Bercow hates him.

Michael can't understand it. He feels a bit like he did when he was thirteen and his third form history teacher hated him for knowing the curriculum better than he did, except it can't be that Bercow hates him for being clever, because Bercow is clever himself and anyway William is nearly as clever as Michael and Bercow doesn't hate him. And Bercow may profess to hate him for attacking the Opposition instead of discussing matters of substance, but it's not that either, because Chris Bryant is just as bad on the other side- worse; Michael only uses political attacks to leaven the openings of his answers, he doesn't waste whole blocks of time by raising long, nonsensical points of order- and Bercow adores him.

This is the most important job of his life, and he can't do it because Bercow won't let him. It's not supposed to be like this! People in positions of authority are supposed to like him. They always have done before, with the solitary exception of the jealous Mr. Stevenson. All of his teachers, all his tutors at university, every one of his bosses- they've all loved him. Even when he was a bratty teenager and a professed Conservative in 1980s Aberdeen they loved him, although they had to belt him from time to time for insolence. Michael doesn't blame them for it- he deserved it- and he wouldn't blame Bercow for shutting him down when he meanders too far off topic. But he can't understand what he's done to deserve this relentless persecution.

He likes Bercow. All right, so he's a self-righteous, Labour-favoring blowhard, and Michael disagrees with him profoundly about what the public want to see in Parliament- the public watch Top Gear; they would quite like to see Prime Minister's Questions devolve into a physical brawl in which David chases Miliband around the Chamber with the Mace- but Bercow is a decent chap for all of that. He means well, and he wants to shake things up so that the House runs more efficiently. It's exactly what they're all trying to do in Government, so one would think the Party would have more respect for his efforts.

And Michael doesn't believe Bercow's repeated resignations from the Shadow Cabinet were to suck up to Labour. It's as if no one else in the Conservative Party believes that people could genuinely care about gay rights. Even George, who defied the whip on Section 28 himself, doesn't see how it could be a resigning issue. The attitude makes Michael want to hit things. Personal liberty is one of the defining ideals of Conservatism; how can they fail to see how important this was? The Party was on the wrong side of history, the wrong side of its own core principles, and if more people had shown Bercow's sense and courage back then, David might not have needed to pedal around half of London on his bike like a complete prat to prove how ‘in touch’ they've become.

Plus Bercow's vocabulary makes Michael go weak at the knees. It's not often these days that one finds a true master of the English language, but Bercow's verbal dexterity is unrivaled. His pronouncements may be pompous, but they are always eloquent, and if Michael ignores the content he could listen to them for hours, which is fortunate because that's how long they tend to last. He's actually managed to teach Michael new words, which given Michael's own vocabulary is an impressive feat.

So Michael quite likes Bercow, on the whole. He just wishes Bercow liked him.

He's tried to please him. Michael is an old hand at debating; he knows that keeping the judge happy is paramount, and ever since Bercow ticked him off back in February he's done his level best to toe the line. He made a special point of being brief and focused during his statement on Vocational Education and during the last Opposition Day debate. He didn't intervene on Burnham or taunt him apart from one crack about Everton and a quick comment on his success as Labour's election coordinator. He's tried not to snipe at his colleagues in his answers, even when they're being partisan or idiotic.

It doesn't seem to have made the slightest difference. Bercow still scowls at him whenever he enters the Chamber. Everyone else gets that trademark beaming Bercow smile, but he never has a smile for Michael. Ed Balls barracks so hard during Prime Minister's Questions that he seems at times to be on the verge of throwing things at David across the table, but somehow it's always Michael who gets told off. Coming to the House, which has always been one of Michael's greatest pleasures in office, becomes an ordeal. He ducks out of the final debate on his own Education Bill just because he can't bear to sit on the Treasury Bench under the focused beam of Bercow's hatred for another hour, and of course Burnham rakes him over the coals for it the next day, and then Bercow glares at him some more for his dereliction of duty.

It comes to a head during Education Questions in the last week of May. Bercow is after him relentlessly from his very first answer, which is entirely factual and directly relevant to Mary Macleod's question. It throws Michael off balance, and he overcompensates by being flippant at Sheerman, who doesn't deserve it. He feels rotten about that the moment he sits down, but Graham Stuart sets him up handsomely with a question about Labour's wasteful spending patterns and gives him a chance to recover, and then Meg Munn asks a completely reasonable question about rewarding teacher performance in schools with poor catchment areas to which he can give a straightforward answer, and then thankfully it's Nick's turn for a bit.

Every time he looks up at the Speaker's chair he finds Bercow scowling at him. The Speaker seems to be in a testy mood in general, but it's not just that, because he's perfectly pleasant when he rebukes Nick for turning around and addressing Annette Brooke instead of the House. Nick is witty about RE and Michael cheers up a little, but Bercow's disapproval is a constant nagging discomfort. Michael keeps stealing glances at him to see if he's still scowling, and he always, always is.

Then they're on to free schools and Michael is up again, and everything is going along swimmingly until Burnham, who looks disturbingly well-shagged and who doesn't seem to have bothered to comb his hair before coming to the House, decides to do a brazen U-turn on his opposition to free schools right in front of them. Michael is honestly flabbergasted. He's not naive enough to think he's genuinely convinced Burnham of the argument, and he'd thought his opposite number a man of principle, albeit idiotic, Old Labour, dragging-everyone-down-to-the-lowest-common-denominator principle. To see him completely reverse his stance like this just because free schools are proving popular and Peter Hyman is starting one is frankly astounding.

He actually has some of Burnham's ridiculous quotes about free schools in his notes, because he'd been planning to use them to contrast Burnham's rigid dogmatism with the opinions of leading education experts. He never imagined he'd be able to deploy them like this, but Michael has never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He starts to highlight Burnham's incredible inconsistency, but as he's reading out the damning record Bercow interrupts him.

"I ask the Secretary of State to resume his seat, and let me make it clear beyond peradventure, to the Secretary of State and to the House, that questions are about the policy of the Government and answers, suitably succinct, should be about the policy of the Government. That is how we will proceed from now on,' he snarls, and calls for the next question.

To Michael's shame, he finds himself blinking back tears. It's so unfair! He didn't do anything wrong. He wasn't picking a fight or trying to score political points; it was Burnham who completely reversed his strongly held position! Surely it's a matter of public interest if the Opposition are indulging in mindless, opportunistic confrontationalism with no policies of their own, and apparently no ideology behind their arguments either? It's not like Michael was harping on and on about it, he was only commenting because Burnham had literally done a U-turn before their very eyes. He would have got on to Government policy in a moment if only Bercow had let him speak.

He's sure Bercow wouldn't have shut another minister down like that. He would have trusted them to answer the question and given them a minute’s grace in which to do it. It's just Michael who doesn't merit a moment's sufferance. Michael knows that he sometimes forgets that he's in Government and he's supposed to argue differently to how he did in Opposition, but he's trying, he really is. They're all of them new to this, his generation of Tories. They've only been in Government for a year, and they're still getting a grip on things; even the backbenchers haven't quite figured out which questions are permissible. George slips up sometimes too, but Bercow never slaps him down like this.

The rest of the session passes in a blur of trying not to cry and Bercow glaring and awkward questions about embarrassing decisions by Tory councils. Michael puts on a brave face and tries to answer everyone with his usual vivacity, but he's hopelessly distracted. He thinks he may have said something horrible to Dennis Skinner, who didn't mention his wretched pit props this time and deserved some positive reinforcement for it, only Michael's brain wasn't firing on all cylinders and it's very possible he insulted him instead. By the end of it he's just glad to get out of there. The second they move on to injunctions, he slides off the bench, bows to Bercow and bolts from the Chamber.

He has to do something, that much is clear. This can't go on. It's one thing for Bercow to single him out every week at Prime Minister's Questions- that's humiliating but ultimately harmless. But if the Speaker keeps shutting him down in Education debates Michael can't put his case. He'll be letting David down, and his department and his ministers and everyone in the Government, and the children too, because if Labour get their way nothing will be fixed. At that thought he starts to tear up again, and he has to slip into the toilet for a bit to compose himself.

By the time he's restored his normal cheerful demeanor, Michael has decided on a course of action. He can't oust Bercow. Ever since Lindsay Hoyle refused to close the Ways and Means debate and kept everyone past 3:00 AM, the budding rebellion against Bercow on the Government benches has all but evaporated. There's no longer an obvious replacement, and Labour and the rebellious Conservative backbenchers are warming to Bercow out of spite because he's so biased against the Government. Without firm backing on all sides of the House, no one will dare to challenge him. No one wants to be the instigator of an unsuccessful coup against the Speaker, for fear of ending up in precisely the position Michael is in now.

Since he can't get rid of him, he'll have to make friends. Intelligent people never dislike Michael once he unleashes his charm on them. David Evennett was dubious about him at first, but Michael had transformed that mistrust into a sort of paternal concern by the end of their first day together. Sarah Teather's Liberal distaste for her Tory boss only lasted a week before he had her laughing at all his jokes and grudgingly acknowledging the need for spending cuts. George was a harder nut to crack because he was so possessive of David, but in the end he accepted Michael and their duo became a trio. Even William grudgingly admits to harboring a degree of affection for him despite their disagreements about foreign policy. Balls and Burnham may not rate him as a minister, but they send him fondly abusive text messages and wave at him when they spot him walking down Whitehall. Michael is still working on Tom Watson, but he's sure he'll win him over too in the end.

If he goes to Bercow and he's suitably apologetic for whatever terrible crime he's allegedly committed and he promises to do better, the display of willing should quench the fires of hate that blaze so brightly in Bercow's breast. It won't be very pleasant- no doubt Michael will be letting himself in for a withering bollocking, and the fact is he's not sorry because he hasn't done anything wrong, so apologizing will be both disingenuous and utterly humiliating- but if he can plant the seed of a positive relationship between them maybe Bercow will let him talk again. Dread the encounter as he may, he has to try. David and young people across Britain are counting on him.

Michael returns to his ministry and tries to work, but he can't concentrate. He's supposed to be figuring out the capital allocation program, and it's a futile and demoralizing task. Hundreds of schools are in a state of complete dilapidation, and there are no funds to repair the vast majority of them, nor any obvious way to winnow out the most deserving. It's a huge infrastructure deficit left by eighteen years of catastrophic disinvestment and thirteen years of sluggish bureaucracy and flagrant mismanagement, and thanks to the previous Government's profligacy there is not a penny left in the coffers to fill it. It's probably going to take another thirty years to sort the mess out, and in the meantime children are trying to learn in classrooms with leaking roofs and crumbling walls. It's not his fault, but he still feels like he's failing them. It's all very well to blame Labour across the Dispatch Box, but true though it is, that argument feels hollow in the solitude of his office.

After two hours of trying to decide whether collapsing staircases are a higher or lower priority than a broken heating system or the school with two functional toilets for four hundred pupils, Michael gives up on finding a need-based criterion. He makes a stack of the applicants from the southern constituencies the previous Government neglected. When he comes across the application from Tibshelf, he guiltily recalls his exchange with Skinner and adds it to the pile. Then he emails Henry to tell him he's heading home, sidles past Elena and Tim, who are leaning over Elena's desk engrossed in some website that appears to have more to do with pictures of owls than with education, dodges a few civil servants and slips off down the back stairs.

It's a lovely evening, and it's no hardship to walk the few blocks to the Houses of Parliament, past Nick Clegg's old haunts at Westminster School. It would be a nice walk if not for the trepidation knotting Michael's stomach. Bercow won't be pleased to see him, of that he's certain. He should probably write or at least call to set up a formal meeting, but he's afraid that if he has to commit to it in advance he'll lose his nerve. Bercow will want to know why Michael wishes to see him, and what can he possibly say? 'You were vile to me today, and I've come to offer my unconditional surrender and sue for peace'? Just thinking of it makes him shudder with mortification.

The porter gives him a odd look when he walks past, perhaps perplexed to find him without a retinue. He's usually accompanied by Henry or Elena or at least one of his junior ministers. But he makes it to the Ayes Lobby without any awkward confrontations with sulking Lib Dems or enraged Labourites. Poor Lib Dems. It's Deputy Prime Minister's Questions tomorrow, too; maybe he'd better come and sit by Nick for moral support. It's not like Chris Huhne is going to be much of a comfort.

He considers texting Henry to ask him to rearrange his diary, but even Michael can tell he's stalling. He gives the division desk a possessive little pat as he goes by- it's been a year, but it still gives him a warm rush of satisfaction to think of this as their lobby- and forces himself to walk past it into the unfamiliar territory behind the Waiting Lobby.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Bercow is alone in his office when Michael pokes his head around the door. He gives Michael a hostile frown, but invites him in, and Michael slips inside and closes the door behind him.

He'd tried to plan out a speech on his walk over, but Bercow is scowling at him, and while Michael is fearless in the face of Burnham's woebegone Expression of Earnest Lamentation or the Great Blue Glare of Balls, which throws even David off his stride, two years of conditioning have trained him to be brief when Bercow gives him that look, lest he call for order and force Michael to sit down before he can finish his answer. Everything he'd planned to say flies out of his head, and instead he asks, rather pathetically,

"Is it something I did?"

Bercow does not stop scowling, although a slight puzzlement comes into his face. He says nothing. Michael has no choice but to clumsily extemporize, cringing before the Speaker's glare.

"Because I've been trying to adhere to your rulings, Mr. Speaker, I really have. I know I'm not a model parliamentarian, but I have been trying, and I've been much better- well, I think I have, at any rate- my speeches have been shorter, and I've only intervened to provide information, and my department has been trying to provide prompt answers to our parliamentary questions- and not with letters from a fictional correspondent, I might add- and we've been careful not to preemptively brief the press, and I don't think I've been chuntering any louder than anyone else at Prime Minister's Questions.

"If you're still dissatisfied with my performance then of course I'll try harder in future, but perhaps I might be graded on progression? Or if there's something else that I've done wrong, I'd be very grateful for your advice, because I'd like to rectify it but I haven't the least idea what it is. I'm truly sorry if I have in any way offended you. I can only offer my profound apologies and assure you that such was never my intent."

"You might start by sitting down when I call for order, instead of forcing me to say it three times," Bercow says coldly.

It was only because he wanted to get 'inglorious retreat' out before he was silenced; he would have sat down as soon as he finished the sentence. Still, it didn't exactly demonstrate his copious respect for the Speaker's office, and Bercow has a right to be annoyed. Abashed, he drops his gaze.

"Sorry, Mr. Speaker."

"I should hope so. Indeed, Mr. Gove, while I welcome your apology and I am flattered that you have sought my guidance, I confess I find the assertion that you cannot imagine a reason for my annoyance somewhat difficult to credit. You are an experienced parliamentarian; you do not need me to tell you what to do when the Speaker calls for order, or that your representations to the House are meant to address the policies of your ministry and not the latest scores of the Everton Football Club. Were I a more cynical man, I might wonder if this apology was not so much a display of heartfelt remorse as a transparent attempt to restore yourself to my good graces without first putting yourself to the inconvenience of mending your ways."

"But I have been mending my ways!" Michael protests, genuinely hurt. After he's tried so hard to improve, it seems brutally unfair that Bercow should fail to recognize his efforts even when Michael spells them out for him. "And I doubt I was ever in your good graces. You've had it in for me since the day you took office," he adds bitterly, before he can stop himself.

For some reason, Bercow is taken aback by this rather self-evident observation. His eyes widen, and it takes him a moment to gather himself to respond. It's disconcerting- Bercow is very seldom caught off guard- but then, it probably isn't often that someone dares to accuse the Speaker of bias to his face, however often they all think it. Michael would never have said it if the traffic lights between his brain and his mouth weren't on the blink.

"It's true, I've had my eye on you for some time," Bercow concedes eventually. "I suspect you know the reasons why. Chronic discourtesy to the House, insults, flippancy and evasiveness in your answers to your colleagues, disrespect for my office and my rulings. Your ministry is one continuous string of disasters, and when you bother to respond to questions or criticisms at all- which happens far less frequently than it ought to; where is the new educational capital program, or the response to the Select Committee's inquiry into teacher quality?- you prefer attacking the Opposition to defending your own policy."

"You have no right to rule on the content of ministerial answers!" Michael protests.

Bercow rises, and there is such ferocity in his usually cheerful face that Michael finds himself backing up against the door.

"Indeed I do not, but I do have the right to an opinion about them! I spend half my time hearing points of order complaining about your department, and while I must give them all the same answer you just gave me, I am beginning to find the process extremely tiresome. This is not how I want business in this House to be conducted, Mr. Gove! This is not an undergraduate debating society. You are a Minister of the Crown, and I would like to see you govern, not devote all your energy to coming up with sophomoric put-downs."

"It's not all my energy-" Michael attempts, but Bercow comes around the desk and advances on him, and he breaks off nervously.

"What you need is a firm, steady hand, not the Prime Minister's tactic of laissez-faire self-direction and then panicked intervention when things go wrong. He's running this Government like Labour ran the financial markets, and then he wonders why it's such a shambles. The more experienced ministers will survive it, but he's setting you up to fail so badly that it will end your career, and it's killing me to watch you. If he won't provide you with some discipline, then I will. I can't force you to answer questions, but I can refuse to indulge your nonsense."

Bercow is right in front of him now. Michael just hopes he hasn't noticed the embarrassing stirring in Michael's trousers prompted by the mention of discipline. He can't help himself. The mixture of humiliation and proximity and the Speaker's voice is an irresistible aphrodisiac. Oh, why oh why did Bercow have to say that thing about his firm, steady hand?

"You have the intellect of a Pitt or a Disraeli wedded to the sensibilities of a twelve-year-old boy." Bercow continues, mercifully oblivious. "Do you have any idea how immensely frustrating it is to watch month after month as someone of your caliber squanders his potential on this puerile inanity?"

Michael winces. "Not directly, obviously, but Sarah and David seem to find it very vexing-"

"You are the single most exasperating thing about this job, and that includes Peter Bone. I just want to-" Bercow raises his hands in shaking claws, presumably expressing a desire to wring Michael's neck. Then he seizes him by the collar and pulls him down into a fierce kiss.

Oh. Oh.

Poor Chris Bryant. Michael feels like he's just won first prize in a tournament he hadn't entered, and he would feel a wee bit guilty about it, but Bercow is an excellent kisser- well, he would be, Sally has a great deal of experience and she's probably quite a good teacher- and soon he doesn't have enough oxygen left to think about anything except Bercow's lips on his. Bercow finally lets him go, and he slumps back against the door, panting and a little giddy.

"I thought you hated me," he says when he's caught his breath.

Bercow has very kind eyes. Michael's never noticed before because they're never at eye level- Bercow's either up in his chair or down around Michael's chin- and they have usually been engaged in glaring at him. Right now they look a little sheepish.

"No, I- no. How could I possibly hate someone who loves our parliamentary debates as much as you do? I couldn't stop watching you. Scowling was the only way I could think to disguise it. There is something about you that is so compelling and so infinitely aggravating, and when you speak I lose all ability to concentrate, so I do everything within my power to keep your answers brief-" He cuts himself off by pulling Michael down into another frantic kiss, which Michael returns gingerly, nothing loath but a little overwhelmed by his intensity. After a moment Bercow releases him and backs away, holding up his hands in a warding gesture. "I'm sorry, that was wholly inappropriate. Please forgive me."

"You needn't apologize for that," Michael says, and follows him. Bercow keeps backing away. "If you're going to silence me I much prefer this method."

"I can't, I can't! I'm the Speaker; I can't be... canoodling with one of my Members!"

Canoodling is exactly what one does with one's member, and Michael can't stop himself from smirking. With an effort he reminds himself that he is forty-four, not fourteen.

"I can't show favor," Bercow witters on. "It's my sworn duty to be impartial! I have a responsibility to the House; I can't have an affair with an MP, especially not a minister! Every time I see you I just want to pin you against the Dispatch Box and ravish you, but I can't ever touch you-"

It's not a large room. By now it's Bercow whose back is pressing up against the bookcase. Michael tilts his face up gently.

"You may have renounced your party allegiance, Mr. Speaker, but no one can renounce his heart. It loves as it will, without care for responsibilities or vows of impartiality. And I am very lovable."

Bercow smiles ruefully. "You are, yes, modesty and all. I suppose this is all academic; I don't imagine I have remotely the same effect on you."

"I wouldn't be too sure," Michael says, grinning. "You are terribly articulate, Mr. Speaker, and I do like the way you take charge. When you're not persecuting me, that is."

"I should have thought you'd be flattered by the special attention," says Bercow, a speculative look coming into his eyes.

"There is that," Michael concedes, wondering just how much special attention he can get. Bercow's principles will be a nuisance, but Michael's been charming his way around the rules for years. Besides, reason flies straight out the window in the face of frustration, and he can be very, very annoying. It may take him a few weeks to get himself ravished over the Dispatch Box- what a lovely image- but Michael would bet good money he can convince Bercow to put him over his knee by the end of this meeting.

There's only one way to find out.

He smirks and leans down to claim another kiss.