DAUNTLESS

set: july 7th, late afternoon location: domenico and samir’s flat availability: closed | @cemilexsadik​

His day wasn’t necessarily over, but still he was at home until someone told him otherwise. Samir kept himself busy, chopping vegetables to go in a salad. Something to go along with the chicken and sweet potatoes tray bake in the oven. Domenico would be home soon enough and if he already ate then they’d have more leftovers for the rest of the week. Plus it fulfilled the need to keep busy while also feeling like he was being useful. Do something nice for his roommate, and friend to give him some relief after a long day. It also gave Sam a good meal before his early morning meeting with Gabrielle and Solomon.

There was still a solid hour before the food would be done. Samir set the salad in the fridge and pulled out some carrot sticks, celery, and hummus from the fridge. He had just sat down on the sofa to eat them when he heard the knock on the door. The Power checked his watch and frowned. Did Domenico forget his key? He hadn’t been expecting anyone at their apartment. Samir pushed himself up off the couch and went to the door. “Oh, good afternoon Cemile. I wasn’t expecting you.” He stepped aside so she could come inside. “Dom isn’t home yet. I think he will be soon.” Sam moved into the kitchen to check the food in the oven since he was up. “Can I get you something to drink?” He didn’t think she’d be there to see him. Unless there was work she needed done, but he assumed she would have called if she needed something from him. No reason to show up in person, so he had to assume she’d come to talk to Dom. “You’re welcome to stay for dinner, unless you and Dom have date plans or something.”

•

Cemile rushes around London like it’s a race, between Bellum and War and Remus’ campaign, there’s hardly time to think or do much else besides work. She doesn’t mind it though, has never minded it really, because it gave her purpose. Goals to achieve. She’s always needed that – the gentle goading of another step in the race, another rung in the ladder to be climbed. If she ever reached the finish line, Cemile isn’t certain she’d be content, prone to look for the next thing and the next, unable to sit still. 

She’s already near the flat Dom shares with Samir and texts that she’ll just pick him up before heading off to their assignment. Some recon to gather intel on the two missing Horsemen. When she arrives, it’s clear that Samir isn’t expecting her but she smiles anyway. “Hey Sam, last minute change of plans.” She explains, following the Power into the kitchen, eyes taking in the various details of this place. When they meet or plan, it’s usually at one of their offices or at Cemile’s place. 

Cemile doesn’t glance at the time when she parks on the quiet Shoreditch street, just a short walk from the steps of her home. It’s late, late enough that it’s quiet, almost unnervingly so, but she’s gotten used to this sort of quiet. Days bleed into nights bleed into days for her, piles of work numbing her to the passing of time outside the window of her office at Bellum, at the Docks, at Parliament, at home. Work surrounds her, threatens to overwhelm her sometimes, even though she’d loath to admit it, and when work doesn’t, War does. Cemile can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Where she begins. She says she’s happy. Eager and excited to prove herself again and again and again. And that’s why tonight didn't bother her. So she says. Why tonight is just like any other night. War called and she answered. But she’s sore and cut and covered in blood that isn’t hers (most of it anyway) and she’s tired. The world weighs heavy on her shoulders tonight. Or morning? It’s past midnight. She’d driven around for an hour, aimless and wired in the aftermath of violence wrought by her hands and Rita’s.

This was part of the deal. This was part of the cause and the call. She was judge, jury and executioner when she needed to be. Did that make her bad? Probably. She’s always known there was something broken in her. In all of them really. Why else join the ranks of War. Everyone has something to prove, Cemile most of all. To others? Maybe. To herself? Definitely. The chase is alive in her, writhing about in her hollow chest until she can give in, until she can let herself fall apart, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she wields a gun, a knife, her fists. She may not have been born into War but her heart beats to the rhythm of its drum anyway. The promise of violence, of glory. And she chases it. She’s always chasing it – always chasing something. That piece of her that never quite formed – seeking to fill a hole that forever leaves her feeling like she lacks.  The worst part is that she can’t say what, exactly, is missing. That’s the torture. She looks at herself in the mirror and sees a woman trying to prove something, but what? She can’t say. She never can.

So as she draws hands into fists, pressing them into her thighs, Cemile breathes. One. She exhales slowly. Two. She leaves her car, locking it with a slight beep disrupting the quiet night in Shoreditch for a moment as she walks. It’s a safe neighborhood but even if it wasn’t, Cemile isn’t certain that would bother her. She’s a live wire, a knife ready to cut, the rush of the night keeping her high until the sight on her front steps brings her down. Like gravity. But Domenico’s always had that effect, hasn’t he? Grounding those around him, drawing them to him with his friendship, with a warm smile. Except he’s not smiling now and Cemile slows, steps coming to a halt for a moment before she digs into her pocket for a key. “Something wrong?” She asks quietly, thinking that if anything really was, he’d have texted her, or called. “You haven’t been waiting long, have you?” Another question because it’s always easier to ask than to answer, even if he hasn’t asked anything yet.

It’s almost night by the time Cemile and Rita arrive in Westminster. Her 911 Carrera comes to a quiet stop half a block away as the two of them wait. An Angel is due to meet them there shortly as they watch the street of the cafe where Gabrielle went missing. She’d been missing since the morning and while War was keen to find her, they were also keen on finding out who had a hand in her disappearance to begin with. This is how it happens – someone forces War’s hand, so War reacts. Things like this can’t be allowed – questioning of strength. Of power. Cemile knows what’s coming next, knows what she’s going to do, and that cold part of her – the part of her that’s always been darker than the rest, looks forward to it. To the fight, the thrill, the chase and the victory that comes with it all. 

These thoughts run through her mind, intermixed with strategy as they watch the time, waiting for the last customer to leave the café. When they do, Cemile glances at Rita, pulling a Bellum-issued pistol from her glove compartment (her gold-plated one lost to the Thames over a month ago). She slips it into her jacket pocket, safety on and adjusts her attire so the knife at her hip is easily missed as the length of her light jacket covers the hilt, blending a black holster against black joggers. The balmy weather is only going to get warmer as the night progresses, she thinks before she and Rita split up. She opts to go through the front as Rita heads around back with the Angel, prepared to prevent anyone from leaving at the impending commotion.

Steeling herself, Cemile takes a breath, lithe fingers pushing open the door. A bell chimes above her as she enters the café, door swinging shut behind her as observant eyes clock three people in front, two muscled servers cleaning up and a woman with a bad haircut and even worse attitude who gives Cemile an annoyed look. “Read the sign, we’re closed, sweetheart–– open at six tomorrow morning.” 

The Virtue halts, like she’s surprised, embarrassed even ( though she can’t remember the last time she’d been embarrassed ) and glances around at the door. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I must’ve missed the sign,” Cem gives an apologetic look, moving back towards the entrance, as though making to leave. But rather than exit the way she came, she twists the lock, pulling the shade down. “What’re you –” 

Smiling warmly, she glances at the woman, cutting her off. “I think you’ll have time for me, sweetheart.” Said as she pulls out the gun, waving it around casually. “I’ve got a few questions for you.” It could’ve been an opportunity, for someone to make themselves useful but instead the server closest to her, built like a mountain, lunges in her direction. Cemile doesn’t hesitate, pulling the trigger as the woman begins screaming. Fuck me, she thinks as a chair is thrown at her. She ducks, firing again as another chair hurtles towards her. She hears a thud as the first man falls, just in time to see the woman going for the phone on the wall.

Hours at the range make it a precise shot, bullet piercing the phone on the wall, the woman jerking back in shock as she screams at Cemile, why are you doing this? And maybe there could’ve been sympathy in Cem, for a woman caught in the crosshairs but no one is innocent and the moment angry slurs leave the other’s lips, telling her to go back to her country, her resolve hardens. Tears stream down the woman’s ugly, contorted face but all Cemile thinks is that she can cry as much as she likes...there’s no one coming – they’d made sure to jam cellular service before they entered the café so that landline was all that was lefft.

     Domenico chuckles at her cracks, and the idea of her and Saint watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians, his head canting to the side with a subtle shrug, “I think any relaxing would be better for you.” And any answers he’s about to provide to other questions floats away on the gentle cascade of air that passes over him when she appears. He’s lucky he’s him — and he is, because it affords him Cemile’s company, and somehow, made him the text she’d sent that night. 

     Sympathy softens his features as he listens to her, a muffled grunt escaping his lips as he lifts the weight above himself, his body shocked by the sudden workout when it knows it should be sleeping. “I’m always worried about what they might do,” he answers plainly, tone void of any betraying emotion, because he has none. It’s the truth. Even before Death reared its head, he was worried about what a mysterious they could do. What they would. It’d been worse than any of them could’ve imagined and now Domenico is more on the defense than he’s ever been. “But I think if we just stick to our guns and trust each other, it’ll work out for us.

     “I certainly don’t think skipping sleep is going to do anyone any favors,” he teases, diverted by her presence and drawing a wider smile across the lower half of his face, “But since you’re not, guess we have some time to kill here.” 

“What did I say?” Astrid repeats as she follows Cemile down the hall. “Oh, I told them that they were right, and that they should keep an eye out because I’d be announcing my candidacy next week.” She hopes Cemile can hear the eye roll she pairs with the sarcasm in her voice, even though the other woman has her back to her as they enter an empty room. “No, obviously I tried to spin it in Remus’s favor, go with the whole fresh faced, I’m not like other politicians angle we’ve been using. There were varying ranges of success.”

She settles into one of the seats surrounding the table that takes up the bulk of the space in the room as Cemile shuts the door. Astrid returns Cem’s smile, tracking Cem as she paces and tries to come up with a plan. If it was anybody else, perhaps Astrid would be offended that her words had been taken as a lack of confidence in herself rather than an attempt to convince the other person that the thought of going up against Remus hadn’t crossed her mind in the slightest. But this was Cemile, and hearing her confirm the idea that Astrid was fully capable of actually running brought a sense of relief and a boost of confidence Astrid didn’t know she needed. Perhaps there’d been a part of her that had forgotten what it was like to be constantly looking for the next rung up the ladder, the next step to reaching her goals. She’d been perfectly fine keeping her hands clean as an Angel, and she’d always planned on being an MP for a while, gaining experience and credibility before looking towards a higher office. Maybe it was worth taking another look at her long-term plans, shortening the timelines a bit.

Astrid ignores Cem’s next question, mind focused on the phrase Cemile had used right before it instead. This is Remus’ race to win. Astrid had said nearly the exact same thing to so many people that night, it had started to lose its meaning. And maybe what she was about to do was stupid on several levels, but this was Cemile. If anyone was going to understand where Astrid was coming from, it was her. “Is it really Remus’ race to win, though?” she asks. “I mean, he definitely could. But, I mean, is now really the time? He’s about to be a first-time father. To twins. You grew up with the Wardens. Imagine a Warden child with Rita’s genes mixed in. They’d threaten to report you to the NSPCC just for taking their iPad away or something.” 

She pauses to get her thoughts back on track. “Potential hellion-ness of the children aside, running a country is hard enough without being absolutely exhausted because you’re averaging two hours of sleep a night with newborns. And it’s not like global catastrophes operate on your personal schedule. What happens when Remus starts missing milestones because he has to call an emergency session or skipping birthdays because he has to jet off to another country to try and convince them not to start a war?” Astrid sighs and looks at Cemile. “You can’t honestly tell me that that’s the kind of father Remus wants to be.”

Cemile gives Astrid an unamused look, “funny,” though her tone is deadpanned, there’s no real annoyance in it. This was all part of the job – combatting narratives so only the one they wanted to be heard would be. “You did what you could, that’s what matters. Our team will handle the rest.” She pauses to answer a Bellum-related text, and then pivots back to her campaign phone, sending off a message to one of the assistants to start drafting up an invitation to some sort of dinner the following week. They’d want to get it into the hands of any doubters promptly.

She wonders then, for the briefest moment before the thought is put away, if Astrid isn’t one of them – a doubter. Her words don’t question the legitimacy of Remus’ campaign, but they’re good points, ones that could be used against the campaign down the line if heard by anyone else. Glancing to the door to confirm it’s actually shut, Cem shakes her head at the questions. She understands where Astrid is coming from, she’s had the same questions herself, but at the end of the day, it is his race. Regardless of extenuating circumstances, like impending fatherhood.

Settling into the seat opposite Astrid, Cemile lifts her shoulder in a shrug. “I get where you’re coming from, A – I really do and I love Remus and Rita but,” she smiles, hands splayed. “How he turns out as a father isn’t my concern.” He asked her to help run his campaign, so that’s what she was going to do. She wasn’t a family therapist, so she didn’t claim to know what was best for the newest Warden family unit. But she had a fairly good instinct on what was good for this campaign and what would help Remus’ chances for success. “He’s not the first person to run for office with young children. They’ll get help. They’ll have family.”

She arches a brow at her friend, “besides, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that that’s exactly the kind of argument people use to keep women out of power.” She’s got a family at home. She’ll be tired from raising the kids. Do you really want her leading the country when she can’t even get her kids to settle down? “As far as I’m concerned, his impending fatherhood humanizes him. Gives him the motivation to want to make the country a better place for his own kids to grow up in.” 

It seemed like a logical take on the matter to Cemile. She’s already standing up from her briefly seated position when one of her phones starts buzzing. “Anyway, if some fucking twat from The fucking Sun or wherever brings up the potential of him being tired because he’s changing nappies in the middle of the night, we’ll just ask if they’re tired from wanking off by themselves at one in the morning too.” Said with a smirk before she nods at Astrid, lips forming a genuine smile.  “Thank you for telling me…I’ll sort it out but I mean it…it’s not crazy. You’re going to do big things, Astrid.” And she means it, too, waving goodbye to her friend as she exits the room and heads toward the next fire she has to put out. 

Solomon: I'll eat my damned metaphorical hat if that's wrong.

Solomon: Oh, shit? Wonder how they're gonna spin that. Woke up and realised the world is built on warfare? Had a revelation after seeing UN peacekeepers carrying HK 416s?

Solomon: Do you know the topics or is it full sink or swim?

Cemile: I think we all will. But I don't think it's wrong.

Cemile: This is too big for it to be.

     He hadn’t been awake — not exactly — sleep finding him at intervals when he’d been up late surveying the security of their properties in light of the truce, a pot of coffee doing him no favors when his head finally hit the pillow. Cemile’s text had sent a surge of adrenaline that would’ve made it impossible to sleep even if he hadn’t shown up. “Military gives you medical training whether you’d like it or not,” he responds, matching her stubbornness though with far less heat, his attention never straying from her even when she delivers another round of punches, and the tightness in her features is enough to confirm what he’s saying. A distinct lack of amusement lifts his brow, cutting his gaze from hers when his eyes fall closed momentarily with a shake of his head and a surrendering chuckle, because what else did he expect from her? 

     “You could be doing any task that allows you to sit. E-mails. Phone calls. Paperwork. Planning. Whatever it is you do for hours on end in that office. Or… because it’s one in the morning, you could be sleeping.” A huff that mimics another chuckle is released when she says she invited him for a debate, his arm swaying with the bag when she hits it again, his fingers splaying as he lazily steadies it. The last thing Domenico likes to do is dole out orders, and he isn’t, though this feels close enough to a lecture that he isn’t interested in pushing the topic. The only problem is the persisting worry that tugs at his nerves, briefly making him wish that he’d become tangled up with someone a tad less pertinacious. Then again, she wouldn’t be Cemile without it, and she’s the one he’s falling for. Fallen for? He doesn’t know for certain, hasn’t sat awake with it; all he knows is that he cares, deeply, and if she opens that door for him, he’ll gladly walk through. If she doesn’t, then he’ll accept it, because his feelings don’t hold a candle to hers. He’s grateful for the time he’s been given. 

     “There is such thing as chilling out. Just because you’re sitting still doesn’t mean your brain needs to be. Ever try video games?” His hand slides off the leather as Domenico paces toward one of the machines, lowering himself onto its bench, facing her. He glances behind him at the weights propped on either end of the large rod, and while he’s here, maybe working out isn’t the worst option. Getting his blood pumping could only help him sleep later, if he ever gets around to it. “Life shouldn’t be all about work, is all. I know I’m not one to talk, but at least I know that life is gonna be a hell of a lot worse if I don’t rest when I need to. We only get one body, Cem.” He leans back, stretching his arms toward the air before he grips the bar holding the weights, “And that’s all I’ll say about it. Do what you want. In the meantime, you can spot me.” 

•

“Right, of course.” She says it without ire despite the deadpan look she throws his way. His worry is transparent and Cemile feels something prickling at the back of her neck – the discomfort of someone caring in a way she doesn’t know how to reciprocate. In a way she won’t. She doesn’t know why…what’s stopping her from opening the door and letting him in. She’d brought him here, but not for that. Rather, she wanted the familiar presence of someone she trusts. There are so few people she can trust these days. That any of them can trust, really and that’s what he is. A steady presence. A pillar within War…a partner she can rely on. And someone she doesn’t want to hurt. So she takes without giving, inviting his presence without returning any overt affection, selfish to her core because that’s how she’s always been with matters of the heart. Not that this is one.

She laughs this time, genuinely, because the notion of sleep is as amusing as it is evasive “I’ve done that all day and if I could be sleeping, I would be. I don’t actually fancy being an insomniac, Dom. Besides, I could say the same thing to you – what’s got you up so late? Or who?” Cemile waggles a brow, knowing it’s unfair but thinks maybe joking about it would make it less…serious. Less important, despite the slight discomfort in her stomach at the thought. “Don’t tell me Sam’s got you up trying to beat a high score on Halo? Is that still a game?” It’s a pivot, trying to backtrack slightly and make it lighthearted even as she hits the punching bag again, Dom’s steady grip keeping it from moving much at all. “Saint and I used to watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians a lot,” she says, shrugging, “so I could be doing that instead and my brain would be rotting away. Think that’s be better for me? ” Despite the vulpine smirk crossing her lips, her tone is teasing and a grin threatens to break across her mouth. She knows he’s only trying to help, knows that she’s probably being stubborn but she can’t help it. The moment someone says she’s doing something wrong, she doubles down. Always has, to the point it’s a force of habit now.

Major talking points of the evening have been rephrased and rehashed again, the pair somehow still running in the same circular conversations on his upcoming speech in this late hour. As president of Bellum Nova, Remus oversees the day to day operations, running a tight ship on behalf of the CEO ( who happens to be his father ). “Emphasize our increase in profit,” he parrots back, listening closely even though eyes grew glassy long ago, “put my bleeding heart on display for queen and country, got it. Easy enough.” Each year is practically the same, each shareholder’s meeting declared another important chance to impress investors and gain favour within parliament. The weight that hangs on Remus’ shoulders is heavier this time, though, the added pressure of the campaign beginning to settle in. “Current PM makes me look even better with all the fucking shit he spews on cutting military spending. He’s really not doing himself any fucking favours there.” Not when the party in power supports a large standing military, something Remus Warden and Bellum Nova are ready to provide.

It’s no secret that Cemile has her work cut out for her as she manages the details of the campaign, keeping Remus’ image clean as he faces intense media scrutiny each day — public opinion is messy, rarely nuanced, and heavily influenced by the personal anecdotes of an elite few. As a young man, he held the coveted title of Tatler’s Most Eligible Bachelor ( three years in a row, but who’s counting? ), earned two degrees from Cambridge, cut groundbreaking deals between Bellum and the military…but then there’s the very public divorce muddying his reputation, right alongside all the scandals attached to the real family company over the years, including Rita’s recent detainment ( if anyone really wanted to dig ). Then there’s his drug use; the overdose, too — it makes every other PR risk just a drop in the very large bucket. He’s been assured that it’s all shoved away neatly now, hidden by the picture he and Cemile work hard to project to the voters. It would be naive to believe that means he’s safe, though.

Closing his laptop shut, eyebrows furrow in sudden fucking annoyance. “Did you tell them to fuck off?” He puts the laptop on the coffee table, resigning to the reality that he won’t be taking any notes over the end of their seemingly endless meeting. “They’ve got their pants in a twist because Rita’s estranged family runs a cellphone mega-fucking-corporation based from China. Because that’s where they fucking live, all of which is public information, on which I have nothing to add. Link them to her father’s fucking wikipedia page if they’re too dense to find it themselves.” It’s all apart of the political game, these digs into his character and personal relationships in the search for illicit connections, but Remus hates that they manage to pull Rita and their growing family into this, too. “And she was stripped of her inheritance when she married me, anyway, which is also public knowledge.” Fuck The Sun. “She has nothing to do with the company now. This is just some bigoted fucking distraction.” He shakes off the thoughts, malcontent with what his perception has been twisted into; the campaign is still in it’s infancy and already they have to deal with this shit. “We both know if the company was based out of London or Silicon fucking Valley, I’d be told it’s an asset.” He sighs, suddenly aware of how loud he’s become. “Sorry, I don’t mean to snip at you. It’s just fucking frustrating.”

It is interesting how little is said about Remus’ two nationalities and how they influence his life; there’s his dual citizenship and the fact that French is his first language…then there’s the flat in Paris and the summer cottage in Bordeaux, which he and Rita have been known to frequent as often as schedule allows. His mother’s heritage is apparent in every piece of his life: even when his parents struggle to conceive on their own, they turn to surrogacy, and Gabrielle insists the perfect candidate must be French. “They’ll focus on whatever will make the better headline. Anything that gets people to click on the article, right? Click bait, search engine optimization, and all the fucking rest of it.” Relatives in France and China have no influence in his life, especially not something as precious to Remus as this political opportunity — in fact, his in-laws were content to have no connection at all until Hui’s impromptu visit to Virginia Water last month. “All they’ll find in France is my Aunt’s vineyard. All my extended family is clean as a fucking whistle.” Both Gabrielle and Warlock came from comfortable families, but neither were involved in the illicit or even the uber wealthy until they founded Bellum Nova. “I mean. Except for Zach. Who we should really put through media training, by the way.”

Ambition fuels Remus, who always has to have eyes on the next biggest thing. For a long time, the glowing prize was always the high seat of Horseman, inheriting his place as the head of his fucking gang, a sign of his earned birthright. Though now as his sight is set to a political career, watching with satisfaction as his name picks up traction and garnishes attention throughout the country, Remus finds himself fantasizing about other possibilities, asking all the what-ifs. There is power in the political, more so as Prime Minister than Horseman, along with a stability, security, and a certain promise of a better life for Matthieu and June — but he can’t just let go of what he’s spent his whole life working towards. Cemile’s question draws him back from his muddled mind; Remus shrugs in response. “Yes and no. Yes, because literally everything will change, of course. And no, because it’s the next natural step in my life. Like, growing up, falling in love with someone, getting married. And almost divorced,” a pause, Remus laughing even as he takes a drag. “Rita has wanted this for a really long time. I have too, I just let myself get caught up in all the wrong things. Wasted a lot of time.” He feels a lurch in his chest, a tug that tells him he’s saying way too fucking much. “Anyway. It is weird, but in almost none of the ways I expected. I just, um.” Remus sighs. “I wish Juno were here to meet them.”

Cemile thinks that Remus can win, but she doesn’t think it’ll be easy and she doesn’t think it’ll be the landslide they’d otherwise hope for. In a way, though, it makes it more engaging, more of a challenge, even if their current PM wasn’t helping himself. “He rarely does. All you’ve got to do is look at the front page of the Daily Mail.” Even if the Warden camp would disregard any slander in the tabloids as irrelevant, it’s entertaining to watch their political adversaries deal with bad press and splashy front pages. 

Her goal is to keep Remus out of them, as much as she can manage. It's easier said than done given his past extracurriculars, but she’s made headway, more than another might have. It helps that apart from the Wardens, she’s got sway of her own, a name to throw around and add some weight where it counts. Just last week she got a story shut down that wanted to pluck at threads that were no longer relevant in Remus’ life. And, if anything, Cem thinks it shows the type of growth he shows as a leader – someone who knows how to better themselves for their family and their country. Look how far he’s come. The pressure of an empire on his shoulders as first born, rising to the occasion and spearheading Bellum Nova’s endeavors for years. It was a good story, one they were spinning to their favor again and again.

And then there were other, more difficult conversations, ones that questioned his ties to family members, domestic and abroad, ties to people who have no bearing on his future policies but who will be dragged through the mud by the opposition if that means they might get a leg up. Cem nods, waving a hand as though it’s not even a question. “Of course I did. They did the same thing to my parents when they put one of the dinosaurs out of business.” When the Sadık’s shipping company flourished and they outstripped the competition, tabloids threw mud, pointing fingers at the foreign influence, as though it gave them an unfair advantage, whatever that meant.

“Regardless, we’ll address it in the coming weeks and lay it to rest, otherwise they’ll keep bringing it up. And if they do after the fact, we’ll be able to say you’ve commented and that’s that. But for the shareholder meeting…it’s off the table.” It wasn’t about Remus, though they would pivot slightly to talk about his campaign, but mostly in light of how ties to Bellum and his experience as President would benefit his position as Prime Minister once he won. “You’re fine.” She shrugs off his apology, understanding that his ire is towards the press and not her. “It’s a bloody pile of shit is what it is, but we’ll get it over with and they’ll have nothing to sniff at but themselves. Bastards.”

&&.

Astrid mentally debates the best way to tell Cemile what’s been floating around some of the guests in the room. There are less of them now, slowly trickling out as the night winds down, though the evening has really only just begun for the members of War. There was always the ripping off the band-aid method of blurting out apparently some people think I should be Prime Minister instead of Remus all in one go. But there are other, more subtle ways, ones where she didn’t need to be implicated, making Remus’ theoretical opponent more vague. A hazy somebody that would eventually take her shape, and she could pretend to be just as surprised as everybody else when they did.

She decides to just be straightforward, figuring Cem would appreciate facts and knowing exactly what she was dealing with rather than vague nonsense. A hazy somebody is much easier to wave off as nothing threatening. And Astrid has to admit, there’s a part of her that likes being thought of as a threat to Remus and the Wardens. To anyone, really. The hunger to do more that was set off by Juno’s death only intensifies at the thought of competition, especially in a place where she knows she’d have the upper hand. She knows it’s dangerous to think this way, but she’d been settled for so long that a new, exciting feeling is difficult to ignore.

“Support for Remus might not be as high as we initially predicted,” Astrid says. Just because she’s decided to be straightforward doesn’t mean she can’t ease Cem into it all. “A few… future voters, we’ll call them— they weren’t sure how suited Remus was to Prime Minister, given his lack of experience.” She drains the rest of her champagne, but keeps the empty flute to occupy her hands. “And then experience became the topic of conversation, and some of them brought up that I should be the one running instead. Which is absolutely mad.” Astrid looks to Cemile to gauge her reaction. She knows the reaction she wants from the other woman, though she doesn’t dare hope that Cemile will actually give it. But Cem’s opinion does matter to her, and Astrid will take whatever she’s given. “Right? It’s crazy.” 

•

She can see the gears turning in Astrid’s head and prepares for the worst. That’s Cemile’s speciality, one of the reasons she’s been brought on to handle this campaign – a quick thinker with a keen eye for solutions, everything is a puzzle to solve. A problem to fix. When Astrid starts speaking, she listens, leaning against a small table as the other talks. The other woman is a good friend, a close one, even, and after years of having known each other, there’s trust there. While she’s not happy at the news of people doubting Remus, and though the notion of Astrid running instead is only mad because of timing, Cemile is glad she was transparent with her. Open and forthright rather than beating around the bush.

“Hmm,” she begins, considering Astrid’s words. She mulls them over for a moment, quiet hanging in the space between them. Astrid does have more experience in politics, it’s true…but Remus has the connections, the experience running something far bigger than himself. It’s the angle they’ve gone with, and one they’ll seemingly have to emphasize now. “What did you say when you heard these rumors?” She pushes off the table, and motions at Astrid to follow her to one of the empty meeting rooms.

Shutting the door behind her, Cem turns to face her. “I don’t think it’s mad, Astrid, not really.” She says it with a shake of the head and a warm smile, affection for her friend sincere and true, even in the face of complications. Astrid was a great politician – she could be a historic one, even. But this wasn’t her time. Four years in Parliament might mean something to some ( not even including 4 years as a staffer ), and they were already battling the fact that Remus wasn't in Parliament, let alone leader of the majority. But they’d spin it that nearly fifteen years of international relations, deal-making and power-playing with some of the most influential people in the world should be enough for most prospective supporters.