Category: L/M
Rating: P/G
Disclaimers: Not mine. If they were, this elaborate tango would have
ended long ago.
Spoilers: Through Season 3
Archive: At my site, which is part of Jeanine's universe:
http://helsinkibaby.topcities.com/Jenni/leomargaret.htm
Summary: "Did you take art history?"
A/N: It's unabated, so all mistakes are mine. It's got nothing to do
with anything else I've written. It's fluff . . . for Flip because
she begged. And then she badgered me into posting it. Warning –
this story has more sugar and sap than cheesecake!
Leaning against the poured concrete wall, she straightens her spine
and hugs a binder closer to her chest. She wonders if anyone will
notice if she closes her eyes, just for a moment. She can't remember
the last time she got a full night's sleep, let alone any sleep in
her own bed.
That's the hell of a presidential campaign, she thinks. You spend
days in cramped busses or airplanes, in seats that had offer little
by way of lumbar support. Your afternoons and evenings are devoted
to rallies, receptions, speeches; hour upon hour in high heels
chasing after the human dynamo that is your boss. You live on
caffeine, sugar, and fried food; you're going to need an angioplasty
when November rears its ugly head. Not exactly the most healthy
lifestyle.
Five minutes later, she hears the signature line, "God bless you, and
God bless America." Mentally shaking herself into the moment,
Margaret walks toward the backstage area, knowing Leo will be chock
full of details, changes, and phone calls that need to be made before
the cocktail reception.
"Margaret, there you are. Let's go," Leo calls, striding toward the
exit, Margaret on one side of him, Josh and Donna on the
other. "What time is the reception?" Leo asks.
"Six to eight. Senior staff at nine in the President's suite."
Margaret and Leo exit the convention center proper, into an
underground tunnel, normally reserved for service vehicles. She
stops beside the second limo, waiting for final instructions.
"We'll do email, faxes, and calls when we get back to the hotel," Leo
says, sliding into the black sedan. Margaret nods and dashes down
the walkway toward the black SUV the Senior Assistants have been
assigned to.
By four thirty, Margaret has downloaded the latest campaign schedule
changes from Bruno's office and listened to Leo express his
displeasure over the same. She's called Connie and tried to
diplomatically express Leo's preferences, until the Chief of Staff
grabbed the phone from her hand and hollered at Connie to put Bruno
on the phone. Not wanting to hear the remainder of the conversation,
the tall red head uses the opportunity to make the rounds of the
hotel rooms assigned to the Senior Staff, distributing lists of
Democratic candidates and potential donors Leo wants them to pay
attention to this evening.
Ten minutes before the reception is scheduled to begin, Margaret
exits her hotel room, dressed in the tea length black silk sheath
dress she bought especially for this campaign, her hair twisted into
a chignon at the base of her neck. Racing for the elevator, she
almost turns her ankle sprinting around the corner. "Damned high
heels." Margaret stalks into the elevator, grinning at Bonnie and
Donna who are giggling over her performance.
By all accounts, the reception is a success. The right people are in
attendance, all the right things are said. The President and Dr.
Bartlet are smiling and appear to be genuinely enjoying themselves,
always a plus in Margaret's book. Then again, they are campaigning
in New England, which has been home to the First Couple for most if
not all of their lives. The only way they'd be happier is if this
was Manchester instead of Providence. Margaret is thankful the
President is having a good time, as his mood has a direct impact on
the humor of her boss.
After the reception comes Senior Staff. Everyone, staff and
assistants alike, gather in the Bartlet's suite to hash and rehash
the events of the day and make more plans for tomorrow's trip to
Vermont. The senior staff reports on promised campaign donations;
Margaret makes a list of people Leo will want to follow up with while
wishing she could step out of her black patent leather heels and sink
her bare toes into the thick blue carpet.
"Okay people," Leo calls, looking at the assemblage of road weary
staffers. "We're pulling out at 7 a.m. Anything else?" He looks
around the room as everyone shakes their head or studiously avoids
his gaze, for fear of causing the meeting to drag on.
"Great work everyone. Good night," Bartlet says, signalling the end
of the meeting.
Eleven exhausted voices chorus, "Good night Mr. President" as they
file out the door and down the hall toward their rooms.
"Margaret."
The sound of her name stops her in the center of the hall. Motioning
for Donna to go on without her, the tall red head turns
slowly. "What can I do for you Leo?"
"We never got through the email and faxes."
"Give me ten minutes?" Margaret asks.
"Yeah." Leo walks toward his room as Margaret heads in the opposite
direction.
Margaret changes into casual clothes in record time and tells Donna
not to wait up. She makes the short trek to Leo's room and taps on
the door.
Leo opens the door, cell phone in hand and motions her inside. She
can tell by the tone of his voice he's talking to Mallory and moves
to the small desk, seating herself on the hard chair and perusing the
file folders she brought with her.
"Mallory says hello," Leo comments.
Margaret looks up from her notes, nodding her head and smiling. "How
is she?"
"Fine," Leo answers noncommittally, reaching for his own stack of
folders. "Might as well start with the schedule revisions Bruno sent
over." Leo reaches for the fax Margaret picked up shortly before the
reception.
Two hours later, midnight has come and gone and Margaret can feel her
back begin to lodge a protest against the uncomfortable desk chair.
Silently, she slips from the chair to the carpet, pressing her back
to the floor-to-ceiling windows, drawing her denim clad knees up to
her chest to use as a writing surface. She finishes making notes in
the margins of a copy of the latest polling numbers. "Next?" she
asks.
Leo looks up from the sheaf of papers he is reading and peers over
the wire-framed glasses that have slipped halfway down his nose. "I
have no idea," he admits. "What are you doing on the floor?"
"Because that chair," she nods toward the offending article of
furniture, "ought to be classified as a torture device."
Leo pats the other cushion of the small sofa. "There's plenty of
room here."
"I'm fine."
"Suit yourself." Glancing at his watch, Leo stood up and rolled his
shoulders. "You want something to drink?"
"Please," Margaret responded, without looking up from her notes.
Leo opens the mini-bar and peers inside. Extracting two small
containers he shut the door with his right elbow. Walking back
across the room he grabs two small glasses. Setting the beverages
and glassware on the coffee table, Leo lowers himself to the floor,
leaning against the sofa.
Margaret looks up as Leo began opening and pouring drinks. "Milk?"
she asked, a grin playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Is that okay?"
"Of course. I just never figured you for a milk drinker."
Silence dropped over the pair like a heavy velvet curtain as Leo and
Margaret retreated into their respective stacks of paperwork.
She has no idea how much time had passed when she hears Leo yawn.
Looking up she giggled, "Leo, you have a milk moustache."
"Oh, come on, I do not."
"You don't believe me, go take a look."
Leo stood up and walked into the bathroom. "You're right," he
called. Margaret heard water running into the sink as Leo wiped his
mouth with a facecloth.
"Better," Margaret pronounced when he returned to the sitting
area. "What?" she asked, noticing that Leo was staring at her,
something he never did.
"Anyone ever tell you . . . never mind." Leo picked up his files
again.
"Tell me what?"
"Nothing."
"Is something wrong Leo?" Worry creased Margaret's brow.
Leo thought, not for the first time, that his assistant spent too
much time worrying after him. She constantly sacrificed her time,
private life, and well being to make sure his life and schedule ran
like a well-oiled machine. She was the one constant in his life,
always there, always indispensable, a rarity in the modern workforce.
"Leo?" Margaret asked again, noting her boss seemed lost in a memory.
"Anyone ever tell you, when you smile like that you kind of look like
the Mona Lisa?"
Torn between wanting to laugh at the insanity of it all and wanting
to cry at the genuine kindness of his statement, she settled for
biting the inside of her cheek and smiling slightly. "No."
"Well you do."
"The Mona Lisa and I look nothing alike."
"I didn't say you were identical twins," Leo replied. "But sometimes
you smile and it reminds me of the painting."
"Okay." Margaret drops her files to the floor and stretches her legs
out in front of her. "I'd give my eye teeth to be able to travel to
Paris to see the original."
"Trust me, it's not that big a deal."
"You've seen the Mona Lisa?"
"Jenny and I went to Europe about six years ago. We spent a few days
in Paris. The Louvre has the painting encased in a large display
case. With the way the lighting is, it made it awfully hard to see
the painting."
"Still," Margaret mused.
"Did you take art history?"
"My sophomore year of college."
"Believe me when I tell you that the reproduction in your text book
is better than looking at the real thing through a thick pane of
glass."
"If you say so." Margaret yawned. "I still don't see how I could
look remotely like a masterpiece, smiling or not."
"Call it artistic license Margaret." Leo looked at his watch and
stood up. "And let's call it a night. We both need to get some
sleep."
Margaret stacked up her folders and stood up. Walking toward the
door, she looked over her shoulder and smiled at Leo, "Good night
Rembrandt."
"Good night Mona," he whispered, closing the door behind her.
Fin
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