A/N: I began writing a sequel to "Fall Apart" this summer when I was riding high on the Olitz shipper joy, when we had that amazing kiss at the end of Season 6 and the vague promise of a steamy reunion in Season 7. I wanted to show what life was like for Liv and Fitz in D.C. after all the tumult of "Fall Apart" - how would they make it work with a secret baby and a still-steamy love affair while Fitz finished out his term? I got all excited and wrote several chapters, and then...summer break ended, work started up like crazy, and I started watching Season 7.

Season 7 has broken me, y'all. I used to be able to defend Liv for most things, or at least explain why she was making the horrible decisions she was making. But I can't. I just can't anymore. The presumed death of Quinn (even though I'm holding out hope it's not true) was my breaking point. And with the horror of Season 7, an insane work schedule, and some family things going on, I lost all time and desire to write fluffy Olitz.

Nevertheless, I felt like publishing this snippet, partly because it's Christmas and the beginning of this fic is at Christmastime. I'll be honest - I don't know if I'll ever come back and finish this. I would like to, but I lost all my Olitz mojo this fall, and I can't promise I'll ever get it back. Shonda is a cruel, cruel mistress. So if you hate unfinished works, this may not be your cup of tea. I get that.

However, if you do decide to read it, be aware that this is about a month after Liv and Quinn and Mali have moved back to D.C. They have a house with ridiculous security measures (and a Huck), and they're in the process of rebuilding OPA. Hope you enjoy - drop me a line if you feel so inclined. And Happy Christmas!


December 16th

It's been nearly four weeks, four goddamned weeks, and he is going out of his mind. Almost a month since he saw her, since he held her. Almost a month since he saw his daughter. The thought still bowls him over, that they have a daughter. Their daughter.

He pinches the bridge of his nose painfully and forces himself to focus on the budget amendments sitting on the desk in front of him.

Just a few more hours, and then he can hear her voice again.

~s~s~s~s~s~s~s~s~s~s~s~s

He calls her cell at a little past 10:00 PM, hopes she has it turned low enough that it won't wake the baby. After the fifth ring, he starts to worry, but everything in him eases when in the middle of the sixth she picks up.

"Hi," he says, low, and he hears her quick little gasp, the soft mumble. He knows that sound, has known it for nearly nine years. "Were you asleep?"

"Hmm?" she murmurs, and that husky sleep-tinged voice goes straight to his groin. "Ohh...hi, baby."

He grins, can't help himself. She never calls him by pet names, ever, unless she's mostly asleep. He told her once that she was at her sweetest only when she was barely conscious. (If he remembers correctly, she pushed him off the bed in lieu of a reply.)

"I didn't mean to wake you," he says, tries to keep the laughter out of his voice. It's the first time all day he's felt at ease, the ache in his chest a little lighter.

She draws in a deep breath, sighs it out. "It's been a long day," she says, and his hand tightens around the edge of his desk. He hates this, hates being away from her. Hates not being able to help. "I don't think either of us stopped moving until I put Mali down at six. And that-that did not last long."

He gets up, moves to pour himself a scotch. The guilt claws at him, sinks into his flesh, scratches bone, and he doesn't think he can handle this without something to take the edge off.

"How is she?"

"She's good," Liv sighs, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "Talkative. Takes after you."

He chuckles.

"Yes, because her mother is so very much the silent type."

She huffs out a breath, and he knows she's trying not to laugh.

"She saying actual words yet?" He tries to put the stopper back in the decanter quietly; he doesn't want her to know that he needs a drink for this.

"Fitz." The eyeroll is almost audible. "She's barely four months old. Even if she is the most brilliant baby in the universe, she's not going to say anything resembling actual words for at least two more months. Maybe longer."

"I think you're underestimating her. Our daughter, being just...average? Please, Liv."

She does laugh this time, deep and rich and it assuages a little of the guilt, burns it away faster than the scotch ever could.

"I wish I could be there," he says, a half-whisper, and immediately regrets it because she stops laughing abruptly. "I wish-I wish I could paint rooms with you and hang pictures and move furniture. I wish I could hold her while we worked."

There's silence on the other end of the line, and he wonders if he's said too much, if she'll pull back again.

"I do too," she admits, and it's so quiet that he almost doesn't hear her. But he does, and the twist of bright pain in his chest nearly takes his breath away. She wants him there, and she's actually said it, and he can't go.

"I can be there in eleven minutes," he says, because one word from her and he'll throw it all to the winds.

"No. Absolutely not. Fitz, we talked about this-"

"I know. Liv, I know. I just-I walked past the tree outside the Oval today, and there was a teddy bear on it, and I-"

He knocks back the scotch, because if he finishes that sentence it's going to break him.

She makes a noise, half-choked, verging on a sob. "Don't."

"Livvie." It's harsh, scratchy with liquor and the pain. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She's quiet for a minute, forcing the emotions down, and when she speaks he can tell she's got it together again, at least for the moment.

"December 27th. That's what we agreed on."

"I know."

Another long minute, and the fear starts bubbling up in his chest again.

"And after that, we damn well celebrate on the right day." She sounds fierce, determined. "Every damn year. All right?"

"Damn straight," he shoots back, and they manage a watery sort of chuckle. It's not convincing, but they're trying and that's the point.

"So…" he says, slowly, lets them shift gears, because he's learned the hard way that forcing her to talk through things when she's not ready never ends well for him. "Are you actually decorating for Christmas?"

He can hear the rustle as she turns over, imagines her curled on her side in those silky white pajamas he's always loved on her.

"Of course we are," she says, as if it's the stupidest thing he's ever asked her. (He is willing to vouch for the fact that it is not.) "It's her first Christmas."

"Hmm." He sets the tumbler down. "Olivia Pope, decking the halls with boughs of holly. I have to admit, it's a little hard to envision."

She scoffs. "I am filled with Christmas cheer, thank you." There's a pause. "Actually, that was a lie. I hung two spruce branches over the mantelpiece and drank some cocoa. Quinn's the one who's gone all Martha Stewart Does the Holidays on me."

He actually does laugh at that. "You've got to be kidding."

"I am not. It's terrifying. The second we get a room put together I lose her for hours, putting up Santa Clauses and reindeer and God knows what else. If she hangs one more string of tinsel I think the ceiling might cave in."

The smile feels almost foreign, this brief happiness flooding him. He keeps clinging to the thought-one more year.

"I promise to come dig you out of the rubble with my own two hands."

"I think your Secret Service detail might be a little more helpful."

"I'm wounded."

She snickers.

"It's a nice neighborhood, but I don't think even they are used to the president-or his bodyguard-just dropping in."

"It's an excellent way to connect with the American citizens I am proud to serve."

"You are ridiculous."

He runs his thumb around the rim of the glass, basks in this, the ease of it.

"I love you," he says, a little throaty because it hits him all over again at the most random moments, how much he needs her. Needs them both.

"Even when I call you ridiculous?" She's trying to play it off, keep things light.

"You could call me every name in the book, and I would still love you," he vows, and he knows her, hears that soft little sigh that says he struck home. "You should know that already, you've tried several."

The sound of her giggle is his personal victory march.

"Go back to sleep, Livvie," he says gently, even though he'd rather stay on the phone with her till dawn. "You need rest."

"All right," she murmurs, and he can tell she's stifling a yawn.

"Okay," he whispers, and he's about to hang up when he hears her, drowsy and a little muffled by the pillow.

"I love you too."

He doesn't need any more scotch that night.


December 19th

He's striding towards her, looking very serious and purposeful, and she glances down at the sheaf of documents in her hand, wondering which of them he needs at the moment. Ever since they came home from Port Townsend in November, he's been back-on fire, determined, resolute, no holds barred. Naturally, his enemies on the Hill are experiencing deep disappointment...the very ones who had thoroughly enjoyed having a perpetually tipsy, half-addled president who could barely hold it together through a state dinner, let alone through a security briefing. She'd protected him from it as best she could, for as long as she could, but she will freely admit that there's a profound sense of relief that he's actually being president again.

"Abby, I need you for a minute," he says, brisk and businesslike, and she nods, thinks that maybe this is about the immigration bill he's been trying to push or something about the new budget agenda the Speaker sent over yesterday.

"My office?" she asks, and leads the way inside. He closes the door carefully.

"I want to see them."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Them?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

She fights the urge to sigh. "Sir-"

"It's been three days since I talked to her. And I know you have it, so don't waste my time."

She grits her teeth and thinks very seriously about throwing a paperweight at him.

"Sir, you have the ambassador of Yemen in your office in five minutes, you have a meeting with the joint chiefs this afternoon for which you have not yet been briefed, and there is a budget meeting on the Hill tomorrow and I know for a fact that you did not finish going over the proposal yesterday evening. You do not have-"

"-time." She purses her lips, because she hates it when he finishes her sentences for her. "I know all of that. But right now I have five minutes, and I plan on using them. Unless you want me to be late meeting the prime minister."

Jaw clenched, she fishes in her jacket pocket and pulls out her phone.

"You know, my job description is the White House Chief of Staff, not some underpaid tech at Shutterfly," she grumbles, but she flicks to her photo albums anyway, clicks on the latest picture from Quinn. "There," she huffs. "You have three minutes and thirty seconds. Just so you know."

He isn't paying the slightest bit of attention to her anymore, his eyes fixed on the screen of her iPhone.

"When was this?" and God, his voice sounds so gentle. It makes her traitorously sympathetic, and she cannot afford sympathy right now.

"Yesterday," she snaps. "Two minutes and forty-five seconds."

He ignores her, uses finger and thumb to zoom in.

"She's getting so big," he murmurs. "Do you think what you bought the other day will still fit, if she's growing this fast?"

"Of course they will. They're tailored. You had me buy tailored baby clothes. And a three hundred dollar rocking horse."

"It's Amish. Handmade," he retorts, but he still hasn't looked away from the screen.

"It's three hundred dollars. And let's not even discuss the two hundred dollar set of wooden blocks I picked up yesterday, because what baby doesn't need a set of blocks that costs as much as a college textbook?"

"Exactly." He grins, unrepentant.

"One minute, thirty seconds."

His eyes are so hungry, she thinks, so avid as he stares down at the phone in his hand, and she can't help it. Damn him, damn his love for his daughter, and damn those aching eyes.

"She sleeps with that little giraffe you got her every night," she says, and his eyes flick up to her face for the first time in four minutes. "Liv says she won't settle down without it."

"She does?" There's a crooked half-smile (the one she now knows means he's trying too hard), and she breaks protocol, reaches out and rests her fingers gently on his wrist.

"It'll be all right," she says, meaninglessly, but he seems a bit better, cold comfort though it is. Then she sees the numbers at the top of the screen in his hand, and she draws in a sharp breath. "All right, sir. It's time."

He checks his watch, the smile dissipating. "Right."

He turns on his heel, heads across to the Oval to meet with the ambassador, handing her phone back as he goes. She's moving towards her desk, about to look for her notes before she goes to sit in, but then she gets distracted by the image on the screen.

Liv's face is glowing, smile wide and glorious as she holds the baby overhead. In her steady hands, Mali laughs, delighted, her eyes fixed on her mother, hands and feet flying as she sails blithely through the air. It's such a normal moment, so easy and natural that it could be anyone, really - any mother playing with her child, a single moment of happiness forever captured in lines and pixels. Abby looks at it for a long moment, too long considering all that's waiting for her, but she can't quite bring herself to look away.

Quinn has started sending her a picture or a video every day or so, little snippets to pacify him, to keep him from doing something irretrievably reckless that will ruin the careful façade they've all painstakingly put together to protect everyone involved. It holds him together, she knows, for now.

Honestly, though, she doesn't know how much longer this can last.