Disclaimer: Once again, I own nothing but the story line, and the OC's. Everything else belongs to Shonda!

A/N: I'm completely and utterly floored by the response this story has received. Thank you all so much! Your words mean a great deal, and I really hope you're prepared to go #OverACliff with me because its always the darkest before the dawn, and its about to get dark!

Also, I believe in Aristotle politics of story telling and I feel like I should tell you now that this story takes place within a 24 hour time span even though its a chapter story. I'll probably do a sequel, however because these two are never done.

Expect updates to be much slower after this. Sorry!

HAPPY SCANDAL THURSDAY!

Hope you enjoy!

Saludos,

M

It's better to feel pain, than nothing at all
The opposite of love's indifference
So pay attention now, I'm standing on your porch screaming out
And I won't leave until you come downstairs

The walk to and the subsequent ride up the elevator left both Olivia's thoughts, and stomach twisted in knots. She'd counted each step to the lift twice, some thrice, as she contemplated just exactly what she was doing; was she really going to open old wounds? Half of her had no qualms about the steps she currently took, the familiar feel of the smooth pull of the elevator as the floor numbers flashed overhead. The other half of her screamed, begged, and pleaded for her to turn around, that it wasn't too late; think of her children, her husband.

A war wage within Olivia, each side holding its own as the elevator dinged, signaling that she'd reached the fifth floor. The card clutched tightly in her grasp, the sticky note attached to it now moist, a mixture between perfume (Chanel no.5) and sweat smearing the familiar penmanship.

Her thoughts were erratic as her six-inch black lace peep toe Jimmy Choos carried her forward.

What was she doing?

The normally sharp clack of her heels was muffled against the carpeted floor as her eyes darted across the doors, looking for room 503. She wasn't sure what elevator, or direction she'd come from, but the room numbers were in the teens. Yet she continued on, the numbers growing smaller as she replayed old memories in her mind. She knew coming tonight alone, wouldn't end well. She should have cancelled; told Karen that Elizabeth or Owen had been sick, and then apologized; opting instead to spend a chilly January's night inside reading stories to her children, curled up next to her own mother. But here she was. Too late to turn back, too hard to go forward, but she knew she had to.

One memory in particular surfaced as she sought any sane portion of her mind that was free from Fitz's hold, a small portion of her brain that still sought logic, and that could tell her to turn around and run. That portion of her brain had been calling the shots for seven years, reminding her constantly that she had it all.

Just go to your room and close the door. We'll pretend this never happened. Go. A flash of Broken lamps, heated kisses, and rather Sultry demands flashed across her eye lids causing Olivia to grow flush.

What was she doing?

'Go Olivia, go back down stairs, congratulate Karen, and go', she mentally berated herself, her hands shaking, the card digging into her palm as she took a deep breath in, finding herself standing in front of room 509; six away from her mark.

Yet Olivia continued straight ahead. 'You haven't talked to him - really talked, in years. You owe him this much. One minute that's it. One minute.'

'But if you give him one minute, Olivia, he's going to want more. You can't give him any more; you're a mother, a wife!'

Slowly but surely Olivia felt as if her head was going to implode. Each side had a valid argument, but she could only agree with one.

Suddenly she found herself in front of room 503. The rhythmic pounding of her chest drowning out both voices. Seven years. They hadn't been alone in seven years. Her brown eyes fell to the card in hand as she clutched it, and her clutch to her chest. It was now or never. What was it going to be?

She inserted the card into its awaiting slot and watched as the light turned green, and then listened as the lock clicked, signaling that the door was ready to be opened.

For a few moments she just stood in place, her eyes drawn to the gold handle of the door as memories flashed through her mind, ranging from long lustful nights, to intellectually stimulating conversations. For seven years she'd managed to delude herself into thinking that she did not miss Fitz, and that he wasn't hers to miss. Yet the moment he'd asked her for a minute of her time, here she was.

The door handle turned, and Olivia found herself entering the dimly lit room, immediately pulling the door closed behind her.

She was a damned woman, had been for years.

"Fitz?" Olivia called into the translucent darkness, but no answer came. She walked farther into the room, noticing rumpled clothes (sweat pants and a Navy logo gray t-shirt) on the floor near the bed. Next to the king size bed, stacked with down pillows and a lavish duvet, sat a nightstand. On the nightstand, an alarm clock reading 10:13 p.m.

The usually punctual Olivia Pope was late! Thirteen minutes to be exact. All that internal debating she'd done; had it caused her to miss Fitz?

Whatever had happened, Olivia knew that this was her out, her time to escape, and the last chance she had to turn back. Abruptly she turned on her heels, her hand grasping the handle; she was leaving; this was her out.

But as she did so, the door opened. Olivia yanked her hand back as if the door handle had been on fire. In Fitz strolled, his gait just as distinguished as ever.

"I honestly didn't think you'd come. Cy said you'd left, but he didn't say in which direction," he started, shutting the door behind him. "Or were you leaving?"

Eyes wide, expression reading 'deer caught in the headlights', Olivia fought to find some semblance of speech. Since when did Olivia Pope become tongue-tied?

"I was, I was just – you're late." Olivia countered, pursing her lips as she fought to find her confidence. "You said one minute, I was here where were –"

"My daughter asked for another dance. I don't deny my children. If they asked for the moon I'd find a way to pull it down."

"Well, that's a valid reason. But I agreed to meet you hear, not spend the night waiting." Olivia stated as she looked up in realization of just how close they'd been standing to one another. Fitz had opened the door just as Olivia had prepared to leave. Now they stood maybe a foot and a half apart. Noticing this, Olivia took a step back, the key card still clutched tightly in her right hand, her purse in the other.

"Still the same Livvie, never bothering to breath before launching into attack mode."

"Look Fitz, you asked me for one minute. I'm here. Now what?"

"I wanted to talk to you, just for a bit – catch up somewhere were we wouldn't be interrupted or bothered. Were we could be alone. Please," Fitz pleaded, his large form towering over Olivia as he threw her his boyishly charming smile.

Olivia nodded. 'Deep breath in, and then let it out; its just a smile' She told herself, stepping back once more and farther into the room.

"No presidential suite?" Olivia asked as she averted her eyes away from him, especially his smile, and let them roam about the rather modest room.

Fitz walked past her, over to the bed, and then sat down on the edge.

"I'm no longer the president. I Don't need it. Frankly I don't think I ever did." He responded as he undid the cuff links on his tux, and set them next to the clock on the nightstand.

"I don't think you wanted to talk to me about your hotel room."

"You asked, I answered. I bared my soul, and you changed the subject. Why are you in such a hurry?"

Olivia contemplated his question, all the answers hanging on her tongue (some nothing short than sinful), but none making their way to her vocal cords aside from the obvious, "My children, they're with my mother and Huck. I told her I'd be back by 11 to get them."

"Elizabeth Evelyn, age six, and . . ." he paused, slipping off his jacket and throwing it on the bed, then standing, placing his hands in his pockets. "Owen Jameson; age 4. Edison, Elizabeth, Olivia, and Owen . . .. How charming. Daughter takes after her father, and the son, his mother. That was a beautiful Christmas card you sent, by the way. Mellie made sure it ended up on my desk . . ."

Olivia's brows furrowed together, an indiscernible look falling across her face as she heard Mellie's name. With a deep breath in, Olivia fought to find the right words to say. None came to the surface as she stared at Fitz.

"Elizabeth is beautiful . . . spitting image of her mother, except her skin tone is just a couple shades lighter – and her eyes are like honey . . ."

"Fitz - "

"Owen's almost identical to Edison except he has your nose and eyes . . ."

"Fitz -"

"I knew you wanted practicality, normalcy, but I never thought . . ."

"That I'd get tired of being your punching bag- I'd get tired of waiting for a non-existent fairy-tale?"

"That you'd really cut me from your life."

"Fitz, I told –"

"Is she mine?"

"Excuse me?" An incredulous look of disbelief contorted Olivia's features and she narrowed her eyes. "Is who yours?"

"Elizabeth, Olivia, your daughter. Look, tonight is not the night to play dumb with me. It doesn't suit you. It's been seven years and I'm finally ready to talk, to get things out and in the open. Defiance, Mellie, Teddy, Verna, everything - I'm ready!" Fitz stated, a tone of indignation, laced with a thirst to prove him self mixed within it. He strolled toward Olivia, looming over her.

"And what if I'm not ready, Fitz? What about me? What if I don't want to go down this road again?" Olivia replied, indignant, and took a step back; she folded her arms in front of her.

"You wouldn't have come then, Liv. Now, I asked you for a minute, and I'm getting my minute."