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“Where are you?” Kent calls from the bedroom, sounding surprisingly petulant.
He’s had a long day, one in a series of many, but he usually doesn’t complain. He usually quietly shuts the door behind him and presses a kiss to your forehead, the gesture expressing all the regrets he can’t or won’t verbalize.
“Stop whining!” you return, but there’s no malice in it.
Kent’s finally home early after who knows how many consecutive late nights at the White House. Of course, “early” for him means at ten o’clock at night, but you’ll take small victories where you can get them. According to his text messages from a few hours ago, the President had been in an uncharacteristically good mood and had let several staff members close to her go home early, Kent among them.
After a dinner of whatever leftovers were in the fridge, he had eschewed the cheesy romcoms on TV or his ever-growing pile of novels on the coffee table to clamber into bed. At first, you’d wondered if he was sick, or wanted sex, or something else entirely, but he had quickly put your suspicions to rest by yawning so wide you caught a glimpse of his molars. By the time you make your way to the bedroom and watch as he trades his suit for a white undershirt and pajama pants, he’s already turned off the lights.
“Long day at the office?” you tease, leaning against the doorway.
He finishes pulling the sweatpants up to his hips and turns to stare at you. Humor flickers in his eyes and a small smile tugs at his lips.
“You could say that.”
“Are you saying that?”
He shakes his head with a chuckle and climbs onto his side of the bed. You step into the bathroom to brush your teeth. The toothpaste has been moved from its usual location, indicating that Kent has already washed up. You’ve never seen him so eager to sleep. It’s almost frightening.
“Yes, I’m saying that,” he says, a touch of resignation in his tone.
“I’m sorry about that,” you reply, though it comes out garbled due to the toothbrush in your mouth.
“It’s the name of the game,” he returns. “I knew what I was signing up for when I came back to DC. You look quite handsome, by the way.”
“It’s not healthy,” you object, ignoring his flattery even though it makes your cheeks feel warm, and he groans.
The two of you have had this conversation a million times, at least. It always goes the same way. Kent returns from the White House bruised and battered, usually after working his ass off to help someone else clean up their mess. You tell him that he cannot keep running himself ragged like this, and he gently but firmly says that he will not be slowing down any time soon. You know he won’t stop, either. He’s far too invested in his work. But you engage in the back-and-forth anyway, if anything, to let him know you still care. He’s chosen to give so much for his job, and you’ve settled for patching him up once the battles are over.
“I’m not having this conversation tonight,” he says, settling himself on a pillow.
“I won’t make you,” you reply, smiling. “You need to sleep.”
“That, I do.”
You drop your toothbrush and close the bathroom door. Kent’s already pulled the blanket up to his chest by the time you take your place next to him. His words have made it quite clear that he doesn’t want pillow talk of any kind, so you make yourself comfortable and listen to his breathing even out. Kent’s presence is grounding. The bed always feels too big without him, something you’ll never admit to him for fear of being teased. It’s more than nice to have him back. Soon enough, you find your own eyes drifting shut.
You’re pulled out of a pleasantly dreamless slumber by the faint sound of something thumping on wood. A bleary-eyed glance towards the alarm clock informs you that five hours have elapsed. 3:17 AM, the neon display reads. After a moment of pure confusion, you realize someone must be knocking on a door somewhere. Maybe it’s not ours, you think, wishing desperately that it isn’t. Tucking yourself back under the covers, you settle yourself on the pillows, which smell like both your and Kent’s shampoos, thanks to the pillows’ strange ability to switch upon which side of the bed they rest. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to sync your breathing with his.
The knocking on the door is louder this time, and you can no longer pretend it’s for an apartment down the hall. Kent is still asleep, his nostrils flaring slightly with every exhale. His hair is sticking up in the back, with a few stray strands falling into his eyes. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, he looks completely at peace. In his sleep, he’s moved away from you. No doubt he had been too warm, a theory confirmed by the blankets tangled around his long legs. You relish these quiet moments in which you get to observe him not looking so exhausted. With a deep sigh, you pull yourself out of bed and pad softly down the hall to the front door. Ideally, you think, it’s just someone with the wrong address, and you’ll be able to crawl back into bed and curl up against his chest. The door opens with a faint creak, and you remember you had promised Kent you’d take a look at the hinges, but had never gotten around to doing it. One look at the pair in the doorway tells you that tonight won’t involve going back to bed and falling asleep to the sound of Kent’s steady breathing.
“Hi, we’re looking for Kent Davison. Is he here?” asks a well-groomed young man who tries to glance over your shoulder into the apartment.
He’s wearing a well-fitting suit and his shoes are shiny, but he looks harried. He’s undeniably twitchy, no doubt as a result of one too many cups of late-night coffee. His companion is an anxious-looking blonde woman who looks both wired from caffeine and ready to drop dead from exhaustion. Her shoulders are tense. In fact, every muscle in her body seems to be pulled taut. It’s a sharp contrast to her counterpart, who is trying hard to appear relaxed despite his obvious stress. They’re both wearing White House ID lanyards, but both of them have carefully tucked the IDs into their clothing. Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed them, especially not at this hour, but you’re quite familiar with that navy blue cord. It sits on one of the two night tables in your bedroom, atop a pile of mathematics journals and the book of mid-eighteenth century European philosophy Kent had received for his birthday. So, these two are West Wing. And judging from the other clues, you’re almost certain you know who they are.
“Can you give me a second?” you reply, suddenly painfully aware that you’re meeting White House personnel in nothing more than your underwear and an oversized t-shirt.
You realize that Kent is going to have to be dragged out of bed, likely to salvage some impending crisis situation. The thought elicits anger. He deserves to rest, you think. But you know Kent would want to be woken up.
“Sure,” the man, who must be Dan Egan, says. “But it is urgent. So if he’s here, we need to talk to him now.
“Dan,” the woman, who must be Amy Brookheimer, chastises. “It’s three in the morning. Give him time.”
Dan seems to be on the verge of replying, but he bites his tongue. Amy pulls her phone out of her handbag and begins typing furiously. Dan shoves his hands into his pockets and bounces on his heels. You flash a small smile at them, still blinking sleep out of your bleary eyes, as you head back into the dark apartment. The rooms you previously felt were peacefully asleep now seem as though they’re holding their breath. You hope the crisis is one of the President’s public image and not one where lives were lost. Kent is careful to not criticize the President too harshly in the presence of others, but you’ve been subject to a large number of frustrated rants. Unfortunately, due to the President being President, it doesn’t matter what the crisis is. If she wants Kent to return to the White House, Kent will return to the White House.
As you stand over Kent’s peaceful form, you’re struck by a wave of guilt. He needs the rest, badly. And you’re going to be the one to pull him from his well-earned slumber and shunt him headfirst into the latest White House crisis.
“Kent,” you whisper, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.
The undershirt and maroon MIT sweatpants are wrinkled as you peel back the blanket, folded by his unconsciously moving form. Even at this ungodly hour, he’s beautiful, and you can’t help but smile fondly. Predictably, he doesn’t stir. He’s always slept like a rock, even when it’s not after a day of running on fumes in the most powerful building in the world.
“Kent,” you try again, this time at a normal speaking volume. “Get up. Your… your friends are at the door.”
You shake his shoulder as kindly as you possibly can, and he slowly wakes up. He blinks, disoriented. He licks his lips in confusion, pulling himself upright.
“My friends?” he asks, voice raspy with sleep.
“Dan Egan and Amy Brookheimer,” you reply, feeling your gut twist at the resigned look that comes over his face.
“Are you sure?”
“They’re at the door right now. They say it’s urgent, but didn’t elaborate any further. You have to go in.”
“Have to?”
It’s a rare moment of complaint from him. Stoic to the point of being called a robot, Kent isn’t one to bitch and moan when asked to do his job. You nod at him, trying not to look grim. Kent sighs deeply, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. You notice he’s wearing the socks you had gotten him as a gift a few years ago, the ones with the digits of pi curling from the toe to the mid-calf. He had rolled his eyes when he had unwrapped them, but he always seems to find an excuse to put them on. The sight of them makes warmth pool in your stomach. You stand awkwardly to the side as Kent fumbles his way into the bathroom, flicking the light on and squinting as a result of the sudden brightness.
“Tell them I’m on my way,” he tells you, reaching for a bottle of hair gel with one hand and his toothbrush with the other.
“I can get you a suit, if you want.”
“No, just keep the jackals at bay,” he replies, his tone purposely light despite the grim look in his eyes. “Showing up at the door at three AM- it’s all very ‘secret police,’ don’t you think? Did you think you were about to be arrested for thoughtcrimes?”
“Not for a moment,” you return, smiling and stifling a yawn. “When the ‘thought police’ come for us, it’s not me they’ll have taken issue with.”
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating,” Kent says, but the words are muffled by the running faucet.
You give him a quick kiss on the cheek before pulling on a pair of flannel pants and heading back to the door. When you open it, Dan and Amy lurch backwards, startled. They’d both been staring into their phones, thumbs flying over their respective keyboards. Dan looks around, as if the empty hallway had caught him in a moment of weakness. Amy quickly composes herself.
“He’s on his way,” you say.
The look in Dan’s eyes makes it abundantly clear that he’s burning with curiosity, but he hadn’t divulged anything about the current situation beyond its apparent urgency, so you don’t feel as though you owe him an explanation of any kind. You know Kent isn’t out at work. You had discussed it with him a few times, and ultimately, you had decided his safety was a greater priority than being included in any office gossip about staff romances.
“We work for the President,” Amy says suddenly. “Just, like, FYI.”
Dan makes a face like he’s refraining from rolling his eyes, and you try not to chuckle. Kent’s told you a great deal about the tension between them, but there’s nothing like seeing it in real life. Offhandedly, you wonder if they ever slept together. It certainly would explain a lot.
“I got that far,” you reply, staring pointedly at her ID cord.
She follows your gaze and then sighs. Looking a little flustered, she tucks it more thoroughly under her coat. Dan does the same.
“You’re Amy and Dan, right?” you ask, deciding to counter Amy’s attempted power move with one of your own.
Dan’s eyes go wide, which has a slightly creepy effect in the dim light of the hallway. The gears in his allegedly Machiavellian head start to spin.
“Did Kent-“
“Hello, Mr. Egan. Amy.”
“Hello, sir.”
“Hey, Kent.”
You hadn’t heard or seen him approaching, but suddenly, Kent is right behind you. He’s dressed in a gray suit, his hair neatly styled. His blue tie is slightly loose. Momentarily forgetting Dan and Amy’s presence, you reach up to adjust it for him. He doesn’t stop you, but his body does stiffen, and the reality of the moment settles upon you. As you pull the fabric tight, he gives a slight shake of his head. The gesture is small, almost imperceptibly so, and you’re certain neither Amy nor Dan caught it. The message, however, is clear. Not here. Not now. Not in front of them. You refrain from kissing him or reaching for his hand as he steps past you into the hallway. He sends a significant glance your way as you stand in the doorway. I’m sorry, it seems to say. We’ll talk about it later. That’s a promise you’ll hold him to, but in the meantime, his job comes first.
You don’t say anything as he turns to leave, following an already-exiting Amy with Dan on her heels. Just a tiny nod and bittersweet smile. Sometimes, you have to make sacrifices. It’s nothing you weren’t prepared for when you first fell for him. And yet, something about it stings. As you close the door and lock it, you can’t help but muse about what the future holds for the two of you. Ben’s been pressuring Kent to come out, though you can’t help but suspect it’s to show that the President isn’t homophobic by pointing at an out, gay senior staffer. Kent always gets cagey when you talk about coming out.
You know he isn’t ashamed of you, or of being gay. He’s just worried about what might happen. Despite a stony exterior, he’s constantly pushing down a sea of anxieties. Slowly, you make your way back to bed. You consider falling back to sleep immediately, which is an incredibly appealing option, but instead, you reach for your phone. A few clicks and swipes later, and you’re staring at a tiny picture of Kent at the top of your screen, a series of blue and gray messages underneath.
>> I love you. Be safe.
The reply comes back within seconds. No doubt Kent is using the car ride to the White House to tackle some of his perpetually overflowing inbox.
I love you, too. I will. I’m sorry.
>> Don’t apologize. I hope everyone/everything’s okay.
This time, the three dots pulse for almost a full minute.
We’ll see. The situation is still unfolding.
>> So you can’t tell me anything?
No.
>> So you’ll tell me everything when you get home?
You can imagine him smiling at the message, shaking his head at your stubbornness.
Naturally. Now get some sleep. I don’t want you to upset your sleep schedule.
It’s just like him to be worried about your sleep schedule when he’s being dragged off to help the President of the United States with an escalating “situation,” you think. The thought makes you feel warm inside. He’s wonderful. Being with him is worth all the troubles that come with it.
>> Goodnight, Kent.
Goodnight.
And then, utterly uncharacteristically, he sends an emoticon. The sight of it fills your whole chest with warmth. Shaking your head, you take a screenshot. You tell yourself it's so you can tease him about it later, but you know it's just to preserve the feeling it gave you.
<3