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angusbyrne · 22 days

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TASK 001 - THE NEWS

LOCATION: Angus's office in D.C. DATE: September 2, 2005 TASK: How does your character react to learning of Richard’s passing?

“Mr. Byrne, you have mail on your desk–” were the first words that greeted Angus.

“Thank you, Heather.”

“And Dana Palfrey’s on the line–” His eyes could’ve rolled back into his head, and he really wanted them to express the depth of his annoyance. Angus managed to keep his face coolly disinterested instead.

“And you told him I’d rather chew glass than hear his voice in my ear at 7 in the gee-dee morning?”

“I’ll tell him you’re preparing for an early morning meeting and that you’ll get back to him by lunch.”

“Fan-fuckin’-tastic.”

It was a typical morning exchange, only made slightly different by the early usage of a curse and the fact that Angus hadn’t gone home the night before. He’d stopped at his gym an hour before for a quick shower and change, but he still felt that tacky, uncomfortable feeling from not getting to stand under the hot stream of water in his bathroom at home. He adjusted the tie around his neck, his hair curling damply over his ears. He thought unkindly about how he needed a haircut.

Inside his office, unfortunately, sat two members of his legislative staff, waiting for orders because it always seemed that everyone there was a child except for him. His pile of mail sat neatly on his dark oak desk; about a year ago, he started to forward all of it to the office. The fewer people who knew his address, the better. The extra security measure didn't hurt either. He hid a yawn behind the back of his hand, then tossed his suit jacket over the back of his chair.

Angus had been operating on fumes for two weeks straight — not even his overworked, overpriced La Spaziale could churn out enough caffeine to keep him from rubbing his eyes and slapping at his cheek. FEMA was a shit-show; slow responses and an inability to coordinate efforts with other federal relief organizations turned Congress into a hotbed of debate.

Everyone needed a statement, legislation was hitting the floor, and Angus hadn’t slept in close to 48 hours. The whip-fast, frantic conversation that unraveled between his staff did little to deter the creeping headache he felt starting in his temples and pulsing toward his forehead.

“Fundamentally, the problem is when they issued the evacuation order: that affects poor people differently. They predominantly don’t have cars. If they wanted to do any of this right, we should have had buses lined up to take them out–” Ava Perez, 26, Princeton class of ‘02. She was a stalwart Legislative Correspondent on Angus’ team for 9 months. Angus appreciated her hard work, but she could be a bleeding heart. Great optics, poor execution.

“And just how many buses would’ve pleased you?” Ethan Wolk, 27, UC Berkley class of ‘01. He was a loud-mouthed Legislative Assistant under Angus for the better part of 2 years. His parents owned a series of businesses up and down the Jersey Shore. Opportunistic, he took the first Senate job that was offered to him. Hungry and ambitious, he often lacked that overlooked gift of empathy.

Usually, he pitted them against each other to see what would happen – if anything, anything of substance would eventually get rattled out of their heads. Most of the time, they didn’t seem to cough up much more than thin, lackluster arguments, and rarely in words of their own; an echo of a professor, an activist, a father. Angus sat down, pinching at the space between his eyes as he mentally mapped out his schedule for the day – and for everything he needed to get done outside of work, as well.

“–Empty vans to save the belongings of those with no home or floor insurance–”

“And that’s why the President is moving forward within the federal government with a comprehensive review of all Cabinet departments and their response efforts. That’s why they’re going to work closely with Congress to make sure that they conduct a thorough investigation so that we can apply those lessons–”

“‘Apply those lessons.’”

“Yes. Apply those lessons to future response efforts.”

Angus's eyes snapped open and he straightened in his chair. He had done something inadvisable over the past month or so for Ethan and Ava to think that they could set up shop in there when he wasn't around. Maybe he'd gotten too soft, needed too much help, offered too much guidance – these people were coworkers. Technically his responsibility, but adults in their own right. He pushed against the floor, sending his chair closer to his desk.

“Response efforts are ongoing," he poked, entertaining them for the brief amount of time it took to reach for the stack of mail. "What about the right here, right now?”

“She’s the one who brought up evacuation orders," Ethan answered, voice teetering on whiny.

“And you’re the one defending them," Ava accused.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say he fucked up.”

“He fucked up! Obviously!”

“Yeah, he fucked up! He’s currently fucking up. And what is this junk that was introduced on the floor yesterday? What the hell is a ‘core disaster area’?”

“First of all, why the hell are you in here?” Angus interrupted, not looking up from the stack of mail. Bill, bill, fundraising plea from some wildlife organization, Georgetown requesting donations… “Secondly, in a perfect world, the entirety of New Orleans would be the core disaster area. The damage to their infrastructure alone will cause ripple effects throughout the national economy."

“Yes, in the short run–” Ethan spoke up.

“In the short run, these people will need more promises than temporary – very temporary – tax relief. We have to ask why the federal government has not been more willing, not more able, and not more ready, to help. Ideally, we should finetune her response to this proposition,” Ava rejoined. "That's why we're in here."

The last envelope felt different between his fingers; the paper was softer, more expensive, not mass-produced. The sensation of it alone gave him pause, tapping the pad of his thumb against a corner – once, twice, and then he turned it. Elegant cursive: Angus P. Byrne, return address New York. Woodrow House. His dry, tired eyes stung, rendering the letters fuzzy as he stared. His stomach poised itself to drop.

“Voting Nay on this will torpedo her chances in 2008," Ethan pointed out.

“Well, I’m not saying to vote Nay–” Ava continued.

“Do anything to argue against it and we look like fussy, money-hungry Liberals.”

“Well, Angus is an Independent, strictly speaking–”

“And you’re talking out of your ass, is what you are.”

“And you’re talking from… which orifice that accepted a dinner party invitation from Rick fucking Santorum again?”

Angus P. Byrne, return address New York. Woodrow House. Mrs. Tristan's swoopy, neat penmanship. He recognized it almost immediately, and it certainly wasn't Uncle Richard's handwriting. Angus felt like he stood on a precipice, that this would be one of those Before moments.

Like George's face as a newborn baby, scrunched up and ready to cry. Like Angus standing awkwardly outside an office door in an old, musty building when he was 13, listening to his dad spin tales to a group of gruff men inside. Like sitting in a tree beside Malcolm, his brother's cheeks turned purple-red with frustration at Angus' words and poised to push him out. Like his mother humming softly, her locks of chestnut hair dancing out the passenger side window and past his own directly behind her; the summer air buzzed, the radio crackled, a game of I Spy trailed off.

He didn't know what was inside the letter, but he knew he didn't want to open it to an audience.

“Get out,” Angus suddenly ordered, spine straight as he interrupted their argument with a steady, hard voice. Two heads swiveled toward him, horror-movie twins eternally agog. They blinked at him, and he finally met their eyes. For a moment, no one moved. His jaw clenched, patience snapping like a wire pulled too taut, too fast. "Jesus H. – don't act stupid," he snapped. "Get the hell out."

They seemed to get the message then, scrambling hurriedly from the chairs on the opposite side of his desk, leaving them squeaking in surprise in their wake. It was when he heard his door click shut that he finally took out his letter opener and slid it under the seal flap. With tense hands, he unfolded the letter tucked inside – eyes quickly scanning, taking in information.

It is with a heavy heart...

The world around him blurred. It was like he lost track of the seconds; there didn't seem to be any real moment between him sitting and him standing, clutching a paperweight in his hand. His knuckles were white. It would've been an easy thing to give into that first instinct, to send it careening across his office. To let it shatter glass, dent metal, chip wood; to make a loud noise, to demand attention, to loudly proclaim hurt – or the intention to.

For the minute that he stood there, between two actions, Angus thought about how badly he wanted it. How badly he wanted to trust that someone else would ensure the world didn't burn down. How badly he wanted to be a son again, a kid again, to let someone else carry everything. He stood there, let it ache for a full thirty seconds, and then the paperweight fell with a thud onto the antique rug long-ago placed under his desk. Inside his coat pocket, he heard his cell buzz. He jabbed at a key on his office phone that would summon Heather to him.

Angus ran a hand through his hair as his eyes stared emptily at the framed American flag on the wall, waiting for when he'd have to jump back into action. He needed to give Ethan and Ava a list of to-do's for the next several days. He needed to call Dana Palfrey back. He needed to request bereavement. He needed to fucking pray that leaving for a week wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass.

He tugged at the damp strands of his hair, his stomach souring. He needed to schedule a haircut.

#wrhq.task #copied your setup dani <333 oops

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