A/N: The real Astor family were not oil tycoons (there's something about the beaver trade and, honestly, I wasn't interested), but the Astors mentioned in my story are entirely fictional and, as such, made their money in the manner I chose.

Cyrus Beene was a capable man, thank you very much. He came to work early, went home late, and did everything in his power to ensure the success of his president. Sometimes even when it meant he and President Grant were at opposing ends. It wasn't that he didn't trust the president, didn't think the president was smart enough, but the president… Fitzgerald Grant was still young. Despite his age, the president was a kid at heart. And it was Cyrus Beene's job to protect him - even if it meant protecting the president from himself.

"How are they always one step ahead of us?" Cyrus bemoaned, hands at his temples and fingers pulling at thin tufts of white hair. His usually pristine desk was littered with magazines. Anything from the most respected national papers to the trashy gossip rags that James secretly loved and devoured when Cyrus wasn't around. What little space left uncovered by magazines was covered with scraps of paper, his uneven scrawl covering the white sheets.

Nothing made sense. As far as he could tell, as far as the fucking NSA and Secret Service could tell, there was no leak from inside the White House. There was no conceivable reason the press should be ahead of every move their administration was making. And yet…

And yet Cyrus's failures were glaring back at him from the glossy pages spread before him. For weeks, nearly every conversation he and the president had had made its way to the newsstand. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason as to which ones were left free of the public eye nor could Cyrus determine which magazine was publishing first.

It was slowly driving him mad.

The president's ire at having his words splashed before the public didn't help Cyrus's mood. Nor did his feelings of failure. If there was one certain thing in this world, it was that no one got one up on Cyrus Beene.

The words swam before his eyes: headline after headline dramatizing Olivia's situation and Fitz's role. There was the headline announcing Olivia's stay in the presidential suite at Walter Reed, the headline announcing Olivia and Kennedy's move into the White House, the headline calling for a statewide Jake Ballard witch hunt - that one Cyrus was okay with - and, finally, the headline announcing Fitz's most recent vacation. That one, interestingly enough, hadn't made its appearance until that morning - a full day after Fitz's return. It just did not make sense.

But…Cyrus frowned as he studied the magazine covers once more, looking closely at the dates until he finally found his lead.

Three days earlier, Fitz was facing the very real possibility of a relatively free weekend. Those didn't come often. He could count on two hands the amount of short, continuous free time he had experienced since assuming public office. Normally, he would spend the next three days in a near slovenly trance, reclining in his favorite armchair with an ever present finger or two of whiskey in his glass and some sporting event playing across the television. It was his own personal heaven, except…

Except this time there was Kennedy and Olivia. And Kennedy and Olivia had not left the White House since moving in weeks ago. They were barely more than ghosts floating about the antiquated rooms with Kennedy slightly more animated than Olivia. At least whenever Fitz was around.

They were long overdue for an adventure.

Or so that's how Fitz phrased it to Olivia when he was finally able to corner her in the residence kitchen, a kettle of water boiling on the stainless steel surface of the stove. She had her back to him, watching the teal pot on the stovetop that he had had purchased her second day there. He never had enjoyed tea.

"I don't…Is it even safe?" Olivia rested her head against the dark butcher block of the countertop, exasperation creeping into her voice.

"We'll have security," Fitz pointed out. "The bare minimum."

"The bare minimum? Fitz —"

"The bare minimum because the country, and the majority of my staff, will believe I'm at Camp David for the weekend. It will be completely safe, Olivia." He watched as she wrapped a dish towel around the handle of the now whistling kettle, moving it from the burner.

"And where will we really be?" She busied herself preparing her tea, opening a package and placing the teabag in her mug. He knew she preferred loose leaf. It was one of many idiosyncrasies he had learned since Olivia had moved into his guest room. Little idiosyncrasies that he had never had the chance to learn previously - not when there was an election and, later, a fledgling presidency to protect. They'd had precious little time to learn the small details about one another.

"Remember my mom's house?"

"I remember you talking about your mom's house," she answered, pouring water over the small infuser she'd placed in her mug. The warm smell of blueberries filled the space around them and Fitz fought the urge to close his eyes. Inhaling the scent felt like wrapping a cozy blanket around his shoulders - for a moment, images of his mother floated through his memory. The blueberry infused tea had been a favorite of hers - a reminder of the town she had grown up in and very rarely had the chance to share with her son.

A tinge of regret now colored his decision to buy that particular tea brand for Olivia.

"There aren't a lot of people who know that house exists. At least that it exists in relation to my family. It's a near perfect allegory for my mother's life that her family name would take a backseat to my father's…" Fitz allowed his sentence to falter and end, shaking his head before beginning again: "A very small amount of people would know that we're there. Only those I can absolutely trust. Especially with the way things keep getting leaked…And either way, I'm going."

Olivia was quiet, busying herself with pulling the infuser from her mug, emptying the tea leaves in the rubbish bin and rinsing the stainless steel infuser. She remained silent as she turned back to her mug, adding a splash of milk and a dash of sugar and Fitz could feel the nerves begin to settle in. It seemed she was still on the cusp of declining to go when she picked her mug up, holding it to her lips.

"We'll go."

xxxxx

They had taken Marine One to Camp David. Olivia had wrapped Kennedy in a large, fluffy plaid blanket, a few curls all that were visible, and Fitz had carried her from the helicopter into the house, acutely aware of the many hiding photographers with their high-powered telephoto lenses. Normally, they would have been chased away before the helicopter had landed, but Fitz felt their presence was a necessary trade to trick the country into thinking he was staying at Camp David. There would be photographic evidence after all.

Once the photographers had cleared, ushered away by security, they had left the retreat in a nondescript, black SUV and travelled to a local airstrip where they boarded a private jet courtesy of Fitz. He'd spent the short ride to Bangor communicating via email with Cyrus - Cyrus who was staying in Camp David for the weekend in case the photographers did come back. There would be some sign of life.

In Bangor, they had landed on a closed airstrip and were ushered into a waiting helicopter. The flight to his mother's family summer home was short, but it left Kennedy wide-eyed and in wonder. She spent the flight with her nose flat against the window, watching the trees and rocks blur beneath them. By the time they landed on the immaculate lawn behind a large, coastal home, Kennedy was practically bouncing with excitement.

Inside the home, Kennedy left the adults behind as she explored and Fitz repeatedly talked Olivia down whenever Kennedy made to touch one of the priceless knickknacks laying about. Kennedy had squealed with excitement when Fitz had shown her his childhood room. Not much had changed, a twin sized bed surrounded by toys that were more antique than anything at this point, still dominated the navy blue and white room. Despite it being nothing short of a stunningly well-kept time capsule, Fitz hadn't been at the home since his mother had passed away, Kennedy was excited to have her own room for the weekend. A room with a teddy bear. Apparently that was all it took to make Kennedy happy.

"She won't leave my side in Washington, but she's all too happy to have her own room here," Olivia commented later as she and Fitz were sitting on the large, covered porch - glasses of wine in their hands as they watched the waves crashing against the rocks at the edge of the tiny island.

"She's not in Washington," Fitz remarked, pulling a face as he sipped at the dry liquid in his glass. "I can't imagine she has fond memories of that place."

"No," Olivia agreed, fingers tapping mindlessly against the wooden chair for a moment before continuing: "She sees every one of the news reports. It's unavoidable. She knows Jake is still out there somewhere."

"I wish there was a way for her to not have to see those things —"

"You can't order a news blackout," Olivia chuckled drily. "I've been on your side of things, remember? The White House would be nearly crippled if no one were obsessively watching every news station known to man."

"We're going to find him, Livvie. I promise." He sounded more sure than he felt in that moment, knocking back the rest of his wine.

"I've never doubted that," Olivia admitted, swirling her own glass.

Fitz frowned, rocking back and forth in the weathered white rocker he sat in. She had changed her tune in the three years since their breakup. Before he could question her, Kennedy joined them on the porch.

And that was that.

They spent nearly the entire weekend on the ocean. Kennedy was utterly enthralled by the sea. She ran from one end of their yacht to the other, taking every opportunity to sit on Fitz's lap and help steer the boat on the rare occasion they moved. Fitz, for his part, was all too happy to have his shadow following him about the boat.

Fitz's mother's family had had a long history with coastal New England and, though Fitz rarely visited the home - having inherited it once he had turned 18, he still had a few cousins he allowed to spend weeks at a time during the summer months. His Astor cousins had kept the family sailing tradition alive and, in exchange for being allowed to use the summer home, allowed Fitz to utilize their yacht.

It was a happy arrangement for all.

"Whales!" Kennedy suddenly exclaimed, standing on a low bench and practically hanging from the railing along the yacht's side. It was enough to send Fitz nearly running across the teak flooring. Resting his arms on the railing on either side of her, he peered down at the ocean.

"Those are dolphins, munchkin."

"Mama! Look at the dolphins!" Kennedy amended, gesturing wildly for Olivia to join them.

"Wow!" Olivia moved to their side of the boat, glancing down at the creatures. "That's cool, Kay."

"I thought they were whales," Kennedy shook her head, tilting her head back and hitting Fitz's chest as she smiled up at him. "But Fitz said no."

"I think Fitz might know more than we do." Olivia grinned, cupping Kennedy's cheek for a moment before pointing down at the dolphins as they jumped from the water.

"Whoa!" Kennedy's laughter was musical, infectious.

"I doubt I know more than the two of you," Fitz confided to Olivia. "I stopped coming here after my mom…"

"Your mom? Where's your mama?" Kennedy twisted around, suddenly interested in what Fitz had to say and he bit back a smile at the earnest expression on her face.

"Kennedy…"

"When I was younger, my mom got really sick and, even though the doctors tried really hard, she…she died." He coughed, clearing his throat - the impact of talking frankly about his mother's death for the first time not lost on him.

"She's with my gramma?" Kennedy asked and Fitz tilted his head, turning a questioning glance toward Olivia who merely shrugged.

"I already had the conversation with her about my mom," She explained.

"I'm sorry, Fitz," Kennedy whispered, standing on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck.

Three days later, Cyrus stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the mess of magazines before him. He had spent the better part of half an hour rearranging and rearranging the titles until, slowly, the puzzle pieces had seemed to fall into place. The dates, the headlines, there was only one clear answer to this annoying little puzzle. And figuring it out didn't make him feel any better.

Sighing, hand in his pocket, he had moved to pick up the phone on his desk when his door slammed open. Rather than looking refreshed from a weekend away - a weekend spent on the sunny New England coast, Fitzgerald Grant looked ready to murder someone. His red tie had managed to flip over his shoulder in what Cyrus could only assume must have been a run from the Oval.

"When were you going to tell me?" Fitz demanded, eyes blazing.

"Pardon?" Cyrus questioned, scrunching his brows. He had only reached his conclusion a mere five minutes ago. How would Fitz already know?

"When were you going to tell me that photos had leaked? When were you going to mention what they're saying?" Fitz huffed, chest heaving with every anguished breath he took.

"I…What?" Cyrus tilted his head, a look of confusion on his features.

Snarling in frustration, Fitz slammed the door shut behind him and heavily walked to Cyrus's desk. Grasping the remote, he pointed it toward the television hanging in the corner of the office and turned it on. Flipping to the first news channel he could find, a large photo filled the screen. A photo of Kennedy, her arms wrapped around Fitz, and Olivia, her hand on Fitz's arm, as they stood on his family's yacht.

A gross invasion of privacy, Cyrus was willing to concede. An invasion that seemed worse as the news anchor began speaking:

"Despite earlier rumors, it seems President Grant did not spend the weekend at Camp David. Instead, he opted for his family home just off the coast of Maine. Normally, this wouldn't be so newsworthy, despite the president's seeming reluctance to relate to anything of his mother's family —" The news anchor lowered her voice, winking conspiratorially as she whispered: "The Astors - the renowned oil tycoons.

It is the first look that we have gotten of former Press Secretary Olivia's Pope's daughter! We all know the tragic story and why Miss Pope is currently a guest of the president, BUT…Is there some truth to those rumors that were going around Washington during Miss Pope's tenure? I'd say after seeing that curly hair, and potentially blue eyes, as well as this seeming closeness to the president…There just might be…"

Cyrus felt his heart drop as the woman continued on her speculation of Kennedy's parentage. Everything was about to change and, from the looks of it, Fitz wouldn't be happy until heads rolled.