Once again, I'm writing it out. Thursday's episode, which I've only read about, threw me for a loop in the worst way. I can't understand what the writers are doing. It's frustrating. In a way, Olitz, the onscreen version, is dead to me. They live only in fan fiction. I'm sure the minute I see Kerry Washington and Tony Goldwyn together again, I will believe in all things that are Olitz. Until then, I'll have to rely on fan fiction to get me through this dark days as an Olitz fan.

Oh, I'm terrible with titles. It sucks. I'm sorry.

What am I doing? She's asked herself the question too many times to count. She looks over at the person who is sharing the plane with her. Not a companion. Not a friend. A hanger-on who pushed the right buttons at her most vulnerable moment, when she was too tired to fight. Now, she's here going...to destination unknown...in search of what? The meaning of life? She smirks because it's a cliche and oh how she loathes cliches.

He's speaking to her, but she barely acknowledges his existence. From the moment the plane started taxiing down the runway, she could hear something shouting in the back of her head that it was a mistake, but she silenced the warning with a shot of something that mysteriously appeared in front of her before takeoff.

She wishes he would shut up. His voice is like a distant buzz that is constant and annoying and slowly driving her insane. He's happy, almost giddy, and it isn't until he mentions the President's name that she is able to focus on the words.

"You did the right thing, Liv. The President is selfish-" and she mentally puts him on mute, returning her attention to the fluffy, cloudy whiteness that surrounds them. They look like gigantic pillows and she wishes she could fall into a long, permanent slumber.

She's always loved flying. Even as a child, it was like an escape from all of her earthly troubles. There, no one could reach her and she felt a little closer to a God she wasn't even sure existed.

"Ms. Pope, can I get you anything?" She looks at the flight attendant standing next to her. Tall, young, attractive, full of life.

Olivia, on the other hand, is filled with death. The light, moving toward the light, standing in the light is all a bunch of bull because right now, there is no hope in her world, a steady heartbeat the only thing about her showing any sign of life.

"Ms. Pope?"

"No. Thank you. I'm fine." But she's not fine. Her life has quite literally fallen apart around her and she has largely been nothing but a bystander masquerading as something more. What that something is, what anything is, she no longer knows.

She is on autopilot, and the problem is, she is flying blindly. And that's how she's felt for most of the past year. Bouncing between her office and the White House like she has everything in control, like balancing two lives was no problem at all. Sleeping with two men, one of whom she loves with everything in her, and the other who is just…there.

In reality, it was tearing her apart. Each time she had a quickie in the Oval Office she lost little piece of her soul. The sneaking around. The pretending. She's pretended her entire life, but in love, that was the one area where she always thought she could be herself. Be free, in love. In reality, she was a mistress and each and every day he took her against the window, in his chair, on the floor or sofa, or even on the desk, she was reminded that she was his "dirty little secret".

She reclines in her seat. She is a woman exhausted, withering under the weight of her life. Crushed by the guilt she carries. Most of all, she is ashamed she left him when he needed her most.

He is a zombie. So lost. Struggling doesn't even begin to describe what he is. The loss of a child is a blow that is too much for any parent to bear. When a child dies in one's arms and you're helplessly watching them, the person who is supposed to protect them and there's nothing you can do but watch; that is a greater hell than anyone can imagine.

All he wants is something or someone to take the pain away, even if the respite is only temporary, which it most certainly is. He knows each day of the rest of his life and into the next will be spent with thoughts of "if only". If only he acted sooner. If only he surrounded himself with different people, more loyal, more competent. If only he were a better father, a better husband, a better friend and lover. If only. Now, there is only regret.

There is a tightening in his chest, like someone is holding his heart and squeezing with all of their might. He can barely breathe as he tugs roughly at his collar. "Jerry," he says to no one in particular. "Jerry," he screams as he falls to his knees. His cry for his son is met with the deafening sound of silence.

It hits him, more like punches him that he won the thing he most wanted, but lost two of the things he most needs: a child and Olivia. The price was too high and he is beyond devastated.

He reaches for the tumbler filled to the brim with scotch. He sips from the top, letting it burn his tongue before swallowing. He does it again and again, but nothing can dull the pain.

The tears flow and flow, tracing the same path, dripping into a pool on the floor. He watches as the tears almost immediately absorb into the rug. He wishes he could join them, just vanish without a trace. It's too much to ask because his life has never gone the way he wanted.

He doesn't acknowledge Mellie's presence when she enters in that way, so breezy. He can almost admire her ability to compartmentalize and "get on with it", no matter the circumstances. She makes his way to him and takes the tumbler from his hand, placing putting it on the table.

Despite all the downs, and there have been too many to count, she is the constant. Always there for him, whether he wants her or not. Her voice comes out muffled, practically muted. He knows she's there, but she is a blurry vision and he tries so hard to focus on what she's saying, but the pain is rendering him both deaf and mute.

"Fitz. Fitz. Are you listening to me?"

He shakes his head. She grabs his face and the hands that hold him feel so weird and so wrong. He tries to pull away, but that only causes her to hold his face in place more firmly. "You need to get out there and speak to the American people."

He wants to curl into a ball and die. Just, call it a life right here and now. How can he be expected to lead with his entire world has been destroyed? How can he make any decisions when he is paralyzed.

"Fitz!"

"Where is Olivia?" His words come out a slurred whisper.

Her eyes are closed, but she is not sleeping. The vibration of the phone on her lap, forces her to open her eyes. White House. She silences the phone and flips it over, hiding the screen, pretending the gesture will assuage the guilt. Somehow, not answering it is proving to herself that they are truly over. They are never over.

"Is that him?" She hears that voice again. "I can get him to stop calling." She rolls her eyes. This man across from him, god, she has no words.

She gets up without saying anything, and makes her way to the front of the cabin. Behind her, she hears him talking, "I mean, he was never good enough for you anyway. We'll go somewhere far away where all that money can't touch us. It'll be fine. You'll see."

The more he talks, the more she hates him. She has a vision of walking behind him and slitting his throat, mid sentence. It would be easy to do because no one knows he boarded that plane with her, but death would be too easy for him.

He has never felt the consequences of the sins he's committed against her. That's on her. Completely. Because she should have said something when he committed the first offense against her, and shut the door on him completely. She should have but damn, that need to give people a second chance and the need to save, it's steered her wrong time and time again. Her gut and conscience are like warring factions within her and too often, her conscience wins the battle.

Many clients she's helped over the years, from the rape victims, to those who have suffered in violent relationships, have had similar stories: they thought they could change him. Or they thought it was an accident. Or they felt guilty and suddenly a random occurrence, behavior which they excused, became part of a pattern until it was a regular thing. And by then, they were too ashamed to ask for help because it was their fault.

It clicks, from Huck choking her to Jake doing the same, she has become the woman who needs help; she has become her own client.

No trepidation. No warring within. She does what needs to be done; she does as her father instructed. She knocks on the cockpit door and when it opens, she whispers something to the pilot. A few pleasantries later, she is back in her seat.

"What was that about?" She looks over at him with an expression he can't read, but doesn't answer.

The Captain makes an announcement about starting their descent, but it's too soon. Panic washes over him because he suddenly sees who is on that plane with him. Olivia Pope, the real one, daughter of Rowan and Maya Pope, fixer extraordinaire.

He sits a little straighter, buckling his seatbelt. His eyes dart around the plane in search of an exit because everything about her has suddenly changed and he is afraid. "Seriously, Liv, what is going on?"

She turns her head toward him, and then her whole body. "You know, Jake, I need to get some things off my chest."

"You told me you love him, I get it, but we can work this-"

"There is no...this," she begins, motioning to the space between us. From somewhere, she has gained energy and the anger, which was simmering below the surface too long, boiled to the surface. She hadn't realized it until now, how much she's been holding inside.

"Give us time."

"Jake, I gave you a chance, and do you know what you did? You had cameras in my home. You gave me a concussion and then told me to lie about it!"

"That was part of my job."

"Knocking me out was part of your job?"

"Look, it obviously brought you and the President closer together so you could finally get closure."

She has no idea what she saw in him in the first place. His eyes should have been her first clue, but she ignored the deadness and, more accurately, the creepiness behind them. She ignores his attempt to try and turn it back on her. "And then you used me as a human shield."

"I saved you. Your father sent her there-"

"For you! She was sent there for you! You tried to choke me-"

"I was restraining you-"

"Don't insult my intelligence. You are nothing more than an abuser."

He unbuckles his seatbelt, but as he moves closer to her, they hit a pocket of turbulence which forces him to rethink his plan. He re-buckles his seatbelt and says, "I would never hurt you."

"You have. Time and time again. That's why my father asked me to drop you off in the country of my choosing and he would take care of the rest."

His face goes pale. "What?"

"He asked me to do a favor for him in exchange for a favor ."

That's when he sees it. Olivia is her father's daughter. It's there in her eyes, and her demeanor, proud and strong. "The pilot will be landing in, oh, I'd say," she looks at her watch, "twenty minutes or so, and there are going to be some nice, military men to escort you to...well...that's really not my concern."

Fitz has somehow made it to his desk chair and he's staring out the window when Cyrus enters, followed by Mellie. Cyrus looks at his friend, not the President, not his boss, his friend.

Fitz, for all of his sensitivity and idealism, has always believed he could make things better. For the American people, for himself; he's the eternal optimist and when everyone else has given up, it is Fitz who provides the hope. It's why seeing him like this, so weak and small, hits Cyrus so hard.

He knows Fitz thinks he needs Olivia to make it through, and maybe he does, but Olivia isn't there. May never be there again and she's been too unstable and unreliable lately. Right now, he needs to put his personal feelings aside and be the President. Be the strength of a nation that has been weakened by an attack on the first family. He needs to be okay because the American people need to be okay. Cyrus turns to Mellie, "Could you excuse us?"

She throws up her hands and leaves and when he hears the door close, Cyrus moves closer to Fitz, taking a seat across from him.

"Mr. President, we've been through a lot together. The death of parents and now the death of the two men closest to us." Fitz doesn't give any sign he's listening, but Cyrus continues anyway. "People will say time will heal us. That it was God's will and all kinds of words, but they mean nothing. Because no one can bring them back. Not Olivia. No one. But we've got to go on because you're not the one who died. I'm not the one who died. We're not normal people and we don't get to grieve like normal people. You've got millions of people out there, waiting to see their Commander in Chief, their President. They need to know you're okay, so they know they're okay."

Fitz slowly turns around in his chair. His eyes are red and his face contorts in a way that makes him look so much older. "He was my boy."

"He was, but you don't stop living. You have a daughter, another son and a wife. You have a nation to lead. You have to go on for them."

Fitz nods slowly. "How much time do I have?"

"I can give you thirty minutes. No more."

Fitz stands, but it's not to his full height. He's hunched over and his limbs look like they weigh a ton. "Cyrus?"

"Sir?"

"Where is Olivia?"

"I don't know."

"Find her." His voice breaks, "Please."

"Yes, sir."

She watches from the safety of the plane as two military men cuff him, and roughly drag him to their waiting vehicle. She can't hear him, but she sees his lips moving rapidly. He never stops talking.

She feels a hint of satisfaction, not just for her, but for the others. The woman he killed in her living room. The reporter she learned he'd beaten up. James. The other innocents who have died or been harmed by his hands under the guise of orders from Command.

She doesn't know what will happen to him, but she suspects it won't be pleasant. She didn't make her father promise to not harm him. He will likely be tortured and then killed, perhaps by the hands of her own father.

Before she left, she and her father shared secrets. He asked her to take Jake with her because he disobeyed Command. He told her of the sex tape and the associate he'd sent to bring Jake back to him. She told him about her concussion and how he choked her. He promised, "Daddy will handle it," and she let him, giving not a second thought to what that meant.

She fastens her seatbelt as the Captain tells her they'll be air born shortly. She should feel free now, but she isn't. She wants to be back in DC with him, working through their problems, but the truth is, they are further apart than ever. And the distance isn't just physical, it's emotional.

He lost his son at the hands of her mother. Is there a crueler twist in life? She should be there helping him grieve, but really, where is her place in his life? Does she have a place at all? This is a time for parents to come together without some third party interfering. And there's the rape. He has to be there for Mellie, to help her heal.

She keeps rationalizing, a necessity for her own survival. For a moment in time, she thought "they" would be possible. But life, once again, threw wrench after wrench at them and finally, it broke them. Divorce will never come, not without a high price which would be political suicide. Another four years. She is nearly forty, unmarried, and she wants children. She can't afford to wait around for him again. Her heart can't take another four years of remaining hidden in the shadows of his life.

Her mind races with excuses and explanations, none of which are completely honest. Here's a truth she has only told herself in passing, but never explored: Olivia Pope is a broken soul. She is damaged, perhaps beyond repair.

The truth is, she feels unworthy of his love. Looking at her father and mother, and the monsters they are, how can she be anything other than a monster herself? She fought in the battle for her soul, but that was lost long ago.

Maybe a new start will help, but it won't heal. She can run fast and far, but right on her heels are her demons.

"Your support and prayers during this most difficult time mean more than you know. I've always prepared to serve this nation, to protect it and do my best to leave it in a better position after I leave, than when I was first elected. I never thought my oldest child would be a casualty of my calling.

I cannot stand in front of you tonight and pretend that our family is not devastated by our loss. I know that millions of you have endured that same kind of pain and we are bonded because of it. Like you, we will put one foot in front of the other and each day, hope the heaviness on our hearts will feel a little lighter. Eventually.

It is said that God never gives us more than we can handle, but I'll be honest, I don't know how our family is supposed to handle this. We will need you. And you will need us to continue to move this country forward. We lost a son, but that loss will not be in vain.

This administration will remain focused and committed to making our country safer and better for our children. With our loss, comes a renewed sense of urgency in all that we do because life, regardless of how well planned, can be snatched from us in a moment, so we must live each day to the fullest. We must spend every hour focused and moving toward a better tomorrow.

My words to you today are sincere and true. I will have ups and downs personally, but that will not affect my unwavering commitment to this nation. It will and has only strengthened it.

With a heartfelt thank you, I end my comments with the words I wish I'd heeded much sooner. Love is simple. It sustains us. Uplifts us. Bends us. Breaks us. Love, both giving and receiving, is nourishment to the soul. Tell your children, spouse, your parents, friends and family you love them. Tell them daily. Hold them with everything you have." He looks in the camera, staring into her eyes and speaking directly to her, "If they run, find them and love them until they can love you back."

God bless you and God bless this world."

She listens to his speech over and over again on her newly purchased computer. She knows he's speaking to her and she wishes she could allow herself to believe and embrace his words. She doesn't believe the word "love", spoken to or by her, can ever be believed again.

The island she will call home for the foreseeable future, is accessible only by boat. With the exception a pleasant housekeeper o see to her every need, she is alone. It is exactly what she asked for, but far from what she needs. What she needs is him; what she can't have is...him.

The first few days, she spends locked in her bedroom, with only the occasional interruption by a nice woman, Margaret, whose job is to take care of her. Margaret leaves a tray of food outside of her door three times a day, with various snacks in between.

Olivia doesn't eat much, or often, usually picking at the wonderful spread that is prepared fresh for her. Fruits and vegetables grown in the largest garden she's ever seen. Livestock raised far from the home, where she neither has to see nor hear them, are her main source of protein.

She spends her days writing, nothing in particular, more of a stream-of-consciousness exercise. Getting the words out, whether it's using an entire page writing "I love you" until there is no longer space, or "I hate you", which is more of a message to herself than anyone else.

She spends her nights torturing herself. Reading about him. Looking at pictures. Crying over him. Yet she has no one to blame other than herself.

The days pass and they are not as she expected. She expected to get better with each day. To feel something other than excruciating pain. To be able to sleep without the tears, without the agonizing cries that escape from the very depths of her soul. She expected something.

Instead, each day is just like the last. An endless string of words on paper, tears that wet and wrinkle it, guilt that strangles her. Rather than light, she sees an endless series of dark, dark days.

One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. He repeats the words to himself each morning.

He's moved back into Mellie's bedroom. It's comfort more than anything. Although they don't touch unless necessary, and barely look at each other, knowing the other is right there when the nightmares come, is of some comfort.

It's almost a nightly occurrence, the nightmares. Either he, or she, awakens sweaty and breathless, having dreamed of their eldest. Not getting to him soon enough. Being powerless to save him and somehow, failing him. They hold each other and say nothing. Eventually, they fall back asleep and morning comes and they sleepwalk through another day.

The post-election, post-tragedy approval bump has remained high. Surprisingly, the only thing he's been able to focus on is his job, passing legislation ranging from universal pre-K to a gun buyback program. Members of both parties have seen what he's seen; the country is firmly behind him. He not only has their sympathy, he has their respect.

It's clear to both parties that they must tread carefully when opposing him, which leaves them in a different sort of paralysis. Their agendas pushed aside to give the illusion of sensitivity and a united front.

Cyrus, for all of his faults, has been a godsend for Fitz. He has become the right hand that Fitz has always wanted; the professional confidante he's always needed. He's a buffer between the President and Vice President, and a bulldog on the Hill.

Each morning, they have a cup of coffee, and Fitz's first question is always, "Have you found her?" Each morning, the answer remains the same, "Not yet." And they go on with their day, but it's obvious, they both need her there.

Cyrus has tried, is trying, but all he has learned is Jake Ballard has also disappeared, and Rowan, with all his smugness, knows exactly where she is. With an entire intelligence community at his disposal, one would think the President of the United States could find her. Yet, the trail is cold. She has truly vanished.

She wrote the first letter because she couldn't go another day without communicating with him. But, when Margaret knocked on her door and asked if she needed anything from town, Olivia looked at the letter, then the door, and whispered, "No, thank you."

She wrote the second letter to bare her soul. The third to beg for forgiveness. She writes her family's story and tries to explain who she is, why she is the way she is. She writes of the childhood dreams and the agony she endured as her parents walked out of her life, one after the other. The pages, stacked one on top of the other, are an unpublished memoir; her magnum opus. She mails not a single one, and suspects this exercise is more for her, than Fitz.

One day, she awakens to a different kind of feeling, something akin to peace, though not quite. She opens the curtains and doors leading to her terrace. For the first time in two months, she steps outside and lets the breeze blow through her hair and lift her long, flowy gown. It feels good, like life is coming back to her, or she is rejoining it.

She loves him no less. Quite the opposite is true, in fact. She loves him without restraint or artificial obstacles.

She takes her time getting ready. Bathes slowly because she has time and it's the little things she's grown to appreciate during her time in isolation. She treats her skin and her body gently, lovingly, unlike days before when she was almost rough, taking her anger out on herself. She massages her arms, legs, fingers and feet.

As she brings the washcloth down the front of her body, she thinks of him and the many long, luxurious baths they've shared together. Her hands travel the exact path his have traveled and for the first time in two months, she feels her body coming to life, responding to thoughts of him.

Olivia Pope hasn't always been so comfortable in her skin or with her own sexuality. It wasn't until she met him and he made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, that she began to understand her body. What made it hum, what made her moisten, her favorite rhythm, her spot. She never knew her body until she was with him and once they made love the first time, she couldn't get enough of the love they made.

It was the memories of his touch, kiss, tongue, body, all of it, that helped her when they were apart. She could conjure a specific time or place, or even the feeling of being in her presence, her body would respond, and she would have to sate it.

Just like now, as her fingers disappear beneath the bubbles. She is hesitant, at first, to touch herself. But then she does, as her fingers finally make contact with the nerves that are weeping for her attention. She drops her head back and thinks of them.

His lips on her body the first time they made love.

Her nipple in his mouth as he gently tugs at it.

His fingers finding their way inside her. First one, and then a second, as sucks on her bottom lip.

Him, all of him, moving in and out of her with such great force, the bed moves several inches across the floor.

Her body moves faster against her own fingers and she feels the trembling that starts in her toes. Hearing him whisper "Livvie" is her undoing and she lets herself go with a loud scream. When she opens her eyes, she is sad to find she is alone. She misses him.

Later that day, she joins Margaret in the kitchen, one of a handful of times they've actually seen each other. Olivia apologizes for her behavior, an apology brushed aside by the jolly, peaceful woman.

She suggests Olivia take in the island, take a walk along the beach, go for a swim, get some sun. Olivia nods, and she leaves, walking along the beach for what must be hours. Thinking. Wondering if she'll ever go back to DC. Wondering if there is anything left to go back to.

He spends most of his days and nights in his office, work providing some semblance of solace. His approval ratings remain high. Congress remains cooperative. It's been relatively smooth, from a professional standpoint.

He and Cyrus have perfected their routine. A morning meeting, lunch together, an evening meeting. They both need the consistency and scheduled breaks.

The grieving hasn't gotten any easier. The nightmares persist, but there are times when he genuinely smiles. Days when there are signs that it is getting better; he is getting better.

He stands in his shower, letting the water beat against him. This, taking a shower in the middle of the day, is not part of his daily routine. His doctor encouraged him take breaks whenever necessary, and today, it is necessary.

The water is almost too hot, but he loves the burn. His skin reddens from the heat and constant pressure beating against him. He steps underneath the water, letting it fall all over his body.

He thinks of her and the showers they used to take together. The first time he suggested it, she hesitated, then smiled and said, "We don't get our hair wet for just anybody." At the time, he had no idea what her words meant, but as he became accustomed to all the little things about her, the differences between their races he loved, he became privy to some "secrets", that's her word.

He smiles at the memory and looks down as his body immediately responds. It's been a long time since he's shown any signs of life. He reaches down and pauses, before touching his member. It twitches at contact, his touch, painful. He watches and waits, and takes a deep breath before grabbing hold.

He sees her face as he begins to stroke himself. Slowly at first, savoring every picture of her face, her body, their lovemaking as images flash in front of him.

Her smile.

His face in her hands as she pulls him in for a kiss, sliding her hands around him and playing with his hair.

Her body clenching around him, taking him to the brink, then loosening to prolong the experience.

Her lips kissing down his body. Lower and lower, until she is on her knees in front of him, looking up with that wicked gleam in her eyes. Taking him in her mouth.

His hand moves more quickly as he nears his release. It is her scent that wraps around him, her laughter that brings a smile to his face as he screams, "Olivia."

For the first time in recent memory, he is somewhat satisfied. Something is happening and it's more than putting one foot in front of the other, more than his heart beating every hour, minute, second of each day. It's air being breathed into his soul. It is a reawakening; another chance.

He hurries to get out of the shower. He stands to his full height as he checks his now clothed self, in the mirror. He takes great care with his hair. Ties his tie perfectly. He puts himself together and it's more than just a facade for a broken man; it is a man putting himself back together.

As he enters the Oval Office, he tells Lauren to call Cyrus. He closes the door behind him, and goes to the window. He stares outside and the grass, the trees, sunlight and a little butterfly that flutters near the window in front of him. It's beauty and life.

Cyrus pops his head in and Fitz asks, his back still to the door, "Did you check with the Secretary of Defense?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Liv. Did you check with him? Any military flights? Any unusual movements by personnel around the time she left?"

"No."

"Check with him, and report back to me at the end of the day."

She walks along the beach each day for hours at a time. She stops occasionally, moving closer to the water, letting her feet get wet. Then she moves away, a zig-zag pattern that continues for miles.

The quiet gives her time to think, to write more letters, to imagine a someday with him and their children; a day that will never come. She's been away too long. Six months. A pile of unmailed letters. Honesty from herself which she demanded, but cannot share with him. Not now.

She finds a place in the shade and struggles with her easel until it's perfectly set. She draws now; she draws again. It was a therapy she picked up after her mother died and something that made her quite happy. Once.

Shades of black and gray filled page after page of her book when she first started again. Broad strokes of an unsteady hand filled the empty whiteness. Something like black clouds and a pending storm. That was in month three.

Months four and five were different, lighter. Pastels with hints of dark colors, controlled curves and steady lines. Lightness peeking through the darkness.

Lately though, in month six, she's gone bold and bright. Shades of red and orange and yellow. Vibrant.

She's started having dreams of going back to him, which, now that she thinks about it, coincides with her new color experiment. Also no coincidence, is the peace she's found within herself. Quiet, quiet can work miracles. Quiet can give room for clarity. And with the quiet, has come forgiveness.

She credits meditation. She allowed her still mind to focus on the past, the recent and more distant, and what she never understood was the guilt she carried from her mother's unreturned, "I love you Livvie," the day Maya "died" on an airplane, to her father's disappearance in her life; she believed it was all her fault.

Her gladiators, who were all rescued from some terrible fate, were an attempt to atone, but it was never enough. Saving lives made her feel nothing. So she tried to save more, lives, careers, reputations, doing all she could to stifle the guilt that she could not shake, and never had a name until now. Nothing worked. Nothing ever worked.

Then, there was Fitz. Guilt for loving him. Guilt for luring him into that hotel room. Guilt for loving a man who wasn't hers to love. And because of her, he lost a son.

Day after day of intense focus, quiet and stillness, she worked forgive herself. There were times she cried it out. Times she bitterly laughed it out. But somehow, the emotional purge has led to forgiveness of self.

She watches all of his press conferences, interviews and news clips. To most, he looks just fine, like a man who is on the mend, but she sees the truth. The little things others cannot. Like the slight twitch of his eye. Or the nervous gesture of twisting his wedding band.

She wants to go back to him, desperately, but how can she now? Although she's forgiven herself, can he forgive her? There are a million questions running through her mind as she packs up her easel and drawing materials, and makes her way back home. She's lost track of time. Judging from the position of the sun, she's been there for hours, lost in her own head.

When she arrives at the house, Margaret is standing in the doorway with a welcoming smile. "How was it today?"

"Good. Good."

Margaret nods. "Are you ready for dinner?"

"Yes, let me just put this stuff down and wash up."

She and Margaret have developed a routine and out of this routine has come a friendship. She is a wise woman, a loving woman who always seems to know what to say. Olivia began to confide in her with little things at first, but when Margaret asked why such a beautiful girl was always crying, all she could do was burst into tears and let them flow, along with words she'd never said to another.

When she and Olivia sit down for their meal, Margaret stares at her. She doesn't say anything at first, just watches the young woman pick at her food. "Olivia?"

"Yes?"

"It's time for you to go back."

"What?"

Margaret puts her fork down and takes Olivia's hands into her own. She rubs them with her thumbs, massages them. "Your father makes sure you see of him only what he approves."

"Margaret, I don't know what you're talking about."

"The President. He is divorced. You need to go back to him."

"Wh-what?" she stammers.

"My brother, he is waiting for you on the other side. You go to him and he will get you back to DC. You don't find what you two have more than once in your life. Take it, Olivia. Jump."

It was only a matter of time before Mellie and Fitz divorced. The death of their child brought them together as friends, temporarily, and her rape was something they had to work through, but divorce was inevitable.

Jerry's death did something to them both. The "nuclear blowups" they were known for, ceased. They operated peacefully within the confines of the White House, under an unspoken treaty. There were even a few laughs, though no intimacy. A kind of respect, though no love.

It seemed a natural evolution for them, as they went through the steps of grief and trying to repair the fractured family. They knew they would never be a couple, and one night, over dinner, when he suggested making their separation legal and permanent, she didn't disagree.

It was month three. Month three when they, as adults, hammered out the parameters for their divorce. She would maintain the title of First Lady, and all of her responsibilities and staff. She would move to Blair House. She would have his full support in future endeavors. Teddy would stay with him.

By month four, they made a formal announcement of their pending divorce. She began to work on her friendship with Andrew, and was open to seeing where their relationship went.

Olivia, his Olivia still had not been located by month five, although they did find out that Jake Ballard was taken to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, where he was discovered in his cell, hanging from the ceiling. He learned Olivia had flown there with him, but from there the trail went cold.

Cyrus still gives him daily reports, most of which are some variation of "We're still looking, sir," but he feels them moving closer to each other, despite the physical distance.

He speaks to the nation quite regularly, as they have become part of his extended family. During his speeches and interviews, he often sends messages only she will understand. Looking directly into the camera, he speaks of love and fighting for what's important. The shortness of life; it's uncertainty. The nation, they think his message is for them, in reality, it's all for her. To let her know he's still there waiting for her.

He is hunched over his desk, reading the current budget proposal. It is unkind, courtesy of his party. He shakes his head at its cruelty, and writes a harshly worded note to the Speaker. He will not push this. He will not support it. If necessary, he will go straight to the American people, sixty-seven percent of whom love him, and turn the political world upside down. He will throw his own party under the bus if they insist on pushing a backwards plan.

Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III, who was once thought of as a political lightweight who was easily manipulated, has grown into his role as President of the United States. He no longer wavers and that scares members of both parties. He is a man of the people and the people love him.

When Cyrus enters, he looks up. "Just in time, could you send this back to the Speaker? I'm not supporting this garbage." When Cyrus doesn't respond he asks, "What is it?"

"She's in Italy. We don't know where her plane is going yet, but we're trying to find out."

He doesn't have to know her final destination because he already knows. "Thank you, Cyrus."

"I'll keep you posted," grabbing the Bill from Fitz's desk, he leaves.

She gets off the plane wearing a red dress, black stilettos, a new, stylish bag and oversized sunglasses, all purchased in Italy. She could easily be mistaken for a movie star. She is in full Olivia Pope mode as she struts toward the black sedan waiting for her. She asks the driver for identification before getting inside. She took every precaution to avoid detection, but her father was still her father, who somehow knew all. She had to literally fly under the radar to avoid detection by her father and thankfully, between her connections and Margaret's brother's, she was able to land in DC without his knowledge. She called in a few favors and purposely left a trail that she knew Cyrus would follow.

She's not nervous as the car makes its way toward the White House. She's relieved. The stars have aligned and they have another chance; she will not waste it. Before, they were two incomplete people, trying to be together under impossible circumstances. Maybe, as two wholes, they can make it work.

He feels her presence the moment she steps foot in the Rose Garden. It's not surprising that even after all of this time, they are still in tune with each other. He extends his hand to her, still without turning, and she takes it, joining him on the bench.

The moon is full and the sky is brightly lit with millions of little stars. It is a perfect summer night. He puts his arm around her, and pulls her closer as she leans her head on his shoulder. The world around them ceases to exist as they both close their eyes and let themselves feel.

After awhile, she pulls away. "How are you?" she asks.

"Better," he says. Now that you're here, he thinks. He notices what she's wearing for the first and raises an eyebrow, "Red? Bold. Daring." He lowers his voice, "Sexy."

"Love." Her eyes searches his, "I love you, Fitz."

There is so much to say but not tonight. Tonight, they will kiss and hold and touch. They will walk from the Rose Garden through the White House halls hand-in-hand, unashamed, un-hiddden. They will make their way to the residence, smiling, laughing and loving. He will take her to the master bedroom, which is his alone. The mattress has been replaced, the old bedding is gone. The room looks more like Olivia's taste and tears spring to her eyes as she realizes he had it decorated the way she would have decorated it.

He kisses her tears away as they slowly undress each other. There will be plenty of words in the days and months to come. But tonight, is just for them to love each other, to live and breathe for and with each other. Tonight, is about them. Just them.