A/N: A one-shot. A request from someone I LOVE, so I hope you guys will like...
November
The ink-blue sky stretches past the snow-coated mountain tops. The blood-orange glow of a waning sun long gone. It's almost nightfall. Days are getting shorter. She gets up and turns the light on, and instantly the room seems more spacious, less suffocating, not full of her racing thoughts.
She should be in DC. She should be there, handling this, fixing this. Instead she's in the middle of nowhere, in a house that is too big for the two of them, a house that was once full of promises, but suddenly seems encumbered by dreams that failed to become reality. She is in a study, perfectly crafted; walls lined with rare books, antiques, with books she's always wanted to read. When he showed it to her, on a powder-blue February morning almost three years ago, she smiled at him, beamed really - she could see herself reading, spending endless days in his arms, reading - books she's been setting aside for years, books she's made lists of in her mind; books she's read about. But he got the teaching position, and no one, no one passes up tenure at Yale, and they decided, on an inordinately warm March evening that she should keep OPA, keep consulting, and he'll teach. And jam, and quiet mornings, and evening walks through the orchards illuminated by fireflies could wait. The dream could wait, as they get along with life. And now, now they spend more time apart than they do in their house; now they're strangers who were once in love.
"I love this view." She says quietly, as a wistful smile plays on her lips. She sees his form shift, the dark outline in the pool of light reflected on the large windows. He pushes his side off the door frame and steps in, his arms still folded across his chest.
"I barely saw you today." There is an accusation under the softness of his voice.
"I know." She says as she turns around, as she folds her arms. "The case got out of hand. I've been on the phone with Abby for most of the day." She sounds like she's justifying herself and it fills her with burning, suffocating, paralyzing resentment; another little thing to add to her list of his sins. He makes her feel guilty. That love wasn't enough, that they're here, standing inches, yet worlds apart; that sometimes he feels like a stranger, that sometimes she is a stranger to herself.
"Anything I can help with?"
"No." And it sounds too harsh, too loud, too final. She tries to soften it, to explain. "I need to fly to DC this week." She lowers her gaze, because she doesn't want to see the hurt that darkens his blue eyes.
"Liv..."
"It wasn't going to work anyway." She says slowly, her eyes still downcast, inspecting the floor, afraid of what she'll see in his. "It hasn't worked any of the previous times, so it wasn't going to work now. The doctor said there was no point in trying anymore anyway."
"So you just decided, on your own?" His voice is calm. Controlled. It bothers her, because hers is filled with cracks, each one a small betrayal.
"I'm tired." She says simply, trying to sound matter-of-fact about it; trying to hide how deeply it hurts, how much it stings. "I'm just so tired Fitz. I'm tired of hormone shots, and tests with minus signs. I'm tired of disappointment, and ultrasounds that are silent. I'm tired of trying. I'm tired of failing. I just... I'm tired." Her voice breaks, it's broken by the heaviness of the words as they stumble off her trembling lips; in a hurry, breaths between them short and shallow.
He crosses the room, the rows of books, until he's standing before her, his arms open, inviting. And he pulls her in. And his heart still beats the same, still soothes the same; and his arms are still her safe haven, as his hands draw familiar patterns on her shuddering back. For a moment he is no longer a stranger, he is the man she fell in love with years ago, the man who could make her smile before the tears on her cheeks would dry; the man she'd wake up in the middle of the night to make love to. For a moment he is her husband again, and she is his wife, and they are happy, content, in their house. For a minute they breathe in sync again, as the burden of broken dreams seems to dissipate. He speaks.
"We could adopt." And his embrace is suddenly too tight, his heartbeat too loud and too fast. Suddenly, she is nauseous.
"No." She steps away, shaking her head. "No... Maybe this is a sign."
"What are you saying?" His voice is no longer calm, no longer controlled. She smiles; even if this is it, even if they end today, she will be left with knowledge that he still cared.
"Maybe..." But instead of words, a burning liquid climbs up her throat, like a vine that suffocates from inside. And she runs, runs to the bathroom. She's coughing, and her heart seems to be tearing though her lungs as bitter acidity fills her mouth. She leans on to the toilet seat, her chest heaving.
"I thought you were better?" He asks as he kneels next to her, running a wet towel across her forehead.
"I was." She says weakly, as she rests her head on his shoulder. But then it's happening again; and she feels his hand at the small of her back, massaging gently, as he places the towel at the back of her neck. She's trying to catch her breath, avoiding his worried gaze. "I'm sure it's just something I ate."
"We should see someone."
"I'm fine." She says it with determination that she doesn't have, as she stands up on her shaky legs. "It's probably just..." And her voice trails off as her eyes settle on a cabinet she's opened more times than she can count, full of hope, and closed with a dull thump, as she pressed her free palm into her teary eyes.
"Liv?" He asks, as he follows her up, his eyes playing catch up.
"I'm late." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"How-"
"Almost two months."
"Do you have?"
"Yeah." And she walks over to the cabinet and pulls out a box from the top, as a dozen others mock her from the shelf.
"I'll wait for you in the..." And she just nods, as she opens it with trembly fingers.
She can't pee. Her heart is beating against her ribcage loudly and her brain is pulsing. She twists the rim of her underwear nervously as she bites her lip, bites deep until the coppery taste tickles her tongue. She taps her fingers on her boney knees. She shivers. Not from the cold, but from fear, fear of hope. And suddenly it's happening, and she fumbles with the stick; her mind fighting the images of chubby cheeks, and small feet, of toothless smiles and blue eyes. She closes her eyes as the quiet settles. She fights. She puts her clothes back on, and wraps the stick up. Her footsteps are heavy, they seem to echo through the house - wind howling outside the only other sound.
She sits next to him on the sofa. The sky is no longer ink-blue, it's charcoal now; dotted with specs of gold; the pearly-white moon emerging from behind a large cloud. They sit in silence. They stare at the antique clock on her desk. The only thing in the study from her old apartment. They watched it tick away once, waited it out - the air was thick with hope, with prospect of a beginning. Now, now it's filled with nervousness that comes from an understanding - this is it. Either way - this is their end.
She pulls her feet up and leans onto his chest, as he wraps his arm around her, letting his hand rest on her abdomen. Reminiscent. The last minute.
"It's time." She nods and brings her hand up. A plus sign. Her throat is closing as her breaths become thready, and the room is spinning, everything is moving - disappearing, in and out of focus; the only thing that is keeping her grounded, stopping her from floating away is his hand on her abdomen, his lips on her forehead. They stay like that, curled up on the sofa inside her study, smiling, listening to each other breathe.
"Ready for bed?" He finally asks, but makes no attempt to move.
"I think I want to read a little bit first." She says, smiling against his chest.
"OK." He gets up and she looks away. Nothing's changed. They're still the same, still broken. But instead of walking out, he reaches for a book on the bookshelf, and then another. He sits back down and hands her one, as he opens his arms for her to settle into his embrace again.
"How did you...?"
"I remember you buying this... when we went to Yale together to move my stuff in. And I remember you saying you were going to read it. It was the top of your list." She smiles as he turns on the nearby lamp.
December
She turns her desk lamp off as she picks up her vibrating phone and heads over to the sofa.
"Hi." The day's troubles rolling off her tongue as she breathes out.
"Hi." Suddenly, she's warm, inexplicably, as if in his arms. She smiles. "How was your day?"
"It was OK." She says, her finger absentmindedly drawing small circles on her abdomen. "I... we missed you though." It's an admission, one she hasn't made in a long time; not to him, nor to herself. She needs him; to be happy, she needs him. And she can feel him smiling against the phone - relieved, that they're making progress, that she's trying as hard as he is, that he can see glimpses of who they were and believe that they can be those people again.
"I missed you too... Both of you." They're quiet for a moment, letting the serenity, the calm, wash over them. "I found that book you asked about." She smiles. She has it already. On her iPad. But she wanted to include him, make him a part of her thing. Thing in which she tries to read as much of her list as she can, before the baby's born. Garner as many beautiful, and terrifying and life-altering thoughts as she can, to prepare - for this new life, this new indescribable love.
"That's great... I should be done with White Teeth by the time you're back."
21 minutes. 21 minutes in which she forgets how scared she is, that something will happen, to the baby, to them; how terrified she is of letting herself be happy. 21 minutes during which all she feels is love, no longer overwhelming, but quiet, the kind that lives deep below the surface, in the very marrow of her bones; in the depth of her being; the kind that defines who she is. 21 minutes during which they are them again - full of hope, full of beginnings and dreams.
She hangs up and the fear creeps up again, paralyzing her limbs, occupying her thoughts. She will read. She will read some more. She will distract herself, disappear in words that hold hidden meanings, intimate, personal - far beyond what was intended.
January
She has disappeared; she is hiding in her study, observing. She is looking out, down, onto the snow covered field as three figures run around, stumble and fall, tackle; laugh, shriek. They are so real, so utterly, overwhelmingly real. Their own people. Karen, her mother's daughter, polite, but somehow distant, but then, she is also his, and there are moments, moments when she breaks out of the perfection bestowed upon her and just exists, lets herself be. And Gerry, every bit his father's son - defiant, reckless, charming. And then there's Teddy, tender, a kindred spirit, his imagination forever playing catch up with the real world. They have needs, they need time, and attention, and advice, and love - so much love. And they need guidance, answers, rightness. They need someone who wears the white hat, who doesn't struggle, doesn't waver.
"I brought you some tea." He says, as he wraps his arms around her, letting his hand rest on her midsection, as his jaw rests on his shoulder.
"How did you know I was here?" She asks without looking up, just letting herself melt into his embrace.
"It's your safe place." She chuckles softly, then lays a soft kiss on his icy nose. "You can do this, you know." He says, as he kisses her cheek. "You have been doing it."
"But they're all grown. They don't need much."
He sighs. "Babies are easy... they're simple. They... you can tell what they need. But when they get older, it's... you lose the ability to know what it is they want. Somewhere along the way, we lose them. Or, at least, I lost them. I hurt them." And they both know what he's not saying, but neither will speak it - no it's a truth unacknowledged, the one that gets locked away in far away corners of their consciousness, until it comes rushing out, as snowballs whizz around, and snowflakes slowly waltz, on a January morning almost too perfect to be real.
This, them, this baby - it isn't a do-over; neither is silly enough, naive enough to believe that. But it is another chance, a chance to try and get it right, and maybe, maybe fail less, maybe cause less damage. Neither of them could learn from their parents, they have to make mistakes.
"They're crazy about you, you know." He says, as he steps back.
"Only because they loved you enough to try." She says with a small smile. "Go ahead. I'll be out in a while." He leaves and she stays there; watching, from her world of books, where stories have beginnings and ends, and mistakes only matter on the page.
February
"I'm bored." He says as he pushes her book down.
"You're massaging my feet. Is that not stimulating enough for you, Mr. Grant?" She says playfully as she places the bookmark between the yellow pages, and lowers the book on the small table.
"It's just that I have a few other ideas about what might be stimulating." He says as he trails his hand up the side of her leg, his voice dropping an octave.
"Oh, do you now?" And she smiles, coyly, as she sits up.
"Mhmmmm." He says as he kisses her neck. Softly. Feather like kisses that make her shiver. He doesn't mark, not anymore; and she doesn't cry when the marks finally fade. They are each others to have.
He slides on to the floor, until he's kneeling before her, as if in prayer, in repentance. She runs her hand through his hair, and lets her nails scratch his scalp lightly, the way she knows drives him crazy.
"Lean back." He says in that voice, the one that makes her do whatever it is he's asking; makes her give into anything. He pushes her leggings down her legs, letting his fingers graze the soft skin on the inside of her thighs. She feels herself getting wetter in anticipation, as his hands make their way up, slowly, as if painting on her skin; until they're reaching her hips. He pulls her closer, his grip tight, possessive - the way it used to be. She moans quietly, surprising both of them, and he smirks. He kisses her navel, than trails his tongue down her growing bump. He pauses at her center, buries his face between her, already, trembling legs and inhales. When he looks up, his eyes are dark, glossy, dazed almost. "God I love the way you smell." He grabs her legs and throws them over his shoulders, biting lightly on the inside of her thigh.
He pushes her underwear to the side with his index finger, and she bucks her hips at the touch. The first lick always leaves her breathless, makes her breath escape from deep in her chest as she arches her back. And it's the flat of his tongue moving along her dripping folds, and it's warmth, heat building, and nerves dancing, setting her body on fire. And he flicks it with his tongue, softly, the first time, but she needs more, more, always more. She pushes his head closer, and he presses his tongue against her bundle of nerves and it hurts, hurts so good.
"Fitz..." She breathes out, as her nails dig into his shoulder. And then he's sucking, sucking hard, and the world around her starts to disappear. The shelves with endless books, the mountain tops coated in red, the friskiness of the air - all fade, his touch the only thing that remains. He thrusts two fingers into her and she lets out a throaty moan, a guttal sound that only he has ever heard her make, only he has ever made her make. And he pumps, faster and harder, his fingers curving to hit her spot, and he sucks, his teeth grazing the swollen nub lightly. And it's too much, she writhers, she tries to get away as she pulls him even closer. It hits her suddenly, heat spreading through her heaving body, as she shakes, as her limbs tremble, as her juices grace his lips. He doesn't stop, no, not until she stills, until her hand slips from his hair, down the side of his face. He licks his fingers, and it might be the most erotic thing she's ever seen, his disheveled hair and glistening lips, the hunger - for her. And maybe, maybe it's the hormones, or her wanting, needing them to be like this again, to stay like this forever, but she needs him again, more, all. She pulls him up, with her heavy hands and kisses his heated face. His eyelids, his cheeks, his fiery ears. His lips. The taste of her on his lips, on his tongue, deep in his mouth. She moans and lets her hand travel down his torso, to the growing bulge in his pants. She rubs him with her palm, through the rough fabric, but she can feel him growing, getting harder. She gets up, slips out of his embrace, and he grunts in protest. It's both adorable, and incredibly hot; his need for her, the power she has over him.
"You coming Mr. President?" She says with a small smirk as she reaches her desk, and pulls his NAVY t-shirt off her otherwise bare body. He smiles as he gets up, his smile widening with every step he takes towards her.
They stand, inches apart, taking each other in, finding the people they fell in love with in people they've become. He's still the idealist who would give her the world, still damaged and unsure; and she's still the fixer, confident and sure, but forever afraid of weakness. They're still them, but they know more now, they know the little things, the things that one learns during mornings together, and evening walks, when grocery shopping, or picking insurance covers. They know more now, and as they stare deep into the other's desire filled eyes, they finally find acceptance, love, for who they truly are, every ugly, every damaged, every broken part.
She pulls him in for a kiss, by the collar of his dark denim shirt. And then she's ripping it off as their tongues battle. And her hands fumble with his belt, her bump suddenly in the way. She turns around, and does it from behind. She slips her hand into his underwear and massages him, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, tightening her grip as she moves her hand along his throbbing shaft to his glistening tip. She bends over the table, and he grabs her hips, roughly, as he kisses her shoulder softly. He teases her opening with his tip, and she grinds against him, her hand kneading his ass, pushing him forward. And then he's trusting into her, and it's always like the first time - she gasps. She feels her walls adjust, she feels him pulse inside of her - they are one. And then he's pulling out, until only his tip is inside, teasing. And he slams in again. And he's deep, impossibly deep, and she's clenching her walls when he moves, feeling every ridge, every throbbing vein. And his rhythm is getting erratic, as he goes faster, deeper, harder. And then he's bending, his chest on her back, as his hand starts flicking her clit frantically. And her very core seems to clench as her walls clamp him, and her legs go weak. He thrusts in again, and she can feel him grunt, his hot breath sending shivers down her sweaty skin. And he's spilling his seeds deep inside her, and her muscles clench again, as the orgasm ripples through her body.
They stay like that, unable to move, struggling to breathe, as he softens inside of her, and warm liquids trickle down her shaky thighs.
She giggles. Then moves his hand from her center to her abdomen. "The baby's kicking." And she feels his body shake in laughter against her back, as he kisses her shoulder blade.
March
She flips the page. She scrunches up her nose and shuts her eyes tightly, trying to get them to focus on the small letters. It's all become blurry, she's been sitting there for hours, immersed in a world which is, today, on this rainy february day, preferable to her own. She hears his footsteps - they're rushed frantic almost, and she finds satisfaction in it, small, but significant. It's petty, but she's too hurt to care.
"Liv?" He knocks on the door softly, then calls again, "Liv?"
She pretends, for a moment she pretends that she won't answer, that she can stay here reading forever. That the baby isn't coming, and that they aren't forever dancing in a circle of love and hurt. She will stay here and read, until the world ends in a quiet pop. "Come in."
He pushes the door in slowly, poking his head in, before stepping in. His shoulders are hunched, his eyes dark. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine." Her tone tells him it's not.
"The meeting ran over."
"So I gathered."
He sighs. He runs his hands though his hair, frustration evident on his face. "How was the appointment?"
"Fine."
"Olivia." His tone warns.
"Yes?" She challenges.
"There was nothing I could do."
"OK." It's not.
"What would you have had me do? Leave the meeting? Leave the Secretary of State, because my wife has an ultrasound?" He's yelling now, his hands animatedly moving through the air.
"I want you to care. I want you to want to show up. I want you to be there when she tells me I have to be on bed rest for the rest of the pregnancy. I want you there holding my hand because this matters; because it's more important to you than your career. Because we're more important." Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and she resents herself for it.
He kneels, all anger gone from his face, his features suddenly soft, only his jaw is clenched, almost as if in pain. "What did the doctor say?"
"Because of my age and the miscarriages it's a high-risk pregnancy. And she doesn't like the position of the baby. So she's putting me on bed-rest until the end." She manages to sob it out, between broken breaths. He climbs onto the sofa, and pulls her into his lap, his arms engulfing her petite body.
"I'm so sorry." He whispers it. And he whispers it again. And again. Like a chant. A prayer.
"I need you to... I can't... I'm scared."
"I know," and he tightens his arms around her, "but it's going to be OK."
Her sobs quiet down until they're breathing perfectly in sync.
"It's a girl." She says, as she nuzzles her head deeper into his chest.
April
She buries her head deeper into the cushion. "You should really come to bed." He says as he kneels next to the sofa.
"One more chapter." She says groggily.
"Ok." He kisses her forehead. "Scoot over."
"You can't be serious." She says, as she moves. "We can't possibly fit. Not the three of us."
"But we can." And he lies on to his side, and she settles in her arms, as his hand rests on her stomach. "How's the bean?"
"Tap dancing on my bladder." She says, as her lips curve into a wide smile.
"Did you finish the apple? And the tea? And-"
"Fitz," she says gently, as she kisses his cheek, "stop hovering."
"I'm not-"
"You are. And I... I love that you're here. But when I said I need to know that we're a priority I was upset, and my hormones were raging, and I didn't mean I need you to spend your every waking second with me."
"OK." He says, as he kisses her forehead and tightens his arms around her.
"Does that mean you'll agree to go to DC?"
"No. It just means I hear what you're saying. And I'm ignoring it."
"Fitz-"
"No, everything you said, you were right. When... when I built this house, it was with this idea of a life, a life in which we're enough, in which our family is enough. But we got greedy Liv, we both got greedy, we wanted more, we wanted the world, and Vermont, everything and us. And that's not how life works, not when you find extraordinary love. So, I'm done. I'm done teaching, I'm done traveling back and forth, I'm done. If the vice president wants to see me, he's more than welcome to pay us a visit."
"Fitz-"
"I'm not asking you to give up OPA. I'm saying... I want this. I want to be a stay at home husband, a stay at home dad. I want to be home when you fly in, and I want to watch you do what you love doing, I'm saying... I'm not giving anything up Liv, I'm just taking all of my blessings."
"I love you." She says, as she drops the book on her stomach and nuzzles her head into the crook of his neck.
"We should-"
"Let's stay here a little bit longer."
"OK."
And they drift off to sleep, as rain taps the large windows, drops racing down, propelled by gravity. It's dark outside, completely dark, the way only parts of earth untouched by humans get. The mountain is swallowed by darkness, the stars cloaked under thick clouds. It's just them, in their bubble, of light, and love, and stories, to read and one day tell.
May
She peers over the parenting book that she's reading and looks at him, biting her lip. They're on the sofa in her study, the windows cracked open to let in the smell of fresh grass, the sound of soft leaves dancing in the wind.
"Did you get to the part about labor again?" He asks, refusing to look at her.
"Yes." She says gingerly as she shoves the book towards him.
"Liv-"
"I know, I know... But I still need you to read it, and then re-tell it, without the gory details."
He looks at her, his face stern, but then breaks into a wide grin. "Fine. Switch." And he takes her book as he gives her his. "In that one, the part about sleeping patters is quite good." She just nods, smiling at him.
"Keep massaging." She says, as she lifts her leg from his lap, just barely, just enough to remind him it's there.
"This kid better get my personality."
June
The ink-blue sky stretches past the gray mountain tops. The blood-orange glow of a waning sun lingers, sets them ablaze. It's almost nightfall. Days are getting shorter again. She turns the light off as she gets up from her chair.
She kneels next to the sofa and runs her hand along the side of his face tenderly. "Fitz..." He stirs lightly, then opens his eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness, to see. "Time for bed baby..." And a small form that's sprawled out on his chest stirs lightly, and they both still, freeze. Their eyes meet in the semi-darkness and they break into a fit of soft laughter, muffled by her hands.
"You're not working tonight?" He asks as he gets up, holding the baby in place with his muscular hand.
"No, I'm exhausted." She says with a smile, "Work can wait."
She no longer needs her safe haven; she no longer needs stories to disappear in, to find herself in - she is where she needs to be. Where she's always wanted to be.
That's it for this year. Happy New Year everyone!
Thank you for all the follows and support for my other stories. Writing-wise this year has been a success, and I have all of you to thank. Let me know your thoughts, and give me something to read on this fine last day of the year.