"If we leave now, there will be / No echo behind us. Just a rush / Of blue darkness like a river / Pouring its guts into the sea" —V. Karp
The very idea that Olivia was in his city, in his office, in his arms was not something he fully believed or comprehended quite yet.
"I'm going to fight for this because you're going to fight for this, too," he said, his words moving as slowly as his hands running down her back.
Fitz could count the moments Olivia turned him away on two hands but he needed many, many hands to count the moments he knew she loved him. The ratio between the times she walked away and the times she stayed was a buoy he clung too – one outweighed the other.
She leaned into him and pressed her body flush against his. She smelled like rhododendrons, the honey-scented flowers his mother planted in their backyard when he was a child. She rested her head against his chest and he threaded his fingers through her hair.
The weeks that passed without her came to him as spoonfuls of holy confusion. Fitz was in a constant state of unease: where was she? Was she safe? Why did she leave? Even now with her in his arms, his face pale with hope, the gnawing of what was unanswered faintly pressed against his skin.
"I missed you," she whispered.
"I missed you, too," Fitz said, and his happiness was so concentrated that he felt like he could cry.
The moment he knew he wanted to buy her a house he was brushing his teeth. It was 11:30pm, a rather early hour for him to retire to The President's Bedroom. Mellie was sleeping on the other side of the closed door in the master suite, so he took his time in the bathroom, turning his routine before bed into a ritual.
Like most nights - and days - he thought about Olivia in the silent moments. But this particular night, he was trapped in a vortex that continued to pull him into fantasies doused with times they shared and moments he wished were theirs. He was brushing his teeth when he thought to himself, we need somewhere to go just for us.
As he rinsed his toothbrush, he thought of places where he could buy a house – or better yet, build one. California was an obvious choice; he new the lay of the land there. But the flight was too long. The house needed to be close enough for a nighttime getaway but far enough from everything that held them down in Washington. Somewhere on the east coast, he though. Cape Cod, off of Massachusetts? Rhode Island, near Providence? No, he thought. Vermont.
Instead of getting into bed, Fitz went into his private study and opened his laptop. He searched for towns in Vermont with remote areas and acres to build an estate. He came across a small town called Westmore. After looking into the small New England town further, he found land for sale. A particular plot of land caught his eye; it rested on Lake Willoughby, one of the state's most picturesque bodies of water. He pictured Olivia slipping out of a robe and wading into the lake. Fitz's eyes glazed over at the very thought of it.
Fitz researched land, realtors, architects and interior designers for hours. He would make this happen. He needed to make this happen. It was imperative for Olivia and Fitz to have a place to retreat. He was tired of stealing time with her in places that weren't theirs. This would be theirs.
When he drifted to sleep that night, sometime around 3:30am, he thought about what it would feel like to wake up to her every morning, her soft tresses of hair spilling off her pillow, her body radiating with the warmth of the Vermont sunlight, her breathing quieted by the reassuring sound of Lake Willoughby's edges ebbing against the shore, and for a moment it all felt attainable, as though he was holding a ticket for a train he wanted to be on, traveling toward her and what lied ahead. When he reached her there would be no echo behind them – just her hand stretched out for him to hold.
"Let's go to Vermont," he said, leaving a trail of kisses along her neck.
"We can't," Olivia said, her breath choppy as he nibbled at her earlobe.
"We can," Fitz said, and he swept her off her feet and into his arms, and carried her to the couch.
He laid her down on the couch and covered her body with his. He began unbuttoning her blouse, his fingers anxiously pulling at the satin-wrapped buttons. His eyes were filled with promissory hope.
"Fitz–the cameras," she said between gasps. Her hands were tugging at his belt.
"Tom's on tonight," he breathed as he tugged the blouse off her shoulders and nipped at the skin of her collarbone.
Fitz was undone by the feeling of her skin on his lips. Olivia's back arched and pressed into him. She threw her head back as he kissed the crests of her breasts.
When he first made love to Olivia, he felt like he was coming home. It was a long day on the campaign trail. They walked down the hotel hallway, time languidly moving until they reached the door to her room. The last thing Fitz wanted was for Olivia to retreat inside. If she did, he'd mostly likely end up partaking in the minibar in his room and fall asleep with a History Channel special playing, the TV casting fluorescent shapes on the walls. Olivia faced her door, her fingers tracing the edge of the doorknob.
"Go inside," he said.
She hesitated at her door for long few seconds as he stood behind her, fantasizing about her body against his, holding her hands above her head against the wall, taking her in the shower. Slowly, Olivia turned from the door and without making eye contact, led Fitz down the hallway to his room. The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind them in his room, he threw himself at her. He was hungry for her, greedy. Being skin-to-skin with her was a rush, a heavy wave of heat running through his limbs.
And here they were, years later, on a couch in the Oval Office – the result of those nights during the campaign.
Olivia moaned as Fitz unzipped her pants and tugged them down her legs. Deliberately and slowly, he pulled off her lace thong. He flicked his tongue against her core, just as he did that first night. He teased her for a while with his tongue, plunging in and out of her – and then suddenly stopped.
"Vermont," he said, looking up at her.
Olivia, taken off-guard by him suddenly stopping the pleasure, breathed, "What?"
"Vermont is happening."
"Yes," she said.
"I'm not going to continue until you say it."
"Vermont is happening," she said smiling, her eyes glossy and wide.
And with that, he found his way to the center of her again.
Fitz shared a brief exchange with Olivia on her second day working on his campaign. He was about to leave the break room, a cup of hot coffee in hand, when she walked into him. The way the moment played in slow motion was almost cliche, the coffee billowing out of the cup into splashes of spheres before landing on Olivia's navy blazer.
"Oh my god," Fitz gasped, immediately backing away from her and hastily placing the half-emptied cup on the counter beside him. "I'm so sorry, Olivia."
Olivia swiped at the coffee sinking into her blazer, trying to not exacerbate the situation.
"It's fine, it's fine," she said, brushing at the stain with her hands.
Fitz reached for a handful of paper towels and dabbed them on the damp rounded-trapezoidal figure on her blazer. He felt awful. It was day two and he made a fool of himself in front of her yet again. The first time was the day before, when he was left speechless when Olivia asked him why he fired her. He didn't know for sure, but he thought she could tell by the look on his face that there was no going back for him. She arrived in his life and that was it.
"How much was it?" He asked, tossing the soiled paper towels in the waste bin.
"What?" Olivia asked, confused.
"The blazer. How much was it? I'd like to buy you a new one."
"That's not necessary."
He was embarrassed. "I would really like to make it up to you."
"Really, it's fine. No big deal," Olivia said, offering him a smile.
"At least let me make you a cup of coffee?"
"I don't drink coffee," she almost laughed, "But thank you."
She turned and left the break room. Fitz stood in the doorway, embarrassed.
Weeks after the coffee-spill, during that first night shared together, he laid next to Olivia as she slept soundly. Her hair was sprawled across her pillow and a sheet was spun around the middle of her. Her chest rose and fell as her breathing filled the silence of nighttime in the room. For a while, time spun around them, like ribbons.
Even in the current moment they were sharing, time spun around them as they unraveled into one another, their moans muffled by each others' shoulders, hands grasping for something to hold as the earth shook off the dust within them. Despite the fact that Olivia was in his arms and he had her in that moment, Fitz found the leftover feeling of traumatized grief creeping into the edges of skin.
Sometimes you have to live with things, he thought during one of the nights after she left him. Scotch left warm remnants on his tongue as he drifted to sleep on the couch in the Oval. He knew this would happen, he knew this would happen because it was just a matter of time, it was always just a matter of time. It rained in his dreams that night and when he woke up in the early hours of the morning, he saw sunlight like stripes of white paint running across the palm of his upturned hand. He thought about Olivia and how time brought them to this place and he wanted to ask someone why it had to be that way. The morning unraveled like thread from a spool; he curled into the shape of his grief and sailed back into sleep before he could think himself into sadness again.