Julian had done his part.
Immediately after, despite the Secret Service that advised otherwise, Julian had insisted on following them to the hospital, because that was Theresa in the operating room— his President and partner, his friend, and he couldn’t leave her alone at a time like this. The fact that he’d ordered each bullet shot into her was something not to be dwelled upon.
When everything started, well over twenty years ago, Julian had come to terms with the rules of this game, as well as accepted the sacrifices that would come along the way. Losing Theresa had never been his plan, until David Schwartz made it so.
Conveniently for him, the hospital was deemed unsafe for the time being, and would be cleared for the Vice — and soon to be — President when security was enhanced and the journalists blocked away. More conveniently still, Julian knew just who to visit in the meantime.
This was the most amateur as he would ever be, to personally involve himself like this, but Julian had become too experienced and well connected not to make sure he covers his footsteps in the snow.
"Hey, David,” he says, as though greeting an old friend. Considering what they shared between them, it didn’t feel too out of place. There’s no room for a breath or a beat after the words, a chance to run. In that split second after their eyes meet, the men which are twice the size of David and his frailness, grab him by both his arms, forcing the phone out of his hand. It’s handed to a third and last man, who already starts working on it. The devil’s in the details, and all. “I must say, I love your apartment. It’s really,” — Julian looks around again — “It’s quite cozy. I need to admit I don’t love all the pictures of me — we’re gonna have to take some of those down, aren’t we? —,” he says, absentmindedly, as a reminder to himself and the sharp-suited friends who’d accompanied him there.
Then, almost as if he had just noticed David standing there, Julian motions to a nearby chair, opposite the loveseat he’d claimed for himself. “Please. Take a seat.”
Two men appear to tower over David, making him feel smaller than he already does, sucking the air around him as if to tell him the fight for his last breath begins now.
Instinctively, David attempts to resist as he looks down at the sheer force of steel grasping his arms, securing him in place, though you wouldn’t be able to tell solely from their grips. Like they’re holding a pheasant. Post hunt.
If he died now, the last thing he would have seen are these hands. He would die staring at how weak, afraid and desperate he is. Just like ten years ago, when he couldn’t even look Julian in the eye, wearing posture like an apology. This time has to be different. It’s probably the last chance he’s going to get.
And so, David looks up to meet Julian’s gaze once more, the tension in his arms is released as his eyes glaze over with one final realisation: he has nothing left to lose. Even as Julian echoes the voice of a simple friendly neighbour down the hall, David sees nothing but a man he’d meet in Hell. After all, once this is all over, they’d be one and the same: dirt.
At Julian’s demand, the guards move towards the chair and take David with them. He’s pushed down into the seat.
“Would you like a drink?” David asks, gaze betraying nothing but a desolate winter. A sigh. “Mr. Vice President.”
