Disclaimer: I am in love with this show. Especially the character of Olivia Pope. She's flawless, and so is Kerry Washington, aka KW. Shonda is one coldhearted bad biotch. I love her, and thank her for giving, and then torturing me, with this show.

But onto the story, which I own nothing but the storyline, and the OC's.

Its set seven years past Edison's proposal or rather episode 2.13 "Nobody likes Babies". Olivia took his offer, but only after Fitz found out about Defiance and rejected her. Two years later Olivia, moved to upstate New York (Rochester), to live life as perfect little housewife (two children included). She still owns OPA; and it is still called OPA, but Harrison is head of the firm; he only calls Olivia in when he direly needs her.

I hope you enjoy!

When we were young, oh, oh, we did enough
When it got cold, ooh, ooh, we bundled up
I can't be told, ah, ah, it can't be done

-The Lumineers "Stubborn Love"

She wasn't certain how long she'd been nursing the glass of Pinot Noir in hand. Hours, minutes, seconds? She couldn't be sure, but for some reason Olivia found her eyes drawn to the burgundy liquid, even more so as she swirled it to and fro, finding peace in the aroma. The liquid was sweet, but at the same time there rested a tart edge, and the smell of tealeaves – a touch of leather. And Olivia found herself at ease. Often, at times, she'd wondered if she had a drinking problem – even more so when considering how much she actually drank wine: a glass with dinner, a glass to unwind, a glass to celebrate. But those thoughts sat idly in the back of her mind. She could function without alcohol. Without wine, she could live. If living was what she'd been doing all these years. Could a half-life, with half of a heart even be considered living at all? A heart so worn and tattered that she guarded it for all it was worth. And like all precious gems lesser in clarity, it wasn't worth a lot. Half of a heart didn't go for much. So Olivia had sold hers for safety and normalcy. Jam and babies in the countryside.

And seven years down the line she should have had every reason to smile: Two children, a beautiful house, and a successful husband. Even more reasons to smile today considering it was a day for festivities, a day to celebrate. Karen was a beautiful bride, and her wedding, even more so: classic with a touch of modernity. The cliché saying 'a vision in white', couldn't have been more truer for the young woman Olivia had met at sixteen years old, the spitting image of her mother, but with her father's grey eyes and smile.

Yet, Olivia couldn't bring herself to be overly joyed. She hadn't realized just how much she'd missed D.C until she'd stepped off the plane from upstate New York, and into chaos. Former first daughter Karen Fitzgerald's wedding was the talk of the town, drawing photographers and journalists from everywhere. Olivia had told herself that she'd only shown on behalf of the Davis family, in an effort to show bipartisanship under the guise of celebration. Politics were forever about appearances, smoke and mirrors.

Never mind the fact that once she'd learned Edison had been called away to a UN meeting she'd rethought her dress six times, and chose a better smelling perfume. Hoping, as she stood in the mirror in Harrison's office (which had once been hers) that after two children, endless diapers, karate lessons, PA meetings, bake-sales, and tap dance that she still had her looks.

Once more she swirled the burgundy liquid around in her glass, and then brought it to her lips, sipping from it. Setting it back down, she adjusted the thin – yet elegant – silver chain that hung around her neck, and turned her attention toward the dance floor. A half smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes crept across her face as she watched Karen and her new husband twirl together; their first dance as husband and wife. The longer she watched, the more melancholy she felt her mood grow, much to her dismay.

Happy. She had to be happy, she quickly reminded herself as her eyes swept across the room. There were so many people she could, and should have been conversing with: senators, representatives, ambassadors, and many more. But there was once person in particular she knew she shouldn't have wanted to see . . .

"Hello, Livvie." A deep baritone voice sounded from behind her. She knew it all too well; her heart skipped a beat, and then fluttered, coming to life for the first time in a long time. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she took a deep, yet hopefully inconspicuous breath. A wish she hadn't even realized she'd made come true.

"Hi – uhm – Mr. President," she greeted, her eyes bright as she fought to keep her heart from drumming right out of her chest. She extended her hand for him to shake, but instead of doing so, he brought it to his lips, and kissed it.

If possible, the heat rose even higher in her cheeks. Part of her wanted to snatch her hand back, the other part revealed in his familiar touch. His lips had once been on every inch of her body, from the most private of places, to the most noticeable, marking her body as his. He threw her a mischievous smile, and then let his hand linger a little too long in hers, as he stood up straight.

"I haven't been the president in a bit, Liv. No need to address me as so, even in public." Fitz said as his thumb passed over the wedding band and ring sitting on her index finger. There was a flash of something in his eyes as he did so.

With slight reluctance Olivia eased her hand from his grasp, and let it fall into her lap, reuniting with its mate, as she crossed her hands.

"Just a couple years, and it's a formality, respect – necessity," countered Olivia with a tilt of the head.

"A lot changes in two years, Liv, what was once necessity isn't any more, like formalities for the sake of appearance . . ."

"Fitz . . ." Olivia started, her gut sensing a deeper conversation on the horizon his gray eyes bore down on her. He was the only person who could make her squirm like a teenage girl sitting too close to the boy she fancied, instead of the forty-two year old woman she was.

"And where's Mr. Davis on this beautiful night? Young love is in the air unbridled by heartbreak and missed opportunities. He should be here to celebrate; much to my dismay he was invited, after all." Fitz spoke, a slight bitterness present in his voice. Olivia parted her lips to speak, but stopped short as Fitz started began talking once more.

"God, I don't think I've ever seen Karen this happy. Look at her out there . . ." Fitz broke off, turning his attention to the dance floor a few feet from where Olivia was sat. The majority of the other occupants at the various tables had already joined the party on the dance floor, including Olivia's tablemates, Cyrus Beene, James Novak, and their daughter, Ella Beene-Novak.

"Karen looks beautiful. And Malcolm seems like an amazing guy. I've gotten the chance to speak with him only for a few moments, but I promised him that if he hurt her, I'd dismantle him . . ." She spoke, only half joking, as she chose not to answer his question in regards to Edison.

"I already promised him that his parents would never find a body; I know a guy, a friend of a friend . . ." Fitz wiggled his brows, a small smile on his face. "Just wait until Elizabeth is up there, and you're behind enemy lines, trying your best to let go . . ."

"She's six, I don't want to think about her getting married quite yet. Between her piano lessons, karate lessons, and tap dancing, I feel like I'm already loosing her."

"Sounds just like her mother; multitasking in baby Parda shoes?"

"Prada; and if she ever heard you call her a baby, you'd get the run down like there was no tomorrow. 1. She's not a baby. 2. By insistating – her version of insinuating – that she's anything other than a big girl you're being a meanie. 3. Only boys can be babies – which is what she insists everyone call her brother. 4. Babies don't do karate or play piano, so she must be a big girl. 5. She is Elizabeth Evelyn Pope-Davis, and by definition she is a big girl." Olivia giggled, a wide smile stretching across her face as she talked of her daughter.

Although Olivia knew it was wrong, she couldn't help but love the time she spent with her daughter a little bit more than that with her son. It wasn't that Olivia didn't like her son; she loved him. But things had been different when he was born. She hadn't quite taken to him like she had Elizabeth – or Ellie – as the little girl preferred to be called.

"So she's exactly like you, then?"

"I like to think I've lightened up over the years . . . ."

Just then a voice echoed through the air, amplified by the aid of a microphone.

President Grant, please report to the dance floor. Your daughter is demanding a dance and she promises that she won't make you do the Hustle. . .

"Looks like I'm being summoned by own demanding darling," joked Fitz as he reached a hand into the breast pocket of us his black jacket, and pulled out a card, setting it down on the table. He looked at Olivia, and then down at the card. "Miss Pope . . ." He nodded and then walked into the spotlight that had summoned him to Karen, a grin on his face. Two agents, who Olivia hadn't realized were with Fitz, found their way to the edge of the dance floor, and Luther Vandross "Dance with My Father" began to play.

Olivia looked around, watching the crowd as her hand timidly reached for the card Fitz had set down. Once she was certain that no one was paying her any attention, she snatched the card back, and held it tightly in her lap.

What was she doing? It'd been seven years since she'd really seen Fitz, and seven since they'd really been alone together. She was a married woman with two children, a boring – yet adoring, in his own way husband, and a life that she had assured her self that she wanted. Whatever this card was, she couldn't do this. Could not.

Once again her eyes swept round the room, and she took a deep breath. Suddenly the emerald green Elie Saab gown she'd chosen for its light material felt suffocating, and stifling. Her fingers shook as she turned the card over in hand; it was a room key.

Wrapped around the key was a yellow sticky note:

Liv, meet me in room 503 at 10. I promise I won't keep you long. I just need a minute. Just one minute, please.

–Fitz

She read the words thrice before closing her hand, the card still inside. Her palms began to sweat, her pulse racing, and her heart threatening to jump through her mouth. Once more Olivia's eyes darted about the room, perhaps for the thousandth time that night. She reached for her clutch on the table, and then rifled through it, searching for the watch she hadn't worn, but forever carried with her. 9:23 p.m. Thirty-seven minutes was all she had to decide if she was going to go down this road again. Thirty-seven minutes.