Lizzy's Adventures

Collections, Volume Three - Of Wax & Of Robots

2015-07-16T08:53:23Z

In the greater scheme of things, and in general in the world, magic and mysticism are considered to be things that only occur in fiction. The notion that there really are fairies and elves and wizards is something to be enjoyed in the flickering light of a cinema or when flipping through the pages of a book.

It would probably surprise and frighten the general population to learn that, sometimes, the things they imagine in their heads actually exist; it would certainly astonish everyone to learn that, when the doors are closed of an evening and the lights dimmed, the wax models in Madame Tussauds spring to life, and are somehow magically endowed with the personality of the people they resemble.

There is one visitor, however, who is neither made of wax, nor human, but to explain in detail one must let imagination take flight, for it ventures into the realms of impossibility, as that visitor, with his sharp suit and yellow tie, is the robotic version of one Nicholas Clegg.

How the perfect replica of the Deputy Prime Minister came to know the wax models were more than they seemed is something of a mystery; perhaps it was simply a deduction of his superior mental powers - infinitely greater than those of his human likeness - or perhaps it was that he had been drawn to the place when the human Nick had told him, in no uncertain terms, that despite the memory transfer and the accompanying feelings they bestowed in his mind, the real David was off-limits.

Whichever of those was true - and it really does not matter - the Nick-bot managed to find a way past the formidable security of an evening - a task he found ineffably easy given his calculating and computeristic nature - so he could visit wax-David. It brought a certain amount of joy to his otherwise boring existence, and despite wax-David's continued declarations that he did not have to come calling, Nick-bot kept doing so.

This was one such night.

‘You really don't have to keep sneaking in here,’ said the wax figure that resembled David Cameron. He was speaking, as he did every night, to the robotic version of Nick Clegg.

‘Someone has to keep you company,’ the Nick-bot shrugged, ‘and protect you from Tony.’

‘I have company; Boris is here, and besides, Tony is too busy trying to impress Obama to bother me much these days.’

‘Nice to know I am welcome,’ the Nick-bot snapped, his computer chips processing something like anger.

‘You are welcome,’ wax-David replied, his moulded features attempting something like remorse but failing utterly. ‘It's just risky, you coming here. What if someone finds out?’

Gentling, the Nick-bot said, ‘They haven't so far. Lets face it, David, the security here is a shambles compared to me.’

There was that, wax-David conceded in what he supposed was his mind, although quite how he had one was a difficult concept to grasp. Nick-bot had been visiting now for six months, and had never once been caught. In truth, wax-David looked forward to Nick-bot's appearance of an evening, though he could not say why. Wax-David reached for Nick-bot's hand, grasping it tightly in his own. ‘I never said I wanted you to stop visiting.’

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Nick-bot leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to wax-David's never changing lips, and wax-David pulled away, startled at this turn of events, but realised in the dim recess of what could presumably be called his brain, he liked the sensation - was it really that? - of Nick-bot's mouth against his own.

Unable to portray this thought, given the restricting nature of his appearance, wax-David kissed Nick-bot again, realising he had a tongue and he could use it, but fearing his heated state would melt him to a puddle.

Nick-bot pulled wax-David into his lap and both set to kissing hungrily, their carefully designed tongues touching, leaving wax-David wondering just when it was he had developed a nervous system for sensation to course through.

The desire to touch Nick-bot overwhelmed wax-David, and he set his hands to the task of stripping clothes, pushing the crisp jacket from Nick-bot's shoulders and unbuttoning his shirt. Yes, he certainly wanted this, the feel of Nick-bot's bare skin under his hands. Perhaps his own memories of the real David influenced him more than he had thought.

Their desperate kissing and roving of hands was halted as they reached the removal of trousers.

Well, this was rather fucking awkward... Neither wax-David nor Nick-bot had the anatomy needed to continue the encounter, and wax-David pulled away from their literally breathless kiss.

‘I'm not...’ wax-David confessed.

‘No, me either,’ Nick-bot agreed.

They ceased kissing, Nick-bot slipping away from wax-David's hold.

‘Fuck, it's not fair,’ Nick-bot grumbled.

‘It's never fair, Nick,’ wax-David said.

Nick-bot shook his head. ‘I think when I next stand in for Clegg, I will ask for more lifelike qualities in wax models.’

Wax-David agreed, pulling Nick-bot to him again. Even if it could go no further, he wanted Nick-bot's mouth against his own.

Collections, Volume Three - Of Wizards & Wax & Robots

2015-07-16T08:51:06Z

There had been jibes at first from the others - except for Boris, who had declared the whole thing “bloody marvellous” and returned to making bumbling attempts to woo Kate Moss - at their fledgling (and impossible) romance, but soon enough the snickers and knowing looks had died down and things carried on much as they had in the preceding six months.

But as it turned out, Nick-bot's superior breaking and entering skills were not as formidable as he had hoped. Well, the reality of it was it wasn't the act of gaining illicit admission to Madame Tussauds that had led to what they now faced, but rather that he and wax-David had become a little careless in paying attention to the security guard as he patrolled the building, and who could blame them for that; kissing was a much more enjoyable pursuit than anxiously watching for anyone who might discover them.

The unfortunate guard who had stumbled across them had stood in dumbstruck silence, mouth opening and closing akin to that of a fish, and Nick-bot shot away from wax-David so quickly he very nearly detached a limb, making wax-David yelp in pain and wonder why it hurt when he was composed entirely of wax; it did not seem fair. Although, pondering the matter a little further before the guard stopped impersonating a statue, wax-David decided it was a trade-off he was willing to live with, given the ability to feel any sensation was better than having none at all.

Nick-bot was biting down on his perfectly formed bottom lip, casting nervous looks at wax-David. Yes, wax-David agreed with the unspoken sentiment, they were well and truly fucked, and not in the way - or indeed by the person - that either of them had hoped.

Briskly, the guard (who later turned out to be named Malcolm, a fact that has nothing to do with the story) ordered wax-David to resume his usual place in the museum, and then he hauled Nick-bot away by the arm, muttering darkly that “people will hear about this”. Wax-David watched on with anguish, catching a last fleeting grip of Nick-bot's hand, before he returned to stand behind the plaque that bore the name of his likeness.

An hour later, Nick-bot found himself standing before the groggy, and absolutely furious, human version of himself.

‘What,’ Nick demanded, ‘the fuck were you doing?’

Nick-bot held his head up; he would not apologise for going to see the man - well, wax model - he loved, and this was all Nick's fault for having those kinds of feelings for the real David in the first place.

‘Did you fry a circuit or something? You didn't really think-’ Nick was cut short as David (the real one) shoved his way roughly into the dimly lit office, looking as though he had literally dragged himself through about fourteen hedges in his haste to arrive. If Nick-bot were capable of seeing things, he imagined he would have seen twigs in the man's hair - his fluffy, ruffled, wickedly askew and fucking gorgeous hair.

‘Stop looking at him like that!’ Nick shouted angrily, and Nick-bot became aware he was staring at the real David with what could only be called an adoring expression. It wasn't fair, he thought, not only could he not have the real David, they would stop him seeing wax-David too. It was not fair and nothing short of cruel. He pouted miserably as his shoulders sank.

‘I just got the message,’ David said. ‘Have they really been-’

‘Apparently, they have been seeing each other for months,’ Nick muttered quietly, running an hand across the back of his neck.

‘Oh,’ David exclaimed, looking at Nick in surprise. ‘That's a little- I mean, we can deal with this quietly, can't we?’

‘The guard won't talk. They'll tighten up security, and so will we. Can't have him running all over London.’ Nick gestured toward Nick-bot as he spoke.

Staring angrily at his human counterpart, Nick-bot growled, ‘It's not fair! You can't keep us apart!’

Backing away a step, David's face curled into abject confusion. ‘He's very animated for a machine,’ he commented to Nick. ‘Are you sure his programme is not defective?’

The response that rose to Nick-bot's lips was cut just short of escaping into the room as a knock sounded at the door. It opened to reveal an equally miserable wax-David accompanied by a sleepy John Bercow. Nick-bot shot across the room before anyone could stop him, sweeping wax-David away from the shorter man and standing in front of him, as if to protect wax-David from a host of match-wielding assassins.

‘John, why did you bring him here?’ Nick sighed wearily, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Stepping away from the facsimiles as though he did not even see them, John walked over to where the human pair were standing. ‘It seemed preferable to leaving him at the museum. Boris was staging a sit-in protest in the middle of the historical figures section and had the others making banners denouncing the heinous crime of preventing true love. His words, not mine, of course. He even convinced Einstein to get in on the act.’

With an exasperated noise, Nick looked up at John; he squeaked as he caught sight of the events unfolding beyond where the Speaker was standing. Nick-bot was pressing wax-David into a convenient bookcase and kissing him thoroughly senseless (by the look of it), and Nick blinked, unable to do more than emit another pathetic squeak as the he noticed wax-David's arms were coiled tightly around Nick-bot's waist. Obviously they couldn't do more than kiss each other, Nick knew that, but what struck him hardest at that particular moment was how evident it was they really, really, wanted to.

Noticing Nick's shocked expression, John turned around and rolled his eyes. He walked over to the pair and grabbed Nick-bot by the shoulder, pulling him roughly away from wax-David; wax-David moaned in protest, and John said, ‘Enough of that you two. Sit down.’

With an indignant look, Nick-bot grabbed hold of wax-David's hand and pulled him across the room to sit in two chairs that were next to each other. Once there, they sat in silence, but did not let go of each other's hands.

‘You see,’ John said as he walked back across the room, ‘we have a real problem here. There is no way we can keep them apart.’

David, staring at the non-human versions of himself and Nick, spoke for the first time since John had entered the room. ‘What are we supposed to do then?’ he asked.

‘There are only two options,’ John declared. ‘Either the robot goes to live at Madame Tussauds...’

‘Not possible,’ Nick interjected, still eyeing the pair across the room, noticing their attention had once again flagged and they were leaning close against each other, wax-David running his hand up and down Nick-bot's arm tenderly. It was bizarre to watch himself, even in machine form, being treated in such a way by someone who looked like David. Whatever feelings the Nick-bot had gained from the memory transfer - and Nick knew there were some - they were nothing like what was being displayed in front of him. Could it be they were actually...? Nick shook his head.

‘So what's the other option,’ David asked, seemingly as distracted as Nick himself by the scene across the room, where Nick-bot was now smiling and whispering in wax-David's ear.

‘That they both become human,’ John stated.

‘Human?’ chimed Nick-bot and wax-David from where they were sat, apparently paying attention to the conversation more than anyone realised.

‘Could we really?’ Nick-bot asked, an eager expression on his face, one wax-David would have matched if it were possible.

‘I would need a few days to prepare, but yes it is possible.’

‘Do you really think that's the best idea, John?’ Nick asked, looking at the Speaker dubiously.

‘It is the only option we have, unless you can think of something better,’ John replied. Nick had to admit he could not, and it did not seem right to separate them now he had seen how they were with each other. Nick felt a sudden, unexpected pang of jealousy, but he squashed it down quickly; David and he had decided, after all, there would never be anything more than a professional relationship between them, but still... Nick wondered if their relationship would have grown as much as the other pair if they had given it a chance, and looking at David, he thought the other man was considering the very same thing. It was too late now, of course, those feelings had inevitably faded over the course of the past six months, and now they were practically non-existent.

‘Now, I think they should stay here until the time time is right. I'll have Madame Tussauds make up a cover story for why the David model is not on display. In the mean time,’ John turned to the facsimiles sat on the chairs, ‘you two have to behave yourselves. Understand?’

Both nodded enthusiastically, Nick-bot beaming and wax-David attempting to do the same but, as usual, failing to produce anything more than a gruesome replica of a smile. David (the real one) wondered what on earth the Nick-bot found attractive about his wax counterpart, but did not speculate too deeply. If it meant he could get a few more hours of precious sleep, he would have agreed to anything.

Four Days Later

Nick-bot and wax-David stood nervously in the middle of the office as John clanked various bottles, mixing and stirring for a period of time that seemed endless before he finally turned and held out two vials in their direction. The real Nick and David had decided not to be present for the actual event (a fact that made everyone relieved, given the confusion over names) and so it was just the three of them. Glancing at each other with nervous expectation, Nick-bot leaned forward and pressed a kiss to wax-David's lips, and they embraced each other quickly.

Then they drank, and both slept.

When he woke, the first thing Nick-bot noticed was that his hands were warm. It was a peculiar sensation and he did nothing for several seconds but run one hand over the other and explore the newness of it. Then, remembering wax-David, he turned his head to look around. Wax-David was no longer made of wax, but that was not what made Nick-bot (it would take some time for him to drop the bot part of his name, and the wax part of David's) gasp in surprise; wax-David did not look like the real David - except he did, but about twenty years younger. Running a hand over his now-human face, Nick-bot found he too was not in his forties, but closer to his early twenties, at a rough guess.

Reaching out a hand, Nick-bot shook wax-David awake gently, smiling down at him in delight. ‘We're human, David. We really are!’ he exclaimed happily.

‘Quite right too,’ commented John from where he was sitting, watching the pair wake from their potion-induced slumber. Wax-David sat up and turned to Nick-bot, and then he smiled, a real smile, a wide, ever-so-happy smile, one he would not have been capable of only an hour previous.

‘Thank you,’ wax-David beamed at the Speaker as he took Nick-bot's hand in his own. John nodded once, reaching to the table and taking up an envelope.

‘Your identity documents,’ John said as he passed the envelope to Nick-bot. ‘You have different surnames, but your first names are the same. We've taken the liberty of getting you a flat in Brighton, although you can always move if you like. There are train tickets in there too, and some cash the, well, the other Nick and David donated to help you get started.’

Both men grinned at each other happily.

‘There is one condition to this you should know,’ John continued.

‘Anything,’ Nick-bot and wax-David chimed in unison.

‘You have to stay out of politics.’

That, the young men agreed, would not be a problem.

Epilogue

“ In what has been described as possibly the most bizarre event ever to take place, Madame Tussauds revealed today that the wax replica of Prime Minister David Cameron has gone missing. The model, which was commissioned in 2010, disappeared in the early hours of the morning five days ago, but until today Madame Tussauds had insisted the model was undergoing some repair work. In spite of an extensive investigation the location of the model remains a mystery. In a statement given earlier today, the Prime Minister said...”

Nick (the former bot) turned off the television and pulled (the former wax) David from his position on the sofa amidst a stream of complaints from the other that he had been watching that. They had arrived at their flat in Brighton, small but perfectly suitable for a twenty-something couple, that afternoon, and after walking along the pier and having dinner - a novelty considering they never needed to eat before - they had settled down together to watch the news, hardly expecting to see one of them as a headline piece. Now, however, Nick had other plans.

‘Come on,’ Nick said, hoisting David to his feet. ‘I'm taking you to bed.’

David stopped protesting immediately.

Now there was an idea that was better than watching anything on television.

Collections, Volume Three - Minister of Homoerotic Fiction

2015-07-16T08:48:58Z

David Cameron paced backward and forward in his office a few times, and then stopped again to read the headline that screamed at him from the front page of the Daily Mail.

TORY MP WRITES SLASH FICTION

Below was a picture of Peter Bone, Conservative MP for Wellingborough, with a look on his face David was sure would give him nightmares for weeks.

He paced across the room again, his feet landing heavily on the carpet.

Peter Bone?

PETER BONE!

I’m sure the media will have a field day with that surname, he thought wryly, rubbing his forehead with his hand and noticing he was decidedly sweaty. He reached into his pocket and fished out his handkerchief.

There was a soft knock at the door and David stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket before striding over and gripping the doorknob.

Nick Clegg stood in the corridor outside David’s office clutching a copy of The Guardian, its cover bearing a similarly startling picture of Peter Bone.

MINISTER OF HOMOEROTIC FICTION ran the slightly more muted headline.

Nick practically stamped his way into the office and slammed the newspaper on David’s desk. ‘Did you know about this?’ he demanded angrily.

‘No, Nick, I didn’t know,’ David replied, hanging is head and desperately wishing he was somewhere else, anywhere else.

‘No?’ Nick questioned.

‘NO!’ David insisted.

Nick slumped down on a leather covered chair and put his head in his hands. ‘I’m a fucking laughing stock,’

David had never before heard Nick curse, and he stood in shock for a moment before composing himself enough to reply, ‘We both are.’

Nick moved his face away from his hand and looked at David, ‘You’re not the one they’ve portrayed as a stepford wife.’ His face looked rueful.

David didn’t know what to say to that. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and then, thinking this made him look like he needed the lavatory, he walked around his desk and sat down, his gaze falling again to the newspapers and the abrasive headlines they displayed. ‘We should release a statement,’ he said, decidedly.

‘Oh, you think?’ the Lib Dem leader replied sarcastically.

‘Nick,’ David said, his tone a little more pleading than he would have liked, ‘I really think we should try to deal with this as professionally as we can.’

Nick rose to his feet, anger rising in his voice again. ‘Professionally?’ he spat, ‘Professionally!’

‘Yes, profess-’

‘Right, release a statement. Full investigation of claims. That kind of old politics bullshit.’

‘Nick, I really think you are taking this rather personally.’

‘Of course I am taking it personally. I don’t see how anyone could take it otherwise. Have you even read what Peter Bone has been writing?’ Nick stormed, marching over to David’s desk and stabbing his finger at the newspaper headlines.

‘Well, no, I’

‘No, of course you haven’t. Too damn Tory to read further than the headline.’ Nick was furious, no, he was livid. He could feel himself losing control rapidly and David’s urbane manner wasn’t helping. How could he be so obtuse?

David watched in mute fascination as Nick fumed, his feet crushing the carpet and his expression growing ever more incensed. Then suddenly the Liberal Democrat leader stopped in his tracks, his lips curling in to a wicked smile.

‘You know what, David, you release your statement. I’ll support whatever you say.’

David stared at Nick, thoroughly bewildered by his sudden and inexplicable reversal of attitude.

‘Nick?’

Nick Clegg walked toward the door of David’s office, that strange, evil smile holding its place on his lips. As he pulled the door over he cast a last remark over his shoulder, too quickly for David to answer.

‘At least I’m the dom in most of them.’

Collections, Volume Three - David's First Time

2015-07-16T08:47:39Z

They'd been flirting around the idea for months, sly suggestions of it that gave them both a feeling in their stomach that was a mixture of anticipation and a little dread.

David had finally agreed, and Nick had bit his lip in a familiar gesture as he pressed his hand against David's, reassuring him it would be okay.

‘Just take your time, David. You shouldn't rush it.’

David nodded. He lowered his mouth and began applying his tongue carefully. ‘Like this?’

‘Yes, like that.’ Nick's breath was a little short as he watched David's mouth working. ‘Like that.’

David smiled. He turned his attention fully to what he was doing. Mouth working eagerly and steadily. Fascinating. Nick stilled him with a hand laid carefully on his shoulder.

‘Not so hard, David.’

David paused for a moment, eager to accept the direction. It was, after all, his first time doing this. He locked eyes with Nick for a moment, looking for acceptance, finding it, and continuing with less pressure than before.

‘Good,’ Nick murmured, smiling gently, ‘Very good.’

The praise made David happy. He licked in gentle circles, teasing with his tongue. Nick watched patiently, his eyes a little unfocussed.

Presently, David stopped. ‘Are you sure I'm doing it right?’ he asked. Nick nodded softly, his hand finding David's hair. An unusual gesture, but one instantly pleasing; David's hair was soft and smooth.

‘You're doing it perfectly right now, just keep going.’

The tongue again, smooth circles, a gentle flicking motion; and he was nearly there. Nearly there! A gasp, and they looked at each other. David looked proud, Nick smiled down at him. ‘David.’

‘Oh Nick!’ David said, wiping his mouth. ‘Nick, I did it!’

Nick beamed at the Prime Minister. ‘You did, David. You really did!’

David rose to his feet, holding the proof of his achievement in his fingers. ‘I removed the orangey bit!’

Collections, Volume Three - The Bear

2015-07-16T08:45:59Z

‘David, we've got a problem,’ Nick said, slamming David's office door shut and flinging his body back against it as though to ward off evil.

‘What?’ David asked, studying his deputy's wide-eyed expression and heaving chest; it would have been attractive if not for the horror writ large across the other man's features.

‘It's the bear, David. It's coming,’ Nick exclaimed, as though this was supposed to explain everything and not lead David further into confusion.

‘The bear?’ David frowned, face creasing in on itself. Suddenly, a melodious female voice sounded in the corridor outside of his office door.

‘I'm the bear. I'm the bear and I'm coming!’

David was filled with inexplicable dread at the words, though he had no idea who the voice belonged to; the wretched squeaking of wheels accompanied the voice, grating their way down David's spine. The feeling was not helped by the sinister laughter that followed; somehow joyfully murderous.

Suddenly David was gripped by the intense desire to barricade the door with his desk, not wanting to see the owner of that terrible voice, a feeling he had, until that very moment, only associated with PETER BONE. Nick, thankfully, mercifully, and entirely understandably, appeared to be on the same page; gripping the bookcase next to him and frantically attempting to pull it in front of the door to prevent access.

‘Hee hee hee hee hee,’ said the voice outside the door, filling David's mind with images of horror. Ruled by panic, he rushed from his desk and helped Nick shove the bookcase in front of the door.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ David demanded when they both rested, backs against the bookcase, breathing rapidly.

‘It's the bear, David,’ Nick replied, turning to face David, the look of terror still evident. ‘I gather,’ David said. ‘What bear, and why is it saying that?’

‘The bear from the Teletubbies,’ Nick explained, his countenance not relaxing an inch. ‘The children's show?’

‘Yes, that one. It's fucking terrifying.’

David laughed; flung his head toward the ceiling and roared. ‘Some prop from a kids show has you this frightened? You're being ridiculous,’ David exclaimed, pulling the bookcase away from the door and moving his hand to the doorknob.

‘No! David don't!’

David paid Nick no mind and opened the door.

The bear advanced upon him, wheels squeaking menacingly.

‘I'm the bear. I'm the bear and I'm coming.’

As David helplessly tried to retreat, he suddenly thought Nick had been right all along.

Collections, Volume Three - Club Clameron

2015-07-16T08:43:55Z

George's hat was the most impressive tin hat anyone had ever seen. No twisted, untidy kitchen foil for the president of their little group, no sir; this tin hat was a work of art! The crown-shaped magnificence was crafted from the wrappers of the giant chocolate coins they sold in the Commons shop.

Danny wondered how on earth George had found the time to make it, whilst secretly wishing he had thought of the idea.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ George said, his head bobbing up and down with obvious excitement as the others “oohed” and “aahed” over his crowning glory. ‘Let's start, shall we?’

‘Yes George,’ Danny said, cursing himself inwardly as George shot him a look. ‘Sorry, Gids.’

That was one of the rules, no real names. In this room they were not MPs, they were members of “Club Clameron”; a secret society, if you like, that met once a week to talk about the heads of the coalition.

George settled himself in his usual chair, the tinfoil crown balanced snugly atop his head. If he hadn't been sitting in an armchair, he could have looked quiet regal, instead of entirely barking. Still, as the others settled down alongside in their own tin hats (hats which looked tardy next to George's) it completed the theme of the meeting perfectly.

‘We've had a request for membership,’ David Laws said, leaning over the side of his chair and swinging his feet under himself.

‘Really, Tiny? Who from?’

David Laws gulped, as if steeling himself. ‘Peter Bone,’ he said.

Around the room, MPs gasped in collective horror, some faces fell and others turned a distinct shade of green.

‘Oh no!’ Danny exclaimed. ‘How did he even find out?’

George gestured with his hands, signalling silence, and the hum of voices ceased. ‘We'll put it to a vote,’ George said. ‘Alex?’

Five pairs of eyes turned expectantly to Danny, since he was the member responsible for this kind of thing, polls, votes, anything remotely needing a sense of officialness. Danny stood up.

‘Gentlemen, the proposal before us is the acceptance of Peter Bone into Club Clameron. All those in favour say “Aye”.’

Not one voice sounded in the room.

‘Of the contrary “No”.’

And they said it in unison, all five of them, six including Danny himself.

‘I think the “Nos” have it,’ Danny said, sitting down again. ‘I'll tell him tomorrow. Let's watch the video.’

‘Oh, what one is it this week?’ William said, speaking for the first time since he had entered the room. Funny how quiet he was here, since at the dispatch box he could go on a bit, though he was no rival to Jack Straw.

George grinned and produced a recorded dvd from his inside pocket. ‘It's been a while since we watched this one,’ he said cryptically as he walked over and inserted the dvd in the player. He fumbled with the controls, stabbing at them with his fingers, and then cursed. ‘A little help?’

Everyone collectively facepalmed as Danny stood up and efficiently pressed play. The screen flickered to life and George and Danny hurried back to their seats.

The moment the music started everyone realised what George had put on. A classic, by their standards. The infamous and decidedly lovely Dave & Nick: Where Did It All Go Right? George grinned and let out a little yelp as the screen showed the two coalition partners surrounded by love hearts; he was by far the most vocal of the group, the others often having to shush him so they could hear what was being said, but he wrote the best stories so they couldn't find it in their hearts to stay mad at him for long.

By the time the show got to the Rose Garden “favourite joke” scene, George had given up his chair completely and was sitting on the floor in front of it looking like he would explode with joy any second. David Laws was still curled up in his chair with his legs under him, William had disappeared to take a phone call, Danny had retreated to the back of the room and was furiously scribbling “five days” meta fic, Mark Harper had fallen asleep and Michael Gove was snickering and drawing on Mark's face with a marker pen.

‘Don't think humble pie is what he's eating,’ commented William as he came back into the room.

‘Picard, don't. We don't know for sure they're doing anything,’ David said, always the voice of sensible reason, in spite of his prolific stories featuring blow jobs in the PM's office, among other things.

‘Oh, come on! You've seen how they are together. There's no smoke without fire,’ Danny piped up, raising his head momentarily from the paper before him.

‘And we all know David is finding Nick rather good company,’ George interjected, the grin still firmly fixed on his face. ‘He admitted it in the paper.’

‘Oh, that article, I died,’ Michael said, finishing up the last of a twirling moustache on Mark's face and leaning back to admire his handiwork. William chuckled as he noticed the moustached and bespectacled appearance.

‘God, Monty, I hope you don't let him walk out of here looking like that!’

The television was forgotten as the rest inspected Mark Harper's face, giggling into their hands so they didn't wake him. George took out his phone to take a picture. ‘Evidence,’ he said as the shutter clicked.

One by one they settled back down in their chairs and watched the rest of the programme. The closing shot of David escorting Nick into number 10 with the credits framed in yet more love hearts caused more than one of the members of Club Clameron to sigh with happiness.

‘This gets better every time, I swear,’ William said. No answer was needed to this observation, they all knew how they felt about this particular piece of television history. ‘How's it going, Alex?’ Michael asked, creeping up and peering over Danny's shoulder. ‘Hey now, no peeking!’ Danny swung his arm protectively over his story. ‘I haven't finished this bit yet.’

‘Did they moan about Ed Balls yet?’ William asked.

‘Yes, they did. Just like you asked.’

William clapped his hands with delight; he did it often and the others had only just learned to find it funny rather than disturbing. The noise woke Mark, who jumped and fell out of his chair. ‘Shit.’

Laughter sounded, partly because of the incident and partly because of the comedy moustache and spectacles. Mark frowned up at them from the floor, but this only served to make the glasses crinkle around his eyes and made the rest laugh all the harder. Finally George took pity on him.

‘Better use the bathroom before you go,’ George said. ‘You've got something on your face.’ He helped Mark to his feet, holding his expression firmly in check until Mark left the room.

A few seconds later Mark shouted, ‘You guys are dead for this.’

When Mark returned, his face pink from scrubbing, George faced the rest of them. He hated this part of the meeting, but it was his official duty as president to close the meeting.

‘Since no one has finished any of their stories this week, I think we shall close earlier than usual. I suggest you take the time to make whatever progress you can on your works in progress.’ George looked pointedly at Danny. ‘So, it is my unhappy duty to end this meeting of Club Clameron. I'll see you next week at the same time.’

George took off his tinfoil crown and left the room, the rest following close behind.

Collections, Volume Three - Orangey Bit

2015-07-16T08:41:16Z

David picked up his blackberry and looked at the screen. Message from Nick, it read, and he clicked to open it.

David, Can you come to my office?
Big trouble!
Use side door.

Dropping the blackberry to his desk, David got up and strolled through the corridor that connected his and Nick's offices. He opened the door without knocking, and found Nick sitting at his desk, head bent over and brow creased in concentration.

‘Ah, David,’ Nick said, not stopping what he was doing, ‘You've got to help me.’

‘Help you with what?’ asked David, walking closer to Nick's desk and noticing for the first time that Nick's office appeared to be littered by empty crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers.

‘I can't stop doing this. I don't know why!’ Nick's voice was layered with desperation. David turned his attention from the mountain of crisp packets spilling out of the bin to Nick's desk, which was covered in crumbs and chocolate, a neat line of orange-tinged transparent circles sat at one edge.

‘Nick, what are you doing?’ David asked, watching as Nick patiently picked the chocolate covering from the top of a jaffa cake. David could see a look of confusion and horror on Nick's downturned face.

Nick did not stop and he did not look up as he said, ‘I'm removing the orangey bit.’

Collections, Volume Three - The Pilgrimage

2015-07-16T08:39:37Z

Across the deserted wilderness they walk, making the pilgrimage to the Holy Place, believed to be the ground where the legendary HoC stood, in the years before the happening.

Dressed in suits and ties they progress steadily onward, stopping every four hours and dropping to the ground, holding up their arms, palms outward, and offering the customary prayers to “He of the Wrists”, that he should guide and protect them on their perilous journey through the dangerous and uninhabited badlands. Sleeping huddled together under green blankets, they progress steadily and finally reach their destination.

The tall Golden Tower rises up before them, a symbol of the God they worship; enshrouded in mystery and believed to have been built by someone known only as Ben. They fall to their knees and hold each other, overcome with squee for being so close to the Holy Relic.

The priestesses are waiting to greet them at the temple beneath the shadow of the Golden Tower, throwing their arms wide they proclaim with great excitement, ‘Oh my God, you guys made it.’

They are ushered, weary and footsore, into the great hall, with its lines of green benches. On the wall above the altar there hangs a marvellous representation of the Clameron, the two-headed God who did rule upon high in the time when there was light and love and lots of buttsex.

The priestesses stand upon the platform before the altar and raise their hands to give thanks, speaking the words from Holy scripture.

‘Shut the fuck up and hear the words now spoken.
We gather here Loliticians, to give thanks to the Mighty Clameron.
The one God and BAMF.
Blessed is He and all who follow in His path.
May he guide us and protect us from the BONE.
Keeping us safe in our bedforts.
Now and forever, yo.
‘Bercow.’

‘Bercow,’ the congregation echoes, moving forward to accept the offering of jaffa cake, believed to be the last meal of God.

Back in their seats, they pick up their hymn books and proceed to sing hymn number forty-seven: In Bed with and Ardent Europhile.

There was much squeeing and loling amongst them as they begin to drink, as is the tradition whenever the chorus is reached, thus the rules of the drinking game teach them. The priestesses then again read from the book of Fandom.

‘And did he say, there have been 13 years of misery and darkness, but lo, Clameron came to the earth and did preach there was another way. He tasked He of the Wrists to make a better world, a world that was fair and not full of harshing. And lo, it came to pass that He of the Wrists presented a magic budgie to the people, a beautiful blue bird with a crop of yellow feathers on its breast and a tiny tie. And yay did the Gideon budgie sing and spread its wings to fly above the land, bringing much squee to the hearts of the people.

‘But there were those who spoke against the Clameron, dissing his wisdom and saying do not want. They did march and protest at the love offered and pledged allegiance to the unholy one, bringing the world to darkness and ruin as they spent all the money. They did capture the Gideon budgie and cage it, where it did sing of its unhappiness and woe.

‘And Clameron, defeated, left this world and went to the wondrous kingdom of Westminster, leaving nothing but darkness.’

Shouts and angry growls echoed around the chamber until the Speaker rose and shouted for order, whence the congregation fell silent, bowing their heads to the HBIC. After hymn number eighteen (Samantha Get Your Frock On) the priestesses bowed before the image of Clameron, raising their hands in silent prayer and all those present did Gidsface and drink profusely, well into the night.

Collections, Volume Three - Cake

2015-07-16T08:37:10Z

Nick stared incredulously, eyes flicking from David's eager smile to the sun-coloured cake David held in his hands and back again in rapid succession. Perhaps it was the disconcerting gleam in David's eyes that had prevented him from responding to the cheerful “Happy Birthday!” that David had greeted him with when entering the office, more likely, it was the cake. The cake decorated with yellow sprinkles...

...and a misshapen heart.

Nick wondered, not for the first time, if David was trying to tell him something.

‘Do you like it?’ David asked, the smile faltering for the briefest fraction of a second and giving him the look of a puppy that has had its favourite toy taken away. ‘It's, uh, it's very nice, David,’ Nick replied, trying his best to be diplomatic.

‘I made it myself, you know.’

The grin again, the beaming of a cook with pride in his abilities.

‘It's very yellow.’ Nick groaned inwardly at the stupidity of his statement, concentrating on keeping his smile fixed firmly in place, and contemplating the appropriate way to respond when the Prime Minister baked you a cake for your birthday. David, however, only smiled wider.

‘Thought you'd like that,’ David said, placing the confection in front of Nick on the desk and reaching into his pocket. Nick eyed him suspiciously, not relaxing entirely when David's hand emerged holding a single yellow candle and a box of matches. ‘Going to make a wish?’ David asked as he ceremoniously placed the candle into the centre of the cake, creasing his brow when it promptly fell over, uprooting a section of the icing as it did so.

I wish you hadn't given me a cake with a heart on it, thought Nick, growing increasingly uncomfortable as David fought to keep the candle upright. It would have been comical, Nick reflected, if the cake had not been so ridiculously decorated, or if it hadn't come from David.

‘I'll admit,’ David continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact Nick was mentally preparing to run from the room, ‘the icing isn't perfect. I've never been very good at that, I'm afraid.’ David continued his battle with the stubborn candle, finally succeeding in persuading it to stay where it had been put.

‘There,’ David said, triumphantly. Striking a match and holding it to the wick until it caught alight.

Nick looked at him dubiously; inexplicably afraid this was some kind obsolete courting ritual, and blowing out the candle would be akin to saying “I do”. Ridiculous, of course, but what else could a person think when presented with something of this nature? He paused, pretending to think about what he might wish for, as David waited expectantly.

Nothing for it, I suppose, Nick thought, blowing in the direction of the candle until it was extinguished.

David smiled widely and clapped Nick on the shoulder. ‘Happy birthday,’ he said again, before turning to leave the room.

Puzzled, Nick asked, ‘Aren't you going to stay for a slice?’

‘Oh, I couldn't,’ David shouted over his shoulder as he left the room. ‘What would the press say if they got wind of me eating cake with a Liberal Democrat bird on it?’

Nick held his breath until the door closed before bursting into laughter.

Collections, Volume Three - David Cameron and the Three Beds

2015-07-16T08:35:37Z

Once upon a time there was a Prime Minister named David Cameron. He had short dark hair that had a floofy little quiff, it constantly fell down across his forehead and made David very cross. Very cross indeed.

One day David was skipping through his kingdom when he came across a plane. It was a large, shiny plane and David skipped up the steps and went inside. Inside there were lots of men in uniform and David felt happy.

Then suddenly the door closed and the plane started to take off.

Oh no, thought David. I'm supposed to be running the country! Nick will forget if I'm not there!

David soon forgot his worries when he looked out of the window and saw the plane was flying high above the ground.

‘Weee!’ said David in delight.

Soon David felt tired from his merry spinning and he looked around for somewhere to sleep. There in the corner was a bed, and David skipped happily over to it and climbed under the covers.

Oh this won't do at all! thought David, tossing and turning, feeling very uncomfortable in the plain bed that belonged to the head of the army. This bed is far too hard!

David felt very sad.

When David got of the plane he met a man named Obama who smiled happily and shook David's hand. Obama was the ruler of the kingdom where the plane had taken David, he invited David to skip through the kingdom with him. Together they saw many things.

Soon David was tired from all of his merry adventures with Obama and he looked around for somewhere to sleep.

‘You may sleep in my bed,’ said Obama, still smiling happily. David skipped happily to the bed and climbed under the covers.

Oh this won't do at all! thought David, tossing and turning, feeling he would be swallowed by the soft, feathery bed that belonged to Obama. This bed is far too soft!

David felt very sad.

When he had said goodbye to Obama and rode in the shiny plane again, David found himself back in his kingdom and skipped happily to his office to make sure Nick hadn't forgotten to run the country while he was away.

But Nick was not there.

Oh dear, thought David, trotting around and around as he looked for Nick.

Soon David was tired from his not so merry searching and he looked around for somewhere to sleep. There in the corner of Nick's office was a bed, a most strange place for a bed but in fairy tales strange things happen all the time. David walked over to it (for by now he was getting tired of skipping) and climbed under the covers, only to find Nick was already in the bed.

Oh dear, thought David. I should not sleep in Nick's bed. But he was very tired from all of his adventures and Nick's bed was very comfortable, and Nick was turning over and giving David a cuddle.

‘Hello,’ said Nick as he opened his eyes. ‘Did you have fun?’

‘No, I skipped and tripped and flew, and nowhere could I find a comfortable bed in which to sleep,’ David pouted most vigorously, feeling very sad. ‘And now I have found a comfortable bed but there is someone already in it.’

‘It's not all bad,’ grinned Nick.

David was about to disagree when Nick leaned over and kissed him most lightly, right on his mouth.

Oh my, thought David, smiling quite widely and suddenly feeling not tired at all. This bed is just right after all!

Collections, Volume Two - Desk Picnic

2015-07-14T22:26:23Z

‘What on earth are you doing?’

Nick froze, his pale eyes wide with embarrassment, hand paused midway between plate and mouth, jaffa cake gripped lightly between finger and thumb, beginning to flush furiously as he sat cross legged atop the checked blanket that covered his desk.

‘I - I - I,’ he stammered, his boyish face earnest in surprise, a hint of a nervous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he remained still under David's questioning gaze, looking increasingly akin to a deer caught in headlights. ‘Desk picnic,’ he mumbled hurriedly, turning his crimson face downward and returning the jaffa cake to the plate at his side.

‘Desk picnic?’ echoed David, sounding unconvinced, his own keen gaze sweeping about the scene before him. Nick - shoeless, shirt open at the top and messily ruffled at the waist, now absently sucking melted chocolate off of his index finger - his desk covered by a finely chequered blanket in tones of orange and green, atop which was a plate containing a stack of small triangular sandwiches, some crisps - McCoy's by the look of them - the jaffa cakes of which Nick was so ridiculously fond, and of course Nick himself. Spread out before him were a number of official looking reports, government headers stamped loudly at the tops of pages and cramped handwriting cluttering the margins. There were several chocolatey fingerprints on the one Nick held in his hand.

‘I - I -’ stammered Nick again, glancing up at David repentantly, eyebrows raised and hangdog expression on his handsome face.

‘Does your party know you are actually quite mad?’ interrupted David, giving a low laugh and shaking his head as he crossed the room to stand beside the desk Nick was sat upon. ‘Desk picnic, indeed.’

‘Don't knock it until you've tried it,’ grinned Nick, his blush now receding. He gestured to the plate of food beside him. ‘Have a sandwich. They're quite good.’

‘I've already eaten,’ replied David. He sat down on the edge of the desk as Nick reached up and affectionately ruffled his hair. David shot him a stern look. ‘Not the hair, Nick. I've got a speech in half an hour.’

‘Does your party know you care about your hair more than some of their policies?’ Nick chuckled in a low voice, leaning forward and planting a kiss on David's cheek, his arm wrapping around David's waist.

‘Well, if you won't tell them then I'll keep your secret fetish for, er, desk picnics to myself,’ laughed David. ‘Do you do this often?’

‘Oh a few times, sporadically,’ commented Nick, shifting position and pulling David closer to him. ‘Though naturally I'm now, now thinking there are better uses for my desk than having a picnic. Care to join me?’

‘I thought you'd never ask,’ answered David, smiling as Nick lay back across the desk and pulled David on top of him. Desk picnic, indeed.

Collections, Volume Two - Blast These Boxer Shorts

2015-07-14T22:23:42Z

‘David?’ Nick's voice asks as David hears the door open. Then, after a few seconds have passed. ‘Dave?’

David's reply comes out as something between a moan and Nick's name, muffled, incoherent, and David squirms with frustration, for all the good it does him. The overhead light blinks to life, low and dull, in a thin line at the bottom of the cloth that is covering David's eyes. He struggles again as he hears footsteps approaching, twisting his hands and tugging futilely when he is unable to get them free. Any second now Nick's feet will carry him around the corner and he will see...

‘Dave, I got your message. What's so urgent that-’

Nick's voice cuts out abruptly with a short cry of shock, and David groans - he knows what Nick is seeing - but then Nick laughs, clearly amused, and David turns his head in the direction of where he thinks Nick must be standing.

Help. That's what he means to say, but between the gag and the blindfold and the fact he can't get loose from the embarrassing position he is in, the word sounds more like, ‘Hmp.’

‘Nice boxers,’ Nick chuckles. He must be next to the bed now, David guesses as the flicker of a shadow moves against the thin strip of not-quite-vision he has.

Nice boxers? David thinks. No they're not. They're tacky and ridiculous and he never should have trusted Sam when she put them in his hands and purred he should wear them, or when she got a wickedly arousing glint in her eye and suggested they have a little fun.

This isn't David's idea of fun, being bound on his bed and naked except for a pair of boxer shorts covered in little blue hearts - he's immensely grateful they're not red, for some reason - while Nick doesn't even attempt to stifle his low, breathy laughs at the sight. He shouldn't really be bothered by the fact it is Nick seeing him this way; Nick has, after all, seen him in boxers countless times, and completely naked just as much, but there's something about the vulnerability of his position that makes him feel suddenly mistrustful.

‘Want a hand, Dave?’ Nick asks. Thankfully he sounds serious now instead of amused. David nods rapidly, hair making swishy sounds against the pillow, and then Nick's hands are reaching round to the back of his head and carefully untying the cloth covering David's mouth.

‘Thanks,’ David gasps gratefully when it is gone, licking his lips and trying to get the faintly soapy taste of fabric conditioner out of his mouth. He is about to say something else when Nick kisses him, ever so softly, and he feels the side of the mattress dip down under Nick's weight. For the moment, David kisses back, not worrying about the fact he is still tied up and blindfolded, and he doesn't really mind that Nick's hand is rubbing lightly on the centre of his chest; the physical contact is reassuring. He can feel the cuff of Nick's shirt, the coolness of the buttons, against his skin.

Little by little, David finds himself not caring Nick has not yet freed him from his restraints. Nick kisses him more insistently, and David is drawn in, returning the kiss as best as he can with the restrictions of his movements. There has always been something about the way Nick kisses - all gentle flicks of tongue and tiny nibbles at David's lips - David finds fascinating, and incredibly arousing, so when the blunt stub of Nick's finger rolls over one of his exposed nipples, David moans into Nick's mouth, arching into the touch.

‘What do you think, Dave?’ Nick whispers, breaking away from David's mouth to press hot, wet kisses along his jaw and down his neck. David feels Nick shifting position; he can't quite tell to where until the smooth fabric of Nick's trousers slides over his legs and Nick's weight settles on his thighs, removing what little ability David had to move at all. ‘Want me to let you go?’

In spite of the fluttery nervousness rolling in his stomach, David shakes his head. Nick's hands return to his chest, fingertips tracing through the sparse hair and circling teasingly around his nipples. David hisses as Nick leans down and sucks one roughly into his mouth, nipping at it with his teeth and slicking it with his tongue.

‘Fuck,’ David says in a coarse voice.

‘Not yet,’ comes the amused reply, words buzzing through David's skin as Nick continues to lap and suck until David is panting breathlessly beneath him, rocking his hips back and forward in a desperate bid for friction he can't quite find as Nick's body stays frustratingly out of reach. In ordinary circumstances, David would have grabbed hold of Nick and physically pushed their bodies together, but with his arms stretched out above his head all he can do is writhe helplessly.

‘I think I like you like this,’ Nick murmurs. And then he is gone; teeth, tongue, and lips all disappointingly absent; weight no longer pinning David to the bed. David whines and tries to lift his head. He can hear the rustling of cloth and the dull clink of metal, and imagines Nick is undressing. A sharp spike of lust shoots through him as he thinks of Nick watching him as he takes off his clothes, the blue-grey gaze David knows so well slipping languidly over his exposed form. The thought makes him shiver.

It feels like forever before Nick finally returns to the bed, but David is not sure whether Nick has removed his clothes or not because Nick perches at the foot of it, as far away from David as it is possible for him to be, and his fingers swirl tight little circles on David's ankle in a way that makes David's leg twitch.

‘Nick?’ David breathes, stretching his other foot down as far as it will go but not finding anything more than empty air. Then Nick shifts, sitting just in reach of David's questing toes, and the fingers on David's ankle curl round and hold gently as Nick lifts it away from the mattress. ‘Nick?’ David says again.

Nick doesn't answer. David feels a tickle of breath against his foot, and then Nick's lips are pressing gently against the pads of his toes. The sensation is unusual. David would have balked at the suggestion if Nick had asked - feet aren't something he generally associates with sex - but as Nick darts his tongue into the space between David's toes, David gives a gruff moan of pleasure, and another, louder moan as Nick sucks a toe into his mouth.

‘Nice?’ Nick questions, his breath ghosting hotly over David's sole as he applies his tongue there, licking slowly from heel to toes and back down. David nods, grunting ungracefully as Nick nibbles round to his instep, his toes curling tightly as a series of tingles shoot up his leg and straight to his groin. He wishes Nick would touch him; he's painfully hard and longs to feel Nick's hand on him instead of this slow, torturous teasing, but at the same time what Nick is doing to his foot, the way his tongue is dancing in locations that feel as specific as they are seemingly random, is incredibly erotic, and he finds being tied up, letting go of any degree of control over the situation, strangely liberating.

Nick is mouthing his way along the back of David's calf, his large hands sliding up David's thighs but stopping just short of where David wants so desperately to be touched. David rocks his hips, whimpering as Nick makes steady progress along his leg, past his knee, along the inside of his thigh to the edge of the ridiculous boxer shorts he has, by now, forgotten he is wearing; forgotten, that is, until Nick comments, his voice thick with mirth:

‘Those really are nice boxers, Dave.’

If his hands were not tied, David would very likely have clouted him, or attempted to, since Nick punctuates the last three words with teasingly soft kisses to his cloth covered erection. As it is, David can barely manage to think straight, and mumbles the first thing that comes to mind.

‘If you like them so much you can have them.’

‘I like them better on you,’ Nick chuckles.

‘I'd like them better off me,’ David says in irritation, mostly because the hideous garment is in the way of what Nick is doing with his mouth, something which is entirely unfair.

‘In a while,’ Nick promises lightly, his hand creeping under the hem to stroke David's bare skin. David groans. He's never realised what an utter tease Nick could be.

Without the benefit of having his hands free so he can direct Nick's head exactly where he wants it to go, David can only grumble in frustration as Nick kisses his stomach. After a few minutes of this, David is so hopelessly turned on by the few fleeting touches through the cotton of his boxers he is pleading for more.

Finally, Nick's fingers curl around the waistband of his underwear and tug them over his hips. David kicks his legs impatiently, eager to get rid of them entirely and mumbling a curse that becomes a loud, keening wail as Nick's mouth is on him, sucking him hot and hard and deep. David bucks upward helplessly, grabbing at the ties that bind his wrists and using them to attempt to get his body away from the mattress and closer to the tight heat of Nick's mouth.

‘Nick, fuck, Nick that's...’ David shouts, trailing off with a strangled sound as Nick starts to move, working his mouth up and down while he pins David to the bed by his hips, hands gripping tightly as David begins to tremble and shake.

The way David is lying and the faint ache that is beginning to set into the joints of his shoulders seems to keep him from shooting to immediate climax, instead, he lingers somewhere on the edge, crying out increasingly hoarsely as Nick shows no sign of stopping, the low hums he makes reverberating through every taut muscle in David's body.

David is not sure how much time he has spent with eyes squeezed shut and every one of his senses reeling when Nick presses a slick finger into him; he doesn't care how it looks when he pushes back with his hips as much as he can, or how it sounds when he begs Nick to stop teasing and fuck him. He is thrashing wildly, completely out of control.

And he is loving every moment of it.

‘I definitely like you like this,’ Nick says in his ear, the sound sudden and surprising. David turns his head to kiss Nick, thrusting his tongue messily into Nick's mouth and whimpering as Nick kisses him back with equal enthusiasm, and about as much finesse. Nick's hand is on David's hip, slick and slippery against his skin, and Nick breaks the kiss, moving his weight to one side as his hand grabs hold of David's leg, wrapping it around his waist as he pushes forward.

‘God, Dave, do you have any idea how fucking hot you look right now?’ Nick whispers, the rush of air against David's ear making him shiver.

‘Please, Nick,’ David pleads. He is overcome by an intense desire to touch, and yanks his arms to get them free. ‘Untie me.’

Nick responds to the request instantly, stretching his hand up and loosening the knot holding David in place, and David, unrestricted for the first time since Nick arrived, drags his nails down Nick's back, ignoring the aching of his shoulders as he urges Nick to move, clinging with arms around Nick's shoulders as Nick kisses him again, briefly, before his head falls to David's shoulder.

The movement of Nick's body and the way he is breathing filthy words into David's ear is made all the more intense, somehow, by the fact David still can't see anything. He grinds his hips erratically, suddenly wanting to be on his knees with Nick behind him, fucking him hard as he begs for more. The thought alone is enough to make him come with a guttural cry, every muscle tensing as he throws his head back. A few seconds later, Nick collapses on top of him with one final jolt of his hips.

His arm feeling heavy, David reaches up and slips the blindfold from his eyes, blinking at the brightness of the room as his eyes adjust. Nick stirs and rolls off to one side, stretching sleepily as he turns his head and looks at David with a dazed and sated smile.

‘That was fucking amazing,’ Nick says.

David nods in agreement, chucking the blindfold over the side of the bed to the floor and letting his arm fall back to the mattress. Nick reaches out to him and drags him closer, the rough palm of his hand curling around David's cheek as he places a quick kiss against David's lips. Nick's face lengthens as he suppresses a yawn, and David realises he is tired too, physically exhausted. He closes his eyes, just for a second, he tells himself. It turns out to be longer.

When he wakes up, David turns to see Nick still asleep, his boyish features relaxed as he snores lightly. Over Nick's shoulder, David can see a pink slip of card on the bedside table, and he reaches across Nick's sleeping form to see what it is.

Nick, it says in Sam's handwriting. No doubt Miriam has already given you your present. I hope you're wearing them. They were a joke, if you hadn't guessed. Your real present is on the bed. Happy valentines day. P.S. I'd like him back by seven, and Miriam expects you home then as well.

The sneaky little... David thinks. He leans over to return the card to where he had found it and spies Nick's clothes on the floor in a pile. Right on top there is a pair of boxer shorts, they're identical to David's except for one detail; the hearts on Nick's pair are yellow.

Stifling his laughter, David looks at the clock and notices it is not even one o'clock. He flops back down on the bed and stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, grinning wider and wider as an idea pops into his head, then he cranes over his side of the bed and grabs the blindfold and ties, running them through his fingers thoughtfully as he watches Nick sleep.

Six hours until seven o'clock; plenty of time.

Besides, why should Nick have all the fun?

Collections, Volume Two - Games People Play

2015-07-14T22:21:43Z

During the last few months the time David had been able to spend with Nick had diminished to a few hours grabbed on a Sunday, if both of them were in the country, and it had been a month since they had been able to be alone like this. David arrived at Nick's Putney home at around nine o'clock in the morning, full of giddy enthusiasm, and Nick had greeted him at the door looking like he had not slept all weekend. His expression was vacant and the hello-kiss he had given David held a definite air of distraction, as though Nick wanted to be somewhere else. It took only minutes for David to find out why; the reason was apparently something called Skyrim.

David did not understand what the big deal was, or why a video game should be so damn important Nick was practically ignoring him. Although 'practically' implied he had even a little of Nick's attention, which was completely untrue. Nick was, at that very moment, sitting in front of the computer monitor, the electric glow illuminating his boyish features, completely engrossed in whatever was happening.

‘Nick?’ David said, but got no answer and only the briefest glance from Nick before his attention turned back to the screen. ‘Nick!’ David tried again, louder.

‘Just a minute,’ Nick mumbled, fingers still clicking on the keyboard and hand moving the mouse.

‘You said that half an hour ago,’ David whined, flouncing across the room and slumping rag doll-like onto the large, cushioned sofa against the wall under the window. Nick remained silent.

This was utterly unfair; unfair and ridiculous. It was forty-five minutes since David had walked through the door and Nick was not yet in any state close to breathless (unless you counted the episode of almost-hyperventilation ten minutes ago when Nick was fighting some kind of wilderness animal), or undressed, or pinning David beneath him on the sofa and kissing him senseless.

‘David look, there's a dragon!’ Nick exclaimed, fidgeting excitedly in his seat.

I don't care about bloody dragons, David thought, staring at the pattern of the wallpaper in boredom. It was intolerable. Finding himself lying on Nick's sofa examining the corner angle of the ceiling while Nick played a video game. David huffed in annoyance and flipped over so he was facing the sofa back. If Nick was going to ignore him then he would jolly well do the same to Nick. At least Nick deserved it for being such a bore.

The resolve did not last long. Within a few minutes, the tedium of counting the dots on the cushions was so great that David, determined to prove he was more interesting than simulated battle against giants, got up and strode across the room, stopping behind Nick's chair and leaning down to kiss Nick on the back of his neck.

Nick's reaction to this was to edge his head away with a groan of irritation and keep playing. ‘You're distracting me,’ he complained before proceeding to ignore David once more.

‘Are you going to play this all day?’ David asked crossly. ‘I came over to see you, not to watch you sit at the computer playing games.’

‘I just want to finish this bit,’ Nick answered. David was both unconvinced and beginning to lose his temper. Their first time alone in a month and Nick was paying more attention to a damn game than he was to David, it was positively infuriating. David suddenly longed for the days when they had been nervously excited, perhaps even a little reckless; when an accidental touch in a meeting had led to one of them crushing the other against the nearest item of furniture at the first opportunity.

In a lot of ways what they had with each other was better now, but David found that today he missed the passionate abandon of the past and the way Nick used to look at him like he was the only person in the world. Now he could not even pry Nick's attention away from a video game. Whatever spark there had been between them in the beginning, it had faded, and David had the horrible suspicion it was gone for good, though he had never voiced it to Nick, fearing the other man would agree or, even more unthinkably, suggest they should end this.

The latter thought should not have upset David as much as it did.

Frustrated and confused by his sudden need to be acknowledged, David bent down again and kissed Nick a second time, trailing his tongue along the smooth skin of Nick's neck. Nick protested again, but this time did not pull away.

‘I'll make you a deal,’ David said into Nick's ear. ‘If you can ignore me for five minutes, no matter what I do, then I will sit here for as long as you like while you play your game, and I won't complain.’

Nick paused the game, turning to look at David with a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Sounds like you fancy playing a game of your own,’ he chuckled. ‘Does it have rules?’

‘Do you want rules?’ David asked.

‘I think you'd have to agree what you are suggesting needs them,’ Nick answered, grinning at David. ‘For instance, if I agree to no matter what you do then what's to stop you from turning off the computer, or sitting on the desk blocking the screen?’

‘Hm, that wasn't what I had in mind, so I'll agree not to do either,’ David said.

‘Or stop me moving my arms,’ Nick added, seemingly just thinking of it.

‘Fair enough,’ David chuckled. ‘Is that everything?’

‘I think so,’ Nick smiled. ‘Though I don't rate your chances here, David. This is a bloody good game and very engrossing.’

‘We'll see,’ David replied. Nick turned back to the screen and resumed playing, a smile playing on his lips, and David could tell from the sly smile that Nick was waiting for David to try to distract him. Instead, David stood upright and walked out of the room, walking to Nick's kitchen and going straight for the freezer.

It was perfectly within the rules, David thought, feeling slightly wicked at the plan that had formulated in his mind. No blocking the screen and no restricting Nick's arms. He tapped an ice cube from the plastic tray and held it loosely in his hand as he returned to the room where Nick was, stepping quietly up behind Nick's chair again and watching as Nick tapped on the keyboard, apparently having forgotten David's presence once more.

Kneeling down behind Nick, David grasped the ice cube tightly between his thumb and forefinger. It was already beginning to melt and water trickled its way down David's hand and wrist. He pressed the cube to the back of Nick's neck.

‘Bloody hell, that's cold!’ Nick exclaimed, jumping slightly.

‘One more like that and I'll win,’ David warned, and watched as Nick deliberately set his shoulders in defiance, bracing himself. David grinned to himself and ran the ice cube from Nick's hairline to the collar of the casual shirt he was wearing. Nick trembled slightly but gave no other reaction, so David followed the cold cube with his mouth, lapping up the drops of water he had left on Nick's skin with the ice. He glanced over Nick's shoulder and saw Nick's character was creeping slowly through an empty dungeon of some kind, searching in barrels.

In all honesty, David had thought the trick with the ice cube would have been enough to get Nick's attention, or at the very least make it falter enough that he could no longer play the game, but it seemed Nick was taking the game between himself and David very seriously.

Time to up the ante, David thought. He made a few more passes of ice and tongue, and reached one hand around Nick's waist, unbuttoning Nick's trousers and slipping his hand inside. Nick moaned.

‘What was that?’ David asked.

‘I - A draugr killed me,’ Nick said hurriedly. It was probably not true, David reasoned, but this was turning out to be more fun than he had anticipated and he did not want it to end just yet, so he ignored the lie.

David dropped the ice cube into an empty coffee mug nearby - since that tactic had proved to be useless he had no more need of it - and shuffled on his knees to the side of Nick's chair.

Whatever attention Nick was or was not paying to him, David could feel a certain part of Nick's anatomy was very interested in proceedings, and he intended to take advantage of the fact. He ducked his head down under Nick's arm and pressed his mouth to the outside of Nick's trousers. Nick grunted, his leg twitching against David's chest, but David could still hear the clicking of the keyboard as Nick's fingers moved, although it sounded less coordinated than it had moments before. He pushed Nick's underwear down with his hand and sucked the head of Nick's cock into his mouth.

‘Fuck,’ Nick hissed, one of his hands winding into David's hair. ‘That's cheating, David.’

Smirking as he stopped and looked up at Nick's flushed face, David said, ‘You made the rules, and I haven't broken them.’

‘I didn't think you meant you'd do that,’ Nick replied.

‘Someone is a sore loser,’ David commented.

Nick pushed David away, rearranging his underwear and getting to his feet. He held his hand out to David and helped him up. ‘I'm not a sore loser,’ he said, giving David a quick kiss before dragging him in the direction of the stairs. ‘At least, not yet.’

Collections, Volume Two - Unmasked

2015-07-14T22:20:03Z

Nick Clegg stood at the edge of the crowd feeling like a complete idiot and, he thought, looking like one too. The white shirt he wore had elaborate ruffles which stuck out comically from under the crimson waistcoat covered in brocade. A gold coloured mask covered the upper half of his face, the top disappearing beneath the bushy, Venetian-style wig that made his head sweat and itch. Whose idea had it been that they should have a masked ball? Probably Gideon, he always liked dressing up in things.

He scanned the crowd looking for Miriam, but the masks made it impossible to tell one person from another, so he waited in growing discomfort until a hand touched his shoulder and he turned around, confronted by the sight of someone looking equally ridiculous, wearing a white painted mask that had feathers sticking from the top. Nick's mouth quivered in mirth as David asked, ‘That you, Nick?’ Nick thought about saying no, not wanting to admit he'd actually left the house wearing something so atrocious, but eventually decided against it and answered, ‘None other.’

David nodded, or rather the mask that covered David's face nodded, and then leaned forward. ‘Want to get out of here?’ came the conspiratorial whisper.

‘Hell yes!’ Nick smiled and he and David pushed through the throng of people and sneaked behind some velvet drapery at the far end of the room. Tucked away in the corner was a dark, leather-covered settee, and they sank gratefully down, simultaneously removing masks and wigs and tossing them to the floor. David produced, apparently from thin air, two glasses and a bottle of champagne and he held one of the glasses out to Nick, raising his eyebrows and wiggling it from side to side.

‘Where did you get those?’ Nick asked, taking the proffered glass and holding it still so David could pour.

‘Swiped them from one of the waitresses,’ David giggled, filling his own glass and taking a long mouthful. ‘Awful outfit you're wearing, Clegg.’

Nick feigned offence and then countered, ‘That's a bit rich coming from someone who looks like Clive of India.’

David roared with laughter. ‘At least I don't look like Jack Sparrow!’

‘I do not!’

‘Yes you do.’

Nick grinned at David, drained the rest of his champagne, and said, ‘But why is the champagne gone?’ in his best 'Jack Sparrow' voice.

‘Ah, more champagne, me hearty,’ replied David, in mock pirate brogue, filling Nick's glass and then topping up his own for good measure. ‘Arr, 'tis fine stuff this.’ Nick found this hilarious and leaned back in the settee, laughing uncontrollably and sending champagne spilling over the sides of the glass onto his waistcoat. David took the glass from his hand and held it until Nick's laughter subsided. When he offered it back, Nick refused, standing up and shrugging out of the waistcoat. David set both glasses on the floor.

‘Whose idea was this bloody thing, anyway?’ Nick asked as he sat back down.

‘Oh, probably George's. You know how he likes to dress up in things.’

This sent the pair of them into peals of laughter and they fell about on the sofa clutching their sides, which is how Miriam found them both as she poked her head around the velvet drapery with a confused look on her face.

Collections, Volume Two - What's My Name Again?

2015-07-14T22:17:54Z

It took him several moments to remember what his name was, but his mind finally furnished him with the knowledge his name was David. That's right; David Cameron. Feeling satisfied he'd not suffered a bout of amnesia he turned his attention to the reason why his mind had temporarily ceased to function. As always, the reason was Nick Clegg. ‘The Deputy Prime Minister’ his mind informed him and he thanked it quietly for its input.

Nick Clegg was currently standing in front of David's desk. He was holding a policy paper and looking at David with confusion painted across his features as David stared back like a mute idiot.

‘Something the matter?’

David wanted to say no, nothing was the matter, but it seemed the affliction which had caused him to forget his own name had spread to his vocal cords, depriving him of the ability to speak. His throat issued a low sound that couldn't be called a word even at the greatest stretch of imagination.

‘Hnngggg.’ ‘Sorry, Dave, I didn't quite catch that.’

Furiously struggling to make the tongue in his mouth work in a proper fashion, David tried again, managing to choke out only three words. ‘No.. Nothing.. You..’

‘Dave, you're not making any sense,’ the vision of Clegg replied, dropping the policy paper on the desk and moving across the room until he was mere inches away from David.

The close proximity of the Deputy Prime Minister did nothing to alleviate David's mental dysfunction; indeed, it only increased as David felt Nick's hand press against his shoulder. His mind scrabbled frantically to retrieve its grip on reality, but found nothing of substance greater and more pressing than the sensation of the hand on his shoulder and the glorious knowledge of breathing Nick's scent.

Nick, fingers absently stroking David's shirt, looked down at him with concern.

‘David? Are you feeling all right?’

David nodded in an altogether too vigorous fashion, his eyes unable to tear themselves away from the reason for his current befuddled state. Nick's pristine white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sides falling away to reveal bare neck and a tantalising hint of chest. Finally, his mouth succeeded in forming a coherent phrase, something he felt he should be proud of even if the phrase was a slightly less than admirable: ‘Your shirt is undone.’

Nick considered for a moment, his gaze flicking from David's face and toward his own bare skin, and then a smile appeared.

‘Is that what this is all about?’ David nodded slowly, uncertainly, and Nick did something that made David consider he might well be hallucinating after all; removed his shirt completely and tossed it to the floor. ‘Is that better?’

‘No,’ David gulped, despite his mind's firm insistence this was indeed a great improvement. ‘No?’ A mischievous glint danced in the eyes of his deputy as he knelt on the floor in front of David's chair and slid a scandalous hand up David's leg. ‘How about now?’ David squeezed his eyes shut as a strangled sound that could have been anything escaped his mouth, his heartbeat suddenly seemed very fast and very loud. Nick chuckled softly in his ear.

‘Seems you're not quite sure, Prime Minister.’ A kiss touched his neck and he sat unmoving, breathing rapidly as Nick's mouth trailed at a leisurely pace across his skin, over his jaw and stopped at the edge of his lips. ‘Okay?’ whispered Nick.

David opened his eyes, still unable to speak but wanting to see Nick, to let him know it was okay. Nick's eyes reflected the quiet question and David realised Nick was actually waiting for permission to take things further. He nodded, briefly, and tilted his head in silent consent, hoping it would convey the word he could not express; yes. A pause long enough for a breath and then Nick's mouth was on his, lips soft and gentle against his own, and he surrendered himself completely to the moment, opening his mouth as Nick's tongue darted inside.

Nick's fingers worked at the buttons on his shirt as they kissed, unfastening them one by one until he was able to push the shirt away from David's shoulders, hands slipping beneath to touch bare skin. David gasped at the contact, his own arms motionless as Nick swiftly removed the cotton garment, carelessly dropping it to the carpet.

‘Floor.’ The word was rushed between kisses, and David suddenly found himself being pulled down on top of Nick, their bodies pressing together and, oh, Nick was hard as he. David moaned, grinding his hips slowly as Nick's hands ran down the curve of his spine, nails scratching along his skin and making him shudder. Nick writhed beneath him and sighed his name into the air as David pressed teeth against Nick's shoulder and bit softly. Kisses, frantic, were cut short by gasps of pleasure as they moved in rhythm with each other, hands roving over each other's bodies and then clinging to each other desperately amid the cries of yes and oh and now.

This time, when David forgot his name, Nick's breathless gasps against his shoulder were enough to remind him.

Collections, Volume Two - Party Favours

2015-07-14T22:16:04Z

Party favours.

Nick had never heard of the game before and he was sure it had been made up as a drunken, heat of the moment joke. The idea was thus: two people have to spend ten minutes together in a dark place and, in the spirit of the drunken way in which it was conceived, they can kiss or do anything they like during that time.

Nick sat uncomfortably on the floor as everyone exchanged hushed laughs over what George Osborne and William Hague might be up to in the darkened cloakroom where everyone had left their coats when they arrived. Boris was perched excitedly over a stop watch grinning wildly as the seconds ticked down. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1!

‘Time's up!’ everyone chimed.

The door opened and George stepped out looking a little flustered, followed by William, whose clothes were certainly less arranged than they were when he'd gone in, not that they'd been pristine at that point.

A loud cheer sounded and people passed drinks to the pair, who soon got over their embarrassment and started rambunctiously calling for the next pair. Nick cringed, dreading he might be chosen.

"Places everyone," cried Boris, the unappointed master of ceremonies, and they crowded back into a tight circle as Boris span the empty whiskey bottle on the floor. It span around in the middle of the group and stopped pointing at Nick.

Oh God.

Wolf whistles and cheers sounded as Nick reluctantly got up and made his way into the closet. This was madness. How had he got roped into doing this? He stepped into the dark room and closed the door, waiting. After a few moments loud laughter sounded in the room outside, followed quickly by a clamour of voices saying, ‘Go on! GO ON!’

The door opened a crack and a dark figure slipped inside. Nick couldn't tell who it was and he was about to suggest they just patiently wait it out when he felt a hand on his hip and a mouth pressed against his own. He let out a surprised squeak, which cut short abruptly as he felt a tongue sweep across his lips, causing him to make another sound; one that was nothing to do with surprise.

As if in answer, his unknown partner deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue past Nick's lips and sliding it along the roof of his mouth. Nick found himself kissing back, clutching at the shirt of the person in front of him and suppressing a groan of desire as he felt a hand on the back of his neck, fingers grazing his skin lightly.

A hand landed on the small of Nick's back and pulled him forward, holding him so their bodies were touching from top to toe and Nick moaned into the kiss, low and throaty and full of lust, and how was it that his head suddenly felt like it was buzzing? He was kissing now with desperate abandon, meeting the mouth on his own with ravenous hunger; wanting; needing. Delighting in the guttural sounds coming from his partner, their bodies pressed together in the dark, burning together in a fire of passion that had consumed everything except the sensation of hands and mouths and yes; just this moment.

There was a loud bang on the door, followed by another and a voice, ‘Come on you two. Time's up!’

Collections, Volume Two - Ten Minutes

2015-07-14T22:13:01Z

‘Hmm,’ David mumbled absently, his wandering thoughts stilling themselves as he realised Nick was speaking.

‘Oh look, Mr Miles Away has returned,’ Nick said, giving David a saucy grin and a peck on the cheek.

‘Sorry dear,’ David apologised - the endearment only made Nick grin all the wider; he kissed David again.

‘Perfectly all right, David. I am rather absent myself right now, considering.’

Considering... David smiled to himself; yes, considering the circumstances his mental absence was understandable, being, as they were, tangled together and mostly-naked on the settee on David's office, sharing a post-coital moment of peace. Odd the way things worked out on this score; both their wives not being opposed to the idea at all, so long as they kept it to themselves and did not flaunt it. He wouldn't have done so anyway, but it did allow him to enjoy these moments when they could be found; knowing he wasn't cheating on his wife.

‘Oh, he's off again,’ Nick chuckled, rearranging himself at David's side and removing the arm that was wrapped around David's waist; beginning to reach for his clothes. David gave a small grumble of protest and pressed Nick back into him.

‘Stay?’ asked David in a small voice. ‘Just a few more minutes?’

‘I really shouldn't, I have a meeting with...’

‘Please?’ David wasn't above begging, he had learned this about himself years ago. Right now, all he wanted was to slip back into his happy daze and feel the warmth of Nick at his side.

Nick hesitated, hand poised over his discarded clothing, then he reached into the pocket of his trousers and retrieved his blackberry. Typing a swift message, he dropped the phone onto the floor and looped his arms back around David. ‘Ten minutes,’ he commented.

David sighed happily; Nick chuckled again.

Ten minutes felt like an hour when you were in love.

Collections, Volume Two - I Wonder What Fool it was that First Invented Kissing

2015-07-14T22:11:10Z

It wasn't at all what they had expected; after weeks, months, years of watching each other, of wanting each other, what happened threw them both completely.

Years of patient yearning and impatient fantasy had lodged the idea in both their heads that if - when - the time came when they gave themselves over to the inevitable surrender, the moment would explode into frenzied activity as both sought to quench the lust they had kept in check for so long.

It was not like that at all.

Because when they had finally, finally, given in, and the first tentative touch of their lips had turned into something deeper, more urgent, suddenly, as if by some fluke of understanding, kissing was all they seemed to be doing.

It was as though they were teenagers again; standing pressed together in David's office, hands resting lightly on each other's backs as they kissed, and kissed, and kissed. Exploring each other's mouths at a surprisingly mellow pace. Slow tugs of lips and tentative meeting of tongues followed by firmer, but no less unhurried movements.

Low, soft moans elicited from the depths of each other's throats at the flick of a tongue; the gentle rhythm of intimacy that had them both spellbound, lost in the moment. The dawning comprehension that somehow, in the preceding years, with all the lingering looks and sly touches; somehow, they had both failed to realise they were in love.

Until now.

They drew back from each other at the same moment, each astonished as the knowledge finally asserted itself.

A smile.

A hand brushed against a cheek.

Another endless kiss.

Collections, Volume Two - It All Ends in Smoke

2015-07-14T22:05:28Z

It ended the day of the black smoke. The day when they had, all of them, been caught outside as the thick, acrid fog crept up Whitehall, obscuring buildings and, eventually, leaving Nick and David alone as ominous silence descended on London.

They ran until they reached Westminster, past Downing Street, where the smoke was already curling its way past Number 10. They ran until they saw Parliament Square, the promise of any safety swept away by the clinging darkness advancing from every direction. At the steps to Westminster underground station they stopped, hand in hand by now, listening to the sickening sounds coming from the passages beneath their feet; the squirming, squealing creatures that had already taken everyone else.

David turned to Nick. The diminishing light failed to hide the resigned look on Nick's face, one David imagined he wore, too.

‘I love you,’ David whispered, in lieu of goodbye, regretting the chances never taken before now.

‘David, don't,’ Nick said, voice strained.

The smoke drifted closer, dancing in patient circles toward where they stood.

‘Please,’ David entreated, ‘we both know it's over.’

Nick closed his eyes, face anguished. He opened them again as the smoke twisted around their ankles, and put his hand on David's shoulder as an unidentified something gripped his right leg.

‘I love you, too,’ Nick voiced quietly. Then, ‘Don't look down. Look at me.’

Nodding once, David kept his eyes fixed on Nick, their hands clasped together as the cold, unforgiving fog closed around them.

Collections, Volume Two - Candy Messages

2015-07-14T22:02:20Z

Nick pulled the packet of sweets out of his pocket feeling a little surprised. I thought I'd given these to Antonio, he thought. Oh well, if he and David had to be stuck waiting, then he might as well eat one. He tore the plastic wrapper open and picked one out. “YOU'RE FAB” said the candy.

I am, thought Nick, and popped it into his mouth. Then he turned and said, ‘Want one?’

David looked down at the proffered sweets. ‘Sure,’ he said, taking one and looking at what it said.

“MY PAL”

‘Very nice of you, Nick.’ David held the love heart up for Nick to read and they both laughed.

They sat in silence for a few minutes and then Nick held the packet out again with a grin. Both taking a sweet they held them out to each other. “HUNK” read David's, complimented by Nick's “DREAM BOY”. Both men shook with laughter, automatically reaching for another sweet after they'd eaten those. The candy seemed intent on continuing its comedic commentary, delivering Nick and David “YOU AND I” and “GOOD PALS”.

‘Did the media infiltrate your love hearts?’ David asked, chuckling. Nick grinned.

The next pair caused Nick to laugh as he got “WILD THING” and then laugh even louder when he read David's “GROOVY CHICK”.

David crunched the offending sweet with his teeth and reached for another.

“WILL YOU”

‘Ah, will I what,’ Nick said dramatically, tugging at the packet to free the next message.

“KISS ME”

Both men stopped laughing abruptly, shifting uncomfortably in their seats as the game they'd been playing seemed to take on a whole new meaning. The love hearts, as if sensing this change, suddenly started to send forth a flurry of innuendo. A conversation in candy.

“I WANT U”

“BE MINE”

“SWEET KISS”

“TEASE ME”

“SAY YES”

“I'M SHY”

“YOU'RE MINE”

“ONLY YOU”

“FOR KEEPS”

Nick and David sat staring at each other, their breath a little shallow and their hands touching as they both reached for the final love heart, each wanting to know what it would say.

The candy offered up its final secret, in a moment that seemed to confirm its telepathic nature, as Nick and David looked down at it at the same time to read.

“WOW”

Keeping Hope - Chapter One

2015-07-13T21:48:39Z

It was dark by the time David got back to the house in Notting Hill, the early, summer evening having finally wound down and the moon riding high in the cloudless sky.

Initially, after he and Nick had moved to Oxfordshire, David had intended to sell the house in order to pay off their new mortgage, but after Nick sold the film rights to his book they had been able to afford both houses with relative ease. It was a situation that had proved advantageous as David was frequently in London during the week, his acceptance of a place in the House of Lords effectively tying him to the capital for as long as he continued to work in Parliament.

When they had spoken by phone earlier in the day, Nick had told David he would be driving to London that evening, and so it came as no surprise when David saw Nick's Fiat parked in the driveway. He parked his own car in the space next to it and turned off the engine, reaching over to the passenger seat to grab his jacket before getting out and heading toward the front door, turning on the car's alarm as he went.

Inside, the hallway light had been left on, but Nick had already gone to bed, so David trudged wearily up the stairs and to the bedroom, pushing open the door and smiling softly as he saw Nick curled up on the bed, asleep. He had missed Nick during the five days he had been alone, having driven down himself on Sunday and been kept in London longer than usual by a series of meetings he could not postpone, and resisted a sudden, powerful urge to wake Nick immediately with urgent touches of hands and mouth. Although Nick had been back for three years now, his battles with sleep – both in adjusting to a bed once again and in finding sleep once there – had been long-fought, and the victory was not quite assured, even now. The slightest disturbance could upset the delicate balance of Nick's sleep-wake cycle, undoing months of hard work.

Contenting himself with a long moment of staring at his sleeping spouse, David padded silently to the en-suite bathroom and prepared for bed.

As expected, when David returned to the bedroom and slid quietly beneath the covers, Nick stirred, one eye blinking open, then closed, and Nick turned and shifted, allowing David to curl close at his side. A sleepy kiss was placed on David's lips and a drowsy ‘hello’ said in his ear. David said nothing, but instead wrapped Nick in his arms and held him close.

Some nights, when David arrived home after Nick was already in bed, that sleepy kiss would awaken passion enough to rouse Nick from sleep, and they would make tender, unhurried love to one another, afterwards falling into a blissful slumber. Other nights, like this one, Nick simply returned to sleep as soon as David was settled in bed.

It still surprised David that, after all these years, he could never be sure which of these events might transpire. It seemed whenever he attempted to guess, the exact opposite would happen; he would arrive home expecting Nick to groan sleepily as he wrapped himself around David, and within minutes Nick would be grasping frantically at David's pyjamas. A memory of one of those nights, of Nick's slender body writhing desperately against him, left David longing to wake Nick. He tightened his arms around Nick and, with a sigh, kissed Nick on the forehead and closed his eyes.

In the morning, after having slept surprisingly easily, David woke to the sound of his phone ringing on the bedside table. He groaned, grasping blindly for it as Nick stirred at his side, burrowing further beneath the duvet to block out the noise. His alarm, David realised as he held the phone in front of his face; he had forgot to turn it off. Quickly silencing the shrill beeping, David plonked the phone back where it had been and turned to Nick.

‘Sorry,’ he said as Nick emerged from under the duvet. ‘Didn't mean to wake you.’

‘I was already awake.’ Nick leaned up and kissed David lightly. ‘Did you get in late?’

‘After midnight,’ David commented, pulling Nick forward for another kiss. ‘I missed you.’

‘Missed you, too,’ Nick whispered against David's lips. He pressed himself close against David's body, one hand caressing David's face while the other clung lightly to David's hip. It was a position so familiar to David, a consistency so complete, that for a moment he was transported by memory to the very first time Nick had held him this way; that night in Devon just seven days after Nick had returned from Penrhyn.

During their two years of marriage, through all of its turbulence and triumph, through tenderness and tempers and tears, this simple touch from Nick had never failed to rouse in David such passion, such urgency and need, that the intensity of those feelings often left him trembling. He reached out, needing to touch Nick's body, needing to feel the weight, the certainty, of Nick in his arms, and kissed Nick again, whispering, ‘I love you.’

‘Always the charmer,’ Nick murmured, his smile lighting the boyish features of his face, crinkling the outer corners of his eyes. ‘I love you.’

David hugged Nick close, letting his hands roam lazily over the bare skin of Nick's back and arms, deliberately teasing himself by not indulging his building desire to do more.

‘How was the drive down?’ he asked.

‘The traffic was awful,’ Nick answered. ‘I wish I'd taken the train.’

‘You hate the train.’

‘I hate travelling at all,’ Nick said, his smile quirking into one of wry amusement. A familiar frown passed across his features, but did not stay, his expression transforming once again into simple happiness.

‘Why did you, then?’ David asked. He kissed Nick's forehead tenderly.

‘Catherine.’

Nick's one word answer was explanation enough. Catherine Percer was Nick's publicist. A thin, middle-aged woman whose overly persistent manner came close to bullying, and was only tolerable because of her shrewd business instinct. The daughter of a military man, David often thought Catherine would have been better suited to the hard voiced, hard line career of a drill sergeant, but he could not fault her dogged insistence in pushing Nick's interests. She had managed all of Nick's public appearances, and had proven herself a tough negotiator when Nick had sold the film rights to his book.

‘They still want me to walk the red carpet for the film,’ Nick explained, and then added, a note of wariness in his voice, ‘And you.’

‘Oh,’ David uttered in surprise. He knew Nick was involved in a long-running dispute with Dreamworks, who were insistent, despite Nick's resolute refusal, they wanted Nick to attend the première of Keeping Hope. The information they also wanted David there, however, was completely new.

‘They're concerned if both of us are not there then it will seem as if we are snubbing the film.’

‘Ridiculous,’ David commented. ‘Everyone knows you don't like public appearances.’

‘Apparently that doesn't matter,’ Nick answered, his voice sounding both irritated and stressed. ‘They want us there anyway.’

‘Can't Catherine get you out of it?’

‘She's tried,’ Nick sighed. ‘But they've started to pull contract clauses, with some pretty wild interpretations, I might add, and pile on the pressure. She wants to meet with me and discuss options.’

‘And those are?’

‘At this point: additional financial incentives for me to attend, and possibly a contract breach case if I still refuse.’

‘They're that desperate?’ David asked, beginning to feel somewhat stressed himself. He would not have minded doing the red carpet bit if Nick had asked; the media attention he could handle.

After he and Nick had wed, the fuss the media kicked up had lasted for months, with paparazzi hounding both of them, wherever they went, until they had moved out of London. What David did not like was Nick being forced into the public eye again, especially when Nick had made it clear from the start he did not want that.

In the two years since Nick's book had been published, he had made one television appearance, in a documentary commissioned by the BBC, and had attended three ticketed book talks at a London Waterstones, the minimum number he had agreed to in his publishing deal. All of those had been in the six months following the release. Since then, after they had moved, Nick had happily settled into a routine far removed from the hectic, spotlight-heavy one he had known before Penrhyn. David knew that, at least in the beginning, a lot of Nick's resistance had come from his time spent in isolation and the subsequent social anxiety. Nowadays, and even though the anxiety was still sometimes problematic, Nick maintained his aversion of publicity simply because he no longer wanted that kind of lifestyle.

‘Oh, that reminds me,’ Nick said, making David realise he had missed Nick's reply. ‘Simon has invited us to dinner tonight.’

‘Yes, I know,’ David replied. ‘He called me yesterday evening, said he had invited a few others.’

‘Duncan and Jo, probably.’ Nick unwrapped himself from David's embrace and threw back the covers, getting to his feet. ‘They're still showing Tess off to everyone.’

‘Still?’ David laughed, watching as Nick walked to the bathroom, pushing the door open wide. ‘How old is she now?’

‘Ten weeks.’

‘Ten weeks,’ David echoed quietly. Had it really been that short a time since Nick was last in London? Usually Nick visited only two or three times a year, but here they were in June and Nick had already driven down four times. David wondered if Nick was making progress in better dealing with the stress of travelling – perhaps Arthur had been focusing on that in their recent sessions.

Nick emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hips, and walked to the wardrobe, where he kept a few changes of clothes stored for his infrequent visits. He flicked through them, quickly selecting a smart pair of trousers and a white shirt; no tie, Nick never wore one any more.

‘Are my good shoes still downstairs?’ he asked distractedly.

‘Should be,’ David replied, sighing internally as he realised Nick did not intend to return to bed. ‘Unless you took them home last time you were here.’

‘Don't think I did,’ Nick mumbled, beginning to move things this way and that within the wardrobe. David laughed to himself as he watched Nick leave devastation in his wake. Nick's side of the wardrobe always resembled that of a teenager rather than a man in his fifties, with rumpled clothes left in untidy piles and shirts half-falling from hangers.

At first David had industriously tidied and folded Nick's clothes, leaving them neatly arranged for when Nick visited, but whenever Nick did visit he left everything in disarray again, and after a while David had given up, putting Nick's lack of care down to the temporary nature of his presence in the house. Nick had not said anything, but David knew Nick no longer considered the Notting Hill house as home.

David got up. Home or not, and David had to admit lately he himself tended to think of the house more as an exceptionally comfortable hotel, he had always been something of a neat-freak. He made the bed as Nick dumped his good shoes unceremoniously at the foot of the wardrobe and went back to the bathroom to shower.

Not wanting to dwell on Nick's unusually rushed manner, or his own sharply felt desire, David opened his own side of the wardrobe and began to flick through the many suits he kept there, choosing, with much more thought than Nick had, one an elegant shade of dark blue, along with a white shirt and a navy blue tie covered with fine white dots. He had several meetings today, in spite of it being a Saturday, and could not dress as casually as he usually would have of a weekend.

In the bathroom, as Nick showered, David began to brush his teeth, casting furtive glances at the frosted glass of the shower cubicle. He wondered idly, as he watched the outline of Nick's body, how long Nick intended to remain in London. Would he drive back tomorrow morning or would he stay the week?

Recently, David had begun to feel the almost constant separation was putting a strain on his and Nick's relationship. There was no specific reason for him to feel that way, only a thought deep inside that there was an invisible distance growing between them, too much familiarity at being apart.

For the past year Nick had been making a home for himself in Oxfordshire; spending time with neighbours, making friends, joining the local community garden project. All of his activities were designed to strengthen his ties to the house and the life he had there, whereas David, spending four days a week in London, had little to no time to do the same. He more and more felt as though he was living two separate lives, with no way to bring them together, to marry them into something he could feel happy with.

This growing discontent with their situation hung heavily in David's heart, often playing on his mind during the time he spent away from home. He knew Nick felt the same way, though neither of them had spoken of it; he knew the meaning of the expression Nick wore every time David left on Sunday night, could read it as perfectly as if Nick had spoken the accompanying thought: I wish you didn't have to go.

The fact Nick did not say anything did not stop David from feeling his heart clench every time he saw the sadness in Nick's eyes. Even after three years, after countless therapy sessions with Arthur, Nick still had an aversion to being alone, and still kept part of himself locked away in a place David could not reach. Sometimes it was that, more than anything else, which worried David – that he knew there were things Nick still felt he could not talk about.

David rinsed his toothbrush and then his mouth, opening the bathroom cabinet to get his razor as Nick slid back the glass shower panel, stepped onto the bathroom mat, and grabbed his towel from the rail by his side. He wrapped it around himself and then took a few steps forward, putting his arms around David's waist and kissing the back of his neck.

‘Shower's free.’

‘Mm,’ David hummed, turning in Nick's arms so he could return the embrace, and trying to hide his unhappy expression. He thought he had succeeded until Nick tilted his head inquisitively, stroking David's back through the fabric of his pyjama top.

‘You okay?’ Nick asked, smiling kindly.

‘I'm fine,’ David answered. He pulled Nick closer, searching for a way to tell Nick what was troubling him without sounding like a needy teenager. ‘I've missed you, this week has seemed to last a long time.’

‘I missed you, too,’ Nick said softly, kissing David on the cheek. ‘We seem to spend a lot of time apart at the moment.’

‘I'm sorry.’

‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ Nick reassured him, smiling affectionately. ‘It's as much my fault as yours.’

‘I'm the one who's never at home,’ David huffed. ‘I'm always busy with-’

‘You not being at home is only half of the equation,’ Nick interrupted. He leaned back, regarding David in a forthright manner. ‘As I said, it's as much my fault as yours, I should spend more time here with you.’

‘You are busy with the community garden, I know how important it is to you.’

‘Nothing is more important to me than our marriage, David,’ Nick said, sighing, obviously as frustrated by their situation as David was. ‘I-I think after all the press attention I became a little, a little afraid of being here, but I shouldn't have let that get in the way of spending time with you, and I'm going to make more of an effort from now on.’

‘Nice speech,’ David chuckled. Nick grinned at him. ‘Did Arthur give you that in one of his many lectures?’

‘He certainly did not,’ Nick laughed, shaking his head. ‘You know as well as I do he gave up lecturing me about you after we got married.’

‘Oh,’ David said playfully, ‘and what does he lecture you about now?’

Nick smiled enigmatically, but David saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and did not press for an answer. They had spoken about what Nick's therapy sessions involved but Nick never went into much detail, mostly it concerned Nick's continued anxiety over large social gatherings and using any kind of public transport, though there were other things Nick discussed with his therapist he would not talk to David about; David knew most, if not all, of them were directly related to Penrhyn and the time Nick had spent on the island.

In the beginning, David had been surprised Nick had remained in therapy for as long as this. Somehow he had got the idea that after a few months Nick would stop seeing Arthur as regularly, or even stop seeing him at all; he had not expected that three years after Nick had returned from Penrhyn he would still be meeting with his therapist on a weekly basis. It highlighted to David that he really did have very little understanding of the complexities of mental health, up to that point at least. Of course the problems associated with a trauma on the scale of that which Nick had been through could not be fixed in a time period of weeks or months, David understood that now, having watched Nick struggle with countless issues caused by his almost six year period of total isolation, from the serious and still persistent sleep problems to more mundane concerns like the fact that Nick still sometimes retreated into his headphones and listened to the sounds of the ocean to calm himself if he was feeling stressed.

The change in Nick's character was less apparent now than it had been when he had first stayed at Chequers, gone was the near constant nervousness and the abrupt mood swings David had grown used to in the early days of their relationship. The fright at loud noises had also faded, with Arthur's help, and Nick no longer felt the need to sleep on the floor or walk around barefoot.

‘How will you see Arthur if you are here?’ David asked, thinking Nick missing sessions probably would not be approved of.

‘I'll drive,’ Nick answered, his wariness vanishing as David changed the subject. ‘Or take the train, he has been going on about that recently, says it's one of the last things we need to work on.’

‘Surely not the train?’ David grinned. ‘He truly is horrible to you.’

‘I'll tell him you said that,’ Nick said with a laugh, nuzzling his face against David's neck for a few moments before stepping away and giving David a look of regret. ‘If I didn't have to meet Catherine in less than an hour, and if she wouldn't give me a worse lecture than Arthur ever has if I were late! This was not, not how I wanted to spend Saturday morning. There was a lot less getting dressed and a lot more of you in my version.’

‘Sounds very similar to what I would have liked.’ David smiled and leaned forward to give Nick one last quick kiss.

‘I'm surprised you didn't jump me as soon as you got in last night,’ Nick chuckled as he left the bathroom. David turned back to the mirror with a short laugh, inspecting his cheeks and chin before squirting some shaving foam into his palm.

‘I thought I had better let you sleep,’ he commented.

‘What was that?’ Nick's voice called back a few seconds later.

‘I said,’ David repeated, raising his voice, ‘I thought I had better let you sleep.’

There was no answer, but David heard Nick give another low chuckle, followed by the sound of a drawer being opened and then closed. David lathered his face with the shaving foam and began to shave. He was almost finished when Nick returned to the bathroom, mostly dressed but with his shirt hanging open, and leaned past David to get the deodorant from on top of the cabinet.

‘I'm going to be late,’ Nick said in a stressed voice. ‘Just checked the traffic report; Edgware Road is at a standstill.’

‘Go through the backstreets?’ David suggested, rinsing his razor in the sink and towelling his face dry.

‘They'll be just as bad as people try to avoid the traffic,’ Nick answered, he quickly used the can of Lynx he was holding before putting it back and grabbing his toothbrush from the cup by the sink. ‘I'll have to take the tube.’

‘It won't be so busy on a Saturday.’

‘I suppose not,’ Nick sighed. As he started to brush his teeth, Nick reached out his hand and idly brushed a spot of shaving foam from David's ear, rinsing his finger clean under the still running tap before inspecting the other side of David's face. Evidently there were no similar spots there because Nick nodded in approval and smiled around the handle of his toothbrush, white foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, looking both totally adorable and absolutely ridiculous.

‘I can go with you on the tube if you like?’ David offered as Nick rinsed his mouth and wiped it with a flannel. ‘If you don't want to go on your own.’

‘No, no, I'll be fine,’ Nick responded, buttoning his shirt. ‘I should go alone. Arthur says it will be helpful.’

‘He's really pushing you on that, isn't he?’ David asked.

‘Yes,’ Nick answered. ‘He wants me to finish therapy this year, so he's pushing me on a couple of things right now.’

‘Finish?’ David raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, finish,’ Nick smiled, nodding lightly. He looked pleased and proud. ‘He says it's time, that I'm ready, ready to live without the safety net.’

‘How do you feel about it?’

‘I'm pleased, obviously I'm delighted,’ Nick said, a small frown appeared and his smile faltered a little. ‘To be honest, David, I'm scared. I'm worried that I won't be able to cut it without him to talk sense to me.

‘Arthur obviously thinks you can,’ David said, drawing Nick forward and stroking his neck affectionately. ‘I think you can. You know you're stronger than you give yourself credit for, you always have been.’

‘I love you, David,’ Nick whispered, wrapping his arms around David's shoulders. ‘I know I've not been, not always been easy to live with-’

‘Nonsense.’

‘No, no,’ Nick insisted. ‘I know at times I've made things difficult, I know you have been frustrated, even angry, with me.’ Nick broke off, sighing and taking a step backwards to look David directly in the eyes. ‘There are so many things I haven't told you, things that I should have told you a long time ago.’

‘I said I would wait,’ David told him, smiling softly. ‘For as long as you needed, until you are ready.’

‘I think I am,’ Nick said. ‘My last four sessions with Arthur have been- I want to tell you and he has been helping me with the worst thing, the one that- But now is hardly the time! Are you going to be busy this afternoon?’

‘I have meetings all day,’ David said regretfully.

‘Still going over Lords reform?’

‘Trying to muster enough support to get it past the rebels.’

This was the second time a bill for House of Lords reform had been prepared. The first, in 2012, while Nick had been on Penrhyn, had been dropped after facing opposition from both Labour and the Conservatives. The latest attempt had made it through the Commons but was now being held up as it was debated in the Lords. Whether it would pass or not was difficult to predict.

‘I'm sure you will get it through this time,’ Nick said. He flexed his fingers on David's shoulder. ‘I have to run, David. Can we find some time to talk later? Before the party, perhaps?’

‘I'll try to be finished by six.’

‘Oh good,’ Nick smiled. ‘That gives me a few hours to get ready. Party starts at eight.’

‘You'd think he would have them earlier now he's not leading the Lib Dems any more,’ David chuckled.

‘You know Simon,’ Nick grinned, shaking his head. ‘Must dash. I'll see you this evening.’

‘Say hi to Catherine for me.’

After Nick had left, David took a shower and got dressed. He was preoccupied by what Nick had told him about being ready to talk through some of the things they had thus far avoided concerning Penrhyn. David had never really minded Nick's reluctance to speak about what happened there; he was worried over it, thinking of it as the last barrier that Nick had, but knew that Nick would find a way to cross that when he was able. Knowing that Nick had used his recent sessions with Arthur to broach the subject, and the knowledge that Nick was soon to stop seeing his therapist, made David realise just how far Nick had progressed towards completely recovering from everything that had happened to him.

Two years ago, when Nick's book about Penrhyn had been published, David had bought a copy in secret and read it with growing fascination, not only for what was in it, but also for the things that had been deliberately left out. There was no mention of the day of the plane crash, nothing about David until the very end - and then only a brief mention. A lot of the detail was in how Nick found food and water, and the things he had done to keep himself occupied. Most tellingly of all, Nick had made no mention of the scar on his chest or what had happened to his mood after the day he injured himself.

In the years since his return, Nick had only told Arthur the full details of his experiences on Penrhyn. Even David had only limited knowledge.

Nick wanting to tell him the rest left David wondering what exactly he was going to say. He knew Nick had kept the worst of it to himself, as if he was afraid of how David would react, or afraid of something else, something inside himself.

Through the course of the day, David found himself unable to properly concentrate. He funmbled his way through a meeting with another Conservative Lord who was supporting the Lords Reform Bill, before eating a hasty lunch and making his way to George Osborne's office in 30 Millbank, where George, now the chief election stratagist rather than chancellor, wanted to discuss David's role in the upcoming 2020 elections.

‘David,’ George greeted him warmly, rising from his chair and holding out his hand. ‘Good to see you. How are you? How's Nick?’

‘We're fine,’ David said, shaking George's hand and then sitting down.

‘Is he still in Oxford?’ George asked conversationally.

‘No, he drove down yesterday,’ David replied. ‘Had to meet with Catherine Percer.’

‘About the première, I suppose. What is it, two weeks away now?’

David explained the situation, George listening sympathetically and offering helpful suggestions.

Their friendship was not as close as it had once been, but was better than two years earlier when David and Nick had married. George had refused to attend the wedding, telling David bluntly that he thought it was a mistake. They had not spoken for six months.

It had hurt David to know that the man who had until then been a dear friend did not support his decision to marry the man he loved. They had rowed bitterly when David asked George to be his best man for the ceremony, and George had stormed out after telling David that the marriage would not last six months and not to come crying to him when it all went wrong.

Two years on, George was more accepting, but the friendship they shared had never fully recovered. Even though George had apologised for his words some eight months earlier, things between the two of them were still stilted.

‘Anyway, David,’ George said when he had given a final, condemning opinion of Dreamworks. ‘About why you're here.’

‘Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?’ David asked. George gave a sly grin.

‘Because you're not stupid,’ George answered. He tapped his ball point pen on a stack of papers in front of him. ‘How would you feel about being our poster boy for the gay vote?’

‘I'm hardly a boy,’ David responded gruffly, shooting a hard look in George's direction.

‘No,’ George agreed. He leaned back in his chair, smiling a little smugly. ‘You are Lord Cameron, former prime minister and leader of the Conservatives, who two years ago married a man who was once your political rival.’

‘And that's the angle, is it?’ David asked testily. ‘Using my marriage as political currency?’

‘It wouldn't be like that, David.’

‘Wouldn't it?’

‘No,’ George insisted adamantly. ‘We want you to do a couple of interviews, that's all. Perhaps a poster.’

‘We?’ David questioned, unconvinced by George's assurances.

‘All right, Boris,’ George sighed. ‘Boris wants you.’

‘That's absolutely terrifying,’ David joked uncomfortably, shifting position. ‘Did he say why? Or is this another of his not-so-brilliant ideas to endear us to the population?’

George shrugged, sighing again, a weary look on his face. Strategising for the election was a job that had been made that much harder when Boris had taken over as leader of the Conservatives after David had stood down. After a series of typically Boris comments in recent months, the tolerance of the public to the bumbling politician had begun to fade, and it was looking increasingly likely that there would be another leadership election within a year.

‘You know I have to talk it over with Nick,’ David said when George remained silent.

‘I know,’ George answered. ‘I didn't expect you to agree right away.’

‘Do you have a timetable in mind?’

‘Nothing this year,’ George said. ‘We were looking at next March, if you agree. You'll be fighting for your Lords seat at the same time, provided the Bill goes through.’

‘I'll let you know soon, then,’ David told him, glancing at the clock on the wall and getting to his feet. ‘I have to get going, I'll call you next week.’

‘Thank you,’ George said politely, shaking David's hand. ‘Oh,’ he added, seeming to only just think of it. ‘Ask Nick if he can get me tickets to the première.’

Just Another Mark - Part One

2015-07-13T18:30:02Z

‘Gosh, I'm sorry!’ exclaimed Nick, carefully noting the reaction of the man he had just bumped into and calculating his next move. He stooped to the pavement and fumbled with deliberate rapidness at the contents of the man's carrier bag, which had spilled out when the bag hit the floor.

‘It's quite all right,’ said the man quietly as he knelt down and started to gather up his shopping.

Nick looked at him apologetically, staring sincerely with eyes large and expression – he hoped – suitably repentant. After years of doing this he knew the effects of that look, so when the man's hand faltered for a second, Nick smiled shyly and bit his lip, pretending he did not notice when his fingers collided with those of the other man.

‘I'm so dreadfully sorry,’ he apologised again. ‘You must let me pay to replace anything that's ruined.’

‘There's no need.’

That was the reaction Nick expected, but he gave no sign of it, continuing to play the part of a clumsy pedestrian. He had been watching the man for a few days, learning his routine and waiting for an opportunity to orchestrate a meeting. Cameron was the ideal mark; handsome, single, shy and, most importantly, wealthy. The lonely ones were always the easiest to fool, and after the difficulty of his last job Nick was looking forward to playing this one in a relatively straight forward way. A simple collision on the pavement, during which he would accidentally pick up something that was not his; so far everything was going according to plan.

‘I insist,’ said Nick, once again offering his best smile, the one that always won whatever heart he had set his sights on. ‘I feel awful.’

‘Really, it's fine,’ Cameron assured him, smiling kindly.

They stood up, facing each other on the crowded pavement, and Nick fussed deliberately at Cameron's coat, pretending to inspect it for damage and straighten out the creases.

‘Since I've no doubt ruined your shopping, I may as well introduce myself,’ Nick smiled, letting his hand linger on Cameron's arm as he spoke. ‘I'm Nick.’

‘David,’ Cameron responded, and Nick noted with pleasure that there was no last name mentioned; for someone as formal as Cameron it was a significant thing to get to first name basis this early on. He quickly assessed Cameron's body language, taking note of several things at once: the open smile on Cameron's face, that Cameron had not yet attempted to move his arm out of Nick's hold, the blush set on Cameron's cheekbones and ever so slightly dilated pupils, and the way Cameron let his gaze flick around Nick's body before it rested on Nick's face – evidently he had passed inspection.

‘It's nice to meet you, David,’ Nick said warmly, making his voice a little lower than normal, a touch too intimate for the situation.

‘Likewise.’

Since Nick had learned years ago things always went better when the first meeting left his mark with a small sense of disappointment that it did not last longer, he fixed a look of shy regret to his face and prepared to leave, taking hold of the empty briefcase he carried.

‘I should get going.’ He held out his hand for Cameron to shake. ‘I'm terribly sorry again for bumping into you.’

Cameron answered with similar words, and Nick stepped away and started along the pavement, carefully avoiding looking back until he was some distance away, where he turned as if to cross the road. When he saw Cameron was standing still and watching him leave, Nick smiled and whispered to himself.

‘Gotcha.’

Entering his flat at around quarter to four, Nick tossed the briefcase into the back of the hall cupboard and slipped out of his coat, draping it over the back of the armchair as he switched on the radio and went to the kitchen. He made himself a cup of tea and opened the fridge; nearly empty, he should have gone shopping before coming home.

Closing the fridge, he set down his mug and stuck his hand in his pocket, pulling out two wallets. He dropped his own next to his tea and turned his attention to the one he had stolen from Cameron, carefully examining it without looking inside, and then walked to his bedroom and opened the top drawer of a battered cabinet.

One of the perks of his chosen lifestyle was the numerous presents he had received over the years; jewellery, clothes, aftershave, even a car once. Nick kept a lot of these, using them like props; accessories for whatever character he was playing at the time. He flicked through an assortment of different wallets until he found one that looked enough like Cameron's that he could easily say he had mistakenly picked Cameron's up thinking it was his own, then he sat down on the edge of his bed and began searching through Cameron's wallet.

The first thing he noticed was there were no pictures, no indicators of romantic involvement, either past or present.

Good sign, thought Nick as he examined the rest of the contents.

Cameron's wallet contained an assortment of credit cards, a few dozen business cards stuffed untidily in one of the sections, some cash – Nick did not count it or take any – a couple of taxi cards and receipts from dinners, driver's licence, a dry cleaning ticket, and a membership card for the Conservative party.

The last one made Nick smile; political was good, it made it less likely that Cameron would say anything when he worked out he had been conned. Nick opened a smaller drawer next to the one that contained the wallets and took out a stack of cards and bits of paper, shuffling through them until he found his own Conservative membership card, fake of course, and setting it on top of the empty wallet along with a few other things from the pile in his hands. Then he dumped the rest back in the drawer and grabbed the telephone receiver from the cradle next to the bed.

After dialling Cameron's number as written on his business card, Nick balanced the receiver between his head and his shoulder, lying back as he waited for an answer. A few seconds later Cameron's voice said hello, sounding a bit panicked.

‘Hello, is that David Cameron?’ asked Nick, though he knew it was.

‘Yes,’ answered Cameron.

‘I don't know if you remember me but we bumped into each other earlier, on Fleet Street,’ Nick said.

‘Oh yes, hello.’

Nick grinned; he had been remembered, that was also a good sign.

‘I seem to have picked up your wallet by accident,’ he told Cameron quickly in his best apologetic tone. ‘Thought I'd better call you to give it back. I hope you don't mind I looked in it to find your number?’

‘No, not at all!’ Cameron sounded relieved now, and had obviously discovered his wallet was missing, though not where he had lost it.

‘Great,’ Nick said cheerfully. ‘I'm going to be busy for the next couple of hours, but I could meet you somewhere later.’

‘That would be wonderful,’ replied Cameron. ‘I've been so worried about where it could have gone.’

‘I'm so sorry.’ Nick switched back to an apologetic tone. ‘It looks so much like mine that in the confusion I didn't notice.’

‘It's okay. No harm done.’

After making arrangements to meet Cameron at a small coffee shop Nick knew was near to Cameron's office, they hung up. Nick chuckled as he walked across the room to his wardrobe and began to pick out what clothes to wear. This was turning out to be easier than he had ever expected.

Between five and six every weekday Nick went to the gym on the end of his road, working out on the rowing machine while listening to music. He liked to keep in shape, and it did not hurt in his line of work; it also gave him an excuse for wearing different clothes, although most of his marks did not notice he had changed.

When he was finished he went back home and took a shower, brushing his teeth and using an electric razor to shave, then he plodded to his bedroom and put on the clothes he had chosen earlier. He had matched the grey suit with a white shirt and deep blue tie, glossy black shoes, and a watch that was smart but not flashy.

As he stood in front of the mirror, Nick ruffled his still damp hair a bit – it was a style he had been complimented on more times than he could count; boyishly charming, a little less than pristine. All part of the appeal.

The journey to the coffee shop took him ten minutes and Cameron was already there when he arrived, sitting nervously in a corner with a pot of tea in front of him. Nick eyed him up and down as he stood just inside the door; Cameron was better looking than most of Nick's previous marks, his dark hair had an untidy tuft that flopped down over his forehead, but apart from that the man was well-groomed. Nick felt a twinge of attraction, and smiled.

Though he did not mind so much about looks – money was the ultimate goal, and frequently the men who had it were not all that – it always made it more interesting when he actually liked the way a mark looked, and it made it a damn sight easier to bed them, even if that was sometimes unnecessary. Nick found himself quite looking forward to the prospect, and could not keep the smile from playing on his lips as he walked over to where Cameron sat.

‘David?’ Nick said loudly as he approached.

Cameron turned to face him, the look on his face transforming from worry to relief.

‘Hello,’ he greeted Nick, standing up and holding out his hand.

‘I'm not late, am I?’ asked Nick as he gripped Cameron's hand and shook it, holding on for a little too long and making sure his fingers brushed along Cameron's palm as he pulled his hand away.

‘No,’ replied Cameron, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, obviously affected by the touch. ‘I've only just arrived.’

From years of paying close attention to other people in order to mould himself around their mood and personality, Nick could tell Cameron was not being truthful. The tea on the table looked cold and the milk jug was empty, indicating Cameron had been there long enough for at least two cups of tea, but Nick did not point out the obvious lie, instead reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out Cameron's wallet.

‘I think this belongs to you,’ grinned Nick, handing the wallet over.

‘Oh, thank you,’ Cameron said with relief. He took the wallet and immediately opened it, fumbling some cash out and holding it in Nick's direction. ‘Please, take this for your trouble.’

‘Absolutely not.’ Nick shook his head and made a gesture of refusal. ‘Really, it was no trouble.’

Cameron stalled, his hand in front of him. Nick could hear the wheels inside Cameron's head turning; should he offer again or put the money away?

‘Then let me buy you a coffee?’ Cameron said eventually, putting the notes back in his wallet and slipping the wallet into his pocket. ‘It's the least I can do, considering.’

‘I really should be-’

‘Please?’ Cameron cut in, his hand moving to Nick's arm and grasping lightly while the look on his face went from sincere to pleading.

‘Okay then,’ smiled Nick, sitting down at the table. ‘But I can't stay long.’

As Cameron smiled brightly and went to the counter, Nick stared out of the window and tried not to look too smug. Perfect, absolutely perfect. He could not have planned it better.

‘What do you need?’ asked Alexander on answering the phone.

‘Do I have to need something to call?’ countered Nick with a grin.

‘Cut the crap, Nick. I'm busy,’ came Alexander's reply.

‘Office in London, website, the usual,’ Nick told him.

Alexander was probably the closest thing to a friend Nick had, though the relationship was strained at best and they had not seen each other since Nick was in Scotland the year before. The last time they had spoken was when Nick had hurriedly called while packing his clothes after he realised he was not going to pull off the con he had spent four months planning.

‘Name?’ asked Alexander.

‘Whitfield.’

‘History?’

‘Six months for the business; longer for the name. Details in the usual place.’

‘Two days, usual price. Check the London box,’ said Alexander, hanging up straight after.

Nick powered up his laptop and checked his bank account; money was getting tight. He had shelled out quite a bit for the last job and lost all of it when he left. That was part of the reason why he had chosen an easy target this time.

The last job had been a risk from the beginning, branching out into new territory was always risky, and the failure had hit him hard. He usually got whatever he went for.

‘Chalk it up to experience,’ he had told himself as he got in the cab that took him to Glasgow station. Stick to what you are good at – and what Nick was good at was taking advantage of lonely singletons. He was not really comfortable with more complex cons, and he had always felt the lonely singletons got something for their money – him – even if he did not stick around; he treated them well, aside from taking their money.

It was not selling sex, though he could probably have done that quite easily with his looks, more selling a relationship. For however many months he was there he would be the perfect partner, would be whatever they wanted him to be; he would be interested in what they were and have a life that complimented theirs perfectly, and how many people really found that nowadays?

On some level Nick had always suspected they knew what he was and did not care; he was more discreet than hiring an escort, even if the price was a little higher.

Cameron, however, did not come across like that at all. Nick had been surprised, for the first time in quite a while, when Cameron had called him to ask for a date after they had spent an hour talking in the coffee shop. That was usually Nick's move and it usually took a few more meetings.

More surprising was that Cameron did not seem to want him as a simple commodity, someone to take to events and functions to avoid being the only single person there. Cameron seemed to genuinely like him, and all of the time they spent together had been just the two of them; coffee or drinks after Cameron finished work. It had made Nick feel a little uneasy when he realised Cameron was actually attempting to court him, but if that was how he had to play it then it was fine by him, even if it was unusual.

Tonight Nick was going to Cameron's flat to meet him for dinner. Nick was looking forward to eating some decent food rather than the microwave meals he had been having lately, and being taken to a restaurant was a sure sign Cameron's interest in him was romantic, though Nick knew it was by the way Cameron acted around him and certain physical responses, most of them nervous.

Nick found Cameron's shyness a little endearing and liked to play up to it, frequently touching Cameron's hand – enjoying it when Cameron blushed and stuttered – and making sure he gave all the signals of interest. In truth he was interested, and had caught himself imagining what it would be like to kiss Cameron more than once, so most of his own responses were genuine, if a little exaggerated.

‘Come in,’ smiled Cameron as he opened the door to his flat. ‘Let me take your coat.’

‘Thank you,’ Nick said politely, turning slightly as Cameron helped him out of his coat. He looked around Cameron's flat as Cameron hung the coat on a peg by the door. It was large and had an open-plan layout; the walls were white and the modern furniture neatly arranged.

‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Cameron when he turned back to Nick. ‘I have some wine in the fridge.’

‘That would be lovely.’

Cameron smiled at him, his eyes bright with obvious happiness.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he said, gesturing to the sofa. ‘Dinner won't be long.’

‘I thought we were going out for dinner,’ Nick commented casually as he walked further into Cameron's flat, skirting around the edge of the sofa and sitting on a tall stool by the kitchen counter where he could show more interest in what Cameron was doing. It did not matter to him either way where they ate, but in all the years he had been doing this Nick had never had a mark cook for him.

‘Oh, sorry,’ replied Cameron, taking two wine glasses – large ones, Nick noticed; he would be here a while – from the cupboard and a bottle of wine from the fridge. ‘We can if you like, but I seldom get the chance to cook for anyone.’

‘This is fine,’ Nick assured him as he took the glass of wine Cameron held out in his direction. Cameron smiled again, his gaze travelling Nick's face; it lingered on Nick's hair and then rested on his mouth. Nick paid careful attention to the reaction as he licked his lips and consciously mirrored Cameron's eye movements, deliberately conveying the message he would like it very much if they kissed.

‘I h-hope you l-like roast beef,’ Cameron stammered, looking away. He took a long mouthful of his wine, followed quickly by another, then put his glass on the counter and picked up a pair of oven gloves before moving to the oven to check on the roast.

Nick got up and walked to the other side of the kitchen, standing near to Cameron and speaking softly over his shoulder.

‘Can I help with anything?’

‘N-no,’ said Cameron, closing the oven and turning around. He fiddled with the corner tag of the gloves in his hand as Nick took a step closer.

‘Are you sure?’ Nick asked in a husky voice. ‘I'm not much of a cook but there must be something I can do.’

‘You, uh-’ Cameron gulped and closed his eyes for a second, reaching out to put the oven gloves next to the hob. ‘If you want to help setting the table?’

The tone of Cameron's voice was edging on desperate, and Nick backed away, not wanting to push; if they kissed – and Nick was certain they would before the end of the night – he wanted Cameron to be completely in control of it. He did not much like the idea of kissing Cameron when he would not be sure Cameron actually wanted him to.

‘Plates?’ he asked, reaching out to touch Cameron's hand.

‘Lower cupboard on the left,’ replied Cameron in a much steadier voice. He looked down with a smile and grasped Nick's fingers. ‘Cutlery is in the drawer above.’

‘I'll let you finish cooking then.’

Nick made to go to the cupboard, but stopped when Cameron did not let go of his hand, turning back with a questioning look on his face. Cameron was looking at their joined hands as if sizing the fit, his other hand touching his mouth as he looked up at Nick.

‘Can I kiss you?’ asked Cameron, as though the idea had only just occurred to him.

‘Yes,’ answered Nick, not sure of what else to say. It was a little strange to him that someone would ask to kiss him, would actually seek permission instead of trying their luck and seeing where it got them. Cameron had taken a step forward, so Nick turned fully to face him, looking at him in anticipation and half expecting Cameron to peck him on the cheek like in an old fashioned film.

He would have been less surprised by that than he was when Cameron brought a hand to his face and stroked it gently.

‘You're lovely,’ Cameron whispered to him, the blue of his eyes large and close and shining.

Nick had heard all sorts of compliments over the years, from fine to fuckable and everything in-between, in voices ranging from coarse to cultured, but something about the sincerity of Cameron's voice, the way he was touching Nick's face and looking at him so intently, made Nick's heart jump in his chest. He closed his eyes as Cameron kissed him and the moan that escaped his lips was not intentional.

Stepping backwards without looking, guided by Cameron's hand on his back, Nick felt himself collide with the cold metal of the fridge door, bumping lightly against its surface as Cameron continued to kiss him, gently pushing his tongue inside Nick's mouth. Nick noticed he had put his arms around Cameron's shoulders and was pulling him closer, reacting on instinct alone instead of with the usual calculation of what his next move would be.

‘David,’ he gasped against Cameron's mouth, partly in effort to regain some control over himself and partly because he suddenly wanted to use Cameron's first name, to think of him as David instead of Cameron; for the kiss to be something other than part of the act.

It had already gone beyond that, Nick realised as Cameron whispered his name. Nick's stomach lurched as though he was plummeting from the sky; this was more than seducing someone out of money.

Nick panicked, pulling away from the kiss and putting his head on Cameron's shoulder, breathing fast and erratically.

‘Sorry,’ Cameron said in his ear. ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to-’

‘It's fine,’ Nick told him quietly, struggling with himself to remember why he was here, what this was all about. David – Cameron, Nick corrected himself fiercely – was a mark; do not fall for the mark was the first rule of the game. What the fuck was he doing kissing the man like he was a lover?

Cameron tensed and started to move away, but Nick stopped him, wanting a few more moments to compose himself before Cameron saw his face and the confusion he was feeling written on it.

‘Bit fast,’ he mumbled, relieved when Cameron relaxed again.

‘Sorry,’ Cameron repeated. He sounded upset and Nick hugged him a little tighter.

‘Stop apologising.’ Nick kissed Cameron's neck softly and fell silent for a few seconds, trying to think of something else to say. ‘You're a good kisser,’ he said eventually, hoping he sounded the right mix of surprised and flattering.

‘You are too,’ Cameron whispered.

They both laughed then, holding on to each other, and Nick finally lifted his head so he could look Cameron in the eye.

‘I'll set the table?’

‘Okay.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Nick, trotting along a few steps behind Cameron as he rushed along the pavement.

‘You'll see,’ Cameron replied mysteriously.

‘I'm cold,’ complained Nick. Cameron stopped and turned to face him.

‘You should have worn a better coat,’ he chuckled.

‘I thought we were staying in.’

‘We were, but I couldn't wait to show you,’ said Cameron, taking hold of Nick's hand and tugging him forward. ‘We're almost there. I promise you'll like it.’

Nick followed, holding on to Cameron's hand, looking down at the way it wrapped around his own and trying to rid himself of the guilty feeling it caused; a feeling that was present almost all the time since they had slept together.

Rules upon rules upon rules. Nick's life to this point was full of them. The cardinal rules of the game; never to be forgotten, never to be broken. Nick was breaking them, every single one, he was letting this job get to him, letting Cameron get to him, and breaking every rule in the unwritten book by allowing this to continue.

If only Cameron had been like the others.

The self-serving tosspots who had treated Nick as little more than an object; a pretty face to be displayed for their own egotistical needs. Nick had never felt bad about cheating them, most of them were corrupt to the core and whatever money he took from them they would get back through one devious scheme or another. Even the ones who were not corrupt had been distinctly unpleasant, unlike Cameron.

I should never have slept with him, Nick thought miserably, remembering for the hundredth time how gentle Cameron had been, how tender and caring and – fuck, how good it was; Cameron's hands and mouth and the sound of his voice sending Nick's stomach twisting in knots. He had wanted to stay the night, to break that rule, too, and wake up with Cameron curled in his arms instead of leaving under the pretence of an early meeting.

‘Here it is.’ Cameron's voice jolted Nick from his unhappy thoughts and he looked at the house they had stopped in front of on the small street somewhere in Notting Hill.

‘It's a house,’ said Nick, bewildered.

‘It's more than a house,’ answered Cameron, opening the gate and pulling Nick up the path. ‘It's my house.’ Cameron took out a set of keys and opened the door.

‘You bought a house? What about the flat?’

‘I've been meaning to move out of it for a while,’ Cameron told him.

‘You never said,’ commented Nick, looking around the small, dark hallway as Cameron fumbled for the light switch.

‘It was a surprise,’ said Cameron as the overhead light flickered to life, illuminating the hallway and the staircase that led to the upper floor. He closed the front door and stood grinning widely. ‘What do you think?’

‘Very nice hallway.’

Cameron laughed, bristling with excitement as he swung open the nearest door and started to explain how he wanted to decorate before he moved in. Sofa there and perhaps a study in the back, the kitchen needs refitting, and-

His chatter fading, Cameron turned to Nick and looked at him.

‘I thought- that is I wanted to ask if maybe, if you wanted to- There's plenty of room for two.’

Realising what Cameron was asking, Nick's mouth dropped open.

Fuck, he thought.

This was not part of the plan. Not even in his wildest imaginings had Nick considered that Cameron would ask something like this, it was not even on a par with the time he had been offered a flat by a mark. He stood in stunned silence, Cameron looking at him with the most eager and fragile expression Nick had ever seen on another person's face.

‘David, I- I,’ stammered Nick, unconsciously backing away. He knew he looked terrified but was not able to school his expression into anything else.

‘It was only an idea,’ Cameron was saying hurriedly, trying to back out of his offer. ‘We're both busy so much, maybe later.’

‘David,’ said Nick as Cameron started to walk out of the room, resuming his talk of what improvements the empty house needed. Then, when Cameron did not stop. ‘Dave.’

Cameron turned then, his face no longer full of excitement and eagerness. Nick walked to him swiftly, guilt and hurt and confusion clattering around in his head, and pulled him close.

‘Dave,’ he whispered. ‘I'd love to, but with the business just getting on its feet...’

Good, Nick, salvage something from this disaster; get the money and run.

Nick would have run without the money if he had enough to set up another job, but every penny he had left was sunk into this and he could not afford to lose, not this time. This job would ruin him if he did not see it through; he had to see it through, no matter what the consequences. Even if it hurt to do it.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, and with the ceiling slowly lowering, Nick could not think of a way out, try as he might. He could not give up on the con without being ruined and he could not continue without hurting a man who he genuinely thought did not deserve it, nor could he have a proper relationship with Cameron, since he had lied about everything from the very moment they had met.

As long as he did not have to see Cameron's face when he realised what had happened; he could not bear the thought of it. Conning nice guys was not something Nick did, and he wondered why he had been given Cameron's name in the first place. What had Cameron done to deserve this?

‘It's not the best time, you're right,’ agreed Cameron.

‘Maybe in a few months,’ Nick said quickly, not wanting Cameron to think the idea was completely out of the question, even though it was – in a few months time Nick would be gone, sooner if he could manage it.

‘You think so?’ Cameron asked hopefully.

‘Yes.’ Nick put on his winning smile and looked at Cameron fondly. ‘Do you think you can wait that long?’

‘Do I have a choice?’ grinned Cameron.

Relief seeped through Nick at the remark; for now the crisis had been averted.

‘Alex, got time for a chat?’ asked Nick as soon as Alexander picked up the phone. He listened carefully to Alexander's response.

‘On the other line right now, call back.’

Bingo. Nick hung up and rummaged in the drawer of the desk he was sitting at, taking out an old mobile phone that had an unregistered sim card. He switched it on and dialled the only number in the phone book.

‘Nick,’ Alexander greeted him warmly within the first ring. ‘What's up?’

‘Something's off with my mark,’ replied Nick. ‘You heard anything about why this job was put my way?’

‘He pissed someone off, someone important.’

‘Doesn't seem the type.’ Nick shook his head.

‘Since when did type have anything to do with this?’ laughed Alexander.

‘Since I got sent to pull a con on someone who-’

‘You like this guy,’ interrupted Alexander. ‘I can hear it in your voice.’

‘Yes, I like him, but that's not the point.’ sighed Nick, switching the phone from one ear to the other. ‘He feels clean, Danny.’

‘Or you want him to be,’ said Alexander. ‘First rule, Nick. Remember what happened to Carmichael.’

Bloody Carmichael, the man held up to be both role model and warning, the supposed legend of the romantic con, legend that was until the unlucky bugger fell for a mark. No happy endings for him when he came clean; all it got him was a prison cell. Children had fairy tales, cons like Nick had the fable of Carmichael.

‘Carmichael is a myth,’ Nick snorted derisively.

‘Myth or not, the rule is there for a reason.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Nick said wearily. ‘Do me a favour, Danny. Dig a bit? Something about this doesn't feel right.’

‘I'll do what I can,’ promised Alexander. He was quiet for a moment, and Nick was thinking of saying goodbye when Alexander asked, ‘I'm guessing you don't want to use the London box for anything I might find?’

‘Not for this, no. You remember my IM?’

‘Sure.’

‘Two days enough? I'll log on from a public wi-fi,’ Nick told him.

‘Twelve o'clock okay? I've got to go, calls coming in.’

‘Twelve's fine. Thanks Danny.’

Valentine's Day. Usually Nick looked forward to Valentine's Day; a meal somewhere expensive, a present or two, a good day all round for someone like him. Plenty of opportunity to move the plan on while the mark was feeling romantic – or at least while they were obligated to act as though they were.

This Valentine's Day, however, Nick was dreading.

It had taken Cameron a few days to return to his shy, happy self after Nick had refused to move in with him. Nick had tried to make himself available to spend extra time with Cameron, needing to repair whatever damage had been done and make it seem he was as interested in a relationship as Cameron was. It was not easy; it was made harder by the fact that Alexander had not managed to find out who had marked Cameron, or why.

His instant message to Nick two days after they spoke on the phone had been one line: No news, will keep looking. Thursday, 4pm. GTG.

‘You can do this, Nick,’ he told himself as he stood outside of Cameron's building, taking deep breaths and calming his nerves. ‘Just keep your focus a bit longer.’

Pressing the button for Cameron's flat, Nick tried not to fidget while he waiting for Cameron to answer.

‘Hello.’

‘Dave, it's me,’ Nick said into the intercom.

‘Come on up,’ replied Cameron.

The door lock buzzed open and Nick went inside. Cameron was already at the door when he got there, shirt untucked and tie hanging loosely around his neck, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

‘I'm nearly ready.’ Cameron walked off in the direction of the bedroom, hands already working on his tie. ‘Won't be a sec.’

‘It's all right, I'm early,’ Nick called after him. He fumbled in his pocket and took out the gift he had bought for Cameron, the velvet covered box a little rough against his fingers as he opened it. Normally he would not have bought a mark jewellery, let alone a ring of any kind, but desperate times called for desperate measures, so he had used some of his dwindling cash to get Cameron a gold ring with a blue opal set in it – opal being the birthstone for October.

As he stared at it now, Nick thought it looked like an engagement ring, and fuck he hoped Cameron did not think it was one; he would have to play the situation carefully when he gave it to Cameron, another misunderstanding was the last thing Nick needed.

Stuffing the box hastily back into his pocket as Cameron came out of the bedroom and picked up his jacket, Nick fixed a suitably approving smile to his face and complimented Cameron on his choice of clothes. Cameron kissed him and opened the front door.

They went to dinner, surrounded by other couples in the dimly lit restaurant, and exchanged gifts before the dessert course. Cameron blinked with happy surprise when he opened the box and saw the ring, apologising that his own gift was not as nice as he slid it across the table for Nick to take.

It was nice enough, Nick thought, a bit of cold calculation creeping into his head. The cufflinks Cameron had given him were gold, inset with lapis lazuli stone; he could probably get something for them when this job was done.

After they had finished their meal – Cameron paid, insisted on paying, much to Nick's relief – they walked back to Cameron's flat through the quiet London streets and avenues, talking about nothing in particular.

Nick felt a little light-headed from the wine he had drunk at dinner and was glad of the cold February weather, it helped to clear his head, keep him on his toes and remember to say certain things about how work was going – not well – and how he hoped things picked up soon. Cameron was full of consolation and helpful suggestions. Did Nick want the name of a consultant Cameron had once used? Did he need Cameron to help? Did he need money?

Refusing all three – never accept the money the first time it was offered – Nick told Cameron he was sure everything would work out fine.

‘Come in for coffee?’ asked Cameron when they reached his flat.

Of course, with it being Valentine's Day, Nick could hardly say no, and as they stood in the lift with hands brushing, Nick felt a flutter of excitement at the thought of what he knew was about to happen.

Cameron kissed him as soon as the door was closed, as Nick was sliding out of his jacket.

‘Thank you for the ring,’ Cameron whispered. ‘It's lovely.’

Lovely was a word Cameron used a lot; where others would say beautiful, gorgeous, or wonderful, Cameron said lovely. The word seemed to fit his personality somehow, it had a certain shy quality to it Nick found charming.

‘I wanted to you to have it,’ Nick told him, truthfully enough since he did not mention why.

‘I should have got you something better,’ said Cameron. He took Nick's jacket and hung it on the peg, followed by his own, then he turned back and drew Nick into his arms.

‘They're beautiful, David,’ Nick smiled, meaning the cufflinks.

‘I'm terrible at buying presents.’

Something about Cameron's insecurity over his gift softened Nick's mood, which had bordered on distant through the entire evening. He reached up to touch Cameron's face, gazing into Cameron's eyes.

‘I like them,’ Nick said, smiling wider.

‘Really?’ Cameron asked softly.

‘Yes,’ Nick assured him, leaning in to kiss Cameron's lips lightly. ‘I really do.’

Cameron sighed, winding his fingers into Nick's hair, kissing Nick a little deeper and pushing him back against the wall, the smooth material of their coats cool against the back of Nick's neck. He ran his other hand down Nick's side and pressed his whole body forward against Nick.

With a moan, Nick opened his mouth, forgetting for the moment he was not supposed to let his feelings play a part in what he was doing and simply wanting to kiss Cameron, taste his mouth and listen to his breath growing short. He grabbed hold of Cameron and arched into him, moving his feet so his and Cameron's ankles were tangled together.

‘Nick,’ groaned Cameron.

‘God, I want you, Dave,’ Nick whispered. He was glad he did not say something else because he had not meant to speak at all. Cameron's body was pressing him back into the wall again while his hands slid between them and started to undo Nick's belt and trousers.

Nick let his head fall back against the coats and closed his eyes as Cameron kissed his neck, biting down on his lip to keep himself from unintentionally saying anything else; he bit too hard when Cameron's hand moved inside his underwear, yelping with pain and pleasure as Cameron's hand wrapped around his cock, quickly stroking until he was hard.

Then Cameron was gone. Nick opened his eyes, confused, and reached out to pull Cameron back to him. He had forgotten himself so much that all he had been doing was stand there, arms hanging by his sides. Cameron pushed Nick's hands away, smiling in a wicked way that made Nick's stomach bottom out; fear flickered for a second, jolting its way nervously through him, until Cameron thudded to his knees in front of where Nick was standing.

‘David, fuck, what are you-’

The question faded along with the world as Cameron's mouth closed around his cock, hot and tight. Nick grabbed at the coat hooks above his head, clutching at them desperately as his legs turned to columns of water, afraid they would break loose from the wall and send him tumbling to the floor.

Nick would never have guessed someone as shy as Cameron was would – Christ, he was good at it, his tongue curled and flicked, lips sucked, mouth worked, until Nick was babbling, panting and gripping the coat hooks so tight his fingers were white with pressure. Cameron had worked Nick's trousers down to his knees, was holding both his bare hips, the hair of his fringe tickling Nick's stomach.

Whatever Nick had expected of the night, and he had expected sex of some kind, this was nowhere close and all too much for him to even try to keep his head together. He said David's name, cried it over and over until he was hoarse and even then kept going, the word coming out as a dry croak that burned from low in his throat, until without warning Cameron thrust a finger inside him.

Nick came with a final cry, shaking hard. Cameron caught him as he started to slide down the wall, propping Nick up with his body and kissing him slowly.

‘Good?’ Cameron asked in a whisper.

‘Yes, god yes.’

Cameron pulled at his tie, loosening it enough to slip it over his head and toss it away, then undid the top buttons of his shirt. For someone who had just given the best head Nick could ever remember getting, Cameron looked remarkably unflustered, his hair neat except for the usual tuft that always strayed out of place, cheeks only slightly red. Nick, in contrast, was a wreck. His shirt crumpled, trousers and underwear hanging around his ankles, hair sticking up in all directions. He felt thoroughly debauched.

‘Off,’ Cameron ordered quietly, kicking at Nick's trousers with his feet. Nick stepped out of them quickly, wondering if Cameron intended to fuck him up against the wall – after what had just happened it would not have surprised him – but Cameron waited until Nick was finished and then dragged him in the direction of the bedroom. Obviously Cameron had not wanted him to fall over.

The bedroom was dark, the sheets of Cameron's bed soft against Nick's skin as he lay down. Cameron went to the en suite bathroom, the light casting shadows through the doorway as Nick listened to him opening and then closing one of the cabinets. Nick sat up and undid his tie, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing both on the floor. He pulled off his socks. For some reason he felt nervous.

They'd had sex before – good sex, quiet and shy first time sex – but Nick felt shaken by what had happened in the living room; he did not know what to expect now, since Cameron seemed to be not as shy in bed as he had first appeared.

When Cameron came back from the bathroom he had taken off his clothes, all but his shirt, which was hanging open.

‘Sorry, I was getting, uh-’ Cameron fiddled with the foil packet in his hand.

Nick wanted to laugh at Cameron's reluctance to say the word condom. Somehow it made him feel better, reminded him that Cameron was not quite confident enough to be comfortable with talk of protection. He knelt on the edge of the bed as Cameron stepped closer, leaning his naked body into Cameron's and bringing their lips together without a word.

There was no control in the kiss. Nick opened his mouth as soon as he felt Cameron's tongue on his lips, tilted his head to get more, and pulled Cameron down onto the bed. He had never wanted a mark the way he wanted Cameron; had never been so confused and excited by the thought of it. He squirmed impatiently as Cameron knelt above him, wanting Cameron to touch him, to feel his hands, his mouth, his skin, his cock; wanting it now and not caring if it hurt.

‘David, please.’

He hissed through his teeth as Cameron pushed into him, gripping the pillow beneath his head and lifting his hips away from the mattress. Cameron kissed him, moaning into his mouth.

‘David, please,’ Nick groaned again as Cameron stopped moving.

‘I don't want to hurt you,’ said Cameron in a worried voice.

‘You're not,’ Nick promised, letting go of the pillow and lifting his arms to pull Cameron closer. Although a lie, it was a good one, perhaps the only good one he had ever told Cameron – a lie to make him feel better, to save explanations for a better time. It did hurt a little, but Nick had always liked that and it never lasted long.

Cameron moved slowly. Nick kissed him, put both of his hands in Cameron's hair and kissed as though he had never done it before, devouring Cameron's mouth and moving his legs so-

‘Aaah- Dav-’

‘Okay?’ Cameron's hands immediately flew to Nick's face, soothing.

‘Yes,’ Nick gasped desperately. ‘Yes, David.’

This had nothing to do with money; this raw sensuality, this urgent, burning need – it was pure lust, passion unfettered and consuming, with no lies and no calculation. He moved with David; met every thrust, savoured every kiss, every whisper of his name; held David like a lover would, kissed him, caressed him, called his name; lost himself in every hot, heart wrenching second.

And realised he was falling for the mark, falling hard and fast and too far to stop himself.

Oh fuck, I'm in trouble, Nick thought as Cameron gave one last push and collapsed on top of him. He kissed Cameron's face, his chin and jaw and cheek and eyes, everywhere his mouth could reach, softly and slowly as Cameron breathed heavily and turned his head to kiss back.

‘You're lovely,’ Nick murmured against Cameron's lips, and felt Cameron smile, wide and happy, as they kissed again.

‘Stay tonight?’ Cameron asked quietly.

God, he really should say no.

‘Yes,’ Nick whispered, nodding.

Just Another Mark - Part Two

2015-07-13T18:29:19Z

Nick woke to the sound of Cameron's alarm clock buzzing loudly at the bedside. He groaned unhappily as Cameron reached over him to switch it off.

‘What time is it?’ he asked sleepily, yawning.

‘Half past five,’ answered Cameron, settling back down at Nick's side and kissing him lightly.

They were wrapped around each other, legs and arms tangled, every part of their bodies touching. Nick had woken up in a mark's bed before – four times, he counted – but had never woken up so completely close to any of them. His and Cameron's heads were on the same pillow, noses touching as they shared sleepy kisses, both making soft, contented noises.

‘I have to go to work,’ said Cameron.

‘Yes, I have work today, too,’ agreed Nick. He intended to spend the day trying to find out who had marked Cameron; he needed to know who it was, why they had done it. ‘I'll come back tonight?’

‘I have a meeting in Luton,’ Cameron told him regretfully. ‘I won't be back until late tomorrow.’

Nick kissed Cameron again, feeling unexpectedly sad at the thought of not seeing him for two days.

‘You could come to the house on Saturday,’ suggested Cameron. ‘Help me paint the living room.’ He hugged Nick a little closer. ‘We can order takeaway and drink beer. I can bring a blanket and do unspeakable things to you in front of the new fireplace.’

‘Something tells me we won't get much painting done,’ chuckled Nick.

‘There's no rush, they haven't even started on the kitchen yet.’ The intercom for Cameron's flat sounded. ‘Damn, George is here early.’

‘George?’

‘My business partner. We're driving to Luton together later,’ said Cameron, getting out of bed and going to the bathroom. He returned wearing a navy bathrobe and walked to the living room. The intercom buzzed again and Nick heard Cameron say hello as he pressed the answer button.

‘Bloody hell, Dave, what took you so long?’ came a high pitched, nasal voice through the speaker.

‘Cheerful as always, George,’ commented Cameron. He buzzed George in and returned to the bedroom, leaning over the bed to kiss Nick, running his hand affectionately down Nick's side over the covers.

‘He sounds pleasant,’ commented Nick, sitting up when Cameron stood upright again.

‘He's not so bad when you get to know him.’ Cameron tied the belt of his robe and leaned down to kiss Nick again. ‘I'll bring you some coffee.’

Cameron left the room again, pulling the door closed behind him. Nick sat on the bed, duvet pooled around his waist, and tried to figure out what he was going to do.

Give up the con? Get out of the game completely?

This was the first time Nick had used the name he was currently using, and he had not actually done anything too bad to this point; he had not taken any of Cameron's money. Maybe he could scrape up enough to get a full history for Nick Whitfield, get a job, settle down at last. Have a life, a proper life, with Cameron; move in with him and have a relationship.

Built on a lie, a series of lies and deceit. What if Cameron found out one day?

George's voice sounded loudly through the bedroom door and Nick got up from the bed, picking up his shirt from the floor and sliding it round his shoulders. He buttoned it and grabbed his tie, then remembered the rest of his clothes were still by the front door. Shit.

Opening the door and poking his head round the frame, Nick watched as Cameron poured coffee and spoke to George.

‘David,’ Nick called out hesitantly. Cameron turned to face him, along with George, whose eyebrows rose toward the ceiling. Nick felt horribly self conscious. ‘My trousers.’

Cameron looked half amused and half embarrassed as he walked to where Nick's trousers were and picked them up. He smiled apologetically and kissed Nick on the cheek as he handed them over.

‘Thank you,’ whispered Nick.

‘Coffee's ready when you're dressed,’ Cameron told him quietly.

‘Who's that?’ Nick heard George ask as he closed the bedroom door again.

[YellowBird]: Any news?
[Click'n'Fix]: Found out who put the word round on your guy. Rumour has it that it was Peter's call.
[YellowBird]: Shit, are you sure?
[Click'n'Fix]: Sure as I can be. Peter doesn't exactly advertise.

This was the absolute worst thing Nick could have heard. The last time Nick had got involved with a job Peter had put around it had cost him four months and most of his money. Nick rubbed his face, sighing into his hands.

If Peter was behind this then there was no telling if Cameron had done anything at all to deserve being conned. Peter could simply have it in for Cameron; it would not be the first time Peter had put out a job for a personal vendetta.

[YellowBird]: Any word on the mark?
[Click'n'Fix]: Nothing yet. He could be clean.
[YellowBird]: Jesus, what the hell am I going to do?
[Click'n'Fix]: Keep your mouth shut and get the job done.
[YellowBird]: Easy for you to say.

[Click'n'Fix]: Get out then. Peter would send someone else in.
[YellowBird]: Peter's the reason my last job got fucked up. I was doing fine until he sent that idiot Burnham in at the last minute.
[Click'n'Fix]: What did Burnham do?
[YellowBird]: Fucked the wife and blabbed about the husband's bit on the side.
[YellowBird]: I was the husband's bit on the side.

[Click'n'Fix]: I told you not to take that job. Married marks are too complicated.
[YellowBird]: It would have been fine if Peter wasn't trying to play both sides of the fence.

Trying to con both husband and wife at the same time took careful planning, and a team of cons who could work together well. Nick did not exactly dislike Burnham, had no reason to since Burnham worked female marks, but he had always thought Burnham was a bit too eager, lacked the kind of self control needed for the romantic con.

Not that Nick had always been so good at keeping himself emotionally detached from his work – or was now, apparently, given the situation with Cameron. That aside, when Nick was first starting out his youthful exuberance had got him in trouble a few times. He had run from more than a few jobs back then – small time stuff, nothing like what he did now.

In all likelihood he would not have made it in the business at all if not for Ashdown, the kindly older con who had taken Nick under his wing and taught him the rules of the game, helped him to understand the reasons for keeping cool and focused. Ashdown had taught Nick how to read body language, facial expressions, how to mimic them successfully and play up his natural charm for best effect. Ashdown had put him in touch with Alexander and helped him fix up his first proper job; Ashdown had got him 'in'.

Nick could still remember when Ashdown had casually sat down on the barstool next to him and commented, ‘You stick out a mile, my boy. You'll never get anywhere like that.’

Of course Ashdown was retired now, had got out a few years ago on the back of a big score. The kind of big score Nick had never attempted. Nick had a few years left before he was in the territory of spinsters, and cons so mundane they were not worth the effort, so finding the job that would set him up for life was not a serious concern. Mostly he lived job to job, not staying anywhere long enough to get himself noticed; playing the shadows, Ashdown had called it.

[Click'n'Fix]: You know Peter.
[Click'n'Fix]: What are you going to do?
[YellowBird]: I don't know.
[Click'n'Fix]: Want me to keep looking into your mark?
[YellowBird]: Check his business records. Might have pulled a shady deal.
[Click'n'Fix]: Will do. GTG mate. Be careful.
Click'n'Fix has quit the conversation [signed out]

Nick turned off his laptop and stuffed it back in his bag, rusting the toilet roll holder and flushing the toilet in order to make it sound as though he had just used it.

The situation was worse than he had thought. He did not expect Alexander would be able to turn up anything on Cameron, shady deal or otherwise; Peter was notorious for marking people over nothing, things anyone else would have simply let go. Peter was also someone you did not want to fuck with, a few words in the right ears and he could ruin your prospects of ever getting another job.

Leaving would be risky, especially after the last job. Peter might take it personally if Nick ran from two of his jobs, especially as there was no real reason for him to run from this one, no reason Peter would care about, anyway.

Peter lived by the credo that there was a sucker born every minute and an enemy every second, and had no pity for anyone who he saw as either. Since he had put the Cameron job out without wanting a share of the money it was a safe bet he saw Cameron as the latter.

What if Cameron had done nothing to deserve it?

If Alexander found nothing – what then? Nick could not tell Cameron that Peter had marked him. That was an absolute no-no. It just was not done. Ever. If you blabbed to the mark about who had set them up for the fall, you were out. Worse than out, you were never to be spoken of, or spoken to, by anyone who was still in. For a con that was a harsh punishment.

Fuck, this was a mess.

How had this simple con turned into such a nightmare?

Nick hurried out of the coffee shop and back to his flat, dumping his bag just inside the door and going straight to the chair in the corner of the living room, slumping down with his head in his hands. He was stuck; well and truly fucked. There was no way he could get out of this without hurting Cameron or ruining himself, and he did not want to do either. It bothered Nick that his and Cameron's fortunes seemed to be so intricately linked together, it bothered him more that how Cameron fared was as important to him as how he did. Worrying about how he came out of this was normal, he worried on every job, but worrying about Cameron-

Dear sweet David, with his cooking and insecurity and absolutely wicked mouth – lovely, David was, Nick had meant that. How could anyone want to hurt him?

If only he could figure a way out of this mess, but he had dug himself too deep to see daylight, and he had the horrible feeling this was going to end badly no matter what he did.

Nick walked through the flat and grabbed a microwave meal from the freezer, shoving it into the microwave and jabbing the buttons to set the timer.

Maybe I should get out, thought Nick. He could up and vanish, cons did it all the time; go abroad somewhere with the last of his money. Nick walked to the bedroom and opened the drawer containing his many identities; Archer, Pilkington, Taylor, Thomas, Clark – all stacked neatly in a pile. He slid them aside and took out a manilla envelope, sitting down on the side of the bed and pulling out the documents for a name he had not used in over a decade.

Nicholas Clegg.

Could he be that man again? Live a normal life? Work a normal job? Could he leave behind the thrill of the game?

As much as Nick had toyed with the idea of settling down, of packing in the con game and setting up home with Cameron, he knew he would miss the adrenaline rush that came with pulling off a con. The ebb and flow of a cycle set in habit if not in stone; run the con, take the money, live however he wanted until the next mark came along. He had always known he would not be ordinary, no matter what he did, and returning to a life lived on the straight and narrow was not an appealing prospect, especially since he doubted Cameron would forgive him if he came clean.

Nick would not blame Cameron for that. The betrayal was immense. For the first time in however many years, Nick's conscience was getting to him. He had always dressed up what he did, told himself he was not really a bad person for taking advantage of the people he conned – they were bad guys, too, after all, in one way or another – he had never really cared about their feelings, blocked the thoughts of it out, pushed them away and locked them up where they would not trouble him.

He wished they did not trouble him now, that he did not care about Cameron, but neither of those things were true. He did care about Cameron – was falling for him pretty damn hard – and he wanted to tell Cameron everything, warn him of what was happening, even if it cost him.

After two nights of fitful sleep and another day of racking his brain to find a solution to the problems he was facing, Nick was all but frantic with worry. He had agreed to spend the day with Cameron, painting the living room of Cameron's new house, and was worried about how he was going to pretend he was not an emotional wreck.

‘Channel it,’ he told himself. ‘Use it to make it seem like you're worried about the business.’

Get the money and run! Run far and fast and do not look back.

And keep your damn mouth shut!

When Nick knocked on the door to Cameron's house, he took a deep breath, hearing footsteps approaching. The door swung open, but instead of Cameron, the person who stood on the other side was George.

‘Oh, it's you,’ said George, looking at Nick as though he was a bad smell.

‘Is David in?’ asked Nick.

‘Nick?’ came Cameron's voice from away in the living room, and Cameron emerged, wearing slightly scruffy clothing with spots of paint on. He came to the door, walking past George and placing a kiss on Nick's cheek. ‘Come in, come in. We've got started already.’

Following Cameron past George, and ignoring George's unfriendly expression, Nick walked into the living room where open pots of ivory paint and wet paintbrushes were sitting in the middle of the floor.

‘George has kindly offered his help,’ Cameron said brightly, handing Nick a paintbrush. ‘We'll be done in no time at all.’

‘Right.’ Nick smiled, putting the paintbrush down for a second while he rolled up his sleeves. He was disappointed at not being able to spend the day alone with Cameron, but thankful George's presence gave him a reason to be wary. George did not seem to like him very much, he had practically ignored Nick on Thursday morning when Nick had sat in the kitchen drinking coffee.

‘Where should I start?’ asked Nick.

‘If you want to do that wall-’ Cameron gestured to the left side of the room. ‘-I'll do this one, and George that, and then we can all fight over the last one.’

‘I hope you can paint,’ commented George as he climbed the ladder by the wall he was painting and started making careful strokes around the edge of the ceiling.

‘He's bound to be better at it than you are, George,’ Cameron said with a laugh. Nick smirked and turned his face away as George glared at Cameron, nostrils flaring and eyes slightly narrowed.

They chatted while they worked, each taking turns in making cups of tea and coffee. Cameron sat with his hand on Nick's leg whenever they stopped working, the gesture almost possessive, Nick thought. George glared often enough that Nick was beginning to suspect there was history between George and Cameron; maybe they had been lovers once, maybe that was why George did not like him...

It was around one o'clock when Cameron set his brush down, wiping his hands on an old rag and commenting, ‘I think I'll go off and get us all some lunch. Sandwiches from Greggs OK for everyone?’

‘Need a hand?’ Nick offered quickly, not relishing the idea of being alone with George while Cameron was out.

‘No, no. I can manage. It's only down the road.’

Damn, Nick thought as Cameron trotted off toward the front door.

As soon as Cameron was gone, George hopped down from the ladder and put his paintbrush down, walking over to Nick and standing right in his personal space with a menacing look on his face.

‘I know who you are,’ snarled George. Nick flinched backwards, panic clenching in his stomach.

‘What?’ he uttered, taking another step backwards.

‘I know your type,’ George told him quietly, the tip of his nose curled upward in anger. ‘And I'm telling you now you'd better back off.’

‘M-my type?’ stammered Nick.

‘Yes, your type. Smooth talkers who waltz around breaking hearts left, right, and centre.’ George stuck his hand on Nick's shoulder, squeezing roughly. ‘If you know what's good for you, you'll break it off now.’

‘I don't know what you mean,’ Nick lied, grabbing at George's hand and shoving George away from him. ‘Get your fucking hands off me.’

‘Don't come the innocent with me,’ growled George. ‘I've seen enough of your type, fluttering your pretty eyes at him until you get bored.’

George stepped forward again with his hand raised, and Nick backed up until he met with the wall, shaking as adrenaline coursed through him. Nick was sure George was about to hit him and made ready to get away, but the sound of Cameron's voice calling he was back came from the hallway as the front door opened. George immediately lowered his hand, stepping neatly across the room. He was back on the ladder by the time Cameron came into the living room, painting as though nothing had happened.

‘Got everyone cheese and pickle,’ Cameron chimed happily.

Nick stood for a moment, stuck to the floor by shock and uncertainty, and then stepped forward to take the sandwich Cameron held out to him, looking over Cameron's shoulder at George's hate-filled face.

What the fuck was that all about?

‘Will I order us something for dinner?’ asked Cameron as he turned on his side and propped himself up with his arm.

‘If you like,’ answered Nick.

They were lying on a rug in the newly painted living room, a pile of mismatched cushions under their heads and a large fluffy blanket draped over their lower halves. The gas fire beside them was lit, heating the side of Nick's bare body closest to it. It provided the only light in the room except for the dim glow of the street lights pushing its way through a small gap in the curtains Cameron had hastily hung.

George had left at five o'clock, to Nick's unending relief, and Cameron had crushed himself against Nick no sooner than the door had clicked closed, grabbing frantically at Nick's paint covered clothes and whispering he thought George would never leave. Quite soon after, Nick had found himself on the floor in front of the fireplace with Cameron kissing his spine and fucking him so slowly he had to squash his face into one of the cushions to stop his loud cries of pleasure echoing through the empty rooms of the house.

‘I think I saw a pizza menu on the floor in the hallway,’ Cameron commented. ‘Do you like pizza?’

‘Pizza would be fine.’

‘Are you all right? You've been very quiet today.’

What to tell him? What could Nick tell him? Cameron probably would not believe it if Nick confessed George had threatened him, and Nick knew he could not explain why he had been so shaken by it, why it bothered him so much that George seemed to have figured him out, at least partially. It did not make sense. If George knew who he was then why had he not told Cameron?

Nick was bothered by what George had said about seeing 'his type' before. Had Cameron been conned in the past? Was that why George was so protective of him?

‘Things on my mind,’ Nick said quietly. He could not quite bring himself to tell Cameron that he was worried about work; did not want to continue with the con when everything was so uncertain.

‘Anything I can help with?’ asked David.

‘No, it's all right.’

‘I know your business isn't going well,’ David said softly. ‘If you need money then-’

‘No!’ Nick snapped. God, what was he doing?

He should have taken the money. It was the perfect opportunity to grudgingly accept help for his failing business, fake as it was, and he had blown it. Nick understood then, knew he could not take the money and run, would not do it even if Alexander found a dodgy deal in Cameron's past.

‘I'm falling in love with you,’ Nick whispered, closing his eyes and putting a hand over his face, the truth spilling from him, utterly beyond his control. Cameron pulled Nick's hand away from his face, gazing at him intently.

‘Why does that make you look so sad?’

Because I have to leave, thought Nick, but said, ‘I'm not sad, it's just-’

‘It doesn't make you-’ Cameron smiled down at him. ‘I know you value your independence.’

‘I wasn't expecting any of this.’

‘No one ever does,’ laughed Cameron. He kissed Nick, curling his hand around Nick's cheek, and then pulled away. ‘I should feed you, you look like you need it.’

‘I hope you don't mean that literally,’ smiled Nick, feeling a little calmer. He pushed away the unwelcome thoughts of tomorrow, of leaving and not telling David why. If only he could think of a way that he could stay.

‘Not with pizza. Though I have some ideas.’

‘Ideas?’ Nick raised his eyebrows.

‘I thought maybe we could, uh, next time maybe... switch places?’

‘Oh- Oh! That would-’ Nick wanted that, the very thought of watching Cameron come apart beneath him sent his pulse skittering madly. ‘That would definitely be- acceptable,’ said Nick, his throat feeling tight at the thought it would never happen.

‘Acceptable?’ chuckled Cameron. ‘Odd way to describe it.’

‘The mental image rather broke me,’ Nick confessed. They smiled at each other in silence, Nick biting his lip. ‘Are we staying here tonight?’ he asked.

‘I thought you didn't want to,’ David answered.

‘I changed my mind,’ Nick whispered sincerely. ‘Just about staying the night, not about-’

Waving his hand in place of words, Nick pulled Cameron to him, wrapping his arms around Cameron's shoulders and holding tight.

‘It's a start,’ Cameron said in Nick's ear.

Nick gulped against the lump that had risen in his throat. It was not a start, not even close to one.

On Sunday after he said goodbye to Cameron, Nick went straight back to his flat and started packing, folding his clothes and putting them neatly into suitcases. He did not have much in the way of personal possessions; a life spent constantly moving around meant he did not have furniture to take. Everything he owned fit into two suitcases.

The advantage was that it never took him long to get out of town when the job was done. The disadvantage now was there was not enough to stop his attention wandering from the task.

Cameron had asked him over in the afternoon. They were supposed to have dinner together. Nick would not be going. He had turned on his computer as soon as he got home and booked a train ticket to Scotland under one of his other identities, tickets to be collected from the fast ticket machine in the station concourse. Alexander would let him stay until he decided what to do, where to go, what to make of his life now.

He was out. Could not go back, not now; could not imagine running cons and pretending none of this had happened.

When he started packing the contents of his drawers, Nick found the cufflinks Cameron had given him on Valentine's Day, stared at them and wondered if he should keep them or sell them. Out of all the things he had been given through the years, the cufflinks were the first he had ever regarded as special. There was emotion attached to them, real emotion with no fakery involved. Would it be so bad to keep them?

Maybe he should give them back to Cameron. He would have to post them, before he left London. Seeing Cameron now might break his nerve, he might crack and tell Cameron why he was leaving, how they had met in the first place.

Nick put the cufflinks in his suitcase with the few other pairs he owned, and then moved to the drawer with all the cards and documents. He replaced all the cards in his wallet made up for Whitfield with those of Archer and threw the rest messily on top of his clothes. His phone beeped and he ignored it, closing both suitcases and putting them by the front door while he checked around the flat to make sure he had not forgotten anything and packed his laptop into the carry case.

Then he looked at his phone. Message from David, the screen said.

15:06 Nick, dinner is ready. Are you running late? then five minutes later, Nick?

Nick stared at the messages for several minutes, hands shaking as he held the phone. Then he turned it off, slipped the sim card out and snapped it in half. He would drop the phone and the card in separate bins on his way to the train station. The phone was a throwaway, bought for next to nothing two days before he had started the con, there was no way he could be tracked with it. Even if Cameron looked he would not find out where Nick had gone.

God this hurt.

This was not fair. A choice between himself and Cameron, a choice that ended with both of them hurt anyway. At least he would not be remembered as a conman, though that was a small comfort to him.

Picturing Cameron, sat confused in his flat as he waited for someone who would never arrive, Nick wiped his eyes and walked to the door, setting the suitcases outside one and a time and swinging his laptop case over his shoulder. A taxi to the station; this time tomorrow he would be in Scotland and Cameron would know he had left.

Nick closed the door.

He slept through most of his journey and took a taxi to Alexander's house, knocking on the door.

When it opened, Alexander took one look at Nick's frowning, upset face and shook his head, smiling softly.

‘You fell for the mark, didn't you,’ said Danny.

Nick woke six days later to the sound of raised voices and stuck his head out from under the duvet, listening with growing curiosity.

‘I told you, he's not here,’ Danny was saying.

‘I know he is here, get out of the way. I want to speak to him.’

‘Don't you dare- Ow!’

The sound of a scuffle followed Danny's exclamation of pain, and Nick heard a loud thump as Danny yelped again. Then the door to the room Nick was in flew open, and Cameron stepped over the threshold carry a duffel bag.

‘Oi,’ shouted Danny, attempting to drag Cameron back out of the room. ‘You can't just barge in here, who the hell do you think you are?’

‘It's fine, Danny,’ Nick told Danny, sitting up in his bed, hair mussed.

‘Fucker hit me,’ Danny said, rubbing his jaw.

‘I said it's fine,’ said Nick, his voice a little more terse than he intended.

‘All right.’ Danny turned his attention to Cameron, setting his shoulders squarely. ‘There are four burly Scots in the house next door who wouldn't hesitate to kick the shit out of you,’ he warned darkly. ‘So if I hear even one sign that-’

‘You won't,’ said Cameron, fixing Danny with a hard look.

‘As long as we're clear.’

Danny turned away, pulling the door closed as he left. Cameron turned to Nick, an apologetic half smile on his face, and then dropped the bag he was carrying next to the bed.

‘You're a hard man to find,’ he told Nick. ‘It took me days to track you down.’

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Nick.

‘Came to thank you, actually.’ Cameron pulled a chair away from the wall and slid it across the floor until it was next to the bed, and then sat down. He kicked the bag with his foot. ‘And give you this.’

‘I can't think what I've one to deserve it, whatever it is.’

‘Depends on what you know, I suppose,’ commented Cameron. ‘You've done me a pretty big favour in the grand scheme of things. It's certainly worth a bit of money.’

‘Money?’ echoed Nick, feeling lost.

‘More than you were supposed to get out of me,’ smiled Cameron.

Nick stared at Cameron, thinking the man must have lost his mind. George had obviously told Cameron about the con, but Nick could think of no reason why Cameron would smile so genuinely at him while speaking about money. He blinked rapidly.

Was he dreaming?

‘David, I don't understand,’ Nick said when he realised he was gaping at Cameron as though Cameron had suddenly grown a second head.

‘I owed Peter a favour. Now I don't.’ Cameron smiled again and picked up the bag, holding it out until Nick took it. ‘If not for you, I imagine the bastard would have held it over my head for another twenty years.’

Still lost, Nick sat with the bag in his lap, frowning and trying to make sense of things. Cameron knew Peter? Owed Peter a debt which Nick had apparently helped to erase. How?

‘You've still not figured it out, have you?’ asked Cameron after a few minutes of silence. When Nick shook his head, Cameron looked at him pityingly, shaking his head and saying, ‘I was never the mark, Nick. You were.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes you,’ said Cameron. ‘You really don't pick your enemies well. Everyone knows you don't fuck with Peter. You especially don't fuck up Peter's jobs and expect to get away scot-free.’

‘I didn't fuck up-’

‘Bit of a moot point now, don't you think?’ snorted Cameron. ‘I imagine you've already heard that no more jobs will be passed your way, so unless you want to freelance, you're out.’

‘How do you know so much about this?’ Nick asked through gritted teeth. Cameron laughed, stood up and walked across the room, then turned to Nick with a smug, self-satisfied grin.

‘Have you ever heard of Carmichael?’ asked Cameron.

‘He's supposedly a con artist who fell for a mark and ended up in prison.’

‘Supposedly?’ said Cameron, his smile growing a little wider. ‘Well, yes, that would be right since the story isn't true, not most of it. Carmichael was real, as real as is possible for a con anyway, but he never went to prison.’

‘What happened to him, then?’

‘I got out of the game,’ Cameron stated evenly.

‘You're Carmichael?’ gasped Nick, his stomach churning.

‘I was,’ admitted Cameron quietly. ‘A long time ago.’

‘But you're-’

‘I'm what?’ interrupted Cameron, looking at Nick with an unpleasant, cold expression. ‘A good guy? Lovely?’ Cameron smirked at the last, plonking back down on the chair. ‘It's good to know I haven't lost my touch.’

Nick could feel his hands starting to shake, felt betrayed, and upset that Cameron did not seem to care at all for-

‘You shouldn't be telling me this,’ said Nick, attempting to get a measure of control over himself. ‘Peter will-’

‘Who's going to tell him? You?’ laughed Cameron. ‘Besides, I did the job I was paid to do, what I do with the money is my business. You more than deserve half of it. It's worth it for never having to deal with Peter again.’

‘Half?’

‘A hundred thousand. Sets you up nicely, don't you think?’ Cameron's expression softened somewhat as he went on. ‘George wanted me to tell you that he's sorry for, well you know. He's not normally such a tosser, but I was getting pretty damn desperate to get rid of you and none of the usual tricks were working.’

It made sense all of a sudden, why Cameron was so quick to jump into a relationship, so eager for Nick to move in with him. If Nick were trying to spook a romantic con he would probably have tried the same tactic. They had been in it together all along, all three of them, and he had been so preoccupied with his feelings for Cameron that he lost sight of everything else.

Still, the desperate to get rid of you comment stung. Fuck, but Cameron – Carmichael – was good. He had his part down pat, had stitched Nick up good and proper.

Hadn't he?

Surely it could not have all been just running the con. Surely Cameron had felt something for him, no one was that good.

‘It was-’ Nick bit his lip and closed his eyes. He did not want to ask the question; from the way Cameron was sitting, the way he was looking at Nick so differently from when they had last seen each other, Nick knew the answer, but the words spilled out anyway. ‘It was all an act, then?’

‘Of course it was,’ said Cameron, smiling thinly. ‘They don't call me a legend for nothing.’

‘They certainly don't,’ Nick agreed morosely, a chill creeping up his spine and along his arms. His lip trembled for a fraction of a second and his eyes stung; it was only the thought that Cameron would not care that kept him from crying. He had been played, well and truly fooled by Cameron's shy singleton act.

‘No hard feelings, eh?’ Cameron said briskly, getting to his feet. ‘You were pretty good, too.’

Not good enough, Nick thought sadly. He sat in silence as Cameron patted him on the shoulder, nodding numbly with eyes still closed.

‘I should be off. Would you tell your fixer friend I'm sorry for barging in?’

‘Sure,’ Nick told him quietly. Cameron left the room, closing the door behind himself, and Nick stared at the bag of money Cameron had given him. One hundred grand. Half of what Cameron had been given to ruin him. Enough to build the foundation of a new life, since Peter would make certain he would never work the con business again.

And all he could think about was Cameron. Shy Cameron who he had fallen in love with. Shy Cameron who did not even exist.

He was crying, hands shaking in front of his face, by the time Danny came into the room.

‘Nick, everything all right mate? Wasn't that your mark?’

‘Carmichael,’ Nick said softly. ‘That was Carmichael.’

‘Carmichael's a myth,’ said Danny.

‘No,’ Nick told him, smiling bitterly through his tears. ‘Carmichael's a legend.’

[Click'n'Fix]: Nick, I've been trying to get hold of you for days. I have news.
[YellowBird]: Been busy. I work for a living now.
[YellowBird]: I don't get news any more, Danny. I'm out, remember?
[Click'n'Fix]: Trust me, you want this news. It's about Carmichael.
[YellowBird]: Did he fall under a bus?
[YellowBird]: Sorry, a tractor, I meant a tractor.
[Click'n'Fix]: Shit, you're bitter when someone breaks your heart.
[YellowBird]: He didn't break my heart.
[Click'n'Fix]: I saw your face when he came to my house, mate. That was a broken heart.
[YellowBird]: I'm busy, Danny.
[Click'n'Fix]: All right, he didn't break your heart.
[Click'n'Fix]: You broke his, though.
[YellowBird]: I what?
[Click'n'Fix]: Something about the way he left you that money bugged the hell out of me, so I did some checking.
[YellowBird]: Checking?
[Click'n'Fix]: Yeah, checking. What I do best, remember?
[Click'n'Fix]: Peter paid Carmichael to work you over.
[YellowBird]: I know that.
[Click'n'Fix]: He paid Carmichael one hundred grand.
[YellowBird]: You mean two hundred.
[Click'n'Fix]: No, I mean one hundred. O N E.
[YellowBird]: Do you have a point or are you just trying to annoy me?
[Click'n'Fix]: Nick, there's only one reason why a con would give his mark ALL the money from a job.
[Click'n'Fix]: Well, two actually, but one of them involves a longer con.
[Click'n'Fix]: It happens when they fall for the mark.
[YellowBird]: If he fell for me why didn't he say anything when he brought the money?
[Click'n'Fix]: Did you tell him you'd fallen for him?
[YellowBird]: No, of course I didn't.
[Click'n'Fix]: Why?
[YellowBird]: I was his mark, he was acting.
[Click'n'Fix]: Don't you think he might have thought the same?
[YellowBird]: It really doesn't matter, Danny.
[YellowBird]: I'm not disrupting my life, my for once very stable life, to run off to London and ask a man I tried to con: by the way, did you happen to fall in love with me?
[Click'n'Fix]: You don't have to run off to London.
[Click'n'Fix]: He's in Sheffield.
[YellowBird]: What?
[Click'n'Fix]: For some work conference. He looks like shit, mate. I'd be surprised if he's slept at all since you left.
[YellowBird]: How do you know what he looks like?
[Click'n'Fix]: I can see him on the security camera.
[YellowBird]: You're spying on him?
[Click'n'Fix]: You call it spying, I call it confirming my theory.
[YellowBird]: You – Do you know how many rules you're breaking right now?
[Click'n'Fix]: Four, five if you count helping someone who's out.
[Click'n'Fix]: So you want to know what hotel he's staying at?
[YellowBird]: No I don't.
[YellowBird]: Danny, I can't.
[YellowBird]: He broke my heart.
[YellowBird]: There, I admit it, are you happy?
YellowBird has quit the conversation [signed out]

Signing out of his chat with Danny, Nick powered down his computer and walked across the tiny, cramped bedsit to the small fridge that sat under the equally small dining table. He looked inside and realised he had nothing to eat; he was not hungry anyway, he just wanted something to do, something to take his mind off of what Danny had said about Cameron.

Nick looked toward the corner, where the bag of money Cameron had given him sat under a pile of books. All of what Cameron had been paid to ruin him, if Danny was right – and Danny usually was. Nick had not touched a penny of it, did not want it, did not want anything from Cameron, not one damn thing.

Except his heart back.

For three weeks now, Nick had been living in Sheffield. He had rented one of the rooms above a small pub, cheap enough for him to afford to pay a few months in advance, and completely off the books in case Peter decided to twist the knife he had paid Cameron to bury so vindictively in Nick's back, though there was no reason for Peter to do that.

Nick was out and did not want to get back in, had no enthusiasm for conning people any more; had no enthusiasm for much, if the truth were known. But he had been looking forward to speaking with Danny over instant messenger and would probably have spent a couple of hours online if not for the topic of conversation. Danny was his only real friend these days, nobody else would speak to him once word got around, his entire social circle, such as it was, had disappeared. There were probably one or two others who would ignore the rumours of his disgrace – they would talk to him once the heat died down – but for now his life consisted of this dingy room, working days in a second hand book shop on the high street, four nights a week teaching Spanish at a local adult education centre, and watching television of an evening while he tried to pretend the crushing normality was not slowly sucking the life from him.

Slumping down in a faded armchair, Nick reached over the side and picked up the box containing the cufflinks Cameron had given him on Valentine's Day, staring at them with a resigned emptiness. He should have sold them with everything else, all his fancy watches and wallets, jewellery and clothes, all the things for a life he no longer had, props for parts he no longer had to play. He should have added them to the pile of things he took to the pawn shop but he was not ready for that, he did not want to lose the only thing he had that reminded him of his Cameron – the Cameron he had fallen for, had held in his arms and been happy with. His Cameron, not cold Cameron Carmichael who had dropped a bag of money at his feet and left him to his misery.

There was a cruel kind of poetic justice to it.

Nick had spent years doing the very thing Cameron had done to him; wooing people, winning their hearts and then leaving. Fate had caught up in the end and now he knew exactly how it felt. It felt like slowly withering away.

Two days after he arrived in Sheffield he had sat in the beer garden late at night, drinking himself numb as he burned all the cards and documents of his other personae, watching as they disappeared in a cloud of smoke and ash. Now he was Nick Clegg. Who worked in a book shop and spent his evenings pining over a lost love who had never been real in the first place.

He could have lived with the former if not for the latter.

Nick left the box open on the chair and went to the narrow window next to the television, yanking the wooden frame roughly to open it. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the windowsill and climbed out onto the flat roof of the function room, sitting down and leaning back against the brickwork as he pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit up. He stared at the sky as he took a deep drag and exhaled, turning his head as he heard a knock on his door.

‘Nick?’

‘I'm on the roof, Cath,’ shouted Nick. A minute or so later his landlady appeared, stepping onto the roof through the open door of the pub kitchen opposite. Cath was Irish, in her fifties and quite plump. She had a bit of a soft spot for Nick, kept bringing him dinners and commenting that he would waste away if he kept in his room and did not eat. Nick often caught her smiling at him like he was a young boy, and she seemed to understand why Nick stayed in his room and rarely spoke to anyone.

‘There's a fella downstairs says he knows you,’ Cath told him, smiling.

‘What's he look like?’ asked Nick, out of habit more than anything.

‘About your age, same height, dark hair. Looks sort of stuck up.’

Cameron. What was he doing here?

‘Do you want me to let him up?’ asked Cath.

‘I-’ Nick stopped, taking another drag of his cigarette, biting the tip of his finger and tasting the sharp tang of nicotine. Even if Cameron had given Nick all of the money he had been paid, even if he had feelings for Nick, did it matter? Nick did not have feelings for Cameron, not the Cameron who was downstairs in the bar – Nick had fallen for the act, for the shy man named David, who cooked roast dinners and called things lovely; Cameron Carmichael was cold, blunt, uncaring, and not who Nick wanted.

‘I don't want to see him,’ Nick told Cath quietly.

‘Him then, is it?’ Cath said knowingly. Nick nodded, and Cath started back into the pub.

‘Cath, wait,’ Nick called after her. He hopped up and leaned in through the window of his room, stretching out his arm until he caught hold of the bag of money in the corner, then on impulse he leaned over to the chair and grabbed the box with the cufflinks in. Dragging the bag out of the window, he opened it, snapping the box shut as he put it inside. ‘Give him this.’

Nick finished his cigarette after Cath had hobbled away with the bag, stubbing it out in the waterlogged ashtray by the edge of the roof. A few minutes later Cath reappeared, walking over to Nick and handing him a small velvet covered box.

‘He asked me to give you this,’ she said. ‘Were you two engaged?’

‘No,’ Nick said flatly, putting the box down at his side.

‘Shame when things don't work out, eh?’ Cath said sympathetically. ‘You coming downstairs after closing?’

‘Might do, might just go to bed.’

‘Well if you want something to eat then you let me know, Ali made steak and kidney pie.’

‘Thanks, Cath.’

‘I'd better get back, Jack is watching the bar and he can't pour Guinness to save his life.’

Picking up the box Cath had given him, Nick turned it over in his hands. He knew what was inside. It was the ring he had given Cameron on Valentine's Day. Somehow, even though he had bought it with an ulterior motive, having Cameron give it back to him hurt.

Visit the pawn shop tomorrow, get rid of it, thought Nick. He could use the money, could put it in the bank with what he had got from selling his things. Living frugally in the bedsit was only temporary, Nick was saving to go abroad; Spain probably, somewhere else, where he could make a proper life and forget the last three months.

Unlike the box he had given to Cameron, this one was pristine, as though it had not been touched at all the entire time Cameron had it. Nick huffed with dry amusement. Of course not; Cameron had not been sitting staring at the ring and wishing the person who had given it to him was there, was real. Cameron did not know Nick had not been acting when he had kissed him, touched him, told him-

Nick flipped the lid back to look at the ring, but instead of a ring the box contained a strip of paper, folded and tucked into the hole where a ring would normally go. He blinked at it in surprise, pulling it free with the tips of his fingers and unfolding it to read what it said.

Did I tell you Carmichael never fell for a mark?

‘What?’ Nick squeaked in upset.

This was just great. How perfect, how utterly, brilliantly perfect. The smug bastard could not resist one last jibe about how great his alter ego was, while Nick had lost everything and fallen for the mark at the same time. And Cameron knew.

The cold, unbelievably cruel-

‘Fuck you,’ Nick hissed through his teeth, scrunching the note in his hand and flinging the box angrily across the roof so it ricocheted off the wall and bounced away. His anger turning instantly to pain, Nick buried his head in his hands, sitting cross-legged with his elbows on his knees.

He heard footsteps coming from the kitchen, approaching him across the roof, and did not care. It was probably Cath or Ali coming for a smoke, they would leave him be, or sit and stroke his back silently until he calmed down.

Cath had done that before, the night he had burned all of his other names and stumbled upstairs with the crazy idea of burning the money, because maybe it would make him feel better than staring at it day after day, knowing where it came from and how much it had cost him. In his drunken state he had fallen out of the window when he tried to go outside for a cigarette, and lay on the roof with his head spinning, crying in misery and heartache. Cath had been sat at the patio table; she had walked over and comforted him in her soft, lilting voice, patting his back and telling him drink would not make it better.

A hand touched softly at Nick's hair, stroking gently and turning his thoughts back to the present, and Nick felt another hand on his shoulder, pulling him forward until he was pressed against a fine-suited chest.

‘I don't want the money,’ David's voice said quietly. ‘I want you.’

‘How did you find me?’ asked Nick, tensing as Cameron's arm slipped across his shoulder.

‘Your fixer friend is surprisingly persistent,’ Cameron told him.

‘Danny?’

‘If that's his name,’ said Cameron. ‘He called me, had some rather choice names for me I must say, sent me a file where you told him I'd broken your heart, and then told me where you were staying.’

‘I'm going to kill him when I see him,’ commented Nick. He did not move, did not look at Cameron, could not look at him and say what he knew he had to. ‘You should go.’

‘No,’ replied Cameron. Nick sighed, shook off Cameron's arms and stood up.

‘Why are you even here?’ he asked Cameron.

‘I came to, to tell you-’ Cameron got up and stepped toward Nick. He put his hand on Nick's shoulder, and Nick allowed himself to be pulled into a hug, but did not return it, instead resting his forehead on Cameron's chest. ‘I didn't know, I thought you were- That is we were both playing a part, weren't we.’

‘I wasn't pretending,’ mumbled Nick. ‘I fell in love with-’

‘So did I,’ said Cameron. ‘We can talk about it, can't we? If we both want the same thing.’

‘But I don't want you, Carmichael,’ sighed Nick. He shook his head, feeling sad, and put his arms around Cameron, moving so they were close together, then tried to explain. ‘I want David, my David, who- who- who is lovely. You're not him, you made him up. He's not even real.’

‘Of course he's real!’ came Cameron's whispered response. ‘Why do you think- I'm not quite that shy, I admit, but everything else, I wasn't pretending, Nick.’

Nick looked up, searching Cameron's face – the worried, hopeful frown, the way his mouth was tight with sadness, the blue eyes brimming with tears – and found he was not looking at Carmichael, nor Cameron, but David, sweet, lovely David, his David. He pulled David to him again, hugged him tight, pressing their cheeks together and sighing deeply.

‘You said you wanted rid of me,’ he said in David's ear as David wrapped his arms around Nick's waist.

‘I had to, I had to get you to leave. It was killing me that every time I touched you I knew you were only letting me because I was the mark. You never really wanted me.’

‘I always wanted you,’ whispered Nick. ‘I was so close to telling you everything and begging you to forgive me.’

‘We're a right pair, aren't we?’ David laughed softly, kissing Nick just in front of his ear.

Nick laughed too, nodding and smiling widely as he thought of the situation. Both of them stuck in similar quandaries and both feeling the same about each other. They stood for a while, shaking with amusement as they held each other, until Nick looked toward the kitchen and saw Cath's smiling face as she poked her head around the frame. She nodded at him and disappeared, and Nick stepped away from David.

‘How did you get upstairs?’ asked Nick, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

‘You'd be surprised what protective older ladies will agree to when you give them a hundred thousand pounds,’ David laughed quietly.

‘You gave my landlady a hundred grand just to see me?’

‘I would have paid twice that,’ David said plainly.

‘I think you were ripped off. I'm not worth that much,’ Nick chuckled. David smiled, lifting his hand to touch Nick's face.

‘You'd be a bargain at any price,’ he said as he pulled Nick close and kissed him.

Just Another Mark - Part Three

2015-07-13T18:28:27Z

SAVED CHAT LOG

Click'n'Fix has opened the chat [admin]
YellowBird has joined the conversation [invited]
Carmichael has joined the conversation [invited]
MoneyRunner has joined the conversation [invited]
[Click'n'Fix]: Everyone here?
[YellowBird]: Yep.
[Carmichael]: Yes.
[MoneyRunner]: I don't like my colour.
[YellowBird]: Oh Christ, here we go again.
[Carmichael]: Christ almighty, would you focus?
[MoneyRunner]: I don't want to be red.
[Click'n'Fix]: For heaven's sake. Here.
Click'n'Fix has changed the chat settings [admin]
[Click'n'Fix]: Better?
[MoneyRunner]: Not really.
[YellowBird]: The next time I see you, George, I'm giving you a slap.
[Carmichael]: Calm down, dear.
[MoneyRunner]: You wouldn't dare.
[YellowBird]: Oh wouldn't I?
[Click'n'Fix]: Can you guys knock it off for once?
[Click'n'Fix]: We're supposed to be planning!
[YellowBird]: Sorry.
[Carmichael]: Sorry.
[MoneyRunner]: Sorry.
MoneyRunner has left the conversation [chat window closed]
[YellowBird]: Where'd he go?
[Carmichael]: *has head in hands*
[Click'n'Fix]: I'll get him.
[YellowBird]: You shouldn't lie, Dave. Your head is nowhere near your hands. ;)
MoneyRunner has joined the conversation [invited]
[Carmichael]: You'd know, wouldn't you. ;)
[MoneyRunner]: Sorry, I pressed the wrong button.
[YellowBird]: You're sitting right next to me, I ought to know.
[MoneyRunner]: Are they flirting again?
[Click'n'Fix]: Aren't they always?
[YellowBird]: We're not!
[Carmichael]: No we aren't!
[Click'n'Fix]: *snorts*
[MoneyRunner]: Get a room!
[Carmichael]: We're in our room, thank you very much.
[YellowBird]: We might also be naked.
[MoneyRunner]: I don't need to know that!
[Carmichael]: We are not naked!
[YellowBird]: Says you.
[Click'n'Fix]: Don't make me call the guys next door!
[Click'n'Fix]: *is reaching for the phone*
[YellowBird]: Sorry! I'll behave!
[MoneyRunner]: That'll be the day.
[Carmichael]: *laughs*
[Click'n'Fix]: Can we please get on with it? Doctor Who is on in half an hour.
[MoneyRunner]: Oooh, did you see it last week?
[Carmichael]: Not now, please.
[Carmichael]: I have apple pie in the oven.
[YellowBird]: Smells lovely. :)
[Click'n'Fix]: Yes, last week was good.
[Carmichael]: Thanks, Nick. :)
[Click'n'Fix]: I'll PM you, George.
[Click'n'Fix]: Can we get on with it now?
[MoneyRunner]: Yes.
[YellowBird]: Yes.
[Carmichael]: Yes.
[Click'n'Fix]: Thank god for that!
[Click'n'Fix]: Did everyone get the phones?
[YellowBird]: Ours came yesterday.
[MoneyRunner]: I got a notice from the post office.
[MoneyRunner]: I'll pick it up tomorrow.
[Click'n'Fix]: Good. Nick, have you managed to get in touch with Ashdown?
[YellowBird]: I spoke to him earlier, he's on board. Jumped at the chance to work Peter over, funnily enough.
[Click'n'Fix]: Right, we still need someone to drive. Any ideas?
[YellowBird]: No, sorry.
[MoneyRunner]: Don't know anyone.
[Click'n'Fix]: What about you, Dave?
[Click'n'Fix]: Dave?
[YellowBird]: He's gone to get his pie out of the oven.
[Click'n'Fix]: I hope to god that's not some bizarre sex metaphor.
[MoneyRunner]: Hahaha!
[YellowBird]: We don't need metaphors, thanks.
[YellowBird]: If he was getting his cock out I'd just say so.
[MoneyRunner]: That's more information than I needed.
[Click'n'Fix]: Yes, I know you would.
[YellowBird]: Sorry, George.
[Carmichael]: You are a weird person, Danny.
[Carmichael]: Nick, stop talking about my cock.
[Click'n'Fix]: You're the one who's dating your mark.
[YellowBird]: Ex mark.
[YellowBird]: I wasn't talking about your cock, I was simply stating that if you were in fact getting it out, I would not make metaphors about it.
[Carmichael]: Living with him actually. Quite happily, I might add.
[MoneyRunner]: I've never seen him grin so often.
[MoneyRunner]: To tell the truth it's getting nauseating.
[Carmichael]: That's talking about my cock.
[Click'n'Fix]: Can you both stop talking about Dave's cock.
MoneyRunner has left the conversation [chat window closed]
MoneyRunner has joined the conversation [invited]
[Carmichael]: He's off again.
[MoneyRunner]: Sorry, did it again.
[MoneyRunner]: Have they finished arguing about Dave's cock yet?
[YellowBird]: Dave has a nice cock. Don't you, Dave?
[MoneyRunner]: He does have a nice cock, have to agree.
[Carmichael]: *has a nice cock*
[Carmichael]: When have you seen my cock, George?
[YellowBird]: ^^This question.
[Click'n'Fix]: CAN EVERYBODY PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT DAVE'S COCK!
[Click'n'Fix]: Dave, do you know anyone who can drive?
[Carmichael]: Try Gove, he'll either do it or know someone who can.
[YellowBird]: No, Danny. Not until George tells us when he saw it.
[MoneyRunner]: A few years back after we'd played tennis.
[MoneyRunner]: I didn't mean to see it. It was just sort of... there.
[Carmichael]: I'm not sure if I'm flattered...
[Click'n'Fix]: *is banging head on desk*
[YellowBird]: I'm not sure if I should be jealous...
[MoneyRunner]: Oh don't worry, Nick. I could have had him years ago.
[Carmichael]: You don't even like men!
[YellowBird]: I'm relieved then?
[MoneyRunner]: I could like men if I wanted.
[Carmichael]: It's not something you can pick like a jumper, George. You either do or you don't.
[Click'n'Fix]: I swear if you lot don't stop I'm going to hack your bank accounts or something.
GiveItAGove has joined the conversation [invited]
[YellowBird]: At least we've stopped talking about Dave's cock.
[Click'n'Fix]: Yes, thanks for that.
[GiveItAGove]: What on earth have I walked into?
[MoneyRunner]: No fair, how come he gets blue?
[Carmichael]: Everyone was just telling me I have a nice cock.
[Click'n'Fix]: I'm not changing the colour again, George.
[Click'n'Fix]: Not everyone.
[YellowBird]: Everyone except Danny was telling Dave he has a nice cock.
[MoneyRunner]: But why can't I be blue?
[GiveItAGove]: Is there a reason that I'm here, or did you just want an extra person for this cock flattering party?
[Click'n'Fix]: We're planning a job.
[GiveItAGove]: This is how you guys plan a job?
[YellowBird]: We're modern.
[Carmichael]: Is that what we're calling it now?
MoneyRunner has left the conversation [chat window closed]
[Click'n'Fix]: We can't plan it elsewhere.
[GiveItAGove]: So what is this job?
[YellowBird]: And George is off again...
[Carmichael]: We're working Peter.
MoneyRunner has joined the conversation [invited]
[MoneyRunner]: Sorry. I don't know why it keeps doing that.
[GiveItAGove]: Peter? Are you guys mad?
[GiveItAGove]: And how does that have anything to do with Dave's cock?
[GiveItAGove]: And fuck, I just reaslised. CARMICHAEL?
[GiveItAGove]: DAVE IS CARMICHAEL?
[YellowBird]: Danny started it.
[GiveItAGove]: I thought Carmichael was a myth.
[Carmichael]: *is not a myth*
[MoneyRunner]: Peter has nothing to do with Dave's cock. That was a tangent.
[Click'n'Fix]: How did I start it?
[YellowBird]: *is dating a myth*
[YellowBird]: Apparently.
[YellowBird]: [Click'n'Fix] said: I hope to god that's not some bizarre sex metaphor.
[Click'n'Fix]: I never mentioned his cock. You did.
[GiveItAGove]: Can someone just tell me what is going on?
[GiveItAGove]: With the job, not Dave's cock.
[MoneyRunner]: We're going to con Peter.
[Click'n'Fix]: We need a driver. Want in?
[GiveItAGove]: Oh yes, I want in!
[Click'n'Fix]: I'll PM you to give details. You'll need a clean phone for contact.
[MoneyRunner]: Danny, did you manage to get hold of that other guy, whatever his name was?
[Click'n'Fix]: Laws. Yes, he's in.
[GiveItAGove]: Laws? I thought he was out?
[Click'n'Fix]: He was for a while. Keep his name to yourself, no one knows he's back yet.
[Click'n'Fix]: We don't want Peter to hear.
[GiveItAGove]: Gotcha.
[MoneyRunner]: Where'd Dave and Nick go?
[Click'n'Fix]: Do you really need to ask?
[YellowBird]: We were busy, uh... Dave, a little help?
[Carmichael]: How did you ever become a conman? You're a terrible liar...
[Click'n'Fix]: Blame Ashdown.
MoneyRunner has left the conversation [chat window closed]
[GiveItAGove]: Does he do that often?
[Carmichael]: Yes, all the time.
[Click'n'Fix]: That and complain about not being blue.
[Click'n'Fix]: I should make him pink.
[YellowBird]: *snorts*
[GiveItAGove]: He'd explode or something.
[GiveItAGove]: Do it.
MoneyRunner has joined the conversation [invited]
[MoneyRunner]: Why does it keep doing that?
[Click'n'Fix]: Because you keep closing the window.
[YellowBird]: Just don't touch anything, George.
[Carmichael]: George, there's a little x in the top right corner. Stop clicking it, ffs.
[MoneyRunner]: I'm not! It just closes on its own!
[Click'n'Fix]: Someone tell me he's better with money?
[Carmichael]: He's better with money.
[YellowBird]: Just incompetent with computers.
[MoneyRunner]: I'm not!
[GiveItAGove]: Evidence doesn't really back you up there.
[MoneyRunner]: I'm telling you, it just closes on its own.
[MoneyRunner]: One second I'm typing and then the window is gone.
[YellowBird]: Dinner's ready. We're off.
[YellowBird]: Danny, call me with news if there is any.
[YellowBird]: We'll see you when you get to London next week.
YellowBird has quit the conversation [signed out]
Carmichael has quit the conversation [signed out]
[GiveItAGove]: Did Peter really set those two against each other?
[MoneyRunner]: Yes.
[Click'n'Fix]: Yes.
[GiveItAGove]: Backfired didn't it...
[Click'n'Fix]: Oh, he doesn't know how badly yet. ;)
[MoneyRunner]: Will soon though.
[GiveItAGove]: I can't wait.
[Click'n'Fix]: Doctor Who is starting. George, if you want to chat go to the DW room I told you about last week.
[MoneyRunner]: Right-o.
[GiveItAGove]: I'll let you know when I've got a clean phone, Danny.
MoneyRunner has quit the conversation [signed out]
[Click'n'Fix]: Thanks. I guess we'll all see you next week.
[GiveItAGove]: I guess so. Goodnight.
GiveItAGove has quit the conversation [signed out]
Click'n'Fix has quit the conversation [admin]

END CHAT LOG

Collections, Volume One - Until the Last Moment

2015-07-12T12:59:10Z

It's not that it's over - it's that it began in the first place.

That's the thing that really stings. That it had happened, despite his best efforts not to let it. The ending was expected, welcomed even, but the beginning - the soft, slow creep into a world he had no right in knowing about - that's the part which makes him feel empty.

The tightening of his heart in his chest is a necessary part of this, whatever this is. Regret? Maybe, but it feels deeper somehow, cuts more fiercely within, hurts more than any regret he has known before, or can imagine knowing in the future.

Grief? He doesn't think so.

There are no tears shed, no keening moans of a heart torn in two, only anger. A bitter fury that bites and tears and scars, until he feels like he hasn't a heart left with which to feel grief.

It's his own fault, of course. He could have said no, should have said no; refused quick captured moments and sly kisses, ignored the heated, woven thread of his desire. Dwelling on that fact won't make a difference, but somehow he can't move his thoughts away.

“We shouldn't be doing this.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No.”

The truth in that one word frightened him. “No.” Naked and unashamed, a perfect revelation of his longing. He wonders now how he'd ever found the courage to say it, to let it escape his lips and sigh into the room. When the mouth pressed to his own again he made no protest.

He learned to accept the limitations; it was, after all, the way things had to be. Always secret; hushed and carefully choreographed, at intervals of days, or weeks. Whenever time and privacy could be found.

He'd grown to expect it, like he expected fresh coffee when he woke, or the morning papers to be on his desk each day.

“David, could we talk privately for a moment?”

That same calm voice, the same carefully constructed sentence every time, and it always stopped his heart from beating, and he always replied:

“Of course, I'll be right there.”

Now it is over.

That shouldn't bother him, but it does. It does.

Never knowing that touch again; never feeling the quickening breath the touch causes; never holding on for just one more moment in his company, one more second of stolen bliss.

“How can you act like this has meant nothing?”

“Because it hasn't, David, I thought you understood that.”

There is the answer that chips at his chest and opens the well of his heart into a cavern. He'd like to say it meant nothing, he tells himself it didn't, but a voice inside answers more candidly than he will ever be able to: I thought you loved me. His mouth tangles on these words even as the door closes behind the retreating figure.

Those are the words that collapse his frame into the chair as the shuddering sobs force their way from his body and the tears sting his eyes into submission before escaping down his face. He presses his hands against the salty wetness, willing it to stop. It doesn't. The tears seep through his fingers and drip-drop to the floor below, blossoming outward through the carpet pile in fuzzy, flower-like circles. Miniature daisies of despair arranged in a floret of finality.

The knowledge this decision had been forced on him makes the tears fall harder. They flood from his eyes, washing over his hands and obliterating the delicate carpet bouquet, until there is nothing but a wet smudge.

How was he reduced to this?

To be weeping like a broken-hearted teenager in his own office, it's humiliating.

The anger wells again, then, like a sharpened dagger stabbing at his mind. It's enough to make him clench his hands into fists and say the words I hate you through his gritted teeth. Except he doesn't mean it, or maybe he does; he's too blinded by sorrow and too perilously close to something like heartbreak to know how he feels beneath it.

Does he hate Nick?

Does he love him?

Is it really the beginning or the ending that hurts the most?

It all seems too overwhelming. To plumb the depths of his emotions seems a task too great and difficult to achieve; and he is too weary, too heart-sore with the whole thing.

All this is keeping him from his work.

He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dries his eyes and face, and when George pops his head round the door twenty minutes later the only comment he makes is that David looks tired.

When he sees Nick again the pain of unshed tears returns, and David realises this will take a long time to heal. Every time Nick looks at him, every time he touches his shoulder - every casual conversation that comes and goes without the now expected sentence - is like a new wound over an old one that has yet to heal.

David bites his lower lip until the physical pain has drowned out all the heartache, because each fresh hurt stings just as violently as the first.