"Hi, you've reached the cell phone for Tim Laughlin, Assistant to the President. Please leave a detailed message, a phone number with which I can reach you, and I'll return your call as soon as possible. Have a wonderful day."
( ash ends up making good time on his arrival into dca, somewhere early enough in the morning on sunday that the sunrise is a splotchy shade of purple at his private terminal, making a watercolored imprint of the sky overhead. he feels like a klimt painting. messy shapes in the form of a person, vibrant colors outlining the pattern of him through the sunrise. he hasn't slept in a few days, though no one would know it by looking at him — he dons the same all american look that he always does, his suit pressed, his tie crisp, an american flag pin stabbed in the lapel of his jacket, like a painting of saint sebastian with an arrow through his breast. funnily enough, he always reminded ash of embry — the image of a black haired martyr tied to a tree, a soldier pinned by the weight of his own beliefs.
mornings make ash morose, is all. he doesn't sleep in the white house for the three or so hours that he's there, spending enough time to shower the plane smell off him, and change from his suit into a knit sweater, all the while thinking of tim with his glass of steamed milk. like a fifties ad for growing your bones — milk mustaches, kellogg's cereal, feet dangling under the table. mid calf socks and knee length shorts, and two inches of bare skin between the endings and beginnings of them — dumb daydreams. he's never once seen tim with a milk mustache, or he's positive he would've remembered.
in any case, he arrives early for sunday mass, not wholly surprised to see tim already posted at the bench outside of saint thomas becket church, his collar turned up against the breeze. ash is flanked by a few bodyguards when he approaches — the others are scouting out the area, falling into advantageous positions. with a little wave of his hand, they fall back a few steps, and he nods at them appreciatively, before coming toe to toe with tim. )
This seat taken? ( he asks, before sitting down beside him, eyes going to the adjacent architecture — an american's best attempt at gothic buildings. not as nice to look at as tim. ash fixes his gaze. ) I want to thank you for agreeing to attend with me, again. ( with an almost childlike sound of whimsy in his voice, but with laughter too, as if he knows he's being slightly ridiculous, ) I love church. I always have, even when it seems ... counter, to who I am. I never doubt my faith. I'm happy to share it. Especially happy to share it with you, Mr. Laughlin.
[ true to form, tim laughlin wakes up early enough to track ash's flight. should it experience any difficulties or delays, he'd much rather have a solution waiting and ready to go. especially with such a tight turn around. but the flight lands safely, the president is whisked away to the white house, and tim closes his eyes to rest a few more hours.
except he can't. his mind won't let him rest and just the very realization that he will be sitting a church pew beside the president of the united states simply for the sake of enjoying church? blows his mind. it's why he's fussing over what to wear, his hair, what time to leave, if he should bring anything beyond just the coffee. (he deliberately doesn't eat breakfast or even dare drink more than sip of water - he wants to be sure he can finish the drink ash brings him, or the brunch if they do go (and god knows ash will insist).
all this nervous energy is what has him settled on a bench outside of saint thomas becket far too early. early enough that the cool morning air seeps its way through the thin, russet colored cardigan he's wearing over a simple white button up - a few of the top buttons are even let loose, a departure from his work-wear.
it's embarrassing that he's lost in thoughts, hands curled around the warmth of the to-go cup (americano, piping hot), admiring some statue in the courtyard across the street when he hears the request. ]
Oh - wait, it's actually -
[ ... ash. it's ash, and not some stranger. he lights up, making room on the bench for the man beside him. ]
Please, sit. Here. [ there's no explaining why he feels nervous about church and coffee and the president, when he wouldn't feel nervous about these things ever before, and yet he reaches for ash's hand in that moment to press the coffee cup into his palm.
instead of handing it to him like a normal, sane assistant. jesus. ]
You don't have to thank me at all. I appreciate the invite. I'm not entirely sure that anyone's faith can be counter to who they are. It's a part of you - I can see it in your work every day. I mean that. But I may doubt your faith if you decide to call me Mr. Laughlin even before God. But even if you do, I suppose I will still be happy to share the moment with you.
[ he huffs a little, almost sheepish as he glances around - the bodyguards keep careful watch, of course. this isn't just a normal day at church. ]
It's a beautiful building. I don't think St. Joseph's can compare.
[ tim lets that text sit there for a little while - he's busy, but also the my boy makes him hot under the collar in a few ways. ]
Lyonesse thankfully has its own discretionary clauses.
If both parties agree, then there's no reason for an NDA, nor is there a reason for lock and key. I suppose that might be difficult for some to understand.
If President Colchester isn't concerned, then I trust his judgement.
[ he knows that ash wouldn't engage in something that could be damaging to his presidency or to any of his staff - politically or emotionally. so what is this all about? ]
So yes, I do know what I've gotten into.
I've been doing well, thank you for asking, by the way.
I'm not sure what you want me to say, Hawk. What we do is our business, but since you felt obligated to watch? We are enjoying one another. I care about his wellbeing.
If that's difficult for you, then you should reflect on what went wrong two years ago. That wasn't up to me.
Oh, so it is a romance? Looks an awful lot like something else. Different than your expectations from before - unless they've lowered? Suppose the President has a lot of pull for himself.
Probably because every crying, snot-nosed toddler in all of DC has this terrible fucking bug keeping them up all hours of the night. But that's a solid idea. I'm grabbing the plain one and grape juice.
Shit, don't tell me my boy's coming down with it.
Of course I do. I got your precious cargo, don't worry Mr. Fuller.
[as if to prove it, he takes a discreet selfie, head ducked down over the cart with the largest jar possible in one hand, one eye winked shut and tongue sticking out to the side like he teases delia with at dinner time.
privately, he'll never get over the thrill of tim having taken his name and using it every chance he gets.]
Delia is better today than yesterday - less coughing. But she’s slept all day which means our night is about to be very long.
No, not the plain. Get the strawberry stuff and the grape juice. Trust me. She knows. She’s about as attentive to detail as you are.
It’s both endearing and annoying. Just like this weird tickle in the back of my throat. Maybe I am. I hope not.
But the selfie makes it go away. You know how to make a jar of peanut butter look sexy, Mr. Fuller. Careful, the stressed and thirsty mothers in the stores might get ideas if you keep that up.
You’d better feed it to me yourself later. It is your boy’s favorite after all.
Well. Assuming Delia sleeps.
If she doesn’t sleep I may have to just drown myself in the shit instead.
Ah, fantastic. Well I’ll worry about that - you need to get rest and get rid of that tickle.
I grabbed both. We can test our theories. Whoever wins…well, should be dealer’s choice I think. Assuming Delia sleeps - christ. And if not, we're both going out by peanut butter.
Trust me, I'm trying to get out of here as fast as possible. Forgot how awful the after-work rush is. Just another reason I'm grateful to my hot piece at home for always taking care of this shit. And dealing with all the thirsty mothers at school.
I just want you to lay back and try and take it easy - when I get home, Daddy's gonna have everything handled.
Sweetheart, rest and a toddler don’t exactly go together.
And you try taking a toddler to the grocery with you. Last time Delia almost pulled down a whole row of oreos trying to grab them. Careful you don’t go to the checkout at the end - Susan is the bag checker. She’ll talk to you for hours.
But trust me you may think I’m some hot piece but they don’t. They’re always floored when I tell them I’m a stay at home dad. How honorable it is to let my wife have her career.
You hear that, darling wife?
No laying back and waiting for Daddy. As much as I’d like to be laying somewhere else and ready for you, miss thing here has discovered she can scream and cry together.
When I get home, I'm taking over. I mean it. My best boy's not getting sick on my watch.
What kind of wife would I be? Christ, don't take this the wrong way - but that Dries Van Noten sweater I saw you wearing the other day doesn't exactly scream straight trophy husband. Then again I bought you that.
But I know it just means they're hoping to have an affair with you down the road. Too bad they don't know I throw a mean right hook - wife or not.
Fuck, almost walked right into that one with Susan, though. You really are my guardian angel, Skip.
Mark it on the calendar though, because for once - I didn't mean it like that. Wish we could, but tonight I have a feeling we're going to have to make a sacrifice.
Sometimes parenthood feels more urgent than war with Carpathia - how the hell does that work?
Delia will go down for a nap at least - I'd rather spend the time with you than run off to rest on my own.
Besides, what kind of trophy husband would I be if I even acted like I was getting sick? I'll even wear the sweater for you when you're home to prove it. You forget that the whole office thought I was straight until they found out I wasn't.
I know we can't tonight, but I miss you. Us. Consider not working so late next week, alright? Else it will be more urgent than war with Carpathia. With little Delia here the stakes are higher, so I'd fight this war any day.
The second she does, I'll rest with you, how 'bout that? You can take a nap in my arms.
Well, I guess not everyone met you bent over reading notes on Harvey Milk, so I should cut you some slack. But I would have clocked it if we'd met at the gala too.
Please. Trophy husbands are supposed to lay around getting spoiled. I should be at your beck and call.
I miss you too, honey. Not just with the groceries and the work - but you're right. It's getting very urgent. Might even be breaking a few humanitarian laws if I don't get home by dinner, and if she doesn't stay up through the day.
Hawk, I don’t want to take a nap. I want to sit with you and talk with you. Ask about your day and your work and spend time with you.
She’s a toddler so she’s not exactly the most intelligent conversationalist. But to her credit she tries very, very hard. Lots of sound.
I’m sorry to tell you dinner happened half an hour ago. Delia has a tummy timer and it’s pretty consistent. I’ll whip something up for you before you get home. I promise it won’t be sweet potatoes and chicken.
Try to get off a little earlier next week if you can? I’ll understand if it doesn’t work out - that’s how it is. I know you’re busy. But it would be nice.
And it was you who read my notes thank you. I wasn’t advertising it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tim laughlin.
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mornings make ash morose, is all. he doesn't sleep in the white house for the three or so hours that he's there, spending enough time to shower the plane smell off him, and change from his suit into a knit sweater, all the while thinking of tim with his glass of steamed milk. like a fifties ad for growing your bones — milk mustaches, kellogg's cereal, feet dangling under the table. mid calf socks and knee length shorts, and two inches of bare skin between the endings and beginnings of them — dumb daydreams. he's never once seen tim with a milk mustache, or he's positive he would've remembered.
in any case, he arrives early for sunday mass, not wholly surprised to see tim already posted at the bench outside of saint thomas becket church, his collar turned up against the breeze. ash is flanked by a few bodyguards when he approaches — the others are scouting out the area, falling into advantageous positions. with a little wave of his hand, they fall back a few steps, and he nods at them appreciatively, before coming toe to toe with tim. )
This seat taken? ( he asks, before sitting down beside him, eyes going to the adjacent architecture — an american's best attempt at gothic buildings. not as nice to look at as tim. ash fixes his gaze. ) I want to thank you for agreeing to attend with me, again. ( with an almost childlike sound of whimsy in his voice, but with laughter too, as if he knows he's being slightly ridiculous, ) I love church. I always have, even when it seems ... counter, to who I am. I never doubt my faith. I'm happy to share it. Especially happy to share it with you, Mr. Laughlin.
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except he can't. his mind won't let him rest and just the very realization that he will be sitting a church pew beside the president of the united states simply for the sake of enjoying church? blows his mind. it's why he's fussing over what to wear, his hair, what time to leave, if he should bring anything beyond just the coffee. (he deliberately doesn't eat breakfast or even dare drink more than sip of water - he wants to be sure he can finish the drink ash brings him, or the brunch if they do go (and god knows ash will insist).
all this nervous energy is what has him settled on a bench outside of saint thomas becket far too early. early enough that the cool morning air seeps its way through the thin, russet colored cardigan he's wearing over a simple white button up - a few of the top buttons are even let loose, a departure from his work-wear.
it's embarrassing that he's lost in thoughts, hands curled around the warmth of the to-go cup (americano, piping hot), admiring some statue in the courtyard across the street when he hears the request. ]
Oh - wait, it's actually -
[ ... ash. it's ash, and not some stranger. he lights up, making room on the bench for the man beside him. ]
Please, sit. Here. [ there's no explaining why he feels nervous about church and coffee and the president, when he wouldn't feel nervous about these things ever before, and yet he reaches for ash's hand in that moment to press the coffee cup into his palm.
instead of handing it to him like a normal, sane assistant. jesus. ]
You don't have to thank me at all. I appreciate the invite. I'm not entirely sure that anyone's faith can be counter to who they are. It's a part of you - I can see it in your work every day. I mean that. But I may doubt your faith if you decide to call me Mr. Laughlin even before God. But even if you do, I suppose I will still be happy to share the moment with you.
[ he huffs a little, almost sheepish as he glances around - the bodyguards keep careful watch, of course. this isn't just a normal day at church. ]
It's a beautiful building. I don't think St. Joseph's can compare.
text;
Thought I taught my boy a little more discretion than the likes of Lyonesse.
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Lyonesse thankfully has its own discretionary clauses.
If both parties agree, then there's no reason for an NDA, nor is there a reason for lock and key. I suppose that might be difficult for some to understand.
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[is that all this is about? absolutely not.]
You're sure you know what you're getting into.
[not posed as a question, notably - like maybe he wants tim to talk himself out of it.]
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[ he knows that ash wouldn't engage in something that could be damaging to his presidency or to any of his staff - politically or emotionally. so what is this all about? ]
So yes, I do know what I've gotten into.
I've been doing well, thank you for asking, by the way.
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Ring gags will be great for his re-election numbers.
[has he had a few drinks? yeah.]
Asked you the other day in passing. You said you were fine.
[from one meeting to another, like polite colleagues who only know each other by the common thread of their title.]
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It would be the right thing to do, considering you serve his Vice President.
It would be advantageous for your career.
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When are you both going public?
I know that's important to you.
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I'm not sure what you want me to say, Hawk. What we do is our business, but since you felt obligated to watch? We are enjoying one another. I care about his wellbeing.
If that's difficult for you, then you should reflect on what went wrong two years ago. That wasn't up to me.
[ with us - he almost says. ]
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So is it just sex? Are you intentionally keeping it under wraps? Who broached that topic?
I'm just trying to keep it all straight, here. For reference.
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I always hated it when you drank like this.
1/2
Just a nightcap.
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text; 6pm
Got the peanut butter. Crunchy is back - Skippy of course.
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Think we can get away with strawberry Pedialyte in juice? Also get some tylenol flu. The adult kind.
Crunchy is the only acceptable peanut butter option in the Fuller household. You should know that by now. 🥰
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Shit, don't tell me my boy's coming down with it.
Of course I do. I got your precious cargo, don't worry Mr. Fuller.
[as if to prove it, he takes a discreet selfie, head ducked down over the cart with the largest jar possible in one hand, one eye winked shut and tongue sticking out to the side like he teases delia with at dinner time.
privately, he'll never get over the thrill of tim having taken his name and using it every chance he gets.]
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No, not the plain. Get the strawberry stuff and the grape juice. Trust me. She knows. She’s about as attentive to detail as you are.
It’s both endearing and annoying. Just like this weird tickle in the back of my throat. Maybe I am. I hope not.
But the selfie makes it go away. You know how to make a jar of peanut butter look sexy, Mr. Fuller. Careful, the stressed and thirsty mothers in the stores might get ideas if you keep that up.
You’d better feed it to me yourself later. It is your boy’s favorite after all.
Well. Assuming Delia sleeps.
If she doesn’t sleep I may have to just drown myself in the shit instead.
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I grabbed both. We can test our theories. Whoever wins…well, should be dealer’s choice I think. Assuming Delia sleeps - christ. And if not, we're both going out by peanut butter.
Trust me, I'm trying to get out of here as fast as possible. Forgot how awful the after-work rush is. Just another reason I'm grateful to my hot piece at home for always taking care of this shit. And dealing with all the thirsty mothers at school.
I just want you to lay back and try and take it easy - when I get home, Daddy's gonna have everything handled.
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And you try taking a toddler to the grocery with you. Last time Delia almost pulled down a whole row of oreos trying to grab them. Careful you don’t go to the checkout at the end - Susan is the bag checker. She’ll talk to you for hours.
But trust me you may think I’m some hot piece but they don’t. They’re always floored when I tell them I’m a stay at home dad. How honorable it is to let my wife have her career.
You hear that, darling wife?
No laying back and waiting for Daddy. As much as I’d like to be laying somewhere else and ready for you, miss thing here has discovered she can scream and cry together.
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What kind of wife would I be? Christ, don't take this the wrong way - but that Dries Van Noten sweater I saw you wearing the other day doesn't exactly scream straight trophy husband. Then again I bought you that.
But I know it just means they're hoping to have an affair with you down the road. Too bad they don't know I throw a mean right hook - wife or not.
Fuck, almost walked right into that one with Susan, though. You really are my guardian angel, Skip.
Mark it on the calendar though, because for once - I didn't mean it like that. Wish we could, but tonight I have a feeling we're going to have to make a sacrifice.
Sometimes parenthood feels more urgent than war with Carpathia - how the hell does that work?
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Besides, what kind of trophy husband would I be if I even acted like I was getting sick? I'll even wear the sweater for you when you're home to prove it. You forget that the whole office thought I was straight until they found out I wasn't.
I know we can't tonight, but I miss you. Us. Consider not working so late next week, alright? Else it will be more urgent than war with Carpathia. With little Delia here the stakes are higher, so I'd fight this war any day.
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Well, I guess not everyone met you bent over reading notes on Harvey Milk, so I should cut you some slack. But I would have clocked it if we'd met at the gala too.
Please. Trophy husbands are supposed to lay around getting spoiled. I should be at your beck and call.
I miss you too, honey. Not just with the groceries and the work - but you're right. It's getting very urgent. Might even be breaking a few humanitarian laws if I don't get home by dinner, and if she doesn't stay up through the day.
So I promise I'll make it happen.
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She’s a toddler so she’s not exactly the most intelligent conversationalist. But to her credit she tries very, very hard. Lots of sound.
I’m sorry to tell you dinner happened half an hour ago. Delia has a tummy timer and it’s pretty consistent. I’ll whip something up for you before you get home. I promise it won’t be sweet potatoes and chicken.
Try to get off a little earlier next week if you can? I’ll understand if it doesn’t work out - that’s how it is. I know you’re busy. But it would be nice.
And it was you who read my notes thank you. I wasn’t advertising it.
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