A/N: One of my favorite emotions to write, and read, is longing. I think it's one of the most beautiful aspects of Olivia and Fitz's relationship on the show. I particularly love and adore the way Fitz longs for her; that no matter what is happening in their lives, that is always tangible. And so this story was born - but it's also going to be a lot of fun. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing this first chapter!
I posted a preview of this on Tumblr (at babybemydownfall) and the response was amazing, so thank you. You all spurred me on to write this today.
Four: Part I
There are many things in life that President Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III is thankful for: his two teenage children, Karen and Gerry; his four years in the White House, serving his country from the highest position in the land; the bareness of his left ring finger, where his wedding band used to be.
And tonight, especially: freedom. The finest bourbon in his glass. The party he's throwing in his rented Georgetown mansion, in appreciation of all the members of his team who have dragged him through his presidency. They've seen him at his highest and lowest: celebrated his groundbreaking victories with him in the Oval office; coaxed him out of bed on his darkest days, reminding him of what it was they were all fighting for. It didn't matter that his marriage was going to hell and his personal life was all over the world's media: he had a job to do, one which the American people had chosen him for, and he was damn well going to stop wallowing in self-pity and go out and do it.
Honestly, without these people, he would have been a disaster. He owes everything to them, something he made abundantly clear in his very last speech before leaving Pennsylvania Avenue two weeks ago. He recognized everyone - from his Chief of Staff to the kitchen hands who washed his dishes each evening - and they're all here tonight: over a hundred of his colleagues and friends, gathered to commemorate their achievements; to say farewell; to finally let their hair down.
All except one.
Olivia Pope.
She's not here to share in their successes. She never worked for him; didn't step foot in his White House. In fact, they've only ever met one another a handful of times.
And yet, even though she doesn't know it, she had an enormous impact on his time in office. Hearing she was back in DC, he knew he wanted to invite her: not only to thank her but just to see her again, after all this time. To find out if the spark he once felt around her is still there; if she really could be the light at the end of the tunnel, the one he's been striving towards since the moment their eyes met, since they almost kissed in that hallway and then he won the election and she disappeared off the face of the Earth.
He lost his heart to Olivia Pope on the campaign trail, and every day since he's wondered if she knew. Has she been keeping it safe for him, all these years? Or has she forgotten all about it, like he should have done? Maybe that would have spared him the agony, the soul-destroying disappointment of becoming the first US president to get divorced on the job. Maybe that would have spared their kids.
No. His marriage was already irretrievable. Divorcing Mellie spared their kids, in the long run. He's spent the last two weeks with them and, for the very first time, they told him as much: that they were glad their parents were no longer together, because they were both so much happier apart. It lifted a weight from his shoulders which had been there for so long, he felt like a new man without it. And then he excused himself from the room and called his assistant Michael, instructing him to mail out the invitation to Olivia - the one which had been sat on his desk for a week, burning a hole there.
He never really expected her to come, though. Why would she? She wasn't one of his staff. She owed him nothing. In any conventional sense of the term, they barely knew each other.
And so, when he meanders through the crowd in the extravagant entertaining area of this enormous house and spots her sat by herself at the bar, he almost drops his drink.
She's here.
His heart thunders. Is that actually his, inside his chest, or the version she's brought back with her? Is he about to feel complete again, for the first time since she turned and walked away over four years ago?
He downs the rest of his bourbon, the glass shaking slightly in his hand.
Only one way to find out.
He takes a deep breath. He's been waiting for this chance for as long as he can remember and now it's finally here, he knows he has to play it cool. In the last four years he's faced off against countless enemies, both foreign and domestic. This is just conversation, catching up with an old acquaintance. It should be easy, right?
Except it's not - not when he's close enough to smell her perfume; not when she turns and sees him and she smiles, and he realizes his memories of her are nothing in comparison to the reality.
She is simply the most beautiful woman in the world. And for as long as he is alive, that will never not be true.
He's eternally grateful for his inbuilt instincts, his well-practiced skills at greeting all manner of people on a daily basis, because without even thinking he's reaching out his right hand towards her, greeting her by the name that feels so natural rolling off his tongue, like it should be a secret only he can say to her and no one else.
"Olivia Pope."
She takes his hand in hers, which is small and impossibly soft. He wants to hold on forever.
"President Grant."
"Former President Grant. Or, you could just call me Fitz." He knows the smile on his lips is his most charming, and he just can't help it. God, it's so good to see her again. "I didn't know if you'd come."
"I was surprised to get the invite; surprised to be included. But, given I live just around the corner…"
"Do you?" He leans against the bar, beside her chair. Not close enough to touch her, but close enough to feel the heat of her body radiating from beneath her white blouse, her high-waisted black pants. Too close, probably. "I didn't know that."
"But you knew I was back in DC?"
"I heard through the White House grapevine. My assistant mailed out your invitation."
A hand lands on his back - his communications director Peter, just arrived (trouble with the babysitter). Fitz introduces him to Olivia; feels her eyes on him while they catch up. He's aware that his ears are getting warm, no doubt going red too, and wonders if Peter senses something between the two of them because he quickly excuses himself, heading off to track down the canapés.
When he looks at Olivia again, she smiles at him and it takes his breath away.
"I'm glad you invited me," she says honestly. He's captivated by the shape of her lips, by the rise of her cheekbones.
"Are you?"
"Yes. I have a bone to pick with you."
His eyebrows rise. Which one of his many new policies might she be referring to? And how does he tell her he doesn't want to talk about his legacy right now? That he just wants to talk to her, to get to know her all over again - this time for good.
"You made me lose, Mr President. No one ever makes me lose."
Ah. She's referring to the campaign. And he doesn't think he's imagining the playful tone to her voice, the sparkle in her dark eyes.
"You should have come to work for me instead," he replies lightly, a grin pulling at the corners of his lips. "Then you would have won."
"I made a commitment to Governor Reston."
"Did you believe in him?"
"It doesn't matter. I worked for him."
"Did you believe in me?"
She doesn't answer, smiling and looking into her wine glass.
"Who did you vote for?" he asks brazenly, spurred on by how easy this is. Flirting with Olivia Pope is as natural as breathing.
"I'm apolitical."
"You're… apolitical? What does that mean?"
"It means…" She shrugs. "I'm not sure anymore."
There's a pause. He feels completely oblivious to the party going on around them, to the bodies moving past, the bar staff asking if he'd like another drink.
"I wanted you to come work for me," he admits. Why not go all in, straight away? He no longer has time for hiding, for dishonesty. He's waited far too long. "During the campaign-"
"I know."
He continues, talking over her: "And then after, when I was setting up my team in the White House."
He waits a beat, gazing into her eyes. He can tell that's new information to her. "I put out feelers. Got my people to ask around. No one knew where you'd gone."
"Why?"
"Why didn't anyone know?"
"Why did you want me?"
Something flares up inside him, something familiar and hot and confusing. Does she know how often he's asked himself the very same question? Does she realize he still has no idea what the answer is?
"I think you know why."
She blinks, her lips parting ever so slightly. It's almost as if he can sense her heartbeat speeding up. "Do I?"
But he can see in her eyes that she does. She knows exactly why he wanted her, and why he invited her tonight - and she still came anyway.
"Look," he sighs, wondering how to explain himself now that his moment is finally here. "I just… I thought about you. A lot. I know we only met a handful of times but you, Olivia Pope… You made an impression on me, and I never forgot you. I don't think I ever will."
"Wow." Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. He wishes he could read her mind, to know what's going through her head right now.
"What?"
"You're brave. Just… saying how you feel. It's so rare these days."
He's not embarrassed in the slightest. "For the last four years, I put my heart on the line every day to serve our country. I went head-to-head with dictators and won. I made progress on minority rights, on gun control for Christ's sake. I got divorced in front of the entire world, Olivia. So, no. I don't think telling you how I feel is brave. I'm not afraid of anything anymore."
"Aren't you scared of how I might react?"
"No. I'd be disappointed, if you took any of this the wrong way. But I'm not scared."
She considers him for a long moment, clearly trying to work out if he's being genuine and, if so, how she feels about that. And, despite how desperate he is to know the answer to that, he decides to change the topic and give her an out. Not everyone is as forward, as open and honest, as he has learnt to be.
"Your glass is almost empty. Can I get you another drink?"
She seems to exhale, looking grateful, and he smiles. That was the right move. They still have plenty of time - in fact, he has it in abundance now.
"I'd love another glass of red," she says. "Thank you."
After he's ordered, she asks about the past two weeks: what he's been doing, if he's been missing the White House.
"The people, yes. I'm really sad that tonight is probably going to be the last time we're all together. But the job, the stress, the power - how lonely it is - not at all."
"I have to say, I was surprised you didn't run a second time," Olivia muses. "You were doing some great work. You could have done more."
"Perhaps. But I selected the first female VP in history. I supported her election bid and now she's sitting in my chair in the Oval Office, running the free world. I think that is the best thing I could possibly have done. White men have been in power for far too long. It's time someone else had their turn."
She looks so impressed with him and he wants to tell her the other half of that truth: that he could never date someone under such public scrutiny; that waiting another four years for her - for the possibility of true love, of a life of happiness together - just wasn't an option.
"I've heard those lines before," she teases, taking a sip of her wine. When she looks up at him from beneath her long eyelashes, Fitz marvels at how it's possible for a woman to be so naturally alluring, so effortlessly sexy.
"Not my speechwriter, actually," he answers, referring to the congratulatory address he gave when Elizabeth Rose was elected as his successor. "Those were mine, and I truly believe them."
"So do I." She holds up her glass. "To you, Former President Grant. Congratulations for everything you achieved."
His heart swells. "Thank you."
He gives her a tour of the house, which is enormous. There are six bedrooms, more than enough for when his kids stay over. He explains that he doesn't know where he wants to end up, but staying in DC for the moment seems like the right thing to do because of their school. When they reach the master suite on the second floor he hurriedly brushes past it, suddenly feeling a little awkward.
He knows he'll be dreaming of her in there tonight.
There's a gorgeous library at the other end of the wing: antique mahogany desk; forest-green leather sofas, cracked with age; fire already stoked by his housekeeping staff because they know he usually retires up here before bed of an evening. Back downstairs, he leads her through the multiple reception rooms but gets caught up by friends. Reluctantly, they end up separated. He hopes she knows some people, or that they know her; hopes she's having a good time. And then he feels bad for focusing so much of his attention on her when he really does want to hang out with his guests.
It must be over an hour later when she finds him again.
"Hi."
"Hi." His smile is undoubtedly too big, but there's alcohol in his system and he's just so happy that she's here.
Then, his bubble bursts.
"I think I might go home," she says.
"Please don't."
"It's getting late. I'm tired."
"I want you to stay." She hesitates, and he can tell she wants to. "You remember how to get to the library?"
She nods.
"Meet me there. I should socialize a bit more but I won't be too long, I promise."
Her lips curve up at the edges. "Okay. Take your time. I'll wait."
He finally makes it to the library after another couple of hours. The party is still going but he's made sure to speak to everyone there, to thank them in person, to find out about their plans for the future. Now, he's free - to be hers, if she wants him.
She's curled up on one of the sofas, next to the open fire. There's an empty wine glass on the floor beside her shoes; a book lying open on her lap. Her eyes are closed but she's awake, and when she hears him enter she looks at him with the most beautiful smile.
"Hi," he says again, overwhelmed by how right it feels to see her here, relaxing in his house. "Sorry I took so long. Were you asleep?"
"No. Just dozing. Red wine, the fire… Hard not to."
"I agree." He takes a seat opposite her; glances down at the book. "What are you reading?"
She shows him the cover. "Jules et Jim."
"In French?"
"Mais oui," she says, tilting her head to the side, grinning at him.
"Wow. How long have you spoken French for?"
"Oh, since I was young. And my last boyfriend was Swiss, so… I got a refresher, you know?"
It takes him a moment to process her words. It definitely sounds like she's single, which fits with the restrained but flirtatious vibe he's been getting from her all evening.
"Well," he says calmly, trying to ignore the surge of excitement flooding his body, "I don't speak any languages. My translators would always teach me basic greetings but I'd forget them as soon as the meetings were over."
"Remember this one?" Olivia puts her palms together in front of her chest and bows her head. "Sah-wah-dee kha."
He frowns. "Somewhere oriental?"
She smiles at him. "It's Thai. That's where I went, when you couldn't find me. My boyfriend moved there for work, just before you won the election. I stayed in DC and I was miserable, so I went after him. And I still ended up miserable…"
He knew about the boyfriend, at the time. His campaign manager, Billy Chambers, had mentioned it in passing one day. It was the first time he'd ever felt white hot jealousy burn in his veins.
"When did you come back?" he asks, intrigued by her story.
"Two years ago."
That surprises him. He'd assumed she'd just returned to the States in the last few weeks. "Oh. I didn't realize."
"Why would you? You were busy running the free world."
"And divorcing my wife."
She passes over that. "Surely you could have found me, if you'd wanted to?"
"I could have, yes. But I'm not a creep, Olivia. I barely knew you. Tracking you around the world would have felt wrong."
He can see the flames reflected in her eyes when she looks into his. "You still barely know me."
"I'd like to, though. If you'll let me."
"As in - friends?"
"To start with."
She glances away, trying to hide her smile, but he notices - and it fills him with hope. He hasn't been remembering their past with rose-tinted glasses. It was real.
And it still is.
His fingers tighten on the arm of the couch as he fights to control himself, to rein in the powerful urge to profess every single one of his feelings for her. He suspects she would run, if he did. She's done so once before, although those were admittedly very different circumstances back then. The married presidential candidate and his opponent's campaign manager: hardly the ideal basis for any relationship.
And yet here they are, drawn back together again four years later…
He forces himself to abandon that train of thought and change the topic of conversation again. This is just too intense otherwise. He knows he needs to give her space, to let her adjust to these emotional bombshells he keeps dropping on her - and there are many more to come.
"Will you tell me about Thailand?"
"What about it?"
"Anything. All of it. Why don't you start at the beginning?"
She talks about her Swiss boyfriend, Etienne, who went to work for the embassy there. They had a cushy lifestyle: large house, servants, personal chauffeurs. Olivia didn't have a job, which Fitz immediately recognizes was a huge problem for her. Someone so smart, so accomplished - "So bored," as she puts it.
"Why did you go then?" he wonders aloud.
She shrugs a little. "I loved him, and he was leaving. So it was either follow him and try to make it work or give up on the relationship then and there. And I wasn't ready to give up. When I'm committed, I'm all in."
"So I gather."
He can only admire her for that. Relationships, Governor Reston's campaign… He wonders if she ever gave up on him.
Given everything he's learned about her so far this evening, he's starting to believe she might not have.
"I'm sorry to hear it didn't work out," he tells her sincerely.
"Thank you. I'm sorry about your marriage, too. Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"I've always wondered - who managed your divorce? The optics, the fallout?"
"You mean my crisis manager? Leo Bergen."
"Ah. I know Leo. He used to date one of my friends."
"He's good. I can only imagine how much worse it might have been without him. And it was bad, for a long time."
"I know." She looks sympathetic, like she wants to reach out and comfort him.
"It's over now," Fitz says, unwilling to let his ex-wife come between them tonight. "I don't like to talk about it."
"Fair enough. What do you want to talk about?"
He smiles at her again. He can't seem to help himself. "Tell me more about Thailand. I've never been. How's the scenery, the food?"
She speaks so passionately about the country, conjuring incredible imagery of tropical beaches, humid jungle, busy markets; hot and spicy food cooked on street corners, fresh coconuts tapped and the sweet water drunk with a straw.
"And then, when I left," she goes on, "I traveled through Asia and Australia for six months. That was amazing."
"Wow. And what about the last two years?"
"I've been all over the US, working on local campaigns."
He's taken aback. She's been right here, under his nose this whole time, and he had no idea. "Really? I never even heard your name."
"Why would you?"
He doesn't tell her he was listening out for it. Always listening, just for a whisper of her. But he can see she knows that.
"I stayed in the background," she says, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear with perfectly manicured nails. "Never let anyone credit me. I'm not comfortable in the spotlight like you are."
"Why? You were clearly phenomenal on Reston's campaign."
She stares at him. "We lost."
"I know. But before you joined, I was ten points ahead. On election night, the difference between us was less than-"
"-Two million votes. I know."
They share a smile.
"You just worked for the wrong guy," he says teasingly.
Her delicate shoulders rise, her expression one of amusement. "I like a challenge."
"Are you saying I'm too easy?"
When she laughs, he falls in love with the sound.
"For the record, President Grant - I'm glad you won. You were the right candidate for the job."
"So, you voted for me?"
She laughs again. "I'm not telling you."
"What about this time around?"
"I voted for President Rose, of course."
"Good. And by the way, Miss Pope, I'm going to have to ask you again to call me Fitz."
Her eyes meet his, and suddenly she's wide open. He can see all the way into her soul. "I'll… I'll try."
She never would use his name, even on the trail. He longed for her to say it, longed to hear her give in - to them; to whatever it was between them.
"Olivia…" he begins, not knowing exactly where he's going with this, only that the moment has finally come to delve into their past - but she beats him to it.
"How many times did we meet?"
"Four." He answers without hesitation and she looks surprised, but he's not ashamed. "I remember every single one."
Four debates. Four times he stood on a stage and his eyes scanned the crowd, searching for her. Four times she looked back at him and he felt so connected to her in ways he can't explain, even now.
"Atlanta," she says softly.
The first time. He recalls how he came across her, in the conference center the day before his and Reston's opening debate. She'd only joined his opponent's team once he'd won the Democratic nomination. Fitz had gotten lost on his way back from the bathroom; wandered down the wrong corridor.
A door was ajar.
He had no intention of eavesdropping on Reston's strategy - it was Georgia for God's sake, almost guaranteed to vote red - but when he heard Olivia speaking, when he saw her owning the room, he was utterly transfixed. She was so passionate; so fierce. So beautiful.
He went straight to Cyrus, his most trusted advisor, and told him that he wanted her on his team. He had no idea why, initially.
"I didn't know your name," he tells her now, and it's the second time she's heard this story but he can see it's having a huge impact on her, just like it did before. "I didn't know if you were any good. But you gave me chills.
"I stood behind you in the lunch queue that day," he continues. "You had the roast salmon with couscous."
Her dark eyes are wide and the room feels smaller than it did moments ago, the heat from the fire pressing into them from all sides. "How do you remember that?"
"I remember everything about you, Olivia. In my mind, you're… you're in technicolor. So vivid, so alive." He pauses. "Did you ever even consider coming to work for me?"
The memories are sweeping through her defenses, making her vulnerable. Just like she was back then, across four crowded rooms, four different states. Four of his favorite points in time in all of his fifty years on Earth.
Her voice is breathy, like it's difficult for her to get the words out. "I did."
And then it dawns on him. She felt it too. In those moments, she was falling for him just as hard.
"But it would never have worked, would it?" he says slowly. "With the way we felt about each other…"
"You were married."
"I know."
"I was in a relationship."
"I know."
"It would have been so wrong."
"It's not wrong now."
She stares at him for a long time, her mouth open. Then she closes it - and she smiles.
He's never felt more hopeful.
"I suppose it's not, no."
His gaze lands on the space beside her on the couch. The temptation to cross the room, to sit there and be close to her and rewind time all the way back to the beginning, is almost too much for him.
And Olivia notices but she just continues to smile, even as she stretches her arms up in the air and says through an adorable yawn: "I should really go. It's past midnight."
And he knows that's the best thing, because he's waited so long and his dreams are all coming true and if she doesn't leave soon, he's going to ask her to stay forever.
She stands, slipping on her heels, walking over to place the book back on its shelf. He stands too, watching her every move, fascinated and turned on in equal measure.
"I would love to date you," he says, too quickly, his words falling over each other in his rush to get them out.
She turns to him with a mischievous look. "I don't date politicians."
"Good job I'm no longer a politician." His charming grin is back again with a vengeance.
"What are you then?"
"A single guy, who finally has the opportunity to get to know the incredible woman he's thought about since the day he met her."
And even after everything they've said to one another tonight, after their short but emotional trip down memory lane, she still looks stunned.
"I'm going to Houston on Monday," Fitz continues, brave and encouraged and with absolutely nothing to lose. "Meeting a few people about some possible projects there in the future. You could come with me."
She looks hesitant. "President Grant… We've only been talking a couple of hours. You just left the White House two weeks ago. Isn't it a bit soon to be going away together?"
He steps towards her, wanting to reach out and take her hands but managing to resist. "I've been cooped up in that place for four years. I've been lonely for a lot longer, trapped in a marriage that hadn't felt right for a decade. But despite how all that makes me sound, I am kinda fun. I promise." He gives her a goofy smile. "Plus, I have my own plane to take us there. It's no Air Force One but I'm told it's still pretty swanky."
She looks away, laughing softly. He can sense she wants to say yes; wonders what's holding her back.
"I'll have to think about it," she offers, and he wants to ask why but doesn't. Maybe that's not fair. He hasn't yet ascertained whether she's thought about him over the last few years in the same way he's thought about her. Beyond the fact that she came here tonight, and how affected she was by their connection on the campaign trail, he doesn't actually know how she feels about him.
"Okay."
She nods. "Okay."
He guides her back downstairs, where roughly half of his guests are still enjoying themselves, dancing and drinking together. He asks one of the staff to get Olivia's coat for her and, while they're waiting, his former secretary comes over to chat. Again, Fitz feels her looking at him the whole time and his body heats up, warmer than the fire upstairs.
When they're finally alone once more, he walks her to the front door. She pauses, standing much closer than she's been all evening, looking somewhere over his shoulder.
"President-"
She stops herself. Gazes up into his eyes.
Time slows. This is it.
"Say my name," he murmurs.
She looks terrified. "Fitz."
He thinks his heart might beat out of his chest.
His hands rise to her upper arms, holding onto her. Grounding himself in the present, committing this moment to memory.
"Olivia," he breathes.
She grips onto him too. Swallows hard.
Gives in.
"What time do we leave for Houston?"