I don't own the characters or ABC's Scandal (property of Shonda Rhimes); summary to come.
It wasn't that they'd been dancing around each other for maybe ten, eleven years of their lives. It wasn't his uncle or her mother or any friend's meddling set-up. No gossip was heard around high school, boarding school, college, or first job. Neither of them drank—not publicly, not much, at least—so that ruled out stupid, sophomoric confessions of love. It was just inevitable. They were the unstoppable force and immovable object, hurtling toward each other and infinitely certain, even though they didn't know it until it hit them, and even then. Well, even then, they still had to figure it all out.
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"Good morning, Governor."
Another Monday, another young, enterprising intern putting another file on his desk. Fitzgerald Thomas Grant, his father's son, couldn't help but give her the once over. This one—Annie? Andie? Emma?—had a little more flair than the last. By that, Fitz supposed, he meant that she had a nose ring and a tattoo that peeked out from behind her ear. Briefly, he thought he might like to see what it felt like to kiss her in that soft spot, to really see if it was a butterfly or Tinkerbell, whatever remnant of earlier years she'd decided to give pride of place, but not too much.
He shook his head.
"Thank you."
He nodded and tried to sound firm instead of forgetful. The intern turned and left, closing the door without a word. He had to start learning their names.
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"No, Dad. Still no. That's just how it's going to be."
Olivia Carolyn Pope would always hate the power her father held over her. Sunday had always been, and would always be, family time. That didn't stop her from gritting her teeth and only answering what was required of her. Rowan, her father, had paid for law school—in full—and this was his only demand. He grilled her once a week on everything under the sun and she, in return, had six days and seven afternoons to herself. Six days where she could leave the pearls and diamond studs at home, along with any expectation to date, get married, join a firm, or otherwise "settle."
"Olivia, I don't understand. All those years of school and, what? You don't want to be a lawyer? You're throwing a lot of money away here."
Olivia sighed and squinted to check her watch under the table. Thirteen more minutes.
"Dad, come on. I'm twenty-seven. Believe me, I appreciate your generosity, and I loved law school. I just—"
She trailed off. This was the point she always came to. Friends and the occasional boyfriend would look at her expectantly, wanting her to have Some Good Reason for not pursuing the dream they assumed she'd always had, for going after the less-cushy world of freelancing. Olivia loved politics, she memorized Constitutional law the way some people memorized their favorite song lyrics. But there was some passion missing, some essential spark that she probably should have felt by now if she was ever going to sign her life away to be some Associate at Dimwit, Asshole and Squeak, or wherever it was. Olivia preferred her life as it was, though she'd never tell Rowan.
Rowan was giving her the look. Sadness hid under disappointment. Olivia forced a smile and tried to sound sure, pushing back her plate of eggs and toast.
"—I'll work on it, okay, Dad?"
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Cyrus Rutherford Beene was having a hell of a morning. Dear James had let the nanny go on vacation, of course no one ever asked Cyrus if he might like one of those, and jaunted off to work. Ella, normally silent, as far as Cyrus knew, had been crying since precisely the moment James's shoes hit the walkway outside their front door. Cyrus had tried every children's TV show, iPad game, story book, and snack food. Ella remained inconsolable.
"Come on, sweetie. Daddy loves you, so very very much, but you've gotta stop now."
Cyrus ran a hand through his hair, convinced that what remained of the white hairs would soon fall out. He wondered what the nanny, Gabriella, was doing at this exact moment. Probably sunning away on some beach, a beautiful young islander by her side, wooing her with umbrella-d drinks and Romance languages.
Lost in thought, Cyrus had almost, almost drowned out Ella's crying.
Another screech, the loudest yet, and he was back. Cyrus lifted Ella from her high chair for the umpteenth time, beginning to pace the floor. He bounced Ella on his hip with one hand and checked his email with the other. The subject line "President?" caught his eye. Now this, this was something he could work with.
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Fitz sat back in his chair, breathing slowly after hitting "send." It was just an idea, after all. In a moment of almost-mid-life panic Fitz had impulsively considered becoming the President of the United States of America. He knew he was being a bit ridiculous but, really, what did he have to lose from sending an email to his old golfing buddy, Cyrus? Cyrus, who knew him better than anyone and could talk him off any ledge. Fitz knew Cyrus would remind him that being a two-term Governor of California was great, that he was still unmarried, that becoming President was highly unlikely and—even all the way from Virginia—Fitz was being naive about this, this President lark. Fitz was counting on that reminder. He needed it just now, two weeks away from forty.
Fitz stood and walked to the window, staring out at the cool afternoon sun. The last time he'd considered even moving so far as Oregon, his father had convinced him that Portland was no place for a Grant. What was it he said, even to the end? "American by birth, Californian by the grace of God"? Something like that. Fitz thought he might have been exaggerating a bit—God certainly could stand for a governor from California to become President, couldn't he?
The ping of a text from Cyrus brought him back.
I thought you'd never ask.
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"Now open your eyes and sit up slowly. Great job everybody!"
Olivia was as relaxed as it was possible for her to be after her regular Monday morning yoga class, quickly wiping the sweat from her neck after a long savasana. The teacher, Katherine, was enthusiastic without being over the top. Most of the students were stay-at-home moms, so the pace was grueling enough to call it a workout, while the skill levels were varied enough to keep anyone from feeling left behind. This class was a much-needed comedown from weekly breakfasts with her father.
Olivia stood up, rolling her mat then grabbing her bag. She took a swig of water before pulling out her phone. Olivia stared at the screen, puzzled. Why had Cyrus Beene called her seven times?"
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"Olivia, Olivia Pope," Cyrus sing-songed into his phone—again.
"This is Cyrus Beene, Dr. Cyrus Beene calling just one more time to see if I could catch you. Call me back when you get a chance."
Cyrus hung up, looking at the baby monitor expectantly. Ella was finally sleeping, five hours after James had left. The longest five hours of Cyrus's life, if anyone asked, which they wouldn't. He and James traded off staying home with Ella when Gabriella couldn't make it, which was hardly ever. What he wouldn't give to be holed up in his office with stacks of undergraduate law exams and an infinite supply of red pens.
The email from Fitz had brought some much-needed color to an otherwise drab day sure to be full of Elmo and Cheerios, and whatever developmentally-appropriate activities James had set out for them on the calendar. Cyrus had been onboard as soon as he read the subject line but he knew they had no chance if Olivia, his star pupil and protege, wasn't with them. Cyrus had been calling for over an hour; he felt like a stalker. Where was she?
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Fitz knew, from his text, that Cyrus apparently had "one piece of the puzzle" to sort out before giving him any advice. Fitz hoped the piece was a nice bottle of Scotch and maybe a reservation at the golf course so he could put this urge behind him. Was this how it always happened? An intern smiled at you, another folder full of numbers crossed your desk, and—boom—you want to be the President? Or you think you do?
Fitz's father had always accused him of being rash. Not that Fitz did much to deserve that, it was just an expectation. His dad had anticipated him failing every task before he'd started, always shaking his head and clicking his tongue, let down and surprised by even the greatest achievement. The only time he'd ever complimented Fitz was the day he was sworn into office as the Governor of California.
"Good job, son—well done." He clapped Fitz on the back and then headed off to flirt with the cocktail waitresses.
Fitz should have known then that the end was near. Dad died a few months later, stubborn and ornery as hell until the end. Fitz thought perhaps some of his ambition came from wanting to piss Grant the Second off—becoming the President would be the greatest coup against a man who could never quite find it in himself to be happy for his son.
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"Yes, Cyrus, it's Olivia."
Olivia had shut the door of her office against the open-plan shared space it looked onto and was reviewing the morning's activity. Freelance PR and crisis management was a thankless job but at least it was a challenge. The only ones she had to worry about were herself and one assistant, Quinn. This was definitely miles above clawing her way up the corporate law ladder.
She listened to Cyrus's proposition, but found it hard to concentrate. He'd said something about his old friend, Grant something, out in California.
"What? I'm sorry, Cy, can you repeat that?"
Olivia still struggled to call him Cyrus after years of "Dr. Beene," but she was trying to keep it light. They were both adults, now, weren't they?
His voice came in a shrill kind of whisper through the phone. Ella must have been sleeping.
"Olivia, focus. Now, Governor Grant—the Governor of the great state of California—is considering a run for President of these United States. We've got to get a move on to give him a fighting chance. We'd like to bring you on board. Next week."
It was a lot to take in. Olivia took a deep breath. She liked her life. She liked the pace, having no one to answer to but clients, forging her own path. She liked Quinn, who was now gesturing to her through the glass of the door, trying to see if she wanted coffee. Olivia waved her away.
"How long?"
She could practically hear the wheels turning as Cyrus tried to spin this uncertainty into something solid for her.
"Well, Olivia, hopefully for the foreseeable future, if we're as lucky as I think we could be."
"And the pay?"
A choked sound came through the phone.
"Cyrus, I mean—I am very good at my job. You know that."
"The pay is negotiable, of course, but we will pay you at least what you're making now."
Cyrus may have called her bluff just then. Olivia ran a hand through her hair. This, she thought, would all be here when she got back. How long could this even take, really?
"Fine. I'll go, but only if I can bring my assistant."
Cyrus grumbled in the affirmative, and Olivia put down the phone, trying to process the enormity of what she'd just agreed to.
Olivia sent a quick text to Quinn to see if she'd like to hit the road for a while.
DUH.