"Does it hurt?"
"Well, of course."
"Sorry. It's the first time I do this."
Michael tried to ignore Nika's nervousness and focused on the pain. He had expected it would be worse. As the needles sank through his skin over and over, he was strangely overly conscious of his whole body; the sweat beading down his temples, the distinct feel of his fingerprint as he rubbed his thumb over his index.
"Does it hurt too much?"
Michael smiled. "I don't know. This is my first time, too."
Without thinking, his eyes went to Nika's hands and the tattoo kit she was holding, the careful intricate drawing she was permanently signing into his skin.
"Don't look!" She said. "You'll make me –"
"More nervous?"
It drew only a slight smile from her, which on second thoughts was good. He really didn't need her laughing with that thing in her hand.
"You know, you could have gone to a professional," she said.
He shrugged. "Too much attention."
"Right. You're famous now."
He picked up on the teasing in her voice. In truth, he was a lot more famous than he would like; not enough that he'd feature the front page of big newspapers, but what he did got talked about. And being one of the chief pieces of gossip in Washington was almost as bad as being famous. It was fortunate that he never got his picture taken, never made public outraged declarations about the state of the justice system, never became scandalous enough a figure to draw the media's attention in earnest. Then, he could kiss goodbye life as he knew it.
And for the time being, he'd sooner hold on to his privacy.
"Thank you," Michael said again, "for doing this."
"Hey, you married me." She smiled at the corners of her lips. "You can get as many tattoos from me as you like."
It was a few hours before she was finished.
Then, Michael grabbed a damp towel from the bathroom, wiped his face and admired her work in the mirror.
"Did I get it right?"
He had made the drawing himself, which she had applied on his skin before tracing the indelible lines.
Michael smiled softly at the sight of the red origami flower on his right arm, flexed his muscle and watched the lines shift before his eyes.
"You're an artist," he said.
"Don't flatter."
Michael wrapped his tattooed arm with gauze and looked back at Nika. "Thank you for this."
"You didn't need me," she said. "Anyone can put a rose tattoo on a man."
"But now, it's just mine. No one needs to know about it."
"Why would you give yourself a tattoo if you don't want people to see it?" She laughed.
"I'll see it," Michael said seriously.
Nika considered this and shrugged. "It won't age well. Red. That's what I heard, at least."
"I know."
But he thought to himself that some things could last forever and not age well simultaneously.
"Is it for the woman?" Nika asked.
Michael looked back at her in mild surprise. Since their late-night conversation when she had first asked him to marry her, Nika rarely mentioned what Michael had told her about being in love with someone else; but when she did, it was always with respectful distance and genericity – the woman.
Michael gave a rueful smile. "I suppose it's obvious," he said.
"Well." She closed the window almost as soon as she'd opened it; it was better like this, for them not to get too curious about each other's lives. They were friends, of course, but both of them the kind of persons who would never share some secrets with another human soul. "I hope you see her again, one day."
Shortly after that, she disappeared into her room, and Michael lingered alone in the living room area, and Nika's words seemed cloaked with ominous charge.
It was late February and, a little over a week from now, Sara was due to sign 'the People's Reform' into law. Michael wasn't blind to what a historic time it was, wasn't deaf to the talk that ran between people he met, from all kinds of backgrounds. Change really had come to America, they said. Maybe it was only logical it should come from someone who looked so different from the other presidents who had sat in the oval before her.
When he heard such conversations, Michael couldn't help but feel a secret sense of pride, that this great woman whom the world was so willing to worship had been the love of his life.
But deeper, there ran an uncontrollable fear that got him waking up in cold sweat, sometimes. One can be worshipped one day and burnt at the stake the next. There was no middle ground, as far as Sara was concerned. People either loved her religiously or despised her and everything she stood for, and there was always danger in such extremes.
And what could Michael do?
He had come to Washington to be closer to her. To take on the same battle that she was waging on an international level, from the shadows, discreetly.
But though he was always careful about keeping his reputation in check, trying to prevent fame from coming to his actions, he could not hide himself from the contradictions that danced so plainly before him. Why had he come to Washington, if not so Sara would hear from him? So he could be visible to her, too, because she was unbearably pervasive to him?
For a year, now, they had lived like this, alongside each other, never running the risk to cross paths, as they both lived in different worlds.
And yet, an opportunity had come and Michael had been too weak to resist it.
It was a speech that Sara was going to give at the Washington National Cathedral, on the anniversary of a shooting that had made nine dead and seventeen wounded several years ago.
It made sense she should choose a place like this for one of her rare forays out of the White House. Michael had heard about it as soon as the news was out; that was one of the upsides of living at the core of the political world. One of his lawyers, who in his own words owed him 'big time', had mentioned it while they were working on a case; the man's name was Peter Meyers, he was rich and rather influent in Washington, but without talent, and with a memory that failed him even when it came to remembering things he was supposed to do during the day.
At the mention, Michael had looked up with sudden alertness. He hadn't thought before he spoke the words. "Can I ask you a favor, Peter?"
The other man had looked just as surprised as Michael felt, but he assented.
"And I'd rather you didn't ask me why, and if we didn't talk about it."
"Well – what?"
"Do you think you could get me an invitation for that event?"
"The – the president's speech?" He had looked at Michael with round eyes.
Michael had nodded. Silence was all he could manage now; Peter stammered that he'd see what he could do, of course, being so much in his debt as all that, but Michael steered them quickly back to business.
How could he resist, when temptation came so easily? Probably, Sara wouldn't even see him in the crowd. There'd be no consequences. He had to tell himself that, not to think that he might jeopardize her by throwing off her composure. The benefit of invisibility was on his side; after all, he was just a face in the crowd, when she was in every news channel, in every home.
So he thought he was willing to take the risk of her seeing him in order to see her; but really, he didn't know which he craved most.
She'd become so famous now, so powerful, the thought that he had once been close enough to touch her was like a dream. It would be like touching the sun.
As he sat in the living room he shared with Nika, that evening, although the event was a handful of days away, Michael didn't allow himself to believe it could really happen.
Impossible. Too much brightness for the shadowy space he had grown used to.
Something would happen, something would prevent it; she'd be called away, an emergency in Egypt, some scandalous protest by the Knights.
All the while, Michael's heart was pounding inside his chest, at least as fast as if it had already been happening.
There was no calming himself, until he undid the bandage on his arm and looked at the rose tattoo again. It was flawed from the few times when Nika's hand had slipped out of nervousness, but probably too slight for anyone else to notice. Not that it mattered, as he would be the only one to look at it.
Because the tattoo was too fresh for him to touch it, he brushed his front jean pocket instead, where the original origami flower was safely tucked. He always carried it close to him now. In his coat, in his pocket. When he was working on cases or walking down the streets of Washington, he liked to think that it was in reach, that he could feel its careful papery windings with his thumb.
It was the only thing left about Sara that he could still touch.
…
Fox News, February 2023
"Theodore Bagwell, Republican candidate for president in the '20 election and pioneer of a third party – an unprecedented achievement in recent American history. Theodore, thank you for being here."
"Thanks for having me, Todd."
"We've got a lot to cover tonight, from your views on what you call 'historic mismanagement' at the White House to the 'People's Reform' that's about to be signed into law. But first, Theodore, what does it feel like? To be at the head of a brand-new movement, to be largely outnumbered in Congress – what's the vibe in the Senate like? D'you feel respected by your peers?"
"Well, Todd, like all pioneers," his voice purred like a cat's on the word so you could tell he liked it, "I'm getting my fair share of animosity. That's perfectly all right. What matters to me and my congressmen isn't what a few hundreds of sickeningly rich men in suits think about our party. It's what the people thinks that counts. And I must tell you, I'm getting a lot of calls – a lot of calls, from people who are finally getting interested in politics, who can't believe how real we are, how close to the crowd, know what I'm saying? To these people, the Knights really are saviors."
A goblin-like chuckle.
"It's not how many we are that matters, right now, but how many they are. And they are many, Todd. They're legion."
The reporter made a pensive hum. "That's an interesting thought. A few years ago, you and I were sitting right here, and you were talking about how many people you had behind you – you even said, if I remember right, enough to start a nation."
Now, Bagwell's laugh was thick with trained humility. "Well, of course that got the leftist press pouring ink. The problem is history's written by the winners, Todd, and news people – no offense – are so eager to put things in black and white. There's no nuance, no acknowledging the legitimate validity of a point of view when it's on the losing side. You can't have an honest debate about something like secession today because of all the touchiness around the first time we tried."
"Secession," Todd made the word sound doubly scandalous. "Did I hear you right?"
"Now, don't go around getting the wrong idea. I love my country. I'm more American than McDonalds. But it is a big country – and demographically, it's getting bigger and bigger every day. What we don't want is for our culture to waste away, to get diluted in a messy whole that's starting to look un-American. No?"
"Still… secession is a big word to put on the table."
"There's a lot of big words on the table nowadays, Todd, and the Knights aren't the ones that put them there. Words like guns and violation of constitutional rights."
"You're not taking back the word, then?"
"Ah, Todd. Would it tear me apart to see this country rent by division? Lord, yes. But would it be better than to see it drained of what makes it special, what makes it ours? The Knights will fight for America to remain America. That word stays on the table. At least, it'll give those socialists in power something to chew on."
…
Lincoln, Veronica, Sucre and Maricruz were having dinner at a little pizza place in one of the least exciting parts of town, which Lincoln had insisted on deliberately.
Veronica always teased him about this. "You could get us seats at the Everest," she said, "and you pick places like this."
To which he'd reply he hated the Everest, before saying more seriously, "Trust me. It's not the kind of place you want to go to if you're hoping for some time in private."
Tonight, though, as Lincoln picked up on the chatter rising from the neighboring tables, he started to think maybe no place in America was free from trouble. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about politics. Bagwell's or Sara's, or the apparently respectable Republican favorite, Alex Mahone's.
"Would you vote in favor of seceding?" Maricruz popped the question in the middle of a thick slice of pizza dripping olive oil.
It was at this point Lincoln reached saturation. "Please, please," he said, "not you too. Can't we talk about something else? Anything else?"
"Politics is important, man," Sucre said, although Lincoln suspected he would have probably gone along with whatever Maricruz said. In fact, if he could have just watched her eat in silent contemplation for the whole dinner, he probably would have been happy. "It's the future. It's the way this country's going."
"Believe me," Lincoln growled, "I'm in need of no lecture about how important politics is."
Veronica touched his leg under the table. A prickling sensation of pleasure and surprise immediately silenced him.
"I think I would," Sucre said.
Veronica chocked on her still water, and she wasn't the kind of person who usually did. It took a lot to throw her off. "Fernando," she started on a tone of reprimand.
"What, the white supremacists think they're better off without us? I say we cut them off, give them their side of the country to lead to hell and ruin. Good riddance. You know, it's always all about what they want, if they want to share schools, bus seats, restaurants. Or share funds for these things in different neighborhoods. Comes down to the same thing, no? But what about what we want? In all these years, no one's thought to ask us whether we wanted to share the country with a bunch of bigots that have sawdust instead of brains."
Maricruz started to fork feed Sucre some of the Sunday ice cream she'd gotten for desert and it got him quiet for a few minutes.
But when he turned back to the couple sitting opposite him, their expressions must have reminded him of where he'd left off. "I mean, if people like Bagwell want to break up the country, I say we put them all together and wrap a bow around them. Then see how they like taking care of themselves, huh?" He chuckled. "I bet Theodore Bagwell can't tie his own shoelaces. I'd laugh my ass off trying to picture him working the land."
"You don't think that's how it will work," Veronica said. "You can't. You don't think they wouldn't take everything for themselves –"
"You know, there used to be a time people watched football eating pizza," Lincoln said, looking sadly at his plate.
"Well," Maricruz said, "we could fight them for it."
"Exactly," Veronica said; when she was passionate, her lawyer's voice sparked up. "You realize how far it would go? Civil war, after almost two hundred years –"
"Not war. You're so dramatic."
"You know what?" Lincoln said. "I'm going to go order drinks. If when I get back, we're still talking about this, I swear to y'all, I'm getting out of here."
But his threat went unnoticed by the three people left at the table.
He ordered four beers and cast brief glances behind him every two minutes. When Vee got like this, he could picture her in court only too well. Her milky-white skin got red in the cheeks, her green eyes brightened with an impassioned shine. For a second, he wanted to grab her by the hand and take her home, and let Sucre and Maricruz finish alone; which, for his defense, would probably have been fine by them.
He paid for the beers, grabbed the tray and dropped it unceremoniously on the table where his friends were waiting. They didn't even interrupt themselves for his sake.
Veronica gave one suspicious look at the foaming drink in front of her; Vee was the best woman he knew, but she had a way of looking at beer like it might be the carrier of dangerous diseases.
"Obviously, we need to work closer together," she said, "not break apart –"
"But these people will never work together with us, Vee," said Maricruz. "That's what the whole lot of you talking about unity don't see, and what we see every day. That some people will never see us as equals, no matter how many laws get passed."
Lincoln sighed, had a sip of beer, and stopped fighting it. "And if war did happen. How many people would die?"
"People are already dying," Sucre said.
"Can you picture yourselves shooting Theodore Bagwell dead in a battlefield?"
Maricruz shrugged, and answered so naturally, Lincoln felt a little awed by this adorable-looking mid-twenties girl. "In a heartbeat," she said.
"See," Veronica said, "it's easy for Bagwell to win victories. Division comes easy."
Lincoln picked up a slice of pizza, looked at it for a moment then dropped it back on the table. Somewhere in the course of this conversation, he'd stopped being hungry.
…
"Madam President, Gretchen Morgan to see you."
"Send her in," Sara told her assistant. She lowered the lid on her laptop but didn't shut it all the way; she'd been revising her speech for the Washington Cathedral, which was due tomorrow.
Gretchen walked in, looking especially prim in a black tailored suit. In the White House, Sara felt, every man and woman looked alike, dressed expensively with colors that conveyed seriousness, power.
There were slight traces of shadows under Gretchen's eyes though they had been neatly covered with foundation. She was just back from a trip to Iran.
"You wanted to see me?" She said.
"Yes, please, take a seat."
As usual, Gretchen took the beige armchair at the left extremity; she always avoided the couch, for some reason, maybe because she had noticed it was Kellerman's favored seat during joint meetings.
"I think we should have a serious conversation about your future."
Gretchen's lips curved into a silent laugh. Some people here allowed themselves full-blown laughter when they were too exhausted to restrain themselves for the sake of appearances. Gretchen Morgan was not one of them.
"Are you firing me?"
"That's the last thing I'd want to do."
There was a nearly imperceptible movement of relaxation in Gretchen's features.
"Then, what would you like to talk about?"
"I suppose you've noticed a lot of Republicans have been fleeing the ship and joining Bagwell's Knights, since they got their first seats in Congress last November."
"Yes, I did notice that."
"And the response of the Republicans is mixed," Sara said. "Some fear for their numbers, naturally. Others think they're being freed from a plague, and that it's an especially auspicious time for the party to rethink and rebuild itself."
"I see," said Gretchen. "Am I to conclude you want my opinion, because I'm a Republican?"
"What I want is more specific. In a time that's going to come very soon, I'll be seeking reelection. Because I'm the kind of person who likes to plan ahead, I'd like to know as early as possible who I can count on to be part of my team."
Gretchen chewed on these words silently.
"In 2024, the Republican candidate won't be a clown like Bagwell. He might be someone you would be proud to align yourself with, and someone who I might actually respect, even admire. I know that you accepted to work for me because your own party had become unrecognizable. What I'm saying is you might have the opportunity to help shape it and make it into something you believe in again. And I need to know, as soon as you can tell me, whether that's something you want."
"You mean, will I flock to the Republicans now that my party has gotten rid of its diseased members?"
Sara wasn't surprised at such a strong metaphor. Gretchen wasn't the kind of woman to be shy with words.
"That's what it must have looked like, to you. I fled a body because of a festering wound, and now that the injured limp has amputated itself, I might find my loyalties so inclined to return to my old host."
"I wouldn't think less of you," Sara said. "You've worked hard for my administration and I'm grateful. I just want an honest answer."
"It wouldn't look good for you."
"That's beside the point."
But Gretchen's silence was still proud and insulted. Yes, without meaning to, Sara could feel that she had insulted her.
"I know that the Democrats are not your party."
"Maybe," Gretchen said. "But you're my president."
A rush of heat swam to Sara's face. She had not expected loyalty from Gretchen; by now, she knew that she could rely on her and trust her to be honest. But that was not the same thing as loyalty.
"I will be with you for your second term, madam president, if you need me. After everything, it's doubtful the Republicans would want me back. Would they take me just to make you look weak? Maybe. But they might have more respect for me if I honored my decision and served you, for as long as you're in office."
Sara bowed her head. "That's all I wanted to know."
"Then I'll see you tomorrow, for the report. Goodnight, madam president."
"Thank you, Morgan."
Gretchen left the room, and Sara gave herself a moment to take in what had happened before she opened her laptop, and started going over the speech again.
My dear fellow Americans…
…
"My dear fellow Americans," she spoke now, to a crowd of several hundreds of people, crammed onto pews, families holding hands, couples, loners.
It was different, giving a speech in a place like this; no spotlights, only the flashes of a few cameras here and there, made it possible for her to actually see her audience, overwhelmingly large as it was.
"I'm here before you today to honor the people who sat here, six years ago, and lost their lives to the tragedy of gun violence."
She spoke their names, slowly, respectfully, and asked for a minute of silence which the audience observed dutifully.
"It is to these people," she said, "and to all of those who have lost close ones in other shootings, that we dedicate the People's Reform. It is not about party or victory or glory. It isn't about restricting constitutional rights. The only thing it's about is what we all know guns primarily lead to – violence."
The way silence came at every pause in her speech was unlike what she was used to. In a church, silence had a special quality to it; Sara hadn't been inside one for a while.
As a matter of fact, it had been quite some time since she had given a speech before a live audience – lately, she had mainly confined herself to televised addresses from the oval. How odd, that all these people had come to look at her, how odd that a president had to be the face of American government as well as its heart.
She looked at the faces sitting among the pews once more. Too many faces. It was impossible not to see the many but the one.
…
Michael had gone to the Washington Cathedral that day feeling more alive than he had in years, at least since that time he had dressed himself as a security guard and met Sara in the White House garden at midnight.
The speech was scheduled at two o'clock. Michael had left Peter alone to scan his notes on a case of unfair dismissal at noon, when he had driven to his apartment in nervous haste. Nika wasn't home, which was lucky, because he didn't think he would be able to explain why he was in this state. He opened the fridge, prepared some food, realized how cramped and tight his stomach felt and put it away disgusted. He noticed he was sweating and took a shower, and felt not even a little bit quieted by the sight of the rose tattoo staring at him in the mirror.
After he'd put on fresh clothes, he got out of the building and into his car, and drove to the Cathedral nearly an hour early.
It was slightly comforting to see he wasn't the only one. The invitations had gone to all layers of society – Sara had a way of conceiving her people in a way that didn't suit Washington elites. Somehow, Michael blended into a small group of strangers who shared their excitement and didn't need for him to hide his.
"She is a grand woman, you know," someone told him, a woman with white hair, black skin and an ageless sort of face. "I never used to care so much about politics. I voted as a matter of principle, but never like now."
She threw questions at him which he was in no state to answer.
Didn't he feel involved, now? Cared about? Not only on election day, but through the polls, the referenda, didn't he feel like his voice mattered, like he made a difference?
On any other day, Michael would have known what to answer, would have been happy even to hear what this woman said, as if he was not only the target of her questions but that of her compliments.
But right at this second, Michael had never least cared about government or the presidency or even America.
His head was in a whirl and he didn't know left from right, present from past.
Suddenly, he was a volunteer at Charles Westmorland's charity center, blushing up to his ears at the sight of his icon, the first presidential candidate he'd gotten so excited about after Obama. In a flash, he could hear the other volunteers teasing him about his obvious crush, and the way Sara spoke to him, not fooled but not offended. She had first treated his love only with compassion and mercy.
When had it happened, for her? He didn't even remember what had led to their first kiss. Probably, they had been talking about her campaign, he had been treating her with the usual respectful, awed distance, and it wasn't until they were in each other's arms that he had known, and she had known, that their becoming lovers was always inevitable.
It had some sort of immutable logic, like gravity.
Finally, some people came to lead them inside the Cathedral and they went through the time-consuming routine of metal detectors. The president would be arriving shortly. Michael hadn't planned on sitting anywhere, knew only it should be somewhere unostentatious, so he willingly followed the woman he'd been talking to when she invited him to take the seat next to hers, in the back of the room.
Then for what felt like hours and might have been seconds, they waited.
Michael's hands became sweaty but he stopped himself from wiping them on his trousers, forgetting no one here would accuse him of hiding something, that they were all rent by nervousness and excitement and would think nothing of his.
The crowd gave her a standing ovation when she walked into the room.
Before Michael even had a chance to spot her, he was on his feet, the sound of clapping hands overwhelming, and he could see nothing past the throng of people standing around him.
He sat again when everyone else did in one last wave of awareness – he couldn't remain standing while all the others sat down, because then she would see him and something horrible would happen, no doubt, his heart would burst and he would die.
That was the last moment when he was aware of anything for a long while. He dropped back on the seat, then saw her, immediately.
She was advancing into the church, a bodyguard on each side of her. There was a smile on her lips, her public-figure smile, the one that definitely identified her as Sara-the-politician.
She started her speech, addressing the crowd, but Michael could not listen to a single word.
For at least fifteen minutes, though he wouldn't have been able to make that estimate himself, he only sat transfixed, lips parted and eyes drinking in the sight of the woman everyone here had come to see, who was arguably the most important woman in the country.
Her face glowed red and gold from the stained-glass window.
Her posture was impeccable and, certainly, Michael knew that she was a grand woman, but right now, to him, she was only a woman, the woman, the one he only had known in stolen moments of privacy, and she was his alone.
It was somewhat troubling, then, when that peaceful haze that pierced through time and space started to clear, and he started to hear her, to remember where he was and see the crowd of people around him.
"We have led this fight together," she said, "and we cannot be so deluded as to think the struggle will be over once the reform is signed into law. Our victory against violence can only be complete once we have freed ourselves and our government from the prejudices that claim some of us are worth more or less than others. It is only through respect for all of humankind that we can tackle this issue at its roots, for guns are only a means, and there are other means to this end. It is only –"
The sound of breaking glass suddenly burst into the room.
Michael got on his feet without thinking, but many people had done the same and, again, he couldn't see anything.
The source of the noise was immediately obvious.
The stained-glass window had shattered, and the light of day flooded into the cathedral in a blinding burst of sunshine.
It was surprising, how Michael's first thought was that this must be accidental, some incredible coincidence.
Then there were a few shouts.
Some people didn't just sit down, but threw themselves to the ground.
And finally, a voice among the crowd spoke the words that would be printed on every headline the following day, words that made Michael's heart come to a stop.
"Somebody shot the president!"
…
End Notes: Boy, what an emotional chapter to get through. Though I suppose as it closes Part 2, it makes sense in a way. Please share your thoughts about this chapter and about what you think will happen next. Also, feel free to tell me what you've thought of Part 2 in general, or even the fic as a whole. As it's my plan to turn this fanfiction into an original saga, I'll take all the feedback I can get ;-). If you have been reading this for the past 39 chapters, thanks so much for your loyalty and your interest. Kudos and comments are always welcome (to the jungle). Okay, I can't pun to save my life, but thanks again to you all and until we meet again for Part 3, take care!
