A/N: I mentioned on Twitter that I believe this AU is my riskiest yet, because it will force you to look at Jane in a way you never have before. But my personal challenge here is to make you believe that Jane being president could have been possible, had he used his powers for good, had his daughter survived and he'd had something more than revenge to live for. I think Jane has the potential for true greatness, and I would like to explore the possibility of that here. I hope you'll suspend some of your disbelief and take a chance with me. You needn't fear it will be too political; I will strive to keep it neutral in that regard. Only partly inspired by the movie "The American President," I may steal scenes or ideas from that sparkling film, but for the most part, the words I put in their mouths are all mine…
Mr. President
Chapter 1: The Pen is Mightier than the Sword
President Patrick Jane stood before the mirror, his normally dexterous fingers fumbling with the silk tie at his throat. It was the fifth reception dinner since his inauguration nearly twelve months before, but to Jane, this one was much more important than celebrating his swearing in as the most powerful leader of the free world. This reception represented the culmination of everything he had fought for, every private tear he had shed when he was alone in his bed at night.
He dropped his hands with a sighing curse of frustration, his left thumb automatically fingering the wedding band he still wore, though his wife had been dead for ten years. He stared at his reflection, not noticing the boyish sweep of blonde curls above his forehead, or the intense, slightly frightened blue-green gaze staring back at him. All Jane could see was a widower, a single parent who had wanted justice for his wife's murder and was at long last getting it.
"Here, let me do that," said Charlotte in amusement. His eyes shifted to the angelic platinum curls that appeared suddenly in the mirror behind him. Her face too could pass for a cherub's, though he'd never seen an angel with a teenage smirk.
He turned so she could re-adjust his tie, her fingers flying in inherited grace until the knot lay perfectly against his collar, and she slipped it inside his vest. She reached up and straightened his collar too, her green eyes meeting his with familiar mischief. Suddenly, he didn't want to leave her, felt his eyes misting a bit as he remembered his wife doing the very same thing with the very same expression. He swallowed the lump in his throat.
Finished with her task, she patted his dinner jacket lapel with finality, and with her usual trace of sarcasm.
"There. Now you look spiffy."
He turned back to the mirror and smiled at her skilled handiwork.
"Thanks," he managed.
She shrugged and climbed back onto his massive bed to watch him finish getting ready. He eyed her surreptitiously a moment, trying not to see her mother's face, though as she'd grown, she was beginning to look more like Angela every day.
He sighed again and went to the padded bench at the foot of his bed to put on his shoes.
"What are you so worked up about anyway?" asked Charlotte, her intuitive nature making him both proud and a little scared. "You've been to a million of these things."
"You know why," he said, bending to tie one shiny black shoe. He looked with longing toward his favorite old brown ones on the floor of his open closet.
"Yeah," she said, a flash of pain in her eyes. She knew. But it wouldn't do to get either of them upset right now. This night was too important.
"There's still time for you to get dressed and come with me," he said, looking hopefully at her over his shoulder.
"Seriously? Why would I want to go to some lame dinner to listen to a bunch of lame old people making lame speeches?"
"I am making a speech," he reminded her.
Her eyes filled with laughter, though her face remained set in adolescent contempt. "I rest my case."
He threw his other shoe playfully at her and she ducked easily out of the way.
"Besides," she continued, tossing his shoe back to him, "I'm hanging with Madeline's kids in the movie room. Maybe we'll go bowling in the basement too."
"That's very kind of you to watch them."
"Nothing kind about it. She's paying me fifty bucks."
"You will not take a dime from her, young lady," he warned in his best parental voice. Both shoes tied, he rose to face her.
"Aw, come on, Dad. How else can I make any money? God knows I can't have a job in this prison."
"Oh, please. Your allowance could support a third-world country."
"Because you spoil me. Don't you want me to learn self-sufficiency? Independence? A work ethic?"
He rolled his eyes.
"What do you need fifty bucks for, Charlotte?"
She shrugged in annoying nonchalance, and he noted how her eyes flicked briefly downwards before meeting his again with angelic guile—a telltale sign she was about to lie to him. He braced himself for the battle to come.
"You shouldn't ask so many questions this close to Christmas, Dad."
He wanted to smile at her brilliant deflection. It was true what they said about apples and trees, and he didn't know whether to be proud of her ability to con and manipulate or angry with himself for passing on that particular gene. He forced himself to frown at her, had just opened his mouth to give her a stern reprimand, when a knock at the door saved them both.
"Come in," father and daughter called together. This time, his frown was real in response to the untimely interruption.
Charlotte grinned at the arrival of her savior.
"Aren't you ready yet?" asked his chief of staff, Walter Mashburn. "The natives are getting restless out there."
Charlotte climbed down from her father's bed and practically skipped over to Mashburn.
"Hi, Uncle Mash." She tiptoed up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Bye, Uncle Mash!"
"Well hi and bye to you, too, Lottie," said Mashburn, caught in the whirlwind of the girl's dramatic greeting and dismissal.
Before he knew it, she'd disappeared stealthily out the door.
"We'll finish this conversation later, young lady!" Jane called after her.
"Sure thing, Daddy," he heard her say, triumphant laughter infusing her escape.
"You should take her with you to negotiate with the Russians," remarked Mashburn dryly. "They wouldn't know what hit 'em."
Jane allowed the smile he'd been holding in check to break across his features.
"Teenagers," he commented, though the word held more pride than dismay.
"God save us all," concurred Mashburn. "Well, except from one particular teenager we met in Cabo that time…Spring Break of '92, wasn't it? What was she, nineteen? Jesus, Patrick, didn't she have the biggest-" His hands came up as if to cup impossibly large breasts.
"Walter," warned Jane, his voice low. He looked around lest someone else on his staff heard that particularly damning remark. The press would have a field day with this conversation.
Mashburn chuckled, then came over to Jane, readjusting the collar that Charlotte had just perfected. "Come on, Mr. Killjoy. Your public awaits."
Jane nodded, but Mashburn caught the brief flash of reticence in his old friend's eyes.
"You okay?" he asked seriously.
Jane swallowed. "I'm fine. I just…I can't stop thinking about Angela today."
"Understandable. But tonight is for her, Patrick. Hell, this bill you're about to sign even bears her name. What better way to memorialize and honor her?" He patted his friend's shoulder.
Jane felt his eyes grow misty. Of everyone in the world, only Walter Mashburn could understand what he was going through. He'd lived it with him, been there for him. Had it not been for Mashburn, Jane might have totally lost it after Angela's murder ten years before. He would certainly have ended up in an institution (or worse), Charlotte in a foster home because he couldn't summon the strength to care for her. Mashburn had been there to kick him in the pants, to make him realize how much Charlotte needed him to be strong. Yes, he owed this man his life—he and Charlotte both.
Mashburn fished a white linen handkerchief from inside his suit coat pocket and held it out to Jane.
"Now, wipe and blow, buddy. Can't have the president acting like a sissy when he's signing the toughest crime bill in American history."
Jane sniffed once and brushed the offending hankie aside. "Fuck you, Walter."
Mashburn stuffed the monogrammed linen back in his pocket with a grin. "That's the spirit."
Jane's annoyance with his friend had succeeded in bringing him out of his maudlin funk-just as Mashburn had intended. Another debt he owed him.
"Now let's get the hell in there before people start to talk," Mashburn said, his voice impatient now. He patted his stomach. "I'm freakin' starving."
Jane's smile returned. "You're always starving. I swear, between you and Charlotte, I'm going to have to ask Congress for a special allocation to supplement the White House food budget…"
Jane walked ahead of him out the doors of the president's private residence, his demeanor turning instantly presidential. He was met by a pair of Secret Service escorts along with additional staff, who were all firing last-minute advice about his upcoming speech or giving him updates of other ongoing crises. He only listened with one ear, however, his heart racing in his chest.
This is it, Angela, he thought.
With a deep breath, he nodded and smiled warmly at his vice-president, Madeline Hightower, who met him at the door to the State Dining Room in the East Wing. Her husband escorted her inside first, and then came the chamber orchestra's pomp-filled rendition of "Hail to the Chief."
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Agent Teresa Lisbon looked at her pale face in the bathroom mirror and shivered, not because she was chilly in her black strapless dress, but from nerves. She was meeting the President of the United States. She and her CBI colleagues had been invited to come all the way from California to represent the best in US law enforcement. She would be seated at the president's table, eating from White House china, making small talk with the upper echelon of US government. But what was even worse to a cop like Teresa Lisbon, was wearing formal clothes that made her itch and high heels that made her feet hurt when she'd much rather be in her blue jeans and sturdy-soled boots.
Lisbon smoothed her hair and pinched her cheeks to give them a bit more color, then with a shallow sigh, washed her hands and dried them on the heated towel offered by the ladies' room attendant. She entered the lavishly appointed dining room once more, just in time for the president's entry amidst fanfare and wild applause.
Like everyone else in the room, her eyes were drawn to the president. He practically glowed with beauty and charisma, his smile as blinding as the California sun. Sure, she had shared the appreciation of his charms with most American women when she saw him on television, which, along with the sympathy factor at his widower status, had drawn many to the polls. But it was his toughness on crime that had compelled Lisbon to mark his name, she reminded herself.
Lisbon made her way as unobtrusively as she could back to the long table at the front of the room, set with heavy cream satin, gold trimmed glassware and flatware. Everyone was on their feet, of course, waiting for the president to make his way to the podium and make his remarks before signing the crime bill into law. She stood at her place between her boss, Virgil Minnelli, and her right-hand man, Kimball Cho. On the other side of Cho, the newlywed couple, Wayne and Grace Rigsby, looked star struck as the president drew closer to their table.
"You okay?" Minnelli asked Lisbon, noting her pale complexion.
"Yeah. This is just…" She gestured helplessly at the general opulence of the room.
"A bit much?"
She grinned sheepishly, her eyes returning to the president. "Yes. Surreal too."
Minnelli smiled back, patting her hand in his usual fatherly way. "I've met a couple of presidents before. They're just people, like everyone else."
Looking at Patrick Jane, she highly doubted it.
"I thought he'd be taller," Lisbon heard Rigsby whisper to Grace.
"Oh hush," replied his wife.
Beside Rigsby, Cho rolled his eyes, he himself appearing bored with the whole thing.
It took several minutes for President Jane to arrive at the podium, given all the obligatory glad-handing along the way, but eventually he stood beside Minnelli, while an aide adjusted the microphone.
"All right, all right," the president said, holding up his hands with genuine humility. His smile was wide, his natural good humor shining through. "Please sit down before I get too full of myself."
There were chuckles all around, then a rustling of skirts and adjusting of chairs as the invited guests settled into their seats. When it was relatively quiet, the president continued.
"I'd love to take credit for drawing all of you here tonight, but I know you didn't travel so far just to see me. You're here because you have earned the right to be called the best of the best in law enforcement, but, more than that, you are here to witness the signing into law of one of the most important bills of our time. House Bill 4314, whom some have honored my wife's memory by calling it, The Angela Jane Crime Bill."
More applause, stronger still, while some even rose to their feet again.
"I know this isn't the typical way to conduct a signing ceremony, but when have I ever done things in a typical way?"
Those who knew him best looked heavenward; others laughed in complete understanding. Lisbon had heard that the Jane White House was one of the most unconventional administrations the country had ever seen, though the people on his staff were extremely loyal to their boss, no one leaking anything specific other than that things operated much differently from any of his predecessors. One thing was abundantly clear, however: Patrick Jane got things done, working seamlessly with both sides of the political aisle, bringing people together to pass laws and programs that had led to one of the highest approval ratings in presidential history, with the economy enjoying the benefits of unimagined prosperity.
Looking at him now, the way he worked this room, Lisbon could understand why he was so popular. She was so enthralled by his words, enraptured by his graceful mannerisms, captivated by his charming smile, that she almost felt…hypnotized.
"This bill may have my wife's name on it," Jane continued, a bit more soberly now, "but this law is meant for all of you out there, on the front lines of law enforcement, working tirelessly and putting your lives at risk so that the American people can feel safe walking our city streets, or allowing their children to play in their yards in the neighborhoods of suburbia."
More applause, and Minnelli grinned at Lisbon, clearly respecting everything the president was saying.
"Now, before I get to signing my John Hancock, I'd like to specially recognize a few people who are sitting with me up here at the big-wig table." At the wide-eyed expressions of sudden discomfort, Jane's grin widened in amusement. Lisbon had heard he loved surprising people.
"First, to my right, five agents from the California Bureau of Investigation, whose team, led by Special Agent in Charge, Virgil Minnelli, was responsible for the recent apprehension of the serial killer known as Red John. This man had evaded local and state police for years, brutally killing a dozen people—mostly women—before the skills of Agent Minnelli's team were able to extract information from one of his captured minions. Please, will you stand so we can applaud your heroic efforts? Agent Minnelli. Agent Teresa Lisbon. Agent Kimball Cho. And the dynamic husband and wife duo, Agents Grace and Wayne Rigsby."
Each of them stood as the president mentioned their names in turn, and when he said hers, Lisbon's eyes made direct contact with the sea green gaze of President Jane. He seemed to take her in with one quick sweep, before he met her eyes again with a brief flash of masculine appreciation. Lisbon blushed to her hair, and was she imagining things—or did the President of the United States wink knowingly at her?
When the clapping died down, the president went on to introduce other worthy officers, but Lisbon found it difficult to focus on what he was saying. She stared at him, trying to decide if she had really seen what she thought she'd seen, but her tripping pulse told her she hadn't been mistaken.
A few minutes later (though it seemed much longer to Lisbon) President Jane finished his speech and sat down at his place at the table, where his place setting had been temporarily replaced by several ceremonial ink pens and a final copy of the bill, awaiting his signature. Lisbon and the others watched as he used each of the pens to form part of his signature, then handed them to those who had played key roles in helping the bill to pass. The few select members of the press who had been invited for the occasion took their pictures or filmed the moment for the ten o'clock news.
President Jane pocketed the last pen, and Lisbon assumed he was keeping it for his own personal memento. With that, the Angela Jane Crime Bill was officially a law, and the president insisted the rest of the evening be a time of celebration.
During the soup course, the president turned to Minnelli, who was sitting beside him, enjoying his lobster bisque immensely.
"So, Agent Minnelli, you look like a man who isn't easily impressed."
Minnelli smiled benignly. "No, Mr. President, I am not. But I have to say, your new law is very impressive. I look forward to implementing it back home."
"As a fellow Californian, that pleases me immensely." He grinned and looked just past Lisbon where she was bringing a spoonful of soup to her lips. Of course, he chose just that moment to address her.
"Agent Lisbon is it?"
Startled, the soup sloshed precariously in the bowl of her spoon. She willed her hand to steady it before she dropped it in her lap.
"Yes, sir, Mr. President," she managed, and Jane watched in admiration as she successfully lowered her spoon without losing so much as a drop. She sat up straighter and turned her head to look at him, heart picking up speed once more.
"What do you think of our new law?" he asked her.
She hesitated, and Jane interpreted that hesitation correctly.
"Not a big fan? It's okay. We're in America. You know, free speech and all. Don't be afraid to tell me what you think." He smiled his encouragement, and she had the feeling he genuinely wanted to know her opinion. Or else he was just very good at making people feel like what they said mattered to him.
She glanced at Minnelli, who gave her a neutral shrug, though his blue eyes were filled with humor.
"Lisbon is never afraid to offer her opinion, Mr. President."
The other CBI members, who had been listening raptly to the conversation, gave quiet noises of assent. Jane chuckled, delighted, and Lisbon felt her cheeks go warm. She softly cleared her throat.
"Well, sir…actually, I do like your bill. I think it will be a great improvement, a real help to law enforcement. My only problem is…I think you didn't go far enough. You still leave our hands tied on some important issues…"
He watched her, fascinated by the passion in her voice.
"Actually, I agree wholeheartedly with you. But try getting a stronger bill through both houses of Congress." Those around them laughed knowingly.
"Of course," Lisbon said, backing down when she realized she was the center of attention. "I see your point." She would gladly have melted into the floor.
"Well, for the record, I'm sorry I couldn't do more," he said gently, sensing her discomfort, and then he turned on the election-winning smile. "But my term isn't over yet."
"Yes, sir," she replied, and she couldn't help smiling back at him, dimples on full display.
He spoke to others at the table for a few minutes, but in the lull between courses, he turned to her again. Minnelli had excused himself to go to the men's room, so there was no one sitting between them.
"I heard a wonderful story about you, about how you captured Red John."
"Oh?" She felt her face flush, and Jane's eyes softened at how it transformed her porcelain features to a delicate rose. "Well, it wasn't just me, sir. The rest of my team—"
"Aw, don't be so modest. I heard that once Agent Cho here skillfully extracted a confession from Red John's cohort—a secretary at the CBI, right?—you used yourself as bait to flush him out. Is that true?"
"Yes, sir, but the Rigsby's—"
"Come on, Agent Lisbon, accept some credit here. I read the reports. Your team was all in excellent form, but you, you were the heroine of the day, from what I could tell."
On Lisbon's other side, Cho nodded in complete agreement.
"It's true," added Minnelli, returning to take his seat again. She tried not to feel the disappointment of there being someone between her and the president.
"No way we could have bagged him if Lisbon hadn't taken such a risk," Minnelli continued. "Hell, she didn't even tell me what she was planning, or I would have stopped her in a heartbeat."
"We were so close," said Lisbon. "I'm sorry, sir, but I know you would have nixed the plan had I told you about it beforehand."
"Damn right I would have." It was an old argument, and Lisbon felt mildly embarrassed to be rehashing it in front of the president. Jane, on the other hand, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the conversation.
"I'm not usually one to break the rules, sir," Lisbon said to the president, feeling the odd need for him to see her in a good light. "But I feared time was running out. Rebecca Anderson had said Red John was leaving the country, leaving California. I couldn't let him get away."
"No, don't explain, Agent Lisbon. I admire what you did. You did a brave thing. I'm a rule breaker myself sometimes. You should be proud of yourself and your team. Our nation owes you a great debt."
He raised his glass of wine and saluted her. "To Agent Lisbon and the CBI," he said.
Those around the long table, who had been raptly following their conversation, joined him in his impromptu toast.
Jane held Lisbon's eyes over the rim of their glasses, and she was grateful she was sitting down, so powerful was her reaction to his overwhelming charisma. Out of politeness as the host, he turned his attention once more to those on the other end of the table, but from time to time, she felt the weight of his stare upon her.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
After his last bite of delicious chocolate torte, Jane rose to make his rounds of the other tables, stopping to talk and laugh with his guests. But something in him rebelled against leaving his own table, and he knew exactly what—or who—seemed to be silently calling to him.
Agent Teresa Lisbon.
It had been ten years since he'd felt that sharp pull of attraction. Ten years devoted to other things, like grieving, raising his daughter, and cultivating his political career. He'd neither had the time nor the desire for romance, and he'd kept himself so busy he was too tired to dwell on his loneliness. He hadn't even looked at another woman since his wife's death, and so it was tragically ironic that the first time someone had piqued his interest was on the very night that was meant to commemorate his dead wife.
He felt shaken. Discombobulated. And guilty as hell.
And so he avoided her for the rest of the evening, which only made him feel both guilty and cowardly. He was the President of the United States, dammit. Why the hell was he allowing a diminutive state to get under his skin?
As he was listening with half an ear to an amusing conversation between the CIA and FBI Directors, Mashburn's voice suddenly filled his ear.
"You need to stop staring at her," his Chief of Staff whispered so only he could hear.
Jane was startled to realize that he had, in fact, been gazing at Teresa Lisbon from across the room as she laughed quietly at something her colleague, Cho had said. Jane tensed, looking around surreptitiously. Had anyone else noticed? He forced himself to focus his full attention on what people were saying around him, even laughing at the right time.
At eleven-thirty, Mashburn approached him again.
"It's almost midnight, Cinderella," he whispered dryly. "You've got that meeting with the Chinese Ambassador tomorrow morning."
Jane nodded, but to his consternation, his eyes flew immediately to Teresa Lisbon. He'd tried to be less obvious the rest of the evening, but he couldn't help sneaking little glances every now and then. Her hair was a rich curtain of mahogany velvet. Her Irish complexion smooth and white. Her breasts were high and firm in her strapless dress, and it was a lesson in self-restraint to keep his eyes from exploring the mysteries of her lovely cleavage.
Mashburn went up to the podium to close by making a few witty remarks, then he announced that the president would be leaving soon. The room expressed its collective and genuine disappointment.
Jane made his way back through the throng, shaking hands and saying his goodbyes. And suddenly Teresa Lisbon and the rest of her team were right in front of him. His hand went briefly to his chest.
"It was an honor to meet you, Mr. President," said Agent Minnelli, shaking his proffered hand.
"And you, Agent. Thanks for your service to California, and to our nation."
"Thank you, sir."
He stopped before Lisbon, his heart giving a thump of anticipation.
"And Agent Lisbon. Keep up the fine work. I feel a lot safer knowing you're out there."
"Thank you, sir."
She was blushing, as he'd predicted, and when he took her small hand in his, he felt a jolt that took him completely by surprise. She'd felt it too—he saw it in the widening of her lovely green eyes. He gave her hand a faint squeeze and a lopsided smile.
"Good-bye," he said softly, and she felt a metallic coolness settle in her palm before he gave another quick wink, then moved on.
She looked down and saw that he'd given her the last signing pen. Her eyes flew back to his retreating figure in his impeccable gray suit, but he had finished his good-byes to Cho and the Rigsbys and was moving on out of polite earshot.
"Good-bye, Mr. President," she whispered, and she clutched the pen tightly in her hand.
A/N: You may be wondering how Jane could have risen to this place, how this jibes with his canon background. I promise to flesh that out in future chapters, as well as go into more detail about his wife's murder and its aftermath. Thanks for coming along with me on this! I'd dearly love to hear what you think!