Across Party Lines [Trump x Biden]

I - Two Birds

There's something cathartic about watching your life flash before your eyes, isn't there? About the feeling you get when your legs crumple beneath you like a can under a heel? When that pain strikes you talon-sharp, and you wonder with every breath if the next will be your last?

I would not call myself a good person. Before yesterday, I tried only to do what I could. To do what I had to. But Death's freeing, suffocating grip missed me by the width of a hair. I'm almost eighty, anyhow. Now, I have a chance to do everything that I couldn't before.

And all that starts with one Joseph Biden, whose name spells bold and bright at the top of my phone screen.

"Hello?"

A sigh comes from the other end as I shoo away the two Secret Service agents. "Oh, Donald, thank God. You alright?"

His voice teases the corners of my lips until they pull upward. Half of me knows this call shouldn't last more than forty-five seconds. The other half knows I would hate to hear him go.

Under the hospital sheets, my free hand forms a fist—the same fist I raised at the rally in Butler. This time, though, it's loose. Shaky. My thumb rubs against my other fingers. It's soothing, but not soothing enough. When I open my mouth, my words trip over my tongue. "I'm quite alright, Joe," I say. "I just... yeah. I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine to me. What happened again?"

I try to roll over, but my back screams at me to stay put. I'm left blankly staring the overwhelming white of the hospital lights.

I close my eyes. "Got shot. Nothing too ba—"

"Where are you right now?" Biden asks, an urgency in his voice that seems more fitting for an actual emergency.

"Walter Reed. The... uh, the one in Bethesda, I think."

Joe pulls his phone away from his head, but I still hear him shout "Bethesda Naval, please," to someone. When he returns, I try to stop smiling, as if someone were watching me. Who knows? "I'll be there in six," says he. "Stay put."

The call ends, and the screen fades to black. I see myself in its reflection and grimace.

I seriously should not be this red.

I'm made aware of Biden's presence five minutes and twenty-three seconds later. A minute and two seconds after that, he slips into my room and closes the door behind him. Patting down his navy suit, his lips split to show a bright smile—one that the public doesn't often see. Beside the outfit, nothing about him makes me feel like I'm looking at President Biden.

It's just Joe. Old, sleepy Joe.

He pulls one of those waiting room chairs closer to the bed but doesn't sit down. My gaze lingers on his buttons for too long when he undoes them. "You tired?" asks he, leaning over me.

Like any other elderly man, I groan as I sit up. My back still kills me; it's a dull pain that radiates from the small and only gets worse with movement. But I have to bear it to not look up at him—otherwise, my face would say all the words my sorry mouth wouldn't.

"Absolutely. I woke up feeling like... like shit." I can barely raise my hands. A gesture would have been great there.

Biden puts a strong, worn hand on the corner of the mattress, near my thigh. Instinct tells me to move away, but something foreign draws me closer. I look at him. "Truthfully, Donald? You scared me half to death—"

"Death?" I can't catch the chuckle that slips from me. "Really, Joe?"

His smile widens. I glance away. "C'mon, now. Gotta love a little joke." His hand moves to my shoulder and squeezes it the way so many others have. But his is different, somehow. The feeling spreads slow and warm like lava across my body until it completely encapsulates me, stronger and thicker than this hospital blanket ever could be.

Not even Melania has that kind of touch.

"Can I see it? The wound?" he asks. That low sternness I heard over the phone is back, and it's angrier than before. Would I be wrong if I said I almost liked it?

"Of course," I say, fighting to keep the little bass I even have in my voice.

With all the gentleness of silk, Joe places his fingers one by one under my chin. It's a swift motion, really, but each tap ignites something new. Anxiety, excitement, hatred.

Passion.

That one has no use there, I'm certain.

But when he tells me to tilt my head, and his tone drops to a whisper, it doubles. Triples, even. I don't even have to see myself to know that rose has been dusted all over my face. The rest of me might as well be pink and red, too.

He reaches to touch the wound on my ear. I flinch, and in that heart-stopping voice, he says, "Sorry, Don."

"It—it's alright. Just... hurts a lot."

The fingers on my chin tense. He brings my head back, and oh Lord why is he so close. His nose couldn't be more than six inches away from mine. He glares at me, brows casting shadows over his face. It's frightening. But I can't look away.

"Who... who did this to you?"

"He's dead, Joe," I answer. My breaths are shallow. Quick. "Died at the rally."

"Then I'll dig up his grave and make sure he dies twice."

My mouth opens slightly. "Joe, it's just a—"

"I don't care. Why would I want you to get hurt?"

Is he closer now? "I... I don't kn—"

"Donald. You don't...." He breaks eye contact, only to look back with a gaze doubly fierce. "You don't even know how much people care about you." His hand creeps closer and closer to my cheek. I let it.

"How much people care?" I ask. "Or how much you care?"

He is absolutely closer. The distance between Joseph Biden and I is immeasurably short. And somehow, he gets closer still.

"You know the answer to that."

And somehow, I let him.

When his lips meet mine, it isn't rough. It's velvet-soft, calculated. Mesmerizing, rewarding, like understanding a painting you've been staring at for forever. Everything, it just clicks.

But the museum is crumbling around me, and God, I'm scared.

He wraps his hand around the back of my head, fingers becoming familiar with my hair. I love it, but the walls are toppling. His kiss gradually becomes more commanding. It's wonderful, but the floor is breaking beneath my feet. What little of his body touches mine is warm and cherished like a gift, but the ceiling is giving out.

And before I end up dead, I force myself away.

"No. No. I... I won't—we can't... I shouldn't...."

His face is a sign. Betrayal, it reads. "What are you—"

"I... Biden, I'm not gay," I say, each syllable a knife to my heart. "I'm not... like that. I'm not like you."

"But you—"

I lay back down and turn away from the door, even if it sends shooting pains up my spine. I can't cry out. Not now. "Please, Biden. Just... just go. Please."

He sighs. Straightens his tie, buttons his suit up. "Of course," says he. "You know yourself best, I guess." His eyes are downcast. I hate it when they're that way.

He turns and goes for the exit, every brisk step a new crack in my heart.

"Wait," I mutter before he closes the door.

But no amount of begging so quiet could ever bring him back.

——

author's note:
i'm putting way too much time into what should be a crackfic. help me