First Son Sequel: Capitol Voice (1/7)
Title: Capitol Voice (1/7)
Pairings: Patrick/Pete, Ryan/Brendon, William/Gabe, Secret Pairings I shall name in future chapters, haha!
Summary: Sequel to First Son. It takes off just when the boys arrive in Washington for their gap year before entering college. The Way twins finally film their reality show, Panic launches themselves as the country's best new band at no place other than Lafayette Park while a hundred other events threaten to choke Patrick into going into hiding. Would an unexpected threat to his relationship with Pete and the entrance of an unlikely girl in his life drag Patrick into the chaos that he was all too accustomed to having?
A/N: Finally. Finished writing it out and now in the process of encoding it all. I'm not exaggerating by saying this is more absurd (yet more entertaining) than the first so I hope you guys stick by it as you did with First Son. ♥ you all. p.s. Cookies to whoever notices the change in my writing. :D
First chapter dedicated to fidelian because she had the great sense to prod me with aptly-timed emails to finish the damn thing, haha! :)
“I am not sleeping in this room.”
Patrick Stump isn’t a high-maintenance type of person. He is just a tad particular when it comes to important things, like college, his drum set, and his bedroom’s wallpaper. Having said wallpaper bastardized to something pink and floral is most probably the best way to get Patrick’s attention or to be precise, his deep and passionate fury.
“But ‘Trick, just think of all the memories we had here!” A Pete Wentz is often incorrect due to his habitual exaggeration. By Patrick’s memory, they have spent only one memory in this room and it was definitely unforgettable, but not in the way Pete proclaims it to be.
“Pete, just-no.”
This Pete Wentz means a lot to Patrick Stump, yes, but this is still drastically beyond the boundaries of human love and promises of forever. Patrick is seventeen and at that age, forever means four months; five, if the significant other has bodyguards that could contort your limbs to angles you dare not imagine.
“Patrick, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. It’s just a stupid portrait!” Pete stands up from the antique end table he’s been sitting on for the entirety of the argument and sweeps a hand in the direction of said work of art. The noon sun casts an eerie shadow by the fireplace and provides just the right lighting to support Patrick’s theory that he had seen this exact bedroom in an Alfred Hitchcock movie once.
Patrick sinks down on the familiar green and yellow bedding before he shuts his eyes tight and leans his head against the bedpost with a soft thud. He and Pete have been arguing ever since they boarded the plane to Washington, from the topic of limited peanut flavors that the airline offered to the decision of whether to take the ‘long route’ home. It’s a habit, Patrick thinks, and he’s pretty sure that it won’t have one of those neat patches that you can slap on your skin to make it go away.
“You seriously expect me to believe that Spencer agreed to room with me here?” Patrick thinks this different approach might work since Pete wasn’t budging with the use of the Pity Patrick plot.
Pete walks over to the other side of the bed and exaggeratingly flops down face-first, with his arms extended in a spread eagle fashion.
“’is pink,” Pete mumbles out from under the sheets that threaten to swallow you up with its size, “Spencer’ll even jump to prison if the uniforms were pink.”
Patrick lets out a defeated sigh and collapses down with his back halfway across Pete’s outstretched arms. He scrunches up his mouth in an odd gesture that had become his habit whenever he needed to think about various back-up plans to the insane schemes Pete always volunteered to involve himself in.
“Well, this room’s definitely too fancy for just me and Spence. I thought only princesses and vampires were allowed to stay here.” Pete groans in frustration at Patrick’s latest excuse.
“You’re the official youth sex-toy or something, I forgot to ask father for your proper title,” Pete pulls his hands from under Patrick’s back and uses them to haul himself up to rest his chin on Patrick’s chest.
“I’m not-” Patrick sputters incompletely, both Pete’s words and actions stopping his current train of thought. Pete turns to face Patrick without lifting his jaw from the warm t-shirt clad body that he was resting it on. Patrick could literally feel the atmosphere changing even though his gaze was fixed firmly on the ceiling of the four-poster.
“Or maybe you’re just making excuses to get another roommate,” Pete hummed out, his voice sending actual trembles up the boy’s spine. Patrick rolls his eyes and raps the side of Pete’s head. He doesn’t deny it however, and the unsaid affirmation was enough for the both of them.
“Hey, ‘Trick,” Pete calls out from somewhere below Patrick’s line of sight. The younger boy props his back up with his elbows to see Pete lying with his head on top of Patrick’s legs, “I hope you remember what I told you about that.”
It was true, the topic of Pete harmlessly sharing a room with Patrick was apparently a sensitive issue with the elder Peter Wentz and the two had reluctantly agreed to stay apart to avoid further conflict.
“I know,” Patrick whispers as he pushes Pete off with a gentle shove so he could sit upright, “maybe I’m just bitter, I guess.” Patrick chuckles softly at the idea of him being a sulky, old man, hobbling as he chases away puppies with a rusty walking stick.
Pete scrambles to attach himself to Patrick’s side and leans his head on a soft shoulder.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure a few stupid hours of sleep for you and bizarre fantasizing for me wouldn’t hurt us that much,” Pete whispered playfully into the spot where Patrick’s hat at the tip of his ear met, “and I’m sure we could think of a hundred different ways to make up for it.”
Patrick lowered his head to hide the tiny smirk as he shakes his head at Pete’s consistent optimism. He turns just the slightest and he could see the edge of Pete’s nose and that insufferable pout that brings ruin to Patrick’s life.
“Don’t believe you,” Patrick states quite bluntly, the lilt in his voice contradicting the words he has chosen.
“I’ll prove it then,” Pete grins as he leans in to kiss the corner of Patrick’s mouth. Patrick made to catch it while he places one of his hands on Pete’s arm, the both of them taking turns grinning and nipping at each other’s lips.
A sharp rap on the door makes Patrick shove Pete back in reflex. The last thing he wanted was for someone to take pictures of him making out with the President’s son; he definitely wasn’t trained by the Boy Scouts on the proper way to handle being the front-runner of Team Gay Pics.
Pete recovers from the literal brush off with a quick glare and an equally fast dash to the door before anyone decides to barge in. He stays there for a few seconds before he walks back to Patrick, his look clearly a canvas that read ‘someone’s going to get fired’.
“Are you-” Patrick begins, a wary look creasing his forehead in confusion.
“Father needs me; says I shouldn’t ask any questions,” Pete grumbles bitterly, leaning his back on the post across Patrick.
“Oh-umm-alright then,” Patrick knows better than to try to get things to go his way when Pete’s father was concerned. He picks at a random strand of linen somewhere within his reach and does his best to give Pete a genuine smile of understanding.
“I’ll be seeing you later, alright? The press will be coming after dinner to do promotions for Panic’s launch and the Ways’ TV crew is seriously making the most of their fucking boundaries so keep an eye out,” Pete lightly presses his lips on Patrick’s forehead before he jogs to the door. With one last apologetic look, he exits to join the Secret Service agent who was waiting patiently for him by the doorway.
The door clicks softly shut and Patrick has to bite back an urge to bang his head on the rather sturdy post in front of him. He gets up to walk over to the window, massaging the nape of his neck in a lazy manner. Patrick feels the familiar vibration in his pocket signaling someone’s need to either prod him to do them a favor or just mindlessly shower him with useless rambles, the latter applying mostly to Pete than to anybody else.
‘Kennedy garden. go. NOW.’
One would know if Spencer tried to text them, it usually contains sure bluntness, a lack of unnecessary descriptions and the occasional direct order. This time, Patrick welcomes it and decides to go join the affable young boy for his required sunbathing out on the lawn.
*
The sight of a sunbathing Spencer isn’t one that is rarely seen but Patrick credits his surprise to the addition of a handful of security guards prowling about along the sidewalk. Spencer’s plastic reclining chair is set up at the middle of the neat lawn and he gives no sign that he sees Patrick jumping over some low hedges in an effort to reach him.
“Move. Shadow,” Spencer mutters underneath his enormous aviators, hardly moving anything but his lips. Patrick flops down on the spot beside him and props his hands back to lean on them.
It’s one of those perfect days of May, where the grass doesn’t scorch your skin through all the layers of clothing one wears and there isn’t enough humidity to increase Spencer’s bitch quota to above the human limit. Others would find it quite amusing if they happen to pass by the unusual pair in the Jackie Kennedy garden; one sits more than half-naked while the other contentedly stays bundled up in clothes that are in no way considered summer attire.
“If I were you,” Spencer drawls, his head inclining just the slightest in Patrick’s direction, “I’d be snoring my lungs out because you are definitely not going to have the time to even flip your underwear inside-out after tonight.”
Patrick groans exaggeratingly, dropping his hands so he could lie flat on the lawn. He takes off his glasses and shoves the palms of his hands over his eyes.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to yell out our schedule again-”
“Why the fuck not?” Spencer sits up to prove his point, “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with everyone-Brendon and Ran out shopping, Gabe and Bill off on some ‘meet the spawn’ family reunion and the Ways, I will not even attempt to figure out where the fuck they are or what their altered state of reality is telling them to do-but we are fucking swamped! The Panic launch at Lafayette Park tomorrow night, Pete’s birthday in a few weeks, I don’t even know when the twins think they’ll have enough footage of Brendon’s fucking head but their show’s coming out soon too and I still. Don’t. Have. A. Decent. Wardrobe!”
Spencer’s shades threaten to topple off after every other word of his fanatical raving, his hands gripping the sides of his chair to prevent himself from falling off in his state of despair.
Patrick rolls over to lie on his stomach and prop his chin on his arms. He blows on some random tufts of grass, waiting for Spencer to come down from his flight of fashion anxiety. Hearing the usually reserved boy drop the f-bomb more than twice in just one breath is more than enough to tell Patrick that a few seconds to calm down is necessary for his safety.
“I know all that Spence,” Patrick mumbles from under his arms, “’s why I’m always spending my free time with you guys while I-” Spencer guffaws uncharacteristically, cutting Patrick off with a boorish laugh.
“You just arrived a few hours ago. We’ve been here for days. Ever since you got here,” Spencer resumes his leisurely one-on-one staring contest with the sun’s rays after the refreshing laugh, “you’ve been attached to Pete’s neck and I’m sure that you’d forget that dear, young, Spencer actually existed if I didn’t remind you.”
Patrick is glad that he perfectly manicured lawn offers an effective camouflage. He is partly sure that Spencer cannot see him from his current spot but he tips the rim of his hat just to be sure.
The pink hue of his cheeks stands out strikingly against the subtle green of the garden. He doesn’t stand up for himself, mainly because Patrick knows that he would be lying if he did. He had been stuck to Pete’s side ever since he arrived but that was all done now, Patrick knew that the older boy had a busy schedule whenever he was at home and he could easily pretend to be patient and understanding for him.
Spirited and lively voices snap Patrick from his musings and he looks up from his hiding place to see Gerard and Mikey walking over to their spot. A single cameraman follows them while the two chatter animatedly over something that requires the both of them to gesticulate wildly in all directions, often bumping into each other in the process.
The twins stop right in front of them, Patrick offering a small smile and nod when they wave in greeting and introduce him to the camera.
“You’re blocking my sunlight,” Spencer growls out at Mikey, lowering his shades an inch to give his best glare. The younger of the twins takes a big step to the side and makes a shushing gesture towards the camera. He then points at Spencer’s still snarling form and says something that sounds a lot like ‘crankypants’ for everyone to hear.
“How’d you swing this, Gee?” Patrick tips his hat up so he could see Gerard properly. The eyeliner aficionado bounces on the heels of his feet and crouches down so he could talk to Patrick away from the large microphone that Spencer was trying to kick away with his foot.
“The network had to talk to the devil to make this work, I was told,” Gerard states as calmly as one would describe the current episode of everyone’s favorite teen soap opera.
“Wait, do you mean they sold their souls and stuff?” Patrick chuckles while he scratches an itchy area of his nape. Patrick hates mosquitoes, especially those that mock you by biting a place where you can’t easily reach.
“Well, I don’t think the vending of human spirits weren’t involved but,” Gerard peers to his left and right before crouching even lower to whisper quite loudly in Patrick’s ear, “I rented mine out to one of my woodland acquaintances so I had none to offer them at the time.”
Patrick thinks he deserves an award for being able to nod in sincere comprehension at Gerard’s every word. He tilts his head before commenting on one part of the conversation that he just realized.
“I don’t think the president would appreciate being compared to a demon, Gerard,” Patrick says half-seriously. Patrick’s fear of the man is still in full sway and the paranoia that there are a million devices that record his every action in the White House isn’t lessening an inch.
“Oh no, no, no, I believe the president’s quite safe when it comes to possessions by malevolent sprits,” Gerard shakes his head firmly, his long hair bouncing lightly with each turn, “but that sixth cat of their aunt’s…”
Patrick grins and rests his head on his arms as he listens to the rest of Gerard’s theories on why a possession of the feline kind should be feared upon the most. This is what vacation should feel like, he muses, despite a small voice in his head snickering over the certainty that things wouldn’t stay as peaceful as it currently was.
*
The President of the United States wasn’t a smart man.
Patrick comes to this conclusion roughly ten minutes into their first-and most likely last-dinner with the whole group. Governance of any kind isn’t involved in Patrick’s observation, he thinks the man is actually quite capable in that department, but he still firmly believes that he needs a solid workshop seminar called Tact 101: The Basics on How to Avoid Being Mentally Stabbed with Flaming Spears.
At the head of the table sits Pete’s father and his wife and son flank him in each side. Patrick sits beside Mrs. Wentz-‘I prefer Dale’ as she tells the rest of the room-and Spencer and Brendon follow him. The twins plus Ryan are next to Pete and the atmosphere at the table couldn’t be any more uncomfortable.
Everyone is subject to the elder Peter’s scrutiny, from Brendon’s staggering differences with his own father to his wife’s choice of blazers for the evening. Patrick braces himself when each member of the table is done with the obligatory belittling but his feeling of dread is quickly replaced with that of confusion when nothing reaches him. Not one comment, not even one concerning his lack of appropriate social skills or taste in hats, and Patrick is baffled.
After a few minutes, the president looks up from his meal and glances at Patrick. The younger boy thinks that it is the time for his turn on the human roast and unconsciously gulps down the piece of asparagus that he didn’t have the time to chew properly. Patrick is forced to cough out the discomfort in his throat as his brain clocks in at an alarming rate with all the proper answers he prepares himself to give once they reach the question and answer portion.
“Patrick, you’ll be joining me later.”
Unnerving silence envelopes the table as the indirect order sinks in. No other words are added and the reserved leader of the country continues to eat his meal as if he hasn’t dropped a pound of mass confusion on Patrick’s already addled thoughts.
“Where-” Pete begins as soon as he finishes chewing on his choice of filet mignon for the night.
“A children’s daycare center that focuses on musical talent has been opened and we-” Pete’s father gestures towards Patrick and himself with his fork, “-have been invited to grace the inauguration.”
He faces Patrick once again, a firm glint in his eye, “I trust that you shall take this responsibility with full attention and focus, am I correct?”
Patrick automatically nods his confirmation, his hat in danger of toppling off with the vigor of his acceptance.
“Very well,” the one called the most powerful man of the modern world is actually quite meek, when one bases it on appearance alone. But the way he commands the room with his air of authority quickly proves everyone otherwise, “You have also been entrusted with the position as an official counselor and the task of giving regular lessons comes with it. I was informed that there are plans for a recital but that will come in a few months, I believe-”
Patrick cuts off all senses that occur outside the hasty thoughts that scrambled to rush first to what was left of his consciousness. The man who is speaking so eloquently that he is seen as from another world other than that of the crude, snappish one they were currently in is the lone figure in Patrick’s view as the others seem to blur from his vision.
Responsibility was nothing new to Patrick but the utter weight of all the tasks overwhelmed him in a split-second.
“Father,” Pete breaks the silence with an irritated rush of opinion, “I asked Patrick to go here on vacation, not one of your torture camps that you reserve for your childhood bullies.”
“Patrick, as you may know yet still fail to achieve,” Pete’s father unexpectedly points his fork in his son’s direction, eyes narrowing in distaste, “has more sense of duty to his country than the predilection to wasting time and resources.”
"It's called a gap year," "most people take it for rest, father. Rest. I'm sure one of your translators can look it up-"
“Young man, there is also something called proper decorum,” Pete’s father puts down his utensils to wipe off the small spot of sauce that fell on his knuckles, “if that school of yours is teaching you to disregard all consideration for it, I suggest you transfer-”
“To where?” Pete leans forward, his knife and fork shaking slightly with his tight grip, “to that exclusive boys’ school you went to during your fun-filled, homophobic, faggot-beating days?”
“You-”
“Now dear,” everyone’s gaze shot to Dale, the latest contender in the game of ping-pong happening at the dinner table, “Patrick’s right here. Why don’t you ask him which he would prefer?”
The president sighs yet faces Patrick again, an intense stare replacing the verbal request that was supposed to come. His eyes were a startling gray, very unlike the warm browns of his son. The color may have differed but the ability to convince people to channel the spirits of lemmings is positively intact. Patrick is surprised that he didn’t have the urge to jump out the window.
“I’m-I, uh-well, I love music,” this is the best that Patrick can come up with at such short notice and taking into account the gravity of all the expectations on his performance.
Peter Wentz beams, his grin unsurprisingly resembling that of his younger counterpart, equally charming and equally deadly when it comes to issues that deal with Patrick. It is an outstanding contrast to the expression that his son currently wears, a look of surprise and what seems to be a small twinge of disgust hastily hidden in a blink.
The assistant who faithfully sticks by the president’s side during all waking hours politely signals to him and the man nods just the slightest. He arranges all the clutter in front of him to look like just how Patrick sees them on those old-fashioned movies of the era of classic past and he smoothly rises from the table.
The president looks curiously at Patrick, like how one would look at a dissected frog that suddenly spasms with movement. His forehead creases just the slightest before he looks towards the doorway while readjusting his tie.
“We have commitments to meet, are you finished with your meal?” His cuffs are immaculate and the suit couldn’t look more expensive. Patrick remembers the documentaries of under-aged minorities from the Far East working in stuffy factories and wishes that not too many had to sacrifice their lunch hour for those skin-smooth trousers.
Patrick accidentally swallows the large portion of tuna that he is currently chewing as he nods a brisk affirmative. He doubts that the reality that he is semi-choking on raw fish would deter the man from making him get to that daycare center.
Pete sets down his knife with a loud bang on the table and everyone stops eating to continue the earlier staring match.
“Father, we need Patrick for the meeting with the press,” Pete grits his teeth as he enunciates every word succinctly. He is never this strained and Patrick fears that the fork he is holding might end up piercing something other than cooked meat.
The elder Wentz gives his son a fleeting look before waving a hand towards the exit, still exuding professionalism even with the brief gesture.
Everyone sitting in the table is relieved at being granted the permission to evacuate the room that was slowly choking all inhabitants with everything but food. Brendon in particular has to force himself to refrain from skipping out of the room in delight.
Pete waves a hand and signals for a still frozen and seated Patrick to run over to his part of the room. The baffled boy almost stumbles when he tries to push back his chair but he manages to cross the room without mangling another limb.
Patrick has only ever been to the Executive Residence part of the White House. He particularly adores the third floor, seeing as it contains the music room and the bedrooms of his other friends. The press conference is scheduled in the East Room, one of the numerous areas he hasn’t set his sight or feet into.
“What the fuck did you just get yourself into, Stump?” Pete pulls the flabbergasted boy’s arm into a vice-like grip, dragging him across the grand Entrance Hall next to the East Room where all the media men perch like vultures on a fence.
Patrick has seen this hall in countless photographs, most notably the one where John Travolta was seen to be dancing with Princess Diana during happier days. No one but himself knows why he remembers it quite clearly, firmly believing that his secret crush would remain between him and John until the day he lays in his grave.
“Me? I didn’t ask for this, Pete,” Patrick hisses into Pete’s ear as he tries to keep up with the boy hauling him into the already crowded room, “do you really think I’d want to spend my summer with a fifty year old version of you?”
Pete has to settle for giving Patrick a very stern glare instead of the hurt retort he usually mouths off because the horde of photographers start to let their flashes and zoom lenses loose. The room’s luxurious furniture was nowhere in sight as the whole room was filled from corner to corner with a chattering mass of people. Patrick can see some familiar faces, even convincing himself that his High School principal is somewhere beneath the sea of faces, probably trying to squeeze in a free endorsement of his school.
Gerard and Mikey stand quite casually in the middle of the room, both behind a sizable podium and trying to speak into a single microphone all at once. No one seems to catch what they’re saying for shouts of ‘Gerard, what brand of eyeliner do you use?’ and ‘Mikey, who sponsors your eyewear?’ could be clearly heard over the din of the rowdy reporters. It is also evident that the twins have no concept of answering interview questions due to the fact that they were currently talking about the one time during Kindergarten when they saw their future drawn on the dried-out cat excretions in their old sandbox.
“Pete, Patrick, over here!” Ryan calls out to them from the other side of the room, a little to the left of the babbling boys in front of the microphone. He looks highly stressed and the flashing lights don’t do well to his complexion, Patrick imagines a huge cloud of smoke rising over the back of the White House tomorrow morning when Ryan gets the chance to see all the photographs from this night.
They walk over to where he and Brendon stood, nervously walking around in small circles and wringing their hands to try to dispel the anxiety.
“I hope this does us good for the launch tomorrow,” Ryan whispers, drumming his fingers on the back of one of his hands.
Brendon stops burning a hole into the carpet to plaster a huge, fake grin to try to chase away the nervous air between their small group. He bounces in place before exhaling an uneven breath, one of his ‘sure-fire’ tactics at dispelling nausea.
“Are you kidding? We’re so going to be mobbed, Rossiekins,” he says in between hops, his hair bobbing up and down along with him.
“By who, your father’s assistants?” Ryan shoots back coldly more due to the usage of the ridiculous nickname. He visibly relaxes after this, however, and Patrick smiles to himself when he sees another reason why Brendon is the best thing to happen to Ryan ever since Anger Management class.
Spencer provides the dramatic entrance for himself as he swings open the doors just when the brothers let go of the mike and prepare for the pictorial. He sashays quite grandly towards the front and center of the group and is successful at making his every flick of the wrist look camera-ready.
Everyone, Patrick suspects that even a few members of the press are included, rolls their eyes at the spectacle and jostles the people next to them to let Spencer settle in somewhere between the group.
Patrick stands beside Pete and blushes slightly when the latter grins widely at him before placing his arm over his shoulder. The flashes were already commencing when someone shot out a loud ‘Pete, stay beside Mikey!’ which was quickly followed by a ‘You look better over there. The-uh-lighting suits you, yeah!’
Pete gives Patrick a confused glance as one of his assistants casually drags him over to Mikey’s side. The latter has no idea what is going on and keeps waving to each camera that he sees giving off a flash, this probably being the best for everyone.
There is no such thing as having perfect trust in one person and Patrick would be the world’s biggest hypocrite if he said that there was no such thing as little, green-eyed monsters poking out of every corner of his body at that moment. He peers over to the other side where Pete puts on his grin for the adoring public and tentatively leans his head towards Mikey’s giggling form. Patrick figures that every tabloid would have a perfect shot of his jaw grazing the floor at the sight yet it doesn’t seem to breach his consciousness just yet.
A light tap on his arm convinces Patrick to reattach his jaw and turn to see who was trying to get his attention.
“Alpha requests your presence in stagecoach,” the President’s most personal assistant, Hanna, as Patrick later finds out, whispers to him the mix of code words that Pete briefed him on earlier in the day. Now, it is Patrick’s decision to ask if he is correct or assume that the President is waiting for him at one of the old, abandoned cinemas three streets down or at the roof of the West Wing. Patrick isn’t all too proud of his superior memory skills, this he could certainly admit.
He’s saved from the harsh embarrassment of trying to find out the location by Hanna leading him outside the building to Cadillac One, the only code he could never forget, or more formally known as the Presidential State car.
The windless night brings a comfort to Patrick, being a person who constantly grumbles over the strong gusts that carries away every hat he has on. He rushes to the passenger door when he realizes that Hanna is on the way to opening it for him and gives an awkward smile when he fails to get there in time. Sliding in with a bumpy landing, he quickly trains himself to sit perfectly still when he catches the sight of the man they call Alpha already waiting by his side.
The President of the United States ends his phone call with a polite farewell and softly puts the car phone back in its place. He reaches for the black, leather gloves beside him and formally puts them on, turning to face Patrick after he is done.
“I hope the glare of the media doesn’t blind you from your responsibilities to your country, Patrick,” he advises resolutely, returning to face the driver when the rest of his convoys line up both in front and behind them.
Patrick gulps down the unsure squeak that scratches at his throat, desperate to be let out. He is as patriotic as any other person out there but he just isn’t all too convinced that he is the right person for the job. He tells himself to worry about Pete later, the idea of trying to maintain a dignified pose while sharing a ride with a person such as this one is already too much for him to take.
“Look alert, let the press see you slouch and they would pound you with rumors about terminal illnesses or venereal diseases. We’ve all been through that,” the President of the United States is a blunt man; Patrick has known this since his their first meeting. This doesn’t in any way conclude that he doesn’t get surprised by the man’s lack of guile during ill-timed moments, though.
The limousine finally pulls out of the long, smooth driveway and into the well lit street of Pennsylvania Avenue. Patrick figures out, after the ten minute drive to the daycare just a few blocks over, that the quota of good luck in his life lists just three slots. It was just too bad that this was his fourth try.
~end chapter 1
A/N: Yes, I know it's about 2,000 words shorter than my usual but it's the first chapter.
I can't go all out yet or you guys would get bored.
Not that you aren't already though, I guess. O_o
Comment and Concrit please, dears?
Pairings: Patrick/Pete, Ryan/Brendon, William/Gabe, Secret Pairings I shall name in future chapters, haha!
Summary: Sequel to First Son. It takes off just when the boys arrive in Washington for their gap year before entering college. The Way twins finally film their reality show, Panic launches themselves as the country's best new band at no place other than Lafayette Park while a hundred other events threaten to choke Patrick into going into hiding. Would an unexpected threat to his relationship with Pete and the entrance of an unlikely girl in his life drag Patrick into the chaos that he was all too accustomed to having?
A/N: Finally. Finished writing it out and now in the process of encoding it all. I'm not exaggerating by saying this is more absurd (yet more entertaining) than the first so I hope you guys stick by it as you did with First Son. ♥ you all. p.s. Cookies to whoever notices the change in my writing. :D
First chapter dedicated to fidelian because she had the great sense to prod me with aptly-timed emails to finish the damn thing, haha! :)
“I am not sleeping in this room.”
Patrick Stump isn’t a high-maintenance type of person. He is just a tad particular when it comes to important things, like college, his drum set, and his bedroom’s wallpaper. Having said wallpaper bastardized to something pink and floral is most probably the best way to get Patrick’s attention or to be precise, his deep and passionate fury.
“But ‘Trick, just think of all the memories we had here!” A Pete Wentz is often incorrect due to his habitual exaggeration. By Patrick’s memory, they have spent only one memory in this room and it was definitely unforgettable, but not in the way Pete proclaims it to be.
“Pete, just-no.”
This Pete Wentz means a lot to Patrick Stump, yes, but this is still drastically beyond the boundaries of human love and promises of forever. Patrick is seventeen and at that age, forever means four months; five, if the significant other has bodyguards that could contort your limbs to angles you dare not imagine.
“Patrick, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. It’s just a stupid portrait!” Pete stands up from the antique end table he’s been sitting on for the entirety of the argument and sweeps a hand in the direction of said work of art. The noon sun casts an eerie shadow by the fireplace and provides just the right lighting to support Patrick’s theory that he had seen this exact bedroom in an Alfred Hitchcock movie once.
Patrick sinks down on the familiar green and yellow bedding before he shuts his eyes tight and leans his head against the bedpost with a soft thud. He and Pete have been arguing ever since they boarded the plane to Washington, from the topic of limited peanut flavors that the airline offered to the decision of whether to take the ‘long route’ home. It’s a habit, Patrick thinks, and he’s pretty sure that it won’t have one of those neat patches that you can slap on your skin to make it go away.
“You seriously expect me to believe that Spencer agreed to room with me here?” Patrick thinks this different approach might work since Pete wasn’t budging with the use of the Pity Patrick plot.
Pete walks over to the other side of the bed and exaggeratingly flops down face-first, with his arms extended in a spread eagle fashion.
“’is pink,” Pete mumbles out from under the sheets that threaten to swallow you up with its size, “Spencer’ll even jump to prison if the uniforms were pink.”
Patrick lets out a defeated sigh and collapses down with his back halfway across Pete’s outstretched arms. He scrunches up his mouth in an odd gesture that had become his habit whenever he needed to think about various back-up plans to the insane schemes Pete always volunteered to involve himself in.
“Well, this room’s definitely too fancy for just me and Spence. I thought only princesses and vampires were allowed to stay here.” Pete groans in frustration at Patrick’s latest excuse.
“You’re the official youth sex-toy or something, I forgot to ask father for your proper title,” Pete pulls his hands from under Patrick’s back and uses them to haul himself up to rest his chin on Patrick’s chest.
“I’m not-” Patrick sputters incompletely, both Pete’s words and actions stopping his current train of thought. Pete turns to face Patrick without lifting his jaw from the warm t-shirt clad body that he was resting it on. Patrick could literally feel the atmosphere changing even though his gaze was fixed firmly on the ceiling of the four-poster.
“Or maybe you’re just making excuses to get another roommate,” Pete hummed out, his voice sending actual trembles up the boy’s spine. Patrick rolls his eyes and raps the side of Pete’s head. He doesn’t deny it however, and the unsaid affirmation was enough for the both of them.
“Hey, ‘Trick,” Pete calls out from somewhere below Patrick’s line of sight. The younger boy props his back up with his elbows to see Pete lying with his head on top of Patrick’s legs, “I hope you remember what I told you about that.”
It was true, the topic of Pete harmlessly sharing a room with Patrick was apparently a sensitive issue with the elder Peter Wentz and the two had reluctantly agreed to stay apart to avoid further conflict.
“I know,” Patrick whispers as he pushes Pete off with a gentle shove so he could sit upright, “maybe I’m just bitter, I guess.” Patrick chuckles softly at the idea of him being a sulky, old man, hobbling as he chases away puppies with a rusty walking stick.
Pete scrambles to attach himself to Patrick’s side and leans his head on a soft shoulder.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure a few stupid hours of sleep for you and bizarre fantasizing for me wouldn’t hurt us that much,” Pete whispered playfully into the spot where Patrick’s hat at the tip of his ear met, “and I’m sure we could think of a hundred different ways to make up for it.”
Patrick lowered his head to hide the tiny smirk as he shakes his head at Pete’s consistent optimism. He turns just the slightest and he could see the edge of Pete’s nose and that insufferable pout that brings ruin to Patrick’s life.
“Don’t believe you,” Patrick states quite bluntly, the lilt in his voice contradicting the words he has chosen.
“I’ll prove it then,” Pete grins as he leans in to kiss the corner of Patrick’s mouth. Patrick made to catch it while he places one of his hands on Pete’s arm, the both of them taking turns grinning and nipping at each other’s lips.
A sharp rap on the door makes Patrick shove Pete back in reflex. The last thing he wanted was for someone to take pictures of him making out with the President’s son; he definitely wasn’t trained by the Boy Scouts on the proper way to handle being the front-runner of Team Gay Pics.
Pete recovers from the literal brush off with a quick glare and an equally fast dash to the door before anyone decides to barge in. He stays there for a few seconds before he walks back to Patrick, his look clearly a canvas that read ‘someone’s going to get fired’.
“Are you-” Patrick begins, a wary look creasing his forehead in confusion.
“Father needs me; says I shouldn’t ask any questions,” Pete grumbles bitterly, leaning his back on the post across Patrick.
“Oh-umm-alright then,” Patrick knows better than to try to get things to go his way when Pete’s father was concerned. He picks at a random strand of linen somewhere within his reach and does his best to give Pete a genuine smile of understanding.
“I’ll be seeing you later, alright? The press will be coming after dinner to do promotions for Panic’s launch and the Ways’ TV crew is seriously making the most of their fucking boundaries so keep an eye out,” Pete lightly presses his lips on Patrick’s forehead before he jogs to the door. With one last apologetic look, he exits to join the Secret Service agent who was waiting patiently for him by the doorway.
The door clicks softly shut and Patrick has to bite back an urge to bang his head on the rather sturdy post in front of him. He gets up to walk over to the window, massaging the nape of his neck in a lazy manner. Patrick feels the familiar vibration in his pocket signaling someone’s need to either prod him to do them a favor or just mindlessly shower him with useless rambles, the latter applying mostly to Pete than to anybody else.
‘Kennedy garden. go. NOW.’
One would know if Spencer tried to text them, it usually contains sure bluntness, a lack of unnecessary descriptions and the occasional direct order. This time, Patrick welcomes it and decides to go join the affable young boy for his required sunbathing out on the lawn.
*
The sight of a sunbathing Spencer isn’t one that is rarely seen but Patrick credits his surprise to the addition of a handful of security guards prowling about along the sidewalk. Spencer’s plastic reclining chair is set up at the middle of the neat lawn and he gives no sign that he sees Patrick jumping over some low hedges in an effort to reach him.
“Move. Shadow,” Spencer mutters underneath his enormous aviators, hardly moving anything but his lips. Patrick flops down on the spot beside him and props his hands back to lean on them.
It’s one of those perfect days of May, where the grass doesn’t scorch your skin through all the layers of clothing one wears and there isn’t enough humidity to increase Spencer’s bitch quota to above the human limit. Others would find it quite amusing if they happen to pass by the unusual pair in the Jackie Kennedy garden; one sits more than half-naked while the other contentedly stays bundled up in clothes that are in no way considered summer attire.
“If I were you,” Spencer drawls, his head inclining just the slightest in Patrick’s direction, “I’d be snoring my lungs out because you are definitely not going to have the time to even flip your underwear inside-out after tonight.”
Patrick groans exaggeratingly, dropping his hands so he could lie flat on the lawn. He takes off his glasses and shoves the palms of his hands over his eyes.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to yell out our schedule again-”
“Why the fuck not?” Spencer sits up to prove his point, “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with everyone-Brendon and Ran out shopping, Gabe and Bill off on some ‘meet the spawn’ family reunion and the Ways, I will not even attempt to figure out where the fuck they are or what their altered state of reality is telling them to do-but we are fucking swamped! The Panic launch at Lafayette Park tomorrow night, Pete’s birthday in a few weeks, I don’t even know when the twins think they’ll have enough footage of Brendon’s fucking head but their show’s coming out soon too and I still. Don’t. Have. A. Decent. Wardrobe!”
Spencer’s shades threaten to topple off after every other word of his fanatical raving, his hands gripping the sides of his chair to prevent himself from falling off in his state of despair.
Patrick rolls over to lie on his stomach and prop his chin on his arms. He blows on some random tufts of grass, waiting for Spencer to come down from his flight of fashion anxiety. Hearing the usually reserved boy drop the f-bomb more than twice in just one breath is more than enough to tell Patrick that a few seconds to calm down is necessary for his safety.
“I know all that Spence,” Patrick mumbles from under his arms, “’s why I’m always spending my free time with you guys while I-” Spencer guffaws uncharacteristically, cutting Patrick off with a boorish laugh.
“You just arrived a few hours ago. We’ve been here for days. Ever since you got here,” Spencer resumes his leisurely one-on-one staring contest with the sun’s rays after the refreshing laugh, “you’ve been attached to Pete’s neck and I’m sure that you’d forget that dear, young, Spencer actually existed if I didn’t remind you.”
Patrick is glad that he perfectly manicured lawn offers an effective camouflage. He is partly sure that Spencer cannot see him from his current spot but he tips the rim of his hat just to be sure.
The pink hue of his cheeks stands out strikingly against the subtle green of the garden. He doesn’t stand up for himself, mainly because Patrick knows that he would be lying if he did. He had been stuck to Pete’s side ever since he arrived but that was all done now, Patrick knew that the older boy had a busy schedule whenever he was at home and he could easily pretend to be patient and understanding for him.
Spirited and lively voices snap Patrick from his musings and he looks up from his hiding place to see Gerard and Mikey walking over to their spot. A single cameraman follows them while the two chatter animatedly over something that requires the both of them to gesticulate wildly in all directions, often bumping into each other in the process.
The twins stop right in front of them, Patrick offering a small smile and nod when they wave in greeting and introduce him to the camera.
“You’re blocking my sunlight,” Spencer growls out at Mikey, lowering his shades an inch to give his best glare. The younger of the twins takes a big step to the side and makes a shushing gesture towards the camera. He then points at Spencer’s still snarling form and says something that sounds a lot like ‘crankypants’ for everyone to hear.
“How’d you swing this, Gee?” Patrick tips his hat up so he could see Gerard properly. The eyeliner aficionado bounces on the heels of his feet and crouches down so he could talk to Patrick away from the large microphone that Spencer was trying to kick away with his foot.
“The network had to talk to the devil to make this work, I was told,” Gerard states as calmly as one would describe the current episode of everyone’s favorite teen soap opera.
“Wait, do you mean they sold their souls and stuff?” Patrick chuckles while he scratches an itchy area of his nape. Patrick hates mosquitoes, especially those that mock you by biting a place where you can’t easily reach.
“Well, I don’t think the vending of human spirits weren’t involved but,” Gerard peers to his left and right before crouching even lower to whisper quite loudly in Patrick’s ear, “I rented mine out to one of my woodland acquaintances so I had none to offer them at the time.”
Patrick thinks he deserves an award for being able to nod in sincere comprehension at Gerard’s every word. He tilts his head before commenting on one part of the conversation that he just realized.
“I don’t think the president would appreciate being compared to a demon, Gerard,” Patrick says half-seriously. Patrick’s fear of the man is still in full sway and the paranoia that there are a million devices that record his every action in the White House isn’t lessening an inch.
“Oh no, no, no, I believe the president’s quite safe when it comes to possessions by malevolent sprits,” Gerard shakes his head firmly, his long hair bouncing lightly with each turn, “but that sixth cat of their aunt’s…”
Patrick grins and rests his head on his arms as he listens to the rest of Gerard’s theories on why a possession of the feline kind should be feared upon the most. This is what vacation should feel like, he muses, despite a small voice in his head snickering over the certainty that things wouldn’t stay as peaceful as it currently was.
*
The President of the United States wasn’t a smart man.
Patrick comes to this conclusion roughly ten minutes into their first-and most likely last-dinner with the whole group. Governance of any kind isn’t involved in Patrick’s observation, he thinks the man is actually quite capable in that department, but he still firmly believes that he needs a solid workshop seminar called Tact 101: The Basics on How to Avoid Being Mentally Stabbed with Flaming Spears.
At the head of the table sits Pete’s father and his wife and son flank him in each side. Patrick sits beside Mrs. Wentz-‘I prefer Dale’ as she tells the rest of the room-and Spencer and Brendon follow him. The twins plus Ryan are next to Pete and the atmosphere at the table couldn’t be any more uncomfortable.
Everyone is subject to the elder Peter’s scrutiny, from Brendon’s staggering differences with his own father to his wife’s choice of blazers for the evening. Patrick braces himself when each member of the table is done with the obligatory belittling but his feeling of dread is quickly replaced with that of confusion when nothing reaches him. Not one comment, not even one concerning his lack of appropriate social skills or taste in hats, and Patrick is baffled.
After a few minutes, the president looks up from his meal and glances at Patrick. The younger boy thinks that it is the time for his turn on the human roast and unconsciously gulps down the piece of asparagus that he didn’t have the time to chew properly. Patrick is forced to cough out the discomfort in his throat as his brain clocks in at an alarming rate with all the proper answers he prepares himself to give once they reach the question and answer portion.
“Patrick, you’ll be joining me later.”
Unnerving silence envelopes the table as the indirect order sinks in. No other words are added and the reserved leader of the country continues to eat his meal as if he hasn’t dropped a pound of mass confusion on Patrick’s already addled thoughts.
“Where-” Pete begins as soon as he finishes chewing on his choice of filet mignon for the night.
“A children’s daycare center that focuses on musical talent has been opened and we-” Pete’s father gestures towards Patrick and himself with his fork, “-have been invited to grace the inauguration.”
He faces Patrick once again, a firm glint in his eye, “I trust that you shall take this responsibility with full attention and focus, am I correct?”
Patrick automatically nods his confirmation, his hat in danger of toppling off with the vigor of his acceptance.
“Very well,” the one called the most powerful man of the modern world is actually quite meek, when one bases it on appearance alone. But the way he commands the room with his air of authority quickly proves everyone otherwise, “You have also been entrusted with the position as an official counselor and the task of giving regular lessons comes with it. I was informed that there are plans for a recital but that will come in a few months, I believe-”
Patrick cuts off all senses that occur outside the hasty thoughts that scrambled to rush first to what was left of his consciousness. The man who is speaking so eloquently that he is seen as from another world other than that of the crude, snappish one they were currently in is the lone figure in Patrick’s view as the others seem to blur from his vision.
Responsibility was nothing new to Patrick but the utter weight of all the tasks overwhelmed him in a split-second.
“Father,” Pete breaks the silence with an irritated rush of opinion, “I asked Patrick to go here on vacation, not one of your torture camps that you reserve for your childhood bullies.”
“Patrick, as you may know yet still fail to achieve,” Pete’s father unexpectedly points his fork in his son’s direction, eyes narrowing in distaste, “has more sense of duty to his country than the predilection to wasting time and resources.”
"It's called a gap year," "most people take it for rest, father. Rest. I'm sure one of your translators can look it up-"
“Young man, there is also something called proper decorum,” Pete’s father puts down his utensils to wipe off the small spot of sauce that fell on his knuckles, “if that school of yours is teaching you to disregard all consideration for it, I suggest you transfer-”
“To where?” Pete leans forward, his knife and fork shaking slightly with his tight grip, “to that exclusive boys’ school you went to during your fun-filled, homophobic, faggot-beating days?”
“You-”
“Now dear,” everyone’s gaze shot to Dale, the latest contender in the game of ping-pong happening at the dinner table, “Patrick’s right here. Why don’t you ask him which he would prefer?”
The president sighs yet faces Patrick again, an intense stare replacing the verbal request that was supposed to come. His eyes were a startling gray, very unlike the warm browns of his son. The color may have differed but the ability to convince people to channel the spirits of lemmings is positively intact. Patrick is surprised that he didn’t have the urge to jump out the window.
“I’m-I, uh-well, I love music,” this is the best that Patrick can come up with at such short notice and taking into account the gravity of all the expectations on his performance.
Peter Wentz beams, his grin unsurprisingly resembling that of his younger counterpart, equally charming and equally deadly when it comes to issues that deal with Patrick. It is an outstanding contrast to the expression that his son currently wears, a look of surprise and what seems to be a small twinge of disgust hastily hidden in a blink.
The assistant who faithfully sticks by the president’s side during all waking hours politely signals to him and the man nods just the slightest. He arranges all the clutter in front of him to look like just how Patrick sees them on those old-fashioned movies of the era of classic past and he smoothly rises from the table.
The president looks curiously at Patrick, like how one would look at a dissected frog that suddenly spasms with movement. His forehead creases just the slightest before he looks towards the doorway while readjusting his tie.
“We have commitments to meet, are you finished with your meal?” His cuffs are immaculate and the suit couldn’t look more expensive. Patrick remembers the documentaries of under-aged minorities from the Far East working in stuffy factories and wishes that not too many had to sacrifice their lunch hour for those skin-smooth trousers.
Patrick accidentally swallows the large portion of tuna that he is currently chewing as he nods a brisk affirmative. He doubts that the reality that he is semi-choking on raw fish would deter the man from making him get to that daycare center.
Pete sets down his knife with a loud bang on the table and everyone stops eating to continue the earlier staring match.
“Father, we need Patrick for the meeting with the press,” Pete grits his teeth as he enunciates every word succinctly. He is never this strained and Patrick fears that the fork he is holding might end up piercing something other than cooked meat.
The elder Wentz gives his son a fleeting look before waving a hand towards the exit, still exuding professionalism even with the brief gesture.
Everyone sitting in the table is relieved at being granted the permission to evacuate the room that was slowly choking all inhabitants with everything but food. Brendon in particular has to force himself to refrain from skipping out of the room in delight.
Pete waves a hand and signals for a still frozen and seated Patrick to run over to his part of the room. The baffled boy almost stumbles when he tries to push back his chair but he manages to cross the room without mangling another limb.
Patrick has only ever been to the Executive Residence part of the White House. He particularly adores the third floor, seeing as it contains the music room and the bedrooms of his other friends. The press conference is scheduled in the East Room, one of the numerous areas he hasn’t set his sight or feet into.
“What the fuck did you just get yourself into, Stump?” Pete pulls the flabbergasted boy’s arm into a vice-like grip, dragging him across the grand Entrance Hall next to the East Room where all the media men perch like vultures on a fence.
Patrick has seen this hall in countless photographs, most notably the one where John Travolta was seen to be dancing with Princess Diana during happier days. No one but himself knows why he remembers it quite clearly, firmly believing that his secret crush would remain between him and John until the day he lays in his grave.
“Me? I didn’t ask for this, Pete,” Patrick hisses into Pete’s ear as he tries to keep up with the boy hauling him into the already crowded room, “do you really think I’d want to spend my summer with a fifty year old version of you?”
Pete has to settle for giving Patrick a very stern glare instead of the hurt retort he usually mouths off because the horde of photographers start to let their flashes and zoom lenses loose. The room’s luxurious furniture was nowhere in sight as the whole room was filled from corner to corner with a chattering mass of people. Patrick can see some familiar faces, even convincing himself that his High School principal is somewhere beneath the sea of faces, probably trying to squeeze in a free endorsement of his school.
Gerard and Mikey stand quite casually in the middle of the room, both behind a sizable podium and trying to speak into a single microphone all at once. No one seems to catch what they’re saying for shouts of ‘Gerard, what brand of eyeliner do you use?’ and ‘Mikey, who sponsors your eyewear?’ could be clearly heard over the din of the rowdy reporters. It is also evident that the twins have no concept of answering interview questions due to the fact that they were currently talking about the one time during Kindergarten when they saw their future drawn on the dried-out cat excretions in their old sandbox.
“Pete, Patrick, over here!” Ryan calls out to them from the other side of the room, a little to the left of the babbling boys in front of the microphone. He looks highly stressed and the flashing lights don’t do well to his complexion, Patrick imagines a huge cloud of smoke rising over the back of the White House tomorrow morning when Ryan gets the chance to see all the photographs from this night.
They walk over to where he and Brendon stood, nervously walking around in small circles and wringing their hands to try to dispel the anxiety.
“I hope this does us good for the launch tomorrow,” Ryan whispers, drumming his fingers on the back of one of his hands.
Brendon stops burning a hole into the carpet to plaster a huge, fake grin to try to chase away the nervous air between their small group. He bounces in place before exhaling an uneven breath, one of his ‘sure-fire’ tactics at dispelling nausea.
“Are you kidding? We’re so going to be mobbed, Rossiekins,” he says in between hops, his hair bobbing up and down along with him.
“By who, your father’s assistants?” Ryan shoots back coldly more due to the usage of the ridiculous nickname. He visibly relaxes after this, however, and Patrick smiles to himself when he sees another reason why Brendon is the best thing to happen to Ryan ever since Anger Management class.
Spencer provides the dramatic entrance for himself as he swings open the doors just when the brothers let go of the mike and prepare for the pictorial. He sashays quite grandly towards the front and center of the group and is successful at making his every flick of the wrist look camera-ready.
Everyone, Patrick suspects that even a few members of the press are included, rolls their eyes at the spectacle and jostles the people next to them to let Spencer settle in somewhere between the group.
Patrick stands beside Pete and blushes slightly when the latter grins widely at him before placing his arm over his shoulder. The flashes were already commencing when someone shot out a loud ‘Pete, stay beside Mikey!’ which was quickly followed by a ‘You look better over there. The-uh-lighting suits you, yeah!’
Pete gives Patrick a confused glance as one of his assistants casually drags him over to Mikey’s side. The latter has no idea what is going on and keeps waving to each camera that he sees giving off a flash, this probably being the best for everyone.
There is no such thing as having perfect trust in one person and Patrick would be the world’s biggest hypocrite if he said that there was no such thing as little, green-eyed monsters poking out of every corner of his body at that moment. He peers over to the other side where Pete puts on his grin for the adoring public and tentatively leans his head towards Mikey’s giggling form. Patrick figures that every tabloid would have a perfect shot of his jaw grazing the floor at the sight yet it doesn’t seem to breach his consciousness just yet.
A light tap on his arm convinces Patrick to reattach his jaw and turn to see who was trying to get his attention.
“Alpha requests your presence in stagecoach,” the President’s most personal assistant, Hanna, as Patrick later finds out, whispers to him the mix of code words that Pete briefed him on earlier in the day. Now, it is Patrick’s decision to ask if he is correct or assume that the President is waiting for him at one of the old, abandoned cinemas three streets down or at the roof of the West Wing. Patrick isn’t all too proud of his superior memory skills, this he could certainly admit.
He’s saved from the harsh embarrassment of trying to find out the location by Hanna leading him outside the building to Cadillac One, the only code he could never forget, or more formally known as the Presidential State car.
The windless night brings a comfort to Patrick, being a person who constantly grumbles over the strong gusts that carries away every hat he has on. He rushes to the passenger door when he realizes that Hanna is on the way to opening it for him and gives an awkward smile when he fails to get there in time. Sliding in with a bumpy landing, he quickly trains himself to sit perfectly still when he catches the sight of the man they call Alpha already waiting by his side.
The President of the United States ends his phone call with a polite farewell and softly puts the car phone back in its place. He reaches for the black, leather gloves beside him and formally puts them on, turning to face Patrick after he is done.
“I hope the glare of the media doesn’t blind you from your responsibilities to your country, Patrick,” he advises resolutely, returning to face the driver when the rest of his convoys line up both in front and behind them.
Patrick gulps down the unsure squeak that scratches at his throat, desperate to be let out. He is as patriotic as any other person out there but he just isn’t all too convinced that he is the right person for the job. He tells himself to worry about Pete later, the idea of trying to maintain a dignified pose while sharing a ride with a person such as this one is already too much for him to take.
“Look alert, let the press see you slouch and they would pound you with rumors about terminal illnesses or venereal diseases. We’ve all been through that,” the President of the United States is a blunt man; Patrick has known this since his their first meeting. This doesn’t in any way conclude that he doesn’t get surprised by the man’s lack of guile during ill-timed moments, though.
The limousine finally pulls out of the long, smooth driveway and into the well lit street of Pennsylvania Avenue. Patrick figures out, after the ten minute drive to the daycare just a few blocks over, that the quota of good luck in his life lists just three slots. It was just too bad that this was his fourth try.
~end chapter 1
A/N: Yes, I know it's about 2,000 words shorter than my usual but it's the first chapter.
I can't go all out yet or you guys would get bored.
Not that you aren't already though, I guess. O_o
Comment and Concrit please, dears?