I'm SO sorry for the long wait! I got distracted, I slightly forgot, I got busy with my other stories.

I am so sorry!

Let me just say, if the season finale tomorrow doesn't have a good Olitz scene, I am going to seriously debate whether watching this show again. Shonda Rhimes has completely ruined the show, and I'm so mad at her. She has these great concepts and ideas that make great television, but she has no idea how to make them last and keep the original storyline that people love.

Ugh.

Since the show doesn't provide it,

Happy Oltizing!

He had plans.
He had dreams.

He had plans for them.
He had dreams for them.

And now? All of this plans and dreams seemed to slip away in a split second.

One second, they were staring into each other's eyes, unable to say what they really wanted to say.
And the next, she was face down on the ground, covered in blood and brain matter.

He had rehearsed all day what he was going to say.
He was going to pull her away from the crowd and the noise of the party, to talk to her. He was going to tell her that she was the only thing that mattered.
Tonight was going to be the night, the night where he finally admits everything.

He was so nervous, that he had to change shirts in the limousine.

He has waited his whole life for this moment, he wanted it to be perfect. He had the whole evening planned out.

As the clock struck midnight, a half hour before Secret Service would start to close down the party, red, white and blue balloons would be released from the ceiling and that moment he would kiss her, in private of course. And right before their fairytale kiss, he would share his heart with her; he would tell her how his first thought of the day is about her, and his last thought of the night is whether she had a good day, he was going to tell her how he would give everything up, the presidency, the power, the money, for her so they could be together. He was going to tell her how much she meant to him, that the presidency meant nothing without her support, that he needed her with him always, that he was incomplete without her.

Oh, he had so many plans.

When the first shot scraped her skull, they were less than twenty feet from each other.
And the second shot hit, and exited through her left arm.

Later, when the evening was over and everyone had gone home, and the police had left, the last thing about the night that he would remember clearly, was the few moments where they were standing a world apart, staring into each other's eyes.
Everything else was a blur.

One moment, she was gazing into his eyes, and the next her eyes were in the back of her head.

He instantly let go of Mellie's hand to run to her.
He had to get to her. He had to save her.
He saw her head hit the concrete right before he started running, and that was the moment he wondered if he would ever gaze into her deep brown eyes again.

Her personal assistant was the first one to help her. Fitz was the second.

He turned her over, so her face was no longer smudged with the concrete.

He was so scared, so nervous.
But he had to be strong for her. Be strong.

He gently brushed her hair out of her face, so he could really see the extent of the wound.

Fitz, think, find a pulse. Find a pulse, you have to see if she is still alive. Find a pulse.

He quickly placed two fingers against her neck, desperately hoping for a heart beat. Please.

At first, nothing. Please.

He wiped the sweat off of his forehead and repeated the process.

"C'mon Olivia!" He screamed. Please, Livvie, please be alive.

The third time, he felt something.

It was weak, and it was irregular, but it was there. A pulse.

"Oh, thank God!" He whispered for just him to hear.

"She's alive! I need an ambulance now!" He shouted to the masses.

As President, he really should be hiding right now, in case of another attack, but Olivia needed him. And he sure as hell wasn't going anywhere. He knew the agents were yelling at him, to evacuate the scene to go into the bunker, but he couldn't hear them. He didn't care about his security at this moment, none of that bull shit mattered.

If Olivia died, then he would too.

He picked up her bloody, almost dead body off the cold ground, so he was now carrying her in his arms.

"Somebody help me! I need an ambulance!"

His voice was so shaky, as if it was going to crack any second.

He heard the sound of sirens, but could only see masses of people. Hurry! She's going to die! It's going to be too late! Hurry, please!

He was a wreck. It was an emotion of horror mixed with devastation.

He had no idea how to react, what to do, what to say, or even how to act. Fitz knew there were people who didn't like him, every president and politician has "haters", but he never thought someone would take such an act of terrorism against him. How could someone hate another person so much, as to professionally assassinate them?

And that's when Fitz realized it.

He and Olivia weren't standing near each other at all. The assassin would have to be an awful shot to miss their target that much.

They weren't aiming for me, I wasn't their target. She was.

Which meant, that as long as she was still alive, she was in danger.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to shout. He wanted to yell every curse word he could think of. But he couldn't speak, he was literally speechless.

But what we wanted more than anything else, was for his Liv to live.

Ow.

Why does everything hurt?

Where am I?

Who are you? and why are you running over me?

Why are the lights so bright?

Why are you screaming orders to that quiet man?

Why is everyone screaming?

Why is there security in the room?

Why is there so much blood?

Why aren't I at the party?

Why is no one talking to me?

What happened to me?

Ow.

He hadn't changed yet, hence the bloody sports coat and shirt.

Security Service had forced him to wash his hands of her blood. But, Fitz refused to change. He wanted people to remember why they were in this situation. He wanted the people around him to remember how fragile and precious life is. He wanted them to remember that Liv was hurt.

But really, he just wanted to feel close to her. His bloody tux was the last thing and memory he had of Olivia, and he didn't want it to be thrown away.

"You aren't listening to me, Cyrus!"

"Frankly, I don't care what you're saying right now, Mr. President. We need to get you to the bunker, right now! You don't have a choice! There are security measures put in place for these things, you can't just go against them! They are put in place for a reason! Now, come with me or I will secret service drag you!"

"Cyrus! Listen to me for just one God damned second!" He yelled.

That got Cyrus' attention.

Fitz sighed, "They weren't aiming for me. The assassin, they weren't aiming for me. I wasn't the target, Olivia was."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I know there are security measures I have to follow. I know that. But, I wasn't the one who was supposed to be on the operating table right now. Whoever shot Olivia wanted her there. I wasn't the target, Olivia was."

He took another deep breath,

"Anyone who was there would know that we were standing at least ten feet apart more, probably more. I was standing right next to Mellie, if they shot me, Mellie would be hit, too. Olivia was standing all alone, an easy target. If this person were aiming for me, they have an awful shot and wouldn't even be an assassin! I'm saying that this person wanted Olivia dead! What I'm saying Cyrus is, is that you're going to find whoever the hell that is."

And then he stormed out of the Oval Office to the security bunker.

Ow.

Don't try to move, stupid idea.

Why am I in so much pain?

"Ms. Pope has suffered a very serious gun shot wound to the head. I'm very surprised she is alive right now; from where the bullet hit her skull and brain, she shouldn't even be breathing right now. She's very lucky. The first surgery went okay, but there were a few complications, we almost lost her. Ms. Pope has a few more surgeries ahead of her and some therapy to go through, that's if she even makes it through the night and through the next few surgeries."

"How long is that going to take, Doc?"

"We can't even open her up again for at least a week, we want to monitor her brain activity the next few days, to see what we're dealing with."

"How long, Doc?"

"She's going to be in here for at least six months, if she can make it through all of the surgeries. You have to be prepared that she may not make it through the next surgery. You have to be prepared for the worst."

Who is that? I know that voice. Who is that?

A very serious gun shot wound to the head.
She shouldn't even be breathing right now.
You have to be prepared that she may not make it through the next surgery.
I was shot? Who would want to shoot me?

"Oh great, Fitz is going to love that. Thanks, Doc."

Oh, Fitz. My dear, Fitz.

How worried he must be right now, my poor Fitz.

I heard footsteps and a door close.

Am I here all alone?
Why isn't telling me what's going on?

Why can't I move?

I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn't. I couldn't even squeeze my hand into a fist.

I wanted to cry, but nothing happened.

All I know is that I was shot, and now I'm all alone.

It had been twenty four hours since the shooting.
I was in a faze.

Cyrus says I need to hold a press conference, make a statement, inform the public of the situation and of Olivia's state of health.

I want to, I want to be strong for her. I want to pull through this funk for her, to not let this malicious person win, by taking away my freedom to be happy. I want to, I really want to, but I can't.

I put on a suit and tie this morning, my depression already in full swing, I sat through my daily morning meeting with my senior staff completely unaware of what they were saying, graciously letting Cyrus run the show.

I need to get out of here. I can't think, too many suits, too many people needing me. I can't deal with them today, not with Olivia's uncertainty of life. I need to clear my head, I need to get out of here.

And there's only one place where I can really find peace.

"Tom, get the car."

"Yes sir."

I just need to feel close to her.

The unmarked car pulled up to the familiar building and a wave of emotions came over me. All at once, I relived all of our moments together.

The first time we met.
The first time she proved her political power to me.
The first time I made her laugh.
The first time our hands intertwined.
The first time she called me Fitz instead of Governor Grant.
The first time her ever perfect lips kissed mine.
The first time we made love.
The first I said I love you.
The first time she said it back.
The first time we had sex in the White House.
The first time we had sex in the Oval Office.
The first time we had a sleepover during my presidency.
The first time we showered together.
The first time I said I wanted to marry her.
The first time I said I wanted to have children together.
The first time she said she wanted those things too.
The first time I said I wanted her to be First Lady.

Our last phone conversation.
Our last kiss.
Our last conversation.
Our last declaration of love, the letters.
Our last eye glance.
Our last time making love.
Our last time saying I love you.

I remember it all. And my brain replayed all of those memories at once as I made my way up to her apartment.

It really was a beautiful apartment, totally her style, a mix of chic and home.

"I'm okay by myself, Tom. Give me a few minutes." He nodded in compliance.

I took a breath in and turned the key she gave me, unlocking her door.

I had no idea what I was in for.

I walked past the brown wooden door, not looking at the living room, not noticing the open wine bottle still on the coffee table which is typical Olivia. No, I didn't look at the details, not yet.

I walked straight to her our bedroom, where so many of our memories are held.

I walked around her room, breathing in her familiar scent.
Her scent alone tugged at my heart strings.

Normally her apartment is always clean and clean of dust, which is why I felt so out of place walking around her apartment. Not because I was alone, and she was laying a hospital bed fighting for her life, no it was because the place was a disaster. Clothes lying everyone, a wine glass in each room, a book laying open on the couch, her laptop still sitting on her bed, her bed unmade and messy. I could still see the outline of where she sat on the bed while working on her computer. The thought made me think of a dirty email she sent me right before the inauguration, causing me to smile for the first time in twenty four hours.

I turned into her walk-in closet, and as I was running my hand along the lines of clothing hanging, something caught my eye.

I barely saw it. She had it folded neatly in the back, on top of an old pair of jeans.
My heart skipped a beat.

Even though it now mainly smelled like her, I could vaguely smell my cologne.

It was my NAVY sweatshirt that I gave to her what feels like ages ago.

And as I held the sweatshirt in my hands, for the first time I actually thought that I was never going to see her again.

I fell to the floor in crying, weeping agony.
For the first time, I wept.

to be continued