Blame it on My Youth

by: Blink-182

"What's up, kid?" The tall, bald man in his neat, black suit, his suit jacket hiding the heavy Beretta ever present on his hip, seemed nice. As nice as any of Fitz's dad's security team ever seemed, at least.

"Waiting." The nine-year old, feet swinging from where they dangled above the floor - his growth spurt hadn't quite set in yet - shrugged. Like everyone in his life, the nice, bald man would eventually be gone. Replaced with someone else.

"Your dad works late a lot, doesn't he?" The wooden chair on the other side of the door, a mate to the one Fitz sat on, squeaked as the man sat.

Again, Fitz shrugged. He'd been here one too many times already in his short life. The nice security guard would try to become his friend - keep him company while his dad was doing…whatever it was his dad did with Miss Latham after four o'clock every day. Fitz would start to like the security guard. Then his dad would replace the guy. It was a never ending cycle.

"Not very talkative, eh?" The man chuckled, reaching into his pocket and withdrew a brown packet from the breast pocket of his white dress shirt. He tore the end and held the pack toward Fitz. "Want some?"

"My mom says I'm not supposed to take candy from strangers," Fitz retorted, digging his fingers into the sides of his chair.

"Good thing I'm not a stranger then, eh? You've known me for the past five months, kid. My whole job is to keep you and your parents safe." The man shook the packet, the small, chocolate candies rustling inside the packaging.

"The most dangerous ones are the ones closest to us," Fitz mumbled, reaching a hand out and allowing the man to deposit a handful of the candy pieces into his palm.

"That's a bit morbid for a nine-year old." The man leaned his head against the off-white wall, bringing the plastic brown package to his mouth and shaking a few of the colored M&M's out.

"I'm not just a nine-year old." Fitz puffed his chest out, ready to recite the very words his father recited to him daily - and any time Fitz did something to make his old man upset. "I'm –"

"A political prodigy. The next president. A Capitol legacy." The list was followed by a harsh bark of laughter that caused Fitz to frown, brows drawing downward with the action.

"Jack," Fitz began after a moment, turning his gaze toward the man across from him, "How did you know my dad says that?"

"Because it's what all the deadbeat Capitol dads say, squirt." Jack stood, balling the empty plastic in his hand and tossing it toward a wastebasket by Miss Latham's desk.

"And my dad…that word describes him?" The frown Fitz wore only deepened.

"Unfortunately, kid." Jack's attention was drawn toward the closed door at the sound of furniture scraping against the floor, his cheeks taking on a brilliant red tint, before focusing on Fitz and raising a single index finger to his lips. "Best we keep that between us."

"Mom?" Fitz stood at the doorway of his parents' room, in his striped pajamas and clutching his worn teddy bear. Worry had gnawed at his stomach since he'd gone out to play after his dad was done in the office, only to come in to the new shiner on his mom's right eye. The warm smile on Ruth Grant's lips, directed toward him, was enough to finally make that worry disappear.

"What is it, love?" His mother was sitting at her vanity, makeup haphazardly thrown about the shining, wooden top. She slid toward one end of the cushioned bench, patting the now empty space beside her and beckoning Fitz to take a seat. He ran across the grey carpet, feet practically gliding, to sit beside his mother and bask in her warmth.

"What does it mean that someone's a deadbeat?" It was a question that had been bothering him since Jack had first said it earlier that day. He'd been too proud to ask his father's security man what the term meant - he was Senator Grant's son and he should have been smart enough to know what it meant.

"Wherever did you hear that term?" The frown that was slowly replacing his mom's smile had Fitz wishing he hadn't asked. He never wanted to be the cause of his mother's frowns - his dad already caused plenty.

"It's just…something…I…heard," Fitz stumbled through his explanation. Even at nine-years old, he knew bad things would happen for Jack if he told where the term had come from - or how it had been used.

"It's not a very polite term, Fitzgerald."

Fitz could feel his lip quivering - he had upset his mom. She wouldn't have used his full name if he hadn't and he absolutely hated upsetting his mom.

"I'm sorry, momma, I didn't –"

"Just don't use it, Fitz. Your father would…your father wouldn't be very happy if he heard you use that word. It's not nice." Ruth gave him a small smile, before leaning over to place a kiss against his forehead.

As Fitz opened his mouth to respond, the sound of the phone ringing filled the house. Ruth gave him an apologetic smile before standing and heading toward the door - no doubt toward the kitchen and the only phone in their home.

Fitz sat with his head bowed for a moment after she left. His mom had looked so upset with him. The gnawing worry was back stronger than ever and his lip began quivering harder. Disappointing his dad never felt as bad as disappointing his mom. Raising his head, his gaze fell on the assorted bottles on the vanity.

Maybe he could make her laugh when she got back.

Reaching a small hand forward, he closed his fist around an unassuming tube. Lifting the tube, he opened it and allowed a bemused smile to replace his frown. Lipstick, he remembered from the many times he had watched his mother do her makeup before she went out with his dad - leaving him alone with Marcus, his horrible neighbor. It was bright red - plenty colorful enough to get his mother's attention and, as he began smearing the color onto his lips, make her laugh. Just as he was finishing, a bright red smear having found its way onto his cheek, he heard footsteps near the bedroom door and turned, a bright, toothy grin ready to greet his mom.

Except it wasn't his mom.

"What the fuck are you doing boy?" Jerry Grant roared from the doorway, his jowls shaking and face flushing red.

"I…I…" Fitz stuttered, gripping the golden tube tightly in his hand and leaning toward the vanity.

"No son of mine is wearing fucking lipstick. Get your ass over here."

Swallowing, Fitz let the tube clatter to the wooden vanity with the rest of the makeup. Shaking, he stood from the bench and slowly made his way to his irate father. Eyes wide, he watched as Jerry slipped his leather belt from the loops on his pants before gesturing for Fitz to bend over the bed.

The last thought he could remember was:

I hope mom can get the red out of her blanket.

"Fitz?"

He blinked rapidly, the sight of Olivia standing before him in a black gown slowly coming into focus. He ran through the itinerary of their night, trying to remember what they were supposed to be doing - what he was supposed to be doing. Slowly, like the answers for a pop quiz, it came back to him. They were getting ready for the Inaugural Ball. Olivia had kissed him. He had gone to look in the mirror and fix his tie. He had…

"Liv?" He whispered, suddenly remembering just why he had blacked out.

"What? You're scaring me, Fitz. You're white as a ghost." Olivia placed a hand on his shoulder and, as much as he wanted to scream, to curse himself, he shied away from her touch. He loved her, but he couldn't be touched right now. The knowing, sad look that crossed her beautiful features didn't help.

"Fuck that man." The anger in Olivia's voice wasn't directed toward him. He knew that. Still, he raised a hand toward his lips - as though he could cover the very cause of this conversation.

"Can you –"

She nodded, disappearing into the bathroom and returning seconds later with a wet cloth that she gently used to wipe his lips, vowing along the way that she would murder Jerry Grant herself if she had the option - and that she would never wear red lipstick again.