A/N: Sorry for a long delay, loves. I recently had a family member I was rather close to pass away and things have been hectic for me.
Anyways, this is a longer chapter, as suggested, and I hope you enjoy. I'd originally planned for this story to be five chapters, but it's taking on a life of it's own in my head so lets see where it goes. I usually have someone else edit my chapters, but they're currently busy at the moment, so all mistakes are my own.
Some questions will be answered, some more questions will be formed.
I hope you enjoy.
"You went to their graves," Father Stabler comments, motioning for Fitz to enter his office.
Fitz nods, the tightness in his chest acute ever since he'd walked away from the hollow ground that held the life he'd lost.
"I did." Tears pool in the corners of his slate eyes. "It was the first time in … a while." Another confession, he's just full of them these days.
"And why'd you stop?" prompts Father Stabler, attention now solely on Fitz.
Why'd he stop? He ponders the question, fingers absent-mindedly toying with the skin of his ring finger where a gold band should rest. He never meant to stop, ever, and in all truth, he isn't sure why he did either. The pain hadn't lessened, and he hadn't learned to deal with it. It just became less of somewhere he felt he had the right to be. Their deaths would always be his albatross. His cross to carry.
"Fitz," Father Stabler sighed. "You don't blame yourself still, do you?"
Fitz doesn't look up, he can't meet Father Stabler's eyes because Father Stabler's hit the proverbial nail on the head. Ten years and he still runs through that night in his mind, over and over again. If he closes his eyes tight enough, he can hear the screeching tires, the frightened cries of his wife and children.
'Daddy!'
'Fitz!'
Then nothing but mangled metal and coldness. So much cold. The snow, their skin. The frozen blood bright red against the white snow.
"I was the one driving." he tries to keep his voice level, emotionless, but his words wavier, belying the indifference he attempts to project.
"It was a freak snow storm, Fitzgerald, you can't blame yourself."
"I should've known. I should've known better than to drive home. It wasn't heavy when we left though. And then all of a sudden…" his head is in his hands, his elbows on his knees. "Why didn't I go with them? Why was I spared me?"
Anger shakes his voice, the timber dropping. For the last ten years now, he's wondered this exact thing. Why did he live, why was he living when his children, his wife, with her crystal blue eyes and high apple cheeks, were gone. What did he have to give to the world that they didn't? Why had God kept him here? Why.
"Because God needed you here. You weren't done yet." Stabler offers, but his answer doesn't suffice.
"Bullshit." Fitz hisses, forgetting for a moment that he, too, wears the cloth as the man in in front of him. "You're telling me a four-year-old and a two-year-old were done here? You're telling me that my wife, who probably would've been the first female president of this country with a mind like hers, was done? You're…"
He stops. The sobs overtake his large frame and he can't stop crying. Ten years and the pain is still as fresh as the day he was undone.
The sound of metal scraping against wood fills the room. A large hand comes to rest on Fitz's shoulder and he looks up from his crying to see Father Stabler standing next to him, offering him some comfort "The day I talked you off the bridge, Fitzgerald, what did I say to you?"
Fitz sucks in a bout of air, his lungs expanded. Another day he'll remember for the rest of his life. Not too long after he'd lost the life he'd fought to build, he'd found himself sitting on the ledge of the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Not an extremely high bridge, Fitz hoped that the icy chill of the water on a cold February day would pull him under, paralyze his survival instincts and take him away. Across the bridge had been one of the last places he'd taken his family. He wanted his children, his babies, to see the D.C lights at night, to gaze at the beauty that is a city in progress.
But fate, luck, or divine intervention – whatever one chose to believe in – had made her presence known. Just as Fitz fought to throw himself over the side, he'd heard screech of tires, the slam of a car door, a plea from a man dressed in black with a white collar around his neck.
Father Stabler.
"You told me that it was your duty to save my life and once you did, it would be my job, in turn, to save someone else's." Fitz whispers. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek and shakes his head. He never thought he deserved that second chance, and in truth doesn't know what made him pull away from the ledge of the bridge he'd been so hell-bent on toppling over.
Father Stabler had pulled him back that day, both mentally and physically.
"Why can't you just let me go?"
"Because it's not your time, Fitzgerald. Because it is my duty. To you, to God."
"My children, my wife…"
"Do not let them die in vain, use their memory. Use this pain to go forth."
"How?"
"Save someone who needs to be saved. It is your duty."
Funny how that solitary moment, slumped in a ball in another man's arms as ambulance sirens whirled around you and tires screeched, he'd decided to save someone. He'd decided to dedicate his life to saving anyone he could in the only way that seemed concrete enough: by taking up the priesthood.
Father Stabler had tried to explain to a determined Fitz that there were other ways to save someone than by taking up the cloth, but Fitz had insisted this was the way – his way. People needed to know they could come to him to be saved.
Ten years later, and Fitz feels as if he's failed, he's allowed something – someone – to get in between him and his purpose. Her. Olivia. The unwitting hurricane. She doesn't know it, but he can't breathe around her; she consumes all his thoughts whenever she was near. Like a moth to a flame, he's drawn to the young women with high cheek bones, deep brown skin, and large black eyes. Every inch of her petite frame cries 'shelter me' but her sharp tongue and straightened back bone say, 'I dare you to try.'
And he feels guilty. Guilty for wanting to try, guilty for letting her get in his way as if he could've stopped her. Sometimes he feels as if he was destined to meet Olivia Pope regardless of the circumstances. Had he been the President of the United States and she a member of his staff, he still would've ended up here, enchanted by her mere presence, and searching for any reason to be around her.
"Fitzgerald," Father Stabler's gruff voice calls.
Fitz tilts his head up. Deep breath in, deep breath out, he attempts to gather himself.
"You're thinking of her again, of Olivia?" he asks.
Fitz nods, wondering how his mind jumped from the loss of his family to the woman that seemed to occupy ever thought he has now.
"Why?"
It's a simple question, but the answer is complex.
"Because," he starts, "she's in the way. She's stopping me. I can't save someone, I can't help someone, I can't pay penance if I'm thinking of her constantly."
Stabler squeezes his shoulder again, a soft smile on the man's face. "Is she in the way, though?"
"Is she?" Fitz repeats, brows knitting together on his forehead. What does that mean? Of course she is! If he can't see around her to those that need to be saved, how is he to save anyone?
"What if she is the way?" Father Stabler suggests.
"Huh?"
"What if you're supposed to save her?"
Fitz tilts his head, a wry smile on his lips. "You don't understand, Elliot." He's addressing the other man as a friend now, not as a priest. "She's in the way because I want her in ways that a man wants a woman."
Much to Fitz's surprise, Father Stabler chuckles. The priest laughs, his hand dropping from Fitz's shoulder as he settles against the wood desk, a smirk on his face, as he shakes his head.
"I know. I can see it in your face when you discuss her, but I can also see the admiration, fascination, and affection you have for her, too. You're human, my friend, it's understandable. What's also understandable, is a man being able to dedicate his life to God and to another."
"What?" The confusion is evident. This isn't what he expects to hear
"Why did you become a priest?" Father Stabler asks.
Again, another simple question with a complex answer. This time Fitz chooses simplicity in his response rather than to attempt to explain the mess of emotions fluttering around his chest and in his head.
"To save someone, like you saved me."
"And why else?"
Of course, the simple never suffices.
"There isn't any other reason." Fitz lies.
"We both know, and more importantly, The Father above knows that, that isn't true. You did it because you were afraid of picking up the pieces to start over again. And that was fine. But it's not any more. Second chances are being given." Father Stabler all but calls bullshit as he reads Fitz, his response discomforting to the other man.
"Or third, or fourth…" counters Fitz; he counts his second chance as the moment he fell back onto solid ground and not ice water.
"No, second. You're still on your second and it's a decade in the making. Look, Fitz, I say this as a friend and as a vessel for God, look at your life right now. Examine it with an architect's eye and remember that everyone is worthy of a second chance and that sometimes, our purpose is right in front of us; we're just too stubborn to see it."
"I don't understand."
"God already knows what you're going to do; he's already forgiven you for mistakes you've made and those you will make. It's just a matter of you figuring out where to go next. What life do you want to live? Is this right here the best way to serve God?"
"I don't know."
"The good thing is, you have time to figure it out."
/
"That's it!" Sally Langston shouts as she stands behind the desk that belongs to Fitz. During Fitz's absence, she's taken to operating out of his personal space.
Olivia sits in the seat across from her, trying to maintain her professionalism as the short, plump woman berates her loud enough for the entire school to hear.
They year is rounding down, just a little over a month to go now. Fitz's has been gone since the beginning of March on a health leave. Olivia still doesn't know where he is or if he'll return. One thing she knows for certain is that she will most certainly be in search of another job once the summer hits officially.
"Father Fitzgerald may have put up with your liberal insolence, but I am not Father Fitzgerald."
"Really, I hadn't noticed." Olivia retorts childishly, unable to stop the venom curling in the pit of her stomach, ready to pour out. She's done, she's had enough of this school, of Sister Sally, of everything.
"You cannot teach that, that filth in this class as some form of -"
"Fact, Sister Sally? Fact. History. Evidence. Roe v. Wade is a landmark decision that coincides with the sexual revolution and bodily autonomy. I told Father Fitzgerald when I came to this unit, this portion of the 60s, I would treat it as I saw it as a historian, as a woman of color. I gave him my lesson plans; he read them! Now I'm being castigated. Again. What is wrong with you people?" she seethes; impassioned, she gets to her feet.
"I've shown both pro-birth and pro-choice arguments. I've put the research out there for the young adults to read. I cannot help it if their parents would rather them be blind or ignorant to the ways of the world! Education is not the place to be coddled. I refuse to lie to these kids, and if I am asked my opinions, I will voice them. These are all things that were discussed in my interview for this job!"
"No." Sally shouts, firmly. "No. You discussed these plans with Father Fitzgerald. I am not him. I would've told you no. We teach the right to life in this school, under this God. This is not an open conversation. After what you got away with, with Lizette, I ask myself consistently why you still have a job, why you're still here. I know the answer to that. You're a young woman, a pretty face, and even a man of the cloth can be weak to temptation."
"I beg your pardon, I don't know what you're insinuating about me, but I know that you are wrong. You are –"
"No, Miss Pope. You are. I don't care if we've a month left. You are fired. FIRED!" Sally punctuates her sentence with a slam of her plump fist against the wood of the desk that does not belong to her. "Collect your things and leave immediately. Sister Mary Agatha will finish for you this year. Get. Out."
The shock washes across Olivia like a tidal wave. She knew her days here were numbered, but didn't think she'd be kicked from her job before she got the chance to leave on her own. This place had never been a good fit for her, but that doesn't mean she isn't attached. She thinks of her older students, the ones she's fallen in love with, the ones who so desperately needed a John Keating to let them know there's more to this life than what's in front of them. She thinks of her younger kids, their chunky face and soft eyes. And she thinks of him. Of Fitz and how he's taken to the hills to escape her.
Maybe this is for the better, being dismissed like this?
"I'll leave now." Olivia's voice is tight as she turns to walk out of the office. Her hand flexes towards the doorknob but the door swings open before she has a chance to grasp the brass handle.
Her eyes widen at the sight in front of her.
Fitz.
"No, you won't." his baritone voice fills the room and Olivia lets out a puff of breath, an inadvertent 'huh?'
"This isn't Sister Langston's decision, it is mine. Go back to your students, Miss Pope." Fitz instructs as his eyes meet hers. So many emotions swirl within Oliva as she searches his face. Uncertainty. Bemusement. Confusion. Gratitude. Want. Comfort.
"What?" her soft voice sounds.
"Go back to your classroom, to your students. Go. I will handle this."
Olivia nods, her eyes glimpsing her watch to see just how much of her day she has left (three hours). As she tears out of the office, a few passing by clerical workers eye her as she goes. St. Agnes again watches from the hall as she moves.
/
Fitz is the only thing on her mind the rest of the day. Unfortunately, she doesn't see him the rest of the day. She can't find the time away from her students and after school, he's nowhere to be found.
Now as the metro tugs across the tracks, stopping to allot her to depart, and she makes her way to her apartment, she can't help but to wonder where he's went, again. Their encounter had been so brief and fleeting that she hadn't had the proper time to study him and right now, she's not certain whether he'd really been there. Had Fitz just been a figment of her imagination? A mirage her mind had conjured up to soften the blow of being fired mid-day?
Her building comes into her sightline and mentally she beings to prepare for the climb up the stairs to her apartment. She stops to drop a couple of quarters in the cup of a homeless man who sits on the corner, watching her and informs him that she'll be bringing him dinner in just a few; she hopes he doesn't mind Chinese. He shakes his head nope and thanks her as she goes.
Moments later she's in her apartment, peeling back the layers of the day, now dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, her long braids pulled into a lose ponytail. She holds a Chinese menu in her left hand and her cellphone in the other, preparing to dial the restaurant when a knock on her door gives her pause.
Softly, she pads over to the wood door and peeks through the peephole.
She can't undo the chain and bolt quick enough. She throws her door open and once again, shock cascades over her petite frame.
Fitz.
He's here.
At her apartment. In Astoria.
Why?
"Hi." he offers awkwardly as the door swings open, the meekness of his voice is paired with a lopsided smile.
"Hi," is the only way Olivia knows how to respond.