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"Just so you know," says the human behind the wheel, "once you're in office all of this rinkydink undercover shit's going to go away."

"Why don't you bitch some more, Emmett," deadpans the lion from the passenger seat of the nondescript rental Ford. "You do realize you're driving me to my acceptance speech, don't you?"

Emmett sighs. "I'm just trying to keep your priorities at heart. What would America think if they saw you hauled around in a Hertz car?"

Chuckling, the lion counters, "I would hope they'd be thankful I wasn't wasting their money on a jet. Certainly the Greens would love me. The GOP might not care, but that hardly matters now. The people have spoken. I'm sure they'll castigate me for Air Force One eventually. Besides, you're assuming someone will recognize us at all."

Emmett bites his lip, choosing not to counter the President-Elect's odd breed of logic by pointing out he is kind of hard to miss in a crowd. Then he thinks better of it. "That's not the point," he waffles. "It's not as safe, is what I meant to say.

"You liar. After tonight I won't have a choice and it's all up to the Secret Service. For tonight, let's let them work for it."

"Fine, David, you win. You are the president after all." Emmett may look peeved, but the lion knows when his longtime friend and trusted campaign advisor is posturing for the sake of posturing. Emmett is smiling inside and laughing his ass off. Both men are elated, not because the long slog of stump speeches and fundraising is over but because the votes have been cast and America has chosen the long shot, the underdog--"undercat" in the media--and it has chosen wisely.

David grins, then yawns, the light from the dash glinting across his fangs. "Yes, I do win. I did win. And you'll do well to remember that." Emmett punches him in the arm before swinging the sedan off the George Washington Memorial Freeway and negotiating the cones placed at the entrance to Gravelly Point Park. Up ahead, three men in black suits with ear pieces surround the car, one in front and one on each side. The one nearest Emmett puts his hand to his ear, motioning at the same time for Emmett to roll down his window.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" the man asks, leaning in to look across at the lion. David waves his fingers and smiles. Emmett bristles between them.

"You know what we're here for. You can see he's right there," Emmett says, gesturing for emphasis.

"I don't see anything, sir," the man deadpans, his right hand kept close to what is certainly a holster hidden behind his jacket.

"Say it, Emmett," David says. "It's protocol."

"God dammit, David..."

"Man up and play the game. Enjoy yourself. You have to for the next four years, anyway."

Emmett affects a heavy sigh, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Simba has entered the Pridelands. Are you happy?"

"Yes," says the lion.

"Very," says the man in black, who waves them through before radioing ahead to let the rest of the Secret Service know that the country's next leader has entered the area.

David's civilian phone rings as Emmett weaves through clusters of media vans and ambulances. The lion takes is out and looks at the screen: ALEX BASHER.

"It can't be," Emmett guesses.

"Yeah," David sighs, tapping a claw to decline the call. "Of course he would call tonight, of all nights. This is ridiculous, I haven't heard from him in ten months." He takes the opportunity to turn the phone off before replacing it in his pocket.

"You know you can get a new phone, right? Or ditch the personal number. You won't need it anymore."

"I know," the lion replies, but his mind is elsewhere. After all this time, despite everything he's told himself--and Alex--he still feels guilty. Even telling himself it's for the greater good isn't working anymore. But tonight is not the night to have second thoughts.

Emmett keeps his gaze forward, his lips a thin line on his up-lit face. "You never should have said hello."

*

The lion who wanted to become president sat on the platform that had been erected in front of the World Trade Center Memorial Site and looked over his list of fifty names. He was one of a host of people chosen to read a portion of the 2,606 victims of September 11, thirty-two of whom were morphs, two of them lions. David looked two-thirds of the way down the page in his paw to the name circled in red: Mwasi Ngobo, a window washer, originally from Kenya. He'd been on the roof when the first plane had struck on that clear Tuesday morning thirty-four years ago.

But Ngobo had factored in to David's rhetoric more than once, in Senate-floor speeches about national pride and immigration opportunities afforded to people of all nations and species. He could pump up a crowd nearly anywhere he went. A Democrat from Virginia out of convenience, he was more centrist than anything, popular with the liberals for his stances on diversity and with the conservatives for being averse to oversight and regulation. Rather than seen as pandering, his reputation was that of a negotiator, and that was a refreshing break from the usual donkey-elephant fighting in Washington. Even polarized diehards like Oregon and Texas were softening to his evenhanded approach.

He stood and approached the podium, his mane blowing about his face in the warm Manhattan breeze. Tens of thousands of people looked to him, to the "Freedom Tower," to the sky as the lion read from top to bottom. He spoke Ngobo's name with slight emphasis, and somewhere in the crowd he heard a roar, and he knew he was doing more than well. He was doing good.

That evening, as David gladhanded contributors to the Morphic Education Fund (which he'd helped found), he spied a man drinking a cheap import beer and practically staring him down from across the room. He wasn't what the lion would call immediately noticeable, especially compared to the only other morph in the room, an otter whose tail almost mesmerized him with its slow swaying. But when the other patrons left the man stayed, not approaching until nearly midnight when an offhand comment about American teens growing up furry caught his attention. After introducing himself, Alex proved to be a font of knowledge in matters of morphic interest and struggles. First, David was intrigued. Then he was wholly engaged.

Then he invited Alex back to his townhouse in Falls Church for some late-night decaf and a rare chance to show off his extensive library of research into morphic sociology and integration. At least, that's what he told himself. At one point during the car ride across the Potomac he allowed himself to muse that he might be attracted to the man, but the thought was fleeting at best. Besides, he rationalized, if anything it was to Alex's intellect, not his deep blue eyes. Not that that kind of attraction wasn't as strong, but...

But sometime after recapping the 9/11 ceremony and discussing the MEF, and before touching any books in the library, Alex asked if the little lady was out of town or just asleep.

David said, "The little lady doesn't exist, I'm afraid," in the tone of quaint apathy he'd perfected over years of public service.

"Oh, good," Alex replied with a lopsided smile, and a minute later they were wrapped up in each other on the lion's davenport in a passionate kiss.

It was a long evening, indeed.

*

Emmett pulls the car behind the massive metal scaffold at the south end of the park, kills the engine, and slumps back in his seat. The constant rumble of the crowd on the other side of the stage is drowned out only by the occasional jetliner taking off from Reagan International directly to the south. After exiting Emmett strides around to David's door, opening it for the lion.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it, sir."

"Oh, give it up," the lion says, pushing himself up and out, straightening his shirt and tie. When he looks over at his campaign manager, the man wears a smile the lion can't take seriously. "How did you ever graduate Harvard?"

"Cribbed off your notes." Emmett shuts David's door.

"Asshole. It's a wonder you ever--" The roar of another jet drowns out the rest. Both men watch the plane fly directly over them, then over the crowd gathered on the small spit of land.

"You couldn't do any better than next to the frickin' airport?" David asks once the noise dies away.

"You wanted a venue close to home, you wanted something easy on the budget, and you wanted a central location for people to gather. The closest open space is Arlington, and there's a few hundred thousand dead soldiers who might not want foot traffic over there." Emmett has a point. This is the best they can do under the circumstances. "Plus, you weren't supposed to win," he adds, swinging his arm around David's back to lead him to a cluster of tables amid a sea of wires behind a giant purple curtain. A royal purple. A king's purple. Definitely the product of some sociologically-motivated PR focus group study, to portray an image of strength and leadership.

Jesus, this is actually happening, thinks the lion. The enormity--the meaning--of tonight threatens to bog down his mind, but he shakes it off with the practiced ease of a politician.

"Do you know what just occurred to me?" asks Emmett.

"What?"

"It's crazy, but I feel like having a fake wife go up there with me to share the spotlight would be a damn good idea." Emmett--his best friend since college, the first person he came out to, his right-hand man--regards him quizzically.

"It's a little late to be thinking like that, even if it is crazy talk. We've had the black guy, we've had the woman, and now we can have the single president."

"People will talk."

"Of course they will. The trick is to have them talking about you doing your job, not why you're unattached. Besides, which do you think is worse: the country finding out your 'wife' is a paid actor, or that you like dudes?"

Emmett had a point.

*

"Good morning, Mr. President." A small hand reached across David Kibber's chest ruff and grabbed tufts of dark, golden fur.

"That's more than a year away. I don't even want to think about that right now." The words were underlined with a deep rumble he didn't much like.

Alex didn't seem to have heard it. "Sleep well?" He was talking like a boyfriend, and it concerned David even more than

"I wasn't asleep." In fact, David hadn't slept at all, sometimes pacing through the downstairs living room of his townhouse, sometimes lying in bed staring at the ceiling with his tail lashing against the cool sheets. It had been eight hours since he'd decided to throw his hat into the presidential race. Six hours since he'd met Alex on his stoop and issued his first executive order for the man to get his ass up to the bedroom. And five since the lion realized he had a lot more on his mind than being the leader of the country, an idea that sounded quixotic as soon as he'd left his Georgetown offices backed by the cheers of his staff.

"Coulda fooled me," said Alex, nuzzling into David's side. David traced his pads over the man's smooth back, the same little thrill running through him as the first time he'd touched human skin. It had lost some of its appeal lately, though. "David?"

"Yeah?"

"What would you do if I died?" David's tail fell still. This wasn't unusual, coming from Alex. He tended to ask offhand rhetorical questions at inopportune moments. Some were uncomfortably insecure, and some of his passionate defenses to David's answers were scary in their scope and detail. Weeks ago the lion had begun wondering how Alex would find a boyfriend with his clinginess and outlandish ideas. He'd also wondered why he hadn't called it off.

He had known it was risky from the time Alex leaned in and kissed his muzzle. He'd thought in the back of his mind that his career might never be the same. But gay Senators came and went just like the rest of them, and what had passed for a scandal almost fifty years earlier didn't have quite the same impact as it used to. Much to the disdain of traditional Republicans, a Congressperson's ability to do his or her duties to the people mattered far more than his or her activities in the bedroom. It was the cover-up--or the lack thereof--that mattered.

Which was why, if he were faced with the bald truth, he wouldn't lie. And if that made him unelectable as president, so be it. He just hoped to God Americans would value his honesty over his homosexuality.

Sacrifice. That should be a key point in his speech later on this evening, when he would announce his candidacy, running on a platform of equality and diversity across all barriers. Alex could understand sacrifice, couldn't he?

He'll have to. It's been nice, but I have to be professional about this. I owe it to my constituents. And perhaps, for the first time, the prospect of the office scared him.

"No answer?" Alex asked softly, now turned so he was looking into David's hazel eyes.

"I don't think I can answer that without sounding stupid."

"Why not? It's a simple question," Alex countered, propping himself up on an elbow. There were no simple questions with Alex Basher, though. "Even if you think it's a stupid question, you should be used to stupid questions by now." David was dismayed to see the man was serious. He wondered how he'd ended up in this situation. The answer was, of course, that he had brought it all on himself.

"I would go on."

"You wouldn't miss me?"

Had he been canine, David's ears most certainly would be telling the story for him. "Of course I would miss you," he said anyway. In a sense he would, like anyone would miss being close to another person in an intimate way. But two months of on-and-off sex (not even a relationship, not to David) competing with a presidential campaign? When faced with the stark light of reality, surely Alex would have some sense of priority.

Maybe he won't, thought David. Alex didn't act like it. Ever since the first night he'd acted like a smitten puppy whenever they were together. He hung on and let loose with innuendo because they'd always been in the relative safety of David's house. God forbid that it would go any further. It couldn't happen, not the way it was now. Which was why it had to end, whether or not Alex took kindly to the idea. Things had changed.

Thin bars of sunlight stretched across the ceiling, bending at the wall and crawling halfway down. Soon the room would be as golden as David's fur, but he wouldn't be around by then. He had a speech to prepare.

"Would you find someone else?"

_No, because I might have a country to run. _ "Christ, what's this preoccupation with death?" David sounded exasperated because he _was_exasperated. He sat upright, purposefully adding to the emotion he was trying to convey. Maybe Alex would drop it if he knew he'd pissed off the lion enough. Instead of waiting for a response, David swung his legs around and off the side of the bed. Alex sputtered while David made his way to the bathroom to shower. As he stepped over the side of the tub, he could have sworn he felt like he was married. It was just as unsettling as his failed relationships with women had been.

"Do you at least want some breakfast?" he heard Alex yell over the spray, just as it wet his mane down to the skin. David tried to tell himself it was an innocuous question, but it wasn't. It carried so much unwanted subtext that it ignited something inside of him. Whether from stress or something else, he couldn't keep it in. He didn't mean to roar, but dammit, he couldn't think of any other way to get his point across. And, of course, it got Alex running into the bathroom.

"What happened?" Alex threw open the curtain, his face stricken with horror and panic. It was then that David decided that was no way to live. And after today it wouldn't matter.

"Nothing! Nothing happened, okay?" Water flew off David's mane, splattering Alex's chest and dripping down in mini-rivulets.

"You were yelling. You sounded hurt."

Of course you thought I was hurt. You can't tell hurt from anger from anguish. "I'm fine."

"You want me to join you?" It never ended. What had been cute a few weeks ago now made the lion's stomach turn on itself.

"I think you should leave." There it was, simple enough on its face. But where it was a request to David, Alex looked as if it were a breakup. For that to be true, they would have had to have been together in the first place. The man stood gawking at him, letting all the hot air out.

"Why?" Alex asked in a tiny voice.

"I have a busy day ahead of me. I'm sorry, but I need time to think things through. Today's going to be stressful enough as it is."

"And I can't help take some of that stress away?" Alex reached out and put his palm to the lion's chest, the tenderness of it making David oddly nauseous. Why wouldn't he take the hint?

"It doesn't work that way."

"It has before."

"Just...give me some goddamn space, okay? I need to figure out how to handle this from now on. I'd rather not keep secrets."

Alex's face fell as he realized the implication. "I'm a secret?" For someone who had come across as an intellectual at the MEF fundraiser, he was either a victim or a novice in the emotions department. It didn't mesh with David's finely-tuned political mannerisms, in or out of the public eye.

"Yes and no. We'll talk about it later. Maybe lunch, I can't really discuss it right now." David pulled the curtain closed, putting a wall of opaque plastic between them. "Until then I need to think. About a lot of things."

Alex walked away without another word, and a few minutes later David heard the front door close. His relief was short-lived. He hadn't solved the problem, only kicked it down the road. Not a good tactic in politics, either.

*

"Mr. President," says the smartly-dressed woman who stands up from a terminal to shake David's paw. Her purple blouse-and-skirt combination complements the bright gold choker around her neck. The lion is flattered to see her in those colors, but he's not entirely surprised.

"Julia," David says, engulfing the small but strong-gripped hand with both paws. "President-elect for the time being. And I thought we discussed earlier that we wouldn't wear the same thing to this shindig."

"Don't be ridiculous," Julia says, adjusting the American flag pin on David's lapel. "Not only am I your press secretary, I can be a dynamite stand-in First Lady." She laughs good-naturedly, but stops when she sees David's long face. Patting his paw, she quickly adds, "Though I assume you'd appreciate someone a bit less feminine."

"Thanks a lot." His sarcasm is tough to mask. "I know it's all in good fun, but I think it's time to get serious, if you don't mind."

Before Julia can manage an answer, Emmett inserts himself between them. "David's been under a lot of stress. But you're dealing with it, aren't you?"

"Is everything okay?" Julia may look concerned, but the lion knows the subtext of her question: This isn't another Alex issue, is it? I thought you took care of that long ago.

The weight of his civilian phone is ponderous; he knows Alex has at least left a text message, if not outright called him again. He doesn't understand how one man can be so foolish as to hope to stay close to someone like David, especially now.

Maybe he was merely calling to congratulate the lion on his win. Could that possibly be it, and nothing more?

I'll send him a thank-you letter, in that case. But even that little bit of placation bothers him. Now more than ever, he regrets having struck up that conversation at the fundraiser. No, not that. He regrets what happened after, when he was tired and buzzed and vulnerable.

And stupid.

He was weak. He can't be weak anymore. It's not respectable. It's not leonine.

"Yeah, everything's fine. Little of the old stage fright."

"You? Stage fright?" Julia looks incredulous, managing another laugh. "In your defense, it's not every day this country elects a morphic president."

"I owe that to the voters as much as to my campaign," David says, beaming despite his jumbled nerves.

Emmett slaps the lion on the back. "Don't forget to put yourself in there too, buddy. You're the face they saw. They didn't vote for you because you have the biggest mane."

"I guess brains and charm win out after all."

"Atta boy!" Emmett's back to his old chummy self again, now that all the heavy stuff has been swept to the wayside. "Julia, you have it all prepped?"

The woman jerks her thumb over her shoulder. She answers Emmett's question but addresses David: "The teleprompter was updated two hours ago with the speech you emailed me." Then she stands on tiptoe, which looks painful in her stilettos, and pecks the lion on his whisker bed. "You'll do fine, David. It's just another speech. The words are right there. Be your usual wonderful self, ignore the cameras, and tell the people what they need to hear."

"You two sharing secrets? Or planning a rendezvous later on at the Caucus Room?" Emmett asks, as if he heard nothing. He gains a punch in the shoulder from Julia and a dismayed look from David.

"You had to mention the Caucus Room," the lion moans. Not only was the Continental restaurant considered a Capitol Hill hangout, it was David's favorite steak joint. And he was a man of discerning carnivorous tastes.

Emmett smiles. "Empty stomach's good for you. Keeps you sharp. Gives you courage. Not that you're a pussy, I'm just--"

"Don't make me eat you," David growls.

"No need," Julia says. "Head over to the backstage prep area. We had the caterers here an hour ago. There's coffee and water, some bagels and crap, and a big Kobe sirloin just for you. Rare. It's not Filet au Oscar with béarnaise, but it's something."

David breaks into a grin. "Julia, you shouldn't have."

"It's all about the details," she quips. "But, for God's sake, check your teeth before you go on. They put parsley on everything these days."

"Love you, Julia." Planting a gentle kiss on each of her cheeks, David mounts the steps to the back of the stage with Emmett close in tow. Beyond the thick purple curtains with their red-white-and-blue bunting, a crowd of thousands of expectant souls begins chanting "President Lion" in growing volume.

*

If David's mood was somber on the way to the office (a January morning in a D.C. greyed by sleet) it certainly didn't stay that way once he stepped off the elevator to thunderous cheers and applause. Seeing the people who'd worked so hard and succeeded so fully made it seem, for the first time, like he could affect some of the changes he had promised in the Iowa caucuses this past weekend. That tack had gotten him the Democratic nomination. Now all he had to do was win.

He bowed briefly before sending everyone back to their cubicles, but the office remained abuzz with energy. After telling a secretary to hold his calls until after lunch, David stepped into his private office in the corner of the leased third-story space. The thick wood-and-glass construction kept out most noise, so he could finally think. And as he took a well-worn stack of paper out from under a glass weight, he got to thinking.

It wasn't long, as far as speeches went, but it was vastly important. As of tonight it would be the most important speech he'd given, if only the first as the nominee of his party.

He must inspire. He must give hope. He must comfort and cajole in the same breath, letting the country know that complacency was the key to downfall, that four more years of the same would lead to nothing but trouble. It was all rhetoric, of course; no politician before had avoided it and no politician hence would either. It was the name of the game in Washington. Except this time David would be the one at the podium reciting it. The people had faith in him. And he had just under ten months to convince more than just his own party. Election Day had never seemed closer.

The lion read and reread his script, trying different cadences in his head, seeing which stresses had the most impact. Twice he made revisions, but after that the words started to lose their meaning and recitation did no good. Just as the paragraphs blurred together, David heard a knock at the door.

"Come in." Emmett shut the door behind him and leaned against the frame. He looked at ease, quite opposite from the nervous wreck who had bused around Iowa with the lion for the past few months. Such was life on the campaign trail.

"How's it going?"

Tap-shuffling the papers on the desk, David angled back and stretched out. "I think I may have taken this as far as it can go. There's enough red ink here to make a second-grade teacher blush."

"So you want me to hand it over to the new girl, Julia? Let them interpret that chicken-scratch for the teleprompter?"

David hesitated when Emmett bent to take the speech, but relented. "Sure. She seems like a pretty capable girl. Had a great résumé. But I reserve the right to alter that up until an hour before I go on," he added, pointing an admonishing finger. The effect was spoiled by his cell phone, however. When the lion saw Alex's name he winced. By now it was a natural reaction.

"Something wrong? You want me to leave?" David shook his head before really thinking about it. He could ignore the call, but that would be putting it off. What he really wanted was to make himself believe he didn't have time for this anymore, but so far he hadn't put his foot down hard enough. Alex was peeved, but he had no idea David had tried to end it so many times. Tact was not the man's strong suit.

David answered the call, letting Emmett know with his free paw it was okay to stay.

"I don't appreciate being ignored." No hello, no preamble. Just drama.

"I can't talk about this now--"

"Am I not good enough for you now?" Now that you're running for president, his tone said. The idea was so ridiculous it was almost funny. Alex hadn't not been good enough because there had never been a them. David now regretted staying quiet. But since throwing his hat into the race, the whirlwind had all but swept him away from any kind of normalcy.

David said nothing, looking at Emmett, who shrugged and rolled his eyes. Finally: "This is really not a good time."

"It's the perfect time, David. People're gonna find out eventually." Whether Alex was referring to the lion's sexuality or their relationship was anyone's guess. Both statements worried him, though. He realized he'd cupped his paw over the phone, and Emmett was looking curious. David guiltily removed it.

"I'm working on a speech right now," the lion said as flatly as he could. "You have no idea what I'm going through."

"And you have no right to treat me like shit just because you're busy with your high-and-mighty job."

"You do realize what I'm trying to do, don't you?" Somehow Alex wasn't getting it. He couldn't possibly be that dense.

Even so, he deflected. "I'm sick of this."

"So am I." And there it was, as honest as David could make it. He was sick of hoping against hope that Alex would take the hint and go away. The opposite should have been obvious months ago. But, like a dope, the lion had tricked himself into thinking things were one way when they were everything but.

"I want to meet you for lunch," Alex continued, his voice suddenly softer. "I wanna work this out." Work it out? How? What was there left to say? He looked to Emmett, but the man only had a tired smirk on his face. A nice vote of confidence. Then again, this was David's doing, and David's alone.

Sighing, he breathed in slowly and steadied himself. "Where would you like to meet? Hopefully in private." In a flash, Emmett had his phone out, fingers hovering above the device, waiting for a name so he could arrange logistics.

"Antonio's on F Street?" Alex asked hopefully. "Where you took me that one Friday when we got caught in the rain?" The sheer nostalgia David heard made him shudder; they'd only had dinner together because the restaurant had a porte-cochère and it was the nearest place when it had started to pour. And then Alex was hungry. And so they had dinner. If what the lion heard was Alex's memory of that mediocre evening, he realized he might not be dealing with a stable individual.

"Antonio's it is," David said through a forced smile so it sounded genuine. "Make it quarter to one."

"I'll be there." And just like that, Alex was gone. David pocketed the phone and rubbed his forehead. Emmett was already on the phone with Antonio, arranging for a private room away from other diners.

"You going to end it?" asked Emmett after he'd finished his own call. "Because now would be a pretty damn good time to do so."

David sat back in the chair, a sigh rumbling through his chest. His temples hurt. The campaign was less stressful than Alex's haranguing. Now was the perfect time. The ever-present "how" never got easier, though. "It is a little out of hand, isn't it?" Then he saw Emmett's wan smile, the same smile since college, and had a disturbing thought. "How many people know besides you?"

"Just me, right now. Julia might have to know, if she proves good enough to make it farther into the PR side of things. Just to be prepared for a surprise shot across our metaphorical bow. Anybody else who's seen you with him probably wouldn't think that far into it, unless they were some GOP stalker."

"They'd do that?"

"Wouldn't put it past the crazy ones. But we have intel people on our side too. They're paid to look for things like that. I wouldn't worry as much about that as I would about moving on with your life and your campaign with a clean slate, as it were."

"Hm," David thought while rubbing his chin. "Why do I feel so exposed all of a sudden? Just pre-speech jitters, right?" He knew that was a lie even as he said it.

"Could be." The man leaned over the desk, looking into the world-weary eyes at the base of the dun-colored muzzle. "David, no one outside of these walls knows. Me, you know I don't give a shit who you like. More than half the country doesn't. I'd like to think running the U.S. is more a priority than whether or not the prez sucks dick. But while you're there--and you will be--the job's the thing. You can only go so far, you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're the trifecta of presidential non-traditions. You're single, whoop-dee-doo. You're morphic, which we both know is definitely a hurdle. And you're gay, another whoop-dee-doo but no big deal if you keep it out of the public eye."

David almost balked. But then he leaned in as well. "You want me to hide it?"

"Not hide it," Emmett replied. "It just doesn't need to come up. Why would it? You're already running on diversity and all that; it should be good enough as is. You're the nominee; that fact says that people aren't as stodgy as they used to be, especially on the morphic thing. Being single is a little suspicious, but we can work around that."

"You're kidding me. Buchanan was single when he entered office."

"Buchanan was almost certainly gay."

"Arthur certainly wasn't."

"His wife died before he was elected. What's your point?"

"All right, all right, David resigned, palms up. "I think I understand."

"They chose you because you're the right man for the job," Emmett said pointedly. "They want someone to lead them. They saw that in you and they took a chance on you because they want something more than just the same old rhetoric, same old shit. Hell, they're still using 'hope and change' as a euphemism for meaningless promises. You're a lion, so what, lions lead all the time. All right, you're single, nothing to fear there because you don't have family in the way. But Alex is a fly in your ointment. Or he could be."

David narrowed his eyes, but he could already see Emmett's logic. "You think it would be pushing too far."

"Not exactly." Emmett was now pacing, one hand behind his back while the other gesticulated as he talked. "It doesn't matter that he's a guy. What matters more is that you'd basically be dating while trying to run for president. How does that look?" He stopped. "Okay, it does matter. It matters to some of the swing voters and even some Republicans. Image is everything, we both know that."

"But you still want me to hide who I am." Just because the lion was beginning to understand Emmett's logic, didn't mean he liked it. His tail lashed about underneath his chair. He was uncomfortable with this conversation, but it was necessary. And he trusted his friend.

"You make it sound awful, you know that? In terms of this election year, it's too far too fast. Gain their trust by being a great nominee. Then you can prove yourself once you're in office. We aren't talking about your love life, David. This Alex guy isn't boyfriend material. Not even close." Once again, Emmett was right.

Leaning forward, muzzle propped on his paws, David said, "I was already going to do it. Cut it off, I mean."

"At lunch?"

"Yes. I mean, I had been meaning to for a while. But something kept me from doing it. First it was nice, but that's all it was. Then I was placating him. I don't know why I didn't end it sooner."

"Because you're just as imperfect as the rest of us," Emmett said softly. "Probably why you'd make such a good president. At least you recognize when to snuff out a problem."

"Those aren't the words I'd use...but I get it. Still, Alex aside, I find it mildly horrifying that you're asking me to put my sexuality on hold while I run the country."

"Your words, not mine. It's really nothing different from any other president in history. It's at least a four-year commitment, during which some things need to fade into the background while the important things get taken care of." David could tell Emmett wasn't entirely comfortable with his own word choice. At the same time, though, he couldn't deny the cold truth of it. The question was, where did his priorities lie?

David kept his tone low. "And what if it comes out anyway? What if he--not just Alex, but anybody--goes crazy and tries to pin me down?"

Emmett sounded almost conspiratorial now: "Let's get in there first and worry about that when we come to it. There's only so much we can do with what we know now. Most of it is up to you doing what needs done and saying what needs said."

"This is going to be one uncomfortable lunch."

"You're in a private room, so you won't have to worry about oglers. You'll be going in through the back, just in case."

"Yeah, just in case."

"It's about that time, too. I'll call for the car." Emmett brought his phone back out, but paused in the middle of dialing. "David?"

"Yeah?" the lion asked wearily.

"You ever love him?"

"No." The word was spoken as quick and simple as its construction, because it was the truth. It did little to assuage the nagging guilt in the back of David's mind.

"Okay." Emmett nodded before letting himself out.

*

David slumps back into the folding chair that looks too small to contain his bulky frame, and sighs. The steak is settling nicely, suffusing him with a satisfaction he hasn't felt in quite some time. He will have to buy Julia a nice dinner, or give her a raise. Maybe both. Both phones are off, his earpiece in, his speech ready...all that's left is to go out there and face the people.

"She couldn't get me a steak too?" Emmett pouts from his chair. "A paltry sirloin would've sufficed." He takes a bite of a hot dog. "These are okay, but still."

"I'm the star, remember?" David retorts, licking his chops. Damn, just the right balance of salt and pepper. He is surprised by how easily the word left his lips.

"My nerves are just as shot as yours. I could use some energy just as much as you. And not from that coffee pot; it makes me shaky." Emmett talks evenly but he's wringing his tie. "After all this time, you're gonna tell me you're finally relaxing?"

"'Relaxed' wouldn't be my first choice, but yeah," says David. "Resigned, maybe. The calm before the storm."

"I think you'll do fine. Unless you decide to chicken out in the next ten minutes." He hands over the hard copy of the speech's final draft, the last word if there ever was one.

"This lion is no coward. Fat chance."

"You know, they won't call it until you get a concession phone call."

David takes the papers and stands, fastening his coat and tucking his tie back into place. "He's just holding out for show like the old fogey he is. You saw the numbers just like I did. Two-seventy is two-seventy. Even if it's closer than we think, the west coast will roll us over the top. Besides, some of those people out there want to go to bed, and they won't unless I come out there and speak. We all have work tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me..." Emmett lets the lion go, and David begins to pace slowly but resolutely, mouthing words and waving his paw in the right places so his emphasis is umistakable.

Shortly thereafter an aide approaches, reaching for the pages. David jerks back. "I still have time, Jeffery! Let me practice," he says jokingly.

Jeffery backs away, bowing. "Sorry, sir. Five minutes, Mr. President."

"Wait three months and then you can call me that," David reminds the man.

"Yes, sir." These people mean business, David has time to think before hears the smooth, even baritone of a professional announcer.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please," the man speaks calmly and cleanly with the slight buck-toothed whisper of a beaver. But his booming timbre is perfect for a job like this. "President-elect of the United States, David Kibber." No lead-up, no announcement, just plain-Jane and unpretentious, like the rest of David's campaign. Perfect.

The ten thousand or so people gathered in the clearing on the narrow strip of land erupt in a din so loud that it drowns out a departing plane overhead. David pushes apart the purple velour and emerges like the sun from behind a storm cloud, his fur groomed and his mane full and shining under the lights. Gravelly Point Park is a living thing, writhing and pulsating with the lives of voters who cared enough about the future of their country to take a chance and elect a lion as their leader. Smiling as he starts down the thirty-foot catwalk, he raises his right paw and waves, unable to stop himself from grinning like a fool.

He almost doesn't notice the crackling in his ear, and he definitely doesn't expect the code words that immediately follow: "PEOTUS Red, PEOTUS Red!" He hasn't even started to react by the time he hears the gunshot.

*

Alex had an indignant grin on his face like he already knew this lunch would go in his favor. They sat in a corner booth in the back room of Antonio's that was usually reserved for parties. A basket of bread and a plate of oil and cracked pepper sat between them. Antonio himself had volunteered to serve them, just to make things easier. But not even the soft Italian music coming from the ceiling did much to ease David's increasingly dour mood.

And Alex had that look.

David ordered for the both of them, garnering no complaints, then propped his muzzle on his paws and stared at the person who never was, and never would be, his boyfriend.

Alex sighed. "I don't expect you invited me to lunch to apologize, though that's usually how these things go," he said evenly. "One of two ways, at least." His tone indicated he hoped it wasn't the latter, unspoken, choice.

"No, I didn't," the lion returned just as evenly. He hadn't thought of what to say, and winging it was not his strong suit. Though far too late to worry about finding the right words, David was still (albeit unduly) concerned about hurting Alex's feelings.

"Why the back-room antics?" It was just a question, not an accusation. Yet.

David idly traced a claw over the linen tablecloth, stopping when it caught and pulled a thread. "I thought you'd appreciate the privacy."

"Or you don't want anyone seeing us together."

"As of this past weekend, everything I do or have done is under a microscope now." David idly wished his entrée would arrive so he could be at least a bit distracted. Bread did nothing for him, but Antonio's famous lasagna sure would.

"Why don't you want it getting out?"

Emmett's speech to him just an hour before came back with surprising clarity. The words that had sounded so practical back then lost some of their strength in Alex's presence, though. Played back in his head, they sounded downright cold. "Don't assume because I want to keep something hidden, that means I'm ashamed of it."

"How am I supposed to believe you, here, in this empty room safe from prying ears?" Alex's words were accusatory but his voice was calm. They hadn't seen each other in so long, maybe he'd had time to think about the bigger picture. But David couldn't take any of that for granted.

"Believe it or not, this is what's best."

Alex leaned over the table and pointed an accusatory finger at the lion. It trembled. "Bullshit."

"It's better for both of us." It had been so easy to say those words, too, just an extension of how he felt manifested into speech before he could stop. At least it was out there, bare on its face. He didn't even regret the tinge of snark he heard.

Alex shrank back in his chair just as Antonio came out with the entrées. He set them down. "Signori," he mumbled, and left when David waved him off silently, obviously curious but wise enough to stay well away. The lion smelled the beef and ricotta cheese and dug into his first food of the day. Alex stared at his spinach tortellini, his eyes shining, then brimming.

"You know, when you said you were going to try and run, I felt so happy for you. 'I'm going to vote for this man,' I thought. 'I'm going to vote for him because I believe in him, and he'll make a difference in this stinking country. He knows what it's like.' Now I'm not so sure."

When David didn't answer, Alex continued, his cheeks damp. "One night, when you fell asleep after...you know...I had this crazy thought. I thought, 'I could marry this man. He'll add a species clause to the Equal Marriage Act and push it through and we'll have a big wedding on the lawn right in the middle of town. Pretty crazy, isn't it?"

It was pretty crazy. He judged his next words carefully. "I knew you were passionate. I never thought you were crazy, though that _does_sound a bit out there."

"I told you that first night how much of an ideologue I was."

Only halfway through his food, David lost his appetite. "Alex...you're a great person. You're going to make someone very happy--"

"But it's not going to be you. Yeah, I know when I'm getting dumped." Dumped? There had to have been a relationship for this to be a breakup. But Alex's beliefs were merely conjecture. The fence was quickly becoming a tightrope.

"It has become apparent that it was a mistake to have engaged you. I'm sorry for leading you on."

"Just like a politician. You've voiced your regrets clearly, thank you," Alex spat, his eyes fixed on the table. He wouldn't look up. "I kind of assumed...wrongly, I think...that you might not take the crony tack and instead be a decent person, a realist where it's needed, but forceful too."

"I am being realistic. And forceful. You putting me in this awkward position is pretty selfish." But hadn't David put himself in this position on that September night, seemingly so long ago?

"You're one to talk, David. 'I can't have you ruining my run for the presidency just because we slept together.'"

"I didn't say anything like that--"

"But that's what it is, isn't it?" Alex's pasta was getting cold, and the lion had the insane thought to mention it. He had a lot on his mind. Words swirled around, trying to form coherent thoughts, but nothing came to David that could possibly make this end well. He realized his future was in the hands of this one man.

"Are you going to expose me?" asked the lion. "Just please, be honest with me so I know to expect it. I wouldn't blame you if you did. But I really would prefer to try to lead this country to something better than it has."

Alex sat there and thought. He thought for a good long while, his face working, his tears falling from time to time. David had seen pictures of the White House Situation Room, and he thought he could approximate the level of stress that must exist in moments of silence like these.

"I should," Alex said, and pounded the table with his fist. "I could, too. It would be easy. But..." He looked up, his misty blue eyes brimming. "But I love you, David. Or I love something about you, I don't know. You wanna know something I realized just now?"

"What." David forced himself to look back. It took all he had to keep his lips steady. He allowed it was relief, but he knew it was more than that.

"I lost a lot of friends when I joined the Morphic Education Fund. I told myself I was being true to what I believed in, and losing my so-called 'friends' was collateral damage on the way to doing good by my cause. I told them it was in the best interest of the greater good."

David nodded slowly. He swallowed. "That was very noble of you."

"That's what you're doing, isn't it? Please tell me that's what you're doing."

Swallowing again, the lion squared his shoulders. "Alex. I never thought I would get this far. Now that it has...now that there's a chance...I want, more than ever, to make this world a better place. I want that addendum to the Equal Marriage Act. I want you to find that someone, whatever species he is, and live your life to the fullest. I want that for every American." He was slipping into platitudes, but they were true no matter how rote they sounded. "It's my best interest, for my greater good. I don't know how else to say it, sense you already did."

"It all sounds so nice, on the surface," Alex said. "But, it's what's between the lines that counts. I can't believe you, right now, even though I want to. And I can't guarantee you won't hear from me again. But don't be surprised if I show up down the line, whether I congratulate you or sell my story to the highest bidder."

"I work for the country now," David interjected, but the man took no heed.

"You do what you have to do, and I'll do the same." Alex wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "If you make it, I hope you think it was worth it."

Before David could say anything more (I'll show you it's worth it, just give me time to prove it), Alex stood and walked stiffly through the curtain separating the room from the restaurant proper.

The lion had done what he'd set out to do, but he still didn't have an answer.

*

Crack.

It sounds like a firecracker in the crowd, one single sharp sound and nothing more. One moment David is walking confidently to the podium, and the next he's on his knees, paws over his head. As if they can shield him from the maniac who managed to sneak a weapon past the screeners.

David knows the codes and takes immediate cover, but when he kneels like he remembers from his training, he realizes how pointless it all is in a situation like this. Sure, he's wearing body armor, but anyone with a fair bit of aim can still shoot him, exposed as he is, well before the Secret Service can rush in to do their jobs.

Most continue cheering while a few utter surprised screams at the sound, and as people notice the lion's posture it dies down to silence. David feels as if he's moving in slow motion, swiveling on the balls of this feet while keeping his head at least partially obscured. He sees people at the back of the crowd walking or running toward the exits, possibly fearing something worse. Closer to the podium, where it's difficult to move, people are calmer. Their faces watch him, some horrified and some curious as he turns to look rearward.

Alex stands on the catwalk fifteen feet behind David, his right hand over his left shoulder. He's wearing slacks and a gold tie over a shirt that used to be purple before his blood turned it a sticky black. Grimacing, he weakly lifts his head to look at the lion with tired, wondering eyes. Surely he must have known better than to pull a stupid trick like this. How did he get this close in the first place?

Did he do it on purpose?

_ _

His eyes focused on Alex, his ears tune out the sounds around him. Distant shouting. Scuffling footsteps. But in this moment it's just the lion and the innocent--if passionate--man who struck up a conversation one brisk September night with someone whom he thought shared his passion. The man with whom he'd shared his body. The man he'd thought understood when David had told him there might be four hundred million people counting on him.

Alex drops his right hand and goes for his pants pocket, leaving a smear of blood on the pressed khakis. His trembling fingers make it to the edge of the material and crack, it happens again. No new hole, no squib-like puff of the shirt. Just Alex's vacant expression as he falls forward like a ragdoll. David feels the thud of the man's skull landing nose-first. Crimson trickles down the otherwise spotless white catwalk toward the back of the stage in a single meandering stream.

"No," David begins before four agents surround him, one of whom turns inward, shooting questions.

"Sir, are you hurt?" His hand never leaves his earpiece.

"No, I--"

"No pain anywhere?"

"No."

"We have the situation under control. We'll get you out of here."

"Let me speak, damn you!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't let you do that."

You can't let me do that? David thinks. This is my show! You just killed a man! Straining to see through the agent's legs, the lion can't even make out if Alex is still alive. They won't let him move--but he knows a way.

He lifts his head to the night sky and roars.

The agent facing him backs away, his arms windmilling. The rest of them turn, surprised but still diligently aware of their surroundings. They all give him room. Even more agents have suddenly appeared through the curtains to drag Alex's lifeless body out of sight. The scent of blood is nauseating. David fights back a retch by roaring again, the sting of fresh tears in his eyes. Any humans watching these events would think it a roar of anger, only because they can't tell it from anguish.

Alone at the end of the catwalk with a huddle of agents behind him, David looks around at the people who gathered to hear him speak, not to bear witness a shooting on Election Night. They didn't deserve this. And Alex definitely didn't deserve it, no matter his motives.

"Get the fuck off the stage!" hisses Emmett's voice in his ear. "This whole thing is FUBAR. We need you protected."

David feels a morbid chuckle rise up and die in his chest. "No," he says. "I'm taking charge, starting now. I'm not some precious vase on a goddamn shelf." Emmett starts to disagree, but the lion rips the earpiece off and throws it down. The people need to hear what he has to say, and there will never be a better time than right now. He has their undivided attention.

Most have stopped moving. Those at the back gather in a bit closer, enthralled by their future leader's poise under pressure. As macabre as it must seem, David has a speech to deliver.

Placing his paws on the podium, he becomes aware of how hard he's trembling. He's not nervous, not anymore, but he can sense anxiety from the countless bodies around him, can smell the fear they exude. He owes each and every one of these people to put a stop to this before it gets any further out of hand.

They look up at him as he speaks. "My fellow Americans, this...unfortunate spectacle...is something I would never have wished on anyone. Not you, not...the gentleman, not on myself. It is a sad, sad side effect of the times in which we live." David's booming voice echoes across the water and back.

"I had a speech, but it seems inappropriate in light of what just happened." He swallows to fight the cloying ferrous stench behind him, and to steady his wavering tone. "You all have shown me great support these past weeks and months." David feels it wanting to catch, wanting to choke just a single word with emotion. It won't make him seem weak, but it won't do much good either.

"Tonight was supposed to be a night of celebration. Of coming together, of seeing past our differences as a nation to work toward a common goal. I going to talk about how the people were able to look beyond themselves and elect the outsider. Idyllic, yes, but no less important.

"You, my friends, you were the ones who spoke up at the polls and said, 'I dare to be different. I dare to dream.' And you listened to both sides of the aisle, and made your decision. And there is no way I could possibly repay you for the opportunity you've given me."

David looks out on the faces tilted expectantly toward him. Working men, housewives, children of all ages and species hoisted upon a parent's shoulders or hopping to get a better look. But for the blood on the stage, it's as if nothing had happened.

"I can't do this," he says, looking down. "I can't play this game anymore." From somewhere behind the curtains David hears Emmett swearing up a storm, and he realizes it might be possible Alex's death wasn't an accident. The Secret Service could have easily known everything Emmett and Julia knew. They wanted him out after Iowa, and Alex showed himself the door. Until tonight. Alex might have served himself up on a platter, but David doubted he would ever know for sure. It wouldn't bring the man back to life.

Looking back he can see Emmett's head peeking out from between the folds of purple velour, out of sight of cameras. If he hadn't thrown his headset down he would likely be getting an earful. The teleprompter scrolls his now seemingly vapid speech, the words unspoken and unheard. But the lion has something to say, and damn the consequences.

"Before I go further--before we go further as a country--I have something to say, and I hope you will bear with me." Gone is his steady, strong voice; gone are the practiced cadence and emphases of a man on the trail. His emotions bare, his soul broken, he knows what he needs to do.

"I'm not who you think I am. You want me to take on Washington. You want transparency and efficiency and thrift. And you voted for a man who is as true to himself as he is to his country. I am not that man."

Emmett whisper-screams David's name as loud as he dares, but the lion holds his ground. Emmett will just have to deal with what he has to say. History will judge him by what he does in this moment; never before in his life has he had so much control over his own destiny. Fighting a cottony mouth and a gut full of roiling adrenaline, he pushes forth.

"I..." So many faces, looking up at him. Waiting. Hanging on every word.

"I...am just a man." He swallows. His life is not, in fact, over. Emmett's relief is palpable even out here. "And for the next four years I'll be your man. I don't just want to be an ideal. I will be a public servant and a leader in equal measure, and it will be my job to make good on my promises." More platitudes, but isn't this the way he was supposed to talk? Wasn't this the David Kibber people wanted to see?

It wasn't what Alex would have wanted to see. David ignored this last thought and raised his head to the lights.

"What do you say?"

For three solid seconds everyone gathered on that little piece of park (and, presumably, most of the country if not the world) stands silently, sharing one singular moment of unity. Then, from off to David's right someone shouts, "Fuck yeah!" David imagines hundreds of sound engineers scrambling to delay buttons across the planet and grins toothily, confidently, knowing it's what the people want to see.

The roar is deafening, rising up and filling the air with such jubilation and excitement that the killing of a man on the catwalk just five minutes prior seems nothing more than a footnote. David Kibber could have called off the speech, but he went on to address his country as if it were business as usual. Because, essentially, it is.

Even as he raises his arms in a victory sign and watches his constituents celebrating in the field--the world, still turning--the lion wonders where they took Alex's body. The soft features and deep, intelligent eyes float before David's vision like the billboard before Gatsby.

He lets out another earth-shattering, soulful roar into the night, and only the morphs in the crowd will wonder later on if they really did hear grief in that moment.

It will all be worth it. It has to be worth it, and the lion has at least four years to prove it to himself, to his country, and maybe even to Alex. Maybe especially to Alex.

But behind his politician's smile, David wonders what Alex was reaching for. He's not entirely sure he wants to know.