AN: This is my first Scandal fic, Gladiators! And because I couldn't help myself, it's a crossover with Django Unchained. I'm super excited to write this and I hope you all like it.

Lying never came natural to Fitzgerald Grant III, but after he became President he found it did come a lot easier. And after the assassination attempt, he caught himself lying a lot more than usual.

Later, whenever they ask him what the last thing he remembers before the shots ring out is, he'll lie and say it was Mellie in that pretty dress. Mellie knows better, but smiles anyway, holding his hand for good impressions while snuggling her nose into the baby's soft hair. Mellie asks, after the press conference and he'll like again. "Thought about everything really...the last 50 years. My entire life. My kids. Us...when we were first starting." And he'll smile softly when she pats his shoulder and presses a kiss to his forehead.

They've called a truce, he and Mellie. In between the birth of their third child, and his slow but sure recovery, there is some semblance of the best friends who married for propriety's sake, the scared kids saying "I do's" with the world ahead of them and one goal in mind together. He likes that. He really does.

He doesn't like how good he's gotten at lying but he figures it's all apart of being a politician. And he's a damned good politician when needs be.

So when Cyrus asks, fully aware he'd lied to the media answering a simple question, he chuckles and sucks in a breath. "I should have known," Cy says, but Fitz shakes his head and leans back into the pillows on the couch, closing his eyes for a second. "No, not...that. I thought about what we worked for...and if a bullet was going to bring all of that crashing to pieces." He opens his eyes again to find his friend staring at him, swirling his liquor in one hand, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Fitz is pretty sure he's acing this lying business and it's scaring him a little.

He lies almost without a hitch when Karen curls up next to Daddy and asks him if he was scared. "Scared as hell and incredibly confused," he says. But he wasn't. He hadn't even processed what was going on when the first shot hit him. "I honestly just hoped your mom and all the people around me were okay," he tells Jerry, who's been entirely too pensive for a kid his age. "And you were...that's why I woke up," he says. Jerry finally smiles, for the first time in a while, since holding his baby brother, and Fitz feels like maybe a little lying isn't all that bad.

He can't lie to her, though. He's not sure how he pulled off lying about Amanda Turner but the only thing he can chalk that up to is blind luck. Her gut was off, she hadn't the time to process him the way she would have hadn't Cyrus been there.

Cyrus isn't here this time.

"I want you to be honest with me," she says, and he knows he won't lie, he knows he couldn't. He tilts his head and cups her face and shivers a little when her lips part, the nagging, curling fear he'd felt...there, not sure if he'd ever see her again, pressing against his brain. "What were you thinking?" She shifts a little and pulls the blankets up against her, the soft fleece of her sweat shirt plush under his fingers as he holds her.

Fitz takes a breath and wonders if simply saying "you" would suffice, because honestly, he isn't sure how to tell her the rest. About Oregon. About the chase in the middle of a cold Northwest autumn for a child, her husband, her life. He doesn't know if he should mention anything about the things he's seen and done especially since he's not sure if he's even actually seen or done any of them.

But he will. He can't lie to Olivia Pope, and he honestly doesn't want to.

"You," he begins, catching her lips with his finger as she attempts to speak. "But not just you..." He pauses to gather his thoughts and she narrows her eyes, a little smile of anticipation crossing her face.

"It was warm when I woke up. The first time, I woke up. It was warm and the first thing I saw was...you."

Oregon, 1864

Django had been gone three days when the white man woke up.

Her kitchen had been cleaned, her son had been fed and put to bed, and the horses brushed. After closing the windows and lighting a lantern, she cleaned up dinner and tried to relax. Late September in this country was chillier than anything she was used to, but the air was crisp and she had her own bed in her own home with a beautiful pair of rocking chairs outside and her own stove. She couldn't complain. As she fed the warm fire more wood and finished the little piece of pie she'd made for dessert, Broomhilda sat down at her kitchen table and turned the lantern up, picking up her book, and began to read.

Or, at least, she attempted to.

Having a stranger in her home without her husband home was unsettling to say the least. He'd been out cold since they'd found him the week before; she was sure when Django brought him in on Tony that he was dead. But he'd been breathing, although slowly, and his pulse had picked some in the last few days. So he was improving...but she wasn't sure if she really wanted him to.

Broomhilda figured she could handle a dead man easier than a confused and sick one, especially one she didn't know. She could only hope he'd sleep until Wednesday, when Django came home.

It was Sunday night.

Pushing her worries into the back of her head, she shook her head slightly and picked up where she left off, pressing her fingers to the worn pages of the book. It had been annotated and underlined, several exclamations of mirth in German written in the margins and gutter. Gold foil lined the edges of the paper and as she flipped the pages, the distinct engraving of K.S. on the cover pressed against her palms.

It was nearly another twenty minutes before she realized she heard shuffling coming from the back bedroom. She sucked in a breath and glanced up, placed her bookmarker in the middle to mark her spot, and got up slowly, hoping it was simply her son turning about his sleep. But the shuffling was coming from the second bedroom and not the one she shared with Django and King and in one sure motion, she grabbed her lantern and her shotgun from the mantle of the fireplace, then walked quietly down the short hallway. Tightening her grip on the barrel, she cracked the door open slowly and shone a bit of light in, just enough to get a glance at what was going on.

The sheets on the bed were in a tangle, the thick wook quilt bundled up around the white man like a cocoon and he was moving, eyes still closed, but body shuffling along in the bed as if he couldn't get comfortable. Broomhilda dared to step inside, safe in the knowledge that she had the upper hand, and set the lantern on the nearby table. One slim hand crept forward and pressed firmly against where his shoulder was, then shook him one good time. He stopped moving and lay back against the bed again, still.

She sucked in a breath and tried again, this time, shaking him twice. He still didn't move. Huffing a bit she moved her fingers up to feel his pulse, raising her brow at how it thumped fiercely beneath his skin. He was warm, and slightly sweaty and and for the first time since he'd been brought to her home, she got a good look at him.

He was handsome, she could say. Strong jaw and straight nose. He seemed regal, as if he was possibly someone important, as if he held a lot of power. The creases in the corner of his eye only added to his handsomeness, and without thinking, she drew her fingers slowly up from his throat to his jawline, grazing it with her knuckles just a bit before catching herself and pulling back. What in the world was she doing? "One more shake", she murmured to herself, and shifted the shotgun still in her left hand.

She didn't get a chance to grasp his shoulder before she noticed his eyes were opened.

Jumping back a little and widening her own eyes she stared at him for one very long, very tense minute, during which she was certain neither of them blinked. he opened his mouth, in an effort to talk but only coughed and she cleared her head, walking swiftly to the table that held the lantern and pouring him a cup of water. "Here," she said quietly , careful not to wake her son, and sitting, helped him take long drinks. "Liv..." he said, his voice croaking with misuse. She frowned. "I don't know who that is," she said and he shook his head, wincing as he did. "You...you're Liv. Livvy?" She shook her head again and offered him more water, which he took eagerly. "Who are you?" she asked, and he glanced around the room in an almost panic. Clasping his wrist, she pressed her fingertips to his pulse there and made him meet her eyes. He calmed, though just a little. "Who are you? Do you remember? Where are you from?"

He blinked, then nodded (this time more gingerly) and let out a breath.

"Fitzgerald Grant. My name...my name is Fitzgerald Grant. I'm from California."

She nodded then and set his cup of water to the side. "Are your people in California?" Fitzgerald shook his head and stared at his hands. "No...they're...where am I? If you're not Livvy, who are you?" She narrowed her eyes a bit and watched as his followed her every expression. "You're in Oregon territory," she said as his brow furrowed in confusion. "My name is Broomhilda Von Shaft, and this is my home." Fitzgerald was silent for a while. "Broomhilda..." he breathed out, testing the name on his lips. She nodded and smiled a bit, straightening her shoulders and smoothing her skirts. "Most everyone I know, though, calls me Hildy."