His arms are steady and sure, ever strong, as they wrap around her and hoist her up into the air. The whole world spins with them as he joyfully celebrates his victory, and she's giddy, breathless with the possibilities that the future offers. In this election night moment, there are no grand betrayals, no questionable decisions made in empty hallways, no loneliness. In this moment, they are both here, and if this is the face of her consequences, then she has no regrets or apologies. Wounding herself, cutting off a chunk of her soul as a method of payment was well worth the price of seeing the sheer pride twinkling in the hazy cerulean of his eyes. She buries her face at the sloping curve of his neck and breathes him into her, gorging gulps until she's so full of him that everything else is crowded out.

When she lifts her head again, his eyes are the bluest she's ever seen them. His mouth finds hers blindly, instinctually, as though they've shared enough kisses for a lifetime, but they're both too greedy and infinity stretches out before them. She knows it's not an option, but how can she bring herself to care when she's caught between the sturdy wood of the wall behind her and the solid form of his muscular torso? Fear dwindles to a sharp pinprick and it stings, but the brush of his breath against her collarbone keeps the pain from bruising her.

"We won," is a soft exhalation against her earlobe.

We won. We won. We. We we we wewewewe.

She's dazzled by the pleasure of pronouns.

Delight turns her mind upside down, a topsy-turvy jumbled mess that makes her want to believe that this madness between them is important, that it matters more than the rest..

The words hang like a thousand crystalline icicles decorating the roof her mouth.

/

Her spine submits to the pressure of the gentle mattress and straightens, her limbs splayed like broken doll parts on the perfectly starched sheets. The perks of hotel rooms, of being transients. Her eyelids droop then lift, quiver through the thick air before her hands transform into claws and clutch at the sheets, then fall away. Smoothness rubs against her palm when she slips her slender fingers through his hair.

He makes a little noise as his lips trace the place where her thigh and secrets kiss, something delightfully demanding, and she files it away in her mind. His body vibrates with desperation and she feels it sink into her own bones. Her dreams litter the corner of the comforters, her hopes are haphazardly stuffed inside of the pillowcase and her desire imprints itself in the form of sweat on the bed. His tongue, his wicked, ever-sharp-edged tongue, slithers lower to torment her, pushing out a shattered gasp as she writhes below.

It is a Tuesday. In two days, it will be Thanksgiving. In six hours, he will be on a plane, sitting besides his wife, his kids, on their way to their home. These are the ways in which people belong to one another. But right now, she and he are sinners alternating prayers and blasphemies as his hands move upward to clutch at her hips and pull her closer.

He stops and she blinks, though her eyelids have gathered weight and the simple act feels like a battle, but she makes it there eventually, catching his gaze. His chin rests on her skin, the slightest graze of his nighttime scruff against her delicate skin, and she likes it, likes knowing that there will be scrapes and scratches, even if they're just souvenirs to celebrate the life she doesn't have. He doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't speak and she can't bear his tenderness any more than she can handle his compassion. Her slim fingers nudge him back down, because sex and sensation and orgasms are an easier form of surrender.

His tongue taunts and tempts and teases and a whimper tears out of her. He changes things. Circles now, then strangeness that she can't make sense of in her tormented haze.

He's tracing letters,

I, or maybe it's an l because who can really tell.

scribbling words,

l followed by an o and somewhere around v she understands

that his mouth is making promises he cannot keep.

Her hands reach up to grab him the shoulder and tug him upward, pulling at him with the strength of a woman who can feel the world begin to tremble beneath her at even the proposition of such an act of foolishness. She covers his mouth with her own, slides her tongue over his until she can lick the words away, erase the gravity of grand gestures. Her teeth sink into his bottom lip and when he groans in reply, she swallows his lust and pretends that this is a better fate. She could be content and that is better than empty.

They drip half-forgotten, faded memories, a leaky faucet she becomes accustomed to.

/

Her mouth is open and her eyes are closed. A thick, woolen hat, knit by someone in a faraway life, began prettily perched on top of her straight locks, but now it's been greedily tugged down so that she can gather some remnant of worth. But heat is not the priority here. It is taste.

Her tongue hangs out, resting on her bottom lip, and her hands have somehow turned upward, palms open in acceptance, and everywhere around her is snow. DC wears a white hat tonight. Tiny little flecks of ice dot her tongue and melt into nothingness, but the flavor of them is intimately familiar, more recollection than reality. When she finally opens her eyes, she's surrounded by twinkle lights arranged on the trees, and for a moment, she's a princess in a fairytale land where everything is pristine and delicate and beautiful. She was never that sort of girl, but the lights are enchantments.

"Livvie, do you see the lights?"

Her eyes go even wider underneath the purple cap that covers her wayward curls, and she nods, mystified by the shimmering brilliance everywhere. She's tiny, fragile and chubby-cheeked, less than a handful years under her belt. Her hand is small, swallowed by the largeness of her mother's, but somehow it is a perfect fit. She snuggles closer, until her cheek is resting against the side of her mother's leg, before she can manage to look away from the wonderland and up at her mother.

"What are they?" she whispers reverently, her gloved hand tugging at a piece of fuzz on her mother's slacks.

"They're Christmas lights. We missed them last year when we stayed with your grandmother for the holidays, but I wanted you to see them this year."

"How did they get here?" she wants to know, the awe slowly ebbing away as her innate curiosity kicks in.

"They're kind of like the lights Mr. and Mrs. Alexander down the street have, but they're longer so they can cover all the trees."

"But it's a tree. There's no ekel…"

Her mother's laugh makes her cheeks warm, first in embarrassment at having made a mistake and then in happiness when she kneels down so that her face is on level with hers. Her mother kisses her cheek softly.

"It's magic. For now, it's all magic."

She picks her up in her arms and Olivia's thin arms slip easily around her neck.

"Close your eyes and open your mouth."

The tiny furrow that forms between her brows is a carbon copy of her mother's, but she does it anyway. It is the first time she grasps at joy.

She's older now and knows all about the specifics of electricity, but she's enraptured nonetheless.

Sliding her hand inside her purse, she grabs her phone and begins pressing the 2 for speed dial before she can rethink her decision.

He answers on the third ring.

Before she hears his greeting, the background noise filters in through the phone and there's loud Christmas music blatantly playing somewhere. There's shouts and demands before she finally hears his voice clearly.

"Hold on," he stalls, and she can hear movement now, before he finally speaks again.

"Hi."

She chuckles softly.

"Hi. Where are you?"

"I'm hiding. Inside a pantry. Which doesn't have a light and I hear a quiet scurrying that might be a mouse"

Her laugh chimes out easily.

"Don't you love the holidays?"

"They're my favorite," he replies, the sentiments colored by the sarcasm of his tone.

"I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas," she tries, though even she knows that it sounds like an excuse, and a terrible one at that. But telling him that she just wanted to hear his voice because right now, she is in a magical world full of twinkly lights where anything can happen and all she wants if for him to be here, for him to be hers. But she is too tall and her hands have grown too big to hold such frail desires.

"I wish you were here, Livvie," he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Don't say that."

"Why?"

"Because you're hiding inside a pantry without a light switch."

"There's enough for two people in the pantry without a light switch," he reminds her.

She says nothing, hopes that he can feel the glare through telephone lines and miles of separation.

"I'm kidding," he attempt to lighten the mood.

"I know," she says, tries to force a smile, mostly for herself. "I just wanted to say Merry Christmas, Fitz."

"Merry Christmas, Livvie," he murmurs, softly, and she closes her eyes because it's easier to imagine his face, his thick curls gone wild once she's had her hands on them, the shape of his mouth and his cheeks and the exact angle of his kiss.

"Bye," she mumbles, hangs up before she can say anything else.

How delicate they are. Fragile. Vulnerable. They do not hold fast.

/

He stares pointedly at her until she can feel the little hairs on the back of her neck begin to flutter in response. She looks up finally, pointing down vehemently at the paper on her desk, reminding him that they are in his campaign office, working on his election and that she needs to get the information for these pamphlets finalized now. He shakes his head and gestures slyly towards the door, and she mimics his actions, stabbing at the paper with her pointer finger. He shrugs, pulls on his jacket and leaves out the door before she can say anything.

It takes exactly 34 seconds for her incessant inquisitiveness to overpower her sense of control. Sighing at herself, she grabs her coat and is out the door before anyone else can stop her for anything. She's only five steps out into the hallway before his hand latches onto hers and he's tugging her along, his legs longer, his steps wider. She makes some shocked little noise of surprise and then he's running faster, and they're transformed into children, racing down deserted hallways, turning headlong around corners, and her exhales comes out in pants but that only makes the laughter come out in bursts. She's breathless, giddy and dizzy from the glee, and when they finally stop, they're outside and she's shivering against the cold but his arms find their way around her and she burrows into his warmth.

This is rare. The embrace is not frantic or demanding or needy. Her cheek rests against the crispness of his blue button up, and her hands are resting on the small of his back and she can hear the sound of his inhale as he captures the scent of her shampoo.

"You're obsessed," she mocks.

"Your hair smells like you," he explains. She chuckles.

"It smells like my shampoo," she clarifies.

"I know that," he tells her in an exasperated tone. "But my hair smells like the stuff that they put in the hotel rooms and yours always smells like you."

"That's because you're supremely lazy. Anyway, what was so important that you had to interrupt my workday and drag me out here into the freezing cold?"

"Cyrus is cheating on you."

She hates to move away from the heat emanating from his skin but she has to look up at him, surprise reflected in her eyes as she stutters.

"What?"

"Cyrus Beene, your work-wife, is cheating on you. With a man. Who is a journalist."

"How do you know this?"

He squints down at her in reply, easing back slightly to read the unchanged expression on her face.

"The real question is, why aren't you more surprised by this?"

She tries to look slightly sheepish, fails terribly and ends up smiling smugly up at him.

"He's my work-wife. I keep tabs."

"You didn't tell me."

"He's not work-married to you."

"How'd you even find out?"

"I heard him on the phone and put the pieces together. I have a knack for being astute," she says it with a wide grin and his mouth flies down to find hers, kisses her until the delight from her lips splays itself over his. He's smiling when he lifts his head up again.

"I've heard rumors. Want to know how I found out?"

She nods in response, her hands fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. Somehow one of her finger ends up inside the fabric and brushes against his skin, distracting both of them when he makes a half-noise out of his throat.

"Stop," he implores, low in his throat, a sound that speeds her pulse up at her wrist, so she does. "I saw them kissing."

Her eyes take over her face when she looks up at him this time, the surprise morphing into shock at the words before she looks embarrassed for him.

"Oh dear," she sympathizes aloud.

"It was like being a kid again, only instead of hearing it, I could see it all. Hands and faces and tongue...I saw tongue!" he grumbles. She tries to muffle the laugh against his chest but he can feel the vibrations.

"Stop laughing at me," he implores but it only sets her off further. "I'm traumatized. It was like seeing my uncle getting frisky and aroused in front of me. And I couldn't move because then they'd have heard the door so I was just…"

Now she doesn't even bother to hide her laughter, lets it ring in the open space, float away on the chill January wind. He can't stop himself from laughing in response and when he meets her eyes again, they both burst into raucous peals and in a moment, she'll worry about someone finding them here, caught up in one another, but right now, the ease of this is liberating.

It is the friendship that she will miss the most, the silent understanding, the simplicity of sharing her days with another person. The tiny ways in which she has let him inside of him, deep enough to plant roots. She is not a couple person, but perhaps, with him, she might have been. The sounds fall away and her arms slip around him again, her grasp on him fierce, trying to fill herself up with enough memories to build a wall against the loneliness.

"Livvie," he asks quizzically. She shakes her head and holds onto him, feeling herself nearly tumbling over the edge before she forces her limbs to disentangle from him, pulling herself back into neat little pieces that all make sense. Silently, she retreat back inside of the building and hopes that her own walls can somehow remain as intact.

They enchant her, beckon her to commit the highest of treason, to herself.

/

She's wearing a crown.

A paper crown, decorated with gaudy gold paint, proudly proclaiming the upcoming arrival of 2009. She's been nursing the same glass of wine for the past 20 minutes and she wonders if it's too late to make a wish for the current year because she wants to be anywhere but here. Because here is the Grant family holiday party and as one of the main campaign staffers, she was expected to attend. Her plan to spend most of the night snarking with Cyrus was interrupted when James arrived and the open bar has loosened Cyrus up enough to talk to the younger man in public. She's made conversation with most of the campaign staffers in the room, but as the hour gets later and the soberness of her colleagues recedes into the distance, she resents her surroundings more and more.

She's on her way to get air, even if the temperature outside is cold enough to make her breath fog in wispy puffs, when she hears his voice speaking in calming tones.

"It's okay, honey, you'll be just fine by tomorrow," Fitz speaks and she freezes, hidden by the angle of the door and the fact that Fitz's back is to her. Karen is perched on his knee and she lifts her arm to wipe away a tear before sniffling pathetically.

"Mom got mad at me," Karen tells him in a quietly pleading tone. Fitz shakes his head and kisses the top of his daughter's head.

"She just didn't want you to mess up your pretty party dress, that's all."

"She yelled."

Olivia sees the slightly forward hunch of the shoulders and can feel his quiet sigh as he realizes his daughter is too old to believe the easy excuses.

"She yelled because she got scared. Can you keep a secret?" he asks conspiratorially. The young girl nods instantly.

"Grown-ups get scared too. Not of bugs or snakes, like your brother. We get scared that we won't be able to protect you and keep you safe. So sometimes when your mom get scared, she yells because it's easier than just being scared."

"Really?" Karen questions, feeling the weight of this secret settle on her lap. It makes her feel important.

"Yep. You ready to go back?"

"Mmkay." She hops off his legs and bounces toward the door, forcing Olivia to move quickly until she can recede into the darkness, shuffling far enough that she's hidden among the shadows. When she hears Fitz's soft footfalls, she realizes that she's memorized the rhythm of them at leisure. When the quiet returns, she allows it to enfold her. She moves into the strange room, another place she does not belong, and drops like dead weight into the armchair in the corner. It's not until the print of the tiny pink flowers on the bed goes blurry that she realize she's crying and she hastily brushes the wetness from her cheeks.

Olivia Pope is not the sort of woman who waxes poetic about tucking children into their beds and reading them fairytales. She does not have a list of names she's collected over the years or plans for nurseries or paint chips. She's neither the domestic nor the inherently maternal type. But she is the hopeless type that had once imagined a crisp picture of a child with Fitz's unruly curls and her neat little nose. These are the scariest of dreams, she knows now, the ones that you indulge in when your eyes open and your mind clear. The tightness in her chest seems to squeeze the air out of her lungs, the blood slowing down until it's too thick and unbearably burdensome. She forces her legs to lift her broken self up, takes the few steps to the edge of the bed and holds her breath as she touches the top of the bedspread.

In another world, in another life, she would tuck their child in this bed.

In another world, in another life, she'd kiss the girl with Fitz's pouting mouth and her own dark eyes goodnight.

She has to brush another tear away, find a way to manage a breath despite the pressure around her heart. Pasting on a smile helps ease the process and by the time she winds her way back to the main living room of the Grant home, she is pretending with the best of them.

At midnight, it's whistle toys and party crackers and loud popping noises and cheering with abandon. She joins in, slides her two fingers into her mouth and whistles in an undignified way she picked up in college, a bad habit. As she can feel the familiar tickle beginning to work its way up her spine, she realizes she has an affinity for them. She spares him a glance, because cruelty does not come easily to her, offers him a distant smile before returning to the people she's standing with. When Cyrus comes back and throws his arms around her drunkenly, she feels a real laugh begin to bubble inside of her and it helps ameliorate some of her despair. When he kisses her cheek, she tries to convince herself that this world, this life, is somehow enough.

They evaporate with only the faint hint of their taste to attest to their existence.

/

Her hand shoots out and grabs the phone by the third ring and the adrenaline pumping through her veins is accompanied by twin snakes of fear and surprise, coiled at the base of her gut.

"Hello?" she demands in a voice gruff with sleep, the number unfamiliar to her. A quick glance at the table clock informs her that it is 1:29 and she's only been asleep for an hour before being awoken.

"Hi."

She grants herself the serenity of silence for two beats, makes sure that her voice is calm and controlled, not as broken as she feels at the melody of his voice.

"Hi," she whispers it almost reverently. She had seen him earlier in the day, had wiped the sweat from his brow, trailed her lips over his until she could inhale his breath, until her body was full of the knowledge that he was still alive.

Now he's on the phone and she can count the miles between them, but she cannot erase them. She leaves her lights turned off, allows her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the night, interrupted by the sliver of moonlight as it moves in sync with the fluttering of the curtains. The wind is lazy and the trees move gracefully.

"I couldn't sleep," he offers in lieu of a full explanation and she accepts.

"You should take some of those pain meds that I know the doctors have prescribed for you."

"I don't want to be loopy or half-conscious when I'm just coming back," he reminds her.

"You'll be anyway if you don't get some sleep tonight."

"I didn't call you so you could nag me, you know," he retorts and she catches the beginning of a smile.

"Why did you call?"

Neither of them says anything and she turns her head until her phone is nestled between her ear and the pillow, curls her legs up to her chest until she's huddled into a solid mass.

"Where are you?" she finally prods.

"I'm in the nursery." It feels a bit like someone scraping the edge of their nail against a fresh wound but she ignores that sensation.

The silence hangs between them, sagging underneath the heaviness of their personal desires.

This time, he breaks it.

"Thank you, for today."

"You're welcome. I'm pretty good at pep talks," she chirps, too-brightly for the hour of night.

"Livvie," he chastises, and she sighs. He will not make it easy, and part of her revels in it. "I wouldn't have made it through this without you."

"I'm glad I could help smooth the transition. I know it's not easy for you," she tells him sincerely.

"I needed you today," he clarifies and that feels like the slow growth of a scab over the wound, receding to a dull thudding pain.

"I was there. I'll be there," she affirms.

"Do you still think I'll make a good president?"

"I think you already are."

They're quiet again, but hope bubbles like champagne, intoxicatingly heady.

"I'm going to sleep now," he voices.

"Okay."

"I love you." It is only a matter of decibels, but it echoes inside of her, chimes in her ears, rings in her chest, travels through her limbs.

"I love you, too."

But the words are impossibly, irrevocably sweet.

A/N: Dearest of readers, I know I've been very lax in updating The Other Minutes but, the emotions just haven't there lately. But this was a story I wanted to give to one of my closest Scandal friends because she's been feeling similarly frustrated by the direction of the relationship between Olivia x Fitz. I hope you enjoy it and if you comments, I'll adore you forever!