Mornings had always been Fitz's favorite time of day. As a child, he'd woken early, the hustle and bustle of his father's political life a never-ending performance. But he had enjoyed watching their estate slowly bloom with life, sitting at the top of the banister. His small hands holding onto the gleaming wood as he peeked through the railings, curious about the staffers, housekeepers and nannies, wondering about their stories. Mornings were full of promise. Maybe we'll get ice cream on the way home, Fitz. The sort that glowed inside of him throughout the day, filling him with a delicious warmth. It was easier to believe such promises could be kept early in the day.
Now, he thought as his spine bent and straightened, sitting up at the edge of the bed, he resented mornings. Rubbing a hand over his tired face, he stared straight out the window, watching the sunshine cheerily covering the scenery. He hadn't slept since the confrontation with Olivia in the courtyard, since she'd done her best to avoid being alone with him. No, his mind believed it was a better use of his time to replay the scene over and over again, to watch as she slipped just beyond his grasp. Because living through through the pain the first time wasn't enough and he was a glutton for punishment.
Olivia had done her best to avoid Fitz the past week, spending as much time as she could with Cyrus, defending Fitz's vision in the face of opposition. It irritated her more than she wanted to admit when Mellie chimed in on the debate, as she watched Cyrus warm to her for a moment as one's ruthlessness resonated in the other. But she had refused to co-sign their agenda and they had dropped the matter of uncovering more dirt on Governor Reston, for the moment. Still, she was too much his protégé to believe that these discussions with Cyrus,would be the final say in the matter.
Her avoidance of him had become a matter of self-preservation. She knew it wouldn't last, that eventually they'd have some sort of confrontation because something this immense, this intense, couldn't be pushed aside. But she couldn't face him until she had a plan. That was what she did, it was who she was. Planning allowed for her to smooth out the messy edges of feelings, neatly gathering and stacking emotions in an organized manner until they formed a shape that was manageable. Shapes attached to easily defined words. Lovers. Friends. Partners. Acquaintances. Strangers. She needed a word for them, one simple slot to enclose them safely inside.
What did she want? The question had played endlessly in her mind, on a loop until the words had dissolved and all she was left with was the question mark. Accepting her feelings for him had been the easiest part, but the rest of it? Even Olivia Pope had problems she couldn't fix. His voice drifted through the monotony of her day, her palms resting on top of the papers on her desk, wanting terribly to drop her head forward. She had never wanted something with such a breathless insistence and it never failed to shock her. The sound of his laughter rang clearly and she had to turn around, helpless to stop herself as though the tug from him was tangible.
Deep in discussion with a group of the younger staffers, his hands moved fluidly as he told them some story that seemed to amuse them all. For a wonderfully blissful moment, she wished she could capture this moment and give it to him. Though no one could accuse Fitzgerald Grant III of lacking confidence, she had seen his lack of conviction. He never spoke of it, but it was there, in the way he would defer to the decisions that she or Cyrus made, or let Mellie take the campaign in a direction she wanted to pursue. As though he wasn't quite sure if the mantle of leadership would fit him well. Or worse, if he wanted it at all.
But it was that exact quality that had drawn them all to him, his own little collection of rooks, bishops and knights. He forever their reluctant king. The leading came so naturally to him, because amidst the cynicism of politics and power, he was an optimist. In a murky and opaque world, his hopefulness threw out a lonely beam of light and followers congregated to it. This was what she wanted to give to him. As she watched the interaction, he looked up for a moment, his lips still moving, his voice steady, but his eyes caught hers and held.
She expected to see what she felt for him reflected back to herself, until she could begin to believe in the truth of them. Instead, she saw nothing. He looked at her blankly, his beautifully blue eyes horrifically silent. She didn't blink, frozen in that helpless moment, her hands turning to fists, clenching at her sides from the strain of remaining still. He blinked, and the connection was severed instantly. Her mind urged her body to move but she couldn't seem to register anything except what had passed between them. Finally, as a breath shuddered into her lungs, she turned slowly, straightening her spine as a physical reminder, before she returned to her work.
/
It cost him a great deal to deny her. Everything inside of him yearned towards comfort, but he forced himself to remain firm in his decision. He had to see what was there inside of her clearly, without the prejudice of his own feelings. He was intimately acquainted with what he felt, what he needed, what he wanted. But somewhere along the way, he had fed bits of his desire to her until they were both sated. The past few days of distance made him question what existed on the other side, of what was there without the glaring reflection of his own love. Though he could almost feel his bones, his blood, every inch of his skin straining for her, he forced himself to stay where he was, trapped in his silence.
He watched as she turned away, as she returned to the safer parameters of her job. In that moment, he felt the first stirrings of resentment. It was new to him in the context of Olivia, but there it was. Hadn't her saying his name in the back of the campaign bus been a promise of sorts, the slow glide of her hands from her lap to the partition between the seats a silent agreement? That whatever he felt, she felt it too. That it was as real for her as it was for him. Yet, she never missed an opportunity to push him away, to force distance between them. In the end, no one kept their promises.
/
She was in the middle of typing when she felt a light tap on her shoulder, looking up into the overly-eager face of Billy Chambers.
"I have your polling numbers!" he announced happily, a broad grin pasted onto his face. Though she smiled up at him politely, she couldn't help but lean back from him. Thankfully the two campaigns had had minimal interaction in recent time, allowing her to stay safely away from his relentless impulse to ask her out on a date. But whenever she saw him, her gut reacted instantly with distaste. His smiles never quite reached his eyes and she knew that he was less than faithful to Fitz as the candidate. Still, she did what was necessary for the campaign and made nice.
"Billy, you're a life-saver!" she answered, putting more enthusiasm into her voice than she felt. "But you didn't need to bring them by yourself. I know you have interns for this sort of thing."
"Well, I admit I had selfish reasons for bringing them over. I figured ninth time might be the charm in getting you to go out with me," he replied, moving another step closer to her, forcing her to step back until she felt the wood of the table against her spine. She simply side-stepped to the right, moving around the corner so it acted as a barrier between them.
"Billy, this isn't your first campaign so I'm sure you're more than aware of how horrible of an idea it is for people who are working together to pursue anything beyond the professional scope," she responded smoothly, not adding that the chances of her wanting to date him were about the same as Texas suddenly becoming a blue state.
"Does this mean you would be interested if I wasn't working for the Grant-Langston campaign? Because I have other job offers," he retorted, chortling to himself in a way that made her want to cringe. It seemed that subtlety was not a trait she could use against him and as she opened her mouth to tell him that she couldn't foresee any set of circumstances under which she would be interested in seeing him personally, a voice spoke from behind her.
"Billy Chambers, good to see you here!" Fitz said, his voice welcoming. She turned slowly, angling her body slightly towards Fitz. "Are those the polling numbers for the battleground states that no one in my camp seems to be able to find?"
"Ah, yes, they are. I thought I'd just make sure they made it into the right hands as soon as possible, so I came to deliver them myself."
"That's very proactive of you. Well, while you're here, why don't we get these numbers to Cyrus and you can fill both of us in on what they mean."
Billy looked from Olivia to Fitz for a moment before nodding politely and motioning forward.
"Lead the way." He allowed Fitz to walk ahead of him, touching his hand to Olivia's shoulder yet
/
"Does this mean you would be interested if I wasn't working for the Grant-Langston campaign? ..." Fitz had heard the question spoken out aloud and had had to reach deep inside to resist the urge to simply drag Billy Chambers outside by the collar of his perfectly pressed polo. Instead, he had turned on his politeness with a calm that hid the expertly-controlled fury surging inside of him. What angered him perhaps most of all was that she hadn't outright refused him. No, Olivia had been effortlessly polite to him instead of telling him off in no uncertain terms.
Though Billy had eventually left his campaign offices, the anger had stayed with Fitz, the jealousy finding the rhythm of his pulse and beating along with it. He sat now in the dying sunlight, his legs crossed in front of him as he attempted to soften the piercing edges of his frustration. His frustration over their situation was beginning to take on a life of its own and the more he drank, the more he realized that no resolution would come from giving her space.
Before he was even aware he had made the decision, his legs were carrying him outside of the room, striding through the hallway until he stood in front of her door, knocking. Waiting for her to open the door again, waiting endlessly for her to let him in.
He heard her soft footsteps stop at the door, saw the light peeking out from the peephole shift slightly as she seemed to be looking through. When she finally opened the door, he didn't wait, striding inside without waiting for an invitation. He turned on her instantly, the words out before he could stop them.
"You didn't say no," he accused.
"What?" she asked, her brow furrowing in the way it always did when she was faced with something she didn't comprehend.
"To Billy. You didn't say no to Billy," he said, stalking towards her.
"You interrupted me," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest, her stance instantly defensive.
"And if I hadn't? Would you have said yes? Would you have gone out with him? Would you have let him touch you?" he demanded, moving close enough that the low hiss of his voice could be felt against her cheek. Her eyes widened in surprise for just a second, despite herself. The shock of it as his words sank in. But she was an expert at recovery and her eyes turned into angry slits.
"And if I had?" she answered, her words mimicking his without meaning to. She saw the instant his eyes changed, went dark, foreboding, with something potent.
Before she had registered its implications fully, his hands were on her body, wide palms on her hips tugging her forward until her torso pressed against him, his breath rushing out of his lungs in a hard pant. His arms moved around her waist as his mouth found hers, ravaged it mercilessly, his tongue sliding out to part her lips. As the anger drove him, his hands didn't bother to be gentle this time, frustrations making his fingers reckless as they slipped inside the thin fabric of her blouse, fingertips digging into the softness, the delicate yielding of her skin beneath his touch. They were rough, as though he was branding her, reminding her that he was the one touching. Trying to imprint himself onto the planes on her body as an alternative to getting deeper inside of her heart, of gaining her acceptance. A restless hand rushed up her body to her hair, delving carelessly into her loose curls as he heard her low moan in response. Her hands were on his shoulder, as though she'd tried to push him away, but instead clutched at his jacket, drawing him closer.
He drew her body up against his, his hand streaking down her back to her waist, tugging her forward until his hips lined up with her stomach. It never failed to arouse him how petite she was, how fragile her form felt when meeting his. His fingers spread against the soft fabric of her clothing before he pulled her up, until they were at the perfect angle for his mouth to glide down to the nook where her shoulder and neck congregated. Her legs lifted and hooked around his hips, wrapping around him like a vine, her own fingers running through his hair as he set his teeth to her skin, biting down on the delicate line of her throat. His mouth sought another taste of her, the need to rediscover it like a treasure he had lost. How could something so familiar, so much a part of him, captivate him with such devastating desperation? Everything else fell away in that moment, replaced by the tumble of need, need, need.
/
She had meant to push him away, but suddenly, his hands were on her skin and the sudden flash of heat overwhelmed her. The flames of desire licked at her from the inside, until she felt like a forgotten ember destroyed by the intensity of the fire, a wisp of smoke curling in the air. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe past the desire clouding her lungs, her body responding instinctively, thoughtlessly in response to his. She felt his hands moving over her, tugging off clothes, barely noticing as she fought to get rid of his. Her small hands ripped at his shirt, not caring as the pull sent buttons spilling everywhere, the sound of them like seashells as they hit the dresser. His wandering mouth sent her pulse haywire and she reveled in the deliciously low growl he made when her hand slipped inside his slacks.
Suddenly she was on the bed, his fingers deftly undoing the button on her jeans, his lips on her stomach making her tremble but her fingers grabbed onto his shoulder, pulling him upward. She wanted his mouth on hers, wanted to feel his groans against her tongue, to devour them. Her fingers returned to his slacks, pushing them down when they resisted, her mouth forming a tiny 'o' caught between surprise and arousal when his hand yanked at her panties hard enough to rip them off. She didn't care, not when she felt that she only existed where he touched her, that everything inside of her converged at her collarbone where his tongue dipped into, or the sides of her breasts where his fingers were driving her mad.
The agony of denial was replaced by the ecstasy of his low breathy moan on her shoulder, of the heavy muscles of his thighs finding their way between her legs as he slid inside of her, eliciting a sharp gasp of pleasure. Her nails dug into his back, half-moon memories that he would carry with him. Each stroke made her wilder, heedless of anything except for the tumultuous refrain of want, want, want playing in her mind. Here was the answer to the question she had asked herself. This. A single word to enclose them inside of. But the thought was swept aside as his mouth covered her, her moan muffled against his tongue, his groan dancing on hers, as he drove himself deeper inside of her, harder, until she climaxed underneath, a cry ripped from her throat.
/
He lay on top of her, waiting for his lungs to recover. Turning his head slightly, he looked outside, watched the wind rustle the trees in the darkness, heard the leaves shimmy to an inaudible tune. She moved the tiniest bit underneath him, making him lift his head to look up at her. He felt he should say something, but he did not know a language that could capture what he felt. When her own dark, lovely eyes opened, she looked up at him silently, the two considering one another.
Her lips parted as she whispered, "It was always no." It took him just a second, in the post-coital haze of his shattering orgasm, to understand what she meant, that her answer to Billy was always going to be no, even if he hadn't interrupted. Though he had told himself that he knew better, that he was confident in what was there between them, the answer soothed him.
"No?" He asked, indulging himself by brushing his mouth against her jawline. How simple things felt when they both stopped denying what already existed.
"No." The softly murmured word was an affirmation, compounded when she turned her head to draw him into a kiss that made him sigh. As the wind cooled his sweaty skin, he smiled and nuzzled into her shoulder. Nighttime, it seemed, had its own set of promises, and they were even more lovely.
A/N: This chapter took longer than the rest, because I couldn't decide where to take them. But jealous-Fitz demanded to be written so here we are. Thank you, dear always, for your kind words and reviews! They forever humble me and bring me so much joy.