This story is inspired by Season 1 Scandal, Vermont and the Olitz actors – Kerry Washington and Tony Goldwyn

NO-Mellie and NO-Joke: Public Service Announcement for any accidental non-Olitz readers

Back in the Presidential suite, Sam Reston stared at the paparazzo who'd made himself comfortable on a couch.

"Tell me again what you know about Hollis Doyle." Reston instructed.

"He was a pretty influential guy; a lobbyist in Washington who was a powerful mover and shaker, until he took part in his own fireworks show over the Pacific."

Sam Reston gave a thin smile. "Hollis Doyle is dead. I was at his funeral."

"But his body was never found."

"The explosion would have turned him into fish food."

"Guess the fish spat him out. Whole. Because a homeless bum ran into the hotel earlier this evening claiming to be Hollis Doyle."

"The man was clearly mentally ill. Or high on narcotics," Reston said dismissively.

There was a timid clearing of a throat behind Reston's left shoulder. He turned to see one of his assistants raise a hand half way, then quickly lower it as if realising she wasn't at school. "Sir, I heard the b- uh, man, shouting in the lobby when I was coming back with your dry-cleaning. He said Hollis Doyle wasn't dead. He insisted the man who told you about Defiance isn't dead." She paused. "…Are you okay, sir?"

The paparazzo perked up. "What's the story with Defiance? Is that a code name?"

Reston, who'd gone pale, ignored the paparazzo's question to ask abruptly, "Where is he? This homeless bum?"

"So this guy is a rich oil tycoon?" the deputy hotel manager, glanced at Reston's assistant as they made their way down the elevator.

"Apparently."

"You'd never know he was good at anything except dumpster-diving. Wonder how he ended up on the streets?"

"It's a mystery."

The manager shot her a look but appeared mollified when she smiled. "You don't have to worry about that newspaper snoop following you around. My guys will run interference for a couple of hours, feeding him shit for his background story before we kick him out. That should give you enough time to get back to the hotel with our, uh, unexpected guests."

"Thank you."

As the doors opened to the underground car park. "Sure you don't want me to drive you to the police station? I wouldn't want you to get lost."

"I've got GPS, sir, and thank you for organising a car for me."

When Reston's assistant arrived at the police station, she was asked, "Theft, assault or murder?"

"I, uh, do you have a man called Hollis Doyle in lockup?"

"Is he a relative?"

"Yes… Distant."

"Down the corridor, turn left."

After he'd finished leering at her, then patronising her, the cop in charge told Reston's assistant, "Two men were arrested at the hotel earlier tonight. The fingerprints of one guy says he's a dead man."

"I'd like to post bail for that man."

"There's no bail. The hotel wanted them locked up for the night so they wouldn't crash the Senator's party a second time. Once was one time too many is what I was told."

"I'll take full responsibility for Mr Doyle."

"What do you want me to do with the other one?"

"The other one?"

The cop gave a description of Mack that made the woman firm her lips.

"I'll take him. In case he winds up dead."

The cop's flirtatious grin disappeared. "You got something to say?"

"Oh no, sir, I don't have anything to say," the assistant widened her eyes innocently.

"You a lawyer?"

"In training."

The cop looked at her warily. "So you want to see these guys or not?"

"Yes, please. Uh, but I'd like to see Hollis Doyle alone first… if that's all right."

"What did you say your name was again?"

"Preethi," she said with a bright smile.

The flirtatious grin reappeared. "That's a pretty name for a pretty girl."

"Thank you, that's what my husband says too," Preethi smiled, hiding her ringless hands in her jacket pockets.

Mack was lying on his bunk, his hands clasped over his stomach. "All those times you tried to get yourself arrested and thrown in jail, and here we are. We made it, man. It's true what they say about the American Dream, if you keep trying you'll eventually succeed."

Hollis Doyle on the lower bunk, didn't say a word. But he sat up with alacrity when a bored, beefy cop strode up and announced, "You've got visitors."

"Visitors?" Mack raised his head.

"Not you, him." The cop indicated Hollis with a jerk of his chin.

As Hollis was taken out of the holding cell, Mack lay back down, muttering to himself, "I do all the work and he gets the visitors. Story of my life." He'd stopped muttering and was beginning to doze, when the cop returned and barked, "You! Out!"

Mack raised his head, and stared at him blearily. "You letting me go or you gonna shoot me in the back pretendin' I escaped?"

"Get your ass movin'!"

"Or you'll shoot me." Mack said wearily, climbing down. "Man, we are just free-range targets for white mofos in the shooting range of America."

"You've got a smart mouth. The kind that will get you killed." The cop yanked Mack out of the cell.

"This is a democracy."

"You don't talk until I say so." The cop gave Mack another shove.

Mack swallowed his retort and lengthened his stride, taking care to hurry without looking like he was. He breathed a sigh of relief when he made it to the exit alive.

In one of the interview rooms, Hollis was waiting with a woman with dark hair and dark eyes, who looked like she was running late for a business meeting.

"Is this your buddy Mack?" she asked.

"Yeah," Hollis Doyle nodded. "That's him."

"Hello, Mack, my name is Preethi." She came forward and shook hands with her fingertips, before saying quickly. "Shall we go?"

"Where are we going?"

"To meet Sam Reston." Hollis smirked.

Dawn was just breaking when Hollis and Mack were shown into the Presidential suite. Preethi ushered them into a living room and shut the sliding door after herself as she left.

Sam Reston got to his feet slowly from one of the armchairs and stared at Hollis. There was a long silence, then Reston said with a grunt of laughter, "Well, Mr Doyle, you are the last man I expected to see alive. You look good for a cadaver."

Hollis responded with a light chuckle. "You gave a mighty fine eulogy at my funeral. It nearly brought tears to my eyes."

"I appreciate the feedback. I don't usually get reviews from the dead."

Mack who'd been following this conversation with a confused frown, interrupted. "He ain't dead."

"I can see that," Reston said softly.

Zeke arrived with the morning papers and sat down at the breakfast table. Olivia and Fitz were discussing the day's schedule while Teddy tried to impose his artistic skills on Fitz's notes.

"Hollis Doyle has resurfaced." Zeke paused as a plate and cutlery were placed before him. "Some things work fast around here. Can't say the same for Doyle. I thought he'd make it back to the living long before this."

"What happened?" Olivia asked as she passed her tablet to Teddy who wanted to see the 'innernet'.

"My informant said Doyle turned up at Reston's publicity stunt charity dinner last night, and got himself arrested."

"It will be interesting to see how Doyle tries to get his life back," Fitz fed morsels of food from his plate to the dogs waiting eagerly at his feet. "The man doesn't have any money now to wield his usual influence."

Olivia was silent for a moment, then said slowly. "We'll have to keep an eye on him. I don't like the idea that he's with Reston."

"Why me?" Reston asked abruptly.

Mack had fallen asleep on one of the couches and was snoring loudly. Hollis was lounging in an armchair.

"Sally's two bricks short of a full load and I didn't want the woman to get hysterical on me believin' she was seein' the second comin' of Satan. I reckoned you, at least, wouldn't attempt to shoot a ghost."

Reston smiled. "Any ideas as to who would help you fall this far from grace?"

"The President's ex-chief of staff. Guilt made that man quit, then he came after me."

"Last I heard, Cyrus is in hospital with Malaria."

"Malaria?" After hearing the details, humour lit Hollis Doyle's face. "Those two sure don't play nice when they get mad. This has the paw prints of a certain little lady known to both of us."

"Are you saying… the Grants… are behind this?"

"I reckon they found out about that little war Cyrus and I tried to cook up with all the trimmings for you and your buddies…"

"Where are we going?" Olivia asked, holding onto Fitz's arm as he steered out of the Oval Office with his hands over her eyes.

"It's a surprise."

"What's the surprise?"

"You'll know when we get there."

"Can't you give me a hint?"

"Nope."

"Fitz—"

"You can open your eyes now."

Olivia stared at the table in the Private Dining Room, where enlarged glossy photographs were laid carefully in neat rows.

"Felicia's portraits."

"Mm," Fitz murmured, sliding his arm around her waist as he guided her along the table. There was the 'perfect' family portrait. But arranged around it were others, showing the chaos of a Norman Rockwell painting: Fitz trying to catch hold of Teddy as he made a run for it on his sturdy little legs; Olivia laughing as Karen and Jerry kissed her stomach; Daisy and Rowan exchanging mutually suspicious looks side-by-side and Felicia arranging puppies neatly in a picnic basket with Poppy inspecting; in practically all of them Darth and Rex were snoozing in the foreground.

"This is my favourite," Fitz said softly, pointing to the one where he and Olivia were sneaking a kiss. Teddy on Fitz's lap was reaching up to pull Karen's hair, as she was distracted by the puppies in the basket on her arm. Jerry was trying to include Pete via a Snapchat screenshot, while Felicia was brushing at Rowan's jacket. Only Rowan was facing the camera, a solitary figure of calm with a wide smile on his face.

Olivia turned, her face glowing, to wrap her arms around Fitz.

With a soft look, he brought his hands up to cup her face, and kissed her. Then they stood with their arms wrapped around each other, his cheek resting on the top of her head, as they stared at the photographs on the table.

Eventually he whispered, "Do you think Felicia could do one of us in the nude?"

She drew back to look at him with such a horrified expression, he started to laugh.

While Hollis and Mack were sitting down to a hot meal delivered by room service, Reston called through on a prepaid phone one of his staffers had just purchased which would later be destroyed.

"We have a problem?"

"We?"

"You."

There was laughter. "There's no problem that can't be fixed with a little spit and a shit load of grease."

"Hollis Doyle is not dead."

There was silence. "Is this some kind of sick joke? I am not paying you to be funny, Governor."

"I am serious, Hollis Doyle is sitting no more than 20 feet from where I stand. The man is not dead."

"Then who the blazes got incinerated in that rinky-dink jet?"

"That's not the question you should be asking. It's who has the resources to strip a man of his money and make him look dead."

There was a long silence. Then a click and Reston realised the phone had been disconnected without so much as a goodbye.

As soon as he'd disconnected Reston, Doug Cosh made a few more calls.

He had connections. He had minions. Even his minions had connections, so he didn't have to wait long for an answer.

Then he put a call through to his brother, Chuck, on a yacht near the Gulf of Mexico, fishing for trophies among vulnerable Blue Marlin and critically endangered Southern Bluefin Tuna.

"Are you sitting down?" Doug asked.

"Yep," Chuck breezed, resting his champagne flute on the curve of his sunburnt belly.

"Hollis Doyle is not dead."

"Who the hell is Hollis Doyle?"

Doug released an impatient breath. "Doyle engineered that little war for us."

"Him! That bastard should have had the sense to stay dead! We didn't get a war, we got a mess that wouldn't impress a toddler in a sandpit. I was hoping for troops on the ground, tanks, guns, missiles – the whole 9 yards for at least a decade. Instead we got a spat. All because Hollis didn't do his job right and Grant is a sissy. He doesn't have the guts to go for glory."

Doug waited with barely contained patience for his brother to stop pontificating. "Hollis Doyle had money."

Chuck laughed. "His money was as impressive as panhandling pennies in a wornout bucket."

"You are missing the point. First they start with the minnows, then they come for the sharks. You know the man is a damned Socialist!"

Chuck sat up in his deck chair. "What the blazes are you talking about? Who's a damned Socialist?"

"Fitzgerald Grant. Who the dang hell did you think was behind the whole 'Doyle is Dead' sting? I liked Fitzgerald Grant better when he was distracted chasing after the skirts of that woman. Now he's a damned nuisance."

There was a long silence, then Chuck said grimly. "Grant isn't going to make it to another term."

"We can't wait until the election. There's no telling what he'll do when thinks he's got nothing to lose. We need to get rid of him now."

"A hired gun?"

"I'll get Reston to take care of it. That way we keep our hands clean."

"Has he got the balls for it?"

"He's got Doyle with him. They should be able to think of something."

Hollis and Mack had slept for 12 hours straight, snoring in unison on two couches in Reston's Presidential suite. They woke starving and bleary-eyed, just as Reston got another call on his phone.

"Grant needs to go," Doug Cosh said without preamble.

Reston smiled. "I knew it."

"What you know is neither here nor there. We need Grant gone, and we need it done yesterday."

"Any suggestions?"

"That's your job. Yours and Doyle's. Keep his return under wraps for now. The surprise element will be an advantage. Make sure you get the job done right this time."

"Wait," Reston said, anticipating another abrupt disconnection. "The media will be releasing news of Hollis' return. There was a Paparazzo here—"

"The media will do no such thing! I own the bastards!" The call disconnected.

"What was all that about?" Hollis asked, rubbing the stubble that had reappeared on the chin he'd shaved early that morning.

Reston glanced from Hollis to Mack, who stopped yawning long enough to notice.

"Right!" Mack got to his feet, stretched and yawned again. "I need to use the Little Boys Room. Be right back."

Reston waited until Mack had gone in search of a restroom, before revealing, "The brothers want Grant gone."

"Gone?"

"You're good at problem-solving with permanent solutions."

Doyle looked at Reston. "You're speaking to a man who's been living on the street without a Rolodex. I need to get my life back before I can work my usual magic." Then he looked at Reston ruminatively, "Besides, you sure you want to dig up more snakes than you can kill? If you get rid of Grant, Olivia won't rest until she finds his killer and sees him hanged, even if she has to do the hangin' herself."

"You're right, she's more of a problem than he is."

"And if she's gone, you know those misfits who belong in a halfway house won't rest until we're ruined."

"If we cut the head, the beast is dead. I'm sure they won't be a problem."

Hollis gave a slow smile. "A dead bee can still sting. The way I see it, you'll be the only thing standing in the way of Mrs Sally Langston reclaiming her throne. And she won't rest until she connects you to the murder. She can't do that if she's half as guilty of the crime."

Sally Langston in a designer track suit, was drumming up support in a local Diner. She was shaking hands and making conversation with workmen having breakfast, when she got the call.

"Samuel, this is a surprise," she greeted him with false cheer.

Reston smiled. "I have an even bigger one for you, Sally. There's someone here who wants to say 'howdy'."

There was a brief pause, then a second male voice spoke. "Sally Langston, how is the weather treatin' you in the Bible belt? I hope God ain't misbehavin'."

"Who is this?"

"Well, I haven't been dead that long, Sally. It's Doyle. Hollis Doyle as I live and breathe."

Sally disconnected the call, but her phone rang almost immediately. Excusing herself, Sally stepped out into the parking lot of the Diner. Once she was out of sight, her smile vanished as she hissed. "I do not appreciate your sense of humour, Samuel."

"Sally, I assure you this is not a joke. Hollis Doyle is not dead."

Hollis was flicking through TV channels, chomping on the closest thing he could get to a Gettysburger, with a side order of Southern Fried Chicken when he caught Mack stuffing biscuits into the pockets of his new jacket.

"Mack, you don't need to be doing that no more," Hollis mumbled with his mouth full. "Reston's gonna keep us fed until he's won the election." He made a noise that could have been a laugh.

Mack eyed him to make sure he wasn't choking before sitting down next to him on the sofa. "I know you think I don't know what's going on, but what I do know is how to survive. Right now my survival instincts are on red alert. This Reston ain't worth shit, and I don't want to be the black dude that winds up dead 10 minutes into the show."

Hollis gave another muffled cackle. "You'd be right about Reston, he's slicker than a slop jar. But I need to get my life back."

"And you need to take down the sitting President and the First Lady for that?"

Hollis gaped at Mack, then chewed his mouthful slowly. "You been listenin' at doors?"

"Yep."

Hollis grunted a laugh. "You don't know it, but I just saved their lives. But there's nothing stoppin' me from making them losing everything else. What goes around comes around."

"So this is payback?" Mack got to his feet. "Well you go on right ahead and do that, but them folk have done nothing to me. So I'm going to hit the streets and leave you to it."

Hollis waited until Mack got to the door. "You want to live the rest of your life a walking target?" As Mack turned to look at Hollis slowly, the latter drawled, "That meathead at the station who kicked you on your way out, looks like he's a real sheep-killing dog. You'll have to sleep with one eye open now that I ain't there to watch over you."

"You never did watch over me. I watched over you."

Hollis took another bite and watched Mack lazily, not saying another word, watching the wheels turn in Mack's head.

"You are one mean son of a bastard, you know that?" Mack said eventually, shaking his head as he sat down.

Hollis grinned, and reached for the bucket of chicken.

Olivia was helping Teddy down the steps, with the dogs wagging their tails and following behind; when Fitz rushed up to lift Teddy into his arms, before grabbing her hand. "Hurry, they're almost here."

Laughing, she picked up her pace as they made their way to the golf cart that was to take them to the heliport on the South Lawn. The dogs, all except for Poppy up in Karen's room, raced on ahead until a sharp command from a Marine on duty, made them sit, as the chopper began to descend.

Once the blades stopped whirring, the doors opened and the kids tumbled out; prompting the dogs to break loose and race forward, with Teddy following as fast as he could on his chubby legs, and Fitz and Olivia not far behind.

There were octopus-armed hugs, and raining of kisses, squeals, laughter, barking, more hugs and kisses.

"Didn't miss you, Dad," Jerry mumbled from the depths of his father's chest.

"Yeah, I didn't miss you either," Fitz grinned, not letting him go.

Karen smiled up at Olivia, wrapped tight in each other's arms. "Guess what?" she whispered.

"What?" Olivia whispered back.

Karen pushed out from the group hug to ask Rowan, "Can I tell them now?"

"Not yet." Rowan standing on the periphery, shook his head. He looked happy and relaxed, holding hands with Felicia.

"Then when?"

"Tell us what?" Olivia looked at her dad.

"It's best if we all sit down for this one."

"So what's the deal?" Olivia asked when they reached the Family Room.

Teddy had attached himself like a barnacle to Jerry; Karen was sprawled on the carpet letting Poppy's puppies climb all over her. Fitz and Olivia were sorting through their souvenirs, while the dogs chewed or played with their own toys.

"We're black and white," Jerry said without preamble.

"What?" Fitz looked up from the T-shirt covered with protest buttons that he'd got from the kids.

"Jerry." Felicia sighed.

"Mom wanted to know."

"You might want to sit down for this. Both of you," Rowan advised, waiting for a length of time as if to collect his thoughts before adding, "I have a friend at the University of Maryland. She's been in contact with a group of genealogists who have been studying our ancestries." Rowan paused. "More precisely, they've been studying the Grant heritage and came across some evidence that indicate our ancestral paths have crossed in the past."

Jerry leaned against Olivia and said sotto voce. "It's a good thing I know this story or this pace would kill me." Then he straightened immediately, catching Rowan's eye.

Rowan continued, after ensuring he had everyone's undivided attention. "Your ancestors have a long history in this country, Fitzgerald."

"I know, our ancestors were among the earliest Irish immigrants who came to this country to escape the potato famine."

Jerry sniggered, and was immediately, 'shushed' by Felicia.

"Fitzgerald, the first man to set foot in the Americas on the Grant ancestral tree came from an entirely different part of the world. The genealogical team have traced the Grant lineage to a man named Joseph Gunta, who arrived in Virginia as an indentured servant, but was later enslaved for life after he tried to escape his servitude. You are the 10th great-grandson of Joseph Gunta, a black man transported from Africa."

"Africa?" Olivia repeated, staring at her father. Then she swiftly turned to Fitz, who hadn't made a sound.

"Fitz…" She reached for his hand.

"Dad…" Jerry and Karen sidled close.

Fitz glanced up from a study of his fingers interlinked with Olivia's, and said slowly, "I'm the descendent of Joseph Gunta. An African who ended up a slave."

"Yes," Rowan confirmed, adding softly, almost kindly, "Prior to his enslavement, Joseph Gunta married a free white woman. Her 'free status' was passed onto their children who eventually changed their name from Gunta to Grant. The couple had four children, and the descendent of one followed the Gold Rush to California."

"My great-great-great grandfather Albert Grant."

"Yes."

Fitz met Olivia's gaze, and smiled. "Guess my biography needs a rewrite."

"There's more, Dad," Jerry murmured.

"Guess who owned Grandpa Gunta?" Karen looked from Fitz to Olivia and back again.

"Wait... you don't mean…?" Olivia frowned.

"Are you saying…?" Fitz stopped.

All eyes turned to Rowan.

"Joseph Gunta was the property of an Irish immigrant, a wealthy farmer, who fought in the American Revolution. A man named Andrew Perry who had several slaves besides Gunta. One of them was a slave, recorded in the slave register as Betsey. Perry fathered her first child when she was 15, that child was a girl named Honoria. Olivia and I are Honoria's descendants."

"Would you like something to drink – tea, ice water?"

"I'm fine, dad," Olivia released her father's arm and sat down. He'd brought her up to his study, so she could absorb what she'd heard and ask him questions, while Fitz stayed downstairs with the kids and Felicia.

"When you set out to teach the kids the history of America, did you know you'd be giving them a dose of our history too?"

Rowan's smile was almost affectionate. "You think I went behind your back? I assure you that I didn't know any of this when I agreed to meet the researchers. I was merely curious when they said they had found a connection between the Grants and the Popes. I thought Karen and Jerry would be interested to learn of it too." He looked at his daughter. "How do you feel?"

"I keep thinking of Betsey." Olivia rubbed her hands along her upper arms. "How old was she when she came to work for Perry?"

Rowan was silent for a long moment, then he said heavily. "I have a copy of her Bill of Sale." He went to his desk and opened his briefcase, taking out a document with both hands, and carrying it carefully towards her.

Olivia stared at the Bill of Sale which Rowan placed in her hands, which read 'Received of Andrew Perry four hundred and fifty dollars, being in full for the purchase of a negro slave named… Betsey, 4, the right and title of said slave, we warrant and defend against the claims of all persons whatsoever and likewise warrant her sound and healthy…'

"Four? Was Betsey only four years old when she was sold?"

"Yes."

Olivia's eyes welled. "Four hundred and fifty dollars for a 4-year-old child."

Rowan drew her clumsily against him. "Betsey was a strong woman. She worked in the master's fields, she worked in the master's home and she raised the master's children. She lived to be a 100 years old. When I heard her story, I thought to myself how much she sounded like you: proud and determined to let nothing break her."

That made Olivia weep even more, but Rowan stopped her.

He lifted her face to meet his stern gaze. "Olivia, you cannot let that haunt you. The cruelty, the inhumanity that was inflicted on us, we cannot let it defeat us or bow us down. Our ancestral branch in this country may have started with the seed of a white man but we are black. The day has not arrived where we are judged by the contents of our character, and our ancestry will be of no interest to those who cannot see beyond the colour of our skin. In fact, there will be resentment that we can lay claim to the symbols they cherish."

"I do not want to claim any of that, especially the Confederate flag."

Rowan waited until Olivia had finished blowing her nose on the handkerchief he gave, before he continued. "Once they realise that, they will either take comfort in the knowledge that they can lay claim to your achievements. Or they will resent you for not wanting to step on to the pedestal of supremacy that they have created."

"I don't want to be on a pedestal, either on my own or with them." Olivia blew her nose again. Then gave the handkerchief back to Rowan who placed it gingerly on the couch cushion beside him.

"What about you, Dad?"

"How do I feel about Perry?"

Olivia nodded.

"His African children were born into slavery, and he sold them to slavery. There is not a lot I can feel for that man apart from contempt."

Olivia looked down at her hands, one finger lightly tracing over her wedding ring. "How do you feel about Fitz and Joseph Gunta?"

"I'm sure Gunta would be proud to see how far Fitz has come as a black man."

Her father's dry tone surprised a laugh out of Olivia, and after a hesitant moment they shared a smile.

Olivia was laughing at something Rowan was saying about their trip, when they heard a knock on the door.

At Rowan's bidding, Fitz poked his head through the opening, his gaze zeroing in on Olivia. Then the rest of his body followed into the room.

There was an awkward moment, before Rowan rose slowly to his feet. "I need to see Jerry. He promised to help me customise the factory settings on my iPad."

Fitz smiled. "He's downstairs in the projector room with Karen and Felicia. They're trying to connect Jerry's laptop to the projector."

"Ah, then they will be in dire need of my expertise." Rowan said as Fitz and Olivia chuckled.

After Rowan had departed, closing the door firmly behind him, Fitz stood for a moment gazing at Olivia. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, smiling.

Sitting down next to her on the couch, he studied her face. "You've been crying," he accused softly.

Without a word Olivia left the couch, going towards Rowan's desk and returning with the copy of Betsey's Bill of Sale.

Fitz read the document, then looked up quickly when a tear drop landed on his forearm. "Livvie…" He groaned, placing the document on the nearest surface before taking her in his arms.

Olivia sniffed, burrowing close. "Dad said Betsey lived to be a 100."

"Wow." He held her tight.

"He thinks I've inherited her strength." She drew back to look at him.

"I am sure of it." He pressed a soft kiss on her mouth, then smiled. "Jerry's ecstatic that he's black."

A laugh escaped Olivia, then she lifted a hand to his cheek. "How do you feel?"

"About being black?"

She smiled. "About Joseph Gunta being your ancestor."

Fitz kissed her palm once before admitting, "Felicia was telling me how Gunta tried to escape his servitude, but he was caught, whipped and enslaved. It wasn't the first time he tried to escape his chains and it wasn't the last time. He fought with his last breath to be a free man."

Olivia closed her eyes, laying her forehead against his cheek.

"Jerry and Karen don't know the whole story," Fitz muttered.

"I'm glad."

They sat in silence for a long time until Fitz broke the silence to whisper, "Do you know what I keep thinking about?"

"What?"

"Big Jerry's reaction if he'd been alive to hear it."

Olivia stayed silent.

Fitz gave a grunt of laughter. "My father made his bigotry obvious. Now I wonder if the people who behave this way know, instinctively, that they don't belong; that if they don't keep showing their racism someone will discover their true heritage and kick them out."

"Like Jebediah Orton," Olivia murmured, "The guy sued the KKK for $10 million on a claim of racial discrimination, after they fired him for having a great-great-great grandfather who was black. People want to be part of the cool clique, Fitz, even if they are a bunch of mean girls. And those who want to belong, can act even meaner to gain entry."

Fitz stroked his hand along her arm. "These conversations aren't going to get easier, are they?"

"Do you want them to be easy? The only way that can happen is if we stop talking about it. Is that what you want?"

"No." He sighed. "Nothing has changed between us, has it?"

"No," Olivia agreed. "I still love you."

He stared at her solemn face, then gave a soft grunt of laughter as he crushed her close and kissed her thoroughly.

"Do you realise we're in your father's study?" he rasped, when they broke apart breathless and flushed.

"Yes." She tugged him back for another kiss.

"We haven't made out here," he muttered the second time they came up for air.

"What are we doing now?" she teased.

"We're not a couple of teenagers, Liv."

"Fitz," she started to laugh. "We can't…I couldn't… what if he finds out?"

"We can… you could…and we won't tell him."

"You are such a guy sometimes."

"Your guy," he murmured, "You own me, I belong to you."

Olivia stilled. "You could not have known…"

"I think I did."

"Fitz," she drew back to look at him, smiling. "Slavery was abolished in 1865."

"This is a voluntary relinquishing of ownership rights." He kissed her again. "So where should we do it?"

"Fitz!" she laughed.

Zeke whistled as he climbed the stairs to Rowan's study. "Hey!" He knocked on the door. "You guys decent?"

"No!" came Fitz's rapid shout, followed by Olivia's muffled giggle.

"I didn't think so. I reckoned the reason Professor Pope sent me to fetch the two of you is because he wanted to spare himself the embarrassment of walking in on you fooling around."

"We weren't fooling around," Fitz said firmly, holding the door ajar as he stuffed his shirt into his pants. Olivia preceded him, giving Zeke a pert look and an even more pert aside, "We were discussing really important business."

Zeke laughed. "Sure, hon. I believe you. Not sure if any else would, seeing that Fitz forgot to do up the back of your dress."

Olivia back tracked, still keeping her gaze on Zeke. Fitz abandoned his pants and stepped forward. They crashed into each other in the middle.

Laughing Fitz steadied her with his hands, then reached up to zip her dress, while Olivia, with her back to him, managed to do up his pants.

"Woah!" Zeke did a double take.

"You saw nothing." Olivia warned.

"Hell no, that was some move I just did not see happen." Zeke laughed, as Olivia sashayed forward again. Then he turned to Fitz and said, "C'mere, bro!" He hauled Fitz into a one-armed hug and grabbed his hand for an advanced version of the 'homie handshake' which left Fitz fumbling.

"Man, if Professor Pope hadn't told me about your past, I'd never know from your moves that you were anything but white."

"Hey, don't knock my moves. Liv knows I've got great moves."

"He does," Olivia nodded, earning herself a kiss on the temple as Fitz slipped his arm around her shoulders. They made their way downstairs, still teasing each other. Then Zeke said, "The Prof tells me the media is going to release the story."

"Yes, it was considerate of them to give us a heads-up before they did," Olivia said drily. "Whether we like it or not."

"What's not to like – all them thugs in white hoods will have an aneurism trying to figure out what the heck this all means. Their worst fear is that a black man will lay down the law from the White House, and here we have Fitzgerald Grant, who's snuck right past the guardians at the gate, a black man in white face."

"Worse, this is the first time in American history that two black men will be on the Presidential ticket." Fitz murmured.

Olivia looked at the two of them, and giggled.

Media Panel Discussion on Trash TV Show

"The news today that the white President of the United States is actually a black man—"

"Let me stop you right there. Having one black ancestor is like having one sixteenth Native American on a college application to catapult yourself into the quota system. It doesn't mean anything if you've never set foot on a reservation and don't know the difference between a tepee and a tutu."

"So you're saying if it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's a duck? I'm curious, have you had your genealogy traced?"

"I don't have to. I know my folks came here to escape the potato famine. My pappy was white, so was my grandpa, and his father before him. I'm white. There's no question about that."

"Evidently our President thought so too…"

Media Panel Discussion on Political Talk Show

"I mean when you really look at it. Race is a social construct."

"Are we saying that because we don't want to think of the President of the United States as black or is this finally a 'Hallelujah, Praise the Lord' moment?"

"I believe Noel Ignatiev illustrated my point in his book 'How the Irish became White'. The Irish were considered the 'blacks of Europe', they were even referred to as 'white negroes' here in America."

"But when the white race was created, they lobbied to be included in that privileged class. They took part in the oppression of the Africans in order to raise their status."

"Yes, they lobbied to be white, which means that whiteness is achieved, not inherited, proving my point that whiteness as a race is a social construct."

"Well, Fitzgerald Grant was an Irish American until we found his great-great-I-don't know-how-many greats granddaddy was a black man. So what race would you call him now?"

"American…"

Media Panel Discussion News Network

"It looks like President Grant has taken a hit in the polls with the revelations that his ancestors are black."

"Last I heard it was one guy – Joseph Gunta. And the reactions have been mixed at best, even among black people. There are some who believe it's great that a black man has finally made into the White House, and others who aren't happy that he still has to look white to get the job."

"Tagging people as black and white is a problem when you realise we're a tapestry of humanity. I have an Afro-Carribbean, Nordic-Mexican and Native American heritage. This should be a good wakeup call to those of us who like to put humans into colour-coded toy boxes and assign privilege accordingly, because we're assigning something as important as privilege and access to something as indistinct and factually non-existent as race."

"Well, what you're arguing is that as race does not exist, racism should not exist. In fact, many are arguing that racism is no longer a valid argument for maintaining sections of the Voting Rights Act of 1965 which was passed to address issues of racial discrimination in voting. Some of our best legal minds have argued that Section 4 and 5 are unconstitutional because they target certain states to seek federal approval before making changes to election or voting laws. That law is 40 years old, it doesn't recognise racial progress or the multiracial aspect of our country today."

"And here we are, 40 years later, with a white President taking a hit in the polls because the racists suddenly found out he's got one black ancestor in his family tree. And we have a pending trial of a white cop killing a black child, for no other reason I can see other than race…"

Making their way to the meeting with the Security Chiefs, Fitz muttered, "They're focusing on my blackness, and not your whiteness."

'I'm not white, Fitz. If Perry had been alive today, I doubt he'd have admitted to any kinship with me. Betsey was property to that man, nothing more, nothing less."

"He was a Patriot."

"A Patriot who bought his women and sold his children. The only family I'd like to admit to is Betsey."

"Yes, ma'am," Fitz murmured, putting an arm around her shoulders and kissing her cheek.

After the Cabinet meeting that followed, a working lunch with the economic advisors, and a call from the head of the African League of Nations, Fitz escorted Olivia to the couch for her scheduled nap under his watchful eye. Instead of going back to his paperwork as he usually did, he crowded in beside much to her delight.

"Do you remember that time when Cyrus walked in on us when we were like this?"

"I don't want to talk about Cyrus." He kissed her nose. "Tell me how you see me, Liv."

"Is this a Sally Hemings, Thomas Jefferson question?"

"Except I'm Sally, and you're Thomas."

She laughed. "You can't claim that."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't."

"I'm from good African slave stock and you can't yell at me anymore over lullabies."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't."

"Yes, I can." Then seeing him about to argue the point, she said distractingly, "Time Magazine called. They want us on the cover of their next issue."

"In the nude?"

"No, not in the nude," Olivia said repressively.

"Maybe I can issue an executive order."

"You are not going to issue an executive order for us to be on a Time cover, naked."

"I know you're taking that tone with me because I'm black."

"What tone? I'm not taking a tone, and you are white."

"Once you see my homie handshake, you'll see that's a lie."

She laughed again. "Zeke said you still need practice."

"I need to have a word to my bro. I thought he had my back, we being brothers in the hood and 'all."

"Stop! You're worse than Jerry!"

Media Panel Discussion on Trash TV Show

"It's a disgrace, that's what it is! Naked. In the Red Room of the White House, what were they thinking?!"

"Sales. The magazine sold out on newsstands within an hour and I hear their website crashed."

"Crashed! We need to throw bleach on the damn thing and set it on fire!"

Media Panel Discussion on Political Talk Show

"It's not the most controversial cover that Time has done. They did put 26-year-old Jamie Lynne Grumet breast feeding her 3-year-old son in 2012. In 1996, they asked 'Is God Dead?' and in 1939, named Hitler 'man of the year'. This seems almost tame in comparison. All we can see is the naked backs of President Fitzgerald Grant and First Lady Olivia Pope-Grant as they stand side-by-side with her arm around his waist and his arm around her shoulders, facing the American flag."

"Naked backs? Don't you mean naked butts? They may be the finest pair of butts I've seen in print but it's not how we're used to seeing our First Couples. Where's the suit and tie, the dress in eye-popping pink or royal blue? We're conservative Christian America, not the bloody French!"

Media Panel Discussion News Network

"So from all the buzz on social media, people are outraged a) because patriotic Americans didn't die to have naked people looking at the flag; b) because Conservative Christians don't like to think of married couples getting naked; c) because the word 'black' under President Grant and the word 'white' under Mrs Grant is not the kind of conversation we need to be having right now with the state of the economy the way it is."

"You know if it wasn't the economy, it would be something else. We just don't want to talk about race in this country. Because if you start talking about it, then you have to do something about it. No, it's much better to get upset over the flag. But I have to say the comments on Jerry Grant's social media pages have been supportive and encouraging."

"I know they have to be, because the Secret Service monitors the crazies and haters, but those pictures are a blast! He's got everyone reading the magazine, even the dogs!"

"My favourite is Professor Pope reading the magazine with a brown paper cover. That one has likes from the leaders of South Korea and Iran. I think the Grants have set a new standard for international diplomacy..!"

Excerpts from the Thousand Words behind the pictures

President Fitzgerald Grant: It's an interesting situation to realise I didn't really know who I was. Evolutionary biology has proven that we all came from Africa, but I didn't realise my closest African kin was a lot younger than Lucy… Joseph Gunta, came to this country as a servant and he died a slave. He was black but I have lived almost my whole life believing I was white. The freedom and liberty he was denied until his dying breath was a privilege I have taken for granted. BTW, that wasn't a pun on my name. As a citizen, I never felt I couldn't get what I wanted if I tried hard enough. I have never had any doubts that I belonged, that I had rights, that I was accepted… Yes, it surprised me to learn there are men and women today who will not vote for me because I'm black. To them, I say, I am the same guy I was last week, and the week before that, and the election before this one. I haven't changed; what has changed is your perception of me, and that change is a result of your prejudice. The kind of prejudice my wife, Olivia, who is beautiful, brilliant and strong has had to battle with her whole life, even though her forefather, Andrew Perry was white…

Mrs Olivia Grant: Andrew Perry doesn't change the fact that I am black. Or the fact, that he helped maintain the institutions of racism that affect the lives of black people to this day. Perry fought for the American Revolution which allowed Southern Landowners the right to keep slaves under the Three-Fifths Compromise. He was a slave owner who fathered children into slavery. He was a father who didn't care about the plight of his children in a world he helped create. The Irish who arrived in America to escape persecution in Europe, lobbied to be white. They fought for the right to discriminate. Actually they did worse. White fathers wanted a better world for themselves at the expense of their black children…I can honestly say that Fitz is not like that. He may not know what it's like to live in my skin, and having Joseph Gunta as an ancestor, isn't going to change that, but he's trying to do the best by his family and his country. I don't think you have to be a polar bear to know that we need to do something about melting ice caps. I think it's wrong to assume empathy is only possible if we have a biological or cultural connection. Fitz feels deeply for us, all of us, and the future our children will inherit. That's why I wouldn't trade him for the world; why he is and always will be the love of my life…

"You wouldn't trade me for the world… I am the love of your life…" Fitz read from the magazine that was beginning to look a bit worn from all the handling. "I'm getting this framed, and copies will available in all 132 rooms of this house."

"Aargh!" Olivia groaned pulling a pillow over her head.

"Hey," Fitz peered over his reading glasses. "I'm reading this for the benefit of our child. So she knows the next time you yell at me, Mommy doesn't really hate Daddy. Okay, bub?"

Olivia made another indistinct sound under the pillow.

Fitz removed his glasses and placed them on the magazine on top of the night-table, before he sidled down to kiss Olivia's baby bump, then moved up the bed and burrowed under the pillow to grin at Olivia. "Hi."

She giggled as he tossed the pillow aside, before kissing her. Then he kissed his way down her throat, over her shoulders, along her arm to the tip of her breast, very very slowly. And just when she was beginning to think he intended to take this to the next level, he settled his head on her breasts, clearly intent on sleep.

"That's it?" Olivia tickled the side of his jaw. "I was expecting fireworks."

"You have to take a raincheck on fireworks, I'm exhausted."

Olivia ran her fingers up the back of his neck into this hair. "Do you know you look very sexy wearing nothing but your reading glasses?"

"I knew you had a thing for old men." Fitz mumbled against her skin.

"I do not have a thing for old men. Besides you're not old. You don't look a day over 65."

He raised his head with a frown.

She grinned.

He eyed her solemnly. "You're just going to keep teasing until I give you what you want."

"Yes," she chuckled naughtily. "Unless you want me to send out a booty call over the innernet."

He surged forward, balanced on his arms, to give her a hard kiss. "Don't even joke about that. Or I'll banish you to an island where only I know the location."

She wound her arms around his shoulders. "Hmm, I'll have to smuggle a spoon big enough to dig myself out of there, through a subterranean tunnel."

"No spoons. You'll only get a plastic spork." He kissed her again, before sitting up and lifting her onto his lap.

"Sporks! I hate those," she protested, as he eased her back against his chest.

"Too bad." He buried his face against her throat making her gasp. "You should have thought about that before you went on the Innernet..."

Later, much much later, when they had settled down to sleep, Fitz stopped kissing the side of Olivia's sated face, when she said drowsily, "Rolling Stone wants to do a cover with us."

"In this position?" he asked wickedly.

She laughed softly. "Can you imagine my Dad getting an eyeful of that?" Then she angled a look at him. "But you know there's been a sudden influx of 18-24 year olds registering to vote after the Time cover. Maybe Rolling Stone will attract the Woodstock and Cable television demographic and you'll be a shoo-in for a second term of office."

Fitz gave her a kiss on her cheek before rolling away to switch off the lamp. "That wasn't my goal in agreeing to do the Time cover."

Olivia switched on the lamp on her side of the bed. "What was your goal?" she asked, looking at him intently as he lay on his back, his eyes closed.

Fitz placed an arm over his eyes, and didn't reply.

She reached over to lift his arm from his face. "Why did you do it?"

He kept his eyes closed, but he was smiling as he murmured. "I wanted to see you naked in the Red Room." When she started to laugh, he insisted, "It's true. I'm intent on fulfilling as many of my naked fantasies as I can before we leave the White House."

Olivia's laughter subsided but her gaze remained soft as she combed her fingers through his hair. "You'll be a great jam-maker. We could make our brand 'The Naked President'."

That made him laugh. Then he opened his eyes and smiled. "I'm calling my brand 'Olivia's Jam'."

"You can't!" she scolded, giving him a playful smack before shifting away to turn off the lamp.

"I can." He rolled over to wrap himself around her. "I'll even let you market it over the 'innernet'…"

In a remote cabin, on the edge of a lake on a ranch in Georgia, five people sat around a table.

Hollis called it 'Defiance – the second coming'. Sally's frown did nothing to change the title.

"So are we ready to take this show on the road?" Reston looked around the table.

"Don't look at me," said Mack. "I'm just here for the ride."

"Yes, let's do it," Edison said, and smiled.

A/N: I realise that a lot of you are unhappy with me using Fitz as the whipping boy for the ills of racism. Is it fair, even racist, to use and abuse Fitz like this. No and yes, in that order. But do I feel bad about it – no. Fitz is a fictional character. Black people being murdered – that's real.

Should I temper my continuing outrage on the latter by sparing the feelings of fictional Fitz? I didn't even pause to consider it until I read your reviews. Actually I don't have a lot characters to play with in this regard. Then I wondered on whom should I heap my frustration – mad Republicans like Sally or sanctimonious Democrats like Reston? Why should handsome, sexy, Olivia-loving, Leader of the Free World Fitz be spared? If we only hold the people we dislike accountable, that's a whole lot of people we like who get a free pass to sit on their hands and avoid changing the system.

I'd like to share a personal story if I may. It's about my mother.

In 1983 Sri Lanka had 'communal riots' after 23 Sinhalese soldiers were killed by Tamil Tiger terrorists in the North of the country. The Sinhalese majority retaliated against the Tamil minority in Colombo (the south of the country). I am Sinhalese. So is my mother. Our ethnicity makes up 74% of the population in Sri Lanka, the Tamils – 15%. This ethnic divide is based on language, culture and religion, but not colour.

During the riots, my mother broke a state-imposed curfew to make sure our Tamil friends and acquaintances were safe. To this day my Tamil and Indian friends tell of my mother arriving by herself, to yell at neighbourhood mobs in their front yards, armed with only her bag and umbrella.

A Sinhalese woman in one of the mobs, who many years later came to cook for us, told me she thought my mother was mad – I agreed. But my mother hadn't been scared because she recognised people in the mob; and the people in the mob who recognised my mother, didn't harm her because she was the 'crazy lady' who gave them work.

BTW, my mother wasn't the only one to take their horror and outrage to the streets. When I arrived in Australia, my Tamil neighbours told me, how (during the riots in Sri Lanka) their Sinhalese neighbours helped them over garden walls, hid them under beds and smuggled them in vehicles to safety. A reason that one Tamil at least insists on buying at Sinhalese-owned shops, instead of the better-stocked and cheaper Tamil shops in her suburb.

A lot of Sinhalese it seems did what they could to help the Tamils. Of course there were many more that didn't and it was a terrible time for Tamils (and their supporters) who lost their lives and loved ones, because homes and shops can be rebuilt and have been but lost live remain forever lost.

The riots (and the overlapping war) of course were a lot more complex than a murderous fight between the Sinhalese and Tamils. The Tamil inspector who lived in the next street was stabbed to death because he took bribes (according to my mother), the only cinema in our neighbourhood was burnt to the ground because it rarely showed Sinhalese movies, while Tamils ones went late into the night and were so loud that people couldn't sleep (according to a mob participant). And one of my father's school friends - a Tamil - who gave poor people (both Tamil and Sinhalese) to eat free from his shop, saw the people he'd fed (both Sinhalese and Tamil) in the mob that looted and destroyed it. And I realised later seeing the burnt shells of two- and three-storey homes, that they had been destroyed by people crowded into a corner of the street, in one room shacks with no electricity; sharing a street tap for drinking and bathing between 25 families.

Whatever their reasons, the soldiers deaths at the hands of terrorists was an excuse for people to take out their grievances (real or imagined) on their neighbours, knowing they would never be held to account for their actions.

I also want to assure any of you reading this, that my mother is not a superwoman – she has many, many flaws and is also full of prejudices (which includes an antipathy towards the Tamil aim – irrespective of whether they achieve this by dialogue, propaganda or violence - of dividing Sri Lanka into separate countries based on ethnicity). My mother is also a younger sister, and she got yelled at by my aunt for breaking curfew which gives the police and army the authority to shoot anyone on sight. And my mother is – well, a mother - a fact my father gently reminded her of, when he called from overseas (where he worked) to check if we were all safe.

Yet in that moment - in another awful tragic moment in my beloved country's history and a 30-year civil war that ended in 2009 - my mother (and those like her) showed me that (despite our prejudices, our other responsibilities, and people's perceptions of our lack of sanity) we must never stand helpless when injustice is happening before our eyes. That we must strive to make our lone voice heard above the mob whenever we think it is necessary. Whether it's #blacklivesmatter or #cecilthelion or #both and #more.

The sphere of my mother's capacity was our neighbourhood. What is the sphere of capacity for a President in a fictional story, if I give him enough reasons to be as outraged as my mother? So, I'm sorry, but I don't want to give the white President in my fictional story a pass on his feelings (and if I were to be really honest, I don't want to give the real-life black President a pass on this either). Whenever I hear President's Obama's policies now, it's like seeing Oprah give her 'Favourite Things' to a mostly white audience, which included people from Australia.

I'm also sorry to have to break this to some of you after 50 chapters that the core of this story is politics. I've just hijacked a romance to camouflage it. It's the Olitz romance and family dynamics that stop me writing the horror story that actual politics deserve.

References:

The Voting Rights Act remains intact in this story – however section 4a which protected minority voting rights was struck down by the US Supreme Court in 2013.

The supreme court guts the Voter Rights Act … since racism is over - Ana Marie Cox (The Guardian)

The US supreme court thinks racism is dead. It isn't - Gary Younge (The Guardian)

The Black and White ancestral storyline was inspired by the following:

Obama Has Ties to Slavery Not by His Father but His Mother, Research Suggests (NY Times)

Obama descended from slave ancestor (Washington Post)

In First Lady's Roots, a Complex Path From Slavery (NY Times)

First Lady Michelle Obama's Irish slave owner roots (Irish Central)

13 Famous Black Americans Who Learned The Stories Of Their Slave Ancestors (BUzzfeed) - Betsey in this chapter is based on Condoleezza Rice's actual ancestor who was sold as a 4 year old for $450, and who did live to be 100 years old according to this article.

Man Fired From Ku Klux Klan For Being Part Black is Suing for Racial Discrimination (Outhouse Daily)

Irish-Americans, Racism, and the Pursuit of Whiteness (Racism Review)