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Everyone knew that old expression There's nothing new under the sun, yet this "Archive Of Our Own" was completely new to John Kasich. Sure, he might not be the most tech-savvy man in the Buckeye State, but he had two daughters and a Twitter presence, so he knew a thing or two. (His daughters--did either of them have one of these Goddamned, pardon his French of course, profiles? Surely they'd have more sense than that? He'd raised them, after all, and he was a practical man, an honest man, a man-of-action man, a handsome man--)
All he'd been trying to do was Google Trump and Putin's names together to see if he could find some disgraceful new information to tweet about. The first few links came up purple. He'd clicked on them before. Maybe a few too many times after a few too many beers while Karen snapped in the background to shut off that laptop and stop giving that man one more second of your time! But down at the bottom of the first page was a site John had never seen before. Archiveofourown.org...
He supposed the Devil himself had made him type too fast during his search; it turned out that accidentally hitting the slash key and typing "putin/trump" cost him more than a shred of gubernatorial decency.
There were pages. Pages and pages of pervs writing about people he knew personally. There was Obama and good old Mittens Romney. Trump and Putin, of course, with descriptions of sex acts no man of and for the people such as himself should ever be reading. And it looked like there were plenty of folks out there writing something they were calling "Crubio." Cruz and Rubio. (He was a sharp guy.)
The website was an abomination, pure and simple. No American citizen should have to be subjected to all those pages and pages of pure trash. So John took the only logical step a proud governor ought to take.
He got up, slammed his office door, and headed right for the "search" feature there on the upper right side of the page.
*
This was it. This was it. The straw that broke the camel's back. The shit cherry on top of the shit sundae, decorum be damned, that this year had turned into. Oh, sure, sure, his name had come up a few times. There it was--"John Kasich" listed in a sea of other names. Blink and you'd miss it.
He deserved more. More than a one-sentence mention in the "2016 Presidential Election" section in history books. More than being a supporting character in the account of Jeb Bush and Ben Carson's affair in a sleazy Miami motel. More than being the punchline of a joke in a "Lemon Fic" about Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders.
He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror he kept on one of the walls of his office. A good-looking guy, if he did say so himself, stared back at him. There was no reason no one had written about him. Didn't he look good for a fellow of sixty-four? He sure looked better than Cruz, anyway, and he wasn't orange.
He stuck his head out into the hall.
"Send up our nerdiest intern," he bellowed to his assistant. "And make sure whoever it is is a good writer."
John wasn't surprised when that kid Kevin came in. Kevin had only been there about a month; he was still earnest and eager to please. Plus, he wore big glasses. He'd definitely know what was what.
"Have a seat, Kevin."
"Thank you, sir."
"So, Kevin." John leaned back in his chair. "Have you ever heard of the website...A Oh Three?"
Kevin's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "Do you mean...Archive of our Own, sir?" Poor kid. John wondered if he'd dare tell his friends about this.
"So you know it."
Kevin nodded. "I have...a profile on there, sir. But I never use it, my sister just signed me up as a joke and--"
"Sure, sure. Of course." Now John leaned forward, hoping he was conveying urgency. And importance, damnit, importance. "I have a job for you. This is likely to be the most important job you'll do here, so take it seriously."
"Yes, sir...What is it?"
"Write me a fic." The lingo was starting to make sense to John. "Make sure it gets an E rating, do you understand?"
Now Kevin's jaw was as wide-open as his eyes. But John figured he'd get over it. He'd conceded the race to Trump; he sure as hell was not about to concede his rightful spot in the "Archive Of Our Own."
"What is the pairing, sir?"
"It's me and Obama." John took a moment to look at his computer screen, making sure he was using the right terminology. "Make sure I'm topping."