Cyrus hated the look his husband gave him every time he showed up late for dinner. Wasn't it enough that he came home, that he had remembered to bring the bottle of wine?
"This is the last time, Cy! The Last—"
Cyrus cut him off without even looking at him. ""Mell went into labor."
It wasn't exactly a lie—false contractions or something like that. She would be fine and it would be all over the news tomorrow…perfect timing in his opinion.
James took the bottle of wine from him and walked into the kitchen. Cyrus could see that this news was only a reminder of how much he desperately wanted a baby. Needed a baby. And Cyrus desperately wanted to avoid the subject.
"So how was work?" he asked, dropping onto one of the stools that lined the counter.
James said nothing. He started to glare, his glasses falling askew. It was another stare that Cyrus knew too well. His shoes. As he slipped off the loafers, he could hear his husband pouring two glasses.
"Dinner is cold." James snapped.
"I'm not hungry."
"Cy…I can't keep doing this," he said, shaking his head.
"I know. I'll not be late again, I promise."
"I want a baby."
"We…"
He emptied the glass of wine. Maybe if he was younger. If he wasn't the one that had to keep the wheels of the White House going. Reaching for the bottle, he spoke softly, "We've talked about this before. I…"
James wasn't listening to him. He had stood up and left the room, switching off the kitchen lights. Cyrus sat there and finished the bottle in the dark. It was a strong port, the same kind that they had shared the night the president was elected, the night he had proposed.
Would things have been different if Olivia hadn't come along? If she hadn't snapped Fitz into shape, into the president that he was today? He laughed a little and moved to a recliner in their second living room. This was where James liked to write in the mornings. As he lowered himself into a chair, a notebook caught his eye. It was James' journal. He picked it up and held it in his hands. Reading it didn't cross his mind, but as he laid the journal down, a piece of paper slid out from the cover and there was a name: Hollis Doyle.
