AN: First completed DS fic. Please let me know what you think! Aaron x Emily, because I cannot watch a show without shipping.
The Revelation
He had no idea what the hell was going on.
He knew it was bad, that was all.
You'll have to take it up with the president, was all she'd said.
Whatever it was, Emily was clearly deeply bothered by it. After all, she'd managed to give him a stone-cold poker face when he'd brought up the name Jeffrey Meyers. Granted, it was now about him.
In some of his darker moments, he wondered if she'd been investigating him when she'd kissed him. If it had all been an act, designed to gather information.
It was a bleak mindset, one he tried to not think of too much because it was just awful if it was true.
But, no. He knew - really knew - that wasn't the case. She had wanted nothing else, besides him. And he didn't think she had any idea of how badly he reciprocated the feeling.
Grudging respect had turned into flat-out admiration. Had turned into something else entirely.
For twelve hours, everything was going his way.
And then he'd founded her huddled in the cabinet room, and had known something was wrong. At the time, his biggest concern was that she regretted what had passed between them.
He didn't. Not a single second. Didn't regret her fingers against his jaw, didn't regret his hands at her waist, didn't regret the way he'd held her for just one second after their lips had broken apart.
In fact, he was looking forward to doing it again.
But now…
Now he had to go have what was likely to be an extremely uncomfortable conversation with the president and try to get to the bottom of this. He also needed to have the possibly equally uncomfortable conversation about the idea that the new vice president was wildly incompetent.
There was something else, though. Something he didn't think was incompetence. He couldn't help but remember everything he knew about Agent Wells' investigation, what the Speaker of the House had said. An eerie feeling had reached out and left a cold spot on his spine.
He should have talked to Emily about it. She would have noticed the same things he had.
But, Christ, she was investigating him.
With effort, he pulled himself together, straightened his shoulders. POTUS was due back in his office in five minutes, and there were just certain things that needed to be done.
Like running the damn country.
Emily had been at the hospital with Kirkman. He met her at the door to the Oval. She looked…like she had been crying, he decided, and he nearly reached for her.
"Are you okay?" he asked, trying to get her to meet his eyes.
For just a second, she held his gaze. It was dark and tortured and…desperately relieved? "I have no idea," she replied, then hastily walked away.
With that ominous feeling looming, he pushed open the door. Kirkman, he was happy to see, was standing. Leaning on a cane, yes, but upright and not dead.
The look the president gave him was thoughtful and alarming all at once, and Aaron felt a thrill of foreboding. He tried to mask it.
"Welcome back, sir," he said, trying for upbeat. "The country's missed you."
"Oddly enough, I've missed being here," Kirkman said, looking almost abashed about it. He gestured with his cane. "Have a seat, Aaron. We need to talk."
He did as instructed, then waited as the president gathered his thoughts. "Two years ago, you made a phone call…"
As the interview went on, he felt his jaw start to gape open. He was usually quite good at schooling his face, as anyone in politics was, but there was just some things that were too much to take in.
Holy shit. Holy shit.
Someone had leaked the war games file.
Someone had led a conspiracy to wipe out the US government.
Someone wanted to make it look like he was in on it.
Someone was framing him for treason. And murder.
He would be executed for it.
He was going to throw up, he realized. With a sense of willpower he didn't know he possessed, he managed to avoid it. Breathed deeply through his nose. Concentrated on counting the tics of the clock.
Jesus Christ. So that's what Emily was investigating. No wonder she was acting odd around him.
Absently, he noticed his hands were shaking.
"Aaron?" Kirkman was speaking again.
"Sir?" His voice sounded dazed and fuzzy to his own ears.
There was a long pause. He tried to make his brain function. It gave a half-hearted attempt.
"Investigate me," he said. "Fully, openly. You have my full permission to look at whatever you want. Whatever you need to do."
It was what an innocent person would say, he hoped, and by the look on Kirkman's face, it was a good answer.
"Your cooperation is nice, but that's not really necessary." The president almost looked like he was smiling. Was that reassuring? He had no idea. "We had our friendly NSA whistleblower do some digging. You'd be amazed at what that man can find."
Probably not, but that was besides the point.
"You're free and clear, Aaron. Whatever happened, whoever had a hand in this, it's pretty obvious it wasn't you."
He took a breath.
Then another.
With some difficulty, he managed a nod. "What can I do?" he asked. He still felt ill, vaguely hollow.
Kirkman brought him up to speed about their investigation, the steps they had taken so far, what they were going to do next. "You are one of about eight people who know this," the president said. "We need to make damn sure we have all the evidence we need to move forward."
Aaron nodded, then felt an absurd urge to laugh. "Before I came in here, I was worried about telling you that I had serious concerns about MacLeish."
God, that seemed like a lifetime ago.
Kirkman really did smile this time. "Well, we screwed that one up, didn't we? The press will have a field day, going on about our incompetence."
In another ten minutes, he was on his was out the door, relieved to be back in the inner circle, but utterly horrified at the carnage that had managed to unfold directly under his nose.
"Aaron. One more thing," Kirkman said, and he turned back.
Kirkman shrugged. "Don't be too hard on Emily," he said. "She was just doing what I ordered."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Does she know? That it wasn't me?"
"Yes," he said. Then, "Aaron, she was devastated, when it looked like it was you. She actually cried when she found out it wasn't. And between us, Emily isn't the type to have breakdowns."
He shut the door behind him.
There were probably a million things he needed to do.
A million things he needed to investigate.
But first.
He pushed open the door to her office without knocking.
She was sitting behind her desk, head in her hands.
Startled, she jumped to her feet, looking apprehensive and a little hopeful.
Without speaking, he crossed the floor and pulled her into his arms.
Her shoulders trembled. "I'm sorry," she whispered through her tears.
He kissed the top of her head, tightened his hold.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured again, voice muffled against his shoulder.
"It's alright," he breathed back, one hand smoothing her hair. And it was, he found. It wasn't just empty words. Under normal circumstances, he thought he would feel betrayed, would feel deeply hurt that she had even entertained the idea that he could be a traitor.
But these were not normal circumstances. Not by a long shot.
Emily's arms slipped under his jacket, her face turned into his neck. He was going to have mascara on his collar, and he, absurdly, was grateful for it.
Her tears became full sobs, and he held her as tight as he could.
Poor girl. She had been having a hellish few days, burdened with this knowledge and with the fear that someone she cared about was an accessory to mass murder. Little wonder she was overwhelmed. She'd had no one, since the President got shot, no one to lean on.
Whatever lingering malaise he was feeling disappeared.
"It's okay," he whispered again. "We're okay." He kissed her temple.
She pulled back, swiping at her eyes. Her hands were shaking as she rested them on the sides of his face. Forcefully, she kissed him, rising up onto her toes.
When they broke apart, he switched their positions, taking her face in his hands. Slowly, he leaned forward until their foreheads were touching. Her fingers curled around his wrists.
For just a second, he felt more connected to her than he ever had to anyone. For better or worse, at least they were in this together.
He offered her a small smile. It took an effort, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.
Her lips twitched in return as she absently slipped her hands between his suspenders and his shirt.
"Time to go save the country?" she asked.
He nodded. "Well, someone has to, and it looks like it's down to us."
Her smile widened, and she playfully snapped his suspenders.
He raised an eyebrow in mock admonition.
"Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "But I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to do that."
Yeah, anytime she wanted to rearrange his clothes, he was on board.
Twelve hours later, he was back in her office, leaning against the doorjamb. It had been the day from hell. The idea that this conspiracy went so very deep was shocking and deeply, deeply disquieting. They had to work carefully, slowly, make a concentrated effort to raise no red flags.
It was exhausting.
But.
He did have a beautiful woman waiting for him at the end of the day.
And he had been through worse.
"Ready to get out of here?" he asked, watching her stuff things in a bag.
They would be back in just a few hours - wild crises negated anyone's need to sleep or leave for any amount of time - but it would be nice to shower and change and eat actual real food.
"One more second," she said, lifting up various stacks of papers.
After what had happened to Agent Wells, they had made a plan to stick together until they went public. Safety in numbers. To that end, he was coming to her apartment. And rather looking forward to it.
As soon as they were off White House grounds, he reached for her hand.
She smiled a little, then squeezed his fingers.
He was right, he realized. They were okay. They were going to be okay.
He would make sure of it.