Chapter Text
NOW
James’s eyes flicker open, and he moves to turn off the clock before his alarm has the chance to go off. The morning light casts everything in shades of gray as it filters through the window. There’s a strange heavy quality to air, but it still doesn’t explain the pressure on his chest.
He gets up, methodically showering, eating, dressing, getting into his car. On the drive there, he keeps the radio off, driving in complete silence.
His movements are smooth, practiced, as he rolls down the window to show his badge. The man at the booth would recognize him, of course, but he knows that James is strict on such rules. The man nods at him, pressing the button so that James can drive through, and park his car.
James buttons his jacket once he gets out of the car, making sure his gun is holstered at his hip, wallet and keys secure his jacket pocket before walking inside. It’s not a travel day, his brain recalls from the schedule he’s long memorized for the day, so he drops off his jacket in one of the small lockers before sliding in his earpiece.
“Big day,” one of the agents- Dobbs, James’s mind supplies for him- says as he closes his locker across the room from James’s. “Wonder how the movers are doing.”
James doesn’t answer, instead busying himself with adjusting his holster.
“It’s not like they had any warning, I mean,” the other man muses out loud. “Didn’t plan to be moving again so soon.”
James vividly pictures slamming his fist into Dobbs’s jaw. He imagines scarlet blood arcing out of his gaping mouth, the thud of his knuckles against the crunch of bone. He can see himself hitting Dobbs again and again, slamming his head into the cold tile of the floor. Maybe he'd try to hit back. James would wish it so.
He must be silent for too long contemplating the grisly image, for when another agent comes in, Dobbs takes one look at his face, and both he and the other agent soon leave without another word to him.
James forces himself to unclench his grip on the locker before he can move. He’s nearly late to his meeting. On his way out, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. His face looks gaunt, and despite being clean-shaven, his hair cut short, the dark circles under his eyes seem to make them stand out.
As Hennessey’s office, he knocks once, twice on the heavy door before opening it. It doesn’t make a single sound as it glides open, and he stands to attention when Hennessey, seated at his desk, briefly glances up at him.
“Agent,” the older man says, setting down a file and opening another. “Have a seat.”
James enters and sits down in one of the tall-backed wooden chairs in front of the desk, but remains posed. “Good morning, sir.”
Hennessey, as usual, is blessedly quick to get to the point of this meeting. “I’m assigning you to special detail for the First Lady,” Hennessey tells him, without looking up at the papers on his desk. “You’ll start today.”
“Sir?” James asks, after a beat, to make sure he’s hearing him correctly.
“You’ll be working with her existing detail for the next several months, but I don’t see why you can’t choose to phase some of them out after that.” Hennessey closes the file and reaches for the next in the large stack. “She’ll meet you after this.”
He squares his shoulders. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir,” James says.
“That’s why it’s an order, agent,” Hennessey asks, finally setting down the papers and finally looking at him. Whatever he sees, it makes him frown slightly. “Why would you say that?”
James keeps his voice level as he answers, the words rolling off his tongue easily. “I don’t have a relationship with the First Lady or her current detail. I’m not familiar with her schedule or her staff. There have to be other agents you could assign, perhaps ones more accustomed to the schedule-”
“James,” Hennessey snaps, and the use of his name makes James cut off. “You’re making excuses, for reasons I don’t know and I don’t care to find out. I believe you’re the best agent for the job, and that’s it.”
James wants to shout at him. Let his voice rattle the room enough so that other agents come running, so he can scream at them too. Because she’s not supposed to be here. Because the people who came before them, who we all still expect to see, they’re the ones we all swore allegiance too and we’re pretending nothing happened.
He stays silent, though, helpless as Hennessey makes a dismissive gesture. “Sir,” James says, and he rises to leave.
“You might find her in the east sitting hall,” Hennessey tells him just as he’s at the door, and if he were any other man, the corner of his mouth would have turned up. “I believe she’s turning it into a library.”
•••
Indeed, when James gets to the east sitting hall, there’s an odor of sawdust and the faint screeches, hums of the power drills at work.
Agent Bonny is positioned at the door, tight stance not loosening even as James approaches. She’s one of the more competent agents that he’s ever worked with, he thinks to himself. He remembers standing next to her at the funeral.
“Hennessey sent me,” James says, and isn’t surprised when Bonny just fixes him with a flat look in response.
She doesn’t say anything, so he takes the chance that she’s not going to attempt to pin him to the ground if he continues, and he opens the door beside her.
Inside, there are several men installing bookshelves on the far wall. James watches as they work, exchanging a nod with the agent stationed on the far wall. They’ve taken down most of the picture frames, portraits of various figures who have graced these halls. The change in tradition takes James off guard for a moment, and he watches as one of the workmen begins to wheel away a stack of frames, the dark gold edges glinting in the light as they move by him.
“You must be the new agent assigned to watch me,” a polished voice comes from the other side of the room, and James turns in response.
“Ma’am,” he says, with a note of apology. “Pardon me, I didn’t see you there.”
Madi Scott is as every bit collected and impressive as James recalls from the few news clips he’s seen over the past few weeks. She crosses the room, smartly dressed in a dark blue wool dress and her dark eyes flit over him for a moment. She takes her time crossing the room, and when she speaks, it’s with the kind of voice that makes people take notice.
“You are Agent James Flint, correct?” the First Lady says, extending her hand.
He shakes it, and her grip is warm and smooth under his fingers. “Apologies, ma’am. I am. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Ms. Scott says, and she motions to the side in a long-practiced gesture. “Please, let us sit.”
She directs him to one of the couches, which has been left uncovered by plastic, unlike most of the furniture in the room. James notices how without her giving a direct order, everyone in the room has filtered out, even her agent who closes the door behind him with a quiet thud. He awkwardly sits down on the couch.
Ms. Scott regards him for a long moment once she’s seated as well. James is reminded of looking up at the sun, feeling caught in the blinding light but craving the warmth on his face all the same.
“I thought we should discuss my role in the next few months,” Ms. Scott says finally. “You worked under the previous administration, correct?”
James doesn’t move a single muscle. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I plan to be on the road with my husband, working alongside him,” Ms. Scott continues, and her tone is brisk. “Not just in a capacity as First Lady, but as his political equal.”
James doesn’t answer. He knows from her tone that she isn’t finished speaking, and given his impression already of Madi Scott, he knows he would be wise to let her continue.
“Does that unnerve you?” Ms. Scott asks bluntly. Although her face is purposefully casual, her eyes are still sharp, intent on cataloging every glimpse of a reaction. “I require that my staff, which includes you, respects my position in this administration, and adheres to the highest level of integrity and confidentiality. My husband and I work together, and if this is something you cannot understand or respect, I ask that you tell me so that we don’t waste each other’s time.”
James realizes that the woman he’s seen on television is a mere shade of the woman in front of him now. He ruthlessly pushes any surprise away, though, keeping his expression straight. “No, ma’am,” he says.
She studies him for another long moment, then the briefest hint of a smile on her face appears at whatever she must see. “Then please,” Ms. Scott says, “Call me Madi. Tell me, Agent Flint, are you much of a reader?”
•••
It’s in the same library when he meets him.
Madi- James struggles with calling her by her given name at first, but when her gentle reminders turned into actual annoyance, he quickly learned- was sorting her books onto the new shelves, letting the room fall into an amicable silence.
James has learned that she has a large personal collection that she fully intends to replace the existing books- all of which were rather bland outdated copies, so he doesn’t see it as a loss. The First Lady’s library contains both classics and more modern novels, overall an eclectic mix that certainly will cause some raised eyebrows. James has glanced over the titles while he stands guard, and given the small smile on Madi’s face, she had noticed as well. After a few days, she starts asking his opinions on which books to shelf right then.
“If I have to listen to another driveling fool today,” a familiar voice comes from the doorway, as Madi flips through a copy of Giovanni’s Room, “I swear I’d throw myself right off the roof in this moment, and wouldn’t that be a tragic end.”
“Your dramatics are too much, dear,” Madi says without turning. “James, pass me that box, please.”
“James,” President John Silver drawls. “The new detail.”
“Yes, sir,” James says, and he stands to attention after handing Madi the box, as the president walks more into the room. He lets the door slide shut behind him.
“He’s been very helpful with the books,” Madi says absent-mindedly.
Silv her glances him up and down, and then turns to Madi. “You’ve had a talk with him?”
“He’s well aware of my role as your partner, yes,” Madi says, selecting another book out of the box without a look to her husband. “How did the meeting with your Chief of Staff go?”
“She’s rather insidiously brilliant, I’ll admit,” Silver says, slumping onto the couch as he watches Madi work. “Plus, her appointment is absolutely horrifying as a concept to Hornigold, so I consider it a personal success.”
He reaches into the side table, then, and opens the drawer to reveal a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Madi sends him a sideways look when he lights one. James watches out of the corner of his eye, the smoke pluming towards the ceiling in a lazy spiral.
“And you,” Silver says, and it takes James a moment to realize that Silver is addressing him, as his eyes stay on Madi’s back. “What do you think about my new Chief of Staff?”
“Sir?” James asks. The question catches him off guard, and he turns his head to look at the president’s profile.
“Surely, you must have some thought,” Silver says, eyes still on Madi like he’s not paying attention to James. “I know she worked in the White House before we ever darkened its door. She’s quite a figure, by all accounts.”
“It’s not in my place to say, sir,” James replies evenly, professionally.
There’s a short pause, then Silver gives a short bark of laughter. “That’s what you all tell me. I wonder, did the old administration truly have you all so whipped as to not have your own tongues?”
The words strike him low in his gut, and despite himself, James stiffens and he speaks again without thinking. “The old administration, sir, respected their colleagues.”
Madi’s hand freezes on a book. There’s a moment of absolute silence, and Silver turns to look at James directly. His eyes are far bluer than on screen, and when James doesn’t know what else to do than to look right back at him, he can see those blue eyes narrow.
“Is that so?” Silver says then, softly but no less dangerously, and the hairs on the back of James’s neck prickle despite himself.
He meets Silver’s gaze but doesn’t say anything else. The ghost of an expression flickers across Silver’s face, too quick to be read.
Madi breaks the tension. “James, if I could have a moment with my husband,” she says, glancing at him.
James nods, moving away from the far wall to exit. He closes the door behind him quietly, stationing himself directly opposite the agent out there already. Neither can hear what the First Lady and the President are saying, but the low rumble of their voices are unmistakeable.
He prepares himself for a letter in his mailbox tonight, telling him of his inevitable reassignment.
•••
THEN
James listens to the radio when he drives to work in the morning.
It’s usually the news station, since he’s never been that much into music, and the crisp voice of the host reading off the headlines is usually a welcome distraction against the honking cars outside. James doesn’t even focus on the actual words, instead just letting the sounds allow his mind to drift so off that once he actually starts his shift, he can be entirely focused on the task at hand.
Once he arrives, parking his car and walking through the security clearances, everyone salutes him in some way. “Sir,” one of the younger agents says with a start, when she sees him round the corner. "Agent Flint."
On the inside, James smiles. He remembers being that young, fresh and new on the job, desperate to please. So he gives a brief nod of his head in return, before continuing his trek down to the office. He passes by Dooley, who’s stationed at the end of the hallway, who just relieved Joji, before James sees Billy at the other end.
Billy’s shoulders relax ever so slightly when he sees James there. He’s been there all night, not that anyone would be able to tell from his careful posture and his alert eyes. “Flint,” Billy says in greeting, flexing his shoulders. “He’s in there now.”
James nods in return. “Thank you,” he says, taking Billy’s position against the wall. Billy leaves, and James crosses his arms in front of him. This part, the silent vigilance, makes many of the younger agents want to fidget. Perhaps it’s just his age, or the years he’s spent in the Navy teaching him absolute patience, but James doesn’t move a single muscle, other than the flick of his eyes carefully assessing, watching, looking.
At eleven, there’s a meeting to go to, so James knocks on the thick wooden door once. “Mr. President, the senator will be here shortly,” he says.
“Thank you, I’ll be out in a minute,” the faint voice replies, and the corner of James’s mouth quirks up as he takes his place once more. Down the hall, Dooley answers quietly on his radio, preparing them to move.
The door opens nine minutes later, and Thomas steps out. He’s adjusting his tie as the door closes behind him, and James steps back so that he can move by. “I’m late, aren’t I,” Thomas says, sounding only slightly sheepish as he shrugs his suit jacket back on. His eyes, though warm, only glance over James for the briefest moment.
“Senator Philpott only just arrived,” James says, as he trails Thomas down the hallway. Dooley falls in behind them, and James opens the door for them as they move through the building.
“That’s a diplomatic way of saying Yes, Thomas, you’ve done it now,” Thomas replies from the corner of his mouth, low enough for only James to hear. Then they’re walking into the meeting room, and the low rumbling of voices dies down as soon as the door opens.
“President Hamilton, sir,” the senator says, sounding just a little too loud, and he and everyone in the room rise up as soon as Thomas crosses the threshold. James and Dooley take their positions behind Thomas, on either side of the door, as the president crosses the room.
“Please, everyone, sit,” Thomas says with a warm smile, taking his seat at the head of the table, but James knows his eyes are sharp as they take in the people around him. “George, it’s been too long. I do hope you’re here to talk to me about that energy proposal you have been working on.”
Before long, Thomas is shaking the senator’s hand again, and then they depart. Dooley and James walk with the president to his lunch, then a meeting with the chief of staff, then another meeting with his senior advisors.
During that last meeting, James and Dooley are both relieved by two other agents so that they can eat and rest. Dooley goes home then, but James stays. Since he’s one of the senior agents assigned to the president’s detail, he debriefs some of the other agents who worked this week, before he too returns to the West Wing.
It’s late when Thomas finally gets back, and he absentmindedly runs a hand through his hair as he goes through the door, caught up in another briefing file in his hand and making a vague assenting noise when James asks if he should have coffee sent in.
The sun slips below the horizon outside, the light fading from where it was peeking out of the shutters in one of the offices across the corridor. At about nine, James knocks on the door, and when Thomas answers, sounding somewhat distant, he lets himself in quietly.
Both the lamps on the president’s desk are on, illuminating a thick stack of papers that are spilling over the edges. James watches, not hiding the fondness in his eyes when Thomas slumps a little more in his chair, leaning back as James approaches to stand in front of the desk.
“I said I would have my appointment list ready by the start of next week. I fear as though that was a foolish promise,” Thomas says bleakly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looks tired, more so than usual, or perhaps because when he’s around James, he lets some of that guard slip.
“You are a true optimist, for better and for worse, sir,” James replies, feeling his chest warm when Thomas laughs, airy and unlike the controlled smile he puts on for the public.
“I missed that wit today,” Thomas tells him, rising. He’s already discarded his jacket, neatly hanging off the back of his chair, and his tie is slightly loose around his neck. “Miranda told me I’m not to distract you from your duties tonight.”
“That’s right,” James says, trying to sound serious even as Thomas approaches him. “I have a very important task, remaining vigilant-” Thomas’s finger hooks into his belt loops- “-protecting you, and making sure you can be every bit the grand optimistic, fighting the evils of the free world, all in absolute safety.”
“I feel very safe with you looking after me,” Thomas says, enunciating with a small tug, and James lets himself be maneuvered into a kiss. Thomas’s lips are warm on his, their mouths sliding together sweetly.
Before he can get too lost in the feeling, though, James breaks away. “I didn’t come in here to distract you,” he points out, and Thomas’s eyes flit down to his mouth.
“I could use a break,” he says, and James lets out a small, amused exhale that he knows Thomas can feel on his face.
“You could use this time to finish reading the candidate files,” James points out, and Thomas lets out a small sigh.
“Will you stay in here, at least?” he asks, as James adjusts the collar of his shirt, adjusting the knot of his tie. Despite his words, he still lets his fingertips brush against the soft flesh of Thomas’s neck, and Thomas closes his eyes briefly at the touch.
“Let me tell Eme,” James says, and Thomas’s thumb brushes James’s hip, sending a thrill even through the fabric of his shirt before they’re separating once more.
Although sometimes he imagines having Thomas all to himself for weeks on end, just the two of them tangled in sheets and each other, he knows that such things are strictly kept to daydreams after his shift. But he’s sated for now, by how he can watch Thomas for the next few hours until someone comes to relieve him.
James remains vigilant standing at his post, even when Thomas points out that he can sit on one of the couches or the chair on the side. It’s just like how he would be outside in the hallway with Eme, only now he can study how Thomas’s hair glows pale gold in the lamplight, watch the small furrow in his brow develop, the movement of his jaw when he chews the back of his expensive pen.
•••
Several days later, James was once again positioned outside of the Oval Office. Billy was on that shift today, and they spent the time in amicable silence.
There was movement down the corridor, and James steps out just as Miranda Hamilton rounds the corner. She’s dressed in a simple dark green dress, the elegant cut showing off the soft pale skin of her collarbone, and James nods as she approaches.
“Ma’am,” he says politely, and Miranda’s eyes crease into a fond smile for a moment before she turns to Billy.
She doesn’t have to say anything; Billy turns and walks down the hallway, out of earshot, so that Miranda can turn back to James.
“Where is your detail?” James asks, glancing down the hallway as if the agent in question is about to round the corner as well.
“I told Agent Bonny that I was confident enough in the strength of the security system to go for a quick stroll in the building by myself,” Miranda replies easily, and now that they’re alone, James bends when she tilts her head up to meet for a quick kiss. She smells faintly of her citrus perfume, a scent that surrounds him into his dreams.
“Especially once I told her that I was just going to visit you,” Miranda adds, and James frowns.
“You didn’t,” he says, but Miranda’s face holds a glimmer of amusement. “Miranda!”
“I told her I was just visiting my husband,” Miranda reassures him, putting a hand on his chest lightly. “Speaking of which, is he in there?”
“He’s meeting with the Secretary of Commerce,” James says. “He should be done shortly, though. There’s time before his meeting with Ashe this afternoon.”
Miranda sighs. “That’s quite all right. I’ll just see him over dinner, I suppose.” She lets her fingers trail over the buttons on his shirt. “Would you come over tonight?”
He would love nothing more, but he also knows just how suspicious the other agents are beginning to get that he’s been summoned to the presidential quarters late at night. James knows that Miranda can see the real regret on his face when he answers, but it doesn’t make the words hurt any less.
“I can’t, I’m assigned to show around some of the newer agents tonight.” James brings her hand up for a light kiss on her knuckles, though, and breathes in her perfume where she must have applied it to the inside of her wrist. I’m sorry, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud.
Miranda smiles, and he can process a touch of sadness on her face before it slips away. “Of course. We’ll just have to miss you even more until next time,” she says.
Miranda leans up for another too-brief, light kiss on his cheek, before she turns to walk back down the corridor, glancing back at James once more before turning the corner.
He lets his eyes slide shut for a brief moment before forcing them open again, just as Billy comes back. He resolutely doesn’t look at James.
•••
If someone had told James, perhaps back when he was young and in the Navy, that he would one day be in a secret relationship with the President of the United States, he would be too flabbergasted to even laugh.
But somehow, this is the situation he finds himself in. He doesn’t think that it’s even covered in the guide they give to new agents. Somehow, he doesn’t think Rule Forty-Seven: Don’t sleep with the President, don’t fall in love with the President, and certainly do not sleep with and fall in love with both the President and the First Lady was ever suggested in an update.
James had been assigned to the Secret Service detail following his discharge from the Navy. While he was learning the ropes, the entire country was fixed on the young, glamorous first couple. James had fully expected them to be another easy-smiled political duo, shallow as they were glittering in the limelight, and had gone into his assignment every bit the cynic.
But Thomas and Miranda Hamilton were unlike anyone else he had ever met.
Thomas was the first genuinely good person he had ever met- he actually cared. Thomas was honest, razor-sharp, and he possessed a sort of charisma that drew people towards him like moths to a flame. Miranda was the same, bright and mischievous and every bit the perfect partner to her husband, accepting her new role as First Lady with a sort of dignity and grace that set her apart as something truly special. They both grew fond of James, that was evident to anyone, and to the outside, he was their trusted, devoted bodyguard.
Both of them had found a way to work through the cracks in his armor, slowly but surely, and soon he knew he would dedicate his life to making sure the world would forever have the gift that it had been bestowed with by the Hamiltons.
In the early days, the common rumors were that he was having an affair with Miranda. While there was some truth to that- James had fallen into bed with her one night, a natural progression coupled with bravery from a few glasses of wine on his part- it was no affair. She loved him and he loved her, and what was more, Thomas knew and gave his approval.
One night, Miranda had turned to him, the sheets pooling around her bare waist, and James had dragged his eyes up from the curve of her side enough to catch her words.
“You love him,” she says, and it’s not a question.
He didn’t answer, not for a long while, but perhaps that was answer enough, he thinks, looking back to the memory with not a small amount of nostalgia.
James was helplessly in love with Thomas. The bright optimism that had gotten him elected was just one facet of many that he had fallen for- and who wouldn’t, knowing the quirks of his personality from spending so much time with him? The way that he bit his thumbnail when coming up with an opinion for a speech, the way he got frustrated tying a tie.
James had long accepted it to be unrequited, something to be somehow shoved into a box despite the fact whenever he was in the same room with Thomas, warmth seemed to overflow through his ribs, but then it wasn’t.
James had been the one to make the first move. Thomas had pressed a copy of an old book he suspected James would like, early one morning when it was just them, Miranda out giving a speech at the local women’s center. The sun was shining outside, and the rays coming in through the window highlighted both the motes of dust and the hairs on Thomas’s arms, as he held out a book for James.
Only James’s small finger caught Thomas’s gently as he took the book, and their hands had dragged against each other slowly, cautiously. Thomas watched him steadily, letting him make the decision, to fall into whatever had been blooming between them.
Time seemed to suspend as James slowly lifted their hands, pressing a kiss to the inside of Thomas’s wrist, and then Thomas was bringing his hand up to James’s jaw. They were finally kissing, a natural progression to their story.
He felt as though his heart was caught on a taut wire, balancing precariously on its edge where it could fall into something unknown on either side. Only Thomas had caught his heart, and James had given it to him easily and without reservation.
•••
The fact that the man that James fell in love with was also the leader of the free world was a terrifying reality. From the moment he had been sworn into office, Thomas Hamilton had shocked many by his proposals for the next four years, his plans the methods he believed would shape the country to provide a better future for all. Some of those plans, then, meant that he had enemies that would stop at nothing to prevent him from uprooting the system he’d been elected to the head of.
James had known about these threats, of course. If it affected him in a way he could not control, it would only be making him better at his job, he reasoned. He was not compromised in his duty, even as they were forced to keep their relationship private, lest the scandal prevent Thomas from any of his plans.
The need for secrecy was difficult for Thomas especially: bright, hopeful Thomas, who dreamed of a better day than yesterday. James knew the necessary sacrifice and would have paid it ten times over, but Thomas, he knew, didn’t want that.
Soon after they had crossed that particular bridge in their relationship, Thomas had given him a photo. It was of a small cottage located off the coast of Maine, that Thomas had kept for many years, the dark gray and blue ocean in the background a stark contrast to the sun-bleached color of the shingles. It looked peaceful, James thought.
He had pressed it into James’s hand one night when only the moon outside lit their silhouettes in the darkness. James moved to flick on a light to see it better, but Thomas’s hand slung lazily over his torso had stopped him.
“It’s where I imagine I am when everything seems too much to handle,” he whispers into the nape of James’s neck, curling up behind him. “I think of how the ocean breeze lifts right through the house, making the air heavy with salt and sun.”
“It’s where I picture going after this, Miranda and I, and for you too, if you’d like,” Thomas finishes, his warm breath lighting James’s insides up like a warm glow.
James turns his head, capturing Thomas’s lips with his own in response. He squeezes his eyes shut so that Thomas can’t see the tears forming there, though his thumb rises anyways to swipe at the dampness underneath James’s eyes anyways.
Miranda comes in later, and she sees the photograph, still in James’s hand as Thomas lies asleep on the other side. James is still awake, watching her softly as she creeps underneath the sheets before letting him pillow his head on her soft stomach.
“He’s carried around that photograph for years,” Miranda tells him quietly, fingers lightly dragging through James’s hair.
He’s lulled to sleep with Miranda rubbing soothing circles on his scalp, Thomas’s arm a welcome weight over his torso. Both of them grounding him to this bed, to them, in this moment.
If only he knew then, he might have stayed awake to better commit such moments to memory.
•••
It’s around two in the morning when his work phone rings.
He’s jolting upright and answering the phone perhaps before even fully waking up. “Flint,” he answers, attempting to keep the sleep out of his voice.
He listens to Hennessey, and at first, he can’t comprehend the words. He lets it barely filter into his brain.
An accident.
“Yes sir,” James says after a long pause. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
He hangs up the phone.
James stares at the device for a long moment, then his fingers curl around the metal. He can smell citrus, heady and sweet, and thinks about the crinkles around Thomas’s eyes.
Breathe in, breathe out.
He throws the phone against the wall.
•••
The day of the funeral, the sky is overcast but yet there’s not one drop of rain. James watches the clouds drift overhead, hanging ominously over all their heads but refusing to burst in some defiant gesture.
In the cemetery, there’s a musty smell to the air as they proceed down the long road, hearses and people and mourners all lining both sides of the funeral procession. He walks behind the cars, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. There’s a hushed silence when the long black car at the front finally stops when the side doors open.
From here, James can make out Thomas’s pale hair, but he can’t see the expression on the other man’s face from this distance. James wonders if there are deep lines under his eyes, marring the haunted expression, just like the one he’s seen glimpses of in the mirror.
He wonders who helped Thomas with his tie this morning.
One of the agents helps Thomas into a wheelchair, then pushing him down the path they had put in just for this purpose. The wheels catch on the tiny pieces of gravel, spitting them out and disappearing into the neatly cut grass to either side.
Throughout the service, James doesn’t listen to what they say about Miranda. Thomas himself doesn’t speak, just sits and looks numbly on as they talk about her charity work, the galas she’d host every year to support the local women’s shelter, how much she loved her husband.
It’s the last part that makes tears threaten to spill from James’s eyes, the first time he’s cried since he’d rushed to the hospital. Bile rises in his throat as he looks around, blinking his eyes quickly, at the politicians and figures that have all gathered here.
None of these bastards would know the first thing about that sort of love. None of them deserve to be here while she-
While she-
Miranda.
James watches from the side, watches Thomas instead of the closed casket at the front. Thomas’s hands are curled over the arm rests, and from a distance, he looks every bit the dignified, statuesque figure. But when they wheel him back down the aisle, James can see the stark white of his clenched knuckles, skin pulled too tightly over bone like every motion would rub his flesh raw.
Thomas’s eyes flit up to meet his suddenly, and James’s mouth opens slightly despite trying to keep his composure. Thomas begins to lift his hand, perhaps to signal to the agent to pause, and James gives a very minute shake of his head. Not here. They can’t.
Thomas’s hand pauses, then slowly goes back down. The agent doesn’t stop, and James forces himself to tear his eyes away from Thomas as they go by. He can feel Thomas’s gaze on him, but when he looks up again, they’ve already passed, and then he’s gone.
•••
He’s halfway through a bottle of whiskey when there’s a knock at the door.
James thinks it might be Hennessey, perhaps come to check up on him again. He’d given James the next two months off when he had seen James come in this morning- taken one look at the red in his eyes, the new lines on his face, and had told him to take a long-deserved vacation.
He probably shouldn’t have given James that sort of lenience- the entire capital is reeling still, suddenly thrown into another election as the president stepped down this morning, and they will need every agent possible on duty- but it wasn’t like James was in any suitable condition.
James had dropped to his knees the moment he had stepped back into the apartment, crawling only to get to the bottle.
In his grief-fueled, alcoholic slump, James wonders if he imagined the sound at first. Then there’s another, firmer knock, and he lifts his head off the coffee table just enough to slur, “Go away!”
“James, please,” and James recognizes that voice, and his stomach turns. It’s not coming from outside the door, but rather from the other side of the room.
Miranda sits perched on the end of his chair, her hair in a dark knot at the base of her neck. She’s wearing that dark green dress he remembers her in, what she might have worn at the funeral if there could have been an open casket. “It’s been days,” she says quietly, watching him from across the room, her face pale and drawn.
“I can’t,” he tells her desperately. “I can’t see him, I can’t.” There’s another knock, but he doesn’t even bother answering now. “I can’t.”
“You’re killing yourself,” Miranda says sadly. “You need him, and he needs-”
“What he needs,” James says then suddenly, and he fixes his gaze on the peeling label of the bottle because it hurts too much to think about her, let alone look at her, “is for him to forget about me. I let you die, I can’t let him forgive me because it would kill him inside.”
“Don’t you think he gets to make that choice?” Miranda says then. “You haven’t even talked to him.”
“I’m just going to get him killed too,” James mumbles, feeling light-headed and dizzy. “God, Miranda- I miss you.”
But when he picks up his head, she’s gone, and he’s alone in the dark apartment.
No one knocks on his apartment after that.
•••