Summary: Two months after the attacks in Washington, Asher tries to piece the country, his life and what's left of his family together.

Rating: T

Author's Note: I saw the movie the other day and couldn't resist. I like Aaron Eckhart. Not much fan fiction here. I decided to contribute. (Title change from 'The Tutor'.)

E. Pluribus Unum

Chapter I

A fist flew through the air followed by a strong upper cut that impacted soundly into bruised muscles. There was a gasp of agony. The sound of a man hurt but slowly recovering from the assault. Slinking back the man quickly regrouped, boxing gloves up and coated with the sheen sweat of his adversary.

The man struck out…a strong jab… sadly missing his opponent. The phantom punch connecting with wind not a face.

Mike Banning watched with intense curiosity as Asher geared up for another attack. His eyes were squinted and his face scrunched in fierce determination. He read him easily. He dodged a third blow to his face. Another to his kidney. Asher was out of practice and poorly out of shape. The man was soaked like a wet beach towel and he was dragging in air like patient on life support.

Banning twisted his lips in disappointment. There was no challenge here. Not like it had been.

Once there was a time when Asher could meet Banning blow for blow. Punch for punch. Some matches ended in a draw and with the two men laughing and patting each other on the back. Knocking back cold beers as they recounted the sparring match. It was ridiculously simple now. He effortlessly picked apart Asher's aggressive tactics landing a punch to the face and one the lower left quadrant of his abdomen.

Asher let out a pained grunt and Banning came to a screeching halt. He watched Asher swing his arm to protectively cradle his stomach. A pinch of blood staining his white t-shirt. Banning munched at one glove with his mouth, pulling it off he walked over to his friend.

"Why'd you stop?" Asher panted out, glancing up at him in question.

"How bad is it?"

Asher shook his head, mouth thinning into a tight line. "It's nothing."

"I think you may have ruptured your wound."

"Don't worry about it?"

Banning reached out with his naked hand, but Asher evaded him. "Ben, it's my job to worry. I got it pounded into me at the academy." He lightly smacked at Asher's arm, knocking it away. "Let me see."

He peeled the sweat damp shirt up, exposing the stomach, inspecting the damage. His brain worked as memories suddenly compiled. A day of mayhem. Of infamy. A day in Hell. Asher had suffered a gunshot wound. It had gone through cleanly but the effect was so terrifying he'd gone immediately into a thing like death. In all the intensity, madness, and heart racing anger Banning thought he'd lost him. His efforts all for naught. It was only after he decoded Cerberus that he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He spun round ready to strike but came into eye contact with a friend.

Banning examined injury. It was circular, almost in the form of a severe car cigarette lighter burn. It had crusted into a purplish black welt but a sliver of blood was now oozing from underneath the scar. The surrounding skin was a deeper shade of red fading out to a somber hue of feverish pink.

"You've erupted the scab, it's not too bad. We'll have Dr. Johnson take a look at it."

Asher grimaced pulling his shirt down. "No, don't bother calling him. I'll just put some peroxide on it and it will be fine." Bowing the rope to the box ring, he climbed down, and started ripping his boxing gloves off.

"Ben, you know its protocol. I have to report this. Every nick and every scratch you get has to be reported and then documented in your medical chart. You know this."

"God damn it Mike I said I'm fine! I'm not a damn china doll that going to shatter into a million pieces." Asher chucked his boxing gloves to one side. They bounced off the wall and slid to the floor in a heap. He glared. "You're still pulling your punches."

"I was just trying to ease you back into it Ben," replied Banning.

"I don't need to be eased into anything. I almost died two months ago. I think I can handle anything life throws at me, including a punch from you."

Mike flashed a smug grin, folding his powerfully muscled arms over his chest. "Oh, you think so."

"I know so," Asher laughed. "Let me wash up and then we'll grab some breakfast." He reached over and plucked a towel from the bench and made his way to small bathroom. His short jaunt was detoured by the appearance of secret service agent.

"Hey Randy, how's it going?" asked Asher.

"Quite well, Mr. President, sir."

Randy, Randolph David O'Bryan, was a lean, strapping red-hair man with bright green eyes full lips and a charismatic smile. His high color and cheeks lightly dusted with freckles suggested a strong genetic tie to the old country.

He nodded towards Mike, his eyes taking on a gleam of reverence and respect. A sudden awe at being in the presence of the country's greatest hero. Mike's face took on a disheartened frown. He was getting tired of it all. Tired of the glamor and fame rescuing the President had commended him. He was no hero. He was just a man. A man well trained who happened to be in the right place at the right time. And thanks to the media splashing his image on virtually every magazine in the entire world…he could never go undercover.

"Randy," Mike shrugged into a thick dark blue hoodie. With his heart beat slowing down, the room was becoming uncomfortably chilly. "Is Martha keeping those biscuits for us?"

"Warm and buttery," he replied. "Just as you like it sir."

"Don't sir me. I'm not the one in charge," said Banning.

"But I am," Asher approached Randy, a towel roped around his neck. He checked his wristwatch. "8:30. It's a bit early. I didn't think I needed a security detail to go to the bathroom."

"I'm sorry sir, but Vance just received a call from Headmaster Anderson. It's your son, Connor, he was in another fight."

()()()()

Established in 1809, St. Michaels School for boys was funded and its land bequeathed by Eleanor Watson, a wealthy socialite who later died with issue. The house itself was a magnificent design of masonry and post Medieval architecture resting on 12 acres of rich, spacious land. With rich history tying it the Presidency and deep fundamental religious ethics, St. Michaels was the perfect place for Connor to blossom not only academically, but morally as a human being.

At least, that was how Margaret always factored it.

Honestly, the whole idea of Connor entering a private school, especially one with faith based principles left Asher somewhat ill. But that was before the accident. And before he witnessed the destruction of one the most secure buildings in the world and the death of hundreds of brave and noble men.

After the horrifying ordeal, Asher prayed for the first time in his life. Prayed for a new beginning for his country and his son. But soon the boy began to act out. Violently. Fistfights. Snide remarks to his teachers. His grades had plummeted. He sought out a Child Psychiatrist for his son. Told him he thought about pulling Connor out of school. Just for a little while. Perhaps scraping together some close quality time with his son would mend their bond and ease the pain inflicted in the last two years.

The doctor informed him it was a bad idea. That the nurturing wisdom and spiritual guidance of St. Michaels was the best place for his son to be. All would be will he stated. Except all was not well. Connor was not well.

"8:30. A new record."

Mike swiveled in his seat at the front of the limo. A monster of a vehicle surrounded by a convoy of heavily armed guards, agents, and D.C. officers. "Sorry, sir?"

"Nothing," the President sighed.

Asher let his eyes drop from the scenic route blurring pass his window. At 10:45 EST the Presidential motorcade departed the Dumbarton House to make the journey to St. Michaels. On the way he caught a glimpse of the White House. Construction workers. Crane lifts. Dump trucks littered the front lawn. Endless neon signs and police officers were stationed out front. Some directed traffic while others blocked bystanders and hot shot paparazzi from taking pictures.

"She looks good," said Mike.

Asher nodded his head in agreement. "Yes she does," he said softly. "How many more months before we can return?"

"The foreman hopes to be done by New Year's but," Banning hesitated. "There was a lot of structural damage and…and a lot of flowers."

"I know," Asher returned his gaze to the dizzying world going by. "I know." He remembered it being a rainy afternoon in Washington D.C. when dozens of families upon thousands of people came to place flowers on the front lawn. It was impossible to light candles as the day wore into the night. Yet there were flowers such as he had never seen. It took the cleanup crew a good week to carefully gather up all the withered arrangements once construction commenced.

At the same time, Asher and his entire administration was packed up and relocated to the Dumbarton House. He could only chuckle inwardly at the irony the day the motorcade stopped in front of the Federal style house. History recalled Dolley Madison, the First Lady, having to flee to this particular place when the British invaded in 1814.

"How's the monument coming along?"

"It's almost complete sir. They'll put the marble in once the White House is finished."

"Good. I'm glad to hear that. It's probably my first and last piece of good news for the day."

Banning heard the meaning in Asher's tone and studied the President for a moment. "It's probably nothing sir."

"Probably? Are you sure about that?" Asher slanted his gaze.

"Connor… 'Sparkplug'… he's a good kid."

"Who's taken a keen interest in practicing MMA moves on his fellow students?"

"I didn't teach him any of that," Mike coughed, tugging at his tie which had grown rather tight around his neck.

Asher snorted. "You didn't have to. With YouTube… the internet… there's a beehive of information just at his fingertips." He sighed reclining his head against the soft leather.

"You all right sir?"

"Yeah," Asher slowly closed his eyes in an attempt to catch up on some sleep. "Wake me when we arrive Mike."

"Will do sir."

()()()()

President Benjamin Asher counted over forty anxious faces pressed against windows the instant his limo pulled to the main doors of St. Michaels. Another ten students stood gaping in shocked disbelief by the water fountain.

"They act as though they'd never seen you here before sir," Mike said, moving to the head of a diamond position. Since the attack security had been elevated and executed with extreme prejudice.

"They haven't," replied Asher. "This is the second time I've been here. Margaret was always the one…"

He cleared his throat at the memory of his dearly departed wife. Although the sorrow and anguish had abated, the sting of remembering had not gone away; maybe it never will. He noticed the tension rise in Mike's shoulder and acknowledge the guilt and burden he still carried. It had been his call. And Margaret died. The sane part of his brain believed the special agent had made the right choice but his heart…now and again…still condemned him. Especially on nights when he was lonely and his bedroom was all too quiet.

Their friendship was far from what it used to be yet since that horrific day it was on the rebound.

"Mr. President, my god this is an honor," came a short stubby man with receding hair, a fat face and round black rimmed glasses. He introduced himself as Wendell Simmons, one of the administrators at St. Michaels. "I am sorry we have to meet under these circumstance and my condolences regarding your wife, Margaret Asher. She was a fine lady and…"

"Where is my son?" Asher demanded cutting through the horseshit. He stared down angrily at the now trembling Simmons.

Adjusting his glasses, Simmons cleared his throat. "Yes sir, right this way." He swung around in his markdown shoes to lead the group to Headmaster Anderson's office. They marched down the hall, footsteps in unison.

"Beside me ace," Mike barked in annoyance, knocking the little man to the side. He meant no disrespect but he needed his line of vision clear at all times. A full 180 degrees.

"Yes…my apologizes…" he narrowed his gaze; recognition coming to view. "My word, are you not…?"

"Armed and dangerous," Mike barked, his expression one of grim reservation.

One or two agents stifled a laughed as Simmons swallowed and fiddled with his glasses. Skipping ahead he led them soundlessly to a spacious chamber fitted more into a private study rather than a waiting room. Entreating the President to wait, and going up toward an impressive wall made of mahogany, Simmons knocked and spread the double doors wide at the sound of a beckoning voice.

"Headmaster Anderson," he announced in all grandeur. "The President of the United States."

Asher entered with Mike alone following him, guarding, watching him like a hawk. Several steps inside Asher froze at the sight of his son Connor seated in front of an antique cherry wood desk. He looked mauled but definitely not beaten. His dirty blond hair was unruly; bits of leaves and twigs stuck out of the strands. The right sleeve of his blue blazer was torn at the seams. Dirt and debris dusted the whole of his clothes. His bottom was split and the skin of his face was flushed red.

"Connor…I thought…"

"Please take a seat Mr. President," Headmaster Anderson interrupted and with a gnarled left hand indicated for the Asher to take the seat next to his son.

He was an elderly man of seventy, beady grey eyes, a beak shape nose with a permanently endowed frown at the corners of his mouth. His hair was all but gone except for the few strands which were tapered and well groomed at the back of his skull. And unlike Simmons, he never had need of glasses, surprising for a man of advanced years.

"Let me start by addressing that in all my years at Saint Michaels, I have never seen such behavior displayed. It is true we have the everyday ragamuffins conjuring pranks on each other and the teachers, but such open show of brutality…" His gaze pinned Connor before traveling to the President.

Asher shifted uncomfortably in his chair, feeling as though he was back in the fourth grade facing Amanda Wheeler, the school principle. "What happened?" He asked cutting the onslaught and glancing down at his son.

"Ricky, just wouldn't stop picking on me," grumbled Connor.

"Yes," Anderson warbled. "The Harrington boy. Master Davis informed me the boy had been molesting Connor quite frequently."

Asher railed, "You knew this kid was bullying my son and you did nothing about it."

Headmaster Anderson straightened in his chair and his eyes came close together. Benjamin Asher may be President of the United States but he was not about to let the man intimidate him. "His parents have been notified about his conduct and he will be punished accordingly. Nevertheless, your son's behavior in the last few short months have taken a downward spiral. Outbursts, incomplete assignments, and total lack of respect for authority." Anderson held up his hands. "I understand the loss of his mother, the recent tragedies, has had a traumatic affect Mr. President, but your son cannot continue walk around with a chip on his shoulder. There is code of conduct here that we follow to the letter."

"I understand Mr. Anderson and I promise you," Asher assured. "This will never happen again."

"I would like to believe that."

"You will. He WILL change." He looked at his son hard and was irritated to see the boy was hardly fazed by the conversation. He was slouched in the chair, staring dazedly out the window. Asher knocked the back of his hand into Connor's arm. "RIGHT! This will never happen again."

Connor sighed, rolling his eyes. "Right."

"You're sorry," Asher stressed through gritted teeth.

"I'm sorry." Like a subservient altar boy, his son bowed his head, thrusting his bottom lip up in a pout.

"'Repentance is not so much remorse for what we have done as the fear of the consequences.' And there are consequences Young Master Asher. A three weeks suspension effective immediately and the completion of assignments you have failed to hand into your teachers."

"What?" Connor jumped in his seat and looked at his dad pleadingly.

"Isn't that a little harsh?"

"If I had my will Mr. President the boy would be expelled but that would be bad for Saint Michaels and bad for you." Anderson said coolly.

Asher sank back into his chair in a dawning realization. "Oh, I see." He did see. Was it always politics?

"No. You do not. You are lucky Richard Harrington's parents are not pressing charges." Anderson rose with some difficulty but eventually got to his feet. "Now if we are all finished here I have duties I must attend too."