A/N: Okay, I don't think I need to rehash all the controversy going in regards to the now infamous elevator scene from 2x11. I'm not going to sound off on it here because there's not enough space, for one, and for two I don't think the entirety of Fitz and Liv's relationship can be summed up and judged by that scene. I'll also say while I do love Olitz, I'm #TEAMLIV. She's not perfect, not in the slightest, and I do agree with Shonda, she is the anti-hero, but can't no one tell me that she's not selfless and a bad chick. Love her and I ship her with happiness and a long over due nap.

Also, its 1:17 am here . . . so yeah, hopefully there aren't too many grammar mistakes. I just HAD to get this out of my head.

-Riss

Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN SCANDAL, but one day I will be the like Shonda Rhimes and own a tv empire. I'll try to be a tad less sadistic, too.

Down On His Knees

It's early morning when the sun blazes through the window of the hotel room, waking Fitz unapologetically. The bright beams wreak havoc on the closed eyelids of Fitzgerald Grant, causing him to shuffle and groan. He pulls the blanket over his head trying in vain to black out the world around him.

There is jumping, thumping, and bumping going on inside his skull as if his head is undergoing reconstruction. His brain threatens to jump ship as he moves, ever so slightly causing a wave of nausea to pass through him. How much had he drunk last night? Much more than he'd thought, of course, while knocking them back, one after another. His father's voice rings through his thoughts "You can't even get a damn hangover right" and Fitz cringes, internally screaming at the phantom inside of his head to shut up. A knock sounds on the door and in between the phantom words and the boxing match currently taking place in his head, Fitz can't help but shout, the base in his voice causing his temples to flare, "GO AWAY!"

Whomever the mysterious knock belongs to doesn't attempt to make their presence known again. The knock stops and retreating footsteps can be heard echoing away from the door. Fitz cringes and breathes in deeply, searching for oxygen as he tries to assess just why – aside from the drinking – he feels like he's been hit with a 2x4.

Eyes closed, he runs through dinner, the snide marks shared between he and his father, Verna's innuendos, Mellie, Cyrus, interns, the stats girl, and the need to get away – the longing look he'd thrown in Olivia's direction as the dinner dissipated into pure hell. Why between the barbs with his dad, and Mellie catering to the old man – and that's when it clicks.

Olivia. The Elevator. Mellie. He can hear Olivia's no's, her ignored demands for him to stop, and his heart shatters. The shame that washes over him threatens to choke him, vying against the pounding in his head for best performance at the Oscars. He opens his eyes and sits up – a tad too fast, however, and he finds himself making the hurried dash to the bathroom. Moments pass as his stomach wretches its contents into the porcelain bowl, and he places a hand to his forehead.

Fuck. He mutters, and stands, turning on the bathroom sink and running some cool water. He looks at his image in the mirror; there are bags under his eyes, and he looks warn way beyond his years. But aside from the man that'd aged in just a few days due to a visit by his unwanted father, Fitz finds a man of remorse, sorrow. He'd hurt Liv last night; he hadn't listened to her, and didn't know if he would have . . . which scarred him to death. He was so in love with her, so taken by her – and he'd almost hurt her.

With gathered resolve he turns on the faucet and sets about getting ready for the day; debate prep.

He knows its in vain that he takes the elevator up a floor before heading to check in with everyone, to Olivia's floor, but he can't help but hope that she's in her room. Its ten thirty a.m. and he knows he should have been up sooner, and can't wait to here the snide remarks on all sides when he does show. The hangover is still sitting on his skull, beating on his brain, but he pushes on, taking slow, remorseful filled steps toward Olivia's room.

When he reaches her door he holds off before knocking, knowing full well that the sound of knuckles on wood might as well be a sucker punch to the mouth. He raps his knuckles on the door nonetheless, and holds his breathe, waiting. She's probably downstairs, he fingers, working tirelessly to make him president with the strength of ten men, none of which could dare hold a candle to her – his Livy. A few moments go by and no one answers, reluctantly Fitz turns on his heels and heads back toward the elevator; might as well join the cavalry, he decides, shuffling along.

He's standing in front of the elevator when the doors ding open, and the face of an angel stares back at him; she's alone. Her big brown eyes are missing some of their brightness, and he can feel a tug at his heart – was it because of him? Not the election, but what had happened last night.

"Hi." He whispers, hoping to decimate the pregnant pause hanging in air as she checks her phone and he debates getting on.

"Hi." She repeats flatly, and then steps pass him, her heels hitting the ground hard.

An empty elevator awaits him but he doesn't take it, he pushes away from the wood paneled doors and follows the echoing footsteps.

"Liv, wait." He calls after her, catching up to her and lightly grabbing her by the elbow. Before he knows it she's already snatched her arm back, away from his reach and brought her knee up, sending it colliding with his groan. Suddenly he finds himself on his knees in front of her – and not in the way he enjoys either.

His mouth hangs open as the air is shoved from his lungs. She looks down at him, fire in her eyes. He watches as her eyes scan the hall making certain that they're alone before she advances on him. Paired against the pain in his head, Fitz can't decide which is worse, the shot to his groan or the mariachi band slamming around in his skull.

"If you ever, in your life, put me in that position again, with Mellie or just in general, Fitz. . . " She hisses, leaving her words hanging, and he can see her eyes glass over, almost as if she's fighting tears.

"Liv, I'm sorr-" He attempts to choke out, but boy does Olivia have a hard knee. He holds onto himself, and gathers his words once more. "Sorry. I never – "

"Nineteen." She cuts him off.

"What?" He stares at her confused. Was that how many points were down in the polls or?

"Nineteen." She repeats, and then goes quiet as the elevator dings, the door opens, but no one gets off. She waits a few moments, and then continues. "I was nineteen when I was roofied at a party - my first college party. He took me back to his room against my protests, and tried to force himself on me."

Although Fitz knows that her words occurred years ago he can't stop the anger that rises in him, and his fists clench. Who would dare hurt his Olivia? Who? He'd kill him, with his bare hands.

"I said tried, Fitz." Her voice resounds through his thoughts, and he realizes that he's clenched his fists. His eyes follow her as she pauses, takes a deep breath, and then continues. "Lucky for me his roommate was an upstanding guy. He stopped what could have been the worst day of my life."

Fitz looks down at the floor, the burgundy and gold carpet underneath his knees stares back at him. The shame is even stronger now. He shakes his head and tries to look up, but finds it hard. He can hear the hurt and pain in her voice, no matter how much she tries to play it off.

"I didn't mean to. Liv I would never – ever in my life hurt you in that way. I would never lay a hand on you. I would never – "

She holds her hand up signaling for him to stop.

"I understand that you're not in a good place right now, and I'm here for you, but I'm not your punching bag, Fitz. And I'm not some drunken college girl you can feel up and slam down on your bed at will. I'm your – I'm your . . . "

"You're the woman I love, and I'm sorry, so sorry, Olivia - Livy." He stares up at her, literally on his knees still, both the pain in his groin and head at that moment seem dull and ignorable compared to the sorrow that's in his heart from knowing that he'd hurt her so.

Fitz waits for her to give some recollection, some signal that she's listening and has grasped his words to the fullest, for what seems like forever. His eyes match hers and his bottom lip quivers. There's just so much on his plate right now, in his face – he just wants to run from it all. He just wants to grab Olivia's hand and take off to parts unknown.

He doesn't expect her next move, but he welcomes it so. Softly and slowly she steps toward him, her tiny hands cup his cheeks and she leans forward, pressing her soft full lips to his forehead.

"Go take two Tylenols, eat a bagel best you can, and drink some water, I'll meet you down stairs."

He nods slowly; his chest loosens, and he eases onto his feet. He then turns towards the elevator. He can feel Olivia watching him, and Fitz can't help but to feel just a tad bit better, although not much; he knows he'll have to live with the fact that he hurt her for the rest of his life. Then there's still the town hall practice to get through, and everyone down stairs to face, especially his father and Mellie. But he knows that at least Olivia is still on his side.