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Passion and Politics: a TrumpxBiden romance
I remember when I first saw him. My heart began beating so quickly that it was closer to a hum. My entire world had been a millimeter off-center– and now it wasn’t. Dumbly, I wondered how I had ever been able to live before. The slight shift in my perspective kept going, heavy with momentum- spinning the room around and around. The image of his blue eyes was still emblazoned on the back of my eyelids as I closed them, feeling my knees buckle.
I woke up in the White House hospital wing, an oxygen monitor clipped to my finger, an IV drip in my forearm. I blinked groggily, as if I had woken from a too -long nap, and scanned the room for Mike. I needed to see him. Now.
Mike was already leaning against the closed door, a permanent scowl on his face. Despite his expression, I knew he would guide me. That’s what Alphas do.
“Did it happen?”
“I- Think…. So?” I replied, not really an answer, not really a question, not really believing my own words.
Mike was quiet for what felt like forever. But I wouldn’t ask him what he was thinking—he would speak when he was ready. You never interrupt your Alpha.
“It’s about time you found your mate, it’s been what, a few hundred years? Who?”
My mouth went dry at the thought of him. A joyless smile appeared on my face as
I realized the irony of it all—what fate had been chosen for me in the coming months.
Jill linked her arm through mine as we walked up the steps to the magnificent marble banquet hall. Nerves knotted in the pit of my stomach, and I wondered if I was going to puke. The reporters would never forget that, neither would the rest of the country. I would be the Puking Presidential Candidate. Stop it Joe. I chided myself silently, You WILL NOT vomit. You literally can’t—you haven’t even eaten. You are going to go in there and be charming. Now do it. Go on. Yes. One foot in front of the other.
Besides stumbling on my way up the steps in my typical clumsy fashion, I managed to make it inside, leave Jill with her friends, grab a flute of champagne, and begin some polite conversations with potential sponsors that my campaign manager had invited for me. Their names and faces had been drilled into my head over the last week, thanks to Jill’s flashcards, and I savored the surprised smiles on their faces as I greeted each by name before they introduced themselves.
Nodding along absently to something one of the oil tycoons was saying, I noticed the president walk in, surrounded by his Secret Service detail. Face instinctively crinkling into an expression of dislike, my eyes followed him across the room. But for some reason, I couldn’t help but notice how perfectly orange and fluffy his hair looked today. Shaking myself out of it immediately, I furiously thought, what are you doing dummy? It’s TRUMP. Donald. Freaking. Trump.
I got through a few other conversations before I found myself face-to-face with none other than the idiot himself—Donald.
“Hello.” He greeted hoarsely, holding out a clammy hand for me to shake. I grudgingly took it, but his hand lingered longer than it needed to. But while I would have drawn back immediately before, today I left my hand out, in an uncharacteristically intimate gesture. What? Ew. With sudden alarm, I whipped my hand out of his grip and deliberately pressed it to my side.
“I heard that you weren’t feeling so well a few days ago, glad to see you’re doing better now.” I offered, making it clear that I was in fact, NOT glad to see he was doing better, or glad to see him at all.
He hated me. The realization that came with this thought crushed me. I felt my heart crack, and it threatened to fall apart entirely. Drawing myself up to my full height, I blinked back tears and replied, as if having completely missed his true meaning, “Yes, I am much better, thank you for asking. How are you?”
As the conversation drifted from polite small talk to a not-so-friendly discussion about affordable healthcare, I wondered if there would be any way he could ever love me.
Later that night, as I crawled into bed, my phone buzzed, rattling aggressively on the nightstand. It was Mike.
“How did it go?”
The feelings I had been pushing back the last few days flooded in at once. I gulped, not able to answer as the lump in my throat grew. He clearly sensed my distress through the pack’s emotional bond, and commanded, “Stop. Stop panicking”, in a tone only an Alpha could achieve. I felt a wave of calm pushing against my chaotic feelings, and his command stopped my spiral of despair dead in its tracks. “You can try to forget him— release yourself from your mating bond. Or he might come around, but waiting will make rejection all the more painful if it comes.”
I contemplated these options, but neither sounded very appealing.
He silently waited on the other end.
“Do you think I can get him to love me? Or even like me?” I asked, hoping that just this once he would say yes even if it wasn’t true— I needed to hear it.
“You can never make people love each other Donald. But you can make him see you for the good man you are. And most mates begin feeling affection towards their werewolf partner when the bond activates— it might make things easier. But you have a lot of work to do if you want to change what he thinks of you.”
We said our goodbyes and I jabbed the little red button, feeling the weight of my immense emotional distress lift a little. I fell asleep with a wolfish smile on my face, imagining a day when the disgust in Joe’s eyes would be replaced with affection.
Jill had nodded off fully clothed as soon as we got home. As I gently removed her heels , managed to wrestle her into some pajamas, and blotted some of her makeup off, I thought of Donald. I had never once felt anything but distaste towards that man. Until today. It was as if a part of me had suddenly decided that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t all that bad. That he was rather handsome. As his face appeared in my head, a tingly warmth spread through my chest. Stop it you dummy. You’re probably just imagining things. Go to bed.
After that first night, I was dismayed to find the fluttering feeling still stubbornly there. Then, I began commending the most impactful parts of his campaign speeches, acknowledging how many supporters he had. It still baffled me that people supported this man, but also that I didn’t completely hate him anymore. We met a couple times, but for the most part it was quite formal. I couldn’t tell if it was my changing feelings, or if he was truly being nicer to me, but I began looking forward to seeing him. Once in a while, I would catch him watching me, and give him a small smile, which he answered with a toothy grin. Though we exchanged niceties, our interactions through stolen glances were far more intimate than our stiff, monitored political conversations. The first time I truly felt like I knew him was at the first presidential debate.
That day, his red tie brought out the orangey hue of his hair, and he looked less wrinkled than I had always thought he was. His expression grew animated as our eyes met and surprisingly, he gave me an unrestrained smile, showing his beautifully dingy-yellow teeth. I felt heat travel up to my cheeks and hoped that I wasn’t blushing on national television. Fox News would have a field day with ‘Tomato Joe’. Distracted, I scuffed the tip of my shoe on the stage and stumbled a bit, catching myself in time. Cursing under my breath, I continued to my podium, putting him out of my mind until the debate was over.
Oddly enough, I had been able to entirely ignore my growing affinity for my opponent while debating. When the moderator finally called time, I swiveled to see my team and Jill, standing in the wings, expressions of approval on their faces.
Heading towards the greenroom to wash the irritating powder off my face, I was stopped by a Secret Service agent.
“Please follow me, President Trump would like to speak with you.”
Oh my God, Oh my God, OHMYGOD! He wants to talk!
Ignoring the way my heart leaping just a bit, I nodded curtly and followed. President Trump— or Donald as I had begun calling him in my head— was sitting on a long couch, sipping from a plastic water bottle. Oh right, he doesn’t believe in climate change.
“Hello Joe. Great job with the debate today.” He greeted me gruffly, but with a new warmth I had only heard him use with his wife and kids. “You really... Uh… drove home the point about bodily autonomy for women.”
I cautiously settled myself on the other end of the couch, hyperaware of my every movement.
“Thank you. I found your interruptions particularly… disruptive.” I offered up a tentative smile. This isn’t so bad, right?
As the conversation went on, we found ourselves growing more relaxed with each other. He got up to toss his water bottle in the trash- not recycle bin, as I noted silently- and sat down closer than he had before. When I later got up to use the bathroom, I returned to a closer position as well.
I don’t know how much time passed, but eventually we were sitting knee-to-knee and chatting like old friends. The warmth in my chest had grown, and I felt like I might explode from the inexplicable joy that speaking to this man brought me. His loosened tie and tousled hair indicated that he seemed to return the sentiment, voice jovial and shoulders relaxed.
There was a lull in the conversation, and as I looked up from where I had been picking shyly at my nails, I saw a ferociously intent expression on his face. It made me feel… safe. Protected. Maybe even loved?
Before I knew what was happening, he leaned forward and gave me a kiss. Wow. My mind went blank and the only thing I could focus on was him. I breathed in his old-man cologne, and the slight sweaty smell coming from near his collar. The smell of him. And even though his Secret Service detail was right outside the door, I felt less worried or self-conscious than I had in my entire life.
When we moved apart, he was breathing heavily, and rivulets of sweat ran down his temples.
This is not normal. I thought dumbly as his eyes closed and he crumpled to the floor. I don’t remember much after that, save for the panic that engulfed me. All I can recall is Donald, lying on a stretcher, being taken into an ambulance.
I sat stiffly in the hard chair just outside his hospital room, where I heard the muted mumbles of Melania speaking to him inside. He hadn’t passed out for too long, but his temperature had risen to abnormally high levels during that time. It was unusual, to say the least, but somehow Vice President Pence had convinced them not to keep him more than a day or two for observation.
His family filed out of the room, and without waiting for permission, I ducked in immediately. Shutting the door softly behind me, I turned to him, brows knit with guilt and concern. Did I do something that made him pass out?
“I’m fine”, he started, before I could say anything “I have some explaining to do though.”
I watched him in silence as he processed what I had just told him. Werewolves, mates, all of it. The waiting filled me with anxiety, tears ready to fall if in case he rejected our bond. His hand shifted a little— I couldn’t tell if he was about to take my hand or move his away from where they nearly touched on the bed rail. Holding my breath, I dared to look up, and saw him smile at me, eyes shining.
“I love you no matter what.” He whispered passionately, intertwining our fingers, “And now I know that you love me too.”
He leaned in for a kiss, and as our lips met, the last piece of my world clicked into place. Everything was complete.