"He can't seriously think this is okay." Olivia Pope stared at the television hanging above the dingy bar, her eyes narrow slits. Her back ached - the wooden, saddle style barstool wasn't ver comfortable. She was out of place in the small bar. Her straightened hair, gold Prada suit, black-silk blouse, and tall, skinny black heels stood out from the worn jeans, dirty shirts, and knee-high Wellingtons of most of the inhabitants. But she had wanted to get away. Washington was too much, sometimes, and going out without someone noticing her was an impossibility. At least here, in Cambridge, no one recognised her. She wasn't Olivia Pope. She wasn't the fixer or the gladiator of DC. She was just a woman. An obviously well-to-do woman, but a woman nonetheless.
"Not a fan of the president?" The deep, rumbly voice came from the man beside her. Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she took in his appearance. He wasn't from here, either. Sure he had made a better effort than she had to fit in, but he still stood out. His jeans were new, clean and barely worn, and she had seen that same black and red flannel on a runway in New York late last year. He, like her, nursed a glass of the top-shelf whisky. They were outsiders, only she didn't see a point in hiding it.
"I presume you are?" she answered his question with one of her own, her wine-coloured lips pressing against her glass as she sipped slowly on the burning amber liquid. Placing the glass on the stained bar, she twisted her head to look at the man beside her, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. He wore a black ball cap pulled low over his forehead and kept his head bent. Like her, he didn't want anyone to know who he was.
"I think the guy's doing an okay job," he shrugged, tossing his head back just long enough to finish his whisky in one shot before slamming the glass back on the bar and signalling for another.
"I suppose you would," she sneered, curling her hand around her glass and keeping her attention on the television. She had heard rumours of the president's support for this bill. Rumours that she hadn't liked. Being in her position, she could have easily waltzed over to Capitol Hill and bargained (or, if she wanted to be technical about it, blackmailed) key senators into voting against the bill. But she wanted to give the president the benefit of the doubt. She wanted to believe that the rumours she was hearing were just rumours. And so she had gotten the hell out of DC for the night. Away from command. Away from power. Otherwise, she would be too tempted to use it.
"Is that supposed to mean something?" He was offended. She didn't care. Swirling her glass in her hand, ice cubes clinking, she spoke:
"You're a wealthy white man. What would you know about the implications of President Grant's policies?" She brought the glass to her lips, trying to keep the smirk from her face at the flabbergasted shake of his head. In part, their conversation was somewhat amusing to her. Both arguing over a man neither had met. Not that she hadn't had her fair amount of chances to meet President Fitzgerald Grant III. He had wanted her to work for his team. Had sent her former mentor, Cyrus Beene, knocking on her door plenty of times. Her soul; however, was not for sale.
"Either you're very observant," he brought his glass to his lips as she lowered hers, "or a stalker."
"Believe me," her gaze returned to the television screen as Abby Wheelan (her friend was long overdue for a phone call - Olivia wasn't buying that the redhead was supportive of this new legislation) was in the ending stages of the press conference, "I don't do my own stalking."
He laughed at her joke. Though, in truth, it wasn't much of a joke at all. She had a law degree. In fact, she happened to be an extremely successful lawyer. The things she did could be considered stalking. Or rather, the things she had had done. Some of the things she'd done were borderline illegal. When she had first come to Washington, she'd been wide-eyed and hopeful - completely and utterly convinced that she would be the one to make a difference without losing her way. But even she had learned that keeping your hands clean in the nation's capital was impossible.
