Tile is harsh on the press of her knees, and her eyes water, partly from the physical strain, and also because she was awoken from heavy slumber, the kind of dreams that are colorful and vivid and as fresh as the taste in her mouth. She told herself food poisoning yesterday morning, a stomach virus the day before- and now, any normal woman would call a doctor, make an appointment. Face facts.

She looks at herself in the mirror when she finishes, listens to the running of the plumbing through apartment walls, thinks of secrets disappearing like lost shooting stars. Olivia does not recognize the woman in the mirror; the sickly pallor and the chapped lips. This is not her.

Icy liquid shocks her epidermal nerves when she fills her mouth with it once, twice, but even then the taste persists, makes her clench her nails into the palms of her hands and place one over her eyes against the blinding light of the bathroom. As soon as she finds the will to flick off the switch and pad back into her bedroom she breathes out, forgets it, delete, delete, delete.

The fact is: Olivia's routine will consist of this the day after, and the day after that. The fact is: Although she pulls the sheets up to her chin and closes her eyes, she does not fall back asleep because thoughts of lullabies and bedtime stories drone, smother her until she's left with an alarm clock that cries shrilly, which in turn makes her think of late night wake ups.

She aches for that.

She wants, wants something that she cannot have, imagines Fitz rubbing her swollen feet when she finds a pair of heels for the day, of Fitz's blue, blue eyes and of a carbon copy of those imprinted against a button nose and pouting lips. When she shows her card at the security clearance she thinks about her own childhood, and how her father was always protecting her, keeping her safe in the own way a Daddy can. Liv rubs her hand along the wall on the way to her office in a snare attempt to find some sort of solidity.

Like that will actually ground her to reality.

Brita smiles at her, always pleasant Brita, with the one year old at home that she enjoys showing off wallet pictures of at every opportunity, and Olivia can imagine that for herself, she really can. Contrary to popular belief, she is not an entirely career driven woman. She wants this.

She wants it.

Olivia sits down at her desk, and runs her fingers over her lips, her bruised lips, lips that not two nights before had been ravished by a hungry mouth in front of the constitution, in front of a piece of paper.

Telling him the truth that rolled off her tongue like prayer was effortless in comparison to this- because weight is heavy on her shoulders with the knowledge that although she may love this, although she may want this with every fiber of her being, she cannot have this.

Scraping her fingernails across wood surface, she counts backward, finds the window would have inauguration night pointed out with red stars and black sketching, and although those articles she read back in college for entertainment are likely myths, she thinks downwards, You were conceived on the Resolute desk, little one. Of all places.

Since she was a hot headed eighteen year old she's had standards about how her life should be. Hopes and dreams, blind faith in herself that she'll always choose the right thing, deter herself from materialistic means, vanity, men who will never appreciate her for her worth, and she'd thought that any married man who cheated on his wife would include at least one of the mark offs. But Fitz defies everything she's ever believed in.

Fitz makes her live, shows her tastes and colors she's only dreamed of. She fell in love with Fitz because he was someone worth falling in love with.

And now, now the idea of carrying something with her that is half of his brilliance, something they made out of absolution and undefined, irrevocable love fills her with warmth and peace like she's never known.

If only-

If only-

She was not sitting where she was. Olivia knows publicity. Olivia knows scandals. Therefore, Olivia can see the headlines in black and white ink:

President Has a Mistress

President's Girlfriend Pregnant?

Mistresses and Bastards: President Grant's Legacy

President Grant's Impeachment Pending

It makes her head swim. Bastard. Bastard is what they'd call this otherworldly beautiful thing with blue eyes and Fitz's smile- she promises herself not to become attached, but that's a lost cause. Detachment is thrown to the wayside, even though her consciousness still won't let her breathe. Because somehow, the idea of ruining this soul with lies and deception is worse than any kind of slam she would take.

What kills her is that she knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that Fitz would give up everything for her, if she asked it of him. And even if she didn't, Fitz would never stand for allowing her to raise the life without him there, by her side. And she imagines that they can have this, maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe in eight years, after his presidency ends and circumstances are simple and divorce is optional. Maybe they can have dinner and hold hands in public, such an idea rattles her to no end, because maybe they could-

Fitz, in a tuxedo; her, in a white dress-

They could.

Just not right now. Just not like this.

Any amount of wishing and praying will not change it.

Therefore, Olivia vehemently pushes back the fantasy, and invites the reality to live in her chest, fill her with doubt. She picks up her phone off the side table, and searches through her contacts. She stares at the number for a very long time.

Her eyes are glassy by the time she presses the call button.

/

Although being in the position she is, she could have easily handed off the briefs to one of her aids, she didn't, and that alone proves her selfishness, proves that despite everything she wants to look him in the eye and know what she's throwing away. The door closes softly behind her.

"Mr. President," Olivia says stiffly, holding the papers in front of her, nearly as a talisman. A shield, regardless of the fact a year dictates that Fitz would never hurt her with intent.

"Liv," he looks up, smiling at her broadly-

And all she can think is that he needs to quit that, he needs to stop, because she doesn't deserve that smile or that life, she doesn't deserve his kindness right now.

She clears her throat. "These are the briefings from-

"I know," he says warmly, cocking his head and jerking his finger in a hither motion. "Just lay them somewhere; I'll get to them tomorrow."

Olivia hates that her legs are unsteady for support when she's crossing the short distance. Her movements are jerky, and Fitz notices that, confusion marring his handsome features. "Livvie?" he inquires gruffly.

He only says her name- nothing else- because that tone relays every bit of worry that evades him. She steps back, but doesn't leave, even though her mind is screaming at her to find the door and run. It's as if a part of her wants him to know, wants him to grieve with her over what she has to do.

Fitz stands up from his chair, the height difference incredibly pronounced when he walks around to stand in front of her, look down at her with beseeching eyes, mouth pulled down at the corner.

She longs to scoot up on her tip toes and kiss it away.

Instead, she simply says, "Yes?"

That voice is not her own.

It is a mere whisper, hoarse, as if she's been screaming at the top of her lungs for a very long time. That's what she feels like. Exhaustion.

"Livvie, is it," she watches his Adam's apple bob when he swallows. "us?"

And right then she almost wants to laugh in his face, because since when is it not about him. Since the moment she waltzed into his life she's been stuck in a constant battle of hating to love him and loving him.

She shakes her head.

The words begin to spew out of his mouth, because he's getting scared, he's getting afraid that she's making decisions without him, she knows him, she sees the thought processes.

"Is it Mellie? She came by earlier with my flag pin- I lost it at the Archives- that's fine, Liv. Did she say something to you? I swear if she did, I'll-

"No," she murmurs harshly, nearly out of breath because the pain that's in her chest is the worst kind, the brand that makes her unable to think straight, makes her want to go home and curl up in bed for a few days and not deal.

"Olivia?"

"I'm pregnant."

His mouth opens slightly, but he gets a handle on himself.

Eight seconds. She counts it out in her head- the amount of time it takes for him to comprehend, to realize. And she expects anything but his next words. She expects anything but his smile, the way he looks so happy that's knives through her gut, bleeding out slowly.

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest, seemingly unworried about the cameras, about the facts.

Her nose is pressed uncomfortably against his shoulder, but she basks in it, breathes him in and clings to him because she'll remember this moment the rest of her life. "I can't keep it," Olivia's voice is flat, unfeeling.

She doesn't deserve to feel right now.

He unwinds his arms around her and tilts her chin up so that she has to face his scrutiny, his blind faith. "Why not?"

His voice is surprisingly calm, as if he wants her exact rationale.

She gives it to him in terse whispers.

"Because you are the President of the United States. Because you are married, and already have children who depend on you, a country who depends on you. And I, " her face crumples and she inhales sharply, a sob crawling up her throat. "I am your mistress."

He stares at her for a very long time, phrasing his words in his mind until settling on the truth. One wide palm goes to the back of her head, and she can't help but lean into his touch when he rubs it soothingly.

"Livvie, I want you. I want this. I'm not running for a second term, that much was decided the moment I won, because all of this doesn't matter if I can't have you, if I can't be with you. You are not my mistress, you are the love of my life, and I want a family with you, Olivia. I'll admit, the timing could be better but-

He breaks off, shaking his head and pulling her closer until their foreheads are resting together. "We belong together, Olivia. Do you want the baby?"

She looks taken aback, stomach coiling at the word.

"Yes," because how could she not? "But-

"No, Livvie. This is going to happen. It kills me that I'm asking this of you, but will you wait for me? It tears me apart that I couldn't be your husband, be a father to our-

"You can't be," she says quickly, suffocating under the pressure and fire the words of his ignite. "You can't be right now-

"Right now," he nods. "But I will be, the moment all of this ends. Wait for me? Please. Wait for me. Just wait for me, and I will divorce Mellie in office if I have to, but-

"Okay," she murmurs, because she can't take his pleading.

He kisses her once, chastely, a promise, despite the cameras.

"I'll wait for you, Fitz," she lies.

What she wants to say is, it's killing me, too.