Spring 2014, New York City, NY

Blake Moran was beginning to hate New York. He sighed, rather dramatically, more because of his circumstances than any singular event. "My usual, please, Abby," he informed the barista, as he reached the front of the queue. He haunted this coffee shop regularly, and the routine settled his anxiety that particular morning.

Blake had been on Wall Street for a year. A year and two months. Fourteen months of a job to be coveted by his classmates, for which he didn't even need to interview. Fourteen months of late nights, early mornings, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. He didn't mind the hours so much, but he didn't enjoy the job.

Blake thought he would discover his passion on Wall Street. Even after studying public policy at the Harvard Kennedy School, the finance world still intrigued him, enough to begin his career in the Big Apple. He secretly harbored his dreams to change the world, but that idealism faded in the stark reality of the financial district. After a year at Baldwin and Wilder as an analyst, Blake realized although he might become filthy rich, he'd lose his soul in the process. Wall Street was just an extension of the immature frat boy community he escaped at UVA.

He paced in Cafe Grumpy, across the street from his office building, waiting for his s'mores latte. His office. He snorted in contempt. He didn't have an office. He practically lived in a miniscule cubicle surrounded by too many people. People he was starting to resent. People from whom he needed space, hence the need for coffee not brewed in the firm's kitchenette. He just couldn't deal with people anymore today. He looked at his watch. 10am. This was going to be a long day.

He glared at the young blonde woman working the espresso machine behind the counter, and twirled his finger in the air, motioning for her to move more quickly. He didn't really want to go back to work, but his patience was stretched thin.

"Come on, Blake, we go through this ritual every day." Abby tossed out the sarcasm with ease as her hands flew along the levers, steadily filling cups with the aromatic liquid.

"And yet every day, my order takes just as long," Blake retorted. "Other people are working, you know." He fell into their familiar banter without a thought. "You don't need to draw those cute little pictures on the cups. This isn't kindergarten." Abby's caricatures were stunningly accurate, miniature portraits of her favorite customers. Blake relished her added flare, but covered his delight with the expected mockery.

"You're exceptionally friendly today. What's the occasion?" Abby countered, thoroughly enjoying their repartee.

"Actually, I hate most people. It takes all my skill to hide that," Blake replied, quirking an eyebrow in derision.

"You'd better work a little harder, then," Abby shrugged nonchalantly. "You aren't fooling me."

In his coat pocket, his phone vibrated. Great. More people. He ignored the call. The vibrations stopped, then started again. Good God, could people just leave him the hell alone. He took out the phone, gearing up to curse at the hapless and clueless person who couldn't seem to let him get his coffee in peace.

He glanced at the screen briefly, then again, for a longer moment. He actually squinted, convinced he was reading the name wrong.

Elizabeth McCord.

Blake hadn't spoken to his former professor in over a year. They'd exchanged emails, but he skipped the alumni functions at UVA and her friendly offers to visit the farm house. He'd just been too busy, or too stressed, or too focused on climbing his way up the ladder. Vacations and leisure time didn't exist in the vocabulary of Wall Street. The comfort of their affectionate relationship had tempted him, but he really no desire to go back to his former college life.

Blake held up a hand to halt Abby's next comment, stepping away from the busy counter to a more quiet area of the room. He pressed the call button on his Blackberry and held the phone to his ear.

"Dr. McCord, hello." His voice warmed exponentially, Wall Street momentarily forgotten at the unexpected connection with his friend and mentor.

"Blake, you might need to change that greeting," Elizabeth McCord began, without preamble. The familiar husky drawl flashed him back over eight years and countless coffees to a bitter, winter morning in January. "Do you have a minute?" she asked. "I have a proposition for you."

He listened, intently, in the corner of that coffee shop, his order long forgotten to the dismay of the harried barista. Gradually, Blake unconsciously straightened, segueing from the informal address of her first name into the more formal 'ma'am' as he responded to her comments. His contribution to the discussion needed few words, other than 'yes'. When Blake hung up the phone, he stared at the screen in mild shock, processing the conversation.

Then a huge grin engulfed his face. Suddenly, people didn't matter. Neither did the coffee, or the endless ladder, or even New York City.

Blake Moran was finally getting his chance to help change the world. He was going to Washington.

END.

These are the scenes I envisioned with Blake and Elizabeth when I first began the idea of this story, after Blake's admission he was Elizabeth's former student. I leave them in good hands in the State Department, secure in Blake's ability to feed Elizabeth sugary carbs when she needs to be reminded to eat. The actors' relationship off screen has created such an amazing chemistry between the characters, and I wish we could see all of the scenes that don't make it to Sunday nights. I can't touch the beauty of Blake's revelatory speech to Elizabeth, but I hope I've done justice to the affection and camaraderie they've demonstrated over the past five seasons.