Author's Notes

This is a story I haven been trying to write for a while. I have an empty draft, completely blank, on one of my computers. I always knew the title I wanted, but it took me a while to wrap my head around everything else. Finally, one day when I was kind of depressed and had no inspiration, I opened up a fresh document, and the story just came. I wrote it in one sitting, so it is a short, one-short fic. You can take this Alternate Universe, or not; I suppose it depends on how far you can stretch your imagination, whether you can see this having happened unspoken, off-camera or not. Personally, I think of it as Alternate Universe, as I don't see the canon characters of Don Draper and Pete Campbell being anything but heterosexual. Just my view.

Just to make it clear, this is a slash story, with a homosexual love scene of mild explicitness. The core theme is discipline, so if adult spanking is not your cup of tea, please move on. It is also a little bit of character study on both characters' parts, since my writing style, for those who do not know, is always dialogue-heavy.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy.

01

The air was static in the deserted offices of Sterling Cooper. Evening had come, gone, leaving only the remnants of life behind: a half-full ash tray, an ice cube melting into a glass, a whiff of smoke still hanging in the air, a perfumed sweater hung over the back of a chair. The forgotten little things people left behind as they made their exit, stage right, from their daily performances. The cogs and screws holding the whole thing together.

And Don Draper.

The man sat in his darkened office, staring down a bottle of liquor. The past days had taken their toll, and he finally stopped fighting the turmoil that had simmered meanwhile. He let the waves wash over him, drowning him far more than this bottle ever could, and just sat, gazing blankly around at his own personal stage.

The old set was gone, with the barn, the yard, the bramble and bushes surrounding that plain, solemn house. The old cast was gone, too: his adoptive mother, his father, and his little brother, now. This set was sleek, modern, sophisticated. This cast was witty, sleek, smart-- at least, they believed they were.

And how well Donald Francis Draper assumed his important role. How well this new stage wrapped itself around him, lent itself to his minutely-rehearsed charm. How well all the little pieces fit together in this jigsaw.

How well indeed . . .

Don emptied his glass, poured another. Before taking another drink, he took a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke wafted down from his lungs into the air, rich and heady, almost its own kind of perfume. His head went light, but not light enough. Not yet.

Not yet. He had come so close to losing it all, so life-shatteringly close. The pieces had been torn apart by that inane boy, who had been clever enough to reassemble them to show the real picture. There they were out in the open for those breathless moments. There it all was waiting to be seen, the curtains torn away, the impostor naked on the stage.

But nothing had come of it. Not yet. His time would be up, he knew that somewhere deep down, but not yet. Not yet.

Suddenly, the door opened. Don blinked, though his face never lost its placid expression. There he was, that insufferable child himself. Twenty-seven, eight, or whatever he was, Don did not respect him enough to even think of him as a man.

Pete Campbell pretended to be surprised. “Don,” he greeted the man, expression becoming faintly puzzled. “I wasn't aware that you were still here.”

“Come to see what more dirt there is to be dug up, Campbell?”

Pete glanced out the door frame to see if anyone had heard, out of instinct, and stepped inside. “Now look, that was a completely honest mistake.”

“Really? How was that?” Don asked, and it took great effort to keep his temper from flaring. “You mistakenly took a package addressed to me from my office and mistakenly opened it yourself? Then what? You mistakenly read everything, looked at every private photo, and mistakenly brought your wild misconceptions to Cooper?”

Pete exhaled through his nose, not at all daunted by how stupid it sounded. “I wasn't going to do that,” he told Don. “You--” He gestured with his arm, which was covered with his draped coat. “--pushed me into it. I warned you. You had fair warning.”

“Warning to do what, Campbell?” Don asked, his voice raising. “To answer your every beck and call? To give you whatever approval you seem to need from me? To lie to you? To be your father figure? What, Pete? What was I supposed to do!”

Peter had lived to see the day that Don cracked, but faced with the sudden fury, he found himself a little daunted. Don looked even taller than he normally did, and his light eyes glinted with a strange, almost feral look. He took one step back, staring at Don with shock, and begrudging awe.

“To respect me, Don,” Pete said, nonetheless intensely. “That's all I ask. All I've ever asked. But you--”

“I what, Pete?” Don asked sardonically. “I don't like you! Is there some company policy I have been unaware of that says that I have to?”

Pete lifted his boyish face impudently. “There just might be,” he said. “Do you think it's over, Draper?” He laughed, and it was an unhinged, queer sound. Then, he hissed cryptically, “No, it is certainly not over yet.”

Not yet.

Don sighed, shutting his eyes. He felt woozy, tired, and wished he had just gone home. But today, he simply felt he could not take that particular stage, put on that particular act of husband, father. So, he had let his canceled business trip stand, at least as far as Betty knew.

“Do you think Roger Sterling would be as nonchalant?” Pete continued. “How would Creative like to serve a man rumoured to be an impostor? Would the clients still eat out of your hand if they knew?” He strode around the desk right up to Don, viciously threatening, “I still have the power to blow your life apart, Draper. Don't for a moment think that I don't.”

“Pete, I don't care what you have,” Don said wearily. He suddenly pulled the young man closer by the tie, hard, and took pleasure in seeing him jump. “I will never be your friend, and I will never respect you.”

Pete swallowed, the words hurting more deeply than he wanted them to. Don walked past him as if he were nothing, like he did so often. Campbell ran a hand through his hair, and rage overtook him.

“Don't you walk out on me, Draper!” he shouted, following the man out of the office. “Don't you dare ignore me! I swear to you, I will see you ruined!”

Don had picked up his hat, coat, and briefcase on the way out. He ignored Campbell, heading through the offices at a brisk pace. Campbell kept up, and Don was reminded of a mosquito's buzzing and nagging.

“How would your wife feel about it, Dick?” Pete asked, coming around in front of the man. “Or is she another fake like you?”

Don slammed him against the wall. Pete inhaled sharply, blue eyes wide with fright. He felt like wilting beneath Don's steely gaze, though he faced it with perfect insolence. Through the fear, a part of him felt satisfaction at finally having gotten under Don's skin, cracking that hatefully smooth façade. His blood was rushing, heart pounding in his chest. God, he hadn't really felt this alive, not in a long time.

“Don't you dare talk about my wife,” Don said softly. He shook Pete. “Ever. Do you understand?”

“Does she know?”

“Campbell,” Don said warningly.

“Does she know?” Pete repeated, moving his face closer into Don's brashly.

Don saw now the look in Peter's eyes, and finally understood it. The kid was enjoying it. He was savouring it. This was as close to victory as he had come yet, as much hold on Don's attention as he'd ever had. It was almost sad.

“What will you do, Pete?” Don asked. “Phone up a woman you don't even know in the middle of the night and start spinning wild stories about her husband? Do you think she'll believe you? Do you honestly think anyone, anyone, will?”

Pete wavered, but only momentarily. “It remains to be seen, doesn't it?”

“Go home, Campbell,” sighed Don, releasing him. “Do whatever you want to do tomorrow, but go home now.”

Pete straightened his suit, face flushed. It took him a moment to get his thoughts straight again. “Aren't you going to go home?”

Don gave him a look that said it wasn't his business, and headed back towards his office. Pete felt the adrenaline seeping away, the heat of the moment going cold, and felt disappointed. No, no, it couldn't end like this again. He would not be ignored again, not after all he knew.

“I'm going to the police!” he called after Don. To his satisfaction, Don stopped. Smirking smugly, Pete went on, “Let them handle it. True or not, I'm sure our local law enforcement can figure it out. It will be out of my hands-- and out of yours.”

Don still had his back to Pete, so Pete had no idea that he was practically laughing to himself. “Unless?”

Pete frowned. “Excuse me?”

“There's always a demand, isn't there?” Don faced him. “I'll go to the police unless-- Unless what, then, Pete? Unless I respect you?”

“That--”

“Respect a blackmailer?”

“I--”

Don put down his things on a random desk, striding back up to Campbell. “I told you, I will never respect you, Peter Campbell,” he said in that hushed, furious tone of his. “Honestly, I don't even think you respect yourself.”

Pete frowned deeply. “What do you--”

“How can you?” Don cut him off. “How can you, when you're nothing but a spoiled, arrogant brat trading off of his family's name?” He walked closer to Pete, who backed up a step. “Do you remember the time you were fired?”

Troubled and confused, Pete said, “Yes.”

“I didn't save your job, like Roger said,” Don said. He gave a derisive snort of laughter. “Did you really believe that fairy tale he spun you? Did you really think I would have done something like that for you?”

Pete gaped at him, horrified, and looking like a present-less child on Christmas. “But, then, what--”

Don was enjoying this too much, and he knew it. Nevertheless, he was not about to stop now. The boy had it coming. “Your name, Campbell,” he said. “Cooper made us sharply aware that there actually is a company policy about you: we have to keep your mother happy, by keeping you here. It was society and its puppets that you owe your job to, Peter, not me.”

“I don't understand,” Pete said in dismay. “Cooper . . . My mother?” He looked up at Don searchingly. “You would have let them fire me?”

“I practically begged them to fire you.”

“Don, I--” Pete's brow furrowed. “What did I ever do to you?” He shook his head impatiently, adding, “Before this, I mean.”

“It wasn't what you did, but what you were-- what you still are,” Don said. When Pete prompted him, he shifted on his feet and sighed. “Do you really want to hear it again? Fine. You are a spoiled, arrogant brat, and you are not half of what you think you are, besides. You're not a man, Campbell, you're a boy. And as long as you chase after me with these ridiculous attacks and desperate plays for my attention and approval, you always will be.”

“I'm not playing for attention,” Pete said haughtily. “You think I care about your approval? What is it worth? Nothing! Nothing you do is worth anything!”

Don felt a headache coming on. He turned and walked away again. Of course, Pete followed closely behind.

“A spoiled, arrogant brat-- fine! So I am! At least the name you claim I trade off of is mine,” Pete needled the man. “My family is mine. My life is mine. What is any of this? Is it yours? Is anything really yours?”

“Yes it is!” Don boomed down at him, turning to face him so quickly Pete almost crashed into him. “I earned this! Every last goddamn corner of that office, every last goddamn cent in my bank account, I've earned! I've worked for it! You have no idea the things I have done to keep it.”

Pete just scowled, turning his face.

“And you have no idea the things I would do to make sure it stays mine.” Don pointed at him warningly. “Let it go, Pete. I mean it. Let it go.”

“Or what, you'll kill me?” Pete said cynically, rolling his eyes. He gave Don a bored look. “You really believe your own pitch, don't you?” He walked up to the man, and the thrill was back. “What will you do?” he asked softly. “How do you know there wasn't anything I kept from that package? How do you know I don't still have some kind of proof?”

Don eyed him warily.

“What's the matter, Don? Nothing to say?” Pete hissed up at him. “Where are your compelling words, your witticisms? Where is your charm? You know, don't you. You won't say it, but you know it's different. You know I would never buy it again. You say you don't respect me, well, I don't respect you. I used to. I even admired you. But how can someone like me look up to what you really are-- How can I look up to nothing?”

“Because you're less than nothing, Pete,” Don told him tiredly. “Belittling me doesn't change the fact that you're here. You're here, and you're trying to get something from me-- I don't know what-- at this hour of the night, when you should be at home with your wife.”

“I'm here because I feel sorry for you, Don,” Pete said. “I'm giving you a chance to come around. It doesn't have to end this way.”

“Nothing is going to end, you saw that in Cooper's office,” Don told him. “Go to the police, Pete. Tell them, tell everyone in this office, tell my wife, tell anyone you want what you think you know about me. Just leave me alone and go home already.”

“You're here.”

“What?”

“I'm not the only one here,” Pete said. “So what are you trying to get? Comfort from that bottle that was nursing you when I walked in? You've been bluffing the entire time, Draper, and I'm going to call it.”

Don glared at him. Though he was pigheaded, Campbell was not entirely stupid. His spite and occasional savvy were a deadly combination, especially now that he had the right ammunition. After all, it was a bluff, and Don was truly getting worried.

“I'm going to call it right here, right now,” Pete said, emulating Don's softly dangerous tone. He walked over to the nearest desk and picked up the receiver of a phone. He began dialling, and gave Don an arrogant smirk. “And there is nothing in this world you can do about it, nothing but watch me.”

He dialled one number, two, three-- and no more. Don grabbed him roughly by the arm, wrestled him away from the desk. Pete cried out angrily, trying to fight him off, but there was no way he could. Don shuffled him into his own office, slammed the door shut behind them.

“What the hell do you think you're doing!” Pete exclaimed furiously. He smoothed his suit, then his hair. “Are you going to tell me you still don't care what I do? Are you going to deny this is panic?”

“No,” Don said, locking the door. “I'm not.”

Pete felt his fear returning, and felt trapped in his own office. “Well, what-- What are you doing, Draper, seriously? You can't-- You wouldn't kill me.”

“Of course not,” Don said impatiently. He moved to one side of the office, where Pete had memorabilia displayed. He knew what these college boys kept around, and surely enough, there it was. “I'm not going to kill you.”

Pete watched the man rifle through his things, baffled and a bit concerned. “Then, what are you going to do?”

Don turned to him, holding his old fraternity paddle. Realization dawned on Pete's face, having to compete with his perturbed expression. “You're going to spank me.”

“Yes,” Don said certainly. “I'm going to spank you.”

Pete opened his mouth, 'ah', and then laughed nervously. “Very funny. Very, very funny. I admit, you almost had me going for a moment there,” he mused. “I almost believed you.”

“I'm not joking,” Don told him, approaching. “I really am going to spank you.”

Pete laughed again, and it was a little high-pitched. “No you aren't.”

“Yes--” Don took him by the arm. “--I am.”

Pete's face drained of its merriment, and his eyes widened in shock. He tried to make a sprint for the door, but Don's grip tightened, and he held him in place. Before Pete could make another movement, Don had twisted his arm behind his back, and manoeuvred him in front of his desk. Don pushed things aside, knocking some items to the floor, as Pete struggled violently.

“Just how drunk are you?” Pete shouted angrily. “This won't change anything! Nrrgghh.” He twisted and writhed, but could not break out of Don's grasp. “Why the hell would you spank me?”

“Why the hell wouldn't I spank you?” Don asked plainly. “You've gone from being an annoyance to a headache, and now you're completely hateful. Besides, don't you think I should try to earn back that respect you used to have for me?”

“But this is ridiculous,” scoffed Pete. “I'm a grown man. I'm twenty--”

“You're a brat, Peter,” Don told him. He slammed the man down over the desk hard, and Pete ceased fighting so much, the wind knocked out of him. “You know what they say, never too old.”

“Well, what if someone walks in?” Pete pointed out, trying to keep his cool. “What will they--” His pitch went higher, and his cool slipped as Don unbuckled his belt and began opening his trousers. “--think! My God, Don, what will they think!”

“That you, Peter, are finally getting--” Don tugged down his trousers, and then his boxer shorts. He smirked as he felt Pete tremble, his bottom fully exposed, vulnerable and smooth. “--exactly what you deserve.”

Pete swallowed, his throat and mouth completely dry. He could do nothing but stare at the polished wood on which he lay-- his own desk. His face coloured, and he felt his stomach fluttering with nerves. His breathing had gone ragged. “Don,” he said scratchily, feeling panic building up inside him. “Don't do this. Don't make a fool out of yourself.”

“That's funny, I thought I was making a fool out of you,” Don said cynically. He eyed Pete's backside for a moment, then gave his ass an open-palmed smack. “I just don't see how I'm the foolish one here.”

Pete gasped at the touch. It was hot, Don's hand heavy. Pete frowned in confusion, not at the sting, but at the pang of arousal that rippled through him. It was . . . scintillating.

“Do—on,” he wavered regardless. “You'll re-- You'll regret this.”

“Oh no, Campbell, I don't think that would be possible.”

Don watched the hand print he had left on the youth's fair skin redden for a moment, and then lifted the wooden paddle. He waited a moment, then swung it as hard and fast as he could. The smack resounded through the entire office, seemingly the entire block it was so loud. Pete cried out in pain, his entire body jumping. Don held him down more firmly.

Tears jumped to Pete's eyes, and he hated himself for them. He had been paddled before, and punished in worse ways as well, so why did this affect him so strongly? He wanted desperately to cry, more than anything, but his pride forced him to set his jaw shut. “Mmph.”

Don felt all the frustration and annoyance pouring into his arm as he swung the paddle again, and again. He wanted to make this brat's life at least a little less easy, show him what happened when you simply could not get your way. He wanted to shut his haughty, hateful mouth once and for all. He wanted to bestow all the pain and suffering that life had spared him on him in that one moment.

“You judgemental, self-righteous little asshole,” Don murmured. “What the hell gives you the right? Eh?” He gave the kid a mighty whack. “What the hell gives you the right?”

“What gives you the right to hate me!” Pete cried out hoarsely. He took a few shuddering breaths, but knew his control was almost gone. “What gives you the right? Why do you hate me?”

“I don't hate you, Pete,” groaned Don.

“Of course you do,” Pete said shakily. His eyes were glazed, his mind elsewhere, blurred by the pain. The tears streamed down his face, but he didn't even feel them. “Of course. Why else would you hurt me? Why else?”

“To teach you.” It was bad pitch, even Don knew it.

“Oh, bull, that's bull!” Pete shouted. A small sob escaped his throat. “You don't even look at me enough to know what to teach me. You don't even think anything more of me than-than a bug under your shoe. I'm nothing to you. I'm nothing.”

Don frowned, watching him. He wished he could see his face, but from his angle, he couldn't. He had the feeling this was no longer about them.

“All I've done is be nice and polite and-and perfect! I've tried!” Pete yelled. He shut his eyes on tears, lips tightening into a thin line. “I've tried so hard for you.”

Don was interested now, despite himself. He kept paddling the young man, but distractedly.

“Why don't you care?” Pete sobbed. “Why don't any of you care? What do I have to do? What? Just tell me, tell me, so I can do it. Please, just tell me what I'm missing, dad.”

Ah, so that was it, Don thought. He should have guessed, it was pretty obvious, after all. Perhaps he never let it seep in, for the sake of not pitying his young nemesis--

--as he did now.

Don sighed, ending the punishment. He released Peter, standing aside. He glanced down at the paddle self-consciously, then at the angry, puffy red marks lining the man's bottom. It was already turning to purple and green bruises, tracing down to his upper thighs. Pete looked too thin, almost frail, bent over like that.

“Get up. Come on.”

“No.” Pete's hands ran through his hair and clutched together amidst it. “No, just keep hitting me. Why not? I probably deserve it, anyway.”

Don raised his eyebrows. He was tempted to make any number of comments, given how kinky the statement sounded. It took effort to refrain. “You did deserve it,” he said slowly, “but it's done now, Pete. It's over.”

“No.” Pete crumbled into sobs on the desk. “No, don't-don't stop.” His sobs became louder, less restrained. “Don't stop.”

Don pondered him for a moment. It would be best to leave now, and let the pieces fall where they may. There was really no use in getting more involved.

“Don't you want to hit me?” Pete asked, looking over his shoulder at Don. “So-so go ahead, hurt me. I won't do anything.”

Don said nothing.

Pete flew at him, hitting his chest. “Go on! Hit me!” he yelled at him. “Hit me!”

“You're the one hitting me,” grumbled Don, having caught a fist to the chin. He restrained the man by taking his wrists in his hands. “Stop it, Campbell,” he said sharply. “Stop.”

Pete bowed his head, and his shoulders shook violently. He looked lost, lost and deeply hurt. Knowing he would regret it, Don allowed himself to feel sorry for him, and awkwardly embraced him. “It's okay, Peter.” It came out more gently than he had intended, and he sighed, turning his eyes to the ceiling. “It's okay.”

He had intended the embrace to be short, but Peter threw his arms around him. Don was a bit taken aback by the sudden closeness as the kid bawled into his shirt. He waited . . . and waited. Pete was hysterical, sobbing loudly like a baby, rambling senseless things, shaking his head and almost hyperventilating. Don frowned deeply, realizing that the man he had assumed to be so shallow was actually deeply disturbed on some level. Though he was a vapid, self-absorbed idiot, there was a part of him that Don had not seen before: a shattered, broken piece of boy that rarely surfaced.

Pete was miserable, but it was such a thorough, complete misery that it almost transcended sorrow and became something more. He had wanted this. There was no denying that now. He had never, ever been broken down this perfectly, never been allowed to feel this unabashedly. It was horrible, but that perverse part of him also said that it was good.

As if wanting to be humiliated further, humbled further, Pete cried, “Oh Don. Oh, Don, I am so sorry. I'm sorry. I-- I wasn't going to do anything.”

“I know.”

Pete looked up at him, looking childlike and beautiful in his anguish. Don put a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. This was going too far, and he had to end it soon. Best to comfort the kid, make him feel better, and leave it.

“I let you call my bluff,” Don explained quietly. “I should have held out. I should have known what I know now.”

Pete frowned a little. “And what is that?”

“You need me here.”

Pete opened his mouth to protest, but had to shut it. He sniffled, leaning his forehead on Don's chest. It was true. Damn it all, but it was the truth.

“And,” Don added, “you want me here.”

“I do,” Pete said in a small voice. He was reminded unpleasantly of his wedding day, how proudly and happily he had said those very words to his wife. He frowned. His wife. It felt like someone else's day, someone else's wife, someone else's entire life. Suddenly he was a child again, small and lonely and trying to prove himself worthy of being loved.

Don looked down to see Pete's hands gripping his shirt, his jacket. Pete had one cheek pressed into his chest, and was nestled intimately against him. He looked dazed, and his eyes stared out at nothing.

“Campbell-- Pete. Peter.” Don tried to move away, but Pete clutched his clothes tighter. Don was loath to give in, but he was beginning to panic. “I'm sorry. I never should have done something like this. But I will be here, and I . . . I'll try to be more respectful of you.”

Pete looked up after a moment. “What?”

Don sucked his breath in through his teeth. There was no way in hell he would repeat those words. “I said, you should get cleaned up, go home. Sleep it off.”

Pete wiped his eyes with a fist, and Don hated himself for finding the gesture immensely cute. He had never felt attracted to a man before, not once. Now, he found himself becoming curious. How drunk am I?

“It'll take more than sleep,” Pete grumbled, still trying to wipe his tears away. He reached back and rubbed a hot, smarting cheek. “Aow. Ow.”

Don was beginning to feel warm himself. He moved away from Pete now that he had the chance, busying himself with returning the paddle to its display; he found it ironic and highly pleasing that Pete would have new memories to think back on every time he saw it there.

“You have quite an-an arm,” Pete said, pulling his boxers and pants back up, trying to get back in order. “I feel sorry for your kids.”

“I don't hit my children.”

Pete sounded faintly disappointed and jealous when he said, “Oh.”

Don poured him a glass of liquor, handed it to him at arms' length. “Here. Drink this.”

Pete took a sip, then a deeper swallow. Don offered him the bottle when he had emptied his glass, but Pete waved it away. The world was already spinning, and it had done nothing to dull the fiery pain.

Don eyed him. “Are you going to be okay?”

“No,” Pete said flatly. “I'm not.”

Their eyes met, and the office felt as if it were closing in. They were too close. It had gone too far. The only question that remained was that of who would make the first move.

It was Peter. He threw the glass aside, and it shattered near the door. The youth advanced on Don, rushing into a smouldering kiss. Don wanted to push him away violently, but his body did not agree, and he kissed him back.

If only he could have felt revulsion, disgust. If only something had felt off and wrong about it. But no, Don thought bitterly, it was everything that a lover's kiss felt best being: eager, curious, full of need. The Pete that strutted through the offices in the day, that was the act, and this was the real him. Why did he have to be, beneath those layers of conceit, so damnably compelling? He was a child, a beautiful, evil, spoiled child, and Don wanted him. He wanted him, needed him, and he knew he was letting it show.

Don tore himself out of it, though it felt futile. “What are you doing?” he asked, trying his best to be stern. “You aren't a homosexual.”

“I'm not,” Pete agreed, “but I want you.” He smiled briefly, humourlessly. “I don't think I have ever wanted anyone this much before in my life.”

Don looked down at him, aghast and handsome with his black hair falling across his forehead. He was masculine and strong, everything Pete always wanted to be. But right now, Pete felt no jealousy or resentment. Perhaps, he thought with dark amusement, those things had been beaten out of him. He was left just admiring, as he had been when they had met.

“Peter, this can't--”

Pete reached up and took Don's face in both hands. “Who are you?” he asked softly. He looked deep into Don's blue eyes, searching them for anything, finding only pain and a veil of deception. “Who are you, Don?”

Their foreheads bumped against one another, and stayed nestled together. Don felt Pete's pulse throbbing in his own head, felt his soft, warm hands on his face. His palms were impossibly soft, the hands of a man that had never known physical work, and never would. Soft-- He was all soft right now, and young, and--

Don kissed him. Just one more taste. Just one more. It couldn't end.

Not yet.

Pete was shuffled back into the wall, felt his shirt popping buttons as it was yanked open. He would have to throw it away or Trudy would wonder, he thought idly. Don's hands pressed against his shoulders, and he noticed the man's face was buried in his neck. He laughed, not knowing why. It was all so ridiculous. Life was so ridiculous.

Don was as aggressive making love to him as he had been punishing him. He slammed and steered Pete around the office. Pete stumbled along, giddy and lost in the physical sensations that were so new and intimidating and appealing. He was over the desk again now, and almost wanted to be spanked all over again.

Don's hands soothed over the bruises caressingly, before he gave the kid one last, big slap. He could tell by the way Pete shuddered that he liked it, and he shook his head. Who knew Campbell had such 'exotic' tastes?

Don squeezed his bottom in his hands, opening him up. Pete was shaking. A little uncertain himself, Don went into him slowly, carefully. The kid cried out, regardless, and buried his face against the desk's surface. His nails dug into his palms, and he screwed his eyes shut. Don grinned lopsidedly, and pushed into him harder, faster. God, he would always treasure the sound of that scream.

Pete's screams were quickly displaced by moans of pleasure, and he leaned into the other man, wanting to be closer, impossibly closer. It was troubling how much he enjoyed being the one beneath, relinquishing all control and just trusting someone to lead him. It felt good to have Don work him over, pleasure him, enjoy him-- so much so that Pete wondered how he would ever go back to normal (in his mind, heterosexual) sex.

Pete must have lost all his thoughts at the height of it, because before he knew it, he was collapsed on the floor beneath the desk. Don was panting, and dropped down beside him. He sat with his back against the desk, and pulled Pete up to lie in his arms. Pete lay his head on the man's chest, slowly coming back down to reality as he counted the heartbeats.

“I don't care who you are,” Pete said, throwing an arm over him and nestling up to him. “I love you.”

“I bet you say that to all the guys,” Don quipped.

“No, I mean it,” Pete said firmly. “I love you.”

“Ah, Pete,” sighed Don, putting an arm around the kid's thin frame. “You'll hate me in the morning.”

“I probably will,” Pete said easily. “But I still love you tonight.”

Don shook his head, but his expression warmed. He kissed Pete's shoulder, and then leaned his head back. He shut his eyes, succumbing to the exhaustion for a little while. What a mistake. What a mistake, what a crazy, stupid, wonderful mistake . . .

02

Don, or rather Don's finely-honed instincts, did not allow him to sleep very long. Still, he woke in a panic, looking all around and trying to squint at his watch. It was only nearing the middle of the night, and the man breathed a sigh of relief. If anyone found out about this, it would be over for them both.

Don's eyes wandered down to Pete. The kid was still in his arms, slumped against his chest, with his arms around him. It was, Don thought, pretty pitiful given how cruel he had been to him. He would never admit it to Campbell, but putting him over his own desk and spanking him had been quite out of line. Had anyone ever tried to humiliate Don even a quarter of as much, he would have put them through the street-- after putting them through the window.

Don was used to being a hypocrite, however, and so the thought only served to amuse him. Poor lost little Campbell. He didn't even know how to defend himself against what he had wanted all along. He hadn't even seen it coming. Don chuckled to himself, stroking the young man's brown hair. Once he got over the need for comfort and the thrill of the whole thing, he was going to have to deal with a very nice bruising of his behind and his ego.

“I'm glad you're so happy.”

Don looked down in surprise. “You're awake.”

“Not really,” groaned Pete. He opened his eyes and stretched his arms out. Sitting proved to be too painful, and he collapsed against Don again after a couple of attempts. “Ohhh,” he groaned, “owww.”

Don patted his bottom. “Sore?”

“Are you kidding me?” Pete grumbled, trying to rub out the sting. “I haven't been paddled like that since-- Actually, I've never been paddled like that.”

“Well, I hope it is a lesson well learned,” Don said. He gently pushed Pete until he was sitting up on his own, ignoring his yelps, and then got to his feet.

“Thanks a lot,” Pete said, watching him. He reached out and caressed Don's leg, then sat back to observe him some more. He wanted to hate him. He wanted with all of his soul to hate Don Draper, or whatever his name really was, but he couldn't. All he felt was the residual pleasure of having him, and admiring incredulity at the man's gall.

Don eyed Pete from the corners of his eyes, and was surprised at what he saw. Pete seemed pleased, happy even, and relaxed. He slid onto his stomach, slender and long on the floor, and continued to stare at Don, a cheek resting on his hand. It was a little annoying to see those welts on his ass, then see how undisturbed by them he was.

Don was half-dressed, and tucking in his shirt when he finally spoke again. “Are you going to stay here like that, then?” he asked. "It will be quite a sight for the cleaning crew to find."

“No.” Pete lazily climbed to his feet, got his clothes. “Where are you going?”

Don looked at him. “Home, Pete.”

“Not at this hour?”

Don was quiet. In all honesty, he had no intention--

“You never planned to go home tonight, did you?” Pete said knowingly. “You let your wife think that your business trip was still on, didn't you?”

Don said nothing, tying his tie now.

“Didn't you?”

“Look--” Don came up to him and slid his arms around the kid's waist. “It was a good time. I never would have done it if I hadn't been in a mood, and completely smashed, but it was good. Was, Peter, not is.”

“Oh come on, you don't expect me to believe that, do you?”

Don began to get that sinking feeling Pete caused him so frequently lately.

“Over. Ha!” Pete stepped into his boxers, and then put on his trousers. “For a million reasons, it won't ever be over.”

“Are you giving me orders again, Pete?”

“No, no,” Pete said hastily, trying not to cringe. “I'm not, Don.”

“Okay.”

Don put on his jacket, settled into it, and exhaled. He gave Pete one last look, wanting badly to kiss him but restraining himself. “Goodnight, Pete.”

“Don't go.”

At the door, Don froze, his blood going cold. Pete had reached out and taken his hand in his own. His touch was gentle, pleading, but possessive. “Please,” he said, coming around beside Don. “Don't go.”

He kissed Don on the side of the mouth tenderly.

“We'll go to a hotel,” Pete said, sounding like his usual, pseudo-commanding self. “I'll tell Trudy that I joined you on your trip at the last moment. See? Nothing to worry about.”

“And where will we go, Pete?”

“To a hotel,” beamed Pete. “Any one, I don't care.” His hand tightened on Don's shirt, possessively again. “I just want to be with you. Just tonight. After that, I'll never say a word about it.”

“You won't?” Don asked doubtfully.

“No!” Pete flung on his shirt, buttoned up what remained of its buttons. “I promise.” He snorted. “Huh. Do you think that I would want to prolong something like this with someone like you?”

Don crossed his arms. “Meaning?”

“Don't get in a huff, I only meant that you're dangerous,” Pete said. “Even now, I don't know you. That's right, isn't it?”

Don cocked his head non-committally. Then, he said in amusement, “You find me dangerous because I spanked you?”

“No.” Pete glowered at him, cheeks flushed pink. “I mean-- Never mind. Listen, I am not a homosexual.”

Don was already sick of his high-handedness all over again. In one swift motion, he took Pete by the arm and swung him around to face the wall. He pressed into him from behind, breathing into his ear, and softly asked, “No?”

Pete was instantly warm and red, from his face to his ears. “I-I-- No. I'm not!” he exclaimed. Beneath Don's weight, he squirmed, but arched his back into him before he could stop himself. “You're the-the exception. You're the exception, Don.”

“Why?” Don asked, not relenting in the slightest. “Why me, Campbell?”

“I don't know!” Pete snapped. He licked his lips, turning his face slightly to Don's. “Maybe I really do love you, in some weird way. You know what they say about love and hate.”

Don pushed against him. “No, what do they say, Pete?”

“Mmph. Draper, I swear, if you aren't going to have me again right here, let me go.”

Don released him. Pete stumbled away from the wall, scarlet-faced and sheepish. Aware of his appearance, he scowled, turning his face from Don's smirk. “Well,” he said, straightening his clothes and trying to smooth his disheveled hair. “They say-- What do they say?”

“That love and hate go hand in hand, or are the same thing,” Don replied. “But I really don't hate you, Pete.”

“No? You certainly enjoy torturing me enough.”

“That's because I'm a sadist.”

Pete looked startled, and laughed anxiously. “Jesus. What the hell is wrong with us?”

Don came over to him and tipped his face to his own by the chin. “Does it matter?”

“No. No, I guess it doesn't.”

Don kissed him smoothly, and Pete eagerly kissed back. Don had to cut him off before it got too heavy; Campbell was quite the energetic youth. He almost made Don feel old. Almost.

“So,” Pete said, “will you come with me?”

Don felt like he was being slowly wrapped around the spoiled brat's finger, but he agreed. He had no idea why he agreed. Well, he did, but he could not admit to himself that he could not stand going through life without at least one more go at Pete Campbell.

Pete ended up picking the hotel, convincing Don to have a drink with him first at the bar, and then demanding room service brought up because he was hungry (of course he was, Don thought with a smirk). An hour and a half later, Don was writing pitch notes on a hotel notepad, in his underclothes on the hotel bed, while Pete sat by his feet, eating some dish he had complained about being prepared wrong. He had turned the TV on, and watched it with more interest than Don had expected.

“Trudy and I don't watch anything together,” Pete informed Don. “She always assumes I'm working when I have the TV on, and she feels ignored.”

Don did not look up from his notes. “Do you like TV, Pete?”

“No, not really.”

Don nodded, trying to figure out why the hell Pete sounded so deprived about something he didn't care for, anyway.

Pete twisted on the edge of the bed to look at him. “Do you and Betty watch TV?”

“We have kids,” Don replied, smiling to himself.

“So, yes, no?”

“Yes, most definitely yes,” Don said.

“Huh. Imagine that.” Pete took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. He turned back to the TV and ate for a few minutes, before looking back at Don. “So, you and your wife sit and watch TV with the children that you don't hit.”

“And the dog.”

“And the dog,” marveled Pete. “I knew you had a family, but I never expected it to be run that way.”

Don looked up finally. “What did you expect?”

“I don't know,” Pete said. He shrugged. “I suppose part of your allure is the sense of not knowing what to expect from you.”

“Expect the unexpected,” mused Don, going back to his notes. “That should be copy.”

Pete grunted derisively. “Please. It's redundant.”

Don agreed that it was, and the two lapsed into silence. Pete finished his meal, but sat a while longer watching the TV that he did not care for.

“This is nice.”

Don's pencil stopped its scratching on the paper, and his eyes lifted from it. “What?”

“Being here, being with you,” Pete said, glancing back at him. “It's very easy to be with you when you're not putting on that peacock show. Your wife is a lucky person.”

“Envious?”

“No!” snorted Pete. “Of course not. No, believe me, I enjoy being a man far too much to ever envy a woman.”

Yet even as he said this, he lay back on the bed. After a moment, he crawled up to Don, and lay his head in his lap. Don held the notes aloft, then sighed and set them aside on the night stand.

“Though sometimes I do wonder,” Pete said. “What must it be like to be taken care of your entire life? To not have to worry about anything, not one single thing?”

“Women worry all the time, Pete.”

“Not about important things,” Pete scoffed. “They make up stressful fairy tales to convince themselves they're important, but I think deep down they know the truth.”

“And what is the truth?”

“That they're daughters, sisters, wives,” Pete said. “They have brothers, cousins, mothers, and fathers, all there to protect them if so much as a fingernail breaks. They're all loved, all of them, whether they're born first or not, whether they accomplish anything or not. It must be so easy, so incredibly easy for them. A whole life to be spent just being loved, being cherished.”

Don stroked his brown hair, looking down at him abstractedly. “Are either of us cherishing our wives right now, Pete?”

“One night, one affair, two, two hundred-- it doesn't matter,” Pete said bitterly. “It isn't enough to take away from a lifetime of love. We aren't hurting them. We can't hurt them.”

“Do you want to hurt your wife?”

“No! What do you take me for?” Pete asked, looking up at Don indignantly. “I love my wife. That's my whole point. Of course I love her, she's my wife. See how easy it is for them?”

“So, are you thinking about changing lifestyles?”

“I am not a homosexual, I told you.” Pete scowled when Don chuckled, and reached up to put a finger over his lips. “Don't laugh. I'm not.”

Don took him by the shoulders and sat him up. Pete sat, cross-legged, on the bed before him.

“What do you want, Campbell?” Don asked him. “Do you want power, or do you want to be powerless? Do you want to love, or to be loved? What is it you want?”

“I don't know. All of that, I suppose.”

Don laughed, shaking his head. “Pete . . . You really are a spoiled brat, aren't you?”

“No, it makes sense,” Pete insisted defensively. “I'm a man. I have to have power-- what kind of man would I be if I didn't have ambition?”

“All right, I'll give you that.”

“And I have to love and protect my wife, because that is another thing that men have to do,” Pete said. “And I want to. I do want to have a family I can come home to, a family all my own, to love. You have one. Would you trade it for anything? Would you give it up just because it isn't always easy?”

“No. I wouldn't.”

“See?” Pete said eagerly. “Do you understand?”

“Partly.” Don drew him into a kiss, licking him as they withdrew. “What about that?”

“I don't know,” Pete said quietly. “I suppose some perverse, crazy part of me also wants to be powerless. It's easier, isn't it? To be powerless. People will just tell you what to do. You don't have to run around guessing at what will make them happy, what will impress them, what will offend them. Like when you're a child, right?”

Don was reminded of Betty, and it was uncomfortable. Was this a kind of type he was smitten by, these lost adult-children? Why did he always end up on this side of those eyes? How could anyone possibly think he had any answers, or any right to give them? If only they knew just how fine a line he walked, how close he was to losing his own control on life . . .

“If you do something right, if you do something well, then your parents are proud of you,” Pete said. “You hear them bragging to their friends about their child, what they did. If you do something wrong, they will hide it away, clean it all up, and you'll be punished and scolded. Simple, clean. Right and wrong, black and white. No games, no plans and traps and back-stabbing. No innuendo and social rules. You get praise, or you get spanked. That's it.”

“Come on, things are never that fair,” Don told him. He looked Pete up and down. “I'll bet you were spanked a lot.”

Pete shifted, looking at his hands. “Yes, I was.”

“Unfairly.”

Pete frowned, and did not reply.

Don edged closer to him and kissed him. “Well, you were still lucky,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, knowing he should not say another word. It was already dangerously personal between them. But then Pete gave him that hopeful look, and he could not drop it. “I was . . . beaten a lot. Unfairly.”

“O-oh. I see.” Pete stared at him. “But it made you stronger. Why hasn't it made me--”

“Stop it,” Don said sternly. “Don't berate yourself.”

“I don't feel very confident tonight, if you hadn't noticed,” Pete said dryly.

“You were when you had the upper hand.”

“I never had the upper hand, not really,” Pete pointed out. “Not with you. Do you see what I mean?”

Don could not argue, so he kissed him. He pulled the kid into his arms, and then overtook him. He lay over him, tracing his cute face with his fingers, studying him. “What do you want, Pete?”

“Tonight I just want you,” sighed Pete. He reached up and touched the man's strapping chest, feeling him through the thin white T-shirt. “What we are, what we're supposed to be, everything else can just go to hell.”

Don smiled and kissed him, his hands undressing him all over again. He would not let it show, but the words troubled him deeply. As he took the kid in his arms, savoured the thrill of someone new, he could not help but think that Pete did not know how right he was. Everything else would go to hell, not because of this affair or that, but because that was what things did.

Or was hell exactly the thing they were all holding onto so tightly?

Neither one contemplated any further. It was one of those nights where answers stopped mattering. There was a purpose in the pointlessness, a pattern formed from the random chaos of sex. Real desire, real burning desire, could not be faked, could not be bought or sold. There was a truth in sex that could not be found anywhere else outside a bottle-- and a bottle was a one-way pit.

Realizing that, Don knew why everyone looked to him for the answers. He had none, but he knew where one could find them for oneself. They were here in this ugly, carnal tumult of sweat and stickiness and unclean. The stage, the characters everyone slipped on by day, it was all a tool for getting to this final, ultimate point. There was no 'everything else', this was it. This was all there was, ever had been, ever would be; just people, using, loving, hurting, soothing, holding, touching, feeling, being, needing, wanting, taking.

Don watched Pete cry out and shake beneath him. Poor thing. He would spend his life searching for some missing piece his childhood had failed to leave him with, trying to figure out what it was and who could give it to him, when the truth was all he wanted was this. But honestly, what normal man could admit something like that to himself? How could Pete accept that he hated his own father, yet wanted to be him, yet still wanted to be loved by him? How could he admit that he saw something in Don that reminded him of that distinct feeling?

No, he would keep searching, and always be only half-fulfilled by the women in his life. He would end up like Roger, who searched futilely for an idealized youth he had only imagined to have had once, and could never have again.

Well, no one can have it all, right?

03

By the time Don woke up, Pete was gone. He wished the little jerk had bothered to wake him up. The man heaved himself up out of bed, coughing, scratching his black hair. It was a good thing that he was not very far from the dry cleaners where he had several suits that needed to be picked up. He wondered if Pete had managed to get clean clothes without stopping at home first. Hopefully not, Don thought spitefully, he deserved to be hassled by his wife about his impromptu 'business trip' for not waking him up earlier.

'Business trip'. It was astounding how many definitions that term had.

Don dragged his feet through his morning ritual. He was already late, so there was no longer any reason to hurry. As the grogginess faded, he found that he was in a good mood.

He may be in for a battle with Campbell once that one's haziness cleared, but it was worth it. Giving his smug behind that searing paddling alone would have been worth it, but having fucked him made it all the more delicious. He might try, but Don knew Pete would never again be able to look him clear in the eye and stand up to him or insult him, at least not for a while.

Campbell seemed to be aware of the same thing. At the office, he was back to his old, approval-seeking self. He was humbler, less aggressive, and seemed to try harder than ever to get Don's praise. Don hated it, as he always had, but he did not insult the kid or brush him off so much. He had broken him, proven his point, anything more would be unnecessary-- though he did take pleasure in seeing the look on Pete's face every time he sat down, always seeming on the verge of yelping out in pain. A day or two later, he was in Pete's office, and almost burst into laughter at the poor guy when Pete's eyes fell on that frat paddle and he almost dropped his drink.

True to his word, surprisingly, Pete did not mention their one-night stand again. He was smarter than Don would have given him credit for; he knew, he knew as well as Don did that they had come very close to a life-shattering truth. He knew going any closer to the edge would have caused them both to fall off. It might have just led to a few more weeks, a month, a stealthy long-term affair, but who wanted that, anyway? No, it was not worth the risk of falling, not worth the stigma of being anything other than normal.

So, the two went on in their separate, normal hells, each clutching onto their pretences for dear life. Don chalked it up to just another sexual deviance he had tried, just another crazy night of depraved truth. Pete, however, had gotten a good glimpse of himself when everything had been stripped away, and he had not liked what he'd seen. But he was young and resilient, which meant he had the ability to file the night and the person he had been with it away as neatly as filing away old copy.

Except for that scrap of paper, that forgotten remnant of their night in the hotel. Pete had knocked over the notepad Don had been writing notes on after rolling over sleepily in bed that morning after. Muttering, he had picked it off the floor once he was out of bed, and then his eyes had fallen on the words.

“Truth is unexpected "

Pete had murmured to himself, “A way with words . . . ”

He had looked down at the sleeping man, rustled a couple of fingers through his lank black hair. He looked disarmingly harmless with his face slack, those striking eyes closed. What a beautiful man, Pete had thought. What a fractured, twisted, sadistic, beautiful man.

He had leaned down and kissed his cheek, and then torn the paper off the notepad. So, it sat in his office now, and would sit until he himself forgot it. Just a note, a scrap, that was all it came down to: one of the many pieces of minutiae lining the offices of Sterling Cooper, just another one of the cogs and screws that kept the place held together.

End