Chapter 6:


NOW:


March, 2012

George Washington University Hospital
Washington, D.C.


Nobody liked hospitals, sure. But Abby-by self-decree-was Queen Nobody…or Chief Nobody. Or, High-Priestess Nobody.

Chief Priestess Nobody?

Abby's previous life as Mrs. Chip Putney had involved more hospital stays than she wanted to count. Always in the private, hoity-toity, roped-off VIP-section of Falls Church Memorial, where the rooms were more like hotel suites, patients were registered under an assumed name, and the care team kept their mouths shut on pain of being blacklisted by every major healthcare system on the east coast.

None of the others quite understood why she was so insistent that hospital accommodations be the first item of business when they began laying the groundwork for Operation LiSP. But Abby had known.

Another otherwise useless bit of knowledge she'd gained by way of her hellish marriage: a D&C didn't take very long. A quick glance at her watch told Abby it wasn't just nerves making time appear to slow down, Liv should have been out of surgery by now. Recalling Dr. McNeil's words from earlier, Abby wondered whether Liv's VIP status combined with her verbal consent before being wheeled off to the OR was enough to get someone to come out here and give her an update.

The others were still on their way. For the life of her, Abby couldn't remember whose name they'd put down as Liv's emergency contact. Of all the things to slip her mind.

Pulling out her phone, she opened the message chain to text the group her question when suddenly, the double doors of the wing's entrance swung open. A four-man unit of uniformed men, all dressed in black, presumably armed, marched inside, two more men in black bringing up the rear. Secret Service, Abby recognized immediately. Not due to any visible identifiers on their attire or badges being flashed around; rather due to the individual being flanked by the six-man formation, standing half a head taller than the agents leading the pack, his face just visible enough.

"YES!"

Abby hopped to her feet, fist pumped in the air; the stress, anxiety, and sadness of the last couple of hours momentarily overridden by the sweet euphoria of victory.

The heat of seven sets of bewildered glares trained on her brought her back down to reality. It was then that Abby, looking around at her surroundings, realized for the first time that the small waiting room had been completely cleared out, save for herself. Even the receptionist's desk was vacant.

Sheepishly, she explained her outburst. "Sorry. There was a bet. I won."

Of all the ways to meet the President of the United States.

"Sorry," Abby said again, feeling the need to give a more sincere apology. The solemn, unblinking stare of the Commander in Chief drove home how juvenile it seemed for the team-minus Huck-to make a game of guessing the identity of the father of Liv's child.

Abby reached down into the seat beside her for the brown manilla envelope Dr. McNeil had given her earlier. The president stepped out from behind his agents and walked over to her.

He took the envelope as she explained. "We, um, ran background on every member of the care team; everyone on down to the orderlies. They all signed NDAs."

Without even looking at the contents of the envelope, President Grant handed it off to an agent. Then turned his attention back to Abby.

"I'm Abby. Abby Whelan," she said uselessly, stalling for time as her eyes darted from the president's fitful, anguished expression to the team of blank-faced Secret Servicemen standing within earshot less than five feet away. It was still sinking in that she would have to be the one to tell the Leader of the Free World that his baby was dead. Fuck.

Gesturing awkwardly in the direction of the agents, she asked quietly, "Could they, umm…,"

"Guys, look away," the president commanded in a cold monotone. His eyes, desperate and frantic, didn't leave Abby.

"She's still in surgery," she tried to begin delicately. "No one's come out to tell me anything yet. But we shouldn't worry, it's a routine procedure. A D&C, that is."

The news spilled out of her like a glob of melted tar, sticking to the space between them, viscous and disgusting. The president was gutted. He sank down into the seat opposite her, and covered his face with his hands. Not knowing what else to do, Abby took the seat beside him.

"They call it an incomplete miscarriage," she explained. "The doctor who examined her said the fetus stopped growing just before thirteen weeks, but sometimes the mother's body doesn't-you know-until weeks later. Which is what happened. They gave Liv the option of doing it naturally or surgically. But she wanted it done quickly."

He didn't look up, his face still covered by his hands. Abby watched as his shoulders began to tremble almost imperceptibly. She reached out to settle her hand on her back before stopping herself, wondering if that was allowed. This was the president after all. Would the Secret Service arrest her for touching him? It only took a second more of deliberation for her to decide the risk was worth it.

He jumped when Abby's hand landed lightly on the curve of his shoulder, she almost pulled away. But then she felt the tension ebb as they both settled.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "Really, I am. Liv didn't tell us she was in a relationship, we figured out she was pregnant on our own. But I know this was something she wanted. And I know the circumstances made this whole situation far from ideal for both of you, but this baby was already so loved. You deserved to be its parents."

"Thank you," the president said, voice cracking. Abby reached into her purse for the travel pack of tissues inside. She pulled one out and handed it to President Grant, who accepted it gratefully, and used it to dab at the corners of his eyes.

He straightened up, Abby removed her hand.

"The rest of our team is on their way." She cast a wary glance behind them at the Secret Service agents. "Will they let them through?"

The president nodded. "They're familiar with you all."

"She talks about us? All of us? Me?" Abby demanded, half-scandalized.

"Not to the Secret Service." He cracked a hint of a smile. "She talks about you all constantly. I can put faces to names. I knew who you were before you introduced yourself."

This was a lot to take in. It hadn't yet fully sunk in that the president, the actual, honest-to-God president of the United States, was the father of her best friend's unborn child. Add on the fact that The President knew who they were; intimately enough to recognize them from Liv's stories alone. Fuck. What had she told him about them?

"How important is she to you?" Abby steeled herself enough to look the president in the eye as she asked this. "Do you love her?"

Because Liv loved him. Abby knew this for a fact. For Olivia to bear this pregnancy in secret, clearly having planned to carry the president's child to term and not breathe a word of her impending motherhood or the identity of the baby's father to anyone, not even her closest friends, love wasn't a big enough word: it was that once in a lifetime, whole world stops when our eyes meet, struck deaf, dumb, and blind kind of love.

And it wasn't just a secret pregnancy Olivia had endured for the sake of this love. Abby's memory ticked back over the past year or so: the impromptu visits-more like standoffs-between Liv and the White House Chief of Staff each time he bulldozed his way into Liv's office; Liv leaving K-Street in the middle of the day to do another favor for the White House; coming in some mornings with bloodshot eyes on her second cup of coffee after another all-nighter; taking on pro bono work for the First Lady, who spoke to Liv like she was dirt beneath her shoe; Liv, carrying a baby, a business, and layers of favors and secrets all alone, all for him.

"She's the love of my life," said the president, in a low but fierce tone. It wasn't enough.

"She didn't think you would come," Abby said, looking straight ahead. "Not that you wouldn't want to be here, but that you couldn't. And can you blame her? She's done all of this alone."

Abby paused. She could feel the frustration bubbling up, and while she felt it was justified, she didn't want to wail on the guy after he'd just lost a baby.

"Let me ask you something: what if we hadn't had all this ready to go?" Abby gestured around them. "Obviously, we expected to be here under different circumstances, but whether things turned out alright in the end or she had to be rushed to the ER after a very public incident, we had it covered. As the closest thing Liv has to family, we had her covered. But what if we didn't? What was your plan?"

The president's shoulders slumped. He didn't look up.

"How would you have protected the love of your life?" Abby dug in. "Would you have let her be taken away in the ambulance alone? Be told about her dead baby alone, without anyone to hold her hand? They'd've admitted her under her legal name, in the regular section of the hospital, so regardless of whether you showed up with her or after she was admitted there wouldn't have been enough time for Secret Service to clear the floor and have the staff all sign NDAs. How would you have protected her privacy? How would you have kept the media from reporting that Olivia Pope was rushed to the hospital, and that President Grant snuck out of a campaign fundraiser to be at her bedside?"

"You made your point," the president said miserably.

"Or would you have left it on Liv to take care of it from her hospital bed?" Abby asked. The genuinely bereft expression that overtook him during her tirade softened her some.

"Look, I don't mean to make you feel like total crap," she said.

"Could've fooled me," he grumbled.

Abby rolled her eyes. "Seriously? Nut up, sailor!"

She shoved his side playfully with her shoulder. He returned her teasing smile with a small, pained one of his own.

"Olivia's the most capable person I've ever known," Abby began again. "She's the one who always has the answer, always has another card up her sleeve. And she's dependable, never not with her shit together...because she's helping someone else. Do you get what I mean?"

President Grant gave a tiny jerk of the head to show he did, but Abby had to be sure.

"She doesn't eat when the stress gets too much," she said. "Not that she can't eat, like from lack of appetite. She doesn't. Do you see? It's the same with sleep. There are nights she sleeps in her office, not by choice but because that's where she finally dropped after a week of back-to-back eighteen-hour days. You could pin it on K-Street only being in its first year, but Liv's been like this since I've known her. Her hands are never too full: there's always a new project she's being begged to take on, a friend who needs a last-minute favor, someone else with a problem to fix. She never, ever says no.

"It's never too much, until it is. And even then, she won't say anything. I don't know why. I've known independent people, people who hate to ask for help, people who never learned how. With Liv, it's almost like it goes beyond that. But it's so hard to get her to open up, I can't be sure.

"Which is why I'm not blaming you, even though it might seem like I am. I know it's easy to treat Liv like a superhero because that's how she treats herself. But she's her own Kryptonite. So, if you really love her, you have to look out for her the way she looks out for everyone else. The way we do. You have to be a gladiator, too."

"It scares me," the president confessed quietly. "Like you said, she's so capable, so...together all the time. I thought I was seeing things. She was getting smaller. She always looked exhausted and sunken. But you know, as a man, you never wanna bring up a woman's weight…"

Abby smiled wryly. "Can't fault you for that."

"She didn't tell me she was pregnant, either," he added in an even softer voice. "She stopped drinking wine with dinner. I didn't bring it up for a while, I wanted to give her time to tell me. I waited a week or two before I confronted her. Even by then, she hadn't been to see a doctor."

He trailed off right as Abby heaved a frustrated sigh.

"She promised me she'd go," he said.

"She was afraid. She's been afraid."

"I know," said the president. "It's not her fault."

"It isn't," Abby agreed. "She already has it in her head that it is, though. That's gonna be an uphill battle."

"So it will," he nodded. Then, as she had done to him earlier, he nudged her side. "Buck up, private."

Abby smirked back at him. Let it never be said there wasn't but one tolerable Republican. Liv did know how to pick them after all.


THEN


June 2011

Washington, D.C.


Transcript of Viral Clip from Primetime Interview with President Fitzgerald Grant and First Lady Mellie Grant, Hosted by BNC's Kimberly Mitchell

Original Air Date: Sunday, June 26, 2011

MITCHELL: Mr. President, what do you say in response to the argument put forward by both critics and supporters of your administration that recent moves like attending the Chief of Staff's wedding, having the First Lady host a luncheon for LGBT veterans, and, of course, your nomination of Judge Palnero-a vocal supporter of marriage equality-to the Supreme Court, should be taken as you signalling your intent to make the advancements in gay rights a cornerstone of your policy agenda?

PRESIDENT GRANT: I would remind them that I campaigned on a promise of being 'For the People,' and that has been the pledge of my administration as well: a better, brighter, and more equal future for all Americans. For myself and the members of my administration, 'all Americans', means 'all Americans' regardless of race, religion, sex, or sexual orientation. That is the cornerstone of my policy agenda.

MITCHELL: It's interesting that youalign the members of your administration with this pledge, when one of your most outspoken critics-especially as of late-has been Vice President Sally Langston.

PRESIDENT GRANT: True

MITCHELL: I'm not sure many would agree that she agrees with your definition of 'all Americans', speaking frankly.

PRESIDENT GRANT: The vice president and I have frequently been at opposing ends of the ideological divide, that's no secret. But this was one of my main reasons for choosing her as my running mate and VP, because although she and I disagree on some very significant issues, she represents a not-insignificant segment of the American population who share similar views, and, as I said, 'all Americans' means 'all Americans.' They deserve to be represented by their government, too.

Now, I want to be clear, this doesn't mean I intend to compromise on human rights issues in order to appease intolerance. But I also don't want any Americans to feel as though their country is moving forward without them. It's my hope that progress will change hearts and minds, including the vice president's.

MITCHELL: And what if hearts and minds can't be changed?

PRESIDENT GRANT: Then, sadly, those intolerant however-many will remain stuck in the past.

MITCHELL: What will it mean for your administration and for the party if Vice President Langston chooses to remain in the past?

PRESIDENT GRANT: For now, publicly, I'll say that my administration is prepared to cross that bridge if or when we get there.

MITCHELL: Oh?

PRESIDENT GRANT: (nods)

MITCHELL: Vice President Langston has been quite blunt, and some would say, decisive, in the media appearances she's made as of late, about what she plans to do should Judge Palnero be confirmed by the Senate.

PRESIDENT GRANT: Indeed she has.

MITCHELL: Have the two of you spoken privately at all about the public threats she's made to resign, should Judge Palnero's confirmation go through?

PRESIDENT GRANT: No comment.

MITCHELL: Mrs. Grant, the vice president's comments in the media lately have become quite personal. In defending her stance on, to use her words here, "traditional marriage," it seems she's resorted to making some pretty vitriolic comments about your and the president's marriage. Would you agree with that?

MRS. GRANT: (emotional) I would, Kimberly, yes.

MITCHELL: Just to go over a few of her statements, the vice president has gone on record saying, quote: "It's no surprise that the leader of our great nation holds no value on the sanctity of marriage given he's all but abandoned his own covenant with Our Lord." That's in addition to the comments she made on a Fox News segment shortly after Chief of Staff Cyrus Beene's wedding, that, quote, "Of course the president sees no issue with bearing witness to his good friend's perverse display at the altar of Sodom and Gomorrah, with how he flagrantly debases his own marital bed with his insatiate indulgence of the flesh."

I think it goes without saying what the vice president was implying here. What has been your reaction to these not-so-thinly veiled accusations, Madam First Lady?

MRS. GRANT: Well, Kimberly, I agree that Sally's comments don't require further clarification. As for my reaction? Anger, shock, mortification-for myself, my husband, and our children-but also, I'm disheartened. For all that has been or could be said about Sally Langston and her social views, until very recently, I was one of those people who, perhaps naively, viewed her as genuine in how strongly she purports her Christian faith.

But I just don't see how that could be so, when the Bible, throughout both the Old and New Testament, tells believers not to gossip, not to bear false witness, to remove the plank from their own eye before being concerned about the twig in someone else's. Besides the fact that the vice president has no evidence to back up the tabloid fodder she's peddling around the Hill, not only is she doing the exact opposite of what her own doctrine calls her to do, she's actively sinning in order to advance her own political agenda. I can't think of anything less Christian. It's embarrassing to watch.

MITCHELL: Phew! That assessment is certainly hard to argue. Fire for fire, I'd say.

MRS. GRANT: Where I'm from we don't mince words when it comes to defending our family.

MITCHELL: How would you feel, Mrs. Grant, about the vice president following through on her threat to resign?

MRS. GRANT: In my honest opinion? Such hypocrisy and intolerance has no place in a modern administration. Sally has made her position clear. As we say in the South, don't let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya!


July 2011

K-Street Associates

Washington, D.C.
Saturday evening


"In the name of brevity, I want to skip over the vault and parry portion of our talks and get to the part where you assure me you're working on fixing this."

Cyrus ended his colorful greeting staring-as Olivia was-at the rows of flat screens along her media wall, where the most-talked about clip from the president and First Lady's interview from the previous Sunday was still being replayed and over-analyzed by every cable news station in the country.

"In the name of expediency, I'm going to need you to get into specifics." Keeping her eyes trained on the wall of screens, Olivia added, "He and I haven't spoken since the wedding."

"You two are in a fight. Of course. I knew it had something to do with your little soap opera-"

She cut him off. "Not exactly. He said wanted to give his full attention to seeing Palnero's confirmation through, and asked me to give him space until it's done."

Which was a patchwork of partial truths: the drama surrounding Palnero's appointment to the bench was weighing on Fitz. He had asked her for space through the confirmation hearings. They weren't in a fight. Not really.

Cyrus wasn't buying it.

"That's the best you could do?" he scoffed. "Painting yourself as a distraction when we both know full well his head wasn't in the game until it found its way between your-"

"You need to go," Olivia said in a cool, clipped voice. She flicked the remote at the wall of TVs, and all the screens went black. Without sparing Cyrus another glance, she turned on her heel and reached for the handle of the frosted glass door.

"Sorry," Cyrus said quickly. His hand shot out above Olivia's, snapping the door shut just as she cracked it open. "That was low and disgusting and you didn't deserve it-"

"What do you want from me? You got Palnero. His confirmation goes to a vote next week, and is almost sure to pass…"

"At which point Sally walks," said Cyrus. "She's got no reason not to thanks to Mellie taking everything to defcon five on Sunday. She's never been more popular with the Christian-right and marriage opponents. Since the interview aired she's been on Fox more than she's been in the West Wing. The lines are drawn, Sally just needs it to be official. She'll resign the moment Palnero's confirmed, write a book and tour the country doing speeches and speaking engagements at every homophobe rally and Jesus freak convention she can book. She'll martyr her way to the Oval in three years."

Olivia couldn't disagree with that analysis. She had, after all, been tracking Sally Langston's movements since Palnero's nomination was announced, and had known as well as anyone that Mellie's remarks on Sunday were a lit match against an oil spill. Yet, before any of that came her promise to Fitz. Not that that was worth explaining to Cyrus.

"I can see like your better half you're fine with letting the chips fall," Cyrus continued pointedly. "Have either of you two turtledoves given any thought to the consequences of Sally and her evangelical wingnuts getting control of the party, and the Oval? Say goodbye to our rights, yours' and mine."

"Don't talk to me about my rights."

"Help me help him get ahead of this," said Cyrus, not too proud to beg now that shame and emotional blackmail had left him empty-handed. "He's in there contemplating his navel while Sally and her staff are on the warpath. He won't lift a finger against her, and nothing I say reaches him. I thought Mellie going nuclear in that sit-down with Kimberly Mitchell might light a fire under him but all that did was heat up the Cold War. Now he wants to move her out of the Residence altogether…"

Cyrus trailed off, attempting to level her with a significant glare, waiting for Olivia to take the bait. She avoided him. Reaching for the door handle again, she pulled sharply, loosening Cyrus' grip above hers'. He stepped back as she swung open the door to the silent hallway.

"My staff will be coming back from lunch soon."

Dismissed, her old mentor sent Olivia a parting scowl before exiting the conference room and loped his way down the main hallway at a heavy, lead-footed pace.

As soon as she heard the outer door to K-Street to click shut behind him, Olivia headed to her office. Rifling through her purse, she pulled out her second phone and began to dial the only number listed under recent contacts. Then paused, her train of thought catching up with her.

Fitz had taken the truth of who her father was about as well as she could have hoped. He hadn't run, which was the main thing. He'd asked for space; he needed time to process everything she'd told him. He hadn't, in so many words, asked her not to contact him while he sorted through it all but Olivia could read between the lines. And, anyway, none of this was too much to ask.

As relations between the vice president and the White House continued to deteriorate in the public eye, Olivia had to fight the impulse to call him, to hear for herself how he was handling it all, to see if there was anything she could do. But the one thing he had asked her for was space, and besides that, he'd proven on more than one occasion the lengths he would go to to get in touch with her when he needed her. She reasoned that not hearing from Fitz at all meant the best thing she could do was follow his lead and leave him be.

Instead, she'd channeled her worry for him into what she did best. The kill folders she'd initially made for Sally Langston and her inner circle once the Grant and Langston campaigns joined the same ticket had doubled in size. What Olivia had now was enough to cut off the serpent's head. But before he'd asked for space, Fitz had asked that she stop fixing him. She refused to move an inch on this without his say-so.

But would Fitz consider this preliminary move on her end part-and-parcel to "fixing" him? With the revelation about her father fresh on his mind, would it give Fitz more reason to doubt her, another nail in the coffin of his confidence in her?

Olivia didn't know. What she was sure of was Cyrus' assessment of what they stood to lose with Sally.

She hit 'Send' and brought the phone to her ear.


June, 2011

White House Executive Residence

Washington, D.C.
Saturday afternoon


Emblematic of the truly sad state of affairs within the walls of the crown jewel of the American prison system was the fact inmates were denied the most basic human dignities: a peaceful early dinner at the end of a long day, at the end of a long week, to name an example. If a society was to be judged by how it treated prisoners, this country was in deep trouble.

Fitz blamed Cyrus. As Chief of Staff it was his job to keep the president's schedule moving; read: in constant conflict with the First Lady's, so that they never had to be in the same room together. Yet here was Mellie seated across from him at the dinner table, altogether spoiling the dry-aged veal Fitz had been thinking about all day.

"The kids get home in a couple days," Mellie said diplomatically. "So let's be adults and hash this out now. You know it's always worse when they come home to us fighting."

History was on her side but that did nothing to move Fitz's ambivalence. For Karen and Jerry's sake he'd like nothing more than to be on neutral ground with their mother for the length of their summer vacation. But everything to do with Mellie's comments on Sunday-from the foaming pundits, to the complete breakdown in relations between the White House and the Naval Observatory, to Liz North's ham-fisted suggestions for Sally's replacement, to Mellie being oh-so smug and Mellie about her little stunt-on top of the existential conflict of interest posed by the revelation that his girlfriend's father had, for decades, been overseeing a covert spy organization right under the CIA's nose, and exploiting a loophole in the federal budget to do so–had sanded Fitz's steel-cut nerves down into fine powder.

There was no telling what might come out if he dared speak. Hence, his hard-fought wish to eat and drink in peace. But that was apparently too much to ask.

Mellie continued. "I know it's been tedious having to deal with Sally peacocking all over the news. The administration fracturing in real time in front of a 24-hour news cycle is a bad look. It makes the country and the party look weakened. China and Russia are mocking us, the Dow is falling, and it's all falling on you. I know that. And I knew this would happen when I decided to say what I did during the interview. But it was only a matter of time before Sally turned against us; we were practically baiting her with Cyrus' wedding and this Court appointment. Better that we force her out than let her dictate the terms of her exit. You have to agree."

Privately, Fitz did. He sipped his scotch.

"We've set the stage for how she'll leave," she said, cracking an uneasy smile. "She'll martyr herself on the way out, there's no helping that, but if we get ahead of this we can control the narrative. And the best part is the sexist, one-track minded pigs who run our nation's newsrooms will boil this whole thing down to a catfight between the female vice president and the president's wife. The press and the pundits will hardly think to blame Sally's exit on our side of the tent getting too liberal. We'll win the battle and the war."

Hopefully. In Fitz's opinion, that remained to be seen, and was far beside the point.

"Fine, Mel. Point taken, you win." Done with his meal, he set his fork down and pushed away from the table, ready to leave the room and this conversation. "But let this be the last time."

Mellie scowled. "What is that supposed to mean? And where are you going? We're not finished here."

"You twisted Olivia's arm into getting a senate seat when all this is over," Fitz gritted through clenched teeth. "But no one elects a First Lady, which is why you stick to picking out china and giving fashion bloggers something to write about. You don't put words in the mouth of the Commander-in-Chief. You don't start catfights with members of my administration. You don't manipulate the media into initiating a changing of the guard in the West Wing. You certainly don't go using that big head of yours' to start more fires for me and Cyrus to put out and then expect me to fall to my knees in gratitude! You pack that big brain of yours away and remember your place! You're ornamental, not functional!"

Fitz didn't realize how loud his voice had risen until he finished and saw the color drained from Mellie's face, the tears glistening in her eyes. After twenty years and no amount of love lost between them, he had been on the receiving end of one of her performances enough times to know the difference between manipulation and true emotion. His wife wasn't a great actress.

"You always knew just how to hurt me," she said lowly. Her lips thinned as she stared him down.

"I'm sorry." Though sorely meant, the apology was too thick with guilt to be genuine. He'd said it too fast.

"I didn't have to give up my law career for you."

"I know that. I'm grateful. I am."

They sat back down at the table; both deflated and contrite, with equal investment in the conversation for the time being.

"What do you want to tell the kids when they get home?" Mellie asked, shaking off her hurt and switching gears.

"They're old enough for us to be honest with them," Fitz replied. "We can tell them together, if you want."

"They'll have questions," Mellie said. "How soon will it happen, can they tell their friends, who they're going to live with…"

"We can tell them the truth."

"Fitz, we haven't even sorted that out yet."

"...Crap."

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, they laughed together, hearty at their absurdity.

"You know, this was part of why I wanted them to stay in New Hampshire for the summer," Mellie said carefully. "To give us time to work out the particulars instead of having them here in the middle of all this...dysfunction."

"I can see the logic there," Fitz conceded. "But without that explanation, as far as Karen and Jerry would see, their parents don't want them home for the summer, or at all. I don't want them to ever feel like we're too busy to be their Mom and Dad. You know how I feel about that."

"I do," Mellie said softly. "But Fitz, you are too busy. It's the job. They understand."

"I don't think they do, and I don't want them to. Jerry's in high school, Karen will join him in a couple years, they're not going to be with us forever. I don't want to waste the time we get with them. I want to know them now; their interests, who they have crushes on. I want to help them make their costumes for this convention they've got coming up-have they told you about it?"

"A little," said Mellie, somewhat stiffly.

"Have you seen their Instagraph? The art they post, Jerry's photography and Karen's designs?"

"Instagram," she corrected. "And yes, I do check it from time to time just to make sure they're being careful. It's cute, but I hope it doesn't become more than a hobby for them, especially Karen."

"What do you mean?"

"People have always expected little girls to like pretty clothes and playing dress up. There are so many opportunities available to young women these days. It's so different than it was when I was Karen's age. I'd like to see her take advantage of the era she's a part of and go into something more substantive than fashion."

She spat the word 'fashion' as though it were an epithet.

"Does it matter so long as she's happy?" Fitz asked. "I thought it was all about having the freedom to choose. If this is her choice, I think we should encourage it."

Mellie waved her hand dismissively. "As a man, it's harder for you to understand, Fitz."

With a half shrug, he added. "There's a designer she really looks up to that went to school with Olivia. She designs costumes for a living but she's got a degree in textiles and materials engineering. How's that for substantive?"

Silence.

Right after the words left his mouth Fitz knew he'd stepped in it. Mellie's eyes narrowed.

"How exactly did you find the kids' Instagram," she asked. "The Secret Service doesn't normally let you have access to social media, and you can't even remember how to pronounce the site's name so I'm not sure how you knew to search for their hidden profile…"

Cursing inwardly, Fitz decided not to beat around the bush. "Liv showed me."

Laughing mirthlessly, Mellie eased back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest.

"I should have known. All these 'Father Knows Best', greeting card gobbledygook you've been spouting about bringing the kids home for the summer so we can smother them in hugs and kisses before they leave the nest when you've never fought me on leaving them at school before. It was all so you can put on a show of being Daddy of the Year for your precious Olivia."

"That's not-"

Mellie cut him off. "Fine, Fitz. Point taken; you win. But you keep your whore away from my children."

She got up from the table and stalked out of the dining room without another glance at him. Fitz made no attempt to go after her, knowing it would be impossible to disprove the story she'd written in her head upon hearing Olivia's name.

Standing up from the table about to make his way over to the drink cart to pour himself another few fingers of scotch, Fitz was interrupted by the sound of his phone vibrating in the pocket of his suit jacket. He answered on the first ring.

"Hi."

"Olivia."

He wasn't surprised by her being the first to reach out. Nor was he upset by it, despite his request that she give him space until after the confirmation; that he would be the one who would call her when he was ready. It had been weeks since the night of the wedding and Fitz still didn't know what to say to her.

He hadn't been angry when Olivia had told him about her father. There had, as he'd lain awake that night holding her after she'd cried herself to sleep, been the creeping dread of betrayal. Paranoia, that this was all an elaborate setup, that Olivia was a honeypot straight out of a Bond movie sent to ensnare the president. He'd dismissed the notion before it could set in: nothing about Olivia's actions since they'd met, since he'd learned about Defiance, and everything after, suggested anything like that on her part. Fitz trusted her. That wasn't the issue.

It was about what to do with it all. Keeping the secret of Defiance was a cut and dry matter of survival. The conspiracy of B613 was bigger, more sinister. Just how long had it been going on under the nose of the entire intelligence community? Or had it? Who knew and who didn't? Was it a secret unbeknownst to previous presidents, or was there a point in time when the Commander-in-Chief was meant to be brought in?

Complicating matters even more, later digging into Olivia's father revealed a link to Fitz's own past: Operation Remington. Rowan. Names Fitz hadn't let enter his consciousness in decades. How much did Olivia know about Eli Pope? How much did Rowan know about his daughter's personal life?

It was all too complicated, Fitz didn't know which direction he could move without endangering Olivia, his children, or himself. With no imminent threat, the most prudent choice was to let sleeping dogs lie, to put reason ahead of honor. But wasn't that what had gotten him here in the first place? Did he not owe it to his fellow Americans, who were already sick and wary of shadowy, pseudo-government figures abusing their power to act on their own mandate, to pull on this thread? Would it be worth it?

Fitz had always reasoned to himself that his reasons for going into politics were different from Big Jerry's. He wanted to help people, not use the American democratic system to enrich and empower himself and his friends. But in practice, he was constantly having to weigh and measure what was right, what was fair, and what was smart; lately, the answer left him unable to remember why doing this job was still worth it to him.

"Hi," Olivia said again.

She sounded off. Her voice wavered on that one, singular word; her breathing uneven, anxious.

"Is everything okay?"

"Cyrus was just here."

It figured. Darkly, Fitz imagined his wife and chief of staff deciding amongst themselves that this would be their modus operandi for the next three years: a synchronized, multi-pronged assault.

"To bitch about Sally?"

Olivia paused. Fitz pictured her chewing her bottom lip and cringed at his choice of words.

"He has concerns," she said diplomatically.

"Mmm, Mellie certainly shares them," Fitz agreed placidly.

"I do, too." Don't you? The unspoken rhetorical question hung in the silence echoing from both sides of the conversation.

His ears picked up a faint clicking coming from her end, the sound of heels against hardwood, and Fitz pictured Olivia pacing the floor of her office, doing laps around the front of her desk.

"Liv…"

"I sent Cyrus out of here empty-handed and pissed. But if we want to get ahead of this–if you want to get ahead of this–I have a way, a plan, something we can use that I've been holding onto for a while."

Fitz said nothing; bored already with the specter of Sally and her fire and brimstone retaliation, he was impatient with Liv's tiptoeing around the ace up her sleeve.

"Fitz?"

"What?"

"This didn't come from my father."

Incapable of reining in his exasperation with the entire debacle and the back-to-back ambushes from the two women in his life and his chief of staff, Fitz let out a small snort and gritted his teeth. She was trying so hard at being transparent she was circling back around to seeming conspicuous. He didn't know this Olivia, this fretful, apologetic thing cowering through this entire exchange. He wanted no part of her.

"I didn't think it did," he grunted.

Her breath hitched. "Do you want to hear it?"

The hell did she mean by that? Of course he fucking did.

"Tell me."


June, 2011

Home of White House Chief of Staff

Washington, D.C.
Saturday evening


Security protocol for senior members of the administration was such that Olivia knew Cyrus knew she was on her way before she pulled into his development. And yet, the restive air with which he swung open the front door–precisely as Olivia raised her fist to knock–would, to the uninitiated, have furthered the running joke on the Hill of Cyrus Beene secretly being psychic.

It rattled Olivia in a way Cyrus had never been able to rattle her, even as a law student. She chalked it up to exhaustion.

Since their call ended, she's replayed Fitz's end of the conversation over and over; he'd been short with her–distant, agitated–which Olivia had anticipated. On top of the impossible burden she'd dropped at his feet by telling him about her father there was now the brewing stormfront of Sally's exit from the administration, on top of the regular stress of running the nation. There was a lot on his plate, a lot he had to keep to himself–keep from Cyrus, even. Being overtaxed at work will cause anyone to shut down emotionally, nevermind what being the Leader of the Free World took from you.

Rationalizing made it all seem cut and dry, simple impersonal, and made Olivia feel idiotic for agonizing over a five-minute conversation in the first place (no matter that it'd been the first time they'd spoken in weeks; that they'd never gone so long without speaking, and that he'd been so–). It was a good sign that he'd approved of her plan outright (albeit with mundane disinterest), without her having to twist his arm to convince him (anything to get her to hang up). He hadn't begrudged her working with Cyrus to get it done (perhaps not seeing the point: she'd stolen an election and her father ran the nation's top counterintelligence outfit; he knew what she was by now, where she came from…). And yet–

I didn't think it did.

Those five words replayed themselves on a loop. No degree of rational lens could square them in a way to settle Olivia's nerves. Had she shot herself in the foot by even bringing up her father? Would he now go back through everything she'd done for the campaign and for the administration for anything that could have been tainted by her father? Assuming he hadn't already done so? And, why wouldn't he, what reason had she given him to not? All laying her cards on the table had done was give Fitz more reasons to distrust her. She'd given him nothing. The harder she tried to spin it, to find a way out, a way to make it right, she only sank deeper.

It had been a long day.

Olivia had arrived at the Beene-Novak residence with the goal of being in and out, and she intended to stick to that. Marching past Cyrus into the open foyer, she reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out the black file she'd prepared.

"BNC's bumped tomorrow's scheduled Dateline rerun for a special report," she announced.

Cyrus took the brandished file from her with an air of trepidatious glee. He said nothing, the fiendish expression on his face intensifying as he flipped through the folio. His head shot up just before he got to the end.

"Five?!" Beady eyes bulged in disbelief.

"Bought and paid for," Olivia confirmed.

"I see you've included the bank records…"

"Funds from the Langstons' Save the Children Foundation account transferred to the same New York-based provider."

"The irony," Cyrus smirked. "How were your people able to get ahold of the patient records?"

"Company secret," Olivia answered neutrally. Cyrus sent her a meaningful look.

"And he's fine with this? All of it?"

"Would I be here if he wasn't?"

"Suppose not. How did you get him on board?" Then he sneered and added, "Scratch that, actually."

Olivia didn't respond. Shrugging the straps of her bag up her shoulder, she signaled her exit. Cyrus had never been one for magnanimity, even when presented with exactly what he'd asked for on a silver platter. He certainly wasn't about to let her off that easily.

"About how long did it take you," he said, trailing after her when she side-stepped him quickly to get to the front door. "Being serious here, I'll put you on his daily schedule. No sense hiding the cookie jar if a midmorning snack is all the motivation he needs."

Hand clutching the French door handle for all she was worth, Olivia gave herself permission to keep facing forward, to keep her back to her old mentor, her teacher, her friend, to not allow him to rattle her any further.

"Goodnight, Cyrus."

She was out the door and at her car before the door slammed shut.


July, 2011

K-Street Associates

Washington, D.C.
Tuesday afternoon


"...the White House and representatives for the Langston family have declined to offer comment. However, internal memos sent between members of the board for Save the Children–the faith-based nonprofit co-founded by Vice President Langston and the Second Gentleman–imply…"

"Got you a chicken Caesar wrap."

The reporter's recap of the latest developments in the Langston story was cut off by the sudden intrusion of Harrison poking his head through the crack in the opening of Olivia's office door. He waved the paper delivery bag to accentuate his invitation. Olivia muted the TV and sighed.

"I'll join you guys in five."

"That's what you said yesterday."

"I had a thing yesterday."

"A thing called 'Hide in your office and watch the beltway pundits dissect the Langston daughter's five D&Cs for the third day in a row?'"

Harrison pushed the door open wider, letting himself all the way in. She avoided him, switching focus back to the scattered files and stray papers cluttering her desk.

"Was Huck able to track down that caseworker's contact info and who they're working for?"

"You know he did," Harrison said carefully. "Quinn came in to tell you a half-hour ago, before you said to break for lunch."

Olivia cursed silently.

K-Street's latest client was Lorena Waters: A-list actress, producer, humanitarian, and mother to a young son. On that last point, the agency that had facilitated the Waters adoption was presently at the center of an international child trafficking investigation. No one was more shocked and mortified by this association than Lorena, but in the eyes of the rabid tabloid press, the fickle public, and federal investigators eager to build a case, she had already been tried and convicted.

It was light work compared to the kind of clients K-Street had quickly gained a reputation for taking on. Coming off a weekend spent within the whirlwind of the latest White House drama, Olivia had given herself a breather with Lorena Waters to ease herself into the work week.

Harrison dangling the chicken Ceasar wrap in front of her face as if to coax Olivia from behind her desk was reminder enough to never take breaks. The smell was strong, even through the layers of parchment paper wrapping. The motion filled Olivia's nose and mouth with the sharp, tangy swirl of red onion and ranch dressing. The fetid taste coated her tongue and she imagined choking down a wet lump of wilted lettuce and shredded chicken breast.

Seeing her face, Harrison pulled back. "Not in the mood for chicken Cesar?"

"It's fine."

Wraps were her go-to for lunch; if not chicken Ceasar than some variation thereof. Harrison knew this. The problem was that there were certain times that Liv couldn't handle heavy foods with a strong smell. Harrison knew this, too.

He backed off, and dropped the wrap back in the paper carryout bag and closed it up.

"Just come sit out there with us," he wheedled.

"I–"

Before Olivia could give in, the ringer on her phone sounded off. It was her other phone: not the one on her phone or the mobile sitting next to it, but the phone at the bottom of her purse. The phone she never answered while the others were around. Olivia had it out in an instant, the tips of her thumb and finger slipping between the face and the receiver, poised to flip it open and answer. She nodded towards the door.

"Five minutes," she said to Harrison, half promise and dismissal. Harrison slumped in disappointment but was out by the second ring. Olivia flipped open the phone as soon as the door clicked shut, unable to suppress the small grin that colored her greeting.

"Hi."

"Hello, Olivia."

Olivia's face fell, her racing heartbeat rested. "Mellie."

The other woman continued on, her airy tone hollow with the faux WASP housewife tinkling effect she put on for the cameras. "I hope I'm not getting you at a bad time."

"It's fine."

"Good. I'll make this quick…"

Mellie paused awkwardly, either for dramatic effect or in anticipation of Olivia's volley. After an extended beat of silence, she carried on.

"We ended on a kind of tense note the last time we spoke face to face–" That was certainly one way to describe having the secret service abduct and imprison her in the basement of a derelict federal field office. "–But I do hope you haven't forgotten the terms we discussed before we all parted ways."

Ah.

"You want to get to work laying the groundwork for when you run."

"We did agree to get started right away," said Mellie.

Olivia made a small sound of agreement in the back of her throat.

Mellie. said. "I have a few ideas. I'd like it if we could get together and go over them sooner rather than later."

"That's fine. Was there any particular day you're thinking of?"

"Does this Saturday work? I know it's a tight squeeze. You're a woman in high demand, after all."

"Saturday's fine."

"Wonderful! If you have enough time, we can do brunch in the East Wing."

There was an obvious trap in the invitation, but it wasn't worth the effort to tease it out. It never was with Mellie.

"I can work around your schedule, Mrs. Grant."

"I'm so relieved to hear that." The sugary sweet trill in the First Lady's voice melted into a hard, plastic edge. "I'll want to stay close to home that day. Fitz is supposed to be in Indianapolis this weekend and I don't want the kids coming home to an empty house."

And there it was. Of all the reasons she'd imagined being behind Mellie stealing Fitz's cell just to needle her, this hadn't even made the list. Olivia had no clue where she was going with it.

"Your silence says a lot," Mellie said, every drop of the southern cordiality gone. "I'm surprised he didn't tell you."

"Why is that?"

Mellie sneered. "It wasn't a mystery where his sudden push to let them come home after the first summer session came from. You know, he hated the idea of sending them to boarding school, but he never fought me on it, not really. They've been campaigning to spend the summer in D.C. for that ridiculous comic book costume party since their winter break, even though I kept squashing the idea. By now, they know not to even bother trying to get their dad to weigh in, he never has the energy to push back.

"That is, until a couple weeks ago, right around Cyrus' wedding. He wasn't even back from Vermont before he had his staff unenrolling them for the second summer session and secret service scoping out that damn convention center."

Olivia could hear the smirk in the other woman's voice. "Showing him their Instagram was a truly inspired move on your part, Olivia. You're really gunning for that Stepmother of the Year title. I'm not the only one ready to hit the ground running, it seems."

Olivia flinched. "Mellie, that wasn't–"

"I know. That's what makes you so…" she trailed off just as her voice lowered into a bitter growl, before starting again. "Whatever you said to him came from the heart. Otherwise it wouldn't have worked."

"He misses them," Olivia said levelly. "I wanted to give him a way to feel more connected."

She walked into her own trap with that one.

Mellie snarled. " Only Saint Olivia Pope can perform the divine miracle of getting that man to take his job seriously. I'm past acceptance. He's not even worth it. But Karen and Jerry have one mother. You'd be wise not to hold your breath for the day where you exerting your influence on matters concerning my parenting of my children is in any way acceptable or appreciated."

Pressing her lips together, Olivia replied, "Understood. I apologize for overstepping."

"The more work for you," said Mellie. "You can't understand this yet, not being a mother yourself, but children have a way of upending your schedule, no matter their age or how independent they are, or how much you try to plan ahead. I've got them enrolled in an enrichment day program at Georgetown, which shouldn't interfere with our work so long as we meet during the day, but you never know. I do hope you meant what you said about being able to accommodate my schedule."

A blind man could read between those lines, her meaning was so transparent.

"That won't be a problem."

"I'm sure it won't. I'll see you Saturday at 11:00."

A click on the other line and the heavy dial tone rang out in Olivia's ears.

A sinking feeling washed over her as she tried to regain footing now that the call was over. It moved in suddenly: invisible but olfactive and cloying, like tar, seeping in through the cracks of silence on the end of Mellie's practiced barbs, sluicing from the path of every pre-positioned jab and obvious insult Olivia had walked herself directly into. This wasn't penance but it was deserved. Base, and low, and dirty, Mellie couldn't evoke these feelings. Olivia knew what she was. They were simply a reminder.

By the end of it, when Mellie was in the Senate and Olivia had made good on her end of their arrangement, this feeling, this shame will have well since sunk through her skin, perhaps to the marrow of her bones where it would rot and putrefy her from the inside out. She would never be clean again. And it was truly the height of dramatic irony that the only person who could possibly still bear to touch her even then, might have already decided to throw her away.

A strong smell struck her nose, reminding Olivia of the chicken Caesar wrap Harrison had left behind. She halted her pacing and, grabbing the takeout bag from off her desk, she crumpled it down, balling up the sandwich with it until she felt it squelch inside her fist, liquid from the condiments leaking out through the paper bag. She went behind her desk, rooting through the cabinets of the credenza until she found the extra rolls of paper towels she kept there.

Bile rising in the back of her throat, Olivia held her breath as she unfurled sheet after sheet of paper towel, burrowing the ruined lunch in a thick cocoon of triple-absorbent layers until the roll was empty. She tossed everything in the wastebasket, emptied the trash and, opting not to leave the garbage for the cleaning lady, quietly snuck out of her office and past the conference room where her team was thankfully too preoccupied with watching Britta Kagan announce Vice President Sally Langston's resignation–effective immediately–to notice her slip past.


July 2011

Washington, D.C.

Wednesday evening


"Hi."

"Hi."

Olivia had shot up in surprise at the knock at the door coming so late in the evening. She'd answered with the remote still in hand. Muscle memory kicked in belatedly crossed the threshold and cast a wry glance at the TV, where BNC was re-airing earlier footage from that day of the Langstons' departing Naval Observatory One to a crowd of flashing cameras and jeering protesters and onlookers. Olivia flicked the "power" button at the screen.

"Where can I put this?"

The question made Olivia notice for the first time that Fitz hadn't come empty-handed. He was holding a silver gift bag with the white sequined tissue paper sticking out from the top.

"Oh, here," Olivia reached out to take it by the straps.

"Don't open it just yet," said Fitz.

Curious, Olivia set the bag–which had a lot more weight to it than it seemed at first glance–on the piano bench behind them, then returned to her original spot to regard both the gift and the man with unease. Yesterday's run-in with Mellie had made her wary of another phone call, though she was loath to admit it even to herself. What she hadn't been expecting was for him to come see her in-person, much less for Sally's resignation to be the impetus, if that's what this was. After two weeks of almost zero contact did that gift bag contain a goodbye present, or was it a thank you for having taken care of Sally?

Olivia crossed her arms and waited for an explanation. Fitz stepped forward, hands shoved in his pockets. Olivia stepped back. Mouth pressed in a firm line, he began.

"On my last assignment before retiring from the navy, I flew lead on a black-ops mission called 'Operation Remington'." He paused and stared down at her, as though testing her reaction. Olivia received it blankly. His showing up tonight had thrown all her expectations off track. He could tell her anything at this point.

Fitz continued. "We were ordered to shoot down a plane, although we weren't told why. It was a commercial flight. There were 329 civilians on board: men, women, and children. None survived. The news reported it as a simple, albeit tragic engine malfunction. The airline and the navy made sure the story quickly exited the news cycle. Families were compensated. Information pertaining to the incident–including my involvement–was either sealed or destroyed. Even with proper clearance you won't find mention of it within classified naval records."

He paused again to let it all sink in, which meant there was more, of course there was. The entire time she'd been listening, Olivia had been looking for a connection between this black mark in Fitz's naval career and his sudden visit. She wracked her brain for any strong links between Sally Langston's camp and anyone in military intelligence with the connections to dig deep enough to find out about this, but could think of no one.

Fitz's expression became more grim. "Olivia, the commander in charge of that mission, the person who ordered me to shoot down that plane, was your father."

Olivia's mouth fell open. But Fitz wasn't done.

"He went by a different name, of course. We knew him as 'Rowan.'" Fitz moved closer as he continued speaking. This time Olivia didn't move away. "On paper, there's nothing linking your father and the man who ordered me to kill 329 people. The CIA has no record of Elijah Pope ever serving the agency in any capacity before or after becoming a curator at the Smithsonian. But they are the same man. I had my agents pull footage from a few seminars he's given over the years and there's no doubt. It's been over twenty years but he looks and sounds exactly as he did back then.

"Rowan is a ghost and Eli Pope is squeaky clean. There's nothing linking the two on paper, nor is there any hard evidence that an organization called B613 exists under any authority of any branch of the American intelligence community."

"I have no reason not to believe you," he added firmly, anticipating Olivia's offense at the veracity of her story being called into question. That hadn't been where her mind had been going at all, but the gentle aside, the reflexive affirmation of his faith in her, had stolen whatever she was going to say right out of her mouth. Fitz went on.

"There's a line-item in the defense budget, a provision that's been apart of every Congressional spending bill going back almost four decades, providing a loophole that would allow funding for something like B613 to exist independent of federal monitoring."

Breathing out through his nose, Fitz looked away for a brief second before turning back to her.

"I thought about having the Budgetary Committee close it in this upcoming Reconciliation package, just to see what would happen even if it didn't end up going through. Or, at least having the CBO and Secret Service investigate what's been allowed to sneak through. Or doing something…

"...But then I thought about you. That night, when you told me about what your father did to Edison, how you found out about all this in the first place…Livvie, you were shaking so hard, I couldn't get you to look at me. You were mumbling as if he'd pop out from the shadows if he heard you telling his secrets. You weren't speaking of your father, Livvie, you were describing the boogeyman. I've hardly ever seen you nervous, let alone that terrified.

"I knew you told me so that I could play it safe. I knew you didn't want me doing anything risky. But I couldn't just leave it. It felt wrong to not do anything with what you'd told me. But then to pull on that thread felt like I would be betraying your confidence somehow. And, I didn't know if acting on this would put you at risk, if your father is really that cold. I couldn't decide what to do."

"You needed space," Olivia interjected. Her relief was palpable, the weight of weeks of uncertainty sloughing off her like an avalanche.

"I laid awake the whole night with you in my arms, turning over scenarios in my head but every single action came down to what you'd say, how it would affect you. I knew you wouldn't want that; and I knew I wouldn't be content to just let things be, knowing what I knew. So I had to take you out of it."

"And what did that entail?"

Defenses rising, Olivia crossed her arms and took a half-step back. Fitz's expression twisted into a rueful mask.

"Doesn't matter. In the end, it was impossible. Every path I could conceive of led back to you in some way. I couldn't–can't–risk it, not when we still can't be sure how your father or any of his B613 goons would respond to such a provocation. So I decided to just leave it."

He ended his speech having closed the bit of distance between them before Olivia had even realized. She sank into him as his arms came around her. Neither spoke, but the silence felt contemplative rather than looming. In the weeks since Cyrus' wedding Olivia hadn't been able to so much as breathe for fear that she'd made an unretractable misstep in telling Fitz about her father, while Fitz, well out of reach, had been similarly paralyzed. Pure relief was enough to allay her frustration with herself for getting so carried away with her dramatics.

"Are you disappointed?"

Frowning, Olivia pulled back and blinked up at him.

"Disappointed…?" What on Earth did she have to be disappointed in?

His hold on her loosened, tenuous, as though in anticipation of her breaking away.

"In my decision to sit on what I know about B613 and your father, to not say anything, not do anything; in my valuing your safety and happiness above the American people; in my involvement in Remington; in anything?"

Olivia shook her head against his chest. None of that had even occurred to her. But now that Fitz had brought it up, Olivia sensed a part of her that was disappointed; or would have been, had that piece of her not been cowed into dormancy the night Fitz had come for her, her resignation letter clenched in his fist (perhaps even before then: in the Constitution center where she'd let him lose his flag pin; or the night the Rose Garden became their spot, where she'd allowed him to pledge his love for her aloud and in the open for anyone to hear).

"I thought it was because you didn't trust me," she admitted softly, leaving off the 'anymore.' Had she ever earned it back?

Fitz tipped her chin up with the crook of his finger. Their gazes locked. "There's no one I trust above you."

He rumbled with the heated declaration. His embrace tightened. "You're the most important person in my life," he swore. "You're all I have."

Olivia's throat tightened. She nodded, her eyes not leaving his, unable to tear herself away even if she'd wanted. They held one another, understanding and reassurance passing through the strength of their silent connection.

"What's in the bag?" Olivia asked, reminded of the gift Fitz had come bearing when her eyes landed on the piano bench on which they'd left it.

Fitz released her with a final squeeze and an earnest glint in his eyes. He gestured for her to wait for him on the couch while he fetched the parcel and brought it over to her. He deposited the gift in her lap and himself on the cushion right next to her, and waited for Olivia to unearth the prize hidden under tufts of sequin tissue paper before speaking.

He'd given her books. Three, to be exact: Madame Bovary, The Tale of Peter Rabbit, and The Hobbit. The yellowed pages and outdated cover design made it evident that these had to be first editions.

"My mother began collecting rare books later in life," Fitz began his explanation. "First editions and manuscripts mostly. By the time she died she had about 1,700 total, worth about $4 million. Her estate held her collection in trust until my father died, per her wishes, so that Big Gerry couldn't get his hands on it. I started my own collection after she died, to feel close to her, I guess. Mine isn't nearly as impressive. But with Big Gerry gone, the rest of her assets have been transferred to me. I've been able to combine the two."

He broke off, straightening his shoulders that had begun to sag with the weight of his late mother. He cleared his throat and gestured to the copy of Madame Bovary.

"This one's mine, the other two come from her collection…"

"Fitz, I can't–"

"I want you to have them, Livvie." He leaned in. "I want to share this with you. I want her collection to be ours.'"

Olivia couldn't breathe.

"I didn't bring them all with me to D.C.," said Fitz. "Only these three. They're some of my favorites she left me. She used to read me Beatrix Potter at night before bed when I was small. Then it was The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings when I was older. She loved fantasy."

He trailed off, swallowing thickly. Olivia squeezed his forearm.

"Mellie knows I collect first editions, but I've never told her why. I've never shared that part of me, of my mother's memory, with her before."

"I don't know what to say. Fitz, this is-it's so-it's…" A gesture so grand, so tender, so Fitz; how was she to respond?

Fitz took her hand and brought it to his lips, all the while his gaze–deep and soulful–never left her.

"I want us to share everything, Livvie: the bad, the good, the light and the dark, the pain, the disappointment, the skeletons in our closets, our past and our future. I want it all, Livvie."

"I want that, too," Olivia whispered before she knew what she was saying.

"I know," said Fitz. "That's why you told me about your father. You were thinking about the future. Our future."

Olivia nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Fitz smoothed a hand down her back, guiding her into his lap. The lump in her throat melted away.

"Sorry it wasn't more…" She gestured lamely at the priceless heirlooms on the cushion next to them. He'd gifted her a small fortune in rare collectibles; she'd given him an illicit spy organization. It was hardly a competition between them when it came to gift giving. It was starting to rankle a little, was all.

Olivia pouted. Fitz kissed it away.

"None of that," he scolded with a knowing smirk.

Olivia pouted again, exaggerating for effect as she shifted in his lap so that she was now straddling him. Fusing their mouths together once more, Fitz helped her shrug off the light cardigan she'd been wearing, followed quickly by her camisole. Olivia was lifted into his arms, kiss deepening with tongue and teeth, and fingertips dancing down her spine as they made their way back to her bedroom. Books forgotten, clothes abandoned; the angst and ennui of the past few weeks: Fitz's distance, her team's concern, Cyrus' sneers, and Mellie's scorn nothing more than smoke on the wind dispersed by the ray of certainty that it had all been worth it if only to get here.


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AUTHOR'S NOTE:

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Hi, I'm back! It's been forever and I'm sorry, school and life took a lot out of me. And, to be honest, while this chapter is a very important setup to the second half of the story, it wasn't the most exciting for me to write. I'm much more excited for what's coming up next.

I always intended "Just What Your Worth" to be a 10-chapter prologue to a much longer story, but it took me a while there to figure out exactly what that story would look like. You'll see what I mean when the sequel drops.

On a different note, if it wasn't clear, this chapter (and indeed, the remainder of the 'THEN' timeline of this story) is largely about how Fitz loves Olivia. She's the love of his life and he loves her unconditionally, to be sure, but when you love someone like that you put them on a pedestal, which makes it hard to see when they're struggling especially if (like Olivia) they make it a point to hide their pain. For someone like Fitz, who's lived his life surrounded by people whose job is to cater to him, it's particularly difficult to put himself in the shoes of someone less privileged. Fitz not seeing and Olivia not speaking plays a major part in where they are in the "NOW" timeline.

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