Beauty in a Hurricane

A soft breeze cuts through the hot, humid air, and the garden bows and shakes, its bright, beautiful colors looking more radiant than ever against the rapidly darkening sky. These flowers thrive beneath the Sun's warm gaze, but they positively mesmerize when kissed by the soft breath of a waking storm. Never are they more beautiful than when faced with ultimate finality.

"I hope you're wearing rags, Alli."

"Sir?"

He shakes himself from his daze, straightening his posture and looking to the large, suited man to his left. Now is not the time to lose control.

"Is the car ready?"

"It's about to pull up now, Mr. President."

"Good. Let's go. It's been a day." Eighteen hours. Has it really only been that long since he'd received the call? Less than one day since he'd been informed of the shocking kidnapping of prominent Washington Times journalist Alexi Faucette.

Theodore hadn't even known he'd volunteered to go to Syria.

They're in the car and on their way to an excessively large home with hot showers and warm beds and endless food, and the knot in his stomach is getting bigger, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. He can't do this. He can't go home; he can't kiss the wife who loves him like a brother and eat the meal that has been specially prepared for him and go to bed in his California King like everything is alright.

"Stop." He drags his stare away from the quiet streets, looking to his driver and raising his voice to something more than a choked whisper.

"Magnus. Could you stop somewhere for me, please? There's a small tavern down to the right of the next intersection. The Marigold. I'd like to get a drink there."

Magnus glances at the guard in the passenger seat, hesitating only a second before turning on the indicator and nodding in consent.

"Of course, Sir. I'll inform the White House of our delayed arrival time."

"Thank you." He sighs quietly, leaning back into his seat, the tension in his body practically causing him to shake as he fights to appear relaxed. They pull to a stop, and he waits impatiently as two of his guards go in ahead of him, staring out of the window, eyes fixated upon the dim corner beneath the bar's signature golden stained glass window where, nearly fifteen years ago, he'd taken the greatest risk of his career. His fingers slip into his pocket, gripping tightly the silver pocket watch that had been the first anniversary present he'd ever received.

"They're ready for you, Mr. President." He's pushing open the car door before his security has the chance, itching to take the lead but knowing he must follow protocol. He is lead in through a back door and into the main establishment, noting immediately that a section appears to have been cleared out entirely. Leo directs him to a corner booth, out of view of all other patrons, and he slides in compliantly, wishing selfishly that he could be sitting at the end of the bar, in the same seat he'd occupied the night fate had changed his life forever.

"Mr. President, Sir, it's an honor. What can I get for you?" He smiles weakly up at the server, a young man of no more than nineteen years, and he does his best to seem warm and happy.

"Good evening. I'll have an Old-Fashioned, please. Angel's Envy, if available." Normally, he'd order a Manhattan or a Gimlet, but not tonight. Tonight he'll do whatever he can to be near Alexi. To smell the sweet scent that had intoxicated him so long ago. He needs it. He needs to reassure himself that Alli still exists. He is still here.

"Of course, Sir. Is that all? Our kitchen is still open if -"

"That will be all, young man. Thank you."

"Yes, Mr. Edwards. Right away."

He leaves quickly, and Theodore is left staring at an empty seat at the end of the bar, bargaining with whatever demons or angels that may be listening to rewind the clock - to take him back to... to what? To stop this before it all began? To stop Alexi from leaving? To have the time to convince him that he didn't have to?

"Why?"

"Here you are, Sir. One Old-Fashioned made with Angel's Envy. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"That will be all. Thank you." He manages that million-watt smile for which he's known, waiting until the server has gone to risk dropping it. He stares at the drink, remembering a time not so long ago when slender, brown fingers wrapped around the same drink, lifting it to full, smirking lips, dark eyes watching him over the top of the glass like a Lion watches its prey.

His own, darker fingers grip the cold glass tightly, and he brings it to his mouth, taking a long, satisfying drink before he drops it back to the table. He feels the warmth in his belly immediately. It's been a long time since he's had a drink like this. It's been a long time since he's had the luxury.

"You didn't need to go, Alli. You didn't need to leave for me to see you. I always see you." He can feel the heat in his eyes and he takes another draw from the glass, finishing the drink with a few deep gulps, letting the heavy glass hit the table with a solid thud.

"That's it." He puts a $50 bill on the table and stands up, giving his security a moment to take their positions before heading back out to the vehicle, suddenly anxious to get home. The remainder of the trip goes uninterrupted, and he chooses to skip dinner, going directly to his office, pausing only once along the way to offer his wife a short apology and a kiss on the cheek, ignoring the sympathetic look in her eyes.

He writes for half of the night, finally understanding how Alexi must feel when the urge to spill ink on paper drives him to burn the midnight oil. He sends e-mails to his Cabinet, calling for an early morning meeting with severe urgency.

"I'll get you back, Alli. If it costs me everything, I'll bring you back." He finishes printing the title neatly across the front of a manila folder, the same words he used to fill the subject line of each sent e-mail.

THE MARIGOLD PROJECT

There's a shift in the wind. The storm is about to begin.