#lbj

Watching flight of Astronaut Shepard on television.

Collection JFK-WHP: White House PhotographsSeries: Cecil Stoughton's White House Photographs 

A/N: Hello, Loves! I thank you all for being so patient and kind with me. This is fulfilling a request by the very sweet @jsprien213. I wanted to say thank you especially because I know you’ve waited for me to get this out. I’ve taken some artistic liberties with this, but I hope for the most part it’s close to what you had in mind. I had such fun writing this particularly because it was fun to try to write LBJ, he was a fun character to undertake. This is a sequel to Smoke, Mahogany, And Amber Lights.

Summary: You move on with your life after Jack, and start rubbing shoulders with a powerful politician.

Warnings: it might be god awful, l've tried to keep it close to the personalities involved, a typo or two, bad grammar, bad mechanics, swear words, LBJ is in this and I know some people really don’t like him, I think it’s pretty safe though?

~*~

You had heard of his victory before ever seeing it. Cold air nipping at your pink cheeks while you stood on the platform of the South Station. The echo of train whistles, steam, shuffling feet of tired people, and the crackling loud speaker that mumbled platform announcements did little to drown out the newsstand radio behind you.

An excited announcer’s bounced around on the tile behind you:

“…and with returns from Worcester and Springfield pushing him decisively ahead, it appears that Congressman John F. Kennedy has defeated Senator Henry Cabot Lodge Jr.—”

A group of women on a bench as well as a group of college aged boys by the newsstand cheered and squealed delightedly. Your nose wrinkled in disgust, and you gripped the leather handle on your suitcase a little tighter, eyes staring straight ahead at the departure board.

WASHINGTON, D.C. – ON TIME.

Your eyes had never left it, mentally tracing over each letter, stomach swirling in equal parts disgust and anxiety. The close watch of the words partly so you could make sure you wouldn’t be left here in Boston.

“…the thirty-five-year-old war veteran from a prominent Massachusetts family—”

In your minds eye you could see it without even being there, a bittersweet smile turned your lips upward at the image against your stomach’s better judgement. Jack, hair slightly wind blown, tall and a little too lean in a dark suit, thin tie that was considered a touch too narrow for the old guard but flattering on him.

His stiff posture keeping him upright on a riser in the middle of a packed hotel ballroom. Microphone clutched in one hand, the other raised in that charming little wave that made everyone, especially the young girls in the front row feel like they knew him.

Polished. Camera Ready. Born and bred for this.

You had known he would win.

The idea that you would be on a train out of town had never occurred to you when you thought about his victory. You frowned slightly for a second, blinking back tears that threatened to escape your eyes at the idea of leaving him.

“Washington DC now boarding, boarding for Washington DC…”

The overhead speaker crackled to life as you took a deep coal-flavored breath and moved forward.

No speech. No grandiose declaration. Just you, a freezing cold, single woman stepping up onto a train’s steps. Your standards packed even tighter than the clothes in your suitcase.

The announcer’s excited voice rose again behind you before the train’s doors shut:

“…we expect Senator-elect Kennedy to speak shortly—”

The word Landslide and the sound of giddy laughter the last things you heard before the doors shut.

You didn’t flinch or grimace.

You simply moved forward with a clenched jaw to take your seat, a feeling of indifference blooming in your chest. Why should you be sad when he had treated you as if you were replaceable?

~*~

Arrival in Washington D.C.

The cold D.C. air hit you like a rough slap in the face, making your cheeks pink and goosebumps rise on your skin.

You trudged down the streets, the impersonality of the pavement, cold and grey and delightfully unbiased towards you and everyone else making you smile and feel lonely at the same time. The sky overhead a sepia color as you trudged down the street, suitcase dragging behind you. Passing Taxi drivers calling out, horns blaring, men with hats pulled down low on their brow who didn’t spare you a glance.

You felt a blissful mix of joy and trepidation as you looked toward the city that didn’t know your name and wouldn’t unless you made yourself known.

You weren’t here for revenge. That would be the strangest part of your story for anyone who would come to know it.

No, you were here simply because you’d realized that night in the smoke filled barroom at the Parker House: You could choose to stay there and keep dinner warm for a man who would never fully choose you, taking advantage of your heart. Or you could to give that same love, tenderness, and loyalty to yourself.

You had chosen yourself. And rightfully so, you had learned that you shouldn’t settle for anything less than what you deserved. Not everyone that you love is safe enough to hold your heart.

The job came quicker than you expected— a clerical job with the Senate Committee that sounded particularly dull in on paper, and looked even more dull in person. Files, phones, schedules, Congressional Secretary Club meetings. Men talking loudly over each other and sometimes in hushed whispers, rooms that smelled heavily of cologne: both cheap and expensive, and sweat, ink, and cigar smoke.

But that first blissful time you entered into the Senate chamber doors and saw the mass of it — the grey suits, the black suits, the golden gleam of cuff links and tie clips, and the weight of trying to pass bills. You felt a calmness like pass over you.

You were nobody here. You didn’t even have to try to be someone.

You were free.

~*~

The Johnson Treatment

Three weeks into your new life when your whole world seemingly changed. You were Efficient enough that people had stopped underestimating you and pointing at you while they whispered loudly from the corners.

Your heels clicked against the tile floor in a steady rhythm as you hurried along down the busy corridor. A tall stack of briefs in your hands, eyes scanning the hallway quickly as you turned the corner, now nearly jogging.

“Now, just who in the ever lovin’ hell decided you ought to be the pack mule ‘round here?”

The voice loud, a booming sound that the marble tile only seemed to make echo from behind you. Turning your head, you looked over your shoulder; eyes landing on the man striding down the hallway behind you.

He walked like he owned the hallway, shoulders back and head up as if he had places to go and people to see. Very tall, easily 6’3”-6’4”— rangy, lean and big framed like a solid oak that had been out in the Texas heat a touch too long. Dark hair parted on the side combed back from a high forehead. His face all sharp angles, Hill Country angles: prominent ears, a strong nose, a mouth that was either in a grin or a sharp disapproving pout.

And the eyes, heavily lidded and dark brown, a curious and watchful squint, calculating and carrying an impatience that never really wore off. His long legs closed the distance between you now as you looked up at him, he leaned down almost completely in your space but not touching you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him and smell the scent of old spice mingled with cigarette smoke.

The sheer weight of his of his attention alone, making you blink uncertainly and your heart race out of uncertainty; it was as if he’d decided this corridor was now a two-person room.

“I’m fine senator…” a shy smile curving on your lips, fingers curling around the files as uncertainty bloomed in your stomach, “it’s just paper.”

“‘Just paper,’” he repeated loudly, a humorous snort following the echoed expression. “That’s how it generally starts. Paper today, and the whole goddamn federal government tomorrow—with some half-asleep chairman tellin’ you you’re ‘one of the lucky ones.’”

A snicker escaped you, a quiet little exhale that hadn’t seemed to escape his attention. His thin lips curled upward, the sound causing him to pounce.

“There it is,” he drawled, nudging your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man of his size. “Knew you had a sense of humor. Otherwise you’d be cryin’ in a stairwell already. You got a name, or do I just call you ‘the girl they’re tryin’ to break’?”

“Y/N.” Holding your hand out to him with a slightly relaxed smile, “With the committee down the hall.”

He repeated your name, slow and drawn out in that thick Texas drawl, almost as if testing it on his tongue; his giant hand engulfed your smaller one in a hand shake.

“That’s too pretty a name to waste on takin’ dictation for men who don’t know what year it is.”

“I’m only clerical staff.” You huffed, amused and slightly surprised that this man had taken an interest in you as you walked down the hallway.

His face turned down, a frown growing in the place an animated smile had been.

“Hell you are. I can smell brains from three offices away,” he said. “Brains and perfume. Two things this town burns through quicker than stationery.” His gaze flicked over the folders, then back to your face. “Don’t let ’em use both up on fools.”

His eyes flickered over your face one last time before he jabbed a long finger into the files you held in your arms, emphasizing his forthcoming words.

“You ever get sick of carryin’ their junk, you come find me,” he went on. “I pay in ulcers and long hours, but my people actually move the whole damn train. I’m a son of a bitch, but at least I’m an efficient one.”

You laughed loudly this time, charmed by his folksiness, unable or unwilling to stop the peel of laughter that escaped you.

The sound of your laugh only caused his smile to widen even more, his expression one of glee as if he’d just won a landslide election.

“Knew it. You laugh like my Hill Country girls. Tougher than they look.”

His hand landed briefly, heavily, on your shoulder—too firm to be called a caress, too warm to feel like pure bullying. Then he was already moving past you, raising his voice at a poor junior senator down the corridor:

“Hey! You miss one more vote for a haircut and I’ll hang your scalp on my wall, you hear me?”

His staff scattered. The hallway buzzed back to life around you.

You stood there a second longer than you meant to, feeling oddly… seen.

Not as Jack Kennedy’s girlfriend.

Not as a girl from the Cape.

Not as a convenient pair of hands keeping food warm at home.

Just as you—someone a man like that had decided was worth noticing, the interaction warming your heart.

~*~

Inside Lyndon’s orbit

It didn’t happen overnight. It was more gradual. Minor collisions.

You would bump into one another in the hallway, you would sit at his table at lunch that always just happened to have a seat vacant.

“Y/N!” He’d bark from across the hall, big smile that would wrinkle the sides of his eyes, his voice loud enough to make you grin and the rest of the clerical pool jump, “What’s that they’ve got you doin’?”

You would look up, not even bothering to hide your smile anymore as he loomed over your desk. Large hands planted on either side of your desk, his rangy arms cage like and blocking you in your chair so you had nowhere to go.

“Scheduling requests,” you said in a bored lilt “Mostly pointless.”

He snorted, dark eyes rolling playfully, “Busywork dressed up in a tie. You can always tell—they staple it twice.” He plucked a memo off your stack, dark eyes skimming it in three seconds, until a squint formed like he was trying to figure out how to break a filibuster. “Trash. Who’s your boss? I’m gon’ steal you.”

You laughed not thinking he was serious until you looked up at him, watching to see if you would shrink, and try to worm your way out of it.

“Really?”

He leveled you with a look, as if to say, ‘yes, eventually.’

“From what I hear, Senator, your staff already sleep under their desks. I like my bed,” you teased lightly.

His expression turned to one of amusement, like you’d solved a math problem he couldn’t.

“Good. You’ll need the spine when I do steal you.” He squeezed your shoulder gently before strutting off in a hurry, shoulders back and head held high with confidence. The sight making you snicker as you went back to your work.

Days turned into weeks and months, the more you saw Lyndon Johnson, the more you realized exactly how he worked: everything was a deal, a countdown, a pressure point. He checked vote counts like some men checked their watches. He’d lean in close to some poor senator, practically pinning him to the wall, and rumble in his ear for five straight minutes—flattery, threats, “Remember when I did X for you,” “You want Y for your farmers, don’t you?”—until the man walked away dazed and compliant.

The Johnson Treatment looked, up close, like being tackled by a very determined, very affectionate draft horse.

He could be cruel, he could be a downright bastard in the service of a goal—sharp words, public dressing-downs—but you noticed he saved his worst for people he thought were lazy, selfish, or stupid in ways that hurt the folks back home.

With you, in private, it was different. He showed you almost an overwhelming tender streak. He could be earthy, crude, unfiltered, and loud, but he would also not hesitate to drown you in affection. Something you craved after the relationship you had just walked away from with the emotionally slippery Jack.

“Where are you?” he’d demand over the phone at 9:45 p.m.

“In my apartment,” you answered with a chuckle, staring at your plate of scrambled eggs. “Eating dinner.”

“You eatin’ on the plate or just admirin’ it?” he’d shoot back. “You’re too damn thin. This city’ll starve you and then blame you for faintin’.”

A laugh escaped you, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, yeah, everybody’s ‘fine’ till they drop. Listen.” His voice softened a notch, still loud but less barbed. “You’re no good to me tired and sick. You’re one of the few people ‘round here I trust to know what day it is. So do an old Hill Country boy a favor and take care of yourself, all right?”

You rolled your eyes, heart warming at the thought of his admission.

“I’ll make an extra effort for you.”

He was emotionally possessive in a way you recognized from another life—but where Jack’s version had been slippery and avoidant, Lyndon’s was blunt and obvious. Once he decided you were “his,” you didn’t wonder where you stood.

He:

• checked on you, nightly sometimes.

• bragged about you to other senators (“She’s sharper than half of you bastards combined”),

• and would bulldoze anyone who even tried to waste your time.

Overwhelming? Yes.

Exhausting? Sometimes.

But never small.

And whether you liked it or not, the part of you that had spent years keeping Jack fed and ironed while he wandered off to chase whatever made him feel alive… soaked that difference in like water.

~*~

The run in

You were walking down a Senate corridor with a stack of memos when you heard a different cadence, Brahmin, cut through the murmur. The sound alone making your stomach churn, you had forgotten about the possibility of even running into him.

“—no, we’ll get it to the Committee by Thursday, that’s fine—”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was, you knew that voice as well as your own, you had been involved with the owner too intimately to not.

Jack appeared as you continued on your way, head held high like Lyndon had taught you. He came toward you surrounded by two staffers and a reporter, tall and lean in a dark suit that fit like it had been tailored the second he stepped off the train. Narrow tie, crisp white shirt, hair doing that infuriatingly charming thing where it refused to be perfectly tamed. His face relaxed into that smooth, half-amused look that said he’d already measured the room and decided he could handle it.

His green eyes lifted—and snapped to you, gleaming like two jewels as he let his gaze roam over you.

For a moment, the whole hallway seemed to pull tight between you. A wave of white hot heat poured over you from head to toe, inhaling deeply to try to ground yourself as you tried to ignore him.

“Y/N,” he said, stopping so abruptly his staffers nearly walked into his back. Your name came out softer than any of his public lines.

“Senator Kennedy,” you replied. Your heart jumped; your voice did not as you looked at him in the eye like Lyndon would.

The staffers peeled away on instinct. The reporter took two small steps back, pretending to study his notes.

Jack stepped closer, slipping into one-on-one mode so effortlessly you could almost hear the internal click: focus narrowing, posture softening, smile turning from “crowd” to “you.”

The old you would have melted, but the Washington, Lyndon Johnson protégée? Not a chance, especially not when you were currently looking him right in the eye.

“You’re here,” he said quietly. “In Washington.”

“So are you.” Your tone steady and brokering no nonsense as you lifted the memos in your hand.

He gave a quick, breathy laugh that wasn’t quite a joke. “I meant—you never said.”

“You didn’t need to know.”

The words hit. A small fracture showed in the polished surface before he pasted it smooth again.

“You look well,” he regrouped. “This suits you. The town. It’s… ambitious.”

“So far,” you said. “It’s honest about its intentions.”

He huffed, forcing a small smile, “honesty is important.”

“Glad you learned that.”

His gaze dropped to the folders, then back to your face. His eyes had that laser focus you remembered—disarmingly attentive, as if you were the only one in motion and everything else was scenery. But you weren’t interested in being disarmed, especially by him.

“I’ve been meaning to call,” he started.

“No,” you corrected firmly, “You’ve been meaning to stop feeling guilty.”

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing roughly.

“I’m sorry,” he said—and for once the word wasn’t wrapped in wit or performance. It sounded raw, like he barely mustered the strength to say it. “I made a hell of a mess of things with you.”

You didn’t argue.

“But?”

His jaw flexed. “But I’ve been… thinking. About that night. About you. About—” he gave a tiny, almost self-mocking smile “—Cabot Lodge.”

“Good,” you said uninterested and moving to walk away. “You should.”

“I keep waiting for you to cool off,” he admitted, fingers reaching out to touch your arm and then chickening out at the last second. “You usually do.”

“I did,” you turned back, eyes narrowed. “Just not how you expected.”

He blinked.

Before he could respond, the air behind you shifted.

“Y/N!” Lyndon’s booming drawl rolled down the corridor like thunder. “Tell me you’re not lettin’ some subcommittee steal you when I got real work for you.”

You turned to see the big man barreling toward you, boxy suit already rumpled from a long day, tie pulled just a little loose like a man who’d been fighting with it since 7 a.m. His presence hit the space like a front: big, loud, unstoppable.

He eyeballed the scene in one sweep—Jack, you, the way you were standing—and his eyes lit with something sharp and entertained.

“Well, well,” he boomed, closing the last few steps and planting one big hand on the wall just behind your shoulder, leaning in so you were bracketed between him and plaster. “Kennedy. You botherin’ my girl?”

You exhaled, relief washed over you as you stepped back toward Lyndon.

Jack’s muscle in his jaw ticked, from Lyndon himself or the way you stepped into Lyndon’s space you didn’t know. “We know each other from back home.”

“I figured,” Lyndon said easily. “She looks at you like you still owe her somethin’ important. Time, maybe. Or a spine.”

You made a choked little sound that was half laugh, half don’t encourage him.

Jack heard the laugh, his eyes narrowed at you like he’d been stung.

“I was trying to apologize,” he said tightly.

“Were you doin’ it badly?” Lyndon asked, genuinely curious. “She spots that quicker than a cat licks its ass.”

“Senator Johnson…” you murmured, biting your lip with restrained laughter.

He looked down at you, and for a beat, the force in his eyes softened. “You all right?” he asked, and there was a hint of real concern under the drawl and in his dark eyes. “He ain’t twistin’ your arm into votin’ for him again, is he?”

“I’m fine,” you answered. “We were just talking.”

“Mm.” His hand dropped from the wall to your elbow, the grip light but unmistakably claiming. “Well, when you’re done talkin’, I need you back. Some of us are tryin’ to run the goddamn country while pretty boy over here practices his camera angles and avoids meetin’s.”

Jack bristled. “Is that what you think I do, Senator?”

“I think you’re very good at what you do,” Lyndon said, smiling with all his teeth. “And I think she’s very good at what she does. And right now, what she does is for me.”

It wasn’t romantic touch.

It was territorial.

Jack felt it like a shove.

“Is that what you are now?” His eyes flickered back to you, something raw slipping into his voice despite his best efforts. “His girl?”

You met his eyes evenly. “I’m nobody’s girl but my own.”

Lyndon’s mouth twitched, approving.

“But yes,” you added, “I work for Senator Johnson. And we’re friends.”

Your words made his posture rigid and his eyes jerk away from yours. His public mask held, but his voice came out a shade too sharp.

“You deserve more than being worked to death by a man who thinks everything’s a crisis.”

“And I deserved more,” you replied quietly, “than begging for scraps of attention from a man who thought nothing was ever truly his fault.”

The words landed on him like a slap, as silence descended upon the three of you for a moment.

Lyndon let it sit for one long, ruthless beat, then clapped his giant hands once, cutting through the tension.

“Well,” he said, bright again, “seems to me the lady knows her own mind. That’s more than I can say for half this chamber.” He squeezed your elbow with a surprising gentleness, “you comin’?”

You looked at Jack coolly one last time.

He stood there, tall and composed, the perfect image of the young senator. For the first time, instead of seeing your future, you saw a man who genuinely didn’t know how to win when charm wasn’t enough.

“I’m coming,” you turned and matched your stride to Lyndon’s long steps.

Leaning down to reach your ear he whispered, “he wants your vote he can get in the damn line with the rest of ‘em.”

You laughed loudly, the sound making Lyndon chuckle and squeeze your shoulder.

As you both approached the curve of the corridor, Jack watched the two of you—his old habit of reading people turned against him. You held your head high and your shoulders back, while Lyndon stood tall at your back like a shield. The staffers parting like the Red Sea as you walked beside the Texan senator.

It wasn’t romance.

But it was power.

And it wasn’t his.