The Oval Office is a lot bigger than you might think, actually. It's a freakin' oval, so it's kinda roomy. There're the couches, the arm chairs, and of course the famous desk. The paintings hang on the walls, two hundred years of American badasses. There's a bust of Martin Luther King, Jr, and another of Winston Churchill. Sam doesn't recognize all the people in the paintings; history's never been his strong suit. He assumes that somewhere in the room there's a button that can blow up the world, or at least blow up Russia. The Cold War might be over, but he figures they've still got that one plugged up, just in case.

The secretary led him to one of the couches and asked him to wait. It's implied in her eyes that he's not to touch anything, not to screw up. He's done that enough in the media lately. Sam sits on his hands and waits. He quickly gets bored, but resists the urge to touch the vase on the end table; it was probably a gift from the emperor of Japan or something, and he'd be in deep shit if he broke it. Deeper shit, anyway.

He can hear the shoes against the hardwood in the hallway. It's always a group, a stampede of important, powerful people. Sam hasn't seen his dad alone since he was ten years old and the good people of Tennessee made Dwight Evans their governor. There was always an aide, a special assistant, an intern – God, just thinking about interns made Sam nauseous. The clicking of heels on hardwood ceased as the door opened. Anyone with half a brain would stand at attention when the leader of the free world marched into the room, entourage swirling around him. Sam Evans slouched further back into a couch that Harry Truman used to fart on.

Dwight Everett Evans, the forty-seventh president of the United States of America, had the look of a powerful man. He was tall and broad shouldered, with a frame that lent itself well to dark suits. His eyes twinkled from a tanned face, a working man's face that had burned under the sun during many a hard day's work. His golden hair was greying at the temples. It was a visage chiseled by God, tailor made for Mt. Rushmore or a presidential quarter. His teeth were freakishly white, gleaming from behind full lips that had kissed hundreds of babies. His hands wielded farm tools and executive fountain pens with equal dexterity.

"I'm not mad at you, Sam," the president said to his son. The aides and flunkies instantly hushed.

"Do they have to be here?" Sam couldn't figure why an Assistant Secretary of the Interior and the Deputy Attorney General needed to be involved in this little father/son chat. Everything in this office is taped, so he's sure they could review the conversation later if they were bored enough.

For a moment, President Evans looked as if he was going to say that yes, they did need to be here for this, but then his shoulders relaxed as he slumped down next to his son. He gave "the look" to the lead lackey and with some resistance, the rest filed out. It was a full minute before the father spoke.

"I know that this whole situation is embarrassing, and Sam, I just want to say that I'm sorry."

The younger blonde pretended like it was all no big deal. And really, what his father's talking about is no big deal, not compared to Sam's news. "S'okay. It's not like you did anything."

Early that morning, The New York Star released the illegally gained transcripts of one Samuel Dwight Evans, senior at Georgetown University, and, not so coincidentally, First Son. If the invasion of privacy hadn't been egregious enough (the Press Secretary's phrase), the grades on the transcript had sealed the deal. True, there was an "A" in rowing, but things went downhill from there. And now the entire world knew about it. Knew that he was an idiot.

"But if I wasn't in my position, this wouldn't have happened. They're using you to get at me."

Sam knew that it really was all about his dad, but it didn't feel wonderful knowing that it was always all about his dad. Everything was. But whatever. The transcript deal was just the icing on the cake; his commander-in-chief wasn't going to be nearly so apologetic in a few minutes.

"But hey, let's use this as an opportunity to move forward." Ah, ever the politician; everything, every tragedy, is just another opportunity for advancement. "I think this grade deal needs some work. Maybe we should look into a tutor to help you with your classes."

"Dad, you don't have time to worry about stuff like this. I can handle it." Sam loosened his tie; he hated suits and ties, but his dad said that everyone had to respect the Oval Office, which meant you couldn't hang around in here in shorts or whatever.

"No," the President said, giving his most photogenic smile. "You're my son, of course I've got time. Hey," he said, struck with a thought, "what about that intern, that blonde girl. I forget her name, but you know who I'm talking about."

"Quinn." Sam's stomach churned as he felt his throat burn.

"Yeah. Joe said she graduated last year from Yale, first in her class." Joe Stebbins was the chief of staff, the jack-of-all-trades presidential gatekeeper. If you wanted to see the president, you had to get through him. CNN called him the second most powerful man in Washington. "And I remember you seemed to like her; y'all talked at that fundraiser." Sometimes a carefully planned "y'all" escaped, a folksy reminder that the world's most powerful man was just one of the masses, a good old boy. Voters ate that up. "She could probably help you with your school work."

"Yeah, dad. I'm sure she graduated from Yale and applied for an internship at the White House just to tutor some idiot in Spanish 102."

"Hey, none of that. You're an Evans, and let me tell you –"

"Dad, c'mon . . ." He doesn't really want to hear the morale speech, variations of which his father uses at just about every fundraiser and rally.

"No, just listen. I know school's hard; I had trouble myself. But, if you apply yourself, work hard, maybe get a tutor, get some extra help, then you'll do fine, and the next time those tabloid bastards decide to steal your personal information, you'll have a lot more to show 'em."

He could make you feel good about the next Great Depression. It worked on everyone, everyone except Sam. He had bigger fish to fry, unfortunately. Swallowing hard, Sam moved past the transcript issue. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course." Dwight Evans encouraged citizens to use him to lessen their burdens, to tell him of their problems; he was a master of the Town Hall meeting.

There was little to do but just let it out; his father was the spin master, but Sam knew there was no way to spin this.

"She's pregnant."

His dad honestly looked baffled; that hadn't happened since the Prime Minister of Italy came for a state visit and vomited on the President after a hot dog eating contest at the Iowa State Fair. "Who's pregnant?"

"Quinn." Sam didn't see a spark of recognition; his dad met a lot of people. "The intern."

For a moment, Sam got the same look that had cowed the premier of China into signing another nuclear limitation pact. For a moment. Then the panic set in.

"You do understand," his father said, voice cold and tinged with worry, "that I'm running for reelection?"

Sam had known it would turn in this direction, but it was still freaky to see his father lose his calm, to change so drastically, so quickly; that wasn't a presidential quality. "Dad, I know, and –"

"I'm the Republican, the family values candidate," he got up and started pacing the gold carpet, his voice steadily rising, "and now my own son has knocked up an intern!"

"We didn't mean for it to happen." He felt like dirt. "It was just one night, about a month ago, after that fundraiser." Not dirt – dirt can take a lot of heat; Sam feels like a chastened child.

"Oh, great – a one night stand! The media's going to have a field day!" The President cocked his head towards one of the office's side doors. "Joe! Joe, get in here!"

Seconds later the chief of staff burst through the door, the dog quickly at his master's side.

"He's knocked up that intern, the blonde. How do we handle this?"

The shorter man was at work immediately. He was the best at his job, and had probably been listening to the entire conversation through some secret peep hole or something.

"Alright, we bring her to the convention when you're nominated for reelection. She holds his hand, stands on the stage with you and the First Lady." It was like Sam wasn't even in the room. His dad nodded at everything Stebbins said. "It was a mistake, but a mistake out of love; the voters will eat it up, because she's pretty. We'll make sure everyone knows she's basically already part of the family." The aide smoothed a hand through his hair; he was in his element, and seeing this was like watching a master at work. "We'll have the wedding a week before the election, here at the White House, televised."

No one asked Sam anything. He was too stunned to interject.

"Can we really pull this off?"

Stebbins nodded. "This is out of left field, Mr. President, but we can definitely use this. An American fairy tale." He spared Sam the briefest of glances. "He's our prince, and after what hit the papers this morning with the transcript, voters will be feeling sympathetic. We've gotta get the girl's face in the news, fast."

"Hey," Sam said, finally moving up from the couch. "Quinn and I aren't together or –"

His father ignored him and spoke to the chief. "How do present her?"

"We don't mention her condition yet," the chief of staff said with a queasy look on his face, "but we need to show the nation how in love they are, what a beautiful couple they make. If we play our cards right, get them enough press time together, by the time we announce she's knocked up, the public will be gaga over them anyway – it's the twenty first century, people have kids together all the time."

"What about the Religious Right? I can't win without their votes."

Stebbins shrugged. "Jesus was besties with a whore; all those people ever talk about is forgiveness anyway. Besides, Sam and the girl are getting married; he's gonna make an honest woman out of her – those old farts love salvation stories like that."

As they were planning out his future, making wedding plans for him and a girl he barely knew, Sam got up and walked out, totally unnoticed and forgotten. Plans were being made, and the most powerful men in the world didn't have time for the little people – that was politics.

XxXxX

Interestingly, his Secret Service agents' names were Lou and Stu. They were pretty cool, and Sam didn't begrudge them like a lot of former First Kids had; he figured that they did their best to keep him from being kidnapped or shot, and for that he was appreciative. Of course, it did get a little old, constantly being shadowed by two guys the size of NFL linebackers.

"Guys," he said when they reached the door of his apartment. "I think I've got it from here; thanks."

Sam was a student at Georgetown, a school he could have never gotten into without some parental help of the presidential nature, and since the campus was right in the heart of Washington, he could have easily lived at the White House. That was every kid's dream, right? Wrong. Sam had stayed just until college, and then he'd beat it out of there like a bat out of hell.

The apartment was pretty awesome, he had to admit. The president's son couldn't stay just anywhere; there were security considerations, if nothing else. No roommate, so that was cool, and it was about a thousand times more spacious than any dorm a college kid was used to. Also, it presently had a pregnant girl in it. So, there was that.

"How'd it go?" Quinn nervously asked from his couch. Even though Sam felt like he'd been up for hours, it was just now eight, the sun only up for an hour or two.

At four a.m. that morning, Sam awoke to a knocking on his door. If whoever it was had made it past Lou and Stu, it must be important, he knew. Imagine his surprise to find a rumpled looking Quinn Fabray standing in the hallway outside his door.

They'd met a few times before the incident. She was a newly minted White House intern, and he was the President's son, so they'd crossed paths a time or two. Last month, though, things had taken quite a turn. They'd both attended a celebratory fundraiser; the president had out raised his opponent by twenty percent. The champagne had been flowing freely, and they'd started talking. Turned out, they had a lot in common. Quinn came from a relatively wealthy background, and Sam was, you know, the son of the President. Okay, maybe not that much in common.

She was a genius, he scraped by in school. She was driven, he liked video games. But she was sweet, and he was interested. They'd talked for the better part of two hours, totally ignoring an oil baron from Texas and a casino magnate from Nevada, people that Sam was supposed to be glad-handing. Instead, he'd brought Quinn another champagne, and then he'd had another, and then something was said about how she didn't have to take the bus back to her apartment, because they gave him a car and driver for these parties, and then, well then they were naked in her bed.

They'd seen each other twice more since then, but he was busy with school, and she was busy working in the White House, so they didn't have anything official going, they weren't dating or anything. In short, Sam had in no way expected to find a crying girl in his arms at four in the morning.

He'd left her in his bed and dressed; Sam knew he couldn't beat around the bush with this; he had to get to the White House, fast. With everything else on his mind that morning, he hadn't even been particularly fazed when Lou had passed him the newspaper with his college transcript plastered across the front. A "D" in British Literature didn't hold a candle to paternity.

"Um, there was some yelling," he admitted in answer to her question. Shit, he didn't even really know how to act around this girl; they hardly knew each other, but they were having a baby, and the most powerful man in the world was now planning their wedding. "But no one's mad at you, so don't worry about that."

Quinn shook her head. "As soon as this gets out, everyone's going to think I'm a gold-digger."

He sat down on the edge of the cushion; there weren't a lot of arguments he could say against that; having a political father, he knew how the media reacted to everything. "It's not true, though." That was pretty weak, but it was the best he could come up with.

They sat without speaking for what felt like a long time. Outside, Sam could hear the bustling sounds of a busy city, the clang of horns and the noise of the streets. Inside, he heard the air conditioner pump cool air into the apartment, as the clock on the wall, a gift to his father from the President of Israel, clicked sixty times a minute. Sitting next to him was a beautiful girl he didn't really know, an unborn baby he hadn't expected, and a future that scared him to death.

Life as a politician's kid had never been easy, but Sam knows everything's about to turn crazy in ways he'd never imagined. He just hopes he makes it. No, it's not just him anymore. He hopes they make it.

To Be Continued

I hope you enjoyed this first installment! Please review and let me know what you think! In the next chapter we'll get Quinn's perspective!