A/N: I've been going back and forth on this one for a while, and I'm very excited to finally have the first chapter up! I'm going to try my absolute best to update regularly, and as of right now, I don't intend for this story to be too long, but I'd also definitely be willing to return to it past the end point I have in mind (especially with Scandal ending, I need something to hold onto haha). I hope you enjoy, and please, as always, let me know what you think.
(Also, thank you so much to anyone who's read/reviewed my one shots, because it honestly makes my day and it's why I was finally able to commit myself to this one.)
Disclaimer: I do not own Scandal or any of its characters.
"Damnit, can't you go any faster?"
Fitz gripped the steering wheel, willing his jaw to unlock.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Shaw," he spoke without an ounce of sincerity. "There was an accident on fifty-second, so traffic's pretty backed up."
His passenger huffed from the back seat.
"I would've been better off taking the damn subway," he muttered under his breath.
Fitz stopped short unnecessarily, taking great pride in the man's deepening frown as he jerked forward in his seat. For all his talking, the son of a bitch had probably never ridden the subway a day in his life. The thought made Fitz roll his eyes.
It had been nearly a week since he was assigned to the services of one particularly obnoxious Mr. Dean Shaw, and the man had already proven himself to be an absolute pain in the ass. Complaining about everything from the length of their commute to the temperature of the car, he was a living, breathing poster boy for upper-class pretention.
Fitz had been looking for someone older – that is to say, someone more mature – when he was told that, as a company driver for Red Giant Jets, he'd more often than not service its new CEO. He nearly scoffed in disbelief when he was met with a mid-30-something pretty boy with an arrogant pep in his step and one Rolex strapped gaudily to each wrist.
As if Shaw's physical appearance hadn't made it obvious enough, the manner in which he offered only an eyebrow raise as a greeting told Fitz everything he needed to know about the man's lofty lifestyle. He had probably never lifted a finger a day in his life.
Of course, it came as no surprise when a quick Google search revealed that Mr. Shaw had received his new position not through dedication to the company but instead by sheer nepotism. Evidently, his father had gifted him a $30,000 watch for his birthday and the family company for Christmas.
"Wait! Turn down this block."
With a swerve that earned more than a few blaring honks, Fitz started down an unfamiliar block.
He tried not to spend too much time mulling over the unfortunate circumstances that had thrown them into each other's paths. Here was this man lounging in his backseat simply because his father had obviously played his cards right. And yet, here he was playing chauffeur simply because his own father had failed to do the same.
"Ok, here. Right here, stop."
Again, the abruptness of the car's movements earned a series of unimpressed honks.
Fitz watched in irritation as the man practically leapt out the car and started for the apartment building to their right. After a moment of considering leaving Mr. Shaw to fend for himself and subsequently deciding that he liked his job's benefits a little too much, he pulled into a free spot just a few cars ahead.
It was the first time he had experienced some semblance of peace and quiet in the past half-hour, and he let his eyes begin to wander. They bounced from one figure to the next, taking in the naturally hurried pace of business men and women, the instinctive huddles of families moving together, the swaying hands of young couples lost in their own world.
For a moment, he couldn't help but envy them. It seemed that wherever he went, everyone had somewhere to be and someone to be with. He was drifting; in fact, he had been drifting for a long time, and he was getting tired of not knowing where he was supposed to end up.
The backseat door opened and closed harshly.
"Why didn't you wait outside the building?"
Fitz gave himself a moment to come up with an answer that didn't begin with "Because, Jackass…"
He settled simply for, "I had to park," and was pleasantly surprised by the silence that met him in return.
When it became obvious that neither of them were going to speak, he finally pulled out of the spot and started back on his original route. They continued to inch through traffic in silence, slowly making their way out of the city.
Finally, when there was less than fifteen minutes left to their route, his passenger began speaking once more.
"Look, I'm sorry…"
It was so quiet and so unexpected that Fitz wondered if he had heard correctly. With raised eyebrows, he cleared his throat, inviting him to continue.
"I… that was a dick move back there. I shouldn't have just had you pull over like that. I'm sorry."
Sensing that he wasn't done, Fitz simply glanced at him through the rearview mirror.
"I screwed up and lost my fiancée," he began after a long pause. "At least, I think she was my fiancée, I'm not really sure." He seemed to think over his next few words, taking a moment to look out the window. "I'm just trying to make things right with her. So, I'm sorry for taking that out on you."
Fitz hummed his sign of his acceptance. The apology certainly didn't cover everything that it needed to, but it was their first interaction that left him not wanting to choke the man with his bare hands. Dean Shaw was a certified asshole until proven otherwise, but at least he was an asshole with a heart.
They didn't speak after that, and the ride eventually ended as Fitz pulled into a lengthy driveway.
Not for the first time, he took in the impressive home and the large expanse of land surrounding it. He couldn't stop the twinge of admiration he felt for its beauty and had to admit he understood why Mr. Shaw was willing to go through the nearly hour-and-a-half commute every day.
"Well, I'll see you Monday."
He watched as the man climbed out of the car and took in his unusually slumped shoulders.
That fiancée...or non-fiancée of his had to have done a number on him.
"Have a good weekend, Mr. Shaw," he bid him farewell, perhaps for the first time, without a hint of sarcasm.
If there was one thing he could sympathize with, it was relationship trouble. He knew all too well just how exhausting it could be.
He started to pull out of the driveway when something in the backseat caught his attention. Sitting where Mr. Shaw previously had was a small wad of cash and a navy-blue handkerchief with embroidered initials.
He eased to a stop just before he reached the road and considered returning the items before he made his way back home. He glanced back at the house, standing tall with its large windows and lavish architecture. Another glance into the backseat revealed that the cash amounted to little more than $250.
He weighed his options for a moment. The money would most likely not be missed, and he figured he was owed a little something extra for their earlier detour.
Without giving it another thought, he drove off.
Maybe working for Mr. Shaw wouldn't be too bad after all.
He was less than twenty minutes from his apartment when a group of women exiting the taxi in front of him caught his eye. He watched as they shared bright smiles and adjusted their outfits while making their way to the curb. In several short strides, they arrived at a bar he had come to know only in passing.
Its sign read "Angel's Remorse" in glowing red script, and dilapidated bricks outlined its outer walls. He had never really stopped to take the place in, but now, with a week's worth of stress sitting on his shoulders and a handful of crisp bills burning a hole in his back seat, the bar never seemed so inviting.
A series of loud honks broke the hold on his attention and, in a moment of snap judgment, he pulled into the first available spot he could find.
He quickly brushed himself off and ran a hand through his hair, trying to not look nearly as run down as he felt after the commute. With one swoop, he grabbed the money and handkerchief, shoving it all into his pocket.
Maybe he'd start with a particularly indulgent scotch – in honor of his dear friend, Mr. Shaw. The thought made him smile as he exited the car.
The inside of Angel's Remorse wasn't at all like he would have guessed from the outside. Its main bar was dark marble, and the tables lining the wall a deep mahogany. Vibrant paintings stuck out against alternating strips of black and gray painted on the walls, with sleek suspension lights illuminating the room.
It felt like a world of its own, far removed from the busy avenue just outside the entrance.
He spotted the group from the taxi hidden in a booth to the back, and took a moment to glance at the surrounding booths. They were practically all full, and by the looks of it, well on their way to becoming overcrowded.
He made his way to the main bar. Fortunately, it wasn't filling up as quickly, and he was able to get a spot far removed from everyone else. Almost as soon as he sat down, he was greeted by a burly man with almost a foot and at least a few years on him.
"Well, you look like you've had a hell of a week. What can I get you?"
Fitz's eyebrows rose; he couldn't tell if he was more surprised by the man's accurate assertion or the accent that placed him a few states south of New York.
The bartender looked him once over before continuing, "You seem like the scotch type. How about a Macallan 12?"
Even more impressed, Fitz simply nodded, earning a deep, belly chuckle.
"They say I have a gift. It's how I've helped keep this place open for so long." And with that, he was gone.
Fitz continued staring at the spot he had just occupied, replaying the strange interaction in his head.
"Don't worry, Al got me the same way the first few times I came here. It's why I keep coming back," a voice spoke from beside him.
He turned to meet the sight of a man seemingly his own age seated directly beside him. He glanced back at all the empty seats lining the bar and couldn't help but wonder why he was there.
The man, apparently oblivious to his own intrusion, stuck out his hand.
"Billy."
After a long moment, Fitz finally relented and met him halfway.
"Fitz."
He then watched Billy flag down the bartender – despite the fact he was already making his way over – and just barely contained a roll of his eyes.
"So, Fitz, what has you spending your Friday evening at Remordimiento de Angel?" He questioned, his eyes lingering on the glass Al placed on the counter.
Fitz tried his best not to cringe at his horrible pronunciation and picked up the glass, silently gesturing to it as his answer.
"I'll take the usual, Al, thanks," he spoke quickly, practically dismissing the bartender. "Scotch? My kind of drinking buddy." He grinned.
Again, Fitz didn't offer much of a response and hoped that he would take the hint.
Unfortunately, he didn't. He glanced once around the bar and leaned in, lowering his voice. "The second you stepped in here, at least four pairs of eyes fell on you. Apparently, I need to stick with you if I wanna get laid tonight."
Fitz couldn't help but chuckle at his bluntness.
"I haven't been anyone's wingman since college, and I don't intend to start now," he replied before taking another swig of his drink.
Billy responded with a huff. He thanked Al when a glass was set in front of him, grabbing it and raising it in Fitz's direction.
"Fair enough."
An uncomfortably long moment of silence passed, and Fitz wondered when he would finally leave. Content to dwell in his oblivion, however, Billy simply continued to peruse the bar's guests while downing his drink – letting out repeated, appreciative groans that made Fitz grit his teeth.
With a quick flick of his wrist, he downed the rest of his own drink and stood. He quickly started for the restroom before Billy had a chance to question him. On his way, he caught Al's eye.
"You good for another?" The man called out.
Fitz flashed him a grin, thinking of how good the drink felt going down his throat even in the presence of unwanted company.
"Definitely."
Several minutes later, when he started making his way back, he was pleasantly surprised to find a refilled glass and no Billy in his spot. He quickly slid back into his seat and took a long sip, finally able to fully enjoy its smoothness on his tongue.
An unfortunately familiar voice soon broke through his reverie. He glanced further down the bar to find Billy standing near a woman who must have just walked in.
Though he tried desperately not to, Fitz couldn't help but overhear their conversation – or rather, Billy's pathetic attempts at holding a conversation. His obnoxious voice droned on in detail about what was assumingly supposed to be an impressive recount of his work week.
There was something about accounts and rubbing elbows with big names, and even a mention of the new restaurant over on fifty-fourth. But by the sounds of it, his new conversation partner wasn't impressed in the slightest.
Fitz listened on, starting to take slight enjoyment in Billy's sad excuse of flirting. That is, until he noticed that Billy was starting to lean in a little too close and the woman refusing his advances seemed a little too uncomfortable. He was no expert at body language, but he knew when it was time to stop an asshole who wouldn't take a hint.
Grabbing his drink, he swiftly made his way over to them. The closer he got, the clearer their conversation became.
"Really? My middle name is Arnold, my cousins even used to call me Arnie growing up. Arnie and Alex – 'double A' for short – has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
"The only double A I need in my life are the batteries going in my vibrator."
A loud laugh erupted from Fitz before he could stop himself. The sound caught their attention and they immediately turned in his direction.
Though he wasn't able to see around Billy enough to get a clear look at the woman who had suffered through his advances, his laughter was enough to spark hers, and she soon joined him.
By the time they finished, his cheeks hurt and he could tell that his face was probably red. Billy continued to stand between them, stoic and wholly unamused.
"I see obviously neither of you are gonna give me a break tonight." He glanced behind Fitz, looking at a booth in the back corner. "But that lovely group of women have been trying to catch my eye for ten minutes, so I'll take my company where it'll be more appreciated."
Before they had a chance to respond, he stalked off with a firm grip on his drink and a look of determination in his eyes.
"Bye, Arnie" she called out dismissively.
Fitz chuckled once more before turning to finally get a clear look at her.
He could feel his eyes widen unintentionally the moment he did. She was…beautiful. All smooth skin, and doe eyes, and full lips. He had the immediate, irrational desire to place a hand to her cheek, and for a moment he couldn't blame Billy for trying so desperately to earn her affection.
She was, quite literally, breathtaking. Especially in that fitted black dress; it seemed to have been made for her and her alone. It hugged her perfectly, and – coupled with the enticing, deep red painted on her lips and the soft waves of dark tresses framing her face – made her appear effortlessly sexy.
"Thanks for helping me get rid of him."
He blinked, taking a moment for it to register that she was talking to him.
"Don't mention it." He glanced in the direction Billy had left, seeing that he was leaning over the booth with the same group of women he had seen earlier. "Although, I'm sure they're not my biggest fans right now."
"True," she giggled. "I bet he's telling them all sorts of lies about fake middle names and lunch meetings on his yacht."
They shared another laugh, and he let his eyes scan the large room before returning his gaze to her. As he did, he caught sight of her eyes quickly shifting before they could meet his and instead focusing on her drink on the counter.
He watched curiously as she cleared her throat and reached for the tumbler. Before he realized it was happening, his casual glance gave way to a full-blown stare.
She turned to him after a long moment, an eyebrow raised.
"Would you like to sit?"
He looked away, suddenly embarrassed. He wanted to retreat and enjoy his drink in solitude like he had planned, returning to reality only after he had rid himself of the week's stench. But there was something about the way she was looking at him – about the intrigue that darkened her eyes – and the slight, hesitant way her lips curved upwards that made him want to stay.
He nodded, mumbling a quick, "Thanks," as he slid into the seat beside hers and unceremoniously began to finish off the glass that had become glued to his hand.
Neither spoke, and he couldn't help but note how calming the silence felt while sitting with her – a stark contrast to his interactions with Billy moments before.
Suddenly, she turned to him. "So what brings you to Angel's?"
He took a moment to think it over, trying his best to not focus on how he could now smell her perfume and to ignore the goosebumps rising on his arms.
"A bad week and some good luck," he finally answered.
She grinned. "How very vague of you."
He chuckled and ran a hand over the back of his neck. "There's not much more to it, I promise."
Her grin widened for a moment before she nodded and returned her attention to her drink. Unable to tear his eyes away, he watched as she raised the glass to her lips. When she set it down, a faint trace of her lipstick remained on its edge and he swallowed the groan threatening to escape from him.
"What about you?" He tried, desperate to shift his attention. "Why are you here?"
Just as he did, she thought it over briefly.
"A good week and some bad luck."
They shared a laugh at her return of words.
Their laughter dissolved into another comfortable quiet, disturbed soon afterwards by loud chuckles from across the room. They both turned to see Billy now tucked into the booth with the women he had been leaning over before. Enthusiastic cheers and giggles escaped from their little corner and seemed to fill the entire bar.
"I bet they're using him for free drinks."
He nearly jumped at the sound of her voice so close to his ear. She was leaning into him, and when he turned slightly, her face was directly in front of his.
Their eyes locked, and in a moment quite unlike anything he had ever experienced before, he felt suddenly out of breath. His mouth opened slightly. He knew he wanted to say something, but for the life of him couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he continued to stare in stunned silence, simply taking her in.
Her expression matched his, and in that sliver of dazed reality, he wondered if she could feel it too.
A loud crash followed by a string of curses jolted them from their brief trance, and they immediately leaned away from one another. The sudden distance between them felt even odder than whatever the hell it was they had just experienced, and he gripped his glass, trying hopelessly to focus on anything else.
From the corner of his eye, he could see her shifting in her seat.
Finally, after several tense minutes, she spoke, "I didn't catch your name."
He appreciated the distraction. "Fitz," he offered with a slight smile in lieu of a handshake. "Alex, right?"
When she didn't immediately respond, he turned to find that she seemed to be studying him.
"Yeah," she eventually answered.
Before he had a chance to consider her response, she raised a hand to adjust his lapel. His breath caught at the motion, and she soon removed her hand with a shy smile.
"Sorry, that was bothering me."
Unable to do much else, he muttered a quick, "Thanks."
Her gaze lingered on his suit for a few seconds more before she continued, "So what impressive job frustrated you so much you're willing to risk someone spilling beer on this fancy Brooks Brothers suit?"
He raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"You know your suits," he noted, purposefully evading her question. He had no intention of explaining that the suit was a perk of his job. Apparently, Red Giant Jets required anyone associated with the company to look as professionally topnotch as possible, and his usual suits simply didn't make the cut.
"Almost as well as I know my wine," she returned with a grin.
He quickly jumped on the chance to redirect the conversation. "And yet, you're drinking – what is that, scotch?"
She shook her head. "Bourbon."
He made a face that was met almost immediately with her laughter. By now, the sound was music to his ears, and he knew he'd have it ingrained in his memory for days to come.
"Well," she began once her laughter subsided, "I'm willing to ignore your ridiculous – and wrong – bias just because I'm enjoying your company. But try to come for my Bordeaux or Shiraz and we'll have a problem."
He chuckled. "Noted."
They didn't speak after that and, for the first time all week, he felt himself truly start to relax.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he found that she was looking at him intently. She didn't bother to avert her gaze, and something about the brazenness of it all sent a shot of excitement straight through him.
He cleared his throat. "Is my suit crooked again?"
"No." She shook her head slowly. "It's perfect."
Her own words seemed to catch her by surprise and she finally turned away from him, reaching for her drink.
Before he could stop himself, he grabbed the glass from her hand and replaced it with his own.
"Here," he prompted. "So you can see my preference isn't as wrong as you think it is."
She eyed him, then the drink, and he could feel his confidence quickly slipping away.
What the hell was he thinking?
But then, with a slight smirk, she chose to indulge him.
He swallowed hard, watching her lips press against where his once were. The sight made his entire body go rigid, and he silently cursed himself for thinking this to be a good idea. His face felt hot, and he clenched his hand into a fist to resist the urge to loosen his tie.
She finished with a quiet hum and placed the tumbler back in front of him.
"Good…but not for me. I stand by what I said," she spoke with a smile.
He forced himself to look at anything besides her. He had been attracted to many women before, but never as intensely as he currently was. But then again, he was also sure he had ever seen someone quite as beautiful as she was.
When he didn't respond to her insistence, she continued, "I should introduce you to one of my favorite wines from California, you seem like the type to appreciate it."
Despite growing increasingly flustered, he couldn't help but chuckle.
"I'm originally from California," he admitted. "What gave it away?"
She beamed. "I knew it. You give off that whole mysterious, chill surfer vibe."
He laughed harder this time. "I've been neither chill nor a surfer in years – decades actually."
"And why is that?" She questioned with an amused smirk.
His laughter died down then, and he ran a hand through his hair. "Life."
She looked at him expectantly, obviously not impressed by his answer.
"I went to Boston for school, and I guess I just never looked back." It was the simplest version of the story. He could have stopped there, but something about her made him want to share more. "My, uh, my ex-wife and I moved to New Jersey when she got a job offer there. Things were good for a while…or at least ok, but then they weren't and I guess I ended up here."
He regretted bringing it up as soon as he finished. Here he was, having a good time with amazing company for the first time in far too long, and he had to bring up details of his past – regardless of how vague – to ruin it.
But she didn't seem fazed by his admission. Instead, seeming to take note of his change in disposition, she placed a comforting hand on his knee and offered an encouraging smile.
"Hey," she waited until he had given her his full attention, "shit happens, right?"
A relieved, appreciative grin stretched across his face. "Right."
Suddenly Al walked over, wiping his hands with a towel.
"You two alright?"
She turned to smile at him. "We're great. Thanks, Al."
When he walked away and she returned her attention to him, he noticed that her hand was still on his knee. Slowly, he placed a hand over hers, releasing a breath when she didn't pull away.
"So what job has you coming here so often you're friends with the bartender?" He was far more interested in learning something about her than diverging any dirty little secrets about himself.
"I think that's fair." She smirked. "I just got a promotion, actually. I'm an account director at CV Public Relations." She sighed. "It's a bit more responsibility, but work is great. It's just everything else that's…complicated."
He nodded, not wanting to push her to reveal more than she was comfortable with. Instead, he snuck a glance at her left hand and let the absence of a ring satisfy his most adamant curiosities.
From there, they fell into easy conversation. Twenty minutes passed and they exchanged bar horror stories of the past, another fifteen minutes and they had shared hobbies that didn't involve alcohol. He learned that she ran to decompress and swam to shake off a bad week – in fact, she had even been captain of her high school swim team. He particularly liked the way her eyes lit up when she recalled their championship win her senior year.
He recalled the days when he did surf, and admitted that he had taken to chopping wood some time in his young adulthood – a revelation which made her eyes go wide with intrigue as she confessed she would love to see it sometime.
"I'm sure I could make that happen," he promptly invited her. "I'll let you know the next time I'm heading upstate."
They laughed, but the intensity in their locked gaze indicated there was sincerity behind the invitation.
He didn't want the night to ever end, but because it had to, he'd take the promise of seeing her again as a close second.
Suddenly, as if to silently assure him that she was on the same page, she shifted the hand still resting on his knee and laced her fingers through his.
An unfamiliar warmth filled him at the feel of her hand entangled with his, and his eyebrows furrowed, giving away his surprise. He immediately wondered if she could feel it too, and he watched closely as she bit down on her lip – seemingly trying to mask her own reaction.
Reason gave way to instinct not for the first time that night, and without warning, he placed a hand on her cheek like he had wanted to do earlier. She leaned into him almost as soon as he made contact, and he marveled at how unbelievably right it felt.
Acting with only that feeling in mind, he moved his thumb to caress her bottom lip, prompting her to slowly release it. Even after she did, he continued the motion; he was enraptured by the sensation of her soft breaths caressing his skin, and he could feel his own breath catching in response.
He wasn't sure how they must've looked to other patrons, or even how long they had been so engrossed in one another.
But, truth be told, he didn't care.
For the past few months – years, even – his life had been a turbulent mess, with one frustrating disappointment blending into the next. And for the first time in recent memory, he felt grounded. It was a sense of peace so overwhelming that it nearly suffocated him, and made his head spin in the best way.
Slowly, he moved his thumb and raised his other hand so that he was cupping both her cheeks.
Again, she practically melted into his touch.
He wasn't sure who began to lean in first – or when exactly the rest of the world faded away – but, suddenly, their lips were pressed together.
The kiss was feather light, and yet, completely knocked the wind out of him. It was soft and innocent, and sent him into a state of dreamlike bliss. Reality felt simultaneously suspended and heightened, and he wasn't sure if he ever wanted it to end.
But then, she was pulling back with a small, quiet gasp, and specks of the concrete world around them tainted the edges of his rose-colored vision.
"Alex," he whispered, his voice made hoarse by wonderment.
She stood quickly. "I should –" but before she could go anywhere, she collided with none other than Billy.
He had clearly long moved on from his first drink, and his sloppiness coupled with the impact of their collision sent the contents of his glass spilling onto them both.
"Shit," she hissed.
Fitz stood immediately to help her, barely noticing Billy's drunken, half-assed apology as he continued past with a brunette on his arm.
She accepted the napkins he handed her, and thinking nothing of it, he began to dab at the spill along with her. Unexpectedly, her hands stopped moving, and he looked up to find her stare fixed on him.
Fearing he had overstepped, he quickly removed his hand. But before he could apologize, he caught a flash of disappointment – so quick, yet so noticeable – transform her features at the sudden loss of contact.
And, in an instant, he understood that she wasn't nearly as flustered about the stain on her dress as she was about their kiss. She was just as captured by the moment as he was, and just as frightened by the distinct, all-consuming pull seeming to tether them together.
"I should try to go wash this out," she mumbled, more to herself than to him.
Then, she was gone.
But still, the draw to her remained.
Driven by something far stronger than desire, he started in the direction she had just walked. He followed her path all the way to the bathroom hidden deep in a corner and knocked on the door without a second thought.
"Alex? It's me."
The door opened after a moment, and she stood before him with an expression he couldn't quite place.
And then, before there was time for sense or self-control, his lips were on hers again.
This kiss was much rougher than their first – needier and more desperate. She backed them into the single room and he blindly slammed the door shut.
Somewhere in his mind he briefly registered locking the door and sitting her on the counter, but he was far too gone to really pay attention. All he could do was feel. Feel her soft, sweet lips against his, and his tongue entangling with hers. Feel her fingers pulling at the hair on the back of his head, and his own fingers gripping her side tightly.
He moved his hands to her thighs, and she responded immediately by wrapping her legs around him. Instinctively, his hips pressed further into hers. He let out a pleased groan to match her soft sigh at the contact.
Everywhere he felt her touch, his body buzzed – a distinct blaze of excitement and desire churning somewhere deep in his veins and rising to light the surface of his skin aflame. The burn was consuming and raged against all prior thoughts until he was left with nothing but persistent need.
"Alex," he breathed, when their lips parted for a moment.
But just as he leaned in again, she moved her hands to the side of his face, stopping him.
"Olivia."
He blinked in confusion as she rested her forehead against his.
"That's my real name," she explained, her voice barely above a whisper.
They remained quietly entangled for a moment before he nodded.
"Olivia," he repeated.
Then, they were kissing so passionately the sensation practically made him forget his own name. It was dizzying, and the room suddenly felt like a vacuum. They were so closely wrapped up in each other – with him on her, and her on him – there simply wasn't room for air to pass between them.
Later, he'd wonder if that was why they couldn't seem to stop themselves.
His hands inched up her thighs, and her legs began to open to give him more access. She tugged at his bottom lip with her teeth, and he brushed his fingers against the lace concealing her heat.
Her breath hitched at the same moment he let out a groan.
He was still for a moment.
"Fitz."
He could hear the urgency in her voice, see the plea written across her face.
Slowly, as if to tease them both, he let his fingers slip underneath the lace. He groaned again, this time at how wet she was for him.
The thought made his throat run dry and his hips involuntarily thrust forward.
She let out a whimper, and he immediately grew desperate to hear it again. He slid one finger into her, and then a second, simultaneously rubbing his thumb over her to provide friction.
She gasped, her hips grinding into his touch. She rested her head in the crook of his neck, and he shivered at the sensation of her uneven breaths hitting his skin.
"Livvie," it slipped out of his mouth without warning.
He didn't have to wonder if it sounded as natural to her as it did to him, as her quick breaths gave way to a soft moan.
Again, the sound drove him wild, and he tangled his free hand in her hair, gently pulling her head back and recapturing her lips with his own. Everything felt so frenzied and wet, and good…damn was it good. Good to lose himself in her, good to feel her losing herself because of him, good to teeter on the edge of whatever mind-searing, blissful precipice it was they had stumbled upon together.
She was close, the increased writhing of her hips and her tightening grip on his arms told him as much. And he so desperately wanted to get her there…
"Come for me, sweetheart," He spoke lowly, somewhere between a beg and a command.
And she did, stilling for a brief second before letting go. Her faint cries fell against his lips, making his heart beat fiercely.
His hand didn't stop moving until she did, and their lips met in a brief, tender kiss before they finally moved apart.
She let out a breath. "I don't – that was…"
She stopped when he removed his fingers from her and immediately brought them to his mouth.
Her own mouth fell open at the sight of him sucking them clean, a small sound escaping the back of her throat.
"Amazing," he finished for her.
They shared a sly smile, silently acknowledging what had just transpired.
It was as though the fire between them had been partially extinguished. The smoke and haze had cleared, but left behind embers in the form of his own arousal still straining uncomfortably against his pants.
Though, as he took her in – warm, brown eyes still slightly dazed and lips made bee-stung by their kisses – and wanted nothing more than to coax an even sweeter release from her, he knew a bar bathroom wasn't the place. She deserved better. He wanted it to be better for her.
He suddenly remembered the handkerchief still stashed away in his pocket and reached for it.
"Here, let me help you get cleaned up."
But before he could do anything, he heard a small gasp and she jumped from the counter. He watched in confusion as she quickly adjusted her dress, her eyes locked on the scrap of silk in his hand.
"I need to go," she mumbled, turning to look herself once over in the mirror.
"Olivia?"
"We shouldn't – I shouldn't have…I need to go." She walked around him, barely sparing a glance in his direction.
Baffled by her sudden change in demeanor, he tried to push aside the disappointment threatening to creep into his thoughts.
"I'm sorry," he called out, unsure of what else to do.
His words stopped her just as her hand grabbed the door knob, and she turned to him.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, "if I went too far."
She shook her head. "Please don't apologize, Fitz. If anything, I should be sorry for just running out like this. It's just…" she trailed off.
"Hey, it's ok. I get it," he offered with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
She returned the expression, uttering a quick, "Have a good night," before she was gone.
He stared at the closed door, trying to process what had just happened.
He hadn't been that rash in years, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Being with her didn't just feel good – it felt right. But she had left, and he felt like a piece of him had left with her. And that scared the hell out of him.
When enough time had passed, he looked himself over just as she had done and left the room. He decided that their encounter had left him buzzed enough and walked over to his seat to pay for his drinks.
Just as he pulled the money out, Al called out to him.
"Don't worry about it, buddy. She already paid for you."
Slightly taken aback, he nodded and shoved the cash back in his pocket.
She certainly had a way of making a first impression.
He glanced around the bar a final time. He was sure that, even if he never came back, visions of Angel's and a certain pair of doe-eyes would haunt him in his dreams.
He was right about the dreams.
Nearly every night of the week that followed was consumed by dreams of her – her body pressed against his, her fingers tugging at his hair, her smile as they lay together.
Though he found himself enamored with every second of the dreams, they were making reality a living hell. He'd wake up in desperate need of a cold shower, and barely make it through a drive without getting carried away by his own thoughts.
Even Mr. Shaw had noticed his distracted disposition, showing mild, polite interest in him after he had so graciously returned the money that had been left in his back seat – and, still unknown to Shaw, found its way into his back pocket – on Monday morning. The man seemed grateful, if not a little surprised and hadn't even noticed the handkerchief that was still missing.
Their conversation was civil during the week, and then practically non-existent – that is, until Dean Shaw slid into his backseat on Friday evening with a very un-Dean Shaw-like grin plastered on his face.
"I hope you didn't have plans before ten, because I have myself a date tonight."
He did indeed have plans – plans that involved a particular bar and hopes of seeing a particular dream-dwelling beauty. But before Fitz could balk at his demands, he reminded himself that Shaw was his boss, meaning his personal expeditions were still in his job description.
"Where to?"
"I have a reservation at that new hibachi place a few blocks over. I'll point it out when we pass by, but we have to pick her up first." A boyish smile stretched to his ears at the declaration. "Do you remember that apartment from last week? That's the one."
Fitz nodded, he did remember. It seemed his fiancée…or non-fiancée troubles had cleared up.
"Do you think I should change my suit? Do we have time for me to stop home first? The reservation's at eight but we could – no that would be stupid…"
Fitz listened to him ramble, stifling a chuckle. He had never seen him so unnerved, and it amused him to no end.
He talked for nearly the whole ride, growing silent only when they pulled in front of the building.
"Shit," he spoke under his breath. "I should've gotten her flowers or something."
Fitz simply pulled into a spot and pointedly turned the car off.
He took a deep breath. "I guess this is it." He charged out of the car – quite dramatically – and made it to the apartment's entrance, where he stopped abruptly, adjusted his tie and finally stormed inside.
When he was finally out of eyesight, Fitz let out the laugh he had been holding in.
Being privy to the more private moments of his client's lives was a perk he had missed since his summers on the job during undergrad. In fact, it was probably the only enticing aspect of it after all these years. The thrill of driving around in fancy cars with celebrities, politicians and executives had worn off, and he was sure if it hadn't been for necessity, he would have never returned to the job he once saw as nothing more than a chance to get side cash during college.
But life had a funny way of screwing up his plans.
Come to think of it the only good thing he seemed to have going for him lately was –
Olivia.
He was sure his mind was playing tricks on him again. The door opened and there she was, sliding into his back seat. He blinked once, then twice, before staring at her hard through the rearview mirror.
Finally, she looked up and caught his gaze, her entire body going still as she did so.
"Babe, I need you to slide over a little more."
She didn't move, instead repeating his actions and blinking repeatedly to determine if she was seeing correctly.
He could tell that she felt just as he did – hoping it was real, simultaneously praying it wasn't.
But, try as he might, he had come to know her face too well through his dreams to deny what was right in front of him.
"Babe? Olivia?"