I. Evening Delights
Author's Note: I've had the strongest urge to write lately, but, always the story commitment-phobe, I've decided to post a series of one shots. I'll stick to posting here for now (and possibly developing a few into lengthier stories). Criticism and suggestions/requests are always welcomed.
Disclaimer: I do not own Scandal or any of its characters.
Because weddings and small talk aren't always a disastrous mix.
xxx
She feels blissfully unaware of what is going on around her. Sipping on her second glass of the night, she revels in the delayed bitterness that taints her mouth and embraces the immediate warmth that slips down her throat.
She relaxes in the seat she has taken up in the corner of the room. She eyes the seat's place card; the name printed on it is vaguely familiar - one she's heard in passing once or twice. She decides not to give it any more thought and downs the rest of her glass.
Deciding that she's reached her limit for the night in order to drive home, she turns her attention to the center of the room. The dance floor is aflame with pairs of bodies, some moving with the ease of familiarity, others dipping and sliding clumsily - movements made sloppy by the effects of alcohol.
She can't help but smile at the pair in the midst of it all. There, grinning uncharacteristically wildly, is her former professor and forever-mentor. He's dressed sharply in a black suit - a contrast to the white one donned by his new husband. The two move together effortlessly, occasionally sharing smiles and pleasantries with those around them, but otherwise in their own little world.
"They look so happy together."
She looks up at the sound of a voice. Her eyes meet those of someone she's sure she's never met. She definitely would have remembered seeing eyes so piercing, so blue…
"I've never seen Cyrus smile like that."
"Or smile, period."
She lets out a surprised laugh and turns away, instinctually reaching for her glass. She can feel his eyes on her, and before she has the chance to think of something else to do with her hands, he's offering,
"Would you like me to get you another?"
She contemplates saying yes. She wants to send him on his way so that she can slip away before he returns. He's been there for less than a minute and his presence is making her increasingly unnerved. She doesn't like it, but she's intrigued, at the very least.
"No thanks, I'm good," she looks back up at him and immediately wishes she hadn't. He smiles at her and her mind suddenly becomes foggy.
"Do you mind if I join you?"
Again, she can't help but indulge her curiosity and shakes her head 'no'. She gives him a small, polite smile as he slips into the seat beside her. They sit in silence for a moment, both of them watching the other guests on the dance floor.
"So," he turns to her, "what brings you over here, all by your lonesome?"
She gives an impish smile in reply, "I've always enjoyed people-watching more than actually interacting at these things." She thinks her words over and adds as an afterthought, "You don't seem that bad though."
He grins, "Well thanks." After a pause, "I'm the same way though. It's why I asked Cyrus to put me back here," he nods towards the place card situated in front of her seat.
She glances at it and then back at him, her eyes slightly wide.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I hadn't realized-"
"No, it's ok - it's no problem, really," he smiles reassuringly, but she can't help but feel embarrassed at the realization that he didn't intentionally approach her so much as he was just trying to return to his seat.
Unsure of what she should do next, she mumbles a quick, "Sorry again," and looks away, scanning the room once more.
A moment passes and she feels compelled to say something - anything to fill the silence.
"I'm trying to remember why your name sounds so familiar."
She turns to face him and finds that he is staring at her intently. Their eyes meet and he shakes his head slightly, as if his mind was elsewhere.
"You're probably thinking of my father. He was a senator-"
"No, I know him. But I mean you specifically, Fitzgerald Grant the third," she stops, "Sorry, I didn't mean to cut you off."
"Stop doing that," he teases.
"Doing what?" She bites down on her bottom lip, an old habit she could have sworn she got rid of years ago.
His eyes lower for a moment, and she watches as his Adam's apple bobs before his gaze meets hers once more. His eyes seem darker than before, more intense, and the sight sends a shot of excitement straight through her.
"Apologizing. There's no need," his words sound more carefully constructed, like they were no longer what he felt inclined to say.
"Oh," she suddenly feels hot and glances down at her lap. "Sorr-" she starts and immediately stops, unable to stop herself from falling into a fit of giggles.
He soon joins her, chuckling with a shake of his head. She's grateful for the reprieve. As their laughter dies down, the air is not nearly as thick as it had been a moment before.
He takes her in for a moment.
"You don't strike me as someone who apologizes often."
She lets out another short laugh, "You're right."
And it's true. She rarely - if ever - apologizes. But then again, she rarely feels so unsettled, so out of her element…
"I'd like to say it's the alcohol, but," she shakes her head, "I don't know."
He gives her a look that says he knows, and, more importantly, he knows that she knows. They're silent for a moment before he starts to speak.
"Well, Ms. Pope-" he stops abruptly, and his cheeks light up with a pink tinge. He looks away, as if he's done something wrong.
It takes her a moment to realize why he's reacted the way he did, and she can feel her own cheeks heat up as she does.
She's certainly not tipsy enough to recall that she didn't tell him her name.
He finally turns back, a look of apprehension marring his features.
"On a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be if I told you I've been watching you and snuck a peek at your place card when you got up for your second glass of wine…"
She's shocked, and flattered, and the slightest bit worried. She immediately tries to replay the last few hours in her head, hoping - praying that she hasn't done anything embarrassing.
"Hmm," she pretends to think, tapping her chin with her index finger. "It's a little questionable, but not exactly Dateline-worthy, so maybe a four."
He relaxes, and they share another laugh.
"You know," he starts after they've quieted, "you're quite the legend according to Cy."
Her eyebrows rise in surprise, and she glances at the man still enraptured with his husband on the dance floor. "Really?"
She turns back just as he begins nodding.
"Oh yeah, definitely. He always raves about you - how great of a student you were, how you wiped the floor with every debate team you ever went up against -"
"Not every team," she corrects with a modest smile.
He rolls his eyes playfully, "Well, obviously it was close enough. I've never heard him brag so much about someone else."
She shrugs, "I owe a lot to his being a great mentor. He's a cantankerous son of a bitch, but a great mentor nonetheless."
No sooner than she finishes does she see Cyrus walking straight towards them.
"Speak of the devil…"
He turns around and lets out a chuckle as Cyrus approaches them.
"What's so funny?" Cyrus offers as a greeting.
"Were your ears burning? We were just talking about you," she giggles as she takes him in. He's coated with a light film of sweat and his cheeks are red, and she's instantly taken back to when he would end class looking much the same after an impassioned lecture.
"All good things I hope," he grabs a chair and places it in front of them before sitting down unceremoniously. "I came over here to say I'm glad you two are talking. I wanted to introduce you before the night ended."
At their looks of confusion, he continues,
"Liv is helping me with the Caldwell campaign," he looks between them, "and I want to send him to your restaurant once or twice."
With a sudden realization, Olivia's eyes light up, "That's why your name is familiar." She turns so that she is no longer looking at Cyrus, "There was a review for your restaurant in the paper a few weeks ago."
Fitz looks at her, surprised.
"You look shocked," she grins.
"I didn't think anyone actually read the paper anymore."
Cyrus clears his throat, reminding them of his presence.
"Well this is even better. Fitz, give Liv your number and you guys can work out the details this week."
She watches as a look of hesitation crosses Fitz's face, and her stomach drops. And just as quickly as he appeared, Cyrus walks away, leaving them to sit in awkward silence.
She observes him, and can't help but feel saddened by his apparent unwillingness.
"Look, you don't have to give me your number. I'm sure I can have someone call on Monday-"
"No," he quickly interrupts, his eyes widening, "it's not- I want to give you my number," he looks embarrassed when the words leave his mouth, but only for a moment. "It's just that I've spent most of my adult life avoiding politics…"
"But your father?"
"-is the reason why."
There's an animosity in his voice that she knows isn't directed towards her. There's obviously a story there, but she knows that this is neither the time nor place to ask questions.
Another time she tells herself.
She watches his mind seem to go somewhere else and, without thinking, places her hand on top of his on the table.
"I'll tell Cy that we'll set things up somewhere else."
His eyes meet hers and soften.
There he is.
"Cyrus can be persistent," he pauses, seeming to think over his next words carefully. "He and my father, they tried to push me into running for governor after my time in the Navy. It's actually how I met Cyrus…"
He sounds so sad, so empty at the memory, and she's no longer curious, no longer wants to hear anymore. He continues,
"One thing led to another, and my father and I had a falling out. Cyrus and I bumped into each other a few years down the road and we've kept in touch ever since. He even helped me sort out some of the legalities with my restaurant."
He glances in the direction Cyrus went appreciatively. When he returns his attention to her, his eyes fall on her hand on his, and he shifts. Feeling that she has overstepped, she removes her hand, placing it in her lap.
Why did she do that?
Not a moment passes before he's reaching for her hand. He entwines their fingers and places their hands back on the table. He sends her a wide smile, his eyes beaming with admiration.
"I'll think over his proposition, but is it ok if I give you my number anyway?"
He leans in, and she suddenly finds it hard to focus. His hand joined with hers is so warm - so electrifying. The way his eyes gleam with hope and the way his lips settle into a crooked smile send her head into a tizzy.
"I don't see a problem with it," she speaks in a low voice, and it seems to have an affect on him. He leans in further, and she can smell the liquor on his breath.
She fights the urge to close her eyes.
There's a sudden pull between them - an invisible force making it increasingly hard to not close the distance between them. She's not sure if it's been there that whole time. But it is, at once, far too potent - far too present for either of them to ignore.
Just as it starts to feel that they're the only ones in the room, just as his eyes fall on her lips and her eyes on his….
"Fitzgerald Grant! I've been looking for you, you son of a bitch. You're harder to find than a pig in a sewer."
They both pull back, the moment interrupted by whom Olivia recognizes as the incredibly wealthy, incredibly grating Hollis Doyle.
"Hollis," Fitz greets through a tight smile and clenched teeth.
They begin to converse, Hollis offering her only a nod and smile of acknowledgement. Hollis congratulates him on the restaurant, mentioning that his father is probably rolling around in his grave ("the old bastard, may he rest in peace"). Though the conversation is pleasant - well, as pleasant as a conversation with Hollis Doyle can be - she can tell that Fitz is growing annoyed.
It seems that Hollis soon picks up on his exasperation. He concludes with, "Well, me and my Lillian are gonna make our way over to your place when we get the chance," and bids them farewell.
Fitz sighs and rubs his temple.
"That man is… something else."
"He's definitely interesting," she laughs.
He nods in agreement and scans the area.
"It doesn't look like we'll be getting anymore surprise visitors."
She takes his word for it and reaches into her purse. She pulls out her phone and, after a few taps, hands it to him, "So that we don't forget."
He quickly enters his number and gives it back, "Trust me, I wouldn't have forgotten."
She glances down, and the contact name catches her attention.
"Trois?"
"It's French for three."
"I know, but why?"
He grins, "Because you're the first person to recognize me, Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Third outside the shadow of my father. And you've been drinking Chateau Latour all night," his eyes fall on her lips once more.
She tries to ignore the way it makes her breath hitch and raises an eyebrow.
"I didn't peg you for a wino?"
"I'm not, but I've had my fair share while ordering for the restaurant."
"Mmm, this restaurant," she rests her elbow on the table and places her chin in her palm. "I'm definitely gonna have to stop by some time. Especially if we'll be in cohorts for the Caldwell campaign…"
She suddenly feels bold and places her hand on his leg.
"That critic really liked you," she changes her voice so that it is softer, huskier, "Grant's menu is nothing shy of a culinary phenomenon. His blending of flavors - foreign and near - will send any diner on a tantalizing trip that borders on being sensual."
"Wow," he cuts her off with a laugh, his own voice a little shaky, "I think that's what it said exactly."
Her hand slides further up his thigh, "Photographic memory."
He shifts and gives her a look - daring, excited, hungry…
"Good to know."
They stare at one another for a tense moment, the air thick. She wants this - whatever this is, but she's aware that they're in a public place and that they barely know each other. And so, she moves her hand back down until it's resting innocently on his knee. The look in his eye changes to something cooler - longing mixed with frustration.
"So, tell me more about your phenomenal menu."
They spend the next forty minutes discussing anything and everything. She learns that he eventually decided to go to culinary school after serving in the Navy and spent some time in both France and Italy. She tells him about how she managed to graduate from law school at twenty-two and is currently in job limbo while helping Cyrus out with a few campaigns.
He reveals that he wants to open another restaurant and maybe write a cookbook or two. She shares that she hopes to open her own firm or maybe spend some time in the White House - anything to help make a difference.
They're both over the moon when the other admits they are unquestioningly single.
They flirt in French when she reveals that she's fluent in several languages thanks to years at boarding school. They're impossibly close when they whisper their latent dreams and fondest childhood memories.
And then, far too soon, the reception is over. Guests share goodbyes; Cyrus and James make the rounds, and, much quicker than either of them would like, he's gotten their coats and is walking her to her car.
"So, Livvie," her stomach fills with butterflies at the nickname. It slipped out of his mouth some time during their banter about the pronunciation of "plantain" and has had the same effect on her every time.
"When can I expect your visit?"
She stops in front of her car and turns to him, "Hmm, maybe next week? Things are about to pick up with campaign and this week's gonna be kind of hectic…"
He seems to think for a moment, "What if I could give you a private tour a little sooner, like tonight?"
His face is so hopeful, and she so desperately wants to say yes…
But she has to be up early tomorrow. The wedding set them back a day or two and it's going to be guns blazing when they get back. She's going to need to be as well-rested as possible…
"Fitz, I wish I could say yes, but-"
His face falls and she can't bring herself to finish the sentence. His look of disappointment is gone as quickly as it appeared, and he smiles, "It's fine, Liv. I know you're busy. I just would've hated myself if I hadn't asked."
She can hear the sadness in his voice, feel it in her heart.
"I'm sorry," she offers with a sad smile.
Neither of them are ready to say goodnight, and so they continue to stand there, staring at each other.
"I really enjoyed talking with you tonight, Livvie," he finally speaks.
"Me too," she adjusts the collar of his jacket, "Best unwanted company ever."
He grimaces playfully and she giggles.
"I guess this is goodnight," his hand is on her waist and neither can recall how they've managed to so easily invade one another's space.
"I guess it is," she speaks softly, scared that anything louder will burst the bubble they've found themselves in.
Without much of a warning, they're both leaning in.
Their lips collide softly, tentative and shy. It feels better than she's imagined and she finds herself falling into the kiss, leaning until he's the only thing holding her up, his hands gripping her waist.
The more they get, the more they crave. Her hand moves to the back of his head, her fingers running along his curls. She can't remember who sought entry first, but their tongues soon sweep across one another's, sweet remnants of her wine and those of his scotch blend until they can't tell who drank what.
Only when her lungs are burning and her head is spinning does she pull away. She moves her hand to his face, cupping his cheeks gently. His grip on her waist tightens.
His eyes are wild, stormy. He looks over her face adoringly, and she's sure that she's doing the same.
"I've wanted to do that all night," he speaks after a moment, sheepishly.
"Great minds desire alike…"
They both grin, and she straightens; his grip on her loosening considerably.
"I'll give you a call," she promises.
She steps out of his arms and instantly feels cold. The wind sweeping between them is foreign and unwelcomed.
"Get home safe," he moves closer, much to her appreciation, and places a soft kiss on her cheek.
She nods, and with a final look, turns to get in her car. Once she's inside, he steps aside, letting her back out of the spot, and waves as she makes her way out of the parking garage.
She's barely made it down the street when she glances at her dashboard. The clock reads 12:37 and she sighs, knowing that she'll barely get five hours of sleep by the time she's home and settled.
And suddenly, a thought crosses her mind.
She used to pull all-nighters all the time in law school and do perfectly well. What difference did a year or two make?
She pulls over, putting her car in park and double checking to make sure that her doors are locked before pulling out her phone. She scrolls down, stopping at "Trois".
The phone rings only once, and she can hear his smile when he picks up,
"Miss me already?"
She has no reason to lie, "Yes."
He chuckles and they fall into a comfortable silence. She takes a deep breath, "So, I realized, the night is still young."
He doesn't say anything, so she continues.
"Is that private tour offer still good?"
He doesn't reply on the phone, and she instead hears two quick honks of a horn. She rolls down her window as a black BMW pulls up next to her.
"It's about a fifteen minute drive from here, if you're up for it," his smile is so big, and his giddiness is contagious.
"Lead the way."
They stay on the phone the entire way there. He acts as her GPS and she excitedly points out that they're only a ten-minute drive away from her apartment complex.
He leads her into the empty parking lot in the back. He jumps out his car, a set of keys in his hand, before quickly making his way to her car and opening her door for her.
"Such a gentleman," she smiles appreciatively, and he takes her hand in his.
After the door has been unlocked and the alarm turned off, he flips on the light and turns to her with a wide smile.
"Welcome to Magdalena's."
He explains that the name is in honor of his childhood nanny, who first taught him how to cook, while leading her around the kitchen. He points out certain appliances and various meats that have been left to marinate over night, and he answers her questions with enthusiasm.
"So, do things ever get Hell's Kitchen crazy?"
He chuckles, "They can be, but I try to make sure that doesn't happen. Henry, my sous chef, is pretty good at keeping things under control."
"Have you ever considered going on one of those competition shows?"
"Thought about it? Yes. Actually considered? Not really," he smiles, watching her continue to walk around.
"Come on, I wanna show you the dining area."
He leads the way, and she's impressed - very impressed, actually. The area is spacious, and the layout is classic chic. Neutral colors line the walls, pops of color bursting from the chairs and booths. A bar lines the wall to their left and a few pictures sit on the wall to their right.
"Nice place you got here, Grant," she compliments, walking over to the photos hanging on the wall.
She glances at a few before turning to him, her eyes wide with excitement.
"Morgan Freeman ate here?"
He walks up beside her and nods with a grin, "Yup. I'm pretty sure I was shaking when we took that picture. I was so excited."
"Wow," she continues to look at the pictures, most of them showing him with a politician and a few with an actor or actress. "All of these people came and you've only been open what, a year?"
"Eight months," his tone holds justified pride, and she can't help but feel happy for him.
"That's amazing, Fitz," she says with genuine excitement, and the look on his face makes her heart swell.
He leads her to the bar and motions for her to sit as he makes his way around the counter.
"Can I get you anything?"
Her first instinct is to say yes, but she remembers that she's already drunk that night and still needs to get home. She tells him such, and he nods with understanding.
"Can I take a rain check though?"
"Of course," he leans onto the counter so that they're face to face.
"There is something I do want now though."
He raises a questioning eyebrow.
"How about a kiss from a handsome stranger?"
"Hmm," he feigns consideration, "I can get you a kiss and from someone handsome, but the stranger part may be a little tough. Maybe a kiss from a handsome friend, instead?"
Without answering, she leans in and quickly presses her lips to his. It's a peck - over in a few seconds, yet her body still feels like it was set aflame.
"That'll do."
He walks back around the counter and stands in front of her. Her knees spread to let him stand between her legs. He smiles down at her and moves a piece of hair behind her ear.
"You're so beautiful," he speaks lowly.
She caresses his cheek, "You make me feel like I'm going crazy."
It's all the prompt he needs, and, soon, his lips are back on hers. This kiss is much like the one in the parking garage. They take their time exploring one another's mouths. They're both suddenly aware of the lack of barriers between them as her dress rides further up.
His hands are everywhere - in her hair, running over her back, grazing her thigh - it makes her feel like she's on fire. Minutes pass and he moves his hands lower on her waist, pushing her against him. She wraps her legs around him, and, soon, she's in the air. Whimpers and groans fill the silence around them.
They're moving, and she's not sure where they're going, but she's honestly too far gone to care. Suddenly, her back is against a wall and his hands grip her backside. They both groan in appreciation.
Everything is hazy and hot, too hot. She wants him - she needs him. And, while her hands are roaming free in his hair, on the back of his neck and his hands are holding her so firmly - she hears an all too familiar sound.
Her phone is ringing, and it's just enough to stop them. They breathe heavily, taking in the other's disheveled appearance. She unwraps her legs and he helps her get her footing.
They're desperately trying to calm down, but she knows there's no denying it - they've lit a fire that's going to need to be doused at one point or another.
Still wanting to be close to him, she leans her head on his chest and wraps her arms around his middle. He holds her tenderly and strokes her back.
"Whoever that is better be important," she sighs.
She feels his chuckle more than she hears it as his chest rumbles.
"At one-something in the morning, it better be."
She contemplates going to check but decides against it.
"I'm going to need to leave soon," she doesn't need to look up to know that he looks as sad as she does. She hears him sigh.
"I didn't get to cook for you, but there's ice cream in the freezer if you want."
Any excuse to stay with him longer is too tempting and she raises her head.
"Ice cream sounds great."
"Don't you dare!" She's staring him down, a bottle of chocolate syrup ready and aimed in her hand.
"And why not?" He smirks, moving closer with a can of whipped cream.
"Because there's no way I'm letting you get whipped cream on this dress without major consequences."
"It's a risk I'm willing to take."
She doesn't have time to think before he's pressing down on the nozzle and she's hit. She retaliates immediately, squeezing the bottle in her hand. He's laughing, she's screaming and they're both covered in a matter of minutes.
The whole thing started innocently enough. They were joking around, taking the can of whipped cream to the head. She offered to do it for him, and, just when she pressed down on the nozzle, she moved it so that it sprayed everywhere but his mouth.
He looked at her in shock, his face covered in whipped cream. And so sparked their current predicament.
They're making a mess, and neither seems to care. When they're both covered substantially, he picks her up, spinning her around.
"Fitz! Stop," she's laughing hard, deliriously happy.
"Payback, baby," he spins her around one last time before finally setting her down.
They look crazy, their wedding attire stained in cream and syrup.
She should be mad. She should be irate, given how much dry cleaning is going to cost - but she can't be. She can't wipe the grin off of her face, even if she wanted to.
He looks her over and begins to laugh, "I really did a number on that dress."
"Tell me about it," she whines, before starting to laugh again.
"If it's worth anything, you still look gorgeous," he leans down and pecks her lips. "And, I'll happily pay for dry cleaning."
"That won't be necessary," she glances around, taking in the mess they've made. "Besides, you might want to pay someone to clean all this up instead."
He mimics her movement and grimaces as he sees what they've done.
"Come on," she pats his chest, "show me where your cleaning stuff is. We'll get this cleaned up in no time."
He seems surprised, "Liv, it's fine. You said you had to get out of here. I can take care of it-"
She walks to him, swiping his cheek gently to remove some syrup, "No, I helped make the mess. I'll help clean it up."
Cleaning up takes longer than either expected, because they can't keep their hands off of each other and sticky formal attire is, unsurprising, uncomfortable to maneuver in.
She tells him that this reminds him of the food fight her senior class staged in boarding school that landed them all with clean up duty for a week, and he recounts a similar tale from when he was in the Navy.
"Well this is the most fun I've had making a mess and cleaning it up," he admits jokingly.
"Ditto," she agrees. She watches him put the mop away and takes one last cursory glance. "We did pretty well."
"We make a good team," he walks behind her. His arms snake around her waist and his chin rests on her shoulder.
"I have to agree."
They don't move for a long while, and, when they do, they know it's time to call it a night.
"Do you want me to follow you home?" He asks, double checking to make sure he's locked the door.
She shakes her head, "It's ok. Can you stay on the phone though?"
"Of course."
He walks her over to her car. They hug for a long moment, neither wanting to let go.
It's crazy. That she feels so deeply connected to a man after one night makes no sense. It's confusing and scary, and she knows the smart thing to do is run. But as she stands here, in his arms, it just feels so good, and the thought of running makes her feel so empty, so lost….
"Be safe," he advises for the second time that night as she gets into her car. She calls him and waits until he's settled in his own car before pulling off.
They don't speak as they drive to their respective homes. She hears his alarm going off moments after she walks into her own apartment.
"Are you inside, Liv?"
"Yup, just got in."
"Ok, me too."
There's a pause.
"Thank you for tonight," she walks through her apartment, her phone pressed to her ear as she begins to strip, climbing out of her ruined dress.
"I should be the one thanking you. That's the most alive I've felt in so long…."
Her heart skips a beat. It's exactly how she feels and she can't help but feel so connected to him in that moment.
"I know exactly what you mean."
They don't say anything because they don't need to. She feels content for the first time in forever.
"Goodnight, Fitz."
"Goodnight, Livvie."