#tw:ambulance.

[doctorstethoscope]

Yes, Mr. President || The Thing

art by @multiverse-mxdness

hello my loves! I am on vacation so this chapter and the next one are posting from the queue. I will update the masterlist and respond to taglist requests when I return!

story summary: Scandal! AU– your mentor, David Rossi, has recruited you to make Senator Aaron Hotchner the next President of the United States. Once described as a political nun, the Senator helps you see that maybe you can mix business and pleasure.

Read previous chapters of this fic here!

contains: drug use (prescribed), additional triggers in tags to prevent spoilers

wordcount: 2k

The time you spend at Camp David is… restorative. You go every weekend— Aaron works very little, if at all, and you do the same. Holding onto the secret between you when you both worked at the White House felt burdensome and heavy— now it feels like the greatest gift to be able to share a secret with him at all.

It’s nice that Morgan knows, and even nicer that he pretends that he doesn’t, that he leaves you alone, let for a lone eyebrow quirk or sly grin. There are moments when you find yourself believing there’s nothing strange about the situation at all, that your dating life and it’s complications are no more or less intense than anyone else’s. Then, of course, you see your boyfriend and his wife on the news, and you snap back to reality.

“How did you ever make it look like those two like each other?” JJ asks one day in between bites of salad as you watch the President and the First Lady deplane Air Force One on the news. “At the beginning of the campaign, they both looked like they were only there because somebody was forcing them at gunpoint.”

“They’re high school sweethearts, JJ. They needed some alone time, and to not have 50 cameras shoved in their face, but it wasn’t all that difficult. They do like each other,” you scoff goodnaturedly, rolling your eyes to avoid looking at her.

“I don’t know. Maybe the White House has changed them. Will says the First Lady can be a bit high strung,” she shrugs.

“I didn’t realize you were still seeing Will?” You say, trying to change the subject. “That’s nice. You must really like him.”

“Yeah, I do,” she agrees a little bashfully, turning the subject once again to get the focus off of herself. “I guess ever since the President came home from the hospital, she’s dialed it up to eleven.”

“Well, you can imagine the kind of trauma she’s dealing with,” you remind JJ. And to think Will doesn’t even know about the divorce. You hoped, at least.

“I guess that’s true. You must know her better– what’s she like, really?”

You school your face into a pleasantly neutral expression. “Haley and I got along well on the campaign,” you said, choosing your words carefully to avoid lying to your friend. “I think being a politician’s wife is an incredibly demanding job, and one that rarely gets the credit it deserves. All of that gets magnified when you become the First Lady, naturally. And then to top it off, she nearly lost her husband. So I imagine she’s earned the right to get a little snippy,” you say gently.

“Who’s getting snippy with who?” Morgan asks, stepping back into the conference room with his own takeout container.

“Oh, god, me, if Senator Hoynes’ Communications Director doesn’t send over that NDA I emailed him hours ago!” You lament.

++++++++++

You’re a little surprised when your house phone rings in the middle of the week— pleasantly so, of course, but you and Aaron have gotten into a good business/pleasure rhythm of seeing each other on the weekends.

“Hey,” you say into the line, smiling for no one in particular.

“Hi,” he says back warmly.

“Is everything okay? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” you say.

“Everything’s fine,” he says, although you don’t quite believe him. “I just wanted to hear your voice. We are allowed to talk outside of Camp David, aren’t we?” he teases.

“How are things in your neck of the woods?” You ask.

“You know, you’ll be shocked to hear this, but working with Congress has proved to be very difficult. It doesn’t seem like any of them are particularly motivated to do their jobs outside of an election year.”

You let out a dramatized gasp. “You’re kidding! I’m clutching at my pearls as we speak,” you laugh.

“I don’t want to talk about work. I want to talk about you,” Aaron says, and you feel heat creep up to your cheeks at the thought of it.

“What about me?” You ask.

“Will you just… tell me a story about you? Something I don’t already know? Like I said, I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Sure,” you smile, although you’re feeling a little self-conscious. “Have I ever told you that I did debate in college?”

“No, you didn’t, although I can’t say I’m surprised,” he tells you.

“And you shouldn’t be,” you laugh. “But that means you don’t know that Rossi used to send me into the ring to make the opposing freshmen cry.”

Aaron guffaws out a laugh at that. “I mean, I should have guessed, but now I can’t help but picture it.”

“I didn’t even realize what he was doing at first. The first round is always a puff piece, it’s basically a warm up. The question was something stupid, like whether or not kids should be able to opt out of labor protections, but I didn’t realize that the other teams were sending their weakest links in, and I absolutely wiped the floor with them. I didn’t really stop to think about their arguments because I knew mine were better. In retrospect, someone should have called a mercy rule on that match up,” you explain, and you both laugh.

“So basically, it’s never been good to bet against your team,” Aaron says.

“Never ever,” you agree.

“I’m lucky to have you, then.” Aaron says. “For all the other reasons, too.”

“You’re having a rough pain day, aren’t you?” You ask.

“How do you know everything?” He groans.

“Did you take the medicine Dr. Gallagher prescribed?”

“It makes me loopy. It makes me feel like I shouldn’t have my finger on the nuclear button.”

“Is your finger on the nuclear button?”

“There’s not a real button, you know,” he scoffs, but you don’t let him avoid the question.

“Seriously. Are we on the brink of a nuclear war, are we in a situation so dire that you think you’ll need to order a full military assault in the next six hours?” You ask him.

“If we were, you wouldn’t have the clearance for that information,” he reminds you.

Your eyes roll so far back into your head that you think you watch your brain cells die. “Take the damn pills, Aaron. You’re already America’s hero, you don’t need to keep on suffering,” you tell him.

“It’s not about being America’s hero,” he grumbles, but you can hear him pop the cap off of a bottle.

“I know, baby. But I’ll tell you what— pain makes people loopy, too. You can’t end a military intelligence briefing early because you’re hurting and nearly start a war.”

“I will take that under advisement,” Aaron says grouchily, but you can hear the smile in his tone.

“Aaron?” you say.

“Yeah,” he says tenderly, in that voice he saves just for you.

“Stop working. It’s almost 9pm. Take the pills, kiss your son, and go to bed,” you advise him.

He sighs, looking over the memos still piled up at his desk. You were right. They could wait. “Yeah. Okay,” he agrees.

“And remember that I love you.”

“Couldn’t forget that. It’s the beginning and end of everything,” he tells you.

+++++++++++++

The worst part about going to Camp David wasn’t the bugs, or the lack of cell service, or even the tree sap that got all over your car and was eating away at the finish little by little. The worst part by far was the ride home. You’d kiss Aaron goodbye, he’d insist on putting your bag in the backseat of your car for you, and then you’d make the 90 minute drive back to reality— away from your secret forest hideaway with him.

You miss him before you even leave the property– before his waving, smiling figure becomes a speck in your rearview. You miss him as soon as you put the car in drive, and you’ll miss him until you come back the following Friday evening. You’ve become grossly codependent while somehow still managing to live your life basically as normal.

You know that someday soon, things won’t be like this— this blissfully simple, this easy. The divorce will become public. Or you’ll get into a fight— it’ll be silly, or it will be serious. There’s no predicting it. It makes your hackles rise to think about it— and your thoughts can’t help but wonder as you take these long drives home. What will be The Thing? What will swoop in and crush this domestic slice of peace the two of you have carved for yourself? And what can you do to stop it?

You take a deep breath as you tap your thumbs against the steering wheel– in through your nose, out through your mouth. It’s foolish to worry about someday being unhappy when you’re happy now. You read that somewhere— reading it was easier than applying it. But you’re happy now. It’s been nearly three months since Aaron was shot. It was so recent and a lifetime ago. Time marches on. Whatever happens between the two of you, you’ll fix it. No more running, no more hiding. That much, you were confident in. That’s all you control today– and that’s what matters.

You’re so distracted that you don’t notice the car to your left that’s careening towards it’s respective stoplight. You’re so focused on your own train of thought that you don’t catch it’s headlights flashing quickly against the puddles that had gathered in the deep city potholes. You don’t hear the screeching of brakes, because there is none— the honking of horns from the other surrounding cars comes a moment too late.

The collision knocks the wind out of you. You gasp, but the shattering of glass is louder– much louder. Your seatbelt turns into a knife– slices into your collarbone, and it burns. You look in front of you, and your steering wheel is gone— replaced with a big white blanket. Your car isn’t moving, you realize. You need to get home.

“Are you okay?” Someone’s opened your car door– you turn your head away from him. It hurts.

“I need to get home,” you tell them. “Get out of my car. Get out!” You say, realizing that he shouldn’t be here.

“You’ve been in an accident,” the man says. “I’m going to call for help. Are you okay?”

“I was on my way home,” you say. You feel like you’re whispering— you can barely hear yourself. “I was on my way home!” You repeat, louder.

“I’m on the corner of 16th and U street,” you hear the man say, but it feels like he’s talking to someone else.

“That’s not where I live,” you correct the man, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“There’s just a woman in the car,” he continues on. “She’s conscious, but she’s out of it. She has some superficial cuts from the glass.”

“That’s not where I live!” You say, speaking over the man’s one-sided conversation.

“The other guy didn’t even stop. Yeah, a dark blue SUV, maybe a Nissan,” he continues. “I couldn’t get a plate, it happened so fast.”

“I need to get home,” you repeat.

“Ma’am, you’ve been in an accident. You need medical attention.”

“Oh,” you say, realizing it for the first time. An accident. You look in front of you, taking in your shattered windshield for the first time. A car accident, you realize. A flash of blue light gets your attention, and you whip your head in its direction. Ow, fuck. The guy who’d broken into your car— a good samaritan, you correct, the guy who was trying to help you— steps away. A new man takes his place.

“Ma’am, my name is Malcolm. You’ve been in an accident, but we’re here to help,” he says.

“You’re being very loud,” you tell him, your head suddenly pounding.

“I’m sorry about that, ma’am,” he says as he reaches over you. He smells nice, you realize. Like pine. Like Camp David.

“Do you have any medical conditions? Is there anyone we can call for you?” He asks as he flashes a light in your eyes. You squint.

“Morgan,” you groan out. “Call Derek Morgan.”

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