Abruzzi drummed his fingers over the armrest of his chair, a grave, weary beat. His candidate, Theodore Bagwell, had been arrogantly waving off the evidence that was staring them in the face for the past half hour.
It was one thirty p.m. The third and final presidential debate had come to an end some three hours ago, and Bagwell looked dead set on running from the facts.
So what if there were actual numbers saying how much more popular that democrat gal was? A kitten, he'd called her (I'll make one bite out of her). But you know polls are horseshit, John. What, CNN's calling her a revolution in terms of gender rights, the 'more hopeful face of the American people', which the last President has led to disgrace? CNN's bullocks.
When he heard that specific British word leave his very southern candidate's mouth, Abruzzi knew Theodore had been thrown off his game. Big time.
And that was displeasing news indeed.
John Abruzzi wasn't the sort of man who liked to find out he'd been backing the wrong horse.
"Let me tell you what, Theodore." Abruzzi interrupted – the calm in his voice shouldn't be read as a forgiving. "You don't want to hear it from the press, I'll give you a little wakeup call, because it's high time you got one." He paused to make sure he had his candidate's full attention. "You're losing the race."
Bagwell was currently standing in Abruzzi's office – pacing around, as had befitted his angry raving, while John was sitting, cool and collected, behind his desk.
There was a loaded pistol, taped under the table, and as he caught the flash of raw rage in Bagwell's eyes, it crossed John's mind to reach for it. Bagwell could be done away with, just like that, in a few minutes. The man was getting on his nerves. Chopped body pieces in a body bag and voilà. Exit the Republican candidate.
But it would be too late to find another strong candidate, and John didn't believe for a second the woman would make such a malleable puppet as old Bagwell.
That left him no other option than to stick with his admittedly flawed protégé.
"The hell are you talking about?"
"Wipe that scowl off your face, Theodore." Abruzzi sighed. "I don't have the patience to tend to your wounded pride."
"I am not losing. I –"
"The girl is tearing you apart. Only a vain fool like you would be able to deny it to yourself for such a long time. Every debate, she got the better of you."
"Now –"
"You underestimated her. And I listened to you." Abruzzi smiled. What an eel would smile like if it could. "That was my mistake. But loosen up a little, old boy. I'm not saying we're throwing in the towel."
The mafioso relaxed in his leather chair, fingers crisscrossed over the surface of the desk. He used to like it, this show of power, to live for it. And now, even as he made himself think more and more of a caricature, he discovered he enjoyed it still. Even enjoyed the dumb startlement on Bagwell's face.
"If you can't beat her by the rules, we'll just have to be a little – sly."
Bagwell's features didn't quite relax, but his eyes shone keenly beneath his arched brows, reminding Abruzzi of what he'd liked about him in the first place. The ruthless intelligence, through all those layers of practiced charisma. Yes, he was the sort of man who'd have no scruples doing what he needed to get to the top.
"I get you," Bagwell said.
"Atta boy."
If Theodore felt insulted at this show of familiarity, he kept the offense to himself.
"Now," Abruzzi resumed, "the first thing you have to keep in mind is everyone has weaknesses. You have them. I have them," on a spectacularly calm tone. "And that Democrat woman who's giving you such a hard time, she has them, too. You be sure of that."
"So…" Bagwell started, prodding him for more.
"So I don't want you to worry," Abruzzi said. "I'll have her followed. Get to know her a little better."
"Knowing your enemies."
"Exactly." Abruzzi chuckled. "You know, it's easy to show a strong front, with your makeup and your high heels and your evening dress – but take someone by surprise, catch them in the middle of the night, in their nightwear, a thread of drool drying on their cheeks, and suddenly they're much more amenable to negotiations."
"You mean, we gonna threaten her?"
"I mean, soon enough, there's not going to be anything about Governor Sara Tancredi that I don't know. And once I've found a spot that's sore enough to her that it's worth the presidency – she'll back down."
"And I'll win."
Abruzzi grinned his knowing, quiet grin. "You'll win."
It was harmless for Bagwell to get drunk on all the power he'd have, sitting in the oval office. It'd be too late to backpedal by the time he'd realize who was pulling the strings.
…
It took a while for Sara to realize she was shaking, in Michael's arms, when they had finished making love. The intensity of pleasure alone didn't account for it. Just a few hours ago, she'd faced Theodore Bagwell in the battlefield for what she hoped was the last time (don't be so sure, you both might be running again in four years' time). There had been no uncertainty, then – no fear or tremor in her voice, as she dealt him blow after blow.
His own attacks had been the same type as the two previous debates, easy to predict and easier still to counter.
It was only in the after the throes of orgasm had left her body entirely relaxed, her upper body pressed flush against Michael's, their legs a tangle under the sheets, that the enormity of what had happened tonight fully struck her –
Tonight? Hell, this whole year.
She was going to become president.
Even when Kellerman had told her those exact words, over the phone, a couple of hours ago, Sara realized the message hadn't quite sunk in until now.
She was about to be elected to the highest office in America.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, as Michael's hand traced softly down the shivering muscles in her arms. "Just adrenalin, I guess. Better now than in front of a camera."
Sure enough, showing the slightest symptom of distress to the nation would amount to political suicide. How quick would Bagwell be to point his finger at her – See this hysterical woman there, actually claiming she can run this country? Preposterous delusion! Probably, she's affected with some sort of womanly disorder, our dear ancestors would have called it 'maggots in the brain'. Don't you want a firmer ground to place your vote, ladies and gentlemen?
Well. 'Preposterous' might have been a big word for Bagwell.
Still…
Still, there was no denying those old voices in Sara's head, that refused to believe she'd truly made it to where she was now.
I've never been brought up to think even in my wildest dreams that I could get there, she realized.
How surreal would it feel, to place her hand on the Bible and be sworn in as the forty-sixth President of America –
Michael's fingers, sinking softly in her hair, brushing the curve of her cheekbone, anchored her to the here and now.
There hadn't been much time to talk, when they'd first seen each other – as usual, desire must get its way before they could have a decent conversation. But now, now that they were momentarily satiated, Sara detected the shadowiness in his eyes, the weight of unspoken things drawing him back.
"What is it?" She asked. Anything short of stark honesty was pointless with Michael.
"It's just the way I've seen you, these past few weeks," it didn't look like it cost him to say. "Standing there, with Theodore Bagwell – it was a little like you were being aimed at by a thousand invisible rifles. Does that make sense to you?"
"Vaguely."
Sara sensed a wave of coolness prickle her skin as Michael sat up, blankets pooling at his waist. A familiar flash of desire came over his face as her nipples stiffened, and she grabbed a fistful of silk-thin covers and held them to her chest, sitting up also. They would have to talk about this, eventually, and now was as good a time as most.
"I know I said it was worth it," he let out.
Shock made Sara silent for a few seconds. "Was?"
"Just – I know it's not my place, and you don't want to hear this."
"You have something to say, Michael, say it."
"I'm scared shitless that you're going to win this race."
The words made no impact as they hit her. Her posture was straight, her armor intact. Michael could see in the firm nod she responded with, how she was taking this – calming a boyfriend's fears was easy as hello when you could soothe the mind of an agitated nation.
"I know this is an – uncommon situation."
"No, please." He shook his head. "This isn't about my freaking out over you becoming the most powerful person in the country. None of that threatened masculine ego. You've soared much higher than my ambitions can carry me, and I have no resent over that, no wish to make you smaller or more controllable."
"You think you have to tell me that? That I'd be with you if I thought –"
"No," he interrupted, hadn't patience enough to wait. Those worries had been bottling up for too long, now, and who knew when he'd get another chance to let them out? "I just want to make sure we're on the same page, Sara – that you hear what I'm really saying."
Calm, solemn eyes met his own gaze, and the nod she gave was earnest, inviting him to continue. "It's not that I don't think you can't hold your own. It's those people who scare me. People like Bagwell."
"Well," Sara shrugged, visibly impassive. Sometimes, even he couldn't read her – couldn't access to wherever those secret thoughts of her disappeared. "It's a man's world," she finished, still missing his point.
"It's a snake's world, Sara."
"Yes," without irritation, "and it always has been. Look," she resumed, still extraordinarily calm, "it's not that I don't think your worries are legitimate, all right?"
It vaguely struck him how much he loved her for using words like legitimate in bed. Right now, though, the fact came as a distraction rather than anything else.
"It's just I don't know where you're going with this," she admitted. "I mean, what do you think can happen? That I can quit, let Bagwell have the presidency? That grinning goblin. I'd rather leave the country in the hands of a toddler."
Michael took this calmly also. Of course, it was pointless.
Sara was too far to turn back, now, and she didn't want to turn back – she wanted the oval. If it was possible for any one person to change the world, she wanted to take her best shot. And he loved her for it.
But he also loved her regardless of it all, and that deeper, selfish love, wished she never had to put herself in such an exposed position.
"Would it make you feel better," she wondered, "if I said I was scared, too?"
"Are you?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess it's not really agreeing with how bad I was shaking just a few minutes ago – but no." It was plain in her voice she wasn't lying. "Maybe it is a jungle, a snake's world, Michael. But it's also my world. Not just because it's what I was born in – it's what I chose. You understand?"
"Yes."
Always. From the moment he'd seen her, looking like a dumbfounded fan boy, most certainly, at that volunteering center… He'd known he and Sara were two twinned souls, but coming from different dimensions. They shared most qualities, but had made a different choice of course. Where he'd developed mostly kindness, she'd valued strength – and it had brought her exactly where she needed to be.
Michael knew the world of politics was Sara's as clearly as he knew it wasn't his.
So why this? He wondered. Why should they meet now, when it was too late for either of them to live in each other's habitat?
Maybe because, on another level, more than each of them belonged to their respective world, they belonged to each other.
"When the presidency's over," she said, "things will be different. No more spotlight. Sure, it'll get talked about if I reveal a relationship with someone." She didn't say, someone like you, or someone who has a brother like yours, which he supposed was merciful. "But what then? People just aren't so watchful of former presidents."
"I guess not."
"I can have a decent position and still live in the light with you."
A question flashed through Michael's tongue, but he bit it back.
After all those years spent in the shadows, would they really have an idea how to live in the light?
We'll just have to learn, he told himself, as Sara leant in to kiss him, the soft feel of her lips surreal as it was at the start. At the very least, we'll have to try.
…
It was a little after six a.m. when Michael got home. As usual, he'd watched as Sara disappeared inside one of those anonymous black vehicles that carried her away into the night. Not a limo, nothing that actually looked presidential, that might be noticed by some insomniac passerby. Michael only ever watched through the window, drawing aside the reddish drape that echoed the color of the hotel flooring and walls, and peering through the glass to catch Sara sliding nimbly inside the car.
For some reason, he never managed to get a full view of her. The flash of her red hair or a slim leg, chicly dressed in nylon, the point of a black heel, was about all he could hope for.
Watching her like this always got Michael thinking about what Lincoln had told him, more or less teasingly, a couple of weeks ago.
"So, we're going to talk about it?"
"About what?" Michael had played innocent, to no avail.
The grin sitting on Lincoln's lips was undefeatable, shiny with confidence. "Your secret lover."
Michael had wanted to laugh and look outraged at the same time. The young man could have saved himself a lot of trouble in life if he'd been a better actor – but like all the kids who for some reason never think of mischief, he was so unused to being caught in a lie that it left him utterly defenseless.
"I don't have –"
"Mikey, my boy." Lincoln had admonished. "Don't insult my intelligence. I might not be the smart one in the family… but I'm not completely daft."
He'd slammed his brother in the back, and that had been the end of that.
"My secret lover," Michael whispered to himself, as he shuffled his key inside the lock. Thinking not of Sara's naked skin or the feel of her in his arms, but that fragmented glimpse he'd gotten of her as she got in her car.
No image could stick around longer on his mind than her walking away.
Oh, with all her talks of one day…
Michael entered his apartment, cautious not to make any noise. Although his brother was a deep sleeper, Michael preferred to be on the safe side of things.
Exhaustion was weighing heavily, tar-black on Michael's eyelids. The lack of sleep never made him irascible, but this morning, he thought it was making him a tad gloomy.
Would it even be so bad, to wait a lifetime in the shadows, having that promise of light being pushed farther and farther away as the years wore on?
He didn't think so.
In truth, Michael remembered the books he used to read as a kid, stories of Lancelot and Guinevere, and it struck him he'd learned long ago that love was more than what contemporary media fed its casual viewers. Relationships, devotion, weren't only about passionate drama, and that inevitable protracted ending – marriage, children.
The shadows were a decent place for love to grow. Thoughtlessly, Michael caught himself smiling, to the thought of an undiscovered kind of rose that wouldn't need light but darkness. It would be red, of course. Red like the dress Sara had worn on television, like the cascading curls that poured through his fingers when he clasped her to him.
Still without a noise, Michael discarded his coat and headed for the guestroom where his brother slept – the door was cracked open, and Lincoln usually shut it when he was sleeping. A small push confirmed to Michael that his brother wasn't in bed.
Michael sighed, somewhere between concern and amusement. "So, I'm not the only one who sneaks out at night."
Though exploring the possibility that Lincoln might have gone back to his old ways did point its head, Michael pushed it back, deeper under the surface.
Later.
Right now, he didn't want to worry, or think about Lincoln at all –
In an hour only, he was supposed to be at work, and he had a clear albeit surprising idea of what to do to pass the time.
In the study area of his living room, Michael fetched a pair of scissors and two leaves of colored paper – red and green – leftovers from a very old hobby. It'd been years since he'd actually taken the time for origami. A fine teacher when it came to values such as patience – and perseverance.
This could be worse, Michael thought, sitting at his desk, the feel of folded paper familiar and soothing. Lancelot never got to even touch Guinevere. Not for a long time. And he had to endure a husband.
But at least, Lancelot's queen was safe and sound, sitting in her throne. Lancelot could have the satisfaction of fighting her battles, while all Michael could do was sit there and think (watch her walk away), trying to put a shape on his feelings for her, a paper rose that wouldn't fade or die and that would weather the darkness.
Using his thumb and index to harden a red crease of paper, Michael pricked his finger and withdrew it just in time to avoid staining the rose with a drop of blood.
Pressing the tiny wound to his mouth, Michael got on his feet, leaving the origami rose on his desk. When he'd taken a few steps, headed for the bathroom, where he would scramble for a band-aid in the cabinet under the sink, Michael suddenly stopped and turned back around, to take a look at his work.
The rose was finished now, and he'd felt the force of its silent call, even as it lay apparently harmless on the glass surface of his desk.
Like a lone red eye, staring from the table.
Michael's pulse quickened as he stared back.
And if I could protect her? He thought. If I could somehow enter her world –
The entry door slammed open and Michael started so violently Lincoln chuckled. "Gee, Mike. You're nervous as a cat these days."
"Sorry."
Lincoln squinted his eyes. "What's that on your finger."
Thinking of Guinevere and Lancelot, and that his brother was too far down the right track to be misled anyway, Michael shrugged and answered, "A war wound."
"Is that right?"
Michael heard Lincoln laugh as he disappeared inside the bathroom and washed his bloody finger at the sink.
"You know it's bad luck," Lincoln said, from the living room.
"What is?"
"What you just did. 'By the pricking of my thumb, something wicked'… Something, something."
"Ha," Michael laughed, sliding his head through the doorframe to catch a glimpse of his brother – dressed in a leather jacket and plain but dark clothes, he looked nearly like his teenage self. Which wasn't good news in and of itself.
Once again, Michael thought about where it was Lincoln might be disappearing at night. The darker your past is, the more overwhelming and strong it is when it comes back to claim you – and Lincoln had always had a hard time saying no to easy money, was never one to shy away from dealing with ruthless people.
Why he kept returning to these old jobs that would land him in prison, Michael couldn't say, couldn't fully believe Lincoln didn't think he was worth better than them.
As their gazes met, while Lincoln was hanging his jacket on the side of the couch, and Michael was turning off the tap in the bathroom, keeping his head in the doorframe, Michael felt a wave of familiar, bitter warmth travel through him.
How much is too much, he wondered, when it comes to your brother, to the people you love –
The thought of Sara fleeted through his mind, red and radiant.
Nothing, he reckoned. Probably nothing.
"I thought you hated Shakespeare," Michael remarked.
"Nah. He's all right. Just wanted to piss off my teachers." Lincoln's eyes dropped to Michael's desk, by the window, and the origami rose. "Who's this for?"
Once more, Michael shrugged. "My secret lover."
Lincoln raised his eyes back to his brothers and, after a moment of startled pause, chuckled in genuine amusement. "Well, isn't this going to be a fun time for us, Michael."
Fun, Michael reflected, might not be the word. But sure enough, it would be a time to remember.
…
End Notes: Still having the best of times with this story. Please share thoughts and comments.
