A/N: So this is a quick one-shot based on Olitz gifs from Olivia's dream sequence in 4x06. Thanks to vitalinae's challenge on Tumblr!

It could be set anywhere in season 2, 3 or 4 (how many times have they been torn apart?) - so take your pick.

This won't be continued as I have Be My Downfall to be getting along with, but I hope you enjoy it. I'm between night shifts and should be in bed now, so please excuse any errors!

Real Again

It's her curls.

When they're natural like this, it makes him rough. He can't help but bury his hands among the soft spirals and pull, guiding her wherever he wants. He doesn't yet understand why she has this effect on him, although sometimes he wonders if it's a carnal instinct, buried deep in his DNA: there is indescribable beauty in her bareness, in her untouched state. She is in her purest form, and his XY combination of chromosomes can manufacture only one suitable response.

Their kisses are long and heavy, with her sitting in his lap in the middle of her bed and him slowly losing his mind with longing. He could do this forever and yet he can barely continue with each second that passes because she's too much; she's making him want her too much.

He tugs on her hair so she looks up to the ceiling, revealing the long column of her throat to his ravenous mouth. The noises she makes when he takes charge like this set his blood on fire: a holy trinity of desire, pain and total submission.

It's the latter which turns him on the most.

He tells her to lie down on her back; that he's going to eat her out, to fuck her cunt with his tongue. His voice is surprisingly gravelly, although he can't remember that they've actually spoken to one another tonight; can't remember what came before this, and her. Haven't they always existed right here, and nowhere else?

(She makes him vulgar too, as well as rough. And in return, he tries his best to coax as many 'fucks' out of her as possible. He savors each and every one of them: this is the side of her only he gets to see. This is his.)

She follows his instruction without complaint, letting her legs fall open and looking at him with those eyes - and oh god, her eyes. Darker than night and brighter than all the stars, they are so unbearably honest in this moment; so unashamed to love him here, in the dim light.

He's missed her so much he feels it hit him in the chest; a punch right to his heart. Why do they keep doing this to themselves? Why would he ever be anywhere other than this bed, in this position, with this woman?

He's not gentle tonight. It's impossible, the way he's feeling right now: that life is short and he has only a limited number of minutes and ways to show her how fucking much he loves and needs her. He bites her more times than he can count: her thighs, her belly; the soft, bare skin which surrounds her even softer center. She's wet all over his fingers, his nose; his lips and tongue. Her whole core throbs in his mouth, hot and sweet and tender, as her hips and her strangled pleas beg him for release - but he's nowhere near ready to let her go just yet, not when it's been so long since he's had her.

He won't ever be ready again.

Her nipples are relatively cool between his lips and he sucks on them, one after the other, as his cock settles snugly in the apex of her thighs. It would be so easy to slip inside of her right now, when he's harder than he's ever been and she's so tight, dripping wet. But he can wait, because her small hands are sliding all over him as her body writhes beneath his and she's just the most sensitive, most exquisite thing in the universe. He can't get enough.

"Fitz."

His name passes her lips like a sigh. He'd forgotten the sound: it makes him pause, with his forehead against her breastbone, as a thundercloud of emotions swirls up and roars inside of him.

No one else can say it the way she can. On a campaign bus, in the Oval, in every hallway and closet and bedroom they've ever graced - just one syllable, and he was hers.

He will always be hers.

Whether or not she can see that there's tears in his eyes before they kiss is irrelevant to him now. He doesn't care what she can see, only that she does. She sees him in their dark places, in their secrets. She sees him when he can only see his father; when no one else cares to look beyond the presidential title and Pennsylvania Avenue pedestal.

He is nothing without her.

He'd wanted to fuck her, pent up with all this wild arousal after several barren months, but suddenly he finds that they're making love. It comes so naturally to them that sometimes it seems like nothing at all; like this is how they are meant to align when they're together, their particles drawn close by the greatest force of all.

He wants to tell her everything: that he misses her; that he loves her; that he's sorry for every time he hasn't been there to hear her laugh, to wipe away her tears. Their bodies move together perfectly, fingers intertwined, with no conscious instruction; their minds far away. Is she thinking the same things? Is she so full of regret she's scared it might stop her from breathing one day?

"Fitz."

She pulls him back, away from the edge. They still, their chests rising together. Her gaze is searching his, trying to find the words he needs to forgive himself.

"I love you."

It's been years. So long, he'd forgotten: the joy. The elation. How it feels when his soul is soothed and, finally, peaceful once again.

He can't respond because she's kissing him, softly. They keep looking at each other; he won't ever be able to stop. Their rhythm starts up again, refueled now with love and slowly gaining speed. Their mouths begin to meet more ferociously until he has to tear away so that he can draw air into his lungs.

No breaths have ever been sweeter: she loves me, she loves me.

He presses his face into her neck, her curls, and tells her the same: "I love you." Over and over until he thinks maybe she's becoming overwhelmed because her body is stiffening, but when he looks at her face he realizes she's just trying to come and not to cry at the same time.

They both laugh: soft exhales. A tear spills onto her cheek. He nuzzles his nose against hers, their lips brushing together like whispers. This is the most intimate moment they've shared in such a long time: a moment of total understanding; of every kind of love. She is so beautiful it hurts.

"Livvie," he says, and his voice shatters into a million pieces. His love for her is devastating, life-changing and extraordinary, and sometimes it just cannot be contained.

They're a mess when they come together, all broken kisses and sobs, desperate movements and then the unending fall into ecstasy. It lasts for all of time, and not long enough.

He realizes she's crying properly now, staring at the ceiling as tears leak onto the sheets and her whole body shakes. He rolls onto his side and brings her with him, cradling her in his arms as they let it all out, together. Years of pain, of betrayal and guilt and longing and loving have caught up with them, all at once.

It seems like hours until all the poison is gone, until they finally feel like they might be able to heal at last. She falls asleep in his arms having said all the words he needed to hear; having looked at him like this is their brand new start and they are all that matters, now. It's a look he'll carry with him until the day he dies.

He gazes at her for a long while, wrapped up in him and white sheets. In the very beginning, he used to see the contrasting colors of their skin and wonder at all the ways they were different.

Now, he only sees the ways in which they're the same.

He falls asleep too, eventually. It's the most contented, most restful sleep he can ever remember.

But when he wakes, something is wrong… The world is wrong. It's still dark but this isn't Olivia's bedroom; there's a woman in his bed but she isn't the one he's just had the most realistic, most cathartic dream about.

He leaps up, his heart racing. His emotions are raw, stirred up by his subconscious imaginings. He can't let the disappointment that it wasn't real begin to settle: it would almost certainly destroy him right now.

He runs through the residence, barefoot, wearing only his pajama trousers. The Secret Service call out and speed after him, asking if he's okay, but he barely hears them. He slams the door of the Oval in their faces, leaving him alone inside, and they must figure he's safe in there because they don't knock or try to force their way in.

He's frantic. He can't forget the way this feels; can't forget what she told him, the look on her face which made him think forever was possible. Everything that's ever happened between them has led to this moment and he has to make it real again. He has to.

The cell phone is in his second drawer. He keeps it charged and switched on, even though the only number stored in there hasn't called it in months.

But tonight… it's already ringing when he picks it up.

It can't be her.

"Livvie?"

Is he still asleep; a dream within a nightmare?

"Fitz?" She's sobbing. "Oh my god, F-Fitz. I just had the- the craziest dream."

He pinches his arm and it hurts. He turns around on the spot, trying to find fault with this reconstruction of his office, but every inch is perfect. It's real.

Tears spring to his eyes. "Livvie, baby. Me too."

"I love you," she whispers, and the years disappear. "Can I see you?"

"Yes. God, yes. I'm leaving right now." He rushes to the door but pauses, his fingers on the handle. He can't even begin to fathom how they had similar dreams on the same night, culminating in this phone call at this exact minute in time. But understanding will come later.

Now, there's only one thing which matters: "Livvie, I love you. I love you and I want us; I want us more than anything in the world. Do you think we can make it?"

Her reply is one word, one syllable, but it contains eternity: "Yes."