Thine Own Self

They are on their weekly date night at Fitz's favorite restaurant when Mellie decides to say what she's been tossing around in her head for the last two months. It is as good a moment as it's ever likely to be, considering that their work keeps them apart for most of the week, and this is the only place where Mellie has his full attention. Or as much of it as she is likely to receive, anyway.

She waits until they've each had sufficient time to peck at their entrees before setting down her fork and looking at her husband. "I'm thinking about giving up my seat," she says.

Fitz's eyes fly up to hers. "Mellie?"

God. She hasn't heard him say her name like that in years—surprise tinged at the very edges with raw hope, and of course he'd assume that she meant she was thinking about leaving politics altogether. She realizes in this moment that she's miscalculated, terribly, and her mistake gives her no way to take the cruelty out of what she says next.

"To run for President."

She watches the change sweep over his face as the words sink in and it's like watching a thunderstorm form, uncertain of where it will strike or how much damage will be done. The ambient noise of the rest of the restaurant seems to fade in the wake of how loudly Mellie's heart is beating. She waits, twisting her fingers in her lap as Fitz recovers, expression becoming resigned.

"I have someone who can help," Fitz says, pointedly not looking at her. It is more than Mellie was expecting, but less than what she was hoping for.

Story of her life.

Mellie shakes her head, aware of the thin ice she's treading on. "That's all right. Bobby and Kenneth will come back on board with me. They can handle my campaign."

"They handled your senatorial campaign," Fitz responds absently, absorbed in the task of cutting his steak. "You need people who can handle running your bid for President."

"I want to do this on my own," she says, as gently as she possibly can.

"Just like always." She stiffens. If it had been just a little louder in the restaurant, Mellie probably wouldn't have heard it. "We've always shared our resources," Fitz continues, blue eyes darting up to meet hers briefly.

"That's because we always shared ambitions."

Fitz sighs. "Mellie, if you want to run for President, then run for President."

Mellie fingers the stem of her wineglass and lowers her eyes. "You know, I wasn't exactly expecting a ringing endorsement from you, Fitz, but—"

The knife and fork hit the plate with a discordant clang. The couple at the table next to them pause their conversation and glance curiously at Fitz, who is wiping his mouth with his napkin. Mellie offers them a polite, apologetic smile, already thinking of the PR disaster that will follow if the couple scrutinizes them too hard.

"Mellie," he says with obvious restraint, "if you want to run, then run. But use every resource you can. Trust me, you're going to need all the help you can get."

Mellie watches as her husband picks up his utensils again and sets about eating with singular focus. She thinks that he's never going to understand her need to do this on her own, without his family connections or his highly-placed friends or the political favors he and his father have earned over years in the game.

But she knows that she has a year of battles ahead of her, and compared the ones coming, this one seems cosmetic and ridiculously prideful. It isn't the first concession she's had to make in her political career and it won't be the last. And it certainly isn't the first she's made for her marriage.

Mellie watches Fitz eat, her own appetite completely gone. "Call your friend, then. I'd like to meet with him next week if possible."

Fitz nods without even looking up from his food. Mellie realizes that he is the first American whose vote she's lost.

One doesn't spend years embroiled in Washington politics without hearing the name 'Cyrus Beene' at least once. Mellie hasn't met him before, but his reputation is notorious enough. Cyrus is hailed as shrewd, scrupulous and endlessly pragmatic. If politics is a spider web, then Cyrus is the tarantula, spinning intricate patterns that span the country from ocean to ocean and ensnare everyone who crosses his path. He is the one people pay their political debts back to; he has favors owed to him from places high and low and a vast store of resources at his disposal. Two former Presidents and dozens of legislators, judges, and lawyers owe their careers to him. It's said that his aptitude at political intrigue is dwarfed only by his ruthlessness.

So it strikes Mellie as sort of comical that he and Fitz are so well acquainted. If Cyrus is all that legend says he is, then Fitz is his complete antithesis. She knows there is a story there, between Cyrus and her husband—one of many untold secrets that have festered between her and Fitz over the last ten years. She commits the question to memory; she will find out another day.

Fitz is, as always, a man of his word and at three o'clock on Monday afternoon, Cyrus Beene is shaking Mellie's hand, looking her up and down. There is a sort of quizzical air about him as he and Mellie size each other up behind polite smiles and perfunctory pleasantries. Mellie watches as Cyrus and Fitz spend a minute catching up, Cyrus asking after Fitz's career with unconcealed zeal and Mellie wonders if he wouldn't rather be planning Fitz's bid for the office over hers.

Need for idle chit-chat abated, Cyrus nods at them both, motioning them to sit.

"We've got our work cut out for us," Cyrus says as they settle into their chairs. Fitz elects to take up on a lone chair situated between her and Cyrus in lieu of joining Mellie on the couch; neutral ground to run interference. Fitz always was a good tactician. Cyrus looks between them and it isn't lost on Mellie that he notices their divide, too.

"We do," she agrees, and it is strange for her to say we instead of I.

"Do you know why you want to be President?" Mellie arches an eyebrow, because that isn't condescending at all. Cyrus holds up a hand. "I ask every candidate that. You'd be surprised how many people don't truly know why they're running, and the campaign trail is no place for someone to try and find themselves."

Mellie considers Cyrus for a moment, then inclines her head. "I want to be President because I'd be good at it, and good for the country."

Cyrus nods and launches into another question, then another. What is her goal were she to get into office? What issues are important to her? He probes a bit at her views, inquiring after her thoughts on foreign policy, healthcare and education. Mellie answers each question concisely, looking for any sign of approval or disapproval from Cyrus, but he keeps his expression controlled and his voice even. He plays the game well.

He apparently gets the information he needs, because he sighs and leans back in his chair after a while.

"I've looked over your voting record for the past two years. There are a few little sore spots that might give us some trouble with the far right. The biggest hurdle, of course, is going to be your gender." Cyrus's eyes flick towards Fitz. "This isn't going to be easy at all, Senator."

Mellie smiles tightly. "I've been in politics for almost twenty years, Mr. Beene. I'm aware of just how much of a hindrance my gender is."

The look Cyrus gives her is a blank one, and again he glances at Fitz, who himself looks a hair's breath away from shrugging. "I…meant no offense, Senator Grant."

"Of course. Go on, Mr. Beene."

"I've had my ear to the ground on who the left will be running. Monahan and Restin are going to give us the most trouble—they're well-known and well-liked, and they have the best chance of catching the undecided voters."

"Moderates always do," Mellie responds.

"Moderate liberals," Cyrus corrects. "Moderate isn't moderate when you're on the right. It translates to 'lukewarm' and 'flip-flop'. The easiest way might be going the Independent route instead of trying to run as a Republican."

"I am a Republican," she argues.

"You're a California Republican—that's conservative lite," Cyrus adds flatly. "You and your husband are political unicorns. You would've been laughed out of the party if you ran center-right in the deep south and Midwest. Your stance on social issues, on religion, on the environment—you flirt with the left."

In the silence following that, Mellie is certain that Fitz makes an amused little sound. As if any of this is remotely fucking funny.

"My political viewpoints and party affiliation aren't subject to alteration," Mellie says curtly.

"If you want to run this ticket red, you're going to have to be a little more flexible—"

"And I'm not sure I appreciate you denoting my centrism as 'flirting' with the left."

Cyrus blinks at that, and any pretense of cordiality fades from his face. "I'm sorry, I was trying to put it nicely. Let me say it another way," he suggests, leaning forward and looking her in the eye, gaze steely hard. "When it comes to your chances to appeal to the far right, you have, quite thoroughly, fucked yourself."

In her periphery, she can register Fitz shifting in his chair. Mellie smiles, baring perfect white teeth and this is so much better. "Have I?"

"The Presidential bid isn't a sweet little senatorial gig where your connections and your money and your cute little quips and puns can slide you into home base. People don't come out and vote for their Congressmen and women because the average American doesn't care who represents their state. You run on a national level and you're going to be scrutinized hard by the voters you can disregard during the midterms. This bipartisan, moderate schtick of compromise and negotiation and kumbaya political-togetherness, adorable though it might be—and you two really are just adorable with it," Cyrus adds, eyes flitting to Fitz, "—isn't going to get you squat from the ultra-conservatives in this country. Trying to win the Presidency as a junior senator Republican centrist without an integral part of your own base is like trying to run a marathon with your ankles tied together. In addition to that, you're a woman barely in your forties; you have two school-aged children and are married to a man whose family legacy should have put him on a superhighway to the Oval Office. People won't be quick to forget that, Senator Grant."

Cyrus's words burn like ice pressed against her skin. Mellie doesn't let her smile slip, not even for a second.

"People," she repeats, looking down her elegant nose at him, "or you, Mr. Beene?"

There is silence then. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Fitz glancing between them as though their back-and-forth was some sort of tense game of hot potato. Cyrus ends up blinking first. He stands and leaves the room without a backward look. Mellie watches him go and when the door closes, Fitz sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

"Well, that went well."

"It did," Mellie says lightly, rising from her chair. "Particularly inspiring was the part where you said absolutely nothing."

"You wanted to do this on your own, remember?" Mellie stares at him, blood running hot in her veins. There are some days when she can't stand the sight of him. Fitz seems to realize the callousness of his response because he waves his hand as if he could brush the sting away. "You've never needed me to defend you."

Not that you would, even if I did. "I'm finding someone else."

"Cyrus is the best there is."

"I'll find better."

"Mellie." She turns to her husband to find that he is now surveying her with the same look Cyrus had not moments ago.

"I'm not going to employ someone to run my campaign if they don't respect me, Fitz."

"Cyrus respects you."

"No, he respects you," Mellie snaps. "He respects your accomplishments and your connections and your family. If he respects me, it's as your wife and not as a politician in my own right."

Which is a fucking laugh and a half, considering Mellie is a far, far better politician than wife. Everyone thinks so, even her husband.

"You knew this wasn't going to be easy," Fitz says, like it's supposed to somehow soothe her frustration.

"Don't placate me."

"Mellie." Her name comes out terse. She turns and gives Fitz her full attention, trying to rein back her irritation. "Cyrus is your best chance for getting to the White House. Let me talk to him."

Fitz doesn't say it like a question, but Mellie knows it is, and it is the kindest thing he's offered her today. So she sighs and gives him a single, jerky nod.

Because abrasive and tactless though he might have been, Cyrus certainly wasn't wrong.

The next time Mellie sees Cyrus is nearly two weeks later. She has returned to Washington earlier than scheduled and is elbow-deep in economic legislation when her secretary tells her that her husband is on the phone.

"You landed," Mellie says by way of greeting once she picks up the receiver. "How was the flight?"

"Uneventful. What time is the benefit tonight?"

"Eight. You have plenty of time to rest before we go."

"I wish I could, but there are a couple of people I've been meaning to see regarding state funding." He pauses. "I could swing by the hill for an early lunch, though, if you've got the time."

Mellie looks at the drafts covering her desk and she sighs with genuine regret. "I'm afraid I'm chained to this office until five. It seems like I'm the only person on this hill that values financial frugality."

"Is that why I always pay for our meals?" Fitz drawls. The levity is unexpected, but not unwelcome. It's almost nice. "I spoke to Cyrus this morning before I got on the plane."

She pauses. "Oh?"

Fitz apparently hears the surprise in her tone. "I told you I'd talk to him."

"I know," Mellie says quickly. "What did he say?"

"He's here in the city for the next few days. He wants to know if we can meet with him tonight."

Mellie frowns. "The benefit—"

"I know, I told him. He said after is fine, doesn't matter how late. Apparently, he's got someone he wants us to meet."

"So…he still wants to help?"

"Yes," Fitz returns patiently.

That is surprising. After their meeting and despite Fitz's agreeing to speak with him, Mellie had all but written Cyrus off. She'd called Ken and Bobby and had a few working lunches with them after she'd gotten back to the capitol, picked their brains and let them talk through some of the possibilities. They had told her pretty much all Cyrus had: that her gender was going to be an issue along with some of her moderate policies. Of course, they'd said it to her much more politely, but pretty words didn't do a damn thing to make the task at hand easier.

And Fitz had been right. Kenneth and Bobby are good, but they aren't as good as Cyrus Beene. To have him in her corner while she runs for the highest office in the land…a little lost dignity here and there from verbal dressings-down seems like a small price to pay for getting Mellie that much closer to the White House.

"Still there, Mel?" Fitz's voice brings her out of her thoughts.

"Yes. Sorry. It's just…I didn't think he'd want to after our meeting."

"Well, he does. And I didn't even have to grovel or twist his arm or threaten his family."

"Wonder of wonders," Mellie murmurs, then aims for some levity of her own. "Good thing you didn't have to threaten anybody. You're quite possibly the least intimidating man on the planet."

"I have it on good authority that the underlings in my office tremble as I pass by."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dear."

Fitz snorts and there are several beats of silence before he speaks again. "You still want to go through with this?" Even through the phone, Mellie can tell he doesn't just mean another meeting with Cyrus.

"Yes," she says. "We should be done with the benefit by eleven or so. We can meet him after."

"All right." Fitz pauses. "He said you had spunk."

Mellie snorts. It's a start. "I'll call you when I'm on my way home."

"Don't work too hard," Fitz says before the line goes dead.

Mellie hangs up too. It is the first time in a long time they have gone through an entire conversation without it sparking an argument. She wonders why it couldn't always be that easy between her and Fitz. The only time there never seems to be any issue between them is when they speak on the phone. When there is distance between them.

The thought is unsettling, and Mellie pushes it aside in favor of the nearest stack of proposed budget cuts.

By eight o'clock, Mellie has poured herself into a blood-red Vera Wang and is grasping Fitz's arm as they schmooze their way through the Carlton Ballroom of the St. Regis. All of their issues aside, this is a place both she and Fitz shine: together, dressed to the nines, dancing to up-tempo renditions of Sinatra and Martin, surrounded by champagne flutes, caviar and all the prying eyes of Washington. Together, they are all jokes and grins and teasing looks. Together, before an audience, they are all that they aren't in private, in reality.

Mellie smiles and demurs any attempt from other party-goers to get her to discuss a potential Presidential bid. Eyes have been on her since September but she seems to be getting the questions more and more recently. Secrets are nearly impossible to keep in Washington but Mellie knows better than to say anything before she figures out what, if anything, will come concerning Cyrus.

As the benefit winds down, Mellie and Fitz say their goodbyes and make their way to Mellie's office on the hill. They arrive at quarter till eleven and in fifteen minutes precisely, there is a knock on the door.

Mellie braces herself as Cyrus enters. He greets her first, shaking her hand and complimenting her looks tonight. "Thanks for meeting me so late. I would've waited for a more reasonable time, but Liv's flying out to Reykjavík in a few hours and I wanted you to meet her before she leaves."

Mellie looks around and sure enough, behind Cyrus is a petite woman who looks five or so years younger than Mellie. Despite the hour, she looks crisp and awake in a snow-white pantsuit and black blouse.

"Fitz, Senator, this is Olivia Pope."

Olivia reaches out to shake Mellie's hand, giving her a quick once-over. "You want to run for President," she says in lieu of hello.

"I do."

"I've discussed your running with Olivia, Senator," Cyrus cuts in smoothly as she and Fitz shake hands.

Mellie glances between the woman and Cyrus, frowning. "I'm not quite sure I understand."

"I want to run your campaign, Senator," Cyrus says plainly. Mellie closes her mouth. "I want to run it and I run campaigns with the smartest, strongest people available to me. And Olivia is the best I've ever worked with."

Mellie nods and looks back at Olivia. She's sure she's never heard the woman's name before in her life. "So what is it you do, Miss Pope?"

"I'm a crisis manager," says Olivia, before adding, "I fix things."

Mellie arches an eyebrow. "In Reykjavík?"

Olivia's lips quirk. "I fix things for a lot of different people. Rest assured that if I work with you, I will be giving you my undivided attention."

In spite of herself, Mellie finds herself intrigued. She motions to the chairs behind her. "Let's talk, then."

Fitz and Mellie seat themselves on Mellie's loveseat while Cyrus moves to the office doors. Olivia, however, doesn't sit.

"Cardinal rule first," Olivia Pope announces when the doors are closed. "I require absolute honesty one hundred percent of the time. If I ask you a question, you answer it with nothing but the truth. Leave the political illusion, the bending the truth, the Clintoning of language for the American people you want to vote for you. With me, you give me nothing but honesty because I can't do my job without it. We clear?"

Mellie takes umbrage at Olivia's tone of voice; she can't help it. She should've known that any friend of Cyrus Beene's would have his mouth, but it's still surprising. And irritating.

Mellie stares at Olivia and Olivia stares right back, immovable and firm. Mellie takes Olivia in, standing there looking ready to turn on her heel and catch her plane to Iceland without a second thought if she doesn't get the answer she requires.

"Clear." Mellie's response is clipped.

"Good. If you give me honesty, I'll give you the White House. Now," she says as she lowers herself into the chair that Cyrus is standing behind. "I have a few questions before we start."

She has more than a few, and they are nothing like Cyrus's. They range from the invasive irrelevant to the borderline offensive. Where Cyrus questioned her ambitions, her motives, her goals and her focus, Olivia asks about Mellie's past, how she and Fitz met, their families, their early days in Washington. She then asks if either of them have ever broken the law, if they have friends or family members who have broken the law.

Then, she crosses the line in the sand with her final query. "Tell me about your marriage."

And Mellie knows, when neither she nor Fitz respond immediately, that Olivia has them all figured out. Mellie, who has stood in Congress and been shouted at by fellow senators, who has shared a stage with all the movers and shakers in Washington, who has endured insults and mudslinging from pundits on both side of the aisle and always had a sharp response burning on the tip of her tongue, finds herself completely speechless.

Their silence is more damning than anything they could say in defense. Olivia nods. "So in addition to being a woman of child-bearing years with two young kids, you and the governor have marital problems," she says quite lightly, glancing between them. In the silence that follows, Olivia gives them a flippant smile. "What—becoming the first woman President wasn't hard enough on its own? You felt the need to raise the stakes a little by throwing a rocky marriage into the pot, too?"

Mellie bristles.

"Olivia," Cyrus chides.

"Any problems that we have in our marriage can't be solved in a matter of weeks, Miss Pope," Fitz adds in the aggravated tone of voice that Mellie has come to know so well.

"Good thing I'm not a marriage counselor then, Governor Grant." Olivia returns her attention to Mellie. "Running for Presidency is going to put a magnifying glass the size of Saturn over your family, Senator. And that means everything—everything—has to appear to be absolutely perfect. You both need to be ready for that. Are you?" she asks with a tilt of her head.

"I am," she says. Mellie looks over at Fitz. His eyes are fixed to Olivia, fist pressed against his mouth.

"Governor?" Olivia prompts.

Fitz's posture loosens. "Yes," he says, inclining his head.

Olivia leans back in her chair with a nod. "Good. Let's get started."

A/N: AUs seem to be all the rage now. Thanks for reading; please R&R!