Second First Lady
The first time she saw him in a tux was his Inauguration Ball.
On TV.
Dancing with his wife. His First Lady.
Sitting on the small sofa in her new office, Olivia stared at the documents in her hands and wondered what that made her. His Second Lady? She'd never known what to do with 'second'. It wasn't a natural place for her to find herself. She was the best at everything she did; always had been. Always would be.
And yet, with Fitz - for Fitz - she had willingly taken the runner up spot. The silver medal. The consolation prize.
The thing was, when he looked at her - when they took a minute together and she let him see her, every single piece of her - she didn't feel second best. She felt like his one; his only. The second girl to find him, but the first to steal his heart.
He was the first to steal hers. Other men had tried but she'd always held on, waiting for something; for someone. She could never have imagined in a million years that that someone would be the President of the United States. That that someone would make her fall in love with him the very first day they met. That that someone would call her from his own Inauguration celebrations to invite her into the Oval Office, after dark…
He'd never been so sexy as he prowled towards her, slipping off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves. It was arrogant, the way he took his time. And why not be arrogant? He was the most powerful man in the world. As the air thickened and cracked between them, as her heart rate spiked and all the hairs on her body stood up on end, Olivia felt like he was focusing every single ounce of that power on her. Like there was a spotlight and she was alone on the stage.
His one. His only.
She tried to resist him but it was futile. He was too strong. This… this thing between them - whether it was just sex, or infatuation, or even the greatest love that had ever lived - it was too strong. And so she let him make love to her on his new desk; to create a memory that would stay with them both for the next four years (or eight - who could say at this point?), even when their relationship was over.
Because she knew it wouldn't last. It couldn't.
Afterwards, when he was putting his tuxedo back together again, ready to face the world (literally - the entire planet was watching), she crossed the space between them and buried her face in his chest. Pressed her cheek to the softness of his shirt. Held onto his biceps with shaking hands and told herself that this was the last time.
This grand room, this historic building… This was the place he belonged now, with his First Lady. Not his fantasy, second place fling. Not his campaign manager. Not his mistress.
"Livvie."
She shushed him. Didn't look into his eyes, because that was her weak point. Those minutes where they stared into each other were what convinced her this was real, that this could work. And right now he was at his most powerful, not because of his title but because she was vulnerable, because she loved him - and she was terrified. Scared of doing something stupid, like confessing how she really felt. Like asking him to leave his wife for her. Like walking away from him and never coming back.
And so, she did nothing. Just held onto him; let him hold onto her. Minutes passed and they stayed, perfectly still. Holding on to more than just each other.
The fixer who went a step too far and the man who wasn't hers - in the office that wasn't his.
She left him, of course.
Finally found the courage to be brave, to walk away. But their separation didn't last long. His wife saw to that.
They danced, this time. It was a swanky White House dinner for some important cause or other - she wasn't paying attention which is so unlike her, but it's a measure of just how much he affected her - and he looked more handsome than ever in another perfectly-tailored tux. He was surprised to see her, as she'd expected, but what she didn't count on was the longing that quickly took over his expression, and how it made her tremble all the way down to her core.
When Billy Chambers accepted a dance from the First Lady and left her in the President's arms, she could have killed him.
And then she decided she'd rather kill Fitz instead, because he kept saying the most insane things to her and she was sure someone would overhear and, worst of all, the touch of his palm on her bare back was making her want him.
"Stop looking at me," she murmured. Stop turning me on. Stop making me love you!
"I can't not look at you."
Her heart fluttered. She wanted to press her body closer to his, to feel those deep words vibrate into her bones. To get him inside of her, where he belonged.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "Everything is ridiculous."
Why was he so fucking sexy when he was frustrated? That's what was ridiculous. That and the fact he smelled like heaven, and she wanted to breathe in his scent on her sheets every night for the rest of her life.
"Look at me."
He asked twice. Such a powerful man never had to ask twice for anything, but she knew that for her, he'd ask a thousand times. As much as he was her weakness, she was his. She could have him on his knees if she wanted. She could burn the whole world to the ground.
"Meet me in our spot in ten minutes."
"No."
"I am not spending anymore time away from you."
And then he told her he loved her three times, and with each one there was more and more tenderness in his voice, and she was so grateful that the song ended when it did because she almost gave in. Almost surrendered the few pieces of herself she still had left. Almost allowed herself to love him back.
The trouble was, she missed him. Their time apart had been the hardest of her life, and she missed him every minute of every day. Being close to him that night had only made her appreciate just how much.
The trouble was, she had come to realize - and she hated herself for it - that she might be willing to accept second place after all.
That second place was better than being out in the cold, alone.
His birthday tuxedo was in tatters on the floor of the cubicle in the ER, ripped by nurses, cut by scissors.
She never even got to see him wearing it. She couldn't watch the footage on TV; couldn't bear it.
He never looked right in a hospital gown. Never smelt right, although when she lay in his bed and buried her face in his neck she could still catch his scent; still hold on to the man she knew and loved, and not the unresponsive body being kept alive by wires and machines.
The day he woke up was the best of her life, bar none. It was also the day she knew that she would never, ever stop loving him. It was impossible, now. It had gone beyond choice and into destiny. And whether they could be together or not, one day soon or in the far future when he was no longer President, she would never not be his.
She would never not be completely, irrevocably in love with him.
She did get to be his, eventually. His girl. His first.
After Defiance, after his son's death, after all the revelations about her parents and her kidnapping - she finally went to him on the Truman balcony one night and told him they could do whatever they wanted. They were finally free.
Those early days in the White House were blissful. And mainly spent naked.
And exhausting.
He wore white tie when he hosted the Caledonian Royal Family, and the way he looked half-dressed in it, with his shirt unfastened and untucked as he pressed himself up against her, was even more arousing than the finished ensemble.
"Wow."
He didn't need to say it out loud - she could see it in his handsome face, feel it in the strong arms that encircled her, in the kisses he placed on her neck which made her melt.
"No… This dress is couture. I need it to stay perfect."
She took his hands, tried to keep him at bay, but it was never going to work. He still had power over her; could corrupt her in an instant.
"Then take it off."
He was cute and mischievous and breath-takingly gorgeous all at once, and they were in this crazed bubble of love and passion and unquenchable desire for one another, and saying no wasn't even a possibility.
She made him wait though, while she hung up her dress, his shirt and pants. He didn't keep his hands off of her, which made it take twice as long, but when she tried to make that point he kissed her and she lost the words.
She lost her mind when he was near.
And she had never been happier.
He wore a tux the first time he proposed - but the less said about that, the better.
(He didn't wear one the second time. They were in Vermont, almost two years after his Presidency ended. It was winter, and snowing, and she can't remember exactly what he wore but it was probably plaid pajama pants and a knit sweatshirt - maybe the dark green one, the one she really loves him in. They were snuggled up on the couch watching TV and it was late, the fire blazing. And then out of nowhere, he moved, and suddenly he was down on one knee in front of her, holding out a ring.
And she cried her eyes out. And said "Okay," about ten times before realizing that wasn't the right word, and then shouted "Yes!" even as she was kissing him senseless.
And it was their well-deserved happy ending, and it was perfect.)
He wears a tux to the Royal Wedding in Windsor Castle, the biggest event of the year, and even though he's almost sixty she is still head-over-heels for him. He's graying but she loves it; he still works out, still has more muscles than most guys half his age. They still have sex all the time.
As the only former US President to be invited to the wedding, he's a pretty big deal when they arrive. But, for once, not as much as his wife - who is debuting her baby bump for the very first time.
She's forty-four and wasn't sure this would ever happen - and honestly, they would have been fine with that. But now that she can feel her baby making tiny movements inside of her; now that she gets to watch Fitz kiss her belly and talk to their child, the product of fifteen years of faith and devotion… The love she has for them both is indescribable.
She loves her husband in a tuxedo for so many reasons: because of the memories; because he wears it like he was born to. But right now, sitting beside him in the church and watching two young people profess their vows so beautifully to one another, holding his hand and awash with pregnancy hormones - she loves his tux because he can store so many tissues in the pockets.
And she is an absolute mess.
"Baby, it's fine," he whispers when she tells him, embarrassed. His blue eyes are soft, and full of adoration. His love for her is as infinite today as it was on the day they met.
"You're my mess."
His.
His second first lady. His first and last love.
His everything.