Top Kill

(Thanks go to 8inchCaliper and her reviews for prompting me to try writing again!)
 

It's gotten so it's hard to even talk to people these days.

There's no turning to Rahm, because of course he'd say something along the lines of, "You knew what you were signing up for," except perhaps a bit more colorfully. And his wife is out because, well. It'd be nice to have one small part of his life that isn't touched by the disgusting mess that is the oil spill, not to mention the ideological party purges and right-wing agitators and the list seems endless. But when every news channel is carrying images of dying wildlife in the gulf and polemical ads of every stripe are running during commercial breaks on all the other channels—

A knock made Obama open his eyes to see Johnson poking her head around the door, the expectant smile of you've-got-an-unannounced-visitor on her lips. When he tipped his head in acknowledgement, she withdrew and ushered the visitor in.

"Oh, hi there, Joe." Obama didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, and Biden frowned at this.

"What, no hug?" His tone was jovial, but it was clear that Biden was somewhat hurt by the less-than-cheerful welcome. Still, he went on, taking advantage of his skill for extemporizing. "Anyway, we've been talking and it was agreed that someone had to talk to you, I mean, you can't try to carry all of this on your own, it's too fucking big a deal." He paused here, hoping that this callback to the passage of the healthcare bill would at least elicit a smirk, but Obama didn't oblige.

With a shrug, Biden grabbed one of the blue-gold striped chairs and carried it over to Obama's desk, setting it down with a thud. Obama watched this without a word, only raising an eyebrow when Biden scuffed the carpet turning the chair around so he could try and sit astraddle despite the arm rests. It took a moment of self-amused struggling, but Biden eventually made himself comfortable.

He draped his arms across the top of the chair back and opened his mouth, only to have Obama cut him off. "You said 'we' before; to whom were you referring?"

"The usual suspects." Another shrug, more calculated this time. "Jill, Rahm. Michelle." Biden shook his head. "Look, Barry, we're worried for you. I'm worried for you. It's been a tough year, to say the least, what with those dumbass tea partiers," with finger quotes around the last two words, "And the congressional stuff, and Teddy, and now this. This isn't the kind of thing to go alone."

Obama found himself considering pressing Biden on Kennedy—had the man's voice caught, just a little?—but the radio's announcement of an update on the oil spill caught his attention instead, and he leaned back to turn it up.

At the mention of August as a potential end date, Biden let out a low whistle. Untangling himself from the chair, he strode over and hit the off button. "See, this is the kind of thing I mean. You're the president, you can make people listen to this shit for you."

"But is that wise?" Obama looked up without moving his head, somehow managing to look like a morose child, and Biden chuckled despite himself.

"Fuck wise. You ever watch 'The West Wing?'" Now it was Obama's turn to snort. Biden's smile was more cheerful now, and he continued. "Point is, you gotta learn to just let go sometimes. Let it roll over you."

At this last remark, Obama tensed up again. "God, don't you think I want to? But it's everywhere, Joe. I can't even go home without hearing about this—this—"

Biden knelt in front of him, grasping the arms of the presidential chair. "I've been here before. Where it won't go away. How can I help you?"

Obama shrugged and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply—and his breath got stuck in his throat when Biden moved his hands, resting them lightly on Obama's knees. Startled, he made as though to stand up, but Biden tightened his grip. His blue eyes sharp, Biden indicated with a barely perceptible shake of his head that Obama was not to move if he knew what was best.

"I've found that what has helped me is just, well, finding a way to take my mind off things," Biden said, his nonchalance sounding only slightly forced. "And the same should be true for you, if I know you as well as I think I do." His hands moved closer to Obama's crotch, and with so light a touch that each brush sent an embarrassing thrill through the both of them. When he was near enough to feel the outlines of Obama's underwear underneath those dark pants, he paused.

"I, um, to be honest, haven't done this before. Just going by precedent." Now it was Biden who couldn't make eye contact. "JFK and Clinton and all that, and, I'm actually not sure what—"

"Not sure what?" Obama said, his voice low and quiet.

Biden licked his lips. "Is, is this cheating?" In what way was not specified, but they both knew what he meant.

They were silent for a few moments, each intensely aware of the other's heartbeat. When Biden shifted his weight he felt Obama's pulse quicken, and it seemed as though the clothed skin beneath his hands was becoming warmer.

"Fuck it. I didn't make a name for myself by pussying out, and—and you're my friend." With a loud exhale, Biden leaned in and began undoing Obama's belt.

Now the only sounds were that of their breathing and the rustling of Obama's clothes, then the whisper of flesh against flesh. At first Biden's right hand, broad, warm and unsure, moved slowly as he tried to figure out where he wanted to put his other hand. Finally putting it back on Obama's knee, he turned his attention back to what he had started.

Obama's breath came shallowly now, and he couldn't decide whether to watch himself be touched like that by another man or avert his eyes. So he compromised by staring at the top of Biden's head, wondering at the seeming softness of the thinning white hair in contrast to the palms roughened by age.

It still felt a little strange sometimes, being in charge when by all rights Biden should be president, if experience were the sole criteria for decision. But though there was a difference of almost 20 years, the respect—if not quite deference—Biden had for him showed clearly even now. And in return, looking at Biden's half-closed eyes, crow's feet and faint smile lines, Obama felt a sort of tenderness that went beyond mutual respect or even friendship.

Then the grip grew firmer, and his mind went blank. Biden glanced upwards to see Obama let out a stuttering gasp as his brown eyes slid shut.

Biden felt as though he should say something, but nothing seemed appropriate.

Before either of them felt ready, it was over. Perhaps, in the grander scheme of things, that was for the best, but in the moment they were left somewhere between confused and frustrated, unable and not quite willing to pinpoint exactly why.

As Biden got stiffly to his feet and turned away to give Obama privacy in cleaning up, he caught sight of a framed family photo on the desk. Without thinking, he reached out and lay it face down. He would have fixed the other photos as well, regardless of subject, but they were too far from where he was standing. A proffered tissue was taken with a curt nod, and Biden headed for the door wiping his hands.

At the door he paused, and he refused to think of it as at the threshold because that would be too fucking dramatic. He could hear Obama shuffling papers behind him, getting back to work after this too brief reprieve.

"Look, I, hmm." Biden cleared his throat, willing to make eye contact once more. "I want this to work for you. Please don't...take all this so seriously, I guess." He finished weakly, not bothering to clarify his double meanings.

Obama looked at him with a steady gaze, wishing he could say "Thank you" and mean it the way he wanted to mean it. He settled for a smile and a wave. Biden answered with a half-hearted grin, raised a hand in farewell, and quietly closed the door behind him.

It was back to watching and waiting for both of them.