Who: Mark and a briefly NPCed Rahm Emanuel What: Today Rahm Emanuel resigned from the White House. Fan-girls all over the country got nothing productive done at work. Some of us wrote narratives and changed the trajectories of our character's careers. Whoops. When: Friday afternoon Where: Mark's CNN office Warnings: Rahm = copious use of foul language
“I saw tears.”
“No you didn't.”
“Yeah, no, I'm pretty sure I saw tears.”
“You didn't see any fucking tears.”
It was the 'fucking' that Mark started laughing at, a snicker that very quickly turned into one of those slightly high pitched giggles he was so famous for and so often caused strife between he and his fiance. Only this time he wasn't flirting. Mark and Rahm never flirted, as that would have thoroughly ruined the near fifteen year friendship between the two. Besides, as his best friend always pointed out, just because he was a classically trained ballerina didn't mean he wanted a-- actually, Mark generally found it was better not to repeat exactly what Rahm had said, especially with Glibt within earshot. That said, regardless of Rahm's mouth and Mark's giggles and teasing, the two remained close.
He'd gone to work late that day and so far hadn't been very productive. Rahm's decision to resign as White House Chief of Staff to run for Mayor of Chicago was, the cable news networks had decided, a very big deal. Along with every other channel, CNN was broadcasting the breakup of the greatest political bromance ever (in Mark's humble opinion) and Mark had been lying on the couch all morning watching his employer pick apart every aspect of the new cabinet appointment.
Mark reached for the Time Warner remote and turned down the volume. “There were tears during that hug. You can't lie to your maker.”
“Maker my ass. The way you describe it, you all exist because we mere mortals clap our fucking hands, believe, and Tinkerbell your asses into reality.” Rahm's voice was mocking, yet Mark would never take offense. “Don't pull that godly shit with me.”
“Or what, you'll put a dead fish in my bed?”
“Don't think I don't have one.” There was a pause on the other end and then a short laugh. “Actually, they gave me one as a going away gag gift, so... I do have one.”
Mark smirked. “Amateur hour, my friend., especially if you're trying to govern Chicago. You need to man the fuck up, Ballerina. Fish don't send the same message as horse heads.”
“See, it's advice like that that's gonna make you such a good campaign adviser,”
“A good what now?” He sat up slightly, his eyes creasing in a slight frown. He put the remote down.
“Campaign adviser. Special adviser. Something.” Mark could almost see Rahm lean back in his chair in his favorite, yet only semi-relaxed, position. “Whatever, I figure we'll come up with some title, yeah? I don't care what it is, I just want you on the campaign.”
“You want me doing what on the what now?”
“Are you fucking deaf?”
“No, I am not fucking deaf.” Mark rolled his eyes. “I am, however, fucking confused.”
“Nothing to be fucking confused about, Mark. I want you on the campaign,” he answered. “Your assistant gets wonderfuly starstruck whenever I call your office line. She tells me everything, and I hear your up to resign your CNN contract come November--”
“--Gee, Mia does like to talk--”
“--And I say, fuck the contract, come do something that matters again. Remember the Clinton White House?”
“I remember the depression, Don't Ask Don't Tell, the fetal position after Monica Lewinsky, and the week long migraines.”
“You're not funny.”
“What, are there some pillow fight episodes I'm supposed to be remembering here? Picking bouquets in the Rose Garden?” Mark raised an eyebrow. “And you're not going to the White House, Rahm. You're running for Mayor.”
“Yeah, for now.”
“Mr. Emmanuel, are you trying to tempt and/or seduce me with offers of power?”
There was a snort of laughter. “Obviously. Is it working?”
“I really like my show.”
“But you love your mother-- she is America, right?”
“Chicago is not all of America.”
“Close enough.”
Reaching for the remote again, Mark finally hit the power button on the television. The screen froze on the hug the President and his now former Chief of Staff had shared at the end of their press conference. The dead air on the phone between them buzzed.
“Are you actually being serious?”
The answer was immediate. “Who the hell else would I ask, Mark? Your brother?”
“I can't give you an answer right now.”
“I figured.”
“I mean, it's more than just me I have to think about. There's Harvey--”
“--I know--”
“--Three kids--”
“--I know--”
“--Mia--”
“I know--”
“--My writing staff--”
“I get it, Mark!” It was a moment before Mark felt confident that he could put the Blackberry back to his ear without risking his hearing. Not that his friend had seemed to notice. Rahm was still talking. “...The ball's moving on this. I need to know. Two, three weeks at the most.”
Mark blinked in surprise. “That's kind of soon.”
“That's politics.” He could hear the smirk in Rahm's voice and he hated it.