A/N: So I decided last night that I just wanted to sit down and write whatever came out of my head. However, after writing one thing for an hour, this idea came to me and took over completely. Although I do quite like how it turned out. It's different from other things I've written, and I had a lot of fun with it.

Warning: This fic contains slight mentions of Reese/Malcolm Wilkercest. If this squicks you, then hit the back button now. As I always say at the beginning of my fics: I do not tolerate flames. I worked hard on this so that people that do like this type of thing can have fun reading it, and I will not have that marred by one person's immaturity.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own MitM. No matter how much I wish I did. MitM is property of its makers, along with the characters therein. The only thing I own is the plot of this story. So no stealing. XP

I do hope you enjoy this as much as I do. ^^

The night air was still as Director Wilkerson stood on the south portico, surveying the south lawn. Despite the lull in the breeze, the air was still chilly, but he did not shy away from it. Instead he let his gaze shift from east to west, the thermal imagers in his glasses showing him each and every agent hidden in the foliage of the gardens. Six teams of two stowed away at different sections of the lawn, each equipped with the same thermal glasses he had. Like him, they watched the grounds intently as they waited.

A click in his ear signaled and he thought the line open.

"Sir, the "Caveman" has arrived."

The faint form of a smile appeared on his lips as he spoke.

"Good. And the Eagle?"

"The Eagle is ready when you are, sir."

The Director cast one last glance about the gardens, noting that all he saw were his own men. With a single thought the view in his glasses changed, and suddenly he was looking down on the grounds from the sky. The view zoomed in and identified each and every man, then zoomed out again. The wider view showed the front lawn and the east and west wings were clear as well. With another thought his sight returned to normal.

He reopened the line.

"The grounds are clear. Tell the Eagle the nest is open... and tell the "Caveman" to hurry his ass up. We don't have all night, and I can feel my fingers beginning to freeze."

"Yes, Director."

There was a hint of amusement in the agent's voice as he closed the line.

The Director turned to his right and his view zoomed in to view the west wing. Escorted by a black-clad Secret Service agent, the President strolled out of the double doors that lead into the Oval Office. Taking a closer look, he could see that the head of state was nearly jogging as he made his way farther onto the south lawn, and the agent was having just a little difficulty keeping up.

Letting that faint smile crop back up onto his lips, the Director turned back to his left, his view zooming out for a brief moment and then zooming back in to watch the east wing. There, a slightly older and taller man, dressed in plain blue jeans and a blue jacket was also being escorted out of the White House by an agent. However, the "Caveman" showed none of the restraint that the President did, and was full-out running to a tree-covered hill at the south-west corner of the lawn. His agent wasn't even attempting to keep up.

Not many knew who the "Caveman" actually was—the agent he had just spoken to knew, and the agent escorting the President knew. Other than that, the identity of the "Caveman" was an issue of national intelligence, and therefore classified as top secret. In fact, only a total of ten people in the world knew, and the six that weren't a part of the government had been sworn to silence. The two agents that were privy to this information were not only highly trained, but were also personal friends of the Director, and he knew they could be trusted.

As they neared the particular hill at the south-west corner of the lawn, the agent escorting the President slowed and turned away, joining the team closest to the meeting spot. The President jogged up the hill and stopped at the base of a tree, leaning against its trunk and waiting. Not long after, the "Caveman" arrived as well.

At this point, Director Wilkerson sent a message to every agent on the lawn, telling their thermal glasses to obscure the face of the President's guest. Until now they had been directed to not watch the meeting place or the new arrivals, but now they were to make sure they were not interrupted.

At all costs.

Next the Director looked to the southern sky, and silently told the Predator Drone that patrolled the air there to turn its lenses elsewhere. Ever since the White House bombing of '22, one of these massive, invisible beasts circled the airspace above the executive mansion—its many cameras swiveling this way and that to keep a close watch on the happenings around Pennsylvania Avenue. Now, though, the cameras that would have normally been surveying the south garden watched an inconspicuous air-conditioning unit that sat above the east wing. It merrily chugged away, unaware of the deadly eyes that watched it, and the Director turned back to the garden.

As he watched, he saw his brothers embrace. With the high-resolution lenses of his glasses he could easily see the stress and tension that had been building up in the President over the past several days begin to manifest itself as the President's shoulders began to shake. He watched the "Caveman" hold his brother tighter, and then he saw them kiss. It was deep and passionate, and so full of longing that it made the Director feel as if the hell he always went through to set these meetings up was quite worth it.

Director Jamie Wilkerson of the CIA was the youngest director the agency had ever had. At thirty-two, he never would have been considered for the job without at least twenty more years of experience than he already had. However, after college he had progressed through the ranks of the agency with startling speed—so much in fact, that the former director had even requested that he work as his own special assistant. And when the old director retired, and the newly-elected President heavily vouched for him, Jamie was given the job.

And boy, did Jamie love his job. He had always known this would be what he'd be good at: he seemed to have an innate ability to get away with things that no one else could even fathom. He was suburb at coordinating others and keeping them hidden, all the while keeping track of his target. He even found that he was an excellent code-breaker, and prior to becoming director, the agency had used him extensively in that area. Yes, he was very, very good at what he did, and he loved every second of it.

He blamed this on his mother... and soap operas. He vividly remembered waring with his mom when he was very little—always hiding from her and sneaking around to avoid her, only to quickly lash out and then dart back into the shadows again. He could remember always finding it hilarious when she would cry in desperation—although he did regret that now. As for the soap operas, they were his one weakness. No other source contained so much deceit and deception, and it was so readily available! When he was younger he would sit and watch them for hours when his babysitters were off doing their own things. He learned many things from them—like constant vigilance and the ability to trust and distrust someone at the same time—and he constantly used those lessons in his current job.

It was his constant vigilance and particularly long memory that tipped him off to his elder brothers'... unusual relationship. He distinctly remembered the way they would sneak off to their room when they thought no one would notice; and that when he would try to open their bedroom doors they were shut tight—blocked by something on the other side. He also remembered how they shared slight, secretive touches and smiles, and how he would then see characters on his soap operas do the exact same thing. It took him only five years to piece the puzzle together, but when he realized what Malcolm and Reese had been doing, strangely he was okay with it. He knew how society looked upon such things as incest, and even homosexuality, but watching things like that occur on TV everyday seemed to have numbed him of any prejudice. Instead, he simply accepted it.

Which was what lead him to be standing on the rear portico of the White House, making very sure that no one was watching, so that his brothers could have some much needed alone time.

President Malcolm Wilkerson was one of the few men elected to office that had never married. He gave no explanation for this (though he was frequently asked), but many members of the media speculated that it was because he really didn't give off a sexual "vibe." Jamie had never been able to figure out how they had come to that conclusion, but he did know that Reese often screamed at his television in attempt to argue with the newscasters that dared to say the President wasn't sexy.

The press also liked to theorize on the possibility that the President might, despite his "unsexy vibe," have a love interest. When the codename 'Neanderthal' had been leaked the media'd had a field day—while Jamie'd had a headache for a week. The news networks had dug and dug and dug, and questioned everyone the President had ever known, but no one had been able to tell them a thing—because no one new who 'Neanderthal' was.

And it was extremely important that no one knew, because what the President was doing was very, very illegal. In fact, newly signed bills by the previous conservative president had made incestuous acts punishable by upwards of twenty years in prison. Being the president, if it were ever discovered that Malcolm was having a gay affair with his older brother, not only would he be impeached and shamed, but he and Reese would also go to prison for a very, very long time. Perhaps the rest of their lives. Jamie had vowed to never let that happen.

See, he hadn't just wanted the director position to be able to sneak around the country and tell people what to do—no, he'd had ulterior motives as well. Ever since the CIA had been incorporated into the Department of Homeland Security, the director of the agency also oversaw the inner workings of the Secret Service. So, as Director, Jamie could keep a very close eye on his older brother, and protect his secret.

Of course, he'd already been doing this for most of his life. After Malcolm had graduated from Harvard and moved back to Millbrook to get his political career started (as a member of the city council), Jamie had taken up the task of keeping his relationship with Reese away from prying minds. Dewey, for example, had threatened to tattle to the local news just to piss Malcolm off, so Jamie threatened to super glue his mouth shut.

Two years later when Malcolm ran for mayor, a reporter showed up at their front door and started asking Hal if the mayor-to-be was involved with anyone. Being the poor oaf that he was, their dad nearly spilled the beans, mumbling and stuttering and tripping over his words; however Jamie easily maneuvered around him and told the reporter that it was none of her business. Then he shut the door in her face, just to make his point.

When Malcolm made his bid for the California governorship and couldn't be in town nearly as often as he would liked to have been, he would send secret emails to Reese, which Jamie would encrypt from his dorm room at MIT.

And finally, when Malcolm had run for President of the United States of America, the old director of the agency had assigned Jamie to be head of his security detail. No one had gotten within fifteen feet of the presidential candidate while his younger brother was on the job, and Jamie felt great pride in being able to do such an astounding job. However, there had been one single thing he had not been able to do for his brother on those long and lonely days and nights of the campaign trail: he couldn't allow him to see Reese.

Therefore, one of the first things he had done as Director was to move Reese from the apartment he used to share with Malcolm back in Millbrook to a secure facility a few kilometers from the White House. Jamie had a very long memory, and he knew that after his brothers' relationship had begun they were nearly inseparable. In fact, Malcolm had nearly had a stroke the day he'd left for college because he hadn't wanted to leave Reese's side; and even while in Massachusetts he could barely function because he was too busy pining away for his brother. It had gotten to the point where Reese actually had to move out to Harvard until he graduated. So Jamie knew that the absence of Reese would make Malcolm a very ineffective president—and so these secret meetings had been born.

Another click sounded in his ear, and the Director opened the line.

"Sir," the voice of a field agent said, "a small plane has been spotted about five clicks out, heading toward Whiskey Hotel."

Within an instant the Director was looking out of one of the cameras that circled high above the White House at a small Cessna biplane. The lettering on the side indicated that it was civilian-owned; however the windows were heavily tinted, and the night vision cameras on the Predator could not see through them. With a thought Jamie switched to thermal optics, and suddenly could see two people inside the plane. One was the pilot and wasn't of much note, but the other sat in the passenger seat and carried something large that simmered as it produced minimal heat. It was about the size of a television camera.

The Director continued to scrutinize the image before him, but reopened the line to his agent.

"Analysis," he said. "Is that a camera?"

The response took only a few seconds to return.

"It does match the specifications of several camera models, yes. However, sir, analysis is incomplete because we can't get a clear view of the subject."

The Director thought for a moment, zooming the Predator's thermal camera as far as it would go and watching the person that sat in the passenger seat of the biplane. If these people were from the media and planned to, hopefully, get midnight footage of the President, they sure weren't being very secretive about it. Really, though, it didn't matter either way, because they were headed straight for the White House, and White House airspace was restricted.

Jamie addressed his agent again.

"Have you made contact?"


"And you've informed them that the airspace over the White House is restricted?"

"Yes sir, all according to protocol."

"What was their reply?"

The agent paused for a moment, and the Director could already tell there were going to be problems.


"Uh... Sir, they say they had no idea they were in restricted airspace, and that they'll turn around immediately. However..."

"They're not turning around," Jamie said, continuing to eye the plane through the drone's cameras. "I see them. Give me a direct line."


A second later and another click sounded in Jamie's ear.

"Unauthorized Cessna," he said, "you are in restricted airspace. Turn around now. You have less than a kilometer to comply."

The voice that came back sounded gruff, and extremely annoyed.

"Yeah, yeah, you already told us that. We'll turn around in a second, get off our case."

Anger flared in Jamie's chest, and he very nearly told the Predator Drone to do something he knew he shouldn't. However, his soap operas, along with lessons from Dewey had also taught him self-control, and he squashed it. He did, however, give the Cessna one final warning.

"Unauthorized Cessna," he said, crisply and cleanly, "you are speaking to the Director of the CIA. If you do not comply and turn around within thirty seconds your plane with be shot down. Is that understood?"

The pilot of the plane laughed in his ear.

"Oh please, don't try that bullshit on me. I know my rights, and you can't shoot down a privately owned plane. It's illegal and you know it. And y'know what? We ain't turnin' around. Tell the Prez to smile, would ya? Gotta get good ratings."

Without even realizing it, Jamie ordered his view to switch back to normal, and he was suddenly watching Malcolm and Reese lying against a tree. Reese's arms were around the President, and he was whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Shaking his head and regaining control of his uplink, Jamie ordered the Predator to become visible.

"Cessna pilot, direct your attention directly northeast."

After only a second the pilot's startled reply came down through his ear piece.

"What the hell is that?!"

In the background Jamie could hear the passenger shouting as well.

"That is a heavily armed Raptor Predator Drone. The security of the White House is my responsibility, and if you do not turn around immediately, I am well within my right to order that drone to destroy your plane. You have less than twenty seconds to comply. Turn around."

Less than a second later the Cessna was reversing its course, and hightailing it away from the White House.

"White House airspace secured, sir," the same agent as before said.

"Good," the Director said, ordering the Drone to become invisible again. "Let's keep it that way."

He looked back to the tree where the President had been sitting with Reese to find that the two were now standing up, and apparently exchanging goodbyes. Glancing towards the top rim of his glasses, Jamie saw that it had almost been an hour since the private meeting had begun; it was nearly one in the morning. As he watched, Reese and Malcolm kissed one last time, Reese's arms lingering around the President's shoulders for only a moment, before parting and going their separate ways. Immediately Reese's escort was at his side, and as the President made his way back to the White House the six Secret Service teams slowly began to follow him.

Jamie watched as Malcolm turned to one of his escorts and said something, and then as the agent handed him something too small for his night vision to see. A second later there was a clicking in his ear.

"Sir? The President would like to speak with you."

"Put him through."

Another clicking in his ear.


Malcolm's voice sounded both elated and sad at the same time. Jamie knew this tone well—he'd heard it most of his life. Always after Reese had had to leave.

"Yes, Mr. President?"

He heard a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. Malcolm didn't like it when he called him 'Mr. President.'

"Why did the Predator decloak? 'Caveman' thought it might be for our benefit. I shouldn't have to remind you that that thing isn't a toy, 'Mr. Director.'"

Jamie internally cringed at the patronization, but he knew Malcolm was only joking with him. Most likely to stifle the pain he was feeling. Not for the first time, Director Wilkerson wished there was something more he could do about that.

"No sir, you don't. It was simply a demonstration to a stubborn biplane pilot that refused to leave restricted airspace."

"I see. That's fine then."

Malcolm had made it to the portico, choosing to enter though the door at the base rather than back through the oval office. Two Secret Service agents silently flanked him. A cold breeze began to blow as the President stopped short of the door, and instead looked up the portico at the Director of the CIA. For a short moment their eyes met, and Jamie could see, even without infra-red or thermal vision that there were tears in the President's eyes. And further into those eyes were swirling, painful emotions mixed in with such mind-crushing responsibility that Jamie nearly looked away. However, he steadied his hand upon the railing and continued to gaze down at his brother, unmoving and unflinching.

"And Director?" The President said, smiling up at him slightly. "Thanks for everything."

"Yes, Mr. President."

A/N: I always figured that Jamie would make the perfect spy--he was always disappearing, only to reappear later with no one the wiser. I also figured that if Malcolm was to be the president that Jamie would naturally be in charge of protecting him. I did take some liberties with the different government agencies (the CIA is currently its own organization, and outside the Department of Homeland Security), but I figured since this takes place around thirty years in the future that things might've changed.

Also, if you'd like to know what the current version of a predator drone looks like, simply Google it. Then to imagine what the one in this fic looks like, imagine your Google search, but three or so times larger.

I hope you enjoyed this. Feedback is greatly appreciated, but reviews are never necessarily necessary.