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David watches with a sense of relief as Tony strolls in. There’s no denying it - he far prefers dealing with Tony. Mo Mowlam is passionate, absolutely, knowledgeable about the Northern Irish situation, certainly, but she leans ever so slightly to the nationalist side, and her insistence on empathising with every single perspective grates on David’s nerves.
She just doesn’t truly understand the unionist position, precarious and complicated as it is.
Tony gives a polite greeting, David returns it, and the Prime Minister settles across from him, looking far too relaxed. They’re working on Strand Three of the agreement - Strand One, the actual government, is fucked, Strand Two, the North-South bodies, that’s fucked too, and don’t get David started on prisoner releases.
Strand Three, regarding British-Irish bodies might be okay, but it’s still a formidable mountain of work, every word layered and hampered with the weight of history and violence and fear.
But Tony’s not looking at the papers in front of them. He’s looking at David - in an unsettlingly direct way. His eyes are blue, David realises, and big. He’s got long eyelashes for a man.
David tells himself to shake it off. Tony is just comfortable, doesn’t understand the way we do things here. It’s fine.
He does, after all, like Tony well enough - he’s a little too slick for David’s tastes, but David genuinely trusts that Tony wants this done. He’s sharp, and obviously believes in the Northern Irish peace process. The others - well, Gerry keeps threatening to walk, John looks mildly suicidal, and Bertie is horrifically unhelpful.
David tries to pick up from where they left off, “Alright, so Strand Three - It won’t directly involve the Northern Irish Assembly, but we still have some concerns. We can start with…”
He fidgets slightly, but continues to talk, trying to focus on all the points they need to cover. He needs to get his perspective in first before Ahern does, this is important, but… Tony’s attention is a little too intense. He's watching David speak, perhaps not listening, and there’s a casual smile on his face, a hint of strange, lingering amusement.
But that’s how Tony is. He’s a bit weird and overzealous. It’s fine.
But then Tony reaches out, his fingers grazing David’s forearm, lingering just a moment too long. David’s breath catches in his throat, his body going rigid with confusion. What on earth is he doing?
It’s just an accident. It’s just an accident. But Tony’s hand doesn’t move away; instead, his fingers press a little more firmly, as though testing something, tracing a line down to David’s wrist.
David stiffens, unsure how to react, frozen by a mixture of disbelief and shock. “Tony,” he manages, his voice coming out strained with the effort of keeping it steady. “We should get back to the—”
“Oh, I think we’ll get there,” Tony interrupts smoothly, his voice dropping to a low, almost teasing tone. He leans closer, his eyes gleaming with a playful light that feels entirely inappropriate in the situation they are currently in. His fingers slide further, reaching for David’s knee, and David nearly jolts out of his chair. But the room’s too heavy, there’s this blanket of tension that is keeping him still, right where he is. He doesn’t move, barely flinches at all.
“Relax, David,” Tony murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips, his hand now firmly settled on David’s thigh, slowly inching upwards. David’s throat goes dry, his mind scrambling for some response that could dispel this surreal reality that cannot be true. Tony’s hands are slender but not feminine, and his grip isn’t light.
There is no way this is happening. This happens to… Young women working as secretaries with sleazy businessmen. Not like this.
Tony’s fingers drift upwards, the pressure growing slightly more insistent, and David’s heart pounds, his face heating as he struggles to keep his voice steady. “Jesus, Tony, stop that.” He tries to put a little force behind his words, but they come out unsteady, they wobble a little, and Tony pounces on the weakness.
He chuckles softly, as if this were all just a harmless jest. “Oh, come on, David,” he says, his tone infuriatingly light, his hand still resting where it absolutely shouldn’t be. “You’re taking this all too seriously.” He leans in, his breath brushing against David’s ear, sending an involuntary shiver through him.
David’s mind screams at him to do something — to push Tony’s hand away, to tell him off, to say anything — but he’s frozen, his body betraying him in his shock.
David doesn’t actually know what he was supposed to do here, whether he’s supposed to laugh Tony off or shove him away to get him to stop. There’s no guidebook on this, and all of David’s experience as a seasoned politician in the worst of times leaves him no better equipped to deal with an exceedingly forward and apparently homosexual Prime Minister.
“You’re always so tense,” Tony says, and he's almost laughing, laughing at David - “What, is it the bomb threats?”
The comment is so left-field it finally shocks David into action, and he stands up abruptly, and then forces a horribly false-sounding chuckle, and stammers, “No, no, just…”
Tony doesn't seem surprised, as he stands too, looking at David with the glint of something predatory in his eyes. His hands find David’s shoulders, and David can feel his warm breath ghosting the skin of his throat as he leans in.
Tony’s hand moves to his lower back, and David;s stomach drops as the Prime Minister’s fingers slip, inching down toward the back pocket of his trousers. His entire body tenses, disbelief and mortification twisting his insides. This can’t be real. This is some sick dream.
Tony’s smile is maddeningly nonchalant, as if he weren’t blatantly ignoring every boundary that could be reasonably expected in negotiations regarding the current war that is going on. “Come on,” he murmurs, his fingers slotting into David’s back pocket, pressing down in a way that felt disturbingly possessive. He pulls David closer, and David doesn’t pull away, only winces.
His mouth opens, but no words come out. His face burns, his mind racing with a frantic chant: This is insane, he’s the Prime Minister, this isn’t happening. And yet, Tony’s hand is still there, his grip firm, as if he - as if he intends to keep David right where he is, in this strange gay embrace that is most unbecoming of two men in senior political roles.
Then, a loud knock breaks through the haze, echoing sharply through the room. David’s head jerks toward the door, his heart hammering with a surge of desperate relief. Tony’s hand slips away in an instant, his expression transforming back to one of professional ease as he sat back, crossing his arms as though nothing had happened. He doesn’t so much as glance at David, his demeanour entirely composed.
David’s saviour is here, in the form of the Prime Minister of the Irish Free State, smiling tiredly and with a North Dublin accent, charming in its distinction - “Do ye want some tea?” He glances between them, genial, unaware of whatever the fuck has just transpired between David and Tony.
David can barely manage to meet Bertie’s eyes, his mind still reeling from the encounter. “I—yes,” he stammered, his voice thick with a mixture of embarrassment and relief. “Yes, tea would be… tea would be good.” He clears his throat, trying to keep his hands from shaking as he straightens himself, determined to regain some semblance of composure. Bertie raises his eyebrows at him, but let nobody say that David’s manners are anything but impeccable, even after… that.
Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “I could’ve sworn it was David’s turn to do the tea run,” he says smoothly, his voice maddeningly calm, not a trace of guilt or shame in his tone.
David, feeling Bertie’s gaze on him again, stammers, his face heating further under the Irish Prime Minister’s curious scrutiny. “I… I’ll help you, Bertie,” he manages, forcing a tight smile, desperate to put distance between himself and Tony. He needs to get out. He has to get out, or else it’ll happen again.
Bertie nods but says nothing, turning to lead David out of the room. As they walk down the hallway, David kept his gaze fixed forward, his mind racing, trying to process the absurdity of what had just happened. He actually—Tony actually… He shakes his head, feeling his cheeks burn hotter.
In the quiet of the corridor, Bertie glances at him, a faintly amused look on his face. “Rough negotiations, was it?” he asks, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
David’s mouth goes dry as he attempts to spit out an answer, but all he can muster is a shaky nod. “You… could say that.”
Bertie chuckles softly. “You should’ve seen him with Gerry, earlier. He kept getting louder as Gerry’s voice was getting softer and you could tell how much it was pissing him off.”
David almost chokes on a laugh, his embarrassment giving way to something darker, but he forces himself to respond with a polite, strained smile. “I can imagine.”
Back in the room, Tony has already gathered his notes, looking as casual and unruffled as ever. David can feel the heat rise in his face again as he enters the room, the memory of Tony’s hand lingering on him like an uncomfortable shadow. David keeps his head down, taking his seat with stiff composure, avoiding Tony’s gaze altogether.
Bertie, blissfully unaware, takes his place and begins discussing the finer points of the North-South Ministerial Council. David nodded along, giving only terse replies, trying to centre himself in the normalcy of policy discussion. Tony, for his part, joins in with that same easy confidence, as though he hadn’t spent the past several minutes utterly disregarding the boundaries of professionalism and pawing at David with a certain arrogance that makes his skin crawl.
As they wrap up the discussion, with David having left out some of his own points to get this done quicker, Bertie stretches, setting his empty teacup down with a look of satisfaction. “Well, gentlemen, I think that’s a solid start. Some fine points to work out, but good progress.”
Tony offers a friendly smile, glancing briefly at David, who refuses to meet his gaze. “Good work, everyone. Looking forward to the next steps.”
David forces a polite nod, gathering his papers with stiff hands, his mind still racing with what had just transpired. He mutters a farewell, not sparing Tony another glance, and excused himself hastily, leaving the room with his heart pounding in his chest.
In the quiet solitude of the hallway, David finally lets out a shaky breath, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of confusion, anger, and mortification. This is madness, he thinks, the memory of Tony’s touch burning in his mind. Completely insane.
And - And David liked Tony. Even though he’s a Labourite and a little bit sleazy, David genuinely liked Tony and thought he was trustworthy, thought he might really care about Northern Ireland, thought that there was a sliver of a chance they could make this work.
He doesn’t know how he’ll face Tony again.
||| EPILOGUE |||
It’s been ten - fifteen years. It’s all the same, he’s never mentioned it to anyone. He’s changed now, because he’s had to; Vicky is her own woman, with her own ways of doing things, and David just has to accept that because he loves her.
But when he sees Tony, he smiles at him, all fucking teeth, like the Spitting Image puppet. They’re both older now, and David thought that would make it better, but it doesn’t. Because Tony still leers, somehow, and David feels as helpless as a child, even though he’s almost seventy, and says, “You look well, David.”
David forces a polite smile, and says, “As do you. How’s retirement treating you?” Because that’s easy, innocent small-talk that David knows he has to do, but he can hear the shake in his own voice, and he sees the way Tony scrunches his face up, just a little, as though he enjoys the way David has tensed now.
Tony doesn’t do anything, because David keeps a hold of Daphne, who gladly sticks with him. He can’t do anything as long as he’s not alone with Tony, as long as there’s someone else.
And there is someone else, now, though there wasn’t ten - fifteen years ago.
It’s all the same.