Kingdom/Absolute Power Crossover (or: The One with the Weird Clone-ish Sex)

[triedunture]

Title: Corrupt Absolutely
Pairing: Charles Prentiss/Peter Kingdom
Words: 7500
Warnings: slash, weird slash, weird angsty doppelganger slash
Beta: by the wonderful and wonderfully British hwshipper
Summary: How do I explain this? Market Shipborough's best (and only) solicitor meets London's most infamous demon of PR. Risky business, what with all this mistaken identity, blackmail, and millions of pounds at stake.

<><><>

Martin McCabe banged through the doors of Prentiss McCabe with Nicholas, Jamie, and Cat on his heels. It was all hands on deck, or all hands on PDAs and clipboards, as the underlings took down everything Martin shouted over his shoulder.

'Kimmy Morgan is on the prowl for a new PR firm,' he said, heading straight up the staircase towards the sleekly appointed offices. 'Her net worth is in the billions. Only JK Rowling is beating her as England's most wealthy woman.'

'The home decorating lady?' Cat asked, scratching her nose with a jangle of the many-coloured bracelets on her wrist. 'The one that wears the striped apron and sings the Goodbye Song when she signs off on ITV?'

'The same.' Martin poked his head into Charles' office, but finding it empty save for the modern furniture, sped on towards his own. He ushered the under-publicists through the door and locked it behind them. 'We need to bring her in quickly,' he said, leaning against the door as if he were out of breath. 'And I don't know if we should be telling Charles about it just yet.'

'But Morgan would be our biggest client if we managed to land her.' Jamie frowned. 'How can we not tell Charles? He'll want to--'

'Exactly. He'll want to work on it. And he can't. Except he has to!' Martin muttered to himself, obviously flummoxed.

Nicholas took pity on Jamie after seeing his confused eyes dart round the carpet. 'Kimmy Morgan is famous for being nice. They call her the Sweet Pea. Five minutes with Charles, and she'd be running in the other direction.'

'Look, I know Mr Prentiss can be a bit rude at times,' Cat said, 'but surely he can turn on the charm for a client of this size? I've seen him do it before.'

Martin shook his head, a wild look in his eyes. 'This woman calls her viewers her Precious Petals. She hand-knits her Christmas cards. She irons out her own yoghurt. She's a softie and a cream-puff, and Charles won't be in her presence for two minutes before saying something scathing. And Morgan won't stand for that sort of thing!'

'Yeah, not like us,' Jamie said with a shrug.

'So give her to Alison,' Nicholas suggested. 'They'll be great pals. They'll cry over old films and share pictures of their house cats.'

Martin retrieved his mobile from his coat pocket and flipped it open with a scowl. With a jab of his finger, he began playing a recorded message on the speaker. A sugary voice floated through the air: 'Mr McCabe, it was ever so lovely to hear your message! Of course I'd love to entertain an offer from Prentiss McCabe. Shall we say tomorrow, two o'clock at the Ivy? The weather is rumoured to be nothing short of rapturous. I look forward to spending a beautiful afternoon with you and Mr Prentiss. Please tell me he can attend as well? I feel it's ever so important to meet face-to-face with team members. Because that's what we'll be, won't we? One wonderfully functioning team. Well, toodles, Mr McCabe! See you then.'

Cat chewed a thumbnail. 'Well, shit,' she sighed.

<><><><>

Peter Kingdom exited the National Department of Disasters and Emergencies with his junior partner, Lyle Anderson, following with stacks of files and affidavits in his arms. He stood on the busy London pavement, looked up at the clear blue sky, and shut his eyes in mental anguish. A hand lifted to massage his temple, and he bit his lip.

'Don't worry, Peter,' Lyle soothed. 'They might not have listened to us today, but they'll have to listen once they take a look at all the evidence.'

'Yes, but Market Shipborough needs emergency funding to recover from the flood now. We don't have time to wait for the bureaucratic big-wigs to wade through all the red tape,' Peter said. 'People are still homeless. Sanitation is appalling. We need help, not lip service.'

Lyle shifted his burden in his arms. 'We'll just have to wait. You did all you could.'

'It won't look that way when we return home empty-handed. Lord, I honestly thought the Department would listen to reason.' Peter shook his head.

'Well, shall we get some lunch before catching the train?' Lyle said, attempting to cheer his employer with a change of subject.

'I'm not very hungry, thank you.' Peter waved him off. 'Why don't you go and feed yourself? I'll meet you at the station, all right?'

'Fine. But please don't beat yourself up over this, Peter.' Lyle juggled his paperwork into one arm so he could give Peter's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

'Oh, here, give me some of those. They're surely weighing you down,' Peter said, taking some of Lyle's heavy load.

'Thanks. Awfully decent of you,' Lyle said before leaving with a grin.

Peter watched him leave, muttering to himself, 'Awfully decent indeed.' He then shuffled off in the opposite direction under the weight of a failed venture.

<><><><>

'OK, so just tell her Charles is unavailable and can't meet with her.' Jamie tapped his pencil against his lips. 'Simple as that.'

They were now sitting in the windowless Round Room, where all the team's most important brain-storming took place.

'You heard her message,' Nicholas said in measured tones, not looking up from his Blackberry. 'How long do you think it'll be before she demands to personally meet with all the "team members"?'

'Well, she doesn't know Mr Prentiss, does she?' Cat snapped her fingers. 'Why can't one of you chaps go in his place?'

Martin held his PDA aloft, showing the P-McC homepage on its small screen. His smiling face was situated right next to Charles and his smug grin. 'Charles is literally the face of Prentiss McCabe. An amateur wheeze like that wouldn't last a day,' he said. He turned to Alison, the more honest sort of publicist in the office. 'Any ideas, insane or otherwise?'

Alison lifted her hands in defeat. 'I don't suppose we could train Charles in civility, could we?'

'In 12 hours?' Jamie grimaced.

Martin groaned into his hands. 'The biggest client ever is on our doorstep, and we're going to lose her because Charles hasn't learnt to smile at silly jokes and nod at dull stories. I learnt that long ago! I like doing that. It's the polite thing to do. Why does he have to be so impossible?'

'Because he's Charles,' Jamie pointed out.

'We'll just have to lie. Say he's out of the country. Say he has cancer. Sod it, say he's dead!' Cat burst out.

Martin slapped his hands on his knees and rose. 'It'll have to do. We don't have time for anything more sophisticated. We still need to prepare a strategy for the Morgan campaign. Let's get started on that, shall we? And remember,' he said as he opened the door, 'do not breathe a word of this to Charles.'

He turned to find Charles, all six foot plus of him, lounging in the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. His pinstriped suit and bold pink tie stood in distinct contrast to Martin's drab olive ensemble, as did his considerable height.

He glowered down at his business partner and said, 'Is that the best you can do? I've seen better secret meetings take place red carpet events at awards shows.' He examined his carefully manicured nails. 'Subtlety, Martin. You lack it.'

'Oh, bollocks,' Martin cursed.

<><><><>

Peter had chosen a seat on an empty bench under a stick-like tree along the Thames. The Embankment was bustling with tourists, school children on trips, lovers walking hand-in-hand, and busy Londoners shouting into their mobiles. Across the way was the impressive sight of the Houses of Parliament, and many people stopped to take it in or snap a picture. But Peter didn't pay the view any attention. He stuffed his iPod buds in his ears and turned up the ABBA; it was the only thing for one whose spirits were so low. If he closed his eyes and listened only to the music and the low sound of the river slapping against the balustrade, he could almost imagine he was back home in Market Shipborough, enjoying an afternoon at the marina.

He sighed. Market Shipborough was in dire straits ever since the flood that had ripped the town apart and taken Simon's life. The doctors had ruled it an accidental drowning, but Peter knew that the shadowy figures that had been following his brother were to blame. Yet there was no one to tell. Peter had no evidence of foul play; the bag of money Simon had been running away with had been discovered untouched.

That money had gone a long way to helping the vulnerable townspeople in the flood's aftermath. It had bought basic necessities for hundreds of people, but it wasn't enough. Even now, weeks after the worst of the water had drained away, the town was still in bad shape. Buildings needed to be repaired, schools needed to be reopened, and the insurance companies were predictably slow in doling out the appropriate claims.

What Peter needed was a load of money in a hurry. But where was he to find such a sum if the government wouldn't supply it?

A sudden rumble of shouting filtered through Dancing Queen, and Peter cracked open an eye. The people on the pavement craned their necks to see in the noise's direction. Peter popped one earbud from his ear to find out what the racket was about.

'Charles, please!' a thin voice cried from somewhere behind Peter. 'Will you listen to reason?'

'Martin, you are proposing to effectively bury me instead of letting me work on our biggest client! If you don't think I can be trusted with such accounts, then dissolve our partnership now. I'll be at Groucho's getting pissed on the P-McC tab in the meantime,' an angry voice rumbled in return.

'Wait just a-- OOF!'

Peter spun round on his bench to see a small man in a dowdy-looking business suit on the ground. It appeared he'd tripped on the uneven concrete slabs.

'Are you all right?' Peter asked, standing to offer the man a helping hand. 'I do hope you're not hurt. The Embankment is so crowded, isn't it? One can barely dodge all the sticky children with snow-cones.' He gave a genial laugh and pulled the man to his feet. The stranger looked at him with eyes the size of saucers. Peter smiled politely in return.

'Charles?' the man called without taking his gaze from Peter.

Further down the walkway, a tall figure whirled round at the name. 'What?' he snapped peevishly.

Peter stared. The man stared back at him. The little man who had tripped stared back and forth between them.

'Good Lord,' Peter finally said.

'Oh, don't tell me geneticists have finally moved from sheep and cows onto something more bloody useful,' his doppelganger scoffed in return.

<><><><>

The Prentiss McCabe team examined the two specimens thoroughly, walking round the sofa to see all the angles.

'It's just uncanny,' Alison said in an awed voice. 'They're perfect copies.'

'Even their noses. Bent to match,' Jamie observed.

'And their ties.' Cat pointed at the two brightly coloured pieces of neckwear. While Charles' featured hot pink polka dots arranged in bold lines, Peter's tie was striped in nearly the same shade. 'Too bizarre.'

'There is nothing "bizarre" about this tie!' Charles said, smoothing it delicately against his chest. 'It was a gift from Viscount St Vincent. A man of impeccable taste and absolutely rolling in money.'

Peter sipped his tea and gave the room a pleasant, if confused smile. 'Yes, the resemblance is rather odd, isn't it? But, erm, you all seem rather anxious about it.'

Jamie cleared his throat. 'The thing is, Mr Kingdom, we're in the market for an extra Charles Prentiss at the moment. And you seem to fit the bill quite handily.'

'Oh, really!' Charles exploded, rising from the couch and facing the eerily silent Martin. 'If you think I'm going to stand idly by and let this country buffoon take my place and waltz into the most important business lunch in the history of this company--'

Peter reached up and gently grasped Charles' wrist. 'Mr Prentiss,' he said, 'do please sit down. Yes, I'm from the country, but I'm no buffoon. I don't want to play a part in this ruse any more than you do.'

Charles glared down at him for a tense moment, then sat with a huff. 'You see, Martin? Kingdom won't play your game. You need me.' He crossed his leg over his knee at the same moment Peter did.

'Listen, no chance you two are twins separated at birth?' Nicholas asked, watching their mirrored movements.

'Sorry, no. I was born in Market Shipborough in front of half the town.' At everyone's stares, he elaborated, 'My mother went into labour at the annual Ladies' Club jumble sale. I think someone would have noticed if twins had appeared on the occasion. It made the front page of the newspaper. But then again, everything does.'

Cat stage-whispered to Alison: 'A jumble? Is this guy serious?'

'Mr Kingdom,' Martin finally spoke, 'what's that you have with you? Files of some kind?'

Peter looked at the stack of papers he'd taken off Lyle's hands. He'd nearly forgotten them. 'Yes, the rejected pleas of the township for government aid. I delivered them to the NDDE today only to rebuffed soundly.'

Martin nodded. 'I thought I recognised that stamp on them. Nothing says "piss off" like red ink."

Jamie, the more mercenary of the team, lit up like a roman candle. 'So your town, Marble Shiptower--'

'Market Shipborough,' Peter corrected firmly.

'Whatever. It needs cash, yeah? To recover from the fire or what have you?'

Peter shrugged solemnly. 'We haven't received nearly enough to cover all the flood damage. I don't know how we'll raise the money now.'

Martin lifted his eyebrows in a self-satisfied way. Charles snarled. 'You can't.'

'Watch me,' Martin retorted. 'Mr Kingdom, Prentiss McCabe would be delighted to donate a large sum towards your unfortunate township's recovery. I ask just one small favour from you.' He spread his hands. 'A single lunch. Two hours of your life. Don't do anything but be yourself and answer to a different name.'

Peter looked over at his double, a worried expression on his face. 'Well, I don't know...'

'I'd rather my name be taken off the door completely than give it to him!' Charles shouted. 'This is an outrage. I built this company from the ground up, and if I'm not good enough for this client, then--'

'Charles, it's not that you're not good enough. You're the best, of course.' Martin swept a hand round the posh office to indicate so. 'But Kimmy Morgan needs a soft touch. She places a lot of emphasis on manners and decorum. Now, if you don't want us to bid for her, fine. But the Charles Prentiss I know would do anything in his power to land a client like Morgan, even if it meant swallowing his bloody pride.'

Charles subsided somewhat. 'I suppose you have a point. She is filthy rich.' He regarded Peter thoughtfully. Peter stared back, attempting to hide his discomfort with another sip of tea. 'Do you really think he can fake his way through a lunch meeting?'

'You do it all the time,' Jamie quipped.

'He'll need to be briefed on a few details. But you can handle that, won't you, Charles? The team and I need to outline this plan for tomorrow.' Martin looked at his watch. 'So what say you, Mr Kingdom? Care to play Prince and the Pauper for a day?'

Peter chewed his lip for a moment before taking a sheaf of papers from his stack. 'If you'd allow me to draft a simple contract regarding the promised donation to Market Shipborough, then yes. I'll do it.'

'Oh, God, he's a solicitor.' Charles rolled his eyes. 'Probably does the wills for every blasted grandmother in town and mediates arguments over broken geranium pots.'

'As a matter of fact, I do.' Peter opened his briefcase and found a pen. 'Perhaps you wouldn't comprehend, Mr Prentiss, but I have an obligation to my home to provide a service. If it weren't for those grandmothers and geranium pot owners, your clients wouldn't have an audience for their television programmes. Small towns may seem laughable to you, but they're the backbone of this country, I'll have you know.'

A pained look crossed Charles' face, and he turned to his business partner. 'Couldn't Alison handle him? I just can't be bothered.'

'I've slogans to work on,' the resident cheer-monger said brightly before buzzing off.

'Just take him back to your place and give us room to work, will you, Charles? Lend him a good suit; I assume you both take the same size.' Martin signed the papers Peter handed to him. 'And make sure he's here tomorrow in plenty of time. Right. Let's go, everyone.' He herded the team into the Round Room, leaving Peter and Charles alone.

Peter was made a call on his mobile, ignoring the scowling man at his side for the moment. 'Yes, Lyle. Go ahead without me. A few days in the city, I think, and I'll be right as rain.'

Charles' frown deepened. Peter snapped his phone closed.

'Shall we get a takeaway, then?' he suggested.

<><><><>

Even though everything about Charles Prentiss oozed style and expensive tastes, and the penthouse flat he led Peter to only reinforced that image. Charles opened the front door with a flourish and ushered Peter through a beautifully appointed vestibule and onward to an open floor plan of sleek sofas, hardwood floors, and chrome fixtures.

'I suppose I have some plates or something. I can't even recall the last time I ate a meal here,' Charles grumbled, eyeing the bag of tandoori in Peter's hands with barely concealed distaste. He moved into the kitchen and began hunting through cupboards.

'Well, it wouldn't do to pop in at your usual haunts with your twin in tow. Not if you want McCabe's plan to work,' Peter reminded him. He toed his shoes off; Charles hadn't, but the floors looked so spotless, he was afraid of scuffing them. In fact, everything was absolutely pristine. The sofa looked as if it had never been sat on. Peter dithered in the open space between the hall and the kitchen, unsure of what to do with himself. 'Do you even live here?' he asked. 'Everything looks brand new.'

'I have a cleaning service.' Charles reappeared with the requisite plates and utensils and two cobalt bottles of Ty Nant. 'And I spend most of my time at the office. I like it that way.'

'I can certainly understand that,' Peter said. 'My office is my house, actually. It's been in the family for three generations.' He took over the task of dishing out the food at the dining table.

'How charming,' Charles said without enthusiasm. He sat down heavily.

Peter grimaced. 'Yes, I suppose it wouldn't be your first choice. It's a bit lived in, I grant you, but there's nothing like being surrounded by the comforts of home.' He smiled and took a seat as well. With knife and fork firmly in hand, he started in on his dinner.

Charles seemed distinctly reluctant to touch his food. 'You know what I don't understand?' he said, steepling his fingers together under his lips. 'We both were wrought from the same mould. Genetically speaking, fine stock. You seem no less intelligent than I, despite your weakness for this insufferable blight you call a town.'

Peter sipped his Ty Nant and quirked a wry grin, but said nothing.

'And yet,' Charles continued, 'you had one of the richest men in PR, Martin McCabe, on his knees, begging for your help, and you only asked for--' He pursed his mouth. 'How much money did you ask for?'

'Two hundred thousand pounds,' Peter said with a smack of his lips. 'Enough to clean the debris from the high street and rebuild the clinic.'

Charles raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Peter answered with a questioning one.

'The Morgan account will be worth millions to Prentiss McCabe in the long term. You could have gotten four hundred thousand from Martin if you'd just negotiated correctly.'

'I didn't need to.' Peter dabbed his mouth with a serviette. 'The donation will be enough to meet the most dire needs. I'm sure, in time, the NDDE will--'

'The NDDE doesn't give a sodding toss about Market Shipborough!' Charles tipped his head back, letting out a roar of laughter. 'There's not a person in this city who could even find your town on a map. If it was wiped out tomorrow by an even worse flood, no one would shed a tear.'

The fork in Peter's hand slapped down on the table with a bang. Peter could feel his face becoming flush with anger. 'You really are quite an irritating man, aren't you?' he said quietly. 'No wonder your partner is limiting your contact with actual human beings.' He squeezed his eyes shut; no, he had already shed all the tears he could over Simon, and he wasn't going to let this bully pull any more from him.

Charles gave a mou of disappointment. 'Oh, has the country mouse finally been pushed out of his polite bubble?' He tsked and wagged his finger in the air. 'Your skin needs toughening, that's your problem.'

Peter pushed his chair away from the table and stood. He planted his hands on either side of his dinner plate and leaned into Charles' space. 'One of us is being paid a great deal of money because the other's skin has become so tough, it's impossible to chew. I don't see a powerful man when I look at you, Mr Prentiss. I look at you and around this flat and I see someone utterly cut off from the world at large. You have no mementos on the coffee table, no photographs on the walls.'

'You surely overlooked the Hans Bellmer prints in the foyer?' Charles said glibly, tossing a papadum into his mouth and chewing loudly.

Peter levelled a scathing look at him. 'There are no traces of other people in your life. You must be a lonely man, steadily growing older and with nothing to show for it. Well, if you'd rather I didn't help you in your business venture, which is the only thing you seem to care about, then I'll leave.' He pushed away from the table and made his way towards the front door.

'Kingdom, wait.' Charles, who was apparently faster than he looked, was now on his feet as well, having grabbed Peter's wrist to prevent his escape. His eyes, a familiar blue, darted along the floor and, for the first time that evening, he seemed to struggle with his words. 'Sometimes it's difficult, seeing yourself in a mirror. I mean, literally. I look at you and your rather unfortunate tailoring--' He picked a piece of lint from Peter's suit coat.

Peter sputtered with indignation.

'--but you appear to be a very happy man. Lord knows why. Your little soliciting operation couldn't possibly make much money,' Charles continued. 'So if I appear to be gnashing my teeth and flaring my nostrils, well, it's because you're right. I am...lonely.'

He let go of Peter's wrist and turned. He took a few paces towards the red sofa and leaned a hand on it, covering his eyes with the other. Peter, very used to giving comfort to upset people, moved forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

'You probably have loads of people you can turn to, don't you? An adoring wife and two strong sons rowing for Cambridge, maybe a little dog to complete the picture?' Charles asked hoarsely.

'Well, you had the dog bit spot-on. But otherwise, I'm put upon by a mental younger sister, her new baby, a junior partner, and some very dear friends.' Peter gave his shoulder a pat. 'You don't have to be statistically normal to be happy, Charles.'

Charles seemed to hesitate before covering Peter's hand with his own. 'That's good to hear. I needed to tell myself that, so to speak.' He chuckled. 'There's a wonderful pinot noir I've been saving in the wine chest. Shall I break it out?'

'Splendid idea,' Peter said, and watched his twin lope off into the kitchen area.

If Peter had been paying more attention, he may have seen Charles' face reflected in the chrome refrigerator: a smug smile, with just a hint of cruelty curling his lip.

<><><>

'Ah! You're a Mac man as well?' Peter said, running a hand along the clean white lines of the Mac Book Pro that sat open and whirring away on Charles' desk. In his hand was his fifth or perhaps sixth glass of wine. Though Peter didn't usually drink wine as it had a tendency to go straight to his head, he hadn't wanted to deny Charles when it came to refilling the glasses. The man's collection was extensive, and he probably didn't have many opportunities to share it with visitors. So they had sipped and chatted until finally Charles had said, rather like a giddy child, that Peter absolutely must see the view from the bedroom.

Of course, Peter was more readily impressed with the laptop than the view.

'There's no comparison, really. I wouldn't be caught dead typing away at one of those wretched Windows machines,' Charles said with a sniff. He tapped a few keys in an affectionate way as he passed.

'I have to say, I agree with you completely.' Peter took another swallow of his wine; it was starting to feel heavy on his tongue, like syrup. He made a mental note to call this his last glass. 'Perhaps we're not so different after all,' he said.

'No, I suppose we're not.' Charles turned to look out the window and Peter followed his line of sight. It was a rather wonderful view from the high-rise, overlooking the South Bank. The lights of the Eye hung in the distance, and across the water, the city glowed like a beacon.

Peter moved to stand next to his host and sipped at his wine, sharing the view with him. 'It is beautiful,' he admitted.

'It is, isn't it?' Charles turned, plucked the wine glass from Peter's fingers, and leaned forward to gift him with a long, deep kiss.

Peter's eyes widened, and his hands immediately grabbed hold of Charles' lapels. His first instinct was flight: this man was a carbon copy of him; he couldn't be kissing a set of lips that matched his own. Everything about it screamed of wrongness. He pushed Charles off with some effort. The man was as big as he was, after all.

'What on earth are you doing?' Peter gasped.

'Oh, do get off that high horse before someone hands you an equestrian medal,' Charles said, setting the wine glasses on the bedside table. 'You can't honestly tell me the thought hasn't crossed your mind too.'

'What thought?'

'The thought of going to bed together.' Charles reached out and pressed a hand over Peter's chest. Peter tried in vain to breathe normally, but his heart was racing like a locomotive. 'It would be nothing more than first-class masturbation.'

A look of unsurpassed horror passed over Peter's face. 'Absolutely not! I can't go to bed with you! You're-- You're me!'

'Only on the outside.' Charles drew his hand down Peter's chest, tickling fingernails over shirt buttons and the pink silk of a tie. Peter backed up against a wall, a tactical mistake. Charles followed and pinned him there with his own body. 'And there's nothing I love so much as myself,' Charles murmured before capturing Peter's lips again.

It was a very strange sensation, Peter thought. He kissing someone as tall as he was, which had never, ever happened to him before. There was no need to bend down or draw the other's mouth upwards. They were perfectly matched in that respect. Charles tasted of the wine they had been drinking, and of pipe tobacco. Bitter and spiced.

Peter wrenched his face away, panting for air against the cool wall. 'I know why you're doing this,' he said. 'You think you can come to terms with your demons by confronting them, by confronting yourself. But I'm not you, Charles.'

'No, but you understand me. Better than I understand myself.' Charles drew his lips down Peter's jaw, down his jugular vein, tugging his striped tie loose to reach the hollow of his throat. 'You haven't known me for a day, but you already figured out what makes me tick. We're connected somehow, Peter. Don't you feel it?' He looked up, eyes glassy with wine and the lights from the city, and he stared at Peter. 'Or am I just so lonely...?'

Peter's resolve softened. He was no stranger to loneliness himself, having grown up like he did in Market Shipborough, the too-tall, gangly bookworm with a hidden penchant for lithesome lads. He'd been celibate for so long, not out of fear, he told himself, but out of necessity. And here was a photocopy of himself, sharing that same pain and asking for the same comfort he had been craving. What was the harm?

Sod it, Peter thought, and leaned forward to meet Charles' mouth in a deep kiss.

'There he is,' Charles growled approvingly, taking hold of Peter's shoulders and nipping at his lower lip.

'I...I haven't been with anyone in quite some time,' Peter said softly, watching Charles slip the striped tie free of its knot.

'Mmm. Same for me, I'm afraid.' Charles popped the first button on his collar and massaged his fingertips along Peter's clavicle. 'Not to worry, though. It's not as if the territory will be anything new.' His eyes glinted with mischief.

'Right, of course.' Peter tried for a chuckle, but it came out more as a high-pitched giggle. Perhaps that last glass of wine had been one too many.

'Let's get all this off you, then.' Charles slipped his hands under Peter's suit coat and ran them slowly up his flanks before coming to his shoulders and divesting him of the outer layer with a flick of his wrists. The jacket fell to the floor to puddle round Peter's feet. His shirt was next, its tails plucked from his trousers, and the braces pushed off to dangle from his waistband.

Charles' hands were everywhere, unfastening buttons and flies, groping along hips and thighs. He reared back for a moment with a frown. 'Good Lord,' he said, feeling along Peter's middle. 'Have I really gotten this fat?'

Peter's face fell. Charles grinned and chuckled. 'Just a joke, Peter. It's an insult to me as well, you know.' And he kissed him fiercely. There was a slow semi-dance that involved Charles pivoting away from the wall with Peter in his grip and walking him towards the sizable platform bed.

Peter hit the mattress with a grunt, noticing for the first time his dishevelled clothing. He looked up at Charles towering over him. Charles grinned and stalked forward onto the bed on his hands and knees, caging Peter underneath him.

'You're utterly gorgeous, if I do say so myself,' he said and bent his mouth to the task of feasting. Peter gasped, groaned, writhed, wriggled, did all the things that he was sure made him look a mess. But Charles Prentiss was a force of nature, and nothing short of a natural disaster could stop Peter from arching into his touch.

This was probably why, when Peter was shouting Charles' name into the darkness, he neglected to notice a flashing light on the top of the laptop's screen.

<><><>

Peter woke the next morning with the sunlight shafting its way through the filmy curtains and striking him across the face. He groaned and sat up, his head swimming at the sudden change of altitude. He rubbed his face in an effort to scrub the sleep from his eyes before finally blinking them open.

He was alone in the bed, twisted up in the Egyptian cotton, naked and bearing a bright red scratch mark across his chest. Peter touched it gingerly and winced. It appeared Charles needed to trim his nails.

Speaking of, where was the man? 'Charles?' Peter called. Hearing no answer, he slid out of bed and wrapped the soft sage-coloured sheet round himself before padding out of the bedroom on bare feet.

He found Charles lounging on the sofa and eating an enormous omelette balanced on his knees while simultaneously speaking into his mobile and typing on his laptop. 'No, Nicholas, don't cancel my two o'clock. If I'm not going to be meeting with Morgan then I may as well get some work done at the office. And make sure you restock the bubbly, will you? Martin and I will be popping corks tonight, I can tell you that much.' He looked up mid-bite to see Peter standing in the middle of the room. 'Ah. I nearly forgot; I was popping them last night as well. Must go, Nicholas. Good bye.' He took the iPhone from between his ear and shoulder and placed it on the coffee table.

'Sleep well?' he asked Peter.

'Like a log, thank you.' Peter suddenly felt very out of place, with Charles sitting fully dressed in a flashy suit while he stood swathed in bedsheets. 'Might I borrow your shower?'

Charles' eyes were aglow with satisfaction. 'We did get you dirty last night, didn't we?' His eyes tracked up and down Peter's form. 'Positively filthy, really. And we do need you looking clean for this afternoon.'

'Yes, I doubt Mrs Morgan would appreciate the scent of male musk overpowering the soup course.' Peter glanced about, but couldn't see a likely suspect for a linen cupboard. 'Is there a spare towel I can use?' he enquired.

'Before you get all fresh and sparkly,' Charles said, putting aside the remains of his breakfast, 'we should probably get some things clear.'

Peter swallowed. 'If you're afraid that I'll cling to you like a love-struck girl after what happened last night, I'll put your mind at ease. It was--' He glanced up at Charles and then fastened his eyes to the floor again. 'It was spectacular, of course, but it was something that I don't expect to repeat. It was a moment of weakness and curiosity on both our parts. I promise I won't hold it against you.'

'How lovely. However,' Charles turned his Mac Book round to show Peter the screen, 'I will be holding it against you.'

At the sight of the video playing on the screen, Peter's mouth fell open. His eyes went wide with fear. It was them, in bed together. The sound was off, but the pictures were unmistakable. Charles, holding his wrists against the mattress. Charles, plundering his mouth again and again. Charles, thrusting into him from behind and wrapping his arms round his heaving chest. Charles, dragging his fingernails across his sternum and leaving an angry red trail there.

'You...' Peter whispered. 'You bastard. Why--?'

'Two hundred thousand pounds isn't an awful lot of money in the long term, but it is an awful lot in the short term.' Charles stabbed the air with his index finger to underscore his point. 'You'll be handing over that claptrap contract, and I will be tearing it to pieces. You will tell Martin you no longer need Prentiss McCabe's donation. You will do your duty today with Morgan out of the kindness of your heart. Unless of course,' he turned up the volume switch a bit and allowed the animal grunts and moans poured from the speakers, 'you want your precious little town to see what the real Peter Kingdom is like.'

Peter blinked and a single tear slid down his cheek, but he felt unable to brush it away. 'You are a son of a bitch,' he said.

Charles leaned back against the couch with a smile. 'I know. And you make it so easy.'

<><><>

Peter sat at a back table at the Ivy in his borrowed suit, pushing a spear of asparagus round his plate and feeling absolutely miserable. He dealt with shady men on a daily basis, and yet Charles Prentiss had fooled him completely. He had dangled the bait, Peter's need to care for the needy, and Peter had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. For god's sake, he'd leapt into bed with the man after only knowing him for a few hours!

'Charles,' Martin addressed him with a nudge of his foot under the table, 'doesn't Mrs Morgan's scarf look familiar? I think you own a tie in much the same print.'

Peter looked up from his barely touched food and forced a smile for the tiny woman sitting beside him. It wasn't her fault, after all, that Peter was being blackmailed into this wheeze. Kimmy Morgan had actually proved to be a very charming woman, very tiny, middle-aged, and a delightful storyteller. As promised, she was rather old-fashioned, waiting for Peter to pull her chair out for her and so forth. But she did appear to be a shrewd businesswoman, and she and Martin had dominated the conversation with various PR jargon.

'Why, yes,' Peter managed to say. 'I think mine has a bit more blue in it, but I like this pattern much better. Where ever did you find it?'

'Oh, I picked it up in a secondhand shop,' Morgan said with a sheepish smile. 'So many treasures waiting to be found, don't you agree Mr Prentiss? Finery is all well and good, but I prefer good old finds.'

'Quite right,' Peter said. 'My most beloved handkerchief was rescued from my great aunt's hope chest. It's amazing what you can find in your own home if you just take the time to look.' This was all true, actually, and Peter was glad to be able to contribute something that wasn't a total lie for once that day.

Mrs Morgan reached across the table to grasp his hand. 'Mr Prentiss, I must confess. I had heard that you were a horrible man, filled with venom and spite.'

'Oh, really now.' Martin laughed nervously.

'But I can see you're just the sort of person I need for my new campaign.' She turned to Martin. 'Mr McCabe, I hope you don't mind, but could you please retrieve my coat from the check-girl? I find it's a little chilly in this place.'

Martin gave Peter a worried look, and Peter said, 'I'd be happy to--'

'No, no, Mr Prentiss. I want to continue this fascinating chat. Would you be so kind, Mr McCabe?' She smiled gently at the man.

He wiped his mouth on his serviette and cleared his throat. 'Of course. Be back shortly.' And he left the table, leaving Peter alone with Mrs Morgan.

'So you were saying you liked secondhand shops?' Peter said pleasantly.

Morgan's sweet smile fell from her face and her hand tightened on Peter's wrist. 'Listen, Prentiss, we've got maybe five minutes before McCabe finds out I haven't got a coat in the coat-check. So let's make this fast.'

Peter frowned. 'I beg your--'

'You seem like the squishy sort of sunshine-hugger. And I need a someone like you, a real wimp, to fix up a campaign for me ASAP. By this time tomorrow, my name will be dragged through the mud if you can't think of a way to keep me clean.' She leaned forward and hissed, 'My reputation is at stake.'

Unsuccessfully trying to free his hand, Peter ventured, 'May I ask what sort of attack is being levelled at your reputation?'

'I hired a prostitute,' Morgan said flatly.

'Ah.'

'A female prostitute.'

'Oh dear.'

'And there may or may not have been a horsewhip involved.'

'I see.'

'But the stupid bint took photos and she's going to sell them to the Sun. I need a counter-attack and I need it now.'

Peter pursed his lips in thought. 'Mrs Morgan,' he said, 'I will happily make all this go away. But on one condition.'

'Yes?'

"Have you ever heard of a town called Market Shipborough?'

<><><>

It was a clear spring morning when the strange car, black and exotic, rolled up in front of Kingdom & Kingdom. The tall figure that emerged wore a hat low over his brow and marched quickly to the front door of the solicitor's office. He entered to find only one occupant sitting on the waiting room's floral sofa and reading the newspaper.

'Ah, Charles. How good to see you,' Peter said without looking from behind the newsprint.

The headline of the Shipborough Sentinel read: Morgan's Millions Donated to Town: Celeb with a Heart Saves the Square. Above the fold was a picture of the Sweet Pea herself, wearing a sharp pantsuit and shovelling muck out of the high street with a grin on her face.

'You might be interested to know,' Peter drawled, 'that a young ex-prostitute from London has found a new home in a quaint country villa. It turns out the girl has always wanted to work with horses. I found an excellent stable for her to begin her apprenticeship. She should be kept off the streets now, and away from shoddy tries at blackmail.'

'You idiot,' Charles growled. 'You've ruined everything.'

'Did I really?' The paper finally folded in half to reveal the smiling Peter. 'I saved a woman's career, I swept a poor child off the streets, I secured funding for a decimated town. Everything has turned out just fine.' He tapped a finger to his lips in mock thoughtfulness. 'Oh, wait. You didn't land your client, did you? Once she heard my plan to save her reputation, she didn't need to hire Prentiss McCabe to work their media machine. That is such a shame.'

'I won't hesitate to use that video, Peter,' Charles warned.

'Go ahead and try. Put it on YouTube for all I care. I'm already one step ahead of you.' Peter opened the newspaper to the fifth page and showed Charles the small column of print. 'Looks like it didn't make too much of a splash, what with the celebrity at our doorstep.'

Charles grabbed the paper and read the story aloud. 'Pillar of the Community Comes Out of Closet. After 30 years of service as Market Shipborough's only solicitor, Peter Kingdom has continued his commitment to the town by forming a support group for LGBT members of the community. "Such a thing didn't exist when I was growing up here," said Kingdom at the inaugural celebration. "It will serve as a testament to our town's love of diversity and--" Oh, fucking arse!' He threw the rustling paper to the floor.

'I'm sorry, Mr Prentiss. But you've just been out-spun.' Peter smirked and steepled his fingers under his chin.

'No one out-spins me,' Charles spat. 'I will find a way to end you, Kingdom. I swear it.'

He turned to leave.

'Wait.' Peter stood and grabbed his wrist. 'I know you can't be all bad, Charles. That night we shared, you may have been feigning vulnerability to trick me, but I will always believe that it wasn't an act. Not completely.' He leaned forward and, when Charles didn't make a move to get away, brushed his lips against his slack mouth. 'I'm here. Whenever you want to stop pretending.'

Charles paused a moment, then wet his lips. 'I'd tell you not to hold your breath, but it would make my life so much easier if you did,' he said with ice-cold precision. He extricated his arm from Peter's grip and swept out the door.

Peter watched his double leave from the window, noting his reflection in the glass grinning back at him.

FIN





You can download the PDF version here.

Courtesy of favoritedarknes.

Comments

[favoritedarknes.livejournal.com]

Oh yeah!

[fanfromfla.livejournal.com]

This must be my day for catching up with your fics! I was looking through this community for something else, and came upon your fic. I've watched the Absolute Power eps and must say you've captured the diabolical Mr. Prentiss very well. You make the details work so well. For instance, the mutual Mac-love was so natural a device to drop in... and then it becomes the tool of the devil! Also, the "two sons rowing for Cambridge" line? LOL!

This really felt like an episode of AP. Of course Peter could never reform Charles, or even connect with any humanity -- but even better, he could out-spin him!

[mxdp.livejournal.com]

I just re-read it. And it was even better then before. You gotta love the clashes between Peter and Charles. So different, and yet the same...
My love goes to Peter though. ^^

And then...
Then I saw the PDF.
Yes.
Yesyesyesyes.
:D