10 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days, a scandal fanfic

Author's Note: Good morning. Hello, everyone. It's a double celebration for me, y'all. Not only is this my 100th story on FFN, this is the first story coming off my brand new laptop! CMW2 is now mobile! Quake with fear or with anticipation, whichever you prefer. Anyway, it's been 100 stories and I want to thank all you out there for reading and supporting my scribbles. Although I write mainly to keep what little sanity I have left, knowing that people actually like my stuff makes it infinitely more fun. Here's to at least 100 more!

All right, new fandom and new pretty long oneshot, I'm ready! I am very familiar with Shonda Rhimes' work and I spent much of my teenage years watching both Grey's and PP. After a while though, I completely disagreed with the directions she went in with both shows so when Scandal first came out, I had decided not to watch it so I wouldn't get invested in characters just to watch them jump the shark so bad that it was like they died or actually be brutally killed off to break my fangirl heart into a billion pieces.

Of course, as soon as my boss turned 2 x 11 on her DVR (I'm a home caregiver) to catch up, I found myself sitting, watching, asking questions, and loving the show and getting a fish hook to gut via Olitz. It's been a long time since a pairing got under my skin like they have and I want, I need to write for them. In fact, a few of you may recognize me because I've been trolling the archive and practically stalking folks. Sorry if I creeped anyone out, by the way.

So, yeah. I want to play too and this here is an AU of the Christening/Closetgate from this week's episode. Although I enjoyed the original scene (a rarity in my AUs), this plot bunny bit me in the jugular and it won't let go until I do its bidding. Fair warning: I am very new to the show and fandom (YouTube is an awesome cheat sheet, though) so if something is blatantly wrong, please let me know adjustments can be made in the future.

On with the show.

Disclaimer: "Honestly, it's not mine!"

She was walking slowly next to Ella, smiling as the little girl moved about, half crawling and walking. Her onyx hair was cut and curled, stopping at just below gold studded earlobes. She had lost weight but not too much. She was still lushly, firmly curved (curves that his hands still itched to caress…) and the periwinkle and white polka dotted dress she had on stopped just past her knees, leaving most of her strong legs exposed. 3 inch black Mary Jane like heels were on her feet. The same black was on the lace of the fingerless gloves that went to her forearms and the polish on her bitten down nails. The sun streaming through the cathedral windows gave her milk chocolate skin a near ethereal glow, soft and smooth all over...

Ella hit the church floor on her bottom but before the girl could even whimper, Olivia Pope had her up and on her hip, soothing her. Godmother…Aunt 'Livia…mother…mommy…Baby Pope…Baby Pope-Grant…

Looking away, Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III turned his politician's poise and smile on, mingling with guests on autopilot. Mellie was a few steps behind him, her eyes fixing on him coldly and with sharp venom as she looked over to where Ella was giggling as Olivia made faces at her. The venom wasn't necessary. He was absolutely done with Olivia Pope. She had betrayed him, the voters, the country. She had helped to rig the election. She claimed to love him, to believe in him but she had conspired with Cyrus, Hollis, Verna (the bitch…) and his darling wife in Defiance, OH.

What killed him was that the only benefit he could think of to her was that if he was put in office, she wouldn't have to be brave enough to love him publicly...if she did at all. He wasn't sure. Fuck, he wasn't sure of much of anything these days…

"Here she is…oh, she is absolutely precious!" Mellie gushed with half sincerity as Olivia clicked over.

"Go see your Uncle Fitzgerald, dulce." she urged the startled toddler softly.

Baby Pope…Baby Pope-Grant…go see your daddy, dulce…

Ella's head immediately went to his shoulder and he held onto her carefully but tightly. This little girl was his goddaughter, one of the few bright spots he had in his world, truly innocent with all sorts of potential.

He would do his utmost to make sure she would stay as innocent as possible. Ella didn't need to know the darkness he did, that they all did...

"I'm glad to see you, Olivia."

"Don't lie, Mellie. We're in a church."

With a polite incline of her head in his direction, she clicked down the main aisle, joining an ecstatic James in conversation. She turned and her dress strap slipped down unnoticed, showing her bare shoulder…and not so bare skin just below. She had a tattoo now. His Livvie…Ms. Pope had a tattoo, now. Passing Ella to Cyrus, he joined the knot of people and got behind her just enough to get a good look.

It was a midsized henna of a flower in bloom, possibly an orchid, black with rust and tan detail. There were vines and leaves radiating from it in a circle. It was very tasteful and…oh, god.

The lowest leaves had detail marks except for tiny spaces in the middle. Those tiny spaces gave the shaped of letters and lines, very familiar letters and lines.

FTGIII

His initials.

His initials were cleverly hidden in her tasteful tattoo.

His initials were hidden in her permanent tattoo on her body, on her fucking skin, marking her, branding her as…

Damn it, Olivia!

Belatedly, he realized that he had hissed his thought aloud and she half turned her head. He saw the realization dawn and her hand moved towards the strap to try and cover it up, to deny it like always.

"No."

Unthinkingly, her hand dropped back to her side and as the knot began to dissolve, Fitz stepped forward and adjusted the strap himself. His knuckle brushed over her skin purposely and goosebumps rose immediately in its wake, a small but visible tremor racking her form.

Her tearful doe eyes flicked to his again and she moved forward swiftly, the ceremony about to begin.

With a near lethal calm, he followed after her.

She could run but she couldn't hide.

"Screwing your mistress is one thing but marrying her? That's political suicide…"

She had held it together until after she got back from Verna's funeral. As soon as she was alone, it was like a volcanic eruption. She had wept, she had wailed, she had raged, and destroyed. Her apartment looked like it had been hit by a tornado and a missile in the end. After polishing off half of a bottle of wine, she had taken scissors and a razor to her hair.

He loved her hair, was actually genuinely fascinated by it. There had even been an impromptu tutorial on the Trail. Their… exertions… plus Louisiana humidity had completely wrecked it and he asked to help her fix it before the rally that night. It had been full of laughter and his gentle fingers and his lips on the nape of her neck…she had to cut it. She had to get rid of him…

Edison had shown up the morning after and she had handed him what little things she had allowed him to bring in a small box. She had nodded towards the kitchen counter where her ring rested before turning on the vacuum. The senator had been hurt and angry, demanding explanations that she couldn't give. Asking her why she was doing it, asking if there was someone else, asking her why she even gave him a hope in the first place, asking if she had gone mad…the last one was certainly true. She had definitely gone mad. Heartbreak, regret, and the fucking twisting burning guilt in her now infamous gut saw to that. God, the guilt!

As she cried in the shower after the door slammed behind him, it had dawned on her.

Verna.

Verna who had been behind the Shooting.

Verna who had been gung-ho about the Rigging from the beginning.

Verna who had become her Fitz related confidant.

Verna who had been on her deathbed.

And right before she passed away, Fitz had gone to visit her…on her deathbed where the woman had absolutely nothing left to lose.

Deathbed = Confessional.

Everyone knows that.

And then, it all clicked into place, each piece falling in like steel dominoes in her mind.

Cyrus would be completely unrepentant, as would Hollis. After all, they had gained more power in the wake of it all 'for the greater good'.

Mellie would be all too happy to confirm his suspicions 'for the greater good', especially if it involved her own personal power and if it guaranteed Olivia getting shafted…

Horror and grief had coiled and burst through her gut, going down the shower drain with tears and soap as she screamed.

Simply put, Fitz knew.

Fitz knew everything.

He had to.

Why else would he go from begging her to wait for him to…that?

Fitz. Fucking. Knew.

And he hated. Truly, deeply, hated:

Verna.

Cyrus.

Hollis.

Mellie.

Her, most of all.

It was Over. It was Done. He was Done. They were Done. She had finally succeeded in pushing him away. He was Gone. Just like she had always insisted she wanted…

'Be careful what you wish for…' never applied more thoroughly.

10 months, 3 weeks, 2 days.

She worked. She worked hard. She worked long. She ran on piss, vinegar, and Mountain Dew. It used to be coffee but Fitz tasted like coffee. No matter what, he tasted like coffee. It even blended with his morning breath, for fuck's sake. She worked and she Fixed. She Fixed other people so she wouldn't have to focus on just how Broken she was.

10 months, 3 weeks, 2 days.

She swam, she did yoga, and she started dancing again. When she wasn't working, she was at the pool, the gym, the studio, and her living room. The physical pain had become a balm to her soul. The pain and Tylenol PM allowed her brain to shut off long enough for dreamless sleep…most of the time, anyway.

10 months, 3 weeks, 2 days.

The tattoo was all Abby's fault. Honestly. Both she and the redhead had united in their misery one rainy Friday night 3 months in, drank far too much tequila (with the worms) and Abby had dared her to do something out of character, something wild. Outside of Fixing, according to her, Olivia Pope was just about as wild as a Monopoly tournament at the retirement home.

If only the ballsy crazy redhead knew…

"…look, you already chopped your hair off but that'll grow back. You should do something fun and wild and stupidly permanent. You should do something to get you off your sad sack ass and to restore your Gladiator Swag. As a matter of fact, I dare you to do something…"

No matter how old and civilized Olivia Pope got, there would always be Little Liv-Liv jumping over the top of the swings or teenage O.P. Mac putting a kick me sign smack dab in the middle of the star point guard's back during a pep rally rattling around in her brain. Down for whatever, screw you and your momma, I'll show you all who's top dog, I'll worry about it only if I get caught Liv-Liv and O.P Mac…

"Fine! Do your worst, Whelan!"

Fortunately, she had retained the presence of mind not to put his name or face. She had picked a place easily concealed and had picked muted colors. The Initials had been an impulse but she had been careful. Unless someone was looking hard, they were nearly undetectable. She didn't regret them or even the tattoo itself. It was a tangible reminder of him and even though it hurt to think about Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III, she certainly didn't want to forget about him.

Ever.

10 months, 3 weeks, 2 days.

Seeing Ella made her feel warm and happy for the first time since long before The Funeral. Her innocence, her joy at being alive, her determination to be mobile so she could explore…it was beautiful. It also made Olivia want to shield her from everything, from the mud and the shades of gray fading to outright black. It was too late for her.

Olivia had covered up crimes. She had committed crimes. She had been an accessory to sanctioned adultery ("…you fell down on the job…") but adultery all the same. She had been a mistress ("…you are not my mistress…screwing your mistress is one thing…"), a liar, a betrayer.

"…a criminal, an idiot, a whore, and a liar…"

There was no reason to expect redemption or forgiveness for her actions and she had grown to accept that.

Her white hat had Dalmatian spots, now. It would until she was just as dead as Verna.

But, Ella…Ella had a chance. Ella didn't have to be like that, like her. As long as she drew breath, she would make sure that her goddaughter did not end up like her…

"Go see your Uncle Fitzgerald, dulce."

He looked great with a baby. He always had. She had seen pictures with Karen, Gerry, and Teddy. She had seen him interact with his kids. He was a warm, loving, fun yet firm parent and man, good to those whom he loved with everything he had. He would've been a great father and husband to her if she had just been brave enough, selfish enough but mostly brave…

"I'm glad to see you, Olivia." Mellie offered up with practiced sweetness.

"Don't lie, Mellie. We're in a church."

Even though she had just blatantly called her out, there was no venom in the words, just a deep, annoyed exhaustion. Enough with the bullshit, already. Mellie fucking hated her. Fitz fucking hated her. Hell, she fucking hated herself the majority of the time. Why bother with pretense and pleasantries, now? Meeting the stormy cerulean slate eyes that constantly haunted her, she had barely managed a 'what's up?' head bob before walking away. She could barely breathe, barely think. His body heat, his smell, his voice, just his presence made her want to burst into tears. She was still Olivia Pope, damn it all and Olivia Pope didn't believe in crying hysterically over anyone or anything.

At least not in public.

The bond between her and Fitz was torn and frayed but still there. One more good yank and it would be gone for good…

Footsteps made her stiffen but she kept her back to him, hearing and feeling his breathing on her, his scent surging into her nostrils, a sharp intake of breath…

"Damn it, Olivia!"

He saw it. The tattoo. The Initials. She had to…

"No."

Like with "Hi.", "One Minute", "Sweet Baby", and "Livvie", his voice had an immediate effect on her. Her hand dropped back to her side and as people migrated away obliviously, he stepped right into her personal bubble and raised the strap achingly, sensually slowly. Not only that but then his knuckle went across her skin. She shivered and she could feel a shot of warmth in her chest for the first time in 10 months, 3 weeks, and 2 fucking days. Looking back at him with stinging eyes, she saw an all too familiar set to his jaw and gleam in his eye.

Both led to her being fucked by him in more ways than one.

As she clicked away, she knew that no matter how fast she left the ceremony and after party, no matter how hard she tried to avoid being alone with him, today would be the day he would come after her.

And he would catch her.

He always caught her in the end.

It certainly didn't mean that she wasn't going to put up a fight.

That just wasn't in her nature.

He was about 8 paces behind her in the corridor.

Matter of factly, she removed her shoes and put them in her bag.

He had stopped to allow her that and had discarded his jacket and shoes on a nearby chair.

It was only right that they be on even ground.

Then she had resumed at a faster click, her bare feet thumping on the carpeted floor.

Fitz knew that she was going to run and he was ready. He had kept up his physical therapy after the Shooting and he ran at least 5 miles every morning, Tom and Hal with him.

His vision sharpened and focused, just like it had in a cockpit before flying into the fray.

His squadron had nicknamed him Predator.

And right now, Olivia Pope was his Prey.

Abruptly, her bag flew at him and he dodged it, taking off after her. He had done this before. Literally chase after her. They had been in the woods near Camp David in the early morning, Mellie in California and everyone else sleeping or patrolling elsewhere. She had met him out there, kissed him rawly, and took off giggling like a schoolgirl, taunting him with a sultry, sing-song 'Come and get me, Mr. President.'

He had caught her and they had made love in a nearby shed, her grinning madly the whole time.

She wasn't giggling or grinning now. There wasn't any playfulness. She didn't want him to catch her this time.

He would, though.

She was heading for the back stairwell. It led to the parking area and knowing her as he did, her car was right near the doors. If she got to her car, she would be gone and would probably run him over twice for good measure.

With a quick snatch of his left hand forward, Fitz grabbed her wrist and tugged backwards. She struggled as best she could but he yanked her into a…electrical closet… and slammed the door shut behind them. Instead of the harsh slap he had grown to associate with her, a milk chocolate fist sailed into his right jaw and it actually staggered him.

Recovering, he caught the next fist and pulled her into a deep, wet, rough kiss. She pushed him away and ah, there was the slap. He just looked at her, watching her chest heave, her pulse jump. Her hands clenched in her (too damned short…) hair briefly and then…with a flustered shake of her head, her hands cupped his face and resumed their kissing, deep and desperate. The rage and hurt he had been feeling towards her turned into a potent burning lust, a lust that was mutual given the way she was clutching at him, clawing at him. With a low snarl, he turned her around and yanked her panties to the floor, her hands reaching behind her to undo his belt nimbly. Their mouths clashed and drank of each other, inflaming and soothing all at the same time.

Even after everything, he craved her and she him.

Yanking down that strap, he sealed his mouth over the tattoo and plunged deep into her soaking tight silk, her right hand gripping the latticework hard. His hand ended up on top of hers and their fingers entwined just like they had from the first time she finally called him by his name. Both of them were panting, groaning, gasping, and fuck if they didn't sound like two beasts in heat. They were certainly moving like it. He had missed this, missed her despite his brain and pride telling him he was an absolute fool to do so.

His heart still screamed for her and only her. He could say what he wanted to her and to himself and to anyone else but in the end, he still was utterly in love with Olivia Pope.

There was no changing that.

"Why, Olivia?"

She sighed and continued pacing in a slow circle, still feeling him between her thighs, the sting of the bite mark he had left right on his initials. They had returned to the festivities and after a good 20 minutes of mingling, ended up in Cyrus' office like they used to during planning sessions.

"I wanted you to be happy. I wanted to help you prove your father wrong. I ignored my gut and let everyone convince me that it was the only way. I should've stuck to my guns and told them all to shove it but I didn't and I hid it from you and everyone else and I lied to you. Well, I omitted it but you and I know better than anyone that an omission is just a fancier way of saying a lie. I did it and I knew it was wrong. And…"

"What?"

"If I say it, you're going to be even angrier at me."

"You helped because you knew that if I was put in office, you would have a go-to completely viable excuse not to love me and be with me legitimately." he deadpanned.

Her lips parted in shock at the completely accurate statement and Fitz laughed without mirth as he set down his glass of scotch.

"Contrary to popular belief around here, I'm not stupid and I'd like to think that I've gotten to know you well enough to figure out how your brain works. You were scared. You knew exactly how I feel about you, you knew that I wasn't lying when I said I was willing and ready to walk away and be with you, and you knew full and damned well that you loved me, no matter how wrong and crazy it was. You were scared, terrified, and looking for a way out, a way to get the control that means so much to you back so you decided to go along with Defiance, knowing that it would hurt and piss me off enough to walk away from you. The only problem is that it didn't work."

"Are you kidding me? Fitz, until today it had been…"

"10 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days. I know. It didn't make me walk away for good…or stop loving you at all and I still do, Livvie. I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I'm going love you until I'm dead."

"You and me both but…you said that you weren't leaving your wife. You said that I was political suicide. You said…you said that I was your mistress and you meant all of it. You did. Now, I know that you were hurt and angry and rightfully so but…this isn't exactly a fairy tale, Fitz."

"Not necessarily. We seem to be something right out of the Brothers Grimm."

Before she could stop herself, she laughed and a small but genuine smile curved his lips.

"What do you want, Olivia? Honestly."

"You.", she replied bluntly.

"Okay. That's doable."

"Is it?"

"You're the Almighty Fixer. You tell me."

"I don't know. I obviously can't be objective with this. With us. Trying to be objective is what got us this messed up in the first place."

"True."

"You're married. You're the POTUS. You have children. You have a toddler. In those circumstances, I can't think of a way to spin a divorce and a new girlfriend who isn't very new at all without your reputation and legacy going to shit for at least 5 years. Maybe longer. D.C and the general public hold grudges very well. Not to mention the hell Mellie and Cyrus would unleash."

"I have leverage on Mellie other than Defiance. I started looking for it shortly after I met you and Cyrus and I are in a state of mutually assured destruction when it comes to this subject."

"Do I want to know?"

"Not really. As always, Livvie, it's up to you. You know where I stand."

"Yeah, you've been about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face this whole time."

"Or your fist. I liked it better when you just slapped and yelled at me."

Olivia laughed again and sighed deeply, meeting his gaze head on. This was it. Her…god, she had lost count of chances to be with this man that she loved. Miracle of miracles, he still loved her too. They were not Done. They were certainly down but they weren't out. It was time to be brave, now.

Was she down for this? Could she finally do this?

"Whatever you have on her better be damned good."

Hell, yeah.

His smile could've lit up Times Square.