I watched a trailer for a movie with the similar conceit. A relationship followed through vignettes in hotel rooms. So, naturally I thought of Olitz. Starts after Liv quits the White House, the night Fitz decides to give her the Providence Key. There will be flashbacks to the trail, but mostly Fitz' first term, the trail for re-election and then we'll see :) I published this on my Tumblr a few days ago, but only got around to posting it here now. I hope you'll like it!

He has a strong step. Heel-first. Digs the heel into the carpet, it's loud, and sudden; harsh even. It's confident. Then, it turns soft as his foot hits the floor. Hard and soft; confident and tender. Even. The rhythm familiar.

She can no longer recognize his footsteps. Before, before she said yes, before they made him president, before; on the trail, she could lie in bed and she could hear his footsteps. She'd hear him approaching; she'd hear him and her heart would race. She waited for him, and she hated herself for it. Not for the hotel rooms and the sleepless nights; for the dawns that she spent facing the window to avoid watching him close the door. No, she hated herself for waiting for him long after; for waiting for him when she read a great story; for waiting to tell him about a song she heard on the radio that made her cry that one night; for thinking of him every time she discovered a great bottle wine. She hates herself for the days, not the nights, she spends waiting. But now, now she can't tell. There are three, four, maybe, pairs of footsteps approaching. And she knows it's him; she can feel it; but she can no longer recognize him. This – the hotel room, her waiting and him coming – it no longer feels real, it no longer feels safe, it's no longer a place she wants to be at.

And there's a quiet click of the door.

A thick hand pushes it open and she sees his feet crossing the line; stepping inside. She looks up.

Silence.

He used to say – hi. He'd step in and he'd say – hi. And she'd smile. Her smile; the one she couldn't fight; not around him. The one that said I'm happy and I love you; I'm sorry and I miss you; all at the same time. That smile. And he'd smile back. And it would be promises and dreams, the ones she dared not dream; it would be courage and conviction; it would be passion. It would be enough; enough to make her forget about the outside; about the impossibilities, that would let her believe in them, in him; it was enough to let her smile back and say, -hi. But now, now he's standing there, rooted in place; the silence filling the space between them. And instead of smiling, she looks at her hands, as her fingers restlessly play with the hem of her silk blouse; twisting, twisting, until it hurts.

He walks to the window; his steps sure, hard; and he stares outside; looks out at the DC lights; neat and tidy, from way up high. His fingers are gripping the window sill, and she can tell, she can see; the way his jaw is clenched; the way his shoulders are slumped and the way that vein in his forehead is pulsing - he's angry.

"Fitz-" But he lifts his hand, without lifting his head, and she stops. She had nothing to say anyway; nothing but his name; leaving her lips like a prayer; a plea – to remember the first time she said it; and the last. The last time she whispered it as her nails dug into his back; as his forehead fell on her shoulder. She needs him to remember – that once, he loved her. That she loved him back.

"You left me." He says, lifting his gaze yet again; the city lights reflected in the cerulean eyes. But then, so is the darkness of the night. "You left me all alone."

"I'm sorry." She utters it, and her voice cracks under the unbearable finality of the words. "I… I couldn't do it anymore." And he flinches as she says, it. It cuts deep; deeper than he'll ever admit. Another little scar that will never heal. And she notices; the way his knuckles get a little bit whiter, as his fingers dig into the hard wood; the way he grits his teeth and narrows his eyes a little bit. "I'm sorry." She's apologizing. But she no longer knows what for. For leaving him, or for falling in love with him; or maybe for letting him believe?

"You are the President of the United States. You cannot be having an affair. And, I, I could no longer be the mistress." And again, he flinches. And she thinks it's because of what she said; but really, it's because he knows she means it, believes it. Mistress.

"A letter?" He asks, after a brief pause; all traces of anger gone. He turns around and looks at her; his eyes blood-shut; he looks tired. He looks as unhappy as she feels – she's better at covering it, she's always been better at covering it.

"It… seemed like a good idea at the time. Clean." And her voice sounds foreign. Her fingers twisting the soft silk.

"Clean." He whispers, his lips barely moving. And then he chuckles to himself. Softly. And then, then he's laughing. At first it's quiet, but it grows louder, until it's filling up the room, bouncing off the walls; until it's filling up her soul. And then, she's laughing with him. She's laughing, because she can't afford to cry; not now; she's laughing because this laugh, it's not happy, it's hysterical; it's maddening; it's unshed tears and mourning of a dream. She's laughing as tears stream down her cheeks; she's looking at him, as tears stream down his. And she can't breathe. She's gasping for air, as she collapses on the bed; her palms on the soft covers. Her fingers still. No longer twisting. And he stops too, in a few loud gasps; or maybe cries?

"You were never a mistress. You… You were more. You were always more than that. You… You were everything." And all she hears is the past tense – and it stings, hurts; her insides feel like they're on fire.

Were; they were.

So, winning feels like dying?

And she just nods her head in acknowledgment. She can't speak. Not to him. Not without breaking. He takes a step towards her and she pleads; her eyes wide; she pleads with his eyes to stay, to stay away. But he takes another step. And another. His feet moving effortlessly along the carpet. He kneels before her and takes a velvet box out of his pocket. She shakes her head. She closes her eyes, then opens them – but he's still there; it's not one of her dreams, it's not one of her nightmares. This, this is real. "Open it." And she does, with shaky hands.

A ring; the gold wire twisted; infinity. She looks at him; her lips fighting a small smile; unsure. "Wait for me." And she just looks at him, her hand instinctively closing over his, trying to steady it. She tilts her head and closes her eyes, again. This time, she knows he'll be there when she opens them. And that knowledge, it's happiness. "Right now; this, us; right now, it's impossible. But, wait for me. Give us a possibility. Give us, give me, one day." And she takes the ring from his hand and slips it on her index finger. And he smiles – a line straight to the heart.

She cups his cheek with her hand; the metal still cool against her skin. He leans into her touch; how he's yearned for it; needed it; dreamed of it. And she puts her other hand on his other cheek, cradling his head, as her fingers play with the hair at the base of his neck. She bends down, and hovers above him for a moment. He thinks she's doubting, calculating; but she's relishing, committing the moment to memory. Her lips touch his, and it's soft, tender at first; the creases and crevices getting re-acquainted; the familiar spark; the fire spreading through them; until it's all instinct; until it's primal. Until it's his tongue sliding into her mouth; until it's her hands traveling down to his belt. Until it's clothes on the floor and him pushing her back onto the bed. Until the room is filled with their heavy breaths and soft whispers; quiet moans. Until he's filling her up, and she's holding him tight. Until they're lying together, their naked bodies intertwined; their chests heaving; their fingers feverishly exploring the burning skin. It's been too long. They've missed this.

She buries her head in the crook of his neck, her leg thrown lazily over his; her arm resting on his chest; as his draws patterns on his back.

"What am I writing?" He asks, his voice lost in her hair.

"Fitz!" She replies, her laughter muffled by his chest. "You can't be serious."

'You're right, this is silly." And with that he's flipping her over, so that she's lying on her stomach; his hands, holding hers above her head. He draws a line along her spine with his tongue. And he feels her shiver as the cool air touches the warm, wet trail. "Want to play now?" And she just nods her head, looking at him through hooded eyelids. And she guesses the letters, absentmindedly, not recognizing the pattern; his touch, the sensations; the way he knows her body so perfectly – overwhelming; distracting. And she drifts off to sleep, as he rests his head between her shoulder blades.

She feels his absence instantly, the cool sheets are no replacement for his warm skin; not even when they smell like him. He kisses her forehead softly, "Go back to sleep."

"Fitz…"

"One day." He says with a soft smile. "We have one day." He buckles his belt, fruitlessly trying to iron out the wrinkles in his shirt by his hand. He slips his hand in his pocket, and pauses for a moment. He pulls out a card and kneels next to the bed. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "I want you to have this?"

"What is i-" But she stops when she sees the contents of the card; her facial expression instantly shifting. Panick. "Fitz, you can't-"

"One day."

"But I'm not-"

"You're everything." He says as he lays a soft kiss on her temple. "I love you."

"I love you too." She barely manages to push it past the lump in her throat. She knows, it's the last time she can say it; a last time for a while. This is it, for them, for now. And he knows it too. He kisses her again. As he pulls away he leans his forehead against hers. He inhales her, and she breathes him in; their fingers interlaced; the metal no longer cool against her skin.

He gets up. Quickly. And turns on his heel. Inhaling sharply. He wipes away a tear, and she lets hers roll down her cheek, slowly. He walks to the door. His steps strong. She can hear him walking away, the familiar steps. Before, before he'd sound broken when he left; but now, now she swears there's hope in the rhythm of his steps. And she smiles, the tear caught in the corner of her lips.

She traces the thin letters, One Minute.

So let me know what you thought :)