fic: Embrace 1973 (2/3)
George reached out for the the nearest solid object, which was unfortunately a champagne flute. It toppled over the table and crashed onto the deck.
"Lord Mandelson," he said feebly. "Peter," he tried again.
"Are you all right?" Peter asked, concerned. He didn't even know Osborne was coming on-board, though he wasn't surprised. There had been an email that mentioned something about speedboats and small children. The Rothschilds' always had a preternatural sense concerning influence though they never sat in government. Getting one of the shadow cabinet aboard would be just like Nat. Peter had no doubt he must've tried to invite members of the cabinet as well.
"I think I'm going to be ill."
Gordon, at least, would never send one over so ill-prepared if he had deemed it worthwhile.
"Sea-sick?"
George glared. "No, I am- Peter..." he said again and looked so miserable that Peter relented. He could feel the tug in the air and see the tell-tale weave of subtle shifts of colours.
"It's all right. You know what will happen," he soothed, willing the agitations to calm. They were drawing attention. The women conversing a little distance away had glanced quickly and noticeably in their direction; her husband had actually surreptitiously reached out to sense what was happening. Peter easily batted away the intention.
"I was hoping that you might stop it." George was actually trembling.
"Whatever gave you that idea?" Peter asked.
"You are, well, you," George said, crossly. "Please?" And Peter, unfortunately or fortunately, was Peter. Despite the predilections of the people here in general, he wasn't absolutely sure and they certainly shouldn't make a scene. He laid a hand on Osborne's shoulder and hoped that the movement looked casual enough as he closed his eyes briefly, trying to void whatever Osborne was doing.
"What is it?" he asked. The effort required was unexpected.
"Time," George said through gritted teeth. His face paled, the freckles suddenly stark on his skin.
"We have to leave," Peter decided. He steered George to a more secluded part. George opened a door and went in. He leaned his forehead against the wall as Peter tried to ground the other man to this time, this place.
Gradually, the shaking subsided. Peter lifted his hand from George's back and sighed. They were in a cupboard. Well, if George didn't mind-
"Where were you going?" Peter asked curiously.
"Somewhere hot, humid." George looked even more distempered than before. "Smelled like rotten fish. And," George said stiffly, "I didn't want to go."
"You should've had better control by now." Peter chided gently. They might belong to opposite parties, but in Greece, among Russians, the Europeans, and Americans- they were both British.
"It didn't start until I started working in politics. I don't exactly have a chance to practice."
"You don't become a time-traveller overnight," Peter pointed out.
He hadn't seen Felicity Osborne since that fateful afternoon. He wasn't even aware of the name change until George Osborne showed up in parliament, a young MP. A Tory MP whom he remembered mentioned, in passing, as one of Hague's advisors to be tapped for Tatton against Bell. Alastair's lack of prescience was unfortunately combined with a surfeit of ..executive energy. Peter had thought it probable George was Gideon's brother. He had delved a little further: George Gideon did have brothers, three of them, though apparently none of them necessitated their mother to go pleading to a strange university student.
"Well, I did," George replied hotly, then, more quietly. "It's never been this bad before, usually Frances or David would be there."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Or William Hague?" The degree of self-delusion astounded him. If this was how Tories continue to operate, no wonder they were so ineffective.
George nodded. His colour had returned, though now he looked vaguely embarassed, or angry. It was difficult to tell.
"You shouldn't be on this boat then, George. It's filled to the brim with men who has a deeper awareness of these matters. Do you know how dangerous it is for an out of control time-traveller to be in Greece among us? If I can tether you here, they can send you away, on a whim, to a time and destination of their choosing." And how would I answer to myself then? he thought. "I'm not having my efforts of twenty years wasted because of your naiveness."
George blinked, then frowned. "Twenty years?" he echoed.
"Never mind," Peter dismissed, frustrated. Twenty years, some of which he had wandered in the political wilderness, wondering that had he not given up a certain degree of his potential influence and control for Gideon Osborne he might've been stronger to deal with the likes of Gordon, Tony, and even Alastair. New Labour's project had almost spent him. There were times he thought he would never come back.
"That's before New Labour came into power." George looked stunned.
"Clever boy," Peter said, sarcastic, then turned the door handle. If George would like to follow him out immediately after, it was his choice.
-=-=
"You know, I've never met another," George lowered his voice. Rebecca Wade was looking very curious and very excited at the other end of the table. She could be irritatingly persistent and Peter had chosen to sit next to George, after all.
"They do tend to die rather rapidly. It's one of the more hazardous oddities," Peter replied, "as I'm sure you know." George still didn't look like the sort of man who would be prepared to live in a different area in London in the 21st century, never mind sojourns in different epochs.
"There were times where I suspected, during university, but never very far back, just a century or less. I never actually left," George said.
When George was at university, Neil Kinnock was Labour party leader and he was chief assassin- metaphorically speaking -- and possibly reveling too much in what he was discovering about himself.
"George," Peter said patiently, "when I said twenty years, I didn't mean I can do what you do. Even I'm not powerful to bind every time-traveller in Great Britain or even London to this time." He hoped that was enough. This conversation shouldn't be conducted where there were others present.
An incredulous look came over George's face. It was very difficult to reconcile the small child he met once upon a time with the Tory Shadow Chancellor, but right then, the man very much resembled the boy. Peter turned away to speak with someone else.
"I should thank you," George said when he found him again, then, after a pause, slightly awkward: "I owe you a dinner at least."
Peter mentally reviewed his plans. He hadn't counted on seeing George Osborne again, but the day had been a bit awful. Dealing with Russians always tired him- He had expected the holiday. The irony of this dinner may be amusing. He agreed.
The restaurant had the windows partly open. In the night air redolent of wild flowers, the sea, and the delicate smell of lamb, Peter Mandelson told George Osborne about the pact he had made half a lifetimes ago.
He spoke casually. He had not counted on the sudden flush of red that rushed up George's face from the open collar at his neck.
"What I don't understand is why. Why did you agree? You didn't know my family. You said my mother sought you out, but she was a stranger." George, discomforted at the thought of his mother seeking out Peter Mandelson's help, however long ago, was clearly suspicious. Worse, it didn't take a mind reader to know he was cataloging the shape of Peter's face, his nose, his mouth.
"George," Peter said. "You were a three year old boy called Gideon. I was a twenty-year old student. And even, I know I wanted to do some good for the world. Up until then, I had never been able to do anything with my magic, or power but I knew it couldn't change what was most important- what I didn't want to change. And your mother was a persuasive women. She made sure I would see you and even you must've know that you looked like as a child. How could I, faced with that innocence, not offer what seemed to mean so much to her? I'm not heartless."
George still looked slightly disturbed. "Did you know I joined the Conservatives?"
Peter shrugged. "I wasn't keeping track of you. The pact, unbreakable, had been made." He would've been unable to shake free of it the few times he had tried. "We all end up in Westminster one way or another. Anyways, I remembered Gideon, not George."
"I-" George was temporarily lost for words. "Thank you," he settled. It was the first time he said it that night.
"It was easier, afterwards. Apparently spending certain amount of my efforts keeping you living in this timeline meant that I could more readily perceive what I could do. Your mother was right," Peter smiled. "My power did grow. In 1993, our pact ended. You entered the sphere of influence of Hague at Milibank."
"The rise of New Labour."
The memory was bittersweet. John Smith died. Peter had been unprepared for what was about to come, but of course Tony saw him and knew what they could do. "It was as if I awakened."
"My entire life," George said, successfully distracted, "I was unwittingly aiding Labour?"
"The universe is fair," Peter said, amused, and raised his glass. "A toast?"
George's hand, long and elegant, against the crystal in the candle-light, was a flashback to an old dream. Peter suppressed a shudder and lifted the wine to his lips. He had learned to ignored them long time ago. Some logic must be imposed- memories could not exist when what happened in them had never been at all.
"When Gordon said it's not my time yet to deliver the budget then hung up on me, did he know?"
"What?"
"Did he know what you did, to help me?"
"He has his moods," Peter said slowly, "I don't think he knew." Gordon couldn't have known, surely.
"I saw him once, at a Labour conference. He had been scowling. It almost impossible to move around him."
So George did go, after all. Alastair had came back ranting about a spying Tory time-traveler before Tony called him away. Time-travelers almost didn't exist, if not for astute mothers and idealistic young students.
George was asking, rather boldly: "Will you go back with me tonight?"
Peter, still thinking of Gordon and what Charlie Whelan might've told him, fell briefly silent. Despite his misgiving, pieces were falling into place- the details of shadowy sketches were becoming clear. George was easy to read. Intrigued, now he wished to know the history of New Labour. Peter could wait; he had waited twenty years. "Tell me what else Gordon said to you," he said.
-=-=
Next
"Lord Mandelson," he said feebly. "Peter," he tried again.
"Are you all right?" Peter asked, concerned. He didn't even know Osborne was coming on-board, though he wasn't surprised. There had been an email that mentioned something about speedboats and small children. The Rothschilds' always had a preternatural sense concerning influence though they never sat in government. Getting one of the shadow cabinet aboard would be just like Nat. Peter had no doubt he must've tried to invite members of the cabinet as well.
"I think I'm going to be ill."
Gordon, at least, would never send one over so ill-prepared if he had deemed it worthwhile.
"Sea-sick?"
George glared. "No, I am- Peter..." he said again and looked so miserable that Peter relented. He could feel the tug in the air and see the tell-tale weave of subtle shifts of colours.
"It's all right. You know what will happen," he soothed, willing the agitations to calm. They were drawing attention. The women conversing a little distance away had glanced quickly and noticeably in their direction; her husband had actually surreptitiously reached out to sense what was happening. Peter easily batted away the intention.
"I was hoping that you might stop it." George was actually trembling.
"Whatever gave you that idea?" Peter asked.
"You are, well, you," George said, crossly. "Please?" And Peter, unfortunately or fortunately, was Peter. Despite the predilections of the people here in general, he wasn't absolutely sure and they certainly shouldn't make a scene. He laid a hand on Osborne's shoulder and hoped that the movement looked casual enough as he closed his eyes briefly, trying to void whatever Osborne was doing.
"What is it?" he asked. The effort required was unexpected.
"Time," George said through gritted teeth. His face paled, the freckles suddenly stark on his skin.
"We have to leave," Peter decided. He steered George to a more secluded part. George opened a door and went in. He leaned his forehead against the wall as Peter tried to ground the other man to this time, this place.
Gradually, the shaking subsided. Peter lifted his hand from George's back and sighed. They were in a cupboard. Well, if George didn't mind-
"Where were you going?" Peter asked curiously.
"Somewhere hot, humid." George looked even more distempered than before. "Smelled like rotten fish. And," George said stiffly, "I didn't want to go."
"You should've had better control by now." Peter chided gently. They might belong to opposite parties, but in Greece, among Russians, the Europeans, and Americans- they were both British.
"It didn't start until I started working in politics. I don't exactly have a chance to practice."
"You don't become a time-traveller overnight," Peter pointed out.
He hadn't seen Felicity Osborne since that fateful afternoon. He wasn't even aware of the name change until George Osborne showed up in parliament, a young MP. A Tory MP whom he remembered mentioned, in passing, as one of Hague's advisors to be tapped for Tatton against Bell. Alastair's lack of prescience was unfortunately combined with a surfeit of ..executive energy. Peter had thought it probable George was Gideon's brother. He had delved a little further: George Gideon did have brothers, three of them, though apparently none of them necessitated their mother to go pleading to a strange university student.
"Well, I did," George replied hotly, then, more quietly. "It's never been this bad before, usually Frances or David would be there."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Or William Hague?" The degree of self-delusion astounded him. If this was how Tories continue to operate, no wonder they were so ineffective.
George nodded. His colour had returned, though now he looked vaguely embarassed, or angry. It was difficult to tell.
"You shouldn't be on this boat then, George. It's filled to the brim with men who has a deeper awareness of these matters. Do you know how dangerous it is for an out of control time-traveller to be in Greece among us? If I can tether you here, they can send you away, on a whim, to a time and destination of their choosing." And how would I answer to myself then? he thought. "I'm not having my efforts of twenty years wasted because of your naiveness."
George blinked, then frowned. "Twenty years?" he echoed.
"Never mind," Peter dismissed, frustrated. Twenty years, some of which he had wandered in the political wilderness, wondering that had he not given up a certain degree of his potential influence and control for Gideon Osborne he might've been stronger to deal with the likes of Gordon, Tony, and even Alastair. New Labour's project had almost spent him. There were times he thought he would never come back.
"That's before New Labour came into power." George looked stunned.
"Clever boy," Peter said, sarcastic, then turned the door handle. If George would like to follow him out immediately after, it was his choice.
-=-=
"You know, I've never met another," George lowered his voice. Rebecca Wade was looking very curious and very excited at the other end of the table. She could be irritatingly persistent and Peter had chosen to sit next to George, after all.
"They do tend to die rather rapidly. It's one of the more hazardous oddities," Peter replied, "as I'm sure you know." George still didn't look like the sort of man who would be prepared to live in a different area in London in the 21st century, never mind sojourns in different epochs.
"There were times where I suspected, during university, but never very far back, just a century or less. I never actually left," George said.
When George was at university, Neil Kinnock was Labour party leader and he was chief assassin- metaphorically speaking -- and possibly reveling too much in what he was discovering about himself.
"George," Peter said patiently, "when I said twenty years, I didn't mean I can do what you do. Even I'm not powerful to bind every time-traveller in Great Britain or even London to this time." He hoped that was enough. This conversation shouldn't be conducted where there were others present.
An incredulous look came over George's face. It was very difficult to reconcile the small child he met once upon a time with the Tory Shadow Chancellor, but right then, the man very much resembled the boy. Peter turned away to speak with someone else.
"I should thank you," George said when he found him again, then, after a pause, slightly awkward: "I owe you a dinner at least."
Peter mentally reviewed his plans. He hadn't counted on seeing George Osborne again, but the day had been a bit awful. Dealing with Russians always tired him- He had expected the holiday. The irony of this dinner may be amusing. He agreed.
The restaurant had the windows partly open. In the night air redolent of wild flowers, the sea, and the delicate smell of lamb, Peter Mandelson told George Osborne about the pact he had made half a lifetimes ago.
He spoke casually. He had not counted on the sudden flush of red that rushed up George's face from the open collar at his neck.
"What I don't understand is why. Why did you agree? You didn't know my family. You said my mother sought you out, but she was a stranger." George, discomforted at the thought of his mother seeking out Peter Mandelson's help, however long ago, was clearly suspicious. Worse, it didn't take a mind reader to know he was cataloging the shape of Peter's face, his nose, his mouth.
"George," Peter said. "You were a three year old boy called Gideon. I was a twenty-year old student. And even, I know I wanted to do some good for the world. Up until then, I had never been able to do anything with my magic, or power but I knew it couldn't change what was most important- what I didn't want to change. And your mother was a persuasive women. She made sure I would see you and even you must've know that you looked like as a child. How could I, faced with that innocence, not offer what seemed to mean so much to her? I'm not heartless."
George still looked slightly disturbed. "Did you know I joined the Conservatives?"
Peter shrugged. "I wasn't keeping track of you. The pact, unbreakable, had been made." He would've been unable to shake free of it the few times he had tried. "We all end up in Westminster one way or another. Anyways, I remembered Gideon, not George."
"I-" George was temporarily lost for words. "Thank you," he settled. It was the first time he said it that night.
"It was easier, afterwards. Apparently spending certain amount of my efforts keeping you living in this timeline meant that I could more readily perceive what I could do. Your mother was right," Peter smiled. "My power did grow. In 1993, our pact ended. You entered the sphere of influence of Hague at Milibank."
"The rise of New Labour."
The memory was bittersweet. John Smith died. Peter had been unprepared for what was about to come, but of course Tony saw him and knew what they could do. "It was as if I awakened."
"My entire life," George said, successfully distracted, "I was unwittingly aiding Labour?"
"The universe is fair," Peter said, amused, and raised his glass. "A toast?"
George's hand, long and elegant, against the crystal in the candle-light, was a flashback to an old dream. Peter suppressed a shudder and lifted the wine to his lips. He had learned to ignored them long time ago. Some logic must be imposed- memories could not exist when what happened in them had never been at all.
"When Gordon said it's not my time yet to deliver the budget then hung up on me, did he know?"
"What?"
"Did he know what you did, to help me?"
"He has his moods," Peter said slowly, "I don't think he knew." Gordon couldn't have known, surely.
"I saw him once, at a Labour conference. He had been scowling. It almost impossible to move around him."
So George did go, after all. Alastair had came back ranting about a spying Tory time-traveler before Tony called him away. Time-travelers almost didn't exist, if not for astute mothers and idealistic young students.
George was asking, rather boldly: "Will you go back with me tonight?"
Peter, still thinking of Gordon and what Charlie Whelan might've told him, fell briefly silent. Despite his misgiving, pieces were falling into place- the details of shadowy sketches were becoming clear. George was easy to read. Intrigued, now he wished to know the history of New Labour. Peter could wait; he had waited twenty years. "Tell me what else Gordon said to you," he said.
-=-=
Next