perfectly political

@julianberkeley

[ SMS : VICE PRICK ] : Sorry for contacting you directly rather than going through Benjamin, figured the response would be quicker this way and save us messing around. I’m writing an article on the new administration one year on (charting progress etc) and I was wondering if you’d be willing to speak with me on the record for it.  [ SMS : VICE PRICK ] : I wanted to ask now to avoid being lost in the swarm of journalists who’ll be writing specifically about the bill lol [ SMS : VICE PRICK ] : I can speak via internet or meet in person (your choice) and if you need more context to the story, I can provide that. Let me know if you’d be willing to talk, it would be v much appreciated if you would. Thanks.

Ideally, a deep and even faker laugh in response to the Veep’s inquiry would be Gabriel’s most caricature and appropriate reply. Unfortunately, the circumstances of a very nice restaurant prevented him from doing so. Gabriel clasps his hands together and places them on the table. “Just a fun pinch at ‘em. National budget? Expensive diner? Stuffing your face? I think it’s a metaphor that writes itself. Or just my big picture thinking, who knows.” His mouth remains wide in a sly smile. Gabriel allows a beat before loudly exhaling. He looks around, but almost randomly so, focusing on nothing. “Just here…by yourself?” 

He ignores the assurance that Julian offers, choosing instead to gloss over the uncertainty that continues to brew in his gut and cut straight to the chase. 

“You’re right, we don’t want Leon uncertain of where he stands if he’s running with you.” It’s a rare thing for Benjamin to agree completely with a decision that Julian makes but he does in this case, at least with Julian deciding to focus on the trust that he’s built up with Leon. Though he might not like the idea of Leon as a running mate, Benjamin knows that he’s one of their better options. He’ll just have to do. 

Benjamin arches his brows at the smile that spreads across Julian’s lips before nodding, then twice as a smile of his own begins to blossom. “Do share.”

Even if Julian was confident on this decision — an impromptu one at that —, there was some sort of finality which was added through Ben's sole agreement. Julian thought of good ideas; Ben confirmed whether or not they were good at all. Any remaining doubts are no more; he can now truly and wholly invest in this now. Leon.

With the thought ready on his mind, it's hard not to let it consume him. Julian's smiling, because how couldn't he— this was the stuff he lived for. "Elise's pregnant again." Ben was his friend, that was a given. As a friend, there was some happiness to be shared between the two of them through this piece of news alone, but the greater reaction came from the implications it carried— all of which Ben knew better than he. Year-round media attention. An instant empathy card. "A boy, this time." 

He was right.  Of course he was.  He didn’t become Vice President by being wrong about things.  “You certainly have a point there.  Merry Christmas,” Juliette said.  “I hope Santa is good to your daughter tonight.”  Juliette took a step back from him then.  “You’re right though.  I should go find Jermaine…have a wonderful evening, Mr. Vice President,” Juliette said before she left him in search of her boyfriend.

Aaron returned the smile with his own. “You know the only reason I’m here is because you asked.” If it was anyone except Julian, Aaron wouldn’t have just walked out by now–he wouldn’t have joined this circus in the first place. Not only was Julian a friend, but he was guaranteeing something great and grand in the complex mechanics of their government. 

“Princess,” repeated Aaron. “She’s the princess, right? Not me? Because I’m not putting on a tiara–especially if you’re in the room.” 

He watched as Julian reached for his phone and sent a quick message. With a triumphant press of his thumb, he looked up and announced Aaron was officially committed. 

“Back out? From dinner at the Veep’s? Hell no,” Aaron grinned before rising. “Then, I’ll see you tonight. Let me know when I should come by. Want to make sure you guys have enough time to fluff up the couch pillows and everything.” 

As if name-dropping his wife hadn’t been one of Gabriel’s lesser faux pas, yet he was glad all bad feelings seemed to be swept. “I could use the better company,” Gabriel said. “Funny seeing you here. Just finished a quick dinner with White House budget director, likes their lobster a little too much,” adding the latter remark with snide rise to his pitch, as if it hurt to say. Only the opposite was true, criticism of others came so easily to Gabriel. A swift motion of undoing his jacket button and leaning back into the chair later, Gabriel held his index finger up and pressed his lips together. “Do I have to guess what brings you to town?” 

“Of course I understand.” It left a bitter taste in her mouth, the idea that her profession caused so much trouble. It was certainly not news, of course - she had seen enough of the reality to understand it, seen enough young women and men come back from meetings with clients or walking on the street bloodied and bruised, heard the vicious slurs thrown at them, and experienced it all herself. She knew realistically that even if it would hurt Elise’s reputation, it would hurt Olivia in probably far worse ways if it were discovered - a reality she wasn’t sure Julian understood, but it wasn’t the time or place to share that particular truth. In any other moment, she might have been indignant that he seemed to be trying to explain the dangers of her own work to her, but she tamped down on it with nothing more than a bitten off smile and a quick interjection. 

“Escort, if you don’t mind.” Said in a tone that showed she didn’t really care if he minded or not. “Not prostitute. Or whore.“ She mulled over his offer, the smile she offered him still a bit cold tinged, but not so deeply as it was before. “And as kind as your offer is - I don’t need help with money. I’m doing well enough.” Certainly not wealthy, but she was getting by fine.

She let him finish, looking at him evenly. It was a loaded truce, to say the least, but one that even if her pride got the better of her more often than not, it’d be stupid not to accept. 

“Discretion is my business.” She said simply. “…I wouldn’t put her in danger, knowingly or otherwise. I’ve known her for years. And yes - all that is the reason I kept quiet. She deserved to hear the truth sooner, and in a better way, I’ll admit that.” It was something that took a lot of doing for Olivia - admitting she had made a mistake - so she could only hope that signaled her sincerity in the situation.

She let her words hang a minute before she continued. “But - let this be my request in this truce. Don’t treat me like I’m someone you have to pity. I’m not any different than the woman you knew a few months ago. A work a job that I know most people don’t want, that most people don’t choose. I didn’t, at first. If we’d had this conversation ten years ago, I might have taken your money. But I don’t just do it because I have to. I just want to make that clear.”

“My apologies,” he says, monotone. It's yet another one of those times where sincerity lacks, but his voice and expression leave just enough room to wander on which side of the moral field he stands. Sometimes, it's a mystery to even him. “Escort.” 

Pity. As if Julian could ever muster such a feeling.

"That does help with my worries." Not only for himself, there was a need to tend for his wife's image. If the media got ahold of this information it would hurt him, yes, but Elise might just be driven to the point of no return. Best friends with a whore — one might just wonder what that says about her, too. Drowned in rumours and speculation, a fact as simple as this has the power to ruin one's name. Elise Berkeley could not afford that. 

"I look forward to seeing you around the house again, Liv." Julian uses the old nickname, a makeshift white flag taking shape into the word. "The girls missed you."

Thirty four minutes. Jamie nodded, brows raised, practiced enough in the art of feigning interest that he almost made it seem real. His eyes unfocused lazily over the wallpaper behind Julian’s head, long enough that they could both pretend. He drummed his fingers against his knee, momentarily, before Julian drew his attention back like a boomerang, posing his question as if there was nothing behind it. “You know, that’s the thing,” he said, propping an elbow up on the arm of the couch, jaw pressed against his thumb. “Numbers don’t lie.” 

But I might, he almost said. He swallowed it instead.  

 A pause followed. Jamie had to let his thoughts take shape before he could grab them. “She made big promises. They’re still waiting on a lot of those promises. It’s only been a year, but…” he let the sentence wander away, slip underfoot and take a lap around the room, before it returned to him, “but it’s been a year.” Each word was chosen with care, blunted edges still sharp enough that he felt them.  “We’re at a crossroads. The energy bill is a move in the right direction, sure,” he paused, glancing at Julian again. “Could be legacy stuff. If it passes.”

A year was far too long a period of time. While Theresa might be milking it for all its worth, the sight from Julian's background perspective wasn't as flattering. Surely that's how voters see it, too. No one likes waiting for deliverance.

"She'll pull through, I'm sure," Julian says, shrugging. It was a passionless statement, without so much as a shadow of trust in the President they talked about. "But only if we help."

At that, Julian nods. Now you're seeing it from the right angle. "If." Two letters bound together which made a sound just right for Julian's ears. It gave off enough uncertainty to keep all weight off his shoulders; at least for now. "The reception in the Senate hasn't been great, even amongst the Democrats. And, you said it yourself, numbers don't lie. If there's a tie I'd vote for it, of course—" Of course. "But we might be looking at a loss here."

It was easy to hang on Julian Berkeley’s every word.  The man was the Vice President.  He had this aura of authority around him that Juliette would never question, yet he was so kind.  His advice was something she took to heart as she listened.  It seemed personal.  It didn’t feel like he was just treating her politely as a colleague and it surprised her.  Juliette was very used to getting that treatment.  She could be seen as lesser by some.  After all, it wasn’t her name on the door of the office.  She wasn’t the one winning elections.

Slowly a smile spread across her features and she nodded.  “I promise I will,” she told him.  Of course, it would no doubt be years before she could call herself a mother.  That was it’s own sort of devastating.  At thirty six she knew her window to have a biological child was closing slowly but surely.  Adoption was an option, one she would consider if she needed to, but when she thought of her future it always included pregnancy, nesting, painting the nursery.  It was all the traditional stuff she had talked about with her twin when their mother was pregnant with her youngest brother.  While she had only been seven at the time, it still left a big imprint on her life.

“I truly can’t thank you enough for your advice, Mr. Vice President.  I know it’s not really work related but….I think I really needed to hear all of this.”

"Of course," he begins, already brushing her thank yous off with a nod. "It's Christmas. A family holiday. It's natural to think about these things." Even he, accomplished both professionally and personally, couldn't help but follow his thoughts down some dark corner of his mind that always asked what's next. Elise's pregnancy was enough to calm down whatever anxiety came with that,  but not enough to make Julian forget that it was there in the first place. It was a mystery whether or not Kline ever speculated on these things also. "You should probably go be with your boyfriend. Now, I don't wanna be the reason your white-picket fence dreams don't come true."

No amount of expensive champagne and five-star hors devours could change the opinions of the media. In most cases, Gwen is convinced their minds are already made about a situation or person long before they sit in front of their computer, guzzle a pot of stale, shitty coffee and offer some think-piece no one asked for but they all consume anyways. With that in mind, Gwen can already see and point out who will write said op-ed about the lavish party and how there are more important matters the upper echelon of Washington should be concerned with. But Julian already knows that, it’s uncontrollable and comes with the job title. The shared knowledge is enough to make Gwen wave off the thank you, although an appreciative smile graces her red lips.

“I would never say or think that about you, Julian.” Gwen states, once again fluffing him up more than what’s necessary. Without words being expressed, there seems to be a mutual understanding between the two of them. “But it’s good to know all that I’ve heard about you seem to be true. Including your excellent taste, Blanton’s is my favorite.” Is her way of basically accepting the implied offer—anytime, anywhere; say it and I’ll be there. 

Daniel slightly nodded at his boss’ words – he was right. He didn’t like praising his job in the Navy and in the CIA but he knew he’d surely done great things for their country – from fighting terrorists, getting important information from other countries and maybe even avoid a big war or two. “Thank you, sir.” He said, “I think that everyone does their part for the country, you know… Even just by doing their normal jobs.” Daniel truly believed that – of course he and his fellow soldiers and agents did more for the country than an average person, but still, he thought that somehow everyone could do something.

He was about to speak again when a waiter – the same one who glared at him the moment he realized he wasn’t going to eat there – and asked him what he’d like for dinner. “Uh–” Daniel was taken aback by that question, especially because he hadn’t even opened the menu. He didn’t need to it, though. He’d come to that restaurant enough to know what they served. “I’ll have roasted chicken with salad.” He said, “Oh, and water, please.” He hoped he wasn’t ordering too much – he was definitely hungry, but he had to react quickly if needed, so having a full stomach wasn’t exactly the best. “Thank you again for this. I guess I’ll have to call my local Chinese restaurant to let me know I won’t have dinner there tonight.” Daniel joked, running a hand through his hair.

As a politician, Julian knew that there was such a thing as the right thing to say. To the cameras and on print, it was all he ever did. In person, too, to whoever his reputation was his bridge to greater things; he lied through his teeth if it meant his image remained intact. Every job matters, was what he should contribute with here. We have more dutiful jobs, but America wouldn't be the same without all of its hard workers. 

Right.

"They do what they can," Julian says, which is the most he can offer. It's close enough to the right thing, but nudging near on his real thoughts. "But if they contribute to the economy and healthy living, you're a hero. There's a difference there." But I shouldn't have to tell you that. "You make sure those people," — he motions only with a nod of the head to those around them — "are even around to wait on tables. And that people like me can make this country a good one for all of us."

He had tried to quietly dismiss himself with the other handful of senators — he never thought he’d see the day where interrupting someone’s meal would become acceptable, but there are certain invitations even he can’t turn down. The second-most powerful person in the free world  — and the most powerful man in the Senate — is one of them. “Yes, sir, Mr. Vice President.” 

His posture is naturally rigid, but given the company he feels his back go almost painfully stiff, his spine ramrod straight and his hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. No, not because of the present company — just the motivation behind Berkeley pausing one of the few moments of peace he has during the day to invite a Senator from Virginia to sit with him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the specter of that goddamn energy reform bill looms. 

“Must be a terribly slow day if my company is the one you could use.”

Walter goddamned Corrigan. How insane that sounded to him, that Julian might just not want him around always. With all of Walter's first words being the perfect lineup of Yes, Sir, and Mr. Vice President, his company was exactly the one he needed. 

Most people Julian had to either train or force into that behavior; it brought him both relief and satisfaction that this was not one of those cases.

"On the contrary," Julian tells him. He sounds almost taken aback then, and in a way, he is. The Senate was a place of egos; there was hardly a soul there that did not trust its worth, and how it outshined others. Julian himself was guilty of it, perhaps most of all. Corrigan, however... well, there was none of that. Not on the surface, at least. "It's exactly because everything is so chaotic," — and it was ignorance to portray it in any other way — "that I could use a company that isn't. You do good work, Senator, you know that. I'm just one of the many who appreciate it."

“You sure you’re not just avoiding him?” Minnie asks, throwing a nod in the direction of a particularly eager Republican Junior Senator. Anyone who has had the misfortune of being within ten feet of him for the past six months knew he was against the energy reform bill, Mr. Vice President included. Still, there’s a smile on her face as she says it, and she slides into the seat across Julian. “Don’t worry,” she adds with a wink, “I won’t tell.”

Julian laughs, "You got me."

Except, the Senator was fine by his books. All those who voted the way he wanted them to were. It was still up in the air where Minnie fit. "Talk to me then, Minnie," he encourages her between a drink and a bite. "How's the Senate plans going?" A beat. Julian leans closer only if slightly, and his tone drops a notch. "If we're talking, he might just think we're busy." 

To be frank, Aaron didn’t give a shit about Ben. Ben’s role was PR, and that’s how Aaron remembered him by. Aaron didn’t set aside the majority of his life to get along with Ben. Now, does Ben do good work? Indisputably. Does Aaron appreciate what Ben does? Of course. Does he care about the guy? No. 

But Aaron didn’t say any of this to Julian because he didn’t need to hear it. He just raised his hands in mild surrender and said, “My bad. Ben.” Hopefully he’d remember the name next time PR came up. 

Julian didn’t seem to find the humor where Aaron did, but that didn’t really bother him. Aaron always did seem to smile more than Julian did. Perhaps he simply found the irony in everything. 

“I’ll come over,” said Aaron. “I don’t want the Vice President of the United States dragging reporters to my front door. Kids are fine, as long as I get to eat and don’t need to take care of them when they start crying.” 

Then, Aaron flashed a grin. “Hey man, relax; you were asking for an actual meal after me living off years of instant ramen and take out. I’ve gotten better–but maybe not good enough for the VP himself.” 

At that, Julian laughs— genuinely, which was a rare act in and of itself. I've dragged reporters to far worse places, my friend, he thinks, but allows the words to die out in his head. If Aaron knew the good things Julian did, he also knew the bad; all of which remains hidden.

"For someone with such a distaste for the media," he says, the smile still there. "I'd say you've found yourself in the wrong place." But of course, Aaron knew that already. Where Julian was made for the empty smiles of press releases, Aaron fit best into the darkness of all that was backstage. In politics however, trouble is those often collide. "Camilla's almost three now. She doesn't cry for no reason anymore. Only if you refuse to play princess with her," — which is only half a joke, bent to gauge a reaction — "so if you're unwilling to, say it now and save us both the trouble."

Julian nods slowly as if saying, Right. "I understand that. Which is why I never asked again." That, and it traumatized me for years. "But if it counts for anything, I still eat all the same shit as before." Which a higher price tag, sure, but that had little to do with taste. It was much more closely linked to power instead. 

In his hand, Mac carries a report detailing reasons that amount to a probable cause for the investigation of Simone Walker. As it stands, with his unfortunately limited knowledge, the most he will be able to prosecute her for is breaking house rules. In the current history of the united states, only eight out of thirty six members of congress have been expelled, five reprimanded, and a staggering twenty-three merely censured, which makes Walker, despite being one of the bigger personalities at the Capitol, a small fish. Mac hopes to fry some of the bigger fish, like the man standing before him.

“Good morning, Mr. Vice President,” Mac greets with a firm nod of the head as he’s allowed entry into Julian Berkeley’s office. He’s stripped himself of his usual affable smile, instead wearing solemnity on his brow. “Maxwell Benton, senior counsel to the attorney general,” he states, extending a strong hand towards the older man. 

@julianberkeley

The United States Attorney General had informed him of the older Benton's upcoming visit to his office. It was one of Julian's much frequent exchange of favours, everyday quid-pro-pros that kept his game running. This one in particular meant he stayed ahead; ahead of other politicians, but moreso the President herself. He'd have to figure out a worthy enough payment for that.

"Good morning, Mr. Benton," Julian offers back, extending a hand. "I've met your brother." No need for a Any relation to—?, here. Julian had noticed the link between intern and lawyer the moment the boy's wounds hit the news; one more reason to put on his good guy suit and go pretend to care. "Under unfortunate circumstances, sadly. A really good kid." A typical either brave or stupid kind... but those thoughts he keeps to himself. "Is he doing alright?"

[SMS: MR. VICE PRESIDENT] — Don’t worry, baby, we’re all great [SMS: MR. VICE PRESIDENT] — Missing you, of course [SMS: MR. VICE PRESIDENT] — Any good news today?