I know, I know. "It's been too long!" "You should've updated sooner!" I hear ya. School is wrecking my ability to write, but I'm getting back to it.

2012. Post.

Two weeks after the event. After their small, intricate world crescendoed and fell, everyone stirred, and nobody talked. And silence, especially the silence of Fitz, didn't sit well with Cyrus.

In the many meetings he'd been included in, Cyrus would look over to the President, hoping to find a trace of a man in mourning. Cy studied his mannerisms, like the way he cleared his throat lightly and furrowed his brow before speaking.

Fitzgerald ate dinner at six now, every single day, instead of before when he was eating whenever he got the chance. Six o'clock every day. And Mellie waited for him everyday.

They ate in peace mostly. Though, one night out of the blue Fitz asked, 'What do you remember about us, from before?' without putting his fork down.

"Nothing." Mellie whispered, being driven mad on the inside by the untimely absurdity of the question.

And they went back to eating.

/

"Mr. President, I'm not going to give you a speech about sausage or how you're ticking. I'm not going to do that. You don't need a pitbull right now, you need a friend. And that may not be me because I know, I know that you blame me for what's happened. I know that you're hurting-"

"Cyrus-"

"No. I'm hurting, too, sir. We all are. We've all lost something because of what's happened. But we have to keep going. I have to keep going, fight the good fight because frankly, sir, it's the only thing that will keep me sane. I'm not going to tell you what to do. I won't begin to tell you how to grieve because I don't know what to do when," he stumbles on the words. "in a situation when the love of your life-" he can't finish it. He can't say it aloud. "I'm sorry, Fitz. I'm sorry." was all he could muster.

Fourth of July, 2016. Cyrus and James were hosting a celebratory barbeque. It wasn't really Cyrus' thing, but it was a normal thing.

After all was said and done four years earlier, it seemed that everyone needed their fair share of normal. After Fitz's abdication, Cyrus found himself without a bone to chase, so he and his husband and his daughter got some normal. Cyrus took a position at Georgetown University. James, who had stopped reporting, was offered a book deal on going from intrepid reporter to daddy day care in one of the most thrilling cities in the world. Baby Ella, who wasn't much of a baby anymore, had started school, a proud moment in both of their lives.

Cyrus, who had taken on another 20 pounds thanks to his cozy life, sometimes laid up at night for hours. He thought of how cruel life was now. When all was quiet and he lay down to close his eyes every night, all of the horrendous things he had done and seen came bubbling to the surface. He tried to sever his instincts, his win-at-all-costs ethic, but the memories of what he had done haunted him still.

His anxiety and insomnia brought him to his garden one night. He slipped on pair of boots and gloves while still in his pajamas, and squeaked out into the backyard with a flashlight and a scooper.

When James woke up that morning, he went downstairs to make his coffee and fetch the paper. Realizing that Cyrus' car was still in the driveway, he'd wondered just where was his husband?

He padded out to the garden, saw Cyrus crouched over a pile of dirt, sopped in sweat and grime, panting like a wild person. He was furiously digging into the earth.

"Cy-"

"There's just so much of it." he mumbled.

"Of what?"

"I-I can't get it all. I can't."

"Get what Cyrus?"

"The dirt. It- it's too much, I can't get it all. I want to plant seeds. I can't. I can't. There's too much dirt in the way."

"Why don't you come inside? We can talk in there." James said, putting a hand on Cy's shoulder, and he subsided.

/

"It's a nice garden, Cy." Fitz put cup of punch to his lips. They both stood by the cooler, watching their kids splash noisy waves into the pool and giggle. The smell of grilling hot dogs and burgers wafted through the summer air. The sky was clear and let forth a blaring sunlight that abused their eyes.

"I appreciate that. You know, it's nice planting something, watching it grow. But you know that better than anyone, don't you, family man?"

"Whatever happened to man of the people?" Fitz replied smugly.

Cyrus nearly choked on his beer. He tried to hide it gracefully by covering his mouth. He fell into a bit of a coughing spell. "Come on, Fitz, why don't you grab a beer?" he said opening up the cooler.

"No, no." Fitz chuckled. "I'm a family man now, Mr. Beene. Plus I don't like beer, you remember."

"How old are all the members of the Grant camp, anyway?"

Fitz began to rattle them off like Von Trapp children, "Karen's eighteen, just moved out. Gerry's seventeen, the messiest kid maybe ever, can't wait 'til he moves out-"

Cyrus chuckled.

"Teddy's six now. Can you believe it?"

"Yeah, Ella too. They grow up so fast. It's incredible. With everything going on at work and what else have you, sometimes I get home at night and look at her drawing at the table or reading her books, and I'll think, where's babbling, crying bundle of joy?" Cyrus marveled.

"You can't take your eye off them for too long. That's the problem. You're lucky you and James have it all together. Two sets of eyes instead of one."

Cyrus nodded. "We are- pretty together. What about you and the First Lady? How together are you all nowadays?"

"All things considered, we're okay. Our marriage was always what it was, but with the job, everything was magnified. Like being in a snow globe. Being out of the White House, they can all breathe a little easier."

" And what about you, you breathing any easier?"

Fitz chuckled a cynical, forced noise and hung his head to respond, "It's been four years. Four years since renouncing the title, four years since giving up the throne. America's living under their first female President, and they love her. My whole family and yours is here, on one of the clearest days I've ever seen. And it's the fourth of July. We're here to celebrate freedom, the American Dream, two-hundred and forty years in the making. Isn't everybody breathing easy?"

"I would look that way."

"It is." Fitz said definitively.

"How's the little one?" Cyrus asked carefully.

"Evie? Little Evie, she's everything. All of it in one."

What's Cy's problem? What's keeping him up at night?

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