XVII
"Hey there, Charlie, you've been awfully quiet this evening." The president smiled kindly at his young aide, and allowed a little concern to peep through as he touched his shoulder. "Is it your ribs?"
"I'm fine," he replied quickly, and relatively sincerely. The pain in his chest was certainly less of a frustration than the incessant fussing of his boss and coworkers.
The president nodded, and settled down to sit beside him. For a moment they were both silent, watching the people go by.
"Sir, shouldn't you be... mingling?" he finally wondered aloud.
The president shrugged sharply. "Ah, what's the point? They won't even let me eat any of the food."
"You're allowed to eat the salad," Charlie reminded him.
"Yes, but not any of the food."
Charlie smirked quietly to himself.
"So if it's not your ribs, why are you doing an impression of a wallflower at this party the American taxpayer and I have so generously laid on?" the president inquired.
"I was... just thinking," Charlie admitted.
Probably having seen Zoey over at Charlie's side shortly earlier, the president narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "About what?"
"Having kids," he confessed without stopping to think about it.
The president pulled back and eyed him sharply. "Okay, Charlie, I'm warning you now that if Zoey's pregnant I expect to see a signed certificate from God to say it's a virgin birth."
"Zoey's not pregnant," he got out quickly, with an entirely irrationally nervous laugh.
The president remained unconvinced. "Is this leading up to a catalogue of disasters that you finally revoke and tell me that it's just a pregnancy after all? 'Cause, you know, that's pretty much how I ended up with a grandchild first time around."
"She's really not pregnant, Mr. President," Charlie repeated.
"Well, good."
"Yes, sir."
"Because having your ribs broken twice in three months would probably not be good for you."
"No, sir."
The president smiled and leaned back in his seat. "So you're thinking about parenthood?" he asked more gently.
"Yeah, I..." Charlie shook his head. "Zoey just said something, and I just... I mean, I never really thought about... kids." He'd spent too long being a big brother to Deanna to indulge any unrealistic dreams about fatherhood, and the idea of even being able to get engaged Zoey had seemed so remote as little as four months ago.
The president grinned. "Well, you're young yet - although, mind, Abbey and I already had Liz when we were your age- but things were very different then," he added sternly. "You're young people, you still have plenty of living to do, and you know it's really not too late to decide to push the wedding back for another, oh, ten or fifteen years."
"I don't think we'll be doing that," Charlie said dryly.
His prospective father-in-law scowled, and then smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "I won't lie to you, Charlie, it's scary as hell, but being a parent is the best thing I've ever done. All..." he shrugged at the opulence surrounding them "...this? It really doesn't... I couldn't imagine this world meaning anything without my children in it." He straightened up. "You'll make a great father, Charlie, I can tell you that without a shadow of a doubt. So by all means be in awe of it, be afraid of it, but don't ever be worried about it, because you're gonna do just fine."
"Thank you, sir," he said, blinking before the sudden wetness of his eyes could betray him.
The president stood up, and then shot him one final look. "Start on it too early and I really will break your ribs," he warned.
"Okay."
Probably only CJ would have been able to tell from his exterior that he was nervous - which was the main reason he'd been avoiding her all night. He was fairly sure he didn't want CJ's input on... whatever it was that he was doing. What was he doing?
Probably nothing that would end well.
Toby saw her across the room, and felt a stab of something that belied the way he'd told himself that this was just a courtesy. Seriously, what was he doing?
He and Andy were... he wanted to say 'friends', but the writer's instinct that kept him doggedly seeking out the right word wouldn't let him. They were... not what they once had been. And to treat his unexpected impulse to invite her this evening as anything other than a gesture of respect, an acknowledgement, a nod to the past...
Andy spotted him in the crowd and smiled at him. And, be it wise or stupid or indefinable, when he crossed to her side the invitation was automatic. "Would you like to dance?"
Her face was difficult to read, puzzled, pleased and melancholy all, but she took his offered hands. In dancing, at least, they both had some idea of what kind of steps they were making.
Since she and her husband had taken the first dance the floor had opened up to a number of waltzing couples, but Abbey found her eyes drawn to one pair in particular. It was easy to divide the others up by their body-language: true couples, gazing into each others' eyes with varying degrees of sappy romance; friends, laughing and cheerful together and probably more than a little drunk; political pairings, too careful in the formality of their posture and often not quite fully in step. But the unlikely duo of her husband's Communications Director and his ex-wife defied category.
She watched them surreptitiously while her husband shook hands and schmoozed people he'd rather not be talking to. The two of them moved together with the same kind of instincts she recognised from herself and Jed, but there was something... not off, precisely, but... muted.
And yet, they were dancing. She wasn't entirely sure what that signified, but it was... interesting.
She was conscious of a presence at her shoulder as Lord Marbury slunk through the crowd to join her. "Abigail," he nodded quietly. He could be quiet and subtle when it suited him, although he was careful who he showed that side to.
Abbey shot him a knowing look and tilted her eyebrows towards Andy and Toby. "And what exactly have you been up to there, John?" she asked pointedly. She had been puzzled when the British aristocrat had failed to get the diplomatic snafu sorted in the fingerclick he was easily capable of, but now she wondered if he hadn't been amusing himself with some ulterior project. Pushing for foreign aid funding was certainly something he didn't need a personal presence to weigh in on - which raised the question of what else he might have been carefully shepherding along.
He remained smilingly enigmatic. "Just the fine art of diplomacy and compromise, my dear; diplomacy and compromise." He bowed low, in a way that only he could get away with not making sarcastic.
Abbey couldn't help smiling in reply. It was something in the character of Lord John's charm that even if you knew damn well you were being manipulated, you had to smile. However sharp a mind it might be concealing, the exuberantly over-the-top exterior was so much an ingrained part of him that you couldn't believe it was entirely false.
As he straightened up, something distracted him, and for a moment she glimpsed that rare sight, Marbury caught in sharp-eyed contemplation. She followed his gaze, but saw only Leo, threading his way through the crowd on his way out of the party. No doubt to return to his office and work the night away, she thought with an internal sigh.
"Something wrong, John?" she asked.
"Not at all, not at all," he assured her quickly. "But if you will pardon the inexcusable rudeness of departing your exquisite company in pursuit of less worthy endeavours..."
"Oh, give it a rest, charmer," she commanded, giving him a gentle shove on his way.
"I live for nothing but the sunshine of your favour," he said, with another elaborate bow. Abbey shook her head as he moved off.
She looked around, and miracle of miracles spotted a momentary gap in the surge of hangers-on around her husband. Their eyes met and his smile widened in a way that still made her heart skip a beat after nearly four decades of marriage.
She made her way through the crowd towards him, and he extended his hands. Without needing to say a word, they made their way out amongst the other couples, and began to dance.
"See, I don't see how you can possibly claim I have a sensitive system-"
"Cram it, Josh," Donna ordered, mostly good-naturedly. Despite the playful needling, he had given her the morning off, and her admittedly slightly fuzzy memory of the evening before was telling her that her boss had been remarkably sweet and non-Josh-like. Her hangover had finally begun to depart, possibly coinciding with the point when she'd conceded defeat on the 'never ever ever touch alcohol again' policy and procured herself a glass of champagne. In fact, she was more than half way to convincing herself to have another.
Lord Marbury appeared through the crowd and made his way to Josh's side. "Ah, Joshua! Might I have a moment of your time?"
"Lord Marbury," Josh nodded politely, the automatic smile he pasted on only slightly fixed.
"I'll get more drinks," Donna said brightly, and went off to snag a waiter.
When she returned with two flutes of champagne, Marbury was alone. "Where did Josh go?" she frowned.
"I'm afraid he had to leave." She automatically relinquished one of the glasses as he lifted it from her fingers and took an appreciative sip. "Excellent."
"Uh... okay," said Donna vaguely, with a shrug.
One teasing boss for one British aristocrat, complete with dreamy accent?
That was a trade-off she could totally live with.