FIC: In Another Life, Part Two
Mar. 3rd, 2011 01:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
abluestockingTitle: In Another Life (Part Two)
Ship(s): Yvette Cooper/Ed Balls; Yvette Cooper/Ed Miliband; Ed Balls/Ed Miliband; Ed Balls/Andy Burnham; surprise pairings; other minor pairings hinted or implied
Word Count: 10,241 in this part, 28,484 overall
Rating: NC-17, for strong language and sexual situations
Warnings: Explicit sex (both homosexual and heterosexual), pretend dub-con.
Summary: In parallel realities, three Yvettes try to stay sane and solve a mystery.
Author's Note: Title is, of course, borrowed from Vienna Teng's lovely song of the same name.
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. It is true that real-person fiction is of dubious legality - if you are one of the persons named within, or know one of them, please bear in mind that stories such as this are written for entertainment value only, in full knowledge that they are not based in truth, and that ultimately they are a labor of love; also, if you are one of these people, stop reading immediately and go run the country.
If you missed it, here is Part One.
universe three
Yvette ground her teeth in frustration, pacing the length of her office. Twelve hours. Twelve fucking hours, and John hadn’t picked up a single lead. Intellectually, she knew that two or three days was the usual timeframe, but knowing what she knew, every moment seemed to stretch into an hour. If only Gove was able to help, she thought. Or if only Parliamentary law - as laid down in the secret volume of Erskine May - didn’t limit the number of trained magicians to two, to protect the realm without risking the very real possibility of extraneous apprentices turning Dark or becoming entrepreneurs. (Although occasionally self-taught entrepreneurs did spring up, despite the best efforts of Erskine May. Yvette had always suspected Peter Mandelson, personally.)
The only time she’d been able to forget her worries, this whole long day, was in Shadow Cabinet, and that had been over far too soon. Ed had tried to draw her aside, afterward, but she’d escaped by telling him that she was in the middle of something urgent back at her office. Husband issues were not something she wanted to deal with at the moment. Particularly husband issues which she had probably just complicated to hell with her outburst in Shadow Cabinet. She felt a twinge of regret – when she did get back to her own universe, the Yvette from this one was still going to be dealing with the situation she’d exploded – but shrugged it off. It had needed to be done, and they’d be the better for it.
Damn it, there she went again, thinking of “when” she got back to her own universe. Unless John pushed through his exhaustion and got a move on, there might not be a link left. How she’d cope if that happened, she wasn’t quite sure. She hadn’t worked as hard as she had all her life to end up in a parallel where she wasn’t Leader, didn’t have kids, and was stuck playing second fiddle to a soft-spoken Ed Miliband. And that was leaving aside the fact that he was apparently her husband. She loved her sarcastic and witty best friend, but that didn’t mean she wanted him for a husband.
She sighed, flopping into her desk chair, frustrated. If worst came to worst, and she was stuck here, she’d have to go ahead and tell him. Messy, though – he’d pine for his lost Yvette, and he might very well let it slip to the wider public, and then she’d be pushed out of politics for good. There was a reason most worlds tried to keep the existence of parallel universes – or of magic itself, for that matter – as quiet as possible. Magic was needed to protect Parliament and Crown, and by extension the country, but the public didn’t tend to take it that well. Plus the knowledge of magic tended to make people start experimenting, and experimentation without the strict guidance of the Speaker tended to go...wrong. (She’d had nightmares for days after Chris had told her stories about the bitter civil wars of the seventeenth century, with the Mace carried into battle against the forces of evil. “Oliver Cromwell called it a ‘fool’s bauble’,” Chris had said, “but that was just bravado. It’s hardly that. Not with a shard of Excalibur embedded in it, and magic from each of the Four Nations woven into its fashioning.”)
Even in her universe, details about parallels were on a need-to-know basis. How Ed would react to knowing that he not only had an imposter for a wife, but would never get his real wife back, was something she hardly dared contemplate. Especially now that his “wife” had encouraged him to risk his political career on a throw of the die. She probably shouldn’t have done that, no matter how tempting it had been...
Yvette was roused from her thoughts by a rap on the open door. “Yes?”
It was Gove.
“Oh God, he’s found it,” Yvette said, springing out of her chair in a bound. The relief that flooded her was dizzying, and she found herself clinging to the chair back for support.
Gove looked surprised for a moment, then recomposed his face. “I regret if my appearance gave you that impression.” Yvette’s stomach plummeted back to earth, and she sucked in a breath. “Unfortunately, the Speaker has not yet located your world. It is a complicated and difficult process, one which he will resume tomorrow morning...”
“Yes, yes, shut up,” Yvette snapped, starting to pace again, before her ears caught up. “Wait, what? John’s stopped looking?”
“You can hardly expect the Speaker to deprive himself of his needed rest,” Gove said, chidingly. “The defence of the kingdom relies on his powers.” In a slightly more subdued tone, he continued, “In any event, the Speaker was no longer fit to continue the search tonight, and I was able to persuade him to resume it in the morning.”
“That’s great,” Yvette told him, crossing her arms. “Just great. You’ve been such a wonderful help. I’m sure you leaped at the chance to ‘persuade’ him to stop looking.”
“Ms. Cooper,” Gove said.
Yvette cut him off again. “And what are you doing here, then? I certainly don’t have anything to say to you.”
In the moment of silence that grew between them, she felt a sudden irrational spike of fear. She’d thought she’d figured out who the evil wizard and his apprentice were, back home – but what if she’d been wrong? What if the reason her John had chosen Chris as his apprentice instead of Gove was because he was smarter and more discerning than the John of this universe? What if the answer was standing right in front of her?
She took a step back, away from Gove’s piercing blue-gray eyes. Was she about to be flung into another dimension, another set of problems? She opened her mouth, desperate to break the silence.
Gove beat her to it. “I have heard rumours that you made quite the fascinating scene at the Shadow Cabinet today.”
“What of it?” she asked. Damn, if someone was leaking already, that didn’t bode well.
He watched her calmly. “I wanted to remind you that you are a guest in this universe, and that subverting its course and trajectory is both curmudgeonly and profoundly ungracious. In future, might I suggest that you remember that this universe will continue long after you have left it. You might have somewhat of a care to leave its Ms. Cooper a situation in no worse a position than you had found it.”
“Bugger off,” she said, setting her teeth. “I’ve drummed some sense into her husband and his Shadow Cabinet, and they might actually have a chance against you lot now. That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it? Afraid that Ed will start drubbing your precious Cameron, and that he’ll let Ed Balls off his leash to take care of Osborne?”
Gove looked irritated, and Yvette was glad, glad she’d struck a nerve. “I am far from intimidated by anything Mr. Miliband or his cronies might bring to the despatch box. I simply wish to remind you that this is not your life, and that this universe’s Ms. Cooper was, as far as I am aware, quite happy in the life she had. Common decency dictates that you respect that life, and attempt to restore it to her in as unaltered a manner as possible.”
“Get out of my office,” she said, unwilling to admit yet, even to herself, that he had a point.
He pushed on. “Would you appreciate returning to your universe only to find that the Ms. Cooper in your place – very possibly the one whose place you are currently occupying – had judged herself incapable of serving as Leader and had resigned her position?”
Until that moment, she had not even thought of that particular possibility. Short-sighted of her. She gaped at him, horrorstruck.
“I thought not,” he said, satisfaction leeching into his voice.
“Out,” she snapped. “Get out.”
He moved to obey, but hesitated. “You may not believe this, Ms. Cooper, but my only intention is to be of assistance. I do not claim to be a close friend of this universe’s Ms. Cooper, but I wish her – and you – no ill will.”
“Get out,” she hissed.
After he had gone, she sank heavily into her desk chair, and in a moment of weakness, dropped her head into her hands.
--
universe one
Yvette pled headache as soon as she and Ed got home, fleeing upstairs and curling into a miserable ball on the bed. She knew she wasn’t being fair to her new family – little Maddy’s woebegone face as her mother brushed past her tugged at Yvette’s heartstrings – but she just couldn’t deal with it all yet.
I must get a grip, she told herself numbly. I’ll keep looking for any clues that might tell me what has happened, but if I can’t find any by the end of the week, I need to start adjusting into this life. I can’t keep pining for Ed and for my own life. I have a career here, and a husband who appears to love me, and children who need a mother. I can’t wallow in my own misery.
Logic, however, only went so far.
Eventually, she drifted off into a fitful sleep, startling awake when someone spooned up behind her. “Shhh,” Ed whispered, wrapping a solid arm around her waist. “It’s just me.”
She forced herself to relax again; remaining rigid might alert him that something was wrong.
He pressed a kiss into her hair, and she shut her eyes, finding to her dismay that they were wet.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked her. “I’ve fed the children, and put Maddy to bed. Ellie and Joel are watching Toy Story 3.”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
Ed stayed with her until she fell asleep again.
--
universe two
When Yvette woke up the next morning, she reached out her hand, sleepily fumbling over to Ed’s side of the bed. “You’ll never believe the dream I just had,” she mumbled into her pillow.
Her hand closed on bedclothes.
So that was a shitty way to start the morning, and it got worse from there. It didn’t take the wineglasses in the living room to remind her of what had happened there, but washing them up did make her confront that reality head-on. She’d slept with her best friend and her “husband” – because Ed Miliband could call it whatever he liked, it wasn’t just “porn”. She’d got off (several times) while they were having sex right in front of her and – Christ – role-playing “events” from her own universe. Having promised her Ed never to cheat on him, she had gone ahead and cheated on him the very first night in a new world.
Eventually she told herself that she would just have to put it from her mind for the time being. There was nothing she could do about it right then – she couldn’t take it back, she couldn’t throw herself on Ed’s mercy, and she definitely couldn’t get rid of the memories. They were burned into her retinas like brands; if she shut her eyes, she saw Ed giving a blowjob, Ed being fucked, both Ed’s faces when they came. It was her own private porn show, and this time she would have given anything to turn it off.
By the time Yvette made it in to work, she was in a thoroughly foul mood. It didn’t help that the first person she saw was Ed Miliband, his contrite look contradicted by the languid way he was leaning against the wall.
She cut off his good morning with a short, “Move, Miliband, I’ve got no time to waste this morning.”
Ed looked concerned. “Are you all right? Are – are you mad at us?”
She pushed past him into her office, waving her hand over her computer to start it (these magical aura things were amazing) and ringing for Claire. “Not mad at you, no,” she said. “It was my own damn fault. Though perhaps I should be, and perhaps I’ll work up to it if you don’t remember things you should be doing in your own office right about now.”
“I’ll go help Ed pull together your PMQ’s briefing,” he said hastily.
“You do that,” said Yvette. “I want it about ten minutes ago.”
Claire brushed past him in the doorway. “The Speaker called. They haven’t found it yet – Mr. Bryant took the night shift, and he’s gone to sleep now while the Speaker takes over until PMQ’s.”
“While you’re with me, do call them John and Chris,” Yvette said, rubbing her hand over her eyes.
Claire flushed. “I’m sorry. Ms. Cooper likes a bit of formality. I think it helped her to adjust to being Leader.”
“Well, it doesn’t help me,” Yvette said. “What’s the latest on the Queen?”
“The news is saying no change. Mr. Bry – Chris said that there still seems to be no magical residue, but they’re continuing to monitor. The word on the street is that it’s just a matter of time.”
“Great,” Yvette said. “Well, I don’t mean to sound horrifically morbid and unpatriotic, but if she’s going to die today, I hope it’s just as the clock strikes noon – that way PMQ’s will be called off.”
Claire looked horrified. “How can you...I mean, I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
Yvette laughed. “That’s it – talk back to me. Keep me sane. I’m not your boss, I’m your partner, for as long as this takes.”
Claire smiled shyly, then looked up as a shadow fell across the door. “I’m sorry, sir, did you have an appointment?”
“I hardly think I need an appointment,” the man said, grinning. “’Vette, how about sending this pretty adviser of yours out of the room so that we can talk?”
Yvette thought fast. “Do you mind giving us just a minute? I need to finish telling Claire something, and it’s rather confidential.”
“Not at all,” the man said, flashing her another grin. “I’ll just shut the door for you.”
When the door clicked, Yvette wheeled on Claire. “Who is he?”
“Philip Davies,” Claire said. “He’s the Tory MP for Shipley.”
“No, I mean, who is he to me? Why is a Tory showing up in my office and calling me by my nickname? Oh god, do I want to know the answer?” This had not been on her predecessor’s crib sheet, Yvette thought rather hysterically.
Claire held up her hands. “I don’t know! He’s definitely been here before, but I’ve never been in the room while they were talking.”
“Have you ever seen her kissing him? Touching him? Talking flirtatiously to him?”
Claire shook her head. “No, though I’m not sure I’d recognise if she was flirting with him. I’m not good with social cues. Aspie.”
“This is not happening to me,” Yvette said. “Not after last night. Ignore that. You’d better send him in.”
Claire gave her an apologetic look, but left her to it.
“Good morning again, ’Vette,” Philip said, smiling at her.
She took an instant dislike to him. Perhaps, she thought, that was a little unfair – perhaps it was simply her uneasiness with the situation. But she seemed to remember that he was one of the more unreformed of the Tories – a Tory’s Tory, as it were – and that was reason enough to dislike anyone. “Good morning, Philip. I’m afraid I haven’t any time right now – PMQ’s, you know.”
“Oh, you’ll do just fine,” Philip said, and that was definitely a flirtatious flicker in his eyes. “You always whip Cam into shape. I quite enjoy it, really.”
“Hardly a Tory thing to say,” she said, laughing weakly.
He grinned at her, very cat got the cream. “That’s just what you said last week! But you can go as hard on him as you like. He’s too Liberal for my tastes, too Tory for yours - we’ll see which way he swings in the end.”
“I really do have to get to work, Philip,” Yvette said. “Maybe we can talk later?”
“I look forward to it.” He stepped forward, up into her personal space, brought a hand up to her face.
She barely kept herself from smacking it away. “Philip.” Her voice was warning.
He pouted, not a good look on his face, though she supposed it was attractive enough. For a Tory. “What about our good-luck kiss?”
Yvette fought back a gag and sought refuge in the classic womanly evasion. “I don’t feel like touching men right now, sorry.”
“Why?” Philip whinged. “I’m not ‘men’, I’m your Phil.”
“On my monthly,” Yvette said, succinctly.
The power of the vagina stretched out its red wings. Philip flinched backwards and practically fell over himself.
Yvette bit her lip to stop the smug smile that wanted to appear. “See you at PMQ’s?”
“I’ll be there,” Philip said, and with a last, lingering look, he left.
What a dumbfuck, Yvette thought, making a face at the place where he’d just stood. He must be hung like a horse or something – she did not see what Yvette saw in him. And if she had a chance to talk to her counterpart, she was going to have serious words with her about the need to update one’s emergency crib sheet on a regular basis. While the relationship did seem to be new – at least, Philip didn’t seem to be aware of her monthly schedule, which was the one recurring event involving her that Ed actually could remember – that was the kind of thing that would really be useful to know.
Ed Miliband, coming in, caught the tail end of the grimace and raised his eyebrows. “Care to share?”
She shrugged. “I hate Tories.”
“Don’t we all,” he said devoutly, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Here, Ed and I have put together a briefing for you. Actually, two – one for if the Queen dies before noon, one for if she hasn’t died yet. Of course if she dies during the Speaker will suspend Parliament and you’ll be off the hook. You may be if she dies before as well, but it’s best to be prepared...”
She bent over the briefing with him. At least Philip’s visit had helped her push the previous night’s incident further back in her mind, she thought. Whether it would stay there was another matter.
-
The rest of her morning was marginally better. After going over the PMQ’s briefing with Ed – they’d prepped twenty questions, so she had ample room to manoeuvre, and anyway, it wasn’t as if she was the Prime Minister, which would have been fucking terrifying – she settled down to reviewing her counterpart’s notes from the last week. Claire shuttled back and forth from the Speaker’s Office (“Five more worlds down. Chris just got up – he only slept for three hours and John tried to make him sleep more but he wouldn’t – so they think it will go faster now.”), and helped Yvette read the crabbed handwriting. (Hers was much better, she thought loftily.)
The problem was, it just wasn’t very helpful. Whether by design (to avoid spies) or by accident (incompetent note-taking ability), her counterpart’s notes were incomplete at best and cryptic at worst. “Inscription?” read one scrawl. Another, “PD by. Consider position.” Yet another, “George VI – Churchill – bombing – deputy.” After a string of one-word marginalia – “Table?” “PD-SV?” “Acclamation.” “Vulnerability.” – Yvette put down the notes and scrubbed at her face in frustration.
Claire appeared in the doorway. “Fifteen more down, and John’s heading to the Chamber. It’s time.”
-
There was an electric hum in the Chamber – or maybe Yvette was just imagining that. As she entered, her front bench went into a paroxysm of shifting and scrunching, making room for her behind the despatch box. Time seemed to slow, as she watched Ed Miliband nudging Harriet Harman further down the bench, so that he and Ed Balls could be the ones to flank her. Sadiq was ferociously scribbling down something on his folder, oblivious to Douglas hissing at him to move. Caroline and Rosie had their heads together, half hidden by the Table of the House, but if they didn’t want the cameras to pick them up gossiping like schoolgirls, they’d have to look a little more professional.
She walked in – three minutes to noon – and the pure manic energy sizzling down her spine took her by surprise. It was familiar, to some extent – you never forgot the sheer terror and exhilaration of your maiden speech, or the pride and anxiety of the first time you stood behind the despatch box – but yet entirely new. This was, after all, the only part of Parliament that most Britons ever saw. If she failed miserably, everyone who was political at all would know. It would be in countless sound bites, dissected by bloggers, tweeted and Facebooked, maybe even discussed on Question Time.
She sank into her place – two minutes to noon – and tried not to look at Cameron, slipping into his place between Clegg and Osborne.
“Remember,” Ed Miliband said in a rapid-fire undertone, “this isn’t life and death to you. Don’t worry about it too much – you’ll freeze up and it’ll be much worse. Just treat it like Home Office Questions, and stick to the brief. Don’t try to be funny, don’t take Cameron’s bait, just breathe. Only six questions. We’ve got your back.”
And then John, looking a bit tired but otherwise normal, was calling the House to Order, and she was really going to do this. She was really going to get to her feet and do PMQ’s for the first time, and however fucking crazy this was, it was also fucking beautiful. She squared her shoulders and stared Cameron down. Whatever else might be, she was going to try to enjoy this.
-
universe three
When Yvette woke up the next morning, she reached out her hand, sleepily fumbling for the alarm clock, which was horrifically shrill. Why had she bought an alarm clock that managed to make beeps sound sarcastic?
Her hand collided with a lump.
“Mmmm?” the lump said, interrogatively.
So, that was a shitty way to start the morning. Yvette made it to the shower before Ed managed to get out of bed – apparently he disliked getting up in the morning even more than she did, which might account for the shrilly sarcastic alarm clock – and thought over her plan of attack. PMQ’s today, which meant that Ed would be busy most of the morning, too busy to sit her down and have the Talk she could see looming in his big, serious eyes.
She’d reckoned without the breakfast table, however, and without Ed’s particular way of dealing with confrontation. At home, breakfast was a time for her to laugh with her children and get them ready for school. Back before children, though, she’d liked to read the newspapers over breakfast, filling herself in on the topics of the day. Since Ed was Leader, she would have expected him to do the same; but whether he habitually did so or not, he didn’t today.
“Pass the orange juice, please?” he said, pleasantly, then went back to smiling at her and making faces at the cat.
She pushed her cereal around in her bowl, feeling uncomfortably close to Ed – the breakfast nook was too cosy for her tastes, and the whole scenario was more intimate than she’d reckoned with.
“Did...” she started, then fumbled as he looked up, big eyes riveted on her. “Did you sleep well?”
He considered. “Relatively well. I had some odd dreams. You?”
Odd dreams, she thought, are all I’m having these days. “No dreams that I remember.”
He went back to eating his cereal.
It was damned clever, she had to admit. (Not that Ed hadn’t always been damned clever.) He wasn’t ignoring her, he was letting the silence stretch and envelop her until she felt the need to fill it. He wasn’t pushing her, he wasn’t accusing her, he was letting her bring it up in her own time. She simultaneously respected and hated him for it.
Well, she knew when to re-evaluate her position. She sighed. “Ed, about yesterday.”
His full attention came right back to her, and he laid his spoon down.
“I shouldn’t have said that in Shadow Cabinet. I should have talked with you about it privately.”
He shook his head, and somehow managed to do it thoughtfully. “I don’t want you to treat me any differently because I’m your husband. I’m your Leader, and you don’t have to spare my feelings because you happen to love me.” His smile managed to be both mischievous and gentle, almost like a caress.
“Even if you weren’t my husband, though, I should have talked with you about it privately,” she said. “I challenged your authority in front of everyone.”
“And I let you,” he said, quietly, holding her eyes. “Authority is nothing if it can’t tolerate dissent. Authority without free discourse is tyranny; authority with free discourse is the beginning of respect.”
“I’ll wait until you’re done trying to compose epigrams for your autobiography,” Yvette said, rolling her eyes.
Ed smiled again, accepting the ribbing. “I wasn’t offended by what you said. I thought there was a lot of good sense in it. I haven’t been as strong a leader as I ought to have been, and we’ve been letting the coalition have their way with us ever since the election. Breaking with the past is going to be tricky, but I think you’re right, and I know I’ll have your support while I do it.”
She wasn’t sure whether the ambivalence in her throat was guilt at the situation she’d caused or doubt of Ed’s ability to pull it off. “Ed, I just want to make sure that you’re doing what you want to do. I don’t want to push you into something that you’re not comfortable with.”
“I’m comfortable with it,” he said. “I spent most of yesterday working up questions for PMQ’s.”
Her heart leaped into her throat. “You’re doing it – today?”
“Why not?” he asked, smiling at her. “No time like the present.”
He lifted the last spoonful of Shreddies to his lips, then put the bowl of milk on the floor for the cat. “Here, Marx,” he called.
She watched him as he got up and put the cereal box away, her own cereal forgotten. He looked up and caught her eye, raising an interrogative eyebrow.
“Ed,” she said, and she hated herself, but Gove was right, the fucker. “Will you do something for me?”
“Of course,” he said, immediately, and she knew the love in his eyes wasn’t for her, but it warmed her just the same.
“Will you wait a week? Just one week.” She bit her lip. “Think it over, give everyone some time to figure out how we’re going to roll it out. Let’s not do this haphazardly before we’re ready – the timing and the delivery is going to be so important.”
He considered for a moment, eyes cast down, thoughts turned inward. Then he looked up again and smiled, crossing the room to her. “One week,” he said, teasingly. “And you’re going to help me write all the policy and keep the leaks plugged.”
She nodded, and turned her face up to be kissed.
-
After her talk with Ed, PMQ’s were a little less explosive than they would have been. Some of the others on the front bench looked a little sullen, like children who’d had a new toy taken away from them. (Ed had explained the delay during the morning briefing, and had issued a stern decree against leaks. Given that Gove already knew about her speech in Shadow Cabinet, Yvette rather thought that someone had already leaked it. Unless that had somehow been a magical thing, and even Gove wouldn’t stoop low enough to use magic, strictly forbidden for partisan purposes, to spy on Shadow Cabinet meetings. Or would he?)
Ed did a decent job in PMQ’s, much better than she’d been expecting, but Yvette found her attention wandering nonetheless. As she’d discovered during her first displacement, people-watching in alternate universes was fascinating. She’d always known that affairs were commonplace in Parliament (that’s why they’d removed the couches from most Parliamentary offices, after all). But apparently a lot of people were a little bisexual - which made sense, she supposed, according to Kinsey – and if they were, chances were they’d be acting on it in at least one universe.
The combination had made for breathtaking theatre and hours of amusement for Yvette, who couldn’t be arsed to care about the similar but slightly different policies going on around her in all the different universes she’d so temporarily been a part of. Indeed, it was her honour-bound duty to ignore them, she thought, so that she didn’t come out with some bloomer at home.
Nick Clegg was the most obvious one in this universe, she decided. First of all, he exuded that superior well-shagged look that men got. It was practically a glow, it was so ridiculous. He was a little heavier, in a good way – in her world he was nearly gaunt – and his tie was a revolting sunny yellow. Good for him. (The promise-breaking bastard.)
But who was the shagger? Was it another MP? David Laws, on the other side of George Osborne, did look exceptionally well-pleased with himself. Still, best not to theorise too quickly...
Oh. Oh. Cameron sat back down after a question, and the glance he and Clegg exchanged was just too perfect. Looked like it was true lurve. She bit back a chortle. Her world’s Ed Balls owed her a tenner - he’d said there was no possible universe where those two would fuck. Then again, he’d probably refuse to pay up by claiming that there was no proof. Bugger.
Yvette’s attention was diverted from people-watching, however, by the feeling that someone was watching her. She looked up to the Speaker’s Chair, but John’s attention was on Angus MacNeil, far across the chamber. Fuck, John looked exhausted. She felt a twinge of regret, for mentally cursing him out for not trying harder to find her world – and a much larger twinge of worry, for she’d momentarily forgotten that time was incredibly limited, and that she might just be running out of it.
As if the thought had prompted her, she found her eyes drawn unerringly back to the Tory benches, where Michael Gove sat, staring straight back at her.
--
universe one
Yvette woke up in Ed Balls’s arms, face buried in his pyjama-clad chest, surrounded and protected. He was snoring, somewhere over her head, his chest rumbling with it, and he was warm and soft. She wanted to cry, and lash out, and start screaming, because for a split second she had thought it had all been a horrible dream, and she had been ready to call them both in sick, damn the consequences, and to spend the entire day with her Ed.
But screaming would help nothing. This was her world now.
She thought back to the last time her world had been taken away from her, the terror and pain and despair of her year with ME. 24 years old, and she’d lost everything she cared about, too exhausted even to read, passing her days watching soaps instead. There had been times in which hopelessness threatened to swamp her, threatened to suck the soul out of her body as well as the strength. And yet she hadn’t given in. On her worst day, she’d looked out at the sunshine and made a vow to herself – not to get better, because many ME patients never did, and it wasn’t something she could make happen, but to make a life for herself that she could be proud of.
The ME had gone away. Her previous life had been given back to her, and six years later she’d been a minister. She’d done her best to live every day in honour of that vow, because she owed it to herself, and because she could never quite shake the fear that the ME might reappear to claim the life it had let slip through its grasp.
Now it had happened again, and she had once more lost the life she had so carefully, so lovingly built. This time, however, she had not lost only dreams dreamed, but dreams fulfilled – her Ed had disappeared into nothingness, and with him a part of her.
The vow remained – make a life for yourself that you can be proud of.
She let herself relax in Ed’s arms.
-
Despite her new determination to adapt to this world, PMQ’s were torture. She sat at the end of the front bench, as far away from her Ed as she could, but she could still hear him. His slightly awkward jokes, his steady determination to push through chuntering, his earnest attempts to get Cameron to actually answer a question. She stared unseeing at the Table, trying to tune everything out except the rhythm of her own heartbeat.
A prickle on the back of her neck made her look up. Michael Gove was watching her again, a puzzled look creasing his expressive face.
--
universe two
“Mr. Speaker, this morning I had meetings with ministerial colleagues and others, and in addition to my duties in this House I shall have further such meetings later today.”
Yvette’s heart was tap-dancing somewhere in her ribs. Behind her, Luciana Berger was asking the first question, and she reminded herself to breathe. Across the way, Philip was beaming at her lasciviously; he winked at her when he caught her eye. She looked away – she was determined not to let that situation disrupt this particular half-hour.
Front bench, Yvette, she told herself. Pay attention to the front bench. Cameron was flanked by Clegg and Osborne, as always – the three musketeers. Clegg was stiff and indrawn, as physically distant from Cameron as it was possible to be while sitting next to him, while Osborne had no such disdain of physical proximity. Indeed, Osborne seemed to have no sense of personal dignity, either, judging by the faces he was making. She’d thought her world’s Osborne had had an expressive face, but this one put him to shame.
Cameron bounced up to respond to Luciana, with a short snappy put-down that managed to be faintly patronising. Yvette’s eyebrows snapped together, and she barely heard the question one of the Tory backbenchers – that Peter Bone who never seemed to leave the chamber, and who always had such inane questions – was asking. Something about the latest Liberal Democrat by-election defeat, and an attempt at a joke. Of course, the questions on everyone’s minds were all to do with the Queen, but she doubted anyone would dare to ask them.
Cameron was up to respond, and Philip was grinning at her again. Ed Miliband squeezed her hand, quick encouraging pressure. She felt the solidarity of her bench, the quickening of excitement in the air.
“Yvette Cooper!” John called, and she was on her feet somehow, as Ed Balls led the Labour cheer.
“Thank you, Mr. Speaker. May I join the Prime Minister…”
This, this was her element. She was on top of the universe, her whole body thrilling. Up, down. Push the question. Don’t give ground. Her Ed next to her, gesturing widely and surpassing even his usual facility with heckles. Michael Gove, making faces, so far beneath her notice. Up, down. Scoring a point, the gleeful rise of hubbub behind her, Labour a solid red wall at her back. John calling for order. Philip’s face, oddly still. Ed Miliband, feverishly pointing at one of the questions on her sheet – her, nodding, because that was the one she had been going to ask next in any event. Osborne, rocking in his seat and making even odder faces than Gove. Up, down, last chance - look firm, not bitchy, press the point home.
And then she was sinking into her seat again. It was over. She had done PMQ’s.
It took three more question-and-answer exchanges before her heart rate returned to normal. “That was just fine,” Ed Miliband said in an undertone, aware of the microphones. “Just fine.”
Douglas was glaring at Ed’s back. He scribbled something, and passed it down.
“Ignore him,” it said. “Not ‘just fine’ at all. Brilliant.”
Yvette read it, then smiled at him. Hmmm. Douglas wasn’t really a kiss-arse, at least in her universe. When he blushed and looked away, Yvette nearly laughed with surprise. Was it possible that he fancied her?
The thought made her look involuntarily over at Philip again. Luckily, he didn’t notice, deep in conversation with his neighbour, the MP who’d asked the first Tory question. It figured that in her universe no one except Ed had ever really looked twice at her, while in this one she was deluged by interested men. Ed and Ed, Philip, Douglas... Perhaps it was her position – power really was an aphrodisiac, after all. She’d seen far too many ugly colleagues get fawned over to doubt it.
She sighed, suddenly tired, and slouched a little in her seat, gazing fixedly in front of her, not really wanting to meet her colleagues’ eyes any more. The adrenalin was wearing off fast, and not even Osborne’s comical faces were amusing. She stared at the Table, one thing at least that looked exactly the same as it did in her own world; even down to the faint carvings under the lip, where some old Cavalier or Roundhead had no doubt left his mark.
At that moment, Douglas leaned over to say something, but she didn’t hear him. There was a sudden roaring in her ears. “Inscription.” “Table.” Could it be a coincidence that those words had both appeared in Yvette’s notes, and that now she was looking at an inscription on the Table? Surely it was just a coincidence. She'd noticed it vaguely a few times before, since they'd been forced over to the Opposition benches; Ed had once joked that he was going to add "Michael Gove is a right honourable tosser" to it. Yet she couldn’t recall ever knowing what those faint carvings actually said, and she was in no position at this point to ignore any clue, however small.
The roaring receded a little, and she could hear Douglas again. “What is up with you and the Table these days, Yvette? You look like you’ve seen a ghost again.”
She turned on him. “Again?” she hissed.
He must have seen the urgency in her eyes, because his widened. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “You were staring at it on Monday at the Prime Minister’s statement on Kazakhstan. Don’t you remember?”
That was enough for Yvette, who jerked her head up and caught John’s eye. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, and she mimed sliding out of her seat. Would he get the message? A moment of uncertainty – then an infinitesimal nod, and an even more infinitesimal wave of the hand. She knew, somehow, that both cameras and MPs would now find her extremely uninteresting.
Feeling like a guilty teenager sneaking out of her bedroom window, she slid off the bench onto her knees and scooted forward, underneath the lip of the Table. Overhead, she heard John call Dennis Skinner, which was clever of him (if Skinner wasn’t on the Order Paper) or just lucky (if he was). Even without magic, Skinner drew all eyes.
The inscription was faint and small. She strained her eyes in the half-light, laboriously picking out the words.
the power wanes without the head
my england faire, thy king is dead
and now the wolves howl round the door
i cannot fight, he is no more
my strength goes dark, the light winks out
restore our prince, or come to nought
The doggerel wound, in tiny crabbed letters, along the length of the Table, and Yvette was halfway down the front bench before it straggled out. She crawled back to the beginning, too breathless to laugh at the fact that no one had noticed that the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition was on the floor of the House.
A code, then – or rather, a code to her. It looked as if it might be perfectly straightforward to someone who understood its history. Yvette read it again, trying simultaneously to remember the other words which had been scrawled in her counterpart’s notes, trying to piece it all together. “The power wanes without the head/My England faire, thy king is dead” – the king’s death had caused something powerful to be lost. (If she’d had any doubt that this was indeed the key she had been looking for, that second line had eradicated it.) “And now the wolves howl round the door/I cannot fight, he is no more.” – wolves, predators, had arrived, and the king’s death had robbed the writer of the will to fight them? “My strength goes dark, the light winks out/Restore our prince, or come to nought.” – robbed him of the will, or of the ability. The last line, though – what prince? Was it about the exiled Charles II, after the Commons had chopped off Charles I’s head? Was it directed to Richard III, holding Prince Edward (the rightful king) prisoner in the Tower? She seemed to remember that there were a great many princes in centuries past who had wanted to be “restored”.
Yvette sat back on her heels, biting her lip. This wasn’t the sort of work she normally did - she didn’t even do the crossword, unlike Harriet. She looked around her, desperately searching for something, anything, to help her think – and her glance fell on the Mace, sitting meekly on top of the Table, its fussy ornamental exterior belying its inner power.
“Vulnerability” and “Acclamation” flew into her head, two more words from the notes, and suddenly she knew. She knew what Yvette had seen, why Yvette had gone straight back to her office and began doing research to confirm her theory, even why Yvette had been thrown into another universe. She knew, and she was afraid.
--
universe three
Yvette didn’t even look up when the shadow fell across the doorway. Things were bad, she thought, when she recognised a Tory’s footsteps.
“What do you want, Gove?” she said, turning a page in her novel.
“Possession?” he asked.
“It’s one of my favourite books, if you must know,” Yvette said, still obstinately refusing to look at him. “Lord knows I’m not going to waste time and energy on being Shadow Home Secretary, when I’ll be back home in a day or two anyway. That is, if John ever actually manages to find my home world.”
“We are still well within the usual time frame,” Gove said, stiffly.
She sighed. “Why are you here, if he hasn’t found anything? If it’s to lecture me again, let me pre-empt you - go fly a kite.”
“No lecture was intended,” Gove said. He cleared his throat. “I brought you tea.”
Yvette had to look up at that. Indeed, he was holding a cup of tea. “And why, may I ask, did you bring me tea?”
“It is my usual experience that Labour members refuse to listen to even the most reasonable arguments,” Gove said. “Labour members - in particular the member for Morley and Outwood - prefer to shout, chunter, and gesticulate, rather than amend their previously held beliefs. I am...unaccustomed to having my arguments considered by the Opposition.”
“What makes you think I had anything to do with Ed holding off?” Yvette said, leaning back in her chair. “Big male, powerful Leader, goes his own way against the advice of the little weak woman.”
Gove's face broke out into a broad smile, which he quickly suppressed. Yvette stared at him, fascinated. “That may be the way you think Tory brains operate, Ms. Cooper, but I can assure you that no intelligent person, having met you, would be under the impression that your advice could be safely disregarded.”
“Intelligent person – Tory – two different species, don’t you think?” Yvette asked, and Gove seemed to be losing the battle with his mouth again. “And Christ, Gove, stop calling me Ms. Cooper. I feel like a school mistress.”
“I find using only your surname to be discourteous,” Gove said. He crossed the few steps between the doorway and her desk, and gently set the tea cup down in front of her. “And I hardly think you would wish me to call you Yvette.” His voice had gone strange.
Yvette looked up into his face, into the odd, mobile, geeky lines of it, into his aloof blue-gray eyes, and thought that her name did indeed sound strange, coming from his mouth.
Aware that this was a supremely bad idea, but acting on impulse, she reached up, wound a hand in his hair, and pulled that mouth down against her own.
--
universe one
“Yes, Laura?” Yvette said absent-mindedly, deep in the stack of papers she’d had Laura pull. If she was going to make this work, she was going to have to learn just how Home Office policy had changed yesterday morning, in that moment when she had gone from being the wife of one Ed to being the wife of another. Much was the same, but there were nuances, and then she had to track down where they’d come from and why. It was tedious work, but at least she felt as if she was doing something worthwhile, instead of sitting around moping.
There was no answer from Laura, and Yvette marked her place with her finger before looking up.
Michael Gove asked politely, “May I come in, Yvette?”
“Of course, please do,” she said automatically. “How may I help you?” She made a mental note to talk to Laura. Office flirtations were all well and good, and she tended to be indulgent about them, but Laura still needed to do her job and keep random Tories from popping into her office unannounced. Particularly random Tories who seemed to spend most of their time in the House staring at her.
“I was wondering if you had the figures to support the assertion you made in the House last week about underage drug abusers,” Gove said.
Yvette had absolutely no clue what he was talking about. She tried not to let her panic show. “Surely that’s a Home Office matter,” she said. “If the Home Secretary has a question about my figures, I would be happy to write to her.”
Gove blinked, but nodded. “I have no doubt that she would be glad to receive them. However, I am considering revising my proposals for drug education programmes, and you can see how those figures would be useful to me, if you can indeed support them.”
“I would be happy to write to you with both the figures and the documentation.” Why hadn’t he just sent a note, Yvette thought, or had his advisers contact hers? Damn, now she was going to have to track down these figures and get to work on them right away.
Gove nodded again, and turned to leave. At the last moment, however, he swivelled. “I nearly forgot, and Sarah would have decapitated me. Is Ellie’s birthday party still on for next week? Beatrice has been agonising over what to give her.”
Yvette could feel her eyes widening, but there was nothing to do but try to brazen her way through. “Ellie hasn’t been feeling well, so I’m not sure if we’re still going to have it, but she’s definitely been looking forward to it. I’d say there’s about a ninety-percent chance that it’s still on. Let me get back to you?”
Gove just looked at her for a moment. “Yvette,” he said, and his voice was strange, “Ellie’s birthday is in June. There is no birthday party next week.”
Her mouth went dry.
--
universe two
“What is it?” John said simply, sweeping into the Speaker’s Office and taking her firmly by the shoulders. “I’ve left Lindsay in the Chair. What did you see?”
“It was an inscription, under the Table,” Yvette told him. She rattled off the doggerel rhyme, every word burned into her memory.
“And how have you interpreted this?” John asked, his eyes fixed on hers.
“The Mace,” she said. “Your power is tied to the Mace.”
John’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought you first made the acquaintance of magic yesterday.”
“I did,” Yvette said. “But that’s the only way it all makes sense.” She searched his face with her eyes, trying to communicate her urgency wordlessly.
“As it happens, you are correct,” John said slowly. “The Mace is the symbol of the authority of Crown-and-Parliament, as you know. Magically, it represents and enables my role as protector of the realm.”
“If you lost it, would you be able to protect the realm?”
John raised his eyebrows at her again. “I am hardly likely to misplace the Mace.”
“No, that’s not...” She clenched her teeth. “Look, let me just explain what I think the inscription means. I’ve been agonising over Yvette’s notes and non-magical history, trying to make it all make sense somehow.”
“Go on.”
“So the way I read it,” Yvette said, talking fast, trying to spit it all out, “the inscription is basically about someone losing the ability to resist predators because the king has died.”
“The problem with that interpretation is that the king never dies,” John said, a furrow in his brow. “When one monarch dies, the next instantaneously assumes the throne. Thus the cry, ‘The king is dead – long live the king.’”
Yvette nodded. “That’s true legally – sovereignty immediately transfers. But we’re talking about magic – and I get the distinct feeling that magic is far older than any of those succession laws. What about when the crown was contested? What about when there was more than one person claiming the crown? I think what matters is not so much the instantaneous, automatic, legal transfer of kingship, but the acclamation of the country, the emotional, fundamental, magical acceptance of a new monarch.”
“What do you mean by ‘what matters’?” John asked, and she could see him bracing himself, could see the white dints around his mouth.
She took a deep breath. “I think the Mace is fundamentally tied into the magic of the kingdom, and I think it knows when the king has died, and when the kingdom accepts a new king. Between the old king’s death and the new king’s acclamation or acceptance by the country, I think the ‘light winks out’ – the Mace’s power goes dark, leaving its holder robbed of strength and unable to face the predators.” She swallowed. “The evil magicians.”
“Kingdoms, actually, not kingdom,” John said, and he seemed to be hypnotised, eyes looking at her but not seeing her. “Four kingdoms, who worked part of their magic into the Mace, so that it would always be tied to their destinies.”
Yvette pushed on. “Public acclamation may be nearly instantaneous these days, with television, much more than it used to be. Still, the Palace isn’t going to issue an announcement the moment the Queen’s eyes close. There are going to be, what, two or three minutes at least, before it gets out, before the knowledge and acceptance of a new king seeps into the country in the bone-deep way the Mace is going to sense. Maybe longer, depending on how the Mace works.”
“It’s all conjecture,” John told her. “Conjecture. The Mace should be stronger during periods of uncertainty, not weaker.”
“In an ideal world, yes. Logically, though, magic must have initially revolved around the person of the monarch, the original protector of the realm. If that protector dies, his power is gone, and the Mace has nothing on which to draw until the new monarch assumes the mantle.”
She sighed. “Of course it’s all conjecture, you’re right. I’m only theorising from what I’ve seen and from Yvette’s notes. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe I’m wrong – God, I hope I’m wrong.”
His face still frozen, John slowly shook his head.
Yvette looked up into his eyes. “You know it’s true. Somehow you know it’s true.”
“I don’t know when or why this knowledge lapsed,” he said. (Maybe the carver of the inscription was so busy leaving cryptic notes for posterity, he neglected to watch his back, Yvette thought darkly.) “But my magic recognises it. It feels right.” He still looked like he was in shock, his hands motionless and heavy on Yvette’s shoulders.
“What are we going to do?” she said. “The evil magicians must be planning to make their move during those few minutes, while you’re weak or incapacitated. That must be what your Yvette figured out, why she was displaced.”
John nodded, seeming to shake himself out of his torpor. “First, I need to get Chris back at my side.”
“Where has he gone?” Yvette said, alarmed. She hadn’t noticed that Chris was missing, but now that she looked around, there was only one garishly cheerful tie in the room.
John winced. “I sent him to make sure that there was no magical interference at the Palace. Scanning from a distance is nearly always reliable, but we had no clues, so I thought that a site scan might pick up something that we had missed.”
“And you need him back now.”
“If you’re correct, and the Mace fails me, I don’t know how many of my own powers will be left to me. Part of becoming Speaker involves weaving one’s powers into the magic of the Mace, in order to most effectively wield it if necessary. I may be left some of my own power, but I may not. Chris will be unaffected; if there is to be an attack, I need him with me.”
Yvette watched, hugging her arms to her body, as John rung his apprentice. “Chris, Yvette’s made a discovery. I need you back here now. And I mean now. We need to prepare for an attack. Yes.”
He hung up, and turned to her. “You should return to your office. I doubt they will come after you, but you are from another world, and they may perhaps wish to experiment on you to see if they can use you for a magical purpose. I would rather you not be near enough to tempt them.”
His matter-of-fact tone chilled her.
“In fact,” he said, and reached into a drawer. “You should have this.” He looked apologetic. “I deeply regret that you have been thrown into this situation, but it is always best to be prepared.”
Yvette hesitated, her hand hovering over the slender knife in its delicate sheath. “Is it magical? What good will a little knife be against a magical attacker?”
John’s face told her the answer.
“Oh,” she said. She took it, and slid it into her skirt pocket.
“Barricade the door to give yourself enough time,” John said – and went suddenly and completely white. It was if all the colour in his skin had ceased to exist.
“John!” she said, springing forward.
“She’s dead,” John said, his voice as flat and as robbed of colour as the rest of him. “I have to guard the Mace.” He squared his shoulders, smoothed down his tie, and started for the door.
“What do you mean?” Yvette exclaimed in horror. “You said you had to wait for Chris! You want to go out there now, not knowing how your powers are holding up, and get attacked?”
“I have no choice,” John said over his shoulder, quietly. “If the Mace is dormant, it is unprotected. I am Speaker.” He opened the door and broke into a run, a short, determined figure, his gown flapping behind him.
“Well, I’m not fucking letting you go out there alone,” Yvette said under her breath, tucking her chin and following.
--
universe three
Gove’s mouth was motionless against hers for a moment, then opened cautiously. Yvette could taste his wariness, could feel that he was wondering, just as she was, what exactly was happening here. They kissed slowly, carefully, like enemies sniffing each other’s weaknesses.
Yvette was not a patient woman, however, and caution was not her favourite word. She nipped at his lip, tightening her hand in his hair. Gove growled into her mouth, slipped his hands under her arms, and hauled her out of her chair onto her feet.
She broke away. “Are you sure you want to do this, Gove?” she asked. “You’re married, after all.”
“Yes, I am,” Gove said. “But you don’t properly belong to this universe, do you? There won’t be any lasting consequences for either of us. We never have to see each other again, and the Yvette that returns will have no knowledge of anything untoward.”
Yvette eyed him. “Well, if that suits your conscience.” She hopped up on her desk, sweeping papers off to one side and moving the tea that Gove had brought her. “You’d better lock the door. I do have a husband in this world, and I imagine you’d rather he not walk in on us.”
Gove arched an eyebrow and waved his hand. Yvette heard the lock click into place.
“Sexy,” she said, appreciatively.
He smirked. “I’ve put up a sound barrier, too.”
“Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Yvette asked, starting to unknot his tie. She did love men’s ties.
“Let’s say – hopeful.” His hands slipped to her waist, caressing her hip-bones with his thumbs.
“Shut up and kiss me,” she said, using his tie to pull him to her.
He obliged, trying to take control of the kiss. She laughed into his mouth - like that was going to happen. They wrestled for dominance, messy and sharp, and Yvette felt her blood thrill. She hadn’t had time for men lately, not with two children to raise and a Party to lead, and she’d missed this.
Gove kissed like he debated, combatively and ruthlessly, with attitude. He showed no dismay at her ferocity. On more than one occasion in the past she’d had men actually back away from her, put off by her shamelessness, by her obvious delight in sex. (Tom, on the other hand, had loved it, but to a creepy level, almost fetishizing her “sluttiness”, as he’d called it. She was well rid of him.) Gove, however, just seemed to accept her as she was, to see her as a dominant personality worthy of battle.
He shoved her skirt up, slipped fingers into her heat. She gasped, and he smirked against her mouth.
“Knees, Gove,” she said. “Put that smirk to good use. If you’re good, I’ll do you against the door.”
Gove grinned at her, wickedly, and Yvette found herself grinning back. “Remember the sound barrier,” he said, sliding to his knees without demur. “Be as loud as you like.”
--
universe one
“And neither do those figures exist, by the way,” Gove added, “so don’t bother combing your records for them.” He kept staring at her, as if she shone and he could not jerk his eyes away.
“Look, Gove, I don’t know what you’re implying,” Yvette blustered, her voice rising.
“Why did you just go along with whatever I said just now?”
“If you don’t have anything to talk to me about, I have work to do.” Her voice betrayed her, beginning to climb in pitch as well as register.
“I most certainly do have something to talk to you about. At great length.”
The door swung open behind him, and Ed walked in, his face buried in a briefing memo, nearly walking straight into Gove.
For the first time since she had woken to find herself in this mess, Yvette was thoroughly and genuinely happy to see him. “Ed!” she said, aware that her voice had made it nearly to hysterical.
Ed’s head jerked up at her distressed tone, and he did a double-take upon seeing Gove standing in front of him. A thundercloud slowly began to gather on his brow, as he looked between Gove (accusing and suspicious) and Yvette (frightened and defensive).
“Look, what’s going on here, Gove?” he said, shooting him a filthy glare. “Why are you upsetting my wife?”
“I was merely asking her some questions,” Gove said, taking an involuntary step backward before raising his chin defiantly.
“Yeah? And who said you could come in here and start asking my wife questions?” Ed demanded, stepping up into his space again.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” Gove started.
Yvette seized her chance. “Gove, I asked you to leave. Please leave.”
Ed’s glare backed her up, promising blood and brimstone should Gove fail to comply.
Gove grimaced. “Look, it’s important...”
“So write her a letter,” Ed said, casually popping his fingers. “You’ve got no right to harass her. She’s not even your Shadow.”
Gove looked over at Yvette, ignoring Ed’s increasingly belligerent posturing. His eyes seemed to be drawn to her in some elemental way.
“By God, you’re making eyes at my wife,” Ed breathed. “That’s it. I don’t care how many oaths I swore to Miliband promising not to thrash you, you’re asking for it. Outside.”
He actually had his hand on Gove’s lapel, ready to drag him out, when Gove, still looking at Yvette, shook himself out of his trance and blurted, “Don’t you want to get back to your own universe? To your own job - your own family - your own life?”
Time seemed to slow. Without seeing them, Yvette took in Ed’s face, mouth gaping open ridiculously, Ed’s hand, curling into a fist around Gove’s lapel; Gove’s eyes, desperate and fascinated, Gove’s hand, half-extended in supplication.
For the first time in two days, somewhere inside her chest, her heart began to beat.
Continue to Part Three.
-----------------
A/N: Feedback is much loved! <3 If you'd rather leave comments at the meme, here is the thread.
Ship(s): Yvette Cooper/Ed Balls; Yvette Cooper/Ed Miliband; Ed Balls/Ed Miliband; Ed Balls/Andy Burnham; surprise pairings; other minor pairings hinted or implied
Word Count: 10,241 in this part, 28,484 overall
Rating: NC-17, for strong language and sexual situations
Warnings: Explicit sex (both homosexual and heterosexual), pretend dub-con.
Summary: In parallel realities, three Yvettes try to stay sane and solve a mystery.
Author's Note: Title is, of course, borrowed from Vienna Teng's lovely song of the same name.
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. It is true that real-person fiction is of dubious legality - if you are one of the persons named within, or know one of them, please bear in mind that stories such as this are written for entertainment value only, in full knowledge that they are not based in truth, and that ultimately they are a labor of love; also, if you are one of these people, stop reading immediately and go run the country.
If you missed it, here is Part One.
universe three
Yvette ground her teeth in frustration, pacing the length of her office. Twelve hours. Twelve fucking hours, and John hadn’t picked up a single lead. Intellectually, she knew that two or three days was the usual timeframe, but knowing what she knew, every moment seemed to stretch into an hour. If only Gove was able to help, she thought. Or if only Parliamentary law - as laid down in the secret volume of Erskine May - didn’t limit the number of trained magicians to two, to protect the realm without risking the very real possibility of extraneous apprentices turning Dark or becoming entrepreneurs. (Although occasionally self-taught entrepreneurs did spring up, despite the best efforts of Erskine May. Yvette had always suspected Peter Mandelson, personally.)
The only time she’d been able to forget her worries, this whole long day, was in Shadow Cabinet, and that had been over far too soon. Ed had tried to draw her aside, afterward, but she’d escaped by telling him that she was in the middle of something urgent back at her office. Husband issues were not something she wanted to deal with at the moment. Particularly husband issues which she had probably just complicated to hell with her outburst in Shadow Cabinet. She felt a twinge of regret – when she did get back to her own universe, the Yvette from this one was still going to be dealing with the situation she’d exploded – but shrugged it off. It had needed to be done, and they’d be the better for it.
Damn it, there she went again, thinking of “when” she got back to her own universe. Unless John pushed through his exhaustion and got a move on, there might not be a link left. How she’d cope if that happened, she wasn’t quite sure. She hadn’t worked as hard as she had all her life to end up in a parallel where she wasn’t Leader, didn’t have kids, and was stuck playing second fiddle to a soft-spoken Ed Miliband. And that was leaving aside the fact that he was apparently her husband. She loved her sarcastic and witty best friend, but that didn’t mean she wanted him for a husband.
She sighed, flopping into her desk chair, frustrated. If worst came to worst, and she was stuck here, she’d have to go ahead and tell him. Messy, though – he’d pine for his lost Yvette, and he might very well let it slip to the wider public, and then she’d be pushed out of politics for good. There was a reason most worlds tried to keep the existence of parallel universes – or of magic itself, for that matter – as quiet as possible. Magic was needed to protect Parliament and Crown, and by extension the country, but the public didn’t tend to take it that well. Plus the knowledge of magic tended to make people start experimenting, and experimentation without the strict guidance of the Speaker tended to go...wrong. (She’d had nightmares for days after Chris had told her stories about the bitter civil wars of the seventeenth century, with the Mace carried into battle against the forces of evil. “Oliver Cromwell called it a ‘fool’s bauble’,” Chris had said, “but that was just bravado. It’s hardly that. Not with a shard of Excalibur embedded in it, and magic from each of the Four Nations woven into its fashioning.”)
Even in her universe, details about parallels were on a need-to-know basis. How Ed would react to knowing that he not only had an imposter for a wife, but would never get his real wife back, was something she hardly dared contemplate. Especially now that his “wife” had encouraged him to risk his political career on a throw of the die. She probably shouldn’t have done that, no matter how tempting it had been...
Yvette was roused from her thoughts by a rap on the open door. “Yes?”
It was Gove.
“Oh God, he’s found it,” Yvette said, springing out of her chair in a bound. The relief that flooded her was dizzying, and she found herself clinging to the chair back for support.
Gove looked surprised for a moment, then recomposed his face. “I regret if my appearance gave you that impression.” Yvette’s stomach plummeted back to earth, and she sucked in a breath. “Unfortunately, the Speaker has not yet located your world. It is a complicated and difficult process, one which he will resume tomorrow morning...”
“Yes, yes, shut up,” Yvette snapped, starting to pace again, before her ears caught up. “Wait, what? John’s stopped looking?”
“You can hardly expect the Speaker to deprive himself of his needed rest,” Gove said, chidingly. “The defence of the kingdom relies on his powers.” In a slightly more subdued tone, he continued, “In any event, the Speaker was no longer fit to continue the search tonight, and I was able to persuade him to resume it in the morning.”
“That’s great,” Yvette told him, crossing her arms. “Just great. You’ve been such a wonderful help. I’m sure you leaped at the chance to ‘persuade’ him to stop looking.”
“Ms. Cooper,” Gove said.
Yvette cut him off again. “And what are you doing here, then? I certainly don’t have anything to say to you.”
In the moment of silence that grew between them, she felt a sudden irrational spike of fear. She’d thought she’d figured out who the evil wizard and his apprentice were, back home – but what if she’d been wrong? What if the reason her John had chosen Chris as his apprentice instead of Gove was because he was smarter and more discerning than the John of this universe? What if the answer was standing right in front of her?
She took a step back, away from Gove’s piercing blue-gray eyes. Was she about to be flung into another dimension, another set of problems? She opened her mouth, desperate to break the silence.
Gove beat her to it. “I have heard rumours that you made quite the fascinating scene at the Shadow Cabinet today.”
“What of it?” she asked. Damn, if someone was leaking already, that didn’t bode well.
He watched her calmly. “I wanted to remind you that you are a guest in this universe, and that subverting its course and trajectory is both curmudgeonly and profoundly ungracious. In future, might I suggest that you remember that this universe will continue long after you have left it. You might have somewhat of a care to leave its Ms. Cooper a situation in no worse a position than you had found it.”
“Bugger off,” she said, setting her teeth. “I’ve drummed some sense into her husband and his Shadow Cabinet, and they might actually have a chance against you lot now. That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it? Afraid that Ed will start drubbing your precious Cameron, and that he’ll let Ed Balls off his leash to take care of Osborne?”
Gove looked irritated, and Yvette was glad, glad she’d struck a nerve. “I am far from intimidated by anything Mr. Miliband or his cronies might bring to the despatch box. I simply wish to remind you that this is not your life, and that this universe’s Ms. Cooper was, as far as I am aware, quite happy in the life she had. Common decency dictates that you respect that life, and attempt to restore it to her in as unaltered a manner as possible.”
“Get out of my office,” she said, unwilling to admit yet, even to herself, that he had a point.
He pushed on. “Would you appreciate returning to your universe only to find that the Ms. Cooper in your place – very possibly the one whose place you are currently occupying – had judged herself incapable of serving as Leader and had resigned her position?”
Until that moment, she had not even thought of that particular possibility. Short-sighted of her. She gaped at him, horrorstruck.
“I thought not,” he said, satisfaction leeching into his voice.
“Out,” she snapped. “Get out.”
He moved to obey, but hesitated. “You may not believe this, Ms. Cooper, but my only intention is to be of assistance. I do not claim to be a close friend of this universe’s Ms. Cooper, but I wish her – and you – no ill will.”
“Get out,” she hissed.
After he had gone, she sank heavily into her desk chair, and in a moment of weakness, dropped her head into her hands.
--
universe one
Yvette pled headache as soon as she and Ed got home, fleeing upstairs and curling into a miserable ball on the bed. She knew she wasn’t being fair to her new family – little Maddy’s woebegone face as her mother brushed past her tugged at Yvette’s heartstrings – but she just couldn’t deal with it all yet.
I must get a grip, she told herself numbly. I’ll keep looking for any clues that might tell me what has happened, but if I can’t find any by the end of the week, I need to start adjusting into this life. I can’t keep pining for Ed and for my own life. I have a career here, and a husband who appears to love me, and children who need a mother. I can’t wallow in my own misery.
Logic, however, only went so far.
Eventually, she drifted off into a fitful sleep, startling awake when someone spooned up behind her. “Shhh,” Ed whispered, wrapping a solid arm around her waist. “It’s just me.”
She forced herself to relax again; remaining rigid might alert him that something was wrong.
He pressed a kiss into her hair, and she shut her eyes, finding to her dismay that they were wet.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked her. “I’ve fed the children, and put Maddy to bed. Ellie and Joel are watching Toy Story 3.”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
Ed stayed with her until she fell asleep again.
--
universe two
When Yvette woke up the next morning, she reached out her hand, sleepily fumbling over to Ed’s side of the bed. “You’ll never believe the dream I just had,” she mumbled into her pillow.
Her hand closed on bedclothes.
So that was a shitty way to start the morning, and it got worse from there. It didn’t take the wineglasses in the living room to remind her of what had happened there, but washing them up did make her confront that reality head-on. She’d slept with her best friend and her “husband” – because Ed Miliband could call it whatever he liked, it wasn’t just “porn”. She’d got off (several times) while they were having sex right in front of her and – Christ – role-playing “events” from her own universe. Having promised her Ed never to cheat on him, she had gone ahead and cheated on him the very first night in a new world.
Eventually she told herself that she would just have to put it from her mind for the time being. There was nothing she could do about it right then – she couldn’t take it back, she couldn’t throw herself on Ed’s mercy, and she definitely couldn’t get rid of the memories. They were burned into her retinas like brands; if she shut her eyes, she saw Ed giving a blowjob, Ed being fucked, both Ed’s faces when they came. It was her own private porn show, and this time she would have given anything to turn it off.
By the time Yvette made it in to work, she was in a thoroughly foul mood. It didn’t help that the first person she saw was Ed Miliband, his contrite look contradicted by the languid way he was leaning against the wall.
She cut off his good morning with a short, “Move, Miliband, I’ve got no time to waste this morning.”
Ed looked concerned. “Are you all right? Are – are you mad at us?”
She pushed past him into her office, waving her hand over her computer to start it (these magical aura things were amazing) and ringing for Claire. “Not mad at you, no,” she said. “It was my own damn fault. Though perhaps I should be, and perhaps I’ll work up to it if you don’t remember things you should be doing in your own office right about now.”
“I’ll go help Ed pull together your PMQ’s briefing,” he said hastily.
“You do that,” said Yvette. “I want it about ten minutes ago.”
Claire brushed past him in the doorway. “The Speaker called. They haven’t found it yet – Mr. Bryant took the night shift, and he’s gone to sleep now while the Speaker takes over until PMQ’s.”
“While you’re with me, do call them John and Chris,” Yvette said, rubbing her hand over her eyes.
Claire flushed. “I’m sorry. Ms. Cooper likes a bit of formality. I think it helped her to adjust to being Leader.”
“Well, it doesn’t help me,” Yvette said. “What’s the latest on the Queen?”
“The news is saying no change. Mr. Bry – Chris said that there still seems to be no magical residue, but they’re continuing to monitor. The word on the street is that it’s just a matter of time.”
“Great,” Yvette said. “Well, I don’t mean to sound horrifically morbid and unpatriotic, but if she’s going to die today, I hope it’s just as the clock strikes noon – that way PMQ’s will be called off.”
Claire looked horrified. “How can you...I mean, I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
Yvette laughed. “That’s it – talk back to me. Keep me sane. I’m not your boss, I’m your partner, for as long as this takes.”
Claire smiled shyly, then looked up as a shadow fell across the door. “I’m sorry, sir, did you have an appointment?”
“I hardly think I need an appointment,” the man said, grinning. “’Vette, how about sending this pretty adviser of yours out of the room so that we can talk?”
Yvette thought fast. “Do you mind giving us just a minute? I need to finish telling Claire something, and it’s rather confidential.”
“Not at all,” the man said, flashing her another grin. “I’ll just shut the door for you.”
When the door clicked, Yvette wheeled on Claire. “Who is he?”
“Philip Davies,” Claire said. “He’s the Tory MP for Shipley.”
“No, I mean, who is he to me? Why is a Tory showing up in my office and calling me by my nickname? Oh god, do I want to know the answer?” This had not been on her predecessor’s crib sheet, Yvette thought rather hysterically.
Claire held up her hands. “I don’t know! He’s definitely been here before, but I’ve never been in the room while they were talking.”
“Have you ever seen her kissing him? Touching him? Talking flirtatiously to him?”
Claire shook her head. “No, though I’m not sure I’d recognise if she was flirting with him. I’m not good with social cues. Aspie.”
“This is not happening to me,” Yvette said. “Not after last night. Ignore that. You’d better send him in.”
Claire gave her an apologetic look, but left her to it.
“Good morning again, ’Vette,” Philip said, smiling at her.
She took an instant dislike to him. Perhaps, she thought, that was a little unfair – perhaps it was simply her uneasiness with the situation. But she seemed to remember that he was one of the more unreformed of the Tories – a Tory’s Tory, as it were – and that was reason enough to dislike anyone. “Good morning, Philip. I’m afraid I haven’t any time right now – PMQ’s, you know.”
“Oh, you’ll do just fine,” Philip said, and that was definitely a flirtatious flicker in his eyes. “You always whip Cam into shape. I quite enjoy it, really.”
“Hardly a Tory thing to say,” she said, laughing weakly.
He grinned at her, very cat got the cream. “That’s just what you said last week! But you can go as hard on him as you like. He’s too Liberal for my tastes, too Tory for yours - we’ll see which way he swings in the end.”
“I really do have to get to work, Philip,” Yvette said. “Maybe we can talk later?”
“I look forward to it.” He stepped forward, up into her personal space, brought a hand up to her face.
She barely kept herself from smacking it away. “Philip.” Her voice was warning.
He pouted, not a good look on his face, though she supposed it was attractive enough. For a Tory. “What about our good-luck kiss?”
Yvette fought back a gag and sought refuge in the classic womanly evasion. “I don’t feel like touching men right now, sorry.”
“Why?” Philip whinged. “I’m not ‘men’, I’m your Phil.”
“On my monthly,” Yvette said, succinctly.
The power of the vagina stretched out its red wings. Philip flinched backwards and practically fell over himself.
Yvette bit her lip to stop the smug smile that wanted to appear. “See you at PMQ’s?”
“I’ll be there,” Philip said, and with a last, lingering look, he left.
What a dumbfuck, Yvette thought, making a face at the place where he’d just stood. He must be hung like a horse or something – she did not see what Yvette saw in him. And if she had a chance to talk to her counterpart, she was going to have serious words with her about the need to update one’s emergency crib sheet on a regular basis. While the relationship did seem to be new – at least, Philip didn’t seem to be aware of her monthly schedule, which was the one recurring event involving her that Ed actually could remember – that was the kind of thing that would really be useful to know.
Ed Miliband, coming in, caught the tail end of the grimace and raised his eyebrows. “Care to share?”
She shrugged. “I hate Tories.”
“Don’t we all,” he said devoutly, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Here, Ed and I have put together a briefing for you. Actually, two – one for if the Queen dies before noon, one for if she hasn’t died yet. Of course if she dies during the Speaker will suspend Parliament and you’ll be off the hook. You may be if she dies before as well, but it’s best to be prepared...”
She bent over the briefing with him. At least Philip’s visit had helped her push the previous night’s incident further back in her mind, she thought. Whether it would stay there was another matter.
-
The rest of her morning was marginally better. After going over the PMQ’s briefing with Ed – they’d prepped twenty questions, so she had ample room to manoeuvre, and anyway, it wasn’t as if she was the Prime Minister, which would have been fucking terrifying – she settled down to reviewing her counterpart’s notes from the last week. Claire shuttled back and forth from the Speaker’s Office (“Five more worlds down. Chris just got up – he only slept for three hours and John tried to make him sleep more but he wouldn’t – so they think it will go faster now.”), and helped Yvette read the crabbed handwriting. (Hers was much better, she thought loftily.)
The problem was, it just wasn’t very helpful. Whether by design (to avoid spies) or by accident (incompetent note-taking ability), her counterpart’s notes were incomplete at best and cryptic at worst. “Inscription?” read one scrawl. Another, “PD by. Consider position.” Yet another, “George VI – Churchill – bombing – deputy.” After a string of one-word marginalia – “Table?” “PD-SV?” “Acclamation.” “Vulnerability.” – Yvette put down the notes and scrubbed at her face in frustration.
Claire appeared in the doorway. “Fifteen more down, and John’s heading to the Chamber. It’s time.”
-
There was an electric hum in the Chamber – or maybe Yvette was just imagining that. As she entered, her front bench went into a paroxysm of shifting and scrunching, making room for her behind the despatch box. Time seemed to slow, as she watched Ed Miliband nudging Harriet Harman further down the bench, so that he and Ed Balls could be the ones to flank her. Sadiq was ferociously scribbling down something on his folder, oblivious to Douglas hissing at him to move. Caroline and Rosie had their heads together, half hidden by the Table of the House, but if they didn’t want the cameras to pick them up gossiping like schoolgirls, they’d have to look a little more professional.
She walked in – three minutes to noon – and the pure manic energy sizzling down her spine took her by surprise. It was familiar, to some extent – you never forgot the sheer terror and exhilaration of your maiden speech, or the pride and anxiety of the first time you stood behind the despatch box – but yet entirely new. This was, after all, the only part of Parliament that most Britons ever saw. If she failed miserably, everyone who was political at all would know. It would be in countless sound bites, dissected by bloggers, tweeted and Facebooked, maybe even discussed on Question Time.
She sank into her place – two minutes to noon – and tried not to look at Cameron, slipping into his place between Clegg and Osborne.
“Remember,” Ed Miliband said in a rapid-fire undertone, “this isn’t life and death to you. Don’t worry about it too much – you’ll freeze up and it’ll be much worse. Just treat it like Home Office Questions, and stick to the brief. Don’t try to be funny, don’t take Cameron’s bait, just breathe. Only six questions. We’ve got your back.”
And then John, looking a bit tired but otherwise normal, was calling the House to Order, and she was really going to do this. She was really going to get to her feet and do PMQ’s for the first time, and however fucking crazy this was, it was also fucking beautiful. She squared her shoulders and stared Cameron down. Whatever else might be, she was going to try to enjoy this.
-
universe three
When Yvette woke up the next morning, she reached out her hand, sleepily fumbling for the alarm clock, which was horrifically shrill. Why had she bought an alarm clock that managed to make beeps sound sarcastic?
Her hand collided with a lump.
“Mmmm?” the lump said, interrogatively.
So, that was a shitty way to start the morning. Yvette made it to the shower before Ed managed to get out of bed – apparently he disliked getting up in the morning even more than she did, which might account for the shrilly sarcastic alarm clock – and thought over her plan of attack. PMQ’s today, which meant that Ed would be busy most of the morning, too busy to sit her down and have the Talk she could see looming in his big, serious eyes.
She’d reckoned without the breakfast table, however, and without Ed’s particular way of dealing with confrontation. At home, breakfast was a time for her to laugh with her children and get them ready for school. Back before children, though, she’d liked to read the newspapers over breakfast, filling herself in on the topics of the day. Since Ed was Leader, she would have expected him to do the same; but whether he habitually did so or not, he didn’t today.
“Pass the orange juice, please?” he said, pleasantly, then went back to smiling at her and making faces at the cat.
She pushed her cereal around in her bowl, feeling uncomfortably close to Ed – the breakfast nook was too cosy for her tastes, and the whole scenario was more intimate than she’d reckoned with.
“Did...” she started, then fumbled as he looked up, big eyes riveted on her. “Did you sleep well?”
He considered. “Relatively well. I had some odd dreams. You?”
Odd dreams, she thought, are all I’m having these days. “No dreams that I remember.”
He went back to eating his cereal.
It was damned clever, she had to admit. (Not that Ed hadn’t always been damned clever.) He wasn’t ignoring her, he was letting the silence stretch and envelop her until she felt the need to fill it. He wasn’t pushing her, he wasn’t accusing her, he was letting her bring it up in her own time. She simultaneously respected and hated him for it.
Well, she knew when to re-evaluate her position. She sighed. “Ed, about yesterday.”
His full attention came right back to her, and he laid his spoon down.
“I shouldn’t have said that in Shadow Cabinet. I should have talked with you about it privately.”
He shook his head, and somehow managed to do it thoughtfully. “I don’t want you to treat me any differently because I’m your husband. I’m your Leader, and you don’t have to spare my feelings because you happen to love me.” His smile managed to be both mischievous and gentle, almost like a caress.
“Even if you weren’t my husband, though, I should have talked with you about it privately,” she said. “I challenged your authority in front of everyone.”
“And I let you,” he said, quietly, holding her eyes. “Authority is nothing if it can’t tolerate dissent. Authority without free discourse is tyranny; authority with free discourse is the beginning of respect.”
“I’ll wait until you’re done trying to compose epigrams for your autobiography,” Yvette said, rolling her eyes.
Ed smiled again, accepting the ribbing. “I wasn’t offended by what you said. I thought there was a lot of good sense in it. I haven’t been as strong a leader as I ought to have been, and we’ve been letting the coalition have their way with us ever since the election. Breaking with the past is going to be tricky, but I think you’re right, and I know I’ll have your support while I do it.”
She wasn’t sure whether the ambivalence in her throat was guilt at the situation she’d caused or doubt of Ed’s ability to pull it off. “Ed, I just want to make sure that you’re doing what you want to do. I don’t want to push you into something that you’re not comfortable with.”
“I’m comfortable with it,” he said. “I spent most of yesterday working up questions for PMQ’s.”
Her heart leaped into her throat. “You’re doing it – today?”
“Why not?” he asked, smiling at her. “No time like the present.”
He lifted the last spoonful of Shreddies to his lips, then put the bowl of milk on the floor for the cat. “Here, Marx,” he called.
She watched him as he got up and put the cereal box away, her own cereal forgotten. He looked up and caught her eye, raising an interrogative eyebrow.
“Ed,” she said, and she hated herself, but Gove was right, the fucker. “Will you do something for me?”
“Of course,” he said, immediately, and she knew the love in his eyes wasn’t for her, but it warmed her just the same.
“Will you wait a week? Just one week.” She bit her lip. “Think it over, give everyone some time to figure out how we’re going to roll it out. Let’s not do this haphazardly before we’re ready – the timing and the delivery is going to be so important.”
He considered for a moment, eyes cast down, thoughts turned inward. Then he looked up again and smiled, crossing the room to her. “One week,” he said, teasingly. “And you’re going to help me write all the policy and keep the leaks plugged.”
She nodded, and turned her face up to be kissed.
-
After her talk with Ed, PMQ’s were a little less explosive than they would have been. Some of the others on the front bench looked a little sullen, like children who’d had a new toy taken away from them. (Ed had explained the delay during the morning briefing, and had issued a stern decree against leaks. Given that Gove already knew about her speech in Shadow Cabinet, Yvette rather thought that someone had already leaked it. Unless that had somehow been a magical thing, and even Gove wouldn’t stoop low enough to use magic, strictly forbidden for partisan purposes, to spy on Shadow Cabinet meetings. Or would he?)
Ed did a decent job in PMQ’s, much better than she’d been expecting, but Yvette found her attention wandering nonetheless. As she’d discovered during her first displacement, people-watching in alternate universes was fascinating. She’d always known that affairs were commonplace in Parliament (that’s why they’d removed the couches from most Parliamentary offices, after all). But apparently a lot of people were a little bisexual - which made sense, she supposed, according to Kinsey – and if they were, chances were they’d be acting on it in at least one universe.
The combination had made for breathtaking theatre and hours of amusement for Yvette, who couldn’t be arsed to care about the similar but slightly different policies going on around her in all the different universes she’d so temporarily been a part of. Indeed, it was her honour-bound duty to ignore them, she thought, so that she didn’t come out with some bloomer at home.
Nick Clegg was the most obvious one in this universe, she decided. First of all, he exuded that superior well-shagged look that men got. It was practically a glow, it was so ridiculous. He was a little heavier, in a good way – in her world he was nearly gaunt – and his tie was a revolting sunny yellow. Good for him. (The promise-breaking bastard.)
But who was the shagger? Was it another MP? David Laws, on the other side of George Osborne, did look exceptionally well-pleased with himself. Still, best not to theorise too quickly...
Oh. Oh. Cameron sat back down after a question, and the glance he and Clegg exchanged was just too perfect. Looked like it was true lurve. She bit back a chortle. Her world’s Ed Balls owed her a tenner - he’d said there was no possible universe where those two would fuck. Then again, he’d probably refuse to pay up by claiming that there was no proof. Bugger.
Yvette’s attention was diverted from people-watching, however, by the feeling that someone was watching her. She looked up to the Speaker’s Chair, but John’s attention was on Angus MacNeil, far across the chamber. Fuck, John looked exhausted. She felt a twinge of regret, for mentally cursing him out for not trying harder to find her world – and a much larger twinge of worry, for she’d momentarily forgotten that time was incredibly limited, and that she might just be running out of it.
As if the thought had prompted her, she found her eyes drawn unerringly back to the Tory benches, where Michael Gove sat, staring straight back at her.
--
universe one
Yvette woke up in Ed Balls’s arms, face buried in his pyjama-clad chest, surrounded and protected. He was snoring, somewhere over her head, his chest rumbling with it, and he was warm and soft. She wanted to cry, and lash out, and start screaming, because for a split second she had thought it had all been a horrible dream, and she had been ready to call them both in sick, damn the consequences, and to spend the entire day with her Ed.
But screaming would help nothing. This was her world now.
She thought back to the last time her world had been taken away from her, the terror and pain and despair of her year with ME. 24 years old, and she’d lost everything she cared about, too exhausted even to read, passing her days watching soaps instead. There had been times in which hopelessness threatened to swamp her, threatened to suck the soul out of her body as well as the strength. And yet she hadn’t given in. On her worst day, she’d looked out at the sunshine and made a vow to herself – not to get better, because many ME patients never did, and it wasn’t something she could make happen, but to make a life for herself that she could be proud of.
The ME had gone away. Her previous life had been given back to her, and six years later she’d been a minister. She’d done her best to live every day in honour of that vow, because she owed it to herself, and because she could never quite shake the fear that the ME might reappear to claim the life it had let slip through its grasp.
Now it had happened again, and she had once more lost the life she had so carefully, so lovingly built. This time, however, she had not lost only dreams dreamed, but dreams fulfilled – her Ed had disappeared into nothingness, and with him a part of her.
The vow remained – make a life for yourself that you can be proud of.
She let herself relax in Ed’s arms.
-
Despite her new determination to adapt to this world, PMQ’s were torture. She sat at the end of the front bench, as far away from her Ed as she could, but she could still hear him. His slightly awkward jokes, his steady determination to push through chuntering, his earnest attempts to get Cameron to actually answer a question. She stared unseeing at the Table, trying to tune everything out except the rhythm of her own heartbeat.
A prickle on the back of her neck made her look up. Michael Gove was watching her again, a puzzled look creasing his expressive face.
--
universe two
“Mr. Speaker, this morning I had meetings with ministerial colleagues and others, and in addition to my duties in this House I shall have further such meetings later today.”
Yvette’s heart was tap-dancing somewhere in her ribs. Behind her, Luciana Berger was asking the first question, and she reminded herself to breathe. Across the way, Philip was beaming at her lasciviously; he winked at her when he caught her eye. She looked away – she was determined not to let that situation disrupt this particular half-hour.
Front bench, Yvette, she told herself. Pay attention to the front bench. Cameron was flanked by Clegg and Osborne, as always – the three musketeers. Clegg was stiff and indrawn, as physically distant from Cameron as it was possible to be while sitting next to him, while Osborne had no such disdain of physical proximity. Indeed, Osborne seemed to have no sense of personal dignity, either, judging by the faces he was making. She’d thought her world’s Osborne had had an expressive face, but this one put him to shame.
Cameron bounced up to respond to Luciana, with a short snappy put-down that managed to be faintly patronising. Yvette’s eyebrows snapped together, and she barely heard the question one of the Tory backbenchers – that Peter Bone who never seemed to leave the chamber, and who always had such inane questions – was asking. Something about the latest Liberal Democrat by-election defeat, and an attempt at a joke. Of course, the questions on everyone’s minds were all to do with the Queen, but she doubted anyone would dare to ask them.
Cameron was up to respond, and Philip was grinning at her again. Ed Miliband squeezed her hand, quick encouraging pressure. She felt the solidarity of her bench, the quickening of excitement in the air.
“Yvette Cooper!” John called, and she was on her feet somehow, as Ed Balls led the Labour cheer.
“Thank you, Mr. Speaker. May I join the Prime Minister…”
This, this was her element. She was on top of the universe, her whole body thrilling. Up, down. Push the question. Don’t give ground. Her Ed next to her, gesturing widely and surpassing even his usual facility with heckles. Michael Gove, making faces, so far beneath her notice. Up, down. Scoring a point, the gleeful rise of hubbub behind her, Labour a solid red wall at her back. John calling for order. Philip’s face, oddly still. Ed Miliband, feverishly pointing at one of the questions on her sheet – her, nodding, because that was the one she had been going to ask next in any event. Osborne, rocking in his seat and making even odder faces than Gove. Up, down, last chance - look firm, not bitchy, press the point home.
And then she was sinking into her seat again. It was over. She had done PMQ’s.
It took three more question-and-answer exchanges before her heart rate returned to normal. “That was just fine,” Ed Miliband said in an undertone, aware of the microphones. “Just fine.”
Douglas was glaring at Ed’s back. He scribbled something, and passed it down.
“Ignore him,” it said. “Not ‘just fine’ at all. Brilliant.”
Yvette read it, then smiled at him. Hmmm. Douglas wasn’t really a kiss-arse, at least in her universe. When he blushed and looked away, Yvette nearly laughed with surprise. Was it possible that he fancied her?
The thought made her look involuntarily over at Philip again. Luckily, he didn’t notice, deep in conversation with his neighbour, the MP who’d asked the first Tory question. It figured that in her universe no one except Ed had ever really looked twice at her, while in this one she was deluged by interested men. Ed and Ed, Philip, Douglas... Perhaps it was her position – power really was an aphrodisiac, after all. She’d seen far too many ugly colleagues get fawned over to doubt it.
She sighed, suddenly tired, and slouched a little in her seat, gazing fixedly in front of her, not really wanting to meet her colleagues’ eyes any more. The adrenalin was wearing off fast, and not even Osborne’s comical faces were amusing. She stared at the Table, one thing at least that looked exactly the same as it did in her own world; even down to the faint carvings under the lip, where some old Cavalier or Roundhead had no doubt left his mark.
At that moment, Douglas leaned over to say something, but she didn’t hear him. There was a sudden roaring in her ears. “Inscription.” “Table.” Could it be a coincidence that those words had both appeared in Yvette’s notes, and that now she was looking at an inscription on the Table? Surely it was just a coincidence. She'd noticed it vaguely a few times before, since they'd been forced over to the Opposition benches; Ed had once joked that he was going to add "Michael Gove is a right honourable tosser" to it. Yet she couldn’t recall ever knowing what those faint carvings actually said, and she was in no position at this point to ignore any clue, however small.
The roaring receded a little, and she could hear Douglas again. “What is up with you and the Table these days, Yvette? You look like you’ve seen a ghost again.”
She turned on him. “Again?” she hissed.
He must have seen the urgency in her eyes, because his widened. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “You were staring at it on Monday at the Prime Minister’s statement on Kazakhstan. Don’t you remember?”
That was enough for Yvette, who jerked her head up and caught John’s eye. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, and she mimed sliding out of her seat. Would he get the message? A moment of uncertainty – then an infinitesimal nod, and an even more infinitesimal wave of the hand. She knew, somehow, that both cameras and MPs would now find her extremely uninteresting.
Feeling like a guilty teenager sneaking out of her bedroom window, she slid off the bench onto her knees and scooted forward, underneath the lip of the Table. Overhead, she heard John call Dennis Skinner, which was clever of him (if Skinner wasn’t on the Order Paper) or just lucky (if he was). Even without magic, Skinner drew all eyes.
The inscription was faint and small. She strained her eyes in the half-light, laboriously picking out the words.
the power wanes without the head
my england faire, thy king is dead
and now the wolves howl round the door
i cannot fight, he is no more
my strength goes dark, the light winks out
restore our prince, or come to nought
The doggerel wound, in tiny crabbed letters, along the length of the Table, and Yvette was halfway down the front bench before it straggled out. She crawled back to the beginning, too breathless to laugh at the fact that no one had noticed that the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition was on the floor of the House.
A code, then – or rather, a code to her. It looked as if it might be perfectly straightforward to someone who understood its history. Yvette read it again, trying simultaneously to remember the other words which had been scrawled in her counterpart’s notes, trying to piece it all together. “The power wanes without the head/My England faire, thy king is dead” – the king’s death had caused something powerful to be lost. (If she’d had any doubt that this was indeed the key she had been looking for, that second line had eradicated it.) “And now the wolves howl round the door/I cannot fight, he is no more.” – wolves, predators, had arrived, and the king’s death had robbed the writer of the will to fight them? “My strength goes dark, the light winks out/Restore our prince, or come to nought.” – robbed him of the will, or of the ability. The last line, though – what prince? Was it about the exiled Charles II, after the Commons had chopped off Charles I’s head? Was it directed to Richard III, holding Prince Edward (the rightful king) prisoner in the Tower? She seemed to remember that there were a great many princes in centuries past who had wanted to be “restored”.
Yvette sat back on her heels, biting her lip. This wasn’t the sort of work she normally did - she didn’t even do the crossword, unlike Harriet. She looked around her, desperately searching for something, anything, to help her think – and her glance fell on the Mace, sitting meekly on top of the Table, its fussy ornamental exterior belying its inner power.
“Vulnerability” and “Acclamation” flew into her head, two more words from the notes, and suddenly she knew. She knew what Yvette had seen, why Yvette had gone straight back to her office and began doing research to confirm her theory, even why Yvette had been thrown into another universe. She knew, and she was afraid.
--
universe three
Yvette didn’t even look up when the shadow fell across the doorway. Things were bad, she thought, when she recognised a Tory’s footsteps.
“What do you want, Gove?” she said, turning a page in her novel.
“Possession?” he asked.
“It’s one of my favourite books, if you must know,” Yvette said, still obstinately refusing to look at him. “Lord knows I’m not going to waste time and energy on being Shadow Home Secretary, when I’ll be back home in a day or two anyway. That is, if John ever actually manages to find my home world.”
“We are still well within the usual time frame,” Gove said, stiffly.
She sighed. “Why are you here, if he hasn’t found anything? If it’s to lecture me again, let me pre-empt you - go fly a kite.”
“No lecture was intended,” Gove said. He cleared his throat. “I brought you tea.”
Yvette had to look up at that. Indeed, he was holding a cup of tea. “And why, may I ask, did you bring me tea?”
“It is my usual experience that Labour members refuse to listen to even the most reasonable arguments,” Gove said. “Labour members - in particular the member for Morley and Outwood - prefer to shout, chunter, and gesticulate, rather than amend their previously held beliefs. I am...unaccustomed to having my arguments considered by the Opposition.”
“What makes you think I had anything to do with Ed holding off?” Yvette said, leaning back in her chair. “Big male, powerful Leader, goes his own way against the advice of the little weak woman.”
Gove's face broke out into a broad smile, which he quickly suppressed. Yvette stared at him, fascinated. “That may be the way you think Tory brains operate, Ms. Cooper, but I can assure you that no intelligent person, having met you, would be under the impression that your advice could be safely disregarded.”
“Intelligent person – Tory – two different species, don’t you think?” Yvette asked, and Gove seemed to be losing the battle with his mouth again. “And Christ, Gove, stop calling me Ms. Cooper. I feel like a school mistress.”
“I find using only your surname to be discourteous,” Gove said. He crossed the few steps between the doorway and her desk, and gently set the tea cup down in front of her. “And I hardly think you would wish me to call you Yvette.” His voice had gone strange.
Yvette looked up into his face, into the odd, mobile, geeky lines of it, into his aloof blue-gray eyes, and thought that her name did indeed sound strange, coming from his mouth.
Aware that this was a supremely bad idea, but acting on impulse, she reached up, wound a hand in his hair, and pulled that mouth down against her own.
--
universe one
“Yes, Laura?” Yvette said absent-mindedly, deep in the stack of papers she’d had Laura pull. If she was going to make this work, she was going to have to learn just how Home Office policy had changed yesterday morning, in that moment when she had gone from being the wife of one Ed to being the wife of another. Much was the same, but there were nuances, and then she had to track down where they’d come from and why. It was tedious work, but at least she felt as if she was doing something worthwhile, instead of sitting around moping.
There was no answer from Laura, and Yvette marked her place with her finger before looking up.
Michael Gove asked politely, “May I come in, Yvette?”
“Of course, please do,” she said automatically. “How may I help you?” She made a mental note to talk to Laura. Office flirtations were all well and good, and she tended to be indulgent about them, but Laura still needed to do her job and keep random Tories from popping into her office unannounced. Particularly random Tories who seemed to spend most of their time in the House staring at her.
“I was wondering if you had the figures to support the assertion you made in the House last week about underage drug abusers,” Gove said.
Yvette had absolutely no clue what he was talking about. She tried not to let her panic show. “Surely that’s a Home Office matter,” she said. “If the Home Secretary has a question about my figures, I would be happy to write to her.”
Gove blinked, but nodded. “I have no doubt that she would be glad to receive them. However, I am considering revising my proposals for drug education programmes, and you can see how those figures would be useful to me, if you can indeed support them.”
“I would be happy to write to you with both the figures and the documentation.” Why hadn’t he just sent a note, Yvette thought, or had his advisers contact hers? Damn, now she was going to have to track down these figures and get to work on them right away.
Gove nodded again, and turned to leave. At the last moment, however, he swivelled. “I nearly forgot, and Sarah would have decapitated me. Is Ellie’s birthday party still on for next week? Beatrice has been agonising over what to give her.”
Yvette could feel her eyes widening, but there was nothing to do but try to brazen her way through. “Ellie hasn’t been feeling well, so I’m not sure if we’re still going to have it, but she’s definitely been looking forward to it. I’d say there’s about a ninety-percent chance that it’s still on. Let me get back to you?”
Gove just looked at her for a moment. “Yvette,” he said, and his voice was strange, “Ellie’s birthday is in June. There is no birthday party next week.”
Her mouth went dry.
--
universe two
“What is it?” John said simply, sweeping into the Speaker’s Office and taking her firmly by the shoulders. “I’ve left Lindsay in the Chair. What did you see?”
“It was an inscription, under the Table,” Yvette told him. She rattled off the doggerel rhyme, every word burned into her memory.
“And how have you interpreted this?” John asked, his eyes fixed on hers.
“The Mace,” she said. “Your power is tied to the Mace.”
John’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought you first made the acquaintance of magic yesterday.”
“I did,” Yvette said. “But that’s the only way it all makes sense.” She searched his face with her eyes, trying to communicate her urgency wordlessly.
“As it happens, you are correct,” John said slowly. “The Mace is the symbol of the authority of Crown-and-Parliament, as you know. Magically, it represents and enables my role as protector of the realm.”
“If you lost it, would you be able to protect the realm?”
John raised his eyebrows at her again. “I am hardly likely to misplace the Mace.”
“No, that’s not...” She clenched her teeth. “Look, let me just explain what I think the inscription means. I’ve been agonising over Yvette’s notes and non-magical history, trying to make it all make sense somehow.”
“Go on.”
“So the way I read it,” Yvette said, talking fast, trying to spit it all out, “the inscription is basically about someone losing the ability to resist predators because the king has died.”
“The problem with that interpretation is that the king never dies,” John said, a furrow in his brow. “When one monarch dies, the next instantaneously assumes the throne. Thus the cry, ‘The king is dead – long live the king.’”
Yvette nodded. “That’s true legally – sovereignty immediately transfers. But we’re talking about magic – and I get the distinct feeling that magic is far older than any of those succession laws. What about when the crown was contested? What about when there was more than one person claiming the crown? I think what matters is not so much the instantaneous, automatic, legal transfer of kingship, but the acclamation of the country, the emotional, fundamental, magical acceptance of a new monarch.”
“What do you mean by ‘what matters’?” John asked, and she could see him bracing himself, could see the white dints around his mouth.
She took a deep breath. “I think the Mace is fundamentally tied into the magic of the kingdom, and I think it knows when the king has died, and when the kingdom accepts a new king. Between the old king’s death and the new king’s acclamation or acceptance by the country, I think the ‘light winks out’ – the Mace’s power goes dark, leaving its holder robbed of strength and unable to face the predators.” She swallowed. “The evil magicians.”
“Kingdoms, actually, not kingdom,” John said, and he seemed to be hypnotised, eyes looking at her but not seeing her. “Four kingdoms, who worked part of their magic into the Mace, so that it would always be tied to their destinies.”
Yvette pushed on. “Public acclamation may be nearly instantaneous these days, with television, much more than it used to be. Still, the Palace isn’t going to issue an announcement the moment the Queen’s eyes close. There are going to be, what, two or three minutes at least, before it gets out, before the knowledge and acceptance of a new king seeps into the country in the bone-deep way the Mace is going to sense. Maybe longer, depending on how the Mace works.”
“It’s all conjecture,” John told her. “Conjecture. The Mace should be stronger during periods of uncertainty, not weaker.”
“In an ideal world, yes. Logically, though, magic must have initially revolved around the person of the monarch, the original protector of the realm. If that protector dies, his power is gone, and the Mace has nothing on which to draw until the new monarch assumes the mantle.”
She sighed. “Of course it’s all conjecture, you’re right. I’m only theorising from what I’ve seen and from Yvette’s notes. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe I’m wrong – God, I hope I’m wrong.”
His face still frozen, John slowly shook his head.
Yvette looked up into his eyes. “You know it’s true. Somehow you know it’s true.”
“I don’t know when or why this knowledge lapsed,” he said. (Maybe the carver of the inscription was so busy leaving cryptic notes for posterity, he neglected to watch his back, Yvette thought darkly.) “But my magic recognises it. It feels right.” He still looked like he was in shock, his hands motionless and heavy on Yvette’s shoulders.
“What are we going to do?” she said. “The evil magicians must be planning to make their move during those few minutes, while you’re weak or incapacitated. That must be what your Yvette figured out, why she was displaced.”
John nodded, seeming to shake himself out of his torpor. “First, I need to get Chris back at my side.”
“Where has he gone?” Yvette said, alarmed. She hadn’t noticed that Chris was missing, but now that she looked around, there was only one garishly cheerful tie in the room.
John winced. “I sent him to make sure that there was no magical interference at the Palace. Scanning from a distance is nearly always reliable, but we had no clues, so I thought that a site scan might pick up something that we had missed.”
“And you need him back now.”
“If you’re correct, and the Mace fails me, I don’t know how many of my own powers will be left to me. Part of becoming Speaker involves weaving one’s powers into the magic of the Mace, in order to most effectively wield it if necessary. I may be left some of my own power, but I may not. Chris will be unaffected; if there is to be an attack, I need him with me.”
Yvette watched, hugging her arms to her body, as John rung his apprentice. “Chris, Yvette’s made a discovery. I need you back here now. And I mean now. We need to prepare for an attack. Yes.”
He hung up, and turned to her. “You should return to your office. I doubt they will come after you, but you are from another world, and they may perhaps wish to experiment on you to see if they can use you for a magical purpose. I would rather you not be near enough to tempt them.”
His matter-of-fact tone chilled her.
“In fact,” he said, and reached into a drawer. “You should have this.” He looked apologetic. “I deeply regret that you have been thrown into this situation, but it is always best to be prepared.”
Yvette hesitated, her hand hovering over the slender knife in its delicate sheath. “Is it magical? What good will a little knife be against a magical attacker?”
John’s face told her the answer.
“Oh,” she said. She took it, and slid it into her skirt pocket.
“Barricade the door to give yourself enough time,” John said – and went suddenly and completely white. It was if all the colour in his skin had ceased to exist.
“John!” she said, springing forward.
“She’s dead,” John said, his voice as flat and as robbed of colour as the rest of him. “I have to guard the Mace.” He squared his shoulders, smoothed down his tie, and started for the door.
“What do you mean?” Yvette exclaimed in horror. “You said you had to wait for Chris! You want to go out there now, not knowing how your powers are holding up, and get attacked?”
“I have no choice,” John said over his shoulder, quietly. “If the Mace is dormant, it is unprotected. I am Speaker.” He opened the door and broke into a run, a short, determined figure, his gown flapping behind him.
“Well, I’m not fucking letting you go out there alone,” Yvette said under her breath, tucking her chin and following.
--
universe three
Gove’s mouth was motionless against hers for a moment, then opened cautiously. Yvette could taste his wariness, could feel that he was wondering, just as she was, what exactly was happening here. They kissed slowly, carefully, like enemies sniffing each other’s weaknesses.
Yvette was not a patient woman, however, and caution was not her favourite word. She nipped at his lip, tightening her hand in his hair. Gove growled into her mouth, slipped his hands under her arms, and hauled her out of her chair onto her feet.
She broke away. “Are you sure you want to do this, Gove?” she asked. “You’re married, after all.”
“Yes, I am,” Gove said. “But you don’t properly belong to this universe, do you? There won’t be any lasting consequences for either of us. We never have to see each other again, and the Yvette that returns will have no knowledge of anything untoward.”
Yvette eyed him. “Well, if that suits your conscience.” She hopped up on her desk, sweeping papers off to one side and moving the tea that Gove had brought her. “You’d better lock the door. I do have a husband in this world, and I imagine you’d rather he not walk in on us.”
Gove arched an eyebrow and waved his hand. Yvette heard the lock click into place.
“Sexy,” she said, appreciatively.
He smirked. “I’ve put up a sound barrier, too.”
“Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Yvette asked, starting to unknot his tie. She did love men’s ties.
“Let’s say – hopeful.” His hands slipped to her waist, caressing her hip-bones with his thumbs.
“Shut up and kiss me,” she said, using his tie to pull him to her.
He obliged, trying to take control of the kiss. She laughed into his mouth - like that was going to happen. They wrestled for dominance, messy and sharp, and Yvette felt her blood thrill. She hadn’t had time for men lately, not with two children to raise and a Party to lead, and she’d missed this.
Gove kissed like he debated, combatively and ruthlessly, with attitude. He showed no dismay at her ferocity. On more than one occasion in the past she’d had men actually back away from her, put off by her shamelessness, by her obvious delight in sex. (Tom, on the other hand, had loved it, but to a creepy level, almost fetishizing her “sluttiness”, as he’d called it. She was well rid of him.) Gove, however, just seemed to accept her as she was, to see her as a dominant personality worthy of battle.
He shoved her skirt up, slipped fingers into her heat. She gasped, and he smirked against her mouth.
“Knees, Gove,” she said. “Put that smirk to good use. If you’re good, I’ll do you against the door.”
Gove grinned at her, wickedly, and Yvette found herself grinning back. “Remember the sound barrier,” he said, sliding to his knees without demur. “Be as loud as you like.”
--
universe one
“And neither do those figures exist, by the way,” Gove added, “so don’t bother combing your records for them.” He kept staring at her, as if she shone and he could not jerk his eyes away.
“Look, Gove, I don’t know what you’re implying,” Yvette blustered, her voice rising.
“Why did you just go along with whatever I said just now?”
“If you don’t have anything to talk to me about, I have work to do.” Her voice betrayed her, beginning to climb in pitch as well as register.
“I most certainly do have something to talk to you about. At great length.”
The door swung open behind him, and Ed walked in, his face buried in a briefing memo, nearly walking straight into Gove.
For the first time since she had woken to find herself in this mess, Yvette was thoroughly and genuinely happy to see him. “Ed!” she said, aware that her voice had made it nearly to hysterical.
Ed’s head jerked up at her distressed tone, and he did a double-take upon seeing Gove standing in front of him. A thundercloud slowly began to gather on his brow, as he looked between Gove (accusing and suspicious) and Yvette (frightened and defensive).
“Look, what’s going on here, Gove?” he said, shooting him a filthy glare. “Why are you upsetting my wife?”
“I was merely asking her some questions,” Gove said, taking an involuntary step backward before raising his chin defiantly.
“Yeah? And who said you could come in here and start asking my wife questions?” Ed demanded, stepping up into his space again.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” Gove started.
Yvette seized her chance. “Gove, I asked you to leave. Please leave.”
Ed’s glare backed her up, promising blood and brimstone should Gove fail to comply.
Gove grimaced. “Look, it’s important...”
“So write her a letter,” Ed said, casually popping his fingers. “You’ve got no right to harass her. She’s not even your Shadow.”
Gove looked over at Yvette, ignoring Ed’s increasingly belligerent posturing. His eyes seemed to be drawn to her in some elemental way.
“By God, you’re making eyes at my wife,” Ed breathed. “That’s it. I don’t care how many oaths I swore to Miliband promising not to thrash you, you’re asking for it. Outside.”
He actually had his hand on Gove’s lapel, ready to drag him out, when Gove, still looking at Yvette, shook himself out of his trance and blurted, “Don’t you want to get back to your own universe? To your own job - your own family - your own life?”
Time seemed to slow. Without seeing them, Yvette took in Ed’s face, mouth gaping open ridiculously, Ed’s hand, curling into a fist around Gove’s lapel; Gove’s eyes, desperate and fascinated, Gove’s hand, half-extended in supplication.
For the first time in two days, somewhere inside her chest, her heart began to beat.
Continue to Part Three.
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A/N: Feedback is much loved! <3 If you'd rather leave comments at the meme, here is the thread.
