His Possession (OLITZ /Scandal - short stories) - Chapter 13: Chapter 13
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The White House, 12:13 a.m.
The hum of silence in the West Wing is almost sacred.
The day's chaos—briefings, scandal management, legislative chess—has finally gone still. Just the muffled sound of the HVAC, the slow tick of the antique clock on the wall, and two people who should've gone home hours ago.
Olivia Pope sits across from the President of the United States, pages of polling data spread between them like neutral ground; neither wants to leave.
"New Hampshire's softening," she says, tapping a column. "Not enough to celebrate, but it's- movement."
Fitz nods, but his gaze lingers too long on her hand. "Because of you."
She arches a brow, lips twitching. "Because I'm good at what I do."
"Exceptionally good," he murmurs, voice low enough to graze her.
There it is—that undercurrent. The way his compliments always feel like confessions.
She glances down, gathers the papers slowly. "We should call it. You've got a 7 a.m. sit-down with Langston."
He doesn't move.
Neither does she.
"Olivia..."
The way he says her name—it's always different when they're alone. Softer. Unarmored.
"How was your day?" he asks suddenly, casual in tone but weighted in intent.
She looks up. "You were there for most of it."
"I know. But not the part when you left the briefing early. Or the part where you barely touched your dinner."
She hesitates. "I just needed air."
His voice is gentle. "You needed space from me."
Her silence says more than denial could.
Then, deflection: "You're the leader of the free world. People always want something from you."
His eyes stay on her. "I only ever want one thing."
Her breath catches. Her guard threatens to rise—but she's too tired, too raw.
"You can't say things like that."
"I know."
But he means it. That's what makes it worse.
He stands, walks over, and stops just beside her chair. She doesn't look up—but she feels him.
A pause. Then he brushes a file toward her, and in the pass, his fingers skim hers. Intentional. Barely there. Enough to unravel every defense.
"Fitz..."
"You feel it too."
She swallows. Her voice cracks. "That's not the point."
"It is to me."
He crouches slightly, meets her gaze. "These hours—when the building is quiet and I'm not the President—I remember what it's like to just be. To want something without the entire damn world watching."
She looks at him then. Really looks.
And she's undone.
They move at once—no dramatic pause, no whispered countdown. Just need and inevitability crashing like thunder.
His hands cup her face, hers thread through his hair. Their mouths meet with all the longing they've buried beneath protocol and patriotism.
It's breathless and hungry, but reverent too—like they know they're crossing a line they'll never un-cross.
"Fitz, she whispers his name like it's sacred.
He holds her like she's the only real thing he's ever had.
Olivia – Her Apartment, 7:41 a.m.
The coffee is untouched.
She sits on the edge of her bed, robe pulled tight, as if fabric could muffle memory.
Last night clings to her skin like heat.
His hands.
His voice.
The look in his eyes when he whispered, "Stay."
But she didn't.
Because the truth doesn't live in midnight whispers. It lives here—where the sunlight stings and the world expects her to be smarter than this.
She picks up her phone. Sees his name on the screen.
No voicemail. Just a missed call. And a text.
"I hope you slept. I didn't. Call me."
She types out a reply. Deletes it. Types again.
Nothing feels right.
She wants to tell him everything and nothing. That she can't breathe without him. She needs distance. That she doesn't want to go back to pretending.
Instead, she sets the phone down and stares out the window.
Fitz – The Oval Office, 8:03 a.m.
He's still wearing the tie she fixed before she left.
No one else would notice. But he does.
He should be focused—Langston's waiting, Cyrus is pacing, the world is turning—but he's caught somewhere between last night's warmth and this morning's absence.
He wants to call again.
Wants to hear her voice, even if it's clipped and careful. Even if she tells him it was a mistake.
Because he'd rather have her fury than this silence.
But he waits.
Because love with Olivia Pope is not a fire he can control. It's a world he walks into willingly—knowing it might consume him.
And still, he waits.
Olivia's Apartment – 7:19 a.m.
The curtains are drawn. The sunlight peeking through is soft, but even that feels too loud. Olivia sits on the edge of her bed, still in the robe she never changed out of after her late return.
Her phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Fitz.
She stares at the name.
Let it buzz.
Then reaches, thumb hovering—before answering without a word.
"Liv." His voice is low. Rough. Tired. Needy.
She closes her eyes. Her breath catches.
"You okay?" he asks.
"No," she answers. Quiet. Truthful. "Yes. I don't know."
"I haven't stopped thinking about you."
"I haven't even tried," she admits, leaning her head against the wall. "I don't get to pretend you didn't happen, Fitz. I woke up with you still on my skin."
He doesn't say anything for a second. She can hear the weight of silence around him. The distance between them feels unbearable, even over the phone.
"I wanted to call sooner," he says. "I couldn't."
"She knows," Olivia says. Flat. Bare. "Or she's close enough that it doesn't matter."
"She's always known," he replies. "She just liked the version where we were miserable better."
"I can't be the shadow, Fitz," Olivia says, standing. Her robe falls slightly off one shoulder as she walks into the kitchen. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Not anymore."
There's a beat. A breath.
"Tell me what to do," he whispers. "And I'll do it."
She closes her eyes. Her fingers tremble slightly on the granite counter.
"You'll be the President," she says. "And I'll be the woman who leaves before it ruins us."
He doesn't reply. He doesn't beg. Because they both know: she won't leave. Not really.
"I have to shower," she says. "I have meetings. You have a nation to run."
"Liv—"
"Don't."
But her voice cracks.
"Just... don't say anything else. Let me hang up while I still have a choice."
She presses end.
The phone drops to the counter.
She stares at her reflection in the dark window glass, alone with the memory of last night, and the truth echoing between her ribs:
He's hers in daylight.
But he's mine in the dark.
Fitz – The Oval Office, 7:49 a.m.
He hasn't moved in ten minutes.
The morning brief lies open in front of him—classified memos, urgent headlines, all blurred and ignored.
Outside the glass, aides move like shadows. No one knocks. No one enters.
They know better.
Last night still lives under his skin. Her breath on his neck. The way she said "don't stop" like it was a prayer. A dare. A confession.
His fingers lift to his tie.
She'd fixed it before slipping out, her touch tender but fleeting. Her eyes told him everything she couldn't say. Her mouth, still swollen from their kisses, parted like she might speak.
But she didn't.
She just left.
And he let her.
Because what could he offer? A promise he can't keep? A life he can't give?
He wanted to stop her. To say stay.
To say screw the job, screw the country—stay with me.
But he didn't.
So now, in the hush of the Oval, with the echo of her still clinging to his collar, Fitz closes the folder.
Stands.
And whispers to no one: "I love you, Olivia Pope."
No one hears it.
Except the walls.
And the ghost of who he might've been if he were only a man—not the man.
The campaign bus. Rain tapping the windows. Olivia was asleep on his shoulder.
He watches her breathe, her hand in his, everything simple in the hush between storms.
The Governor's mansion.
Midnight. She's barefoot, on a leather couch, surrounded by folders.
He walks in with scotch, kisses her hair like he has every right to.
Election night. He's losing. The room spins. Olivia grabs his hand without hesitation.
"Breathe," she tells him. And he does.
The Residence – 6:42 a.m.
The only sound is the whisper of silk as Mellie pours her coffee with precise grace. Morning light glints off the silver carafe.
Her reflection in the French doors is still practiced.
The President didn't come to bed.
Again.
She doesn't ask why anymore.
Cyrus enters mid-phone call, his voice clipped, professional—until he sees her.
"I thought you were still asleep," he says, quickly ending the call.
She lifts her cup. "Didn't realize I needed clearance."
He chuckles, awkward, not meeting her eyes. "Fitz had a long night. East Sudan's heating up. PR mess to clean. He was still in the West Wing when I left."
She hums. "Sudan. Is that what we're calling her now?"
Cyrus blinks. "I—what?"
She turns to him fully, her expression calm but razor-sharp. "You think I don't know when he's been with her?"
Cyrus says nothing.
"I've seen the signs before," she continues, almost amused. "Back when he was just Fitz. When late nights meant lipstick smudges and perfume that wasn't mine."
She sets the cup down gently.
"You think I don't notice when the sheets stay cold until sunrise?"
Her voice cracks just slightly at the edge.
"I do."
Cyrus swallows, his silence a confirmation.
Mellie steps past him, poised and powerful.
"Tell the President I'll see him at the 9 a.m. debrief," she says. Then, with a glance over her shoulder: "Maybe sooner, if I feel like making a scene."
Her heels echo down the hall—measured. Certain.
Behind her, Cyrus exhales. Slowly.
Olivia – OPA, 11:42 p.m.
The walls of Olivia Pope & Associates glow in cool fluorescent defiance of the hour. File folders spill across the desk, coffee mugs multiply like rabbits, and someone—probably Huck—has hacked into the Sudanese oil delegation's travel manifests again.
Olivia is in her chair, sleeves rolled, glasses perched low on her nose, red pen stabbing through a legal brief with surgical flair.
Abby walks in holding two coffees. "I come bearing caffeine and concern. You know it's basically tomorrow, right?"
Olivia takes the cup. "Time is a construct."
"Mm-hmm," Abby says, sitting. "And denial is a sport."
From the side, Huck doesn't look up from his screen. "Sudan's deputy prime minister lands at Dulles at 2:06 a.m. His aide is using a fake name."
"Let me guess," Olivia says without looking up, "Gregory Washington?"
Huck nods. "He's not very creative."
Abby leans forward. "So. Are we just...not going to talk about it?"
Olivia blinks. "About what?"
Abby gives her a don't play me look. "The President. The late-night visits. The freshly re-applied lip gloss every time you 'step out to take a call.'"
Olivia exhales. "Abby—"
"—And how every time his name comes up, you pause just a little too long before pretending it doesn't affect you."
"I do not pause."
Huck, without glancing up: "You pause."
She glares at both of them, then swipes a hand through her curls. "Okay, fine. There was a moment. A tiny, very insignificant moment."
Abby grins. "With tongue?"
"Not the point."
Huck lifts his head. "Did you tell him you love him?"
Olivia sputters. "I—what? No!"
Abby shrugs. "Well, he probably wants to say it. You know he does that broody thing when he's about to say something emotionally catastrophic."
"He does," Huck agrees.
"You guys need a hobby," Olivia mutters.
"We have a hobby," Abby deadpans. "It's called 'watching you make terrible decisions in stunning coats.'"
Olivia leans back in her chair, half-smiling despite herself. "You're both fired."
"Good," Abby says. "Now go home and not think about him. At all."
"Zero thoughts," Huck adds, very seriously.
Olivia rolls her eyes and tosses a red pen at them. But after they leave, she stays seated. Staring at the same paragraph. Her glasses slip lower, but she doesn't notice.
Fitz – The Oval Office, 1:17 a.m.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticks softly, a metronome for the ghosts.
The desk lamp casts a warm gold across the papers they abandoned hours ago—her edits in sharp red, her notes in that unmistakable script.
She left her pen.
He doesn't touch it.
Instead, he sits where she sat, hand resting in the exact place her fingers had pressed against the leather armrest.
He can still smell her perfume—jasmine, maybe. Clean. Complicated.
He closes his eyes.
She's there again.
In this very room. On this couch. Her eyes fierce, her voice low, cutting through chaos like a knife through silk.
He can still hear her say, "You should go to bed."
He should've told her then.
He should tell her now.
But instead, he whispers into the emptiness, softer than before:
"I miss you, even when you're here."
The walls say nothing back.
Only the clock answers, ticking on.
The hum of silence in the West Wing is almost sacred.
The day's chaos—briefings, scandal management, legislative chess—has finally gone still. Just the muffled sound of the HVAC, the slow tick of the antique clock on the wall, and two people who should've gone home hours ago.
Olivia Pope sits across from the President of the United States, pages of polling data spread between them like neutral ground; neither wants to leave.
"New Hampshire's softening," she says, tapping a column. "Not enough to celebrate, but it's- movement."
Fitz nods, but his gaze lingers too long on her hand. "Because of you."
She arches a brow, lips twitching. "Because I'm good at what I do."
"Exceptionally good," he murmurs, voice low enough to graze her.
There it is—that undercurrent. The way his compliments always feel like confessions.
She glances down, gathers the papers slowly. "We should call it. You've got a 7 a.m. sit-down with Langston."
He doesn't move.
Neither does she.
"Olivia..."
The way he says her name—it's always different when they're alone. Softer. Unarmored.
"How was your day?" he asks suddenly, casual in tone but weighted in intent.
She looks up. "You were there for most of it."
"I know. But not the part when you left the briefing early. Or the part where you barely touched your dinner."
She hesitates. "I just needed air."
His voice is gentle. "You needed space from me."
Her silence says more than denial could.
Then, deflection: "You're the leader of the free world. People always want something from you."
His eyes stay on her. "I only ever want one thing."
Her breath catches. Her guard threatens to rise—but she's too tired, too raw.
"You can't say things like that."
"I know."
But he means it. That's what makes it worse.
He stands, walks over, and stops just beside her chair. She doesn't look up—but she feels him.
A pause. Then he brushes a file toward her, and in the pass, his fingers skim hers. Intentional. Barely there. Enough to unravel every defense.
"Fitz..."
"You feel it too."
She swallows. Her voice cracks. "That's not the point."
"It is to me."
He crouches slightly, meets her gaze. "These hours—when the building is quiet and I'm not the President—I remember what it's like to just be. To want something without the entire damn world watching."
She looks at him then. Really looks.
And she's undone.
They move at once—no dramatic pause, no whispered countdown. Just need and inevitability crashing like thunder.
His hands cup her face, hers thread through his hair. Their mouths meet with all the longing they've buried beneath protocol and patriotism.
It's breathless and hungry, but reverent too—like they know they're crossing a line they'll never un-cross.
"Fitz, she whispers his name like it's sacred.
He holds her like she's the only real thing he's ever had.
Olivia – Her Apartment, 7:41 a.m.
The coffee is untouched.
She sits on the edge of her bed, robe pulled tight, as if fabric could muffle memory.
Last night clings to her skin like heat.
His hands.
His voice.
The look in his eyes when he whispered, "Stay."
But she didn't.
Because the truth doesn't live in midnight whispers. It lives here—where the sunlight stings and the world expects her to be smarter than this.
She picks up her phone. Sees his name on the screen.
No voicemail. Just a missed call. And a text.
"I hope you slept. I didn't. Call me."
She types out a reply. Deletes it. Types again.
Nothing feels right.
She wants to tell him everything and nothing. That she can't breathe without him. She needs distance. That she doesn't want to go back to pretending.
Instead, she sets the phone down and stares out the window.
Fitz – The Oval Office, 8:03 a.m.
He's still wearing the tie she fixed before she left.
No one else would notice. But he does.
He should be focused—Langston's waiting, Cyrus is pacing, the world is turning—but he's caught somewhere between last night's warmth and this morning's absence.
He wants to call again.
Wants to hear her voice, even if it's clipped and careful. Even if she tells him it was a mistake.
Because he'd rather have her fury than this silence.
But he waits.
Because love with Olivia Pope is not a fire he can control. It's a world he walks into willingly—knowing it might consume him.
And still, he waits.
Olivia's Apartment – 7:19 a.m.
The curtains are drawn. The sunlight peeking through is soft, but even that feels too loud. Olivia sits on the edge of her bed, still in the robe she never changed out of after her late return.
Her phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Fitz.
She stares at the name.
Let it buzz.
Then reaches, thumb hovering—before answering without a word.
"Liv." His voice is low. Rough. Tired. Needy.
She closes her eyes. Her breath catches.
"You okay?" he asks.
"No," she answers. Quiet. Truthful. "Yes. I don't know."
"I haven't stopped thinking about you."
"I haven't even tried," she admits, leaning her head against the wall. "I don't get to pretend you didn't happen, Fitz. I woke up with you still on my skin."
He doesn't say anything for a second. She can hear the weight of silence around him. The distance between them feels unbearable, even over the phone.
"I wanted to call sooner," he says. "I couldn't."
"She knows," Olivia says. Flat. Bare. "Or she's close enough that it doesn't matter."
"She's always known," he replies. "She just liked the version where we were miserable better."
"I can't be the shadow, Fitz," Olivia says, standing. Her robe falls slightly off one shoulder as she walks into the kitchen. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Not anymore."
There's a beat. A breath.
"Tell me what to do," he whispers. "And I'll do it."
She closes her eyes. Her fingers tremble slightly on the granite counter.
"You'll be the President," she says. "And I'll be the woman who leaves before it ruins us."
He doesn't reply. He doesn't beg. Because they both know: she won't leave. Not really.
"I have to shower," she says. "I have meetings. You have a nation to run."
"Liv—"
"Don't."
But her voice cracks.
"Just... don't say anything else. Let me hang up while I still have a choice."
She presses end.
The phone drops to the counter.
She stares at her reflection in the dark window glass, alone with the memory of last night, and the truth echoing between her ribs:
He's hers in daylight.
But he's mine in the dark.
Fitz – The Oval Office, 7:49 a.m.
He hasn't moved in ten minutes.
The morning brief lies open in front of him—classified memos, urgent headlines, all blurred and ignored.
Outside the glass, aides move like shadows. No one knocks. No one enters.
They know better.
Last night still lives under his skin. Her breath on his neck. The way she said "don't stop" like it was a prayer. A dare. A confession.
His fingers lift to his tie.
She'd fixed it before slipping out, her touch tender but fleeting. Her eyes told him everything she couldn't say. Her mouth, still swollen from their kisses, parted like she might speak.
But she didn't.
She just left.
And he let her.
Because what could he offer? A promise he can't keep? A life he can't give?
He wanted to stop her. To say stay.
To say screw the job, screw the country—stay with me.
But he didn't.
So now, in the hush of the Oval, with the echo of her still clinging to his collar, Fitz closes the folder.
Stands.
And whispers to no one: "I love you, Olivia Pope."
No one hears it.
Except the walls.
And the ghost of who he might've been if he were only a man—not the man.
The campaign bus. Rain tapping the windows. Olivia was asleep on his shoulder.
He watches her breathe, her hand in his, everything simple in the hush between storms.
The Governor's mansion.
Midnight. She's barefoot, on a leather couch, surrounded by folders.
He walks in with scotch, kisses her hair like he has every right to.
Election night. He's losing. The room spins. Olivia grabs his hand without hesitation.
"Breathe," she tells him. And he does.
The Residence – 6:42 a.m.
The only sound is the whisper of silk as Mellie pours her coffee with precise grace. Morning light glints off the silver carafe.
Her reflection in the French doors is still practiced.
The President didn't come to bed.
Again.
She doesn't ask why anymore.
Cyrus enters mid-phone call, his voice clipped, professional—until he sees her.
"I thought you were still asleep," he says, quickly ending the call.
She lifts her cup. "Didn't realize I needed clearance."
He chuckles, awkward, not meeting her eyes. "Fitz had a long night. East Sudan's heating up. PR mess to clean. He was still in the West Wing when I left."
She hums. "Sudan. Is that what we're calling her now?"
Cyrus blinks. "I—what?"
She turns to him fully, her expression calm but razor-sharp. "You think I don't know when he's been with her?"
Cyrus says nothing.
"I've seen the signs before," she continues, almost amused. "Back when he was just Fitz. When late nights meant lipstick smudges and perfume that wasn't mine."
She sets the cup down gently.
"You think I don't notice when the sheets stay cold until sunrise?"
Her voice cracks just slightly at the edge.
"I do."
Cyrus swallows, his silence a confirmation.
Mellie steps past him, poised and powerful.
"Tell the President I'll see him at the 9 a.m. debrief," she says. Then, with a glance over her shoulder: "Maybe sooner, if I feel like making a scene."
Her heels echo down the hall—measured. Certain.
Behind her, Cyrus exhales. Slowly.
Olivia – OPA, 11:42 p.m.
The walls of Olivia Pope & Associates glow in cool fluorescent defiance of the hour. File folders spill across the desk, coffee mugs multiply like rabbits, and someone—probably Huck—has hacked into the Sudanese oil delegation's travel manifests again.
Olivia is in her chair, sleeves rolled, glasses perched low on her nose, red pen stabbing through a legal brief with surgical flair.
Abby walks in holding two coffees. "I come bearing caffeine and concern. You know it's basically tomorrow, right?"
Olivia takes the cup. "Time is a construct."
"Mm-hmm," Abby says, sitting. "And denial is a sport."
From the side, Huck doesn't look up from his screen. "Sudan's deputy prime minister lands at Dulles at 2:06 a.m. His aide is using a fake name."
"Let me guess," Olivia says without looking up, "Gregory Washington?"
Huck nods. "He's not very creative."
Abby leans forward. "So. Are we just...not going to talk about it?"
Olivia blinks. "About what?"
Abby gives her a don't play me look. "The President. The late-night visits. The freshly re-applied lip gloss every time you 'step out to take a call.'"
Olivia exhales. "Abby—"
"—And how every time his name comes up, you pause just a little too long before pretending it doesn't affect you."
"I do not pause."
Huck, without glancing up: "You pause."
She glares at both of them, then swipes a hand through her curls. "Okay, fine. There was a moment. A tiny, very insignificant moment."
Abby grins. "With tongue?"
"Not the point."
Huck lifts his head. "Did you tell him you love him?"
Olivia sputters. "I—what? No!"
Abby shrugs. "Well, he probably wants to say it. You know he does that broody thing when he's about to say something emotionally catastrophic."
"He does," Huck agrees.
"You guys need a hobby," Olivia mutters.
"We have a hobby," Abby deadpans. "It's called 'watching you make terrible decisions in stunning coats.'"
Olivia leans back in her chair, half-smiling despite herself. "You're both fired."
"Good," Abby says. "Now go home and not think about him. At all."
"Zero thoughts," Huck adds, very seriously.
Olivia rolls her eyes and tosses a red pen at them. But after they leave, she stays seated. Staring at the same paragraph. Her glasses slip lower, but she doesn't notice.
Fitz – The Oval Office, 1:17 a.m.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticks softly, a metronome for the ghosts.
The desk lamp casts a warm gold across the papers they abandoned hours ago—her edits in sharp red, her notes in that unmistakable script.
She left her pen.
He doesn't touch it.
Instead, he sits where she sat, hand resting in the exact place her fingers had pressed against the leather armrest.
He can still smell her perfume—jasmine, maybe. Clean. Complicated.
He closes his eyes.
She's there again.
In this very room. On this couch. Her eyes fierce, her voice low, cutting through chaos like a knife through silk.
He can still hear her say, "You should go to bed."
He should've told her then.
He should tell her now.
But instead, he whispers into the emptiness, softer than before:
"I miss you, even when you're here."
The walls say nothing back.
Only the clock answers, ticking on.
End of His Possession (OLITZ /Scandal - short stories) Chapter 13. Continue reading Chapter 14 or return to His Possession (OLITZ /Scandal - short stories) book page.