A conversation that has happened between every presidential candidate and their spouse.
"You know, lately, you always seem to think you're better than me," Elizabeth sighs.
His head tilts to the side as he watches her body fall heavily onto the chaise lounge. He has to admit that the speech didn't go as planned. He has to admit that he didn't conduct himself like he was married to the Secretary of State. No. He went off half-cocked like a smart-ass undergrad against his government as if he were any other American religious scholar. As if his wife could afford him that room.
"You've never made me feel small before," her voice is small and nearly defeated. He notices a hint of confusion or possibly accusation there, too. He tries to figure out if she wants to argue or if she's sharing. It's hard to tell. He decides to let her lead. It's better that way.
"You've always been so much more inclined to... I don't know... be single-minded in your morals..." she trails off. She's not sure what she's trying to convey, especially when she's not sure if he did it on purpose or not.
He can't argue with her sentiment. His eyes focus on the way her breasts strain against the top of her dress as she falls back, now semi-laying down. He supposes if there were ever a wrong time to be turned on by your wife, it would be this moment—this moment in which she is trying to find words to explain something. He's still unsure what.
"You know, last week, I had a campaign prep lunch with Russell after your little India bashing. He told me that if I have any chance at winning, I need to make sure you're on the same page as me, at least publicly always. And though I agree, when I argued with you, and you called it academic censorship, I let it go..." Once again, she loses her train of thought. He watches as she sinks lower into the lounge as if now purposefully tantalizing him.
"You're not going to be just an academic anymore. If I win," she continues, turning to her side slightly as if she had caught his gaze on her body. That sentence weighs heavy in the air. It's the first time either of them have acknowledged that.
"If you can't do this... can't reduce yourself to just my husband... I need to know now." She feels guilty even putting the words out there. He can tell by the way her eyes are no longer looking anywhere but her nightstand straight ahead of her eyeline.
He swallows, "I didn't mean to make you feel morally inferior to me," he tries, trying to stop the conversation in its tracks.
"I didn't think you meant to. I think you're subconsciously reacting to the possibility of having no identity other than being married to the President of the United States."
His mouth hangs open for a moment. How had she managed to cut through him so efficiently? How is it that as a man who considers himself a feminist, he can feel so wish-washy about his wife wanting to break the ultimate glass ceiling finally? He had supported her when she was Secretary of State. So, why now does he feel so threatened by the possibility of her being President.
"I... I have always been proud to hold the title of your husband. I have," he says as his body falls onto the bench at the foot of their bed as heavily as hers had three minutes ago. He starts untying his shoes, looking for something to occupy his attention.
"You say that. And I have no reason not to believe you. But I also don't want to have this conversation with you, again and again, every time you get angry at the fact that I've made a decision for the stability of the world that just so happens to go against your particular moral compass."
He watches her sit back up. Her cheeks are redder now as she finally lets herself be angry.
"If I lose, I will be fine. We'll go back to Charlottesville. I'll write a book. But if I win, I will be the President of the United States and you,"
"Will be the First Gentleman," he cuts her off with a nod. It's a job itself. He needs to cut himself off and be the outward projection of American Hospitality. It's how things are done. He'll be in charge of china patterns and Christmas decorations. Sure, he'll get a pet project, something apolitical and on-controversial like primary school arts funding or physical education.
She watches his Adam's apple bob. Her hands fall from her lap to the edge of the chaise lounge, and her fingers play with the fringe of the throw pillow, "You can ask me not to do it,"
"No, I can't," he whispers, "I would never stand in the way of you becoming every single thing you were meant to be..."
She sighs and then looks at him, "And I don't want to ask you to be someone you're not."
He nods. This conversation can't end in a stalemate of both of them not wanting to hurt the other in the campaign process. Especially if things go her way and they find themselves moving into the White House, most likely alone, as the kids will probably be out by then. And then where will they be—empty nesters who don't know how to talk to each other?
"I'm not trying to take away your identity. I'm not even trying to censor your opinions and thoughts. I love that you feel so strongly. I always have. And I love that you fight for what you think is the right thing. But the fact of the matter is, at this point, if you're fighting the system, you're fighting me," her words come out with more force and anger than she means them to.
He takes a breath and tries not to lash out. He's not ready to speak about all the rules he feels closing in a round him.
"I know you understand that the world exists on a rock that's balancing on a needle. And... I do my very best to keep that rock stable and balanced. It's like playing ten-dimensional chess—every piece has to be considered before anything can be moved. I know you, and I have had this argument before, and it's one we have kept coming back to since we came back to DC. But I always have to make the decision that saves the most people. It's not fun or pretty and it weighs heavy on my shoulders. But to know you think I'm morally corrupt... To have you alluding to that fact at an academic fundraiser... It's not only embarrassing to me as your wife, it makes me look weak to the people who I have to work with and the voters I need to impress."
"So you're not mad that I hurt your feelings. You're mad that I embarrassed you?" He questions, trying to keep his tone in check. He's been embarrassed, too—and emasculated. And her tone does nothing to help, either. This is the first time she's sounded like a real politician, like she would do anything to win. Power-hungry. Absolute. She has dug in. He watched her grow into this role. It was slow. First, she didn't want to be the Secretary of State. And then she loved it. And then there were the claims of not being a politician. And the claims she didn't want to be the President. But now she wants it. Badly. He doesn't know how he feels about that.
"It was both. It is both. And that's what you don't seem to get. You have the right to your opinion. But you don't have the absolute right to make me look stupid, inept, and unfeeling in public. And for the record, that would never have been okay with me. When's the last time I bashed you in public?"
He looks to the floor. She has never done that. Not once. The one time he accused her of it, the accusation was completely half-hearted and came from a place of post-bombing survivor's guilt-fueled rage. He hadn't meant to bash her. He honestly hadn't even drawn the line between the policy and his wife. And he should've. Because win or lose, no one wants to be embarrassed by their partner calling them an idiot in public, and he hadn't meant it about her. He knows her. He knows how heavily she weighs each and every call.
He digs into himself, looking for the reason he's acting out. That's what it is: childish acting out. Is it purely his ego? Her job is more important than his. He liked it when they were both professors. The work had bored her. He knew that. There was a certain fire that came back to her when they moved back to DC. Is he jealous that his wife's work is more important than his own? Is he angry that his life is not his own any longer. That his identity is completely wrapped up in hers. She gets to keep her individuality, and all he gets to do is look pretty in public.
She made something bigger of herself than he could ever dream of being. That makes him so proud of her. She has fought for it. And she has earned it. And he never thought he'd be the man who is pissed at his wife's success or jealous of it. Or, possibly this feeling exists for every spouse before every single Presidential campaign. Only those spouses have mostly been women, so nobody cared; he knows he never thought of this side of it.
"This is hard," he admits, "Being in your shadow instead of being your equal... it's hard."
She nods. She hadn't thought of that. In her mind, they are equals in every way that counts. They are a single parenting unit. They split the household chores as evenly as possible. They have a partnership built on equal respect and friendship. The fact that to the greater American public he is nothing more than a spouse who should be seen and not heard had yet to occur to her. She hadn't considered how much that would sting his ego.
"I didn't know you felt that way," she says, "Why didn't you say something?"
"How am I supposed to risk you dropping out of the race when you are the best option for the safety and security of the world?" He says. She would. She would leave politics for him the same way she left the CIA for him. She would do it simply because he asked. Because her love for him has no bounds. And his biggest regret is that angry ultimatum given in their kitchen. He had put a little bit of her fire out that day so that she couldn't burn brighter than him. And because he didn't want her to die in an IED explosion either, he'll give himself a little credit.
"If you really feel like a lesser version of yourself in this political circus, I'll drop out," her offer is soft and genuine. She would if he asked her to. She would.
"No," he says with no room for argument, "No. You are going to run for President. And you are going to be the President this country needs and the one that she deserves. It's time I admit that you were always meant to shine brighter than everyone else. What was that cheesy line from that medical show Allie watches, You're the Sun? Be the sun. And I'll be here to make sure the flame doesn't go out. I only need a little time to adjust."
She smiles and walks over to him pulling him up to his feet and into a hug, "You're my favorite person in the world, you know that?" She says as she wraps her arms around his waist, "And what you think is important to me. And I do take your advice into account. If I do win, I'm going to need your guidance."
"And you'll get it in private. And you will have nothing but my unwavering support in public," he says, running his hand through her hair, "I'm sorry about tonight," he says, pulling away so that they can see each other's faces.
"I forgive you," she smiles and kisses him lightly.
A/N: Does someone want to throw a fluff prompt my way? Because, man, am I finding myself in a writing hard-hitting, serious marriage conversations phase.