A/N: Hello beautiful people! Thank you so much for your patience on this story! I had a bit of a writers block and wanted to wait until I felt really passionate about where the story was going before I wrote again. Thank you as always for your kind words, and I hope this update makes up for the long wait :)
Ten weeks, cont.
Besides his dick and his unconditional love for her, Christmas at the White House is probably Liv's favorite thing about fucking the President of the United States. The lights, the decorations, the trees… It all looks gorgeous, and there's something about getting to do this—sneaking around each ornately decorated room, hand in hand with him, hours after everyone has left for the day—that makes it all that much better.
After their conversation in bed earlier, they had tried to sleep, but insomnia had been hitting Olivia fairly hard this week, so after an hour of fighting it, she had turned over in his arms, peppered his face with kisses to wake him up, and begged him to show her around downstairs.
It was a little awkward this year, having to assign different staffers to oversee the decorating process as Mellie was no longer in the picture, therefore resigning him to find others to ring lead the project. But nonetheless, it had gotten done with pretty smashing results, if he had to say so.
This is the first Christmas that they will get to spend together, him and Liv, and his breath catches when he considers next Christmas—holding their precious baby with dark curls and caramel skin and the most beautiful eyes…convincing Liv to help with the decorating process but only as much as she wants to…curling up on the couch together, the three of them plus Teddy and Karen, and exchanging gifts like he's dreamed about for years…
They pass through the Red Room and into the Blue Room, where the stately, official White House Christmas tree takes up most of the space in the middle of the room. The decorators had gone for a vintage, timeless holiday feel this year with velvet ribbons and tinsel and intricate glass ornaments that shimmer against the lights. It's breathtaking.
"Wow…" Olivia whispers, in awe of the sight. She had seen all of the decorations in passing while coming to and from the Residence this week, but there is something about getting to see them in the quiet, stillness that is more reverent, more quaint.
She doesn't have too many fond memories of her childhood, save for the rare moments of happiness, which all seemed to take place around Christmas time. Christmas was a joyful event in the Pope household; plenty of presents under the tree, coming home from boarding school and smelling cookies baking in the kitchen. The memories are tainted now with the things she knows about her parents, but there's still a lingering love for Christmas that Olivia just can't shake.
Fitz steps up behind her and wraps his arms around her midsection, admiring the tree with her. "So many beautiful things in this room tonight," he murmurs against her neck in between soft kisses.
Liv chuckles, moaning softly at the feeling of his lips against her skin. "Be quiet, mister… Don't start something you can't finish…"
"Oh, I can finish it, Livvie… Right here, if you wanted me to…" His voice is low and sexy, and he knows just how to get her riled up… Not that it takes much these days to do so.
But she doesn't give in too easily, taking a step away from him and clutching his hand in hers to drag him onward into the Green Room. There's another tree in here as well, though smaller in stature to fit under the crystal chandelier.
"I love this one," Liv breathes dreamily.
"Mmm, I knew you would. You've always liked this room the best," Fitz comments, taking her by the hand and leading her closer to the tree. "Want to show you something…"
When they walk around the side to stand between the tree and the fireplace, he points to part of the tree about three quarters of the way up. She takes in all of the white bulb ornaments and ribbons on this particular tree and notices letters etched in each sphere.
"This one, they called "The Tree of Love." Every staffer got to submit the initials of someone they love… husbands, wives, kids… they are all here, and so this one…" He points to the exact ornament he was looking for. OCP. "...is for you."
It's such a simple gesture, despite how cheesy it is, but it means the world to her. She turns around in his arms to look up at him in disbelief. Grinning down at her, he spins her hips back around to face the tree again.
"And this one…" He points to another, right next to hers. BPG. "...is for the baby."
"BPG?" She asks, shaking her head in confusion.
"Baby Pope-Grant. Obviously didn't have a name yet, but wanted them to be represented, nonetheless. And don't worry… Teddy and Karen have theirs on here, too."
Liv laughs because he could tell she was about to get onto him for that exact thing. Then, she sighs, resting her weight back against him.
"That's really special, Fitz. Thank you…"
"Of course. Feels good to be able to do stuff like this, finally," he murmurs, sweeping her hair off of her left shoulder and ducking down again to press kisses to the side of her neck. "We'll be in this room tomorrow night, you know."
She nods. The Holiday Party.
"Maybe we can meet here before going to dance next door?" He asks, massaging her hips and beginning to guide her around the tree to the striped, green and white sofa against the adjacent wall. "That way I can take in how beautiful you look before parading you around the East Room and trying to keep my hands to myself…"
Sitting down on the couch, he instantly pulls her down into his lap so that she's straddling him. His hands cup both sides of her head and reel her in, capturing her lips and coaxing her mouth open in gentle presses. When his hands start traveling southward down her back and gracefully caress her ass, she groans playfully and pulls away from him.
"Fitz– we can't…not here…"
"Come on, Livvie. Think about how fun, how hot, it will be to be in here tomorrow…knowing we've fucked in this exact spot."
She moans because he knows how much that turns her on—their exhibitionist kink, no one knowing what they had done, a little secret only the two of them know about.
"You think anyone has ever had sex here?" He asks, grasping her butt in his hands and squeezing firmly. Her soft leggings leave nothing to the imagination, and as he helps her grind against him, she can feel his hardening length between her thighs, pressing achingly through his black jogging pants.
"Hmm… Surely, right? You, of all people, should know how nasty men in power can be…" She teases, messing with his ears and the curls next to them.
"Clinton, definitely," Fitz chuckles, kissing her neck. "The Kennedys perhaps… We could be next…"
Her resolve is withering with each press of his lips against her warm skin, and as his hands travel up underneath her plush, knit sweater, she wants him. On her next shaky exhale, he realizes that she's on board and gently scoops her up, laying her down with her back against the couch.
"How are we— I don't think my bare ass should be on this couch…" she huffs between his kisses, and he can't stop himself from laughing.
"Don't worry, love. I'm sure we'll figure something out."
As his lips return to her neck, his right arm scoops up her left leg, hooking it over his hip and opening her thighs for him to work. It's easy with how soft and stretchy these lounge pants are. He can dip his hand beneath the waistband and instantly run his fingers through her folds.
When he feels her wetness against his fingertips, he chuckles and kisses her again. "So naughty… this gets you so hot, huh?"
Everything is so blissfully wonderful for a few minutes…the lights twinkling around them, the chandelier above her head, his fingers sliding inside of her. He fingers her in long, smooth motions, watching her face, reading every cue she gives him—when to go fast, when to slow down, when to go hard, and when to go soft.
Then, his thumb falls atop her clit, rubbing quick, tight circles, and she cries out breathlessly, coming in a series of pants and moans as she tries her unsuccessful best to be quiet. He shushes her gently and playfully while kissing her neck, murmuring praises against her skin.
"Fuck…" Liv whines. "That was intense…"
"Yeah?" Fitz questions, peering up at her face again. "Do you think it's because…" His voice trails off, his gaze falling to her stomach.
"Yeah, probably. It feels like everything is just more intense. My body is going crazy," she sighs, resting a hand over her chest as she catches her breath.
"I love watching you come…and I love your body…" Fitz groans as he kisses back up to her mouth, drinking her in. When her hand snakes down and cups him, he practically bats her away, rejecting her touch instantly.
She's confused…he was the one that wanted it in the first place. "Fitz?"
"Liv…"
"You won't let me touch you?"
Pushing up on one hand above her, he smiles. "I would love nothing more, but I realized what I really want requires a bit more surface area than this couch provides…"
Liv scrunches her nose, grinning playfully up at him. "Really? And what is it that you want?"
"Mmm… wouldn't you like to know…"
And with that, he tugs her hand out the door and toward the stairwell back up to the Residence.
Saturday Evening
She's standing by the tree, looking at her ornament when he waltzes into the Green Room to find her. It's not surprising, but Olivia looks stunning, draped in the softest-looking, shiny fabric, deep green like the branches of the tree in front of her, and she looks like she fits perfectly here. Like she's a statue made specifically to make this place more beautiful.
There are a dozen or so staffers gathered around the tree, and he can't help but wince slightly when he sees them stiffen instantaneously when he walks in. Everyone except her, who just smiles sweetly at him and swirls the drink in her glass while she watches him stroll toward her.
"Mr. President," Liv greets with a smile.
"Good to see you, Olivia," he replies, leaning in to kiss her cordially on the cheek, his hand resting low on her hip as he does—just slightly on the verge of inappropriate. "You look…wow."
She blushes because she knows the staffers around them can hear—it's the reason that they are doing this, so that people can eavesdrop and continue the speculation. But nonetheless, she feels exposed looking at the expression on his face. Is it as obvious to everyone else as it is to her what he's thinking about?
"Thank you, sir… You don't look too bad, yourself."
She's being bold…maybe bolder than she feels confident being, but she's not one to be outdone. They chat, trying to be flirty but not overdo it, which is a hard balance when he guides her over to the striped sofa and encourages her to sit down—you must have had a long day, Miss Pope, please…sit—right where her back had pressed into the cushions last night, and his fingers had pressed into her.
Her belly makes all kinds of flips, when he leans in and whispers softly to her, when she catches the eye of the Deputy Director of Legislative Affairs who quickly averts her gaze as soon as Olivia catches her staring at them, and especially when he rests his hand on her knee and doesn't take it off. She knows at least five people saw it, one of whom being a columnist at the Washington Post.
Everyone is watching them.
When he finally suggests they head to the dance floor, she clocks a few stragglers following them from the Green Room to the East Room, likely to watch the unfolding spectacle. She fights the unease in her stomach—this is what they wanted. Regardless of how weird it feels to put their relationship somewhat on view like this, this was the first step. This is what she wanted—let people into their relationship gradually, let them make the first assumptions after watching their flirtatious touching and giggling.
Everyone's eyes are on them.
He leads her to the middle of the room, holding her hand and letting their fingers intertwine together softly.
This is what she wanted, this is what she wanted, this is what she wanted.
But saying it over and over to herself isn't working because even he can sense her breathing quicken, her pulse thundering through her veins, the faintest sweat appearing on her brow.
Fitz holds her hand as they sway around the ballroom, listening to the jazz covers of Christmas songs played by the band, filling the air. He leans in to whisper in her ear every so often, things meant just for her—It's okay. Breathe. I love you.
Everyone can see him talking to her, whispering to her.
Tears prick at the corners of her eyes when Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas begins playing from the ensemble of musicians in the corner. His hand rests against the small of her back where her skin is bare, save for the thin straps holding up her dress, and she feels on the verge of a panic attack. Her only saving graces are his left hand squeezing her right tightly and his words murmured in her ear.
Everyone can see them.
She hears the cameras flicker around them as he slides in closer to her and kisses her temple, lips lingering as he smiles into her hair.
That's it. A good enough confirmation for anyone with more than two brain cells. An intimate gesture done, not by a coworker or a colleague or a friend, but by a lover. By tomorrow morning, everyone will know… And though it's not their plan to confirm it yet, they won't be Olivia Pope and Fitzgerald Grant anymore. They'll be Liv and Fitz. As much as she's been ready for it, it still terrifies her for some reason.
Her heart thuds in her chest. It's so overwhelming, so confusing, so much…
Everyone can see them.
"Baby…" Fitz whispers, trying desperately to get her attention, to make her just look at him, but she doesn't, keeping her chin tucked, her gaze fixed on the tiny stripes of his red tie.
It's awful. It's terrible because he wants to feel so happy—they've waited for years for this exact thing, holding each other in public, not caring what other people think—but he can't be because he sees how stressed she is. But it's even more horrible because it also came so out of the blue. She was ready. This morning, she was excited. So naturally, his head floods with whirling spirals of concern.
This is everything he wanted to avoid… her feeling trapped, her feeling rushed into a decision she didn't want to make, her feeling overwhelmed, her… running.
"Sweetheart…" Fitz insists, his voice low but fierce.
She sounds unlike he's ever heard her before, and somehow that is even more awful. Her voice sounds timid, shaky, and scared. "Fitz—"
"You're okay," he shushes beneath his breath. "We're okay…"
"Fitz—" She repeats. And instantly, she feels it. The eyes around the room, her skin going clammy, the cameras flashing again, the bile rising up in her throat. "I'm…I'm gonna be sick…"
As soon as she says it, she breaks away from him, turning toward the door.
She can't throw up, she can't throw up.
Fuck.
The bathrooms are full of people—people who know people and have talk shows and have seats in Congress. People that will hear her throwing up and will start speculations that she definitely doesn't want yet. So, she spins on her heel away from the restroom and toward the guarded door to the stairwell.
Liv doesn't have time to consider the spectators watching Nick, the Secret Service agent in front of the door to the Residence stairwell, quickly usher her by without so much as two words spoken. She doesn't have time to consider that that little sign of familiarity would not be normal for a blossoming fling. She doesn't even have time to consider that people are watching her leave the party and head toward the Residence. His residence.
She doesn't have time because she's running—up the stairs, through the sitting room, through their—no, his—bedroom, and into the bathroom. As her knees hit the floor, she curses because this dress is too nice and too expensive to be subjected to this, holding her hair back as she empties her stomach contents into the toilet until there's nothing left to spare.
Her anxiety in all of its manifestations—tremors, flashbacks, panic attacks, and the like—has never led her to be sick like that, and while she recognizes that her body is physically changing with the baby in her belly, it terrifies her all the same.
Why does it feel wrong?
Why did it feel so scary?
What is wrong with her?
The toilet flushes, and she needs to get out of here… immediately. This isn't something she can face. She thought she was ready, but maybe she won't ever be ready if that's the way she reacted at the first true test.
The first party was different… They weren't trying to show anything then, just merely teasing an idea of him being a single, unmarried man. Just teasing the hint of attraction between them. They are good at that—teasing and flirting and playing.
But intimacy? Touching and holding and caressing and kissing each other? Showing people how much he loves her? How much she loves him?
She was seen and exposed, and she wasn't prepared for how vulnerable that was going to make her feel. Maybe she does vulnerability with him these days, but the world? The world hasn't earned that from her yet.
Liv runs to the closet as fast as she can, while trying to avoid making herself nauseous again in the process. The emerald dress hits the floor, and she kicks it aside, scoffing at the hope and excitement she felt when she picked it out yesterday. She rummages through the drawer of her belongings, finding the pair of leggings she wants before crossing the room, snatching a gray hoodie of his, and throwing it on.
It's going to take careful maneuvering to navigate making it to the tunnels while the party roars on, but she has no other choice. She has to get out of here.
Grabbing her keys, her phone, and her prenatal vitamins—because obviously, she won't have White House valets to pick her up anymore when she gets to her apartment—she tucks them into her Prada and rushes toward the bedroom door without a second thought.
She only makes it halfway there before she hears hurried footsteps, and an out-of-breath voice calling her name.
"Livvie? You up here?"
Fitz throws open the door, shocked to see her standing on the other side of it, overnight bag in her hand, dress replaced by casual clothes, her face looking ashen and scared.
"Hi," he breathes, shutting the door behind himself and leaning back against it. "Um…what's—where are you going?"
She blinks widely at him, her throat dry and her feet itching to run. "I—"
"Liv…" Fitz presses, his voice cracking as he fills in the gaps of her silence.
"I'm sorry," she whimpers as she folds her arms together, hiding in herself. "I need to go."
"Livvie." His whole face looks terrified as his chest rises and falls rapidly. "Please…"
God, why did he have to catch her? Why does he have to make her feel like this? Why couldn't he have just let her go easily?
"Fitz— I can't do this. I thought—" She takes a deep breath, quelling the rising nausea again. "I thought I could, but tonight…all those people…I—"
"So, you're running."
He says it, so calmly and seriously that it scares her, like he sees the innermost depth of her soul. He's not asking her; he's showing her that he knows what she's doing. He's seen her do it time and time again, so of course, he's not surprised. If anything, he's resigned to it. It's what he's been waiting for that she so adamantly told him she wasn't going to do.
She doesn't say anything, just lets his words linger in the air, deepening the sting they send the longer he goes without taking them back or adding anything to them. And something about the way he looks at her, like his heart is cracking before her eyes, makes something snap awake inside of her.
It's like the mist of anxiety all of the sudden clears, and she realizes what she's doing. What she is actually doing.
"I don't—um… I don't know what just happened. Oh my god, Fitz—" She gasps for air, starting to feel lightheaded at how fast she's breathing and how her sobs begin to rush out.
Before she can drop to her knees, he's there, scooping her up and holding her against his chest with no care that her tears are staining his suit jacket. He murmurs quietly into her ear so that she can regulate her breathing, and he slowly rocks her side to side to help her body soothe its terrified tremors.
"I was…I was going to leave, Fitz," she says through tears like she's shocked by her own actions, like she had been sleep-walking and the muscle memory had just taken over. "I panicked and then I got sick and then I just…"
When she pulls away from him, he cups her jaw so that she has no choice but to look at him. "Olivia. Breathe, love. You're okay. You're still here. I want to know, but not right now… I can feel your pulse, and you've got to calm down. It's not good for the baby, and it's not good for you either…"
He tugs her hand, guiding her over to the settee at the end of the bed. She plops down onto it as he drops to his knees, taking her hands between his and squeezing little pulses while they breathe. It should feel patronizing, like he's treating her like a child, but it doesn't. He helps her come back into her body.
A series of long minutes and deep breaths go by before he tries to get her to talk again.
"I felt like you were ready," Fitz states, trying to ease her into his thought process.
"I did feel like I was."
He nods. "Okay. So, you were ready, and then, you got triggered somehow."
Her brows furrow at that. "Triggered?"
"Well, yeah," Fitz scoffs as though it were obvious. By the look on her face, it's not. "Something happened to make you feel like that, right?"
"I guess? It just happened so quickly, we were dancing and then I noticed all the people and all the cameras, the flashing lights, it…"
He feels her pulse race against his thumbs on her wrists. "Shhh. Okay."
"It all just felt…wrong. Like they weren't supposed to know."
"Mmm, that makes sense… I'm sorry," he sighs, his lips brushing against her skin as he kisses the backs of her hands.
Liv furrows her brows again. "What do you have to be sorry for?"
"For not catching it. For not realizing just how anxious you were about it."
"Fitz—" She looks at him seriously. "There's nothing you could have done differently…"
"Well, I could tell you were nervous, but I didn't realize you were going to be sick or anything. I could have…"
"...hey. Uh-uh," she chides, shaking her head at him. "There's nothing you could do beyond what you did, and I'm… um…" She pauses, scared of what her words might imply. "I'm glad you came up here, and uh—found me before I…"
Her voice trails off as she fixes her gaze on their interlocked hands in her lap. She doesn't want to give him the impression that she wants to be stopped. In other situations, if she's going to do something, she doesn't want him forcing her against it, but this is different. Somewhere in her gut, she knew that she didn't want to leave.
She didn't—doesn't—want to run from him, and she's been honest with him every time she's said those words. But it's instinct, and when her anxiety had rushed through her, she felt like she didn't have any other choice.
He seems to intuitively understand what she means. "Liv… If you need to walk out that door right now, I would understand. Of course, I don't want that, but I would understand because I was honest with you from our very first conversation. I only want this if you do too. It's only going to work if we're both in it."
His thumb strokes her cheek as she peers back up at him, and it's like getting a window into her heart. She does want it, she does want him, and he can see it written all over her face.
"Okay," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss her softly.
She lets him kiss her for a few moments, letting the worry wash away with each unabating touch of his mouth before he retreats and rests his forehead against hers.
"Fitz… I need help."
Those words are so foreign in her mouth, she almost feels silly saying them out loud, but this—as valiantly as she's tried—is not something she is going to be able to fix herself. Her eyes well up with tears before she can stop them.
Weeks ago, she had considered seeing someone after recommending Karen do the same, but things just kept getting in the way, and she continued pushing it to the side. But tonight seems like a breaking point. She had to duck out of something she genuinely wanted to do because she couldn't regulate her way through it, and as upset as she's been, it actually pisses her off.
Fitz can read the frustration on her face through the sadness and tears and wishes he could take all of that pain away from her, but he settles for shushing her gently, wrapping her in a hug, and promising that he will help her get the help she needs at whatever cost.
She doesn't go back to the party because she's already had one panic attack, she doesn't want to endure two, but she insists that he has to return. His absence will be noticed by everyone, and as idealistic as he wants to be and stay in bed with her, he knows he can't right now.
So, he ventures back to the party and makes small talk as best as he can while his thoughts linger on the beautiful woman upstairs. Checking his watch, he confirms he only has an hour before it's acceptable that he leaves—this party is really for the staff and not for him, and he knows that the party really only becomes fun once he leaves anyway, when everyone feels like they can let go and have that extra drink and sway their hips a little more on the dance floor.
The bar is situated against the far entrance to the East Room, so he meanders his way to get a scotch that he can nurse for the remaining hour. He may have given up drinking in front of her, but he assumes one drink in her absence tonight wouldn't hurt.
The amber liquid soothes the ache he feels being separated from Olivia, and although it's only temporary, he's thankful for the reprieve. It's awful to be so in love with that woman.
It's kind of odd, walking through a party by himself, because it's not something he's had to do since his twenties, the last time he was single. He dodges advances of objectively attractive women, some 20 to 30 years his junior, if he had to guess, which is weird but definitely flattering for a man in his mid-fifties. It's easier to make boring conversation with men of his age—Senators and Representatives and his senior advisors.
He turns away from a conversation with the Director of the Domestic Policy Council and his wife, to be greeted by a face he had hoped to avoid all evening. Senator Joe Robbins, the man both he and Olivia detest more than most in the wacky game of government.
Based on the particularly horrible things that man had said publicly about him, Fitz would have assumed he would spend all night hiding away, avoiding confrontation with the President, but alas, here he is, saddling up to him with a greasy smile and a full glass of booze in his hand. Fitz wishes he hadn't placed his on the waiter's tray seconds ago, feeling that it might make the coming interaction easier.
"Mr. President," he greets, his speech just slightly slurred.
"Joe," Fitz attempts amiably, extending a hand to shake.
"Hell of a party you throw around here," Robbins compliments as he gestures grandly around the room.
"Only the best for the dedicated members of our administration," Fitz says, eyeing him as if to challenge Robbins's self-proclaimed membership to that group or not.
His eyes narrow slightly as the provocation, but then he grins. "Happy to be on the team, sir."
Fitz is all too familiar with this game—the politicians that say inflammatory things on cable news and Twitter only to change their tune in the places that really matter, like when speaking to the President himself. "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying the party, Joe. Good to see you."
And as Fitz turns to walk away and find someone that he can stomach talking to a bit easier than this, his ears perk up at Robbins's next comment. "Saw you dancing with Olivia Pope."
"Yeah. We did…dance," Fitz confirms, spinning around to face the balding man again.
"You both looked…awfully cozy," he slurs through a crooked smile.
"Hmm, astute observation there, Senator," Fitz chuckles. "Are you getting at something?"
Joe cocks an eyebrow, surveying Fitz as though trying to read his face for answers. "No, no, sir. Just… curious. It's not every day you see a prominent Republican man getting handsy with a woman of her… physique."
"And what do you mean by that?" Fitz murmurs low, trying his best to keep his tone level but knowing full-well what that man means.
"Oh, I'm not racist, Mr. President. Trust me. I just mean, she's not exactly the model of a conservative woman that we would expect on the arm of our President."
"I'm so interested in what you have to say, Joe. What exactly offends you so much about the way she looks?" he asks through gritted teeth.
The Senator laughs, obviously clocking the way Fitz stiffens and clenches his jaw. "Wow, you must be down bad for her, Fitzy. I guess it's true what they say… The blacker the berry…"
"...I would refrain from finishing that phrase if I were you, Joe. I might just forget where we are right now," Fitz hisses, his fists involuntarily tightening at his sides.
"Ooh, cool it, Romeo. It's okay. Glad you're getting some because geez, Lord knows my wife is drier than an overcooked turkey in the middle of the Sahara. Whew," he whistles through his teeth. "Say what you want about Olivia Pope and her politics, but that chick does have a fine ass…"
And before he can really consider the ramifications, his fist starts flying toward the other man's cheek, only to be stopped by a small hand intercepting him. Through the blood pounding in his ears, he can just barely hear a soft voice.
"Fitz—you don't want to do that."
Shaking off the fog of his anger, he turns his head to see her, dressed again in her lovely green dress that does show off her ass quite nicely, her makeup and hair freshened from when he last saw her upstairs. He wants to scold her, wants to question why she came back, but doesn't because he's so fucking grateful she's back with him.
"Woo-wee!" Robbins chuckles. "The happy couple in the flesh. Good job, Olivia. Really pulled the reins in there," he laughs, punching Fitz's shoulder teasingly.
Liv doesn't give in, though, stepping toward him and whispering fiercely. "The President of the United States cannot punch you right now, Joe, because honestly, you aren't even worth it. But trust me? I heard every word you said, and I have people who can do…much…more than punching. You think you know so much about us, but you are a small, small man. If you want to be on the election ballot next year, I would think twice about commenting on things that are none of your business."
"Woah, woah, woah. Are you threatening me?" Robbins scoffs.
"Oh, no. It's not a threat. It's a promise. You might not respect us, but there are a hell of a lot of people in this town that do. I wouldn't want you making enemies all of the sudden with every political ally you think you have at this moment," she spits with vitriol.
And with that, she grabs Fitz's hand and tugs him away, leaving the Senator standing alone with his mouth agape. When they make it to the other end of the room, he finally pulls her in close, whispering in her ear.
"Baby… what are you doing?"
"Well, by the looks of it, saving your ass," Liv chuckles, smoothing her hands over her dress nervously.
Fitz looks at her seriously, though. "Well, thank you for that, but really, you didn't have to come back down here…"
Her chin tips up, looking at him with the glimmer of defiance that he loves. "Mister, I know I didn't have to, but I was lying in bed and once I figured out how to calm my breathing, I… I missed you, and I wanted to try again. For you…for us."
He smiles at her, and his eyes shimmer because she's so beautiful underneath the twinkling fairy lights decorating the ballroom. The room is loud enough, and they are tucked away by themselves perfectly where no one can hear them.
"I love you," he murmurs, and he wants to kiss her so badly but knows the cameras are still nearby.
Taking his hand, she squeezes three times in slow succession, the way she says I love you when the words get stuck in her throat. The corners of his lips raise in a slow smile.
"Plus…" she continues as she begins searching around the room. "I got fucking hungry."
Fitz chuckles at her and guides her around the room with a hand on her lower back, making their way to the tables of hors d'oeuvres at the front. He watches fondly as she tucks in, scarfing down little skewers of various cheeses and crackers of some sort and pastries and crudités and a little peppermint cookie, which she insists is the best thing she's ever eaten.
The cameras continue flashing around them, but for whatever reason, she doesn't even seem to notice, her eyes too fixed on Fitz to care, so when her hunger is sufficiently satisfied for the time being, she pulls him back out to the dance floor. The party is just on the verge of picking up, so she assumes this may be the last slow song the band plays tonight, so she wants to take advantage of it.
The bass and piano begin a romantic and soft rendition of White Christmas, and she immediately presses her body close to his, her arms wrapping around his neck. She swallows and silently acknowledges the cameras and the eyes around her, but the only eyes she cares about are the ones in front of her. The blue ones that are warm and full of promise and love for her.
They are the ones that make her feel safe and supported and loved and like herself. They remind her of why she wanted to do this in the first place, why she wanted to come back out here and try again. They remind her of their past and their dreams for the future. They remind her of home and family and everything.
He watches her watch him, and when she starts to lean in, he doesn't stop her. He doesn't move, just lets her close the gap between their mouths as she gives everyone in this room the confirmation that they had surely been craving. She kisses him and sighs into his mouth and even though she hears the flicker of the cameras capturing this moment, she doesn't care. Tomorrow, things will be different, but she doesn't care.
All she cares about is this man and her love for him and the feelings of Christmas that make her feel cozy and warm. She pecks his lips once more before settling her cheek against his chest and swaying to the music with him.
Finally, when the song ends, Fitz reluctantly lets her go. She had guessed correctly. The music changes over and now everything is a little livelier, and while she does feel happy, she's exhausted and doesn't want to stay any more. She gives him a look and a hug before retreating out of the room and walking the same path she had before to the stairwell, up through the sitting room, and to the bedroom.
Her dress hits the floor again, but this time she doesn't mock the joy she had when she picked it out. This dress possesses so much power all of the sudden. It's what she was wearing when she and Fitz were first photographed together romantically. It's what she was wearing when she kissed him on the dance floor. It's what she was wearing when she chose love over fear.
The soft gray hoodie that she slips back on feels much more comfortable and as she tucks her legs under the sheet, she exhales peacefully and closes her eyes as she waits for him to join her.
Inhale, exhale. This is right.
Inhale, exhale. Being here feels right.
Inhale, exhale. Being here is where she belongs.
Inhale, exhale.
A/N: Ah! Okay a little more angst than normal for me, but I hope the ending made up for it! Feel free to leave a review and let me know what you think! Anything you'd like to see Olitz do in the few weeks left in the Christmas season in this story? Also, just curious, do you prefer shorter chapters with more frequent updates or less frequent updates with longer chapters? LMK xx