There was a lot of tension gathering at the White House, around the time when the midterms took place. Sara was so afraid for her majority, it was hard to really concentrate on anything else. By some stroke of bad luck, she wasn't even in the country when the results came out.
It was Gretchen who called her. As those at the White House called her, the new Kellerman. It wasn't so wrong in the sense that she had become one of the people Sara trusted most in her administration.
Sara had just left a meeting with the French president, during which they had had an unpleasant conversation about how he treated his people – namely his immigrants, and his peaceful protesters. Sara wouldn't have left her country for the world right now, but a particular incident – the death of a sixteen-year-old who had caught a Flash-Ball bullet straight in the eye – had made it essential the United States restate that they valued human rights, and any country that still wanted to call itself their ally should rise to the same standards.
Sara was just about to get into Air Force One, her bodyguards a tight escort around her, when her cell phone rang.
Her caller ID told her it was Gretchen Morgan calling, and she didn't need to ask what this was about.
"One second," she told her guards before she stepped on the platform. "Morgan," she said, "give me the numbers."
"They're good numbers."
Sara allowed herself a small breath of relief, before she realized the tension in Gretchen's voice. Something wasn't right.
"You've kept the majority. You've gained a few seats, but nothing to make you too comfortable. Ten more seats in the House, three in the Senate."
"Then what's wrong? There's something you're not telling me."
Sara first thought it must be something abroad. Gretchen had been meeting with the Russian president this morning, and maybe that had not gone as smoothly as planned.
"It's, uh – Bagwell's party, madam president."
Sara remained silent for a moment.
The campaign that Theodore Bagwell and his 'Knights' had launched in the previous months wasn't lost on Sara. And, deep down, every time she heard his voice on television, heard him endorse the sickest, most abject views that had been making American politics so rotten in the past few years, she still got that tingle of fear shivering through her. And however hard her advisors kept drilling in that timeless truth about bipartite politics being immovable grounds in the country, it couldn't stop Sara feeling as though she and America hadn't seen the last of Theodore Bagwell yet in politics.
"They've gained seats," Sara said, and realized when she heard the absence of shock in her voice that she wasn't surprised. "The Knights."
"Yes."
Sara imagined the conversations she would be having with her advisors, as soon as she got back on U.S. soil. How Kellerman would rage that it was impossible. Only the two main parties could hope to gain senators and representatives at state level, let alone Congress.
What was happening to the country?
It could only mean that Republicans and Democrats weren't the main parties in the same absolute way as they had been for hundreds of years.
And hadn't she seen it coming?
Wasn't this bound to happen, when the noble party of Republicanism seemed to disappear under a mountain of lies and hatred and fear, when extremism took over – what else could happen, really? The remaining Republicans who rejected the change couldn't keep on voting Democrat forever. They must regain their party at some point and, as a result, the extremists must find new outlets for expression, and new means of power.
"How many?" Sara asked.
"Two senators. Four representatives."
Sara refused to sigh this off and act like this was nothing.
Change could happen like this; first, only small hints, and you would be a fool to think that an avalanche wasn't coming, just because it started off with a few wreaths of snow crumbling in.
Sara had no idea where to take this. Her bodyguards were waiting, and there was no plan to set in motion; officially, no one in her administration had prepared for this.
"How do you feel about this?" Sara asked.
Sometimes, it was her advisors' reactions that helped her know her own. Sara's feelings were buried so deep under the mass of work to be done as commander in chief, it was quicker to rely on others' before she could dig hers out.
"For the Republicans, I'm glad," Gretchen said. "We deserve better than to be associated with the nonsense that everyone will remember us for in 2016. But for our electorate, for the world –" She heard her take a small intake of air. It was always what she did to hold back from sighing. "It's bad. Who knows what the next elections will hold? In two years' time, we may not know this country. You may be running against not one serious candidate, but two. It's bad, madam president."
…
"It's good," Kellerman told her, the first minute she had him sit in her office, him on the couch, herself behind her desk. Almost as if he had been secretly listening to her conversation with Gretchen Morgan and wanted to contradict her.
Sara was too tired to hold back from glaring daggers at him.
"Did I see it coming? No," he played the humility card to pacify her. "Such a stroke of good luck, even I wasn't enough of an optimist to consider."
"You, an optimist?"
"Oh, rather," he stretched his hands like a pillow behind his head.
"Let's not play games, Paul," Sara said.
She could see the smile at the corners of his mouth, and she didn't like it, didn't like how it stayed there, watching her like another pair of eyes.
"Come on," he said, "you're a strategist. Have you thought this through? The Republicans' electorate will be split, at every election. I only hope they carry this out all the way to the presidential race. You have two candidates against you, the right-wing voters don't know where to turn, while your electorate remains intact."
"For how long?" Sara asked.
Anger was boiling beneath the surface of her collected tone. She wanted Kellerman to acknowledge the dangers behind this. They had played blind for too long.
"I'm rather a radical myself on the political spectrum," she said. "How long until someone decides to lead the Democrats back to more moderate grounds?"
Kellerman scoffed. "What someone? There's no strong figure outside your administration, no criticizer popular enough to claim even one of your voters."
"Maybe someone inside my administration," she said. "Someone like you."
That did take the smile off his face.
For an instant, fire flickered in his blue eyes. "How dare you?"
Sara was happy for the outrage in his voice. She needed to know what to expect from Kellerman, who she had made a friend because he was far too dangerous a man to be made an enemy. But friends can turn traitors, and become all the more dangerous for it.
He got up from his seat.
"I'll get the White House, Sara," he said.
It was strange to hear him call her that; it brought her back years and years into the past, when they had first met, when she had first won him over.
"One day," he said. "I have time. Do you think me so impatient, so volatile, that I won't be able to wait another four years to place my bets? You're my president. I thought you knew how much I respected that."
His own anger soothed hers, and for a moment, she wanted to take his hand, to acknowledge their friendship with something real, something the both of them could feel.
But he was too slippery.
Yes, she believed him a friend, she decided, and he was loyal to her, maybe more than anyone in this house. But there was something up his sleeve. Always, some unspoken motive.
She studied his eyes, trying to read the silent desires that might be brewing.
Was it possible he wanted to return to the White House, six years from now, himself as president, with her as his first lady?
The thought was so abrupt, Sara sank deeper into her seat.
"I do," she said. Still trying to appraise him. "And you're a patient man, Paul. I know that. You can wait a long time for what you want."
What do you want?
The words burned between them, silent, but she could see he had felt them as well.
"I'm glad you appreciate that," he said. "And I stand by what I said. This is a good thing for you. The Knights are an abomination, but as far as you're concerned, they're a gift from god. Now, you're sure to get a second term, and you won't even have to fight for it as hard as you did in the first race."
Sara tilted her head. "Unless there are more surprises ahead."
…
Michael got home late, that day, but read about the results of the midterms on his phone. Astonishing. Then Bagwell hadn't said his last word after all.
It was ten minutes to midnight.
Michael had been working hard on a case with the lawyer he was currently assisting – 'assisting' was such a vague, convenient word. Though Michael wasn't a lawyer yet, he had already won an impressive number of cases, although the credit officially went to the lawyers who'd had their work chewed out for them.
That was the whole point.
Victims could get justice through legal means, and Michael himself could hold on to anonymity for a while longer.
But as he was soon to find out, that wasn't working out so well as he'd expected.
It had been nearly a year now that Michael had moved to Washington, when he'd started his little 'lawyer assistant' business. And apparently, he'd gotten more recognition than he expected.
The news came from Lincoln, who called him just as he was climbing up the staircase to his apartment. He took the call in the hall, hoping not to wake Nika.
"How's Gotham doing?" Lincoln asked.
"What?" Michael honestly thought he had heard him wrong. His mind was too deep into work for him to get humor at the moment.
"Don't play innocent," Lincoln said. "I hold it from a very reliable source that you, little brother, are becoming quite the celebrity in the lawyer sphere."
Michael laughed, not quite taking this seriously yet. "Am I? So," he said, "you've been seeing Veronica, have you?"
"What, she's the only lawyer I know?"
"Uh – yeah."
"Anyway," Lincoln said. "You're getting attention."
"That's not really what I was hoping for."
"No, no. In a good way."
"All attention is bad right now. I'm going for discretion."
"Well, it's not what you're getting. Vee talks about you like you're a legend, Mike. Seriously. You're the Batman of lawyers. A vigilante who acts from the shadows."
"Hilarious."
"I'm not trying to be funny."
There was a short pause.
"I haven't told her you're my brother," Lincoln said. Michael could hear he'd regained seriousness. "I thought you might want to keep all information about you to yourself."
"That's – thoughtful."
But Michael wondered. Was that really the reason, or was it that, even if two years had gone by, Lincoln still couldn't bear to call himself Michael's brother after his betrayal?
"Is it hard?" Michael asked.
"Hearing Veronica talk about you like she's a girl with a crush? It's not wonderful."
"No, I meant – I don't know," he shook his head. "Never mind. Listen, I've got to go."
"Don't tell me you're sleepy. It's not even midnight."
It wasn't rare for Lincoln to call him around that time, usually just when he'd finished his shift at the restaurant.
"No, but I'd like to get some reading done tonight."
"Uh. Another case?"
"Just studying. I'm still taking these online classes, remember?"
"Being the Batman of lawyers not enough for you?"
"I can't work from the shadows forever. Take care, Lincoln."
Michael hung up and shoved his cell phone back in his pocket. To his surprise, as he entered the apartment, he found the lights switched on in the living room area he shared with Nika.
A moment later, she emerged from the sofa, wearing a black silk robe over a pajama top.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't know you were up, or I would have knocked."
"It's okay."
There was something a little off about her. An air of waiting.
It wasn't unusual for him to run into her when he came home from work. At first, she was guarded around him, mindful to treat him as a temporary intruder who would soon move on to more suitable lodgings. But Michael liked the place – rather, it grew on him. After a while, when Nika stopped seeing him as a potential threat she needed to endure for the extra cash every week, he even started enjoying sharing an apartment. Last year, he had been too much alone, in his own thoughts. It was dangerous for his mental health.
He wouldn't have thought how relieving it would be to have someone to have to act normal around inside the apartment.
"Well," Michael said, "since you're up, do you want coffee? I'm going to get some."
"Busy night ahead?"
Again, Michael sensed the difference in her tone but couldn't quite place it.
"Yes."
She met him in the kitchen just as he was coming out with two smoldering mugs. She took her coffee as he did, black, unsweetened.
"Let me help."
She took one mug from him and sat down on the couch, putting her coffee on the table. Michael stood there for a half second, considering. He had planned to drink his in his bedroom while he studied, but now, it would seem rude to.
Nika didn't usually mind him keeping to himself.
She called him the most quiet roommate she ever had.
"Is, uh –" He asked, as he sat next to her. "Is everything all right?"
She shrugged, her beautiful head of caramel curls lolling to one side. "Tell me about you," she said. "Your day."
It was such an unexpected request, Michael froze for a moment. He thought of humoring her, but that didn't seem like the right way to find out what was really going on. Until then, they had always had the decency to be straightforward with each other.
"What do you want to know?"
"Don't you like to talk about yourself?"
"By now, I thought you'd know me better than that."
"You'd be surprised, Michael," she said. "You're a difficult man to know."
She was looking fixedly at her mug of coffee, yet Michael guessed she never had the intention of drinking it. He put down his own mug next to hers and said, "Look, Nika, if you need help or anything –"
But before he could finish, her hands were on his face and she pressed the lightest, gentlest kiss to his lips.
Surprise made Michael too numb to react immediately.
In all the time he had spent with Nika, there'd never been a hint that this was what she wanted. Or had he been too self-absorbed to notice?
Had he thought it so obvious that he was taken that he had neglected that, from the outside, he might look like a perfectly lonely man, available, because his devotion to Sara had never taken the shape of a ring?
The thoughts teemed in Michael's mind, blinding, and Nika's kiss became slightly bolder. The smell of her hair was a rich vanilla lotion, he had never been close enough to identify it as the sweet aroma that filled the shared areas in the apartment.
Michael closed his eyes, and for a second, he saw Sara's face, felt the softness of her red hair he would gently move away from her shoulder before he kissed it.
The vision burst like a soap bubble when he broke away, and Nika's face was into full view.
"I'm sorry," he said. "There's been a misunderstanding."
She laughed at his effort not to offend her, how he didn't say it outright, You misunderstood.
"There has," she said. "I thought you would want this."
Michael felt deeply uncomfortable, as if she had dropped a fragile object into his lap. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have misled you."
"That's not it."
He noticed her feelings didn't look bruised in the least, but he was too ashamed to feel cheered by it.
"I'm sure I've been obtuse," he said.
"You haven't. Nothing has led up to this." She looked silently into his face for a moment, until the air had cleared a little, and they were almost back to facing each other normally, one complicated roommate to another. "Michael, I need to get married."
He blinked in surprise.
"I mean, if I want to stay in this country. I'm getting into trouble with the authorities. It needs to be fast. I can't go back."
"You mean – you need a Green Card."
"Yes."
Michael sighed, relieved. "You could have just told me."
She shrugged. "I thought you would take it better like this. Men usually do."
"What," he said, "I'm not the first guy you asked to marry you?"
She laughed. "I mean, it makes it easier to ask a lot of things. I'm glad we can just talk."
"I want to help you," Michael said. He tried to think, and realized how his thoughts felt like a tangled knot of black cobwebs. He had a sip of coffee, first. Already, the textbook on law he'd planned on perusing tonight was buried deep out of reach.
"It's easy for you," Nika said. "You're single, no? And we've been living together for almost a year, so it won't even look like a fake marriage. They look into such things."
"Nika –"
"I know it's a huge favor."
"It's not that. I understand immigration policy in this country is harsh, and I don't want you to face deportation. But I'm in love with somebody else."
There was no sign on Nika's face that he had volunteered any harmful information, so he went on, "I can't be with her, but I don't want to ruin the chance to think I might be."
"It only has to last two years," Nika said.
"Yes, but –"
Michael interrupted himself. What could he say? That if he was ever to become a public figure, then he couldn't afford to add a marriage in name only to his record? How could he still be nursing that old dream?
He hadn't seen or spoken to Sara in almost a year. As far as he knew, she had no intention of starting an official relationship with him, and he would make an unsuitable first husband, whether or not he had been married to Nika before.
It wasn't as if he had only made decisions in the past two years based on a fantasy so ridiculous, he had never even acknowledged it to himself. After all, hadn't he committed criminal acts? Hacked into private data, stolen information about rotten politicians, in some deluded hope that he might contribute to the momentous struggle which the love of his life was leading head-on?
Even the fame he was currently gaining with his legal work, his 'dark vigilante' reputation, was still more ruining any chance he might have had as a public figure.
Men who are compared to Batman just don't become husband to the president.
And all of this was only crumbs compared to the chief reason that made his hopes ludicrous.
Sara didn't want him in the White House. She had never wanted him there with her, had never asked.
Nika appraised him, her face back to an honest, no-bullshit look.
"Will you do it or not?" She said.
Michael tried to think.
For a moment, he wondered how the night had spiraled so out of control, so different from how he had first planned to spend it.
How would this fit into his Guinevere and Lancelot vision? When was it a knight had to marry another woman to do the chivalrous thing?
But then again, he would be very selfish to refuse Nika when it was her life on the line, all so that he could keep a fantasy alive, one that at its strongest was only ever barely breathing.
…
AN: As I'm going to be moving to a new country next Saturday, I'll expect I might be busy enough to get a little behind in my updates. Please be patient and let me know what you've thought of this chapter in the comment section. Take care!
