A/N: Hello, Darlings! This is fulfilling this request by a very lovely anon. I hope that this is close to what you had envisioned. I had such fun writing this and I tried to make it very dramatic and noir. I wish all of you a very wonderful weekend my angels. âĽď¸
Summary: After months of navigating your husband's infidelities and evasive coldness, the First Lady (you) finally confronts President John F. Kennedy over his passive-aggressive jealousy regarding your innocent friendship with his brother, Bobby.
Warnings: it might be bad, passive aggressive behavior, mentions of infidelity, Patronizing comments (would not recommend in real life), I think itâs pretty clean though.
Standard Disclaimer: This is a work of historical fiction/Alternate Universe. All events and character interpretations are entirely fictional and are not presented as factual accounts.
Your whole life had become filled with situations you had never expected. Sure, you had been told when you married the Senator from Massachusetts that the plan was for him to be president. But you hadnât really taken it seriously. Plans changed like seasons over the course of time, right?
Wrong. What was a plan, the Kennedys made seem like destiny. The whole time Jack had been on the campaign trail, you had grown increasingly lonely. Yes, you were with your husband and loved to watch him work a room, and you were surrounded by his campaign party, but somehow the isolation only deepened within the crowd.
The loneliness seemed louder in the midst of a rally than it did when you were truly alone. The fact that your husband had a wandering eyeâand what seemed to be wandering affectionsâdidnât help matters either. And then he actually won, and you were thrust onto center stage: First Lady of the United States of America.
It was an honor that would have been absolutely thrilling to anyone else, assuming they weren't paralyzed by the crushing need to be flawless.
Much like the presidency, you had never expected to find comfort and attention in the form of your brother-in-law. Robert F. Kennedy had become the grounding, steady force that Jack had never managed to be for you. Where Jack was slippery and endlessly charming, Bobby was stubborn and fiercely loyal.
It had all started at the family Christmas dinner at the White House. His eye had caught yours, and he had smiled at you from across the tableâan uncharacteristically gentle expression on the normally severe face of the Attorney General. He had engaged with you, a feat many of the Kennedy siblings had utterly failed to master.
He had done something Jack rarely had time for: he asked about you. It had become a common occurrence for you to see less and less of your husband between his government work and his endless dalliances. So, when you found yourself sharing quiet lunches with Bobby, it didnât feel scandalous. It felt natural. It made your company feel desired, and it made you feel genuinely cared for.
As the two of you indulged in long conversations over the next several months, you felt a quiet satisfaction that you had grown to only feel in his presence. But, just as a sunrise doesnât last all morning, that peace was about to break.
From the vantage point of your vanity, you could see your husband, nose-deep in the evening edition of the newspaper as you unclasped your earrings. He had been polite to the point of aristocratic detachment, cold to the point of contempt, and cutting instead of employing the usual charm he displayed to the public.
âBobby saidââ you began, sliding a silver-backed brush through your hair, the soft bristles separating the silky strands. The newspaper rustled as Jack turned the page.
âIâve dealt with the Department of Justice all day. I highly doubt he could tell you anything I donât already know,â he replied, his tone measured as his eyes continued to scan the paper. He hadnât even bothered to look up. You shrunk back slightly inside at the dismissal. It was undeniably arrogant. âJack, are you upset with me about something?â
Your voice shook slightly as the words left your lips. He had been like this for months now, impossibly colder than usual. Where he had once been charming and warm, albeit compartmentalized, he was now terribly withdrawn.
âUpset?â he murmured, still refusing to look at you in favor of his reading. âWhat makes you think I would be upset?â
Your lips pursed slightly as you analyzed his response. It was classic deflection. He was upset about something but refused to admit it; borderline passive-aggressive warfare was being waged against you. The chilling effect of his deliberate psychological distortion stirred up a hot, dense irritation inside you.
âJack,â you said, your voice turning sharp with anger as your eyes narrowed. You turned around completely on the velvet seat of the vanity. âPut the paper down.â
The only sound was his slow inhalation of breath. Then, the newspaper rustled as he folded the pages with the utmost, deliberate precision you had ever seen him use. He finished his article, set the carefully creased newspaper on the bedside table, and took his reading glasses off at a speed known only to mollusks.
He looked at your irritated form sitting across from him, his expression a mix of haughty amusement and glacial patience. His green eyes studied the clenched muscles of your jaw before he crossed his arms, the very action screaming that he was entirely closed off.
âAlright. You have my undivided attention. What crisis are we managing tonight?" His Brahmin drawl was perfectly calm, completely at odds with the suffocating tension in the room. The sheer condescension of the statement forced you to refrain from throwing your hairbrush at his head. Opting instead to drop it onto the glass top of the vanity with a resounding CRACK that signaled the end of your patience, you moved with feline grace across the room to loom over his reclining position.
âI would complain, but this is the closest youâve wanted to be in my orbit in months,â he noted, his green eyes taking in your sudden proximity. It was the very joke that gave him away.
The sheer audacity of him trying to play the victim of your distanceâafter he had been stepping out on you for yearsâmade your blood break into a roiling boil.
Yes, you had grown closer to Bobby, but he was your brother-in-law. He was married; neither of you had done anything untoward in the slightest.
You loomed even closer, your hand darting forward to grab the silk of his tie and wrap it tightly around your fist, your eyes never leaving his. The pose was strangely intimate, the expensive silk acting as a tether. He could not lean back, look away, or try to evade you. You had effectively forced him into the very confrontation he had been dodging for months.
âThatâs what this is about?â you challenged. âBobby?â
The hypocrisy of his ego fueled your temper even more. He didnât care about a possible infidelityâGod knows he had far more indiscretions than anyone could count. But if he wanted your attention now, he had it.
âIs it?â you pressed, adjusting your grip on his tie and pulling him even closer. You were close enough that the ghost of citrus from his aftershave and a hint of Cuban cigar smoke hit your senses.
His smirk dropped, revealing the cold political operator underneath the charming and polished mask shown in LIFE magazine. His green eyes narrowed as the polite patience he had displayed completely vanished.
He opened his mouth to speakânot to yell. No, Jack Kennedy didnât yell. He spoke with a glacial coolness that dropped the room to sub-zero temperatures.
"He is my Attorney General, and you are my wife. I don't share my cabinet, and I don't share my household. I suggest you remember whose orbit you actually live in."
The statement made your blood seize momentarily. He had the adoration of everyone from the voting public to his private secretaries. The sheer, arrogant neediness of his demand made you yank on his tie, eliciting a sharp, surprised gasp from him.
âAre you five? Does the baby need his diaper changed?â your voice turned an angry shade of patronizing. He was acting like a man with the worldâs most fragile ego. As your fingers tightened around the silk, wrinkling it, his eyes widened slightly in a flash of subtle realization before the armor clicked firmly back into place.
He could handleâand even enjoyâbeing laughed with, but being laughed at? Fat chance. His hands came up, his long fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip entirely devoid of affection. He didn't rush. He simply and forcibly peeled your fingers back, rescuing the crumpled tie from your fist.
The silk hung in a rumpled mass of ruin before he took a moment to smooth it flat against his chest, meticulously reassembling his dignity. When he finally looked back up at you, his green eyes flashed with pure, competitive venom.
"My brother wouldn't know what to do with a woman like you," he said, the Brahmin drawl sharpening into a blade. "Heâd spend half his time apologizing and the other half in a confessional. You think you want a Boy Scout, but you'd be bored to death in a week."
You stepped back, your arms crossing defensively over your chest. You werenât about to give him the satisfaction of being dragged down to the level of his tantrum. Your eyes remained locked on his, refusing to look away first.
âYou donât even know what to do with a woman like me, Jack,â you replied, wielding the same calm coldness you had seen him employ countless times. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and entirely yours. You turned your back on him, walking into your own adjoining room. You didn't slam the door. You pulled it shut with agonizing slowness, letting the lock slide into place with a quiet, definitive click that sounded louder than a gunshot in the silent bedroom.
It was going to be a very cold winterâcolder than anything Nikita Khrushchev could muster.
