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The ring had been his father's. Just something he'd found during the cleaning out of the house after James Brighton Senior had passed away, sitting in a masculine mahogany jewelry box on the entirely too feminine dresser that had been his mother's.
It had been a constant in the younger's life, something he could remember as far back as his memory went. He put it on the night of his first primary, which he won, and though he knew it couldn't really be a good luck charm, he decided to wear it for the rest of the campaign anyway.
Of course that had brought a whole host of problems with it, as people began following him around, hoping to glimpse the "wife" he must have had. No matter which reporter he told, "It's my father's ring, not mine," they never listened. One had even replied, "But, sir, that's your wedding finger," as though it explained everything. He'd had to hold back from saying, "And it so easily could be my middle finger, too."
After that incident, an aide at his headquarters volunteered to pose as his wife which he rejected before the rest of his staff could do the same. If only because he knew eventually he and the stand-in wife would have to "divorce" and inevitably the truth would come out.
Then the day came where a reporter flipped over the fence at the edge of his property, snapped a couple of pictures of him sleeping alone, publishing them with the headline, PRESIDENTIAL HOPEFUL IN HOT WATER WITH WIFE?, and an imaginative article about why the American public had yet to meet Mrs. Brighton.
"Sir, I know you don't want to deal with this issue because you feel it's an invasion of privacy and willful ignorance of what you've told them, but they're only going to get worse. I think it's time we call the FBI," William, one of the older, more educated volunteers, told him during lunch one afternoon.
"And what do you believe they'll do?" He'd asked, taking a bite of the turkey and cheese sandwich the catering service had made that afternoon. Damn but they always put too much mayo and not enough mustard.
"I don't know exactly, sir, but they need to do a sweep of your property."
The look he'd tossed across the table at that had been amused, to say the least, and he'd told them no. It wasn't necessary, because if the worst he had to deal with during the campaign were remarks about an invisible wife and his policy on taxes, then he was really ahead of the game.
Still, by nightfall, two agents were criss-crossing the property while he cursed under his breath and tried to smile for the paparazzi that were doing a terrible time trying to discretely photograph him. One of the agents tripped over a patch of herbs in the garden, pulling chives and parsley from the dirt, and he groaned a little.
"I said scan the yard, Davison, not tear up the garden," the senior agent called out. "Watch your feet."
"Yes, sir," the younger man answered.
James turned to look at the man who had appeared in the growing darkness, noting the eyes that looked back at him. It'd been a long time since he'd seen a pair so light blue they were almost gray. It'd also been a long time since he'd seen anyone who made him want to invite them in for breakfast.
"Agent Sadusky, I take it," he said, more question that statement.
"Yes, sir. I apologize for anything they've destroyed." Sadusky smiled a little and added, "I have the forms for reimbursement in the car."
"Not needed. I don't think the American taxpayers want to hand over any money to me for some sacrificed spices," he laughed. "You know, you really don't need to do this. I'm sure everything is fine and I don't want to waste your time."
"With all due respect, sir, your opponent has already had death threats against him and we did find several devices at his office so it's best for us to continue the sweep," he answered without pause. "There are some of us who would actually like the chance to see you as president."
For a moment, James wondered if that was supposed to be a come on. It was most likely wishful thinking, but one could hope. By the same token, he knew he risked his entire campaign if he outted himself to the wrong person, so he let it go and spent the rest of the evening carefully skirting the edge of propriety.
He was only human after all.
And it turned out that he was still human several weeks later at a meeting in DC where Sadusky happened to be on the security staff for the day. His suit was immaculate, his sunglasses were snug in a pocket, and he gave a nod to Brighton as soon as he saw the man.
"Mr. President," Sadusky - Peter – greeted during the intermission.
"Agent Sadusky," he responded in kind. "I didn't know that you were going to be in attendance tonight."
"By chance would have it, sir, Agents Davison and Rollins have both come down with a case of the reassignments, so I was asked to come in their place." The explanation was delivered with a touch of sarcasm and a touch of mirth as well. "How are you, sir?"
James smiled warmly, relaxing a bit in the presence of his new friend. "I'm quite well, thank you. My staff have admitted that there have been a few death threats, but apparently one of the attorneys on the payroll intercepted them."
"I'm glad to hear the playing field between yourself and your opponent is level," he joked as the call was made announcing the continuation of the day's business. "See you 'round, sir."
"Looking forward to it, Agent," James told him, turning away and heading toward the door that would lead him back to his work.
In the aftermath, he'd wondered if it had been a poor choice of words but is it still a bad choice if the sentiment behind them was real? It was a thought that returned to him several times over the last leg of his campaign, each time accompanied by the curiosity of if they'd even cross paths again. An FBI Special Agent did not, generally, have a lot of direct interaction with the President of the United States.
As it turned out, fate had decided they would meet again.
The night after the election had been called, he, upon being named as the next occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, held a small celebration at his home. It was bittersweet for him as his friends held a toast for the success of a Brighton-led country and he began counting down the last days he would spend in the house he had loved for the next four to eight years.
It was some time after the last guest had left that he started cleaning up, only to be interrupted by a hard, insistent knocking on the front door. He ignored it at first, not wanting to see if any of his family had decided to take an interest in his life, yet the bang on the door continued until he had to see who was so intent on seeing him at a quarter to midnight.
After dropping the garbage bag beside the dining table, he slipped down the hallway to the front door. He didn't even look as he pulled it open, knowing that the sedan across the street with the tinted windows were the secret service agents that would be following him until the end of his term.
Sadusky had smiled at him, knowingly, and said, "You're going to have to learn to be more careful, Mr. President. What if I had taken out your protective detail?"
"Well, then I'd be in trouble, wouldn't I? Perhaps you'd like to come in and teach me the finer points of self-preservation?" He grinned. Later he'd probably kick himself for the blatant pass, but after consuming three glasses of wine, his inhibitions were much lower than normal and he was in too good a mood.
"Perhaps I should. And maybe check your mail for any new death threats," Sadusky replied.
"True. Never know when I'll get a threat next."
He swept his arm out, welcoming his friend inside the house and firmly shut the door behind them. The click of the lock and the snap of the light had been like flipping a switch in himself and before he'd realized it, James had pinned Peter up against the wall, hands on either side of the man's head. Kissing him without a hint of reluctance, James felt gentle pressure fall to his hips and he pulled back just enough to look the other in the eye.
"I knew it," Peter murmured and leaned forward enough to steal another kiss. His fingers twisted into the beltloops on his jeans and tugged him forward, propelling James against him, then lifting one hand to the side of Brighton's face.
They kissed for several minutes, not paying any heed to their surroundings until the pendulum clock on the living room mantle chimed out the hour. Breaking apart, they'd both blushed the tiniest bit, though they'd never admit it, and James said, "I need to finish cleaning up in there. Do you want to stick around?"
"Without a doubt, Mr. President."
"Considering what we just did and what I hope we're going to do, I think it's entirely appropriate for you to call me James."
Peter only smirked. "Well, sir, I think we'll have to discuss that," he declared, reaching out to snatch a plate of half-eaten cake from the table. Without thinking, he swiped some of the frosting from the dessert and stuffed the finger into his mouth.
It took everything in James to not leap across the table and find out what the buttercream icing would taste like direct from (his lover's?) Peter's mouth. Apparently, he thought at that realization, I am sixteen again and no one wants to tell me.
Together they got the table cleaned, the dishwasher going, and were sitting in the living room within half an hour. An awkward few moments filled the air between them, broken when Peter muttered, "Okay, that's it," and yanked James' lips to his. One hand slid down the front of his body, gentle as it brushed over his shirt-clad nipples, his belly button, the buckle on his pants.
"Expecting me to put out on the first date?" He smirked when that exploring hand reached the zipper on his jeans.
"You want to be wined and dined, sir?" Peter asked, one finger running gently up and down the metal teeth teasingly. He didn't wait for an answer, however, and pulled down the zip, fingertips stroking at warm, hard flesh. Never even looking down, Sadusky undid the button and pushed his hand through the gap in the blue boxers James had chosen at random that morning.
If James Brighton, President-Elect of the United States, squeaked, that had nothing to do with the sensations skittering up and down his spine.
Lips pressed against lips, against skin, against anything they could reach until James noted he was laying on his back with Peter sitting between his thighs, shirt rucked up enough to show his less-than-perfect stomach. The fly of his pants was opened in a wide vee and the waistband of his boxers pulled down under his balls.
He spared a brief thought for how wanton he must look, particularly to a man he'd spent a grand total of seven hours with during the prior year. Then it was gone, purged from his mind as quickly as it had come, his tongue running across his lips to taste the sweetness left behind.
As Peter bent forward to resume kissing him, James said, "You know, I have an absolutely fantastic bed upstairs."
"Good." He smiled, nipping at the spot just beneath Brighton's ear that made his entire body go taut with pleasure. "That's very good." But he made no move to let the man up, nor to stop what he was doing, slowly maneuvering down the body before him to the cock that angled toward his mouth.
Then James' brain went on the fritz, his heart beating in his mouth and his hands clutching at cushions. Good lord, but that felt amazing and as they traded positions, he hoped Peter wasn't there for a one night stand, for the ability to say he'd slept with a President. Because seriously, there was no way he was ever going to let the man go after this.
When the alarm went off on the night table, they had only been asleep a few hours. Daylight was sparkling over their faces, making James groan and pull the pillow over his head.
"Time to go to work, Mr. President," Peter said, never looking away from the ceiling above him as he spoke, before licking his lips and finally turning to face him. Hesitation was clear in his features, perhaps a smidgen of insecurity beneath it though it was hard to tell, and he asked, "Would you like to meet for lunch?"
"Like you wouldn't believe. You, Peter Sadusky, owe me wining and dining," he grinned and brushed a hand over one of the agent's cheeks. "Bring something by my office. We'll eat in the conference room."
The tension in his body eased visibly, and he responded, "Sounds like a plan," as he peered at the window so harshly interrupting their morning. "The reporters are going to have a field day with this."
"Nope," James said, grinning. "Just tell them you were checking my mail for death threats."