Everyone knows that girl. The girl that becomes unbearably sick at prom, and you are forced to call your evening short. You don't want your parents or hers to find out that you were all out drinking late. You pool your money together and convince the limo driver to take you to the nearest hospital. You all sit with her, eagerly hoping that she'll be okay, but you secretly hate her for ruining the evening. If it weren't for clammy cheeks, immaculate make up, and the downturned face, you would never know. You would think that they decided to hold prom in the hospital emergency room this year. The small group of tuxedos and beautiful evening gowns is startling, but it happens every year. Every year, they nurses, doctors, and patients are shocked.
Everyone knows that girl.
Tonight, you are that girl.
Your dress is still perfect. It doesn't even have a wrinkle. The white vintage silk glitters under the florescent lights. It's ironic, but you almost seem to be glowing. You are standing in the hospital and somehow, you have turned into a fucking fairy princess. You don't appreciate the twist of fate. Despite the many times that Secret Service agents have patted you down, it's held its shape. It doesn't have a speck of dirt nor blood on it. You don't know how you managed. Everyone seems to have something on them.
It makes you feel like an outsider.
How were you spared?
Why were you spared?
Your make up is immaculate. It doesn't convey the silent tears that you spilled in the car ride to the hospital. The blush hasn't flawed. You aren't surprised. You were in such a state of shock that you had upturned your hands to the sky wondering, did the car have a leak? Was the moon roof open? Was it raining? When you realized that the wetness had sprung and fell from your own eyes, you hadn't even known what to do. The slow jerky movements to dab at your eyes were phantom-like. How could you do such a mundane task? There were so many more important things to do. You had to see him. You had to call the team. The FBI, police department, and probably CIA were surely sweeping the area, but they weren't her team. Most of all, they weren't Huck. Huck would know.
Cyrus would need your help. You had to control the media. The media would be frenzied and desperate for word. You had to control the media. While they cannot pull a Spiderman and climb the wall, you did not doubt that they would make their best attempts to do anything. They had helicopters to encircle the hospital. They were known for falsifying patients for a glimpse. On an evening as such, no one was spared. While Cyrus was cunning and ruthless, you know that this had always been his greatest fear. Not to loose the presidency, but to lose Fitz.
You stand at the nurses' station.
Your arms are crossed. The hospital is cold, but they always are. The men have offered you a coat repeatedly, but you don't want anyone's coat. None of the coats will smell of him and that's the only one that you want. If it means that your dress will be soaked in his blood, you couldn't care right now. You may dissect your reasons for not minding sitting in his blood soaked coat, but right now you just need a piece of him. The others are all smeared or splattered in his blood, and you have nothing of him. You were not permitted to touch him one last time. Although, you vehemently refuse to believe that he will die. Your Fitz is far too stubborn to die at someone else's hand. Still, you rather freeze than wear their coats. His coat will be surely doused in that special cologne. The same cologne that he has worn for twenty years and when they stopped manufacturing it, you had bought him the last fifteen cases from the manufacturer. It was a silly gift, but you knew that he couldn't ever grab a bottle without thinking of you. Truthfully, it was selfish. You enjoyed the notion that he thought of you as much you thought of him. Biting your lip, you glanced over your shoulder and watched the room fill with more men in suits and women in ball gowns. As more people filtered in, they would be escorted back out. They surely had some sort of function in the White House. It was too much effort to connect dolled up faces with plain 'everyday' work faces.
Countless nurses and service agents have asked you, 'would you like anything?' The words are stick in your throat. You would only truly like one thing. You want to see him. You want to sit by his side, brush away his beautiful curls, and assure him that everything will be fine. You want to tell him that it wasn't 'right' to let you go. You are in crippling pain every day. You are attempting normalcy, like Stephen, and it is driving you insane. You feel sick. You feel ill and you hate him for allowing Edison to win. You hate him for letting you go, because he promised to always fight for you. In a cliché and pathetic manner, you had hoped that he would follow you to the ends of the Earth.
Standing here, you realized how immoral your request was. You kept shoving him away and drawing him near all at the same time. If nothing else, you are unbearably sorry for doing so. The sea-saw relationship that you subjected him to these past few months was irresponsible and cruel. He did not deserve it. This 'fix' was of your creation. These constant pains, ache, and throb that you felt were your burden. Most of all, you had realized that you weren't too proud. You weren't too dignified to beg. You had lost your dignity as the shots rang and watched him stumble to the ground. Your breath had been stolen from you and in it, your obligation to 'do the right thing'. Fuck doing the 'right' thing.' What was 'right' and 'wrong' was a relative perception. You had resolved to ask, even beg, one thing of him—'Let me love you again.' You rarely associated the word 'love' with his name. It was certainly not because you didn't love him. You could hardly put the magnitude of your emotions for him into words. He expressed his adoration and love with the simple 'I love you.' The warmth in his expression never gave you chance to doubt it. You knew that he loved you. You struggled to return the sentiment in such familiar verse. You knew why and suspected that he did as well. Normal couples shared 'I love you' and you were hardly normal. He insisted that he knew anyway. You hadn't understood until recently when he painfully explained. He reasoned, it was the inflection of your voice. It grew in height. It became more feminine and the airy. You breathed his name as it was a wonder of the world, as if, you couldn't believe what he'd just said or done. It was far different than shock or surprise. It was adoration. His observation was followed by, just as he said, her airy declaration of love in the form of his name.
So, as they asked, 'would you like anything,' you merely shook your head. It was only he that could give you what you want.
The 'rap-tap-tap-tap' of men's shoes echoes through the corridor. You shift anxiously wishing it were his shoes. His heavy footedness had been a private joke, how were you supposed to carry on an affair when he constantly stomped through your apartment? Swallowing, you run a hand through your hair. You release a soft shuddering breath. Vainly, you wonder if he even managed to catch a glimpse of you. You had taken time to choose the dress and earrings. Secretly, you had wanted him to notice you. You had wanted him to see that you were taking his words to heart. He had let you go. You were moving on. It was bitter and childish, but you wanted him to see. You had wanted to him to notice that you wore white on his birthday. A declaration that you would never forget what he enjoyed seeing you in. Your hair was straightened, a fashion that he had only seen once and managed to spend the whole night tangling his fingers in it. He had declared that evening that he loved your hair perfectly straight. It was beautiful, but the hours primping, which he knew it took from all the hair that she shed into the bed, weren't worth it. He insisted those hours were better spent in his arms. You loathe your vanity, or maybe, your humanity and desperation of knowing that he yearns for you too.
The beeping of various machines and scraping pens drives you slowly insane. It's the small noises that are usually so unnoticeable that are so much clearer now. You can hear the deep breaths of Mellie across the room. Occasionally, you hear her breath hitch. For a moment, you consider offering words of encouragement. You may rarely see eye-to-eye, never would be a better assessment, but you were here for the same purpose. You have not spoken. You passed each other in the corridor. You stood nearest to the door awaiting constant news and updates. Your position at the nurses' stations offers their murmured updates and the occasional glance at a chart. Right now, you haven't been able to discern news about him, but the other patients are recovering well. Despite their negligence, you are relieved. Her timed breaths catch your attention again. Momentarily, you wonder if she's suffering a panic attack. The softness of her features and stoic look doesn't settle with you. You pause in concentration and count her breaths. Every five seconds. Momentarily, you are stunned. Then, it occurs to you, why should you be? It would be in Mellie's character to monopolize on this opportunity. The lack of press didn't faze her. She knew that someone was always watching. You commend her foresight and are disgusted as well. If she had no love for Fitz at all, he was still a person. He was still a being that deserved more respect than her false grieving making headline news.
Struggling not to lash out, not to scream or even become uncharacteristically physically violent, you whip around and turn your back to her. You dress swishes and the irony isn't lost on you. You can feel the gazes boring in you. Hal and Tom stand near and they attempted to make conversation twice. The second time, you sent them such threateningly looks that they took two steps back. You were sure that they received the message then. You were the very last person that they should dare speak to. While they may have been accommodating in the past, they were your enemy at the moment. They had failed to keep Fitz safe. The one menial task that you had ever asked them to. A task that you had personally asked every time that he left, 'take care of him.' They had always assured you. So, what the hell happened tonight? Your hands twisted anxiously. And your thoughts drift to Fitz. You hope that he isn't cold. You hope that he isn't in pain or lonely. You hope that he knows—you're here. You would never be anywhere else, but you hope he knows that you stand waiting for an answer. Despite 'letting you go,' you stand here waiting for him to be okay. The tears are heavy and threatening to fall. Your mouth is ashy. Bowing your head, your hair falls and curtains your face, and it shields your conflicting emotions from bystanders.
You inhale softly.
You exhale brokenly.
You can't breathe without him.
Swallowing again, you realize how preventable this all was.
He was ready to resign. You were ready to allow it. You were ready to move on. Despite your entire hard work years prior, you were both ready. You were ready to be happy—together. The wait apart had been antagonizing. This was preventable. He would not currently reside in a hospital bed and struggle for his life. You could spend his birthday wherever he pleased. You could spend it somewhere warm or skiing. You realize brokenly, maybe, it might have been a birthday party for three. He had joked, he was so fertile that he could impregnate her with a kiss. She only need stop taking her little pink pill every night and give him a kiss. He kissed her whenever he could, but it never seemed to align with when she felt risqué enough to 'forget'. Despite your initial worries of losing your independence, career, and failing as a mother, you knew it would all subside upon seeing the confirmation that you carried his child. The mere idea made all trepidations subside into a fantasy. You could never bring yourself to envy Mellie. At least, you couldn't truly envy her. She may be married to the man that you loved, but in the end, marriage merely separated you legally. He never stayed away. You pitied Mellie to a degree. How could you ever marry Fitz, but not know how generously he loved or not want it? The first shot of envy that you ever felt for Mellie was the moment that they discovered their baby's sex on national television.
She was giving him another son.
Every man wanted a son. A son that they could teach sports to, how to pick up girls, and all the other things men enjoyed. Your thoughts were cut short at the scuffling of feet. Your head snaps up and you watch the surgeons pass you. Your heart sinks and for the second time, you envy Melanie Grant. You grasp the nurses' station but do not turn to face them. You need a personal moment to process the information. The doctor speaks lowly about his condition, but his voice is not quiet enough that everyone cannot hear the news. The room is silent, breathing paused, and the man concludes with a quiet clearing of his throat. Suddenly, the room bursts with a snap of electricity. A raucous clap swells in the room and you turn around to do the same. Fitz was going to live. In fact, he was going to be just fine. The intensity of the clapping grows and you aren't surprised to see Cyrus duck his head out of an office. He has been holed up since they arrived. You are not sure if he was mourning or strategizing. You suspect it was the latter. Despite his coldness, you know that their still lay an interest in Fitz's well being.
He was going to live.
A nurse pressed a hand to your shoulder and you smiled politely. It was the first smile that you dare allow yourself all evening. Subtly, she jerked her head to the door and you paused. Your eyes narrowed curiously, but you glanced around the room once more. Everyone seemed distracted. You slipped away from the nurses' station and followed her to the automatic doors. The nurse politely was excused by the secret service and explained, you are with her. As you pass through the doors and walk down a bustling hall, you realize that you aren't leaving the hospital. You had thought that they might be escorting you off the premise. Perhaps, Mellie had finally found a way to subtly dispose of you. As you reach a set of elevator, your breath catches in your throat. She couldn't truly be implying. You watch her silently use a key to turn on the elevator. You are holding your breath in anticipation.
How had they managed this?
You assured yourself, don't raise your hopes.
You had avoided Edison's calls all evening. He could finally have grown frustrated and asked a nurse to come find you. The realization that it could be so disappointingly simple wears on you. You frown and hardly notice when the doors open again. You enter what appears to be the maternity award. Your head whips to the nurse, but she is already walking forward. You follow quickly after her. You scurry to keep up. Taking in the surroundings, your lips quirk into a small smile. Yes, they are on the maternity ward. The distinct sweet smell of babies lingers in the air and for once, you are relieved that she has brought you here. If for nothing more, you appreciate the short reprieve. You blindly follow her to the end of a long corridor and gulp. The door is flanked by service men. They are seated in chairs and casually resting. You raise a brow in surprise, and they stand quickly at your presence.
Oh yeah, you were going to tell Cyrus later.
You freeze at the door.
The nurse opens the door and smiles invitingly.
The quiet of hum of machines is clear. The beeping is shut off. You can only see the foot of the bed. Despite the blue hospital blanket, you recognize the feet underneath it. The huge feet that was subject to a million dirty jokes during the campaign. The huge feet that always seemed to turn into radiators at night. You were grateful, because you always seemed to freeze. Your eyes prick with tears. You chuckle and clench your eyes shut briefly, you never thought that you would be so overwhelmingly relieved to see his feet. Stepping in, you sucked in a breath to see the scrape across his cheek. You suspected it was from the concrete when he fell. While you wished to practically drape yourself over him, you knew it could only end badly. You didn't want to hurt him. The steps toward him were timorous.
As you hovered over his bedside, you noticed his eyes flutter. He must have heard your shoes. Reaching for his hand, you crouched and pressed it against your cheek. The warmth of his hand engulfed you and you nearly moaned aloud. It was such a relief to feel his warmth again. It was so inviting to feel his touch. Your lips brushed over his wrist and you felt his fingers move. He stirred awake and eyes fluttered open.
As your gazes met, you smiled gratefully and breathed, "Fitz."
A hand was slowly creeping into your shirt and across your warm skin. You shifted away with a muttered, 'go away.' The hand continued its exploration, brushing the swell of your breast, and thumb swept over your pert nipple. You released a soft breath. You may have just objected, but it seemed foolish to push the hand away now. A second finger joined and two fingers brought your nipple to a tight peak. You shuddered under the ministrations. A warm puff of air was released against your back. You stretched and felt the whole hand cover your breast. The hand massaged it warmly, fingers brushed over your nipple again, tracing the peak, and over your hot skin. The brazen touches caused you to sink back against the hard planes of said hand's body.
Suddenly, your eyes snapped open and you nearly leapt from the bed. There was a distinct moan of displeasure. You glanced wildly around the room attempting to gain your wits about you. What had happened? You were just in the hospital. You blinked repeatedly and rubbed at your eyes. As you attempted to gain recollection of the surrounding events, you felt a kiss against your shoulder. Another at the nape of your neck swiftly followed it. Your body trembled in delight of its own violation. You blinked again and rubbed sleepily a your eyes. None of this was making any sense. Your lack of cognitive thought startled you. Your hands seemed to know here to move. In a few sweeping gestures, you move away from the touch and flip a switch. The room is doused with unnatural yellow light. You wince momentarily and then take in the landscape of the room. It isn't distasteful. In fact, you love it.
Yet, it is definitely not your apartment.
"Liv, what's going on," The voice asks strangely, "Did I do something?"
Whirling around, your eyes widen and flicker to his bare chest. You seek for the bullet wounds. You seek for the bandages. You seek for any recognition that he may be lingering on the brinks of death. There aren't any. He is whole. He is perfectly fine. Nothing could ever be more handsome or fantastic than the man in front of you. You pause. You grin and thrust yourself into his arms. Your arms wrap tightly around this neck. He chuckles quietly and snuggles you tightly to his chest. You snuggle your face into his neck. You moan at the distinct smell of his cologne. His hair is ruffled by sleep. Despite the woodsy smell of his cologne, there is a distinct smell of baby powder. Your brow crinkles in surprise, but you cannot bring yourself to ask. You merely want to hold onto him. You dare not break this sweet hold that you share.
"Liv," Fitz chuckles.
He pulls away and cups your cheek, "What's going on, sweet baby?"
Shaking your head, you cannot imagine anything to be wrong. You cannot imagine anything sweeter than resting in his arms. It almost escapes your mind that you are doing so completely in the nude. You excitedly cup his face, kissing him deeply, and boldly moaning against his lips. Your fingers tangle in his hair. Immediately, he shifts and pulls you closer. The warmth radiating from his body soaks into you. You clutch him fiercely and he drags you into his lap. Your legs tangle around his body, thrusting closer, and clenching around him. You never want to let him go. The excitement that courses threw you is new and not equivalent to anything that you've ever felt. You are relieved that he is here and desperate to prove it. Your frantic touch only spurs him on. Suddenly, your tears burst forth but you can't stop kissing him. Your teeth scrape his lip.
He pulls away, eyes narrowing in confusion, "Hey, hey, what's wrong?"
You shake your head and swipe at your tears.
He smirks, "I'm not that old."
He tries again, "You don't need to cry about it. I'm not that old."
He frowns, "Did you really forget my birthday?"
You don't have the chance to speak.
"You forgot my birthday," He mutters, "And here I thought I was getting some 'old man' sex. Nice."
Cupping his face, you crush your lips to his. He doesn't object. The kiss is passionate. It is hungry and demanding. It isn't a movie kiss. Your teeth gnash and tongues duel. It is loud. Your heavy breathing intermingles and he practically growls when you bite his lip too hard. The metallic taste of blood lingers on your tongue, you bit too hard but neither object. Your kiss crushes one another together. It is consuming. Your lips are swollen and bruised. You don't pull away. Your noses bump, brushing, constantly in the way. It isn't what they dare put on television.
It is too raw.
This is a kiss that you hide inside an erotica book. It is the kiss that women dream of and husbands achieve after being deprived of carnal pleasures for months at sea. It is human desperate at its finest.
"I didn't forget," You pant.
"I don't care," He replies and kisses you harder, "Just…don't stop."
A loud wail suddenly brings pause.
You freeze, what the hell?
"Story of my life."
Your brow crinkles.
"It's your turn. I had diaper duty last night," He insists, "Plus, I am fifty now, an old man."
Grinning, you press your lips to his again. The realization dawns on you. You pepper his lips with kisses and he's laughing at you. You don't care. You are simply so relieved that your sanity is returning. It was just a dream. You crawl out of bed and flip the light switch again. The pictures come alive and the story of your new life descends on you. It was just a dream. He resigned. You didn't stop him. You didn't follow the 'grand advice' of Cyrus Beene. For once, you indulged in your own happiness. Both of you invested in your happiness.
Tugging on your robe, you hurry toward the door and stop in the frame. Pausing, you glance over your shoulder.
"Old man," You call.
He smiles, "Now, I'm definitely not changing his diaper for you."
Resting against the doorframe, your laughter subsides into a soft smile, "I love you."
Hello all. How are you? How has winter been treating you? I am so thankful for the cold weather. Winter is my favorite season and I am so excited for it. Not to mention, it is Christmas time and everyone is in such great spirits. I hope that you enjoyed this. If you want something with holiday cheer, I would suggest reading "Traditions." I recently revised it. Thanks for reading. As usual, I don't own Scandal. Unfortunately. 3 S xxx
Oh. I have Twitter now. My screenname is -
Add me and we'll chat!