, says Peter, chuckling, “It’s a television programme! Very popular amongst the proletariat, you see. They had that glorious Russell T Davies on today, you know, the Doctor Who man, talking about possibly making some sort of mockumentary-drama about the coalition government-”
“Oh, Christ,” George mutters to himself, heaving himself out of his chair and making a beeline towards the bottle of wine. He is not sure he can spend one more evening listening to Peter’s accounts of the day’s television.
“-very keen on getting Russell Tovey involved-”
George leans against the worktop, massaging his temples. This is the last thing he needs after a long day at the treasury, trying to clean up the enormous mess that the country is in with a team still reeling from the loss of David Laws. He wonders whether they’d miss him so much, if he stood down. He suspects not; David just had a certain warmth about him, a manner of talking affectionately to even the lowliest aides that made him popular in a way he suspects he will never be.
“-some emphasis on honourable members which the audience thought was very-”
Peter is still waffling on behind him about ridiculous trivialities, and there are so many things more important happening in the world, like Laws losing his job, for Gods sake, and suddenly something in George snaps and he rounds on him, slamming his hands down on the table.
“CAN YOU JUST. SHUT UP. FOR ONE SECOND.”
The force of his hands on the table has dislodged Peter’s glass of wine and for a moment it teeters on the edge of the table, time seeming to slow down as everything hangs in the balance. They both follow the glass with their eyes, Peter looking utterly stricken.
George feels immediately sorry for his outburst, tracing the shock and pain on Peter’s face, normally so smooth and impassive. The last few weeks have been hard on him, he knows; day mooching about the house, ostensibly writing his memoirs but in reality sliding further and further into a sort of helplessly passivity. The Prince of Darkness, reduced to endless episodes of Jeremy Kyle, rolling news and a little light dusting every now and again. George knows that Peter is stuck in the house all day, feeling trapped, looking forward to him arriving home so that he can glean just a little of the goings-on in Downing Street that he’s so used to knowing every single in and out of. Not only that, but Peter’s so down in the dumps that his powers are waning; he can’t even seem to perform a simple hair-tinting spell nowadays, and as a result his hair is streaked through with grey.
Time is still standing still. It suddenly seems absolutely essential to George that he does not let that glass fall, still teetering, teetering, over the edge of the table. Something terrible, he is sure, will happen if he lets it drop; something final. In a sudden panic he flings his hand out to catch it, wincing as his fingers rake helplessly at the empty air.
There is a horrible crash as the glass hits the floor and shatters.
There is a shocked pause as both men stare silently at the mess of glass of wine covering the kitchen floor. George rakes his hand through his hair nervously, very aware that Peter is refusing to meet his eyes.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he begins, “It’s just... it’s been a long day, I just need to-”
"-of course, no, I should have known, I do remember what it’s like-”
“Yes, but that’s no excuse to- oh look, but where’s the dustpan and brush, I’ve got to...”
Once upon a time, not too many weeks ago, Peter would give as good as he got: he’d never stand for George raising his voice to him, would push him roughly against a wall if ever he did and then mutter under his breath the unspeakable things that he was going to do to him, his voice as smooth in his ear as his silk dressing gown was against his skin. Then he’d show him what for - usually in the bedroom, repeatedly. Then again, thought George wryly, also in the living room, on the kitchen table and in any empty board room they could manage to sneak away into...
But ever since Labour fell out of favour and lost the election, since this bizarre coalition that George finds himself in the middle of, Peter has been different. He seems lost, and powerless, without any minions at his beck and call - other than George, and now even George is so busy he’s barely had time for him. He is very aware that he’s hardly seen his lover in the last four weeks.
George spots the dustpan in a corner and grabs it, wanting desperately to fix the mess he’s made; and not only the one on the floor.
“Oh no no Gideon, child, don’t worry about it, it’s quite alright, I can mend it. A simple spell should suffice”.
George stands back and watches with concern. They haven’t spoken about it, and he knows Peter has been trying to conceal it, but it’s quite obvious that he’s been having trouble lately with his magicks. Frankly, George suspects that even the other Peter, Arch-Mage BONE, is more reliable these days. He had even debated approaching him to help him with the deficit last week, though had thought better of it. Often the price for BONE magick is too high; word down in The Other Place was that he would do things that could addle your mind and turn your hair white, and had, in the case of poor Boris.
Peter is gathering his magicks to him and glowing slightly, his eyes darkening. Once George would have laughed at the idea of the Prince of Darkness using his powers to mend a cup, but he’s quite used to it these days; ever since that first time, years ago now, that he walked in on Peter and Tony giggling together and trying to place a curse on Gordon’s eye so that it fell out in the middle of PMQ’s.
But that was then, and this is now, and though Peter is still glowing, the light is dim and he only succeeds in pushing a couple of the pieces of glass around the floor. The red wine turns a slightly brownish, congealed colour, liked dried blood.
“I must be tired”, says Peter, staring forlornly at the floor. He speaks in an oddly small, restrained voice that George finds worrying.
“It doesn’t matter”, says George, holding out his hands and pulling Peter to his feet, “It’s just a glass, that’s all it is”.
“It’s not just that, though, is it? I had so much power before. All kinds of power. Political, magickal, sexual-”
George laughs softly, “One out of three ain’t bad”.
“-Now I can’t even mend a bloody glass. A simple spell, that even that idiot Bercow could manage!”
Peter says the last in a snarl. George actually really likes the Wizard Bercow, but lets it slide. He can tell Peter is getting into good ranting stride, and it’ll do him good to get it all out of his system.
“I was feared, you know? By everyone! Everybody! Yes, you too, my dear boy, though you may look at me askance now. You only came to me in the first place because you feared me, and people are fascinated by that which they are made afraid.”
“Well, perhaps. But also I liked your little glasses”, George interjects.
“Also you liked my little glasses. But mostly, Gideon, you were afraid! Everyone in the city knew my name! Nay, the country! And now-”
Here Peter pauses dramatically, something which he is very good at.
“Now I might as well be INVISIBLE.”
“Who said that?!” George jokes, mock-glancing from side to side. Peter shoots him a withering glare, at which George doubles over in giggles.
“Very droll, George. Truly it is a shame the press don’t realise you have such a sense of humour. What a scoop”.
George calms himself and grabs at Peter’s hand, holding it tightly up against his chest.
“You just need to find something to do with your days, stop all this moping and staring at Bargain Hunt. It’s enough to get anyone down.”
“I am most offended, dear boy”, Peter protested, “I certainly do not watch Bargain Hunt. I cannot stand that dreadful orange man”.
George ignored him, “And all of this thinking people have forgotten you and aren’t frightened of you anymore - well, that’s just nonsense. You scare me silly. And, really - who could ever forget Mandy?”
“I have told you before never to refer to me like that”, snapped Peter suddenly, pulling his hands out of George’s. George just grinned up at him, glad to see that he hadn’t lost all his bite.
“Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself”, he said, waggling his finger in Peter’s face.
“I never know what you are babbling about, Gideon. Come now, we have had enough drama and broken glass for one night. Let us to bed.”
* * *
The early morning sun wakes George, who is lying spread-eagled across the bed with his legs tangled up in the covers. He smiles into his pillow remembering the night before, when Peter had given him a fucking that would frankly go down in history, whether or not Peter himself did. He frowns slightly at that thought, remembering Peter’s distress over the subject, and turns over sleepily in order to press kisses onto his lover’s shoulder.
Peter isn’t there.
Scowling, George sits up and runs his hand through his ruffled hair. It isn’t unusual for Peter to go for an early morning walk, of course, but he’s been rather planning on some snuggles this morning. Still, it was probably all for the best; he has an important meeting at the treasury in just over an hour and a half, and the thing about snuggles is that they so often became... slightly more than snuggles. He certainly doesn’t want to rush into work late, rumpled and sweating and smelling of sex. He doesn’t think he could bear to have Danny Alexander quirk his eyebrow at him again, not after the last time.
Pushing his alarm clock to the “off” switch before it starts beeping, George rolls off the bed and wanders down the hallway to the shower.
* * *
The early morning sun wakes Peter, who is lying spread-eagled across the bed with his legs tangled up in the covers. He smiles into his pillow remembering the night before, when he had given George a fucking that would frankly go down in history, whether or not he himself did. He frowns slightly at that thought, still distressed about that particular subject. He hates this feeling of not mattering, not being important; of people looking straight through him when he walked down the street. Still, he thinks, at least he had George; one person to whom he mattered. He turns over sleepily in order to press kisses onto his lover’s shoulder.
George isn’t there.
Peter frowns, then catches the sound of the shower room door at the end of the hall. Of course; George has an early morning meeting at the treasury. The bedroom door opens and George wanders back in, half dressed but with his damp hair still sticking up in ridiculous tufts. Peter grins and then pretends to be asleep, half-hoping that George will attempt to wake him up in some slightly “creative” way.
He doesn’t, though, and it isn’t long before Peter hears the door open and close once more as George leaves. Opening his eyes, slightly disappointed, he notices the note that George has left on the bedside table and leans over to grab at it. There’s something slightly odd about the motion that Peter can’t put his finger on, but he’s never his best in the mornings, especially after red wine, and he dismisses it.
MANDY
NOT SURE WHERE U WERE THIS MORNING - ASSUME OUT ON ONE OF YOUR JAUNTS. SHAME, AS WAS HOPING FOR {{{HUGS}}} ;)
HAD TO DASH, COUNTRY IN DIRE FINANCIAL STRAITS & APPARENTLY SOMETHING TO DO WITH ME.
GIDS XXX
PS. BIG BROTHER STARTING LATER IF YOU GET FED UP OF BARGAIN HUNT. LAST ONE EVER - SOMETHING TO DO WITH NICK’S ANTI-CCTV FREEDOM BILL? LMAO
Peter winces affectionately at George's childish scrawl and general idiocy, but there’s something a little odd about the note too. He stares at for a while, feeling like Arthur Dent trying to connect the word “yellow” with the enormous digger outside his house.
After what feels like an eternity, he finally works out that the problem is with the first line of the note.
In fact, he’s so busy puzzling over that, that it’s a further ten minutes until he realises that said note is hanging in mid-air in front of him, with only thin air where he’s sure his arm is.
"Ah."
Peter is absolutely mortified. He’s heard of this happening before of course, but normally only to amateurs who don’t have full control of their powers. It’s given as a cautionary tale to those who press forwards with the magicks, going too far too soon and not fully understanding what they’re doing. His own particular nightmare fuel comes from that infamous young MP back in the sixties who one day declared himself “all fingers and thumbs” and woke up to find himself just that. He shudders just to think of it.
But to happen to him… he must be more off-kilter and emotional than even he’d suspected, to let his magick run awry like this. He supposes the powers that he’d gathered into himself last night, to try and mend the broken glass, had pooled overnight and then short-circuited… and he’d been feeling so invisible lately, had even said as much to George yesterday. How could he have been so stupid, so infantile?!
And he knows, as surely as he knows anything, that he doesn’t have enough control over his dwindling powers to even attempt reversing the spell. No; for that he’s going to need help, and there are only two people he can think of who could give it. To even stand a chance of getting turned visible again, he’s going to have to swallow his pride.
Peter sits on the edge of the bed, feeling helpless tears welling up in his eyes. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s admitting his weaknesses, and after an evening of doing just that in front of George he’s already feeling drained and embarrassed. No; perhaps he just shouldn’t bother, should let himself remain like this, drifting on the wind from place to place until he simply evaporates. No one would know any different.
He isn’t sure how long he sits there, the chorus of birds outside dying away and the sun rising higher in the sky. He rubs at where he supposes his face must be, his cheeks rough and stained with tears. After a while, his gaze falls on the note that is lying discarded on top of the bed covers.
George would know different.
He picks himself up, resolve suddenly stiffened, and decides to make his way over to Downing Street and ask the boy’s advice. If he needs to cravenly beg the Arch-Mage BONE for his help, or even that idiot Bercow, then so be it. Yes. Everything is going to be fine. He is Peter Mandelson, and he will make it so.
Just as Peter decides this, an interesting idea steals across his mind. A very interesting idea indeed. He grins wickedly, wondering if perhaps this whole invisibility-lark isn’t going to be such a terrible thing. And after all, even if he can’t get turned back - everyone knows that you never see a Prince of Darkness in the light.
Flinging open the wardrobe, he pulls on a shirt and glances casually at the mirror, then stops in horror. Though he himself is invisible, the shirt isn’t, and it looks like it’s just hanging in mid-air. For a few moments he entertains himself by waving his arms around and making vague oogly-boogly noises, then he hangs the shirt back on its hanger. He supposes getting properly dressed is out of the question, then, and for a moment is very glad that he fell asleep in t-shirt and pants, both of which seem to have become invisible with him.
He certainly doesn’t want to go tramping around the streets and public transport in no shoes, though, and finally decides on phoning one of his most trusted drivers; Marty, an amateur warlock and dabbler in truth spells, who taxis politicians around and then sells his stories to the Mail on Sunday. Whilst Peter doesn’t approve of his methods, he always managed to keep the worst of the stories on his colleagues out of the papers whilst picking up some extra tidbits on his rivals. Not to mention, Marty’s one of the best in the business when it comes to The Knowledge and can get him anywhere in half the time of most drivers.
After a brief explanation on the phone, everything is arranged with Marty, and Peter settles down to wait, suddenly quite optimistic about the way his day is going. The sun is shining, London is buzzing and the whole of Westminster is his for the taking.
There is a short period of time during which the television apparently flicks itself between This Morning and The Jeremy Kyle Show, and then a discreet grey car pulls up outside the house, beeping just once. The front door opens and closes, the car door does the same, and then the car pulls off silently. Peter is on his way back to Downing Street once more.
* * *
Marty shifts in his seat, and glances at the empty seat beside him.
“Goin’ ter give ‘em a good hauntin’ then, guv?”
The patch of air smiles, though Marty is not quite sure how he can tell.
“You could say that, yes”, comes the reply from an invisible mouth, “In fact, I think we might refer to this as a bit of a… sequel”.
“’Ow’s that then?” asks Marty, narrowly avoiding a cyclist.
“Ah, my dear boy”, the disembodied voices continues, “The Dark Lord Returns”.
Part 2
Verse: Lolitics
Genre: Drama, crack, romance, slash
Pairings: Mandelborne, Clameron, hints of BurnBalls
Characters: Full cast!
Rating: NC-17 (it isn't, but I'm being cautious)
Warnings: RPS
Summary: Distraught after Labour lose the election, The Dark Lord Mandy loses confidence in himself and finds himself feeling powerless and invisible. This is the story of what happens when his powers short-circuit and he wakes up to find himself actually invisible.
Disclaimer: This piece presents real life people as fictional characters; no harm is meant and no aspersions cast.
With an exhausted sigh, George heaves his briefcase down onto the table and collapses into a chair, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to stop the tired blur that’s obscuring his vision. The plan for the rest of the night was a romantic meal for two, pasta, candlelight, and then wherever the evening naturally led - presumably to bed. Now it comes round to it, though, he wants to skip most of the evening and skip straight to the bed part, although for something far less raunchy than he had originally planned.
“My dear boy!” cries Peter, sashaying into the kitchen and peering at George over his spectacles, “You look positively ruined! Another hard day on the political highways and byways?”
George just groans in answer, dropping his head down onto his arms on the table in front of him. Peter strokes at his hair briefly, admiring the way it lies, coal black, upon his pale white skin. Almost translucent, he thinks, like mother-of-pearl. Or snow.
“There, there,” he mutters, gliding over to the worktop and uncorking the remains of last night’s bottle of red, “Politics is serious business! It’s only to be expected in the first days of any government, particularly one as confused and self-loathing as this particular… ahem, chimera.”
George raises his head slightly to glare at him, accepting the large glass of wine that Peter slides across the table at him.
“Actually the two parties are much closer than many would-”
“Oh, spare me the party line, darling,” Peter interrupts dryly, rolling his eyes and sipping haughtily at his own glass.
“-and in matters such as social-”
“You know I’ve heard it all before.”
“-well I think you’ll find that what David really wants-”
“Is to get into his new Deputy’s pants, I suspect. Which, presumably, are yellow. Unless they’ve had a nice pair of his n’ hers made up…. matching coalition stripes…”
George blushes a little and pushes the very vivid image this suddenly conjures up to the back of his head, promising himself that he’ll revisit it later. Tomorrow, perhaps, whilst he’s listening to Jack Straw ramble on ad infinitum.
“I assure you there is nothing going on between David and… that man”, he tells Peter forcefully, “Just because you happen to be involved in a secret tryst with another man, and one of a different party nonetheless, there’s no reason to suspect the same of the entire cabinet!”
“Aha! That’s not what they were saying on Loose Women this morning!” says Peter, gleefully, jabbing his finger at George as though this settles the point.
George frowns, not entirely sure what Peter is talking about, “I was given to believe that you didn’t have much interest in women, loose or otherwise?”
“Oh my dear boy no”, says Peter, chuckling, “It’s a television programme! Very popular amongst the proletariat, you see. They had that glorious Russell T Davies on today, you know, the Doctor Who man, talking about possibly making some sort of mockumentary-drama about the coalition government-”
“Oh, Christ,” George mutters to himself, heaving himself out of his chair and making a beeline towards the bottle of wine. He is not sure he can spend one more evening listening to Peter’s accounts of the day’s television.
“-very keen on getting Russell Tovey involved-”
George leans against the worktop, massaging his temples. This is the last thing he needs after a long day at the treasury, trying to clean up the enormous mess that the country is in with a team still reeling from the loss of David Laws. He wonders whether they’d miss him so much, if he stood down. He suspects not; David just had a certain warmth about him, a manner of talking affectionately to even the lowliest aides that made him popular in a way he suspects he will never be.
“-some emphasis on honourable members which the audience thought was very-”
Peter is still waffling on behind him about ridiculous trivialities, and there are so many things more important happening in the world, like Laws losing his job, for Gods sake, and suddenly something in George snaps and he rounds on him, slamming his hands down on the table.
“CAN YOU JUST. SHUT UP. FOR ONE SECOND.”
The force of his hands on the table has dislodged Peter’s glass of wine and for a moment it teeters on the edge of the table, time seeming to slow down as everything hangs in the balance. They both follow the glass with their eyes, Peter looking utterly stricken.
George feels immediately sorry for his outburst, tracing the shock and pain on Peter’s face, normally so smooth and impassive. The last few weeks have been hard on him, he knows; day mooching about the house, ostensibly writing his memoirs but in reality sliding further and further into a sort of helplessly passivity. The Prince of Darkness, reduced to endless episodes of Jeremy Kyle, rolling news and a little light dusting every now and again. George knows that Peter is stuck in the house all day, feeling trapped, looking forward to him arriving home so that he can glean just a little of the goings-on in Downing Street that he’s so used to knowing every single in and out of. Not only that, but Peter’s so down in the dumps that his powers are waning; he can’t even seem to perform a simple hair-tinting spell nowadays, and as a result his hair is streaked through with grey.
Time is still standing still. It suddenly seems absolutely essential to George that he does not let that glass fall, still teetering, teetering, over the edge of the table. Something terrible, he is sure, will happen if he lets it drop; something final. In a sudden panic he flings his hand out to catch it, wincing as his fingers rake helplessly at the empty air.
There is a horrible crash as the glass hits the floor and shatters.
There is a shocked pause as both men stare silently at the mess of glass of wine covering the kitchen floor. George rakes his hand through his hair nervously, very aware that Peter is refusing to meet his eyes.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he begins, “It’s just... it’s been a long day, I just need to-”
"-of course, no, I should have known, I do remember what it’s like-”
“Yes, but that’s no excuse to- oh look, but where’s the dustpan and brush, I’ve got to...”
Once upon a time, not too many weeks ago, Peter would give as good as he got: he’d never stand for George raising his voice to him, would push him roughly against a wall if ever he did and then mutter under his breath the unspeakable things that he was going to do to him, his voice as smooth in his ear as his silk dressing gown was against his skin. Then he’d show him what for - usually in the bedroom, repeatedly. Then again, thought George wryly, also in the living room, on the kitchen table and in any empty board room they could manage to sneak away into...
But ever since Labour fell out of favour and lost the election, since this bizarre coalition that George finds himself in the middle of, Peter has been different. He seems lost, and powerless, without any minions at his beck and call - other than George, and now even George is so busy he’s barely had time for him. He is very aware that he’s hardly seen his lover in the last four weeks.
George spots the dustpan in a corner and grabs it, wanting desperately to fix the mess he’s made; and not only the one on the floor.
“Oh no no Gideon, child, don’t worry about it, it’s quite alright, I can mend it. A simple spell should suffice”.
George stands back and watches with concern. They haven’t spoken about it, and he knows Peter has been trying to conceal it, but it’s quite obvious that he’s been having trouble lately with his magicks. Frankly, George suspects that even the other Peter, Arch-Mage BONE, is more reliable these days. He had even debated approaching him to help him with the deficit last week, though had thought better of it. Often the price for BONE magick is too high; word down in The Other Place was that he would do things that could addle your mind and turn your hair white, and had, in the case of poor Boris.
Peter is gathering his magicks to him and glowing slightly, his eyes darkening. Once George would have laughed at the idea of the Prince of Darkness using his powers to mend a cup, but he’s quite used to it these days; ever since that first time, years ago now, that he walked in on Peter and Tony giggling together and trying to place a curse on Gordon’s eye so that it fell out in the middle of PMQ’s.
But that was then, and this is now, and though Peter is still glowing, the light is dim and he only succeeds in pushing a couple of the pieces of glass around the floor. The red wine turns a slightly brownish, congealed colour, liked dried blood.
“I must be tired”, says Peter, staring forlornly at the floor. He speaks in an oddly small, restrained voice that George finds worrying.
“It doesn’t matter”, says George, holding out his hands and pulling Peter to his feet, “It’s just a glass, that’s all it is”.
“It’s not just that, though, is it? I had so much power before. All kinds of power. Political, magickal, sexual-”
George laughs softly, “One out of three ain’t bad”.
“-Now I can’t even mend a bloody glass. A simple spell, that even that idiot Bercow could manage!”
Peter says the last in a snarl. George actually really likes the Wizard Bercow, but lets it slide. He can tell Peter is getting into good ranting stride, and it’ll do him good to get it all out of his system.
“I was feared, you know? By everyone! Everybody! Yes, you too, my dear boy, though you may look at me askance now. You only came to me in the first place because you feared me, and people are fascinated by that which they are made afraid.”
“Well, perhaps. But also I liked your little glasses”, George interjects.
“Also you liked my little glasses. But mostly, Gideon, you were afraid! Everyone in the city knew my name! Nay, the country! And now-”
Here Peter pauses dramatically, something which he is very good at.
“Now I might as well be INVISIBLE.”
“Who said that?!” George jokes, mock-glancing from side to side. Peter shoots him a withering glare, at which George doubles over in giggles.
“Very droll, George. Truly it is a shame the press don’t realise you have such a sense of humour. What a scoop”.
George calms himself and grabs at Peter’s hand, holding it tightly up against his chest.
“You just need to find something to do with your days, stop all this moping and staring at Bargain Hunt. It’s enough to get anyone down.”
“I am most offended, dear boy”, Peter protested, “I certainly do not watch Bargain Hunt. I cannot stand that dreadful orange man”.
George ignored him, “And all of this thinking people have forgotten you and aren’t frightened of you anymore - well, that’s just nonsense. You scare me silly. And, really - who could ever forget Mandy?”
“I have told you before never to refer to me like that”, snapped Peter suddenly, pulling his hands out of George’s. George just grinned up at him, glad to see that he hadn’t lost all his bite.
“Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself”, he said, waggling his finger in Peter’s face.
“I never know what you are babbling about, Gideon. Come now, we have had enough drama and broken glass for one night. Let us to bed.”
* * *
The early morning sun wakes George, who is lying spread-eagled across the bed with his legs tangled up in the covers. He smiles into his pillow remembering the night before, when Peter had given him a fucking that would frankly go down in history, whether or not Peter himself did. He frowns slightly at that thought, remembering Peter’s distress over the subject, and turns over sleepily in order to press kisses onto his lover’s shoulder.
Peter isn’t there.
Scowling, George sits up and runs his hand through his ruffled hair. It isn’t unusual for Peter to go for an early morning walk, of course, but he’s been rather planning on some snuggles this morning. Still, it was probably all for the best; he has an important meeting at the treasury in just over an hour and a half, and the thing about snuggles is that they so often became... slightly more than snuggles. He certainly doesn’t want to rush into work late, rumpled and sweating and smelling of sex. He doesn’t think he could bear to have Danny Alexander quirk his eyebrow at him again, not after the last time.
Pushing his alarm clock to the “off” switch before it starts beeping, George rolls off the bed and wanders down the hallway to the shower.
* * *
The early morning sun wakes Peter, who is lying spread-eagled across the bed with his legs tangled up in the covers. He smiles into his pillow remembering the night before, when he had given George a fucking that would frankly go down in history, whether or not he himself did. He frowns slightly at that thought, still distressed about that particular subject. He hates this feeling of not mattering, not being important; of people looking straight through him when he walked down the street. Still, he thinks, at least he had George; one person to whom he mattered. He turns over sleepily in order to press kisses onto his lover’s shoulder.
George isn’t there.
Peter frowns, then catches the sound of the shower room door at the end of the hall. Of course; George has an early morning meeting at the treasury. The bedroom door opens and George wanders back in, half dressed but with his damp hair still sticking up in ridiculous tufts. Peter grins and then pretends to be asleep, half-hoping that George will attempt to wake him up in some slightly “creative” way.
He doesn’t, though, and it isn’t long before Peter hears the door open and close once more as George leaves. Opening his eyes, slightly disappointed, he notices the note that George has left on the bedside table and leans over to grab at it. There’s something slightly odd about the motion that Peter can’t put his finger on, but he’s never his best in the mornings, especially after red wine, and he dismisses it.
MANDY
NOT SURE WHERE U WERE THIS MORNING - ASSUME OUT ON ONE OF YOUR JAUNTS. SHAME, AS WAS HOPING FOR {{{HUGS}}} ;)
HAD TO DASH, COUNTRY IN DIRE FINANCIAL STRAITS & APPARENTLY SOMETHING TO DO WITH ME.
GIDS XXX
PS. BIG BROTHER STARTING LATER IF YOU GET FED UP OF BARGAIN HUNT. LAST ONE EVER - SOMETHING TO DO WITH NICK’S ANTI-CCTV FREEDOM BILL? LMAO
Peter winces affectionately at George's childish scrawl and general idiocy, but there’s something a little odd about the note too. He stares at for a while, feeling like Arthur Dent trying to connect the word “yellow” with the enormous digger outside his house.
After what feels like an eternity, he finally works out that the problem is with the first line of the note.
In fact, he’s so busy puzzling over that, that it’s a further ten minutes until he realises that said note is hanging in mid-air in front of him, with only thin air where he’s sure his arm is.
"Ah."
Peter is absolutely mortified. He’s heard of this happening before of course, but normally only to amateurs who don’t have full control of their powers. It’s given as a cautionary tale to those who press forwards with the magicks, going too far too soon and not fully understanding what they’re doing. His own particular nightmare fuel comes from that infamous young MP back in the sixties who one day declared himself “all fingers and thumbs” and woke up to find himself just that. He shudders just to think of it.
But to happen to him… he must be more off-kilter and emotional than even he’d suspected, to let his magick run awry like this. He supposes the powers that he’d gathered into himself last night, to try and mend the broken glass, had pooled overnight and then short-circuited… and he’d been feeling so invisible lately, had even said as much to George yesterday. How could he have been so stupid, so infantile?!
And he knows, as surely as he knows anything, that he doesn’t have enough control over his dwindling powers to even attempt reversing the spell. No; for that he’s going to need help, and there are only two people he can think of who could give it. To even stand a chance of getting turned visible again, he’s going to have to swallow his pride.
Peter sits on the edge of the bed, feeling helpless tears welling up in his eyes. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s admitting his weaknesses, and after an evening of doing just that in front of George he’s already feeling drained and embarrassed. No; perhaps he just shouldn’t bother, should let himself remain like this, drifting on the wind from place to place until he simply evaporates. No one would know any different.
He isn’t sure how long he sits there, the chorus of birds outside dying away and the sun rising higher in the sky. He rubs at where he supposes his face must be, his cheeks rough and stained with tears. After a while, his gaze falls on the note that is lying discarded on top of the bed covers.
George would know different.
He picks himself up, resolve suddenly stiffened, and decides to make his way over to Downing Street and ask the boy’s advice. If he needs to cravenly beg the Arch-Mage BONE for his help, or even that idiot Bercow, then so be it. Yes. Everything is going to be fine. He is Peter Mandelson, and he will make it so.
Just as Peter decides this, an interesting idea steals across his mind. A very interesting idea indeed. He grins wickedly, wondering if perhaps this whole invisibility-lark isn’t going to be such a terrible thing. And after all, even if he can’t get turned back - everyone knows that you never see a Prince of Darkness in the light.
Flinging open the wardrobe, he pulls on a shirt and glances casually at the mirror, then stops in horror. Though he himself is invisible, the shirt isn’t, and it looks like it’s just hanging in mid-air. For a few moments he entertains himself by waving his arms around and making vague oogly-boogly noises, then he hangs the shirt back on its hanger. He supposes getting properly dressed is out of the question, then, and for a moment is very glad that he fell asleep in t-shirt and pants, both of which seem to have become invisible with him.
He certainly doesn’t want to go tramping around the streets and public transport in no shoes, though, and finally decides on phoning one of his most trusted drivers; Marty, an amateur warlock and dabbler in truth spells, who taxis politicians around and then sells his stories to the Mail on Sunday. Whilst Peter doesn’t approve of his methods, he always managed to keep the worst of the stories on his colleagues out of the papers whilst picking up some extra tidbits on his rivals. Not to mention, Marty’s one of the best in the business when it comes to The Knowledge and can get him anywhere in half the time of most drivers.
After a brief explanation on the phone, everything is arranged with Marty, and Peter settles down to wait, suddenly quite optimistic about the way his day is going. The sun is shining, London is buzzing and the whole of Westminster is his for the taking.
There is a short period of time during which the television apparently flicks itself between This Morning and The Jeremy Kyle Show, and then a discreet grey car pulls up outside the house, beeping just once. The front door opens and closes, the car door does the same, and then the car pulls off silently. Peter is on his way back to Downing Street once more.
* * *
Marty shifts in his seat, and glances at the empty seat beside him.
“Goin’ ter give ‘em a good hauntin’ then, guv?”
The patch of air smiles, though Marty is not quite sure how he can tell.
“You could say that, yes”, comes the reply from an invisible mouth, “In fact, I think we might refer to this as a bit of a… sequel”.
“’Ow’s that then?” asks Marty, narrowly avoiding a cyclist.
“Ah, my dear boy”, the disembodied voices continues, “The Dark Lord Returns”.
Part 2