The West Wing fIc: Acta Non Verba
Title: Acta Non Verba
Fandom: The West Wing
Rating / Genre: PG-13, Gen
Words: 2752
Spoilers: Set just before the events of the final episode, Tomorrow. So the entire show, really.
Disclaimer: The West Wing is the property of NBC and was created by Aaron Sorkin. As ever, I'm a beta-less writer, so any mistakes are my own. This is my first story for The West Wing and my first fic here for over a year, be gentle with me.
Summary: What they undertook to do / They brought to pass; / All things hang like a drop of dew / Upon a blade of grass (W.B. Yeats)
~~~~~
In situations such as this, Jed knew, it would always be down to the President to speak first.
"What fascinates me about this, Ms Schott,” he pronounced in affected crotchety tones, “What really blows me away, is that our current predicament will now be considered news."
"I imagine so, Sir, yes." Annabeth glanced to her right where President Bartlett was doing his best impression of casual looking man. Hands in pockets, suit jacket unbuttoned, his laid-back demeanour was only slightly undermined by the straight-backed alertness of the Secret Service bodyguard by his side.
The President looked to his guardian. "What do you imagine, Ron?"
"That there are a great many people currently heading towards us with crowbars, Mr President."
"No doubt." The President concurred, his fingers twitching in his pockets as the urge for a cigarette grew, “I keep telling them, that alien spaceship on top of the Seattle space needle, that’s news, but will they listen? No, they will not.”
“Not a fan of the National Enquirer, I’m guessing, Sir,” Annabeth said, amused.
“Or the Fox News Channel, come to that, but Toby once informed me I have to, and I quote, “Suck it up, Mr President.” Annabeth smiled. “One would hope that my Director of Communications would be a little more eloquent, but one would also hope that he wouldn’t pass state secrets to the media either, so I guess that makes me 0 for 2.”
“Mr President, how many Presidential Elections have you won?”
“Two.”
“Out of a possible-?”
“Two. Your point?”
“I believe that would be, 'Suck it up, Mr President'.”
“Getting a little sassy in our post-election glow, are we now?”
“I’ve always been sassy, Sir, this is gumption.”
“In that case, I shall let it slide,” Jed said, loosening his tie. “I am, however, resolute in my dislike of a news media which fixates on the ridiculous rather than the sublime."
Annabeth smiled politely, sensing she was about to be audience to either a communications or sociology address. Knowing the President, probably a little of both. Not that she minded, she could count the number of occasions she'd been alone in a room with him on one hand and the first time she'd been so nervous she'd actually broken slightly into song.
Bartlet leaned back against the wall, surrendering to his mild vexation. "It’s the worst part of running for office," he sighed. "Not the fact that the press has a right to report on anything it likes; of course it does and so it should and not just here, but anywhere in the world. Nevertheless, the First Amendment is a law designed to prevent abuse of power. The great paradox being that only a truly free society would enact such a law and yet no truly free society should need it.”
"There's the rub," Annabeth agreed with a nod, "But all the same, I'm glad we have it."
“As am I. But what vexes me is that given the opportunity, the privilege of being free to choose who or what it writes about, what the press actually chooses to report is the most trivial, unimportant details about a candidate. What religion do they practice? Did they ever smoke pot in college? Do they drive a hybrid? Did they ever skip out on football practice? What colour underwear does their wife wear?”
The President’s eyes narrowed as he stood up straight, the tone of his voice sharpening.
“The nerve! And they call themselves journalists? The utter nerve of these people, Annabeth. If the media had invaded Abbey’s privacy the way they did Mrs Santos's, I’d have never made it to the Oval Office, I’d be in prison for punching a paparazzo. These questions shouldn’t make it anywhere near the press, but no, there they are, front page centre, when there are so many vastly more important things to report; China and Russia, Education, Health Care, San Andreas. Dammit, it shouldn't take a nuclear plant going into to near-meltdown to remind people of that!”
Fuming, Jed brought his carved cane down with an emphatic thump, which echoed dully on the carpeted elevator floor. Discreet and professional, Ron acknowledged his protectee's tirade with only the slightest considered nod.
“Not that I don’t agree with you, Mr President,” Annabeth spoke softly, “And you know that I do. But like it or not we both know that there's a correlation between a positive presentation of any politician or political candidate as a member of the everyday community and their electoral success. Being one of the masses myself, I’m mostly offended because so often these news stories are just plain dumb and yet they claim that's what I want. Believe me, I’d much rather read about the US providing foreign aid to countries suffering famine than what Arnold Vinick eats for breakfast on the campaign trail.”
“That would be mostly Democrats, the old son of gun.”
"With grapefruit on the side, I hear." Annabeth quipped, her smile widening as it was matched by the President's own. "Public figures used to comment on the news. Now they are the news. I'm not saying it's always right, but it doesn't always have to be wrong, either."
"There's still a difference between being the news and actually being newsworthy, Annabeth."
"Of course there is. But it's not like it never works in your favour. You know as well as I do that every time you unveil a new Education policy in an elementary school it gets twice amount of the positive press then if Will announces it from behind a podium. But, luckily for America, you also know that there's a difference between being President and being Presidential."
"Care to elaborate?" Jed asked, appreciating the chance to chew the political fat without a camera in his face.
"Meaning, everyone who's elected Commander-in-Chief has been the former; a great deal fewer of those men have been the latter."
The President raised a scholarly eyebrow, "I like this so far. Do I make the latter list?"
"Oh, like you don't know it," Annabeth teased. "Woodrow Wilson, FDR, Kennedy, we remember those Presidents not just because of their politics and intellect, but because they, like you, were quirky. Woodrow Wilson got stuck on a train in the mud, FDR commissioned a lot of murals, but he was absolutely nuts over building highways and bridges. JFK stood up in Berlin and announced he was a doughnut.”
“Taft,” Jed corrected amiably.
“Taft?”
“President Woodrow Wilson federalised the railroads, it was President Taft who got stuck on them.”
Annabeth didn’t miss a beat. “- For example, one of your quirks is an obsession with American history. And National Parks. I’ve heard rumours about turkey basting and the Butterball hotline, but I don’t think even you’re that crazy. With respect, Sir,” she added for good measure.
“Nice catch.”
“It’s these stories that make our Presidents human, Sir, you know that. And us voting folk place a lot of trust in our Congress, our Senators and our Presidents. Of course I don't want to know what kind of underwear anyone in politics is wearing, but I do want to know that our representatives appreciate they could be affecting the price of our delicates when they're re-negotiating the price of cotton. In other words, we want to know that when we pull that lever, we don’t just get a carbon copy kid, fresh off the line from Ivy League school that the rest of us are smart enough to attend but couldn’t necessarily afford.”
The President smiled wryly, enjoying Annabeth's ability to work education, agricultural policy and the nation's choice of underwear into one salient argument. “You sound like the First Lady.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You do that.” The President turned to his former colleague. “I do know you’re right. And the points you make are excellent, Annabeth. Helen Santos will be very fortunate to have you on her staff.”
“CJ, Will and Toby taught me a lot, Sir. And Leo, of course. And so did you.” Annabeth replied, enjoying the rare opportunity to speak candidly with the President. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping my bounds, Mr President-”
“- I have two days left in office, and my best friend adored you as much as you baffled him. You know where the line is and you’re not overstepping anything.”
"Thank you." Annabeth blushed. “Sir, I believe you know that I worked with Taylor Reid before coming to the White House?”
“I do.”
“I was in the room with the higher ups when Zoey was taken. When they were trying to decide what to make of it all, how to present the story. Some of the discussions I heard during that week…” Annabeth, looked down momentarily, checking she hadn’t crossed the boundaries of informality, as blurred as they currently were. The President was regarding her attentively.
“…I want to confirm that Taylor was never part of these discussions, Sir, but people I respected were. Or at least I thought I respected them. I realised as the story progressed that the person I respected most of all was you. The way you handled things. The love and loyalty you showed to your family and country in those awful days? I’m not afraid to say it made me a little teary-eyed, Sir.” Annabeth looked at the President with respect, humbled by the memory. “I made up my mind right there and then that one day I would work for you.”
“Really?” Jed replied softly, genuinely touched. “I didn’t know that.”
“No-one does, actually. Except Donna. She also taught me a lot. And she never went to an Ivy League school either.”
“Nor did I, come to that, Mr President," Ron added, stepping out of his professional skin for the first time in Annabeth's recollection.
“There isn’t a school, Ivy League or otherwise that can teach the qualities you have, Ron. If we had knighthoods in this country, I'd have dubbed thee Sir Ron Butterfield long, long ago."
"That's very generous of you Sir, thank you," Ron answered humbly and Annabeth could have sworn for the tiniest of moments his cheeks blushed.
"What it comes down to the end, folks, is I would just like to be remembered not for the style, but for the substance. And let's all marvel at the ironic egotism of that sentence for a while."
"Let's not, Sir." Annabeth said bluntly, her tone abrupt even in the informal context of the past thirty minutes.
“I’m not here to tell you things you want to hear or already know. We're all aware that on the one to ten scale of pulling the schedules, the President stuck in a defective elevator with his dashing Secret Service agent and a perky former Deputy Press Secretary is no Capitol Beat special. But it sure beats the borderline, if not openly sexist questions you were going to get on Mrs Bartlett’s intention to resume full-time medical practice and turn you into a stay at home ex-president.”
"You said that what it comes down to is not style, but substance, but it's so much more than that. The most important thing of all, what it really comes down to in the end, is this: Some Presidents we remember because of what they did or didn’t do in the Oval Office. Some Presidents we remember because of what they did out of it. And if we’re lucky, once in a generation, we get a President who does something memorable every day.”
Annabeth turned to her former boss and smiled at him.
“President Josiah Bartlet, you don’t have to be the first Latino President to be once in a generation. Your work. Your mind. Your ideals. We’ll remember you, Sir, and not because you once got stuck in an elevator.”
Jed breathed in, quietly moved. “Thank you, Annabeth.”
“You’re welcome. Besides," She added sassily, as she turned back to face the front of the elevator, "You also once road your bike into a tree.”
The President laughed. “Okay, now you really sound like Abbey.”
Annabeth's answer was halted as the elevator shunted back into life and resumed its ascent once again.
"Full function returned, Sir," Ron said, relaying information as he received it through his earpiece. "The floor's been cleared of press and Will Bailey's waiting for you."
"Thank you, Ron."
"So, Ms Schott," The President asked, "Just out of interest, do you think there’s a way we could make this less of a story?”
“You could make out with Ron, Mr. President,” Annabeth smiled sweetly.
Jed’s eyebrow rose as he considered his options.
“You’re a nice guy, Ron and you’ve seen me half-dressed more than once, but I have a horrible ego and could never date someone taller than me.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“I’m 4’11, Mr President.”
“In a 5 foot bag.”
Finally, the elevator came to a halt. With a welcoming ping, the doors opened to the expectant face of Will Bailey, flanked discreetly in the background by a double helping of Secret Service agents. Behind them, were two tired looking maintenance workers trying to appear inconspicuous, despite the large crowbars they still held in their hands.
"Mr Bailey!"
"Mr President," Will replied, slightly surprised by the notably upbeat mood of the elevator's former occupants. "Is everything alright, Sir?
“Everything is quite alright, thank you Will. There were Martian spaceships, but Ron took care of it. Gentlemen!" He exclaimed, walking directly to the two maintenance workers, shaking them each warmly by the hand and subtlety reading their embroidered name-tags as he did so. "Thank you very much for your efforts, today, I hope Mr Bailey here and Mrs Bartlet didn't put you under too much scrutiny."
"No, Sir."
"Are you sure? I like them, but I've still got two days in office and I could have them exiled."
The elder of the two chuckled, his companion somewhat overwhelmed, "We're just glad you're all okay, Sir."
The President nodded. "We're fine thank you, though, André, Kevin, if I were you, I'd call your mothers, ask them to TiVo C-SPAN this afternoon; their sons are about to get a big shout-out from the President of the United States on national television."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
"Where are we, Will?" Jed asked, allowing his Communications Director to lead him away down the hall.
"We've pushed the press meet and greet until 3pm, Mrs Bartlet is waiting in the suite and, please excuse the direct nature of this quote, which I was ordered to deliver verbatim, "Don't even think of marching your ass into that media jungle without joining me for lunch first."
"Well, looks like there's gumption all round today."
"Sir?"
"Don't worry about it, Will, you had to be there."
"Due respect, Mr President, but I'm quite glad I wasn't." Will stopped at the doors of President's hotel suite. "This is you, Sir."
"Thanks Will. Annabeth, let me repeat what I said earlier; Mrs Santos is very lucky to have you. Don't let anyone on Josh's team try and tell you how they think you should think; what you know and who you are is what got you here and we could all do with a little more of that in the world. To thine own self be true, understand?"
"Yes, Sir," Annabeth nodded with gratitude, the tiniest crack in her voice, "Thank you, Mr President."
The President turned to address his ever-constant bodyguard. "And as for you, Ron, who is your deputy right now?"
"Sanders, Sir," he replied, indicating the agent close behind him.
"Sanders, you need to arrange cover for Ron for the next couple of hours."
"Mr President-" Ron began, before being swiftly cut off.
"- I can't offer you a knighthood, but I can offer you cake."
"Sir-"
Jed stepped towards Ron, his voice softening. "- Ron Butterfield, you have spent the past eight years of your life placing my needs before your own. I am your Commander-in-Chief and I could order you to dine with me, but what I would really like is if you would accept the offer of a friend, and please do my wife and I the honour of joining for lunch."
Ron looked to his colleague, "Sanders?"
"I can have Morris and Becket join me in less than minute, Sir."
Annabeth and Will watched as Ron and the President regarded one another thoughtfully.
"Give them three," Ron answered finally, unbuttoning his jacket and taking his earpiece out. "They'll want to take the stairs."
~~~
Endnote: Those of you who were around in the early days of The O.C. will recognise the invokation of a familiar premise, namely the good old "look who's stuck in a lift" trope. My original intention was to revisit the premise, writing a drabble for each of my fandoms, but this particular story rapidly developed a life of its own and turned into a full length one-shot. It just took the whole of November failing at wrisomifu and three and half days of being snowed in to actually complete it.
Fandom: The West Wing
Rating / Genre: PG-13, Gen
Words: 2752
Spoilers: Set just before the events of the final episode, Tomorrow. So the entire show, really.
Disclaimer: The West Wing is the property of NBC and was created by Aaron Sorkin. As ever, I'm a beta-less writer, so any mistakes are my own. This is my first story for The West Wing and my first fic here for over a year, be gentle with me.
Summary: What they undertook to do / They brought to pass; / All things hang like a drop of dew / Upon a blade of grass (W.B. Yeats)
~~~~~
In situations such as this, Jed knew, it would always be down to the President to speak first.
"What fascinates me about this, Ms Schott,” he pronounced in affected crotchety tones, “What really blows me away, is that our current predicament will now be considered news."
"I imagine so, Sir, yes." Annabeth glanced to her right where President Bartlett was doing his best impression of casual looking man. Hands in pockets, suit jacket unbuttoned, his laid-back demeanour was only slightly undermined by the straight-backed alertness of the Secret Service bodyguard by his side.
The President looked to his guardian. "What do you imagine, Ron?"
"That there are a great many people currently heading towards us with crowbars, Mr President."
"No doubt." The President concurred, his fingers twitching in his pockets as the urge for a cigarette grew, “I keep telling them, that alien spaceship on top of the Seattle space needle, that’s news, but will they listen? No, they will not.”
“Not a fan of the National Enquirer, I’m guessing, Sir,” Annabeth said, amused.
“Or the Fox News Channel, come to that, but Toby once informed me I have to, and I quote, “Suck it up, Mr President.” Annabeth smiled. “One would hope that my Director of Communications would be a little more eloquent, but one would also hope that he wouldn’t pass state secrets to the media either, so I guess that makes me 0 for 2.”
“Mr President, how many Presidential Elections have you won?”
“Two.”
“Out of a possible-?”
“Two. Your point?”
“I believe that would be, 'Suck it up, Mr President'.”
“Getting a little sassy in our post-election glow, are we now?”
“I’ve always been sassy, Sir, this is gumption.”
“In that case, I shall let it slide,” Jed said, loosening his tie. “I am, however, resolute in my dislike of a news media which fixates on the ridiculous rather than the sublime."
Annabeth smiled politely, sensing she was about to be audience to either a communications or sociology address. Knowing the President, probably a little of both. Not that she minded, she could count the number of occasions she'd been alone in a room with him on one hand and the first time she'd been so nervous she'd actually broken slightly into song.
Bartlet leaned back against the wall, surrendering to his mild vexation. "It’s the worst part of running for office," he sighed. "Not the fact that the press has a right to report on anything it likes; of course it does and so it should and not just here, but anywhere in the world. Nevertheless, the First Amendment is a law designed to prevent abuse of power. The great paradox being that only a truly free society would enact such a law and yet no truly free society should need it.”
"There's the rub," Annabeth agreed with a nod, "But all the same, I'm glad we have it."
“As am I. But what vexes me is that given the opportunity, the privilege of being free to choose who or what it writes about, what the press actually chooses to report is the most trivial, unimportant details about a candidate. What religion do they practice? Did they ever smoke pot in college? Do they drive a hybrid? Did they ever skip out on football practice? What colour underwear does their wife wear?”
The President’s eyes narrowed as he stood up straight, the tone of his voice sharpening.
“The nerve! And they call themselves journalists? The utter nerve of these people, Annabeth. If the media had invaded Abbey’s privacy the way they did Mrs Santos's, I’d have never made it to the Oval Office, I’d be in prison for punching a paparazzo. These questions shouldn’t make it anywhere near the press, but no, there they are, front page centre, when there are so many vastly more important things to report; China and Russia, Education, Health Care, San Andreas. Dammit, it shouldn't take a nuclear plant going into to near-meltdown to remind people of that!”
Fuming, Jed brought his carved cane down with an emphatic thump, which echoed dully on the carpeted elevator floor. Discreet and professional, Ron acknowledged his protectee's tirade with only the slightest considered nod.
“Not that I don’t agree with you, Mr President,” Annabeth spoke softly, “And you know that I do. But like it or not we both know that there's a correlation between a positive presentation of any politician or political candidate as a member of the everyday community and their electoral success. Being one of the masses myself, I’m mostly offended because so often these news stories are just plain dumb and yet they claim that's what I want. Believe me, I’d much rather read about the US providing foreign aid to countries suffering famine than what Arnold Vinick eats for breakfast on the campaign trail.”
“That would be mostly Democrats, the old son of gun.”
"With grapefruit on the side, I hear." Annabeth quipped, her smile widening as it was matched by the President's own. "Public figures used to comment on the news. Now they are the news. I'm not saying it's always right, but it doesn't always have to be wrong, either."
"There's still a difference between being the news and actually being newsworthy, Annabeth."
"Of course there is. But it's not like it never works in your favour. You know as well as I do that every time you unveil a new Education policy in an elementary school it gets twice amount of the positive press then if Will announces it from behind a podium. But, luckily for America, you also know that there's a difference between being President and being Presidential."
"Care to elaborate?" Jed asked, appreciating the chance to chew the political fat without a camera in his face.
"Meaning, everyone who's elected Commander-in-Chief has been the former; a great deal fewer of those men have been the latter."
The President raised a scholarly eyebrow, "I like this so far. Do I make the latter list?"
"Oh, like you don't know it," Annabeth teased. "Woodrow Wilson, FDR, Kennedy, we remember those Presidents not just because of their politics and intellect, but because they, like you, were quirky. Woodrow Wilson got stuck on a train in the mud, FDR commissioned a lot of murals, but he was absolutely nuts over building highways and bridges. JFK stood up in Berlin and announced he was a doughnut.”
“Taft,” Jed corrected amiably.
“Taft?”
“President Woodrow Wilson federalised the railroads, it was President Taft who got stuck on them.”
Annabeth didn’t miss a beat. “- For example, one of your quirks is an obsession with American history. And National Parks. I’ve heard rumours about turkey basting and the Butterball hotline, but I don’t think even you’re that crazy. With respect, Sir,” she added for good measure.
“Nice catch.”
“It’s these stories that make our Presidents human, Sir, you know that. And us voting folk place a lot of trust in our Congress, our Senators and our Presidents. Of course I don't want to know what kind of underwear anyone in politics is wearing, but I do want to know that our representatives appreciate they could be affecting the price of our delicates when they're re-negotiating the price of cotton. In other words, we want to know that when we pull that lever, we don’t just get a carbon copy kid, fresh off the line from Ivy League school that the rest of us are smart enough to attend but couldn’t necessarily afford.”
The President smiled wryly, enjoying Annabeth's ability to work education, agricultural policy and the nation's choice of underwear into one salient argument. “You sound like the First Lady.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You do that.” The President turned to his former colleague. “I do know you’re right. And the points you make are excellent, Annabeth. Helen Santos will be very fortunate to have you on her staff.”
“CJ, Will and Toby taught me a lot, Sir. And Leo, of course. And so did you.” Annabeth replied, enjoying the rare opportunity to speak candidly with the President. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping my bounds, Mr President-”
“- I have two days left in office, and my best friend adored you as much as you baffled him. You know where the line is and you’re not overstepping anything.”
"Thank you." Annabeth blushed. “Sir, I believe you know that I worked with Taylor Reid before coming to the White House?”
“I do.”
“I was in the room with the higher ups when Zoey was taken. When they were trying to decide what to make of it all, how to present the story. Some of the discussions I heard during that week…” Annabeth, looked down momentarily, checking she hadn’t crossed the boundaries of informality, as blurred as they currently were. The President was regarding her attentively.
“…I want to confirm that Taylor was never part of these discussions, Sir, but people I respected were. Or at least I thought I respected them. I realised as the story progressed that the person I respected most of all was you. The way you handled things. The love and loyalty you showed to your family and country in those awful days? I’m not afraid to say it made me a little teary-eyed, Sir.” Annabeth looked at the President with respect, humbled by the memory. “I made up my mind right there and then that one day I would work for you.”
“Really?” Jed replied softly, genuinely touched. “I didn’t know that.”
“No-one does, actually. Except Donna. She also taught me a lot. And she never went to an Ivy League school either.”
“Nor did I, come to that, Mr President," Ron added, stepping out of his professional skin for the first time in Annabeth's recollection.
“There isn’t a school, Ivy League or otherwise that can teach the qualities you have, Ron. If we had knighthoods in this country, I'd have dubbed thee Sir Ron Butterfield long, long ago."
"That's very generous of you Sir, thank you," Ron answered humbly and Annabeth could have sworn for the tiniest of moments his cheeks blushed.
"What it comes down to the end, folks, is I would just like to be remembered not for the style, but for the substance. And let's all marvel at the ironic egotism of that sentence for a while."
"Let's not, Sir." Annabeth said bluntly, her tone abrupt even in the informal context of the past thirty minutes.
“I’m not here to tell you things you want to hear or already know. We're all aware that on the one to ten scale of pulling the schedules, the President stuck in a defective elevator with his dashing Secret Service agent and a perky former Deputy Press Secretary is no Capitol Beat special. But it sure beats the borderline, if not openly sexist questions you were going to get on Mrs Bartlett’s intention to resume full-time medical practice and turn you into a stay at home ex-president.”
"You said that what it comes down to is not style, but substance, but it's so much more than that. The most important thing of all, what it really comes down to in the end, is this: Some Presidents we remember because of what they did or didn’t do in the Oval Office. Some Presidents we remember because of what they did out of it. And if we’re lucky, once in a generation, we get a President who does something memorable every day.”
Annabeth turned to her former boss and smiled at him.
“President Josiah Bartlet, you don’t have to be the first Latino President to be once in a generation. Your work. Your mind. Your ideals. We’ll remember you, Sir, and not because you once got stuck in an elevator.”
Jed breathed in, quietly moved. “Thank you, Annabeth.”
“You’re welcome. Besides," She added sassily, as she turned back to face the front of the elevator, "You also once road your bike into a tree.”
The President laughed. “Okay, now you really sound like Abbey.”
Annabeth's answer was halted as the elevator shunted back into life and resumed its ascent once again.
"Full function returned, Sir," Ron said, relaying information as he received it through his earpiece. "The floor's been cleared of press and Will Bailey's waiting for you."
"Thank you, Ron."
"So, Ms Schott," The President asked, "Just out of interest, do you think there’s a way we could make this less of a story?”
“You could make out with Ron, Mr. President,” Annabeth smiled sweetly.
Jed’s eyebrow rose as he considered his options.
“You’re a nice guy, Ron and you’ve seen me half-dressed more than once, but I have a horrible ego and could never date someone taller than me.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“I’m 4’11, Mr President.”
“In a 5 foot bag.”
Finally, the elevator came to a halt. With a welcoming ping, the doors opened to the expectant face of Will Bailey, flanked discreetly in the background by a double helping of Secret Service agents. Behind them, were two tired looking maintenance workers trying to appear inconspicuous, despite the large crowbars they still held in their hands.
"Mr Bailey!"
"Mr President," Will replied, slightly surprised by the notably upbeat mood of the elevator's former occupants. "Is everything alright, Sir?
“Everything is quite alright, thank you Will. There were Martian spaceships, but Ron took care of it. Gentlemen!" He exclaimed, walking directly to the two maintenance workers, shaking them each warmly by the hand and subtlety reading their embroidered name-tags as he did so. "Thank you very much for your efforts, today, I hope Mr Bailey here and Mrs Bartlet didn't put you under too much scrutiny."
"No, Sir."
"Are you sure? I like them, but I've still got two days in office and I could have them exiled."
The elder of the two chuckled, his companion somewhat overwhelmed, "We're just glad you're all okay, Sir."
The President nodded. "We're fine thank you, though, André, Kevin, if I were you, I'd call your mothers, ask them to TiVo C-SPAN this afternoon; their sons are about to get a big shout-out from the President of the United States on national television."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
"Where are we, Will?" Jed asked, allowing his Communications Director to lead him away down the hall.
"We've pushed the press meet and greet until 3pm, Mrs Bartlet is waiting in the suite and, please excuse the direct nature of this quote, which I was ordered to deliver verbatim, "Don't even think of marching your ass into that media jungle without joining me for lunch first."
"Well, looks like there's gumption all round today."
"Sir?"
"Don't worry about it, Will, you had to be there."
"Due respect, Mr President, but I'm quite glad I wasn't." Will stopped at the doors of President's hotel suite. "This is you, Sir."
"Thanks Will. Annabeth, let me repeat what I said earlier; Mrs Santos is very lucky to have you. Don't let anyone on Josh's team try and tell you how they think you should think; what you know and who you are is what got you here and we could all do with a little more of that in the world. To thine own self be true, understand?"
"Yes, Sir," Annabeth nodded with gratitude, the tiniest crack in her voice, "Thank you, Mr President."
The President turned to address his ever-constant bodyguard. "And as for you, Ron, who is your deputy right now?"
"Sanders, Sir," he replied, indicating the agent close behind him.
"Sanders, you need to arrange cover for Ron for the next couple of hours."
"Mr President-" Ron began, before being swiftly cut off.
"- I can't offer you a knighthood, but I can offer you cake."
"Sir-"
Jed stepped towards Ron, his voice softening. "- Ron Butterfield, you have spent the past eight years of your life placing my needs before your own. I am your Commander-in-Chief and I could order you to dine with me, but what I would really like is if you would accept the offer of a friend, and please do my wife and I the honour of joining for lunch."
Ron looked to his colleague, "Sanders?"
"I can have Morris and Becket join me in less than minute, Sir."
Annabeth and Will watched as Ron and the President regarded one another thoughtfully.
"Give them three," Ron answered finally, unbuttoning his jacket and taking his earpiece out. "They'll want to take the stairs."
~~~
Endnote: Those of you who were around in the early days of The O.C. will recognise the invokation of a familiar premise, namely the good old "look who's stuck in a lift" trope. My original intention was to revisit the premise, writing a drabble for each of my fandoms, but this particular story rapidly developed a life of its own and turned into a full length one-shot. It just took the whole of November failing at wrisomifu and three and half days of being snowed in to actually complete it.