Chapter Two

Loving you, isn't the right thing to do
How can I ever change things that I feel?
If I could, baby I'd give you the world
How can I, when you won't take it from me?
You can go your own way
You can call it another lonely day

"Go Your Own Way" Fleetwood Mac

It was Harrison who discovered her huddled into the plush leather seats of her car, several hours later. Cyrus had noticed that her car was still there as he and James prepared to leave the reception, but had not wanted to disturb her. Cyrus knew well enough from the look on Fitz's face as he re-entered the party that their brief encounter had not gone well, and he thought it best to call someone for Olivia instead of trying to intervene himself.

When Harrison arrived and knocked on her window, he was greeted by a smaller, sulkier version of his boss. Her hair and dress were rumpled and all that remained of her makeup were thin black trails of mascara that had somehow made their way down her face. Her nose and cheeks were swollen, and she had a bruise on the inside of her knee that was obviously self-inflicted. The woman that he saw before him looked to be merely a shell of the Olivia Pope that he knew and loved. Harrison decided there and then that he had had all he would take of this new, mopey Olivia.

Harrison picked Olivia up and moved her over to the passenger side of her car before climbing behind the wheel. He took a moment to locate her keys and buckle her in before heading off to her apartment. Once inside, he tried to convince a once-again catatonic Olivia that she needed a bath to relax. When he realized that his attempts at breaking through her haze were going unnoticed, he decided to run an ice-cold bath in her large garden tub before coming into her bedroom to plead with Olivia one last time. She again ignored his words, and did not seem to notice when he picked her up gingerly and carried her over to the tub before depositing her, clothed and all, into the freezing water. The iciness of the bath must have shocked her, because the next words that came from her mouth were something that Harrison had never expected to hear Olivia Pope say.

"Harrison! What the fuck is wrong with you!?"

Had it not been such a shock to him, Harrison might have found her use of the expletive against him amusing. She was, after all, THE Olivia Pope, a woman who rarely lost her cool about anything.

Breaking free from his reverie, he looked back at Olivia, who was standing before him, visibly furious. Her wet hair and dripping white dress accented the outline of her slim frame, and showed just how much weight she had lost as a result of this depression over the last months. Still, he could see that the anger he had evoked in her had already brought some color to her pale face, and made him even more sure that this was what she needed in order to be able to grieve and move on.

"I said, Harrison – what the FUCK is wrong with you?"

His reply was simple – "What? You needed someone to bring you out of this daze of yours, since you clearly think that you have nothing better to do than mope about all day, as if your life is over."

With that, she began to cry again, wailing, "My life IS over, Harrison – don't you get it?! Everything that was important to me is now gone – I want it to be over!"

Harrison knew then that this situation called for more than simply shocking Olivia with water, he needed her to rally the strength within herself to keep going; he needed to remind her of just who she was.

With that he began one of his infamous speeches, reminding Olivia that was indeed THE Olivia Pope, and that there were fires to put out and situations to handle, people who loved her, needed her, and depended on her outside of these walls. He told her that she had spent long enough mourning over what had been lost, and that she owed it to herself and to her family and friends to keep on living.

"The Olivia Pope that I know and love and respect would not fall apart just because a man said that he didn't want her anymore, no matter who the man was. The Olivia Pope that I know, the Olivia Pope that I would gladly go over a cliff and into any battle for, would pick herself up, dust herself off, and MOVE ON. I don't know who you are or what you have done with MY Olivia Pope, but I am here to tell you that this ends now. Break things, yell, scream, fight, whatever you need to do, but you need to end this tonight. We won't deal with anymore of this sorry self-pity – not from Olivia Pope."

With that, Harrison walked out of the door and left a stunned Olivia standing in her bathtub to pick up the pieces of her pride.

She stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened, before slowly turning and facing the mirror. For the first time in months, she really truly looked at herself, and was shocked at what she saw. She thought that she had been able to hide so well the toll that this ordeal had taken on her, but she saw now that she had fooled no one. Her hair lacked luster, and her pallor was almost gray, a stark contrast from the chestnut brown she usually wore. She had dropped at least 20 pounds from her already slender frame, and she was even able to see some of her ribs through the cold wet outline of her dress. She was a mess!

Seeing herself like this, clearly for the first time in months, seemed to ignite a spark in her mind. She went from melancholy and forlorn to seething with rage in just the few moments that it took to look herself over thoroughly. Suddenly she realized that it was fine for Fitzgerald Grant to hate her, because she hated him just as much. How dare he make her love him, make her believe in the few stolen moments that they had together, and then throw her away because he discovered that she wasn't quite as perfect as he thought. He had abused and manipulated her before as well – let's not forget how he tried to use her to get rid of Amanda Tanner not all that long ago. He had also been married the entire time – he had allowed their relationship to continue, all the while knowing that his heart was no longer his to give. He had taken everything, and given nothing, and now she realized that's exactly what she was left with – nothing. Instead of feeling sad about this again, though, she only now felt loathing. She hated Fitzgerald Grant with an intensity that was only rivaled by that of which she loved him.

She spent the rest of her night screaming and crying and throwing things with abandon. She broke every item in her home that even remotely reminded her of him, downing a bottle of wine and listening to angsty blues music about women scorned. She allowed herself to feel the powerful feelings of guilt and anger and frustration and love and loss one more time, before collapsing on her bed from sheer exhaustion.

Tomorrow morning she would get up and return to her life as usual, but tonight, she allowed herself to work through the awful feelings necessary for her to finally let go.