First off - the reaction to this story BLEW MY MIND! So THANK YOU. Now, I hope you'll enjoy this. It's flashbacks to the wedding/present day.
"I have to know the name of the girl with the hottest legs in this place."
She's standing at the bar waiting for a glass of white wine that Abby requested. She claimed it was to calm her nerves, but she's calm, she's steady and sure, she doesn't need the alcohol. What she did need was a moment to talk to Teddy, to hear his voice, to hear the love in it, to remove any doubt that either of them is going to run. They're in this, together and forever. So she left to get the wine and conveniently left her cellphone behind. Now she's standing at the bar, in the warm afternoon sun, the racket and the excitement around her disappearing, as her blood begins to boil.
"Does that line ever work for you?" She says, as she turns around; her voice cold, her eyes narrowed, as she scans him – up and down. He's tall, very tall; handsome, bordering on gorgeous, and clearly cocky, bordering on obnoxious.
"You'd be surprised." And he flashes her a wide smile. There's something about it – so careless and so free, completely unapologetic; that makes her like him; for just a second she doesn't feel like she wants to slap him. But then he speaks again, and the feeling of utter disdain is back. "I mean it's a wedding, you can't expect me to bring my A-game." He just looks at her as he says it, his eyes focusing on her lips, as he licks his. He's not even trying to pretend that he's interested in her name because he wants to get coffee one morning and exchange life-stories; no he wants sex and he sees no point in pretending. The arrogance, the arrogance is irritating; but there's also something refreshing about the honesty, there's something frustratingly attractive about it. She should hate the way he licks his damn lips, but she doesn't – it makes her shift in her place, it makes her squirm under his gaze; it makes her want to jump him right then and there.
"Liv, Abby's asking for you." And she sees a smile widen on his face, as she nods her head towards Steven and turns to the bar to grab the wine.
"You're Olivia, Olivia Pope, the maid of honor?" She just nods, and grins at him, before turning around and practically running away in five-inch heels. She knows who he is. She's seen those eyes before, they run in the family – the deep blue unnervingly soothing.
She looks down into a pair of blue eyes; Teddy's eyes; his daughter an unmistakable Grant. She hasn't cried since the day of the accident. She hasn't cried and she's barely slept; she's barely eaten and she hasn't spoken. Not a word in five days. She kisses her forehead and runs her hands down the girl's dress; pretending to straighten the perfectly ironed item. She kneels down, to her eye level.
"Do you want me to braid it?" And the girl just shakes her head. She hasn't allowed her to touch her hair. Brushing it and braiding it was Abby's favorite thing – it was a part of their morning and evening routine; just one of the many mother-daughter things. Things that she can try to imitate, but will never be able to do the same; and the difference – the little mistakes, those will be constant reminders of death. So she's just been backing away, giving her space; trying to let her process. But she hasn't eaten and she hasn't spoken, and she seems so utterly broken. And Liv, Liv has no idea how to fix it. She just utters a weak, "OK." And gives her a soft kiss on the cheek, standing up and grabbing her heels from the corner. "It's time to leave." And she takes the girl's hand – lifeless, almost like her parents'.
He's standing in the living room, looking out the window. He turns around as he hears the clink of heels against the concrete. Because her floors, they're concrete – her whole place, it's empty space, it's modern – glass and metal and concrete, minimalist; it's a home to sleep in, not to live in; not to raise a child in. His eyes are no longer the same blue, no this one, this one is dull – the redness, suffocating; the bloody capillaries like meandering tree-branches. He gives her a weak smile, as he picks up his jacket from the couch and leads them to the door. His hand resting on the small of her back.
She turns the corner, behind the last row of white chairs and starts walking down the soft, grass path, to the floral altar. Her first step she looks at the ground, trying to collect herself, after-all she has no reason to be nervous, it's not even her day. But, it's not working, her heart is beating loudly, drumming in her ears, and her throat is closing – she hates this, being the center of attention, even for a moment, the spotlight, even if it is just for a minute before Abby comes out – it's unnerving and terrifying. She looks up, and all she sees in the crowd is the pair of the eyes from the bar. He smiles. She doesn't understand how, or why his smile has the effect that it does, but it instantly calms her down. Her breathing steadies, and she's clutching the bouquet just a little bit less; her throat is functioning again, and she can hear the music, rather than her own heartbeat. There's something in his eyes, a warmth, a kindness that makes her feel safe; a desire that makes her feel confident, so confident. In that moment he is all she sees – his presence making it easy to overcome her momentary fear.
He can't take his eyes off of her. The way she blushes when she turns the corner, how she counts her steps, trying to take her time, but rushing, trying to get out from the spotlight. And then she looks up, and somehow, in the crowd she's looking straight into his eyes. And he can't help but smile. They never break the eye contact. She gets closer and closer, until he can see the specs of gold in her eyes, reflecting the sunlight, beaming bright; until he can smell her scent – the fresh lavender filling up the spring air. He wants to reach out and touch her hand, he wants to kiss the skin at the back of her neck, peeking under the side-swept hair; but he just looks at her instead, not blinking, barely breathing. And she looks right back at him. They forget about the time, and the place, about the wedding and the guests, in that moment it's just them. And then the music starts and it breaks them out. They break the eye-contact and instantly, he feels lonely, somehow empty.
Abby glides down, holding on to her father's arm. She smiles. And he can see Teddy smiling. He's never seen two people who looked so happy. Cyrus officiates, cracking awful jokes every now and then, earning a few pity laughs and a couple of genuine ones. They say their vows. They're short and to the point, little promises. Of love, of forgiveness and generosity, respect and tenderness. A promise of a life together.
They lower the coffins into the ground. The reverend speaks. He speaks of love, of loss and moving on, remembering and letting go. He speaks of death. He speaks of heaven as they stand, living through their personal hell. He looks at Liv. Her face stoic, but her eyes clouded. Her lip quivers as he says their names. She closes her eyes as he speaks of those who stay behind, of those who are to live on. She closes them, and a tear rolls down her cheek. He wants to wipe it, to brush it off, touch her skin and feel the warmth, feel the life pulsing through her – life amidst all the death. He wants to. But he just looks at her instead.
She can feel Lynn squeezing her hand. As they lover the coffins it's no longer lifeless, it's not longer resigned and shut off; suddenly it's clenching in pain, it's holding on. She feels it - the fear, as the little fingers dig into her palm. She feels it and she wishes it was lifeless again. As the tears roll down the girls' cheeks, she wishes she wasn't feeling, as she sobs, she wishes she was quiet again – numb. Maybe, maybe that hurts less. She squeezes her hand back, and she wants to hug her, to run fingers through her hair, soothingly, she wants to hold her and tell her it will be OK. But she's afraid. Afraid of making it worse. Afraid that her touch will only make her miss her mom. So she just squeezes her hand back, and looks into the distance. But then, he bends down and picks her up, scoops the little girl up in his arms. He runs his hands through her hair and he pulls her head into his chest. He whispers in her ear that it will be OK. He holds her until it's over. Until the coffins are gone, the roses thrown, the friends and family done saying goodbye. He holds her and eventually her breathing slows down, the sobbing stops, the tears run dry. Eventually she's back to the awful quiet.
He can feel her body calm, he feels the shaking slow, until it stops; he no longer hears the sobs. She's back to her shell, to the awful quiet. He wants to go the to edge of the grave; the very edge; look over, from life into death. He needs to say goodbye for the last time. He needs to, but he can't move. He feels her hand on his back, her warm breath on his neck; her whisper in his ear, "It's OK, I've got her." And she loops her arms through his, and pulls the little girl away from his body, onto her hip. They both hold their breath for a moment, afraid, that she'll start crying again, feeling again, but she doesn't. She just rests her head in the crook of her neck, wrapping her arms around Liv's petite shoulders. And she runs her hand along the girls' back, whispering in her ear – "It will be OK."
He walks over to the grave, his shoes sinking into the dirt. He kneels down and takes a fistful of earth, throwing it on the polished wood. As he gets up, dusting off his palms, he utters, whispers really, "I've got them. I got them Teddy." And with that he turns away, seeing his life ahead. He kisses the top of the girl's head, as he wraps his arm around Liv; and they walk away, in step.
His arms are wrapped around her, as they sway to the music, slowly. They've been talking. She's told him things. Her plans, her fears. She told him about Harvard, and the med school and the utter exhaustion that follows the perceived perfection. She told him about her mom, about why her dad was never around. She told him how afraid she is of not living, of waking up one morning and realizing that all she has is a lifetime of achievements, a lifetime of memories and no one to share them with. She told him things, things she never said out loud before. He held her tighter when she needed it, and he nodded, and he smiled. And he never stopped, he never stopped dancing. No matter what she said, no matter how terrified she was as the words left her lips, he never stopped dancing.
He's told her things; memories, dreams. He told her about that summer in the Hamptons when Teddy and him found out about his father's other family. He told her about the company, and why he doesn't want anything to do with it. He told her about Europe, traveling. He told her about how proud he is of Teddy. He also told her how jealous he's been, he still is. He told her things, and she listened. She smiled at things he found funny, and she looked at him with understanding, like she didn't judge him – like she felt the sadness in the little moments, in the small disappointments. She understood him, she knew him, somehow, instantly she knew him – and she was still in his arms, dancing, smiling.
It's too much. Too overwhelming. The connection, the attraction, the feeling. He can't handle it. So he says the one thing, the one thing he knows will break the moment instantly, the one thing that will undo everything. "So, now that I've played your shrink, can I get you in bed with me?" He regrets it. Instantly. Regret, suffocating. But the regret – it's too little, too late. She steps away, batting her lashes furiously, shaking her head, as if she's trying to get her brain to focus, to comprehend what he just said.
"You're a child." And she walks away. He just stands there. For a moment he just stands there. And then like electricity, it surges through him, the simple understanding, the reality, that he can't let her walk away, not like this. So he runs after her, out of the tent and into the churchyard. He calls her name, but she doesn't stop, she just runs up the church steps.
"Liv. I'm sorry." Nothing. "Liv, come on. I was a dick. I'm sorry." She stops in her tracks and turns around, her eyes welling up, her chest heaving.
"Yeah, you are a dick. It's sad really. I mean what; you think that by avoiding any sort of emotional connection to another human being you can't get hurt. You don't see that all your macho crap, and the superficial screwing around is already hurting you. You don't understand that the feeling, the thing that's eating away at you, it's not jealousy, or sadness that daddy doesn't love you – it's hate, self-hate, because you know that this way, you'll never amount to anything, this asshole, this front – it doesn't amount to anything. It's empty. And you know it. And that, that is why you're drowning. It's why you'll keep drowning." Her eyes are on fire, her hands shaking. She opens her mouth again, but then closes it. Instead she turns around on her heel.
He's angry. He is so angry. Angry she said it, angry she saw right through him, angry she's walking away from him. "You do not walk away from me. Not like this." His voice echoes through the empty hallway, and she stops, but she doesn't turn around. "I may be a dick, but you're a hypocrite. You say you want to live, but you're too terrified to let yourself breathe, let alone live. You study and study and work, and achieve, and overachieve. Because you're good. Because you're brilliant and you know it. You do that and you won't allow yourself to try anything else. You're too scared to take a chance, you're too scared to take a risk, you're terrified of failing. That's not living. That's not anything. That's not worthy. It's not being a workaholic, it's being a coward. You're a coward Liv, and the saddest thing is, you know it. And you're too damn afraid to do anything about it." The quiet. Silence. Broken up by their breathing, by the shattering of the armors they've spent years hiding behind, the crashing of the walls they've built up. She turns around and marches over to him, slapping him across the cheek. Then, then she just stares at him. She tilts her head, her eyes darting across his face, looking at him, trying to find herself. She steps into his personal space again, and he prepares himself for impact, but the hand, the burning of the skin never comes. Instead, it's her lips on his, crashing. And they stumble down the hall, their hands roaming their bodies. They stumble down the hall, and through a wooden door. They stumble, but they don't fall. They hold on, on to each other. He's kissing her neck and pulling up her dress. And she's unbuckling his belt behind her back, as she tilts her head to give him better access. His hands on her thighs, they go up; and it's soft moans, and quiet grunts; it's being filled up, eyes shut tight. It's warm liquid trickling down her thighs and his chest falling and raising against her back. It's their hands, flat against the wall, slipping down, fingers intertwined.
Her breathing is steady, her face peaceful, finally she's asleep. She kisses the top of her head, and moves her hand – the hand that was clutching her shirt, holding on feverishly. She gets up and pulls the cover over the small body, and turns on the lamp on the nightstand. The cries will echo though the loft around midnight, when she wakes up, when the reality crashes down, but at least like this, there will be some light around. She leaves the door open, just a little bit, just enough for the girl to know where to go, in this foreign place that is now her home.
"She's finally down." She says as she picks a blanket up from the couch, and starts folding it – she needs something to do, to busy her hands, something to look at, because she can't look at him when she says it. "I want full custody, Fitz."
Silence. It sounds harsh when she says it. In her mind it sounded fine, it sounded like the best thing; but now, now it sounds like a betrayal.
"No." It's firm, final. He gets up and walks over to where she's standing, taking the blanket from her hands and lifting her chin up. "Look at me, Liv." She tries to avoid his gaze, but he doesn't move his finger, he just caresses her cheek with his thumb, softly. "I'm not giving her up."
"Fitz," she steps away from his reach; she can't think when she's near him, "It's the best thing. You can still see her, you can be the fun uncle, but you're not dad material; you're not, you can't raise a child, you-"
"Do. Not. Tell. Me. What. I. Can. Do. Olivia." He hisses it out, pure venom in the broken sound. "You don't get to tell me that I can't do this. You don't get to tell me I'm not good enough. No one will be as good as her dad. No one. But they picked us. They picked you, and they picked me. They thought I could do it. They trusted me, they believed in me. So you don't get to tell me that I can't. You don't get to take this away, to push me away, because it's more convenient; because you'd rather not deal with someone who isn't intimidated by your intellect, who sees right through your shell. You don't get to tell me I'll fail. I can do this. I can raise her with you. I can be there for the school plays, and for the boyfriends, for late night cramming and graduations, and the crying and the laughing. I want to be there for all of it. And you need me here. And it terrifies you. And I get it. OK? I get that this, this is scary. It's not what you planned, it's not what you wanted; a broken little girl and guy who hasn't figured his life out. But it's what's happening Olivia. It's what's happening, and you better wrap your head around it, because pushing me away, is a waste of the energy that you don't have."
"You can't use us to figure out your life. This, this isn't a trial. A way for you to grow up. I need a grown up." She exhales sharply, rubbing her eyes with her palms; suddenly so very tired.
"Oh, come on Olivia!" He yells, frustrated, then looks in the direction of the cracked door, panicking. He carries on, a few octaves lower. "Stop pretending you have everything completely figured out. You work 80 hours a week. You eat, live and sleep at work. I mean this place, this place is basically like a hospital; it's completely impersonal. You don't do relationships; you have friends, but they're work-buddies. You live in a shell and you hide. And you want to pretend that that's what being adult is all about! Hiding away, backing away from a challenge, because of a possibility you might lose, that's not adulthood. You need to grow the hell up too!"
"Get out!" She is yelling now, she's yelling too.
"No." He walks over to her, in her personal space; towering over her, his eyes ablaze. "No. I'm not going anywhere." And he turns around and walks over to the couch, turning on the TV. She just stands there, her heart beating in her ears, drumming; her chest rising rapidly. She just stares at him. Frustrated. She's never been that frustrated with another human being. She's never been that impressed; that amazed. She's never felt that challenged. "Come here." And he pats the couch, grinning – that grin that makes her knees go weak.
She just stares at him for a while, then she smiles, despite herself. She walks over to the couch, slowly, and sits next to him, pulling her knees up.
He pulls her in. Her head rests on his chest. He inhales her scent. He reaches for her hand. Their fingers interlace.
For the first time in five days, life surges through through them.
Let me just say it again - THANK YOU so much, for following, favoriting and reviewing. I have to admit, I enjoy writing the fiery Olitz, it's quite therapeutic. I was nervous about messing this up, because you were so positive in your reviews of Ch1, so let me know how you liked it.