Episode 16: Positions

Mid-January

"No."

"No?! What do you mean 'no'?"

"No."

§

Fitz was awake before. Before the oceanic chimes of his alarm sounded. He checked his phone: 32 minutes left.

Next to him, still raptured by sleep, was his wife. She made a gentle, contented sound once she settled herself into a new position. Her belly protruded enough that she was still cataloguing new sleeping poses that worked. Now lying on her front (previously most comfortable) had grown less so, both physically (on account of the baby) and mentally (on account of the baby). She would unconsciously flip herself into that position, until her mind jolted her body out of it. The jolt had not yet occurred.

Pick up one of those oblong pregnancy pillows soon, Fitz mentally noted. Her body was changing so quickly, she would need it sooner than they both realized. He continued inching up silken fabric as he kissed his way up Olivia's back.

Flip.

He narrowly avoided getting hit in the face. The jolt, he thought. I should have expected that. Facing him now was an even more compelling view. He rhymical traversed the dune of smooth, under which their child grew. My child. He was going to be a father again. A swell of emotion drove his lips to kiss Olivia's adorably rotund middle before resting his stubbly cheek against it. "I love you," he whispered.

Tickled by the sensation, Olivia jerked. Not displeased by his morning salutations, she ruffled his curls and purred. That unmistakable mewling sound whose polite signal meant more of that, or don't you dare stop, when her energy was more demanding.

Continue, he did.

Her jaw, her neck, her ears were all plied with kisses before he landed on her lips. Olivia's eyes were still playing at sleep. As they kissed, her hands deployed his to where she needed them: one to massage her breasts, the other underneath her ass, tasked to remove the material barrier between them.

Her legs parted like a Biblical body of water. Hormonal waves of want saturated her. Her pussy glistened with a current of invitation, to which he responded by growing fatter and harder than just minutes before. Giving her something she could feel, Fitz laid his morning wood atop her mound. She bit her lip, but her eyes remained wide shut. A nibble on the ear turned into a bite that solicited Olivia's moan.

"I want you," Fitz said. His voice was full of the husk of dawn.

The movement of Olivia's hips signaled her reply.

"Is that a 'yes'?"

His thumb traced an invisible line down the middle of her body as his eyes remained fixed on face. Until he reached her wet and welcoming folds, massaging them with three fingers. Fitz loved making Olivia come apart at her center, watching concentric circles of pleasure radiate through the rest of her body. Her pleasure was his aphrodisiac.

'Mmm', she heard him grunting, making a meal out of that wet thumb that had just been inside her. Her eyes opened to see him staring at her during this performance. Between this and the weight of Mr. Big Stuff in her hand as she stroked him, she was beyond ready.

"Then, have me."

Their movements were unhurried at first. Deep, glacial strokes, I love you's dotted between sloppy face-to-face morning kisses that gave nary a fuck. Fucking as if it were not a workday. As if they would do this twice more before leaving the house. As if the 32 minutes had not already been halved.

Fitz pulled out of her suddenly and sat back on his haunches, his dick a glistening firm rod.

Olivia looked up at him quizzically before grabbing for him, to no avail. She felt him grab both wrists in one hand.

He didn't' want it to be over too soon.

"Take that off," he said of her pajama top.

And she did. No performative denials or coquettish objections. Olivia was ready to come. Her eyes gleamed up at his smirk.

"Now, fuck me like you mean it."

Fitz found the light of his favorite tunnel once more and began lovingly mining its pleasure, with passion and fervor. He had her in a tizzy. Wanting to feel the depths of her, Olivia drew back still flexible legs so that they nearly framed her face. His pelvis slapped against her clit at just the right angle. A pressure at once comforting and thrilling inside her. What a way to wake up.

Wednesday Night, Maroon Lounge

"La Derrick Christopher Green, I don't know how you remember the year all these old ass songs came out!" Mo was old enough to remember, but that did not mean he always did.

The DJ was transforming old hits (and misses) as samples to help contemporary pop and house music sound more lived-in. And it took the group on a musical tangent.

"Yeah, most of them soul singers was nasty. They was just better at it back then. More creative because they had to be." To prove his point, La Derrick launched into song. "I stroke to the east, I stroke it to the west, I stroke it to the woman that I love the best. I be strokin'. Ayyye!" Said La Derrick. "Then again, Clarence was super obvious for his time with those lyrics."

"You know," Mo said with sudden clarity whilst twirling one of their locs, "that's a true fuck-boy song when you think about it." Mo was rubbing their chin in thought. "That nigga was the Future of his time. As in Nayvadius DeMun Cash. Clarence just didn't rack up as many baby mamas."

"You stupid," La Derrick guffawed, playfully shoving Mo in the process. "Tea, but even the respectable girls who grew up in church had some nasty anthems. Like, Aretha in the '80s? Baby…." He shook his head.

"What you think 'Freeway of Love' was about?" Mo began patting between their legs. "About ridin' that il nana 'til the wheels fall off that pink Cadillac! Chile, she was instructin' that man to speed the dick up and everythang. Trips me out!"

"Exactly," LaDerrick supported. "'Jump To It', too. She was telling her girlfriends, 'just so y'all know, when that man calls, I'm jumpin' to go get some! I'll catch up with y'all later!'" La Derrick, in his musical bag, holding court, was thoroughly enjoying himself. Good libations, good company, good conversation. "Man…don't make me start listing Aretha's '80s catalogue. She was wildin, and I love it!"

Juan, a 26-year-old bisexual-in-denial, did not have the musical range for this conversation, but he was having a wang dang doodle nonetheless. "Mmhmm, the aunties and uncs been filthy." He paused in thought. "You know, maybe aunty Aretha was the Ariana Grande of her day!"

As if a proverbial record had scratched, the other two paused in unison.

"Oh, that's not—" LaDerrick said.

…

Brock, dressed as goth version of Betty Paige, namesake to his drag alter ego, Betty Beige, adjusted the glittering headphones over his ears. Long after the 3 drag performances that night had concluded, most of the crowd had remained, dancing with abandon to his set. Inspired by the New Year's Eve party at the Grant's house, he had gone hunting for vinyl records in the new year. He found a trove of old one-hit wonders, and obscure jazz and blues albums to mix with contemporary music. His MacBook was connected to a trio of turn tables and the networked sound system of Maroon Lounge. As he surveyed the crowd, Brock felt a sense of pride at encouraging Ken to make the necessary upgrades and outreach to enable nights like these. Ones that were ushering in new blood under 30. Wednesday was the new Friday.

/December/

"These children don't dance anymore. It's just pop-lockin from the waist up for that damn FlipFlop app. Y'all not going out-out to dance, so what does it matter? The people who wanna be here are here."

"Let's ignore that first part," Brock replied with an exasperating sigh. Having turned 30 weeks ago, he was not one of these 'children', but he understood them. "…Even if that Boomer-ass-take was true, that's my point. Maroon has a chance to be a haven for more than just old heads who still think they're 'It Girls'."

"Uhh…excuse you," Kenny rebutted. "Last time I checked, you're 30, and thus definitely a Millennial. The children don't like you either."

"That's different, I'm still an 'It Girl'," he said, tucking an invisible loc of hair behind his ear.

"Back to the subject at hand, Ken… Not everybody wants to dance. Sometimes people just wanna hang out and vibe with a few drinks, or just post up. What's so wrong with that? They still in this mothafucka, which is what matters. You've already got them in for Drag Race on Friday nights. Good job," he said, whilst clapping his forefinger against his thumb. "We could spin that off into a night for local girls to perform. Say…Wednesdays. Like a hump day tune-up, errr turnup! I'll design the soundscape, and mix in notable drag artists, underground music…" He paused dramatically, sweeping a hand in the air to paint his vision. "It'll usher in a different vibe after the performances. I'm thinking of themed cocktails, lighting design, getting one of the local comedy queens to host—"

Kenny began tuning out. Not because it all sounded expensive, but because he got stuck on a word Brock repeatedly used. He was beginning to hate that word, or maybe just the overuse of it. "No one's stopping you from coming to Maroon on any of the nights we're open. If you're 21 years and older, you're good. This whole city caters to youth. There are a million places to 'vibe'" he said, making air quotes to show his disdain, "for you youngins."

"Name 'em," Brock challenged with crossed arms. "Name 'em. Name the places that cater to 21-year old's. I mean the Black ones." They were losing safe places left and right in the City. Places where they don't have to choose between being othered for being queer, too femme, or too Black.

When Kenny had challenged that this younger generation did not seem attracted to Maroon, Brock invoked Jamie. That Jamie had found his way to the Lounge. Kenny had all but shut down, enervated by a cocktail of things conjured by the boy's name. Only for some old Daddy Warbucks queen to fuck him over, he thought.

"He wasn't supposed to be there!" Kenny snapped. Nineteen-year-old Jamie was a baby as far as Kenny was concerned. Worse, that baby's killer was walking free, and Olivia still had not fixed it like she promised. It was nearly Christmas and he hated to imagine Ms. Patterson all alone. "That poor woman," Kenny mumbled to himself.

Brock understood the frustration, but it didn't change his point. "Ken, you know what I mean. You need to build an experience that tells 'younger folk', as you say, that they are actively welcomed here," an undeterred Brock advocated.

"On some 'If I build it they will come', shit?"

Brock's eyes lit up. "Oh em gee, that's exactly it!"

Kenny looked impressed. "You know Field of Dreams?"

The younger man's brows furrowed. "What?"

"Never mind. You don't know nothin' about that." Are these youths uncultured or was he just getting old?

"Here we go." Maybe age isn't just a number, Brock thought. "I get it. Me, young; you, old." He sat down crossed legged. "Just preparing myself for stories about you had to walk 5 miles to school in the snow without shoes. Or…we can dead the bullshit and you can listen to my business proposition?"

/

…

It had taken much more than a single conversation, but Ken had come to accept that Brock had made good points, and that for Maroon to survive, it would have to evolve. So long as it did not compromise its blackness, Ken had insisted.

"Sick mix! Do you perform, too?"

The voice interrupted Brock's flow. He turned his head and looked down to see that the voice was coming from a fairy-sized Twink whose blue eyes glowed under the purple lights.

"What was that?" Betty Beige's towering form bent down to better hear the pixie.

"The music…it's awesome. Just wondering if you perform, too. You know, like Trixie Mattel? She does both. She's a DJ and a drag queen."

"And a musician, a makeup mogul and rich as fuck," Brock finished. "No, that's not me at all, sweetheart." He pointed a finger. "Not yet."

…

From behind the bar, Kenny's eyes spanned the room—its open spaces and semi-private alcoves, too. Brock had turned out to have a point. Or two. A lot of these Wednesday folks were those who typically came out for Drag Race Friday's. A sizeable number of them didn't appear old enough to rent a car, but certainly old enough to drink.

Ever since 19-year-old Jamie Patterson had lost his life after being here, Maroon became militant about checking IDs.

Ah wah di blooclaat whizzed through Kenny's head as he zeroed in on evil Daddy Warbucks. Or was that redundant, he thought. This bully was in Kenny's precious China shop. Again? He would not have it! Kenny's body readied itself to spring into action. His eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, and his fingers grabbed hold of the woodgrain in anticipation of supporting his weight as he went flying over the bar.

But before his body could complete the action, his mind—recalling Olivia's words—stopped him in his tracks.

/One week earlier/

"Next week?"

Olivia nodded.

"You're sure?"

"Certain."

"So…which day exactly?"

"Can't tell you that." Olivia sipped her sparkling cranberry soda concoction her husband had waiting for her arrival. "Jamie and his mother have waited long enough."

Not to mention the other four suspected victims of that man, but Olivia was not at liberty to say that. She should not have said as much as she did, but Kenny was her friend and she owed him this courtesy.

"Me, too. The fuck?"

Had it not been his life's work; his legacy that has been sullied by association? His Maroon that had been mentioned in every story about Jamie, causing him to rethink his whole public relations approach, which Olivia damn well knew. Beyond all that, Kenny felt guilty. About Jamie as well as about never having been a vulnerable 'Jamie' in his youth. Back when he was young and dumb and did not understand that some men saw youth as a commodity to run through. An unending crop, new batches emerging all the time. This was not limited to the straights, or the old, rich and white ones.

"Liv, it's me you're talking to," Kenny tried again. "I've seen your eyelashes fall off at 2AM. Come on."

Fitz snorted and had to place his hand over his mouth to rescue the 12-year-old Yamazaki in his mouth, a taste from Kenny's personal stash. He had given a bottle to Fitz for Christmas, and Fitz had sung its praises.

"Be that as it may," Olivia responded. "You know I can't. Just trust me. If you see him, don't acknowledge him. Don't do anything."

Kenny wore a screw-face expression but relented. Olivia never said 'trust me' if her I's were not dotted and her T's were not crossed.

"Alright."

…

Kenny tried not to look at that coward, but the anticipation, the fear, all of it on the precipice with justice hanging in the balance, was too much tension for his body to hold.

Like a dried pine needle falling on an over-inflated balloon, everything he felt was suddenly, involuntarily deflated by a shrill laugh traveling through the lounge. It floated above the crows, through Brock's oontz, oontz music, until it landed splat on his ear.

Kenny knew that laugh. And he needed its distraction.

§

"Boy, your memory longer than a CVS receipt. Don't be forgetin' nothin'.…"

"Memory? Please, his mama's titty was still in his mouth!" Juan said of his friend, and one-time lover of three weeks.

"It's called reading and being cultured. But you bitches don't know nothin' 'bout that," defended La Derrick, looking pointedly at Juan.

"One thing his ol' Pepperidge Farms-ass gonna do: remember!"

They laughed, and it filled the three of them with more ammo to outdo each other.

"Overseer of old-shit head-ass…captain conjurer—"

"Total recall motherfucker…"

"Y'all had enough yet?" LaDerrick yawned but his friends were in titters.

As if he had been there the whole time, Kenny sat down next to Mo, not missing a beat. "Damn Reginald of remember when-ass…"

Pushing the spotlight off him and his memory, La Derrick welcomed Kenny. "Ayyye! It's Ken Doll. Sit, Sis. What's the tea?"

"You know how much I hate that fuckin' nickname," Kenny replied with a roll of his eyes. Eyes that had not completely stopped flitting over to the old man who now appeared to be panic texting between uneasy looks around the club. "And yet you persist."

"Last time I compliment you. Sheesh."

A nervous energy radiated off Kenny that, in his attempt to suppress, came off as surly. "Oh, girl, don't mind me," he deflected. "Just on guard, making sure the place don't burn down."

Mo leaned in closely, so they didn't have to yell over the music as the rest of the table continued in revelry. "You know I'm an empath. So…you gone tell me now or make me wait until later? Something's up. I can feel it." His eyelids fluttered fast over his bulging eyes.

Kenny kissed his teeth at the empath line, but he was not annoyed. It was true that in the 5 years that Kenny had known Mo, at each stage of their gender journey, Mo had proven to be a sensitive and perceptive soul. "I'm cool, I promise."

"Okay," Mo replied, unconvinced but understanding. "Later it is."

The conversation had moved on.

"Monogamy, polyamory, situationships… whatever y'all wanna call it. In every type of relationship, there are two essential elements: someone with the money." LaDerrick paused for effect, his long nails clenched into his palms, the curved neon lines at the tips mesmerizing under the purple lights. "And someone with the phat ass."

"You can't be both?" Kenny asked in earnest, puncturing the laughter at the table.

Juan piped up, pointed to Mo and said, "We know which one you are!"

To that, Mo stood up, turn around, looked over their shoulder to make sure everyone got a good look. "You bitches wish!" Mo said as they slapped the firm shapely flesh.

"Clearly you was wishing upon a surgeon since that BBL used to be a Bootydoo!" snapped La Derrick.

An adorably clueless Juan laughed uneasily while remaining lost in the eyes. Taking pity, Kenny cupped his hand and leaned in close enough for only Juan to hear. "It's when the belly sticks out more than the booty do."

"Ohhhhhh!" Juan sounded with gratitude.

"Speaking of booties…y'all see the one on the new Boo over there?" LaDerrick sipped through his straw immediately after his instigation.

"Who's got a new Boo," Juan asked.

"Kenny's." LaDerrick gestured with this chin toward the DJ plinth, where Betty Beige was deep into her set.

"Incredible young artist. The music is on point. Now…" Mo's tone shifted. "Miss Thing needs to add a few more bundles to that wig…," They shimmied their shoulders, "other than that, I'm feeling very entertained." A quick pan of Betty Beige's drag—from the translucent Pleasers up to the anemic bundles of hair—followed. Mo turned back to the group. "But…beautiful gowns."

"Uhh, why the shade, Aretha?" Kenny protested. The fun had been innocent thus far. And he had been enjoying things when the subject matter was just bullshit, inconsequential to his life. Now he felt like a dartboard. "Not too much, now."

"Darling, there's no shade. What can I say? The lil' boy looks cute enough, but I don't' know him." They shrugged. "More importantly, I don't know him with you, Kenrick. Not yet at least. You haven't bothered to introduce him."

"He's working."

"You damn well know what I mean."

Juan tried to intervene. "Why you always gotta use everybody full government, but you make us call you 'Mo'…Maurice?"

"Chill, man." Kenny's reprimand was light, a reassuring hand fell to Juan's shoulder. "We've been through this. Don't disrespect them like that."

Juan threw his hands up. "My bad. Thought we was just jokin'."

"Yeah, but not about that," Kenny corrected.

"Wait!" LaDerrick sounded dramatically as he grabbed Kenny's arm. "You didn't tell us you hopped on the open relationship bandwagon?"

Kenny nearly spat out his drink.

/Later that night/

§

It happened so fast that it did not seem real to him. One minute he was checking his vintage JW Benson pocket watch because his latest 19-year-old Darling was late. A lateness uncomfortably extending beyond what was promised by his "almost there just around the corner" missive, fifteen minutes ago.

It happened so fast that he barely remembered what he had been thinking just prior to four thick bodies descending on him. Where had they come from? The flagrant displays of uncompromising homosexuality under garish purple lights had had him momentarily entranced and disgusted. Be caught dead in a place like this back home? Surely not. Were he not afflicted with these pansy predilections; he would not have been in this position. In this place. The previous time had been enough. He should have known it was a trap to be lured back here.

The blaring music that mixed what was authentically good with poor, modern facsimile. In a place that called itself a 'lounge'. Rich name for two-thirds of an old house trying to disguise itself in a shroud of glitter. A fitting metaphor, really, for the entirety of this country. Or should he say collection of states pooling economic and defense resources just so they could badger the rest of the world. Thought they would be better on their own. Look at them now: shiny veneers of modernity that hide a wealth of rotting, infrastructure, some barely half a century old. Millions of people who could barely contain their anger at each other. Some country.

"This country is a gilded turd."

It happened so fast… had he said that before or after he was tapped on the shoulder? Or had it been a mere thought?

It happened so fast.

"Willard Ainsley Pemberton?"

Everything after that was a blur.

"You are under arrest for the murder of Jamie Patterson. You have a right to…"

Gasps punctuated the silence of music that had come to a literal halt. Plain clothes officers…five, six? Too many to count, once they had all made themselves known. They had gone from unsuspecting revelers to escorts leading him and clearing the way out of a hellhole that had only ever been a means to an end for him. An end…how rich.

Then there were the applause. The celebratory air. The jeers. The searing stare and satisfied grin of that freckle-faced man, as one of those officers pressed his head as he crouched to get in the back of the cruiser.

It happened so fast; it did not seem real.

But the pain of the plastic constraining his wrists, that was real.

/Days Later/

§

"Toxicology results reveal that Mr. Patterson had copious amounts of a drug called Dalmane in his system. A designer name, Dalmane is medically known as Flurazepam, one of many types belonging to an entire class of drugs called Benzodiazepines. These are typically prescribed to treat insomnia but has many off script uses which we decline to elaborate for the safety of our viewers. Benzodiazepines' likelihood of fatality is markedly increased when combined with opioids or nervous system depressants. All three types were found in Jamie Patterson's blood.

Was he drugged and raped or, was his tragic end the result of an overdose following rough, consensual sex? You decide.

Well, we know that Patterson was a college student with very odd sleeping habits, so it not unlikely that— "

Olivia changed the channel.

This time, she landed on a Sunday debate-style show. The moderator was weak, and the two guests ran roughshod all over him.

"Are you implying that this has something to do with race?"

"The fact that the victims are all young, Black men? Boys, really. What do you have to say to that?"

"I beg your pardon, I was speaking. If we're talking race, then Lord Pemberton appears to have been too innocently trusting. He tried to help these unfortunate men, and they took advantage of his generosity. They were drug addicts who purloined Pemberton's sleeping pills and pain medication. They overindulged. A tragedy, yes, but it happens. And now Lord Pemberton is being accused of vile behavior like murder for this latest one— "

"Jamie Patterson," the host chimed in.

"One of these things is not like the other, mam. GHB is not a prescription; It is a drug meant to abuse by incapacitating the nervous system of its victim. Specifically, it was used to manipulate Jamie so that he'd be more sexually pliable for Pemberton's as— "

Olivia changed the channel once more. She knew what would follow.

How she loathed these programs that debated a person, or whole group of people's humanity with the same dismissiveness they reserved for talking about fashion trends on that new FlipFlop platform, where things were gerriatrically irrelevant after just three weeks. If that.

Olivia knew the full truth. One that at least one or more juries was sure to hear later that year. What David Rosen, medical professionals, Pemberton's lawyers, and a small cadre of others knew, but of which the public remained unaware. It was the kind of knowledge not drawn from speculation, but hard evidence and keen analysis. The body does not lie.

Jamie Patterson was drugged by Willard Ainsley Pemberton. He was taken to one of several apartments owned by him in less than salubrious parts of the DMV. Plied with more drugs than his slight frame could process, Jamie was treated like a sex doll before being tortured and mutilated with tiny scars all over his body. He was then rolled into a freight elevator blanket and placed in an alley dumpster. Many of these details the public would never know. Never know how inhumanely the only son of Lisa Patterson was treated.

Olivia was usually stoic about these things on the outside. With so many years in this business, and having witnessed the utter venality of people so rich that other humans became toy pieces to them, she could be shocked by very little.

But this baby, and all the extra fluids and feelings with which it flooded her, began making her emotional. There were tears when all she wanted to do was relax for a few hours before someone else lit up the Batman signal over Gotham. It may be the weekend, but Olivia Pope was always on-call.

She turned to Streamberry.

"Previously on Damage Control…"

…

It was the pungent smell of stewed tomatoes and garlic that roused her hours later. By then, the late January day had turned darker and much colder. But she was warm under a cashmere blanket she struggled to remember spreading earlier.

"You're awake!" Fitz said from further down the couch. He muted the TV.

It was then Olivia could feel that his hands were massaging her feet which were resting in his lap.

"When did you get here?" she shifted positions from her side to her back.

A slew of questions from an adorably disoriented woman followed. Fitz had been home for nearly two hours. He brought dinner for them. She told him she could smell tomatoes and she thinks she might hate them now. The aroma turned her stomach.

"The baby?"

"The baby."

"Aren't I clever." But it was not a question, merely a confirmation that he had been right to order a less sauce-enrobed option, just in case. Chargrilled chicken thighs with lemon juice and olive oil, from that Turkish place she loves. Saffron rice and pita, too, in case she disliked one of those options. Both would be fine, she said. And, oh, did he remember the Haydari yogurt dip this time? He had.

"I hope you don't develop a repulsion to the way I smell, or something. I don't have options for that."

"Sure you do. You can stay in one of the guest rooms."

He looked at her slack jawed, not expecting that answer.

He was fishing and she knew it, but she would always take the bait. Being reeled in by him had its rewards.

"Come here and let me smell you," she beckoned, flipping from sarcastic to sweet.

His aroma had proven to have the opposite effect on her of late. She could not get enough. His amber, vetiver and tobacco scented skin so easily triggered the spark in her pants now that she was over the nausea. Most days she needed him at least once.

"Has anyone ever told you how sexy you are, Mister?"

His crooked, boyish grin spread across is face as he crawled up her body. "Maybe."

Olivia smiled against his mouth. "Kiss me you, fool."

The fireplace crackled in the distance as their earnest lip locking grew deeper, stronger, their bodies becoming more entwined.

The television suddenly blared.

Olivia's ass? Or was it Fitz's hip that had pressed on the remote control.

She looked at the screen. Her eyes narrowed. "Season 2?!" she questioned.

"It was on when I came home."

"Were you watching it while I slept?"

"I may have seen some of it," he said nonchalantly, as he settle on his side next to Olivia. His hand was atop her egg-shaped belly.

"You're obsessed with me," she teased, though the sight of him doing that pulled at her heartstrings.

"Is that so? Maybe next time you tap me on my shoulder I won't roll over. He began making exaggerating sleeping noises.

She was going to lose this argument, and she would not have that. Olivia switched topics. "Since you admit to being tuned in," she asked about the new-ish drama, Damage Control, with which so many people seemed utterly obsessed. "Tell me what you think."

"I'm surprised you're watching it, much less having finished a whole season. I didn't think this kind of show would appeal to you. Besides, there are already three seasons! You're one of the most in-demand people I know. Who has the time?"

"It goes by quickly. The story lines are whiplash-inducing." Then she had another thought. "It's entertaining, but I do have to suspend disbelief at some of the huge political crises that they're able to solve in 40 minutes. A tad unrealistic, but that's Hollywood." She raised her thigh over his hip, thinking they were done with the topic.

"What about that whole romance thing with President and the…, " he trailed off.

Oh, he's watching, watching. Olivia donned a curious smile. "Yeah…those two. The President is clearly manipulating this woman. As soon as she was gone, it sounds like he cheated on her. She's delusional if she thinks the two of them have a snowball's chance in hell. I've seen this story before."

Fitz ran a finger down the bridge of Olivia's nose. "I don't know…Somehow, when he says he loves her, I believe him. All evidence says I shouldn't, but I do."

"Of course you do; you're a hopeless romantic."

"Correction: hope-ful romantic. If I lacked hope, I would have given up after you ran from me." He leaned in to kiss her, and she welcomed the softness of him—his lips, his words, his heart. She loved him for it and teasing him was her love language.

She drew back from their kiss. "Ok, Cupid. Let's make a friendly wager about that so-called love between the fixer and the President." She rolled her eyes.

Fitz reached into his pockets. "How much?"

The Bat phone rang.

…

"Olivia Pope."

"Olivia! Hi. Hi, hi. This is Tracey Berger from Big Three PR. Jessica Valentine's publicist?"

Olivia looked from her husband's enquiring face to the TV and back again. How uncanny to getting a call about an actor from the very show she had been binging. Well, fell asleep watching. Next thing she knew it was four hours later and five episodes had finished.

"I'm aware of her, yes. What's this about, Tracey."

"I'm following up on an email from a couple of weeks ago."

Olivia was confused. She could not recall seeing or hearing this woman's name. "What email?"

"Precisely. Which is why I'm making this call myself."

Tracey was between assistants. The last one, instead of the careful research and discernment that had been requested, the assistant sent out an email blast to a list, 'the 100 most powerful public relations experts in America' she found on Reddit. Tracey found it hard to understand why a 20-year-old was more afraid of making telephone calls than pumping her face with 'preventative' fillers.

It was worth losing Emily's mother as a client when she fired the daughter. Camille had all but been retired for the last 8 years.

"Listen, we've got a situation that's potentially volatile. There's a storm on the horizon for my client and, to be frank. We need a magician."

"Surely, your town is filled with those."

"We're…reaching across the aisle on this one, as they say in your town," Tracey volleyed back. She thought it was run-of-the-mill stuff for this town but was outvoted. "We need some fresh eyes on this one. An outsider," she emphasized, "Jessica wants you." Tracey cleared her throat, "Her exact words: 'Get me the best mind and magician in Washington'."

The Grant's Bedroom

§

Fitz was out of breath. His forehead moist with sweat, and mouth dry from panting. His heart beat fiercely underneath his hirsute chest. All of this was typical after satisfying sex with his wife. What he was still getting used to was reprogramming his brain to fall away from her body instead of letting the weight of his body sink into hers, or hers on top of his. Lingering inside her, feeling the quivering aftershocks of her cunt dissipate. Holding her flush against him as they kissed lazily, their eyelids heavy from the dopamine and oxytocin.

But things were changing. Olivia's body was changing. Her appetites (sexual and nutritional) were changing, too. With these, their dynamic and preferences had to adjust.

"Are you OK?" Fitz asked.

So much could change in a week. That was not the last time they had sex, made love, or fucked. No, that would be yesterday afternoon. Last week was the last time he allowed himself to completely get lost in the moment and lose himself to such abandon inside of her, as he so often did.

He loved her.

He liked her.

Those two things made fucking her an unparalled pleasure. Whatever he did before with whomever needed to be categorized with other words. Olivia made everything feel brand new and yet familiarly consoling.

But last week prodded a fear growing at pace with the size of Olivia's uterus. It would be months before he would be free of that fear.

Olivia realigned herself from being on her side facing away from Fitz to her other side, facing toward him. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful." She was post-orgasmically radiant.

"Good, because that's how I feel." This was true. Half true because she felt other things, too. Things that she needed to share, but about which she was slightly apprehensive.

"I need to talk to you about something."

"Me, too. Well, two things."

"You, first," Fitz said.

Olivia sat up and adjusted herself up against the headboard.

"Uh oh. Is this serious?" He positioned himself to mirror her.

"Ummm," she considered the gravity of that word. She was serious but did not wish to injure his ego by broaching the topic. She would be sensitive.

She could see his eyes were concerned and the knit between his brows.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Afraid of you?"

"Of hurting me, I mean." She rubbed his thigh. "Since last week?"

Since I saw blood after pulling out of my pregnant wife, Fitz thought, but did not say. Instead, he brought her hand to his lips before meeting her eyes. "I'd be lying if I said it didn't scare me. Blood is never good, doubly so since you're carrying our child."

/Last Week/

Fitz was carried away in a supernova of lust—the best of what their utter obsession with each other did to them. These last few weeks were even more amazing than usual. Olivia on her back, 19 weeks pregnant, her belly present but not large enough to feel intrusive. He had been pressing on her too much, perhaps. So he could feel every inch of her against him. So that her words, her breath, her groans of pleasure—telling him how good he made her feel—resounded crystal clear in his ears. Her cries of "deeper, deeper," following her demand that he "fuck me like you mean it," spurred him on like a panther enjoying her to the last drop.

Deep he was. Deep enough that the crimson color of danger was present when they were finished. It was shocking, yes. And not easily forgettable.

…

"It was a few spots," Olivia said carefully. It had happened to her body, and she knew it was far from ideal, but she had handled it with Dr. Wilson. The professional had not insisted that she come in, asking her to monitor any changes that day, and every day until her upcoming appointment. The sight of blood had not returned that day nor any of the last 8 days.

"And nothing hurt. Well, except my back." So much for that position, she thought. It would have to be shelved until her body belonged only to her again. "Nothing like that has happened since, despite—"

"Your raging libido?"

Olivia's sexual appetite had always been generous, but the extra blood and hormones coursing through her, during mid-pregnancy had her feeling, like an animal in heat. Mornings had become an especially rampant time of need. Her ardor coincided with her husband's frequent morning erections making their desire one force. That part was easy. Changing their rhythms and expectations to match her changing corporeality, had brought them to this discussion.

Olivia skipped to the point. "Baby…I can feel you hold back with me. I'm not used to timidity from you. I— "

He kissed her without thought. A knee-jerk reaction. "I'm sorry. I just— "

She kissed him back. "I love you. If it hurts, I will tell you." Her eyes danced with the promise of her word.

"Okay," he said, pushing down his reservations, locking the box on past devastation. Week 32. He would feel better—safer—when they were past that point.

"What was your other thing," he said. "You said you had two."

Olivia began kissing his Adam's apple, and then all over his neck as she snuggled into his smell, one the two of them had made. "It's your turn."

"Being democratic, are we? Okay…I want to go to New York soon. We owe Aunt Gwen a visit. You seem to be feeling so much better these days. Now seems like a good time to travel, no?"

"About that…" she had reached the same conclusion about travel as she mulled over Tracey's call. She promised an answer by this evening, and Olivia did have one. Only she had forgotten the promise to Aunt Gwen.

"I need to go to L.A. For a few days first. We'll go when I get back?"

Fitz pulled Olivia up gently, so they were eye-to-eye again. "Is this the call from the other day?"

She nodded her head.

"L.A. Politics?" he queried.

"You could call it that," she said vaguely, offering no further details about the trip.

The air was still for a moment before Fitz's intrusive thoughts took over and shot out of his mouth. Was L.A. a one-off, or a new strategic direction for her? How would this even work? What about the stress of cross-country travel on her body right now? Not to mention on the baby? When would she be leaving and how soon would she return? And what about that visit to Aunt Gwen?

Olivia was strategic with her responses. "I was thinking President's Day weekend would be the perfect time to see your family, and Dani and Naem, too." She thought about the date. That's less than two weeks away."

Fitz kissed Olivia's forehead. "I can live with that."

"I'm leaving on Monday. Abby and Harrison are coming with me," she preemptively offered. "The sooner I leave; the sooner I can get back. Dr. Wilson said she can push the 20th week scan appointment back a week, or she can book me in with a colleague of hers in L.A., and then she'll... "

A crimson tide rose quickly from Fitz's neck to his face. He thought steam might come out of his ears. He cast off the covers and went into the bathroom to achieve two things—one functional, the other emotional. He and his bladder had had it.

…

Fitz emerged when he found words that would not offend. At least he hoped they would not. He found Olivia sitting up against the headboard, holding the sheets against her breasts. Waiting.

"Telling me your plans isn't the same as having a discussion. I'm feeling very left out here."

"Was I supposed to ask permission?"

Fitz gave her a look that brooked no humor.

"Get back here," she patted the space next to her. Her tone was even, no sign of petulance. "I can't take you seriously standing there like that."

His hands were on his hips, and his glorious, but now at-ease soldier hung between his thighs.

"I'm not trying to control you, but you know how important our next appointment with Dr. Wilson is. Not to mention what we were just discussing. I'm not going to feel better until you—"

"I know, which is what I was trying to tell you. I don't want to delay the scan, which is why I chose the appointment with Dr. Zolznick for Tuesday afternoon when I land in L.A. He'll fax the results to Dr. Wilson, and she'll 3-way conference us to discuss any concerns."

"No." Fitz offered without explanation. He was not going to pretend this was a reasonable solution.

"No?" Olivia said incredulously. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

He repeated his reply. "No." This time he looked her in the eyes, willing to be the villain. On this he would adamantly stand.

"We are keeping the original Tuesday appointment with Dr. Wilson. L.A. Can wait."

20-week Anomaly Scan

§

"Technically it's still January, so I have to wish you both a happy new year," Dr. Wilson obliged. The couple returned the greeting.

"I must say, you are looking great, Olivia. Both of you, in fact."

Fitz gently squeezed Olivia's shoulders, bringing her into his side to kiss the top of her Dominican press. "We're doing well," he responded for them both, but looked at Olivia as he said it.

Her eyes shone up at him in agreement. "We are."

At 20 weeks, Olivia was starting to embrace the physicality of her pregnancy as she waited to hold, in her arms, the perfect distillation of the best of her and Fitz. She was showing and glowing. The exploration was proving to be fun as her body, spurred by the life she was growing inside her, did new things every week. She was still needing a late afternoon nap most days, and she was learning to navigate the indigestion that started a couple weeks ago. Long gone was her morning (and afternoon and evening!) sickness and the havoc it wreaked on her appetite. This second trimester lent her a healthy, sanguine look, despite the potential to receive life-altering result from today's appointment.

Breathe. You feel great, so all will be fine.

Her first trimester anxieties were abating, though the practical penchant of her Virgo mind would never allow her to abandon all vigilance. Even those horrible nightmares had not disrupted her sleep, in weeks. Not since her father… She did not understand it, but thankful, nevertheless for their disappearance.

When Dr. Wilson had completed checking Olivia's vitals, she went over her observations. "Your weight has improved. You look more rested…lots of vitality, which I love to see. Now, you are carrying on the smaller end, but that makes sense for your frame." There would be some changes, too, that Olivia would have to implement. Her blood pressure was in the normal range, which was significant progress, but her iron levels needed a boost especially with Olivia's history of anemia. For this she was given ferrous fumarate. Dr. Wilson wanted to be careful about what she said until Olivia was fully examined.

"Overall, I'm pleased with your progress. Now, shall we start the scan and confer with Baby?"

…

Olivia reclined, her abdomen exposed and prepped with cold jelly for the ultrasound scanner. Fitz was at her side, holding her hand against his blue shirted chest. He wondered if she could feel how fast it was beating. Dr. Wilson stood beside Fitz as she explained what was happening. All three of them, along with Mazer, the ultrasound technician, stared at the screen, awaiting a clear image.

Typically performed approximately 20 weeks into a pregnancy, the Anomaly scan gives doctors and couples a bonanza of information both practical and emotional in nature. It is the first indication of potential health defects (or lack thereof), as well as verifying that the fetus is growing at the expected pace. Dr. Wilson carefully relayed this information in that hushed velvet voice of hers.

"There we go," Mazer's announced as a clear view of the Grants' creation emerged.

"The last time, baby's back was all we could see, but little Olitz is very sociable today." Dr. Wilson's high-quality veneers glowed against her chestnut skin.

The couple was bemused.

"Olitz," Olivia repeated.

"'Olivia and Fitz'," he decoded. "I like it."

"Me, too," Olivia confirmed.

"Do you still feel the same way about knowing the sex?"

"Yes," they confirmed, not in unison. Olivia's response was slightly delayed and hesitant, which surprised her even more than it did her husband.

Watching with fascination every tiny movement their 'Olitz' made, Fitz squeezed Olivia's hand, swelling with gratitude and a pinch of fear. Olivia and Fitz marveled at how much their baby could develop in a few weeks: from an avocado to a sweet potato. The sound of the ultrasound waves filled the room, but Olivia and Fitz held their breath for a distinct rhythm.

The thump thump came as a relief to everyone in the room.

Fitz's insistence that she stay grounded until after the results of this appointment forced Olivia push through the claustrophobia of feeling caged. She needed to be free to do the work that pleased her, intrigued her. The main source of Olivia's irritation, however, was her husband's refusal to just come out and say what she suspected. He carried with him a ghost he tried too hard to press back into the earth.

Olivia watched Fitz watching the baby on the screen. He was transfixed, and so was she…by the emotions dancing across his face. She felt a tenderness for him then. Does he know he needs to confront his fears? That he needs to let her be a part of it because he's not alone in this? It was then that she realized doing this, in L.A., without him was not her best idea. She could not imagine this moment without him. Her stubbornness did not want to acknowledge it aloud. No need to have it go to his head.

Almost as if he could read her mind, his damp eyes, crinkling with joy, turned to her.

Olivia's stubborn skin was worn thin by him. "You were right. It's better this way."

…

"Tomorrow morning," Dr. Wilson said.

That's how long the couple would have to wait until she had time to analyze the full results of their scan for any early indication of health anomalies in the fetus, or potential concerns for Olivia as her pregnancy progressed.

Olivia was dressed, and she and Fitz sat facing Dr. Wilson in her office.

"There's nothing I can see that will preclude you from travelling at the moment," she said, recollecting Olivia's call before the appointment. Dr. Wilson winked at Olivia.

"But it's probably best to wait for the results, right?" Fitz interjected in his search for certainty.

"Out of an abundance of caution, sure. But it's not necessary nor advised."

Olivia's eyes darted at Fitz, her lips pursed, silently indicating an I told you so.

"Even after the bleeding?" Fitz raised.

Dr. Wilson pointed and elegant finger his way. "Just the topic I was coming to next." She looked at the couple. "It hasn't happened again, has it?"

"No, not at all," Olivia answered. "Might it?"

Dr. Wilson absentmindedly nodded her head as she glanced over the paper on her desk before looking up again. "During your scan, I noticed something…enlightening, shall I say."

Why had she not said this from the beginning?

Fitz placed a hand on Olivia's abdomen-as it if he were protecting mother and child from whatever the doctor may say next.

Olivia put a hand over his, rubbing back and forth. She, too, wondered what the issue could be, but Fitz was worrying enough for them both. In a marriage, only one of you is allowed to spiral at any given moment. She put on a brave face.

"Placenta Previa. But it barely qualifies in your case."

The doctor went on to explain that a low-lying placenta at this phase of pregnancy, when the uterus is expanding, was not unusual. Nor was it ideal. It is just a thing that can happen and, in most cases, changes. In Olivia's case, not only was her placenta lower than preferred, but it was also partially covering her cervix, which qualified as Placenta Previa.

"Did the bleeding occur during, or after penetration?"

"Mmm maybe during, but we didn't see it until after. Nothing felt abnormal," Olivia offered.

Dr. Wilson nodded her head some more. "A bit too much pressure on the cervix, given the position of the placenta." She offered a small, sympathetic smile to relieve any apprehension. She then showed them three different diagrams. "Yours, Olivia, is closer to this position." She pointed to the one where the placenta was completely covering the cervix. "It can result in bleeding."

At 20-weeks, about one-third of Olivia's cervix was blocked. The placenta had plenty of time to attain a higher position.

"I'm recommending another ultrasound at 32 weeks to check the position. If it's still as low, or worse, you're likely looking at a cesarean. If that is the case, we we'll make a plan. Vaginal birth would be ill-advised." Dr. Wilson had seen the amount of blood loss …and worse that could result from attempting vaginal birth when the placenta was in the way of the fetus' exit.

The color disappeared from Fitz's face.

Olivia, too, was stone-faced before clearing her throat. "Bleeding."

"Yes," the doctor confirmed. "But," she said in an optimistic voice, an attempt to bring the air back into the room. "None of that is your concern at the moment. The likelihood that this blockage will get worse instead of better is low. It happens in only 1 out of 200 pregnancies. You have plenty of time to— "

"To worry," Fitz noted soberingly. He swallowed hard. "12 weeks is a lot of time."

Ever the problem-solver, and intimate connoisseur of Fitzgerald Grant, Olivia suggested. "There's no harm in checking again in say…4 weeks? At our next appointment." Olivia looked over at Fitz.

"Not at all," Dr. Wilson confirmed.

"Now, in the meantime, I want to show you a few things that could help."

§

What was to be a good night kiss had turned into something much deeper for Mr. and Mrs. Grant. Locked in, Olivia straddled Fitz. She wore a sheer, flouncy, Barbarella-esque baby doll nighty. She'd be leaving in the morning and wanted to leave on a good note, feeling satisfied and close.

With his face held between her hands and his hands travelling up and down her back, Fitz was trying and failing not to get aroused.

He was a man with much on his mind, but a man, nonetheless. A man married to a woman with incredibly persuasive sex appeal and dazzling beauty. He could feel the rotation of her hips as his tongue tasted hers. Hers tasted of a want much more than this makeout session.

Fitz broke the kiss. "I see what this is. Manipulation." But his lips had a mind of their own, wandering to the soft skin on her delicate clavicle and neck as he rubbed her thighs. His moves made icicles of her nipples, which he felt through the sheer material. He was supposed to be calming himself down, but his actions had the opposite of the desired effect.

For him. Not her.

Olivia playfully exhaled. "Wanting you is manipulation?" Her hand brushed over the ridges of his abdominal muscles, until she reached the waistband of his pajamas.

"Yes," he breathed raggedly onto her neck. "You're going to love me and leave me tomorrow."

It was true. She would be leaving less than 24 hours after Dr. Wilson gave them the 'all clear' for the results from the Scan. Little 'Olitz' was already an exemplary child in the making.

"Only for 4 days. You'll live." She loved the feel of him growing in her hands. She'd never tire of being the source of his fire.

He groaned, and she was not sure if it was the reminder of the trip or her digital manipulations that had caused it.

"Are you sure about this?"

"We've been through this, Fitz. Abby and Harrison are— "

He grabbed her wrist, stilling her expert massaging. "No…" he ran his eyes from her face down her body and back up to her eyes. "This."

Olivia examined his face for a long time before saying a word.

After the reassuring words from Dr. Wilson and the helpful (if not slightly embarrassing) illustrations she showed them to ameliorate any sexual anxiety after last week, Olivia had had enough. She knew what needed to be done, and what she needed to say to her husband.

Nothing. She would say nothing. At least not yet.

Plan B, it is, she thought. Olivia crawled off Fitz and over to her side of the bed. Opening a drawer from her nightstand, she reached in blindly until she felt the two items she needed.

"Close your eyes," she instructed.

"Livvie, what are you doing?"

"Close. Your. Eyes," she reiterated. She slinked back over to straddle him again. "Keep your eyes closed and grab the top of the headboard."

Charmed by this, he complied. He felt his wrists being brought closer together, and then encased by a leather strap, forcing is palms to meet in prayer.

He wore a smirk. "Can I open my eyes now?"

"Can I open my eyes now, what?" Her voice had changed, echoing a no-nonsense, sexy timbre he remembered from months ago.

She's back. The realization excited him more than he thought it would have.

"Mistress," he exclaimed as he opened them.

Olivia suppressed her smile at his delight. "Correct."

She was the same woman from 5 minutes ago, but he was different. Because to him, she was different. And that difference transformed him. It had been Mistress who, months ago, fucked him to exhaustion, after which Olivia announced her pregnancy.

"I'm glad your eyes are open. Because I want you to see me do this next part."

She began placing a matching leather collar around his neck. It had a large loop hanging from the center of it. Big enough for her hand to grip if…when she wanted to ride him like a stallion.

"You needed her, didn't you? Mistress." Olivia looked down at his tented pants and removed them.

"Didn't you," she said, earnestly this time as her eyes swept over his face.

"Yes, Mistress."

Licking her palm, she took him in her hand and watched his face as she did it. "Now, kiss me."

He did as he was told. God, she loved the taste of his mouth, how deeply he sucked her into him.

Her ruffled panties were now in a ball in her hand. "Open up" she said before stuffing the garment into Fitz's mouth. He looked to be in heaven.

"I am very sure that I want to fuck you…" She dipped inside herself, leaving it glistening before spreading it like gloss over his lips. "Or, you can watch me fuck myself. I'll give you the choice."

Olivia realized that she needed to show him the sex they liked to have, was still OK. That there was something between the careful strokes he had been giving her for more than a week since they had seen the spotting, and the deep dicking for which her body was calling out.

Dr. Wilson had recommended this position for its satisfaction to mom, and safety concerns for anxious fathers. By removing Fitz's control, and with it—she hoped—his apprehension.

As she straddled him, winding her hips but not letting him inside her, she made circles with her tongue in his ear until he answered her.

Fitz began making muffled, pleading noises. His eyes were dark with lust. His mouth pliant, pink. Pretty.

"Oh, do you have an answer? I've been waaiiitiing."

She pulled the material out of his mouth the way a magician would.

Fitz sucked Olivia's finger into his mouth. "I want you, Mistress. Real bad."

"To do what?" she said against his mouth. She felt the rod of granite beneath her, ready to be polished by her walls. "Or are you begging me to let you do something to me?"

Thrusting his hips up at her center, he breathed, "I want Mistress to have her way with me. Ride me."

Slipping and sliding him a few times before lining him up at her center, she sank down slowly, but not completely.

"Let me show you how absolutely sure I am about this."

Me. You. Us.

§

A/N: Thanks for sticking with this story. I aim to do better with updates this year. I think I've figured out a plan that will have me completing it by the end of 2024. Wish me luck.

Ok, thoughts? Kenny is back and we spend some more time with him and his world. How do you feel about how Fitz is behaving? understandable? Do you remember what happened to him before he met Olivia (hint: episode 4). This was very domestic, but I didn't want to deny you pregnancy-related stuff. And I'm happy to finally close the Jamie case. We've got another case next episode.

What are you looking forward to seeing?

Please leave a comment and share!

-IP