⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ | Assassination Attempt
Unconstitutional: Briar Anthony Haye
Tags: swearing, guns? Sexual imagery, mentions of blood and minor injury. This is just part one.
State dinners are, more often than not, elaborate dick swinging competitions filled with overgrown theatre kids playing powerful. Under the chandeliers, everything glows faintly gold—the silverware, the crystals, the polished shoes of foreign diplomats and the sparkling teeth of domestic politicians ready to suck the dick of anyone willing and able to pay for a new golf course. The ballrooms have always seemed to exist in a sealed atmosphere where nothing wrong can seem to happen, but the fear lingers; though soothed by the obnoxious displays of exclusivity and wealth that push the danger to the backs of most people's consciousness.
I have never liked them. Not when I was an early teen, occasionally attending them as the president's son. And not now. As the fifty-first president of the United States of America.
Although, strangely enough, tonight doesn't seem to be as unbearable as the other nights. The usual vehement disgust at the show-pony-ness of it all doesn't come. Instead, all I can find myself reverting to during mindless small talk is her.
The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom
When she smiles, when she laughs. When she makes a joke or does something so agonisingly charming that the people around her laugh and smile, because they can't help but be endeared by the most powerful woman in the room. People feed off of her intoxicating energy as changelings feed on love.
Not that I could necessarily blame them. It is impossible not to watch her. And perhaps even more irritatingly so, it is impossible not to like her or like being around her.
I catch a glimpse of her teeth hidden behind her palm and take a note of the way she inclines her head to hear something being said to her. In my eye-line, she's framed by white rose centrepieces that make the twinkling rubies around her neck pop against the deep burgundy Valentino gown she’s clad in. Simply dazzling she is, almost flagrantly so.
Beside me, a senator from the judicial oversight committee yammers off about something to do with something. He has been for the better part of the last quarter hour. I have no clue what he has said or, more importantly, what the fuck I may have agreed to.
Every time I try to drag my attention back, it wanders away again. To the woman who, this time, catches my gaze. Amusement dances in those pupils that are no less entrapping than quicksand, her lips curling into a quick little smirk. The man beside her doesn't notice, as he continues cutting into his steak and talking.
Her mouth moves, and I swear I almost think I'm going to have a fucking stroke. That is, until, like a toddler, I'm quickly distracted by the fact that she is mouthing something. I strain my eyes to figure it out in the dimly lit room.
"Ever considered investing in a camera?" She cocks her head to the side like a fox.
I feel myself smile despite myself, momentarily averting my gaze to literally anything else, so I can school my face into an expression that won't make her as giddy as a schoolgirl
"Don't need one. Vogue does the job." The magazine is obsessed with her almost as much as I am. On an even keel with Caroline Basset Kennedy or, if you're British Vogue, Princess Diana.
She laughs, the bastard beside her thinks it's because of him, and smugness crosses his face. But I know better. I made her laugh. A proper laugh, too. None of those manufactured ones.
The orchestra in the corner is playing softly—harmonising with the gentle clanks and clatters of glassware and silver against plates. Smartly dressed waiters bob weave through circular tables, diligently tending to the whims and needs of dignitaries.
Then, an unmistakable sound cracks through the room, and everyone goes dead silent.
My eyes snap up from my plate just as another one rings out through the ballroom. This time, I don't hesitate to move. And I'm not the only one. The whole room slips into pandemonium.
A scream breaks the deathly silence that followed the gunshots, followed by the grating screeches of chairs against the wooden floors, some toppling over with how abruptly people stand up. The orchestra ceases in the middle of a note so abruptly that the silence itself seems to burst and explode.
I circle the table, dodging the people who were just moments ago sitting beside her and now running for their lives, for shelter. One instant, she is staring towards the far side of the ballroom, confusion creasing her brows, and the next, my hand closes the distance between us before my feet are even inches away from her.
My hand closes around her wrist, and the world narrows to a point. I lunge, and we both hit the floor with a thud, my free hand shooting to the back of her head to soften the blow. The impact knocks the breath from me. The maroon carpet under our table smells faintly of dust and wine, and it mingles with her perfume—the concoction making me dizzy.
There is a terrible confusion of movement all around us: shoes, chair legs and dark suits.
"Down! Protect the president!"
Another voice makes its presence known.
"Coast is clear! Move! Move!"
Hands seize my shoulders but ignore them. She’s beneath my arm, wide-eyed with her hair half over her face, and for one appalling second, I do not know if she's been hit or not.
"Stay down," I hear myself grunting at her.
People are scampering away, running in fear. Somewhere nearby, someone is crying. There is a loud, minacious ringing in my ears that does nothing to cool the sweat coating my brow. Below me, she draws a ragged, shaky breath. Then another. Her breath tickles the bare skin of my Adam's apple. Alive. She's alive. The relief that follows is so violent, it's almost painful. So long as she is alive, I can mediate the situation. I can call medics, I can demand protection. I am in control of the situation. That does cool the sweat licking my brow.
Big hands close around my arm again. "Mr President." The service member tries to pull me up, but I don't let go.
"Sir." He insists, more firmly this time.
I look up. The faces above me are grim and urgent, and beyond them, I can only see fragments of the ballroom—the edge of an overturned table, napkins scattered on the floor, wine glasses tipped over and lazily oozing out thousand-dollar nectar.