AN: So I've been working on what was supposed to be chapter 34 for ages, but then I decided that there was a bunch of stuff which needed to happen first, so this chapter takes place roughly a week after the wedding. Big Jerry is involved in this chapter, but don't worry, I'm not bringing him back into the story.
"Sir, we have a problem." Cyrus says apropos of nothing, stepping into the Oval office and closing the door behind himself. "Where's Liv?"
"She's in her office in Communications." Fitz says, concerned by how rattled Cyrus seems. He picks up the handset for the phone on his desk, "Hold on, I'll call her."
"It's about your Father, sir."
He expects Fitz to put the phone down, to either tell him to go to hell or to have him pre-emptively tell his Father to go to hell. "Is he dead?" Fitz asks instead, calm but with a blunt edge as he dials.
"No, Mr. President." Cyrus replies slowly, and Fitz doesn't appear to react at all.
The shutters have gone up so extensively around Fitz' emotions that Cyrus can't tell whether he's relieved or disappointed by the news, which frustrates him to no end. There was a time when he and Jerry and Mellie could, for lack of a better word, manipulate Fitz into doing whatever they needed. These days he can scarcely even tell what he's thinking, and he finds it unsettling to be on the outside looking in as far as the private side of the White House goes.
"It's me, can you come to the Oval for a minute?" Fitz asks into the receiver, pauses, then, "Thanks, Livvie."
She must hang up the phone then because Fitz does a second later.
"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like what you're about to tell me?" Fitz asks, leaning back in his chair, and he can immediately tell that Cyrus isn't in a great mood.
"Because it's about your Father." Cyrus tells him almost wryly, which almost, almost, makes Fitz smile.
No point delaying the inevitable, then, he thinks, standing up from behind the desk and moving to the small round table holding the scotch. He pours himself a glass, sensing he's probably going to need it in the near future.
"It's bad, Sir." Cyrus tells him hesitantly; holding one of his leather bound black folders in front of his body.
"You already told me he's not dead… so he's dying, then?" His voice is just as calm, just as blunt as before.
"Who's dying?" Liv says from behind Cyrus as he steps into the room, concern evident in her voice.
"No one." Cyrus answers as she closes the door, "You might want to pour one of those for Liv too."
"It's that bad?" Liv asks, making eye contact with Fitz and choosing not to comment either way on the suggestion of scotch, assuming that Cyrus will forget about it as soon as he starts talking.
"Could be." He replies as he sits down and Fitz and Liv follow suit on the couch across from him. "Ten minutes ago I received a phone call from a reporter named Gideon Wallace at the DC Sun who wanted to know if the White House had any comment on the rumor that the President's father has been arrested on charges of statutory rape." He tells them, pausing a moment to gauge their reactions.
"What?" Fitz asks in not entirely unsurprised horror, "He raped someone?"
"He's not been arrested or charged with anything yet." Cyrus clarifies quickly, "But he's firmly under investigation. It's a legal grey area." Cyrus explains, "A few weeks ago a prostitute named Misty was arrested for solicitation at the Hotel Bel Air in Los Angeles. She was interrogated for several hours and fairly quickly started talking – names, dates, prices and so forth."
"And my Father was one of the names she listed?"
"Not exactly. She wasn't giving the names of clients; she was giving the names of other call girls and of whom they all report to. A married couple, one of whom, the wife, handles the money, whilst her husband the girls. The husband cut a deal to save his own ass after a few days, and gave up their little black book."
"And that's where Jerry's name shows up." Liv guesses, and Cyrus nods.
"It wouldn't have been much of an issue – Jerry Grant Likes Hookers is not a new or shocking headline any more - but for the fact that when the wife found out her husband was hanging her out to dry, she turned on him too. There was a small heart drawn beside the names of some of the… girls, and, likewise, next to the names of some of the johns. The wife explained that a heart beside a girls name meant she was under eighteen, and a heart in the same color beside a john's name meant he was… paired with…"
Cyrus trails off as Fitz' head falls into one hand, not needing his Chief of Staff to finish his sentence for him to know how it ends. A heart beside a john's name means they're looking for an underage girl, colour coordinated to match the girls with their clients, and Jerry must have been one of them.
"How old." Fitz asks finally, and Cyrus and Liv make eye contact in the silence, knowing it's going to be a bad night behind the closed doors of the White House, "How old, Cy." He asks again, raising his voice a little further.
"Sixteen." Cyrus replies after a lengthy pause, and Liv feels her stomach turn, "But the girl he was paired with was fifteen when she started working for them, and as yet they haven't ascertained how old she was when..." She reaches out to touch Fitz in comfort, but he stands before she can, draining the scotch in one.
"Sixteen." He echoes bitterly, "Jerry's going to be eighty this year. Six- what the fuck is the matter with him? Sixteen, are you serious?" He wheels back around to face Cyrus, who wisely doesn't say anything. "Legal grey area my ass."
He exchanges another glance with Liv, who knows what needs to be said next but wants to say it about as much as Cyrus does. "We need to get out in front of this."
"I haven't spoken to the man in two years, Liv." He replies, pouring himself a second drink, "What else am I supposed to do?"
"You need to release a statement – before the police do." Turning to Cyrus she asks, "Has the story broken yet?"
"I had James work a few old contacts and most of them confirmed it's being run on the evening news tonight. I think our best course of action here would be to release a firm statement of support – Jerry's a lot of things, a rapist isn't one of them-"
"Did you just say a statement of- Tell me I misheard you." Fitz interrupts, setting the decanter back down on the table, "Tell me you're not suggesting that we stand behind him through this?"
"You're a Republican, Mr. President. Family values – The Perfect American Family - is what you are meant to show the world."
"That is not what I meant." Liv says sharply, standing up, "When I said we need to get out in front of this I meant he needs to divorce himself from this publically as well as just privately."
"Once again proving to the base that he's a RINO on a good day and a Democrat on a bad one!" Cyrus counters, "No one has even proved that Jerry's actually had sex with anyone he shouldn't have yet-"
"NO." Fitz tells Cyrus emphatically, "You are not as stupid or as evil as you're making yourself sound right now. This is not about some partisan squabble! I have not had contact with Jerry for two years, and I won't have people doubting where I stand on this, not a chance." Turning to face Liv, who's moved to his side, he says, "We need to draft something to give to the press."
"I think it'll be best if you give the statement in front of the press corps, but don't take questions. For now just read it and tell them that you can't answer questions about an on going police investigation." Liv suggests as he throws back the last of his second drink and reaches for the bottle again.
"Don't." She says quickly, her hand quickly covering the crystal stopper to stop him from removing it. "You cannot be anything close to drunk when you address the media. No way."
"Sir, I really think you need to reconsider-"
"She is a child, Cy." Fitz interrupts, "And whether he actually had sex with her or not, he told the madam that's what he was looking for, and now you want me to turn around and publically embrace him? When I kicked him out of my life before I took office because he's a bad person and a piss poor excuse for a father, it was with the specific understanding that we would not ever be communicating again."
"Mr. President-"
"You've made your opinion very clear, Cyrus." Fitz says flatly, handing Liv his empty glass and moving back behind his desk so he's less tempted to pour out another. When Cyrus doesn't move, Fitz lifts his gaze and says, as if surprised to still find him there, "You can go."
"We go live now to the White House press room where the President is preparing to address the media."
"Good evening. I wish I could be addressing you under better circumstances. I want to be absolutely clear about this: my Father and I have been estranged for the past two years. I do not allow him to have contact with my wife or my children, nor do I allow him any access to myself or the inner workings of the White House. With regards to the accusations made against him recently, I don't know what the truth is. All I can tell you at this time is that if there's any evidence to suggest that he has had inappropriate or sexual contact with anyone which is in violation of the law – that is to say, anyone who is a prostitute and/or a minor – he, and anyone else involved, will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. There is no room for leniency, especially when it comes to dealing with a crime which involves putting the words 'minor' and 'sexual contact' in the same sentence. I would add that-"
"I'm impressed." James says, hitting the power button on the remote to switch off the TV, "I thought you'd have him making some disgusting far-right statement of support."
"Liv decided that wouldn't be appropriate." Cyrus says, still smarting at the sound dismissal from his perhaps former friend's office.
"Of course it wouldn't." James says as he pulls the sheets back and climbs into bed, "There's no world in which it's possible to release a statement of support for someone accused of being a paedophile and spin it as a positive thing. God knows I'd be even more terrified about the state of the world if it was."
"I suppose." Cyrus says, lying down beside him without turning out the light.
"Something wrong?" James asks, rolling onto his side to see his husband better.
"They're different." Cyrus tells him, gaze focused on the ceiling as he tries to figure out the answers to all of the questions in his head without having to let anyone see that he doesn't have it all figured out already, "I've known Liv for almost ten years and Fitz for going on thirty, and yet lately they're so… different."
"They're a family now." James reminds him, "That's bound to change things."
"They were a family six months ago." Cyrus argues, "Getting married doesn't change that."
"No, but what happened on New Years will have." James counters, "Most people go their whole lives without ever having to see their worst nightmare realised. The five of them pretty much experienced all their worst fears coming true in the space of a week, they're bound to be in over protective mama and papa bear mode right now – and likely for the foreseeable future. That's not a reflection on what they think of you."
"They don't trust me." Cyrus tells him, resentment edging into his voice, "When we were in London, Chloe – his daughter? – she tried to call him directly in the Oval but couldn't get through, obviously. Lauren emailed me to tell me someone had tried to call, and I passed it along to Liv assuming that he was cheating. On our flight back she came to me and told me that Chloe wasn't his girlfriend, just someone he'd been an undergrad with. She lied to me, James, right to my face."
"To protect one of her kids." James repeats and Cyrus tips his head to the side to look at him.
"Chloe's not her kid."
"No, she's just her husband's kid." James counters before suggesting, "Just give them some time to adjust to everything that's going on. Things will settle down again eventually."
"Until they have a kid of their own." Cyrus points out, "Then all these changes become permanent."
James sighs, pausing to think. "Well, then, I guess you're going to have to change with them or… or, most likely without meaning to, they're going to leave you behind."
Fitz goes back to the Oval after the press conference. He was supposed to have dinner with Liv and the kids tonight but the truth is, he's not sure he can face them. The problem is, now that he's thinking about it – now that he's aware of what his Father had, if not done, at the very least had planned to do – he can't stop wondering if he's done it before. If the co-ed mistresses who interned at Grant International were really co-ed's at all – thirty years ago, when Big Jerry was fifty, Fitz was seventeen and his prom date Hanna was eighteen, well, his old man had no problem crossing that line. And in the mind of a person like that, an adult person who actually thinks that having sex with a sixteen year old is acceptable behaviour, what's the difference between an eighteen-year-old high school senior and a seventeen-year-old one? And from there, how many other girls have there been? Have there been others who weren't paid to be there – where the legal implications weren't even remotely in any kind of 'grey area' as Cyrus so charmingly phrased it?
He pours himself a double measure at the thought and drains it in one.
There's two short knocks at the door and he calls out, shortly, "What?"
"Mr. President the Director of Homeland Security is here – he doesn't have an appointment but he said it was important that he speak to you privately." Lauren tells him, voice neutral as it almost always is.
"Send him in." Fitz instructs her, and the door closes behind her.
What now, he thinks bitterly, it's obviously not something heinously bad; if it were World War III or someone was about to set off a nuke, he, Liv and the kids would be in a bunker somewhere by now. That being said, the Director of Homeland Security (and the man who, now, is his Father-in-Law) wouldn't demand a private, unscheduled appointment with the President of the United States for a trivial matter.
Rowan walks in a moment later, but remains standing by the closed door, "Good evening, Mr. President."
"Director."
"I think it's best that we take this conversation in your office." Rowan suggests, gesturing wordlessly to the place in the ceiling where they both know there's a security camera.
Resisting the urge to sigh deeply at what is clearly impending bad news that is also bad news of the off the record variety, he nods and gestures across the room.
"I take it this isn't a social call, then." Fitz says, once the door is shut behind them.
"I'm afraid not. We've identified the person who was hired to pull the trigger on you two months ago." Rowan says, before clearing his throat, "His name is Charlie Glass." He clears his throat again before coughing hard.
"Has he been taken into custody yet?" Fitz asks, immediately thinking about the safety of his family – Liv, Gerry and Karen asleep upstairs and Chloe by herself across the street in Blair House.
"It's in motion." He pauses. "No one can ever know about this." Rowan tells him, "Especially not my daughter."
"Why is that exactly?" Fitz asks, narrowing his eyes and hearing in his head Liv sat on the floor of their closet saying, He sacrificed his entire family for his country. He sent his wife off to die on the battlefield and chose his job over his daughter when she died. Professionally you can trust him to put nothing and no one above the needs of the Republic. Personally… don't trust a word that comes out of his mouth.
Rowan coughs again then, a hacking thing that sounds about the farthest thing from healthy a person could be.
"Are you alright-"
"I'm fine." Rowan says shortly, cutting him off and coughing once more to clear his throat, waving off Fitz' apparently genuine concern. "She can't know because Charlie Glass used to work for me."
"He was a CIA Agent." Fitz says slowly, as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing, "A former CIA Agent tried to assassinate a sitting President."
"He was as much of a CIA Agent as you were." Rowan counters without further explanation leaving Fitz feeling wrong footed.
"You said he worked for you." Fitz says, and Rowan smiles at him without humor.
"You didn't know it, son, but so did you. You ran Black Ops and I ran the Department of Clandestine Services. Just because you were told you were still under the umbrella of the Navy doesn't mean it was always true. Glass worked for me but you won't find any employee file anywhere."
Not entirely sure how to digest that information without sounding unbearably naïve, Fitz turns to the wet bar and pours out a slightly over generous measure of Glenlivet, his fourth of the night so far. He really shouldn't have any more, but he suspects it won't be his last of the night if it continues in this vein. "Why can't Liv know any of this?" Fitz asks without turning back around, "I'm not going to lie to her."
"I don't want her within a hundred thousand miles of this." Rowan says firmly, and Fitz turns back to face his Father in law.
Rowan observes the vulnerability bleeding through the cracks in Fitz' mask of control but doesn't comment, "I can't-"
"You can and you will." Rowan orders him, his words a sword and his tongue the whetstone, striking him silent, "By nature secrets make people curious, and sometimes people get lucky and ask the right question to the right person at exactly the right moment. Should this ever get out, I want her to be able to testify to the fact that she knew nothing about any of this without having to perjure herself to do so." Fitz opens his mouth, as if to argue, but Rowan says, "When I tell you no one else can know about this, I mean no one else. Ever. The second he's caught Charlie Glass is going to cease to exist, and his name will never even appear in the official investigation into what happened to you. If people knew that someone who used to work for the government was responsible for the President being shot there would be uproar - think along the same track as people finding out who really killed Kennedy."
"Oh, I'm not even going to ask." Fitz mutters, more to himself than Rowan, sighing deeply and knocking back another mouthful.
"It surprises me how squeamish you are." Rowan says with an air of judgement and genuine surprise, "You were the most skilled Black Ops Alpha Unit Commander I'd ever seen." Rowan tells him, "If you hadn't resigned when you did you'd be running the entire division by now instead of just the country."
He wants to tell Rowan that he's misreading his behaviour as squeamish, when the reality is that the word 'guilt' doesn't even begin to cover it. He wants to argue, to tell Rowan that the man has no idea what he's talking about, that he's still suffering from the damage he did to himself by getting involved with dark ops, that by the time he left he'd literally rather have died than spent another hour doing what he did… that whilst he was there he spent three days helping to torture a man accused of being a Russian sleeper agent only to discover that they'd got the wrong guy, that the man had been summarily executed by his commanding officer because it was the only sure fire way to keep him quiet, that Fitz dreamt about it whilst in the coma following his shooting and that sometimes even now, twenty years later, he still sees that man's face when he closes his eyes. But he doesn't say any of that, because Rowan is not Liv, and thus cannot be trusted with an honest remark of that level of vulnerability.
"What happens now?" Fitz asks instead, draining his glass and gearing up for a fifth though he knows he really, really shouldn't.
"I'll handle Glass." Rowan tells him firmly, "He's good at what he does, maybe the best, but we'll get him. He won't be a problem."
"You're going to kill him." Fitz guesses, his voice flat.
"That's none of your concern, Mr. President. I said I'll handle it, and I meant, I'll handle it." He repeats, heading for the door.
"You said how you handled it was none of my concern." Fitz says almost thoughtfully as Rowan takes the doorknob in hand.
"And?"
"Then why tell me any of this at all, if it's… none of my concern? You're not worried about the President of the United States perjuring himself in front of a grand jury?"
"The President? Of course. You? Your very existence puts my child in constant danger. The fact that you chose to choose your own happiness over her safety and marry her rather than leave her to keep her safe… forgive me if you're not my favourite person at the moment, Sir."
Fitz swallows hard, an echo of the panicterrorpleasegodno he'd felt when Liv had crumpled against him in the seconds before he was shot punching a hole in his stomach. There's a long pause, and Rowan holds eye contact with him the whole time, before dismissing himself and heading out through the Oval.
Fitz stands frozen in the silent, still, room, empty tumbler dangling from his fingers, seeing the horrifying events of New Years Eve play out behind his eyes. He's never told anyone this, not even Liv, but the memories of that whole day leading up to the shooting are still spotty, so much so that he's not actually sure how much of it he remembers and how much of it he knows happened because others have told him. He knows that the four of them spent the morning together; they'd watched a movie though he can't remember what it was called (he's pretty sure it was something about a French mouse) and then there's a gap – a whole chunk of time, perhaps six or seven hours - which simply does not exist in his mind, beyond a handful of flickers; Liv laughing, pizza sauce spilling down Gerry's shirt, Karen refusing to take off her fairy wings. That's it. Three memories, each perhaps two or three seconds long, is all he has of almost the entire day.
In the moments right before the shots had been fired, when Liv had halted their movements with a quick wait and he'd stopped in his tracks, turning to face her, wanting to reassure her, he knows he didn't kiss her. He's watched the footage back more times than is arguably healthy, and he knows that though it might have crossed his mind, he definitely didn't actually kiss her. The problem is, he remembers doing it. He remembers asking her, ready?, seeing her smile and answer, ready. Then, remembers raising her left hand to his lips to press a kiss to her fourth knuckle, just above her engagement ring, before leaning down and kissing her lips. He remembers her hands on his waist, warm, under his jacket, and her pulling away with a laugh and telling him we're in public, behave as she would often have to before they went public with their love. Most of all he remembers looking into her eyes when she was shot. He knows that's not what happened though, and though it's such a small detail it had made him feel unsettled and unable to trust his own memories when he'd first watched the footage back.
The part he knows he's remembering right, however, is the way the fear had changed with the second shot to his own body. He'd been so keyed up with the panic of realising Livvie was hit, and so determined to find a way to protect her, that the first shot, the one to his shoulder, had barely registered. The second had been to his chest, and had hit less than an inch from her head, and it had become almost immediately apparent that he wasn't going to be able to protect her from whatever came next. Staying on your feet after a bullet to the shoulder is one thing, staying on your feet - or alive, period - after a bullet to the chest was something else entirely, and wholly more unlikely. And that was worse than the fear that he might lose her – the realization that he might lose her because he was unable to protect her. He's not going to allow that to happen again.
Picking up the handset of the phone on his empty private desk, he first dials the secret service, ordering an increased detail for his family (at least until Rowan tells him that he's handled Glass), then the master bedroom across the street in Blair House.
"What?" Chloe's voice mumbles.
"Don't panic, everything is okay, but Rashid is about to come and bring you to the White House." He tells her, and he hears her moving around on the other end of the line.
"Why? What's happening, what's wrong?" She asks him, sounding considerably more awake and more afraid.
"I can't tell you that, I just…" the words I'm probably being overprotective are on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't say them because he doesn't want her to refuse to go with Rashid, so instead he says, "I need you safe."
"I have a round the clock detail over here." She reminds him gently, and his eyes land on the scotch on the table in the Oval through the open door.
"Chloe, I'm not asking." He tells her tiredly, "You can sleep in the Queen's Bedroom for a little while until this gets taken care of."
"How long is a little while?" She asks, and he can hear her moving around again.
"Until it's taken care of." He repeats with a little less patience, "I'm trying to protect you but I can't tell you why because it's classified, all I can tell you is that you're staying in the White House until it's safe, okay?"
"Okay." She says finally, sounding surprised by his tone, "Rashid's here, I'll… I'll talk to you later, I guess." She hangs up the phone without a goodbye then, and he can't tell whether he should be more frustrated with himself or with her, so he sighs deeply and heads off in search of more drink.
Kneading her face into the pillow as she rolls over onto her back, Liv yawns and stretches her arms over her head before her hands fall to settle naturally over her slowly growing but still small bump. Her eyes flicker open and she looks to Fitz' side of the bed, only to find it empty. Squinting through the darkness of the bedroom, Liv props herself up on her elbows and glances to the clock, finding that it's a little before two in the morning.
The bathroom door is open and the light is off, so she knows he's not in there. She wonders if maybe he lost track of time or fell asleep in the Oval as he's done before, and reaches across to her bedside cabinet and picks up the corded handset for the landline, dialling the hash key to call the Oval. She lies back down with her free hand still stroking gently over her belly, her eyes dipping closed sleepily.
"'Lo?"
"Hi." She says warmly, "I take it you fell asleep at your desk?"
"Hmm?" There's a pause, then with his voice almost mumbling, "'M'sorry, Livvie."
"Fitz?" Liv says concernedly, eyes opening fully, "Did something happen?"
"'M'so- so selfish." She realises then, that he's not mumbling his words he's slurring them, and she sits up slowly, "Your Dad was right, shoulda never put you in danger…"
"Are you drunk?" She asks him, swinging her legs out of the warm bed and onto the floor.
"Y'almost died because'a me. I'd'a died if you had… can't live without you sweet baby…" He carries on rambling like she hadn't even spoken and she stands up.
"I'm coming to get you, stay where you are, okay?" She tells him, and he makes a vague noise of agreement. She hangs up the phone and snags Fitz' dark blue hoodie off of the back of the chaise lounge and pulls it on, stepping out of the master suite and heading to the West Wing.
When he stays late in the Oval Office, there's twenty three White House employees who can't leave until he does – which means she's either going to have to attempt to sneak the drunk leader of the free world past all of them to make absolutely sure that it doesn't go viral – speaking of viral, she makes a mental note to snag Tom tomorrow morning to make sure the footage from the Oval tonight doesn't wind up making the cut to be archived, or find a way to get them out first. Tom is generally pretty good about this kind of thing, but that doesn't mean they can afford to take any chances.
Pausing by Lauren's desk – and the poor girl has her head pillowed on her arms and is clearly asleep, not that anyone can blame her at two in the morning when she's been here since six AM – Liv says her name loud enough to wake her but not to startle her.
Blinking herself awake, Lauren initially looks surprised to see her, before the surprise gives way to something which can only be described as mortified terror.
"Madam First Lady- oh my goodness, I'm so sorry, what time is it-"
"It's okay, Lauren, I'm sorry he kept you all here so late. You can go home now." Liv tells her, "And don't worry about tomorrow, I'll have Cyrus call Celia to cover your shift so you don't have to be back in at six."
"You don't have to do that…" She says quickly, but Liv gives her a look, and she smiles, sleepy and sheepish. "Thank you."
"Not a problem, just round up the others and send them home on your way out, and before you go would you make a note for Celia to reschedule the President's appointments for tomorrow morning?"
"I will." Lauren nods, tapping out a few notes before switching off her computer and pulling on her jacket, "Good night, Ma'am."
"Night." Liv replies with a smile which doesn't last long. It's not a fake smile per se, just that she's a little preoccupied with her wasted world leader husband behind the door behind them.
Once Lauren's gone she turns and heads into the office with Tom offering her a commiserating glance as she passes him. Liv closes the door behind herself quickly when she realises Fitz is sitting on the presidential seal leaning back against the Resolute desk. The decanter of scotch, ever present in the Oval Office, is sat on the floor beside him, the stopper by his feet. It's almost empty when it was well over half full when she was in here earlier. Great.
"Fitz." She says with concern, moving towards him and kneeling down by his side.
"Livvie." He says, his eyelids heavy, "What're you doin' here?"
"We need to get you to bed." She says, more to herself than him as she tries to figure out the best way to do this without them both winding up in a heap on the floor.
"Mmm, that sounds nice." He tells her, still slurring as she takes his hands an attempts to pull him up. Reluctant isn't quite the word, but it amounts to the same thing. He budges only slightly, and somehow manages to knock over the decanter when he falls back down.
"Oops." He says as she scotch soaks into the carpet, and Liv straightens back up again, settling a hand over her stomach. This is not a good idea – she's really not even supposed to be picking the kids up any more, let alone try to haul Fitz' six two frame up from the ground and back to their bedroom by herself.
"Hang on." She says, standing up. He reaches out to keep her there but she steps quickly out of his reach, "I'll be right back." She promises, brushing his hair back off his face.
She opens the door a foot or so, "Tom." She says, loud enough to get his attention but not to make him panic, "Would you come in here for a second?"
She steps back to let him in, "I need to get him back to the Residence without anyone seeing." She tells him, "I can't get him up."
"You can definitely do that." Fitz interjects from the floor as she and Tom move across to him, gesticulating in the general area of where Liv's standing, "Tha's how junior happened."
Pulling Fitz' left arm over his shoulders, Tom hauls the President to his feet – his unsteady feet on which he sways, "C'mere, Livvie, I wanna feel him kick." He tells her, reaching out for her. To give him his due, Tom doesn't even blink. It's possible that he'd already suspected that they were pregnant, but she suspects that the reality is he's just very good at his job.
"I've sent everyone other than security personnel home, but I need to know this isn't going to show up in the archives." Liv says, moving to pick up the now empty decanter.
"Leave that, Ma'am." Tom tells her quickly, not knowing exactly how far along she is but knowing that the President's obsessive (what some would call over-) protection of his wife in recent months must be because of this – and he knows that his behaviour is going to have to change accordingly now. No lifting anything heavier than her purse, no one smokes in her general vicinity, no manual labour – like crawling around on the floor of the Oval Office to clean up after her husband, for instance – nothing. There's an official protocol for the changes made to a security detail if the First Lady becomes pregnant, but given that the last time it was used was during the Kennedy administration, he's thinking it might need some updates. She's not going to like it; but Tom has spent enough time with the first couple now, both separately and together, to know that if something happens to Olivia – or, God forbid – to Olivia and the baby she's apparently now carrying, the only person the President is going to need protecting from is himself. "I'll deal with the office once I've got you both back safely." He assures her, and she looks surprised but doesn't really react at all.
They manage to get back to the residence with virtually no problems, but as they're heading past Karen's bedroom, Fitz stumbles, and Tom catches him easily, but not before he's managed to knock a vase off of a dresser against the wall between the kids bedroom doors. It shatters when it hits the floor, and even though she watches it happen, it makes her jump for some reason.
"What's goin' on, Momma?" Karen's sleepy voice asks from behind them, and a second later as Liv turns around and Karen registers that Fitz is only standing because he's being held vertical by Tom, her voice gets smaller, almost scared, "Daddy?"
"Come on, sweetie, back to bed." Liv says quickly, moving to the little girl's side and gently shepherding her back into her bedroom, knowing that Tom will be okay dealing with Fitz for a moment.
"What's wrong with Daddy?" Karen asks, voice small and tearful at the edges, as Liv pulls the duvet back on her bed and she climbs back in.
"He'll be okay in the morning, honey." Liv tells her, settling the bedclothes over her and perching on the edge of the bed. She gently strokes Karen's hair, and she leans into the contact. "Go back to sleep." Liv tells her softly.
She wasn't angry when she realised Fitz was drunk. She'd felt, largely, sympathetic. Having just heard from Cyrus that Big Jerry was as evil as ever, that if anything worse he was getting worse as he got older rather than better, she'd already known that it was going to be a rough night even if he didn't go for the scotch. She can't say she blames him for wanting to do something, anything, to purge the news from his brain, but she won't have his unhealthy coping mechanisms scaring the kids even if he didn't mean for them to see, not a chance.
"Shh, everything's okay." She whispers, and she sits there quietly, stroking Karen's hair, for a few more minutes until she's sure the little girl has gone back to sleep.
When she gets back to the master bedroom, Tom is standing in front of the closed door. "He's lying on his front, you should try to keep him that way if you can." He tells her and she nods.
"I will, I've got it from here." Liv tells him and he nods, taking a step away. He stops before he leaves and turns back to face her.
"Not to speak out of turn, Ma'am, but things are going to have to change now." He tells her, and she opens her mouth to argue, perhaps, but he continues, "I'll speak to your assistant and the SAIC of your security detail, and to Lauren, and we'll get a meeting set up to go over the changes to your protection detail as soon as possible." He tells her, and her eyes narrow slightly, "I'm sorry, Ma'am, it's just protocol."
She doesn't reply at first, just licks the seam of her lips and takes a deep breath. "Thank you for your help tonight, Tom."
"Of course." He nods briefly before taking his leave, and Liv heads into the bedroom, firmly closing the door behind her.
"Hey." Chloe says around a yawn as she steps into the kitchen the following morning, clad in red shorts, a pale grey hoodie and dark grey long socks, her blonde hair in a messy knot atop her head.
"Morning." Liv says from her seat at the table, slightly surprised to see her as she looks up from the notepad she's writing in.
"Was the disaster averted then or are we all still on lockdown?" She asks, putting her hands on the counter behind her and pulling herself up to sit on it.
"Disaster?" Liv says slowly.
"He called me at like half twelve and made me come and sleep in one of the spare rooms over here, and apparently I'm not allowed to go back to Blair House 'until it's taken care of' whatever that means."
"I'm sure he had his reasons." Liv tells her, feeling fairly confident that someone would have mentioned it to her if there was an imminent disaster incoming.
"He sounded weird though, is he okay?"
Liv pauses, capping her pen, "He was drunk." Liv tells her finally, feeling fairly confident that a nineteen year old college student finding out that her Dad has, in fact, consumed alcohol, is not going to traumatise her or in anyway ruin her image of him.
"So there's probably no disaster at all, he just got wasted and made a connection that wasn't there." Chloe sighs.
"I'm sure he was just doing what he thought would keep you safest." Liv tells her diplomatically, privately wondering if she's right.
"Did you know he drunk dialled me once?" Chloe asks, and Liv keeps her face blank though she's surprised. "As far as I know he doesn't even remember doing it. It was like three years ago, and he kept saying, 'I have to run, they're going to make me run' and I didn't- I thought he was in trouble. I thought he meant he had to run like he had to leave… It scared the hell out of me, but I guess he was talking about being President because like six months later he announced he was running, and I asked him if he was sure he wanted to, and he said yes but I could tell he was lying."
"He went through a rough time back then." Liv tells her without commenting on the idea that Fitz had apparently drunk dialled his sixteen year old daughter.
"Yeah, I know, I was there." Chloe says, observantly rather than antagonistically, "You know that picture that Mellie gave to Gerry and Karen? The one of me and Dad together wearing those stupid Christmas sweaters?"
Liv nods, and Chloe says, "After that picture was taken we went to the movies." She's smiling nostalgically as she speaks, "We had to drive to this tiny little town like two and a half hours away and we snuck in after everyone else was sat down and left the second the movie ended, before the credits even started rolling to make sure that no one saw us, and we got in the car to come home, and right where you pull out of the movie theatre there was a sign to get on Route 5 to take us back to Sacramento and then one in the opposite direction saying Portland. Like, in Oregon? And it's funny, you know 'cause for a second… I thought…" She trails off, recalling how long her Dad had stared at that road sign, how he'd opened his mouth like he wanted to ask her something, only to shake his head. We should get back, he'd said, only he'd said it so wearily, with so much resignation, that she'd thought he almost sounded disappointed in himself. "Is he okay?" She asks again eventually.
"He's… have you seen the news today?" Liv asks, and Chloe shakes her head. "Some bad things are happening with his Father."
"But they've not spoken in like two years, why does he care what he's up to?" Chloe asks, confused, "Isn't that the whole point of being estranged from someone toxic? That you don't have to deal with their bullshit any more?"
"You'd think." Liv replies, smiling a little sadly at how easy it is in Chloe's mind, how black and white. She'd behaved that way regarding her own Father for years. Had decided he was toxic and cut him out of her life the second she turned eighteen, truly believing she'd never have to see him again. It's much harder to avoid him these days, and the increased proximity (and his behaviour during the assassination-that-wasn't), though it hasn't exactly warmed their relationship, it has thawed the outright ice of it. She has no desire to interact with him in a non-professional setting, hence him not being invited to their wedding, but she can tolerate him when she has to, which is a far cry from her teenage self screaming at him that she wished he'd died rather than her Mom had, and meaning it.
It's more than she ever thought they'd have, at least, and the jury's still out on whether she finds it comforting or frightening to have him back in her life. Smart money's on the latter, but she supposes only time will tell.
She doesn't tell Chloe that, because the whole thing sounds like an over complicated version of the hopelessly condescending platitudinous statement you'll understand when you're older, so instead she stands up, gently changing the subject. "I'm going to make some toast, do you want any?"
"Sure, toast sounds good." Chloe nods, offering, "I'm going to make some coffee." as she hops down from the counter.
"I'll just have orange juice." Liv tells her, her hand automatically dropping to her now somewhat protruding stomach, and Chloe smiles, excited for the day to come when she can meet her new baby brother or sister.
The last time Fitz can recall having an actual hangover was years ago – in the early days of his Governorship, if memory serves, which it doesn't always. He'd gotten much better at curbing his drinking habits when Karen was born, acutely aware of the fact that Gerry and Karen needed at least one parent who paid enough attention to them that they knew, at the very least, that they were loved, valued members of the family.
When Fitz wakes up the morning after the night before, his throat is sandpaper dry and raw, his head is pounding and every time he so much as shifts his body his stomach screams in protest. He opens his eyes into slits, relieved that Liv's left the curtains closed. Letting his gaze wander about the room, his eye line eventually settles on Liv, sat at the foot of their bed, leaning back against one of the oak four-poster columns, a notepad open on her lap.
"Hi, baby." He mumbles around a yawn.
She smiles down at him sympathetically. "Hi." God, what did he do last night?
"That bad, huh?"
"Well you didn't start any wars, if that's what you're asking." Liv reassures him wryly, handing him a bottle of aspirin and letting her notebook fall closed.
Rolling slightly onto his side, he shakes three tablets into his hand before putting the bottle on his bedside counter and knocking them back with a few gulps of water. Noting that the clock on his bedside table isn't displaying a time, he falls back into the pillows, turning his gaze on her questioningly.
"You didn't have anything urgent so Celia moved your morning appointments around, you're not expected in the Oval for another hour, at twelve thirty." She tells him, and he narrows his eyes.
"Celia?"
"The older woman who job shares with Lauren. Who you kept here until two."
"Ohh, I did, didn't I." He recalls with a groan, "Did they all stay? All twenty three of them?"
"They didn't have much choice." She tells him flatly, "But I sent them all home before Tom carried you up here."
"Carried me?" Fitz asks, looking horrified.
"Pretty much." She says, "Oh, and by the way, you also told him I'm pregnant."
"Oh, God, Livvie, I'm sorry." He tells her, opening his right arm from his body in a wordless come here, "I haven't had that much to drink in years."
"I'm pretty sure no one has." She counters, mild amusement or perhaps teasing coloring her voice as she moves to lie down beside him, he head resting on his shoulder. "You said… you said 'your Dad was right'." She reminds him curiously, "Was he here last night?"
She feels his chest rise as he takes a deep breath before letting it out with a slow sigh. "Yes."
"What did he want with you?" Liv asks, and there's a long pause.
"They identified the shooter." Fitz tells her finally, vainly hoping that she'll leave it at that, "But they haven't caught him yet."
"About time, who was it?" She asks, just like he knew she would.
"He didn't say." Fitz lies, "Just that he's disappearing the guy down one of his black holes." He pauses, then, "Actually, that's not- he did say. But just in case it ever gets to a courtroom, it's best that you don't know."
"I don't need you to protect me." She tells him, a sharp edge to her voice, her frustration only increased by the fact that from tomorrow's meeting with the head of White House security onwards she's apparently going to have even more restrictive security placed upon her.
"I know." He replies in the same tone. Like, try and stop me.
Just when it looks like neither one of them is going to back down, and this is going to devolve into an argument which neither one of them really needs right now, she says, "What happens at the trail for Mellie, Hollis and Callum? Surely the name of the shooter's going to come out there?"
"It'll be redacted. His name will never be mentioned directly, he'll be referred to as 'The Shooter' or 'The Assassin'."
"And my Father told you his name?" Liv clarifies.
"He's punishing me." Fitz admits finally, "For putting you in danger."
Face twisting with something between surprise and disbelief, Liv says, "When did you put me in danger?"
"Every day that I'm with you." He counters, somewhere between bitter, guilty and sad, and she hears his slurring voice in her head saying M'so selfish, your Dad was right, shoulda never put you in danger and it clicks.
"That's what you were talking about last night." She realises, "That's why you got drunk and kept apologising."
"Everything just piled up." He tells her, "Big Jerry, your Dad... then he started talking about my days in Black Ops and-" He stops, not wanting to think about it any more than he has to.
"I don't blame you for wanting to forget," She says softly when he's not forthcoming with anything else, "But Karen saw Tom half-carrying you to our bedroom last night. You scared her." Guilt floods his face, "Please don't do that again." She tells him, gentle and firm at the same time and he nods.
"I should talk to her."
"Chloe, too." Liv tells him, "She's not very happy with you."
"I imagine she isn't, but if what would change that is letting her go back to Blair House by herself, she's going to have to stay unhappy for a while."
"Until they catch the shooter, you mean."
"I won't take chances with her safety." Fitz says, tone booking no argument, "Or Gerry and Karen's, or yours. If that means upping everyone's security details and pissing you all off a little bit for the foreseeable future, that's what's going to happen."