Work Text:
“I can’t believe—” Patrick interrupts himself with a kiss, takes a moment to consider his options. There are a lot of things he can’t believe right now. That he’s actually here, in the White House, in his very own office, making out against his very own desk. That he’s doing this during work hours. That this is the person he gets to do this with. “I can’t believe I’m kissing a meme.”
He pulls back from the real David Rose to watch the one on his phone wink again. And again. And—
“I’m a gif.” David leans in for another kiss, pawing the phone away. “My mother’s a meme.”
It’s true. Moira’s Inauguration Day outfit—red-and-white striped McQueen and a star spangled beehive that Patrick can’t comprehend the physics of—has predictably broken the internet for an entire week. She’s been photoshopped everywhere from Nazi-punching comic book covers to Where’s Waldo crowds. @FWOTUS (First Wig of the United States) already has half a million TikTok followers, however that happens. It’s currently in a feud with @ArethasHat.
In a rare demonstration of attention surplus, though, social media has scrounged up enough hyperfocus for two things from that day. That’s how this moment of David, framed behind his father at the lectern, winking at some unseen person off to his left and up in the bleachers, came to be playing on a loop in the palm of Patrick’s hand. Not that he ever plans on forgetting that moment, but it’s nice to have this new angle on it.
“You’re a gif and a meme. Twitter won’t rest until they find out who you’re winking at.” Patrick keeps scrolling as David’s lips find that spot below his ear. “Steve Kornacki just liked a tweet saying that it’s him. God, that guy is so thirsty for you.”
“He wears khakis from the Gap and staples in his tie, he’s not into me.”
“All my khakis are from the Gap.” Patrick tucks his phone away. “Anyway, I was really hoping your response might be more along the lines of you not being into him.”
“Please, do you remember election night? Everyone’s into him.”
“Mmm, which election night are we talking about?”
“All of them?”
“Yes, I happen to remember very clearly who you were into on every one of those nights.” Patrick takes David’s face in his hands, palms right over his dimples. “Now, can we be done talking? I only scheduled 10 minutes for this make out before I have to—”
The door rattles open on historic hinges. “Patrick, you’re wanted in—Oh hello, David! I didn’t realize you were here!”
“Ray,” Patrick says, dropping his hands. “You might want to try knocking.”
He half expects David to jump back, to make an excuse, to rush from the room, even. To try to pretend Patrick’s assistant hasn’t just interrupted what he’s interrupted. Instead David closes his eyes, crumples forward, and buries his face in Patrick’s shoulder. Embarrassed, but not hiding. It’s the answer to a question neither of them has asked yet, whether they’re letting people know. Not that they’ve been keeping a secret up till now, but they have been careful about the optics. Patrick thinks they’ve been careful. It’s all so new.
“Knock knock,” Ray says, plowing forward without a pause, “you’re wanted in the Chief of Staff’s office right away for an emergency word thing.”
“An emergency word thing,” Patrick repeats. He’s still feeling David’s body heat, and his brain is having trouble catching up to the conversation.
“Yes, that’s a direct quote.”
“Okay, tell Roland I’ll be there in a minute.”
“He did say right away.” Ray is a cheerful bully, which makes him great at his job. “David, it’s wonderful to see you, you’re welcome anytime. Except for right now, because Patrick needs to be going to—”
“The Chief of Staff’s office.” Patrick feels the clench in his own smile. “Got it! Thank you, Ray!”
“I’ll leave the door open!” Ray does, and turns back to his desk.
David surfaces, steps back. “You should probably—”
Patrick doesn’t let him finish, instead pulling him into a kiss that’s longer, deeper, fuller than is really appropriate in an open-door workplace setting. It doesn’t matter. Everyone out there is also in Week One of their dream job. No one who might see them would begrudge them the passion. Well, Stevie definitely would, but only for show.
“I’m sorry, I’m gonna have to cut this short, because I’m so important that the President of the United State’s Chief of Staff needs me for an emergency word thing.” The joke is mostly ruined by the giddiness in his voice. This is really happening.
“Mmm, believe it or not, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that exact brush-off line from one of you DC types.” David smooths down the shoulders and lapels of Patrick’s suit. “God, I hate this town.”
David startles, freezes. They stare at each other. This isn’t the first time David has said this, or even the hundredth. It was a constant refrain on the campaign trail, even when that trail took them, by definition, out of this town. “Time to board the dreaded DC Mobile Unit,” David always said whenever they were getting on a new bus or plane. But this is the first time he’s said something like this since election night. It hits different.
Patrick says what they’re both thinking. “If I’m very lucky, I’ll get to live here for the next eight years.”
David steps back and grimaces up at the ceiling. They haven’t talked about this. The last three months have been full of logistics for both of them, but not shared logistics, never us logistics. David and Alexis closed on a brownstone in the West Village last week. Patrick has keys to a tiny Georgetown condo jangling around in his pocket and an overstuffed couch for his office on backorder. David hasn’t stopped complaining about his decision to live in New York with his sister, which sounds like a sign that it’s the right one. Patrick’s decision to live in DC isn’t really a decision at all, just a fact. So they haven’t talked about it. There isn’t much to say.
And anyway, when would they have said it? They’ve spent their time together on hotel beds and over takeout meals in between Patrick’s eighteen-hour days and David’s press engagements. They’ve talked about Patrick’s communications plan for the administration’s first 100 days and David’s desperate desire to do something that matters with his high profile. To not let the media swallow him back up inside a socialite’s skin. They still haven’t had a proper first date. They’ve seen each other mostly in stolen moments not for the clandestine thrill, but because when your life revolves around the President-elect of the United States, any private moment has to be stolen. They’ve had enough time together to do the thing or talk about the thing, not both. They’ve had to choose. And it turns out they really, really enjoy doing the thing.
Time’s running out. Patrick needed to be in Roland’s office five minutes ago. He cuts to the chase. “I want to do long distance.”
“Oh.” David appears to be digesting this declaration through his eyebrows.
“I mean, New York is only—With the train it’s not—And even if you did live here, my schedule—” Patrick reminds himself that it’s literally his job to finish sentences. “Whatever the distance, I want to do it with you.”
Before David can say anything, Ray’s in the doorway. “Knock—”
“Yes, Ray, I’m going now.” Patrick keeps his eyes on David as he grabs his laptop. “Dinner. Tonight. Make a reservation anywhere. We’ll talk.”
Patrick’s out the door before David can agree, so he just has to cross his fingers and hope.
Roland’s emergency word thing, it turns out, is needing to know whether “warming” in “global warming” is a noun or a verb. Patrick should be annoyed, but no conversation about gerunds has ever been a waste of his time. And anyway, once he reads the briefing it came from, he can see why the ambiguity is causing confusion. It puts the emphasis on the action of warming, while avoiding mentioning what’s doing the warming. Patrick pulls up the digital copy to make edits while Roland gets the Energy Secretary on the phone to talk through a change in messaging strategy.
When they’re done, he checks his phone on the way back to his office to find he got a text from David two hours ago.
David: 8?
Fuck.
Patrick: Yes! Perfect.
It’s far from perfect. It’s three hours away and he has at least five hours of reports to read before tomorrow. But it’s David, so he’ll make it work.
Patrick keeps his phone face up on his desk while he scrolls on his laptop, so he catches David’s next message as soon as it lights up in the corner of his eye.
David: earliest la perla can do is 9 45
Patrick: Even better!
“Knock knock.” Ray sticks his head around the door. “The President needs five minutes with you.”
There’s only one response to that invitation, and Patrick leaps out of his seat to give it. He walks down the hall to the beat of his pulse pounding in his ears. As he’s crossing the threshold into the Oval Office, he remembers that he left his phone behind and then immediately forgets again.
Five minutes with the President becomes fifteen minutes with the President becomes an hour with the Deputy National Security Advisor, trying to sort out who said when and what it all means and how to make it make sense to the American people. It’s a long time before Patrick has a second to even look at a clock.
He makes it back to his office and his phone eventually. Buried under an epic scroll of notifications is a new text from David.
David: theres something better than perfect?
It’s time stamped one minute after Patrick’s last message, which is now three hours ago.
Patrick: Yes. You.
Patrick: Sorry, I hope delayed flirting still counts for something
He re-opens his folder of reports, scanning each to sort them into priority order and tackle the must-reads before dinner. It’s difficult not to get sucked into some of them. There’s a reason he has this job, and it’s not because he hates reading trend forecasting for the aeronautic industry or the achievement gap in the public school system. When he looks up next, it’s at the growl of his stomach. His phone shows more texts.
David: it would if you were any good at it
David: i thought you were supposed to be a writer or something…
Patrick grins wide and then feels it die when he sees the time. It’s somehow already nine and he’s still not done sorting let alone reading. There’s no way dinner is happening.
He tries to call David, because that’s what adults do, and doesn’t bother leaving a voicemail when he doesn’t pick up, because that’s what Millennials do.
Patrick: Tried calling you, I hope you get this. I’m really, really sorry but I have to cancel dinner. I’ll be lucky if I get out of here before midnight. Breakfast tomorrow instead?
He glances down at the calendar Ray set out on his desk, which shows his weekly schedule and, inexplicably, a photoshop of the Lincoln Memorial in front of a volcano. Tomorrow is buried under several layers of color-coded meetings.
Patrick: Damn. No, tomorrow won’t work.
Patrick: We’ll find a time.
Patrick: I’m sorry.
He tries to refocus on the reports, but his attention won’t stop straying to his phone every time it lights up. News alert. News alert. Email from Stevie with an advance copy of tomorrow’s op-ed in the Washington Post. Twitter notification. Health app message. Email from Stevie with a line-by-line teardown of the op-ed. News alert. Email from Stevie trying to quit. No texts from David.
The walls of his office start to feel suffocating. He picks up his laptop and takes a long loop through the halls, reading and absorbing the changing scenery through his peripheral vision. There are a few people still here, lingering in their coats and boots, chatting in doorways they can’t seem to leave through. Mostly it’s quiet. Patrick texts Ray to go home, and by the time he comes back around his assistant’s desk is empty. Patrick finishes the third report of twelve, moves on to the fourth.
He’s just settled back in his chair when there’s a soft knock at the door. An actual knock. “Patrick?”
“Yes.” Patrick’s on his feet again. “Mr. President.”
“One more thing before I turn in. Walk with me toward the residence?”
They walk and talk. Patrick tries to listen, but halfway down the colonnade it becomes clear that President Rose just needed a sounding board to restate something they already hashed out earlier, and his mind starts to wander without his permission. He knows it’s just one canceled date. It’s not that big a deal. Except that now 100% of their planned dates have been canceled, which feels like a grim prophecy of what’s to come. Should they even bother? When Patrick’s so busy that he can’t even make time to talk about just how busy he is? Should they even try?
“So I expect the draft on my desk first thing tomorrow. We’re bringing back Freedom Fries.”
Patrick shakes himself back to the here and now. They’ve stopped at the door to the residence. “Sir?”
The President chuckles. “Just a joke. I had a hunch you stopped listening a while back.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“No, no, Patrick.” The President puts a hand on his shoulder. “I was mostly talking to myself. I shouldn’t have bothered you. Go on back, but don’t work too hard, okay? There’s a long road ahead.”
“I’ll try, sir.”
“And cut back on this ‘sir’ business. It makes me feel old.”
Patrick grins. “That’s really too bad, sir.”
On his way back, Patrick gets a new text.
David: where are you?
His stomach drops. It’s 10:15, and all he can think of is David not receiving his text, going to the restaurant, assuming he’s been stood up. But no, Patrick’s text is right there, above David’s question. He had to have seen it.
Patrick: In my office, why?
David: no you’re not
Patrick smiles. He tries not to run.
When he rounds the corner his office is dark, even though he knows he left the light on in there, a bad habit. Well, it’s mostly dark. David is lighting a candle on the desk, clearing space for to-go boxes among the stacks of paper. And yes, watching this man move around in the flickering light, arranging everything he brought just so, Patrick knows. They should try.
“I didn’t know La Perla did takeaway.”
David straightens and presses a smile between his teeth. “I can be very persuasive.”
“You are a meme, after all.”
“A gif, but. Sure.” David crosses to him, loops his arms around Patrick’s shoulders. “Where’ve you been?”
“I serve at the pleasure of the President,” Patrick answers.
David pulls a face. “Okay, don’t need that.”
Patrick kisses his mouth while it’s still crooked. When he pulls back, it’s smiling.
“Hey,” David says softly, leaning close to press their foreheads together. “Whatever the distance. Let’s do it.”