AN: So this is awfully bittersweet, but I just couldn't help myself. This was going to go a slightly different direction, but once I started writing, the damn thing took on a life of its own. Anyway - hope you enjoy, and hope we get Aaron back in the White House soon.
The Darkness
He was moderately impressed with himself for managing to stay upright until he got home. His first instinct, upon leaving the White House, had been to double-over and lean against the hallowed walls.
Of course, that wasn't something he could do.
And so he had talked himself home. One foot in front of the other. One more step. You can make it. You will make it.
It was with a quiet sense of victory that he turned the key, didn't bother to turn on the lights. Halfway though his second beer in the dark kitchen, he finally put a name to what he was feeling.
Heartbroken.
He was heartbroken.
Heartbroken by his president, by the man he would have followed into battle, no matter the odds. That he would have fought for until his last breath.
And heartbroken by the woman he was at least mostly in love with.
He had been bitterly angry for a few hours, and betrayed. And now…now he was here, trying desperately not to think of Emily.
He had held it together while telling her goodbye. It had been too easy to just turn it off. He had been hurt, and badly, and he had no desire to prolong the feeling. He had slipped up, just a bit, he could tell.
As he had stepped up to her, Emily was wondering if he was going to kiss her. It was as plain as day in her eyes.
And that had made him sad, too.
That door was closed.
Maybe forever.
He didn't have it in him to get over it.
God, what if. What if he could go back in time, just a few days? A week?
A useless train of thought, but one he was unable to stop.
He didn't get attached often. Dating was something that was difficult as a White House employee. Women typically weren't very understanding about his obsessive need to be at work. But it was never just a job, not to him, and not to most people who called 1600 Penn their place of employment. It was a life. His life.
But then there was Em, who lived the same way he did, who understood him. Who could flirt expertly with him one minute and then throw herself into the middle of a potential military coup by an asshole governor in the next.
He'd had a whole list of things he was after as far as their relationship was concerned. He wanted to wake up beside her, wanted to watch her sleep. Wanted to be her shoulder to lean against on the rare occasion she needed help to stand. Wanted desperately to know what she looked like when she came undone.
Instead, he was going to have to make do with a few memories.
Shut up and pour me a drink. That was when he knew that he was in trouble. Real, actual trouble.
He needs you here. And he's not the only one. A confession that would have terrified him under normal circumstances, but one that had refused to be suppressed. No, she couldn't just leave him.
He ignored the small voice that told him he had just done the same to her.
The night they'd kissed. Emily, half-drunk and impossibly earnest, the jubilation of crossing a line they had both wanted to cross for a long time. She had smiled against his mouth when it was over, and he had tried to not let her see how affected he was.
He would give himself tonight to remember. Tonight to dream about what it could have been. To pretend that she had never once considered the fantasy that he was a traitor.
What if.
What if there had been no assassination attempt? What if he had never recalled that goddamn file, even if he was under orders?
She would be here.
Or, more likely, neither of them would be here. At least not yet. He absently touched the empty spot on his suit lapel where the presidential pin usually rested, had rested for years.
They would be at work, probably arguing over Supreme Court Justices.
The sudden light from the refrigerator was too bright and he slammed the door, much preferring the gloomy darkness.
He took his beer with him into the shower. It was reminiscent of his college days, but he had never felt further from a 21 year old kid than he did right now.
His bed was cold, empty.
On instinct, he reached for his phone to set an alarm, but stopped short. There was no need.
Instead, he laid on his back and stared resolutely at the ceiling. There was no point in any of it. His head hurt, his skin felt like it belonged to someone else.
There was a sudden knock on the door. He frowned at the noise for a moment, and then remembered that he was a normal human and normal humans answered the door.
Emily was standing in the hallway.
He was utterly unable to speak.
She looked…determined, he decided.
With sure motions, she stepped forward, closing the door behind her.
He understood for a heartbeat before she moved again.
With steady hands, she took his face between her palms and kissed him. Forcefully. As though he had no choice or say in the matter.
She tasted like wine, and he wondered if she had needed liquid courage before making this trip. He caught at her elbows, making sure she was balanced, then turned the whole of his attention back to her lips.
Her arms slipped around his shoulders, fingers toying with the curls at the base of his neck. His own hands fell to her hips, bringing her flush against him.
Her teeth grazed his bottom lip, deliberately, and the groan he gave was completely involuntary. In the darkness, he could see her eyes sparkle at him.
He kissed her again, slowly, ignoring the insistent pressure of her mouth, demanding he go faster.
He lost track of the minutes they spent tangled in the hall. When he came up for air, his shirt was gone, her hands running over the planes of his chest.
There was a second, just one second, where he considered stopping things.
But then, he knew what this was.
And knew that she knew, too.
So he scooped her up in his arms, walked down the hall. Stopped two feet short of the bed for the express purpose of being able to gently toss her. Grinned at her surprised laughter.
It was important, he thought, that they could remember the people they used to be.
And then he crawled in after her, over her, and there was no more laughter.
Her skin was soft under his fingertips, softer yet under his lips.
He couldn't recall if he had ever trembled from want before, but he was now.
There was no need to ask if she was sure. She had come here tonight with the express purpose of doing this, as apology and benediction and desperate hope that perhaps all that had passed between them didn't have to be lost.
He wasn't sure if he forgave her, not yet. But betrayal did not negate love, and this was love at its most elemental level.
She said his name exactly once, a plea and a prayer and a demand all mixed together, their hands entwined above her head.
It was a farewell to what they could have been, what they would have been, if things were different. Regardless of what happened next, if and when they managed to come together again, they would not be the same people who negotiated the darkest days in US history together.
At least, he knew he wasn't the same.
After, she dozed against his chest, his hand splayed across her narrow waist. No one spoke. He had dreamed about this, or a moment much like it. The reality was so far removed from how he thought he would feel it was laughable.
Bittersweet.
He had her, for this night, for this moment.
Tomorrow would be another story.
He knew very well they would never discuss this again. And that it would never happen again, not like this.
Emily sighed, warm breath sending goosebumps across his bare skin.
Don't go, he wanted to say. Was willing to beg. Knew the words would never cross his lips.
Instead, he tightened his arms, one hand sliding into her hair, curving itself around her skull. He felt her relax, felt the ghost of a kiss against his heart.
All of the things that they would never be. All wrapped up in one night.
In another ten minutes, he realized she was sleeping, and he folded an arm contemplatively behind his head, pausing to pull the sheet further up around her shoulders. He had no plans of closing his eyes, not now. There were a finite number of minutes that they could exist like this, and he didn't intend to lose any of them to sleep.
Why couldn't you just ask me? Why didn't you trust me at least that far?
Someday, maybe, they would get there. But he couldn't dredge it up now. They both regretted what had happened, but neither one of them could change it.
She had never tried to talk him out of resigning. She knew, perhaps even better than the President did, why he felt compelled to take this course of action. Hell, she had tried to do the same. Only…well, he hadn't let her. And her heart hadn't been broken.
He shook his head.
This was an idiotic train of thought.
Forcefully, he cleared his mind. Pushed his nose into her hair. Counted her breaths.
Three hundred and two. Three hundred and three. Three hundred and four.
Around five hundred and fifteen she stirred. Propped herself up on one elbow to study him in the dim light drifting in through the closed curtains.
He didn't bother to hide anything he was thinking.
I love you.
The shadows were too dark for him to read her eyes, but she pushed at his chest until he was laying flat.
He stopped thinking again, and let her do what she wanted, her hair hiding both of them like a dark curtain when she leaned down to kiss him.
The clock said 3:55 when she pulled herself out of his arms and silently began the business of putting herself to rights. He helped - one of her shoes was under the bed, her cell phone was buried in the comforter.
He kissed her one last time at the door of his apartment. It was a little desperate, a little lingering, and he swore he felt her lips tremble.
Then she was gone, and he was left to stare at a gray window and imagine he could see her walking away through the early hours of dawn.
By rights, he should have been exhausted. Instead, he was restless, moving from room to room in a pointless manner. At first, he tried to avoid looking at his rumpled bed, but that was pointless, too.
He hesitated in the kitchen. Five in the morning was a hell of a time to start drinking. Then again, he reasoned, it wasn't like he was employed. Maybe he could run off the alcohol later.
He saw Emily on television later that day, defending a White House policy. She looked as professional and as impeccably competent as she always did.
Under her shirt, just beneath her collarbone, he knew there was a burn mark from his stubble.
Absently, he brushed his fingers across the screen, then chided himself.
He did not sleep that night, either.
This was it, he decided. He would give himself this one last night to grieve, and then he would go on with his life. He had to. He would die in this rut if he let himself. And damn it, he had come too far to be derailed by this.
Still.
His eyes burned in the darkness. He could smell her perfume on his pillow.
When the pale light of dawn crept across the floor, he made good on his promise to himself. He got up.
One foot in front of the other. One more step. You can make it. You will make it.
It didn't matter if he wasn't quite sure he believed it.
He took another step.
Then another.
It was as easy and as difficult as that.