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Midnight Confessions

Summary:

Second story in the series, following Never My Love. Final story is Through the General's Eyes. Tom Whitmore had a sexual encounter with Major Mitchell but now he's decided who he wants.

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 MIDNIGHT CONFESSIONS by Natasha Barry

Printed in Dark Fantasies #8 (2001), posted to Squidge-Makebelieve 2006, edited 2023. Based upon INDEPENDENCE DAY. Suggested Grey/Whitmore; Mitchell/Whitmore. Midnight Confessions is Part 2. Part 1 is Never My Love. Part 3 is Through the General's Eyes.

 

William M. Grey was folding the new shirts he'd purchased that afternoon. He'd left D.C. without anything except his uniform and what was in his wallet, and what was in his wallet was now useless. He and the shopkeeper had shrugged over the cost of the clothing and toiletry articles, but came to an agreement on value. At least the cash he had on hand sufficed. The plastic he carried was already slit with a pocketknife.

He had the feeling the shopkeeper wasn't the original owner of the store, mainly because of how he said he couldn't find anything though the shelves seemed all in order. It was possible the man had stumbled into town and found himself a shelter as well as a business. There were a lot of them over the preceding weeks.

For Grey what was of immediate concern wasn't his clothing or the lack of surplus military attire, but the fact his edge was showing again, and President Whitmore was beginning to notice it. Whitmore wasn't at the point yet of saying anything to him, but he'd given him a speaking glance today, a stare that meant Grey had better regain his equilibrium and fast.

So he would. But it was tough. Tough because every time he looked around there was some new expert bending the President's ear. Of course the chief executive had the toughest job of all and needed all the experienced people around him he could get, so Grey shouldn't have an issue with that.

He was aware he was temperamental, inclined to a short temper except in the company of the President.  After all, he was a general, military-trained and disciplined, and it was his honor to be chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Allowing one's displeasure to show was one thing, it was another to be caught with rampant emotionalism blanketing his features.

He kept reminding himself he had enough to do on his own, all the Sector heads reporting to him while he in turn reported to the President. And the reports were numerous, especially regarding the number and variety of complaints against the civilian population who were being picked up by the military because of various infractions. He'd seen police states in his life, and as a military officer in a republic fully expected to fight against them all his life, but now he was part of the machine. Perhaps that was the real cause of his grudging acknowledgment of the new people intersecting the President's life, Whitmore's needing to consult with more varied advisors during this time of peace than during the recent war.

As the President's chief, there was only so much he could take directly to Whitmore. 

Of the recent arrivals, with the Secretary of Defense dismissed by the President, Al Nimziki's place of civilian influence was filled by Connie Spano's husband, David Levinson. Grey didn't have anything against Levinson, the man who'd saved their butts, but it seemed odd how the lanky intellectual wizard had become buddies with the chief executive. Prior to their setting up HQ in Las Vegas the two men had been keeping each other at a severe distance due to some invisible marking in the floor. What turned the tide, besides the obvious victory over the alien invaders, Grey didn't know. And that's what bothered him about Levinson and how important the man's influence could be.

At least when Nimziki was after the President it was because the man was power-hungry, striving to turn the President into a TV image with himself as the real executive behind the scenes. Whitmore sensed it all along, of course, and he finally got rid of the vermin, the man's smooth patience finally hitting the proverbial fork in the road. Grey suspected the former Defense Secretary still didn't know what hit him.

Not that the man was all bad. He'd been physically supportive of the President, in spite of the fact if Whitmore died while war was in progress that would have made the Defense Secretary chief executive for the duration. That executive privilege Nimziki wouldn't have voluntarily conceded at any time. However, how long there would have been any Americans left to command was debatable, especially since Nimziki was rabidly invested in launching nuclear missiles over the United States. 

Grey was in favor of the nuclear launch, and he knew that surprised the President. That and the President's maintained security were the only two areas Grey and Nimziki ever reached an agreement on. When eventually the President decided on a nuclear strike it took only one example to determine the weapon's ineffectiveness against their technologically monstrous enemy. Correctly, the President called an abort, halting further launches, while Nimziki argued the mission's continuance. Grey supported the President, though he recognized within himself – along with every officer in the war room – a reluctance to surrender the fight. It was asking too much to concede they were outmatched in every sense.

Having departed AREA 51 after the alien fall, they'd been making do with one of the fancy hotels on the Vegas strip, an Army contingent and civilian top brass all cohabiting while the formerly vacant Las Vegas Blvd. began teaming with traffic again. It was cars and pedestrians, bedraggled all, backpacks and other equipment, all relieved to be making their way to a place providing shelter. The rats were moving into the hotels as if they were apartments, the owners long departed or being fortunate in laying claim to ranches outside town. 

The President was occupying the penthouse of this hotel, the aptly dubbed Presidential Suite, though it was doubtful any president had occupied the room. The elevation provided the former pilot a wonderful view of the other hotels, or so he said. Grey had the impression the man was wanting to hit the Las Vegas airstrip, probably his recent experience at the controls having increased his appetite for freewheeling in the air. 

When the President requested a status on their planes and fuel Grey grudgingly provided it. Luckily, so far there were insufficient supplies for air shows, which meant the chief executive remained grounded.

Grey's personal style wasn't suited to Vegas decor, and he took to leaving the hotel-casinos as often as possible, wondering if he'd eventually appropriate a trailer as his command center, but that would take him far from the President. At this point, both the airbase and the commercial airport seemed too far. But that had him leaving the building, undertaking personal reconnoitering on the status of the inhabitants as the city quickly filled up.

Upon leaving the building, he'd seen Nimziki outside on more than one occasion. The former Secretary of Defense was not allowed access into the residence-headquarters by order of the President relayed through the Secret Service to AREA 51 personnel. It was Air Force personnel from the base who'd assumed the duties the Marines held in D.C. and the White House. 

The other day Grey saw the former Defense Secretary waylaying Major Mitchell as the young officer was climbing into a conveyance. He didn't know how long the conversation between the men lasted, but this was an incident he reported to the President.

"I don't know what your orders have been, sir, to Major Mitchell."

The President's response was casual yet cautious. "If he doesn't bring it up, I'll ask him about it."

Mitchell, the Air Force Major in charge of the West Sector, was in the presidential office every day, but Grey determined it was usually when someone else was in attendance. There were few private meetings between the man and the President Grey knew of, and this had him puzzled as well. He knew he hadn't mistaken the intimacy that occurred between Tom Whitmore and the handsome Major that night in AREA 51. It was one reason he'd been in a hurry to get the President out of there.

"All the rats in one playpen," Grey snorted to his image in the mirror.

Just last night during their traditional late night conference the President was declaring his intention of touring various countries as soon as possible. 

"You're worried about the Middle East?" With interim governments being set up everywhere, diplomacy, agreements and intervention were being required of the United States. Or, as Whitmore put it, a referee, and one with a mind to protecting the United States' own interests.

David Levinson had been going around for days saying, "I want one big happy planet" while being ignored.

Seeing the main bedroom door ajar, Grey idly noted how the President was besieged with designer threads, most probably by the surviving movers and shakers of Las Vegas – or those types who hoped to remain as powerful. Then again, Thomas Whitmore was the hero of humanity, he and his followers having saved the Earth. That was worthy of garlands to the gods.

He could envy Whitmore. Since the Commander-in-Chief didn't wear military garb, Whitmore would have an easier time of it finding suitable replacement attire. But right then Whitmore was in T-shirt and jeans, the casualness flattering his musculature more than any designer's signature line of clothing. The loose demeanor always made him look younger than a man creeping into middle years. 

"It's still the hotspot," Whitmore concurred about the Middle East, gesturing he was going to pour shots for the two of them. 

The President wasn't much of a drinker, and neither was Will Grey, but they both knew how to pull it off when they had to. With the frequent all-day, all-night work sessions for Whitmore and his military coordinator they occasionally needed that loosening up a good dose of alcohol provided. 

"According to the reports the Arabs and Israelis are still glaring at each other." Whitmore added, smirking, "While carefully taking aim at each other."

"What about the Asia region?" When it was just the two of them, one-on-one, they skipped the titles.

"Thank God Japan's proven dominant. I'm not much for that cold war nonsense, but I can breathe easier with less of China's Red Menace in the way. Besides, their example of what constitutes human rights makes me sick." 

Those weren't words that could be put in any formal declaration. Though occasionally Whitmore managed a banal phrase accompanied by a sneer. Reporters had learned to read his expressions.

A careful up-sweep of the lips indicated the General's pleasure, both at the opinion, and his superior's unguarded way of expressing it. "India's back to Third World status. You can forget nuclear arms. So is Egypt. When the ship blasted Cairo they made a slight turn to the west and took out Alexandria." He'd been there once, in Egypt, amazed at the engineering brilliance exhibited by the ancient occupants of that land.

As the younger man had almost fallen into a chair, Grey reckoned someone should tell the little girl not to wake up her daddy, not when the man got so little sleep anyway. Millions of people remained living and breathing on this planet, and this man right here was their best and brightest hope for prosperity.

"You know a lot of people look around them now and don't see the possibilities. There's so much work to be done, and they only remember the past, so they wish they were dead."

"Most people aren't like that, Tom. If they are, it fades quickly."

"I know I lost everyone except my daughter. I can feel the loneliness, know how people who've lost everything must feel, especially if they don't have someone who needs them, someone to be strong for."

"You've got the world, not just Patricia," Grey reminded him. But he didn't have anyone himself, excepting this man. 

If he were honest he'd admit the recent conflagration had left him a winner.

"And I've got you and Connie, and even David now, and that's a surprise, especially his father. Julius follows me around, I think he's nearly adopted me." 

It wasn't quite true, but near enough. The man was visiting David and Connie all the time, and naturally that took in quite a bit of the President's territory.

"He watches out for that son of his real well."

It had been a deliberate reference to the incident on Air Force One when the elder Levinson erupted upon his son being castigated for his interference in a high level conference between the President and his military advisors. It was over the launching of nuclear weapons against the enemy, which Whitmore was opposed to, but Nimziki and General Grey – along with the other Joint Chiefs – approved. Whitmore was seemingly interested in Levinson's views, perhaps because they coincided with his own, but the other men were conscious of the newcomer's lack of respect. Mostly, though, Grey was fearful a hotheaded David Levinson was about to launch himself upon the President. Later, Connie Spano informed him it wouldn't have been the first time. The knockdown between the two men occurred while Whitmore was a U.S. Senator, therefore prior to him having his own Secret Service detail breathing down his neck. The President was granted privacy on Air Force One, though, and for a moment Will Grey was thinking the policy was in need of revision.

"His son is the technician, but I think Julius is the real brains of the outfit."

Grey snorted. "That's why you keep him around."

"Connie supplies the beauty and the sensitivity; her astute observations. It's a smoothly oiled machine, that unit." 

Whitmore was the one to give his Communications Director away at her recent taking of the vows with Levinson. The new husband had made the snide comment about its being appropriate and the elder Levinson hushed him immediately. Grey wouldn't have been there at all except he'd been grabbed as a witness. 

"Somehow I feel like an in-law," Whitmore said.

In Will Grey's opinion, Tom Whitmore was bearing up rather well under the recent tragedy of losing his wife, but there was so much for the man to concentrate on he really didn't have the choice not to.

Having organized the storage of his supplies, and having gone over in his mind all the nuances connected with his meeting with the President, William Grey adjourned to the bathroom. 

On a slow day it took only five minutes for his head to hit the pillow. Three minutes later, as he closed his eyes his vision was of Thomas Whitmore.

The next day, President Whitmore was crossing the corridor with David Levinson in tow and two Secret Service agents taking the rear, when David's father turned the corner and nearly fell into them. It was no surprise. Julius Levinson was granted nearly as free access within the building as his son, mainly because it was his son he was always looking for.

Just as Julius Levinson was hurrying his greetings, Whitmore heard "Mr. President" in Grey's gruff tones and the General was at his side.

"If you'll all accompany me." He was due to address the nation again, something he'd been doing on a daily basis since the alien invasion was brought down. 

It was fortunate they were able to reclaim the satellites the aliens hadn't destroyed. The liberated ones were the ones the mothership commandeered in order to communicate with its vessels stationed throughout the world.

Communications Director Constance Spano arrived at a fast pace to hand a sheet of paper to the President. He glanced through it, finally nodding. She put a hand to her forehead to wipe it as if in relief. Her husband caught the gesture and laughed.

They turned the corner and entered the broadcast center, what used to be a room reserved for small convention gatherings. Everyone fell back as the President continued, flanked by Secret Service agents, these two recruits to fill the vacancies. 

"What's the speech?" asked Julius, who liked the fact he got a bird's-eye view of the proceedings. It was better than trying to tune a TV, though he realized he got close-ups off the TV he didn't get in real life.

Connie sighed. "Civil unrest."

"So?"

It was General Grey who responded. "In the suburban areas there's been increased instances of raids on households, battles over goods and shelter. Many people are being forced to defend their property and even themselves. We haven't the manpower to be on everyone's doorstep."

David observed as makeup was sponged onto the President's face. "Why such `civil unrest'?" 

His wife shrugged. "Panic," she replied as if that sufficed as an explanation.

"That can't be all."

"General criminal tendencies," she tried, her gaze on the man stepping to the podium. "People see we've survived, but they're acting out their frustrations."

Julius had his own judgment. "The human character isn't altogether a healthy one." 

"They're not all like that," Grey defended the populace. "It's a small minority." But it was true part of the problem was not with the people looking to obtain something like food or other essentials, but the people who survived intact and didn't want to share the largess. "The President is addressing the nation," he alerted everyone in the immediate vicinity. 

Everyone else was already poised.

Necessary silence fell so the speech would not be distracted by mutterings picked up by a microphone.

When the light went out Connie breathed a sigh of relief. "I haven't been a full-time speech writer in a long time."

"You're doing good," said her husband. "What's tomorrow's topic?"

She playfully punched him in the arm as the President joined them. "I think this one's sad enough." He'd heard.

"So it's lunchtime already," interrupted Julius. "Let's eat."

Connie asked, "Mr. President?"

Her husband jumped in, "You're welcome to join us or stop us." He was thinking of all the swiftly set meetings and crises, one after the other. It was amazing there was an hour to spare.

"No, you go ahead. Connie, when you get back, though, I think we need to revamp our style." He alerted her, "I'm thinking interview." A journalist conducting an interview of the President would be a good way of demonstrating to the people this government hadn't gone fascist or that there had been any coup d'etat. Leading a nation through martial law was entirely a different set of circumstances.

"I want to grab something so I can review it over lunch," Connie told her husband. "How about that sandwich place up the block? We can figure out who's running it now. Meet you outside."

"No wonder you two get along," David told the President.

"Funny, I was just about to say the same to you."

"You do eat lunch?" Julius was attacking.

"Yes, Dad," the President of the United States archly replied, "I do. When it's convenient." As the elderly man frowned he said, "It's convenient today. But it'll be in my office."

He was accustomed to using the word 'office' and he had taken over the executive suite of offices for his team. Ironically it proved a much smoother setup than the one he'd had in the White House, which was cramped like a mouse trap but still a maze. Now the staff had easier access to each other.

"General Grey." He hadn't forgotten his old friend was beside him again. "You're welcome to join me." He'd find out what the General thought required his immediate attention. At least it wasn't an emergency. They wouldn't be standing here right now if it were. 

"Thank you, Mr. President. There are a few things we can go over."

"I figured that was the case. But beware, because the Munchkin is frequently underfoot. If we stay in the offices we may avoid her, but if we go up to my suite you can bet it's kamikaze time."

"You two, you're in each other's pockets," was Julius' observation.

"Come on, Dad, it's time to go outside."

"Nah, let's stay. It's hot out there."

"You're the one wanted a sandwich."

"I'm the one wanted lunch. Connie's the one wanted a sandwich."

"The President has many responsibilities, and I'm one of his chief instruments for carrying out those responsibilities," was the General's dignified response.

"Oh, I'm burned."

General Grey was thinking if only this man weren't a civilian. They were roughly the same age, but Julius Levinson was like no one he'd ever met before.

"I'm not saying you don't do a good job." The old man ignored his son's tugging on his arm while David was looking sheepishly at the President. "You do a wonderful job, excellent how you take care of this man here. He deserves the best, and that's what he has."

"Thanks, Dad," said David, thinking they'd all been saved.

"This country deserves the best. To this day I cannot believe I am standing side-by-side with the President, a war hero yet. Such an honor."

A frown replaced the scowl on the General's face.

The President was fleetingly reminded of his pre-politics days in the Gulf War. His initial fame came from being one of the Army Airborne Hellcats through Fort Bragg in North Carolina to be sent overseas. Then his return from the Gulf to face a bombardment of publicity that eventually yanked him into the U. S. Senate waiting room until stepping across that White House threshold. He never knew how ambitious he was until he agreed to run for office.

David tried again. "Connie's going to think a UFO came along and swept us away."

"She should be downstairs by now," added the General, turning to exchange a look of exasperation with the chief executive.

"Ready, sir?"

But there was no response as Grey saw the West Sector commander, Major Mitchell, approaching. The young man already had the President's attention.

"Mr. President," with a salute, "effective broadcast as always, sir."

"Were you looking for me or the General?" was the President's response. Mitchell should be going through Grey, leaving it to Grey to take whatever action necessary, up to and including whether the President should be consulted.

"You, sir," the Major was undaunted. "It's about transferring the unit, sir."

General Grey was trying to look nonchalant but knew he was failing miserably. "Whatever it is, why don't we set up a meeting for this afternoon. 1700 hours to be precise. In my office."

His office was on one side of the President, Connie then David down the other side. Currently the Air Force officer was on his end, but Grey knew the President was debating whether to have the West Sector headquartered out of Reno or a state further north. Las Vegas was too far from being central in the western territory.

The President declared, "No final decision yet, Major. A suitable headquarters is yet to be determined. But you can meet with General Grey and express all the concerns you have. I'm aware this is a hardship on you and your family, as well as for the other men." 

"You said something about lunch, Mr. President?" was the General's reminder.

"Why don't you deal with the Major's problem first and we can hold off on lunch. I can always find something to do." He could take the necessary time to visit with his daughter, for instance. "I'll be in my quarters."

"Major." The General indicated for the young officer to accompany him.

Once they set off, Whitmore was about to turn on his heels with a farewell when "Excuse me, Mr. President, but unless I miss my guess the General's in love with you" got his attention.

"Dad!"

"I know it when I see it. And I've been seeing it for weeks now. It's hovering. He's always hovering. There's no other explanation for all this hovering."

"Julius," the President had a great deal of practice exercising immense patience. "General Grey is very conscientious and under the circumstances he and I are in nearly constant communication. He is the number two man in this government."

"See, Dad, General Grey is conscientious. He has more responsibilities than anyone, except the President."

"I know hovering when I see it," went the argument. "Hovering here and there, on the plane and everywhere. It's like that McCartney song. And believe me, Mr. President, you could do worse. He's a handsome man." He paused, then conceded, "Maybe he needs to loosen up a little."

"Dad!"

"A man my age, he's still vital. You're a handsome man, too, Tom, and of course you're the president. Anyone would be proud to be with you. You know David thought you were having an affair with Connie – that's why he hit you." To his son, "Have you apologized yet to the President?"

"For hitting him or for this conversation?"

"Okay, okay, if he's not in love he's awfully fond of you." Julius Levinson threw up his hands. "But I know love when I see it." He stalked off.

His son prepared to follow.

"Your father's a very interesting person."

David tried a bright smile. "He's what kept me in New York." He had another idea. "Maybe Julius Levinson has a crush on you." Then he was down the corridor and trying to catch up with his father.

David managed to contain himself all the way to the restaurant until he broke down and said, "You really think General Grey's in love with the President? Connie?" he invited her into this. 

She wondered if she were looking as stunned as she felt. "You guys," she said, shaking her head.

That was no answer. "Well?" he demanded.

Forty minutes later Whitmore received the message the General would meet him at his office. Thinking Grey missed a meal, Whitmore got on the phone and ordered food to be sent.

"So how did it go?" the Commander-in-Chief addressed his second-in-command once they were settled in.

"I got the impression you hadn't discussed the possibility with Mitchell directly."

"Call me chicken, but I wanted to wait until we had the location secured."

"He assumed his personal relationship with you afforded him increased and permanent proximity."

"Like you?" At the reaction the remark provoked, Whitmore swiftly explained, "I didn't mean that as an insult. The Major has a family to take care of; that includes a wife. But if we're going to be talking about it, the Major gave me a massage. But it was enough to breach my defenses. Lame, isn't it?"

"Not under the circumstances."

He remembered when it occurred, the President widowed less than a day, a final desperate – against all odds – battle against the enemy with the President leading the strike. It was a hard-fought victory with years of hardship to come. A man's defenses would crumble under the weight of it.

Whitmore didn't take the out. "Unfair to you," he insisted, firm in that.

This wasn't a conversation they'd ever had. Grey faltered. "You could be my son, you know." At sixty, it was easy to imagine.

"But I'm not."

There was no immediate answer so, "Why was Al Nimziki talking to Mitchell?" He felt he had the right to ask, now.

"Oh, Nimziki was trying to get someone to speak to me on his behalf. He knew he'd get nowhere with you or Connie as you both hate him. And I think he remembered Air Force One and how the Levinsons were a wash, too. The man certainly knew how to make friends," was the dig. "Connie asked me once why I had him in my Cabinet and I told her it was because he knew where all the bodies were buried. The man was worse than Hoover, but it was amazing what he had at his fingertips. That's why three presidents before me had him in one capacity or another. And I was green to Washington, to politics. The man was impressive and I figured I needed all the help I could get. But the appointment was a mistake. I needed him, but at a greater distance."

All of this the General surmised.

Whitmore asked, "Did Mitchell make his case?"

"Mitchell reported the conversation without my prompting."

So the man remained loyal and was not being shuttled elsewhere for any reason except geography.

Grey summed the findings so far. "With San Francisco, Sacramento, Los Angeles and San Diego taken out," and the spacecraft hit everything in-between, "I think the original location of Reno or Wyoming for the Western HQ."

"Get more specific data, on region, complement, available airstrip, everything. I think Wyoming is the best location overall, especially with the nukes, but we can fall back on Reno or look into Montana if Wyoming doesn't cede a good geo."

In Reno they had the hotel-casinos for offices and nearby abandoned residences for occupation as well as an airport for maneuverability. But it was too out-of-the-way for an effective military base, and the commander of the base should be where his troops were. Mitchell would be with his men wherever they were situated.

"I'm certain the Major will prefer Reno."

"It would be preferable to uprooting men and families. But look into Wyoming just the same. We don't know how long this will last."

"Yes, sir."

Yet Hoover Dam remained an issue as it was meant to control the Colorado River.

A rap came on the door and the food brought in on a cart. As the President looked at it he wondered what he'd be eating if he weren't the chief executive.

Once he and the General were alone again, "So many people have lost everything and everyone they had." He allowed himself a moment to feel the wonder of it.

Of course Grey knew his selfish focus to be present in this room. So as the President raised his head, Grey hooked an arm around the younger man's neck. Swiftly, he reined him in, as the parted lips closed on his. It was a smooth kiss, uncomplicated but deep. Grey put years of experience behind it, figuring that's what sixty years was good for. 

Coming up for air, "General, are you trying to seduce me?"

The responding smile was unguarded. "Let's say I'm keeping the lines of communication open. This is the first time you've let me know it's allowed." 

After a short hesitation, Whitmore backed up a pace. "I learned something about myself when I was with Mitchell. That it is possible to have intimacy with a man, the type of intimacy I shared with my wife. But I couldn't be that open with someone like him. It takes time and effort to build that bridge, because it's built by trust and mutual experience." 

Instead of taking the chair, Whitmore leaned against the desk, surveying the man who stood opposite.

The food was ignored as Grey probed, "But you can build that bridge with me?"

"The trust is there, so it's a possibility." Whitmore took a fortifying breath. "Combat is easier than being President, but being President is easier than doing what I'm doing right now."

"I am older. A lot older. Maybe it is better for you with Mitchell," though it killed him to say it, "if you're going to be with a man at all."

He wondered how much Tom considered the implications, what he was prepared to take on. It was a different life he was asking for, an altered way of expressing himself. 

Whitmore scoffed, "As for the age difference, perhaps you won't be demanding too much of my time and energy, then. I don't have it to spare." Seriously, "Will, any personal relationship I have right now is a luxury I can't afford, and the other person will always be third place in my life, because I have to run this country and look after my daughter. Better than anyone you understand that. I'm not such a prize catch." 

The man had it so wrong, but Grey knew he believed it. "Anyone would be proud to stand by your side."

"And you always stand by mine, don't you? As I've thought about this, and Mitchell, I kept remembering how I turn my head, expecting to see you there. Even when I conducted that air strike, I worried about you, how you'd feel if I didn't make it back. But I had to push it to the back of my mind, couldn't let it affect how I did the job I knew was up to me to do. It's the country first and my daughter, but I knew what your pain would be, the same as I felt for Marilyn. At least we'd said good-bye."

He'd have had silence, a dead microphone, and a nightmare going on behind his eyes. For a moment, the General closed his eyes to block out the sight of this man's face. 

Seeing he'd gone too far, Whitmore glanced over the tray of food atop the conference table. "It looks good," he commented though he wasn't really sure what all the delicacies were.  He'd always been a plain eater, not one for guessing games.

Grey joined him at the table. "This is too new." He wasn't talking about the food.

"I have a feeling you're not that experienced yourself," was the wry observation.

Gay in the military? Not a done thing, even now that remained an issue.

It was years since he'd had anyone in his bed, especially as his years in service elevated and so did his rank. "It's been awhile," Grey conceded, hoping the kiss was all Tom hoped for, not wanting to be found a disappointment.

They were absently loading small plates with cheese and cold cuts as the safest, most familiar options.

"They feed me like I'm at a cocktail party," the President languidly complained, grabbing a can of soda.

This wasn't anything like the normal down-home cooking he'd had at the White House. He recalled fondly his former residence and how he once carried Marilyn across the threshold. 

Thinking of Marilyn had him saying, "The thing that worries me is how other people won't understand."

"No one has to know," Grey told him. Having voiced his objections, he was committed.

"The Secret Service will." If not in the room, they were on the other side of every door. "They talk among themselves – they have to – but to no one else. I'm not worried about being compromised by them. But I can't afford speculation in general." He wouldn't mention Julius Levinson, not right now. "The issue of any romance for me would sidetrack the people from what I need them to focus on. Gossip or scandal would effectively sabotage my efforts at rebuilding the nation."

"No one has to know," the General reiterated.

Whitmore considered the man's confidence, but there was a time he wore a uniform and any general outranked him. "Playing it safe wouldn't have won us the war."

The General pointed out, "I don't recall us having options."

"You didn't think we'd win."

Grey countered, "You thought it was a long shot," knowing this man well.

"It was our only shot. Besides," Whitmore admitted, recalling the moment, "it felt right."

Grey nodded. "That's why you went for it. That's why you flew lead. You knew you'd be the one to prove Levinson's scheme worked."

"Perhaps it was intuition." Whitmore shrugged, staring down at the plate of food atop his desk. "I wanted Marilyn out of L. A. but I stayed in D. C."

He was the one who was saved. Marilyn didn't make it out in time. At least they'd had a private moment together while she lay dying. They'd said their good-byes.

"And that's how Levinson got to you."

"I didn't think you believed in that stuff."

"I believe in what works." And whatever keeps you alive, he could have added.

"If it wasn't for David's father we might not have made it to AREA 51 in time."

And Julius knew the General was in love with him. Whitmore would swear even Connie hadn't guessed that.

"And now your instincts are telling you to be with me?" As the President remained silent, "It's what I've wanted."

How much, he was too ashamed to say. He would never have made this declaration if Marilyn Whitmore were alive. She'd been a hell of a lady. 

The widower misread the faltering gaze. "Embarrassing you isn't my intention."

"Then what is your immediate intention – sir?" Grey realized it had been a while since he'd addressed his commanding officer appropriately.

Whitmore appreciated being teased; Marilyn was expert at it. He'd fought aliens and was leading a nation. He wasn't the type to bury his head beneath sand.

"Why don't we do something about those fantasies of yours." He'd like to live dreams for a change, instead of nightmares.

Prepared for anything, the General remained aghast. "Here and now?"

Came a wistful smile in response. "Are you shy? No, tonight: my place. You don't have to bring wine. I am imminently seducible."

They were already into midnight consultations. There were few people around at that hour to speculate on the relative urgency of these meetings. 

"Tonight, no wine," agreed the General to the terms, knowing no matter how relaxed the President sounded, they'd have to take it slow. Tom Whitmore was inexperienced while Will Grey was nearly that, as it had been so long. 

"And don't call me Sir or Mr. President," was the final instruction from the Commander-in-Chief before lifting a forkful of food to his mouth. "At least not tonight."

 

THE END