fic: The Man Who Isn't There (3/5)
“Is that an accurate long term projection?”
“The boy, George-”
“Who?” Gordon’s head turned.
“The Shadow Chancellor,” Peter clarified, but Gordon’s brow remained knitted. His coterie of advisers, all strikingly sharp-eyed, were thankfully more intent on the report in front of them than the slow look their leader gave Peter.
“What about him?” he asked.
“He’s young, inexperienced, never really did anything. He wouldn't be able to explain."
Gordon merely nodded, dismissive. The media might found him suspiciously inscrutable, but it was only because Gordon was frustratingly decent among rather indecent people. Worse for Peter that he was also a decent politician enough that he could be purposefully blind. He struck his own deals for his own people, that was all.
But this time, Gordon actually asked, privately: “Are you all right? You seem...distracted.” and Peter belatedly remembered that he was one of the people now and Gordon was not actually blind. Too late. He shook off the heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Better than all right," he answered smoothly. "I've a plan for your image."
He flung the term into the media until “Boy George” turned into an epithet. It allowed some distance and reminded him that he was a different generation. Unfortunately, with that thought was the hopeful corollary that George knew nothing about his past and had expected nothing from Peter except what he was willing to offer. And surely, he was wiser this time at least in regard to his own limits.
Almost disappointly, George had not come back despite his parting words. His retorts in Parliament continued, but they were the same Tories, for all their fresh faces and, in more recent memory, fresh tears.
Peter played the scene in his mind when evaluating each PMQ, unable to suppress the shiver that passed his through his body. It wasn’t pleasurable, not really, but there a curiously mingling of something that he actually didn’t have the words for. Yet it lingered, nevertheless, a new haunting in his realm of darkness.
-=-=
"Peter Mandelson-"
Peter hadn't noticed that George called him neither "Peter" nor "Lord Mandelson" even when prompted by the interviewer until he found himself searching through footage of the New Conservatives, watching carefully for any cracks under Cameron's leadership, how he kept the party in line. Hints of internal dispute could be useful fodder even if Labour was still in government. And then, there was the eventual election to consider-
With a sigh, Peter turned off the telly. His office at White Hall was mere steps from the Prime Minister’s Office. When an aide showed George Osborne in, he was prepared for the work of politics.
"I hope you don't take our professional associations personally," Peter said after they finished with the business. George had made no movement to leave and Peter, he could admit to himself, didn't want him to go. "The media can be unruly, as we both know."
"Of course not," George said, to his credit, "though you are supposing that they should be ruled. All is fair." He didn't finish the quotation but continued, "I didn't even know what I did or if it was indeed me." He smirked, "No wonder the government in shambles if this is how you operate: no transparency, no-"
“You wanted to know what makes New Labour tick,” Peter said, irritated. “To discipline your own Opposition perhaps." The thought was laughable. "The united Tory front can't be an easy presentation when your own backbenchers would almost say the opposite. But what a policy for the New Conservatives, Tony would’ve wished he thought of that one- sending his ministers off as espionage agents to pry...”
“If I remember correctly,” George smiled, probably deliberately mischievous, “you were the one doing the prying.”
"You being so accommodating," Peter commented coldly.
"I can be better," George said. "I have kept silent. No one else knows."
"And how long can you keep the silence?" Peter asked silkily. George hadn't disagreed with his conclusions, therefore this secrecy must be about himself. He would spare the boy from his curiosity. "Do you think about it at Milibank? Or at home? Do you like the mark, hoping for more of it? Have they all faded? Do you touch them?"
There was a sharp intake of breath. Unexpectedly, "I can show you..." George's hands moved to his tie.
"Don't be silly, there are CCTV cameras all over the place now," Peter snapped, "and civil servants are notorious gossips. No, keep your hands on the table, George."
Once upon a time, there had been no cameras. The images of how swiftly George's hands changed directions would not be recorded for the future. "Once upon a time," Peter said, almost wistful, "you would be able to take off your tie and show me and I would be able to stand up from behind the desk to where you are sitting now and touch them." He paused, "I seem to remember a particular vivid mark that's now hidden beneath your very well tailored trousers."
"There are several..." George murmured quietly, sounding strangled. So he had been looking, Peter thought, amused.
"And I would ask to see them as well and you would let me to unbuckle your belt, open your trousers. I would even ask you to bend over the desk over here where the light is better and I can see them. You would, wouldn't you?"
George nodded, eyes gone entirely dark. A blush was suffusing his face. His hands had moved from lying still on top of the folders to the edge of the desk.
"No strange movements," Peter warned. "We can't have anyone else see."
And even if they did see, they must know to ignore it, but that wasn't relevant to the current set of circumstances. Peter was quite determined this time that no one else would know. He would have this for himself.
George responded by grabbing the edge of the desk, breathing harsh in the sudden silence.
"I like looking at you," Peter resumed, "but you know that already, you shameless boy, coming in here knowing that I wouldn't be able to kick you out as easily even if I had wanted to. Would you really strip for me, here, if I asked? For the sake of your party or for your own curiosity? Wondering, perhaps, just what is it about me? Would you, if there were no cameras, part your legs let me study the marks indetail or would you rather that I take you against the desk, without preparation? It will hurt." He spared a moment to compose himself.
"Yes," George said, his grips white knuckled on the table where the smooth swell and grooves of the moldings could leave patterned bruises. Perhaps he would tell him that next time. "Yes to everything."
Peter, affected, stood and came around to perch on the side of his desk, a little distance away where the other man was sitting. He dropped a hankerchief into his lap. George looked up at him, confused, aroused, and possibly angry.
"I've forgotten to tell you, George, that I know where every one of those cameras is. So you see, though I can't touch you. You can, in fact, touch yourself."
Then he watched, a little dazed, as George unzipped his trousers and set his hands on himself. On his wrist, a faint purplish circle, almost gone, barely visible behind his cuffs came rhythmically into view. Peter stared at it, mesmerized, tantalized, the thrill of possession running hotly through him.
There had been no cameras, but they were never sure if the rooms were bugged and gags could bruise and abrade his face. Peter remained silent as he watched, desperately hard, all deliberations thrown out of the window. He couldn't speak even as George made small frustrated noises, his movements constrained by the knowledge that others may be watching, that they might be found out.
Afterwards, he looked up at Peter, his lips very red and his mouth a little open. Asking, maybe, for more.
"You know where I live," Peter said finally, feeling somewhat hysterical. It must be this office. He had kept his hands on his knees all this time. His nails had bitten crescent shapes into his palms. They were still stinging slightly, the pain already fading. "We can finish there."
-=-=
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