As if he was possessed by an alternate ego President Bowmore was once more his old self. He woke up to a cheery kiss to his wife's cheek, took his hot and cold shower and, as he slipped into the presidential suit, felt like it fit his shoulders better than ever before. During the meeting with the Secretary of Defense and the meeting with the Secretary of Foreign Affairs he didn't simply listen and nod, but asked questions, proposed ideas, and even gave a few wayward smiles that neither Secretary could class.
"What's next on my schedule, Abby?"
"You have a free period now, Mr. President." She answered without a glance to her book.
"Really? I guess I'll have lunch with Monica." He shot a glance at his watch. It was already noon - almost past lunchtime. "Thank you, Abby. When is the next meeting?"
"At two. It's with your advisers, Mr. President, sir."
"Thank you. I'll come back to you later." With a pat to her arm and a curt but honest smile he turned away and immediatly fished out his phone to call Monica. She responded quickly, and by the time he'd crossed to the dining room lunch was already prepared.
***
"You look different, Alistair." She said. She'd been observing him through the whole meal. Not only did he look truely rested, something he hadn't in months, but he also looked brand-new, as if it were his first weeks of presidency and he hadn't been put to plague by the offers and expectations the rest of the world threw his way.
"Really?" He answered after he'd swallowed his mouthful of quiche. "I slept much better - you were right darling, the pills weren't doing me any good at all." He laughed and speared up another fork of lunch. "What would I do without you?"
"Je sais pas, cheri." She answered in French.
"I'm sorry I couldn't go to the last ultraschall scan. I will certainly go to the next one."
"What if you have an important meeting?"
"Then I'll push it to a later hour." His cheeky smile made butterflies burst in her tummy; he hadn't said such a thing since before they'd gotten married. So, there was much more love in her eyes as she gazed at him, and she realized, fort the first time in a while, that she couldn't look away. There he was - the man she loved - her Alistair, not a president in that moment, but a man who she could trust and depend on. The father of her child. She forgot all about the incident where he'd uttered the wrong name - Anne - and remembered all the times he'd softly called her name when they'd first met, how he'd stuggled to learn French...
"Do you have a name or our child?" She asked, resting her chin onto her ready palm and completly ignoring the rest of the quiche on her plate. She didn't expect him to have though about it, but he dropped the fork and leaned back in his chair.
"Of course I have." Alistair answered. "I was thinking that it would be good if his or her first name was French and the second one more America. Perhaps Jaquline Jade? Or Lilou May?"
"Lilou May, I like that one..." Monica answered after she'd gotten over her suprise - he'd really changed overnight. "I'll have to write that one down...any others for a girl?"
"Elodie River, I think it sounds good together - poetic."
"I really like that one too. You've really thought about it."
"Yes. And if it's a boy - Jean-Pierre Royal." He chuckled at the name. "Jean-Pierre Royal Bowmore - why not? If you don't want such a flashy name we could also do a more simple one - Remy March or Louis Sage."
"I like all of them..." Monica answered softly. She got up and stepped up to him, running her hand over his shoulder and down to his chest where she toyed at the buttons on his shirt. "You're you again." She said after a moment of silence.
"Yes. Yes I am." He answered with a curl of his lips. He rested his cheek against the back of her hand. They stayed like this for a long second, her arms around her lovers neck and his head in her sweet embrace. "We could also give him or her a German name - like Adler."
"Alder?"
"Adler means eagle, cherie. Adler Dion Bowmore..." He looked up at her and kissed her fingers gently.
"It sounds beautiful." She agreed. "Adler Dion..." They're lips met and although their kiss was short it was passionate. Stalin once said - why kiss if it's not passionatly? The words echoed in his head as he pulled away.
"And to what you said earlier about me being me again - sometimes all a man needs is an order - a vision you might say - and afterwards his life once again has an ease to it." He kissed her fingers again.
And his words made her laugh. She thought them to mean that he'd finally realized that he was about to be a father. Once again she felt a surge of love, and when she stared into his eyes she mistaked the brown for an ocean blue, one that held all the sweet caress that waves kiss to the shores.
But he hadn't meant the child. He'd meant the Lager. Uncertainty was dead - he knew what lay before him, and he knew how much strengh it would take to endure it.
But he let his lover rest with the Vorstellung (idea) of his joy and sudden fire of inspiration to be about their child. "Now finish you're lunch, Monica darling, you're eating for two. And honestly," he swapped a look with his empty plate, "I think I'll have another slice of quiche it was delicious."