Disclaimer: I don't own Scandal.
Author's Note: This story is purely from the point of view of Jake and will heavily feature Mellie. If you're not fans of either, this story is unlikely to appeal to you. Consider yourself warned. I foresee this story as having 14 chapters.
Reviews are welcome and valued, be they positive or negative.
It's not the sun you wanted to stand in with Olivia. This sun burns with a ferocity. This sun boils your blood and blisters your soul and smoulders your essence. It sets your world ablaze.
Fata Morgana
~ To industry, nothing is impossible ~
Latin Proverb
At the end of it all, it was an easy decision to make. It wasn't even your decision really. It was made for you the day you fell in love with Olivia Pope.
It's only once you're standing on the tarmac that you have time to think, to ponder and to wallow in all that's happened. It hurt you in places you didn't know existed, didn't know you could feel, every time Olivia smiled at Fitz and chose him over you. It stung even more all of the times that she chose herself, chose to not make a decision and left you waiting and hoping and wishing that maybe, just maybe, she would choose you.
It was stupid of you, really. You know you love her the way she loves Fitz and maybe that's what destroyed you in the end. You wanted her to save you but her love has been a destructive force, atom by atom, cell by cell, until all that's left is a Jake you don't recognise and you don't want.
And that's why, when the First Lady announced on national television that she would travel to Sudan, following the latest ceasefire and with a famine in full swing, strings were pulled until you're charged with a mission, travelling at the First Lady's side.
You're pretty sure Olivia knows what you did – when she looked at you, her eyes staring and cutting through any and every defence you have, you were positive she knew exactly what you'd done and why you'd done it. You're equally certain that she doesn't care – not enough to stop you, not enough to choose you, not enough to love you, not enough to save you. You've never been enough for her and it hurts more than you can bear.
She's not here saying the final goodbye but then again, why should she be? Fitz is here instead and there's a large part of you that hates him. There's a larger part of you that hates you, yourself. He plays the loving husband, his wife plays the loving wife but it's only when she hugs her daughter that you think maybe there is a human being beneath the ice. It's a fleeting thought and you neither hold on to it, nor follow it when it drifts away, like so much sorrow on a summer breeze.
You think it's entirely fitting that the sun is hiding away behind clouds the day you forsake Olivia Pope.
Because this time, you're certain there's no coming back. This is the end of the road, Jake, you tell yourself. You wish you could convince yourself but there's always that traitorous part of you that clings to hope, even though you know full well that once the plane is in the air, it will be Fitz-and-Olivia, Olivia-and-Fitz, free to bask in the shadows of their shared love. And that love has no room for a Jake.
It's entirely with relief that you board the flight, as if this solidifies the decision you have already made.
The plane is small, crowded full of the entourage that follows the wife of a president everywhere, even to Sudan. It's still large enough for you to tuck yourself into an unobtrusive corner and think about life and Olivia and lost loves. You're still aware enough to feel every shudder of the metal body surrounding you, eyes constantly sweeping for any threats. Every time you catch sight of the First Lady, she's in deep discussion, usually to a blonde girl young enough to be her daughter. Probably discussing fashion, you think caustically and you wish to hell that you would prefer blondes to dark haired, dark skinned beauties with a ferocious moral compass. Regardless, there's enough of the original Jake left in you to take pride in a job well done, (and even though Olivia would always sway your decisions and take precedence over every other person, Olivia isn't here to sway the decisions already made).
There's beer on the flight, and hell if your lips don't quirk upwards just a fraction. The flight is chilled and the sun was playing hide-and-seek in Washington but everything feels hot and your throat feels parched. The first beer goes down like a blessing. It's water to a man lost in a desert, and when the hell did you get so poetic? You have a sinking feeling that it was when you met one Olivia Pope. The second beer goes down just as quickly but you take your time with the third. You have built up a nice tolerance that improved even more during your time with Olivia, but even you know it's a bad idea to drink (too much) on the job.
It feels like a blink and suddenly you're on another continent, in another world entirely, where bloodshed happened on a daily basis, where crimes against humanity was an ordinary occurrence, where the will to fight and survive and succeed has never been as prominent as it is here.
Deep, deep, deep within you, there's a part of you that's not been destroyed by Olivia, and that part of you admires the people that have survived more than a decade of violence.
You walk out and the sun is dipping goodbye but it's not the sun you wanted to stand in with Olivia. This sun burns with a ferocity, even as it slips away. This sun boils your blood and blisters your soul and smoulders your essence. It sets your world ablaze. It's the only option you've been left with, and maybe you won't be able to live through it, but you gave your word and you will make sure the mission is completed; if the cost is your life, it's a small price to pay.
The heat makes everything shimmer but when you head into the cool buildings you'll be staying in, the air conditioning doing quick work to chill your skin. The political chit chat takes place as you eye everyone and everything, spotting each gun-wielder and calculating the best way to take them all out, if it comes to that, before everyone's walking again.
As it turns out, the First Lady is staying on the top floor, most of her attendants are staying on the floor below and you're with them. It doesn't bother you. Your mission is your only priority, not catering to her every whim, which is why you're more than a little annoyed when she summons you to her chambers. Even the Sultan in Aladdin had more decorum, you grouse, having just taken your shirt off. You were eyeing the shower but as an act of rebellion, paltry though it might be, you decide to visit her topless and smelling of sweat. Let her suffer if she's going to be demanding.
You don't notice the admiring glances from the women and occasional man. You don't notice the narrowed eyes that promise threats either. Even with the air conditioner, your body burns, burns, burns and maybe it's got nothing to do with the heat here. Maybe it's got everything to do with your broken heart and fractured soul and maybe it's all irreparable.
The First Lady's lackey, the pretty little blonde with the full, kissable lips that's sure to have men swooning (men that aren't you), knocks smartly twice on the door of presumably Fitz's wife, the one you never bothered to meet and the one he never bothered to introduce you to. It opens promptly and she stands there, Melody Grant, First Lady of the United States. Her eyes narrow at the sight of your chest but other than a tightening of her lips, her face is as devoid of emotions as ever.
'Thank you, Caitlyn,' she nods her dismissal to the blonde and there's just a hint of the southern drawl that's usually absent in her speech. You notice it and you wonder at its significance before deciding what significance could it really hold? The little girl loiters hesitantly and reluctant to leave and if she's thinking she's got a chance with you, she's got another thing coming. Eventually, the First Lady's entirely blank face and passive expectation works.
'I'll be here,' is all she says before leaving and it's full of nerves and meaning and you just don't give a damn about either. Instead, you focus on the opulent surroundings worthy of the priciest harem, you think caustically. The carpets are rich and soft, with matching luxurious cushions on lavish sofas and couches; the bedding drips with splendidly expensive silk with delicately ornate thread work, plush pillows creating a bed of precious sin as the citizens in the country die from dysentery and bloodshed based on decades of resentment and violence.
'How is that any different to our glorious nation?' The First Lady of said Glorious Nation says sardonically, with a snort, startling you. When did you start speaking your thoughts out loud? The extravagant chandelier in the centre of the room pierces the light into a thousand splinters of all the different colours and shades and this all feels like a light-headed acid drip, a monstrous fantasia that nothing but an ill, overwrought mind could have created. Its ornamental centrepiece is the showy woman that circles you like you're the prey, closing the door behind her, your route of escape, but the showpiece is breaking all the rules, southern drawl dripping with satire and scorn and snorts and your mind feels full of heated buzzing, the edges are fraying and blurring and everything feels too hot, too much or maybe too cold, too little, but mostly, it feels of No Olivia.
Seconds later, your fevered brain stutters to a stop as you comprehend the words the presidential decoration, the woman you've designated as vapid and shallow without ever knowing her, speaks with a level voice and an icy calm demeanour.
'Are you going to kill me?'