Disclaimer: I do not own Madam Secretary or the characters. I just like to play with them, usually gently, sometimes a bit rough.
This story Will contain some more or less graphic material of violence of different sorts so it is rated M to protect those who do not wish to read such fanfictions.
This is a work of fiction and Will not offer any spoilers the the actual series.
Russell Jackson hated interns. They couldn't be trusted, they couldn't be relied on. What was the use of giving a task to someone and then fulfilling it yourself after they failed miserably.
He had to admit that Stephanie McCord… yeah, Stevie… had somewhat changed his mind on the issue. Well perhaps not changed. More like melted his opinions from ice to something a bit more mellow.
The White House Chief of Staff didn't really want to go to his evening meeting with Michael Farrell, a 26-year-old law student who also happened to be a nephew of someone Jackson used to know well. Mitch Farrell had lived across the street from Jackson and his first wife. On Tuesday he had phoned Jackson and asked him to consider Michael as an intern somewhere in the White House. Sudden thrust of nostalgy had pushed Jackson to a positive answer: he would interview the kid and if he showed any kind of promise, there would probably be an internship position available for him. More than an intern, Jackson was interested in getting a tight grip of Mitch Farrell. He had actually hated the man and if this meant the idiot would owe him a favor, no better outcome could be hoped for. So, Jackson decided to suck it up and just have a drink and perhaps a dinner with the boy.
He arrived at the hotel restaurant just before 8 PM. It looked like Michael had been waiting for a while and his wait had been anxious: there were several glasses in front of the young man. But when Jackson approached he got on his feet and shook his hand firmly. Apparently, the booze had not effected him all that much. And then again, perhaps he had not been alone while waiting.
"Thank you, Mr. Jackson, for meeting me. This is an honor," Michael said right away. Russell Jackson agreed, but he just gave the boy a short nod.
"Have a seat," he said and gave an order of a drink to the waitress who stopped by their table. The woman took all the empty glasses away and smiled briefly.
"How is school going?" Jackson opened the conversation. Michael didn't reply right away. Russell followed his gaze and saw a slim, tall blonde walk by a few tables away. He recognized the girl right away. Michael Farrell couldn't tear his eyes off the blonde's skirt-clad rear end. Jackson snapped his fingers.
"Michael, wake up," he said. Farrell looked at him.
"Oh, I'm sorry. What did you say, sir?" he asked.
"How is school going?" Jackson repeated the question.
"Quite well, sir. I am slightly ahead of schedule because I was given an opportunity to follow an actual case when my aunt had me as an intern last fall. I passed a course with that," Michael said. His eyes darted back to the blonde.
"That ought to be illegal," he muttered.
"What?" Jackson asked. Farrell pointed at the girl.
"Look at her. High class hooker, probably. Loose here among all these horny men," the guy said. Jackson felt rage flame up behind his eyes.
"Stop looking at the girl and pay attention to what is happening here," he snapped. Michael concentrated again, but only for a moment. As soon as they started talking about White House, his eyes wandered back to the blondie.
"Alright, Michael. I'm going to go to the men's room now and while I'm there, you will think very hard if you want this internship or not," Jackson said. Farrell managed to look penitent. Jackson got up and left. Only moments later Michael Farrell got up too and walked to the blondie sitting by the bar. She was drinking a cocktail of some kind and Farrell felt he had never seen anything sexier in his life.
"Hey, pretty," he said. The girl turned. Amazing, huge, blue-grey eyes, flowing blonde hair and that body… thank you Lord… Michael Farrell thought. His hand wandered down the girl's almost bare back.
"Hello, rude. Stop touching me," the girl said. Michael laughed.
"Come on. I have this semi-important meeting to sit through but how about you get yourself a drink and I get back to you as soon as I get rid of the old geezer and we can have some fun," Farrell suggested. The girl looked at him then she looked past him.
"Would that be the old geezer you mean?" she asked. There was something slightly warning in her voice. Michael turned and saw Russell Jackson stare at him from the table they had been sitting at. The man's eyes screamed murder.
"If I were you, I would apologize and leave. Fast," the blondie said.
"What's it to you?" Michael asked.
"Good evening, Mr. Jackson," the girl said, ignoring Michael. Russell Jackson had just reached them.
"Good evening, Stephanie McCord," Jackson replied. His voice was tight as if he had to force the words out of his mouth.
"You know her? What a guy. You hump her too?" Michael asked. Stevie slid down the bar stool and ended up between them.
"No one is humping anyone," she said.
"She is my intern," Jackson managed to say between his gritted teeth and stepped past her.
"What? You fuck your intern?" Farrell exclaimed.
"No one is fucking anyone," Stevie tried.
"Leave," Jackson spat, staring into Farrell's eyes. Farrell hit him.