Work Text:
Put My Heart Down
“Don't touch me. Don't you dare touch me!” Yanking her arm away, covering large amounts of floor with her steps so as to put desired distance between them, she made eye contact. Glaring icily was the only thing she could bring herself to do.
“Hill, baby I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Please, can we talk about this?”
“Oh, baby. Baby, baby, baby,” Hillary mocked him angrily, fire in her eyes, despair holding a death grip on her heart. “Shut the fuck up. I can hardly look at you right now.”
“I don't blame you.” He didn't even know why he was there in front of her, grasping at straws, looking for empty words to bring them back together. None of it was her fault, none of what he was saying would help.
“Then what do you want? What are you doing here?”
“I-I don't know,” he choked out, desperately willing pent up emotion not to spill over, tears welled behind his eyes not to fall.
“Well, if there's no real reason for this encounter, you need to leave. Please.” She punctuated the last word, intonation depicting anything but manners or kindness. “I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
Bill didn't try to talk, plead or argue. Knowing he'd get nowhere, he turned and walked away.
“Hillary?” He turned back again, watching her, seeing she now had her back to him. He didn't think he could take the look in her eyes again, even if he did deserve it.
“What?!” Movements halting suddenly, she stood stock-still where she was, didn't turn.
“I love you.” No matter what, he needed her to know.
“You've got a funny way of showing it.”
///
Rising bolt upright in bed, it dawned on him where he was. The master bedroom of the Residence. The White House. Alone. His eyes skirted across the section of bare sheet pristine and unwrinkled on her side of the bed. She wasn't due home for another two days. He was sure she didn't miss him as much as he missed her. It was made a point on her end to put as much space as possible between them every day.
Running his hands over his face and sighing deeply, he flung his legs over the side of the bed and rose to stand. His t-shirt clung to his skin, adhesion provided by cold sweat that had begun to dry. Taking a bit of the fabric of its front between thumb and forefinger, he pulled it away from himself, creating a fanning effect, feeling some of the unwanted stickiness dissipate after repeating himself an adequate number of times.
///
“Is everything all right, Mr. President?”
The tumbler of Rye and Ginger-Ale he clutched in one hand almost fell and crashed to the ground, voice of whichever of the ever present night prowlers had noticed him there catching him off guard and causing him to jump.
“Fine. Just needed a drink.” Regaining equilibrium, he gripped his glass tightly again, lifting it a little in the direction of the lurking party as an indication of proof. Slouched, solemn, and off to himself, he didn't feel like turning around. They'd messed with his attempts to quiet the thoughts whirring in his head. Unlike many other nights agents or late staying staff members had found either of them, tonight wasn't one for explanations. He didn't think he could even coherently string words together, the blanket of fog drink had bestowed upon his brain making matters none the better.
“The dreams again?”
This caught his attention, and he half turned, looked up. There was only one agent he'd spilled that to. A night much like this one, weight of the scandal raw and fresher than it even was currently, he'd picked his poison, found a friend in the potency of vodka. It too, had covered his brain in fog, lowered inhibition, and his tongue had loosened. When it came to the Service, there were rarely secrets; in a state of sobriety he would have known better than to forget that. Close as they'd gotten to some, they both made conscious effort not to let professional bleed too profusely over the line into personal.
“Yeah,” he answered flatly as the agent took tentative steps toward him, slowly lowering himself down onto the lengthy couch, conscious to ensure at least two cushions separated them.
“Which one was it this time?”
“I was apologising, she was angry, wouldn't talk to me. They've all started to blend together by now. I don't recall details.” It was true. Since this last act of betrayal, he'd dreamt frequently, fitfully, scenes sporadic and disconnected from each other. Sometimes it was just her face he remembered, anger etched across every line. Past memories they had shared, some innocent, some not so innocent at all, plagued him too and were ruined upon awakening, the weight of all he had done committing a fresh assault of his newly aware and operational senses.
“Does she know about this at all?”
“Well, did you tell her?” Bill swigged the last sip of his drink, set the glass down on a bare side table.
“I didn't,” the agent said seriously, expression austere. “I'm in the business of protecting you, it's not my place to drive wedges between you and the First Lady.”
“I've done that well enough all by myself.” Quiet hung over them for a time, neither having words worthy enough of disturbing it.
“Thank you,” Bill finally managed. “Keep it that way.” The words were statement, but their end held the slightest intonation of question.
“Of course.”
///
“Mrs. Clinton, are you okay?”
God, she wished people would stop asking her that question. Understanding of reasons for their concern, she deeply appreciated it. Harder however, was coming up with a day-to-day answer that didn't give away more than was necessary. As she had become quickly aware, this position left very little off the record, words and actions open to interpretation, even a hair out of place enough cause for rounds of criticism or scrutiny.
“Yes, dear. I'm as good as I can be. For the hundredth time, you can call me Hillary.”
“I'm sorry, it feels weird. I haven't worked for you as long as some.” The aide's skin was flushed, expression flustered, and her boss took pity on her. She was young, had come to her hopeful, exuberant and fresh faced. Though her eyes still sparkled in wonder at the intake of new information and she still possessed a genuine smile while eagerly obliging demands of the job, Hillary knew first hand how the novelty wore, how quickly it could all burn you out were you not a person inclined to develop thickness of skin.
“It'll grow on you, I promise.” Hillary's smile was warm, an attempt to put the younger woman at ease, even if she herself felt anything but that.
They were in the air, soon to touch down for their final leg of the trip. The President had asked her to go on his behalf and she'd given in not as a favour, but because of the space she felt needed to be put between. A conference would be held in the final days and as First Lady and a member of the US delegation, she was required to speak. Words came more easily to Bill than she, and the speech was proving difficult to complete.
Scanning the few paragraphs scrawled in hurried chicken scratch on the paper in her lap, she furrowed her brow and raised her pen to ink out sections she disliked. In her head, she began the tedious process of restructuring and rewording. Almost never were her eyes the only pair to bear witness to a finished product before it was spoken, but she attempted to inject as much of her authentic self into every piece as possible.
“I'm sorry for what's happening right now, I can't imagine how difficult this must be for yourself and the President.” The aide nearest her punctuated the silence that had enveloped them, almost causing her to forget they'd previously been engaged in light conversation. “Am I overstepping?” She bit her bottom lip nervously.
“No,” Hillary said without looking up from her papers, one side of her mouth lifting into the faintest of lopsided smiles. “Thank you. It's most certainly not the best time I've ever had.”
“Do you want to stay with him?”
Though it shouldn't have, as it had been asked countless times, the question caught her off guard and the tip of her pen bore down hard enough to pierce a hole into the sheaf. “Now you're overstepping,” she said seriously.
Silence fell again, and as she wrote, she thought about the answer she would have given had she felt it appropriate. The trip had afforded her new experiences, as they all did, but in the hours of the night away from Bill she was also afforded time to think. Everything turned over and over, somersaulting in her mind. Empty space was filled, light gave way to heavy, certainties proved uncertain, fluctuations were continuous.
He had always evoked something in her she couldn't make sense of, caused her to become more than a slight walking contradiction, shown himself her strongest weakness. This ultimate deception had brought her to her knees, the dance they were engaged in becoming dangerous. She didn't know if she had it in her to rise and walk its steps again, didn't know she even wanted to.
///
Sitting cross legged at his desk in the Oval Office, Bill twirled his foot in a circular motion, feeling muscle tension leave his ankle and ease in his calf. He'd had back to back meetings all day and finally found a few moments to breathe. Focus hazy, dull ache taking up home behind his left eye, he'd been unable to retain much. Picking up a sheaf of papers that had been left for him, he glanced at them only briefly before losing resolve and tossing them down again. He set his reading glasses atop them and began a slow, laboured massage of his temples. A migraine was undoubtedly coming.
“Mr. President, I've just gotten word that the First Lady is on the way home. She should touch down within the hour.”
His Chief of Staff had popped his head in, he knew the voice. Ceasing his movements, his hands fell to his lap where he clasped them, fingers entwined together.
“Thank you,” he responded, finally making fleeting eye contact before footsteps retreated again.
Under normal circumstances he'd be excited, but he wasn't. He wanted her home safe, as he always did, but he was otherwise apprehensive. It was unknown to him how the trip may have changed her, what she'd had time to contemplate, and he was afraid to find out. Uncrossing his legs, he pushed away from the desk and raised himself. His migraine needed tending to before it became any worse.
///
Hillary found him with his nose in a book in the Sitting Room of the Third Floor. They'd spoken a mere five words between them since her landing. It hadn't been her plan to scout him out. She was still angry, but as was so often the case upon returning from a trip, she found herself wanting to share the happenings of it with him. Unsure of how to even begin again, start a conversation that was worth having while so much still hung between them, she remained awkwardly in the door jamb.
“Hey,” Bill said softly, looking up from his book having sensed a presence.
“Hey, she mouthed back, eyes boring into him. Pain was etched on her face, he knew she wanted to look away.
“Come here.” Dog earring his page, he closed the book and placed it gently on a side table, opening his arms to her.
“Bill, I..” The sentence trailed off, words twisting on her tongue, all she didn't know how to say hanging like a cloud of stale air between them.
“Please.”
Sighing heavily, she took cautious steps, made her way to him. Falling slowly into his lap, his arms encircled her and she was surprised at how normal it felt. Maybe there was truth to the notion that actions conveyed what words couldn't, filled necessary voids.
“Do you love me?” Voice soft, she turned to look at him, expression unreadable.
He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a ragged breath, the blend of emotions dancing in hers painful for him to bear witness to. “Hillary, of course I do.”
“You made me question it. Everything. And I will for a long time.”
“I'm so sorry.” The phrase escaped him so often, he wouldn't be the least bit surprised if she questioned its validity forever.
“So you've said.” She let silence fall and sit for long moments before speaking again. “Did she have something that I don't?”
“No. God, no. Please don't think that.” There was no valid reason, no plausible excuse for what he had done. Nobody could hold a candle to his wife. Failing to prove that, she was slipping through his fingers. “However this ends, when it's all over, do you want me to leave?”
She had thrown around at the height of her anger the dreaded seven letter word that would dissolve their union, but he hadn't pushed the subject since the beginning of the fallout. Part of him wanted to believe it was an empty threat, part didn't want to hear her final answer. They'd heard buzz of attempts to impeach him, but nothing was final yet. No matter what happened, how much he'd loved serving the people of his country, he would always love her more. A life without her was unfathomable.
“Honestly? I've thought more than once I may be better off.”
Heartbeat in his ears, he swallowed the lump in his throat. He wished more than he'd ever done that he could have been a better man for her.
“I deserve that,” he said.
“I don't know right now. This is a big mess you made. I don't even know if there's a right way to go about cleaning it up.”
“I know.”
She rose from his lap, turned to face him, looked him in the eyes.
“I gave my heart to you a long time ago, and I gave you all of it. You've broken it many times over, but never so badly as this last one. Some day, I may be able to put it back together, forgive you one more time. But if you're not going to take care of it, please put it down. Put it down and walk away.”
Walking from the room, she allowed tears to fall once she was a sufficient distance from him. Exhaustion was finally catching up to her, and she was ready to succumb to it.
As he watched her leave, he thought about what she'd said, words flip flopping over each other in his head. He'd broken someone whose spirit he once thought to be unbreakable, and he really didn't deserve any opportunity for mistake ever again. If she decided eventually that putting her heart down was what she wanted him to do, he would give that to her uncontested. Until he had a definite answer, he knew he had to do better. Fixing himself, fighting, starting from the ground up, as scary as all of those things were, scarier was the possibility of losing her.
-FIN