A/N: So I have a pretty good case of writer's block for my other stories, sadly. I'm trying to push through them, but alas, here I am. As a way to jump start my creativity and hopefully get me going again, I had my friend give me a prompt and a challenge. She challenged me to write a short AU!Period Olitz piece. I chose the 1970s. Anyways, I have very specific plans for this fic and a definite ending in mind.
Going to warn you that there is some violence here towards the end and some pretty harsh language. I hope you enjoy nonetheless!
-M
(1971)
For the first time in months, there's land beneath Fitzgerald Grant's feet. He wants to touch the ground, play in the dirt, and feel fresh grass beneath his toes. As a Navy man, Fitz normally loves being out to sea, but the last three months have driven mad. He no longer finds the rising and falling of the waves relaxing, but anxiety inducing. The bottomless abyss that sits before him feels like an open coffin, the lid ready to snap shut on him at any given moment. Not that he's delighted to be landlocked in Norfolk for a solid week, either, but at least docked in Norfolk meant he could get in a car and go.
A hearty slap on the back jolts him from his thoughts. He turns to find his friend Marcus grinning widely at him.
"So my future Fuzz friend, how you feel about coming up to D.C with me? Get some home cooking?" Marcus suggests, dragging Fitz with him off the dock.
They're friendship draws a few eyebrows, a few head turns, but Fitz pays it no mind. "I'm an officer, Marcus, I can't just leave port."
"Oh come on, man, don't be square. Set something up with your boy Ballard and let's go. Your kin's on the other side of the country and you've been at sea looking at my ugly mug for how long. You sure you don't want out of that damn boat?"
"I do, but —"
"But nothing, come on Fitzgerald. Make some arrangements and I'll swing you on up for some fun."
/
Nearly five hours later, Fitz lags behind Marcus as they reach Marcus's DC home in Logan Circle. He carries a duffle with enough stuff in it for a few days. It's not his first time in DC, but it's his first time outside of the Marine barracks and Logan Circle couldn't be more different from the barracks if it tried. It's a shabby section of town, run down and somewhat defeated. Signs of the 68' riots rest all about in boarded up homes and businesses.
"Shame what Dr. King's murder caused," Marcus mumbles as they pause in front of a hollowed out house.
"I know; look at this. Why do we always have to burn our own?" Harrison, Marcus's cousin, asks.
Fitz glances up at the building, the scorched brick darkly contrasted against the bright blue sky. He'd been sailing on the East China Sea when Dr. King had been murdered, organizing airstrikes against the Viet Cong, but he could still remember clear as day the sadness that seemed to ripple across the faces of his African-American counterparts, specifically Marcus. He didn't understand the impact of losing Dr. King, but empathizes deeply due to the loss of President Kennedy only five years prior.
He remains silent, respecting that he doesn't have a place in this conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a couple of kids run after a loose dog down the street. One kid carries a bucket of sloshing water, the other a brush doused in soap. He chuckles as the children dive for the dog, but the slippery pup manages to get away.
"Something amusing back there, Fitz?" Marcus asks, pivoting on his heel.
Harrison breaks away and walks back over to his 67 Chevy, checking to make sure it's locked.
"What? Oh, no - the kids," he points at the two children and the runaway dog. "The kids are cute, that's all…"
"Oh, those are Mrs. Hattie grandsons, you'll probably meet her sometime this week," Marcus chuckles as the kid with the bucket falls, the bucket landing on his head. "Wait till she finds out they've been chasing a dog all over town." He motions for Fitz to follow him to a two story white house with a large open porch.
Harrison catches up to the two, eclipsing them and reaches the top step, eyes on Fitz and Marcus. "Well, I ain't got cute kids for you tonight, I got something better. Take them things inside and get dressed in something besides them damn uniforms." He instructs.
/
Less than an hour later, Fitz finds himself sandwiched in a shabby rundown bar. Thick smoke clouds the air and drinks flow. Loud soul music blares from a live band and he sits at a table. A couple of patrons eye him suspiciously and he's having a hard time loosening up.
"Fitz, my man, you've gotta relax. I promise, you're among friends," Marcus tells him, holding out a glass tumbler of amber liquid for him to take.
They're seated at a table that consists of Harrison, Marcus, and a couple of men he'd been introduced to earlier but couldn't quite remember their names.
"We're all family in here," Harrison assures, taking a drag on a joint and holding it out to Fitz. "Go on, white boy. Homegrown and dynamite so you better be careful. It'll help you unwind."
Tentatively Fitz grabs the joint. It's not his first time smoking, but it's his first time smoking in this type of environment and so openly, too.
"Sure he ain't a cop?" One of the men whose name escapes Fitz's memory asks with a raised eyebrow.
"No, Russell, he ain't a cop," Marcus shoots back. "Just a white boy."
The table breaks out into raucous laughter at Fitz's expense and he tenses. He stands out clear as day, his bright white skin popping against the deep, medium, and soft shades of brown in the building. For the first time perhaps in his life, Fitz is the only white person in a room.
"Well don't waste the weed, either pass or puff…" Harrison says hurriedly.
Fitz takes a drag, letting the smoke flood his lungs and the drug dull his senses before handing the joint over to Marcus.
"So, how long y'all docked and where you out to next?" The man next to Russell asks, but his question sits in air, unanswered because a spotlight hits the small stage and the crowd goes somewhat silent.
Russell whistles and Fitz's eyes hit the stage. His mouth immediately goes dry.
She's beautiful. It's the only thought in Fitz's mind as he stares at the woman who's walked to the mic. She has long black hair that hangs down her back and she's dressed in long sleeve yellow blouse that rests high on her neck. She wears a brown mini skirt that highlights a set of long, mahogany legs. On her feet rest a pair of platform heels that make her at least three inches taller than her natural height. Her doe eyes are accentuated with large eyelashes and there's a shimmer to her lips and cheeks.
"Wow," Fitz mumbles aloud, mouth dropping open.
"Careful now, big fella." Marcus leans in. "That's my cousin and that's also Russell's woman, Olivia. Keep leering at her like that and he might not like it. We'll find you someone else to talk up tonight."
But Fitz isn't listening. She's yet to open her mouth and he's already spellbound by those high cheekbones, supple lips, and lithe frame.
"Looks like the Fuzz here might want him a piece of chocolate!" Harrison hollers, smacking the table and laughing. Behind him, the band starts up and Olivia smiles at the crowd.
"He better take his ass on and look for one of them white girls out in Arlington, that bitch up there is mine," Russell huffs possessively.
"That bitch has a name, Russell. Watch what you call my cousin," Marcus threatens.
Fitz's eyes snap towards Russell who's seated across from him at his choice of words. He doesn't know Olivia, but he takes exception to her being called a bitch; she's too beautiful for such a crass descriptor. Marcus grabs his shoulders though, stopping him and pointing Fitz in the direction of the stage where Olivia stands.
She snaps her fingers, motioning for the crowd to join in, her soft curves swaying to the rhythm the crowd is building as she takes grabs the microphone, careful to avoid the cord as she brings it to her lips.
Fitz hears angels.
Never know how much I love you
Never know how much I care
When you put your arms around me
I get a fever that's so hard to bear.
Her voice is like velvet, smooth and sultry as she winks and smirks at the crowd, shimmying in place, her skirt sliding up her thighs.
You give me fever when you kiss me
Fever when you hold me tight
Fever in the morning
Fever all through the night
Fitz gulps, swallowing hard, his heart pounding in his chest as she moves into the crowd effortlessly. She's confident, cocky almost as she takes command of the once restless bunch. The light follows her as she goes, careful of the cord that connects her to the stage.
Men whistle, some continue to snap, and Fitz sits, jaw damn near on the floor.
Sun lights up the daytime
Moon lights up the night
I light up when you call my name
And you know I'm going to treat you right
You give me fever when you kiss me
Fever when you hold me tight
Fever in the morning
Fever all through the night
Olivia stops at a table, sings to a man that nearly falls from his chair, soliciting a giggle from her before her eyes land on Fitz. Her plush lips curl into a smile and she licks them mewling into the mic and Fitz feels his dick jump at the sound. Shit.
Everybody's got the fever
That is something you all know
Fever isn't such a new thing
Fever started long ago
She's on her way to the table and for a small moment she pauses at Russell, blowing a kiss before skipping around Harrison, her fingertips sliding across the back of his chair, and then she's in front of Fitz. He has the strong urge to reach out and touch her, consume her whole, but keeps his hands at his side, trying his best to stay still. It's hard though as she slides into his lap and sings to him, her fingers caressing his cheek. Parts of his body rise in reaction to her proximity.
Romeo loved Juliet
Juliet she felt the same
When he put his arms around her he said
Julie Baby, you're my flame
Thou giveth fever
When we kisseth
Fever with thy flaming youth
Fever, I'm afire
Fever, yeah I burn, forsooth
Their eyes meet and Olivia freezes, her butt pressing against an unmistakable erection. For a brief moment the world slows down and the music fades away. Fitz looks at her, truly looks, and sees that not only is she breathtaking, but her eyes...they're so large and dark. Mischief rests in them, but also a bit of sadness. He licks his lips, gulping as a loud slam on the table breaks their gaze.
Russell's woman, that's right.
Olivia looks down then up quickly, her eyes slightly wide before she turns her attention back to the song, scurrying out of his lap and back up to the stage to finish the song.
Oh, oh, what a lovely way to burn…
Oh, oh, what a lovely way to burn…
The cymbals build into a crescendo as does the crowd. A slight red tints Olivia's cheeks; she grins, and then bows, whispering a small, 'thank you.' Just as quickly as she'd hit the stage, she disappears again.
Russell pushes away from the table and storms off.
"Wooooh-weee, I see why they call y'all rednecks now. Look at ya' face boy!" Harrison hollers, laughing madly.
Fitz finally manages to break from his stupor, shaking his head and feeling his skin. How appropriate; he's on fire. His skin burns and he's certain he's as red as a ripe tomato.
"That brown suga'll get you every time!" Harrison continues to tease and even Marcus is laughing now.
"Where's the bathroom?" Fitz asks urgently, in desperate need of cold water.
They both motion to the back of the bar, and Fitz hurries to his feet.
"I'll be your fever, baby!" A woman yells after him cheekily as he goes.
/ / /
Olivia tugs on the collar of her blouse, hot and embarrassed by what's just transpired. She can't bring her eyes to the mirror. She feels faint, warm, and flushed. The unmistakable wetness between her legs as hard to deny as the erratic pounding of her heart.
She's done this act a thousand times, but tonight that man…
He was intoxicating; the way he'd stared at her terrifying and enticing all at once. Like a moth to an open flame, she'd been drawn to him. As cliché as it was, she had been. For some reason she'd wanted to turn in his lap, straddle his waist, and see what he's made of. She almost had too; the unmistakable feel of his budding erection pressing against her butt encouragement.
And she'd done it all right in front of her boyfriend, right in front of Russell. Fuck.
Russell.
"Open the door, Olivia," Russell shouts through the stage door, the sound of his fist slamming against the metal shaking Olivia from her thoughts. "Open the goddamn door!"
How long has he been out there?
It's like she hadn't even been thinking out there while performing, something had taken hold of her, controlled her as she found herself singing to that white man with those soft eyes and lopsided smile. Ugh. She didn't even like white guys.
She takes a deep breath in, preparing herself for the inevitable, and then climbs to her feet.
Please, please don't let him be on that stuff tonight, Olivia prays as she opened the door. When he's on that snow and drinking, Russell is the worst. His jealousy is maximized and his temper past volatile.
"What the fuck were you doing out there?" Russell shouts, grabbing her wrist and yanking her out of the doorway and into the dimly lit hall.
Olivia stumbles on her heels before slamming into the wall, wincing as her shoulders bounced off the plaster. That's another bruise.
"I was singing a song, Russell, like I do almost every night. Like I have for the last two months," she states matter-of-factly. She's been singing at Old Joe's since Russell came home nearly three months ago. Before then she'd been out to Chicago and Detroit, trying to make more than menial moves to get someone to notice her. Russell doesn't like her act, doesn't like when she sings for anyone either than him, and can't understand why she just doesn't want to be his little woman in the house.
"You gotta plant your ass in some honky's lap to do it?" His grip tightens on her wrist and she tries to pull out of it. His breath smells heavily of cognac and from the look of his face, he's been doing lines again. She misses the old Russell, the Russell before Vietnam and before the jungles; the one she'd graduated high school alongside and started Howard with, the man she thought one day she'd marry.
"You're hurting me, Russ…"
"You're hurting me, Russ…" he mocks, "What about me, bitch? How you think I look? You out there all over that cracker. You got some slave fantasy I need to know about? Want to bend over for the white boys?"
"You're being disgusting. I sang a song, now stop! You're high and I don't like being around you when you're like this." She tries to yank away, but he pulls her back, shoving her into the wall harder. "Russell, ow! Let me go!" She shoves at him with her free hand.
"White man's whore your fantasy now?" He snarls.
Anger rises up her spin and she acts without thinking. With her free hand, she swats him across the face and her eyes go wide at her actions. Regret ripples across her face. "Baby, I…"
Almost immediately he returns her slap with his own, far much more power behind his open hand. Her cheek is on fire as she slams into the ground and Russell screams at her to stand up. Pain explodes across her face and she pushes herself up onto her hands. Her ears are ringing and she feels dizzy. The men's bathroom door opens and through glimpses of ruffled hair, she catches sight of someone stepping in between her and Russell.
The sounds of a scuffle fill the air, the two men struggle; fists hit bone, knees connect with stomachs and the walls shake thanks to the commotion. Olivia scampers to her feet, away from the fight, leaning against the wall for support, just in time to watch Russell tossed to the ground. The man from earlier, the one she'd sung to, is standing in front of her, his fists still clenched at his sides.
"Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" The man hollers.
Russell gets to his feet. "This ain't got shit to do with you, white boy. Take your ass on!"
Olivia can feel her cheek begin to swell. "I'm fine, I'm fine!" She shouts, touching the stranger's shoulder. "It's okay, I'm fine." Please go away before you make it worse.
"Get your ass over here, Olivia." Russell demands.
Olivia tries to move past the man, but he juts an arm out to stop her.
"She's not going anywhere with you," the man snarls. They're gearing up to go toe to toe again when thankfully Marcus appears.
"Fitz, Russ...what's going on here?" Marcus asks, his eyes sliding over to Olivia as he stands next to Fitz.
Fitz? Olivia repeats to herself. What kinda name is that?
"He was hitting her," Fitz says, his eyes never leaving Russell's.
"He hit me," Olivia corrects, then curses herself silently knowing Marcus was the type to make a mountain out of what she considers a molehill.
"He what?" Marcus asks and Olivia's eyes drop to the ground.
While they aren't the closest, she and Marcus are still cousins and this entire situation is shaping up to be embarrassing as hell. It's not like Russell hits her constantly. Just when he's high and angry; he's been a different person ever since getting home from Vietnam.
"Marcus, I'm fine, please get your friend," she pleads. "It was just a little slap…"
"A little slap? I don't think so. Go get your things, Liv; you're coming home with me tonight."
"Marcus, I'm a grown woman, we're not kids any more. You don't get to tell me what to do." Olivia narrows her eyes to slits, annoyed. A staunch no sits on her lips. She can handle herself, she always does.
"Don't make me call Uncle Eli," Marcus threatens.
At the mention of her father, Olivia relents, but not before giving the hallway occupants a piece of her mind.
"Fuck you, all of you." She storms away and heads for the front door, listening as Old Joe, the bar owner, finally makes his way over to the scrimmage, flanked by a bouncer, and tells everyone to leave.
/
The trek back to her Aunt's home isn't long, especially when motivated to walk faster by sheer anger. She's pissed at her cousin and at Fitz's audacity to interfere with her life the way they had, regardless of the situation. She's been handling it for the last three months, she would continue to handle it, too. Climbing up the stairs she enters her aunt's home and tosses her coat on the hook before huffing it up the stairs and to the bathroom.
"Stop stomping like a child, Olivia!" Marcus yells behind her.
Once inside the bathroom, she surveys the damage done. A purplish bruise is forming just above her left cheekbone, right below her eye. It looks much worse than it feels, but she's embarrassed nonetheless. Her body had reacted to a strangers in a way she'd never thought possible and now look at the outcome.
And she can't believe Russell. Ugh. He'd promised her he'd stop that stuff. Stop shoving it up his nose and stop shooting it in his veins. She barely recognises him when he's on that stuff.
She turns on the cold water and grabs a washrag from the towel rack, wetting it and holding it against her swelling flesh. This isn't where she wants to be in life, singing songs in a bar, she's got dreams, big dreams - Diana Ross sized ones. She winces as she presses the rag down a little too hard, soothing the heat in her cheek, and then dips the rag back under the spray. She rings it out places it against her cheek then steps out into the hall in search of some ice. Her tiny body collides with something that feels like granite or solid rock.
She looks up to find Fitz standing in front of her. She might not like white boys, but lord have mercy he's a snack. Those slate eyes, dirty blonde curls, and solid body damn near call to her.
"I'm sorry, Olivia," he steadies her with a soft, oversized hand on her shoulder. A piece of hair curls against his forehead and she fights the urge to wrap it around her finger and tug it. "Are you okay?" He asks. She knows he isn't talking about their minor collision, but rather the club explosion.
"I'm tougher than I look…" she retorts, perturbed once more. It's none of this man's business. "Russell's harmless. He's just been having a hard time since coming back from Vietnam. I shouldn't have sat in your lap. That was inappropriate."
"Inappropriate is him putting his hands on you."
"I hit him first," she deflects, the skepticism that crosses his face draws her ire. "I did."
"It doesn't matter. He shouldn't have hit you," Fitz declares, the pad of his thumb drawing lazy circles on her shoulder as he holds her in place.
Suddenly aware of his hand still on her, she steps out of his partial embrace. There's a bite in her tone when she speaks next. "I don't need anyone to tell me what he should or shouldn't have done. Least of all some bright white boy from god only knows where. What happened tonight is none of your business, now excuse me." She pushes past him and heads down to the guest bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Once inside the bedroom, she yanks off her sandals and sighs in relief as her feet hit the floor. While she didn't like losing the three inches, she loved being on solid ground. She points her toes, stretches in place, and yawns, ready to retire for the night. Except there's a dirty brown duffle bag on the bed along with a pair of men's boxers. She tilts her head in confusion when a knock on the door catches her attention.
"Come in."
Fitz enters, pink coloring his cheeks as he glances at the bed and then their eyes meet. "I, uhm, I can just go sleep with Marcus if you'll just let me grab my uhm…"
"No, you stay. I'll leave. I'll just sleep downstairs on the couch," she doesn't give him the chance to respond, instead she abandons her sandals and breaks from the room, anxious to put a floor between she and Fitz.
/ / /
Fitz stares up at the ceiling, his hands underneath his head. The spring air is warm, thick with the promise of summer and the house is stuffy. He's cracked the window for some attempt at a cross breeze, but it's failed. The wind is as listless as ever.
He can't stop thinking about tonight, about the woman a floor below him and the bruise on his knuckles he'll have to explain to his superiors once he's back aboard his ship. She's tiny, full of bravado and attitude. Most of all she's intoxicating - the pull he has towards her is kinetic. When she moves, he has to force himself not to follow.
He doesn't even know her but he knows that finding her on the floor tonight is one of the scariest and most rage inducing moments of his life. He could've killed Russell had the man's hand connected with Olivia's face once more. Whether she threw the first punch or not, it didn't matter to Fitz; Olivia was too delicate to be treated like anything other than gossamer.
The feelings she induces within Fitz scare him. He doesn't even know her surname, but he knows he wants her in every way she'll allow.
Again his eyes slip closed and he imagines Olivia's lips against his, pillowy and soft. He wonders what it'd be like to suck her bottom lip into his mouth, bite down just enough to create a pleasurable sting, and then soothe the burning with his tongue. He wants to trail a hand up her bare back, sink his fingertips into her flesh, and hold her as she calls his name.
He wants her.
A knock on the door shakes him from his salacious thoughts and he sits up groggily, wondering what time it could possibly be. They'd gotten back around eleven and he feels as if he's been staring at the ceiling for hours. Who could be up at this time of night?
When he doesn't answer right away, the person knocks again, and the door cracks open. Moonlight peeks in through the door and Fitz looks up to see Olivia staring at him.
"I know you're still up, I could hear you tossing and turning from all the way downstairs. Can I come in?"
Fitz clears his throat, and nods, motioning for her to enter.