Fic: Déjà-vu
Title: Déjà-vu
Author: Melyanna
Rating: Older kid-friendly
Summary: The previously unrecorded drama of German attachés and American pilots, or how Elizabeth used to be a blonde and John had no idea.
Notes: Written for nessataleweaver as part of this year's swficathon. One of her requests gave me the option of writing a Stargate/non-scifi crossover, and... well, might as well use a crossover that I've already put a lot of thought into. ;) Many thanks to familyarchives for the cheerleading, athenaktt for the remarkably quick and thorough beta, and sache8 and freifraufischer deserve a lot of credit, because they've put up with an awful lot of whining from my end about my writing lately.
Major John Sheppard entered the White House for the very first - and probably last - time on Valentine’s Day. Of course, he’d spent the last six weeks in western Africa and wouldn’t have remembered the date or its significance if it hadn’t been for the cute little redhead in the bar he’d visited the night before, hinting very strongly that she didn’t want to wake up alone on Valentine’s Day. John didn’t know if she’d gotten her wish or not, but he’d escaped when she went to the bathroom. He didn’t normally object to one-night stands, but something about picking up a chick in a bar and going to an appointment at the White House the next evening just wasn’t working for him.
He was met in the northwest lobby by a very tall, red-haired woman who introduced herself as Margaret. He figured out rather quickly that she was rather odd and had even more random knowledge than his mother did. What struck him as bizarre, however, was that they kept passing people who looked seriously overdressed for office work. He knew that the White House was a world with which he was utterly unfamiliar, but the number of people in tuxedos was somewhat ridiculous.
After passing a third group of people in evening wear, John turned to his escort and said, “You people having a Valentine’s party or something?”
“Huh? Oh, no,” Margaret replied. “Presidents’ Day is Monday. But whatever you do, don’t mention that if you’re near the Oval Office. President Bartlet’s been a little cranky about the whole holiday.”
“Why, because they combined Lincoln and Washington’s birthdays and then don’t celebrate on either birthday?”
She looked impressed. “That’s exactly it. How’d you guess?”
“My sister’s birthday is the twenty-second,” John explained. “When we were little her birthday was a holiday. Then the school system changed to having Presidents’ Day off instead of Washington’s birthday.”
Margaret nodded. “Well, there was that, and the President thinks this was just an excuse to have a fancy party on Valentine’s Day. So yeah, don’t mention it in there.”
“Duly noted.”
They passed through a crowded office area, which included a woman in a ball gown yelling at someone named Josh, walked by a conference room that was all windows and then a curved wall, and they arrived in an outer office. John slowed down considerably, while Margaret went to the next door and knocked. “Excuse me, Admiral,” she said. “Leo? Major John Sheppard is here to see you.”
“Send him in, Margaret,” said a voice inside. John took a deep breath and walked into the office of the White House Chief of Staff.
It was kind of cave-like, with greyish walls and lit only by a few table lamps and the television which was on but muted near the door. Two middle-aged men were sitting around a coffee table under a painting of a ship, and they both rose when John stepped into the room. The smaller of the two men was Leo McGarry, but the tall black man in a Navy uniform was none other than Admiral Percy Fitzwallace, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
John hadn’t felt this nervous since the first time he’d been in the pilot’s seat of a helicopter, and he really hoped his palms wouldn’t get sweaty.
“Major Sheppard,” Admiral Fitzwallace said, extending his hand.
John shook it, and then shook Leo’s. “Thanks for coming on such short notice, Major,” Leo said. “You want something to drink?”
“Ah, no, sir, but thank you,” John replied.
“Well, have a seat.” Leo waved at an arm chair near one of four doors in the room, and John did as he was told. Leo sat down at the other end of the coffee table, and Fitzwallace on the sofa between them. “Fitz was just telling me about this mission you got the Air Force Commendation medal for,” Leo explained. “You’ve got to be crazy to get into one of those helicopters.”
John smiled faintly. “Well, that was Catch 22, wasn’t it?” he said.
Leo and Fitz both chuckled politely, and the admiral added, “This is coming from a man who flew bombers in Vietnam.”
John raised both brows. “Air Force or Navy?”
Leo sat up straighter. “Air Force. Why?”
“I just remember stories about Air Force pilots early in Vietnam having to jury-rig machine guns onto their planes so they could actually fire at the enemy,” John said. He didn’t add that during much of the Cold War, the Air Force had had the idea that since dropping nuclear bombs had solved one problem, it could solve all others. He was certain that the two other men in the room already knew that. “I think you were probably crazier than I was, sir.”
Leo looked a bit thoughtful. “Well, I do work here now.”
John smiled.
“Well, son,” said Fitzwallace, “we arranged this to congratulate you on your good work in Kundu.” John shifted a little uncomfortably. He’d been following orders, really. It had been an incredibly dangerous rescue op, and there probably weren’t all that many pilots who would have pulled it off, but he’d been following orders. “And we have an offer we’d like to make you.”
“The copilot’s seat on Air Force One is opening up here soon,” Leo continued. “It’d be a fast-track position. You’d be promoted to lieutenant colonel in the next six months, probably. And you’d have the pleasure of the President dropping into the cockpit for a chat whenever he’s bored.”
“Let’s not scare him with that, Leo,” Fitz joked.
John fought the urge to fidget with his tie. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never flown a fixed-wing craft.”
“Well, it’s not like we train all fixed-wing pilots to fly a 747,” Leo replied. “Anyone we picked would have to get some additional training, and your commander says you’re the best pilot he’s ever worked with. I’m sure you can pick this up.”
“I don’t know, sir,” John repeated.
Fitzwallace looked at him curiously. “What is it, Major? Most pilots would be chomping at the bit to get a job like this.”
John hedged for a moment, but decided on the truth. “My unit’s being deployed to Afghanistan in two months,” he explained. “And I feel like I’d be more useful there than schlepping people around in a 747, even if it is the President.”
He swallowed hard, expecting to get a counter argument on the issue, but it never came. Instead, they looked from him to each other and back again, and John got the sense that maybe, just maybe, these two men who had served in time of war understood why he would feel compelled to turn them down.
They stood up, and John did too. “Well, thank you for your time, son,” Fitzwallace said, shaking John’s hand again.
Leo added, “We’ll leave this offer on the table for a couple days, in case you change your mind. Afghanistan’s not a pretty place this time of year.”
John nodded, but didn’t foresee changing his mind.
“Sorry we didn’t have more time to chat,” Leo said. “But hey, if you decide you want a drink after all, feel free to stop by the party before you leave. It’s an informal thing.”
On his way out, John resisted the urge to ask what kind of universe it was where men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns was considered an informal thing.
He did take up Leo on the invitation, however, and lingered around the edges of the party for a while, nursing a glass of the best bourbon he’d had in ages. He was thinking about leaving when he spotted a blonde woman who looked far too toned to work in a government office eighty hours a week. She caught his eye at first because her back was to him, and there wasn’t much to the back of her dress.
She struck a stunning silhouette in her creamy gown, though John wondered idly what she would look like in red. She was carrying a glass of wine through the room but wasn’t drinking it, which made him think that she’d navigated such parties before. When she sat down at a table and crossed her legs, the high slit of her gown fell open, revealing the most gorgeous legs he’d seen in a long time before she fixed her skirt.
When she got up again and started walking toward one of the buffet tables near him, he decided to take a chance.
He strolled up to her, his drink in hand, and said, “Fancy meeting a nice girl like you in a dive like this.” He fought the urge to wince. He’d never been good at striking up conversations with total strangers, especially with women. Usually women just came to him.
The blonde looked up at him, startled, and he finally got to see that her face was as pretty as the rest of her. Then she shook her head. “Es tut mir schrecklich Leid,” she said. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
He might have made an excuse and left her alone at that point, but he saw her roll her eyes as she looked away from him. With a smirk, John replied, “Ja, eigentlich.”
Her eyes widened, and in the glow of twinkle lights hanging from the ceiling, he could see her blush. John chuckled to himself. He didn’t speak much German, but what he knew was evidently enough to embarrass her.
“Sorry,” he said. “I know, it was a terrible line.”
“You could say that,” she replied, her eyebrows raised. She was also studiously avoiding eye contact with him.
“Can I make it up to you?” John asked. “I’m a very good dancer.”
She looked up at him quickly and averted her gaze again. “I. . . came here with someone,” she said.
“Ah.” John took a sip of his bourbon. “He the jealous type?”
Finally she smiled, just a little. There was a hint of a dimple on her cheek that told him she had a mischievous streak after all. “Who said it’s a he?”
John laughed with her as Leo McGarry approached them. “Major,” the Chief of Staff said with a nod in his direction before he turned to the woman. “Doctor, the President asked to see you.”
“Thanks, Leo,” she replied, with a familiarity that suggested this was hardly her first time in the White House. Then she looked at John and nodded. “Major.”
“Doctor.”
He and Leo both watched her leave the room, and then the older man turned to him. “Major Sheppard, I say this with your best interests at heart,” he said. “She’s way out of your league.”
And he hadn’t even asked for her name, he mused. “Yeah,” he replied. “I’m getting that.”
Elizabeth Weir left the party wishing that she’d gotten the officer’s name. She knew his rank, knew his last name began with an S, and knew he was cute as hell. Somehow she imagined that wasn’t going to be enough information to track him down if she couldn’t find him again later at the party.
It was probably for the best. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told him she’d come with someone, after all.
By the time she reached the Oval Office, she’d pushed the cute officer to the back of her mind. “Hello, Charlie,” she said to the President’s personal aide when she entered the outer office.
“Evening, Doctor Weir,” the young man said.
“Haven’t made it to the party yet?”
“No, ma’am, but I hear it’s a good one,” he replied. Then he nodded at the door behind him. “You can go on in.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
She let herself into the Oval Office, where President Bartlet was sipping from a coffee mug in front of the Resolute desk. “Elizabeth,” he said, smiling fondly when she entered. “Having fun at the party?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Leo said you wanted to see me?”
“My youngest daughter finally coughed up her report card,” he explained, and Elizabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She knew exactly where this was going.
“You see, when Zoey was signing up for classes last semester,” he continued, “I convinced her to take one of your classes. Little did I know you were going to tarnish her academic record by giving her a C.”
“Sir, you were a college professor for a while,” she replied. “Don’t you remember that teachers don’t give grades, students earn them?”
“Spare me the platitudes, Doctor,” he teased.
Elizabeth shrugged. “You know, I’m used to students asking me to change their grades. Never thought the leader of the free world would be asking this favor.”
“Ellie was here for dinner when Zoey finally told me. She was laughing so hard she had to leave the table.” Jed eyed her. “So I can count on you?”
“Not a chance, sir.” They were both smiling at each other. “Was there something else?”
“Yeah, you planning on getting rid of the blonde hair at some point?”
Elizabeth reached up and touched a blonde curl. “You don’t like it?”
“You haven’t heard me complain about Ellie dying her hair,” he replied. “I like the brown better.”
“Well, I was just trying something new,” she said. “Simon thought it was a good idea.”
He didn’t even bother trying to conceal that he was rolling his eyes. He’d met Simon once - Simon was actually a friend of Abbey’s - and it was obvious from that one meeting that he didn’t approve. Elizabeth found that strange, as Simon Wallis was a perfect gentleman, but Jed Bartlet had in many ways stood in her father’s place for years, and she suspected he had never approved of his daughters’ boyfriends.
There was a knock on the door then, and Elizabeth looked over her shoulder to see Charlie opening it. “Mr. President?” he said. “You probably need to spend at least five minutes in this party.”
“Yeah, all right.”
The three headed out, and as they walked Elizabeth said, “Sir, if it’s any consolation, I failed that idiot boyfriend of Zoey’s.”
Both the President and Charlie looked at her abruptly before exchanging a glance with each other. “I like her, sir,” Charlie remarked.
“She’s a likable person, Charlie.”
“We should send her a fruit basket.”
“We should.”
Elizabeth just laughed.
As the evening progressed, she kept looking around for that officer, but didn’t see him again. He must have left.
Three years later
John had all but moved into Elizabeth’s quarters in Atlantis a few months after they’d first started seeing each other. The room was too small for all of their belongings, but they tended to spend the night in her room because the view from her window was spectacular, and there was nothing more inspiring than the sunrise over the city.
One evening, however, as she was getting ready for bed, John found himself sitting against the pillows and watching her. She was wearing one of his button-down shirts as a nightshirt, leaving him an excellent view of her legs. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to this relationship yet, but he was willing to let her legs distract him.
Then as she leaned over to pick up his boots and move them, he thought of something and gasped.
Elizabeth looked up at him and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “What is it?”
“This is going to sound weird,” he replied awkwardly. “Were you ever a blonde?”
To his surprise, she gave him an evil little smirk. He’d seen that before too.
“That was you, wasn’t it?” he said. “Years ago, at the White House.” She just continued to smile at him as she put his boots away. “At least tell me how long you’ve known it was me.” Inwardly, he prayed she hadn’t known since they’d officially met in Antarctica.
“It was while Chaya was here and you were following her around like a sick puppy,” she explained, a little too gleefully. “Teyla and I were watching you, and suddenly I realized that I’d seen that pathetically cute face before.”
He would have objected to that characterization, but then Elizabeth sat on his lap, the pressure and proximity making his eyes cross. “Why were you even at the White House?” she asked.
John ran his hand along her side. “I had an appointment with Leo McGarry and Admiral Fitzwallace,” he replied. “They were offering me a job.”
“A job?” she repeated, eyebrow raised.
“Yeah,” he said, feeling oddly self-conscious. “I’d just pulled off a rescue mission in Kundu. People seemed to think it was important or dangerous or something. They offered me the copilot position on Air Force One. Their idea of a reward, I guess.”
Elizabeth looked suitably impressed. “They offered to let you fly the President’s plane?” she asked. “And you turned them down?”
“I wanted to go to Afghanistan with my unit,” he explained. “Well, I didn’t want to go to Afghanistan, but I felt like I belonged there more than in the President’s entourage.”
She looked contemplative, hardly unusual for her, but John was curious when she frowned a little. “What is it?” he asked.
“I’ve just always wondered,” she said, “why you were sent to Antarctica instead of being dishonorably discharged for your insubordination. The military as I’ve known it isn’t so forgiving. I guess I just assumed at some point that there was something in your record that I didn’t have the code-word clearance to see.”
John shrugged. “I’ve wondered occasionally if Leo or Admiral Fitzwallace had something to do with that.”
“It’s possible.” She gave him a hint of a devilish smile. “I should thank him, I guess. I had dreams about some hot Air Force officer for weeks after that party.”
“Hey! You shot me down pretty hard!” he said, almost pouting. “You’re the only girl who’s ever pretended not to speak English to get me to go away. And Leo tried to tell me after that you were out of my league.”
“You poor thing.”
He decided to change the subject slightly. “You were a really hot blonde, though. That wasn’t natural?”
“Nope.” She leaned over and kissed him lightly. “Do you have to realign all your fantasies now that I’m not a blonde lesbian with fantastic legs?”
“Nah,” John replied, pushing her down to the bed and running his hand up her thigh as he stretched out over her. “I like reality much better.”
Author: Melyanna
Rating: Older kid-friendly
Summary: The previously unrecorded drama of German attachés and American pilots, or how Elizabeth used to be a blonde and John had no idea.
Notes: Written for nessataleweaver as part of this year's swficathon. One of her requests gave me the option of writing a Stargate/non-scifi crossover, and... well, might as well use a crossover that I've already put a lot of thought into. ;) Many thanks to familyarchives for the cheerleading, athenaktt for the remarkably quick and thorough beta, and sache8 and freifraufischer deserve a lot of credit, because they've put up with an awful lot of whining from my end about my writing lately.
Major John Sheppard entered the White House for the very first - and probably last - time on Valentine’s Day. Of course, he’d spent the last six weeks in western Africa and wouldn’t have remembered the date or its significance if it hadn’t been for the cute little redhead in the bar he’d visited the night before, hinting very strongly that she didn’t want to wake up alone on Valentine’s Day. John didn’t know if she’d gotten her wish or not, but he’d escaped when she went to the bathroom. He didn’t normally object to one-night stands, but something about picking up a chick in a bar and going to an appointment at the White House the next evening just wasn’t working for him.
He was met in the northwest lobby by a very tall, red-haired woman who introduced herself as Margaret. He figured out rather quickly that she was rather odd and had even more random knowledge than his mother did. What struck him as bizarre, however, was that they kept passing people who looked seriously overdressed for office work. He knew that the White House was a world with which he was utterly unfamiliar, but the number of people in tuxedos was somewhat ridiculous.
After passing a third group of people in evening wear, John turned to his escort and said, “You people having a Valentine’s party or something?”
“Huh? Oh, no,” Margaret replied. “Presidents’ Day is Monday. But whatever you do, don’t mention that if you’re near the Oval Office. President Bartlet’s been a little cranky about the whole holiday.”
“Why, because they combined Lincoln and Washington’s birthdays and then don’t celebrate on either birthday?”
She looked impressed. “That’s exactly it. How’d you guess?”
“My sister’s birthday is the twenty-second,” John explained. “When we were little her birthday was a holiday. Then the school system changed to having Presidents’ Day off instead of Washington’s birthday.”
Margaret nodded. “Well, there was that, and the President thinks this was just an excuse to have a fancy party on Valentine’s Day. So yeah, don’t mention it in there.”
“Duly noted.”
They passed through a crowded office area, which included a woman in a ball gown yelling at someone named Josh, walked by a conference room that was all windows and then a curved wall, and they arrived in an outer office. John slowed down considerably, while Margaret went to the next door and knocked. “Excuse me, Admiral,” she said. “Leo? Major John Sheppard is here to see you.”
“Send him in, Margaret,” said a voice inside. John took a deep breath and walked into the office of the White House Chief of Staff.
It was kind of cave-like, with greyish walls and lit only by a few table lamps and the television which was on but muted near the door. Two middle-aged men were sitting around a coffee table under a painting of a ship, and they both rose when John stepped into the room. The smaller of the two men was Leo McGarry, but the tall black man in a Navy uniform was none other than Admiral Percy Fitzwallace, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
John hadn’t felt this nervous since the first time he’d been in the pilot’s seat of a helicopter, and he really hoped his palms wouldn’t get sweaty.
“Major Sheppard,” Admiral Fitzwallace said, extending his hand.
John shook it, and then shook Leo’s. “Thanks for coming on such short notice, Major,” Leo said. “You want something to drink?”
“Ah, no, sir, but thank you,” John replied.
“Well, have a seat.” Leo waved at an arm chair near one of four doors in the room, and John did as he was told. Leo sat down at the other end of the coffee table, and Fitzwallace on the sofa between them. “Fitz was just telling me about this mission you got the Air Force Commendation medal for,” Leo explained. “You’ve got to be crazy to get into one of those helicopters.”
John smiled faintly. “Well, that was Catch 22, wasn’t it?” he said.
Leo and Fitz both chuckled politely, and the admiral added, “This is coming from a man who flew bombers in Vietnam.”
John raised both brows. “Air Force or Navy?”
Leo sat up straighter. “Air Force. Why?”
“I just remember stories about Air Force pilots early in Vietnam having to jury-rig machine guns onto their planes so they could actually fire at the enemy,” John said. He didn’t add that during much of the Cold War, the Air Force had had the idea that since dropping nuclear bombs had solved one problem, it could solve all others. He was certain that the two other men in the room already knew that. “I think you were probably crazier than I was, sir.”
Leo looked a bit thoughtful. “Well, I do work here now.”
John smiled.
“Well, son,” said Fitzwallace, “we arranged this to congratulate you on your good work in Kundu.” John shifted a little uncomfortably. He’d been following orders, really. It had been an incredibly dangerous rescue op, and there probably weren’t all that many pilots who would have pulled it off, but he’d been following orders. “And we have an offer we’d like to make you.”
“The copilot’s seat on Air Force One is opening up here soon,” Leo continued. “It’d be a fast-track position. You’d be promoted to lieutenant colonel in the next six months, probably. And you’d have the pleasure of the President dropping into the cockpit for a chat whenever he’s bored.”
“Let’s not scare him with that, Leo,” Fitz joked.
John fought the urge to fidget with his tie. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never flown a fixed-wing craft.”
“Well, it’s not like we train all fixed-wing pilots to fly a 747,” Leo replied. “Anyone we picked would have to get some additional training, and your commander says you’re the best pilot he’s ever worked with. I’m sure you can pick this up.”
“I don’t know, sir,” John repeated.
Fitzwallace looked at him curiously. “What is it, Major? Most pilots would be chomping at the bit to get a job like this.”
John hedged for a moment, but decided on the truth. “My unit’s being deployed to Afghanistan in two months,” he explained. “And I feel like I’d be more useful there than schlepping people around in a 747, even if it is the President.”
He swallowed hard, expecting to get a counter argument on the issue, but it never came. Instead, they looked from him to each other and back again, and John got the sense that maybe, just maybe, these two men who had served in time of war understood why he would feel compelled to turn them down.
They stood up, and John did too. “Well, thank you for your time, son,” Fitzwallace said, shaking John’s hand again.
Leo added, “We’ll leave this offer on the table for a couple days, in case you change your mind. Afghanistan’s not a pretty place this time of year.”
John nodded, but didn’t foresee changing his mind.
“Sorry we didn’t have more time to chat,” Leo said. “But hey, if you decide you want a drink after all, feel free to stop by the party before you leave. It’s an informal thing.”
On his way out, John resisted the urge to ask what kind of universe it was where men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns was considered an informal thing.
He did take up Leo on the invitation, however, and lingered around the edges of the party for a while, nursing a glass of the best bourbon he’d had in ages. He was thinking about leaving when he spotted a blonde woman who looked far too toned to work in a government office eighty hours a week. She caught his eye at first because her back was to him, and there wasn’t much to the back of her dress.
She struck a stunning silhouette in her creamy gown, though John wondered idly what she would look like in red. She was carrying a glass of wine through the room but wasn’t drinking it, which made him think that she’d navigated such parties before. When she sat down at a table and crossed her legs, the high slit of her gown fell open, revealing the most gorgeous legs he’d seen in a long time before she fixed her skirt.
When she got up again and started walking toward one of the buffet tables near him, he decided to take a chance.
He strolled up to her, his drink in hand, and said, “Fancy meeting a nice girl like you in a dive like this.” He fought the urge to wince. He’d never been good at striking up conversations with total strangers, especially with women. Usually women just came to him.
The blonde looked up at him, startled, and he finally got to see that her face was as pretty as the rest of her. Then she shook her head. “Es tut mir schrecklich Leid,” she said. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
He might have made an excuse and left her alone at that point, but he saw her roll her eyes as she looked away from him. With a smirk, John replied, “Ja, eigentlich.”
Her eyes widened, and in the glow of twinkle lights hanging from the ceiling, he could see her blush. John chuckled to himself. He didn’t speak much German, but what he knew was evidently enough to embarrass her.
“Sorry,” he said. “I know, it was a terrible line.”
“You could say that,” she replied, her eyebrows raised. She was also studiously avoiding eye contact with him.
“Can I make it up to you?” John asked. “I’m a very good dancer.”
She looked up at him quickly and averted her gaze again. “I. . . came here with someone,” she said.
“Ah.” John took a sip of his bourbon. “He the jealous type?”
Finally she smiled, just a little. There was a hint of a dimple on her cheek that told him she had a mischievous streak after all. “Who said it’s a he?”
John laughed with her as Leo McGarry approached them. “Major,” the Chief of Staff said with a nod in his direction before he turned to the woman. “Doctor, the President asked to see you.”
“Thanks, Leo,” she replied, with a familiarity that suggested this was hardly her first time in the White House. Then she looked at John and nodded. “Major.”
“Doctor.”
He and Leo both watched her leave the room, and then the older man turned to him. “Major Sheppard, I say this with your best interests at heart,” he said. “She’s way out of your league.”
And he hadn’t even asked for her name, he mused. “Yeah,” he replied. “I’m getting that.”
Elizabeth Weir left the party wishing that she’d gotten the officer’s name. She knew his rank, knew his last name began with an S, and knew he was cute as hell. Somehow she imagined that wasn’t going to be enough information to track him down if she couldn’t find him again later at the party.
It was probably for the best. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told him she’d come with someone, after all.
By the time she reached the Oval Office, she’d pushed the cute officer to the back of her mind. “Hello, Charlie,” she said to the President’s personal aide when she entered the outer office.
“Evening, Doctor Weir,” the young man said.
“Haven’t made it to the party yet?”
“No, ma’am, but I hear it’s a good one,” he replied. Then he nodded at the door behind him. “You can go on in.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
She let herself into the Oval Office, where President Bartlet was sipping from a coffee mug in front of the Resolute desk. “Elizabeth,” he said, smiling fondly when she entered. “Having fun at the party?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Leo said you wanted to see me?”
“My youngest daughter finally coughed up her report card,” he explained, and Elizabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She knew exactly where this was going.
“You see, when Zoey was signing up for classes last semester,” he continued, “I convinced her to take one of your classes. Little did I know you were going to tarnish her academic record by giving her a C.”
“Sir, you were a college professor for a while,” she replied. “Don’t you remember that teachers don’t give grades, students earn them?”
“Spare me the platitudes, Doctor,” he teased.
Elizabeth shrugged. “You know, I’m used to students asking me to change their grades. Never thought the leader of the free world would be asking this favor.”
“Ellie was here for dinner when Zoey finally told me. She was laughing so hard she had to leave the table.” Jed eyed her. “So I can count on you?”
“Not a chance, sir.” They were both smiling at each other. “Was there something else?”
“Yeah, you planning on getting rid of the blonde hair at some point?”
Elizabeth reached up and touched a blonde curl. “You don’t like it?”
“You haven’t heard me complain about Ellie dying her hair,” he replied. “I like the brown better.”
“Well, I was just trying something new,” she said. “Simon thought it was a good idea.”
He didn’t even bother trying to conceal that he was rolling his eyes. He’d met Simon once - Simon was actually a friend of Abbey’s - and it was obvious from that one meeting that he didn’t approve. Elizabeth found that strange, as Simon Wallis was a perfect gentleman, but Jed Bartlet had in many ways stood in her father’s place for years, and she suspected he had never approved of his daughters’ boyfriends.
There was a knock on the door then, and Elizabeth looked over her shoulder to see Charlie opening it. “Mr. President?” he said. “You probably need to spend at least five minutes in this party.”
“Yeah, all right.”
The three headed out, and as they walked Elizabeth said, “Sir, if it’s any consolation, I failed that idiot boyfriend of Zoey’s.”
Both the President and Charlie looked at her abruptly before exchanging a glance with each other. “I like her, sir,” Charlie remarked.
“She’s a likable person, Charlie.”
“We should send her a fruit basket.”
“We should.”
Elizabeth just laughed.
As the evening progressed, she kept looking around for that officer, but didn’t see him again. He must have left.
Three years later
John had all but moved into Elizabeth’s quarters in Atlantis a few months after they’d first started seeing each other. The room was too small for all of their belongings, but they tended to spend the night in her room because the view from her window was spectacular, and there was nothing more inspiring than the sunrise over the city.
One evening, however, as she was getting ready for bed, John found himself sitting against the pillows and watching her. She was wearing one of his button-down shirts as a nightshirt, leaving him an excellent view of her legs. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to this relationship yet, but he was willing to let her legs distract him.
Then as she leaned over to pick up his boots and move them, he thought of something and gasped.
Elizabeth looked up at him and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “What is it?”
“This is going to sound weird,” he replied awkwardly. “Were you ever a blonde?”
To his surprise, she gave him an evil little smirk. He’d seen that before too.
“That was you, wasn’t it?” he said. “Years ago, at the White House.” She just continued to smile at him as she put his boots away. “At least tell me how long you’ve known it was me.” Inwardly, he prayed she hadn’t known since they’d officially met in Antarctica.
“It was while Chaya was here and you were following her around like a sick puppy,” she explained, a little too gleefully. “Teyla and I were watching you, and suddenly I realized that I’d seen that pathetically cute face before.”
He would have objected to that characterization, but then Elizabeth sat on his lap, the pressure and proximity making his eyes cross. “Why were you even at the White House?” she asked.
John ran his hand along her side. “I had an appointment with Leo McGarry and Admiral Fitzwallace,” he replied. “They were offering me a job.”
“A job?” she repeated, eyebrow raised.
“Yeah,” he said, feeling oddly self-conscious. “I’d just pulled off a rescue mission in Kundu. People seemed to think it was important or dangerous or something. They offered me the copilot position on Air Force One. Their idea of a reward, I guess.”
Elizabeth looked suitably impressed. “They offered to let you fly the President’s plane?” she asked. “And you turned them down?”
“I wanted to go to Afghanistan with my unit,” he explained. “Well, I didn’t want to go to Afghanistan, but I felt like I belonged there more than in the President’s entourage.”
She looked contemplative, hardly unusual for her, but John was curious when she frowned a little. “What is it?” he asked.
“I’ve just always wondered,” she said, “why you were sent to Antarctica instead of being dishonorably discharged for your insubordination. The military as I’ve known it isn’t so forgiving. I guess I just assumed at some point that there was something in your record that I didn’t have the code-word clearance to see.”
John shrugged. “I’ve wondered occasionally if Leo or Admiral Fitzwallace had something to do with that.”
“It’s possible.” She gave him a hint of a devilish smile. “I should thank him, I guess. I had dreams about some hot Air Force officer for weeks after that party.”
“Hey! You shot me down pretty hard!” he said, almost pouting. “You’re the only girl who’s ever pretended not to speak English to get me to go away. And Leo tried to tell me after that you were out of my league.”
“You poor thing.”
He decided to change the subject slightly. “You were a really hot blonde, though. That wasn’t natural?”
“Nope.” She leaned over and kissed him lightly. “Do you have to realign all your fantasies now that I’m not a blonde lesbian with fantastic legs?”
“Nah,” John replied, pushing her down to the bed and running his hand up her thigh as he stretched out over her. “I like reality much better.”