A/N: This is my very first Scandal fic (and the first fic I've uploaded in oh a year).
After tonight's episode, this will probably become AU, but as of right now, it's just speculation!
I really love this show, and Kerry Washington is just amazing. I hope you guys enjoy this; it came to me
on a whim! Though I have been wanting to write something for Scandal for a while.
Disclaimer: Shonda Rhimes created this, and a whole lot of others write it.
Sadly, I'm not one of those writers.
Sweet Baby
The first time it happens, it's messy, dis-organized, chaotic, passionate, but above all, dangerous; a mess of strewn clothes, entangled body parts, heated kisses, and sensual touches. Words are exchanged sparingly, few and far between. There is no need to say anything. His worn ivory skin runs hot and sweaty against the smooth, silky ebony of hers. Her breath is hitched in her throat, as their movements are erratic, yet rhythmic. He holds her against the wall of the hotel room, grinding his hips deeply against hers. They take from each other, moans and illicit whispers lingering in air until there is nothing left.
When he finally pulls away from her, and her feet find the ground, their eyes meet. The realization of what just occurred sinks in. Regret and remorse swell in her eyes and she runs about the room, looking to collect discarded garments. She's just slept with a married man, a married man running for president of the United States, a married man she's helping run for president of the United States. So many complications, and so much confusion swarm her thoughts, but damn it if it didn't feel great.
She can't look at him. Out, she tells herself, she has to get out. Pretend that it never happened and accept the inevitable, give him her letter of resignation and be done with everything.
But it's not that easy; some things never are.
"Livi," he calls, the first real words he's spoken since asking her how many points behind in the preliminary polls for New Hampshire he is. He's watches her run about the room, slipping on her clothing as she goes. He knows he should get dressed too, but there's only one thing on his mind: her. The curve of her back, the kiss of her lips, the silkiness of her skin, her delicate, yet strong caress – that's all he can think about.
And it's all that has been on his mind for hours, days - months. Ever since the night they'd spent ten hours pouring over new campaign strategies and routes to take in New Hampshire. Cyrus had retired early (a shock it'd been to all) and Olivia had stayed. She wasn't leaving until they had a concrete plan. With her brows furrowed together, Olivia set to work reading, looking over the projected voter demographics. Her bangs fell into her eyes, and between her lips she held a pencil. She was breathing hard and all of her concentration was focused on one thing: getting him in the white house. That's when it'd started. He'd really noticed just how beautiful she was, even more so at three o'clock in the morning. At that moment, then and there, he'd wanted to take her in his arms, push away the mounds of files that barricaded her from him, and make love to her.
Fitz didn't given in then, but tonight he has, and so has Olivia.
Neither of them could deny the spark that ignited every time they were too close to one another any longer.
"Livi," he pleads once more, yearning in his voice. He wants her to turn around to look at him, to come to him, but she won't; she refuses to. "Please, please don't leave like this . . . " he trails off, his words hanging in air as he realizes that his trousers are still around his ankles. He leans forward to pull them up and regretfully re-buttons them.
"Fitz," she starts, but stops herself in an attempt to collect her thoughts. She's facing the wall, staring head first at the navy coloured drapes. "Governor Grant," she addresses him this time, trying to put as much space between them as possible with her words. "I, this is – this shouldn't have happened. It's wrong, everything in my gut is telling me, has told me, it's wrong."
His hands are on his shoulders, turning her around to face him before she even realizes what's going on. She refuses to look at him and his finger taps her chin, tilting it upwards.
She can't look at him; she refuses to. If she does, she knows she'll lose all will to leave.
"Sweet baby," he whispers, dropping the hand that still rests on her shoulder down to her waist, and pulls her close. He leans in, his other hand still holding her chin. "Don't go."
Against her better judgment, she looks into his eyes. They tell them everything that she wants to know, and everything that he knows. She isn't going to leave.
It's the first time they've ever crossed the line, and there is no going back.