A/N: So here it is, first update (woohoo!)! This is a milstone for me already seeing as my other stories are one-shots. Lol! To all of you that reviewed: I can't even put my gratitude into words. There are just so many, too many feels! Really, you all are awesome. Your feedback fuels my writing. Hope you enjoy what I have for you this time around. Whether you do or don't, feel free send a review my way! Honesty is welcome; it'll only make me better. Oh and by the way, I know that this is kind of jumping right into the middle of things, but I assure you all that everything will eventually be explained. So hold tight! :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Scandal.

Arc Two, Part One. Mama, Don't Preach.

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Fitz walked out onto the terrace of his childhood home to find the Mrs. Fitzgerald Grant II seated at the head of a sprawling banquet of food. The surface of their glass dining table was teeming with the usual breakfast assortment, reminding Fitz of how when he was younger, his mother would always insist on having Anya prepare enough food for a small army, be there only the 4 of them dining – her, his father, his sister and himself – or additional guests. On this particular late summer morning, the Grants' devout maid of over 40 years did not disappoint.

All of the dishes were served on the same silver platters from his childhood. They were placed impossibly close together, rim to rim, no doubt in order to fit the maximum number of dishes on the table. There was every food that one could possibly desire. Everything from fresh strawberries, cheese Danishes, and spiraled ham to spice muffins, yogurt, and blackberry pie. Omelets, diced potatoes, pastries. Literally everything was there.

Fitz, following the etiquette that he was taught as a little boy, first kissed his mother on the cheek "good morning" before sitting down in the first chair to her left. He was helping himself to a bagel and dressing it with various toppings when his mother gave a soft yet distinguished cough, something she frequently did to signal that she was about to speak. Fitz had learned through forty three years of being her son that the topic of conversation always proved itself to be… well, scandalous.

He waited a few seconds for her to start and then waited again, supposing that she had to finish swallowing her tea, but after what had become a minute of waiting, his mother still hadn't said anything. This caused an awkward silence to ensue as they quietly ate on and it was very clear to Fitz where it was coming from. His mother wanted to know more about the houseguests that had yet to arrive to breakfast while, at the same time, he knew an explanation was owed yet had no idea how to begin.

Thankfully, his mother's patience had worn away much sooner than his resolve.

"So, Fitzgerald," she began and then took an effective paused. "Are you going to share your plans with your dear old mother or are you going to make her wait yet another day to hear them?"

Fitz placed the remainder of his bagel down on his saucer. He then wiped his mouth with his napkin before leaning back in his chair. This was the same position that he would assume when Cyrus was about to go on one of his diatribes. Fitz was poised and ready for the oncoming attack.

"So you are choosing to torture your mother?" Mrs. Grant asked upon seeing that her son wasn't making an effort to answer.

"No. I'd just rather hear why you think I'm visiting. Surely, you've already made some assumptions."

"I've drawn some conclusions, yes. But only because you forced me to by not telling me anything. Anyway, I only base those conclusions on what I see and one cannot help what one sees."

"Really?" he stated more than asked. "So then tell me, mother, what have you 'seen'?"

"It's of no matter," she quipped back.

"Ah, but it is to me."

Silence reigned over the terrace for the second time since Fitz had joined the table. Though this time, it was not so much awkward as it was heated and he had to fight back the smile that threatened to break at the sight of his mother so uncomfortable. He could tell by the slow sip that she was taking from her teacup that she was debating whether or not to give in to his goading. Fitz's eyes were fastened cold on her, merely trying to help her inevitable fold along.

His mother's eyes were steadily averting his and her lips were drawn taut – very telling body language. He was so certain that he had her… which is why he was caught off guard by the sudden turn in events.

Fitz watched as his mother's contemplation broke and she looked up again. The sparkle that seemed to always be present in her gray eyes brightened to the point where it was blinding. Mischievous even. Her lips pulled themselves into one of her most warm and genuine of smiles. Fitz noticed that she was directing it at a place beyond where he was sitting.

"Ah!" she announced to whom he assumed was no one in particular. "So The Great Olivia Pope finally rises! I've been waiting for you to join us, dear."

Fitz felt himself involuntarily jump up erect in his chair. He braced both hands on the wicker armrests and pushed himself up so that he was half-standing. However, with one quick cut of the eyes and curt smile from their new guest, he was easing himself right back down. And it was from his seat that he froze and stared - just stared, really stared – at her. The woman that had his heart at her disposal. The love of his life. Carrying the tiny being who would tether them together for the rest of their lives.

Fitz found that he literally could not breathe as Olivia approached the table. His heart was punching a crater into his breastplate and his stomach was fluttering as if he was in free fall. Heat flooded into very fold, bend, and divot of his body and a cold sweat broke over every plane. His limbs suddenly tingled and itched for him to move them. Three years ago he would have called it anxiety, but he was a much smarter man now.

He was in love. He was so infatuated with Olivia Pope that it reduced him to behaving like a squirrely ten-year-old boy. She was the girl his friends had dared him to kiss during recess. She was the girl whose ponytails he would tug because it wasn't cool to tell her that her hair was the prettiest he had ever seen. She was also the girl that he would tease and call names so that no one would catch on to just how much he wanted to hold her hand. She would've been that girl for him back then, just like she was that woman for him now.

Fitz's eyes remained on Olivia even as she bent over and politely pecked his mother on the cheeks. He noticed the effort that she was putting into not looking at him.

"Good morning, Mrs. Grant," she said after pulling away.

She eased herself into the chair across from him before she finally gave an acknowledging smile. Though the expression failed to reach her eyes.

"Mr. President," she greeted coolly.

…..

Olivia had detected the tension between mother and son as soon as she had entered the outdoor area. It hit her as hard as only a boulder could and faster than the morning air. She worried about what she had just entered into because although she was a professional "fixer", her skills could not be wielded in such a personal situation as the one she was in this morning.

However, only moments later, when the Mrs. Fitzgerald Grant II started up easy conversation with her, Olivia was forced to assume that the previous tension in the atmosphere had diffused itself. So she sat down at the table with McKenna propped up in her lap, indulged in easy conversation with the woman that she had met a handful of times on the campaign trail, and afforded any remaining energy toward ignoring the man across from her.

One look at that man, and their plans for this morning would probably have been ruined.

She chatted on. They had a nice little rhythm going when they were cut off by the third adult party.

"You're not eating?"

Olivia did not need to look at Fitz to know that the question was directed at her, but she did so anyway. His eyes were hard and steely, not so much angry as they were authoritative. She held the stare to ensure that he would not notice her intimidation.

"No, I'm not," she deadpanned back.

"Why are you not eating?" he challenged.

"I'm not hungry."

"Why aren't you hungry?"

"Is an explanation really necessary for one's lack of hunger?"

Fitz nodded at the baby who, intrigued by what was going on between her parents, was sitting mute. Her rosy lips were shaped in a curious little "o" and her round, almond-shaped eyes kept shifting from her mother, to her father, and back up at her mother again. It was as if she was personally invested in who was going to win this stand-off.

"Give her to me. I'll hold her while you eat."

He didn't even wait for her to acquiesce before getting up and walking around the table – not that her protests would have necessarily stopped him anyway. Fitz stood right beside her chair and loomed over her, his arms outstretched in want of his daughter.

Olivia, as she looked up at him, could no longer hide how unnerved she was.

"Mr. President…" she tried.

"Olivia," he countered.

It was impossible for all three of the adults to miss the four-month-old's gummy grin as Fitz swept her up. The giggles did not go unnoticed either as he took a seat next to Olivia and began to fly her up and down as if she was bouncing across the moon.

"Hi, pretty girl," she heard him sing to her once she was suspended in front of his face.

Olivia - wanting to be angry with Fitz yet completely enamored by the sight of the father-daughter bonding - smiled on as another fit of giggles erupted from the joyful baby. It was when Fitz began attacking her with kisses and she began squealing that Olivia forced herself to look away in order to prevent from being any more overwhelmed. She decided to obey Fitz's orders and piled her plate with fruit.

She had gotten only a couple bites down when the woman beside her, who she realized had not said a word in over five minutes, smiled at her. Olivia wished it wasn't there, but an all-too-knowing glimmer was present in the woman's eyes. She hoped though that the Mrs. Fitzgerald Grant II was knowledgeable about things not pertaining to her daughter's parentage. It just made Olivia a bit more comfortable and it gave a bit more reason to their visit.

However, her gut was telling her that discomfort was what was fated for her. It was telling her that the woman beside her knew all the facts that a mother should know about their son. She knew why they were sitting at her breakfast table this morning. She knew.

"My son is right, you know. Your daughter is a very pretty girl."

Olivia watched the wise woman watch her over the brim of her teacup as she took another sip. She only allowed herself to politely smile back, wanting to tread carefully. It was clear that this woman could not be underestimated.

"Thank you."

"Yes… yes…" the older woman mused. "Looks just like her mother…"

"Except for those eyes.

This time, Olivia didn't respond. She merely sat frozen in her place and allowed the other woman to continue to spin her web because it was clear where this conversation was headed. It was clear what she knew and what she was going to verbalize. The truth was coming out and Olivia would not – could not – bring herself to blatantly lie about a matter as weighty and personal as the one that was surfacing.

So she allowed Mrs. Grant to continue. She temporarily shared her white hat.

"A little history, Olivia: I inherited my own eyes from my father, who inherited his from his mother. As you can see, I passed them down to Fitzgerald and he, in turn, gave them to his daughter – my granddaughter – Karen…"

Olivia didn't know when exactly Fitz began listening in on the conversation, but it was clear that he was now. Beside her, he was noticeably quiet and still, no doubt hanging on to his mother's every word. McKenna, for her part, was completely oblivious to what was unfolding between her parents and her soon-to-be-revealed grandmother.

"So I'm sure you can understand how intriguing it is to me to see your daughter bearing the one feature that is so unique to my family.

"You can understand, can't you dear?"

Olivia forced herself to give a brief smile. "Yes. Of course."

"Mother," Fitz spoke up from beside her, surprisingly calm - almost suspiciously calm. "What I, for one, can't understand is your point. Were you planning on going somewhere with your 'little history'?"

"My point, you ask?"

Olivia watched as the older woman took on an impressed look. Her snowy white eyebrows were arched high and her thin lips were upturned at the corners.

"Yes mother, your point," Fitz breathed in exasperation.

"My point is, Fitzgerald…"

Suddenly, the older woman slammed her teacup down on the table and scowled. Olivia felt her breath catch in her throat at the surprisingly sudden and hostile display.

"For Christ's sake!" she exclaimed. "How much longer do I have to pretend not to be able to see through this little charade of yours?

"I'm not the American public! I'm your mother! It's my duty to recognize you in this little girl. She's your daughter, my granddaughter. I knew and I've known for a while. So save whatever speech you prepared in order to 'break this news to me'. I know!"

A brief moment of silence elapsed as Mrs. Fitzgerald Grant II regained her composure. All that Olivia could find it in herself to do was gape at the older woman. Beside her, Fitz was still unfazed - and that still seemed odd.

"Now," the not-so-newly exposed grandmother chirped. "Can I finally hold my grandchild?"