Overworked, and if you asked her at the right moment, underpaid, Margaret "Mags" Clifton was a trailblazer. Tapped in at the tender age of 28, becoming the youngest Press Secretary in history and successor to Olivia Pope's brief, but lasting, legacy, Mags often took unconventional methods as she sought to solidify her role in history. One of those unconventional methods involved storming the Oval Office, without invitation, to slam an armful of tabloids on the president's desk jabbing at the glossy pages with a perfectly manicured nail and dark-eyed glare.
"Good morning, Margaret." Fitz reclined in his leather chair, hand wrapped loosely around the arm piece and brow raised.
Choosing to ignore the use of her given name, a nod to that Margaret that only served as another chip on her shoulder, she stabbed her nail more forcefully against the stack of magazines: "There are these fantastic communication devices. Ones that, when utilized properly, keep press secretaries from bumbling through a no comment incident with an insistent reporter. Perhaps you've heard of them, Mr. President?"
"I didn't need my press secretary yesterday and I still don't need her today." Fitz pointedly glanced toward the stack of magazines before dismissing them with a wave of his hand.
"There are…some…members of Congress decrying a misuse of federal funds. There hasn't been much to leak, Mr. President, but what has…If we're going to get ahead of this, I need the full story." She finally stopped jabbing at the magazines, standing straight and crossing her arms over her chest. Her heel thudded against the carpeting as she tapped her foot.
"Are you scared of what some members of Congress have to say or this really some effort to satisfy your macabre interest in a deeply personal situation?"
Margaret's breath caught in her throat as she stared down her nose at the sitting form of the president. He had grown complacent throughout the last year. As scandal after scandal rolled in, he had idly sat by and allowed Margaret and Cyrus to throw all the punches - make all the calls. This…this was more reminiscent of the Fitzgerald Grant she had watched on her television during that historic campaign - the first presidential campaign to be managed by a woman. By Olivia Pope. This was a man with moxie. A man who knew exactly what he wanted and had no qualms about doing whatever it took to obtain it. A version of the president Margaret had never encountered and had not clue how to handle. The accusation that Congress scared her simply was not true.
But this version of Fitzgerald Thomas Grant definitely did.
"Who's the mole, Cy?" Fitz's voice held a hard edge to it, one that had been present since his damned press secretary had stormed his office. He had glanced through the gossipy magazines she'd left on his desk. Article after article mentioned an unknown occupant of the presidential rooms at Walter Reed. Not surprisingly, the more far right leaning magazines, ones that had made no secret of their dislike for his progressive policies, were spinning the narrative of the president misusing federal funds to 'have a mistress treated.'
It would have been comical if it wasn't so damn near the truth. Add former as a caveat to most of their sentences and they would almost be writing a real news story.
"It could be anyone." Cyrus cleared his throat, fidgeting with the knot of his tie as they sped through the streets in a nondescript, black SUV. In the three days since Olivia had first arrived at the hospital with Kennedy in tow, Fitz had not missed out on visiting the mother and daughter.
"I want you to find them." Fitz was busy adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, unbuttoning and rolling them to his elbows. His discarded suit jacket lay on the seat between the two men.
"That is nearly impossible, sir." Cyrus gulped, shaking his head. "The amount of people involved…You should speak with Mags. The best we can do is get ahead of this and control the narrative. We're not going to stop the stories from spreading."
"You are going to stop these stories from spreading, Cy. That little girl does not deserve for her worst nightmare to be printed on the front cover of every trashy magazine in this country and discussed on the morning news. And Olivia. The things they might dig up there…" Fitz turned his attention to glance out the window as the SUV rolled to a stop at the back entrance of the hospital. The one Fitz had been using to, what he had incorrectly assumed, quietly enter and exit for his visits.
"You should have thought about that before refusing to move them to a civilian hospital and choosing to visit them, daily." Cyrus stared straight ahead, appearing for all the world to be interested in the back of the headrest before him.
"Make it disappear, Cyrus." Fitz slid from the backseat without a backwards glance, purposely yanking the door from his security and slamming it shut.
He took the long way to what he had taken to referring to as Olivia's room in his head, much to his security's chagrin. The service elevator would have been quicker and the lack of stairs wouldn't have left some of them nearly panting - especially with the quick pace Fitz had set.
The tension he held in his shoulders relaxed when he saw the armed MPs continuing to stand guard outside the presidential suite. Giving a curt nod, he pushed the door open himself and entered into the sitting area that Olivia had requisitioned as her own. A small amount of toys, all but one brought by Fitz, occupied one corner of a grey sofa while the little girl they belonged to sat unblinking, a large, stuffed Sully cradled in her lap.
"There has to be a reason for her to stay longer!" Olivia was all but pleading with the chief administrator, her body nearly as rigid as her daughter's and cheeks flushed.
"Physically, there is nothing for my staff to do, Mrs. —"
"Do not call me that," Olivia interjected, fire burning in her eyes and mouth set in a firm line.
"Apologies, Miss Pope. As I was saying, there is no further need for my staff. At this point it is a waste of —"
Fitz sighed, cringing at the path the administrator started down. He clearly was not one to shy from the morning papers or to fear his hospital's reputation over their words. Exhaling noisily through his nose, Fitz spoke:
"You are comfortable medically clearing Kennedy, Dr. Atkins?" Fitz clasped his hands behind his back, coughing to cover the smirk that had threatened to show when the doctor whirled around, eyes widening.
"Mr. President," his voice was louder than need be as he fumbled over his words: "Technically, sir, I can't…"
"He's comfortable and he's willing," Olivia snorted, throwing her hands in the air and causing a squeak of distress from Kennedy at the anguish that permeated her tone.
"It's okay Kennedy." Fitz kept his voice level, soft as he addressed the girl, turning his back on Olivia and Dr. Atkins. Her eyes had widened and she remained where she sat, watching her mother intently, the minute Fitz had said her name, though, she had turned her blue eyes toward him. "Nobody's in danger. We're just talking."
He gave her a lopsided grin, eyes sparkling when she returned it. She had taken to looking toward him more and more over the days whenever something distressing happened and it had become a matter of pride that he could provide her with some form of comfort.
"Either we go back to our home or we go to a hotel and I'm not comfortable with those options." Olivia spoke once it was clear that Kennedy had accepted Fitz's explanation, her undivided attention now on the stuffed toy she held.
"Then you don't do either," Fitz answered, crossing his arms over his broad chest as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. "You stay in the residence. As my guest."
"Fitz…"
"The rumors are going to be thrown out regardless, Olivia. That's something you're going to have to prepare for - some papers are already hinting at it. It's not a comfortable choice. It's not an easy choice, but it is a choice that you have to make. And before you do, know that this is the only way I can provide protection with minimal backlash. So…
Are you willing to trade your peace of mind for your daughter's safety?"
Kennedy stood in the middle of the Lincoln bedroom, turning in slow circles as she took in the massive, antique Lincoln bed frame and its muted pink duvet and lacy white pillows. it was a monstrosity - as Fitz had dubbed it many times, but he was hoping the color scheme would appeal to the child. The child who was clutching Sully to her and looked damn near terrified.
"What's wrong, baby?" Olivia asked, kneeling beside the girl and placing her hands on Kennedy's arms. Fitz sighed as Kennedy's breathing began to speed up. Other than those initial sentences when she first entered the hospital, she hadn't said a single word. Olivia didn't seem as concerned by this, admitting one late, sleepless night that Kennedy had never been much a talker.
"It's too big, isn't it?" Fitz spoke, shoving his hands in his pockets and giving Kennedy a tiny smile when she turned her head toward him and nodded.
"You don't have to stay in here alone. I'm sure your mommy would stay with you."
Olivia nodded, wrapping her arms around the girl and pulling her in for a hug, kissing the top of her curls.
"I won't leave you alone, baby. Never again," Olivia promised.
Fitz smiled at the pair, thoughts of the evening headlines swirling in his head as he tried to focus on keeping Kennedy calm and Olivia somewhat sane. He knew, if they were lucky, they wouldn't have to worry about the headlines until the morning. But they had no idea who the mole was and, other than that one time in Defiance, Fitz's luck seemed nearly non-existent. Breathing, deeply, he shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind and zeroed in on the pair who needed his undivided attention the most and the little girl he had already made a silent promise to protect at whatever cost necessary.
Heavy lies the head.