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The American Bachelor (1/3)
“And despite President Ackles’ week-long tour of Moscow, President Putin refused to meet with him. Let’s open up discussion on this situation. To my left, we have Jim Nichols, senior political correspondent for Washington on the Record. Jim, what does this incident say about the American President?”
“Scott, we have to remember that President Ackles has been pretty public in his criticism over Putin’s position in the Black Sea. I don’t think it says anything more about President Ackles more than he’s got Putin’s number, and Putin isn’t going to make time for his naysayers.”
“Fair enough, Jim. Now, on my right is Sarah Mason, producer of the Cole Hart show on Conservative Talk Radio. Your thoughts?”
“I really wish President Ackles would stick to the issues here at home that are constantly plaguing his presidency. There is no reason for him to go abroad on a month-long vacation then whine that Putin won’t see him. It’s like he didn’t get into Disneyland.”
“Jim, what do you think?”
“I think that’s a ridiculous statement, Scott. At no time did President Ackles or the White House say that they were disappoint—”
“Did you really expect Putin to sit down for tea and cookies? I mean, did you?”
“Certainly not. But it’s hardly fair to blame that on Ackles. He still sat down with the Prime Minister.”
“Right. Like Medvedev isn’t doing more than showing Ackles borscht and vodka. The whole trip was a waste of time, not to mention tax payer dollars, and here you want to add more time and money onto his vacation.”
“Turn it off,” Jensen says as he whisks by the bank of TVs lining the hallway to the communications den.
All are six are on, all feature Sunday morning news and talk shows, yet only one has the volume up. Unfortunately it’s set to Split Decision with Scott Maynard, and Jensen wants to pull at the man’s face for such a hack show that claims it presents both sides of each coin. Every Sunday, it’s all the same: What did President Ackles do this week? Now let the dogs fight over it.
“I said turn it off!” he barks as he steps into his Communications Director’s office. He pauses just inside to listen for the distinct click of the set being turned off before he smiles and shuts the door so it’s just him and Katie Cassidy, the tough-as-nails blonde who has stood beside him since the early primaries in Iowa. Right now, she’s leaning back in her chair, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, bare feet up on the desk, and a nail file in hand.
“Uh, oh,” she says into the phone. “This seems important.”
“Seems?” Jensen asks with a bit of heat.
“I should probably let you go,” she says into the receiver.
“Yeah, probably.”
Katie puts the phone down then rises to attention behind her desk.
Jensen cringes. “Since when do you not wear shoes around here? This isn’t a laundromat.”
She slips into heels and now stands tall enough to look him in the eye.
He sighs. “Okay, take ‘em off.”
“Yes, sir,” she says with the kind of annoyance that still conveys lingering fondness built upon years of working together. “Do people really go barefoot in laundromats?”
“I’ve seen a few.”
“Since when? Doesn’t the Navy do your whites in the Atlantic?” She pauses and makes it a point to stare at his current outfit consisting of the presidential navy blue windbreaker pants with a red line down the outer seams, white v-neck tee, and a matching windbreaker jacket, zipper open. “Is today not laundry day? That looks like laundry day.”
Jensen rolls his eyes, yet chuckles as he lets the jokes relieve the tension that has been bringing him down since they landed four hours ago. A short nap did little to settle him after a long three weeks in Europe. “Real cute, Katherine. I’m going for a run.”
“Do you have your knee pads?”
“That was one time,” he argues.
“And a helmet? With the chin strap?” Katie playfully frowns.
“One time!”
“Your chin looked so bad … you have no idea how long the press room ripped on you.”
Jensen narrows his eyes. “They what?”
“They sent flowers and get well cards,” she immediately corrects while falling back into her chair with a comfortable sprawl.
He knows it’s a lie, because the press room often enjoys picking at any frayed seam in his life—political and personal. So he lets the conversation drop and moseys back to another issue on his agenda. “Speaking of flowers, I need to get Nola something.”
“I think Felicia already sent her roses. Pink!”
Jensen groans, tipping his head back while clenching his hands into fists. Felicia hasn’t been around long enough to learn the nuances of the White House and the First Family, but as his new assistant, he hoped she’d be well experienced in tip-toeing through the delicate situation of getting his daughter flowers after she was left mostly alone (sans servers and her bodyguard) while he took off across the Atlantic.
“No, no, no,” he whines. “I said no roses. Nola hates roses. And pink.”
“Nola is twelve. Every twelve-year-old loves roses and pink.”
“Not Nola,” he insists. “Not now.”
“Why ‘not now’?”
“Because now she’s going through a phase. Because now she is into painting her nails navy blue and her eyes forest green, and she’s contemplating dying her hair black.”
“Sounds more like she’s in mourning.” Katie sits up and crosses her arms on top of her desk. “Alright, then tell Felicia to get something else.”
Jensen quickly shakes his head. “She’s been with me for one week and already messed up flowers.”
“She’s been here for over a month and—”
“And I was gone for three weeks,” he grumbles.
“That’s still a month for her.”
“It was only a week for me!” Suddenly he sighs and runs a hand over his head. “Jesus, since when are flowers a national emergency?”
“I don’t know, sir,” she replies calmly yet with a hint of worry and esteem. “Kind of seems like they’re all national emergencies these days.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” He tugs at the back of the arm chair facing her desk and asks, “You mind?”
“Do I mind if the leader of the free world pops a squat in my office? Oh you bet your white ass I do.”
Jensen glares at her, but barely means it because she then smiles, and he takes the seat with a withered exhale. “Remember when it was all about making America beautiful and sustainable?”
“Barely,” she admits with a soft smile. “I think that was long before Fox stated counting everyday out of the Oval as vacation or Sarah Mason insisted you drop the minimum wage to even out the lower class and welfare.”
He sits forward quickly, hands moving out as he talks. “That woman – she said I was complaining about not seeing Putin as if I was missing out on Disneyland.”
“Well, I’ve heard Gorky Park sucks. No wonder you wanted to see Mickey after visiting the world’s saddest amusement park.”
“It’s a nice green space now,” he offers then gets back to complaining. “But that’s not my problem. My problem is when I have to worry about being the bad guy because some jackass in Russia refused to meet with me. How is it not on him?”
“Because you’re the President of the United States. You’re always the bad guy.”
Sadly, he accepts that, knows it deep down in his heart, even when it once bled red, white, and blue for the entire nation. That was long before him swearing on a Bible meant he was at the mercy of every voice across the globe.
Jensen stands and brushes at the edges of his jacket to right it. “Yeah, even with my own daughter.”
“She’s that mad about the roses?”
“She’s mad about the pink.” As he opens her office door, he spots Welling and Hodge, two of his bodyguards. “So, I’m going to go take a run with my two most physically fit agents who are going to jog alongside me and make me look good, right boys?”
“Sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jensen smiles at them then grins goofily at Katie. “I feel like a four-star general when they do that.”
“Just with a dinkier costume.”
He shakes his head as he moves out of her office. Over his shoulder, he calls out, “Do something about Mason and the Russia rhetoric. I’m tired of getting pounded every Sunday morning.”
There’s a snort from one of the agents and he doesn’t bother figuring out which one it is.
Adding insult to injury, Katie says, “Maybe you should take naps between poundings.” When he narrows his eyes, she adds, “You were asking for it.”
“You know,” he declares with an air of authority, “it’s not like I’m the first gay man to live in the White House.”
“You’re certainly the first one to be out,” is said from his left and when he turns, he sees Felicia. His quirky red-headed assistant bends her shoulders in and bites her lower lip before standing a bit straighter and adding, “Sir.”
“Noted,” he says then turns to his agents. Welling hands Jensen his favorite worn-out Cowboys baseball cap. The edges are fraying, but it still fits like a soft sweater. He tugs the hat down into place and nods at the agents. “You guys ready for a run?”
“Sir?” Felicia calls out, “don’t forget your pads.”
“It was one time!” he shouts as he’s walking away.
“A dozen purple pansies for our in-house pansy,” Jared announces as he pushes through the swinging doors and into the back of the florist shop.
“I’m not a pansy,” Danneel grumbles then kicks the side of his leg. They’re off to the side of the open window between the front counter area and the back of the house, which is where most of the best floral creations are crafted by Danneel. Instead of working, however, she is trying her best to sneak peeks into the front of the shop and watch the tall, dark, and handsome man who’s been slowly strolling through the shop for the last twenty minutes.
Jared watches her watch the front, specifically the man with the smooth, dark skin, and she doesn’t flinch. She just mechanically clips the stems of the pansies and sets them into a vase. With her eyes still glued to the man who is obviously taking a break from a run given his netted shorts and a well-fitted long-sleeve t-shirt, Jared watches in amazement as she fluffs the arrangement so the white stocks are perfectly set behind the pansies and the yellow daffodils.
It’s not quite a mix he’d jump for, but she’s making it work, especially with the bold white backdrop.
Still, he snaps his fingers in front of her face and whistles. “Hello! Earth to Danni!”
“I’m here. I’m on Earth,” she insists, now focused on the flowers she’s nudging this way and that. “But where the hell did he come from?”
“From out on the sidewalk,” he offers. “Beyond that, who really knows?”
“I wanna know,” she says on a breathy sigh.
“Why do you wanna know?” he teases.
“Because …” She flushes then waves towards the front of the store. “I mean, look at those legs and that ass.”
“Then use your legs to get your ass out there and find out!”
“No!” she shouts with panic then ducks down behind the counter so no one can see her through the window.
Their customers, including the hot guy Danneel’s interested in, and Jared’s Aunt Samantha can all see Jared, of course, and he simply offers an easy smile and wave.
“Jared,” Aunt Sam reprimands from the cash register, her short blond bob swaying along with her dangly, silver earrings. “What’re you doing to poor Danni?”
“I’m not doing anything. She’s the one who’s making googly eyes at—OW!” he harps when Danneel pinches his calf muscle. Trying to recover, he offers a miserable smile to everyone in the shop. “I’m okay, just a rose thorn.”
Then he frowns when he realizes Danneel’s beloved is watching him back, and quite intently. It lasts for a few uncomfortable moments until the man turns away and goes back to carefully searching the floral fridge along the long wall. Jared surveys the area and frowns.
“I don’t think he’s here to shop,” he mumbles and slowly tugs Danneel up to stand. They both keep an eye on the guy and when they spot him slowly, and quite meticulously, looking up at the corner and along the line of the ceiling, they both make a curious noise.
Jared heads right through the swinging doors and nudges his Aunt Sam, the shop’s long-time owner, away from the register. He’s approximately ninety-nine percent sure that they’re about to get robbed and he’s not going to let his aunt take the brunt of it.
“What can I help you with?” Jared calls out with a tight voice, meaning business.
The guy faces Jared while observing the shop. “Is there anyone else here?”
Faintly, there’s a tiny meep from the back and Jared hopes Danneel has gone out the backdoor and forgotten dreams of sunny vacations in bathing suits with this guy showing off all of his impressive muscle … and then Jared mentally slaps himself for trailing off. “What can I help you with?” he repeats.
The man glances at the window in the back, and Jared does as well. They both spot Danneel trying to get a peek of what’s happening, and Jared scowls when the guy smiles. But then Jared is truly confused when the guy presses his index finger to his ear and speaks into his wrist.
“All clear for the Big Easy.”
Jared’s mind immediately drifts off to fantastical drama ranging from the whole place being shot up with gunfire to ninjas streaming in through the windows and kickboxing their way through the shop.
None of that happens.
The only thing that does happen is the front door opens and two more men enter. They’re both tall, yet no taller than Jared, and he thinks he can take them. One is dressed much like the strange man Jared has been eying for the last five minutes, and the other is in dark breakaway pants and a white tee that’s gone nearly translucent with patches of sweat across the chest and over the shoulders. There’s a hat covering the top of his face, but when he steps up to the counter and looks Jared right in the eyes, Jared loses all cognitive and respiratory capabilities.
He swears he’s staring at one of the most handsome men he’s ever seen in the flesh, even when the guy’s eyes are a bit sunken in, cheekbones a bit too striking as if he hasn’t eaten well in a long time, and fresh sweat breaking out down the length of his neck. That last part actually makes him even more attractive, and Jared adjusts his stance and just narrowly avoids licking his lips.
“What can I do you for?” Jared asks in a rumbly, shaky voice. He clears his throat and chuckles a little. “What can I do for you?”
The guy in the hat offers a small smile as his two companions split up up the space with one standing near the swinging doors and the other near the front door. Jared imagines this guy is in the mob or some other high-end criminal organization, and these two are granting him protection at the moment. It’s scary to consider, though Jared’s not sure where they would keep guns, or how many they could carry in work-out clothes, but still, Jared’s a bit freaked.
After a breath, Jared clears all worry, because the guy is still hot as hell.
“Is everything okay?” Jared asks with a nervous smile while looking between the bodyguards.
“Oh, them?” the guy waves them off and aims a casual and very, very smooth smile Jared’s way. “They’re just a bit tense after running 10K.”
Jared chuckles, and then there’s a nearly audible ding in the back of his mind. Pictures slot into place – headshots, press pictures, even video from debates – and Jared realizes the goombahs hanging in the shop are actually Secret Service and he’s standing face-to-face with the President of the Goddamn United States.
“Oh, holy shit,” Jared mutters.
Smoothly the President—one Jensen Ackles, widowed father of one pre-teen, and a right-winger’s nightmare for being out and proud and enacting some of the nation’s best partner equality standards—points towards the cooler full of floral arrangements and seems calm as hell as he asks for help.
The President is a great hero to the gay community and even to those who are out yet not overly active like Jared. Better yet, he’s pretty much the best looking president this country has ever seen, with casual yet never equal comparisons to Kennedy.
Jared fails to register most of what is being said, but then Danneel rushes through the swinging doors and grins to the room, even when they all flinch at her quick appearance.
“Hi! I’m Danneel and this is Jared and Aunt Sam!” she brightly declares. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!” As she puts her hand out intending to shake the President’s hand, the agents take two quick steps forward.
“Chill out,” Jared says between gritted teeth then tries to ease the tension. “Sorry. Danni’s my best friend and one of our best florists. Aunt Sam owns the shop, and I hang around full-time to carry big packages.” After a moment, he realizes how stupid it all sounds and he adds, “Among other things.”
Aunt Sam steps forward while nudging Jared to the side with a playful smile. “Don’t mind him. He’s always been a li’l loose at the mouth, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Aunt Sam!” he admonishes, praying that he’s the only one who’s got a wandering mind at that image. She must realize her mistake because she gets back behind the counter and starts to bow her head, removing herself from the conversation. “What can we do for you?”
He thinks the scene is back to normal, but maybe he’s just really imagining it all, because now the President is walking over to the cooler while talking over his shoulder and asking for Jared’s advice. “—and she’s not into pink. Maybe purple? Or blue? But not like baby, pastely blues, you know?”
Jared snaps back to attention and moves around the counter to meet up with the President at the cooler. “Yes, of course. We have plenty to choose from. Many, many flowers far from the pink family. How about yellow roses?”
“No roses,” the President says sternly, and Jared takes it as a direct hit. As if he was standing in Congress and being attacked for bringing the wrong bit of pork belly fat to a bill. The President also seems to notice the tone of his voice because he suddenly lowers it and tries to smile. “She’s really not about roses. Hasn’t been in ages. She’s more of a … casual user of feminine products.”
Jared suddenly relives the seventh grade when Danneel cried in his bedroom over her first period. And he had immediately asked her to sit somewhere else. “Feminine products?”
“Yeah, like make-up, eye shadow, nail polish. She likes to paint her nails, but she’s now in this weird stage where it’s all black, blue, and gunmetal.”
“I don’t like guns,” he says on automatic, for some ungodly reason, then mentally punches himself in the face.
“Good,” the President says slowly, “neither do I.”
“I know,” he says with a light laugh, “from Prop 47, to stall gun purchases an extra week and limit production of assault rifles.”
“That’s right.”
Jared realizes how absurd this whole conversation has gone and just blurts, “Gerbera Daisies are perfect for Nola.” When the President continues to stare, Jared adds, “Your daughter. For your daughter, you should get Gerbera Daisies. They come in royal jewel tones and I think she’d appreciate them more than roses. Roses are super overused. The wide spread of the Gerbera’s petals enhances the deep colors.”
The President watches him for a few long, tense moments then looks at the cooler until he spots the very flowers Jared has just stupidly gone on about. He hums and takes the time to inspect each grouping of the red, blue, purple, and green daisies. “Which color though?”
“What color are her nails now?”
He frowns then admits, “I haven’t seen her in three weeks. The flowers are part of my surprise, Daddy came home three days early.”
“Because of the Putin thing.” Jared sucks in a breath and mentally kicks his own leg. “I think blue or orange would be striking. Not many flowers come in that rich of a color, and at her age, she might enjoy getting something very non-traditional.”
The President smirks at him—like, legitimately smirks as if they’d met a clear decade earlier, long before Jensen Ackles had laid out his political road map to the White House, and as if there was an ice cube’s chance in hell that they could legitimately smile at one another and flirt.
Jared? Well, he kind of melts a little.
“She’s definitely in the non-traditional phase.”
“Then she’ll definitely love them.” Jared smiles brightly, if not a bit falsely, and points back at the counter where Aunt Sam and Danneel are silently watching. And probably judging. “Well, I’m sure one of these lovely young ladies can ring you up. I have to go drown my ego in the toilet.” He pauses then scowls, mostly at himself. “And I just said that out loud.”
Before more can be said, Jared heads through the swinging doors, only to be stopped by the President calling out to him. “Thank you so much, Jared,” the most handsome American President ever says while holding a few orange Gerbera Daisies in his hand. “I’ll be sure to let you know how Nola likes them.”
Jared barely keeps in hysterical laughter and somehow says, “That would be great, thank you,” before running off to the bathroom to dry heave.
Jensen stands on the other side of Nola’s closed bedroom door and breathes deeply. He thinks of his long-ago departed first love who’d signed her adoption papers right alongside him, and who left the world a bit too early when his body lost a battle with multiple sclerosis. He doesn’t often feel sad when thinking of Tahmoh, mostly just recalls fond, laughable memories, but he suddenly wonders how Tah would handle the awful pre-teen years that Nola is inflicting upon him.
He also knows that being the most powerful man in the free world isn’t helping her. The whole ‘not being around’, ‘everything else is more important than helping with an algebra test’, and living half his life on Air Force One inhibits much of his fatherly duties.
Still, he clutches the daisies that the nice florist—and terribly great-looking guy—helped him with just an hour ago. He knocks softly then calls through the door, “Nola, honey, you there?”
“No,” she replies grimly.
“Nola, sweetheart, I have the NSA on my side. I have a pretty good feeling you are in there.”
The door slides open a few inches and he sees her hair—now jet black, and when did that happen?—just before he sees her bright green eyes open wide. “You’re such a nerd.”
“That’s President Nerd to you.”
She rolls her eyes and tries to push the door shut, but he’s had practice at this and quickly wedges his foot between it and the door frame.
“When did you dye your hair?” he asks, ignoring how high and panicked it sounds. “And who said you could?”
Her head pops back into view in the few slim inches of space that he’s kept open with his foot. “Really, Dad? North Korea and Russia stand at the ready to claim random countries and you’re worried about my hair?”
Jensen frowns. “I’m always worried about your hair. I’m always worried about you.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that. Because you gave me Felicia, and she gave me pink roses.”
The way her voice flips on the last two words tells him more than enough about how much she liked them. Not at all.
“I’ll fire Felicia.”
“No you won’t!” she insists, pulling the door open far enough that he can slide right inside. She sighs and dramatically slouches at the edge of her bad. “You totally won’t.”
“Of course I won’t. Katie and Tim would never allow it.” He steps in front of her, flowers tucked behind his back, and he bows a bit to her level. “So, I have something for you.”
“Is it early entry to Stanford?”
“Never in a million years am I sending you to California.”
“But it’s so pretty,” she whines with her hands lightly slapping at her knees. “And it’s not D.C. or Dallas. I need a city without the letter D.”
“Nola, honey,” he says quietly to gather her attention. “I love you, and I’ve missed you very much, but you will go somewhere more appropriate, like Harvard, or MIT. When you’re ready,” he adds when she opens her mouth. “Because I love you, and your dad and I promised each other that no matter where we ended up, in the White House or an outhouse, that you could go wherever your little heart desired.” She opens her mouth again and he quickly says, “Except Stanford. We both agreed no surfer boys for you.”
She sighs as she falls to her back with her dark hair splayed across the crisp pink linens she thought were adorable when she was nine and they first set up her room. “No fair.”
“If there’s anything I’ve learned as the President of the United States, it’s that life ain’t fair.”
“But you can make it more fair, right?”
“I’m trying.”
She finally smiles—just a tiny tilt of the side of her mouth, but he’ll take it. “What is my surprise?”
“Well, it was going to be me, back home three days early …”
Nola frowns. “That’s a terrible surprise.”
“I knew you’d say that,” he says to himself then puts the flowers between them, on display and aimed right towards her. As she merely stares at them, he says, “I was assured that colors this rich were out of the ordinary and non-traditional. And not pink.”
“Definitely not pink,” she replies with a bit of awe.
“No pink whatsoever.”
“I love them!” Nola cries as she rips them right out of his hands, and he’s now doubly glad he didn’t spend even half a second considering roses. No matter what color the petals, thorns are a bitch. “They’re super cool!”
“Cool?”
She shrugs and just barely smiles. Again, he’ll take what he can get at this point. “And a little bit pretty, I guess.”
Jensen moves to the side of the bed, leans down, and kisses her forehead. “Yeah, you’re a little bit pretty, too.”
He spends half an hour catching up with Nola, which is far too long for his schedule and yet nowhere near long enough to devote to his daughter. Still, it’s longer than he usually gets following trips like the one from which he’s just returned, and Nola seems happy enough with the flowers and the thirty-some minutes of cuddling on her bed as she talks about school and all the cool computer games Felicia has been showing her.
He nods at Welling, who’s now in the atypical black suit and tie, once he’s back in the hallway. “Keep an eye on Felicia’s computer. And Nola’s. She said something about 1248 being totally addictive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want my daughter dealing with addiction at age 12.”
“It’s an app, sir.”
“Like an appetizer?” he asks with his brows furrowed. Then he chuckles when Welling seems overly surprised. “Kidding! I know what an app is. I’m not that lost in the daily world.”
Once they’re outside and walking around the courtyard towards the Oval Office, they’re joined by Tim Omundson, Jensen’s chief of staff. Tim’s bushy, salt-and-pepper beard certainly adds an air of authority and wisdom and, not for the first time, Jensen wonders if he should’ve been pushing Tim up to the podium instead on that cloudy evening during the Democratic Convention. Tim certainly has a better handle on getting shit done up on the Hill; then again, that’s exactly who a President needs at his right side.
Tim and Rich – or Richard Speight Jr., when he’s in a particularly tight-assed mood – had certainly spun him a magical dialogue to communicate with the American people rather than at them, and he owes them dearly for putting him on the map. Yet he still feels his spine stiffen whenever Tim or Rich head his way, because it’s likely with bad news.
“What do we got?” Jensen asks in his authoritative, Presidential voice as they all turn smoothly at the door that Welling holds open into the Oval Office.
“Aside from your Sunday poundings?”
Jensen pauses at the question as he’s settling into his desk chair, and lifts an eyebrow.
“Mason is still going on about your inability to cajole national leaders to break bread, Fox News’ Vacation Watch has added 21.5 days to their counter, and now US magazine is waxing poetic for the world’s Most Eligible President.”
He pushes a few files across his desk, ones that Tim, Katie, and possibly Felicia have all left for him to skim upon his return. “Yeah, I heard Putin is getting a divorce.”
“Are you interested?”
“Excuse me?” Jensen harps.
Tim might be smiling behind his beard; sometimes Jensen really wishes he’d shave just to make it clear what mood he’s in. “Is that why you were so disappointed that he stood you up?”
“Please grant me a bit more taste than that. I would sooner pick up a guy off the street than him.”
Suddenly Welling coughs through a laugh, and Tim and Jensen stare at him.
“Do you have something to add?” Jensen asks, confusion and annoyance running through him.
“No, sir,” Welling quickly says. He sets himself to the form he had learned at eighteen when he enlisted with the Marines, yet his eyes slant back towards Jensen.
“I think he does,” Tim says with a delightful glance at Welling. A pompous glance, really.
Jensen groans. “I’m afraid to ask.”
Welling stays quiet until they’re all awkwardly looking at one another. He finally clears his throat and about-faces to Jensen. “Off the record, but you did seem to enjoy speaking with that florist.” After a beat, “Sir.”
“Oh, a florist,” Tim says loftily, dragging his arm through the air.
“It was nothing,” Jensen insists to Tim then points a firm finger at Welling. “And you saw nothing.”
“Yes, Sir. Absolutely nothing, Sir.”
Jensen grins at Tim. “See? He saw nothing.”
“Now if only you didn’t pay his salary and hold the ability to kick him out of the service.”
“Well, I do and I can, so I guess we’ll just leave the whole situation there.”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. President,” Tim replies with a sly smile.
Two days later, the floral shop is rushing through Easter orders—lilies and orchids and tulips and irises everywhere. Personally Jared would like to slip a few zinnias into the mix, but he figures he’ll save those for some of his fonder customers.
Danneel hurries through the swinging doors, nearly skipping up to Jared’s work station. “Matt’s back.”
“Matt?” he asks idly while fixing an arrangement for St. Leonard’s after-service brunch in the school hall.
“The trainer?” Danneel reminds him.
“With the big…” Jared mimes flexing his bicep.
“And the big …”
Jared doesn’t even see what she does, but he frowns all the same. “Really, Danni?” He cups his hands around an orchid and whispers, “In front of the flowers?” She tosses a tiny, broken branch of baby’s breath at him, but he just laughs. “So Matt the personal trainer with the big ahem is back.”
“He is so back.”
“Is he back to buy flowers for his girl?”
“His mom!” she insists.
“And you’re so sure?”
“Very sure,” she quickly replies with a fast bob of her head.
“Like how you were so sure the super-hot, black Secret Service dude was yours to have on the regular?” He cocks his hip against the table to stare at her, and she mimics his position.
“And he still may be.” Danneel winks. “Time will only tell.”
Jared rolls his eyes and throws the baby’s breath right back at her. “You keep telling yourself that, honey.”
“And that, right there, is why you are eternally single. This ugly pessimism.” She tilts her head at his arrangement and switches the positions of an iris and a daffodil. “That and your ugly pink shirt.”
“Hey, I like my pink shirt!” he defends.
“Then you’re the only one.”
Before he can argue, the phone against the far back wall rings and Danneel practically skips over to answer it, nearly skipping on her way back, too, as she stretches out the long spiral cord of the old-fashioned, mint-green wall phone.
Jared grumbles at her, and himself, and then at Matt Cohen when Jared turns back to his workspace and spots the guy at the front of the store. Matt looks just as charming as the first day he walked into the store and flirted his way into Danneel’s jeans. And as charming as the five other times he’s done it, all while failing to let it slip that he was already in a relationship.
Danneel argued at the time that Matt insisted he was on a break, and yet Jared later found out that a batch of fifty roses sent to a Women’s Studies professor at Georgetown were just the first step to a marriage proposal.
“Hey, dum-dum,” Danneel says as she bumps the receiver against his head. “It’s for you.”
She sets the phone at his shoulder so he can squeeze it against his ear while still working. “This is Jared?”
“Yes, hi, Jared,” is said quite officially followed by a rough cough. Then a soft, angry whisper of, “This is so stupid.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, sorry,” then a small laugh. “So, Jared, I wanted you to know that my daughter loved the flowers.”
“Oh, okay,” Jared replies lightly, knowing he’s sold dozens of bouquets in the last week alone, and can never be sure who buys them or what they’re for. “I’m glad your daughter liked them …”
“Yeah, she really did.”
After a long silence, Jared bites the bullet. “I’m sorry, but who is this?”
“Oh, it’s Jensen,” he replies easily then clears his throat to speak more professionally. “Or, President Ackles.”
Jared immediately laughs, “Real funny, you prick,” and walks to the far end of the room to hang up.
“What was that?” Danneel asks as she spruces up the baby’s breath in Jared’s arrangement.
“Chad, being a dick.”
“Why?”
“Because he is a dick?” After a sigh, Jared lets on about his embarrassment. “The other night, we went out drinking and I told him how the President was in the shop, and he mocked me the whole time.”
“About what?”
“About anything? About his dreamy green eyes and tight ass and his little eye crinkles and his—”
“He has eye crinkles?” Danneel asks with interest.
“Haven’t you ever noticed?”
Now she appears sad to have missed that bit. “No, I didn’t.”
“Well, he does,” Jared admits then quickly continues on, “and so Chad ripped into me for it in front of everyone at Johnny’s Pub then told them all I was lying about the President even being here.”
“Well, that’s rude.”
“And that’s Chad.”
The phone rings again and Jared walks back to pick it up. On the other end is the same awkward voice, but it’s speaking lower than before. “I think there might be some misunderstanding?”
“There is no misunderstanding here,” Jared says quickly. “Our understanding is that you don’t fuck around while I’m at work. Find someone else to prank call, asshole.”
“Excuse me?”
“Fuck off.” Jared noisily bangs the receiver into place and stares at Danneel while breathing heavily through his annoyance. He shuts his eyes when the phone rings again.
“Looks like things are escalating,” Danneel says.
“Looks like.” Jared doesn’t open his eyes and he doesn’t answer the phone, just lets it ring on and on with its shrill rattle making him want to grind his teeth. When it continues to go on, he picks up the receiver only to slam it right back down. And yet, a second later, he picks it up again and dials *67 for reverse calling.
He huffs, laughs to himself, and points at Danneel. “Just you wait until I get back at him for this one. I’ll fuck him up so bad at his office that he won’t know—”
“White House,” is said brightly on the other end, and Jared almost drops the phone.
“Wait, what?”
“White House. Felicia Day. Can I help you?”
“What?” he dumbly repeats while staring at Danneel with wide eyes. She’s looking back much the same, yet more in confusion and less in the sheer panic Jared is now experiencing.
“White House. Felicia Day. President Ackles’ Office. Can I help you?” she repeats cordially and with a dedicated cadence.
Jared laughs hysterically, feeling his cheeks flare up, and his fingers barely stay wrapped around the phone receiver. “Uh, yeah, I guess you can. May I speak to the President of the United States?”
Danneel’s eyes widen ever further, if possible, and Jared is sure he’ll black out any second now.
“Mr. President,” Felicia says through the intercom, but Jensen isn’t up for anything she could bring to him at this moment.
He sighs, runs a hand over his head, and tosses out the small slip of paper with Padalilies scribbled across it with ten digits. He pushes the intercom button and replies with a wearied, “Yeah?”
“I have Jared Padalecki on the phone for you.”
Jensen figures this should be quite interesting following the two rough and aborted conversations they just had. He’s embarrassed for sure. Shocked is another term to throw on the pile. But at the end of the day, Jensen is still the President of the United States of America and he can boldly tell someone to go fuck themselves better than anyone else in the free world.
“Send it through,” he authorizes and brings the receiver to his ear just as he clears his throat. “This is President Ackl—”
“I am very, very, very sorry. Very, very, very sorry. I’m not sure there are enough verys or sorrys to toss out right now, but rest assured that I am sending as many as possible to you right now.”
“Hmm, yes, I’m not sure that’s nearly enough.”
Jared quickly goes on to humbly apologize, using as many variations on very – extremely, supremely, unmeasurably, etc. etc. etc. – that he can to express his embarrassment for the untimely misunderstanding and poor assumptions as to who was calling the flower shop.
“The amazing thing is,” Jensen says confidently, “you just barely gave me a chance to say my name before you trampled right over me.”
“I know, and I’m very sorry, Mr. President, Sir, Your Honor … what do I even call you?”
Jensen smiles at how scattered and humbled, and yet adorable, Jared sounds on the other end. “Jensen. You can call me Jensen.”
“Oh, no I can’t do that,” he insists with a strange laugh.
“I believe the President of the United States is asking you to do so.”
“Yeah, still,” he huffs, “I feel like I owe you a thousand more sorrys before that’s possible.”
“I’m sure you can make it up to me in time,” Jensen offers, trying to steer this conversation more in the direction he’d been intending when he first asked Welling to – secretly – obtain the name and number for the flower shop they visited last week.
Jared laughs. “I’m not sure there is enough time to make it up to you. I mean, I can only vote once.”
“Apparently, you’ve never been to Chicago,” Jensen jokes.
“Only to Texas, is that close?”
Jensen can hear the amusement in Jared’s tone and lets his old accent slip out. “About as close as a rabbit and hound dog.”
“Oh, God,” Jared whispers. Then there’s a fuzzy sound, as if he’s covering the receiver, and Jared’s hushed voice saying, “He’s doing a southern accent. What am I supposed to do?”
“You’re supposed to talk to him!” someone bursts out on the other end. “He’s the Goddamn President!”
Jensen pulls the receiver away from his face to stare at it then chuckles as he imagines what kind of melee is breaking out in the back room of Padalilies. Likely something as chaotic as when he visited the shop.
Jared clears his throat as he comes back on the line. “So, uh, Mr. President, how can I help you today?”
Right, yes, Jensen had a point in calling Jared. “Well, it’s not actually today that I’m asking after, but perhaps tomorrow or the evening after … Jared, I’d like to have you up to the White House for dinner.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No, don’t be sorry anymore, Jared.”
“But you said you want to have me at the White House?”
“Yes,” Jensen says a bit tightly, becoming anxious that Jared hasn’t outright said yes yet. “I’d like to have you up to the White House for dinner, whenever is most convenient for you.”
“You want me? At the White House? For dinner?”
“Yes, Jared, I believe that’s what I said.”
A long quiet stretches and creates a mess of tension in Jensen’s body, with his stomach twisting and his forehead sweating and his toes tapping through the fear that he can’t even manage to get a man to meet him for a meal. There’s a quick war between anger that, as the President, it’s incredibly difficult to manage a date … and then on the other hand, he feels like he’s well past his prime and out of practice. He shouldn’t be flirting and attempting to ask someone out.
At some point, Jensen begins to wonder if Jared has actually hung up, or if the line is suddenly out of service, but then there are noises of someone fiddling with the receiver and a female voice comes on the line.
“Hi, Mr. President? This is Danneel Harris. I was here in the shop when you came in.”
Jensen pulls out his presidential voice and nods as if he’s facing her once again. “Yes, Danneel, hi. I remember. How are you today?”
“Oh, gosh, I’m wonderful, sir,” she gushes then quickly coughs to speak more plainly. “I’m very sorry to report that Jared has just passed out and he—”
He sits forward at his desk with his heart racing double time. “Oh, no, is he okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine! I think … he is breathing. I can see his giant nostrils moving. Anyway!,” she shouts to control the conversation. “Jared would definitely love to be had at the White House. For dinner!” she shouts again. “I mean, he’d love to have dinner at the White House, and he can be there tomorrow evening at whatever-time-sharp you would prefer.”
It’s all so awkward, dealing with another woman to wrap up details for a dinner date, but Jensen is still a bit thrilled and scatterbrained at the fact that she’s saying yes for Jared and that this will actually happen.
He may be the American President, but he’s still a man who grew up with a long history of anxiety in his family tree and a shaky disposition towards relationships. Tahmoh basically bossed him into their first date, no matter how much Jensen had already been admiring the Sociology TA before changing his major to economics.
But now he’s the President, and he thinks he can confidently arrange his own personal life (so long as Katie never gets wind of this). And so, Jensen lets out an awkward, shuffling breath before he calms himself and replies, “Yes, that sounds excellent. How is 7:30? My assistant, Felicia, can send on instructions for arriving at the White House.”
“That sounds great!” Danneel happily chirps back.
“Great, that’s great.” Jensen is smiling and is even more elated that they’re on the phone so that neither Danneel nor Jared can see how dopey he must look at the moment. “Very happy to hear. Thank you, Danneel. Have a good day.”
“You’re welcome, sir. And you, too.”
Just as they’re hanging up, Danneel pops back on the line.
“Oh, and sir?”
“Yes, Danneel?”
“How about if your assistant also sends along some info on that hot, black agent who was here with you?”
Following twenty-four hours of freaking out, two background checks, three physical pat-downs (one at the drive-in security gate, one at the first entrance, and another just beyond the lobby), and half an hour of standing alone in the Roosevelt Room, Jared still can’t believe that he is inside the West Wing, let alone the White House.
He turns away from the fireplace and again counts the chairs around the sleek, dark-wood conference table. Sixteen, there are sixteen chairs here, just as there were the last six times he counted.
Jared has quickly run out of time-wasting activities. He checks his watch, and the second hand is flicking forward to tell him it is now 8:05. He’s antsy, sure; both to be here and also to be waiting for thirty-five lonely minutes. But he supposes it’s perfectly normal for the President to be on his own time, and it’s not like Jared is about to ditch the Commander-in-Chief.
He steps up to the American flag set in a stand, fabric hanging neatly as if someone freshly fluffs it every morning. After looking over his shoulder, as if an agent would suddenly appear and stop him from standing so close to the flag, Jared brings his hands up to the edges, but never touches. He now attempts to count all the stars within view between each of the folds.
That’s when the door swings open. Jared’s hands flail in the air and wind up grabbing onto the flag and tugging it forward as the President comes through the door with an agent right behind him. The President is still talking to someone in the hall, but he does a double-take at Jared who is trying his damnedest to release the flag, and yet also make sure it doesn’t fall over and touch the ground.
“I’ll talk to them at five tomorrow.”
“AM or PM?” a woman asks, and Jared thinks it sounds a lot like the woman who answered the phone yesterday. Felicity or something …
“AM.”
“For reals?”
The President’s eyebrows rise on his forehead. “For reals?” he parrots back.
“For … real … Sir,” she says slowly.
“Yes, for real,” he replies quickly. “It’ll be almost lunchtime in London, so he’ll squeeze it in between fish ‘n chips and his third Guinness.”
“Guinness is from Ireland, Sir.”
The President nods and smirks a little (and Jared definitely does not swoon at the tiny tilt of his mouth, he’s already busy staying completely still so he won’t disrupt another piece of America’s legacy in this room). “I know that, but he’s also a Neanderthal and will very likely mix the two because he doesn’t know any better.”
With a quick, “Thank you,” the President closes the door on his assistant and eyes Jared, the flag, and then Jared again. “It appears you were being attacked by the flag.”
“No, sir,” Jared quickly replies. “Not at all, sir,”
“Well, good. Because that’s the original Francis Hopkinson design with the thirteen six-pointed stars in rows, as opposed to Betsy Ross’s circle.”
Jared gulps, but the President gives him an easy smile.
“I’m kidding. It’s a replica, replaced every few months to avoid fading from the lights,” he says while pointing above them to the inset lighting. He spreads his hands out while turning to his left then right, as if displaying the whole room. Jared barely keeps up with the man’s words because his three-piece navy blue suit fits him impeccably, with a pale blue shirt and charcoal grey tie that complement the walking perfection. “Have you ever been in the Roosevelt Room before?”
Somehow Jared manages to get his wits and words about him to respond. “No, Sir, I haven’t.”
The President steps around the other side of the table at a simple pace. “I said to call me Jensen, and this room was Theodore Roosevelt’s first West Wing Office, and then when he built his own West Wing, this became his common meeting room. In ’69, Nixon named it for both Theodore and Franklin Deleanor, but it continues to be used for staff meetings. Sometimes I wonder how we all fit in here. Fifteen staff and me, every week. Sixteen chairs.”
“I knew that part,” Jared tries to joke, but the President just eyes him before frowning.
“Jared, I have to apologize,” he says quite gravely, “I’m far later than I had planned.”
He shrugs and waves it off, because … it’s the President. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay. I had a conference call with the Prime Minister of Belarus to discuss the current issues with Russia and Ukraine and how they—well you certainly don’t care about those things.”
“I rather do care.” Jared clears his throat and nods. “Especially if it leads to World War III.”
The President laughs, and Jared is barely comforted by how warm it makes him to hear such a joyful noise from such a particularly handsome man. “I can’t promise that it won’t, but I’m surely trying to keep it from heading that way.”
“Of course, Sir.”
He pauses, appears annoyed with the tight line of his jaw, and looks Jared right in the eyes before softly insisting, “Jensen.”
Jared thinks carefully on how to respond to that and manages to only faintly squeak out, “Really?”
“Yes, really.” Now he seems a bit businesses-like, or at least bossy. “You’re my guest for dinner tonight. I’m off the clock for until the Balkans have their third cup of coffee, and until then, I’m not the President of anything. I’m Jensen.”
Once the words all settle clearly in his brain, Jared slowly nods and releases a long-kept breath. “Okay. Jensen.”
“That’s right,” he smiles warmly … warm enough that Jared feels warm all over. “Now come on this way.”