A request by the lovely Evoria for Lost & Found by Lianne. My take on 2x13/2x19.


And I felt strong enough

I was discovered by the love

I had been waiting for so long

You told me none of that was real

Olivia Pope is not hopeful. She doesn't believe in hope. She doesn't believe in its magic, in its holy healing. She sees danger in dreaming. The possibilities, they distract from reality. Hope, she sees it as vulnerability. But, now, walking towards him, that's all she feels – hope; the taste of dreams.

She believes she can do this. Not the picket-fence and two-sting pearl necklaces; but waking up next to him, every morning, sharing the papers over coffee; letting him in, counting on him, trusting him; going to bed every night – smiling. Christmases and anniversaries; arguments over doing dishes. She can do this. She can settle for ordinary; for holding hands and sharing a bed. She can do this. But it's terrifying. She's never loved anybody without hurting. She's never known love, without pain, without wanting more than she could have. Always something more. Always gaping emptiness. She's never known a love not devastating in its enormity; she's never known love – ordinary. But she wants it, with him, she'll wait for it.

Her voice is strained. Strained from hope; the burden of undreamt dreams breaking it. He doesn't look at her as she speaks. No he stares at the pages of eulogy – focusing on the end, as she offers him a beginning, a dream. She speaks, but he doesn't hear. No, he's trying to understand death; the way they died the moment he uttered – Olivia; the moment she stumbled from the pedestal. How they died, the moment she became human; her humanity shattering the dream.

His words sting. Venomously. They spread through her body, paralyzing. They enter every muscle, every bone – they burn; they burn her alive.

Mistress.

Mistress. Political suicide.

Mistress. But all she hears is mistake.

Mistress.

He walks away. She was a mistake. He walks away. All she has is pain. No love. Just pain.

It's a beautiful eulogy. Uplifting. Celebrating life, instead of mourning death. But all she feels is emptiness. There's nothing to celebrate. The way they died – quietly, in a church corner, before they could even begin; before they got a chance to live. Was it real? The hotel rooms and the lingering touches; the rushed kisses and covered-up marks; the entangled bodies in the sweaty sheets – was any of it real. Were the dreams? All she has is grief; the long mourning; because they, they never got to live. No, they were a fantasy. Hope. Her vulnerability.

He walks away. She stays. He leaves her alone.

There's something soothing about empty churches. The promise of lost souls being found; of forgiveness within reach; of cleansing. There's something soothing about reality; about pain so great that it's numbing. There's something soothing about no longer hoping; heart shattered can no longer be broken.

/

He's saying things. Things she doesn't want to hear; things of dreams, of shattered dreams.

She's everything, but that's not how she feels.

He's saying things. Things she can't hear; promises, broken promises.

He's saying things. He's giving her hope. Hope she's grieved; hope she's mourned.

He's saying things. Things she's been wanting to hear; things of dreams, of dreams that live. She turns around. She's kissing him. She's kissing away his tears.

"I'm sorry." And he is. And she knows. She believes him. But she still leaves him.

It's about hope. It's always been about hope. Elusive. It's a creature in our minds. It hides from the dark, it hides; fragile. Oh, so, fragile. A creature so easily gone. So easily lost, never to be found. A creature in our minds, but a creature of our hearts. Broken; it never heals, not really – scars that remain.

"I can't do this anymore." It's not about love. It's never been about love. She will love him until the day she dies. That's what makes it painful, and difficult, and devastating – it's life-changing and extraordinary. She will never stop loving him. She can't. But she's done hoping. Because love; love hurts; but it's the pain she knows; it's the pain she enjoys. Hope, hope is different. Hope lost feels like brokenness, not like pain. It feels like sadness, not just absence of happiness. She can't do that again. She can't. Imagine the picket fence, and hear the mundane arguments; taste the chaste kisses, and feel the soft touches. She can't. Because losing the dream, shatters the reality. The broken pieces, too sharp; the wounds too deep – she's still bleeding. She keeps on bleeding.

She walks away. He stays. She leaves him alone.

Her back against the cool door, she realizes – she, too, is all alone.