Disclaimer: I am, by no stretch of the imagination, a children's author, so please excuse the poor attempt at writing what will become Kennedy's favorite story time book (there is, obviously, no accounting for taste).
"This is embarrassing," Cyrus bemoaned, a near permanent scowl etched into his features as he eyed the briefing he held in his hands.
"He had a head start and he's no stranger to living off the grid. Any soldier could do that. We train them to do it." Fitz's eyes held a hard glint to them as he continued to scan the blue folder laying open on his desk.
Sighing, Cyrus changed tactics: "You know it's only a matter of time before the press releases his crimes."
"I suppose my Chief of Staff is going to have to do his job and figure out who is running to the press, then, isn't he?" Fitz finally lifted his gaze from the pile of folders before him to raise a brow at Cyrus.
"It didn't come from the White House." Cyrus picked at a near invisible piece of lint on his immaculate black pants, eyes downcast despite Fitz's sudden and unwavering attention.
"I think you're a little off on your game, Cy. If it isn't coming from inside the White House, then it would have stopped the minute Olivia and Kennedy moved into my guest room. They haven't been out of the Residence since moving in. They're terrified."
"It's possible that we've been hacked." Cyrus winced at the apoplectic look that flitted across Fitz's face.
"We're past possibilities. We need answers." Fitz closed the folder on his desk, resting his hands atop the blue material.
"Has Olivia —"
"No, Cyrus. Olivia has not spoken with anyone." Fitz shook his head, attention turning toward the white door across the room as a knock resounded seconds before the door popped open.
"Mr. President." The fresh-faced 25-year-old was a welcome distraction to the current conversation, giving Cyrus a Gucci-wrapped present out. Cyrus was quick to scurry past the younger man, closing the door behind him as he went.
"I'm sorry, sir, I —"
"Did not interrupt a thing." Fitz held a hand, stoping the man's rambling apology. "Cyrus has some things he has to do. How can I help you, Malachi?"
"The Prime Minister should be calling in about 10 minutes." At the confused look on Fitz's face, Malachi continued: "There should be a folder with the prep work in it."
Fitz's attention dropped to his desk and the corner of the orange folder that was barely peeking out from beneath the blue one he had been studying all morning. He knew better, knew he should have reviewed that orange folder first, but the allure of that blue folder had been too great. Especially after seeing Jake's name attached to it. The fact that it had been two weeks with no leads on the bastard's whereabouts was a point of contention amongst Fitz and Cyrus. And that was before adding the additional stress of the never in the dark media.
"I don't suppose we can reschedule?" Fitz pulled the orange folder to the top of the pile and flipped it open.
"Five minutes before the call?"
He would have laughed at the panic-stricken look that crossed Malachi's face if he wasn't feeling a slight bit of panic settling in himself. He had made it a point of pride throughout his first term, and now his early second term, to always be prepared. But, as always, Olivia was there to throw a wrench into his best laid plans.
"I'm kidding," Fitz clarified, scanning the lone sheet of paper in the open folder before him. It seemed simple enough - a brief call to offer his condolences for the lives and property damaged by the wildfires raging just across their northern borders as well as an offer of assistance. The offer, while diplomatic, was not entirely altruistic - with the fires raging so close to the northern border, it would only take one strong gust of wind to push them south into Washington.
"We thought you might float the idea of an official visit."
Fitz fought the groan threatening to escape. Much as he would like to turn off the rest of the world for a few days and focus exclusively on personal matters, he knew that was not the case. It had been a long time since his life was purely personal.
"I'll mention it," he agreed.
And that was how, 30 minutes later, Fitz had his team working on finalizing an official visit with a tentative date set for three months away. With any luck, Olivia's situation would be resolved by then.
"Kennedy, darling, it's bed time." Olivia's voice barely registered in Fitz's ears from where he sat, The Testaments in one hand and a glass holding a splash of his favorite whiskey in the other. It had become somewhat of a customary ritual, baring any immediate national concerns, for the three to retire to the living quarters, together, an hour or so before Kennedy's scheduled bed time.
Fitz absentmindedly turned a page, lifting the tumbler to his lips and imbibing the smoky flavor. Head tilted, he listened to the telltale signs of Olivia attempting to convince Kennedy to go to bed as he read. Kennedy's refusal of bed was as much a part of these nightly rituals as anything else and, after a near meltdown that first night spent together, Fitz had quickly learned that it was best to let Olivia herd her daughter.
And so he was surprised to suddenly find a tiny, 3 1/2 year old, as Olivia had quickly corrected him, suddenly tugging on the tailored, grey slacks he wore. Biting his lip to hide his smirk, he placed his book in his lap and allowed the cover to fall shut. Polishing the last of his whiskey, he placed the tumbler on the table by his chair, followed by his book, and glanced down at the small child.
"Can I help you, Miss Kennedy?" This time, he wasn't quite as successful at hiding his smile when Kennedy raised a small, hardcover children's book - holding the cardboard book toward him.
"Kennedy," Olivia sighed, directing her next words to Fitz: "I'm sorry."
Turning back toward her daughter: "Fitz is very busy, sweetheart. Remember what I told you he does?"
Fitz chuckled when Kennedy nodded, eyes wide as she pointed across the room to a painting of Washington. It was a little impressive that she not only knew the man had been a president, but was able to connect his job as the very one Fitz currently held.
"It would be my honor to join your story time," Fitz interrupted Olivia, his heart swelling when, after a quick 'see?' thrown toward her mother, Kennedy scrambled to climb onto his lap. He knew he was doing a poor job of maintaining his stoic mask when he glanced at Olivia, her own eyes shining when Kennedy presented him with the book in her hands before snuggling her cheek into his chest, pressing against the pearl buttons of his shirt.
Clearing his throat, not entirely certain he trusted his voice, Fitz opened the book to the first page and snorted at the sight of a wolf wearing a dress. A little girl stood in front of the wolf, hands on her hips. Bemused, he began reading:
"You're not my real mom!"
Thelittlegirlfrowned.
"Mommy's make you smile when you feel down!
And mommies make you laugh
when you'd rather cry.
Mommies are sparkles and apple fritter and sunshine.
That's what makes real mommies."
Fitz waited as Kennedy traced the illustrations with her tiny hands, frowning herself as she traced the wolf and shaking her head before pointing at Olivia.
"Mommy," she muttered, yawning and snuggling closer to Fitz. He smiled at interaction. If he'd noticed anything since they had moved into his home it was that Olivia and Kennedy were close.
Flipping the page, Fitz shook his head at the sight of the same little girl, same pose, standing before another wolf. This wolf; however, was dressed in a pinstripe suit. Clearing his throat once more, Fitz began reading:
"You're not my real dad!"
Thelittlegirlfrowned.
"Daddies make you safe and hug you when you're scared.
You can count on daddy -
he's always there.
Daddies are playtime, hugs, and kisses.
That's what makes real daddies."
This time, he didn't linger on the page, afraid of what Kennedy might say if allowed to dwell too long on this particular part of the book. Flipping the page, the same girl stood between her parents, a smile on her face.
"A real mommy and daddy are there to love, care, and guide you every day.
They're your family -
supporting you along the way!"
Closing the book, sparing barely a glance at the title ("What Makes A Family"), Fitz checked on Kennedy. The little girl was struggling to keep her eyes open and yet, when Olivia came to get her, she protested.
"No, momma." She shook her head, yawning and grabbing for Fitz's shirt.
"Kennedy, you have —"
"Fitz come to." She clutched his shirt in her hands, wrinkling the fabric and he smiled, heart continuing to swell, before brushing off Olivia's apologies with a simple:
"It appears that story time and bedtime are to be group activities."
Later, after Kennedy had been safely tucked away and was napping, Olivia had joined Fitz on the balcony. He was once again nursing a tumbler of whiskey while she held a mug of chamomile tea. They had been standing in silence for quite some time when Olivia spoke:
"She has never asked Jake to read to her. She's never let anyone but me hold her."
"If it makes you uncomfortable…" Fitz muttered, taking a sip of the warm, brown liquid and wincing as it burned on the way down his throat.
"It doesn't. Despite it all, I know she's safe with you. And she's talking. She said more words tonight than I have ever heard her use." Olivia's voice cracked and she choked back a sob, spluttering as she attempted to hide behind her tea.
"She's healing, Olivia." He threw back the rest of his drink, shuddering as the liquid burned through him. Turning around, he rested the palm of his hand against the iron railing, glass still held snug by his fingertips.
"Is she? She has always been slow to talk. I thought about having her tested because of how little she spoke. And the bedwetting…I know she's young, but…How many other signs are there that I should have seen?" The mug tumbled out of her hands, shattering against the red tile at her feet. This time, there was no tea to hide behind and her sobs loudly rang into the night.
"You did what you thought was best - " He brought his free hand to the collar of his shirt, tugging at the buttons there that were suddenly too tight for comfort. "No one suspects their husband - the father of their child to…No one suspects that, Liv."
Finally free of the offending tight collar, he lowered his gaze to the mess of glass and tea at Olivia's feet and offered a feeble: "I'll find something to clean that" before practically fleeing.
He had never been particularly good at consoling anyone.