Title: the noblest thing which perished there
Fandom: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
Rating: Not explicit.
Length: ~2,800
Content notes: Choose not to use warnings.
Author notes: Many, many thanks to beledibabe for beta! Title from "Casablanca" by Felicia Dorothea Hemans, the poem Peter recites in the film.
Summary: Peter's boyfriend refuses to take no for an answer.



'Good night, Mr Guillam.’

'Good night, Guillam.'

'Good night, Peter.'

The voices followed him as he made his way to the lift. It was all over now. All the 'villains'—traitors or not—had been identified and purged, in shame or via a well-placed bullet. Peter rather thought George didn't mind so much what happened to Bill, because he believed Bill preferred death to exile anyway. Or because he viewed it as not so much a political outcome but as a personal act, the unavoidable conclusion to the tangled, intense relationship between Bill and Jim.

Perhaps he was right; it wasn't for Peter to say. Certainly the Minister's office was glad of a way to sweep the entire incident under the rug. Everyone knew Jim was responsible for Bill’s death, but Jim Prideaux didn't exist anymore—he'd vanished, gone off to become a lotus eater, just as he'd been told—and resurrecting him would have created more scandal than anyone cared to negotiate in the midst of the rest of the fallout.

And so Bill's body had been returned to his family, to be laid to rest in an obscure grave, George had taken over the Service, and Witchcraft and its handlers had all been ushered out the door with varying degrees of speed and dishonour.

Leaving Peter alone.

Oh, well—not alone, not exactly, he told himself. There was still the Circus. With George at the head table, Peter had moved up to the fifth floor. He was no right hand man, to be sure, but he was in the winners' circle, and the cloud hanging over his head had been removed. Those who knew what had happened knew the role he'd played in sorting it all out, and thanks to George he was once again managing men and assignments of real worth. It was good.

But that was work, and while it was a joy and no small blessing to use his skills again, to be valued again—and by people he could respect—it did nothing to alleviate the emptiness of his flat at the end of a long day, the quiet that was neither restful nor peaceful, only hollow and oppressive. Richard was gone, and while Peter had always told himself that queers—not to mention anyone in the Service—should never put much stock or faith in happily ever after, it appeared he had unwittingly come to believe it might be allowed, at least for him.

And now Richard was gone. Richard, whose quiet nature hid a wicked, bawdy sense of humour and a happy grasp of the ridiculous. Who couldn't cook but loved to eat; who loved to travel but hated hotels; who hated secrets but never Peter, who had too many. Who complained about losing his hair but never seemed to mind, just as he complained about his students but obviously loved teaching more than breathing itself. Richard, who had—always in that quiet way of his—taught Peter how to love, and how to love him. Now, where there had been warmth and laughter and sex, and fights over dirty dishes and where to go for dinner, and pay restrictions and 'those bloody Labour radicals,' there was nothing to hold onto but an empty sense of having done his duty, and having done it too well. Richard had left as quietly as he'd come, leaving Peter's keys and shuttering whatever pain he might be feeling behind a schooled face that had, for the first time in a long time, put Peter on the other side of that insurmountable calm.

Oh, that night. That night had nearly killed him. Peter had cried, for an age it felt like, and then he sat there numb, still in his coat, as the city fell asleep around him. Sometime after three he'd finally roused himself, and methodically stripped the flat of anything Richard had left, taking it all down to the incinerator to be burned. The pictures; the books Richard had given him as gifts; the calendar, with its various notations in Richard's hand—all of it consigned to the flames. Then he'd undressed, taken a shower, and climbed into bed, only to climb out again and strip away the linen, which still smelled of Richard's cologne, before realizing the sun was rising and there was no time for sleep anyway.

'Have a good evening, Mr Guillam.'

Peter waved his hand at Bryant, sitting in his cage, and walked out the door.

***

It began to rain while he was on the Underground. As he left the station he realized he'd forgotten his umbrella back at the Circus, and he sighed, and hunched down into his coat.

Richard left in November. It was late spring now, unseasonably warm. Half term, Peter thought—perhaps Richard was spending the week traveling. Greece, perhaps—he'd always wanted to go there but Peter's job had bollixed things up the last time they made plans. Or maybe he'd just gone north, to visit family. Not that it mattered, Peter thought wearily, as he climbed the stairs to his flat. Wherever it was, it wasn't here.

Inside, he picked up the post, shed his coat and hung it over the back of a chair to dry—bloody fucking rain—and ran a towel over his head as he went through the stack of envelopes and opened the small package. Nothing—just bills, adverts, and a late birthday gift from his sister—and he eventually tossed the lot onto the desk. As he opened a window to let marginally cooler air in, he thought about ordering takeaway. Was he hungry? In the end, he decided to go out to a pub for a pint or two. Before he left, he took a shower to cool off. Not that it mattered; the rain had let up but the air was still thick and wet and warm, and he felt damp all over by the time he'd walked the couple of streets south to The Ploughman.

The first pint went down quickly—it was cold and wet, and he wanted the fuzzy mantle of indifference it would produce. The second he lingered over, more from inertia than any enjoyment, staring down into his glass and occasionally running the tip of his finger through the rings of condensation left on the scarred table.

'May I?'

Peter lifted his head and immediately went still. Richard stood before him, a glass of whisky in each hand. He examined him greedily, cataloguing the changes. Richard’s hair was a bit longer, the way it got when he was busy and forgot to visit the barber, and to Peter’s eye he looked more tired than usual, although that could be the dim lighting, or merely wishful thinking, looking for evidence that he still hurt as badly as Peter. Selfish, really—after all, it was Peter who had—

'I'll take your silence as a yes, shall I?' He set one of the whiskys in front of Peter and pulled out a chair. He loosened his tie—Peter watched his long fingers tug at the knot and release the top button on his shirt, revealing just a glimpse of his collarbone. He'd shaved before coming out; normally he would have a bit of an evening beard by this time, the effects of which Peter had often had to explain away as heat rash, or a bad reaction to a harsh brand of soap before Richard had agreed to shave before sex. 'I hope it meets with your approval,' he prompted Peter, who realized he was staring, nodding in the direction of the glass in front of him.

'It's fine,' Peter said, without taking a sip. He sounded like a croaking frog, he thought, and cleared his throat. It didn't seem to help. 'Thank you.'

A small smile flirted with the corner of Richard’s mouth. 'Well, seemed rude to turn up without at least a drop of something. Look—'

'How did you know I was here? Did you follow me?' Peter asked abruptly.

'I went looking for you; there is a difference. I was at the Blue Post before here, and the Fiddler's Arm before that. You can stop being so paranoid,' he said with exasperation, as Peter hazarded a quick look about, to see if anyone seemed particularly interested in the two of them. 'Nobody cares about two old friends—' there was the barest emphasis on the word, 'having a drink together.' Richard lifted his glass. 'Cheers.'

'Cheers.' He took a sip. It was like drinking water—he couldn't taste anything. 'Very nice,' he said anyway, politely.

'Really? I can't taste a thing.' Richard set down his own glass, hard enough to clink loudly as it hit the table. His hands were shaking. 'Look, here's the thing—I've thought about this and I deserve an explanation. Three years, Peter. You don't just end a relationship after three years without at least a bit of explanation.'

'Richard.' He glanced about again.

'Oh, stop it. Nobody's watching. Nobody in here cares. Do you think I would have approached you if I thought that was a danger?' He gave a short laugh, one without any humour. 'I would have come to the flat, if I thought you would let me in.'

Peter wanted to tell him that the dangers he saw were nothing compared to the dangers that existed, but he just shook his head and said, as firmly as he could, 'You don't understand.'

'Then help me understand. That's why I'm here. I deserve that much.' When Peter remained silent, Richard tossed back the contents of his glass. 'I can't stand this, Peter,' he said, his voice uneven. 'I've thought about this and there has to be another way.'

'I'm sorry?' he asked. The conversation had taken a sudden turn, in a direction he didn’t quite follow. 'What do you mean, another way?'

'The thing I don't understand, you see,' Richard continued as if Peter hadn't spoken, 'is that I know you didn't want—this.’ He gestured between the two of them, as if pointing to the evidence of the tattered remains of their relationship. ‘Oh, I was angry at first—I really did think there was someone else, you know, but there isn't, is there?—and that kept me from thinking clearly. But once I did think it through—' He leaned forward in his chair. 'I don't know why you ended us but I know you didn't want—don't argue with me!' Richard snapped, although Peter hadn't done more than draw breath. A few heads turned in their direction. 'Christ. Damn, I'm sorry.' He leaned back and brought himself under control. He smiled at the people watching, and was quiet until they turned away.

'I'm sorry,' he repeated. 'I don't mean to quarrel. But you didn't want us to end. I know that now. And I don't want us to end either. Whatever the problem is—' His voice seemed to desert him momentarily. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, then opened them and started again. 'Whatever it is you're afraid of—whatever the problem is—can't we find a way to deal with it? Together?'

Peter stared at him, frustrated and sick at heart. No was the only possible answer. Sending Richard away had been the sensible thing to do, the right thing to do, but it wasn’t fair that he should have to do again. No one should have to do this twice. Damn the man.

'Peter?'

'They were watching!' he said heatedly, his voice barely above a whisper. 'You want an explanation—there it is. It wasn't safe.'

'Who?' Richard demanded, his voice as low as Peter’s. 'Who was watching?'

He shook his head. My God, but he was a fool in love. 'I can't tell you,' he said, and then raised his hand to silence Richard when he looked as if he might press. 'I shouldn't have said that much.'

Richard looked as though he wanted to argue but he didn't; instead, he remained silent, obviously processing this new information. Peter watched one thought after another skip over his face, but his expressions changed too quickly for Peter to decipher any single one of them. Before, he thought, before I would have known. Then Richard asked, 'Okay. Then—are they still watching?'

'What?'

'I asked if they were still watching. Look, you say you can't tell me why. I don't like that but," Richard's jaw tightened, and then relaxed. 'I'm not an idiot, Peter. I can reach a few simple conclusions. I know who you work for and I don't imagine you're part of the typing pool. I don't like secrecy—I never have—but I can live with it, if necessary. So I ask—are they still watching?'

'I—I don't know.' He realized it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder whether or not they were still watching. He’d just assumed—he swallowed past a tight throat. 'Possibly not,' he said cautiously, then admitted, 'Probably not. But you do realize,' he continued, watching Richard carefully, 'that they could start up again, at any time. And I wouldn’t necessarily know.' Although George is in charge now.

It was a dangerous thought.

Richard was watching him just as carefully. 'I understand. But if that were to happen again, if they were to start watching again and you found out, can you promise me that you will just—just tell me , tell me that we have to cool things off for a bit, and not just cut me out of your life without any explanation?'

It was madness even to consider it. He could lose his job, and he’d just got his footing again. Richard would most assuredly lose his. Yet if they were careful, he thought recklessly, very careful—

'Please, Peter?' Richard asked softly.

'I could only promise to try. I'm sorry,' he said, as Richard frowned, 'I would be lying if I said I could promise you absolutely. You know that. I can't—' He tried to explain without saying too much. 'It can be hard to predict when something will come up. And—well, things are a bit more complicated than they were before. My job is—well, it's different now, from what it was when we, when we were together.'

'Is it dangerous?' Richard asked, his voice suddenly going lopsided again.

'Please. You know I can't— Oh, God,' the despair welled up inside him and he tipped his head back, his eyes growing damp. 'This is impossible. It can’t possibly work. You want answers I can’t give, promises I can’t make. Better not to try.'

'I refuse to accept that,' Richard said bluntly.

'I'm not sure you have a choice,' he replied, suddenly vicious in his pain.

'Yes, I fucking do,' Richard said from between clenched teeth, reaching across the table to grasp Peter's wrist, hard. 'That's what this entire conversation is about.'

'Richard!' He tried to pull free but Richard held fast long enough to make his point, and then released him. Peter rubbed his freed wrist as he looked about again but it appeared that that time they were lucky. No-one was paying them attention.

'You can't do things like that,' Peter said finally.

'I won't.' At Peter's look he said again, with a small smile, 'I won't. I promise. And no more questions you can’t answer either. Or at least, I’ll try.' He sobered again. 'But Peter, I’m not going to let you break us apart over this. Don’t ask me to. I’ll fight you every inch of the way.'

'We couldn't—' His heart began to beat madly. How—when—had they crossed the line, into negotiation? '—couldn't live together again. Not until I'm sure it's safe.'

'But we could be together.' It wasn't a question.

'We would have to be careful,' he stressed. 'If I say we can't, then we can't.'

'I reserve the right to contest your decisions,' Richard said. 'And you must promise not to be high-handed about it.'

Peter dropped his head. 'This is very dangerous,' he said quietly. 'You don't realize how much.'

'Our kind of love's always a bit dangerous, isn't it?' Richard asked mildly.

'You don't understand,' Peter said. 'You could get hurt.'

'If you say. I've already been hurt. Doesn't matter. I want this. You. I accept the risks. Question is, will you?'

Later, when they were tangled in the linen on Peter's bed, which smelled of Richard's cologne again, and his, and sex and sweat, Peter ran his tongue over Richard's bicep and sighed. 'This was risky. We shouldn't meet here again. If they're still suspicious, this is the place they are most likely watching.'

'Hmm.' Richard pressed a kiss to Peter's throat. 'My flat's not as upmarket as yours, you know. Teacher's salary.'

'Safer, though.'

'If you say.'

'I do say.' He shifted, sliding his leg between Richard's. His thighs were sticky, and not with the heat. 'Not here. Anywhere but here.'

'Anywhere but here then,' Richard agreed. 'I love you,' he whispered.

Peter smiled into the dark. 'I love you, too,' he whispered back, and held on tight as the rain began to fall again.