Stephanie McCord had seen fights before. She was after all the eldest of three siblings. He had also seen fights on TV and movies, but she couldn't really recall seeing two adult men fighting.

It was no fight. That arrogant young idiot just hit Russell Jackson without any warning.

Surprisingly Jackson took the hit on his feet. The man's head turned some, absorbed the motion energy, gave way to avoid fractures… gosh, it was like Russell Jackson had known something about boxing.

"You hit like a pre-school kid. Even she could do worse," Jackson mocked the guy. Stephanie wanted to laugh but the situation didn't really call for more tension. Farrell seemed eager to show he could do better, but then Jackson's driver Ben was there.

"Sir, are you alright?" the bulky DS agent asked.

"Yeah. Escort him out, will you," Jackson said, and Ben gave him a court nod. When the driver and Farrell were far enough, Jackson leaned on the bar desk and shook his head.

"Mr. Jackson!" Stevie said and laid a gentle hand on his arm. The bartender handed her a towel and she noticed he had wrapped some ice inside it.

"Thank you," she said and pulled Jackson by the arm to turn him. The man looked up and Stevie gave him the ice-towel-first-aid.

"Thanks," Jackson said and pressed the bundle on the side of his mouth.

"What was that?" Stevie asked. Jackson snorted a laugh.

"His uncle asked me to interview him for an intern position at the White house," the Chief of Staff said.

"Chances, much," Stevie said. Jackson's second laugh was even shorter.

"You wait for someone?" he asked.

"Yes, Jareth," Stevie said. Russell Jackson looked at her, puzzled.

"I thought that was over?" he asked. Stevie felt her jaw drop. How the hell did the White House Chief of Staff know about her dating status? Or why would he even care?!

"Yeah, it kind of is, but we were together for a while and we just need to talk," Stevie said. Jackson nodded.

"I understand that. Well, have fun," he said.

"Will you be alright?" Stevie asked, worried. Jackson huffed.

"Yeah, not the first time someone done this. Although rarely it's been such a useless attempt," he said. Then the man laid the towel on the bar, thanked the bartender, left a bill by the towel and walked out.

The next day Stephanie McCord walked to the office of White House Chief of Staff. The outer office was empty; Adele was most likely getting a file or taking a file somewhere or perhaps she was having lunch. Stevie knocked on the inner office door and opened it. Russell Jackson was sitting by his desk, feet casually on the hardwood table, a file on his lap and the man's frameless eyeglasses were tossed on the desk. He looked up.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Mr. Jackson, would you have a moment?" she asked very politely. Jackson's reply was a bark-like laugh.

"Have you forgotten my speech about having a moment?" he asked.

"16-hour work day and all that?" she replied.

"That," Jackson confirmed. After a while he looked up again. Stevie was still standing by the door. Jackson sighed, tossed the file on the desk, took his glasses, checked his phone, got up, walked to the door, closed it, pointed at a chair by the desk, sat down behind the desk and said:

"Speak!"

Stephanie McCord wasn't sure when she had stopped being afraid of Russell Jackson and when her fear had turned into deep, respectful affection. Perhaps when she had smashed into the man and poured 4 mugsful of coffee on him, and he didn't kill her, or maybe right after that, when although in a hurry, under a lot of stress and absolutely out of time, Russell Jackson had first asked her if she was alright and then told her she didn't need to worry about her mother, which was easier said than done. Or perhaps it was when at the brink of Government shutdown Jackson had taken her with to see the President meet veterans on his own accord, without press, without publicity and he had shown that to Stevie just to explain what kind of man Conrad Dalton was.

Fear had turned into utmost respect.

But it still didn't mean she ever wanted to piss him off. So, she spoke.

"Late last night my friend at the college was returning from the campus library. She walked through the park and someone attacked her. What should she do? Legally?" Stevie asked. Russell Jackson looked at her steadily.

"Are you telling the truth? Do you speak of your friend or is this you who we talk about?" he asked.

"I am telling the truth. We speak of my friend," Stevie assured him. Jackson rolled his chair next to Stevie and leaned back. The chair sides hid the man's face from Stevie.

"Tell me everything," he said. Stevie told him the whole story her friend had told her. It was easier to speak that way, to tell how her friend had been dragged in the middle of a bush, how her clothes had been torn off and how she had been raped, when she couldn't see his face. When she had finished her story, he leaned forward.

"Stevie, was it a friend or was it you?" Russell asked. His voice was completely without emotion.

"It was my friend, Mr. Jackson. I promise you, that is true," she said. Jackson drew a shuddering breath.

"Good. Then I don't have to kill anyone myself," he said. Stevie had been wrong. The man's voice was not emotionless: it was so full of rage, that it sound colder than ice.