Chapter Text
All is quiet in the Department for Social Affairs and Citizenship. Not because things are running smoothly (as Fergus knows that would be far too fucking easy), but due to the usual advisors being away at some Number 10 mandated meeting or training workshop or something else that Fergus had just nodded at when Adam mentioned it. Peter Mannion, the smug prick, had grinned at the freedom from the angel and devil on his shoulders and barricaded himself in his office. Well, he shut the door, and Fergus has no qualms at keeping that state of existence for as long as possible. Halle-fucking-lujah is his official comment.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor doesn’t cause Fergus any concern, not even to look up from staring blankly at his computer screen. People walk past all the time; offices are a pain like that. Glaring at his photo on the party website and wishing he had the power to make somebody change it is taking up far too much of his time.
‘FER-GUS!’
Mary Drake’s dulcet tones ring out, from Peter’s office it sounds like. Fergus gives one last glance at the awkward pose and pained facial expression that greets the three pensioners who’ve ever stumbled across his page on the website, and leaves for whatever he’s about to be subjected to.
Outside Peter’s office door, Fergus fiddles with his tie like a schoolboy called before the headmaster, an apt comparison considering that is exactly what he feels like. Mary has been appearing around the department too often, a pest they can’t get rid of ‘until DoSAC steps up to the A game’ as she likes to chant, aggressively, in the face of Peter. Adam and Fergus exchange looks whenever this happens. Raised eyebrows, in sync after a few years of practice. Fergus likes these unconscious moments, though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone. Camaraderie, he tells himself.
‘Ah, Fergus, so lovely for you to join us,’ Mary says as he walks in. She has her ‘I’ll sound calm and happy whilst I twist your balls politically’ voice on, which does not bode well. Nobody even knows why she spends so much time at DoSAC, but they have learnt to interpret her tones and mannerisms. Peter grins in triumph at passing the baton over to his junior minister. The glee of Tucker’s departure lasted only a few weeks, and since then Peter has clearly been searching for new ways to laugh at other cunts’ expenses. Especially Fergus’.
‘Mary,’ he replies curtly. Fucking get on with it, he thinks.
‘As I was just saying to Peter here, we’re looking for a volunteer. Well, more of a pushed volunteer by this point, but we wouldn’t tell the press about that adjective, of course.’
Fergus nods, wondering if somebody has to do a charity swim, freeze their bollocks off in the Thames or, heaven forbid, the Channel. Channel swim for governmental loyalty: JB would be fucked.
‘The PM needs a lovable, fluffy opinion, something modern and friendly and not mentioning the word “cuts” in any way at all.’ Mary smiles, with a slight evil twist that Fergus is relatively sure has stepped up a level since those backbench party fucknuts started complaining that JB was being too much of a nancy liberal. ‘And he has settled upon equal marriage.’
Fergus gasps out loud. The expelled air hisses round the room and meets Peter’s equivalent gasp. Equal marriage has so far been the equivalent of hypothetical plans made with an irritating acquaintance: mentioned in a placating style, but hollow and unlikely to be brought up again, even if they try and steer the subject towards it.
‘And you need a volunteer to announce this false shit because nobody will believe JB’s shiny face without seeing their own boredom reflected back?’ Peter pipes up, rolling his eyes. Fergus wishes he could snigger, but their animosity runs far too deep for that.
‘Actually, no. Actions speak louder than words,’ Mary states, which would have far more meaning if it wasn’t both her catchphrase and already a cliché before she’d adopted it.
‘Must be pretty loud actions to beat the sound of your voice,’ says Peter in a stage whisper. Fergus, however, holds back on the comments because he is working out the meaning beneath her words.
‘You mean-’ he starts, stammering slightly under her gaze. A politician that handles pressure badly: almost a joke, if it wasn’t so common in Westminster.
‘Yes, Fergus. Are you willing to reflect the diversity of the modern day party, and of modern day society?’ He stares back in disbelief. ‘Not forever. Find someone, someone male of course, announce your engagement and make speeches about your desire to get married like everybody else. Give it some time, be seen by paparazzi being boring and happy, and then you can quietly break up. Pressures of the spotlight and the job or whatever shit they need to be told. Oh look, we’re the good guys suddenly!’
Mary’s voice actually gets louder as she concludes, spinning her little sales pitch into some saving the party bullshit. Fergus knows it won’t go as swimmingly as she’s just described, but before he has a chance to think on it further, she takes a step closer, lines appearing on her face.
‘You will say yes, won’t you Fergus? Unmarried, young, political nothing: you are the real face of the coalition.’
She smiles to herself. Behind her, Peter is sniggering from his desk. Probably for the first time in his life, thanking fuck he’s married, Fergus later decides, but at this point he has no time for deciding. No decisions but one ill-considered word, accompanied by sweating palms and a lack of realisation about what he has gotten himself into.
‘Okay.’
-
Adam isn’t sure he knows enough expletives to get across his disbelief.
‘You did fucking what? Christ on a fucking tandem, Fergus you twat. This isn’t some fucking policy launch, a one off “look like an awkward cunt whilst the press give you new nicknames based on the pile of shit you’re trying to sell to them”, this is a fucking life decision.’
‘It’ll only be for a bit,’ Fergus retorts, fiddling with a paperclip on his desk. Adam itches to take the paperclip off him, tell him nervous twitches won’t help, but he doesn’t. Let him panic, if it makes him realise what he’s signed up for: saving those posh wankers from utter alienation of the people whilst digging their own grave with inevitable faux pas from the less media savvy members of the party. The poster boy for ‘no, we’re not homophobic, we have gay marriage in action’. Could be career suicide, but, Adam thinks, on the other hand, could give Fergus the sympathy card in a coalition seen as heartless automatons.
And suddenly, as the protective advisor side slips, he realises what this means.
‘Wait,’ says Adam, ‘who’re you getting engaged to? Your secret boyfriend?’
Fergus laughs nervously, at least five shades higher pitched than normal. Fucking hell, Adam’s never seen someone look so uncomfortable at the word ‘boyfriend’, especially not considering they’re about to fake having one. He takes this in whilst his mind races, wondering who on earth out of Fergus’ list of friends would accept to do such a thing. Over half of Fergus’ male friends, Adam knows (some with a more intimate knowledge than others), are gay or bi, but most are in relationships, and the rest are probably not big enough fans of the government to get into a faux engagement for them. Not many people are big enough fans of anything for that. Adam feels a surge of jealousy at whoever it is, instinctive jealousy that he is not surprised by.
‘I was wondering,’ starts Fergus, in his real tone of nervous asking rather than the fake one he uses with Terri, the one that usually ends with him shouting at her to do her fucking job and Adam giving her a two fingered gesture behind her back whilst they giggle like schoolboys. Adam waits out Fergus’ silence, believing he knows what is coming. He’ll say yes, of course he will, because he’s only casually sleeping with Christian and he’s sure that he claiming he had a secret boyfriend, now fiancé, won’t be that much of a shock. What if he’s wrong, he panics as Fergus still doesn’t finish his sentence, what if Adam isn’t the most trusted option for a sham engagement, what if Fergus wants to fake-marry someone else? There’s no clear etiquette for how long after someone’s fake-break-up you can kill the cunt they were fake-engaged to, probably with garden shears and a focus on the smaller appendages first. Fergus finally clears his throat and continues.
‘-if you’d do it?’
-
The first step is coming to terms with what you must do or, in Fergus’ case, learning how to say the words ‘I want to be able to marry my boyfriend’ without turning a shade of maroon that makes Adam crack up laughing. His love life has always been interspersed with a lot of turning shades of red, awkward stammering and uncertainty; now, he just has to turn that into something that seems adorable rather than pathetic, or worse, embarrassed. Fergus cannot be embarrassed.
That initial hurdle cleared, or at least stumbled over like the unfit kid forced to do athletics, it is time for Fergus to be unleashed upon the world in his new role as ambassador for equal marriage, slowly at first because nobody, not even Fergus himself, is sure how he’s going to act in the spotlight. Start simple: telling people in the office, organising the speech and press conference to announce his support of the policy. It’s the day before said press conference, making it time to tell the world, if DoSAC was the world. The PM’s sticking the equal marriage support into his speech this afternoon, like a tasty friendly filling to an otherwise smug and charmless ramble, giving Fergus a whole night afterwards to read over the mocking of the government’s sudden claim to progressive views before he has to say anything in public.
Reluctantly he leaves his dining table, spooning a final pile of Shreddies (not Shredded Wheat, because no matter how hard he tries he knows they’re just not as good as Shreddies) into his mouth as he stands. Milk leaps from the spoon and ends up down his tie. Fucking typical. Not wanting to be late, he does nothing but chuck the bowl into the sink, running cold water into it because he’s not coming home tonight. Adam rather wisely pointed out that it probably should seem like they spent the night before the public announcement of their engagement together, quite insistently suggested that Fergus stay over in his spare room, and Fergus agreed, knowing he needs every spare detail he can get.
The car’s waiting outside. He sits fiddling with his shirt cuffs as it drives through the morning traffic towards DoSAC. This is the easy bit, he reminds himself. Adam will be there, writing most of his speech for him in true ex-journalist style, and only Peter and his bickering advisors know the truth in the department. Others in the higher echelons of government must also know his soon-to-be-common-knowledge relationship is a sham, those Mary Drake has told in fake hushed tones because she has designs on taking over as M in the Bond films after Judi Dench, but they need Fergus’ sacrifice more than he does. Their very image of tolerance is on the line. Since Tucker’s fall from grace, or rather his plummet into a vat of shit stirred round by everyone in Westminster, it has been a battle to seem trustworthy, kind, the good side of politics to his darkness. Equal marriage is their hope; if, that is, Fergus can pull off being the common touch, the link to reality rather than the vague abstractions JB usually talks in.
‘How’s the top governmental lackey feeling?’ Adam asks with a grin the second Fergus walks into his office. He’s waiting, sitting in an armchair with a folder that looks ominously like something Mary will have brought round.
‘Pretty good, because I’m getting credit for this, whereas you are just my coincidental fiancé,’ replies Fergus, dumping down the three bags he’s had to carry from the car. ‘Don’t fucking tell me that’s more orders from Commander Drake?’
‘Exactly that. Look on the bright side: Phil nearly dropped all his Barbies when he realised we get special deliveries from her.’
Despite his fear of what her instructions are this time, Fergus is pleased with this news: Phil will flap around like someone cancelled one of his favourite fucking TV shows, then will tell Peter amidst panicked breathing and attempts to reference outdated musicians. If there’s anything better than sending Phil into a tailspin of envy, it’s getting one over on Peter.
The day progresses well at first. The folder contains handwritten notes about what the PM is likely to say in his speech, how Fergus could play off that, and what he must avoid saying. Adam rolls his eyes as he reads the bullet points aloud. Emma comes in to check up on a policy document and leaves with the question ‘are you two fake-engaged yet or have you got to set the mood, light some candles and put on your special song first?’. Adam retorts with ‘oh fuck off back to bitchville’, but it is clear his heart isn’t in it, even though he and Emma tend to do the mocking every day like clockwork. Today, they have a more important job to do. Fergus needs to spread his news around the office before JB’s speech, so that it appears well-timed if not coincidental, rather than forced.
Kicked out of his own office by Adam until he’s told at least five people, Fergus stammers his way through saying ‘I’m engaged’ to a confused looking member of communications who just nods and leaves without asking who to. There wasn’t even anybody around to overhear, he laments, when usually DoSAC is full of gossip-vultures, ready to air the shitty laundry of any poor twat who is foolish enough to let anything slip. He slips between desks, wondering if he could pass a note around the room, when he realises the solution was staring him in the face. Well, more accurately, the solution’s bright pink ensemble was staring him in the face.
Terri breaks off from her conversation with Robin as Fergus approaches, looking like she’s been handed a lifeline (which Fergus resents doing, but desperate times).
‘Terri, I need to tell you something,’ Fergus states. She waits, watching him, in all likeliness expecting to be told she has to do more work (he wouldn’t’ve been so polite if so). ‘I’m engaged.’
‘That’s nice, dear.’
Terri gives him a patronising look, like he just told her he’d made a picture out of macaroni, and turns to walk away, probably wishing she’d continued talking to Robin.
‘To Adam.’
Terri halts.
‘Adam Kenyon?’ she asks as she turns back.
‘No, somebody fucking else called Adam that we both know. Yes, Adam Kenyon.’
‘Well, that is interesting,’ says Terri in her I’m pretending to be casual but really I’m about to send a memo round the office with caps lock and too many exclamation marks voice. ‘Are you sure?’
Fergus stares in confusion. ‘What?’
‘Just...you two struck me as “the awkward boys who won’t admit their feelings” type,’ she admits, pulling a face usually seen on politicians forced to admit something in the spotlight. Fergus should know; he’s been there.
‘Well, we’re not,’ says Fergus, a shade too aggressive. ‘We’re the fucking get married type.’
‘Or just the fucking type?’ Robin pipes up. Fergus hadn’t even realised she was listening. He turns a shade of red barely better than maroon, which luckily, it appears, they take as embarrassment that he is discussing his sex life in public. As if he’d have sex with Adam, he thinks. As if. Adam wouldn’t even want to have sex with him. It is only a few minutes later, having left Terri and Robin to spread the news around DoSAC without him having to strip down and run through the office with ‘I’m engaged to Adam’ emblazoned on his chest, that he notices the sharp jab of annoyance he felt at that final thought.
Hours later, Fergus trails back to his office after a final meeting with Mary, because she apparently has as much faith in him as she would in a trained dog doing the same thing. Perhaps less, because trained dogs are probably obedient twats, like those fuckers on Crufts that can line dance. Adam looks up from his laptop, sitting on the office sofa as he has been for pretty much all the day.
‘Final draft of the speech seems to be a-okay. Home?’
‘Right. Together?’
‘Of fucking course. We’re engaged.’ Adam smirks. ‘If you’re lucky I’ll even make you pre-speech breakfast tomorrow.’
‘Knew there was a reason I was marrying you.’
Fergus only hopes he can sound as confident in the speech tomorrow. For a second, just a fleeting moment, it had felt easy to say.
-
Adam wakes up ten minutes before his alarm and glares into the gloom of his monochrome bedroom. He has written the speech, coached Fergus on body language whilst they watched a shitty Channel 4 documentary the night before, and can do nothing else, as it is not possible to hold his hand through the actual speech. Technically, it might add some bite, but it would probably make Fergus explode with embarrassment from the first touch, so best not. Anything to get through the speech, get out the announcement and the support for the policy that JB announced, to a remarkable lack of mockery, the day before (Adam’s theory currently is that they are waiting to see if the government fucks up, comes across as even more bigoted than before, before really laying into them).
He does as he promised and makes Fergus breakfast, eggs benedict that a one night stand at university taught him the next morning before they never saw one another again. On his nice white plates it looks far more impressive than it is, or so Adam assumes from Fergus’ awestruck expression.
After their first car journey to work together (Adam assumes he ought to make some hints that it isn’t the first, however, but they were merely good at hiding it before), they arrive at DoSAC to the chorus of one nosy, peering Terri Coverley and a couple of more lowly civil servants standing behind her like cronies. Barely anyone else is in the department yet; Adam guesses Peter is sulking at home for not being centre of attention.
Fergus paces round his office like a caged tiger, muttering phrases from the speech under his breath like shit enchantments, so Adam goes to make tea in the very picture of domesticity (and because Fergus doesn’t seem to know where the office tea comes from). The DoSAC mug selection gives him pause for thought, with offensive-slogan-emblazoned ones lurking behind the regimental department logo set, sniggering to himself as he picks the ‘I’m a twat’ one for Fergus. The man needs to lighten up, Adam thinks, or his speech will come across like one of those fucking films about the heartwarming robot that finds love but can only express it in a creepy fucking mechanical voice. Coming out of the mouse hole that houses the kettle, he nearly walks into Emma.
‘Bride getting cold feet?’ she asks with a grin. ‘Cup of tea and reminder that it’s the happiest day of his life?’
‘What are you doing to help the coalition stay in power? Oh, that’s right, fuck all, except making sure Peter doesn’t fall down a time crack to his natural habitat as a Victorian factory owner crushing orphans with his walking stick,’ Adam replies.
Underneath it all, he admires Emma in some ways. Opportunistic, wrapped in layers of snarkiness and a talent for spotting where the words should hit: familiar territory to him. Their banter is harsh, because that is how they play. One major area in which they differ, however, is in loyalties: Adam’s is to Fergus now, a stumble into politics not quite as much planned as considered and suddenly enacted, whereas Emma is not loyal to Peter, but to her own ambition. Adam’s ambition took a nose dive whilst at the Mail’s night desk; he was surrounded by such fucking morons, battling confused stories and aims, that the definite goal of advising Fergus was a welcome relief, despite the hard work.
Tea forced into Fergus’ hands, Adam looks over stuff for the next few days, the preemptive fallout countering and the reinforcing the message of the progressive, kind government. Political point scoring: marriage ain’t so sacred any more. Adam works on through Fergus’ panic, which the tea is doing little to abate, because now he’s committed to this policy and this sham personally, he’s not letting anything be second rate.
Finally, when Fergus’ muttering starts gaining a tune and it seems likely he might do the entire speech in the style of a classic musical, Adam stands up and strides over. He grabs Fergus by the wrists forcefully, but his tone when he speaks is relatively quiet.
‘Stand still.’
Fergus looks at him like a skittish animal.
‘Breathe. You make speeches all the time. This is no different.’
Fergus looks like he’s about to argue, but changes his mind. Adam is glad, as he’s convincing himself at the same time. No big deal, people get fake-engaged to the best friend they’re also slightly attracted to all the time.
‘You’ll be there, right?’ Fergus asks instead, looking away.
‘Of course.’ He pauses, lets the reassurance sink in, then adds, ‘it’s my engagement announcement too.’
No need to sound too sentimental after all. Marriage is sentimental enough as it is. He steps away, Fergus seeming calmer, and looks over the plan for later one last time. The speech is being made in the building’s huge lobby, on the grounds that it would make it look more like a reception party than a political announcement, complete with nibbles to pretend Fergus didn’t just tie in a major life announcement with a governmental change of direction. Fergus must stand on the stage, say his words in a relaxed and unembarrassed manner, then circulate with Adam until journalists have got bored of staring at them and mentally thinking up adjectives for the reports, and have left for more scandalous news elsewhere.
His phone buzzes. A text from Emma, which he opens, assuming it is gloating about how likely Fergus is to fuck up.
speech bingo?
A game that initiated as Emma’s mockery whilst Phil looked on, confused, turned into a full-blown competition between Adam and her, in which they predict Fergus’ gestures and tics of speech when he addresses the public. Adam considers the alternative (standing alone wringing his hands to resist the temptation to either grab Fergus off stage if he messes up or throttle anyone who takes the announcement negatively) and replies in the affirmative.
-
‘You did the swimming-through-custard arms,’ Emma calls out gleefully as he leaves the small stage erected for his speech, but Fergus is not listening. His head is screaming to go to Adam, but not because of the plan. The carefully expounded plan, highlighted in garish yellow by Mary when she came over on one of her many trips to check up on DoSAC, left his brain about the point that he said in full media-mode, ‘I have an announcement’.
The press are surging forward, not in a mob like the end of a court case but in the politely hounding way acceptable at such events. A few stragglers hang back, probably waiting for later to drop a nasty question Fergus’ way, and out of the corner of his eye as he gestures as the hacks to let him past, he sees Angela Heaney chatting to Emma. It is confusing, as he had thought she’d left journalism.
Fergus is finding it difficult to focus on the more pressing issues, but Adam’s look snaps him back. It is not a congratulatory look, nor a ‘well done my fiancé’ fake smile, but one Fergus thinks he recognises as annoyance. By the point he’s almost deciphered the look, they are in front of one another. People have left a space around them, perhaps expecting an argument. Fergus is not sure why they would, considering what he just announced.
‘Very good,’ says Adam loudly, but the emphasis on the consonants does not agree, and sure enough, he follows it up with a hiss under his breath. ‘Do you want this to fucking work?’
Fergus throws him a hurt glance, but says brightly, ‘Do you want to get a drink?’. Nearby journalists hear and already their eyes dart towards the table of sparkling water and orange juice, the makings of a midday announcement. They will pounce the second Fergus has chosen his soft drink, which gives little time to whisper back and get a suitable response.
‘Of course I do.’
Adam ignores this answer, instead picking up a glass of San Pellegrino (they used to opt for Highland Spring, but either through pretentiousness or a hope of avoiding Malcolm Tucker’s Scottish connections, the department recently switched brands). To anybody else, they are having a personal moment after the announcement of their engagement, before sharing preprepared, hollow stories with the press. To Fergus, who knows that Adam does not like sparkling water (‘why’s it fucking everywhere, it’s just water with bubbles?’), it is avoidance, and it is the promise that there is more to come, too much for a hushed conversation over a drinks table. He picks up an identical glass and turns to face the people. The poster boy for the government’s progressive stance must be seen to enjoy it.
-
Finally, the only people left are DoSAC employees and journalists so low down the food chain that they will linger until it is certain there is no additional sentence or two to be wrenched out of the event, possibly with a pair of pliers. Adam knows the sort: probably write for something exclusively online, desperate to get given any assignment, but too terrified to have an actual stance on the story in question. They will scribble down, or indeed furiously type, how cheerful and friendly Fergus Williams MP was as he greeted guests, as if this happiness will reflect well upon them. Phil’s left to trail after Peter checking that he doesn’t need a biscuit or someone to kiss his arse, but Emma’s still around; ostensibly, Adam knows, to watch over the event for Mary, who has taken a liking to Emma perhaps like a predator notices which scavengers would make good followers, but she’s actually standing talking to Angela again.
(Adam’s not questioning why Angela’s there, despite knowing she’s only working freelance as a journalist at the moment whilst she writes a book Adam is fairly certain will only just escape libel prosecutions, because he knows Emma invited her so they could see the shambles that would be Fergus’ announcement. Angela was never meant to know the truth. Unfortunately, her ability to read Adam like a book, an aftermath of their friendship formed over the war zone of the Mail, and also being the girlfriend of Emma ‘no political conscience’ Messinger meant that she found out, although did agree to secrecy when Adam confronted her, with an unnerving, knowing look that he’s not yet uncovered the meaning of.)
Adam pulls at Fergus’ arm insistently, hoping to convey ‘we need to talk’ without actual talking. The junior minister utters some closing pleasantries to those around him and follows Adam out of the lobby and into the lift. Trapped in the rising metal prison, he will have to listen.
‘Are you trying to fuck it all up?’ snaps Adam as the lift starts to move. He is attempting to be calm.
‘No,’ replies Fergus defensively.
‘Well stop acting like the fucking nervous kid at the school nativity play then, about to piss his pants in embarrassment because he’s playing Mary.’
‘That only happens at boys’ school.’
There’s a pause, in which Adam considers punching him, before realising how pathetic it’d make Fergus look. He can’t do that to him.
‘You said the word “boyfriend” like it was an oath to fucking Satan, burning a cock onto your tongue instead of a pentagram,’ Adam continues instead. ‘If you were planning on fucking up being Mary Drake’s bitch, you could’ve at least left me out of it. Now, if they see through you, they’ll come after me too, like we’re partners in a shit bank heist. See the men who co-opted same sex marriage for their careers and laugh at how fucking awful they are.’
‘They won’t. It wasn’t that-’
‘-bad? It was. If you fucking keep that up, they’ll be calling you homophobic by the end of the week.’
Fergus fiddles with his tie, which always drives Adam insane.
‘But I’m not-’
‘-homophobic?’ The lift pings as they hit the right floor. ‘You’d better fucking not be, you’re engaged to a man.’ Adam steps out, not quite ashamed of the dramatic flair that leads him to turn back to face Fergus, still in the lift. ‘And that man is me.’