AN: Hi beautiful people! I appreciate all your lovely comments and feedback on this story! This chapter is just a little filler, but I hope you enjoy. The dress Olivia wears at the Gala is inspired by Kerry's VF Oscar's party dress from this year.
Eight weeks
They finally talk about a plan. She can finally stomach talking about a plan. It's late, and they're sitting on the Truman Balcony together, sipping peppermint tea—he's given up scotch in solidarity even though she's told him over and over that he doesn't need to.
"So… I was thinking," she starts.
"Uh-oh," he replies, full of mock dread and tease.
Her eyes roll, and she smacks his shoulder playfully. "Shut up. I just had an idea…"
His eyebrows lift, encouraging. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah…"
"What about?"
"Going public…"
He stops mid-drink, eyes widening. "Oh. Okay… what are you thinking?"
Her cup gets set on the coffee table, and she folds her legs underneath her, steadying herself. "So, I'm thinking that we start small, kind of like the Thanksgiving appearance. We have a few public appearances, not together but friendly. We have all of those holiday parties coming up—we sit at the same table at the Senate Holiday Gala, and we have one public dance at the White House Holiday Party. Quinn can orchestrate the PR—I'm thinking BNC, just because they have good history covering your good stories. Reporters catch a few pictures of us together, starting the speculation a little… We don't want to come hot out the gate—that always looks fake and suspicious. We let it happen naturally.
"Then, we go on a date…Somewhere nice, fancy…expensive." She eyes him with a little grin. "We make it public—we hold hands, we laugh a little too loudly, we let the servers see us flirt… It will all be very…disgusting and romantic. A few weeks later, we have a more formal outing—you take me as your date to something official, I'm thinking a state dinner or something. We finally agree to an interview—someone friendly to us, one that I haven't explicitly torn to shreds or threatened, preferably like Susie Rathsby or Dylan Sanders…someone like that.
"America loves a love story—so we sell it. We tell them how our working relationship was professional, but something always kept pulling us back together. I think we admit the affair, but we don't give specific details. Something like we made a few mistakes along the way, we tried to stay apart, but we just couldn't. I apologize to Mellie, your kids. You say something about finally getting to be with your soulmate or something cheesy like that—I'm sure you'll come up with something good.
"We make a few more public appearances—all of this is while I can still hide the pregnancy of course. Once our relationship is solidified and we have enough public support, we ask for privacy. We release a statement a few months later, announcing the pregnancy, but stay really vague on the timing. Past that, I think we feel it out, spin where we need to, but all in all, I think we should be able to make it out with considerable support."
She finally pauses, takes a swig of her tea, and glances back at Fitz. He has the most shit-eating grin on his face.
"Yes, mister?" She presses.
"Oh, of course, you have a perfectly thought out, 10-step plan. It's just—it's so you, I'm not one bit surprised," he confesses as he drapes his arm across her shoulders.
"Well…what do you think? Are you on board?"
As he leans into her, he nuzzles his nose against hers before kissing her and mumbling against her lips. "You know I'd go wherever you led me… Of course, I'm on board."
Nine weeks
Her dress is delivered to the White House early on Tuesday and stowed quietly in his closet for her. When she's finished with work for the day, she swings by her apartment to grab the pair of shoes she wants—cream, crystal encrusted Louboutin's. The Gala is making her anxious, and the only things she can truly control are her attitude and her footwear. So that's what she does.
Later that night, she tries on the gown since Fitz is working late, and her anxiety typically manifests in the silence without any distractions around her. In the quiet stillness of the closet, she beholds the dress, the one that all of the sudden feels so important.
It's gorgeous—a little less sleek than she typically goes for, with its bunching layers of silky gold fabric, tussled right at her belly before sweeping to the floor in flowing fashion. The ultra-thin straps hang daintily at her shoulders and accentuate the dramatic swoop at her chest, her cleavage prominently highlighted.
It's been the first change she's noticed in her body, aside from the nausea. Her breasts not only ache and are so sensitive, but she's gone up at least one, if not two, cup sizes in the past three weeks. She's noticed, and Fitz is not ashamed in the slightest to admit that he's noticed as well.
Slipping her heels on, she walks to the full-length mirror at the end of the corridor, where she can see the complete look. The pressure feels immense, selecting outfits with the intention of publicity, wanting to get the attention of photographers and reporters, wanting people to see her and she how he openly lusts after her. It's hard to toe the line of sophisticated yet sexy, professional yet still fun—she thinks this dress is perfect.
As soon as she gives herself a final once-over and moves to take the dress off, she hears the shuffle of opening and closing doors and footsteps coming toward the bathroom and closet. Fitz rounds the corner just in time to see her standing in the gold garment, a hand at her hip, waiting for him to take in her outfit-
"Liv, are you—Oh my god—"
His eyes illuminate, taking in her radiant features, and while he would venture to say that there hasn't been a time that Olivia has not looked spectacular to him, tonight, she looks absolutely glowing. He's been fortunate as President to view some of the most incredible, exclusive spaces—works of art, palaces, diamonds and rubies and gems belonging to kings and queens—but they hold no weight, no comparison, to her.
"You like it?" She smiles and gives him a little twirl, appreciating how utterly gob smacked he looks.
"You…" He closes the distance between them, holding her waist and admiring every inch of her. "…are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
The flush rises up her chest, where his eyes are lingering unabashedly, and she pulls him in for a kiss, cradling his jaw and working his lips open against hers as she works open his tie and the buttons of his dress shirt.
"Are you tired, old man?" She asks playfully, tugging his bottom lip between her teeth.
"The way you look in this dress… I couldn't be tired if I tried, pretty girl," he retorts back to her, already finding the zipper and pulling it down.
As much as he loves to tear clothes off of her—and has done so many times, much to her chagrin—he's respectful of her clothes when he wants to be and lets her step out of the gown, place it back on the hanger, and kick off her shoes, before he launches himself at her. His hands spin her around, pinning her bare back against the wall of the closet before he dips down to worship her breasts, weighing them in his palms, brushing his lips across her tender skin. "Fuck—are they bigger today?"
Her head tosses back against the wall, and she laughs. "Of course, you would notice—yes, I think they are… hah- oh, that feels good, baby—"
The gentle suction is heavenly, as his mouth works over her nipples, tonguing each of them at a pace that makes her dizzy. His hands can't stop caressing her, like he's trying to relearn how they feel in his grasp at their new size. The way his thumbs glide over each nipple makes her knees weak, and thankfully, he steps one leg between hers, sliding his thigh up against her panty-clad core.
She moans loudly at the contact and immediately aches her back, starting to roll her body, grinding against his upper thigh and hip as he rocks against her. His hands relocate to clutch her ass and help her move with more pressure, continuing to suck her nipples and scrape delicately with his teeth.
It happens so fast—she rocks, he sucks, and all of the sudden, she's crying out, gasping and clutching at his biceps to keep her upright while her thighs and belly tremble with pleasure.
"Oh—oh my god, I'm—"
And she's coming in his arms, convulsing, hips stuttering against his. When she relaxes, she peers down at him where he's looking up at her, planting kisses across her chest again, a look of surprise shining across his face, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"Did you just…?"
Liv giggles. She actually giggles and pulls him up to kiss her again. "Yeah… I did… I didn't know it was going to happen, but it just snuck up on me—felt so good, baby."
On her third kiss, she feels his hands at the backs of her thighs, and he then scoops her up into his arms.
"Mmm, want you in bed, Livvie…" he growls into her mouth, turning on his heel and walking with purpose into the bedroom.
Sex is always incredible with them. It's beautiful and passionate. It's intense and fiery. It's sweet and soft and tender, the definition of making love. Olivia loves the sex, and more importantly, the raging hormones in her body love the sex. But when she really thinks about it, this is what she really loves the most.
Sure, orgasms are amazing, but this—her head on Fitz's chest, soft fingers caressing tender patches of skin, easy conversation or silence or whatever they need—is better. Fitz's fingertips trace along the bridge of her nose, across her full lips, her cheekbones. Hers make indefinite shapes along his chest and pecs where his skin is tender but muscles firm.
Tonight, they talk softly, barely above a whisper, about their days, about how she's feeling, about what she ate for lunch and how the baby did not like it, about the Gala tomorrow and what it means for them. She murmurs that she feels ready and excited and giddy about teasing him all evening in that dress, knowing he won't be able to do a goddamn thing about it.
But she also mentions how deep down, there's anxiety lingering. That she knows she wants to take the next step forward and do this, but the pit in her stomach only intensifies every second that they get closer to the event.
Fitz reassures her that they don't have to do anything she's not ready for, but he'll provide encouragement when and where she needs it. He ensures her that he will be staring at her from across the dance floor and will find it a great victory if he makes it the whole evening without pulling her into a storage closet or insisting that they leave early.
Attempting to calm her anxious brain, she scoots around in the bed, flipping over and wiggling backward into him, signaling she's ready to sleep. She's ready for him to hold her and make her feel safe, spooning her petite form until they both drift off into peaceful ignorance about what tomorrow brings. When he does so, his right hand tracks along her right hip, skimming up along her ribcage until it comes to rest against her chest, right over her fluttering heart.
He's always careful when he touches her. He's attentive and calculated yet decisive, knowing exactly how and where he wants to caress and hold and love on her. But when she presses her hips back into his, encouraging him to help keep the comforting pressure with his hold on her like he would normally, she realizes that he's…not.
His arm resides between her breasts, allowing her upper body to press against his chest which is…nice, but ultimately not how she's used to cuddling with him. And then it dawns on her—this is how he's been holding her for weeks, or so it feels. She's just been too exhausted to notice or care, but tonight, she wants to feel safe and secure, just like she did the first time he rested his hand against her stomach and held her—the first night they were able to fall asleep by the other's side all those years ago.
And she realizes instantly the change—he's holding back. He's not going to lie in bed and pull up her nightgown and kiss her belly and whisper to a fetus that doesn't yet have a fully formed brain, nonetheless the ability to hear. He's not going to do all of these things that she imagines he wants to do because he's spending all day, every day, making sure she's comfortable and happy and not going to run from this.
Because in truth, she still could. She still has options.
He's been holding himself back as an attempt to not smother her or scare her off or make her feel anything but comfortable.
Considering this, Olivia turns her body once more, flopping back onto her back and meeting his eyes with her own through the dim lighting of the room. He gives her a questioning grin.
"Why aren't you touching me?" She asks, bluntly.
Immediately, he laughs. "Livvie, I've done nothing but touch you since I got back tonight… I don't know what—oh, do you wanna go again? Sweetheart, I appreciate your confidence in me, but I don't think I'll be able to—"
"—god. No, that's not what I meant," she replies as she rolls her eyes fondly at him.
"Um, okay, well… What did you mean? How do you want me to touch you?" He looks genuinely confused, like he's not sure what she's getting at.
"I was just realizing that when we sleep, you haven't—you don't touch my—" She glances down at her still-flat abdomen before returning her gaze to him.
"Oh… Liv, I just thought you might not—I don't know—maybe you didn't want me to? I didn't want to make you feel…"
"…uncomfortable?" She finishes for him.
"Yeah."
"Oh. Okay."
As she peers into his cautious, reserved expression, her resolve is strengthened, and she reaches out her hand to grasp his.
"Liv—"
"Shh, I want you to," she says, so softly it's almost reverent, guiding his hand across her bare skin to her belly.
His fingers trace so affectionately across her skin that she almost wants to cry as his palm finally settles against her low abdomen. The heat from him radiates throughout her torso, like it somehow connects the three of them in that moment.
The room is so still that she doesn't want to even breathe for fear that it will be too loud—that it will interrupt this moment. His hand is on her belly, and while his eyes were initially fixed at the sight, they quickly find hers again.
"Thank you," he whispers, sincerely with every ounce of his own reverence, before kissing her once again.
She's running late, because of course she is. It's supposed to their first step, and of course, it's the first day in a long time that she's been stuck at the office way past when she anticipated. So, by the time she makes it all the way back to the Residence, changes into her gown and freshens up, and makes it to the Gala, the party is already well underway.
Olivia had missed dinner, though with how queasy she's feeling, she's not necessarily upset at that fact. She's really only upset that after her meticulous planning, she's been the one to mess it up, missing the opportunity to sit across the table from him and have numerous onlookers to their obvious flirtatious banter.
Striding into the ballroom, hair cascading over her shoulders, she senses eyes immediately on her. That's not to say that she hasn't experienced that before—she's not naïve to how people look at her in dresses and heels and things these people don't usually see her in. These Congresspeople and political elitists.
The room is loud with the live band and boisterous conversation of colleagues—little throngs of progressives here, small groups of conservatives there. Some intermingling occurs at these types of events, and the work part of Olivia's brain sings, cataloguing the connections that are haphazardly put on view. Those that send hate tweets to a particular Congresswoman, only to clearly hit on her after a few drinks. Those that vote against equal protection amendments, then slide their personal cellphone number to an openly gay member, one who's known for hookups of all kinds.
It's like…political porn.
She loves it.
Reporters here tonight are those exclusively on the Congressional beat. Those that spend painstaking hours in the Capitol rotunda drilling Congresspeople and in the Galleries taking in hours of debates and votes on legislation. They have a sense of comradery, so they are usually invited to attend the annual galas in a less official work capacity. They themselves are known to let loose a little too much, spilling gossip and booze around the room.
Olivia knew that would the case; it was kind of the same reason she got an invite as well.
Walking through the crowd, she chats amiably with the people she knows best—Congressman Newbert and Congresswoman Ramirez, some staffers that she worked with years ago as Senate Pages during her summers home from boarding school. She, of course, fields compliments from starry-eyed female reporters and borderline catcalls from sleezy Congressmen, but she tries to not let it get to her tonight.
She needs to stay focused.
People are starting to dance in the middle of the ornately decorated room, and as soon as she makes it to the bar for a club soda, that's when she sees him. For the President of the United States, he looks a little like a loner, standing in the corner, talking to Susan and a handful of Republican Senators, but as soon as his eyes land on her, his demeanor changes.
His eyebrows lift toward her, offering a smile and a very subtle once-over of her body. He looks obviously relieved, if not a little surprised to see her, and guilt instantly gnaws in her gut—he's surprised because he thought that she was not going to show. That she had already run.
Whether it's the buzz of the environment or the expression on his face, she's not sure, but something emboldens her and with a quick thank you to the bartender, she's confidently walking past Senators and journalists calling her name and straight toward Fitz. His eyes have been locked on her since he first spotted her, so he politely excuses himself from the group and meets her in the middle, just at the end of the dance floor.
"Miss Pope," he greets, a little louder than he typically would. "If you don't mind me saying, you look ravishing tonight."
Olivia smiles up at him, trying to hide her blush at his compliment. "Thank you, Mr. President. I had to clean up if I was going to be in your presence, of course."
"Hmm…" It's a mix between a contemplative hum and a groan because she's already trying to lay it on thick with her eyes dropping to her chest then darting back up at him, scanning his body, batting her eyelashes. "You missed dinner."
He states it as a fact, but she knows it's a question. Where were you? Have you eaten?
It's odd, having to try and formulate her responses to him in this public setting, attempting to seem friendly and familiar but not as familiar as they truly are.
"I did…I got caught up at my office—you know how I can get when I get wrapped up in something."
Fitz nods, seemingly navigating the same thoughts as her. "I remember… I also remember you working through meals. I can track the chef down and have him—"
"—Fi—President Grant, that's not necessary, truly. I grabbed something quick at home while I was changing, and I'm perfectly fine."
And while he fully recognizes that she can't say "at the Residence" or "at the White House" right now, his stomach does a flip when he hears her call his home hers. He can't help but smile stupidly at her, choosing not to press her on if what she's saying about eating is really true.
When he finally decides on a response and opens his mouth, he's quickly cut off, interrupted by Olivia's eyes flicking past his and greeting someone walking up behind him. Fitz turns and sees who she spotted—Senator Edison Davis—who is now at Fitz's side, warm eyes taking Olivia in.
"Edison, it's good to see you," she greets, knowing better than to let Fitz lead the way with his jealous tendencies that she can already see festering in him.
"Olivia, it's been a while…Mr. President," he acknowledges them both kindly, shaking hands as he does so. "Pardon my abruptness, but I saw you walk in, Liv, and I knew I had to come ask you to dance before everyone else swept you away…"
She grins at him because it's so awkward, and she doesn't really know what else to do. This man of all the men here tonight knows or has assumed about her relationship with Fitz, and here he is, asking for her attention in front of one man whose attention she really wants.
"So, would you like to dance?" He emphasizes as he turns his body to the dance floor and gestures for her hand.
It's an opportunity, one that once she accepts, she doesn't—she can't—look back. Not the opportunity that Edison wishes for, but one that feels true and right.
"Thank you for the offer, Edison, but I unfortunately already promised my first dance to someone else…" She replies politely, looking meaningfully to Fitz and extending her own hand to him. Saving a glance for Edison, she adds, "I'm sorry, truly… I'll look for you later."
She doesn't look for him later.
Instead, she lets Fitz lead her onto the dance floor, surround her body a little too closely, sway and waltz around the bustling couples, whisper to her things that make her heart skip a few beats—you are so beautiful, I like that people are watching us, I can't wait until people know that you're mine, that I'm yours.
His right hand is in her left, his left against the curve low on her back. She lets them keep eye contact for as long as he dares; she lets his thumb rub back and forth against her dress; she lets him get a little too close to whisper in her ear; when the first song ends, she lets him talk her into another…and then another…and then another.
When the fourth song ends, they realize that they have to separate because the closeness of their bodies is making heat simmer in their loins, and with his general inability to control himself and her hormones, it could be a recipe for disaster. They don't want to, but they have to let go of each other, and Olivia's heart aches.
She can't—she doesn't want to—dance with other men for show. She came here for other people to see them, and the mission had been successful. Through their spins and sways, she could not help but notice the eyes fixed on them and the chatter whirling around them. So, after all of that, all she wants to do is go home.
Sure, the spectators don't need to know they are going home together, but there's no reason for them to put up any charade of her playing the field.
So, when they do separate and Olivia's face falls at the loss, he leads her off the dance floor, retrieves a glass of water for her, and finds a place for her to sit. But not only a minute into sitting down, he hears her talking quietly, asking a question just for him to hear.
"Can we go home?"
AN: As always, let me know what you thought! I'm headed to DC for the book tour (!) this week, so I'm hoping to find some extra time to write when I can! If you have anything you want to see (in this story, or any others), let me know! xx