A/N: Please pay attention to the time/date markers for each section. This is not linear.

Sulk

"I never asked you this: was the ink even dry before you two- "

"... Nothing changes the fact that you are my ex-wife."

/Almost three years ago, April 25th/

It was a miracle Olivia made it up the wrought iron steps of the Georgetown house they rented, without tripping over Fitz, or herself. Fitz held her firmly in his grip, nipping at her ear and covering her neck and exposed shoulders in kisses. Olivia had refused to move to Fitz's spacious place in Charlottesville. Fitz told her the one bedroom apartment in Adam's Morgan was no place to begin married life. They were building a life together; they should start fresh. The Georgetown terrace nestled at the edge of the DC-Virginia divide was their practical compromise to Fitz's duties in Charlottesville and Olivia's K Street escapades.

Olivia managed to get the door open, the two stumbled inside to the foyer. She quickly tossed the keys onto the narrow piece of marble across from her. Fitz had her pressed up against the wall in no time, swiftly capturing her coral stained lips and pouring into his kiss all the wanting he had for her. He conveyed how long he had been waiting to get her in private so he could do just that and so much more. She returned the depth of his longing, moaning as his tongue sought her own. Their tongues engaged in a competitive, wet, passionate duel.

Olivia gasped, suddenly, in surprise and delight. Fitz had deftly spun Olivia around so that she faced the wall.

Fitz brought her hands up above her, pressing their entwined fingers into the mourning grey wall. Molding his body with hers, he reached his hand down, gathering the hem of her flouncy, Kelly green dress. "Are you playing Marilyn for me?" His whispered words fell like a velvet caress against her ear.

The vibration of his baritone prompted a strangled moan, biting down on her lip as she arched her ass to meet Fitz's pelvis. "What of it?"

She decided on a shorter, modern version of the iconic dress Marilyn Monroe wore in The Seven Year Itch. Fitz was an enthusiastic fan of Billy Wilder's oeuvre. They had been exchanging double entendres all evening over dinner at Rasika. Olivia had crossed and uncrossed her legs so many times that night. Fitz observed those legs, but did not bring up their adornment until now, when he could take full advantage.

He kissed the spot below her ear that made her quiver. "Don't you have another six years before you feel that itch? Or do you need to be scratched?" His fingers slightly grazed up her right thigh to confirm what he had suspected all night. When he reached the garter holding up the lace border, he swelled against her backside. She wrested her hands from his grasp and spun around to face him.

"Find out, "she said. A mischievous smile spread across her lips.

Olivia hated pantyhose and Fitz knew it, too. She had not worn them since the last time her mother made her put them on for a family funeral, when she was 12. Still, Olivia in stockings and lace garters was not an everyday occurrence. She was a woman who used clothing to speak of who she was, what she wanted, and sometimes who she wanted to be.

Fitz breathed like he was a bull and Olivia the matador's red cape inciting him to action. He dropped to his knees, bringing her dress up as he slid down. He grazed his lips over the silk lace band of Olivia's copper hued stockings as his face traveled up to inhale the scent of her center. Olivia was breathing wildly now, preening and arching for more. He peppered her inner thighs with kisses before aggressively separating the garters from the lace. Looking up at Olivia, he slowly slid the stocking down each leg, never breaking eye contact. He removed the nude, impossibly high stilts she wore, kissing her toes after removing them.

Olivia did not know how much longer her legs would support her. Just then a guttural moan escaped her lips as she felt the back of Fitz's fingers sampling her arousal. Her legs spread like a butterfly's wings, instinctively.

As Fitz moved to unclasp the button holding up Olivia's dress at the back of her neck, she came to her senses. They had not yet exchanged gifts. It was their first wedding anniversary and she wanted to see his face when she unveiled his gift. If Fitz got her naked before that, there would be no gift exchange until the next morning.

Flattening her diminutive hands firmly against his chest, smiling against his lips, Olivia whispered, "Wait, the night isn't over yet."

"Exactly, so why are you interrupting me? I don't plan for the night to be over until you can't take any more," Fitz returned, as he kept bathing the back of his fingers in her wetness.

"Fiiiiitz," she whined in that way he loved, which only made him more dogged in his ministrations. Finally, Olivia bit down on his shirted shoulder to convey this was not one of their many cat and mouse games. She was serious. It was their first wedding anniversary and she wanted to do this this right. Well, she wanted it to go the way she had envisioned and to her those were the same thing.

"Owww," Fitz rubbed his shoulder." I know you're into being bitten, but I'm not sure I am."

"Oh, hush," Olivia smiled as she dragged him to the sitting room. " I know that to be a lie." She had left there to chill, in a sterling silver bucket, a bottle of Krug Rosé, Edition 23. She thought the distinct boldness, capped off with notes of her beloved pinot, would go well with the melange of Indian flavors they had just consumed. Two old fashioned champagne cocktail glasses with the wide rim and short body sat next to the bottle.

"What's all this?" Fitz queried, as he enveloped Olivia from behind, not wanting to let her go.

"I wanted us to exchange anniversary presents while it is still our actual anniversary," Olivia handed Fitz a glass with the effervescent peony liquid. It was well after 11pm.

"Hang on, I'll be right back, he said as he kissed her neck." Fitz left the room to retrieve Olivia's present from its hiding spot. His little Nancy Drew had a habit of discovering things before he wanted her to. This time he had fixed her good.

Returning to the sitting room to see a relaxed Olivia on the overstuffed lounger staring off into space, her feet gathered beneath her, he asked if everything was OK. It was she assured. He looked around curiously and she knew what he was searching for.

"You go first, then I'll bring yours. The packaging and shape of it is a little obvious," Olivia relayed, almost giddily so.

Fitz sat facing her, the present in his hand behind his back. "Livvie, you have made me the luckiest man alive. The past year has been an incredible ride…"

She blushed.

"Not that way, you little perv!"

She swatted his arm and urged him to continue. He did, after giving her a quick kiss. "Every day you inspire me to keep giving you my best, to keep living up to be the man I see reflected in your eyes. And I hope you'll give me a lifetime to keep showing up and showing you who I am."

The tears brimmed in her eyes and she blinked to let them fall. Fitz reached out his right hand to catch one. "Livvie, I love you," he said, leaning in to capture her lips in a sweet, endearing kiss. He handed her a hexagonal black box with an elaborate cream colored bow. Olivia looked slightly confused, but mostly intrigued by what this many-sided box held.

"Come on, open it. I decided to go with a modern interpretation for the first year," Fitz said. What he did not say is that he had gone traditional for his first anniversary with Mellie and wanted this marriage to be as far removed as possible from the mistakes of the first one.

Olivia impatiently tore through the wrapper, as Fitz looked on amused. Inside, was nestled a long slender box. Olivia knew it was some type of jewelry. A Necklace? A bracelet? Fitz was not one to throw baubles her way. He was one of the most intentional men she had ever met.

Olivia opened the box to reveal a delicate yet commanding yellow gold watch. Its mother of pearl face gleamed with four oblong diamonds in each quadrant.

"Fitz- I… This is breath-taking," she said with her hand on her heart.

Delighted she was impressed, he grinned charmingly. "I designed it. Turn it over."

Time has made you perfect, and you are perfect every time. -III

"You're such a romantic," she beamed. Fitz took the watch from her and began placing it on her delicate left wrist.

"I'm so lucky to have you. I want all the moments that make a lifetime with you. The seconds, the minutes, the hours. I got you something that would remind you of that. Gold, mother of pearl, diamonds, they are elements made perfect by time. And damn near indestructible, like this marriage." He brushed his nose against hers. She loved when he used a hushed voice with her. It made her feel soft and warm, safe- like being enveloped by a blanket straight from the dryer.

She kissed him sweetly, her eyes communicating just how much both he and the watch meant to her.

Olivia disappeared, returning minutes later, trounced by the large, flat package she carried in front of her. Fitz rose to help her. "No, I've got it." She set the square frame down on the floor, her hand resting on the top. "I went in the more traditional paper direction, since this is my first marriage…"

"And your only marriage," Fitz winked.

"Keep interrupting me and it won't be"

Fitz mimed pinching his lips closed.

"Happy first anniversary, Fitz," She beamed as she slid the package his way.

He could tell it was something framed, as he undid the twine and tore through the brown wrapper. Olivia had a keen eye for art, one of several interests he was surprised to discover they shared. "No, it couldn't be" Fitz exclaimed in disbelief as the piece came into full view. "Who did this?! It is exquisite and looks so real."

"A Corcoran student named Osun. I had her do a couple original pieces for OPA. She's going to be something. Do you love it? You don't think it's narcissistic?" Olivia fidgeted. She had no doubt Fitz would love it, but it felt a little cliché and self-obsessive.

With slightly damp eyes, he cupped her cheek and brought her in for an appreciative kiss, conveying to her just how meaningful the gift was to him.

For their wedding, they had instructed people to upload their photos to an account registered for the event. It was impossible for them to spend quality time with everyone or observe everything, particularly at the reception. They had wanted to be present and enjoy themselves that evening, not be too concerned with the mechanics of it all. Having friends and family capture candid shots allowed them to re- live the evening through the eyes of those who knew them, not just the photographer. There was one photo with which Fitz became enamored, even though the quality paled in comparison to its composition. It was a blurry, badly framed shot of a candid moment between the two. Whomever said it was impossible to capture a relationship in one photo was wrong. He had made it his lock screen's photo. A dumb, goofy smile never failed to emerge when would stare at it.

What he was staring at now was a divine, photo-realistic pencil drawing of that moment. "This is everything, Liv. Thank you. I never want to forget this." He pulled her onto his lap.

"Well, now you don't have to," she smiled at how genuinely optimistic he was. She needed him to carry that torch, lighting her path when she was prone to more realistic, cynical expectations."

"To time and its gift of a more perfect union," Fitz toasted. They drank from their glasses as they eyed each other over the rim, keenly aware that the evening was far from over.

/Thursday, the day after the Dean interviews/

Fitz sat in his office, a consuming rage threatening to overtake his body. He had been sitting there for god knows how long, since arriving at 6 am. Appearing intensely pensive, his anger was concentrated in his right leg as it furiously bounced up and down beneath his desk. His suit jacket hung on the shoulders of his chair, his sleeved elbows resting on the desk, his large, masculine hands laced to support his chin. His eyes, distant and darkened, did not connect with any object in the room. Instead they stared off into space.

We have argued about this so many times. And here we are again. Is this the argument they would continue to have over the lifetime of their marriage? Or was there something else?

That something eluded him. Fitz was in a boxing arena facing himself. Whenever he would extend his arm, trying to connect his anger to something solid, his spitting image would dodge or call a time out. If he were being honest, the swings were listless. Because anger was an off-the-rack emotion. Easily grabbed, but too fragile to be solid. It was only a wrapper that hid the thing that truly mattered. If he could not break this disambiguation, how could he defeat this feeling?

Wishing to return to rational thought, Fitz ran his hands over his face. When he opened his eyes, it fell to the lifelike, framed sketch he had deliberately placed on the wall across from his desk. He spun his chair to the left, rising toward the bank of windows instead. He wanted to get away from the arresting sketch. He could not access the levity it usually brought him.

/Tuesday Night/

Olivia glanced at her gold watch, noting the advanced hour. She had just completed her interviews for the open Gladiator position at OPA, and was ready to head home to her husband, when the phone rang. A crisis could happen at any time and she was in the business of setting order to chaos.

"Olivia Pope," she answered.

"Ms. Pope, I have a delicate matter that requires the utmost urgency."

Olivia recognized the voice instantly and sighed silently. Her life just got more complicated. "Go on."

"I did not want to come to you. Were there any other firm capable of handling this matter with the discretion we need, believe me, I would not be calling you."

As the caller went on to describe his emergency, she knew she would have to ask Huck for another all-nighter. This would require his off-grid tech skills. He was the only employee still there this late. He watched out for her, making sure to escort her to her car, no matter the hour.

"You are not wrong to have misgivings. You want to make sure the Law School and the University's reputations remain unimpeachable. That is your job, Jacob." She did not want to admit that she had casually been working through her own suspicions. "I…have a thread from the past that I may be able to pull on, see where it leads. I have someone who can start digging right now. Give me until first thing Wednesday morning."

By then, she would have the rest of the team scrutinize the 'why' of whatever Huck finds tonight.

/Wednesday Night/

"How many times are you going to make decisions behind my back?!" Interrogated Fitz.

"You were not my client. The University was. I do what is best for my client. They needed swift and discreet. This was not about you." Olivia's tone remained even; her suited arms crossed.

Fitz's sparse brows gathered incredulously. "Cut the crap, Liv. You knew all this time and chose not to tell me?"

Olivia was getting annoyed now. She did not have a boss. She was the boss. She did not give him oversight for her decisions. "Fitz, I became involved 24 hours ago! What do you want me to tell you?!"

"Something between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning would have been helpful."

"When we were mourning your son or when you had me blindfolded and tied to a door?" Her index finger wagged dramatically from one side to the next. "When exactly? When?! Perhaps if you had listened to me and left Tuesday night alone, like I asked, I may have mentioned it."

May have. "You would have just come up with another excuse." It was a low blow, but neither wanted to say it was untrue.

Fitz turned from her to pour himself a second finger of Writer's Tears. "I explicitly asked you not to get involved."

"As your wife."

Semantics, he thought. She is playing semantics. He tried to find a way to cut through all her obfuscation.

"You deliberately disobeyed me!" Fitz spat in irritation.

Olivia whipped around so fast, it nearly made her dizzy. That word, in this argument. How dare he. They had both refused its inclusion in the nuptials they repeated to each other, three and half years ago.

"Disobey?! Dis. O. bey," she over pronounced with incredulity, willing herself to dial back. "You may be senior in age, but you are NOT my father! Nor do you give me orders! I do NOT obey you."

Olivia took a breath, trying to pull herself back. Some arguments they had it was harder than others to stick to their established rules of engagement about name-calling, no matter how justified it felt in the moment.

"You know I didn't mean it in that way, Liv," Fitz sighed. Two hands attempted to rub the frustration from his face. They failed.

"Well, I suggest you take a less patriarchal tone with me, and use that big, Rhodes Scholar brain to find a more precise way to condemn me. Because that's what this is right? You're mad. You were left in the dark. And now you need to unload that frustration on me. Because it's my fault, right?" She swiftly patted her chest three times as she declared "because I'm the bad guy. Don't pretend you didn't want the same thing."

Before Fitz could intervene to correct her assessment, Olivia continued. She was on a roll.

"Actually, you should be thanking me. I saved you. I saved US. Again!" She stood close to him now. Physically Fitz towered over her, but in that moment, Olivia was the intimidating figure. "And I'm sure it won't be the last time." With that, Olivia grabbed her Prada bag off the kitchen's island, nearly knocking over the bowl of oranges, as she sauntered upstairs.

"That's right run off in triumph. That's what you do," a half-mumbled dig escaped Fitz's lips as he looked down at the last swig of consolation in his crystal tumbler. Olivia paused briefly on the stairs before squaring her shoulders and continuing her climb. This conversation was over until they could both calm down.

Anger is a compelling friend in the greatest times of need, providing a false sense of power when we feel most impotent and scared. We lash out, say things we do not mean. And while they feel good in the moment, when the anger wears off and we are left with the cool light of day, the pain we caused remains.

Fitz grew up in a household where arguments between his parents were as commonplace as weekly trips to the grocery store. They thought nothing of hurling colorful insults at one another when things were heated, and even when they were lukewarm. Fitz began to think they were in competition to find the sharpest, most artful daggers they could throw at each other. 'Incompetent one-term swine', 'whiny prairie cunt' were just a few of the ones lodged in Fitz's memory. Though not directed at him, hearing those terms hurt Fitz. His mother always told him he was a sensitive boy, but she never made him feel ashamed of it. He did not know how she could go on loving his father after some of the arguments they had. Fitz never wanted that. After their first bad argument, where the expletives ricocheted around the room, wounding them both, Fitz had cried to Olivia, pleading with her not to make the same mistakes his parents did. That is not what he wanted their marriage to be.

Now here he was, leg propped up on the ottoman coffee table, in the shadowy embrace of their sitting room. He wondered why an argument without name calling and expletives still hurt so damn much. He turned on the TV, flipping until he found a movie on TNT, Arise, My Love, had only been playing for 10 minutes. He was not ready to go to bed.

Olivia sat in their bed, dressed conservatively in a pair of slate colored satin pajamas, as she finished up the last of her nightly rituals. She removed her watch and absentmindedly rubbed the silkened liquid around her cuticles, hands, and forearms. She caught herself fondly thinking of the many times Fitz interrupted her bed-time ablutions. She had come upstairs nearly two hours ago and still no sign of him. It was nearly midnight and they both had work in the morning.

They needed to finish talking. But did he expect her to go to him? To apologize? She could not reconcile that she had done anything wrong in this. She had been asked to be discreet. It was last minute; she was doing a favor for Fitz's colleague. Ultimately, she knew that whatever they found would be used in the best interest of the University. That meant protecting Fitz. Of course, she said yes. She did not get to tell Fitz herself. Once again, Mellie proved to have no compunction against fucking with their relationship. First Olivia's former law career, and now an attempt at bringing her stench of corruption to Fitz's, still new, foray into academia. He was her family now, her new beginning. She would protect with every weapon available what was rightfully hers.

Olivia lay on her side, under their feather-filled duvet, her head resting on the silk pillowcase she opted for instead of tying her hair up in a scarf. She played out scenarios for Fitz's impending arrival in their California king bed. He would come to her soon enough, and she would be softer and make him see she was right.

She fingered his pillow as her eyes grew heavy. He would be up soon, she told herself as she succumbed to slumber, an empty, unwrinkled expanse of Egyptian cotton beside her.

'Never go to bed angry' was one of the more trite pieces of marital advice they had received. Their videographer recorded people in a confessional-style booth at their wedding reception. So many of them doled out that advice. As Fitz leaned against the door frame of their bedroom watching Olivia sleep, he thought about how true, but sometimes impractical, that advice was. Tonight, it felt impractical. He warred with himself, but he could not shake the vice-like grip of this feeling. He feared it coiling into resentment should he crawl into bed. He needed to get to the bottom of it. But not in that bed.

That monstrosity of a bed was his idea—a bed they could love in, fight in, have tickle sessions with the kids in. They had knocked two rooms together to create their master suite because he wanted this bed. And because Olivia wanted a south-facing breakfast balcony. The spaciousness of the bed, he told her, was not for his long body, but for the inevitable distance they would sometimes need from each other. They could go to their separate corners, so to speak. He looked at Olivia wistfully, in her corner, serenely unaware of him. He turned towards one of the guest rooms to console his ego for the night.

/Thursday Morning/

Olivia felt un-rested. Once she woke during the night, it was impossible to sleep again. She chafed as her eyes adjusted to the same cold, un-dented space she looked at many times in the night. He had never not come to bed. Not voluntarily. Olivia felt mildly nauseated at the thought of another night alone in their bed.

"There is nothing you could do that I wouldn't forgive." She thought of his words, said years ago at the height of her foolhardy attempts to stop the inevitability of them. They had remained true. What was different now? She could not shake the feeling that there was something more he was not telling her.

/Thursday, Early Evening/

Maroon Bay, a Caribbean themed lounged on 11th street, in the Shaw neighborhood, stood in sharp contrast to its holy neighbor. Though they did not share his view, Kenny thought he and the Eritrean church had similar goals: to serve as a welcoming port for their community. If there is one thing DC is not short on, it is churches and bars. But Kenny was adamant his was not a bar, but a lounge. It was a place where people could be entertained, drink and eat light fare, but also hear each other when they talked. On an early evening in mid-October, as Kenny prepared for the impending Happy Hour crowd, an old friend dropped by.

"Eh, eh. Cooyah, is who dis?" Kenny says in his native patois at the sight of Olivia, clad in a floor length, black and white Houndstooth coat. Pointy, intentionally crumpled leather, aubergine stilettos peaked from beneath her wide-legged, black trousers as she moved briskly to embrace him. He had not seen her in nearly a year.

Olivia playfully rolled her eyes, ignoring his guilt trip. "What's going on?"

"What's going on is every day it's more white people coming up and through here. They wanna blow off steam from they lil jobs. I had to hire security to make sure ain't nobody doin coke on the roof or in the bathroom. 'Cause you know white people be crazy, chile." Kenny needed no preamble to say what was on his mind.

Kenny pronounced 'white people' as if they represented the penultimate letter of the alphabet. Ypeepo. As if those were the type of people they were, the Ys. Or maybe they were the Whys. Why were they here? Why were they the way they were? So oblivious to how their mere existence in a space could shift a balance of power, joy, freedom. Why did they naively expected to be catered to, be made to feel special, in a place that was wholly his? Passed down from his Jamaican grandmother when she died, fifteen years ago, what used to be her home, since the early 1960s, was transitioned into this lounge. She-Mother Gordon and the house-had survived so much, including the 1968 riots. The Ypeepo had fled then, growing their children in the desolate safety of Negro-free places like Gaithersburg, Silver Spring, Rockville.

Now their offspring, and those like them from all over the country, were back. They settled into his neighborhood as if their parents had not pronounced these same places undesirable ghettos. As if this place had no people and culture of its own, scratching and surviving during their decades of abandonment. Now the ypeepo were back in the hood. To be entertained by its sugar and spice, its everything nice. Meanwhile they were crusading to destroy everything complicated and ugly about these spaces, not understanding that these things are inextricably linked. To separate them was to recreate the sterile cultural voids from which they had fled.

"But, you know I ain't talkin 'bout your Boo. How's Geraldo, anyway? It's been a coon's age."

Olivia twisted her face, momentarily forgetting the ridiculous name Kenny had carved from Fitzgerald. He had refused to call him 'Fitz.' Having formed a bond with Kenny during the early Young and the Restless days of the couple's relationship, Olivia's Boo would not allow anyone else the liberty of such a nickname.

"Oh, Fitz! Of course. He's fine. Sometimes he is crazy, but in a good way." She tried offering light-heartedly.

Kenny regarded her carefully, both lemon-colored palms flat on the bar's countertop and fingers splayed far apart. His searching honey-brown eyes pierced her bubble of avoidance.

She finally relinquished a sigh. "He's upset with me."

Kenrick Leisland Gordon had known Olivia since her law school days. She and her friends would come to his lounge, in Shaw, when they needed breathing room, away from the overwhelming whiteness surrounding them on Georgetown's campus.

"Mm." Was all Kenny offered. It was a typical utterance from him, one that could have so many meanings, depending on context. This time it was mildly righteous confirmation. "Since y'all got together you only come here alone when you and my Nigga are on the outs."

Olivia was used to Kenny, and other Black people, in her life using that word in the loosest interpretation of a noun. For Kenny, it was a term used mostly in affection. Anyone and anything could be a 'Nigga'—except the people and things he disliked. For those he reserved biting venom.

Pouting, Olivia replied "That's not true." She considered the last time she had been there.

"Girl, I know you. I'm not the least bit slighted. I get it. I'm just sayin!" he shrugged. "Now what's really goin on?" He said in that endearing DC twang.

Olivia opened her mouth to respond but was distracted by the bluesy sounds of a steel drum melding with the romantic plucking of a base guitar typical of Lover's Rock. Her forehead knitted together. "What's this, "she said, her index finger circling in the air. "It's Thursday."

"Happy Hour doesn't start until 6, so I'm just playin what I wanna hear right now." He would switch to Thursday's usual 90s theme closer to the time. "You stayin?"

Sheila Hylton's words hung in the air. Her lover's absence made the bed too big.

"I don't know." Her pouty lips synchronized with the pitiful uncertainty in her eyes.

"I ain't like ya Nigga, so if you want my advice, open them big ass lips and use your words."

Olivia playfully hit Kenny across the bar. Finally hoisting herself upon the stool, she began to recount their argument from the night before, and the events that had led to it. As more and more people began to spill inside, Olivia grew conscious of her talk, disguising names, and other details. Kenny would decipher it all.

"That bitch is a piece of work. It is peak caucacity to be profiting off money laundering but want the appearance of respectability. And to expect your ex-husband to just lay down the red carpet so you can steamroll your shady, dramatic ass back into his life?" Kenny finished his synopsis with a melodic flourish, "Ohhhh my gawwwd."

Olivia twisted her mouth, trying not to laugh at the accuracy of his takeaway. "This is what I'm saying."

A moment passed between them before Kenny said, "Even so, she's not your problem. You two are your problem."

Olivia pulled back slightly. "I did my job. This was not a decision for him to make. In fact, by not telling him, I was protecting his position. Protecting him from her," Olivia maintained.

Olivia breathed heavily, uneasily through her mouth. A feeling she had been pushing down since Tuesday, when Jacob Cunningham called, was rising now, curling like spoiled milk knocking at the back of her throat. She lurched off the stool, toward the bank of gender-neutral stalls at the back of the lounge.

Moments later, Kenny pushed soda water, with lemon slices, across the brushed stainless steel counter. "You aiight?" His casual words betrayed the true concern in his face.

"I'm fine," she offered, wiping the corner of her mouth. "I ate something I had no business eating." Inelegantly, she gulped the water to settle her stomach, and to take that awful taste out of her mouth. No more creamy soups from the end of the lunch rush. Not from that place on the corner, near her office.

Kenny looked up at the clock as it neared Happy Hour. "Look, Liv, you need to decide do you wanna be righteous, or do you wanna be in a relationship? Go home to Geraldo and figure this out. I'm not saying you're wrong, but you ain't all the way right either." Kenny patted her hand. "Shocking, I know."

Kenny was all the way right, and Olivia's stare communicated that truth. The Olive branch was in her hands. In extending it, would she be giving something up? She placed the empty glass back on the counter, gathering her bag and coat.

The music changed as they walked, together, towards the door. Whitney Houston crooned about things being somewhere between not right and OK. Kenny grabbed her hands in his, leaning in to plant three alternating kisses against her sculpted cheeks. "Don't be a stranger," he smiled softly without showing his teeth. "Gwaaan, nuh," he urged as he softly evicted her.

"Love you, Ken!"

/ Wednesday Afternoon/

"Ma'am you can't go in there," Lauren insisted, chasing an entitled, truculent Mellie, who had breezed past her. It was too late, like a heat-seeking missile, her target, Fitzgerald Grant, was locked and loaded behind the door in front of her.

In a low, menacing tone Mellie growled, "the hell I can't. I am his wife!"

"Ex, Mellie. Ex. For six years now it's been true," Fitz responded before she could even come into view. He was standing waiting for her, his blue and white pinstriped arms crossed in front of his cobalt tie. He had been expecting a visit ever since Jacob had rifled through the details of her background check earlier. He looked past her and nodded an approval at Lauren.

Mellie launched a thousand daggers his way before uttering a word. Cain and Able. Caesar and Brutus. Jesus and Judas. Backstabbers were on Mellie's mind. "You bastard. You promised me you wouldn't."

"And I kept that promise. I am a man of my word. I told you whether you fly, or you fail, in this process, it would be on your own steam. I have made no interventions here."

"You may not have, but I recognize Olivia Pope's hand. Of course, you know this. You idiot love birds share everything." She placed her hand on her hip, shaking her head at no one in particular. "I loathe that woman. In the most boring way. I wish I could put my back into hating her more, but what use is it when this is all your fault."

Fitz extended a questioning arm towards his bookshelves, as if looking for them to correct the reach Mellie was making.

"You could not wait to find the secrets of the universe between her magical thighs, could you? But to marry her?" Mellie never thought it would go that far. This is the first time she's shared the same room with Fitz, since before he and Olivia married. "I never asked you this: was the ink even dry before you two- "

No, she had never asked, only acted out based on presumption in the past. Fitz had no interest in bringing her into the light. "You're out of line, Mel. That is none of your business. Nothing changes the fact that you are my ex-wife."

Years of peaks and valleys passed between them in that moment. He thought he saw a look of defeat, or was it resignation, in her blue eyes before they were once again flashing.

"I know a lot of people, Fitz." Mellie was a picture of manicured civility, with gleaming teeth and lying eyes. But like the American Beauty rose, the artifice distracted from its injurious thorns.

Fitz had lived through enough seasons of the Mellie saga to recognize the sinister in her saccharine. "Just tell me if it will be one of your Russian, Chinese or Saudi launderers I should be expecting." Fitz shook his head at her in disappointment and lack of surprise. He got up close to deliver his message. "Do your best. You and I both know I will do anything necessary for her, so don't let the necessary occur, Mel."

With that declaration, Mellie entered a deep green place of jealousy, where it merged with the color of her rage to create the putrescent hue of loss. She had lost so much because of this man. It boiled inside her.

"YOU TAKE EVERYTHING FROM ME!" Her face was as crimson as the tailored suit she wore.

"You took my name. You took four years of my life. You took away the future I had planned for us. You were nothing when I met you. A dynastic pretty boy with no direction, no ambition. You needed someone to lead you. Everything I did, I did it for us. For our political future. Without me, you would have frittered away your life—wasting both our time—as some…some professor." She said disdainfully, as if it was the worst thing in the world. "You were never good at knowing what you really need, only what you think you want. I bet even this job is Olivia's doing. You and I both know that you aren't the kind of president you were meant to be. This isn't what Big Jerry had in mind for you."

She made a show of looking around his office, her eyes landing on the framed sketch perched above a small, navy blue couch, accented with yellow piping. "Complacent mediocrity."

Mellie let her vindictive missive settle between them as she continued to stare at the depiction of the love birds, her eyes soon growing a dull film like that of a dead fish. Seconds later, her face bore a false epiphany. "But, you know, I realized something, Fitz."

"What's that, Mellie?" Fitz said, growing weary of her presence. He abided her because he knew her ire needed to be spent. He had rather she spend it with him than taking it to OPA. Or was she too much of a coward for that? He was her easy target.

Mellie turned to face him, sitting behind his desk, his index finger propping up the bored expression on his face. "You are too weak for politics. Too sensitive. You can't make the unpleasant, unpopular decisions. So that's why I decided I would bet on myself for the presidency."

"Then why would you apply for a deanship if being POTUS is what you want? You don't need this job"

"As much as you don't need this one. But I suppose all moneyed men have their pet hobbies. Some of us need more than charm, natural charisma and a good head of hair to get ahead." Her tone was mocking as she affected a baby voice. "Some of us have to make sacrifices and work harder at crafting an image the public can buy into. Working together would have looked good for me… and for you."

Fitz's patience had worn thin. A sort of fury begun percolating in him, one he recognized from their past. He got up, heading to the door so that Mellie knew visiting hours were over. The door hung open, with Fitz standing beside it, his balled fists buried deep inside the pockets of his navy trousers. Door and man awaited her exit.

Mellie huffed, heading toward the door. But not before leaving with one parting shot. "You are a fool, Fitzgerald. You should have stayed."

A/N: *is anyone still reading this?* Hello! If you are still reading this, thank you. Please do review. I will post Part II, with some resolutions and...more-tomorrow. It didn't feel right leaving it as one. Questions: Is Mellie right about Fitz? What about Olivia? Was she perfectly within her rights, or should she give a little here and extend the olive branch? Is something bugging Fitz more than Liv not giving him a heads up about Mellie? What's up with him? Is it acceptable to just not go to bed to your spouse 'cause you mad? Lastly, do you think the ink **was** dry? [eye emojis]

One last thing: I hope you like flashbacks because I'll be doing more of those in order to reveal stuff from their past if it's pertinent to the story. Boy do I now know a lot about Olivia and Fitz's past. It only took 5 years lol.