semper fortis

@mrscynthiabell

He was tired of all this, really. The bed and the nurses and the machines and the lights. He had been before he’d been sent back to the States. But it turned out that the recovery was slow, and the doctors weren’t satisfied yet. (And there were so many - the surgeons, the neurologist, the burn specialist, all in and out.) So he was left here to wait - feeling utterly useless about the whole thing.

The younger man beside him - who he knew, distantly, was the Social Secretary for the White House, looked nearly green in the face. It wasn’t as if William could really blame him - civilians didn’t seem to handle situations like this with much grace or calm. He was a little annoyed, though more with the situation than his company.

William Bell | State Dinner

@admiralbell​

A quiet night in was rare at the moment. Between her own work and William’s campaign it wasn’t often that the couple had a night where they could just sit and spend time with each other. Which is why Cynthia, and she hoped her husband too, treasured every second of them. She’d made his favourite meal for dinner and she was just sitting down to eat, at a sensible time for once.

“I had a visitor at work today, Gwendolyn Steele, she wanted an interview with me.”

“Gwen Steele?” He asked, around a mouthful of food. It was true that it was painfully rare that they were able to spend any quality time together just the two of them - without Secret Service and campaign staff crawling all over - , and even more rare that he got to enjoy her cooking. He finished the bite before he reached for the napkin in his lap, one brow raised. “What did she want? Seems like she’s always around somewhere.” He didn’t trust the Washington Post, or most liberal outlets, but he had to admit he at least had a grudging respect for Gwen, who seemed, at all turns, to at least conduct herself with integrity. “Trying to get some kind of information? You don’t have to talk to those people, you know. If you don’t want to.”

If he were honest, Will could barely keep up with his own race at times, let alone the numerous other races going around him, Congressional otherwise. (That, of course, was what his army of aides was for.) Keeping an eye on Georgia was important, and if he could strike up some good faith with one of America’s biggest city, party politics aside, all the better. It was the reason he had ended up attempting to strike a chord with Patrick Carlisle who - he was reliable told - looked to be the Democratic front-runner for the seat that controlled Atlanta. Something about business and the youth vote and bipartisanship. None of it was Will’s priority, but nonetheless, here he was, trying to meet in the middle with a Democratic candidate. 

William had sat through psychiatric evaluations of this nature before. It was fairly standard in the military, and he couldn’t particularly claim that this was any different, embracing it as part of the campaign. He was determined to get through it as he had all the others, determined to prove that at the end of the day, he had nothing to hide. (It wasn’t true, but he’d be damned if he’d let on as much.) He could at least say he felt comfortable in knowing the doctor was a daughter of the NRA head. 

“Senator Callaway.” William is all charm and smiles as he greets the Louisiana Senator. He can barely keep names straight, at times, but Callaway he remembers, if only because it’s a big name, highly connected. Good to have on our side, he had been told, and so he’d gone along with it all, and been gifted with a glowing endorsement. He was returning the favor in part, now, with a sit down at a restaurant of the Senator’s choice, to make a bit of conversation. Silas had already done some of the work, but Will couldn’t deny that he wanted to get his own hand in the mix.

“Thank you for endorsing the campaign,” he continues. “It’s wonderful to have the great state of Louisiana on our side, and especially an accomplished young senator such as yourself. I’m told you sit on the Armed Services committee?” Will was never the type to beat around many bushes. “How’s that treated you?”

William is exhausted. Once he’s away from the stage, the weariness shows in every corner of his face, in ways unbecoming of a man who’s trying to prove himself strong enough to be the leader of the free world. The campaign is only the start, he keeps trying to remind himself. You’ve got to pull yourself together.

Having Silas close at hand helps with that, in some respects - no doubt that the man always knows what to say when it’s need, and can pick up where Will lacks. That’s why he picked him, after all. 

It would be no exaggeration to say that he and his wife had become close to both of the Danvers over the course of his campaign. Alfred, of course, was his right hand man, the brains behind much of the operation - between him, Alfred and Silas, they had established a strong little triumvirate, to say nothing of the staff around them. But he had gotten to know Esther quite well too, by proximity if nothing else. 

“You know, it’s a real shame that Alfred would never run for himself. You’d make a magnificent politician’s wife.” He comments to her, the two of them seated close by in the midst of a fundraiser - one of the endless litany of campaign events. “Have you ever thought about running? You have the charisma for it. A gift with people.  And people are always saying Congress needs more women.”

- - - - -

“Nothing like this in all my years.  You did great out there, Bell.” Mike exclaimed, giving the other man a firm handshake.  “How does it feel?”  The tension this had caused at the White House party thrilled him.  “People will remember this.  Couldn’t have picked a more patriotic day.”  Not that he’d been leading the RNC for many presidencies, but he considered it a great feat in the grand scheme of things.  Of course the other side would try and twist it.  He’d prepared for that, too, wrapped in this little show of supposed bipartisanship.  “Your family must be thrilled.  Have they met Sanford?”