wyattzimmermcn

[wyattzimmermcn]

three deaths and a wedding.

self-paragraph by danji. tw: death, illness, guns, murder(?).

2009

He lost track of where they were about four hours ago, but, at least, he hasn’t lost sight of that pretty little blonde on his arm.

An inky blue-sky drapes over the New York City horizon. It’s as clear as he’s ever seen it, clearer than the haze of his post-grad years, bustling between internships, like the clouds have parted and the stars are twinkling because they know it’s his birthday.

He’s thirty. According to his watch, he turned thirty eight hours ago. They haven’t stopped celebrating.

“Zimmerman!” An old roommate slings an arm around his shoulder. He reeks of weed and cologne and the cud of spearmint gum being chewed between his teeth. “Remember your twenty-first? We were over there,” He points into the night, directionless, “Gramercy Park. You remember Rachel? God, I was gonna marry Rachel.”

Rachel had a penthouse. Beyond that, Wyatt can’t remember a thing about her. “Yeah, man. She was hot,” He slurs.

“Holy shit!” His roommate grabs his shoulders, shakes him, like he’s suddenly remembered–– “you’re thirty!”

He’s the first one of his friends to turn thirty. (First to have a job, only one not to leech off his father, or, God forbid, join a multi-level marketing business. But that’s just the perks of having Ivy League friends.) They haven’t stopped poking fun at him since they remembered his birthday was around the corner about a month ago. And now it’s here. 

Well, it was about to be over.

Was it wrong to feel a little down? Feel inflated, all that pent up energy escaping into nothingness? It reminded him that he hated birthdays.

Something buzzes in his pants. He digs out his Nokia, brows pinching together. “It’s my dad.”

“You’re not gonna answer, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

A voice inside his head tells him to answer. “One sec.”

He holds his phone to one ear and cuffs the other with his opposite hand, moving to the outer-skirts of the rooftop bar, still feeling the music pumping through his veins. He’s tall enough that he could easily slide one leg over the top of the railing, hoist himself over the ledge, and free-fall into nothingness. 

Warm alcohol sloshes in his stomach at the thought. He groans.

“Dad?”

“Son.”

“What’s wrong?” He asks. “Is mom okay? Is Mila––.”

“Your sister died tonight. Few hours ago, actually,” He says, gruff as ever, “we’re going over to the hospital to get her stuff. You should come down. Your mother would like that. Yeah, she’d like that.”

“You weren’t with her?” He pushes the heel of his palm into his eye sockets, seeing stars.

“No.”

“I’ll… I’ll drive up tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Was she––?”

“Oh,” There’s a pause, “that’s the hospital calling. I’ve gotta run. Happy birthday, son.”

- 

He has no reason to suspect that today is going to be any different than any other. There’s campaign nonsense that crops up every now and again; finances, pushback, shitty scheduling. But, at the very least, Amanda usually has that covered.

It’s Sunday. He thinks, maybe, he should go to church. But, the second the thought crosses his mind, he finds himself deriding it–– who do you think you are?

Coffee is brewing. CNN is playing. Plaid sweatpants hang from his hips and the New York Times is flayed on the kitchen island, waiting to be read, as it flattens over the marble countertop. Timer beeps. He splashes half-and-half into his cup. Perches the reading glasses he swore he’d never use on his nose. 

Huffs–– in that way his father used to huff, “just because he’s old”– and sinks into his first sip of caffeine for the morning. 

Fuck, that’s good.

“Sorry, Bill. There’s a–– there’s a breaking story from Manhattan.” He lifts his gaze, briefly, to the news reporter tapping her earpiece. “The story is still breaking, but Fox is reporting that Jim Wittman is critically injured, yes critically injured, after a car crash in New York city. Mr. Wittman, who is a candidate for Speaker of the House is– is alive. We’ll let you know when we know more.”

He glances down at his phone. He makes a habit of keeping it turned off before eleven in the morning on weekends (for his own sanity). Maybe he lied before; today is a little different. Today he keeps it by his side.

A text message from his campaign manager lights up his screen.

Frank: Jim’s dead. Congratulations Mr. Speaker.

–

He’s been Speaker of the House for less than six months when Theresa Wright, President of the United States, is shot dead.

Zimmerman makes a speech at her funeral, shakes her family’s hands and addresses the sea of mourners who turn out at the White House, transforming the residency into a fucking garden–– with flowers and wreaths of mourning laid out on the law as far as the eye can see.

There are posters, too, demonstrating a renewed vigor in gun legislation. She’s in cohorts with Lincoln and Kennedy now. She’s a martyr.  

“Of all the ironies about Theresa, a woman I called colleague and friend, perhaps the greatest was this––.” Another camera flashes, another microphone butts against the head of a journalist inches from collapsing from the unusual heat. 

“A woman given the name of Saint Teresa was, in the end, the most selfless, compassionate, and honorable person I’ve ever met in Washington.” 

They don’t expect him to dab his eye, do they?

No, he leaves that to the sniveling congresswoman standing behind him.

“This is not coincidence; this was, and is, a shining example of Wright’s indefatigable conviction.”

He clears his throat; it feels hoarse. 

“And I wish she were still here today.” Maybe if she had quicker reflexes. 

He hangs his head low, and there’s a pregnant pause before he raises his chin, focuses on the crowds, watching them blend together. They were all wearing black; like a massive ink splot that just kept expanding.

Thank God he wasn’t wearing his contacts.

“From my family, to yours–.” 

He sees her father– a team of security insulating him – in the crowd. “We will get through this.” 

He meets with Berkeley a few days after he’s inaugurated. After the funeral. After the briefing, and the statement from the House in support of Berkeley’s Presidency. 

They toast to Wright. Ice cubes clinking together as they melt into whiskey. 

“To you, Mr. President. To your family. And to our dear, departed Theresa who has… paved the way to this very moment, unwittingly.”

There isn’t the slightest trace of melancholy in his voice.

– 

“Here’s a man whose luck doesn’t stop.”

They all raise their glasses to him, and to the bride by his side.

“It really doesn’t. I mean, who gets elected as Speaker of the House at forty? Who’s smack dab in the middle of the greatest political crisis since– I dunno, Chappaquiddick?”

Everyone laughs, including Donna. Wyatt’s lips crack into a grin.

“No, no. That’s always been the way Wyatt has rolled. Nothing ever got him down. Nothing’s out there to get him. And now, I mean, not that I noticed, but you’ve got a pretty hot wife, too.”

Wyatt’s father waves his hand, laughing as he does so, signaling that’s enough now as his wife curls into his side, a little teary-eyed, a lot tipsy.

“Here’s to Wyatt.” His eyes lower into the bubbles popping in his champagne flute. “May your luck never run out.”

“To Wyatt.”

“And may there always be more people who love you than hate you.”

[wyattzimmermcn]

vir's reply causes ywatt's brow to crinkle

wyattzimmermcn‌:

No worries, Vir breezes–– in that easy-going, anxiety-riddled way of his, causing Wyatt’s lips to crease at the corner. He casts a glance over his shoulder at Vir, eyes narrowing slightly as they meander into the Speaker’s Longworth office: the aftermath of John Boehner’s cigar fixation still clinging like a heady perfume to the velvet drapes encasing two bay windows. “’S just a pen, Vir,” Wyatt chides, almost like a father would, “I thought you of all people would be inclined to believe that it’s mightier than the sword.” He winks, rounding his desk and lowering onto the chair across from Vir. “Besides, they’re not all bad. Some have my name on it.”

He has to squint to read the text on Vir’s phone; barely skimming it before realizing what it was about, and granting a shake of his flaxen head. Was it possible to grow tired of hearing your own name? Reading about yourself? Listening to your own words? “Any notable replies?” His eyes (a light hue, shifting between green and blue) meet Vir’s (dark, inquisitve, they remind him of Bambi) and by dint of this subtle look, Vir will know what he means to imply. What did that shit-stain Bell and his shit-eating conspirator have to say about it? “Yes–– you can start drafting at least a thousand reasons why I should keep you on my payroll if you’re so keen on mouthing off.” He’s kidding; Vir doesn’t belong in D.C., he’s known that from the moment he met the boy, seen the way he fits in like an incongruent puzzle piece, but he’s the best damn speechwriter Wyatt’s ever worked with. For what it’s worth, he, perhaps selfishly, hopes he’ll stick. 

“There’s some–– progressive bill floating around. Lowering drug costs. I plan on offering my support, but, at least for now, it can wait.” He glances at Vir, “I assume you’ve had it up to here with talk about Bell’s announcement. It happens when you don’t see it coming: the way home and work life bleeds over. How are you holding up?” 

“Certainly plenty of replies, though I wouldn’t call any of them notable.” Or productive, for that matter. The feed is littered mainly with vitriol from both sides of the aisle, a familiar reminder of why Vir can’t fucking stand politics. “Lots of 60-something white men who suddenly became political scientists overnight. Lots of teenagers contributing their expertise in the form of memes.” He scrolls through some more replies - none of which he can actually say out loud to his boss - before he finds something of substance. “Felix Oliveira retweeted it, though. At least you’ve always got the President on your side.” That’s to be expected, though. If Wyatt didn’t have the full support of the White House then Vir’s resignation would have had to come months ago.

Vir slips his phone in one pocket and grabs his mini notebook from the other. He jots down a few keywords (progressive, lower drug $, good, smiley face) before looking back up at Wyatt. “You don’t have to worry about my home and work life bleeding over, I’m a little too used to it,” he says with a half-shrug. “I guess it just gets a little exhausting. A 24-hour news cycle is good when it comes to forgetting things I’d rather not fixate on, but it’s also tiresome when it comes to blowing up anything that’s new and shiny. It feels sometimes like I have to care about things constantly, even when I truly, honestly have no opinion about them. Doesn’t it ever feel like that to you?”

[wyattzimmermcn]

virzafar‌:

“No worries, I barely waited,” he says. Bullshit. Vir’s been standing around talking to Wyatt’s secretary for the better part of the last half-hour, and while any other member of Wyatt’s staff may have been bitching about Wyatt keeping him waiting, Vir doesn’t mind it. After all, every moment he’s working for Wyatt is one that he isn’t spending at his other job, and between bullshit speechwriting duties and bullshit Second Gentleman duties he’ll take the former every time. “With all due respect, that’s a hard pass on the pens. I don’t understand the American obsession with putting our flag onto everything. Do they think we’ll forget which country this is without the frequent reminders?”

He holds up his phone screen with a half-hearted grin. “This is getting some pretty good traction so far. Lots of retweets.” This being the press release Wyatt decided on instead of any spoken words. Fucking pity - Vir scribbled down some very poignant remarks about patriotism combined with some very subtle jabs about selfishness while he watched the fireworks. “If we aren’t talking about what happened on the Fourth, is there something you do want me drafting?”

No worries, Vir breezes–– in that easy-going, anxiety-riddled way of his, causing Wyatt’s lips to crease at the corner. He casts a glance over his shoulder at Vir, eyes narrowing slightly as they meander into the Speaker’s Longworth office: the aftermath of John Boehner’s cigar fixation still clinging like a heady perfume to the velvet drapes encasing two bay windows. “’S just a pen, Vir,” Wyatt chides, almost like a father would, “I thought you of all people would be inclined to believe that it’s mightier than the sword.” He winks, rounding his desk and lowering onto the chair across from Vir. “Besides, they’re not all bad. Some have my name on it.”

He has to squint to read the text on Vir’s phone; barely skimming it before realizing what it was about, and granting a shake of his flaxen head. Was it possible to grow tired of hearing your own name? Reading about yourself? Listening to your own words? “Any notable replies?” His eyes (a light hue, shifting between green and blue) meet Vir’s (dark, inquisitve, they remind him of Bambi) and by dint of this subtle look, Vir will know what he means to imply. What did that shit-stain Bell and his shit-eating conspirator have to say about it? “Yes–– you can start drafting at least a thousand reasons why I should keep you on my payroll if you’re so keen on mouthing off.” He’s kidding; Vir doesn’t belong in D.C., he’s known that from the moment he met the boy, seen the way he fits in like an incongruent puzzle piece, but he’s the best damn speechwriter Wyatt’s ever worked with. For what it’s worth, he, perhaps selfishly, hopes he’ll stick. 

“There’s some–– progressive bill floating around. Lowering drug costs. I plan on offering my support, but, at least for now, it can wait.” He glances at Vir, “I assume you’ve had it up to here with talk about Bell’s announcement. It happens when you don’t see it coming: the way home and work life bleeds over. How are you holding up?” 

[wyattzimmermcn]

royisms‌:

     Amanda had never been known to be on time for anything, and yet she continued to have to wait for all the more important people she had meetings with. It made her look good, to say the least, and it gave her time to catch her breath after running in heels down the street to not make a fool out of herself. A reunion with the Speaker shouldn’t have made her this jittery but, with everything that had gone down in the past two days, she was giving herself some room to not be her best self. When her phone rang with a notification, Amanda was quick to scan over the press release. Great. “Well, this is…” she looked up as soon as Wyatt finally paid her any attention, once his staff had allowed him to finally meet with her. “A move,” it was a vague comment, if anything. Setting her phone on the desk between them, she tilted her head to the side. “What’s with people and surprise announcements these days, huh? Did I miss that memo?” there was a shadow of a joke somewhere in there. She did, however, grab two pens from the pile and observed them for a moment before tossing them into her purse ( to, probably, be forever lost and never found again ). “How’s the House treating you?” 

Even those who weren’t familiar with Amanda Roy’s work knew that she was one of the best in the business, someone who, despite his rumoured animosity toward Berkeley for failing to nominate him as Vice President, Wyatt admired for putting––of all people––Oliver Zafar on the ballot. He could remember a time, early into his tenure as Representative, when Zafar was just a rookie on the house floor, young and perpetually wide-eyed (both literally and figuratively). And, now, he was a candidate for VP; no doubt in part due to Roy’s diligence. Zimmerman rose a brow to her comment–– unsure if it was some sort of millennial lingo he wasn’t aware of, before gesturing into his office.

“Am I supposed to make a press release announcing a press release?” Wyatt quipped, closing the door behind him as she strode into the impressive space. “Oh, always a warm welcome on the House floor–– it’s an old haunt. How long has it been?” He tilted his head, teeth sinking ever so slightly into his bottom lip, “seven, ten years? I’d say it’s treated me quite well, all things considered. Coffee?” 

[wyattzimmermcn]

HE’S THE #ZIMMERMAN!

[wyattzimmermcn]

ツ for maxie boy!

@maximcortez

[wyattzimmermcn]

ツ

[wyattzimmermcn]

ツ for cindy and/or ginny, u choose

[wyattzimmermcn]

Send me a ツ to see a tweet my muse would post/make about yours

You can use this generator right here.

[wyattzimmermcn]

You've been spanked over your desk, or you have spanked someone over your desk

[wyattzimmermcn]

wyatt had hoped to be the veep nominee instead of oliver

Actually–– no. Would he have liked to have been Veep? Sure as shit! But, he’s barely a year into his tenure as Speaker and I doubt anyone would have expected him to suddenly pull out, even if to be Vice President. Besides, left-leaning Presidents come and go, but it’s important for the House to remain Democratic and Wyatt intends to be a stronghold for his party should the election swing in Bell’s favour. That said, he doesn’t approve of Oliver’s nomination. Not even, like, a little bit. Thinks it’s a stupid decision. Sorry Zafart. 

[wyattzimmermcn]

he's gotten a boner when seeing julian walk by

[wyattzimmermcn]

he had a mullet when he was an intern

“With the photographic evidence to prove it, I‘m afraid.” 

[wyattzimmermcn]

Wyatt definitely misses his sister.

No doubt.

[wyattzimmermcn]

wyatt preferred wright to berkeley

“She was a little more predictable.” Wright was Predictable. Not just in her mannerisms, but in the reactions her admittedly short-lived Presidency would garner. It was often easy to imagine how she’d be perceived, how a decision or legislature that she’d proposed would pan out. She was easy to fit into a box. Berkeley–– on the other hand–– he wasn’t only a different kind of horse, but a different beast entirely. “Less likely to grab a beer with her, though.” 

[wyattzimmermcn]

anonymously make an assumption about me and i'll confirm/deny it

[wyattzimmermcn]

MAX BROWN AS EDWARD SEYMOUR IN THE TUDORS 3X08