Bang! Bang! {Part IX}
Agents Larson and Russell lead the President of the United States and his Chief of Staff down a long, secluded hallway in a secure section of the hospital recently cleared of non-essential staff. They take post to the right and left of the hospital door. Justice Thornton lies in the bed hooked to life saving machines clinging to the remaining days of her life. Her breathe rattles and she clutches the oxygen mask that sustains her. Her eyes are closed as she steadies her breathing. "Verna…we are glad you were able to fit us into your schedule," Olivia greets.
Her eyes open moving back and forth trying to reconcile the reason for their presence in her room. "I do not understand…I asked for Rosen. I plan to restore justice before I take my last breathe," she rasps.
"Confession is good for the soul…the People deserve justice," Fitz introduces.
Olivia places her Prada bag in the chair next to the bed before retrieving a file. She folds back the cover before speaking, "We are working with your Clerk and staff to make sure you maintain a stellar legacy but more importantly delivers a series of rulings that become pivotal to forming a more perfect Union the way the Founding Fathers' intended," she explains.
He picks up the conversation, "You are the swing vote to give the 5-4 majority to the following issues plaguing out nation…voters' rights; equal protection for the LGBTQ community; justice reform and women's reproductive rights," Fitz clarifies retrieving a pen from the inside of his suit jacket.
Verna coughs and struggles to breath, "I will not betray…my career…core principles."
Olivia rolls her eyes, "You do not have much time left and I have limited fucks to give at this point…You willingly participated in election tampering at Hollis' first request. Most significantly…the act I will never forgive. You offered Huck to Sally as a sacrificial lamb to save yourself while the President lied comatose. Spare me your faux morality…it is as shady as that synthetic wig on your side table," she spews.
Fitz laughter catches in his throat, "If I may offer comfort in your last days; know that my eulogy at your funeral will be as insincere and sprinkled with lies as the one I delivered for your partner in all manner of debauchery…my sperm donor Big Jerry," he offers before pressing the buttons on the side of the bed to raise her body to an elevated position.
Olivia positions the stack of majority rulings for her to sign. "Thank you for your service to our country," she concludes before returning the file to her purse.
Quinn and Huck are secluded at the Grant Family Ranch in Santa Barbara, California. The President arranged for Dr. Andrew Perkins, the nation's foremost trauma counselor, to work exclusive to restore Huck's emotional, mental and physical stability. They are in the middle of a horse therapy session in the barn. The progress is slow but steady. He is showering weekly and consuming at least one meal a day.
Quinn excuses herself to take the incoming call, "Liv," she greets.
"Hey…how is he?" she questions.
"We are making slow progress. He doesn't speak but he responds to requests or commands. Do you really think he can be saved? I think this is worse than anything he has ever had to manage," Quinn laments.
Olivia re-reads the file on the desk in front of her…she stares at the pictures of the man she never knew-Diego: wedding photos…a new home…a brand new baby. Her father in the name of the Republic took everything that mattered from her friend. A man who chose to save her when she was all alone…the man whose eyes were sadder than hers and now she knew why he was so broken. Family makes you weak. She can still hear her father's vicious voice in her head. She finally responds, "We are his gladiators…his family. We will give him back everything the government took from him. He will be whole. I refuse to lose and so should you. Stay focused," she demands.
"Right," she stammers, "I am gladiating…consider it handled," she responds.
"Good. I will be in touch," she disconnects the call.
Fitz leans down on his forearms against the railing of the Truman Balcony. The cable knit, sage green cashmere sweater and dark denim jeans provide a barrier from the night air. He nurses the drink in his hand staring into the abyss of the dark night. His mind plays a negative feedback loop of every poor choice and every moment of make believe. The real life consequences and emotional wreckage sits like a weight on his shoulders. The shame settles in his veins thick and coarse. Where do I begin to fix this? The voice that always sounds like love disrupts his despair, "Nice view," she rasps. He doesn't look back or even turn…he simply nods his head in agreement. "Whatever it is we can fix it or at least go down fighting," she suggests.
He shakes his head. I do not deserve her. He stands up straight and turns to face her, "How many years do you have?"
"As many as you want," she replies. She sits on the patio chaise wrapped in a lounging sweater with a throw blanket across her legs.
He strides over placing the glass on the table before lifting her legs to take a seat. He caresses her calves searching for the right words, "I…" he begins before exhaling, "I knew my life was a charade…a series of make believe moments I told myself were necessary to win elections; to be a public servant and make lives better. The means always justified the ends but now they don't because they never did. All the signs were there but I willfully ignored them…I was a coward," his voice hardens.
Olivia sits ups and uses her small hands to cup the sides of his face, "Stop…when you knew better you did better. Look at all you accomplished," she re-assures.
He shakes his head, "Right…after bullets riddled my body and brain I saw the light," he scoffs.
"Do not talk like that. You almost died and my world stopped spinning," she spits.
He looks up at her for the first time, "You planned my funeral…Mellie banned you from the hospital," he shakes his head, "How do I make things right for you?" he questions rhetorically.
"You were not supposed to know that," she whispers before he cuts her off.
"But I do…loving me has cost you too much. What do you want-really? Not some abstract alternate universe we indulged hidden away in blank hotel rooms. What does my Livvie want? I will give you anything your heart desires," he implores. She stares into the night because she has never considered what she might want because she never believed she could ever have it. Fitz watches her struggle, "Do not think about elections, polling data or optics. Do not think of us as the President and the Fixer. This is about us belonging to each other" he clarifies.
Olivia finally faces him twisting Doux Bebe on her index finger with her thumb and allows her gut to speak, "I want a giant, elegant wedding that we make the Social Secretary plan but no reception. I want a Vermont honeymoon where no one can find us. I want to run the free world with you and I want OPA because I built it along side my team with our blood, sweat and too many tears," she pauses searching for more truth.
The smile on Fitz's face is wider than the Grand Canyon while she speaks but once she stops his brain fixates on the one glaring omission. "You do not want children?"
"I want but…" she searches for the right word. " I was taught that love, family is weakness. Your children deserve better than what I have to offer."
He places his index finger under her chin and raises her face to his, "I know your love…it is impossible for you to not love our children should we have them. I would never force you but I would like to be a father."
Olivia reads between the lines and her back stiffens once she realizes the paternity threat from the bunker was not a bluff. She cannot fight the tears and neither can he. "I am responsible for each of them because I was too afraid to live my truth," he buries his face in her chest.
Her fingers rake through his curls. "Teddy is my responsibility too." Time passes slowly before Liv takes a deep breath, "Honeymoon baby maybe…we start small…about 6 pounds. If we don't screw that one up too bad we have another-deal," she forcibly lightens the mood.
He chuckles and wipes his eyes nodding, "We give Gerry, Karen and Teddy some of our normal whatever that is," he joins in.
"Absolutely," she continues, "Aunt Abby is a social deviant; Uncle Huck was the government's best assassin; Aunt Quinn has a secret identity; Uncle Harrison is a felon and the remaining living grandparents are locked in the bowels of a federal super maximum prison…so normal," she carries on until they are both doubled over in laughter.
"Do not forget before leading the free world daddy flew black ops and mommy committed treason. We are all kinds of normal. We definitely should join the PTA," he relishes the gallows humor.
Liv grabs his face taking her time to savor his mouth with a kiss that shifts the molecules of the air around them. When breathing becomes necessary she smiles against his mouth, "We are going to be great."
He smiles against her lips, "We are going to be great," he parrots back.
Mellie hides away in a dimly lit corner of a hole in the wall diner enjoying fried chicken, potato salad, blackberry cobbler and a jar of hooch she smuggled in her purse. She spent the last few days in California unrecognized calculating her way back to center stage. The path was narrow but she was confident her plan forward covered every angle possible. I am always underestimated but look how far I have come on brain power alone. The news from the White House captivated the nation: successful international trip and new military base; draining the Washington swamp of corruption and last but not least a fairy tale engagement. They even have a moniker: Olitz.
"Fancy meeting you here," he flirts.
"Governor Nichols…what a surprise," she greets coyly.
"You are still the most captivating First Lady in California or United States history," he compliments.
She peers up from underneath her lashes, "Can we get down to business," she demands.
"As you wish," he slides onto the black vinyl bench seat across from her. Pulling a box of cigarettes from inside his suit jacket he retrieves one stick and offers it across the table.
Mellie parts her red painted lips before closing them around the filtered tip. He flicks the lighter and she inhales with her whole body. "So you are ready to become the next President of the United States," she confirms after blowing smoke rings away from the table.
"I am here to hear your plan b because plan a failed miserably," he retorts.
"Plan a failed because I was relying on a man that did not want it; couldn't put his back into the necessary heavy lifting…the man lacks the raw, ruthless ambition to wield power. Plan b places me at the center of action and there is absolutely nothing I will not do and no one I will not kill, marry or fuck to sit behind the Resolute Desk," she explains.
"Let me hear your opening play," he encourages enjoying his own nicotine fix.
"The Grant children…particularly the newborn are gold. They allow me to establish the narrative that we were left behind in favor of his new family. A family that is not going to be of the hue our party will find tolerable. The southern strategy works for a reason," she explains.
Andrew watches her brain at work, "Grant children…that is a lose term but moving on. His recent policy pivots and legislative agenda will attach the RINO label without our fingerprints," he nods.
"If my gut it right…and it is. Sally will challenge taking the hard evangelical base. In a three way race we have the inside tract as the standard Republican," she concludes.
"Who is the candidate?" he questions.
"You…I need your first term to re-invent myself as a functional power player," she shakes her head.
He laughs, "Basically you want to be Vanilla Pope."
Her head snaps back and her eyes squint to slits, "On my worst day I am better that malignant whore. She does not have the grit in her spine to walk two steps in my shoes," she spews.
"Tell yourself that so you can sleep at night but if we are going to do this we have to be honest with each other at least. There is not one person in the political class that does not credit her with winning that election on brains and killer instinct regardless of her blackness. No one doubts she is ready for re-election and last but not least she is engaged to the President of the United States…your ex-husband. He chose her instead of you. You can be bitter but you better be prepared," he pushes back.
"Trust me…I know her game…I can handle Olivia Pope," she states with confidence.
