Bill disabused him of that notion.

Not that James didn't win. He won handily with Bill masterminding the campaigns and pushing him forward. He didn't let James rest, didn't let him take a break to catch his breath. Not that he wanted to breathe. Breathing was overrated, filled with stinking air and rot, until he reached the rarefied oxygen of 10 Downing Street.

It was easy enough. He had the right look and the right politics, proper for the time and what people wanted. And he had Bill's hand at his back, guiding him through the shark-infested waters, hand-picking the reporters who got to ask the questions. There were never any sound bites that came back to bite him in the arse, and even Mary was blind to everything that went on behind the scenes.

Until two years ago when it all started to fall apart.

A hint of a scandal was threatening, and people were beginning to say Bill's name with a hint of maliciousness, like he was in the line of fire, ready to be thrown to the wolves. Rather than catch Bill's back, James told him he was hanging Bill's arse out to dry if he didn't hand in his resignation. The next hour, it sat there on his desk in bold black ink and Bill's thick, rough signature. He stared at it for three days before everything went straight to cunting shit.

The press was all over him, Mary was threatening to leave him, and he was knee deep in depression and hip deep in booze and the blonde bint that security dragged out of the flat he kept for such occasions was nearly dead. The phone call to Bill was desperate and pleading, and Bill told him not to worry, to put Reginald on. Security was contained, the problem went away and seven hours later, Bill was in his office again.

The back line sat at the edge of his desk, the full stop on the sentence of phones. His mobile was in his pocket, muffled and ignored as Bill leaned across his desk and looked James in the eye, a wicked, knowing gleam in his eye.

"I think it's about time we discussed the balance of power." James sat at his desk, watching as Bill straightened, moving around it like a fucking panther, predatory and hungry. "I think there's been a shift."

"In the country?" James's voice caught on the last word, his eyes locked on the penetrating heat in Bill's.

"In power." Bill's hands settled on either side of James's chair, hands curling around the armrests like claws, knuckles standing out white as he gripped them. "I think you've gone the way of the Queen."

"How do you…?" He broke off as Bill leaned in closer, his breath smelling of brandy and sex, cigars and money. "What do you…?"

"You're a figurehead," Bill informed him. "A symbol. A puppet. And now I control you with my hand shoved so far up your arse you can feel me gagging your throat."

"Bill…"

"I'm not Bill anymore, James. Not to you, not like this, not alone. I think you know who I am."

"You're the…"

Bill leaned in and James thought that the smell of cunt would gag him for the rest of his life, make him taste bile at the back of his throat, tinged with the cigarette-stained yellow nicotine taste of Bill's fingers. "I'm the what?"

James swallowed and let his gaze cant down Bill's body, noticed the cut of his suit, the thin yet wiry form, the hard bulge of his cock. "Boss?"

"Say it again."

James nodded, fear breaking out in sweat along his spine. "You're the boss, Bill."

Bill straightened, stepping back and staring at James, waiting, expectation in his eyes. James nodded, sliding down to his knees and fumbling with the belt and zipper, button and briefs, pushing them down Bill's thin legs, palms rubbing against the rough black hairs of Bill's thighs.

"You're the boss."

"That's right, James." Bill's voice was thick like honey, thick and sweet and sickening. James swallowed and licked his lips, nodding once before he leaned in, his tongue painting the head of Bill's cock.

"You're the boss."

Bill shuddered above him as James took him in his mouth, sucking him down. His hands curved around Bill's hips, fingers digging into his flesh, and he thought about revenge, about price. He thought about biting Bill's fucking prick off and swallowing it whole, letting him bleed out on the fucking Parliament carpet, and wondered if Bill was like the fucking hydra, cut off one head and another takes its place, again and again, all of them with that fucking mocking smile.