When Gretchen Morgan first stepped inside the oval office, Sara thought again that it was obvious, why Paul would not like her. Miss Morgan, in her black suit, and every inch of surface perfectly under control, was the incarnation of power – maybe not political power, the sort that gets voted for, but a more primal power, whose deep voice speaks to your blood and bones. Precisely the sort of power Kellerman incarnated to Sara's mind.

Because of her own limited military background, and the personal hatred with which Sara viewed the post 9/11 measures such as the infamous Patriot Act, she had known from the start that her relations with the C.I.A. would be strained at best.

And it had struck her, immediately, as she took one look at Gretchen Morgan, that this was not the sort of woman she wanted as an enemy.

More than enough evidence suggested Morgan would be good at her job. Firsthand experience with the last government might come in handy to Sara, and it wasn't as though she would rather work with those who had shown partisan support to their president even in his worst moments of racist zeal.

Gretchen Morgan, at least, and as was proper to her mystery-laden function, had been silent and invisible for most of Trump's tenure. But her professional achievements, or so Sara had read, were remarkable. Diplomacy and force lived inside that confident face like two sides of a same coin, and Sara trusted she would know to show the right side at the right moment.

Straight blue eyes met hers with the flash of a polite smile as both women shook hands.

"Miss Morgan."

"Madam President."

Gretchen was the first person to sit in the chair opposite Sara's office, and made it look her own.

Sara found it best to be to the point. "I think it's clear from our last conversation and from the campaign I ran last year why I would want to speak with you early on."

Gretchen shrugged, a clever play of innocence yet sagacity. Most definitely. Sara did not want this woman working with the opposition, or in any other team than hers.

"Well, your Secretary of State just walked out of here." She seemed to think it was a decent clue. "I'd say before you can focus on domestic issues, you'd like to get a few things straight in terms of foreign policy. You think it's important that people know it matters to you."

Sara considered this, decided she didn't really like for this person to state out loud what she was thinking. But working relationships are like marriage – a series of compromises and threadbare grins.

"What I'm doing is straightforwardly turning my back on my predecessor's policies." Sara said. "That's not what I'd recommend for a serene government, unfortunately some presidencies leave you no choice other than a complete U-turn."

"The bombing, in Syria. You want an end to it."

"For starters. But we can talk about the means of this next week," Sara had scheduled a meeting with her national security team, and she would like them all onboard for this. "What I wanted to say is we're going to break from the last government not just in terms of policy but also in terms of image. The message we want to spread abroad, in this early start, is reassurance."

"Right," Gretchen said. "That you're not that idiot with his finger on the nuclear button."

That Morgan would refer to their last president as an idiot in front of her was startling in its forwardness – and it made Sara a little cautious. Honesty was fine, but flattery – if this was implicit in her debasing number 45 – was not.

"That's the message national leaders will care most about, yes. But other people, such people who are thinking of seeking asylum in this country, must also get the change. That I'm not going to lock anybody up in cages at our frontiers. Those people drowning at the gates of Europe might be one of this young century's worst tragedy. It's time America becomes the land it's been advertising itself as since the birth of the country."

"A land of open immigration."

"I get that, as the person most concerned with terrorism, this would sound like a risk to you. It won't be. I've got a team of wonderful people working on this." Sara didn't add, including you. Wanted to show her that flattery, or patting each other on the back, was a waste of breath and time. "But like I said. We can work on how to make this into policy next week."

Gretchen smiled.

A tremor of discomfort travelled down Sara's back, and it took effort for her to remain still and visibly at ease.

"So, you wanted to talk about the image of your new foreign policy."

"I wanted to have a chance to make it clear to you that the C.I.A.'s actions during my term will reflect that image. And I do mean even its most private actions. I don't know how much leeway your agency got under different presidents – really, I don't care. But I said in this campaign that I'd run a transparent government, and I'm determined to keep that promise."

"To a certain extent."

Sara didn't contradict this. "I don't suspect it's all too clear to anyone but your agency how well you respected Obama's ban on torture during Trump's organization – or even Obama's."

"We call it enhanced interrogation," Gretchen said.

Sara raised both brows. Transparency's good for the campaign, not so much for your face. How many times had Paul told her that?

"I'll call it what it is if you don't mind."

"Not to the press, I should hope. Everyone knows the C.I.A. used those methods back in '01, but if you don't want it on the frontpage of every newspaper –" The white grin on her wide lips had something special to it, something that made Sara's gut tighten. There was a French word for that smile. Carnassier. "Well. The press has being going through a rough time. They're hungry for attention. Material for 0juicy headlines will only make them hungrier."

"I'm not especially concerned about the press right now." Sara said. "What I want is your pledge that such measures won't be used in my government. I know I'm going to have to rely on you," she said – reliance was not the same as trust – "but I will make sure that you keep to your word. Terrorism today is a real threat, but it's also a witch hunt. The way we behave in those has a lot to do with how we make history. So long as I can help it, there'll be no camps, untried executions, or torture, in the part I get to write."

"Of course, Madam President." But there was still that disquieting smile on her lips. More disquieting was the earnest way in which she added, "We understand each other completely."

Sara's first night inside the White House was by no means so calm.

Deep breaths, she thought, inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth, and just relax. Relax. She would not be the first president to burst out of the Master Bedroom having a panic attack.

"Donald Trump has slept in here," she said. "I'm sleeping in the same bed as Donald Trump."

The cream-colored bedroom received her statement without comment. The oval had been different, with its aura of power – but this was plain weird, lying down inside sheets that had hosted the most powerful men in the country. To have her bare skin touch those sheets was ridiculous, and Sara wished she could have kept her home, could have ruled the country from Illinois.

The hours strolled by. One a.m. gave way to four in what seemed the blink of an eye.

"How does one sleep in a room like this?"

Sara wondered if it happened to all presidents, some rite of passage. For hours, she remained fixated on the minute details of the crystal chandelier, so elegant and delicate, befitting an ice palace.

I hate it, she thought after a while.

When the black of night had broken into the earliest shades of dawn, outside the window, Sara got on her feet, slid inside the night robe she'd left hanging on one of the armchairs near the coffee table at the center of the room.

Then she started pacing. The feel of the carpet beneath her toes glowed as unreal as flying fairies in her mind.

"Barefoot," she said. "In the White House."

Sara grabbed her cell phone on the bedside table and fought the urge burning on her fingertips.

Just call Paul, she told herself. It's past noon in Europe.

But she did not want Paul, however apt he might be to make her feel better, however how flattered he would be that she should call him, from the Master Bedroom in the White House. Oh, he would crack a laugh if she told him a bit about the absurd thoughts that had crossed her mind tonight –

Like, what sort of pajamas did Abraham Lincoln wear? How many of them woke up during the night for a secret snack or a bathroom call?

It was best she didn't call Paul, except for work, anyway. It would mean too much to him and too little to her – to get him inside this surreal bedroom by proxy.

But calling Paul felt like the easiest way to stop herself from doing something stupid.

"Really stupid," she said.

Again, the majestic bedroom gave no answer, and Sara started dialing Michael's number.

End Notes: Sorry I was a bit long in updating. I'm so eager to know your thoughts on this. Lately I watched a Sarah Wayne Callies interview where she talked about refugees, so I thought it'd be nice to have it fit in this story. Please keep sharing your wonderful ideas!