a/n: hiiii! this is my first fic so please have some mercy on me! shout out to my best friend, grace, for proof-reading this for me! i hope you all enjoy!
The anxiety shows. Vaguely, but it’s there. It’s in the knock of his knuckles against the wooden table, the way his words hold a small stumble despite their power. He’s not a fan of the people. The cameras are not the problem, they never are. It’s the people running them that cause this nagging stomachache. The Attorney General has no problem with people. Hell, considering his position, he has to have no problem with people; however, something about these people doesn’t sit right with him.
Except for her.
This press conference was originally set to be in his office at the Department of Justice, the picture perfect image of this newly reformed sense of justice that was sweeping over the country in waves. However, due to a sudden workload that turned his office into a 3-Dimensional model of the Swiss Alps made of legal papers, the conference was moved. So instead, he sits in the White House Press Office, all alone at the table, substantially too large for just one person. Everyone else in the room stands, hanging on to every word he speaks. Some with the intent to put him on the highest pedestal they possibly can, others with the intent to sick him to the wolves and his hell he prays to be free from every night.
Except for her.
One of the Press Secretary’s interns, clearly a new one given her desk placement. She sits quietly at a desk in the corner, one that was very clearly only put there because she had become a part of the press team. Her face was so close down, nose so far into her typewriter, he’s afraid that her fingers are going to scratch her face as she pressed the keys. He was aware of how quiet she was trying to be for the sake of all the cameras and microphones within the room, not wanting to interrupt the Attorney General and the words he was speaking, knowing of his ruthless and orderly demeanor. However, he also knew that she wouldn’t fully stop either, for she was under the quota of Pierre Salinger and seemingly being the rookie, the only end of the stick available was the shortest one. He continues through pleasantries and policies, smiling in his classic, sheepish and charming manner, joking lightly with members of the press . Class, grace and integrity all exuding from him, “like a Kennedy should have,” as his father would remind him as a growing boy, in a manner that was almost palpable. It was common for people to bloom in the presence of Bobby Kennedy, to turn to him like a flower following the sun, but she does not, simply content to keep working than dare interact with the overflowing parade of charisma and schmoozing.
Once the press conference is over, he’s swept back to his office, a storm of security, cameras and cars on the way back to 950 Pennsylvania Ave. Though three days later, on a surprisingly hot September afternoon, he sees her again. She’s delivering papers to his brother’s secretary, simply performing the duties expected of her. However, it’s almost like his shoes are frozen to the shiny tiles they were stepping on. As he walks into the Oval Office, trying for the life of him to act normal, like a professional, he can’t help but wonder, like most who see her but never dare speak; who was she?
After a few weeks and one-too-many vaguely childish questions to his secretary, he gains a name. She’s a Georgetown student, journalism, he discovers. He’s reminded of his sister-in-law, but decides not to linger on the thought, opting to drown himself in paperwork. However, he can never escape far, consistently haunted by the frequency theory. Once he saw her, she was everywhere: In the press office, in the hallway down the West Wing as he went to visit his brother’s office, at the bar at The Monocle. Anywhere he could look, she was there. He was starting to think he was going crazy. For fuck’s sake, he had a wife and children, the eldest of them nearing close to her age. So, he barely dares to breathe around her. If he sees her, he looks away. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t nod or tip his head, doesn’t lift his glass of dark brown liquor in silent invitation. He remains stoic, every bit of his face reflecting back the ruthless prosecutor that the media loves to portray him as.
His biggest problem is that she doesn’t even seem to notice, doesn’t even look up. She seemingly lives in her lap, her hands tightly wrung together as they sit over her carefully pressed skirt and straight tights as her eyes stay darted down. He’s seen her green eyes, as dark and sad as the sea, only twice. Once, in a back hallway. Twice, on a leather stool, swaying by herself at that new little bar on D Street. He recognizes that melancholy, it’d be impossible for him not to. It’s the same one he sees in the mirror every morning. Lamentations 3:33 says "They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness." God's mercies are renewed each morning, making it a vulnerable hour, where dream and reality merge together for minutes. Minutes where he thinks he sees her on his way downstairs, thinks he sees her sitting on the bus next to him in traffic. In the minutes before he has to wipe his eyes and remind himself to snap out of it.
Over his lunch break, he scoffs into his peanut butter and jelly. A Georgetown student. An intern.
He was the Attorney General and he was lost in illusions of a goddamn intern.
