mr. secretary

Stanley Reid. 73. Secretary of Defense. Player.

[stanleyreid]

charlottehuang:

The urge to roll her eyes was strong, but Charlotte refrained.  They were all on the same team here, serving as Theresa’s advisors.  Even if her views on guns differed drastically from his.  “Oh of course not.  I know better,” Charlotte commented, her lips curling in a smile.  “And I would have thought the interns would too.”

"Good," Stanley says, the same way a grandfather would; disapproving even if the answer was the one he'd like to hear. "The interns don't know as much as the difference between the House and the Senate, Secretary Huang. They don't know anything these days beyond those dog faces they put on their pictures." A practice Stanley had yet to get a grasp on. "It's really very depressing what the youth has come to, these days."

[stanleyreid]

"I hope you’re not here to push for gun control,” Stanley offers immediately upon arrival, scanning the new found visitor at the hallways of the White House. Not his visitor, necessarily, but if so they should know better than to block his way. “The interns,” -- and if the word comes with disdain, it was meant that way --  “already exhausted me on that.” 

[stanleyreid]

macbenton:

There’s a sudden influx of emails lighting up the screen of his phone, buzz after buzz after buzz. For a moment, his attention is misplaced as he begins to go over them. The person in front of him leaves the queue, and he starts to take a step forward, but he isn’t the only one. “Oh, apologies,” he says with a smile and looks up. He places a hand to his chest before gesturing towards the space in front of them. “Go ahead, I think you were before me.”

“I believe I was,” Stanley tells him and does take the empty space previously disputed. All the while, he looks down at the man in tired distaste-- Kids and their smartphones. If he remembered it right -- and it was outstandingly difficult to remember things right, at his age --, this was one of the Attorney General’s lawyers. It didn’t exactly prompt Stanley to be nice, but it did prompt the minimum required politeness. Which was hard enough. “A coffee,” he instructs the barista. “No milk or cream or whatever you put on coffee these days. Just a simple, black coffee.” A beat. “And whatever this gentleman’s having.” 

[stanleyreid]

briellenoveau:

Brielle was headed back to her office with a cup of freshly-brewed coffee in her hand. The soft rays of sunlight were a pleasant change from the brutally unnatural florescent lighting that seemed to run rampant around The Post’s building. Pausing to lean against a stray wall, Brielle sighed contently, “What I wouldn’t give to have an outdoor office on days like this,” Bri smiled at the person nearby. “If only the weather was this nice everyday.”

The Washington Post’s building was only ever in the way of wherever Stanley needed to go. It was never a destination (God forbid he goes to the media and not them go to him), not even a bother. So when Stanley stopped right at its entrance, it gets him with surprise. Stanley does a double-take, looks around himself as if to check if really he was the one the woman was speaking to. Apparently so.

He fails to see whatever beauty had blinded her, but he’d never expected to. “Nice day indeed,” he forces himself to say, though a smile doesn’t come to match his words. It hardly ever did. “I’m sure you can get a desk by the window if you ask your boss nicely enough.”