words: 4,215
A glass of scotch sits on the desk in front of the window. There must have been ice in it at some point; a ring of condensation turns the dull wood a vibrant espresso. Light from the street below filters in through the sheer outer layer of hotel curtains, turning the otherwise unremarkable room into a cleaner, quieter discotheque. Felicity stands opposite the full length mirror hung over the bathroom door, black pencil pressed precariously to her waterline.
“I will not stab myself in the eye,” she says, darkening the pale space between her lashes. “I have more coordination than that.”
A swift pound to the door breaks her focus.
“Dammit,” she groans, head dropped in defeat. “The door’s open.”
Sebastian enters the room like he always does: half an hour early, looking like he just woke up like that. For all Felicity knows, he woke up twenty minutes ago, put on his tux, combed his hair, and walked two doors down the hall. It’s completely unfair that he still looks like the cover of GQ. “You ready?” he asks, clearly forgetting everything he learned about women from all his sisters back in Maine.
“You know I’m not,” Felicity answers, hunting through the makeup scattered atop the bathroom counter for a cotton round. She finds one, then swipes it under her left eye to fix the mess Sebastian caused. “Look at me. I’m barely dressed.”
“You could go out like that.”
“My dress isn’t zipped, idiot.”
He takes a step back, cocks his head. “I thought that was just the fashion.”
Felicity snorts. “Yeah, I want to go to the White House with my Spanx showing.”
“What’re Spanx?”
“God,” she starts, reaching behind herself to grab the dress’ zipper, “remind me to tell your sisters you asked that.” It slips from her fingers, somehow working itself further down her back instead of up. The stress of perfecting hair and makeup has turned her hands uselessly sweaty. She makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat.
If there’s one thing a modern woman—a CIA agent, at that—should be able to do, it’s zip up her own dress.
“Here, let me,” Sebastian says, stepping behind her and pulling the zipper to where it ends, just below her shoulder blades.
“I could have gotten that myself.” She moves away from him, decidedly not lingering on the warmth of his hands against her back.
He laughs. “Since we have somewhere to be, I made an executive decision.”
They still have a solid twenty minutes before the car is scheduled to pick them up, but Felicity doesn’t mention it. Instead, she focuses on getting ready. Physically and mentally.
This night has been more than ten years in the making. All Felicity’s wanted since she was fifteen is to meet John Hutton. Since she learned who killed her father, this meeting has always been at the forefront of her mind. Tonight is more than a celebratory ball for excellence in law enforcement; it’s reconnaissance. More than that, it’s a chance for closure.
Sebastian doesn’t know.
Their boss doesn’t know.
The only other soul on the planet who knows is Felicity’s mother, but she’s not here tonight. Eloise Scanlan is safely ensconced in the Boston brownstone they’d moved to immediately following her father’s death in Ireland.
Felicity thinks of Oisin Scanlan as she slips into her heels and rounds up the only things that will fit in her tiny purse—two lipsticks (one the blood red painted across her mouth, the other a listening device) and a powder compact. She remembers watching him help her mother get ready for an evening out: how he’d zip her dress and help her into her coat. They’d be out until midnight while Felicity would listen at her bedroom window for them to return.
One night, Eloise came home alone.
“You’re not going to drink this?” Sebastian asks, tugging her back to the present. He points to the glass of scotch. Oisin’s favorite drink.
“No,” Felicity answers. “I don’t know why I poured it.”
He downs it in one gulp, wiping his hand across his mouth afterwards. Charming, as always. “Are you ready yet?” Sebastian asks, pulling the inner layer of curtains closed. The room goes dull, now illuminated only by the fluorescent bathroom light and lamp on the nightstand. Felicity feels pulled from a dream—the weight of tonight crashes down around her. Her limbs are heavier than they were before.
She flips the bathroom light off. “I’m ready.”
“Okay,” Sebastian starts. “One thing—it’s cold out.” He grabs her coat, slung on the back of the desk chair. “Here,” he says, helping her into it. “Now you’re good to go.”
He extends his arm like he’s done every time they’ve gone to a fancy soirée. They usually play a couple, though the lines between fiction and reality have been blurrier in recent months. Tonight, Felicity’s performing, but Sebastian shouldn’t be; for all intents and purposes, he’s off the clock. He leads her downstairs to the car like he’s her escort at a debutante ball, like he wishes he could be.
No, Felicity thinks, not now. She’s got a running list of at least five things she should be giving her attention to instead of this—them, whatever they are.
—
“I can’t believe we’re going to the actual White House,” Sebastian says as they pass the National Mall. “You excited?”
Felicity nods. “Of course I am.”
“I’m gonna need you to kick it up a notch. You know, match me squeal for squeal when we meet the president.” He pauses, waiting for her to laugh. Or at least smile. “Full disclosure,” he continues, “my inner government nerd is already out in full force.”
“Your government nerd has never been inner,” Felicity says, thinking back to when they first met: Sebastian, with his Political Science degree and dreams of making a difference in the world, and her with her International Relations degree and a hidden vendetta. Tonight’s as big for him as it is for her, just for different reasons. If she were any other person, they’d wine and dine and accept job praise with no problem. Hell, they might even take an eraser to those relationship lines once and for all.
But she isn’t any other person and tonight isn’t a night she can let her guard down.
Streetlights illuminate the inside of the car, turning the dark interior into a reflection of the night sky. Sebastian’s white collar glows a dangerous red in the sea of brake lights ahead of them.
She turns the air conditioning up.
“Hot?”
“Huh?” Felicity answers, turning her head too fast. “Oh. A little.” She pauses, drumming her—for once—manicured nails on her thigh. “Tight dress. Tighter Spanx. Recipe for disaster, really.”
Sebastian hums in uninformed agreement. He turns his own vent her way, nudging her with his shoulder in the process. “Here. You need it more than I do.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but only manages to breathe a little harder. He looks too good, in every sense of the word: His dark hair, normally a mess of curls he affectionately calls professional bedhead, is tamed into the kind of style any girl would deem appropriate for a date night. He’s the picture-perfect spy, elegance and secrecy sewn into the velvet of his suit. I should have had that scotch back at the hotel, Felicity thinks, watching Sebastian watch her with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. “Thanks,” she says, finally.
“No problem,” he replies easily. His command of the English language is still intact, at least.
For a few minutes, they sit silently. The car turns, escaping rush-hour traffic—Felicity focuses on the blur of shops and hotels out her window. Glass storefronts turn to water, refracting the image of their car speeding down the road, making it look more like a cartoon than real life. But it is real life. She is Felicity Scanlan and she is about to—
Now the car’s too cold. Goosebumps punctuate the pale skin of her arms, turning them to braille she hopes Sebastian can’t read.
When Felicity tries to close one of the vents blowing freezing air on her, Sebastian stops her. His hand circles her wrist, loose enough for her to break away if she wanted. She looks up at him through her eyelashes, heart pounding so hard she’s afraid he can see it through the low cut of her dress.
“What’s up, Scanlan?” Sebastian asks, concern etched across his face.
“What do you mean?”
“Since we got in the car, you’ve been all…weird. Normally you’d be talking my damn ear off. You feel sick or something?”
“No!” Felicity fires back, too eager. “I mean, I’m not sick. I’m just…nervous.”
Sebastian squeezes her wrist just hard enough to anchor her back in the moment. She’s here, in a car, on her way to the White House. Everything is fine. Everything is normal. “Felicity Scanlan gets nervous?” he starts, cutting off her mental mantra. “Well, color me surprised.”
She wants to laugh, wants to jab him in the ribs and tell him to shove it, but she doesn’t have the resolve.
“Yeah, yeah,” Felicity musters, tugging her wrist out of his grip. She’s even colder now.
“Don’t worry,” Sebastian says. “The president’s going to have nothing but praise for you. He’s seen our work. Yours especially. He knows what you’ve been up to.”
The air in the car thins, leaving Felicity cursing whoever decided to make evening gowns so ill-equipped for the act of breathing. Without warning, the car jolts to a stop and, before she can so much as cough, the driver is opening her door.
“Come on, partner!” Sebastian jokes, undoing her seatbelt. “Let’s go fulfill some childhood dreams, shall we?”
“Okay,” she says, stepping out of the car and wobbling in her heels. “Let’s go.”
—
The inside of the White House is less grandiose than Felicity’d thought as a child; the armchairs and paintings are nothing like the red velvet ropes and glass cases she’d always imagined. Sconces line the ballroom walls, casting an orange glow over everything that makes the November night outside seem even colder. They enter through an archway between two swirling topiaries, the swell of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” drawing them further inside.
“Sounds like the shit you always listen to before we debrief,” Sebastian says, just quiet enough so she can hear.
“Beethoven is not shit,” Felicity says, automatically. “Do you see McLane anywhere?”
He finally drops her arm and shoves his hands in his pockets. She knows what he’s doing—trying to appear nonchalant while simultaneously taking in their entire surroundings. It’s a hard habit to kick when they’re off duty. “I think,” Sebastian starts, voice level, “he’s standing next to President Hutton.”
Her eyes land on McLane, across an ocean of people. Diplomats, correspondents, and all manner of politicians litter the space between her and her boss, a minefield of polite nods and excuses. Standing next to him, towering over the servers passing around hors d’oeuvres and champagne flutes, is John Hutton. He looks presidential, naturally, commanding an enormous presence in the room, a continuous stream of people stopping to shake his hand. The smile she sees from across the room is sickly—mouth spread too wide, teeth too perfect.
A chorus of giggles rings through the ballroom, tearing Felicity’s attention from the president. One of the many Secret Service agents lining the walls speaks low into his comm—she lip reads sparrow and fairy. Two red heads appear at Hutton’s side, small hands pulling at his suit and hiding behind his legs. On their heels comes a short, round woman. Felicity recognizes Annabelle Hutton from campaign ads. She leans up—still a solid foot shorter than him in her heels—to press a kiss to President Hutton’s cheek, then grabs their children by the hands and leads them to sneak a better look at the orchestra. Hutton watches them the whole time, only focusing back on McLane when Annabelle nods ever so slightly in his direction.
It’s clearly a well-worn convention between them; the ease with which Hutton slips from family man to most powerful man in the free world is the same ease with which Felicity slips undercover. They’re the epitome of the family she never got to have.
The family Hutton took from her.
“Should we…?” Felicity trails, heartbeat thundering in her wrists.
“Yeah. Let’s roll, Scanlan.”
He offers his arm to her and she rests her hand in in the crook of his elbow. They wind up across the room, though Felicity can’t recall the exact steps they took. All she knows is she’s three feet away from the monster in her nightmares.
Except he’s not a monster at all. He’s a fucking family man.
Her mind goes blank.
“Rao, Scanlan, nice to see you tonight,” McLane says. “President Hutton, I’d like to introduce you to my top field agents. The ones responsible for our big sex-trafficking bust this past fall. Sebastian Rao and Felicity Scanlan.”
“It’s an honor to have such dedicated and accomplished agents with us tonight,” the president comments, nodding at each of them. His eye catches Felicity’s; she forces a smile.
“It’s a pleasure to be here,” Sebastian says, shaking the president’s hand. His dark eyes shine bright with awe, an eager smile working its way across his face. Something sharp twists in Felicity’s abdomen, though she knows Sebastian has no reason to be suspicious of Hutton. To her partner, John Hutton is just the upstart diplomat-turned-senator from New York. The youngest Commander in Chief since Kennedy; the Democratic solution to all of the nation’s problems.
The president shifts his attention to Felicity. “Scanlan?” he asks. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Oisin Scanlan, would you?”
“My father,” she answers, wishing desperately for a drink.
The president blinks a few times in succession. “You don’t say. What’s he up to these days?”
You know, Felicity wants to say. You know damn well. Just as the anger mounts to a heady point, sparrow and fairy flit across the ballroom, mother following at that close, protective range that crosses all societal boundaries. The president turns away from their group for a moment, smiling like any father should. With another nod at Annabelle, he turns back to Felicity. “He died,” is all she can manage.
“I’m sorry,” President Hutton says. “He was a good man, your father.”
“He was,” Felicity agrees, weaker than her voice has ever been. Beside her, Sebastian nods.
The four of them stand in restless silence for a few seconds. Sebastian coughs. McLane calls a server over to get a drink. The president looks intently at his watch.
Finally, Sebastian speaks. “So, Mr. President, what are your long-term goals for combating sex-trafficking here and abroad?” In any other situation, Felicity might laugh. She knows he wrote that question down a week ago, three hours after they’d received their invitation for tonight. Still, Hutton distracts from Sebastian’s antics.
This wasn’t the plan.
She should be smooth-talking the president. She should be gathering all the information she possibly can. She should be doing something.
Instead, Felicity watches as Sebastian and President Hutton exchange meaningless policy talk. All of their words run together in her ears—a thousand stump speeches and stock phrases melting into one fading opportunity. Doubt and disappointment swim through the air; she breathes them in and they nest in her gut and behind her eyes.
As President Hutton shifts focus from Sebastian to McLane, discussing projections and new security recommendations, a four foot ball of energy slams into Felicity’s side. She nearly crashes into Sebastian with the force of the impact, her heels teetering dangerously.
“James!” Hutton calls, the first time he’s raised his voice all night. The low, forceful timbre shakes Felicity’s bones, rattling her heart in her ribcage. “Apologize to our guest, please.”
James—or sparrow—murmurs a quick sorry, then stands very still, waiting. His dimpled chin, a miniature version of the president’s, tilts downward like a puppy being scolded. “It was an accident, Dad,” he says, voice quivering. “Lily and I were just playing and I wasn’t watching—!”
“It’s okay, son.” Hutton cuts him off, face softening from stern to sympathetic. “You need to be more careful.”
James nods, head bobbing up and down like a child’s toy. Felicity notices his pout recedes, but his eyes still look like saucers waiting to be shattered.
“Goodnight, James,” Hutton says, jerking his chin to the left, towards a door manned by another agent.
A sickening chill races up Felicity’s spine. Her father’s voice, saying goodnight to her the last time before he died, fills her ears. She sees it all through her four year old eyes, one memory she can’t seem to forget: A casket, again, being lowered. Eloise sobbing against her own mother’s frame. Shovels breaking into the hard soil with a sickening crunch, time after time.
The flight to Boston, just her mother beside her.
High school graduation, with an empty seat where her father should be.
Twenty-one Father’s Days without one.
But then, those two children, laughing and playing around the ballroom. Annabelle Hutton kissing her husband. The way the president always seemed to be looking for the three of them, no matter his conversational partners.
Just as a wave of nausea threatens to engulf her, Sebastian bumps her with his shoulder. “Did you have questions for President Hutton?” he asks, bringing the room back to life.
Yes. Why did you kill my father, you sonofabitch?
No. Your family is lovely, sir.
“I’m sorry, I have to go.” Felicity turns away, not able to look back, and walks as fast as her heels permit to the bathroom.
—
In the mirror, Felicity stares at her paler-than-usual reflection. Her hands shake reaching for the faucet; she draws them back, remembering the makeup all over her face. A splash of water is appealing, but the inevitable streaks of mascara and eyeliner down her face would be a dead giveaway that something’s up.
She settles for deep breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In—
The door flies open, striking the marble wall with a force that thunders through the small bathroom. Felicity falls into a practiced pose: knees bent, fists clenched, and feet shoulder-width apart.
“Easy! It’s just me,” Sebastian says, crossing the threshold easily.
Her mouth falls open. “This…you know this is the ladies’ room, right?”
“Is it?” Sebastian turns around a few times, tapping his chin. A grin flashes across his face. “Huh, nice.”
“What are you doing in here?”
“Checking on you,” he answers, without missing a beat. “You disappeared on me, Scanlan. I thought we decided a while ago that we wouldn’t abandon each other.”
“Sure,” Felicity starts, manufacturing a breeziness she hasn’t felt since before getting in the car, “but we’re not in the field.”
Sebastian takes a few steps closer to her, eyes full of concern. “Felicity. You’re not yourself tonight.”
“I’m not?” she asks, barely keeping her voice from shaking.
“No, you’re not. I don’t know why, but I do know you.” He grabs her hand, giving a reassuring squeeze. “I hope you know you can tell me anything.”
Anything. If she told him about Hutton and her father, why she really joined the CIA—
An image of Sebastian staring at her from across a table, disgust and betrayal in his eyes, rips its way through Felicity’s brain, tearing like a bullet into her spine and landing under her lungs. She sees him walking away. Worse, she sees him aim his pistol between her eyes.
“I know.”
“Good. By the way,” Sebastian adds, bowing to press a quick kiss to her knuckles, charming in a way she really can’t deal with tonight. “If I didn’t mention it earlier, you look great tonight.”
In any other situation, she’d shoot something back about him looking like James Bond. She’d toss her hair or wink or spend a minute luxuriating in the compliment. She's too dizzy with the thoughts and images racing in her head to let herself slip into that mode. “You should go,” Felicity says instead, pulling her hand back. “Before someone walks in here and calls the Secret Service.”
Sebastian nods. “Sure thing, partner. Hope I see you back out there.” He flashes her a thumbs up, then spins on his heels and exits back into the ballroom. The door swings shut slowly, trapping the muffled sound of Vivaldi’s “Stabat Mater” between the stalls and sink. It rings through her ears like a plea.
Felicity stares at her reflection again: there’s a flush to her skin, no quiver in her bottom lip. Even her eyes shine brighter. Sebastian could turn on her. Or he could help her. He’s fiercely loyal to the president, but he’s still her closest confidant. The person she trusts most in the whole world. Her partner.
Her best friend.
He could help her reconcile everything running through her mind: Hutton, his kids, her father. Together, they could get to the bottom of this.
The light in her eyes catches fire.
Felicity stands, feet shoulder-width apart and hands on her hips. A power pose, it’s the one thing she always does before slipping into an act. It’s time to turn it on, to flip the switch. It’s time to do what she came here to do, audience be damned.
Smoothing her hair and strengthening her resolve, Felicity walks back into the ballroom. The orchestra sits silent, packing their instruments and music away. Maybe she was gone longer than she thought. Still, she spots Sebastian and McLane around a cocktail table, drinks in hand. McLane waves her over.
“Where’d you run off to, Scanlan?”
Sebastian says, before she can, “Powdering her nose, like ladies do.”
“Oh, of course,” McLane says. “Well, nice to see you again.”
“Yes, sir,” Felicity says. She steals a glance at Sebastian—a silent thanks. “So. Where’s President Hutton? I finally remembered that question I wanted to ask him.”
“Oh,” McLane starts, “he went back to the residence right after you left. Said he had some work to get done.”
“Give her the thing,” Sebastian adds, then takes a sip of his drink.
Felicity’s heart drops. She wasted her opportunity hiding like a child. “The thing?” she asks, mind racing to salvage the evening.
McLane reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Hutton’s secretary handed this to me. Said to give it to you once you reappeared.”
She takes it from him and inspects her name on the cream stationery. Felicity J Scanlan. Her middle initial—a specific detail she suspects Hutton’s secretary didn’t add. He wrote and addressed this himself. Felicity pulls the envelope open, fingers clumsy with apprehension. What could he possibly have to say to her?
Five words etched into crisp white paper in the precise penmanship of a leader. And a liar.
Stop while you still can.
“What’s it say?” Sebastian asks.
“Oh,” Felicity starts, barely containing her rage. McLane doesn’t need to know just yet. Testing the waters with Sebastian is risk enough. “Just a note about my father.”
“That’s nice of him,” McLane says. “A real class act.”
A waitress walks by them and Felicity grabs her by the elbow. “Sorry, I’d just like—Scotch on the rocks, please.” The waitress nods, then heads towards the bar. “Yeah. A real class act.”
—
Once they’re situated in a car leading back to the hotel, Felicity turns to Sebastian. A nervous energy bookends the night. Were she not about to potentially ruin everything she’s ever worked for, Felicity might appreciate the parallel. God, what if it’s a mistake? What if she’s severely misjudged the depth of Sebastian’s loyalty to her over the president?
At least she knows he doesn’t have a gun on him.
It’s now or never, Felicity thinks, pushing her doubts and insecurities to the side. She has to believe Sebastian won’t turn on her—after all, he’s been looking for a reason why she’s been acting strange all night. “Can he hear us?” she asks, nodding towards the driver behind a closed sliding panel.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
The driver works for the White House, so, to cover her bases, Felicity leans over, almost like she’s going to kiss him, and whispers, “President Hutton killed my father. I want you to help me take him down without necessarily taking him out. If you’re in, kiss me. If you think I’m batshit, tell me I’m drunk and we can’t do this right now.”
She feels his whole body tense. It’s a lot to take in, she knows, so she tries not to assume the worst. When he hasn’t moved after ten seconds, her palms go clammy and her stomach turns over. Goddammit, this was a—
Sebastian’s hand, warm and only a little less shaky than her own, lands just under her chin and pulls her mouth to his. He kisses her slowly, deliberately, in a way that almost makes her forget the occasion. When he pulls away, breathing heavier than before, he nods.
Game on, Mr. President, Felicity thinks. Game on.
