#halechief

Only one will stand at the end of it all.

--that tax burden has crept further and further down the income and age ladder. and benefits are going more and more to the elderly and well-to-do. we spend nine times as much on the elderly as we do on a single child and we are surprised, shocked, this generation is turning their back on a government who has turned it’s back on them. so now we must ask this all important question of the hale administration: madam president, if passed, will the tax plan do all it’s promised to do? terry smith is next with the capitol report, i’m will mcavoy. goodnight. 

his mouth's softly tired and dimpled smile is not impeded by the fact that she's turned her gaze towards the floor and won't get the chance to see it before it melts at the warmth of his sincerity; part of what makes his earnestness so palpable is the fact that it doesn't go away when people aren't looking. " you're a good person. you care about people. "

april cared about people. she listened when they talked and always remembered the things they told her. if there weren't so many, if it were possible for carrie to list them all, the immeasurable capacity to care so damn much would've been pretty high up on the equally immeasurable reasons why he loved her. he always said they would never have enough time for him to draw up one of those. a list. he hadn't known how true that was until he really, really knew.

grief can isolate a person, so it means a lot to him that claire has come to see him and that he can tell she didn't just do it because she felt like she had to. he remembers that he's not the only one in the room that has had his late spouses name in the mouth of the press before, and that if it were a contest then she would win by a pretty substantial margin. he takes another puff of the cigar and then holds it out for her to cross the room. " what they all want is a reaction. i kinda like the idea of pissin' them off by not having one. how's that sound to you, big dog? "

 there is a brief flicker  —  an involuntary muscle JUMP at the corner of one narrowed eye, the residue of a scoff he reminds himself not to allow to rise higher than the bottom of his chest.  ‘ snuck in to make up. ’   covering manure in fondue won’t make it smell any sweeter. 

 still, only a novice would believe he’d leave his whereabouts so carelessly out in the most obvious place it could’ve been.  at least now when she rides in on her black goat to completely ruin a plan he’ll have prepared a contingency, disappointing, but not unexpected.

colour me intrigued! international man of mystery (me) meets the president of the united states (her), call the news, dial up the internet, let's put on a fucking show! frankly, she's not his type. too old. too bitchy. fuck, she reminds him of his mother, and that almost makes him gag when he pictures fucking her -- huyrk!

the train gives way with an uncharacteristic jolt, and meIanie's eyes turn straight to the line of old-world spirits that jostle and clink behind the bar at the disruption. the mountain track always comes with its own share of hurdles to overcome, and providing enough torque to twist all one thousand and one cars up the sharpest angles is a drastic feat of engineering itself.

amber whiskey shudders in their bottles, and the tremulous shake of the train sees a bar spoon clatter onto the floor behind the island, followed by a measure. (come on, girl. you can do it. it's just another revolution.)

she wears many hats: hospitality, engineer, wiIford's ear. the train doesn't run without them; its steel-lined jowls open with the demand for order, and the balance between chaos and civility begins to tip when the path becomes rough.

she stands at the sink of a home that is not her own,  gazing out the window at the cold sea that she does not know the depth of,  and wondering how she let the constant current of the river become a fucking tsunami.

and yet,  today of all days has been long.  exhaustion weighs heavy beneath her eyes,  made only worse by the countless tears she has shed,  the ache that pounds at her temples and between her brows.  natasha had thought of using the dishwasher to take care of the glasses and plates of the guests that had come and stayed and gone,  but she is undone by herself and cannot bear to pick up the pieces unless her hands are worked to the bone and as bare as her heart.  so she takes her time,  sure to be delicate with the expensive wine glasses,  slow,  gradual.  and when claire returns with more for her,  she thanks her in a reassurance,  in a small comfort.

     thank you again,  for ... everything.

natasha smiles,  and it’s an easy and delicate gesture she gives her over her shoulder as she takes the offered glass. 

“i always hated washing these,  whenever i stayed over at his place,”  she leads their conversation elsewhere,  breaking their silence with something more manageable,  more easily swallowed.  “he’s   –    he was always so particular about dinner ware,  his luxury goods.  i almost broke one of them on purpose once,  just to see what he’d do.  i think he figured i would,  because he always seemed to have an excuse to hover in the kitchen until i was finished.”