Author's note.
Hi readers :) I am back. New story. Out of exile. I have had many ideas banging around, but I noticed most of them were AU. Which will be the focus of most of my work from here on out. Canon is way too frustrating and messy to deal with. I will not be continuing The Fourth Act anytime soon, due to frustrations I still harbor with the show and frankly I have lost inspiration for that particularly story. I hope to continue it down the road, but for right now, I am focusing on this story.
This story will be a little more West Wing/House of Cards/Game Change and less Alias-lite. It will focus on the the Behind the Scenes aspects of campaigning and governing and the toll it takes on families, staffers and relationships, than it will...well whatever the show tried and failed to do in Season 3.
At the risk of sounding petty, I hope to prove that there are much more interesting aspects to the Washington D.C-political apparatus than spies and love triangles. I have also wanted to play around with Fitz's statement in Season One ("Why didn't I meet you sooner?)
I have been really obsessed over what the Scandalverse would have been like in a world of no Mellitz marriage, a functioning Olitz marriage, an antagonist in Jake and a better paced story and fuller back story for Olivia.
I'm also starting fresh due to incredibly touching PMs I received from people on here. They definitely motivated me to get back in the saddle. Hope you enjoy!
LOCATION: BLAIR HOUSE
DATE: JANUARYY 17
TIME:10:00AM
There were days when Quinn Perkins had to pinch herself.
...This was definitely one of those days. Chief of Staff to the First Lady of the United States. It had a nice ring to it. How did she end up in this job? The daughter of a single dad, a math teacher who had voted Democrat since he fell in love with the idealism of John. F Kennedy, his child, was now was a visible member Grant Administration.
Well, not all that visible...
After all she was working for the First Lady. Though it should be said Olivia Pope-Grant was a rather different from her predecessors. In the 24 hour news cycle, one that could not get enough of the dynamic First Couple and their fresh-faced staff, press coverage on obscure positions like Quinn's will most likely increase over time.
For one thing, at the ripe young age (at least in D.C) of 38, Olivia Pope-Grant was going to be in five days, the youngest First Lady since Jackie Kennedy.
As Quinn sat patiently in the ornate sitting room, one of many in Blair House, she could not help but pinch herself once more. Mentally, of course.
She had already been profiled by a beat reporter, from the D.C Times. He, Gideon Wallace had asked all the right questions. Was she looking forward to the inauguration? What was the First Lady's focus, as far as an agenda? Did she intend to be more like Laura Bush or Hillary Clinton?
Quinn had given all the right pre-rehearsed answers. Yes! She was thrilled especially proud given the historic nature of the Grants being the first interracial First Couple. The First Lady feels privileged in her station in life and hopes to use her platform to make like easier for other women. Finally, she had no intention being anyone but herself and she was hoping the American people would embrace her for her own merits.
Though it would not be hard to do...
Mrs. Pope-Grant had already won the hearts and minds of the American People. She was beautiful, poised, vivacious, with a wicked sense of humor and an even better sense of fashion. She, had during the campaign straddled the perfect balance of wife, mother and business owner, attracted a following among women and was (if most were being honest), a key reason why the President-Elect had won 40% of the African- American vote.
Quinn checked her watch. Huh. 20 minutes late...
Mrs. Grant was never this late, maybe her husband, who tended to get bogged down in long-winded conversations with his staff, but never her. They needed to meet today to complete the choice of a Press Secretary and Social Secretary. The shortlist, including the vetting papers were neatly lodged in her Michael Kors tote.
It's going to get worse over the next six months or so...
She ran an anxious hand over her sleek ponytail and checked her watch once more. The Secret Service agents assigned to Blair House had warned she might be a few minutes late...but not 20 minutes late...
However, the knowing twinkle in Hal's eye meant one of two things. Either the future First Lady was preoccupied with the children or the suspicions that most staffers held about Mrs. Pope-Grant were going to become more well...obvious in the coming weeks.
The Grants were a loving couple, so much, it could be sickening. Any person who had been with them for an extended period of time could only marvel that after 13 years of marriage, they still managed to behave like newlyweds.
There was hand-holding, the longing gazes and the affectionate way Mr. Grant would wrap his arms around Mrs. Grant's waist, burying his head in her neck when they thought no one was paying attention.
Quinn remembered distinctly on the campaign, when she was merely a press aide to the then-Senator Grant, the night he had clinched the nomination. There was champagne flowing, giddy enthusiasm and a future First Couple that had forgotten there were people, including their preteen children, Avery (13) and Blythe (11) in the room, given their very public displays of tipsy affection.
The senior staff smirked with bemusement as the junior staffers, like Quinn stared in awe, (some swooned) as Fitzgerald Grant, conversing with his Campaign Manager, Cyrus Beene , he had one arm wrapped around his wife, absent-mindedly slipped his hand down her hip and onto her ass, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
For most, it would not be so strange, but they were experienced political animals who had done time as staffers on the Hill, worked, intern for campaigns, candidates and consulting firms. They had been around on too many political couples who hammed it up in front of the cameras, yet sleep in separate bedrooms when no one was looking.
They had, in case of female staffers like Quinn herself, been the target of affection from leery, overweight Congressmen who were sex starved and needed an ego boost. So it was refreshing ( and a bit ironic) that the GOP's golden boy, with his Ralph Lauren-model good looks, seductive charm and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, was so smitten with his wife.
Though it was not hard to imagine why.
No, the cause of suspicion had been when during the taping of a Diane Sawyer interview post-election, four weeks post-election when getting her make-up touched up, Mrs Pope-Grant had violently vomited her breakfast all over her husband's dress shoes. Mrs-Pope Grant had claimed she was coming down with the flu, but that did not stop the "bubble" from speculating about the real reason behind her recent behavior.
Then there was her sudden switch from her signature four-inch red sole Christian Louboutins to demure kitten heels and flats. Quinn had even overheard from Alyssa, a good friend newly minted Director of Scheduling and Advance that Mrs. Pope-Grant had suddenly garnered a hankering for seltzer water and crackers.
Some like Lauren, the bubbly Special Assistant to the President-Elect had relayed over beers at Gettysburger that the she had overheard from one of the Secret Service agents something about the a secret visit to a doctor that had occurred a week before they had taken up their temporary residence in Blair House.
Most obvious of all, was the change in -Grant's wardrobe. Gone were the well-tailored dresses and pencil skirts and in were peplum jackets and slacks, which fashionably distracted from what many were beginning to suspect was a growing bump.
"Ma'am" A tall blond Secret Service Agent said, breaking Quinn out of her ruminations.
"Hi!" Quinn responded cheerfully. She had barely noticed the guy walk in the room.
"Mrs. Pope-Grant is not feeling well-"
"Does she want to reschedule?" Quinn asked. At the risk of being callous, she mentally noted to file this juicy nugget into her rolodex of conversation when she went out for drinks with the girls tonight. The only question was, how far along was she?
If there is one thing Quinn had learned since her first job answering phones in Governor Andrew Nichols office her Freshmen year at Stanford, is that all politicians used their families for political reasons.
...
LOCATION: 1715 P. ST NW WASHINGTON, DC
DATE: JANUARY 17TH
TIME: 11:35PM
"Wait, so you think they are waiting for the first trimester to end?" Alyssa asked curiously as she downed a shot of tequila.
It was late and the three amigos, Lauren, Alyssa and Quinn were hauled up in Quinn's Gables Dupont Circle studio exchanging war stories while chowing down on Gettysburger food and tequila. The town was practically buzzing with activity, parties and cocktail shindigs being thrown in celebration of the arrival of Camelot 2.0. However, they knew better than to be cavorting around where gossip hounds from the D.C Times and the Washington Post would be trying to get dirt on their bosses.
Quinn shook their head. "Well, they have to be, why else would they not announce that she's preggos. From the looks of things, Grant may have knocked her up during election time."
Lauren laughed her loud barking laugh as she took a bite out of her Ol' Bess burger.
"Something tells me the little one is an Election Day. You know Walter?"
"The Secret Service agent you used to fuck? What about him?"
"Well, he told me the night of the election, they turned in early and apparently, you could hear them going at it all night. If you do the math, and I would bet my paycheck, that's when it happened.
They giggled loudly. They were way too drunk for their own good. Three girls with 7 degrees and 5 Ivy League Institutions between them were gossiping about the future First Couple's sex life.
They were hardly the only ones. All over D.C, similar conversations were being had.
LOCATION: MALLOY'S BAR AND GRILL.
DATE: JANUARY 18TH.
TIME: 12:05
Unfortunately, a slinky D.C Times style reporter by the name Vanessa Chandler had taken a seat right behind a gaggle of Secret Service agents in D.C's hottest bar, Malloy's.
One beer,
Two beers,
Three beers, a dozen...
By the end of the night, between the President-Elect's body man, the rowdy Secret Service agents and a few other "named sources", she had the story that would make her a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist.
The young blond typed away what would be her Magnus Opus until dawn. There were T-72 hours until inauguration yet, that would not be the biggest story on the front pages.
This would be.
IS FUTURE FIRST LADY OLIVIA POPE- GRANT EXPECTING?
LOCATION: BLAIR HOUSE
DATE: JANUARY 19th
TIME: 9:35PM
The strong, authoritative voice of the Republican National Committee chairman was booming with laughter. Hollis Doyle (69) had been a mover and shaker in Republican politics since before Grant was born.
He was holding court in the elegant rear Drawing room, which was packed with a host of guests of the President-Elect and the future First Lady. The two of them were a gem, practically surrogate children to him. The handsome son of a bitch was dressed in a sharp tuxedo, seated across the room with his arm around his Ms, who was a vision in a long, glittery dress that made her like like Diahann Carroll circa the 1970s.
They looked elated, glowing with happiness. Grant was being inaugurated in less than 24 hours, with more political capital than he would know what to do with and Hollis Doyle was going to make sure to use it at his disposal. His dream of a big tent party would finally be realized. No more would the Party of Lincoln be smeared by the race-baiters on the left with charges of racism. How could they be? They had a drop dead gorgeous black First Lady whose very presence inoculated them.
The mid-terms, if all went according to plan would be a landslide, knocking the Democrats and their four years of Reston rot and corruption out the door.
Similar thoughts were running through the mind of Cyrus Beene, the dour face future Chief of Staff who was nursing a scotch. Cyrus was engaged in small talk with Jake Ballard, the lean green-eyed pitbull who would be his Deputy Chief of Staff.
Hollis, Cyrus and Ballard had been instrumental in getting Grant to 1600, from the courting of donors and convincing his fellow Georgian, Sally Langston to take the VP slot to Cyrus Beene convincing Grant that he even had a shot at the nomination without his father's backing, they had done what was almost impossible.
However, if any of the credit for Grant getting his head in the game, it was the pretty little lady laughing alongside her husband. If it had not been for the woman of steel that was Oliva Pope-Grant convincing her husband he had what it took after a brutal primary fight, well, let's just say Hollis Doyle would be enjoying his scotch on the Greek Isles retired, fat and happy.
A YEAR AND A HALF BEFORE...
LOCATION: THE POPE COMPOUND, The Inkwell,
MARTHA'S VINEYARD.
The Pope Compound was quiet.
It was a balmy summer night, the sky ink red and preparing for sundown.
The 5,000 square foot was a white shingled Georgian home that had been in her family for three generations. It had been built by her great-grandfather, a Creole black man from the bayous of Louisiana who had become a successful doctor. One of the only black doctors in the south at the time.
It contained a large foyer, a pool that had been added by Olivia's mother after the death of Rowan. It had a wonderful view of the water, lovely gardens and enough bedrooms to house Pope-Grant clan and their staff.
The house, normally overflowing with activity and guest was hushed. A silence had overtaken it with the only people being the immediate Pope-Grant clan. The family of four sat in the wood paneled den contemplating their future.
The kids had to know. It was decision time. It had been a long time coming but, the election was close, to close. The would be a relaxing normal summer for now. In a few weeks, the quiet before the chaos would let up.
If things were to go as the media's speculation were going, this would be the last normal summer they would experience in a long time.