Secrets of the West Wing

Chapter 2 - Languishing

March 2025

I never saw Agent Prentiss in the residence.  It was just as I asked Agent Hotchner - it was like she wasn't there.   He had clearly relayed my rather rude demand to Prentiss.  And even though this is exactly what I asked for, I couldn't help but be disappointed.  She was just so pretty.  I was like a junkie waiting for my next fix, my next peek at Emily Prentiss.  Of course I saw her around, but she was always so stoic.

Prentiss was never far from my mind.  For weeks I had to resort to stealing glances of her throughout the day.   Unfortunately, she was only around if I left the West Wing because she knew I was safe there.  I could only come up with so many excuses to go somewhere else.  So, I was left with my memories. My one memory of an angelic face shocked by the President of the United States so brusquely brushing past her.

For about two weeks it was all the same.  Lie awake and think about her pretty face; distract myself from thinking of her by running the country.  The American People deserved so much better.  Prentiss was always peripheral.   I always knew she was around.  Yet, she was always out of reach.   Until she wasn't.

I'd had bad days before, but nothing like this.   I hadn't eaten since 8:30 am, everything I suggested in the War Room was rejected, the Senate was stalled on a bill I promised the American People I'd get passed, and to top it all off, my shoes, though incredibly sexy, murdered my feet all day.  As I left the West Wing, all I could think about was crawling into bed, drawing the blanket over my head, and sleeping.  Saying a passing "goodnight" to Agent Green posted at my door, I shut the horrors of the day outside.  Immediately, I threw my briefcase down and stripped satan's shoes off.

"Long day?" Prentiss asked from the couch, a book open on her lap.

Holy hell.  She was actually here.  Looking like that.  And I looked a mess.

Ignoring her question, I responded, "Wine?"

"That bad?" She asked with a chuckle.   I sighed, not in the mood to be laughed at.  I grabbed two glasses, the bottle, and a corkscrew and made my way to the couch.  I inelegantly flopped on the couch and stared at the bottle, willing it to open telekinetically.

I looked up at Prentiss and found her staring at me with an unidentified expression on her face.   "What?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Can you pour this?   I want to change."  What seemed like disappointment flashed across her face, but was gone before I could be sure.  I made my way to my bedroom and paused as soon as I closed the door.  I looked longingly at my bed and debated crawling in despite who was currently waiting for me in the living room.  But sleep would always lose when competing with Emily Prentiss.

I came back out in black shorts and a white t-shirt.  Once again, I flopped back on the couch, too tired to even lower myself normally.  She handed me my wine glass, and I said, "Thanks for pouring this."  She hummed.

"I've never seen you so casual," Prentiss said, nudging me with her foot.  An electrical current zapped my bare skin, and I shot away from her to the other side of the couch.   What the hell was that?  Embarrassed by my reaction, I bit my lip - a nervous tick of mine - and looked away.  Was she uncomfortable by my attire?  My shorts were, admittedly, quite short.   Then it occurred to me: she had been reading when I got here.   Of course she didn't want me here.  My thoughts were zooming a mile a minute, conjuring all the reasons why Prentiss was about to tell me to leave.  And all the while, all I could feel was the tingle from where her skin had touched mine.

She never asked me to leave.   In fact, we made polite, if not stilted, conversation about my day.  I lied, not wanting to get into what a nightmare it really was.  Then we discussed how she got into the Secret Service and her "complicated" past.  That seemed like a sore subject for her.  I even related how excited I was for the vice president's birthday gala.  I asked if she was allowed to attend as a guest and was only mildly disappointed when she said no.  Though the conversation was inconsequential, it was the highlight of my week.

"You know, they say you're one of the most charismatic presidents ever elected...yet you're being so awkward right now.   You won't even look at me."  I blanched.  My foot almost lodged itself in my mouth and blurted That's what happens when in the presence of beautiful women. Thankfully, my filter remained in tact long enough to prevent that humiliation.

Instead, dredging up the only ounce of courage in me, I responded, "I guess I just don't know what this is."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, are we...friends?"  The word felt heavy and bitter in my mouth.   "I mean," I continued, "Isn't that a conflict of interest or something?"

Emily's eyes widened.   "Do you feel unsafe?  Do you want me re-assigned?"

"NO!" I blurted much too quickly.  Reducing the urgency in my voice, "I mean, no - that won't be necessary.   You're doing great."  There was another horribly awkward pause in the conversation.   I downed the rest of my wine.

Emily, braver than I, broke the silence.   "It's settled then.  Friends."  Her lips formed a half smile, a sort of squished line marginally tilted up at the corners.  It appeared she wasn't any more thrilled with the prospect than I was.  But when I stopped to think about it, having Emily as a friend was better than nothing.   Better than never getting to be with her like this.  Friends was already pushing the boundaries dictated by our situation.  Besides, the thought of her being re-assigned was simply unbearable.

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Wine nights became a regular, weekly occurrence if my schedule allowed it.  These glimpses into her life would have to be enough for me.   It would be inappropriate to have more and it was selfish to want more.   But as the weeks progressed it was impossible not to want more.   With each passing week, I sat on the couch with her in unimaginable aching.  To be closer to her.  To touch her.  To taste her.  And though friends, I never made progress past that.  Her dedication to her job, to me, was admirable.   I only wished she were dedicated to me because she felt the same as I did.  I wished she looked at me, not because it was her job to watch me, but because she yearned for me as I did her.

At some point, my longing grew to a fever pitch.  And that fever pitch turned into a melody, incessantly swimming in my head.  One night at - I checked the clock - 1:54 am I had an overwhelming need to write a song for Emily, and it wouldn't rest until it was out on paper.   I grabbed staff paper and a pencil and tip-toed to the front door in an effort to not wake Emily.

When I opened the door, I mentally cursed.  I had forgotten about my ever-present agents posted outside.   "Madam President, what are you doing?  It's 2am."   I didn't answer, continuing down the hall.  Hopefully if I did it fast enough they wouldn't follow.  How naive.  "Madam President!  Where are you going?" He asked me, and then continued into his ear piece, "Athena is on the move.   Destination unknown."  Athena?  I idly wondered if Emily would tell me why they chose that as my code name.

I finally entered the grand hall, quickening my pace towards the piano.  I hoped it was in tune.   "Where are you going, Madam President?"  I sat down.   "Ma'am please, we haven't swept this room."

"So, by all means, sweep away," I muttered.  I started playing, ignoring Agent Green's furious whispers into his earpiece.  It felt absolutely joyous warming up with my old favorites.  I was filled with such mirth, I actually threw my head back and laughed.  Soon Emily's song demanded my attention, and I finished a good portion of her song in no time at all.

Melancholy leaked into my composition because I knew I would never get the opportunity to play it for her.  And I knew she'd never get to appreciate its meaning.  I was wistful realizing she would never know exactly what each note meant.