Fic: Five Times Rahm Emanuel Didn't Resign (And One Time He Did)
Title: Five Times Rahm Emanuel Didn't Resign (And One Time He Did)
Author: alicebluegown16
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Rahm Emanuel, Barack Obama, Rahm/Barack if you squint
Summary: The average tenure of the White House Chief of Staff is two years.
AN: Dear God, if you only knew how long I've been working on this fic. The boys just would not cooperate. Feedback is muy appreciated.
In the Israel newspaper Ma'ariv, Emanuel's father, Dr. Benjamin Emanuel said, "Obviously he will influence the president to be pro-Israel. Why wouldn't he be? What is he, an Arab? He's not going to clean the floors of the White House."
**
ONE.
In hindsight, Rahm’s first mistake was probably opening with a joke. Because his comment of “Ya know, when Joe says dumb shit like this, everyone finds it endearing.” naturally leads to Barack making the second mistake, acting like a patronizing asshole and going on about appearances and message control.
And then Rahm (who is not so big on the self control or possessing of much patience with being bullshitted-Barry should know that, so third mistake goes to him) is cutting him off.
“No.”
“Rahm-”
“Not just no, but Hell no. Bloggers, Barry. It’s a nothing story being kept alive by fucking bloggers. I’m not going to lend it any credibility by commenting on it.”
“You think I don’t understand that? But the longer we wait to get in front of this, the greater the chance it will snowball. The media needs to obsess about something. Tag. You’re it.”
“So, what? You want me to announce to the full press corps that my old man’s a little bit racist? That he misfuckingspoke? I’m not as talented as you, Barry. I can’t turn throwing my less than acceptable friends and family members under the bus into a grand teaching moment.”
It’s a direct hit. Barack flinches, less than half a second before he slips back into calm and reasonable politician mode (which sounds eerily similar to his trying to convince Sasha to eat all her broccoli mode) and the really, really fucked up part of him he always tells himself later he’s going to rise above someday does an impromptu victory dance.
“We need to consider how this looks. I don’t care if you cross your fingers behind your back when you do it, but you need to do this, Rahm.”
“How this looks is that if you make me read your fucking bullshit prepared statement, I will fucking walk.”
It’s the ‘why are we still talking about this’ tone in the other man’s voice that makes him throw down the ultimatum. When Barack appears to be doing all he can not to roll his eyes and tells him he’s being an idiot, Rahm mostly believes he actually means it.
“No, I’m being a good son, you fucking arrogant fuck.” Rahm snaps.
“He’s my father! This isn’t a matter of national concern, this isn’t politics, this is personal and it’s nobody’s business but mine. I’m not going to speak out against my father and fuck you, Mr. President-Elect for putting me in this position.”
Barack laughs, a harsh ugly sound, like he’s been gargling with shards of glass.
“I’m sorry, are you new? Have you been in a fucking coma for the past ten years? There is no such thing as between anyone and anyone anymore. I know you’re not naïve, so this must be you being deliberately obtuse.”
Barack has him literally backed into a corner and Rahm is vaguely horrified at the very real possibility that he might just be decked by the fucking President of the United States.
“Fuck you, Rahm, you fucking stupid stubborn bastard. You think I care because this is embarrassing? I care because this diminishes you. It turns you into my token Jew and not what you are-the best person for this job, the only person I wanted. And if there is a possibility that anyone for one fucking second might call that decision into question, then yes, I will hold a fucking press conference about it. Later I’ll be your friend and be properly sympathetic about how unfucking fair this all is, but right now I’m your boss and I’m saying: Fix. It. Now.”
Rahm opens and closes his mouth several times, unable to speak. What could he even say to that?
He’s tempted, so very, very tempted to smack him down. He’s (mostly) got the moral high ground here and the air is kind of thin and going right to his head. But he makes himself pull back.
“He’s my father, Barry.”
His voice almost cracks on the words and when Barack pretends not to notice, Rahm might just possibly, maybe, ever so slightly love him.
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
He reads the fucking statement.
****
TWO.
After Blago shocks them all by proving to be an even crazier, dumber, or both than they all previously suspected, after Rahm goes from possible leak, savior of Democracy, to death threats and reporters ambushing him at his kids’ school, Barack starts watching him. He knows what’s coming and it fucking sucks.
Rahm’s dreading a big ugly, lets all show our guts and talk about our feelings moment and he manages to hold it off for a whole three days.
When it finally happens, it’s not what he expects at all.
It’s a vice grip on his shoulder guiding him into an empty conference room and Barack glaring at him like he’s ready, willing, and able to gut him with a teaspoon.
“Don’t even fucking think about it.”
“What?”
“You’re getting that deer in the headlights, now seems like an awesome time to fall on my sword look. Don’t you fucking dare think of resigning because of this bullshit. Bloggers, Rahm. It’s a nothing story being kept alive by fucking bloggers.”
Barack believes him.
The have to lean against the wall as his legs momentarily give out wave of relief at this realization is immediately filed away at the very, very bottom of the Do Not Touch Under Pain of Pain triple locked box in the back of his mind.
Rahm honestly hadn’t known, hadn’t let himself consider how much he needed to hear those words, just like this, no press release, no statement issued on transition headquarters stationary, just the two of them, face to face, until this very moment.
He thinks about denying the accusation. And then he considers joking about it. Maybe inquire if Barack just woke up from a coma of his own. Because he should know better than this. Yeah, he had nothing to with it with Blago’s fucktardary. And he knows he’ll be exonerated eventually. But Barack’s unwavering trust in him is little comfort when he just as sure knows that ‘eventually’ is five eternities in the twenty-four hour news cycle.
“Barry, please. No matter what Fitz says, there’s going to be people who don’t believe it. People I’ve already probably pissed off a hundred different times. People you’ll need to work with. And if it’s not this, it’ll be something else. I’m a distraction you don’t need. Let me do this.”
Rahm thinks of everyone who called him the worst sort of partisan hack and imagines punching them all in the throat.
See. Don’t ever fucking doubt that I fucking love my country.
To his shock, the only one indulging in violent impulses is the President-Elect.
Barack smacks him upside the back of the head.
Hard.
“Well, tough shit. Indulge your martyr complex someplace else. I’m pulling rank here. If you try to resign, I won’t accept it. Don’t lecture me about what I do and do not need. What I need, Rahm, is you.”
With that, the President-Elect walks away. On the way out of the room, he calls over his shoulder.
“This kind of drama queen crap going to be a regular thing? Cause if so, I’d suggest investing in a helmet. That was pretty satisfying.”
****
THREE.
“Fucking Howard Dean??!!”
“Who said anything about fucking him? I’m just asking that you attempt to act less like your usual self around him.”
Barack’s voice is as bland as dry toast and he doesn’t even glance up from the file he’s holding. It’s all Rahm can do to keep from snatching the papers away and demand that the other man fucking look at him. His nails are cutting into the palms of his hands, the image of Barack smirking at him ‘What? Are you going to hold your breath til you turn blue if I don’t?’ is the only thing that gives him the strength to refrain.
Instead he scoffs “Is this about your team of rivals hard on?”
Still not looking, still not looking, you’re not even fucking reading that file!
“This is about doing what’s best for the country. It’s a little old fashioned I know, but I thought I’d give it a try.”
“You-you can’t-“
“Oh, I can’t? Who would you suggest, Rahm? Bill Frist? Wouldn’t that be a wonderful gesture towards bipartisanship? Set up a video screen and he can teleconference from the comfort of his own home!”
Now Barack is most definitely looking at him, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. Clearly he takes as well to being told what he can and can’t do as he does to being told what he does and does not need.
And because it’s the absolute worst moment for it, the really, really fucked up part of him that enjoys not so much burning his bridges as napalming them all to hell suddenly decides to get in on the act.
He makes a great show of rolling his eyes.
“Fuck, Barry. Is this about Gregg? Look, I’m sorry about that. Jesus, you and your fucking passive aggressive bullshit. Oh, I forgive you, except not really. It’s like you’re my fucking wife.”
It’s stupid, it’s petty, it’s beneath him, and it’s also a complete and utter miscalculation. Forget about a smack to the back of the head, this time he really does believe Barack is going to punch him.
“Grow the fuck up, Emanuel. I’m sure it’s a bit of a shock to hear, but newsflash: I. Don’t. Work. For. You. Dean’s the best person for the job. And if you don’t like it, if you can’t get over your pissy thirteen year old girl rivalry, then I suggest you resign. I’ll hold a nice press conference about it. After all, I’m a gold medalist when it comes to throwing people under the bus, aren’t I?”
Barack’s voice is rough, gravel tinged with anger, and it works its way underneath Rahm’s rib cage and squeezes, makes him want to pour out profuse apologies if he were capable of forming words at present.
The President picks up the files again. Just like that, he’s been dismissed.
Rahm suddenly realizes that without his knowledge he’s stumbled onto some very thin ice. And it’s cracking under his feet.
He stands there gaping in shock, ten seconds, twenty, thirty, before he finally wraps his mind around the fact that the President is serious.
“Okay…okay then…we, uh-" He licks his lips and swallows. His throat is so bone dry he can almost hear it. “Okay, then. We’ll need to start thinking about vetting…”
“They’ve already started. I put it into motion right after Daschle’s appointment started to implode.”
Rahm does the math.
That means…weeks.
The President’s been sitting on this for weeks.
And that makes sense, the extra time is needed considering how much scrutiny they’re going to be under after recent events, and it’s entirely practical that the President would keep something like this close to the vest to avoid a leak, and he has no right to be angry considering that his reaction clearly demonstrated exactly why the President would put it off---and---and-he’s been sitting on this for weeks.
The President eyes are again resolutely trained elsewhere. Which is likely the best strategy as Rahm is unsure of what he’d do if the other man looked up.
****
FOUR.
He doesn’t quit of course.
Because doing so would pretty much mean Dean won and he’d rather tongue kiss Karl Rove than even contemplate that.
He doesn’t quit and he and the President very much do not discuss it.
Not when Dean sails through confirmation, obnoxiously competent little fucker that he is, not when the President’s approval ratings sneak up a couple of points at the appointment, not when every blog, newspaper, and talking head breathlessly speculates that it’s only a matter of time.
Whenever he has to have some sort of interaction with Dean, the President always makes a point of scheduling a meeting with someone from the House Republican leadership immediately afterwards.
He makes Cantor cry.
Twice.
The President makes no effort to correct his behavior.
As far as apologies go, it’s likely the closest they’ll get.
Amy finds it all most amusing.
“Don’t worry honey, he still loves you best.”
They don’t discuss it, but it’s not as if he’s pouting, or holding a grudge, or mourning the end of their epic bromance, ha, ha, ha, his wife is so very clever.
It’s just that he and the President have other pressing matters at hand.
The economy. Terrorist threat levels. Puppies.
“A goldendoodle? The girls are getting a goldendoodle? What the fuck is that? It sounds like some kind of snack cake.”
“It’s a cross between a poodle and golden retriever. They’re very fluffy. That was kind of high on the list of qualities they were looking for.”
“Mr. President, I know it’s entirely their choice, but couldn’t you have tried pushing for a breed that won’t have other world leaders laughing at you behind your back? You should get a pit-bull. Named Lipstick. Everyone will be so appalled they’ll forget for awhile we still don’t have a Commerce Secretary.”
Puppies. He’s leader of the free world and we’re talking about puppies and I can’t even mock him because I’m glad we’re talking about puppies, talking about puppies is the first non-awkward conversation we’ve had in weeks and how fucked up is that?
The President chokes on a snort of laughter and Rahm ducks his chin down to hide a smile that could not in any way shape or form be construed as pleased.
“Actually, the girls are leaning towards the name Biscuit, but you might be on to something. Snack Cake. It’s cute.”
“Are you kidding me? Barry, if you name your dog Snack Cake…I’ll resign in protest.”
The President-Barack-whoever (they’re the same person, Emanuel. Seek professional help) stares at him. Rahm’s fairly certain glaciers shift in the time it takes him to respond.
Is this okay? We’re okay now, right?
“I guess you’re due for it. I mean it’s been almost a month since the last one. You and your constant need for validation. Alright then, let’s get this over with.”
Barack sighs and shutting his eyes begins reciting. “No, Rahm, don't. You can’t go. The country needs you too much, I need you too much, I can’t function without you, blah, blah, blah.”
When Rahm attempts to walk away, Barack grabs his arm.
“Wait, I’m not done yet! You’re all that is good and benevolent in the world. My gratitude that you allow me in your awesome presence and continue to brighten my grey colorless world cannot be measured. You are the wind beneath my wings. Do you want me to sing? I could sing.”
Oh God, he looks like he actually might.
Rahm covers his mouth.
“Mr. President, respectfully I have to tell you to go fuck yourself.”
He moves his hand because Barry might just be feeling cracked out enough right now to lick his palm.
“Respectfully?”
“With the utmost respect, sir.”
When the First Lady stops by the Oval, Barack announces that he thinks they should name the new puppy Rahm.
“I can just see it: Rahm, don’t bite the reporters! Rahm, don’t growl at the interns! Rahm, don’t piss on the Minority Leader’s shoes!”
Michelle shakes her head.
“Except for maybe yelling about not crapping on the South Lawn, this would change the ordinary day to day activities how?”
****
FIVE.
“Need to know what your plans are, Rahm. The deadline to declare is coming up…I’ll need to fundraise, I don’t have your name recognition or a million dollar war chest.”
Rahm clutches the phone tighter and squeezes his eyes shut.
What his plans are. Not too long ago he knew exactly what his plans were.
A year, eighteen months tops and then back to the House, back in the trenches where he belongs.
Speaker of the House.
First Jewish Speaker of the House, what he’s been working towards his whole life, everything he wanted-wants, still wants, right? It’s not like-it’s not like Barack didn’t know, it’s not like everyone hasn’t suspected this was always the way it was going to all go down.
Fuck.
He’s got a meeting with senior staff in half an hour.
Another town hall in Indiana next week.
Mid-East tour, State of the Union in a month, not strangling Dean at their meeting next week, picking his teeth with the bones of whatever Republican Barry has offered up as the sacrificial lamb after said meeting.
God, I hope it’s Boehner. He’s been acting especially punch-able lately.
“Rahm?”
“Look, Mike, do you want the seat or not?”
“Uh, yes? If I say yes, will I find a dead fish in my mailbox?”
He rolls his eyes.
One time and they never let you forget it.
“Well then, you have my blessing. Kick Republican ass for me.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. I’ll even write you a seriously big check to show I mean it.”
“Why-not that I’m not-why?”
“I-uh, I decided to do what’s best for the country.” He laughs and it’s like the rustle of dry leaves. “It’s a little old fashioned I know, but I thought I’d give it a try. I can be of more use here, ya know?”
When he finally hangs up-“Yes, I’m serious, asshole! Ask me again and I’ll campaign for your opponent, swear to God.”--- his hands are shaking.
Rahm can’t be sure, but he thinks this is the sort of thing that falls in the category of growing the fuck up.
***
ONE.
It absolutely would not change a damn thing, but when Zeke breaks the news to him, voice so clipped and certain, Rahm really wishes his brother had become an accountant.
“There’s not much time-he won’t ever ask, so I am. Asking-saying-whatever. I’m saying you should come home, Rahm.”
What can he do?
He says okay.
Gets all his ducks in a row, briefs all his deputies, makes all the proper arrangements, does not rip off Dean’s head and spit down his neck when he offers his condolences.
Even given the circumstances, there’s still a part of him that wants to apologize when he finally hands in his official-no backsies, this time I really, really mean it, resignation.
The President, of course, sees it in his face.
“Rahm, stop. There’s no need. I understand. He’s your father.”
And yeah, the realization hits him like a punch to the gut, Barack does understand, he went through this himself years ago.
Except he didn’t make it back home in time.
Rahm remembers watching the debate, hearing the catch in his throat when he talked about his mother arguing with her doctors, decade plus old pain laid open and raw for the audience.
Human.
Vulnerable.
Sympathetic.
It was, he’d marveled at the time, exactly the kind of thing that won undecided voters.
Right now he wishes he could go back and kick the crap out of that version of himself.
And while he’s controlling space and time, maybe he can stop his dad from dying.
Fuck. He can’t - he can’t fucking do this. All of it, every cliché known to man is true. It’s more than the rug being yanked out from underneath him, fucking gravity as he knows it has ceased to exist.
Tears he hasn’t let fall since the call from Zeke suddenly well up in his eyes. He blinks them back. He’s not going to cry in front of his soon to be former boss.
He holds out his hand, attempting to seek refuge in formalities.
“It’s been an honor serving you, sir.”
But the President refuses to stick to the script. Barack yanks him into a hug, one hand on the base of his neck, the other on the small of his back.
This might very well be the first time he’s been touched since the whole nightmare began, probably because of the ‘lay a hand on me and pull back a bloody stump’ glare he’s been giving everyone he comes into contact with.
He tenses, arms hanging limply at his sides and then finally leans into the embrace, allows himself the luxury of indulging in one choking sob before pulling away.
Barry’s eyes are suspiciously bright as well and that almost breaks him.
He frantically scrubs at his face.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m such a fucking mess right now. Just wish I had more time, ya know?”
He’s not sure if he means the two years remaining in the term or the two months (at best) his father has left.
Barack gives him a tiny but sincere smile and offers a hand.
“I never regretted hiring you.”
He takes it.
“I never regretted saying yes.” The words are hard to get out around the fist sized lump in his throat, but he manages it.
It should be a lie on both their parts. All the battles-with each other, with the press, with the opposition, and even within their own party.
It should be a lie, but it’s not. At this moment all they can see is the good.
The average tenure of the White House Chief of Staff is two years.
He lasted six.
He’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
Author: alicebluegown16
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Rahm Emanuel, Barack Obama, Rahm/Barack if you squint
Summary: The average tenure of the White House Chief of Staff is two years.
AN: Dear God, if you only knew how long I've been working on this fic. The boys just would not cooperate. Feedback is muy appreciated.
In the Israel newspaper Ma'ariv, Emanuel's father, Dr. Benjamin Emanuel said, "Obviously he will influence the president to be pro-Israel. Why wouldn't he be? What is he, an Arab? He's not going to clean the floors of the White House."
**
ONE.
In hindsight, Rahm’s first mistake was probably opening with a joke. Because his comment of “Ya know, when Joe says dumb shit like this, everyone finds it endearing.” naturally leads to Barack making the second mistake, acting like a patronizing asshole and going on about appearances and message control.
And then Rahm (who is not so big on the self control or possessing of much patience with being bullshitted-Barry should know that, so third mistake goes to him) is cutting him off.
“No.”
“Rahm-”
“Not just no, but Hell no. Bloggers, Barry. It’s a nothing story being kept alive by fucking bloggers. I’m not going to lend it any credibility by commenting on it.”
“You think I don’t understand that? But the longer we wait to get in front of this, the greater the chance it will snowball. The media needs to obsess about something. Tag. You’re it.”
“So, what? You want me to announce to the full press corps that my old man’s a little bit racist? That he misfuckingspoke? I’m not as talented as you, Barry. I can’t turn throwing my less than acceptable friends and family members under the bus into a grand teaching moment.”
It’s a direct hit. Barack flinches, less than half a second before he slips back into calm and reasonable politician mode (which sounds eerily similar to his trying to convince Sasha to eat all her broccoli mode) and the really, really fucked up part of him he always tells himself later he’s going to rise above someday does an impromptu victory dance.
“We need to consider how this looks. I don’t care if you cross your fingers behind your back when you do it, but you need to do this, Rahm.”
“How this looks is that if you make me read your fucking bullshit prepared statement, I will fucking walk.”
It’s the ‘why are we still talking about this’ tone in the other man’s voice that makes him throw down the ultimatum. When Barack appears to be doing all he can not to roll his eyes and tells him he’s being an idiot, Rahm mostly believes he actually means it.
“No, I’m being a good son, you fucking arrogant fuck.” Rahm snaps.
“He’s my father! This isn’t a matter of national concern, this isn’t politics, this is personal and it’s nobody’s business but mine. I’m not going to speak out against my father and fuck you, Mr. President-Elect for putting me in this position.”
Barack laughs, a harsh ugly sound, like he’s been gargling with shards of glass.
“I’m sorry, are you new? Have you been in a fucking coma for the past ten years? There is no such thing as between anyone and anyone anymore. I know you’re not naïve, so this must be you being deliberately obtuse.”
Barack has him literally backed into a corner and Rahm is vaguely horrified at the very real possibility that he might just be decked by the fucking President of the United States.
“Fuck you, Rahm, you fucking stupid stubborn bastard. You think I care because this is embarrassing? I care because this diminishes you. It turns you into my token Jew and not what you are-the best person for this job, the only person I wanted. And if there is a possibility that anyone for one fucking second might call that decision into question, then yes, I will hold a fucking press conference about it. Later I’ll be your friend and be properly sympathetic about how unfucking fair this all is, but right now I’m your boss and I’m saying: Fix. It. Now.”
Rahm opens and closes his mouth several times, unable to speak. What could he even say to that?
He’s tempted, so very, very tempted to smack him down. He’s (mostly) got the moral high ground here and the air is kind of thin and going right to his head. But he makes himself pull back.
“He’s my father, Barry.”
His voice almost cracks on the words and when Barack pretends not to notice, Rahm might just possibly, maybe, ever so slightly love him.
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
He reads the fucking statement.
****
TWO.
After Blago shocks them all by proving to be an even crazier, dumber, or both than they all previously suspected, after Rahm goes from possible leak, savior of Democracy, to death threats and reporters ambushing him at his kids’ school, Barack starts watching him. He knows what’s coming and it fucking sucks.
Rahm’s dreading a big ugly, lets all show our guts and talk about our feelings moment and he manages to hold it off for a whole three days.
When it finally happens, it’s not what he expects at all.
It’s a vice grip on his shoulder guiding him into an empty conference room and Barack glaring at him like he’s ready, willing, and able to gut him with a teaspoon.
“Don’t even fucking think about it.”
“What?”
“You’re getting that deer in the headlights, now seems like an awesome time to fall on my sword look. Don’t you fucking dare think of resigning because of this bullshit. Bloggers, Rahm. It’s a nothing story being kept alive by fucking bloggers.”
Barack believes him.
The have to lean against the wall as his legs momentarily give out wave of relief at this realization is immediately filed away at the very, very bottom of the Do Not Touch Under Pain of Pain triple locked box in the back of his mind.
Rahm honestly hadn’t known, hadn’t let himself consider how much he needed to hear those words, just like this, no press release, no statement issued on transition headquarters stationary, just the two of them, face to face, until this very moment.
He thinks about denying the accusation. And then he considers joking about it. Maybe inquire if Barack just woke up from a coma of his own. Because he should know better than this. Yeah, he had nothing to with it with Blago’s fucktardary. And he knows he’ll be exonerated eventually. But Barack’s unwavering trust in him is little comfort when he just as sure knows that ‘eventually’ is five eternities in the twenty-four hour news cycle.
“Barry, please. No matter what Fitz says, there’s going to be people who don’t believe it. People I’ve already probably pissed off a hundred different times. People you’ll need to work with. And if it’s not this, it’ll be something else. I’m a distraction you don’t need. Let me do this.”
Rahm thinks of everyone who called him the worst sort of partisan hack and imagines punching them all in the throat.
See. Don’t ever fucking doubt that I fucking love my country.
To his shock, the only one indulging in violent impulses is the President-Elect.
Barack smacks him upside the back of the head.
Hard.
“Well, tough shit. Indulge your martyr complex someplace else. I’m pulling rank here. If you try to resign, I won’t accept it. Don’t lecture me about what I do and do not need. What I need, Rahm, is you.”
With that, the President-Elect walks away. On the way out of the room, he calls over his shoulder.
“This kind of drama queen crap going to be a regular thing? Cause if so, I’d suggest investing in a helmet. That was pretty satisfying.”
****
THREE.
“Fucking Howard Dean??!!”
“Who said anything about fucking him? I’m just asking that you attempt to act less like your usual self around him.”
Barack’s voice is as bland as dry toast and he doesn’t even glance up from the file he’s holding. It’s all Rahm can do to keep from snatching the papers away and demand that the other man fucking look at him. His nails are cutting into the palms of his hands, the image of Barack smirking at him ‘What? Are you going to hold your breath til you turn blue if I don’t?’ is the only thing that gives him the strength to refrain.
Instead he scoffs “Is this about your team of rivals hard on?”
Still not looking, still not looking, you’re not even fucking reading that file!
“This is about doing what’s best for the country. It’s a little old fashioned I know, but I thought I’d give it a try.”
“You-you can’t-“
“Oh, I can’t? Who would you suggest, Rahm? Bill Frist? Wouldn’t that be a wonderful gesture towards bipartisanship? Set up a video screen and he can teleconference from the comfort of his own home!”
Now Barack is most definitely looking at him, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. Clearly he takes as well to being told what he can and can’t do as he does to being told what he does and does not need.
And because it’s the absolute worst moment for it, the really, really fucked up part of him that enjoys not so much burning his bridges as napalming them all to hell suddenly decides to get in on the act.
He makes a great show of rolling his eyes.
“Fuck, Barry. Is this about Gregg? Look, I’m sorry about that. Jesus, you and your fucking passive aggressive bullshit. Oh, I forgive you, except not really. It’s like you’re my fucking wife.”
It’s stupid, it’s petty, it’s beneath him, and it’s also a complete and utter miscalculation. Forget about a smack to the back of the head, this time he really does believe Barack is going to punch him.
“Grow the fuck up, Emanuel. I’m sure it’s a bit of a shock to hear, but newsflash: I. Don’t. Work. For. You. Dean’s the best person for the job. And if you don’t like it, if you can’t get over your pissy thirteen year old girl rivalry, then I suggest you resign. I’ll hold a nice press conference about it. After all, I’m a gold medalist when it comes to throwing people under the bus, aren’t I?”
Barack’s voice is rough, gravel tinged with anger, and it works its way underneath Rahm’s rib cage and squeezes, makes him want to pour out profuse apologies if he were capable of forming words at present.
The President picks up the files again. Just like that, he’s been dismissed.
Rahm suddenly realizes that without his knowledge he’s stumbled onto some very thin ice. And it’s cracking under his feet.
He stands there gaping in shock, ten seconds, twenty, thirty, before he finally wraps his mind around the fact that the President is serious.
“Okay…okay then…we, uh-" He licks his lips and swallows. His throat is so bone dry he can almost hear it. “Okay, then. We’ll need to start thinking about vetting…”
“They’ve already started. I put it into motion right after Daschle’s appointment started to implode.”
Rahm does the math.
That means…weeks.
The President’s been sitting on this for weeks.
And that makes sense, the extra time is needed considering how much scrutiny they’re going to be under after recent events, and it’s entirely practical that the President would keep something like this close to the vest to avoid a leak, and he has no right to be angry considering that his reaction clearly demonstrated exactly why the President would put it off---and---and-he’s been sitting on this for weeks.
The President eyes are again resolutely trained elsewhere. Which is likely the best strategy as Rahm is unsure of what he’d do if the other man looked up.
****
FOUR.
He doesn’t quit of course.
Because doing so would pretty much mean Dean won and he’d rather tongue kiss Karl Rove than even contemplate that.
He doesn’t quit and he and the President very much do not discuss it.
Not when Dean sails through confirmation, obnoxiously competent little fucker that he is, not when the President’s approval ratings sneak up a couple of points at the appointment, not when every blog, newspaper, and talking head breathlessly speculates that it’s only a matter of time.
Whenever he has to have some sort of interaction with Dean, the President always makes a point of scheduling a meeting with someone from the House Republican leadership immediately afterwards.
He makes Cantor cry.
Twice.
The President makes no effort to correct his behavior.
As far as apologies go, it’s likely the closest they’ll get.
Amy finds it all most amusing.
“Don’t worry honey, he still loves you best.”
They don’t discuss it, but it’s not as if he’s pouting, or holding a grudge, or mourning the end of their epic bromance, ha, ha, ha, his wife is so very clever.
It’s just that he and the President have other pressing matters at hand.
The economy. Terrorist threat levels. Puppies.
“A goldendoodle? The girls are getting a goldendoodle? What the fuck is that? It sounds like some kind of snack cake.”
“It’s a cross between a poodle and golden retriever. They’re very fluffy. That was kind of high on the list of qualities they were looking for.”
“Mr. President, I know it’s entirely their choice, but couldn’t you have tried pushing for a breed that won’t have other world leaders laughing at you behind your back? You should get a pit-bull. Named Lipstick. Everyone will be so appalled they’ll forget for awhile we still don’t have a Commerce Secretary.”
Puppies. He’s leader of the free world and we’re talking about puppies and I can’t even mock him because I’m glad we’re talking about puppies, talking about puppies is the first non-awkward conversation we’ve had in weeks and how fucked up is that?
The President chokes on a snort of laughter and Rahm ducks his chin down to hide a smile that could not in any way shape or form be construed as pleased.
“Actually, the girls are leaning towards the name Biscuit, but you might be on to something. Snack Cake. It’s cute.”
“Are you kidding me? Barry, if you name your dog Snack Cake…I’ll resign in protest.”
The President-Barack-whoever (they’re the same person, Emanuel. Seek professional help) stares at him. Rahm’s fairly certain glaciers shift in the time it takes him to respond.
Is this okay? We’re okay now, right?
“I guess you’re due for it. I mean it’s been almost a month since the last one. You and your constant need for validation. Alright then, let’s get this over with.”
Barack sighs and shutting his eyes begins reciting. “No, Rahm, don't. You can’t go. The country needs you too much, I need you too much, I can’t function without you, blah, blah, blah.”
When Rahm attempts to walk away, Barack grabs his arm.
“Wait, I’m not done yet! You’re all that is good and benevolent in the world. My gratitude that you allow me in your awesome presence and continue to brighten my grey colorless world cannot be measured. You are the wind beneath my wings. Do you want me to sing? I could sing.”
Oh God, he looks like he actually might.
Rahm covers his mouth.
“Mr. President, respectfully I have to tell you to go fuck yourself.”
He moves his hand because Barry might just be feeling cracked out enough right now to lick his palm.
“Respectfully?”
“With the utmost respect, sir.”
When the First Lady stops by the Oval, Barack announces that he thinks they should name the new puppy Rahm.
“I can just see it: Rahm, don’t bite the reporters! Rahm, don’t growl at the interns! Rahm, don’t piss on the Minority Leader’s shoes!”
Michelle shakes her head.
“Except for maybe yelling about not crapping on the South Lawn, this would change the ordinary day to day activities how?”
****
FIVE.
“Need to know what your plans are, Rahm. The deadline to declare is coming up…I’ll need to fundraise, I don’t have your name recognition or a million dollar war chest.”
Rahm clutches the phone tighter and squeezes his eyes shut.
What his plans are. Not too long ago he knew exactly what his plans were.
A year, eighteen months tops and then back to the House, back in the trenches where he belongs.
Speaker of the House.
First Jewish Speaker of the House, what he’s been working towards his whole life, everything he wanted-wants, still wants, right? It’s not like-it’s not like Barack didn’t know, it’s not like everyone hasn’t suspected this was always the way it was going to all go down.
Fuck.
He’s got a meeting with senior staff in half an hour.
Another town hall in Indiana next week.
Mid-East tour, State of the Union in a month, not strangling Dean at their meeting next week, picking his teeth with the bones of whatever Republican Barry has offered up as the sacrificial lamb after said meeting.
God, I hope it’s Boehner. He’s been acting especially punch-able lately.
“Rahm?”
“Look, Mike, do you want the seat or not?”
“Uh, yes? If I say yes, will I find a dead fish in my mailbox?”
He rolls his eyes.
One time and they never let you forget it.
“Well then, you have my blessing. Kick Republican ass for me.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. I’ll even write you a seriously big check to show I mean it.”
“Why-not that I’m not-why?”
“I-uh, I decided to do what’s best for the country.” He laughs and it’s like the rustle of dry leaves. “It’s a little old fashioned I know, but I thought I’d give it a try. I can be of more use here, ya know?”
When he finally hangs up-“Yes, I’m serious, asshole! Ask me again and I’ll campaign for your opponent, swear to God.”--- his hands are shaking.
Rahm can’t be sure, but he thinks this is the sort of thing that falls in the category of growing the fuck up.
***
ONE.
It absolutely would not change a damn thing, but when Zeke breaks the news to him, voice so clipped and certain, Rahm really wishes his brother had become an accountant.
“There’s not much time-he won’t ever ask, so I am. Asking-saying-whatever. I’m saying you should come home, Rahm.”
What can he do?
He says okay.
Gets all his ducks in a row, briefs all his deputies, makes all the proper arrangements, does not rip off Dean’s head and spit down his neck when he offers his condolences.
Even given the circumstances, there’s still a part of him that wants to apologize when he finally hands in his official-no backsies, this time I really, really mean it, resignation.
The President, of course, sees it in his face.
“Rahm, stop. There’s no need. I understand. He’s your father.”
And yeah, the realization hits him like a punch to the gut, Barack does understand, he went through this himself years ago.
Except he didn’t make it back home in time.
Rahm remembers watching the debate, hearing the catch in his throat when he talked about his mother arguing with her doctors, decade plus old pain laid open and raw for the audience.
Human.
Vulnerable.
Sympathetic.
It was, he’d marveled at the time, exactly the kind of thing that won undecided voters.
Right now he wishes he could go back and kick the crap out of that version of himself.
And while he’s controlling space and time, maybe he can stop his dad from dying.
Fuck. He can’t - he can’t fucking do this. All of it, every cliché known to man is true. It’s more than the rug being yanked out from underneath him, fucking gravity as he knows it has ceased to exist.
Tears he hasn’t let fall since the call from Zeke suddenly well up in his eyes. He blinks them back. He’s not going to cry in front of his soon to be former boss.
He holds out his hand, attempting to seek refuge in formalities.
“It’s been an honor serving you, sir.”
But the President refuses to stick to the script. Barack yanks him into a hug, one hand on the base of his neck, the other on the small of his back.
This might very well be the first time he’s been touched since the whole nightmare began, probably because of the ‘lay a hand on me and pull back a bloody stump’ glare he’s been giving everyone he comes into contact with.
He tenses, arms hanging limply at his sides and then finally leans into the embrace, allows himself the luxury of indulging in one choking sob before pulling away.
Barry’s eyes are suspiciously bright as well and that almost breaks him.
He frantically scrubs at his face.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m such a fucking mess right now. Just wish I had more time, ya know?”
He’s not sure if he means the two years remaining in the term or the two months (at best) his father has left.
Barack gives him a tiny but sincere smile and offers a hand.
“I never regretted hiring you.”
He takes it.
“I never regretted saying yes.” The words are hard to get out around the fist sized lump in his throat, but he manages it.
It should be a lie on both their parts. All the battles-with each other, with the press, with the opposition, and even within their own party.
It should be a lie, but it’s not. At this moment all they can see is the good.
The average tenure of the White House Chief of Staff is two years.
He lasted six.
He’d do it all again in a heartbeat.