Chapter Text
“Ellie,” Marlene says, removing her glass from the desk and folding her arms on the wood. Ellie scowls- she’s been trying to spill Marlene's drink by kicking the desk ever since she got called into the woman's office. “Listen to me.”
“I’m literally listening,” Ellie says in an exaggerated valley-girl drawl. The woman opposite her doesn’t quite crack a smile. “What were you saying?”
Marlene sighs. “I was telling you that you are not allowed to keep firing security personnel assigned to you. Or threatening restraining orders against them when they don’t leave.”
“Maybe don’t assign me a fucking idiot, then.” Ellie resumes her (now pointless) kicking. “I’ve seen exhumed presidents with more protective ability than Michael.”
Maybe this is unfair; her current guard isn’t as awful as Ellie’s comments both behind his back and to his face would convey, he’s just so nice . On his first day he called looking after Ellie an ‘honour and a privilege’, which made her laugh until she realised he was serious and now somewhat offended. In her defence, being the glorified babysitter of the president’s bastard child has and will never warrant that description- he basically just hovers around her for the duration of rare moments outside her room, protecting Ellie from exactly zero threats to her safety. Also, the guy never stops smiling (creepy), and in her repeated tests of his reflexes (throwing things at him when he gets too close) he has proven alarmingly slow.
“Michael served in the military for eight years.”
Ellie narrows her eyes. “I’ll text my dad to give him a fucking medal.”
The sarcasm of that statement doesn’t take much effort. Not only would Ellie’s father literally rather die than give her anything she asked for, she also doesn’t have his number on the White-House-approved cell she carries around- they haven’t interacted enough for her to slip in a question about his contact information (not that she frequently wants to text him, anyway). His dislike of his youngest child is no secret to Ellie or the staff here; she’s wondered why he bothered pulling her out of the foster system at all when the paternity results came out. According to Seth, the awful PR guy who consistently smells of mothballs and mold, it’s a worse look for a president to have an abandoned bastard child than one he’s ‘integrating into a healthy family unit’.
“Would you work with me on this, Ellie?” Marlene is saying, arms folded across the desk. “I’m not trying to ruin your life here, kid, but you gotta be mature about this. Act like an adult.”
Ellie huffs. “I’m not dealing with Michael unless you agree to lobotomise me first. Then at least we can be on the same level.”
Ignoring this, Marlene goes on, “I’m prepared to give someone else a shot. But no guarantees you’ll like him any better.”
“I’ll take anyone except the secret seventh Brady Bunch kid.” Ellie says. This, like the majority of everything she says, is ignored. Being the kid of the president got old really quick when she realised everyone still treated her like dog-shit.
***
The new security guy is decidedly not the slick-back-blonde-hair-body-like-a-fucking-Dorito Michael. He’s older, verging on old but not quite at the stage of becoming an issue for the not-dying deal. He’s taller than Michael was, both a blessing and a curse since that lengthens the height difference between Ellie and him considerably. Greying hair, broad shoulders, scruffy almost-beard, permanent frown-lines in his face, plain shirt and dark jeans. Michael favoured black t-shirts and pants, like he was KC Undercover. Cliche asshole.
( “His name’s Joel Miller,” Marlene had said. “He’s very good at what he does, but he won’t appreciate being assigned to the kid of the president. He’s used to more complex work.”
“Sucks for him.” Ellie had replied .)
Now, she can see that Marlene was right; this guy is not happy to be here. She makes a big show of looking him up and down again, then raises her eyebrows.
“I’m Ellie.” She says pointedly. Not that she’s into all the pretentious bullshit about status here, but he’s supposed to introduce himself first.
“Joel.” He responds flatly. He’s Texan, which as far as Ellie’s concerned is an accent-imitating jackpot. She can’t imagine what the fuck he’s doing in Washington, though, and as one of the chief security guards on the White House’s team. If she was from Texas she’d want to stay there and spend all her time going to rodeos or cooking ribs.
"Can I call you Joe?"
"No."
"Jojo?"
"Absolutely not."
There's a brief silence.
“You’re gonna stop me from getting shot in the face?”
“That’s the job.”
They’re down near the kitchens, because Marlene’s a fucking stalker and she knows that Ellie only ever eats late at night or early in the morning so she doesn’t have to deal with anyone else. This time, she was delighted to make the entire journey without some steroid-pumped security guy behind her, but that joy has now been decidedly interrupted by the arrival of his replacement.
“...Great. I’m gonna combust if I don’t eat soon, so this has been a beautiful moment but I’ll see you when you’re needed.” Ellie tries to move past him towards the kitchens, but he’s following her as soon as she takes a single step. Motherfucker knows the drill. Annoying. “I can go into the kitchens by myself.”
“No, you can’t.” He says. Ellie turns and crosses her arms. He looks down at her like he’s imagining hitting her with a tennis racquet. “I go where you go.”
“Sure- like, generally. What difference does a wall make?”
“How many gallons of blood the cleaners are wiping off of it.”.
Ellie snorts. “Dramatic, dude.”
“Go.” He orders. Ellie’s pretty sure he’s not meant to be telling her what to do unless it’s life-or-death, but she’s also running on yesterday’s cornflakes and doesn’t have the energy to argue before another meal.
***
The rest of the day passes about as pleasantly as can be imagined when you’re professionally tethered to the word ‘irritable’. Ellie’s met with nothing but short replies and disapproving silences when she suggests fun, friendship-building activities like testing out Joel’s bullet-proof vest or ending her father’s presidency by taking a picture of him in the shower and sharing it on her non-existent social media pages (Joel’s favourite phrase ever, it seems, is “I’m not your friend.”).
At one point, she’s bored enough to actually get some of her schoolwork done, with Joel lingering silently outside her bedroom door. It isn’t unusual; Ellie spends a lot of time in her room, since Michael never really had a reason to go inside, given the lack of windows. He remained in thehallway or actual bedroom- the formal once that gets Christmas decorations put on it for photographing and has its sheets changed once a week despite their utter lack of use. Ellie’s bedroom is allegedly only a closet, but the still-packed moving box of clothing fits in one corner and leaves plenty of room for her to spread out, so the space is used to house a desk, a few posters of Ellie’s favourite bands and comics (none of them presidential-playlist approved) and drawings that she thinks are less shitty than others. There’s a fold-out bed and Ellie’s only picture of Riley taped to the wall above it, as well as an ironic campaign sign for the leader of the other party in the last election. If they took a video of this room for her father’s Christmas decor tour, Ellie’s pretty sure she would be assassinated. Inside job, of course.
Ellie isn’t stupid and she’s not always an asshole either so she tells Joel about the second bedroom- just so that he doesn’t say she’s been kidnapped or something dumb. To her relief, he doesn’t pretend to be interested in her music taste or whoever that girl on the wall is; instead, he nods once and turns back to study the opposite wall of the hallway in true robot fashion.
Unfortunately for Ellie, her schoolwork proves spectacularly boring (duh), so she only spends about twenty minutes on it before giving in to the allure of listening to increasingly terrible music in an attempt to get a reaction from her new guard. No dice on Witch Doctor by Alvin & the Chipmunks, 0r that song about gummy bears, even after the fifth time she plays it. Bored again , Ellie lies on her bed and tries to count to a million, but gives up at fourteen because there's a tiny spider on her wall that she has to rescue before the evil cleaners come and kill it. After that, she tests her own genius by designing complex mathematical equations, but they prove just as mind-numbing because she can’t even solve them.
Ellie’s Very Extremely Worthwhile passtimes get old, fast. There’s nothing to do and her mind is drifting to places she’s determined it won’t go, parking lots and the smell of bile, so she forces herself out of bed and into the hallway- even her emotionless security guard has to be better than nothing.
However, in a truly shocking turn of events, Ellie’s likelong streak of terrible luck finally decides to relent; it’s not Joel out there, but Tess, the night guard.
“Hey, kid.”
Tess is cool in the way nobody else in this house is. She’s the only adult in Ellie’s life who gives her some level of dignity about choosing where she goes and what she does (although she does draw the line at parkour down the stairs), and the feeling of being trusted makes Ellie trust her , an incredibnly unique sentiment these days. It helps that Tess brings her tubs of pasta at one in the morning, she supposes. Who could’ve guessed that treating Ellie like a person might make her act like one?
“How’d your first day with Joel go?” She asks. Ellie looks up at her between mouthfuls of carbonara and tries to express her annoyance with just her eyebrows. “Huh. That bad?”
Ellie swallows just enough pasta to reply, “Have you met the guy? Pretty sure you guys need to have an are you a robot? quiz at the start of job applications.”
Tess snorts. “He’s serious, but he’s good at his job. Better than Michael, yeah?”
Ellie has to agree. “Have you worked with him, or something?”
“Yeah, we did some shit on the same team before coming here.”
“Like, dark shit? Like war crimes and stuff?”
Tess rolls her eyes. Ellie is very adamant about wanting to know about her past jobs, even though all of them are apparently ‘classified’. That’s probably just another way of saying they aren’t as cool as they sound. “No.”
“Annoying. So, what’s his deal?”
“His ‘deal’?”
Ellie widens her eyes expressively. “He’s a total prick. Up his own ass, or something.”
Tess shrugs. “That’s for you to find out, kid. Not my business.”
“But you said you knew him!”
“I do. But the Joel Miller I get isn’t gonna be the one you get- you aren’t his coworker.”
Ellie wrinkles her nose. “Can you at least tell me if he’s gonna snitch about me smoking?”
One of Ellie’s only conversations with her father that was civil for more than a minute ended with her trying to convince him that legalising weed for fourteen-year-olds would be a good campaign promise. He didn’t agree, and the conversation landed Ellie in a four-day drug education course against her will. It hasn’t quashed the habit to any meaningful degree, though her supply is dwindling dangerously.
“I’ll ask him not to, but no promises. You know I don’t like it either, right?”
Ellie sighs. “Yeah, yeah. It’s only on special occasions. Birthdays and tea parties.”
“Uh-huh.” Tess says sceptically. “Well, kid, as fun as this conversation is, I’m meant to tell you to start sleeping.”
“Well, I’d better go do that. Since it’s an order, and all.” Ellie salutes sarcastically, disappearing into her room and drawing rude pictures of her father to distribute around the house tomorrow.