A/N: This just occurred to me when I was browsing the Olitz tag on tumblr. I love their every day non-sexual chemistry so I decided to write this one shot. Enjoy and review please (:
"Hey Olivia, I saved you a seat," Fitz called. Olivia almost turned on her heel and left the dining room when she was glanced around and saw that the only seat was next to Fitz. But he caught her eye and smiled and she was trapped. She chatted with one of the interns, trying to wait someone out and get a seat that wasn't so close to him. A few minutes passed and no one left. She found him still smiling at her, so she reluctantly went to sit with him. He stood and pulled her chair out, grinning innocently, asked how she was.
"Fine, thank you," she answered in a voice that didn't sound like her own.
"No problem," he replied. He sat next to her, his arm casually draped over the back of her chair. Luckily for her, the interns were pumping him for stories from his governor campaign trail so she didn't have to talk to him. The sandwiches came out soon after she sat down. Fitz got turkey and cheddar. Olivia got ham and American. Since she didn't like ham, she didn't touch the sandwich, instead sipping her diet Coke and talking to Cyrus. She made a point of not looking at Fitz or talking to him, or listening to the story that had the interns busting a gut. Every now and then his fingers would flutter, brushing against her shoulder. Each time it happened, her stomach turned a flip. She knew it was a mistake to sit next to him and now she couldn't move. Truthfully, she didn't really want to move—but the coupling of his scent and his warm fingertips brushing against her was proving to be more of a trial than she had originally imagined.
"Do you not want your sandwich?" Olivia turned away from Cyrus and looked at him, avoiding his blue eyes, then at the untouched sandwich.
"I don't like ham, Governor," she answered. She was perhaps the only person on the campaign who didn't call him Fitz. It seemed too intimate, like calling him by his first name would let everyone know about the tsunami he caused in her stomach each time he said her name. He smiled as he switched their plates, then picked up the ham sandwich and bit it.
"Luckily, I do." Olivia tried to remember a time when she had seen him smile so much. She also tried to stop herself from grinning as she looked at him, chewing her sandwich. She sipped her Diet Coke, wondering why he was still looking at her. No one else seemed to notice his eyes fixed on her. After he swallowed, he nodded at her silver can, and said, "You know that stiff's really bad for you, right?"
"I have an addiction, sir," she replied. He laughed, his head falling back. He had an easy laugh, like a child. She found herself laughing too, mostly because she loved the sound of his laughter. Luckily Cyrus started talking to her so she could turn away from those eyes. Fitz started another story for the interns, happily eating her sandwich. His fingertip flutters became more frequent, so much so that Olivia shot him a look. He subtly slipped his arm off the back of her chair, smirking as he shifted in his seat and placed his forearms on the table. They were tan and muscular, covered in a thin layer of dark brown hair. Olivia imagined the strength contained in those sinewy arms and felt her face go hot. She made a mental note to never sit so close to him ever again. Cyrus began his all-too familiar reel of "war" stories from his days as a law professor at Columbia University, most of which included his star pupil Olivia. She got so engrossed in Cyrus's tale that she didn't notice Fitz's right arm leave the table until his hand found her denim-covered inner thigh, his fingertips slipping between her leg and the chair, his thumb a few inches from her knee cap. She didn't dare look at him.
He appeared to be looking at Cyrus, but because she was between them, he was using the opportunity to study her face. Her eyelashes were long and thick, curling back nearly to the lid. Her eyes were the size of saucers, the color of coffee, with golden flecks that came alive when she smiled. They darkened like storm clouds when she was thinking. He wondered what happened to them when she reached her peak and died a thousand beautiful little deaths, if they were squeezed shut or rolling back. Her snub nose sloped just so and he wanted to pepper it with feather soft kisses. She had high cheekbones, the apples always sporting a healthy glow. Her mouth was perfect, her lips pouty and full, her Cupid's bow exquisite, her tongue a delicious shade of pink. He imagined her biting her bottom lip when she was aroused, or when she was holding back a moan. He wondered if she screamed or groaned or exhaled breathy pants that crescendo-ed at a frenzied pace when she was nearing her end. He wondered if she said dirty things when she was turned on. She had such a way with words, such an elegant voice, such a pretty mouth. He wanted to hear every filthy thought she'd ever had roll off that succulent tongue.
When he realized that his face was probably beet red, he tried to think of anything to replace his previous thoughts. He swallowed hard, tried extra hard to pay attention to Cyrus's story. Whatever it was about had Olivia practically in stitches, her head back and her mouth open as she laughed. He had never seen her so beautiful. He wanted to kiss her so badly that he had to stuff the last piece of her sandwich in his mouth to stop himself. It wasn't enough. He wanted to bite her bottom lip, run his tongue over it, lick the sickly sweet Diet Coke taste off her tongue.
"Are you gonna eat these?" he asked, already helping himself to the fries on her plate.
She smirked at him. "I suppose not."
He gave her a lazy half-smile, wondering if she had any idea what he'd just been thinking about her. He helped himself to the ketchup bottle between her and Cyrus. She wasn't sure if he was so comfortable with everyone or if this relaxed Fitz was because of her. Then she remembered his hand on her thigh, making small circles with his index finger.
"Hold the elevator!" Olivia hurried, the heels of her pink patent leather Kate Spade pumps clicking as she trotted to the elevator. She regretted her haste instantly when she found Fitz alone, one hand casually in his pocket, the other preventing the doors from closing. He smiled when she stepped into the elevator, pulling her large suitcase along with her. She stood with an appropriate amount of space between them, a knot forming in her stomach when the metal doors closed with a thud.
"What floor?" he asked politely.
"Tenth," she croaked, unaware of why her words were abandoning her.
"Me too," he replied, smiling. "Lucky."
Olivia thought it was anything but as the elevator began to move. He stepped back, leaned against the wall, and she tried to subtly look him over. She was 5'4, 5'8 in most of her heels (including the ones she was wearing) and he still towered over her. She guessed he was at least a foot taller than her. He wasn't rail thin like a lot of men his height though. He was solid, muscular, sturdy, the kind of man who could wrap you in his arms and make every fear disappear. He had removed his tie and undone the first three buttons of his crisp white shirt, revealing a few wisps of dark chest hair. She had to look away when she found herself imagining him shirtless, then pantsless, then gloriously naked. She was sure her heart was hammering against her ribcage loud enough for him to hear. She had never considered herself one for sordid fantasies, but there she was, ogling him like a horny schoolgirl.
He glanced over at her quickly. She looked away. He could actually look down at the top of her head. Mellie was 5'10; Olivia was nowhere near it. She as petite, 5'5 he guessed, with doll-like hand and feet and a delicate little body that he wanted to kiss all over. She was tiny compared to him—Mellie too—but shapely. He had caught himself staring at her heart-shaped bottom multiple times, each leer accompanied by the urge to grab it and feel the weight in his hands. His face reddened at the thought and he cleared his throat quietly, trying desperately to think of anything other than bending her over. Olivia glanced at him, wondering what he had been thinking about that had turned the tops of his ears so red. She glanced at the digital floor display. They were on the fifth floor. It was undoubtedly the longest elevator ride of her life.
She was acutely aware of him shuffling closer to him, his movements slight and careful like he was afraid moving too fast would break the spell of the comfortable silence they were experiencing. By the seventh floor, he was close enough to touch her. He turned, leaning his left shoulder against the wall, and reached out with his right hand to trace the shell of her ear. His index finger trailed down to the curve of her jaw. He traced her lips and her breath caught. The elevator dinged as it finally came to a stop on the tenth floor. He quickly moved away from her, and with good reason. Cyrus was just getting off his own elevator.
If he noticed anything amiss with the two of them, he didn't let on, instead launching into an account of the next day's activities. They would make one stop then spend the rest of the day on the campaign bus headed to Chattanooga. He bid them goodnight then walked ahead to his room, leaving them searching for their rooms. There was an almost tangible electricity between them as they walked down the hall, not closing the space Cyrus had left between them. Her room was 1012; his was 1011. They were across the hall from each other, a fact of which they were both acutely aware.
He smiled like a teenage boy as he leaned against the wall next to her door, once again fixing her with those eyes. She stood in front of him, their eyes meeting in the shyest way. He had never been close enough to breathe in her scent. She smelled like soap and something sweet, something sugary. She reached out and traced the shell of his ear then the slightly stubbly curve of his jaw. He smelled like light cologne and something manly, something musky that was all him. It was the kind of smell that ingrained itself in your memory and left you wanting more of it with every little whiff. She traced his lips the same way he had done hers.
"Goodnight," she whispered, pulling her hand away from his face.
"Goodnight," he replied, slowly—reluctantly—moving toward his door. She tried to swipe her keycard three times before he realized that she was having trouble. Her hands were shaking so violently that she dropped the card twice. He walked over and wordlessly unlocked her door. She couldn't look at him, not when her legs were threatening to abandon her. She slipped into her room, pulling her suitcase behind her, then shut the door. Inside, she leaned against the cool wood, willing her heart to stop hammering. Outside, he did the same.