The house was silent, its sole occupant engaged fully in the act of swirling a glass of scotch. He sat in near total darkness, the only light coming from the television, muted. He paused, drained his glass, and allowed it to come down heavy on the side table. From next to where the glass fell James picked up a small black and yellow memory card and stared off into the darkness of the living room.

Cyrus Beene had a specific favorite seat on the campaign trail bus, and thus, so did James Novak. This placed the journalist directly behind Olivia Pope, which gave him the added bonus of being able to overhear her various machinations for the future president, shared with the man next to her. A month ago James would have been able to confidently state, for the record, this was the reason he chose this seat. Now, as he sat with his laptop, trying and failing to calm his nerves by editing his most recent article, he was unsure of his motivations entirely.

He's a solid decade older than you, perhaps more, James thought angrily, glaring at the back of Cyrus' head. He does nothing but step on your toes. Dating him would be career suicide, even if Grant does eek out a win. Especially if he does. Additionally, although he knew Cyrus was gay, he doubted anyone else was aware. He had been looking for a story there, asking around about the future Chief of Staff, but no one he talked to had anything to say on the topic of Cyrus' private life. His information might fill an index card: head of the political science department at Georgetown, lives in Woodley Park, offered a dean position at Harvard, declined. Olivia, his longtime protégé, refused to divulge more, and beyond his resume James could find nothing.

There were some things he knew about the man that he wouldn't find in print. Cyrus enjoyed red wine, hated scotch, didn't snore, owns about fifteen identical sweaters, never read fiction. He seemed to have no particular favorite foods, had to have a pastry to go with his coffee or the effort seemed wasted, did not shirk from a confrontation. He seemed to want nothing more than to be in charge, and Grant's staff was more than happy to oblige. Of the people on this campaign, James thought, Olivia and Cyrus seemed far better suited to run this country than Grant and Mellie.

Two weeks ago, after the rally in Kansas City, he and Cyrus argued heatedly about Grant's numbers in Missouri. It began as a clarifying question and answer session between several reporters and Cyrus, but had ended with just the two of them, red-faced and angry. James had, in the middle of his sentence, reached out and gripped Cyrus' arm. For an electric moment nothing happened. They simply stood, breathing the same air. Cyrus' eyes were glued to James' hand on his sleeve, and James' heart beat wildly in his chest. Slowly he moved his hand down to rest by his side, and Cyrus met his eyes. Then, as if pulled by an invisible string, Cyrus turned around and walked away.

James sighed and rubbed his eyes. They would be at their hotel soon, and he was sick with nerves at the thought of talking to Cyrus. Every night since that moment he intended to ask Cyrus to have a drink with him, and each night he let the opportunity go. During the day Cyrus vacillated between completely ignoring him and being ice cold. If he asked and Cyrus balked, James may be kicked off the bus. If he asked, Cyrus agreed, and things went well, he may be in for a completely different kind of hell. James closed his laptop and rested his head against the seat back, watching the icy cornfields pass by.

James lifted his suitcase off the sidewalk outside of the parked bus and waited for Cyrus pick up his bag, taking a deep, calming breath. Finally, he descended the bus stairs, Olivia right behind him.

"Cyrus, can I speak with you?" James hoped he sounded confident, and less like a sixteen year old asking for a curfew extension.

"Sure?" Cyrus replied, eyebrows lifted and head cocked. He turned to Olivia. "I'll see you in the morning. At least it won't be an early start."

"Goodnight, Cyrus. James."

James smiled politely and waited for Olivia to move out of earshot.

"What, James? You cannot possibly be hounding me at ten o'clock at night."

"No, no. It's not work. It's… well." James stammered, staring at Cyrus' bemused face. "I wanted to see if you had to time grab a drink with me, tomorrow night. No work. Just… a social call."

Cyrus' eyes narrowed. "A social call. "

James breathed out heavily. "Look, I just want to talk to you. Not about the governor, not about pancake breakfasts and town halls. I just… want to have a drink with you. Unwind. You look like you could use it."

"I'll take that under advisement. Tomorrow night, then. The hotel bar will be crowded. I'll find a place."

"Tomorrow night, then," James quietly agreed, watching as Cyrus turned and marched toward the hotel, shaking his head.

They managed to avoid each other the next day until about seven, when Cyrus told James to meet him in the hotel lobby at nine. When he arrived, James was both pleased and surprised to see that Cyrus had put on a suit.

"There's a nice restaurant nearby that has a quiet bar. Sounded like the perfect place to have this little talk I'm so in need of," Cyrus huffed, climbing into the back of a sedan. James merely rolled his eyes and followed him into the car.

Halfway through his second scotch James was afraid he had misjudged Cyrus. He was certain he'd loosen up away from the campaign, and with a few glasses of red wine, but the man seemed more uptight than ever. Sure, they'd had a sound debate on the intricacies of Washington's local politics, the housing market, and front-yard vegetable gardens. He still felt the tension from two weeks ago, but now James seriously doubted whether he'd ever act on those feelings. He was resigned, considered it a dodged bullet, and let himself enjoy Cyrus' company.

A moment like that, though, seldom passes without a reason, James mused. The drinking was over, the check paid, and they were about to leave their seats and go back to the way things were, campaign manager and reporter, paths to diverge once more. Another minute and his chance was gone. James, emboldened by the thought, reached a hand over and placed it on Cyrus's knee, his eyes scanning his face.

Cyrus stopped fiddling with the pen on the bar and took a deep breath. His free left hand moved down to remove James' hand from his knee, but stopped. What am I so afraid of, he thought, his hand now on James', his eyes closed.

He opened them to see James intently focused on his face. Cyrus took his hand off James's and rubbed his face.

"No one can know. If we pursue these… social calls. No one can know."

"I know," James replied. "It would be a nightmare for both of us. But I enjoyed spending time with you tonight. I want to see you again."

"I would like that." Cyrus stood up and put on his coat, James following suit.

With a furtive glance around the bar, checking for any familiar faces, James stepped forward and placed a quick kiss on Cyrus' mouth.

"I would like that very much."

Weeks passed, and James and Cyrus saw each other when they could, fighting more often than not for the thrill of the make-up sex that followed. James had his suspicions that his was not the only secret relationship on this campaign trail, but his efforts to follow Olivia around were thwarted by Cyrus. Most things, it seemed, were destined to be thwarted by Cyrus.

James stood outside the older man's hotel door, banging the wood with his fist loud enough to wake the dead. Clenched in his other hand was a copy of The New York Times, freshly printed.

"WHAT." Cyrus yanked open the door and hissed at James, looking up and down the hallway. "What in the fuck can I do for you at this fine fucking hour?"

"You gave Charlotte White this scoop about Reston's tax statements and not me? Charlotte White?! You KNOW I can't stand her! She's barely literate but she has Cyrus Beene on speed dial?!" James glared across the doorway at Cyrus. After taking in his face for a moment he huffed and crossed his arms. "Fine. I know where I stand. I hope the Reston bus has an empty seat!"

Cyrus reached out to grab James by the lapels of his bathrobe and kissed him on the mouth, effectively silencing him. After a moment, James returned the kiss, breaking away to add, "This isn't over!" as Cyrus pushed him into his hotel room.

On the other end of the hallway, Olivia smiled to herself as she ducked back into her room.

"Was that James?" Fitz asked sleepily from the bed.

"Yeah. I knew Cyrus was going to take some heat from that article."

"But it bought Cy more time. You know he's not ready to have a public relationship yet. Hell, I don't know if he'll ever be ready."

Olivia crawled back into bed beside Fitz, putting her head on his shoulder. "I think James knows about us. Or at least is curious."

"But if he and Cyrus are serious…"

"He won't be so curious."

"This wasn't my choice, you know," Cyrus' voice carried into James' ear. James lifted his head to watch Cyrus flattening his hair in the mirror. "I tried to avoid you."

"Why would you want to avoid me?"

"To avoid this. Hiding. This isn't what you deserve."

"We don't have to be like this forever." James leaned back against the headboard. "After the election, we can go back to Washington and be together. I know we've never talked about it, but we could. We don't have to hide."

Cyrus walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, touching the duvet with his fingertips. "Saying and doing are two separate things. I've never been openly gay. I know you can't imagine that, but it's true. It's just not something I've ever wanted."

"And now?"

"Now I imagine you… fussing around my house. Now I imagine sharing a closet and a bathroom." Cyrus stood abruptly. He took a step, stopped, and covered his face with his hand. A moment passed and he composed himself. James watched all of this, rapt. Finally, Cyrus turned to face him.

"I love you. I've loved you for a long time. And I don't think it's fair, and I don't think it's a good idea, but it's done. I fell in love. But I can't come out yet, and I …"

James slowly got up from the bed and crossed the room to stand in front of Cyrus. He reached out and put his hand on Cyrus' cheek, watching as the older man relaxed and closed his eyes.

"It's OK, Cy," James murmured. "I love you too."

Cyrus pulled him into a tight embrace, resting his face on James' shoulder.

"Everything thing else," James continued, "we'll figure out back in Washington." James stood back, his hands on Cyrus' upper arms. "I'm pretty anxious, too. It could mean the end of my career. We'd be creating this whole new idea, testing the water." James reached up to touch Cyrus' face once more. "But people are so terrified of you, I don't think it's going to matter."

Cyrus shrugged his shoulders and pulled away, walking to where his sweater was neatly laid out on the arm of a chair. James watched as he pulled the sweater over his head, then walked over and adjusted the collar of Cyrus' button-down.

"I do what I can to maintain fear in the hearts of the masses." Cyrus looked down at his watch. "If you don't leave now our little parade will have a much earlier starting date then planned."

James stared down at the memory card in his hand. Cyrus had been strange on election night – victorious, yes, but distant. James had thought it odd in the moment but was quickly distracted by celebratory sex. Now he knew why. Before James could contemplate further he heard a noise at the front door – surely Cyrus coming home to change. It was after five in the morning. James stood and walked toward the stairs, meeting Cyrus halfway. The older man was still in his tuxedo, and at the sight of James his face crumpled. Cyrus reached out.

For a split second, James hesitated. He'd spent hours going over and over his relationship, mentally reviewing every facet, feeling its weight – questioning his reasoning, his ability to love, the depth of emotion he felt. He wanted to go upstairs, pack a bag, leave. He wanted out. The magnitude of what he discovered was terrifying, overwhelming. He met Cyrus' eyes, full of pain and longing, and he gave himself over to the man, felt himself being pulled into his embrace.