The look on Kellerman's face was something Sara had never seen before, although she'd suspected it to exist in a half-aware manner. Because Paul Kellerman was the sort of man who received insults with a smile, it wasn't ridiculous to think there was an inward face behind that political mask who never smiled, who dealt you the kind of looks that turn people to stone, eyes dark with the grave seriousness of hurricanes, thunderstorms, awe-inspiring sights.

But Sara refused to be awed by Kellerman.

Not only because of how much it would flatter him…

Because regardless of the genuine affection they both knew to exist, her relationship with Kellerman was one of power, and always had been.

He didn't say, I'm sorry, can you repeat that? or anything easy, didn't speak for the sake of breaking the silence.

"Is there anything more I should know?"

"No." She answered.

After a moment, "How long has this been going on?"

"I don't see how that would help you get me out of my predicament."

"Really?" Not feigning surprise. His face was a crude lack of sociable charisma, was nearly unrecognizable. "Why, it's the heart of it. Your predicament. We're not just talking blackmail here. Or did you think this was an isolated problem?"

Both of them were standing, the chairs opposite and behind Paul's office dwarfish spectators to their confrontation.

Kellerman had agreed to meet her without asking questions when she'd called him. He'd suggested her office, but his was closer to the motel, not that she said that right away, or got near explaining the situation to him until they were face to face.

Although Sara could feel the latent heat between them, she remained calm and – she knew how crucial this was – unembarrassed. Paul had been her friend for too long for her not to know what a formidable opponent he was. The force in his silence was real and she knew, any second now, he might try to seize control.

"I was too proud," he said, his eyes steady into hers. "I trusted you too much. Oh, every political career has its weaknesses – skeletons in the closet, you know. Every one. So, in ways, this is my fault. I should have known you had yours." A short sigh. "Self-confidence gets the tallest giants, doesn't it? I told myself you were different, that if there was anything that could jeopardize you, you'd tell me. Most politicians meet their downfall because they don't treat their advisors to the full truth, like modesty's something they're entitled to as much as your average fellow. I thought that was clear, Sara."

The hairs in the nape of her neck prickled, but she still had her jacket on, so he wouldn't see her arms breaking into gooseflesh. Which was good. Now was no time to show weakness.

Still, she didn't like how he'd spoken her name just now.

"I'm your partner," he said. "There doesn't have to be love between us. There doesn't have to be fondness. The only thing there has to be is a complete absence of secrets."

Silence resumed between them. Sara wanted to take her time – knew how timing was important, how some things shouldn't rushed. If her voice came out shrill and indignant, she would lose. If her eyes betrayed anger, humiliation, any of the myriad of emotions that had been boiling in her tonight, she would lose.

"My dear Paul." She said. "What a great misunderstanding there must have been for you to tell me the things you just did."

Though she turned the reproach on him, he didn't look ashamed, either, or lower his eyes – she hadn't expected him to.

"Let us get one thing clear, if you're going to continue working for me. I won't be intimidated by you. I'm not a school girl you caught with my pants down after curfew. I didn't come here tonight because I wanted your opinion on how I lead my private life – which I intend to hold on to, president or not. The blame is mine if you didn't know that."

Kellerman shifted on his feet.

Such a slight, unnoticeable shift – the weight of your own body uncomfortable, the urge to recoil under assault.

"Your job now is to advise me. To assist me. When I get a call from Senator Bagwell's people, and they want to meet, I want you with me, because getting people through crisis is what you do best." She paused briefly, for effect. "If you can't fix this, or if you don't want to be a part of this, you tell me. What you don't do, don't ever do, is boss me."

She fell silent, their eyes not a battle but a mutual appraisal – she knew Paul didn't really need to be won over, nor would she fire him for the things he'd said tonight.

From the rare flicker of heat in his cool gaze, Sara could tell he wasn't done. That he was furious she'd jeopardize her career to have an affair with some man who'd never pass the test of public life, and more so at the fact that she had tried to keep it from him.

Kellerman's too involved. It was a thought that crossed Sara's mind, sometimes, when the truth was just too obvious for her to look the other way. She'd always known this, just as she'd known it might eventually become a problem.

But Kellerman was too good at his job for her to want to part with him. What was more, he was a man she trusted, in a peculiar way – not because she knew him to be of an incorruptible character. No. Paul could be a bastard as could most politicians worth their salt in this world.

But she didn't think he would betray her.

Getting her to the oval had been his life purpose.

She'd known this, even as he acted surprised when she broke the news of her running for president on live television.

There was nothing Kellerman wouldn't do, nothing he would shrink from, if it served that purpose.

The people you could count on so utterly were rare, Sara knew, in this line of work. Had seen it happen too many times, to her father and others. On those days, she remembered her father's lips would be so pinched at dinner, she would wonder how he even managed to get the food through.

Even in Sara's own career, there had been a number of double-crossing, disappointments if not outright betrayals.

But not from Paul.

She knew this, in the same way she knew she ought to be cautious, that Kellerman might be even more coldblooded than he seemed.

Another thought sometimes flashed through her brain – he loves me – but she always managed to push it back far enough that she could fool him, if not herself, that she didn't know this.

"How much did they get on tape?" He asked.

"Too much, I'm afraid. And there's no tape. Just a phone video." She shrugged. "Modernity."

Kellerman nodded. "I'll need to see it."

"Yes."

So would she.

"We need a strategy ready for when Bagwell's people contact us, and I can't plan one until I've seen it. I need to determine if there's any way we can pass this as a hoax, ignore it completely."

Sara didn't signify approval. There was no need to. There'd been no need for him to justify himself in the first place – but she felt slightly reassured that he had. Always enjoyed the times when Kellerman's conduct reminded her he was only human.

Sara pulled her phone out of her purse, breaking eye-contact with Kellerman for the first time since she'd entered his office tonight. Now was safe enough to lower her guard, she knew; power had been fully restored to her side.

"Who are you calling?"

"The man who's responsible – who took the video, I mean."

"By the way." He was cautious; didn't make this sound like a question. "Will we need to buy him off? Even if we make a deal with Bagwell, his handyman will be a liability. In a couple of years, when you're in the middle of your first term, he might decide he wants to make some money out of this."

"That's not going to happen." She trusted this completely, although she'd not gotten a particularly flattering image of Lincoln's character.

Sara knew how to read people, and there had been enough genuineness in his rough, pragmatic apology to convince her he meant it, would cut his own arm off if he could take back what had happened tonight. And yet, he hadn't looked pathetic.

She had respect for people who held their own.

Unfortunately, not for those who followed women at night and contributed to their public undoing.

"He can meet us here," Kellerman said, which was merely a way of suggesting the place for their rendezvous without commanding her.

He probably thinks he has more power than I know.

"Yes," Sara said, "it sounds appropriate."

"And…" The pause was full silence, no cleared throats or audible hesitation. "There's no need for anyone else to join us, I suppose."

"If you mean my lover, it hadn't occurred to me to ask him."

To call Michael her lover in front of Kellerman and keep a straight face was a small challenge, the sort Sara knew how to pass without effort.

There were few other options.

Boyfriend would have made her sound too much like a girl, and she'd rather that Kellerman didn't learn Michael's name at all if possible.

However much he allowed her to feel she was in control, she knew Kellerman could grow dangerous, from the shadows, and wouldn't shy away from scaring off anyone who got in her way to the presidency – including Michael.

And the means he'd use would be nothing like a protective father who meets his daughter's boyfriend.

Kellerman, she had no doubt, could be a very scary man.

With Sara gone, the motel room had a surreal, cheap feel to it. The dim lighting, the ruffled sheets, the glare of moonlight out the window.

Michael hadn't moved from the edge of the mattress, his legs turned to roots. It had been bad, sitting there with Sara standing up to Lincoln, but now that there was no presence, no sound or life in the room but the two brothers, it was worse.

"I'm sorry."

Lincoln didn't generally see the point in repetition, but it sounded different from before, in the absence of any witness or judge. Younger. Like all the times Michael had heard him say this before.

At juvie camp, jail, Fox River.

How young were they when it started? Michael had only been eleven the first time he'd visited Lincoln at that youth detention center – he'd had to take a bus after school and ride forty minutes out of town. His parents had been furious at him when the warden called them, but not to see Lincoln every day for a week had been to Michael like an ordeal, one you don't get used to. The empty chair at their dinner table put a boulder in his stomach, too stiff to eat.

Lincoln had been happy to see him, even under such circumstances – with so many people around, and a few guards standing by the door. To Michael, it didn't look so different from the school cafeteria at the strike of noon. All the inmates here, after all, were under eighteen.

Lincoln had given him no nonsense about how he shouldn't have come here, although he had spoken the now meaningless words, "I'm sorry you have to see me like this."

Like what? Michael had meant to ask. Apart from the odd clothes – an orange jumpsuit and white tee-shirt – Lincoln looked everything like his ordinary self.

After a while of silence, Michael had looked at his brother, very solemn for an eleven-year-old. But yet again, Michael was always the overly earnest type. "I came to get you out of here," he said.

Lincoln had laughed – had a way of laughing that wasn't light amusement or mockery. His own face was earnest, as he looked at his brother. Lincoln laughed the way other people say I love you.

"Did you, now, you little rascal?"

But Michael wouldn't have his promise treated as a joke. He'd given much thought to this. "No, it's simple," he spoke in a low tone, no whispers, careful not to draw the guards' attention. In a conspiracy-laden casual move, he placed a bottle of water on the table.

Lincoln had furrowed his brows. "What this?"

"I've mixed it with a few drops of Ipecac."

"Of what?"

"Ipecac. It's a drug that makes you vomit."

A long, low sigh. There could have been no more fondness in any spoken word. "Mike…"

"It's very quick. When you've had a few swallows they'll take you to the infirmary. I can wait outside the window. I brought a rope –"

"Michael."

"It can work."

"No doubt it can." Lincoln said, with a ready belief Michael hadn't expected. He thought this would need some convincing. "And then what? Back to mom and dad? I'll just be on my way back here tomorrow, no different except for the belt stripes on my ass. Those, I could do without."

"We can hide."

"What you can do is go to school and study your brains out, because that's what works out for you." Lincoln shrugged. "It's bad enough that you have to wait this out, Mike – but you can't ruin your own life because of what I do. You understand that?"

At the time, Michael was pretty sure he didn't.

Now, sitting in that motel room, the air heavy and hot as in a jungle, there was a new ring to those fresh, faraway words.

"I'm so sorry, Michael."

The voice of his brother was sincere as ever, the same deep shade of repentance he was used to – but it was wrong, wrong in a way Michael had never thought to notice.

Apologies aren't supposed to get so familiar.

"Don't say that," Michael said. "Not this time. Not for this."

He got to his feet at last. The motel room was spinning, the unglamorous décor of this absurd act – tragedy or comedy? Often, Michael found the only difference between those was whether the audience was laughing, and not what was taking place.

Surely, William Shakespeare could have spun a funny story around this.

Brotherly betrayal, scandalous exposures, sex, impotence! That last one was funny, wasn't it? The woman walking out with her dignity intact and the man sitting still and silent, his mind wrecked, his privacy violated; the Elizabethans would have had some good laughs over this.

If he punched Lincoln now, would he break his hand, would he miss, would he hear the laughing of the crowd, deafening in his ears?

Michael picked up his shirt, started buttoning up. "You say that, and what follows is forgiveness – always. So don't say it, Linc, a'right? Not when I can't forgive you."

But a deeper truth flashed through his brain.

Not when it reminds me that, however long it takes me, I will.

"It was supposed to be over," Lincoln said. "Abruzzi would have me do this one thing – then he'd give me an honest job, and I never had to go through this again."

"This one thing?" Michael said.

All that needed saying.

"Don't stop by the apartment tonight, okay? You can come pick up your stuff later when I'm at work." Michael fished for his wallet inside his coat, which he was half-busy sliding on. Every move felt cold, dead, unnatural. "Here," after he'd pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. "You can save it for when you need a place to sleep tomorrow. Until then, you might want to walk it out, I guess – or you can stay here. The room's paid for."

"I don't need your money."

"Sure you do. And I won't be seeing you for a while, so you better take it."

Right now, in that cold, unfeeling mind that felt alien to love and memory, it didn't strike Michael as cruel that he and Lincoln would part over a bank note.

Heck, maybe it was even funny, if you wanted to look at this like some great comedy. It was impossible for Michael to tell whether in the future, tears or laughter would be more likely for him, so estranged he felt from human feeling.

Lincoln's hands remained chained to his side, his eyes level with his brother's.

Michael felt slightly vexed that Lincoln didn't take the bill, or break down sobbing – anything that would rival with his own humiliation.

"Okay," Michael said. "Bye then."

Their love for each other was worth a better ending than this, but anything more solemn, even goodbye, would have risked coming off as melodramatic.

"I'll make this right, Michael." Lincoln said as his brother reached for the knob.

"Sure you will."

"If I don't, I won't bother you again. But I will fix this."

"Sure you will."

He hadn't halted so, when he said the words again, he was halfway through the door, and the end got lost in its closing – polite habit made Michael resist the satisfaction of a full slam.

Through the corridors, which were an unfortunate yellowish beige, Michael was still full of that surreal feeling, like he was walking inside a dream.

Some people are reborn in pain and hardship, some are born again as Christians – suddenly, Michael felt this could be the start to anything.

To himself, maybe even only in the cage of his own mind, he said, "This is my origin story."

His hands sunk deep in his coat pockets, the hundred-dollar bill crumpled in his fist.

He never thought to notice Sara's origami rose was missing.

Alone, in the motel room, Lincoln picked up the paper-flower that lay on the ground, by the bed. Memory burned like hot iron in his brain –

Who's this for?

My secret lover.

Michael was right. I'm sorry were threadbare words, words he'd spoken too many times – words that couldn't be applied to this new, worse-than-all situation.

Lincoln put the origami rose in the pocket of his coat, just at the right time that he could feel his phone vibrate with the tip of his fingers.

He picked up even as he glimpsed the UNKNOWN CALLER on his screen.

"Did you delete the video?" Sara asked before he could say, 'Hello'. It probably wasn't in order.

"No."

"Good. I'm going to need for you to meet me at an office downtown. I'd appreciate it if you used the underground. No cab. We understand each other?"

"Perfectly."

"I'll text you the address."

She hung up without further delay. Lincoln resisted the sleep-deprived urge in his mind that looked to blackness, that suggested he should crumble and this time never bother to pick up the pieces.

Nothing would undo what he had taken part in doing tonight. But if he played his cards right, if he played smart, then maybe he could fix it. Maybe there was still a way that he could be redeemed.

End Notes: this story is turning into a real favorite of mine. Please share your thoughts. I've got such plans for these characters ;)