A/N: I know a lot of you aren't fans of authors having multiple WIPs posted at once, and I've allowed comments to drive me to deleting unfinished stories before, but I'm posting this anyway. Either I don't write these ideas when they pop into my head and they drive me insane and I don't write anything anyway, or I do write these and free up my mind enough to work on my other stories as well.

Fair warning: this one is a bit dark as it deals with mentions of SA but there will never be detailed descriptions. Ever.


Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III was a busy man. From sunrise to sunset, and often the minutes between, he was tasked with making the decisions no one else wanted to make. He didn't have a family - that was one dream he had long since quit chasing. The odd date here and there was unsuccessful. Most were drawn to the allure of the limelight as a politician's significant other. There was no sustenance - no sparks. So he quit dating and quit dreaming of the day he would have a beautiful wife and kids, one of each please, to call his own. He told himself he wasn't missing out - the country was his child and his chief of staff, God-bless Cyrus Beene, may as well be his damn wife. No, he wasn't missing out at all. Besides, he was busy.

Not to say there wasn't the occasional chance to relax. Every now and then, all squabbles settled and any potential crises averted, Fitz would find time to sit in his living quarters with a whiskey and whatever sporting event was currently in season playing across the plasma. Football, basketball, hockey - it didn't matter what sport was playing in the background. It was an excuse to complete a task without any thought, any pressure. It was one of the few pleasures left to him - a chance to simply be alone, to reset.

And that was where Cyrus found Fitz one rainy March afternoon. Fitz sat relaxed in an overstuffed, grey armchair. His long fingers wrapped around a tumbler, the amber liquid catching the occasional ray of light from the television as Fitz dug his bare toes into the plush carpeting. A basketball game played quietly in the background, March Madness fully in swing. Fitz's eyes were half-lidded, his attention having long ago wavered from the game as his mind drifted into a blank, blissful rest - one that Cyrus's unexpected intrusion startled him from.

"Mr. President." Cyrus stopped before Fitz's armchair, his eyes scrunched with evident annoyance as he held his phone horizontally in front of his chest.

"What now, Cyrus?" Fitz exhaled sharply, fully opening his eyes and taking in the flustered appearance of his Chief of Staff.

"I have the chief administrator at Walter Reed on the phone…" Cyrus's cheeks suddenly developed just the slightest tinge of pink at Fitz's raised brow and the look that seemed to scream 'what does this have to do with me?' "A former staff member is attempting to utilise the White House's rooms, sir."

"She insisted I contact you, Mr. President, as she feels you will concede her use of the rooms." The administrator's voice boomed from Cyrus's phone and it was evident the man felt some sympathy toward the intruder - especially when he took it upon himself to interrupt Cyrus.

"As I informed Dr. Atkins, I can make the decision regarding the rooms; however, he —"

"She is quite distraught, sir, and…" Though the doctor had began his interruption with quite the amount of steam, it quickly fizzled out as he reached the piece of information he clearly was not comfortable sharing.

Holding a hand, palm out, Fitz staved off what was surely an impending tirade from Cyrus if the older man's bulging eyes and quivering jowls, alongside his reddened cheeks, were any indication. Normally, he would have sided with Cyrus. He would have requested the mystery woman be seen in other rooms and washed his hands of the whole ordeal. Then he would have sent Cyrus on his way and returned to what had promised to be an uneventful, relaxing afternoon. Instead, he followed his gut.

"Who is she?"


Walter Reed National Military Medical Center stood less than ten miles from the White House. The blocky, spiralling complex had provided medical care, in that discrete way only the military seemed truly capable of providing, to the sitting president and varying members of government for the better part of half a century. Once just a single, large red-brick building, Walter Reed had grown to a modernised, multi-building complex in 2011 - shortly before Fitz's term began. It was everything that would be expected of a hospital tasked with treating the president and other government officials - both foreign and domestic.

The clean, sterile scent of the hospital was the second thing to assault Fitz's senses, right after the blindingly white interior, when he entered the hospital through a rarely used back entrance some thirty minutes after ending the phone call with Dr. Atkins. Cyrus had been more than a little miffed that Fitz had not agreed with his plans to have the room vacated and immediately wash their hands of the whole ordeal. Try as he might, though, Fitz had had a one track mindset and had insisted Cyrus make the necessary arrangements to get the president to Walter Reed - as discretely as time would allow. A handful of phone calls and five minutes after Fitz had said his goodbyes to Dr. Atkins, his personal security detail was ushering him into a nondescript vehicle and toward the hospital.

After a service elevator and half a dozen hallways, Fitz found himself standing outside a familiar door. Familiar because of the monthly briefings - discussions on security, privacy, and medical technology. This was, though, Fitz's first time seeing the room in person. He had been to Walter Reed before - as a young pilot in the U.S. Navy. He had spent months receiving top notch care and learning to walk again after a particularly hairy incident when his plane had been shot down behind enemy lines. Though this building hadn't existed back then, Fitz had still not been anywhere near the presidential rooms.

The security of the floor, the near total lockdown, was jarring even for Fitz. Not a single civilian, other than the two Fitz knew to be behind the closed, metal doors, was on the floor. One greying man with a white lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck, and round glasses perched atop his nose, stood before the door, speaking to a group of uniformed men. As they drew nearer, Fitz was able to make out the insignia on the uniforms. Military Police. He scrunched his brows at the men - what were they doing here? Almost as if they could sense his thoughts, the men turned, snapping to attention and saluting.

"Mr. President," the man closest offered in greeting. No doubt, judging by his uniform, he was the group's commanding officer.

"Gentlemen," Fitz greeted after returning their salute with one of his own. "Is there a problem?"

"Potentially," The older man in the lab coat spoke up. He moved forward, holding his hand out. Fitz outstretched his own, smirking at the man's firm grip. "I'm Dr. Atkins."

"Pleasure." Fitz dropped his hand, raising a brow toward the man as he waited for his explanation.

"As I mentioned on the phone, I have been unsuccessful in determining the exact reason for this visit. The child was crying profusely when they arrived and the mother… She's in shock, sir. Not much has been said, but what has been said…I felt it prudent to contact law enforcement. Seeing as the mother and child are technically military family members, and the father's standing within the Navy, I…contacted our law enforcement officials."

Fitz felt his stomach drop the more the man rambled. Something had happened. Something immensely traumatising from the sounds of it. And he didn't know where to start. It was a foreign feeling for the man used to making split second decisions with the potential to impact far more than one mother and her child. This situation…it was too close. Too damn personal.

"You said that neither has spoken much," Fitz began, in that slow, calming tone he was used to using when addressing the nation. "What have they said?"

"The child has simply repeated the same phrase, when she does speak. The mother has indicated she walked in on an…encounter involving the child." Dr. Atkins spoke in a halting manner, his whole countenance oozing discomfort. It was a feeling that Fitz, and from the looks of it the other men present as well, reciprocated.

"We have been unsuccessful in locating the father so far, sir." The same man, red hair cut close to his scalp and uniform denoting his status as the regiment's commanding officer, spoke. His name tag read 'Evans'.

"Unsuccessful?" It was one word, one question, but spoken with such force that not a man present was in doubt of Fitz's feelings. And if his tone had not been enough, the near apoplectic look of rage that was settling on his features surely was.

"We haven't informed any civilian forces," Evans admitted, though his self-assured approach was rapidly dimming in lieu of Fitz's anger.

"They haven't been informed because?" Fitz tilted his head, crossing his arms over his broad chest, as he fixed the younger man with the full weight of his stare.

"We weren't sure how much attention you wanted to bring to this —"

"God help you if that man isn't found or harms another family because of your ineptitude." Fitz spoke in that same low, measured tone though the heat in his voice and his eyes was unmistakeable. "I expect you to do whatever it takes, regardless of how much attention it may draw, to find him. Now."

A curt nod and trembling salute was his response as, one by one, the majority of the MP's filed out. Only two were left, the men taking position on either side of the door leading into the closed room. Fitz sighed, a hard glint in his eyes as he had watched the men leave, and turned toward those left.

"I believe it goes without saying that Captain Ballard does not enter this room." He paused, awaiting the men's nods of understanding before continuing: "Whether I am here or not, you treat security for this room as if I am. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Chorused back at him.

Straightening the cuffs of his shirt and sighing heavily once more, Fitz eyed the closed door warily. It would almost be easier to face that hellacious, torturefest of a first campaign again than what was waiting for him behind that door. Palms sweaty and heart beating furiously in his chest, Fitz placed his hand on the silver door handle.

He most certainly was not prepared for the sight that greeted him when he pushed that door open. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of that little girl and her mother, clinging to one another on the hospital bed, or the way his heart hurt at the scene. An elderly nurse stood in the corner, holding her hands in front of her as if to say, 'see? I'm no threat.' In any normal circumstances, the starched white uniform and kind, wrinkly face would have been soothing. These; however, were not normal circumstances, as Fitz well knew. And so, no matter the soothing tone and kind words, the pair on the bed seemed determined not to receive treatment from the kind nurse.

"Olivia." Fitz kept his voice low, calm, as he inched into the room, stopping a healthy distance from the pair on the bed and swallowing hard, trying his damnedest to ignore the ache in his heart. "The nurse just wants to help."

The look she gave twisted the invisible knife in his chest, hurt stabbing at his heart. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, and her knuckles were white where she clutched her little girl to her, the small child cradled securely in her mother's lap. He had never struggled as much to keep a neutral expression on his face - not even last year's rumor mill, when stories had swirled of a feud between himself and DC's mayor, had shaken his near steely resolve.

No. Apparently, it took a four-year-old to nearly break the president's iron will.

"I —" Olivia began, voice shaky and raw, only to pause when the nurse moved a tad closer.

"How about you hold onto Kennedy while the nurse does what she needs to do? You want to make sure she's okay, don't you?" He tried to reason, speaking as if he were trying to calm a skittish kitten.

"Only if she stays with me," Olivia agreed and Fitz released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Absolutely!" The nurse spoke, her tone a tad too cheery in Fitz's opinion, at his prompting glance. She was quick to set about her work, checking Kennedy's breathing and heart rate before clucking and turning to a chart upon Olivia's denial of blood work.

"What happened, Liv?" Fitz finally asked once the nurse had left the room. He'd taken up position across from the bed, leaning his back against the floor to ceiling windows that ran along the side of the wall.

"Not while she's awake," Olivia insisted at the same time Kennedy spoke:

"Dad hurt."

"That's all she's said in the last four hours," Olivia admitted, taking another shaky breath and rubbing her hand in comforting circles on her daughter's back. "I…Why her? Why us?"

Fitz swallowed thickly, balling his hands into fists as he saw red. She didn't need to give any more details - what little he'd garnered from all parties he'd engaged with had been more than enough to piece together the story. And what little didn't make him want to fly into a murderous rage definitely made him want to be sick.

"Liv…" Fitz shook his head. Those thoughts had to go. He could daydream about murdering Jake Ballard later. "You need to let the doctor, or the nurse, examine her. Make sure there's no damage. At least, not physical."

"Later, Fitz," Olivia's voice was pleading, eyes trained on her small daughter. "She can't go through that now."

"I know it's hard, Livvie, but we both also know that the longer you wait —"

"I don't want to think about that." She set her jaw stubbornly, arms tightening around Kennedy.

"No one wants to think about that, Olivia, and I know everything in you is screaming to act like her mother. There's nothing wrong with that. She deserves nothing less. But if you want her to have justice, if you want her to be safe from him, you have to think like one of the best lawyers this country has ever seen."

"I don't think I can be both." Her voice wavered, chin wobbling, and she hid her face in Kennedy's long tresses.

Silence, thick with emotion, filled the room. The minutes ticked by as Fitz continued to lean against the cool glass of the window, watching Olivia as she held Kennedy. A chasm of burned bridges, broken hearts, and bittersweet memories lay before them and still Fitz had come running the minute she was in need. Even though she had been the one to leave, the one to break his heart and marry his supposed best friend, he still chose to stand by her side - and dare anything, or anyone, to attempt to move him.

"What should I do?" She finally asked, raising her head to meet his gaze, the emotions swirling in her eyes making him weak in his knees.


"They're finished," Olivia's voice startled him. He'd been engrossed in his conversation with one of the MP's - ever the consummate politician, he'd been bonding with the man about family. Not that Fitz had much experience with that topic. Everything he had ever known about family was on the other side of that hospital door.

"Is she —?" He let the words hang. How did you ask someone if their child was okay after a day like today? Was it even possible for Kennedy to ever be okay again?

"She's asleep. They gave her a sedative." She still whispered, even with the likelihood of Kennedy waking being slim to none. He assumed it was habit.

There was that uncomfortable silence again as Fitz searched for the right thing to say - a task he didn't normally struggle quite so with.

"It…she…" Olivia swallowed, clearing her throat before seeming to find her words, voice cracking as she spoke: "It's not as bad as it could have been, but…he can't deny it."

"Livvie…" He truly did not know what to say, words freezing on the tip of his tongue as he mulled over what felt like a million different, but decidedly indifferent, phrases of sympathy. As he struggled to find the words, the correct words, Olivia took a tentative step forward, one after the other, and before he knew it she had wrapped her arms around him, nestling her head beneath his chin and shaking as she let all of the fear, frustration, and anger from the last day out, her tears undoubtedly staining his shirt.

It was the first time he had held her since their final goodbye three years ago.