Olivia stood in front of the hotel bathroom mirror, letting her fingers lightly ruffle her bangs to give them more fullness before taking a couple of steps back to check her appearance. She had chosen a floor-length dress the color of crushed strawberries, the rich red contrasting her skin exactly as she wanted. It was only a campaign fundraiser dinner, she had reminded herself, twice in the past hour. But she cared, and that made all the difference. There had been no resolution reached, no compromise made, but the impasse they were in had a lovely intimacy to it. Acceptance had made her more brave, taking time during her lunch break to go buy the dress.
When she had touched her fingers to the soft fabric of it, she had, just for a moment, imagined his mouth finding the curve of her shoulder blade, the low back dipping just above the small of her back. The shiver which this single image sent through her had been enough to make her buy it before she could change her mind. Another few minutes and she knew her mind would find a dozen arguments to deny what was in her gut. She had, after all, made a career of harnessing the power of words, and she was more than willing to use it on herself. Taking one final glance in the mirror as she began to feel the tiniest fluttering of nerves in her stomach, she stroked a hand over the dress to make sure it fell smoothly and grabbed her purse on the way out the door.
/
Fitzgerald Grant breathed deeply, inhaling until he felt his lungs fill with the cool, cleansing night air. There was a slight chill to it that pleased him, the tuxedo jacket open at the front as he collected his thoughts, his hands in his pockets.
He had left the middle of a campaign fundraiser held in his honor, his cell vibrating for the third time in an hour, having ignored it the first time around. Finally, this time, he had politely excused himself to answer it, swiftly moving through the crowds to get outside.
"Hello," he answered, his spine straightening even though he was on the phone and no one would know if he slouched.
"Hello to whom, Fitzgerald?" his father's voice barked at him. Clenching the hand that wasn't holding the phone, he closed his eyes and forced himself to deal with the situation.
"Hello, sir," he gritted out. The very sound of his voice set his teeth on edge, but the quicker he got through this phone call, the quicker he could return to the party. To Olivia. He had barely seen her during the day, frustrated when she hadn't spent her brief lunch break with him. But he had promised himself a private moment for them, in this beautiful place with the stars winking at them and her head a little dizzy from too much wine, and he kept that in mind as he focused on the call.
"Now, Fitzgerald, what's happening with the campaign? Why am I not seeing more dirt on Reston than I can use my shovel to clean up? What kind of idiot do you have running this campaign? What's Cyrus doing over there in the meantime?" Fitz could feel his nails digging into the flesh of his palm but it was the better alternative to spewing the hate violently swirling inside of him, which would only prolong the misery. Still, when he spoke, his tone was stern and didn't bother to hide much of his anger.
"Cyrus is doing what he's paid to do, which is to get me elected president. He's here to guide me. Which isn't something anyone asked you to do," he said, the familiar knot beginning to tangle in his stomach as soon as the words had left his mouth.
"Fitzgerald." The single word dripped with disdain, but more, it held the tight reins of a lifetime of control. Fitz instantly felt instantly frozen, tugged backward into a past he had worked so hard to escape. Such a simple noise had such unmitigated power.
"I'm in the middle of a fundraiser. And I know how much you hate rudeness, so I should get back. Did you have a reason for calling me?"
"Other than telling you that this sissy-pants campaign you're running is destroying whatever inkling of a shot you had at being somebody? The executor of your mother's will wants you to come by the estate and inventory everything you want to keep," Big Jerry told him. The twin stabs of resentment and grief struck him simultaneously and he pressed a hand to his stomach because it wounded so deeply.
"I don't care. Keep whatever you want, and ship to the rest to the ranch in Santa Barbara. The housekeepers will make room." His voice was weary, feeling the strain of keeping up the pretenses for far too long.
"That's done then. Call me again when you're ready to win the election." Fitz pressed the "end" button as soon as the words were out and had to keep from giving in to his impulses and throwing his phone across the wide, open space.
Wandering a little further, he could see the the shimmer of moonlight that indicated water and he headed toward it. Water had always soothed him when he was younger, the feeling of being forever weightless as he swam through it. Now, he just needed a minute. One minute. Finding granite steps leading down to the water, he brushed a hand over them, making sure they weren't dirty before sitting down. His legs bent at the knees and his elbows rested on them for a moment as his hands covered his face.
One phone call and suddenly, everything came apart at the seams. The stitches ripping apart inside of him, the darkness of past sorrows spilling out from where he'd tried to hide them, until he felt himself drowning in them. He thought of his childhood now as a meditation on the excesses of power. But as a child? Alone. He had never lacked friends or possessions. Still, being an only child in a normal family had its moments of difficulty. But being an only child in the political sphere, living in that fishbowl with an adulterous father and a mother who accepted his every transgression? It was almost comical how far from charmed his upbringing had been. He wanted so much more for his own kids and he had tried his best to protect them, to shelter them from the harsh glare of public life. He comforted himself with the thought that at least Jerry and Karen had one another.
He inhaled and held the breath inside of his lungs for a moment, leaning his head back slightly before exhaling slowly. Patting his hands on his slacks, he stood again, rubbing a hand over his face. He had a performance to give to these people who had spent thousands of dollars on coming to see him, and he refused to let them down. As he had been let down. Dutifully, he gathered the wreckage of his memories and slid them back into a safer place where all the hurts of living collected. Turning again, he walked towards the bright lights of the mansion the fundraiser was being hosted in, but felt no heat, no warmth, from them.
/
She was nursing a glass of wine, had been sipping from it for the past ten minutes she'd been there, scanning the room for the sight of his curls over the tops of everyone else's heads. Finally, at the sight of Billy breaking away from Sally and heading directly towards her, she had left her wine glass on the table and moved in the opposite direction. Thankfully, she saw Cyrus in that direction, made eye contact right before he grabbed two drinks from a passing tray, holding out one for her in offering. Shrugging a shoulder, she took a sip before pulling a face.
"Why am I drinking a whiskey sour?" she asked, looking down at it with a half-frown.
"Because it's the juice of Republicans," he answered before taking a big gulp of it. His eyes watched the room, surely taking note of who was mingling with whom and how he could use it to his advantage. The shrewd man missed nothing, except for his personal life.
"Where is he?" she wondered aloud, looking around the room again before looking at Cy again.
"He left a little bit ago. Big Jerry's been hounding him today." The answer made her raise her eyebrow before she looked for the door.
"I'll go make sure everything's alright." Cyrus nodded in response, leaving her to head outside, into the mild night. Her heels clattered on the brick path as she walked, wondering which way he had headed when she saw him directly heading. He was staring at the ground but the sound of her shoes made him look up and his hands fell out of his pockets. Even in the dark, she could tell something was off and headed towards him with purpose. With only a few inches of space between them, she stopped and looked up at him, ever the gentleman in his perfectly-fitted tuxedo.
"Fitz," she said, curiosity plain on her face. His eyes moved from the top of her head, down over her bare shoulders, lower, lower, lower, until meeting hers again, settling. Wordlessly, he reached forward and put his hands on her hips, tugging her forward until she had to catch herself with a palm on his chest.
"Fitz, we're in public," she said, nearly wriggling to get out of his grasp. His head dipped down to meet hers, searching for her mouth blindly, desperately, but not in the familiar way that she had expected. Easing herself back, she turned to glance around, making sure that no one had seen.
She knew she should give him the drink to take off the edge and deliver the candidate back to the fundraiser, as her job required. But the gloom peeking through his eyes at her, barely there but visible to someone who knew where to look, called to her, and with a glance around, she took his hand. Guiding him now, she moved towards a cluster of wide trees that she knew would block them from anyone else. Putting the glass near the tree trunk, she turned back to face him.
Standing close enough to watch his face, she brushed the pad of her thumb against his knuckles.
"What?" she asked, unsure of how to react to a despondent Fitz. It was rare for him to be so troubled about something outside of them. Momentarily childish, he shrugged a shoulder upward before leaning in again, kissing the sensitive spot at the base of her throat. She was wise to the ways of his avoidance and took another step backward, but kept his hand in hers, squinting at him now.
"Use your words," she said, the tone meant to tease him out of his mood. He let go of her hand and moved towards the drink, but she blocked his path easily, standing between him and the tree.
"This has nothing to do with the job," he said, his voice louder now. She knew that the surprise of his words was clearly visible on her face, but she covered it instantly, knowing that letting her hurt show would only spur him on to take the easy way out. And if she wasn't taking it by refusing to be with him, then it wasn't an option for him either.
"That's wrong on both of the levels you meant it on, but we'll gloss over that because I'm more interested in what's bothering you," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared fiercely up at him. The gesture told him that she was annoyed with him and the distance made him want to cling to her even more fiercely. The dance, endlessly dancing. Though he wished he could either shrug or drink it off, he forced himself to look at her before responding.
"My father called earlier to discuss the specifics of my mother's will," he said, the answer short and terse but she had made a habit of parsing his words for subtext. They both settled in the unsaid. Without knowing it when things had started between them, they had discovered many similarities. Among these an affinity for dry red wine, autumn weather and Abraham Lincoln's writing.
They were also reluctant members of an exclusive club: the Dead Mothers Society. It had been part of why he'd understood the pain when she'd shared her tragedy with him. Despite the numerous differences in their upbringing, they shared these little bits of one another that brought about a poignant empathy.
Both only children.
Such lonely children.
/
His answer hung in the air before she stepped towards him allay his concerns, her fingertips barely more than a whisper against his skin as she touched his cheek. His hands moved to her waist, before sliding around to indulge his own fingers as they rested on the bare skin of her back. Without any pressure from him, she moved closer until her cheek rested against the cool fabric of his jacket, her arms loose as they wound around his waist. The mere weight of her body against him soothed. With a sigh, he dropped his cheek on top of her hair and let himself float on the temporary calm.
Tilting his head, he rubbed his mouth against her temple, eyes still closed before he kissed the top curve of her ear, lower now, blindly feeling with his lips as he discovered her cheekbone. They met in a kiss, her hands flat on his back as she let herself be pulled along into the moment, riding on his impulses. He teased, skimming his lips against hers in temptation, not sinking into anything deeper. When he pulled back, he had the pleasure of feeling her tremble in his arms. She made some tiny little noise and the atmosphere changed, blood thickening with desire.
He carefully guided her back towards the nearest tree, blocked from the mansion completely by an entire row of trees and eased her up against the bark. Her eyes fluttered open, but he covered her mouth with his again, tracing her heavy bottom lip with the tip of his tongue until he garnered a tiny whimper. Swiftly stripping off his jacket, he draped it over her shoulders before pressing her back up against the tree completely. She made some quiet noise of protest but his lips were already dotting kisses down the side of her arm as his busy hands slipped lower to raise the hem of the dress.
"Fitz, no, we're outside!" She put her hands on his shoulder to push him back but he nipped at her earlobe before whispering in response.
"No, we're in a fantasy land where we can see out but no one can see in." The edge of the dress bunched around her hips, his tongue licking around the shell of her ear, his nails scraping against the inside of her thighs. The edge of pain that they both delighted in. Fingertips now as they slid upward to the juncture of her thighs, a single stroke through the swatch of lace. He took her mouth again, not so he could quiet her whimper but so he could muffle his own desperate groan when his fingers dipped inside, feeling her wetness on his fingers.
Using two fingers, he found her bundle of nerves and stroked in a circle, no beginning, no end. She let out another little noise, caught somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and it rushed through him, tantalizing. Her hands reached out, moving down his waist to the front of his slacks but he grabbed them with the hand not inside of her panties, and drew them upward, over her head. Her entire body bowed up, a sinuous exclamation mark as she whimpered.
He understood perfectly, in that moment of her vulnerability, the allure of power. He had absolute control and it staggered him. Yet, he felt equally captivated by her gasp when he slid a single finger inside of her. Her head fell back, her neck asking for a kiss which he obliged. She moved against him, arching her hips forward in a move that said, Take more. Give more. More. It was somehow everything and never enough. He released her hands just for a moment, long enough to slide the strap of her dress down, her breast freed for an instant before his mouth moved around it. Tongue on nipple earned him a shudder and teeth resulted in a strangled sob.
Another finger and he felt the tremors intimately, the need for her release spurring him on. Deeper now, slow but steady, and his thumb moved to greet her clit as he felt her getting closer, her skin glistening in a single shard of moonlight. He felt her orgasm approaching, had memorized the signs by now and he enveloped her mouth as she was borne away on the waves of her climax. He held her up as the shivers stopped, her body lax between him and the tree.
When she could bring herself to lift her head and look up at him, he felt lighter. She slowly slid the strap of her dress back up, her eyes still half-lidded, darker than usual.
"Better?" she asked, her voice barely more than a purr.
"Much," he replied, letting her hem fall back to the ground before cupping her chin in his hand and kissing her affectionately.
"We really need to get back," she murmured as soon as the kiss ended and he nodded in compliance. Being with her had eased his burden, and the memory of this moment between them acted as a balm. He took her hand again, held it until they left their cozy haven behind the trees. Though she let go of his hand and walked ahead of him, she stopped at the door, just for a second, to smile at him over her shoulder. The knowing passed between them.
Both only children.
But a little less lonely.
.
A/N: This chapter was brought to you by a late-night re-watching 2x11, which is my favorite episode outside of the "The Trail." Those two are tied for me in terms of Olitz feels. Plus, sexy-wood-chopping is a sight to behold!
As always, dear readers, reviews make my heart sing and give me the courage to put pen to...umm, to put fingers to keyboard. Thank you for sticking around on this journey!