MacArthur Park: A Season 4 Miniseries
Part One: Olivia
No one talks about women in their late thirties who have had enough. Not the Black ones like you, anyway. You went away to replenish your spirit, you tell yourself. You were not running away. Again. It was different this time. You were fine on that island. Good, in fact. Then you came back here.
Since then, there has been this itchy feeling, like a haunting inside you. You think it is a hormonal impulse driven by being in your mid-thirties, except you did not feel like this on the island. That boy helps you scratch it in your body, but you fear that the itch is lodged in a place he cannot reach. It is as deep and as stubborn as your denial. Denial of what…who you want to be a balm of aloe vera slathering your body and soul. The kite with that thought sails away. You try to hang on, but you cannot. The company you keep will not let you catch it. Because Jake spits out something so ludicrous it stuns you silent.
"It's always his turn. Despite the fact that I'm the one you like to ride. The one who makes you moan. That I'm the one who reaches you in places he can't begin to touch," he says.
Frozen deep in that silence is where you are now, with your mouth agape, and eyes wild trying to comprehend his petulant audacity. To the point that you allow frayed, truthful threads at the end of his fabric of make-believe, go unrefuted. It's always his turn. The phrase sticks with you, and your memory slides back, back, back. Again.
"You're leaving everything else behind. Why don't you leave that, too," your voluntary companion had said the day you made up your mind to leave. You did leave your Love behind, but you could never leave your love behind. You tried; you failed. And now you pretend.
Pretend that you do not want to roar about Jake punching above his weight. About his placeholder status in your life. Pretend, through the sound of your silence, that you would not drop him like a bad habit as soon as you and your Love could amount to more than stolen moments. You pretend because you do not want to admit to Jake or yourself that you are using him. The boy is as in denial as you are. You need that right now.
The thud of the boy's footsteps are heavy with the weight of his peevish machismo, as he hightailed it out of your bedroom. Out of your apartment. Until you are left with your own thoughts and a Hitachi wand with miraculous battery life. One that has lasted through your absence.
Hello, my old friend.
###
You have not been able to stop thinking about it. The pinky touch that never was. Almost was? Did He even reach out to you? It is absurd really. Your pinky had a life of its own, extending itself toward Him. If only He too, had reached towards you. Maybe, then, He would have seen your irrepressible Mona Lisa smile. Maybe it is best that He did not see it…or you, through more than a cursory glance. By then you knew you would be staying in Washington. Wanted to stay, even after swearing you had only come to pay your respects to Harrison—your friend, your family.
You wonder if He is smug enough to know you would stay if you tip toed into this town again. There's a piece of you in this place, and not just because you were born, raised, and returned here.
He is here. The only He that has inhabited the soul of you.
You swear you felt His kinetic energy at the tip of your pinky. That digit had a mind of its own that day, in the Capitol's rotunda. You did not want to look His way, but who were you kidding? You felt Him before you saw Him. Imbibed His smell until you nearly stumbled. You would rather have faltered in your heels than let Him look into your eyes. There, danger lies always. Because the truth is there. You avoided it then, but your memory has committed all of Him into the deepest recesses and forefronts of your amygdala. You stole one good look at Him before He could notice you noticing. His allure is undeniable. Your mind, the sense memory your body carries for Him, is indelible. The perfect wave of His hair. The slope of his shoulders. His carved jaw. His mouth…
You are getting caught up. You fall deeper. You are all instinct now.
"You're back." His smile was a thing you could never forget. Nor the way he hooked His pinky finger with yours, sending warm rays of hope up your arm until all those rays bathed you in His light. Until your eyes traveled from his mouth to his eyes.
But then.
You see that his eyes were not his eyes.
His face is not His face, but a dissolving fantasy melting like wax right in front of you. Until his apparition became a foaming seashore lapping against your naked feet.
It's always His turn.
It resounds in your ears until you sit bold upright in your bed. Gasping for air. Real air.
"Shhhh, Livvie. It's OK. I'm here." You want those words to soothe you, but they do not. You cannot trust what is real and what is not.
Lips press against your shoulder blade, not once but twice, like a secret code. You know those lips. They are His. Your heartbeat steadies.
But then.
Your bladder reveals the startling truth. Your mind is wrapped in a fantasy inside a nightmare. You are alone. Under your white sheets, in the pitch black of your bedroom. You sigh as you get up to address the only reality you cannot deny.
You really do need to pee.
This is all Jake's fault. That you are like this right now. He was supposed to help you; occupy nighttime; your horizontal urges. After more than two days, his hissy fit is proving inconvenient. Such a dangerous thing for you to be alone with these thoughts of Him. The only Him that would make you come back to this town. He will always fall into the gaps of you. They are his perfect size. And you hate that because it makes you feel weak.
Now you are angry. Tick tock, it is 4:30. You might as well make a start on the day. Someone will need you soon.
###
It has been several days, and you continue to think about His finger. A fucking pinky. How you wish it had curled against your own and pulled you against the firm plane of His chest and kissed you right there, under the Capital's dome, in front of everyone. Because you would have abandoned all care. Your yearning was so strong you would have let everyone glimpse an excerpt from your story. The Story of Us. The one that is far from complete.
Alas, your pride won the day.
You let yourself back into His professional orbit. Strictly professional. That is what you told yourself when you agreed to do that job for Cyrus. Deep down you know what is at risk. Cyrus, he is to blame, too. He's the reason you ever met Fitz. Things have not been strictly professional between the two of you since the five minutes after you met Him. Which was five minutes after you gave His staff a pep talk about the shit show of His marriage, and how it was slaughtering Him in the polls. Hired to fix His marriage. Sometimes, even you must laugh at the irony.
"I need to hear what you think. Before I go out there and talk to the country, I need to know what you think."
He hands you his State of the Union speech, because He still cares what you think above all others. You try not to think about how fondly journalist talk about this Fitz 2.0. How he endeared Himself to a nation, and soared in their esteem during the time you were absent. There are no coincidences. You know that professionalism is only the topcoat on the layers and layers of your relationship with Him. On the outside you hold strong. Head high when you leave, not bothering to remain for the actual speech.
You know this man. His words, if you absorb them, will burrow into the soft place you never lose for Him. A place of undying faith in who He is. His words only reinforce what you've known since the first campaign trail: that He is special. Remarkable, even. He belongs in the presidency, even if your mother killed His son to keep Him as President. At least it was not you this time who did the corrupting deed. But, perhaps, you are your mother's child, and that is just as bad. In His eyes and yours. You are convinced the badness is in you; passed down from father and mother. You had to flee, just as she had. Go missing and lost.
A part of you wished to be found.
Seeing Him in action, speechifying in the House, would only tip you over the precipice, and you cannot afford to fall into His lair. So close, yet so far away is how you think of Him these days. Maybe, He really is over you. Maybe
Or maybe the state of your union reflects the decisions you have made.
Descending the many stairs outside the Capitol, you puff out your chest and draw in that pouting bottom lip. You know where you are headed.
####
And so here you are, outside room 419. You knock and the door opens. Your shoulders are set back, and you try not to think too hard about your pride. About why you are here.
A voice pierces your thoughts of regret. A different voice than the one fueling your dreams. The voice of the one without the dead son. The one who does not change speeches based on your recommendations. The one you're not afraid to call, but who—for some reason—has been sulking for days, not answering your calls. That voice is speaking now.
But you do not want to hear it. No. In fact, you are not here to talk. You are here to celebrate resisting Him. Or to distract from your inability to tell Him the truth about why you left Him. This time.
The man in front of you right now you owe no explanation.
"We're not on the island, Jake. We're not standing in the sun. This," you clarify, "is not a booty call."
Because it is not. You don't beg. Not this one, who is so easy. Like a game for which you never needed lessons. The gameplay instructions are so clearly written in those cat-like eyes of his. They are a nice distraction, you must admit.
"If I want to summon you, I will summon you." Someone other than your Hitachi wand needs to scratch this itch.
He says your name in protest, but it does not matter because your coat is halfway on the floor. You are standing there like a delectable dessert in designer boots. Game over for him.
"Come here to me." You order, smooth but firm. You came here naked under this raincoat to save time, to save pretenses.
For the 20 minutes you two will tussle, you will not have to feel neglected. After the thrill, you are still so empty. Get your shoes and your coat. You came as dessert, but you are leaving as melted sponge and frosting, mingling with wet earth. Flavor, absent. This recipe was quick to make. The sensation was good while it lasted. It is always like that with anyone who is not Him. Momentary abnegation between the sheets…or on top of whatever surface. It doesn't matter. All that matters is your mind being occupied, so that you do not have to think about being left in the rain by the only man you have ever loved. Truly, madly, deeply.
Itch.
Doesn't He miss you? At all? A not insignificant piece of you is afraid to know how He feels. Sooner or later you will have to face Him and the truth between the two of you.
To Be Continued...
A/N: Hello! I wanted to put my spin on the pre-kidnapping part of Season 4. I wanted to make all the subtext just text. I hope that is evident here. Don't worry, I will never hit you with angst without heart and sexiness to follow ;). So, trust the process and me (as always). 'MacArthur Park' by Donna Summer is the song that plays at the end of 402. This miniseries is compatible with these reimagining of canon: 'No Sun on the Horizon and Other Things We Never Said' and 'All in Love is Fair'.
There will be a total of 5 updates before this is finished (so, 4 more). The goal is to update every few days until until it's done. Just to reinforce: when you see capitalized 'He/Him' in the middle of a sentence, it refers to Fitz. You will see 'Her/She' in the same way when we get to Fitz's POV. It's something I've picked up from the show.
OK! Let me know what you think. Feedback always gives me a little boost.